"serviced" poems
Even in her absence
I had a goal.
Changing me didn't
Just happen,
For she had already
Robbed my senses
Then I tamed her .
She supported me
Even when I was wrong
She saw the best in me
And calls me her hope,
Her hardwork ;
Speaks you as a pillar
Behind her brightness
I know am an amateur
In your presence
But my blood is serviced
By courage to have
Make nothing but a
Chain of victory
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
Parents sent me to see a therapist.
Therapist said you can speak freely and tell me all.
Therapist won my confidence so I opened up and told all.
Felt great having someone to share all and felt cared for.
Mind felt good and school rumors about me meant less.
Parents had a money fight and therapist quit seeing me.
Asked therapist to keep seeing me therapist said no.
Show me the money and I keep seeing you as a patient.
Hurt returned and felt like could talk to no one again.
Therapists are like prostitutes you pay to get a part of your body serviced.
I never will be married in real life.
I will settle for a net ceremony on gaiaonline with a guy I met.
He can't wait to hit it in virtual reality.
Got no real life experience in *** but learning to sext.
Getting better at it and practicing for my online wedding night.
I'm 18, I hate my parents and their ****** up lives.
Mom got home at noon from her overnight date with one of her men.
Men like my mom because she opens her legs for all men she meets on the net.
Dad likes his ****** he chats with on Facebook.
Think he cheating on his evil ***** who got with him for his money.
Dad likes them young like me and she wont be young forever.
She will be like my lonely mom ******** men she meets off personals.
Real life marriage is not in my plan.
Settling for an net marriage with a guy I met off personals.
Am I going to be like my mom?
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
the narrative does not cling to classicalism of stating whether the pronoun usage is either singular or plural or both to allow an armchair of expression; after all... there's enough for us to bypass the classical philosophical debate about subject and object, simply investigating pronoun usage in relation to singularity or pluralism.
there’s a theory where poetry came from,
one read: cleopatra wanted to hear sweet-nothings
calibrating a razor with a viper’s kiss...
another read: she báthory?
she báthory? she the one that turned milk into blood?
she can burn in hell.
i thought we were un-dialectical in the realms of concern?
no... you see... poetry came from punctuated-impressionism...
or a fear of it... punctuation of course, not from the impressionism...
poets fear punctuation...
give them a semi-colon
and
they
treat
it
like a sidelined line of verse.
this is poetry in mathematical equations:
i had a pear(,)
it was a spare(.)
i had a care for traffic(-)
so i missed( )
the expressions and started using an obelisk to quarter up the mammoth
into chop suey...
poets simple say: next line! when prose says next paragraph
and the prized execution of the 100m sprint . . . (.)
that’s universal alpha romeo with alfa bravo charlie delta (echo)...
come on in the u-turn... give us a smile......... :),
poets says... i need breathing space
without sentenced timing of silence, for the toad to feed inspiration
and envy!
no wonder you came with the alpha - zulu
alphabet given that you used ɪɡ and zoʊ...
so tell me... where’s this copernican west upside down
(this heliocentric west with east being the big bang)?!
i'd swear the thing stopped orbiting in circles
and a thing that's on it's thought started to become
orbital... a fashion sense of the 60s 70s 80s 90s repeated -
that's right, the whole thing became heliocentric
and we became narcissists instead of solipsists
in the geocentric system of worked-up plagiarism
with adequate excuses.)
it's here it the poets apprehensive of punctuation symbology
and instead writing "sparingly,"
to write, e.g.:
i
hate
this
love
affair
claimed
to
be
the
world...
i
rather
chisel
chequers
into
geometry
of
x4
90º.
makes sense poets begot fear of
punctuation and not grammar, they
serviced to explore nothing else,
leaving grammar open long enough to *****
mathematics in... remember...
poets are firstly concerned with punctuation...
secondly with grammar...
philosophy for poets is grammar;
**** i'm um um so drunk i'll need to revise.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
i disavow my allegiance to the flag,
& to the Commonwealth of the Bahamas.
