"salivary" poems
Art is opinion masquerading as truth.
When I draw a city, I am drawing the city of my dreams, just as the city that is does not exist.
Putting policy into words in the hopes of having yourself heard is not the point of the philosopher,
and should not be the end of the penman.
When I attempt to make the world see, I manufacture my enemy. We should seek instead to illuminate gracefully, to speak the words beyond the void of flesh, and to touch emotions that swim with depth
It will get us nowhere to make art political, of which it is propaganda and employed many an artist in the past;
whose dreams of good deeds became hung in a museum for all the wrong reasons, leaving a remnant of an unforseen circumstance hanging dry on an empty tour-guide phonecall
Descriptive yet lies
Argue the dialectic of truth than the present purfume of lies that is fumigated from the salivary discharge of a cetaceous yearning of ********** of thought, that leftover dream of God
That all things should be the same, that all minds should think that way-- if they were, we'd be done with the experiment.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
This yellow saree she wore
Just once in her life had wrapped
A coy twenty-year-old bride
Tentatively setting her dainty foot
Into the hesitant bridal home .
Somewhere in the backwoods
Several industrious silkworms
Had spun miles of salivary yarn
In the foliage of the mulberry tree
To make this golden yellow saree .
The rustle of her silk drowned
The wails of the boiling cocoons
The worms died that beauty would live
In their plaintive cries lay bridal hopes .
My mother, the bride of yesteryears,
Is now as non-existent as the worms
That had ceased to exist spinning
The smooth silk for her bridal finery .
Her bridal fragrance lives on among
The delicate folds of these gossamer silks
That the worms had died weaving.
Death is so fragrant , so memorable.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 6:03 AM UTC
I am your platter
Of sterling silver
Serving up a pig
Of visible bones
Naked and dying
Suffocating on
A poisoned apple
A poisoned gag-ball
Regurgitating
Salivary screams
And my heart is set
In loveless resin
Resonating love
But never beating
Again until you
Peel away my chest
Peel away my heart
And **** out the love
Through your proboscis
Until I am just
Gag-ball, resin, bone
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
To have them shipped across the sea,
sitting like ornamental drops
tinsel strung around your eyes
pocketed the tree
walking down sunset avenue
reeking of bamboo stalks and water chestnuts
looking for a place to submerge your treasure
with a rattling breath do you deflate
And the Oak trunk that grows unimpeded
hanging her branches
caressing the Spaniard shingles
the clay missionary tabs
touching the stucco with a golden blade
of sunlight
cutting a thousand little strips
to hang about the face
moving a thousand miles a second
stopped in place with the quiet repose
of a yoga state
humming and shimmering
yet let me be sweet oak tree.
And I wander through the canyon boulevard
between the rocky cliffs and the endless riff
of surf-rock echoed off skate parks
and riding the PC
highway hair bedraggled and snaked into next week
lingering bonfire on the cotton shirt
plant for plant
*** for tat
seed to breed
Now dance, you and me.
Insinuation
drooling salivary tongue full
bacon
pigging out on burgers
getting red-eyes from vegans
smoking plants
murderers
We squirt,
relish on the act of dying
all things dying
choking life second by second
dying to live.
Staring at neon fins lining the gravel lot
Koi flickering beneath the celestial night
Suspended pondwater
pondering
In surfce tension
the deep mysteries of life
Tracing the snake through the winding streams
we watch atop the rooftop
Gaia
Taking in the burgeoning
Ocean of incandescent tangerine
and Peyote-light
Cacti hidden somewhere between
the quiet slumber of mindless streets
aligned by formless hands
Drinking the mescaline
air
Twisting the nightly moments
as locks of hair
I curled them, slipping, within my fingertips
tracing the long winding road of Tao
along her shoulders
Enraptured by her sensual bliss
When I finally drifted along the clouded memories
of divine rumbling eyes
she disappeared into the sky
blinking along the Jet turbines
Never meant to be mine
for more than a night
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
*Fried brinjal rolled in flatbread
Her magic recipe of love homemade
What treasure they hold what charm unlocks
When sharp at two opens up lunchbox!
A sweet candy from the finest cheese
Made from cow milk a salivary bliss
I feel helpless and little can do
My belly when growls sharp at two!
I feel entranced in that magic hour
When smell green peas and cauliflower
She makes them fine rich butter spread
The toasted breads her love homemade!
