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PJ Poesy Jan 2016
What Dr. Lector devours with fava beans, inside rots. Too much Chianti?
Not likely. Likely, not enough
but there has been much else. Still,
no amounts warranting any shy example of overload. Mild splurges,
done in high style equal
nothing in comparison to toxic
baths taken in industrial grindstone
mortors. And the payback?
Walking papers and abdominal lump.

Poke it and choke on acid reflux. Pop
more pills to keep it down. Downers
prescribed on more downers.
Feeling down? Have another downer.
What else can we do? Your MRI's
and ultrasound, unsound, do not
come with flag from foreign invader,
claiming this new territory for king.

So, blame it on the offal.
Blame it all on the offal for not
having guts and glory
to fight off its own infection.
And eat your chicken livers.
Fear is harder to overcome with each new diagnosis and prognosis, but I continually do. I'm no chicken liver.
Mark McIntosh Apr 2015
for Katie



martini of elderflower in a dimly
lit room. 40s tune plays with feminine
harmonies lifting a room. green
tiles and floor lamps, a yellow glow.

alcoves of lounges, retro chairs
contain saturday groups on long
weekend splurges. V glasses, colourful
concoctions, buzz of the mix

in several quiet corners. chatting with
Katie, a beacon in darkness with
infectious regard for pictures and
words. talking planets and spaceships,

a fictional odyssey, silicon storm in
ridiculous glasses. rosemary’s baby, a
theme cocktail infused with thought.
film screen and text gets

the message across. early alarm means
an 8pm ending from hours of
wander and lovely therapy. parting hug
warms a deep fried heart,

plans to disco inferno at a melbourne haunt
in the midst of sydney. donna left,
everyone remembered. amy goes
back to black. records spin. i feel loved
Simon Soane Dec 2013
With a clamor of disorder a raised voice heard,
pompous and **** it begins to emerge,
he starts with,
"I don't understand this obsession with television
you're numbing your brains with perfect precision,
vegging like zombies consuming mind corrosives
numbing your senses with cabbaging explosives.
You are passive and dull clapping like a seal,
have a word with yourself, IT'S NOT EVEN REAL!!
It's nonsense intended to diminish your soul
makes you pliant and supple, never breaking your mold"
He pauses and sips then gleefully splurges,
"My head would never be satisfied with the basest of urges.
I spend my free time reading or immersed in the arts,
i cleanse my essence and strengthen my heart.
I visit wonderful worlds full of joy and compassion
where people love well what's front and what's past them,
the flaws and the soars of the human condition
are painted out in strong and perfect position,
stupendous rendition.
So while you glaze your iris with images galore
and turn your mind's eye from vibrant to snore
i have beauty coming out of my pores.
But you stick with your idiot box"
he knowingly mocks,
swings down his drink
and finally stops.
There is silence for seconds but then somebody says,
"I disagree with your there in quite a few ways."
She comments,
"Although i think reading reveals amazing truth,
enriching life with strokes drawn loose,
conveying love with all that it brings,
grief and stillness and magical things.
And i concur that art is a window into the soul,
running with life and filling the holes
but telly can also tell the things that they told.
He guffaws with derision and says with pride grown fat
"pray do tell what TV show could do that."
she replies
"There's a show where a girl is given a tremendous burden,
her present hectic and future uncertain,
she stands between the world and inevitable doom
while going to school and being sent to her room,
she worries about hair and being the object of mirth
while still being scared but saving the earth.
She has people around her who are courageous and clever,
and stand by her side whatever the weather.
One would feel useless and small
but then buy the dress so you can go to the ball.
The other sent to watcher and keep his distance
but for the pull of affection there is no resistance.
Red held the fate of the world in her hands
when her world ended and crumbled like sand,
but she used all her magic and not to float a pen
but to stand back up, to love again.
Her sister was a key and her duties a lock
sometimes she began to rock
she had a day that we will all have
where something is lost and will never come back,
outside it's sunny with hoots of oddity
inside it's seconds from mommy to body,
and this happens,
unlike her it will not be gentle,
it will invade everything
and evade courtesy
and want.
But this is because of love,
and what it does.
Mast casting,
everlasting and there to see,
and in a show on TV."
She has a slight pause and then remarks
"It could be drenched in sadness and resplendent with larks,
many vampires slain and demons destroyed
moments of weakness, feelings to avoid.
She could plough the fields and never till them,
admit her mistakes...i'm sorry William.
She could be class protector
she could be surprised
she could lie with you until sun rise
she could die for the world and take out the glory
she would run from her problems but always finish the story,
she'd get you down from a tower
with words not her power,
her screams send the bad gentlemen away
because she is stronger then them, everyday,
she has kindness
and a best and a worst
can burst into song and be effulgent in verse,
told she's a a hell of a woman and the one
and returns the i love yous on the day that he's gone,
and through the screen and this TV plot
is written with love how she saved the world...alot.
You might like books
but Buffy is great
an endeavour of joy, an affront to the hate."
The man composes himself and then says without regret
"It sounds ******* brilliant, i'll get the boxset!"
Creep Feb 2015
Winter's days have become one,
Mashed together to form one dreadful night,
As my eyes become bloodshot, another gulp of pungent whiskey.
On this night when the moon's luminance reveals itself through a sheet of blank clouds,
And I'm left confined in the purgatory of a lonely bedroom, Whose once blue walls have all but burnt to black,
As they seem to broaden to maximize my desolation.
I question my existence.
I question my sanity.
I question when I will see the sun again.
For the moon may be the only soul who is as lonely as I.

