Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Breasts in Bras



A strong look is presented in the firm
but jiggling hold they mold in the folds
 of clothes shaped like cups bringing moods- so
 giddy and giddy and smiling all
day with no way to be upset, when in
front of me the jiggling hold relieves
stress, worry but brings fun-
I want to release
the hold to make firm hang and sway back and
forth, side to side, different directions,
 where ever I wish to push them, pull or

squish them, ripping the cupped cloth surrounding
them to free them from the attractive prison
they reside in, but some part of me wishes
not to because they look absolutely
beautiful wrapped in lingerie.

George, George’s George, George’s George’s George.


The only one who inhabits the planet is a large boyish man probably the age of twenty or thirty. His name is George.
The planets name is George too, ironically. It consists of a pillar of rock that juts about four miles from the world’s core that is roughly ten meters in radius. On top of this pillar stands George. Surrounding George and his pillar is a vast army of crystallized watery ice clouds. Revolving George, the planet, is a gargantuan yellow sun. His name is Sun George.
Sun George is quite a happy sun, being assigned to only one planet to revolve around, which is George. He does not have to work very much so the majority of his time can be spent lounging in space drinking a warm tea and enjoying the scenery.
Planet George is not nearly as content with its self as his sun. Most of his time is spent in wading in his own confused anxiety. There is no explanation why he is primarily cloud with the exception of one perfect cylindrical pillar jutting straight out of its core. George would say it is because he likes it this way; George the man of course. He has never taken into consideration how the rock pillar feels however. What is not so apparent to George is that the pillar is severely lonesome. Living amongst only clouds, the pillar does not get to socialize with others of his genetic type, being rocks. This depresses the pillar extensively. Many times he has been close to committing what the pillar calls “rock suicide”. In George’s terms that means collapsing, and with it George, who lives atop its surface.
Were the pillar to do this then a chain of unfortunate events would fall into accord. Sun George would be most upset because he no longer would have a planet to revolve around. He no longer would have a planet to revolve around because Planet George would no longer exist. Planet George would no longer exist because George would most likely be killed by the four-mile fall into Planet George’s core. With no George in the picture there is no Planet George. Thus it would be a rather obscene action on the pillars part if he were to commit such an act.
Unfortunately the pillar did commit his act of suicide. However,
George did not fall to his demise. He did however fall though.
This story is about the very event of George’s descent into Planet George’s core.

There once was a banana found drifting in an obscure region of space. The banana had questions about how it had gotten there. He also wanted to know what was the dreary planet that was in the foreground of his vision, as well as the vibrant sun next to him. While the banana pondered these questions he also contemplated the definition of reality. Soon it found itself plummeting towards the very unfriendly looking surface of the planet.
The planet and sun that the banana was witnessing turned out to in fact be George and his sun. At this time George the man was still standing safely on his rock pillar. He too thought it was peculiar that there would be a banana roaming the vacancy of his atmosphere. When George saw the poor deserted banana alone, falling to inevitable doom he wondered what it would taste like.
Next thing the banana knew he was no longer dropping. Rather he was in the hand of George the man, being peeled, prepared to be eaten as an exquisite treat. It was then that the banana understood the meaning of reality and the mystery to existence. The banana came to a very correct conclusion that life is as whatever one makes it to be. So at that moment the banana imagined itself as a voluptuous tree in the midst of other voluptuous trees, all filled with plump ripe bushels of bananas. Unfortunately the banana did not yet uncover the inconvenient truth to his very correct theory. Which is that life is whatever one makes it to be, but sometimes what one makes it to be is not quite reality. In the bananas case this was one of those times.
Although he thought he was busty banana tree, he was not. He was eaten,
by George.
However, it was eaten when it believed to be pleasantly lounging among his kin. It was a good death.

The banana was not the first to discover this epiphany of life. George the man had crossed paths with such knowledge rather long ago.
He was on vacation in Russia. Not many would call Russia vacation although. While in a bar George was indulging on a quaint cup of tea. His favorite tea. English Earl Grey. And then it hit him. The mystery of all life and existence.
At that instance George wished to be on atop a rock pillar besieged by infinite amounts of clouds on his personal planet with endless day and a peeled banana in his hand. And he was.
Unluckily for George, it was also at that instance that depression became rather much for the pillar of rock. On the final bite taken from the banana the pillar committed his final hoorah.
And down the pillar went, rock and all. And with it,
George.
George had roughly sixty seconds before his abrupt plummet deep into the ground of George the planet ended.
George was however curiously excited to meet the ground of George the planet, he had never seen it before. What an interesting experience he thought. He pondered what it might look like.
What it feels like.
He could not wait to find if there even was any sort of ground at all. After all he has lived there his whole life and not yet seen it. He imagined the possibility of a whole civilization that had been hidden amongst the clouds.
Little Englishmen laying about in the grass on café chairs drinking English Earl Grey. Or what if there was no civilization, but endless quantities of English Earl Grey reserved for him personally.
George realized the possibilities could be infinite. The planet George however knew what actually lay at the bottom. And it hadn’t the least to do with earl grey tea. He knew that George was in for a rather unpleasant surprise. The thought of ruining the man’s innocent excitement for what may lay at the ground level saddened George the planet. He then thought about the distresses the pillar of rock had experienced prior to his act of suicide. It was then that it occurred to George the planet that he too suffered from similar social distresses. The thought that he had lived alone all these years with no companionship other than George the man made him unusually upset. All George the man does is stare into space, wishing about bananas and other tasty treats.
When George reached the end to his lengthy fall he was indeed not greeted by little Englishmen with tea. He still thought it would be quite neat though.
What had greeted him gave George a refurbished perspective of his theory of life. It made him laugh under his breath at first and soon turned into a monstrous chuckle. One that would pair most appropriately to a patient of an insane asylum.
In fact, George was greeted by a virtually identical pillar of rock suspended in virtually identical clouds to what looked to George miles above the surface. And lay atop the pillar was again, George.
At that point in time George looked up at the ceiling of Planet George, perplexed. The planet however knew exactly why such a random occurrence happened. It is an event that the planet has witnessed several times before when the man has fallen from his point in the clouds.
George the planet then grew inevitably tired.
Eventually so did the new rock pillar. And soon enough that rock pillar would begin to feel the burdens of the rock pillar before him, and the one before him. And just as the others before him did, he too will follow in their self-destructive footsteps.
And George will continue to inquire about the bottom of George.

My Eyes Into Hers


A boy caught a glimpse of a flower several years ago
causing him to notice the beat of his heart,
He did not know why, it just happened, the flower was a
Radiant beautiful – modeling phenomenal flawless finesse,

hesitating at first, a boy approached the flower
kissed the flower, tasting its irresistible taste
and met the flower again in seven hundred and thirty days,

Surprised was a boy when the flower had blossomed
made with even more
Power color and wonder,
Twisting its dance in the summer light the flower
trapped a boy with its sight of voluptuous glisten,

Every dawn rising, Each night falling
a boy would ponder his new wonder about
his flower,
So enamored by a touch of scent, berry kiss churned with coconuts
His favorite,
Flowers around his flower were cast under
by its magnificent pedals with
Gorgeous powerful bloom,
Unbelievably vigilant and resilient to the rough environment encasing it
absorbing every detriment to its predicament, turning problems on to their stomach in order to benefit,
Mesmerizing amazement dropped in driblets from its essence,
He began to speak to the flower, lending it
a penny of his thoughts two hundred times a day
in varieties of ways,

The flower kept him endless company, brightening his day,
giving him the cork to plug that uncomfortable lingering space,
offering what had made him change into a person a boy is proud to say is better,


invincible
warm
lucky
giddy
elated
best
ecstatic
blessed

On a particular evening the silence fell, the
Flower spoke back to the boy,
Oh how the flower could sing its speech with
such graceful way and praise,
It softly hummed “comfortable” “trust”,
His flower showed him his place in a place he has always faced, lost until guided,
in its presence a boys lips tickled feverishly with gloss
hands laughed fiendishly at hysterical thoughts
smile spoke words of lust,
A picture of the flower wrote thousands of sensations and a single declaration labeled
Love,

Unique are the pedals drenched in pretty purple blue shades
Comparable if not it- an angel
A sculpture of bliss- the greatest kiss of connection,
Every feature better than the next cycling round and round, unable to chose which one bests, for they all are the best,
The face of the flower; clear crystal sky blue and pearl white- creating tsunami’s of beauty crashing towards its body of smooth silk parts a boy needs to touch
For every touch reminds him of how much he can love
fulfilling his lust for its thoughts,

A boy now holds the flower to his heart now noticing why the abnormal beat,
such an anomaly caused a boy to be so swiftly swept of his feet at a flower, whom he can reveal his identity of serenity to,
Pinned to his left breast coat pocket the flower will forever stay, for the boy would claim that whether in physical form or not the flower has left its mark
Laid its change upon his brain for the best
Made him sane again amongst deranged craze,
Inducing on him a sense of content in his world regardless of how poor it becomes as long as the flower remains where it stays
lounging against his cloth
 with its glorious coat of a perfect the boy has difficulty articulating,
“Perfect” does not do the flower justice, for to him it goes much deeper
the closest he can get to describing his flower is Happiness

Pure Happiness.

Apathy is Back in Style


Apathy is our kingdoms catastrophe
blasting away seamless history
indulging in nil
nada
nothing,

Destroying the genes of humanity by passing on tales and woes of the lazy,
who simply cease to see the vitality in prosperity of the epic empire and conquering country proving absolutely dominant once upon a time
from sea to sea,

There used to be words unrelated to those of lethargy
to describe our godly thievery we label “conquering,
ingenious, innovative, brave”

Now what is left is a crippled stretch of land sentenced to death with lassitude
covering every longitude and latitude,

Apathy’s our mess.

Peoples


A fly in a jar
stuck in the jar
with many other flies
sealed tight,

Grouped in a jar
with no practical space to breathe
Life is a jar,
What do I actually need?
Anxiety is the air
where the fly is forced to be,

Some band together
walk from one side to another
others isolated
with few bouncing from the choices left and right,

A fly stands undecided,
Even when more decisive and
proud
than all.

Imagining


Dormant in class my universe wanders to experiences I can only imagine, but have never felt nor smelled or heard,
Only see in the dreamy haze of structured memories rotating in my head like a rolodex sped forward so veraciously that a picture can only be held in thought for the moment the picture is present and not a moment more,
Attempting to feel a place or person or thing you’ve never felt before, only wish to,
To try and lie to yourself to make believe what not true, true.

MeterPoems..



A foggy confused feeling mixed in
with swirling discomfort and irregular
breathing leaving as I struggle in-
tensely out of that mess of sheets and fleet
of pillows that I call bed, Leaping from
its mold in a dramatic rush to climb
into the scolding sprinkling water I
call shower is much like writing this ran-
dom poem, a very brisk need to quickly
speed out the door with a shirt balled in
my palm and falling out of my un-
zipped pants,
nose diving into the car re-
lieved that the dramatic rush is coming
to a close, until you notice you’ve
forgotten your drawers

Imperative to win my morning race
 so my teacher does not win the right to
 look me in my mug to tell me I’m a
 lazy lug, The overdues on
my class attendance sentence how well I
do on this poem
For this is the class I write too

Ironically my morning routine
 is put in fast forward to cruise out the
 door in similar speed to how I fran-
-tically sketch this poem with a hand
 vigorously trembling from the pace
 I write to where I must go,

I struggle to run out my home each weight-
ed morning the same way I struggle to
muster words with this pen in
my hand strenuously creating with
 this restricting syllable meter.

A Sad Song


Bass drum
Bass drum,
Heavy wailing hum
initiating the wake up call to the uneducated bum who let himself out to be hung
by the holy machine
and those once called Big Nurse,

by who he is-
            an aggravated kid with no intelligence to cultivate what he lost,

by righteous God who represented a figure in command, not actually holy, but still something to place faith in to save him,

by pure arrogance corroding and destroying the life he now won’t live,
Instead sent to the pit to be a combine in line with the rest of the combines
working with the machine

Not the individual wealthy free thinker he pictured he’d be, dressed in gold, bathing in silver and crystal
eating emerald, dining with William and Juliet,
lounging about with the Queen Elizabeths,

Riff
Strum
Strum
continues on this sad song of a seed gone so wrong,
falling south into the mouth of futureless averageness
where no one hears the strumming hum of his bass drum.