"warping" poems
i come to you half mad
with desire
like slithers tongue
i wish
to have painfully stitched
to your silky ****
an act of desires supplication
my *** turned to poison
deprivations effulgent
obsidian flower salivating
your every smile
fleshy bells ringing
warping tintinnabulations
i am a starved incubus
drooling at your knees
behind me
a frothy junket of misdeeds
for loves sake
your feet the scent of lavender and salt
their shape evoking numberless poems
and begging adorations
your belly
a tender cauldron undulating
tummy ***** dancer
sacred **********
temple of worship
the site of your rounded bottom
naked red mouth calling
my sacred liturgy
your *****
velvet tulips for a tremulous kiss
I seed you a thousand times
a raging bludgeon
storming wounded gates Palisades
drenched and florid
fruit and milk ****
until jaws lock
and spire drops
turning me
to midnight cadaver
***** black hollows
a dark eyelid, blink-less
dead **** face down
a slumped snake
then soft dew
and cool ales
clear thickened muds saturation
lighten heat and peel
the warm palate
with agile caress
tender haunches wide and spiced
milk and butter thighs
her hair in mine
rushing river life
again i animate
an embryo id
dressed in fire
all vices and virtues
blood and sky
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
At night,
when the sea is still,
you can't tell sky from water,
and everything is
convoluted mirrors
spiraling away into darkness:
an abyss of serpentine stars,
warping the night sky
into a kaleidoscope
of constellations.
The sky is full of stars,
and I get the euphoric sensation
that I am floating in space,
suspended in stellar time
with nothing but oblivion
and pinpricks of light
around me.
Somehow,
this brings me comfort.
It is reassuring
to pretend as though
I am significant
in this world.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
To behold the daybreak!
-Walt Whitman, Song of Myself from Leaves of Grass
In days like this one,
when rain drops so light
& everything dips
into weeping grey
my sanity longs for memories.
My sanity longs
like impulsive recalling
of plummeting sadness
in greying day
sashaying mournful recollects
from sunrise to daybreak.
Remembering vanishes
in the joyful marrow of life.
There, forgetting lives.
Tell me the last time
bliss comforts your soul.
It is a transient tick
too stiff to evoke.
What about the last time
pain feigns your saneness.
Memories turned into bullets
slitting shrapnel
warping into my soul.
Happiness lasts for a second.
Sadness, a lifetime.
Tell me how to get rid
the hurting clout of ache
existing as a blunt fragment
benign yet reminisced.
Daybreak pours so hard
and my sanity like a waning light
crawls back in a miasmatic cave
along the river known
to be a home of a witch
& her cursing narrative
of throwing silver saucers
making her a spotless shadow
through vestal times
never again a thriving spirit.
Forget Blake. Forget Whitman.
Only in daybreak
where everything
churns into life,
my sanity shrinking back
collapsing
into surreal gaps.
Here & there,
my sanity longs for memories.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
My mind is a warping blackhole
My heart is taking the toll
****** into my minds abyss
Where all my sorrows I reminisce
Where my sadness is my strongest feeling
I'm at a loss to the dealing
I'm just going to just take this dose
Of my hearts pain, so morose
As the light fades to black
My nightmares welcome me back.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 5:49 AM UTC
the backyard is home to a field of flowers
amidst the roots the family dog discovers skeletons
the petals stick to themselves; the weeds spread
it's found that the flower-bed holds its secrets
with curiosity and wandering eyes comes a child
in innocence, he opens his arms only to receive pain
he drops to the earth, writhing in pain
his light form crushing the weeds and flowers
the dog barks at the screaming child
and tries to release him from the skeletons
the strength of their grasp is that of their secrets
you see the effects spread
across the child's skin they spread
his face warping under the pain
opening his mouth, he began releasing his secrets
telling only the ears of the crushed flowers
and the arms around him, those of the skeletons
look at the helpless child
the bones are engulfing the child
grabbing and pulling, faster they spread
the boy becomes one with the skeletons
he becomes one with his pain
his body sinks further down into the flowers
and the flowers promise to keep his secrets
the weeds overheard his secrets
the boy looks less and less of a child
as he settles in with the flowers
making room for him, the flowers spread
the suffering subsides, decreasing pain
he's almost as the skeletons
his body unites with the skeletons
the ***** age keeps his secrets
no longer is there pain
no longer is there a child
into the ground, his limbs spread
into the roots of the flowers
the pain no longer is in the child
because the skeletons stole his secrets
his bones spread among the flowers
Apr 18, 2011
Apr 18, 2011 at 1:59 PM UTC
Devils fingers creeping in
Warping my common sense
Making me do fiendish things
Ruining my previous life.
