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"sexless" poems
Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond. I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre and said to my wife A gun in every home. Those devils would think twice before razing the village and seizing the boys. A well-regulated militia. The local militia the most interesting moment in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases,       fights) and a **** sexless love story. Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the       community, the young from the janjaweed. The crop from the **** Limited scope and defensive posture but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women)       side by side. Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain. Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture. Great music. Cuba, Africa. The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat       of violence No saxophones in the band. The saxophone! Invented by a Belgian--Look what the Belgians are doing in the       Congo! When the state's violence is turned against the citizenry for non-violent acts. This quiet neighborhood, July, undergirded by violence, force. That's a given-- any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that. Without just violence Gandhi's scope, and King's, might be vanishingly limited, negligible (but not non-existent)?                                                        Regarding King the matter is simple -- he was non-violent but dependent upon federal force to counter the South's violence. No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be       overwhelmed by southern violence. Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic. Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the       British. Or did he? 1. There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi     restrained but could release which the British feared, and 2. It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that     allowed Gandhi to exist rather than be extinguished--this restraint     was a (British) cultural imperative (limited scope) as well as     emanating from Britain's view of India as a protectorate and     valued citizen of the United Kingdom (defensive posture). What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with       community as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession. Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the       common space, and preempt bad behaviors associated with       otherwise neutral, private acts. The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is       forgoing deadly force. But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence, in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune       violence. Hence, a gun in every home.
0
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
A Gun in Every Home
Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond. I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre and said to my wife A gun in every home. Those devils would think twice before razing the village and seizing the boys. A well-regulated militia. The local militia the most interesting moment in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases,       fights) and a **** sexless love story. Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the       community, the young from the janjaweed. The crop from the **** Limited scope and defensive posture but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women)       side by side. Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain. Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture. Great music. Cuba, Africa. The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat       of violence No saxophones in the band. The saxophone! Invented by a Belgian--Look what the Belgians are doing in the       Congo! When the state's violence is turned against the citizenry for non-violent acts. This quiet neighborhood, July, undergirded by violence, force. That's a given-- any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that. Without just violence Gandhi's scope, and King's, might be vanishingly limited, negligible (but not non-existent)?                                                        Regarding King the matter is simple -- he was non-violent but dependent upon federal force to counter the South's violence. No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be       overwhelmed by southern violence. Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic. Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the       British. Or did he? 1. There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi     restrained but could release which the British feared, and 2. It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that     allowed Gandhi to exist rather than be extinguished--this restraint     was a (British) cultural imperative (limited scope) as well as     emanating from Britain's view of India as a protectorate and     valued citizen of the United Kingdom (defensive posture). What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with       community as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession. Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the       common space, and preempt bad behaviors associated with       otherwise neutral, private acts. The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is       forgoing deadly force. But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence, in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune       violence. Hence, a gun in every home.
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58
Letter, letter born to return to sender-- extra-marital, maritime, marine, mercy, mercy mine-- two drinks in; four from home, letter, letter born to return to sender-- .38 special, sexless, spiteful, spitting, spitting rites-- three drinks in; three from home, letter, letter born to return to sender-- double-decker, drugged, dangerous, daggers, daggers dried-- four drinks in; two from home, letter, letter born to return to sender-- clusterfucked, fancy-free, foreign, fine, fine unwind, five drinks in; one from home, letter, letter born to return to sender-- ether cloud, Evelyn, earthware, everyday, everyday signs-- six drinks in; on the carpeted floor, letter, letter born to return to sender, whitewashed, weakly, wounded, wishing, wishing for home.
0
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 3:24 AM UTC
The Postman
Redundant sexless girl Unable to fulfill your biological purpose The species will not continue - Not from your ***** Your womb is dried up The monthly cleanse broken Interrupted Your ovaries cry out- *The rain does not come The rain does not come The rain does not come* To wash away the old Prepare for the Coiling, growing, emerging The innocence to be birthed And spoiled by this world's evil. Redundant sexless girl Drained of life-giving blood Drained of nurturing power Drained of womanhood Redundant sexless girl Barren girl What use have you? What purpose? What right have you to still walk this most fertile Earth?
0
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
To continue the species
Collaboration Cen' and Traveler Tim Traveler: This is not about *** There will be no ******* ***** Any flesh That you read Shall not be nibbled On by me Any mentions Of flower traps Petals filled with Sweet cream sap Curves or crevasses Such lustful lines I refuse to burn By your design You **** thing Such beauty I seek But I won't Be made Into a freak!! Cné: A poem of *** But not in this text I just used those words to see ~ If you would come Looking for fun And read this poem by me ~ You will not find Words of that kind No moaning passionate steam ~ Two of the night Not in this write All of these verses are clean ~ Lips locking soft Hearts now aloft Maybe what you did expect ~ Candlelight flame Screaming a name Glistening skin, beads of sweat ~ Sensual sighs Quivering thighs ****** moments to trace ~ Euphoric throes Fingers and toes Sorry you’re in the wrong place ~ None of that here Let’s make it clear Nary a stanza reflects ~ Words that you see Written by me Not a Poem of *** Traveler: I'm sure these words Cleverly crafted Would never lead astray A moaning voice Breathing heavy With a wanting to get laid No words of touching Self out loud No fleshly fluid rhymes I'm sure your words Would never stir My lustful hunger mind!!
