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"unhinge" poems
These winter trees cold and shouldering winds their bending branches unhinge falling limbs crash and break the snow further still a secret world of mud and bulbs that in the spring blooms of tulips and violet mossy lawns and too, the sun that comes to warm and fills with green the tree arms this wooded home that breathes with sheltering birdsong.
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Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
Winter and spring branches
A man once told me He felt as if he had created me From scratch, a muse Conceived by invention, Rather than the precision of my blood or the tiny cosmos within my marrow; He was mine, But did not belong to me The path of sirendom Is paved with gilded lilies, Soft flesh, and quiet angles If you let them, You can drift on through Your feet hovering three inches above the soil Saturated ripe with fertility, Easier than breathing But there will always be At least nine of you In every patch of every field Preserved in light The quicksand of reason, immortalized Delicate whispers convince you What a lovely work of artistry An inspiration, the birth of genius But you are only the vessel Left empty But I have never Belonged to anyone, No square of grass Lush enough to rest my head on a practiced lap I was not an island to discover; Sprung from beneath the Mariana, I was built from the deep place No pedestal to extend The unhinge of my reaching arms I took the long way up Scratching through earth, long dead No fruit, carefully arranged No marble, heavily lidded The flowers collapsed, Like your idea of Woman, To linseed stain A smashed sunrise It wasn’t god, but myself That I met on the other side
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Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
The Nine
I've thought about a lot this week I'll write it down before I sleep The words that I'm too shy to speak While you and I are lying face to face. I'm too shy to unhinge my jaw And let the syllables freely fall I'll lie awake and write it all So maybe you can see. People leave fingerprints on our soul After the curtain's closed and they've played their role But they also leave us with a gaping hole That fingerprints won't fill. But you were the one to make all the difference And understand the purple scars on my wrists Some people wrap our souls in their fists And refuse to ever let it go.
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Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 4:24 AM UTC
fingerprints
What is inside? Something I do not know Building in my veins Will it help me grow? I come across a wall And moving to the side I see another obstacle That I can’t reveal or hide I turn to my left, Then right and around I see my mirrored self She doesn’t make a sound Too long she’s been standing Waiting to take control And find that ***** girl That some ******* stole She is fierce and fantastic Wanting to explore Taking any sensation To become a slutty ***** That ******* didn’t ****** you I heard myself say You’re a **** hungry woman But are you ready to play? I thought I was prepared For ******* and the feast Though I’m scared to show the world The carefully hidden beast Pressured stirring mounts Like an ******** ***** fever It is time for slutabration And unhinge to receive her
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May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 12:10 PM UTC
That ***** girl
He doesn't need Intra Ocular Lenses, To dismember my defenses. Without a Stethoscope, He can hear my heart, He won't have to take an MRI scan, To know where to start. He won't need to inject a syringe, To romantically unhinge, My every multiplying cell, Into a palpitating craze. He won't need a lubricating gel, To ****** and amaze. He won't require to operate Nor investigate, Me from head to toe, To plainly know, That I'm besotted, my insides knotted, My better sense clotted, In deep rooted feeling, Of immense love.
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Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
He stole my heart during surgery
Buildings for the most part are boxes square. But Pentecost circles and spirals, they turn and burn wild. Of those who would tame and make comprehensible any fire-- apt tongues have gone titch titch and beautiful catch 'til words and music and parlor diplomacies fortify much which is untrue. Fear has no finish, even in our dying. The path is a cliff edge. Let us turn, un-adult-like, and strip ourselves   of civilized persuasions. Usher Earth's children into primordial worlds. Water shall love and receive us, as it always has. The naked ground will speak up, into our touching feet. Listen to the tongues of the wind. Unhinge the body, which is you. Let all creation fly.
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May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 5:11 AM UTC
Pentecost
Where to begin I think to myself as I submerge my thoughts In you and what it is that Gives the tick to your tock. I think of your eyes And the depth That lies Folded within Green and brown Layered Life Disguised And smiling. Lost glasses And lager That comes in pints Accompanied by Epic And Blatant Action and statement Your energy blasts Fast and furious Frenzy I sense more to you Than what meets my eye. And in that thought I lie Here now Creased brow In anticipation of knowing you more. I think of your nails And the way they touch Me deeper than The welts That are kissed Crimson stain Onto my skin. Your essence Seeps inside Within And bleeds out of my body Through my lips As I savour The flavour That makes You taste So simply Divine. You have this way Of ceasing time And pausing The beat of my heart. Just a smile Is all it takes And your laugh, The way your eyes Drop low, The dip of your neck and The way you glance up And out from Under your Fringe. You unhinge The door That stands Shut and heavy Before My eyes Wide open Surprise As you storm Into my soul And take whole My delight And spin its Weave Into gold. I am sold On you And your cold hands Warm heart.
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Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 3:01 AM UTC
cold hands warm heart
Rattle my bones unhinge my nerves espresso morning day and night Flowing through my veins static electricity oh Coffee, you get the better of me My own addiction right to the core keeps me up all hours of the Dawn and Dusk of my ****** capabilities Oh, Coffee, you unhinge me.
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Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
Oh, Coffee
and in that deafening silence, i’ve never wished more to be heard, wracked with endless demurs of regret and remorse – impure, impure, impure. ii. but it’s my choice, isn’t it? to bear the knot of pearls come undone, to feel it shift from skin to soul, to speak of loving, and then let go. (i see this now as a luxury i could not afford.) iii. if i don’t rise come blooming spring, ring the church bells for those left unheard, wash the red from the bed sheets, please unhinge my strife from the earth; and know this: a man is no longer a man, after his unbidden pillage, has left an innocent soul shaken; unholy. holy, holy, holy.
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Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 6:46 AM UTC
Where a Poem about My Body Becomes One about being Touched
Art painted, art confined, art denied, The skin of the canvas cages and congeals the art, Colours more plumbed than the peacock of paradise, Yet trapped and tossed about in stormy framed emotions. In the end it all bleeds away, The paint dries, decays, and dies, Faint leaky lines leave behind faded memories, Life’s canvas rusts on the ground in solemn silence. Hark now! Unhinge your ears! Hear now music flowing from elegant veins, Listen to how the strings pulse and weave the notes, Watch how the music flies free and completely unconfined, Those butterfly melodies entwine and in the air flutter and swirl. Their dance is the ecstasy of a nightingale’s song, They sprinkle and circle round and round, up and down, The music of the cello is love’s supple spine, smooth and sensual, Hear it, inhale it, caress it, sway with it, and be at ease and free with it.
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Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 7:01 AM UTC
From a Cello floats a Kaleidoscope of Butterflies
The sky resembles the robin's eggshells scattered across the ground, a blue so seemingly infinite yet fragile, cracks running between understanding and madness complementing each other as divine truths in their own right to conquer my mind, to unhinge the doors, making it unnecessary to pick rusted locks letting thoughts fly free, releasing love out into the horizon. If frozen within caged snapshots of mildewed expectations, it will surely die, but even so, I was willing to strangle it by holding on too tightly. Until I saw the sky and eggshells today Peppered clouds reflected on the water, paralleling speckles on the eggshells, remind me of the freckles on your face. We need to be wide-open-free, we need to fly, without focusing too hard on shells of yesterdays. We need to unclench our fists, unclench our tongues, explore the vast blue peppered sky on wings of letting go.... so that we can once again feel with purity, so that we can hold each other ever closer. 05.24.12
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May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
Closer
“Unbind Unclasp Uncover Uncurl Unfurl Undo Unfasten Unfold Unhinge Unhook Unleash Unlink Unmask Unroll Unveil Unclip Unlace Unzip Untie Unbutton Unlock” “Undress.” “Understood.” Unravel
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Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 5:39 AM UTC
25 Commands
We celebrate Juneteenth as if the war was not still being fought Across news stations and echoes of Jefferson's dreams The last slaves freed, but this country was never Reconstructed, just patched up just replaced Chains with debt, a Theseus ship of spoils pulled From the wreckage of **** And I sit the echoes of police sirens slung like clubs across the backs of the Boys that sat in my classroom and wondered Why every white person they met always had To yell so much. As if there was nothing at all to be exchanged besides recreating Hegel’s dialectic. As if the only way to win was in blood. And perhaps That is what Juneteenth really teaches us, that blood Shed long enough will lead to ghosts, whispered Warnings we ignore. As if a million bodies buried across The South was not enough of a reminder that we needed To **** to have the enslaved seen as people. We celebrate the Day we no longer had to bury bayonets in bodies To treat humans as humans. And they still can't see it. Don’t realize that if you take away the last plate of food, That if you turn off the power, that if the dollar can't fill the tank What comes from desperation is a blood-born tsunami full of the ghosts of dead racists and stolen children, full of collateral damage and crackheads hooked on crystal Sold to them by the CIA. This country cannot swallow the blood needed to clear its cup. But at least we gonna barbeque and vote, and Dream, and read. At least we gonna explain to the children that this was the day The last slaves were freed when there are still hungry mouths to feed. At least we gonna sit with Baldwin, or Miles, or Kendrick, and unhinge Our throats like snakes swallowing what the storms sing from suffering. At least we can carry that truth. If only for a day. If only to free the last Mind slaves still believing that the war is over, the dead silent, The constitution holy, the senate fair, the president controls gas prices, The bullet not already loaded, the school doors not already locked, The rich earned it, the news aint propaganda, the children martyrs The blood in our bodies not singing requiems to the pain of our ancestors, At least we gonna pretend that this country actually free.
