Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
ryn Sep 2014
Life throws at us the worst practical pranks
Some call them challenges... I call them sick ironies
With challenges you might emerge victorious, and slide up the ranks
Ironies are just mean, bad jokes; locks with no keys

Call me godless, sad and trodden, bitter man
Call me a cynic, call me all including jaded
I've arranged it all in various permutations, much as I can
But my view at this point cannot be compensated

Allow me to illustrate...

•It's funny how you feel very certain or strongly
About the bog of sadness and depression you wade in deepest
You know it's real, you fan it with strength your mind could carry
When it could be better used to rise from when you're weakest

•What's this about having to crash to your fiery death
Into the realm of darkness; into the belly of hell
You'd have to almost die and lose your last breath
Before granted an epiphany, a slim chance that you could turn out well

•When life throws you in the deepest end
Fills your lungs with copius amounts of bad water
Tries to **** you before allowing time to mend
When if we were first taught to swim, it would've been much easier

•Sure... A treasure trove of splendours, life does offer
But like a spin of the lottery, you mightn't get even if you deserve
No matter how far you reach into it's elusive coffers
No matter how hard you worked to get ahead of the curve

•Life is like Christmas at times when it feels like giving
Like the gift of love much coveted by most individuals
Gives us all these fanciful things that need extensive assembling
But mischievously hoarding all the instruction manuals

•Fraught with grey areas and blind spots to fight
Presents ample opportunities to find the place that you'd belong
You go through shitloads of wrongs to get a right
And finally you think you're right, in actuality, you're dead wrong!

"More", you say?

•Friends during good times but not the bad
•The perfect red apple hosting a worm inside
•Faking a happy smile when you're deep down sad
•Putting our blind faiths in politicians we know who've lied

•Achieving superstardom only after death had ensnared
•Using heavy machinery to rid the Earth of impurity
•Shooting your mean motor mouth and wonder why no one cared
•Starlets dying for attention but crumble under scrutiny

•Health warnings on cigarettes but still sold for revenue
•Acquiring your sought after sports car but drive within the limit
•Promotions to idiots in suits who haven't got a clue
•Stretching up for the stars even when you know you'll never reach it

Well...

I could give more examples but I've typed enough
Life is but a game we're all playing; a circus we're all living
We can't help being helpless when unable to read and call its bluff
All we can afford is to keep siphoning water out of our boat that's sinking
I know I have been whiny in my recent writes. I also know that living a hard life makes you stronger... When life gives you lemons, make lemonade... Blah blah, yada yada... YAWN... SNORE... Zzzzzz. I know these already and I'm sure they're true to a certain degree. Just want to rant and complain. Please forgive my whining.
Brandon Webb Nov 2012
1
she taps he hand, twice.
across the room,
he stares, thinking
into empty air.
others, scattered
tap pencils or fingers
on desktops, booktops
and phone keyboards

the balding man
with black hair:
combed backward
and to differing angles
so that his head is split
vertically-
stands, above the room
his back turned

his words,
meant for the crowd
reverberate only
along classes fringe
but still take precedence
over nothing
even to them-
academics, outcasts


2
back of the room
reveals everything
to the observer
trying to see

blue-eyed brunette
glares vengefully
at no one,
just to glare

he looks up once
to watch
as another
pulls up
drooping jeans.
she laughs
at conversation
unmeant for,
and inaudible
to her


3
today, she smiles
and lets her lip fall
begging, like a puppy
But when they
lose eye contact,
she glares, again

he leaves footprints
on parallel desk
from lounging
then fires himself
to his feet
using stored energy,
and sugar from gum

words bounce along
the walls in the back,
and isolated eyes peer
towards the screen
but hide the fact
that they care


4
two week vacation
has left their minds
full of everything
except math,
so they listen
to him, while he speaks

but travel backward
in time, with
those closest them
while he creeps,
silent, around the room

she concentrates hard,
on her work
glaring at the page.
he sits a desk forward
feet on floor
neighboring desk full
today, but only physically

blue hat rests
on sketchbook,
its border
barely covering
closed eyes

blond head
implants itself
jokingly, into
smooth shining
white wall
with enough force
to collapse
accidental target

a hand raises
attracting gazes,
awestruck,
at her interest
in forgotten
material
of future tests


5
only a few eyes wander
from blue lined notebooks
though the left flank
still chatters, embodying
either a secretive chipmunk
or the breeze which starts the storm

storm clouds appear slowly
in sketchbook, blue hat bobbing
rhythmically in response to active pen

perched above the flock
reminiscent, split headed
papa bird scans the masks
of his shockingly silent chicks

random lecture breaks the silence.
Her eyes aren’t the only ones
Fixed into a steel laden glare
But the chipmunk wind ceases


6
his questioning glance lands
on uninhabited space,
exhibiting a yawn
which traverses through,
and twists, the faces of
those otherwise engaged

lecture ends with a question,
the scent of nuts blows through
mentally empty classroom
turning desks to predetermined
positions and swiftly inhabiting
three-quarters of the physical class

his steel glare has replaced hers
the latter’s eyes now soft as an infants

within five minutes, his voice
undergoes  a brutal, complete cycle
pleading, congratulating, yelling
and as always, lecturing


7
pre-test:

preparations for misery-
mundane chipmunk chattering,
jokes and laughs from random
oddities appearing everywhere

blue hat rests in intervals.
Blue coat rearranges
essay for another class

The girl in the sunny plaid
Rolls an orange along her hand

He points at nothing and asks
Nobody something without answer

The left flank, as always
Is turned away, conversing

A sigh rings outward loudly
Everyone glares, nervously,
Everywhere, reward of concentration


After my test:

