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Joshua Haines Jun 2014
When the thunder collapses like my grandfather's love,
there's no one that can hate me more than I do now.
As the lights begins to stain and drain my eyes,
there's no one that can hate me more than I do now.
Skeletons fell with the sea shells in the air.
I hope I'm falling asleep.
To no longer be here
is to be fair to everyone.

Art gallery in my head,
where the paintings hang above
polaroids and used condoms.
Where it's okay that I'm there:
the picture of a *******.
Where it's okay to love me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to know me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to get close to me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to believe in me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to be me.

In 2003 I was molested.
I want it to be okay to be me.
I detached myself from lullabies
and sorry eyes, only to realize:
I could have been dead in March,
right before the summer glows
and everyone would know
It wasn't okay to be me.

Why did you have to do it
My flesh tastes tainted,
and my eyes are painted
with the disgust of distrust
and the disgust of your lust
that corroded my body
and ate my blood
Am I any good
I want to be good.
I want to be pure.
I want to be more
than what I am.
****
There's acid in my veins
There's ******* acid in my veins
My body ******* shakes
Even when in love, I shake
When I'm safe, I shake
Am I ever safe

God isn't real, and neither am I
I am about as real as the dream I can't even buy
My talent is irrelevant, my past dictates my decisions
My love is the only redeeming quality,
and even that lacks precision.
I want to be perfect. I'm sorry that I apologize for anxiety;
it's not so much that I'm asking for forgiveness,
I just want to hear that there's no need to be sorry,
because it's okay to be me.

Oh. Hey, my eyes are watering; isn't this cool?
We're all having fun. Yippee.

The sun bursts rays, and there are twenty-three different ways
to stay alive inside when I'd rather hide from the sun's naivety
Searching for warmth on the walls with blistered palms,
as I lay in bed, naked. Removed of clothes and hope.
Blood in my mouth, new starters with broken shoelaces on the floor
Dreaming of different places. I said: dreaming of different places.
Cryptic words. In other worlds. In fire, I learned to drown.

A-B-C-D-E-F-G
Reentering the room, drunk.
H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P
Hide behind the bloodied bunk.
Q-R-S-
T-U-V-
W-X-
Y and Z
Now I've learned my lack of harmony,
next time won't you spare me, please.

Roses fall from the ceiling. There's no way I'm feeling.
Detach yourself from this room, this nation, this planet.
"You're too fragile to talk to, Josh." Thank you.
Don't allow yourself to ever be hurt again.
Regain your focus after I count down from ten.

Ten.
Reasons to stay alive.
Nine.
I want to live, I don't want to survive.
Eight.
There's nothing about me that anyone should hate.
Seven.
There's no god, but right now, I can make my own heaven.
Six.
I detached myself from lullabies and sorry eyes only to realize I love you.
Five.
"You're still there, right?" Dial tone silence, followed by fist to wall violence.
Four.
And to know you, is to know everything.
Three.
Adaptation without reclamation I find you in my translation
as hurt yet elation.
Two.
I want to make love in love. I want to die and donate a part of myself;
my backbone, lack thereof.
One.
When I fall asleep my eyes meet yours.

Intermission:

Do you like hurt? Do you like pain? Is a happy poem not your game?
Well, read a poem by Josh Haines and never look at him the same again.
And don't look at yourself the same, because it's okay to be you!
For the price of absolutely nothing, you can look at his words!
Wait, and that's not all! Validate the 'beauty' of his words by
touching that heart and making it red!
Make it as red as the bloodied bunk that stained his back and heels!
Only for the price of absolutely ******* nothing!
Hurry, though! You only have until the end of ******* forever, so act fast!
The number is
1-800-I'M AVOIDING A LAWSUIT LIKE I DO THE PEOPLE IN MY LIFE

2nd.

Hey, do you like your parents?
Yes!
Trick question. Do you looove your parents?
Yes!!
Do you like seeing your grandmother in a wheelchair?
Yes!
Do you like being hurt by the people that you care about the most?
Yes!!
Then grab some popcorn and cola!

End of Intermission.


Trying like you're crying at the end of the film that documents your life
To divide a knife into your skin like it's a sin to feel this way
I just couldn't take it, bones in the corner of the room.
Inside a skeleton's eyes, flowers bloom.
Chicka-yay-no way. You swear? You say:
Ti-ta-time is on my side, but that's not how it feels inside.
An internal measure of the pressure of the world
and it's bound to run out like the sand in my hands
at the precious beach that would **** me if I stepped
into the blue, for me and you.

