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Matt Shaw Jun 2017
what if the dusty taste of straw
could waft up the Appalachians and roll down
American highways
in a little red car?

what if the cute, expectant start! of a young dog
could be bundled up and tucked in the pocket,
and brought against the cheek,
for when times get rough?

what if there was an elixir to melt worlds (starting with the mind
then... trickling down to your heart)
and remind them to gaze in awe
at the fine twenty-something girl, sleek and blonde and so ****
long legs flashing, one from behind the other as she walks
coy little smile on her face
well i can only think of only two places in the world
that elixir exists, i've seen it

what if i saw you again?

what would i even *say...
Laying around
about the dorm room
Bored
Looking for quick
Stupid cash
We came upon a listing
My roommate and I
in the local paper
Artist models needed
No experience necessary
That was key

The guy on the phone was chirpy
He lived
Close by in Oakland
He gave us directions to where
He would pick the two of us up
We
Would take the bus
He would be in a station wagon
Beige

He met us sure enough
Old
Old as the ******* sea
Formal suit and tie
Maybe a hat
We drove back to the apartment
And entered
First my roommate
And then myself

A ****** yellowed set of rooms
Where we will be heading to the right
To the kitchen
I’ve noticed the battered ***** *****
Mattress
Also
To the right
Stains and an attached clamp lamp
A single stark bulb

We were greeted by an even chirpier young lady
She was like a baby Joan Jett
All rocker black and leather
Sleek hair slicked back
She seemed somehow to like
really really old men

She took over and reached
for the plastic folder
She handed it to us
“You need to look at this before we go on
This is what we do”

Obediently, we cracked it open
and peered inside
Bent over we studied
Sticky plastic pages
Of brightly faced girls
Page
After
Page
Smiling with awkward innocence
No bright eyes nor youthful effanescance
No desire
Nothing wet
Except their palms with thoughts of escape
And 100 dollars

I only remember the girls whose makeup faded around the neck to betray
the true color of their flesh
Not flushed at all with sticky expectation
They left no impression in their nakedness
Ghosts
Shades
They should have been in class or doing something else

But our Joan!
Joan was a star.
Her photos were full of sass and delight
She was more than happy
to show you her ******
Over and over and over
She said
Actually
it’s a club
The guys pay a monthly fee
And they come here and shoot
In the apartment or maybe outside
They cannot touch.
There is no *******.
Mostly they shoot
Me.

Alone.
A Pixie Star.
This was were that old man’s money was.

I don’t remember what she told us
What she used to do before
this had to be a moment
A rather short moment
She would move along because
This kink was overstuffed with
impotence
and ineptitude.
Kink that might be easier to deal
With
On a properly lit stage
Or a quiet motel room with the shades drawn
Cash up front.

But for now
She was the enterprise.
And what would he do without her?
We three giggled and guffawed
in the little kitchenette.
We weren’t game for the arrangement.
She knew that.
But she liked to talk.
Men like that are pathetic.

Seriously why would we do this?
All those faces in the book!
Four on a page
Excitedly, we thought that we recognized
One or two
I know her!
Look I know her! I’ve seen her
in the Poli-Sci Building!
I’m sure we did not know any of them.

The mattress.
I could not fathom what happened on that thing.
I don’t want to know.
I had to look the other way as we left.
Did he perform
Abortions?
With hangers and kitchenware
Can ******* be that messy?
Just opening your legs?

We said goodbye to her!
She was wonderful.
She would sparkle forever.
Joan Jett!
Piling back into this hoarder’s
station wagon amongst
the musty boxes and newspapers
strewn all over the backseat with us
He drove
to the bus stop
A waste of his time
Disgruntled
Failure

He asked
How should this ad read
so that
this doesn’t happen again?
We offered no suggestions.
It had been fun
However idiotic.
I don’t remember
how long it was that
we kept our bus trip
secret.
Travis Green Dec 2018
My son is now 18 and I can see the change
in his shifting stance, the boldness and
complexity in his presence, deep dark
diction beneath smoky stained clothes,
scattered cigarettes piled up in *****
ashtrays, ghostly fumes filling the
cold air, as he dashes up the stairs to
his bedroom.  And as I stand in the
kitchen over the stove steaming a
fresh *** of boiled chicken, salad,
and mashed potatoes, I can hear his
smooth slick words echoing across
the room.  The heavy giggles and
sensual thoughts seeping inside his
mind, running game on his main
squeeze like the world was his
majesty, like a crowned creation
falling into submission to his
nation.  I step closer to the stairs
and listen to the soft sounds of Joe’s
song, I Wanna Know, playing in the
background, slow rising beats curling
up in the air towards divine enchantment,
hypnotizing harmonies beyond a bed of
thin sleek sheets.  And as I breathe in the
soothing melodies, I’m forced to remember
the days when I was young, a rich tasteful girl
full of chemistry and flawless formation.  I was
grooving to the spinning jams like it would be
this way forever.  I had forgotten how much
time had passed by, how the waves
of his existence was on a new wavelength,
how the stars in his eyes intensified in
immense shapes, how the shimmering
moon was his light inside his kingdom,
the cosmic space taking him into a new
sea of discoveries.
Evan Stephens Mar 26
Sleep circles
with wide wings.
Pages vanish down the eye's well:

Napoleon burns Moscow,
French detectives fry onions,
Lorca dies in the greenest green.

Rain spits into the room
crooked, dark. I'm alone.
The gyre closes, soft as a net.

Dreams hunch on the furniture.
The mirrors broadcast
the Venetian blinds croaking

and rattling against the screen
like creamy swords
in enamel scabbards.

Book-addled eyelids
are rusting into blinks
of burling dusk.

Each dying thought
is a sleek Deco Bugatti
lead by a shining path

from teardrop headlamps
whose fingers pry the night
moments before tires

sing rubber to blue.
The rain gathers into serpents
in the channels of the floor.

Above you hangs
the fat black branch
of sleep's truest face.
Napolis Nov 2018
Today I

dreamed I
saw your
Alice in

wonderland
eyes,

and as the
room
swirled
with wishes
and moments
too much
for words.

only the
gentle
rising and
falling of
your
heartbeat
inside your
chest existed.

and the
awkward
slurring
of my
words
trying
to catch
their
balance
in my
head.

and your
eyes
in this
moment
were
everything.

and the
sleek
lines of
grace and
beauty
across
your face

inspiring.

and for
a moment
looking at
you,

a thousand

miles away,

I thought,

this must
be the
feeling
of when
a dream
comes
true,

but not
one dream

more like
a million
of them
all at

once.
Travis Green Dec 2018
We sit at the park late at night
feeling on each other’s flesh,
touching the love muscles that
spark rising seas inside our veins,
inhaling the beautiful memories
of our lives together, the moments
when we first met by the riverbank,
the waves dancing in the distance
upon our hearts.

There was a bright rhythm of dreams
inside your soul that made me fall
deep in love with you, your azure
eyes meeting mine, a treasure of
delight, an excitement running
wild, as the sun shined down
on the landscape.

Your sleek starlight surface
was a scintillating square of static
shocks striking my chests, a glittering
sensation spreading paradise across
my world.  I knew in that moment
you were the flashing light glowing
bright in my presence, the one that
could take me away from all of it,
the endless days and nights struggling
in love and bitter breakups, the world
pressed against my back, trying to
destroy the flame inside of me.