But the moon seeks solace in himself,
And does not comfort me as the way you once did,
On these drunken nights where the enemy was the bottom of a fifth of Jack Daniel’s.
What took away my everything,
Was the only thing that could aid me in my resurrection.
So now I lay here,
Alone.
Questioning everything,
Scrambling to fix all that's been broken,
Building these deplorable ramshackle buildings on top of broken rubble,
With shards of glass and stinging tears as they mix with the blood on my hands,
But that doesn't matter, does it?
It will crumble, no matter how many times I try over and over again to rebuild.
This idiotic tower of sanity.
Why not just lay in this defeat?
And accept the harrowing fate that failure is upon me.
Let myself reek with self pity.
And drench myself with vomits of slurred words like,
"I miss you, I love you."

In my melancholy rage,
I'll take what is left of my body out into the cold,
In attempt to feel something real again as I dance with frozen tears in the numbing blanket of snow,
Convincing myself you will soon join me as I glare up at a flavorless, charcoal sky,
Cursing the bland stars who don't comfort the moon like they once did,
As I throw up the final chunks of the parts of my body that were still alive.

I watch in horror in front of me as they crawl out,
Like spiders as they trickle into the night with eyes wide.
For now I'm stuck here,
Glancing around for help that will never come,
Trying desperately to gather pieces of a broken puzzle with weak hands and shaking fingers.
So now, I lay here.
Bare.
On the ground.
Everything splayed out for the world to step on and see.
All my mysteries drawn out,
All the secrets are no more,
All my thoughts, read like a book.
And as my insides spill and leak out further and further from my abdomen,
The crimson splurges and spits out.
So I clench my last hope,
The few drops left of honey whiskey in a bottle,
And I close my eyes,
For one last time.
Collab with the amazing Ryan Marmaros ^^ It was a pleasure to work with him and I adore the final product :) thanks!
Eriko Mar 2016
last night with my breath heaving ice
I dreamed of a palace towering so high
magnificent porcelain floors,
each tap of heels a vertigo
of ringing melodies upon shores,
marble white gleaming under
golden streaming sun,
the softest hue of gentle cerulean
kissed like shadows in the empty halls
vivid, startling red carpets muffling
the entrance to every doorway,
hidden diamonds of spruce floorboards
from the mothers of those elegance gnarls
swinging near the front porch,
I dreamt of a beautiful palace
empty but for the pounding in my chest
lingering on hilltop of some forgotten coast
with waves pounding and sleeping at will
wild meadows and daisies sang in the wind
lavender and pines smiled mystically,
the sky was blue, such a clear beautiful blue
I dreamt of this place,
with rooms cluttered of deepest desires
treasures of love, gems of happiness
stairwells to ambition and libraries of knowledge
studios to create and kitchens to splurge
yet I grew a faint as the sun began to smother
the castle walls were blood orange and deep yellow
now I could see the tremble of my shadow
I woke up to a startling start,
and tears rolled down as the plastic stars
glowed on my ceiling, the salivating fragrance
of fresh baked bread ringing with clarity  
I dreamt of palace where I could simply be
with my pleasures and splurges,
following heart's content to sing free
are all palaces really temporary?
I don't know, the palace could be represented literally, but I also feel like the palace and the place symbolizes something else...
There once was a boy who lived in Spocompton
His biggest fear was a drive-by to stop him
Whitest kid around totally fearless in this scary town
He shouted "Hey fatso!" But boy he did not know what was going to go down

