Of jean pants It explains it'll be my companion for this trip
Since we're looking for Salvation
And from that I move to one memory
And then the next
Housed at strategic points
On the old widows frame
As if I'm her misguided lover
Deceived into a round of post-breakup sex
My only cries of passion
Are a symbolic lost cat
And a glowing cigarette
The next morning I look over at what I've done
And
in horror
get out as fast as possible!
stereotyping
that funny little concept that shapes our planet. It gets us killed and they saves our lives. Would the world be a much better place if the concept simply didn't exist? Or maybe not?
what does it mean to be a man? What's the stereotype of a man and what truth is stashed away in it?
Is masculine still a concept now days? And if so what's it's place? What's a man's place in today's societal aspects: romance, work, relationships, politics, etc.. Do men have a place in some aspects and not in others?
poetry we thought was real On the edge of conviction splitting skin barks And mental golden seal addiction
The lesser giant Of a bigger whole Runs ranting on translucent verbal moles I'm done city-sitting, any bidders? Going once.. Going twice... Sold! Now I can smile between Ghost-lined thoughts In splendor but indecision The arrow quivers the breeze til cinder but with languid-checked disposition Conversations with all the feans On coffee creeks screams! in the dead of winter Don't inhale the cold Or be sure the demons will enter But don't breathe on me Cuz i'll FUCK you up!
I'm in a mental state I can't climax through Shards of venom cut up my intentions Clumping words together like elmers glue Inspite of failure to press the lover's end Rocks on the shores of king Nebuchadnezzar's shins Mock turtle necks walk through prune wind roses Til they shell-shock in Venice And clasp the poet's pen
emancipating a soul-cry hole A widow in black Keeping tears In cub bard-housed bowls Seeing eight-year old chain smokers Dressed as flower girls She gives them neon dreams To pay To fix the Styx ferry tole
O rumors and gossiping wasp! Watch the walls speak loudly over my friend My heart My little brother Pierre I watch from a front seat While to Hellen He speaks The destroyer of an empire
He's the bane of Artemise Fit with samson's eyes in last hour And even if you make a forever out of this hour She'll still tell you she loves him That red vixen named Britney my hearts affliction insisting
They walked away but stayed together Despite the weather Friends forever A sister to his kingdom That broke out with him in arms when he went to war And stayed friends forever more
roles
Isn't life all about roles?U act one way in church, u act another way in front of the president, another in front of God, another in front of Buddha, your friends, and so on
I was there And it was there So I stole it without thinking left the jewelry for bank theives The roses for notebook skins And if they ask me what happend to love I'll tell them look at my art (But if they only knew I killed her too) A child sits on santa's lap Blinking In quiet contemplation I stare at love her head between my hands that euphoric feeling's replaced with hot chills
Because there's an intensity inside me And love can sense it but this is danngerous! Love flashes red like a timed explosive in the climax of a movie The sun's shooting my chest and making me hot And Reason fights with dreadlocks jack and jill suffer mental scars While mother goose gets hit by a car All of the above To turn me Into a shooting star Hoping that I burn up before I hit the ground There's a corner and long street before i come around everything burning hot burning hot all the time Cum steined sheets suffocating heat in my chest, my lungs, my throat It feels like the sun's in my mouth But melting my feet stretched screams and abstract thots inside a flower garden suddenly she explodes
And I transform ino a canvas A blue-print drawn on the back of creativity and They become the crowd Pausing a moment to realize me In mid-converse with each other about their lovers Orgasms Anniversary A craftful chef playing with Rosemary
How do i feel about love?
Now it's sunsets and slow walks but it's not over yet because I like to go into love with a bag of popcorn And after it's over I purchase tickets for the next one on my way out...
horror movie
And as i wandered through the house I realized they were all zombies Their house had been attacked Eaten by mobs of stress sodden Drama soaked years And the friend I'd always come to see? He was slowly changing too Showing signs As I past through cautiously they almost bit me
As slaves make a mockery of predestination Since she’s a black beauty Riddled with experience A tethered couch An African goddess relaxing on the wall A five-foot loud mouth addict Hooked on youth Reprimanded Boys sitting around I’m using my eyes to write And my eyes see everything A kid messing with his cell phone So what am I seeing now? Just seeing my thoughts A brother tickling his little sister on the couch She’s a ballerina They fall to my feet Mother’s Day Aunt Martha’s day Her living room Flowered with certain faces At strategic points in the living room Two kids hitting each other on the couch Blind Through his eyes at-least And when I see him It looks like he sees clearly through everything else But his eyes He looks out into a street One the sun grabs for a moment But he’s really looking at the sun Not through his eyes But his face There’s a sense of pleasure and calm When I wonder what he’s thinking They wrap up the food Enough to feed a small starving nation she said They wrap it up And I go home
his reason
My friend. Last night he lost her image. But still gripped on tight to her in words. His reason was beautiful. She had...she had sense, she was witty, she was...she was funny. But she kept lapsing in his memory. They held a few intimate occasions on their part. She often used him to record the most amazing phenomenon. Both the brilliant and the heinous. But he was never offended. And even so, his thoughts struggled to simply touch her face. No insight. Though he was young
And made mostly of film. No pun intended So he wandered in alleyways, in course minds, while in search for this memory. And the alleyways turned in to people. And the people turned into horrid dogs, with sharp teeth and spiked collars. Quick to ravish but only turned him a dog catcher. Despite the odd job he found her today. He's sick in love with her. Just her mere presence alone. It's almost sickening to watch. But he loves only because she rolls in and out of his life so often it's...i heard from someone absence makes the heart grow fonder. So, later on, i caught her walking out the door. Leaving a note behind, that this time, she might never come back. And so he wondered. Wondered through the alleyways again. Until he vomited, almost coughing out his soul...but I digress. The sight was disheartening as the least, so I left him there. I left my friend there.
american portrait suicide
Red-lipstick Her white and red pocadot shirt And red earrings They compliment the white napkins she rolls over knives and forks A "burgers with pork" sign above her forehead For some reason It only makes her more seductive Just for today she's mine My waitress slash painter "What can I do fo ya suga?!" Is what I tried to get out of her but only made a chuckle out of "I'd never say that! You want some lemonade?" She then commences using her five to six years spent in art classes On the menu board With chalk For the customers who want to know today's specials And what is today's special? An American portrait suicide In bulk
Though it grabs discarded darkness beneath the bed
Smacking nightstand
To pry open droors
Though it hugs old, crumpled shirts
And stretches to touch the wooden floor
I think I get it now What you were trying to yell
but couldn't say
Since I was too young
To see things went that way
I'm sorry that i failed to see
How he dangled the option to be free
Of Aphrodite's opposition
Golden brown sheet
Defiant river from broken dam
Sublime symbols of natures hand
The fiery, fading sins of man
Are both devoured within it's misleading hug
Intrusive Boa loitering to spy
As books and papers converse about the tide
And Half-eaten plastic wrappers look up into the sky
Contemplating their own existence
While failing to realize...
I think I get it now
You were hiding withdrawals during the day
Scars and wounds you patched with tape
The price of longing for escape
Stuck you between two worlds of flexion
Made you slave, addict to his affection
But little girls and boys don't see life die
Lovers within the moon's disguise
Melt beneath sunlight
Golden Brown sheet
Opens the inn but locks all doors
Trapping victims in psychosomatic war
Once release they come back for more
Finding a mid-wife to neglected rapport
Helping couples conceive both lovers and whores
The whores come out but never breathe
A Conceited king corrupt with greed
Invites you in to drink his Meade
With hands indeed both stoic and brash
Kissing shoes and socks before they can ask
They chain YOU to bed.. don't they?
As he slips from out their grasp
I think I get it now
after-sex poetry we sit down in front of a splendid dinner and gorge ourselves And when we're full she pulls from out the sheets and puts her costume back on I try to stop her with force-fed bowls of love and kisses that bite
Cries of ecstasy Her calls from the night before echo in my ears as I continue to carry out my daily activities Every muscle twitch is her poking and groping
THE NIGHT BEFORE crazy. No thoughts. The body takes control. Muscles clenching. Hips vibrating and pulsating. Scorching conversation pieces are sprinkled between bits of exacerbated breathing, gasps, teeth grips on the lower ear lobes. Blindness. blank. void. nothing. If this is a marathon I like marathons! Lots of "I like", "I love", "more", "don't stop" Dialogue's a kid playing in the corner while his parents make out. Who take sparse breaks for his attention so their "duty's" fulfilled.
Their faces Looking back at you Inculcating Faces Their names turn to faces Everything turns to faces From places to passerby’s Remember their faces Each one has a face Each place has a face His favorite place lays a unique scar In the face of my home And he’s a birthmark on my body In my mind On my hand The one I use to wipe my tears
My Father
My pop A pink ostriche in a crowded restaurant with his fat cheshire cat grin
Whenever I come from my pop's house, every little thing's nestalgic, from the names on the skinny apartment mail boxes to the park across the street
His world's a mix of two cultures
And at the end of my stay at the drop off point The conversation ends with my pop's famous last words "be good"
He's always been able to say it clear as day I may not understand anything else he says that well But at the end of every stay sentence he says "be good" Clearer than english To the point where As if he's saying it inside my head To the point where As if its me saying it I swear I'm going to carve that into his tombstone
The lily doesn't know which way to follow and lets the river walk kissing the ocean's crystal electric candy
And while demons sit in her pupils looking out for orders A wolf sits on the edge of freedom waiting for Ragnarok Sprites run through the forest echoing out giggles And the vine slowly stretches out snatching back one squeezing tight on its laughter Slithering vines into her clit Sniping her to yelp a scream of extacy-pain surrealism A song that breaks barriers In gradual slits starting Ragnarok one weak earlier
Surlier myths upON showing her shed purple tears
Ahundred times darker than black is her purple
So black vacuuming the universe Transcending time-space and vacuuming souls
So black Giants clash with the wolves While the moon weeps over war that wages Sure to hold its tears a few inches above skid row So neon signs can vandalize poetry pages
So black Fueling the withered trunk-tree to touch the clouds Inspite of effervesces Rolling in shades of genius Til swallows edge Jehovah's brow
So black The vine's grip tightens til the sprites skin bleeds Til she implodes into a black hole Echoing out seeds
So black While the gold vines drink her blood And the fairies save her legs The tree's fed to touch heaven And the sprite can run through the forest
Once again Alive But dead
the Truth about ART
Crying mouths stretched over canvas He uses their tears to wet his brush Cigarettes clutter the floor espionage on the outskirts of the demon realm? DOn't make a sound HUSH! He'll hear u! Waiting Patience, patience His hand finally pulls out the brush But not without his protest Wait..don't.. wait..i'm not ready.. wait, not yet... wait.. no.. wait.. wait! They scream when it touches the paper He screams culminating time with a waking nightmare He was tired of being misconstrude and confused He would let it all out! The canvas moves and swishes Isis slowly pulls his head from outside the canvas Arms and legs are painted blotches of bright color here A raven there Hands slowly reach out of the canvas But he couldn't stop himself NO! Wait.. i'm not- CHOKE! The hands were cold As ruff as gloves Squeezing No.. Tighter and tighter But he keeps painting The crying mouths start laughing We fooled you! We fooled you! His hand stretches out for help Veins pulse along his forearms It's no use Air bangs on the roof of his lungs Pleading for help The canvas laughs The canvas laughs The brush drops His air drops Dead And then He drops
i used to have a phobia of pigeons...
not really a phobia, more like, an extreme amount of irrational hatred. But as I've been forced to live amongst them, share my sidewalks and sometimes personal space. I ended up striking some unexpectedly insightful conversations. Don't get me wrong, a twinkle still shines in my eye when I past lifeless tuft of feathers in the road. But pushing that aside, i noticed when the pigeon ignites from the ground and flaps it's wings amidst passer-byes, it's so wild and uncontrolled. Like a waterfall or a wild fire. Like when a grease fire sets off out of a pan unexpectedly in the kitchen while the families preparing the dinner table. But when I see it take off the ground wildly flapping, I remember that the bird's free to roam and go as it pleases. Like little elves playing around construction workers hard at work ignoring all bounds and bureaucracies to feed their own self-centered curiosity and frivolous inspirations I wish I could be free with my artwork like the pigeon when it springs off the ground. By hairline urge, ripping through the air in mid-flight. The wind-current so fluent there's hardly need for it to spread its wings. Bouncing back and fourth off the walls of springy urges.
I know a girl I know a girl whose hands on she stands on spattered words falling over ancient cities If rome wasn't built in a day It was because of dealings from architects to agents And she? A shoddy tree nymph ankle princess Hugged in a quiet strength Like children and loud yawns And in the end she misses the ball too busy hammering down nails and chopping lumber To make her own damned carriage In her too cute to bowl dress
Your call to me So sweet and supple My soft skin So meek and quiet Oh silent night Empty abyss Did you know? An apocalypse sits Waiting for your kiss? You act so shy I hate to force Though you’d relish something course
Protected by the devil’s sanity Crash you to A burning vanity Then rerole life and set askew The conversation in a morgue
Asleep, seek you I through forest and hill Awake, in search of sleeping pills In search of love, I risk calamity To wed a couple long-since divorced
Independence Day
If you're ever truly lucky in this world, in life really, you'll get to be told the truth. That your manhood's a hoax. A near-sighted hoax, like she did to him. In Paris, the city of love.
Caressing his pride with truth, like an STD wearing a white gown. Because manhood is a sword, stuck in the nearest rock of independence. It's the same rock King Author's sword was put in, put there by freedom and female proclivities. And rumor has it, even more if your lucky, at the age of 18 you'll pull the sword out this of stone and transform into a beautiful specimen women like to call an "Independent male". The color of whatever attracts them. The mind of whatever attracts them. And the owner of whatever attracts them. Because the self of men is habit to befit what a woman's lustful eye says. Laid to rest in the cadence of her sight. Blessed by the time and opportunity to be accepted by her, right?
Kind ambrosia See you i Dressed in kindled fury Prod the blister My role insistent What is this weightless feeling?
please use your fist a fucking sadist henpecked husb.and yarn unlaced to find- hidden fiend she toys and taunts until its power is redefined
Noble Ambrosia. stern and rigid Standing guard to exit verbs Free at last Break emergency glass To- escape route i free-fall between the cracks of words
please use your fist a fucking sadist hit harder, think i came on the last try you're going to die Please don't remiss. i need your strongest to make me fly
Meek Ambrosia. nag i scold To force your hand upon my plea I win- You stand And raise your hand But I think your hit. this time. might kill me
please use your fist a fucking sadist i need your strongest to make me fly why make me do this? i'll just persist if you take this last hit, you'll surely to die
fear and love
Ever wished to be in a relationship where you have complete and full control over the sign. other? Ever wished you could be in a relationship where the sign. other had stronger feelings for you than vice-versa?