Now here we are curled up beside
each other, gently kissing tender
spots, welcoming the magic in the
air as it seeps inside our mansion.
S I N Nov 30
Shall I from battered path of life derailed
Into the vast mysterious unknown,
Where every firmament is thin and frailed
And everything to you does seem forlorn?
Where dwells no light, nor dark, nor pungent fire
What either burns or purges stranded souls,
Or where reside the creatures vile and dire
Collecting for the passage golden tolls;
Or shall Through this abyss I ever wander
Along the flowing River of the dead,
Or with my head precociously to plunger,
Myself to the sleek tenants of there fed.
But this is all just aimless reveries
Of one who is bereaved of heaven bliss
touka Jan 2018
cold,

I will my eyes to focus
reprimand my dark surroundings
and the many failing lights that sit
just a few yards away
blurry, blue dots
no real purpose but still jut out from the soil
of my neighbors yard
some decoration, I suppose

wet,

I hear the past, present and future collide with a crash
with a few strong voices
who bargain for nothing more than an insight
into each others inevitability

cold,

light flickers back on behind me
and I could kiss it hello
potent and poignant,
I'm so glad you are breathing
maybe that's a little forward, but it's more than power
I still struggle to focus my sight
maybe my ears, however
quiet still could not fall if it had untied shoes

wet, and so cold it's become dull

the ground is malleable, mud and muck sloshing around my pathway
my feet toss the puddles of winter water up and around my ankles
it soaks into my socks
sends a chill that stalks the length of my spine

wet and cold

I meander through the murk, biding it away
I jump onto the sleek black surface, staving off the frigid pains
and lay my head down to hide from sight

my vision is full of black holes

it's lovely, the rain
but not when its best accompaniment is the long silhouette of the house you'd escaped
who would I tell
a few foggy figures latch onto my regard

cells collapse in on their own

my face grows warm and I feel my features contort
a sad scowl appropriate for the situation at hand
tears roar past the dam I'd crafted
but it was dark, no one would see
I was hiding under nightfall
which might sound cool if I didn't mean I was laying on top of an old car crying at 5 in the morning

reborn starving and unconsoled

I still hear a few voices, then a few footsteps that quicken
a pace, a parse, a prying for more
and then a collective quiet
I stiffen, stifle my woes

the bite and the cry as it corrodes the hull

numb creeps in around my skin
especially my feet, the extent of the cold finally settling in
but I wasn't ready

the bigger the bang, the brighter the star

I have a conversation with myself in my head
and not to come off loony
but there are a few things that shouldn't have been said by either parties involved
if you catch my drift

theory tugs at the strings in my heart

a soft gust of January wind strokes the bare skin of my legs
I wonder
I wonder if I could stop if I were to start
and so I wonder and wonder
but it seems the answer isn't quite so mysterious

paradigms practice their weight in the void

I bet an imaginary amount of some imaginary currency
to myself, of course
that if I wasn't able to before, I definitely won't be able to sleep now

the dance of matter and its taunting toy

I hear my name called, footsteps shuffling, offering their warn
a somewhat concerned voice from beyond the beyond
the front door, I mean
out of sight, I freeze, my mouth stuffed full of cotton
half hoping they'll forget I exist for a few
so I can try to compose myself

with the space around it as it threatens tall

however well I could compose myself at this point, anyway
I know I'll be found
I don't want to speak, I'm not sure if I could
when these things happened, my mouth tended to malfunction as much as my spine
so I'd bite my tongue and stand shrinking
my muscles curling into a shaken stir

saturn sleeps, its uninhabitable crawl

a warm blanket, I don't remember the color
I'm brought inside and laid down
and I avoid the hot remnants of some loud, leering summer
the air is thick with it

its air stings my skin, and I hear a song
  ‍    ‍
so this is the weirdest, longest and most intimate poem I've ever done. It also kind of deviates from my usual style
(the italics are a bit glitched out BC of hellopoetry so sorry for that)
Evan Stephens Sep 25
The waitress smiles
a little too much
but we don't care,
our little glass lung

of Bordeaux dips away
above slatish cobbles.
A Gauloises whips ash
from a smouldering hand

into the corner table fragment.
Systems of traffic evaporate.
A massive shadow folds
above the grifters.

The river laps
at knees of bread,
while empty bottles
browse the blackness

for their corks.
Beside cathedrals
a dusted dusk glows
& we follow it

back to the hotel.
It's a little room,
our neighbors make love,
& the courtyard roars

with high orange;
I think towards you
when sheets of clouds
betray a skimmed moon,

& we pull sleep around us.
The river tongue falls
& sleek stones gather
to a new language.
Al Sep 2018
Sleek lines curve around the mind, stimulating the imagination.  Here and now she faces me, but who is the mirror?

Tumeric stains on fingertips, reminders of the culinary fun.  A half empty glass of Bordeaux upon the monopoly board: oh yeah, another loss.

Ruby-red shoes seek a home. 
A silver spoon is bent in two.

Johnny Cash plays as the record spins.

Some you lose,
some you win!
Eryri Sep 2018
Your shrill, yet oddly pleasant sound, echoes loudly down the long corridor.
I try to ignore you as the jaunty sound clashes with my melancholy mood,
Yet I find the notes and melodies cling to my mind like tissue stuck to a shoe,
Hanging on for it's own amusement,
Ignorant of my desire not to be teased nor humoured at this anxious time.

I feel I shouldn't like your racket,
My naïve ears and young years sense, not only an inappropriate comedy in your sound,
But also a daunting undertone,
Adding to my sense of having been plunged into deep icy waters.

Perhaps your music soothes those who are leaving,
Your high happy notes providing optimism and assurance of recovery,
Or of a restful sleep enveloping dear ones.
For me, however, at the point of no-return in my pilgrimage,
I hear only the low notes,
Out of time with my quickened pulse,
And lending a foreboding soundtrack to my slow deliberate steps.

But you play for no pay,
Busking in this hospital,
Doing good both night and day.
Yes, you are well known in this place,
Admired for the hours you commit to this space where lives can hang in the balance,
And where your instrument by day is a sharp sleek scalpel,
Invasive in its desire to alleviate suffering,
Your steady, practiced hand rehearsed and well versed in the methodically planned procedure of a surgical concerto.

But out of hours your instrument of choice lends you a voice,
Allowing flourishes and improvisations.
But were you aware that for visitors like me who visited repeatedly,
The clarinet would take on a significance beyond other instruments,
Taking me instantly back to bittersweet memories of visiting my family,
As, in turn, they aged and became unwell and recovered and became unwell again.

Now I am older and a little wiser,
I reflect and ruminate on this period;
My memories of family are more than just hospital visits,
And I wonder if I could ask one thing of you?
Why no Rhapsody in Blue?!
caroline Dec 2018
the body is calm, sleek and streamlined
while the straps are tightened
until the skin bulges at the edges
of each steel buckle

the machine whirs on
the red light taunting along with the audience
residue of a smile is left on face inside

until the air’s too thin
the onlookers cheer
the simultaneous roaring
of both fatal instruments

the sounds then cease
and the smoke then clears
but all that remains when the gears stop cranking
is a single shard of glass
with no reflection

and the crowd goes wild
Al Aug 2018
Silhouette, the night is yours.  Whiskers gauge the distance.  Leaves rustle in the breeze.  Sleek and slender you wait.  Stalking your prey.  Green eyes alert.  An emerald shine.  Fight or flight.  The heart beat slows.  A silhouette of the night.
Mims Oct 2018
The Bird is never still
Flying from one topic to the other
Her chatter loud and uncensored
Her friends twittering at her to be quieter
The Bird has many friends
But Birds always sleep alone
And cold
With their hollow bones

The Fox is the Bird's friend
The Fox is tricky
Weaving in and out of conversations
Gorgeous
And sleek
The Fox makes rabbits fall in love with her so she'll have plenty to eat
The Bird and the Fox are unconventional friends
Friends no one would think would click
But the Bird will chatter and chatter and the Fox will quietly sit
Listening to everything
Retaining information

The Chameleon is the Fox's and the Bird's mutual friend
When with the Fox they match their red
When with the Bird they match their blue
And so on
So no one really knows the Chameleon's true colors
Whoever you are
They'll match you
Blending in
A social camaflouge
That they think keeps them safe

And when together they are quite
A sight
Wandering loudly
Through the night
They are a strange group
And when together they're tight
Exchanging advice
Or judging each other

But never outright


You'll never catch the bird
But be careful if you do
If not gentle with your touch
Her bones will crack right in front of you

The Fox puts on a face
Bearing teeth and changing mates
But under all that glossy fur
She's scared that you won't want her

If you catch the Chameleon off guard
You might be surprised
What you see is never what you get
But if you look real hard
The chameleon will freeze and fall down to their knees
please, please, just like me

......
A tale of a friend group
Aseh Jan 4
you were too much like a nectarine
in early summer. All poreless and bright
and insinuating sweetness. Filled me up
with your secret eruption then shut me down
with your sleek silver tongue. Lava barricaded my eardrums,
enhancing my blood, fire in your eyes.
I was a plum, stealing forth
in the wake of your Augustine heat. My tender skin
gave way to your deft touch.

But then I bit down,
tasted the flesh beneath your glossy sheen
and oh how it betrays you!
So yellow and unripe, so taut with newness,
still clinging to the brightness of dawn,
spring-frozen with fear of the darkness
of my nectar.

Today I woke up with a magnet
in my pitted stomach. Echoes of
cold metal scour my throat. That love-
-less twang in the aortal penumbras--hope,
a refuge swallowed by the ephemeral night.
I always knew
you were too much like a nectarine
in early summer.
Ron Conway Dec 2018
The dinghy's bobbing helpless in the stream
The broken oars are futile 'gainst the force
The current pulling to the sea. The wind is blowing fro
Desperation searching for a course

And from the shore a shout, “Come on I'll save you
But you will have to pay a little fee
I don't want your money or possessions
All I want is you to think like me”

And from the other shore a darker voice
“I think you'll see this side is much more fun
All I want is never-ending gratitude
I can easily show you how it's done”

The wind was swirling, pressing on the dinghy
Pushing it from shore to rocky shore
Temptation to accept one or the other
Grew strong for fear of losing evermore

But wait, this dinghy's hull is sleek and smooth
Straight keel and mast above the haze
When sails are set it plays within the wind
Determined course to seas or sheltered bays

It's knowledge shapes the keel to slice the water
And courage 'gainst the storm to set the sails
And love that tills the rudder stays the course
With freedom jibe and tack among the perils

                                    RC
FIRE


A ball of fire hits a wooden house,
It sets everything red and smoky.
People inside hurried out madly,
To escape the inferno behind their backs.
Striking sounds of burnt wood avail
The passersby to ask for mercy.
Nothing left behind except ashes,
Embers and iron bars hot and sleek.
The beautiful wooden house with green orchard,
Becomes a heap of scrap and burnt bushes.
The old man sat on the floor lamenting,
The loss of beloved things without counting.
FIRE is a furious ,swallowing beast
That kills without mercy.
Travis Green Dec 2018
Since this morning our bodies have
escaped into various worlds of intense
desires, strong sensual languages of
love sifting in the air, the hovering
sun staring at our sleek sweaty flesh,
legs interlocked, wild addictions
growing rampant like extreme
pumping rhythms.  

Each dancing second spins and
spins around like treading tires,
oil-slick beats bursting inside
our bellies, the thick green trees
rising in serene satisfaction,
coming alive like two lovers
swaying in an autumn breeze.

Our backs seep inside the
deepest moments, the perfect
climaxes that follow one after
the other, azure eyes on the
edge of brilliant bridges,
the light above us a space
of divine dimensions, as
our lips meet like two swans
swimming in shimmering seas.
We are almost there, the part
where magnificent nations
collide and explode into
exhilarating sensations.
Nick Stiltner Oct 2018
The leaves dance for the breeze,
birds hop and glide from tree to tree.
Cicadas throaty song and the crickets cracking chirps,
the vibrations sent into my ear
in a humming tornado swirl.
Life moves with ease, if you let it.