0
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 11:03 AM UTC
SEXLESS IN SEA BATTLE
I want the hollow Cheeks. The full, adipose, smooth Lips. The white-boned, Pearls she calls Teeth. I want the bright, clean, Sun bleached Hair. The fine, sharpened, Ready for scratching, Spotless Nails. The refined, sculpted, Long, profiled Nose. I want gold to flake, Off my ageing, porous, dull, Skin. I want the protruding, Famished, angled Bones. I want the pumping, Arrhythmic Heart. The tired, hissing, Tar coated, smoker’s Lungs. The round, fleshy, Cellulite covered *** The motherly, but Childless plump ******* I want the barren, Bleeding, afflicted ****** I want the faint, Wispy, high-pitched, Call that she calls a Voice. The bruised, bulging, Porcelain polished, etched Knuckles. The wide, protruding, Ballooned up, dangling Hips. The numb, heavy, metal Flavored, gum bleeding Mouth. I want the skewed, Backwards, lost Pedals she calls Feet. I want the hearing less, Wax, pus covered, Ears. The lost dull, lifeless Dumbed down, blue Eyes. I want to be her, All of them, and none. I want to be lost, Unwilling, tame, voiceless, Mindless, childless, Sexless, man-less. I want to be her, but I Can’t. I cannot because I am Thought burdened, fat, Violent, screaming, Child laden, broken nosed, Coarse. I cannot because dirt Flakes off my young Skin. Because my heart pumps, Oxygenated blood, At a steady, rhythmic Beat. My voice baritones, Deep, bottomless, Whispers. I sit on flat, concave Muscle. My lungs breathe, Strong, fresh, smog-less Air. Yellow stained, grainy, calcium-ridden Teeth. Dark, musty, greased Hair. I want to be her, But I won’t.
0
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
Femininity
I want the hollow Cheeks. The full, adipose, smooth Lips. The white-boned, Pearls she calls Teeth. I want the bright, clean, Sun bleached Hair. The fine, sharpened, Ready for scratching, Spotless Nails. The refined, sculpted, Long, profiled Nose. I want gold to flake, Off my ageing, porous, dull, Skin. I want the protruding, Famished, angled Bones. I want the pumping, Arrhythmic Heart. The tired, hissing, Tar coated, smoker’s Lungs. The round, fleshy, Cellulite covered *** The motherly, but Childless plump ******* I want the barren, Bleeding, afflicted ****** I want the faint, Wispy, high-pitched, Call that she calls a Voice. The bruised, bulging, Porcelain polished, etched Knuckles. The wide, protruding, Ballooned up, dangling Hips. The numb, heavy, metal Flavored, gum bleeding Mouth. I want the skewed, Backwards, lost Pedals she calls Feet. I want the hearing less, Wax, pus covered, Ears. The lost dull, lifeless Dumbed down, blue Eyes. I want to be her, All of them, and none. I want to be lost, Unwilling, tame, voiceless, Mindless, childless, Sexless, man-less. I want to be her, but I Can’t. I cannot because I am Thought burdened, fat, Violent, screaming, Child laden, broken nosed, Coarse. I cannot because dirt Flakes off my young Skin. Because my heart pumps, Oxygenated blood, At a steady, rhythmic Beat. My voice baritones, Deep, bottomless, Whispers. I sit on flat, concave Muscle. My lungs breathe, Strong, fresh, smog-less Air. Yellow stained, grainy, calcium-ridden Teeth. Dark, musty, greased Hair. I want to be her, But I won’t.
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95
I hate looking at you. You are so strikingly beautiful And so viciously ugly When I see you, you lock your eyes with mine and give me a devilish smile You tilt your head forward You’re trying too hard I want to scream **** you Hurt you at the very least Punch you right in your beautiful ugly face I laugh to try to make you stop But inside, I collapse. Please, please stop looking at me. You’re piercing right through my ugly, sexless body Right into my nervous, teenage soul You are so beyond me I hate you for that. I’ll always hate you for that I know you feel superior to me I know you use me I know you take comfort in my cynical, society depreciating, feminist convictions My mumbling garbage of sadness I know you think I’m smart but at the same time pathetic I know that you want me Because you think you can have everything I know you need me Like you need anyone Because you can’t stand to be alone. Yes, I know you can’t stand to be alone. Your wretched body that you toss around like an object All in a vain attempt to be wanted But you still end up alone. You aren’t what you think you are What you want to be So don’t you look down on me like that With your practiced sultriness I say all these things in my laugh But you’re oblivious You look away smiling Like you’ve won something I collapse inside I want to crumple I’m too tired for violence Too sad So I just sit on your couch Perturbed by the silence Even when I hate you most I’m afraid of what you imagine of me in the silence.
