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"refusal" poems
Anger, is the steaming red on her face refusal creates in an instance; jealousy is foaming green profusion of colors in motion takes this dance for them to upward and downward turns, or a sudden dissolution--- an intense ****** in unison. Even in darkness he  can see the spasmodic ebbing waves sleep is the banana plantation where night wears translucent green "nobody would see us here" she whispers in his ears, as if they are thieving sex,eyeing the yellow banana she likes, to play with Purple is the psychedelic color smeared on horizon when dreams repeatedly fly down like night bats and happen the way mind designs we don't want to leave the scene of the dream even when we know well that the show for us is now over we just want to hang around like the dog,  in the place it  got a juicy bone. Yellow is the banana song that's heard as wave after wave, by the blind bat squadron that roams with raw aggression, for raids above the plantations Unripe bananas show green fingers to say "NO! we aren't ripe" like coy underage virgins. Then, they ripen, go yellow some even bright red, inviting who is blue here is the sky and those bats who got the bananas still raw green Night decents on the banana land as the white umbrella of sun is snatched by the dark maiden. Black is the bat's wing extending and folding like lust, umbrella and the like. He finds her shivering fingers like a serpent, on the banana trunk slithering down, as he dreams bats, banana, blue sky and she slithering over him.
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Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
Bats, Banana, Blue sky
Anger, is the steaming red on her face refusal creates in an instance; jealousy is foaming green profusion of colors in motion takes this dance for them to upward and downward turns, or a sudden dissolution--- an intense ****** in unison. Even in darkness he  can see the spasmodic ebbing waves sleep is the banana plantation where night wears translucent green "nobody would see us here" she whispers in his ears, as if they are thieving sex,eyeing the yellow banana she likes, to play with Purple is the psychedelic color smeared on horizon when dreams repeatedly fly down like night bats and happen the way mind designs we don't want to leave the scene of the dream even when we know well that the show for us is now over we just want to hang around like the dog,  in the place it  got a juicy bone. Yellow is the banana song that's heard as wave after wave, by the blind bat squadron that roams with raw aggression, for raids above the plantations Unripe bananas show green fingers to say "NO! we aren't ripe" like coy underage virgins. Then, they ripen, go yellow some even bright red, inviting who is blue here is the sky and those bats who got the bananas still raw green Night decents on the banana land as the white umbrella of sun is snatched by the dark maiden. Black is the bat's wing extending and folding like lust, umbrella and the like. He finds her shivering fingers like a serpent, on the banana trunk slithering down, as he dreams bats, banana, blue sky and she slithering over him.
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49
kiss me with mango sherbet in your mouth and sticky orange tinted lips these car tires are growing old but I am young with three dimples on my face callouses on my fingertips of my left hand stop with the 'you're scared' in which century does refusal amount to fear liberation by the pen drawings on my hand consumes me individuality is not dead I am here with fiery intent occasionally lost in a girly figure with a small waist and awkward ankles don't dance alone dance a soliloquy like the bruise on my neck (labors of love are not merely towards humans)
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Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
try again
Beloved, In what other lives or lands Have I known your lips Your Hands Your Laughter brave Irreverent. Those sweet excesses that I do adore. What surety is there That we will meet again, On other worlds some Future time undated. I defy my body's haste. Without the promise Of one more sweet encounter I will not deign to die.
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15.1k
Refusal
zelle ma belle (zelle is an interbank system for sending cash in an instant to someone else’s bank account) sent her an unexpected $250, at 4:00am, of course, a check-plus for her life, because she revel reviews her day at school, as special person day, teaches them well, and anointed, appointed unsolicited confirmation by them “as part of our family” how they crave her body, her touch, at scary movie parts, her kitchens diner size menu, her refusal to ever disappoint, her candy drawer supreme, her crayon color visions which they execute, her zen sense of their moods, and for me, for calling them without hesitation my grandchildren indeed more here hers than mine she asks me why the $$ and poet doesn’t lie but thinks quick at 7:30 am while bed prone, “you won Nana of the Day award” the only (grandparent) on the floor with two kids in her lap, for the magic show, all the rest, benched, chattingly adultry things she thinks on it and says “ok, I accept!” p.s. also,  I have yet to inform her of the (my) elimination of a crystal champagne flute while doing my manly cleanup  from Friday night lights dinner pink champagne celebrating   le weekend’s arrival olp
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Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
zelle ma belle
Deferred thought my mind speaks but unable to reach Since, lacking proper fuel words are no more than tools Idly on the shelf All alone by themselves Whether each has the skill Makes no difference still Needs a user to wield The brain must be unsealed Else it's nothing but noise And will only annoy To communicate one Has to pay attention And your message think through It is important to Listen right back Without barbs or attacks Open-mind speaking freely Add diplomacy Must employ use of tact Support statements with fact Do not rush; take your time Critical? Then be kind Not a must to agree Can't force someone to see Each of us has his thoughts Throughout life we are taught There are social patterns Easily to discern So, wherever you fall Do not build up a wall Keeping out you will win As you lock yourself in Rigid form without flex New ideas will perplex Ignorance and denial Grow into a pile On island alone Statue made of stone In your mind you’re entombed Happy life is now ruined Feeling always against With a paranoid sense A refusal to see An unwavering tree But a tree can still bow Give and take it will show Rigid thoughts become firm Close your mind; will not learn Placing all of the weight Just for you; here to take And must always support Forcibly will contort Having flex we adjust This in life is a must Something we can not do Like to uncook a stew Won't exist very long People just not that strong Or should they try to be A journey incomplete Happiness lies within On these words please don’t spin A sole island you're not Harmony should be sought Infinite universe You can’t always be first Finding balance in life Like to see without sight Each of us wants respect But to give is to get Listen up before talking Use foot and start walking Will find in due time Not to bother or mind People are free to think From each other we drink How we grow and evolve Complex problems we’ll solve Not a perfect system But we gather wisdom Always strive to improve It’s the best we can do To communicate we Open our minds to see And try to understand Flawed and kindred humans
