"receptacle" poems
******* mischief misconstrued by me?
Love,
Held together like glue by me
I built this with my own hands
Now watch me cackle with glee
As I hold you over a fire
Like a beloved pet bird!
Fry now absurd lust,
Burn now: we never held trust
I never liked the feel of your hand
Paper and sand,
Throbbing adrenal glands
Proclaiming my fall -
I loved you, is all
I ******* loved you like a saint
I burnt for you at the stake
If I could give you my organs I would
I'd surrender all but my soul if I could
Love love me darling
Love love me so
Bleed, bleed these seeds
Of desire that grow
Sustain me darling
Tell me I'm your girl
Need need you sweetheart
In this forsaken world
I offered my heart on a stick like a lollipop
Just one more year and we could open up shop
We'd have enough,
You'd make me yours
Then I'll do your washing and
I'll sweep all your floors
My heart beats darling
I wish for you now
Sow these seeds with your wicked plough
I NEED you handsome,
Do you love me now?
Do you love me if I bend down and take being milked down like a cow?
Cow, sow darling, I'd be them all
Every barnyard animal, I'd do a four legged crawl
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
If I lay down to the floor and pray without a priest,
Will you give me a thought,
Jot my name down at least?
If I was holy as Mary
Sweet as a bud
Would you love me then
Though I act like your ****
Would you kiss me dear, would you hold me near
This trash, abandoned receptacle,
This can, ******* hopeless: perpetual. . .
I'd do anything for you
Watch me moan, pine and weep
I'd be anything for you
Go without food, love, sleep
Go without a brain to sustain, and I'll sacrifice my time
I'll shut up to all men
I'd scrub holes for every dime
I'd be like your mother
Or hope to aspire
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
Do you love me now?
Do you love me if I bend down and take to being milked like a cow?
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
I am clueless as to how I have dug a hole in this concrete ground, 60 feet deep. The dust I’ve been choking on does not bother me no more, layers piling upon my lungs like snow upon an exposed carcass. The slightest upheaval of my chest and tingling in my lungs reminds me that I still breathe. I’ve met scaffolds of bones down here. As I stare into their hollow sockets, I could never figure if they were ever esurient for something I held. They taught me how the ocean is never blue but only a de facto reflection of the sky. They said many mistook the sea for the sky, but never once mentioned the salt that contaminated their lungs- the impetus that drove their feet 60 steps into the waves. A reconciliation it must have been. I doubt it made any difference, when their hearts were bleeding out; a pity it doesn’t make it any lighter. Down they sank.
I wonder if I mistook these soils for the sky. As I looked up, I realised that the sky only seemed further away. There’s something peculiarly comfortable down here, the little bumps on the walls and contours of the craters looked like jawlines of a new-found friend. The sun is so blindingly high in the sky. I preferred how sometimes I could see the man in the moon- shadows cast by imperfections on the moon’s surface. In the vague moonlight and scrawny silhouettes, the fact that the moon always has a dark side makes it tangible a thousand miles away. Sometimes, I lay on this wooden receptacle discovered upon excavation and gaze at the empty skies with my friend as he tells me what lies outside this trough. Happiness is a pack of hungry wolves and when they are done, you are left with only your marrows. I see things clearer down here, than above where they are smothered by smoke from the trees they burned to the ground. Sometimes the skies are dark with no hint of dusk, sometimes the sky is filled with white nebula; but most of the times, the days are shorter than the nights. But it never gets any darker down here.
I figured I could never mistake this hole for the sky. I was just chasing these broken pieces like I used to chase happiness. I have no idea how I’ve gotten this deep while trying to pick up these pieces that I don’t recognise. But the struggle tells me it’s real, and the pain keeps me awake. They say if you spend enough time with someone, you will fall in love. I guess that’s what happened between sadness and me.
I’m staying here.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
i tried to overlook
but like seedlings, you germinated
roots around my phalanges (like a dandelion)
from where we last touched.
over time and frigid winter weather, the roots
spread. around my metacarpals, intertwined
between my ulna and radius, all the way up
to my humerus and scapula.
by the spring, flowers sprouted just above my
collarbones, embracing my mandible.
little wilted blue petals surrounding me in my bed
each sunrise, but by noon, new petals already have
attached themselves to the receptacle.
