"slutter" poems - Hello Poetry

in the cohort of her hands, a disorder lost dignity wrapped in the red of need reckless and arrogant as lilies an abundance of periphery wavers at the sea-black hand of hands of time of hands rune stones black granite spattered in stars a slutter of language of words of wombs necrotic we burst a pause of however a narcosis of want meander of limbs siphoning brine-white tide colorless-the disorder marquis of white shadow on seal slick waves and the lilies, petal outward and in the silence there were unknown weeks where the flowers foundered other bodies there is a form in the garden still as clay we reddened our mouths and still like clay slant of a neck untattered partitioning cerebral sea arcing back on itself there was a benign negligence in the want-of flowers of lilies vague signs of amplitude pachyderm and small in the grooves of lack malnourished, contrite hands flushed blooms of pink paper along pink walls-flush seas of lack vague symbols of wood and purulent understanding a nest of roots dipping towards the alkaline sea we didn’t even begin to understand the range of mourning becoming us smooth white shells of elegant weakened at the hock distempered by the recent winters foundering in the vacant space between us I mule you through the tapestries of my desert and am still, here where I don’t belong here I am spread as an excess as an unfortunate truth glossed by negligent hands anxious, with the possible morning indistinct dwindling winter curling pink paper along the walls of black sea earth-tide small weakened arrangement of groundcover jostling in the ferns of truth we measured the years in numerals as with skin, ardent and ruddy palpable lost youth the rare wood of mistake loosened from sleep in the morning we resemble damaged objects prized for obedience at odd angles of deformation to time in the body, a funeral still warm skin and stone a slender neck of atonement for the absence of home

0

Oct 14, 2015

Oct 14, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC

chelsea-chavez

hands

in the cohort of her hands, a disorder lost dignity wrapped in the red of need reckless and arrogant as lilies an abundance of periphery wavers at the sea-black hand of hands of time of hands rune stones black granite spattered in stars a slutter of language of words of wombs necrotic we burst a pause of however a narcosis of want meander of limbs siphoning brine-white tide colorless-the disorder marquis of white shadow on seal slick waves and the lilies, petal outward and in the silence there were unknown weeks where the flowers foundered other bodies there is a form in the garden still as clay we reddened our mouths and still like clay slant of a neck untattered partitioning cerebral sea arcing back on itself there was a benign negligence in the want-of flowers of lilies vague signs of amplitude pachyderm and small in the grooves of lack malnourished, contrite hands flushed blooms of pink paper along pink walls-flush seas of lack vague symbols of wood and purulent understanding a nest of roots dipping towards the alkaline sea we didn’t even begin to understand the range of mourning becoming us smooth white shells of elegant weakened at the hock distempered by the recent winters foundering in the vacant space between us I mule you through the tapestries of my desert and am still, here where I don’t belong here I am spread as an excess as an unfortunate truth glossed by negligent hands anxious, with the possible morning indistinct dwindling winter curling pink paper along the walls of black sea earth-tide small weakened arrangement of groundcover jostling in the ferns of truth we measured the years in numerals as with skin, ardent and ruddy palpable lost youth the rare wood of mistake loosened from sleep in the morning we resemble damaged objects prized for obedience at odd angles of deformation to time in the body, a funeral still warm skin and stone a slender neck of atonement for the absence of home

77

crash crash a body thrown blown seas of pure bliss, waves kiss a paradoxical clash. flash flash a memory enduring clawing a defaced rock edge. connected intimacy a yellow gold band pure silk wedding gown. he said; **** Vera **** no less, for you my deepest dearest.* devoted hopelessly to under layers of lace, a bustier; inches drawn in perfect dolly pin. oh you my dear of rekindled love remember you always drop the o from love. your heart a pounding pulse of repulse. ripped stripped gutter slutter mutter flutter. he whispered; Kiera dissipating skies vanish vanish a crystal promise; a drop in the ocean. two lovers gone. © Sia Jane

0

Dec 12, 2014

Dec 12, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC

sia-jane

veiled

crash crash a body thrown blown seas of pure bliss, waves kiss a paradoxical clash. flash flash a memory enduring clawing a defaced rock edge. connected intimacy a yellow gold band pure silk wedding gown. he said; **** Vera **** no less, for you my deepest dearest.* devoted hopelessly to under layers of lace, a bustier; inches drawn in perfect dolly pin. oh you my dear of rekindled love remember you always drop the o from love. your heart a pounding pulse of repulse. ripped stripped gutter slutter mutter flutter. he whispered; Kiera dissipating skies vanish vanish a crystal promise; a drop in the ocean. two lovers gone. © Sia Jane

33

Jeg er et sandkorn i Sahra et ud af mange jeg er her bare, indtil den dag jeg bliver blæst væk blæst væk af vinden hvor mon jeg lander ? jeg ved det i hvert fald ikke jeg kan lande hvor som helst på bunden eller på toppen men det slutter jo ikke her for om jeg er på toppen eller bunden blæser jeg væk igen hen til et nyt sted jeg blæser hele tiden væk.

0

Mar 26, 2015

Mar 26, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC

annesofie-olsen

Sandkorn

Jeg er et sandkorn i Sahra et ud af mange jeg er her bare, indtil den dag jeg bliver blæst væk blæst væk af vinden hvor mon jeg lander ? jeg ved det i hvert fald ikke jeg kan lande hvor som helst på bunden eller på toppen men det slutter jo ikke her for om jeg er på toppen eller bunden blæser jeg væk igen hen til et nyt sted jeg blæser hele tiden væk.

13

Alting er så flygtigt Som Det sidste kys Der trækkes ud jointen der forsvinder byturen der nærmer sig sin ende nattens dug på min skulder lyset der brænder drypper sin stearin på mine fingre temperaturerne der skifter sæsoner der begynder og slutter den første sommerdag den sidste sommerdag jeg vil helst bare holde fast trække tiderne ud leve i min verden leve i mit tempo bare leve Følelsen af at føle sig fiktiv Føles mere jordnær End Ideen om at eksistere I en verden så fuckd som denne Verden er så ******* fiktiv Fikseret kun med sig selv Jeg findes ikke Alting er så flygtigt Det er så fandens svært at få lov til leve så fandens svært at få lov til at dø Enden virker nogen gange som et bedre sted at starte Slutning er håndterlig i sin uhåndterlighed Som en bekræftelse af det abstrakte Til **** Kan også jeg flyve Alting er så flygtigt

0

May 22, 2017

May 22, 2017 at 8:51 AM UTC

knudstrup

Alting er så flytigt

Alting er så flygtigt Som Det sidste kys Der trækkes ud jointen der forsvinder byturen der nærmer sig sin ende nattens dug på min skulder lyset der brænder drypper sin stearin på mine fingre temperaturerne der skifter sæsoner der begynder og slutter den første sommerdag den sidste sommerdag jeg vil helst bare holde fast trække tiderne ud leve i min verden leve i mit tempo bare leve Følelsen af at føle sig fiktiv Føles mere jordnær End Ideen om at eksistere I en verden så fuckd som denne Verden er så ******* fiktiv Fikseret kun med sig selv Jeg findes ikke Alting er så flygtigt Det er så fandens svært at få lov til leve så fandens svært at få lov til at dø Enden virker nogen gange som et bedre sted at starte Slutning er håndterlig i sin uhåndterlighed Som en bekræftelse af det abstrakte Til **** Kan også jeg flyve Alting er så flygtigt

39

*er det en besættelse af prikker? eller er det en besættelse af alt som er helt rundt og perfekt? en besættelse af noget som aldrig slutter men alligevel har en ende*

0

Oct 4, 2015

Oct 4, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC

digteomenits

prikker ...

*er det en besættelse af prikker? eller er det en besættelse af alt som er helt rundt og perfekt? en besættelse af noget som aldrig slutter men alligevel har en ende*

8