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"soupy" poems
Dal Lake I float on Dal Lake Suspended between the thick soupy crisp air of soldiers water lilies, Kashmiri bread and the Muslim prayers that penetrate the hardness of war chanting Allah Bismallah Floating Islam Holy words drenching the air Drenching the green cloth of Hindu soldiers Sliding down the cool metal of a rifle 9 years of war 1,000 houseboats lie empty in the Himalayan fog Intricately carved furniture Thick with dust and the powder of blood and bullets Himalayan silhouette etched black against the song of lotus gatherers Foggy voices like cloud of moon Lotus lake Gray of war and desperation Children beg 1 rupee 1 rupee 1 rupee Endless monologue Parched like lotus shaped paddle They throw flowers to me endlessly I throw them back endlessly Time passes slowly like smoke on a lizard’s tail trailing in the thick, rancid air of burning meat and maple leaves Like a shikara moving over the glass of Kashmir The sound of a dozen Bangees floating over the water Hollow, solemn and mournful Echoing against the hardness of the surrounding mountains The circle of Himalayas Like a womb around the prayers of Pachin In the middle of the lake I hear the call to prayer Azan Nemarz Suba Azan Nemarz Pashin Azan Nemarz Degar Azan Nemarz Sham Azan Nemarz Koftan From dawn till dusk Azan 4 mosques 4 singers 4 directions staggered by a breath like an imperfect echo Azan slips into the pockets of island soldiers Waters the impatience of soldiers on the shore Steals into the vacant eyes of soldiers in the Mosque They want to go home to their wives and children They want to leave the place of prayer, which is not theirs The place of prayer, which has seen death The place where God was pushed out In order to not see the killing To **** what they don’t see The place, which was no longer a refuge Outside Dal Lake turns to the color of red lentils cooking in a dented metal *** In the Shikara boat we eat dal and rice and throw scraps into the silver water where it washes up onto the ***** boots of a soldier I hear the dull gray click, click of his rifle as it touches the ground The prayers have ended
0
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
jeff-raheb
Dal Lake
Dal Lake I float on Dal Lake Suspended between the thick soupy crisp air of soldiers water lilies, Kashmiri bread and the Muslim prayers that penetrate the hardness of war chanting Allah Bismallah Floating Islam Holy words drenching the air Drenching the green cloth of Hindu soldiers Sliding down the cool metal of a rifle 9 years of war 1,000 houseboats lie empty in the Himalayan fog Intricately carved furniture Thick with dust and the powder of blood and bullets Himalayan silhouette etched black against the song of lotus gatherers Foggy voices like cloud of moon Lotus lake Gray of war and desperation Children beg 1 rupee 1 rupee 1 rupee Endless monologue Parched like lotus shaped paddle They throw flowers to me endlessly I throw them back endlessly Time passes slowly like smoke on a lizard’s tail trailing in the thick, rancid air of burning meat and maple leaves Like a shikara moving over the glass of Kashmir The sound of a dozen Bangees floating over the water Hollow, solemn and mournful Echoing against the hardness of the surrounding mountains The circle of Himalayas Like a womb around the prayers of Pachin In the middle of the lake I hear the call to prayer Azan Nemarz Suba Azan Nemarz Pashin Azan Nemarz Degar Azan Nemarz Sham Azan Nemarz Koftan From dawn till dusk Azan 4 mosques 4 singers 4 directions staggered by a breath like an imperfect echo Azan slips into the pockets of island soldiers Waters the impatience of soldiers on the shore Steals into the vacant eyes of soldiers in the Mosque They want to go home to their wives and children They want to leave the place of prayer, which is not theirs The place of prayer, which has seen death The place where God was pushed out In order to not see the killing To **** what they don’t see The place, which was no longer a refuge Outside Dal Lake turns to the color of red lentils cooking in a dented metal *** In the Shikara boat we eat dal and rice and throw scraps into the silver water where it washes up onto the ***** boots of a soldier I hear the dull gray click, click of his rifle as it touches the ground The prayers have ended
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81
Soupy slurred words slide from her lips and drip to the floor, Mixing in with the pool of regurgitated gin and tonic. Her mouth is bitter but her thoughts are true; Only the drunk can tell the truth. Her incoherent words fall to the floor followed closely by her slouched figure and salty tears. She sleeps on the bathroom floor, Soaked in the mess she's created.
0
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
the-amateur-poet
Hand me another drink
Soupy slurred words slide from her lips and drip to the floor, Mixing in with the pool of regurgitated gin and tonic. Her mouth is bitter but her thoughts are true; Only the drunk can tell the truth. Her incoherent words fall to the floor followed closely by her slouched figure and salty tears. She sleeps on the bathroom floor, Soaked in the mess she's created.
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7
My Prize for Waiting ~ *tucked in all by myself, resting dark and quiet in the thin place^ where the distance between this world and the next, is no distance at all, but  a few inches separating, easily fordable, back and forth-able my palms, hands down, come to rest on my ******* and the two thumbs in unison, begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between, conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point passageway to poetic mystical places, hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping no hurry to either arrive or depart, in patient attendance for rhythms of woven word arrivistes, coming in no particular order, asking to be seized, greedy to be nominated and recognized, immortalized, as great poetry, prize worthy, kept for all time inside others poetry chests but in the thin place, dream records are not kept, hazy scraps at best retained, a recipe for a witnessed totality, is only a soupy reduction of a few seconds of hazed video, that can neither give nor get no satisfaction the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct the body of the meal, the real deal, alas, there are no prizes either for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless poetry scraps the only evidence of my travels, a flushing, blushing residual flow, slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying, my blush, a prize for waiting but failing, “the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^ woe to me when returned in ignominy, medaled in only base irony, me and philosopher Pliny,^^^ both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius, our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash, but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged burnt photographs epistles, that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle, insufficient to weave a flax complete and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now, to snag another prized piece of meaningless, my prize for waiting in the solitude of the thin place* 3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019 ~ last nights scrap ***cease your whining, seize your waiting, therein is your own paid price for the prize of inspiration*** inspired by Jean Fisher, a real prize winning poet
0
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
My Prize for Waiting
