"syphon" poems
It's all reet lass I've turned leets out
t'neet is gonna be a neet to remember
yer cowat is in the cubby ol'
hung and forgotten
fer weir yer goin yer w'aint need it
bed awaits our horizontal dancing
mekin the beast with four legs
you get yersen comfy
I need a slash
ill syphon me python an be reet with yer
lay back n think of England
coz nay one but me will hear the scream
when I slip thee a length
and mek the wet
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
***** from the bottle,
Warm.
Hot dogs from the package,
When your down and *****
The grotesque becomes magic.
Pawning a guitar for a pellet gun,
To procure breakfast.
Squirrel stew in the back of a scamper camper.
Spotlighting bullfrogs,
And mopping floors for a hot meal,
And a cold beer,
And a sympathetic ear.
Nights when the blacktop turned into void,
And the painted lines became a tightrope to nowhere.
Full circle,
Bangor to Frisco,
Any woman who was willing to sleep in the bed of a truck
Was a queen for as long as she stayed,
Always had **** concealed on me,
The copper piece of road currency,
To the gold and silver, of *** and gas.
The exchange rates would change overnight,
But syphon some gas at a truck stop
And it all will be alright.
Misspent youth, following bands
And getting lost along the way.
***** from the bottle,
And hot dogs from the package.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
if it were possible to tag
an individual in a poem on this site
i'd syphon tulips from the ground
and lay one across her ear in the sunshine.
likewise, i'd talk lots of ****
and single out cowardly writers
hang them from the flagpole by their underwear
until they're humbled by their nakedness.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
I think that you and I have always met.
Wherever there's a world big enough for two people to get lost.
And wherever the lost lay their heads down too low to see.
Right when we both get tired of the pain filling the lamps in our eyes.
But right before the bags start blowing in the wind
or the dust dances in the corners,
Or the blade hits bone.
I think that I always hear you first.
And your voice is a bagpipe war cry.
And the hand on the top of my head is removed all at once.
And I break the plane of the ice water fast.
And as we rise we lock eyes.
And we smile.
And our smiles explode open to syphon as much life as we can inside.
And we pour our pain into each others lamps.
And our lips will light the wicks.
And we dive back down.
And this time we choose the floor.
The coral bouquets.
The hotbeds.
The shipwrecks.
We are the bright lights moving in the dark now.
We are the ones we were afraid of.
And we are not together.
But we don't get lost so easy anymore.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
Blokes in the bar sure do say some weird stuff
Like "love to **** her ******* and eat her ****
Seem to have animals on their mind all the while
"I'd like to see her ***** or do her doggy style"
What does all that mean? I'd really love to know
And how does a woman have a nice Camel Toe?
If a woman comes close and she's a real **** one
One of them may say "I'd like to give the ferret a run"
A bloke went to the toilet seemed quite annoyed
Said he was gonna shake hands with the unemployed
"You mean syphon the python" asked one of the men
"Not really, just shake hands with the wives best friend"
He said he wanted a ***** to his wife late last night
"Gee mate you shoulda seen it, I had a mongrel alright"
Apparently she said "no" and he threatened to leave her
Said he wasn't hanging around if he didn't get any ******
Fred said his wife was gorgeous and he had always adored
But lately she was off *** didn't want any more pork sword
Frank's wife was the same and she hardly left the cottage
Would never let Frank touch her or play hide the sausage
Max, reckoned he'd nearly had more than a man could take
Couldn't get near the missus with his one eyed trouser snake
As for Gerard, He said "think my wife's taking me for a sucker"
"Told me to keep away with the blue veined custard chucker"
A **** dark woman walked past, Marty said "I'd give her a ride"
The barman just laughed and mumbled "they are all pink inside"
Jack joined in saying "leave it alone Marty or you'll get blisters"
"Besides, if you turn them upside down they're definitely sisters"
In the bar I heard a bloke say "I'd give her the old Wham Bam"
"Sure would like to get the old love muscle up her bearded clam"
As the bar closed Jerry joked " If the flags are up at my place"
"I'll put my ***** between her ***** give her a pearl necklace"
All these men laugh and joke as the barman says to the group
"You buggers won't get any because you'll have brewers droop"
As I finish my wine and leave someone says "on ya bike ya miser"
Do you know what they are on about? because I'm none the wiser
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
Only here till’ morning, so the night’s an open road and,
the beaten path only leads to mourning. An off-road traveler,
who escapes the chase of a pursuant sun.
Slow walking through river reeds.
A cupped handful of running water reinforces his state of being;
all but free.
Marathon of miles between, the first date on his gravestone and
the last number his mother reads at the bottom of his eulogy.
The hyphen shorthand for life and,
Missing the meaning through the seams, that connect his first day
to the day he leaves. An often-bereaved purveyor of shattered dreams,
Who stops to smile at every waving tree because,
even in despair he found belief beneath
the bared teeth of the machine trying to syphon from his peace.
A flower born from concrete.
Escaping through the cracked city streets;
out past the horizon line.
Jul 7, 2021
Jul 7, 2021 at 10:12 PM UTC
To be a lawyer is not a difficult pursuit,
To be an astrophysicist
is not a complex occupation.
To be an actor,
To be a general,
To be a professor of the most mesmerizing numbers,
of the most perplexing and alien symbols...
Is not confusing in the least.
For with the right ambition
and a mind with but simple intuition,
Nearly anything is within our reach.
But there is something that is not so simple.
We can put men living men in the heavens
and map the deepest trenches under the propellers of our ships.
And although we can replace a liver
and syphon off entire rivers
A cloudy clump of confusion sits upstairs...
Lying in the dusty attic with a chain woven through
the rafters 7 billion times.
A courageous cacophony of credence and passion
That physically sits just behind our eyeballs
in a wrinkly gray sack that laughs at us
every time we try and break that chain that keeps
our eyes fixed forward.
Fixed far away from the very source of soul that makes
sense to no one but ourselves.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
I'm disgusted;
in a **** drunk tantrum
fist pounding my Zooplankton reflection
Mundane is my nation's only anthem; all hail your fellow cowardly clansman
Syphon the Phantom from me
It's been playing tic with the region
of my brain that dictates passion
Grapple hook the Madman from
his wouldbe castle and cast him
Cast him cast him cast him
to the depths of Phantasm
Let the Tall Man have him
I'll greet the surgeon's scalpel
with a basket of placid
like here you can have this
The type to commit suicide
with a flare gun in a snow storm
It's cold where the blood churns
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
When something purely sweet becomes bitter from want of bitterness itself, it is indeed a tragedy. Because of the absence of this bitter seed (the bit of yin surrounded by yang), the bitterness instead overruns the sweetness as a ****
Today, I plucked the first **** from the ground, and in its place grew two new bitter weeds.
I know in time, they will spring forth from the Earth with exponentially-increasing frequency, and I will perpetuate my own doom, compounded by the Hands of Fate spinning the Wheel of Fortune. I see myself yanking weeds only to watch them multiply with helplessly guilty eyes.
And though I know Our fate, I will not tell Him of the tragedy that is forming (swelling, swarming) within Us and between Us. I will not let Him see the weeds syphon away Our love and sap the energy of Our commitment, nor will I let Him see my futile but frenzied desperation to salvage it all. I would prefer to allow Him to think it all happened naturally, that We grew apart and it was really all okay, that it was all in order with our respective natures and we would simply be better off because hey, **** happens.
And in the end, We will lose each other in the bitterness, tangled in and smothered by the ugliness we spawned.
-LP
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
The chemicals are caustic
How can you call this
Drinking water
You sleep and dream
Of the past when
Buildings gleamed and
People seemed nice
Then the cracks appeared
And we feared the worst
Firing our guns into the darkness
At anything that moved
I fight to keep my eyes open
Our fire is getting low again
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
art keeps getting
smaller and smaller
like we have
less and less time
to really create a body
of work strong enough
to break through the
barriers of the mind.
i can make a list of
the people i have kissed
and call it poetry for days i can
write an anthem on **** culture
with words i do not understand
or use
and judge my creativity
based on all my views.
there is never the right time
to sit down and syphon the
truth from your palpitating heart.
sometimes you find the time
in between the spaces of
the mundane and draw
or paint or
film or
write
something that will
take someone’s breathe away.
even if it is your own.
there is no easy way to
make a lasting impression
on a soul you don’t quite
know or understand.
but
if your heart feels lighter
at the end than when you began
then you are making
progress.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
Oh to say it so dearly, It was a great show.
I stayed out and watched it for a good hour.
The wind had come out of some hidden pocket. Like a thief in the night,
it scurried out excitedly through the screen door flying shut behind it,
and looking at the stark line drawn across the horizon;
a wall of cloud with so distinct an edge of gray, and at the same time
so thin
as to see the shadow
blue sky on the other side.
It was just a sheet.
The wind like a blanket,
energy surged, and the blood pumped a little faster at it's touch.
Then leaves began swirling,
as if fleeing for cover around the legs.
sweeping over to the porch,
while the canvas of clouds pitched its ever looming tent.
On over to get a plain view of my street lamp,
watching the tree's now twisting like spaghetti;
branches twisting in ways you would expect to break them,
all with a humdrum pitter-patter of rogue raindrops,
accompanied by that shrill electric thickness...
that makes your skin simmer, your mind hum, and your eyes glow.
The light of the streetlamp showing all the rain more clearly,
and all at once coming like a horde en masse down a hill.
Someone had given the signal,
and so it began.
The floodgates were released.
The opera had begun in earnest, with it's effects and sounds, lights, action!
The foreplay had given way to the full force of wetness.
In the pith of the light it looked as though the lamp was now a fountain.
The lightning being so evenly dispersed, the sky like a screen to see a stroboscopic chaos, so serene.
The wind and rain so perfectly mixed,
so perfectly so to syphon off a single breath of mist upon the face.
I stood like a boy of six in a parade.
Enthralled by the power, the nonchalance, and the purity of might.
Humans and animals, cars and bicycles, birds and branches, all pulling a hasty retreat.
I watched and watched, and watched more, and never got bored, only a little damp.
I came in and went up to the bedroom above the porch and lay on my window cloud
and drowsily watched the show in a bubble, til the end.
Nothing lets me see so clearly like a good rain.
People who wish for sunshine everyday are idiots.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
There were so many dead wasps on your kitchen counter
You
thought they were bees
insisted it was okay
But I knew
Like I know
You
Like I still dream
Of getting stung
Or of feeling an airbag on my cheek
Metal twisting into my body
A Rubik's cube of proof
It was too much for
You
to carry
But enough for
You
To plunder
To damage
To chain
You
You You You
I syphon poison out of my body
Drop by drop
Every morning noon evening and night
Ripping myself open
Jagged scars
Screaming for mercy
Face whiter
Voice failing
I cry
Again again again
But
I know
Finally, dear god, I know
I
Have to let it bleed
To let my hair grow
To scream and pull those talons out
With my own hands
To soak them in seawater
To cover them
In the honeyed voice of my grandmother
In the sounds of the train station and the rails
Like I did
With
you
On top of me
Or beneath me
Or like
you
Are
Still inside of me
I
Do not hold
I
Do not cherish
I
am
cloaked in silence
you
slept through the alarm
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
“In my opinion,” good advice is nothing,
except bad habits and malnourished dreams.
A syphon of learning,
experience,
and reason.
So, please.
Take my heart to your guillotine of hate
and chop off a chunk of grace from my life.
“Did he really mean that?”
“I knew it.”
Unless you want to hear the truth,
Which no one does.
Go on.
Push your bad habits
on to someone else.
Some may call it good advice.
I call it alienation of individuality.
Arcane knowledge of the mind with one’s consent.
To those seeking this knowledge:
You don’t want to hear this.
Create
your
own
personal
truth.
“Is that enough advice?”
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 9:21 AM UTC
If I’m gonna be heartbroken then I’m throwing my shame into your lap.
I have no use for it. This is a brand new theatrical performance.
The guilt can be your footwear, not mine. I’m a map not a floor mat.
This chest is a windrose and the terrain is a glory that beats behind my ribs.
My spinal column will surge up like a barometer, bobbing to the nape,
but you’re not my storm anymore so sit down, stay still, watch me.
These directions aren’t so cardinal now; I swapped them around.
I was born facing up, my laboring mother cursing her derision
like she knew someday I would raise up, face the sky again
and let loose a fury that began in me when I was conceived.
I am a violent flicker and I can syphon out the light until I swallow it whole,
until you’re begging me to swallow you again too. I am not seasonal.
Keep frantic at that compass in your hand. It won’t bring me back.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:10 PM UTC
butterfly>
biscuits>
olive =
get emotional
butterfly>
needles>
stitch=
me up please
something
is very wrong
tis the season
to smile
go home
and cry
hope??
haven’t seen her
it’s all
blood vials
dead dogs
expired wine
fruit dropped
on the floor
children walking by
looking for a
drunk nutcracker
named tipsy
and i can’t even
syphon off some
of their joy
because something
is definitely wrong
and they’re fresh out
where do the
butterflies go
when it’s winter
and hopeless?
why do they
leave when
we need
them most?
get emotional
stitch me up
rinse
repeat
happy holidays
let the worry
creep through
the greenery
drape some
guilt on the tree
wrapped in twinkling
strings of panic
cranberry flavored
family fights
anxiety but
make it festive
depression but
make it seasonal
could i get a
butterfly down here?
just some kind of
hopeful flutter
a dog
a needle
anything to
grasp onto
just to get
through
december
find a butterfly
on a ransacked
holiday shelf
70% off and
picked over
get emotional
stitch me up
something is
very wrong
depression
but make it seasonal
Dec 5, 2020
Dec 5, 2020 at 12:47 PM UTC
Caught at love, left at love...
incorrigible passions overextended.
Who so, and how so came to be--
***** entire, given to it.
Who, what afforded them the singsong
of the heart's blood?
Slight mouth to utter of it, kiss upon it...
these heights were weathered to syphon
singular Source.
Foretold of but once, gaining unfulfilled
prophecy by all born of it.
Love itself a labor of...all labor back to itself.
An incentive took to our core in advance
of us.
Beyond all sound retreat, love has been our
steadfast apocalypse.
As was lent purgatory, divisive pathways atone--
as holds true love Is, and love Is what bore
worth loving.
The soul has been fetched from start to finish,
breadth bare love.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC
The parallels between He and Him are so stark.
And maybe this fairytale feeling won't last.
I know my record of luck,
I know it's unlikely this happiness will stay.
But I'm trying to hold on to this.
I was never comfortable around Him,
I never felt wanted by Him.
Him is all I can call the time I wasted.
Him made me feel like an accessory,
Like an obligation that he'd repeated too often.
I was always an object to Him.
He is welcoming arms,
He is compliments and wanting and trying.
I am worth effort, and time, and necessity to He.
I have been seen by He for all I am as a she,
He sees me as a person.
I will syphon this happy from the skirting boards,
I will store it away for the dark days.
This fairytale feeling has lit a fire.
I need to shout it from the rooftops.
I will hold onto this.
I will hold this.
Because it cannot last.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC
I'd hold the door open for you
but on the horizon is a battalion
of electronic contraptions
trying to syphon the passion
from my canyon of Jasmines
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 9:29 AM UTC
As my hands comb through my hair,
I stare between my knees
looking into the depths of this
unfamiliar wooden floor.
The foundation creaking
from the wind howling outside,
its feral cry
full of pent up emotions,
filling the night with chaos,
mirroring the landscape of my emotions.
Pictures so lovingly framed,
propelled by chaotic winds,
splash
into an unbroken lake
sending ripples scrambling away
as they try and escape the touch
of these cherished memories.
The golden light of a sunny day
spent laughing and crying
under pine trees,
shines from the depths.
The cold grey light of a rainy day
spent looking out the tear stained window
trying to make sense of this hurricane of emotions,
cuts through the inky black water.
The constellations of so many memories
seems just in reach
as I syphon this inky black water
through my pen,
drawing from the depths of my soul,
a straight IV
into these flatlining lines
of this black notebook
that holds my soul.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
Fatso
You are and you aren’t
Whale
You are more than the labels they give you
Cow
It’s over now
Their insults cannot hurt you
Giant
You are not in middle school anymore
Ugly
They cannot hurt you anymore
Lard
You are a grown-ass woman
almost thirty,
unapologetically queer, hairy,
with curves and ******* and wide hips and pretty dips and
They cannot cypher their words,
syphon their insults by
relating you to a beautiful big creature
Cow, Whale, Lard, Fatso
What is a Lard but a singling
A bright beige soft nosed creature
with brownie eyes and long lashes
like a taper with a hooked nose
soft and long like an elephants
Flappy points of ears
that hear well
with tiny sharp teeth
like a land-locked manatee
or a furry caramel Beluga whale
Their insults only refer you to necessary creatures who give their life to feed you and their intellect to empower you
A Fatso is a bright blue animal that has shimmering rainbow wings (like a dragon) and thin curly white horns and milky grey eyes with a fabulous feathers and a fanned tail of royal purple that soars through the skit at light-speed and can bring the rain with its melodious cries
When they or you or they or you or
They are you you know
Insult you they are not insulting you
because a Lard and a Fatso are both such intelligent creatures
mystical and fervent
glorious and gargantuan
Large, yes
But beautiful all the same
They have sharp teeth and move through the earth or skies whenever and wherever they like
These animals have freedom
Just like how you have freedom
in how you think about yourself
which is
to think of yourself as
the sexist, prettiest, cutest
person alive
now isn’t that great?
now isn’t that grand?
You are gold plated and steel incorporated and glass blown and light shadows thrown and haggling heights and shaved delights and a hairy symphony and a harrowing city of sparkles that twinkle in the night.
You are beautiful
and might
just
save the world one day.
You are a mystical creature of the highest creed
and no one
can tell you
otherwise.
Feb 10, 2021
Feb 10, 2021 at 9:30 PM UTC