"spurting" poems
The first time I made love to my mind
When love escaped from the gaps
Between our silences and overthinkings
I saw the naked mind.
We sailed from thousand cuddles of imprudence
To a long warm kiss of sanity.
While I dwindled in her arms of fool's paradise
No sleep just one long weary night,
Her ****** reeked of loneliness
I licked it. Hoping to taste ingenuity,
it was the aftertaste of forsaken feelings
that made me ***** her
till she stopped moaning neon dreams.
Somewhere in my walkabouts in her
I created deep craters of memories
Which she took for love bites
were, in fact, scars for life.
We were virgins on our quests
Thirsting our way through wanting and longing......
She made me swallow lust
Slowly. Heavily downtown.
And fingered it, the ***** of thoughts
Ruptured.
And she bled musings.
And Phantasmagoria exuding from her holes
And Spurting into mine like a cascade of brooding melancholy.....
And.... And....
The night my mind lost its virginity,
I sat down to write.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 6:21 AM UTC
"Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold." - From an essay by W. B. Yeats
Big heart,
wide as a watermelon,
but wise as birth,
there is so much abundance
in the people I have:
Max, Lois, Joe, Louise,
Joan, Marie, Dawn,
Arlene, Father Dunne,
and all in their short lives
give to me repeatedly,
in the way the sea
places its many fingers on the shore,
again and again
and they know me,
they help me unravel,
they listen with ears made of conch shells,
they speak back with the wine of the best region.
They are my staff.
They comfort me.
They hear how
the artery of my soul has been severed
and soul is spurting out upon them,
bleeding on them,
messing up their clothes,
dirtying their shoes.
And God is filling me,
though there are times of doubt
as hollow as the Grand Canyon,
still God is filling me.
He is giving me the thoughts of dogs,
the spider in its intricate web,
the sun
in all its amazement,
and a slain ram
that is the glory,
the mystery of great cost,
and my heart,
which is very big,
I promise it is very large,
a monster of sorts,
takes it all in--
all in comes the fury of love.
5.6k
I am Miss Kendra
The **** tease
And with my hands
I aim to please
I'll squeeze your ****
Just for fun
I'll even let you
Rub your *****
Against my ***
In the park
I blew
A studly guy
Just for fun
But never
Ever
Do I allow
Men to ***
They groan and moan
Until their ***** ache
But letting them ******
No, "For goodness sake!"
No spurting of cream
Will be allowed
I am a tease queen
And I humbly take a bow
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
Morality
Getting high off other's deaths
Jerking off to artist's gore
Spurting up blood fountains
Like a breathless whale
Like a shy devil
Coming to a conclusion at last
To a clearing in the woods
Where the elephants lay
To swear off wishful thinking
To smear fresh remorse on old skin
To keep living vicariously
Precariously perched
Like the moon in a thunderstorm
With your cut Joker's smile
With your tiny hand on your heart
As if there was any difference at all
Between the merciful
And the merciless.
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 3:33 AM UTC
Mangled skirmish, of bespeckled olive-green
serpents.
Their sinuous anarchy runs cold upon her
skull.
Caravaggio, you immortalized the *****
immured her, hermetically sealed her within
that shield.
Her reflection was at once the face she
never saw...stoned, she...then beheaded.
I notice you've even painted the shield the
color of her serpentine locks.
Serpents registering her ontological shock--
retentive, entwining, dangling in an odd
curl here and there.
Blood spurting from her almost indiscernible
neck, as if to draw a passable neck of blood,
almost like rays of blood, Christ's pierced side.
Her eyes seem so determined to chisel their
way out of stone, reconnect her head to her
body.
Her face is stunning, an excruciating ferocity
bulking stiff, slightly opened mouth about to...
explode out of her eyes.
