"reproduces" poems
Marinate me in sterling serendipity;
a lace handkerchief blowing in electric blue
Chinook.
Howl and twist your obsidian spit down
her leather throat until she reproduces
glass golem.
Clang & the brass of the thunder,
muffled underneath a Reith that was last
lathered
in hathgraven gatherings.
**** him with your sour tongue
&
rag water whistle .
Cut him down from that arugula suspension
&
let gravity fold into him,
like an aluminum foil gargoyle,
crush to the core.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 9:35 AM 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
My love
refers to me
as an artist
I maintain
that I just paint
as this
color slinger
simply reproduces
the masterpiece
her love
creates
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
i give you my permission
to give into this transmission
ease your laughter im not kiddin
slip into a deep remission
my commanding requisition
blend into your mental waves
relax with every word i say
an breathe cool steel
don't close your eyes just stay awake
im deeper a6nd deeper inside the mind
eight6y percent you
twenty percen6t fluid
connectin juices reproduces
haters clueless
mass confusion
listehn to. the. sound of.
voices who aren't homaies
telilin you
you are so homelly
princess joy and clevers spider
shiney clowns and apaple cider
crafty witchtes at my parties
bloated tube skates mister sarry
give me your one-foldnn
42-faceted joker
blanket faces and strip poker
Pony G you are so crafty.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
Stay clear of the green that
longs to take over the blue area,
it represents what should not be
forgetting that what would be
is also in existence.
The need to understand overshadows
the requirements for a person’s sanity.
Insanity probes, forges and let’s go
but does it stop in the midst?
In the midst, it grows and
reproduces but also, can be lost
in the midst of a deep gaze.
The deep gaze is that that
let’s us go on in the midst of it all.
In the midst of blue,
so many things happen but one thing is constant
jealousy would always be green and
blue peace and tranquility.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
I am the mountain man.
I am the shifting sands.
I am the laughter through gritted teeth,
I am the squint of concentration,
I am the missing piece and the stone that won't roll.
I am the Zeit Ghost.
I am the Underwerewolf.
I am the Pseudonami.
I am not what you say I am, until I say: "I Am."
I am the Red Sun Samurai.
I am the Locomotive Provocateur.
I am the bones of kings and slaves.
I am the breath of the wind in the trees.
I am the Electrocuted Interlocutor.
I am the whip of the matador.
I am sunken cities in the swamp.
I am Firestarter.
Spark Guarder.
I am the assembly line whereby the machine reproduces.
I am capitulated capitalism.
I am the captain of the sky ship to
Ghost Country.
I am a natural amphetamine
a synthetic homeopathic
a cure for the sad
curation for the lost
death for the solid and unchanging.
I am the mask of roots.
I am a treehouse full of books.
I am the sword in the daytime.
I am the Day Waker, the Cloud Shaker
the Continent Unmaker, the Deep Laker
the childhood of broken dreams and unbreakable boulders.
Half-slumbering in your living room.
One eye on your joy, the other searching
for answers to the unanswerable question of:
where did it go?
Fully alive, pacing the gravestones
kisses to flowers in the new moon
and a pocketful of reality checks.
Helping you let go of everything
Holding you back.
Hoping you'll hold onto me.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 5:37 PM UTC
Gravity holding us on this planet,
As we rotate, somewhere, In outer space,
Earth, reproduces for free, our survival needs,
In your mind, a beautiful, peaceful place.
With a sun always around, free, light and heat,
For without, its bright orange fire, we would freeze,
From our head, to the toes, on our feet.
Many lit, evening sky’s, moon and stars reflecting the sun’s light,
With running water, rivers, streams, and creeks,
With mountains, valleys, and different colorful plants, wonderful sites,
Fish and other creatures, living ln lakes, oceans, and seas,
Different, birds in the day, many shapes, and colors,
Along with other, animals, that roam in the night,
A perfect place, for every race, to survive, together, as happy as can be.
The original: Tom Maxwell© 6 6/17/2025 AD
Jun 20, 2025
Jun 20, 2025 at 3:47 AM UTC
History doesn’t repeat, it reproduces,
It ***** us well
into the darkest hour; we hold it so holy as
it wholly condenses, contracts, cracks, grasps and
Moans. It’s a venereal haunting,
ghosts of a ruthless world that doesn’t give
a **** and only cares about ******* **** up and *******
to be the fittest, survival of the wittiest.
You all want to reproduce your kind
but with the reproduction of your kin
your kind comes out sludge—
the soggy excuse of an abandoned mind
rotting away into “we’re not the first—
it’s always happened, all the time, is that a crime?”
Wreaking havoc amongst a species of your kind?
**** Me! Yes! It’s serious!
To trudge the earth for proof
that birth of war was something
of divine? Is it fine that people die
and never know of the privileged life—the life
We ******* live, ******* for Capitalism
But still getting ****** the same—
Like parents—if you won’t ******* take the time
to ******* notice what’s there and what’s right
what’s not and what is, sometimes—
what is sometimes more than one or two times;
The world is your baby, you can’t just decide
When to care and when to pretend you do
It’s true, getting ****** we all have—just a few
everyone is getting ****** in the entire ******* world
***** ******* with their ********** only want control
Hypocritical ***** in the government—they’re the ones creating ******
We the people, America the ****** swallowing what’s ********** from stores
Money’s flashy in that aspect it can buy whatever fetish
It can satisfy and pleasure
It can torture it can ruin it
It can break a nation’s soul;
Does Earth seem like a hole?
It gets ****** objectively, free of sentiment or affection,
It gets pillaged, ripped and hurled. It fights back
Vulnerable and totally ordinary—rare for our kind.
Who gives a **** Earth doesn’t have a gender,
It’s not going to tell anyone,
You had a lot to drink,
It was social influence:
It was the way of human kind,
******* for any kind of benefit,
Privilege, artificial sentiment
******* to keep going
Like everyone else
Maybe one day we’ll have a family until,
Until,
they too, will die.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
Sometimes the way I see contentment isn’t a vast plain of rolling hills
with no peaks and sweet abandon all there at once.
Sometimes for me it comes in pieces that are sharp around the edges.
I have to hold them a certain way
and then I get to feel the smoothness of the moment
as my thoughtful nerves relax a little.
Sometimes if I have enough of them to fit together
there’s enough room for something to grow.
Like hope, or a fantasy, a mild happiness.
I section each thing off so that it neither reproduces nor withers
returning to them when everything gets cold.
Sometimes I go back to those pieces
and the detached state leaves me confused as to
why it meant so much when I found it. I stumble over them,
they break, I don’t think of them for a while.
Sometimes the new pieces I find would go great with the old
if only I had the right parts of each to make another bed
to grow some emotion out of.
And sometimes, I don’t bother with any of it.
Eventually it hits me, that each piece is fine for a moment
Although, I have not the skill
to make my own vast plain out of broken shards nor the expertise
to know just how sharp/fragile each one is before I grab it.
So they come and go.
But no matter where they are around me
they are impossible to dismiss entirely.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
If fire is life
than what are we?
The fire breathes
reproduces
and feeds.
It eliminates
and
struggles to survive.
It creates its self
with every touch.
If fire is life than what are we?
The sun our mother father
gives all life.
The stars a population of beings
they are born
they live
they die.
If fire is life than what are we?
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
We hear about
The warming of our planet,
The rising water in the seas,
Pollution, in the air,
It must be A mystery,
That we can breathe, or see,
Everything, for survival
Earth reproduces, for free,
Oxygen, water, and food,
Our three basic needs,
Fear, is A way to control, people,
The gift, of this onetime life,
We should all be thankful for,
And happy, as we can be.
The Original: Tom Maxwell © 9/20/2021 AD 5:00 am
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 5:24 PM UTC
A one-of-A-kind planet,
In A universe of space,
The only one known,
With life, the human race.
Many countries divide,
Planet Earth, our place,
Different cultures, and religions,
Along with colors and race.
This globe, of land and water,
Reproduces, all survival needs,
Slowly being destroyed,
By the people, and their greed
© Tom Maxwell 06/22/07
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 8:51 AM UTC
Fire has all the attributes of life
It reproduces, it feeds, it evacuates
It struggles to survive.
Fire is life
The sun
The stars
Are alive.
They are born
They live
They die
Is consciousness an aberration?
Are the sun and the stars fully conscious
&
What are they thinking about?
Black holes
The great extinguisher
I
Guess they must be death
Get ****** in
Lights out.
The sun is red
The wild fires are Screaming & Howling
Filled with vitality and power
I hear the wood stove singing
On a frozen winter morning
while mother madrone
nurtures her young.
Sep 3, 2020
Sep 3, 2020 at 10:18 PM UTC