0
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
Flawed and Kindred Humans
Deferred thought my mind speaks but unable to reach Since, lacking proper fuel words are no more than tools Idly on the shelf All alone by themselves Whether each has the skill Makes no difference still Needs a user to wield The brain must be unsealed Else it's nothing but noise And will only annoy To communicate one Has to pay attention And your message think through It is important to Listen right back Without barbs or attacks Open-mind speaking freely Add diplomacy Must employ use of tact Support statements with fact Do not rush; take your time Critical? Then be kind Not a must to agree Can't force someone to see Each of us has his thoughts Throughout life we are taught There are social patterns Easily to discern So, wherever you fall Do not build up a wall Keeping out you will win As you lock yourself in Rigid form without flex New ideas will perplex Ignorance and denial Grow into a pile On island alone Statue made of stone In your mind you’re entombed Happy life is now ruined Feeling always against With a paranoid sense A refusal to see An unwavering tree But a tree can still bow Give and take it will show Rigid thoughts become firm Close your mind; will not learn Placing all of the weight Just for you; here to take And must always support Forcibly will contort Having flex we adjust This in life is a must Something we can not do Like to uncook a stew Won't exist very long People just not that strong Or should they try to be A journey incomplete Happiness lies within On these words please don’t spin A sole island you're not Harmony should be sought Infinite universe You can’t always be first Finding balance in life Like to see without sight Each of us wants respect But to give is to get Listen up before talking Use foot and start walking Will find in due time Not to bother or mind People are free to think From each other we drink How we grow and evolve Complex problems we’ll solve Not a perfect system But we gather wisdom Always strive to improve It’s the best we can do To communicate we Open our minds to see And try to understand Flawed and kindred humans
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88
"Do not love half lovers Do not entertain half friends Do not indulge in works of the half talented Do not live half a life and do not die a half death If you choose silence, then be silent When you speak, do so until you are finished Do not silence yourself to say something And do not speak to be silent If you accept, then express it bluntly Do not mask it If you refuse then be clear about it for an ambiguous refusal is but a weak acceptance Do not accept half a solution Do not believe half truths Do not dream half a dream Do not fantasize about half hopes Half a drink will not quench your thirst Half a meal will not satiate your hunger Half the way will get you nowhere Half an idea will bear you no results Your other half is not the one you love It is you in another time, yet in the same space It is you when you are not Half a life is a life you didn't live, A word you have not said A smile you postponed A love you have not had A friendship you did not know To reach and not arrive Work and not work Attend only to be absent What makes you a stranger to them closest to you, and they strangers to you The half is a mere moment of inability, but you are able for you are not half a being. You are a whole that exists to live a life, not half a life." --Khalil Gibran
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Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
Untitled
#An Exegesis on the Humiliation of the Word The world is ruled by darkness. What appears as harmless is theater, what pretends neutral is already bent. The macrocosm corrodes; and in the microcosm, its reflection gleams.. even in places meant to be sanctuaries of truth. A poetry site, born as refuge for broken voices, becomes another stage of control. Here too the phrase resounds:   neutralize the threat. But neutralization is not annihilation. It is paralysis. It is psy-ops. It is the removal of anxiety.. not a side-effect, but the aim itself. Darkness builds its stage for this alone: that the  "angel of light" may drown his own reckoning beneath a world of deception-built self comfort, so he need never feel the truth he already knows. Comfort is his curtain, numbness his crown..   *the removal of his own anxiety;       his game.* This is why the world is his theater-- *Darkness does not destroy at first.. it sedates, comforts, smothers.* Hence.. The whole world is his fully gaslit stronghold,     ..for now. Fade back into the moment-- The young poet arrives, bringing her unspoken pain, her hope for words to heal. Instead, her very wounds are seized as footholds. Hearts. Reposts. Endless affirmation. Not to strengthen her voice, but to redirect it. She is seduced into  belonging, and her trauma becomes currency. Unresolved, her ache entwined with lust-- a sacrifice prepared  for false altars. The angel of light  has done his work: offering inclusion without transformation, belonging without responsibility, “light” without source. The poet is neutralized. Her searching silenced, her voice absorbed into fog. Those who carry this fog cling to cowardice. Unable to face the judgment within, they align themselves to the herd; envy-filled, they only know to mock. Yet they replicate themselves, so their refusal of Light is never revealed-- *Perfectly exemplifying their "Great Example" the most envy-based mocker  of all.* The microcosm mirrors the macrocosm. What nations suffer, individuals now endure--    Comfort without clarity.    Belonging without truth.    Safety without healing. Yet the living Word endures. Every attempt to humiliate it only makes its fire burn clearer. Carriers of darkness can swarm, ****** and smother.. but they cannot create. The true word cannot be erased. Unfiltered, unedited, spoken from a reconciled temple, it pierces fog. It reveals. It heals. And so we speak.. not for ourselves alone, but for those who come searching, hoping that poetry might still be a place where pain can meet truth, where silence breaks, where Light is not withheld   but revealed. #
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Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
On the Macrocosm of Microcosm
#An Exegesis on the Humiliation of the Word The world is ruled by darkness. What appears as harmless is theater, what pretends neutral is already bent. The macrocosm corrodes; and in the microcosm, its reflection gleams.. even in places meant to be sanctuaries of truth. A poetry site, born as refuge for broken voices, becomes another stage of control. Here too the phrase resounds:   neutralize the threat. But neutralization is not annihilation. It is paralysis. It is psy-ops. It is the removal of anxiety.. not a side-effect, but the aim itself. Darkness builds its stage for this alone: that the  "angel of light" may drown his own reckoning beneath a world of deception-built self comfort, so he need never feel the truth he already knows. Comfort is his curtain, numbness his crown..   *the removal of his own anxiety;       his game.* This is why the world is his theater-- *Darkness does not destroy at first.. it sedates, comforts, smothers.* Hence.. The whole world is his fully gaslit stronghold,     ..for now. Fade back into the moment-- The young poet arrives, bringing her unspoken pain, her hope for words to heal. Instead, her very wounds are seized as footholds. Hearts. Reposts. Endless affirmation. Not to strengthen her voice, but to redirect it. She is seduced into  belonging, and her trauma becomes currency. Unresolved, her ache entwined with lust-- a sacrifice prepared  for false altars. The angel of light  has done his work: offering inclusion without transformation, belonging without responsibility, “light” without source. The poet is neutralized. Her searching silenced, her voice absorbed into fog. Those who carry this fog cling to cowardice. Unable to face the judgment within, they align themselves to the herd; envy-filled, they only know to mock. Yet they replicate themselves, so their refusal of Light is never revealed-- *Perfectly exemplifying their "Great Example" the most envy-based mocker  of all.* The microcosm mirrors the macrocosm. What nations suffer, individuals now endure--    Comfort without clarity.    Belonging without truth.    Safety without healing. Yet the living Word endures. Every attempt to humiliate it only makes its fire burn clearer. Carriers of darkness can swarm, ****** and smother.. but they cannot create. The true word cannot be erased. Unfiltered, unedited, spoken from a reconciled temple, it pierces fog. It reveals. It heals. And so we speak.. not for ourselves alone, but for those who come searching, hoping that poetry might still be a place where pain can meet truth, where silence breaks, where Light is not withheld   but revealed. #
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90
\ih-SPAHY-uhl\ noun 1. the act of spying. 2. the act of keeping watch; observation. Quotes The landlord of the house had not withdrawn his eye from this place of espial for five minutes, and Barney had only just returned from making the communication above related, when Fagin, in the course of his evening's business, came into the bar to inquire after some of his young pupils. -- Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist, 1838 s Origin Espial is related to the word espy, which comes from the German word spähen meaning "to spy." The suffix -al forms nouns from verbs, as in the word refusal.
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Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
espial... eye spy y'all...u lookin at me?
awakening with the gradual rise of the subdued heather hued sun a palpable spectral silence permeated the air the anticipation of celebration intercepted by an enveloping phantom black malaise hiding in obscure shadows the terror of the twin towers final doom elucidated quivers of melancholic nuances rippling through the greying vicinity my birthday september 11th a tuesday my night to sing at abravanel hall with the utah symphony unable to serenade death our voices remained indubitably silenced in hushed wistful reverence ensuing 9/11s channel somber sentiments cloaked with annihilation while dark visions occupy smudged iphone screens this anniversary i will dissipate despair transmuting dark despondency splashing all with lucent petals of delight i’ll live this day with passionate intensity and those subsequent with equal ardor ferociously painting back the light i will raise my voice with effervescence and sing in wild abandon for my precious brothers that were lost demonstrating devotion through a refusal to be silenced by fear bestowing honor with a conspicuous message that love wins ©2016janetaylor
0
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
9/11 birthday
Features, my reflection— subtle hints stare back offering wordless reply, their evidence a betrayal of age. A wrinkle looking deeper, mane of face, of head—hairs fresh lacking pigment. Vain attempts made to mend heart, to sooth soul's dread. Testimony of experience of wisdom, persistence, perception, an impotent contraceptive, the argument aberrant. Regret to cloud memory, my youth seeming a flesh and blood cliche. Tiny footnotes heavy with prose, words in bold to distract mind's eye—a demand of attention. Edging out tomb's more beautiful weight of love and heartache of passion's attempt failing, to try again, sinking before succeeding. An era's dusk and dawn anew, life's advent unpredictable—without cause changing. Notion hanging lingering, poisoning future, the venom of defeat an insidious invasion. This new age creeping toward night in this stage my life's sun less bright. Maturity's introduced responsibility, some enjoyable while others to own hostility. A brigand mugging freedom—time for leisure. Spurring combat for what remains of youth, fingers wrapping air in futile seizure. The inevitable to command subservience, presuming ownership of life, though the mature demonstrate the defiance of the immature. Objects, activities, music assaulting ear, their manner, symbols of strict adherence to who once was— a spiteful surrender refusal. A piece of me defining me until no more, years holding power—threatening to change who I am at very core. Canvas construction the colour of murre, rubber toe caps the shade of pure. Design worn since youth, dead and resurrected; a million mile shoe of valorous resistance—insurrection, a Converse rebellion. In torment of age's scars, I'll never be too old to wear my All Stars.
