"slots" poems - Hello Poetry

"slots" poems

Through the red joysticks And white & blue slap buttons. Without the advancement of memory cards Or weird split screens to distract. My last life is always the one I save for you, Through the experience points and colorful gems There’s much more to explore. My first wow, my first time, my next again & Again. No matter how many times I feel like I lose, You’re the reason I always get back up. My initials fill all ten slots of your heart, Until you're decommissioned and pulled Out of stock. There they will always remain

0

Dec 31, 2021

Dec 31, 2021 at 4:47 AM UTC

Through the red joysticks And white & blue slap buttons. Without the advancement of memory cards Or weird split screens to distract. My last life is always the one I save for you, Through the experience points and colorful gems There’s much more to explore. My first wow, my first time, my next again & Again. No matter how many times I feel like I lose, You’re the reason I always get back up. My initials fill all ten slots of your heart, Until you're decommissioned and pulled Out of stock. There they will always remain

Continue reading...

The night is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole after peephole -- A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things. Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions. Over and over the old, granular movie Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams, Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful, A garden of buggy rose that made him cry. His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks. Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars. He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue -- How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening! Those sugary planets whose influence won for him A life baptized in no-life for a while, And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby. Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods. Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good. His head is a little interior of grey mirrors. Each gesture flees immediately down an alley Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance Drains like water out the hole at the far end. He lives without privacy in a lidless room, The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations. Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments. Already he can feel daylight, his white disease, Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions. The city is a map of cheerful twitters now, And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank, Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

0

15.4k

The night is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole after peephole -- A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things. Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions. Over and over the old, granular movie Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams, Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful, A garden of buggy rose that made him cry. His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks. Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars. He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue -- How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening! Those sugary planets whose influence won for him A life baptized in no-life for a while, And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby. Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods. Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good. His head is a little interior of grey mirrors. Each gesture flees immediately down an alley Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance Drains like water out the hole at the far end. He lives without privacy in a lidless room, The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations. Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments. Already he can feel daylight, his white disease, Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions. The city is a map of cheerful twitters now, And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank, Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

Continue reading...

She left Reno in a satin slip the color of hot coins pouring from slots, wearing chewed-up tennis shoes, mirrors multiplying her, the marquee burning out letter by letter, a hush pressed between her teeth as if saving the last note. I followed, a gangly shadow, mother’s voice in my ear: "life is not a freeway exit." But she was the exit. She drove west through a glittering throat. In Tonopah she was a waitress, red stains on her wrists, sleeves tugged low, coffee pouring thin as blood. In Barstow she was a sun-bleached Madonna, halo blistered, mouth lit in stained glass. At a gas station in Needles shimmering into a coyote’s shadow and slipped behind the pumps. Then movement along the fence, low, quick— gone again. Casinos blinked like electric relics. Truckers called her sugar, greedy hands counting her ribs as if she was the paycheck sweating in their fist, but she slipped away each time, her silhouette already moulting- a serpent skin, a smoke-trail, a saint’s shadow burning off the wall. By Malibu, the night had softened to velvet. The pier at Zuma leaned into the Pacific like a broken bridge. She sang to me— low, cracked— then let the slip fall. Her body cut into the dark tide, no disguise. I waded in after her, ankles bruised by rock. Water lit with jellyfish, each pulse a warning. I stopped where it deepened, felt the pull take hold. No exit left, just the Pacific’s mouth closing around her.

0

Sep 1, 2025

Sep 1, 2025 at 8:08 PM UTC

William-A-Gibson

She left Reno in a satin slip the color of hot coins pouring from slots, wearing chewed-up tennis shoes, mirrors multiplying her, the marquee burning out letter by letter, a hush pressed between her teeth as if saving the last note. I followed, a gangly shadow, mother’s voice in my ear: "life is not a freeway exit." But she was the exit. She drove west through a glittering throat. In Tonopah she was a waitress, red stains on her wrists, sleeves tugged low, coffee pouring thin as blood. In Barstow she was a sun-bleached Madonna, halo blistered, mouth lit in stained glass. At a gas station in Needles shimmering into a coyote’s shadow and slipped behind the pumps. Then movement along the fence, low, quick— gone again. Casinos blinked like electric relics. Truckers called her sugar, greedy hands counting her ribs as if she was the paycheck sweating in their fist, but she slipped away each time, her silhouette already moulting- a serpent skin, a smoke-trail, a saint’s shadow burning off the wall. By Malibu, the night had softened to velvet. The pier at Zuma leaned into the Pacific like a broken bridge. She sang to me— low, cracked— then let the slip fall. Her body cut into the dark tide, no disguise. I waded in after her, ankles bruised by rock. Water lit with jellyfish, each pulse a warning. I stopped where it deepened, felt the pull take hold. No exit left, just the Pacific’s mouth closing around her.

Continue reading...

Are we fated to dance to the same tune alone in our separate universes? Is it true that we must silently keep to our preordained curses? Are we destined to swoon at the beauty of the moon at differing time slots? Why were we given invisible ink to connect our lives' dots? Must it be that our lives revolve around the whims of the sun? Isn't it ludicrous that we won't see the intricate webs we've spun? Was it the plan that we exist only in our minds and hearts? Why do we have to tolerate starting when the other's ending and end at the other's starts? Has it been written that we can only afford to infinitely chase each others heartbeats? Was it foretold that we're trapped in a singular notion that never really fits? Is the game set as such that we can never emerge as winners? How is it that the ocean was made out of our tears that flowed from rivers? Why is it that with our entirety we believe but do not know? What's the reason for the path made clear but we're too afraid to go? What does it entail to possess the very least but yet you covet it the most? How do you pride yourself in something but not allowed to boast? Why do we frantically scramble to piece together jagged shards? Can't we just play this blasted deck of lousy cards? Is it destiny or cruelty to have found then lost? Why does it seem absurd that we have all its takes but can't afford the cost? Is it the thoughts that **** or the emotions that debilitate? Is it the challenges we take on or the curveballs we anticipate? Why bother when sheer folly is all it seems to be? Why tarry when the heart is free and the mind is ready? Is it ridiculous to have found myself still very bothered? Is it wrong to question fate that had always bound us tethered? Why is the good always bad and the bad becomes worse? Is it true that the harder we fight, the deeper we immerse? Has life turned to be but sad little rhetorics? Are we but performers on stages coerced into theatrics? Is it time for me to surface this one-man submarine? Will it be so that if I do, my journey would then begin...?