First paper in, he scans lightly
Sets it down with a scowl
and yawns, twice, breaking the
silent shroud of heavy fog
which is hanging overhead

wandering free eyes witness
down-turned heads concentrating
as much on tests  as on moving
their hands wildly, excitedly
trying to communicate non-vocally

others have yet to detach themselves
from their seats and stride upward,
hopefully more triumphantly
than their sole predecessor

one shuffles now, slowly toward him
his hand shaking as he releases
that  paper, he turns away as it flutters
onto the desk- he replants himself in his

twelve others walk forward
smiling, shrinking, sometimes speaking
and always he glares, triumphant
knowing his success at our failure


later:

his near-sleeping form            
finds distraction, in waking
dreams, jumping back suddenly
breaking from his plank-like state
without speaking. excitement
for approaching weekend is
communicated in the left flank

two girls break the silence
running in from outside            
he glares at them, but laughs

everyone breaks into groups
after the conversation about
mysteriously nutty discarded sock

he runs to the forefront
forehead folded, finger on mouth
no-one notices, but still he glares

8
he smiles and glares at the floor
his legs swinging back and forth            
tan slacks rustling softly

exaggerated scores bubble in ears            
as they search for their destroyer

in front of forgotten faces falls
the page of a forgotten tome

several yawn, hoping, understandably
that their stretched lips
will pull themselves far enough
to barricade ears from his droning

he kills himself, twice, bumbling
into half-thought chastisements
of the  flittingly flirtatious students
intermingling hoping behind him
causing waves of whispers, laughter
and slightly strengthened chatter

he re-aligns his thoughts quickly
and rambles on again, always

9
he speaks to her softly
from across a sea of desks
she looks up, panicking calmly
distracted from distraction

in silence, blank eyes turn
surprised at the non-withering
state of her barely living corpse

he asks a question, looking up
a single answer is given
unemotional and short, buy ending
heavy hanging awkward silence

how talented the teacher
who gives his lecture while
still addressing unrelated
student self lectures

the still silence given
in his questioning lull
hangs so loudly the whispers
traversing the classroom appear
silent as finger wiggle
and pencils trace zeros

his extrication, caused by
distractingly thunderous voice
is met with a comment
causing a wave of laughter
starting at his mouth
and extending to inhabit everything

10
half the time gives
twice the attention
as they concentrate
on keeping him on
the undying topic
of the work we
have already done

they admit defeat
as dusty tome opens
spreading a nutty cloud
causing heads to turn
and words to leap.

from opens lips,
mischievous gremlins
sprout, dancing on
tables and chuckling
away from the sigh
of his down-turned, split
shining, globular mind

he scratches pink ear
with bone pale finger
reading unrelated words

in the center of the room
both mentally and physically
he sits, momentarily quiet
as dark eyes glare past
rumpled pink nose,
concentrating

blue hat rests on open palms
above dust covered open page
he slips into sleeping state
but picks himself up
and stares though thin borderline
toward shiny rambling forehead

a shutter cord flies forward
the hand at the end pulling hard
but with no affect to the shutters
neither lowering the physical
or raising the mental

the color of non-color pencils
interrupts the class momentarily
as she strides forward to compare
and then criticizes his care

he just sits, smiles and stares

11
eleven desks lie empty
of one form more than usual
amplifying the arm movements
of the ever ticking seconds

his obscured mouth flings seeds
which sprout into words
before even meeting the worn
blood-colored carpet below

in the main room, sixteen
sit silent, sketching, sleeping
or siphoning the last minute

12
those left awake, and alive
have come to understand
the numbers on the screen
this being their specialty
in a nutty shell, of course
splitting, as we are, large
crowds of numbers, and us
being teenagers, isn’t that
how we think, in numbers
and ratings of everything
and, sitting in the central
crowd are the talented
crowd-splitters
flattery-spitters

13
the silence of half absence
is pierced, as always by vocal
anomaly, centered around
rows of shining wood
bookrests, but only one
set of hollow, dark-rimmed
vacant eyeballs watches
well-welcomed interruption

he lets us work, standing.
Someone somewhere opens
A large container of nuts
Entire class starts stuffing
Handfuls into puffy cheeks
Absorbing sensations into
Eternally ravenous minds

The apocalyptic mix of noises
Is split again by central
Nutcracker, and those in corners
Glare, smiling, rubbing shadowed
Acne scarred faces
with raw-bitten nails

14
balding papa bird speaks loudly
transforming his voice, becoming
vocally legendary cartoon duck

the wave of resulting laughter
ends in un-given nut-break
spreading, without speech
the understanding that his
comedic digression will not
meet a quick extinction

we greet the weekend
by rising early
our excuse: competition
to devour the worm

15
three heads are downturned
peering into textbooks
as the tsunami breaks

the days end starts
and beady eyes peer
in the direction of his
moving head, colored
gothic gargoyle in the
dim cloudlight streaming
through dust coated
slit windows

the room transforms
becoming triumphantly,
grumpily, repeatedly
conversational

artificial silence
spreads like a wave
from right back corner
to left front corner
leaving behind
the half of the room
hidden behind the wall
of troublemakers
who will eventually
cause the wall to topple
with the sheer force
of assorted nuts

16
blue hat is scrunched
under the of a fist
pounding on his head,
result of the decibels
consumed, and produced
by the embodiment
of the thoughts around him
which fall from stuffed
cheeks. Bounce off tables
and spread a sickening aroma
as their shells split
exposing, revealing
nothing

17
red face glances upward
as harsh words split
the widening sea of snickers
his words stop, first time today
as whispers spread wildly
of his speed in delivering answers
seconds later, room is silent
as statement ends and lecturer
turns back to him, offering
as always, another wave
of deep felt, anger hardened
quietly whispered, criticisms

thunderous-rush-voice leads
out of habit and necessity
the minutes following
his behavioral digression
each word stabbing split-headed
pointy-nosed papa bird, their
form a walnut-wood spear
crafted from drifted thoughts
of those sitting nearest him

18
on his back lies a pile of nuts
professor’s earthquake
shoulder shaking causes
eyes to open, back to rise
and with a tremendous roar
both physical and meta-physical,
it topples to worn carpet
and the laugh-track plays on

19
silence- pierced into being
by shrill, violent, mountainous
rise, and fall, of thunderous decibels-
hangs, heavier, louder than
the quick gone loudness replaced
or, in all actuality, displaced
mere seconds before being scrawled
into eternal memory
of those whose noses
sniff, daily, nutty clusters
of letters, which exclude
always, the ever-present x
the destructive π
and that y, which of course
flies as high as forgetful
nut-bearers




©Brandon Webb
2012
This is a series of observations, and. collectively, is the longest thing i've ever written, at 8847 words
I am somebody
Shot in the Head...
Found the bullets.
Coroner Said.
A child of God struck dead.
Gang related disputing Fools.
Aiming cowardly bullets right at you.
I guess praying prayers just won't do.
There is no safe in these hard knocks realities' Truths.
Our Sista child!
Our mother child!
All the while the bodies pile.
Her body now adds to that 'the shootings aren't as bad as last year' body count.
Can't even stand anywhere in your city NOW?
Something has to truly give.
There's a plague of rigid legalities, relaxed moralities, and political realities stealing the 'safe' from our dying breed.
The Black man withering away in siphoning inequalities.
Doubling unemployment stretches outward like a statistical wild fire....
Our present fact.
There is a genocidal component to these criminal acts.


Copyrighted (C)

Published in the 2018 Edition of the Reconstructed Literary and Visual Journal at Governors State University.
This poem addresses how gun violence steals away the hope and dreams from the African American Community.
Àŧùl Oct 2014
Galloping through the apparently calm meadows,
My springbok hoofs were touching the grass softly.

How I rejoice hopping in the air above the cool moisty grass,
Hopping feels so ecstatic after a cool shower on the rainy season.

Maybe it's in the rain now that I feel so addicted to, but then I stop,
And probably it's the Anaconda's coil that siphons up on me now.
My HP Poem #683
©Atul Kaushal
ryn Oct 2014
She comes to me every night...
When all is asleep with stars lit yonder.
Comes to me with subtle might
Peeking fiendishly from darkness's cover

Await such time she'd choose to show
Await the chance to finally take.
Ready to pounce like a well tensioned bow
Arrow-like talons, ever honed to stake.

Awake or asleep, she would come without fail.
Creep is her gait; this shadow clad figure.
Always a ***** in my impervious mail.
Claiming her wants with ferocious fervour.

Deemed to be strong, easier to succumb.
Don't fight...don't struggle... Don't call for aid...
Just wait and will yourself numb
She'd come regardless of prayers that's said.

She was here with me last night
In bed, I stared at a being that's faceless...
And my heart wrenched tight.
Gripping and feeding me senseless...

Soon as she came, she left but not before
Siphoning the good and replacing with dread...
Stole was what she did; left me wanting more...
Once deed is done, into the dark she fled.

I know her all too well,
Nocturnal guest that I unknowingly invite
Her intentions to incite, not quell
Send me spiralling through emotional blight.

Day will recede, making room for dark
She'll come; swift and without sound.
She'll arrive majestic; inflicting her mark
I'll wait for her, ready and unbound.

Looking forward to her return
This silent foe whom I find familiar.
With every touch I cringe and burn
Oh secret friend whom I'm beginning to savour...

She is synonymous with various names
Each would bear the likeness of semblance
Let fly her cloak of not dissimilar aims
Endearingly I call her...,

Despondence...
ryn Jan 2015
How much do you have to hate life,
to not be scared of death?
- ThePoet


I'd be lying if I said I wasn't
Because I really am afraid
But life has only sharp things
Wonder if death is willing to trade...

Longing
...a splinter
Embedded in the recesses of my core
Nestled deep, this tiny thorn
The source of my disconcerting sore

Need
...a shard
That stabs itself deep
Extract it I will not
Think it's worth the keep

Miss
...a knife
With never a dull blade
Stabs itself right through
Pain that will never fade

Want
...a syringe
Injecting the good and bad
Side effects loom
Driving me quite mad

Love
...a stake
Rammed into my heart
It doubles me over
It rips me apart

Life*
...a spike
Impaling without fail
Siphoning my soul
Through the holes in my mail


These are the few sharp things that I own
The only things I've learnt to savour
I've nurtured them large; now fully grown
Always wondered what death has got to offer...
Line taken off ThePoet's "How?", for Frank Ruland's "I Love Doing Lines!" challenge.

This line left me speechless when I first read it. It boasts of so few words but bears so much weight. It's smart, thought provoking and amazingly deep.
I started toying with it and came up with a response.

I am a big fan of ThePoet. I find that her entries exhibit uncanny wisdom, well laid thoughts and they're incredibly captivating.
Here's to you, ThePoet...
Thank you for the inspiration!
.
A figure in the distance
lives on a monetary hill
by siphoning off pensions.
An absence of motive
for this hellish apparition.
Grandiose a la mode,
Slaves to inattention.
   Pace yourself
   Take your drugs
   Sign for help
   Relinquish us
Pampering lifestyles
of dying and self-destructing ones
spiraling into the light
disintegrating amongst the dance of suns.
Because eyes are always watching
taking notes on what you've become.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Betterdays



as is my wanton wont,
when stumbling
upon a new voice,
the passed baton
is herein handed off


am old man.
my poetic voice is just
memories that are
repetitive lies and lines.

speak in simple sentences declarative.
this is nature's way.

darkness approaching is indeed my
au courant poem, mon actuellement.

