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Stephen E Yocum Aug 2018
A steady cadence  
pulsing in a heart beat
like rhythm, voices
and strummed instruments
all in harmonized concert,
An orchestral multitude,
of frogs and crickets,
never tiring or ceasing,

How many must there be,
to render such a cacophony?
Sustained and loud enough
to keep city folk awake.

Nature's Music of the night,
should you but choose to listen.
How do they do that, all night
with absolutely no intermission?

A crescendo finale triggered
only by the coming dawn's
first light, and the boastful
crowing calls of our cocky
persistent red rooster chicken.

Where these musicians go in
daylight is anybody's guess.
To sleep I suspect, deserved
resting up for yet another
night of endless music.
Another value added feature
of living out in the country. Night
voices lulling me to sleep outside
my open window/screen.
Ashley Chapman Aug 2018
These days have ebbed
as Love's swell was checked:
the waters in some places
- all but dammed!

But now at last
I sense the rising tide
and thank Temese
for the current's turn;
now following that great writhing snake
to where its pulsing head will rake;
over the mucky soiled watery beds
of Woolwich
Greenwich
Limehouse
- and under -
Tower Bridge

     To that great gloating sight
                A crown of a billion lights
     Blazing day and night:
                And somewhere within
     In the slick oily warmth
                Our flood tides mesh,
     As over each other we wash.

Hard thrusts
wicked deep cuts
given and received
are recorded in that great mirror smoked!
where with a tug and a shove
on the banks
in the streets
through the loopy twists
everything prospers in the glow
as the decades decaying flow;
each ***** bud
red with new blood
one after t'other
flowers
before their purple petals scatter.

Let's on the luck o' the dice
(you 'n' me!)
ride out
on the flotsam and jetsom
that has carried us this far
and as pleases
merge.
London, a city with a rhythm, the Thames, which I sailed upon one Saturday morning - not a soul at this end of this magestic river, this city, in which I have lived for forty years...And love - a wonderful woman - and how I desire us to pull at each other as tides do, tugging at each other, two flows running over reeds and muddy shelves searching for each other in the cool green depth.
everly Sep 2018
I take pride in my roots
I take pride in my melanin
And my ancestors
All those who have persevered
To get me to where I am today.
I take pride en mi pelo rizo
Gracias a Dios..

I carry my culture in my curls to
The poetry that runs through my
Veins
rushing
pulsing
sweat on the furrow of thy lip
beading
ache of the toil in their fieldwork
sweet
azucar negra
my ancestors blood was sweeter
they still don’t want us here
but some things never change
but we are able
and no beautiful ignorant person
Will ever take that away.
Ashley Chapman Oct 2017
Feel empty in your post apocalyptic City of Angels,
Where not even your pets are real!
An electric android, a sheep or a frog,
The whir-flutter of micro-electrical wings of a butterfly.

Good, and so you ought.

Now grab the handles of your empathy box,
And in a shared virtual hallucination –
Feel: empathy, depression, pain, delusion and despair,
The outré myriad gifts of consciousness.

Millions of discombobulated and disconnected wrecks:
Adam's sons; Eve's daughters,
And among them simulations too,
Fakes! androids!
A phony circuit of semi-conscious memories,
A hive of neural malaise!
Welcome to our world; know how dead, inside, I feel.

You, yes, you:

Need a pet to make you more complete?
Maybe you can afford
A Fake Fakir Flake like me who looks like Jude Law,
Sounds like Richard Burton,
And silently romances you like Rudolph Valentino.
Come and stick what’s left of your mind in here,
In hair, hear her: har, har, har…

A box of lies...

A voice, Mercer's,
With texture from an age you neither lived in nor dared in:
Al Jerry's, a TV actor,
Droning on in pre-selected tones.

The real thing, the men, the women, their animals,
Made in the wild, wild desert, in the green pulsing savannah,
On the open crusted sea; now too, washed, choked, and drained,
Too many spliced and diced mutations,
Iterating your image:
The thing that was my heart,
My Child, now its imitation.
This comes from my fascination with Philip K. **** and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. In this, his future dystopian vision, androids are retired, a euphemism for terminated, when they have passed their legal age limit after four years. Humans, us, have by now ruined our environment and become enthralled to a false religion, Mercerism , a fabricated make belief, spun by an actor, Al Jerry. The empathy boxes plunge the followers of Mercerism into a shared virtual hallucination. I was also enthralled by Jude Law in AI by Steven Spielberg who gave what I thought was a mesmerising portrait of a *** robot, the ultimate Lothario and so tragically programmed to flaw.