Eyes hissing downward, sideways--there in the
pitch black glint of them...a primordial drama
to be continued.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
she exists now in a dream state
unaware of the horror and the passage of time
wind rushes through broken panes
moaning mournfully
floors creak and door hinges speak
announcing her presence
this was her house
once a place of light and love
full of family and friends
cotillions resonating with music and dance
and lively conversation
a grand kitchen to prepare the feasts
of pheasant under glass
a gazebo for laughing in the rain
arbors for moonlit meetings with owls
a pond for lilies and croaking frogs
gardens for picking her favorite peonies
a nursery for her children
all this now nothing but ruins
from happiness to a home for bugs and bats
crawling with silverfish, centipedes and black widows
shrouded in cobwebs
drowning in dust
suffocating in stench of rotting wood and desolation
decorated with 100 year old bloodstains
she never saw her killer
never saw the spurting of her arteries
never heard her children’s screams and death rales
she sees her house as it was
and every night she roams the rooms
calling her children’s names in long, haunting whispers
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 9:12 AM UTC
Like ******* a **** and you can't get hard,
Like rolling a blunt that's full of glass shards,
Like a bowling stunt where the pins are yards,
Away and you must stay put loaded with gin and not on guard,
While there's jaywalkers walking cross the alley and snipers far,
Up both sides, moss covered camouflage dilly dallying,
Falling comets, planets and stars while you ***** black tar out your scars, Sick spurting **** out the pit of your face and tripped on a lace falling down along with Mars.
Faster than my **** grows when I'm hitched, race-cars, bullets, and the suicide of a suicidal emo ***** with a mullet, grab the **** and pull it off and roll it up like the glass when you rolled it in the paper faster than a rapers hips going twitch twitch twitch, ***** you know it, she's on the list.
But you're soft and no fist can fit and what the **** is this about, just **** I coughed up and spout out my mouth, if it makes sense, even a little, I am not dense with my rhymes, raps, and riddles, there's meaning to it all, whether its beaming or dull, but I guarantee it's full and fits and flows when I say it to a T, you say my **** blows, well that's just mean, you say it's great, my confidence ovulates, so use it as bait as I eat off this plate, this 5 star rated treat elevated to six star cuisine meat.
I'll continue later in few poems that are greater and like haters, I won't stop planning and plotting out **** like these lyrics, I'm a creator.
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
The rivers channel rain
The way I channel pain
I begin to see the futility
In denying pain's utility
Pain takes on a ****** nature
And becomes my intellectual savior
I shatter the mirror
And swallow the shards
The pain becomes clearer
So my ******* get hard
Glass fills my lungs
They're profusely bleeding
From words that stung
Being my daily greeting
***** shoots out from my gun
When I cut myself for fun
My hose starts spewing
Once vultures start chewing
It's the only way I can cope
When it's pain that gropes
I live in a world that mixes *** and violence
I live in a world that mixes *** and silence
Where the painkillers
Become the pain creators
And our life's filler
Is being pain traders
A bull has charged through my library for a decade
At this point every bovine movement cuts like a blade
He creates pain that lasts
When every day becomes my past
I had a dream
A sorcerer controlled my body
But he only wanted pieces of me
Bones started snapping out of my skin
Blood spurting everywhere
I awoke to ***** down there
I guess life isn't always fair
When I dream to avoid stares
The real pain comes when I care
When the privileged boycott
The impoverished boy's cot
He learns to ********** in the streets
And gains an appreciation for feet
Feet that trample
The pain is ample
When people powerfully push him away
So he decides to go against the grain
But there's no peace to be attained
And all he's left with is pain
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
you made my blood clot,
so slowly and gently,
coagulating beneath your faint touch.
on flaxen sheets of rough cotton
I watched your plants
rolling their limbs out your open window.
they sprawled themselves, unravelling,
yearning for the gentle kiss
of the suns rays.
an almost ****** photosynthesis.
and for you I would sprawl myself out too,
and with the same eagerness
absorb every scent of yours into my flesh,
and drink desperately from your soul
like a cacti in its first summer shower
since '89.
and your final gasp,
with me, but a sponge
for your every metaphoric suppuration,
and literal secretion.
and you were transfixed there,
spurting auras of sin and love.
a final burst of ecstasy,
you soon became my anticoagulant.
you seeped into my bloodstream,
reversing this gentle coagulation.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
The glaring orange and red vermillion rays stretched over the mountain top and city skyline in the humbling spectacle of nature’s dawn...