My Prize for Waiting ~ *tucked in all by myself, resting dark and quiet in the thin place^ where the distance between this world and the next, is no distance at all, but  a few inches separating, easily fordable, back and forth-able my palms, hands down, come to rest on my ******* and the two thumbs in unison, begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between, conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point passageway to poetic mystical places, hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping no hurry to either arrive or depart, in patient attendance for rhythms of woven word arrivistes, coming in no particular order, asking to be seized, greedy to be nominated and recognized, immortalized, as great poetry, prize worthy, kept for all time inside others poetry chests but in the thin place, dream records are not kept, hazy scraps at best retained, a recipe for a witnessed totality, is only a soupy reduction of a few seconds of hazed video, that can neither give nor get no satisfaction the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct the body of the meal, the real deal, alas, there are no prizes either for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless poetry scraps the only evidence of my travels, a flushing, blushing residual flow, slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying, my blush, a prize for waiting but failing, “the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^ woe to me when returned in ignominy, medaled in only base irony, me and philosopher Pliny,^^^ both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius, our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash, but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged burnt photographs epistles, that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle, insufficient to weave a flax complete and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now, to snag another prized piece of meaningless, my prize for waiting in the solitude of the thin place* 3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019 ~ last nights scrap ***cease your whining, seize your waiting, therein is your own paid price for the prize of inspiration*** inspired by Jean Fisher, a real prize winning poet
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67
It's like this, and then there was total recall. Fast like a safety plan made wrong and then bouncing in and out all the way down the hall. Up through cable cars, Korean fast food market, wet fish, soupy street, concrete cracks filled with crab meat and **** heads. Just a square, a five block, two street, sideways quadrangle, beat of the Tenderloin, hour of the dove. Every one's dead on these loose ends. Hills of the back of her backside, skin of the back of her neck. Rapture is the grave of the sunset, memory is that thing that I said. No one cans in carnivores, no one runs moves like a shepherd. Sunday, daft as candy, luck in the ways of the prophet. Canon of the blaze of every woman that died today. The sleep setting, the motorcycle bending the hollow, the ravines noisy interlude, up through the rough and the tangles, huddles in a six pack, three or four walking up the block to meet the rest of them. The skin doesn't fit right, it wears wrong, the shoulders stiff, the masseuse excuses himself. Buckets of flowers hang from the ceiling like stripped cat christmas decorations in suburban mastermind serial killer resort town. Everyone is quiet because they gotta. They move their feet like they were hurrying death into a red volcano, like they were the errand of red from the top bell to the bottom of the town. I sit on a roof top, baking in the noon day sun. Stripping sticks and stems off the side to sideways, just roasting away, laying, low in the afternoon light. I see a girl with her hands on her skirt, wobbling, scooting a priest card on a periwinkle terra-cotta. I move my head, turn it upside round to take a better look. No one counts to ten when they see me. The gangster that woke up isn't the gangster that went to sleep last night. My wickedness ended my words mean your bright decay. So I ride the pavement exhausted, burying my coughs in an L-shaped arm
0
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
martin-narrod
Sunday Morning
It's like this, and then there was total recall. Fast like a safety plan made wrong and then bouncing in and out all the way down the hall. Up through cable cars, Korean fast food market, wet fish, soupy street, concrete cracks filled with crab meat and **** heads. Just a square, a five block, two street, sideways quadrangle, beat of the Tenderloin, hour of the dove. Every one's dead on these loose ends. Hills of the back of her backside, skin of the back of her neck. Rapture is the grave of the sunset, memory is that thing that I said. No one cans in carnivores, no one runs moves like a shepherd. Sunday, daft as candy, luck in the ways of the prophet. Canon of the blaze of every woman that died today. The sleep setting, the motorcycle bending the hollow, the ravines noisy interlude, up through the rough and the tangles, huddles in a six pack, three or four walking up the block to meet the rest of them. The skin doesn't fit right, it wears wrong, the shoulders stiff, the masseuse excuses himself. Buckets of flowers hang from the ceiling like stripped cat christmas decorations in suburban mastermind serial killer resort town. Everyone is quiet because they gotta. They move their feet like they were hurrying death into a red volcano, like they were the errand of red from the top bell to the bottom of the town. I sit on a roof top, baking in the noon day sun. Stripping sticks and stems off the side to sideways, just roasting away, laying, low in the afternoon light. I see a girl with her hands on her skirt, wobbling, scooting a priest card on a periwinkle terra-cotta. I move my head, turn it upside round to take a better look. No one counts to ten when they see me. The gangster that woke up isn't the gangster that went to sleep last night. My wickedness ended my words mean your bright decay. So I ride the pavement exhausted, burying my coughs in an L-shaped arm
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4
I am often told that love will leave me breathless, But I hope I never know a love so greedy as to steal the air from my chest, For I have memories of a time when my body was oxygen starved And my lungs unable to draw in breath, Bogged down under soupy pneumonia that clung to my innards With vice-like, snotty grips. My mind is sometimes lost in the sensation of frantically Drawing air inward, ******* it into my chest with great gasps that never alleviated the burning of my lungs Or the way pins and needles tingled down my limbs. My brain cells were consumed with desire to force O2 to bind with the red blood cells churning in my veins. The air surrounding me was dense with particles that refused to aid my survival, No matter how much effort I exerted to the contrary. Sweat dripped off my too thin form and pallid skin As I drowned slowly from the inside out in a room full of doctors Until they finally placed the tube back into my throat to breathe for me. The pain receded as oxygen raced back into my cells, And I marveled for a moment at the fact that I could not feel myself breathing, Couldn't feel the rise or fall of my chest. The mark of my vitality was absent, And yet, I was very much alive. I remember what it was to be truly breathless, The blind panic that seized me before finally giving way to a wish for death. It's because of this I hope love never empties my lungs. I want a love that makes breathing feel safe and exciting, A love that feels so gloriously alive that I am acutely aware of my chest rising. Love should always make breathing feel like both a right and a privilege. It is a privilege to love her and be in her presence. But I hope she never leaves me breathless.
0
Apr 25, 2021
Apr 25, 2021 at 6:25 PM UTC
PoetFromAnotherPlanet
Breathless
I am often told that love will leave me breathless, But I hope I never know a love so greedy as to steal the air from my chest, For I have memories of a time when my body was oxygen starved And my lungs unable to draw in breath, Bogged down under soupy pneumonia that clung to my innards With vice-like, snotty grips. My mind is sometimes lost in the sensation of frantically Drawing air inward, ******* it into my chest with great gasps that never alleviated the burning of my lungs Or the way pins and needles tingled down my limbs. My brain cells were consumed with desire to force O2 to bind with the red blood cells churning in my veins. The air surrounding me was dense with particles that refused to aid my survival, No matter how much effort I exerted to the contrary. Sweat dripped off my too thin form and pallid skin As I drowned slowly from the inside out in a room full of doctors Until they finally placed the tube back into my throat to breathe for me. The pain receded as oxygen raced back into my cells, And I marveled for a moment at the fact that I could not feel myself breathing, Couldn't feel the rise or fall of my chest. The mark of my vitality was absent, And yet, I was very much alive. I remember what it was to be truly breathless, The blind panic that seized me before finally giving way to a wish for death. It's because of this I hope love never empties my lungs. I want a love that makes breathing feel safe and exciting, A love that feels so gloriously alive that I am acutely aware of my chest rising. Love should always make breathing feel like both a right and a privilege. It is a privilege to love her and be in her presence. But I hope she never leaves me breathless.
