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Styles May 2017
Her flesh
was his canvas
his hands spread over her body
like paint saturating its canvas
emotions surfaced
like oil paintings
her body shivered dying for his strokes
long throws of passion
sliding across her body like
satin brushes over skin
Candy Flip Sep 2015
I stood there,
Tall and proud,
Half yard behind
Death drop,
Vortex form at toes,
Put fish world in spin.
Crush moss trees with
Splashing feet.
One long gaze
Left to right,
Miles of pool and stream
Spelling poetry in cursive
Through eroded landscape.
Zip down,
Junk out.
Open gates of flesh tap
Muscle relax,
Fresh release
Of human nectar.
Light separation
Casting rainbow shimmer,
A dancing upright
Tower of liquid.
Gravity outstretch
Palm grip
And connect
Via web of
Golden pour,
Chaps eye to
Mother earth.
A converging
Of torrents,
Saturating transparent terrain
With saffron and lemon.
The taste in a frog's mouth
Of sweet ammonia.
Clench,
And donation over.
A momentary meld
Of man and nature.
Those few seconds
Putting context into me:
At one with the scenery,
An extension of environment,
A limb of creation.
Nigel Morgan Mar 2013
January Colours

In the winter garden
of the Villa del Parma
by the artist’s studio
green
grass turns vert de terre
and the stone walls
a wet mouse’s back
grounding neutral – but calm,
soothing like calamine
in today’s mizzle,
a permanent dimpsey,
fine drenching drizzle,
almost invisible, yet
saturating skylights
with evidence of rain.

February Colours

In the kitchen’s borrowed light,
dear Grace makes bread  
on the mahogany table,
her palma gray dress
bringing the outside in.

Whilst next door, inside
Vanessa’s garden room
the French windows
firmly shut out this
season’s bitter weather.

There, in the stone jar
beside her desk,
branches of heather;
Erica for winter’s retreat,
Calluna for spring’s expectation.

Tea awaits in Duncan’s domain.
Set amongst the books and murals,
Spode’s best bone china  
turning a porcelain pink
as the hearth’s fire burns bright..

Today
in this house
a very Bloomsbury tone,
a truly Charleston Gray.

March Colours

Not quite daffodil
Not yet spring
Lancaster Yellow
Was Nancy’s shade

For the drawing room
Walls of Kelmarsh Hall
And its high plastered ceiling
Of blue ground blue.

Playing cat’s paw
Like the monkey she was
Two drab husbands paid
For the gardens she made,
For haphazard luxuriance.

Society decorator, partner
In paper and paint,
She’d walk the grounds
Of her Palladian gem
Conjuring for the catalogue
Such ingenious labels:

Brassica and Cooking Apple
Green
to be seen
In gardens and orchards
Grown to be greens.

April Colours

It would be churlish
to expect, a folly to believe,
that green leaves would  
cover the trees just yet.

But blossom will:
clusters of flowers,
Damson white,
Cherry red,
Middleton pink,

And at the fields’ edge
Primroses dayroom yellow,
a convalescent colour
healing the hedgerows
of winter’s afflictions.

Clouds storm Salisbury Plain,
and as a skimming stone
on water, touch, rise, touch
and fall behind horizon’s rim.
Where it goes - no one knows.

Far (far) from the Madding Crowd
Hardy’s concordant cove at Lulworth
blue
by the cold sea, clear in the crystal air,
still taut with spring.

May Colours

A spring day
In Suffield Green,
The sky is cook’s blue,
The clouds pointing white.

In this village near Norwich
Lives Marcel Manouna
Thawbed and babouched
With lemurs and llamas,
Leopards and duck,
And more . . .

This small menagerie
Is Marcel’s only luxury
A curious curiosity
In a Norfolk village
Near to Norwich.

So, on this
Blossoming
Spring day
Marcel’s blue grey
Parrot James
Perched on a gate
Squawks the refrain

Sumer is icumen in
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweþ sed and bloweþ med
And springþ þe wde nu,
Sing cuccu!

June

Thrownware
earth red
thrown off the ****
the Japanese way.
Inside hand does the work,
keeps it alive.
Outside hand holds the clay
and critically tweaks.
Touch, press, hold, release
Scooting, patting, spin!
Centering: the act
precedes all others
on the potter’s wheel.
Centering: the day
the sun climbs highest
in our hemisphere.
And then affix the glaze
in colours of summer:
Stone blue
Cabbage white
Print-room yellow
Saxon green
Rectory red

And fire!

July Colours

I see you
by the dix blue
asters in the Grey Walk
via the Pear Pond,
a circuit of surprises
past the Witches House,
the Radicchio View,
to the beautifully manicured
Orangery lawns, then the
East and West Rills of
Gertrude’s Great Plat.

And under that pea green hat
you wear, my mistress dear,
though your face may be April
there’s July in your eyes of such grace.

I see you wander at will
down the cinder rose path
‘neath the drawing-room blue sky.

August Colours

Out on the wet sand
Mark and Sarah
take their morning stroll.
He, barefoot in a blazer,
She, linen-light in a wide-brimmed straw,
Together they survey
their (very) elegant home,
Colonial British,
Classic traditional,
a retreat in Olive County, Florida:
white sandy beaches,
playful porpoises,
gentle manatees.

It’s an everfine August day
humid and hot
in the hurricane season.
But later they’ll picnic on
Brinjal Baigan Bharta
in the Chinese Blue sea-view
dining room fashioned
by doyen designer
Leta Austin Foster
who ‘loves to bring the ocean inside.
I adore the colour blue,’ she says,
‘though gray is my favourite.’

September

A perfect day
at the Castle of Mey
beckons.
Watching the rising sun
disperse the morning mists,
the Duchess sits
by the window
in the Breakfast Room.
Green
leaves have yet to give way
to autumn colours but the air
is seasonably cool, September fresh.

William is fishing the Warriner’s Pool,
curling casts with a Highlander fly.
She waits; dressed in Power Blue
silk, Citron tights,
a shawl of India Yellow
draped over her shoulders.
But there he is, crossing the home beat,
Lucy, her pale hound at his heels,
a dead salmon in his bag.

October Colours

At Berrington
blue
, clear skies,
chill mornings
before the first frosts
and the apples ripe for picking
(place a cupped hand under the fruit
and gently ‘clunch’).

Henry Holland’s hall -
just ‘the perfect place to live’.
From the Picture Gallery
red
olent in portraits
and naval scenes,
the view looks beyond
Capability’s parkland
to Brecon’s Beacons.

At the fourteen-acre pool
trees, cane and reed
mirror in the still water
where Common Kingfishers,
blue green with fowler pink feet
vie with Grey Herons,
funereal grey,
to ruffle this autumn scene.

November Colours

In pigeon light
this damp day
settles itself
into lamp-room grey.

The trees intone
farewell farewell:
An autumnal valedictory
to reluctant leaves.

Yet a few remain
bold coloured

Porphry Pink
Fox Red
Fowler
Sudbury Yellow


hanging by a thread
they turn in the stillest air.

Then fall
Then fall

December Colours*

Green smoke* from damp leaves
float from gardens’ bonfires,
rise in the silver Blackened sky.

Close by the tall railings,
fast to lichened walls
we walk cold winter streets

to the warm world of home, where
shadows thrown by the parlour fire
dance on the wainscot, flicker from the hearth.

Hanging from our welcome door
see how incarnadine the berries are
on this hollyed wreath of polished leaves.
Ramona Argo Sep 2014
There's an awkward thrill I feel
like wicked-wet rabies –
Oh. Ah. Oh.
To gaze over photos of the woman I created.
With my warped perception,
saturating and cropping everything into delicious
oblivion.
I am the knife as well as the ingredients
that sauteed her together in a camera flash.
She sits hot like heaven.
And I want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.

The woman I created, I hang up like perfected rotisserie
and fall in love with her accidentally every day.
Looking into those precisely underlined
tiger-*** eyes of startling navy. Knowing their true dullness.
Hissing at the free-swinging curls
and the hours behind them. Loving the lie.
The flowy top and sleek trousers gliding down lovely as Niagara
over chaffing chub; all hidden. And thighs; unshaven.
And that topical smile everyone likes to see, waiting to plummet
into suicide like a kite hanging in one tight second.
Her image is my greatest
False accomplishment.

I hang my portrait up on a wall of the internet
for people of the world to migrate to
the photo exhibit, my little show-off room.
They make offers and toss compliments
with their “I like this. I like this." nonsense.


They don't know that the girl in the portrait, she
isn't organic. They seem not to notice
that she is something of a chemical flower.
Her face is my face, only with whiteout poison-paste
smoothed over twice.
And they want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.

Gazing upon her believed-to-be beauty, as I hang my paintbrush,
she bites her body still as a painting,
bruised and needled
into perfect frame. She cries
like Jesus Christ, as she is stared at, but not seen.
I am the artist as well as the object.
And the woman in the portrait is
nothing,
but dot after dot of manipulated color.
And we want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.
Abigail Madsen Apr 2013
my intelligence is not defined by a number, nor a letter.
nor should I be graded on a curve
by people
who don’t know me.
What does knowing the pythagorean theorem
have to do with me being a good person?
what will memorizing words on a page
help me with my rage
raging about how education has become
this conveyor belt
chewing up and spitting out
society’s warped up idea
of intelligence.
Throw me in a classroom with twenty-something students
just to tell me I’m better than him
but not as smart as her
teachers saturating our brains
with force fed textbook equations
telling us this is what we have to know to make it
“make it on time”, they say
“Passing it in late is not okay”
but when I am eventually thrown out
of this conveyor belt of education
the realization will be that life does not have
a set schedule.
my life will not change on time, as you ask
I cannot cram my creativity onto a five-paragraph
piece of paper.
I cannot crunch my knowledge
down onto six pages
about who I am
Don’t give me guidelines
my future does not have guidelines
you think you’re teaching us information
but in reality, you’re teaching us around the system
of how to get a passing grade
but not the exceeding knowledge
knowledge about what?
Our history?
what about our future?
We can’t learn about our future by staring at a blackboard
in a dim-lit room
with twenty-something other people
wondering what the hell we’re doing here
but being too scared to stand up
and ask.
A collaboration between my friend and I, this is what we came out with
SøułSurvivør May 2015
---

early morning
2AM
here I lie
alone again
water misting
from the eaves
saturating
fallen leaves
i feel my bones
are rearranged
in loneliness

in darkness estranged


soulsurvivor
5/16/2015
An early morning muse
woke me up

---
Zulu Samperfas Jul 2012
At Bookshop Santa Cruz
I look at a book about the East Bay then and now
One picture strikes me: 1969 Sproul Plaza
Govener Ronald Reagan has the National Guard spray
tear gas on protesters on the steps of this Berkeley Administration Building
People run in black and white
they look like my parents
The helicopter is so close to the ground, like the Vietnam War

I was three
In the backseat of our VW Bug
My mother was driving me to Strawberry Canyon
for a swim
Then she got scared--something on the radio
We turned around
I didn't understand
She had to protect us from tear gas
We lived in a war zone
Everyone was very upset
We were attacked by our own government
Even children were fair game

An innocent frog is placed in water
If the water temperature is raised gradually
the frog will sit there until it dies

In 1980 Ronald Reagan became our President
Much to our dismay
"70% of pollution comes from trees" he had announced
as Governer, he was obviously a man of science

The vice grip clenched, the water temperature raised
as we felt around us the world becoming more
difficult as a middle class
we were supposed to wait for crumbs to fall
from the table of the rich folks
fighting over the bits like starving animals

Budgets were cut
Prices rose, wages fell or disappeared completely
We were at war

1985: I took a class in Economics in college, a UC
I learned that Supply Side Economics was
a silly idea written on a napkin at a fancy restaurant
where the fat ones eat
and the crumbs are thrown away

It was all a sham
An excuse
The vice grip tightened, the world became
more difficult
not the American Dream my parents grew up in
To be middle class was to struggle and struggle and still
not have anything

The frog began to die
Somehow we saw that
Reagan drifted away, but his ghost
remained, a respite in the 90's

Then we were at war again
Not just tear gas, but carpet bombing
Guerilla warfare in the streets of a hot arid country
Oil companies, already saturating our ground and our air with their products
Cashed in

The frog is near death
We struggle, and nothing gets better
Only a respite

At a fancy restaurant
on a napkin someone wrote
a new theory of Economics
that became like Scientology
Outgrew it's ridiculous inception
And became real

Ronald Reagan dropped tear gas
from helicopters on Sproul Plaza
and it drifted to Strawberry Canyon
where children learned to swim

But that is child's play now
the frog is about to die
I want to pull it out.
alupa Jun 2021
It was more like I was slowly sinking
deeper and deeper each day

You poured your love into me
And it drenched my heart
streamed through my veins
Soaking every single cell of my body
Leaking out of the pores of my skin
And dripping from my fingertips
To bleed into everything I touch

It flooded my chest
And filled up my lungs
Until it spilled out of my mouth
Trickling from my tongue
Saturating every single word I say

It flowed through every part of me
And eventually seeped into my bones
Making all that I am
Crave all that you are

I never fell in love with you
I drowned in it
Sabila Siddiqui Feb 2018
But the lovebirds turned into ravens and heart warmth into heartbreak. The pain felt inexplicable as I crumbled to the floor, face scrunching up to let out a gasp through the heart-wrenching sobs. It was as though someone ripped my heart out of my chest and bore a hole in my mind and soul with no hopes of repair.The future we painted was tinted and washed with the tears that scraped my cheek, that once used to blush. Our love didn’t have a Disney proof happy ending or of the star-crossed lovers that fought by one another’s side.
Visiting areas where we spent time dragged me through memories, attacking my nerves and ravaging upon what was left of my being. The home we built and leveled with intimacy, trust and love reduced to ruins, crumbling and collapsing. It’s like my heart is dying a slow death, shedding hope like leaves every day until there is none. Our love sailed for some time but only to end up shipwrecked. Fragile like the glass that awaited to broken until the shards fit no more.
Defeaned by the repetition of the melancholiac rhythms that soothe my spasming and scorched heart as the beat resonates with my heart and lyrics echoes in my skull. The wound that was cut bleeds deep for there was no scab to heal; endless anguish and agony. The pain felt like a constant ache, a constant stain on the floor and the pillow. But then it came in waves, crashing and enveloping me in its depths, stealing appetite and sleep. Drifting away from the shore where the people lie, I find myself drowning in isolation. Inhaling the heaviness that made me one with the sea.
The echoes of your words in my skull send pulsating self-doubt questions that make me question my worth. “Was he not the one?”. The world seems like it’s going to end and that I will never find love. But instead live with a heart yearning your name and the broken, hollow vessel that I have become.
You changed the way I thought of myself and now I don’t know who I am without you. The world seems to ripped from my arms for I didn’t have you to turn to. No one to catch me; to caress and to soothe. Your face is engraved in my memory, without you, everything seems meaningless. Saturating myself further in dreaded apathy. In a shattered state, I am further tortured in dreams if I were to find sleep in the darkness that consumes the night.
Plastered on a smile and laugh occasionally, when deep down I am longing, drowning and gasping to breathe with your name on my tongue.I mourn the unspoken words while my head hangs heavy in the thought of you, every fiber and cell missing you.
Wanderer Apr 2012
The irreveracable state of falling moral
Piecing together newspaper dooms dayers
Always curious about generalized detachment
Yet unable to see the forest for the trees
Picket lines are home
Raging infernos of injustice and malcontent
Laying stoically at their doorstep
Wrapped messily in insomniac nightmares at yours
Big, BOLD letters voicing the masses
We are, We are
Oppressed, Depressed, Repressed
No longer though
Passing out the hymnals of our revolution
Unsatisfied but spent
I sit back and enjoy the show
Saturating my senses with the smell of burning GMO fields
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2015
How Many Calories in a Poem?


visualizing the invisible,
we deconstruct the content,
the in-titled label reviewed,
querying,
is this one worth the cost?

looking for true fiber,
then further inquire,
perchance,
are there grams of
kick-starting emotive proteins,
stored and lurking within,
homes for the cells
that will inspire, transform,
mere readers into mountainous writers

lean on those scripts,
injected with just hints,
resting ribbons of flavorful fat equipped,
for there will always be
the tyranny
of the those of the sparse faith,
those writers of haiku brevity,
believers that
fat free,
is the only,
but lonely,
bene of beauty

death from ignorance to those
who would poison the fruit
of the alphabet tree,
coat produce, with glossy chemicals,
that preserve the shiny exteriors,
cooking up false feasts interior,
saturating us with the trans-fats of trite,
oily verbosity and labels of organic,
that conceal the risks of
hyper-pretensivity

an every poem, seasoned for taste,
a dash of diamond sea salts,
scatter on pinches of pearls
of Caribbean cane sugar,
sprinkle human sins and cinnamon
for zest and tang,
for inspiration and flavoring,
for the souls tonguing tastebuds,
needy for reasons
to celebrate  commissioning
the enticing exhalations of appreciative
oohs and ahs!

Warning!
this poem was processed
in a old, out-of-date factory,
that is most assuredly not,
nat-nut free*

but even if allergic,
be unafraid to taste the acerbic,
for there are
poems
suited for everyones, even your
peculiarities

you want your essayed poems
to brim healthy caloric,
grow them as offshoots
of your very own organs

you need not seek anothers certification,
if filled they are
with the mettle of iron,
built to be
calcium-fortified structures,
with the perpetual strong bones
of rhyme and sonnet

let each worded edifice
be the food,
stored to be gifted
to our progeny,
by their ever living on,
marking us,
marking them

omit the trite,
we ken no need,
for it is the false emptiness of
misleading carbohydrates,
that only fatten,
for the briefest satisfaction,
purposed for the killing of fulfilling,
dulling that which only
a well prepared
dish poetic,
can bring to healthy enliven
the human spirit




Nov. 12, 2015
Aboard Delta #2499
5:10 pm
when you are trying to lose weight, you obsess about bad calories
in everything...
George Andres Mar 2018
i want you to remind me
how the moon and the stars above
glance and hides how shy they were
whenever your voice soothes the trees and living creatures, reverberating the paradox of joy and sadness in your giggle

i want you to remind me
how the ends will never be the means of loving and that saturating my soul with your presence is more than i could ever receive, a reality unmet with circumstances of chains upon ourselves

i want you to remind me
how long it would take to consume the universe on your palm or the life in one single breath, or the night with a hymn that lights up my way home

i want you to remind me
of remembering goodbyes and hellos
the mellow sound of now and the agonizing tomorrow swifting its way to uncanny sound of laughter and sniffed tears

i want you to remind me
that there are more to life than we ever thought of: death, absence, nothingness

i want you to remind me
that i could always see the mirror of myself in your brushed short hair, chapped lips and past you never left behind, just the like the songs i've made to remind how unusual semblance of people unites hearts and eventually tear them apart

i want you to remind me
of the days where i loved deeply and without hesitation or fear of falling behind or the anxiety of losing what i never had in the first place

i want you to remind me of the days like this
where the smile in my face meant the world, home, and happiness from your single hello or the way you tilt your head and stare and smile and laugh or when your cheeks blush and swims together with the universe in your eyes and the waters deeply engraved in your fingers how the waves strum the music in your spirit and soul

how i want you to remember,

the way i will remind you:

i will remind you of how i love seeing you mess around and make everyone happy, your vain and cuddly smile behind the tint of the sun, along the banquets of academics and artists

i will remind you of how assured i was that you were whom i prayed for to a nonexistent deity of the wind and beauty; how i wished to feel its rush as i roam around, and steep-down the wheels, continuously weighing down unafraid of a valley of morality and questions

i will remind you of the philosophy of the meaninglessness of existence and how life was never the meaning but pain of waiting for death; you made it bearable and the ample grace of your heart is what i'll keep to my future journeys of seeking what i would trade for life itself enduring the morning commutes and cruelty of mischievous eyes

i will remind you of the day i saw you, and how tall you stand as me or how shy i was whenever i was in front of the crowd, but most of the time you give me the strenght to brush off what everyone would say

i will remind you of the day, and the days to come
i will not ask for more or less, it will be enough, and i hope with that, i will be enough, and i, hope you would always remind me #
32119PFE
Abaigeal Skye Feb 2014
Learning through osmosis,
that's what you desire from me.
Pages and slurs of facts,
saturating the air with verbose greed.

Musing behind dark lids,
so much every night.
Sleep- now reserved for the reckless,
enough night terrors in daylight.

Battered by sharp whistle,
together we must tread.
Eternally catching up,
to the expectations in your head.
From the depression of the distances with respect to the horizontal and the planes that separated them from the surface, below the references that came against, single sediment had been destined towards the high eminence, before the fossal of megatons of aldehyde below the bilges of the final base, where the seventh rings of the goat ibex were perforated, all in the antipode of the Constellation of Capricornus; where the goats were enraptured in the binary of Wonthelimar, behind the floods of absorption that took the Diadocos far from where they should never have left, in order to extrasolar wishes and never to come. From the node of the supreme and poked aldehyde of the horn of Amalthea, with the bizarre analogy of Zeus and Wonthelimar, both mammals with milk from goat's udders, one from goat from Mount Ida and the other from Aldaine in the Alps, with milk from ibex and In the face of Amalthea that appeared in the fossal, all the Seleucid generals had already vanished, starting from the Viper Typhon, who in the retracting sub-mythology of Capricornus was transmigrated to Wonthelimar, swollen with the aldehyde transmuted into this alcohol and into the udder milk of the Ibix that He lactored, while they were all carried away as in the chambers of Auschwitz, in distant lanterns and lamps of the Calypso that he dismissed them, leaving them with the escorts of the ibex or goatfish in laudable stratagems, which vanished them away from their desires from a new polis or Nostos Patrída, sprinkling them with goatskin and flourishing essences of the kashmar of Zeus' nurse; Amaltheum or Amalthea.

The Iberian rings from the medrones in advance reached the two final ring nodes, here Wonthelimar intimidated them with an accurate adjacent bleat of the kashmar that rubbed their back, before the newest and last lux of Amalthea that vanished into herbaceous fruits that always He carried the barefoot medron with him, to start with the antlers dumbbells and re-transport them defeated to the species of snake that frightened the pastoral god Pan who shepherded, and then he submerged in the water after becoming Capricornus Ibex Fish. Being aware of this and of those who refused to continue listening, Ibics rings were unleashed until the seventh medron, feeding back with Wonthelimar who ad libitum created Venus in triads of Zeus. Wonthelimar and Amalthea were remote in the eighth and ninth medron of the antlers, they appropriated to each the portion of the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, and of the thirteenth Shemot so that their dualities and fumes from the unbreathable fossa would remain under the possessed surface of the pendular property balance and positive-negative gender correspondence. Right here Amalthea transmuted her mercy to save the world with her lactation of syrup and honey that was not in short supply, and that was extrapolated into a future abundance of food and nectar, making up for crusts that were uneven in average terms. From this bezel, both beings of the goat genome contributed to the pole of goodness for each one at the end of the benevolent cuirassiers of prospering, and not from the opposite that would lead them, even though they were dissimilar causes, towards a retrograde event that was not a consequence of the becoming of the plagues, and of the malignancy that does not flourish with the Shemot of the Parasha, to agree and lavish themselves on blessed virtues or deliberate wicked ones.

The meaning of a relative synchronic and factotum coexisting does not redeem the disintegration of an existential relativism in Skalá, the Hexagonal Primogeniture from one of its angular visions, metaphysically transfers from its temporary contingencies after its arrival on Patmos, while the temporary Seleucid temporality vanishes, It was affirmed from a contradiction since its truth was distended in the arena of Skalá not implying being welcomed, rather it was victimized by the absurd political dimorphism in a meta spiritual state, abdicating its dispersed retrospective, and now contemplating a compromise of the Hellenic genre, to gradually rebuke the virtues of their banners, twice as good for the purpose of reinforcing the will to accede, and not perish in the attempt to lead Alexander the Great. The criticism of founding the memories are of a revived past where it was not, marking the anthropological fact and false truth judgment, in meaning and contradiction in the polarity of both axiomatic genres, but that is saved when quantifying in who has to defend himself, if seeks to abrogate itself, in the entity that is characterized by induction and attraction of egonies and not of exo-egonies, thus describing it in the theme of "Do not support egos that recriminate other characters of frustration and empowerment of a Vernarthian logic split into Vern-narth. Vern has etymology of Bern or Bern olive tree of Gethsemane and narth of the ordinal scale that speculates its nickname in millions of northern sections of its origin, which subsumes the truth and the criterion of apocalyptic parapsychology, re-life of quantum historicity of the metaphysical and sub-block. -Mythological of Vernarth in his identical.

Everything seemed a strange self-annulment from a clear and understandable limit, but Wonthelimar rose to the surface of the Állos kósmos, finding himself in atmospheres of truth and reality of a Cantabile, who decided about the horse Kanti coming with him towing him from the Erebo de Chauvet Bilocated. As a musical and festive ending, he received them on the upper plate of the happened gestures, where a cabaletta rendered parts of a Cantabrian aria, in sulfurous and remorseful cavatina married with the cross emotions of a finale who sponsored expressions and festive Templar tales, with the descendants of Zeus or minor children, or grandchildren after this had to give him milk and honey but with báchkoi. Among the couplets that received him, some came about the smoke of terror that was confused with the dustbin of a Cavallo or horse acclaimed Kanti, with gasping bustling from a cardex, containing all the repertoires of a cantabile if this scene were to be repeated in The same epic allusion, and in random consequences, that go after a cavalcade that is not abstracted in real characters, but more in conformity with the well-deserved place of epic imaginative beings or in the operatic psychotropic of a duet, which would go flagellating in individuality and in each which is not content from another section of the Cantabrian.

The Universality of emotion and feeling is a tragic Parodo emulating voices of all those who sing from a cantabile galloping in their voices to the beat of the heart in some, and at the same time chanting stanzas and antistrophe in reverse epic and tragic lines, for the purposes of the coliseum that diametrically obstructs the Hellenic choir, which is attached to the intervention of the Hexagonal Primogeniture that was already beginning to rise in height, and in the prayers of Saint John, the Apostle and Prochorus from the captaincy and the ode that would begin to stanza, from the west to this and the antistrophe would follow with Vernarth, Wonthelimar and Alexander the Great from east to west. Ad libitum of their enjoyments, they were eating Greek snacks or Katogorias on the way in bases of Almonds, cinnamon, olive oil, sugar, and sweet wine that they carried on their backs in Rhytas shaped like the horns of Zeus and the Ibix of Wonthelimar, which the same Procorus carried on his golden back. The meaning is affirmed as a meaningless infringement of laws of temporality, and truthfulness at the expense of short evidence, and of facts that vanish in the light haze of causalism and not of effectism, when the adjective or noun is made of a strong verb in the Metabasis and in the imprecations that Vernarth gave.

Vernarth's metabasis: “the verse and the adjective will be subsidized by the noun in the construction of Állos Kosmo Megarón, from where mathematics will immaterially explain sap suckers under the noun in liquid milk of the color white and of the high nutritional value in female lactated, and of mammals to feed their goats or ibex. The soul of this prerogative implies that the verb will be to promote species rather than a nutritious milky elixir for Zeus, and the candor of his **** will tend to the bipedal or quadruped subject self-procreating from a Milky Specie. (Milky species).  Being ****** into milk by self-procreating snitches. Vernarth says (give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!)

Amalthea in rituals and relics from prospects of demigods was purposely cordoning them off in Mycenaean deities, from a contemporary Westerner comforting them near a hippocampus; with signs of ibex Capricornus, rapt at the nymph that spoke from Mount Ida in Crete and that she made congruent with the constellation of Capricornus, more precisely in the Cornucopia making this heraldry of Wonthelimar with Fortune, Abundance, Occasion, Liberality, Prudence and Joy. In a woman sitting on a throne, a young nymph with a flower crown, a naked woman with one foot on a wheel and the other unstable, a woman with sunken eyes and an aquiline nose dressed in white, two faces from the past and future, a woman happy with the exuberance of the Cornucopia with children and a palm leaf. Being the abundance that in serial Amalthea bordered all the ladies in different esoteric and Mycenaean prosperity, constantly shining with radiations on the present in the Unicorn Ibix, which Zeus left after breaking its antlers, unleashing kindness and plethora in fruit buds, and vegetables that were appropriated in the Fortune of Wonthelimar reissuing what in their domains they can do, and now in Patmos with its Cornupia being transferred from that liquefied shaft honey and milk cultivated with attributes of herbs contributing to the leisure, peace, and relaxation of the cosmic world that ascended in Wonthelimar as Ibix in advance of Capricornus, from where the Auriga always broke into his expeditions with a trajectory towards the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, where he brought it from the Capella Star for the femurs of the Diplodocuses who seconded Drestnia to watch over the hydraulic pits of the Koumeterium from Messolonghi, before traveling to Tangier.

The entire herd went back to an ancient promontory that was halfway up the mound towards the black styes or abscesses, in the central intuition of the fossa that began to dissipate towards their backs. Amalthea extends into the Állos Kósmos, which came in zoomorphic receptacles collecting the announced blood of the animals that flowed in black planks from the vortex of the fossal, towards the liminal or transitory sleeper of the fossal that oozed acetosities of the Aldehyde to be transmigrated after the bilocation of the Chauvet cavern. All wore willow halos on the crowns or diadems of their caps, including the proliferation of phantasmagoric Allies that went in rows from 780 to 680 BC. C., with fortunes of the Cornucopia that arched in magical arches due to the dissociative changes of the universe, as well as the circumstantial creed of some omnipotence that will cause emotional transgenerational transgression, in the rain vessels that they made fall from the Ombrio de Zeus, in a daily latticework closing the spaces, and only leaving for some intruders and onlookers to see his flashing Astrepé. Right here the diádoc fossal vanished, when it rose above the horizontal that poured into the Chronic Vernagrams of parapsychological personalities of ingenuity classicism and in Astro-concomitance, which would rethink everything that is past and future from a Vernagram, which is more than a compression of a mere future of the quantum spaces and the sacred medrones of the Ibixes with their direct relationship with Capricornus. Diverse capital moments were treasured in the breeze of the Vas Auric that was traced from the opposing moraine that fell in lapse-time, through the labyrinth in storms and thunderings that became planetary with the Lynothorax cuirass that Alexander the Great accommodated in the festoon border of his Aspis Koilé, kicking copiously as a sign of shaking the head of the gods who deceived him to be alive, and who was now reborn in the faith of Saint John the Apostle, favorite of the Mashiach and where he will have to wipe his face with the shroud of Veronica Before entering the Állos Kósmos Megaron that everyone built, in favor of a Panagia or Temple, unlocking the majolica that seeped out from the rest of the transmigration, and his own in the configuration of a corpse with a tricolor gesture.

The presumptive eradicated the side of the forearm rots that was being restored in Wonthelimar's laps, which helped him get up and catch his breath while the Katogorias snack filled his mouth with nectar and almonds with Macedonian Psiloi combat tactics with serum and flames of Alcohol dripped from her nostrils and sinuses in the sweet wine, which in pompous dilemma defied the judges of her life in the choir of the Bilocated Epidary Theater on Patmos, and in the ***** dry Kashmar of the orchard with the pale faces of the grotesque, that rested in the memory or Mnmosyne and in the fauna of the Thracian and Thessalian helmets.

Alexander the Great says: “here I agonized and now in the fresh waters of the springs of the Lerna, I will also marry the glorious mystay and bákchoi, in the memories of Vernarth seeing him besieged by Achaemenides in the stooped position of Dario III, to come purifying and sustaining of my limbs, learning to walk and speak in Neolithic techniques, which extruded me from the Lerna by barriers of the moon that shone from the bronze of my Leonatus helmet. Thus I could see that Vernarth, fought alone against thousands throwing fire through his mouth and his eyes, separating the waters of the Falangists, who plowed like ships deforesting the Persians, and leaving them in their mud, imposing glorious Hypaspists who unbolted from their back some arrows with heads of snakes and Hydras.

Vernarth watched as everyone climbed the Profitis Ilias mound, two hundred and sixty-nine meters above sea level, where the monastery of San Juan is located; here he was suspended in his solitude after everything that happened at the end of the moat that definitely I would return without the Diádocos, with a hint and its functionalities. From here Helios became genealogical, who snatched him from the kingdom of dead flowers, which were to be assumed from the Olympian where he will join him to the essential of Aïdoneus; immaterializing in the darkness of dizzies and the flowers that died in the genealogy of a new species. The scenic swept its cognitive and ferns with more than three hundred frank species that frowned like the enemy of an evil friend, with seedlings that expectorated from the resonance of the bushes that invited to thrive in the salty ripples that made a dreamer fall asleep on top of the kerchiefs or brambles that memorialized Gethsemane, burning his face and hands with psalms, telling him about his Baba. For when it is a luminary by night and by day, they will compare it with the white grayish drupes and mops, like those of the Bern orchard of Olives, in aqueous and resinous colloidal, which was crowned in harmony and syntropia in Vernarth activating intellectual conscious plantations, which will restructure its balance of ultra Hoplite, in metabolism of the Lentiscus flowers, with great brotherhood in the Olives that each time exercised the gift of bending their oleaginous self-species, towards planes of the Cornicabra olives, with large branches and high tree altitude that fruit within of the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko spin, juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, which with large branches and high tree altitude fruit within the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko line juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, and with polyphenols in scale geothermal energy that still leveled the Ponto Sea towards the tectonic plate to give it the flavor that was owed from remote prehistoric times.

Patmos was aborted from an immanent consent and new force of the impending enemy in Pythagorean perorations and an offending thought. From this prerogative is born the generalized punishment of sub-mythological ethics in favor of legacies of allusions to reorder or defragment the enslaving and demolished bio culture, which would begin from the establishment of the Vas Auric found in Limassol, which took possession from Rhodes with clean scenes from Tsambika monastery. The epic ran like icy cold down the shoulders of all those who sweated for the generation of cops, and in domestic evasions in superior lordships to Hades or Wonthelimar itself, both sons of flocks and goats that nourished them by providing them with a mountain perspective, as a magnetic pole towards gothic energy that ruled more in the Magnetic North Pole, and the geographic oversize that reviled latitudes in riches that would dismiss Borker and Zefian, as masters distributors of the ethics of the Áullos Kósmos of Patmos, redeploying thousands of dead from pre-Hellenic times, so that they recirculate through the roots of the Kashmar, re-sulfurizing cinnabar saps as the germ of the subterranean Acheron, which consecrates the living and the dead in the eternity of the infinite Duoverse Universe. The order will lie in semi-shadows that even in the dark provide the pleasant warmth of camphor, with advanced Horcondising formulas, which will appeal to hungry souls by suppressing gifted energies, and by inseminating them with ovules without originally conceived organisms.

From Hylates, Cyprus; Zefian came by order of Vernarth, assisted with the extension of the earthly laborers of the Attic Calendar on the twenty-first of September, from the device of Apollo at the site of Boeotia, and especially of the Boedromion. The arrows that Zefian brought had an instant Boedromion crossing the lines from spring to winter, with seven arrows that Zefian threw into the sky and never fell, but if portentously received in the virginity of animals. The flora with seven golden arrows of the Chauvet de Wonthelmar cavern, condoned the exhaustive end of the fossal where they still remained, in a gesture of tenderness and relative Mycenaean genealogy, from Crete the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree was approaching, originating in the Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points, begin with the first two arrows that they put on the string of the bow, each one flying north and south trajectories and the other two that were once again attacked with the east bow, to shoot the arrows of east-west with southern magnetism limits. Zefian's imagination was of proportions that were not limited without wandering from their phalanxes when they pulled the string, like joys of a ghostly existence that pushed him in each bolt, presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for belated courts imposed from a cosmos, which he led by insisting on his will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating the association of the hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychological of the feared inter-tale alive that rebels in the arrows that they had not yet fallen and did not know their whereabouts. As plates or serial hosts, they were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burn contravened Duoverse to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in aeonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities towards vast volumes of light-years, where eternity has no measure, let alone the existence that begins and ends born from a homozygous arising without a Universe, to hatch from the branch of the Heterozygous Duoverse, bringing different unions of eternal cells by universal divine decree, and not the union of disparate cells. The science of the Mashiach came in these divine arrows that marked the points of the cardinal in the numinous and exclamatory expansions of the exiled universe of Vernarth, towards the perenniality in itself, but being heterozygous for a world that would begin to live in non-organic cells, but yes of divine composition, over saturating the limits of the origin, and destiny of syntropy of the conscious actions of the metabolism of the Alma Mater and of the great doors when losing the bodyweight of the physical-ether, but yes from the platform of the Mashiach that will take them hands without leaving them abandoned, showing them that they were no longer children born of ovule-*****, but rather in the luminous matter, envisioning expansions of prayers beyond from the universe, where it will accompany them in a multidimensional plane..., and will have no end from a human scientific conception.

Wonthelimar says: “Since the omphalos was swallowed by Cronos, Hera's elegy was unleashed, for not raising her son Zeus in free clumps of goats and Ida's honey. I in the Alps went to the herd of the Ibix like a Zeus saved from the darkness of Chauvet in the mountains of Gaul. There are chisels that cut stones in beautiful whirlwinds, but I know that a lot of cosmology would not speak of the Mediterranean Cornicabra and its olive drupe, nor less of the Cornucopia that sinks with sumptuous and ephebian flavors in the fruit, and the greenish heraldry of the binominal that is disturbed in its phalanges eating and sipping honey, in antler pots with pride of the Ida and the Vercors massif”
Wonthelimar Amaltheum, Állos Kosmos Megaron
Fissures cut through thick mocha fur, saturating
The forest floor with stark crimson. The deer flails,
Broken, knees buckled, breath shallow and emerging
As vanishing steam in frosty November air.
He falls on a bed of sugar maple leaves, illuminated
In dappled sunlight and fulvous hues.

“Must’ve been the coyotes,” my brother whispers,
As my pocketknife meets the stag’s throat. Gentle
Auburn clouds and freezes time, the body falls still.

My father says, “Sacrifice is a form of worship, but it is only through
Mercy that we may show passion for what we believe.”

Coyote bites prevent carvings from going to Buxton’s General Store,
But what nature produces it also receives.
Ants forage along the split underbelly,
And a red-tailed hawk carries away the entrails.

History defines the antlers of deer as symbols of the Gods,
And men would wear them atop their heads.
I collect only them, still draped with threads of velvet,
Knowing that years from now, nestled inside the perimeter
Of wind-beaten fences around the family farm, beyond
Moss-covered slopes and the Wishing Rock,
Will be the bones of a solitary stag.
All of my poetry contains a hint of my obsession with the beauty of the natural world. For one of the assignments in my workshop, we were given subjects by our classmates. After some contemplation, they decided to give me the task of tackling something ugly in nature, and this was my response. Enjoy!
Ned Carter Dec 2013
The children adore it
and wait all year
for the cold winter comfort
and the saturating cheer

They fidget and pace
all through December
making lists of the gifts
That they did not remember.

They climb upon Santa
eyes shining brightly
fingers clutching their lists
ever so tightly.

They stutter and stammer
forget what to say
resigned to waiting
for that magical day.

Xmas eve evening
so full of excitement
they dream of the morning
wondrous delightment.

The parents abhor it
and wait with dread
the upcoming gathering
the breaking of bread.

The family you avoid
the rest of the year
the drinking, the gossip
the pains in your rear.

The endless instruction
batteries galore
the wrapping and hiding
the locked closet door.

The last minute shopping
Black Friday stampede
to grant their wishes
to satiate their need.

Its finally over
the end is nigh
the morning of Christmas
the end of the lie.

The atheist ignores it
as best he can
it is pretty invasive
and he is only a man.

A fat man, a baby
flying moose in the skies
horrible, endless music
but at least there are pies.

It begins in October
the feast for the dead
the next day there's Jesus
in his tiny, wooden bed

A story of divinity
passed through the ages
bastardized and broken
parchment thin pages

Roman gift giving
European "Christmas" trees
A Greek gift giving saint
Shepherds on their knees

Supernova signals
Norseman's Mistletoe
A donkey, a sleigh
Coca Cola's ** ** **!

Saturnarian or Pagan
Christian or Jew
Happy Holidays to everyone
From: Atheist, To: You
I am from shattering nebulas elegantly and casually dispersing through their own permission
From a radiating heart, the loving and careful core of my own planet adjacent to unnecessary humanly vaccinated waters filled with precious, undiscovered life and my dream filled possibilities of space, untouched and unruined by so-called establishment
To a never-ending sky painting my bedtime picture I share with many civilizations covering the world that I will never be able to explore
And in my next life perhaps I will live there and forget about the country I was thrown into from the womb; causing arguments I as one person cannot fix, especially with those I share land with, those who lay as oblivious as toddlers to the joys, the extremities of my infinite, boundless high hopes for change.
Not the kind our elected follower, not leader, promised; pouring from his ventriloquist mouth,
but the real change saturating my soul only witnessed by the eyes of my bonds, those I connect with, those who hear my energies and my sorrow for incorrectly evolved mancruel - no longer mankind

I am from the barrel of a twelve gauge shotgun separating both a man's head and myself from the only friend I ever knew
From a pent up animal lingering, tearing at my guts
And sore vocal chords in protest of my neglect, screaming in defense with the will of my first true name
To missed years of growing bones but never missed brain stimulation
And the thought, how does hate taste?
For as long as he lives he prays he will never see my aging face again

I am from a burned spoon and a powerful hand
From Rx prescriptions and the wrath that follows jealousy
I am from the feeling of powerlessness and unreciprocated hope portrayed through tears and bruises
To the understanding of what humanity should be, to shame and disgust caused by weakness and disappointment
As each year grows the space from my body and those who share my blood does too

I am from the jagged fingernails of every boy and man
Tearing away layers of who I once was
The cold, calculating wolf who still shows her face every so often...
Scarred beyond recognition
From the darkest room in the deepest corner of who I am
Bearing no sunlight, a flower grows - watered by the passion the raven delivers from a castle called "lust"
And although I enjoy the company of my demise, I await the man of my nightmare
For I believe I could never deserve a dream
To the twinge on the upside of their lying mouths
I am left with late night memories
That untie my poorly woven knot covered in distrust, anguish, and fear
I am my own worst enemy
And I condescendingly purr at every wound they engrave
For I know they'll receive two

I am from my imagination
From beautiful epiphanies and humorous gestures created by beasts
To the end of the fears and anxieties soon to be conquered
From unseen colors and storage units locked away with magnetic power stopping me to ironically keep me going
And carbine rounds of thoughts shake me affecting all three targets of myself
With this imagination I will individually co-operate in drawing a universe-changing picture absorbed by parading nuclei all pent up in an ozone of stardust, the pieces that make me
sheloveswords Oct 2013
You hear the vocals of my pores
Calling out for your ecstasy
Baby, will you answer me?
Annihilate my suspire
I'm craving for you to sojourn your lips unto my dermis
Floating in passion, your love takes me higher
With annimalism
Your death grip on my waistline severely quenches my skin*
I feel your thunder storming on my frame
Being pounded by my waves
Of this flash flood you made
I NEED YOU
To come and swim deeply into my ocean
Contain my legs from this uncontrollable wavely motion
Surf my waves at each convulsion
Your breath trickles down my spine
You haven't even reached your peak yet
And I have came here
And
Came
4
Times
This visit, I do not regret
I WANT YOU
To make love to me
Like there is a war outdoors
With nature and valley
A war between temptation and flesh
But wait
Not just yet
Because your cinnamon skin
***** my tongue passionately
Constantly
I melt, into a puddle
Full weight on the floor
That you lick up until  no more
I travel my lips up and down your masculine build
You feel my exhaustion
Invading your spine
Interrupting your concentration
At this hour, in this moment
You are mine
And I am yours
Finally tasting those lips I've always adored
My succulent tongues takes a moment and travel down your chest
Leaving my mist dwelling on your buff
Down to the strong man hood you possess...
You grab my neck
As you explore the soft walls
Of my saturating portal
Your head inclines back in full relieve
As I continually, savagely feast
You then explode in great fury
We collapse as if an earthquake violated our terrain
And then we lay....
But,
This is not the end
Welcome, to foreplay
With gratitude, your excitements hardens
And your eyes paint me, you feel extremely lucky
You begin to fill your lips with thanks
But  NO
Baby don't thank me
Just **** me...




                            Copy Right 2013
                                   ©Patty Ann
Nick Durbin Mar 2013
An intensity of a thought, and the intimacy of feeling produce the sound,
The announcement, immediate and incomplete, but monumental -
The outpour of falling words, running from my mouth like water droplets from the clouds…
A leap towards faith and freedom, towards the excitement of uncertainty -
Experiencing a brief moment of weightless resilience,
Strong, proud and fearless…
Fiercely crashing into their destination without restraint,
Saturating the contents,
          Slowly falling, seeping down further –
                                                               ­             Layer…
                                             ­                                                       Upon layer…
Hopefully finding welcome,
                                  Hopefully finding reciprocation.


It starts with an intensity of a thought, and the intimacy of feeling to produce the sound...
I hope I have depicted this moment well enough for understanding... This is always a scary moment. To be certain about how you feel, and the wonder if they feel the same...
Your words are heard throughout my changing mind
Saturating every part of my senses
Profusely renouncing all of my kind affections
Can you not see me building my shield of defenses

Your exasperation with life itself crushes my resolve
To see this world with you in a better light
As you seem to distrust each one who crosses your path
When I know each dog I see does not bite

All your subtle insinuations, unbendable points of view
Places a shadow on the light here in my heart
Yet, I will not permit you to ever steal my joy
Even if from your presence, I must forever part

I have always been in awe of your judgment and your wisdom
Deeply respected your opinion as your own
However, I will not be forced to think and act as you do
So for now, I will leave you alone
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
www.changefulstorm.blogspot.com
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/HerVigil
Wolfgirl Feb 2013
When was the last time I came here?
I can't remember the last time I needed this place.
And then all these images, memories, flooded through me.
I remembered everything that had happened in my past
that might have changed who I became.
Every sad, cynical moment,
whether it be a tragedy on TV
or a revelation from my own experience.
And all the incredible beauty I had seen in my short life.
Every time I'd come here last,
I'd come with a sad and lonely, afraid and anxious, numb and brooding mind.

Here I was in the woods, the way they had been for so long,
once-delicate leaves compacted into gray, crunching masses
on the trodden dirt
and rusted, crumpled cans
marking the slow death of the place I'd always treasured.
I sat down hard, saturating my worn black jeans
with the tired old mud of this sad place,
and sifted through the dead leaves
for some of that beauty that was my faintest memory.
There was none.
It was almost as if my mind had created that memory on its own...
And of course that's what had happened.
I'd always been good at imagining and wishing.
How sad to think that now imagining is all I'll be able to do.
kMargaret Oct 2012
What if it's a matter of faith
You have it and I
Do not.
Perhaps that is the line that you
Refuse to cross
It's a thick deep line
Drawn in the sands
You stay on the shore
Yell to me as I'm pulled out to sea
You think I drown here, in this body of fluid doubt
You're so sturdy, strong, safe upon the shore
Do I need saving?
I'm fine swimming on my own
Though you may see my treading water as
Drowning
I assure you, I'm not
It feels right here
Saturating myself in salty waters
While you sit and hold fast to flowing sands through your fingers
Worrying that I don't know what's out there
Thinking I'm a lost cause
A man of land,
I myself, merely a wave
I kiss the shore only to be pulled back out
Two worlds that collide at the line
I don't need the oxygen that you need to survive
There is no island,
No Oasis
This is all it can be
And so I'll meet you at the line
Begging you dip your toes
Hands
Splash your face
"No" you say
"But please" I beg.
"Don't go."
I promise there is sand at the bottom of the ocean,
Land isn't all there is
There is infinite sky
We can transcend this
Maybe
Sure we could try,
But what's the point?
There is no middle ground
There's a line neither of us will cross
This can't be it.
But it could be.
I can't survive in your world
Nor you in mine
It's a matter of faith
You have it and I
Do not.
It's that line in the sand
We
Refuse to cross.
But I want to.
Just to have you.
I'd sacrifice my life
But not myself
So yell to me from your precious sands
We'll remain like this
Longing like this
Until this dividing line
This insignificantly significant line,
Is washed away by my
Persistent waves
And you're anguished enough
To tread with me.
Lara Lewis Dec 2013
I’m more afraid of losing you than I am of losing myself

To force one to create;
To turn the gears of the mind by force of will
Ironic;
That the source of creativity has become so artificial,
Like plastic flowers in an outdoors garden,
Not wrong,
Not dangerous,
Unsettling;
One of these things is not like the other.
Something is wrong;
This is too familiar,
I have been here before.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve known you my whole life,
Silence is a spirit which haunts me,
Hold my tongue,
Punching my gut,
Every time brave words bloom in my throat,
This banshee screams reality in my wind-beaten face.
She is subdued by a fraternal bond, a weightless chain,
Silence is tamed by the right company,
The demon exorcised from my body,
I am sanctified in brief lucidity,
Clarity, however fleeting still exists,
Despite the holes in your brain,
The ultimate in body modification.
Every ugly duckling is told they’re a swan,
So they seek their kind,
Unable to set roots,
Assured that there is a kindred spirit,
You just have to find them.
You don’t know what you have until it’s gone,
They ugly duckling becomes more shark-like every day,
Unable to stop, a flower constantly about to wither,
With age comes beauty,
The Rhododendron expels an army of stamens,
Male in essence, coloured neon pink,
******* objects of desire for the hungry bee,
Honey and perfume,
Comfort and poison,
The children of flowers,
Opposing in nature,
Twins in function,
Sweetening, attracting, saturating,
Numbing the tongue,
Burning the nose,
So sweet I could *****.
I want more time and you want more attention,
Kind gestures, kind reward,
So sweet that I’m sick.
samasati Aug 2012
I opened my eyes and saw fireworks
how silly, I thought

those are street lights
I could’ve sworn they were fireworks

ripples of rhapsody saturating through my skin

*******
did you know, you’re my favourite person to kiss?

the sweet-gentle ones and the devoted-amore ones
the quick-teasing ones and the I’ve-gotta-take-a-breath-now ones
the infallible tongue and the soft grazing of lips
your hands lowering all the way down to my hips

we are a tidal wave merging in and out of the ocean

unity

harmony

zeal

I don’t care if we’re in a car, it’s nirvana all the same
heaven and azure

all the particles of my body click into place and everything
fits together
like a bowl of summer fruit

I opened my eyes and remembered
where we were

I opened my eyes and remembered
we existed
She drains me of words
Like at the end of a bath,
And I'm left with the stopper
Dry as a prune
Until I can
Once again
Replenish my thoughts,
Come again
Under my shower
But I'm just a mist
Lightly saturating
Her once more
Like the moisturizer after
But she shaves and dries
It all off,
What of it all
Has she absorbed?
I can't be coke
Left to go flat
Crushed soda pop can
In the sun
Unable to redeem myself,
Won't you give me a nickel
For my love?

APAD13 - 131 © okpoet
Abdullah Ayyash Apr 2015
Tell her what has been taken
Is being given a better life
Tell her what has gone
Is coming back in a different form
Tell her the tears she was shedding
Won’t go away
It’s saturating new souls
To blossom again in her life
© Copyrighted
Abdullah Ayyash
April 20th, 2015
PrttyBrd Jun 2015
Birthed at the center of my soul
You are my very heart
You are the seed of compassion
And the water with which it blooms

Birthed at the center of my soul
You open the window of joy
And close the doors tinged blue
A teacher of spirits, of freedom

Birthed at the center of my soul
Your kindness bleeds into me
Saturating my casing
Rendering me tender, despite myself

Birthed at the center of my soul
We became...as intended
Entire beings
Flowing between a unified spirit
Connected now as then

Birthed at the center of my soul
62915
Kelsey Nov 2014
wait —
saturating under
less-than-flattering
fluorescence.
something good will
come.
Pixievic Apr 2016
My gravity
My light
Infinitely shining  
Saturating your being
With sensuality
A comet shooting through
Your body with insistent need
Filling you up with
Bottomless provocation
Ripening in spring nights
With the promise of diversion
The romance of moonlight
Eclipsed by arousal
Caught in my orbit
Your shooting star
Blazes through my constellation

I hunger for your sea
Flooding my mind
With a surge of longing
Rippling through my body
In spasms of desire
Churning my craving
Into waves of passion
White tipped rollers
Tantalisingly out of reach
I surf through your touch
Swelling, twisting - finally
Breaking in a crest of elation
Before ebbing slowly
Back into the calm expanse
Of salacious bliss

(C) Pixievic
Another one of my fantasies involving nature.....
Stephan Aug 2016
.

Raising his hand
moving from the desk
as spitballs fly
and notes are passed

Chasing his tale
in make believe endings
with a princess in pink
draped on his arm


snickers and snorts bellow
his train of thought
traveling off track temporarily,
temporarily  

Dancing at midnight
drifting the seasons
on a feather boa mattress
pearlescent skin and fingers


silence gathers around
heavy breaths float
eyes squint, trying to focus
not his, theirs

Drawbridge openings explored
present tense heartbeats
sundown desires drip
saturating the scabbard


Homework is sidelined
jealous boys, intrigued girls
as curiosity peaks and biology
is not just a subject anymore

at the front of the classroom
writing in black chalk
so the rest of the class
cannot see


but he can

*oh he can
MaryJane Rebel Aug 2012
Are you thinking of me?
Do I ever sweep through your mind?
Rolling over meadows of memories, like fog consuming the horizons line

Tonight I watched two souls interacting
Shared secrets kept behind smile lines
Reminiscence of you and I,
Moments shared so sweetly, our lies caramelized

The world faded away
Atmosphere melted like butter
Saturating conversations of strangers to the buzz of a fly in lovers ears
Swept out in the rip tide of compatibility
Making love through articulation

It was all a fallacy
You likely never cared for me, never weighed the reality of distance and time
Thinking only of yourself
Fulfilling insecurities and selfish desires with glutinous appetite

A coward
Lying like wounded prey, victimized in the masses eyes
Leaving those that loved you demolished
Moth eaten garments suggestive of rags
Ruins of a civilized time
Talia Aug 2020
Double glazed prisons
that suffocate us in
Stopping air
dainty pure
saturating chakras
and healing pores
Skewed panes
Isolate and whisper
Lies
keeping us inside
to jeopardize
All destiny
Meant to thrive.
Glass severing
our connection
to the quaint outside
Leaving Nature,
Our spirit guide,
meekly to subside
when seen
through this lens
of poisoned eyes.
Windows distort our view and act as a barrier to outside. I don't think seeing things through a window is the same as experiencing it up close, feeling the air and taking in the energy of outdoors.
Debra A Baugh Feb 2013
a cloudburst, penetrated our world
with thrusts as deep as the eye of our
storm, coasting over us in heaved
passion; unleashed with each
dip and sway

bombarding...

our core in showered felicity; tasting
euphoria's longing, titillated to the tips
of our toes; saturating her soft spots,
her rain and I were one curled, pelvis
to hip

sliding in out as hands caressed in rhythm,
wanting to taste her rain once again;
cultivating in her delicacy, nibbling tautness;
remembering moments our lips said hi

besieging me...

as her raindrops seeped, causing our
steam to rise, each drop in hunger;
I'd delve deeper into oblivion,losing
myself in raged deluges of her

rain's cloudburst...
Sarina Apr 2013
Daisy ***, patchwork dress, lalala
I baked you cherry pie while you chatted a wizard
hope it kept warm in the oven.
Dear, the contents partner our cheeks
a good-natured face, freckled of breadcrumbs at
each of six circadian meals to come by day.

Everything is rosy in this hobbit hole –
flowers, and mouths, and food laugh all in sync.

I reckon when you digest
we shall scamper off to our twin bed.
Lalala I sing, and lalala you sing, raccoons are so
close above the wooden beams
that I know their supper is dandelion stalks.

Tucked in, this is what is christened a perfect fit
your foot the extent of my head
and kissing at my toes, their lady stubble.

(You, the skilled shoemaker
who will not tolerate me hiding in pelt moccasins)

If the moon arises, we do not see:
lalala, mockingbirds sing the garden to sleep
but the vegetation dances
like a dwarf’s beard, though blonde somehow
saturating ginger for a reading nightlight
bellies full of sweet cakes and dinner number four.

You kiss me our Eskimo way, then as halflings
I whisper about the ariel orchard today
(Rosemary, red-cheeks, lalala) afore first breakfast.
Klauss Ritkke collector leaves and representative of Beggars, with their 76 autumn and semi-dead body of downstroke of insect. I used to walk through its narrow streets serenades as liquid pearls, as clusters of dreams omnipotent ogres and fetishes; owners of old Avignon, iridescent moist soil marshes bringing minerals liquids Gotthard massif, ancient drains into the Rhone. Owner dreams and curses weak burst administrators of the house of God.

