Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
vircapio gale Aug 2012
on moonstone slab Manmata flames again
from out of ashes rises, gloating unfinality of Shiva's dance
reincarnate offering of endless Self
in Lakshmi's avatar
a fateful prince's heart to lance

and lanced his heart her visage did,
                                                     though with vaster pinions fully pierced was she, in depths
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 without rivalry~

his lust was sharp to invite solitude,
but easy to conceal,
he imagined cupping her against him,
scoured memory of upward glimpse,
inch  by  inch
with added imagery, invention moulding her
beneath his grasp
from forehead curls along
glowing skin and eyes
to curving, palatially appareled ******* . . .
her open lips . . .  her hips
--but after, merely to dismiss
and even sleep a bit
and quip inside at irony
to be at mercy
of a girl in flowers
when he with arrows demons lay to rest
(though she would, within the selfsame hours lose her wits ;)

in cityscape descried the triad:
gold dome gifts for sky
in shining generosity
Mithila's people overflow with joy
exuding free abundance carelessly--
jewelry loosed on playful street
from overkeen embrace, is left to lie;
loss in ever-present wealth nigh obsolete

musth of elephant, froth of steed,
floral garlands tangle, line and mix
for clouds of honey-bees to lick their feast.
a bustling of virile acrobatic populace--
symphonic mux of chaos tressed,
metropolis of idylls coalesced;
drums, races, grinning faces flinging courtship,
smirking merchants under wigs
bathers splash exotic fish to flit and weave
while ballads sift for higher pitch of love

from elevated terrace ladies prance
and watching from an inner spire
the princess spies her prince--
emerald shoulders, lotus-petal eyes
Vaikunta hidden from their mortal sight
but straining recognition there,
a union ageless as the stars
inspired suddenly another first:
Rama's transfixed stare she feels and meets,
strangers locked entwining glances
--fated simultaneous-- electric heat   like
from a planet sparking for the taste of outer space --
the lightning burns its mark ensouled
in blooms beyond her ripe, anthophilous form,
verdant visions planted in the rays of light
between two instant loves
to slip inside the eyelid entrance
and evermore impregnate with a glory ill,
as separation wills,
to colonize throughout with other Being there
phantasmal yearnings of entrancing elegance
--from dawn of time instilled, akashic script
of binding hurt with joy in love's embrace
condemn desire to a writhing term
when not imbibing such togetherness
a worldless crypt preferred

and so as swift as gymnast flip to fall
the heart is gushing toxic lack,
epic ventricles the viscose tug
in fluid inspiration wrote of Sita's
sudden addict gnashing inner plight
while slips the sight interred within the crowd,
as if a sorcerer the cosmic sea to play her destiny:
the waves inside enraged to overwhelm
the sudden coral crust beneath the swell
an unmarked seaside's lavish drown unto the land
and reeling send this fragile ******
into wilting, her floral haze to drooping fell...
        in revelatory crash of passion's oceanic weight...
attendants pamper uselessly
--from swoon to mood irate
to wait until the next appearance of her mortal god
the only one to sate the shameless need
entwining up within a clenching wrack of milky fits
from bed to sweaty bed they take the burning maiden~
the outer sea inflow in calming dusk meant nothing to the agony of new romance
                       sequestered in hymenic fire, dawning brilliant
                                                       ­                                omni chakral pierce in rays,
                                                                ­                                                              tot­ality relentlessness
and therein descry a wholeness
  yet unregained
a hopeless birdsong careless as the wind
in caring strokes of pollen redolence
for forest ears an endless vibrate mate
of elemental ease the simmer float
upon the dukkha broil paths embroidery of karmic
cookery the godly recipe invoked,
gibed her without cease,
****** flare eternal guna coals to stoke
and spite her with their peace,
for her attainment only next to he
the moon communes the message blinding clear
amid the ghee her girls would light in care
to soften her despair -- but only aggravate her state --
and so by dim refracted moondrops set,
in only gemlight, Sita basks in pain
her gaze entrained by night obsessively
while overhead the crescent hook beams
freely in to fertilize her all-too-chastely girdle there,
petals wilting under body pressed to slab of stone
as mounting groan on groan intones her writhing questioning
of whomever he could be to cast her moaning so
a deity in maidenhead unwitting of such otherlife
left by endless, anthrocosmos' whim to ache, and alone
in wonder scream abandonment from aether poise
confusion reigning noisome nescient choice


















.
Manmata: the god of love, who Shiva is said to have burned to ashes with the purity of his contemplation
Lakshmi: Hindu goddess of wealth, prosperity (both material and spiritual), fortune, and the embodiment of beauty. She is the consort of the god Vishnu. She takes her mortal form as Sita in the Ramayana, destined for Rama (who is Vishnu's avatar).
Guna: an element, 'thread', 'string' or principle of nature; the three gunas are (sattva), (rajas), and (tamas)
Dukkha: suffering
Anthro-: as in 'human'

"The impact of the Ramayana on a poet, however, goes beyond mere personal edification; it inspires him to compose the epic again in his own language, with the stamp of his own personality on it.  The Ramayana has thus been the largest source of inspiration for the poets of India throughout the centuries . . . Thus we have centuries-old Ramayana in Hindi, Bengali, Assamese, Oriya, Tamil, Kannada, Kashmiri, Telugu, Malayalam, to mention a few."   -R.K. Narayan (whose prose version of Kamban's 11th c.e.Tamil --originally written on palm leaves-- i'm reading at the moment, and whose advice i've found myself compelled to follow. in no way am i an authority, but an amateur--literally--'in love')

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/ramas-inauguration-facing-the-murderous-gluttony-of-thataka/

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/soorpanaka-the-demon-as-kamavalli-lusts-for-rama-1/
Babu kandula Jun 2014
Millions, trillions
And more and more
None of our finger prints are same
None of our retinas are same
Why do we limited to a group
All of our bloods are Red
And every heart has four chambers (arteries and ventricles)
Common oxygen to breathe
Why we are bounded to one group
Everyone has birth from womb of a mother
Every heart pumps the blood
But
Why we are confined to one group

We are humans
This was the only group
We had with us

Unity in diversity is what we want

It should not be limited only for sayings
We should follow this
Unity in diversity
We can say it
But by heart how many can
Really feel it
Why this difference
Everyone has blood
Can inhale oxygen
And exhale carbon dioxide
Why this difference
We are all equal
No matter what is our status
Randi G Feb 2015
Little pieces of you flow through my veins among the plasma and blood cells. Bits of you bump into molecules of oxygen and they smile. My heart loves you. It pumps you through my ventricles and asks my body not to filter any of you out. My brain sends out constant oxytocin in your presence and my hippocampus keeps memories of your touch within easy reach. My body loves you just as much as I do.
Katsa Sep 2013
The waves of blood run over me,
Like water through my hair.
The crimson tide comes rushing in
But I do not feel fear.
For I am just a little cell,
Clinging to the walls.
Arteries, veins, and ventricles
**A ****** wave of awe.
Lora Lee Jun 2018
Lick the words
from my lips
let them slide down
your throat
like fruited jewels,
   dark, hard candies
   that melt into cream
a healing liquid  
oozing into my
               ventricles,
pumping milky beats
out through
           your cells
permeating the deep
of my wild
  
My syllables will
   wrap themselves
      around your syntax
frothy hybrids
of buttered silk
                and irony
heart-to-heart
conversations that
flow into the ether,
as heaven's night
endlessly begins

We twirl our tongues
into guttural utterings,
lustful verse
that glides from
slick-fervored ice
to an outpour
                    of lava
We feed each other
dreams
our saliva like honey
dripping with dawn's
tender glow
as we open up
like baby birds,
begging to be nourished
at all costs

Here,
in this lingual forest
Your breath finds a home
on my tastebuds,
my tongue
in your
          cheek
            
In between the tumults
of our
exploding oceans
This
     is how we
  love
SeaChel May 2013
The feeling of not being good enough,
inadequacy,
pulses through my heart,
out both ventricles, through the arteries
to deposit the tingling sensation throughout my body like
a thousand red ants
crawling up and down limbs.
Trees have stronger roots than I.
It takes a mere sentence
to break my stance and split me
in two.
You don't notice me
stitching myself back together
piece by piece.
You never notice because I am simply
not good enough.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
perchance an epic was necessary, to consolidate the scattered thinking, and indeed, once a certain life, and was lived with a cherishing heart, the heart broke, and life turned from adventures to a more studious approach, and in here, a comfort was found, never before imagined explorations - of course sometime a tourist in the arts does come, but such tourists quickly fade, and the pursuit becomes more enshrined - to levitated towards epics is perhaps the sole reason for the cherished memory of some - and how quickly all can revolve around a searched for theme, after many incorporations were minded - as one to have travelled the Mediterranean, another to have been eaten by the great mandarin silkworm of the library of Kangxi - heading along the silk route with spices - indeed the great mandarin silkworm of the library of emperor Kangxi; as i too needed a bearing - to inspect the trickster of lore and the godly blacksmith of the north.

by instruction - an accumulation of the the zephyrs
into a vector, headed north,
toward the gluttonous murk of ice, jesting
with aches to the bulging and mesmerised crescendo
of adrift stars captured in the tilting away -
to think of an epic, to keep out-of-time of
spontaneity and thistle like swiftness in the last
days of summer, that Mercury brings the new
tides of the tetravivaldis -
   brought by the λoγος of a γoλας -
for reasons that satisfy the suntan copper of
the ***** - the λoγος of a γoλας - yet not toward
Monte Carlo or any hideout of money well invested
and greedily spent for a charm -
no, north bids me welcome from afar -
this norðri fløkja, this    ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ -
by my estimate, i could not take the nonsense
of numerology of a certain specialisation,
i took what was necessary, i pillaged the temple
of Solomon, perhaps that the dome of the rock
might stand - with its glistening dome and
its sapphire mosaics - i don't belong among
palm trees and date trees - hence i turned to
deciphering and subsequently encrypting -
as i have already with *ᚱᚨᛒᛖ
:
the journey of an Æsir through a birch forest
on a horse.
                    with this method in mind:
(a) ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       (b) ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ:

(a)
the need to acquire possessions accumulating
into an estate, is a journey encountered
day by day, although a journey on ice

(b)
cattle only thrive near water,
auruchs did not, and hence illuminated
their way to extinction,
         by way of the Æsirs' harvest
(to eat up diversity of life, and create
a godless world of man).

my escape route came from ᚠ - mirroring שִׂ
although the former standing, the latter sitting
down, although the former fathomable
to my pleasure, the latter unfathomable
to ascribe numbers to letters for patterns -
i seek no patterns, hence my sight turned to
the northern sights, and meanings amplified.
                