Let me turn back time to when I first met you.
Don't be afraid.

I remember everything. To never forget, is to realize every lie,
smile at every face, and to remember every goodbye.

I hurt my hands, I need to talk to you on the phone.

My insomnia lives off the thought, that I hurt you.
The room is blurry, and I'm sorry for being cold.
I am warm. I have the sun inside.
I guess I'm just afraid of burning you with it.

The drums pound into rhyme,
Diamond casualties
Rewind, wound, rewound
To scratch the surface
until there's nothing but sound.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
.one of the great dissatisfactions of life: dreaming... which makes me suspect of the anglo-saxons and their subsequent branches of sub-ethicities... they dream... they have recurring dreams... lucid dreams... i find that slightly suspicious... i rarely dream and if i do dream, the dreams are so bogus or so uninteresting that they make no sense to: "interpret" them via any freud-cubism schematic - that a woman's sun hat implies: the depth of ****** and promiscuity, or some otherwise bogus stretching it mate, really stretching that analogy... but why do the anglo-saxons have such lucid dreams, even recurring dreams? are they descendants of joseph: der traumgehhilfe? last time i had a dream? oh... family invites me to say, three memebers of the family don't like me... **** the rest of the family with a knife, a gun and a baseball bat (somewhere in south east asia)... a few of the killed members run into the street to die... i somehow pick up a kalashnikov and shoot the murderous 3... then i jump into slender boat with a motor with 3 or 4 women... 'jesus'... and i escape the scene of retribution sailing to... cambodia! **** me... even sylvester stallone or jason statham or arnie wouldn't star in a movie as b-movie as this... but anglo-saxons seem to have the most vivid dreams... two good examples: h. p. lovecraft and william burroughs... is dreaming a form of escapism? if so, then evidently i'm quiet content with reality... like today: too much pop psychology, too much self-help guru mishmash, too much advice: not enough stories... video streaming a game being played... etc., so i retreat, even from modern music, into? here's a beginner's guide list to medieval music:

       1. qui habitat in adiutorio altissimi
       2. da pacem domine
       3. agni parthene
       4. dum pater familias
       5. chevalier, mult estes guariz
       6. virga iesse floruit
       7. walther von der vogelweide's
                 palästinalied
       8. codex buranus no. 179:
                     tempus est locundum
       9. non é gran causa
      10. herr holger
      11. herr mannelig
      12. die eisenfaust am lanzenschaft
      13. meie din liechter schin
      14. under der linden
      15. mayenzeit one neidt
      16. mönch von salzburg (das nachthorn)

   why would i have stopped at merely
Orff's reading of Carmina Burana -
                 sure... that's the entry point...
   but the radio only plays o fortuna till
the cows come home in a full-moon lit night...
yawn...
    if only: fortune plango vulnera,
      veris leta facies, omnia sol temperat,
     floret silva, or... or!
   a monk's love song for the queen of england -
were diu werlt alle min:
              were diu werlt alle min
              von dem mere unze an den Rin,
              des wolt ih mih darben
              daz diu chunegin von Engellant
               lege an minen armen.

but no... it's o fortuna or nothing from that album
on the radio...
    i get it, great song...
   but why is auld lang syne only sung once
a year, on new year's eve?!
              
as with women, so with music, one simply tires of
contemporary examples: not exactly the music
but the lyrics behind the music...
                        music will never change to appease
the brute and the beast... but modern lyricism
is just agitating... it exhaust with its choice
of subject matters...
                                and by the looks of it...
    i spend too much time with music to find myself
in needing the comfort of a woman's voice,
a cuddle or relationship or whatever you want
to call it from now on...
           i am wedded to three women that will
never materialize: Euterpe, Sophia and Amber...
and all the better...
                                i could never wallow in what's
currently being wallowed in...
by some who have these recurrent dreams
and are unable to stop them from recurring...
hence my suspicion with the anglo-saxon traits
of vivid dreaming: this cruch of relying on dreams...
of so easily being ***** by celesto-cerebral powers
that impregnate their sleeping heads with
these realities that only exist in the mind and
a sleeping mind at that!


