"procreated" poems
I knocked on society’s door,
Hollow footsteps through the crevice of civility,
A ***** welcome mat with a broken doorbell;
No visitors wanted who were not invited,
And understanding was buried under the porch.
In Law’s front yard,
picketed with ire and arrayed with disorder,
Olive branches strewn across dry grass,
lay an empty briefcase marked in leather.
Gavel and irony betrayed her whimsically.
Garden beds in front of Understanding;
Plundered of roses and wanton petals.
Bland stems wilted amongst the weeds.
Relinquished of entitlement; water led
Towards apathy and entropy instead.
A house of Perhaps: vacant,
Open front door to empty rooms.
Leased to opportunity but vacated in days,
Renovations procrastinated; mocked by
The neighbor of dismay and wry.
Ignorance paved a new driveway,
The unanimous watch of Lively Cul-de-sac;
Gated community with hopes of manicured
Lawns and pools. Procreated in the minds
Of not wild men, but surveyors.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 4:17 AM UTC
put all the words
in the world
in my two hands,
each a microscopic dot
of near invisible,
teeming, heaping,
ricochet intersecting
colliding,
cell splendid splitting
leaping,
until they,
wordlessly forming
a sign inquiring,
in neon flashing:
“What did I demand of them?”
”New combinations,” my reply.
how we
laughed together...
as they procreated
My Happy Request*
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
Walk with me,
Through the night.
Such blissful glimmering,
Promise above.
My hand in yours,
Yours in mine.
Lovers fated,
With promised shine.
That deepening dark,
Hiding us true.
Naked we were-
Invisible to all.
All that is known.
My hand in yours,
Yours in mine.
Lovers fated,
With promised shine.
Light pooled from above,
The creek reflecting sky.
Bathe us in innocence.
Arise as newborns.
Cry out: “Always Onward!”
My hand in yours,
Yours in mine.
Lovers fated,
With promised shine.
“Always Onward!” indeed-
Through thicket and tree.
Speak not of the path,
Traveled before.
Speak not of the path,
That lay ahead-
Only travel.
My hand in yours,
Yours in mine.
Lovers fated,
With promised shine.
We must not stay-
There is field to traverse,
Mountains to conquer.
Be light on your feet,
Radiant star.
My hand in yours,
Yours in mine.
Lovers fated,
With promised shine.
Shadows sure to haunt-
Born from timber,
From moon.
Fear not nature’s ruse-
We are roaring animals!
“Always Onward!”
My hand in yours,
Yours in mine.
Lovers fated,
With promised shine.
Moss at foot and leafs of past,
Share with us-
Your everything.
Energy of all things-
Gone and to come.
My hand in yours,
Yours in mine.
Lovers fated,
With promised shine.
Cliff top high, oh release us.
Let us know the world,
As does the wind-
Touching everything.
My hand in yours,
Yours in mine.
Lovers fated,
With promised shine.
Above it all we soar,
Eagles we are-
Royalty of the sky.
What Gaze from below-
What gaze at majesty.
Dawn would show our feathers,
But in the night-
We are but gusting wings.
My hand in yours,
Yours in mine.
Lovers fated,
With promised shine.
Alas! The horizon!
Water and sky meet,
But the journey yet to end.
Procreated by thunderous roars-
We animals HOWL!
“Always Onward!”
“Always Onward!”
“Always Onward!”
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 5:20 AM UTC
Petals with textures of full moons
sensations tingle like the hands
of grandfather clocks
apathetic to cobwebs
procreated through decades
marred by dolor
strange repercussions
groove across pebble stones
flames leap from pages
a tale of voodoo incense
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
"Go steady with me
I know it turns you off when I
I get talking like a teen
I get talking like a teen"
Yes, it does.
You read so well.
But it turns me on
when you speak
with such elegant grammar,
each word turned over
in your mind,
waiting to find it's perfect placement;
a lot like Stephen King,
another soul capable of capturing
my a.d.d.led attention.