the greeks were intended to explore abstracts,
having stated a triangle
they invented the ² symbol and what not,
it was because
they didn't bother extracting a phonetic unit
from something definite,
they classified such endeavours barbarian,
what reasonable greek of 13% reason and
87% reality would extract alpha from
the sound you made when
saying ansur (ᚨᚾᛋᚢᚱ) - i.e. attention -
i.e. deriving a definite sound differentiation
for alphabetical rubrics from a definite thing
(in whatever classification that might be)?
the greeks used the alphabetical rubric of
crafting a definite sound from an indefinite thing,
so they said: acronym, aardvark, assumption,
                       α                 α      α     α,
then they said α² - there are no antonyms -
but indeed there were, hence the Trojan nation
settling in the boot, that's Italy,
the Romans escalated the greek theory
beyond taking out a definite sound distinguished
from other distinguishable sounds,
abstracting what the alphabetic sound assured
a list under alpha: assumption, advantage,
acorn, etc. -
the latins were the first atomist after the greeks,
the greeks believed in atoms, but had no
microscopes to prove atoms existed,
such scientific faith found no parallel;
the latins ensured this was true,
ending with castrato sing-along -
the latins furthered abstracting sounds from
definite orientation which the greeks did
working from ice into iota,
the latins just sang i, i, i -
of course chiral behaviourism of such dissection
emerged - hatch a plan, plan a chisel -
it's very piquant i mind to let you know -
the greeks abstracted nouns in order to create
the alphabet, the barbarians still used
proper nouns to speak proper, the greeks
thus created synonyms and antonyms to add
to the spice of life - after all,
not deriving definite alphas from
cursors that acknowledged points of origins
created diacritical stressing like comma and
semis of colon and macron, not deriving them
from definite things, shunning a helpful
vocabulary bank to an unhelpful vocabulary
banked: synonyms and antonyms the Gemini's
birth of rhetoric;
but the latins were rejected with their atomic theory
of pronunciation, since they became laden
with diacritics - punctuation marks of a different sort,
you can measure a man sprint one hundred metres,
but is that also measuring a man to say
mān or män or mán? i know that the slavic ó = u
given the scalpel opening the ensō to craft a parabola -
but it's not necessarily an accent debate
but a punctuation debate... the emergence of
the diacritic symbols above the letters is due
partly to their joy of the popes listening to
castrato operas and the fact that the romans
went too far... hence the chiral nature of certain
symbols when dittoing - the barbarians used
definite things to assert definite sounds -
the greeks used indefinite things to assert definite
sounds - mind you, if the romans became too
abstract with their little units that became engraved
with punctual accenting, then the greek letters
became laden with scientific constants as necessarily
fathered, unchanging in the pursuit of Heraclitus' flux -
for example... Pythagoras and the hypotenuse:
                            σ / κ² = α² + β² -
           or?
                             c² (ć) = a² (ą) + b² / š (bubble beep
                                                           bop barman backup hop
                                                           of shackled kakah
                                                           or systematic oscillation
                                                           for bzz via burp);
πρ² is still more stable
                                 than what the latin alphabet allows -
hence why greek phonetic encoding was used in
science, and latin phonetic encoding was used in music,
can't be one or the other - added to the fact that
latin encoding had too many spare holes with
the evolution of numbers, and greek didn't have them,
hence β-reduction in lambda calculus and F-dur and A#

the one variant of the grapheme (æ) they didn't include
among expressions: graphite and grapheme
was the variant - gravitating to an entombing
of the excess aesthetic - geresh stress -
somehow the twins match-up to a single womb:
àé vs. áè: V vs. Λ - Copernicus wrote over all
of this with the flat earth uselessness
in terms of navigation - flat earth is useless...
huh? flat earth is the only system that gave
Columbus the chance to explore the new world -
no flat earth no Columbus -
that satellite named Luna was no tool
in navigating across the Atlantic - believe me
i'm sure -
                  or that grapheme (æ) varied like statistics
or like the characters in the book of genesis
that famous adam und eve (kim and kanye):
chances came, chances went:
it was still a draw on the tongue tied decipher:
àè and áé proved another notation for plurality
was necessary, not at the beginning of the word,
but after, hence the possessive article 's,
we could have parallelism, there was a crux,
how once the chiselling of letters came about,
more economic to chisel in a V than a U,
both the same, much easier though...
almost barbaric i might say...
sigma (Σ) enigma rune e (ᛖ) - this compass
is a ******* berserker, god knows if it's
mount Everest or the Bermuda Δ

but one thing is for certain, never you mind how
a language is taught unless you mind it,
not that conversational athenian is really what
i'm aiming at - but a lesson is a lesson nonetheless,
out of interest something new,
richard von Coudenhove-Kalergi,
and what preceded him, namely pan-slavism,
just when the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
did a little Judaic trick of its own,
although snorkelling in the waters of not writing
history for less a time than israel -
you can't beat ~2000 under water - although
you could if your little tribe had an einstein
among them, or proust or spinoza, then
you could effectively become a whale, popping
an individual out from the rubble to say a polite
'hello' and 'when will the dessert be served?'
but indeed, learning a language on your own,
how to learn from scratch, the greek orthography,
and why omicron and not omega,
the give-away? sigma - purely aesthetic reason,
                             νoμισματων

                             nomismaton

omicron                                                 omega

                 you write omicron at the front
                 and omega at the back
                 pivot letter? two: σ     μ &
                 νoμι-                                -ατων
                      ­                     |
                 anything here  
                 will use o            and anything
                                              here uses ω

alike to sigma:
                          χωρας (choras, i.e. country)

sigma (ς) not sigma (σ), i.e. digitalising languages
without a clear connectivity of letters,
block-a-brick-block-a-brick-digit-digit-digit
you learn that handwriting is gone,
two options, your own aesthetic reasons now,
remember, some paired for the ease of handwritten
flow - digitalised language changes the aesthetics,
you make your own rules (considering exceptions
of oh mega mega, ergo revision -

                                       χoρας,

but still the sigma rule, others esp. o mega
you stamp on them like βλαττια, i.e. cockroaches -
κατσαρίδα                 not         κατςαρίδα

all perfectly clear when you explore plato's
dialogue from the book Θηαετητυς (as you might
have noticed, the epsilon-eta project is still
in the storage room of my imagination) -
but indeed in the dialogue, between socrates
and the "hero" of the book theaetetus -
a sample, without an essay on the theory
of knowledge -
socrates: ...'tell me theaetesus, what is Σ O?'
theaetetus: yes, my reply would be that it is
                    Σ and O.
socrates: so there's your account of the syllable,
                isn't it?
theaetetus: yes.
socrates: all right, then: tell me also what your
                  account of Σ is.
                                                             ­   (etc.
or as some might say, a shrug of the shoulders,
a hmmpf huff puff of hot air, impractical interests
and concerns - well, better the impractical
problems than practical problems, less feet
shuffling and nail-biting moments with your
tail between your legs and an army of
intellectuals working out what went wrong
and how history will solve everything by
the practical problems repeating themselves) -
you know that inane reaction - others would just say
Humphrey Bogart and nonetheless get on with it.

some would claim i was begot a second time,
not in the sixth month period of the aqua-flesh,
how did i actually related to the life aquatic,
for nine months i was taught to hold my breath,
however did this happen?
a miracle of birth? ah indeed the miracle of
a crutch for a woman - spinal deformities -
9 months, sort to speak, in water or some other
fluid - merman - a beastly innovation -
next you'll be telling me beyond this life
we turn into centaurs, given the Koran's promise -
you'd need the appetite of a breeding horse
to satiate the 72 - or thereabouts - martyr or
no martyr - 72? that's pushing it -
or as they say among children - a chance playground
without swings or sandpits, but very careless
gravitational pulling toward a certain direction;
nonetheless, they might have that i did indeed
settle of a sáttmáli                  ᛋᚨᛏᛏᛗᚨᛚᛁ
                  við         ­                  Vᛁᛞ
                  tann                         ᛏᚨᚾᚾ
                  djevul                      ᛞᛃᛖVᚢᛚ -
the hands you see, fidgety -
     hond handa grammur burtur    úr   steðgur
     ᚻᛟᚾᛞ  ᚻᚨᚾᛞᚨ  ᚷᚱᚨᛗᛗᚢᚱ   ᛒᚢᚱᛏᚢᚱ  ᚢᚱ   ᛋᛏᛖᛞᚷᚢᚱ
         the hands give an ardent pursuit
                                                 away from rest -
well not that my poems will ever reach
the islands in question - and indeed an
uneducated guess propels me - what does it matter,
λαλος babbler meant anything, indeed λαλος,
language as my own, is a language that i can
understand - and should anyone omit
disparities - a welcome revision would never tease
nor burn my eyes - but the phonetic omission
peeved me off: woad in water, ventricles in a
variety of entanglements - it's just not there -
and indeed, orthographically, if there are no more
optometric involvements of omicron's twin -
then the stance is with you to use whichever pleases,
i can't tell the difference, unless i was a pedantic
student, aged 70, with a granddaughter i wanted
to be wed teasing a millimetre's worth of
phonetic differentiation between the two -
POTATO PA'H'TAYTOE TOMATO TA'H'MAYTOE -
linguistically one's american and the other
is british, which looks like greek and latin
upside-down and in a mirror: pəˈteɪtəʊ, təˈmɑːtəʊ;
or as the spaghetti gobblers would put it:
the tetragrammaton is working on their
texan drawl (dwah! ripples in china) -
or the high-society new england ******* *******
coo with a cuckoo's load of clocks -
before being sent off to england for a respectable
education, something en route Sylvia Plath -
but not to ol' wee scoot land - ah nay - well
perhaps for a year and then talk of north european
barbarism of a deep friend pizza and mars bar.

