"ventilate" poems
I was once God's Picasso painting
(the Guernica era).
Chuck Jones' illustration
of the tortured artist,
laid out like Wile E. Coyote
on a bed of scalding rocks
and a white flag screaming "SURRENDER"
clenched with both palms.
If it were feasible,
I'd have dove head first
into the smoky center of the sun
if it meant my audience understood
the shrieking woes I had to bellow through
to reach their overwhelmed palates.
But Tragedy is the sitcom foil
that has long outstayed its menopausal welcome,
and I would much prefer a haunting.
To Hell with those
who repulse the flies with
the vinegar of exploitation,
gawking as their spit seeps
through seven layers of collected scars,
who ventilate the wrists
to keep the audience comfortable.
Real aesthetic power
comes from a shower
of light hail on the spine,
the moments a ghostly hand
****** you on the finger
with quietly hidden truths
always whispered from a field away.
It's far more bracing,
the lump in the throat,
not the electrical gasp of shock.
It's a far greater sign
of a forthcoming apocalypse,
the angel weeping in pain,
not the footsteps
of the wailing banshee.
The wisp
over the wallop.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:56 AM UTC
OOO!
He is worried!
Again!
the Mr. Perfectionist.
It’s almost Carnival but
He hasn't yet got a mask
with specifics
outlining
his ballads
and jests
he
surly lists his bests
in two principle steps
of CAPS :
1)
* Feeds the Bats and
* Tempts the Charms
2)
* Cheap N Handy
* Quixotic but Scary
* Not too Trendy
and he cries
Yuck!
EW!
Husky!
What's worse than
a self-adoring pathetic bat
in my whereabouts!
I can't get the stink and shrill so I help him fast
'Yo what's the worry!'
-I say friendly -
'you need not hurry
cause I think you already are ready!'
-I continue enthusiastically-
'Here! Try this one
My top design
Custom fit chemistry
A truly NO Risk Recipe
and of course
Specially designed for you! '
'for you for youuu
to echolocate
such is an eye-gaze
for the half-blind
such is sound
a vibration that propagates
in ears and brains of pretty gulls
and of course
only for youuu'
- I sing loud a common bat ad just to stimulate
my client and continue- merrily explaining my serviceable recipe
*for 2)
Wear your white shirt just
...as always
the one I know
you know?
the webbed one
weaving grace
and don't forget to
iron it well this time.
*
*for 1)
Put on your true face!
I reckon then
and can guarantee
...as always
no one will ever recognize you .
*
In a flight he disappears glad and I hope he won't show up till next year
What can you do I say to myself and quote a encyclopedic fact about my client.
All things have a place, you don't really need to like them but these ones pollinate flowers and disperse fruit seeds and they are economically important as they consume insect pests reducing need for pesticides.
I say while I ventilate my head with an OM mantra and an incense stick
Bah what a stink what a stink...
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
Parla il cipresso equinoziale, oscuro
e montuoso esulta il capriolo,
dentro le fonti rosse le criniere
dai baci adagio lavan le cavalle.
Giù da foreste vaporose immensi
alle eccelse città battono i fiumi
lungamente, si muovono in un sogno
affettuose vele verso Olimpia.
Correranno le intense vie d'Oriente
ventilate fanciulle e dai mercati
salmastri guarderanno ilari il mondo.
Ma dove attingerò io la mia vita
ora che il tremebondo amore è morto?
Violavano le rose l'orizzonte,
esitanti città stavano in cielo
asperse di giardini tormentosi,
la sua voce nell'aria era una roccia
deserta e incolmabile di fiori.
2k
I need a vacation.
Maybe a trip to Italy.
I gotta revitalize.
Maybe, Pompeii.
I am feeling starved of my vim and vigor.
My words are lukewarm.
There is only one option:
rekindling my virility.
I could vivify myself vicariously:
the sensuality of the city's verve,
all the daily livings of people,
venerated in an intense blaze;
might make me vivacious again.
Input daily routine.
Output socially valued norms.
My vivid, vermillion passion
has been layered with ashes.
