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

It's Sunday

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.