"pulps" poems - Hello Poetry

"pulps" poems

Abortions will not let you forget. You remember the children you got that you did not get, The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair, The singers and workers that never handled the air. You will never neglect or beat Them, or silence or buy with a sweet. You will never wind up the sucking-thumb Or scuttle off ghosts that come. You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh, Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye. Abortions will not Let you remember the child Or scuttle off ghosts that come.

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Dec 28, 2016

Dec 28, 2016 at 3:46 PM UTC

crystal-worrell

The Mother... A Haiku For Gwendolyn Brooks

Abortions will not let you forget. You remember the children you got that you did not get, The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair, The singers and workers that never handled the air. You will never neglect or beat Them, or silence or buy with a sweet. You will never wind up the sucking-thumb Or scuttle off ghosts that come. You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh, Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye. Abortions will not Let you remember the child Or scuttle off ghosts that come.

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I dream of you in ten shades of blue, belly as beastly as the moon as tarred as the rounds of your eyes, I bud feathers beneath the bulbs of my lungs as your chin crepes down to the sun, I dream of you as the cold bites my blossoming cheeks, palms as big as the sky, as bold as my tongue during a spat over and over again, love and hate and versa and versa, I dream of you during my wake as I lay shaking, bones glued to the pulps of my skin, I dream of you but only as I breathe and so then what of my death, will you leave me as she left you and he, I and her and we, baby, baby, tell me, do you often dream of me too?

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Nov 14, 2016

Nov 14, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC

of ********** pillow fights

I dream of you in ten shades of blue, belly as beastly as the moon as tarred as the rounds of your eyes, I bud feathers beneath the bulbs of my lungs as your chin crepes down to the sun, I dream of you as the cold bites my blossoming cheeks, palms as big as the sky, as bold as my tongue during a spat over and over again, love and hate and versa and versa, I dream of you during my wake as I lay shaking, bones glued to the pulps of my skin, I dream of you but only as I breathe and so then what of my death, will you leave me as she left you and he, I and her and we, baby, baby, tell me, do you often dream of me too?

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*I unload your god in that laissez-faire way where the bandages mend and have no need to be placed, formidably, regret to admit the moonshine in my hair looking Gothic, but beautiful: sober the men’s breath as it falls, falls, falls not more mild than a snowstorm in its final lapse. Sat there to be dreamt. He put his hand to his beard, and I would have kissed if had I believed that he was not merely trying to haunt my body, the hair I kneaded into air. It flowers, and flowing these marzipan sands where God lays man next to his wife, she bears the peaches: juicy, ripened, but not to eat expecting us to swallow ourselves in turn, spin the bottle. I could not care less for the braces in his lips – or their fur, but gums beneath like peaches. **** it out until the pulps mirror, you have the skin of a four fruit, or an eighty, flames high as kites. But suffering for each flicker-knob and dating a girl who smokes cigarettes in bed, I know he could not support that, your god. Morning comes with a glare, now eating her hair the involvement of some odd raconteurs. I beat them and they beat my ******* for their heat – God is a cabin boy with genitals in his palms, said he would love the women as long as they are gone; if he does not see me, the flames, I cannot exist not more than falling falling falling hair.*

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Nov 6, 2012

Nov 6, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC

*I unload your god in that laissez-faire way where the bandages mend and have no need to be placed, formidably, regret to admit the moonshine in my hair looking Gothic, but beautiful: sober the men’s breath as it falls, falls, falls not more mild than a snowstorm in its final lapse. Sat there to be dreamt. He put his hand to his beard, and I would have kissed if had I believed that he was not merely trying to haunt my body, the hair I kneaded into air. It flowers, and flowing these marzipan sands where God lays man next to his wife, she bears the peaches: juicy, ripened, but not to eat expecting us to swallow ourselves in turn, spin the bottle. I could not care less for the braces in his lips – or their fur, but gums beneath like peaches. **** it out until the pulps mirror, you have the skin of a four fruit, or an eighty, flames high as kites. But suffering for each flicker-knob and dating a girl who smokes cigarettes in bed, I know he could not support that, your god. Morning comes with a glare, now eating her hair the involvement of some odd raconteurs. I beat them and they beat my ******* for their heat – God is a cabin boy with genitals in his palms, said he would love the women as long as they are gone; if he does not see me, the flames, I cannot exist not more than falling falling falling hair.*

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Leaves' dancing shadows on the piece of sun missing the keen eyes rebound on the vacant space. The man played with shadows weaving them into whimsy shapes before most of them were pulps of paper gone into the bin of night. If not for light would be no shadows he was always churning in his mind probing dark holes of moon going into shady nooks seeking playfully alive shadows. The dead casts no shadows he brooded on the space he would leave but he wished they had when he wasn't around.

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Mar 3, 2017

Mar 3, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC

pradip-chattopadhyay

Leaves' dancing shadows on the piece of sun missing the keen eyes rebound on the vacant space. The man played with shadows weaving them into whimsy shapes before most of them were pulps of paper gone into the bin of night. If not for light would be no shadows he was always churning in his mind probing dark holes of moon going into shady nooks seeking playfully alive shadows. The dead casts no shadows he brooded on the space he would leave but he wished they had when he wasn't around.

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choo choo next stop.....perdition (no, not really...no-one believes this Stygian opacity) 1. look how Time doth ravage thee look what it did to thy visage in smithereens, lies youth it so artfully takes away what is held so dear rivers and streams valleys and hills arching to ecstatic heights plunging to abysmal lows into the ravine of chance stirred by the spoon of Time slowly around the cauldron brews the self-same mixture then poured into chasms of forgetfulness using the eternal sledgehammer it smashes the foundation of thought grinds the nutmeg of speed pulps the fruit of mentality slows the pulse of sensation and pardons none. 2. what was once sensuous and voluptuous lips now are merely two dry slits on your face once stared-into eyeballs, now glass over vitreous cataracts steadily grow, weed-like toned into lithe elastic bands now stretch away into forever, a pale platform to walk on life's morn is encompassed by years' slanting clouded and bedimmed by mists of age butterfly's existence outweighs a man's by mere night-veiled windowpane of true sight draw the curtains; close the shutters; screen the eyes the time has come to shed all blinkers and face the sun. 3. crimp sag limp drag mud cracks down a dipping dale scalding pain sears sore half-foot yes, time is but a disease ravaging all without fear or favour sunken eyes slower reflexes tardier mind scraggly body hides not condescends not forgets not the glimmer of .... a time of ... 4. cathedral invites the walker in cool and calm recesses sit silent wait.... then they walk in, carrying one who had but a lucky half-score lot clear soprano note becomes a rudderless bleat announcing the folly of stifling ego now shorn of burning frost of circuitous fervour beams of mercy cast a final look-see jump the barriers of time to carry thee off. pipe organ-stops are pulled out (art thee ready? platform number 5) S T, 9 May 2013

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May 9, 2013

May 9, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC

time is but a disease

choo choo next stop.....perdition (no, not really...no-one believes this Stygian opacity) 1. look how Time doth ravage thee look what it did to thy visage in smithereens, lies youth it so artfully takes away what is held so dear rivers and streams valleys and hills arching to ecstatic heights plunging to abysmal lows into the ravine of chance stirred by the spoon of Time slowly around the cauldron brews the self-same mixture then poured into chasms of forgetfulness using the eternal sledgehammer it smashes the foundation of thought grinds the nutmeg of speed pulps the fruit of mentality slows the pulse of sensation and pardons none. 2. what was once sensuous and voluptuous lips now are merely two dry slits on your face once stared-into eyeballs, now glass over vitreous cataracts steadily grow, weed-like toned into lithe elastic bands now stretch away into forever, a pale platform to walk on life's morn is encompassed by years' slanting clouded and bedimmed by mists of age butterfly's existence outweighs a man's by mere night-veiled windowpane of true sight draw the curtains; close the shutters; screen the eyes the time has come to shed all blinkers and face the sun. 3. crimp sag limp drag mud cracks down a dipping dale scalding pain sears sore half-foot yes, time is but a disease ravaging all without fear or favour sunken eyes slower reflexes tardier mind scraggly body hides not condescends not forgets not the glimmer of .... a time of ... 4. cathedral invites the walker in cool and calm recesses sit silent wait.... then they walk in, carrying one who had but a lucky half-score lot clear soprano note becomes a rudderless bleat announcing the folly of stifling ego now shorn of burning frost of circuitous fervour beams of mercy cast a final look-see jump the barriers of time to carry thee off. pipe organ-stops are pulled out (art thee ready? platform number 5) S T, 9 May 2013

