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Jake Conner Oct 2013
I just want to write poetry on your back while you sleep
For that’s the only way I can show my love
I want to lift you above the lies that society implies
And steal away the tears of ink you weep

Hundreds of times with thousands of words I have tried to pin down my love
For you
For her
For this
But the words wrap themselves around the needle and up my arm and back out my mouth again, a vomitous, recycled, insincere love.

I want to love you. I want you to love me. I know you shouldn’t. You don’t even want to.
Lesley Feb 2017
O'blessed Darkness cover me
Blanket the rushing words & flashing blurs;
The disjointed fragments of blinking walls,
Lights crashing off and on,
Blue, red, green-the marionettes dancing,
So many together and all alone.
It is all a show.

The hiccup of life, the vomiting dream.
I see my life before me;

A slush of goo,
The stink of this world,
Or is that the scallops & escargot?
What have you done to me?

Everything I do myself-
This dream, this life...
Why do I hurt myself so?

Punching mirrors, ***** on porcelain.
Dark, thick-
My throne for many minutes...

Time ticking, time ticking-
I was unaware.
My wooden box was silent,
My wooden life is tragic.

The voices through the walls,
Through the fog and haze-
You okay? You okay? You okay?

I croak a positive.
I have no steady legs-
When have I ever?
I have no:
stable brain
clear thought
decisive moment
steady action
fruitful journey-
All slipping through my fingers...
Like the vomitous goo of tonight.

Everything we have, we lose.
Owning anything is an illusion.
Holding on is meaningless.

I want to go home.

(Everything is nothing)

I want to go home

(there is no sense in anything)

i want to go home.

Please, hold me now.

*©Lesley Wood
To hear reading:
https://soundcloud.com/lesleywood/riding-the-nitsua-dragon
A shiver starts in my toes
and moves systemically up my body
leaving nothing untouched.
Vomitous shaking , solely mine
never the familiar stranger's
unrecognizable self
disconnected from self-image.
If the impostor fools everyone
is he an impostor still?
Grotesque is a word reserved for Halloween, Asparagus, and my bathroom mirror.
A mirror that has never lied although there were times I asked it to.
The word is as descriptive as any in the English language
And it seems that it is synonymous with lonely and single.

While love is said not to ascribe to aesthetics.
I know for a fact, through experience, that attraction most definitely does.
So while love can exist for one that could be considered grotesque.
By all weights and measures, how is a person supposed to be loved,
When the other can't get the vomitous taste out of their mouth after looking at them?

Dark and dreary I know, but I've never been one to buy in.
To purchase the notion that one could look past, into what one is, before seeing how one looks.
Dismal outlook on the horizon I know but sometimes reality's worth crashing into.
Maybe I'm wrong, God I hope so.
Because if I'm wrong there's a future.
If I'm not
. . .
Pisceanesque Aug 2015
Sour, my attempt to write –
the flavour lost in every bite.
Undecided words, unheard,
but seeping out, expelled,
disturbed; a self-invaded,
cornered bird, un-winged
and clipped from flight,
while

I rumble with poetic temper,
my bleeding soul,
in part, dismembered;
blank, un-whole, alone
and undefended.
My belly full of passion,
yet, my appetite untended,
and

expression jailed and flawed,
dissolving quicker than it pours;
a vat of garbled, bubbling
troubled thought
that rivals typed impression
sought to pillage mind
and spill from core.

Scored, the days it takes between,
in floor and wall,
to key the lock that binds
this isolation door,
ancient finds arising
in my lust for seeking more
and more;
buried words upended
with surprise, and unintended,
for,

from I, the Jailor,
baseless accusations rise,
lashing, fast, acidic wind
that primes the rhymes I tongue within.
Never one to coat my words
too thin, too dry, too weak,
it seems (by definition) I resist
to drown (at best) or leak,
while anchored here, existing,
in unblinking frozen speech,
but

the accidental draining of my
purpose-tended bed of prose,
is waiting hand on foot
with sweetened
suicidal pensive throes,
as I,
with mocking rows
and rows of written doubt,
release, in lines,
my stomach
churning through and out
demands to hasten
one true last and final shout,
so,

this filtered care
that stains my lungs with ghostly stare
and soaks my throat
as vomitous
as stinging air
that leaves me rendered,
flailed and flared and wounded,
brooding, undeclared –
through THIS
the words escape,
an icing on the freedom cake
all cherry-topped, and cut, and baked:
a timeless meal to share
without the food to waste,
the friend to taste,
the key to exit,
smitten,
from this solitary mind-induced
persisting empty prison space.
© Tamara Natividad
pisceanesque.com
Written 22 August, 2015
-
Vanessa Nichols Nov 2012
It is too easy.
Much, much too easy
This falling and rising we do.

