"thrashes" poems
And she was tired, but not of me.
She’s such a sleeping beauty,
That I could stare at her all day.
Look at her, God! Just look at her
This day can’t get any better.
Isn’t she pretty, like some deity?
She blushes, she smiles,
She looks at me, from miles
All this while, looking at her
I realize already, that I’m into her
She doesn’t speak a lot,
Her eyes do it, taking her part
Whenever I say I love you,
Her lips go wide
From smile to grin,
Grin to blush
If this isn’t worth falling for,
What is?
She lifts me up, when I’m down,
She thrashes me, when I’m dumb
She cooks for me, when I want it the most
She showers love on me, when I need her the most.
And then she hugs me tight,
All worries were out of my sight.
That’s when I know, I’m hers,
No worries, Coz she already knows, she’s mine
~ PG
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 3:02 PM UTC
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
With porcelain features, I drowned in her sight
Dominant I control her, she submits to my needs
I punish and tease her with preferences of sinful greed
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
She lashes and thrashes but I control this fight
Blindfolded and gagged, aroused from my touch
Candle drips between her hips; she loves this so much
Strapped to the bed with a fistful of her mane
She enjoys pain and pleasure; I love this **** game
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
My fledgling fun toy I command her tonight
She moans with pleasures and screams when she’s bad
Electricity attached, her fears makes me glad
Vaginal to **** play, or no *** at all
A new ******* kit arrives; I’m bouncing off the wall
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
Under the bed restrains, ****** clamps, and leather cuffs in my sight
She’s cuffed, restrained, clamped and all ready
She needs me it feeds me and keeps me rock steady
She gives me her all in suspended animation
Together we are driven by a powerful lustful twisted sensation
For Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
You’re my favorite present, my fix, and my all through the night
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
Where the sunlight splashes through
The barely moving branches of the Magnolia tree
It makes a fascinating pattern on the patio.
Amy Lowell wrote of patterns in a lovely, angry verse
When she was writing about how she hated war.
I bend to trace the patterns with my toe
And focus on the possibilities of now
With monster canons rolling down the boulevards
And goose-step imitators marching by
While in the stands a devilishly evil Buddha smiles.
A zephyr gently stirs the leaves
And all the patterns rearrange again
I look at them with half closed eyes
And I can’t find the symmetry
That I saw just an hour ago.
The Kraken still is held by chains
And though he gushes fire and venom
The patterns on the wall contain him
As he thrashes to replace the sun
With a new one of his own creation.
Amy walked a peaceful garden path
In dappled sunlight long ago
Creating lines that live today.
I trundle down a brick-lined walk
And hope that I will have tomorrow.
ljm
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC
Have you ever been angry?
So angry you've scared yourself.
Because for a second you saw that face staring back from within.
An immense depth fast approaching.
So absent of light the only reason you caught a glimpse was those eyes.
Beaming back at you with illumination so frightening your core began to shudder and rumble.
Crumbled down and watched this beast claw its way out.
Over rock and mortar. Through coarse cage of steel.
Those cold eyes staring down - helplessly watching.
This beast was once kept sealed.
Who gave it this key to destruction.
This shapeless fluid in motion soulless tragedy.
Black velvet drape dipped in fiery energy.
Pure hate which had been compressed for eternity.
Now concentrated and intent on wreaking havoc.
I sent my armies. I sent them all.
Countless deaths and yet I sent more.
Quick slaughter - not the painless type.
This beast they could not stall.
Thrashes of bodies. Clawed and torn.
Festering flesh flying from fallen.
Axe, Sword and Mace soaked,
dripping in warm fresh blood-pounding hate.
Shatters of armor and unrecognizable corpses.
What do I do?
It seeks me as a vessel - to be worn.
I can feel the hate changing me.
Quickly now or I'll soon deform.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
Marooned
Vapid beauty of this room
Frothing carpet, ocean blue
One wall me, the other you
What lies between is residue
Scribed on soggy, shipwrecked parchment
Questions asked, time forgotten
Who are we?