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We crossed paths after a few snowstorms And my nerves screeched at the edge of a cliff. I tugged at my turtle-head hood in an attempt to look good And a whir of frosted air caked my burning ears. We exchanged overlapping synonymous greetings, Your spontaneous recognition and caught-up voice like needlepoint Left a juicy blackberry stain on my tongue, and I keep licking its Mystery bittersweet flavor. You fine-tuned your silvery signal To target the seeds of my darkened pulps And conduct a lightning strike. ***** minds think alike.

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Jul 28, 2014

Jul 28, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC

snow as an insulator and conductor

We crossed paths after a few snowstorms And my nerves screeched at the edge of a cliff. I tugged at my turtle-head hood in an attempt to look good And a whir of frosted air caked my burning ears. We exchanged overlapping synonymous greetings, Your spontaneous recognition and caught-up voice like needlepoint Left a juicy blackberry stain on my tongue, and I keep licking its Mystery bittersweet flavor. You fine-tuned your silvery signal To target the seeds of my darkened pulps And conduct a lightning strike. ***** minds think alike.

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African woman She is the strongest woman The cradle of all human She tends softly her man As well as all her children She aint seeking for equity She is seeking for prosperity Growth, of all her generations She knows well her traditions Not to be in combatant competitions Not to fight the physical equal wars But to strengthen the spiritual-mental walls And they call her in tough titles-submissive and foolish All she does is, a sit-home mum, bear and then perish But she knows well all she wants-her family to flourish In the hearts of the matters there you will find her Strong and willed to build and leave her legacy Moral men and wise women-humans of substance She is a pillar to her home African woman She is the strongest woman The cradle of all human She sits on her sack, in her arms A giant club to clobber her farms- Her fields fat yields of yams And she beats their pulps till powders They are all ground refined white dusts Pu! Pu! Pu! Goes her game's rhythms Pu! Pu! Pu! Shakes her shoulders Pu! Pu! Pu! Her biceps fats dances with each fast beatings Pu! Pu! Pu! Strong, on, urges her throbbing breast chest Pu! Pu! Pu! Comes back the hard works echoes Like her man in mines and farms and fields she, too, salty sweats African woman She is the strongest woman The cradle of all human On her back is a bundle of woods On her head balanced, is a load of loads On her back is a can of waters On her back is a baggage of belongings On her back is her children On her bent back she is a farmer weeding her fields All in a day’s daily work without complains African woman, who stronger woman, than you? She is the backbone of her family She is the umbilical cord of her folks She is their heart and soul and spirit She doesn’t retire until she expires Early she is up-late she is asleep, O Mama-African woman! Even with all gone, she still as a mother chicken them all broods She still them all remembers as my dear little children Mama, African woman! Mama, who there be like you? African woman You are the strongest woman The cradle of all human When they all walk naked-liberal She has a wrapper for her ***** A cloak to guard her gold-her fertile groins She knows, good honey is deeply hidden in hives And inside these hidden hives are strong stings Bad eyes are a sight for witches-evil ruins Her petals plains she must by all means protect Until right comes the most suitable honeybee Until right comes the sweetest singing hummingbird Until moral comes the most beautiful butterfly Until then, her nectar is not for every eye-tongue Gathered she covers her fine curves For she is the most beautiful of the divines-African Woman! The strongest woman-the cradle of all human! © Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

