"pulpy" poems
I commit myself to the homicide
of my thought-flowers.
I indulge in the **** -
Killing my darlings
for the sake of art and sanity.
What a paradox.
I have bloodied my hands
with it even so.
No more love-lite poetry!
No more adolescent chinks of the
pseudo-heart!
No more infantile fork-stabs
at the plate of kid-intellectualism!
No more Wikipedia pages
on thoughts
that can swallow computers
whole!
I'm killing my darlings
for the sake of art,
for the sake of sanity -
what a paradox.
Blood is flowing.
I'm a murderer of ideas tonight -
today I will write
about many of life's very few truths.
Like trees.
Like soil.
These are the only constants in mathematics.
These are the identities.
In my garden, I reach out
to crush an
almost-crimson hibiscus.
Petals squelching with skin and nectar -
no perfume.
The hibiscus roils, unliving.
Red pulpy mess;
heart out of chest.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
Watermelon, Oh! Watermelon,
Please come and fall on,
Cucurbitaceae family, you belong,
Nile Valley, you look-on!
So jucy and pulpy you are,
Not easy to get you afar,
Yummy juices you whisper,
Only in summer, we discover!
You change from red to pink,
And white in a blink.
You are our God in summer,
Even precious for a singer!
So many seeds you give,
Though bitter, I forgive
For ample juice you give
For in Summer, you make me live!
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 5:42 AM UTC
The blood vats
Stirring clotting goo
A tepid sticky stew
Crimson mess
Spilt on the floor
The hungry goblins
Gulping the pulpy gore
Plasma swimming
In spider web veins
The dripping fluid
Sticking to you
Soaking through
The stained washcloth
Swirling in the warm bath
Cloudy dispersion
Smoky mass
Dark diluting
And disappearing
Through time
And loss
So here we are
Generations of
Vampire blood
Leaching the life force
Spreading the plague
And bleeding
Life from one generation
To the next
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 8:55 PM UTC
I am ragged and
Dismembered
In velveteen splendour.
Assembled by a drunk,
Who couldn't remember
What loveliness
Looked like.
I'm too tall for my height.
You are pulpy and bright
Like today's magazines.
Your eyes are spotless like
Ironed jeans,
And they fold and crease
in smiles at me.
You find me funny.
I am sterile and naked
And aching with
Tension.
I'll bend into positions to
Get your attention.
I am fixed in the curb,
and you gather the nerve
to cope with my most
unnerving dimensions.
(I love you. I forget to mention.)
You've never indulged in
petty ***
You wrap my arms around
Your neck,
like I'm a scarf.
I make you laugh.
You've never been
out on the scene.
You've never found yourself
between two strangers
in a darkened room.
Bedroom theatre's not
for you.
Nor costume.
You've never smoked.
You've never drank so much
You've choked
on hot-bodied ***** and
collapsed in the road.
You had four pints of
beer
and I watched you explode.
From your skin I lick atoms of the sky and shampoo.
You are dripping with hygiene,
You are clear, you are blue.
In mirrors you stand and watch me watching you.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings
To crown the feast where swells the broad-vein'd brow,
Where maidens blush at what the minstrel sings,
They who have coveted may covet now.
Bring me, in cool alcove, the grape uncrush'd,
The peach of pulpy cheek and down mature,
Where every voice (but bird's or child's) is hush'd,
And every thought, like the brook nigh, runs pure.
3.6k
Morning *** is like drinking coffee
Hot
Thick
Sweet
Brown?
Morning *** is like scrabbling eggs
Quick
Heat
Beaten
Creamy?
Morning *** is like sizzling bacon
Greasy
Aromatic
Bubbly
Crunchy?
Morning *** is like sipping orange juice
Cool
Tangy
Healthy
Pulpy?
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 11:03 AM UTC
Virginity
is the seed
Inside a pulpy jackfruit bulb
Tear the bulb,
take it out
Toss it over,
and
swallow the pulp up
Yellowness vanishes,
and a brown skinny seed remains
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
They kicked a man to death
Hard head turned pulpy by plimsole heels.
Walked home
watched tv with their parents.
Went to bed and dreamt of Disneyland.