(nb. not proof read, apologies in advance for any mistakes, upon rereading will correct if any appear - or i'll just keep them...)

look at these two slogans: let's make America great (again)!
complimenting the English variation
let's get our country back! ring any bells? i guess you must
have heard one or the other as an English speaker -
it's hardly surprising - the English Prime Minister singing
a little toodeloo then uttering the word right upon
reentering number 10 - shambles ahoy! every rat and
mutineer bailed - we're in free-fall, Trotsky had it coming,
this guy hasn't - hardliner but a bubble-gum tongue -
it stretches like a joke my English teacher said:
how was copper wire invented? hmm? two Scots
tugging and pulling in opposite directions a two pence coin -
for all their worth, they joked the blond quiff of
both Boris and President Donald Yeltsin - where one
gets drunk on egoism, the other just gets drunk -
even though they don't like him in Scotland, they sure as
hell bought the slogan like a Big Mac - the problem is
there's a zenith, and then a necessary decline -
you can reach the zenith of breaking the 100m sprint,
but then a stock-market dip (necessary) -
much of Britain's exit from the European Union was due
to the campaign trail of the Doodle T - the best politician
i assume is the one that enjoys the most prodding jokes,
which also means the majority of votes,
jokes and votes walk hand-in-hand - people don't want
leaders, they want caricatures - after all, the little existences
have to matter with a joke in the Oval office.
i can't imagine the unholy alliance of feminists running
the place in the west - Theresa May in England,
Hilary Clinton in America, Angela Merkel in Germany,
Ms. Le Pen in France, the Polish prime minister
Beata Szydło - it has to look like a 2nd Cold War scenario,
a break from World Wars... Putin and pukka Tyson Trump
on the other side, macho v. macho - man talk and
the ultimate bromance. i know that Nietzsche referenced
genius too much, assuredly i hear that a lot too around
here with child geniuses storming around for silverware -
children geniuses and not original? so technically you're
talking about data storage in porridge - trained monkeys,
right? those children will be scarred for life as if they
saw their parents ******* - what sort of genius is a genius
if he doesn't work from blank but is there are a memory
gimmick to boost hopes of curing dementia?
philosophy doesn't do geniuses, it does things like Spinoza,
solitary wanderers, loners - outsiders and mesmerisers,
there's no genius in philosophy - there's only solitude -
granted that an open-minded psychiatrist is a modern subplot
in not reading philosophy - where is the ultimate source
of compassionate solely theory based (anti) psychiatry?
in reading philosophy books rather than exercising authority /
abusing it - R. D. Laing is a perfect example -
who wrote after reading philosophy books - i mean read them,
in the English speaking world i recommend reading
the works of the anti-psychiatric movement of the 1960s,
which was much bigger than the Beat Movement - obviously
not as dazzling, but with poetry you're imitating Philippe Petit
(film, the walk) - i watched it and my legs experienced
needles, and a firm assertion of gravity and the location
of the floor - films like that are worse than horror -
you share the heart of the original, but given it's Plato's cave
we're talking about representing the events, you realise
that no matter how much you want your shadow to be
Philippe Petit, you hear from the outside world, your legs
are firmly on the ground - basically: **** that - men are not
born equal, they have to live by principle to be at least moderating
their excellence into a respectable cohesion (democracy) -
quiet simply juggling their strengths with their weaknesses -
man is not born equal, he was to strive for equal measure -
when subduing their strengths and when exfoliating them -
no man is born equal, as no man is an island - the two synchronise.
(i'm deliberately masking what's coming)...
but there is genius in philosophy - but only in one area of
interest - religion... we know that popular beliefs are
grounded in plagiarism - the Trojans became the Romans
via the accounts of Virgil, and we know the Trojans in
becoming Romans plagiarised the Greek polytheism -
Zeus became Jupiter, Poseidon became Neptune,
Cronos became Saturn, Hera became Juno, Aphrodite
became Venus... etc., it was done to mimic the Greek heart
from the defeat at Troy, to invoke a heart that overcame -
every pauper and every king would identify with
this pluralism - but a second plagiarism had to come -
it was prophetically echoed from approximately 2000 years -
the Greeks later plagiarised the Hebrew concept -
the monotheistic concept, yet because their thinking
was so advanced (or so they thought) they dismissed the
sects of the Pharisees, the Sadducees, the Essenes and
the Zealots... their hero was their antagonist - and nothing
of their learning was actually work their concerns since
they boasted of their Aristotle and their Plato and their
Socrates - the peddle-stool effect appeared -
but what if a Latin man (well, these letters are Roman) were
to say - never mind the son, how about the father?
in Christianity the father is rather anonymous in his
omnipresence etc. - but let's assume on the biological tenet
that we are referring to the old testament god -
would we want to plagiarise the Greek plagiarism of
Hebrew? i already mentioned the four prime canons as
imitations of the tetragrammaton - of course they're
intended to not be identical accounts, but there must be
two that are mirror images - i.e. referring to h      &      h
of the tetragrammaton - if there are no two mirror images
then we are bothered - i can see why the Greek mind thought
that Y refers to a convergence, a mother, a father, a child
and the entry point to the gospel: a genealogy -
Y being representative of a convergence - past and present,
following through - this is all about first impressions,
from what i can remember and regurgitate back -
in Catholic school we were taught by majority the gospel
of St. Mark - the others were discredited -
i can't tell you if there are two identical gospels (or at least
with very little variation between them) - what comes after
them is what comes after all essences of religion,
bureaucracy - imams and priests, yoga teachers and
whatever it is that comes with religion for the common man,
but in the new testament this is the essence, a shady
reinterpretation of the tetragrammaton - but a Latin man
who didn't bother to attribute symbols with nouns,
but made his alphabet musically orientated for the
castrato and the choirs to come - a (alpha) b (beta)...
o (omicron / omega) it became obvious that the four letters
arranged as so with missing Adam and missing Eve
would provide more than just four interpretations of
the same event / person - for when a Greek has to cut off
-lpha from a to attach it to another letter to create meta,
the Latin man has only to cut off less, perhaps dentistry's
ah, or otherwise cut off -ee from b... the world is full
of such possibilities, and this is the only area where
genius can be applied to philosophy - the genius of
philosophy is within religion, and nowhere else -
of course mind that i don't identify myself as one -
i treat genius as an angel or a demon, that fairy-tale
race of creatures that whisper into your ear - markedly
geniuses are more powerful in demanding an individual
rather than clones of the individual, e.g. Mohammad
and Muslims, Jesus and Christians... which is why i suppose
the genius of Moses also allowed others to write on sacred
paper, but of course excluding Malachi for falling into
heresy with a polytheistic concept of reincarnation, not
oddly enough Malachi's was the last book before the two
major strands of his heresy emerged like Behemoths.
Kurt Philip Behm Feb 2018
He shed his ego
Like a snake letting go
Of its skin
And wandered into
The land of
Ill intention
And the darkness
It harbored inside