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Mar 17, 2017

Mar 17, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC

African woman She is the strongest woman The cradle of all human She tends softly her man As well as all her children She aint seeking for equity She is seeking for prosperity Growth, of all her generations She knows well her traditions Not to be in combatant competitions Not to fight the physical equal wars But to strengthen the spiritual-mental walls And they call her in tough titles-submissive and foolish All she does is, a sit-home mum, bear and then perish But she knows well all she wants-her family to flourish In the hearts of the matters there you will find her Strong and willed to build and leave her legacy Moral men and wise women-humans of substance She is a pillar to her home African woman She is the strongest woman The cradle of all human She sits on her sack, in her arms A giant club to clobber her farms- Her fields fat yields of yams And she beats their pulps till powders They are all ground refined white dusts Pu! Pu! Pu! Goes her game's rhythms Pu! Pu! Pu! Shakes her shoulders Pu! Pu! Pu! Her biceps fats dances with each fast beatings Pu! Pu! Pu! Strong, on, urges her throbbing breast chest Pu! Pu! Pu! Comes back the hard works echoes Like her man in mines and farms and fields she, too, salty sweats African woman She is the strongest woman The cradle of all human On her back is a bundle of woods On her head balanced, is a load of loads On her back is a can of waters On her back is a baggage of belongings On her back is her children On her bent back she is a farmer weeding her fields All in a day’s daily work without complains African woman, who stronger woman, than you? She is the backbone of her family She is the umbilical cord of her folks She is their heart and soul and spirit She doesn’t retire until she expires Early she is up-late she is asleep, O Mama-African woman! Even with all gone, she still as a mother chicken them all broods She still them all remembers as my dear little children Mama, African woman! Mama, who there be like you? African woman You are the strongest woman The cradle of all human When they all walk naked-liberal She has a wrapper for her ***** A cloak to guard her gold-her fertile groins She knows, good honey is deeply hidden in hives And inside these hidden hives are strong stings Bad eyes are a sight for witches-evil ruins Her petals plains she must by all means protect Until right comes the most suitable honeybee Until right comes the sweetest singing hummingbird Until moral comes the most beautiful butterfly Until then, her nectar is not for every eye-tongue Gathered she covers her fine curves For she is the most beautiful of the divines-African Woman! The strongest woman-the cradle of all human! © Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

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Progress by Michael R. Burch There is no sense of urgency at the local Burger King. Birds and squirrels squabble outside for the last scraps of autumn: remnants of buns, goopy pulps of dill pickles, mucousy lettuce, sesame seeds. Inside, the workers all move with the same très-glamorous lethargy, conserving their energy, one assumes, for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms, pep rallies, keg parties, reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV. The manager, as usual, is on the phone, talking to her boyfriend. She gently smiles, brushing back wisps of insouciant hair, ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue. Through her filmy white blouse an indiscreet strap suspends a lace cup through which somehow the ****** still shows. Progress, we guess, ... and wait patiently in line, hoping the Pokémons hold out. NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time ***** spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, *******

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Apr 30, 2020

Apr 30, 2020 at 9:43 PM UTC

michael-r-burch

Progress by Michael R. Burch There is no sense of urgency at the local Burger King. Birds and squirrels squabble outside for the last scraps of autumn: remnants of buns, goopy pulps of dill pickles, mucousy lettuce, sesame seeds. Inside, the workers all move with the same très-glamorous lethargy, conserving their energy, one assumes, for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms, pep rallies, keg parties, reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV. The manager, as usual, is on the phone, talking to her boyfriend. She gently smiles, brushing back wisps of insouciant hair, ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue. Through her filmy white blouse an indiscreet strap suspends a lace cup through which somehow the ****** still shows. Progress, we guess, ... and wait patiently in line, hoping the Pokémons hold out. NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time ***** spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, *******

