"procreates" poems
White moth are thy not drawn to dull flame?
Hath said flame to emanate from Night Mare's mane,
Shall thy flutter past all the same?
Nay,
Whitest moth in darkest night,
dance towards brightest flame tonight,
Embrace her tremors, Embrace her hate,
Embrace the void she procreates,
Kiss her in the form of impending threat,
Spill crimson beads across her *******
White moth are thy not drawn to death,
Be sleep but hollow in final breath?
Nay.
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 10:28 PM UTC
i am nobody’s son
love without love
is a sin
and mostly sin
is a little thing
that grows
and procreates
and separates
like cells
like infected cells
spreading through
generations
she chews gravel
so every sound
aches for
absolution
and when I hear her
i want to
feel my
deepest aches
i want to
feel my hardest
separations
i want to be
disconnected
from everything
i am doll parts
bent arms
bent legs
tangled hair
a plastic smile
painted in
pretty pink
to create
full luscious lips
I am love without love
i am an
interchangeable
sexless torso
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 11:27 PM UTC
In the beginning man created
the thought: everything, mankind
and the earth, is a miracle
with a beginning
and anything that procreates
will die, only the sun
the stars and the stones
had no end, until later
infinity was conceived, the being
of even never having begun
so the rest, actually everything
that is known, the world
will have to perish one day
and, if you dare
to think it out, also
the elusive time
will not last and already
now, nothing is left
but nullity
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 4:32 AM UTC
Dear you,
My heart is loudly confused by you.
The only thing that makes sense are the
ordinary differences between night and day.
I’m solidifying from the inside to the outside.
Only evanescent recollections of us so vaguely remain.
Insensibility procreates itself within me.
I suppose I have you to thank for that.
I sit there for hours wondering:
Where did it all go wrong, huh?
And I wonder—
Why did it go wrong?
The clock finally strikes 6 P.M.—
The atmosphere changes with the roar of the wind,
And oil paints of the sky, yet
I’m stuck there fixed to my loudly-confused heart, the
Crackling glass, and the ******* apathy
Coding within my bloodstream.
So many things went wrong, yet
I thought we were right.
The general warmth of chemistry forming
Into one beautiful reaction.
What a shame that is.
I know I can never not love you.
Sincerely, me.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
passion in my chest heaves
the cavity.
embraced in a waves crest,
held deeply, love in its simplest.
rest and birth again, empress.
yours the sweetest essence.
lungs with false puncture wounds
ripples of grit run the edges,
simple forms of welcome gestures
of creations path.
create new paths to follow tomorrow
and the days next.
the heaving extends and blossoms
within, sending pulsations
to the tips.
the sensing tentacles grip
the flow always moving through,
cleansing as the defining lines
lose definition.
the false thought conception
of separation making these blurred lines
difficult to see.
energy moves regardless.
shapes, regulates, procreates.
She initiates.
She that changes over time.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 3:45 AM UTC