0

Sep 30, 2014

Sep 30, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC

Are we fated to dance to the same tune alone in our separate universes? Is it true that we must silently keep to our preordained curses? Are we destined to swoon at the beauty of the moon at differing time slots? Why were we given invisible ink to connect our lives' dots? Must it be that our lives revolve around the whims of the sun? Isn't it ludicrous that we won't see the intricate webs we've spun? Was it the plan that we exist only in our minds and hearts? Why do we have to tolerate starting when the other's ending and end at the other's starts? Has it been written that we can only afford to infinitely chase each others heartbeats? Was it foretold that we're trapped in a singular notion that never really fits? Is the game set as such that we can never emerge as winners? How is it that the ocean was made out of our tears that flowed from rivers? Why is it that with our entirety we believe but do not know? What's the reason for the path made clear but we're too afraid to go? What does it entail to possess the very least but yet you covet it the most? How do you pride yourself in something but not allowed to boast? Why do we frantically scramble to piece together jagged shards? Can't we just play this blasted deck of lousy cards? Is it destiny or cruelty to have found then lost? Why does it seem absurd that we have all its takes but can't afford the cost? Is it the thoughts that **** or the emotions that debilitate? Is it the challenges we take on or the curveballs we anticipate? Why bother when sheer folly is all it seems to be? Why tarry when the heart is free and the mind is ready? Is it ridiculous to have found myself still very bothered? Is it wrong to question fate that had always bound us tethered? Why is the good always bad and the bad becomes worse? Is it true that the harder we fight, the deeper we immerse? Has life turned to be but sad little rhetorics? Are we but performers on stages coerced into theatrics? Is it time for me to surface this one-man submarine? Will it be so that if I do, my journey would then begin...?

Continue reading...

By Arcassin Burnham Mind half cocked, Gas prices turn to money slots, But the thing I don't tolerate is blacks getting shot, Over nothing, Act of ignorance, Changing appearances, The thing I don't tolerate is being judged by appearances, About some minor incidents, Situation and conscience, But I don't tolerate people talking ******** Starting with you, Destroy all your virtues, I don't tolerate the ignoring of a certain love you thought was true, I just don't tolerate it.

0

Jan 8, 2015

Jan 8, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC

arcassin-burnham

"#Tolerance Challenge"

By Arcassin Burnham Mind half cocked, Gas prices turn to money slots, But the thing I don't tolerate is blacks getting shot, Over nothing, Act of ignorance, Changing appearances, The thing I don't tolerate is being judged by appearances, About some minor incidents, Situation and conscience, But I don't tolerate people talking ******** Starting with you, Destroy all your virtues, I don't tolerate the ignoring of a certain love you thought was true, I just don't tolerate it.

Continue reading...

I stand on the scale I look at the number I'm fat I way over 140lbs What am I doing wrong? I barely eat anything She steps off the scale Walks over to the counter And opens the cupboard Peanut butter She untwists the twisty ties Grabs two pieces of white bread Places them in the toaster slots Pulls down the lever For ten seconds Pulls it up Pulls it down Waits ten more seconds Pulls it up Takes it out Spreads the peanutty butter across the crisp edges Starts eating it Nom nom nom Her dog moves close to the counter And begs She walks away Drops a few crumbs And the dog eats it up And follows her into the living room And looks up Nom nom nom nom She just looks at the dog Puts her bare foot against his nose Which is cold And the dog doesn't even move Sticks his tongue outside his mouth And breathes quickly Stupid She puts her foot back down And moves it against the rug a few times Then walks into the kitchen And opens a bag Of salt and vinegar chips Starts eating them Nom nom nom nom Dog catches the crumbs and slides against the kitchen floor She walks back upstairs And the dog follows her To her room She shuts the door And the dog starts scratching through the bottom And barks She just lays in her bed Eating The dog barks again She opens the door And pushes him With her right foot Down the stairs He tumbles down the stairs and hits the kitchen floor He races back up Gets pushed back down Dog runs away She walks towards the bathroom And uses the other scale And she sees that it says 141 lbs I've only been eating for a few minutes Errrr She closes the bag of chips And stomps downstairs And places the bag on the counter Dog waits in the living room Right next to the kitchen His food bowl is empty No water

0

Dec 8, 2014

Dec 8, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC

bobbie-bachelor

What Do You Have To Lose?

I stand on the scale I look at the number I'm fat I way over 140lbs What am I doing wrong? I barely eat anything She steps off the scale Walks over to the counter And opens the cupboard Peanut butter She untwists the twisty ties Grabs two pieces of white bread Places them in the toaster slots Pulls down the lever For ten seconds Pulls it up Pulls it down Waits ten more seconds Pulls it up Takes it out Spreads the peanutty butter across the crisp edges Starts eating it Nom nom nom Her dog moves close to the counter And begs She walks away Drops a few crumbs And the dog eats it up And follows her into the living room And looks up Nom nom nom nom She just looks at the dog Puts her bare foot against his nose Which is cold And the dog doesn't even move Sticks his tongue outside his mouth And breathes quickly Stupid She puts her foot back down And moves it against the rug a few times Then walks into the kitchen And opens a bag Of salt and vinegar chips Starts eating them Nom nom nom nom Dog catches the crumbs and slides against the kitchen floor She walks back upstairs And the dog follows her To her room She shuts the door And the dog starts scratching through the bottom And barks She just lays in her bed Eating The dog barks again She opens the door And pushes him With her right foot Down the stairs He tumbles down the stairs and hits the kitchen floor He races back up Gets pushed back down Dog runs away She walks towards the bathroom And uses the other scale And she sees that it says 141 lbs I've only been eating for a few minutes Errrr She closes the bag of chips And stomps downstairs And places the bag on the counter Dog waits in the living room Right next to the kitchen His food bowl is empty No water

Continue reading...

The sunlight doesn't pour through open windows here It drips through slots in the blinds Creeps underneath the front door Sunlight this time of year is scarce It is white and cold, like wine And so we bottle it up Thirstily tapping light and saving it in the cellar for the darkest night

0

Jan 27, 2015

Jan 27, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC

The sunlight doesn't pour through open windows here It drips through slots in the blinds Creeps underneath the front door Sunlight this time of year is scarce It is white and cold, like wine And so we bottle it up Thirstily tapping light and saving it in the cellar for the darkest night

Continue reading...

Into the bubbling blue bath of my bliss my body breaks free of all bounds; enchanted melodies cavort across my tongue, unchained continents of merriment. Shooting stars; cool satisfaction coats me completely. I have lost all curiosity for torture technique, while this melody bounces across the cosmos. My imperfect lovely: Perfectly fractured, all my shattered pieces fit your holes, and even now, I glue pieces of you into the slots they fit. A singular petal glistening with dew, Deep crimsom; long stemmed tulip. Black eyes, its stamen. Shedded insight, I lowered my body before you, as offering. How will you devour this dream of desire? It is a feast to be consumed, in small bites, and copious servings of seconds. Do not allow this flower to fade, it may save you from yourself. Blessings bestowed before bedtime often fade away by dawn, give thanks for the present, draw strength from the past, take heart, what is meant to be will always last... in the end.

