"viscosity" poems
Discoboli of African poetry has now sparked above aphasia
The aphasic silence today breaks eardrums with cacophony
Of the world audience in the by standing duty of workshop tubes,
Executing poetic experiment on the origin of **** poeticus
To link the archaic baboonish proteins to the black chimpanzee
Cradling African man, the sire of all and their poetry.
That when the Chimpanzee blood we poured
Into the African veins of vena cava and aorta,
Feeding the heart with viscosity of nutrition,
And the Chimpanzee blood fell into deadly
Tomperousness like Shakespearean impetuosity
Once seen in Romeo and Juliet, giving timely Birth
To untimely half the yellow Sun
That juxtaposed planet of poetry
Behind the star of tribe as a priority
Condemning to stark oblivion all the fated,
in full uniform of tribal dimunitions, or mimesis.
Ever predated on when tribes form nations.
A time to try the chimpanzee blood in the veins
Of white humanity, battling cynosure
Historically evinced in Antony and his father,
Or Tybalt and Mercurial of mercutio,
Or Macbeth and counterparts
Or Hamlet the Danish and the inheritors of his mother,
As the white blood cells of the white blood,
Militantly attack the white corpuscles
Of the misfortunate chimpanzee,
Converting the later into
A chewer of misfortune.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity, with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…
tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer
it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…
7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
I was floating in honey.
The viscosity of the substance
Made it so that, while I still needed to work
To keep my head afloat,
I had a little extra support.
So I didn't have to do it alone.
And it was good.
But my temperature began to rise.
I became too hot too fast, and,
Because of my actions
I started to destroy the beneficial parts
That the honey needed to remain useful and healthy.
So the honey reacted:
Threw my melting self out of its jar.
I tried to jump back in
But the honey firmly ******* its lid back on,
And my charring fists
Fruitlessly pounded on the boundary
The honey had erected.
Then as my body and brain burned,
The other honey jars disappeared-
Distancing in acts of self-preservation.
I knew how I could get my temperature
Back to baseline.
I just needed a little help
So I could work to get back to my normal self.
But my actions had pushed away what I needed.
So I accepted the fate I had caused,
And allowed my body to fall to ash.
Nov 20, 2023
Nov 20, 2023 at 9:05 PM UTC
kisses on your warm sweet mouth
tender lips caressed
exploring your ******* and raised ******* ..
belly and thighs enveloped
those eager dark delicious places that i covet so
your musk erogenous
the path to your hungry soul
eater of the poison apple
your eyes widen bright with delight
a strange synesthesia you say
your smile a hypnotic alter
you prone
back arched
belly willing
as i drag a curved blade slowly across your winsome flesh
worshiping you
breathing your warm breath into my mouth and nostrils
come now
you coo
i am sheildless
then little strangles that excite
to see how you do
will you love it
adorations twisted mind
she demon
a wizened dizzy Venus
please yes
her **** drenches the bed
a warm viscosity
legs widen
feet piqued
*****
exotic delicatessen
Heralded
i enter with long sweet butter strokes
the sabbath of desire
I swear
i wont let you suffer...
never !
why you say?
because i love you
lovely scythe you call
as if lulled to sleep
whispering dreadful incantations .
i ache to close the curtain
to lifes scalding chatter
wrap me
in a raggy shawl
impale the throat
like ive alway dreamed
a last exhalation
flood gates pour forth
as deaths dark fold
dissolves all
i rock you drugged
absinthe and wormwood
a last ***** of candles flame
white gauze cinched
lips on a lost mouth
eyes a static pyre
i linger
wishing you still plush
an animated glow
so that i could feel your arms,
now milky white relics
only to take you all over again and again and again
dreamer of the abyss
yet you stand
aberrations, smoke ghost
sacrificially swaying your hips
calling from Hades
dancer of ritual copulation
i melt like wax in the sun
wither
and die myself
marriage Italian style
dead bells in love
blotted out by the Sirens of Mara
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
I'd rather die than listen to your poetry.
**** pellets of perfection,
Forget rhyme, rhythm or talent,
Leave that **** for the poets,
The saps and the *******
Don't start with that alliteration.
No pantooms or odes.
I'd rather place my head on the chopping block.
I'd rather watch blood with such high viscosity,
That it flails and leaps toward the opened mouth,
Pleading "no more! No more!"
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 1:02 PM UTC
acting on a stage,
she builds with each step,
step,
step,
stepping,
the floorboards trail behind her feet.
they form from the soil,
the earth breathing beneath,
wooden planks sprouting between her toes.
she sings in a voice strained and trained,
her diaphragm strong and core
rumbling in single breaths.
her skin brushed with pigment,
cheeks tinted rouge and lips scrubbed till pain,
gold-dusted on her bones
rays reflecting and blinding from her beauty.
stomach she ***** in,
twenty-four
seven,
always prim and proper,
a perfect specimen of femininity,
her blood flows in a viscosity unique
only to the elite.
fingers down
but she lacks words to throw up,
she's silent,
an empty vessel,
her lips meant to be a two-way gate
but nothing flows either way.
her skin sunkissed turmeric,
her irises tapioca pearls,
hair flowing and falling from her face
toasted nori on the white rice her dress.
daily rehearsals of sixteen
odd years practicing lines;
memorizing them, repeating internally,
the stage she builds like a church
her loves oppose to the act,
but she builds an antidisestablishment
forcing her audience of parishioners
away from her.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
I held out my hands.
I placed a drop of soap on each palm
and took hold of my ***** spoon and washed it with my hands,
cupping and spooning it
like my gentle hands were trying to make it croon.
Like it were mated and flipped and slapped
against threadbare slacks.
That spoon is cleaning me,
is washing my hands as I wash its tarnished feet,
it is forgiving me.
For the scalding soups and bitter ice cream,
and not washing it but watching it grow crusted, disgusted.
And while I swoon for my spoon,
and grinning the spinning dizzy grin of Love,
I remember, and give thanks for my feast.
This spoon feeds me like a child on Mother God’s lap,
and kisses me with life, with food.
This soap, and my hands, and this bubbling love between my spoon and I,
it is clean.
My soul is more clean with my spoon.
Cleaner than dog’s saliva licking at old wounds,
but that’s alright,
cause everybody knows ******* love scars, dog.
And women love beautiful spoons,
maybe because of its viscosity, or its gentle curvature,
or the deep loving laugh it invokes,
when it sits on my nose.
My spoon communion left me with pruned hands,
bright eyes,
and a coy smile for what flowers in my mind may bloom.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 2:31 AM UTC
don't stick to anything
defy gravity
creep up the walls of glass
no heat
super conductivity
zero viscosity
helium 2
your a super fluid
and you show that
drip out the bottom
of the seemingly solid mass
helium 2
your a super fluid
and you show that
redefining how i think
about cold liquid gas
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 2:16 AM UTC
my love has 1000x
the energy of a
dead corpse
viscosity
singing telephone
wire
aeolion
harp
my heart beats
like a rabbit’s
me
the prey
crouching in
tall grass
ears flat
legs ready
to spring
with dusk’s
breath
I will continue
to shake
with this
expression
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
sleeping tears awoke to crimson crust & apple red veins,
eyes peering through the dizzying fog to find a faucet
& drizzle rain like nectar down the peach pit's core,
along rugged edges & oval pores,
imperfect patterns & lightning blinks
remind the second sadness to cry once again.
My swipe of crust is rusting
like a smoker's yellowing finger tips gathering paint on callouses
& cracked lips
mirrored reflections shadow gaze,
squinting to locate bronze crow's feet of a man, mid thirties,
lying for what-to die
dying to wait-for what
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
I squashed a cockroach the other day.
A big, Fat, Cockroach.
It was trying to get away and I squashed it.
Not that I had anything against that, Particular cockroach but, I was bare-foot.
I had tea, And biscuits, And was bare-foot when he made his dash across the corridor.
It took some time to calm down and, Fetch another tray.
When I returned, The cockroach had moved.
A thick, white streak, Of substantial viscosity, Ran right across the floor and, Straight under my door.
Her gartered leg was up on the table.
She removed a delicate silver pistol and, With his back turned, Fired a single shot.
I used a shoe this time, Like a maniac,
And then, Framed by a single, Swinging light-bulb, Waited for the detective.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
Under harsh street lights
And a rusted skeletal overpass
We walked in the syrupy
Silence of a Sunnyside Saturday
Night
A man asked me in accented
English
"Want that burrito spicy?"
"Yes"
His eyebrows go up
"Spicy?"
"Yes, ******* spicy!"
He smiles to himself
Reaches back into the food truck
And pours sauces and
Liquids of varying color
And viscosity into the
Tortilla
Wraps it up for me
Gives me my change
And waves me off with a smile
When we get back to the apartment
She is mad
Because I choose to make love to the
Burrito instead of her
I can't help it
Drunk eating is one of the
Forbidden joys of life
She slams the door and
Shuffles around yelling
By the time I'm done the burrito
She is telling me to sleep on the couch
Which is fine because I can't
Feel my mouth anyway
The burrito is so **** spicy
I tell her this and that her
Kisses would be wasted
If she wants to waste her time
With me, I want to feel it
We sleep together for
The night
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
**"His mind would never romp again like the mind of God."
The Great Gatsby**
Does he fret,
Does he sweat,
Does he pay his bills
On Time,
Even tho his personal stash
Of anything,
Inexhaustible and
He bills himself?
Is he lonely,
So when he romps,
His greatest pleasure is
Inventing new kinds of pain?
Does he like to watch butter
Snowmelt,
Does he turn the honey jar
Upside down
Because viscosity is
A turn on?
Is he lonely?
Of course he is,
Is that why he endlessly
Tinkers with creative destruction?
Does he put strawberry jam
On his watermelon?
Salt on his wounds,
Caramelized onions in his
Cologne and parfumes?
Does he watch reruns?
The bombing of Dresden, Hiroshima?
The shaving of the heads of the French women?
What's his fav. late night host,
When he can't sleep
And. his damaged dreams
Become our unfortunate realities?
Acting childish, a métier,
So he can scold himself?
Does he keep score,
Ever say no more,
Contemplate suicide,
Or just murdering his sons?
Did he kiss Shakespeare's lips,
Or just his fingertips?
Does he sing a Capella
With Holly and Cooke,
Let Beethoven play rock n' roll?
What is he best excuse
For playing with
Tormented souls,
Making so many wonderful things
Forbidden fruit?
Does he worship regularly at the altar?
Irony his faith and skin his vestments?
Are his twisted straight,
His late, early?
His order disordered and when bored,
Does he just close his eyes and
Let us live in peace?
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
My boyfriend (Peter) and I went down to New Haven Harbor today.
Let’s face it, we’re surrounded by oceans,
and most of them are downright inhospitable.
I live near the ocean, (pointing) it’s right over there.
I love the ocean, tripping over whenever I’ve time to spare.
The way I’m fawning over it, you’d think I know it well.
But I really only love its edges and undulating swells.
It’s like a book that I’ve judged by its cover,
a beautiful stranger taken as a lover,
or a pie when I’ve only tasted the crust.
I love something, I suppose, I’ve barely even touched.
Peter says that black, inky “outer-space” is a low-viscosity liquid,
another, even vaster ocean that’s more dangerous and rarely visited.
The air that we breathe is an ocean - our own, vast, atmosphere -
in it swim creatures too small to see, but to the naked eye it looks clear.
It flows, eddies and swells - birds swoop in it so you can tell.
Of course, the ocean has issues - it's hardly news - corrosion, erosion, sharks and drowning - and the way the ocean lets the moon and air push it around.
What I love most is its motion, and how it reflects the sun and the moon.
Did I mention that hanging-out by the ocean makes for a pleasant afternoon?
Mar 22, 2023
Mar 22, 2023 at 10:35 AM UTC
Tears.
Salt water
mixed with fire
from my core ,this molten
center; Where viscosity erupts into
the cavernous third chamber, sufussive.
Hands. Feel across the valleyed surface, touching
the unhealed; A perfectly clean circle sitting upon solar plexus;
Cupid’s sharpest hit. Unseen. The fissure runs deep into a chamber
nestling betwixt red pulsing atrium. Only I sense the tremors here.No beats sing
out in this vast ethereal emptiness. Silent. Vaulted edifices shining bright with colourful
minerals. Molten. Lovers leaving stains upon the walls, as pure deposits cool. Crystallizing
in the aftermath of each eruption, my volcanic heartrock shines like a diamond in the rough.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 6:24 PM UTC
The Winter Feast
In the
Glass forest
Snow falls
And trees
Stand
Darkly visible
Beneath
Ancient crowns of
Snow and ice
In these creaking limbs
Nothing changes -
The slow viscosity of time
Drapes the boughs in
Delicate shards that
Swallow light
But
Over here
In dark stains
Beneath old eaves
Famined eyes slide among
Rivers of shadow
Pursuing the warm glow of life -
In an instant
They absorb the warm hapless thing
Whose bright shrieks tear
At the fabric of shadows
The beasts feed -
Their crippled little yelps
Resonate
Death through the
Forest where
Time shivers and breaks -
From dark boughs
Gleaming
Thorns of ice whisper
To earth
In the silent thunder of snow
Satisfied
The beasts leave -
A sacrifice of blood
And bone
Is made -
Crimson tears bloom
In the snow -
Time gathers the vibrant colour in its
Crystal embrace
High above
Winter winds
Caress the old boughs
That lovingly
Creak and whisper
In the
Glass forest
Dec 2, 2009
Dec 2, 2009 at 6:19 PM UTC
Onto her creased palm, lime scented glue she poured
To mend the loose page on that book she'd borrowed.
As she spread the glue, a pleasant feeling of release.
For to piece broken things together brought her peace.
What of the glue that lingered on her palm, though?
Across the sides of her petite hand did overflow...
She beheld its yellow viscosity in an odd little trance.
From the faint aroma, a new line of thought did advance.
Maybe she could use it to stick a note in her dorm,
To remind her that in life, transience is the sole norm.
Or to fix a friendship once worthy of the bards,
That had silently shattered into a million shards.
Or perhaps even use it on the heart hiding within her,
So the poor old muscle could heal a little quicker...
She turned on the tap with a frustration so fierce,
And washed off the lime glue along with her tears.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
With each reach I am further away than I hoped.
Clawing desperately at walls of mud.
Foiled by the viscosity of fools.
No matter how hard I try to escape the solitude it haunts me still.
Looming over me like a cowl adhered to my skull.
Comforting is its presence.
Complex are it’s vexes.
Is it the walls or my skin that take the brunt of my aggression?
Is it outward or all within?
Could it be that the darkness is my only friend?
The only thing that remains.
All my efforts are in vain.
All my transgressions explained.
My thoughts are all insane.
But here in the depth I can escape the pain.
So here I shall remain.
Filled with more of the same.
Questions unexplored… a bane.
Sep 16, 2020
Sep 16, 2020 at 7:55 PM UTC
Maybe, this thing does not matter.
It feels like a current,
But maybe it’s just another stream
with the promise of leading to the sea
when it’s truly
just heading for a lake.
Maybe, I can watch the ducks paddle over the water
and the twigs float on by.
It could be that this is how you learn,
that your gut doesn’t have eyes.
But it could also be how you learn
that there are some things
no eyes can see.
Whether it be
for the worsening or for the bettering
you are floating down this river
an island in the water
it’s viscosity carrying
you, with your hands
at the side of your hips
where you’ll end up
grace cannot be too far
when you follow the flow
who knows where you’ll end up
maybe next to those ducks
or in the vast open sea
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 12:10 PM UTC
Your love is like a swarm of thousand bees
Stinging me all over my body
Filling in your lunatic venom
Me craving for more
That toxiferous viscosity
rushing and gushing
into my veins
Leaving no corners of my soul unearthed , undiscovered
As after some lapse of time those pokes oozing out shades of black
Your pestilential destruction works its way into my nerves
Delirium is just so much more acknowledged now
The reality is just so neglected now
Thrashed far away
Thats where I like it to be now
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 1:01 PM UTC
*daddy screams and shouts, eyes burning with rage
mummy cries tears bitter with sage
brother is scared, eyes wide as moons
we all agree daddy has gone through menopause too soon
on our faces, we brush aside this sudden burst
"it's just nothing," we say, "he knows family comes first."
but the sight of him consumed is etched in the air
trapping the three of us in trauma's snare --
his eyes were livid, veins bulged from his neck
pulsing with the viscosity of a lava lake
he burned like blue fire, the kind that burns too hot
destroying everything around it, leaving death-clogged smog
i don't know why daddy is so angry today
till then, in our room, mummy brother and i will stay
i have never seen daddy so angered and flared
so distant with fury, so paralysingly mad
i fear for this family, i never have before this
this fear scares me, so i will make a list
i hope it will serve to place some of my fears
into linear thoughts, before it rains tears
first, daddy has always been holy and kind,
on his chest a cross, you would always find
but as he grows older, with hair turning grey,
with valley-deep wrinkles and memories gone astray,
he seems to forget, that i am human too
with his words, he beats me, beats me black and blue
criticisms and 'bad bad bad' ring through the house
if only he saw, he is the wolf that prowls
second, daddy had been a family man
the kind that spends a fortune flying us over land
but lately, he's just been out of touch and sight
sins queuing outside the door, waiting to enter at night
he seems to forget when i was a child
the cards i gave him, the way i made him smile
but i remember, when his hair was still black
in our family, love and warmth was never in lack
time, stop. return my daddy back to me.
stop this affair, i beg you; don't let age run free.
don't run through your fingers in his hair like that.
don't paint his hair grey, don't make it fall away.
give me the daddy my mummy met, back.*
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
My heart was pieced together like a patchwork
Just like the rest of me
Made from parts of ticking time-bombs
Stitched and stapled together in a mass of voracious viscosity
Violently vilifying the way
The thread streams me seamlessly
from one person to the next
Each feeling they will be the center-ring circus master
Until they realize
The sewing needle is simply passing through their square
The seamstress ran out of string with me
Resulting in relapse burlap fistfights along the edges
Left me searching for salvation each time
The bells chimed to open the day
Left me in the company of
Misshapen shadows hidden along broken back hallways
Back-and-forth handshakes to make sure
The other was still there
Night after night, staring at your creation in the window
But not during the day because monsters like the dark
It’s not that it’s easier to sneak and scare
I just know the faces of disgust and terror
And I don’t need that right now
When that’s the same face I want to rip from the mirror
That night should have been stormy
For all the things that I did
To your masterpiece
Pulling at strands like they were nooses around my neck
Each time like removing an iron bar from my cage
Until the burlap sack flew apart flapping like vultures
Leaving nothing but the sheep in scarecrow’s clothing
Unraveling my sense of time until the clock struck
3 times an echo
Once for the creation of your abhorrent abomination
Twice for your meticulous sense of the grotesque
And three times for putting a soul you saw unhappy
Into a prison so much worse
When I was on your bench
My words came choppily and broken
Because I couldn't finish a sentence
Without second guessing everything
Waiting for a punishment after every word
So I wouldn't interrupt
The beginning of your sentence
With the middle of mine
You put my heart together piece by piece
Cross-stitching over the years of my childhood
Connecting a pair of glasses with a two-tone sense of humor
Building a bridge between arms wide open and a shotgun blast
But now the words flow fluidly
Because now my thoughts are seamless
Put together skillfully like a seamstress’s caress
No more anticipating the end before the beginning
Now that I've come full circle
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
Tinker, tailor, soldier, ****
Still on the wrong end of a gun, and
I feel like a walking phallus-y, spelled with a "ph"
A balancing act on a ballast beam
I'm sick of splitting pills
Like splitting hairs
Over an equal piece of the same share
I'm sick of playing fair
Like alliteration taught to an illiterate
In a post-biblical nation
I’m trying on your patience
And the monstrosity that is my social viscosity
Is borne consciously
Proceed cautiously
But who would I be without the depravity?
The sick and sadder me?
Another puzzle piece probably
Resigned to believe his beliefs aren't faulty
Fuckin' salty, and
Steeped in a brine of designer beef and corn feed
Too yellow to bleed
No
When I speak, I beg you to see
Suffering is a similarity, synonymous with life
So proudly riddled with strife, I spit
This wisdom demands sacrifice
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
The autumn's scent has now released
As air is crisp and rife with chills,
But cold like this is far from bleak
With all these trees where crimson spills.
Orange leaves that catch the sunlight,
Skeletal, their frames are showing.
In their shades of death they give
A final dance from breezes blowing.
The prickling tickles fingertips
To stiffened, numb monstrosities,
And you could swear your blood had froze
To cause such harsh viscosity.
For it's now that summer weeps
A solemn, meek exhailed despair,
Which whistles in among the leaves
And dissipates in frozen air.
The autumn's scent has now released,
The orange, red and yellow shows,
The rigid fingers point away
As summer sighs, and summer goes.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 2:57 PM UTC