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 11:21 AM UTC
885
Our little Kinsmen—after Rain
In plenty may be seen,
A Pink and Pulpy multitude
The tepid Ground upon.
A needless life, it seemed to me
Until a little Bird
As to a Hospitality
Advanced and breakfasted.
As I of He, so God of Me
I pondered, may have judged,
And left the little Angle Worm
With Modesties enlarged.
2.1k
I'm a Hush marshmallow
Silky sunshine yellow
far from moony mellow
spelling spells of Hello
Risisng above the Hill
Just behind the mill
with much love to spill
giving you a thrill
from your window sill
I'm a ***** flight
of non stop delight
Naughty grown up child
playing husky wild
On a dusky night
I'm your cadbury
almond joy candy
Red soft jelly bean
box of A.B.C
Caramel nut me
I'm all you could think
I'll be your everything
Just to see you smile
Just to hear you sing
Rainbows I shall bring
You're my cuddly bear
full of tender care
with a hug to share
Tender soft whisper
Ripe and pulpy pear
You're the one i miss
with hot lips to kiss
You're a life of bliss
Passion flame of hiss
Sweet sugary delicous
You're my sandwich lunch
with that crispy crunch
I'm your Cuchi munch
You're my fruity punch
Handsome Honey Bunch
You're my sunshine man
Hundred out of ten
I'm your sol fun girl
a Rich Oyster's pearl
I'm your best pen fan.
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 9:45 AM UTC
The lemon, yellow and juicy
With lots of zest
Squeeze it to make lemonade
Or some extra zing to your tea
The cocktails give a kick
When lemon juices are mixed
Well ripe ones are pulpy
It has got hue named after it- lemony
Pickle it to have it throughout the year
Or use its oil for aromatherapy
A lemon drink will keep you cool when it’s sunny
So life can become more fun and tangy
© Amitav (Radiance)
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
I used to make this exotic Indian dish.
It combined so many spices—like cardamom,
coriander, and a hard
pulpy substance called tamarind that I
soaked in hot water and used only the juice.
It was a giant Middle Eastern stew.
It was half science and half art.
It was math at its best,
generally, I despise math.
It smelled so foreign and exotic,
it contrasted with the wife and 2.3
kids placed neatly around the dinning room
table, waiting on
the finishing touches,
sprigs of fresh
cilantro tossed atop each bowl.
An Indian bread called naan was dipped
in the stew—it was wonderful, amazing.
The wine—smiles—laughter,
I can still smell it and taste it.
And now,
on lonely winter nights,
my take-out tandoori chicken
smells like a T.V dinner.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 2:41 PM UTC
it is unseasonably warm
from across the neighborhood
******* ******
the rumbling masculine undertones
of his voice compress my heart
i crawl into my stomach
seeking shelter from a nonthreat
"liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar"
he spits
and i cringe
his anger pulses
every anger
that has ever been shoved in my face
whispered in dark rooms
the anger i have witnessed
pierce the skin of women i do not know
the rejected wounds i have absorbed
all wrenched from their hiding places
pulled in pulpy fistfuls
from the crevices of my body
he shocks my system
of sympathetic nerves
like lightning
my palms sweat
i close the window
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
Bitter, sour, barely sweet,
when I was in your tummy,
you craved that acidic fruit,
and even though we've since leaned towards
different suns and
fermented,
it's still my favorite.
Your twisted seed,
what has become of me?
Growing up your love was a grapefruit.
Pulpy, complex cuts, precision with a tiny knife.
It left a sting on my lips,
but it fed me,
and it gave me vitamins and it was
juicy.
This morning as I consume these two halves I think of us.
Duplicate cells, my pink flesh and thick skin and
biting taste, all from you.
Both of us hollowed out and squeezed until we have nothing left to give, but we're still
bright yellow on the outside.
May 19, 2021
May 19, 2021 at 5:03 PM UTC
I am ******* on a lemon,
he lost his sour decades ago –
the pulpy, lampshade grind gathers
in the rings of my throat,
and burning like an enemy-girl.
She, with her knives and languages
learned afresh, just for a pit:
there are none left in my lemon,
he has become so dry
in her memory too, a four year cave.
Fear that he may vanish,
and upon his last chance: nine.