Lifting away the frightful, cold and deathly nuances of the city by night...
The dull glaze of the concrete motorways,
Spun and circled around the growing organism of steel suburbia...
Filled with a meandering stream of colourful cars
Feats of engineering beauty
The blaring noise of traffic drowned out the natural stillness of nature’s beauty...
In the peak rush hour of a Cape Town mourning....
To the left of me...
Stood the deathly profile of a street urchin...
The little lady...
Body thin and frail, hands out-stretched in a sinewy leather grasp...
Warn and tattered rags for clothes...
Burnt and ***** face....
Yet still able to muster a look of hope....
I lifted my fingers to my mouth
And let out a shrill and deafening whistle
Drowned away by hooting and the hum of the engines, spurting noxious fumes,
Defiling the air....
She turned with a vigorous jolt
Raised eyebrows and a head turning smile...
I ushered her towards me with my outstretched hand, well manicured nails
Not a wrinkle of hardship characterising the clean skin
In the burning rays of yet another hopeful morning...
At least for me.
As her body was moving, all I could see were her eyes...
They pierced me, danced for and contorted the world around me....
A hazelnut brown painting, embedded in a small circular hole in the skull...
A gateway to the emotions
Connecting everyone, regardless of age, race or even stature...
As I gazed, captivated.
I saw compassion, longing, loss, warmth and passion in her eyes – the whole spectrum of humanity
In two small but infinitely deep pools
Cascading into a never ending abyss of emotions
Of pain, suffering, a little joy and infinite hurt....
Then I blinked...
And all those emotions, those connections and our future...
Were gone in the simple gesture of a fluttering eyelash
As she looked the other way...
The car lurched forward yet again...
With the flash of a green light and safety of movement
To the other side of the intersection
My hand still outstretched holding the crumpled buffalo note
My contribution to a severely needing hand
Lost with the bustle of life continuing, and leaving behind all too weak to keep up....
She began to scurry away, back to her pavement
I looked back...
The little lady gone.
Lost forever
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
yesterday my feet rested comfortably on the bar of someone else's chair
and my eyelids slid heavy and the world seemed slow
a graph of survivorship curves glowing blurry on the whiteboard
and then words slid from behind a neatly trimmed white beard
". . . .as our bodies are programmed to die."
as our bodies are programmed to die.
*thousands of miles away
one gleaming thought against a murky sky
(that's how i imagine it anyway--murky, cold,
stagnant air)
a frantic explosion of lean muscle power
and a body launching into the lake.
he was 17 and in that moment gears somewhere in this world shifted,
numbers were crunched and
some profound device processed the seconds, linking and unlinking them with an automatic, well-oiled certainty
he was 17 and the number on his football jersey suited him like wool socks on winter feet
his stride under the lights a weekly prize to all hungry, bleacher-ed, washed-up life-hunters bundled against october-night chill-streaked skies
they drank hot cocoa and he took three sips of gatorade
he was 17 and his smile
and his curls
and we all hear about hospitals but
this feels different because
he was 17 and suddenly,
instantaneously
his body was just a beep
and his skin turned the color of the walls
first the ICU painted quick brushstrokes across his wrists
then it stopped giving a **** at all
and the water rushed endlessly, heartlessly.
