Protrusions and orifices.
It all seems about
Protrusions and orifices.
Evenings in or nights out.
A game of bravado.
Misplaced connections,
Protrusions and orifices.
Is all there there is.
Hoodwinked, gazumped
Winners, losers.
Judgements in the
Asylum of life.
Protrusions and orifices,
Where will it lead?
In new beginnings or
Heartbreak?
Drowning in a bottle of
Sadness.
Protrusions and orifices.
Is the burning of
The tyre machismo,
Anything to write
Home about
To mother or lover?
poem by Peter Vealey
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Related quotes
Afternoon Flow Of Linking Thoughts
there you are
pain and its protrusions
creeks to rivers
and tributaries like
fingers of the hands
into thy chest to listen
to the whispers of the
heart the sea and the
ocean to become whole
again to be not noticed
as pain and its protrusions
but wagering waves friends
of the monsoon winds
slaves of the lights of the moon
sailing like ships losing
their shadows to a limitless
horizon into that darkness
sleepy until the next opening
day of the sun where light
in profusion blinds the eyes
the truths that scare us
we should have loved and
believed like gripping hands
of our very best friends.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blue Pastel Stills
pastel blue
daisies
round protrusions
at the center
six in all
under an orange
sun
still as steel
on the canvass
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Constant Falling
sometimes you feel being sucked
down to the bottom of the earth
and you try to hold on to the protrusions
of the rocks and even the clinging vines
just near you and all of them seem to be
so useless as you go on to this falling
and falling and falling, and then you let go,
you fall and then you accept and then the
little miracles come, and then you simply
enjoy the falling and falling and you are
no longer surprised but amazed and
then you tell yourself: what a ride!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Alliteration Anonymous
Optical illusions
Distortions and diffusions
Detrimental depression
Ominous oppression
Severe suppression
Impervious impression
Chaotic compression
Retributive repression
Overbearing obsession
Sickly succession
Optical orifices
poem by Lauren Joy
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The Scarecrows
i have been wanting to say
everything
yes everything from the most trivial
to the most important
those subdued
those concealed
those that beat in protest
those that can even kill me
or us
because we have been too meek
because we have been to subservient
to the dictates of restraints
look at us
emaciated with suppression
too guilty about unused freedoms
of tools shining inside the cabinets
of some disguises
look at us
we are less human
our mouths thin out
our ears sealing the orifices
of truth
our minds are nothing but plains
without grass
ourselves
scarecrows in the fields
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Altar Boy
A monk with a hard-on
And a lavender robe
That scratches his thighs
Through the hat that he strode
As he follows a path
Filled with every desire
And mimics his footsteps
And sets his prayers on fire.
Well I too have chosen
That which left no choice
To sing without loving,
A solitary voice,
To observe with passion
Each careful denial:
The protrusions which give my life meaning
For a while.
Sometimes I see you in berries and weeds
Youre brushing your teeth with liquorice seeds
Standing too close,
Pulling your clothes,
Smiling at god
And the meaning of life grows.
No and Ill never tell
And Ill never know
What candles you light
After the show
And Ill never tell,
And Ill never ask
The meaning of life after mass.
song performed by by Eels
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Write About Life....and Love...
i will write about life,
upon those eggs that cracked
when the chicks start popping up
like mushrooms sprouting beside
the banana shrubs after a night's
heavy rain,
there will be sounds of hatch-lings
and fledgelings inside the nests of
seagulls and hawks,
i can hear the cries of baby whales
under the sea,
spawns of corals spurting from their
new trunks and protrusions,
there will be bulbs of onions,
buds of roses slowly starting to bloom
to give to the world the
transformation of reddish to
deep red,
a sunrise, green grass groping for a hold
on the sand,
vines extending tendrils,
a new born baby's first cry to the world,
ah, i feel life like blood rushing in my veins
once more filling my heart
with the abundance of love.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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How Can We Ever Know?
i am the tree in the forest of your mind.
if you paint, i am just one of the lines in the canvass.
if you sing, i will only be one of the notes
and if you write, i am but a syllable.
in the same manner, no matter how i tell you
the truth about myself,
in some shadows of the silhouettes of the night
a dark figure in the middle of the dark background
you grope as i make some protrusions on the wall
you feel something and then the object slips like a fish
back into the sea
sometimes i put on my name and you read it.
you say, i am that name, but i laugh, i am not a name.
on a moonlit night, i am that bird flying away.
you lose sight of me like i am a ball thrown by a child
sucked by the night.
on a sunny day, i pretend as one of the petals in your garden
less the smell, you dismiss me as one of those
that you can always afford to lose.
it is funny, you want to know me, and say you value
this getting to know.
it is sad, i am not concrete. I am always as fluid as the river.
as fluctuating as a mirage.
i am the desert. I am the rock.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Clash
in the success of an incantation
eruption from innermost
from orifices no longer veiled
from wounds aroused with salt
the beast withheld hitherto.
and war instantly declared
from the full blooming of our suspicions
from second chances, aloof
from our herpes kiss
from the gnashing of our ulcers
to partake in the immolation.
i crouch and gather the peeled skin
from burnings symbiotic
to be more than a shadow of
albeit less than composure prior.
in the success of the beast sealed
we settle on polishing an urn
whose ashes belong to a date.
poem by Chris Jelens
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The Winners Are Always The Heroes
The winners are always the heroes in life it is always this way
The losers are quickly forgotten though a fine and sporting
game they did play
'Tis only a sport it may well seem where people chase after a ball
But many take football quite seriously though 'tis only a game after all,
The winners are always the heroes and that's how it always will be
The fans of the winners are singing rejoicing in their victory
Life and sports are akin in many ways though some may say 'tis only a game
The winners get all of the applause and the winners can bask in their fame,
The winners are always the heroes and the winners get all of the praise
And always only to the winners the toasters their toasting glasses raise
The losers are quickly forgotten though some must lose for some to win
Yet some look on losing as shameful to them there is no greater sin,
In life as in sport the poor losers are the people the masses ignore
And in football the really big hero is the one who kicks the winning score.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Don't Want to Hear Another Word
I don’t want to hear another word!
Don’t even express to me another thought.
I don’t need something else to believe.
I am filled to the brim with philosophies.
I prefer to remain ignorant.
I am finally seeing that I can choose to say no,
To more information about the Infinite.
You have defined Him for me since I was a child.
And I let you.
I thought I had to.
But you cannot possibly know what He is to me.
No lines can be drawn.
He is not in any vocabulary.
Passion is something you feel.
It is something you are.
It is not in Webster’s dictionary,
Somewhere between “operate” and “star”.
God is my passion.
He is passion for me.
I am passion for Him.
He is the ocean rising up like a wave around me.
Suddenly I am lifted up off of my feet,
As His passion breaks over my head.
I am drowning in the experience of passion.
You cannot tell me how this is supposed to feel.
As this wave assaults my senses and,
Water pours into all my orifices.
You have the nerve to try and tell me what the rules are?
What the truth is?
How reality really is?
You there, standing on the shore,
Are going to tell me how I am to drown?
If you were in this ocean with me,
You and I would be one.
Not because we believe the same things,
Or are even aware of each other.
When orgasm reaches its crescendo,
We are so utterly alone,
Yet more one with
God than we have ever known.
We would be one in that we both,
Peaked with God and felt His heartbeat close to ours.
Passion is not a belief, a conviction, a truth.
Passion is an experience of Divine Love,
That changes you from the inside out.
You cannot tell someone about it.
You can only hope to survive it.
Or maybe not.
poem by Connie Crane
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S13
one thing with thought is that it is fluid.
do you like them to be stones? the sculptors are
ready with their hammers.
one thing with flexibility is that something always
wants to remain open, a door for instance
sometimes to wait for the beloved it is never locked
till midnight
or that window that misses the moon
it never closes till twilight
for the love of light and cool air
some have to be apertures and orifices
my mouth is open for love my arms are unclosed circles
my heart grasps for air something in it is still open
in fact, as you have seen it,
in its unclosed state, it is still bleeding
my mind is open functioning as a parachute of my ambitions
my body does not actually mind what happens next
trusting in words, in another glass of red wine,
cherries for the tongue
the last one for the road, who knows?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Someone Stole My Cat!
I think somebody stole my cat.
It was here last night before I went out drinking and
having sexual relations with truck drivers.
Now it's not here and the window is open.
I didn't open the window;
I don't know who did.
Was it those aliens that abduct me sometimes,
make me dress up like Marilyn Monroe
and probe my orifices with chopsticks?
Did they come over again?
I told them to leave me alone!
Where did my cat go?
It's gone!
Someone must have taken it.
I WANT IT BACK!
So now I'm going around in a purple tutu to every house in my neighborhood
banging on doors asking
'Have you seen my cat? '
Most of the people just slam the door in my face
but some ask if I had a picture of it, which I don't.
They ask how they'd identify it,
and I say that I'm not sure.
Then I start dialing random cell phone numbers and
asking the people who answer if they'd seen my cat.
I get through to someone in Paraguay who curses me out in Spanish;
I don't think they have my cat.
In fact, I don't if anyone has my cat because I'm not sure it even exists.
Maybe I just imagined it
like I did with the baboon that I think lived in my closet
for a year before disappearing.
Its name was Fred but the voices in my head said its name was Steve.
I still called it Fred.
Anyway, if you see a cat somewhere it might be mine, though I'm not sure;
please return it to me regardless because I like cats.
Thanks.
poem by Newamba Flamingo
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Dodo and The City
Dodo draws on the cigarette.
The smoke hits the throat.
The city sucks her in with its
huge sick well of emptiness.
Bagteller wanted her to go
to his place last night and make
passionate love. What a laugh
that'd been. Him and his fetishes.
The schoolgirl uniform was not
her thing. Too many memories.
She told him to stuff that in one
of his tight dark orifices and walked
out into the city's cold night. Went
home to her own place and took
a hot shower. She is still sore from
the scrub. She wants to scrub her
past away with the brush and soap.
Nothing washes away the memories
that have sunk deep. She wakes to
a new day. The city is buzzing with
the walking dead and half living.
The cigarette smoke fills her lungs
and then out into the air. Mother said
men were not to be trusted. Father
said don't listen to her she's biased
and bitchy and smells of sour cream.
Oh that I could open up my mind and
wash it out and not have to see that
shrink once a month just after my bleeds
have gone she says. Dr Glexity with his
black suit and blue tie one green eye and
one grey. All that darn money and nothing
to say. She inhales the smoke and the city
and the living and the dead and sucks them
into her lungs broken heart and stuffed head.
poem by Terry Collett
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Sacrilegious Fury Rising
Blasphemy has failed for religious
fervour which empowered blasphemy
has faded rendering all shockingly
provocative words mere caricatures
of past offense damning exclamations
furious curse is feared now only when
curser is strong rabidly dangerous in
derangement vile awesome obscenities
hold rage power threatened promise of
painfully impending flesh punishment.
Ever the real power behind blasphemy
evil still blasphemes against true holy
powers with all impassioned vehemency
cursed dispossessed angel venom imbues
evil more cunning less obviously evident
unbelievable in age of excused scientific
ignorance yet Satan ranges howls banished
cast from heaven for evil words are like
hideous snakes slithering into corrupted
orifices of souls bound in personalized hell.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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By Those Interested In War History
By those interested in war history war history is read
But the winners write the war history or so it is said
That is how it is and will always be
What is true to one is not to another that's how it seems to me
Of war and war heroes many stories are written and many poems to recite
And mostly of war winners that war writers stories do write
And readers believe what they want to believe
And the mothers of the war dead for their dead children grieve
In war as in life 'tis the winners who count
And the stories of losers to little amount
For the dead war heroes many a parade
And far too many films of war have been made
And 'tis mostly the winners write the war history
That is how it is and always will be.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Verisimilitude of Grandiose II: The Fiesta
Unlatch the porticos of this colossal wardrobe
Titivated with banderitas and foxtrot musicales
And you shall find the serpentine-reposed bedlam
Hissing in the cacophony of a grandiose festival
Where everyone gorge upon the guilty pleasure
Of watching a picador ignite the wick of a skirmish
Brawl with the raging prongs of an uncouth bull
And their eyes flutter with the palming sway of the cloth
Painted in the incinerating passion of blood thirst
And the echoing roars of their squalid orifices
That is either hungry for a sloppy tongue sex
Or for a cigarillo, or a rum, or a chance
To spill out the teeming chutzpa and arrogance;
Unsheathes an impaling impetus to the picador
With his heart bursting on the creases of the seams.
Definitely, he is the idée fixe of the festivity
But the pantomimic cries of the spectators
Are not for the invigoration of the valiant exhibition
But for whetting the bull's smoldering horns
And for hasting the coiling death of the picador.
The rendezvous of the scant chest and the horn
Will rejoice and hurtle with the frenzied ambiance
And revel with the inebriation of injury
That shall draw more of their infinite sycophancy
While the picador gratifies himself with the potency
In another festival inside the bones' frailty;
Indeed, life is a blaring pulp of a fiesta.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Winners Write The History
That the winners write the war histories should not be the case
For war is a tragedy a human disgrace
And the losers in war see their Country destoyed
And the war history never written by the losing side.
Look at Oliver Cromwell victorious in war
The deeds of his glory from England known far
But those who write on Cromwell they never do tell
Of one who for poor people made life Earthly hell.
To the Catholics of Ireland Cromwell was a brute
The poor rural peasants he did persecute
Yet streets in his honour distant from England today
The winners only write the history so true what they say.
Efrain Rios Montt became President of Guatemala even though he
Was guilty of serious crimes against humanity
An old man now but for his crimes yet to pay
The winners write the history it's always been that way.
Augusto Pinochet in Chile has blood on his hands
And that he may die a free man seems hard to understand
And though loathed by many in Chile for his crimes of shame
The winners write the history and their's is the fame.
I've just mentioned a few for there are many more
Who have committed crimes against humanity but like it has been said before
that the winners write the history and that's how 'twill remain
And the mistakes of the past are repeated again.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Condensing evolution
condensing evolution
to five thousand years
time flips over creation
like children enthuse over
the pages of a pictorial book
men run like swarms of ants
turning from monkeys to suave
dandies, the hair losing their grip
and skins changing ala cameleon
black to white, to brown to yellow
the sea unleashes peaks
to scale the heavens and also
levels them to take our feet to
show us nature's fairer hands
lands embrace each other
like a family to eventually float away
never to see each other again
trees rush to grow themselves
taking us into their frenzied trail
that soon sees them high and
dry skeletal postures raising
a thousand fingers to the heavens
for their fate and fire up figments
of our imagination as to the lesson
they are pointing out to us right below
and animals they sprout beaks
wings, legs, hands, fingers, horns,
scales, fur, feathers, gills, lungs and
mind tugging protrusions a painting
that spews spontaneously from the pencil
of an ingenious noosey three year old -
fishes swim in azure sky, dinosaurs trumpet
into scarlet sky, a tarzan rescues her frail princess
a snake devours a lion and a monkey puts on an
apron to cook lunch for her brood while the moon
smiles and waves all the way from her luminuous throne
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Winners & Losers
Pop/jones
Winners and losers which one am i,
Is it the same under the sky?
Black motorcycles and the will to survive
Losers and winners low and high
In this glass and wire world
Surely leeches gain the right
To send their message screaming
One that has no meaning
To people who feel
Questions and questions plain as your nose
But who would believe a little rose?
Winners and losers in love with themselves
No santa claus no happy elves
In this smoking gun existence
It gets harder to unwind
I'll just eat my breakfast
Try to keep my questions
Starving all night
Out in the suburbs i met
My true fine love
Down in the suburbs i met
My true fine love
She gave me money
She gave me head
She gave my everything
And then she went dead
Stick out your thumb
And hit the open road
Cat in a mercedes
Goes by, he's old
He's got some, you got none
Together maybe you can have
Some fun-winners and losers
Gentlemen boozers
Winners and losers
Roll roll roll roll
Roll your money down
Rock rock rock rock
Takln' over this town
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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