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Caterina Correia Aug 2018
I tried to rinse my face but it seems im not gonna change
I tried to rinse my weakness but strength doesnt wanna meet me
I tried to rinse my fears but they came back to scare me
I tried to rinse my problems but they came back to trouble me
I tried to rinse my anxiety but it came back to blow away my body
I tried to rinse my sorrow but the memories still remain
I tried to rinse my nightmares but they came back to haunt me
I tried to rinse my thoughts but the negativity keeps returning
I tried to rinse my steps but the past wont ever change
I tried to rinse my scars but i still see what i did
I tried to rinse the blood but my wounds wont ever close
I tried to rinse the bruises but the pain wants to stay
I tried to rinse my anger but i keep getting angry
I tried to rinse my bitterness but my heart keeps getting cold
I tried to rinse my emptiness but i keep getting unfilled and broken
I tried to rinse my sadness but the tears is what im using,
To try and wash everything away
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.finally! i've been skewing, stalling, to write this one sentence for almost a week, not out of difficulty, but out of a nuanced castacade of observation that "got in the way"... how else to begin rather than with a fireside adlous huxley 1950s english... that grand extract from the history of a language, that sardonic look upon a saxon past.... well... the evil of hollywood when it comes to movies with scenes of actors brushing their teeth... evil, evil, evil, loki-esque diabolical... chauvinism via elbow shuffling: via elbow pushing past the english sacrosanct idea of the supermarket queue... cordiality mon frère... cordiality mon frè(re) - grave accent? you write in the -re: but you cut off given the grave accent on the e-grave... mon fré! it's evil what they do in hollywood h'america... all those movies... actors brushing their teeth, spitting... they brush, they spit... but they don't rinse! and what's wrong with the pea-sized amount of paste once a day? why two times a day? once a day will do... and... once you've brushed your teeth?! you rinse them! you don't do what hollywood actors do, you don't brush your teeth, spit out dry and "forget" to rinse your teeth afterwards... pea-sized amount of paste, brush, spit, rinse... you have to rinse your teeth after the brushing... you don't climb into bed thinking the non-rinsed teeth are your extra: chewing gum! when you brush your teeth: you rinse... i'm a tobacco smoker, all the adverts suggest i should be having stains on my teeth... i'm not getting the scaremongering stains expected... i don't follow hollywood's dentistry's rules... i rinse my gob once i've scrubbed my ivories... hollywood is evil that way... it's all marathon man herr szell (laurence olivier) when it depicts actors brushing their teeth, spitting the paste out, but not rinsing! pea sized dollop, once a day, but rinse rinse rinse! tongue come ice-ring on the touchy-feely side of things after... tongue skidding on enamel!

i once loved...

   what an unfathomable
presence of an unbelievable
statement...

  i once loved...
it almost feeds into
my luxury of vampire fiction...

i once loved...
i did...
but then...
whatever love there was,
to begin with...
had to become morphed
into the ugly circumstance
of experiencing
the basic foundation,
of reality.

i no longer love,
i do what other people tempt
"to love",
the basic realism of
the exploited, unaware...

          i once loved from
the pages of fiction,
of poetry...
        now?
         this, lost idealism...
well...
the love it kept intact...
but the interactions
kept limited...
                whatever counter
theory
comes my way...  
      an open wheat field...
and a scuttling ramble's
worth of a brain
to match it;
nothing worth being desired
to match a father figure,
or compose itself into
a figurehead
for the worth of establishing
family.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
.english black humour is peppered with sarcasm,
english humour is sarcasm...
watching the gaelic version
is like watchings the irish try to be subtle by being rude,
doesn’t work... normas proved it defeating the saxons...
and subsequently the celtic brides roared in encore!
it really doesn’t work... the polish fraction of me still intact
to remind me of the biology that still works served
the reminder: polish history is still orientated
on the european continent, eastern europe
is not a segregated "continent" that might contend
with england and france being ante-antarctica...
never engage a celt with british humour for guy fawkes or anyone
else in the missing ditto;
celtish or cultish... i never quiet know...
enter the celtish brides... encouraging the advent of copulation
and the excesses of tax to build linear ceramic imprints
of broken bricks, that made it into ratio of
the chiseled brick worth a heavyweight contention with
heated mortar dough; oh right, pooh bear you're offended...
deal with it! unless your uncle is denoted as
adolf ****** and you want him resurrected!
shakespeare never wrote the play: the merchant of mecca,
did he? poor shylock... i was almost caught in admiration
of what english students at 16 thought of that national pride...
known as the *****-bride to **** for an A at a-level.


they still sound out of breath,
out of anything,
esp. words...
they all sound to totem no animal
rather than an ****
which in ceramic wilderness
sounds like wild ****...
where’s the monochromatic monotone
of the drunken sailor going by the name
of st. peter?
fisherman turned sailor... that’s a first...
why didn’t jesus pick barabbas rather than judas?
was it cain that got in the way?
i bet it was. well nox awaits both thief and murderer...
those engaged with rabbanic arts
tend to treat dreams less seriously...
and those that don’t tend to treat dreams more seriously...
those that treat dreams seriously endear the sole
escapism of reality quite seriously...
and for those that don’t... well... there’s the zodiac algebra
and that’s right for a mummified expression
that was bandaged into a circumcised *******.

p.s.
rhyming poetry has spawned the most pointless
ibhibitions of rhythm poetics,
all the current poets sound
    verärgert... exasperated...
    is everyone seriously a ******* goldfish
catching their breath a second time?!
you want to know the most fun thing
i've ever did, today?
i started to tickle my maine ****'s
inner ear with a chicken's egg...
he raised his paw,
he tried to scratch himself...
"something" there was a schizophrenic
violing playing in his cranium,
rather: the temple of his ear...
i was lucky in having to: kitzteln (titillate)
him with an egg...
a chicken abortion i'd probably
consume come tomorrow's breakfast
hour...

             he felt it, the giggles...
the giggles from annoyance being rubbed
the "wrong way"...
so much to say about a woman
whom i attempted to pick a nose
in earning affection of seeing:
the "green fairy" take a ****,
take to farting, breaking the magic of
the feminine persona of "unfathomable" /
unfailable...

            genius: an egg inserted
into a cat's ear to tickle... eating an abortion
the next morn...
                                    all the woes
of the world seem so insignificant when
you buy into feline idiosyncracies...
after all... there's no leash...
no kaganiec...
             there is no stipend associated
with the timing of walkies...
cats are perfectly disorientated by
their own selves: or rather,
their senses...

              you learn atheism from people,
but?! you learn solipsism from cats!
you learn atheism to sound
intellectually superior, sound,
"sensible"...
solispsism you learn from cats...
god or no god...
you are first, you are the last,
while god? "someone" in the middle...
can god be associated to pronouns?
or is god a pure noun: excavation
machina pro grata?
well... if god was ever a person,
being, anti-tool...
wouldn't "he" be a persona non grata?!
well then!
  machina pro grata:
                the noun spin "mr."...

man was never in search of god:
the objective reality remained true as
it always remained...
man was forver bound to the search
of god: via the subjective
personification of said "object"...

      how do you think the muslims
deal with this conundrum?!
they think they are gratifying everyone
else with an objective reality
of god, while they themselves,
with the polytheistic splinter of the gods,
are themselves searching for
the subjective reality of their god...
a person, a personality...
to the muslims their god speaks
the same objective truth as the sort
of truth a pagan might adhere to...
they want to know: a person to speak to,
rather than an object they can throw...

modern poetry when performed is ****,
it all sounds the same...
that overtone of exasperation...
me? i'm not speaking...
itchy finger-tips: idle hands:
the devil's due...
      i'm not speaking among these
youths... it's like that h'american beauty
quote...

ricky fitts: but it helps me remember...
i need to remember...
sometimes there's so much beauty in the world,
i feel like i can't take it,
     and my heart is just going to cave in.

lester burnham - whatever he said
about the balloon not being filled with helium...
but with all the bureucratic custody
via custard like some zeno paradox
of a tortoise outrunning achilles...
               the beauty can remain...
to enchant the easily impressionable...
after all: you "only live once"!
the beauty will always remain...
hence the seasons...
               but there's only one
impressionable aspect of this reality...
the thought you leave with...
the thought, implying:
the lost aspect of a moral (th)ought
to be envisioned in it not being
sentenced to a maxim
    or a proverb...
                       or a lesson...
after all... once man grows old:
he's no longer fond of learning,
but overtly eager to teach...
         i'm neither... 33...
who am i to learn from or teach for?
teaching by mistakes?
       no one really teaches by example...
unless on a pure technical canvas
associated with a trade or a tool...
which life is neither!

what is the west selling as their... "capitalism"...
their next ponzi scheme of "made in... chi'nah?!"
this, this is capitalism?!
i remember days when gap shirt
lifted the words: made in canada....
quality... would last you 20 years...
the wool wouldn't thin, the colours
wouldn't fade...
                    capitalism my ***, these days!
i came to the promised land,
i remained: with broken bones
            and ****** make-up tutorials....

for all the belief in man,
and this, non-existent fear of god,
savvy,
      upon the sacred altar of
the debauchery of prometheus,
upon the sacrifices of a.i. atlas...
upon: will electricirty ever replace fire...
who stole the rod of zeus
beside promothian thief who came
back with the eternal fire of Odin?
who?!
my kindred: alas!
                     and to what end?!
to the end without any surprise...
for the cosmopolitan cul de sac:
screaming at a brick wall pretending
to talk to one one but brick!
    
  i too visited: Krzyżtopór, in the village of Ujazd,
   Iwaniska commune, Opatów County...
how... the categories congregated
with implosions to make a ground:
specific...
  what would be the categorical imperative
for the congregative consumate
orientation of said narrative?

     even my grandfather remembers
the famous debackle concerning
Alfried Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach...
i do come from a family
of metallurgy... or coal-mining...
  both as true as these coal-riddle hands
supposing ink in pixel...
  
come on... the Schwerer Gustav?
the gun of all guns?! the one with the sort
of recoil that demanded train lines
to incubate the impact?!

modern, spoken, poetry, bores, me...
it's simply exasperated...
  exasperated by rhyme,
exasperated with rhyme,
exasperated outside of rhyme...
i'm listening to clones...
i don't won't to write modern poetry,
simply because:
i will not recoil with a take
on modern poetry...
  i don't do exasperated...
as much as i adore olivia gatwood's:
manic pixie dream girl...
yes, a ref. to the garden state movie...
the shins: new slang...
yeah... i did that **** in edinburgh...
climbing the scaffold...
erected around new college...
dancing on the roof with myself at night...
watching the *****-bank fluoride
white above the firth of forth one night...

but that's what i find really evil...
you know how in the movies,
the actors and actresses brush their teeth...
but never rinse?!
instead? keep that toothpaste in their mouths?!
******* never rinse!
that's evil... i'll tell you:
brush witha  pea-sized dollop, then rinse...
all the movies you see will never show you
a person rinse their teeth after brushing...
you should look into rinsing...
and? you'll never lose weight by going
to the gym...
you'll get stretch-marks, for sure...
there are only two ways to lose weight:
bicycle or swim...
swim or bicycle... better... both!

going to the gym will not help you...
you'll need plastic surgery!
but hollywood movies are evil this way...
they portray people washing their teeth
without spitting out the excess toothpaste
and not rinsing their mouths...
with water...

            who does that?!
hollywood is the next dentistry monopoly?!
pea sized amount of paste,
at the end of the day will do,
and then please spit,
then rinse with water...
don't just do what hollywood bad teeth
brigade do...
keep that paste in your mouth
like car battery acid / fluoride!

   pea sized brush once a day,
spit, rinse... slide your tongue over
your teeth to feel the sheen of
           ivory mingling with glass.

i hate modern poetry, why is everyone pretending
to be asthamtic, exasperated, out-of-breath?
with the same punctuation "all of a sudden"?
**** if i'm going to speak,
i'm not speaking...
             not in this climate...
edinburgh 2006...
  that's when i wanted to speak...
but then my eyes stole my tongue and told me
to listen.
i've been listening every since...
and...
i haven't even registered one hearing
of an echo since then.
Absorb yourself in serenity, and begin to sing
an ode to the things undone
and the absence of light below the sun

Surrender to guilt, and from your quaver I percieve
the ode to the things undone
and the absence of light above the sun

Rinse us
Rinse us
Rinse us
Rinse us

Rinse us
Rinse us
Rinse us
Rinse us
Erica Winter Sep 2013
Stumble out of bed and discover your surroundings
Wake up from a dream but find yourself alone.
Turn on the shower, lather your hair
Rinse and repeat
Feel the water run down your back, emotional baptism
Heartbreak and some of the loneliness down the drain
For a moment, you forget where you are
You go through the mundane day
Try to appreciate the little miracles in life and nature
Random acts of kindness, spread good karma
Every night, missed opportunities are still on your mind.
Rinse and repeat
Old words are still alive in your journal, but fading.
Rinse and repeat
You still trick yourself every night in sleep
Arms still around you
Still, you wake up alone.
Rinse and repeat.
Beau Scorgie Jan 2022
Day 4:
Full glass
empty glass.
Another full glass
another empty glass.
Where is he tonight?
wash rinse repeat
wash rinse repeat
wash rinse
repeat.

Month 5:
Plead sobriety
f--- sobriety.
A happy dance. (drink)
Thou shall not drink!
Thou shall not dance!
Thou should like to dance.
(drink)
Glass, help me dance.

Month 11:
Waste away
waist away. Another
full glass no food.
Another empty glass no
food.
(Naltrexone)
wash rinse repeat wash
rinse repeat dance
drink
   repeat.

Month _ :
One shot.
Four shot.
(You're alone tonight.
I'm with you tonight.)
Six shot.
Nine shot.
(I'm with you tonight.
You’re alone tonight.)
Bathroom floor tonight.

Day 1:
Sober tonight
f--- tonight.
tremor purge
repeat sweat
tremor repeat.
(You're alone
tonight. You're alone
tonight.)
I’m alone tonight.
wash rinse…

Day 365:
Clean.
Rinse and repeat
Rinse and repeat
this thing's got me beat
rinse and repeat.


No matter how many times,
the stains still remain,
the washing machine,
the rinse and repeat
is to blame.

Powder and bleach
they do not reach
they cannot teach
the soul
to be clean.

Rinse and repeat
Rinse and repeat
these
repetitions will beat me
to death.
Timothy Brown Mar 2014
Rinse
Repeat
A simple man, trapped by society,
Raised to feel indebted to his family
His fantasy is printed and framed
Above the job's lobby. A beautiful
Scene of the mountains in Nagasaki.
The clear air clears the clouds
Of the the solvent factory
So he sits and stares
Ever unsure of his trajectory.
Rinse
Repeat
The quality of his life is priced
At $4.50. If he can't get his fix
Of burritos and churro sticks,
His world turns to bricks.
His grip slips.
The slight weight shift on his hips
Strips his exuberant demeanor
Like a lunar eclipse.
Rinse
Repeat
When he tries to adlib the script,
Life and love kicks him in the intelligence.
His happiness doesn't take precedence
Over the dead presidents he needs
To keep his residence. It's evident
In his directionless aggressiveness,
He feels irrelevant to his existence.
So, he slows the pistons of his brilliance.
Rinse
Repeat
His silence has made him forget his presence
He's become convinced that washing metal prints
Isn't against his will. That the fulfill-
Ment of another's vision is the pill
To his sickness. Like the use of litmus
Will heal his mental limpness
Between 9 and 5. The only thoughts
He completes are *rinse
and *repeat
© March 11th, 2014 by Timothy Brown. All rights reserved.
Jay Jun 2018
I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster."  The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.
Grief is such a strange emotion/process.

*Oh my! Thank you all so much for your support! I wrote this back in June when I needed to get it out of my head and had no idea it was chosen as a daily until I just logged back on and thought there was a glitch with my notifications number. I was slightly mortified that a piece of my mourning got exposure but after reading your comments I'm glad that I documented something many of you identified with. I've since journeyed a bit farther in my grief- slowly overcoming my initial instinct of trying to instantaneously analyze every feeling to determine whether I'm "allowed" to have it. I went to a group bereavement meeting offered by the hospital that treated the loved one in this poem and the nurse running the session made a good point- no one can fully understand another person's relationship with an individual who's passed on. Interpersonal relationships are unique and so is grieving. Being gentle with yourself (especially in times of struggle) is woefully underrated. And with that, I send love, gratitude, and positive vibes to this wonderful community
rayma Dec 2021
Start with the dirt.
And the blood.
And the stuff that’s caked beneath your fingernails.

Scrub, and rinse,
and scrub again,
because that’s all that’s coming off.

You’ll never be able to wash away those
fingerprints etched into your skin,
an ectoplasmic stain that no one else can see.

Let the bathroom fill with steam,
let your skin grow red beneath the scalding water,
let it show you the other things you can still feel.

Because five years from now,
maybe you catch a glimpse in the mirror,
that person you used to be looking back at you.

You can scrub, and rise,
and scrub again,
but you’ll never wash away
the things you wish you’d never felt.
Another one from early last year. I literally did an entire poetry class and never posted anything from it.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Soak, wash, repeat.
Sweep, sweep, repeat.
Wipe, wipe, repeat.
Scrub, scrub, repeat.
Dice, dice, repeat.
Wipe, dry, repeat.
The tears that are good.
Pour, stir, repeat.
Open the door.
Serve the food.
Greet, greet the guests.
Smile, talk, repeat.
Say bye-bye, repeat.
Massage, press, repeat.
Yelp in pain.
Grab your abdomen.
Rub, press, repeat.
Let the sari unwrap.
Shake your head no.
Oh oh.
Run, hide, cry, plead.
Rub your stinging cheek.
Sob, sob, repeat.
Dab, dab, repeat.
The tears that are deserved.
Press your straining scalp.
Grab tight the bed sheet.
Groan, hiss , repeat.
Fake, fake, repeat.
Pain, pain.
Again!
Sore, sore, all over.
Go make a drink and then,
Massage, press, repeat.
Pick up the nephew.
Ignore the daughter’s lies.
Pat, pat repeat.
Put him down to sleep.
Sing the lullabies.
See your daughter writhe.
Writhe, writhe, repeat.
Kiss your daughter’s hand.
Feel her skin burning.
Watch your daughter weep,
Cry herself to sleep.
One drop down then two.
The tears that are meaningless.
Lie down as if asleep.
Twist, turn, repeat.
Wake up before dawn.
Now, you put on.
Red, green, black and gold.
Vermillion, bangles, beads.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Here is a little introduction to the lives of most housewives in India.
BertJane Perez Jan 2015
Be my poison and be my drugs
Give me lustful kisses and tighter hugs
Love me with pain and show me the pleasure
Bury me in lust like your hidden treasure

Caress my body and stroke my face
Pull my hair and let our bodies race
Moan your curses and scream your shame
Bite my skin in this lustful game

Give me more you're my addiction
I love the heat and I love the friction
Slap me here and scratch me there
Show me your eyes, your **** stare

Punish me I need to be taught by my master
Keep going! Don't stop! I want it to go faster!
I'm gonna burst! This deed is almost complete!
When we're done lets lather, rinse and repeat.
Daniello Apr 2012
The fingernails of my brain brim
Horizons of grime. Can’t seem to keep them paws
            Out of the dirt.

And the dirt lives on the ground, so its head is always
            Down.
And it claws like a dog spraying a groove under a fence
After he’s picked up in the scent what it would be like
To roll in the other grass, which is the same grass, but it’s
            Across the pickets.

It’s the uncovering, and it’s dead awfully hard.

For instance…

Thinking I must scratch sound to hear sound.
Not knowing, like this, of course there’d be only
That scratch-scr-scratch-scr-scratch-scr-scratch
Around me like hellrats…

For instance, hurling my eyes at vision, only
That they should slam against something like stonewall.
            (And the crash, unscratched, unheard.)

Imagine how gravity would throw your skeleton
(Nest of forest twigs-become-tooth-pick birdcage)
            Ten, twenty      thirty stories
Meeting earth’s immovable bone—
That cold you’d feel crack your headrock—
            That concrete is my vision.

Yes, finish off the senses, finish off the lines.
If you put your life here, in this poem’s lonely glass,
            It will take its shape.
For isn’t that the oldest metaphor?      Life—water?

Yes, water with yourself these lines.

My brain needs to rinse me         clean from its hands.
About the feeling you get when you crash against your senses like waves against cove rocks, and you're unable to let yourself be transported by them. Unable to be in the moment because you're too busy thinking about them, too busy being stupefied by them, being paralyzed by them. And if not paralyzed, then looking like a desperate dog trying to dig, always trying to reach the root. Meanwhile life's passing you by.
Brainwash, rinse, repeat
Brainwash, rinse, repeat

You are either stubborn and wrong, or easily manipulated.

Brainwash, rinse, repeat
Brainwash, rinse, repeat
Robin Carretti May 2018
Maybe I could write a book all

Stares of people creamy tons
Eating dark bonbons
Find your nitch and call
The silk milk  switch
The"Cat Eye"
People come and go
But the sunset stays
The play up or play
down the love of life
An eternity of hearts
of your wife
The family

The boy ship ahoy
(Patch-eye Pirate)
Robin Almond Joy
And she just loves
them Tomboys
all lacey eyes

Masquerading
"Almond Eye's
flavor of soy
Lactose tolerant

Paintbrush deviant
He is so creamed for her
Dark sunset stimulant
Come on drink it all

Inside of my mind do
you dare to wink
and call

Take a look?
Are we losing
our scruples
Coconut milk
Smiles and dimples

A mystery of
illusions  more darkness
of confusion
The plain ordinary people

So on and then on?
Met our confusion of people

Right on # target
_


Are we still creamy
stir it on

Darkest sunset
way beyond
Soothing so distant and just
like that
gone
___

We cannot click on
anything creme
De La Creme
The computer magnet
like a crazy clone,
all lost being alone

Staying obedient trying to
find the way
(No God) what

No Man?
The cream in your cafe
The Prince
She's the angel dust
hair rinse
((Garnet))

Creamified sonnet

Dark sunset Jade Hornet
on so on her lips so on etc
They met the sunset
head on right time
She's on
All Laced
He's on
What a kisser
Is right time on?
Did he miss her?

My heart was on
the line

Robin birds of throbs

Losing so much time

being robbed deplorable

Like an abysmal

Disgraceable hum
Shady money sum
Banging drum yum
Dark sunset color gum

The dark silhouette
asylum

The sin or the sunset

Being straight jacket
Suzette

Minds breakdown
Heart Silk Crown

"Pennywise clown'

*** in the Cat milk
movies

Remembering the
The seventies

Peace signs and
Groovies

My sunset dreams
depleted

Was this the book
I needed to
be completed

How I armed myself
Finger lake creamy

Fate and time stood out
Dreammmmy_


My brain was fried
scrambler

But sunny side was up?

At midnight rambler

The Brooklyn Bridge
sunset heart dividers

Cosmic globe riders
Dark spell mentors
Spilled the creamy
Goddess of darkness
robe

This ancient Roman sunset
The lover of Darkness
Lace me the darkness hour

The tower high rise sunset
bad spirits gave us
wits to live it

We have it made what
we see
Sometimes Illusions
Creamy silk hands and
The rock bands
How her Darker?Cream
Saw the sunset in between
lips met

Face to face they land
Her place lacy demands
Her spell eyes of a bet
Her lipstick on his collar
She was ready to set
He see's the specks of colors
Through her headset
He yearns for her to
holler
__

The peek reddish
Sushi-pink
The darkest of sunsets
"Freshly Raw' she sipped his
Sunset drink

When our light will come
will be
protected
Forevermore patiently

The darkness became us
the goodness

Of a better time of rising
The darker the sunset the sweeter place love was perfectly set
Alexis J Meighan Oct 2012
An X-ray  of ******* love

They were so soft.
The hands that took control and made the pace
Of the heart that race
Within the mess of a chest
That bravado expels

It was so open.
That mind that reduced his fears Induced tears
Used to indulged his idol chatter
Hitting my wordy pitches
Like a home run "Hey Batter Batter!!"

It felt so right
The places that exposed his **** faces
Things that spread, squeezed, and joy in **** tasting
An inserted pleasure burrowed deep from throat to waisted
Passed out drunk on love lust and **** filled vases

The peak was so brilliant
Joy ride till they collide out of control out of their minds
Writing vandalism like an equations broadside
"E=U & I" , could hate you in this day and time
But starve till withered away the day she ever said goodbye

The splash was so divine
Touched by her personal heaven
An angel as lucky like the # 11
He could never pretend or fake being insatiable.
The main source of his complexity

The view was so vast
A world of flat boring land waiting to be filled
Brought to life by their skills and the pursuit of a thrill
Would feel beheaded if ever they stood still
Feeding their frenzy and bending alls will (to their own)

The potency was such a rush
Too much oh so much, but oh so desired
Craving how much she'd  say " it's you I admire"
Toiling with brow to his navel, igniting the fire
The long kiss goodnight, made the morning quench of the sun a joy to the heart like her sweet face and loving
The monument by which praise and parade of her exploited flesh bare the quill to write paradise that he is inspired

The dream is much too real
While they watch the world turn and the masses conform
We struggle against the tide and tread the waves of the pass they morn
A lottery, marathon, playground, where many have entered her but only one can win the title of "Adored"

The now is not so much of then
They were them sometimes Every now and again engaged in moments when
Them they see and believe "you and me can be...."

But time sprints, and they limp, slower every aging step
Till times out of view and they're  out of breath
Bed bound but not the expected intent
For one is most attentive while the other lay mostly spent
But embraced they lay unchanged in any way
Still in love and still insane
Crazy for each others bane
Awake for the moon, and snooze through the rain
Gentle dreams of forbidden entry, daily flirt but never stray
Away, stay, away, plead for a day. Agreed then rinse, repeat
A treat for the sweet thoughts of the "use to be" but enjoyable right here, right now, someday is today

-Xin-
Ellen Stewert Apr 2014
It's the same all the time:
You go to the table you pick up the glasses and trash
You throw away the garbage and dump out the ***** glasses
You push the glasses on the scrubber and twist them and turn them until there is no dirt
You rinse off the soap and then you put them in the scalding hot blue chemical water and stack them in twos

You start again but this time you do two at a time and you scrub
You push two on the scrubber you twist and you turn them and get all their stains off
you rinse away the cleaner and drown them in sanitizer and stack them next to glasses the same

You finally reach that last glass with cream and grime to the brim
You go to scrub this glass and push it onto the scrubber

As you scrub the water is turning milky white and brown
you keep scrubbing but it won't get clean
maybe it needs a rinse
you hurridly put it in the second bath of water but that only gets it *****
maybe if you sanitize it, it may finally be clean
you put the crusted glass in the blue water and your hands burn and bleed
you turn away to nurse your hands but there's one problem.




*the glass isn't clean
it won't be cleaned
it's broken now because I tried to fix it
Kimberly Nov 2017
Circular
Cyclical
Unending
Spherical
.......Cycles.
Rinse. Lather. Repeat. Rinse. Lather. Repeat. Rinse. Lather-let's NOT repeat....The cycle goes on, unless we defeat
warped, twisted, distorted mindsets-
lest we forget
that our weapons of warfare are to demolish strongholds...
mindsets.
We can't be walking around blinded and undecided-
not in THIS spiritual climate.
No more Rinse. Lather. Repeat.
We must decrease and let Christ increase...
that's the only way that we can defeat
The Cycle.
~K!Co!
Laurie Fisher Jan 2014
Just gonna run for hours once the sun comes up
Sleep and rinse repeat until I reach defeat
Maybe I'll be alright, maybe I won't
Maybe I'll take those silly meds to keep them chemicals in check
Maybe I won't!
I don't give a
Hmm maybe I do Maybe I don't
Money, money makes the world go round round round
And I just don't got enough
They got me got me got me
Right where they want me
I don't give a
Hmm maybe I do maybe I don't
I'll be alright
Alright as a poor ***** can be In this ****** economy
With people you can't trust
Who leave you in the dust!
98% to be exact
Statistically speaking
They are waiting on your back breaking
So they can be there and care for you in your despair.
I don't give a
Hmm maybe I do.maybe I don't.
Nobody has triggered my sense of utter disgrace in this human race
Well now that's a lie
Because its all of you
I don't give a.
Atticus Apr 2023
‘You’re so wet for me baby’ they say
‘You’re not saying no’
Rinse repeat

It hurts I say
‘That’s normal ‘

It is what it is what it is what it is
My words stop

‘You’re so quiet’ they say

If I unzip my abused vocal chords I won’t be able to stop the noise
Keening screaming bursting like a dam

It’ll fill up my head
My ******* bone marrow
Where do I begin and where do you end flush against me

I am good at being quiet
I am good at being small
I am good at being needed
I am good at pleasing others
I am good at saying yes when I mean;
Stop
Get me out
You are choking me
I can’t breathe
There’s is blood on my teeth
On my hands

I held you after you assaulted me and you told me about what was plaguing your mind
So I comfort you
Rinse repeat
Tell you I’ve got you through gritted teeth

Is that so bad is that so bad I am needed so why is it so ******* bad

You fill my lungs acrid and burning
Inhale exhale
Inhale exhale
**** and ***** coat your lips like a gaudy lipgloss

Wash away the taste of you
Clean my teeth with dettol
Empty my veins clean the dirt out my veins
Trying to forget the way you coat my teeth

Your mouth is so good baby’ you say
It is bad honey and expired milk

It is not being touched since
It is not sleeping
It is wanting to be held but being terrified of the thought
patti Nov 2012
these last two weeks drag on.
I wash my hair all the time, rinse and repeat rinse and repeat rinse and repeat repeat repeat repeat repeat
slithering out of my follicles and sliding down the drain
toweling my hair dry, and
then you're creeping into my skin
you're creeping in creeping creeping and there's a whole bar of soap, gone.
and I think I'm finally clean and you've etched yourself in the pads of my fingers
that I rub on sandpaper until they bleed, ****** ****** badges of I'm winning!
winning this game with you in my lungs, pushing out with all your hands and your feet;
I can't breathe out, you won't let me, I hold it hold it hold it I touch edges of darkness feel my eyes
clog with pinpricks, stars, explosions and I've suffocated you, let out my breath,
calmed by your soft murmur in my ear, your touch on places we always went together,
I am cleaning cleaning cleaning trying to get you out of my skin and my hair and my thoughts
thoughts like you didn't even care and you don't even think about me anymore and all I do is think about trying to scrape your brains out of my innards.
vivid intakes, passionate obsession, cleaning cleaning cleaning the house the yard my hair (again) the door the mirror you wrote I love you beautiful the car seat you pulled me into the feel of your lips and your hands and your hair when you sweat because I could make you
feel.
and now I look in that mirror where I can't erase your words and I don't see that girl you watched anymore;
all I see is ***** of skin and listless hair and blue purple circles stalking my eyelids and profound sadness and I see so much that isn't even there because the one thing I need to see I can't because it's
you and you're wrapped up in her like a present
and all I got this christmas was coal to match this listless hair and an inability to see reality and a really awful obsession with wanting to cause you pain
pain pain pain pain what is pain, pearl white
what is pain
sanch kay Apr 2015
Bipolar is not just
swinging madly across a spectrum
of deep blue to fiery orange without
being stained by the indigos and greens, yellows and reds in between.
Bipolar is not just
a season blessed and a season cursed
on a cycle of happen, rinse, repeat.
bipolar is not just
Loud uncontrollable chatter
laughter that bounces off the insides of your head
Or
earthshattering sobs that give way to
teardrops that are waterfalls.
bipolar is not just
wanting to rove our hands over the
planes and curves of
every body we happen to find ****.
bipolar is not just
an amalgamation of wounds
in various stages of healing
each with an ugly story to tell.
Bipolar is just
so
hard
to deal
with,
(sometimes).
betterdays Jun 2014
Blue rinse  and set
home done.
Meant the colour changed every time,
from shades of pale lilac...
to electric neon light.
Always wave set never permed.
Hair too fine.

She was what they,
termed politely,
in those days:
"a large ***** woman."

Corseted nine to five,
in matrons whites.
Jiggly in a flambouyant orange muu muu by night.

A spinster, devoted to work and extended family,
large of heart and appetite.

A soft place to fall,
when the stonelike,
stoicism of my mother, became to harsh to bear.

I was flummoxed,
when in my teens,
I found a dog eared,
Kama Sutra,
in my blue haired aunts cupboard.
I can honestly say....

I learnt a lot... about a lot ...that day.
RH 78 Feb 2015
The barber asked "what would you like?
Quiff?
          bun?
           Mohawk?
slicked back?
           side parting?
                    centre parting?
                                            greased?            
                                      permed?                  
                           straightened?
                   skin head?
               bald head?
        spiky?
        A comb over?
pony tail?
        pig tails?
                    curly?
                            frizzy?
                      dyed?
                               mop top?
                         French crop?
                 blue rinse?
           purple rinse?
                             step?
                                    undercut?
                                              shaggy?      
                                     dreadlocks?"
"No thanks" I replied
"I'll have a short back and sides and make it messy on top please"
Jeremy Duff Jul 2014
I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about using every day.
I have dreams about those little yellow pills,
they don't speak to me,
or appear any different than they are in reality,
I just dream about holding them in my hands.

I couldn't do it,
recreational drug use.
I never could
no matter how many times I told myself I wasn't addicted, the truth remained
that I was.
I would tell myself "what kind of ******* is a drug addict, you're not, you're fine."
But I wasn't.
And everyday I have to tell myself "no, you cannot take those pills because you will not be able to stop"
Some days it ends there,
others I get as far as dialing my dealer's number.
Most days it's in the middle.

Being an addict is about having habits;
wake up, take three, (don't eat breakfast, the high will fade faster). Take four once the feeling leaves your legs, and four more before you go to sleep, so you can sleep.
Rinse and repeat; rinse and repeat.

Sobriety is the same way;
wake up, convince your self you don't need it.
Rinse and repeat as needed.

She helps, but she can't replace my addiction.
Although she gets me high, I can't become addicted to her, her lips do not have opiates hidden within,
but they have something better.

I don't think about getting high when I'm with her.
The high I get from her kisses is not dissimilar to that of methodone,
only their is no crash.
The high I get from caressing her thighs shares a likeness with *******,
except it costs love, not cash.
The high I get from hearing her gasp my name as our love making intensifies is very similar to that of hydrocodone,

only much, much better.
Alice Ellen Apr 2018
No more guises,
Just look into my eyes
Every word said from now
Will not be a lie
But every word about to jump
From your lips shall die
Because your carnal cravings
Will eat them alive.

I’m slowly dissipating
But I know you can revive me
A fallen tree, I sleep here
Slipping into lifelessness
But I feel so ravenous
And I know you can feel
The thumping of my heart
It’s eager; deeply.

You crawl up to me
With a different face
Different intentions
Breathing different air
I inhale your energy
My longing embraced
I want every trace of innocence
Completely defaced.

Overpowered
By this yearning
We want, we crave
And we’re still learning
I cannot feel a thing
But a burning hunger
You cling to me
I invite you in

Of course, I do, I crave your skin
It’s a liquid I wish to immerse myself in
Your scent rinses me
Keeps me within your carnal hold,
Let the numbing begin.
A Tale of Two
Her Story>>>>
Today was my free day and I longed for some soothing nature time. I had my picnic basket with some food and wine. I wanted to enjoy my afternoon alone. I was just standing there, waiting for the cars to pass me so I could cross the street to the park. He walked by me and the wind blew his scent right to me. He smelled like heaven on earth.
I am very familiar with many scents and this one was new to me. I watched him walk past me. He was hansom with dark hair are mysterious eyes. His hair blowing in the breeze just as mine was. I love that feeling, being caressed by the wind. Before I knew it he was out of sight. I did not see where he had gone, for I had been day dreaming of what he would be like to kiss.
I continued on my way to the park and found a nice quiet place to read my book. I laid out my blanket and flung off my shoes. I wanted to lay there under the fading sun and enjoy the wind flirting with my dress while I read. It’s a warm windy day and its perfect. I had been reading for 30 minutes before I was warmly surprised by the smell that came to me. It was the smell of the man who had passed me. I looked up and saw him; he was standing over me with a poetry book in his hand. I smiled and invited him to sit down.

He smiled and introduced himself as a fellow nature lover. He didn’t tell me his name and at this point I was so surprised by his presence that it didn’t matter. I sat up and I asked him if he would join me in a glass of wine. He comically answered that he is sorry but we both cannot fit in that glass! I laughed and poured two classes of BlackStone red. He accepted with a smile. I lay back down on my stomach with my book half-open. My heart was beating so fast, he was right here with me and I could smell him, it was wonderful. We were strangers and I had no idea how he found me or why.
"What brings you to the park today?" I asked. He didn’t answer me, he just looked into my eyes for the longest time and then slowly bent down and kissed me. I thought my heart was going to be heard for miles. Surely he could hear it! It was a very long sweet kiss, perfect in every way, as if we had been kissing each other for years. I broke my lips free reluctantly and asked him once again, "who are you?" He opened his mouth and he said, "I came to the park today because you are here" I was speechless, I didn’t know what to say.

I turned over and lay on my back ready to question him again. He was right next to me, a man out of a dream, just appearing from no where. My mouth opened to ask once again who he was and as soon as I did his lips fell to mine in a long wet kiss. He was pure heaven to touch tongues with. I was enjoying myself too much to ask him anything. I dropped my book and heard the pages flapping in the wind while we kissed. My hands made their way to his dark hair and I could not help myself, I pulled him closer to me. There was no one around; we were in no danger of being seen. He moved closer to me and held me tight. I could not brake away from his kiss, nor did I want to.
He left my lips on his own, kissing my neck. He whispered in my ear "I have been watching you for a while now". I suddenly felt a little frightened. I do not know this man at all and yet he is kissing me. He reached past me and into my picnic basket. He pulled out the strawberries and nibbled on one while staring at me. I couldn’t speak, I was staring right back and it was like he had my mind engulfed with thoughts.
He then fed me a strawberry very slowly; juice ran down the side of my mouth. He reached down and licked it off with his tongue. I whimpered, I wanted him so bad. He picked up another berry and took a big bite, the juice feel on my chest between my *******. I looked him in the eyes, smiled and closed my eyes and waited for him to lick it off me. And he did, very slowly lick it off and trailed his tongue down the length of the opening of my blouse.
He began unbuttoning me, my hand went to stop him, and he reached out and held my hand. He kissed my fingers and said, "abandon all fears". I let my hand fall to the grass and let him unbutton me. I was wearing nothing under my shirt, no bra. I felt his breath touch me on my ******, and I felt it rise to a stiff peak. He took a bite of a strawberry and left half of it on the stem. He kissed me once again, and at the same time I felt the chill of the cold half strawberry touching my ******.
This was heaven, my god I felt a trickle of my own juice run from my *****. I was whimpering while he was kissing me. He touched me so slowly and with such care. The cold berry circling my ****** and the kiss at the same time was driving me wild. He moved and began ******* the strawberry mess of my ******. I held his head to my ****** for a moment, it felt so good. I felt his hand reach for my thigh, soft and warm hand just caressing me. He found my wetness and was surprised by it.
I smiled and giggled, what could I say. He looked right in my eyes and told me I was about to get a licking I would never forget. He was very right! He knew what he was doing, and he made me *** so fast I couldn’t believe it. I was in heaven. Still quivering and whimpering I rolled over on top of him. I kissed him like he was my long lost love. I quickly unbuttoned his pants while a stared at him with glazed satisfied eyes. I moved lower and found his throbbing **** staring at me. I took him into my mouth while I stared into his eyes. I saw the thrill he was having as the moistness from my mouth mixed with the wind as I moved up and down. He tasted and felt wonderful and I couldn’t stop myself from wanting all of it for myself.
I heard the noise of pleasure comes from him and suddenly he stopped me and laid me down in the grass next to the blanket. He wanted me as much as I wanted him. He joined me and made love to me in the grass. The breeze blowing over our bodies, the currents within exploding. He stayed on top of me and started kissing me again.

I broke the kiss and I whispered to him, "Who are you?" He simply reached for the wine and smiled. He filled my glass and placed the cup in my hand while he buttoned my blouse and smiled. I sat up and looked into his eyes, why do I feel is if I know him! He bit my thigh and I jumped spilling the wine on my skirt. I ran to the water fountain to rinse it off and when I looked back he was gone. There was no way he could have left without passing me! I was stunned. I went back to my blanket and collected my things. My book was gone, he taken it. And he had also replaced it with the book of poetry he had brought with him. There was no name written in it, no sign of who he was. Just a book of poetry and a note slipped into a fitting page of love for a moment and it read ‘Meet me in the moon light tomorrow night, I will be waiting" and it was signed no longer a secret admirer.

His Story>>>>
I saw her again yesterday. This time when I went past, she seemed to notice me. Like so many days recently, she took my breath away. I remember the first time I saw her; she was wearing a **** black dressed that crossed at the front. Today, she was carrying a picnic basket.
I ducked behind a corner and watched. Who was this woman? And more important, whom is she going to have a picnic with? I followed at a safe distance and watched her unpack & prepare a picnic for one. She started reading a book and I knew she would be there for a while. I don’t know why, but I decided to backtrack and bought collection of Emily Dickinson poems before making my way back to the park. When I got back, my heart pumped hard in my chest. I could feel a throbbing in my head as the blood coursed through my brain.

Suddenly, I was only aware of our immediate surroundings. The sun caressing my face, the wind lapping at my hair. And her. She looked radiant in the dappled light of the afternoon, her hair flowing over her shoulders. Her sensuous mouth twitched every now and again as she read. Something caught her attention and she looked up at me. I was a mess. All I could come up with was that I was a fellow nature lover. I just stood there until she invited me to sit down.
Worse still, when she asked me to join her in a glass of wine, I blurted "I’m sorry, but we both cannot fit in that glass". At least she laughed and when she handed me the wine she asked why I was there. Having made a fool of myself already, I decided that actions would speak louder than words and surprised both of us by leaning forward and kissing her.
Her mouth was beautiful- soft, full lips. I could taste the wine on her lips and as my tongue gently parted them. Her mouth opened to greet mine and I took her lower lip between my lips.
She was reluctant at first but warmed to me and I felt her hand on the back of my head pulling me to her. I was no longer aware of anything but her. Nothing else mattered.
At one point she asked me again why I was there. I couldn’t believe it when I heard myself say that I had been watching her. "Great", I thought. "Don’t worry about looking foolish because now you look like a psychopath". Deciding for the second time that silence was golden, I kissed her again. Our tongues explored each other’s mouths.
I could feel her warm breath on my face and I pressed my body firmly against hers. My leg found its way between her legs as I used it to press on her *****. Reaching for some of her strawberries, I took one in my mouth and fed her the rest. I put a strawberry half in my mouth and lent forward to give her the rest. She bit into it and our lips caressed as she swallowed it. When some juice escaped her mouth and ran down her cheek, I licked it off, running my ******* trail from the base of her neck up to her mouth.
She was now irresistible; I had to have her. I undid her dress button by button. I licked berry juice from her ****** as I felt it harden under my tongue. I ran my tongue around and around her ******, then from the base of it to the tip. I felt her back arch towards me as my hand wandered down her body. The leg, which had been pressing against her *****, was damp. Her ******* were completely soaked and I was astonished to find her completely shaven as my fingers slipped under the waistband.
She opened her legs as my fingers slipped inside her. As I let my fingers caress her ****, I kissed and nibbled my way down her body. The further I moved down, the stronger her scent became. It was intoxicating and I knew that I must have her juices flowing over my tongue. My fingers slipped under her ******* and I gently pulled them down, very slowly. She lifted herself off the ground, inviting me to take them off completely. It felt like I was 6 years old and opening a Christmas present. When they slipped off her ankles, I brought her ******* to my face and inhaled deeply.
The scent hit my nostrils and went straight to primitive parts of my brain. I dropped them and immediately ran my tongue up her inner thigh towards her *****. I stopped before my tongue reached there and let her feel my breath. I enjoyed the smell while I could as I plunged my tongue between her lips and straight into her *****, the sharp tang of her juice stimulating my taste buds.
She tasted as good as she smelled. I made my tongue rigid and slid the tip of it along her ***** up to her ****. My tongue broadened as I delicately licked her **** like it was a melting ice cream. My wet fingers found her ****** and I caressed it to the same rhythm as my tongue on her ****. I felt her ****** build up and a gush of her *** soaked my chin and my chest.
I was aroused to the point of unconsciousness when she suddenly pushed me on my back and straddled me. She was quick to free my **** and took it in her mouth and looked up at me. Our eyes met in a moment that I will never forget. We both knew what was to come. Releasing my ****, she straddled me and lowered herself onto my ****. We both gasped as she opened up and slipped over my head and down the shaft, her **** grinding against my ***** bone. We kissed deeply as our bodies united and we tasted each other’s juices. When I first saw her, I thought how much I would love to **** this angel. But we were not *******, we were making love.
At last, our bodies climaxed as we ****** hard at each other, my **** slamming hard, my ***** slapping against her *******.
We lay on the soft grass in ******* bliss and she asked me again "Who are you?". I avoided the question by biting her thigh, which made her spill her wine. I took my opportunity and left, but not before swapping books with her. I left a note for her asking her to meet me tonight. Such unimaginable beauty and sensuality can only be enhanced by the moons pale light.
a situation told by male and female perspectives
Jack Torrance Sep 2018
7AM

My head’s filled with glass,
as the sunlight streams in.
My mouth’s like the desert,
as I groan “never again”.

I fight to sit up,
and my stomach protests.
I swallow back *****,
and it’s almost a success.

I sprint to the bathroom,
and flick on the light,
barely making the toilet,
as the tears blur my sight.

Now I stare in the mirror,
through bloodshot eyes,
splashing water on my face,
as I try not to cry.

Today will be different,
I promise myself.
No drinking today,
the bottle stays on the shelf.

12PM

The aspirin has helped,
along with the food.
Just one beer with lunch,
to lighten the mood.

Besides, says my brain,
you’re more normal this way.
It’ll help you relax,
so just have one, whatcha say?
                    
6PM

The beers took the edge off,
and now I’m more fun.
I’ll just take one shot,
just one, then I’m done.

12AM

The room won’t stop spinning,
and the bottle’s all gone.
My hand is bleeding,
what the hell’s going on?

I stumble off walls,
trying to stay on my feet.
I finally fall into bed,
now, rinse and repeat.
An old poem I found today
st64 Apr 2014
If I were doing my Laundry I'd wash my ***** Iran
I'd throw in my United States, and pour on the Ivory Soap, scrub up Africa, put all the birds and elephants back in the jungle,
I'd wash the Amazon river and clean the oily Carib & Gulf of Mexico,  
Rub that smog off the North Pole, wipe up all the pipelines in Alaska,  
Rub a dub dub for Rocky Flats and Los Alamos,
Flush that sparkly Cesium out of Love Canal

Rinse down the Acid Rain over the Parthenon & Sphinx, Drain Sludge out of the Mediterranean basin & make it azure again,
Put some blueing back into the sky over the Rhine, bleach the little Clouds so snow return white as snow,
Cleanse the Hudson Thames & Neckar, Drain the Suds out of Lake Erie  

Then I'd throw big Asia in one giant Load & wash out the blood & Agent Orange,
Dump the whole mess of Russia and China in the wringer, squeeze out the tattletail Gray of U.S. Central American police state,
& put the planet in the drier & let it sit 20 minutes or an Aeon
till it came out clean.




                                                     Allen Ginsberg
                                                    Bou­lder, 26 April, 1980








.
Allen Ginsberg (1926–1997)


One of the most respected Beat writers and acclaimed American poets of his generation, Allen Ginsberg enjoys a prominent place in post-World War II American culture.
He was born in 1926 in Newark, New Jersey, and raised in nearby Paterson. The son of an English teacher and Russian expatriate, Ginsberg’s early life was marked by his mother’s psychological troubles, including a series of nervous breakdowns.
In 1943, while studying at Columbia University, Ginsberg befriended William Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, and the trio later established themselves as pivotal figures in the Beat Movement. Known for their unconventional views, and frequently rambunctious behavior, Ginsberg and his friends also experimented with drugs.

On one occasion, Ginsberg used his college dorm room to store stolen goods acquired by an acquaintance. Faced with prosecution, Ginsberg decided to plead insanity and subsequently spent several months in a mental institution. After graduating from Columbia, Ginsberg remained in New York City and worked various jobs.

Ginsberg first came to public attention in 1956 with the publication of Howl and Other Poems.
“Howl,” a long-lined poem in the tradition of Walt Whitman, is an outcry of rage and despair against a destructive, abusive society.
Kevin O'Sullivan, writing in Newsmakers, deemed “Howl” “an angry, sexually explicit poem”, considered by many to be a revolutionary event in American poetry.
The poem's raw, honest language and its “Hebraic-Melvillian bardic breath,” as Ginsberg called it, stunned many traditional critics.

Richard Eberhart, for example, called “Howl” “a powerful work, cutting through to dynamic meaning…It is a howl against everything in our mechanistic civilization which kills the spirit…Its positive force and energy come from a redemptive quality of love.”
Appraising the impact of “Howl,” Paul Zweig noted that it “almost singlehandedly dislocated the traditionalist poetry of the 1950s.”
In addition to stunning critics, Howl stunned the San Francisco Police Department. Because of the graphic ****** language of the poem, they declared the book obscene and arrested the publisher, poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

Ginsberg's political activities were called strongly libertarian in nature, echoing his poetic preference for individual expression over traditional structure.
In the mid-1960s he was closely associated with the counterculture and antiwar movements. He created and advocated “flower power,” a strategy in which antiwar demonstrators would promote positive values like peace and love to dramatize their opposition to the death and destruction caused by the Vietnam War. The use of flowers, bells, smiles, and mantras (sacred chants) became common among demonstrators.

Sometimes Ginsberg's politics prompted reaction from law-enforcement authorities. He was arrested at an antiwar demonstration in New York City in 1967 and tear-gassed at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in 1968.
In 1972 he was jailed for demonstrating against then-President Richard Nixon at the Republican National Convention in Miami.
In 1978 he and long-time companion Peter Orlovsky were arrested for sitting on train tracks in order to stop a trainload of radioactive waste coming from the Rocky Flats Nuclear Weapons Plant in Colorado.
Ginsberg's political activities caused him problems in other countries as well.

Another continuing concern reflected in Ginsberg's poetry was a focus on the spiritual and visionary. His interest in these matters was inspired by a series of visions he had while reading William Blake's poetry, and he recalled hearing “a very deep earthen grave voice in the room, which I immediately assumed, I didn't think twice, was Blake's voice.”
He added that “the peculiar quality of the voice was something unforgettable because it was like God had a human voice, with all the infinite tenderness and anciency and mortal gravity of a living Creator speaking to his son.”
Such visions prompted an interest in mysticism that led Ginsberg to experiment, for a time, with various drugs.
After a journey to India in 1962, however, during which he was introduced to meditation and yoga, Ginsberg changed his attitude towards drugs. He became convinced that meditation and yoga were far superior in raising one's consciousness, while still maintaining that psychedelics could prove helpful in writing poetry.

Ginsberg's study of Eastern religions was spurred on by his discovery of mantras, rhythmic chants used for spiritual effects.
During poetry readings he often began by chanting a mantra in order to set the proper mood.
In 1972 Ginsberg took the Refuge and Boddhisattva vows, formally committing himself to the Buddhist faith.

In 1974 Ginsberg and fellow-poet Anne Waldman co-founded the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics as a branch of Trungpa's Naropa Institute.
“The ultimate idea is to found a permanent arts college,” Ginsberg said of the school, “sort of like they have in Tibetan tradition where you have teachers and students living together in a permanent building which would go on for hundreds of years.”

Ginsberg lived a kind of literary “rags to riches”—from his early days as the feared, criticized, and “*****” poet to his later position within what Richard Kostelanetz called “the pantheon of American literature.”
He was one of the most influential poets of his generation and, in the words of James F. Mersmann, “a great figure in the history of poetry.”
Because of his rise to influence and his staying power as a figure in American art and culture, Ginsberg's work was the object of much scholarly attention throughout his lifetime.

In the spring of 1997, while already plagued with diabetes and chronic hepatitis, Ginsberg was diagnosed with liver cancer.
After learning of this illness, Ginsberg promptly produced twelve brief poems. The next day he suffered a stroke and lapsed into a coma. Two days later, he died.

How would Ginsberg have liked to be remembered?
“As someone in the tradition of the oldtime American transcendentalist individualism,” he said, “from that old gnostic tradition…Thoreau, Emerson, Whitman…just carrying it on into the 20th century.”
Ginsberg once explained that among human faults he was most tolerant of anger; in his friends he most appreciated tranquility and ****** tenderness; his ideal occupation would be “articulating feelings in company.”
“Like it or not, no voice better echoes his times than Mr. Ginsberg's,” concluded a reviewer in the Economist.
“He was a bridge between the literary avant-garde and pop culture.”
S D S Apr 2013
Sleeplessness might be a curse
More hours should be a blessing
I cannot find joy in madness
Sleeplessness is sane-less-ness
Insanity turns to absence
The void in my eyes alarms
Notice bring stress and tension
I'm too wound-up to sleep
I'm a snake eating its own tail
I should visit the pharmacy but
I rush to get home instead
Too tired to do anything
Too tired to fall asleep
Insomnia is a cruel mistress
Michael W Noland May 2013
The dread set in upon opening my eyes, as i swing my legs to the right side of the bed and stand. Slightly stumbling i make my way to the bathroom while adjusting to a waking state. I flip on the light, wincing my eyes in a sharp electric freeze from the back of my head, and while recovering, i pull the shower curtain away from the showers pull ***. Pulling the *** out slowly twisting it to ninety degrees as the water turns on, i am reminded to feed my plants before leaving the condo for the day. I step into the shower dipping my head under the warm stream of steaming water while resting my hands against the wall, as images of all the women i had saw the night prior begin shuffling through my head and a partial ******* forms. I imagine their eyes filled with tears, as i shove them down to my ****, and finally the Rolodex of faces stops on a Starbucks girl with piercings all over her pouty face that i had encountered on a lunch break a few days ago, and i begin stroking my **** with my right hand whispering "you ***** ****" over and over, as her eyes look up at me innocently, Mascara running down her face, until suddenly i hear my phone vibrate atop a pile of pocket change in the bedroom which promptly kills the moment in my wonder of the importance of a 5:00 AM jingle, which slowly fades, while i proceed to apply Ax shower gel to my Ax body scrubber that i had received as a gift in a Holiday work raffle three months prior.  Vidal Sassoon extra volume shampoo plus conditioner, "All in one," proudly printed on the label, as i apply a handful to my shaved head in a smooth dripping lather, that i do not rinse until after applying a pink ****** scrub that's label has worn off, and i am unsure, and not concerned with its origin, as I squeeze a blob of Colgate paste onto my toothbrush from the rack overhead, and scrub in a slow circular motion, while i rinse off the shampoo, shower gel, and ****** scrub, and then reach for my Listerine mouth wash, and swish for 30 seconds before spitting the burning mixture into the drain, while putting the brush away. I tilt my head up, and open my mouth wide under the water, taking in a mouth full, which i gargle for 10 seconds then spit, and turn off the shower reaching for a tattered towel left over from a breakup four years prior.  I dry off while still standing in the shower, and gently lay the towel on the floor before stepping out onto it, and grabbing a stick of Degree antiperspirant from the counter.  I apply 3 long strokes to each armpit before capping it, and putting it down. Two sprays of coolwater cologne i apply from a 1 foot distance, misting my chest and lower neck, before i put it down beside the deodorant, and walk back into the bedroom, grabbing a pair of boxer shorts from a drawer not caring which pair i grab. I slip them on, and walk over to the mirrored closet where i flex a few times, point aggressively, and in an authoritative tone repeat "I don't give a ****.", three times before sliding the closet door open and grabbing a pair of Marc Echo blue jeans that i had purchased online two years prior with a gift card from a local pub that i may have frequented too much to have received.  Reaching for an Infliction black tee shirt with ghostly gray swirls cascading to its base, i become completely still, left arm clutching the shirt still on its hanger, i am paralyzed for two seconds before looking away, and saying  "I don't have any plants" inquisitively to myself, yanking the shirt from the closet, and walking over to my phone atop the dresser.

Picking up the phone almost eagerly, i click the screen on in a light squeeze, and swipe my finger from left to right across the display to unlock the device, to a missed call from an unknown number, a voicemail, and 3 missed text messages. I tap the voice mail icon, and enter my pass code upon the automated prompt, "1234." The voice mail immediately clicks a few times before hanging up which assures me of its automation, and i assume its the power companies robots attempting to collect the monthly charge again. I tap on the missed text message icon, disconnecting from voice mail, and see that all three are from a girl named Haedies i met through a roommate long ago that i have recently found over facebook. A "How are you!", "I MISS YOU!!!", and a picture message of her with a wax figure of a trollish cartoon character i cannot quite place, both looking very serious, and i look at her **** pressing out from her white tanktop, ******* clearly hard, and her neck, long and attractive, its definition, thins my blood, and her dark black medium length hair loosely dangles just above her shoulder, causing me to partially smile, as i close the message paying it no further thoughts, and slip on my tee shirt, as i head for the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and grab a plastic bottle of 5 Hour Energy, and twist it open, tip my head back, and take the whole drink down in one swallow, throwing the empty plastic shell back into the fridge, and swing the door shut with my bare left foot, before i head back to the room to put my socks and boots on. Once my black combat boots are fully laced up, i put my wallet, change, and keys into the appropriate jean pockets, and head for my jacket hung on a hook beside the door. A black leather windbreaker. My mini trench that allows for a high level of concealment, and pocket space made possible by Wilson Leather. I run my hand over my face satisfied with my slight stubble from not shaving today, and reach into my left inner pocket of my jacket and pull out Sony earbuds, and plug them into my phone. I select a Pandora station based on the black metal band "Burzum", and walk out the door, locking only the dead bolt behind me.  5:25AM
     Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam raises high,
And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.

I wish we could wash from our hearts and our souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they;
Then on the earth there would be indeed
A glorious washing day!

Along the path of a useful life
Will heart's-ease ever bloom;
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow, or care, or gloom;
And anxious thoughts may be swept away
As we busily wield a broom.

I am glad a task to me is given
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health, and strength, and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say-
'Head, you may think; heart, you may feel;
But hand, you shall work always!'
Life's a Beach Jan 2014
Colour girl, caught up in a perfect
world
Stuck between your straightened lines,
Just pretend you're fine,
you're not
I know for sure that you're not.
You're rotting.

Sharpened face
Folders can't replace unsaid
words stuck down your mouth.
Your smile is falling South
for Summer.
Feed it
Or it'll leave forever.

You have been warned
You have been warned

Tap on the table
Line up the pens
Repeat, rinse,
rinse, repeat
once again
You'll never be clean
But, no one is clean

You aim to be squeaky
and lean.

You've washed away your hue,
and spat it
out on paper
Your blood is gone
The ink seeps strong
Your will has turned
to vapour.

In the end you're just a faker,
Haven't you learnt that we're all fakers?

Tap on the table
Line up the pens
Repeat, rinse,
rinse, repeat
once again
You'll never be clean
But, no one is clean.

Who the hell's clean?

Wash away the colour
Wash away the colour
Wash away your colour
Song like structuring.
Cleanliness and ******

The ship was old once it had been a big ship now it was small
it had been overtaking by time, its shower system had sea water
which was nice enough to cool off when it was hot.
After having a shower, you needed a bucket of fresh water to rinse
the salt away if not you would scratch all night have irritated skin
For month we did not have a proper wash when our ship docked in
Bremerhaven for repairs and we got fresh water found I had
an extra pair of socks I didn’t know about
it was wonderful having a hot shower I stayed under it til someone
complained I was using all the warm water, even today the sense
of cleanliness makes me shudder with delight.

Whatever I had done in my youth the night before it helped
to have a shower and wash the sin away the smell of “life buoy.”
the only soap we knew about, made the difference the ******
loved it they knew you were clean ******

— The End —