Earlier this year Mercerism was the theme of The Tunnel, an art collective to which I am a participator, through poetry.

Blade Runner, the film, now Blade Runner 49, is based on this dark interpretation of where we could all be headed.
zebra Oct 2018
stranded in
the beauty of her throat shunted

her preference
a short drop
in a bulwark twisting knot
a hanged ghastly pendent

her feet arching desperately in search of a floor
they will never find

obedient!

yet
her face
a hideous insubordination
she dissolves like tropical butter
a screaming silence
a falling prayer
shuddering
with downward sloping limbs

she
blue
hemorrhaging
eyes wobbled
bulging to break into paradise
tumbling
like a dizzied cyclops
as numb lipped jutting howls
turn cement

always willing to help
he scums
for her
in pulsing heaves
of beatific gush
dark eroticism
****** horror
corpser May 2018
The night air is humid and there are thunderclouds looming in the horizon. The skies are neatly stained with a *** stain looking stain of clouds, scattered in the yellow moon of 7pm.

I walked past a wake tonight, then a funeral then the graveyard. Im walking out to buy some cigarettes, menthol for my mother and reds for myself.

The night is a ticking time bomb rigged to blow. Like the pulsing ache in my head or the medicine in my mouth waiting to be crushed between my teeth.
Instruction says I should **** on it as long as I can. Says its supposed to relieve the pain.

I fight back the urge to bite. I fight back the urge to do a lot of things.

The ticking timebomb
Does not explode.
L B Mar 2017
Black, Swiss cheese hulk on horizon
The James Longstreet
immobile old freighter of the bay

Towed to the ignominy
of its last commission
in the curled arm of The Cape
Tides flex their muscles against it
But The Longstreet is steadfast
in its dark purpose

Standing target for practice

A sortie if planes home in on its bulk
Honing their skills
on this  “fish-in-a-barrel”
Thunderhead-etched pyrotechnics
Booming follows the miles over water

Against The Longstreet’s silhouette enduring
even God fixes sights
firing bolts across its bow
taking aim at our futures

Standing targets for practice

Vietnam? Cape Cod?
No difference to teens
before life’s ocean of conscription

Sand is cold beneath dunes
Beach grass rustles
to the pulsing surf
to the wind’s whispers
just below hearing
as if there’s a secret
that must be kept

We are targets for practice
We are meaningless din

Pulling our sweatshirts and blanket closer
The Supremes sing thinly
from transistor
“Stopped for a moment in the name of love—

Thinking it over”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p38khYKxqLI

The Target Ship has now disintegrated into a sunken reef and sanctuary for ocean wildlife.  The above video is a cool tour complete with perfect music. Enjoy.
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
Sometime around vespers or matins, still dreaming or about to—
swimming spaceless beyond the stretch where vision is blindness
where photons tumble like Phaethon from his chariot afire

Where time beats that archetypal
echo of rhymed nothingness
pulsing through ALL verse

Unfulfilled
nothingness
unfulfillable

Except to those returning soul-side
grooving to the hush between the beats—
the authors of such co-labours as these
.
Vespers, evening prayers. Matins, morning prayers, morning birdsong.

Phaëthon [fey-uh-thuh n, -thon] In Greek Mythology Phaëthon is the son of Helios, the sun deity. Phaëthon borrowed the chariot of the sun and drove it too close to the earth where Zeus killed him with a thunderbolt to save the world.
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
s y k Sep 2018
Now I know how it feels: serendipity;
I sensed it on that 26th of June.
At first glance ecstasy,
by the drapery,
where I first met you.

Rosy cheeks and warm summer air,
Walking side by side,
beneath the daylight's glare.
Pulsing hearts and feeling shy,
passing smiles with our eyes.

Armours fall as stories unfold,
I linger on every word you say.
Laughing with you as time ticks by,
All I want is to ask you to stay.

Cigarettes at sunset,
the music blaring high,
dancing in starlight,
bewitched by your eyes.
You lean in to kiss me,
it's surreal as a daydream,
sweet, and laced with mint and nicotine.

It seems like fate was at play here.
We were meant to be, dear.
Easy marks of Cupid's arrow,
left a feeling I can't outgrow.
Can it be too good to be true?
Take my hand,
let's see it through and through.

Serendipity was a sign,
You're worth the try.
I'll love you, until I die.
To Jordan.
I am a monster of my own creation, yet
Unnamed.
I'm the doctor and the beast he wrought.
My face is wan, and eyes sunken; Strong and capable, but fated
for destruction.
Come, wave your flaming rods and I'll run for the hills.
Find me a cave where I can sit in a viscous
black tar silence.
Ears to knees pulsing from
what adorns me
These fears
like trinkets, leaden filigree spell them out.

But fear is an anxious heat and a flirt.
I'm drawn into a seductive
reunion with the chilled ground.
If you're lonely you may visit and behold this undoing.
"More weight!"
I'll scream,
until my bones are white ash and my organs are muddy
puddles
and I can, at last, declare I've accomplished something.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Shimmering light bouncing and playing on liquid beauty.
Undulating blue slips around me like skin.
A pulsing blanket envelopes and surrounds me with brilliance beyond comprehension.
Time is but a memory; this world encompasses all.

Celebrating the palette of color gliding through its hands ,
millions of tiny jewels bob and float as this life takes a breath.
Treasures hide away, unwrapped with a stir,
while teams of blue swarm and dance about in warmth.

Blue green teams with reflected light, glistening as it darts about.
Fans wave to the song of the tide singing with muted tongue.
Surreal and captivating this world of the deep, leaving me wanting more.
Isolated and apart, I return to my monotone world.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Lilah 2d

as she trudged up the mountain
        ^
      / \
    /     \
  /         \
/             \
victory pulsing through her veins

badum badum badum badum

her eyes set intently on the peak

a deathly stare

she knew she could do anything

anything at all

she was anything but meek

this world is not for the meek
The line “this world is not from the meek” I took from a poem I wrote last school year called “Story of a Lonely Bird”.
Anastasia Nov 20
colors flashing
beneath my lids
open them up
and i see blackness
hallucinogens
would be better than this
i don't understand
tell me what this is
kaleidoscopes
behind my eyes
ever-changing
like colored skies
someone, please explain
all these flashing colors
are bringing me pain
something's happening
these hues are breathing
pulsing and repeating
help me escape
gives me come cover
drape my sight
take away the colors
sorry for not posting. support me on my other website here ❤︎https://allpoetry.com/Anastasia-
Joel M Frye Mar 2011
leave me your moments spent
without thinking, staring into space
while on hold or waiting in line
for your slush of cold coffee

all that time pulsing away
from an opened artery
of your life

drop your minutes wasted
listening sort of
to the drivel of an almost friend
into the jar held below my sign
"starving for attention - please help"

leave me your moments spent
without thinking
of me:

i'll have all the time in the world
Daisy Vallely Apr 2017
I am alive.
I am flesh and bone.
I am a pulsing heart,
the sound of love-
perpetually beating.

I am a shadow-
at peace with desire.
I am Fate.
I am knowledge.
I am chaos.

I am divine fear,
pure ecstasy,
I am the feeling of becoming.

I am a child brought into the world
I am it's first breath.
I am the reflection in the eyes of Death.

I am Life,
I am pain,
I am bliss,
I am love.


I am reality.
I am a complete illusion.
poem inspired by a short story about Death experiencing an existential crisis
Jess Oct 2012
Evil buried deep inside
waiting to burst, but for now, to hide

Heart raging, blood racing
Brain surging, stomach aching

Something pushing at the nails
eyes turn cold as stone
Teeth gritting, sprouting fangs
Hatred pulsing through my veins

Heat of rage, trapped in this cage

Let it out, bleed it out!
Can't you see what it's about?

Blind, you're blind!
I'm losing my mind!

Let me run, let me go!
Maybe then you'll finally know

Maybe then I'll be free
from this hatred that's rotting me
KiraLili Oct 2016
She speaks
with her body
and it’s so
satisfying
to see her
curves and
instincts in conversation
those automatic
pulsing movements
responding to
caressing dialogue
goosebump murmurs
felt under my hand
triggered by
physical pleasure
******* heave and expound
clenched fists pontificate
while I respond to
the most rewarding
feedback
and tell tale
sign
loud screaming arches
as she wriggles
her lower half
and her thighs
sermonize
Just before
Her whole body yells
Bedroom Conversations
s Sep 7
a finger lingers on my lips
carefully touching pulsing heat
I wonder how this love will taste
First kiss
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