"throttling" poems
I see her, sleek and black;
Proud machined perfection.
I imagine her power, throttling back,
Gears engaged for swift attack,
Ignoring society’s rejection.
Dark curves tempting, unsuspecting youth,
Lusting eagerly; her cold, dangerous, truth.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
The frost is still there,
Throttling the rhododendron leaf,
And ice stalls the dissolve
Of the stone-like snow,
Yet I am happy.
The sun-rays are almost Etruscan,
Filtered low through lace and blind,
Like that ***** of sunset on Irene’s hair
Sad “couleur de feuille-morte”.
Yet it is sultry.
I can open a window
And breathe the warming air
Finches flock close, careless,
Now desperate for food
And pluck menescent fruit
Off an ice-bound branch.
In the distance, a cardinal sings.
Thick drapes are drawn aside
And geraniums strain toward the light.
In a nook outside the door,
An old cat basks on a corner of sun.
He yawns, seeing me, and strolls across the snow.
All nature seems to wait, but poised,
For the final unfettered token.
Will it be a sudden, favonian breeze?
Or the robin’s unrelenting noise?
Telling us, “Winter is broken”?
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
when i want inspiration to write poetry
i watch a heaving tempest of kisses
they have a better flavor
than cooking shows
what's prettier than pretty pretty
in pigtails
shaking her delicious
derriere whipped Soufflé?
i'm kissing butter princess
witchy ****
spread lickity splits
eating her
with a big wide **** eating grin
like an open face dagwood
whats more poetic than that hopeful glaring
of
Adonis's plumper in paradise
filling Cleopatra's slathered meringue?
ga-ga-ga-gag me, daddy
merciless, pa-leazze
fluttered big wet talking eyes
like pools of blue honey
getting it zigged zagged
hard against a redraw mouth
throttling fluted gullet
while eager throat gasps
a symphonic music of the spheres
in relentless staccato chokes
lovin her big devil **** splashing
all gym built wonder-boy
a litter of ****** and tongues
licking pig greedy
rapturous milkshake waterfalls
whimpering
mmmmmm
oooh big daddy
oh my ****** god
pillar of colossus
you Tunisian donut you
pierce me like a spoon
through summer guava
who screams like that eating lunch
but a half ate apricot?
better than a football game
I'd rather take her greek
more fun than math or small talk
preferable to a pat on the back at work
or a ridged procession at a funeral
oh beautiful dark fig
squatting crotch candy
bubbling tapioca ***
queen of
spun sugar ****
all pyrotechnics
and fluttering sinews
if you asked most
do they watch ****
they'd grow smug like a senator
or punch you in the mouth
outwardly high-minded
refusing the blessing of a
video **** parade
of pirouetting vaginas
and glistening areolas
for the glory
of the secret ************ ceremony
the *** moralists
only good for a secret ******
living their lives
with passions submerged
and nothing to confess
except for guilty offerings
as they wander through dreamland shopping malls
wanting to know
Victorias ***** little secret
seduced
but not caressed
by
a mouthpiece for castrated dreams
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
Nobody got anywhere in this life
throttling bums,
and robbing hotdog vendors,
but a Saquatch eating a knish on top of a flipped bus
is a sight that sticks to the roof of your minds eye.
Let's eat caramel apples down by the seawall,
trade tall tales, and lizard scales,
run for the hills, but settle down in the shadow of the valley.
Prickly pear and agave nectar, nopal cactus fruit,
blended together, you can hardly taste the tequila.
I'll boost you onto the roof, and hand up my guitar,
and you'll help me climb up,
singing and chanting till the sun knocks us off the room,
we'll go pool hopping, with ski masks on,
and steal lawn ornaments,
and eat churros, and drink egg cream.
and kiss under the Brooklyn bridge.
I just gotta go throttle this ***
and rob this hotdog vendor.
If there isn't a sasquatch
I'll be home by the apocalypse.
Then we can get naked,
and set off the sprinkler system,
and dance in the halls.
Until the sun explodes,
and 2+2= 37.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
if you have the choice
*(you always have the choice in every ******* second)*
to be vulnerable or to be guarded,
choose vulnerability
because it’s honest
it’s clear, it’s concise, it’s the realest thing you’ll ever feel.
lying and reminding yourself to keep lying,
smiling and reminding yourself to keep smiling,
crying and reminding yourself to stop crying
can be such hard work
and honesty, even when throat throttling blatant,
even when timidly tender,
even when sharply studded, or sickly injured,
will always save you in the end
even if it hurts like dry ice whistling on your heart,
even if the person you love chooses to depart,
even if the pit in your stomach is knotting, or rotting
and you feel hopeless, worthless, foolish, guilty,
horrid, evil, mixed up or unhealthy -
honesty
will always save you in the end
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
Backwaters.
Violins and pipes
played together
abreast
of different rippling
waters;
Uileann throttling
forward
over hills and downs -
the hunt, chase, ****
or loss;
thrill of being,
spontaneous
in hilly jump,
stream, rock,
hedge, mountain,
mud and pebbled with soup,
partridge, pheasant,
trout and salmon
horizon.
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 10:41 PM UTC
We’re riding,
feels more like flying,
because this car,
feels more like a spaceship,
used to ride in a hybrid with eyes red,
now I ride a Tesla clean as a whistle,
used to use the pen as a sword,
now I use my laptop as a missile,
sorry I’m not sorry if I missed you,
didn’t intentionally diss you,
just been focused zoning on my poems,
keeping it going with my mind on the mission,
listen,
this is the future,
most are out to lunch better catch up,
this isn’t a **** it sandwich this is blessing dressing,
not an invalid salad but an important portion so pay attention when addressing us,
fck,
trying not to cuss too much,
but what the fck,
sometimes too much isn’t even enough,
probably heard that before,
probably didn’t know that was my line,
see when over a million people have read your words,
your words get rewritten time after time,
rewritten but not bitten see there’s a difference,
and yeah I know that the difference is a line and that line’s fine,
and it’s crossed when the message is lost and the spirit leaves the body,
but it’s not when I hear the words repeated in songs and I know those words are mine,
because when I know other people also know albeit sublimely,
I guess that’s what happens when your work outgrows you,
when you hear words you wrote in songs and quotes,
and it gives you that potent mix of anxiety and adrenaline,
which leads you to speeding by throttling the clutch like a throat,
heading north on America’s most west coast road,
going 100 MPH with no MPG up the PCH,
no MPG because the ride is all electric,
like we are running in this lifelong race,
racin’ with Jaden we ride out to our Topanga hideout,
got a whole 10 acre mountain top up there,
where we go to get ghost when we need to get away from foolish folks,
from their flashing lights Hellish cellphones and all their blank faced phony stares,
riding,
feels more like flying,
because this car,
feels more like a spaceship…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
Screams and wails split the air
Hollow faces, matted hair
The dying human race is at its knees
Hunched forms smothered among the fumes
That gathered over many moons
Spread by those who simply couldn’t care
But there is a sheltered place I know
Formed by someone long ago
Where a shaft of sunlight filters through the dust
Through the throttling smog it soaks
The drug on which our planet chokes
And comes to rest upon the earth
And underneath this ray of hope
Upward to the light it gropes
A crack in the concrete bears a flash of green
A lonely seedling makes its stand
Against the twisted ways of man
And unknown and alone it climbs the beam
The miracle of photosynthesis
A silent struggle, pant and hiss
Flowers and seeds rain from wooden limbs
And the trees tower above the fumes
That gathered over many moons
Free at last, they reach to kiss the sky
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 3:23 AM UTC
a nuisance
scraping the sallow pavement
is what it was.
P ondering the truth and throttling
A cquiesence like it was a familiar
R use to be outplayed by vision plodding
I rises holding us against the
S ubtle egress of omens.
W arble no longer, paradisiacal birds.
I gnite no longer, city buoys.
T his is where they come to salvage ire.
H arbingers — dark, something fire
L eaves on damp graves
O ver grasslands lay quiet, felled dew
V ermilion eye seeing all
E rupt in a flash of a gun.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
Unimposing to the objects around.
Visualizing each item with vivid detail.
Haunting the forgotten sleeping synapse.
Hidden deep within the fiber.
Feeling lungs cascading violently.
Sundering pops of adrenaline punctuate.
Shadows cast doubt over courage.
Crossed eyes seeing double vision.
Tranquility forbid the beating heart.
Shaken steadily upon each migraine.
Broken toe acting subtle.
Windows eviscerating the light.
Dimming color and pigments alike.
Dancing brave the wildly fire.
Black and blue, mildly haze.
Images of demon and ghoul take the hour.
Sickened sunken skeletal room.
White tiles caress coldly as ice.
Air circulates with grim agenda.
Hands riddled with obnoxious arthritis.
Brooming the dust, sweeping the fear.
The beautiful black steed champions it away.
Red are the hoofs painting the scene.
Vaporizing the light by any means.
Delegating everything entirely serene.
Shootingstar, throttling deemed.
Brilliant cloud looming so high.
Setting the Sun into the sky.
Benevolent brother opposing shy.
Sorcering wisdom allowing to fly.
Devilish the Moon, waking my eye.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 11:20 PM UTC
War decried
Throttling battle
Survival paper thin
World order menaced
by a tyrant
Ukraines 'will' stands tall
Feb 25, 2022
Feb 25, 2022 at 4:19 PM UTC
~
*An aviation sleight-of-hand:
Random flight plan
Strange admission
This war of attrition
No friendly skies
No wings of hope
Flagship wanderer
High above the clouds
Gliding like a phantom
Holding its place in line
By sailing incognito
Without a stitch of cargo
Or living company
No laughter
No banter
No bag of nuts
Nothing for the flight recorder
To remember
Only a lonely figure
In the cockpit
Throttling down
A descent into madness
Keeping slots warm
And bodies cold*
~
Nov 12, 2022
Nov 12, 2022 at 12:15 PM UTC
lillies and nettles! red roses and white!
i'm fresh as a daisy and rotten from spite!
you see, my lord, i've half a mind--
but it won't let me speak my mind --
my molars grind
and tense and bleed
- that's why my hands are red, you see! -
i tried to tear my tongue from my mouth
and found i'd ruined all my teeth.
few cared for my coherent word,
yet now that i can not be heard
there is a window in my door
they lean in close and wait for sure
signs of undisputed sanity
since my vital signs of life are not what they would like to be.
do you hear how they speak of me?
"hark! reapers sing in rapture, composing 'Ode To Void':
gaze upon the patron saint of self-obliteration.
this roadkill incarnate with inferno-coloured hair:
neck-deep in bloodied rivers of throttling despair."
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
Gravity lost it's grip
Suspended feet above ground
Throttling....
In the tightening noose of thought.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
I miss the colors of your hair,
The orange light above your bed.
Tightly nestled to your breast
I sleep the years away.
The three weeks led by Sweetest Day,
Your lips, our legs, the mood,
Every inch of skin we trysted
So delectable and smooth.
We ordered in, you dined, I ate;
My teeth nibbling on your hips.
Nothing's more my favorite than
When you're throttling the head.
Three weeks we laid supine all day,
Often rearranging the load.
You watched Chicago Real World,
While I suckled on your toes.
That famous beast, they call desire,
Rippled through your veins.
You let out a little squeak
And a drop of blood when you came.
I can't forgo you for this long.
I miss my beautiful little lamb
I never would have guessed,
That a ****** would want a one night stand.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 1:46 AM UTC
I want what devastates me
Sugar so syrupy sweet it sickens
Red liquid slows and thickens
Black lips painted poisonous purple
With thin lines of strychnine
My fair long haired Mary
Marvelous Magdalene
And terrible Typhoid
Saint and Succubus of lusting frenzy
Draining the core of me
Morticia the Mortuary Queen
With fatal fingers that feel
My moist internal organs
Throttling my throbbing heart
Dear black orchid
Princess of the pentacles
Funerary eyes of fire
Waking Walking Death
Yes she is so bad for me
Still, I want her so deeply
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
Like a once broken promise, she came to me
Out of my past, across forever seas
Recasting truth into the furrows of dreams
Sewing intimate seeds that hushed the screams
And unsolved riddles of throttling fear
If one day more, hope would not get here
Over rolling swells, far from land
Spices and driftwood and contraband
Like caramel drippings from a Dali sun
Her eyes cast the color on taught sails of muslin
She sweetly falls soft through scents and caresses
Like a settling snowflake on winters dried branches
She is more than a feeling, brighter than sight
She is the stir in the morning to my withering night
And I recall her breath, a fathomless deep
landing home in the heart, from a precipitous leap.
But the bitter serenity when out of my sight
Is her touch to my soul like raw senses at night
I spiral away, she¹ll not get here in time
To keep me from falling deeper in mind.
In this strange numb world, it¹s just her and me
Afloat on the tears, of wounded poetry.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
Christmas Carol was really cute.
Spent every day wearing football boots.
A bright pink tu-tu and a gigantic floppy orange hat.
She sings mezzo-soprano.
While throttling the grand piano keys.
She thought the world adored her.
Believed she was the bees knees.
Totally full of vanity.
She sung purest of obscenities.
Such kicking fun.
Her Christmas drinking had just begun.
Two days, too early
Trying to get into the swing of the season.
Christmas, heigh-ho one hell of a reason.
She struggled into her best Christmas sweater.
Just to hide her Christmas hang over.
Silly Carol.
(C) Livvi
I know obscenities aren't pure **
She sang them so well that she sounded angelic x
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 2:00 PM UTC
Trying
Trying to form
Trying to form the thought
It hurts too badly
The toilet calls for me
Trying
Trying to find
Trying to find the shirt
I lost in my stupor
Wretching at every step
Trying
Trying to think
Trying to think of where
In the ****** hell I am
Who's house is this?
Trying
Trying to force
Trying to force the water
To stay inside my stomach
Every breath brings more *****
Trying
Trying very hard
Trying very hard to stand
The room spins in a terrible way
Fall to the floor alone
Trying
Trying not to
Trying not to smell
The smoke and whiskey stench
Throttling the air around me
Trying
Trying to remember
Trying to remember my steps
Bringing me to this painful juncture
Lost memory blackened out
Trying
Trying to will
Trying to will myself
Into believing this is my house
And that I need help here.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Got pills, I’ll swallow them
Take the chills that follow them
I don’t want to wallow
I’ve got a heart that needs hollowing
The gobs I’ve been gobbling
Don’t help with the wobbling
The legs are still hobbling
But the heart’s no longer
throbbing,
This bottling,
needs a full on throttling.
So the maudlin
Is phoned in
But the tones are all
honed in this turkey with the bone in.
The drumming keeps droning.
This strumming keeps zoning.
And this mouth keeps on foaming.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
Beneath my vision it weeps to be released
but is a prisoner behind pearly gates, the
key never within reach. Teased in essence
of breath,but incoherent on the whimsical
yearnings that is evading it timely release.
Screams fall as gestures on inanimate thoughts,
but these wonderings are a façade of what
features imitate to release. But even palms on
an unforgiving throat, throttling the necessity
to release upon unhearing perceptions.
Silence is a virtue of unconditional control,
It yearns just one outcast verbal uttering.
But all is withheld in the abysmal threshold
of suffocation. To gesture a word upon the
world is erratic in its oblivious wanting's.
But still it deflowers its being, as what resides
is rendered useless in the palms of its predecessor.
And silent screams venture in tears as they collide
with this appendage of its prison, flickering in
Movement as if tears were spoken then stillness.
What are screams of silence but fear not worthy
of expulsion, but a tether of a mind consummated
what is now writhing in over whelming ecstasy.
Trapped in utter oblivion never to be rendered in
Vocal liberation but to stay forever inhibited within.
"I am silence,
"I am what is unheard,
"But all will hear my deafening,
"Though not uttered my features will expel,
"And all will read my silence,
"Even though no syllable is uttered censorship are my words,
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 5:17 PM UTC
In its immensurate clarity, In its elongation of whatever time is left to my uprightness; that thrice divided second before you make the first incision Balloons and collapses upon my space, in my air.
Concussed, winded: I should dig in to counter the character dissection,
to appeal with all ire against this clinical dismissal and if necessary I will make myself aged and rage grey, a ghost of one last furious effort.
Two weakening supply lines open up from my heart and twist like lovers
throttling one another for the right to carry the thickest blood and tonic
to my left-right-left brain. I see both outcomes as unreal orbs in each palm:
Fought, but foundered, I could go in lunar were-peace towards the rough hewn exit I saw you cut through the nearest physical plane for me.
It has splintered, like young wood does, in a bunch of feather and spike.
But if I just sit down here instead, let you flay me from a distance
and have trial and have done? Then pack my deserved wounds with dirt and paint me justly black. My reeking cowardice, to match your triumph.
It is an unnatural horror to fight you, to choose between prompt defeats or the slow-burn aggregate loss of small and token victories. With less life to live and more to chip away at, I begin to just eke.
There is no shortcut, no revelation in user experience that floors the bad design leaving me wanting. There is no way to win at you.
You are Dependable terror. I just eke.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
I wish people could see the world as I see it right now.
Bleak British fog and thundering rain grazes
The bus windows, as we enter the seventh hour.
Ryan Adams is singing Sylvia Plath, as rapeseed fields
Threaten to bring colour to the north. The pills are
Working, and I’d cry for joy or for poverty if I could.
This isn’t the spring I was promised, but that’s okay.
I have learned that a promise is but a sincere lie,
And expectation can only offer far-off feelings and
No time. I’ve stopped throttling the goose to demand
My supper. I have stopped walking through the rain
And complaining about the weather.
It is time to start living.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 7:03 AM UTC