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I vow I'll go straightedge, grow
old w/ U now I will try to live.
Honey? I'm royal jellydrizzler, ambro-
sia sprinkler, manuka slav-

erer, glucose washingline.
Honey? Truncated puberty bassethounds
no more mellifluous a confection-
ary spokesperson than sweet sounds

of rhyming superlatives, purple prose glaze,
cherup syrub of yr...Honey?
I'm Jack the Dripper, Jackson ******* squeez-
ing bees,

weird scenes inside
the love hive. Honey, yr krazysexykool
- were U head
girl @krazysexyskool?

Yr compassionate
becoz yr compassion art
is that yr compassion heart
has compassion smarts. Compassion farts

even vent a delectable sillage.
Honey, when U showed me yr hon-
eypot, it ate away l/ acid at my 3rd eyelid
- pineal flash! When

I showed U my bruce,
U had me feeling
so pinefresh, last of the summer spruce
decongesting

the mucus of a moose.
No relation to non-Monty Montgomery,
but when I petted yr zipper cat @clubhousecaboose,
U helped me see

- eureka!
Bing-
o! ******.  Either that or 'Each 1 of us is special in their
own way'. The Get Along Gang

was a vision thang.
I'm yr Lenin & yr my Inessa.
I'm yr Lennon & yr my May Pang.
On a ferry cross the Volga to yr Oktober rock 'n' rolla.

& tho' U've got a hermione
& I'm not into hot karl,
U're my Lenny
& I'm yr Carl.

But shock appearance of the final realisation I
could lose the U inside of U, yr inimit-
able secular seelenfunklein, strikes down high
spirits l/ L.Ritchie floored by ceilingfunkline flit.
Edward Laine Dec 2011
Chapter one:

  The strange entanglement of the sun, twisted in kooky bedlam with The Great King Moon in winter.

Have you ever looked down at yr feet on the long walk home & wondered if you’re really moving forward any more or if all your really doing is just moving the ground? Don’t answer that, its a rhetorical question. Of course you have. We all have. You think you’re moving in the right direction, following the north star or the compass in your brain or maybe just your nose or your thumb and fore finger. You  believe that you’re gonna make it somewhere, you have to believe. What else is there. The truth is, you’re going nowhere, we are all going nowhere, we just spin on the slanted axis & never really go anywhere. We have been conditioned to believe that this is the way the world works but I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t, you gotta buck up, **** up or ******* ‘*** let me tell you, yr ‘dreams’ mean nothing to anybody ‘*** living, real living is not connected to REM. That’s all just more ******* you’re gonna have to put up with people trying to sell you. Lick the boot, get over the barrel & bite down on your watch strap. That’s all there is to it. The mind is a magnet. If you find yourself staring in to the abyss: Jump right in. Swan dive. Hold your breath & wait. Everything will be OK. I promise you.

I’m writing, ah writing! Writing this worthless piece of *****// manuscript of means for you. For me, for the future, for love, for lust, for hatred of all things hating, for your mother & farther, for my friends, my beautiful angelic, clinically insane friends, for time, for the soles of my shoes with hundreds of miles under their laces, for your fat greedy pockets, for the moon, for the sun to spit on, for the wind to taunt, as he does like the great cowardly, perverted invisible fiend that he is, for nothing, for not quite everything, for your aching lovers, for your broken hearts, for the worlds water, may you always be clean & run free, for the great biblical liars, for the sorrowful wonder of the great homeless & may all their wants come to be wanted, for *******, for fumbling, for the vast oaken heavy doors on bars that keep us safe from the  horrors outside, for guilt, for sugar-blue smoke, for all the kids sitting in **** stained squat houses with half a horse embedded in their face, for my schools that gave up on a bored child, for warmth & fire & woollen clothing, for Paris where I can fulfil my great dream of becoming a sullen cliché, for the gravel-mounted marching marvel, may you never lose your way, for the Parthenon, for Aubergine, for The Firefly, the swan, bleeding,for growing up, for all the music makers,all people should play all instruments to any degree(rather than just, age & shrivel), for Howl for Carl Solomon, for every down & out that ever clawed his way up the street & through the yellow door, for all the animals that gave their lives to keep me fat & red faced, for Christ sake, for the invisible man in the sky, causing all war & so much death-thank you, for the wild west, for Bert & John, for the great literary mastodon to look down his reset nose at & ask me why. Why?

The way that old dial telephones look & feel. The questions that need no answers. Feeling down, down & out, upside down & inside out,upside in & downside out on the pavement at five am. Waking up in unknown beds & crawling down drain pipes. Getting lost in a place you have lived your whole life. Being in the woods simply to be in the woods. Drinking coffee even though you hate the taste. Never telling a stranger the truth. Living under a false name. Drinking yourself to death in the dark lonely-crowded corners of ***** stained wood floor warehouse floors. Feeling solid-sterling-gold for feeling so terribly horrifically half-corpse-like the only way you can really feel is completely statuesquely angelically magnificent and the only way is down(you really have no idea how far I fell that morning) , Only going out when it rains. Only going out in the dark. Staying up all night dreaming and sleeping all day. Remembering to forget, forgetting to remember to remember to be forgetful. Understanding that you and no one else understands nothing but eat-drink-sleep-****-death. Smoking until yr tongue bleeds and yr eyes burn like that fire in the sky in the fearful month of June. Wishing you knew how to tie a noose & writing ”suicide” on yr calender on a day you have no planned engagements. Shooting to the moon & back in the bee-bop-bo-bo-batter-batter-chitter-chatter like jazz on the neon streets of the earths mother. Crawling in to a stone cold bed after walking for six days & feeling bored & lonely again in ten minutes.

That’s why, I’m glad you asked. If I’m going out, then I’m out going with some steeze in a cloud of smoke, yr wife & I’m not taking you with me.

For all these things & more is the reason I write. To write for the sake of writing. For, some people write, just to write & they are truly the the lost meaning of it all.

Automatic travel rambles to plug up the holes in yr lonesome pockets. Blues.

Chapter two:  

Creeping moss-stick under-flowering the useless but grateful Tuesday poet, Jim Gravestone Sr.

The ghost of the monorail, living only in upturned memory sits slow & smooth/low against the Sunday evening rapture. You gotta know which way is down. Down. The dew on the grass & the creamy-green residue of the night before is just too close to a real drama. Absolute dahma. Down in the cold rising damp & the stain on your shirt.

He sits , sits like you, like me & like old Tom Mooney the prison king. If you ever saw such a sad sight as he, I do believe you would roll out your tongue on the pavement right there & then & wait for the road sweeper & all his secret, early morning charms & the great wolf man, pork chop sideburns (lupine dreams)to clean you up & clean you out. I do declare!

For he knows-for he has seen. Seen the sun rise from his pearly throne up on the dark side of the moon, the very face of Bowie, right there in the eye socket. He sees all. You can live your life, & you do, & you should, but he, O’ he, he has really been there & where & back again. You carry on with your sleepy routine of mule-back coffee office doom death jobs(you sleepy Bohemian, you)  & in you spare time trying to keep your nose from filling up with water & your private parts entwined with somebody else’s most private of parts, & on the side lines of you spare time you can deal with your family & all the friends that you’re sick of but hold on to, only for the fear of being left alone in the dark with nothing but all of the above. Then again you always have your studies(STDS)all of the ologies, of course.

Sleepology, cocaineology,rainolgy, sunology, lonleyology, depressionology, suicideology, talkology,empypocketsology, meaninglessology, masterbationology, coutntingyourmoneyinpintsology,walkology, onenightstandology, jumpthetaxiology, begology, borrowology, stealology,feelology, upallnightology, sleepalldayology, Xology, ologyology, etcology etc…ology etc.

Just find something you can care for ‘*** [insert atheist god/idol] knows that nobody is going to do your caring for you, even I they do in fact care for you.

I have been beginning to notice,that I(and I may not be alone)

always look at the past through a marigold monocle.

This, meaning nothing now ever seems to be joyous or gay or splendiferous until it is a past memory.

A cobweb. A rafter. A leaf on the ground. …I guess.

         Chapter three:

I know you know it but people that you don’t know, really are a funny, funny thing…

I stand outside the rain & watch the people passing by; really the most depressing experience of my ever increasing years. Un-jolly fat men with whiskey-nose & scuffle-feet stanzas of gibberish, talking gibberish & gibberish being their inner most self. Pre-war women with Arctic-blue hair, faces melting, everything pointing down, shuffle. Kids pushing prams full of ugly babies towards a house of who-gives-a-**** & ******* & I’m-gonna-die-here and what of it. Is there really no more to life. Listen to the top 40 on the radio, clueless, oblivious. Cogs. All cogs. Military troglodytes following them back in a dead eyed daze, dreaming of killing in the real and virtual. No you may not have a cigarette. Leave me alone, please. Let me listen to my watch ticking in peace & at least pretend that you don’t exist.

The human body is comprised of several ‘substances’

including..

Mercury,

hydrogen hydroxide,

fountain pens,

the lost dates of calenders,

various small woodland animals,

including…

Voles,

rabbits & field mice.

Other such things as…

Misplaced birthmarks(of the brain)

feelings of remorse and regret,

the stolen trinkets of past lovers,

and of course,

white blood cells,

pesticides,

and the second hand

from a 1956 ’Hamilton Rail road’ pocket watch.

E.L August 7th

           Chapter four:

Last night, last night was the last night it was the night last

Picasso raincoat. Imagelessness. Bottomlessness. I lost my umbrella & my Holden Caulfield head-wear, again. I was skipping on a rain cloud, corduroy boy and scarecrow girl, reunited in a soft entanglement sticky in the senses. Hoof! The only way is up when you walk down these stairs, snakes and blisters, but you’ll sweat it all out in babble cream conversation and love in your eyes. Tell me a story, tell me a story, tell me something to prop my chin up in this brown tunnel. Your name it is something I cant care to remember but of course I never really had a name of my own either, so we shall be the great wonder of the nameless masses, the ones born to no name and never wanted one anyway. A name is nothing but a label, a calling card, call me anything, call me king Charles II just as long as you do call me, the sound of a voice, your voice, any voice reeling off a comprised anagram of the alphabet is enough to get my short attentive ears to perk up and twist my noggin backwards towards the direction of my inbuilt gypsy sonar. So anyway, I was going to talk about something, something great… but now its gone and all I have is bloodshot eyes and sweaty liars palms to prove to the world that I had an idea once, I swear I did.

Here’s an idea for you to dig you heels into:

The world keeps making mistakes, everybody makes mistakes, its natural, nothing to fear, it happens all day every day. BUT, with every mistake we make, we then proceed to learn from that mistake, so.. stay with me here… Once the world, the whole world meaning everyone in it, has made every mistake they can make and of course and one would hope of course, that they have also learned from all of these mistakes; once this has happened, there will be no more mistakes to make, right? Therefore leaving the world perfect as a whole, no mistakes to make, learnt their lessons on every lesson and we can all go on with living a perfect existence, yes?…

No.

I’ve really thought long and hard about it -could never happen, people are not perfect, they never will be, if they were I wouldn’t want to know any of them, and the world, well the world is an imperfect place, and the same rule applies.

But let me hit you with another bit of knowledge to round things off and maybe put a positive spin on things. Hoist ye marrow-thumbs around this;

One of the many few early times that my legs forgot how to use them selves, I was sitting on the pavement, trying for one to reattach these two now useless appendages stuck like butter to my lower torso, but foremost trying to light a cigarette with my useless cold hands and equally useless matches, fearful of the sneaky clear coward, invisible old Mr wind, when a kindly stranger, half my size, red my hair, opposite my *** and now opposite my broken legs appeared like a person will appear when you mind is in other minds, a smile, a sympathetic look and two working hands to fire up the stick in my mouth. I said my thanks, babbled about babble and the generation of gibberish and im sure many other things inconceivable to the sober ear of a dame such as she, the bringer of flame and enlightenment, not of the smoke but of the simple mind, an idea is what she left with me and it never left. She stopped my rambling typewriter of a tongue and said ‘shush’ she held my head in her hands, looked at me straight,so I thought she might be death or god or that I was passing out,she all green eyed and like the woods, looked at my eyes like they were tethered together and dropped the bomb on me, she said ”if you are looking at the moon, then everything is alright” kissed my warm on frozen forehead and was gone into the night, never to be seen again.

That’s all the advice you will ever need, & so ll I will leave you with.

You never left a name, but I never wanted one anyway.

Midnight moment

beautiful rags

midnight joy.


Nevermind your little light,

set apart your golden dreams

that offen break,

& come to play.


Chapter five: There are things I want to write but I am not going to write them.

The End.

‘Stay gold, Pony Boy’
Lindsey Durbin Mar 2011
my words fall

clumsil
y

into the small of yr back
my sentences

break
and crack

i become
lost in
yr skeleton yr skin

the sinews
that connect you
collect words
that cannot be spoken
yet

broken words soaked in sweat
trail from my pores
my skin
silently begging
to seep in
to yr most vulnerable muscles
yr bed yr sheets

i forget how to speak
i trip
over dream words
over the gentle curves
of yr spine

i'm stalling time
dying to say
lah,
lah,
lah,
i'm losing my language
in the soft of yr skin

my lack of expression
is simply
you

****-ing

the breath from my lungs
and filling me
with awe
"lah,
lah,
lah"

the sweetest sounds
of our own
secret language
Lindsey Durbin Mar 2011
tell me all yr fever dreams
tell me anything
I like to listen when you
speak
watch the shifting of
yr teeth

give me yr smile
i'd like to stay awhile
longer
soak in
the smell of yr shirt
call in sick from work
lurk, let me creep

lie awhile
let me curl in
yr body yr skin
let me curl in
yr hot fever dreams
stokes May 2011
i found a new word
to describe how i feel
abt yr body,
pressed up against mine.
(you make me feel
like i am starving.)

i almost
feel embarassed saying it,
admitting that
i miss yr body,
miss intently staring
into yr eyes, searching for a pattern
of freckles
similar to the ones scattered
across yr back.

i miss yr curled fingers
tugging at my hair,
keeping time with yr
surprised moans and giggles
(a funny dialogue on
the sharpness of my teeth.)

the word "miss" is strange.
it's gone
before you even get the vowel out.
i remember the night i told you
that i missed you,
& you laughed because
you were still curled up
next to me. i hope
you now understand
what i meant;

you were gone
before i even got to savor you,
before i had a chance
to get used to the taste
of you
heavy on my tongue.

now that you're gone,
i spend my nights
rummaging in the kitchen,
trying to find a texture
that reminds me of
******* you.

i'm caught-

somewhere
between
coffee ice cream &
stale
dinner rolls.
Duke Thompson Aug 2014
I hate myself
I've lead a life that a lot of people don't understand
feeling the need compartmentalize my life to the point I don't even know who I am
stopped wanting ***
even now find it crass and crude
just another way for people to use me
afterwards feel see thru and ugly and gross
wilted sunflower to be culled from yr bed
even if mutual with ample loquacious lovers
I curl up in ball
don't let them look at me
in ugly failure skin clown mask
the **** of all yr jokes
'he's great but he's quiet'
talk on

everyone just seems so cruel
I weak like veal
tender for the taking
fry me up
straight from womb to pan
cowards make the best cuts
of wet meat to ****
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
You can feel it spinning
                                         fast
the Chinese, Japanese, American and European junk
orbiting at several thousand miles per hour could
                                                           ­                             punch
a hole in your armor, future. Thanksgiving passes, then Christmas.
A nuclear detonation, we absorb that fact. The scientist in us
delays sadness by recording observations. What is is,
sorrow's for tomorrow.

By reducing probabilities to near zero I hope to avoid sorrow.
In yr suburb.
In history when there were many fewer people we still found reason
to cross space, explore, trade and war. Now
                                                             ­                 overpopulation
may not be the problem but food and water shortages
get our attention.
                              I have Korf's fears.
And hear what I want to hear.

Some hear singing, some hear speeches or complaining.
Martin Luther King sang his complaints, dreamed of a brotherly nation
which came to pass, spinning fast, past Thanksgivings, past jailings
into reconnaissance, small wars, drones, renaissance, inventions.
At the border,
                         where the Juaristas fought Maximilian:
Benito Juarez (1806-1872) Zapotec Amerindian who served five terms as president of Mexico. He was the first Mexican leader who did not have a military background and also the first full-blooded indigenous person to lead a country in the western hemisphere in over 300 years. For resisting French occupation, overthrowing the Empire, and restoring the Republic, Juarez is regarded as Mexicoxs greatest and most beloved leader. 

Each soldier chooses what war at what border, or just
                                                            ­                                   shows up
spinning with the planet.
The neighborhood and surrounding nature is orderly.
But always there is implied force, violence holding it together,
                                                       ­                                                       chaos
is contained
kept out of the playground, government buildings, childrenxs games
but lies within
the force maintaining order, a spinning tumor, a gyroscope of
                                                              ­                                                inertia.
The force of the spinning, the speed of the force bring one to one's
      death
seasons, weather, earth.
                                         While the emperor's being beheaded
enduring seeds are discovered and invented, cross-fertilized and bred.
Corn, yams, potatoes, sunflowers, rice.
                                                           ­       Food is life and a good study,
useful discipline
                           daily meditation.
                                                     ­   The fighting man protects the farmer
and the farmer feeds the fighting man.
They elect the governor
                                        who serves the people. Peace out.

Peace and war are transitory manifestations of spinning
electrons, planets.
                               The sun's a nuclear detonation, essential
to spring and planting. Food is life. Seeds endure
if man goes to his daily discipline. If woman is man.
Birth and death
                           together are orderly, the border can be known,
voluntarily. How we live together, by prayer or force,
is our story.

Knowledge
from laboratory to starry corridor keeps us very
                                                            ­                         versed.
Did Juaristas consider the rights of animals not to be eaten?
Not during that spinning.
                                              And perform the history that surrounds us.
All that can be done
is written in the spinning:
"The people of the land, the Indian farmers of North America - like their counterparts in Mesoamerica, the Andean region, and the Amazon - have continuously cultivated maize, beans, squash and other crops for more than five thousand years. One of the salient features of their traditional farming systems is the high degree of biodiversity. These traditional farming systems have emerged over centuries of cultural and biological evolution, and they represent the accumulated experience of indigenous farmers interacting with the environment without access to external inputs, capital or scientific knowledge. In Latin America alone, more than 2.5 million hectares under traditional agriculture in the form of raised fields, polycultures, agroforestry systems and the like document indigenous farmers' successful adaptations to difficult environments."
--Wikipedia,  "Benito Juarez"
-- Altieri , Miguel A., Foreword to Enduring Seeds: Native American Agriculture and Wild Plant Conservation, by Gary Paul Nabhan, The University of Arizona Press, 1989

www.ronnowpoetry.com
Meher Dabral Jul 2014
There has been a lot of talk going around on face-book and other social networking sites about how girls these days are becoming shameless and have no hesitation in showing of their bra straps from under their tops or wear hot pants in the public or go out partying till late at night. Why are girls being subjected to such comments and derogatory accusations that they are themselves responsible for being *****? No girl in this world would like to be *****. It is not their choice. They are forced to succumb to such untoward actions of men. Women are abducted and ***** whether be it at night or in sheer daylight. They are being made victims of allegations that it is because of their short clothes, their late night partying and the new WESTERN culture that men are aroused and hence are compelled to fall for such repulsive man-oeuvres. People generally call these, self-created problems by women.

Today, India is trying to emulate the WESTERN countries in every aspect. There is a lot of heat beating around the education system being followed by one of the biggest universities in the country as to whether to follow the footsteps of the WEST or not. Be it in the areas of education, fashion, ideals India is keeping up with the affluence of the west. Nowadays, India is seen as a modern country but one of the things that is keeping it down from becoming one of the developed countries is the excessive crime rate especially the brutality against the women of the country. Despite the increasing feminism in the country, women are being victimized almost daily. Irrespective of the efforts by the government to protect the women of this country, men don’t seem to adhere to the consequences.
It is so ironical, that in one of the biggest democratic country of the world where freedom of speech is a constitutional right given to all citizens, women, who are considered to be the “DEVI” and are given such importance and high stature, their voices are being muted when raised to protest against something evil happening to them.  Power and money play such important role in diminishing such evil deeds but only in the favor of men. Just for the sake of saying, men and women are considered equal but when it comes to the actual application of such laws, women are always pushed back.
Coming back to the point, women are not ***** because of the clothes they wear, women of all ages wear short clothes outside of India, then why is it only in India that women are ***** brutally and then blamed for the same. It is not the dressing sense of women that is the main rationale for women being *****, instead it is the mentality of men who cannot keep their junk in their pants after seeing a pretty girl/woman either wearing a short dress or a sari. Their testosterone level spikes up immediately when they see a woman irrespective of their age. If the clothes girls wear was the sole reason for women being *****, then what in god’s name explains the brutality against 3 yr old? ****** 3 yr old or even old women is just an act of shame and satisfaction for men.
Both men and women blame women for the disgusting act of ****. Being someone from the same ***, there are women who blame girls these days and also point a figure at their character when it comes to being assaulted. It is not like we roam around in bikinis or thongs in public; it is just a strap, a bra strap like any other strap of any other clothing like a tank top or camisole. Why should women always sacrifice and give away their wish of wearing what they want, dressing up how they like, and looking pretty? On one hand we are criticized for wearing such short clothes on the other hand we ourselves pity the women living in countries like Saudi Arabia, Dubai, where women are supposed to be covered from head to toe. Our own national dress being as elegant it is, wearing a sari also involves obvious visibility of one’s stomach. But, that is not an issue because it is our national dress. A woman wearing deep neck suites and blouses is not a cause for problem since they are our cultural dresses. Our culture, our values don’t teach us to characterize women on the basis of clothes they wear, a women wearing a sari is equally vulnerable of being a victim of a man’s ****** arousal as is a normal college going girl wearing shorts and spaghetti.
It is in the head of the male gentry, that their unfulfilled ****** needs lead to such disgraceful acts. If in India men are allowed to wear boxers and go out, or no body points a finger at them when they wear hipster jeans and roam around in public showing half of their underpants, then why is it that girls/women are subjected to such carping by the society.  
The convention that “all men are dogs” or “all men are the same” does not apply here. Because of some men, who have no control over themselves and are the culprits behind the discreditable the whole *** is seen as obnoxious people. Even in this world of crime there are men/boys who are decent and respect women be it a 3 yr old infant or an 80 yr old lady. Due to certain men, even such decent men have to go through the same amount of shame and abomination from women.
Our government has taken a few steps In favor of women’s safety by launching fast track courts and by implementing the penal code but the government alone cannot protect us. One of the articles said, “what if the government has banned the use of pepper spray, the red chilli powder used in the kitchen should be brought out of the four walls of the house and put to some greater use.” I totally agree with this comment, so what, if pepper spray is banned, carry chilli powder, carry a mini knife in your purse but just to be used for self-defense, go and take self-defense classes, learn various forms of martial art. Why sit at home and wait for the government to take some actions for our safety. India is a free country, do it yourself. Protect yourself. Save yourself from flagrant men who indulge in ****. Wear what you want, party all you want, make this country safe for yourself and other women. Take a step out of the house, do your thing fearlessly.
this is not a poem, but a thought about the conditions of women in our country.
kalpana nayak Jun 2015
Jee aur aieee k sadme k mare ** jte h anjne anokhe unvrsts k hawale,nya clg nya jgh nye dost sb kch hta h nw nw,clg k strtng s hr ksi k dil m hta h rgng ka dar....2nd yr m cnr bnne ka hta h sbko gurur,frnds kai grp m bat jte h,hr koi dkhte h nye luks m,3rd yr m sbko ati h apni jimedari ka ahsas aur fnl yr ata h dston m fasle bdhte h...rah dkhe the is din k kbse,age k sapne saja rkhe the njane kbse,sb bde utavle the yhn se jne ko,zndgi ko dusre trke se dkhne ko....pr njane aj dil m kch aur he ata h,piche ja k waqt ko rok k apne andr sare lmhe ko samet lne ka jee krta h....at d strtng f btech kha krte the bdi muskil s y 4 sal bitenge lkn kse pta tha y sb chd k jne ka mn ni krga...na vulne wali kch yadein reh *** o yadein jo ab jine ka sahara bn ***...na jne aj q un palon k yad bht ati h jin baton ko lekar tab rote the ,aj un palon ko yad kar bht hsi ati h....y sch k ankhein nam ** jte h k mri tang ab kn kncha krga,m apne bton s kska sar khaungi,pranks ksk 7 krngi,ab mjhe kn itna jhlga,ksk smne ntnki krngi,jin dst p lakh kurban whn 1 rupye k ly  kn ldhnge,kaun rat vr bina soye bt krga,kaun bina pche 1 dusre ka chj istml krga,kaun nya nm rkhga,bina ksi bt k m ab ksse ldhungi,bina ks tpc k fal2 bt kn krga,bkws q kn krga,xam k ek din phle o tyri o rate,kn rat var 7 jag kr pdhga,kn fail hne p dilasa dlyga,y hasin pal ab ksk 7 jiungi....yad ati h o rec k choti si cntn bar bar jhn kch v ni mlta mre yar fr v na jane q hum gye hnge so bar...tum jse kmine dost khn mlnge jo khai m v dhaka de ayen sale srs mtr ko v joke m cnvrt kr de,par fr tmhe bachane khud v kud jye....mre hrkton se nakhro se jid s prsan kn hga ,ksk 7 brng lctrs jhlngi..bina mtlb k ksko v dkh kr pglon k trh hsna,na jne y fr kb hga....ky hm y sb fr krpaenge....bdy clbrt,ek h rm p bth k 1 dusre s wtsap p bt krna...rat k 3-4 bje khna pkana....bina ksi mtlb k rat ko chilana....mlk pina...pgl jse hrkt krna..mlk ghumna....kaun mjhe apni kabiliat pr vrosa aur jyda hawa m udne pr zamin p lyga....mre khusi m sch m khus kn hga,mre gam m mjhse jyda dukhi kn hga....keh do doston y dubara kb hga....dil m ek kasak hoti h jb hr ankhein nam hti h,fir mlne k wade se hm ek dusre se juda hte h,kv na akle rhne wle dost bas yadon k sahare zndgi bitate h....lkn jb v y clg k din yad ate h ankhon m hasin aur ansu ek 7 late h...engnr bnne k khusi v ansu rok na pai ,q k njr aa rai t doston s judai...ab jo hna tha o ** gya akhir m sbse juda ** h gye....aj v un palon ko yad kr k ansun rok ni pte h ....nkl he jte h...aur yuhi lkh lkh k apko pka rai hn....char sal yu he gye hmri beet..ab khn mlnge wo dost wo mit...dua krt hn sb k ly race y zndgi k jao tm jit....
I ms my clg clg dys.....
feel the presence of yr death,

taste yr ashes on the tongue.

early you went.

to join the mad,

the young,

the genius.

early you went.

that’s how the beautiful go,

blessed with yr holy madness and rage.

you

held hell hell hell.

but they saw

heaven heaven heaven.

your eyes swallowed with desire.

romanticized with pain

god, you had so much love

so much love.

los angeles would have killed you anyway,

I can still hear yr dog whistle from my bedroom, baby.

IT’S GETTING LOUDER.

IT’S GETTING LOUDER.

I CAN HEAR EVERYTHING.

I CAN HEAR EVERYTHING.

YOU’RE GONE AND I CAN HEAR EVERYTHING.

every word you chose not to speak,

every word you held on yr ***** tongue.

everything.

the words that meant something you never spoke,

that were not empty like yr veins.

like your promises.

like your heart.

killed yourself to make things fair
nat Jan 2019
blood in my hair
can't really remember
what yr face looks like
makes me sad
but i can't really feel it, y'know?
i love yr sick veins
i hear yr heartbeat in my brain
wish i could feel it
i wish i could feel something at all
i don't know why people like this one so much
April doesnt hurt here
Like it does in New England
The ground
Vast and brown
Surrounds dry towns
Located in the dust
Of the coming locust
Live for survival, not for 'kicks'
Be a bangtail describer,
like of shrouded traveler
in Textile tenement & the birds fighting in yr ears-like Burroughs exact to describe & gettin $
The Angry Hunger
(hunger is anger)
who fears the
hungry feareth
the angry)
And so I came home
To Golden far away
Twas on the horizon
Every blessed day
As we rolled And we rolled
From Donner tragic Pass
Thru April in Nevada And out Salt City Way Into the dry Nebraskas And sad Wyomings Where young girls And pretty lover boys
With Mickey Mantle eyes
Wander under moons
Sawing in lost cradle
And Judge O Fasterc
Passes whiggling by To ask of young love: ,,Was it the same wind Of April Plains eve that ruffled the dress
Of my lost love
Louanna
In the Western
Far off night
Lost as the whistle
Of the passing Train
Everywhere West
Roams moaning
The deep basso
- Vom! Vom!
- Was it the same love
Notified my bones As mortify yrs now
Children of the soft
Wyoming April night?
Couldna been!
But was! But was!'
And on the prairie
The wildflower blows
In the night For bees & birds And sleeping hidden Animals of life.
The Chicago
Spitters in the spotty street
Cheap beans, loop, Girls made eyes at me And I had 35 Cents in my jeans -
Then Toledo
Springtime starry
Lover night Of hot rod boys And cool girls A wandering
A wandering
In search of April pain A plash of rain
Will not dispel This fumigatin hell Of lover lane This park of roses Blue as bees
In former airy poses
In aerial O Way hoses
No tamarand And figancine Can the musterand Be less kind
Sol -
Sol -
Bring forth yr Ah Sunflower - Ah me Montana
Phosphorescent Rose
And bridge in
fairly land
I'd understand it all -
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Marines call to say hello,
impress. I'm over 35 but my boys
19. They could go: Hide!

One moment spent tying a shoe,
another dying, gunshot wound or poisoned food.
Events in their mere chronology
                                                      ­ make no sense.
And the details of yr dad's life don't either.
                                                         ­               Late night
quiet cigarette smoker. But next day,
the butts cleaned into the can. Who does that?
Lady in a skirt or overalls rolled up - cigarette smoke.
Now it's yr dad.
                            Yr dad who
                                                 watches for war.

Even if Uncle Sam disbands, dissolves
we the people will still be here and stay involved
with North America. The purple mountains majesty
                           and shining seas
little people, big people, brown, red, and white. Addicted
                           to action movies.
Perhaps there is no choice. One must sit, sitting still
                           as a buddha, sitting bull.
I can imagine myself and all others - drivers, voters, runners -
                           little fetal muscles
at first. Metastasizing. What's it called when the cell
                           at the tip of the *****
or organism, divides, and the ***** grows? It's called
                           ******* a bicycle.

I find I make no sense. Her ****, a practicality to her, is
                           delicious to me
a miraculous sea lettuce or snapdragon. You've heard it before.
                           A moral dilemma
wrapped in robes and silks and odors. Yet, come close,
                           and business beckons
work gets done, life goes on, hair grows in, we go on
                           vacation
the Marine Corps calls, desperate for new fetuses to teach
                           purposeful workmanlike killing
I'll do my own killing, thanks, when violence comes to the
      neighborhood
                           if I've got your back
your back's gotten and if I'm on point, the point's taken.

One world under God invisible with liberty and justice for all who
                           Art in heaven
what the hell's his name.
                                          Nemesis.
        ­                                                  Hysterical.
The small war of an especially inept empire. The world's too big
to swallow as the Krauts and Nips found out. Empire
is self-correcting. Them dark-skinned mustachioed *******
who can't fix their own electricity seem to be kicking our *****
pert good. As did the ***** before them. All to the good. A
good lesson to know and then we all become friends following
the brawl. We apparently cannot skip the fight. It must
be fought, and **** the girls.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
hashtag1stworldproblems, but
couldn't even win a prize for reading:
'But there was no give in the cat,
no flex anywhere but his tail. And for
a moment their roles reversed, as though it were
the train facing
the inevitable cat...'
'n' dog 69er
vukojebina Tasmaniandevil in a ******
ad under/overbiting off more than I can
chew Escher's pretzel autocannibal
Prometheus in a Faustian ****
stage pacman dragon fusion starbirth centre
of the earth Bruckheimer pileup of me

Meanwhile bombs fall everywhere but here.

Singing 'Suggasuggasugga my art ***,
liggaliggaligga my art hole'

putting out the bins Insta-grommet-
ed Fama-widgetted the world but the world
is washing its ***** homme moyen sensuel
feels neither ****** nor blessed
culdesac wilderness no 'Wot no samo
©' enriches but inside my flat wypipo
surahs are basquiated alll over bones stones
& date palm fronds Newyork Paris London
Norwich supernobody supernova of purple psychology
prisoner between the lines egotistical subprime of me.

Allthewhile bombs immortalise everywhere but here.

Praying ' Ia! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat
of the Woods With a 1000 Young'
  yet still
the DWP send brown envelopes like post-
al millenarian sandwichboards or economic
letterbombs mash of calendars unassailable
nth mph inevitable catastrophe alazonic
file Akashic Bureau declassifies
is conceit of a train facing a rhino of a meme by
necessity a meme of a rhino gardarhino swino
my geworfen gurn of response scenarios
geworfen backatcha megillah galaxy
fillet ubeity is barrow pig cosmic bootyclap of me.

Everyday bombs bombarded the Mousetrap Theatre
but never hereatre.

Isn't everything just advanced basketmaking
everything is advanced basket-
making everything either that or egowanking
like urban legend of the Purple One ouroboros-
ing his purple one Janusjaws bittensmit-
ten by tailtaste once American sawboneses
optimised the Tom Thumb of Funk's
zeroshape with double ribectomy musta hadda sillycunt
implant ah the hiss of hubris human CMBR
soliphissing hero of selflove whited sepulchres
'This is the only musical the mouth & hopefully
the brain attached to the mouth, right?'
X-iestance of me.

The bombs they bombeth everyday, but I'm okay.

Big Gazrilo Princep Bang weltgeschichtlich pinup
modcon slave to my suprachiasmatic nucleus living
l'appel du vide in comfort fatarse sitrep
tragicecstatic bluff transparent as an exhibition-
ist pharaoh mummified in cling-
film hokeycokeying the keys till my right hand's in
court & my leftover hand doesn't count
tallies of tall realities like BasquiAT-ATs or Daliphants
skittled by Tippex the inner crickets' tip-
ple ghost grawlixes sculpsit grazes 00Q's qwerty spype
no carmen triumphale of poetical toothbrushes gets free
from chelseasmiled singularity inadequake scree of me.

But bombs being dropped is not the only way
this 40-yr-old 5'6 din of reverie will stop.
the goldfish sing all night with guitars,
and the ****** go down with the stars,
the ****** go down with the stars
I'm sorry, sir, we close at 4:30,
besides yr mother's neck is *****,
and the ****** go down with the etc.,
the whrs. go dn. with the etc.
I'm sorry jack you can't come back,
I've fallen in love with another sap,
3/4 Italian and 1/2 ***,
and the ****** go
the ****** go
etc.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985
angelwarm Sep 2014
sunscreen , wet cement. i taste sweat
       at the collarbone crevice below yr neck. all of us
    hot spring eyes , pussing blisters bleeding down
naked heels. it's ******* hot here in the shade
          of heaven. i want off the ride

popping pimples at the bathroom sink
    yellowing from the blood , from the dirt we
      pick up by touching each other

                   but i run the tongue , baby, the whole
               apartment smells like a bath bomb. i need
            to burst open beneath your mouth, slice the grape fruit in
       thin pieces. imagine the day when my hair grows back:
            then we'll know suffering has learned to love the space
       under the bed
                           where our bodies used to be

                                                             ­                    so in this night terror
                                                        i play the fishnet stockings of a long
                                                            ­  legged woman. struggling against
                                                        t­hem, you drown between my thighs
        like this. we squirm in the humidity of the night
        like this.

then in the next,
        i go missing at a family party and you look for me,
    i'm waiting to surprise you in a childhood closet, i'm in
the kitchen washing dishes so you get to put yr hands
around me. the world knows i'm in love with you so no one
will complain.
                                 and every terror begins as gentle as this, when
                              you round the corner to the bathroom and i'm in
                               the tub. what are you doing
     i'm smiling
                                               what are you doing
     what does it look like i'm doing

                   that funny little animal , how badly you want it
          to be out loud. then we can't paint the goat blood on our
          door, we can't let god pass us over. yr knees are locked
       and my veins are loaded. here, you hold the gun. the lamb
is ready for slaughter.
                                               a bunch of empty guts, some tylenol buried        
                                          in clammy hands you come in an hour
                                     back to knock on the door: i told
                                  them you got sick
thank you
                            don't come home tonight
thank you
                    
                                        ­                 i powder my nose and the holiday
                                              lights are strung before thanksgiving. you
                                            will keep climbing mountains with the blonde
                                       arm hairs of the glad hearts. you are too good to
                                        go looking in lower places;
        you are too good to **** a hound of hell.
Claire Collins Oct 2014
There is a hunger
Like a gun to yr head
Metal and cold
Empty yr clip
Personal *******
Egoic standup metaphysical *****
Pseudo spiritual people snakin in my garden
Workin gets harder
When you poet all the time
Clock you don't know what it looks like
A vague memory takes over me
At the corner on 15th and Rockford
I'm unheard and disturbed
No it's not ok
Know insanity like secondhand glove fit/spit atheists outta my mouth
Now you know what god Tastes like
Teeth know what gods about
Molar spell
Glamour silver
Share gardens worth of rent/have bent knees to cold Chicago concrete
Ask god
She's listening
With an open hand
Walk
Yr glistening sidewalk shine you concrete vision of glitter and litter
You performance piece about ennui
Sing
Sinner
Yr callouses
Don't ask how ok I am
We all got issues and I know you want a poem
But all I got is tissues and I didn't mean to make you cry
I jut wanted to remind you of the salt of life
The stuff dreams are made of
Homemade hair cloud spun
Wicked sister come whisper In my ear drum
Hum the chemical hymnals from our childhood
Don't hide your big tooth
Chew and chew and Chew
Purposefully at the great growing complacency
bucky Nov 2014
cough up yr misery lungs cough up whatever words u were spoonfed before u knew what words were
god,vermin,what have they done to u
u told me this is what chains feel like,tight bound against ******* silk
tell me,vermin,does it hurt to have yr eyes pecked out?does it hurt to be wrong,vermin?
yr a disgrace(is that what they told u?) but god u look nice tonight
i can see the bags underneath yr eyes outlined by every bad thing u've ever said
god u look beautiful
im waiting for a train.no,im waiting for ten trains,all going in the same direction
24-hour unrest system and all u can think to say is "dead birds
make good pets"
dead poets make good paper
david badgerow Apr 2016
didn't sleep. instead I found
a wall in a cave & grabbed a
chipping hammer & tore it down.
finally broke thru to starlight
at 4:12 this morning.
***** bruised fingernails.
discarded piles of red clay pain
swept into outside corners.
spelunking ever inward. steve knows.
shed some tears, dave, he says.
shed your fears.
warmer in the new cave.
less damp.
room for a rug.
room enough to grow a plant.
room enough to grow.
self-perpetuating seeds.
dawn was a stranger I welcomed inside.
sleeping stalactite makes back tight.
I will wake & stretch when the sun is high
overhead like a cat in a woven basket.
mountain water trickles underground.
do yr homework.
yr body is yr home. put in work.
my body is my home. work is work.
yr body is my home. input work.
A doctor's sorry for birth complication
A sea of CP cases in physiotherapy centre
Siblings, twins, triplets
All with defects

Advice of

Therapy,
Botox,
Vision,
Hearing,
Ocupational,
unheard names of unknown place...
!!!
Children I never thought existed
Parents I couldn't believe laughed
Joy in the eyes of kids with severe disability
Waiting for acceptance but yet unknown..
Blanked eyes of a mother
Whose 4 yr old child can die any day
Income reduced expenditure doubled
!!!

Yet

Optimism,
Joy,
Laughter,
Patience,
Hardwork,
Belief
multiplied many folds...

Coz they are the chosen one
God believed in them

And so God sent to them
The special gifts in
SPECIAL KIDS...
to make them
SPECIAL MOMs...
!!!
Sparkle In Wisdom
Sep 2018
Claire Collins Dec 2013
i pick you up from the armpits
shining in the December of yr adolescence

this morning a 19 yr old boy asked me how to spell achievement

this afternoon i saw exhaustion in a single mother's fingers

I saw peace in the bald, pink cancer patient seeking holistic remedies at Whole Foods

the weary barista delights in his tip jar

and this
this is the tip

of the glacier

that is hope

a shipwrecked shore to call home

you are not from here

sailor

do not anchor

yr worries to reality

we all beat the ocean
in our sleep
Ashly Kocher Dec 2018
Y wr brn wth prps
Whts yr prps
Whts yr rsn
Wht hv y dn
Why r y hr
Vry thng hppns fr rsn
Yr prps, yr lf
Yr hps, yr drms
B hppy, b yrslf
Sid Lollan Jun 2017
If
i may dwell in suspension
Sweet as plum;
Solitary
searching for
emptiness, whole of
nothingness…


Zoom in:

i match the gaze of
the Infinite
Peeping Tom;
like 1000 of those
dreams where i’m
naked in public
all at once
the Big Rush
pure
pink ****
flesh
stripp’d on the ledge
of the Lotus;
Faith’s suicide jump—
-Yea! Feel the breeze
swing swing
bodhi
body
my body swing
-everlasting-
but
i always blink.

& succumb
to dead momentum
(note:reFill w/ junk-
energy&bulhoon juice)


Cut to:

(******
******
sapio ****
sapien sapien
-libido is
god is Zeus
get loose,
l o o s e)

‘You know
the freaks come out
in their moon-masques after 2am lookin’ to
drill some sense
into
that Void.’

‘Da coup de grace
to yr grace of
One.
The baboon won!’

Ascension was a bust so
i cool with a jazzhead
Sit cross-legg’d & smoke
cigarettes ’til the knife of dawn—

‘Ache like mountains old
as Death.
lust
on yr breathe
that wild dogs
can detect
20 miles west.’

Close-Up:
{Cue the music}

-O! whiskey
tears & mary-
-juana sin thesis;
Realm, bee
yond the darken’d lip
the space ab-sorbed
by the mouth
of Supernova Human ways!

Action!

Now
b’fore it stains the carpet!

i’m with Sister Joyce
&
she gon’ show me
how to keep
my iii open
to oblivion.
Make me a Re-al boy
again-
Gon’ gimme back
that body
bodhi
that body, that shell
i housed
Alexandria
She gon’ gimme back
that cure
i can’t get enough of
Once
had a plug
straight to the mainline
-if you can believe it…
the connection right to-the
MAIN SOURCE
She told me she got it anni need it

Fade to:

(Fungi
feng
shui
shady
eyes feel
like the windows
on dead asylum walls.
‘Let it Burn!’
I told ‘em,
that temple is
mad
with ill karma’)

Fade Back:

Sister,
bless me
with the Pleasure
of
Yr forgiveness—
Prostrated
at the foot
of
your magic
bind—
Heal me;
that Holy
Fluid
washaway daily hypnosis’—
Yr purple presence
is ancient
mystic limbs
cradle my Babylon
why
***** angel Souls do the
pharaoh’s dance—
Bodies swing
in One,
bodhi body
swing in One; now
twirl yr guru poetry
cryptic
round my Obliteration!

& let’s drown ourselves
in gulps of ecstasy
swallowed in-to paradise
the warm, fuzzy
nothing.

Cut to:

(Consciousness,interrupts,
Suddenly!
Lurches out of unBeing like
a madman a killer
lumbered
   over
his victim
-fresh,crystalized
real
ity; clear thru dewdrops
atop blade of grass the sweat
on damp back chill in
soberbreeze)

the Now pierces
the swelled black belly of
temporary oblivion
lightwork the stars that freckle the face
of the sky
poke-d
pin(w)holes the size of the Universe
in the bubble of In
finity
-inward
outward-
i see myself thru it
looking up…
perched in rural
everywhere
Planet nowhere
dug in the
hole
of nothingness
solitary
searching
in suspension.


FADE OUT.
DJ Thomas May 2010
Lacking of life now
I lol on my fine divan
Laziness often
lacks the power of rapture
as in sofa or bedsprings


Labour of love her
for large obese lobster me
Mermaids capture me
a symphony of sea-sick
rasping tongues lick our lumps


Little old lady
typing the language of love
A real cyber date
computer romance limits
operational life's love


Laughing over lines
of disco ****- pure *******
Lewd obscene language
grasping lemon or lime highs
to count Hollywood star shootings


A full length of life
the longing off, lay proceeds
Lady of the Lake
lunging our lisps sound depths
we are - breathing harmony


The land of Lincoln
legion of Lucifer's Lord
landscaping of lawns,
losing our liberty's law,
leaving on lights, blinding


Lots of Laughs or 'lol'
populist abbreviation*
language often less,
leftovers of literate
gone to libraries of late
copyright©DJThomas@inbox.com 2010

A renga written in collaboration
with
Christopher Terry Everson,
Nicholas Ripley
and 
Jacqueline Ivascu.
Melissa S Aug 2016
Dented and newly used
my heart is set on cruise
Winning
Grinning
Never gonna give up
because I refuse

My heart may be breaking
but it is not the end
Dealer count me back in
I am on the mend
I am on a comeback

I am done being afraid
I am done being saved
Do not need another setback
I am on a comeback

I believe in who I am
I'm better than I have been
I am not down and out
I have only just began


Thank you HP and fellow poets for this great honor!!! Sorry I am so late to the party but my 8 yr old boy hijacked my phone from me.
Dedicated to some HP poets out there who have recently made a comeback.  Also when writing this I had another thought we have all had our heart broke (myself included) so I was writing with this thought in mind too because we all have made a comeback at some point in our lives.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
"Anyone who wants to fight me all the time"
committee meetings, board meetings.
Facing death was how they knew they were alive
or was it more about allocating resources
like yr Dad said.
It's hard to step outside what yr DNA tells you to do.
Nice ****.
Family farm, fight club. It's all one yet distinctions are
what separates the librarian, reflective man, from the road and bridge
      crew.
That's a class statement. Us guys love
our children and will, circumstances dictating, fight for you.

                                 --------------------------------------

"Anyone who wants to fight me all the time"
is more important to me than my wife. But there is no one left to fight
and no one knows me and I know no one well. That's good,
"there is more space between people than I'd ever dared to hope."
I'm confused.
Meditator or gunfighter. Either could come to know himself,
flat abs, clear sight
with patience and discipline.
What's this:
know yourself?
Once yr knee or neck is smashed there's no getting up to fight.

                                 --------------------------------------

"Anyone who wants to fight me all the time"
will grow old alone once I'm in the ground. He will live
with the question what was our purpose? He was managed by
the molecules we're made of, proteins, enzymes, amino acids, DNA.
******* DNA.
I'd rather be a rock.
But the rock is subject to
its elements. Thus, the periodic table and particle physics,
meiosis and mitosis and yes, democracy and self-governance,
all the colors of anthropology and ecology, windmills and sundials,
fission and fusion for evil and light
and the devil who exists to carry the load when we misbehave and
      fight
among ourselves.

                                 --------------------------------------

"Anyone who wants to fight me all the time"
is how I know who I am.
Because the truth is always changing, depending on the meeting.
What's good.
Service to others is a safe bet. That service
may take many forms: fighting, meeting, teaching, making.
The fighting may be part of holding community together. Limited
      scope, defensive posture.
"How broadly we define community says everything." So,
we come to Mexico, a violent border and an unhappy history.
Or Gaza and Israel. Or Russia and just about everybody.
"How can a people become a nation without resorting to violence or
      incurring violent reaction?"
Does it matter? Accept violence like any EMT and devote yourself
      to
what, beauty?
Why do I write about violence, I've almost never
had to fight.

                                 --------------------------------------

"Anyone who wants to fight me all the time"
is nothing compared to the ocean which can take your children any
      time.
The Nazis or janjaweed.
In peace we have our meetings.
"When violence comes to the neighborhood the hierarchy of
      communicants will hold or fold
it is then the peace work proves relevant."
Hold your clod of land.
Give way to the waves.
All I do not know.
I admire the writer who penetrates the unknown by describing that
      which
is not himself.
His enemy,
anyone who wants to fight him all the time
helps him live outside himself.
"Soon I will know who I am." --Borges

www.ronnowpoetry.com
brandon nagley Nov 2015
i.

O' mine asawa, mine novel put away for millennia,
Brute man hast hidden thee from view, thou hast been burdened by men's crucifying, thy fear's art of lonesomeness; as many hast left thee, As I've known thine tears. I've seen and watched thy fear's, over the year's thine heart was bleeding.

ii.

Though whilst thou was leaking from thine wound's, I was keeping track on high, from the moon, and universal sky, from the nebula they calleth God's eye; I made plan's to cometh near. Thither below where I hadst none purpose, other than thee; I asked ourn maker to pusheth me into the sea of the great Pacific ocean, I hadst come with mine love, and incorporeal potion's.

iii.

Afore thine nativity, I hadst known thee a whilst, though as an angel thy falling to the atmosphere madeth thee forget thy memory; and divine self. Though I remembered thou, as thy soulmate from ages passed: I waited, with the great originator, I hadst beseeched him to seeing thee again; mine beloved, mine consort of other realm related. As Elohim kneweth thou was mine Filipino rose, mine all, and best friend: he granted me back heaven, as I landed into thy hand's.





©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley-Filipino rose dedicated
asawa means wife in Filipino tongue also known as Tagalog tongue...
Afore means before in archaic...
Elohim is another Hebrew name used for god as also is Jehovah and Yahweh..,
Thanks for reading!!!
when i turned seventeen
i was no longer a ******’s dream
i smoked that dope
and i watched my lungs burn out
while an uncaring girl took everything away from me
i don’t feel like my body belongs to me.
what does it mean to be pure?
is anybody really sure?
what’s the context of the line in this poem?
what is this metaphor truly about?
i want no lies just love
if it means i won’t ever be happy again
please just tell me.
so i can prepare for it
when she dies i die.
but who am i to stay in a sea
of endless melancholy?
the drugs will carry me off-
there are colors found in
the shades of black
they glow  red and blue.
oh the shapes they make
are so beautiful
will it be easier now
that i know i’m alone?
i feel sick when
i think about home

yr moms lying on the couch
looking at the sky,
does it make you sad
that one day she will die?
in yr bed do you
want to disappear
would it make it better
if was there?

the roof is the color of coffee
and yr eyes are the color of the mary jane you inhaled
that night in a damp shed
and your laugh echoed till it got trapped in the walls
while your friends tried to sound deep
about small things
your arms will hurt from every inch of them you have torn,
but remember it's all your fault.
there's nothing to be upset about

you watch the sky change from grey to orange.
you want your sadness to turn into passion.
But you're still stuck on your couch
Wondering when beautiful **** will come out yr mouth.
but when it comes out
Do you slit your wrists
want the bad to leave
There's nothing pretty to you
about being clean
there's flowers on her arms
and cuts on yours
you still have a lot to learn
about being pure.
Martin Narrod Oct 2015
shapes of yr many most favorite possessions
people looming in the lintel browsing through the pockets
yr posthumous stare chisels down the bark

280 & Alpine
taking out the post
east alto, west alto
sandwiches and snickers bars

let there be pizza
where beds happily move
and there are no swing sets or cell phones
let there be pizza
eighteen year olds swinging from the rooftops to the pool

no music played to remember it by
yr handlers are too many now
lost in the green lasers and spotlights

there are only two hands to make this memory
the quiet dark does not take it, new mouths do not take it
old words tearing off the night
milkymoon Mar 2019
i didn't recognize love at first,
he can in the shape of feminine, talkative yr 7 boy,
being yr 8 i wasn't particularly looking for love;  
tbh i was shying away.

he hid for a while; i kept denying his presence.
but love came, love was my best friend,

till one day.
may 1st.

love took me down a bush trail,
i cried my eyes out to love for hours,
told love i couldn't live without him.
love embodied a now yr 9 - cutest theatre kid.

love stuck by me for months,
love even stuck by me when i dated other guys.
love stopped me from many things; love kept me sane.

but love got tough.
i got demanding of love and love had enough.
i battled with love for a couple of months.
love made me cry myself to sleep many nights.

love left me.
he probably felt it wasn't the time.
he left me, drifting slowly and then all at once.

i was left without him but he promised to come back; i believe him.
who knows when i will see love next,
why, where, how.

maybe in a 18 yr smoker, with black nails.
maybe in a 23 yr uni student that vomits all over me.
maybe in 30 yr artist in the middle of times square.

sometimes he is obvious, sometimes in disguise
but i trust he will come when i am ready.

love's gone
but for now i have one message for love,

thank you for coming
neko May 2014
hey buddy did u know that under a powerful microscope a wood chip resembles our universe just let that sink in

we are so small we are so fricking small ok u hav to make yrself known or else u'll forever be nothing but a tiny floating speck

is that what u want to be for the rest of yr life??? a **** fricking speck no i dont think so

thats some horton hears a who type **** ok thats not ok

u know what else

no matter how known u make yrself u will always be just a tiny little speck but hey u know what

some specks can be bigger than other specks and this is not always physical

sometimes the traces u leave behind are bigger than u will ever be

so make a **** impact

voice yr stupid dumb beautiful opinions and voice them loud

be the tiniest speck and climb up as high as u can get and fricking shout at the top of ur little speck lungs

we are here were r here we r here and all that good jazz u kno

did i just write a poem about horton hears a who *******

shoutout to dr. suess for being a radass motherhecker thats some deep crap right there ****
ride into the floorboards
on the backs of people
you once trusted

        even fooling for a second
        the cleverly disguised devout

        why cleverly hide yr God?

he hangs beneath me
from the cages of
shopping carts

        he who would give up his eyes
        until they turn to milky white
        crescent moons that leak thick

******* on anything
that ever disturbed
yr morning walk

        the devout,
        who would give up their eyes
        for a *******

Michael Sinclaire/Mary Fahey. March 2013.

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