His mirror had been shattered
There—left on the ground
Pieces to reflect
What was missing before
Until one after one
Each bad wish was contained
Prismatic
—light reentering again

(Las Vegas Nevada: January, 2018)
Alessander Jul 2015
You would figure
such a moment would be burned
into the paradigm of memory
when exactly did I learn
life was no cartoon?
well, it wasn’t one traumatic incident
rather a rushing current of events
a drunk uncle here, a screaming mom there
a belting boyfriend or toy-stealing sister
playmates picked dead last no matter
older boys bullying the younger
teachers who didn’t particularly bother
some cousins had yards and fathers
while others like me had neither
always more chores than fun
and no one ever explained how come
priests were less present and less kind
than the mexican street venders
there’s no specific scene to pause when I rewind
I honestly can’t remember.

It wasn’t at a funeral, by then
though I was young , I somehow knew
life was not all beautiful and true
that those adults who told me what to do
sobbed on dark beds and screamed at phones
then wiped their tears or ****** walls
before reentering the room
their eyes a little more like stone
while I pretended to un-see it all
and kept on playing with my toys, alone.
Weltschmerz: World-pain. World-weariness. That unique breed of melancholy born from recognizing the actual world will never mirror our ideal world.
William Jan 2014
It is deafening silence
Beneath the lanky pine shrouded of darkness
And the bed of needles soft under hand,
Snow sits shallow and dulled behind a curtain,
The hushed breath of a boy out of hand,

And the bark rough against back,
And the stick of sap against the palm, and the screech
Of tires far afield, and the breakneck cold
Cries with hidden desires of dark shadows breach
In the low mountains of housed hills where silence holds.

Once when warmth was in the heart
Among the walls solid evergreen held,
As the food hot and the flames low, a boy unfolded
The truth of heart that smoldered in anguished meld,
Rushed and tumbled forced out upon the wold

Of snow. And alone then
In the darkening cold, run by the streets light
And the pavements white with turned ash and the men
Roosting asleep while the barking dog grew trite
Whom echoed among the covered grounds and then

Stumbled on with anxious limb,
Thus feet sting, the glacial frost bitterly bites,
The hooped ring luminescent and hung, the lanky pine
Comforting in its shelter bare of lights,
And there to rest and rebuild new spine.

