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acacia 5d
my soul* is maternal and acts as a supplicant to her star-bearded Son; my soul is maternal like the smell of yeast rising, like the feel of folded laundry, and like the shine in cassia-toned hair.

My Soul is the mother's taut reaction to the whine of her baby: she writhes in pleasure of coining the perfect creation from her yarned womb. High-sunned stalks stem from his thousand-petaled crown, mewls, howls, and whiffs of love splash into creation of the babe’s anatomy: he is purple-faced, dipped eyes, marbled hands, endowed with his early-born mother’s atypical jewelness and his skyey father’s aptitude of royalty.

The babe tastes her malt-like milk and grows beyond the mass of my skull’s matter, hoping for the growth to cease in a stature of yore, to cease in a phase long passed.

My saturated maternity yearns for the inch length finger and inch width palm to cling to her, for she misses when she was the trellis for the vine.

Now, she must persist in her swerving non-linear growth, conceding her child was a Morning Star and drew further from Spica even faster than he did from her: but she must perpetuate his growth and her own. For there is no more stasis, only expansion, and because of this, their flights are to cross again somewhere,

there is no line and no route; she will walk in the footsteps of her precocious-boyish man days and years after he did, and he will walk over the hills of The Mother in days to come, (before she even realizes it) and sprightly sprint over the footprints fading in the cosmic snow, wanting to go back and sink in the imprint, hoping to burrow himself in it to be in her holding once again.

No thing is parallel, no thing is construct, all-one are we, and we are made to watch ourselves amplify and quieten.
*I use soul without a capital S because individuality is the ego. I might as well have put 'ego' or 'ego-soul' (??) but, um, stylistic reasons (I guess?). So, I guess this isn't really my Soul, but my mind. Or my heart. It’s my heart talking. Heart? It’s my flesh talking. The heart is a treacherous thing! I have bad articulation.

This is heavily inspired by an experience, a song, and from a poem by Saint-Pol Roux. The title, "My soul is maternal like a native country", is a direct quote from Saint-Pol Roux's "The Magdalene with Perfumes".

How verbose of me.
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2018
When the night bottoms out
painting in a chiaroscuro.
See the world in the painted glow
before it’s toned down
back into the shadow!
ymmiJ Apr 25
Your my little free wheeling child
I knew the moment I saw
Your crystal clear blue eyes, wide
Most vibrant golden orange hair
porcelain dove toned skin, live!
your mother gave you that famous glow
thank me for the side they call wild
Twenty first century Aquarius girl, mystic
Summer of Love child born too late
for the rush, me too, but you caught the wave
peace, love, hope, man, your a little Janice
There’s a warning there too if you so choose
share the light with all you see, that’s who you are, just save some for yourself, for reserve
Prayers and hugs, love Dad
【A Mosquito, Killer’s kisses】
By Angel. XJ  09/08/2019

Gentle, but deeply ...
Mosquito whispers to herself :
Will I have the last kiss with him tonight?
Shall I forget how much it hurt,
when he left from my sight?
Shall I ever speak to him agian  
I am not a killer, only I love to kiss,
gentle, but deeply...
Mosquito toned up her silky voice,
she was singing to herself,
in the spring a paradise,
in the summer a hell,
and in the autumn a heaven..
But is there another lonesome heart that I could kiss?
Dont keep reminding me about
The Valley of the Shadow of Death
I am no killer,
but addicted to kisses,
I am no killer,  but only like to kiss
Likewise, Mozart’s requiems where hidden the code,
A mosquito’s love and destiny.
Gently, but deeply...
Mosquito stops her whisper,
No more kisses and only shows teeth,
desperation in her eyes
it pierced her bones.
With sweet, painless,
a Mosquito, killer's kisses,
gentle, but deeply...
A lonesome Mosquito
Irate Watcher Jan 18
I will talk to the boy
when my teeth are
straight when they
are whitened
when there are no
blackheads on my nose
when the warts are
frozen from my hands
when my nails are painted
and my ******
is shaven.
when my belly
is toned,

I'll sit next to him
without having
to **** in,
flashing my white white
smile, across my spotless
and he'll be
by how well I can play piano
and guitar
and recite poetry
by my insightfulness.
by my vivid imagination
and reckless travel stories.
And I'll finally
deserve it.
Because to be loved,
I must be perfect.
van Young Nov 2018
returning from a social meeting
lightly stepping on a deserted street
there is no streetlight to guide my feet

though bundled up tight for a cold night
my face feels the crispy wind is making the skin flake
as an intense blowing shear takes a bite
wasn't this the short cut i used to take
i tell myself there is nothing to fear
but my monkey mind is pumping hard
asking how i got here

a winged shadow appeared when i stopped
i nearly peed my pants doing a side step dance
but reason held out as it was just a concrete molding
in the moon's trance
from a building on the right - up top

i hear a single, solitary, solo drum in the distance
maybe someone to help identify my last mindless turn
lightly stepping on this deserted street
attention is paid to the increasing beat
is the brain asking for faster feet
then when i focus
it's my own **** heartbeat
i tell myself there is nothing to fear
but my monkey mind is amping and freaking
asking how i got here

a dislogded, free minded, loudly rolling can
rattled my lunch
breathe breathe breathe
follow that black and grey two toned cat
surely it has a hunch

three echoing shots
followed by a gut level scream
now i am completely locked in
is this a dream

to reconnect and find my way home
i vow to never ever again
forget my phone

it seems much colder
as i turn another corner
following the sounds of the sirens
i tell myself there is nothing to fear
but my monkey mind is hurting now
asking where are these environs

blood was everywhere
the street, the windows, the walls
first responders were in slow motion
but at least they answered the call
i tell myself there is nothing to fear
but my monkey mind is out of control
asking how i got here
Al May 17
A broken hinge rests alone as freedom ripples in the wind. She stands tall beside the red tricycle, fenced in white and rusted green.  

Snapshots fire sepia-toned memories.  Farther down the road, where the crossroads hit the stop sign...  phones lines cross the skies.
Quinn Jul 11
Did I see you through the imaginary lenses again that day?
In your too big Nike’s, dragging an old tattered suitcase ready to quit long before you’d even contemplate letting up
Inside a crumpled map and a few shirts that stunk of the dead fish up the creek they’d been cleaned in

I stopped for gas even though I was full, and I almost wanted to believe that you were a mirage of love I’d never feel again
I wore an Aubrey Hepburn dress and had just been called a **** for the third time that week by some **** with a confederate flag sticker on his truck
I wondered if that made me dream you, soft, with your arms open yelling, “MOMMMMMM,” as you moved as quickly as you could towards me in giant shoes without laces

I tried to imagine what the old couple in the field thought when they saw you emerge, wide yawning out of the brush
Or the woman who brought you to the train station and asked what your mother would think about you walking New York as you held back your all encompassing laughter

Some may call it a mental break, but I knew better, I knew you were performing poetry in motion
Maybe even a months worth of writing yielded from that trek,
and as I pictured you growing in a way I couldn’t, I wished that I could take off the glasses that made the world vanish and you illuminate

I wanted so badly to chase you into the brush, to sleep rough, to forget for a moment the **** on the walls I’d have to scrub in the wee morning hours later on

Instead I shouted back, “DAAAAAAAD,” embraced your toned and warm body, and told you it was about time for a joint
Turoa Nov 2018
I hear a whistle blaring
It's a sound like no other
Three tones perfectly out of sync
Terrifying yet familiar
The roar of fire within the belly of some prehistoric metal beast
As the steam screams through rusted pipes
And somewhere between the two
Is the bellow of an unseen engineer
A madman slave to his furnace
Ripping away at the chord
The sound wakes me from my slumber
All thoughts are gone and for one blissful moment
All that exists is that three toned symphony
I recall a younger boy as trees and shadows flick by the glass
It's unusually cold on board tonight
The little boy shivers as the cold creeps
The window is the only portal
Through which one can see the beauty
Of the night outside
Trees flick by like memories, lost and blended by shadows
I remember the imaginary trees
Whizzing past
And the roar of the wood catching
As the pipe climbing from the stove whistles
It's dark and seeping from the window
Come the creeping fingers of cold gripping at me
The fire is blistering hot, but at my back
All I need to do is turn and the comforting winter embrace
Is always right there waiting
My chubby little fingers aren't hard and calloused yet
The cold dry.. It hurts
And my nose bleeds
It'll be fine
It always is
I was never afraid of a little hurt
It makes boys men
But for now my train is unstoppable
Tearing across an endless track
The colorful carved blocks
Magnets holding the links together
Iron filings
Grit between each faded joint
The segmented spine
Of a wood and metal
Twisting and undulating
Rattling it's little caboose
In anticipation
Of an unknown destination
As it burns through
Stained brown carpet
As the fire casts shadows stretch along the floor
One could imagine
It is a real train
The tracks are real now
It's a real train that tears across them
Like veins of a sleeping giant
Powerless to stop the iron bullets
In succession tearing through him
Those tracks are beneath me now
Cold steel
Cold and heartless
But savagely effective
In conjunction with the hissing pistons
The metal serpent hurdles forward
I can't remember where I was heading
Nor where I boarded
Come to think of it
All lost to that whistle
A cigarette burns steadily
A single ember in this segmented metal tomb
It overpowers my sense of smell and brings a seeming sense of clarity
I remember that little boy had a similar whistle
Or was it a sound he used to make with his mouth
I see a triangular prism
Wood with holes cut into it's three sides
Yes that's the whistle
The sound
The sound of power
The unstoppable rushing onward
Wheels pulse beneath me
Maybe it was gentle once, but now
It's a violent shudder
The metal reverberates every concussive strike
Like the hammer reverberated
Against every felled spike
A younger man laid these rails
A younger man drove these spikes
His hands are worn and calloused now
Blood and sweat flow freely
Salt stings only his indifference
This track is endless and finally as the sun drips low
The peaceful embrace of that ever present dark
Playfully marching across the sky
The cigarette flares with each drag
The comforting reminder that each breath is numbered
These tracks are endless
And were placed by a much younger man remember
But with that last drag
Even this almighty train
Must have a final stop
I make my way along the cars
Empty and cold
But there is a heat in front of me
Steadily building
There is an old familiarity about the sensation
Steady searing heat paralleled
Like this track
The driving inferno forward
That creeping cold at my back
A younger man formed these rails
Put down every length of track
The timber he cut to form the pilings
Spikes driven
By his ****** fists
Rails carried and placed
Like a profane cross
Upon a sinners back
He is tired
Like I am tired
He walks into the sunset
Along the path he carved for himself
The silence is so peaceful
Step after solitary step
He looks out at the beautiful
Masterpiece only he could create
Never mind the soot and dust  
Mixed in sweat  
The stains that cover his aching body
Never mind the staccato drip
The pulse and fatigue ringing through depleted limbs
A steady drip
As his ****** fists
Paint little red drops, like shattering stars
With every click worn boots
On the fresh wood and steel
Every step
Along this path,
Is the solemn advance of a condemned monster,
And on this path,
Every step,
Is the wretched creep of a glistening black god.
I'm tired when I reach the engine room.
Involuntarily I open the door.
Somewhere in a dark room,
A boy innocently plays with his multi-coloured desert viper Coiled deceitfully on the floor.
It's burning,
My lungs grasp hopelessly
At the chance for brisk night air.
One of my hands is chained to the lever
The other to the chord.  
I remember walking in here once,
But I can't remember any more.  
The familiar sound surprises me
As it has every time before.  
A younger man
With the last ash of a cigarette
Stares transfixed
Paralyzed stepping through the door.  
...The sun on his track sets,
Between his rails his feet are sure.  
The trees are quiet and calm.
Peaceful in the darkness
No pistons scream
Or monsters roar.  
..and then..
Is it behind
Or within me
..I hear a whistle.
Otis Nov 2018
squeeze down the sound
to a nicer level
maybe something orange
with waves

not toasty
not cool

low toned
jazzy kisses
the window fogs
with thc
and coffee

I do love you
where do they make style?

it seems to steam out from dirt
and get stepped on
until it starts the stepping

it's ****, cool, ****

in shelter,
blanket and candle,
warm thighs,
underwear, t's
we avoid the cycle

I'm prettiest when not observed
and am easily the most talented singer in my whole apartment

these stimulations don't seem to translate
acacia Jul 12
Her yarn sings to me, wrapping around me like I am the knitting needle. I am stuck, happily stuck, between oblivion, the short cues, the seam ripper. Taking my dreams, weaving them with things, embroider me like I’m in a catalogue

The yarn stretches out, luring me more, deeper and deeper into her knitted womb: soft, fuzzy peach and a fleshy-toned pink escapes from the room, and leaches into here

Every time I look up through the soft exits of light, into her smooth-pebbled eyes, I see what she’s thinking of
PJ Poesy Dec 2018
Today, I do not die
for in our time we have seen too many taken
Waken in me are their souls

Today, I will not die
for Frank, for Russell, for Betty June
too soon, too soon, my friends

Pay attention, I cannot cry
for Jeffrey, for Paul, my first kiss named Ray
They, who left amidst it all

Would not wish me to shed a tear
Be here, be here and know their names
James, and Donny and Danny, the twins

Great possibilities gone forever
We, hardened more as each dropped off
check off each name and know

Nelson and Dean, Tony and Roy
Arturo, whose own survival story was cut short
Stuart, who never had his proper farewell

Toned down tears may well up
Still, do not give up for they watch us now
How could they be forgotten?

For Trashina with her unbridled moxie
for John whose brilliance matched how foxy
a paradox, never understood

Whoever you've known
Whoever you've loved, give undying respect
as wrecked were their lives for ours to survive

Out-and-out trials they saw
Shall have my most undying respect
My undying respect for them all
I live today to show them my undying respect.
Travis Green Aug 5
I will be loving you forever and no matter how far we depart,
I will carry your beautiful essence in my heart, your vivid vibes
swirling through my soul, lifting me up, taking me across vast
oceans into treasurable kingdoms.  Your brown-skinned masterpiece moving me in scintillating motions, floating through my cells, sparking serene flames of flashing green lights in my eyes.  Your city swag, the shimmery angles in your eyelids, infinite desire running all around your radiant face, my mouth lost in sluggish syllables as I marvel at your crystal-clear splendor, the immense power of your dynasty reeling me into your spellbinding symphony

I am in love with every surface of your skin, every vivacious vein
glowing upon your urban elegance, every smooth depiction
etched on your canvas – emerald eyes, defined lips, bold arms,
and toned abs, everything making its way into existence.
herooooo1 Feb 17
Driving on the wrong way,
Oh so I am toned,
All these sands on the road,

I eat problems for breakfast,
Big bowl of conflicts,
Spoon in my hands,
Spill milk over all this,
That we cover but you best beware,
Of any sounds that you others,
Cause these animals can hear,
Over here

That would make you more vulnerable,
This the forest man, BRAAAAH
Where da hunger grows
You show teeth like, AGGHHHHHH
They could be under those
It's ******* stupid
Like a pack of younger hoes
Its ******* crazy
Like a ***** is getting old
This life is a ***** mate
The only thing you need to know
She ain't ever happy
Even though we sing the hope
To sail away of the sunset Mr ******* Pope

After all we living in the forest
As a hungry
So much more-on
I recall HOW WE DON'T GIVE A ****

I'm numbed for these pills dissolve
Bitter taste on my tongue, I cough
I'm numbed for these pills dissolve
Bitter taste on my tongue, I wash away
We dissolve faint,
I eat all mains,

Yes I do,
Because too much savage is delicious,
Slurp slurp slurp,
Sleeves up,
Napkin for my business,
Yeah we ain't event serve it yet,
These voucher in the kitchen,
Trying grab a bite of this and that,
Thats why I disinfect,
Its like its filthy,
I'm disengaged,
God don't even get me,
They try to milk me,
Like I'm this cat though,
Though I'm the tiger in the forest,

Eating you for the breakfast,
Then I'm so reckless,
Put you in my ******* checkless,
Eat your ******* neckless soft,
And **** all the blood
From your neck to brain to your vain goes soft

We're gone,
Go from here,
I don't wanna go up here,
But I have to grow up here
andisashayi Aug 2018
The bulk of the intelligent thoughts you spoke out loud ranged from how big you thought my bed was, to whether or not all the time I spent riding my mountain bike had toned my thighs.
I gave an indistinct, murmured answer and you went ahead and felt for yourself.
Not yet, you said, and pursed your lips.
Your friend had been impatient to leave all night, and you all did eventually, before the birds started to sing.
I was glad for sleep after that, and I did not dream of you.
julianna Oct 2018
In a different reality,
I would be wearing two-toned shorts,
Do crazy makeup,
And dye my hair
I’d carry a bat and wear a shirt
That said I was your monster
I’d be your crazy baby
And you, my evil man
But sadly Harley and The Joker
Don’t think the way I can
I’ve always wanted a twisted love and honestly, we’d have it. But things are different than I want and right now, that’s
what I need.
Sara Kellie Mar 17
Memories of
sepia toned photo's
of a world once lived in.
Baggy shorts and huge shirts
of football games I played in.

Are memories, just that.
In a playground I once played in.

Though things have changed
some things remained,
the body I still live in.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Gender Dysphoria.
I still wear her shawl
hand knitted

not an item
I'd buy in a shop
but it's so Mrs. Saks

lamb soft
under many layers
of crusty chill

she'd have it on
standing all of
five feet tall

hands on her hips
peering sharply
down her steep drive

her wooden hut
buried in rambling thorns
of isolation

I'd ask about her life
in the old country
for her as if yesterday

in broken English
she'd tell of the scenes
that bitter day

I'd make notes
to write that essay
so people see

her checklist
sharp as martensite
toughened steel

of mountain fire
fathers and sons
picked off

mothers' wails
made to look

their babies smashed
screaming in shallow soil
as soldiers laughed

hyenas glibly stealing
a people's jewels
not seeing

the core
lived on
Jason James Jan 14
Agent Orange
And George H.W Bush kicking Saddam's cartoon *** on trading cards.
Toy guns in sand toned camouflage.
What could've gone wrong.

September 11th, always remember, never forget,
When they finally hit us back,
I know where I was,
Do you?

We've defeated Isis and we're still *******, let Iranians in to replace the Syrians, death to the west. **** Mexicans and Latinos any enemies left  on the global stage, a war against drugs, a war against terror, a war against the brown skinned man in the mirror, and it shouldn't matter if you're black or white but it does. My ******. Hidden figures, black panther, Wakanda forever when the reality is kids with guns shooting each other on the street, and every city has a Martin Luther king Blvd but no one feels safe driving down one. Just crackheads and dealers, murderers and their victims..
What a great legacy. We all have park streets, I've heard some are nice. I wish it snowed here, then we would have white supremacy but it gets pretty dark at night.
Our neighbors the enemy and we all should have plenty of guns.
Who doesn't need an assault rifle,
2nd amendment what about zombies.
We kissed a utopia goodbye years ago
And took a great leap off of a cliff.
And we've yet to hit the ground yet.
But it only gets worse.
And it hurts but it's true
We've been falling for so long
If feels like flying.
But what will you do when the wolf is at the door.

— The End —