Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
mark john junor Sep 2014
her rigorous objections
are herded slowly down the sheep trail
by studious pencil thin men with stylish mustache's
who have deep pocket pickers for friends
they gather round the weak willed and the willing alike
looking for cheap thrills and spare change
everybody needs a new road
when the old one seems to never end

but she with eyes cast down
mumbles her unappeased desires
as she shuffles a little closer to the truth as she sees it
she has it all written out in secret languages
she has books filled with life's coded thoughts as she see's them
barn burners and dare devils grace the cover of her latest creation
self titled to her own romantic name
she is stylized in her own way
so she adores the pencil thin men
with their dashing devil may care good looks

i wrote her a letter yesterday
full of stories from the great highway
full of chipper go getters and the glum go gotten
she is a forever stone on a necklace
she is a moonstone on a bracelet
she is graceful when it counts and
thats more than enough for me

the pencil thin moustache men
come to conquer the all night diners
in the small shoreline towns
but slink away in dawns first light
with stolen smiles and borrowed kisses
that they promise profusely to return tomorrow
but never do
such is the romantic night by her side
such is the wonder-wheel days of our
journey on the great highway
JM Romig Jun 2013
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will be live-*

The revelation will be streaming through your Windows
laptops and smartphones.
The revolution will be blogged
Tweeted, liked, shared, RE-blogged RE-tweeted
and Stumbled Upon in between
midnight ******* sessions
sandwiched between funny cat memes.

The resolution will be HD.
It's evolution will be high speed.
The whistles will be blown at with frequency.
The revolution will be commented on;
Scrutinized.
Vandalized.
Scandalized.
Stylized and advertized.
People will pay attention -
People will forget to mention
that some stand up, occupy, riot
and die.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution be streaming live
through the filter of your choice.
The facts will be democratized.
The democracy will be corporatized.
The corporations will personified.
People, objectified -
Spied on and villainized  
The powers that be will will lie, deny, and try to justify.
The people will be disenfranchised.
Prisons will be privatized.
Death drones will be utilized.

No one will bat an eye.
Because revolution will be multiplied, over-simplified,
The violence, normalized.
Lives, sacrificed
to satiate the Golden Calf's appetite.

The revolution will not be televised
but Jerry Springer will...
Go figure.
She took off her dress. She had long black hair, a pale face, slanted
green eyes, greener than the sea. She was beautifully formed, with high
*******, long legs, a stylized body. She knew how to swim better than any
other woman on the island. She slid into the water and began her long easy
strokes towards Evelyn.*
Anais Nin, Mallorca

Letter from Anais Nin To Sean


Every stroke is like the foundation
of Adam you pound and twist.
Make your **** shift from inner
to outer space. That way when you lift
you are not empty, while the air
above your *** has a crisp outline
--movements down inner thigh
easy to sway, a lilt almost, dark
reservoir where you are satisfied
before it happens, as you wait
anticipating that several blink.


Letter from Sean to Anais

When i kiss, my lips are tender and nibble
and my breath sweet can be heard in
that autumn forest as a river runs
down your spine; you are a mouth that licks
the back of my hand nibbling on my fingers
while I find the crease of your *****
and liberate the edges. You're a lovely,
fertile reef where impossible swans
hold my **** within the fireworks
spoken as light storms remember
the reflected grace of your mouth
and eyes when we stare into that abyss
that never stops so wonderful ***
rides our back to an ancient sea
forgotten when the tide pools break.


2. Anais

She had long black hair and when she spoke
the hair covered her eyes, and you cleared them
by brushing the strands back, slipping your ideal
into her mouth, her long legs drawn against your
anticipation of some deep distress when you finish
later, a great shark of a ship hunting the strokes,
spliting the pearl clam open with your
simple breathing foaming hurricanes,
when they reach half-way suddenly still --
the anchor falls through the splash
raging down our street released
to an undetermined depth.
"Wagons East (1994) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0111653/ Internet Movie Database Rating: 4.7/10 - ‎3,545 votes (stylized onscreen as ‘Wagons East’) is a 1994 western comedy film directed by Peter Markleand starring John Candy and Richard Lewis. The film marked one of Candy's last film appearances although it was not his last film release. His last film, Canadian Bacon which he had completed before “Wagons East,” had a delayed release in 1995. The film was notable for its leading actor Candy dying of a heart attack during the final days of the film's production. A stand-in and special effects were used to complete his remaining scenes and it released five months after his death."

And it’s Wagons East!
John Candy’s last mega-bomb,
Released 5 months postmortem.
Alas, even the sympathy vote stayed home,
Reject the we-owe-it-to-him-for
“Planes, Trains & Automobiles”(1987, IMDB).
The role, like money in the bank,
Earning diminishing returns,
Yielding interest but losing value over time.
The myth of INTEREST:
Das Capital, 2015.
The Prime is at 0%,
Yet, Inflation soars at, well,
At inflationary rates,
Digit-pounding inflation,
Higher food & shelter prices,
Masked ever so cleverly,
So deftly obscured by benevolent gasoline prices.

“Planes, Trains & Automobiles” (1987, IMDB)
Meet Del Griffith,
An obnoxious slob,
A complete schlemiel
(Also shle·miel (shlə-mēl′),
A serene shower curtain ring
Salesman and tour de force.
A film illustrative of everything
We love about farce,
(Merci beaucoup, Molière!)
And love about any
John Hughes/Steve Martin collaboration.

Needless to say,
I watched “Wagons East”
On TV the other day.
It was ten o’clock in the morning.
Will-o'-wisping in the ashtray,
Smoke from my first joint of the day.
The ashtray, a mosh pit carbonara--
Actually, an inverted exoskeleton dome--
One of dem big muthas,
I once free-dived for,
Offshore Mendocino Coast,
Back in the day,
Back when THE FRENCH LAUNDRY . . .
(The French Laundry: Thomas Keller Restaurant Group, www.thomaskeller.com. Chef Thomas Keller visited Yountville, California in the early 1990's on a quest for a space to fulfill a longtime culinary dream: to establish a destination for fine --314 Google reviews · Write a review 6640 Washington St, Yountville, CA 94533 (707) 944-2380. Daily Menus - ‎Make a Reservation - ‎Restaurant)
Back when THE FRENCH LAUNDRY
Paid beaucoup bucks for
Well-tenderized,
Sledge hammered slabs of illegal,
Black Market abalone.
Most assuredly, I digress.

So where else would I be?
My laptop was open & willing,
Legs spread, wet and waiting for
Whatever comes what may.
What came was a film
Earning pitch perfect
Dramatic chops for Candy.
We owe you, Del.
We owe you for this Anthem:
“You wanna hurt me? Go right ahead if it makes you feel any better. I'm an easy target. Yeah, you're right, I talk too much. I also listen too much. I could be a cold-hearted cynic like you . . . but I don't like to hurt people's feelings. Well, you think what you want about me; I'm not changing. I like . . . I like me. My wife likes me. My customers like me. Cause I'm the real article. What you see is what you get.”
But that was then,
This is now.
Wagons East:
A disastrous ****** bomb.
A vapid character jambalaya:
(1) A defrocked doctor
(2) A sagebrush *****.
(3) A queer book vendor.
(4) A Donner Party Survivor
Sounds can’t miss, right?
Or was it a classic Broadway/Hollywood sting?
Redux: “Spring Time for ******.”
N'est-ce pas?
Four *******
Heading east by wagon train;
Giving up on The West,
Heading east for Saint Louie,
Where freaks & geeks go undercover.
Down go their guards.
Camouflaging the chimera,
Transits the urban Wasteland,
Vast & nasty, as it were.

St. Louis, Missouri:
A much more tolerant
Hideout place.
THE WEST:
Just too much of
A hassle, I guess,
Too much for one’s
Flat-lined human mind,
Bored too shitless by
Buffalo turds to venture thought.
THE WEST:
Neorealismo italiano.
Complete Jolting-Joe reality,
A veritable wake-up call
Devouring any & all
Residual romantic fantasies . . .
THE WEST:
Struggle & Drudge,
Life lived west of the Mississippi.

Rangeland Romances #9 Go West For Your Man! Kindle (www.amazon.com) Books Literature & Fiction Amazon.com, Inc. Start reading Rangeland Romances #9 Go West For Your Man! Get the free Kindle Reading App or read on your Kindle in under a minute. Don't have a Kindle? www.amazon.com

That’s right: another advertisement,
Smack dab in the middle of
Of the ******* poem!
My invention, by the by,
Putting herein another plug for
A preferred memorial gravesite,
The Shrine To Me!
Situated in Scituate,
(Always wanted to say that.)
Scituate MA (www.scituatema.gov)
Knowing my kryptonite crypt,
My not-marble-nor-gilded
Princely-monument,
Had no chance to outlive
This fakakta rhyme scheme . . .
The Shrine To Me!
My final resting place:
My very tony, exclusive
Sub Zip Code?
The South Transept
Westminster Abbey
The so-called Poets’ Corner,
Of course!

Which brings me to my true purpose:
My true intentions for you this morning?
To publicize the strange Case of
CHARLES ROCKET:
(Go ahead, ******* Google him!)
“Charlie Rocket, found dead in a field near
His Connecticut home on October 7, 2005,
His throat had been cut.
He was 56 years old.
The state medical examiner
Later ruled the death a suicide.”
And if you believe the Coroner,
A Medicine Man &
Master of Self-Interest;
If you give that sharp-dealing,
Proverbial Connecticut Yankee his due,
Then you will probably also think
That millionaire Robert Durst
Didn’t **** Susan Berman,
Even as we see him
Getting away with ******.
Again.
toywill Aug 2013
Profile:
Yuwen Chengdu is the son of Yuwen Huaji, who was a general of the Sui dynasty. He is a warrior of Sui, only secondary to Li Yuanba, who is naturally super powerful. As recorded, he was as tall as ten feet with strong waist and body. In the appearance of golden face, long beard and thick eyebrow, he often hold a weapon as heavy as 350 pounds.

Introduction of ****** makeup:
****** makeup, or Lian Pu, refers to ****** designs for Jing and Chou roles. It originated from daily life experience, describing such changes of expression as white for fear, red for shyness, dark for suntan, and sallow for illness. Most ****** designs attach great importance to the eyes.  The ****** designs for the Jing roles are made by painting, powdering and coloring in the basic forms of Zheng Lian (keeping the basic face pattern), San Kuai Wa Lian (three-section face) and Sui Lian (fragmentary face). These types are widely used to represent generals, officials, heroes, gods and ghosts. The Chou actors can be recognized by the patch of white in various shapes painted around the eyes and nose. Sometimes these patches are outlined in black, hence the term Xiao Hua Lian (partly painted face). The Chou roles fall into the following two categories: Wen Chou and Wu Chou.

Features:
****** makeup bears three main characteristics. Firstly, it is the unity and contradiction of beauty and ugliness. Secondly, it is closely related to the personality of the characters. Lastly, the patterns are stylized.

Beijing opera is one of the most popular drama widely welcomed and loved, no matter home and abroad. It is now acknowledged as a sign of Chinese traditional culture. The photos of ****** mask can be found on large buildings, product packages, various porcelains and clothes. It has gone beyond the stage, from which we can see the deep influence of ****** makeup. More and more foreigners have interest in it and begin to explore the secret of ****** makeup.

http://www.toywill.com
softcomponent Feb 2015
What made Anthony so elaborately cold in those early autumn months? What made him glare so sourly at my exhaustion whenever I slithered past his adonis figure in our overwhelmingly ***** kitchen? Was I the quintessence of a terrible roommate? Irresponsible? Ditzy? Was the kitchen—in its pig-trough pig-sty bacon-grease glory—tacitly my fault, despite the observation it'd been I who had purged the mess last? Or was it my drug habits and the fact that on the night Anthony returned from his impulsive trip to Alaska, I was with Chris—blasting Bob Dylan and the Tallest Man on Earth—cradling my chin on the jean-sand islands of my cramping knees, high as a shuttle in the ketamine nebula? These were all questions that stoked the fires of internal doubt whether I liked it or not. People pretend to talk themselves out of status anxiety as if it were possible to entirely neutralize such a natural reaction—as if it were possible not to wonder what earned such irrational disfavor in the eyes of another. Especially when “another” is a roommate, an almost omnipotent staple in day to day life even if efforts are taken to ignore or avoid—a constant weave of growing atmospheric pressure and a pang of anxiety at the sight of his shoes or the sound of his grunts and clangs while at work on a meal in the kitchen—of course, as is obvious, I can take things far too personally. But there were points in which his silence or indifference would scare me—as if he might've wound up a psychopath and broke my neck in a fit of overboiled passive-aggression.
To be fair and give the reader a clearer picture of Anthony, he had—historically—been an incredibly generous fellow and a relatively close friend long before we approached one another on the idea of potential roommates. He was large in build—not overweight in any sense—but incredibly fit with an active agenda to exercise and eat right, both habits of which I had never had the stamina to maintain. Girls loved him. Physically, he was gorgeous—puffy curled hair deliberately stylized into a modern European pompadour; dark hazel eyes with a constantly evolving dynamism in the way they gazed... and a masculine stubble that seemed to naturally grow-out to look as posh as David Beckham, just without all the effort and pomp. Mentally, he was the perfect synthesis of adorable geek, thoughtful philosopher, and strikingly suave, dapper, athletic, and goofy 'good-guy'—he was always out with his friends or at home reading Terry Goodkind's fantasy novels, and on occasion I would see that his looks were almost burdensome to him. As if they were a superfluous gift and a personal curse—constantly forcing him into social over-exertion as an extrovert when he, at heart, was a closet introvert unable to disentangle his self-reflective image from his internal reality. As if he were unable to process the amount of attention he received.
I had tacitly wondered, at times, if he was also in-the-closet regarding something else as well, though I had always admired his effeminate qualities and mannerisms as he never once hinted at a negative self-consciousness about their strange manifestations in open view of the world. Externally, at least, he never acted like they were problems or indicative of some internal lack of found-definition, even on the comical occasion when I walked in on him bathing on his lonesome, quietly listening to Miley Cyrus and playing with a troupe of three rubber duckies—the bathroom light off and several candles burning in aesthetically strategic corners of the room. He also constantly brewed tea using an adorable teapot designed to look like an elephants head, with the hot liquid pouring from the Disney-like characters trunk. This—I reflected—was most certainly connected to his love for the 1941 children's classic, Dumbo. It was a movie he and I held in common, having watched it together on multiple occasions before our cohabiting turned sour. Of course, what was most indicative of this private wandering judgement of mine was the fact that he worked at the city's only gay bar as the youngest bartender employed. At 1 AM every night, all the bartenders (whom were pre-screened eye candy for the patrons' sake) would peel off their skin-tight neon tops and romp around shirtless, shouting last-call through the bright-eyed frey of top 40 hits and cannonading flirtations.  
Not that I wish to put him under the microscope, as if any feminine qualities in a man were something strange or problematic to me—nor do I wish to study his mannerisms like a condescending anthropologist of imperial Britain, establishing pathological definitions for what was never an illness to begin with. No... I ask these questions because he decided, one day, that he didn't like me. I ask these questions because I came upon him in the living room multiple times listening to Alan Watts's lectures on taoism—a strange anxious-emptiness behind his eyes—and when I began to worry he was dipping into some sort of existential depression, I approached him with an Alan Watts book—The Wisdom of Insecurity—in order to make a recommendation and strike up therapeutic conversation on the basis of  a philosopher we had in common. As I did so, he would frantically nod and avert eye-contact, hiding any perturbation well enough for me to assume he was still with me as I spoke. I later found the book on top of the fridge and placed it back on my shelf thinking, 'he probably has a ton to read as is.' It only became apparent when I finally decided to ask him if he was unhappy with me—this was about 2 weeks before he finally moved out—and he responded with, “I've definitely been annoyed that you use my stuff and eat my food all the time without compensation or asking,” which I understood at first until I realized I only did so because he did the same—constantly eating my cereal, using my milk, reorganizing my couches in the living room—but I didn't mind because I assumed it was a reciprocal arrangement and thus took his eggs and his bacon on the assumption (and belief) in pooled communal resources. But he continued: “And you talk at me all the time about things I have no interest in which is kinda frustrating,” which confused me even further when it was only friendly concern I was tacitly attempting to translate into his feeling wanted and liked by the person he lived with. These words, in the end, released the built-tension between us like a bursting pressure valve. He eventually apologized for how he'd behaved, and then largely disappeared from my life.

Sometimes I'll be brushing my teeth, and I'll wonder if he's doing alright. I'll wonder if he found his taoist balance in either silence or speech.
originally written as a personal assignment for my Creative Nonfiction class.
Marla Apr 2019
Charming and quaint,
These monuments to
Stylized antiquity sit
Parallel a seashore.
Cars of forgotten pasts
Line their facades,
Defending them from
The sea's subdued gaze.

On the streets below,
A crowd as energetic
As the stars themselves
Becomes one with their nature.
Not a beat is skipped,
These pretty pastels
Make the world as
It should be:
In a state of colorful glee.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2023
The Doctor has a Sense of Humor!

<|>

give a surgeon a scalpel
and an excuse,
and the artist emerges,
for creativity is a good surgeon’s
natural habitat

Sure, sure, there’s a plan,
with best and acceptable outcomes,
but when messing with a real heart,
a sly *****, with numerous deceptive guises
at its disposal, you never for sure never know,
despite all the advanced imaging techniques,
exactly
what you will find once you go
spelunking
in caves of life and death

so, he takes a bit from here,
and a bob or two from there,
there a cut, here an incision deep,
Old McDonald provided a body,
or a canvas, and the Doc
is happy.

So I uncover holes where he
probed, redeploying the healthy,
like a good designer, Doc rearranges
and repairs, a travelogue of splicing and dicing,
his handiwork

Now standing over you for many hours,
can get tiring, though each ***** be
different, unique even, but leaving
a little marker, a stylized signature,
is well, is the rightful discretion of the artiste!

So you can imagine my surprise
when the tubes removed (ouch!)
the bandages ripped off in a
signature move of a delighted nurse whose
loves seeing grown men cry from lesser trivialities,
you cannot imagine my surprise
when I discovered my new tattoo,
upon my chest front and center!

Herein please find your heart repaired,
and revitalized:

Please Note!
We guarantee our work for minimum 15 years
(Aug. 3, 2038),
but our disclaimer
we assume NO  responsibility after that
if you should
happen to live for 30 YEARS or more


Dr. P.
I have a signed (by the Doc) heart-shaped pillow with
the surgical plan drawn on it
J T Gaut May 2012
Have you ever lost a staring contest
To a pen?
Its eyes stare and petrify
All my limbs
The only movement my body betrays
Is the panicked beating
Of my chest against the warm air

No hunt and no monster
Has ever brought me so close to my death
Fight, only another excuse
to guard myself, and hide within
the old, motherless womb
the steel framework of bones,
my ribs encase more than lungs

But this pen, allied with
The gruesome,  horrifying, smiling
Faces of the kind kinfolk
Has chased me to the corner
Brought chains and locks to furnish me
Like a window frame or a stylized vase

The only teeth I fear
To sink deeply within me
And spill my blood
A display to the world

Silly- I am called a grown man,
Yet what I fear most
Is a small plastic cylinder
Resting on a yellow pad
Written and read aloud at a poetry reading
Lyra Brown Jan 2014
you can find me in old picture frames, hidden
in a box at the bottom of your basement.
you can find me in telephone booths, scouring
my pockets to find the meaning of change.
you can find me in the font of signed birthday cards, stylized
and nonsensical.
you can find me in your ashtray, waiting
to be reborn.
you can find me at the bottom of your coffee cup, a sludge
of accumulated words that fell out of your mouth
each time you go in for another sip.
you can find me in the pages of your youth, smiling
at the illusion of time.
you can find me in the lyrics to each song
that come on in your car as you drive, alone at night
that make you think of how we were.
you can find me underneath the carpet, a stain
that refuses to come out no matter how hard you scrub.
you can find me at the beginning of your dream, camouflaged
with scenes of sirens, snakes and skeletons singing lullabies
that make you forget what you dreamt of when you finally awaken.
you can find me through the eyelet on your door, as i float
above your head the moment you consider opening it.
you can find me in every embrace, every kiss, every promise
you choose to let fade from your needle-pointed memory.
you can find me in your shoe, a rock
that makes each audacious step feel uncomfortable.
you can find me in the ditch, roadkill
that quickly passes you by as you mumble a
“what was that?” to no one in particular.
you can find me beneath the apologies you didn't mean
and the iloveyous you forgot to say.
you can find me amidst the scattered shards of glass
that scour the linoleum floor from the glass of water
that you dropped in a bout of thirst at midnight.
you can find me underneath your pillow case, whispering
reminders like sweet love songs for the self.
the pieces i have left are ripe and over-cooked,
i can only resign myself to the fact
that you may never choose
to look.
Keith Anderson Dec 2012
LOL
(This one is rough, wanted to try and write a poem tonight in one sitting.)

the unexamined life
is not worth
texting. Stop selling
your inadequacy, instagraming
packaged, processed, stylized
banality, like a ******
miming painting
to the long pedestrian
line at the Louvre.
emily webb May 2010
I found Jesus at the end of the street, up on steps moss-spotted green,
hung on stylized barbed wire sculpted oh-so-sincere.  Of all the things
to pass through my mind, the first is Martha Stewart’s favorite color
combination, its steel grey set against the mint green and beige of the
trailer across the street, alone between the trees.

   I.  Everything is green, even the skies, and it reminds me of you, and
   the blue of the night that ringed itself around yellow-orange
   streetlights.  When you’d walk me home, barefoot, and you’d give me
   what was too easy to be a hard time, with an air that I have failed to
   find in anyone else, and I’d always wonder, I still wonder, if you
   would let me know if I was hurting you.

   II.  And the road twists into chalky grey gravel in construction, and
   the dry dust fog that forms keeps my mouth shut.  It’s sand in my
   lungs or your ridicule in my ears.  And I knew a long time ago that I’d
   met someone who played this hate-game better, the way you lifted
   your eyebrows above your sunglasses.  But we were accomplices
   then, and now we’re just playing alone.  Even as your skin changed
   colors in the morning light, I could see the way you were changing the
   rules.

   III.  And I’ve always loved the way rows in fields unfolded
   themselves to their vanishing point when you looked at them rolling
   by at automobile speeds, and right in front of you is the part in the
   sea, a meticulous divide.  And maybe you are two people:  you are the
   person I came to believe existed, and you are the sterotype I tried
   not to see.  And maybe I am two people as well:  the one who laughs
   when you make your mistakes, and the one who wishes I hadn’t let
   you make them.  We are the same as those green rows:  one day we’ll
   be dead, dry, and cut to pieces.

Lots of houses are orange-yellow peach.  The real color of peach flesh,
bright and acidic, not the milky orange of your peach-flavored
whatever, or the pale pinkness of that crayon that Crayola was too
scared to name Caucasian, but an assaulting yellow, slightly less
aggressive than mango-orange.  The others are soft pink and off-white,
sometimes lazy cement colors.  But there are purple-and-white flowers
that cascade down the walls and over the fences in their May effort,
and it’s ironic to think how thankful I am for the masks of vines hiding
the ugly monotony.
triptych with prologue and epilogue
Dark n Beautiful Feb 2017
The memory of you comes in different shades of gray
Like the Caribbean Sea breeze that stylized your hair
Saturated stain on my pink satin sheets
That was the moment when we knew that
Those two souls could never be discreet

Uncertainties heavily laden on my heart,
It’s a strange and confusing time to depart
In you her DNA float like acid rain:
fogging your brain
years of turmoil and silent torment:

Here I am lamenting with you:
You recalled that day when your light turned blue
You said that it felt like love and hate moving toward the kiss of death
The moment of truth landed like a erupt volcano on your desk

A God-fearing man, a gentle soul
Years of searching for motherly love, so it was told
Only to find Low self-esteem and low-grade fatigue
Trust equal lust: led to a fraud for a wife.

You hide your sorrow in your smile,
******* is nothing but a slow dying disease

Mother of your child, a son whom you once adore
They both put locks on the front door.
Then there is that woman from his past,
Oh, how she saves him from the edge of madness:  

Court full of lawyers, a judge on the bench
Fire and brimstones, infinite punishment for finite sins
The sun might shine but the camera will not flash
Because of a daunted woman,
Whose feuds are too hot to defuse?

Oh, the mad woman of sea view
She made her bed, now she must lie on it
Brick stones are stronger that old boards
From now on the shower heads will turn cold, before the sun goes down
The mist off the ocean should stink like acid rain
Abomination on the lips of lying wife:

One day shall easily crack: when the
Truth shall reveal itself
ARR Nov 2010
We’re all just so clever, so tragically unbalanced
But I woke with a new kind of obsessive disturbance
I’m finally shutting up with all the pretentious little dialogues
I’m not special, I’m detached, burn down the inner monologue

This scene’s dead, this scene’s gone
there’s no enlightenment in store
This love’s dead, this love’s gone
Just leave me to rot with futile lore

I don’t belong to meaningful existence
I’m never coming back despite your persistence
Highly stylized poseurs, highly addictive pills
So glamorous, my life’s work will be cheap thrills

You write your ******* witticisms and poems to adorn
Crushed between pointless inner battles, constantly torn
Encircled by the same ******* unsolvable your entire life
Ok, you’re brilliant, but I’m free, but I’m going out tonight

And every night I sleep, my conscious becomes softer
And every morning I wake, I wake with nothing more to offer
So stare up into the stars, direct your profound scenes
I used to waste so many nights planning, wondering what it all means

Micro manage feelings while I succumb to blurry haze
Controlled by a constant pounding beat, sensuality ablaze
You’re too curious, too poetic, and far too intense
I’m living in a world ruled only by impulse, only by decadence  

Your burdened search for originality
You’re brilliant, but I’m free.
Sitting on the ottoman
That Ana made for me
Feeling early morning sun
With all my kitties three

Looking to my unknown friends
For their poetry and prose
Quietly just sitting here,
In this precious, rare repose.

These small moments gift themselves
For my  joy and reverie
An abundance there to fill my heart
Amid self calamity

Hurt, shoes and doubt, a cloak
A part of daily wear
But beneath the ***** garments
The joy of life is there

And so today I dress myself
In the peace of cotton white
cast off my stylized shoes and cloak
Button up this sunny light

And venture forth into the world
In no high fashion dressed
A humble and forgiving garb
Myself and others blessed
Tyler King Jun 2015
Planets align in the black of the emptiness before I drive back sixty miles an hour into the mouth of the storm to face the rain on my own terms
My sister's voice cracks the radio static in a haunting southern ballad as my brother's drunken affections get the best of him again
He takes his penance where it is due and so must I
And if this be thy will then I go before history with inkwell lips and kiss the lines of our memory onto the grayed out page,
I kneel at the feet of a misused culture and offer my humbled blood as sacrifice - take me for your poet and I shall serve my sentence in full
From the scraps of suicide notes I will cut a deeper manifest, and I'll be honest about it this time,
Of the rise and relapse let me preach candid and cutting, of the love and the rage let me speak grateful and true,
Give me the bent form and let me keep it free, give me the blessed spirit and let it keep me warm
Give me the final movement and let it **** me, as I know it will someday
Keep a locket of my ashes for luck,
And do with the rest as you please
I am humble servant to the human soul,
Just let me rest when I am done
And allow me this, a humble prayer-
Blessed be the madmen, deformed seekers for a deformed truth,
Holy Crosen Holy Williams Holy King Holy as the bughouse patron saint on a throne soaked in red wine and deep rooted hatred
as the blondehairedredblooded fury of fire made flesh
as the ***** haired waste inhaling spirits by the dozen
Watching the slow death of the mind in star spangled entropy, as a nation weeps its forgotten angels
Serotonin drought to misfired synapse meltdown
To end times propaganda on the evening news
Wake the dead in the streets and do not ask them for mercy
Blessed be the wicked, castraters of moralities grown weak,
Holy Creager Holy Dahmer Holy Gacy Holy as the evil woken in the black soul of the tyrant
as the unmemorialized graves of the systematic slaughterhouse
as the twentyfourhourtwentyfourhourtwentyfourhour news coverage seven days a week year ******* round
Burning the ghettos and taking to the airwaves with implacable outrage at the stylized fall of the West, The South cannot even lift its arms up to hold a weapon let alone rise again

Blessed be the fire with nowhere to burn but within
Blessed be the prophets powerless in their pulpits, and you may count my shaken voice among the paralyzed
Blessed be the ****** engineers of this brutal destiny -
This is all we know to do,
May we do the best we can with it
Amen
I'll add to this later probably eh
J T Gaut May 2012
The horns ring and the bells chime
Room in the lists for no pantomime
Lads atop boney old nags
Stylized of coursers
Of course and manner
Leading the charge, yet fields behind
In all courage, hair flying
Without fear and without crying
Under hoof and boot, to carry forth
Towards lands of unending fame
Yet how quickly the arrow flies
To make his mount lame
And familiarize his clear face
With the dirt, fear and famine
Hidden so plainly within his race
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2017
~
for T.M.R.
~

We find our poems in many different ways.  Of late,
I keep finding inspiration in the public and private messages that many of you send to me, regarding poems I choose to publish here.

So I repeat my disclaimer,
"any message you send, can and will be used as a poem."

~

instant recognition at levels so deep within,
what are the odds, given the enormous differentials,
that the kin in kindred, would blossom across two lives,
where the oppositional factoids are exceptional

as if seeded in the fertile soil of the blank spaces,
between each of our poem's words and verses,
there secreted for each other, but gleaming visible
for all to see and uncover, even join in,
uncovering semi-hidden insertions and assertions of affinity

I confess

she stands behind me ofttimes in my mind, silently,
suggesting, reflecting, critiquing a word choice,
a nuanced pressure upon the hand redirecting,
with infiltrating suggestions imaginary

oh wordy me, four stanzas excised,
abstracted from the memories contained within my fingertips,
this, an accolade to the pleasuring of humanizing mystery connectivity,
when she, in the depth of her stylized brevity,
captures more than I, after hours of exercised trying,
in the succinct excalibur of her comprehension

*"We are an unstated understood"
This intervention has the feel of déjà vu the record’s spinning forever locked in its groove a way of life reduced to a form stylized routinized to a shallow and shiny norm from revolution to cliché

just superficial stimulation

but what’s different? appearances change but there’s no progress in this apocalypse

everything that rises must converge all the meaningful surprises grow from within and stretch the threads of molded costumes copied, sinned, and said

rags cover neglect and decay veil desire’s all-compelling force generations lived through their eyes dissatisfied with any compromise

the searing balm of burning screens faith in sense impression for ironic equivocation it’s (just) culture, neither right nor wrong a place to hide, from considering

from revolution, to cliché, we lose our way faith in sense impression, ironic simulation so responsible in their noble stimulation

coming down to unchanged reality everything that meets must diverge patchwork king of limited domain stitched and sewn and overblown
Tommy Johnson May 2014
I'm not nervous
Fire away
Not too long
But it will be a while
A pity laugh

Unconventional methods of scribbling
I'll tell you again
Symbolic chicken scratch

Compassionate

Stylized specimen
Putting you on

Why do it?
Honest
Full of faith
Going West

State to state
Be sad somewhere else
Alone

Because why not
No one left
Just me
My thoughts

Extinct visions
See the world
Through a spotty car window
Skies, suns, stars, seas

Expand
Reinvent
The charity of the cosmos

I found Quincy Valero
Extrovert
Felonious
Random  

Lets go
One covered in dirt,
remembering the dusty trail it ran along,
the poacher with the switchblade machete,
the fingerprints still left from getting yanked
no longer pursued after evasion.

One covered in blush,
the stylist that had wanted to cut,
the look she didn't truly want,
yet now was permanent dye onto
the white that is now pink.

One covered in black ink,
the artist that showed the beauty how to paint.
Such beautiful and stylized portraits
were often created by force and greed,
when the feline decided to go by her own creed.

One covered by ribbons of all sorts,
the types the kittycat wanted,
pretty loops twirling into the air,
when the nightly run would draw
a silhouette of fleeing beauty.

One covered by braided hearts
done by a former mate,
but left in the pattern
to remember the love assumed,
the nights spent gazing into the moon.

One covered by scars that had no fur
from the attempts of self mutilation tried when life seemed gone.
Alone and craving for the jolt.
Resistance was forced by a nurse on patrol.
Death would not be an option anymore.

One covered by text reading "Hope",
For at least the one right being who
would care and love, not constantly *****
the sensitive tails that would
lead deep into her soul.

One covered by a face that smiled and frowned,
reflecting the emotional surges that happen.
Both occur rapidly and were usually
the greatest things for her, unbeknown in her mind.
As depressed as she could be, she could still be happy.

One covered by nothing,
still something more to do,
Life still young and ready.
A continued path she would lead
For the true one to be
That would mark the position of her final tale.
Anais Vionet Apr 2022
I’m not always a fan of poetry - if I actually take time to ponder it
- it can be so irritatingly rhymey, kind of fussy and needlessly intricate.

Compare my love to a summer’s day and I’ll probably yawn and walk away.

Take a nuanced look at the transactions of *** and consent,
and as adults, we may wonder where the romance went.

You know, it only happens once in a while,
that someone with wit and individual style
comes along with something to say
and scribbles it down in a poem or play.

Here’s to the creative visionaries,
to Dickinson's unique and dreamy imagery,
to Shakespear’s highly stylized, run-on sentences
that manage to speak to us over the centuries
or challenge our stifled, bourgeoisie banality
like Nabokov’s use of stunning vocabulary.
It was an opera in that everybody had grown fat
every movement was stylized and expositional
the faintest grin
the miniscule teardrop
even an emotion that barely registered came out over-inflated;
encircled in greasepaint, underscored by full orchestration, embellished by stiff and grandiose choreography.

It was an opera in that we yawned,
shifting in our seats, checking our watches, yearning for the curtain call.

It was an opera, but it was mostly life
in that it had no final act, ending or closure.
revised in 1999 Andrew Marshall Alper
To my grandma,



Dressed with your antique gold decorations
And your oneiric sets
In a swinging gait, bucolic
You come into view, tall, fabulous

In your museum, my amused
Unveiling the stylized veils
Around marbles, spread
In colors, irised hues

You’re dancing, evolving, fragile
Between Vélázquez and Vergil.
Of the Graces, of Guernica, deft
You know it all, aurora, sybil.

Of your opportune inspiration
I tasted all the delights
Between your eyes and smooth fingers
I’ve seen the masters’ evil spells

But also a pale beauty
We have together moored
On the ocean of eternity
Beside the Arts, carved out of love.

Still reading in your golden voice
Those expert accents of yours out of
Time, your moves back then
A work today, still glistening



To you then this libertine fire
Your impish fingers detain…


September 8, 2015, Lyon
Translated on October 18, 2015
My grandmother is a museum curator, she took me to most of the museums she found fascinating around the world, mostly in France, and I, my love for arts enhanced in her shadow, visited many museums home and abroad
Jordan Gee Jul 2020
sometimes i sit and text women messages free
of any ****** connotations.
other times i come across a chopped & *******,
slowed + reverbed out version of a neoSoul song that i love.
she’s blonde and has a dumb thicc *** and
she’s a woman of few words and she was born
under  a constellation of fire.

like i was.

her eyes are nearly unblinking
and they say less than her mouth
but i know
there is a sea
of symbol-sets
beneath those televised eyes.

how am i supposed to weave or write
when the joy is coming for my neck.
time is the measure of energy in motion

so i turn the dial wayyy down.

God is not a time-piece.
God is a flour mill -
shaped like an inside-out hourglass
in the background of XI Jinping’s latest video on
Tik Tok.
“Violent anarchists held a ‘Night of Rage’”
“Violent anarchists graffitied the Hatfield Courthouse.”
“Violent anarchists continue to attack law enforcement with lasers.”

gravity is ******* the feet and
hills are ******* the walking.
graveyards are a hard one for the memory
(if you believe your family is another pile of bones).
at least we have our three deaths to draw on and die.
1st when our last breath leaves us
2nd the last time someone speaks our name
3rd when Zuccman the Reptilian deletes our postumus, memorialized FB account.


where lies the heart of the enlightened without a mirror?
or when the three deaths are drawn and
it hangs suspended in purgatory like a
pack of Newports in the freezer?
or like a stylized hospital mask produced under
contentious labor practices and
shipped to America via air freight
passing over the Xinjiang province where crimes against humanity
are being committed on an industrial scale ----
The Uighurs NEED OUR HELP THEY SUFFERING A GENOCIDE
THEY ARE BEING ETHNICALLY CLEANSED!!
https://www.vox.com/2020/7/28/21333345/uighurs-china-internment-camps-forced-labor-xinjiang
https://www.vox.com/2020/7/28/21333345/uighurs-china-internment-camps-forced-labor-xinjiang
I've seen it said before so many times yet like words spoken of a handed down nature the pompous always tend to ignore great truths of the past.
I've seen great writers turned absolute **** with the stroking of their own ego.

I'd seen critics forged their own wants in the weakness of others who listen to bull crap wanting simply to be accepted.
Some chase what they believe to be a set path, there is no roadmap to success simply an afterthought to the losers who chase dreams often not their own.

I never chased ****!
I was always me not some watered-down version of another character I thought I could be so that's what you assumed.
Well you can assume your *** right out the door and out of my ******* face!

I live with no purpose I simply exist I thrive in my own madness and care little for the opinions of others.
I never force the write I simply follow it to wherever it leads me a river has only one direction.

Never truly believe your own *******.
Never think you're better simply know who you are.
Don't toil over the works of others admire it for what it is but don't let it **** with your head.

I never became a writer I just always was it wasn't  the cool thing to be it's just ingrained in my DNA.
The drinking, the drugs, the fast life wasn't some stylized afterthought  to seem hip it's just who I am.

You see my friends anyone can write but few can truly connect.
The page knows me better than I know myself it is here I'm vulnerable, it is here I am real for this is my existence.

It is my passion.
It is my life and ultimately it will be my death.
There is no gimmick and I never cater to a critic for one pompous ***** opinion matters less to me than a man who sits beside me and shares a drink.

Honesty is a poison in a society loaded with *******!
Never fear rejection and always embrace defeat without thought of a backup plan.

My work is my soul dark as it may seem never hasn't been considered fake.
But then again what do I truly know?
For to many I'm just a joker the town drunkard who sees more through dark glasses than many see within the light of day.

Never believe your own ******* because the moment you start to is the moment you begin to decay.
Christine May 2010
It's really sad that this won't last.
My creativity comes in spurts
And I'm not ready to let it go yet.
It's possible that obsessing about its exit will spur it on
But I can't help it.
I love the part of me that sees and feels and hears and understands
But it never stays.
I wrote a story once, with the help of a friend.
At the time it was beautiful, a tragic tale of love and lies and hope and hate.
Looking back all I see is stylized garbage, with the core of an interesting idea.
I hope that's not what these end up being.
I want my prose to be cherished and seen as a testament to my love of words
My love of ideas
My love of thoughts and brainwaves.
But I'm scared that that's not going to happen.
That's why I don't share it.
If only I see it as garbage in a year
It won't be as bad as if my whole life is aware of my failure.

I hope this is good.
I hope this is cherished.
I hope I am real.
Two shadowy figures
    start toward each other
         each staring from the other end
               of a long hall.

Both held ornate candlesticks
            made of brass, held head high,
                      candles flickering.

Slowly they approached
      one another, neither uttering
              no grunt nor word.

The candlelight walls bear
graffiti smeared in dark red blood
that bathe in the light as the sticks grew near.

Each door they passed
      had stylized golden number plates,
           behind them echoed whispers.

Slowly the cloaked figures met,
     standing face to face, the candles snuffed,
                 only to find they were the only light.
K Hanson Sep 2014
Out the sleek window
Of the sixth floor again
In Dely Brahim
The scene shifts back;
A long-forgotten actress, I’m placed stage front
A fantastically convoluted Baroque set all around
Vistas broaden behind me, into the distance
So many ornately painted side-wings stepping back
Over-constructed, swelling hills
Teeming with terra-cotta roofed houses; patched,
Faded scrub pasture
Flattened, stylized, staggered against
The distant scrim of a
Daintily picked-out, smokey gun-blue
Mountain range. This
Amazingly contrived
Mediterranean opera-stage set
Encloses me
And I strain to remember
My lines.
They may be the spawn of all your uncertainty
But you cannot blame them
But we can blame you for thinking a certain way
Or speaking a certain way
You don't have the right to feel the way you feel
In the land of hypocrisy
We can do one thing
And say the other
Without any chastisement
How dare you exist
How dare you persist
In these deep blue thoughts
Turning into purple
A deep dark crimson peeking out of me
I left it to rot
But it's coming out of the lot
Everyone wants to be a despot
When I just want something to be done
Everything leading up to here was far from fun
But my mind will stay on the run
You can't expect me to not be a hired gun
When I can't even see my own Sun
Due to their constant eclipse
I felt it once before
Let me have another glimpse
Of sudden paradise
Very few moments truly felt genuine
The rest were just bland nothings
Contrived and reaped
It doesn't matter how much I wept
It's just a show to them
Let me get some high quality actors
Since my personal battles were never a factor
In this treacherous journey
To be worth something
Devalue me and retract your stance
I'm letting Lucifer dance
While I stay silent
Nobody ever gives me a chance
To speak
I'm unreasonably weak
In your eyes
While you never brought together an idea of compromise
So the best option for you was to leave me paralyzed
I don't care how your words are stylized
It still holds no meaning to me
I think I saw this coming long ago
I never wanted to come to terms
You're the President that should of never got them
That I should accept this
I'm on a road that only I can understand
While everyone else believes that approaching anything with feral verbalization is the key
Oh, what a hell it is being me

I think I;ve had enough.

This road looks like the endless blackness that you see in those games you stay until midnight playing
You think you can fabricate things but all I'm saying is

You could of done a lot better in a world where I always think I have to be.

These colors lose their appeal because I'm swimming in a depression that shouldn't be real
I'm thankful but resentful that I have to feel
I wish this pain wasn't real
Every moment you implement it to my vital signs

I wish the elation was always alive
And never had to be a victim of contrive
Pin me against the wall
All you want
I'm the peace in this elongated firefight
While I stay awake at night
I find reasons to quell the tensions
That this world has

No matter what a living soul says to me
I have every right to feel this
I have every right to say what is on my mind
Purpose is so hard to find
When you always grind
And they just throw you into a bind
The only person I have is me and Christ
More will suffice

I love who I am
But be cognizant that I'm a man who knows he's by himself
I have accepted it.

The path of legends await
I'm ready to walk

Into the depths of Insulation
I smile with confidence
I know you think I don't have it
But I have everything
Let the universe dictate
Where I should go.
I have returned. Let's see where this takes us.
Michael Blonski May 2016
Spilt black ink
covers the pages
blocking stylized
letters
recorded
underneath

Trying to
remember
my best
while I sit here
writing
when I'm
missing you
to
death

I don't believe its
coincidence
when we dance
our eyes
are perfectly
aligned

And when
we kiss,
our lips
lock
like two
elegant
puzzle pieces
Jikai Zheng Nov 2017
I blame you for making me write all these sonnets
I tried to make the best of it, but five?
How in the ******* world am I supposed to write five?
Doesn’t each sonnet take the course of a week?
And it definitely seems that we don’t have five weeks
To write five pristine perfect sonnets
I’d rather read fifty poems than write five of these stupid things
I’d like the meet the man who decided these poems
Had to be fourteen lines, stylized rhymes
I’d say, go to hell with you and this torturous format
Instead of making me write these many poems
All in the same style, all droaning on in my mind
Like an endless treadmill of poem-writing
I say I’ll do better on the next assignment, but truthfully
I’m improvising

— The End —