“He knelt, he wept, he prayed,”
By the hurt of his heart feeble in the dense dark night
And huddled bellow the knotting pine though in the homes,
In the past warmth, in the slow light,
At the loves gracious hold, he wished to roam.

“He knelt” in spindled branches,
“He wept” being cast out, “he prayed” to the hidden gods
That he be found rescued restored to right
Darkness pushed aside by the cars beam and the boy at odds
And the shimmering diamond studded earth and the black white

Into that light of promise
He wished to go but he sits eyes closed to darkness
With out the car which passed and broken he stands.
His heart wrenched breaking him choked by the collar
And up the way whence came to the shattered lands

It is deafening silence,
Reentering in the house torn, in the whirl-
Wind of heated battle, into his room
He crawls, in the slow light of the dreams world.
And he rises with new light arching through the sky.
Elizabeth Dec 2015
I watched a single spruce sprout out of crack in asphalt
Sunday morning, church time,
From my skeletal apartment
high above the street lamps,
While my eyes dried and crusted with dust.
My fingers charred to leather, tightly bound
on to the iron balcony.

But the stubble-like blemish of the road's surface
Was ****** back inside concrete
From which it grew,
A magic trick,
Like a rabbit reentering its black hole tophat,
Just as the earth was flushed
down the esophagus of Satan,
Swirling in a tornado of molten lava,
Lucifer's saliva.
Written from a prompt that required us to picture a moment of peace in an Apocalyptic world.
M Dec 2013
Let's stay away from the edge of the bed,
Roll inward toward one another
So that we can stay closer together.

Your chest, my head-
You can just be my lover,
Fitting me better than my favorite sweater.

See, the edge of the bed
Is the diving board for all the things
I'd rather not remember.

Some nights, everything I've never said,
All the mistakes, insecurities, faults ring
Through my mind, lighting an ember

That sets fire to things I'd rather forget.
But I don't want these thoughts to bleed and spread-
I don't want to relive all of those best-forgotten thoughts

Because when my mind lets
The memories roll through my head,
I sincerely wish they would just not.

And I don't have to will the memories away
When you're holding me close
In the middle of the night-

The thoughts don't relay
Because I'm too busy feeling myself doze
Off into your arms, until tomorrow's light-

You're holding me from the edge
Where there is no possible opportunity
For whatever lurks beneath my bed

To resurface and climb up my bed post, perch on a ledge
And jump back into my mind; You're my immunity,
You're what keeps it all from reentering my head.

So your fingertips rolling down my spine
And your soft breaths rolling in and out of your mouth
And your body rolling over, closer to me

Is really a barrier that lets me sleep in peace, I've come to find;
I don't have any doubt
That you make me feel as safe as I could be.
Inspired by Keaton Henson's "Let's Grow Up Together"
Cecelia Francis Jan 2015
The day of
her affair

And Poldy
-in love-
allowing it

A father invites a son
into the kitchen,
talking before
he walks
him
out

Reentering
the house at night
filled with evidence
of Boylan

Crumbs brushed
off the bed
-ten years
since-

Feet at the head
and head at the
foot, a behind
kiss to Gea-tellus
Earth mother
Derick Van Dusen Nov 2010
Aching neck and back, soothed.
Stiff sore muscles from the hike in and the previous nights vigor, relaxed.
Step in, sit down, lay back, breath out, breath in, feel the warmth seep in.
Soak it up let it devour you, let it consume you and take you away.

   Aching tired feet, soothed.
Stiff, sore muscles from the prior nights vigor gone but the memory stays.
Dip under feel that warmth envelope you, cocooned again, inwombed again.
Senses hightnd  keen to the shrill of a whippoorwill, the sulfur gallivanting before your nose.
A touch on your shoulder shimmies down your leg to your toes, breath in breath out there it goes.

   Crisp the evening air around you, a little angel hug, her arms of fog the gentlest of touch still, it too shimmers to your toes.
Bright the moonlight through the ever thickening clouds still enough too see the silhouettes of the faces looking round.
Tranquility abounds in glory all around, where everything goes both noticed and unnoticed, you heard the shrill of that whippoorwill yet its call did not intrude upon your state of zen.