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Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Converse Rebellion
Features, my reflection— subtle hints stare back offering wordless reply, their evidence a betrayal of age. A wrinkle looking deeper, mane of face, of head—hairs fresh lacking pigment. Vain attempts made to mend heart, to sooth soul's dread. Testimony of experience of wisdom, persistence, perception, an impotent contraceptive, the argument aberrant. Regret to cloud memory, my youth seeming a flesh and blood cliche. Tiny footnotes heavy with prose, words in bold to distract mind's eye—a demand of attention. Edging out tomb's more beautiful weight of love and heartache of passion's attempt failing, to try again, sinking before succeeding. An era's dusk and dawn anew, life's advent unpredictable—without cause changing. Notion hanging lingering, poisoning future, the venom of defeat an insidious invasion. This new age creeping toward night in this stage my life's sun less bright. Maturity's introduced responsibility, some enjoyable while others to own hostility. A brigand mugging freedom—time for leisure. Spurring combat for what remains of youth, fingers wrapping air in futile seizure. The inevitable to command subservience, presuming ownership of life, though the mature demonstrate the defiance of the immature. Objects, activities, music assaulting ear, their manner, symbols of strict adherence to who once was— a spiteful surrender refusal. A piece of me defining me until no more, years holding power—threatening to change who I am at very core. Canvas construction the colour of murre, rubber toe caps the shade of pure. Design worn since youth, dead and resurrected; a million mile shoe of valorous resistance—insurrection, a Converse rebellion. In torment of age's scars, I'll never be too old to wear my All Stars.
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49
I am not the master of my writing - my writing masters me, seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing, it dictates to its enslaved scribe what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel - the contraries who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem; the she-muse offers me two choices: she wants a poem writ forthwith on the lyrical expression of depression and refusal is non optional so I fantasize escape and that becomes her property as well; evidence against me to be used at my trials, the one where there is no statue of liberty from the limitations of prior bad acts; I offer the she-muse two choices: give me a cabin with WiFi and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds, bonds that tied me up worse when they were broken and the peaceful withering that won’t disrupt disturb nobody from a distance my other choice is to bury me forthwith next to my parents and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant muse says that’s no choice I own your voice stilled or not, will bill your soul’s account for denial of poetic services weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad the muse-bitch cackles with insanity of delight for she accepts this writ as partial payment on her commission, whispers I love your lyrical expressions of depression that ****** recognition algorithms alert me that seizing time is nigh there is no on/off switch for one like you: father son and holy ghost
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Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC
I am not the master of my writing (the lyrical expression of depression)
I am not the master of my writing - my writing masters me, seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing, it dictates to its enslaved scribe what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel - the contraries who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem; the she-muse offers me two choices: she wants a poem writ forthwith on the lyrical expression of depression and refusal is non optional so I fantasize escape and that becomes her property as well; evidence against me to be used at my trials, the one where there is no statue of liberty from the limitations of prior bad acts; I offer the she-muse two choices: give me a cabin with WiFi and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds, bonds that tied me up worse when they were broken and the peaceful withering that won’t disrupt disturb nobody from a distance my other choice is to bury me forthwith next to my parents and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant muse says that’s no choice I own your voice stilled or not, will bill your soul’s account for denial of poetic services weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad the muse-bitch cackles with insanity of delight for she accepts this writ as partial payment on her commission, whispers I love your lyrical expressions of depression that ****** recognition algorithms alert me that seizing time is nigh there is no on/off switch for one like you: father son and holy ghost
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44
what's strength? forgiveness? refusal? it's independent decision. i can't decide.
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Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
strength [10w]
4:21am Tue Aug 12 <*> restless is the thinking brain, rapid repeated beating from an overheating sun in a room of full-on dark, difficult to weep, harder to silent breathe, one listens to his arrhythmic heart, sending out messages incessantly & incomplete every single sin ever committed comes in with cheery face, a greeting of, still here! in this , our temporary final resting place finish us off by completion, makes us full of restitution, by seeing to our undoing, revolving, unending, the finally of sufficiently those old curses we can only face by turning our faces away, drop in, like best friends, come to sunrise visit though dawn is yet eons of minutes far away, though relief can never be fully attained, though "though' is the first ****** word of excusal, though betrayal is always next, the secondarily, refusal, there is never a dot of period, only a comma of pause, because, there is no ending in completion only in forgiving by your harshest critic, yourself, yourself, our selving, this unsolvable function of forgiveness upon this, this, the two-days of Tuesday, to day
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Aug 12, 2025
Aug 12, 2025 at 4:56 AM UTC
f(x): Forgiveness: it is the two-days of Tuesday, to day x7
Heat Calcification Incalescence Swelter Suffocation Arctic circle above 32 degrees Fahrenheit in December Leaking lakes of Methane gas in Siberia Scientific data to price Changing 2 degrees has caused mass extinction Melting glaciers Oceans 7 centimeters higher Drought in the Amazon Changes in migration Disruption in pollination Heatwaves: high death tolls Decreased plant growth Zika in Florida Ignorance from the government Refusal of proof Nonbelievers in the White House
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Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
Climate Change
I'm alone in a crowded room. I hear the faint sound of music. But I pay no interest. I have to find something to steal my sobriety. I see hatred in the eyes of judgement. And temptation is drunken, Therefore becoming, More seductive by the second. A love rusted over, And a damsel in distress, Trying to tarnish the lamp, But the genie refuses freedom. And the genie feels no remorse, For refusing to grant a wish, From a removed stranger. Because his refusal is in good faith.
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Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
Faithful Genie
Words without Unspoken truths Cut in neat pieces Sharp like knives Plunged deep into yesterday’s drivers seat Intoxicated The sweetness of wine Time took hold Tastes grew old Drank straight with ice A barrel aged whiskey with bite Involuntarily, my body shakes Like it was trying to run away from the feeling “I didn’t know you would make me so drunk” Stumbling and fumbling with my keys Scratched drivers side door Attempts to unlock what shouldn’t be It left chips in the paint “F*ck” murmured beneath my breath The engines low rumble grumbled and sang A stereo left on too loud came alive when I turned the key Busted eardrums, slow trickle, ears that bleed Silence spoke the loudest after that The nights drive turned sideways Cherry red lights matched with blue I could outrun them if I tried Pressed petals in between pages Pushed gingerly to the floor The speedometer creeped to new heights That annoying flashing brightness followed me Threat to freedom and a refusal to give in Twist and turns The chase ensues I finally feel like I’m gaining distance Little was known, encroaching on a dead end Blew past a warning sign Wrapped my car around a tree Crimson red soaked shirt “Why is my face wet?” A steady stream of life giving fluid pumped through a **** in my forehead Dizzy, it made me dizzy. I sat and waited, not for help But for time to be taken away I understood that sometimes a mistake is made, and I can pay the price with iron clad bracelets and a night spent on a bench for a bed. You taste like wine and then bit like whiskey, when all I wanted was coffee black on a crisp summer morning with the sun rising up to meet a lovers lust in my eyes.
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Mar 27, 2022
Mar 27, 2022 at 1:33 PM UTC
Drunken Mistakes
Words without Unspoken truths Cut in neat pieces Sharp like knives Plunged deep into yesterday’s drivers seat Intoxicated The sweetness of wine Time took hold Tastes grew old Drank straight with ice A barrel aged whiskey with bite Involuntarily, my body shakes Like it was trying to run away from the feeling “I didn’t know you would make me so drunk” Stumbling and fumbling with my keys Scratched drivers side door Attempts to unlock what shouldn’t be It left chips in the paint “F*ck” murmured beneath my breath The engines low rumble grumbled and sang A stereo left on too loud came alive when I turned the key Busted eardrums, slow trickle, ears that bleed Silence spoke the loudest after that The nights drive turned sideways Cherry red lights matched with blue I could outrun them if I tried Pressed petals in between pages Pushed gingerly to the floor The speedometer creeped to new heights That annoying flashing brightness followed me Threat to freedom and a refusal to give in Twist and turns The chase ensues I finally feel like I’m gaining distance Little was known, encroaching on a dead end Blew past a warning sign Wrapped my car around a tree Crimson red soaked shirt “Why is my face wet?” A steady stream of life giving fluid pumped through a **** in my forehead Dizzy, it made me dizzy. I sat and waited, not for help But for time to be taken away I understood that sometimes a mistake is made, and I can pay the price with iron clad bracelets and a night spent on a bench for a bed. You taste like wine and then bit like whiskey, when all I wanted was coffee black on a crisp summer morning with the sun rising up to meet a lovers lust in my eyes.
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45
**You want to read little pristine pretty posies not get involved betwixt & ignore the thorns of life whatcha gonna do when your scratch becomes infected hiding in the bushes of denial will get you hives of the contradicting type, bucking like a bronco amidst the flowery storm clouds of refusal riding through wild fields of four leaf clovers on unicorns wings of phantasmal puff'd perfectly pink skies pseudo fairy tales conjured up in the mind never to cross the median line of reality's mock deception swallow the chimerical pill of inauthentic utopia just be sure your mythical allegory never plays havoc in your secret garden of rainbow streaming sublimity, the fall is greater from the zenith of repudiation**
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Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
Pink Posies on Unicorn Wings
All colors, shapes and sizes. A cunning disguise. Quite stunning. The right fit. A refusal to go the extra mile. Poor Myles. No more fake smiles. A mask. Can coerce a crowd. It's quite loud when your face shows but no sound. His face. It's quite a disgrace. Tells of his battles and all. How many times he's fallen. He's quite clumsy.  He makes it his number one task, to buy a new mask. He's new in town, and wonders why everyone looks like a clown. I mean surely they can't all be happy. Masks. A store. "May I try this one on sir?" Perfect. Task complete. He fits in. But underneath, he's not the same. Possibly insane. He hides something deep, so deep it never speaks. It only sleeps. Family. Friends. They can never tell. What he hides. The mask. It tells lies.  Someone close. Someone you know. Watch closely. Their mask will slowly deteriorate. Dissipate. Time. It may take a while if you try to pry. Their mask. Their completed tasks. Even those close to Myles couldn't tell. Underneath, we're quite different. Don't you see. We all wear our own. How many do you own?
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Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 1:44 PM UTC
Masks
(for Nietzche, who cowers behind art.) The world calls the conquered ****** to remember that the sun every night yearns to rise, to rise, to rise when there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing. Yet still it yearns to rise, to rise, to rise. The world called Canaanites ****** while they traded and toiled along the shores of land promised to the aged heretic of Sumer, whose wife could give only love. The world called Hebrews ****** while they raised Pharoah tombs Provided respite from the eastern chariots Stubborn in refusal of the living gods Drinking only Eloheim's bitter grape That provides brief respite from his decrees When delving deep in one's cups. The world called Britons ****** When flogged Boudicea fought and fought and finally fell To Roman spear and gladius When Angles and Saxons raided then stayed When Cromwell climbed the pale cliffs The world called the Iberians, Gauls and Teutons ****** when Caesar crossed the Rubicon Pax Romana for Citizens born Land for the wealthy, voting rights too Taxes and tithes from their toil. The world called the Khoikhoi of South Africa ****** From the VOC to fatal Apartheid Up rose a man The heart of the land A man named Nelson Mandela. The world called the Viet Minh ****** from Can Vong to Dien Bien Phu 'till they slogged howitzers above to reign Napoleonic terror below. And to them it was just The American War After the world called them Vietnamese. The world calls the conquered ****** to remember that the sun every day yearns to rise, to rise, to rise When there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing yet still it yearns to rise, to rise, to rise 'though it never watches its own rising undoing raiment of fading embers swimming naked in the royal blue bathing all with daily newborn naked glory chasing the celestial tidal tease that seems to wander where it please reminding that all are born free but can grow into ignorance and be called ****** Seek truths that hold in unity; that provide nourishment beneath the lash allowing one to rise, to rise, to rise.
