"redness" poems
the redness of my mouth tells
the truth without me
take a leap into breath
disentangle the days
suffering can wait
can wash away,
can carry her weight
somewhere else,
can push boundaries
like you pull a chewing gum
take a leap into the future
what is future
I don't understand it
shouts my current blood
this mind is expanding
well, yes not at the speed
of the universe colliding
but but but
thought has antigravitational
engines, you just feed it
feed yourself
with knowledge
take a leap into your voice
don't tremble
let it out
let the sun come out of
your mouth
be brave
like the spin of particles
they don't know the right way before
before the collapse
into something bigger, wiser
take a leap into this or that
into the unknown
it's gonna be fine
you can shook yourself of tears, of dust
you can be a smile
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 1:42 PM UTC
You tell me I'm beautiful,
pretty,
gorgeous,
But why?
Because you are not tricking me,
But only yourself,
You think,
"If I tell her she's beautiful, maybe I will grow to believe it too."
Well sweetheart, it is working?
You ignore the flaws of my body, my face,
Only to deceive your own mind,
Because if you saw my flaws you might no longer love me,
You chose to ignore my acne,
Because if you didn't, you're afraid you would leave,
You chose to ignore my protruding chin when I smile,
Because you wish you had someone who could smile sunlight rays,
You chose to ignore the redness in my skin,
Because you want to believe what matters is within,
But is it working dear boy?
The more you use the word beautiful,
Does it make you any more confident being around someone who's not?
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
It is the same sad December every time in Iraq, no change, no hope. Really sad thing.
--What I wrote in December 2017
You sit there, on that branch with my dream, but I cannot see your beauty because my eyes are soaked in the redness of December. I am a red man from the land of wars; my blood is shed and my soul is broken. No flowers here, no spring, only red December.( From " Red December" poem)
.
--What I wrote in December 2018
These streets have been made by the rough fingers of our December where the nights are weepy, and the moons are colorless. You can’t see anything here in December just violent and shameless faces. ( From " Stormy December" poem)
.
--What I wrote in December 2019
I freeze; but I do not freeze because the snow plays with my nose and cheeks, but rather because the New Year's tree has become red like the streets of my city and the New Year's party cups are full of tears of our mothers. ( From " Crazy December" poem)
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 3:58 AM UTC
I forgive you
Yet not forget
The bluish hue
With a scarlet
Tinge on my cheek...
Your abusive taunts
Endlessly woven lies
Alcoholic brawls
The redness of eyes
Glaring at me
With naked dislike
Of me and my family
And all my tribe...
Yet I always pardon
As this is a **** curse
Bestowed upon
Me for using your purse
To meet my needs
How can I forget
Those early deeds
My wants were met
With your toil n sweat...
I truly forgive you
As you earned fame
Women too came to woo
Without any **** shame
Threw themselves at you
For wealth and name
Success in your head
Women by your side
Your drinking was raised
As guilt made you hide
Behind the glass and smoke
You made your life a living joke...
Forgiving I have to be
For when you compare
Those beauties to met
I am just dumb and fair
With a plain Jane face
And meagre background
Who brings you disgrace
To those who surround
You and your basking glory
Yet I belong to your days of penury...
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.
It was good for twenty years, that wintering --
As if you never existed, as if I came
God-fathered into the world from my mother's belly:
Her wide bed wore the stain of divinity.
I had nothing to do with guilt or anything
When I wormed back under my mother's heart.
Small as a doll in my dress of innocence
I lay dreaming your epic, image by image.
Nobody died or withered on that stage.
Everything took place in a durable whiteness.
The day I woke, I woke on Churchyard Hill.
I found your name, I found your bones and all
Enlisted in a cramped necropolis
your speckled stone skewed by an iron fence.
In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead
Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower
Breaks the soil. This is Azalea path.
A field of burdock opens to the south.
Six feet of yellow gravel cover you.
The artificial red sage does not stir
In the basket of plastic evergreens they put
At the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot,
Although the rains dissolve a ****** dye:
The ersatz petals drip, and they drip red.
Another kind of redness bothers me:
The day your slack sail drank my sister's breath
The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth
My mother unrolled at your last homecoming.
I borrow the silts of an old tragedy.
The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry
A scorpion stung its head, an ill-starred thing;
My mother dreamed you face down in the sea.
The stony actors poise and pause for breath.
I brought my love to bear, and then you died.
It was the gangrene ate you to the bone
My mother said: you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind?
I am the ghost of an infamous suicide,
My own blue razor rusting at my throat.
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at
Your gate, father -- your hound-bitch, daughter, friend.
It was my love that did us both to death.
6.6k
*the sparkles in the hand sanitizer she uses,
is as sparkly and blue as her eyes,
and like her soul was made of the stuff,
she longed to be contained in its bottle,
being told when she could help the wounds from getting anymore worse,*
*she wanted to feel like she could prevent the sickness that filled her mind,
in anyone else's,
she wanted to save everyone from hurting too bad,
but the eyes that sparkled blue,
hid her tears behind black liner,
hoping the redness would surpass,*
*just never getting anything you deserve,
and feeling less than seeing nothing but the blackness of close eyes,
like close hearts of those who shut her out,
she just wants to feel more,
and everyone else to feel the same,*
**why I loved her cleansing eyes,
and every thought in her smart beautiful mind,**
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC
NAKED BUS
She catches the London bus
in her fist.
Gnaws it...then throws it
through the window.
Lucky the window wasn't
closed.
She chews it when
teething.
Chews its redness
- off.
She is amazed to see
the real thing for the first time.
For her
her toy has grown into a giant.
Then she discovers double-deckers.
Counts: "One double-decker bus...two double-decker buses
...24 double decker buses!"
It is unbelievably so!
Doesn't know she is counting
the same bus twice!
And now to add to her
amazement she
encounters a green bus!
Will the excitement never end.
"The bus has changed its clothes?"
she says unsure that this can be so.
But now confounded by a bus
all in white!
Even we have never seen
a bus in white.
It looks like it has taken
all its clothes off.
A **** bus!
But to her it's worse
far worse than that!
"The bus has taken
it's skin off!"
She refuses to go on
this skinless bus.
We wait for a "normal"
bus to somehow appear.
And appear it does
busy being a red bus.
The world of buses
restored to its proper order.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
the cold wind is
softly caressing your cheeks,
that hold crimson red color,
and i can melt just by looking
at their redness.
**and i would do anything
to touch and kiss those
flushed cheeks**.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
My skin flames redness
No heart is true
My brain floats headless
Where are you??
My lungs breathe brown
My muscles ache angst
My eyes crack the desert
Their stench is rank...
My heart beats heat
My groin is green
My bones bleed blackness
And itch in-between!
SøułSurvivør
9.14.2025
I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart has turned to wax; it has melted within me.
Psalm 22:14
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 7:14 AM UTC
To Marianna
When blue night mattresses
cover the city
Schizophrenia , depression , deception
they all cross the avenues
or rather swim in redness
the green rain stagnates
in the brothel's garden
the cat leaning on the stair
landing shuffles the deck of cards
a sweating Eros slides on a female
yet so manly river his signature
Monet .
Giorgos Vlachos
10.11.2008
Translation : Christos Rodoullas Tsiailis
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
The stink of fish on earthen streets
A hot wind blows from ochre hills
Black faces shine with brilliant teeth
Street market ***** doth cure all ills.
Redness in her plaited hair
Rhythm in her steady tread
A harmony of balance, she carries
Water jars on her head.
A market girl is singing
As she sits among bananas
The drama in her music
Is as dusty as the street,
It fills the air with magic
As it lilts above street chatter
In the atmosphere of Africa
Where new and ancient meet.
The goat boy herds his docile flock
Through camel trains and bales
The steamer tethered at the dock
Announces that she sails
With billowed steam and mournful wail
It echoes through the town
And the planter and his agent
Bargain with a harried frown.
The bleating of the goat herd
And the stench of fish and dung
Is as ordinary as Africa
In the searing mid day sun.
Zanzibar is spices, Zanzibar is Stone.
Club Zanzibar is whiskey on the rocks
Consumed alone
Or shared upon the balcony
In the shadow of a palm
With the turquoise Indian ocean
Reaching out beyond the arm.
Do you see the dhows are sailing?
Do you see the fishing nets?
Do you hear the oarsmen chanting?
Did you see black muscle flex?
Have you watched the dripping sweat
Cascade on alabaster brow?
Have you inhaled the scent of Africa
And allowed it to allow?
Colobus monkeys in the treetops
Narrow lanes in the bazaar
Dull white walls adorn stone buildings
And the rupee is by far
The favorite tenure of the Island
Since the days when slaves were sold
By Arab camel caravaners
Who traded coin for young black gold.
East and west collide in concert
Africa and Asia blend
The Sultan's mix of race and spice
In Zanzibar, beyond lands end.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
3rd June 2008
Oct 13, 2009
Oct 13, 2009 at 11:06 PM UTC
The pendulum is a bull shark.
The hour of the savior is a pregnant bride's swan dive into the water.
The mighty mile is a figure 8 in the scoot of
non slop socks across the bare linoleum.
Blood and bright are the redness of the blanket.
divine terror at one hart beat per hour.
Finger nails green and black against a back drop
of the brightest, bluest eyes you've ever seen;
deep pools of liquid light that will shine when least expected.
And the obligation isn't one at all,
for when i breath in,
you breath out.
And when I gave consent 1000 years ago times 10-
you performed the exorcism under the shroud of my amnesia
and the spotted light from a crystal disco ball.
Shards of light moved upon the face of all the space between the stars.
My heart was in the highlands but now its in your hands.
Oct 2, 2020
Oct 2, 2020 at 8:15 PM UTC
If beauty had a name,
Oh, what would it be?
It’d be more dazzling,
Than the entire sea.
If beauty had a face
I know what I’d see.
Such looks would bring
To Heaven, jealousy.
The fires a hue away
From love, show beauty
And the mind’s eye,
Encircled by blue sea.
Such lips of redness,
That utter to me.
As lovely as the dawn,
On the eastern sea.
But we could not mirror
Each other you see.
For we both draft left,
As I write this for she.
But on the chosen isle
Out on this blue sea;
Beauty has but a name,
Amanda, that it should be.
Feb 12, 2010
Feb 12, 2010 at 7:53 AM UTC
the weight of a hand
resting in yours
the resistance to the touch of a single finger
upon another
the sizzle of a thousand hairs between fingertips
the dampness of breath upon your cheek
the redness of pair of lips
...or of a blushing forehead
...or of cheekbones under droplets of perspiration
the silence of an empty room
the sense of someone close
...who is a thousand miles away
...and thinking of you
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots,
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
3.3k
You poured your breath like warm wine onto my skin,
And it seeped into every crack I had never shown you,
Until I was wet with something older than the wine.
Your fingers like long branches of hunger, touched me like a map you had burned before,
Tracing my neck down to the valley that experienced dips of gasps.
My mind was eclipsed by something black,
Not from fear, but from the depth of falling into something darker than sleep
And deeper than prayer.
Your lips poured ancient hymns into mine and took my aches with each kiss,
Until I lost myriad pieces of myself that were never meant to be kept.
Your hands gripped the curve of my hips and lifted me,
Not as a man lifts a woman, but as a storm lifts the sea,
I was no longer mine, but just a wave offering surrender.
When your tongue descended to the tremble of my belly,
And found the silk between my thighs, I wept into your hair.
I arched to worship the moment when
I was fully seen, fully consumed, fully remembered.
Your dark eyes looked into the center of me in a way that made my shadows blush into redness.
It was the holy fire between two sinners who forgot to ask for forgiveness.
I gasped, I trembled, I vowed as each wave took a part of me to heaven.
Finally, the room melted into sound and salt, and you breathed again on my damp skin.
I laughed in the dark as you whispered, “How can love live in the heat of such ruin?”
Because this wasn’t ruin.
It was resurrection.
Apr 30, 2025
Apr 30, 2025 at 4:13 AM UTC
it's the emptiness
it's the hatred that builds up in the creases of your
smile, of the laughter you hide your disgust with
it's the appointments you tear from your organizer
the holes in your stomach
the sunburn on your shoulders; the redness of your nose
it's your incurable phobias
your cut-up legs
your bleeding nose
your teary eyes
your itchy back
your raw skin
swollen lips
bare nails
unkept hair
ugly voice
tiredness
why the fuck'd you think spring would fix you?
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
To write a poem properly
That is my dream
But I can't even
Remove my mask
I don't even dare
To think quietly
All my poetry is failure
Spies that pretend
To be activists
A violent movement
A laceration
That bleeds black bile
Violence circle my mind
Like vultures around corpses
The sky is touched
By the redness of my cheeks
And I end up crying
Until night comes
What remains of my poems
Are dead organs
Words that fail at being words
Mouthful gibberish
What's left of my tears?
Acid rain
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 4:32 AM UTC
...And then I claimed hell and embedded my soul in mercury
Spun in cotton candy.
Sweet and dandy.
Honey of kindness is what I usually am.
Glazed with a temper of redness and lust
With reckless catapults of whimsical feathered *****
In carefully-woven baskets
Bombarding blanks with loud bangs.
And an identity which took years to make,
I'm a bi-tempered soul of icy / lava flow.
Wanting, needing, consuming life...
Give me flattery and attention!
I was exempt from life's detention!
I was spoiled by the caring hearts of my DNA angels!
Rage first, I protest.
Regrets later, I detest.
I'm a clusterfuck of mixed intentions.
Real words don't spill much beyond fire lake.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 7:08 PM UTC
I've been trying to write something of substance for quite some time now,
trying to collect fresh thoughts from newer moments of you
and rearrange them into phrases that would gift me a new remarkable piece of the puzzle that is the immeasurable complexity of your soul.
I've been trying to bottle up this obtrusive, demanding feeling of utter awe that comes when you and I climb into our honesty and wear it to bed, side-by-side.