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"I'm sorry, forgive me" "I'll never raise my hand at you I swear" "I love you" These bruises on my face that I tried to conceal are finally Wearing me Not all the make-up in the World can beautify the tallies Of your anger that adorn my Skin Your heart beats anger And it courses through your veins Pulps of blood I tried To hide with layers of clothes Have finally stained And I can't lie anymore You call this love? Is love the purple bruises Plastered across my pale skin That have been left behind By the velvety hands I used To yearn for? You love me It's okay I should not be afraid You were just blowing Off steam You love me I've been swimming in this Pool of denial long enough To know that I can't really Swim, I'm drowning And my feet are firmly Fixed on the ground I am afraid of The monsters lurking Behind the iris of your pupil The demons that lurk Behind your shadows I haven't seen my mother In a few months I'm scared she'll see behind The facade I put on She'll tell me "Baby, you need to leave" And I don't want to leave He doesn't want me to leave My head has been banged Across the kitchen walls More than it has been raised These walls have been repainted Repainted, and repainted My scalp has been snatched More times that I've cared to Admit I'm ashamed to say I've traded parts of me For shambles of trust, A lot of bruises, Rough *** Infatuation, And called it love

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Mar 3, 2014

Mar 3, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC

"I'm sorry, forgive me" "I'll never raise my hand at you I swear" "I love you" These bruises on my face that I tried to conceal are finally Wearing me Not all the make-up in the World can beautify the tallies Of your anger that adorn my Skin Your heart beats anger And it courses through your veins Pulps of blood I tried To hide with layers of clothes Have finally stained And I can't lie anymore You call this love? Is love the purple bruises Plastered across my pale skin That have been left behind By the velvety hands I used To yearn for? You love me It's okay I should not be afraid You were just blowing Off steam You love me I've been swimming in this Pool of denial long enough To know that I can't really Swim, I'm drowning And my feet are firmly Fixed on the ground I am afraid of The monsters lurking Behind the iris of your pupil The demons that lurk Behind your shadows I haven't seen my mother In a few months I'm scared she'll see behind The facade I put on She'll tell me "Baby, you need to leave" And I don't want to leave He doesn't want me to leave My head has been banged Across the kitchen walls More than it has been raised These walls have been repainted Repainted, and repainted My scalp has been snatched More times that I've cared to Admit I'm ashamed to say I've traded parts of me For shambles of trust, A lot of bruises, Rough *** Infatuation, And called it love

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*Marmalade trees tangerine skies Honeyed rays from the sun My citrus feelings are starting to peel Orange emotions started to run Riding the peaches Round and round we go The seeds in the middle The sweet juices flow Pulps around my melon thoughts Or cinnamon flesh You and i both know Our caramel love forever fresh.*

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Jan 12, 2013

Jan 12, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC

*Marmalade trees tangerine skies Honeyed rays from the sun My citrus feelings are starting to peel Orange emotions started to run Riding the peaches Round and round we go The seeds in the middle The sweet juices flow Pulps around my melon thoughts Or cinnamon flesh You and i both know Our caramel love forever fresh.*

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To my unborn son - I can imagine what your palms would look like covering my eyes from seeing past the wonders written in their lines I can imagine how your fingers would tangle around my thumb silently wiping tears from under your fingernails after they've caressed my cheekbones. How your toothless mouth would form a smile for every birthday you'd ever awaken to the sound of a fireplace heating the brisk morning, son I promise I'd never expose your birthmark to the brisk morning. How I'd tell you rhyming stories of statues coming to life at night wandering through the city's neon light and how they'd stay out of sight because they'd scare the people with their might, just to hear your slowing breath as your eyes close and your mind wanders off into the night alongside the statues. I can imagine seeing your mother in the way you'd pour orange juice into your glass and ask me to remove the pulps. In the way you would argue that fruit loops aren't candy, that I have your eyes when truth be told I'd go blind at the sight of me inside of them. How every comment on our resemblance would be brushed aside to later be pondered in a night where statues have grown claws tearing my throat. Son I want you to know I'd love to wander of into the land of statues with you. Long for your fingers grasping mine. But I have seen your palms son, and I fear for you. They look so much like mine. Wonders have nothing to do with it.

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Feb 15, 2013

Feb 15, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC

rasmus-hammarberg

To my unborn son - I can imagine what your palms would look like covering my eyes from seeing past the wonders written in their lines I can imagine how your fingers would tangle around my thumb silently wiping tears from under your fingernails after they've caressed my cheekbones. How your toothless mouth would form a smile for every birthday you'd ever awaken to the sound of a fireplace heating the brisk morning, son I promise I'd never expose your birthmark to the brisk morning. How I'd tell you rhyming stories of statues coming to life at night wandering through the city's neon light and how they'd stay out of sight because they'd scare the people with their might, just to hear your slowing breath as your eyes close and your mind wanders off into the night alongside the statues. I can imagine seeing your mother in the way you'd pour orange juice into your glass and ask me to remove the pulps. In the way you would argue that fruit loops aren't candy, that I have your eyes when truth be told I'd go blind at the sight of me inside of them. How every comment on our resemblance would be brushed aside to later be pondered in a night where statues have grown claws tearing my throat. Son I want you to know I'd love to wander of into the land of statues with you. Long for your fingers grasping mine. But I have seen your palms son, and I fear for you. They look so much like mine. Wonders have nothing to do with it.

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It doesn’t come on a horse-drawn carriage. It doesn’t come as tall, dark, and handsome. It doesn’t come with a prince’s crown. It doesn’t come with magic fairy dust. Forget the chick flicks. Forget the old school fairy tales. Forget the Nicholas Sparks novels. Forget playing M.A.S.H. when you were six years old. I’m not sure how it works (Because, trust me, I wish I did). But this culture has brainwashed our intelligent minds To writhing pulps obsessed with “love.” You do not love. You love to love. And there is a great difference, my dears. For when you truly love, you don’t feel it. You do it. And whoever told you that: “Immature love says, ‘I love you because I need you.” Mature love says 'I need you because I love you.’” … Well, they have foolishly blundered. For you don’t “need” to be in love. Mature love should say, “I love you because I love you, And I have no explanation for why that is, But I will always choose to do right by you.” I don’t have the answer, So I don’t ask the question. But I’m not silly enough to believe what the world screams at me.

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Jan 23, 2013

Jan 23, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC

This is for the girls.

It doesn’t come on a horse-drawn carriage. It doesn’t come as tall, dark, and handsome. It doesn’t come with a prince’s crown. It doesn’t come with magic fairy dust. Forget the chick flicks. Forget the old school fairy tales. Forget the Nicholas Sparks novels. Forget playing M.A.S.H. when you were six years old. I’m not sure how it works (Because, trust me, I wish I did). But this culture has brainwashed our intelligent minds To writhing pulps obsessed with “love.” You do not love. You love to love. And there is a great difference, my dears. For when you truly love, you don’t feel it. You do it. And whoever told you that: “Immature love says, ‘I love you because I need you.” Mature love says 'I need you because I love you.’” … Well, they have foolishly blundered. For you don’t “need” to be in love. Mature love should say, “I love you because I love you, And I have no explanation for why that is, But I will always choose to do right by you.” I don’t have the answer, So I don’t ask the question. But I’m not silly enough to believe what the world screams at me.

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somewhere in my treasure cove I've taken you out of my mouth, aligned you to the pulps of my lips and have begun to whisper to you, all of the ways you've made me pulse.

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Sep 17, 2014

Sep 17, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC

somewhere in my treasure cove I've taken you out of my mouth, aligned you to the pulps of my lips and have begun to whisper to you, all of the ways you've made me pulse.