I am desperate for veracity.
Did my igneous, poetic life temper
to an obsidian verse?
The beat in my heart
has felt industrialized,
monotonous,
a steady assembly line of chaste gray;
a vexing variance of my vitals.
Revive me: my virtuosity
will ventilate me with
venereal voraciousness.
What is left to me,
a choice of perspective:
a plunge in to the devouring,
a dive in to the radiant;
both, a swim through a viscous sea of wildfire
in Mount Vesuvius.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC
Do you want cook some crystal
Do you want high,
Ventilate the room,
Remember the pieces they found last time
I'll cook like mother used to make
Her recipe got half of the town hooked
Just on one take,
Do you want build a crystal **** lab
We can do it in the
Basement
Garage
Doesn't matter as we'll only be getting high
This is my own private domicile and I will not be harassed
*****
Ok its just me getting high..
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
(Release Me!)
***
I'm the illa Killa Vanilla Consilla
Know That
I be the dope deala and deli meat Grrrrilla
like a Mystical street Thrilla
The Miracle Manzilla
A Mothra villian Chilla
If you rashin like pencil scratchin
for tongue tappin I cure like
penicillin the Wolf and Ben Stiller
I'm a hot steel on flesh wound heala!
(sssiizzzzle)
(Bang Bang)
Wake up to phone ringing
I'm head slinging
cloth stacking on a body
I'm sleep lacking
stay on track AND
(click clack)
My engine blows steam to
organize the regime
*** when I'm working
and writing
I am typing
and crying
*** this Job is dying me colors
like slashing my back and
(click clack)
They beast master and calls stack
I get my slack
between breaks and phone clack
and back track
to where the last ink slapped paper
and draw back from vapors
that ventilate out my ears
like kids caper through streets
with Halloween treats
I'm riding rails
like open sails
like blowing gales
it's raining hail
I'm screaming Hell
In this cube E Cell
(Toot Toooot)
My grey matter is burning
My soul coal is churning
like a witch on stick burning
(Crackle Pop Snap)
Release
(To get Back)
I Master peace
cause my mind's eyes flying
the call cue is dying my fingers fly
no longer trying
to typecast
I drive fast
then Breakfast
for den her
Then
(sshhhhhhh)
The universal remote
is on mute
transcending this dome
my transcendental home
It's my cue
To slip into
the zone
I sip a bit of foam
my cup of coco from
thus releasing my thoughts with YuuHmm
(slurp slurp)
I think for others Daily
Rarely given space or time or Air We
All must trust the Wind gust of
dust and skin gone so scaly
Yet I slither as slow as snails to my home
for me in my dome
to slip into the zone
I sip a bit of foam
from my cup of coco
thus releasing me with an
(Ohm)
of work for others Daily
Rarely given time or space or air WE
all must trust the Wind gusts of dust
and skin gone scaly
So we slither as slow as snails
to a home
for me
deep in my dome
sipping on the zone
bit off coco cup foam
slow snails slip
(Ohm....)
I master peace
Wind
(Release!)
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 5:56 PM UTC
So close, so far; so close, so far.
Only four years apart.
And here is a man who has created something that others enjoy,
but he can call his own.
Something easy, something accessible, something simple,
and he's served so many who can so easily take it for granted.
Has he money or merit or formal praise or accolade,
I know not, but fame and fame and fame,
for creating a way, a niche, a salon for the literary minded
to congregate and ventilate,
meditate and salivate,
indeed* create [and] regurgitate.
Thanks to thee our blessed Eliot York.
Lead on; lead on.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
I held on to paper bags just in case she would hyper
-ventilate
part of me wanted to smack her when she did
I held on to his hands just in-case he had the urge to
punch a hole through another wall
we couldn't afford to fix
those bruises
the kind that never heal
and broken knuckles are
no price to pay
but I gathered some certainty in his closed
balled up fists
because his anger meant more
than his shut eyes
and gritted teeth
Like chewing glass
loosen the screws that held his jaw
shut tight
and I promise not to tell you its okay but
it really is
at some point
we all hate those words
and she should just chill out and breathe
because people get sick
but they don't always die
there's no certainty in that
but still
it
will be
ok
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 1:42 PM UTC
There's times I wish I could rhyme
Write a poem and sing all the lines
I can't imagine a verse with more strength
Than the undulations from a varicose heart.