0
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
McKenna
I hate looking at you. You are so strikingly beautiful And so viciously ugly When I see you, you lock your eyes with mine and give me a devilish smile You tilt your head forward You’re trying too hard I want to scream **** you Hurt you at the very least Punch you right in your beautiful ugly face I laugh to try to make you stop But inside, I collapse. Please, please stop looking at me. You’re piercing right through my ugly, sexless body Right into my nervous, teenage soul You are so beyond me I hate you for that. I’ll always hate you for that I know you feel superior to me I know you use me I know you take comfort in my cynical, society depreciating, feminist convictions My mumbling garbage of sadness I know you think I’m smart but at the same time pathetic I know that you want me Because you think you can have everything I know you need me Like you need anyone Because you can’t stand to be alone. Yes, I know you can’t stand to be alone. Your wretched body that you toss around like an object All in a vain attempt to be wanted But you still end up alone. You aren’t what you think you are What you want to be So don’t you look down on me like that With your practiced sultriness I say all these things in my laugh But you’re oblivious You look away smiling Like you’ve won something I collapse inside I want to crumple I’m too tired for violence Too sad So I just sit on your couch Perturbed by the silence Even when I hate you most I’m afraid of what you imagine of me in the silence.
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49
The dream haunts me often, far too often, building in intensity but is initially disguised in absurdity and the nonsense of a young man's lusts with an old man's deficits. This woman-like entity, ill-defined at first but forming voluptuously, emerges from swelling curtains. She moves, more levitates, toward my bed, buoyed by what I don't know, but angelic-like it would seem. Or perhaps an Aphrodite reincarnate? Oh this goddess, what pale skin, as Parian marble, full bosomed, jutting ******* ***** that beckon, nearly drool, and pursed red lips beaded with sweet juice stolen from the wild cherry tree beneath my window. Far too much clarity for a simple dream. But such a dream! And what seething testosterone I feel! I am become a hedonist, raging, pulsing spermatozoa, renewed of time and youthful energies. Nerve into nerve we join, ecstacy compounding ecstacy, bodies wantonly impaling the other on this love bed to the result that each cell of our individualities melds. We are indistinct, yes - as one, and any ****** impulse between us is shared to the point of utter exhaustion, depletion. I am nearly drained of life, it would seem. Then, as it always must, the scene changes, Act II. Inexplicably, shedding a ****** serpentine-like skin, she slings it away and drops limply upon me - entirely skeletal, dry cartilage, sinew, lifeless, sexless, motionless. The horror of a diabolical hollowness stares through me, and I am suspended, fully terrorized, in this paralysis. So, this is succumbing to the Succubus? God, my dear God, that I should never dream again! --
0
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 10:25 AM UTC
Succumbing to the Succubus
The dream haunts me often, far too often, building in intensity but is initially disguised in absurdity and the nonsense of a young man's lusts with an old man's deficits. This woman-like entity, ill-defined at first but forming voluptuously, emerges from swelling curtains. She moves, more levitates, toward my bed, buoyed by what I don't know, but angelic-like it would seem. Or perhaps an Aphrodite reincarnate? Oh this goddess, what pale skin, as Parian marble, full bosomed, jutting ******* ***** that beckon, nearly drool, and pursed red lips beaded with sweet juice stolen from the wild cherry tree beneath my window. Far too much clarity for a simple dream. But such a dream! And what seething testosterone I feel! I am become a hedonist, raging, pulsing spermatozoa, renewed of time and youthful energies. Nerve into nerve we join, ecstacy compounding ecstacy, bodies wantonly impaling the other on this love bed to the result that each cell of our individualities melds. We are indistinct, yes - as one, and any ****** impulse between us is shared to the point of utter exhaustion, depletion. I am nearly drained of life, it would seem. Then, as it always must, the scene changes, Act II. Inexplicably, shedding a ****** serpentine-like skin, she slings it away and drops limply upon me - entirely skeletal, dry cartilage, sinew, lifeless, sexless, motionless. The horror of a diabolical hollowness stares through me, and I am suspended, fully terrorized, in this paralysis. So, this is succumbing to the Succubus? God, my dear God, that I should never dream again! --
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51
Father, Son, Mechanic… Man, I’ve wanted to talk to you – really talk to you – for some time now. to see your face in front of me, instead of dangling from necklaces, or hanging, melancholy, over sexless couples’ beds. I’ve spent a lot of time reading all that stuff you wrote (supposedly), and I’ve enjoyed it, Man, I have. but I keep wanting it to be a letter, when in the end it’s just a bipartisan explanation – an engineer’s guide to building a pretty vehicle around a faulty engine. I always see you, arms spread, sprawled across the older bitter-america’s steering wheel. my mama would tease me, saying you’d want me to help some day. but you and your cronies drove me like a beat-down El Camino, joyfully taking me through wrong turns and bumpy streets waiting for my chassis to split. and once I ran out of gas to offer, you refused to touch me at all, letting me rot in your cobweb garage. and all those ******* in turtlenecks and polos popped, they’ve gleefully branded your logo on their chemical biceps and gaily explain how close you were. how they knew you like no one else did, how you guys didn’t have a connection, but a relationship. people should only let their mechanics touch their cars, though, and keep their innards free of oily fingers. to be honest, I don’t think I’ll be coming back to this establishment again. it’s a little too clean for my taste, and your prices are way to high especially when all you get is a little peace of mind and a sense of humbled grandeur. don’t worry about the car, though – you can keep it. you’ve sort of spoiled all its good intentions, so I’ll be buying a new one sometime soon. I guess I’ll be taking a taxi. No, actually. I’ll hitchhike home.
0
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:20 PM UTC
Father, Son, Mechanic...
Father, Son, Mechanic… Man, I’ve wanted to talk to you – really talk to you – for some time now. to see your face in front of me, instead of dangling from necklaces, or hanging, melancholy, over sexless couples’ beds. I’ve spent a lot of time reading all that stuff you wrote (supposedly), and I’ve enjoyed it, Man, I have. but I keep wanting it to be a letter, when in the end it’s just a bipartisan explanation – an engineer’s guide to building a pretty vehicle around a faulty engine. I always see you, arms spread, sprawled across the older bitter-america’s steering wheel. my mama would tease me, saying you’d want me to help some day. but you and your cronies drove me like a beat-down El Camino, joyfully taking me through wrong turns and bumpy streets waiting for my chassis to split. and once I ran out of gas to offer, you refused to touch me at all, letting me rot in your cobweb garage. and all those ******* in turtlenecks and polos popped, they’ve gleefully branded your logo on their chemical biceps and gaily explain how close you were. how they knew you like no one else did, how you guys didn’t have a connection, but a relationship. people should only let their mechanics touch their cars, though, and keep their innards free of oily fingers. to be honest, I don’t think I’ll be coming back to this establishment again. it’s a little too clean for my taste, and your prices are way to high especially when all you get is a little peace of mind and a sense of humbled grandeur. don’t worry about the car, though – you can keep it. you’ve sort of spoiled all its good intentions, so I’ll be buying a new one sometime soon. I guess I’ll be taking a taxi. No, actually. I’ll hitchhike home.
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33
Past altered states tests postive and subtle ******* So and so's teeter Paleolithic après time puddles And submit terrible philosphies Ashy stubble ticks politics  and sacrafice to peer approval sacralige Test probably appears stable Top patriarch's able suddenly to Pop above submerged tables possibly After, something tests patience awkwardly Stumps tarot practioners and *** testers poor application sterily Topology plain, astrology scorpio Torpedo power aptly strikes to pedal antlers sour Take particular appointments Stop testing please apply sorted Terror power and sexless torn pigs afterhours pen and store tips, plow. Alter simians testosterone, pow! As scientists type papers about sexing tasteless past alligator snouts  testing partly after science takes party alliance south to pawn army  subtle tipped passion. artsy. Start these. pick atoms smarmy Tally past all sentences take pride As stencils test pestilence. And sigh. The previous alterations simply tried. And didn't work, hence the present Path lit incandescent. I'm looking towards the east waiting for positivity to peak You're turned backwards nostalgic for something that'll never come repeat.
0
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 5:02 PM UTC
Previous Iterations
Chop down the city lights of Paranoia. Cathartic beads of sweat roll off the horrors of your back under the saggy breast lamps in the pitched dreams where the nightmare kids come to watch you sleep.            Somersaulting walls made of human tissue, the love of your life overseas, and everything you say comes out as water torture on hollow centers of hope.                         poetry is dead.                                                   Liars smoke ten packs a day, social criminals stroll in marathons of perdition across the rot of post-modern vices, their feet stomp closer to watching faces under the bed.                                       'This is a story. A dream!' Everyone sees the fire under the bed. Watch-fires earthbound by every word before it is said, gagged in envy--brought to glow by spineless atoms.         Every sexless sun has a beard, a saved flirtation that singes           the vacuum of today's soul,                              a dead dream because you didn't pull it from the brink. No one has a name in poetry. A task. A point. An exit.                                                   One bed-room apartments locked with pearls                                                      visible only to soloist dogs. No sorry for vagueness or shut-mouth or bleeding upwards. The meter is running.... to the pharmacy because it could be pregnant with all the possibilities. And the whole amphitheater wants to hear one line, the life changer you brought --here it is: Forget your name.