One day he left the house to buy a small mouse
So called "Fatso" was out and about with his homies no doubt
Driving down the ride so happily and calm
But a mile down the road came Fatso with his hoes
The boy stepped out of his car onto the sidewalk standing afar
Fatso and the crew drive by quite slowly and out come the guns shooting bullets not low-key

The boy cries loudly as blood splurges from his body
Just a young guy about to die he began to ask "Why, Fatso, why?"
Bullet holes in his body tightly spread in his shotty
The boy in the ground now begging for mercy
Praying to God that he might stop hurting me

Dead and gone, Fatso still angry with a name like his
He didn't like to do it but he needed to complete his biz
niss
Fatso drove away, the boy died quickly,
A sad day to insult, as Fatso yelled "Don't **** with me."
Shut up.
Shut up.
Shut up.
SHUT UP.

Can't you just be quiet?
Keep your ignorant trap shut?
Demanding you stupid little fantasies
Which no one can afford?

Can you just stop yelling? shut up
I just need some quiet. shut up
I just need to finish this. shut up
I just need to talk to you. SHUT UP

Can I please have a civil conversation with you?
Without you talking over me?
I feel like I have Tourettes
Repeating myself in bursts and splurges that don't make sense.  

Please just shut up.
Please just listen to me.
Christ no wonder I hate you.
No wonder I feel I'm not free.

*shutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutup
Simon Soane Jun 2015
I'm glad when humans were new they walked about
and didn't just sit and stew in their own juices,
they got up and toured the hue of places,
and saw unfamiliar faces;
"Hi, how are you, are you a person too?  Fancy setting up camp?  If you need a light I've got a lamp!"
So cities emerged and created verges
and separate surges,
blossoming splurges,
in concrete or tent,
which is great.
The only thing is that means our location
can kinda pre ordain our destination,
as in I can't say...
"I'm going now Mum, just having a walk to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon."
Or
"Cheers my friend for the afternoon talk, i'm now going to stroll to the sunset in New York."
If we are not there we need plans to get there,
bus, then a train, then, maybe, a plane.
Our want can't just be unravelled,
if it's distant we need to travel.
As much as I want to say, "hey Lou, what you doing today?
Feel like a dally in the park with thundering larks and then when the light goes dark come to my room and create our own spark?" i'm restricted, constricted by distance, our distant dance.
But
distance is not just measured in geographical far,
not every journey requires a car,
sweet synchronicity ignores miles and yawning gaps,
especially when there's high fiving in our synapse;
ahh, to spend Sunday drifting in and out of naps,
without eyes on the time,
intertwined in the sunshine.
Yeah, distant may seem a trial
but galaxy hopping is nothing
if it's really worth the while.
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Poetry
Seepeth through a broken wound
Bandage me someone in Cologne of Neptune
Taketh away all mine worries
Mine heart hast gone scurried
To the rats of lonesome romantic alley.....
Crimson liquid pain dyed to mine molecule formed brain
Splurges in needing all..........
I plot mine own death in stroke calamity
Mammy's and pappy's art false in the wait winged box...
Art thou in shock?
Lover of whom one left thou?
For the other person just needed amour
And they shalt get it somehow......
If they haveth to wait the next life or two
Maby three for thyself and and ten for maxim pool
Flying immense airfizzles.....
The h2o drizzles
As acid to mine brawn.....
Til tommorrow a new dawn...

I'll die another day...
Being remade..
Just made up not for anyone so don't take wrong lol
Anonymous Aug 2015
I still do not know why you left the way you did. So quick, it was like I turned around for a second and you took it as your opportunity. But you couldn't see that when you left, you kicked up dirt from running away so fast. It got caught in my eye, and now I can't see the same.