I have given you every thud in me.
I don't want you to think. This is anymore than a simple statement.
Something easy and needs not another repeat.
Maybe I can keep this neat:
Tell me your hopes and dreams
Your fears and secrets
I wanna hear your innermost, your deepests.
I should clarify. I don't want to hear.
I want to bear. I
want to bear upon your truths.
Maybe you can then attest, that I am here
for the rest of you,
we.
I don't strive to be the best
for just you and me.
I strengthen and climb
because what else is there to do with time?
Tell me your favorite of the virtues and sins
Tell me the worst of both
I want you to show
me your lock and key.
Because I am envy.
I am pride.
I am greed.
Oh, but I am not sloth and the other three?
Is this really
me
you are conversing with?
I am all these things, and I
have shed the past toxins off me.
I have never been one for anger.
I have been diligent
in honing my patience;
I've become a certain sort of chaste.
My dear, you see,
you took a bite right out of me.
An apple that was so sweet:
Innocent skin and a refreshing flesh.
A shame really,
What's left is my bitter core.
But before you throw me out.
You should know there's a little more.
Within there are locked, opaque,
not so empty shells.
There's a secret in them.
And maybe, I could let you know.
How to open those potential doors.
Harvest and protect in a sanctuary.
Care and nourish.
Be patient and see the potential.
Maybe, in a few weeks you'll see what they've formed.
Better yet, a few years, with proper TLC;
you'll see,
that out of the darkness grew
something beyond saccharine.
But dear, why tell me your deceits?
I already broke my seals,
and it's a beauty to be real.
So vulnerable and I see the light.
Oh no, not one of life.
But something worth following towards Thanatos.
Death of what we both thought had been me.
I am already reborn
from a recipe of grandeur.
Something more complex
than just a fruit from a tree.
Something with deep
established roots,
an unrelenting body,
with a grasp upon the skies.
I will forever ventilate and grow.
The end point from here
is no longer very clear.
I just know one thing:
speak to me,
let me hear
your inner sea
whether turmoil or calm,
I will always thirst for your endless waters.
to know where your waves crash,
to know the moon that pulls your soul,
to know the pulses that ruminate from your depths.
Your voice is the orchestra
I wish to listen to
while I chase the sky.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
The irresolvable contradiction, in whose subconscious formula this current absurd-impossible World is immersed, first it turns into non-existence, then it organically emerges into the stagnant Nothingness. The ostrich-faithful gangs of yampecs, like the circus associations of the self-deceivers, seem to even play together a little in the manner of accomplices in the intercontinental businesses of gamblers - because a restless, wandering Soul has long since become a cat and has been tempting the son of man, because there is no partiality, no special difference in a prolonged, incessant Sisyphusian fall. It feels the numbing cracks of the rotting decompositions, while those who remain on the surface are constantly eviscerating the last pennies and silver coins from the pockets of the simpler, working average; Even pitifully degrading bureaucratic wisdom cannot be quite adequate these days: dignity and existence exclude each other just as feudal lords exclude a compromising servant.
Free-thinking is not at all chic these days, they are quite calmly content with merely the illusion of truth as long as possible. Now imported idolatry is becoming more and more popular again, but very much so. Because in the guaranteed transitional age, no one and nothing can be themselves, or the same as they were as long as the laws of humanism were observed, the message of conscious blind indifference seems to have been deliberately transplanted into another blind world.
Like startled fish embryos, apocryphal passwords glide, wrinkles write the warning message on the secret prison walls of faces: "Pay attention, and rather hide in hiding!" - Every circle must organically close at some point. The wasted seasons are no longer waiting for a silver star ready to wander. It's time to ventilate the soul-crushing stuffiness that is welling up in man!
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 12:34 AM UTC
I never knew
trees move
always
with all of their insides
along horizontal lines
and towards vertical ups
in curly circular
turbulent motions
and never keep still
reach to the tiniest
veins
on top
one by one
time by time
non stop
and unitedly
create wind
All of the winds of the planet!
I thought it was otherwise
I thought they kept still just
Wait to speak somehow or mumble
until the winds would show up or
bow their heads
until they'd be swept away
choicelessly accept move or die
but no
they move as such ...
by all their insides
so that
winds are created
upon their dance request
It is a call to ventilate the earth
and they have eyes !
different than ours
they can see multiple skies
they whirl
so clouds can pass
faster than we know to see
they see
as if we accelerated a camera motion
but also they see more skies than one
not like us ….just one
not like us …...only when we look up
cause their eyes make the clouds and skies pass
and all that they do is all they can do
because they are rooted to the earth
fully …. here they are
always one with the earth
always supported by the earth
only to create that curly vertical
neverending motion
so that it delivers
same frequency creatures back to the earth
I never knew that they are so busy
always at breathe is not easy
for simpler ones like us
imagine not a gap alone
oh no
I never knew
until I became
a tree
alone
:)
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
The city was laid bare:
like a patient upon the operating table
I walked the streets with precision
I was the scalpel carving communities from the fauna
the city was alive, and so it was truly sick
concrete jungle
projects and penthouses
the beleaguered old traipsed about, silent, but not quiet
the youth, rambunctious and carnal, feasted upon the dying
With each touch, I soothed the soul
Kisses, like antiseptic.
Lectures, like stitches.
Like cumulonimbus, the raucous ramblings of crowds grew
I said to myself, "It is fine, this is life, let it live."
Youth, ablaze with carrion wings, descend upon the old
beaks barrelling forward, pecking and snatching decency
still there are some who help
swooping down like proud eagles, they shoo away the scavengers
they beat back the tide of villainy
they shelter innocence, foster truth
but they are not enough...
I carve out the **** of corruption
I ventilate the lungs of the city and plug the punctures
but the pollution is virulent and stubborn...
Still, I say to myself, "This is poetry, love is a mystery, let them be."
I will hear them cry in the rain
I will not know my place
I might extend a hand, proffer an embrace, but
they will shy back,
for man will become monster
and God will become devil... in their eyes: deluded; poisoned by hate.
I will wonder where I went wrong.
Will I try my best to turn the helm against the wave,
go THROUGH the heart of the storm?!
Of course, I will try
I will try,
but I will fail.
Man will flaunt his freedoms, those which were freely given.
Despite my grief, I will say to myself, "All things have an end. There was nothing I could do."
I wonder to myself...
How many centuries have I folded my hands against the storm.
Behold! It's patience!
It will ever rise,
It will ever approach!
So long as man lies,
It will reach for his throat!
Man will always feign surprise,
It is a sickness he cannot broach...
As the color of morning skies is calming,
The fumes of the rumbling storm are maddening!
I always let the storm build until the lightning sets the world on fire
because
I thought the storm was man's voice in an inimical life...
But I was wrong, the storm is the beast that lurks in the shadows.
It sets the table for carrion.
The beast builds the cumulonimbus, preparing the kindling for the floods of war.
The storm's pallor stains man's skin so ubiquitously
That he mistakes the storm for himself.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 7:12 PM UTC
to deliver any of these moments, in perfect clarity
the dust, caught, between streetlight resolutions
footprints, in short and fragrant sidewalk grasses
heard the tears leaking from the road
outside of rosemary's house
nobody deserved that loss
so soon
I
hadn't said
my last sentences
haven't seen you in years
this news rests heavy on my father's eyelids
attempting sleep, in a log or tin cabin miles and miles away
summiting the path that diverges from penny lane
through semi-forested, midnight blanketed steps
the glitter of the valley below lies in wait
*the clouds ventilate interior spaces
leaving a halo of shadowlit castles
three stars pinpointed about
the perimeter*
lost my breath
telling myself you'll want better
before anything can change.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 8:21 AM UTC
We take deep breathes to ventilate
our minds that they contaminate with "facts"
and we cooperate to live
but what's life if we imitate
the things around they illustrate to be profound
and tolerate their moves as they assassinate
that very moment when you speculate
that there's more than this
what's life if we hesitate to
speak of what might be the
key to cultivate something beyond
what is here, beyond fate
our linguistic ability to communicate
is more than a sign to orchestrate
our feelings as one and incubate them into a new
luxuriate creation
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 8:17 PM UTC
I'm drawing inspiration from the negative,
my attention biases towards certain phrases,
they leap out to me and I thought by now they'd be the ones to represent happiness and hope;
But still internal unrest is at the forefront,
And I still feel incongurance.
Because to relate to the positive I may as well take a syringe to a dry sponge,
I draw nothing but air,
but I guess at least im drawing now and that's progress.
But there's only so many times I can ventilate the same air without questioning,
why my head magnetises certain stimuli in a world so far from bare?
I can't explain, but to use optimism, hope, love and success as my muse feels unnatural, it's strained,
l am unworthy of it.
I let my mouth take the lead,
bypass my brain so I write how I feel, it flows without me.
And maybe its a Fruedian slip in the form of a sentence,
but im scared if I slip too far i'll drown and in my sponge I will suffocate.
So I speak without thinking let my brain take the stage and im back,
back circling the same topics again,
maybe in life I repress them and this is their escape I just dont know.
Because when I write about my excitement for the future or how I dont want to leave your arms or how you personify comfort I feel obnoxious,
I feel niave
What is it about me that feels so uncomfortable,
so exposed,
so vulnerable,
to say i'm happy?
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 2:47 AM UTC
Come! O' love! Come here!
Hug the shore; make assurance
Doubly sure, yield to temptation,
The cockles of one's heart;
Come near! As luck would have it
To point a moral and adorn a tale.
Come! O' love! Come here!
Rush-head foremost to
Work the oracle and feather ones
Nest to take will for deed;
Come near! on the tip-toe of expectation
To sit on a pedestal the flower of the flock
And swear by all the saints of the calendar.
Come! O' love! Come here!
And call heaven to witness
Bring home to bear out and
Have a tender heart
yielding as wax;
Come near! To court the flow
Of soul and hunt in couples.
Come! O' love! Come here!
Stop clipping the Queens English
And hang upon the lips of the
Wind and weather permitting
A ready pen, to ones heart content.
Come near! Come across!
Fall in with! O' love
Come! Come here!
Bright as noonday to
Ventilate a question of
The meanest capacity
O' love! Come near!
ELEETE J MUIR
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 10:54 PM UTC
If sorrow is for the poet,
Then mystery is for the dreamer,
I shadow a mince of swollen pride
It batters me
Like a mauling iron
of birth-stone and fire
I surrender
From time
and time again,
I select
A version of indecision so in-vain
I could barley sketch the sheet
or ventilate
Maybe that's all
Who knows
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 9:22 PM UTC
It seems to me that
No matter what words I choose
And countless stanzas I use
I feel no different than how I did yesterday.
I feel torn, confused, and lost
Like any other ******* teenager out there
So, I thought poems could ventilate my fears
And somehow halt my internal flowing tears
But I was wrong.
It seems to me that
No matter what topics I discuss
Everybody I talk to turns the other way
As if I've got nothing important at all to say.
A friend, a foe, a love, a hate
Why should I think my words are great?
If everybody I write about dissolves in the end
Does it even matter if I care for the poems I tend?
It seems to me that
No matter what words I choose
And countless stanzas I use
I cannot artistically express that I'm done with poetry.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 12:13 AM UTC
Throat closing as we
Join the
Motorway
Vision blurring
Losing feeling
Oxygen blocked
Panic growing
But lost
Caring
Too much
Going through
My brain
But too
Slow
To understand
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC
Because ankles are bound to get hot
In underwear collars why not
Raise up the stall door,
To ventilate more?
You’ll feel like you’re on board a yacht.
Dec 17, 2024
Dec 17, 2024 at 4:15 PM UTC