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Gently landed At my side A butterfly in golden light Warming wings That kiss their dust From tip to tip Barely touching Your hollow limb At my elbow Resting there My soft net sweeps down I am your gentle prison I lift you out It feels like oil The dust at my pulps I circle it there A moment It has no smell I press your chest To stop you moving Pierce you with a pin To keep you there forever Frame you on my wall In all this you did nothing But look with love Touching me lightly Leaving nothing but dust

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Feb 20, 2023

Feb 20, 2023 at 6:07 AM UTC

Gently landed At my side A butterfly in golden light Warming wings That kiss their dust From tip to tip Barely touching Your hollow limb At my elbow Resting there My soft net sweeps down I am your gentle prison I lift you out It feels like oil The dust at my pulps I circle it there A moment It has no smell I press your chest To stop you moving Pierce you with a pin To keep you there forever Frame you on my wall In all this you did nothing But look with love Touching me lightly Leaving nothing but dust

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You, you are the cause of your own demise shelling yourself away in a mere attic of your marvelous mind selectively mute & self-paralyzed. Shake your self awake now! I just can't seem to understand how such a beautiful soul can be so strung out of sorts when my tiny heart pumps all of it's oxygen to provide some sort of love & support. Heart beat, fingers on your pulse lets race our hearts till we've nothing but beaten pulps. In all of my small wounds I've made, remind me to fill them with salt. I've slit my throat here's your perfect American movie scene slow, merciless & know, if it helps you breathe- every time your name escapes my cracked lips, I bleed.

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Mar 12, 2014

Mar 12, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC

Yes, This Is About You

You, you are the cause of your own demise shelling yourself away in a mere attic of your marvelous mind selectively mute & self-paralyzed. Shake your self awake now! I just can't seem to understand how such a beautiful soul can be so strung out of sorts when my tiny heart pumps all of it's oxygen to provide some sort of love & support. Heart beat, fingers on your pulse lets race our hearts till we've nothing but beaten pulps. In all of my small wounds I've made, remind me to fill them with salt. I've slit my throat here's your perfect American movie scene slow, merciless & know, if it helps you breathe- every time your name escapes my cracked lips, I bleed.

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crocus mist jump on snow pulps for early zebras

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Jan 25, 2021

Jan 25, 2021 at 5:06 AM UTC

crocus mist jump on snow pulps for early zebras

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Every single thing has a beginning Ecah consonant starts with a single star Every matter pulps from atoms Each dream errupts from a single hope Just like that You grow with the beginning From the first cry Your first smile The little frown of your yawn Gazing the dream like nights Thinking of the mystical feelings Everything has a start And so do you. It palpalates into your demons It creates your angels It beats your heart It aches your muscles It dwells on your liberty It suffocates your laughter It propounds your ecasty It needs you It helps you It eats you It parasites you. Thing is You let it.

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Aug 7, 2015

Aug 7, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC

Every single thing has a beginning Ecah consonant starts with a single star Every matter pulps from atoms Each dream errupts from a single hope Just like that You grow with the beginning From the first cry Your first smile The little frown of your yawn Gazing the dream like nights Thinking of the mystical feelings Everything has a start And so do you. It palpalates into your demons It creates your angels It beats your heart It aches your muscles It dwells on your liberty It suffocates your laughter It propounds your ecasty It needs you It helps you It eats you It parasites you. Thing is You let it.

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Today I saw them With heavy loads of favored wood pulps Weighing them down to the earth The deceased might of their gods Pushing hard to open the library door Today I saw them Protocols mechanizes their existence Sniffing the dust as they walk In-between lines of old forsaken books Gently touching the back covers Today I saw them As their feet march in accordance Empty Buckets of sands to quench fire They’ve come for the obituary of dead men Reading their books to their ears Today I saw them The chirping birds that made it in Build a nest with tattered fluffy cottons Chirping in slumbering pitch A Lullaby to this already sleeping generation Today I saw them

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Sep 20, 2018

Sep 20, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC

Graveyard in a library

Today I saw them With heavy loads of favored wood pulps Weighing them down to the earth The deceased might of their gods Pushing hard to open the library door Today I saw them Protocols mechanizes their existence Sniffing the dust as they walk In-between lines of old forsaken books Gently touching the back covers Today I saw them As their feet march in accordance Empty Buckets of sands to quench fire They’ve come for the obituary of dead men Reading their books to their ears Today I saw them The chirping birds that made it in Build a nest with tattered fluffy cottons Chirping in slumbering pitch A Lullaby to this already sleeping generation Today I saw them