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Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 5:48 AM UTC
Juneteenth
We celebrate Juneteenth as if the war was not still being fought Across news stations and echoes of Jefferson's dreams The last slaves freed, but this country was never Reconstructed, just patched up just replaced Chains with debt, a Theseus ship of spoils pulled From the wreckage of **** And I sit the echoes of police sirens slung like clubs across the backs of the Boys that sat in my classroom and wondered Why every white person they met always had To yell so much. As if there was nothing at all to be exchanged besides recreating Hegel’s dialectic. As if the only way to win was in blood. And perhaps That is what Juneteenth really teaches us, that blood Shed long enough will lead to ghosts, whispered Warnings we ignore. As if a million bodies buried across The South was not enough of a reminder that we needed To **** to have the enslaved seen as people. We celebrate the Day we no longer had to bury bayonets in bodies To treat humans as humans. And they still can't see it. Don’t realize that if you take away the last plate of food, That if you turn off the power, that if the dollar can't fill the tank What comes from desperation is a blood-born tsunami full of the ghosts of dead racists and stolen children, full of collateral damage and crackheads hooked on crystal Sold to them by the CIA. This country cannot swallow the blood needed to clear its cup. But at least we gonna barbeque and vote, and Dream, and read. At least we gonna explain to the children that this was the day The last slaves were freed when there are still hungry mouths to feed. At least we gonna sit with Baldwin, or Miles, or Kendrick, and unhinge Our throats like snakes swallowing what the storms sing from suffering. At least we can carry that truth. If only for a day. If only to free the last Mind slaves still believing that the war is over, the dead silent, The constitution holy, the senate fair, the president controls gas prices, The bullet not already loaded, the school doors not already locked, The rich earned it, the news aint propaganda, the children martyrs The blood in our bodies not singing requiems to the pain of our ancestors, At least we gonna pretend that this country actually free.
Continue reading...
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Be wild Be free So to leave the hollowed masses blushing With reminders of forgotten roots Tear clothing from imprisoned flesh And let light nestle back Into ruins abandoned not through time But for ugly Godful shame Savagely unhinge choking steel doors And let loose a fiery green Send forth flames of growth And sparking soul Leaping high into the night Taunting the darkness Beyond the reach of Jove Light pagan candles And chant ritualistic Prayers of Yes
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May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
Remembrance
I wear my heart on my sleeve because I don't really like it much myself. You can imagine me trying to brush it off like a spider or some demonic beetle, I hope that imagery makes you smile. And if you feel how I do Let us run Fast Real fast And maybe our hearts will unhinge and fly away so as to mix in with the autumn leaves. Now imagine them falling softly like angels with their wings clipped as dad rakes them into the trashcan.
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Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 1:56 AM UTC
a cold October
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TUkwcPOXzqcInside Within this beating heart of mine my love for you is true consigned beneath my skin a flowing rhyme is tattooed on my soul, enshrined Above us only stars and moon are privy to our lovers croon We are Zosma we are Supra desired songs of Kamasutra You can count on me my dear my love for you is quite sublime we are orbits of golden times always close and always near; To each other we will cling, as two Celestials Stars unhinge.
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Nov 21, 2021
Nov 21, 2021 at 7:22 AM UTC
Desired Songs Of Kamasutra
hearts unhinge shutter, shattered words swiftly bitter twisted, uprooting love
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Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
Tornado speak - 10w
By Wednesday I’m ready to          unhook               unhinge                     unfold. Peel this pale skin right off these overtaxed bones & let my soul sip on all of the thoughts I scolded myself for thinking while I walked across the company parking lot. I’m sure she would tell you that those sipped thoughts— they taste like slow jazz. They envelop the tongue without permission & casually uncoil into all of the beautiful, tasteless language that is able to seamlessly twist and bewitch. I’m sure she would tell you that anything worth a sip is forbidden, as she cups her palms & presses them to your lips. “Have a drink,” she’ll say,    “You need some color                        in those cheeks.”
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Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:37 AM UTC
by wednesday
From behind the hatch, he could hear the groans and moans and screams and cries of all his former brides. The wind whistled through their throats across bones and rotting meat that sounded much like bare feet being dragged across tile. But he was safe on the other side of the glass. In the mausoleum, he could read in peace. The undead books beckoning a man burnt from the inside out to unhinge their fettered spines and **** ancient dust into his lungs. But no male authors had left a page in this grave. Austin to Alcott in the north. Wilder to Wollstonecraft in the south. The likeness of Hera sat on the hearth, beside some red roses. He had bought them for his funeral. And against the east wall, a shadow hung like Fall in December cried every night at five. All he had to do was lift her veil to light the sky again. She held the key in her mouth but he wouldn't know. Instead of leaving his home with her hand in his and exchanging pocket change for a ticket to the west, he licked his thumb and turned the page to find the remains of a lizard. He drank the ocean of his eyes that night and wished again, like he always did he had kissed someone at five. But tonight was unlike any before. He mumbled nursery rhymes as he paced the floor. And while sleep hid from him behind the moon, his True Love left the womb to join the others outside.
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Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 5:55 PM UTC
Venutian Vacation (Or why men are lonely)
Hello, my name is so and so Have you heard of such and such? "No, not very much." Well let me tell you... The sledgehammer catalyze the caterwaul of lies Unhinge your mind, grease it and rehinge it, Because; everything is out of balance A pendulum disturbed by the devil's malice while he dances through our glances and drops the knowledge of how the money you pledged is wedged in between stacks of paper and salary checks The blues in the night-light dance with the stamina of broken dreams. Well, let me tell you of the suffrage and my lack of knowledge or power–or both–to discern or summon a strategy for navigating this slanting ship capsizing with the weight of the world in the Suez Canal. The doctrine of a dead man's cackle enforce the shackle of the child's ankle The unswerwing arrow of my intent, Pegonia arrowhead plunge into a heart of lead to find the hidden treasure x-marks-the-spot of another bitter man "For every pledge donor you get 5 children died in Tibet." And so will they continue to What can I do?
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Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
Street Ambassador
Drops of reddish rain on skins slid dripping, pooled in leaves curled Steps on stems break dawn's awakening Little wrecks of nests unhinge twine thru twigs Ladders leaned steps for splintered fingers Blossomy buds plucked thru rungs Breezy days go shining Apple worms burrow for beaking birds Bees have flown homeward In September's slanted sun we gather sweetest reds
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Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 12:36 PM UTC
Orchard
I was moving Seeing double Two of her Maybe three Dogs crossing Almost dying Wine trying To unhinge Me The loneliness Corrodes me Equivocates And I see Straight Again One of me One of her Face To Face Both of us In this Seclusion Alone Misrepresentation A lie We both Go home Alone And cry The same Cry Six hundred And thirty Six Times
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Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
Crocodile Tears
Unhinge your jaw and shut your eyes because the best things in life are simply felt, and you’ll feel it everywhere if you’re doing it right. A spark of electricity will ignite where your tongues dance and it will sizzle through your teeth and down your throat, lighting fires where you didn’t think could burn. Curl your toes and knot your fingers into her hair like it is your lifeline. Weld yourselves together, crawl into each other. Run your tongue along hers until everything tastes like ‘we’. Don’t forget to breathe; share the air until it’s gone and all you have left to survive on is each other’s souls. And whatever you do, don’t stop kissing her. If you do, your lips will lose all meaning because their only purpose now is to taste hers. Your eyes will open and the world will seem a little grayer As your soul untangles itself from hers. Your tongue will become a defibrillator, trying to revive the moment, trying to recreate the electricity only you two can make.
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Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
How to Kiss
Under the wooden beams, My quivering fingers dancing on the keyboard, Its soft grip fragile, compounded. The sound resonating Across the verge of the table, Sinking slowly in a circuit, Punching seamless letters on the screen. The books speak to me But I don't hear. Its words oozing out the page, Begging to be read In horrid silence. A silence so bitter and loud, A choiring quiver of voices Landing on each surface, Bouncing off into the unknown, light abyss Of the third floor. The lights flicker, The books remain printed. An eyeful of piercing moments Unhinge the flow.
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Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
The Third Floor