"reproduce" poems
I will tell you a story
In all its glory
Explaining the
****** *****
Creating much more than
The eye can see
Its a story about a vibrant flower
So beautiful it needs to be to attract the buzzing honey bees
The story goes some thing like this
So you can see the flowers multiply through the years
Make two
Four and many more
The bee
flys along and sees so many Beautiful flowers
Longing to devour
But which one
So many colours
Shapes
Sizes
Flowers cascading
Parading
So shameless
Stands still
Wow
Striking
Its a big bright pink one
Circular in shape
Bold
Beautiful
Its the one
Open, with so many soft small petals
Glistening with the rain drops
Shining in the sun
Sparkling with beauty from within
Makes the bee meander to thee
The bee needs to reproduce
Suduced
Stops and fills
Spreads the seeds
Allowed to please
Pollunates
Impregnates
Recreates
What you dont see is the story
Combined with the
True glory
Of the extra ordinary *****
The beauty
Of the buzzing bee
Combined
With the gold assigned
Inside
So free
Flying
Trying
Frantically to find the
The hive
Taking nectar
Making honey, wax, all kind of f
Fascinating lines
Made from hexagon
They divide into the lines
They are full with precious delights
The story continues
The more you learn
The more you yearn
To see a honey bee
Together the bee and the ****** *****
make harmony
The vibrant flower allowed to duplicate
More beauty for all to see
For all to feel
The special honey bee procreate and makes
Wax
creating ambiance
Such a clever bee
A savont; such a worker
Magical tyrant
Buzzing madly yearning to create
the sweetest honey
A honey bee can make
Its like you to me
You're the combination
Make migrations in me
Spreading beauty from within
To others to proceed
And begin
I feel it with you;
Vibrant flower
Honey bee
Coming together
Creating so much sweet honey in me
It's a wonderful story to me
You see
The story of the flower and the honey bee
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
There just isn't enough febreeze
to rid the room of the haze
Of a dog **** strong and silent
It kind of puts you in a daze
It kind of sneaks in, then it hits you
An olfactory h-bomb in your face
Meanwhile, he just lies there
He's wiped the room with **** mace
There is no middle ground here
They always smell like something died
Like he caught a squirrel in the garden
Now, it's rotting his insides
Dog farts, are a weapon
That our army has not used
In fact I told them in a letter
In their reply, they were amused
"We've tried to duplicate it"
"A killer weapon... stops the heart"
"But, our scientists just aren't able"
"To reproduce a strong dog ****
"Thank you for your consideration"
"We'll let you know, if we succeed"
"We agree with your kind letter"
"dog farts escape and then they breed"
Sometimes when a dog farts
It makes a noise, he turns around
"my god, I smell incredible"
is the look comes from my hound
So, if you've never smelled a dog ****
And your dog just sneaks one out
Do yourself a favour
Do not feed him brussel sprouts.
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 2:44 PM UTC
A mother whispers into the fire of Night
I hold a match
I hold Yarn
I Am Wool
Shrinking to the formation
The intricate designs of your rib cage
of your brother's belly
of your Grandfather's waist
Am I simply a fool?
And Who
Doth I ask This question too?
A Torn book
A tattered sonnet of Man's sore feet
blistered eyes that are Green
That are Brown
That are Blue
I Lay with myself Tonight
I am Awake
I am Loud
In your Night
I Am the Janitor beneath the hardwood floors
of your Dream
I am the
Poorly Waged Electrician
With Shoes that resemble an old dog
I Light Your Highway
Your Street
Your Morning coffee
your
cigarette
Am I The Child?