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30
Writhing, the screeching leviathan demands And I cave to save the aching from tricky time slopes Pained craving Wavering but Hit and It’s all loosey goosey goodness Sensing silent magma pulse, whoosh the tummy tingles Droopy ears gape-face giggle no more nowadays A stern turn in old age the silly phase of Too bright, neon common numb tongue rambles Secedes into introspective Crowded walks, broken talks strung into threats clustered and Flung like monkey **** at many-stabbed ego, Brutus? Strangers will eat you The professor thinks I’m funny because I know the answers in class The other day Dingus And Whoseewhatsee tried to alley mug and hurt and end And money! No, rocked nose ran dude! Fine Trying not to fear the outdoors, though The arthropods and phantoms tell me ***** jokes And not to eat my candy Books melt into soupy mercurial elixir I slurp them and belch Educating myself in a barn ******* knowledge On loud faces; empty meat Where you can hear the jingly metal Thing when you shake it, it’s dead no flower They don’t always like me But I’ve got the jeepers creepers behind my peepers And a million lightyears to burn Truth is worth dying Four **** sow Izzeny thing these daze Maybe it was a bust from the start but there’s Always art Quieting the plague that revealed Not so good after all Tiny thorns and all-consuming Waves of red-get-out wrenching, gutted like a fish Overcome, that never went away or found A place to sit Memories arthritic grind a grim gray whetting stone Reduce with juice-cloud, grape teeth cough will never find a home
0
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
ERRPoetry
160. Whetting 12/22/12
Writhing, the screeching leviathan demands And I cave to save the aching from tricky time slopes Pained craving Wavering but Hit and It’s all loosey goosey goodness Sensing silent magma pulse, whoosh the tummy tingles Droopy ears gape-face giggle no more nowadays A stern turn in old age the silly phase of Too bright, neon common numb tongue rambles Secedes into introspective Crowded walks, broken talks strung into threats clustered and Flung like monkey **** at many-stabbed ego, Brutus? Strangers will eat you The professor thinks I’m funny because I know the answers in class The other day Dingus And Whoseewhatsee tried to alley mug and hurt and end And money! No, rocked nose ran dude! Fine Trying not to fear the outdoors, though The arthropods and phantoms tell me ***** jokes And not to eat my candy Books melt into soupy mercurial elixir I slurp them and belch Educating myself in a barn ******* knowledge On loud faces; empty meat Where you can hear the jingly metal Thing when you shake it, it’s dead no flower They don’t always like me But I’ve got the jeepers creepers behind my peepers And a million lightyears to burn Truth is worth dying Four **** sow Izzeny thing these daze Maybe it was a bust from the start but there’s Always art Quieting the plague that revealed Not so good after all Tiny thorns and all-consuming Waves of red-get-out wrenching, gutted like a fish Overcome, that never went away or found A place to sit Memories arthritic grind a grim gray whetting stone Reduce with juice-cloud, grape teeth cough will never find a home
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46
It’s all a bit of a dream Don’t you think? Nothing’s ever certain And once you know something It’s all crystal clear But just wait, soon You’ll begin to question, wonder Possibly forget And be back at square one So what should you build from there? Well I have a house That’s a **** good place to start Cement goes into the cauldron Goopy soupy and delicious It bubbles of beginnings, and permanence As it boils and squeals in the background of the world that surrounds Me, I drift off into space Who knew a few random fumes could get you high! I see a dancer A girl in bright blue torn tights, with a boy next to her, and a friend She’s a good student But She gets terrible grades And there’re flowers all over her bed You could call her a bumblebee the way she wraps her self In them and inhales Softly She never cries Well not that often And when she does she regrets it Things aren’t too serious with her Depression, adhd, death available, Verbs and adjectives far too strong She can taste manipulation People throw things around in her world, And she’s been programmed to throw back It hurts With each hit her opponent brings to the rink She often wonders if it’s all that bad. Tough, in a lonely sort of way But every now and then A breeze rolls on by With a window Always open Honey, black tea, paper Blurrrr And it’s back to the grey soup of the day But the spoons getting harder and harder to stir Time’s running out What is there that could possibly change? A few things unlock this path… but which one should I choose? No sé No sé no sé No sé I should be me… But honestly Who am I?
0
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 4:48 AM UTC
sofia-von
Open me up
It’s all a bit of a dream Don’t you think? Nothing’s ever certain And once you know something It’s all crystal clear But just wait, soon You’ll begin to question, wonder Possibly forget And be back at square one So what should you build from there? Well I have a house That’s a **** good place to start Cement goes into the cauldron Goopy soupy and delicious It bubbles of beginnings, and permanence As it boils and squeals in the background of the world that surrounds Me, I drift off into space Who knew a few random fumes could get you high! I see a dancer A girl in bright blue torn tights, with a boy next to her, and a friend She’s a good student But She gets terrible grades And there’re flowers all over her bed You could call her a bumblebee the way she wraps her self In them and inhales Softly She never cries Well not that often And when she does she regrets it Things aren’t too serious with her Depression, adhd, death available, Verbs and adjectives far too strong She can taste manipulation People throw things around in her world, And she’s been programmed to throw back It hurts With each hit her opponent brings to the rink She often wonders if it’s all that bad. Tough, in a lonely sort of way But every now and then A breeze rolls on by With a window Always open Honey, black tea, paper Blurrrr And it’s back to the grey soup of the day But the spoons getting harder and harder to stir Time’s running out What is there that could possibly change? A few things unlock this path… but which one should I choose? No sé No sé no sé No sé I should be me… But honestly Who am I?
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58
Oh my self-loathing is disgustingly indulgent, It destroys my health I wallow with glee for hours in the pits of my own self-hatred Everything I do say and see I use as ammo in an endless war against myself Repulsive, ******** Excentric , erratic Shy, fake, problematic I wish I had a plug hole In the soupy head of mine That I could just pull out And all the darkness would go down the drain and I’d be fine But my fansty world turns on me And casts shadows on others I don’t see them in their true light As my fellow sisters and brothers By day the world grinds in my head An endless mill of screams By night by actions haunt me In rancid vivid dreams This assemblage of stupid attributes that is me Follows this girl around relentlessly Too fixated on yourself, you selfish ***** You hate everyone else and make them a demon or a witch This demon lives inside the gray matter that is your brain It turns any sunny day into melancholic rain I will live alone with no comfort but my own insanity I see those on the streets who do the same and fear that destiny After all, Is madness not a sane response to the collective psychosis that is society?
0
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 3:50 AM UTC
dacia-b
A big melting slice of self hate
Oh my self-loathing is disgustingly indulgent, It destroys my health I wallow with glee for hours in the pits of my own self-hatred Everything I do say and see I use as ammo in an endless war against myself Repulsive, ******** Excentric , erratic Shy, fake, problematic I wish I had a plug hole In the soupy head of mine That I could just pull out And all the darkness would go down the drain and I’d be fine But my fansty world turns on me And casts shadows on others I don’t see them in their true light As my fellow sisters and brothers By day the world grinds in my head An endless mill of screams By night by actions haunt me In rancid vivid dreams This assemblage of stupid attributes that is me Follows this girl around relentlessly Too fixated on yourself, you selfish ***** You hate everyone else and make them a demon or a witch This demon lives inside the gray matter that is your brain It turns any sunny day into melancholic rain I will live alone with no comfort but my own insanity I see those on the streets who do the same and fear that destiny After all, Is madness not a sane response to the collective psychosis that is society?
Continue reading...
28
My hard boiled brain just don’t connect The world I try to sense and see This patch of light I can’t reflect Fractions of my imagination collect A soupy spongy murky sea My hard boiled brain just don’t connect Stand my guard and take effect The menace yet to be This patch of light I can’t reflect Beat my chest and then protect Walls of chain and sorcery My hard boiled brain just don’t connect Take flight now child and dilute my respect Branch out from your bonsai tree This patch of light I can’t reflect But all these flaws I reelect From a ballot absentee My hard boiled brain just don’t connect This patch of light I can’t reflect
0
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
alex-furlin-1
hard boiled brain
My hard boiled brain just don’t connect The world I try to sense and see This patch of light I can’t reflect Fractions of my imagination collect A soupy spongy murky sea My hard boiled brain just don’t connect Stand my guard and take effect The menace yet to be This patch of light I can’t reflect Beat my chest and then protect Walls of chain and sorcery My hard boiled brain just don’t connect Take flight now child and dilute my respect Branch out from your bonsai tree This patch of light I can’t reflect But all these flaws I reelect From a ballot absentee My hard boiled brain just don’t connect This patch of light I can’t reflect
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19
𝖯lain, generic, and, sweet. 𝖲omething that just can’t be beat. 𝖳he irony of so many. 𝖵anilla is not of any. Godly silk of milky white and an Understatement of unrequited affection. 𝖲he lies supine waiting for vanilla to pick a side. 𝖩ust above the rim of the cup, vanilla built all the way to the top, with No mix-ins, an overscoop just for you, and a smile on the side too. 𝖲even o’three is what is going to be. 𝖲even o’three and a firm grip on me. 𝖸es the irony of choosing originality when its the exact opposite of what you preach 𝖤specially in between the sheets. 𝖨ndeed nothing to write home about just a medium cup of soupy iced cream. 𝖠 flavor so **** sweet that’s sadly not for me. 𝖲weet memories in time. 𝖨’ll continue on with vanilla on my mind.
0
Feb 27, 2020
Feb 27, 2020 at 2:21 PM UTC
Withered_whims
Vanilla
𝖯lain, generic, and, sweet. 𝖲omething that just can’t be beat. 𝖳he irony of so many. 𝖵anilla is not of any. Godly silk of milky white and an Understatement of unrequited affection. 𝖲he lies supine waiting for vanilla to pick a side. 𝖩ust above the rim of the cup, vanilla built all the way to the top, with No mix-ins, an overscoop just for you, and a smile on the side too. 𝖲even o’three is what is going to be. 𝖲even o’three and a firm grip on me. 𝖸es the irony of choosing originality when its the exact opposite of what you preach 𝖤specially in between the sheets. 𝖨ndeed nothing to write home about just a medium cup of soupy iced cream. 𝖠 flavor so **** sweet that’s sadly not for me. 𝖲weet memories in time. 𝖨’ll continue on with vanilla on my mind.
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18
Smile so haunting with devilish or fiendish or that of charming aesthetics, the slender creature of a man parched flesh of paper would flick his eyes bright and stir crazy as embers about the stage, his hair a mat of threads, ancient and animalistic, yet of thick wafting softness, he appears so gentle, so timid child eyes brushed by his bangs yet confident in that grin cut so lightly across his face, he would disarm your distrust, carry you to his attractive gentleness as he cloaks the stage about him and then as the lights dim, the audience edged on their seats, your sheepish and sugar laced eyes of curiosity linger at the heels of his lips, as he slaughters your precious innocence, with My words, smile ever increasing feasting on their fearful stares my poem a muffled shotgun at the back of the audiences head, their tremoring bodies scream as he constrains the straps constricting their legs and limbs, all the world’s a coroner’s table he stoops so lovingly over them, snow white raven of a boy, his words of glinting blade dive, their eyes a mess of soupy white and tangled red surgical increments ripping their ribs and sternum wide, they scream with blistered skin, straps beginning to burrow and feast into their limbs, the boy labors diligently, effortlessly he worms his fingers about blood drenched organs twists and plucks them free, the victim’s body squirming, skin wriggling, as their eyes stare and gasp upon their organs strewn next to them, shock ripping through them, crawling within their hollowed out body, he laps up their gaping wound, cut and carved from sternum to pelvis, licking up blood soaked soul and kidney, my demon of timid grin spills out the final phrases his victims have long lost resilience, they watch and lie as a mess of human, half corpses on the table, the audience a funeral procession, the lights suffocated, no one wishes to speak, silence is the only reverie to my poems darkness the boy or man, demon or fiend would softly grin the audience just as cold and dead as him
0
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 12:59 AM UTC
devon-baker
My Poems Taste Best When They're Cutting You
Smile so haunting with devilish or fiendish or that of charming aesthetics, the slender creature of a man parched flesh of paper would flick his eyes bright and stir crazy as embers about the stage, his hair a mat of threads, ancient and animalistic, yet of thick wafting softness, he appears so gentle, so timid child eyes brushed by his bangs yet confident in that grin cut so lightly across his face, he would disarm your distrust, carry you to his attractive gentleness as he cloaks the stage about him and then as the lights dim, the audience edged on their seats, your sheepish and sugar laced eyes of curiosity linger at the heels of his lips, as he slaughters your precious innocence, with My words, smile ever increasing feasting on their fearful stares my poem a muffled shotgun at the back of the audiences head, their tremoring bodies scream as he constrains the straps constricting their legs and limbs, all the world’s a coroner’s table he stoops so lovingly over them, snow white raven of a boy, his words of glinting blade dive, their eyes a mess of soupy white and tangled red surgical increments ripping their ribs and sternum wide, they scream with blistered skin, straps beginning to burrow and feast into their limbs, the boy labors diligently, effortlessly he worms his fingers about blood drenched organs twists and plucks them free, the victim’s body squirming, skin wriggling, as their eyes stare and gasp upon their organs strewn next to them, shock ripping through them, crawling within their hollowed out body, he laps up their gaping wound, cut and carved from sternum to pelvis, licking up blood soaked soul and kidney, my demon of timid grin spills out the final phrases his victims have long lost resilience, they watch and lie as a mess of human, half corpses on the table, the audience a funeral procession, the lights suffocated, no one wishes to speak, silence is the only reverie to my poems darkness the boy or man, demon or fiend would softly grin the audience just as cold and dead as him
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64
Fatal. Femme Fatal , seduced by ulterior motives, the truthful warrior Kills with peaceful intention but it is only wicked nonchalance to; day to day ferocities that mimic hard time , war time , conventions Lemon yellow pieces of firefly bisquits Rain down from the fogged fetters. Lyrical haze- in soft beat cheetos Where sunshine, headlights on fusion cars (expell) expose the water particles Suspended in animation - falling- in slow motioned elegance like after a shower with the doors and windows closed the soupy soup soup of swimming in wavey air...
0
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
Fah
hoodrats , and hoodlums - who's scared who's brusin ? tehehe. ( titles ...eh)
Fatal. Femme Fatal , seduced by ulterior motives, the truthful warrior Kills with peaceful intention but it is only wicked nonchalance to; day to day ferocities that mimic hard time , war time , conventions Lemon yellow pieces of firefly bisquits Rain down from the fogged fetters. Lyrical haze- in soft beat cheetos Where sunshine, headlights on fusion cars (expell) expose the water particles Suspended in animation - falling- in slow motioned elegance like after a shower with the doors and windows closed the soupy soup soup of swimming in wavey air...
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18
Happiness is: Paul Simon playlists, Sleeping outside on warm nights, Cuddling and talking in hushed voices, Clean sheets and blankets, Jacuzzis in the rain, Late night phone conversations that you never want to end, Taking a risk... on you. Learning a new craft Creating something artistic and functional Happiness is moving into a new room. A new view with a blank canvas, free of any past procrastination and eager for a fresh painter's perspective:  new ideas, new expression, Representing a shatter of the old routine and a chance for change : a new path from the bed to the closet, creating a new vessel for photos and keepsakes, Old pictures with new nails, new dimensions, new materials, new.... thought: ... writing. Happiness is writing. Pulling a string of words out of my temple like yarn and knitting them into a permanent form. Creating something lasting rather than letting them float around in a soupy mix....only to dissolve and disappear. Happiness is tea. Tea and biscuits with conversations, Sharing these with good friends that you haven't seen in a while. Dance parties in the kitchen, Using pots and spoons as instruments, and sugar as the fuel. Sharing a moment with someone. A moment that you never thought you'd experience again, A feeling that is so liberating you feel like this "you and i" could never get old, Unless it meant sitting in rocking chairs 60 years down the road, Because we'll never be old until we can't walk anymore, Because as long as we can walk we will wander for miles until we see everything there is to see and we do it together with eager hearts, And even when we can't walk with the earth beneath our feet we will walk through our memories, Reliving the time we walked for 10 miles on steep paths lined with redwoods until we were so exhausted I made you run the last 500 yards to make sure we didn't give up and we jumped in the water just to feel the rush of adrenaline as the cold water made us gasp for air like we just discovered oxygen for the first time and we were so high.... High on nothing but endorphins and nutella from the packs on our back.   Happiness is wrapping my legs around yours like vines, so tight they hold like roots. Holding us to this ground, anchoring us to this feeling, to this moment...
0
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 12:58 PM UTC
kendra-lee-rowley
Joys In Life
Happiness is: Paul Simon playlists, Sleeping outside on warm nights, Cuddling and talking in hushed voices, Clean sheets and blankets, Jacuzzis in the rain, Late night phone conversations that you never want to end, Taking a risk... on you. Learning a new craft Creating something artistic and functional Happiness is moving into a new room. A new view with a blank canvas, free of any past procrastination and eager for a fresh painter's perspective:  new ideas, new expression, Representing a shatter of the old routine and a chance for change : a new path from the bed to the closet, creating a new vessel for photos and keepsakes, Old pictures with new nails, new dimensions, new materials, new.... thought: ... writing. Happiness is writing. Pulling a string of words out of my temple like yarn and knitting them into a permanent form. Creating something lasting rather than letting them float around in a soupy mix....only to dissolve and disappear. Happiness is tea. Tea and biscuits with conversations, Sharing these with good friends that you haven't seen in a while. Dance parties in the kitchen, Using pots and spoons as instruments, and sugar as the fuel. Sharing a moment with someone. A moment that you never thought you'd experience again, A feeling that is so liberating you feel like this "you and i" could never get old, Unless it meant sitting in rocking chairs 60 years down the road, Because we'll never be old until we can't walk anymore, Because as long as we can walk we will wander for miles until we see everything there is to see and we do it together with eager hearts, And even when we can't walk with the earth beneath our feet we will walk through our memories, Reliving the time we walked for 10 miles on steep paths lined with redwoods until we were so exhausted I made you run the last 500 yards to make sure we didn't give up and we jumped in the water just to feel the rush of adrenaline as the cold water made us gasp for air like we just discovered oxygen for the first time and we were so high.... High on nothing but endorphins and nutella from the packs on our back.   Happiness is wrapping my legs around yours like vines, so tight they hold like roots. Holding us to this ground, anchoring us to this feeling, to this moment...
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32
The Serpent’s Meat “…and dust shall be the serpent’s meat…” Isaiah 65:25 An expanse broken only by the small wooden house with a chimney and surrounded by a reddish thick soupy dust clogging the air and dampening the senses: seeping in the cracks in the wood on the walls, flavoring our cereal in the morning and musty kisses exchanged under a creaking ceiling fan at night. Waking, we find a dusty film and salt flats weighting our faces and bodies- wherever the sticky-sweet was leftover from the night before when our bodies had arched; hip-bone mountain ranges rising and falling while the sun rose and set, scorching every minute into nothing, and yet there is something. There is something about the dust sparkling on the ends of your eyelashes, the way it mixes on my tongue I spread your thighs, and I come away mud-faced, and you come away panting. The dust, mixed with your wetness, red like war paint- evidence of my conquering the landscape, which is your body. The valley which rests between the hills nestled against the expanse of the desert, all leading to the muddy forest which is buried between the crevices. The salt of your earth, I cannot escape it.
0
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 1:19 PM UTC
emily-clarke
The Serpents Meat
The Serpent’s Meat “…and dust shall be the serpent’s meat…” Isaiah 65:25 An expanse broken only by the small wooden house with a chimney and surrounded by a reddish thick soupy dust clogging the air and dampening the senses: seeping in the cracks in the wood on the walls, flavoring our cereal in the morning and musty kisses exchanged under a creaking ceiling fan at night. Waking, we find a dusty film and salt flats weighting our faces and bodies- wherever the sticky-sweet was leftover from the night before when our bodies had arched; hip-bone mountain ranges rising and falling while the sun rose and set, scorching every minute into nothing, and yet there is something. There is something about the dust sparkling on the ends of your eyelashes, the way it mixes on my tongue I spread your thighs, and I come away mud-faced, and you come away panting. The dust, mixed with your wetness, red like war paint- evidence of my conquering the landscape, which is your body. The valley which rests between the hills nestled against the expanse of the desert, all leading to the muddy forest which is buried between the crevices. The salt of your earth, I cannot escape it.
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42
Oooh pleeeaaaseee society May I have just one leaf even a stump of a tree? Can you not put your machinery down just for a moment or two? Relax just please think awhile be that that beautiful child you really want to be come romp with me  This I plead beyond my dignity upon a bended knee I'll be with hands clasped upward you bully ******* you know you are! Sorry for the name I said but you act insane because we are all to blame by not reminding you where your roots are You're as soupy as all you **** all single cells like you, that once floated in the beginning of all beginnings Each death's stroke you take you shake the same boat you are standing in How ignorant can your life be does it not mean much? But it does to me!
0
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
rw-dennen
I beg
Oooh pleeeaaaseee society May I have just one leaf even a stump of a tree? Can you not put your machinery down just for a moment or two? Relax just please think awhile be that that beautiful child you really want to be come romp with me  This I plead beyond my dignity upon a bended knee I'll be with hands clasped upward you bully ******* you know you are! Sorry for the name I said but you act insane because we are all to blame by not reminding you where your roots are You're as soupy as all you **** all single cells like you, that once floated in the beginning of all beginnings Each death's stroke you take you shake the same boat you are standing in How ignorant can your life be does it not mean much? But it does to me!
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31
I like  you. I like  you  a lot. I want to be bored with you. I want to hold weekly board meetings over the topic of you. I could impress the shareholders. What do you think?      I think you enjoy honesty, and despise flattery. Believe me, I know the difference. I hope you do too. I am no wily flatterer I would never say something like, “I’ll sail to the MOON for you,” something impossible and irrelevant. With the consistency of soupy puke. I should just as soon say, “I WILL jump recklessly from the top of a very tall tower, and land—perfectly intact and unharmed … for you.” I hope I am not the only one who sees a problem with this sort of logic. So instead I’ll say: Let the madness of what this fixation has turned me into, fuel my fears and my ambitions and drive me therefore, to construct a missile, with enough space inside to harness only myself, enough kick in the engine to erase my past—and all the laws of life as we know it. I will have those memorized by then, and plan to have my hands on new laws unforeseen by any of the other mainstream earthlings; maybe using my new third eye to grasp at something up there that was previously air — & I will beg this nonconsensual devotion you’ve evoked in me please grant me the derision to press the button, and launch myself into that forgetful lazy river that contains all the planets, asteroids, black holes, spaceships, a lonely-wandering U.S. radio transmitter, spilt-paint nebulas, one of Tiger Woods’ golf ***** a drunken astronaut, some of the crew from that Malaysian airplane (you know, the one that went missing), and also there are suns (often called stars), and moons, and there has gotta be a little love floating around somewhere with the celestial ants and supernovas and EVERYTHING. and dissimilarly nothing you can grasp. to the Moon? sure, why not babe, if moon-rocks could somehow make you fall in love with me, I would plan to rob the Smithsonian (or probably a similar museum of history but one with less security), and if that ended up a no-go, thenyeah.      Mad. Zoom. straight to the ******* moon for you.
0
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
abadpenname
AstroPhysics
I like  you. I like  you  a lot. I want to be bored with you. I want to hold weekly board meetings over the topic of you. I could impress the shareholders. What do you think?      I think you enjoy honesty, and despise flattery. Believe me, I know the difference. I hope you do too. I am no wily flatterer I would never say something like, “I’ll sail to the MOON for you,” something impossible and irrelevant. With the consistency of soupy puke. I should just as soon say, “I WILL jump recklessly from the top of a very tall tower, and land—perfectly intact and unharmed … for you.” I hope I am not the only one who sees a problem with this sort of logic. So instead I’ll say: Let the madness of what this fixation has turned me into, fuel my fears and my ambitions and drive me therefore, to construct a missile, with enough space inside to harness only myself, enough kick in the engine to erase my past—and all the laws of life as we know it. I will have those memorized by then, and plan to have my hands on new laws unforeseen by any of the other mainstream earthlings; maybe using my new third eye to grasp at something up there that was previously air — & I will beg this nonconsensual devotion you’ve evoked in me please grant me the derision to press the button, and launch myself into that forgetful lazy river that contains all the planets, asteroids, black holes, spaceships, a lonely-wandering U.S. radio transmitter, spilt-paint nebulas, one of Tiger Woods’ golf ***** a drunken astronaut, some of the crew from that Malaysian airplane (you know, the one that went missing), and also there are suns (often called stars), and moons, and there has gotta be a little love floating around somewhere with the celestial ants and supernovas and EVERYTHING. and dissimilarly nothing you can grasp. to the Moon? sure, why not babe, if moon-rocks could somehow make you fall in love with me, I would plan to rob the Smithsonian (or probably a similar museum of history but one with less security), and if that ended up a no-go, thenyeah.      Mad. Zoom. straight to the ******* moon for you.
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32
It all begins with pounding fists against my door, and men with guns and yellow tape, and me afraid, I’m on the floor and crawling toward the front room drapes to peak outside, oh what in the world have I done? A bit relieved, I find out why a regiment is in my yard, they say the man that lived next door has turned up dead behind his shed, they said he died an awful way, with eyes ****** out by who knows what, or why, but either way a nasty death; poor guy. The landscape man called 911, but what he saw he wouldn’t say, was so surprised to find him dead, he swallowed his tongue, his face all red, and there they lie both side by side the one alive, the other dead. The EMTs revived the one, the older guy had long since died, the guy who lived, they took away to where? don’t know, they didn’t say,- but rumor is a padded cell where all he does both day and night is moan and drool, he just ain’t right from what he saw that spooked him. Within a week I notice things around the house (not his, but mine) the porch out back, the wet wood stack, the shifting earth, the sticking doors, disgusting insects on the floor, the pungent stench from underneath the house, the vents that weep a sickly brown and soupy ****  I must confess in ignorance, I didn’t know a house could bleed. I try some bleach, some cleaning spray, but just can’t scrub the **** away, it just gets worse, and just when I can take no more a chasm cracks behind the stack of sticky wood, and from the hole a flying horde of Satan’s pawns and slugs and prawns and beasts of sorts I swear I’ve never seen before come shrieking out and flock about so loud the sound is deafening. And now I know what mute man saw, he saw what’s left, the face of stone when people die at home alone, the rigor mortis, gouged out eyes when killed by things that men despise, those beasts that creep and crawl and fly about as Satan’s pawns or slugs or prawns or whatever else might make them cry or swallow their tongue. I really don’t know what the big deal is -  good god its only BUGS. I guess I’ll call an exterminator.
0
Sep 18, 2010
Sep 18, 2010 at 11:28 AM UTC
v_V_v
Entomophobia
It all begins with pounding fists against my door, and men with guns and yellow tape, and me afraid, I’m on the floor and crawling toward the front room drapes to peak outside, oh what in the world have I done? A bit relieved, I find out why a regiment is in my yard, they say the man that lived next door has turned up dead behind his shed, they said he died an awful way, with eyes ****** out by who knows what, or why, but either way a nasty death; poor guy. The landscape man called 911, but what he saw he wouldn’t say, was so surprised to find him dead, he swallowed his tongue, his face all red, and there they lie both side by side the one alive, the other dead. The EMTs revived the one, the older guy had long since died, the guy who lived, they took away to where? don’t know, they didn’t say,- but rumor is a padded cell where all he does both day and night is moan and drool, he just ain’t right from what he saw that spooked him. Within a week I notice things around the house (not his, but mine) the porch out back, the wet wood stack, the shifting earth, the sticking doors, disgusting insects on the floor, the pungent stench from underneath the house, the vents that weep a sickly brown and soupy ****  I must confess in ignorance, I didn’t know a house could bleed. I try some bleach, some cleaning spray, but just can’t scrub the **** away, it just gets worse, and just when I can take no more a chasm cracks behind the stack of sticky wood, and from the hole a flying horde of Satan’s pawns and slugs and prawns and beasts of sorts I swear I’ve never seen before come shrieking out and flock about so loud the sound is deafening. And now I know what mute man saw, he saw what’s left, the face of stone when people die at home alone, the rigor mortis, gouged out eyes when killed by things that men despise, those beasts that creep and crawl and fly about as Satan’s pawns or slugs or prawns or whatever else might make them cry or swallow their tongue. I really don’t know what the big deal is -  good god its only BUGS. I guess I’ll call an exterminator.
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62
the air is cooler             less kenetic and soupy                          less aggressive with the mammal scent safer (it seems) clean         the skin retracts a little dryly                      less welcoming to dirt contact                            my feet shift cooly in my sandals the world awaits              new temperament
0
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 10:25 PM UTC
neth-jones
11
the air is cooler             less kenetic and soupy                          less aggressive with the mammal scent safer (it seems) clean         the skin retracts a little dryly                      less welcoming to dirt contact                            my feet shift cooly in my sandals the world awaits              new temperament
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10
Losing the difference in the grand design Without a kiss from another kind or the oral tradition It's been months since I last looked behind and felt sorta lucky Or last imagined myself in a bed with a girl who likes me Some soft perfume in your eyesight fills me up with some raven desire to take control of how your time unfolds My genes are bruise steepers they're valiant cut keepers and in my soupy potential I'll find I've wasted too much time.
0
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
nathan-burgess
Sinkhead
Losing the difference in the grand design Without a kiss from another kind or the oral tradition It's been months since I last looked behind and felt sorta lucky Or last imagined myself in a bed with a girl who likes me Some soft perfume in your eyesight fills me up with some raven desire to take control of how your time unfolds My genes are bruise steepers they're valiant cut keepers and in my soupy potential I'll find I've wasted too much time.
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21
On my feet are black moccasins threaded with runs of bright turquoise alongside patches of clay orange and dust yellow. The feet inside grip cool, suede bottoms to tread on ground still firm, but pregnant, heavy with rain, so that the worms lay like fallen soldiers, victims of a thunderstorm and scattered on the sidewalk the way they were that morning at elementary school when a boy was squishing them for fun, and my heart filled with grief for the worms, whose only crime was trying not to drown. The rain is a reminder of how poorly these shoes function when wet, how they rub my toes in just the wrong ways, leaving circular patches of reddened skin on the outsides of my feet. The worst blisters I’d ever had, happened the day my brother and I were lost in the dense forests of the national park, and when we finally found the road, were two miles from home, and at the very bottom of Everett hill. Those woods had a cabin by the river, we only ever found a handful of times. Our father had warned us of the homeless drug addicts who frequented it, which in all reality were just boozing, pot-smoking teenagers with an affinity for smashing bottles and starting fires, but we were never brave enough to find out for sure. And on the banks of that crooked river, the spring undoes the twisted knots that winter had created, and washes away its cold to uncover the relics of autumn’s leaves, rotting in colors of soupy brown with tiny pools of grimy rainwater collected in their palms. And as I break through the veil of humidity, to breath air crisp with the scent of fresh, wet earth, I’m careful to tread lightly, as to keep clean these moccasins from their bright turquoises to their dusty yellows.
0
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
l-meyer
Moccasins
On my feet are black moccasins threaded with runs of bright turquoise alongside patches of clay orange and dust yellow. The feet inside grip cool, suede bottoms to tread on ground still firm, but pregnant, heavy with rain, so that the worms lay like fallen soldiers, victims of a thunderstorm and scattered on the sidewalk the way they were that morning at elementary school when a boy was squishing them for fun, and my heart filled with grief for the worms, whose only crime was trying not to drown. The rain is a reminder of how poorly these shoes function when wet, how they rub my toes in just the wrong ways, leaving circular patches of reddened skin on the outsides of my feet. The worst blisters I’d ever had, happened the day my brother and I were lost in the dense forests of the national park, and when we finally found the road, were two miles from home, and at the very bottom of Everett hill. Those woods had a cabin by the river, we only ever found a handful of times. Our father had warned us of the homeless drug addicts who frequented it, which in all reality were just boozing, pot-smoking teenagers with an affinity for smashing bottles and starting fires, but we were never brave enough to find out for sure. And on the banks of that crooked river, the spring undoes the twisted knots that winter had created, and washes away its cold to uncover the relics of autumn’s leaves, rotting in colors of soupy brown with tiny pools of grimy rainwater collected in their palms. And as I break through the veil of humidity, to breath air crisp with the scent of fresh, wet earth, I’m careful to tread lightly, as to keep clean these moccasins from their bright turquoises to their dusty yellows.
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48
They should still be singing stories, babe about the fun we had. Yeah, from the top of The Leg'-- throw an arm around your Golden Boy dance them feet across the copper. If those songs could take us back, I swear that I                would live out my days                inside of those strains                I'd keep my word this time.                               and I would arc across that place with you-- off The Leg' through Osborne Village, through boutiques and record stores and maybe they   would hear us laughing at The Toad in the Hole. Or we'd speed north, past Kildonan Park 'til they could hear us out in Lockport. Hear us shout at Dubuc & Des Meurons                while they're waiting on their bus      to cut the frosty dusk with condensed exhaust                we could laugh right in their face.                       I'd live inside those strains. If they were singing about us from the top of The Leg' we'd stream across St. Boniface Cathedral and some young someones running through hip deep snow in the cold would pause and hear us. We'd stir their soupy breath in the night, sifting through our history. If they forgot the words, it wouldn't matter. Our verses: soft breathing, our choruses: laughter. the sound of us moving through Exchange District taverns. I want for them to start singing us songs and I want a pint with you at The Yellow Dog. No more 4 years of regrets and no more sad talk. Just you and just me and maybe a walk through the city.
0
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 11:29 AM UTC
kyle-kulseth
Song of a City
They should still be singing stories, babe about the fun we had. Yeah, from the top of The Leg'-- throw an arm around your Golden Boy dance them feet across the copper. If those songs could take us back, I swear that I                would live out my days                inside of those strains                I'd keep my word this time.                               and I would arc across that place with you-- off The Leg' through Osborne Village, through boutiques and record stores and maybe they   would hear us laughing at The Toad in the Hole. Or we'd speed north, past Kildonan Park 'til they could hear us out in Lockport. Hear us shout at Dubuc & Des Meurons                while they're waiting on their bus      to cut the frosty dusk with condensed exhaust                we could laugh right in their face.                       I'd live inside those strains. If they were singing about us from the top of The Leg' we'd stream across St. Boniface Cathedral and some young someones running through hip deep snow in the cold would pause and hear us. We'd stir their soupy breath in the night, sifting through our history. If they forgot the words, it wouldn't matter. Our verses: soft breathing, our choruses: laughter. the sound of us moving through Exchange District taverns. I want for them to start singing us songs and I want a pint with you at The Yellow Dog. No more 4 years of regrets and no more sad talk. Just you and just me and maybe a walk through the city.
Continue reading...
35
Listening to Dave Grusin, "Mountain Dance," vintage 1979. The thought strikes: "Why is it that only the Early Jazz Giants are deified? Of course, we need Chet Baker and Miles Davis in our pantheon, & Gerry Mulligan & Charlie Parker Not to mention (cue Soupy Sales: "Smack. I told you not to mention that!") Coltrane or Stan Getz. And yet, we're all getting long teeth and there's a lot more Smooth Jazz to come, Post-1950s, take Grusin, for example, or George Benson or Herbie Hancock, and What about Earl Klugh & Larry Carlton? Let's not forget Spyro Gira & The Daves: Benoit and Koz. And we would be remiss To miss Chris, young Chris, Chris - "The Whippersnapper" - Botti. But I digress.
0
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
giuseppi-martino-buonaiuto
"Mountain Dance"
Listening to Dave Grusin, "Mountain Dance," vintage 1979. The thought strikes: "Why is it that only the Early Jazz Giants are deified? Of course, we need Chet Baker and Miles Davis in our pantheon, & Gerry Mulligan & Charlie Parker Not to mention (cue Soupy Sales: "Smack. I told you not to mention that!") Coltrane or Stan Getz. And yet, we're all getting long teeth and there's a lot more Smooth Jazz to come, Post-1950s, take Grusin, for example, or George Benson or Herbie Hancock, and What about Earl Klugh & Larry Carlton? Let's not forget Spyro Gira & The Daves: Benoit and Koz. And we would be remiss To miss Chris, young Chris, Chris - "The Whippersnapper" - Botti. But I digress.
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22
The times were great, greater than most; the pulse was rapid and fired constantly; the worm's saliva was sweet and made the earth rumble; the coffee dripped and my tongue looped to my intestines to lick caffeine off of the inner walls; the sanctity of the mind disintegrated; the fabric of it became singular disconnected threads; everything became drastic and instantaneous; my teeth dissolved because they could not survive this tongue of destruction; I will eat again but it will taste like iron that has been grounded into a soupy meal; the mouth is a bitter place; its bacteria are swollen like the arteries of a vacuum clogged with desolation and *****
0
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
Waverly
The mouth.
The times were great, greater than most; the pulse was rapid and fired constantly; the worm's saliva was sweet and made the earth rumble; the coffee dripped and my tongue looped to my intestines to lick caffeine off of the inner walls; the sanctity of the mind disintegrated; the fabric of it became singular disconnected threads; everything became drastic and instantaneous; my teeth dissolved because they could not survive this tongue of destruction; I will eat again but it will taste like iron that has been grounded into a soupy meal; the mouth is a bitter place; its bacteria are swollen like the arteries of a vacuum clogged with desolation and *****
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36
I am lost in the loose ended threads which make my life; they weld me down along glistening metal lanes with screws and nuts and bolts once in a while , rather carelessly with a callow scraping grip, perhaps it's a young apprentice inexperienced in dealing with insubordination to fix me in my place. sometimes these threads look like faceless feelings, pre-emptive if you will, sometimes they look like ununderstandings by me or others sometimes they look like despots called people sometimes they look like elevators built around caves of people shedding tears and hides. So yes ,sometimes the metal feels like the deep cold of the sea. powdered with nuts and bolts forgotten in the hazy blue saline, but probing my shaky heart and my remoulding mind like frosty bullets. Overrun with senseless weeds from inside, and grim from ruins of  lost ships and here and there with inviting treasures worthwhile, anew in the cascades of worldliness of all things beautiful. sometimes the metal feels like the lullaby of the sea sedating almost, amidst the wilderness of conflicts ,jarring bronze contradictions and of course, the ever so ubiquitous, soupy shallow free floating worldly wise grime. while other times oy romantics, it feels like a fish net topping me from reaching out to places and peoples and experiences of this world.
0
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
zabava
********* forth
I am lost in the loose ended threads which make my life; they weld me down along glistening metal lanes with screws and nuts and bolts once in a while , rather carelessly with a callow scraping grip, perhaps it's a young apprentice inexperienced in dealing with insubordination to fix me in my place. sometimes these threads look like faceless feelings, pre-emptive if you will, sometimes they look like ununderstandings by me or others sometimes they look like despots called people sometimes they look like elevators built around caves of people shedding tears and hides. So yes ,sometimes the metal feels like the deep cold of the sea. powdered with nuts and bolts forgotten in the hazy blue saline, but probing my shaky heart and my remoulding mind like frosty bullets. Overrun with senseless weeds from inside, and grim from ruins of  lost ships and here and there with inviting treasures worthwhile, anew in the cascades of worldliness of all things beautiful. sometimes the metal feels like the lullaby of the sea sedating almost, amidst the wilderness of conflicts ,jarring bronze contradictions and of course, the ever so ubiquitous, soupy shallow free floating worldly wise grime. while other times oy romantics, it feels like a fish net topping me from reaching out to places and peoples and experiences of this world.
Continue reading...
28