I remember one night, we were up until 4:00 in the morning finishing my mothers jigsaw puzzle. It was set up on the dining room table where I sat, and you were standing on the very same chair I was sitting on. Hovering over me, you said it gave you a better view, I just thought it was going to **** your back being bent over the way you were tomorrow morning.  
We were silent, the only sound heard was the sound of your breathing and mine, occasionally matching in sync. You would stretch your arm above me to reach for a piece, and the other would rest itself on my head, gently scratching at my scalp, how soothing.
To any onlooking eyes, it would seem rather strange. The position we were in was in no way normal, but that's how most of our situations ended up being, far from it.
When we finally finished, after hours of contemplation on whether or not we should complete the task, and small remarks with giggles as responses, you stepped down from the chair and grabbed a glass of water as a token of victory, I still remember the way you smiled when you looked at the finished product.
We slept that night apart, but together. You were on one end of the sectional and I was on the other, because we were both too afraid of what the other might say. But right as I started to descend into sleep, you made your way to my end, laid behind me and whispered into my ear that I was great. It was bound to happen, we were like two magnets, always finding our way to each other.

But now it seems like we are the opposite ends, the magnets now fighting against each other, refusing to meet.
So I'm sitting here, a whole year later, finishing another puzzle that I didn't start, but this time I'm all alone. I can't seem to figure out how a picture distorted into 500 different pieces could make me so sad, but somehow it managed. This time you aren't here too encourage me to keep going even though it's 2 in the morning and I'm half asleep. Tonight I am not sleeping on my couch with you by my side and I do not have a stupid smile across my face. In fact, I can't remember the last time I did.

You ripped away from me, there were no more spontaneous texts letting me know you were stopping by, no more staying over late, and saying goodbye when the sun came up.
We were everything. We were Sunday brunches, we were midnight ice cream splurges, we were the song you blasted in your car driving down an empty road.

And now?
We are nothing .
It's all your fault, and only sometimes do I hate you for it.
BeeLo Nov 2015
In your name my emotions are cactuses
Immortal and unchanged
The many forms you take ignites a fiery concoction
Breeding the spikes of my lost words
The suffering you inflict from the core of your existence
splurges from my heart
Fighting in your name against you
Does that make me hard?
Mystique
The many forms you take has me in awe
I've been searching in every nook and cranny
and every open door
Is what you are really on the other side?
The more I try to stop searching, the more I feel obliged
****
Down like the Fall I try to turn a new leaf
A new song with the same tune, Mystique you've had me deceived.
Mystique
My spikes are softening and I'm starting to bloom
Let me see your beautiful features, not your face of gloom
Mystique
One more question, before you let me be
Has anyone ever saw your true form
Or just what you want them to see?
This poem was inspired by Mystique from the movie X-Men LoL. I chose it because just like love, Mystique has many forms therefore nobody knows who she really is, and this resonates with the subject of love too...
Kimberley Leiser Aug 2014
Leaves are my
green corset,
they flutter to
the dance of
the wind.

My book
feels empty.

There are
no words.

I press the
flower into
the pages.

I blink.

My eyes open
fully dilated.

I can see words.
the ink fades and
splurges red
into the corner
of the page.
K Balachandran May 2018
summer rain splurges,
abundant water riches;
a miser’s Largesse!
M
David Bremner Mar 2015
Tiny spring flowers
Pushing up through the brown earth
Breaking winters grasp

Rich and precious jewels
Lending colour to the land
In splurges of joy

And scent for the air
Carried by the spring time breeze
Like perfume for hope

Such is the power
Of small and tiny flowers
And soon they'll be here.
Anurag Mukherjee Nov 2018
For all love is born out of a dark, out of a letter,
the persecution that spreads amidst the drained holes of choice-
out of a weary separation of head thrown back, neck craned against wood,
the true likeness of stone. The dark is an imperial gaze,
dandy, strapping and strong, munching metal-noise, truly noice,
obviously strung for a price. Dark can’t level, only analyze
the distinction between tears and tropes, the limit of a gimmick
that was clipped on a string, drenched and adolescent.
Dark is not the choice of photography but who has his mad eyes raised
to the fortune of automatism, to the terrace where blank steps hurtle ahead
to reach for a dusk that can be raged; over time,
strange accounts are opened. Office becomes a blade,
a staple with the scent of a lover trades itself for impression
(Love against the wall, tacked with thumb, pressure against the edge,
merciful arrogance, cocky cocky boy with whom I color my tongue
and my body, by clutching your neck closer and becoming the toucan,
in our dark and our ether, in our mouths and our births).
Soda gulped down the throat has its own morbid thought,
but not for long, not until the straw builds our house,
with a ceiling made of arms.
Rather, the risk has been framed, the blinds through which
horns intrude for duty summons remain winced as an eye with
dark circles, dark bringing for itself the juice of intent-
intent that splurges into love, intent that splurges,
far-reaching, intent that snuggles inside a blanket speckled
with strewn cloth, inside being the warmth, the heart, the shuteye
Jade Sep 2020
I feel like I haven’t actually felt what it feels like to be happy in months, maybe a year. No mater what I do, no matter what I realize or figure out about why I am feeling the way I am, the fact of the matter is that this feeling has been here my entire life and its only getting worse as time goes on. I know one day its going to **** me and that makes me so ******* sad because I think somewhere deep inside me I’m still this little kid who thinks I have all of this potential and I can live this great life and be happy. And i really want to listen to that kid and not hurt myself but every other thing around me and inside of me is constantly telling me that nothing is ever going to get better and I wont be able to be that person because there’s something wrong with me, specifically, like I’m built wrong.
And it really doesn’t help that my thoughts are always racing and maybe if they slowed down for a second I would be able to hold onto something that could make it better but I can’t because my head can’t do that, because I’m built wrong.
And its not like I’m this apathetic teenage mess, I really am ******* trying to do all of the things that are supposed to make me better but all it does is keep me distracted, which I recently discovered is different. And it’s not like I have this terrible life or I’m suffering in this immeasurable way, I’m just built wrong.
So what do I do? Jesus, I wish I knew.
I think I used to take some solace in the fact that I was hot, at least by the standards of the occasional catcaller, so maybe the fact that people wanted me made me seem like I had some value in just existing. But now all I can think of every moment of every day is how the fat splurges out below my hips and how my neck looks when I lie down and how the skin puckers around my thighs and how I’m built wrong.
And I think the thing I am most afraid of, the scariest thing in the entire world is that any time I think of the thing I want to do more than anything, that sad little kid voice stops me— and I know that some day, one day down the line, it won’t. Because I’m built wrong.
This is easily the worst poem I've ever written but I never talk about how much I want to die so here it is <3
Dawnstar Jul 2021
what am i to do
to win one fond kiss from my love

april
and the wind's turning down
at last

i got to go
but my mind
placates the past

voyage
to a darker feeling
when one thought
emerges

i sought
we bought
splurges

and the CRACK! of a combine stun baton
was felt at home in old hong kong
they pushed them down
they ****** them off
they know
what goes
they know, they know

mario andretti!
pronounce his name real steady
you've got a chance to emigrate
now's the time to seal your fate

you could be a moronic sculpture
could make neo-scotland rupture
corporations wanna buy you
judge and juries wanna try you

why
can't
i
why
can't
i
have superpowers
have superpowers

why, why
must i
cope, cope
c-c-c-c-c-caw!

copycat, copy cope
last one out, elect the pope
feral demons walk about
judge is in, the jury's out

one mistake, you snooze you lose
brush your teeth or get a bruise
hate is a six letter word
opposing voices can't be heard

why
can't
i
i
why
can't
i
i
be something better
and change my gender

why
why
must
i

cope, cope
c-c-c-c-caw

copycat, copy cope
hang yourself, i'll buy the rope
shut up about your mental illness
it's just a form of wish fulfillment

take a bath in hydrochlorin
if you don't use neosporin
if you're short and have a *******
you're the bottom of the totem

why
can't
i
aye

why
can't
i-aye

be innocent
be president

what am i to do?
what am i to do?

can't live in a daydream
can't shoot off a magazine
can't make stories perfect
can't learn how to work it

mother!
mother!
what am i to do-o-o?

can't write an editorial
can't play super mario
cannot file my taxes
and i don't know what a fax is

why
can't
i-aye

do anything
do anything

mother!
mother!
what am i to do-o-o?
what am i to do?
a song
through my disabilities:
endured an enablist

it was beyond my masculinity
to stop seeking farther approval

sallying forth into contorted
realities ... humbling and bumbling

along predetermined trails
of oblivion

incontextual servitude
is blissful if done right

like lumberjacks
in forests of gumption

while living within
the synchretic monotony

and becoming
architects for disdain

our composite genius suckling
on ingots of caloric magnificence

while forgetting principles:
art science technology

and supplicating on splurges
converted into gurgles and burps

within this abbreviated lifeway
i strut toward my masculinity

but found my rhythm
on the vector of eternal boyhood

while forgetting to ask:
why does our Mother suffer so?

— The End —