I've been trying to backtrack slightly, wishing so desperately (though stoically!) for the return of those painfully dire professions of unadulterated romance, reminiscing in the saturation of your love letters and how the color red is breathed into me time after time to remind me how powerfully you've shifted the balance of my life.
I love you, I love you, by god, do I love you.
My fears are still the same, though, Darling, and I feel that with the redness of passion shall also come a redness of a quality that pertains to homicidal gore,
for you have, still, that scalpel in your hands,
and my heart blooms every moment of my life, not for its love of me, but for the hope that it may one day bloom for the last time cradled in your blood-soaked palms.
I've been trying to say anything else for a week but nothing will break from the gates and give me a solid night's sleep anymore.
I can't tell you how mad you've actually made me.
Though I do dare to hope that I've evoked similar sentiments in you.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
*~~~~~A PERSIAN RUG~~~~~
Just like your soul
Complex and stunning
Piece of art
Woven for years
With patient love
By hands of your
Amazing life
...
It gets the redness
From your lips
The blueness from
Your open mind
The green parts from
Your hazing eyes
The whiteness from
Your shining smile
...
Let me lie there
On this beauty
Let's fly away
High up the sky
Show me around
On a journey
The magics of
'Poetry Land'
~~~~~~~~~PERSIA*~~~~~~~~~
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 3:05 AM UTC
~
Bala^ comments:
"alignment - any which way one can if possible to make
****** and *********** simultaneously happen,
without any best position plan"
~
*may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity
my own circadian rhythm masters internal,
the most reliably unreliable human container technology teachers,
semi-skilled in the entrainment arts for this impoverished body mine,
deem it appropriate that early morn messages of
propitious possibility be greeted immediately
entrapped, awaken me at four AM with great glee,
because these elusives^^ know exactly what stirs
this being's cochlear cockles into birthing a
poetic cookie ******** ***********
your message meme provoking, inducing,
be honest man - simply seducing, my within
by your teasing words from without*
"without any best position plan"
*not to confuse the mere appearance of a routine
as worthy of the entitlement of "plan,"
much as the poem's own vanity chooses it own alignment
the relationship, the relativity -
always the
flexing flummoxing freaking insatiable pleasuring
when your thrusting unplanned message
****** and bests my brain,
releasing a fully formed, instantaneous parrying poem
from an aroused, passing, unsanitized, second of sanity
for no better *** than this...
as per the unplan?
this tissued life,
this in and out
of punching and counterpunching continuous,
but rarely contiguous,
for we are never aligned for more than a moment,
the moment that almost always goes unnoticed,
for the heart's ***** tissues,
are mostly torn by how life
uses us roughly
so here is an aligned confession fecundity
this poetry gig, my salve,
to tenderize the daily redness,
the irritation residual of having no plan
however these fingerprints decided for you,
to present, upon completion,
this soft-spoken loud ***********
a peaking, not a leaking,
** ** ** - a screaming
hallelujah, i'm aligned!
the man found albeit briefly
a beat, a plan and its verbal, herbal,
best solution
may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity
the man and his plan, for a mega-second
his best,
unplanned but got and given,
in poetic planetary alignment
positioned
as are you and I -
the thousands of miles of distance tween us
as you read this
collage collapse
into a singular synapse
of ****** and ***********
hallelujah, we are aligned!
~
**disclaimer:
anything you say to me, can and will be used
for a poem**
~
5:55am
April 1, 2017
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 4:16 PM UTC
~~~<¤>~~~
the river is wide, child
the river runs deep
don't you fret, no
don't you weep
the river is wide, child
the river is wide
but your promise 's
on the other side
~~~
don't be afraid
the current 's slow
and you can meander
with the flow
take your time
there is no rush
hear the water
hear the hush
~ chorus ~
see the world, child
from your boat
watch the others
as they float
see the redness
of the waves
dip your hand
the water saves
~ chorus ~
smell the richness
in your craft
be it a yacht
or be it a raft
the water is sweet, yes
the water is free
it stretches far
as you can see
~~~
the river is wide, child
the river runs deep
pray the Lord
your soul to keep
the river is wide, child
the river is wide
but everyone goes
to the other side
soulsurvivor
(C) 7/13/2015
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
and suddenly i can see them, colours
like i've been so oblivious to their existence before.
i notice the yellow rim around my towels
and the redness of my lips,
the shampoo bottle is actually blue
and my scrunchies reflect deep purple.
like my eyes and my soul have become desensitised to the beauty surrounding my life.
A life full of colour.
I don't want to merely exist anymore,
I am happy to be alive.
Apr 21, 2021
Apr 21, 2021 at 7:32 AM UTC