"spelunking" poems
complexity bias
how you love to criticize my poems
as too long and overly complex
poor me, I’m no genius, don’t prosper by exploiting
unrecognized simplicities, rather deconstruct the
intricate complexities that I flatter myself are the me-sinews
Writing is a **** temptation -
we focus on the 10% that is complex and ignore the easy 90%
perhaps this once I will surrender my bare bones
put aside the rich, satisfying of cave diving, urban spelunking
word caressing tongue verbiage rich tapestry exploring -
give you the plane of plain where nestles my destiny: nesting near motionless where the couch is my kingdom and cold cereal is
easily digested and there are no consequences
I am a member of a discriminated-against minority
we have no charismatic leader, no marchers anywhere, and government programs say
hey you’re free white and twenty one plus, get the crap out of
our faces, you useless piece of rhymes with **** and includes dirt, though I shower twice a day to keep myself occupied
25 years old, a high school dropout, of course I’m white,
my occupation is playing video games and making sure
my supply of opioids is adequate in these great United States
where I was born
there are fewer jobs than none that my application survives
a first glance discardation, and now my disability preempts
any demand to pretend there is gainful employment in store in
my future
this reductio ad absurdum is a technique to expose the fallacy,
ah what’s that you say no interest in hanging about,
on your way out, of course, of course,
we are the wrong flavor of downtrodden
my life is simple - simplistic in its a chaotic entropic way,
order slowly declines into disorder
my rituals are a fight against slip sliding down, falling off the
the Herzog continuums
and the poems are desperate hand holds to prevent my
going, gone under
so forgive me if I tax you without possessing not the
requisite taxing authority
you hone in on the obvious disparities and my contradictions
resenting my sending you this bill of extravagant length
compose with me and a mean will be located and to sleep I go,
perhaps to undress my dreams and explicate the wealthy multiples of complexity in the simplicity of a junkies life
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC
first I smell myself.
the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings
then I smell herself.
sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure
then I smell our sharings.
lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh
then I smell our combinations.
the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem
it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite
Friday, March 29 2019
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
A one thousand page hymn
singing from lotus petal pages
bound on hummingbird wings
Subtle energies
unfolding, unfurling
unwinding within
Celestial prophecies
unrooting in elements
of oceans of water of air
Gaia and Uranus
blooming from
aetheric nests
Subterranean spelunking
unweaving a gossamer cloak
from plumes of the Red-Tailed Hawk
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
she calls it
the BIG V
a ****** name
tasteless
but accurate
it is
BIG
very
B
I
G
stretched out
used
sold for such
a low price
*****
**********
*****
****
****** deviant
not exactly
a role
model
not some
saint
by any means.
I've seen it.
perhaps I will
never have
***
if other women
look like that
vaginas
like gaping holes
holes so large
it makes your
*****
seem superfluous
a thin branch
against a muggy
night sky
"did you bring
protection?"
she asks
I can only imagine
why she should
ask me that
am I in danger?
what monsters lurk
in that
bottomless cavern?
I want no part
in this expedition
I do not want to go
spelunking
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 8:51 PM UTC
The Doctor has a Sense of Humor!
<|>
give a surgeon a scalpel
and an excuse,
and the artist emerges,
for creativity is a good surgeon’s
natural habitat
Sure, sure, there’s a plan,
with best and acceptable outcomes,
but when messing with a real heart,
a sly ***** with numerous deceptive guises
at its disposal, you never for sure never know,
despite all the advanced imaging techniques,
exactly
what you will find once you go
spelunking
in caves of life and death
so, he takes a bit from here,
and a bob or two from there,
there a cut, here an incision deep,
Old McDonald provided a body,
or a canvas, and the Doc
is happy.
So I uncover holes where he
probed, redeploying the healthy,
like a good designer, Doc rearranges
and repairs, a travelogue of splicing and dicing,
his handiwork
Now standing over you for many hours,
can get tiring, though each ***** be
different, unique even, but leaving
a little marker, a stylized signature,
is well, is the rightful discretion of the artiste!