   Breath in, hold          , breath out slowly, let it just seep out  now feel that, yes, clean, crisp, rejuvenating.
Listen to the trees hear the old man in the forest he speaks gently to you, listen close, for what he has to say is for you alone.
When you leave this place, and you will go, you will leave with a since of euphoria and wonderment but your not leaving now.

   Even the others voices cant intrude upon this moment, cant invade this serenity.
Let go of the things in your mind that have been plaguing you, turn them out and block them from reentering.
Breath, dont forget to breath so that your lungs can purge all that need not be taxing your breth.
Remove all that encumbers or hampers you, its not needed and optional here now just relax and enjoy all that there is.

   Let the fog envelope you, breath it too in, its silent vapor a most refreshing breath.
Watch as a little flame dances before you then disappears, dances and disappears again.
Now watch as the glow that flame created slowly dies before your eyes.
Breath in while the flame is bowed toward your feet, exhale as the flame dances around your eyes and blinds you from the shadows and silhouettes.

   Let free the sole to fly around you to see what cant be seen by the naked eye that is hindered by its captor.
Here in this serenity and tranquility you can sore where eagles were meant to fly.
Here you can let yourself go completely you can surrender to whatever side of you, you choose, be it animalistic or or sensual, or it be tamed and conquered.

   I choose as I sit here in these hot springs to feel the angel hugging fog envelope me and hold me till Im delirious from her touch. I choose to allow the warmest breeze blow over me and let my sole fly away with it. Through the mountains around the river bends and out to the world at my feet, my oyster presented to me in a dish most pleasing to this minds palette.
Robin Carretti Sep 2017
Robin Rambles ridiculous rhyming rippling rainstorms red raincoats. Red hot mouth your mind expanding reinventing your brain blowing in all directions like a "Hurricane." Your so upset everything in your life you feel such a fret. All regret the same thing on R for replaying the same song if I only did it differently.
R for reruns or trying to regain useful design features too many glitches. I'm feeling under a spell those witches. Something is sharpening like a knife R for so relevant getting closer to zoom in I need more space and R for the room but no time for having fun.

Too many floods we need Vitamin R for plenty of "Rest Time" let's wrap it up for talk R for rambling on we need to move on.Too many sounds railroads and board meeting noises are so loud cannot concentrate human brain so wired. Wondering why so many people get fired. Time for R and R.R for rest relaxation, Rock and Roll  Hall of fame getting hammered red flame.R for rudely interrupted too many distraction and emails. Social networking once put on a pedestal razor sharp uniquely driven in our own portal. R for real or change of pace racing mortal. Think less you will get more things done "Razor Sharp" Mind of a list feeling more responsibility. Staying calm more focused trees to your path of tranquility.

So young and restless. Time is rambunctious so unruly wake-up and smells come through the coffee get more ambitious.
Razor Sharp looking Reindeers riding. Reentering your Royal home best royal plates flooding. So rich redesigning your words you must save your reputation. Looking radiant warm welcoming aloha everything is R for restless no time ha ha well it hit me like a hurricane  Hawaii. the revitalized roar of waves big need for a vacation. You are recovered feeling renewed like the rock star like Romeo no Julliete. You regret how many clouds of smoke of cigarettes. Another red hot eye of the storm roommate. Remodeling your new sublet.

Everything is computerized you always on your tablet. Razor sharp knife wishing you had another life. Walking on the red carpet.Pictures rule like French kiss red grapes and wine moment of Monet. Something went flat like a crepe Suzette. You tied your hair back French barrette. Ravishing but he's the Rebel he gave me a run for my money like the Ramon noodle devil. He sold your ring big diamond baguette he put you in the highest ramble of debt.You started to gamble like the rebel of roulette.You got another ring to reset romancing the stone. The phone keeps ringing you scream Red Devil leave me alone no R words again only the Author Robin.
Robin Carretti May 2018
To be heroic century page

Minds to be patriotic

To comprehend the
physics

Your brain is the stage
Jumpy becomes sloppy
page
Another year

huge H-U-G-E $ $ $

In the pub barista lounge
more ****** cups of grunge

Reconsider to
(B) yourself
Patriotic
Years go by

C +++Celestial
Symbol appears
2B crazed Psychotic
"The Oracle of the Circle"

Reentering she's fickle
Culture pearls
to my strings
of his heart cycle


"The Symphony"
My hair
I hear 2 here 3 hares


The A+ time capsule,
The missile hitting a
bump
Another year on the cusp
Oh! no, my chest lump!!!