         August 4 in the year of our Lord 1617, when it was asset Klauss cleaning the largest stained glass, heard heated dialogues between Fraile and Gentleman, who was in another time assistant clergy? You could approach Klauss and listen more clearly their conversation, until the Friar Andrew, stammering, Raymond Bragasse demanded indulgence, or one or the other.

Fray Andrés : How many times hopefully I struggled to reform you ... Raymond!
  
'O virga ac diadema diabolus thirst ...!!
  'Oh ****** the Devil smiled ...!!

Raymond  : It is to live more question if I failed something, take me to the sulfurous emanations from Averno. But my faith lies mildewed on the seabed, sacred myth ... my truth, and my beloved Marielle ... Meanwhile,

Klauss envisaged to play the window and looked her tongue to pray for them. Fray Andrés, paced back and forth wondering what to do...?
Raymond  : There are fifteen thousand demons possessing my body ... fifteen thousand demons to attack the sacred mystery of the Holy Rosary ...!                

Fray andrés : Oh great cause ... How I have to ****** your soul whose darkness of flashed light ...!?

Raymond  : Marielle was my light, my Eve Edenic, admirable land. Now, it's my I spell, my blindness or my constant bleed sharp, not knowing where to elapse...?

         ...To a memory that night, that dismal night, giving up my final vows of faith and consecration of my soul. I broke my bonds and ecclesiastical chores all by Marielle noble descendant of the Quentinnais.

            Never believe such grief in my fate I do love her, but his misfortune was to meet me. That night when I went to the edge of her house, I walked through the kitchen window. Everyone was asleep, except the albi-blue reflection of the last gasps of the deadly round of Quentinnais Mansion. I thought rescue and salvage something from those cheeks kissed by me, but their heart wiping her heart and lungs.
     It is possible to recall the last roses I took her hands.   Danced with her, next to the old hymn and lamentation of prestidigitations made by the monk, played alongside cartomancy having abolished the minute of darkness take her with her beautiful bare feet. What a pain, I could not rescue her, and snatched me death! His parents hated the mere fact of having their priest ruled by a wicked heart, so I turned to the pagans and dark gods to heal Marielle, and his heart transplant it for mine.
              
Since that day, I'm still burning in hell polisatanic to take little breath of kindness and seize transparent liquid plaguing their existence and serene Diadem metal to learn that his friend possessed by the devil fall into any infection endemic evil ...; endemic of his love, crossed himself when he saw that turned into a horrible one.

Humble as leaves in the garden became the Bible leaves torn from the bound fillings. Saints lepers shriveled down her columns. Heaven proclaimed hemorrhages and wind festering stinking gases, which in the sky sprouted in clusters clots on the Papal Household.

          Fray Andrew threw the rosary on the neck of the possessed, and asked the Demons who feared more ...?. A question answered this question Demons, which fell shrieking vertical down the aisle ... and.... fell, rose!

              
       Klauss fell to the ground in horror, and the demons not to respond, fell into tears and regret shaped so plaintive and poignant, many dark beings holed up in fixtures and embankments, they began to mourn moved by natural compassion ... and saying pained voice by the mouth of the possessed...:

...Andrés, Andrew ... ... have mercy on us!
              
Meanwhile, Klauss ran away screaming the place ... could be heard in the distance ... Marielle ... have mercy on us!

         Sparkling lights fell on the dome, covered with orange and creamy luzbels horror. Apertures fulminations betrayed contained emancipate the shackled muses leaping vacuum; discouraging reddening chinks bad ..., saturating every form, every place, and every interlocutory benign breeze.
Most animals vomited on the walls; carbonated some ****** walls and curdling the soul of the people. Other remains of vomiting sulphurous radiated papal house, initialing the firing squad diabolical image of Raymond and Fray Andrés; they are swallowed by the Cancerbero. So flayed bats were issued by the campanile, mistaking the red sunset in penitence with blood dripping thick alleged by the Buttress and reach a churchyard to embryo.
            
Got home, tightly closed the latch, feeling strangely his wife Danianne; which saw his face isolation. Then he went to his bedroom and closed the curtains, warning yellow lights in progressive outlook towards a corner of the mirror. Then he lay down on the bed and prayed for himself and others ... "Today, when I walked by my office and my prayer my clothes pilgrim incense drove away my voice ... as if Fray Andrés, still whispering my ears..."

I close my eyes listening to litanies and prayers ...
         O ****** by virtue of your rosary, directs these enemies of mankind to respond to my question...!
                
Klauss saw the exorcism using the mirror. He made a prayer, came a radiant ears, nose and mouth of the possessed flame. Fire flowed like laba of the Holy Cross, which destroyed the wicked and the most worthy wisdom worked against the satanic specter fire and hot rosary fell on the hot heads Fraile and Raymond. It was what translated his shadow in her room.

         Klauss Rittke, returning the next day moistened his clothes by the dense fog that covered the sacred place, then when picking up     leaves plucked Bible found a Diadem with an initial contained a    backwards W, whose image pointed to Marielle triumphing evil. He   tried to leave but nothing left pulled, so refugee took the   diamond and warily Diadem led her pocket.                                                          ­                          

Little bit could do that dark and rainy day, as an insurrectionary devotion that day begged her angelic singing to heaven; that enveloped the sky in order to transport to the cemetery to sleep next to their parents.  Diadem virtue to useful lives and reigns in the footsteps passerby Baal runaway spirits. All with their malodorous footsteps, they vomited and flying in higher meridians, like the giddy exorcism in the house of the universal Shepherd.
           The same day, August 5, 1617, Klauss arrived tired with the diadem cast in her hand. Thus, ceased to exist and its long sleep would walk with his white robe and crown throw with his eyes came from the Sea blankets the oceanographic serpentuous within Marielle, whose hairnets they are containing its essence. His agony lasted three days, and around Avignon no who could wear mourning. His children and wife lost their voice to utter.

Go in peace Benedict Klauss...!
KLAUSS RITTKE FROM EXORCISM -  THE ******  PURE LOVE IN BETWEEN RAYMOND  BRAGASSE  AND  MARIELLE QUENTINNAIS,

CREATED BY JOSE LUIS CARREÑO TRONCOSO - CHILE / SOUTH AMERICA
andrea bush Sep 2010
she wanted it to be the way she felt when painting
fearless messy vivid
instead of this faded photograph of a staged existence
and click click click she winds the film
dreaming cadmium red and deep cerulean
and the tightening of drying oils on her
fingertips arm lip pulling and biting at flesh like an old lover
wet sable slides across canvas
sweet turpentine and resin saturating the room
like the smell of sweat and *** lingering over some half forgotten affair
and back to the taut fabric again
in flashes of titanium white
the intensity of vermilion
slipping with animal instinct into rich umber and raw sienna
and a final stroke of ultramarine
click
Marieta Maglas Dec 2011
Your reality controls my life
With something, which binds
My fleshly existence and my third eye,
Despite self and despite logic,
Your sharp-edged  screams
And this love focused
Only on materially living things
In self-assertion
Keep me locked
Within whatsoever limits.
Your emotions and conations
Are the embodiment of your ideas.
Your love is enclosed within them,
They are inhabiting your life.
You are the follower
Of your own creed.
You need to be
Freed from your own illusion
And from your own constraints.
I can see you
Between visible and invisible,
Ceaselessly aspiring to universal Divinity,
Trying to reconcile your inner contradictions,
Absolutely saturating your feelings,
Your intuitive vision
And your vibrational essence of thought.
I can see your realm of realism,
Imprisoned in the identity of your thought.
I am the object of your senses
And the essence of your beatitude,
While you try to keep safe
The word's meaning.
Steven Cole Aug 2018
Some winds that blow
In the sweet summer
you know
Are soft and gentle
Like a kiss
of vibrancy and bliss
Or a breath of life
For my heart and soul
Causing me to feel alive and whole
Exhaled as a mist around my body
Setting my spirit free
Refreshing all my precious memories
Saturating them like the sea
Touching my heart like a firm handshake
Reminding me of who I am meant to be

Free
Released from the prison
Of an anxious and fretful mind
Like an eagle
Soaring and gliding
High into and through
The sky
Living above my worries
Leaving my fears behind
Letting the light from the loving sun
Dispel all darkness
Even when the day is done

— The End —