So you can imagine my surprise
when the tubes removed (ouch!)
the bandages ripped off in a
signature move of a delighted nurse whose
loves seeing grown men cry from lesser trivialities,
you cannot imagine my surprise
when I discovered my new tattoo,
upon my chest front and center!
*Herein please find your heart repaired,
and revitalized:
Please Note!
We guarantee our work for minimum 15 years
(Aug. 3, 2038),
but our disclaimer
we assume NO responsibility after that
if you should
happen to live for 30 YEARS or more*
Dr. P.
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 7:58 AM UTC
Back in my rebel days (yester)
I sported a spelunking bumper sticker
On my 1972 VW pop-up camper van
That read Free Floyd Collins
Totally apolitical well intentioned humor
Concerning one of my pasttimes that surprisingly
Never maimed or killed me
Whilst reporting for an official call for jury duty
The uptight and obviously a **** (did I just say that?)
Prosecutor enquired during jury selection
As to whether any of us prospectives
Had bumper stickers and if so
What they might say
The NRA sticker guy next to me
And the I'd Rather Be Fishin' and NASCAR
Sticker guy next to him
Passed with smugly flying colors
(red needless to say)
While the 72 year old nun
With the Amnesty International sticker
Didn't fair so well
And was promptly burned at the stake
(I kid you)
Needless to say
The long-haired Harvard educated
Native American
With the Doctors Without Borders
And the Remember Wounded Knee
With a not so discreet AIM sticker thrown in to boot
Also got the boot
Pondering the merits of the court stenographer's
Shapely fingers while judiciously confidently awaiting my turn
It never ocurred to me that Mr. Collins might be
So wrongly accused as to have me
Rejected and summarily ejected
From jury duty
A travesty of justice
I say
If for no other reason than I was so looking forward to
Sticking it to the Man
You can imagine my surprise and disappointment
As I wandered down to the Shamrock
To catch Terry O'Leary do a slam
And raise a glass to
Bobby Sands
r~ 22Feb14
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
You help me realize
Why I’m happy to have been given life
In parkour you make me feel free
Like a bird flying over trees
In spelunking you give me
Courage to explore the unknown without the fear of broken bones
yet
You keep me alive
In times of chaos and strife
You allow me to face Thanatos
To make me Abolish Fright
For today is The Day
I Stand and Fight
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC
on the margin
the paraphernalia
employed to obtain
the sweated inspirations
to tell these lies randomized
stories, factuelle (feminine)
pestle and mortar martyrs,
crushed together, drink in
her form, the S curves
of her shape, my fav
place, on a long list
of favs,
and she says;
hey poetry man!
which renders my
100 or so
senses,
that radiate,
congregate,
infantuate
rendering moi
delightfully attentive,
and I think:
Solitude:
Be All well and good,
wells and veins awaiting
for spelunking & mining for the
nexus of the
next line, but when she summons me,
with a cherished honorific I am
sundered by words deep felt,
and the next line forgotten,
disappeared and
for multiples,of poems,
that
die
heart busted broke
when she call poet, come,
it is like living in a gearbox
Stuck in Fifth,
that message of multiplex pixels,
so engaging and so many container conceptual structures,
those poetic burst and bust out,,
gnawing to be released free,
***** solitude, it’s her
attitude that gives
more than I can
handle…
and the poems are about the conjoining
of
the mutuality of our:
soliciting solitude attitude
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 11:03 AM UTC
By Arcassin B & wolfspirit
AB: Attractiveness will not flourish,
Body to body in the dark,
When your alone and you feel like
Nothings ever got your back,
Against the wall might get a scratch,
That pierced your soul and also
Doesn't call back,
Or leaves a text when you get home,
What is my final react,
Of being let down again,
In the night ,
Blowing winds,
I was curious to know how long you've
Known me since then,
The Waking,
I'm howling at the moon,
Like can you not hear me breathing!?
There are no further temptations to
Uncover your whole meaning,
Catching weird people getting in our heads,
Crowds watching us,
WSQF: the sweetest imaginings and the blissful calm
that this union brings..are we not one?
has life made fantasy come undone....
i wonder which one is you, is me, is one....
touching you is touching me, touching together
we are truly free....exploring, spelunking, delving
realms of pain and pleasure,
am i the adventurer, you, my treasure?
shut out the din of the madding crowd
exploring this message, to sing it out loud
so , we are connected, light or dark
one love, two bodies, one fatal spark
wide awake are we, while dreaming possibility
and the art of the probable...impossible is not worthy
let reign on high, imagination
you found my soul, i found my station
let's sleep on it, linger on the dreaming
as long as what we feel keeps streaming
i'm not asleep
i'm living you,
AB: We'd feel homegrown instead,
The smartest teens today,
We wouldn't end up dead,
To feel the lifting force,
Exploring others bodies,
Without cold sweats and unnecessary hobbies,
You don't hear me,
I was walking in the darkness with an open
Wound,
I'm waking up,
I just imagined you.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
I would like to run my five fingertips
all over your carnal curves and contours
in every crevice, crack and concavity
in the vast canyons of your brilliant mind
dive into the ocean of your subconscious
delve into the deep valleys of your psyche
spelunking in the caves of your desires
uncover the ancient arcane secrets
hidden in the space behind your vibrant eyes
let us lay among the old oaks and laugh
arm in arm, soul in soul, floating upon
velvet sunsets on sweetest summer days
until the oceans dry, the ground cracks, and
the sun dies, I will never leave your side.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
The universe is a cavern inside our minds
A piece from our lives
A point that defines our dreams
Lost inside of geologic seams
Jut a late night movie
Or a scifi magazine
It's just you and me
Asteroid blues and a Moon beam
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
I lost my first love,
For the millionth time
Then I woke up
It still hurts, like the first time, even in dreams
Wiping the cold out my eyes
Or are they dried up tears
From emotional scar tissue
Built up year after year
As I rise from bed
So do the suppressed memories of her
Like the raising of a purposely sunken ship
Buried deep, deep in the Mariana Trench
Then she follows me until the afternoon
Like a ghost in mourning, with unfinished business of this earth
A plague on my mind, like rain on recess
I can still see the layout of her fathers apartment
Perfectly laid out in my mind
Her and I, laying in her adolescent, orange sheeted silk bed
Quietly spelunking each others bodies
As to not sound the protective alarm in her fathers head
I can still smell her
Hear her
Feel her touch, in bed, whilst I
When I sleep, I can't control her
Time isn't linear
After we close our eyes and turn in
In my dream state
We'll still date
Jumping around from July 2005 to May 2008
But never again with eyes open
For I see a different person
Then when my eyes are closed
Skin pressed, rubbing of the nose
Our naked bodies and clenched toes
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
#
*Cloud-scraped and smoldering..
(Scepters have handles,
not every hand can fit)
Dream-scenes, on fleshscreens
by far, burn the brightest..
But;
Panty-lines in quartertimes
best accentuate--
Those wine-goblet, ****
(My head is spinning;
hellbent, on sinning..)*
. . . .
*Evil Impulse, brings me close
(you have a gift, my Love)
Rise above, Paul..
Rise above
Rise above
Rise above
Rise above
Rise above.*
#
Aug 8, 2023
Aug 8, 2023 at 5:24 PM UTC
We wake to skies of groggy grey
and struggle to wipe the night from our eyes.
Rain pelts the windowpane as I burrow into you
and ask with a tongue still warped by dreams
if we can stay in today and sleep off the world like a bad hangover.
We could turn the bed into a boat
and use the day to travel the seven seas.
Our pillows could be rocket thrusters on a spaceship
trailing asteroids through the cosmic void.
We could go spelunking under the comforter
and scale mountains with the sheets.
I could try to convince you it’s just the weather,
but the truth is I just want more of you – all of you.
I want every adventure from our bed
to a jungle, to a mountain range,
to trips to the grocery store and
making pancakes in our pajamas.
So let’s sleep late and lazy and
make our bodies into puzzle pieces
because today, rain or shine, we’re playing hookey.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
They say you stink. I would never.
That antediluvian odor, reminiscent of us
before the flood. And I rove the woods
of the world (those left), scaling cliffscapes,
spelunking caves, in search of our lost love.
Just a sign of something. Proof I need
of our tender attachment. Detachment
of orphic misunderstanding drives my pursuit,
as sleeper wakens to piercing glare.
How to get you back? Yowling, beating
trees with thumps percussing a want
of ancient *********** still stuck inside me.
I want you back my beloved Bigfoot.
Hunt I will, till I find, anything related
to this kind, of primitive feeling.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
We had *** to the Bell Spelunking
Of Andy Bird, Saturday night,
And when I stuck your ****
Into aghast chasms you said
There was nothing. Tingles
Pinpricks on your spine.
You cannot feel me.
Outside your glass eyes beneath
Dark cool lenses, and I am but
A freshly born babe, clutching
My sexuality in greedy paws,
Bashing the shell upon my chest.
I bit your **** You cannot feel me.
It bled. You cannot feel me.
I am distraught over years of wasted dental work
And twenty cavities.
You only feel me when I am ***** deep
Brushing the holy grail of slash fanfiction
And in reality it's a messier, uglier
Business, and I don't know, I am a newborn,
I am a newborn, I was just born today
As a sinful lump of flesh, as
A lump on the log of love,
And we can never be married and
You cannot feel me.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 5:21 AM UTC
It feels like I am breaking again.
(That is a lie.)
It's just that I'd forgotten that I was broken, but I'm rousing from the sleep now, and the details are coming back to me. I am falling back out of the dreamspace.
It feels like it is raining everywhere I go. It feels like there are rocks in my shoes and nothing I do will get them out. It feels like I have shattered the gift I meant to give you, and no matter how hard I try, the cracks in the glass still show. It is ruined, do you hear me? It is worthless, and with every attempt I make to fix it I destroy another aspect of its purity. It is a paradox like everything else. I wanted it to be perfect, god ****** I knew what I was capable of and I knew what you deserved, but now hindsight's got me thinking that maybe it was broken all along, maybe I was broken all along, maybe I was wrong, all wrong.
I'm dry heaving again.
I'm trying to find a mirror out there that will return a reflection I recognize, but I keep creating fictitious images. There is no real, is there? You are not real. I was never real.
I keep wondering what's going on in all the caves I didn't get lost in. I keep wondering what it was that pushed me into this one. I have memories of falling, nothing else. I landed here. I was an explorer before that, I think, or at least I think I thought I was, wait, who am I again? Who are. . .
we?
When I was fifteen someone told me it was okay, that I just didn't know what I wanted. And I guess I believed them, because I've accepted it as a part of me, the not-knowing. I know less and less each day.
I think I'm looking for a reader, maybe, one who's forgiving and bored, one who's willing to overlook the dullness of the style and forget the (lack of) artistic merit and read this **** like letters to a lover.
They are all letters to lovers, future and past and present,
begging pardon, apologizing. That all it's ever been. I'm just trying to make myself understood, and wouldn't you know it, all I've achieved is obfuscation. Once it is broken, it cannot be fixed. I should have known that I've always known. The cracks will always show. The rain will never stop. There is no such thing as perfect.
I am sorry.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
didn't sleep. instead I found
a wall in a cave & grabbed a
chipping hammer & tore it down.
finally broke thru to starlight
at 4:12 this morning.
***** bruised fingernails.
discarded piles of red clay pain
swept into outside corners.
spelunking ever inward. steve knows.
shed some tears, dave, he says.
shed your fears.
warmer in the new cave.
less damp.
room for a rug.
room enough to grow a plant.
room enough to grow.
self-perpetuating seeds.
dawn was a stranger I welcomed inside.
sleeping stalactite makes back tight.
I will wake & stretch when the sun is high
overhead like a cat in a woven basket.
mountain water trickles underground.
do yr homework.
yr body is yr home. put in work.
my body is my home. work is work.
yr body is my home. input work.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 9:33 AM UTC
if only the sun shown a bit brighter
but these streetlamps will have to do
they seemed to glow when he would
kiss me, he's gone spelunking in my
heart to dissolve the mites and tites
where my reality teeters on emotion
and the soles of my feet may disband
as feet and the ground as ground, but
here the upheaval of roots can only be
good
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 2:39 AM UTC
College is very fun
Drinky drinky drinky drink
It's snowing on Mt. Fuji
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
Last night the moon
Wept her warm tears
For me, and they burned
Dime-sized holes in my
Coverlets. This did not
Concern me, as I knew
That the laborious breaths
Creaking through my
Ivory-wrought sternum
Will soon overturn
In substance.
Strip mines line my
Stomach, and the little
Traffic director inside
Me has declared that
No substance should fill
The hole that should
Hold, wishing to gnaw
The profound depths
That paralyze have
Tunneled to my core again
I was never ready to go
Spelunking, but then
Again, no one is ever ready
For the darker side of the light.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
My mind is a cavern
pulsing with secrets untold
But it's dark in here
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 12:46 PM UTC
dark
dankness
draws
me
forward
to the
brink
of
intra-terristrial
gape
****
of the
globes'
epidermis
the
wind
huff
puffs
skirls
and
sighs
and
in
greeting
mayhap
warning
but
still
we
enter
and
descend
beyond
daylight
cimmerian
murk
swathes
us
broken
only
by
our
headlamps
feeble
in the
reaching
limitlessness
of
inner
earth
we
are so
small
in
comparision
to the
cathedral
structure
we
rest
hanging
like
a
spider
in a
church
spinning
on
gossamer
thread- web
|
|
|
|
|
|
spelunking
the
call
of the
spheres
quiet
secretive
neighborhoods
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 1:30 AM UTC
I cave in to
spelunking away in the dark
I dive under the tall waves to find the bottom
and let the rollers pass
build a refuge of sticks and grass
so far from humanity reality contact
of anyone forcing me to see
anything but my make believe
world its fantasia
ostrich like creatures that inhabit me
a mile of mole hills make for a way out
an escape in case the world crashes around my
veil of saran wrap coverings yellowed
translucent cataracts and vein popping
retinas.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
8:28 Sunny Sunday Marching 3rds
(3/3/23)
<>
as per usual,
(tho my fingers strangely type ‘per Isaiah’)
commencing at my beginning with no
direction home, an entitled title asking
for complete composition, and your
attentive compensation, threatening
to sue for “failure to finish,” a crime
for which I’ve served many a year behind
the bars of my ever increasing
TO DO file
but struck am I this morn by the poetry
of the common place, the phraseology
that we use without momentary cognition,
the every~day verbiage that, within lies
perhaps veins that deserve mining for
nouveau riches
and we get what we deserve,
no more, no less, but when
I inquire who has decided this
measured cup of justice and
painted the lines of liquid fluidity,
or just vanilla inspiration, a one
hand clap and a mocking hoot is
returned reverberating as in an
empty spelunking cave
*we are all experts in the ordinary
diurnal doors that require opening
by morning, closing by night, while
waiting for that “break that would
make it ok…from the wreckage of
your silent reverie”^*
yesterday was my birthday,
no, it was not, but I’ll pretend
to have that right to make the
summary judgements that the
spirits and harlequins, who,
now revealed as my silent mockers,
none
the less, no more, no,
lessening,
I am rendered,
split asunder, by the sentence I’ve self~
impose down on my conscience and
constitution
balance does not require balancing,
more bad than good, wrecked and wracked
by the un~proportionality of my unbalanced
imbalance, what flaws, what traits,
what genetics,
what misapprehensions, foolishness, led me into
this straying straight life, of no more, no
less
and I quit here for the answers do not appear,
and that voice says you need a shave, go!
look in the mirror and revelations will dance, emanating from your eyes who bear witness to all,
no more, no less
^ Sarah McLachlan, “Angel”
Mar 3, 2024
Mar 3, 2024 at 9:54 AM UTC