What do we know?
Into these questions Summer flows
And thrashes at your Autumn’s brinks
Yearlong they torment my brain
Infringing on every season
If not for the manic scheme
To love and having loved be loved
This correspondence to a distant land
With stars, more numerous and brightly lit
Than my burgeoning highway exit
Would by no means have left my hand
But if, against all odds, it will prevail
Extolling truth’s folly, my sorrowful tale
Quells with reason my groundless pride
At having docked on your passionless harbor
Unloading platonic cargo during our youth’s ebbing tide
Must not create union of body or mind
You swallow my horizon, like the sun twilight
Though, one need not chase that orange orb for tomorrow
In this night without fortitude, lewd humor consumes me
Singing with the mouth on my head and your voice inside
I plunge into darkness
Skimming its silky surface
Before zipping it behind me
Shall I drown, as I have lived?
In vain, my dreams your subjects
Taken for ransom in your heart’s Tripoli
Not surmising recompense, I forfeit this
A note belying resonance
Of my heart’s last echoed throe
One desperate effort, giving up
Feed every vestige to the void
Wading, torso encumbered
Each sullen relic of your memory
Falls to the deep’s frigid ebony
Then, only too late am I cognizant
That my own breath is tribute yet spent
Therefore if I were to float or swim
I’d give you every ounce of who I am
Convince you to relinquish me
From your tepid, spurning sea
Then lying beneath moist underbrush
Slowly, breathe no more
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
Words drift, past the pages and recollection.
Some skip just above a stream of consciousness.
Others hurdle by, accelerating into shapelessness.
A fisherman of thought.
Praying the last of his bait,
feeds him, just another day.
As the days blend together,
and the current thrashes on,
hope is a face on the water.
He’s filled his belly with persistence,
but the need for creation lives on.
Cast the line.
Spin the rhyme.
Feast on the dreams of tomorrow.
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 6:19 PM UTC
It gently rocks her to sleep,
But a sleep filled with nightmares.
It sweetly drowns her lungs,
Leaving her desperate for air.
It lovingly shoves stones down her throat, making it impossible to swallow.
Finally,
It thrashes her against the jagged rocks that lie in the sea.
All she ever wanted was just a dip in the water.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
did you, even now, hope
to shut your eyes to so huge a crime,
my treacherous one, to think you could
stilly withdraw from my kingdom?
did our love not once hold you?
our ardent vows? or even I, Dido,
preparing to succumb barbaric death?
how could you, callous you!,
take wing to prepare your fleet in winter
—i’m sure to run aground—
when Boreas thrashes against the heavens?
but, if you weren’t pursuing unfamiliar soil
or incited to father a distant nation,
if ancient Ilium sturdily grimed through the war,
would you keep piercing the
wave-washed oceans in your armada?
why do you elude me; is it
because i have acceded irreality?
am i worthless, now?—i implore you!
by these tears, and your troth,
by our wedding vows, and this oath
before ***** we began:
if i deserve anything good from you,
or if you think, i was good enough
for you; pity this household
decaying before us! it was once yours, too.
and if my prayers are still yours,
gut them from my mind!
for now the Libyans and Numidians
hate me! dear Tyre is virulent!
as my honour and once-righteous
stature has vanished, just as i was
about to touch my constellated infamy.
for what destiny, my foreign one,
do you set me aside; ever-knowing
my imminent death?
seeing that only your name endures
from this union, why do i bother to keep living?
am i waiting for my brother, Pygmalion,
to destroy my Carthage’s walls, or a
Gætulian Iarbus to make me his concubine?
if only you gave me a son,
a little Æneas to play in my courts,
a boy to remind me of you;
only then, perhaps,
would i not be so utterly
violated, and
consumed.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts she dreams aches to create deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration instead she writes paperback television trash stupid inadequate answers to solemn questions she wonders if she is too scratched dented to find love her ******* are definitely changing she is deeply disturbed not ready for menopause too young for menopause she wants to remain a fertile woman with smooth skin wet ******
2
her neighbor Leslie awoke to horrible morning Leslie’s 6 chickens were assaulted overnight precious Mabel dragged off feathers everywhere trail down the street other hens cowering slumped together with wilted necks 3 of them with puncture wounds Leslie carried them one by one inside washed their wounds hugged them cried who did this terrible act a neglected abusive neighborhood cat or some desert predator why didn’t Leslie wake to sounds of savage marauding now this creature knows hen’s whereabouts when will it return for more massacre what modifications need to be enforced to ensure their coup before nightfall
3
she wants to remain a hen keep producing eggs does not want is not ready to enter the next **** stage of this **** existence it was fun being pretty for men inspiring them to say do wacky things she wants to remain a hen she is definitely displeased profoundly disappointed in her latest literary efforts “tucson square dance” (self-referential) ****** bit about Americans came through here last night in “tucson 3-step” ****** perhaps the pinot noir lowered her standards everything is becoming nothing she cannot sleep tosses turns thrashes sheets in humid heat of her lonesome bed is she is too scratched dented to find love worries for Leslie
4
tomorrow is another day they say the rain will come last year’s monsoon never came the baking sun smothered her garden died one by one sleepless she will miss tomorrow’s pilates class the infrequent delightful breakfast afterwards she dreams aches of deeper discourse higher insight more thoughtful philosophical inquiries about life’s challenges beauty a better world overpowering love inspiration she crossed the line tonight her ******* are definitely changing
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 8:51 AM UTC
Reality is the stage upon which I play the fool & lover.
Delusion is the Act, not knowing one from the other.
The Past, a script,
Memorized to poison the mind.
Hope, a costume,
Worn to keep the heart blind.
Falling into bed,
the curtain raises from the ground.
Quiet whispers in my ear,
house music thrashes loud!
I Perform with passion,
putting faith in my troupe.
Convincing the audience
My story is true.
Scene to scene,
They see no flaw.
Each song & dance
Inspires awe.
In the end my cheeks, they shine,
like all the roses that will fall.
My eyes stay glamoured
with the curtain call.
The lights come up,
The morning sun,
They cheer, they kiss.
But the show is done,
they have had their fun.
It was pleasure, it was bliss.
Take a bow.
I played the Lover for a night.
I am the Fool now.
Exit stage right.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
"Thus fought the heroes, tranquil their admirable hearts, violent their swords,
resigned to **** and to die." – Jorge Louis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths
stoic labyrinthine sparrow-bone;
there is a slalom down your gullet,
bayonet curled around your neck,
you have a beak, you are lusty-smooth,
have rubble for skin, an emaciated infinity:
everything is fractal so eat your words
they are you are your rusty toenails
every footstep is a holocaust there’s
genocide under your neurons,
watch them flex and shiver.
you have soft plastic lips,
there is a vacuum in your gullet,
a box cutter carving
through your adam’s apple:
epileptics are just indecisive,
when they seize hold their tongues
they are their words you are a god
are oppenheimer and shiva,
pick favorites it doesn’t matter
it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter
flex and shimmer we are just neurons
flatlines are not ghoulish nooses,
paraplegics are just cowards,
move with conviction each step
is a genocide, you have wooden
teeth and woolen wings,
thrashes are a velveteen sunset
an edible fog, your stomach
is a stomach do not eat the fog
just know that someday it will **** you
softly and swiftly.
it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter:
infinity is not recursive
alive is not our default state
once is the only route
blood makes the blade holy
if you cut me i will bleed,
i won't blame you just know
you were only ever
that very moment.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
The beast within, me, thrashes against its cage,
It is desperate for possession, dominace, and adoration.
It writhes with the madness of jealousy, it wants you.
To make you thoughtless and craving only but my name upon your lips.
Shattered and defenseless; to use my body as your cover and protection.
This selfish desires from the beast within.
It growls and gnawshes its teeth as you talk happily to another
touching them in friendly manner; heed poised to other.
It is irrational and mad; it knows-
Though careless and savage is the beast within us.
It wants to push you against the wall,
bound your hands and hold your mind.
Only this and nothing more.
However, for now and ever, the beast within my barred castle-
silently and wantonly stares at its prey; so close and yet so far away;
as you smiles completely oblivious.
God, ignorance is bliss, it silently thinks;
The beast within.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
There is a certain art in relinquishing your spirit to emotions quelling from the breast
Stumbling haphazardly through the hallways of an academy surreptitiously pristine
Encountering locked doors, painted walls, lowered eyes and agony
The menial labor of a janitor picking up after the crowd has released every last yelp
And the pain
Of a boy stooped in an empty corner
Old enough to be a man
Helpless as an infant
Too poor to enter, too meek to escape
Trapped in the corridor between sunny landscapes and dimmed memories
Struggling to hoist his frame up from its stupor
Afraid it may just as well falter once restored
And hoping someone may notice
There is a certain art in relinquishing your spirit to emotions quelling from the breast
Sincerity and compassion need not be amongst them
But, just as breath escapes, so do tears
Splashing from the drowning pool in which the soul thrashes
Bending, grabbing and tossing
Discard,
Discard
Stoop
Obtain
Discard
Each day a variation of the past
Unique in subtle differences imperceivable to visitors
You’ve seen the man, the child, the infant
Tear down the fourth wall
Walk in his corridor
I implore you to bend, grab and discard
Your thoughts of superiority
Take your mud stains and apathetic steps
Carry your able body to a place more receptive
More deserving
Less reflective
And gleaming
Remember the path I made for you in my corridor
It mirrors your face, ambivalent
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 8, 2010 at 8:50 AM UTC
I feel the love that burns in my heart
but the hatred has been there from the start
slowly burning away my soul
turning it into the darkest of holes
holding you close by the burning fire
opens up the gateway to desire
and the anger that thrashes inside my eyes
shows the truth of whats inside
thinking that this is all ment to be,
not seeing the lies of whats really to see,
the demon inside that breaks away
steals all the love inside me today,
the lies growing into truth
taking away all of my youth,
it all happens quickly without making a sound
for where there is love, hate can be found
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 9:24 AM UTC
They can prescribe
Pills to make you sleep,
Pills to make you happy,
Pills to stop the anxiety,
Pills to make you
Walk around
In a drunken haze
So that you can't connect
With the world enough
For it to hurt anymore.
They could give me pills
To help me get through work,
To make me smile at strangers,
They could give me pills
To fix my insomnia,
They could give me pills
To drown out the loop
Of anxiety
I'm constantly
Trapped in.
But could someone give me pills
To stop me from hurting him,
Him,
The thing I love most.
I'm like a white hot iron,
Sinking into his flesh,
Making it sizzle and
Bubble,
Making smoke curl up
In curvy pictures.
Can they give me pills
To stop that?
They can prescribe pills,
To stop your sneezing,
So help make your second
Personality
Shut up,
To stop your mood swings.
But can they give me pills
To stop me
From being so tired
From fighting every instinct
Of dysfunction I have?
I'm an artist of self destruction,
My brush strokes are skillful,
And aged with experience,
The colors make it stand out,
When you focus on it long enough.
Can they drug me until I forget
I can't even tell I'm hurting
The man I love
Until it's too late?
Can they give me pills to tune out
The reality that my own father
Molested me,
And that it will haunt my actions
For the rest of my life?
Can they give me pills to stop that?
**CAN THEY GIVE ME PILLS TO ******* STOP THAT?**
It's a whip that stings across my back,
And face,
Constantly,
It thrashes at my body,
It will always be there,
And if you get too close
You get hit too,
And I have to watch you,
Praying you'll leave me.
Why do they think I don't let people in?
Because they can't prescribe me pills
To stop that.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
Shallow,
but a rumble,
that scratches at the surfaces,
growing, growling, rumbling,
till trembling,
ricochets around the cavity,
building up,
bursting through,
up, out, everywhere,
outside shaking,
heart quakes.
Like a twenty-two pound hummingbird,
is beating, flitting,
inside.
Thrumming wings,
sending vibrations,
shuddering.
The flower,
once filled with sweet nectar,
drained dry,
sickly sticky,
a vivid hue,
turned grey.
As the bear hibernates,
it's snores echo,
sending rattles,
starting clatter,
shatter.
My heart thrashes inside my chest.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC
Standing, soaked, out in a storm, gusts of wind whipping my hair around wildly
Unruly strands sway with the song of chaos, pulling at my scalp, snapping, lashing at my face
My existence is all reality as this whirlwind tempest frantically thrashes about my flesh
In the complex puzzles and foolish games, a simple madness lives, and therein lies my freedom
My tongue and lips sometimes flap boisterously from their spot on my face
And the noises risen up from my throat, and passed through my mouth are meaningless blubberings
Involuntarily, I grin, tasting the nonsense's unique sweetness, and I swallow
My laughter rings out, a vociferous and untameable sound; humor, the voice of a crazy woman
And I spin! Oh, I spin and spin and spin, savagely, in ellipses, ovals, and circle shapes
I've no shame, and this dance is all mine, so I maniacally fling my arms through the air
And as my body makes its revolutions, a fierce smile curves the shape of my lips, wrinkles the corners of my eyes
Inside my mind, wandering - wondering if there's any real difference between elated insanity and that which I crave...
Some people might use words such as eccentric, strange, whimsical, and peculiar for what they cannot understand
So very often I hear these such words being used from those who speak of me
But it is them whom I perceive as being rather off, so habitual and boring, living like routine enslaved, joyless zombies
So unfathomable to me, why most everyone seems to desire nothing beyond a passionless, hollow schedule to, every day, just repeat
Me... I'll race barefoot down a gravel path, through lightning, thunder, and rain, only to feel my hair being twisted and tangled up in the wind
I'll jabber absurdities, laugh like a loon, all while I spin contentedly around and around, until, stupidly dizzy, I crash and fall
Madness pays little mind, stands without worries or concerns, because it believes - it knows, most nothing matters
This is my freedom, freedom that cannot be shared, for what it is, is something that's only freeing for me...
~A. D. Smithson MARCH 2013
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
She abides in her circular chamber,
prophet to the oracular God.
Perched delicately a top a three-legged mount,
engulfed in a haze,
an hallucinogenic cloak.
A mystic figure,
clutching branches of laurel in her Delphian hands,
a bronze bowl of water cradled consciously in her lap.
Her hair as dark as the fates she acquaints.
A cape of red flows like the blood
of those who perished from her
manic counsels.
Aberration is evident in her dazed eyes.
At times her body thrashes
with apparent anger and confusion.
Her limbs then go limp.
A painted smile bleeding across her face,
delirium manifested.
A warning set in stone:
“Know thy self.”
Pay no attention to the opinion of the masses:
advice to be heeded.
The hollow-horned shivers
from head to hoof.
Sacrificed for knowledge of the future
yet unknown.
Her hysterical beauty sanctions
the nonsensical prophecies.
“My wife is with child,
if I contend with the enemy,
will I return to my family?”
She stares into the water,
her face distorted,
for the reflection she sees is not her own.
"You will go,
you will return,
not in the battle you will perish."
Her red cape became
more prominent in colour.
Her ambiguity brought a child
into the world
without a father.
"You will go,
you will return not,
in the battle you will perish."
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 12:14 AM UTC
Light me up, baby.
Spread your sunshine over my dark sky.
Ward these sinister clouds away, please!
I need you, my rainbow, glimmering before my eyes.
It’s a white, plain piece of paper,
This dull life of mine,
It needs the ink of your passion to write over it,
The colorful story of our union, sublime.
So mix into my insipid existence,
Some of your sugar; it needs your flavor.
Sweeten it with a smile, and the twinkle of your eyes,
Wouldn’t you do me this little favor?
I wander, like the solitary stream of water
In the mountains, searching frantically for the river.
Like the tide trying each night, to reach for the moon,
My soul too restlessly thrashes hither and thither.
Like the still boat floating in the silent, dark waters,
In solitude and quiet, I want to lie with you.
Like the green grasses awaken, glittering in the morning,
I want to wake up with the glow of being enamored by you.
Embrace me, like the orange-hued sky
Caresses, at the horizon, the lonely sea.
Like the rustling leaves that whisper to each other in the breeze,
Lean in and speak softly, sweet-nothings to me.
Come to me now, let all of time converge into that one moment,
When your lips will, for a second or two, over mine, teasingly hover,
Then kiss me for an infinity, and let me melt into the arms,
Of you- my hero, my paramour, my eternal lover.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
The heat burns—
Like fire beneath the surface,
Coursing through my veins,
Tainting everything it touches—
Crimson-coloring my face.
Once contained, now slowly breaks free
Anger, to the point of
Pain.
It thrashes—
Wanting to be released,
To engulf everything
From crown
To spine—
The ***** of my feet
I'm on fire.
The inferno of my thoughts
Overwhelm me
Screaming, it's your fault
Not your fault, mine
I did this, this is me.
Two roads, a choice—
MY choice.
To give the power to break me
My wall crumbling to insignificant pieces
With every word, from the lips
That had to be truth.
Each gaze into bottomless eyes,
Getting lost in midnight.
The endless patterns traced gently on his skin
By my fingertips
Holding his comforting hands,
With the touch that warmed my heart
Consciously giving him control.
Back when he wanted me.
I could have stopped this
Before it was too late.
Before the hardening of his eyes
That lied more convincingly than
The tenor of his voice,
Before his touch grew cold and distant
As the eyes and lips that no longer
Belong to me—
Longed for me.
The decision—
To let it go.
The consequence—
To burn.
But time, it heals—
A balm, to the heat—
I smolder.
Once livid, it lessens.
In the recesses of my mind
Festering—
The fire is there,
As my aloe heals,
At it's deliberate pace—
With each tick of the second hand,
The self-inflicted blaze crawls closer
To the end,
The day when the flame licks it's last wound—
The day freed from a personal purgatory.
Time is my companion.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
She stuffs all the bad things
into a closet
and then hides the key
after she locks it.
Her face turns all red
when I ask what's inside.
She screams out her lungs
and yells "everything's fine!"
So I rattle the door as to
blow out the hinges.
And when I glimpse inside,
she thrashes and cringes,
"we don't need to talk
about our past no more.
Will you just go sit down,
will you please close the door?"
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 9:22 PM UTC
This reality, different from yours.
Sandpaper ice-cream cones sold
in engulfed, aflame stores.
This body, tense yet soft
tears underneath
the rub of rope.
My friend's feet swiped
a flailing chair,
And her neck did snap,
feces everywhere.
This sky, wrapped in saran wrap,
becomes pregnant when it rains,
the plastic weighed down by water,
slumps down the aquarium sky,
we slump down as it kisses us,
crushes us, mashes us, thrashes us.
- It all changes here,
from god to god,
from year to year -
Her hips lay like cursive,
pale, promising, pent up
like the shoulders of
an anxious angel.
Her hair a burnt brown,
wrapped around a whatever-count pillow,
like a L'Oréal snake, sleeping sullen,
drifting off into a designer dream,
unsure of this, unsure of me.
I see her as a child --
No, I see me as a child --
No, I see us as children.
This. This surreal feeling I get
when you're around me.
When the world is around me,
vibrating underneath my Toms.
Vibrating in my prescription bottle.
Vibrating between her legs, my ribs.
Between each page, so much is hidden:
my early swearing that my late love
is slowly draining.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC