Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
MJL Mar 9
I’m here
No party
Who’s ugly?
I'm not afraid
Everything’s primitive
New baby’s old
Suckling eternity
Carrying his mother
Teaching her father
A universe of historic shame
Threatening
The expanse of senseless
Intolerance
Grasping ignorance by the pores
Infant nails dig in and hold
Evolutions face of madness
Bloodshot
Biding a soiled fate
Biting for more
Sanity
Growing until -ism’s explode
Tears that crave change
Go forward
Moon Star Traveler
Be you
Be here with me
Recede against hate
Be one with the human race
Be one with the universe
Each generation brings us a step forward to ending intolerance.
OC Jul 2018
We ran out of pencils
which didn't bother us much
'till we discovered that
we ran out of words and letters
as well and

in the lack of words
there was nothing to ration
sheer terror and confusion
and those leaked out of storage
foaming, flooding, roaring
draining all other emotions and

thus the hunger settled in
oozing through the cracks
clinging to the walls
suckling like an orphaned boy
until, when nothing's left
consumed itself to null and

we were left with the absence
who's already small amounts
swelled, and inflated
filling our entire volume
entrapping the echos of memory
then, naturally,
diffused to the outside and

we were left
deprived of selves
only the void within preventing us
from bursting towards the void outside
we float
in no distinct direction
and on occasion bump
into each other's shell
a tap deprived of sound
unable to disturb
eternal peace
the woods are moist with the fever of fear
suckling the after thoughts of speech
spit out without regard
for the crickets venturing to sing
or the widening of the streams
strong with neglect of the rusting branches touching tip to tip

(but) this is what we are, a forest
K Balachandran Dec 2016
"After mysteries am I, mysterious men too"
together when we slipped away from others
she told me with a grin, evidently hysterical,
it gripped me, for some unknown reason.

"More in to mysteries than anything else"
I gently notified to her  my intentions
"I've never been able to **** a male ****** ever"
She indicated the area of her present  curiosity
but isn't it strange,that she sounded wistful?

If I heard her right,she mentioned repeatedly
about,"The Third Brest,"as if she has a mystery
for me in store.When buried deep around my *******
her teeth transmitted a hunger, and I felt it:
what exactly a mother feels suckling her baby
her heart beat went out of control,I could see
the pangs of child that has never been fed
from her mother's breast, or fondled by her


And the mysterious part of the game
she saved for me was finally unveiled,
                                              my expectant eyes
saw a chest devoid of any kind of swell, except
the memories of the two full ones taken away
mercilessly by decease.I saw blood in her tears.
Connor May 7
He knows how to tear me apart,
His demanding tone, his eyes of fire,
His skilled fingers, his vicious mouth.

All are instruments of delectable
Torture, made to force me into
Submission, to cater to his every whim.

I have gotten onto my back, as per his request;
The sound of his controlled breathing, and soft
Commands is arousing.

So badly is my desire to submit,
Yet I find myself wanting to
Be naughty. So I do.

My desperation for more of
His mouth causes me to get
Punished; I lose what I crave the most.

Though I know he will not drift
Lower than my belt, I still find my
Stomach clenching when his fingers wander.

The euphoria from his mouth
On my skin, biting me, bruising me,
Is that which I've never experienced.

The sensation of his lips on my
Chest, suckling ferociously, bursting
Blood vessels, marking me... is exhilarating.

The delightful pain from those
Marks remind me that
I am all his.

His eyes, looking into his eyes, is like
Staring into the clearest snow-globe: my eyes will
Linger, wonder, wander, search.

His steady glance is all it truly takes
For me to fall apart, though his words,
Whether they are of sunlight or of flames...

Consume me entirely.
For my boyfriend Cy.
there was no poem neath my pillow

no poem on my tongue, none from eye envisionaries, no dew gift from my grassy emissaries, parting residue of an unknowable finger touch

nothing stirring, the mother muses mushing their shushing noises,
only breathy quietude, an airy surround sound tissue,
the cadence of intermingled hearts, the mother and the child

two awakenings, one instantaneous, the other restless unhurried slow, but within an impatience to intersect,
the overlap is love stars crossing,
impatience weaponized to make
momma aware her companions refreshed status,
a needy for love’s suckling,
embrace of fresh baked smiles from hot heartedly hearth furnaces

thus a-born a new poem, a welcomed well coming, in words,
the alliance of alliterated words from the interlacing of the mother’s chest heaving and the sniffling joy of a five year old boy reimagining the dreams that crossed from mother to son, and back again, requiring composition and joint authorship of them

the only and only true authentic authorship,
mother and child, their owned unique
duality of singularity
Rising buds suckling Blossom, their bulbous reds,
the thick green shafts conscripted by God's careful notes
on tended growths they fill dresses in salted winds, in bloom, giggling.
Art, du vin, you can taste the rose hips on their lips.
Connor Hanratty Feb 2018
The wall came first
then ivy grew.
Him wrought from stone,
her suckling dew
between the crevices and cracks
of broken brick and tattered slats.
All separated were their lives,
yet intertwined to hypnotize
all but a masons’ knowing eyes—
a wall of green, the best disguise.

A hundred years could pass and see
that verdant slab so beautifully.
Yet time ticks on;
reveals what’s true—
when he does crumble,
she will too.
LIFE IS SHORT
AND WE'RE A LONG TIME DEAD
Whether we are riding a unicorn
Across a rainbow
While the wind blows majestically
Our lustrous eye haloed by seagulls
We may act and act
Like we are tall
And our finger nails have
A big heart of their own
We may play kittens or puppies
And get excited about plastic bones
We may get lost in the grammar constructions and commas of sunset
In and out of our comfort zone
We may want to belong to two life clubs
And finish a movie every seven ten days
Always up for subtitles
Be it old sci fi 30's 40's 50's 60's noir war
We may try with a pair of scissors or a broom
To put death sleeping in socks  and plan ahead endless possibilities of karma
If we're wildly in love with life
And understand that life isn't a pie
That being in life isn't a sport
And that faith on life is a little like a full time job
But that death is like a hook living just around the corner whom we share
With the same post code.
Life is short, life is petite
Life is a ******, a dwarf, a suckling
Life is fast as a snap of our fingers
Life is a bait, a worm
Life is sparks
And we're a long time dead
So let's fish capers and mangoes
In and out the apparences
In and out the distance
While the harvest season is booming
Up there in the blooming volcanoes of sunset.
Jordana Mar 14
To loosen bloodsucking latch just to find a new host
As quickly as I realized it was hurting me most
Is to perpetuate the pain of a parasite’s plight
And never find identity in my own right.

To transfer reverence for mother
To an equally glorified other
Without consultation
Of my individual ideation
Is to so habitually self impound.
I deprive myself the Possible
Of the voice within, inaudible
To ever find its sturdied, separate sound—


Of solo and self-assured resonance.
I look in mirror and find the countenance
Of a girl who knows no trust in self
Of a child who does not know to tell
Herself she is worthy of belief;
Grace spelled.

I release my suckling grip
From the sources which insist
On keeping me as small as I stay.
I let the wounds heal
Watch blood congeal—
Where we were attached
Is now torn flesh
Open and frayed.
Honey tastes slow, glowing like amber
Trapping touch in a heady crush of warm
Nestling between my ******* where sweat pools, delicate
Dipping fingers into pots, swirling, lingering
Licking the syrupy sweetness
Craving the rose scented dark and the musk

You, above me like summer
Creating me from the flesh of your hands
Describe me with your kisses, unwrap me with whispers
Suspend the rules of us between my lips
Breathe your will into words that glint with
Consequence, etching heat into flesh
Charge the oxygen around us with sweet almostpain
That draws out my ghosts, blood over flames
Leading the Moon out into the depths, into the crevasse
Wallowing in my softest curves as you
Follow me down to the forest bed and
Claim my world as your Fetish

And if I open to your insistence, slowly unlaced
Kiss me in obscenity until I speak in tongues
Silence me with your sternest hand of fire on flesh
Bring my bruises to boil beneath your gaze while l,
Shyly revealed by your voice,
Try to cover my eggshells and hush my moans

You, beneath me like summer
The seed will grow where l place my kisses
Divining water from your ancient well
Suckling the slick pomegranate flesh
Until the star on your forehead is burning
Shudderfall down into night, into my storm
Collide in me, where the clouds are heavy with rain and lust
Leading the Moon down into the depths, into the crevasse
Melding desire with Fate as you
Meet me down on the forest floor and
Claim my love as your Fetish

Wrap my body in silken cords that sing of you
Handfast beyond gesture
My flesh, your manifesto
Fetish
Your nature is rather expressive
It creates dialogue in chirping happiness
Of birds climbing trees
But seemingly, doesn't lie in the height of apricot trees
In fallacies of piety
Like climbing from the apple flowers
To the suckling bees nestling in the flavor
Of the honey that comes from the *******
Of your breast that taste like apple and honey
As the petals of an aeolian wasp
Follow the areolar cusp
Hungering was part of the motivation
It was primal instinct of the ecstatic elation
So what about the leaves that turn brown
A Gilded crescent moon
Brings tawny owls in the night
Who can tread upon
But still see them leaves
Auric alchemy covering your ******
Like I can navigate your entire patina
Bodied with my left hand
Cupping your breast with the righteousness of writing
Now I'm ambidextrous
Teasing you with the tension
Of impressionism in my sensual seminar
Promising to pluck those flowers
I keep them in colored waters
So there's coruscating change
Within the cleft of the *******
Somehow I've found that to be trenchant theft
Of your virginity
There's more bliss in these pecks of mine
Except like woodpeckers pecking the bare-backs of fir trees
Inasmuch the resin falling
Keeping the Apollinaire's oil lamp of sin
Much alive
Earnestly timed
And the poetry reasonably alive
Romantically
A thought of fire in a rustic cage
Like Pandora's box
In the Coming of Age, mysteriously
There's more bliss in these perks of mine
Unlike aphrodisiacs in the sea
The Cupid's bow keeps
The aquiline philtrums intertwined
In pilfering perfection
Even in the decorum of our moaning
In the face of the coitus and chorus
The suspicion of Venus
Doesn't keep out the lust
Of the allegory
That included symbolic Folly
But Folly was just a face
Realizing the purpose of her
Was just exploring pleasure
Emanating with your caressing climate
To leave no leaves unturned
When it came to my gruntled grunts
Then came the ******
Unoccluded and unencumbered
Of every language, pulchritude placid
"Love flows away
As life itself is slow"-Le Pont Mirabeau, Guillaume Apollinaire
The autumn blew by my window
My page of poetry lay safely
Next me
As I looked outside beyond my shadow
The leaves were golden amber
As far I remember
The endless tresses of trees
Were rid of the green of the meadow

The land lay bare
Like a child in the arms
Of her mother
Suckling on the ****
For the milk that was honeyed

Sometimes I drink
Coffee to remind me how
Intoxicating images
Of boughs of trees
Can bring back the past
For me to think
About them for a second

Like mirages meant
To distract you and me
In a desert full of sand dunes
You and I are alone in the world
We just need attention
To some degree
"He who improvises can never make a perfect line of poetry"- Titian
ConnectHook Apr 5
I.

evolving, thunder-struck

amino eventualities

and bio-potentialities

in the muck

re-group, protoplasmic and joyful

singing in the proverbial soup

of circumstances

and random cosmic chances

a song of differentiation

loose ends / ragged strands / loose lines

of poetry: DNA spiral dances

Precambrian time, period of time extending from about 4.6 billion years ago (the point at which Earth began to form) to the beginning of the Cambrian Period, 541 million years ago. Precambrian time encompasses the Archean and Proterozoic eons, which are formal geologic intervals

II.

the wriggling one-celled poet decides

to become complex

takes its time:

geologic / astral eons

twitching and failing

into the fabled tadpole of adaptation

to a godless universe, diverse

in its variegated futility

this idea has been summarized in the mouthful, ‘ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny’, which means the development of the individual embryo repeats its alleged evolutionary history. The first thing to say about this dictum, is that ‘law’ it is not!

III.

our fish, now fowl,

proclaims its Archaeopteryx manifesto

standing on Precambrian banks

demanding a return on its investment

in sedimentary overlays:

Ernst Haeckel !  shrieks the avian jokester

The Imaginary Monera: the eating habit and reproductive cycle of an alleged Moneron to which he gave the scientific name, Protomyxa aurantiaca 73 pages of his speculations more important than facts and evidence.

IV.

into the long long corridors

of time’s bad poetry

sleeping off the tadpole nightmare

sprouting flippers, legs, digits, wings

deciding to fly, smashing antediluvian cedars with trilobite tail

upright biped sporting body-hair

you shall prevail

descending from trees in African dreams

misanthropologically *****

gracile / robust (that’s us)

Hey turn that **** up ! yells Piltdown Man

from his evolutionary window

He believed that the only major difference between man and the ape was that men could speak and apes could not. He therefore postulated a missing link which he called Pithecanthropus alalus (speechless apeman) a woman with long lank hair suckling a child.

V.

falling for the lies

of the Lord of the Flies

Zinjanthropus asks quizzically

How much more of this

are you prepared to take
?

misbegotten centuries glimmer:

light years of bad poetry

captive eons of incoherent free verse

as we wait

for the Bronze Age Myths

to begin
PROMPT #3: a poem that takes time. It takes its time getting where it’s going,
and the action of the poem itself takes place over months.
[…] a story or action that unfolds over an appreciable length of time.

Honestly, this is the type of modernist poetry I dislike.
I wrote it in about 25 minutes, edited and formatted it
with found text & images for about 40 minutes and VOILÀ:
cutting-edge modern dullness. It was still fun though.
Next page