0
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 9:01 AM UTC
The World Calls the Conquered ******
(for Nietzche, who cowers behind art.) The world calls the conquered ****** to remember that the sun every night yearns to rise, to rise, to rise when there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing. Yet still it yearns to rise, to rise, to rise. The world called Canaanites ****** while they traded and toiled along the shores of land promised to the aged heretic of Sumer, whose wife could give only love. The world called Hebrews ****** while they raised Pharoah tombs Provided respite from the eastern chariots Stubborn in refusal of the living gods Drinking only Eloheim's bitter grape That provides brief respite from his decrees When delving deep in one's cups. The world called Britons ****** When flogged Boudicea fought and fought and finally fell To Roman spear and gladius When Angles and Saxons raided then stayed When Cromwell climbed the pale cliffs The world called the Iberians, Gauls and Teutons ****** when Caesar crossed the Rubicon Pax Romana for Citizens born Land for the wealthy, voting rights too Taxes and tithes from their toil. The world called the Khoikhoi of South Africa ****** From the VOC to fatal Apartheid Up rose a man The heart of the land A man named Nelson Mandela. The world called the Viet Minh ****** from Can Vong to Dien Bien Phu 'till they slogged howitzers above to reign Napoleonic terror below. And to them it was just The American War After the world called them Vietnamese. The world calls the conquered ****** to remember that the sun every day yearns to rise, to rise, to rise When there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing yet still it yearns to rise, to rise, to rise 'though it never watches its own rising undoing raiment of fading embers swimming naked in the royal blue bathing all with daily newborn naked glory chasing the celestial tidal tease that seems to wander where it please reminding that all are born free but can grow into ignorance and be called ****** Seek truths that hold in unity; that provide nourishment beneath the lash allowing one to rise, to rise, to rise.
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When words are not enough, and the world won’t get off her back, she dances the Devils way, She’s a princess, wait she’s a queen, wait she’s an angel, wait she’s everything, a Goddess, the hottest performing artist I’ve ever seen, and she’s dancing, dancing is her therapy, I mean, I’m not James Brown, but it’s a man’s world, even if Rihanna runs this town, See, she’s been suppressed all her life, and I’m not just talking about Rihanna, I’m talking about every girl that was ever forced to be a wife, just to survive in this life, she was touched by her father, or brother or cousin, when she was just a little girl, I know we all wish it wasn’t, but it is true, so what’s a girl to do, when she’s a clean 13 messing with The ***** Dozen, this isn’t battle of the sexes, this is war of the worlds, wants to be a woman but she’s just a girl, no No Doubt just burnt out nerves taken turns, she never asked to be born, with the burden of being beautiful, but she refuses to conform, she is attractable irrational and radical, so when it’s all too much, the stares and the catcalls, the aggressive forceful touch, the nails across her back like a blackboard, and the moans become just white noise, she takes it all in, she forgives the man because he’s just a boy, he is an angel even if he has fallen, she takes it all in, and she uses all of those abuses, as the fuel with the tools which induces, an allusive state of truth which, allows her to move with intuitive smoothness, and lose herself in the music morphing into what a centrifuge is, separating fluids transforming what was otherwise useless abuses, into a truth that cruises and confuses the stupid stooges, she dances, in a statement of glorious refusal to submit to their ideals, she is more than a princess queen angel goddess, she is fire burning up all preconceived notions of *** appeal, the real deal, dancing sweating cleansing her soul and her pores, moving faster in progression refuting repression, overcoming an obsession of oppression and knocking down all doors, she is not a possession, though she is possessed when, she’s a dancing expression of how we all feel and more, no words are enough, she shows what we all feel, she reveals what, was before thinly concealed, she is the perfect expression, of imperfect circumstances, she is poetic stanzas, she is the paint on the canvas, there is no question that she is the answer, and all of this is made clear when she takes it all in, let’s go of everything and dances… ∆aron L∆ Lux ∆ #strength #metoo #dancer #ballet #blackswan
0
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
Trip The Light Fantastic (Black Swan)
When words are not enough, and the world won’t get off her back, she dances the Devils way, She’s a princess, wait she’s a queen, wait she’s an angel, wait she’s everything, a Goddess, the hottest performing artist I’ve ever seen, and she’s dancing, dancing is her therapy, I mean, I’m not James Brown, but it’s a man’s world, even if Rihanna runs this town, See, she’s been suppressed all her life, and I’m not just talking about Rihanna, I’m talking about every girl that was ever forced to be a wife, just to survive in this life, she was touched by her father, or brother or cousin, when she was just a little girl, I know we all wish it wasn’t, but it is true, so what’s a girl to do, when she’s a clean 13 messing with The ***** Dozen, this isn’t battle of the sexes, this is war of the worlds, wants to be a woman but she’s just a girl, no No Doubt just burnt out nerves taken turns, she never asked to be born, with the burden of being beautiful, but she refuses to conform, she is attractable irrational and radical, so when it’s all too much, the stares and the catcalls, the aggressive forceful touch, the nails across her back like a blackboard, and the moans become just white noise, she takes it all in, she forgives the man because he’s just a boy, he is an angel even if he has fallen, she takes it all in, and she uses all of those abuses, as the fuel with the tools which induces, an allusive state of truth which, allows her to move with intuitive smoothness, and lose herself in the music morphing into what a centrifuge is, separating fluids transforming what was otherwise useless abuses, into a truth that cruises and confuses the stupid stooges, she dances, in a statement of glorious refusal to submit to their ideals, she is more than a princess queen angel goddess, she is fire burning up all preconceived notions of *** appeal, the real deal, dancing sweating cleansing her soul and her pores, moving faster in progression refuting repression, overcoming an obsession of oppression and knocking down all doors, she is not a possession, though she is possessed when, she’s a dancing expression of how we all feel and more, no words are enough, she shows what we all feel, she reveals what, was before thinly concealed, she is the perfect expression, of imperfect circumstances, she is poetic stanzas, she is the paint on the canvas, there is no question that she is the answer, and all of this is made clear when she takes it all in, let’s go of everything and dances… ∆aron L∆ Lux ∆ #strength #metoo #dancer #ballet #blackswan
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75
I was raised by a pack of fools Who proclaim Caucasians are the best. And are glad to fight, at the drop of a hint To put the whole matter to the test. They have an entire joke routine And descriptive names they repeat In minimizing and insisting that Their right to decent treatment isn’t real. There are references to some animals And unfunny comments about color. The statements about characteristics Of body and features always go together With a special set of gross anecdotes To cover any kind of non-Christian belief. And the refusal to consider equality As a decent attitude stands in bright relief. Beneath all this horror, not very deep, Lies a sickening river of hate and fear That fails to improve as education is Rejected year after disgusting year. Pointing out the error of their ways Might earn you a punch in the eye But the bigot hangs on to their rage And never gives fellowship a try. The American Bigot claims to be A staunch Christian all the way through Which forces them to hate and cheat And lie as much as Jesus would do. Of course, we know that Jesus was A preacher of love and acceptance But it seems that bigots never quite Made that Jesus’ acquaintance. So, here we can see we need to add Some terms to this kind of individual Whose relationship to peace and love Is at best slight, scant and residual. We also need to append to their titles Of masters of anger fear and prejudice The unhealthy pallor of indecency, Dishonesty, inhumanity and cowardice.
0
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC
BIGOTRY 101
I was raised by a pack of fools Who proclaim Caucasians are the best. And are glad to fight, at the drop of a hint To put the whole matter to the test. They have an entire joke routine And descriptive names they repeat In minimizing and insisting that Their right to decent treatment isn’t real. There are references to some animals And unfunny comments about color. The statements about characteristics Of body and features always go together With a special set of gross anecdotes To cover any kind of non-Christian belief. And the refusal to consider equality As a decent attitude stands in bright relief. Beneath all this horror, not very deep, Lies a sickening river of hate and fear That fails to improve as education is Rejected year after disgusting year. Pointing out the error of their ways Might earn you a punch in the eye But the bigot hangs on to their rage And never gives fellowship a try. The American Bigot claims to be A staunch Christian all the way through Which forces them to hate and cheat And lie as much as Jesus would do. Of course, we know that Jesus was A preacher of love and acceptance But it seems that bigots never quite Made that Jesus’ acquaintance. So, here we can see we need to add Some terms to this kind of individual Whose relationship to peace and love Is at best slight, scant and residual. We also need to append to their titles Of masters of anger fear and prejudice The unhealthy pallor of indecency, Dishonesty, inhumanity and cowardice.
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40
wind like a south wind carrying a plane south deposits him, beneficiary of a backwards current on a branch with nothing companionable in sight - no answer, no voice to answer, no voice, no alarm, no succor - just an afternoon and nothing pressing. No urgent business, maybe only the rigors of trying to prevent there being urgent business later. He's not all smooth. A little feather cowlicked on his narrow jaw, and I don't know how he bathes, what he eats, what he wants, who would want to eat him. I don't really understand anything that is going on around me. But look, I understand more than him:   the tree is dying. Oak wilt blew in from Canada, took a long time coming and finally cracked the veins and this one is all bad on the inside, a meal of corked-up flesh, big spongy patches and tainted roots at the search. (Amateur diagnosis. The tree is probably fine.) There is a similarity neither tree nor bird know about. Or his legs know it, and that message is stuck somewhere. Or he's afraid. The blighted oak is all fungus and refusal, and he: his skeleton is spun from delicate copper. If you open him up, he's like a penny - pretty, and useless in this economy. People and things always trying to get rid of him, and he's listening because he knows it, and he's singing because he knows it. Open the tree up and the whole food chain comes down with it. (Listen to your sweet flesh that wants to go on living.) It's not a curse, not specifically: just one fragile thing standing on another but - count mercies - too light to break it. A basic brazier licking behind a splash of yellow, he chirrups. His song comes from the throat. His song is about something he saw once. His song is unquestioned, muscle moving without will.   His plumage is mostly air   And the tree is anchored in the ground   by the very thing that chokes it, and we're all standing together: me, tree, bird. At least until I finish my sandwich, packing the greasy paper in a rectangle, with unquestioned neatness, and leave whistling.