I fall in love with women I see on the streets
Their Wavy hair
like a French sea
Her pale complexion
the Brown Glimmer in her eyes
And I paint on her on Tombstones
On Coffee Mugs and on carpets rolled up for the Dumpster
At Nights
I prefer to dream awake
and sit with a BathTub of words
of stories that melt like cheese
that stiffen like Ginsberg ****
that Shriek and Strum like Tom Waits stomach when he starves on backroad streets
And when I cannot
reproduce
I make love to a woman
And a poem is made
and I kiss her
and my lips say 5 am
and I wish her not to go
But the Dog
is waken by Robins
by the Pigeons
by the digestion of night to day
by the Greek Gods and Goddess' Light
That Falls down
like long hair of woman you have so longed for
and you kiss her chest
And there is no Death
There is no Sleep
or ****** addicts or gasoline or paved roads or shaved faces or mothers or Dostoevsky or Beethoven
There is just her
and you run your fingers across her skin
through her hair
She is the bottom of the Ocean
You are a homeless crab
a Shellless Clam
falling down
down
down
to the bed of the great ocean
and there she lays
With a reflection of Youth and Beauty
And her complex simplicity makes me think of
me as a boy
running behind brick collapsed business buildings
Kissing a girl behind church
Buying Icecream with Josh in Winter
That's what a woman does
She erases Death
from the palms of your hands
and your thoughts
and you sink
to the bottom
and you watch the Coral
The other fish
swimming along
and you laugh
Because you do not know Death
And Death does not know you.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
Cramping legds their crying
Like the babes, lying
In their mothers' arms
What are the charms
Which parents ensnare
Like poisonous air
Be witched to reproduce
Nature's silent truce
Though you die you can live
Vicariously and give
What makes you, you
To another imbue
The train halts brakes squealing
Interlocking carriages feeling
Each other and the air
Signal lights stare
And the track opens up before us
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 7:04 AM UTC
Silence has become the sweetest melody
I hear things I cannot reproduce
Songs with too much meaning to convey
Silence is not golden
It's raw
Raw like my feet in high heels
Raw like your words
Raw like a crack of thunder
Raw like a cry of remorse
Raw
Raw
Raw
I cannot breathe
9/20/13
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
We're not allowed to mention Christianity
A Muslim man discusses Allah, we can't judge.Black people have pride in themselves, so do white people .We're automatically racist and unaccepting. A man gets hired for a high paying job instead of the women.This is a case for feminism because it's injustice. A man cheats on his partner, he has hormones.A woman cheats on her man, she's a ***** A woman is ***** she's making it up.A man is ***** no one believes him. A gay person is disliked by a certain individual .It's homophobia, a black man kills someone and the whole race is blamed, a white man kills someone he's just a ****** You say crusty old white men are making decisions about your body.Should he change his race then decide if you can reproduce? I'm eating Sushi and I'm not Asian, it's cultural appropriation and it's offensive so only Asian people can eat at Asian restaurants? That reminds me of when segregation was going on. We have a right to our opinion but I say something I'm instantly prejudice and you don't want hear it. I made the wrong assumption now I'm a horrible person because you feel that you can monitor my thoughts. You all think that you're all for social justice but it's really going to come back and bite you in the ***
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC
Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.
Slow begins the dance of tongues and hard news.
I learn a thing I never wished to learn.
Afterwards,
a dance of tongues in the ensuite
begins a sudden rapture of claiming.
Nails mine, skin mine
to make a pink impression on.
Bile in the back of the throat, mine.
Fear of death, mine. Oaths and oaths,
mine, too. An exchange of humility,
knee for a knee. The rigid wall at your back.
The wall at your back.
The night which enriches
bluer out of the blue air,
not the action of
the world moving at all.
The particles of water in a birdbath divide,
decide among themselves
to marry each to each, to reproduce.
They become an ocean.
They drown the birds.
My mouth fills with feathers,
teeth itch with the tiny mites
running between the shafts.
I am a bell, and you are a country.
I am a bell and sound from far away.
Hands touch the broken vase in her parts, the toes,
the eyelash, the sunken wreck, the crowd of dead,
the treasure.
They say
all this
as if the map was drawn
and burned
and came again
in char from the tablecloth
to all our wonder.
A single miracle can last for weeks in the mouth. Sometimes centuries.
I will spend eighteen days in the void of grace.
What begins as a pain in my shoulders
will grow into a tree and bury me.
I will want promises, promises, promises.
(water, water, water)
I will never be satisfied.
Looking always for permanent loss it becomes easy to simply
misplace.
Your caution leads to strange decisions.
You put your keys in the fridge.
I would like to say I knew the words:
I cut the lock of hair, I drew the blood.
The hex was removed by faith and chaste reflection
but everywhere I look, there is a confusion
of hungry birds and beggars
and I forget the spell,
or what chaste reflection even is.
Anyways, something breaks. Not my doing.
Suddenly, I am just noticing sky again.
I am transcribed back into English.
My first decision is to wash my car,
and next,
to learn what faith meant to anyone.
Charmed, is it?
Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.
It has nothing, really, to say.
It only rattles.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 10:24 PM UTC
We are the generation birthed into broken homes.
Backless. Spineless structures.
Faceless fathers.
And miracle mothers.
Brown boys teaching brown boys how to be men.
Brown boys teaching brown girls how to be loved.
Loving her like his “main *****
like his “side chick”
like his lies. Like his lust. Like his leisure.
Like a good ****
And she lets him.
She has never seen an example of love.
So he loves her. Broken.
And they reproduce.
Broken.
Another brown baby birthed into a broken home.
With a faceless father and a miracle mother.
Women raising boys into boys.
Not men but boys.
Women raising girls into bitter
Girls into *******
Girls into bisexual
because there’s no man present.
We are the generation birthed into broken homes.
Inheriting broken hopes.
Boys inheriting the name of a man he’s never known.
Inheriting personality traits from a man we’ll never know.
We’ll never know white picket fence,
We’ll never know 20 year anniversary
We’ll never know happy home
We’ll never know American dream.
We are the forgotten ones.
We are the generation birthed into broken homes.
With hand-me-down hopes.
And Mama’s Spit-shined smiles.
They classified us as the broken ones.
I am from a broken home.
But I am not a broken one.
I pick up my pieces, wrote some poems and made peace with it.
What’s broken can be fixed.
Brother. Be a man.
Sister. Be a woman.
Be royal. Be raw. Be real. Be you. Be king. Be queen. Be father. Be mother. Be love. Be trust. Be home. Be hope.
Be there.
Be there.
We are not broken.
We are the generation birthed into broken homes.
We are rebuilding.
Either lend us a hand or leave us alone.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Eats the lovers head after coitus
Something tells me a black widow is better
Dogs get stuck together
is that a style?
Pigs can ****** for 30 minutes
little corkscrews
mules can't reproduce do they have fun?
seahorse males carry the pregnancy to term
penguins take turns incubating
in extreme conditions
humans get joint custody
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 10:44 PM UTC
My life runs in circles
Whilst the flock avoids my space
Every word I speak
Brings destruction to my family
The truth tears apart relationships
When the lies destroy my soul
It's hard being the black sheep
But it's all I know
Every time I do my best
It fails before my eyes
And my depression was never a big enough sign for them to see me down
Black sheep black sheep
**** yourself now
Before you reproduce
A flock surrounded by bad luck
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 11:57 AM UTC
As I close my laptop
and it snaps shut
my dog sits up
ears perked,
chest puffed, and
at the ready for
me to stand up
and grab a leash
and a plastic bag
for his ****
And he knows this routine
because it has been seared
into his brain with the white-hot
branding iron
of repetition.
A force of nature.
A category-five hurricane.
We laugh at them
for chasing their tails
when the microwave dings,
for salivating at bells,
but
I am no better than they are.
The same routines
are seared into my brain, too—
stimulus, response
stimulus, response
eat, sleep, **** walk, ****
love, reproduce, etc.
and I will continue to do so
aimlessly
just like Ivan Pavlov said I would.