when I shift through memories and
find his seven-year old face in my mind, i remember a gap
where he'd lost a front tooth and i remember sunlight streaming behind his hair
it was valentine's day and he gave me a small smile and a silver charm bracelet in a powder blue box.*
i shifted my feet
heard the snap of a binder closing
and all i could think about was
the oversimplification of words
and survivorship curves
and 17 years
and
and
piles of numbers spurting from a computer
and an echo of a splash.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
i swear
but i'll sleep under your bed if you'll let me &
eat the dust in the crawl space between your kitchen walls
when you're entertaining guests &
only come out when they're in another room
or you ask me to
i'm not stalking you
i swear
i'm actually on this ladder fixing your neighbor's gutter
yes this same spot has been damaged for three years
& deserves a complex solution arrived at by
strenuous deliberation
i'm not stalking you
i swear
i'm not wearing the cologne you bought your ex
for christmas last year & threw out
into the aluminum trashcan six months ago
because that ******* didn't appreciate you
like i could
i'm not stalking you
i swear
i don't know how your mail gets mixed up with mine
at least twice a week the postman must be dyslexic
& also trade his mailbag with the guy who delivers mine
for five dollar bribes
i'm not stalking you
i swear
it's just funny we go to the same dentist &
you have such white teeth my mother would love
you if only for them
i'm not stalking you
i swear
this idea hasn't been growing in my brain since
i was an innocent boy spurting his essence into
a gym class knee high sock at night after
watching baywatch reruns
i'm not stalking you
i swear
i don't spend my days wondering if i should get
****** piercings
because you seem like the type to enjoy them
i'm not stalking you
i swear
i walk home this way too but instead
of a third floor elevator ride in a gated community
on the next block i'll continue three more blocks
west take the train back south four miles & finish
cutting through alleys for another mile until i
arrive at my own cellar apartment
it's not out of my way
i don't mind taking an alternative route
i'm not stalking you
i swear
but your cheekbones are stealing my sleep
& when i do dream you turn your ***
toward me not in surrender but
defiance that vicious
dilated ******* and heavy flesh
taunting me in my own
fleabed forever
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
The most beautiful flower
Within a field of growing weeds and brown leaves
It seems to take up all the light
besides all the dead and despair around it
Its petals are moist and the colors seem to change
to whatever they need to protect themselves from.
But, the blossom is too beautiful.
Too consumingly appealing to whomever laid their eyes on it.
The sun’s rays were getting jealous and did no longer
want to shine on the pleasing leaves -
or on the strong roots or its inviting colors -
as they took away their shine and
were now filled with contempt.
Most of all the rays were jealous of what the flower could do.
Embezzle. Inspire and create. Dazzle.
It dazzled me.
The flower could not only extract happiness from its surroundings but it also gave.
It gave love. Love and comfort and happiness, friendship and enjoyment.
It gave a way for men to see through the bad and look at the good.
It tasted so sweet.
The flower fought, spurting out at some cautious moment
but it could not win
For it needed the rays gentle touch to grow and to
Exist.
Long after men spoke of the waste.
How such a beauty had perished,
And its power was no longer there to greet them like an old friend.
It was now only a myth,
One that no one really could remember
as it felt like a dimly lit memory,
one that played a yet unknown role in whatever faith there is to come.
It was not the beauty that men remembered now.
Only the waste.
As the good leaves no scars, and is scarcely treasured how it should.
But oh the waste. They spoke.
Such a waste.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 7:13 AM UTC
*I, fluoride - sanity theft
Winding toy soldiers
to march the path toward furtive glory
While spurting the tune of war
to the end of their very last breaths*
*Harbinger of certain death
Peek from behind the curtain
Witness the brain mining
From inside your skull
eyeballs explode, deftly blinding
Defining images which pervade
Overwhelming emotions stowed
Once turned to stone
mental harm, tractor combines harvest FarmVille tards by the barnload
Certainly,
The eye of Horus and ISIS see all
scorching and seizing nations, arm in arm
All for one, none for all
Bombarding bravado
Clasp the trap
Lapse in conscious
All tapped out
Drowning in tap water
Until all comes tumbling down like Niagara Falls, dauntless
Like Satan's hands expanding
advance upon the homeland
Then race trickling downward
Total assest forfeiture
***** buried in sand)*
Faces hidden, ashamed
Orchestrate the line in frame
Shape my frame of mind
Until my thoughtscape escapes
To peer through one eye
Met to widespread acclaim
Descending into the mind of Chaos,
His stables gates
burst forth with beasts of fable, insatiable and rampant
Triumphant, turn the tables
Arch-Angels blare your trumpets
*Tell Famine get off his high horse
And rear his ugly head
So we can really show that *****
Mother Earth what for;
**** that ***** until nothing's left*
*Effectively wrecked
From careening trains of wretched *********
Now she's hit
& the caged bird that longs to be free, is inevitably
dismembered to pieces by the felines that be*
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
Tonight!
Oh what sweet splendors
of travel that pour themselves out and over me!
Not to exotic lands,
but to those far better
the square foot of land that lays beneath us
when I am wrapped in your arms!
My bag is not packed,
there are gifts to be made,
things to be set in order
But just 10 hours!
10 hours after two months!
And I will be yours once again
The excitement,
the rapture,
one week of playing house with you
in the hot summer breezes
of Western Ohio
flat land,
so different from my home, from what I like
but what does it matter?
In your arms, the place could be bent and folded
painted in the wondrous colors of strata
Rose, gold, deep blacks and shimmering veins
of ground water spurting forth.
Pretty shell fossils
and pink quartz
they all exist in your eyes,
in your arms,
in your kiss
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 9:58 AM UTC
I grow weary of crafting words that are spun together
feeling as if there is a beauty spurting from my pain
because the words are still marching from your wellspring
and they're saturated in your sticky intoxication
It forces me to taste the sour fact that
the fire you set to my life still burns
and decimates ties strewn out of feeble love attempts
No matter the count of the condemnations of our life
you still dwell inside of my every word
and all of my metaphors
My vocabulary is limited to you and
you drag me below the pool of new words waiting on the surface
So I rewrite the same sentiments that play between
self loathing
heartbreak
and love
Write where you want me.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
Their violence. Their fire. Their beauty.
Their clenching, unclenching. Their bedlam.
Their silence.
Their toes squirming in their shoes. Their sobs. Their seventy-mile-an-hour fury.
Their eyes. Their glimmer. Their construction paper dreams.
Their insecurities. Their melanin.
Their rapture. Their forgiveness. Their twisted-up mouths.
Their screaming.
Their laughter. Their spoiled innocence. Their decent.
Their wilderness of wit. Their barbed future. Their ineloquence.
Their noise. Their stretching limbs.
Their vigor. Their hair spurting out of their scalps.
Their secrets echoing and singing through low-ceilinged halls. Their desire.
Their chipped orange fingernail polish. Their belly aches.
Their misspelled crayon messages. Their ghosts. Their audacity.
Their fear. Their braids. Their arms tight around each other.
Their torn jeans. Their longing.
Their possibility.
Their harpoon words. Their blood. Their bursting hearts.
Their walls. Their art.
Their endlessness.
Their airplane arms and their shrieking and their streaming outside into the yellow ache of a sinking sun.
Their rhythm. Their nonsense.
Their hands cupped around their mouths.
Their reverberation. Their chapped lips. Their love.
Them.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
★ ✰ ✪ ★ ✰ ✪ ★ ✰ ✪
The Baby-Hole, her baby-hole!
Turn back before you lose your soul.
Those walls of pink, those gates of pearl
grant entrance to each boy and girl
who come through this organic portal:
newly-born and merely mortal.
Mystery to be dignified—
explored, adored, objectified:
the baby-hole’s expanding chasm,
promising celestial spasm,
is limned in deliquescent love
and fits the soul as hand in glove.
Beware her tantalizing pull
where poetry turns vaginal.
From depths profound, God can create
(where man would merely **********
hitting Mother Nature’s high note
as the gamete turns to zygote).
Semi-seconds’ spurting passion
years of living baby fashion.
After pleasure’s jest, gestation
thus augments the population;
teenage dads recalibrate,
unsure just what to celebrate.
Yet, if they knew the daring risk
their ***** endure, they’d slip a disc;
to realize what threatening odds
confront these flagellated gods:
(see Luke in Star Wars, [number IV]
battling fascists in the war
alone in the zone to shoot the shot
that blows the death star up. Let’s not
miss out on noting, in this theme,
life’s true conception. So the team
of X-wing pilots flew the run,
eliminated one by one
save Luke, who penetrated deep
the death-star’s ovulated keep
and overcame the egg’s defense
and hit the mark. It all makes sense.
The spheroid bursting in his sight
depicts Conception's glorious might).
Therefore, show the matrix honor.
Shoot and leave—your star’s a goner:
nurture growth while life allows you,
while your star can still espouse you.
Seek her core of hidden gnosis
don’t just set off cell mitosis…
not, that is, unless you are sure
that the three of you won’t end up poor.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 8:02 PM UTC
The grey gulls drift across the bay
Softly and still as flakes of snow
Against the thinning fog. All day
I sat and watched them come and go;
And now at last the sun was set,
Filling the waves with colored fire
Till each seemed like a jewelled spire
****** up from some drowned city. Soon
From peak and cliff and minaret
The city's lights began to wink,
Each like a friendly word. The moon
Began to broaden out her shield,
Spurting with silver. Straight before
The brown hills lay like quiet beasts
Stretched out beside a well-loved door,
And filling earth and sky and field
With the calm heaving of their *******
Nothing was gone, nothing was changed,
The smallest wave was unestranged
By all the long ache of the years
Since last I saw them, blind with tears.
Their welcome like the hills stood fast:
And I, I had come home at last.
So I laughed out with them aloud
To think that now the sun was broad,
And climbing up the iron sky,
Where the raw streets stretched sullenly
About another room I knew,
In a mean house -- and soon there, too,
The smith would burst the flimsy door
And find me lying on the floor.
Just where I fell the other night,
After that breaking wave of pain. --
How they will storm and rage and fight,
Servants and mistress, one and all,
"No money for the funeral!"
I broke my life there. Let it stand
At that.
The waters are a plain,
Heaving and bright on either hand,
A tremulous and lustral peace
Which shall endure though all things cease,
Filling my heart as water fills
A cup. There stand the quiet hills.
So, waiting for my wings to grow,
I watch the gulls sail to and fro,
Rising and falling, soft and swift,
Drifting along as bubbles drift.
And, though I see the face of God
Hereafter -- this day have I trod
Nearer to Him than I shall tread
Ever again. The night is dead.
And there's the dawn, poured out like wine
Along the dim horizon-line.
And from the city comes the chimes --
We have our heaven on earth -- sometimes!
1.8k
my thoughts, so potent just before--
like fresh-pressed olive drops
that lingered, lipping from the fragrant spout--
now pass, diffuse atop an ocean vast.
i imagine willing it to be a pond,
not for its lesser size alone
but mostly for its calm,
reflective height; yet
these waves are
distort ruthlessness
of liquid dust
by slapping, tower-high
the central ocean rip-whirl tide:
and gone--
as Homer's heroes screaming as they drown,
deaf as oars but for their final gasps
of yearned-for clarity:
of nameless pride's Ithacan king
abrading lustful wrists
restrained to blind a god's son's single eye
by tentacles of twisting, tactful fate.
by threaded loom rethreaded
soon i see my salty self in suit
of sameness, tricking time
by indolence or theft--
from truth, from others' hearths--
the difference winks in bubbles on the cosmic shore...
foam so clean i grin to call it spume,
grin to brace the seabed to my algaed chest
in salinating crush of sand, of blood-sharp shell and rock,
in sungreen warmth of blue and life
in crashing sinus wince
i grit aegean nereids in my sneeze,
splay their formless sexing into pelvic scrapes
of quickened starbursts anciently reborn,
squeezed in pleasure tears and laughing drops--
as all pelagic ***** must
within the pressure of a world,
its breathing darkness spotted with transmuted sun,
expel itself in sensate gusts--
as octopodal spurting flings
in liquid ****** of purpose forth,
(or backwards, sideways, in and out)--
so too i think
and thinking, drown my ink
instead of drowning thinking in my ink
.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
nonmeditation
is the best kind of meditation
not doing,
just being
not listening,
simply hearing
simply here
How do I write poetry
simple by being?
effortlessness is effortful
How do I show to the world
the way my brain should work
so that I appear
smart
articulate
thoughtful
d
e
e
p
when really I feel like spurting a string of thoughts that would not make sense to anyone, including myself, in any moment but this one
**** appearance
here's me:
_____-_
( . . )
( > ) ()()
( = ) __ ( )
xxxxxxxxxx )
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 9:47 AM UTC
Moldy mutterings-
A char-broiled doomsday
Licks the salted air, no condensation in clouds
Dry and cracked.
Elephant stomp
Pounded ground where
Lizard-scaled turnip roots drip
Into dirt, drooping low and quick.
That senseless racket, the incessant buzzing
Yellowed a crusted earlobe
The cauliflower cult.
Chipped to smithereens
As the sun split
In sizzling heat.
No porcelain skin to drizzle
Tender sweat beads
Blackened back-burner.
Conquest of detention to
Contain lackluster irrelevant lessons
Blessed with a dead hand
Crumpled flesh stump.
Hunched Trapezius circle person
Cowering in familiar corners.
Glisten as an oyster's ravaged shell,
Sour cream pearl dangling between your *******
Twinkling Adam's apple
This speech could sink its teeth in.
Spurting eloquence
Gushed up word juice.
Swallow hard and whole
Choke on the knowing.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
hitherto and heed.
this man with no greed.
face as mere as ants,
but heart as written so.
forthwith and in the now,
with a chest in the wrong place,
our brains midst logic and reason,
and mouths spurting mace.
for this man has trees that grow from his apple,
and lyrics that tie themselves to the oak,
simply tugging at his own branches,
and gaining strength as it broke.
for the world he laid himself atop,
does aches and curves his back,
for those hands move with grace against blank skin with ink,
and his lyrics sink and crack.
for the expensive sap,
from the alabaster jar,
glimmers quietly 'neath gasps,
and the noose and the
sentences
spill wars.
for his eyes are crusted,
miles yonder,
and his lips are chapped,
for-ever,
but his arms--and heart--and mind remain a never.
eager and spotless,
fearless and willing,
through trials and hot rocks,
the earth he's tilling.
trails of sound and light leading out to the world,
hold silent despite his might.
and urge and creeping yearn,
for his empty fright.
for the grass shivers at the fall of his pen,
and world cries out at the whisper,
but the man is nothing but mumble and slack,
and has everything held as a lisper.
for a man is nothing without his eyes,
and nothing without his lips,
a mere inconvenience,
to the insipid mind.
for an utterance may increase the waters it treads,
but it certainly wont sow.
and reap what it does,
without years to know.
and grows...
and grows
and grows
and grows
for the green tree grows
merely to sink into silence, you say...
the man wags a finger,
and chapped lips ache a smirk.
quill to mouth--connected by heart to mind--line by line
against skin,
is an endearment,
and engraving of passion...
as speech may serve nothing to mind... if it goes through one ear...
and spills out the next...
it's the words concocted and stirred up by man--singing by lyre...
and the purple eyes that open
new minds
to the mirror ether.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 11:32 PM UTC