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Eva Encarnacion Aug 2013
-Dad's dish-

Permeates through the house

ungluing
worms from books
potatoes from couches
zombies from computers

uniting
curious noses
hungry bellies
ready mouths

nourishing
wife
daughter
son

-his work here is done-
Onoma Sep 2021
darkness doesn't know

it's color...as it enacts

the thickest plaster

with striving.

ungluing white hands

that spread under the

wings of birds.

pausing abruptly midair--

over their clearing, wings

never more wide open.

breast to breast.

too final with embrace,

not rise overhead.
Brianna Ki Dec 2015
When we're apart once the sun goes to sleep
Take a look up at the moon with me

Whisper under your breath "I love you"
As I long of saying "I love you too"

Look up at the moon with me
Alone we won't be
See what I see
To be with me.

Taking my heart when we glance up to the moon at the same moment in time
Ungluing parts of my life I can no longer call mine

Look up at the moon with me so we can fall asleep...
I couldn't let go. And just say no, because I'm an addict and once I got into the flow there's no doubt that the ps4 went into rest mode. When the poem that I wrote for you was lost to the abyss I grew despondent and may have suffered paralysis a minute or two before this revision. Here I sit with a stale cigarette because it's been a while. And I'm not talented, so after reading your poems I've decided to steal your style. Then I made a decision to cut the lights, making the room dark. Because maybe if I shut off a sense or two my mind could begin to spark.

And quit berating me like a shark over losing that last thought. Even though I know you feel that kind of energy that I'm so desperately trying to lay bare naked for you to see so ******* unapologetically.

So once again I apologize for my intrusion. I'll try to keep it short and to the point and omit the confusion... Just let that raw spongy meat fill the sink like a blood soaked delusion. I'm like a fungus trying to find that tender feeling. The very same that's left me reeling. Congealing at the mouth for a minute or two until I let the tears run that had been concealed as if in a Sun fusion tomb.

And not to be rude but these first lines are garbage. I wanted to save that last one because at least there was some heartfelt flow. Not just rhymes and the due time of some clandestine woe. Here we go.. I can't do this. It's like the moment has passed because it got ruined. And now I can't get back to the place where I'm imagining your face or our palms interlaced...

And now my phone is dying. I'm scrambling to the charger deranged and out of place. I can't let the phone die then one more time curse the sky and wonder why. I won't take it as a sign that these words aren't meant to be written while I'm trying to remember only what the last one said like it needed this phony precision... Just acting crazy and coddling this vision like it's my baby. Like 7AM is a normal time to still be up. I don't know, maybe? Maybe it's because I've been thinking about you lately. And the thought of that had me in denial, lady. And look at me getting cocky with what I say. Like I can stand here and act queer and make sloppy jokes like that's okay!?

Maybe that's the reason why I can't sleep. Because I can't even hide my pride any more this time. I'm tired of rhyming. I just want to touch on what you used to tell me was a piece of me that was inspiring. I'd be lying if I said I have any of it left because any notion of that premise is so much less than deft. And here I go thinking I'm about to touch upon what's left in my heart when I know just how it will end but no idea where to start. Maybe it will come to me if I talk about dreams. Something innocent enough to dilute my own selfish reprieve.

What you meant to me.. Has me stricken with grief. Every word that I write feels like a giant hypocrisy. Every time that I think these thoughts I want to drown myself in my sleep.

And now I have that other poem that's going through my head but you have no ideas as to how it sounded or what it said. I described myself as a felon for what I did to you. How I stole your time for my own designs that much I know is true. But the truth of the matter is I can't stop the superfluous rush of rhyming words that want to come and they need to hush up. I'm trying to come from the heart. And all I can say is that I'm in a lot of pain just trying to relay... Trying to close my eyes and enter that flow state. For you I will.. I'm awake with my intent. It's almost eight but not too late for me to tell you just how I feel. If I try to rhyme it's not going to be right. It kills me inside that it's hard to fight. But I guess that's typical. Because I'd rather think of what to say next than be literal. Because I'd rather be a figurative criminal than dig deeper. I'd rather grow cynical than for once just face the reaper. I know my character when I despise my own reflection that alternates between this state and a newly found perception Because I'd rather be an outcast. Reject and misunderstood preacher than a disciple... and I'm my only rival.. But this isn't a confession to you and this digression isn't the Bible...

Just a predecessor to an elaborate truth and one at which I've been so uncouth. I see a black hole when I close my eyes. I know that I tell lies and hide behind alibies so my vacancies are my disguise. Now does that suffice for my ******* ego? Can I finally tell someone that I love just how hard it was to let go. How two years have passed and nothing feels so special because someone met tonight lead me to retrograde and that was heavy.. But it was more like an epiphany. It forced my pride and opened wide the holes I have inside. The very same that came from the time we said goodbye. When I forced your hand and took that stand and created a divide. I try and I try to convince myself that I miss the idea of you. But I'd be lying. I changed things up and pressed my luck but here's to trying. The stupid rhymes won't go away. They think it's safe. They think it's dignified, composed, and chaste. Whatever their reasons they fight being erased. And I guess that's the next wave of emotion I have to face..  

Even in a room with no-one around. I have to think about how it was you who lifted me into the clouds, and I in turn always brought you to the ground. I do believe the love we had was profound. I knew that you could speak to me without a sound.

And yet we still drowned, and I'm left shaking, still headstrong and rationalizing and faking. Still ******* rhyming even though this is the second poem in the making. How I managed to render the most precious bond I had forever forsaking it. What I'm left with to know is that I have no right after all this time to come into your life.

What I've learned is there's a difference between what you know and what you believe. In a moment of clarity I know what I've got is deserving. And then choose to believe in nostalgia and empty tears. Because Nissa, darling, it's been two years. And you're a new person in the moment I was here. Somehow I hope that one day you will read this little post-it note that means more to me than any wisdom or quote in the few passages here that aren't cunning or rote. It wasn't meant for many eyes to see. But I can't take this familiar loneliness haunting me. And there I go trying to connect synapses into the next day like it matters as time elapses
I lay here in bed with nothing to say but convey memories within my head. They don't fill me with dread, I reminisce with a soft version of sober ringing like the singing call of the dead. And though it was fleeting you will never leave me. So from the deaths that I've caused this to follow is what I'm bereaving. I might have been dreaming but I once was believing that all my deceit could prevent me from grieving. Like I don't already know that you're long gone and I'm still breathing. Like I don't sit here seething and still trying to rhyme or think of that last design. Like I'm not lying at all or that I haven't been crying. Washed up water methods and coping mechanisms may sedate me for a week. I don't want all of your love because for me it was enough knowing we were Nissa and Cedric.

I'm beginning to understand why they say home is where the heart is because I scream while I'm alone remembering and receive no catharsis. It's why I starve myself of necessary sleep to stay awake then soothe myself when I shake reflecting on mistakes. Now I only have to wonder about what you're doing. Because I won't reach out, ungluing and unraveling a door that's been shut when just a reminder of you washed me into a rut. It's why the ocean's waves are bringing me peace. They're consistency is what I have left to just cease and desist when I grow sullen and remiss. When I've now spent my night writing this. When I miss your kiss, but truly long for your echo. When I know I have to move on now but I won't let go. I love you. Just in case.. You didn't know.
I had to stop writing. I'll never understand why and part of me will be lying. But you won't see this anyway. And that's okay because I really didn't have much to say. Maybe I should have just said I miss you every day.
Yazad Tafti Apr 2021
saffron frontier of bewildering junipers
aquamarine formed leave me breathless and scorned
rip up my heart tie is down to a steel slate
and watch it delaminate
peel piece by layer
ungluing spindle stuck fibers tear
hesitate
sweetheart's credit expiry date
intiate your soft precious acid lounge lips
perspicacious lad when you sway your hips
hips that make me trip upon your sunkisssed garden
you blue my mind like saffron
im ***** as a juniper
you are my love and my moon
and i long for Uranus.
here
Mateuš Conrad May 2022
for however much i'd like to glorify the glorious wintry
months...
   and i must: glorify the winter:
for those splendours of the almost eternal nights...
as if i were living on the Faroe Islands or elsewhere
in that sort of dynamic of light...
   the biting cold: like the pinching of ***** on your skin...
or the frost, ice... one pavement at night...
tilting your head from left to right...
exposing a "red carpet" of paparazzi flashing of
the camera with ice particles lodged in the cracks...
but...
there's nothing quiet like waking up naturally
in May with the sunrise...
   even though you've set your alarm clock for 7am...
you wake up naturally with the light rising
at around 6am... almost like someone who is about
to go into the field and use a scythe to cut down
shafts of wheat...
    i find no compromise in that feeling...
i don't even mind the insects busying themselves
with a daily activity of "business": esp. if they're not bees...
even flies don't bother me ******* out their
maggot juices into steaming crops of garbage...
not when i wake up naturally with the sunrise...
i abhor alarm clocks: it's so unnatural to wake up
to their dictates: well... the dictates you yourself have set
up... besides the point...
alarm clocks should only be used during the winter
months... in the spring and summer months...
you shouldn't be sleeping with your blinds closed...
the light should wake you up:
calmly: gradually... no one want to be woken up
with a cold shower... in shock: subsequently looking
for a caffeine fix... to equilibrate... his bewildered
circumstance... best to fall asleep with the blinds open:
allowing the sunshine to creep in...
slowly ungluing your eyes...

        - and i don't mean this as some sort of
"neo-****" joke... the maxim above Auschwitz:
arbeit mach frei...
    that work sets you free...
        you must first spend your 20s locked up in
an ivory tower of creativity...
you must truly become isolated from people...
learn and relearn to have two legs to stand on:
two hands to wave and point with...
two eyes and a least one tongue to waggle...
    Bukowski famously wrote about the drudgery of work...
am i going to be the first person who will
write about work with pleasure?

even today: i don't understand why the stereotype of
northerners is so harsh by "us" southerners...
today? Sunderland vs. Wycombe Wanderers...
i was working the vomitory on the Sunderland side
of the affair...
well... there is one stereotype that rings true
about northerners... the Mancunians...
i actually don't like people from Manchester...
that demonym: borrowed from demographic...
is already unappealing...
i like the words Scouser... Geordie...
  but a Mancunian is a lying **** of a coo-nigh-ain...
i don't know why...
it's this pride-vibe relating to Mancunians
feeling themselves superior to anyone from Liverpool
or Newcastle of Sunderland...

fair enough, i was chewing my gum...
three Sunderland lads came into my vicinity...
one asked: what politeness... aye aye... you couldn't
try to get a YES... but? no chance...
aye aye...
                  great conversations...
but then one sneezed and his snot-phlegm landed
on my trousers...
i opened my mouth and started to chew
the chewing gum by also exposing my teeth...
i was sort of trying to hide the fact that...
hey! mate! why not as well ******* your *****
onto my tie while you're at it!

Bukowski wrote about the drudgery of work...
as a postman... delivering letters...
i don't expect he had to deal with old men
filing complaints about people ahead of them
in the stands standing up...
i had two neurotic old men today...
why are they standing up! blah blah, blah blah...

but these northerners... thank **** i lived among
the Scots for 3 years... i sort of know what to expect...
the loveliest sorts...
and the women? unlike southern girls...
so approachable... likeable.. curvy...
if it isn't a girl from Liverpool kissing your cheek...
then it's probably a girl from Sunderland
coming up to you: grabbing your beard...
stroking it...
      like i'm going to turn into a ******* leprechaun
and have my hear patted...
or turn into a hunchback of Notre Dame
and have my hunch stroked for good luck...
all: in good humour...

a goal is scored and the fans don't start hugging
other fans... just these "*******": traffic-cones
in high-viz. vests...
  
        i don't think this is work: to begin with...
maybe that's why i like writing about it...
maybe that's why this isn't drudgery...
    then again: the peace and quiet of delivering
letters... spam... with the email around...
                   maybe i just love people too much...
but i kept it hidden...
but why is it... that the further north you go:
the girls become prettier...
sure... they might be slightly on the chubby side...
what's that saying from high-school?
ah ha ha... ahem... ahem...
more-cushion'-for-the-pushin'...
        
after all... what was the trend back in post-medieval times?
the more blub on a girl the more attractive
she became...
    i could work around that...
ask long as her fat *** matches up to...
her fat *******...

eye-contact... hugs... getting my beard stroked...
i think that if my... "i think":
when my parents finally kick the bucket
i'll be thinking about moving up north...
Liverpool... Newcastle... i don't think i'll be able
to stomach London on my own...
i just love the people from up north...
so far: so good...

and it's almost funny... living in London for so long...
England really is a...
racial homogeneity...
                     maybe that's why i'm so relate-able...
pacifier...
             fair-enough: it's "not fair"...
                         not by the colour of the skin
but by the judgement of the character...
   honestly?
                   i find this statement morphed a little:
since it predicates that somehow white people
have a bad character...
but even the copper necks know this is a farce...
at least the ones that appreciate that
that narrative spewed by the masochistic whites
of a liberal persuasion is off the ******* planet!

like today: one Egyptian? Persian...
oh no... no a copper neck... more Aryan looking...
in the original sense of the word
asked the supervisor: can i work with him?
obviously i was assigned a chubby girl...
i still would... if she just slapped some make-up
on and did her hair in a style that didn't resemble
Shiva's head-knot... i still would...

i become tired: i become *****...
    i was walking home today... bought some lunch
for tomorrow... drank a cider... smoke a cigarette...
finally! life!
         work is not work but a hobby!
interacting with people after my dreaded hiatus!
anger management... of some truly neurotic people...
goose-fra-b'ah...
    go to bed quarter to 12am... wake up with the sunrise
come 6am... take a shower... fiddle with shoelaces...
shine those same shoes...
drink a coffee... attire myself with at least
7 different chemical substances...
turning impatient about Monday and painting
the fence... a glorious burn of auburn brown...

when my parents will pass-off... hmm...
i think i'll move up north...
the houses are cheaper up there...
    not that London bores me...
         but... there's too much of London
to even begin getting bored of it...
i feel the north of England calling me...
with each kiss on the cheek by a gal from Liverpool
by every stroke of the beard
by a gal from Sunderland...

     almost like a dog: doesn't anyone and everyone
require a feeling of being loved?
i think these northern gals are really
"conservative" in that they're not this global /
cosmic circus of poly-ethnicities coming together...
i think that's where the true England
is at... i want to explore it...

   i kind of like being showed these little showcasing
of a stranger's love for a stranger...
i didn't have to be kissed... on the cheek...
i didn't have to have m beard being adored...
with strokes... of a woman's hand...
my god... her hand felt s hot on my biceps...
by now i don't care whether or not she was
a ******* the BIG side...
        of "things": details...
            
         if i could salvage the life of a beached whale:
i would... like my grandfather taught me:
there are not ugly women in this world:
there are only abandoned women...
by abandoned women?
what did he imply?
   women who... have been underappreciated
by men...
                  even if she's a tease of chubby...
but she has milk skin...
  it's a walk-through...

i'm working but i'm not working...
   not at this rate... hugs, kisses... etc.
             half of me is watching the match... half is so disinterested
in it: since half of me has seen so much of that coliseum
*******: i want more! faces! circus! bread!

i think i'm going to relax...
sleep with my cat... i think i'll just do that...
go to bed come 12am... wake up at 6am...
sure... it would be great to have ****** prior...
i'm free throughout the rest of the week...
the brothel calls...

and here was me worried:
£1700+ savings on one account...
£900+ savings on another account...
    and do i have to worry about paying off a mortage?
last time: i heard the resounding echo of: NO...
so...
             investments in books...
in banknotes... stamps...
                              
             i'm sort of cured of caring for money...
i like earning money...
for: what i find to be: **** all...
because the money i earn goes into art galleries
or prostitutes...
while i pay off my life debts for food by doing
household DIY chores...

the basics that life allows:
hardly going fishing... hardly any fish in the matter...
all the better.
Graff1980 Apr 2021
My mind is wed to
weird worlds
no one else can view,
fantasy realities,
and nightmare realms
that haunt me,
such terrible
terrors taunting,
like stairways
to primordial days
or ancient ages
were massive
sea monsters
raged beneath
the deep seas.

I walk through
windows to
grassy fields
that yield
fond fairytales.

In my daydreams,
I am pursuing
my own undoing
ungluing
all that held
me to myself.

Ancient pines,
as close as I
can hope to find
to the divine,
run rings around
the years I’ve found.

I am dying,
whilst trying,
intensifying
the neural firing
of my overactive
spastic synapses,
these bio electric
responses.

Tender digits
from children
who fidget,
take the rose stem
and grab it,
pricked and bleeding
while delicate petals,
fall and float away
fleeing the dying flower.

Waking or sleeping
it is all a dream to me.
Eyen F Dec 2019
Jump! Her brain says...
...it says, but think does not
of the fall
and the thrill
of ungluing her shoes off the edge of the bridge
for she wants to jump,
not to see the top of people's heads
that'll stare in pity at her pavement-kissing corpse;
not to see her shadow, growing ever larger, ever darker
and ever more, ever more
akin to the likes of her:
not to look at her "Dear Lucy", her only friend,
face to face
one last time
in hopes of a final Goodbye Kiss.

— The End —