The lives I let spill in my mouth &
deaths I take responsibility for,
****** the eight, his skin and bones.
She comes wielding pillow cases,
for the brain I have swallowed,
and soon he is a carcass,
better arid than shriveling in water,
my lemon rather than a prune.
I gave her a go, and now I must leave
or else I cannot save him by me,
no lemonade to drink.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 12:44 PM UTC
My biggest fear is that everyone will eventually discover how positively unremarkable the soul beneath this husk of a person always was,
To shy away from the cringing passersby as they gawp mercilessly at the offending blemish of my existence.
I'm trying to learn how to like myself, but it's a pathological, preexisting condition to be able to identify all of the things wrong with me simultaneously as an individual and as (un)contributing member to society.
I don't mean to be so cruel, for I know in my heart that self-love is paramount to intelligent, peaceful, pleasant enlightenment,
It's merely that I sense some ubiquitously negative energy whenever I make the attempt to muster up some sort of internal kindness.
No, it gets wasted on all the strangers and non-strangers in my socially habituating dwelling.
I'll share with them the stars from the sky and the very constellations from their hearts and make them feel positively dynamic and optimistic and they'll walk away from me with a cushy spot for hope in their pockets.
And I'll retreat to the shelter on my back, drained as if the flow of my mind were poured out in a colander, leaving the pulpy, distastefully rude thoughts that remained to wreak havoc on my crippled self-esteem.
I'm so sorry that my kindliness is some lewd pantomime of genuine altruism.
I'm sorry if I destroyed the ethereal, impossible image of who you fashioned me into.
I was always afraid that this would happen.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
Maybe we're from the same scar.
Maybe the same galactic gutter.
Maybe the same pulpy punch.
Maybe you were my sister
or you were my brother.
Maybe there is a place
where we used to go
to plant our feet
in what we didn't know.
Maybe there is a place
where the whistle grows,
the voices chatter,
the stillness slows.
And maybe, somewhere
or the whistle grows,
the voices chatter,
the stillness shows.
And maybe, somewhere,
or this place, you said to me,
"I hope you remember
that this is a false memory."
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
I wake up with a stabbing pain,
I force myself to wake up from this nightmare,
and when I finally look in the mirror...
"Wait, what? How did that happen?"
There's violet and crimson marks on me.
They're encapsulating me,
making me feel like I deserved this,
and I did.
The shrinks in their ivory towers tell you
To not be afraid,
Stand up for yourself,
Show them what you're made of, and to
Never back down.
I'm pinned to the floor,
and my legs are paralyzed.
I was left in a puddle of my own pulpy, ****** mess.
and it's my fault.
His voice echoes in my mind.
"Maybe if you didn't act this way, I wouldn't do this,
You're a terrible person and I feel sorry for the people who think you're not. Nobody loves you. People would throw you out in the street if they knew what you've done."
That was the night that he took everything from me,
He took my freedom,
He took my ability to communicate,
He took everything from me,
And he doesn't know why.
Sometimes, I don't know why he does these things.
Isolation consumes me like cable news telecasters consume the minds of sheep, and everyone is programmed to think and act as if the world is coming to an end.
Everyone acts like a victim.
There's two parts to such an accusation;
Victimization
Survival
But, there's a third part that no one tells you about.
Coping mechanisms
I can't stand up for myself.
"You're worthless."
I can't show them what I'm made of.
"Nobody loves you."
Berating, belittling, and biting me with your words.
It shows more scars on me than your fists.
"Why do you do this to me?"
"You must not care about how I feel."
"Why are your crying? Are you pitying yourself?"
"Have you realized that what you've done is wrong?"
"When will you learn?"
I'm not your child.
I'm not your lover.
Make a safety plan,
Get out while you still can,
Don't blame yourself.
You have every right to react the way you want
When he's not treating you right.
Don't let him gaslight you.
You've been through this before.
Don't let him get to you.
You're better than that.
You
are
a
survivor.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
a bucket of water is in front of me.
half full to be exact.
my mother was sick in her room.
I knew how to bring her health back.
a handful of dirt
....dandelions and moss fluff...
...a bushes leaves and some other nasty stuff...
puddle water and my dogs chew toy...
for flavor...
banana peels and orange peels
and exract of rose...
i amcompletelety sure this will make my mother feel 18 again...
or so my 5 year old brain assumed.
the fume of my potion smelled of a polluted ocean in a very unpopular beach.
the smell of low tide and the texture of as snails body.
mommy was sleeping.
pacing my steps
...very....
...quietly...
...i apprached my mommy with the ocean potion...
...dipped my 5 year old hand in the pulpy potion with chew toys
peels
mud
...shivers reeled through my skin...
but i had to make sure my mommy would be mommy again.
" mah..." i whined
"maaaaa..MAAAAAAAH!"
as quickly as i screamed was as quickly as she awoke
she saw the potion and took a whiff of my improvised concoction and bolted to the bathroom
"oh poo.." i thought. "i shouldve added mushrooms"
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:05 AM UTC
You still have not released me
Though it was many years ago
Lips swollen from kissing
Stuttered as hate began to grow
Rusted hands pried open
Salty twilight spotted cracks
And yet you still flicker warmly
Above my chipping eyelid’s clotted wax
A bump from a gentle stranger
Sends me spinning from the train
But those that beat me hollow
I filter through my veins
My hands scream for passion
My heart for pulpy gore
My legs tire from tensing
But my mind still wants more
It would prefer so mightily
I danced overgrown with spines
Pursuing eyes of Persian blue
Golden hair, unleashed jungle vines
It would rather have me wounded
Bashed in until I bled
Over and over again, no truce
My mind, it wants me dead
--Lily
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC
give me that mashmellow
i like how u so narrow
moist shimmering on pulpy skin
your attitude so mellow
your my favorite kind of gin
as radiant and lush as a mallow
Aug 6, 2022
Aug 6, 2022 at 8:47 AM UTC
I felt it
When I spoke
To the judge,
For my son,
Years of shell work
Encasing fear and sanity, cracked with each glance, falling away. Everyone listening.
I was left lost
Like a snail losing it's shell
Mushy and vulnerable
A Pulpy mess.
Was it enough
That I said
Or too much.
So much was left out
The Russian Roulette admission
The thoughts of jumping 15 floors from his hotel
So many letters making up words and paragraphs upon paragraphs
of 15 years.
Throwing out a gun
Into the city trash.
How could I be anything more than a mother
Who let the saving flatten her out of existence. Incoherence and pulp.
Will it be discarded
All that effort
To keep him alive
At my expense.
Is that what mothers do?
I'll never get to return. Life doesn't
Let you.
Mar 5, 2024
Mar 5, 2024 at 12:21 PM UTC
he was two opposing elements,
the coldest warmth i’ve ever felt.
he was night mixed with light,
flight mixed with fight.
his shoulders full of freckles
were fields of tiny fires,
his hair a molten eruption
spilling down my hands.
he set off bombs inside me,
rendered my forest
a mound of smoky soot,
reached into me
to uproot the undergrowth.
he was loud.
i was listening.
he was bright.
i was willing.
i would have followed him
into the mouths of volcanoes,
built temples for him,
a hearth to rest his head in,
a small wallspace to flicker in,
let him **** up my oxygen.
I wanted to dig into him like a jack o’ lantern,
reach into his pulpy insides
and scoop out sadness with the seeds,
carve a smile into his flesh,
light a candle in his breast,
so he could shine,
but he was too cold.
i kept striking those matches
til my fingers burnt,
and every time the flame
touched his delicate wick,
we’d both go out.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:15 PM UTC
Our minds are so morbidly scary
In bouts of silence and dark
That we can imagine death, destruction, blood, A SPARK.
Knives cutting holes in our paper-thin skin,
Kids throwing rocks till their brains turn pulpy,
Bridges rocking and creaking, skin hitting ice,
Smashing our souls on concrete..
It cures a hidden desire, worse than lust or need or want.
And on that note:
The world is turning
And with it, morbid minds.
Aug 14, 2020
Aug 14, 2020 at 2:45 AM UTC
A date night with myself
With my best mood on
Flaunting my smile to myself
Amazingly interesting it will be
I said to myself
And left for a shimmering place
To eat and to be with me
Chicken biryani with kabab
And pulpy grape juice
My fav food I ordered
Food, me and love
All at once
With music on
To celebrate my me-time!
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC