Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Wittled stuck One
to Coyote Dingus
wind talks money all day and night
from all directions
but am allowed only to listen

Emotional cocooning
addictive sweet synth sup
as ready as can be
Reshaping wounded amazons
Is no easy task.

Thank you.
Now please pull your head out
before we all starve to death
from this confusing lack of true love

a swan, perhaps?
no, a turtle, one of nine
*i see
©Atalanta Undigested 2013.  All Rights Reserved.
Amble On Gently

A star in my coffee...
It's immaculate Con-inception
The nature and science had a babe
and it's name is memory drip percolator
Human hybridization is no myth
It's me, it's you.
It's organic, it's mechanic
Oh, yeah!
For a braver new world
Cyberterrorism is practiced daily in the US,
not by misguided, youth troops
It's banks, advertising, and marketing
It those of us that like to pretend
Things certain things would never happen
Humanity's dreams are sold daily
Do you have stock in companies that support such things?
Do you remember being offered a pill to see your first IMAX film?
Dark money can't save you.
Did what they could, and sold the rest...
Amble On Gently

A star in my coffee...
It's immaculate Con-inception
The nature and science had a babe
and it's name is memory drip percolator
Human hybridization is no myth
It's me, it's you.
It's organic and mechanic
For a braver new world
Cyberterrorism is practiced daily in the US,
not by misguided, youth troops
It's banks, advertising, and marketing
It those of us that like to pretend
Things certain things would never happen
Humanity's dreams are sold daily
Do you have stock in companies that support such things?
Do you remember being offered a pill to see your first IMAX film?
Dark money can't save you.
Did what they could, and sold the rest...


Thanks for the inspiration, The Tinyheiny Press

©2013 YJSS.  All Rights Reserved.
 Jan 2014 Brycical
Persephone
I can't feel bad for the man
who cripples himself
Tears his own heart out
Locks his body in a cage
And then blames other people
for making him that way.
It doesn't make sense to
coax you into recycling me
when you are going to
throw me out
either way
 Jan 2014 Brycical
Persephone
Lull
 Jan 2014 Brycical
Persephone
I wake up every morning
With a pounding in my head
An echo in my mouth
No one in my bed
I go to sleep at night with help
From a liquid paradise
A savior made of grapes
Old dysphoric antichrist
The creaks above my bed
keep me paranoid
is it just the pipes?
Or is it something more...
My demons have escaped my mind  
They taunt me now
From up above
where down below
I'm just a child
Frightened by the unknown
 Jan 2014 Brycical
r l
Haiku
 Jan 2014 Brycical
r l
Sometimes I forget
How to love everybody,
Everyone but you
More of a draft. I don't even know
 Jan 2014 Brycical
r l
Hands
 Jan 2014 Brycical
r l
I was told that that average heart is about the size of the owner's fist

So I would grab handfuls of dirt
And grass
And sand

But it would all slip through my fingers, and I was worried that people were the same 

The more I tried to hold on,
The  tighter my grip,
The more I reached out to them 
The more they slipped away

I thought that changed when I met you

I reached out to you, and you didn't slip away 

I could grab your hand, feel your fingers with mine, and you would hold it right back 

When I held your hand, I could almost feel my heart swell as if it doubled its size

But there were other things I held on to,
Not plausible or visible things

Things like the sound of your laugh and the sound of your voice,
Your real smile that came out rarely, which just made it even more beautiful when it appeared 

But you slipped out of my grasp
She took your hand from mine, and she ran with it
And you went with her

What did I do to make you slip away?

How did I let you slip away?
Part 1 of 'poems-I-wrote-last-year-but-forgot-to-post-and-just-found'
 Jan 2014 Brycical
ethyreal
Where's my daughter?
She's by the lake
Smoking cigarettes and
Reading poetry.
She's watching a little
black and blue bird
with a tongue-depressor tail
hop and squeak
through the dry
southern grass.
She's listening to
the salt-shaker wind
and sexed-up cicadas
looking for an insectual mate,
or a quick bug ****.

Where's my daughter?
She's looking at the night sky
breaking it into
sectors of
astrological wonders
and making amazement for
herself,
with zodiacal confirmation.
and kissing like a serpent,
talking about
theories of relativity
and mass
and the speed of the light
and making love on
the boot of a car.

Where's my daughter?
She's lying naked
dreaming about whiskey
she can't have
and writing poetry
on the internet.
she's listening to
foreign music
and wishing other
people would do
that too,
with her.
she's wishing boys
wanted to hear her
crude poetry
or talk about
writers with crippling alcoholism
or ****** addictions,
and appreciate art
in a way that isn't
just to get in her pants
after.

Where's my daughter?*
The clouds.
The ******* sky.
That's where she is.
But she's not on a plane.
Next page