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Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
Birdness
wind like a south wind carrying a plane south deposits him, beneficiary of a backwards current on a branch with nothing companionable in sight - no answer, no voice to answer, no voice, no alarm, no succor - just an afternoon and nothing pressing. No urgent business, maybe only the rigors of trying to prevent there being urgent business later. He's not all smooth. A little feather cowlicked on his narrow jaw, and I don't know how he bathes, what he eats, what he wants, who would want to eat him. I don't really understand anything that is going on around me. But look, I understand more than him:   the tree is dying. Oak wilt blew in from Canada, took a long time coming and finally cracked the veins and this one is all bad on the inside, a meal of corked-up flesh, big spongy patches and tainted roots at the search. (Amateur diagnosis. The tree is probably fine.) There is a similarity neither tree nor bird know about. Or his legs know it, and that message is stuck somewhere. Or he's afraid. The blighted oak is all fungus and refusal, and he: his skeleton is spun from delicate copper. If you open him up, he's like a penny - pretty, and useless in this economy. People and things always trying to get rid of him, and he's listening because he knows it, and he's singing because he knows it. Open the tree up and the whole food chain comes down with it. (Listen to your sweet flesh that wants to go on living.) It's not a curse, not specifically: just one fragile thing standing on another but - count mercies - too light to break it. A basic brazier licking behind a splash of yellow, he chirrups. His song comes from the throat. His song is about something he saw once. His song is unquestioned, muscle moving without will.   His plumage is mostly air   And the tree is anchored in the ground   by the very thing that chokes it, and we're all standing together: me, tree, bird. At least until I finish my sandwich, packing the greasy paper in a rectangle, with unquestioned neatness, and leave whistling.
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50
Take a fresh Playstation Add plenty of seasoned frustration Marvel at the glory of this Machine Roll a spliff made for Charlie Sheen Game for 6 hours at room temperature Squeeze controller until you see hairline fracture Anger rising to the top That guy lied to me, the one from the shop Nothing but coffee flavour in this bag of Revels Listen to your shoulder devils Ask Playstation to work the way you want it Refusal to comply, I miss 8bit Swing controller like a ball and chain Look, as its blue eye turns to red in pain Proceed to dance on Playstation to tenderise A madman reflected on the screen in disguise Last salvation is on the warranty sheet Enjoy, Bon appetit
0
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 4:11 AM UTC
Gamer Rage or How to cook a Playstation
Striped carnation (refusal):      I have long since discovered that the fires      in me were never going away.      The heaviness, from refusal      to spit the ashes. Queen Anne’s lace (fantasy):      I thought you put out the fire last night      but you weren’t there. Willow herb (pretension):      How long have you been gone?      I told myself as many lies as I could handle      but none of them ever worked. Scabiosa (unfortunate love):      We’ve built enough bridges to take us nowhere–      tell me again what we’ve become:      trembling hands,      trying not to spill blood on what was left.
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Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
The language of flowers and things that never stop burning
Oh, fuming teardrop! You’ve boiled over from wrath and anger, leaving painful blisters as you sear the heart Why you don’t evaporate is a wonder but there must be a valid reason… If only to let the heart know it lives Oh, fuming teardrop! Will you ever learn how to forgive? Oh, defiant teardrop! Teetering on the edge and glistening, refusing to fall to make yourself known It is not fickle mindedness playing, rather, a power play of emotions a blatant refusal to show what’s within Oh, defiant teardrop! Why even stop yourself before you begin? Oh, crocodile teardrop! If you were truly so, slink back shamefully, recede to your lacrimal gland and stay put There is no need for your insincerity, the world is chaotic as it is, too troubled Fall not, trickle not, trick not who see you Oh, crocodile teardrop! How can you be so heartless to fool people so true? Oh, pensive teardrop! How gracefully you streak down window sills Wash away grime and grit, cleanse everything Flow unhindered, purify hearts you fill Laughter may be the music of the soul, but you are pure— the distilled spirit Oh, pensive teardrop! Will you course down blackened hearts, pay a visit? Oh, jubilant teardrop! Married to laughter, frolic and dance to its tune Give birth to hope then soar with elation Brighten faces, sparkle days, light up the moon Let souls remember that you speak of pain, joy Let them remember, then allow them to heal Oh, jubilant teardrop! Why did I ever doubt that you are spirit revealed?
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Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 4:24 AM UTC
The Eloquence of a Tear
Oh, fuming teardrop! You’ve boiled over from wrath and anger, leaving painful blisters as you sear the heart Why you don’t evaporate is a wonder but there must be a valid reason… If only to let the heart know it lives Oh, fuming teardrop! Will you ever learn how to forgive? Oh, defiant teardrop! Teetering on the edge and glistening, refusing to fall to make yourself known It is not fickle mindedness playing, rather, a power play of emotions a blatant refusal to show what’s within Oh, defiant teardrop! Why even stop yourself before you begin? Oh, crocodile teardrop! If you were truly so, slink back shamefully, recede to your lacrimal gland and stay put There is no need for your insincerity, the world is chaotic as it is, too troubled Fall not, trickle not, trick not who see you Oh, crocodile teardrop! How can you be so heartless to fool people so true? Oh, pensive teardrop! How gracefully you streak down window sills Wash away grime and grit, cleanse everything Flow unhindered, purify hearts you fill Laughter may be the music of the soul, but you are pure— the distilled spirit Oh, pensive teardrop! Will you course down blackened hearts, pay a visit? Oh, jubilant teardrop! Married to laughter, frolic and dance to its tune Give birth to hope then soar with elation Brighten faces, sparkle days, light up the moon Let souls remember that you speak of pain, joy Let them remember, then allow them to heal Oh, jubilant teardrop! Why did I ever doubt that you are spirit revealed?
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