0

Sep 14, 2012

Sep 14, 2012 at 12:20 PM UTC

Into the bubbling blue bath of my bliss my body breaks free of all bounds; enchanted melodies cavort across my tongue, unchained continents of merriment. Shooting stars; cool satisfaction coats me completely. I have lost all curiosity for torture technique, while this melody bounces across the cosmos. My imperfect lovely: Perfectly fractured, all my shattered pieces fit your holes, and even now, I glue pieces of you into the slots they fit. A singular petal glistening with dew, Deep crimsom; long stemmed tulip. Black eyes, its stamen. Shedded insight, I lowered my body before you, as offering. How will you devour this dream of desire? It is a feast to be consumed, in small bites, and copious servings of seconds. Do not allow this flower to fade, it may save you from yourself. Blessings bestowed before bedtime often fade away by dawn, give thanks for the present, draw strength from the past, take heart, what is meant to be will always last... in the end.

Continue reading...

I hate this life so very much. The dope... Just never enough. No matter what I do. No matter where I go. I feel alone. I am unknown. There is no where's for me to roam. This drug is toxic. The chemicals hypnotic. My teeth grinding. Turned to powdered slots. As each moment passes the next, it's all just a big fuckking blur. The time has all past. And the mad hatter has finally crashed. There has never been a better time then this! Where there's nothing here that's even left. Everybody has stopped believin in what was gunna leave them next. The possibilities were never ever even really their!! So left behind. There is no more time.

0

Aug 21, 2016

Aug 21, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC

FuckingFidelity69

The smell of death

I hate this life so very much. The dope... Just never enough. No matter what I do. No matter where I go. I feel alone. I am unknown. There is no where's for me to roam. This drug is toxic. The chemicals hypnotic. My teeth grinding. Turned to powdered slots. As each moment passes the next, it's all just a big fuckking blur. The time has all past. And the mad hatter has finally crashed. There has never been a better time then this! Where there's nothing here that's even left. Everybody has stopped believin in what was gunna leave them next. The possibilities were never ever even really their!! So left behind. There is no more time.

Continue reading...

. what? between MC hammer... and men at work... there's a choice? come on... you could have given me an easier question, like... Debussy contra Satie... or, like... egg yolk or egg white?! point being... i'd love to see christopher lambert play the role of raiden in that... mortal kombat game made into a motion picture... you know... if i owned a PS2... i'd still be a gamer... but i never owned a PS2.... or the metal gear solid 2 gaming experience... not the PS1 experience fighting ****** mantis*... you know that hack / cheat... when you switch controller slots... when ****** mantis* is giving his grandiose speech.. and you switch the controller ports, so that in in the game you're not predictable... final fantasy 7?! completed it with a walk-through... sorry... homework... that being said: all of Friday night and all of Saturday morning... and some Tenchu.... wacky-Jacky... cow later chow, enter mein... choppers chop chop... these days? i game... when i take a **** i figured... if there are people who take a book to the crapper... i'll take a game... war robots.... you know what's fascinating? the interactive applicability of a game... team-work... mesmerizing... the whole gaming structure drifted from a narrative, to a congregational dynamism... solipsism unraveled... i dig the whole team work, while taking a **** love it... 5 stars review... but am i a gamer... do i not think that a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio? no... but metal gear solid? a ******* solid game on PS1... you would be talking to a gamer if i was allowed to buy a PS2 console... oh right... i read books and listened to music, and ended up writing anti-routine / anti-technicality poetry / anti-rhyme poetics.... my bad; "we're" calling a revision of chess in play; yeah... sorry... i was never into paragraphs, with dialogue interludes... for me... poems were always above a structural stature of paragraphs; something to do with haiku or... whatever came out of Godzilla's mouth.

0

Nov 4, 2018

Nov 4, 2018 at 11:05 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

simple questions for simple people

. what? between MC hammer... and men at work... there's a choice? come on... you could have given me an easier question, like... Debussy contra Satie... or, like... egg yolk or egg white?! point being... i'd love to see christopher lambert play the role of raiden in that... mortal kombat game made into a motion picture... you know... if i owned a PS2... i'd still be a gamer... but i never owned a PS2.... or the metal gear solid 2 gaming experience... not the PS1 experience fighting ****** mantis*... you know that hack / cheat... when you switch controller slots... when ****** mantis* is giving his grandiose speech.. and you switch the controller ports, so that in in the game you're not predictable... final fantasy 7?! completed it with a walk-through... sorry... homework... that being said: all of Friday night and all of Saturday morning... and some Tenchu.... wacky-Jacky... cow later chow, enter mein... choppers chop chop... these days? i game... when i take a **** i figured... if there are people who take a book to the crapper... i'll take a game... war robots.... you know what's fascinating? the interactive applicability of a game... team-work... mesmerizing... the whole gaming structure drifted from a narrative, to a congregational dynamism... solipsism unraveled... i dig the whole team work, while taking a **** love it... 5 stars review... but am i a gamer... do i not think that a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio? no... but metal gear solid? a ******* solid game on PS1... you would be talking to a gamer if i was allowed to buy a PS2 console... oh right... i read books and listened to music, and ended up writing anti-routine / anti-technicality poetry / anti-rhyme poetics.... my bad; "we're" calling a revision of chess in play; yeah... sorry... i was never into paragraphs, with dialogue interludes... for me... poems were always above a structural stature of paragraphs; something to do with haiku or... whatever came out of Godzilla's mouth.

Continue reading...