She knows my bowel not makes it rich
Fine cut cucumber in soft sandwich
In all them I find her special brew
Of love homemade to be opened at two!
Though it’s never that I made her known
How sweetly relish her love homegrown
But when I open lunchbox at two
Wonder without her what I would do!*
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
applying his
lingual buds
to the smooth
lush of her
thighs she rippled
as a lava lake,
no stone skipped
just
melting milk, lapped up
in hungry pulses
cream of silk
pounding thunder
in consonants of
taut skin drum
nuances in vowels
uttered in
animal dissonance
his bristled breath
all over her
fingers
salivary intentions
over rim of lip
feeding the emptiness,
a holy vessel
more ancient than
before time
now ready
to be filled by the
essence of feminine
pineapple juice drizzling
firebud glistening
in fuchsia exposure
open gateway
to divine outpour
a sacrificial altar
of unmasked psyche
completely stripped of
any pellicle
his palms firmly
planted in hot muscle
thumbs parting
glory's hole
deer at the saltlick
lost in the velvet
just pour it in
thick molasses
not stifling,
only honeyed bark
multi-hued like
eucalyptus deglupta
in buttery tips
dripping love,
all over her lips
and just like that, in
slick-painted dabs
of their own
acrylic-drip art
just like that
in the wild
and thick
explodes the ache
of her
ripped
apart
heart
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 7:09 PM UTC
Do you fancy
A lollipop feast
Salivary glands over productive
Just one day of sweetness
Wouldn’t ruin much perhaps
After party was tasteful
Lingering longer than it should
Picking up a lollipop after some time
Unwrapping took forever
Hesitated to shove right into
The colour appear rather surreal
Was it used to be?
Second thoughts always ****
Stood still with a unwrapped lollipop
Thinking if We should
Dec 31, 2021
Dec 31, 2021 at 11:37 PM UTC
steamed broccoli calls me
its scent a melodious accompaniment
to the dance of
nitrogen and oxygen we call air
next I will torch
the dead silent flesh
of some sinless bovine beast
a sacramental conflagration
whose rich vapors will
add strings and woodwinds
to the wafting symphony
tickling my snout
my salivary will weep
in effortless anticipation
of jubilant mastication
of the flora and fauna
of my own culinary killing fields
that allow me
a few more waltzes
in this soundless song of air
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
Aureole...Manna's descent like showering
waveforms.
Eyes hungering...upturned, cloven in rapture.
Mouth slants open in a salivary click--
come the incantations...come the
anatomical sway of microcosm.
Intergalactic cynosure, pariah, shaman--
mangy interloper teaching wind to dance!
Tamer of the subconscious...mender of schism!
Anathema to Gaia's Satanic Stewards!
To be sought in the House of Aquarius,
haunting its foundation that it may uphold.
The roads to and fro are as anagrams that
alter with the perceiver.
It is the second look, of what's cross with
what Is...and ever shall be--that gives rise
to disorientation...reincarnation.
O grant dancer of self-evidence, grant your
sundry incantations... yearning for Gaia's heart
of hearts.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
We just have a few months to go
a few more juvenile fights to handle
a few more days of sneaking out of the class
and for the first time
I don't want the bell to ring early
As each second passes
the dress seems to crease
the dust settles
layer by layer
fighting its way through
it's the last time I'd wear my favorite clothes
The pencils start to shorten
erasers still get stolen
those notebooks still have our chats
the green board carries your creativity
benches would be my favorite mini bed
I promised myself
as I lay my hands on it
My hippocampus reached near to full
lacrimal glands prepare itself
tongue waiting to utter words I never spoke
one last time
salivary glands would miss it recess job
coming from the ground
after playing in the sun
sudoriferous glands loved those strokes of light
I could hear the radiating, chirpy , & shuddering voices
coming from the corridor
happy faces, sad faces, frowned faces,crying faces
promising each other to stay in touch -
half lies
the emotional fools who believed it
I remember crying on my first day
as soon as I stepped
I felt like running away
who knew this would become my favorite destination?
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
grit sand conglomerate binds
friction holding - heel steady
tottering
navy lace snags
upon brick dipped in night
save for - street lamps poignantly
establishing form to
lips seeking
to traverse the topography of your structure
tongue craving - salivary essence about mine
my curls remember being dragged
across,
- then –
pressed firmly against the brick
snagging
on vertical groove and red clay
your pelvic bone
ground deep – pressurized
into dust against my own
Serotonin, oxytocin fuse
Blown -
Neural patina – thick
Pompeii to Vesuvius
Diffuse
Carbon filament lattice
Clings - to
ancient couple
cuddling
in ashen grave
Compressed densely
Perchance time will compress this grit
creating friction under sole.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
Corded muscles of the neck ferry the voice of sky,
Charon of words adrift in a salivary dislocated sine,
A fracture of breath, the stenciled rowing of a sigh.
Psychopomps of moonlight, past-throated vultures,
Carrion of clouds even if stripped clean in vulpicide,
Even if our scorched and coining tongues tip at stars.
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 8:56 PM UTC
Adam4's acquaintances who frequent
Foxholes as salivary soliloquy,
Usually suspected no second helpings
A dim ambience for an active bedroom
On battery powered candles
Concorde lighting
The carpet's edges chewed thin
Receding hairlines
And he uses me as bait..?
Our neglected puppy's teething
Nesting under California
King Mojo's hollowed cushions
Keeps him gnawing these nights
Misters and oil burners
I was mistaken, there are those
That revisit--reacquainted with him,
Must of shared a Starbucks,
As his Sasquatch hands
Rub wet platinum on his old fellow
Bears and their Cubs
Silicon smooth pets, house boys
Fished from the deep web,
Plagiarizing with their eyes the pleasures
Of Eurocreme
Bare back dreams, hours heave
The subtitled felatio scenes
I tell the old man, they only ***
After and mostly when
Most of the guest leave,
There is one hovering quick
To accommodate his
Ginger manly girth
I'll be out in the smoking section
At the side of the house
Through the slider door
From off the kitchen dining area
Where he had once
Replaced the table with billiards
For a Lenny and his troop...
His Samsung vibrates every time
I take a five to breathe
Chain smoke and self defocations grief
He posts another ad.
If only you heard
The vagrant shout
A banchee in my skull
For these off the street urchins
Plugged in to the internet's latest
For a place to squat
For winter will be cold
For them to just
****** off
And here I go again,
Assuming that these were decent folk
Come for the holidays
Between taint and pocket rocket
Wallets drain
When one lets the desperate
Indigents
Free range...
"What's there for dinner?"
**** chicken heads again?
Same ole same old dope...
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
Confessedly, I try to read you
like a poem. The vowels your
lips hug, how your teeth
bite the consonants, the
salivary slips of the tongue:
Flashed. On the surgeon's
table for inspection, diagnosis.
But how your syntax spurts
across, your rhythm irregular
unlike heartbeat. Your stream
of consciousness running,
unceasingly as blood. Your
diction as numb as anaesthetics
(as alarming as a sudden
awakening mid-surgery.)
Even if I could dissect your speech,
your mind remains a mystery.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 9:19 AM UTC
In the ill-lit room singed with ovens’ heat
Swift hands deftly turn wheat ***** sweet
The air exudes a smell of pulpy soft taste
Blended with the odd fragrance of sweat!
Here reigns under the tin shed eternal night
As if by some design is forbidden daylight
Roll out confectionaries crisp and light
To fill the mouths with salivary delight!
Bread, cake, cookie and cherry bun
Kneading them in the heat is no fun
The bakers’ faces glow warm and red
Faster they must go before they rest their head!
The delicious stuff are relished by kids and grownups
They savor the flavor with their hot morning cups
Do they ever pause or give it a thought
How those laboring bodies in the heat rot!
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
Honeyed sweet lust
drips a trail
I long to travel
tongue travail
Pert and round
ripe, ready to pick
my mouth waters
as I long to lick
Anticipation pains me
I want to dig in
my body readies
for original sin
Salivary sensations
toppings galore
this time its honey
no need for more
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
Island in gathered
Lavender sheets
Lilliputian dregs congeal
- Missed shots in the dark
Slack-mouth “no”
Echoes in peeling paint
Globules of restrained ***
Hollow my form
I touch my own lips
Not consenting to their last
Tryst.
Marlboro reds cling to
Salivary memory
Turning in my tongue –
Tucked along the
Cusp of my teeth
Pressing
Trying to expel the taste
I spit
Flecks spatter amidst
His-release…
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
the god I love
doesnt hate me for anything
nor do i need to ask his forgiveness ever
sometimes he shakes his fist because i do things
burn my speeding ticket, "on accident"
its only ironic when youre on trial
ive got heads where fingers belong
ive got sharks that swim in salivary glands
ive got a whole world inside my head
weve both got five points to our fists
the world i love is bright enough for this life
heavens an un-necesity and a compartment for the beggars
my blood bleeds downstream
my **** is the dankest around
i know when my deaths close
the more the world welcomes me the further i get from my home
ive spent a couple centuries trying to find an angel
one day i looked down and saw the shadow of it
and i started wishing i wasnt afraid of heights
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC
You maniacal clown
Disguise your desires
with a shit-serving brow
and a shit-eating grin
Thicken your tongue
with salivary persuasions
tingling with malintent
Shredding my mouth
so it hurts to speak
Infiltrate my neurons
until they’re rewired
and I have no more desires
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 10:43 PM UTC
in love with
linoleum pressing into the side of my face
the familiarity
lapsing reminders
to sleep
eat to
give into ritualistic habits of
living
exchanged the need
desire
with the pulsing sensations
of a beating heart
drying salivary glands
is this existence
once your brain cells have all lined up
two decades in
the never ending string
pulling through your throat
repeating the same
anxious anecdotes
of
no one could possibly
relate to this
narrowing pit
that we're not going to
make it out of this alive
no one ever has
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 1:33 AM UTC
this feeling bubbles up,
from the cauldron below,
the hot smoke pushes through,
my organs that were once snow.
salivary glands seep,
and mouth becomes too big,
as this gripping pain,
dig, dig, digs.
the spew of my tangled thoughts,
this my coping mechanism,
exposes all the evil,
as if my own exorcism.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
The seduction of our Salivary glands began with masses of often overlapping flavors
Tingling leap start ,wide eyed but also an abrupt whoa,terrible to terrific
Oblivious ,willing to try ,why not ,blending in the beginning learning tastes as translators
Breathing in and licking the lips ,wiggling and giggling ,is it? is it? OH the dog.
Sensory sensations occurring regardless of our inhibitions or wants or needs ,occurring around ,mild or profound
Youthfully gullible , playing a new game ,scents & smells starting to form deeper wells
Blush with a rush ,warming into oranges the pinks more profound when arising into the reds ,leaping circling around
Begging for release from the beginning ,but unknown excitement rising edges ,wider wedges ,calmer pastels
Flexing ,fluctuating far out feelings ,far flung excitement all gathered into one instant nervous burst
Staying back,trying to adjust ,mildness is objected to when the rest of the time is only described with bright adjectives
Then we laugh because we have it hidden ,but never quite knowing the blur still an unknown abyss,but always first
Open minded children begin the journey into finding nameless noises,shadowy flavors or tastes moving,directing like detectives
Burning RED, drops of BLUE, Icy WHITE, now fixed in the mind ,time lost in odors ,blinking color palates poised
Wanton wisps centered onto extreme extracts ,visualized often sensationalized into auditory overload
Simple as it has begun ,left with nowhere to run, taking it in stride it can never be put aside ,permanence never destroyed
Excreted excitement now being assessed is a far flung idea ,unless you live it, Raising and rising into an endless plateau .R.C.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
I do not write about you because I am obsessed.
I do not write about you because I am depressed.
I do not write about you because I am transfixed.
Nor Am I stuck on a moment.
Nor Am I quixotic.
Nor Am I holding on to the impossible,
The intangible,
The unrealistic,
The superficial,
Nor Am I, in a starry eyed Ivory Tower!
I write about you because you are real.
I write about you, because my love is unbinding.
And that love that I gave you so freely,
binds itself to the parts of you,
to the parts of me,
to the parts of we
to that parts of us
to the parts of love.....
To those parts I feel for you.
For the poet writes about his muse!
The prose speaks to the fiction and non-fiction.
Yet my ink composes to the kiss,
to the tongue,
to the salivary glands that once moistened the corners of my soul,
that were,
that are
.............still in love with you!
Does Fall not write about foliage?
Does winter not have snow to sprinkle its nakedness?
Does June not come with April showers?
Doesn’t divorce look at marriage with derision?
Does hope only come in green?
Can a poet write without a muse?
So yes!
I am stuck on a moment.
I am quixotic.
I am holding on to the impossible,
The intangible,
The unrealistic,
The symbolic,
I do live in a starry eyed Ivory Tower.
Because that is where,
-------------------------------- I hold all the parts of you,
which are now---
the parts of me.
That’s why I write about you!!!!
LeydisProse
5/16/2017
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 3:01 PM UTC