for we are not one people,
we are not united,
we do not live in love,
& we are unfortunately serviced.
what does the future hold for my Bahama land?
with our resources not being utilized for the betterment of our people...
but being sold to non-Bahama land.
no profits being aimed to,
or sources being owned by
our Bahama man.
as i lift my head to the rising of the sun in this Bahama land,
i see no hope for the future, no hope in my Bahama land.
no one to speak up,
the youth are out of luck.
the elders show no interest,
we are doomed.
still,
we march on to the glory..
but what bright banners do we have to wave high?
the means of the leaders are of no significance,
& i can no longer bear the pain that i witness.
how will we excel
if we do not love,
& unite?
going forward,
will we stand together
for a common, loftier goal?
as i lift up my head to the rising sun in my Bahama land;
i see anguish,
i see fear &
leaders with no care.
all the things i see are broad.
...but may the road that my people trod
lead us to our God,
that will help us on this march to save our Bahama land.
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 8:49 PM UTC
Selana
She strapped on her warplane and flew away to fight
Russian jets being the enemy to be hit
Her missiles were old like her plane
But it was a good one well built
Serviced by her mechanics to perform
When ordered to do by her
She the tip of the spear just a gal
Reason I love my mistress the pilot
Defending our nation each and every day
She already shot down four or five planes
She told me it’s confusing being in combat
Things happen fast beyond comprehension
It’s comparable to driving a racing bike
I think but I’m a hacker and don’t drive
I get into Russian and Red Chinese systems
Do my art and war that way to defeat them
It focuses me while my gal is up above
Keeping us all safe from enemy actions
I want to tell the world but we cannot
We must remain a secret what we both do
May 28, 2022
May 28, 2022 at 3:50 PM UTC
She smelled of wild lavender and deep magicks,
The scent hanging in the air like a golden silence,
I'm trying to hold tightly yet composure is first to dissolve,
Senses fall one by one until no dominoes are left,
Stop staring, act natural and crumble on the inside,
Don't speak, reserve your efforts for a smile,
Blown fuse serviced from the under-wing like vertigo in my veins, and neatly betwixt two fingers twirl a cotton drapery,
Framed in silk halo, enshrouding like auras in a Milky Way of phantasmagoria.
Until my thoughts become in summary and each breathe becomes shorter than the last.
The artistry of her elegance like sleek fine line-work on vintage paper and I'm ... feather light.
And in those tresses I'd seen that sheen before, in the ripple of calm ocean waves, and in auburn at sunset.
I'd seen that gloss in her eyes perched upon petals as morning dew and rain upon windows in my quiet times,
Between the silhouetting slopes of her contours as dunes upon the horizon, there's an eclipse in her lips that would not speak in any less than measured prosody nor kiss without dreamscape grandeur.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC
The irony of a life unshackled -
seemingly an advocate for freedom.
But only to find its beats forlorn,
as it serviced payments for past follies’
ransom.
Dec 15, 2021
Dec 15, 2021 at 10:08 AM UTC
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Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
Cool are the streets before sunrise
I pedal my daily route through downtown Kalamazoo
Past the Art Institute and Civic
And out through Riverfront Park on the Valley Trail
Across the river on M96 I head east toward sunrise
The road is slightly dampened by the dew
And the trees on each side of the highway stand tall
Framing the sun as I make the first curve slightly east-north-east
In symmetry, the sun lies between the trees
Above the road, floating round, brilliant
Just inside the zone of a photographer's eye
The sun, the road, the trees, the mist – all ablaze in orange.
