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Josiah Israel Jul 2017
Deep in a magic forest, with big old magic trees
And all the magic creatures that live inside of these

There is a magic island, upon a magic lake
And on the island stands a stool, the like no man could make

And on the stool from dawn to dusk, resides a little man
Who spends his days in deeper thought, than any mortal can…

How does he think so many thoughts, well you must realize,
That though the man is small, his head is twice the normal size.

And as for food, well first of all he quite likes eating bugs
Beetles spiders, grass hoppers, slimy snails and salty slugs!

Inside his beard he keeps a hive, so honey he can eat,
And sips the dew from roses, which he grows atop his feet…

And when the night time brings the cold, the old man doesn't care
He simply covers up, with all his long and tangled hair!

Regardless of his oddities, the man is still renowned,
For being quite the wisest man, who never can be found.
This poem was told to me by a young Fairy on the road to a Wishing Well near my house.
Umi May 2018
Silent sorrow,
Cornered within the room built on the oceans very bottom,
Layers upon layers of darkness are a blanket to get used to, yet I am not alone; after all this world is filled with wonderful, various life.
Swarms of jellyfish, serene and clear shine off a little light through their glassy, slimy yet delicate bodies as they travel across my view,
In this world, the pressure is squeezingly tight, unforgiving and cruel,
But it amazes me to see, how little these animals mind about that,
The silence is cut by a distant cry, sounding awfully distorted to my poor little ears, which of course like the rest of my body, do not fit in.
On further notice, I gaze at the playful sight of a little whale and it's mother not far apart, their language, is astonishing yet so majestic,
Gathering the pieces of an old, dim dream I still cannot move out of my prison, yet my thoughts do not fade, the hope of being part of it.
After all, I am not human but, this world would roughly welcome me,
Never will I be able to return again, as a demon who was sealed away into this blue expanse of sea, I didn't belong to humanity anyway...
I can savely say, it is but a sea made of pure tranquility.

~ Umi
Big Virge Oct 2014
One ... Must show ...
.... " Composure " ....
when facing ... " Exposure " ...
to ... Ignorant Heads ... !!!!! ...
"Showing" ... Disrespect ... !!!!!!

Like those ...
QUICK to run ...
Their ... "jealous" ... gums ...
who ... ACT ... as though ...
They Fear ... NO FOE ... !!!!!!!

There's ... ALWAYS ONE ... !!!!!
who will ... succumb ...
to ... Provoking You ...
through ... " Shady Moves !!! " ...

The ... Type of Fool ...
who can't deal with ....

... " Truth " ... !?!

and runs ... A Show ...
that is .... " A Joke " ....
because their ... flow ...

..... Through .....
Speech ... or ... Prose
is ... Nothing More ...
than ... WEAK and Flawed ... !!!!!

The type ... who lick ...

******* ... ******* ... !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A **** Type ....
" Neo-Fascist " ....
who keeps ... His ...

.... " ******* " ....
CLOSE TO HIM .... !!!!!

Just like .... George ...
and .... Mr. Blair ....

These ... "Evil Types" ...
are ... " Everywhere " ... !!!!!

Offering ... Bribes ...
to ... Dummies Inclined ...
to ... " Towing Their Line ?!? " ...
of ... " Corrupted Designs ! " ...

They're ...

Greasy .... Slimy ....
Sneaky ... and ...  Grimy ... !!!!!

The type ... whose death ...
Won't Be ... " Untimely " ... !!!!!

" What's Wrong ... with them ?!? "

Well clearly, they ....
Have got ... PROBLEMS ... !!!!!

Some ...
Try To ... IMPRESS ...
through their  ....
Use of ..... Text .....
when they should ... accept ...

that their prose ... is ...

.... " Worthless " .... !!!!!

"Classic" .... FOOLS ....
who make ... Wrong Moves ... !!!!!

Just to ... make you ...
Lose your ... cool ... !!!!!

When ... dealing with them ...
" Composure's " ... The Tool ...
that makes them start to ...

..... " Hurl Abuse " ..... !!!!!

and ... continue ...
to break the ... RULES ... !!!

" The Rules " ... of ...
....... The Game .......

that ... CLEARLY ... State ... !!!

RESPECT ... is ... EARNED ... !!!!!
NOT ... Taken ... OKAY ... !!!!!!!!!!!

These FOOLS ... can't take ...

" Truthful Wordplay " ....

So they .....
Choose to display

" Aggressive Traits " ... !!!

when clearly ... They ...
should ... Know Their Place ... !!!!!

Watching those ....
who ... COMMAND ... The Stage ...
with ... Ease ... Composure ...
and .... Such Grace ...

That ...
WHATEVER ... They Say ... !!!?!!!
Leaves ... Them ...

..... Upstaged ..... !!!!!!

" Jealous Ingrates " ....

who think ... because ...
You've ... Walked ... AWAY ...
that ... You're ... AFRAID ...

which is .... Ofcourse ....
Their ... First Mistake ... !!!!!

There's .....
ALWAYS ONE ... !!!!
who is ... So Dumb ... !!!
that their own actions ...
Leave them .... STUNG .... !!!!!!!
and in .... The End ....
cause them ... Problems ... !!!!!!!!

If they were .... " Clever " ....
They'd use ... Their Heads ... !!!
and use ... Their Pens ...
to prove that they're ... " BETTER " ...
than ... " Butting Heads " ... !!!!!! ...

But .....
They choose to ... REJECT ...
Butting ... " Intellects " ...
cos' ... They KNOW ...
that's a ... " Test " ...
that's ... BEYOND ... Their Best ... !!!!!

That figures .......

" Oh Yes " ... !!!!!

because they're ... " INEPT " ...

So they ... Choose to ...
Make ... THREATS ... !!!!!
as well as ... " Disrespect " ... ?!!!?
... " Respected Poets ! " ...
who they know ... write poems ...

Waaaayyyy ABOVE ... !!!!!!

Their attempts .... !!!

They think that they ....
are ... WINNERS ... !!!!!!!!!

When ... CLEARLY ... they ...
are ... SINNERS ... !!!!!!
who are ... Absolute ...
....... BEGINNERS ....... !!!!!

Who ...
NEED to ... Learn ...

to ... SIMMER ... down ... !!!

It's Not ... Their fault ...
that they ... are ... " CLOWNS " ... !!!

But .....
Threats of .... ASSAULT ....
May ... bring them ... DOWN ... !!!!!!

So ....
REMEMBER ... These Words ... !!!!!

They're ... WELL OBSERVED ... !!!!!

Their ... IGNORANCE ...
has ... NO DEFENCE ...
and just ... CONFIRMS ...

Their Lack .....
of ... " Depth " ... !!!

Their ... ARROGANCE ...
Drowns ... " Common Sense " ...

which ... In the ... END ...
They may .... REGRET .... !!!!!

Their movements ...
....... " SMELL " ...... !!!!!!!!!!

of ..... " Jealousy " .....
because they ... write ...

" WEAK POETRY ! "

That ... SHUNS Truth ...
and ... " REALITY " ... ?!!!?

It seems ... " The Truth " ...
Hurts Fools ... like ... THEM ...

..... " Therefore " .....
... " Their School " ...

is one for people ...
with ... " PROBLEMS " ... !!!!!

So .....
Now ... This Piece ...
has reached ......

It's ... " Closure " ...

The Moral ... is ...

when dealing with ...

" Human Insects " ...

Don't get ... TENSE ... !!!

If they choose ta ...
... " Taunt Ya " ...

Ignore them ... YES ...

and show .....

.... " Composure " ....
I'd suggest, A PRICELESS ... commodity ...
Right about NOW !
haley Jan 2018
i am running out of
air
i am running out of
scrapes on my knees
running out of
new corners to cross
in this neighborhood
we,
we are growing up in the same houses
with the same curtain of trees draping
their limbs over our windowsills
we are sleeping in the same bedsheets
wrinkled from the imperative
tossing and turning
of adolescents.

we inflate our chests
and float away like red balloons
a freckle in the pale complexion of the sky
for this love affair with the pavement
has lost its edge
this slipping on
slimy banana peels
has stabilized

we have bitten and scratched and stained
the doors of your fingers
studied every trail of your fingerprints
i have grown older in the palm of your hand
your fists raised to the sky
it is time for you to open them.
Mallory Aug 2017
My patience has been stretched inordinately thin,
My back bone has started to spear through my skin
and I will not snap it back in place
to make
you more comfortable.
I see through you
and your slimy, translucent, fins.
I promise I notice
every bit of effort you do not put in.
It sinks my heart into my stomach,
And every truth Ive been swallowing will be regurgitated and spit out before I am sick again.
My back feels like it's going to break from bending over all the cracks in your concrete,
While you step on mine,
Thinking you are somehow above me this way, but dear,
we all ***** the same.
Just in different places, and at different paces.
And I have been running down only one ways
lately.
But these roads don't lead me any closer to you, they drive you away, and if you think i can run forever,
While you stay the same,
You are grievously  
wrong.
I can only give so much.
And at the end of the day,
I will love the people who reciprocate that love back, and meet me halfway.
I will love you always,
but for a love that hurts more than it heals, I can not wait, and I will not stay.
"You're cold."