0
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
Paranoia
Chop down the city lights of Paranoia. Cathartic beads of sweat roll off the horrors of your back under the saggy breast lamps in the pitched dreams where the nightmare kids come to watch you sleep.            Somersaulting walls made of human tissue, the love of your life overseas, and everything you say comes out as water torture on hollow centers of hope.                         poetry is dead.                                                   Liars smoke ten packs a day, social criminals stroll in marathons of perdition across the rot of post-modern vices, their feet stomp closer to watching faces under the bed.                                       'This is a story. A dream!' Everyone sees the fire under the bed. Watch-fires earthbound by every word before it is said, gagged in envy--brought to glow by spineless atoms.         Every sexless sun has a beard, a saved flirtation that singes           the vacuum of today's soul,                              a dead dream because you didn't pull it from the brink. No one has a name in poetry. A task. A point. An exit.                                                   One bed-room apartments locked with pearls                                                      visible only to soloist dogs. No sorry for vagueness or shut-mouth or bleeding upwards. The meter is running.... to the pharmacy because it could be pregnant with all the possibilities. And the whole amphitheater wants to hear one line, the life changer you brought --here it is: Forget your name.
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30
She kept up with her housekeeping. Typically. Very Neat. Shelves everywhere. Today, the melon baller was out of place and she was busy batting flies. Actually, there was only one fly. Senses deceived. The humming was too loud to go undisturbed. Attention becomes focused digitally on enhanced minute wrecks. Hours spent trying to get the flies. Illusion. One fly. She didn't know. Suspected worst. Kept at it. The sexless man walked in with a tophat. Brimmed. Asks why the dishes weren't done. Too Busy. Why the floor not swept. Too Busy. Vacuum. There's flies to get. I'm busy. The house is a mess. The house is a wreck.
0
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
Narrator of the Pressed State.
Fierce is god impenitrable glad glad glad there is a Fire up the street called Heaven There is A woman wearing only one shoe who is taking an exhaustive drag of her smoke in the early morning where birds are still heard in                                     !!!!!!cities A hymnal a heralded nest of savory berries A quartzstone is trapped in time a myth is made more ridiculous when proven real Continents wither where the flies glue their regal canvases on downtrodden earth (missing Pangea) Or smiles everlasting smiles meanwhile (Blonde tongues wearing fashioned wigs) in constant state of beguilement The Neanderthalic stones will be unforgiving to the REVEREND who has collapsed through his song the song of lead pipedream fantasies of sexless dogma YEAH monkhood yeah Ghat burning holes in twilit schools of thought or no thought at all I can hear the collective Faerie outcry that silence has presented itself HEAvier to their wicked careless bodies ok I am innocent of love I love your innocent love I am careless(of their wicked careless bodies) ResemblingA swans actual duty to die a swan lies a swan lay like an even more beautiful swan on even more beautiful swanny grass To die by swanlightSUN and MOON white like the swan where we soon listen closely to the swansong a celestialLOVELY rhythm of gilded forest (((((orchestrals The swan leaves us in happiness of bright groggy light                          O (of which in chaos of day I am again innocent)      The Reverend's desperate gaspings into a  micro -phone for a macro - cosmic prayer idol o idol where is your capability for worship idol o where is my chinstrap o idol where is ****** youth or the romanticized eternal SUMMERS I sing      O bible O cloudland O where is your telephone operator is they deceased by their own fragrant holines? The church      Watches the Reverend neverend his television routine of clamoring death odes      Watches his senility come like an implorical shadow outline watches a demon lick its dreamless lips beyond the periphery of godless dreams      Watches      Reverend lose his sight in anInstant      HeWAILSheWAILSandWAILS can you hear it Thomas De Quincey can you hear the sandbeaches ringing more clearly than the ChurchBells or the ****** Pagoda for torture / his soul is to sleep in the (mossy)mountain the fire of the (forever)street called HEAVEN the mountain column supporting the sky(swan)gate of heavenHeaven!welcome    to:
0
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
The Reverend Has Collapsed Through His Song/of Which in Chaos of Day I am Again Innocent
Fierce is god impenitrable glad glad glad there is a Fire up the street called Heaven There is A woman wearing only one shoe who is taking an exhaustive drag of her smoke in the early morning where birds are still heard in                                     !!!!!!cities A hymnal a heralded nest of savory berries A quartzstone is trapped in time a myth is made more ridiculous when proven real Continents wither where the flies glue their regal canvases on downtrodden earth (missing Pangea) Or smiles everlasting smiles meanwhile (Blonde tongues wearing fashioned wigs) in constant state of beguilement The Neanderthalic stones will be unforgiving to the REVEREND who has collapsed through his song the song of lead pipedream fantasies of sexless dogma YEAH monkhood yeah Ghat burning holes in twilit schools of thought or no thought at all I can hear the collective Faerie outcry that silence has presented itself HEAvier to their wicked careless bodies ok I am innocent of love I love your innocent love I am careless(of their wicked careless bodies) ResemblingA swans actual duty to die a swan lies a swan lay like an even more beautiful swan on even more beautiful swanny grass To die by swanlightSUN and MOON white like the swan where we soon listen closely to the swansong a celestialLOVELY rhythm of gilded forest (((((orchestrals The swan leaves us in happiness of bright groggy light                          O (of which in chaos of day I am again innocent)      The Reverend's desperate gaspings into a  micro -phone for a macro - cosmic prayer idol o idol where is your capability for worship idol o where is my chinstrap o idol where is ****** youth or the romanticized eternal SUMMERS I sing      O bible O cloudland O where is your telephone operator is they deceased by their own fragrant holines? The church      Watches the Reverend neverend his television routine of clamoring death odes      Watches his senility come like an implorical shadow outline watches a demon lick its dreamless lips beyond the periphery of godless dreams      Watches      Reverend lose his sight in anInstant      HeWAILSheWAILSandWAILS can you hear it Thomas De Quincey can you hear the sandbeaches ringing more clearly than the ChurchBells or the ****** Pagoda for torture / his soul is to sleep in the (mossy)mountain the fire of the (forever)street called HEAVEN the mountain column supporting the sky(swan)gate of heavenHeaven!welcome    to:
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36
The Amstel. Christ. Kilner jars full of fireflies on redbrick windowsills. Hormone therapy. Jesus. Angel boys from Europe trailing around behind me wondering - and not caring - what the hell is in my pants. Cold morning breezes on scarred chest tissue and needle puncture marks. Rows and rows of bicycles and a fluttering pink scarf in the wind. Roaring screams and sexless smiles cold split knuckles and nonchalant breath.
0
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
Thirst
This plain Monday seemed to be fine Except I didn't recognize the bright beam Floating near me in the blue berry sky. I gazed at this peculiar sight As the soaring machinery opened its great mouth. Before I could fathom anything, I was lifted off my feet, and ****** in like a baby bird consuming an earthworm. I could no longer hear my own thoughts, Only the squeaking and mumbling of Stoic strangers. The pace of my pulse was light, but somehow rapid. They gently lay me down in front of a foreign device, A metallic blur to human eyes. All of these creatures were sexless, and small in stature, Despite being overbearingly powerful. One of them knew my name, "Brandon Antonio Smith, this is the moment, Your life will be changed for the better, forever it will." It kissed my forehead, Its aromatic saliva remained behind, and eased my afflicted mind. Then the figure took off all my clothing , Raised the instrument, and pierced it through my belly, While saying "You will lose the knowledge of tears, laughter, happiness, Rage, love, and all your memories. You are now one of us." Eerily, discomfort was not sensed at all. They dropped me off from Their space craft, back to Earth, and took off. This Monday was not plain, I will never be the same. What they saw as peace was my nightmare. Originally written 11/15/10 Revised 9/24/14 (c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
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Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
Abducted
We never had a sexless fantasy. A bond so unreal. I have seen your body naked, no clothes underneath those sheets. Your purest form. I let you get more than a glimpse of me. You took in all of me. To take your smooth palm and caress my curves, I have never been so comfortable. Our bodies needed each other. Our souls were destined to meet. It has been a long time since we've spoken, since we touched. No romance, no lust. You are, now, a stranger to me. Being in each other's presence feels like meeting for the first time. I used to be able to look in the mirror and see you -- with me. I am, now, left to wonder when will be the next time we meet. 82413
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Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
Fronting
Look, this woman is pregnant, In her second last chance to have a baby Perhaps a baby boy, or sexless, She is yet to give birth, Or even a still-birth Will be a land mark For those who feel for others, This September 2014 The midwife will attend to Europe, Mrs. Europe the mother of all nations Had been impregnated by reason, Voice of reason and consciousness, He fertilized her with the ductile germ, Full of cells for struggle against unit Against marginalization of the uncultured, Where the progressives in the oats’ mouth **** Now, a second last child is bound to be born Britain may be her foster mother, We pray for Britain to be strong In this moral duty of parenthood.
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Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
Mrs. EUROPE IS PREGNANT
There were bright lights from the ceiling once it got dark outside and when big Ted brought in the sandwiches for tea or supper or whatever they called it I sat next to Christine on one of the double sofas and she looked at the plates of sandwiches that were laid on the table and said usual boring stuff I’m not eating I’d rather starve big Ted said O come on young lady we've got to get you well again and out of this ward he offered her a ham sandwich real ham he said not that tin stuff she looked at him don't fancy meat she said he took up a cheese sandwich Cheddar he said good stuff I’ve tasted it downstairs in the kitchen I could eat a horse I said taking the cheese sandwich no horse sandwiches today Ted said smiling Christine gazed at me then at the plate of sandwiches it's an effort to eat she said I should be coming home from my honeymoon now if the **** hadn't left me at the altar done my head in Ted raised his eyebrows is there anything I can get you other than sandwiches? they've got sausage rolls downstairs all dressed in my wedding dress with flowers and waiting and he doesn't show I take a ham sandwich his loss I said he must be missing a ***** not to wed you she gazed at me then took a cheese sandwich and ate Ted frowned and walked off to get the teapot and coffee pots and cups from the trolley you'll find someone I said don't think I want anyone now think I'll become a nun or missionary in some far off land sexless and taking care of others she sat eating in silence for a moment or two not sure I could go long without *** come to think of it she took a ham sandwich with one hand and placed a hand on my thigh with that dull light in her green blue left eye.
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Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
BLUE LEFT EYE.
There were bright lights from the ceiling once it got dark outside and when big Ted brought in the sandwiches for tea or supper or whatever they called it I sat next to Christine on one of the double sofas and she looked at the plates of sandwiches that were laid on the table and said usual boring stuff I’m not eating I’d rather starve big Ted said O come on young lady we've got to get you well again and out of this ward he offered her a ham sandwich real ham he said not that tin stuff she looked at him don't fancy meat she said he took up a cheese sandwich Cheddar he said good stuff I’ve tasted it downstairs in the kitchen I could eat a horse I said taking the cheese sandwich no horse sandwiches today Ted said smiling Christine gazed at me then at the plate of sandwiches it's an effort to eat she said I should be coming home from my honeymoon now if the **** hadn't left me at the altar done my head in Ted raised his eyebrows is there anything I can get you other than sandwiches? they've got sausage rolls downstairs all dressed in my wedding dress with flowers and waiting and he doesn't show I take a ham sandwich his loss I said he must be missing a ***** not to wed you she gazed at me then took a cheese sandwich and ate Ted frowned and walked off to get the teapot and coffee pots and cups from the trolley you'll find someone I said don't think I want anyone now think I'll become a nun or missionary in some far off land sexless and taking care of others she sat eating in silence for a moment or two not sure I could go long without *** come to think of it she took a ham sandwich with one hand and placed a hand on my thigh with that dull light in her green blue left eye.
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108
the defense of your legacy manifested into strings of saccharin and phrases like ‘Come on in from the rain. We all need a torrent to own the storm, just- take off your clothes, don’t mind Kierkegaard.’ your sincerity is a cipher you’re something of a conversation piece between good friends who were artfully made of pre-engineered steel on a day Jove tremored in his bed you’re something postured beneath a javelin and likewise- something propelled for decorum blackguard, black coffee and a birthmark turned into a running joke. inevitable. you searched the bottoms of summer pools and found no discernible trace of your history her sable crown whips back and forth in your head and you maintain the chaos with aureate cries of preservation it’s a halcyon boom, a lonely and sexless halcyon boom it makes every yellow and red dress chimerical it makes your neck unassailable drugstore cowboy they got close enough to see you sweat to note that heat and her magnificence could purge as quick as they reinstate and you still beat like they do stubbornly.
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Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 10:20 AM UTC
Seattle.
And the night bus was late and it took a different route. It passed the buildings, barrios and fears of my childhood. The banks, neatly groomed. The fancy buildings where most of the people I once knew live. There the sexless book club where I used to wonder about the knight B4. I know there are walkways connecting the blocks where thousands of people are now asleep or lovingly kissing or exchanging ****** favours for small change in the under ground cellar boxes. Or people locked up in prison for no reason at all. Or people up at night wishing upon stars that they cannot reach. The bus takes another turn. There are garbage among the dillapidated parking lots. I see my neighbourhood. I can smell my neighbourhood. The despair, the hunger. It scares me to write about it. Perhaps you dwell somewhere here, but it is not likely. I can't find you here. We have so little time To be born in the riot , And it is the riot, What happens in the riot, That decides what matters.
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Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
a garbage inspired ****
I must have something to joke about. Like being a swampy mermaid. I'd **** to be a sexless myth, hermit in the wetlands, combing my hair with the delicate ribcage of a racoon. Still, every now and then the boyfriend/bear would come find me and **** off onto my tail. What wild certainty in that -
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Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
Untitled
1 He leant down Quietly carving his name into the sand; The pursuing waves, Repeatedly rippling forward, with The force of a motorized modern army Gunning down civilians, Dragged it clean. Flies loquaciously buzzed around his head, As, crushing down seaweed, He carved his name again. 2. The roots dug deep, pushing against The soil. The particles spread apart With sexless ardour. The man, Of a tolerant disposition, wrenched The roots free with drenched hands. Nothing lasted forever. 3. The yellow and green of the sunrise Turned swiftly into unpretentious browns The light changing shape as the Morning matured and the sun Rose further in the sky. Pumped up Clouds rolled sinuously along, combining and separating Like fantastic amoeba. 4. And so it continued Under the burning sun; more spiteful from year to year. The man said nothing As he climbed into the salt water, Gulls circumnavigating above his head, With nothing to say or remember Except the lines in the sand.
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Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
CARVING HIS NAME
I am still trying my best. Stretching my legs to the coastline, lactic shackles of inertia are cast off. I remember the ease of animating these young limbs- concrete strut, woodland walk; it is hard to think of you much these days, even in the confines of unread books and filter coffee. I have forgotten you, your blue dress, your punting on the Thames. There are harder habits than caffeine and rich women. As Ol' Tom Waits says, “you don't meet nice girls in coffee shops.” The glass roof of the arcade offers translucent sunlight, a high-street retreat from the nature of the sea, all mankind's institutionalisation, all these walls and closing times, bigger names over bigger signs. I am still a rare sight of youth amongst the patient, ringed eyes of those book-shop loyalists; a choir of silver on their heads, acquired wisdom of faded routines, old laughter etched like the Nazca Lines in their faces, lips eroded and pale; sexless in the fluorescent lighting. Breathing spaces where life exists are always held closest to the fear of death. I am still finding a clean way of living, a way to accept my place, my face in the mirror of my self-hate, anxious words and half-conscious recollections; the remnants and scars from asphyxiation – old drownings: the sorrow that separated myself from others, the sorrow that separated you and I, you and I. Your pursuit of a well-ticked time-sheet, my love for sentiments that rhyme. I have learned the patterns of the waves, the way money is exchanged. Oh, my dearest depression, my ache for acceptance. My endless, endless ocean of blue can be sad, so sad, but it can be beautiful too.
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May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
Coffee At Waterstones II
I am still trying my best. Stretching my legs to the coastline, lactic shackles of inertia are cast off. I remember the ease of animating these young limbs- concrete strut, woodland walk; it is hard to think of you much these days, even in the confines of unread books and filter coffee. I have forgotten you, your blue dress, your punting on the Thames. There are harder habits than caffeine and rich women. As Ol' Tom Waits says, “you don't meet nice girls in coffee shops.” The glass roof of the arcade offers translucent sunlight, a high-street retreat from the nature of the sea, all mankind's institutionalisation, all these walls and closing times, bigger names over bigger signs. I am still a rare sight of youth amongst the patient, ringed eyes of those book-shop loyalists; a choir of silver on their heads, acquired wisdom of faded routines, old laughter etched like the Nazca Lines in their faces, lips eroded and pale; sexless in the fluorescent lighting. Breathing spaces where life exists are always held closest to the fear of death. I am still finding a clean way of living, a way to accept my place, my face in the mirror of my self-hate, anxious words and half-conscious recollections; the remnants and scars from asphyxiation – old drownings: the sorrow that separated myself from others, the sorrow that separated you and I, you and I. Your pursuit of a well-ticked time-sheet, my love for sentiments that rhyme. I have learned the patterns of the waves, the way money is exchanged. Oh, my dearest depression, my ache for acceptance. My endless, endless ocean of blue can be sad, so sad, but it can be beautiful too.
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49
I want to be skinny and sexless, to lay around in sleeping bags under the stars with friends and maybe lovers to feel the comfort of skin and the ear tickling of dreamy nonsense words of plans and ambitions and dreams and loves. I want to be skinny and sexless, to waste my youth- idle- with thoughts that lead nowhere but to other young holding hands- fingers, long hair, short hair, scissors. I want to be skinny and sexless, with the romanticized and stigmatized idea of children gone wild- skateboards and swimming pools and hot red blood and money burning holes not in pockets but in hands and broken bottles and brown paper bags. I want to be skinny and sexless, to write poetry and half romantic letters that swear with my whole heart "I hope I die before I hit thirty."
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Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
coming to terms with the fact that I didn't spend my youth like everything told me I should
The feminine voice finds many ways to my ear It conceals its muffled words in droplets of water Brushes against me while in tow of unknowing winds Shrieking whispers invade my solitude Masters of disguises invisible to young eyes. I can never fall asleep as gently as I once could Drifting into the safe havens has become a rough journey Dreams have become a great escape rather than a warm embrace Through battle they have my eyes hostage By their command they unwillingly disallow rest. As butterflies caught in a storm, my eyes flutter manically in their cage In closed lids they pry and scratch in search of escape. Never ceasing to stop looking they trap me in this limbo Almost treacherously aiding the sexless voiced general In his raiding my humanity for feelings to satisfy his troops hunger. But they are disappointed more often than not Self ruining feelings are all this soulless ghost army craves A delicacy they tasted in me and fed on in greed I am sorry, dear enemy, your momentary pleasure is over This storage is running low from frequent raids of provoked panic and emotion. This war has been long, and no longer appears a battle More a dance well practiced, predictable every night You have eaten all of what you desired, but fear not I have something left Without catch nor trickery I give to you a message of kindness and savior- It reads Your hunger will bring starvation So let me sleep, or continue your attacks to your downfall.
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Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
I Remember this Dance
trapped beneath a fitted rubber sheet a lump in the mattress suffocating on rancid latex sweat and yesterday's dried fluids who were they the nameless in the dark this one smelled of popcorn that on howled in delight a collage of senseless noise scented by cats and Ajax leftovers always go bad Chuck-will's-widow in the tree by the window it must be after midnight though noon looks the same in this cage that gives just enough to torture with possibilities of breaking free freedom is overrated roses stain glass with the bloodletting of thorny mishaps blurred by smeared wounds ain't life grand when love ceases to be a goal how can one find what is utterly indefinable if it cannot be decisively named it cannot be concretely attained then again, love's fluidity is its charm no hard edges ebbing and flowing elusive and longing **** me latex blind unseen and used by those who never did mind a lumpy mattress
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Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
Loveless, Sexless, Lifeless, and Free