A memory recalled and the scene brought back
found in the sleek motion of a pouncing cat.
Shown to forethought, brought under the light
a recollection lost to the wind
lit in hollow tones of hazy purple.

Nuzzled between the layers in those forgotten days,
Life will pass with ease, if you let it.

Turn turn turn,
the globe on it's rotating limb it turns.
Light shines, line fades,
time aches but quickens its pace.

The flame it should burn the blurred heat
rises in mist all around,
I can't i can't i can't
feel the flame forming, lashing at my feet.

The shoreline night breeze sends my bones
shivering and knocking and aching,
can someone tell me why
the horizon will not stop shaking?

A look above,
breath found within the shining eye
of the crowded moon, behind a blooming star
their retreating dance in tempo with the lights
as they shake and dim.

Clear and vacant eyes,
Cleared out and left to rot
in the twisting tumbling weeds
of memories you thought you had forgot.
SelinaSharday Aug 14
By Mr.E.. To SelinaSharday Ros3y
Life is a fraction of what time could be.
Standing in the midst of what things could be.
Waking up with her is not hard to conceive.
Enduring the pleasure of what might could be.
She's thought about to this world as status quo.
But no one ever truly knows what makes her Go.
Her beauty is only elevated by the consensus of her
smile as you sit back and wonder.
All the worthwhile what makes this woman so formidable.
Sleek and agile though she's instinctively intelligent sensual and fragile
She endures a man that would be more than just handsome.
With a smile for she needs a man to be there ready even when things are not so mild.
To be all the things she needs to make her want to stay awhile.
With the entire package of a grown man and not a child.
by E.

TIME_2
Her smile is like hands that transition into time.
That flows thru you like numbers trapped and embedded in your mind.
Like a soft melody that rings & chimes.
Even for the existence of being the very first time.  
I induce this parade of getting deep into the crevices of  your sublime.
Even when its hard for you to Let go the thought of doing that at any given time.
I plan on treating u with the benevolence of class & respect that reassures your mind.
And not having any regrets even when we travel into this mystery in time.
As I foreplay this moment of being with someone so fine.
Captured by the thoughts of her laid-back and sipping wine.
And her knowing that we could do this more than just one time.
As I played with her intellect and she starts to unwind.
keeping those thoughts she could explode at any given time.
By Mr.E
Words from Poet MR.E  to H.e.r Sharday Rosepoet
Jennifer K Jun 7
He sits in the dark with his eyes seal,
A complete stillness engulfs his figure
Yet he shivers in the fear of death

Under the light he may not reveal;
He must pretend his courage and say no beast
He must be the keeper of the fire
He must hold the conch and cry the demand
To remain as the leader amongst the lost boys

Creepers surround and tighten his breath of spiel
The neat hair and sleek body had long been gone,
No longer he is the fair boy of British

He wanders within the endless darkness of misdeal
Where nothing is heard but a sound of his frightened heart
But once more he hopes for the light
And falls into the darkness of the night.
Poem about Ralph, a protagonist in the book Lord of the Flies by William Golding.
Ash Sep 2018
Your sleek real smooth
How you sleeked into me
Into my mind,I shared my thoughts
Into my body,this fingers sinned forth
Into my soul,this fragile broken frost

We played games different games though
I played wanting only you
You played wanting the whole crew
Only I couldn't see we were playing differently
Only I was borderline stupid to fall this hard

Even this nose ring didn't hurt this much
Neither did this tattoo no not this much
What is it your looking for?
What is it you want from this crew?

All this hate that was spewing from this crew
You knew the reason,while I  was hanging on being love struck(stupid)
You just sent me to this ICU bed like my twin
You just plucked me off your bed of lies


Spero tu ottenere che cosa tu siamo ricerca per
I really did love you but its time for me to wake up
Don't worry I'll remove your thorns from my back
You just turn this heart into stone
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