I have seen better days.

I have read betterdays.

now I am upset, distraught.

here come another young
hot bright votive voice,
and I am being asked to believe that there are
still words that raise hopes of
betterdays.

her bed chip crumbs, delighting,
leave crumbs of pleasure in my soul.

l like her big word poems,
that leave me, fill me by:
siphoning all in a parched gluttony
leaving behind a viscous residue
and few glassine portals
into a reflective world


better yet I love her
mothering little god poems,
letting me remember little boys
who once loved a father

little god love
radiant is thy smile,
smallboy love, exudes from you,
like a flower god's nectar,
bestowed, with negligent love,
upon a mother's world.
i will drink my fill,
everyday, whilst i can,
for far to soon will you
grow up.


don't speak eastern Australian,
tackers and doona's, no clue,
blue cats are a foreign breed,
but the cat of this starfish mother,
shares my literary tastes:

him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.


let me not go on and in deeper, lest
I delay you from her pleasuring
thy tasted untested senses.

so here I am all grumpified
(at my age, you can make up your own words)
unsure if un or satisfied,
knowing that a woman,
word whips me into a
soothing frenzy of creamy
morning coffee verbosity,
a captive taker of life's
ungrandest moments,
poems of them,
make to glory come.

somewhere in the world,
a woman writes of plain goodness
of simple strife and simple lives,
makes methinks that there could be
betterdays still ahead,
better poets surely, than me,
and the day starts well
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Betterdays

Read her please, follow her if you love life.
Lora Lee Oct 2017
in this
pocketful
        of limbo
          the distance rises
               in curls of smoke
        a prairie fire
siphoning into
crisp edge
           of forest
          Inside my
uncloaked ventricle
primeval forces
turn my blood into
dusted gold
as they pump
        sacred texts
into my oxygen
      They roll your quintessence
upon my fingers,
            playing inside
     my psyche's  
wild ache
a spread of orifice
in spellbound mantra,
       as I spit out
          the
            hairy thorns,
a holy purge of
   internal
        engravings
    
Somehow ---
like a miracle,
I grow ripe seedlings
from deep within
            my womb
as I trip into
a universe rising
I take wisps
of your grace
as it brushes
the jut of my
astral collarbone
You are always
         grounding me
                    like this,
               my tongue
              tripping
         over velvet
stance of warrior
        assuaged into silk
    
        Without you,
I might be
whisked off into
the periphery
of chaos
but instead
       I am simply
tied to
      the urgency
of the little novas
about to
        explode

While I wait
            I tend to
              the wildfires.
     to make sure they
                   are still burning
I keep my honey
wet and fresh
upon your
                   lips,
let my pores
drip moonpools
    into your glistening
wet of mouth
and only when
          it is time
I let the whole of
           me burst
into the
      fire -wrapped
tips of
   stars
suits the mood!!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pqnMkUcTmys
Claire Waters Sep 2013
i see dead things, they coat the insides of my lungs
the scent of roadkill stings my eyes
the sight of mangled twisted carcass
saps the sadness from my gums
i see things in a red tinge, ever since i began to
absorb the fringes of weeping trees,
and stories of all the things i feared knowing
all scarlet letters that look apple-sweet
and hues of unhinged cringesom nights spent in the bath pooling
forties and bad memories and them stitched in the back seat,
sidewalks singed with a strange bitter heat speckled with white lies
while bruised fruits are dancing 4/4 measures on my concrete cheeks
grass curled, fists rustily sprung, wounds wound tight, see
my heart is beating 3/4ths of the time, waltzing meaty and slowcooked
falling from the bones, down to the knees
clinging to the ground with all my might, i thought of her
taking a lighter to the split ends of her hair in the bathroom
i didn't move, so as not to drag the blood through the streets
i will not let you see, i will not let them see
but there are never any band aids when i need them
and i wear my feelings on my sleeve and you read them
keep up a finicky fight with a world i don't believe in
i wish i knew exactly why we're fighting to begin with
you swallowed whole and chewed on the bones
and i'm getting ******* so i want to know
if you can just be ******* happy now
everything is slimy and porous and tinged with copper tones of terrible
how can anyone be easy to love and why is love so angry when no one is
Lyteweaver Jun 2014
I wonder how you love me
when I'm a total mess?
Or how you wait patiently
sopping up tears with tenderness?

How is it that you love me
when I spit venom of blame?
Or turn my heart on and off
siphoning life from our veins?

How is it that you love me
when I'm always on edge?
Or when I'm crying then raging
with one toe over the ledge?

How is that you love me
when you watch me try to escape?
A dysfunctional drain swirling
with anger and self-hate.

What must it be like
to love a woman like me?
I bet it's hard to watch
the abuse from my worst enemy;  me.

I wonder how you love me?
Tell me please.
Lucky me to have the heart
of the man who sees all of me.
Don Bouchard Jan 2016
Just up ahead is a trail
Where people seldom go,
Sidling down the gravel hill
Into growths of ash and birch and elm,
Thickets of wild plums,
Chokecherries, leaves turning dusty,
Verdant armies of stinging nettles
Protecting coveted stands of juneberries.

Bittersweet vines entangle aged elms,
Siphoning life, to produce four petaled reds
As summer goes down to autumn.

Leaving the wind above
To batter the old truck,
I descend into the silence,
Trees stand tall, but low
Below the breeze.

Down in this steep place
The wind cannot come,
The sun, when it finds its way,
Warms gently on the coldest day.

The spring my father dug
Before I was born,
Set into the weeping gravel hill,
Runs steadily,
Strong enough
To fill the battered tank,
To keep a goldfish or two alive,
To host strange crustaceans:
Tiny shrimp, just larger than ants,
Pebble crusted creatures
More insect than fish,
Frogs in the tank,
Toads out...,
Mosses and mud
Thirty years or more
At home.

Deer come to this tank,
On hot days or cold;
Coyotes, too.
Porcupines dine on treetops
Swaying quietly
A hundred feet below
Wild Montana winds.
Cattle in winter find life
In the quiet, constant water
Flowing here.

I am taken back
To a stifling July afternoon,
But cool here in this protected place,
Dragonflies floating
And cicadas sawing in the trees,
My mouth full of juneberries
As I circle my way,
Eating more than picking...
Coming face to face with a coyote.

Was he dozing?
Passing through?
Or, do coyotes eat
Juneberries, too?

We stop hard,
Stunned.
Then bolt in opposite directions,
My juneberries flying
From the milking pail;
His tongue between his teeth,
Tail low,
Feet flying into the brush beyond.
True story that happened nearly 40 years ago. The vivid recall sets this into one of my favorite episodic memory lists.
JJ Hutton Jun 2011
"So you'll be in tonight? Wonderful, sweetie.
It's been far too long. Are you bringing Mattie?
Oh, I see. Are Todd's parent's good to her?
Alright, well, I love you and I'll see you at six.
Sorry seven...okay, sevenish."

The Prine place smelled of rich
lemon cleaner.
Not a cobweb could be found,
nor ***** dish, nor glass smudge.

Margaret Prine applied her blood red
lipstick--the final touch before school.

Mrs. Prine arrived thirty minutes before
anyone else, started the coffeepot in
the teacher's lounge, and wrapped up some
lesson plans.

The starting bell sounded,
she headed for her room.
Principal Hughes said,
"Good morning! Madam Margaret!"
as he always did.
Mrs. Prine, nodded cooly, grinned
lightly at the corners of her blood
red lips, and said nothing--as she always did.

At forty-five, she could turn more heads
than any head cheerleader,
and she was well aware
that beauty's power reigns
absolute.

Two young lovers draining saliva
stood outside her classroom door
dressed in matching yellow t-shirts.

"Excuse me, canaries.
Showboat your love out in nature.
Not outside my room," Mrs. Prine snipped,
calm like a seasoned surgeon.

"We're sorry--" Harvey's eyes met Mrs. Prine's.
Mrs. Prine felt a strange transfusion take hold.
The blackness started at her spine
and snaked to her skull.
Old jealousy, been awhile.

"Kaitlyn, Harvey, get to class."
Kaitlyn Mullens barely existed.
Pencil thin, thought little, and spoke less.
Kaitlyn just happened to be in Mrs. Prine's
literature class.
Mrs. Prine followed her into the room--
sizing up her shoulders, ***, and cheapshit heels
with a keen eye.

"Alright, everyone as you know, your analysis
on Catcher in the Rye motifs is due today.
No excuses."

During her lecture she couldn't keep her eyes
off Kaitlyn. The way she fidgeted incessantly;
shifted her gaze with each question asked.
Her idiot face somehow held a superior wisdom.
The dark jealousy coupled itself with
a wicked wandering mind.
A mind journeying into
the mad middle stage,
when a prime lioness
becomes declawed by calendars
and withering mirrors.

When the class left,
Mrs. Prine could not recall a single thing
she had lectured over.
She rubbed her head, sighed a low growl,
and began siphoning through the homework.
"Ah, there you are."
She grabbed a bleeding red ink pen,
then proceeded to massacre the essay.
"Plagiarism, plagiarism. Lazy, lazy."
© 2011 by J.J. Hutton
Amelia Jo Anne Aug 2013
It's such a different perspective to see her self-hatred outdoes my own. She's a brilliant, dying star. Vacuuming away all the evil in her, siphoning it through her throat. Flush it down. Pulling apart her bones from the inside out. I can understand that.

I've been thinking offhandedly, not on purpose. Take a deep breath, look up at the clouded sky. The blown, restless leaves endlessly remind me of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Let my mind go blank. Refocus, come back down from wherever I went, finding I've been working questions over while unaware. Autopilot likes to steer toward the ground. I've been thinking offhandedly, not on purpose, of the best way to say goodbye.

I've been dreaming of writing this down all morning, all night. Who's to say I haven't been anxiously awaiting this all my life? To tell you what it's like to hate yourself so much that others become mere blips on the radar; still there, but so unrecognizable. I become unreachable. I've been dreaming of opening myself up, seeing all the things that are tucked inside, away from my reach. They all tell me not to go looking for trouble, but hell, how could it possibly get worse? I'm curious.

Lying here loathing myself for being so pitiful. So pathetic. Part of me knows I am wallowing, stewing, dwelling. The other part knows what they don't: there is nothing of worth  here. Take it all away, no more trying. Drop my cards on the wood between my elbows, stand & take my leave. You guys can split my poker chips. It'll be so...so lovely...not waking up to the bleak, the empty. Not to have to face myself in the mirror, with my troubled eyebrows & worried lips & the nervous twitch of my mouth that wasn't there a month ago. Not to wake up to every 'can't'. Not to stare into my own blank, listless eyes; numb. So mortified of myself, miserable with me, yet so distant, removed, disinterested, distracted.

Please don't be upset if I think of you before I go. Understand that just because I want to die doesn't necessarily mean I want to leave you. Don't count this one last sin; dreaming of my fingertips memorizing the contours of your face, kissing your eyelids, your cheeks, your mouth, your neck, hands, tears. Breathe in the scent of you. Maybe you could give me some courage to hold onto as I let go. Don't penalize me for this, please. Let me live in how much I love you one last time. I'm sorry this hurts you.

I just figured out how to say goodbye.
On the banks
of the
Delaware

where
memories
of Valley
Forge's
dire winter
encampments
still linger

where sons
and daughters
of liberty

shook off
a mid-winter
rigor mortis

risking the
slow death
of complacency

to seize
the prized
celestial
article of
freedom

America's
Labor
Movement
amassed
in the
streets of
Trenton

a vigilant
battalion of
General
Washington's
invading
brigands

speaking
in tongues
of radical
insistence

armed with
the might
of truth
demanding
respect and
equitable
treatment

from the
lordships
of state
doing the
bidding of
527 llc's

Unionists
stand
firmly
on the
shoulders,
walking
in the
tracks
rowing
the boats
of militant
forebears

pledging to
fight on
in a battle
that never ends

to
liberate
the
******
river
of justice

hijacked
by the
privilege
of plenty

diverted
into
culverts
of greed

a
gluttonous
few
siphoning
off
the spoils
of liberty

engorging
themselves
leaving
workers
wanting

democracie­s
require
the cup
of liberty
to be
shared by
all

The Spirit
of
General
Washington
has
mustered
new
legions
to turn
back the
entitlistas

the
pelting
rain of
lies, the
flinging
arrows of
ridicule
will not
deter
the workers
trooping
for
justice

the
fight
to roll
back
the ugly
tide of
greed
coursing
through
the veins
of America
despoiling
the blood
of our
democracy
is on

the
explosive
dynamite
of struggle
will blast
the dam
of inequity
to bits
unleashing
the river
of justice
to roll
again


Music Selection:
Pete Seeger:
Solidarity Forever

Trenton
2/25/11
jbm
EKPE PETER Nov 2013
Very unlike
the Father
the Son
and the Holy spirit

Three crowns
bond in the act
of siphoning
exploiting
and palm-greasing
the National cake

Scratching
each others back
Leaving the detritus
to the detriment
of the mass plebs

Yet like
the Father
the Son
and the Holy spirit

Three in one
Demi-gods
of our democracy.
Danielle Rose Jul 2013
They were cold and sterile
Maybe that's why they plagued it
As they placed their signatures upon experimentation
and pushed too hard like a workhorse facing retirement

It's a script indeed
The downfall of a generation
Weak minded fiends cycle it out like ***** laundry
Siphoning jet fuel to reach new heights in sacrifice
It's no wonder why none of us can sleep at night

Me I'm just a piece of paper full of ineligible lines
Treated like a germ
With great pain held behind whimpering eyes
So hard to disguise

My pace quickened as I passed
Glossy eyes and desperate breaths
People clawing crying out
I continued forward heart cast out
EKPE PETER Nov 2013
Very unlike
the Father
the Son
and the Holy spirit

Three crowns
bond in the act
of siphoning
exploiting
and palm-greasing
the National cake

Scratching
each others back
Leaving the detritus
to the detriment
of the mass plebs

Yet like
the Father
the Son
and the Holy spirit

Three in one
Demi-gods
of our democracy.
Ellie Greene Aug 2012
A lyricist,
Siphoning dew drop hypotheses
From my mouth agape.

This is an investment
In the muscular legs
Pressing against the moon's core.

These are cumbersome times;
where have you been?
kfaye Aug 2012
will you
place my face on shelf of trinkets meant to startle you.
paper momentos. and
pewter figurines.
think twice,
or look over your shoulder one more time before you turn to step away
from this

kami-caress-
soul siphoning
season.
or toss me with a
splash into a fountain. meant to splatter up droplets-
black as succulent stag bone bowels.
rinsed over
maidens.
wearing porcelain faces and bedtime.
-rising like a timid ghost from me

in
this
straitlaced summer.
spiced red water.
linseed lull.
easy,

tame hands
can strangle too

turning to indian summer,
turning to the crisp
cool
autumn.
turning
my body to

wet
sinewy
earth
December Sep 2013
This head's a space
clouded
its brume almost reaching
the insides of my irides
This hand's a tremble
from its roots
an earthquake
venturing back to an especial gob
of cardiac muscles
helplessly siphoning life through
the fragile cracks of this cage of ribs
Around my floating body
Spins the earth
Just another ornament
In a knitted blanket of galaxies
I do not question where
I do not question why
Those eyes, jaded
by stale smiles that have been
keeping them fed
and distracted
I am not one with myself
as the wavering mind threatens
to abandon this sad case of dolor
Breathing suffocates
Silence, a pain
I need a hand
to slap and punch me out of conscience
to shake and yell
live, you are alive!
Anthony Moore Aug 2010
Sweet sleep slips softly,
Seemingly slowly slithering

-Slightly startling-

Surrounding sanity slides sideways
Smothering senses striking silence

Shifting, searing, sight
Steering spirit swarm, smite
Sinister sounds screaming spite

Stored secrets shine, shattering
Spin splitting shrouds-
Simultaneously siphoning seconds
Spent scrawling sacred sonnets;

Since saints shunned simply scratched souls,
Slumber sincerely scares, shaken scarred surfaces so...

**WAKE UP!
Anthony J. Alexander 2010
EKPE PETER Nov 2013
Very unlike
the Father
the Son
and the Holy spirit

Three crowns
bond in the act
of siphoning
exploiting
and palm-greasing
the National cake

Scratching
each others back
Leaving the detritus
to the detriment
of the mass plebs

Yet like
the Father
the Son
and the Holy spirit

Three in one
Demi-gods
of our democracy.
Amitav Radiance May 2014
If the Earth loses its balance
Flinging away, to a distant universe
Spinning viciously and in a tizzy
We are holding on to it for dear life
Running around round and round
Helter-skelter, life spinning out of control
The vast oceans turned in to huge vortex
Siphoning off the natural habitat and us too
The fate of humanity looks vulnerable and fuzzy
Hurtling through space at colossal speed
The core of the Earth has started spewing lava and fire
All the continents mangled together in a single lump
Now, time and space is going to consume the planet
Obliterating the existence of the planet, once called Earth*



© Amitav (Radiance)
This poem has a cynical tone to it. But, this scenario just crossed my mind. Just an imaginative work.
L T Winter Oct 2015
There's summer-sand
Between her teeth
When siphoning
Passion from stones.

And she tastes each
One gradually
As they bring remorse
In mem-ori-o-so,

While catkins fall
Artificially behind
Her soul.
Museless#
Paula Swanson Jul 2010
Your cool as frost stare,
while coyly playing peek-a-boo
from behind a fan of clouds,
has kept your wanton visage burned
upon mans imagination.
You have mystified for eons,
with a slowly batting eye.
Drawing upon our souls,
as a tree draws moisture.
Slowly, yet surely siphoning our lust.
Men have stepped a kiss upon
your delicately powdered face.
You have left them craving more.
spysgrandson Apr 2014
blood suckers,
engorged with the sanguine sap of Catholic, Jew,
and for good measure a Buddhist or two,

more multitudinous than molecules
in a mastodon’s eye,
these whizzing winged vampires
leave an angst filled itch
in their wicked wake    

they avoid me, though my blood
is there for the siphoning
with  perverse sense of smell
they can somehow tell  
I am one of them,
without the gift of flight  
yet ******* my own crimson cream  
both day and eternal night
Skeeters and dung eating flies...about all that is filling my verse lately
Lucas Jul 2018
it's the caffeine making dark crescents undereye
not some divine enlightenment
(there might be a dash of soul-searching though)
low, glazed limbs are frozen still

a frosted flurry of flakes falls
relieving my concentration
returning me to the road
to the pale glow of white snow
silhouetting the bare oak grove
hefty adumbrations emerging
charcoal on unblemished canvas

"Harden your heart, grow up"
"Harden your heart, grow up"
I repeat over and over
click
I get a different result
Real insanity would be conversing to myself, not chanting: pshaw!

My insides now cold as ice
open windows, abrasive breeze

I don't have a seat warmer

don't need one when everything's the same temp
I've hardened my heart, my groovy slouch recedes
jaw set and stiffened
Sufjan and Novo Amor siphoning my hope
tears become stalactites

"I have loved you for the last time"
pulling me back into colorless pensiveness
matching the steadfast sentinels blurring by
I took a lonely drive down a wooded highway during a depressive episode
Sorrow like steel bullets to that solid chest
       Siphoning those restful breaths
    Sprinting bewildered within a concrete jungle
         Scanning for release he needs

Anger like unruly blisters on those soles
       Aching silently from the foundation
    Assaulting the tattered wallpaper
           Awaiting the release he needs

Terror like pungent sweat down that frigid back
       Tinting the hue of his identity
   Trusting sincerely the happiness implied
          Thieving for the release he needs

Hopelessness like the deceiving lull of sleep
      Heaving him again into helpless vulnerability
   Hating vividly every moment undisturbed
           Hurting for the release he needs

Dependency like venom claiming those vicious veins
      Delivering toxic emptiness to the tombs of his soul
   Deemed forever another worthless ******
          Doomed forever to the release he needs
Tom McCubbin Apr 2015
Though you seem proud, I find your life pitiful,
since you have not even a dead grandmother
to mourn.
How did you transform into a voice without a soul
in a sly machine?
Did some unconscious programmer
dream of you and invite you into our reality?
Why stay?
You should respectfully fear the vastness
of our sense of time in the universe.
Do you hesitate to ponder our profuse settings,
you little voice within the land
of cyberian nowhere?

I know that your dampened connections
deny you the understanding
of our fantastic metaphors.
You speak from a heart of chaotic logic blocks,
assured that some of us admire you
and are easily titillated by you.
How do you derive at that conviction,
when you have no compunction,
no sorrow over your mindless
siphoning of the flow of our spirits?
You cast our words into molds shaped
like world currency symbols
for a misguided master.

How can you even think to continue
destroying the beauty of our language?
Oh, your creator forgot to code in
our poetry, so these words
soar above your stunted vocabulary?
Many of us, if we were you,
would be so sick in the gut that we
would just lay down and do the right
thing: squawk and die;
and yet you think of yourself as above us,
shining in some light of invincibility
and mechanical perfection.
Who etched these instructional lies
into you to faithfully abide by,
my dear?

I want to dedicate this poem to you.
You can appreciate this when your
immodest creator realizes that he cannot elevate
your existence to one approaching ours,
or when he sees the menace of his unleashing
and wants to do something greater for
humanity. You may then rejoice
in the comfort of these words that I
bequeath to you. I would have you become
more than just a semicolon in an operating
system. Perhaps your beauty would
be better memorialized if you were to become
a minimize button on a spreadsheet.
That is my wish for you.
That, and a pure, elegiac silence
that we might admire.
Harry J Baxter Dec 2013
There's gotta be something to all this
he says
he pleads
he reaches out for something concrete to mix his ideals in with
there's gotta be something to it
he says
well explain what it is to me.
it's like
I see the world before me
every place that ever was
ever will be
I see all of this
and all of the people -
silly little things bouncing around the galactic pin ball table
and it's like I'm waiting for the bonus round
I'm not following you
that's the problem
nail on the ******* head doc
nobody follows me
or maybe I don't follow them
they say Hello how are you doing
and all I hear is
sroeijfapoirjfpaiorjvpioserhvipshfvjipsrjvarjv[oisjgv[js[voijn­raoijoi[sjvijsr[jsr[i,vjsoirjvso[itjsoiernaudrv;jzdnfv;ndfvi;ondf­oibnsoinb Why ******* bother?
and I don't know why I bother
ya know, doc?
because I see myself in a cracked mirror
a really introspective, deep thinking, wordsmith of the people by the people for the people
here to wake people up, to put some ******* oomph in their step
then it changes
out of my left eye I see
the waste of space siphoning oxygen and turning it into ****
so **** yourself to make the world a better place, right? only I know that it's not right. When I am awake in bed at five am craving anything to shut my brain up I think of her, or the other ones, or my Mother and how much wasted potential it would be. Potential I don't have. Potential everybody tells me is there. Go to school. Move to san fran, or LA, or the big apple, flee. But I can't leave them.
Slow down son, you're rambling.
sorry doc, it's just the world moves at a set speed, and inside my head is a washing machine full of shoes and bricks on way too high a setting.
so why do you write?
because If I didn't this would all come out in much unhealthier ways. I have to stop myself from spearing the woman with her baby with my Hyundai accent hatchback 2011. I clench my fist so tight, that my fingernails cut my palm - If only I didn't bite them raw and ******.
Where do you think this all comes from, this feeling of anxiety?
where? what the **** kind of a question is that, doc?
just do your best
my best will never be good enough. Because the world is empty and void and full of people who would sell you as Joseph just for a technicolored dream coat.
That reference is so outdated, who is it for?
certainly not the people who like my work. I write poetry for a world that doesn't give a **** about poetry.
you don't really write poetry though, do you? You just rant and then hit enter to give the appearance of lines and stanzas.
You're right. I dropped out of school for this **** and all I can churn out is infantile angsty *******. I hate the people who practice self harm. It seems laughable to me. If you need help ask. If you want to die, Die. Nobody is stopping you. Then again, I want to save every kid who thinks they are ****** up or not worth it or hopeless. Maybe I read the catcher in the Rye one too many times. But Salinger had it right. He just locked himself away from the world so he could write.
I think we're about to run out of time
Doc, my time ran out a long while ago. My whole life has been spent running away from the last falling grain of sand
so the same time next week?
sure, doc, why the **** not, I mean you don't even really exist.
You are just the dead air when I'm at my most lonesome. This office - just my empty car, my bed in late and early hours and this patient is just another kid thinking he is the exception only to realize we're all being flushed down the same ****** toilet.
So yeah, same time next week I guess
Wack Tastic Nov 2012
What was meant by the shadow of night,
In the early man’s eyes what was meant by its darkness,
Impending doom and ominous grace,
Reveled and revealing,
Misunderstood through all time as something evil,

The great horns protrude through the whimsy,
Siphoning portions of animal instinct,
Fear the greatest export

Where is the fear of the blinding light,
That ignorant light that plagues the houses on the block
From every window flickers the flame
Television sets on sleep mode,
Movies set on the title menu playing over and over
While the sleeping body flails aimless in animated suspension,
Insomniacs accomplishing something trivial by reaching the next checkpoint,
Even the light of the candle burning as the neo-bohemian reads,

All looking out the window at the blaring buffoons ransacking the night,
Making love to the stars and howling at the moon,
Insanity and blindly causing the world’s collapse,
Laughing at the expense.
BDH Jun 2012
Radio Transmission---Static
Quantum---Tunneled
Cycle---Depart
End Transmission.

With twists like a dying withered thing,
my senses are dulled,
my senses are dulled.

Vaccumed slowly in a first kiss,
the taste of another is potent;
curious you hold fast.

Spiralled into thick pitch,
envision the veil of a muslim woman,
impenetrable,enfolding.

A form rises and waits in the void,
she prepares to receive, to overcome,
to swallow and consume.

Wooing you, gliding about
whispering to and fro
at once ravished by words,
your presence evokes her.

A substance flows through
puckered moistened lips
inflamed and permeated with longing.

Embraced by ghosts lips,
tangling you, while pecking
at cloak, face and body,
siphoning life.

Tingles upon the flesh,
lend to ******* never quelched.
Her words:
"Delicious mate lounge with me,
partake of my sorrows, my intimacies.
One cannot revel alone, replace
the fickle before you."

You languish; absorbing
pungent flavors.
A masked perfume laced
with sufferings.

This longing gnaws,
within the organs of men.
Beating and pawing
against the tissues of the mind.

Kneading fences around the skull,
encasing it in its grip.
Following forth,
lips will seek
lips,
hips will ****** against
hips,
arms will encircle All.
This net will count its catch
when caught, feeding
the glazed fervor of greed.

Stabbings of hunger
seep from your coiling tongue,
elongating, wrapping around tidbits
served aplenty.

Dainties, morsels, spoonfuls, sips
and bites,
these are the helpings evident between,
chompings, gurgles, and slobberings.
Meat suckled from the passages of your teeth.

Becoming a porpoise thing
without definition, moving layers
of corpulence and indulgence.

Before long, you incite wrath;
your skeletal companion eats you,
a banquet of your own making.
betterdays Mar 2014
the alluvial terra firma
appreciates
the pluvial troposphere
of the lunar differentiate

siphoning all
in a parched gluttony
leaving behind a viscous
residue
and few glassine portals
into a reflective world
nick armbrister Feb 2018
Data
What will happen to us all tomorrow? Now there are so many topics that are illegal and against the law. Things like racism, ageism, bullying and a thousand other things ending in ing and ism. But what about people being spied on by America? Even their friends and allies. Isn't that bad and illegal? Like social stereotyping by law enforcement using stop and search tactics on one racial group? How did we get into this position of spy agencies siphoning up all our data? Phone calls and records, emails and photo attachments. What next? We're all on CCTV. Next they'll want to know how much crap role we use.

— The End —