It leaves me hollowed.
Empty, like an autopsied heart, chambers no longer pumping life’s blood;
Or like the distended belly of some pathetic half creature fevered with hunger.

Don’t you ever feel that way?

Or do you glutton yourself on the rolling and rocking,
Feasting on the tides until you are consumed by vomitous pleasure?

This falling and rising.
This rising and falling.

This and this and this.

I am so tired of it all.
No more bile drenched lust or hearts seized by rigor.

It is simply a strange and listless pantomime of a thing now
And much too easy
To hold any worth.
Sarah Kunz Sep 2016
I am a vessel, a vessel of churning vomitous nectar, I'm seating inside another vessel of metal and plush.
Behind me is several other sandwiched vessel creations.
The man stationed behind me..I wonder if he's a ******? My mind implores endlessly trying to separate from this present vessled state. He dips his pinky into his nostril fishing for a crusty mucus nugget.
That nostril of his connected to his flesh adorned vessel, I wonder if it has felt love?
I have ruled out the thought of him being a ******, a man confident enough to excavate his nostrils in broad day light has surely had ***. But has this furrowed brow vessel of a man felt love?
Have I felt love?
The mechanic vessels blare on their horns. Green light. We all move in fluid motion again. A sea of mindless hopeless vessels.
Onoma Mar 2017
Eating alphabet soup--

with mind-bent spoons...

goosing bumps piggyback,

skinny dipping.

Spectatorship's: know thy shelf.

Ill-placed.

Scarlet letter bib, cold-footed

baby steps...vomitous nerves,

stage fright.

Pregnant pauses--flaccid

deflation, upon a falsely infirm

plane.

Dubbed drainingly impassioned,

by peer rear-views.
ConnectHook Apr 2017
Take an harp, go about the city,
thou harlot that hast been forgotten;
make sweet melody, sing many songs,
that thou mayest be remembered.

                         Isaiah 23:16  (KJV)

Morrison, Hendrix and Janis the J.
(with others lost tripping along the way)
continue to enlighten young stoners,
adolescent existential loners
who hold them as holy and dig their writ
in billows of ****-smoke. Listen to it:
Hendrix and Joplin and Morrison, man
were part of some cosmic, like, master-plan
true prophets—thus sayeth The Lizard King.

High as kites, their disciples hear them sing
suburban anthems to teen perdition
sirens of drug-addled sixties vision.
pockets continue to empty for discs
while taking somewhat calculated risks.
Should vomitous overdose be esteemed
with visions that actual prophets dreamed?
These anointed cherubs of sad excess
can never illuminate, much less bless
a nation of youth who have lost their way
and can't even choose which download to play.
Morrison, man—that dude was so profound
he broke on through to that state where I'm bound...

Moon-struck drummers, now ghosts of dubious name
live on, in pounding out their spectral fame;
exploding dirigibles flown too high
and blown to pieces in Lucifer's sky.
Such riffs and licks and solos and visions
should force us to some unkind decisions
wherein we ask how free we really are
when enslaved to a devil's fallen star.
NaPoWrtMo #29

Count my syllables.
Behold beauteous imagery.
Smile now—pay later
.
Brae Oct 2023
you don't want to ***** this newness with yourself
you lie
half-woken, a story
slipping in vomitous avalanche
of nowness, mourning
on a stack of crumpled sheets

night-stuck whiteness, imagining all
the games you might play
if you were to forget
your age: shaking
all that powder into the cracks
of your muscadet
dry skin
notes of apples,
saline

weather-woman, with her green screen showmanship
had not portended this outcome
this modern diviner you hold in high esteem

you always liked the way magicians seemed
to make something out of nothing
(a rabbit from a tophat gap, coins out of earlobes)
and winter is sort of like that, too
you wake up and everything is blanketed, you don't remember
the process, how it all got there
a snowshoe hare leaps
like she formed right on the snowbank
paper that came pre-sketched
free of gestation

beneath the avalanche muscadet turns to claret
but we can't see it happening
for miles and miles a blank page
what dies under the heel of perfection
a magician never reveals his secrets

— The End —