I am The Shoes of Shoes, which are Solomon’s. Let him polish me with the oil from his brow, for his gloss is better than sunshine. Because of the fragrance of thy ointment buffed upon me, thy name is Scent Shine, therefore do the ****** shoes love thy feet. Stretch me, with your Shoe-Tree, and I will run & rejoice with thy feet through gardens & woods, and across mountains alike. I am leather, but comely, O ye Daughters of Shoeshopingham, as The Pile Beneath the Prophesised Viaduct, and as in the abundant bottom of The Wardrobe of Solomon. Look not upon me, because I am leather, but put me upon thy feet for I am thy soles. I am the Rose of Shoe, and the Lilly of The Laces. As the strong shoes among thorns, so is my love among The Shod. As the tongue that tightens to the fruit of the foot, so is my beloved among The Shod. His left foot is in my left purse, and his right foot is my right, tight. The Polish of My Beloved, behold, cometh glinting off llyns, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, with both of me tight on his feet. Looketh fourth through The Round Window of Wisdom, through The Lattice see him shoeing himself with my flesh. Take us the socked foxes, the little foxes that chew & spoil, for our shodding is tender. My Loved Shod’s feet are mine and my leather is his. Until the day break, and the unshod shadows flee, turn my Loved Shod, and be thou like the shoe young on the mountains. Behold, thou art fair, my shoes, behold thou art shoes as fast as a flock of goats over the Mountain of Shoedon. Thy laces are like soft strands of moss, which have been spun & woven in the Workshops of Acorns by The Grubs of Oak. Thy eyelets are like the sweet slots in which nestle the seeds of the pomegranate. Thy tongues are like scarlet leaves fallen from speaking trees, and thy squeak as I walk in thee is comely. Thy heal is like the shield that should’ve been fashioned for Achilles. Thy two toe caps are as sleek & pert as the twin otters that fish among the lilies. How beautiful are thee, shoes for feet, O Goddess’s daughters, the joints of thy soft foot-slot smooth as the gleam of jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning cobbler. O Solomon set me twin shoes as seals upon thy feet, for Love is as strong as The Road to Dead we must follow. O my Loved Shod! for every one of thy steps you make in me is my bliss.

0

Feb 8, 2012

Feb 8, 2012 at 8:25 AM UTC

I am The Shoes of Shoes, which are Solomon’s. Let him polish me with the oil from his brow, for his gloss is better than sunshine. Because of the fragrance of thy ointment buffed upon me, thy name is Scent Shine, therefore do the ****** shoes love thy feet. Stretch me, with your Shoe-Tree, and I will run & rejoice with thy feet through gardens & woods, and across mountains alike. I am leather, but comely, O ye Daughters of Shoeshopingham, as The Pile Beneath the Prophesised Viaduct, and as in the abundant bottom of The Wardrobe of Solomon. Look not upon me, because I am leather, but put me upon thy feet for I am thy soles. I am the Rose of Shoe, and the Lilly of The Laces. As the strong shoes among thorns, so is my love among The Shod. As the tongue that tightens to the fruit of the foot, so is my beloved among The Shod. His left foot is in my left purse, and his right foot is my right, tight. The Polish of My Beloved, behold, cometh glinting off llyns, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, with both of me tight on his feet. Looketh fourth through The Round Window of Wisdom, through The Lattice see him shoeing himself with my flesh. Take us the socked foxes, the little foxes that chew & spoil, for our shodding is tender. My Loved Shod’s feet are mine and my leather is his. Until the day break, and the unshod shadows flee, turn my Loved Shod, and be thou like the shoe young on the mountains. Behold, thou art fair, my shoes, behold thou art shoes as fast as a flock of goats over the Mountain of Shoedon. Thy laces are like soft strands of moss, which have been spun & woven in the Workshops of Acorns by The Grubs of Oak. Thy eyelets are like the sweet slots in which nestle the seeds of the pomegranate. Thy tongues are like scarlet leaves fallen from speaking trees, and thy squeak as I walk in thee is comely. Thy heal is like the shield that should’ve been fashioned for Achilles. Thy two toe caps are as sleek & pert as the twin otters that fish among the lilies. How beautiful are thee, shoes for feet, O Goddess’s daughters, the joints of thy soft foot-slot smooth as the gleam of jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning cobbler. O Solomon set me twin shoes as seals upon thy feet, for Love is as strong as The Road to Dead we must follow. O my Loved Shod! for every one of thy steps you make in me is my bliss.

Continue reading...

After a thoroughly enjoyable weekend Which involved watching an animated science fiction thriller Followed by a Football World Cup Final Which turned out to be even more thrilling I had to face the dreaded prospect Of returning to work on a Monday Yes, the notorious villain of the week Which can ensure sleepless nights Even for the strongest souls Well, the day was actually not that bad To begin with, at least After a hot bath Followed by an even hotter cup of filter coffee Prepared by my dear mother, as ever I had a simple breakfast Consisting of a plate of chapatis Mixed with some rather tangy marmalade Thus, I was ready To face the grind of work Or at least, I thought I was The reality turned out to be as different As apples and oranges It started with a few phone calls However, the response was not flattering Thus, I headed to lunch In the hope of making some progress In the second half of the day However, I couldn't have been more wrong The phone calls failed to achieve their purpose As I was unable to obtain slots For the interviews to be scheduled Moreover, I was dealing with multiple stuff At the same time Which proved to be even more difficult Than obtaining a seat in one of the IIMs Time was playing a cat-and-mouse game with me The closer I got to him The more he would evade me As the hours flew by I kept meandering aimlessly Without achieving anything tangible By the time I finally got the hang of work It was already well past 6 PM And I felt as though I had wasted more time Than a certain Sunil Gavaskar had done In his infamous innings of 36 not out, off 175 ***** In the inaugural 1975 Cricket World Cup Thus, I was thoroughly relieved When the day finally ended Returning to work on a Monday Especially after a thoroughly enjoyable weekend Is never good Full stop

0

Dec 19, 2022

Dec 19, 2022 at 10:59 AM UTC

Ashwinkumar1989

Returning To Work On A Monday

After a thoroughly enjoyable weekend Which involved watching an animated science fiction thriller Followed by a Football World Cup Final Which turned out to be even more thrilling I had to face the dreaded prospect Of returning to work on a Monday Yes, the notorious villain of the week Which can ensure sleepless nights Even for the strongest souls Well, the day was actually not that bad To begin with, at least After a hot bath Followed by an even hotter cup of filter coffee Prepared by my dear mother, as ever I had a simple breakfast Consisting of a plate of chapatis Mixed with some rather tangy marmalade Thus, I was ready To face the grind of work Or at least, I thought I was The reality turned out to be as different As apples and oranges It started with a few phone calls However, the response was not flattering Thus, I headed to lunch In the hope of making some progress In the second half of the day However, I couldn't have been more wrong The phone calls failed to achieve their purpose As I was unable to obtain slots For the interviews to be scheduled Moreover, I was dealing with multiple stuff At the same time Which proved to be even more difficult Than obtaining a seat in one of the IIMs Time was playing a cat-and-mouse game with me The closer I got to him The more he would evade me As the hours flew by I kept meandering aimlessly Without achieving anything tangible By the time I finally got the hang of work It was already well past 6 PM And I felt as though I had wasted more time Than a certain Sunil Gavaskar had done In his infamous innings of 36 not out, off 175 ***** In the inaugural 1975 Cricket World Cup Thus, I was thoroughly relieved When the day finally ended Returning to work on a Monday Especially after a thoroughly enjoyable weekend Is never good Full stop

Continue reading...

The horizons ring me like ******* Tilted and disparate, and always unstable. Touched by a match, they might warm me, And their fine lines singe The air to orange Before the distances they pin evaporate, Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color. But they only dissolve and dissolve Like a series of promises, as I step forward. There is no life higher than the grasstops Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind Pours by like destiny, bending Everything in one direction. I can feel it trying To funnel my heat away. If I pay the roots of the heather Too close attention, they will invite me To whiten my bones among them. The sheep know where they are, Browsing in their ***** wool-clouds, Gray as the weather. The black slots of their pupils take me in. It is like being mailed into space, A thin, silly message. They stand about in grandmotherly disguise, All wig curls and yellow teeth And hard, marbly baas. I come to wheel ruts, and water Limpid as the solitudes That flee through my fingers. Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass; Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves. Of people and the air only Remembers a few odd syllables. It rehearses them moaningly: Black stone, black stone. The sky leans on me, me, the one upright Among all horizontals. The grass is beating its head distractedly. It is too delicate For a life in such company; Darkness terrifies it. Now, in valleys narrow And black as purses, the house lights Gleam like small change.

0

3.3k

Wuthering Heights

The horizons ring me like ******* Tilted and disparate, and always unstable. Touched by a match, they might warm me, And their fine lines singe The air to orange Before the distances they pin evaporate, Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color. But they only dissolve and dissolve Like a series of promises, as I step forward. There is no life higher than the grasstops Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind Pours by like destiny, bending Everything in one direction. I can feel it trying To funnel my heat away. If I pay the roots of the heather Too close attention, they will invite me To whiten my bones among them. The sheep know where they are, Browsing in their ***** wool-clouds, Gray as the weather. The black slots of their pupils take me in. It is like being mailed into space, A thin, silly message. They stand about in grandmotherly disguise, All wig curls and yellow teeth And hard, marbly baas. I come to wheel ruts, and water Limpid as the solitudes That flee through my fingers. Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass; Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves. Of people and the air only Remembers a few odd syllables. It rehearses them moaningly: Black stone, black stone. The sky leans on me, me, the one upright Among all horizontals. The grass is beating its head distractedly. It is too delicate For a life in such company; Darkness terrifies it. Now, in valleys narrow And black as purses, the house lights Gleam like small change.

Continue reading...

It was daytime: I was seperating siamese twins at the waist Like a government trying to quell a rebellion; I was reconfiguring scarred old wooden toys for Santa; shining scuffed shoes-- pennyloafers with nickels in the slots. It was daytime: I was decapitating red-haired stepchildren who had grown sour from neglect; removing brilliant succubi attached to a wholesome family's soul. I was snacking on a nerds rope, washing babies mouths out with soap, slapping pink cheeked toddlers on their feet.

0

Oct 18, 2011

Oct 18, 2011 at 11:54 AM UTC

It was daytime: I was seperating siamese twins at the waist Like a government trying to quell a rebellion; I was reconfiguring scarred old wooden toys for Santa; shining scuffed shoes-- pennyloafers with nickels in the slots. It was daytime: I was decapitating red-haired stepchildren who had grown sour from neglect; removing brilliant succubi attached to a wholesome family's soul. I was snacking on a nerds rope, washing babies mouths out with soap, slapping pink cheeked toddlers on their feet.

Continue reading...

No one wrote a book On how to queer up the world. I’ve been waiting for Volume One On how to hate your body effectively, Because all of the brats who spit in my Cherry eyes won’t tell me what I’m doing wrong When I say “it doesn’t fit. It never fits. Will I ever fit?” Because we’re one binary and the other, and we don’t Fit quite between, and we’re doomed to be melting Snowflakes in schoolyards. We’re doomed to tears, And standing awkwardly between ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ sections. They opened up their doors to us, those who fit Comfortably or not so comfortably in either of the two Slots (like maybe this is a gameshow, and I didn’t pick The right door?) but they promptly Threw us out when we tried. And tried again. And failed and cried and threw our hands in the air like Children, misguided, in pain, stubbing our toes on the door That says “real suffering.” Because our suffering isn’t real to a world that encapsulates it in So many words as symptoms for a Common cold.

0

Mar 6, 2013

Mar 6, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC

saint-jonah-jude

Hear Hear Genderqueer

No one wrote a book On how to queer up the world. I’ve been waiting for Volume One On how to hate your body effectively, Because all of the brats who spit in my Cherry eyes won’t tell me what I’m doing wrong When I say “it doesn’t fit. It never fits. Will I ever fit?” Because we’re one binary and the other, and we don’t Fit quite between, and we’re doomed to be melting Snowflakes in schoolyards. We’re doomed to tears, And standing awkwardly between ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ sections. They opened up their doors to us, those who fit Comfortably or not so comfortably in either of the two Slots (like maybe this is a gameshow, and I didn’t pick The right door?) but they promptly Threw us out when we tried. And tried again. And failed and cried and threw our hands in the air like Children, misguided, in pain, stubbing our toes on the door That says “real suffering.” Because our suffering isn’t real to a world that encapsulates it in So many words as symptoms for a Common cold.

Continue reading...

If I were a planet, I would be as debated as Pluto. Scientists eons away that have no business with me and probably never will discussing all of my qualities to pinpoint me into a label they've created to push me like a pinball machine into different slots of make believe self esteem. If I were a planet, I would be the one whose moon is speculated to be made of cheese. No one quite aware of what really lies out there but it's fun to dream up stories and ideas that we know will never be true. No matter how damaging to this solemn planet's reputation in its universe these folk tales may be. If I were a planet, my sun would have an oval shaped revolution, sometimes close and sometimes far, moving its inspiration along on its route and leaving just when my people need it the most. If I were a planet, my living organisms would speak in tongues unknowing to even me. Desperately searching every tick in them to see how they view their home, but always confusing me as I spin on my axis round and round.

0

Mar 24, 2017

Mar 24, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC

If I Were A Planet

If I were a planet, I would be as debated as Pluto. Scientists eons away that have no business with me and probably never will discussing all of my qualities to pinpoint me into a label they've created to push me like a pinball machine into different slots of make believe self esteem. If I were a planet, I would be the one whose moon is speculated to be made of cheese. No one quite aware of what really lies out there but it's fun to dream up stories and ideas that we know will never be true. No matter how damaging to this solemn planet's reputation in its universe these folk tales may be. If I were a planet, my sun would have an oval shaped revolution, sometimes close and sometimes far, moving its inspiration along on its route and leaving just when my people need it the most. If I were a planet, my living organisms would speak in tongues unknowing to even me. Desperately searching every tick in them to see how they view their home, but always confusing me as I spin on my axis round and round.

Continue reading...

The horizons ring me like ******* Tilted and disparate, and always unstable. Touched by a match, they might warm me, And their fine lines singe The air to orange Before the distances they pin evaporate, Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color. But they only dissolve and dissolve Like a series of promises, as I step forward. There is no life higher than the grasstops Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind Pours by like destiny, bending Everything in one direction. I can feel it trying To funnel my heat away. If I pay the roots of the heather Too close attention, they will invite me To whiten my bones among them. The sheep know where they are, Browsing in their ***** wool-clouds, Gray as the weather. The black slots of their pupils take me in. It is like being mailed into space, A thin, silly message. They stand about in grandmotherly disguise, All wig curls and yellow teeth And hard, marbly baas. I come to wheel ruts, and water Limpid as the solitudes That flee through my fingers. Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass; Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves. Of people and the air only Remembers a few odd syllables. It rehearses them moaningly: Black stone, black stone. The sky leans on me, me, the one upright Among all horizontals. The grass is beating its head distractedly. It is too delicate For a life in such company; Darkness terrifies it. Now, in valleys narrow And black as purses, the house lights Gleam like small change.

0

2.9k

Wuthering Heights

The horizons ring me like ******* Tilted and disparate, and always unstable. Touched by a match, they might warm me, And their fine lines singe The air to orange Before the distances they pin evaporate, Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color. But they only dissolve and dissolve Like a series of promises, as I step forward. There is no life higher than the grasstops Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind Pours by like destiny, bending Everything in one direction. I can feel it trying To funnel my heat away. If I pay the roots of the heather Too close attention, they will invite me To whiten my bones among them. The sheep know where they are, Browsing in their ***** wool-clouds, Gray as the weather. The black slots of their pupils take me in. It is like being mailed into space, A thin, silly message. They stand about in grandmotherly disguise, All wig curls and yellow teeth And hard, marbly baas. I come to wheel ruts, and water Limpid as the solitudes That flee through my fingers. Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass; Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves. Of people and the air only Remembers a few odd syllables. It rehearses them moaningly: Black stone, black stone. The sky leans on me, me, the one upright Among all horizontals. The grass is beating its head distractedly. It is too delicate For a life in such company; Darkness terrifies it. Now, in valleys narrow And black as purses, the house lights Gleam like small change.

Continue reading...

The Super Heroes of Rock! There’s a little person named Gem, with a banjo in his hands; But he’s too drunk to play. There’s a guy with one arm and he’s slamming the drums And I think his name is Dave. Jenny plays the Bass, with a rash on her face And she’s going to die today. The lead guitarist (Jimmy) has no legs, But he always tries his best. But his lack of fingers and thumbs, Is starting to become a pain And the fact I can’t sing! Well it doesn’t mean a thing, Because we’re not even getting paid to play. No we’re not, getting paid to play. Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we came to save the day. Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we came to save the day. When Kurt decided today was the day And put a bullet hole in place of his face, They called the Super Heroes of Rock! To come and save the day. And when Black Sabbath crashed the plane And Axl cancelled the show again. They called the Super Heroes of Rock! To come and save the day. The little person, Gem, he used to sing, But a girl named Lisa broke his banjo string, So now he simply comes to our shows And joins us up on the stage. He used to be the ladies favorite, But now he’s lost all of his confidence. Because he hit the bottle hard And he hasn’t been the same since. But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we’ve come to save the day. We’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we’ve come to save the day. And if there’s nothing else I can say, I guess we’ll just rock the show our way. Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we came to save the day. And ladies there’s no need to fight; Just come and form an orderly line. Then come and be the bands groupies; With us back stage. And the fact that I can’t sing! Well that doesn’t change a thing. Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we do this voluntarily, anyway. We jump into empty gigs slots, When a band’s singer has lost the plot. We’re the rehab missionaries And we don’t get paid to play. Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we’ve come to save the day. Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we came to save the day. And if our music isn’t your thing; Well we already know we stink. But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we only came to save the day. Could you give us back Jimmy’s false legs? He only wanted to try and crowd surf. Things are already bad enough for him, What with the leprosy and he’s just lost his girl And I think Jenny has died, I can see Dave’s put a drumstick in his eye. But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we’ve come to save the day. Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we’ve only come to save the day. Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And our music will never be stopped. Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we’ve only came to save the day. (C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

0

Jul 4, 2018

Jul 4, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC

The Super Heroes of Rock!

The Super Heroes of Rock! There’s a little person named Gem, with a banjo in his hands; But he’s too drunk to play. There’s a guy with one arm and he’s slamming the drums And I think his name is Dave. Jenny plays the Bass, with a rash on her face And she’s going to die today. The lead guitarist (Jimmy) has no legs, But he always tries his best. But his lack of fingers and thumbs, Is starting to become a pain And the fact I can’t sing! Well it doesn’t mean a thing, Because we’re not even getting paid to play. No we’re not, getting paid to play. Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we came to save the day. Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we came to save the day. When Kurt decided today was the day And put a bullet hole in place of his face, They called the Super Heroes of Rock! To come and save the day. And when Black Sabbath crashed the plane And Axl cancelled the show again. They called the Super Heroes of Rock! To come and save the day. The little person, Gem, he used to sing, But a girl named Lisa broke his banjo string, So now he simply comes to our shows And joins us up on the stage. He used to be the ladies favorite, But now he’s lost all of his confidence. Because he hit the bottle hard And he hasn’t been the same since. But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we’ve come to save the day. We’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we’ve come to save the day. And if there’s nothing else I can say, I guess we’ll just rock the show our way. Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we came to save the day. And ladies there’s no need to fight; Just come and form an orderly line. Then come and be the bands groupies; With us back stage. And the fact that I can’t sing! Well that doesn’t change a thing. Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we do this voluntarily, anyway. We jump into empty gigs slots, When a band’s singer has lost the plot. We’re the rehab missionaries And we don’t get paid to play. Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we’ve come to save the day. Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we came to save the day. And if our music isn’t your thing; Well we already know we stink. But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we only came to save the day. Could you give us back Jimmy’s false legs? He only wanted to try and crowd surf. Things are already bad enough for him, What with the leprosy and he’s just lost his girl And I think Jenny has died, I can see Dave’s put a drumstick in his eye. But we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we’ve come to save the day. Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we’ve only come to save the day. Yeah we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And our music will never be stopped. Because we’re the Super Heroes of Rock! And we’ve only came to save the day. (C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

Continue reading...

Wasted margin space in a datebook, frames weekend's entry slots left free to relax. I hatch them down with marginalized thoughts best served on a table reinforced with wood grained plastic, naturally. The morning bird chirps, filling a brimming cup of foreboding work. It takes much to do a right job. Eek! Hunting, fishing, browsing for scraps of sustenance and sharing them with you, my nomadic tribe. Time to go! Living on the fringe outside predators and above ruminating herbivores isn't easy.

0

Mar 8, 2013

Mar 8, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC

Wasted margin space in a datebook, frames weekend's entry slots left free to relax. I hatch them down with marginalized thoughts best served on a table reinforced with wood grained plastic, naturally. The morning bird chirps, filling a brimming cup of foreboding work. It takes much to do a right job. Eek! Hunting, fishing, browsing for scraps of sustenance and sharing them with you, my nomadic tribe. Time to go! Living on the fringe outside predators and above ruminating herbivores isn't easy.

Continue reading...

Cold. Not the chill down my arm but the one down my spine at the sight of decadence at the show of extravagance at the display cases with carats and watches plastic women wearing someone's house in fur and silk and adornments covering their arms like a Christmas tree gone awry with its baubles and lights bringing neither peace nor goodwill to their men who foot the bills after a night spent with slots and levers and cards and mysterious figures that disappear into lifts that reach infinite heights before plunging into clear, crystal waters that sound like diamonds and the view you see makes them say 'Oh it's beautiful' but the waters are shallow. A beautiful mirage. Still too cold for me to sell my soul.

0

Dec 2, 2013

Dec 2, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC

Marina Bay Sands

Cold. Not the chill down my arm but the one down my spine at the sight of decadence at the show of extravagance at the display cases with carats and watches plastic women wearing someone's house in fur and silk and adornments covering their arms like a Christmas tree gone awry with its baubles and lights bringing neither peace nor goodwill to their men who foot the bills after a night spent with slots and levers and cards and mysterious figures that disappear into lifts that reach infinite heights before plunging into clear, crystal waters that sound like diamonds and the view you see makes them say 'Oh it's beautiful' but the waters are shallow. A beautiful mirage. Still too cold for me to sell my soul.

Continue reading...

I am long an elegant slender queen with my beautiful pebble ash marble skin. And as we rest on the ground lightly I hold it softly rising like cream and the finest queen. As I rise, our eyes become locked welded together by light we become one. Together we both look into the world and into each other. And I tell you this when this happens I can be your teacher but I can also be your pupil. For I am the Cobra often here as a maintainer as I rise a thousand soldiers stand to attention. Cogs are oiled all forgotten becomes remembered as all souls remember their purpose. For I am the eyes of GOD. As I appear all disharmony lifts like an early morning mist as all slots into place. All shepherds find their lost sheep and all the world strays quickly hurry home. Attracted to me you maybe but some how you find you are frozen. I may not be your lover but I can protect the lily flower from which your love can grow from. Follow me and you may sometimes not know if I am GOD or the Devil as all I can promise is that you will grow. As it sometimes takes a snake to catch a snake I can be your hired hand your mercenary, snake my favorite meal. For giant economic models, political systems will all fall as I can land an elephant if I have to. So be careful what you stand on because I rise out nothing to six foot tall. And you will have a choice do I become your antidote or your poison. The world will give the childish game of winning and loosing and I give you the maturity transcending and evolving. Wrapped and curled on the earth I will show you how deeper is much higher. As we let go of the old I will show you how to find the antidote by diving deeply into my poison. A controllers nightmare as I change myself completely 4 times a year think you have got me or is it just a mouthful of old skin as you are so so yesterday. Maybe cause a revolution help create some progress teach the working class to rise like a King Cobra's. I will take you to the next plane as we forget the past like an old skin. As I transport you through space and time like Doctor who in his Tardis But move into disorder and you may feel the striking force of Kali and Shiva I can take you out of your revolving door of life and death you are stuck in and take you onto the highway up to heaven. Stick with me and you will ride on the arrow head of evolution. So let my energies flow like a spiraling tornado and we can move to the next level. Whether King or Queen there is so much to learn from the Beautiful COBRA

0

Oct 6, 2015

Oct 6, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC

I am long an elegant slender queen with my beautiful pebble ash marble skin. And as we rest on the ground lightly I hold it softly rising like cream and the finest queen. As I rise, our eyes become locked welded together by light we become one. Together we both look into the world and into each other. And I tell you this when this happens I can be your teacher but I can also be your pupil. For I am the Cobra often here as a maintainer as I rise a thousand soldiers stand to attention. Cogs are oiled all forgotten becomes remembered as all souls remember their purpose. For I am the eyes of GOD. As I appear all disharmony lifts like an early morning mist as all slots into place. All shepherds find their lost sheep and all the world strays quickly hurry home. Attracted to me you maybe but some how you find you are frozen. I may not be your lover but I can protect the lily flower from which your love can grow from. Follow me and you may sometimes not know if I am GOD or the Devil as all I can promise is that you will grow. As it sometimes takes a snake to catch a snake I can be your hired hand your mercenary, snake my favorite meal. For giant economic models, political systems will all fall as I can land an elephant if I have to. So be careful what you stand on because I rise out nothing to six foot tall. And you will have a choice do I become your antidote or your poison. The world will give the childish game of winning and loosing and I give you the maturity transcending and evolving. Wrapped and curled on the earth I will show you how deeper is much higher. As we let go of the old I will show you how to find the antidote by diving deeply into my poison. A controllers nightmare as I change myself completely 4 times a year think you have got me or is it just a mouthful of old skin as you are so so yesterday. Maybe cause a revolution help create some progress teach the working class to rise like a King Cobra's. I will take you to the next plane as we forget the past like an old skin. As I transport you through space and time like Doctor who in his Tardis But move into disorder and you may feel the striking force of Kali and Shiva I can take you out of your revolving door of life and death you are stuck in and take you onto the highway up to heaven. Stick with me and you will ride on the arrow head of evolution. So let my energies flow like a spiraling tornado and we can move to the next level. Whether King or Queen there is so much to learn from the Beautiful COBRA

Continue reading...

addressing my southpaw weakness... don't know... my left hand is a bit... weak... started to train it... by extinguishing cigarette butts on each other knuckles... have two vacant slots to fill... and plenty of whiskey... why? i paid my Shylock... i was **** with the Gorbachev **** on my right shoulder blade... now comes the fun part! the lesson... of boxing, with not boxing gloves! i want the middle finger knuckle to... hurt... the... the most... like Tom Waits' circus narrative... **** these teenage girls cutting... how about their start burning themselves, with hot, metallic objects? how's that? less blood! ha ha! two knuckles down... two to go... i'm giggling with anticipation... while, i, eat, the, pain! ha ha! who gives a **** about predictability, preachers / theologians or stock brokers? so who? the Turkish barbers, the English tailors, the French chefs?! who? the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire, let the ************ burn... we don't don't need no water let the ************ burn, let the ************ burn... i'm a simpleton... catch the genie... catch the lamp sort of scenario... otherwise? bon voyage / bon soir / mon amí! god, i hate the french! it's like... you want to lick them... face to face... and then... punch them... my type of ****** nationalism! comes the third knuckle... and the cigarette... it will be put out onto! - like an interrogator might... you show the victim undergoing the torture, with yourself prior... and then? torture the **** out of them! ha ha! i.e. who's the buckle, who's the knuckle, and who's the knee?! oh please! please! don't mention the oysters of the elbow! have some common decency!