and when descartes finished with christina
queen of sweden, she became an animate portrait
of feminine attempts at philosophising,
she was basically ostracised from society,
well, not society per se, she didn't become a stray
dog, but she forgot certain functions of
the upper tier - lazily modern man decides
to hide phenomena from understanding
individual instances, with the kantian guise
of a noumenon, hence cutting his efforts short -
indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by society - only after descartes finished educating her;
and indeed to most people a little bit of sloth
equates to an amputation of some sort -
yet only with the x-files' season 2 episode 2
i've learned of the effects of prolonged alcohol
"misuse", that little boxing match in my liver?
it's not a pain as such, it's actually a hardening
of soft tissue - with prolonged alcohol exposure
soft tissue organs harden, notably the liver -
and it's not a pain, it's a hardening.
but indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by her tier of socialites - i'm glad diogenes
didn't get to her, but then again a bit of cloth
goes a long way this far north -
yet unlike the encounter with napoleon by hegel
diogenes' encounter with alexander lasted longer -
which tells you the old method does no service
to a little bit of material accumulation -
but perhaps the acumen was briefer when you were
ably living in a barrel - and to think, as only
that being the sole expression, not so much
a body without organs as stated in the thesis
of anti-oedipus by deleuze and guattari -
a consideration for a body without limbs - prior
to a footprint an imprint on the mind -
carelessly now, a diarrhoea of narration -
how rare to find it - perhaps this idea of epic
poetry is a default of writing per se -
with this my whatever numbered entry i seize
to find escape in it - a lack of ambition -
a loss of spontaneity that's a demanded mechanisation -
by volume, by inaneness - to reach a single
technique accumulative zenith, and then back
into the ploughing, rustic scenery and the
never-bored animals - i rather forget such escapades -
and there i was dreaming of a grand
runic exploration - some imitable game -
some scenic routes - yet again -
Lora Lee Jul 2018
when we are in love
we are raw red hearts
bleeding
exposed to the flesh
of the night air
in crisp, sharp breaths
ventricles open wide
as its beats paint
the stars crimson,
skylit rubies
baring all
peeled back touch
of cells like
the muck of our guts
spilled out yet
       somehow contained

My insides are
braided, like veins
pumping life into universes
receiving the tender fire
of your jeweled, earthy words
rising to meet each kiss
like an abulation

I am
boiling cherry broth
in this heat-licked ice
that melts upon the tongue
in salted frenzy,
delightful

Wash over me
Hold me in cupped hands,
                       gently
Take me by the tips of
my soul's hips,
                  firmly
for I am at risk
of being pulled into
the sweeping monsoon
of
     your
forever
vircapio gale Oct 2012
what did it take for me to miss those days?
crawling breathless,
stomach nails for breakfast, ventricles of rust,
pounding on my ribs with any upright task
from soaking bed delirium,
corroded mind and eyeballs
tortured falun dafa tears
stinging on the walls a glowing red,
my branching veins encasing me in flaming
paths of mystery: to live or die, to try or fail
at simple efforts
--never gone without, since infanthood--
to stand itself a tissue horror
bathing in the needles of another lifeform's hold on me,
that spiral nesting multitasker
legions in the joints,
invading forces claiming spinal tower-riches
as if my thoughts will be my last,
originary flickerings of self, sacked and razed,
the burning out of novelty for bottom emptiness
and only sympathies malinger there--
yet vaster frame invisible to healthy eye emerged:
a sea, empathic with my prior paths from health diverged:
adrenal waves and dolphin plays of other air ensouled i purge
with cascade urges tension mixing universal breath
of statements, fears and wry coercings not to think of death
or tempting near the abolition of a system *****
for all the benison it's bound to store for years
of hiding blind and uttering the shield-word
of our sly, superficial, group-stock lies,
to have us screaming at each other out of only kneejerk love
a mask of fodder from our young dogmatic wanderings
they burn and burn and choke like spirochetes themselves
while shoving under family rugs the truth

cicada shells clung eerily against the burls and branches
of a monumental tree itself a deathly symbol bare of green
like ornaments of rhythm upsurge birthing into death digest
the exoskeletal remains, under finger crunched as
up the bark i climbed
to view what death had taken value on for me, and balanced
up atop the hill of faded names i yearned the meanings of,
and in the clouds
a part revealed
a sunny mist,
to paint me colorful again--
and in that mood a hail began to tick on forest floor:
the brittle dead a singing whisper flaking brown
on brown, on earthy brown to gather white within the paper nooks of leafy drums

how whimsically to service death
anon anon for now they're always lying there
across the road atop the grave hill,
from other species hunted here
but this, that time it was a carved skull
hacked or sawed but yards from peaceful temple yard
another, cleaner omen skull had led me there,
ochre red with emerald mold
the cranial pale divided stop and go
and led me wondering within the stream
to notice other signs i half-expected mystically:
surreal blood abundantly with vulture feathers carpeting the scene:
a stag with missing brain, missing hind and organs
chosen how, i'd never know
--i saw the arrow though, a barb of certainty--
and old fur, gray and white, a timely passing then,
to make of gore a sacred right,
and in hale ignorance i prayed like only atheists can pray
with self-disclaiming smirk but
humble authenticity of unknown forces
biding in the impulse-meaning-gathering of earth,
now memory to glean and hold to live in me
Ken Pepiton Mar 2018
Sense touch feel know Sense touch feel know Sense touch feel know Sense touch feel know Sense touch feel know Sense touch feel know Sense touch feel know Sense touch feel  

Lying spirits. Those are real you know. You know? Don't you?

Mad is ill defined, dis-ease, decease, desistere, eh? You Roman?
You serve a mad man you know.
And the Roman said,'I serve the empire, a' and he stopped…

Might right be virtuous and power called might
be not-right,
like hands, chirality? Right and not.

Shame, we should not know that.

Perhaps the vector was the chirality connection.
Hers was upgraded.
So when the shame bomb hit, it was him,
not her, who blew it?
He did that?
Yeh, I see how now,
It's the hypo-thalish, estrogen receptor steward system.
Who named that ****** thing?

No, left-right brain variablity was designed
to counter the estrogen-tester if it went mal.
This is the Left HIS Branch, a resistor,
it changed the way breath gets to that "It is,
good" receptor complex just inside
the ventricles
where the first sparks releaze
the ozone reaction.
The reaction to that lost loving feeling,
That was the shame bomb.
The action taken to a switch burned out
in a rush of knowledge of good and evil beyond
the heart's experience with expansion.
The opposite seems to have happened in the wombedman,
he comprehends hope is a new treasure.
Hope. Who coulda seen that coming?

A witness.
Some mind saw that happen and it was never washed into the sea of forgetfulness, so

Wow.

Like in the mountains, that ozone,
first breath feeling, that's great!
No, like that first free hit. That's it. You will pay…

Like, this first reaction is not "That's wonder-filled",
but it's
"that was not deep enough,
not good enough,
too shallow,
faked it".

On every breath the man takes,
a voice in his head is saying,
"not good enough, keep
trying/dying/breathe/harder.
Sweat it all.
Shame on you."
Shame.
That was the trick.
Make him think he is not related to God,
on any level?
Make him think he does not have a knower
in good working order,
save for that tiny electrical glitch in the
official HIS bundle builder gene. That's nothing,
Who told him she was naked?
That's evil.
What he knew was good, what he believed was evil.

How did it work out?

Okeh. It took several millennia longer
than first estimates.
Starts out kinda dun'dat, don't it?
Things get brighter near the end.
According to the legend I learned.

Knowing liars lie does not make every man a liar, I think,
Only the ones who say they do not
lie have no truth in them,
if they can truly believe that.

It's a chapter, a colloquy of consciousness grounding out.

The story is told,
this is the way men were built, original specs,
able to do anything they agreed to do.
But their hearts had been corrupted because
the whole heart building system in Adam
was dis - turbed, mixed up with that sweet deceit.
If it weren't for mitichondria the sifting needed,
could have taken forever.

By Noah's first beard, the gene pool was so turbid, no one could see the bottom.

Living water flowing from men's bellies,
ta, lemme say,
that be some evolvin' involvin' some
a priori
somethin' or anotha.
Ax that wombedman at the well, what the hell?

There, here, is a whole story about ****** and the seeds of all the myths that point so straight
to Jesus as they red-shift into historical
mysteriums twisted and warped by time and chance tyrannies.
Holiness hierarchical hegemony funds
that sprang from Eve's first hope,
have no hope at all for
cowards and fools and fraidy cats.

Heroes, those compound interest, all things are possible,
except
God can't lie, or die, or fail.

Is living heroic, no. We choose to live.
Life favors life.
That's easy.
All things are possible with life,
as a whole.
Very complex plots and schemes and schemas and media
and magi-level tech
this is working, you know.
We agree. Who could make us enemies?

Still, any plan men made was clear in the minds of all the planners
and the builders and the men they used as tools to
multiply the strength of the ideas that possessed them.
They built cities that way.
By agreeing together to do it. Gobekli Tepi?
You know, what was that ? A
thousand years of CCC park bench building and trail
marking benignly buried with never a mark of destruction?
They, the men planners and builders and laborers, right after the Ice pulled back from the Caucusus
or the Levant lifted up, 12,000 years ago, or so,
somebody builds this place called Gobekli Tepi
about a morning walk, a Sabbath Day's Journey, from
Terah's Local god shoppe in Urfa
the Turks are said to say..

----
Original specs, reset, it's all software.
We can cipher this out,
if we keep our heads
while others about us are losing theirs.

Men with the new softer hearts can do that, they can,
when they put their heads together,
they can make anything happen.
Knowledge is increasing, as we know it.

Nothin''s done in darkness that shan't be made known.

That's no threat.
Never was.
It's a promise. Like, the meek inherit the earth.
This is raw. I am hoping for feed back that tells me if the voice and time and pov swirl I am attempting harmonizes with the idea of a golden meaning in life that spins out from the source of life it self. It is a sc-fi-fantasy poetic philo-loving essay, esse. How can it be better?
Erenn Dec 2014
As I lie on pastures 
Along the grimes of these woods
Breathing in the morning dew
I feel awakened and anew
Past sins washed away like the streaming river
Wondering if I've live till forever.

But then I look up to you. 
Your face looks shiny and 
new. The angels are gathered 
around you with their harps 
and violins. Singing that I’m free 
of my past sins. I think this is 
the beginning of something 
beautiful and not the end. Hand 
me my pallet and set the canvas 
up for I will paint a portrait of us. 
While the winds ruffle through the 
curls of your hair and the leaves of
the big old oak tree. I try to speak 
up words of love but it almost seems 
that the morning dew has set a flood 
from within. Come over dear and rest 
your bones with me while I draw this
portrait using my blood and tears. Oh 
darling won’t you rest your bones over 
here next to me under this big old oak tree
.

Your beauty akin to the moon
Forever gleaming in her prowess
Shadows mortify at the thought of you
Your light begets hope thrusting miracles
I've been praying all my life
Stay with me my dear
As these woods as our witnesses 
We vow to be forever rooted from the veins to our beating hearts.
Now come closer dear and dance 
with the ventricles of my heart*
~
Erenn Italics
Carolin Bold
Our fifth collab!!!
I can't expressed more how amazing carolin is. I just sync with her in poetry. Really love doing collabs with her.
And I really love this piece!
Do like or repost guys:)
And check out her account:)
http://hellopoetry.com/carolin/
*** tiddy um,
    tiddy um,
    tiddy um tum tum.
My knees are loose-like, my feet want to sling their selves.
I feel like tickling you under the chin-honey-and a-asking: Why Does a Chicken Cross the Road?
When the hens are a-laying eggs, and the roosters pluck-pluck-put-akut and you-honey-put new potatoes and gravy on the table, and there ain't too much rain or too little:
        Say, why do I feel so gabby?
        Why do I want to holler all over the place?.    .    .
Do you remember I held empty hands to you
    and I said all is yours
    the handfuls of nothing?.    .    .
I ask you for white blossoms.
I bring a concertina after sunset under the apple trees.
I bring out "The Spanish Cavalier" and "In the Gloaming, O My Darling."

The orchard here is near and home-like.
The oats in the valley run a mile.
Between are the green and marching potato vines.
The lightning bugs go criss-cross carrying a zigzag of fire: the potato bugs are asleep under their stiff and yellow-striped wings: here romance stutters to the western stars, "Excuse ... me...".    .    .
Old foundations of rotten wood.
An old barn done-for and out of the wormholes ten-legged roaches shook up and scared by sunlight.
So a pickax digs a long tooth with a short memory.
Fire can not eat this ******* till it has lain in the sun..    .    .
The story lags.
The story has no connections.
The story is nothing but a lot of banjo plinka planka plunks.

The roan horse is young and will learn: the roan horse buckles into harness and feels the foam on the collar at the end of a haul: the roan horse points four legs to the sky and rolls in the red clover: the roan horse has a rusty jag of hair between the ears hanging to a white star between the eyes..    .    .
In Burlington long ago
And later again in Ashtabula
I said to myself:
  I wonder how far Ophelia went with Hamlet.
What else was there Shakespeare never told?
There must have been something.
If I go bugs I want to do it like Ophelia.
There was class to the way she went out of her head..    .    .
Does a famous poet eat watermelon?
Excuse me, ask me something easy.
I have seen farmhands with their faces in fried catfish on a Monday morning.

And the Japanese, two-legged like us,
The Japanese bring slices of watermelon into pictures.
The black seeds make oval polka dots on the pink meat.

Why do I always think of ******* and buck-and-wing dancing whenever I see watermelon?

Summer mornings on the docks I walk among bushel peach baskets piled ten feet high.
Summer mornings I smell new wood and the river wind along with peaches.
I listen to the steamboat whistle hong-honging, hong-honging across the town.
And once I saw a teameo straddling a street with a hayrack load of melons..    .    .
******* play banjos because they want to.
The explanation is easy.

It is the same as why people pay fifty cents for tickets to a policemen's masquerade ball or a grocers-and-butchers' picnic with a fat man's foot race.
It is the same as why boys buy a nickel's worth of peanuts and eat them and then buy another nickel's worth.
Newsboys shooting craps in a back alley have a fugitive understanding of the scientific principle involved.
The jockey in a yellow satin shirt and scarlet boots, riding a sorrel pony at the county fair, has a grasp of the theory.
It is the same as why boys go running lickety-split
away from a school-room geography lesson
in April when the crawfishes come out
and the young frogs are calling
and the pussywillows and the cat-tails
know something about geography themselves..    .    .
I ask you for white blossoms.
I offer you memories and people.
I offer you a fire zigzag over the green and marching vines.
I bring a concertina after supper under the home-like apple trees.
I make up songs about things to look at:
    potato blossoms in summer night mist filling the garden with white spots;
    a cavalryman's yellow silk handkerchief stuck in a flannel pocket over the left side of the shirt, over the ventricles of blood, over the pumps of the heart.

Bring a concertina after sunset under the apple trees.
Let romance stutter to the western stars, "Excuse ... me..."
Split May 2018
a bean like no other
bitter and white;
a microscopic dynamite,
peristalsis using all its might

my cave so suspenseful and hollow
ridges lined along its curves
churning to my so-called mental benefit
those gastric juices now released,
microscopic dynamite
simply had one more muscle to defeat

a match at last perceived
microvilli yearning love ,
in, it took the dynamite.
yet confused it became as
micro relations only last a short while.

"Nutrients" absorbed,
betrayal on its way
the bloodstream sent in shock
oh such bloodless atriums
oh such vaulted ventricles.
oh how my blood flow met its end.

Although deceiving it had been
no promises were riven
the dynamite exploded
and at last
no longer was I broken.
brandon nagley May 2016
i.

Fret not, mine antediluvian maiden,
For thine lid's art ladened with the
the encumbering of this last age.

ii.

Awakest, ariseth, mine filipina
of aureole fushae; for the
óres art numbered.

iii.

Yahweh's knocking at the
ventricles of ourn being's;
We knoweth the wisdom
That God giveth, which
Many hath searched-
From king's to Queen's.

iv.

For we art his offspring-
mine overwrought baby,
For there art none if's
nor maybe's; in his
Righteous path.

v.

Verily, yea, the Moon
Wilt turn ichor, the
Waves as of now art
Rising fast, the fish
Art washing to the
Shore's, the fowl of
the heaven's art
Falling to the earth.
As spoken in Hosea
Four-verse three.

vi.

Believeth in Yeshua
mine lady, as the thousands
Having visions and dream's;
Like me, im a testament to
The prophecy coming.

vii.

Don't be afraid of the mockery that
Mayest come, for thine
Blood like river's run
Into the kingdom of
the most high.

viii.

Soon O' soon we
Shalt fly, like sparrow's to their abode; fly-free-spirited
Gliding soul's, into the Dominion wherein we shalt know
All, wherein the bomb's wilt not fall, and destruction doesn't
Exist. A place of sworn bliss, where kisses art created
By soulmates of the creator's making.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou) dedication
antediluvian- of or belonging to the time before the biblical Flood
Maiden- a girl or young woman.
Lids- eyelids
Art- are.
Thine- like thy- meaning yours.
Mine- archaic for my .
Ladened- burdened, loaded down.
Encumbering- restriction or burden ( burdened)
Age- distinct period of history, when I say ( last age) I mean that literally.
Awakest- archaic form of awake.
Ariseth- archaic for arise.
aureole-a circle of light or brightness surrounding something, especially as depicted in art around the head or body of a person represented as holy.( same as halo pretty much).
fushae- a word I created ( meaning) fused enlightening, also meaning- one who brings light from heaven to earth ( enlightening those of earth, with spiritual knowledge... God's knowledge...
óres- means ( hour's in Greek tongue) as óra means hour.
Yahweh- a name of God of many names for God in bible in Hebrew tongue, just like Jehovah, Elohim, the great I am.
Ventricles- left and right side main chambers of heart.
Overwrought- in a state of nervous excitement or anxiety.
Ichor- bloodline flood... ( blood).
Verily- in truth, certainly.
Hosea four three- before Christ calls up his saved in him- happening now all over world startling scientists who don't believe in God- hosea 4:3- ( Therefore shall the land mourn, and every one that dwelleth therein shall languish, with the beasts of the field, and with the fowls of heaven; yea, the fishes of the sea also shall be taken away).
Yeshua,meaning Jesus in Hebrew, or Yeshua ha'mashiach- means Jesus the anointed one or Jesus the Messiah in Hebrew tongue.
Mayest- may.
Wherein- in which.

Am going to download this as spoken word poem in about twenty mins on SoundCloud under my name Brandon Nagley.
If wanna see there can check out to. (: thank you

Title is based on 1corinthians- chapter 15 verses 51 and 51 main ones speaking of rapture as many other verses show. Like this
(
1 Thessalonians 4:17 - Then we which are alive [and] remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord)

Also Luke 17:34-37



Luke 17:34-37King James Version (KJV)

34 I tell you, in that night there shall be two men in one bed; the one shall be taken, and the other shall be left.

35 Two women shall be grinding together; the one shall be taken, and the other left.

36 Two men shall be in the field; the one shall be taken, and the other left.

37 And they answered and said unto him, Where, Lord? And he said unto them, Wheresoever the body is, thither will the eagles be gathered together.
Also -

1 Thessalonians 4:16 - For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first.
Also showing were gone before the 7 years of tribulation coming that I've dreamt of seeing the fireballs plummeting the earth three dream's like thousands of others seeing prophetic rapture dreams, Christ dreams, prophetic dreams, tsunami dreams in visions there seeing it, dreams like me, and death by thousands!!!! As Joel 2:28 tells of of the last days-
Matching now and me- Joel 2:28-32King James Version (KJV)

28 And it shall come to pass afterward, that I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh; and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions:

29 And also upon the servants and upon the handmaids in those days will I pour out my spirit.

30 And I will shew wonders in the heavens and in the earth, blood, and fire, and pillars of smoke.

31 The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord come.

32 And it shall come to pass, that whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord shall be delivered: for in mount Zion and in Jerusalem shall be deliverance, as the Lord hath said, and in the remnant whom the Lord shall call!!!
I am giving you prophesy I am prophesying to you truth many others want to shut their eyes to because Satan is the great deciever blinding many. Though as it was in the days of Noah so shall it be today. It sais that in our bible! And our world is exactly how it was as back in days of Noah!! It's all a reality many eyes and ears are closed to whether because Satan is blocking them. Or because by their own fears they choose not to see harsh and awakening truth though truth you must hear... I'f you don't have Christ I'm not scared to tell you, he is the only way truth and life and no man comes to father ( God ) but by him. He died for you and me on that cross and was the lamb without blemish meaning without sin and spot the only son of God our bible speaks there is NO other name under heaven by which men must be saved but through Christ... Can I ask you have you accepted Christ as Lord and Savior? You want peace and joy not just in this life? But in the next when Christ calls up his chosen ( coming soon) right before an Antichrist rules this world with a one world gvt and one world religion and. Chaos and terrible things happening all over your world and hell to break loose!!!! You want eternal life in heaven? With a personal Savior not some faraway false diety and with a personal God called Yahweh God! Jehovah God! The great I am! The God of Abraham Isaac and Jacob! The true living God!! Christ said ( I am the way truth and the life, and no man comes to the father God, but by me.) Christ said he went to prepare a place for you and me in heaven if it wasn't so he would have told you... This is a reality...and he's ready to call his bride ( the church) up to him called the rapture or catching away. The harpazzo. The snatching away! Where does rapture come from?
Rapture is a state or experience of being carried away. The English word comes from a Latin word, rapio, which means to seize or ****** in relation to an ecstasy of spirit or the actual removal from one place to another. In other words, it means to be carried away in spirit or in body. The Rapture of the church means the carrying away of the church from earth to heaven.

The Greek word from this term “rapture” is derived appears in 1 Thessalonians 4:17, translated “caught up.” The Latin translation of this verse used the word rapturo. The Greek word it translates is harpazo, which means to ****** or take away. Elsewhere it is used to describe how the Spirit caught up Philip near Gaza and brought him to Caesarea (Acts 8:39) and to describe Paul’s experience of being caught up into the third heaven (2 Cor. 12:2-4). Thus there can be no doubt that the word is used in 1 Thessalonians 4:17 to indicate the actual removal of people from earth to heaven.
Want to accept Christ as Lord and Savior? Wanna know more of him and his truths and the peace he gives you can always write! He is the only way to God. Our righteousness will not save us. Bible tells us our righteousness is as filthy rags to god. As bible speaks it's not by works we should boast. But by gods grace through Christ he saved us. Meaning works won't get you to heaven! Doesn't matter how ( good you've been in life) yes doing good for others is an amazing thing. Though Christ died on the cross not so our works can save us! But by his shedding of blood you can be saved if you ask him to be Lord and Savior of your life... Word tells us. Romans 10:13
( for whosoever calls upon the name of the Lord ( Jesus) shall be saved...)
Wanna accept Christ as Lord and Savior maybe you got ?s you can write me but if want this opportunity of truth and peace. And to be in a real heaven when you give your last breath , and be caught up or taken away off earth before destruction will hit and prophecies are showing now by dozens worldwide we are in the last times and Christ will soon call his church up. Don't you want to have peace through Yeshua ( Jesus) eternal life?
Say the sinners prayer if want salvation in christ then after that get a bible find a God preaching church who speaks on prophecy hell and heaven! Not watered down church theology of just feel good and money churches there are many of those... Who don't preach of rapture hell ( which btw Christ spoke more on hell then heaven because he wants noone to go there,) if want salvation say this sinners prayer- close eyes, kneel or now head- say this prayer and mean it in your heart and soul... Praying to God the father christs father-
( dear God, I come to you right now, to ask you to forgive me of all my sins, I admit I'm a sinner God, and I ask you cleanse me of all my sins, I believe your son Christ Jesus died on the cross and rose for me the third day. I accept your son Jesus Christ today as my lord and Savior dear God, and I thank you for saving me by your son Jesus Christ alone... As your word tells me I can't be saved by my works but Christ alone. I accept Jesus today( or tonight) as my lord and Savior, and forever will serve him. Thank you God...

End prayer -
In Jesus name Amen
Always end prayer in Christs name. You pray to God the father in Christs name.
Thanks for reading. Hope you seek truth while truth is here friends...

1 Corinthians 15:
51Behold, I shew you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, 52In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. 53For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. 54So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory. 55O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? 56The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. 57But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.
Ayaba Babe Jan 2013
How are you going to tell me about my heart if you've never been in it?

-The lock to your heart is my deep refrain, the path that takes me there may not lead me out again.

Six deadbolts and a wall great like China. Whispering L words while touring my ******. But my heart is not an exhibition. We all seem to love so different, would I just be a sight see should I let you in it?

-Your body is my vacation for exploration, a ticket with no expiration. Head to toe, anywhere on you is my destination. Sight see if thats the thought for you, but to see the sight is what I want to do.  The seductive me wants your toes curled due to warm embrace. My inner dog wants to see your O face.

The wife of a traveler, I print your boarding pass. Cruising along the waves of my saliva; hiking the mountains of my ***. My expedition is one of many, but i think that you should pick it. Theres only one flight departing, and i'm giving you the ticket. The life of an explorer, Oh Captain. The landmarks of my body are for you to conquer and explore. But once you leave your footprint will you set sail from my shore?

-A Brazilian wax or a landing strip, either or it doesnt matter they both point me to your lips. Your shores I see as we watch the sunset, an instinctive kiss, you sigh but its breathless.  As the night falls on this restless traveler, I'll take that one-way red eye ticket; final stop is to have her. I am the Captain of this ship and my journey is unbound, but the question is: when I set sail on your seas will you keep me safe and sound?

Captain, Oh Captain;  I long to be the vessel you navigate. The compass of direction magnetizing towards our fate. All the lonely nights at sea, wont you promise to keep afloat? If you are the propellers, I promise to be the boat. I wish only to fill your soul with warmth and pleasure. I have dived to the bottom of the seven seas, but I have already found my treasure. I want to sail the world with you; full speed until the end of time. But I need to cut your heart out, before I hand you mine.*

-If its yours to replace mine, simultaneously, is a must, because to give you my soul, takes a strong being to entrust, the strongest chess peice, queen to this king, you are my fruit bearer, my last name to follow yours at rear. I'll give you the scissors, but you better cut gently, and if you cut the wrong cord I will not put you down gently.

Oh Captain, Dear Captain, but surely your heart still beats true. Surely the blood is still warm and rich, not deprived oxygen blue. You must understand where I'm coming apart, my intent is not to sever your pretty little heart. I present to you my heart, served on a golden medallion token, But I fear your blood will turn cold once you see that it is broken. Let us not use scissors, the pierce will be too sharp. Let us use our fingers to grip each others heart. I will pump my love through your atriums and ventricles as if they were my own, disregarding any glitches...if you will love my raggedy heart, mending it with stitches

-Your words of kindness, your love not sorrow, pumps through my veins, heart beating days beyond tomorrow. My time will remove the stitches, your heart unscathed, no imperfections, no glitches. Turbulent may be the path ahead, yet a steady path this Captain will tread. Along on this voyage, your light makes bliss, and as long as your heart beats, a beat mine won't skip. I do for you as I won't do for others, fly a path so true, only seen by lovers.

*So we fly to the moon and we never come down. Queen, so pristine, lounging afloat my crown. So then I am the locket, and you are the key. The combination to set the spell free. I'll be your wonder woman; make my body your home. Yours entwined with mine; sultry metronome. The sweet steady beating of your heart is evoking; and if you look once again you will see my heart creeping open.
a collaboration with Jason.
Cosmic kraken,
gelatinous tentacles that choke the ventricles..
air tainted by its pungent pores...
daylight darkens,
its presence hearkens,
for the light to shine no more...

Heart is hardened
vestigial veins with not blood but pain...
wrinkled cartilage writhes at lore..
of the divine despair
I now come to bear,
graces this unworthy *****...

"I beg I pardon!
spare me the road to your celestial abode!"...
whispered screams that scrape throat raw...
silence snares...
at my futile affairs...
with the sadistic nexus between doors...

"Oh I cannot fathom
creature with unworldly features...
and blade fashioned from nebulous ore...
what terrors await...
and to permeate....
my flesh forevermore!"
Sometimes I feel this way about my parents....
Kassiani Nov 2010
They said the fairest of the goddesses
Was the one to give us love,
The one to fetch the maidens
And bring the boys their girls.
What they meant by fair was beautiful,
Not just or right or equitable,
For it hardly seems fair
That she's a goddess,
Enthroned on a mountain with a mirror in her hand
And we're all of us mere mortals,
Hapless humans,
With our ribcages wide open,
With no bone to shield our vulnerable ventricles
And no sense to tell us to cover our chests.
It's no wonder that this otherworldly seduction
Can ****** us
And string us along
And consume us
Until we forget what life was
Before love caught us.

It seems impossible
That these frail, impermanent bodies
Can hold such ethereal infatuation;
It's too strong,
So it ravages us,
Strips away dignity,
Rips away common sense,
And seizes all control.
Our little human selves
Never stood a chance.

Tell me, Aphrodite,
Does it make you laugh to watch us struggle?
From your lofty vantage point,
Do you giggle when the rational become foolish,
When the thinkers become unfocused,
When the innocent become broken?
Does it please your fair reflection
When those devoted mortals go to ungodly lengths
For this love that you inflict,
Until they have nothing left of themselves,
Until they're worn to the very bones
That couldn't protect their unsuspecting hearts?

Do you revel in the irony,
Aphrodite,
When, exhausted and dejected
And downright tortured,
They still worship you?
When they bow
And sacrifice
In gratitude?
When we miserable mortals
Thank you for these feelings that destroy us,
Because for tiny moments
We felt transcendentally good.

Perhaps she'd had better intentions,
That goddess Aphrodite,
Thought that she was filling our open hearts
With something to give them meaning.
Maybe she thought
We'd left our ribcages open on purpose,
That we'd all simply been waiting for her,
Wondering when she'd reach down her power
And give us a love to cling to.
Or,
It could be that she had it right,
That our chests were left gaping
And our hearts were left empty
So that Aphrodite could look away from her mirror,
Smile from the clouds,
And send us someone to make us whole.
Written 10/28/09
Diane May 2015
pain demands to be felt..
that is why you let break ups feel like shards of glass piercing through your skin,
"i was using you" feel like acid being pumped through your heart ventricles spewing liquid anguish through your veins
you let the memories consume your very existance so all that is left is the skin he once touched, the lips he once kissed and the emotions he still controls..
yes, pain does demand to be felt

but you see, i am pain.
i embody every syllable of that painful word..pain
i am every lie woven intricately into the seams of the pillow used to cushion the blows i inflict.
i leave you trapped in the very depths of  your mind, made easy by your naive attempt of grasping onto the words used to lure you in, i love you

i am the whispers of motivation urging you to sniff sniff sniff your way deeper into my domain where you are nothing but a chess piece in a battle not easily won.
i am the deep seated hunger that devours any sign of "happy"..the breaking, smashing, burning of hope
i am a master of deceit, carefully manipulating your thoughts through the simple tug of a string, i am your master.

but I was not born like this,
I became it..so if you really think about it,
I am love, because love was the reason I became pain.
this may be confusing, but once again think about it..

love demands to be felt...
that is why you sit smiling awkwardly at your phone,
why you get butterflies..I mean the whole **** zoo in your stomach when he looks your way,
you let your feelings consume your very existence until all that is left of you is the hand he holds so tight, the hair he moves away from your face and the heart you laid right out for him...
yes, love demands to be felt..

but you see, I once was love..
I embodied every syllable of that beautiful word love
I was the roof over-head when the storms of life came thundering by,
I was anything you needed me to be because at the end of the day I didn't want to be anything if I didn't have you.
So I let myself go, I became my own foe
just so you could have that shoulder, I mean that extra soul to lean on

you kept taking and never giving,
this one sided love became toxic
I took one look at myself and realised that I didn't know who was staring back at me..
much like how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly,
but the reverse, I began to shrink.
the butterflies turned to moths, the smiles to tears and soon enough,
love became pain,
and they both demand to be felt.
A dying man does nothing easy,“Lock and load. Let's do it”,said G.W. Green
Right before Jack Pursley sent 3-5 grams of sodium thiopental coursing through his veins
in Texas. Sticking with the states motto it was probably 5. As lethal drugs flowed into his arms, he used an obscenity to describe life, gasped once and made no further movement.
Imagine his brief confidence in the face of this adversity, before the heart’s blood
Settled in the ventricles.
             Some have called such confidence a monstrosity titled, “Hubris”--
Alexander of Macedonia thought it necessary, to cross the turbulent river against fear
-ful odds. For destiny demanded imitation of his exemplar Achilles
Quickly eroded was this by the pleas of Parmenio, who reasons it would be,“failure at the outset.”

Imagine Alexander reciting the words of G.W. Green, instead of heeding to this squelching caution
How quickly we’d throw this decisions bones in the pile, with ******
In Stalingrad & Nixon in Vietnam
All to be shoved in to, a mass grave of faulted zealots.
Covered with soil, bitter compost not to be forgotten
Rosemary sprouts next to a burning
bush in Iraq.
Smoke Scribe Mar 2015
Got 0 followers, but one tongue, and that's perfectly ok...

cause I got
two eyes
two nostrils
two hands
two ears
two ventricles

they all
follow me

all riders
on the one tongue
that speaks my piece

that finds poetry
on ***** streets
in closed places
and in the
if's of our lives
that makes writing
in one common tongue
so **** desirable
ariellelynn Jul 2018
She had a tattoo on her right ankle.

One that I’d trace with my finger
every night as we lay on the couch,
her feet lazily crossed one over the other -
always right over left, never left over right.

The tattoo was of a heart.
A picture of atriums and ventricles
and all the anatomy I’d learned
in sophomore year Biology,
the diagram filled in and colored with begonias.
Her favorite flower.
I used to wonder how the artist could design
something so intricate in such a small space.

“Why a heart?” I asked one night.

Her answer:
“To remind me of the muscle that separates us from death.”

I never saw the signs.
That she laid awake at night
while I slept soundly beside her.
That her appetite had waned,
along with the motivation to
pursue the things she once loved.
Including me.

I never noticed
that her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes,
or how she preferred to dull the pain
with our favorite Scottish ale.

I turned the key
and opened the door to our apartment one evening,
finding that same heart elevated
five feet above the ground.
Dangling back and forth, slowly.
Lifelessly.
And one sentence came to my lips
like a broken record
as I cut the rope and started CPR.

“I failed you. I failed you. I failed you.”

That heart stopped beating in time with mine.
Megan Leigh Jun 2014
Some mornings, heartbreak is in your bones, settled deep inside though you can’t seem to recall sending the invitation.
Your rib cage stands like the bare tree of fall, the wind whistling through it’s frail branches, tapping on your window as if to remind you, you are alone.

Some mornings, heartbreak is in your skull, in the crevices of the pale blue casing that surrounds your every thought, the broken dreamcatcher trying to keep the evil away.
But ghosts can float between the bars, slip inside your deepest secrets, with no regret or remorse for making you cry out in the night.

Some mornings, heartbreak is in your spine, intertwining like ivy on a lamp post, leaving you begging for someone else to hold your own head up for you.
Comfort resides in the hours spent cut off from reality, for at least you have control of that, though the dreams leave you franticly reaching in the night for something unknown to even you.

Some mornings, heartbreak finds it’s way back to your heart, slides through the valves, into the ventricles, mixing with the blood that gives you life. Heartbreak gives you life. Heartbreak reaches every last corner of your body, crippling you and taunting you, but you are still capable of breathing on your own. Heartbreak may be a thief, but you are a statue, broken and crumbling around the edges but still standing after all these years.

Some mornings, heart break is in your body. It seems to make up the essence of you, but it is not your being. You are your being.
softcomponent Mar 2014
I

Testing that nuclear feeling pulsating through my ventricles, a pain sour at top of my genitals in the area above the ***** dr's call the pelvis
it hurts for no such reasons; mysterious numbness to the pain as it aches and yet it is only a suppressed fear of cancer, the dr checked my prostate jamming finger in ******* n twisting like a diamond fairy-- perhaps nicer not jammed in my ******, but this is 'the nature of the examination'

nature, nurture, I am suffocating myself in her addicted presence, regardless of how much I may love her she was cuddled next to me last night before slipping into a gasp-snore sleep and the ****** intrusive evil thought came to me-- wat if i took this lighter and singed her hair or her skin and fer sakes I scared myself, the same way I scare myself after watching documentaries on serial killers and wondering, so wondering, 'that could be me- the killer- torchering stray cats with infected syringe, binding its legs with an unwound coat-hanger and tossing it off a bridge-- and then years later I pick-up a hitch-hiker and ******* him against his will, slit his throat to keep him bound in the loss-progress of forgotten history'

this 10 mg escitalopram oxalate / i cannot tell if it is working / but my head is a pill and the dr agreed to prescribe me .5 mg xanax n maybe this is why i feel close to losing the mind in burn-ache-scare-myself-away /

II

I got a blood-test the other day, my way of praying to science to ask its all benevolence if I, perhaps, have ***, AIDS, chlamydia, godknowswat

immediately afterwards, I went home and read 3 articles on the Russian intervention in the Crimea as if it were my insanity civic doody

cracked-open my budget and calculated my debt to be somewhere in the $2,400 range n felt trapt and angry and unreal as if high-school is when time stopped and ever since I waste my life / spending it on money / money it on spending ******* /

i go to work, feel dead or mad already, as if 20 yrs is too late for me and it'll be one hell of a trip when I realize I've made it to 21, let alone 30

let alone 30

let alone *30


III

last night i begged her for ***, a remorseless evil pulsing thru my veins and no compassion save for some manipulative control of a dark-force--

she was sleeping, sleepy, woke up, i deliberately watched **** with the volume high to keep her up and guilty

she called me *pathetic
and it only hurt becuz I believed her and knew it

it spunnn outta control and into other vortextual matters of an unexpressed zeitgeist diatribe and she went as insane as me, threw my coconut oil at the wall in my bedroom when i insisted i sleep on the couch muttering to herself i feel like dying like killing myself like ending, if u *******, how can u ******* when u know i feel like this it makes no sense and it hurts and i call her one great-big-guilt-trip-lookin-pretty she insists on a slam-slouch next to the door and says i wanna listen to you ******* and i will i don't care we are both now in the grip of an evil cabin fever trapped in each others soulz and i become eviler as she becomes eviler, we look like madmen women to one another going tangent after tangent and in some sick sense realizing how petty and empty we must be to feel so petty and empty and expressive of a dark chill within us each a hot ember of hopeless cold firing the spot-team responsible for motivation and direction due to budget cuts of the soul

and by god i hate myself, and by god at times i hate her the same and the world but only as reflection to that dark chill within us

an empty chatterbox

IV

i wake up, write this poem, refuse to pop a xanax pill today and feel a gritty dirt rubbing thru my hert hertz heart

better, it's better, i love her

and yet there is that dark chill within us

an empty chatterbox
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
In Lalitpur, a small city,
a poem in
and of itself,
near to the capital city,
Kathmandu,
in the magic
word-world of
Nepal.

Who in the world is Simrik?

Girl, 15, apologetic,
with the heart of a deer.
who unlike most
kindly requests your criticism.

Ok, here is my criticism.

Your writes are a shotgun blast.
It cannot be that fifteen years
has been granted
a simple eloquence
that writes and feeds
tastes of visions
of a spiced life
far away, but
close by.

winding roads
and the trees,
the train station,
train tracks,
jeeps for taxis.
the market at night.
a few bookstores i wanted
to enter but couldn't/didn't
benches at chowrasta,
aloo chat.
penang momo,
the "aum sweet aum" poster
they had there.
pretty girls in chowrasta.
so well-dressed.


at fifteen I could not
see so well, see so fine.
not I.

i have fallen for boys, and i have fallen for men.
i don't know if it'd still be falling if i only ever
fell for pieces of them. and as for you, you were no
exception. my eyes never knew the ridges on
your body as soft as icing on a cake, or the
veins in your arms and they've only read
your words, your tastes, in pixels, but i
fell anyway, briefly. the heart is a muscle
the size of a fist, an ***** that has nothing to
grow and fit into. you never really know where
exactly in your chest it really is or if it's the right size.
there'll be growing pains in your ventricles and
dislocation to your spine or your stomach to tell you
of that before the cardiologist, and when you find the
cure or place it back to where it was, you'll have
stories written like prescription notes.


One time, when I was fifteen,
(For I have been
fifteen
many times),
I knew that
I didn't know
how to express
the potpourri
of what
was inside
of me,
the desire was
compelling,
the skills lacking,
for I lived in amidst a
family of writers, critics, historians,
and saw the birthmark of my incapabilities
embarrassed rosy red on my face every morning.

my incapabilities.

not Simrik.
oh no.

here's blood clotting where i got bit by a leech at a
monastery, from after the day i told you we needed to drop
to being friends from lovers. deserved it, totally. you had
blisters on your knees, from the day i sent you back.


you said i still had your heart with me.
when i reach the sea in 12 days,
i'll return with the crevices on them
mended with the pieces of
toughest seashells i can find,
wrapped in a sheet of prayer flag
i tore from the monastery,
so that when you place it back
between your ribs,
you'll have prayers
and the sound of the sea
flowing in your veins.


At fifteen, I read Camus
and the sport pages.
At fifteen, I peeked  
at my neighbor's *******
dreamt blonde dreams.
what I knew
was
what I did not know.

so here is my criticism.

you remind me now, this day,
of what
I still do not know
nor can ever hope
to capture as well
as you.
PostScript:

Dear God,
Pray explain to this child, this, baby,
her blessing is that she has the spine of a poet, blood heated by
wisdom and composure.
Remind her daily that her gift is copper colored words that will rust well over time, as she soldiers on in this world, bringing the beauty of words into this world.
NML
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Everything she writes is tagged
#DEPRESSION          

You break my heart, know.
Even with these chemical
bonds holding me together,
these frail spiderwebs
weaving around ventricles,
you shatter them like a
calm breeze, playing child,
a secret told to the wrong set of ears.

The characters in (y)our plays [on words]
are the crux of (y)our matters.
We're all ancillary like stepping stones;
pity (y)our destination begs leaving
no stone unturned.

My stepping stones are tablets, though.
20mg doses of baby steps,
crossing voids like I see in (y)our eyes.
My mouth is cavernous,
my throat the steps to hell
(wide and steep and too easy to trip down).
Each night - a crusade to save me.
Each morning - a body count.
One. Good enough for me.

Each time I sign on - the body count grows.
I have a bad habit if writing poems that are too personal about people I don't really know. This is one of them, so I threw in a bit about myself for good measure.
Harry J Baxter Nov 2013
perched in a thick mess of pine trees
my head rotates three hundred and sixty degrees
scouring for the vermin I make my prey
I own the night time skies
silhouetted against a harvest moon
death is coming in my dreams
and with it comes new life
wisdom of the self
aware of the lies which cover the world in its blanket of grey snow
the owl lives in my skull

The coyote stalking the empty desert highways
looking for roadkill
looking for the weak and alone
I cackle into the dead sterile air
for every pack member lost to poachers
manic laughter for every left turn which results in dead ends
stealthy patient
hungry and haunting
the coyote treads the territory of my atriums and ventricles  

The hawk circles in the blinding midday sun
a deadly serrated dagger with wings
arrow let loose from the quiver of the Gods
impossible to tether and domesticate
finding ultimate freedom in the vast openness of the sky
lock on,
tuck the wings,
nose dive deep into the waters of the ****
a creator
a teacher
a messenger of truth
the hawk soars in the infinity of my soul

ID
EGO
SUPEREGO
Madelynn Nieves Sep 2018
Lighting the candle at both ends
Watching the slow burn of the fuse
Waiting for the inevitable explosion
The one that blew our world apart
Leaving me seemingly lifeless
Hanging on by the ventricles of my heart
Shrapnel in every part of me
Attempting to inch my way
away from you
Without you noticing
Before you can stop me
With your empty promises
And never ending lies
That I fall for every time
Piecing myself together
And finding some solid ground
Learning how to move forward
From the destruction
in which I was starting to drown
Wondering
If we’re as toxic as everyone says
Or if upon introspection
We might be even worse
How do I sever these ties
Knowing that love is not enough
To save a sinking ship.
lucidwaking Jun 2021
I can't stop thinking about you,
And I can't stop smiling.
You're my most favorite person in the whole wide world,
You know that?

You're a femme straight boy,
Who can probably walk in heels and wear liquid eyeliner
Better than I can.
You're sitting at the mid-point,
Content with being an enigma.
Don't get the wrong idea - I'm not mocking you.
I wouldn't have it any other way, believe me!
Your contradictory mystery,
Setting you apart from anyone I've known,
Is quite loveable, actually.

I'm holding onto the edge of my seat,
Trying to not get lost in your gaze.
Your eyes, warm and bright,
With color exploding from where the iris meets the pupil
Like miniature galaxies.
I can't tell if those explosions are green, gold, or hazel,
Or a mix of all three.
Either way, they're drawing me in,
And tearing down my walls,
Like dimensional space rifts ******* in and whisking
My fear away.

I know, I know,
I give these poems a conversational tone.
It's kind of like prose,
Even if it's too on the nose,
But **** the hoes
Who say I can't.
Cry more.
*** your pants.

So as you can see,
Indubitably,
I love my lesbian boyfriend
More than my heart can bear.
My atriums and ventricles swell
With thoughts of you,
Pushing against my sternum and pleasantly aching.

I keep trying,
But there's no combination of words
That can communicate just how much you mean to me.
So park your U-Haul in the back to the right
When we have our second date.
I guess I'd better clip my nails,
At least two on my right hand anyways.
Critiques welcomed! Thank you kindly
precarious words Jun 2014
I'm ruptured whole and am considered
inadequate
as my
amygdala slides through the trachea drops to my ventricles falls through the aorta plunges to my diaphragm hits the esophagus crashes to my phalanges.         There is no hope.
May I hold something over your cranium?
May I remind you of your neuron imbalance? And yet
you sit and
watch as
my septum separates from the left atrium from the right ventricle from the bicuspid from the tricuspid from the pulmonary semi-lunar valve.
I love you.                             (Stupid cerebral cortex.)
I love you.                             (Imprudent Broca's area.)
I love you.                             (Hopeless frontal lobe.)
I love your nonfunctional mind and functional soul and

Well

this is all a metaphor for unrequited love.
much older poem
JA Doetsch Jan 2012
I could not write.  There was a drought in my mind
I could not concoct a single ****** line.  I told my wife
My dear, I think it's high time
I went and refilled my inspiration

I walked to the store, the one at the end of my block
I surveyed my mind, yet still it was locked.  I shook my head
I can't believe I waited this long to restock
my nearly empty inspiration

Once inside, I browsed the multitude of  sparkling aisles
Searching for a brand to match my writing style.  With little luck
It was difficult to find one worthwhile
to serve as my inspiration

I started reading the descriptions on the boxes
_________________
E­xtreme Naivete
Do you like Rainbows, puppies, unicorns and sparkling vampires?
EXTREME NAIVETE might be just the inspiration you need to
explain to the world why Justin Bieber's hair is just the perfect shade
of blonde.  Remind everyone that there is sunshine and happiness
in everyone's heart if you just help them find it.  Perfect for the 10
year old in all of us that hasn't yet faced the harshness of reality.

Side effects include:  blatant ignorance of the fact that most people
are complete self absorbed *******, increased use of smiley faces,
and tendency to dot your i's with hearts.
_________________

­_________________
Dark and Brooding
Doesn't life ****?  Do you hate how everyone sits around and acts like
nothing is wrong with the world?  Do you feel like you're the only one
who has ever felt this way, like, ever?  Don't get mad, get...eh...whatever.
Tell your depressing story to anyone who will listen with our brand new
DARK AND BROODING inspiration.  Tell the world how you feel like
cutting your wrists and how every day is cold and meaningless.  Write
words that are as black as the clothes you picked up from Hot Topic.  A
perfect gift for a suburban teenager of successful parents trying to rebel.

Side effects include:  Using generic metaphors that include the words
'cold', 'dark', 'lifeless', and 'pointless' to describe your life; the sudden
urge to dye your wardrobe black and gray; and wearing an excessive
amount of eyeliner.
_________________­

_________________
Hopel­ess Romantic
Is there one person for everyone?  Do you want to be able to describe
the way your heart feels in excruciating detail down to the way your
"ventricles ventriculate doubly so" when your special someone is near?
Perhaps you should try HOPELESS ROMANTIC, the newest
in our ever growing line of inspirations.  Your misguided love will
reach new heights with all of the new words you will be able to use
to describe it.  you will be so mushy, that we'd recommend not
standing on open sewer grates after using this product.

Not recommended for stalkers or near ex girlfriends.  Side effects
include the inability to wipe that stupid grin off your face, random
urges to serenade women, and the sudden desire to quit your job to
search for your one true love.  We do not recommend mixing this
inspiration with EXTREME NAIVETE
_________________

­_________________
Bitter Lover
Heartbroken? Lovelorn?  Sexless?  Have you been feeling alone
recently, but can't quite find the words to explain it?  Well worry
no more!  About that...at least.  With BITTER LOVER, you can
focus all your hatred for the concept of "love" into acidic lyrics
of disapproval.  You will be able to spew forth a torrent of
spite and poisonous barbs towards anyone who even looks
like they're happy with their significant other.  Why should
they enjoy themselves?

Side effects include anywhere from snide apathy to seething anger
whenever you hear the songs "Kiss Me" or "Linger",  the inability
to see that your friends want you to stop depressing them and get
on with your life, and the urge to get drunk and tell people how
much marriage *****.
_________________


­After I finished reading, I shrugged my shoulders and sighed
This clearly wasn't the best solution to try.  I went home
I picked up my pencil with pride
at my growing inspiration
you're my lens refraction, my solar flare
my beautiful occupation with long dark hair
because I've got you under my skin, deep
in my heart, you occupy my ventricles
even as we're apart

your forehead to mine we have been,
sharing an energy more palpable
than reality itself

nothing
nobody
can take that from us
Lora Lee Feb 2019
in the crackling dawn
firebuds burn,
electric
spirit cells lit
in aeortic pulse
ventricles open
to a psychic doorway
stepping through,
she remembers it
that ember
of arcane ritual
divination of
intimate fires
ancient inner knowledge
sparked

Now is a time
for mourning
for celebration
for resurrection
tears streaming
like cool rivers
her palms splayed
reaching up
spilling over
her breath
as steady
as the stars
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-V4QAYUvenE&list=RD-V4QAYUvenE&start_radio=1&t=0
Big Virge Aug 2020
Ya Know I've Heard It Said By Older Heads...
COMPETITION Is Part of Human STRENGTH... !!!

That's TRUE I Guess But Now Detect...
Competitions NOW Have Got DEFECTS... !!!
And DON'T Give Wealth To Humanity's Health... !!!

I'm Older Now So See Just How...
Competitions... DROWN...
Because of CLOWNS...
Now CLAIMING Crowns... !?!

As If They're... KINGS... ?!?
When They're Just.............
COMPETING... WEAKLINGS... !!!!!

Like Heads NOW Kicking Lyrics...
That LACK The Depth And Slickness...
In Verse BIG VIRGE Be Bringing... !!!

My Poems Leave Heads RINGING... !!!
Because My Words Keep STINGING... !!!
Like Cobras That Be... SPITTING... !!!

In The Faces of FAKES Who Just Can't Take...
STRONG BRANDS of SHARP Wordplay... !!!!!!

They QUICKLY Run For Cover...
When They DISCOVER The Rocks I'm Under... !!!

Cos' My Venom EXTENDS...
... PROBLEMS For Them... !!!!!

Because My Chem'... HITS Ventricles...
And Blends To FEND Like Tentacles... !!!!!

That STING These Kids Like JELLYFISH... !!!!!
A... " Man o War "... For SURE... !!!!
When I HIT Shores Competitors ROAR...

"Okay Big Virge, No More, NO MORE !"......

Or Like DURAN... "No Mas No Mas !"

When I Start To PEPPER...
Their Head Like... LEONARD...
Cos' I'm The... Sugar Ray...
Wordplay... HEAVYWEIGHT... !!!!!!!!

TOO HEAVY To Be Found...
On... ANY Dub Plate... !!!!!!!

My Competition Dissipates......................... ..............
And Disintegrates Because They're AFRAID...
of The Kind of Wordplay I Choose To DISPLAY...
... That DESTROYS These FAKES... !!!!!

Competition They CLAIM...
To Want... ALL DAY... !!!

Til' I STAKE My Claim...
To Enter... CENTRE STAGE... !!!
And HIT LAME BRAINS...
With My... MIND SPRAY... !!!!!

I DAMAGE These FOOLS...
Just Like... " JERU "...

Compete With... WHO... ?!?
I'm The Doctor... WHOSE...
Competitive Words Have BIGGER BOOTS...
Than... COMPETITIVE JERKS...
Whose Verse... Lacks Worth... !!!

COMPETITIVE Dudes...
Who Were Born To LOSE... !!!!!!

I Compete With... ME...
NOT GLORY Hunting Freaks... !!!

Because...

EVERY TIME I Rhyme Alphabet Letters...
I'm Trying To BETTER My Form of VENDETTA...
To STAND For... MORE...
Than THESE WHORISH Trend Setters... !!!

I'm A VERBAL GO GETTER...
NEVER Late But... FOREVER... !!!

A Man Whose VIEWS...
COMPETE To... CONSUME...
VOLUMES In Rooms...
Who CHOOSE To REFUSE...

WORDPLAY I USE...
I'm A Bit... " CONFUSED "... ???

When It Seems They CHOOSE...
To BELIEVE It's... COOL...
When These FOOLS Exude...
SO MUCH... ATTITUDE...
About... " How They DEFEAT ! "...

EVERYBODY They Meet...
When It Comes To... FREESTIES'...
That They KICK Over Beats... !!!!!?!!!!!

They're QUICK To APPLAUD...
These... Lyrical FRAUDS... ?!?
Who COMPETE To Hear ROARS...
When They're... Treading The Boards... !!!

COMPETITIVE... Actors... !!!
Kind of Like An X Factor...
For... Wannabee Rappers...
Who … LACK The Bite...
of..... VELOCIRAPTORS...... !!!!!!!!

As For The... Gun Clappers...
They Take JOOK' Like SLAPPERS... !!!!!!

When... Like A SLACK Gangster...
They Get SHOT In The CRAPPER...
Cos' Their **** LOST It's HAMMER... !!!!!!

I Make These FOOLS... " S T T T TAMMER "... !!!!!
When I Utilise... GRAMMAR...
That HAMMERS Like BANNER... !!!

OKAY I Mean... THOR... !!!
COMPETING... Fa' SURE... !!!
When It Comes To A Cause...
WORTH... FIGHTING For... !!!!!

I COMPETE On... Spirit Levels...
That DISHEVEL These DEVILS... !!!
Who... CLEARLY Seem To REVEL...
In Being Given... MEDALS...
For NONSENSE That They PEDAL... !!!

Like PRIEST My HEAVY MENTAL...
Is How I... BURN And SETTLE...

Scores With... BROADS...
I Mean... GIRLS Of Course... !!!

Who... CLEARLY LIKE To See...
THESE Gangster Wannabes'...
COMPETING For Their *****... !!!!

NO MORE Do I CONCEDE... !!!
To PANDER To Their Schemes... !!!

My Competition FEEDS...
OFF MORE Than They Could Be... !!!!!!!!

My Competition NEEDS...
To Make A... BETTER ME... !!!!!

NOT To PROVE To... " Peeps' "...
That I'm BETTER Than Jay-Z... !?!?!

I'd RATHER Be... " The V "...
Whose VENDETTAS COMPETE...
AGAINST The... Powers That Be... !!!!

And FIND A... HIGHER Mission...
Than Being... SOLELY DRIVEN...
To Fighting For... A PITTANCE... ?!?

In PETTY.............

……. " COMPETITION " …….
I was never one to believe that an artists' work should be something to be placed in competitions. People either like what you do or they don't ....

Voting on art is Hardly Ever, Objective .....
ivorywrists Feb 2014
I am a ghost among ghosts
in an inescapable town filled
with judgmental eyes peering
around sharp corners and
through closed doors. My
pumping pink ventricles
are turning white
with every passing second
that I spend waiting for something
with life to cross my trail.
Unfortunately, holding my breath
for things that
never come has become a
***** habit that I can't rid of,
and my lungs are brittle from the
compressed breaths and
toxic cigarette smoke I subject them
to. They say it takes
twenty one days to stop habits,
but an hour doesn't pass without
me thinking of all the reasons
I am unwillingly invisible and
how you made me this way. The
only thing that acknowledges my
form are clocks,
and they only remind me,
with every tick and grind,
that I am one unit of time closer to
being another collection of
dismembered bones
covered in dirt with a
chunk of stone telling others
my label and a saying that tries to
put meaning in something
that was never going to matter.
Many say that I am being
morbidly negative about my
existence, and maybe their right,
but on good days I like to think that
maybe i was meant to be
good fertilization for lovely flowers
that a senseless boy will pick for a
troubled girl someday.
Vertigo Jul 2014
Your violet iris leaves me naked
as your half-cocked upper lip remains stalwart while
a single drop of salt water backlash slips over,
falling to the ruin
where I tear your ventricles and,
blindly,
walk away.
entropiK Feb 2011
i tried to eat my whole heart raw once.


but i could not stomach it. could not stomach the noxious ventricles down my throat, could not swallow the bollus of unfleshly pink carnage.
so i broke it into pieces and i blamed you instead, because it seemed easier to say you broke me than to say that i ever loved you.


i.

this is how you broke me :

whenever i thought of you ******* her i would think of dying inside.


dying is a blessing.

dying is the movie that i am too young to watch but too old to resist. dying is divinity, it is paradisical death in slow motion, an entity mushrooming in between the eyes of a decaying rabbit. it is tears being ****** back into the eyes of a small girl, legs apart, ***** ripped, the fruitlessness of futility bleeding out like saliva from a mouth. dying is being idle, dying is being able to think without questioning existence, dying is a moth, paled by smoke.


it is that tuesday night i promised myself i would never write again
if all i wrote was about you.



ii.


this is how i broke myself :

whenever i thought of you dying inside her, i would think of *******.


******* is a blessing.  


******* is the reason an orchid can sing without a stigma. ******* is the malformation of your tongue when you say " i hate myself, because i hate you, but i hate you more. ". ******* is about three blocks away from love. ******* and love are probably secret **** buddies. ******* is saying you love her. ******* is saying you love me. ******* is that heart-shaped bruise that you left on my wrist, that tuesday night you ***** me and called it love. ******* is telling me i am not her.



this disposition of 'her', the realisation she plays a better 'her', than i play 'her', the realisation that she stole 'her' from me, when'her' was a dream both of us  could hope to fake.



iii.


why people are kept broken:

you once told me, while ashing out a cigarette on my neck,
*"it is better to stay broken so nothing else can ever break you again."
...
gd Jan 2014
I find some sort of satisfaction
getting under your skin, taking a trip
along the train tracks of your blood vessels
just to see how much you can take before you snap.

Maybe I'll look for some gold while I'm there,
since everything gold does not glitter,
I'm sure your shadowed carcass
will do me some justice.

I'll kick the soils of your tissues,
possibly dig holes in your pores
to find a nerve you
never cared to show me.

I'll paint mosaics and tapestries
on the pasty walls of your bones,
then smash my creations into pieces
to find the secrets stored in your marrow.

I will scratch at the layers
to remember where I'd already made my mark
and run through your bloodstream
to find my way around.

Then, I will bathe in the fluid,
changing its colour from red to
crimson, in hopes you'll
waste your blood on some actual effort.

I'll make music out of your ribs,
punching them with a flux of force,
trying to find the right octaves in creating a scale,
or maybe an étude.

I'll play them over and over
until they get tired of the noise;
get tired of being used for pleasure
in favour of my own ears.

Then maybe, just maybe,
I'll finally reach your heart

and I'll jump on it like a trampoline,
roll down its ***** as if it were a hill,
switch its ventricles and slide down its arteries
aiming for some sort of reaction,

just so I know a heart so bitter might just actually work.

- g.d.
The amount of pleasure I had in writing this surprised even me. Like a weight lifted off my shoulders, leaving me with a smile.
Emily B Jul 2010
come lay beside me in my bed-
I'll trace a path from your ankles to head
and in the morning warm my dear
lift your head and hear
the pucker of my pink lips by your ears
You're my dream in reality
the object of my sensuality
palpitations in my ventricles
heartbeats your fingertips control
smooth inhalation of your soul appeals
aching to learn how your body feels
Medusa Jun 2018
Zenia Argos is tired. Tired to her ventricles, but still curious. She might possibly have told the right person on a certain type of night in the right kind of bar that she defined herself by her curiosity. Now she felt that her strange mind and her odd ways probably overwhelmed her and had thereby come to define her.

~^~
Zenia not only felt undefined, she felt amorphous.
Like a ghost in a black silk raincoat and black patent leather stiletto  heels, she stalked through airports and the gutters of various cities. She forgot to ask herself meaningful questions. She forgot to ask herself any questions at all.

~^~
One day in some unbelievably high-numbered floor of a high-rise hotel in a city whose name she had forgotten she woke up in a luxurious enough bed with a body on the other side of it, face turned away from her. Her brain tossed up only this inane phrase, which repelled and fascinated her at the same time.
"Age has it's privileges"

First thought after that was a silly image of an actual ledge, outside of a high rise building such as the one she found herself in at the moment. With a cartoon cat and a cartoon Zenia fighting to stay on the edge, and comically slipping, hilariously falling, and hanging on, in fast forward and then reverse, and she lay there with her eyes closed and watched the vaudeville show for as long as it took to run through it's loop several times.
~^~
Then she wondered why she was thinking in perfume ad cliches, especially ones from decades, perhaps many decades ago?

This prompted her to jump, catlike, from prone, to alert, and holding her gun from beneath pillow, scanning the room.

Nope.

Not a perfume ad.
Zenia Is a result of reading the excellent work of Margaret Atwood, all of it, for decades, but in particular: The Robber Bridegroom. In which she is the villain.
Dimitrios Sarris Sep 2018
Our voices covered the silence of the night.
Just me and a beautiful woman talking
about our vivid lives. The road is getting
darker, the moonlight could shed little light.
She tightly grabbs my arm and kisses me with
her soft red lips. No words could be spoken as
i lose myself to the pleasures of her kiss.
I responded "I am not a man who mistreats
a lady for a night's satisfaction."
She replied "I know, i can feel it. But what would you
do for a woman in need. In need of your love,
of your caress, of your kiss?"
We drove our way back to my house.
Her beautiful green eyes could see within my heart
and her passionate kisses fill my lips and tongue.
I lose the sense of time as our warm breaths become
a cool breeze to our throbbing bodies.
She holds me tight as i lay her upon the soft sheets,
gently she kisses my neck and lets me slide down to fountains
of pumping milking beats, ******* her healing liquids like honey drops.  
Slowly i enter the altar of her lustful ventricles
becoming one as we press into silken gist
and break open as her skin brushes like silk.
She holds me tight with her angelic body as i permeate
deeper when oceans of liquid lava burst at the white sheets
of our bed and her breast ignites in slow movement
as we gasp and sigh the air around us.
She holds me tight to take in a river that will
quench her thirst, licking heavens milk that covered the secret
spaces that our kisses marked.    
She holds me till the sun rises to put an end to this salacious sin.
She holds my hand and crowls her way back to me. Back to my craving heart, back to our prurient desires.
A bold release of trapped emotions. We had to break up cause of our age
difference (she was older) and i just wanted to prevent her from getting hurt in the future.
Breaking up for something usual hurts but when you have to break up
cause the circumstances of life itself block us
is a different quality of pain. I know that is happy now...
Wishing happiness and joy to the troubled hearts
out there.

— The End —