  He said as he took her hands and he couldn't be more right and wrong at the same time. Her gaze simply fell to her feet as she let the silence envelop her. She felt cold, her soul quivering somewhere in the corner of her heart, obscuring its rhythmic beat and creating a swell of off tempo chaos in her veins. Her memory of his whispers were akin to the sudden rush of wind that hit her skin, wet with the storm of tears and caused chills to cascade their way across her body.
  
  But he was wrong, it wasn't she who was cold, it was him who was stealing everything that made her warm. Coaxing her with his silver tongue, murmuring the words he knows she wants to hear, testing his skill and bringing her to the edge of the flimsy fortress she calls defense, to where she's just barely out of his reach, a paper thin wall separating his will from hers, and he nearly giggles in delight when he causes her to tear it down herself, like a spider tearing down its own web.
  
  But of course that isn't enough, not when she's standing there, all walls down, vulnerable and tender, her heart so soft he could cut right through it with just his fingernails, and **** be ****** itself if he wasn't the slightest bit temped to try because he knows how easily he can, like shoving a pin through a butterfly, simple and smooth, and it'd be so interesting to see her squirm. But instead he's interested in how far he can cause her to do it to herself.  
  
  All he has to do is let a few of his venomous words drip from his teeth, promising he isn't like everyone else (because he isn't of course, no one else would be this thrilled to watch her crumble so slowly ), that he understands, understands that she's so incredibly weak, and that her heart is so big it oozes to the surface of her skin for everyone to see, and it's so **** easy that she must be begging for it, and suddenly he's caught her and he loves it.
  
  She's hanging on every word as if he's holding happiness over her head, but this is boring him, he wants to see what makes her tick, how she is the way she is, so it's time to step up his game. He moves his hand from hers and slides it up her arm, resting ever so gently on her shoulder as his other hand moves to her waist, and as if to further prove his point about how she basically wears her heart as her skin it turns a rosy shade of pink, and sends its pulse so strongly he can feel it. He lets his breath ghost across her susceptible ears and pulls her against him as he gives his orders.

"*****."
  
And she does.

First go the clothes, but her skin isn't what he's interested in, and he makes it very clear with the expecting look he gives her, so she goes again,tearing skin from muscle one piece as a time. He knows it must be painful, from the tears pouring from her eyes and how the exposed muscle throbs with its raw appearance, and yet the look of concentration on her face just pulls him in more, and yet it still just isn't enough, and finally that red disgusting throbbing ****** mess is pulled away to expose her shining ivory bones. He can't help but marvel in how gracefully they curve, the very core of her frame standing before him, she's completely bare with nothing left to expose, and that gorgeous  pearly figure before him is only more defined by the red  heart that's left behind those ribs, as it pulses and drips and beckons him with each flutter.
  
  It glistens like a slimy rotting apple, and it couldn't be anything more since it belongs to her. But you know what they say, fruit is always the sweetest just before it goes bad, and it's too tempting for him to not take a bite. And he couldn't help but marvel at how warm it was, or the sudden chills dancing down his spine.
Johanna Nov 2018
I chase my dreams like I chase this
******* ******* cockroach.

the closer I get the more it resists
darts away
crawls into little spaces I didn’t even know
were there.

when finally obtained
I am left with a slimy gooey mess,
and this half dead thing
with a twitching leg.
Jack L Martin Aug 2018
*******
truth pretender
parents send her
life defender

he's a ******
slimy maggot
feeling ragged
bag and tag it

hurting words
spitting herds
cheezy curds
****** nerds

mental case
dizzy space
**** face
**** my race

Time to kneel
grab a feel
scary tweel
innocence steal

Eat a steak
garden rake
veggie snake
life forsake

Not pretend
we defend
savior send
the end
Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will ALWAYS hurt me!
Yenson Aug 2018
Haters, haters, hiding in the closets, hiding in faeces
your putrid minds full of fears and all your weaknesses
You are not men but degenerates and cowards in excesses
but in your attempts to distract away from your deseases
Look the parents you have and you know you're like rat fleas
you lack a lot which makes you so angry and in pieces

Washing once a week on other days its wet towel on faces
smerge on stunted wieners never to be a winner at the races
You're un-cool all you do is pretend but you ain't got the aces
as charmless as chicken *** you're the left-behind in chases
Never had a true compliment because you have no graces
deep down you're a mess and petrified of background traces

You have ***** linens and bad secrets buried in bad places
you're nasty, think nasty and 've done things that debases
Always afraid you pick on your betters rocking in perfect places
full of inferiority complexes  real abilities get up your noses
You've wet your bed and at night  you knowyou're *******
playing macho when in reality you want to do men's *****

Nobody likes the faceless cowards and abject scorn they entices
partners and frenemies are there for themselves and free passes
They see through them and smell their weakness without paces
faking laughter at their hate and anger at winners they despises
Haters are sick sad losers miserable inferiors with dark devises
never happy, never content just slimy cowards in dumb disguises
Lizzy Feb 2016
I didn't want to open my eyes. The sight of him made me sick. I hated his short, hairy legs. I hated his eyes. They looked at me with sadness, but sadness couldn't hide the evil that stared at me. I hated the way they looked hollow and dark when he took his glasses off. I hated his beard. It scratched my skin when he tried to kiss me. And when he thrusted his lips at mine, hoping i wouldn't run.

I hated his hands the most. His hands radiated with his disgusting desire. Every time he touched me, from the day we first met, i knew something was wrong. Maybe i was just being too "closed off". Thats what my dad always said when i didn't let him hug me. When he touched me, i could see his hands for what they really were. Slimy tentacles, ******* for their prey.

I should have seen it coming, the things his hands did. They hit me. I saw stars and my ears rang. They scratched me. The marks would be there for days. They gripped my throat so tight i could feel my life slipping away as my vision went dark. He released just before i passed out, letting me breathe.

Sometimes i wish he had kept choking me. I wished he had killed me that day, putting an end to my torture.

All the pain and lack of oxygen made me weak. Too weak to try to fight. He was bigger and stronger. And i was just a battered little girl, terrified and trapped. I couldn't get away. And who would hear me if i screamed? We were alone and i was pretty sure he'd keep hurting me if i tried. He restricted my breathing every time i made a sound.

So i just laid there. I closed my eyes, pretending i was dead. I waited for it to be over, trying to **** my mind. I didn't want to feel a thing. I didn't want to be there. If i could somehow slip into death in my head, i wouldn't have to be here anymore. Killing myself in my head was the only escape from my terrible reality.

It was over and he drove me home. He tried to talk to me. He tried to reassure me that everything was okay and i wasn't a bad person.
"Don't feel guilty, he doesn't have to know." He kept talking but i was silent. In an emotionless trance, my face was still and unexpressive. Tears came slowly and silently. They rolled down my stone cheeks, my statue of a face.

What just happened? Did he forget the events of the last hour? Did I?
"Don't feel guilty. He won't know."
Had i just cheated on my boyfriend? What have i done?

He made me think that i was the one to blame. I'm a ****. *****. Disgusting cheater. What did i do? I hate myself. I deserve to die.

I knew the truth. I knew what happened. I knew what he did and i knew how horrible it felt. So how was he able to convince me that this was my fault? Was it because i didn't want to think about that word? ****.

No, i had not been *****. I cheated and I'm a horrible person. He means the world to me and i am a horrible ****. That's what i told myself. And didn't tell anyone else anything about cheating or ****. It's a terrifying word. Once the reality is seen.
i guess i needed to open up about it eventually. even if it is just to nobodies on the internet. i was going to explode if i didn't get it out.
Philipp K J Dec 2018
***** pink and ebony feet
brush the slimy grass filled path
Through the tea fields elephants retreat
After a night of jaded mud bath

Armored with sack and gunny  weight
Enter the frost covered fields in drowsy rest
Wake up the greens to  a gentle fright
And pluck under care of  enchanting *******.

The supervisor mackintosh
Walking with a bend and a toss
Shout at those Cinderellas
Who look for shoes and umbrellas
Even  before its time to knock off

The tin covered temple of olfactory  auditory deity,
the holy Garden tea
The chanting enchanting to a coma hot  mesmerizing wafts of aroma
fills the air, capture the sense of all devotees who belong to the Orthodox commune TEA or CTC.
The sirens bugle the devotees into fits
They come in shifts for worship.
The tender hearts freshly plucked before they attain mature Tea
Spread to wither under a  ****
of a hot air with care.
crushed and torn and curled,
the souls are put into a purgatory rotary drum to pause to meditate
on the ephemeral color change
To cover the green with copper red
Garment to ferment  before being sent
to the fluid fire dance
To attire in black and retire
in packages
for a last plunge in to a boiling cauldron
The finale
Endgame
A sacramental service,
a self sacrifice to energize the tired souls
In cups of tea..
Max Hale Oct 2018
Moorland skies and breaking dawn clouds,
forcing the weak sunlight through the barren trees.
Crows with no particular places dart from one copse to the other.
Flying above your head, tearing the morning skies into shreds.
Elusive mists on the undulating lanscapes give peeks of field stubble or dark  grass.
Nearer, the feel of the five bar gate
Is damp and slimy with the dew,
The rough wood barely discernable
Until the warmth of your hand gives up enough heat to release its underlying texture.
To the right the west seems still asleep,
Unaware of the fingers of the sun's rays inching closer.
Sliding through gateways,
Over ponds and into unexpected windows.
To the east its almost day,
Cool yellow light weaving it's way through or past the trees,
Hedges, odd building and rests at your feet.
Bowed in reverence as if to hand you this day on a platter saying, '
'This day is my gift to you, enjoy.'
To my Jan ***
Lovely Sep 2018
You don't think I'm worth your time.
Offended that I walk the line.
You said I couldn't make it up like you.
Only if you knew.
Why you wanna watch me fall apart?
You wanna crumble my heart.
I've been done with you from the start.
Tired of following you in the dark.
All of you and your friends just wanna be picture perfect.
The last time I checked.
That just makes you fake.
You wanna judge me when all you are is a slimy, little snake.
I've been thinking, thinking it over.
You and I are officially over.
Yenson Nov 2018
Irrelevant force zeros cyclones, whirlwinds of smallnesses
Swirling pants from slimy orifices laden with smergma
Showers pristine leaving pollutants on mental polluters
Living lives fast callously, thoughtlessly and remorseless
Their mate cancer is waiting round the corner impatiently

Love me or hate me, my dishonourable purloiner s
both are in my favour. If you love me, lifterologists
I will always be in your hearts, and if you hate me,
I will be in your minds, regardless of their miniscule sizes
Hate is too great a burden to bear but bear it proudly I beg

The voice of truth and Light drowned out by the roar of fear.
It is ignored by the voice of desire, compensating emptiness
It is contradicted by the voice of shame and abject cowardice.
It is biased by hate and extinguished by terminal fizzing anger.
Proudly the wicked envy and hate; it is their way of admiring.
Travis Green Jan 16
After I dumped the filthy pain inside
the dank gutters, slimy and dry
double negatives, flat and hard
vowels breaking at the core.  I thought
the loneliness inside of me would
vanish away into sore and drowning
corridors.  But I could still feel the
dripping paint running down my
stained skin, joyless diction rolling
around and upturned.  I heard the
breaking of bones and browning
nouns, whiskey flamed adjectives
pouring out scraped and abandoned
metaphors.  The thoughts were
destroying my beauty, the mugshot
memories stuck in jagged alleyways,
ragged mazes, craggy chambers,
smashed maggots, a darkened dwelling
drumming inside my depiction in the
cloudy drained sky.
Data Apr 2018
I.
Dawn…
               I am standing at the riverside

.
I watch the snowmelt cascade through the valley,


No fishing in that torrent today; but we will hunt in the woods,
smell the musky dark and green of the place
where forest-dwellers stir from deepest slumber;
their rumbling bellies

 with an ache for lime-green-bud.


Across the water, churned vapours billow,


the roar of tumbling water drowns a blackbirds’ chorus,


On the far side, a lingering brume hangs above the shore;


A chill bristles hair as sun clears mountain-heights:


Paint sky cerulean, there on Eden’s thighs—
Wakened, alive!

                            The river flows …
                                     By-and-by, I dream of ancient friends and foes.


                                           I wonder at her grace; On her hip, a child—

                                                 
In a world of scarcity few-words suffice:


                                                      ­        I call her ‘wife’ and he is ‘son-of’

                                               
And darkness (or terror) are named ‘god’

Noon…
              I am sitting at the water’s edge.


A lazy sparkle lolls across the widest course,


There are boats on the water now, and men casting nets—


See the dazzling flicker of their catch caught amidst the weave;
Mulatto arms are strong and women smile from shore—
Fleet fingers
, fastening tiny knots, string intricate patterns
into sturdy kits;


                            Ready the fish to carry to fire!


On the breeze, smell them cooking; Be hungry, hungry-Man!



Across the fluid languid flow, beside bent willow


                                     (While falcon soar above)
                                                          ­                    a steady plume,
rises from
 
hut into heaven
                           (Where the wispy spirits bless us all!)
There, on the far-side, on the earth below,
a misty haze hangs in the littoral obscuring vision,


I pass as a single cloud casting briefest shadow
 on bristling hair,
There, across the water—

 What’s that amidst the shimmered air?
A figure standing lone?
                                         The river knows…
                                  
                       ­      (When)
                                                          ­                  I came down to the river


                                                         ­         (How did you know I would?)


                                                       ­               I sit with my legs tucked up


                                                            ­      watching the boats to-and-fro,
                                                     ­                         I came back to the river


                                                         ­              (You knew I would return!)


                                                      ­                I will fish all day, regardless,

                                                    ­ dreaming of something to eat, though


                                                        ­                  my basket remains empty,
                                                          ­           I will snooze in the sunshine


                                                      ­   as my line flinches imperceptibly—


                                                ­                   unaware of interest: This slow


                                                          ­               erosion of slimy flesh until


                                                         ­   the hook is emptied; While spittle
                                                         ­  

gathers at the corner of my mouth
                              I am Sleeping…
       Dreaming…
                                      ­    
Come evening…
Crouched by the brazier’s glow at hearthside,


A whip-poor-will’s sweetest finale before darkness falls,


The sapid scent of roasting meat by barter’s hard-won haggle:
Fishes for lamb,
                            Our table laden, replete;
              the great feast before snows… 
envelope.
New-wine flows—a cheerful repast as gathering storms grumble
across a lowering sky,
                                       We sing and tell tales:


How the Ancients, who brought us to the river,


knew well the passing of all things, And we are thankful!


We break bread, we cut rounds of cheese that aged in chilled air,
                                              We wait…



Go down to the river as last-light quickly fades,
See across the water how tenebrous shadows gather…


Is that a single light amidst the creeping gloom?


A singularity, which bristles hair—
The river’s dark-snake ripples

                                                       about to strike;
Return to our company,
                                           (Saṃsāra)
For­get that light.
                              
                           ­   The river flows …
                                                              
­                                                                 ­   And I sleep with them.
                                                          W­e, gathered close, our bellies full,
                                      
 who dream of shorter days and empty snares,

                                           A bow raised; An aimless arrow takes flight


                                                        ­    but snags a passing god who falls


                                                         ­     striking earth with angered light
                                                           ­ a single crash that splits the night!
                              
Fire embers crumble and diminish into grey, lightless dust,


A cold wind ***** the last warmth

 into a sky so clear—
Moonlit sparkles on crystal carpets of deepest white,


On frozen earth and water, All sleeping...
                                                     ­                   All waiting...
                                                      ­                                         All praises
                                                  sung,

­Hope

 cradles newborns... Sleeping… Dreaming;
Your time will come, Little 

One;
In the village,
                        by the icy river,
                                                    the world is yours:

                         
       (Though no light shines in frosted panes)


Tomorrow, ay, tomorrow!

O Father, who rules the sky, hallowed


be thy name, Thy dominion shored by surety


may be but castles in vacant air and leave no rack behind.

Someone has peeked into my dreams, I rise,


Compelled: The river ever calls,


Wrapped in fine Gabardine

,
I stand at its edge


watching the far-side,


I hear a distant muffled bawl,
What did it say?
                             “What keeps you?”
                                                
          ­                                      (Saṃsāra)
Am I in its thrall?
                              The river knows …
                                                               ­             The river, ever generous.

                                                      ­                        
We honour those spirits


                                                       ­                    and cherish lucid waters,


                                                       ­                      We call you ‘aqua vitae.’
                                                         ­               

We, joined by ancient cord,


                     (When rope was jute: 

Connecting all things)


                                                
                                                 raise this pantheism from dirt and stone


                                                         ­                            astride the isthmus
,

                                                      ­                        The River flows, below.


II.
And then, I dreamed of Madame Seurat


shaded beneath her parasol,


Such a beautiful day, and her monkey—


He really is quite adorable, Comment chic!
                                                           ­     But don’t lie too close, lazy boy

,
                                          The vista pixilates and understanding


                         disintegrates into charm-less pastel points…
Not that I was ever sure why you were here,


Madame et Monsieur, and that playful dog


I suspect is a coprophagist, mon dieu!


