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I feel myself

atrophy
Thoughts, splayed
like beautiful, oiled legs
in a ******* centerfold...
Thoughts, disarrayed
in a state of feeble decay
I'm taken apart,
deconstructed
What's a brain, with a broken vessel,
what's a spine,
when the medulla oblongata,
falls,
to a gelatinous mush?

put me away, piece by piece
in boxes
that open, to reveal,
smaller boxes, and smaller boxes still
I become...miniscule... miniature
inconsequential,
in the great nature of things

a little wooden matryoshka doll, being peeled from its shell
layer by layer...
but what if the innermost chamber
is hidden, under lock and key

and what if you crack it open, to find
your fingers are smeared,
in the pungency, of my blood?

It matters not...
I drift skyward...no tether,
to pull me down, to earth again
and there's not enough oxygen,
to breathe,
as I drift through space...
but if I return to Earth...

the sudden resurgence of gravity
will bring me crashing,
to the ground.

...And it all...Goes...Black.
Random thought, random strings of haphazard thought, tried to tie em, if they didn't hold, **** it
somedumbbitch Jul 18
Resin glazes
soft, buzzy lips,
like oozing droplets,
of fine, dark sap.
A flash, of dancing tangerine,
tangoes, absently,
before bleary,
red-rimmed eyes,
as I light up
and burn down,
the entire rainforest...
just a few little leaves, at a time.
somedumbbitch Jul 17
Those who know me least,
but see me, daily...
idling, in dark waters,
might describe me as quiet,
distant, and remote.
An island, unto myself
which waves its palms, prettily,
to strangers,
and sprouts tender blossoms,
under the intemperate eye
of its own, jealous sun.

Its shifting swell,
of hourglass sands
only seem, to glow,
and its obscenely blue waters,
only appear, to shimmer,
the further you draw,
from it.

...Am I naught, but a mirage,
which thirsty tourists,
may deign to sail to,
and from,
in discontented droves?

I keep the secrets, of the land,
harnessed,
under tribal hands.

I offer them nothing,
whatsoever,
and yet, they are voracious
for more, of the same.

They smile, and gasp,
awed, by my hibiscus fields,
and my tropical skies.

But do my fire pits,
not strip the flesh,
from roasted pigs,
turned whole, and lifeless
upon its busy spits?

And does the roaring maw,
of my active volcanoes
not devour its transgressors
beyond ash, and bone?
People might get it...they might not. It's okay if they do, or don't, I don't mind.
somedumbbitch Jul 15
Bristles, glide delicately...
over cold refuse.

Random bits,
of detritus:
and your broom devours them,
indiscriminate
a placidly lurking monster,
with an unchoosy palette.  

It's almost a mindless,
shuffling dance,
with failure, for a willing partner,
while regret, lingers sulkily,
in a dark corner of the room,
and watches the two of you
locked,
in a very forced
minuet.

The world feels like it's over,
and every brush stroke, feels
like its own humdrum ending.

Then,
all at once,
when you least expect it, to


your agitated trash ,
lifts its papery little wings,
takes flight,
and flutters gently away,
in a storm of linen,
beige, and white.

The faintest flicker of hope,
rises, from the discard pile:

a wildcard moth
seeking its own, besotted flare,
of quavering torchlight.
This literally came about, because I was sweeping the floor, thinking about this old drawing of a woman who accidentally sweeps away part of her own shadow, and, while daydreaming, my "trash" kept escaping the broom bristles. What I assumed was persistent, papery garbage were really just very aggravated moths.
somedumbbitch Jun 29
When thunder shades your brow,
I could burst the storm clouds,
looming overhead,
until a smile, reignites you,
and you glow, like a shining sun.  

When flares, of helpless pain,
snarl tender joints,
I want to find the thread,
hidden, in your bed, of nerves
and PULL it gently,
until the knot,
pops out.

I'd like to scry,
the deep, shining pool, of your eyes,
and read their formations,
like tea leaves.
I hope to exorcise the demons,
that lean over your shoulders,
and laugh,
at anything you do.

I want to take your hands, in mine,
and infuse you, with my energy.
I long to push my palm, against yours,
and see if our lifelines
kiss, as ardently as we do,
and travel harmoniously, together,
under a wake, of shimmering stars.

I yearn...to pour myself upon you,
like healing water,
and bathe, the full of you,
into the gentle tides, of me.

To tie, the nucleus
of our aching souls, together,
in a flagrant twist,
of the loveliest
flowers, and vines...
because I need you, to hold me,

to cherish me
beyond lives, that end,
beyond worlds, that collapse,
beyond stars, that explode
into supernovas
of guttering stardust.

In you...
I can see a love,
that transcends

lives, together
dimensions, apart...

and galaxies, that could crumble,
only to release more stars,
around us,
like free, and floating fireflies
in the blue-black expanse,
of sky.

What bliss, it could be,
to burn, like an eternal torch,
with you,

beyond the dark well,
of time.

What bliss, it could be,
to take your hand, in mine
and jump, beyond,

the spinning,
quiet void,
of death.
somedumbbitch Jun 26
I am caught, in your eye,
and I drown, in your tectonic wave.
You rattle, intimately,
for me, and shake...

You shift,
minutely,
soundlessly,

collapsing, into sprawling patterns,
into formulaic strains, of madness.
Then you madden, me, as you cascade,
into beautiful, and brilliant shades:

Your Rorschach mosaics,
in prismatic hues.
Each gemlike, facet, of YOU, that is you...

Burning out my gaze,
with your radiance,
as you irradiate...

I'd give anything...to label each color,
that infuses, your face...

Scattering trickles of light,
and roseate shapes...

as if your soul,
were a treasure trove,
of the most precious jewels.

Your vibrant emeralds...
your smoky citrines...
your sapphire blues...
your ruby reds,
and your royal amethysts, too

You twist, in my hands...
and, under the light,
I turn, and return, too,
if only to seek,
a fleeting glimpse...of you.
somedumbbitch Jun 24
I don't think, I really want this...

But surely, I
still have the eyes, to perceive
that she's the kind of,
fever dream
that makes grown men, and women,
lament, and weep

for the way, her jeans
gather round, her knees, and thighs--
for the way, her eyes...
pay homage, to the ancient skies...

would you take...a ride?
And, hey...would I...?
I don't think I might...

but she asserts her swerve,
with a certain sway,
and her curves,
would serve,
as hors d'oeuvres,
for days.
Her fruity lips...
with a sparkle glaze

they trickle...dark...as marmalade.
But if harvested, late...
what's their carnal taste?

...Is she the mark, on the grave,
by which, I think...I know myself?

No...I don't think I really want this...

not a shiver, runs through me.
But, sue me...for looking,
when she's so ******* juicy...
does it consume me?
Does it titillate me?
...I don't feel me, hyperventilating?

What if she turned, to face me?
To lay me, lace me
between her thighs...
internalized; eternal lies,
to sate me,
with her flavor, to bait me
acerbic, and savory...
Her skin, burning, like a lamp wire,

and her fingertips, debasing me.
What if I, was her vampire,
and she,
the one slaying me?
A slaking queen...
aching to break, her thirst...
so, what if I staked her, first...?
Would she mortify,
like ash?
Or would she forge, a lighted path,
and make me wish,
she had, forced...my hand?

No...I don't think I really want this...

not a shiver, runs through me.
But, sue me...for looking,
when she's so ******* juicy.
This is a highly experimental piece, following a discussion, I had. Contemplating the topic of, "could I be?" "Would I be?" I enjoyed layering the rhyme scheme, most of all. "She" doesn't exist, she was the embodiment of inhuman, female perfection my mind tried to build, broken down into basic features.

I pushed the boundaries to write outside my comfort zone, and it went rather weird. I don't think I lean that way, but it was fun to write about something completely different, in an entirely new way. Make of it, what you will, I guess? Happy Pride month, y'all.
neth jones Jun 13
the slanting sun  outwits the bedroom               
                            carves in the morning knife
cavities balled into the mystery   a spent cartridge of night      
bidden away is the bask   of a coupling umbrella-ed          
(guilded by narcotic somnolence  and a few drinks)
now  each fearful  in face of the lover    
       one wondering etiquette
    for the ridding
     of the other
somedumbbitch Jun 13
He stirs, slowly...
watching the spoon,
break the fog,
settling over his morning cup...
opalescent eyes,
scanning the sleepy blue,
of daytime horizons.

Porcelain fingers, shift
into hard, ceramic claws;
first smoothing up,
snuggly cotton pantlegs,
and then running them down,
forcing his navied thighs, to separate.
The fork, in the road,
as I crawl in, between them,
headlights, and a glossy smile,
on full beam.

He jerks, with surprise
at the unexpected motion,
lips, arrested in a subtle purse--
a pinched pink,
pouted gently, outwards

to blow away the steam
gathering, around tense fingers.
I mimic the tension,
with my own, slaking lips.

Hands shift,
to cup him,
and slide, upwards.
Suddenly, he needs two,
to grip the mug.

My tongue, slicks out,
wetly,
to follow his ascent,
as he stands, upright;
neapolitan soldier,
with the suede skin.  

The heat,
gathers,
in my palms
flushing his thighs,
and it circulates, warmly
against flickering flesh;
mouth, moving limberly
to drink him,
under the table.

My feral eyes,
fix his drunken ones,
as we both take each other,
in.

"I hope you saved some cream, for me?
Good morning, honey."
☕🍶
somedumbbitch Jun 11
If I could pull the threads,
that stitched the universe, together...
If I could slip between the tracks,
and barricade myself,
between buoyant clusters, of atoms
would you take note of my absence?
Would you remember I existed?
Would you even register,
the loss of me?
Or would I become as distant,
and extraterrestrial to you,
as a forgotten galaxy,
would you recall little more, than
terra firma, beneath your feet,
and never notice
that there's a hole
in the weeping glass dome,
above you?
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