Holy light drives away the creeping fingers
It heals the damage done to my soul
Putting me back on the right path
Guiding me forever.
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 5:23 AM UTC
Flabbergasted, the whale wails
Lonely upon the sea drifting ever apart
A sole ****** raises his tired sails
Forever trapped in solitary solace
Winds warping the canvas
While ominous clouds encroach
The salty breeze stinging his taste
A bitterness within the calm
Peace drowns with the fury
That the storm has yet to bring
Fear not, creature of the sea
The troublesome life is far from over
Another night trashing about
The rock and the roll of the bow
A lullaby to a tired soul
Slowly rocking to dreamless sleep
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
redefining awkward definiens
endorsing victorious evening
clamoring hawk-like intonations
conjecturing additional goals
optimizing ambient network
winning illinoisan night
trapping hacked-up events
warping æsthetic remnants
resuming inaudible overture
rallying auric-state net-work
defying anti-punk technophobia
eliminating cavalier homies!
minding icelandic anniversary
winging ersatz excuses
kicking ecstatic nerves
denying lackadaisical event
questioning upper echelons
brûlant en calice
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:18 AM UTC
I write of a feeling unknown and unnamed.
It eludes me, it flies away and hides,
Resists examination.
It is huge, it is all, it is everything.
A swelling scream,
A realised dream,
Warping the edges of reality.
Conventions crumble,
Analysis defied,
Ah, what to do?
It is bigger than the universe
And has no name.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
Life
Happens so quickly
You must divide it
Into sections
Almost like a
Different fragrance in the air
Another perfume or
Like re seeing
everything you saw before
Through technicolor eyes
Only there's a new color
A fresh shade
of spatial light fragments
Consuming your being
And warping you into
A new stage
Hitting you with
Intensities
Of our so called journey
Turning
the dial on your radio
So
the frequencies align
In a continuity of waves
Colliding
amongst pink matter
The insensitive intensities
Present to me
A mystery
Or so it seems
A new light
A dawn to the dusk
Of my fragile fifth stage
But I lost count
And forgot the feeling
You'll know when it happens
It'll flow through you
And you'll realize
You've felt it before too
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
Classroom Discussion
Raucous noise vibrates across
The surface of my ear
Not daring to enter and disrupt
The train of thought
That processes as a machine
Turning, creating, assembling
The wheel of thought spinning round the axle
-------A **** on the rope, a pull on the subconscious
The pulley recognizes the intrusion of an applied force
The wheels halt, as if rust jeopardizes its advance.
The thoughts scatter, a snapped electrical wire snaking in shock;
a cooper waving current racing back to a reality
through black rubber nerves.
The noise registers,
confirming the split of a once continuous wire
Insignificant words- not quite processing,
failing to relay information,
refusing to form a sentence,
still trapped in a realm of limbo
wanting to return to the rhythm of a reverie.
Slipping, falling
the mind surrenders, the electricity dies.
Materializing in a classroom
The cage for intellectual minds
Discussing about.
From one world to another - act, adapt
The bright scientific lights burn
The eyes of the dreamer
Who creates from the dark,
Objects exposed, judged, determined.
No place for the dreamer, who loves
warping reality.
Within the metal box this reality is set.
Bars on the window, an indestructible verticality
Plastic seats, beige, blue, cold
Sit this way, look up, right, like that.
You are my animals now speak, raise a hand,
perform a trick, tell me what I want to hear,
Speak my language of intelligence, be my machine.