Soda bread or catch me in the
rye seeded
Who planted the bad seed
Like the sourdough
Hefner Rabbits of Hugh
Cup D Victorian she's
doomed but sweet
  Easter jelly beans
Reconsider the next beat


Having a revelation


The afterlife resurrection

I saw someone die for it

Surprisingly it came back
It was I how 2 c it


Helping another person

I licked my envelope

My best year stamp

A-rose Alladin lamp
Forst Gump BA
baba ba shrimp

Oliver Twist orphan,


Pocket or more than two
the thieves such

ferals  (Do *** Do)

Such haste
Not the Sinnamon
Toothpaste

Rich mind-nibbling
Twitter words like paste

The day before Christmas

The messenger came

R- forget the R
Year Ruined
The (Real) year

Is it ever the ending?

Blindsighted


Into a horrible beginning

Like light years away


Those yesteryears

"Starwars"

The "Revolutionary War"


Like a star horse the
Paul Revere
(Hello Poetry)
_ over here


Brooklyn Knight the
"Canarsie Pier"
Diamonds fall the last call
fishing for years
Hooked in more tears

Eating cream cheese
French Brie
Bow red heart tie
Swiftly smooth me
shmear

In your mind, you had
a veer

Maybe next year

to consider or to
render

The lunar year or
the leap year

This wasn't like
any other year

"Eastern Hemisphere"

Everything is moving
but I
__

Likewise, Pop art 2 still-life

The celestial time to persevere

Did something hit me next year?

So high society in high gear

So insensitive we don't even

shed a tear



What will we predict


New technology
****** apps
Disney Tumblr
Pixstar snaps
Ours and there's
New York City
Keepsake token fare
More fighting to
reconsider

Met their Kiss me, Kate
spades
Of the Everglades
Your left at the movie
theatre with nothing

Another year of
Mike and Ike candy
Oh! Don't Grease
the Movie
With Pam spray
and Sandy you better
shape up the new friend
to consider

Alice is tumbling tea
reminder
Rabbit hole cool stuff
So smuggling
On the slide smitt

(Doggone it)

Arabian night
(Hug-phone it)
the tent rattling like
a snake
He's so bugging!!
Into her
Lemon Meringue
cake ET Ever Timeless
Reconsider you once loved
someone deeply has given
Witches nail dead point
digging the trophy
Empathy in the loop


Minds are sharp
Don't cheddar me
Thinking it will better me
Another year love letters
to bother me egg beaters

Psyche of  psychology

Let's really consider
what is important
Only words to reconsider

Are they from your peers

Taylor Swift "Stratosphere"

Keeping this new year and the

New millennium in high
tide order

But like the day before

we didn't even care
look further

We both felt the gravity,
we had two prayers like a
"Nativity"

The second life depended
on this fertility versus sanity


Your brain years  
Like a bomb going off
it falls down


Your way
_
off
Your wicker chair
The white dressed for him
He's the rocker
He is the womanizer looker
Do you love her lips red darker
Or still feeling ***** blue
waves chill
do you feel them
Blue another year true?
Little boy blue Mr. Elmers glue
Reconsider another lover the clue
To castle her

Make it fit to grow like a love
"Sweep the Cinderella'
coach her
Another year above
All love guide her with
the right
shoe
_
***
The name of Doe?
The Giglio smooth talker
Big Shebang whoa tips

Atom bomb
On his mistress' lips

"New York State"
12 months to B precise


The music masterly
Mozart decease
Supermarket of Men
A la carte

Humphrey Bogart
Smoking savvy
Classical  hair the same
Diva Weatherbee
so wavy


But wait for the

catastrophe
_
Another year tears frozen

best years come again to
have risen

How and when we were born
at birth

Every year intake a breath

Let life be your energy

The perfect balance
of symmetry
Years go by but we overreact I don't know why to enjoy your time on this earth
that a part of you at birth
Madison McCray Dec 2014
I once tried to erase our memories
and found myself
cutting away at my skin
for the coldness without you
was unbearable
and I found my fist reentering the walls repeatedly  
trying to block out the image I saw
of us in the room together
I washed my sheets
and tossed and turned late at night
because my bed never felt the same without your presence
my chest caved in every waking morning
without you here
I honestly don't know how I'm still managing
or how my heart remains beating
without the blood your love supplied
my body is drained
and lungs will soon reach zero capacity
if I continue smoking the nicotine
my body craves
and I can never inhale enough toxic
to forget the memories
you wrote within me
but the first time I tried
did not stop me from trying again
so here I am
with cut up skin and ****** knuckles
lying cold in the sheets
with a broken heart that's barely holding on
and filling my lungs with a poison
heartache taught me to love
for I can not forget
next to the dresser i counted one of many minutes.
     a metastasis to twenty and i took it to memory
     her body not even the slightest resistance.
  
