"vascular" poems
Greetings audience.
I am off my medication now and I am feeling vastly better. Something just cleared my conscious and vascular blockage so joyously. I will not be posting videos due to my camera and devices breaking. No diatribes nor any vitriolic comments were conferred during my time gone throughout my family and my peers, assuming that is the reason I am now healthy (dropping toxic ties). Unluckily, all of my social media was hacked. Refrain from following anything linked with my name. Indeed, I am not here to bloviate, rather to celebrate. Thank you for your cooperation. I will now go play childishly. Farewell. : )
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
Even though I have one leg limp
I would train even if I were stem
Bodybuilding keeps me in shape
It keeps me from dwelling in my present state
I loss one total body part
It was pure inspiration I made from the start
I am an intensity male Bodybuilder
I compete to put my body to the test in being a challenge
I am the living testimony in encouraging others to train no matter what
Who says one must settle because they have a handicap?
Bodybuilding is the ultimate and you will become your own vascular map
I am your Coach floor plan
Follow my Bodybuilding success being at your demand
I may have one leg gone
But training is where I belong
Bodybuilding has taught me too be conditioned and the theory of discipline
The training in me is everything I found it should be
It’s the results for all to see
Yes I am a Peg Leg male Bodybuilder
The training gives me endurance and the intensity makes me even stronger
Strides in Bodybuilding principles determined to continue to make
No matter what the struggles, training is never ever too late
I encourage you to make it a date
Keep me posted, as I want to see your update.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
The love of a female fitness champ and a male bodybuilder
It all started at Everlasting Gym
Two members that were their own sparking gems
Jane, a Fitness Demonstration champ and a beauty in the face and slim in the waist
John being a Male bodybuilder who is a novice bodybuilding champ and muscles defined in vascular as a road map
The magnifying glass in bringing love close
The muscles that entertain in being most
Two Dum bells seemed to form a heart overhead when two champs kissed
It was a muscle thing blooming into full swing
An exercise pair that normally perform on stage, but went further in their own amaze
Jane and John became Husband and Wife
The moment wasn’t wasted in being a couple for life
Posing was transferred to chores in being married
This is the responsibility that it carries
Well John and Jane continued to be fond of each other
Far more than lifting weights, their love was strong for another
Exercise with a different blend and a chosen soul mate at the end.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC
✿
a bit of
***in her hair I figured
all along the strands down to her bangs
I lingered along the lashes
became a vision
leaked down a cheek fell onto
her silky neck
became a molecule came into her
blood flowed down her heart
pumped me into her toes as they curled
traveled vascular
up her spine-tingling and came
smiling out the corner of her mouth
a wet spot
next to the corner of her smile
soft silky moist glistens
a mist on her breath
a bit of touch on the pillow
a dream on the next day's memory
a dream for forever***
*every touch a slow-moving pulse
sending shockwaves
through every point of touch
awaking every part of me
with his soft touch
his warm lips
our bodies move gracefully
insight
his brown eyes
lingering deep
touching the core of my soul
the warmth of his kisses
his fingers floating
like a paintbrush
leaving a burning trail
of ecstasy
and brilliant colored hues
each stroke caressing
each caress leaving
a beautiful new color of love
filling me with all of him
his heart
his soul
his being
all of his colors filling me
with his love*
✿
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
The Pill
Called up big Pharma,
Sad and depressed,
I told them straight out:
Dudes, I need a new karma.
*NO problem they cheerfully replied,
(later I wondered, which pill they were on)
We custom make, haute couture, drug-design,
Mood enhancers, in little canisters,
You need only supply the cash and the system vascular!
Your soul's desire?
To be a better wilder, rambler,
Or a life calmer, better anchored?*
I know what I want, exactly,
A pill that removes
Specific words
From the frontal lobe temple
Verbal storage center.
*NO problem! (so cheery it was kinda scary)
Which words would you like to have
Exorcised, annihilated, irradiated, confiscated?*
I list from below, from side to side,
Let not one be denied,
Bury them all in nether-lands,
Swamp them under mountains of
Granite and sand,
Banish them from my lexicon.
How much do you charge?
But one dollar per word.
The list I emailed complete,
Herein I reprint.
Scars Pain Wound Strain Torture Anguish
Disfigure Damage Mar Mutilate Maim Blemish Deface Damage Ruin Distress
Afflict Trouble Wound Torment Agonize Sad Suffer Sting Throb
Torture Torment Despair Suffer Distress Hurt Vex Trouble
Ache Hurt Misery Woe Bitterness Misery Agony Bitter
Heartache Afflict Hurt Cut Loathing Shatter Broken
Alone Bleed Struggle Self-destruct Monster
Nightmare Cornered Darkness Horror
Loner Confused Goodbye Suicide
Slash Cut Desolate Submerge
Dissipate Dead Stinking
Enough.
Awaiting my concoction sweet,
When an answer they begat,
A response forthcoming, indeed was snubbing!
**Dear Sir/Madam,
We regret to inform you that we are unable to manufacture
Said item. Removal of these words would be a violation of
Federal Poetry Laws.
Sadly yours,
Big Pharma
P.S. Are you the author of "Yo! Yo! Warning: the government is reading your poetry! (Metadata Mining This Site) on HP?"**
P.P.S. Please do not contact us anymore.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
Step inside the refuge of my disillusionment,
you will find a blood red sun bursting in the eyes of
a man that never harnessed an even temperament.
A cresting wave crashes on the beaches along
these rusted railways that interweave these broken skies,
a road paved in regret, spilled from my minds eye.
Obscure sounds, and muted lights diffuse from
the gutters lined with my inner child’s blood. We shiver
coldly, a voiceless wind passes misunderstood.
Tragedy unfolds before our eyes, the luster has
given way to rust due to an underlying apathy. Without
affection, resolute urgency is beyond our capacity.
A cursed fate we are resigned to hate, a blessing
we’ve dusted over in a fools gold asylum. A serious man,
with serious lusts, still a bitter ghost of mistrust.
Wash your ****** hands in the morning sun,
remove your emerald isle from the barrel of my gun,
hearts bleed ruby red, a vascular fire in the sky.
Fate will fall about the movements upon your ethereal
skin, neurotic waterfalls rush through the nightmares you’re
living in. Bid to create a dream… where we… are clean.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
Full Of Art
Beauty at every mainstream a sight
Tattoos everywhere well almost
But the tattoos were the only thing noticeable, but added was the muscles
As the man walked around on the boardwalk, you could see woman in their personal conference hurdles talking a man of stature
What a masterpiece would be in a picture?
The guy had tattoos that described words of attention and the muscles just added the vision of mastery
It was his shoulders down to his feet
Sheer physique having a look of mystique
You could also hear woman’s hearts throb
Yet with the imaginary of “Turn me like a door ****
In fact, one woman boldly approached the Tattooed Man in a strong statement, “Love me but don’t leave me”
That put the man in an embarrassing situation
Because it was all in public
So the Tattooed Man wasn’t sure in how he should respond
At first, he just looked upon
But there was a question, “Should he fulfill her request or just take it as being flattered?”
The Tattooed Man later whispered in her ear, and invited the woman to his place
It wasn’t far, but a moment in being no time to waste
The Tattooed Man’s apartment was well furnished and his body complimented his apartment by being distinguished
But his structure got all the attention
Before the woman could imagine, the Tattooed Man picked the woman up, and carried her to his cave being his bedroom
The woman kept stirring at the contour of the muscular body of the Tattooed Man and tattoos couldn’t hide those vascular muscles
Before the interlude began, the woman shouted, “Direct me to your heart”
It wasn’t before after the woman’s heart started to rise
Every stroke seemed like a welcome surprise
Yet with every scream there was a realize
Pleasure having a soothing delight
The Tattoos were like a road map to love
The woman felt she was in love with a Greek God
It was beauty behind the strength
Miles of detail at every length
****** among us
Love out of control
Oh Ob Oh
But finally the interlude was over
The tattooed Man had taken the woman to his love nest home
The adventure was her roam
The Tattooed Man the woman will never forget
Yet she does have one regret
“I wish I had that body of essence mine”
The dotted line being love fulfilled
The secret of love where there was a will.
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
The quintessence of a battlefield,
forms the vascular pieces within me.
an incubus bringing de ja vu.
nightmares that are nothing of you.
Old evil left me with lacerations,
but the dressing often slips away.
and I'm clutching onto my trepidation.
building walls in my mind to coerce satan.
I try to remember when you reach out your hand,
you differ from evil, past or present.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
In the musical magnificence,
Bright-blue reflector movements
cover the melting color of the sky.
Darkness forms a space of eating-
No silence, yet.
White lyrics root in our soul spaces
allowing the vascular happiness
to ‘hold on’ the feelings as being in chains,
as well as in the rhythm of time-
No sadness.
The feelings swell, and branch
in the flowing sounds.
They embellish the souls.
While sparkling, the sounds
spring out from the feelings
into the sereneness-
No falling down.
The souls reach their state of grace
at the ‘human touch’.
White words mean his seducing voice.
The voice makes angles,
dances the spring of minds,
and feeds the ‘soul time’.
The grace dwells ‘ out of the blue’
as being the first scream of the earth.
The ‘human touch ‘ ‘feels like forever’
the seducing voice-
No emptiness.
The angles change at the ‘edge of a dream’.
The inside of hearing blows bluely the words.
The dream is born into a new, decomposable
silence due to the saxophone compositions.
This silence is a canvas
for a red art of nakedness-
No other angle.
From a forgotten corner,
the 'moon dew' comes
To get applause.
No other Joe Cocker.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 4:52 PM UTC
On this chilly night,
so do not get a fright,
but rug up and come into the light,
at Mordialloc Training, Tonight.
We will do the warm-up, as is right
do some push ups for our might
and after this have a bite,
of some new chocolates, Tonight.
After this you will be ready outright,
with some cardie-vascular workout, quite,
and we will keep the schedule tight,
and do some partner-work too, Tonight.
So come and warm yourself by active rite,
maybe with a bit of sparring, no not fight,
and we will make it a delight, alright, alright,
when you come to Kung Fu training Tonight, Tonight.
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 12:24 AM UTC
My belly
Among ***** made silhouettes
Shedding (the outside of) my breath
Sudden body shakes makeover the silence of
Days
Wrapped in ***** stained dreams
Without an end to my bleeding
The smell of **** is evident
In the same ways that
Blame is kept in tact
A muffled voice is heard through the air
Giant particles grasping at the face of my dawn clocktower
Simulation in the evergreen hands
The very odd feel that denies faith
An old familiar disgust that overflows from my pores
Instant
Glorified
Pure
Sanctity
The calling of angels ******* on a downward spiral
Towards my vascular thoughts
Like a disease which interrupts the collision between planets and words
My pixie movement through the ice parade
An unlikely sorrow from you
What is that distilled sound coming from your hands?
And if the traces of heroine on my breath are mine alone
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
In title it dangles.
A portentous root-vegetable.
Aggressive in its promise.
Domestic in allure.
Swelling is unavoidable.
It comes with a gut.
It comes with a harness
and a wrinkling leather belt.
I’m growling, more bear-like.
Vascular, blooded in cocktails
of babies, phone-calls, a raise.
More love, less time.
Nails are yellow-er
Weather-beaten, careworn.
It comes with her
Unconditional resignation
Poor girl, to a man, to me,
Poor boy, with skin like eggshell.
Perennial givers -
‘We must take what we want.’
I look at the back of my hand,
see if I know it
knuckles like rock, touch
light as a feather.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
The seeds you plant in my heart
feed off the light from your face
they bloom ever so quickly
but soon transition into a different phase
They begin to creep around the periphery
of my vascular *****
they flourish and overcrowd
into what becomes a garden
The stalks, they start to constrict
I suffocate, I shout for help, I gasp for air
what in the world is happening?
silly me, it's not like you even care
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
I am ink faces and paper traces
vowels and consonants arranged
in molecules and red splotches
vascular and musculature
an anthem to all of us.
Homonym hymn religious
syllables silliness
nouns non- meaning
me
I am composed and disarrayed
like an alphabet scattered into a wind .
A Bic pen running out , skipping,
writing, for a lack of paper on the back of
poems written before,
I need a Quill and inkwell,
one thousand trees
to reach my destiny.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
I could hear each splash of sweat dripping on the table...
my hand felt so dry; the young girl took the lifeless solf vascular dollar
from my sun harden hand, and handed me a transparent glass with
four frozen cubse of ice, and warm lemonade...
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 4:34 PM UTC
Wrap my slithering soul in layers of wanton and historical bark, where dendrochronology branches her gorgeously captivating system of vascular cambium and seals me within the vice of her vengeful caress.
History has truly borne witness to the brigand of robbers who interfered with travellers in the depths of the forest of aristocratic whoredom.
I am buried underneath chords of feminine expression, where the synthesis of bass, melody and harmony unite into an unspeakable realm which cannot be interrupted by parallel expressions of sterility.
Your carriage awaits, Madame.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:21 AM UTC
Love is like oxygenated blood which pumps through vascular decades of sensual experience.
Soaring upon the thermals of the Andes, the flight of the Condor reveals perspective of the land, where events are perceived in their complex entirety.
I am fully aware that music can be hypnotic in its ever-flowing stream of rhythmic nourishment. So, there are many parts which make the whole.
Therefore, in the height of our carnivorous quest for survival and intermittent gratification, let us bow in reverence to the many elements of vaginal rituals. It’s a rhythm and blues encore with wings which are not comparable to those of Icarus.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
I have written poems that hymn their love of mute birds
And poured the stars into their palms
I have burned their feathers into words
That shone like ember in your jars
I thought these birds were your guardians
And you'd succumb to my merciful massacre
I haven't realized it was obvious
That you were nothing but a traveller
I have written poems that hymn their love of hummingbirds
And sprinkled salt on their scars
I have turned their chords into pearls
Crimson-blooded and tars
I thought these birds were your audience
That would succumb to a wrangler
Now it is clearly obvious
That the letters of your name
And the venom of your face
Are but a constriction that is vascular
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
What do infants dream of?
Do they dream of wombs?
Places dark
and comfortable
and perfect beyond comparison.
Sedating heartbeat above regular
and comforting
like a vascular clock.
Always keeping time;
always breathing life.
Do they dream of mothers *******
Soft pillows of nurturing flesh.
The source of life on their planet.
Flowing ivory elixir,
from soft rose *******
Do they dream of us?
Of grotesk giants
that pinch cheeks
and speak in meaningless howls.
Smiling oversized faces
that clean the **** that builds below
where that sweet tube once provided life.
Gnawing white stumps
eating indigestible hunks of flesh,
or plants.
Do they understand love?
Can they dream of pure emotion?
Without the words and representations of it interfering?
I wish to be like this.
I wish to be swaddled,
to have dreams about nothing,
and real.
Dreams as pure and amazed
as a teary eyed infant.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
On a night of fate,
a celestial being manifested,
a set of golden optics,
Shared a moment with a set of blue.
Shaking metacarpus,
soft against an elated visage.
two minds, two bodies.
two souls, two mates.
Breaths of desperation,
words wrapped around a vascular piece,
Forcing them to stay,
not to say. No; never to say.
the stars are crossed,
a with held fate,
Forbidden to love,
a censored verse, a poet corraled.
Began a word of truth,
Hold it dear to our souls,
and letting go will never be,
on a night of fate.
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 8:30 PM UTC
I heard I could tie all my veins and arteries together and they would circle the earth so I thought if we laced ours together we could reach the moon
and watch stars blaze like one hundred billion cigarettes in the dark
skinny dip through purple orange green supernova explosions
curl up in a crater and watch the world spin like a cumbersome ballerina then we’d dive back down from the moon to the mothership
and unbraid our veins, separating mine from yours.
But without those vascular knots we’d start drifting apart just like Pangaea.
We’d both begin forgetting how we ballroom danced through constellations together how our fingertips wrinkled like walnuts outside the atmosphere
how we sunbathed under the incandescence of blue supergiants
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
My Vascular ***** to an Animate Object is threadbare.
This Thing is at my center, this insubstantial machine isn't connected.
So neglected, It sits. Fragile and feeble and splintered and split.
And here I will be,
Captivated again by your ameteur refurbishment. You remedy and patch.
But I know what you are. The grim orange streetlamps illuminate you.
And you devour.
And I drown and I loose my breath as I give in and I am absorbed completely.
Soggy, damp, and oh, so obsessed.
And as expected, nothing tangible remains, just a wreched spectre, a terrible being. Not an animate.
My Vascular ***** will sit and stare and will remain threadbare.
May 14, 2010
May 14, 2010 at 5:28 AM UTC
I want someone, someone to appreciate my personal hurricane of emotions; and embrace them like the captain of a ship. Floating in the seas of blankets we'll engulf ourselves in. On those days when this giant puzzle we call life, just clicks. When it's not constantly rearranging or changing or moving. It's just still. I need someone who will grow flowers in the darkest places of my soul, In the Marianas Trench of my mind and they will grow until my body is made from them. My vascular system entirely replaced by stems. Buds blooming until I am made of nothing but your attachment. You'll be the roots to the complex structure I call home.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
a slave to the man
all your complaints are filed,
at best
you despise him
yet you smoke his cigarettes.
you attend his suares,
study his written philosophies
buy into his ********
and claim,
you are enemies yet.
you walk with contradiction,
and trot with solemn unification,
that you my friend,
are just a vein in the inter-workings of his vascular system,
one step closer to the heart of it all.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
June took root in the same way you learned to scream
but now it's fall and you're trying
to sing.
It slipped away from muddy lids like lifting a veil,
like stepping into a bath,
(toes, sole, calf. toes, sole, calf.)
and crawled unseen behind apartment-light echoes;
crooning sultry half-truths,
weighing down vascular walls.
My heartstrings aren't laundry lines but the conversations
we never finished (last night, last week, last year)
hang from them; pinned to sheets, unbothered.
It's pulling on my sleeves; heavy and damp.
The wind isn't howling but
I don't want to hear about the dream you had
where I was a Priest,
where I was hitchhiking,
where I cut off my hair in a taxi's front seat,
and gave it to you in ziplock bags.
A hazy sky; slow and sweet,
coats my traipsing moods like honey
and sticks to the bottom of your favorite mug
(yes, that one, with the chipped rim and your rival
high school's logo.)
We're still here, springing forward and listening.
It's growing, humming cold verses in a new language
while we watch his name take shape in the mist accidentally.
You don't mention how fiercely I'm blushing and I'm grateful I don't have to laugh it off. Some days laughing feels worse than puking.
We are still here.
We are still.
We are.
I'm looking for something important and I won't know it until I see it.
It's morning, it's warmer and we lift our chins to coastline.
I blow smoke upwind;
today physics is purely speculation.
Today I feel like secrets are extinct and I'm certain the day is so much clearer through my Atlantic eyes than their protesting embrace.
You can keep June, I'll take the sky.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC