poetry: results 697–720 of 735
Nothing reluctant, the singing,
the kissing, the blind
love in rhythm,
in sync with…
Moths, crumpled scraps of beige-brown velvet,
discard themselves randomly
on the porch's chipped paint,
earnestly settling their brown wings.
Another summer Tuesday and I'm aimless,
sleepy in the dry backyard, mind occupied
by dreams of blotter acid and sodomy. When I
try to sit up, chest tingling where the heat baked it…
…though only through language
communion exists, what language
is thought, language is thought
Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev's brain weighed 4.8 pounds
on the cutting room table, a Guinness record.
Human penises, erect, expand to five times their size.
Mitzi's eyes were large as nipples
in an ice storm, her lips quivery and thin
after the Russian steppe peasant fashion.
The bamboo reed divides
the evening into nine girls
practicing the dance of Changgu.
Once again, we find
ourselves under the
anarchy of starlight…
Papers exchanged hands in the garden
at dawn, this much is known. The brotherhood
had gathered in the atrium a few days earlier.
The camera stores the hours when
everything returns to the right hand,
view finder matching patterns
of parents and children, shutter…
Cousins, strange in serious suits,
fold their hands on their laps
and sing old, familiar songs.
Without with I would still be
in the corner lamenting over the insignificances.
Talking causally to my artificial curios…
We had our first sex on a 70s era couch (while MTV's 'The Real World' played); it made my allergies go off—that's the reason I laid my head on your chest, because the cushion was giving me a rash.
We are taught to take care of each other, that families are harsh places where people will tell you that you're fat or old looking, but also where those same folks will stand by you.
This hammock is strung for one, and it's so humid outside that we stink. If I concentrate, maybe I can weigh us down, till the netting is barely grazing the acorns below us. When we touch the ground I will orgasm. I'm preparing for it now, facing down while you sleep turned towards the sky, my breath moving your collar.
Jesus and Christopher lean close
Together, tiny fists
Clamping tight on plastic
Swords, their gold…
The karaoke bar was surreal. After the little punk kid sang
Michael Jackson's 'Beat It,' some fat guy with a beard
rallied the drunken troops for a version of 'God
Bless America' or something like that.
Remember dad mad as a snake about
growing corn broken storm windows
and the farmhand who put wildflowers
and mirrors all through the barn
A cold coffee growl in a kitchen
A girl brushing the color poison on the heart
of the prisoner she paints
I am a purple fashion model painting
latex smoke and metaphor
my rhythm nude and smeared like
our wild silhouettes and black & white sex…
Once I wrote your eyes
in the palm of my hand
while you were engaged
in the centering music.
…and it wasn't any big deal, but I knew
I'd crossed some line somewhere.
I wonder how many of us have,
without anyone ever guessing?
He was going to make a movie about it,
but the cost of film was too much.
On my way home from work today
I met a man who didn't exist.
He showed me his two front teeth, grinning
as he held them up to my eyes.