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Xallan Jun 2019
I talk about my perky *******
To the forks in the silverware drawer
And they look back at me metallicly
They want me to leave them alone.

A chest that curves out parabolically
Like a cat's cheeks
And some mouse has come along
And nibbled away at me, my leaves
Have been devoured by garden pests,
By nibbling slugs
I throw pennies at them.
But that does not replace what
Should have been, where the holes are,
Leaving me disproportionate.

I hold my tattered figure by its wounds
And we wail in pain
My ribcage, too small, contorts the howl
Into a soft, secret sob, a silent whimper.

The sound an animal when it knows
That nothing can de done
That its suffering will not be alleviated.
The pathetic sound of self-defeat.

A mourning of lost things I never had.
The lonely side of heaven, of freedom,
Of having nothing to lose,
Is seeing nothing worth gaining.

It's been 18 years
And I can finally move my toes
I move them independently,
In spite of the pain from muscle atrophy.
It's been 36 years, and I can finally free
My body, I can bare my chest,
I can move my arms.

I can open my jaw, loosened
From its tight and rusty position,
Locked in place to optimum howl.
All my arthritic hinges and joints swing
With an euphoric exhilaration.
I devour mice and slugs and garden snails
And sometimes me, too.

I count my ribs every morning,
To see if I've grown any more.
Under my limp and slimy skin, they shine
With a metallic luster.
I have found something new to talk about.
Please read the whole entire thing.
Despite the shape,
Despite the dent,
Despite the kiss,

A bruise from lips,

Doesn't feel-
But does have to heal-

The same,
As a bruise from fists.
I swear to god, it was shaped like a heart.

Kinda wish this one flowed better, we'll see if it changes.
I believe it was the sawdust of summer when I found your voice in a shadow of a song it reminded me of my past hurt. You sang so beautifully of lilacs and photogenic water, you build harmonies powerful enough to save angels in a storm.

Quickly I caught on and held tight to your butterflies you called lyrics. You spoke of love like you had a doctrine in it. I thought for men love was a learning curve. You proved me wrong. You did not just create music and magic you birth colors out of sound and called them stories.

You blurred the lines between reality and fantasy. I bet your music is similar to the way God speaks. I bet you discovered a guitar inside of a black deity and the piano inside of a white devil's broken heart.  

Prince, I bet you can play anything even the fossils of flowers.
Your music is an endless drug, a purple high. Listening to you made me feel like all four seasons cuddled up with a kiss.
Tell me when did you get tired of playing love songs?

When did balancing the moon and a microphone become all too much for you? Who choked the life out of your vocal chords? ****, I would give almost anything to hear you live again! To wear you songs in my ears like Heirlooms.  Oh Wait, I think I get it. Is this how you go beyond means of self to teach us dead silence is music too?
Jerry Apr 2018
She’s a Poem
He’s an Invisible Ink

She’s a Love Ballad
He’s a Vocal Less Echo

She’s a Soothing Lullaby
He’s a Muted Lyric

She's a Warm Breeze
He's a Whimpered Wind

She’s a Wished Rain
He’s a Thirst in Desert

She’s a Flying Dream
He’s a Falling Demon

She’s Nourishing on Pages
He's Dissolving into Ink

As if, Final Chapter of His Book in a Making?
She May Breathe Forever in His Silent Echoes...
for you dearest 'Lady of the Sea'
mariamme Apr 2018
if god is a woman
then i'd love to crawl inside
her womb and feel regeneration
feel the cosmos sparkle
in the sweat between her thighs
know what it is to taste creation
is this blasphemy? indecent?

if i am a woman then
why can i not love the power
she has gifted my body
in the marrow of my bones
layered gently in my curves
her names multiply
between these two lips and
i'd love to hear her whisper-

how very much the world needs her
patient, fiercely love-filled
vocal cords that sing our memories
into existence; her hair is
the curtains dividing the seas
of night & nature & the blood in us all

she weeps when we spill it
every ruby drop is falling from her lips
we break her bones when
we dig into the earth, ****
her precious body and destroy
the bounty that she's given us
but still does she love us?

she is more than mother,
than lover and artist,
fire-haired horizons and
opal eyes that span the skies

i love her with everything i have
is she listening to us now?
she makes me nervous,
how she sits naked in the heart
pregnant with our destinies
endlessly listening to our songs
of pain & lust & death's grinning hatred
and quiet, she is still in my soul.
diosa mío
L B Feb 2017
She let the tape go—
on record
one evening for an ordinary hour
Five years later, we play it back
for laughs after dinner—then as now

“Remember how the stove door screeched
at the house on Olive Street?”
And our voices!
Phoeb’s, lighter–tired
wrapping the nine’s tables in elastic yawns
like flash cards in a rubber band
“Phoeb, your pitch changed so—
while  I turned...”
to run water in the tub
lamenting the **** of Two
in frenetic escape of hands
Unruly!
Running rebel taunts in Time’s strict face
who would not dare disturb her dawns
only mine—
Roused by the first round of another day’s
ring of twelve
digits that insist
like uniform with apron waiting
on ironing board that’s never folded

Now the **** of Two cries out
Exultant!
of success in *****
Then, Oratorio for Soap!
The splashy version
with endless bubblings of “Rocky Baby!”
and obbligato of “Where’s Shampoo?”
in jubilant glissadal plunge
an octave through vocal whoops!

…I had not thought
she hardly talked
but sang and squealed or whined in tunes
Her voice lay open to her soul
a roost of piercing humming birds
small of words
but filled with sweet and want
incessant wings and things to say....

How could we have forgotten?

“Are these your boots?
Your clothes laid out?”
From sound and talk, we still can hear
frost phantoms
in winter window rattles—then as now
And Phoebe remarks how one voice
didn’t change though—
“Still talking to herself”

We laugh
and let the tape go....
This is one of those poems I'm so glad I wrote because no photo or recording could ever capture this memory as well.
Val Ajdari Nov 2013
Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native poet by poetic luminosity.
A verse in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the poet does not care.
So, take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the poet seeks to hear,
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
This inquisitive writer infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin; abysmal.
Rejecting fables history’s assassins inked true,
The writer seeks fair chroniclers, but wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here.
Land said "not to exist," but its roots still reappear;
Fabricated history most poets cannot fathom,
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
Calling curious minds to ponder this heck of a theory,
First, consider the writer's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent,
Not man-written "guidance" begging cents to repent.
Since Illyria’s rebel ship sailed onto history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Around Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails.
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her Godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
Her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem the native conspirator of ultimate treason.
So,  while the State buries the poet's piercing wits,
The treasonous dog barks, upon foreign command he *****.
The dog's filthy betrayal, painted by his foreign master,
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species,
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces.
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease,
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves (those below made to inspire)
The ***** dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This ****** work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
As today’s political pawns (in corruption they engage),
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage.
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play,
Our minds confined to idiocy as the socialist's prey.
So,  a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a "finger."
Left Foot Poet Jan 2018
<!>
inspired by a conversation with Maira Kalman


******* a name, adopt a persona, let my fingers do the talking,
place the instrumental sharp point tip upon the blankety blank paper,
maestro baton raised, coordinating,
the first sound, the vocal chords trembling,  
the first thought, the ultrasound image, entrance of a first violin,
coalescing into, into the initializing single primary phonation,
the stinging geometry of chance at last,
throwing  down the gauntlet, glove slapping, and the
tendons tense, the mouth opens, release and indentation,
a letter's curvature, a black and white downward stroking,
a sign is televised, revealed and released

a one way only sign

time bends knee, gravity suspended, terror morphs to
expelling rapid firefights of imagery needy for spacing,
even pauses mid-word  leave just this:

where is the in in
intimate?

are you the in in
inmate,
or the jailor at the gate?

you swear never again

until committing once more,

a sentence commutation, by committing a first sentence,

and the greater toll taken and paid for,

and the in in in-nate,
questions your sanity

happily


<•>

9/17/17 10:55pm
Scarlet McCall Aug 2019
"When you encounter a mountain lion, be vocal; however, speak calmly and do not use high pitched tones or high pitch screams"--California Dept. of Fish and Wildlife

Be vocal, but avoid high pitched tones and screams
when a mountain lion appears on your path.
Remind yourself that it’s not a  dream.

If the path goes down to a flooded stream,
and bodies float by--
stay calm;  avoid high pitched tones and screams.

When you go to the store and there’s no milk or cream,
as the cows are sickened  from a poisoned well,
remind yourself that it’s not a dream.

If the wildfire turns your hot tub to steam,
as you run down the street to your neighbor’s car
be vocal, but avoid high pitched tones and screams.

When the weather goes to another extreme,
and mudslides cover another town,
remind yourself that it’s not a dream.

When the fisherman catches no salmon nor bream,
and there’s no more coffee, nor chocolate ice cream,
be vocal, but avoid high pitched tones and screams.
Remind yourself that it’s not a dream.
Noel Billiter Jul 2018
I know you want me to shut the **** up
Cut me off and not have a opinion
I try to stop myself from being
My vocal self my very essence
Grab some some tape and have some fun
Wrap it around my so called tongue
That will give you some peace of mind
At least for a minute while you unwind
I’ll spare you my rants and my thoughts
How silly of me to think so much
Why speak up I only complain
Nothing I say has any weight
Smile pretty and behave like the rest
Look good be quiet and don’t protest
All is well as long as you
Do as I say and don’t be brave
Clean do dishes and act like you’re fine
Ignore those voices that tell you otherwise
You are the thing that I contain
Into this box this square this frame
It’s all I know and what I expect
A learning curve and I suggest
Get use to being treated this way
Feel lucky feel privileged And don’t walk away
I hold this over you I confess
But what can you do except, accept?
This is the way that things are done
Don’t make waves or trouble my dear
Just go along with what you hear
If I keep you silent everybody wins
And that is what keeps me, me and you with them
If I hold you down then I succeed
Which benefits us all as you will see
What’s good for me is good for me
And why I want you to smile pretty
Justin Griego Feb 2014
On this Ritalin,
I am slow
Brains aren't racing
Thoughts don't go
Oh, I'm so productive
Ask anybody; they'd know
But my creative spark suffocates
Under the Ritalin filled glow.

I can't even tell you
how hard it can be
When every word you say
doesn't go past me
I can hear every syllable
Every motion I do see
Then my brain melts at the pressure
Not spouting off wittily

They say I speak normally
The words come out so true
But to me they sound labored
So slow and confused
I have thought into every motion
of my vocal cords abuse
And feel every vibration
to my tingled lips amuse

Some times I'm real happy
no way my spirit'll shake
Some times I'm real sad
It's more than I can take
Sometimes I don't feel anything
That's a feeling I just can't shake
Sometimes I feel everything
And I'm waiting for my head to break

My doctor never gave me Ritalin
As a kid I never did have
But now I'm all grown up
And this time I've a' bottle in hand
I used to let my mind race
Daydream of robot bands
Now I've let these pills run coarse
N' hourglass runs on Ritalin slowed sands
(AIP)
Pagan Paul Nov 2018
.
Feint is the Muse,
that looks upon me,
challenging my existence
with deep baleful interest.
Its struggles hard
to contain its indifference
at the mere mortality
that I conduct.
And conduct I do.
As melody takes
centre stage
in a flight of fancy,
constrained by rhythm
temperate, steady,
and insistent.
The cadenced beat
of skins keeping time
to a fanfare of sound.
But my voice is silent,
conspicuous by its absence,
in mute violation
of speechless freedom.
The words won't come,
no song message birthed
for altruism
nor benefit of composition.
The flight of fancy stalls
and gently rocks in a cradle
of anticipation.
Rhythm drops to a meagre
pelvic twitch,
insistence foregone and forgotten
in a cynical parody
of the vocal deficiency.
Velvet drapes lick
the wooden floor stage,
and the performance
has just begun.



© Pagan Paul (14/11/18)
.
Sorry, my brain is on meltdown :(
.
Nat Lipstadt May 2019
check in at the library, my card scanned,
per the terms of my sentencing agreement

to the poetry shelves dispatched.
row after row, book after book,
all blank awaiting my affections,
all demanding my sensei sensations,
seeking a creme filling of honorations,
words of all shape, roots and origins,
the occasional new combination

some, never heard before, timelessly awaiting expulsion
from the birth-vocal canal where comes origination,
but for me, death by enforced creativity,
that’s what the judgers desired,
a punishment that fits the crime

my misdeed record unsealed, intended for
world envisioning, the ego audacity to imagine
I could write a single good poem,
thus the punishment fits the crime


may1 9:19am ‘19
this for CJ
HearseTraffic Apr 2019
The protagonist of every romance in my dreams,
I can't even utter your name without ripping apart at the seams.
Chewed up and spit out,
I've been left so rotten.
This corpse wanders the streets desperately waiting for your touch forgotten.
I love you, but I don't like you.
I hate you, but I can't live without you.
Forcing my vocal chords to submit,
I curse your name one last time as I rearrange the fibers holding me together.
Collapsed in the depths of our collective tears,
I bottle the salt used to disturb wounds reminding me of who bore them.
Reminding me of who brought me here.
The vehicle of this descent.
The antagonist of every romance in my dreams.
Originally written as prose in August 2017.
polyratic May 2018
I have a few,
like burning a good future.
Losing love
loving lots
spiraling in confusion.

Blinding rage,
petty sayings
a quiet vocal range.

Lackadaisical,
completely forgettable,
earn below the average joe.

I write,
I draw,
both subpar
I can't drive a car.

I can hide in a smile
lie with my eyes
and never really cry.

Overweight,
out of shape,
hoodie shaped,
never took a family break.

Mnm wants me to,
but never said I'd go far.
Won't ever date.
Usually believes in fate,
not holy gates.

my skillset so far.
I've always had skills.
Eliza Noxon Oct 2017
Where I come from
We have intellectual discussions through bad grammar and crass diction
Tossing around speech patterns and vocal quirks like the football our team uses to beat yours

My friends and I refuse to be seperated while we walk
Because our jewish friend warned us to not
Sharing her heritage and culture like we share clothes and advice

I know how to express my love in multiple languages,
Bro, Cariña, Uo Mamae, Habibi,
Because thats how my friends refer to me
Terms of endearment but people assume we're shouting slurs

We know the motions to make
When you look down your noses at us
Because we take care of our own
And know better then to cow to weak chins and glassy eyes

We learn from each other and grow
Share language and culture
Play games and eat food from countries we've never been too
But which we have come to care about and know

You roll your eyes when we compete
then claim we cheated when we win
You mistake your reflected past success as a glimpse into the future
While we keep our eyes to the sky, and continue moving forward

You paint us with knives and guns so often that maybe that's what we've become.
That's what you believe we've become.

Well I don't believe that
No, we don't believe that!
We believe that we are above your broken kaleidoscope view of us

Welcome to hidden genius and determination
Welcome to diversity and true community
Welcome to introspection and collective success

You may not like it
May not wanna look
But we are brave, strong, intelligent, determined, caring, proud
And we are above you
Kewayne Wadley Aug 2018
I don't consider you a friend because of how many times you cross my mind.
Nor because of the times we don't mention.
I don't consider myself in love because of the things we do to each other behind closed doors.

Open doors or in-between doors.
I consider you my equal because of the philosophy we share.
All without making a sound.

The love we have that naturally reacts with a vocal notion of it's own.
We don't have to be around each other to explore the things that aren't said.
A vocal assurance that I do indeed mean what I say.

We are both the ugliest kind of beautiful our laughs being the ice breaker
for all that we share.
The tears elapsed from laughing too hard.

No I don't consider you a friend, or a lover because of how much I'll miss you when your gone.
No I don't want to be near you just because of a single thought.

Nor because of the way you make me feel.
You'll always be with me.
Sharing our ugliest kind of beautiful
melinoe immortal Aug 2018
Sirens. ‘Oxygen please’.

It was all in a dream,
that slowly fades, 
till it’s one last beat;
the final T wave.

The eyes of the soul
opened to a new light;
the real orbits could not
 believe, what I saw.

Now, I wish I never
gazed into that light.
Darkness swathes 
my soul, a repetition
of this vicious cycle.

Traffic lights. Red turns green.

The monitor music.
A distorted chime sound,
hidden under their vibrating vocal cords.

Last earthly stop.
I am in orbit.
Return of oxygen, electrolytes, body and soul to the progenitor.
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