by summer, i pluck their petals for amusement. as
they drift away in the breeze i can't help but to
remember you. us. we. and another thing i haven't
determined is whether you have forgotten me
or not.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 7:39 PM UTC
that’s all I know, title, subject undisclosed,
new morn amourning arrives, when writing~writhing
hunger, comes and remains till fufillment,
sometimes, nagging, sometimes roaring, completion is
the satiation satisfaction when the pouring/
spilling is from within to without, topping off
the nearest receptacle with hugger-muggery,
beauty jumbled, elegantly jagged linen creased
the it of it, must be done, so my heart un-seizes,
breathing to nearly next to normal, yet the distance there
incroyable, inch or mile, meter matters not, until closed it’s a
chasm rupturing,
fingers grasping my temples, to hold the
jumbled tumbling innards within, redirected towards my
screaming fingertips, hoping, relief will come sooner,
making room until the throat and lungs engorged,
when~with this selfsame need returns
on the morrow
if, when,
my eyes open,
and yesterday itself
is a writ,
a realization accomplished
~~~~~~~
perhaps, you recognize yourself?
perhaps, you reconcile yourself?
Sep 26, 2023
Sep 26, 2023 at 9:54 AM UTC
We’ve been herded by hook and crook,
To obey convention, and read textbook.
The uniformity is maddening,
And the subjects are baffling.
The whole wide world is grand and open;
Why cordon the mind off in a tiny token?
Rules were meant to be broken,
To usher change and issue motion.
Creativity, art, they build up cultures,
Not to be picked at by robotic vultures.
They always nitpick and they scavenge,
Intent on making things a challenge.
Passion is the cornerstone of all,
It survives when things are squall.
It’s the sun that rises within you,
Makes you things you never knew.
Question everything, for your good;
You’ll find more than you ever could.
Explore everything, be curious;
For the world out there is glorious.
Challenge everything, be skeptical;
Your brain is knowledge’s receptacle.
Think outside, and break the rules;
Don’t blindly follow, like the fools.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
Crimson shades that hang on late
on cloudy mornings, cormorants
that carry tidings from afar
reeds that roll over slow in their measured nuances:
wind roars, noon bells, distant shorelights at night.
I sought glory with love in my heart
Midas-like, glory became my gold.
Every wave carries a new meaning
for one who sees life
from the window of death;
How many deaths for honour, how many
for glory, how many more for perfidy?
Ah blessed love, that
- when the glitter of glories descends
into quicksands of darkness -
from whom nothing can ever be snatched away,
the one love that shone before my birth
as Athene, who I loved as Penelope and
who loves me as Calypso, receptacle of worlds!
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 4:12 PM UTC
There was
none
to
listen
to her
Her words were like:
- A cry in the wilderness
that broke and shattered on woody trunks
- The howl of a lone wolf
that rose in the dead of the night
- The cry of an infant
that told the world, it was hungry
The cacophony of discordant orchestra
that left a jarring effect on the listeners
Her words sounded meaningless
To a world that spoke a different tongue
With no receptacle, her words like heated waters
Evanesced into vapor and billowed upward
Like coils of smoke to freeze into clouds
But one day it rained down,
Quite unexpected…….
With thunder and lightning!
-
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 6:17 AM UTC
1378
His Heart was darker than the starless night
For that there is a morn
But in this black Receptacle
Can be no Bode of Dawn
2.5k
Razor-mouthed maw
lurks in the shadows
receptacle of grim devouring
Watching and waiting
for foolish flesh
fresh meat
We all have to eat
Real monsters follow ALL of their appetites
Prissy poodles get dragged screaming
through sewer grates
Crumpled little pink permed bodies
Bones crunch like tortilla chips
Lifesblood imbibed
No rest for the wicked
No escape from the wicked
Crocodile smiles
sheds fake tears
for poor little creatures
Too stupid to avoid his bite
Too weak to fight back
Too closeminded to enjoy it
Crocodile grins temporarily satisfied
Scarecrow watches all from the shadows
Scythe sways in silence
waiting to witness
the next sacrifice.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 8:07 AM UTC
i.
last week you were sitting by your window watching the sun melt into a thousand shades of darkness and you thought of her. you still remember how she always smelled like lavender and roses and peonies and freshly mowed grass and rain - a living breathing walking talking singing dancing growing but ever so slowly dying garden. you suppose she must've smelled like cigarettes as well, since she went through a pack a week, and the whiskey she laced her coffee with and the teabags she used as toothbrushes, but all you can remember is the garden of her mind and the green of her thumbs that planted flowers in-between your ribs and turned your blood to a breeding ground for aphids. a single lotus flower can live for a thousand years. a single memory can live even longer.
ii.
on the train ride to paris she didn't think of you, instead she counted all the prime numbers from one to one thousand and kissed a boy with oceans for eyes. you came home to an empty house in february, a receipt for valentine's day roses still fresh in your wallet. all of your belongings were still there, tainted with the memory of her - the set of calligraphy pens she got you for hanukkah, the sweater of yours she would always wear in the mornings after *** while drinking coffee and filling out the crossword. the endless number of bobby pins she'd left in your bedroom were still there, littering your floor like land mines. you found the flowers she planted in your veins tossed in the trash, and you spent hours pulling each petal from its receptacle and deciding that if she'd ever loved you she would have chosen something gentler than forget-me-nots to sew into your veins. the seeds of a lotus flower must be cracked before they can be planted, must be broken to allow the water to seep into them and breathe possibility into their veins. your heart is cracked, have you blossomed yet?
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
My absolute destiny is to skull **** the **** out of life
To blast open the empty cleavage
To shatter all the deceptive phonographs
Those that you now consider “convenient modes of transportation”
Every dawn I will howl into your vibrating monotones
Your Dutch rambling will be reduced to ashes
Alone in a ***** hostel
You will be shocked by the sight of a desecrated ******
The fish scales still burning
Left in their natural preservatives
The lowest of all the adorned creatures
Is he who succumbs to mediocrity
An ordinary existence is worse then a wasted *** receptacle
If they cant see the truce in a setting sunlight
It is a sin to deteriorate comfortably
Making circles with the tracks of your laymen’s truck
of waking up happy with your plastic name tags
carved to resemble an ignorant life scrap
This **** disgusts me
It is the skull ******* that define a generation
Grab your sword a
and plunge deep into the night
A laudable combination of weapons of mass destruction
and drunkards
This is one less moment you spend being ordinary
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 11:40 AM UTC
Translation From Catullus
Ye Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia’s favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she lov’d:
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o’er her ***** mov’d:
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
He chirrup’d oft, and, free from care,
Tun’d to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass’d the gloomy bourn,
From whence he never can return,
His death, and Lesbia’s grief I mourn,
Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,
For thou hast ta’en the bird away:
From thee my Lesbia’s eyes o’erflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow;
Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life’s decay.
1.9k
I am cage fights with boys and girls alike
I am splintered hardwood floors
kneeling/crawling/hard working
indoor/outdoor
day/night.
I am balled fists
Open palms
I am Chains and
a footstool timbered from my back.
A rent boy with vices
I am violence/dicord/visceral
Bloodied and mean.
A machine built of sinew
made for binding/unbinding
lashing and flogging
I am a service receptacle
a boy built of honour
of instinctual intellect
of bruises and bandages
i am cut and torn
roped and worn.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 2:20 AM UTC
I forgot ****** healing.
I'm too scared to feel anything when you're done.
It's not like you stroke my hair,
kiss my skin and treasure me.
I'm looking for my spectacles,
emptying out your receptacle.
But there's value in the hand that flushes
down your forgotten ****
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
No one has a monopoly on God.
When you hear them say that they do,
Make a dash for it! Don't wait around
For them to impose their merciless coup.
No group has a monopoly on truth.
Of those who say they "know" be skeptical.
If their "knowledge" can't stand up to questioning,
Their mind isn't more than an empty receptacle.
Terror and fear make desperate converts.
Truth and wisdom transcend petty goals.
Some will try to sell you a bill
Of goods that's full of vagaries and holes.
Beware of those with the gift of gab
Who promise to guide you down a path
Of slick salvation and tempting allurements,
Though one false step incurs God's wrath.
Beware of those who say they know
The mind of God both inside and out
And curse your attempts at inquiry
When with an open mind you doubt.
No one has the right to judge you
And tell you that you're going to hell.
Watch out for the crazed fanatic
And the sanctimonious ne'r-do-well.
Put everything into perspective.
Love and compassion should be your course.
Belief should be all about choice
And definitely not a product of force.
- by Bob B
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
Hysterical witch
Demonic *****
Weak and hungry always
But mostly unbalanced
Pet
How dare you reach
For what you need
When I can
Give you what I want
Receptacle for love
Receptacle for blood
Receptacle for seed
Receptacle for everything
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 7:05 PM UTC
You unwrapped my blind fold
I could only see this mess of deconstructed bones
The smog filled my bleeding nostrils
I gasped to know the truth of a world rotating in circumvention
Tangents of humiliation
A crab crawls back into its used receptacle
It does not have to face the uneven shadows
Fairy wings brittle and break
The ashes of frightened unicorns
Paths off way far into the emasculated jungle
Hidden silences wielded in your depth
Machines and paper plates
The trees of battered car horns and biohazard bags
The stereotypical infantile jungle world
Without the echoes of the children you never should have had
Mary prostitutes herself on the corner
The Holy Ghost burns unnoticed
Please let us go back to a time
When we could sit still without retrograding voices
Telling us to progress and revolve
We can no longer feel awesomed in the presence of a structural anomaly
One that had never lived or breathed
Or failed
We were on the verge of a revolution
Before they took our fairytales away
The myths were replaced with shear and utter disgust
For the entire human community
Let us retreat to the forest of Incas and attack dogs
For we can not have a revolution of one.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:22 AM UTC
I decided today when I woke up
To write a poem for everyone
I'd start off with the very old
And end up with the young
In between I'd have kings and queens
Along with a peasant or two
A genius with a dozen degrees
Even a few without a clue
For the in-laws and the outlaws
Though at times they act the same
If right now they're sitting next to you
No need to mention names
I'd also write it for the Catholics
Protestants and Jews
So as not to leave anyone out
A Methodist marching band with kazoos
What would a poem for everyone be
Without rodeo and circus clowns
The ones that paint happy faces
Over the top of their life's frowns
The tall the short and skinny of course
Those that are tipping the scale
Which these days are most of us
But let's not dip into that well
And of course I can't leave out
All the gays and all the straights
Who never knew that they were straight
Until the gays knew they were gay
I guess we've all been labeled
I really don't mean to offend
Oops...I almost forgot to include
All the mustached women and hairy backed men
If you find you weren't in here
And think that your unmentionable
I'd like you to know my friend
My rudeness was unintentional
You may take this poem for everyone
And do with it what you wish
Perhaps the closest receptacle
Where it may join it's friends...the trash
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:42 AM UTC
i miss the way
coffee used to taste
i used to take the dregs
at the end of the morning
*** and pour them into a
steel tumbler
mix in handfuls of
refined white sugar
to fight the bitter
flavor i had not yet
learned to accept
then it went into a large
glass receptacle with
terminally stained
interior corners
mixed with milk until
pale and creamy
left to sit in the fridge
for a week
drunk from shimmering
crystalline glasses at
any hour of day or night
because consequences
didn't matter to me
my summer coffee tastes
different now
not so watered down
and drunk early
from plastic cups
through straws that crack
just because
it's there, not
because i took
the time to make it
and i miss something a lot deeper
than the way my coffee used to taste
but i cannot for the life of me
remember what it is
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC
Im a Grouch. On the inside
I try to be a lot of things, I try to be a good friends, a good, listener
To be generous and forgiving, try to be a, man of my word
I try to be all these things.
That would be easy if I wasn't so angry
"Your a grouch, go live in a trash can"
Nothing could be more accurate eh?
A receptacle for the worst of people
A place for them to discard the spent little pieces of themselves
Crumpled up and thrown away.
You become filled with that. The wrong stuff
You become a discarded napkin on the inside
Coffee and lipstick stains the echoes of rough mornings and old heartache.
Other people throw those things away and move on.
But you, their ******* bin are forced to hold on to those past aggressions
Is it any wonder I'm so angry?
Were all like that, memory is garbage.
A festering old sandwich in a bin that clearly reads, paper only, recycle please.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
Ooo! Wee!
Ya got it on my armpit and hair
from my belly, I think you sings it from an egg
the push and pull, the truth and dare
rain-bead pearled in cloudlight bed
was it something I said? Or touched?
All my ex liked to talk about is ***
and wild intricacies like wow, buddy
I'm right here kinda spunky and funny
but his receptacle and receptacle-ees
aren't that interesting to me
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 8:16 PM UTC
A body has length, width, mass and occupies space
But in what relationship to time?
When did it begin and must it end?
A mere witness is required at the mark of the line
But a rock is not a baby
You could ask a scientist
But as we walk there is no need to know
For the body is there in motion and at rest
For man it is what it is
Utility, beauty, an obstacle
A nuisance
A receptacle
We perceive its properties
And what it means to us
We know it occupies space
Regardless of how gracious
Just because it is
It does not care about what
Unless it knows to survive
Or it bleeds when cut
What science
Tells me I’m cold?
What theory
Confirms I’m old?
There is a perception of what I have seen
Through my own eyes
Without reading a book
I wonder if I believe in lies
I know the absence of light can make red black
I know a rock is a rock
But the illusion is defined by a relation
For color or stone is defined by what it is not
To what end a distraction of sound unoccupying space?
A beautiful sound occupies time
And time stops for us yet we know this is not true
Because the witness has continued to draw the line
The scientist can measure
And I can walk in a circle
As I ponder what it is that I hear
I wonder if that is the particle?
For what man once saw
And could not hear
Was there all along
In the air
When birds flew near
What is next?
Will it erase everything we know?
