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Isabella OBrien Jan 2013
I intently studied this nauseating flirtatious jive
shared badger from you to me of our relationship already framed and fitted
we never fell asleep at decent hours, ****** dry
we were just another product of society
we questioned the reality of a world never belonging to one
so to be swayed in the music cold, taking it upon ourselves to never hold our heads too low
we connected the tissues past pure plentiful parking spaces
I saw it happen to us, taken over by fixation
letting words fall from my *** into the world where you stood bewildered, courageous lark it was, you made me into girlish shrieks
expecting a slight coldness from you I decided to sulk eating the dust
I attracted my own thoughts remaining unhappy as you were oblivious our chosen concrete pathways: the negative.
Child, as we were envisioning snow angel memories
hallucination, love, courting to a distant yield.
Child, a rush of adulterate naked plea
who wandered busy streets grasping mace and typewriter keys
make fun with your water bottles I'll dedicate a song to you
Child, salting your French tongue we shall fall apart only once we lie beneath the ground curtaining our once frenzy shell
Child, who put her ******* to the air as she wrapped her ******* with bandage
wearing those skinny jeans a hipster queen lenses in front of her face never did a thing
Child, make away with a masculine feverish clean your witch hands do graze his bare skin
Child, who broke glass bottles on her head to prove she was real, grew lady ***** as they were called
in an effort to uncover what happened to the corners in a circular prism
bid farewell your worrisome thoughts of homicidal suicide
Child, scare the stop signs, the fragility of your former state has asthmatically fallen
do not break me in half though your capable eyes do trace the outline of my body and feel my bone hidden beneath thin skin and weak muscle, veins of blue
Child, who tore out the steeping cool of a farfetched acid tripped visionary iconic lie crucifying their  dirt stained bare feet to welcome pain, a hello name,
Child, who blasted **** yo couch into their ****** distilment we have nothing to lose let poured
down CO2 fill my lungs as I readily lie hiding from herb grace o’Sundays
oxytocin expelled from our uteri we turned our back on the slight touch of pale skinned parts
skipped meals skipped beats my heart weak fluttering grows strong with the running of my fingers in
your fresh cut hair
they questioned my appetite, whispered missing, she never met the standard, they had forgotten
we let ourselves become our own nonconformists but we never admitted to it
we yelled Bullocks at those who threw us into a status quo social movements mainstream.
craving to be old fashioned, we lowered the skirts in our mind and forgot to swat the message that
our ******* made us inferior
Futures of Singularity we were scared of an age of machinery
tossing our new cameras flat screens cellular devices iproducts we read books and intelligence floated above us.
Cullen Geahigan Dec 2019
6 0’ clock
and the string of doors on the block
creak open in unison,
The briny smell of sizzling, leathery bacon accretes,
Seeping forth from pale shutters,
Peeling past the cars, stripping beige paint off the sides of houses.
The morning drizzle, forming tiny rainbows,
You would think it was acid rain,
melting away the plastic people.

Midday, after only an hour passes
and white wine splashes
like crashing waves in the crystalline stemware,
Where orderlies dazedly rescue their children from the montessories
Where power lines crack like whips,
So generously oozing sustenance to babes.
The civiliter mortuus, roam their undead domain,
Like a swarm of cockroach wasps
speed walking in parasitic pairs
darting through Safeway aisles,
Demolishing houses of white chocolate, and roasting sweet nothings
On the new George Foreman Grill ™ .

Every house on loan to apathetic debtors
They come to yours with their holy letters
PTA, … IRA … NSA … HOA
They proselytize, prioritize
Themselves over forest bears and wolves,
But where only hedge trimmers growl
The only Tuesday sounds are the behemoth
Devouring your trash,
And where leaf blowers asthmatically howl.
Matthew Jones Feb 2017
Out of the fog she chugs

Wheezing asthmatically into the surrounding haze through soot caked nostrils

Vapor condenses on cold steel skin

Iron plates slammed shut and joined with thick ribbons of weld

Rust pustules erupt through salt yellowed emulsion

Figures peer through brine scoured panes

At the dock now, she is lashed to the pier, her gaping maw offered up to the quayside

She disgorges a clattering stream of mechanical effluvium

It spills onto the cement in roiling metallic rivulets

Until, she wretches her last mouthful and sighs, exhausted

Then with no respite, she is force fed, held fast and stuffed

Gulping and swallowing the seemingly endless flow

She groans under the burden and sinks lower in the water

Until finally, fit to burst, she is released from her *******

She bobs languidly away from the dock

And slips back into the fog from whence she first emerged.
The attempt was to anthropomorphize the ferry I take to work every day
Big Virge Nov 2020
BREATHE.... IN....
BREATHE... OUT...

Use Your Nose And Mouth...
So That Your Body Can Move Around... !!!

I BREATHE Poetry...
Pretty Much EVERY DAY... !!!!!

And Find That It HELPS...
To Keep Me... SANE... !!!!!!

It Also HELPS To FEED My Brain...
Just Like OXYGEN....
EVERY TIME I.... “ Inhale “.... !!!!

I USED TO Breathe In Ways...
That ASTHMA Sufferers HATE... !!!

Sometimes With A Wheeze...
At DISCONCERTING Speeds... !!!

Because My Lungs...
Couldn’t Get ENOUGH...
of The Air I NEEDED...
To HELP ME BREATHE...
With The Type of Ease...
That ENABLES ME To Write Poetry...
At Rates That BEAT Like Usain’s Feet... !!!!!!

At A Comfortable Pace...
EVEN WHEN He Raced...
At The OLYMPIC Games... !!!

I BET He Breathed....
At RESPIRATORY RATES...
That Would.... AMAZE.... !!!!!

ESPECIALLY When He HIT The Tape... !!!!!!
When Making His Name By Running To FAME... !!!

While Most Just Breathe To Fuel Their Veins...
So CAPILLARIES Arrange Nutrients and Waste....
So That We Can... MAINTAIN...
And Take The STRAIN of Getting Through Days...

WITHOUT... TOO MUCH Pain... !!!

While Words I Breathe FULFIL My Need...
To Poetically Let My Thoughts Run FREE... !!!

So That I Can SHOW How... Mentally...
I Breathe THOUGHTFULLY And Philosophically...
Through Breaths That FEED And FUEL My Speech...

....... “ Mellifluously “....... !!!!!!!!

Because My Poetry Flows RHYTHMICALLY... !!!!!
Just Like The Seas That FEED Our Streams...
With WAVES of Thought That CREATIVELY Reach...

A Level of... Base Mentalities...

NOT Basic But INVASIVE.....
When It Comes To Words I SEEK....
To Speak On Things I’ve Seen.... !!!

And How My Life Has Been...
The Theme.... REALITY.... !!!!!!!!

Cos' I DON’T BELIEVE...
Or Breathe FALLACIES... !!!!!
Through HOW I Be...
Or... ARTISTICALLY... !!!!!

I Breathe A Life of CLARITY...
So That HAPPILY EVEN IF Asthmatically...
My Breathing TRIES To DAMAGE ME... !!!!

It PROVES To Me How Strong I’ve Been...
Because At 46.....
My Breathing STILL LIVES... !!!!!

And FUELS These Scripts...
I Choose To.... FLIP....

That UTILISE And OXIDISE....
My Mind To Find...
A WORLD OF RHYMES...
That Exercise Me MENTALLY... !!!

So That My Use of Poetry...

........ MAJESTICALLY........ !!!!!!!

Can Show The World How EASILY.....
My Poetry... SUCCESSFULLY...

Enables Me... “ Creatively “...
To... Use My Art To........

........  “ BREATHE “.......
We all got to do it ....
CONSUBSTANTIALITY...LIKE
REALLY REALLY. . . *****!
( for Eddie )

God the Father
God the Son
& the Holy Ghost

flat-share
at no.42 Holy Trinity Flats, Guildford.

Not exactly the best
idea in the Universe

for this rather dysfunctional
family unit.

God the Father
tries to get out

of doing the hovering but
(ha hah yes ... it’s Sunday ... His day ).

God the Son runs
a bath and when

the water’s just about
right ... then he... practises

walking upon it.

“I wish you wouldn’t ... do that!”
says God the Father jealously.

“Sorry ... God the Dad!
Just trying to get to ...haha...Carnegie Hall!"

‘Ere this Being
3 persons

in the one God thingy
is doin’ me nut in!

I don’t know how humans
get their heads round it!”

God the Father
harrumphs omnipotently

“I did it for a lark .. didn’t I?”
he wheezes asthmatically.

“Didn’t think they’d ever
believe it!”

“Now, the joke’s on me!”

“You seen THE HOLY GHOST?”
enquires God the Father pretend-politely.

“Naw ... our Da!
I thought he was ...like...with you!”

“Will you stop turning wine into water!
Anyway you got it **** 'bout ***..you & your party tricks!”

(“Sorry ... our Da”
squeals God the Son)

“Well, listen, you see...
(you listening to me?)

you tell him it’s his turn
to do the washing up!"

God the Father
storms off in a huff.

“Geeeeeez!” whinges God the Son.
“Geeeeeez!”

* Not to be confused with. . . .CONSUBSTANTIATION!

. . .which as you well know is “a theological doctrine that attempts to describe the nature of the Christian Eucharist in concrete metaphysical terms.” The God element and the bread element co-exist simultaneously until it's time for the God guy to pop out with his usual "Surprise!" One can almost imagine( if one were moi that is )the God sitting there in a coat of dough and reading the racing news whilst waiting for the priest to do his stuff.

— The End —