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We planted seeds today Pulps filled with different ridges dusted with the earth's breath, were planted. Each earthy fetus protected by the palms of their alpha tripped off their fingertips and glided their way into the dimension that lies under our feet. A dimension where our ancestors whisper in sacred tongues and where the other half of our trees play in the mud. This, is where our spirits are born. This, is where your training begins little one earthy one mystic one This, is where you begin. Where the trees' veins inquisitively tap on your shell poke at your lifeless liveliness Where the ancestors rattle your cage with their hums Guiding you to taste your own rhythm This, is where your spirit buds. ... We planted seeds today. The pulps resting in the dimension below your skin, below your heart. A dimension where your thoughts gossip and where your ancestors sleep. This, is where IT begins This, is where it breathes where it sees gracious one fleshy one cosmic one This, is where we bleed. ... We planted seeds today. We, planted OUR seeds today OUR seeds were planted today we... WE, were planted... Today.

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Aug 9, 2019

Aug 9, 2019 at 5:51 AM UTC

We planted seeds today Pulps filled with different ridges dusted with the earth's breath, were planted. Each earthy fetus protected by the palms of their alpha tripped off their fingertips and glided their way into the dimension that lies under our feet. A dimension where our ancestors whisper in sacred tongues and where the other half of our trees play in the mud. This, is where our spirits are born. This, is where your training begins little one earthy one mystic one This, is where you begin. Where the trees' veins inquisitively tap on your shell poke at your lifeless liveliness Where the ancestors rattle your cage with their hums Guiding you to taste your own rhythm This, is where your spirit buds. ... We planted seeds today. The pulps resting in the dimension below your skin, below your heart. A dimension where your thoughts gossip and where your ancestors sleep. This, is where IT begins This, is where it breathes where it sees gracious one fleshy one cosmic one This, is where we bleed. ... We planted seeds today. We, planted OUR seeds today OUR seeds were planted today we... WE, were planted... Today.

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Breathing blossoms, smile daily at the nurturer Kissing blooming lips The petals touch each other Crazy breeze pulps in romance ©sim

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Aug 12, 2018

Aug 12, 2018 at 9:32 AM UTC

Nurturer (Tanka #62)

Breathing blossoms, smile daily at the nurturer Kissing blooming lips The petals touch each other Crazy breeze pulps in romance ©sim

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bring me back to pulps of milkweed floating in the wind bring me back to the night we all took shelter in the barn. the storm that shook god off his feet. the laughter we shared. these tender memories, are tinged with palpable heartache and nostalgia. i crave the unspoken synchronicities of us all.

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May 28, 2017

May 28, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC

bring me back to pulps of milkweed floating in the wind bring me back to the night we all took shelter in the barn. the storm that shook god off his feet. the laughter we shared. these tender memories, are tinged with palpable heartache and nostalgia. i crave the unspoken synchronicities of us all.

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Listening to I Want You and F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E.. Looking at you. "I feel like we are in the middle of these two Pulp songs," I told you. You said, "I feel the same." Then you teased and asked me, "If you had any words you wanted to say to me, but was too scared to say them." "No," I said. "I'm not scared to tell you." Then you waited for me to say the words. Your look prompted me. I told you, "I like you." The smile on your face was my treasure.

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Dec 23, 2015

Dec 23, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC

richard-javier-martinez

Two Pulps Songs

Listening to I Want You and F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E.. Looking at you. "I feel like we are in the middle of these two Pulp songs," I told you. You said, "I feel the same." Then you teased and asked me, "If you had any words you wanted to say to me, but was too scared to say them." "No," I said. "I'm not scared to tell you." Then you waited for me to say the words. Your look prompted me. I told you, "I like you." The smile on your face was my treasure.

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