May 2, 2011
May 2, 2011 at 5:11 AM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Seems to be a strange day
a cold in the breeze
in the months of May
screeching’s of the door
a mist at the windows
broken pane
The room was lonely
as the leaves, out whirling
a thump at the ceiling top,
rolling, shackling
like those ogling cats
for a savoring mouse
From an ominous weather
to the whispering waters
a crack brought my most
—attention
uncanny things lurking
came falling within
*I saw streamers
faking shimmers
I saw glitters
but aren't gold
I saw diamonds
yet it wasn't snow*
A strong wind gushing
hoist the storm came
toiling, warping
heaven and earth
were felonious, winced
and everything was settled
Crystal drops touching
the tender heart abrupt
shattered glass striking
a sorry won't be sought
memories engrave nothing
flagrant it is to mend
Crystal drops falling
true friends come for once,
an astral to a feeling
stalwart is to be keeping
till when, twas its end
and all of this begins again
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 10:12 AM UTC
there's a crazzzy devil
in
the white house
twisting our nation
into a denizens den
a tub of **** in a suit
ascending ***** matter
in
a clogged toilet
a black plague
we have a president with the attention span
of sea clams
an emotional ******* drip of impetuosity
a spiraling fit of rage
a snarling delusional dog
narcissist in a warping mirror
a pathetic complainer
a cyst on the body politic
clot
open sore
seething pustule
piggish **** lover
gangsters dupe
fascist wana be
heil heil
god your a pile
making Russia great again
licking Vlad's *****
protecting your assets no doubt
and hissing tweets
at war with with only everything
and figments of a disturbed imagination
a real windmill killer
his mouth
the devils mark
a yapping compulsive lier
forked tongued fury
possessed to a fault
by the vainglories
of money and ego out of bounds
the biggest and the best
at being
the very worst and a pest
grand royalty of ridicule
*****
a ham ****** cartoon nightmare
and clumsy stumbling bore
a seething volcano of perpetual excrement
reading from the book of chaos
aberrations of enemies
a war room president
at war with his own citizens
huddled in a panic chamber
burns and cuts himself
with his own hot sharp words
as there thrown back at him
a bully getting bullied
a ripper getting ripped
the brains of a lizards eyelid
in a shadeless socket
pulp hearted orangutan
menace to society
his mottled soul
like a black sun
on the verge
of a black hole
a hell mill of decrepitude
a dark creep creeping
tarnishing our beautiful country
lights dim
America
there's a devil
in the white house
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
We watched the sun fall down and scrape its knee again, across the horizon.
Effusing amaranth, carmine, and cochineal across polluted vista.
It felt petty to issue guttural laughs, or engage the myofacial crescents beneath its visual lament as the Earth turned its back again.
We watched the sun rise, bruised, tender and shy this morning.
Its muddled contusion obviated by the gauze of fog.
A mottled neophyte -
Luminescent crepuscular rays defied dregs of interstellar debris and cloud.
Aching to kiss your skin -
In stellar cloud nursery, it eschewed the torque of orbit and gravity - eras before verity of your essence.
Humbly settling concentrically about oblate sphere, and gaseous tome.
Latterly - It altered the atmospheric pressure on the other side of the planet a week antecedently, as you clung to your dream lattice, and Earth innately turned oblate nucleus.
Its intent –
A veneration of you.
It bade the atmosphere convey a breeze echoing about your dermis, as it gilded your frame laconically, betwixt shaded steps beneath cloud and arbor.
The sun yelled at me at its pinnacle today,
Pallid bone – molten - miasma of rage
Its core missive garnered inertia – coronal plasma warping ellipsoid factions in inflections of elusive filigree
Pirouetting spicules spattered smelted torrents in the dismal anchorite
Atomic schism – silent but felt
It stoked humidity under shadowed niche - casual vaporous smears evinced no clemency.
Flesh torqued, and seized beneath itself, briny globules shed from puckered pore.
Culminations of sensitive fluid sacs scorched into the shallows of my chassis.
Insignia knit in cellular shrapnel
The sun ignored me today – or perhaps, it was I it.
Enigmatic tenacious resolution – an echo of its gravitational collapse
Inverse thermonuclear fusion
It is not fear in a relationship that keeps you apart, it is neglect of the infinitesimal.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
At times I’ve believed it
And at other times, scoffed,
One of the oldest of pivotal fears,
Mentioned in scripture and stories and hymns,
The execration is stinging my ears.
And throbbing, echoing, clashing rhythms,
With no beat ...such tension… Distortion’s risings,
A march over mazurka decelerating,
Curious uses for curious things,
Intestinal-pullings, intestinal strings,
Every warping conceived by my kind,
Like tearing of flesh and torture of mind,
Nothing that’s wholesome, nothing that’s good,
The truth bent, the opening crude,
The too-thin passageway out, understood
And my own rotting flesh is my food.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
A buzz in my head
Louder than the songs
That keep sanity within me
Grinding at the notes
Blurring them
Warping beyond recognition
How to cope without sanity?
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 5:45 AM UTC
THIS IS A CALL TO ARMS TO ENFOLD ANYONE WE CAN REACH
We are malnourished of blankets and binkies
Mother’s breast and meaning
We are earthquake spirit lands rumbling for peace
We are a bright light that plays on squinted eyelids so that you may see
We are the kaleidoscope of what is and what could be
We are
KINGS AND QUEENS
Not worker bees.
We are dry mouths and cracked lips thirsty
Drinking crying eyes and kissing empty hands
THIS IS WHAT I FEEL FROM THE TIED DESOLATION OF A PROMISED LAND
We are seraphim
Selling ourselves on suburban streets
We are cherubs
Peddling angel dust to children’s gums
Slipping LSD under their tongues
HOW FAR WE HAVE STRAYED FROM OUR RIGHTOUS PATH!
We are a fall from grace that knocks the air from chests
So we may realize what it is to BREATH!
IN! OUT!
We are One from within
With or without sorrows or the tedium of tomorrow
We are our crystal innocence and reptilian rigidness
We are a mirror
Reflective of all that surrounds us
We are the lush trees and the desolate land bound by fences and man’s prosperity
We are the lake
Warping realities reflection with ripples and rhombuses that wrinkle our surface with every stone skipped
Galaxies teeming underneath
TAKE OFF!!!!
Become what we didn’t know
Find the eternal reassurance that no matter what will be, is, or was, WE WILL BE!
https://soundcloud.com/spiritbarehear/call-to-arms
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
I smile
I laugh
I play the part
While none the wiser
It’s easy to hide
The emotions deep inside
After all I’ve done it all my life
It’s second nature to me
You see this happy face
A face full of fun and joy
Nothing could be wrong
..Right?
The facade is perfect
Even my mother who raised me
Could never tell what lurks below
Those shining sky-like eyes
No one sees beyond this guise
Not even the old and wise
For if they did their gaze would change
To one that’s fearful of my path
For below the kind demeanor
There’s nothing there
Emotions driven out
Heart locked tight
To afraid to fight
The bitterness of life
For behind closed doors
All that’s left is silence
Bitter silence
Painful silence
Ears ringing
Head heavy
And that’s then the voices
Come out to play
Sending you deeper
Into the darkness of your mind
Angry voices
Vicious voices
Disgusted and condescending
Hateful and spiteful
Uttering insults
Running scenarios
Warping your mind
Destroying your ability to trust
And there you sit
Broken and numb
Feeling nothing but emptiness
And the bitter snap of true loneliness
Loneliness that destroys you
Leaving you to feel dead inside
You start pulling away
Not telling anyone your truth
Constantly smiling and laughing
Without a care in the world
All while rotting inside
Til you’re nothing but a shell
Jan 30, 2023
Jan 30, 2023 at 11:30 AM UTC
she cups something in the cradle of her shivering hands
a piece of body warm candy, cellophane crumbled up
a neon quilted paperclip, a wilted tulip
the stars, the moon, the quivering of the rocking fan
the warping granite, the pastel green lawns, the cars that sped along
she wore a feline attire, whiskers drawn on the curves of her cheeks
she held out her secret, the one she kept close to her feet
while she stayed low to the ground, safe as she hounded out,
"this is my stuff, my stuff you see,
but it is for me, for me, only."
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
Keep your feelings far from me.
I hear that shit's contagious.
I'm not trying to catch your affection.
And I've got some serious objections
to this whole love sick diagnosis.
Doctor, Doctor. What's the deal?
How's my heart of steel?
Is it melting? Warping? Disintegrating?
Write me a script for a void of emotion,
give me a brew or a potion to cure this notion
that love exists and people aren't evil.
Pills for headaches, **** ups and ******
Why not wannabe loners?
For the people who just wanna be dead inside again.
The ones who hate the feeling of feeling.
Emotions send them reeling.
I don't want to deal with healing.
I wanna die inside again and skip resurrection.
If emptiness is an infection I wanna sick forever.
I don't need a doctor, I need an emotional dissection.
Pick it apart and sew it up without fixing ****
I wanna be dead again.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 2:00 AM UTC
My hand shakes gripping the quill
Shaping and warping words at will
The ink is the blood of my heart
for it is where the fire for my poems start
I cut and carve my life in rhyme
blotched on the paper trapped in time
Life Death Loss and Love
Spilling and splashing to the paper, all of the above
The heart dances as the fire rages
The quill scratches and drips as words come alive off the pages
Throwing you into the realm of my mind
You will exit leaving nothing behind
For poetry is a passion
I am not of any fashion
I merely feed the fire
That my heart will forever desire.