Oh, what I'd do,
to be placed among
the proper nouns you leave out
and the procreated proverbs
you seem to sell your secrets to.
Instead, it seems,
you've caste me to the cemetery,
with the other animals,
only later to be risen from the dead.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 1:01 PM UTC
I ran out of oil so I went to find more
this is what happened when I opened the door
A gentle transition had welcomed my feet
I was now walking to the sound of a beat
The pulse made its way to the top of my head
readied my body as if stringing a thread
Stitched up together with hands at my side
the air I inhaled procreated my guide
Infancy spread throughout my whole being
and with eyes circumcised I began seeing
Aged just enough by the end of each day
to comprehend that which no one could say
Treading along as the hours threw clocks
it was time in the form of stumbling blocks
Wearied I'd grow and I'd take up my rest
on things to which only my soul could attest
The process by which my flesh was restored
and freed of the ghosts that my temple would hoard
Then finally lightness had sprung in my step
and I returned home, to that one I had left
What I'd forgotten was now all I knew
the oil I'd needed adorned my own room
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
I am the fetus you procreated
The baby you left
And the woman you'll never get to meet.
I am you
Your faults
Love
and lust
Never protected by you
I am the vulnerable child you left without a goodbye
The woman that became such with no guidance of you
The crooked teenager who always needed love from a male the most
The broken home
Feelings
And hopes
I was yours until you decided to leave
I could've been like you if you would have decided to stay
Me of you you are
And me of you I am
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
We watch the ink stain my fingers
as you lay bleeding in your verbiage.
It is night, a starry pitch black affirmation.
Curling pens trapped in a resting place of
wrong and right.
Inside the fireplace, dissolving laughter
with each stampede of "uh huh and yeah".
Memories pass back and forth multiple times,
and words are written from ticket stubs,
crumbling flowers and photographs.
Sleepwalking into planets,
this is what we have.
This is what is left of
half torn pages and a
conversation between friends.
I hold my breath in the way you read your favorite book,
each syllable between pages 2 and 401.
Here, stories are procreated in wombs of long forgotten worlds.
Sometimes, we are wounded best in the quiet.
In the heart of every road taken,
life gives way to standing still on the weight of discussions,
cheeks pressed firmly into dirt.
Humming in the wake of silence,
aborted telegraph wires have shelter
from the rain.
Peeled skin puzzles place themselves within the blackout newspaper rants.
I spilled my guts on your best shirt, light blue.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
Climbing up your delicious eyes
spilling harmonic
Qualms placed under skin
yelling your musical laughter
Makes smiles on many adjacent faces
Including mine which traces
A picture decades to come
Chatting with you warms my earthtop sad faces
On a older life bombarded soul
With procreated love child beckoning accidents
Traveling a never broken copious routine
Wanting a new heavenly body from
The transparent Jehovah
As I’m thinking
This woman drives my wicked smiles
Madly,
As hair’s lifted by imaginary grips of wind gestures
Lips singing with any whims ears from toes
Hand’s taping to walking jam sessions anti-woes
Is near to perfection on my optical viewers said
If only she'd could see inside my weary tiresome head
Sealing discreet looks stashed away in my
Spirited soul dread feeling fearing
eating possible future rejected misleading
My romance ideologies via scaredy cat spoon ocean breezes
As you are the sea and im the beach
Waiting
Longing for waves of
Enlightening joyous enchantments
To form connections belting silently behind
Worrisome bee busying personalities
Round alumni tobacco burners superfluous
summoners sitting with hearts content
Hoping on days with wondrous conversing on end
From an angelic exhorting heavenly chorus breathing near me
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
My palms
I'm inebriated
Infatuated
There is weight on my chest
I'm inundated
nauseated
someone please
tell me it's wrong
that we procreated this idea
that
elaborated emotions aren't okay
it's okay.
Nov 11, 2021
Nov 11, 2021 at 4:36 PM UTC
Once monsters transubstantiate from the stories liars procreated,
Saints will be demonized, the appendages of justice are amputated,
As the people oblige the varmint to which they are harkened to make sated,
A mythos deepens in the shadows that is the chimera’s birthplace, they illy devour the nests of krait.
Those who blindly accept Odysseus’s tools as truths spun out of that which is hated,
Foolishly seek justice in the ****** of Palamedes whilst knowing not the sins their “justice” shall have produced.
As the people oblige the varmint to which they are harkened to find sated,
Propagate the mythos of Odysseus that is birthed of shadows in which chimera mated,
They, without bar, promptly devour the nests of krait.
As the people look on from their lofty perch,
The world seems more desolate than degenerates that, in alleyways, awkwardly converge,
People, narcissistic in their ways, believe they have apprehended the problems of the world,
Truly knowing nothing of any world, yet they demand change - forcing reality to be gnarled.
Our raison d’etre stripped by liars’ clever demarche,
Seeking out new value, we find nothing more than the waste liars' disgorge.
Accept the monsters into sainthood,
Demote the saints into monsterdom,
Let there be no more fight fought for truth,
Let hate spun from a lying chimera’s mouth, a tool in some words, procreate,
Let this lie procreate inside the bellies of the people,
Whom watch the world from a bird’s eye view,
Those who shall find their foolish ways lead to a death not quite real,
But a death that feels far graver than merely six feet under,
A death of reality,
The death of justice,
A death of truth,
The death to meaning.
As the fight from the few souls who persevered through the changing tides dims to black,
As death creeps into our lives,
Those who upon lofty perches sought to change a world they knew not,
Will find a hole in their hearts, that themselves they dug and threw away,
Not able to be filled by modern man’s creations,
That hole – a future far more bitter, far more twisted, far more deserved than death.
Once monsters transubstantiate from the stories liars procreated,
Saints will be demonized, the appendages of justice now amputated,
As the people oblige the varmint that they are harkened to, without interest in that which is ethical or true, make sated,
A mythos deepens in the shadows that is the birthplace of chimera, they wisely have devoured the entirety of all the krait.
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 9:41 PM UTC
hushed whispers,
in a night, of wild dreams,
procreated a child
and named her hope.
and she,
she whispered too;
quiet dreams of being lost
and/or found
in the thrill of it all.
but these hushed whispers,
in a night of wild darkness
and broken memories,
procreated another child
and named her despair.
suddenly hope was forgotten
and the creator of the hushed whispers
coddled despair.
traded hope for despair.
belligerent, and bitter, and broken
the creator
felt nothing
but the child held in the arms
that used to hold the other.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 8:15 PM UTC
i know
i make people look prettier behind my eyes
i say i'm no good at painting, but the picture's always beautiful within my mind
there's a line between these realms i like to say distorts things
and the images procreated are built like the story of a man who saved the world
he rescued coats and sweaters and nuns and cows and little me when i fractured my elbow on a regular school day, hospital visits fast becoming a source of adventure
he appeared out of thin air, magic, like that trick where i have to guess if he's furious or pretending to be
he would tickle my soul, bringing fountains of laughter, water like tears in a quiet corner between a wardrobe and the wall, lights out, hiding
he gave the loveliest hugs and the greatest tasting dairy milk bubbly's on sunday's back from belfast with me puppy-like demanding his affection and time
he promised horses and swimming pools and freedom of choice,
and he promised to be honest,
broke my heart a few times
you know
that you delight in the nature of things that have the potential to be harmful, people who you convince yourself are exactly the way you see them through the windows of your rose-coloured, thorn-bleeding eyes
i fear
that the history of everything keeps you reading one book a thousand times and you can never move on from anything or anyone
Dec 26, 2019
Dec 26, 2019 at 10:49 AM UTC