after bathing when feet barely dried
      leaves pools, like an admission of something.

i still have next to the sink, a shabby portrait.
     unsheathed its silence, hung by the gate
     by the neighboor as you confessed one
     April afternoon, the heat so tense erasing lush as a tree is a palimpsest
         now aged, wind reentering a distance
     like i imagine your hand in my denim.
     spaces in between bury a pattern of insistence.

  carefully extolled when i pass by the lit TV
      wasting its voice to no audience,
  when we crawled from one room to another
       leaving words inside dungeons of mouths
    and when a tongue broke loose, maneuvering
      across a tablature is music of creaking wood
      and time-worn hinge - the accidental thump
     on the bedpost softly sings

              a punishment: now an urge to go back
     yet not knowing which door to enter,
           every surrounding object as witness,
      memorized a minute's completion,
  refusing to map out which way to go.
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
compared to the circumcised
i'm a docile creature...
so many circumcised jihadis,
i almost forget there's
a snippet of them missing...
     the bit where you *******
without complaint
         and the part where
third parties, sort of:
       do away with mirroring
scalping...
   so much for Jesus'
                     stomping on
gentile hands prior to
                     marketing the sign
of the cross...
       this little piggy arithmetic
among lepers...
     and a loose tooth smile...
plop...
          the sound made with
gangrene gums into
the porcelain basin of a chinese
toilet, affair...
    my my, the punctuation
dynamism, further explored,
as if: synonym of stuttering...
     why is it though,
rolling sweet tobacco,
   i have the scent of freahly
scratched cucumbers on
my tips and between
fingernail trenches?
        late spring and rolling
tobacco infuriates me with
a perfume of cucumbers...
what's missing is
white vinegar, a pinch of
sugar, salt, pepper,
Charlotte's odour,
           and sour cream...
         2 months in a city worth
60,000 souls...
           reentering the behemoth
of London and what's
"london" within the M25 criterium
and...
         ****! gone...
                  a drop in the water...
fame and the unflinching
status quo of the numbers...
      fame as: a necessary invested
in P.R. motif...
      and the french, generally eat
letters,
    rigid slavic syllables blocked
my learning of the ***** ******...
  bouquet...
    bucket...
        or, rather: boo-kay...
                    french cannibalise
and no ******* omelette will
serve me an alternative op.
      to not, masquarade the said
acronym to a shift...
               and to mind:
americans and their acronym
exclusions...
     stemming from u.s.a.,
        off a missing of...
   elsewhere the "acronyms"
or, more pignant the resorting
to "chance"
                 p.s. ref.
    points, acronymised:
             (cognitive crossword,
imitating free reign search:
  all algorithm is ronin,
bouncy maxim, just shy
of aphorism...)
                   a memorable nostalgia...
shy of joy...
          not antidote... no...
not the antithesis of...
    ah!
                anecdote!
    what was i thinking of prior?
        tailing off into a cul de sac
and harvesting
the impermament scoff
that is time... given the source
of: hardly a subjective
     "deviation" of a timeless
normative...
                mortality...
sacrificial lamb adrift on
the altar of morality...
                 now i know why i write
poetry...
           i can hardly settle
for solving crosswords...
              cucumber perfume
having rolled tobacco?
            imitating alzheimer's
     in telegraphic broken-
            language?
         lost the patience
to paint... took a photograph?
    and so:
    because the fundamental
antithesis of painting,
that is photography,
                is to make foundation,
in verbiose presentation...
    the opportune moment
was itself-revealing,
           somehow,
accommodating a "self"
          make a frozen puncture of...
photography per se, yes...
  but with all the verbiose
attachments to be: excused...
         hardly necessary...
           because what came from
the frustration of
painters, anti-photography...
if not: splashing paint on
a canvas?
   jackson ******* was
a photographer...
                     not a painter...
albeit,
    in a more lower reminder
of form of the observable
spectrum...
          a photograph worth
a painting but worth
more a thought,
   than what the crude eye
would deem digestably
orthodox, with
comparison.

— The End —