En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Boss Of The Nethers

The cupped cervix sat
on the coffee table.
We tried not to stare,
like our pupils would get fried by its brightness.

Perhaps my ex-wife left it as a reminder of the time
when human beings had hips, back when we had bodies.

Yes, that was fun-a cupcake of breeze disintegrating
on our cheeks, a banana muffin undressing in our nostrils,

but bodies broke down too,
and things are easier now.

Strange, how we see further without eyeballs. Our eyes tricked us
into thinking a wall was something not be seen through.

Mouths got in the way
of saying what needed saying.

When they were invented
mouths were only supposed to be used in emergencies,

but we couldn't resist,
which made god so mad

he ripped our ear in half,
and still we didn't listen.

poem by Jeffrey McDaniel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetic Existence

i have found them, the things that cannot be lost
education, and patience,
my steady face...inside my room,
the mirror that looks at me
always, these eyes

i shall always keep what treasures i found
you, and myself, that time so luckily gives
our lips, our bodies, our mouths
we never exchange them for anything

we found what we deserve: the poetic existence
of these beings.
that stare and droll, these eyes, these hands.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Stink

the stink...
human excrement,
starving mouths,
skeleton bodies...
breath short and aching.
blood on the hands,
violent scars that tremble,
in the darkest night,
burning out of control.
hatred fear,
that drives and shatters.
the grip on the cup,
broken, and shaking.
hot love molten,
howl, and moan...
the stars in the sky,
falling like hot knives!
silent prayers,
tongues ripped from mouths,
that move like fish,
praying to the water.
feet walking through mud,
hands covered in ashes.
human hearts beating,
souls rotting with desire!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Skokie Theater

Twelve years old and lovesick, bumbling
and terrified for the first time in my life,
but strangely hopeful, too, and stunned,
definitely stunned—I wanted to cry,
I almost started to sob when Chris Klein
actually touched me—oh God—below the belt
in the back row of the Skokie Theatre.
Our knees bumped helplessly, our mouths
were glued together like flypaper, our lips
were grinding in a hysterical grimace
while the most handsome man in the world
twitched his hips on the flickering screen
and the girls began to scream in the dark.
I didn’t know one thing about the body yet,
about the deep foam filling my bones,
but I wanted to cry out in desolation
when she touched me again, when the lights
flooded in the crowded theatre
and the other kids started to file
into the narrow aisle, into a lobby
of faded purple splendor, into the last
Saturday in August before she moved away.
I never wanted to move again, but suddenly
we were being lifted toward the sidewalk
in a crush of bodies, blinking, shy,
unprepared for the ringing familiar voices
and the harsh glare of sunlight, the brightness
of an afternoon that left us gripping
each other’s hands, trembling and changed.

poem by Edward Hirsch
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This Morning

Nothing left to feel
Nothing more to do
Nothing left to give
Nothing more in you
Nothing else to have or hold
Nothing left, but time to go
Time to go
Years go by
Didn't really say that much at all
And moments just fly
Didn't ever really touch at all
Weeks always run down
Didn't really get that close at all
And days, days fall out
Didn't ever really know at all
And then we're here in a room too clean and too bright
She stares at you for an hour
You stare into the light
For one last hour in the room
So mean and so white
I stare at her in this room as she stares into the night
Nothing left to feel
Nothing more to do
Nothing left to ask
Nothing more of you
Nothing else to share or show
Nothing left but time to go
In his eyes as we turn no eternity of life
In his eyes as we turn no infinity of why
In his eyes as we turn no beautiful goodbye
In his eyes as we turn...nothing but tears
In his eyes as we turn...nothing but tears
(spoken:) I couldn't understand too much of what was being said
In a matter of minutes
Peacefully so slow
I had to think to breathe
My heart burst
We moved in silence really slowly away from the world
As we drove a strange silence
That moment
Nothing will ever be the same
Nothing will ever be the same
Nothing will ever be the same
Days fall out
Weeks always run down
Moments just fly
Weeks go by
And then we're here
And then we're here in a room too clean and too bright
I stare at you for an hour
You stare into the light
For one last hour in the room so mean and so white
You stare at me in this room as I stare into the night
Nothing left to feel
Nothing more to do
Nothing more to take
Nothing more from you
Nothing else to need or know
There's nothing left at all...but time to go

song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grey Windows...

grey windows, grey buildings,
grey streets, grey skies...
grey figures staring,
grey deals are done!

manipulate gas prices,
manipulate food...
manipulate the economy,
manipulate the election.

right and wrong,
never thought of.
hungry mouths and desperation.
win the war,
never raise a gun,
bodies strewn everywhere!

money makes gods,
without conscience or morals.
human lives just tokens,
that buy trinkets for demons!

flag draped caskets,
the stink of money overwhelms.
while patriots dig graves,
for their mothers and sisters.

right and wrong,
never thought of.
hungry mouths and desperation.
pick a President,
who'll stand silent,
as birds of prey pick the bodies!

grey windows...

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Take,Take,Take

was sitting there in a comfortable chair
And that was all that I needed
Then my friend offered me a drink for us to share
And that was all that I needed
Well, then I felt at ease
But then I'm not too hard to please
I guess you couldn't call me greedy
Then I was shocked to look up
And see rita hayworth there in a place so seedy
She walked into the bar with her long, red, curly hair
And that was all that I needed
And I said to my friend, "good god, we're lucky men just to even see her"
Take, take, take
Take, take, take
Take, take, take
And I could not resist, I just had to get close to her
And that was all that I needed
I walked and loomed around her table for a while
And that was all that I needed
Then I said, "i hate to bug you, ma'am, but can I have your autograph?"
And that was all that I needed
She pressed her lips against a white piece of paper
And that was all that I needed
Then I saw what she wrote, my heart is in my mouth
And that was all that I needed
Then she handed it to me, and I think that she could see
That that was all that I needed
I started to walk away but then I remembered 'hey, I forgot to get a picture'
So I asked her one more time, "could I have another favor?"
That was all that I needed
She was kind and posed with me
Then I knew my friend would see my celebrity meeting
Take, take, take
Take, take, take
Take, take, take
She turned and said to me, "I need to go to sleep,"
And it seemed so mean
It's almost as if she could not appreciate how cool I was being
She said, "good night" and walked away
And I didn't know what to say
I just couldn't believe it
Well, it's just not fair
I want to get a piece of hair
That was all that I needed
Or maybe a kiss on the cheek
I wouldn't wash it for a week
That would be all that I needed
But she didn't even care
That I was even there
What a horrible feeling

song performed by by White Stripes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Could Bear To Look!

broke down,
system.
faces peeled,
razor knives.
hands cut off,
feet bloodied.
mouths open,
gulping air.
eyes plucked out
by the lies.
souls bartered
for a cup of rice.
flags burning,
bodies strewn.
the well oiled wheel,
turns in spite.
no god,
could bear to look!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Coffee

Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you;
it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but
as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way. I'll tell you
what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever we had going for us
is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs.
The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up. I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my stomach. Every step she
took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door. She saw me and it
did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder where it went,
pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."
"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world
that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram
from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing
else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some clothes on. They
had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I could tell you about her ass. We went
into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table. She placed a
cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put a pan full of water on the stove
and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body. I
won't. She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail. I didn't remember
seeing any. She came back up the stairs and went into another room. She closed the door
after her. I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It was now October
and there was too much water in the pan. That was the problem. I threw half of the water
into the sink.
The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months. The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I stared at the garbage
and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and
peelings and stuff. I couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon
all laid out like a funeral service. These are the things that you need to make a cup of
coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a
grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."
"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed door. Her
voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And evening came, I
had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things. None of them remembered, and the bar closed. It
was two o'clock in the morning. I had to go outside. It was foggy and cold in San
Francisco. I wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.
I decided to go visit another girl. We had not been friends for over a year. Once we
were very close. I wondered what she was thinking about now.
I went to her house. She didn't have a door bell. That was a small victory. One must
keep track of all the small victories. I do, anyway.
She answered the door. She was holding a robe in front of her. She didn't believe that
she was seeing me. "What do you want?" she said, believing now that she was
seeing me. I walked right into the house.
She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her profile. She had not
bothered to wrap the robe completely around herself. She was just holding the robe in
front of herself.
I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her feet. It looked kind
of strange. Perhaps because it was so late at night.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want a cup of coffee," I said. What a funny thing to say, to say again for
a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. She was not pleased to see me.
Let the AMA tell us that time heals. I looked at the unbroken line of her body.
"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said. "I feel like
talking to you. We haven't talked for a long time."
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. I stared at the unbroken line of
her body. This was not good.
"It's too late," she said. "I have to get up in the morning. If you want
a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen. I have to go to bed."
The kitchen light was on. I looked down the hall into the kitchen. I didn't feel like
going into the kitchen and having another cup of coffee by myself. I didn't feel like
going to anybody else's house and asking them for a cup of coffee.
I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange pilgrimage, and I had not
planned it that way. At least the jar of instant coffee was not on the table, beside an
empty white cup and a spoon.
They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. Perhaps if he has
enough time left over, his fancy can even make room for a cup of coffee.

poem by Richard Brautigan from Revenge of the Lawn (1971)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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A Shared Fire

light the fire...
put on some coffee!
i care enough to listen,

if you care enough to talk.
the wall of angry silence
between us must fall....

this road is long,
and we have a long way to go!
what we feel when no one

can see us, when no one
else is near, when darkness
wraps us up in secretive blankets,

must come to light!
this world full of danger and hate,
the earth itself moans for change!

bodies walk by in ghostlike trance,
empty stares, feet moving without sound....
mouths open, waiting for deliverence....

the snowlike stillness swallows need,
new birth groans beneath frozen death....
we are the candle, we are the flame,

the road waits, as if a friend!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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There’s Sometimes A Silence

There’s sometimes a silence
hanging pregnant,
a silence that says that something
almost unstoppable is going to happen,

but sometimes words are totally needless
when eyes, mouths and bodies
are talking a own language,
when things turn into making love.

poem by Gert Strydom
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I Couldn't Understand You

I'm sorry I wasn't good enough.
I'm sorry I couldn't make you care.
I'm sorry I didn't no what else to do.
I'm sorry I am no longer there.

I'm sorry I couldn't open your eyes.
I'm sorry I let it come this far.
I'm sorry I made you so mad.
I'm sorry I for whatever you said I did.

I'm sorry I couldn't see the truth.
I'm sorry I didn't want to listen.
I'm sorry I helped you when no one else would.
I'm sorry for always being there.

I'm sorry for so many things,
but I'm most sorry that I'm not sorry anymore.

poem by Emily Straka
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The Children

The children are all crying in their pens
and the surf carries their cries away.
They are old men who have seen too much,
their mouths are full of dirty clothes,
the tongues poverty, tears like puss.
The surf pushes their cries back.
Listen.
They are bewitched.
They are writing down their life
on the wings of an elf
who then dissolves.
They are writing down their life
on a century fallen to ruin.
They are writing down their life
on the bomb of an alien God.
I am too.
We must get help.
The children are dying in their pens.
Their bodies are crumbling.
Their tongues are twisting backwards.
There is a certain ritual to it.
There is a dance they do in their pens.
Their mouths are immense.
They are swallowing monster hearts.
So is my mouth.

Listen.
We must all stop dying in the little ways,
in the craters of hate,
in the potholes of indifference-
a murder in the temple.
The place I live in
is a maze
and I keep seeking
the exit or the home.
Yet if I could listen
to the bulldog courage of those children
and turn inward into the plague of my soul
with more eyes than the stars
I could melt the darkness-
as suddenly as that time
when an awful headache goes away
or someone puts out the fire-
and stop the darkness and its amputations
and find the real McCoy
in the private holiness
of my hands.

poem by Anne Sexton
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Human Beings

Human being beings are strange in being human,

Strange in love and art and vice,

Strange in being nice

Human beings are strangers in the night

Lights shining on a starry night

No sooner blinked out they are gone

A stranger in the human race

Keeping up keeping face,

Moving on

In crowds and queues and buses

Walking alone at ten

Human beings in being human

Make the strangest men

Not easy to be read,

Or clothed or fed

Or put to bed

Each thought entwined

Lives over signed overlapped

Smaller beings kept but not as 'pets'

Sometimes feel 'trapped'

For human beings are best when left at sea

Frantic firey disordered unchained set free

Their limpet souls make rocks their strange security

For love for life for space,

Human beings are strangest in 'The Human Race'

poem by Yvette Smith
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What Max Wanted

What do you want from me?
Max's wife said

and he looked by her
at the waitress

at the cafe
who was walking

with some order
behind his wife's back

and he noticed
the cute ass as she moved

the way she swayed
and the hands

holding the tray
huh? What is it

you want from me?
his wife repeated

her eyes peering at him
taking in

that aspect of him
as he turned his head

look said Max
following the waitress

to the table across the way
his eyes slowly

undressing her
his mind making up scenes

like in some movie
you say come on Honey

let's go out for a meal
and talk

and what are you doing
looking elsewhere

and not talking
his wife said

spittle on her lower lip
Max looked back

at his wife and said
oh yes sure

I was thinking
of the Picasso print

we saw the other day
you know that one

we both liked
and you said you'd like it

for your birthday
well maybe

I ought to get it
what do you think?

And the waitress
looked over at Max

as she went by
and he saw

a whole new ball game
in her eyes

and caught the cheek
and ear

and was sure
he captured some aspect

of her perfume
and his wife said

Picasso?
That Picasso?

are you sure Max?
and she went into a daze

and smiled
and Max imagined himself

and the waitress
and sex games

and a party
going wild.

poem by Terry Collett
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You'll Never Be A Man (live)

You need protection from the physical art of conversation
Though the fist is mightier than the lip, it adds the aggravation
Bridge and Chorus:
I got the password
I got persuasion
A proposition for invasion of your privacy
Give yourself away and find the fake in me
You'll never be a man
No matter how many foreign bodies you can take
You'll never be a man
When you're half a woman and you're half awake
(1) With a face full of tears and a chemical shake
(2) Under the table with a chemical shake
Given half a chance, that I can take
Are you so superior, are you in such pain
Are you made out of porcelain?
When they made you they broke the cast
Don't wanna be first, I just want to last
You strike a profile on the low side of my imagination
My eyes climbed down to find the point of possible saturation
Bridge and Chorus

song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Of Us Must Know (Sooner Or Later)

I didn't mean to treat you so bad
You shouldn't take it so personal
I didn't mean to make you so sad
You just happened to be there, that's all
When I saw you say "goodbye" to your friend and smile
I thought that it was well understood
That you'd be comin' back in a little while
I didn't know that you were sayin' "goodbye" for good
But, sooner or later, one of us must know
That you just did what you're supposed to do
Sooner or later, one of us must know
That I really did try to get close to you
I couldn't see what you could show me
Your scarf had kept your mouth well hid
I couldn't see how you could know me
But you said you knew me and I believed you did
When you whispered in my ear
And asked me if I was leavin' with you or her
I didn't realize just what I did hear
I didn't realize how young you were
But, sooner or later, one of us must know
That your just doing what you're supposed to do
Sooner or later, one of us must know
That I really did try to get close to you
I couldn't see when it started snowin'
Your voice was all that I heard
I couldn't see where we were goin'
But you said you knew an' I took your word
And then you told me later, as I apologized
That you were just kiddin' me, you weren't really from the farm
An' I told you, as you clawed out my eyes
That I never really meant to do you any harm
But, sooner or later, one of us must know
That you a just did what you're supposed to do
Sooner or later, one of us must know
That I really did try to get close to you

song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Of Us Must Know

I didn't mean to treat you so bad
You shouldn't take it so personal
I didn't mean to make you so sad
You just happened to be there, that's all
When i saw you say "goodbye" to your friend and smile
I thought that it was well understood
That you'd be comin' back in a little while
I didn't know that you were sayin' "goodbye" for good
But, sooner or later, one of us must know
You just did what you're supposed to do
Sooner or later, one of us must know
That i really did try to get close to you
I couldn't see what you could show me
Your scarf had kept your mouth well hid
I couldn't see how you could know me
But you said you knew me and i believed you did
When you whispered in my ear
And asked me if i was leavin' with you or her
I didn't realize just what i did hear
I didn't realize how young you were
But, sooner or later, one of us must know
You just did what you're supposed to do
Sooner or later, one of us must know
That i really did try to get close to you
I couldn't see when it started snowin'
Your voice was all that i heard
I couldn't see where we were goin'
But you said you knew an' i took your word
And then you told me later, as i apologized
That you were just kiddin' me, you weren't really from the farm
An' i told you, as you clawed out my eyes
That i never really meant to do you any harm
But, sooner or later, one of us must know
You just did what you're supposed to do
Sooner or later, one of us must know
That i really did try to get close to you

song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm Sorry For...

I'm sorry, my dear friend Sophia
I'm sorry that I always let my anger out on you when you didn't do anything wrong
I'm sorry that I wasn't there when you needed me
I'm sorry that I... wasn't a good enough for you

I'm sorry that you had to be with a wimpy girl for such a time
I'm sorry that I couldn't be what you expected from me
I'm sorry that I made you feel so angry, depressed, and sad
I'm sorry that I usually have things in my way

I'm sorry that I couldn't say that I was sorry
Most of all
I'm sorry that I left you
I'm sorry that I couldn't be your best friend forever.

poem by XXXHolix Fire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Baylitz's Wife And A Game Of Chess

Baylitz's wife served you snacks and booze
while you played chess in the lounge

at the small table set aside for games
and you watched her come and go

the swaying of her hips
the well crafted thighs

beneath the dress
the way her hands held the tray

her eyes green as emeralds
searching you as she laid it down

watch your bishop
Baylitz said

but in your imagination
you were already undressing his wife

for bed letting fall her dress
and bra and underwear

of flamingo pink or soft sky blue
you've left your castle well exposed

Baylitz muttered
his fingers over the piece

waiting there to pounce
you made a protective move

and he smiled and studied the board
as his wife stood by the window looking out

your eyes moved over her frame
caught in the sun's light

imagining her beneath you
in their broad bed

her lips on your chest
ah you've sacrificed your pawn too easy

Baylitz said and swooped in
for the kill of your piece

by his black bishop
you sat back in the chair

gave a sad expression
your eyes touching his wife's soft flesh

your king's in danger
Baylitz said

and your eyes moved back to the board
and studied Baylitz's fingers

lingering murderously
but too late

he moved in for the kill
checkmate

he stated
you sighed

and looked at his wife
who pulled a face

you sat
your dream of sex and love

stilled in frozen frame
another time maybe

Baylitz said
ok

you replied
unfulfilled.

poem by Terry Collett
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The Barking Dog

The Barking Dog

A dog barked at the wind on the grass
Stare at a certain soul
Chicken, dog, wind, or soil?
A residual
Imprisoned in the wall of abyss

Nameless the grass
Penetrate the different bodies
Transforming Regenerating
Revive the unlimited possibilities
Half by hatred Half the strange love

Pick up the name from the dust
For the fallen notes
The grey pomegranate seeds
Carved into the earth and wind
On cranium

poem by Catherine Yen
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