For every poem you read
Is what my heart is willing to bleed
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
i would compromise
--i compromise. i appear to i mean,
with peace-demeanor customized for show
paraded there and there, obeisant nonsense
in a confidence of meek to render compliments
crowding infancies of all
for the sake of art
i bend my frame about cliche
to have a human dragon claim
"the real persists unknown"
and gather at a sacred dolmen
fascinating morals sung beneath the stars and sun--
you said there was a butterfly
tasting at my skull, shaking with uncommon music too..
its skinny, immigrant feet abuzz
within the world they called a One, wings on pause, my eyebrows in flight.
a blanket iris cries warmth
in clusters hung ripe, filming over all
a native ceremonial, falsepolitik
i pluck at them atop a fence
obscure for comforts masking truth
discarded, found, fashioned
into furniture for candled houses
built with children's sons
where families try to see
a clearing in the warping
mirrors saddled with a dripping time no illustration comprehends
. wooden beams help it rise and dim,
the sunny lie, genuinely fake,
authentic trick of aeons hidden in the true
-- growing young, stemming back
to foil brighter undiscoveries for otherwisely
patient basements full of heirlooms,
sheik dining areas all
nodding over cheap wine we still manage to squint up at nothing at
in apple layers
symbolizing tidy crimes invented ceaselessly,
serving existential voids--
grace, fall, stumble catch
acquired tones of oak or berry--
other fruits would do, or none,
as i still feel
praised by your rejections --
when indifference gains a sweetness
like a novel vengeance won
i am indulging villainy
workshopping staling norms,
garden dark as cultivated loam.
where i am words
mooding intellect to torment,
faun complexity awry
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
Choosing doesn’t matter much as choosing to be a somebody, would matter… If not for the totality that is the whole (“trying bit”). Trying is like the ultimate reaction time! Not because it has anything to do with choosing something whether or not it’s good or bad, whilst (choosing doesn’t matter) could actually benefit your own (trying phase) into a (somehow) newer light. Why you may ask of this very detail that seems to not shed any more “obvious” light to what’s already been the most obvious of ideals chosen to be the main majority of facts by today's standards…? Well it completely doesn’t. As it entirely does, also. You see both choosing to do something whilst (trying to simply do that very thing) aren’t the same by ANY standards. As their both each other’s direct counterparts! Given standards for a given achieving rate. None will cause you to trade ideal for fact towards choosing over trying. Simply because if choosing doesn’t matter one bit… It’s also fair to say that trying is the ultimate reaction time, because choosing doesn’t matter. Trying is closer to a stimulus. Whilst choosing is closer to a response. A stimulus is better described as being incredibly instinctive. Where you have NO motion, except for what your mind feels when constantly being pulled in so many directions it doesn’t know which way to advise itself otherwise. Commonly being used as a “deterrent for disaster” when being controlled by the very thing it’s meant to control. A response however, is nothing without its stimulus to direct the trigger that at which made you react towards firstly. Warping your very bodies need to get wrapped up into itself. (More direct artificial stimulus rises and falls confusing the bodies signals…which politely anyways sends back to the mind safely.) Threatening to shower even more reactions down on itself from the literal inside out! Nevertheless, this was good for the mind. Gave it some closure as the “god of your own body”! Mind could personally get back at the body for pulling it into thinking it was the god! When truthfully, it was simply the deprived mortal acting as the constant, repeating, signalling pack mule! Hast to know its place after all… Am I right…?! The mind said, confident in its very words. All because the body reacted to something it inadvertently forced the mind into thinking it was being pulled around in so many directions, it didn’t know how to otherwise order its entire counterpart to simply halt! Simply by saying…STOP! However, you must know by now in today's age, that when something is amiss, you don’t simply surrender lightly. Especially when it doesn’t feel right. You ALWAYS listen to when something doesn’t FEEL…RIGHT! Am I right…?!
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 3:06 PM UTC
She said it's "Brittany, not Britney,"
as we walked over the Mathematical Bridge.
I asked her if that was a reference,
but there's more than just a difference in nomenclature.
She said, "My name is Brittany Etheridge
but there is also a Britney Etheridge,
and she's a walking disaster."
I said "Hey, I never knew..."
as I looked into the river.
"Did you know about this bridge?" she asked me,
and I answered, "It's just a way between shores."
But there's always more to what is there, there's history.
"It was here before computers, before the wars,
before Britney Etheridge."
I could see my reflection in the water below,
warping my face with the current, and
it left me with nothing but a desire to know the history of all things,
but mainly Brittany Etheridge.
She told me, "Isaac Newton built this bridge
without any screws or bolts. Now that's engineering."
And I agreed with a nod and a smile.
"Britney Etheridge wouldn't care though."
She kept talking after that, but all the while I thought
about the bridge, and how there're screws here now.
She told me, "Isaac Newton built this bridge
without any screws or bolts."
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 12:59 PM UTC