A dangerous time to ride so close to traffic
The lenses of my glasses scatter the light in condensation
I pedal hard to pass through this section
And ride into Galesburg stopping at the lights
Passing through town out Michigan Ave
I cross the Kalamazoo River but stop for a moment in stride
As the cold air nudges swirls of fog to dance on the surface
Lit from behind by the rising sun, golden, quiet, ghostly into the distance
Out onto my last few miles where the road is rough
It climbs out of the river valley up two hundred feet
Into winding country roads away from most traffic
And closer to the farms and woods
The air is now heavy with the dampness of the woods
There is only the breeze I bring with me
I crest a hill after a long climb but I do not coast on the slight reprieve
As there is new and old roadkill serviced by carrion birds in the mist
I am at my destination on another beautiful morning and I think
What wonders have I seen that my peers miss in their race on the highway
What smells of wild garlic, split oak, and musk of raccoon, skunk, and possum, and sweat
What satisfaction I have as I shower off the cold, and insects, and ride from my skin
August 20, 2013
Kalamazoo, MI
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
Where was I before my Birth
Who brought me? In this life
Some say My Parents
Gave me my Life
I think they only Ate
The Forbidden Apple
They just performed their basic Karma
And received me as a gifted Product
I was shipped without any User Manual
And without any Standard Operating Procedure
My parents worked round the clock
Gone through all the other manuals
At last they applied their mind
And prepared their own Manual
They also defined their own
Standard Operating Procedure
And I was handled and serviced
As per their Manual and SOP
Now I think, I am grown up now
But the question still remains as it was
Are we all only Products?
If Yes, Who Manufactured Us?
Where are the Original User Manuals?
Where are the Technical Manuals?
Where is the Standard Operating Procedure?
Why I was shipped to this mother Earth?
Some of my friends suggested a simple answer
'God made us and You too. But you are moron'
This answer posed other questions to me
Who made God? God Made God?
Or the Humans made God for their own purpose?
Where are the temples of God made by Insects?
Suppose If God made us? Why he is so greedy?
Like the capitalists of proprietary companies
Why we are a strict proprietary Products?
Even proprietary products are supplied with Manuals
If God can't make us Open Source, At least he should
Supply the Manuals, Supply the Standard Operating Procedure
Or He is also too much selfish like each one of us
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 9:46 AM UTC
Within our conscious thoughts,
Beneath desires of wandering souls,
Dreams drift across a lake of truth,
Hopes swim in spiralling shoals,
Making it impossible not to smile,
At Invitation Inn, on Tropical Isle.
Opulent rooms with silken sheets,
Serviced twenty-four-hours a day,
Check in and out, whenever you like,
Nobody will ever be turned away,
Put up your feet, stay for a while,
At Invitation Inn, on Tropical Isle.
The waiters are all they should be,
Girls frolic freely around the pool,
Appetising hot food to spice you up,
Tall drinks that will keep you cool,
Magic fantasies are always in style,
At Invitation Inn, on Tropical Isle.
Enjoy pleasures with kindred spirits,
Relaxing, not caring, in the least,
Savouring hopes, dreams and desires,
Sharing love, indulging in the feast,
Devoid of guilt, regret, and denial,
At Invitation Inn, on Tropical Isle.
©Paul Chafer 2014
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 8:43 PM UTC
I’m sorry, Sir,
I know you said
I had to write out
50 times
“I must improve” - but
50 times
a different thought
came to my mind
i must look after myself properly
i must eat more
i must drink less
i must make time for myself
i must get the test
i must organise the divorce
i must sort out my job
i must sort out my head
i must get the car serviced
i must tidy this ******* place up
i must give up the ****
i must phone my friends more often
i must become a better person
i must take control of my life
i must find a therapist
i must hoover
i must grow up
i must calm down
i must sing more
i must accept myself
i must finish that poem
i must challenge ‘must’
i must find a new balance
i must raise my self-esteem
i must put on weight
i must get to bed earlier
i must return those calls
i must take up meditation again
i must get to the bottom of this paperwork
i must ease off the whisky
i must read more classics
i must remember how to feel good about myself
i must print those t-shirts i keep talking about
i must feed the fish
i must organise my finances
i must rearrange the living room
i must look into a mortgage
i must pray to the god of small things
i must hold good people close to me
i must burn out my cynicism
i must stop spending more than i earn
i must stop pushing people away
i must stop feeling icky about her past
i must stop being a drama queen
i must stop beating myself up
i must stop putting it off
i must stop going through the motions
i must stop looking for the answer in others
i must, i must,
i must
stop substituting poetry
for action
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 3:43 AM UTC
By Jennifersoter Ezewi
We are united by lip service
Yet claims we are being serviced
When all we get is agony
in a country that is meant
to be united in love.
If we claim to be one,
We are supposed to be duly
serviced by the share of our
oneness.
We can't be warmly expectant
when all we get is negligence;
We can't be claiming oneness
when our supposed lovers
throws our love to the retch.
Let this oneness be redefined
for us to know our stand;
Let the best we can be satiate
our amiable positions to
prove our oneness.
We have soared above
this mess and needs a prove
of our oneness:
Let it be recorded that we are
in love by the way we treat
ourselves;
Let our love be seen and not told.
How amiable we ought
to have grown instead of hate
and bigotry;
How prominent we look
yet plays around like kids
without direction.
We are endowed to be emulated;
We have gone too far to miss
our ways:
Let the love we claim be resurrected
And let our oneness be practiced.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 9:10 AM UTC
Pieces of clothing spewed the room
The chirping of night insects faded from her ear
As she tensely counted the rhythmic beating of her heart
Silent wishes painted her hungry face
As her eyes roamed every curve and bump of her endowed friend
The skin fragrance and female smell was mind intoxicating
She bit her lower lip on time
And swallowed all she wanted to tell her
Her **** was throbbing as she gathered her courage and blankly muttered "am *****
A moment of silence almost made her faint
Her friend didn't answer but inched closer and brushed her luscious lips on her neck
The two hungry mouths crushed over each other as they competed to **** breath away
The two female bodies molded in to one
As the last shred of sanity
Drowned in lustful caress
Her soft hands explored the chest twins and massaged them interchangeably while ******* her friends tounge deep
She could feel the sensual touch of female fingers roving near her honey *** searching for the gory hole
The touch on her **** made her spread her legs wide open and writhe in pleasure as a finger penetrated her already wet *****
She rubbed and bit the ******* in return
She couldn't hold back back but moan audibly and ask for more
Her friend rubbed her juices all over her plump ***** as her tongue drew a line of saliva from her belly button to her bushy mould
She screamed in ecstasy as the middle finger and lips serviced her birth canal
She pinched and bit her *******
As her body convulsed and she cummed uncontrollably
At last her friend finger and tongue found the *****
And an alien feeling enveloped her whole flame she felt like peeing as her eyelashes twitched successively
Her heartbeat accelerated as she gushed
She looked at her pecked her passionately and heaved a sign as sleep robbed her senses and together they drifted into sleep with pleausure etched in their beautiful faces
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 12:36 AM UTC
I serviced them,
the men who came,
soldiers of battle,
politicians with bored wives,
husbands whose wives
(they said) never
understood their needs
or wants or desires,
young men starting on
an unfamiliar journey
on the road to ***
I entertained
as their women
would never have done,
played the games
their women
would put
their fingers
to mouth in shock to
and never do,
I allowed them to touch
where they'd never
touched before,
to kiss where
their dames
would deplore,
I listened to
their brief tales
or sorrow,
know for me
there was never today,
and always tomorrow.
I was she,
and they knocked
at my door,
I was the paid up,
always on the ball and bed,
***** who ******
whom the women hated,
but their men
(I was sure)
adored.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 2:03 AM UTC
I can taste the lies you left in the corner of my mouth
I cut my teeth on words that once danced on my tongue
Tastebuds tingled as the sentiment made sense
Tongues tied as eyes widened with the beliefs
I choke on the aftertaste of lips you serviced
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 1:22 PM UTC
‘I would if I could but I can’t,’ he said,
‘Though I know it would be sublime,
I’m spoken for, and it does my head
To think that you could be mine.
I made a vow, and I don’t know how
I could break it, and feel right,
But though I’m true, I’m thinking of you
As I do, each sleepless night.’
He shook his head and he walked away
As she clutched the verandah rail,
She turned her face away when the trace
Of her tears had left a trail.
‘I don’t know what the attraction is,’
She said, as she wiped her eyes,
‘But it must be true what I say to you,
Anything else is lies!’
He walked back into his hotel room
And held his head in his hands,
And as he did the temptation grew
For a taste of contraband.
She’d met him there as she always did
For she serviced all the rooms,
His monthly trip, and her heart would flip
As the day of his coming loomed.
And he would think of her sparkling eyes
The set of her moist, pink lips,
Her flaxen hair and her pointed stare
And the sway of her ****** hips.
Her image was burnt upon his brain
Though he still loved his woman too,
It left him sore and confused, he thought,
What was a man to do?
He fell at last in a deep, deep sleep
And Rhianna entered his room,
She saw him peacefully lying there
Quite unaware in the gloom,
She lay down quiet beside him, just
To see how it felt to lie
Next to the one that her love was on,
He woke, his hand on her thigh.
The silken feel of Rhianna’s thigh
Had put him into a trance,
He thought that a dream had come to life
Til he opened his eyes, by chance,
Her lips were hovering over his brow
Her flaxen hair in his face,
Her strange perfume permeated the room,
He rolled off the bed in haste.
‘I would if I could but I can’t,’ he said,
‘I need you to understand,
If I were free, with just you and me
But I’m not, and this wasn’t planned.’
He left, drove home in the early dawn
To arrive unexpectedly,
And saw the light in the bedroom on,
His woman had company.
She wept as the man had gathered his clothes,
And made poste haste for the door,
While he just stood as if turned to wood,
His feet fast glued to the floor,
‘Well, you’re always off on your travels, John,
You must consider my plight!’
‘That may be so,’ as he turned to go,
‘But I know where I’ll sleep tonight!’
David Lewis Paget
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
I was listening to roller skating tunes.
Yes, I am shallow, sir.
And though thou may say villainess or mistress,
I am content to be who I am.
One noon, we were over dull
and our hearts we serviced
like two thieves there
in the kissing place
where breaths are both as one
and the first of many kisses doubles.
He made vows in mine ear.
He has such hands and lips
and his fortunate nature fed mine eyes
oh, nothing was scarce.
Our horns locked together
with the intensest chutzpah
and we well-made our match.
We sparked feelings we all ascribe to heaven.
I would not tell you
I can serve a man
that by slow designs
men can melt.
He swore oaths
and dropped
half won.
Later he paid
the sweetest
after-debts
—he did owe it.
.
.
songs for this:
Find Me the Pulse of the Universe by Laetitia Sadier
Stormy (Bossa Mix) by S-Tone Inc
Feb 19, 2025
Feb 19, 2025 at 8:26 AM UTC
My Universe is shaken by falling stars! In a pitch-dark night, I would still hold the tearing sky with a will to urinate; pathetic son of Atlas among the more steadfast! The sickly-yellow Moon, like the mgposhadt apple, terrifies among skeletal trees and descends into the pool of blood of the fainted Sun at every whim! The sonnet wreath of single-serviced sun-scented smiles is further multiplied by the selfishness of Memory and pleasures that shines on the faces of mothers when they feel the jingling beats of the other precious, angelic existence!
The stars shining on the light carousel orbit in an X-ray; the sun is always on fire! "He who doesn't wait for an answer on the donkey ladder of Being even shrinks!" Every memory is a deceptive dream! The constantly renewing responsibility drives us into a drifting dizziness: the intention of improving people! Its freedom of abysses cannot be enough to soar to infinity in our Pegasus-cherishing human spirit!
As on the seabed, we seek our place among the true Beads in the expanding Universe until our swirling hearts can find peace! Another self of ourselves cries out to another depths! In the infinity inside, everyone can already imagine themselves; we should delve into ourselves to find the presence! We are curiously searching for beggar-beauties while learning the point in the bright smile of human-eye stars!
There are innumerable circles around your Heart Center in which the Heart of Being throbs; the fog of damped dazing stunts benevolently soothes and seems comforting! As a sore clump of meat, like in a forest, I suddenly fall into the murmuring memories of the wild om
Jan 21, 2021
Jan 21, 2021 at 3:12 AM UTC
The call comes in at six am,
I don't get into the office until eight,
My answering machine blinks red with warning;
I'll get this message too late.
"I haven't serviced my generator
in three years
and it stopped working
after twenty-four hours.
I have no power."
I check their name,
they've done no business with us before.
I cannot send techs to them
when my phone keeps ringing.
I answer it.
"Hello, how can I help?"
"We're current contract customers
and our generator didn't turn on.
I've got an infant and this storm
is too dangerous.
I have no power."
And all I can ask is for their name
and number,
send it off to my boss
who cannot send techs out
in the storm.
I inform them so,
"I understand," they say.
"Send them when you can."
I hang up my phone
only for it to ring again.
"Let me guess," I say
"you have no power?"
"Got it in one," then comes
the nervous laughter.
Our conversation repeats
just like the others.
When I go home tonight
I'll maneuver around branches,
dodging cones and power lines,
yielding for approaching sirens.
I'll go up my driveway
crunching twigs and leaves.
I'll enter my dark and quiet home
and flick a switch
but no lights will turn on.
I'll have no power.
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 10:21 AM UTC
Self-will drive is the best automobile
Capable of riding on any terrain
It's engine is measured in willpower
Fueled by motivation
Serviced by dedication
Best ride through one's life journey
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 11:21 PM UTC
*Loneliness , a humid inferno of a day -
without the promise of rain
The hunted hid within tall grass writhing -
in pain
A drop of water prematurely called to the sky
The stranger at the wood-line in the
tempest twilight
The safety of thick , homemade curtains with
the ringing of chimes
Tears 'neath the silken canopy of night
Queer recollections serviced with anxiety
The blanket persecution of unwanted notoriety*
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:27 PM UTC
BUT THAT’S...ANOTHER STORY!
Her mother died
giving birth
so from that day to
this
we considered her OURS
one of the family.
Ok, so...she was
a pig
but oh such
a pretty pig
and we kept her
in the caravan
reared her as one
of our own
almost considered her as
human.
Oh the squeals of
children &...pig.
Well, she grew & grew
until the day came for her
to be serviced.
Our maiden pig
a fine Welsh White gilt.
Now, being English
amongst the Welsh
I knew you needed
a license
to move a pig
from area to area
so, I presented my self
to our two man police force.
Well, of course
they had licenses
for the this of that
or the that of this
but alas
no license
for the moving of
a pig.
They had somehow
run out.
The licenses not the pigs.
So, they gave me
a license for a crane
& crossed out the bit
not pertaining to a pig.
I thought they might
ask me
how many wheels
on your pig or
what type of machinery
is your pig?
But when it was done
it was done
a kind of
Frankenstein form
half crane/half pig.
And I was free now
to move my pig
where so ever I wished.
And so I brought her
to the boar.
And then there was the time
there was a pig born
without an ********
( not an uncommon
occurrence they told me ).
And so I set off for the vets
on my motorcycle and sidecar
but
that’s
. . .another story.
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 5:19 PM UTC
There is no such as a happy ending
The reason Shakespear failed in writing us our perfect love story is that
The mere notion that things would stop
if they were happy
doesn’t make any sense
The highway of happiness
Allows the car or motorbike or van that is ourselves
With a full tank of petrol
Take the eager passengers of emotion
Depending on the space within
Carry us on a cruise or a splutter
until the end of the asphalt
The end of the road of life,
is the end of life
Anyone who says there’s dignity in death
Obviously hasn’t held the hand of a loved one
As they splutter for breath
Rasping and shallow
Asleep but begging for something you can’t give them
Someone
Death isn’t dignified
It’s a rusty engine collapsing
The car that has driven you
for your whole life
You have oiled, serviced, mot-ed,
loved,
Neglected,
Repaired
failing for one last time
No matter how many *** holes you have hit
Flat tyres, blowing and wiping out days, weeks months of exploring
We still travelled forward
Experiencing every view and every bump along the way
There’s no happiness in the end of the road
It’s only there in how you look back upon the journey
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 7:16 AM UTC