0

Aug 18, 2018

Aug 18, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

addressing my southpaw weakness

addressing my southpaw weakness... don't know... my left hand is a bit... weak... started to train it... by extinguishing cigarette butts on each other knuckles... have two vacant slots to fill... and plenty of whiskey... why? i paid my Shylock... i was **** with the Gorbachev **** on my right shoulder blade... now comes the fun part! the lesson... of boxing, with not boxing gloves! i want the middle finger knuckle to... hurt... the... the most... like Tom Waits' circus narrative... **** these teenage girls cutting... how about their start burning themselves, with hot, metallic objects? how's that? less blood! ha ha! two knuckles down... two to go... i'm giggling with anticipation... while, i, eat, the, pain! ha ha! who gives a **** about predictability, preachers / theologians or stock brokers? so who? the Turkish barbers, the English tailors, the French chefs?! who? the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire, let the ************ burn... we don't don't need no water let the ************ burn, let the ************ burn... i'm a simpleton... catch the genie... catch the lamp sort of scenario... otherwise? bon voyage / bon soir / mon amí! god, i hate the french! it's like... you want to lick them... face to face... and then... punch them... my type of ****** nationalism! comes the third knuckle... and the cigarette... it will be put out onto! - like an interrogator might... you show the victim undergoing the torture, with yourself prior... and then? torture the **** out of them! ha ha! i.e. who's the buckle, who's the knuckle, and who's the knee?! oh please! please! don't mention the oysters of the elbow! have some common decency!

Continue reading...

At this time of my life I find myself wearing hats… I’m not happy with my head you see, In short, being able to see it it just doesn’t thrill me. Not through those depressing, disappearing strands. So it’s that time - It’s hat time! Hats are warm, comforting things; take it off and, for a while at least, it feels still there - a phantom hat. Not quite as spooky or worrying as a phantom arm or leg - after that severed limb thing, but right there! It really is that time - It’s hat time! My Grandma Lamplough, that’s on my mother’s side, was an avid knitter of things to order, She was even a freelancer for Jaeger… matinée jackets, mittens, cardies, pullovers But in later days mostly just tea cosies. If there was no immediate customer in mind… “Everybody needs a cosy and one size fits all” she would say… and anyway, commissions were rare for cosies back in the day She’d wear it boldly herself with handle and spout slots front & back, proud She’d start the next one and announce to every visitor right out loud… ”Hey…Do you want a cosy for your *** Mr Watling, the milkman, he had quite a lot! But then he showed up every day! A quart is it Mrs L?… and yes, I WILL have a cosy today! Me? I’ve never fancied a toupee, wig or go in for a Bobby Charlton tribute gig …. I’ll be happy just to settle for a beret, news boy or Fedora… to hide the offending pate and avoid the comb over till a later date. Meanwhile I’ll maybe settle for Grandma’s cosy special?

0

Nov 6, 2020

Nov 6, 2020 at 9:32 AM UTC

It’s That Time... It’s Hat Time!

At this time of my life I find myself wearing hats… I’m not happy with my head you see, In short, being able to see it it just doesn’t thrill me. Not through those depressing, disappearing strands. So it’s that time - It’s hat time! Hats are warm, comforting things; take it off and, for a while at least, it feels still there - a phantom hat. Not quite as spooky or worrying as a phantom arm or leg - after that severed limb thing, but right there! It really is that time - It’s hat time! My Grandma Lamplough, that’s on my mother’s side, was an avid knitter of things to order, She was even a freelancer for Jaeger… matinée jackets, mittens, cardies, pullovers But in later days mostly just tea cosies. If there was no immediate customer in mind… “Everybody needs a cosy and one size fits all” she would say… and anyway, commissions were rare for cosies back in the day She’d wear it boldly herself with handle and spout slots front & back, proud She’d start the next one and announce to every visitor right out loud… ”Hey…Do you want a cosy for your *** Mr Watling, the milkman, he had quite a lot! But then he showed up every day! A quart is it Mrs L?… and yes, I WILL have a cosy today! Me? I’ve never fancied a toupee, wig or go in for a Bobby Charlton tribute gig …. I’ll be happy just to settle for a beret, news boy or Fedora… to hide the offending pate and avoid the comb over till a later date. Meanwhile I’ll maybe settle for Grandma’s cosy special?

Continue reading...

They say that love is between a man and a woman. That the racing hearts and soft whispers are to be between that of a man and a woman. Yet when I look at her, my heart races and my mind fogs. They say it is wrong to love that of the same *** That the soft touches and moans of pleasure should be shared between a woman and a man. But when her mouth meets mine and my hands find her hair, I can't help but think that they are the ones that are wrong, not this. Because this, Her mouth on mine, Our bodies flush against each other, The look in her eyes, Is love. The soft whispered words and racing hearts is now something that both she and I share. And when her body slots perfectly with mine And her eyes show that there is nowhere else she would rather be, I know that this is love. The way my breath hitches And my heart races And her soft gaze is all I can seem to focus on, I know that this is love. And if this is what love is, If this is what it really feels like, It will never be wrong. This is love.

0

Feb 9, 2018

Feb 9, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC

They say that love is between a man and a woman. That the racing hearts and soft whispers are to be between that of a man and a woman. Yet when I look at her, my heart races and my mind fogs. They say it is wrong to love that of the same *** That the soft touches and moans of pleasure should be shared between a woman and a man. But when her mouth meets mine and my hands find her hair, I can't help but think that they are the ones that are wrong, not this. Because this, Her mouth on mine, Our bodies flush against each other, The look in her eyes, Is love. The soft whispered words and racing hearts is now something that both she and I share. And when her body slots perfectly with mine And her eyes show that there is nowhere else she would rather be, I know that this is love. The way my breath hitches And my heart races And her soft gaze is all I can seem to focus on, I know that this is love. And if this is what love is, If this is what it really feels like, It will never be wrong. This is love.

Continue reading...