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Daniel Magner Mar 2013
The slightness of soft
skin rubbing past
is in the past,
but I don't mind that.
In fact, I'm chugging along
despite the warmth of
lips being gone.
Stay strong.
That withdrawal is nothing compared
to the gut wrenching, stomach stomping
of a feeling I get when I realize
I don't feel any thing toward
anyone now,
that I
          don't
                                                      care.
© Daniel Magner 2013
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
lekki, and
thus said *leki
...
     former: slightly.
and latter: medicine....
     medicine: or pills...
that's half a summary
of leftovers...
strutting toward
a hamstrung plagiarism
worths' worth of
kindergarten blah blah...
  if ever the case
  was ever the rheumatic catchphrase
or said: gyroid stubble...
     the five o'clock tanning...
yep, lekki meaning a slightness,
meaning a gargantuan woo...
             a slightness,
and that's half of ascribed Loci...
     leki means medicine,
a plural circumstance...
                      letki meaning
paper-weight...
                  lekki hark and stutter...
Loci... or lost jarring toward
             insinuated lightness,
as said: personified lightness,
unbearable to the suitor Kundera.
oh the stutter.
Gabrielle F Oct 2010
there is something tragic about the young.
there is something haunting about the ***** of a young man’s browning neck.
his neck and those sweet earlobes and the tremor and clench of his thoughts provoking him
and tension bleeding quietly through the tissue and muscle and precious bone. there is something tragic about the young.
men, how they break out of one neediness and into another….

i had this lover who hated women
he hated women because his mother hated him.
when he told me this i decided i would forever keep my heart away from him,
he was dangerous
and full of fear
and full of this need to destroy.
he needed to ruin.

he needed to tear into something tender and pure and foolishly expectant
and pour all of his darkness into the frayed, howling gap.
suddenly he needed something in my slightness, my body whiteclad and open and unbroken ...
one spring cold with persistence
i forgot about that promise to myself
when for some reason i felt                                     so ugly

and then yes  he ripped,

ripped softly

into me.
Sal Gelles Jun 2013
a poem to lou reed*
feeding the animals
everything they want
and never getting
that perfect day,
you left me hangin' on.

while the girls sang,
we found that vivacious
slightness you'd felt
as we began feeling that light,
they blinded us in your mirror.

now we're twisted
waiting for the shine
those boots of leather
to the transformation,
we can't say we're not forsaken.
Jacobo Raymundo May 2013
Smoke rolls over the ruins
The solitary garden of serenity
Lays ablaze, desolate
Crying in the droughted fountain
Filling it with sorrow
Making wishes with invisible pennies

A calm wind approaches
Of no storm, of no extra pain
Sincerity in slightness
Clearing increments of fog
The sun beaming somewhere

Tears no longer fall
The fountain gains clarity
Lost in the obscurity of ash
Barren grounds find reincarnation
Sprouts bloom again, simplistic beauty
The sun shines once more
Waverly Sep 2014
Hello there
gruesome stone,
blood flowing over you,
making you lifelike
once more,
I can see your limbs
escaping your nothingness
like the useless appendix.

Your beautiful thighs,
and loveless algae-green eyes,
your senseless fingertips
and heartless glow,
your tiny brain
with it's one-track philosophy.

Gruesome stone,
you grow from wantoness
and neediness,
fed by the blood of those less fortunate
in love,
you harbor an innate greed
to be found again,
to caress the excellent jest
of unrequited love.

You are an out-of-this-world high
when you speak,
and you are not meant
for the
human heart,
and yet,
you follow the rivers
till they empty into the ocean,
and finally become stone again.

Until the last drop of stolen blood
has been washed away,
you and your beauty and horribleness
taint the very spirit
of love.

Taint the very problems
you intend to solve.

So, gruesome stone
like Dracula,
when there is nothing left,
you remain,
lifeless and pointless
a stone's throw away
from the human heart.

A pebble waiting for the wash of the slightness of a droplet,
to mar the warmth of the heart.
PK Wakefield Feb 2014
open me your hands
fists cruelly which
their tightness conceal


                                                  a
   ­                                            Slender
                                                 blade
                                            Of
            ­                                         spring

                                        In

             ­                                                heat.


                      (a cut distinctly of certain cuteness bleeding)A


dolllike limpness
of stiff
cherry breaking.



                                 a branch of sometimes petal bearing stems.

                                                  (a kiss and roughness)

            Open me them
                       there
                   slightness
                       will
                  bare
                            a span
                of
                      lewd innocence.


a strip of easy with parting rain which sometimes in April feels like dying
feels like pusshing apart of lips, hot redness, and ***** of steep fuzz.
PK Wakefield Feb 2012
night, when freezingly encounters my cheeks, some slightness rouges them
like roughed almost cheeks
like when you lay a hurting kiss upon them by the languorous hammer of

thy paleset palm. like, i do, how kindly unkind stinging your touch deftly
embraces their(mycheecks)
puffed unrude metal. and it blisters with the painful bud of cherry wreak
Craig Verlin Jan 2016
Love is a frail word,
whispered out by the pressing
of the tongue against
the roof of the mouth,
falling deafly outwards
and with little consequence.
It comes rattling out slowly,
beginning there in the epiglottis,
mulling forward and pressing
against the back of the skull
like the blade on a dull knife;
never quite hard enough
to break the skin.
You hear it in the slightness
of the air, pushed through the
smallest gap between the
front teeth and the lower lip;
forming the mouth in precise
measures.
Somewhere within all of this
movement of air against the
contortions of the mouth,
there is a wonderful lie that
we have created for ourselves.
TM Aug 2017
He packed the remaining slightness of her
tightly into an old timey suit case the same
color as his home made heart
to catch a red eye out of Arizona

Brass buckles caught his pant leg
as he ran, throwing him to high traffic carpet
made of things that burned
his face to slow him to a stop

Sitting up, he noticed she was spread
about in pieces again and understood
saying goodbye would be more difficult
than an old timey suitcase could be packed into
Time seems to capture those held in memories that have passed and hurt as much as it did then
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
and when they write their novels, the last thing
they'll realise, is that... contradictions, are
twists in the plot... philosophy books are only
akin to novella by creating contradictions,
as a way of suggesting playdough, scrapheap
of phenomenology;
    some say contradictions are desired faults
in an "arithmetic" / plot, and yes, that's... "arithmetic",
meaning a + b can't exactly be 1 + 2... but that's
               ∞ = a-z....
                 the two are incompatible correlatives...
crafted to ensure babushka lingua
                         sell her tomatoes...
                               and all subsequent blah blahs;
oh please! you'll go to thailand some time next year,
you want me to feel sorry for you?
              pet a rat!*

and will i dicta villager simply,
                                                      qualm?!
  ­                  you! ruddier!
charcoal fat!
you sludge-ipsen
            you vermont Kaiser guised!
you! finicky, thing!
            avocado fat ****!
let us bravado a chin!
  that double! half-wit quiff!
   fringe alongside the combover!
all things elongated towards a giraffe....                  
           you! squeaky Lombard of Milan!
you! paraphrase! you! Merovingian!
cackle squat! and summation parts teutonic;
defaced, with mention of tectonic;
and they did live, a happily ever after,
                         which is the sad part;
you! piglet charcoal with dumb & dumber!
i dare not carve my name in stone...
    i carve my name in lamb limbs...
                   so i debase myself on
the throttle when there's encouragement
of the speeding aversion toward Macbeth;
i look upon the toil,
    as i might take slightness of asserting
the earthenware,
      to have milked the cow, or to have
leisured an urn from a basic of dover chalk -
        there you are... a kingly kin awoken...
there the highlands... and there the deposited
  into basin...
                             for all pyrotechnics
there's still the pedophobia -
                means i have an aversion becoming
a father... i don't like children...
do i hate to?       ~. really, do i have to?
as it strands... i have to.
it was Macbeth who looked down,
and said: as mere pebble be,
        i see less time occupying the lot of the heavens
even if they conjunction Aries into
     a warring tide...
                            there, among
the toothache and awoken chance to meet grit...
     i find time worth embedding a scaling into...
          a rigidity, that could never define Romeo,
and as said... lost the mc.        as having lost
the juliet... and subsequently gained the Beth.
Michael Ramsey Jul 2018
Scavenger by very nature,
     And nuisance to those
     Who’d judge and propose
Only pessimism of this creature.

Though troublesome, in a sense,
     To instinct it’s bound,
     And blame confounds—
For its entirety mere innocence.

Lions, though great and proud, it aids—
     For in its small size
     And its meekness lies
True intent and respect others evade.

Despite the slightness it commands
     The large elephant
     Is fearful and can’t
Overcome what it doesn’t understand.

Viewed as disgusting, vile and weak
     Though when the time comes
     And all others run
I’ll scurry on, stand proudly, and squeak.
ghost queen Dec 2019
i awoke, for no particular reason, sensing something was wrong, my lover was not in my in arms nor in bed. i sat up, looked around for her shadow or silhouette, neither of which i found.

i got out of bed, walked the chambers and hall, to no avail, she was not  here. “where would she go, in the dead of night,” i thought to myself, “and why.” i walked to the terrace, into the moonlight, felt the cool of the night, the slightness of a breeze. i looked out across the terrain to the horizon, all was still, only the crickets chirped unaware.

i strained to see, to hear, anything, for a clue to where she was. in despair, i turned and walked back into the chamber, when i heard a fading echo. i spun around, trying to hear more of the sound, to get a bearing, a direction which to follow.

i heard it again, low, far away, faded from the distance, a woman’s voice, crying, pleading for help. i jumped from the terrace to the ground, running in the direction of her voice. i ran, faster and faster, my heart pumping hard, till i could hear my blood pulsing in my ears.

i jumped a stream, into the forest, dark, damp and cold from the night air. the voice grew louder, her pleads more desperate, i could hear the terror in her screams. i ran oblivious to the branches tearing, ripping at my flesh, or the rocks and stone against my feet.

i started to recognize the landscape, the direction i was headed. i was going to a cave, that ***** gentle into the earth, giving the appearance of an amphitheater. i ran into a clearing, to the entrance of the cave, looked down, and saw her, curled up, fetal position, in the middle of the cave, laying on ground, naked.

i hurried down the entrance, to the floor of the cave, where the moonlight started to disappear. i approached her slowly, she did not move, i was afraid, she was dead. i got closer to her, when out of the dark, i saw glowing eyes, heard a growl. i stopped to assess, trying to understand what i was up against.

it stepped out of the dark, into the faded light. it was a wolf, a black wolf, walking towards her, until atop of her, growling, snarling, gnashing its teeth at me. i stopped in my tracks, not knowing how or what to do. i was unarmed, partially naked, barefoot, looking at a huge black wolf that could, would tear me to apart.

my chest heaved, back and forth from from running and now fear. i looked at the black wolf, our eyes met, i could feel, see the viciousness of this apex predator, sensing it strength and power. the black wolf, stopped snarling, stared back at me, his expression softening to indifference.

“was the wolf realizing who i was,” i thought to myself, “that i am here to rescue, save the woman that i love.” the black wolf lowered his head, until his snout touched her shoulder, licking her, as if cleaning a pup, then popped his head back up, meeting my gaze again, and what felt like an eternity, started backing up into the darkness, till he was gone.

i rushed to her side, cradled her in my arms, looking, feeling for signs of life. i felt her shudder, saw her breathing, her eyes remained closed. i moved her hair from her face, kissing her lips softly, tears streaming down my face. i picked her up, and carried her out of the cave of the black wolf.
written from a dream, interpreted using dream dictionary at http://www.dreammoods.com/
Jude kyrie Jul 2016
It was summer
that long ago dream filled day
When we walked
by the shoreline of a lazy sea.
The gulls cawed from above us as if
To celebrate our union
even they could recognise love.
I remember the slightness of you
Your summer skirts
blowing about your legs.
Your  hair a haze of auburn freedom,
I know it was at that moment
we became the only
two inhabitants of our own island.
the sea sending dancing wavelets
onto our bare feet.
Showing us we were now marooned
on this
Island that was to be
where our lives would
be spent until our our last breaths.
Was I so infatuated by by you back then
I know i offered you my breath
My blood my heart anything.
I remember your eyes telling me
Just give me your  heart my love.
So i tore it from my body and
Held out my hand
And my heart was in it,
You keep me coming back.
No matter how clogged my mind gets,
Or the speed at which the cargo train flashes, the coursness of sand-on-stones, thr slightness of the ripple just a moment after the rock sinks,
I think, prehaps, that part of me
Is really made
Of the memory of You,
Of You and me in what to me is as distant a future as past was to past and for you is is bleeding, throbbing, whiring with love and hope,
Of us together in our everlasting, You in I in me in You.
I think that that is what made me, and that part of me pre-remembers with the resonance of eternity,
And that is why I keep on coming back.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
idle hands fit for the devil to do his bidding...
perhaps i'll write some more
so more and the devil will come to the fore...
he might just come with
smoke and mirrors: hardly any fire...
smoke and mirrors: hardly any fire...
he might just come with
smoke & mirrors to the fore...
who wouldn't have forgotten
to shave or... for that matter: bring some
sulphuric stink and some: farting-ire...

so i've just changed my bicycle tyre...
yep... i've just change my bicycle
tyre and the inner tube too...
so i've just changed my bicycle tyre
and the inner tube too...
and... well: how mighty these idle
hands now seem...
well: how mighty these idle hands now
seem...

i've saved up about 20 quid's worth
of someone's labour...
but i've also spent us much...
on the necessary parts...

but... but... it's so much more...
when you can cook your own curry
instead of falling back on an Indian take-away...
when you can cook your own curry
instead of falling back on an Indian take-away...
pizzas too: dough with yeast:
grows it grows: it makes it sing!
hey, just listen: jovial fat man sings...
the yeast will make the flour
the sugar, water & a pinch of salt
rise! rise! rise!

- if it's not the pied piper taking the rats
out of town...
it's this best only imagined:
jovial fat man making the yeast
           rise...
he might even:
   play along with king  Solomon's con-tem-
                                                    +            -plation
of the ant... busy yeast busy ants:
the jovial fat man sang
and up up: the dough rose!

throw me a black cardamom grenade!
throw me a black cardamom grenade!
i'll forever make this work:

i have: an arsenal of Indian spices
that could compete with
the Russian or the US stockpile of
nukes...
i have: an arsenal of Indian spices
that could compete with the Russian &
the US stockpile of nukes...

knock knock: who isn't there:
knock knock... the echo... the echo isn't there...
keep up: lyrics... repeat repeat to
keep the rhythm: pink-oi(nk)-poignant...
any blessed fate of deep-fried onion
rings...
one two one two: the same sound
of a rubber ball against a brick wall...
jesus take one: on a cross...
take two on a horse...
jesus dying an old man...
hey! Zeus! you were him too?!

any idiot is supposed to ride a donkey
byway of: back a warding off...

oh look... lyricism was going to swell...
i was almost: "grifting"?
well... good luck writing lyrics
for anything beside
the one time Beethoven managed to write
the music for the lyrics...

not originally Friedrich Schiller's...
whatever the dispute was...
one was deaf... the other blind?

ode to "freedom": what which i might
enjoy last: what's leftover...
what i can have while the forerunners
have exhausted...
and will never find my own...

i was never good at keeping it:
"geometrically": compact...
i was always found to digress even when
i were to finish something with
a promise for lyrics:
i would devolve the lyrics into...
a "word salad" narrative...
all the better... i'm not rhetorician...
i'm not journalists...
if i haven't made any more from my
work...
then... obviously i'm no Salvatore Garau
who just auctioned a $18,300 sculpture...

what's the point of money: if... you don't
want to spend it?

sentiments for all those hijab-clad girls...
when a common reaction comes in the form:
there's... a hair... in my soup...
there's a hair in my soup!
almost akin to: there are some nail-clippings
in my soup... there's a fly in my champagne flute!
in defence of hair?
really... that's all there was: to begin with?
men would never be allowed to grow their hair
long? they would all be bald?
why is it a defence of hair...
a man can shave his head
and present himself with a bald head:
but a goat's beard...

em... there's a hair in my soup?
ugh! the immediate response...
someone was toying with their *****...
there's a nail-clipping...
it's one thing: and i've seen it:
muslim girls donning white-hijabs
in the street... fair enough...
Japan is an island... they're experiencing
record high-levels of... heat... humidity...
England is an island...
we share the same longitude... platitude...

it's a ******* island...
why is having "hair" somehow deemed as
"****"? what's this outdated model
to do with, herr moi?!
hair... what if i'm into shortcut pixie-dream
girl memorabilia?
what if i want to be a man:
and have long hair while i want
her to be short-cut?
Woad princess of the raven hairs: clipped
to a crew-cut... with feathers of tease
ruining my balance as i regroup?!

come to think of it...
what are these two jugs of the female ****...
but only two nibbles: of *******?
why can't i start imagining...
the cow's sack of the mono-***
with multiple *******?
if everything is to made to blatantly:
******* apparent!

i seriously turn into a quasi-paedo
when watching the gymnastics...
then again i correct myself:
i like to stand corrected...
give me anything voluptuous...
fully grown: a mandible beauty of the body...
stash the used-parts...
i'll be happy to watch rust overgrow them...

i've ****** a ****** once...
never... ever... again...
i've seen the mirror imposed...
three incisions into my body with a "***** worthy"
clarification of a knife...
on the right side: just above my collar-bone...
under my right-arm-pit...
where the tętno protrudes... pulse...
and one smooth stroke into the neck...

then to finish it all off...
somewhere in the confiscates of the abdominal
region...
by now... i'm best teasing...
in my 35 years lived...
claiming a marathon riddled with
dementia and bad to worse teeth
aged 70: life expectancy doesn't really
bother me:
i've seen what old age does...
it does very little to proof-read past
deeds with a substance of immunity
from the harrowing...

for those that might mind:
death of glorious relief!
however the life was spent...
either is the exercise of the body...
or the exercise of the mind:
whether in the limelight or
whether in the footnotes ...

it might just rain... while i take to the field...
i'm hardly going to yield a harvest
from it: perhaps an odd thought...
but what's a "thought" these days?
it's not a moral-ought-i nor
a moral-ought-i-not...
i think for a something of a burden:
when once i thought for a cogito-per-se...
i thought for the sake of thinking...
there was no "ingenious" inversion"
ascribed to Nietzsche that i might:
be... therefore to think: a machine of thinking?

i don't think Descartes would allow
himself to be justified: i exist in order
to (merely) think...
he just posited: oh... i suppose i think...
suppose i am too... towing along...
but Nietzsche had to focus on the: denken: arbeit!

how much can one "think" before:
Descartes would call me from the grave and
tell me to invoke the counter to: res cogitans:
imploring me: mention: res vanus! mention
res vanus! the empty thing...
the sensual creature! the creature
who absorbs cursors! motives... motifs...

****'s sake... sum ergo cogito...
well then... if you are... Nietzsche...
where was your... *******... lightbulb?
same as me... although i find minor concerns
best targeted...
what example? i'm pretending to be deaf...
oh... you know... the vampire of brooklyn...
Albert Fish... Fitsch... sticking needles
into his pelvis before being electrocuted...

philosophers: alias to...
fan-boys spinning narratives of artists...
the subjective-object...
the objective-subject... blah blah...
the gymnast who is fudge-packaged body
without the height of a swimmer Olympian...
i must say... beside the women...
the male swimmers still hold the highest
aesthetic for a male body: exemplar...
above every, other sport...

i drink to excess: therefore:
i have a slightness to excess in a "stomach ache"...
what... in between not having
a war to wage... too much competition...
me suckling up to the sleep of
PHENERGAN... no alcohol...
and me drinking some alcohol
and succumbing to some... APAP...
and some anti-inflammatory NAPROXEN...

it's not a fair competition for sucky-sucky...
is... it? it's not a fair competition
when within the confines of: said:
competition... there are so many...
ailing... exemplars of supposed
zenith ambitions...

while i wallow in the crustaceans nibbling...
itch itch some more...
nibble itch... itch some more...
i've learned a lesson of patience that
overcomes all that's...
necessarily... of such strong stock of body...
but with a feeble mind...
thank god i've been patient...
brain as chemical soup...

at what point am i to be excused
not remembering my 20s?!
now?
is this the right time to cash in on the hovering
gimmicks worth of chips & slabs?
a litany of: when i was...
but no one was bothered to
watch?!

what love i had...
what love i could have worshiped...
each letter... each letter guided toward
constructing a word... each word
with each and every punctuation marker...
added marker: with diacritical scrutiny...
will be... aided... with nothing short
of: oh no... no evil... nothing associated
with: d(evil) to do evil...
rather..            malice... irksome... bothersome...
little... fidgety awe...

i want to be something: belittling... nothing:
awe inspiring... i could have been...
once... the world made it obviously:
fair... fair to me...
goodness is ridiculed and waiting for
the slaughter of those having made it to old age...

a daughter will.. estrange herself from her
mother... my mother... my grandmother...
over how my grandmother kept the death
of her father: my grandfather... a secret for almost two
months... while my uncle: her brother: her son...
somehow knew all about the deterioration...
two days prior only i found about him being
subjected to a hospice...

AND ME... REPRODUCE?!
START A FAMILY!
I'VE BEEN TASKED WITH COUNTING
WHAT MARBLES I HAVE LEFT...
I'M TO BIND MYSELF WITH CONCERNS
FOR "HEALTH": THE "MIND":
WHILE ALL THESE SEEMINGLY...
PONTIUS PILATE CRITTERS...
WALK... SCALD-FREE!
DICTATING WHO REQUIRES
THE PSYCHIATRIC BRAIN CHEM-SOUP...
SO THEY CAN KEEP A ******* HARD-ON?!

it would truly require me to...
take the most... freely accessible... nonsense:
*****-nilly solipsist of the bunch
to the slaughter... and they wouldn't even know...

this "poetry": this civilization can die...
die a dog's death...
but it won't die a "dog's" death...
it'll die a death of man...
under the umbrella branch of mulattos...

there's no longer a crucified centre to hold it...
the tide has come...
the fire is gluttonous.... yes...
there's no longer a crucified centre to hold it...
the tide has come...
the fire is gluttonous.
Patrick Kennon Apr 2021
Soaring clouds cloak rising sun, vigorous brightness, morning whiteness
Lightness, creeping upon those weeping sightless, dark blindness lifting in slightness
Rightness becomes a non factor, heart like a melted down reactor spitting smoke
Go for broke, break it all, the inevitable fall comes swiftly, will twist thee into submission
Nature's battle of attrition, cruelty ingrained into life like burning brands
Souls sold in cans, tossed as carelessly as the cost, collecting moss screaming
Deeming this a good time to care, a good chance to dare, not to be ensnared
Time cares for those before the same as for us, oxidation of rust, reduction to dust
Why must one must, death is all one can trust, breath blown away in a gust
x.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
it has been a slow coming:
     the rain was supposed to come...
but always that
thick sludge of humid air...

then the lightning... no thunder:
therefore no rain...
by all earth's low creatures
this yawn of the pantheon...

               and now... a near
mythical point: exact...
         a flash of lightning -
the clouds so thick you can notice
a blinking eye -
but not the shredding electric
vein in the sky...

  but then the thunder...
   and moments later...
                   a future a baptism...
a relief a way of catching
words into a net
adjective-noun complexes...

            how generous the slightness
of the breeze...
like the term kiss in snooker...
  for days since this
beginning luck...
walking like a buttered itch...
walking like a tenticle reworking
a sponge...
        
              will the skies open
with there be a leftover gamble...
will there be an easing...
with the pennies finally fall...
and then...

            as that everymore
ineffectual prayer...
     the veil of materialism
and its sensibility
                    in the ordeal of science...
the rain fell but there
was no flood...

              by morning
an empty promise of leftover puddles
also boiled over...
    this air the suffocating
presence of a blister...

         however - a blissful interlude
in... wishing to experiment
with licking ice...
                  nothing: literally so...
one could hope for
any sort of a knotting
                       to a baron of sleep.

— The End —