The Problem With Lust Sometimes
the problem with lust sometimes
is structural
there is this rod looking for an
orifice
an orifice wanting to be filled
with sweet hardness
and stiff lengths
its depth utters a name
a longing
everything fits and
so happiness radiates to each nerve
there are other 'incoherences'
and lapses of the world of creation
on the verge of
insatiation
orifice to orifice and the rod
striking another rod in loneliness
bells and bells
no one penetrates and no one is penetrated
like plate upon plate
of pillar side by side with another pillar
each looks somewhere else
anticipating much
doing a lot of sensing out where is that and
where is this
there is nothing but a tree of loneliness
on a desert landscape
accented by a skull of the wolf
without leaves and rotten roots
trying to reach for the moon
the dead moon, the scorching sun
the useless days
the dragging hours of the bloodied gladiator
the amazon hanging dead
on the tree
at the tip of her braided hair
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Eclipse
I watch the moon eclipse the sun,
Curving over it in half-light,
Draining its dazzling beams into obscurity.
The moon looks like a king,
Hoisting the dead-sun's crown above its head
The corona latticing over the sky.
It takes dominion—for a brief period—
Of the astral realms that were once warmed
By the explosive temper of an imposing star.
I can look up to the sky,
Unaided by filters or indirect projection,
And admire its curious vastness and vacuity.
I can notice the well painted colors and balance
Of all things—
How spaces defines what I see.
Just then,
As my eyes relax to the diminished, cooling shade,
The sun pushes the moon to the side,
Recapturing control of the day-time
And golden flows cascade down into each open orifice.
The inky tints of my pupils shrink, bleach and bun
White into blindness.
Now I don't see at all.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Teh Mongo Experiment....
yes, we put the mongo seed
inside a carboard box and
there is no opening, not even
a peeping hole,
on the other same sized carboard
box with another similar mongo seed
an orifice is made,
the two sprouted but the one
with the opening finally finds
its exit and we meet the word
heliotropic as discussed by
the late mrs. villasica,
that was years ago,
we were then in grade six
at that time, and
martial law was declared
and there were those who
disappeared
those who finally became
mad, literally
no metaphor intended
then i learned such words
hamletting,
summary execution
government persecution
zoning
martial law babies,
i turn to the mongo seed
experiment without an orifice
deprived of light
though given water
and soil to thrive,
the cardboard box and
the dream of the borrowed light
of the moon
because there is no sun
because there is utter deprivation
we go for dreams as substitute
some died in that hunger strike
at least, dubbed as the child of the
borrowed light of the moon,
one still keeps writing and the other
one still keeps reading
call them the surviving
lunatics
not in the literal sense now
but sort of, in a lighter sense
metaphoric.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Forgotten Hills
Again I was giving chase
to a mirage.
Wiping off the transient thoughts
oozing from every orifice,
I will sell my dreams today.
Limb by limb,
the naked and brute will buy
the bonanza.
For a lost scent
I wandered from moon to moon
flitting past the sky of doves,
and the lonely winds
of crowded griefs.
The trampled earth
will not soak the joy of burning sun.
The tree and the flowers,
and the seeds falling in a heap
went unnoticed.
Now I will go in the forgotten hills
through mist and rains.
Give me some more pain,
it makes me move faster.
poem by Satish Verma
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The Political Law Class
it is avatar like
i am growing roots all over my body
my eyes
through its pupils
are giving you
pathways
to another dimension
beyond the
threshold of the law
of this land
i tell you about sandcastles
that we keep on building
and how every hour the waves of the sea
are destroying them
faithful to the law
we keep rebuilding these sandcastles
eternal damnation but
for a cause
we never let ourselves be drowned
by the depression of
the hours
survival of the fittest
so you have to memorize the faces of
those around you
they may not make it
after all
i spread my roots
to all your noses your hands
fingers
every orifice of your
bodies
after three hours
i have lost what i have for that day
going home
driving alone
on a dark night
i am surprised
why i have
become
stronger....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Look At Nature's Magnificent Painting
i see a slope of a hill filled with trees
and grass
a pathway of human footprints
climbs the hill in concentric circles
a man leads his ass
carrying a bundle of clothes
a pregnant woman follows him
above them is the full moon
on the top of the hill is a little house
roof of hay and walls of bamboos
a tiny light flickers on the window
it is wrapped by the coldness of the wind
and somewhere you feel
a certain orifice
of hope
you cannot just pinpoint exactly where
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sullied
She plunges into the hot water
and begins to scrub. Brush and
soap on skin. She wants him off
and out of her. Undo him from her.
Unkiss his kisses, untouch his touches.
She breathes in. She reeks, stinks
of him. He seems to have penetrated
every orifice on her body. She pushes
herself under the water, holds herself
there, opens her eyes even the sting
brings no purification. She sits up and
holds the sides of the bath. Calm down
she tells her shaking hands and legs
but they disobey and carry on like
disobedient children in play. She tries
to think of other things. Think of
somewhere nice, some time once
enjoyed, some pleasure once had,
sipping of the best wine, greedy
eating of caviar or grape. But no.
Everything is focused on him and
the rape. She rubs and scrubs until
she's red and raw. Stop stop her
inner voice screams. Nothing is
what it seems. He pushes his way
even into her every thought now.
He seeps into every pore. The water
fails to clean. She sits there naked,
undone, brush in hand, hair in a mess.
This is not real she says, but knows
it is, she in the bath, wet, raw, sore
and sullied. Yes that's a word mother
would have used: sullied. Tainted,
tarnished, degraded or as Mother
would have said: dishonoured. She
focuses on each aspect of her flesh
as if seen for the first time. What
you focus on is your reality. Who said
that? Does it matter now? Dostoevsky?
The Idiot, that book. Who cares who
said what. The water is no longer hot.
He is still on skin and in orifice in spite
of the rubs and scrubs and tears and curses.
No longer the innocent, no more the
sipping of wine or eating of grape.
Just him and memory of the rape.
poem by Terry Collett
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Ring Them Bells
Ring them bells yea heathen from the city that dreams
Ring them bells from the sanctuaries cross the valleys and streams
For they're deep and they're wide
And the world's on it's side
And time is running backwards and so is the bride
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells!
Ring them bells Saint Peter where the four winds blow
Ring them bells with an iron hand so the people will know
That the rush hour is now on the wheel and the plow and the sun is going down upon the sacred cow
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells Saint Martha for the poor man's son
Ring them bells so the world will know that God is one
For the shepherd is asleep where the willows weep
And the mountains are filled with little lost sheep
Ring them bells for the blind and the deaf
Ring them bells for all of us who are left
Ring them bells for the chosen few who would judge the many when the game is through
Ring them bells for the time that flies
song performed by by Heart from Desire Walks On
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Inside The Plane...a Note For Myself...
for an argument about
a seat number
i have degraded myself
into
the most foolish
man of the month
i could not imagine myself
humiliated
by my own self
somehow, i should have kept my mouth
shut
it is this orifice that puts me in hell sometimes
why did i not nestle in the dignified comfort of
my right to be silent?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Wanting The Moon
Not the moon. A flower
on the other side of the water.
The water sweeps past in flood,
dragging a whole tree by the hair,
a barn, a bridge. The flower
sings on the far bank.
Not a flower, a bird calling
hidden among the darkest trees, music
over the water, making a silence
out of the brown folds of the river's cloak.
The moon. No, a young man walking
under the trees. There are lanterns
among the leaves.
Tender, wise, merry,
his face is awake with its own light,
I see it across the water as if close up.
A jester. The music rings from his bells,
gravely, a tune of sorrow,
I dance to it on my riverbank.
poem by Denise Levertov
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Interview with a Captain of industry (cavatina)
You can tell that power oozes out of him,
that this office
is a battleground of victorious meetings,
like a orifice
that issues blue-thunder his mouth opens;
a sacrifice
as a lamb to the slaughter I am led,
that some of the howling wolves can be fed.
poem by Gert Strydom
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None is travelling
None is travelling
Here along this way but I,
This autumn evening.
The first day of the year:
thoughts come - and there is loneliness;
the autumn dusk is here.
An old pond
A frog jumps in -
Splash!
Lightening -
Heron's cry
Stabs the darkness
Clouds come from time to time -
and bring to men a chance to rest
from looking at the moon.
In the cicada's cry
There's no sign that can foretell
How soon it must die.
Poverty's child -
he starts to grind the rice,
and gazes at the moon.
Won't you come and see
loneliness? Just one leaf
from the kiri tree.
Temple bells die out.
The fragrant blossoms remain.
A perfect evening!
poem by Matsuo Basho
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An uncreative medicine
no hope
no friend
no family
no home
no nativity
no nationality
no fame
no name
no future
no points
no market
no identity
no possessions still a tree without roots
no relationship still a tree without roots
no anarchism still a tree without roots
no hiearchy still a tree without roots
no country still a tree without roots
no colours still a tree without roots
no degrees still a tree without roots
no certificates
no imaginations
no dream
no poetry
no fiction
no story
no news
no media
no happiness still a tree without roots
no genre still a tree without roots
no labels still a tree without roots
no names still a tree without roots
THE FOURTH EYE
of
A post-conceptual poet.
An Option For Demi
when you take a shell
from the shore of life
do not mind so much
about its labyrinths
you will be inflicting the
pain of loss and miss the
song that the wind is giving
to its orifice
take time, close your eyes
listen, and for once shut yourself
from any preconceived thought
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Loneliness
Roy orbison/joe melson
Loneliness is the worst thing in the world
To be alone all the day long
No ring on the phone, yeah this is wrong
Low down loneliness
This loneliness, I must confess
Yes its a mess of this loneliness
Low down loneliness, loneliness all around
Loneliness, you have found me loneliness
Oh loneliness, all of the time
Such loneliness, youre so unkind
Low down loneliness
Loneliness everywhere
Loneliness, Ive got more that my share
Oh loneliness, my destiny
Yeah loneliness, was I born to be
In low down loneliness? loneliness
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What We Need
a vent.
something windy like a fan.
an orifice
an exit, oh not yet,
let us say just an opening
where we can enter
and still be together
okay, you want an exit,
let us do it
open it, i will get out
first, then you go next,
i will not wait for you
i am rushing this
and you are rushing to
where?
i too, don't know.
cool.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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25th of June, dawn
a dream is so beautiful
at dawn,
it comes wounding me
but it is alright
it is the most usual thing that happens
in my life
and so here i am again
licking my wounds
nurturing it
so that i may heal
again and again
deep within i do not wish this wound
to heal
somehow it is this orifice
that creates
an opening to my life
day to day
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ring Them Bells
Ring them bells ye heathen from the city that dreams
Ring them bell from the sanctuaries, 'cross the valleys and streams
For they're deep and they're wide, and the world's on its side
And time is a-runnin' backwards and so is the bride
Ring them bells St. Peter where the four winds blow
Ring them bells with an iron hand so the people will know
Oh it's rush hour now. on the wheel of the plow
And the sun is a-goin' down upon the sacred cow
Ring them bells sweet Martha for the poor man's son
Ring them bells so the world will know that God is one
For the shepherd is asleep where the willow weep
And the mountain is filled with lost sheep
Ring them bells - for the blind and the deaf
Ring them bells - all those who are left
Ring them bells - for the chosen few
Who'll judge the many when the game is through
Ring them bells - for the time that flies
For the child who cries when innocence dies
Ring them bells St. Catherine from the top of the roof
Ring the bells from the fortress for the lilies that bloom
For the lines are long and the fighting is strong
And they're breakin' down the distance between right and wrong
song performed by by Alice In Chains
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Where heaven is
the way to heaven -
between the two mountains
and down to a cave
where spring water
refreshes and welcomes
your entry
the way to heaven
between the two trees
a secret orifice that spouts spring portion
for immortality
between the paths to both
the devil zealously sets his traps
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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from A Fallen Tree All Make Kindling' (dutch Proverb)
Whenever I sit under a tree I’m in my grandpas arms
My grandpa was like a tree with his strong and silent charm
He would shelter the world under his shade
And in the harshest storm he just merely swayed
He was like a tree but not the ones with big flowers
For his beauty was endurance it lasted more than mere hours
My grandpa was a tree the kind with big leaves
The kind that when cut down the whole forest grieves
He was like a tree big and gentle
He sat there and listened kind and parental
And though he was the tallest tree all around
He never looked down on the ones on the ground
My grandpa was a tree his love ran deep like roots
So even when cut down we still have loves fruits
Hanging Tree
are you are you coming to the tree
where they strung up a man they say
strange things did happen here
no stranger would it be
if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree
are you are you coming to the tree
where the dead called out for his love to flee
strange things did happen here
no stranger would it be
if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree
are you are you coming to the tree
where i told you to run so we'd both be free
strange things did hapen here
no stranger would it be
if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree
are you are you coming to the tree
wear a necklace of rope
side by side with me
strange things did happen here
no stranger would it be
if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree
poem by Jackson Idk
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