So much for good taste and high society!

                                                       ­     There’s a well-structured equality


                                                  in dream analysis, Symbolic hierarchies
                                                 

are towers reaching into Enlightenment:

                                                 ­          Tell me more of what you’ve seen.

She’s watching as he indolently rolls…


(Unnoticed, the rod slips from his grasp)


She’s admiring the ***** torso and that 

nose,
a Roman profile, skin as soft as

 wet chamois,
She’s waiting for the instance


when he reveals the nature of his dreaming,


that moment will force a blush
and cause her to turn away…


She holds her breath…
His sangfroid is intoxicating!

                               (There was a catch on the line,
                   but the moment passes and the fish is free)
                                                           ­             
                                                   ­                     You’re off track, sleepy boy


                                                           ­             Please, try to stay on topic.
                                                     

“Seriously?”  he says.  “I’m dreaming.


                                              Why do you require clarity 

at this point?”
                                                         ­         Ok.  Just tell me what you see.
He sighs …
I’ve seen it all, Father. Every moment


as fresh as the last; And I always wonder,


How it is that, though I remember everything
from 
up the ***** and around its bends,


anything down the valley is a mystery?
A dream I cannot recall!
Beyond the end of the island, passed


the dozen effigies of Madame Seurat


or the steamboat, or the *****-less fours
I can dream it all:
Around that crook…
The chivalrous old man at his windmill tilts,


Further up the Fisherman prays
                    (If I lay back and watch Him

 through the reeds,
     from this angle,

 it looks as though he’s walking on the water!)
I dream… he’s nailed hard to wood—
                                                           ­        Blood
               attenuated with ascetic wine,
                                                           ­        runs down his sweaty thigh
and pools in shifting sand…

                                                 The river knows…

                                                         ­                        And even further,
                                             That boy who watches himself reflected…
                                          So many hours, Narcissus, (Son of the river)
                                              Watching...
­                                                                 ­ 

Dreaming…



                       (Unnoticed, the bow slips from his grasp)


                                  
                                   When hubris calls, all that you inherit dissolves:


                                                    ­    Though you are in and of the water,


                                                        ­     all connection to the ripples fade,


                                                 returning to stillness; You are such stuff,


                                         Son of  Cephissus, and pass, also, into myth.
                                               Did you recognise, gentle somnambulist,


                                                 ­          that memory, ultimately, is fallible:
                                                       ­                          As much an invention
                                                       ­             as this stereoscopic metal box


                                                           ­                         into which you peer
                                                           to ******* its umbra cast within.

But I must sleep, Father, mayhap to dream,


And in that sombre place, weave such a tapestry


that my stories and the legends of my kings


and wisest sage, live (albeit as a fabrication)


in gold and silver thread sewn in sanguinary ground


as a lustrous cover for this wondrous orb:
Hear my glorious tale 

and wonder not what lies below!

                                                 The river knows …
                                      (That)
                  ­                Divisionism is a reconstruction of an impression:


                         A deconstruction of light, an empirical demonstration


                                                 ­                         of Magic!
Therefore,


One last thing, Father,


In this final dream, I see a boat


on the water, carried from the far-side


against the flow—it travels in an unbroken line,


There is a lone man on this vessel, Father,


He has named The River: He calls it, Acheron.
How so shall I name him?
You shall name Him, 'Master',


But do not speak. Pay Him, as He is due,


And return with Him to where you may dream of life…
                                                           ­                                       Renewed.

Eyelids flutter, between states…

The sleeping boy waits,


He has listened prudently,


In the last moments of unconsciousness


he drags his canoe to the waters edge


and paddles into the lazy river


to join the other boats on the water…

          (He is the antediluvian being: His dream-state is ‘Arhat’)



Gotama rests on a pontoon of fragrant Lotus bloom


His eyes neither open nor closed, His being shimmers


as the sun-gold settles, His being vibrates with an harmonic


so sweet a flame erupts on the face of the deep,


He is chanting; Quantum rhythms resonate across the valley,


“Let there be a vault between the waters to separate water from water.”

              (A single flash, that splits the day from night, erupts)

As the evanescent flame recedes, crackling-bluish-laminar,


by the last shard of light from heaven,
a rock—dark beneath the water—worn

 and rounded, turning, illuminates;
                    And the fishermen know to return…
                                                         ­                            Home.

                (Saṃsāra: By all things known, all things repeating,
                       all things rested; all restarting, all renewed.)

And then, our brother finally wakes
To walk again the ground that shakes
Gotama to his side does call
To remind our son that all men fall
And pride and **** will come undone
Beneath the pivots of a careless sun
The ghosts of Baal who ****** the just
Are less than stone and less than dust
Remind us all, as The River flows,
The Now is all The River knows.


_________________­_____________________
­



By Data © 2018
I wrote the first draft of this poem in 2012; there are many iterations since then, each equally long. If you got to the end, well done, you!
Crown Shyness Dec 2018
It's true
in my weakest moments
I'd like to arrest you
to be bound together in our own cocoon,
and I wonder about the feeling
being one forever
slimy, sticky,
flesh no border anymore
every pore an open door,
fear
a foreign word,
our hurt shared
rearranged to fur
we're wearing
between us
and the world,
no more difference
between you and me.

We're facing us, arms and legs
embracing,
as deep as we can, feeling no end of bodies
entangled within the best *******
angle we can imagine, ***** in a self created ****
to come out again as new,
leaving behind what grew through
the pain in our *****
and intrusion further on will be only an illusion,
cause we'd die for an eternal fusion.
Every one of our openings
the other one's home.

Lips locked,
tongues caressing out every single rock
our heart is spitting
to the surface.

Hips crossed
my **** in you whole
feeling you contracting
as you try to be connecting
for the sake of killing
defensive acting.
It's all yours,
all yours
this hard flesh
pulsing
as our hot blood is flowing
to the border of skin.

No words for what is happening within,
if I'd have to try I could only think of:

"Ephemeral infinity nurtured in waves, in tides,
in destroying the pride
of separation
through two linked parts of one heart.
"

And I wonder
what would be the offspring
of such kind of melting,
what would be the silhouette
we could be creating,
a new ethereal being
lighting up the world?
Lara Ozdemir Dec 2018
Slippy slimy slime
Slugging through time
Sublime hate crime
It’s a pain going through mine
• • •
Don’t you know?
What it’s like to fight with all your might
Pity going through
But at the end
You’ve won the battle
A teenager’s chapter
Bob B Dec 2018
THIS poem is number 800
Of poems I've "published" on various sites.
You might golf, play tennis or paint;
Of me they merely say, "He writes."

Eight hundred poems are a lot
Of poems if you are keeping score.
But bear in mind that poets out there
Have written hundreds or thousands more.

Writing can become a passion--
Something that grasps your innermost being,
That vibrantly exposes your heart
When you try to express what you're seeing.

My approach is sometimes light-hearted
And playful if I am in the mood;
And yet I can be quite serious
And muse on something or ponder or brood.

I often write poems that tell a story.
Call them unsophisticated
If you wish, but frankly I say
Sophistication is overrated.

After observing the world around me,
I sit down and roll up my sleeves
To write, often focusing on
Some of my most annoying pet peeves,

Hypocrisy being ONE of them.
Oh, the slimy hypocrites ooze
Flagrant chicanery, fraud, and pretense,
And every day they're in the news.

Some say, "Leave no turn unstoned."
No, wait: I mean "stone unturned."
And no, you can't please everybody;
That's an important lesson I've learned.

If you've read all 800 poems,
I've taken up a lot of your time.
I hope you've found the journey worthwhile--
This journey through my verses in rhyme.

But if poetry's NOT your thing,
Do not worry; I understand.
You'll receive no criticism,
No reproof, no reprimand.

Therefore, if you've read this far,
Celebrate along with me
This little challenge. Raise your glass
And drink a toast to poetry!

-by Bob B (12-27-18)
Kanara Oct 2018
At Night
I dream of My Mother’s Embrace
Oh, that woman
Skin and soul like earth:
So soft it nearly crumbles
At the slightest touch
Crooked smile like
God’s star,
Pervading me with light
Every time the corners of her lips curve upwards towards heaven

At Night
I touch myself to thinning, silvered, hair
Bushy mustaches
Old jokes withering away
Like the crunchy leaves from the frail
Trees of Autumn,
To slow dances
Under the moonlight,
Flashing my toothless smile
As you hold my small, brown hand in yours,
As I grasp onto your large waist,
There, in that pale, faint moonlight  you look down upon me
As if I am the most precious thing on earth
As if your slimy heart lies on my palms
This I dream
Of you cherishing me as if I am yours
Cherishing me Because I am yours
As my eyelids start to open
And dawn sheds himself on my tear-stricken face
Reality sinks in its claws
You’re not here, father
I will never feel  your embrace
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