"saturations" poems - Hello Poetry

Exchanging recommendations under flickering lights ! we transpose the nature ? of our insect-like movements $ with the slick of our collars, our dull-shine badges. Eye makeup arrayed in sheens to blow your eye's burn away back into the cold of space, where you belong the skirt of the star's burn, to sear you (un)clean without alarm. with a certain sweltering silent charm Somewhere, saturations swell in non- casual ******** singsong. Klarity is substantiated. Forgive a whiff into cigarette dust. Into reticulated (t)rust. ✙ How many leaves connect to form the tree's glow? I'm sorry for asking now *I must go* ... Forbidding madness with a keen brow- bent glare ballroom harpies chase you backwards down a flight of stairs . . . *what is this caution here cushioning me porous like bed foam harm eating me slowly* ? smirking consistent smart a loneliness for hatred . . . Tear me up for what is holy in me crumpled 'piss-poor' regard, it's a satin-shure smile I am churning and I know (not the exit)

0

Nov 5, 2013

Nov 5, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC

io-dodgeburn

Charmony in broken bits

Exchanging recommendations under flickering lights ! we transpose the nature ? of our insect-like movements $ with the slick of our collars, our dull-shine badges. Eye makeup arrayed in sheens to blow your eye's burn away back into the cold of space, where you belong the skirt of the star's burn, to sear you (un)clean without alarm. with a certain sweltering silent charm Somewhere, saturations swell in non- casual ******** singsong. Klarity is substantiated. Forgive a whiff into cigarette dust. Into reticulated (t)rust. ✙ How many leaves connect to form the tree's glow? I'm sorry for asking now *I must go* ... Forbidding madness with a keen brow- bent glare ballroom harpies chase you backwards down a flight of stairs . . . *what is this caution here cushioning me porous like bed foam harm eating me slowly* ? smirking consistent smart a loneliness for hatred . . . Tear me up for what is holy in me crumpled 'piss-poor' regard, it's a satin-shure smile I am churning and I know (not the exit)

61

I don't know what it means to be a good person anymore. It was easier when my head was full of pigtails instead of politics, when good was opening doors and doing your chores. When it was easier to pick out the bad. Children are gifted with innocence and a diagram shaded with generalizations that their parents hold as truths. Mine shaded family members green, male strangers red. Mine shaded police officers green, black people pink - a whisper of bigotry, a silent justification. Mine shaded teachers green, playground bullies red. But when innocence fades, colors mix and saturations grow stronger. My grandma tells me that she wishes she could think like me because she grew up in a world without rainbows, where white was good, and everything else was bad. But I don't know what good is when all I see is gray. It's not a generalization or a stereotype. I'm not whining because I countlessly fail at using my privileges to help people, I'm shouting because I've been beaten down with criticism for trying to be what I thought was good. My vision has been fogged with fear, and whatever shade of green that trust used to be is bleeding burgundy. What the hell does it mean to be a good person?

0

Jul 9, 2016

Jul 9, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC

em-coop

Good

I don't know what it means to be a good person anymore. It was easier when my head was full of pigtails instead of politics, when good was opening doors and doing your chores. When it was easier to pick out the bad. Children are gifted with innocence and a diagram shaded with generalizations that their parents hold as truths. Mine shaded family members green, male strangers red. Mine shaded police officers green, black people pink - a whisper of bigotry, a silent justification. Mine shaded teachers green, playground bullies red. But when innocence fades, colors mix and saturations grow stronger. My grandma tells me that she wishes she could think like me because she grew up in a world without rainbows, where white was good, and everything else was bad. But I don't know what good is when all I see is gray. It's not a generalization or a stereotype. I'm not whining because I countlessly fail at using my privileges to help people, I'm shouting because I've been beaten down with criticism for trying to be what I thought was good. My vision has been fogged with fear, and whatever shade of green that trust used to be is bleeding burgundy. What the hell does it mean to be a good person?

36

here, there is not much to look at. in this 3 AM tapestry, the moon cloaking itself in profound dark, stark and unseen, stars borrowing their coruscations from their white mother in choreographed intermissions. only a swan-song undelivered an a dwarf carved in noiseless stone. the bougainvillea casts its webbed shadow on the concreted canvas. soon, the night will turn rattling in its black bed, and then clamber back to its resignation and the identical day of yesterday's inception will revisit us through interstices of leaves, forking these illuminations without allegories nor travails, just light and its lenient pedagogy. there is not much to gaze at, let alone speak to, in this deepening spectacle. only this swan-song that remains a secret between i and this indomitable figurine. the moon stilled in its lulled repose, stars minding their own saturations, as the day is in close transit, nearly opening the door of this pale fixture, entering with affable demeanor greeting me through a hundredfold of anonymous eyes heavy with discernments.

0

Sep 18, 2015

Sep 18, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC

windsor-i-guadalupe-jr

3 AM, Moonless

here, there is not much to look at. in this 3 AM tapestry, the moon cloaking itself in profound dark, stark and unseen, stars borrowing their coruscations from their white mother in choreographed intermissions. only a swan-song undelivered an a dwarf carved in noiseless stone. the bougainvillea casts its webbed shadow on the concreted canvas. soon, the night will turn rattling in its black bed, and then clamber back to its resignation and the identical day of yesterday's inception will revisit us through interstices of leaves, forking these illuminations without allegories nor travails, just light and its lenient pedagogy. there is not much to gaze at, let alone speak to, in this deepening spectacle. only this swan-song that remains a secret between i and this indomitable figurine. the moon stilled in its lulled repose, stars minding their own saturations, as the day is in close transit, nearly opening the door of this pale fixture, entering with affable demeanor greeting me through a hundredfold of anonymous eyes heavy with discernments.

23

You are the vibrations; deep blues orange saturations feathered red drips of copper yellow strands charcoal shadow of the sea river in my veins.

0

Jan 8, 2014

Jan 8, 2014 at 7:03 AM UTC

lily-gabrielle

You

You are the vibrations; deep blues orange saturations feathered red drips of copper yellow strands charcoal shadow of the sea river in my veins.

8

a companion to “why do men cry in the bathroom? (1) <> even harder to understand, for it’s almost unnatural, alone, unshaven, first glance, a small smile creeps ever so slow from ocean to ocean, cheek to cheek, while the lines on the face join in, quiet applause, a satisfaction acknowledgement of mini~ minor proportions, a quick stock taking, a putting aside of the futures worries and the currency of ever present daily woes, a small pat on the back <self administered, (minimal) self admonishment> we made it this far, while juggling so many acting parts that we/he learned on the fly, good luck and good instincts for this exercise in adapting, becoming an on the cuff, father, wise-man, little league coach, protector+defender no matterwhat, a font of knowledge who gets ignored, cept for delayed hugs that slowly dawn and get inserted when never expected, shoulders for carrying two at a time, a reassurer when the world is spinning crashing and the watch alerts stop this blurting and get the their act together again for the curtain going up when the individualized symphony of alarms, buzzers and rock ‘n roll anthems pronounce the blessings of morning and another opportunity to get it wrong, but make it right, saying no with loving reassurance that someday the yeses will be for real, delivered with that same smile when the unexpected delights and in the eye corner he observers a version of happy love in an unreservedly small format that has value above everything else and even with all the deep day saturations and self salutations he cuts himself carelessly shaving and the focus of wskeup calls and tender shaking, comes back like a slap to the fresh bleeding face, and all of the above took maybe 10 seconds ten great, and! all of ‘em firsts ~ no seconds here

0

Sep 29, 2024

Sep 29, 2024 at 7:55 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

why do men smile in the bathroom?

a companion to “why do men cry in the bathroom? (1) <> even harder to understand, for it’s almost unnatural, alone, unshaven, first glance, a small smile creeps ever so slow from ocean to ocean, cheek to cheek, while the lines on the face join in, quiet applause, a satisfaction acknowledgement of mini~ minor proportions, a quick stock taking, a putting aside of the futures worries and the currency of ever present daily woes, a small pat on the back <self administered, (minimal) self admonishment> we made it this far, while juggling so many acting parts that we/he learned on the fly, good luck and good instincts for this exercise in adapting, becoming an on the cuff, father, wise-man, little league coach, protector+defender no matterwhat, a font of knowledge who gets ignored, cept for delayed hugs that slowly dawn and get inserted when never expected, shoulders for carrying two at a time, a reassurer when the world is spinning crashing and the watch alerts stop this blurting and get the their act together again for the curtain going up when the individualized symphony of alarms, buzzers and rock ‘n roll anthems pronounce the blessings of morning and another opportunity to get it wrong, but make it right, saying no with loving reassurance that someday the yeses will be for real, delivered with that same smile when the unexpected delights and in the eye corner he observers a version of happy love in an unreservedly small format that has value above everything else and even with all the deep day saturations and self salutations he cuts himself carelessly shaving and the focus of wskeup calls and tender shaking, comes back like a slap to the fresh bleeding face, and all of the above took maybe 10 seconds ten great, and! all of ‘em firsts ~ no seconds here

50

through the eyes of a writer everything becomes a movie with the simplest saturations

0

Jun 30, 2022

Jun 30, 2022 at 6:29 AM UTC

kristianity

settled in ink

through the eyes of a writer everything becomes a movie with the simplest saturations

3

Freuds lament meant that a pen is a ***** I comment Hi I am Sebastian I’m an addict Addicted to frantic erratic language In what language am I babbling in - can’t quit - can't resist Grappling this black pen with smeared hands Grasp the ******* thing And ink Panicking again Where squids swam Here stands a weird man Trapped in a stare match With miasmic abyss It’s scary **** As hearing camera flashes Dancing bare *** Unaware as to where the camera is Can’t fathom it An ensnaring act Grabbing talons Talented career paths Disappear fast With mirror battling The mere craftsmanship And mad man’s wit Embarrassing as still asking, unaware as to what is happening With clear answers apparent still Years pass years after still ain’t clear after asking this This is maddening Reappearing patterns still amass And thinking different things will happen if in fact I can persist The same **** happens That ***** batshit What if This madness catches That is bad As lit matches Catching mattress lint I fear I did damage to my Amygdala oblongata as a kid Again and again Damm habits Still I amass amazing Paragraphs saturations A hue is soothing To translucent humans Like my time as a youth spent School bench doodling Pulled the blue pen through the movements maneuvered cerulean loops drew huge dudes and exuberant protruding ***** for my youths amusement Nowadays I fetching the meddling Red pen sent from heaven making corrections, leveling mistakes begging for a reckoning, making more of less, settling scores, enabling communications less deafening, less beckoning, helping to get a sense of my best and when i left my element. what I might write with my white pen is silence, enticing I think.

0

Mar 31, 2018

Mar 31, 2018 at 7:25 AM UTC

sebastian-aeio-winkler

First time at The Dan

Freuds lament meant that a pen is a ***** I comment Hi I am Sebastian I’m an addict Addicted to frantic erratic language In what language am I babbling in - can’t quit - can't resist Grappling this black pen with smeared hands Grasp the ******* thing And ink Panicking again Where squids swam Here stands a weird man Trapped in a stare match With miasmic abyss It’s scary **** As hearing camera flashes Dancing bare *** Unaware as to where the camera is Can’t fathom it An ensnaring act Grabbing talons Talented career paths Disappear fast With mirror battling The mere craftsmanship And mad man’s wit Embarrassing as still asking, unaware as to what is happening With clear answers apparent still Years pass years after still ain’t clear after asking this This is maddening Reappearing patterns still amass And thinking different things will happen if in fact I can persist The same **** happens That ***** batshit What if This madness catches That is bad As lit matches Catching mattress lint I fear I did damage to my Amygdala oblongata as a kid Again and again Damm habits Still I amass amazing Paragraphs saturations A hue is soothing To translucent humans Like my time as a youth spent School bench doodling Pulled the blue pen through the movements maneuvered cerulean loops drew huge dudes and exuberant protruding ***** for my youths amusement Nowadays I fetching the meddling Red pen sent from heaven making corrections, leveling mistakes begging for a reckoning, making more of less, settling scores, enabling communications less deafening, less beckoning, helping to get a sense of my best and when i left my element. what I might write with my white pen is silence, enticing I think.

55

Isn’t it funny how an earth-bound drink modifies our cones into brilliant saturation and burns our circuits, showers with anticipation? Well I think it’s funny when the days link with the invisible individuals in demonstration of lacked existence while shouldering the cold. They all take a drink, we all take a drink, and we all never think when the answer is held in mused assimilation. Take another drink of one that jitters; one that’s sync’d. Jackhammers in our heads amidst deprivation showering acid rain in our circuits, down the burning drink! My ******* agitation forces this alliteration on the lack of restraint on the dull of saturations. My soul castigates my being not to cradle and devour the drink, My body, my circuits, hardwired to anticipation.

0

Jun 8, 2017

Jun 8, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC

RavenQuill

I

Isn’t it funny how an earth-bound drink modifies our cones into brilliant saturation and burns our circuits, showers with anticipation? Well I think it’s funny when the days link with the invisible individuals in demonstration of lacked existence while shouldering the cold. They all take a drink, we all take a drink, and we all never think when the answer is held in mused assimilation. Take another drink of one that jitters; one that’s sync’d. Jackhammers in our heads amidst deprivation showering acid rain in our circuits, down the burning drink! My ******* agitation forces this alliteration on the lack of restraint on the dull of saturations. My soul castigates my being not to cradle and devour the drink, My body, my circuits, hardwired to anticipation.

16

You are the vibrations; deep blues orange saturations feathered red drips of copper yellow strands charcoal shadow of the sea river in my veins.

0

Nov 9, 2017

Nov 9, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC

emily-kauffman

Untitled

You are the vibrations; deep blues orange saturations feathered red drips of copper yellow strands charcoal shadow of the sea river in my veins.

8