One day I’ll find myself
like he’ll find himself—
lying on a cold slab
in a sterile room
only half alive
aghast at how quickly youth slipped away
but otherwise numb
as loved ones circle around,
hands over their mouths,
horrified
to press the button.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
I made a list of all our kisses, starting with just ‘kiss’
Which in the heat of passion was italicized like this:
kiss, then emphasized in variations Kiss! and KISS and KISS
Which even though ethereal somehow added to our bliss.
And later in IM we found that we could really KISS!
I mean in theory still, of course, for physically we missed
The real touch of real lips and autres choses on that list.
And there were funny graphics, I can’t reproduce them here,
But you know the ones we used a lot, they all meant kisses there
The hearton built with < and 3, which always made you smile
And the asterisks and emoticons we used once in a while
And let’s not forget those x’s which a net of crosses wove
*** and xxxx, our ****** book of love.
Soon added to our kisses came words like longingly,
And tenderly, and lingeringly and gentle morningly
Sometimes we gave it lots of tongue, but loving nibbles too
Whenever I’d le pout or tears your lashes would bedew.
These are the ones I can recall, probably there are more
I’m sure you’re itching to remind me from your memory’s vast store
And you can tell me all about them in some poetry well versed
But my love, before you write it, you’ll just have to kiss me first.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
My philosophy as I drive down the road
I don't feel bad if I don't feel it under my tires
That means I step on spiders
Swat mosquitoes
Take antibiotics
Life is not created equal
When we live atop an ever shifting puzzle
Where the value of life
Is dependent on the ability to take life
A virus's sole purpose is to attack host cells and reproduce
So is our's
I guess we'll see who kills who first
Trees get larger trunks
Animals get larger teeth
Humans get larger guns
And as those guns hold our hopes
Humanity holds the hopes for all organisms
To one day transcend competition
But in the meantime
I'm worried about the cracks in the road
Because I can feel them shifting under my tires
But there is cement on my wheels
And on the vehicles around me
We pave this road we travel on
Until the cement runs dry
And our vessel dies
For newer improved cars to continue
On the freeway to transcendence
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 2:16 AM UTC
5-I wish I could reproduce
7-I wish my **** was a waterfall
5-I wish I could get an ********
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
Back at a time
I met with a serious accident
No major bones fractured
Just intracranial injuries
And
The impact
Continues even now
Now in my PhD
I read a lot of scientific stuff
Memorize little
Reproduce lesser
And
Get myself
Even lesser marks
7th of May in 2010
Was the date unfortunate
On which I met
With the accident
And
Rode myself
Into The Oblivion
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 10:41 AM UTC
Fingers continue to whisper.
Fingers linger longer
and these strokes serve as
exercise to make them stronger.
Practice makes perfect and when
practicing on a perfect canvas leads to
writing beautiful verses in cursive.
Before we fall asleep she kisses every
finger as a beautiful gesture to assure
that, these same fingers reproduce the
familiar and extravagant pleasure.
Fingers speak in a language I can't
comprehend, but only her body can
understand and if these same fingers
that squeeze this pencil tip are guilty of
letting her relish moans and sighs
gasping for air, then accept my
apologies for getting the public involved
in my affairs.
