"saturation" poems
With every day that passes by
the conjouring thoughts of you never leave my mind
The infactuation your spell binds me with
raddles my senses into a saturation
Twisting and Tugging at my every emotion
My heart begins to lurch
My knees begin to weaken
When time comes to make our greeting
When our bodies collide
I plan to be captivated
by your entire entity
Our time will be made of continuous serendipity.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 9:19 PM UTC
i come to you half mad
with desire
like slithers tongue
i wish
to have painfully stitched
to your silky ****
an act of desires supplication
my *** turned to poison
deprivations effulgent
obsidian flower salivating
your every smile
fleshy bells ringing
warping tintinnabulations
i am a starved incubus
drooling at your knees
behind me
a frothy junket of misdeeds
for loves sake
your feet the scent of lavender and salt
their shape evoking numberless poems
and begging adorations
your belly
a tender cauldron undulating
tummy ***** dancer
sacred **********
temple of worship
the site of your rounded bottom
naked red mouth calling
my sacred liturgy
your *****
velvet tulips for a tremulous kiss
I seed you a thousand times
a raging bludgeon
storming wounded gates Palisades
drenched and florid
fruit and milk ****
until jaws lock
and spire drops
turning me
to midnight cadaver
***** black hollows
a dark eyelid, blink-less
dead **** face down
a slumped snake
then soft dew
and cool ales
clear thickened muds saturation
lighten heat and peel
the warm palate
with agile caress
tender haunches wide and spiced
milk and butter thighs
her hair in mine
rushing river life
again i animate
an embryo id
dressed in fire
all vices and virtues
blood and sky
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
I smelled a sweet smell a couple days ago. It made me think of you.
I watched a movie yesterday. It made me think of you.
I heard a song last night. It made me think of you.
I saw a man do this thing this morning. It made me think of you.
I saw this sign this afternoon. It made me think of you.
I passed by a store an hour ago. It made me think of you.
I took a breath a moment ago. It made me think of you.
Everything makes me think of you.
I think of you.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Practicality is the reality
of ignominious totality
the devices of all sizes
and the grammatical mentality
of systematic duality.
Punctuation is the **********
the *********** of every generation
the permutation and saturation
of wordsmith temptation for re-calibration
the aberration and consternation
that leads to misinformation
and condemnation and annihilation
of the constellation colloquial conversation
the abomination of language urbanization
the fermentation and ionization
of linguistic complications
the desolation of commas and semi-colons
the affirmation of their vs they're
the augmentation of amalgamation
is just the lyrical ************
of a hooded basketball top nation
the culmination of devastation
the gestation and interpolation
that leads to appreciation isolation
and justification acceleration
the modification and assimilation
of poorly-worded implementation
and the contamination of myriad exploration
alienation in illumination
punctuation is the salvation of documentation
against the tides of violation
and the extermination of regurgitation
the classification of discrimination
and last but not least
the liberation of misrepresentation.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
Bang.
let them do the job
as they do we need to simply look the other way
The Islamophobia is suffocating
the saturation is enough.
There are children there
but we don't see that.
Children without fathers.
Children without mothers.
The Christian fanatics
are not so different.
You have your flag,
You have your gun.
So do they,
but they're the evil one?
Take a mirror and as you do,
you will see, they look like you.
Your religion is no better,
no holier or worthy,
we are all human
all equal.
But some are more equal than others.
Aren't they?
N. Hedges
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
I hear the thunder meddling
its way among the raindrops
that permeate through sunlight
and realize
that the weather is a motif
for God's emotional prognosis.
God is but a ******
he and I stammer upon the same boat.
Our existence makes a pair
of helplessly hanging doppelgangers,
orbs of confusion that contract
whiplash with every turn they make.
Two repressed housewives
that put all their hopes and dreams
in a shit-stained smile.
This collision of light and malevolance
is but His way of symbolizing
my shame-patronized indecision
in a way that makes people tear up
at the joy of beauty.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:50 AM UTC
Recall when you feel
of course you don't
don't mean to interrupt
it sometimes makes me forget
when the nights have been so numb
you don't even remember routine
a vicious cycle of not remembering
when even vicious is not visceral.
Person per person
Have told me their ruts
It takes time to get out
For me, fruitless yells of 'get out.'
Instead of ruminating, you stew
Instead of contemplation, you fester
Instead of crescendo, you ******
Through hoops of negative feedback loops.
You sink until beyond your point of bearing
Every cell in your body becomes saturated
with pale thoughts that make the water dry
so dry, you become breathless of a different kind.
Except it is known well, and only you know
you hide it, because these thoughts crave isolation
don't show among people so they won't be affected
but its because these thoughts know you're far worse
You can't function during nights
yet it still knows how to engineer
the perfect circumstance to keep descending
to that nadir which has no bottom.
People make you sick
Things once enjoyed, tire and bore you
Ideologies are far away on a plane
You could never catch
Because the fever you caught
Makes you see the ends
Don't justify the means
It all seems so pointless.
bombardment, attrition, unrelenting.
And for once, you are granted a small reprieve.
The morning hungover from intense thoughts
Happy that for once
I don't despair to just be.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
The touch of your skin
Holding me close
Pulling me in
The color of love
The color of disaster
The color of pain
The color of life
But in reality the color is blank
For those to fill in
A different meaning to each and every person
Who learns their color on their own
You brought the color of green
A mix of yellow and blue
Yellow is the happiness
And blue is the emotions
Of sadness and despair
In a blank canvas world
You bring me saturation.
© Regan
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 11:32 PM UTC
Fading stains record the tender scheme of flagrant deliberation
Transparent in their defense of the illusion
Depicting careful consideration of honesty and reserve
While shattering the picture of your delusions
A saturation of recollection, distinctive in its eloquence
Briefly coercing the eyes to conceive
The continuation of a scheme hid in a shroud of confusion
Which refuses to change or ever leave
What would ever stain, yet without any imperfection
Expressing clear in all of its defense
Completely raw and uninhibited in the purest honesty
Yet leave your values standing on the fence
A love beyond comprehension is your tender scheme
The stains are your records of transparency
A continuation one cannot deny, when looking in your eyes
No illusions, just the pureness of honesty
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 10:03 PM UTC
You’re wishing plus wanting
to win the other side
remove your pride,
you untied tidal pool,
the wide subdivide of these paper pages.
Unrelenting numbers
remind you of the next stages,
taking you wildly to Namibia,
surrendering you to Zimbabwe,
the terminal station.
The narration vocalizes the translation of quotations,
your obligation to the violation of the rules, the regulations,
vulgarization of spoken word.
Pretty paintings plaster typecasts,
the pitter-patter of pity’s pretty ******
quickly shifting refurbished velvet sofas.
Overcast symphonies outlast
witty recast stanzas,
scores with notes naturally quote
verses romancing seltzer spines
noticing the negotiation of sore throats.
Oblivion’s oblivious to the people,
obnoxiously obscene with syncopated
saturation of public vital signs.
You’re the vain strain of virus
photocopying yourself within skin,
waste your sin on tattoos trapped on shins
safety pins selecting prints
pinning sets of twins to tanned wrappers
protecting official reports.
The ossuary welcomes records printed on thick paper
suspiciously missing skeleton swords.
Writing stories reversed while tipsy,
quickly preforming risky poetry smog,
sweetly omitting secret words,
trying to spell simply without the proper prologue.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
the warmth from loneliness never felt so cold and cleansing
the warmth from two hearts colliding never felt so caressing
smiles stretch wider than the sky and i can’t help but swallow up the ones i hold dear
past, present and future all in my windshield and at the tips of my hair caressing the air i breathe
it’s always been preconceived
the pain the consciousness and the way we bleed
i’m a nomad in the desert feeling like an ostrich feather
freedom just isn’t as potent as it once was
and my dreams are a little more out of reach
but i’m still the wanderer whose ideas are clean
all the eyes that radiated love, i never forgot
because you showed me some kindness in places i forgot
the adventures that shook the time and the tunnels that gave us vision
i handled the concise misunderstanding that led to my downfall
it led me to a waterfall up north where the weather isn’t warm
saturation was gone but i still felt like i was home
i’m going home
i haven’t been there in a while and i’m sorry
please don’t worry about the nights i’ll never show
i’m co-existing with the night
he’s showing me the beauty that comes with walking alone
i made a home inside my bones
the address is tucked into the underlying of my sternum
i don’t apologize for the pictures i’ve burned and the bridges that ignited along with them
i live my best life when i’m desperate for a solution
we’re all just warriors of the unknown
traveling in a stream of nothingness trying to find out the art of everything that’s unknown
there is no home for the outgrown
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
captain's log, #1
2/26/16, 4:06 a.m.
my heart is growing, but has turned into an anchor. i guess a bigger heart means a heavier one, too. i remember what lightning bolts feel like. the elephant's feet are back.
captain's log, #2
3/3/16, 5:05 a.m.
i think i know why night is the enemy. without light, there's no colour. i look out my window now, i can see a sun peeking over the horizon, and i know that the world does not spin for me. so why doesn't my brain work the same? i don't remember how or when this infinite night crept up, but i feel like someone took the saturation bar behind my eyes and slid it all the way left. i miss outlook. i miss the sun.
captain's log, #3
3/3/16, 9:52 p.m.
your bones get so weary and cold that all you're able to do is sit in the shower with the hot water all the way up, and it makes you feel less disgusting for a bit but we all know that letting water run over your body doesn't clean it, or your mind, of this filth. the greatest romantic couldn't make what you did to me sound remotely beautiful. many nights i have stood desperately scrubbing and washing my skin until it's raw but your touch still lingers.
captain's log, #4
3/5/16, 3:14 a.m.
there are too many things in this world that i crave. i long for a different body, a different place, a different me. the rational parts of my brain know that this is what i've had, what i have, what i will always have and that i should just make the most of it, but depression creeps from somewhere dark, far below where my feet stand, and moves its way up my spine like a fiery slug. i am now realizing that the devil on my shoulder never left, only lied dormant.
captain's log, #5
3/7/16, 2:10 a.m.
been driving too fast with my eyes closed. been smoking again. been forgetting to eat. been thinking a lot about the fine line between, "i want to die," and, "i don't want to live."
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
You don't love
me;
you love the
tip of the iceberg
that is your idea of me;
the sugar-coated mute
leading herds
of unfinished sentences
down the copious hills
of his insecurity;
the nice little writer
whose constant attempts
at legendary one-liners
are as hit-or-miss
as a sitcom still airing
far past its prime.
I possess three biomes,
or, rather, three networks
of personalities and identities.
I am much more than
the Jack Macfarland archetype
lip-syncing to Cher in the one
gay bar in town, tyrannically
governing your wardrobe,
possessing a razor-sharp wit
cast toward the backs of his community
in the form of an outdated punchline-
my work on that show
lost its Willful relevance
and Graceful naivete
years ago.
I am of the generation
fed media saturation
three four-hour meals a day,
who ingested cardboard cadavers
as if they were mother's milk
and internally mutated their
thoughts and desires
to fit the compact time frame
of 30 minutes
to settle the series' worth
of traumas and neuroses
while making it home for dinner
to stay tuned for what's
next in the lineup.
Speaking as a casualty of this
inevitable chain of events,
I regretfully declare that even
those who have seen
every episode of myself
for the past six seasons
are still light years away
from the room full of faces
unencumbered by euphemism.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
Our neighbourhood was Black;
Unknown and Mysterious.
The people -- Red,
And I --
was Blue.
How can a color so different...
Mix with the rest?
They've seen my heart..
they've seen it alright.
They said it was
Grey.
a color they treated to be
Unknown.
a vision of my true intentions
Compromised.
But I knew, inside of me,
I knew
I knew that Black and White was a feeling--
a feeling they shoved down on me
an attempt to saturate me
a feeling that I could no longer stand.
I paint.
I paint with the colors the world has shoved down on me.
And I think--
Will the world ever see me?
But just when I've ran out--
I've been saturated;
Touched with the fire and energy of Red.
Like sunsets where the Orange meets the Blue,
I painted a Lilac sky.
And the neighbourhood I once knew was Black,
Is now my White.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 6:52 AM UTC
i remember it like it was yesterday, which i have to say is strange, because i have trouble remembering everything else. i remember you were sitting in front of me and i was terrified, palms sweating, eyes watering. i was truly scared if you, or rather of myself. a little part of me hated you too. you looked so, self-righteous sitting in your rolling chair, with you perfect posture and your clicky pen. when you started to ask me question i ignored you. id been shacked up in my head for so long i forgot how to talk to people. anyways, my head was comfortable, familiar. i had a bed full of memories and a closet full of monsters. i had drawers full of hopes (i never opened them of course), but they were there, it was nice to know they were there.
my favourite possession in my mind however, was a little glass jar on my nightstand. it looks empty at first glance, but the harder you look the more you see. there are colours, like rays of light, they swirl around and hit each other, a vibrant crimson color. theres a green in there to, if you saw it you'd swear mother nature put it there herself. theres also a blue, its the largest of all the swirls. it looks royal and dark, beautiful.
theres also a yellow. but its different, not in its beauty or vibrance, but in its location . it isn't in the jar. the yellow swirls around the edge of the glass. occasionally bumping into it almost as if it wants in, but theres no way for it.
i remember holding back, never telling you that because i thought you'd think i was crazy. so i didn't say a thing. but man do i remember that jar. that room. i remember the colours, their saturation, how they moved. i remember the monsters beating on the closet door looking for a way out. i remember the bed of sweet memories. but im sorry, i don't remember more important thing, like how to feel. i truly am.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
Gold saturation in bed under blankets/Silver saliva /The hue of your iris /It's gaudy not quiet /Deliver your brightest /And best/Your dingiest vest /Is still so crisp and clean/Stomp a few times/Laugh at our voices /Curve of your hand/Can't catch my inertia/Quiver imagine /Exaggerated action/You're tongue somehow fits in my mouth.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
Are you alive?
Tendrils tickle the surface
And billows
Bloom from the core,
Ribboning thinner than
those things which breach
seawalls,
Seeping impermeable
To flirt with all sides of this vessel.
I saw in him the beauty
The same as I saw the beauty of
suffused ink, mingling
In delicate patterns of fluidity and filament.
His release quivers momentarily,
Hung in fluid stillness, and
Flushed with a desire to saturate.
In saturation, one may think it
Possible to be falling
Up through a falling surge.
We two coalesce at the bottom.
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 7:23 PM UTC
I've been trying to write something of substance for quite some time now,
trying to collect fresh thoughts from newer moments of you
and rearrange them into phrases that would gift me a new remarkable piece of the puzzle that is the immeasurable complexity of your soul.
I've been trying to bottle up this obtrusive, demanding feeling of utter awe that comes when you and I climb into our honesty and wear it to bed, side-by-side.
I've been trying to backtrack slightly, wishing so desperately (though stoically!) for the return of those painfully dire professions of unadulterated romance, reminiscing in the saturation of your love letters and how the color red is breathed into me time after time to remind me how powerfully you've shifted the balance of my life.
I love you, I love you, by god, do I love you.
My fears are still the same, though, Darling, and I feel that with the redness of passion shall also come a redness of a quality that pertains to homicidal gore,
for you have, still, that scalpel in your hands,
and my heart blooms every moment of my life, not for its love of me, but for the hope that it may one day bloom for the last time cradled in your blood-soaked palms.
I've been trying to say anything else for a week but nothing will break from the gates and give me a solid night's sleep anymore.
I can't tell you how mad you've actually made me.
Though I do dare to hope that I've evoked similar sentiments in you.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
This one time...I was real happy.
All expectation had the correct tact,
had the correct sharpness,
the saturation levels were just so.
but then stuff happens
the stuffs what I'm afraid of.
not the movie reel anymore
I am no longer afraid to dance in light of passing frames on a movie screen,
or look at the actors straight in the eyes,
what happens is, the content, un-contents.
We urinate, we spew, we spackle, we *** we ****
we live all of life in two fiking seconds.
Thats alright,
Know one what whats right,
and thats why its right :)
So turn up the music to 50 volume on the sony.
crack a beer,
grind a little,
***** the amalgam of emotion, that is.
Emotion.
Waltz.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
wells continuously selling wishes
springs eternally offering hope
a toss of the penny
a cup of the hands
still waters of expectation
flowing solutions of promise
eventually evaporating
somber saturation of the atmosphere
coping with disappointment
a blessing or a curse
acceptance or complacency
peace or resignation
no sleepless nights of torment
lamenting the unintended and unfair
only melancholic contemplation
of dubious cause and wayward effect
the energy of discontent has dissipated
but it can only change form
perhaps the calm before the angry storm
a condensation into indignation
clear judgment further clouded
a tempest against the fates to be weathered
torrents of despair to rage
umbrellas of faith turned inside-out
but the sound won't be deafening
and the fury fleeting and insignificant
and as blue skies reflect in warm puddles
a fist will unclench to reveal...another coin
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
Indoctrination of the American nation
Relocation of native populations
Slaves labor, creating plastic toys
To distract the little girls and boys
With media propaganda saturation
To numb your brain from realization
That we're living a lie as children die
To fill your tank so you can drive
To Wal-Mart for some motherfuckin' Cheesy Poofs
That scoop the dip in which you ****
Lay waste to nature's beauty abundant
Political doublespeak redundantly redundant
Television's collision with consciousness
Has dimmed your awareness to idiocy
In an illusion of democracy
Where only the rich have control
As upon us all they take their toll
And we blindly follow, believing as we hear
Their scheming lies of security and fear
It's time the power structure fell
No more this **** to buy and sell
Reallocation of the hoarded wealth
And power for all people, not oneself
Mental stasis, awaken from this hypnosis
And avert the coming catastrophic crisis
Our leaders are masters who march us to disaster
As the clash of our cultures ignites so much faster
Than mere cognition, dimmed by television
Can comprehend the impending collision
Of conflicting interest in collective vision
It's time to rise with a battle cry
And tell the Feds we won't lay down and die
We'll evolve and resolve the situation
And bring new meaning to revolution
An end to the media's web of confusion
Confusing reality with an illusion
Conspiratorial governmental parallels
A trumpet's blast, as Babylon.... fell.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
To Olivia
I am of this world
Α walker with out hat
Νot man not woman
With breast not
With ***** not
Eyes and ears with me
Breaith and smiles with me
Warm my days with silence
Cooking and knitting with saturation
Who are you ?
Why you want to order me ?
I need no one
I am ready to die
Is this that you ask?
©Maria Panoutsou
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
Infatuation
Complete and utter
Saturation
Blurs the lines between like and love
Faster than rain wrecks a sandcastle
A new drug
Another pill
Take some more
Just to fill
Your moments with magic
Make the train wrecks less tragic
But take too many
Now you're hooked
And wishing you had looked
The other way
Because the high was unreal
But now all you feel
Is the ache, the need, the pull
You're no longer full
Withdrawal *****
That's why love is for fools
And that's why fools are the happy people
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 7:47 PM UTC