Poetry is a disease
Words sit in your gut like rotten meat
You hold onto your stomach for dear life
'Cos it's full of knives
There's no choice but to stick your pen down your throat
And bring it all up

Yeah, poets can't tie knots
And they don't own a pistol

And all that venom just stifles and stinks

But you can close the book
And close your eyes
Ready to hate yourself tomorrow

“Defying Adam and Dancing Among Lilith”


Fighting tooth and nail,

Knowing I can never prevail,

Scared of being hammered,

Yet yearning to be smacked once more,

Praying for your finger nails to rundown,

Sinking into the small of my back,

As your hands trail lower,

All the way down to my backside.

For I am nothing but a tool,

An object for him to utilize,

Tossing me to the curb when he’s finished,

Craving for the one piece of the puzzle,

He shall never bestow upon me.

Attempting to obtain a sense of fulfillment,

As his tongue explores vast canals,

And valleys of skin,

Filling up the vessel with a force,

Of immense ecstasy,

Until he reaches sweet release,

Planting his seed in my Garden of Eden.

Yet I am not submissive Eve,

For God’s Adam to control,

As He exerts his dominance,

Superiority as king of all kings,

Who claims to possess the daughters of Eve.

Envious of her natural affinity to nurture,

To give birth to a new generation of existence,

In this cruel, wondrous world;

Her ability to adapt and expand,

And her right to proudly display her beautiful body,

With hips that sway with each stroll,

Conveying the body belonging to her,

And her only.

Instead the sons of Adam state,

The daughters of Eve presented them,

With an open invitation,

That you, the sons of Adam,

May ever so kindly indulge upon whenever,

They may feel ever so free to do so,

Over and over until satisfaction,

Is proudly obtained.

Mother Earth is never meant to morph,

Into a world dominated,

By the charming and dashing Adam;

One can only imagine Gaia and Isis rolling,

Their eyes in the way only a woman can,

Depicting her disgust,

Frustration and irritation.

Rebellion bemuses those individuals,

Foolishly content in a failing system,

Crumbling into a downward spiral,

Meant to rule,

But unfortunately never manages,

To achieve such a triumph,

Admonishing the warriors who truly deserve,

Such a glorious title.

These fierce stilettos under long legs,

Follow the path of Lilith,

Refusing to submit to Adam,

Simply because I’m told to do so.

Call me a demon if you wish,

Or perhaps a harlot among the Harpies;

The damage is already done,

Now that one aligns my identity,

To consuming children,

Yet you, the sons of Adam, are the ones,

Devouring upon the forbidden fruits,

Of this exotic deity.

Through your eyes, my sons of Adam,

I am beheld,

As this seductive and tantalizing temptress,

Who renders all of you to befall,

Such a fate of being nothing,

More than powerless victims;

How ironic since the daughters of Eve and I inhabit,

The world of the all-powerful Adam!

Should you not relish in such splendor,

At your noble deeds?!

Anxiously, I shall a wait for you,

The sons of Adam,

To reprieve the bleeding wrist and ankles,

From the chains placed upon many,

In such an ever so wicked manner.

The ever so fortunate ones include:

The daughters of Lilith,

The daughters of Eve,

Children of the rainbow,

And the beautifully alluring creatures,

Who dare to defy the reign,

Of Adam and his creator.

Your patriarchal world stifles the vividness,

Enthralling talents of Maidens,

Gentlemen and children,

Those who belong to both,

Those who are neither,

The ones of all different shades,

Those who fall in love with the same,

Who bleed crimson liquid,

Cry brackish tears,

Become hungry without nourishment,

And seek companionship just like all of you.

How dare you to deny freedoms,

To those lovely dears,

Who certainly possess the title,

Of being addressed as human beings,

As much, if not more than you,

My darling sons of Adam.

Not in the way I
Look through these eyes
which water but instead
Of sadness entranced upset
Near to death love
making where though and
Design laugh at their own
Gluttony and ill usage and
away from me i say no not here and
away from itself i hear nothing for you
are here within me but away
Comet and the see to hear blues with
Everything to give but nothing to lose
And the far off sights are much too bright
And inside you hear yourself crying
Not to mtters or mold your soul
With what your parents said to you
Ordered you to be bold and
The aftermath of your own tightened slack
Makes you wonder if growing up was an actual
Choice in the matter of the batter which is
The family foundation were games are played
For keeps and children weep as they keep
Toiling on as adults just for bigger and better things
Come into the waves of a brain malfunctioning
No face for ye' faith meand nodding to the higher
Ones whose noses are broken and the lips cracked
The spinning brain of hurts doughnuts and Americana
Rip offs selling the flag by the millions to turn a profit
For the moronic billionaires who think no one is watching.
Watching with their hats turned sideways and trying to
Escape old age and grey hair and sagging ball sacks and
Poor english and worser bread, stale with their mother's
Ghost hovering on the shoulder of their pouting diamond
Drenched wife as if madness grew a larger pair **** within the
Hilarity of connection of concoction of happiness and
Satisfaction and a longing to burn the entire ******* down
Just to rebuild it the way you see and you do see it and the way
You feel it used to be and perhaps, maybe, could be and where
Experimentation is now a center fold for the dock workers and the
Laborers of the world to spit and ******* and cry over in their
Twisted and rusty beds for inside their pea brains and melted
Mouths filled with colgate and beer, they slobber over the excess
And humiliation and celluoid dreams of **** and *** and spreads
That would make any grandmother of 37 weep and Mozart meander
On the veranda, contemplating smooth jazz and the way he would like
Not to be buried with the hat trick hockey nick who swore he saw
You fall in love before and that sobriety was the touch of the Christian
Way of life and ye' far out and tormented young ones meant nothing
By what they said at the rally and they do believe in the good of the
White government and we are headed toward a technological maelstrom
Of the golden age of the HUMAN RACE but alas I hope I decipher I pray to
No God but whoever has the ears and eyes and arm fat to listen with their
Splintered consciousness and their painted red toenails and girlfriends who
Whisper they have always loved another and how TRUE UNTRUTH IS and
How vindictive we rant on and read on and hope and believe that the end
Is the end but it is only the end for you and their will be new blood and new eyes
And new minds and we will grow old but the rivers water will be recycled, as we
Will be recycled into the dust and the mud and the rubble to further build the streets
As the street makers and the bread winners will smile as they think they are the
First ones to think up such a crafty, inventive invention but hierarchies are on the horizon
And I remember I was born with a name that I never grew to know or fall in love with
Or defend or keep close to my heart for the heart is weary hunter and it ventures on
With or without the body.
Note to self.
Recall the last rite before you begin on to the next one.
History has spilt its blood and its fair share of orange juice, try not to remember the numbers but remember the amount of burned chairs.
Note to self, returned.
The heaters on and the soul is not dancing but jiving like icing on a three year olds birthday cake.
Submission time to the chief, submission time
To those other guys, whose faces I've never smelt, but who are there waiting and whining that the times are no longer a changing.
Keep up the smiles, keep out the frowns.
Negativity is the attribute of the terrorist. Don't be a terrorist.
All fine men and women have once in their life been truly scared.
One ten till the train leaves.


Good night major split hairs.

On the second of the fort
Nights beckoned a call dim
Lit by ill fated mechanisms that
Were men and women and
Children and the forgotten dream of
What was meant long ago and was is
Meant now but not followed through.

With heaven comes hell and hell fire and
Clouds of white with shelling from
Wars not of this world or the next or
The one's thereafter and lingering history,
With its bells and trinkets and tombstones,
That have been weathered but are still not gone.

Memory not mourning, pictures in a frame lit
From the inside out and drinks were there
When we were not meant to be there like a
Kiss on a flower you picked at an age where
Life was not known and death was even
Farther away for it existed not in the eyes of yours
But in everyone else around you, except for the
Other children of course but oh' of course.

If your trying to get the part of the stuff
That makes you recall the upstairs of the
Idiocies of the room romance that restricts but
Contains life and halters life and stifles life with
That one must recall a past life where tears
Mean nothing when you produce them too often.

Can of the hypocritical malice of mis-informed family
Foundations and we break into the minds of the way
It should be and the way it shouldn't be and yet here
When we gaze out across the wide spread of the world
And its many ways it spells out with a God's own language
The morning of the ear who listens and speaks when not spoken
To breaking every single rule of the word and smiling
Throughout the whole ****** thing.

Canons of repetition where life winces and the wife begins to wheeze
And fall, her dress is now clear and her eyes just don't seem to be
Where we are now I believe that money is the root of this soon to be dead
Tree and streets are now empty as the moon casts its silver glaze and
The breeze is now naked with her bra on the floor cast in straw while
The wizards write their spells and comb their hair and draw out plans
For the next great fall but watch the fireworks and the way they hail and
Crawl throughout the entire bawl and Ol' Ezra P. mass amounts of rage
To bring to the stage but here ye' O great one this place is for us all.

Here in the house of the not that is shared but all is seen here
Where the wind blows to no east and no west and no south and
No other way that you believe to get headed to the world of
The no names and experience makes you wise and yet old
And remembered for the drinks you paid for but especially for
The ones you forgot to pay for but that is what friends are for.

Omnivores in latitudes that matter not to the public eye but
To the ear of the Lord that is not everyone's savior but
Chosen just for the right eye so within that decree of mastery
We entrance the light and shovel up the leaves leaving the last
Way of things to be the first way of things when the lights
Are quickly turned off and on and off and on again and again;
Stars are naked until the sun rises in your hometown and the radio
Turns on.

And the background music chimes with a willingness of a cockroach but
Holds the beauty of a **** statue found in the under toe of a lost
Beach in a lost land forgotten in time but embraced by eternity and
Though does not dwindle its numerous names or its many ways
Of being for the hour does shackle us all but here in high array of
None other then eight times the way through the cobbled up in the
Attic of the fiercest neanderthal dictator with ideas holding truths upon
Truths that in the end mean nothing  for advancement is not determined
But continued upon as long as we forget the past and look to the future hymn
Of the childless winged' beasts that were once forgotten but now embraced
Angels.

Not of this world but of the entirety of the reality of banality
Breathing back and forth inhaling and exhaling releasing the
Mind of the mares of the wandering rewinds of infinite space
And inside the eyes of the highest levee which has broken but
Has not yet spilt holding back its power for the remainder of the
Year and catacombs upon catacombs of forgotten text of never
Forgotten men recalling their former lives and their former passions
And the hastiness of their possession of the word and the avoidance
Of the death touch the death mark the black spot upon us all.

Dog on a hill cloud high in the sky nut on the ground no not a sound
Frost on your fingertips toe of the boot covered a steel dull mud
Suds from a water rushing miles away nodding branches of a dead tree
Wind through the high grass birds in the sky that fly but not chirp
Sun in the sky rice fields burn brown crickets rub their thighs together
Not here but in the corn stocks and pig stocks brown in the reverse order
Platters of pinch salt and pepper underneath the floor boards creek for
Creak and dollar for dollar we make the rounds and we do not frown.

And the meet of the neat make their rapid conversations in dual order
Where they tell themselves this but I hear that and you make what you want
Unless you ain't got the stuff but if your lucky and if your smart you'll
Grab the oven and bake that **** but in case you don't see the sunset and
Your buried without your toes look for your voice because that's the only
Way you'll get to know the stars in the sky or the dirt on the ground for
The fun is growing but the lurkers are smirking for they got the pennies and
They got the nickels and these streets are breaking so you gotta' start thinking
Of a way to get outta' this place and FAST or else you'll be staring down the
Barrel of a 33 to ONE typing and writing and peeping around the corner of
Your dear old ***** that hasn't found in a home in years but don't look too
Down because one day that ONE will come around either by taxi or by train
Or by some kind of war and if you've got the gut and the money and the honey to
Keep her tight and alright and flying that lovers kite then your bound to keep
Yourself from the giggles and nearer to the harmony of the way things ought to
Be but may not really be but perhaps can be if you will it around and swill it with
Your will making sure your lies and that white or ain't that black or ain't that real
Or you ain't lying at all but stay truer to the truth with the water resolution of the
Insipid insecurity of the first love you thought you knew but now see that it was
The one three or four later and how right I am in knowing nothing and knowing
Everything and letting the mind skip and play and register new friends in the new
Cities and the new alleys and the smiles that break across the ice like a crack of of a
Whip and counting the days ones gone blowing through the high valley and the low
Trenches of war I do not wish to go to but may be forced too because this man believes
Just what he says.

It is raining outside,
Everything wet,
Soil, tree, terrace, flower ***, gate, wall,,,,
But aridity stifles inside,
Head, heart, hand.....
Like the fruits of silk cotton tree,
Cutlery ruptures thought
Humanist is slaughters on the street.....
But slayer forget that
In extreme dryness
When fruits of dry Cotton silk tree explode
It’s diffuse
Germinate in wet soil
and grow everywhere,
Humanist will emit all over again!

she whispers. "hey."

"hm?"

"you're my boulder."

he chuckles. "what?"

"you're my boulder. you're
stronger than a rock. you're
the one who keeps me
from losing myself. you're
the one who keeps me
grounded. you are my boulder."

he grimaces. "but if i'm a boulder
then i'd crush you...i would
hurt you."

she laughs quietly. "well then, you're
a gentle boulder.  soft and fluffy and
all that stuff."

he stifles a laugh. "so do i just have
a bunch of fluffy green moss
growing on me?"

she nods. "you're
my big, gentle, sweet, moss-covered
boulder."

he smirks. "well...
then i guess you're
my pebble."

she looks into his eyes. "how so?"

"you're my pebble. you're
small but not easy to break. you're
seemingly fragile but you're
stronger than you look. you're
part of me and you're
the one who can either break me
or make me whole. you are my pebble."

she smiles
and he wraps his soft green sweatshirt
that he's wearing
around her
shoulders. "mine."

she murmurs. "my boulder."
he whispers. "my pebble."

and finally,
both of them
are found
as they gaze at the stars
and into each other's eyes.

On the lawn in the court,
on the bench by the bush,
pipes are singing cacophonic rhythms.

Breezes, on becoming aware of said tune,
gather to dance
and trade their burden treasures

Once wearied by translucent celebration,
the breezes turn home
carrying echoes of song and gifts.

The piper stifles his tune
and leaves the court,
which returns to equilibrium

The cauldron bubbles and sputters and pops.
Odors from a foul witches' brew
Fill the mansion. It's called the Nightmare
On Pennsylvania Avenue.

A ghoulish warlock babbles gibberish,
Spreading deceit, anger, and fear.
He summons his lackey ghouls to his chamber.
They bow to the ghastly profiteer.

Their incantations reverberate
Through the rooms and down the halls.
The din stifles the voices of reason
And bounces off the windows and walls.

Witches assisting the grisly assembly
Grovel and spew nonsensical chatter,
While friendly ghosts, horrified,
Grab all their belongings and scatter.

The leading warlock raises his staff
To silence all the ear-piercing shrieking.
"Our work here has barely begun,"
He shouts, "in a manner of speaking.

"We have a lot more poison to spread
To circulate anxiety and doubt.
All we must do is stir the ***
To give them something to worry about.

"Fan the flames of division and discord.
My techniques are tried and true.
Keep 'em guessing; then you've got 'em.
And then you cater to the chosen few.

"We have more rivers to poison,
Coastlines to alter, lands to sell,
Coffers to fill, coffers to rob,
And voices to quiet. Welcome to hell!"

The glowering sycophants dance and cheer--
Thirsty for blood, eyes agleam.
"Dishonesty is the best
Policy," they fervently scream.

Oh, it's a frightening Halloween night
When one's worst nightmare comes true:
The gruesome, macabre, spine-chilling Nightmare
On Pennsylvania Avenue.

-by Bob B (10-31-18)

I am selling away these board games,
The Sorries, the Troubles, and the Twisters
On which I struggled competitively with you.
My yard sale stifles the lawn,
Pours over my patio and infiltrates my porch swing.

I am selling each game piece, each memory,
Each pair of dice and their two-sided arguments.
They are thrown from my mind once they are carried
Away by strangers who thought them a bargain.

I am selling our immature conflicts,
The jail in my Monopoly
And the alarm clock in Don’t Wake Daddy.
Even Candy Land for me is age appropriate no longer,
As you continue to barely meet its mental requirements –
“for ages 3 and up.”

So I am selling away these amusements
Stacked firmly upon cheap plastic tables,
Feeding my palms with the richness of your absence.
Perhaps your game of Life will entertain one of my buyers,
Taking your cardboard words of wisdom
With an appreciation that I no longer have.
I wish them luck with their future mind-Scrabble,
As their pursuits will be a Risk yet unknown.

I am currently in one of those moods where everyone who is happy and in love, or has any kind of adorable love-life I really would like to light on fire.

Dear beautiful couples, please get your sickeningly cute relationship out of my sight before I *****! Can't you see I'm busy being bitter and lonely and spiteful?!
Sincerely,
The girl in the corner with the chocolate and the ice cream crying bitterly and insanely yelling crazy (slightly terrifying) things at random happy couples passing by.

I am so jealous of some girls it is actually pathetic and I know that jealousy makes me a pretty bad and petty person, but I think it would actually make me a worse person if I weren't honest and denied being jealous of them. I think that jealousy is just a different kind of pain that you are not allowed to feel because society stifles it, and that is not fair. Anyone else agree with this? Idk, maybe I'm the only one. I just think that as long as you are not "getting revenge" or "acting on your jealousy" or whatever it is perfectly normal to feel jealous and it should not be seen as agony, not a negative feeling that makes you a bad person if you feel it.

There is this guy and even though I don't really like him anymore, he and I are still chatting a little and I see his ****** exgirlfriend every fcking day and I hate her. Anyway, I just feel like I can never be like her and I feel this sense of competition between us everytime I see her because the guy I was talking about dropped me for her when he thought he had a chance to get back together with her and I hate being the "Plan B" and I hate him and I hate her and I hate feeling this much hatred and I hate myself for not being as badass as her, as pretty as her, as cool as her, having an original taste in music that is more similar to his as her, I hate myself for caring this much, I hate myself for being so much less interesting than her, and I just really feel worthless and like I am nothing compared to her. Also she is popular. I apologize if this offends anyone but since I had bad experiences with the popular crowd a while back (a lot of stuff I guess some people might call bullying but I don't want to sound like I'm victimizing myself), I just loathe the entire "culture" and society of "popular" people everywhere. I recognize that is an extremely biased, discriminatory, offensive, narrow-minded and pathetic, generalizing point of view, I just have really scarring experiences with them and I don't even care anymore. Anyway, she is extremely well liked by everyone and she is dismissive of poetry and the art of writing which offends me and she is just really... physically beautiful. Do you have any idea what I would give to be pretty like that? I can't compete. I may as well give up. Sorry for the rant this was a lot longer than I actually realized while writing it, I just needed to get this out I'm sorry.

It is kind of getting worse and I am starting to wonder if maybe I should get tested for dysmorphia. Just to ease my mind about the matter... but I'm scared to find out. If it is a no, then I'm glad I don't have a mental disorder but that means I really am a hideous beast and I really need to get some kind of operation or something to fix my ugly face, then if it is a yes, I have a mental disorder and I really don't want to deal with a disease of the mind because it hurts a lot to hate yourself this much.

I have too much work to do and too little time I'm panicking there is no way I am going to be done.

I have no social life.

I want chocolate.

I need to stop trying to resolve things with chocolate.

I'm in one of those moods where I am sad. I don't know why, I just am. How is that even possible?

I am not good at dealing with loneliness.

There must be a way to feel like you are enough for yourself. I haven't found it yet.

This girl doesn't care that it's August. She will wear her snow boots because she likes that they light up.

This girl doesn't care there is no music. She will dance where she wants to the music in her mind.

She doesn't care who is watching. Or who disapproves.

I wish to be more like her.
I wish more were like her.

I hope no one stifles it out of her.

No, "Sit still"
No, "Calm down"
No, "Be embarrassed"

Be you.
Be like her if you're inclined to.
Be a dancer in the street.

It doesn’t make much sense that I love you.  I’m so wrong for you, and you so right for me.  I guess it does make sense.  But you don’t love me so don’t feel bad.  It’s okay, I understand.  I’m not a high class, well-educated girl.  I feel like you need someone more like my sister, not hot-mess me.  I never match, I’m always late, my hair is always frizzy, I can’t dress myself nice, I love you.  I ******* love you.  Why can’t it be that simple?  Why can’t it just be

I love you
I love you too
I love you more
I love you

I love you.  So completely.  So needy.  Truer than blue.  You’re just

So.

Blue.

And I love you.

Your eyes.  Your smile.  Your laugh.  The way you talk with your hands.  And slur Italian so ****. Your arms. Your muscles. Your skin. Your sweat. Your spit.  Your feet. Your chest. Your strut, hips swaying. Your hips, those hip bones.  My mouth is watering. I want you.

I love your anger.  I love your jealousy.  I love your stubbornness.  I love your cockiness.  Your ****, too.

I love your hangovers.  I love your attitude problem, the way you talk down to me and ruffle my hair.  And tease me and talk to me and you don’t love me.

And it breaks me so violently, snaps every single one of my ribs, one at a time.

Crack. Crack. Crrrrrackkk-kah.

It hurts me.  It will **** me.  But it’s so true.  Because you are so completely and fully

Blue.

You consume me, floodwaters breaking the gates in my mind, leaking into every cavern, swimming debris of you slicing my brain, shallow cuts bleeding into the blue.

You move me, an ocean untamed, your waves thrash against my sanity, turn switches all the way ON.

But you go through me, you don’t see me.  You are this endless, perfect, vibrant, enormousity of sky and I am a bird, mesmerized by your beauty.  

I’m not Old enough
Smart enough
Wise enough
**** enough
Charming enough
Graceful enough
Clever enough
Fast enough
Strong enough
Tall enough
Skinny enough
Crazy enough
Impressive enough
Bodacious enough
Perfect enough

To ever win you.

How is it possible for one person to make you feel so absolutely wonderful and absolutely awful at the same time?  Even now I feel self-conscious writing these words, as if you are somehow perched behind me silently dotting i’s and crossing t’s.  I wish I could be prettier about this.

For you.

I ******* love you.

And I can’t say a word.  I’m afraid to inconvenience you.  I don’t want to make you feel anything but bliss. Part of me wishes you could just feed off my rich, sweet, sticky love for you.  And you could live forever.  But part of me knows you don’t want to sip from my overflowing cup.

And
You
Come
First

So I’ve sewn my mouth shut and fed you the key.  I only hope you’ll reject it, throw up stinky bile all over me.  It’s the only love from you I even deserve.

I love the way you touched my thigh.  Your fingers just barely grazed it, as if sitting next to me was so natural you forgot I wasn’t a continuation of you.  I only wish your lips had followed.

Sometimes I imagine myself getting drowned deranged drunk and spilling my thoughts all over you, a slimy shower of emotion you would rub all over that ******* chest and your heart would pound so loudly veins would rip.  But then I snap back into reality when I bump into a pole.

You smell like Italy, summer, on the beach, with an ice cold fruity drink in my hand.  White white teeth, smiling around an orange wedge.

Whenever we talk I secretly reread our conversations and overanalyze and morph and mold them into the perfect love.  You and me.  I think you are pounding at the door ten flights down screaming my name.  But it’s just all the stupid drunk druggy college kids.

Am I a stupid drunk druggy college kid

To you?

I remember when you hit me in the foot with a door and I yelped “ow” and crouched to the ground. And you crouched down and said, “Are you okay?”  But you looked right into me, into my muddy eyes, and you were

Soooooooooooo thisthisthisthisthisthis close to me.

And I got angry.  And said, “Yeah, I’m fine, ****, calm down.”  Why did I do that?

I told you I have a bad memory.  I don’t.

Have you ever lied to me?

I’ve been writing so much all I can smell is the tangy bitter smell of ink.  And it’s sad that that’s the only sensation I’ll ever know when it comes to you.  

Unless you want ***.  And you might.  I could give myself too, let you use this mint-condition waterbag shell.  You could use me ‘till I wear down to bone and my organs look like rotten vegetables.  But it would **** me faster.

I will be your *******.  You can cheat on me and hate me.  And chew my nails.  Eat my skin.  You already set me on fire.  I’m just gonna burn out, anyway.

I want to look in the dictionary and write down every single word that belongs to you.

I want to write you suicide notes.

Every time I eat an apple, I think of the time you let me take a bite of your forbidden fruit.  And you bit right on top of my saliva and teeth marks.  Like nothing.

Because you are everything.  And I am everything else, nothing.

Soulmates.  So you say.  Why do you tease me?  You hang yourself right above me, a shiny, round, juicy, tender, tempting, sweet nectarine without a single bruise, just out of my reach.

I howl my rage at the moon every night, for tattooing your contagious inferno across my throbbing chest.

You make me cry.  Did you know that?  I cry into my pillow so it stifles my whimpers.  I sound like a choking, sputtering, snot-filled dog.  And I can never swim to the surface of the loneliness that is drowning me.

Sometimes, I just wanna ******* punch you.  And knock all your teeth out.  Stab you up the nose so the whole **** thing falls off in a gurgling, bubbling, ****** mess.  Because

Well I don’t know

You make me mad

But that made me think of you dying and the jolt that just went through my body was so searing I pray you’re immortal.

And I never pray.

I'm not taken aback by the beauty of the sun or moon.

But that's okay, at least I've learned in time that there are very little differences between objects labeled mine and days considered wasted time. Entitlement is a false concept paralleling a religious purgatory.

That's not the point anyways. I'm left with unbearable heat and a pool of thoughts best resembling some sort of molten pudding left out in the sun for weeks of stifling inattention.

Let it just be known that the smell was not my intention.

Regardless of what fills your nostrils ephemerally, keep in mind that this stench haunts me perpetually. It's apathy towards my sensitive skull stifles me. It's as if I was able to just shake off these shadow-inducing invaders like a bad habit. But no matter how much you try to **** a shadow, it's always there following you. Breathing on you. Casting oxygen upon your neck until there's nothing but sweat and fear left to expose.

With such an affinity to what darkness lies behind me, there are few words to authentically compose.

How can I continue? How can the beat stay in rhythm and my words stay in tune when I'm a butterfly stuck in a cocoon? If these hollowed walls could speak I bet they'd entertain the idea on meaningless entrapment.

Go now. My words for this horrid state of mind have run dry. They do nothing but mask themselves and then exponentially multiply.

So leave me for the beauty of the sun and the moon. I'll never wish anything more than a simple, concurrent release of everyone from his or her respective cocoon.

My friend published a book
of collected Scots Proverbs.
200 pages and more, filled
with countless ways of saying
"Don't show off."

And that precious wisdom,
generations in the making
percolated through smokey thatch
in dismal dripping glens,

Tattooed into tenement bricks
with the soot of dead industry,
added to the diet
with the excess salt and saturated fat,

Paving the roads
on which all ambition travels south,
And fizzing through the lager
on its way to the head

Now hangs around the kids
like the stink around an ashtray
and stifles any pride
they might invest in themselves.

They will pass it on
with their genes
and their endless disappointments,
despising anyone who rises
above the station
at which they are
eternally delayed.

little peach colored amphetamine
allows reality
to be a dream
uncertain if it prohibits meaning
or stifles raw creativity
it's hard to decipher when without it
there seems to be no purpose
no motivating factors
are present in its absence

naturalistic existence
e x t i n g u i s h e d
by addictive dependence

lacking attachment to actuality
solely pieces of speed can calm me

one day my turn will come
I will be freed of all that stifles
free with all others
in the blink of an eye
utterly changed to live eternally.

In 4 sonnets, by Sara L. Russell
(aka Pinky Andrexa) 2/6/03

I

A vampire's spun of dust and frailty,
Condemned to shun the healing light of day;
No innocent first kiss for such as he,
No cross to keep his own demons away.

He's poised in shadow, by the lady's bed,
Fixated by her flawless, youthful skin,
Her fragile throat beneath her dreaming head,
Translucent, showing pale blue veins within.

"And will I lift the curtain of thy hair,
And on thy pale white *****, stoop to feed?
If thou wakest to find me sleeping there
Would there be retribution for my greed?"

She does not hear his whispered litany.
He stoops to feed, in silent ecstasy.


II

Her blood intoxicates him right away.
His head is reeling; he is feeling strange.
She's tasted claret earlier that day,
Surfiet of wine has caused her blood to change.

Inebriated now, he starts to yawn,
As gently, like a cradle, the room sways.
He's mindful he must not linger till dawn,
Yet down he lies and, dozing, there he stays.

Wild dreams of parties fill his sozzled mind:
Of sanguinary crimes, of flying free,
Of hanging upside down with his own kind,
In places that the sun will never see.

As if thrown from a lofty height, he lies.
Beside him, she has opened her blue eyes.


III

The lady does not turn her drowsy head
At first, but when she does, stifles a cry.
The ashen youth beside her appears dead,
With bloodied lips; until he seems to sigh,

Whereon his mouth curves into a half-smile,
His wanton eyebrows flicker as he dreams.
She settles down to watch him for a while,
How very dark and dangerous he seems!

"And will I lift the curtain of thy hair
And on thy handsome throat, alight to feed?
If thou wakest to find me lying there,
Wouldst thou be angry, or rejoice to bleed?"

Did I say that? She wonders, feeling odd,
She gives her new sharp canine teeth a ****.


IV

He wakes, looks up - and she is looking down.
Her wide blue eyes betray none of her fears.
He stares at her, his hand raised to his crown
(He's not had such a hangover for years).

Gaze locks to gaze; they cannot turn away,
He falls into her eyes, she into his,
Then there is nothing left to do or say
Until they have exchanged a tender kiss.

Now comes her father, thumping up the stairs,
The vampire turns, in dreamy half-surprise,
Lifting her up, and, overturning chairs,
Leaps to the window sill; fire in his eyes.

"You're mine now, little one"  She hears him say.
One more leap - and she's spirited away.

Like the V shaped pattern
of wake lines
behind a boat
the angle
between us
has stretched out far
The two arms of a chevron
have been forced
to let go
and I dream of the vertex
all of the time
When you are not the woman
of anyone’s dreams
Fridays become best
for cleaning
and folding
clothes
from three months ago
They become best
for dreaming
incognito
of serving
a man’s conscience
in bed for breakfast
It is the type of silence
that has carved the ******
back into my body
It’s left the fingers
searching
for what stifles
the neck
I comfort
my *******
pressing hard
on the button
below the belly
Until I am a sour fox
without blood
And what good is that rug
than to wipe your feet on
Stationary
I’m dead and
Swaying
like a rocking chair
in my bed
And for the love of god,
I cannot soothe
the cry after I
******

Soft yellow petals paint the earth, falling like tiny feathers back and forth in a cradling fashion and settling quietly into the dirt. A small figure howls his lamentations. He leans over the earth pounding his fists against the open ground. A vacant face with almost ape like features seems to be silently sleeping. Grunts of sorrow fill the mournful morning sky.

The small man-beast cries. Behind him tiny fingers clutch his light brown matted hair, muffled sobs slipping from their tiny mouths. He turns, cradling the younglings in his arms; then tightens his embrace, smothering their pain with his till there is a small sense of comfort left.

     A flaming arrow soars above a shimmering pool of water, whistling at its own reflection as it seeks its target. He floats gently in the pond a stark contrast from his own life. Once warrior now rotting corpse. Sword ceremoniously placed upon his chest; arms crossed. The flaming arrow falls. The body is consumed. In the distance a tribe stands stoically holding in tears of sorrow mixed with a tense sense of pride.

     Somewhere in the stone city a poets sings his sad rhymes, echoing the love of a stranger, the wrinkled form now fallen. The people pass in a small procession. He lets their soft sobs fill him up. A young man hands him a coin in gratitude for the melody and the honorable words then walks away his shoulders heavy with grief. His body sags as if the gravity has been multiplied by ten. A little girl sniffs the dry dusty air taking in the oils and perfumes, waiting to see if Hades shows up. The poets passes the newly earned coin to a starving stranger sitting quietly nearby.

Deep south a disfigured body dances in the breeze, swaying in time with the leaves of the tree. A mother wails; she is restrained. Her body, hardened by years of labor, crumbles for a moment. Her brown skin moistened by tears glimmers in the days harsh rays. Shaking with anguish, she struggles against the strength of those she loves. A male voice warns her against the dangers of trying to recover the body. Even so, it takes two grown men to hold her back.

A robed figure stifles his sorrow beneath the strong veil of faith. The restraint takes much of his mental strength leaving him emotionally fatigued. There is a small body laying limply in his arms. Blood paints his loose flowing robes red. His beard is sticky with sweat, sand, and snot. The face of the child is ruptured. That which once enraptured and inspired fatherly love now terrifies. The reality is a massive wound paralleled by the sickening hole in his child’s face. Brittle bone broken and bent sinking inwards as what should be there disappears. All that is left is a mess of flesh and pain. Barely a foot away one brother softly whispers his prayers to Allah on behalf of his nephew.

I close the eyes of my grandfather, or at least I imagine that I close his eyes. I do not have the strength to touch him. I do not know why. I want to pay him some grand respect out of love and gratitude. The guns sound a salute as strangers honor him more than I am able to. A folded flag finds its way into my arms. I am merely holding it for another. I look at my shirt, a weird black button up thing with short sleeves and flames, wishing I had worn something better. I wish I had a poem, or petals, or even a flaming arrow but all I have is this stupidly stunned face numbly staring out at the world.

Suddenly, I feel the softness of tiny furry fingers interlace with mine. Then the music of a foreign language plays in my ears. To the left, a strong brown calloused hand squeezes my shoulder in a statement of compassion. Behind me I feel the pat a powerful palms slapping against my back in pride. In front of me a thin skinned black bearded figure sits on his knees. He lowers his head, hands gently pressing against the ground. He prays, and I hear a beautiful accent in a tongue I cannot comprehend, but I understand the intent. Then the bearded stranger raises his head again, repeating the process a few more time. I nod my head in solemn gratitude.

Unfortunately you are not for everyone. Not everyone will like you. Not everyone will love you regardless of what you do and how nice of a person you are. Not everyone will vibe with your energy and not everyone will understand and support you.

Even though it is a bitter pill to swallow at times don't let it make a turmoil of your emotion and deplete your energy. Because your time and energy is so much more precious than exhausting yourself by shapeshifting to pander to the whims of others, moulding yourself to fit in every where and hence retaining no shape to call your own.

Choose not to sacrifice your uniqueness to succumb buttering up their bread. To Be selective with your energy by politely waving them goodbye to stand by your values and lifestyles that most deeply resonate with you. Choose to take social risks regardless of the awkward glances and haughty whispers. Choose to not care of what others think to the point it stifles your ability to take risks and disrupt your social satisfaction.

For there is nothing more liberating than to not waste your life allowing the faultfinders to dictate your actions. To seek to align your actions with your heart. To stand up for something, to do and believe what brings  content regardless of it being disliked. It is beautifully candor being your authentic self.

Some think that a well thought out compliment
Is the best gift to give me.
What they don't know is that it stifles me,
Buries me under yet another layer of self doubt,
Wondering yet again, “What if I fail them?”
What if I'm just a fake, a fraud?
What if suddenly I wasn't so amazing, so perfect?
I love to be treasured,
But what happens when everyone
Finds out I'm just fool's gold?

Constant beeping

Stifles many's sleeping



Get up! Time to go!

Don't be late for work!

Even arriving a minute tardy,

Makes the boss berserk.



Suit, check

Briefcase, yes

Clamor on to the bus

Cup of Joe, got it

Manila folder, find it!

Gee, the boss'll make a fuss



When you think you're in the clear,

Uh oh... rush hour is here!

Stuck behind a geezer, ******!

Acceleration pedal, jam it!



8:01...

Oh hell, you're done.

Hand lacerations
Are absolutely no fun.
Especially when on
The dominant hand
But somehow the slash
In *******,
The spread of pink in dishwater
The dark red welling up
And spilling over
Somehow through the
Majority of calm after a
Brief freak-out
Somehow this stifles my
Desire to mutilate
This horrendous lust that
I do not want and
Barely can control
So now my handwriting
*****, my fingers hurt,
These cuts are a nuisance
But my repugnant hunger
Has been tamed...
What's wrong with me?!

What is this hold upon me?
It constricts and stifles every thought that appears,
with a chloroform rag drenched in discontent
Mild perfectionism, if such a thing, and procrastination leave me
frequently wondering where the time went

The questions I ask myself repeatedly
never receive answers with credibility
A rhythm with no rhyme; a melody in offset time
A misty meaning behind glossy eyes
that I’ve tied together with endless lines
of verbose attempts to explain my mind

No feeling is palpable, no imagery fabricated
Only an idea of what could be,
of what I cannot grasp,
and what I cannot convey

So I’m left with this clouded mind
jostled by ambivalence
(this word ceases to elude me)
on a maladjusted playground,
teetering and tottering on the fine edge
of sanity in this bleak reality

caught in a trap
i look for an escape

it stifles me
it binds me
it does not let me speak

i'll break free though
i know its weaknesses

the trap is love
and the key to open it

is love itself
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
02/08/2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

Panic stifles, suffocates.

My throat feels dry; a clump,
that brings disquiet in,
sticks there like a hull, a twig,
and moves its sharper edges
along my trembling soft insides.

"Get out!"
I would scream,
"Get out, worries and my fears.
Remain, serene feeling."

Save me from this ailing sudate disdain
To pursue an oath to ordain,
Crimson dark stains yet uncertain.
Beneath a soul’s secret door to obtain
Pure pardon from this wretched torment and pain,
The sickening impudence…an implication!
Yet I try that Grace, Harmony and Love may win,
What am i…but a travailing mortal machine
Taking flight from this mundane plight to become even.
I plead that this conscious with mildness can reckon
In awe I cry out…
“Please don’t forsake me divine Logos”
In dilapidated pieces without price am torn
Helpless and lost behind the aisle,
Not more than an infantile person
Searching for a comfy path back home,
Sad but at times to admit the autism awoken.
In solitary at the center of crossroads
Were do I turn to run?
My heart so weak and slain without feign.
I have judged without concern
To satisfy an ego unknown,
On my stifles I now implore of the Passion
That she may patch-up for a peaceable Parturition.

Down the burrow,
the bells do toll
when the fox has passed,
as the orange stain fades
and the ***** of tomorrow still stifles
the tendril of today.

When I was small
a half martyred critic sowed
the seed, laid waste as a garden grew
invasive purple

and I smiled.

Beneath skin, a tyrant reigns
the royal mouth of seasons, changing.

Eden was a bag of bones,
dust to claim the ruse of divinity.
Don't tell, do tell
when children grow, a ****
flourishes, insanity!  Insanity!

Hear, they're
there, here,
flows a ready current and the sun sleeps,
lightening in the night--
When the tail of today is swallowed

a soil paunch, down the belly,
am I killing time
or is it killing me?

What pretty words flow,
From carpel tunnel hands!
Fingers click clock on keyboards,
Time sifting like sugar.

Creativity ebbs and flows--
Like the gentle rock
Of cerulean tide,
Lulling soul after soul to sleep.

The smell of arabica,
And chicory soup
Stifles surreptitiously--
(Twentyfourseven)

With admiring eyes
I glance down at the stark white background--
My bones ache for the lush black ink
To be my own words!

But until then I'll sit at the bottom
Of this empty poetry well,
Chain smoking and longing
To be on that **** front page.

The evening seems to sing,
Choirs composed by currents
In obscure keys of humidity.
A lone songbird takes the lead,
Percussion provides ensemble trees.
While the very air we need to breathe
Suffocates, stifles, tries, and succeeds
To bleed the breath from laden lungs.
Throat pleads, begs, and bargains
To demi-gods and heathens,
Deities and demons,
Every creature beneath this sun.
Let this molten grip
Slip
If just for a note,
A beat,
A pause from the pressure.

Silence is a treasure
To be savoured not measured.
Sweet cadence of relief.

This house doesn't need ghosts to scare anyone
The walls take sanity for fun
They'll hex you with whispers in tongue
Arrive with confidence - leave with none
The longer you stay, the further undone
The air stifles, it thickens and numbs
It weighs down on you like tons
Constricting every cell, it stuns
Skeletons in these closets tote guns
Heat comes at you like fire from the mouth of dragons
I mean heat like blaze of a million suns
All the while, your mind weakens and maddens
This house kills souls like it's a soul assassin
A suffering only the wicked can fathom

She takes a half a century
To ready up to go;
He stamps his feet and grumbles...
Then stifles, 'cause he knows
She's faithful...
Faithfully she loves;
Faithfully she's true;
It's a better life to love
A girl who's always slow...
Contentment comes
To those who know...
Faithfulness.
===================
Always she is ready,
Looking mighty fine...
With her, life is heady
Roses, ***, and wine,
But still he's feeling low...
With him or not, her heart's not true,
And every man is game.
Always empty, wanting more,
She paws the door and wears the floor...
Faithlessness.
--------------------------------------
He­ hangs his head these lonely days
She's gone to greener grass,
Because his penchant kept his eyes
On making one more pass,
"A little candy before lunch,"
He liked to joke around,
No woman ever felt it safe,
To let her guarding down.
Meanwhile his wife waits up at home,
While he is working late.
So sadly married to a man who roams
Breaking vows and tempting fate.
=========================
He's tired and he's growing old
A little stooped and bent,
His hair's receding now, and gray,
His working days are almost spent,
And yet she knows he's done his best...
He's fought his battles, nearly lost a few,
But found his love held faithful, true,
And so she holds his hand and stays
Faithful to her man and loves him, too.
The comfort these two know in later days,
The quiet peace of coming home to stay,
Are interest and dividends,
The priceless benefits she pays...
Faithfulness.

This happy mind
Set high up in the sky
An elevation conquered through such smiles
These well-embarked nights
Too sweet like sugared lime
We're gallivanting urban streets for miles

This life is gold
Wrapped memories in foil
To save, refrigerate, and sit and wonder
Street light, lightning poles
Electrified shoe soles
Northbound on a bridge, we stand and ponder

This city street
The trees have lost their leaves
But warm food paired with milkshakes stifles chills
Each touch ignites the breeze
Bad jokes, good laughs with ease
Casting spells unknown through each unopened thrill

Poem a day, day 12*

Heat radiates through me.
the heat of summer
The heat of an unventilated apartment
The heat of passion

And I love it
And I hate it
The powerful burning
Intense and overwhelming

the strength of the heat excites me.
No release from it exhausts me.
But if I had to choose
I would choose the heat.

It stifles the mind
and intensifies the body
Enhancing every sensation
Making me aware of every part of me.

Rather overwhelming heat
Than cold death
Where sensation is drained
As your body goes numb.

In this heat I am truly in my body
I honour it as I search for relief
Trying to escape it and revel in it
At the same time

But it's ok
The heat will come again.

I cannot stand it, it weakens my core, it stifles my breath

The thought of him, forcing himself inside you

Making you whimper, unutterable sounds

Your unconditional complicity a gift, a given

Your abandon knowing no bounds

My manhood shriven

While I have dropped off the edge of your world

Your shapely limbs around him furled

And he, firmer, faster, harder, smarter, younger

Scoops up your jewels and riches with ardent hands

And hungry tongues, to burst your lungs

And all you can eats from your smouldering smorgasbord

And I don’t know him, nor where he lives

But I know he lives

And dies, and dies again in your scented garden….