Fingers continue to whisper as they
speak softly to the goosebumps present
on her body. Fingers continue to
whisper, and without my muse these
urges to write I keep I fighting. Fingers
continue to whisper telling me to keep
writing.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
Going once the
cruise_______*
One specific lover
What do we uncover
More advice going
twice in (2)
You see an
unexpected
attraction
Like twins with
two heads exact copy
Say Action your movie part
"The offer you cannot refuse"
You cannot duplicate her heart
With another Flower rose
Another heart obligation
"Alaskan Huskies
Twin Adoption"
Two heads better
than one snipper
She- Wolf surf and turf
Mexico taco, at the gulf
Her green planet thumb
Mount Fiji we climb
Right force ruler the heart
divider the duplicate lover
"To Reproduce" over the
a million light-years
duplicated love tears
Years we treasured
It's in our duty
Congregated
United we stand
Imagine the world
stopped to be buried
The duplicate became a
twin maid of honor
She lost her duplicated purse
"Twin Identity"
Doppelganger
Your heart couldn't
hold on____
Any longer
To reproduce the same
forbidden fruit
voiceover singer
The rare find
someone with a
Giving heart
Having a double
scotch doing the part
The pirate wearing
Eye patch*
Twofold twice the gold
one heart match
Poems true believers
One is the snitch
To love life singles or doubles
subjects to catch up in triples
The full house
what a spouse
Your boiling minds
Twice around the
coffee house
The day she or he
was born
The comfort
comes with love
Fire eye lit bedding
(Forever young
double wedding)
You're the one so
gifted hearted*
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
*
I am life
Unwanted, Unplanned, Unexpected
Or perhaps
a failed expectation.
There are many major reason
to
Why oh Why
I was a mistake
But there is one important reason why I needed to be born?
“I deserved to live”
What is so wrong for me to have what you have?
To breathe what you breathe
To eat what you eat
To experience
life itself.
You may not care for me, but I am sure someone would.
I anticipate the future what is like to live
what is like to have my own choice
now a little too late.
You know maybe someday
There will come a time that mankind
will lose the ability to reproduce,
the signs is already there
you just don’t see it.
Often times man create its own demise.
I wish you just have let me live and then give me away,
That I would understand.
I wish I could be a test-tube baby
Perhaps that I would have a chance
Of entering this god given world.
All are too late now.
I am sheer whisper,
A pleading spirit who wants to be heard
I came out of nothing penned down
in someone’s emptied mind
written in this emptied paper he holds so dear.
I am nothing but just a smeared ink
in this white sheet
laying around
waiting to be understood.
*
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
You find a new way to make it socially acceptable
What you're doing to me..
So that you we just see it as how it is..
so let me make it easy..
Let me just bend over for you world...
Just like my blood before
Because you keep forcing yourself upon me..
******* me...Fucking me....
so rough like ******** brazzers...
Like a flick on Punishtube...
With no ****
thank you money for hold me down..
while you watch big brother
have his way...
maybe if I was a woman I could reproduce..
But My **** just goes lump so fast...
while life repeatedly ***** me in the ***
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
I hear a whisper on a spirits curve
In vast isolation's of exaggerated stresses
Become touched with fire
My mind adrift with a beautiful squandering
Of inclusion which acquires an uncanny capacity
To breed, to reproduce to have floatations
Such flotillas of words that sail across my horizon
An armada of silent sound for such as is their rebirth
These whispered words that dot my waves
And leave my lashes blinking at their boldness
For they are the words, they are, they are the words
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 8:01 PM UTC
U for Unilateralis Cordyceps. The fungus enters an ant's body through its respiration. It invades it's brain and changes how it perceives smell, because ants do everything they do from their smell of pheromones, right? So this microscopic little fungal spore, then makes the ant climb up the stem of a plant and bite hard on a leaf, with an abnormal force. The fungus then kills the ant, and continues to grow, leaving the ant's exoskeleton intact. So, a small fungus drives an ant around as a vehicle, uses it as food and shelter and then as the ultimate monument to itself. And when the fungus is ready to reproduce, its fruiting bodies grow from the ant's head and rupture releasing the spores, letting the wind carry them to more unsuspecting food. There, our entire idea of free will down the bin.
One single small fungus spore does that to an ant. You have trillions of bacteria in your body. How do you know where you end, and where your environment begins.
We invent God, soul... heaven, afterlife...even life-imitating technology, all sorts of transcendence to cope with the idea of an absolute end. And then, we die for an idea that promises us some sort of immortality.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
Controversy started over the images this device receives. Hormones control this impulse, she's making each ***** convulse, and I can tell I'm still in love by the palpitations of my pulse.
Thus, proving that her actions indicate the prequel to her return. Her affection distant but still yearn, expressing sentiments, guess I'll never learn, spoken without biting my tongue
and now it's your turn.
Conquer hearts and take over,
**** her off when I'm not sober,
**** her off when thoughts become somber, **** her off when I say I won't be here much longer, **** her off for many reasons, **** her off once during every season and **** her off the most when in myself I stop believing.
Her perfection an extension of accessible recollection, to the woman who despises the notion of wearing articles of clothing.
Not the best at displaying her emotions, so in combination the words she's chosen seem broken, unable to withhold the growth of sentiments cut at the root, and as they now reproduce, sunflowers inhabit her garden and all the revelations of truth.
Lapse of time passes, lasting longer
than activities that involved
me being on her.
Inappropriately timing events perfectly.
Summer seems to have visited me in the fall, her memories now more than ever I recall and wishing I wasn't missing the woman who had it all.
Concluding it's a blessing, for continuing to have your presence present, writing by only depending on your recollection, and since poetry is my obsession, make new memories with me as I practice the act of ceding back to a former possessor, definition of recession.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
dusty books, pages thin and frail
like my mothers bones
decaying and oxidizing - the words fade
when the ink deteriorates
but that doesn't mean they weren't there
you tied a string around my teeth
and ran south for the winter and with each
step you took, a tooth would pop out
a constant reminder that you are no longer
here, but i wonder when i will run out of teeth
or when you will run out of earth
i sat on a friday night indulging myself
in stories and delicately counting the paper cuts on my fingers
but the dainty cuts will never compare to that time we ate cake
until our stomachs became flour, milk, and eggs
and you told me you loved me
then left to **** yourself
drowning in exhaust must be a silent way to go
and that cake won't taste very good in hell
i would know
recall your earliest memory and
divide it by all the unrequited stares
and thats how much i wish you would
untie my teeth, or stop running
and count the number of goosebumps painted on the
back of my neck and that is the
equivalent to the number of ovens you
accidentally left on
but I'm begging you to understand how immense
the ocean is because thats a very long way
to suffocate and salty water
will burn your wounds
Mariana's trench is a dark place
and the letters you wrote me reproduce on the bottom
not even the ugliest scar can revive my flesh that was chained
to those messages
but the meteor craters lick my surface like chloric acid
and all i wanted to do was repeatedly brush my teeth with the ocean sand
and clean my eyes out with mermaid tears
because you left a sickly residue that
hibernates under my fingernails
so next time you open your trunk
and find a mountain of broken glass
just remember that i loved you
i lost my fingers for you
i sold my soul for yours
but it wasn't even close to enough
what else do you want?
should i drain my blood until i am a desert of a human
shall i cut off all my hair?
and even then ill have an eternal debt to you
but you just turn the other cheek
so the plywood under my elbows
applies pressure to my spine
condensed newspapers stuck in the follicles
of the rain drops
but you don't even care
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
I find a part of me produces verse
(well, not verse, not really).
Really, I produce a play.
So, really, the part of me producing verse
produces parts.
So, really,
The part of me producing plays
is part-producing.
The work this part of me produces ,
produces parts in verse.
But really,
It's an inverse play, since really,
the work (a play, with parts in verse)
(Or, really, a play with verse in parts))
is divided into three parts. Like Gaul.
Within this work, this play,
these three parts produce
(or, really, reproduce) a play.
This play, in verse, within this work,
is, in part, an inverse play,
since, really, they produce (or really, reproduce)
a part of me.
The play plays back a part of me -
an inverse play plays back words, in verse,
ever onward.
It's a bit of a play on words, really.
It's partly words at play.
It's partly an inverse play,
producing bit parts in verse with verse parts,
in bits.
Or really, the parts produce plays, that is,
A part of me produces verse and
in part, the verse produces the play.
This inverse play produces parts
these parts, inverse, produce a play,
this play, in part, produces (reproduces) me.
The work is a play on words.
The play is a work in verse.
The work is an inverse play.
But not really.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC