Stream of Consciousness
A GHOST IN THE VEIN (6-14-2018)
A GHOST IN THE VEIN (6-14-2018) I was listening to Johnny Cash's version of HURT. When the Lyric "the needle tears a hole" came up, I remembered this poem. Addiction has a cost. The addicted don't care but it is not intentional. It is a type of 'don't care' that is forced on one by addiction. The biggest HURT is those that love the addict. There is no escape-even when you disown or erase that person from your life. It doesn't happen. I just don't know how to explain that kind of pain. Writing a poem was the only way I could try.
By Victor Mendez3 months ago in Poets
End Jam Back
Right, time to write Did you just rhyme... Nevermind No, go on, say it Well it's that rhyme Asshole No you're thinking Of assonance But we're still friends Remember not to mention I know not to mention dictatorial leader's testicles And penises Don't worry this is a classy piece About existential misery And Aunty Disestab Lissh' Mentarianism By proxy What? Why by proxy? Good point Why buy proxy when I can shop direct Am I erect or correct. Wait What? Did you just erasure the fuck out of this poem? I made a call today for direct existential poetry and now you're trying to - - You did it again What? You know - you did You're doing it aga- That doesn't even make sense Of course it does It's poetry Oh yeah? Explain I've written it in verse and committed it to screen and paper scroll and parchment Therefore it is now art If cutting a cow and showing formaldehyde up its bum is art Then I call this art You said bum I also said shove Testicles Do you want me to black out you And then no one will What? No one will - - - talking - But theres not even rhymes Why are there no rhymes? Do you hate rhymes? Are you rhyme phobic? No but I knew her sister She chewed with her - closed If you can believe it So proper e-nun seancation And endjamback Wait do you meanenjambmentwhen controlling The pacing and flowno End jam back End.. jam it in. Back on the grind. Or something Whose a fancy fucker today? Who's. I asked you. No... I was. Fuck, nerve mind Fuck a nerve mind Group talk hive mind everybody do the dinosaur Walk like a malfunction in a three piece suite This is why the e is a powerful tool in the wrong hands its deadly. Who killed lee? Am I dead lee? Three piece sweet suite suit or soot How can you hate trees. Who sits there and says "fuck the trees" When I said "fuck the trees" I... Are you blushing? No. Yes. What tree got you weak AF at the knee? Elm? No. Fucking Elm I just hate but maybe later I prefer oak. Well... Does he like you back? You mean bark Woof Just silly. Said you, oak tree end jam back grinding fucker thing you. So important poetry Over on yonder hill I saw a cotton candy mill And I did trot over to it with a sense of truety If you can imagine such a wonderous concept And I did marry a maid of milk and macro nutrients Maid or made? I didn't force her hand That's what she said? That's not how jokes work. I know I know They sell bingo cards to prostituea and winnebago owners On route not 66 the one with the meringues Oh look I had this sitting around waiting for a time like this The wind wis gently blowin' the curtains. Rhythmically shimmying them as it drifted through the branches o' the ferns tae the south o' oor hame. It whistled its aria o' wistful uncertainty. Rich an' groundin' the scent carried through mah opened windae. Fresh grass cuttings an' the earthy richness o' soil vibrant wae life. Today wis a normal day. Ye ken the kin o' day where there's peace an' quiet until a loud thud breaks the spell cast by the siren's song. "Andy! Andy lad are ye in there? Din,nae ignore me ya bastid. Ah've got summit important tae tell ye. Let me in!" "Hawd yer horses ya Maddie, Am domin' tae the door noo." As Ah unlocked it, the brass hawndle jittered an' the lightweight door swung back pullin' me wae it." Now I feel complete. Wanna fuck an oak with me?
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Poets
Anger
Anger. Always anger The first emotion that I feel when push comes to shove — frustration, annoyance, rage. Too long have I been kept silent, forced to swallow my own words, beaten until it stuck, choking back the sounds of me. Not anymore. I rise I will not go quietly. I will not fade into nothing. No— you will hear the wrath, the pain-filled words as I spit them back out. You call me the villain — you haven't seen me yet. But now you will.
By Chel Writes3 months ago in Poets
Where's Joy?
"Where's Joy?" she called. I knew she meant her daughter. But it felt desperate. Maybe through my rose-tinted ears it mirrored or echoed or conflated my own desperate plea into the world. Conventional experts on such matters would suggest the sun shining down on this green and blue land. Or the laugh of children at play, without a care for where their lives might head in days and years to come. Yet others— strange blind people— might suggest it's in the demonocracy they rely on to set matters straight. Even if those matters are battles over the safe passage through a perilous section of water most hadn't heard of before. Where's Joy? In the naked embrace between lovers? Frolicking. Do we frolic enough, like we're on Little House on the Prairie? Frolicking is harder to do in the face of everything and everyone. But does it diminish it? Yes. But no. But always barefoot. On the sand. The field. Or in the pool. Who wears shoes to a pool? Commies? Putin? He dips down, balls first, squatting with a wide thigh gap and double dips. The greedy little fucker. Putin the time and effort to make sure your balls are not shrivelled from all that you do before you double dip the testes in the Volga. Genitals point to the vulva— or asshola, you angry old dwarf.
By Paul Stewart3 months ago in Poets
The Unspoken Goodbyes
When two stubborn souls fall in love and break up, the damage cannot be mended easily... Living in a generation where it is considered weak for the men to reach out first, and so-called desperate for the women to reach out, we end up going into our own dark holes for a while, ultimately living out a lie until something so-called better comes along...
By Armand Slayer3 months ago in Poets