I don’t need gravity anymore than I need long ago
For what change would be in me
When a magnetism between the earth and myself
Is assumed
While that thing between you and I
Is something I always felt
Someone called it God
Something I cannot explain
I wonder if they can
We are resigned to believe in a superior brain
I read the words about mass and volume
And a higgs and a boson
But the sun continues to rise and set
And the wind and rain fill each season
They broke bread and opened a bottle
They congratulated one another
But who was saved and who was condemned
In a sub-atomic world where no baby can find its mother?
The God Particle
Can it save my Father or your wife?
Can it save the world?
Can it bring my friend back to life?
I think we will continue to suffer
For as knowledge continues to make itself available
We retreat into the minds of others who think
And man defines himself by what he is unable
Yes by what he is unable to do
And what he is unable to know
And what he is unable to conceive
And how he is unable to grow
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC
We found the fountainhead of the dark brimming night,
wasn't blue black as one would think, but white,
shimmering bright, flight of the pigeons, unexpected;
waves beating repeatedly against the shores, fluorescent blue poles,
seething in love and lust,bursting bright in overwhelming desire,
limitless yen to break every restraint, to merge and be only one.
put your logic aside and dive in to the phantom depths
where you reach without moving an inch in space,
blue receptacle, the cave concealing silver sparkles
she and I were yin and yang, on an exploration of the self mountain
in the uniform of beasts, though in an incognito vacation in our forest,
it's all fantasy that creates various hues, black and white too
there were no butterflies with fragile wings under the starlit night,
when we wished the night sky was full of them, flying, alighting on our bodies entwined, in a frenzy; they tickled and caressed with tender wings,
like dissipated pieces of rainbow, one following the other,
in a rare migratory path, across the horizon, in to the unknown.
the fountainhead of the night, we see it without even eyes,
interplanetary travelers we are, in our crafts, even if they look fragile,
the essence of being is beyond the realm of real,
we had out of body awareness,
both imagination and dream are filled with
undulating moon grace.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
Miles and miles of....
Space, stretched mouths, lips
Drawn apart, gums claiming their
Contents and the......
Famous uvula left dangling there
Tonsil twins, the septic sisters
Wore white adornments today
Salt stained specs sitting spitefully
Chastising for last night's overdose
Remarking about being off colour
Tombs stones stained on plaque
Patrol alert, tongue wearing a
Its stale white winter coat
Colour palette was off white today
With blue garland furnishings
Strategically placed under the
Black veil of last night's mascara
Nostrils dragged their contents
Into the daylight, sizing up and
Producing a contest for the
Incumbent tissue trail that slowly
Gave the receptacle in the corner
A purpose for the day...to see how
Sturdy it claimed to be before it
Regurgitated....spluttering and coughing
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 7:15 AM UTC
As a child I did not know whether it was the act itself or the knowledge that I was the receptacle for malevolence and cruelty that made me so vulnerable. At first I thought it was God's punishment for something I had done. I took an inventory, desperately seeking the deed that triggered the retribution. But I could not identify a single act. Even my accumulated errors, transgressions and unkindness’s did not exact the cost. Then I understood: if I could not isolate a deed, or pattern of deeds, commanding the punishment, it must be me. It is not what I did. It is who I was...a fundamentally, intrinsically and irredeemably bad little girl. I negotiated my adolescence and early adulthood with the mathematical symbol for "less than" (<) attached.
I would like to be able to write that I am no longer negotiating my adulthood with the same mathematical symbol attached. But that would be a lie. It is pervasive. It is formidable. And if I do not keep it contained, I am so afraid it will be debilitating….I've been down that road a time or two. At times it has enveloped me, penetrating my pores and drowning everything essential and vital inside.
Undisturbed, it is docile, sated. But aroused by even the slightest hint of beauty or strength or grace it is a painful reminder that I am...somehow...contemptible...that I am still fundamentally, intrinsically and incorrigibly...what? Flawed, imperfect & bad? You may say, "But we are all flawed and imperfect. And our flaws and imperfections make us more interesting...more truly beautiful...more human." And perhaps you are right, but this inexorable deprivation makes me somehow subhuman... less than human...permanently broken. I am a receptacle for malice.
I skillfully deflect praise directed my way, an effort to soothe the inescapable conflict inside. Moderate praise induces a subtle twinge of embarrassment; more effusive praise incites the consuming and agonizing feeling that I am irreparably damaged, hopelessly broken. It has contaminated, compromised and diminished every accomplishment, soiled every success. People sometimes tell me that I am humble and that it is an admirable trait. But the modesty and humility they identify helps me to mask the mortification stirring inside. I have gotten so good at hiding it from others that I have nearly learned to conceal it even from myself.
At least that is what it feels like...right now.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC