Best Gelatinous Poems
I am a photon
a tiny bundle of energy.
My brothers and I
oscillate in synchronized breath;
as a wave,
we hurtle
through black voids,
three hundred thousand kilometers
each second,
a dizzying ride.
Four years ago,
we were flung
from the fire of a star.
A long journey,
but not a lonely one,
for there are many of us.
We are nearing
a beautiful planet
where green continents swim
in blue oceans.
I hope we arrive
in deep darkness
when their star
is on the other side.
Perhaps one of their beings,
gazing at the sky,
receives us.
We will slow down
as we travel
through the gelatinous matter
of her eye
and die
on her retina.
I will no longer be,
but her miraculous brain
will decode our message:
there was a star.
Oh what a sad sight
When I went to the beach tonight
Twelve jellyfish washed up on the beach
Caught out by the tide, the sea's out of reach
Like transparent gelatinous dinner plates lying on the sand
The swirling tide confused them – now they've died on dry land
received N/A in Out of Water contest - Sponsor said it was due to a technical glitch
18th June 2014
Unburdened by mass,
star born
photons
hurtle
through vacuum voids.
They reach a planet
where green continents swim
in blue oceans.
It is night. A woman
looks up at the sky.
The photons travel
through the gelatinous matter
of her eye and die
on her retina,
sparking electric pulses
that race
along the optic nerve,
and her miraculous brain
translates:
I see a star.
Retro thrusters, smokey hot,
Thunder in the dim of night.
Sprouting things all green and broke,
Mutant brains are taking flight.
Mole like beasts with huge blind eyes
Push and pour from glowing holes.
Corpses scream with undead cries.
Gelatinous blobs expand with souls.
Bodies flail in polka-dot bikinis
While death rays rip through flesh and bone.
Heady cyborgs sip oily martinis
With metallic olives that chirp and groan.
Curious apparitions haunt vampiric covens
Of werewolves and werecats without revulsions.
Scientists (most mad) create life in lab ovens
In the midst of their monstrous id compulsions.
But the worst and most horrific to face
Are those poetry spouting people beaters,
Cannibalistic abominations from outer space:
The shunned and reviled Purple People Eaters.
Flan
The perfect dessert for me.
For it has the perfect texture , so consistent throughout.
It's gelatinous yet doughy body that is so sweet to the soul , tongue and mouth.
So beautiful and understating just like the perfect spouse.
But Pardon my manners If sometimes I wish to touch you with my hands and skip even using the spoon or fork.
Skip from I got to wait till you're done, to I can't wait to have some more.
Flan
Have had memories of you and I since back when grandmamma wasn’t so old,
and all I had to do was worry about what my abuelitos and parents told me.
When I finally saw you , suga it was like a dream come true.
Even if I was heavier than I should’ve been at 8 ,I would always take care of you.
And please listen to what I say because it’s only natural that as a former fat boy my words would also carry much weight.
Flan
There are so many types of you.
I've had the worst and the one's in between worse and in between.
But I've matured enough to expand my sense of taste and have acquired more than one sweet tooth.
But to only find out they don't even compare to you.
Flan
With your culinary curves it's almost as If I dishonored you with my failed homemade homages.
But can you blame my senses if I feel cozy around you?
Even though my comfort is only due to your confection,
you will always have my attention due to the enjoyment I feel in your presence,
For that I'' always say please and thank you.
Flan
With that cherry on top I just can't wait.
And I’ll see you, I’ll be picking you up at my abuelitas at eight.
I'll my bring my taste buds and you bring yourself.
But don't you worry about left over crumbs,
because I always clean my plate.
If you were to embrace me one moment,
I would melt in the fissures of your throbbing prestidigitation
My heart would dare not let me see the poison you excrete
My mind would make excuses, to be in your arms again
Devil! how you break me down so lovingly,
With fingers so candid on my gyrating frame
I am frightened by the chords you play on me
With those magic lips and that impassioned tongue
I befall speechless as I clutch you
Your auspicious words keep me partially consolidated,
As I tremble with every whisper in this gelatinous agitation
I mean to divorce my pleading fervor so that I may breathe
And overcome this pressing desire to please you
Devil! how you weigh me down so blithely,
I cringe, and I recoil—you merely close in
With certainty you plunge unwavering
Your sorcery slaying all of my resistance
If I were to embrace you again,
The fires of promise you enchant me with would die, and slowly
The ice of your soulful lies would shatter my mind, so fixedly
And my stubborn heart would cry, cursedly,
“You have endured thus far, and forever always!”
I remember taking Grandpa to the train, (Repost)
Marvelling how anything so huge,
Bellowing steam and smoke and cinders,
Could be controlled by men.
Then while flying in the war,
I marvelled that insignificant man,
Could conquer anything as vast as the sky.
Then I watched as Armstrong strolled on Luna,
And marvelled that limitless space was not,
For it too had been conquered by man.
How strange then, for me to realise,
That the heart of man, invincible and more,
Conquerer of all that stands before it,
Can be reduced to less than a gelatinous mass,
Unable to stand or even to try,
When faced with the love in a little girls'
smile.
Cribbar
I stand on the precipice,
I drink her eagerly from atop the raw stone.
Her jaws split open in bursts of pure, vicious foam around the feet of civilisation;
I stand caught between worlds, my soles firmly planted in the accountable world of men, While my soul whips and dives in her implausible depths.
Her salty rage spits in the face of the gentle sun, a fine mist of dehydration threatening the lips of those who dare to behold her.
I stand among the bruise budding Squill and blushes of Thrift,
I muse,
I contemplate what place I could have amongst giants.
The march of progress forgets me while I stand, betrays my begrudging loyalty and steams blackly ahead like her inevitable, unenviable swell.
Yet I do envy you mistress;
I long for brine and gelatinous, matted tangles between my toes,
I crave the sharp husks of the shore drawing blood from my feet.
How long must I withdraw from you behind layers of polluted humanity?
When next will I taste your sting as you wash mankind from my body?
When will you reclaim the land? Force the sin of civilisation from your coasts?
Your power unbridled against even the unshakable.
Until then,
I stand,
Until then, there's always next time.
Sojourner to far-flung climes;
When you return,
Will you remember the evening songs
Chorused by chirping under the baobab tree?
Will you still remember the fame of the great hunter
Whose courage put the forest sprite to flight?
Earning him the most beautiful virgin in the land
When you return,
Will you remember the fable of the wraith
That forced our forefathers away from the farm at dusk?
Will you still dip your hands in “Aro” to make “Adire” for our dear mother?
Will you?
The market still a beehive of activities
Every market day is as rustic as you left it,
Our women the same, untainted by the new ways
Our men have not also faired any better,
Still suspicious of the innovations of the town people
Our children are not ashamed of showing off their beauty for the world to see,
The harrowing cries of our virgins still pierce the night,
As they fall under the mutilators knives
Will you still remember how to savor “Iyan”
Pounded with the sweats of the maidens and
Molded with “Egusi” from earthenware?
When you return,
Will you not now be repulsed with “Ila”
That soup which you handled with such mastery with “Amala”
The leaves from the forest still keep us strong and virile,
Their medicines have not offered any hope to all our ailments,
When you return,
Teach us not new things about our Land
O sojourner,
When you return from the distant land of subjugation
That dungeon that robbed us of our cultures and creeds
– Aro:- A local dye
– Adere:- A fabric made with “Aro” it is popular among Yoruba people of western Nigeria,
– Iyan :- A paste for food made from Yam
– Egusi :-A soup made from the melon seed
– Ila :-A gelatinous soup made from Okra
– Amala :-A paste for food made from Yam flower
With gelatinous kiss inside his mind
The sissy itchy lips of a woman flirt
God has given them the right to wink
Ah, two flames in love, with a smell
Of sparkling wine and rugged cigars
Sojourner to far-flung climes;
When you return,
Will you remember the evening songs
Chorused by chirping under the baobab tree?
Will you still remember the fame of the great hunter
Whose courage put the forest sprite to flight?
Earning him the most beautiful virgin in the land
When you return,
Will you remember the fable of the wraith
That forced our forefathers away from the farm at dusk?
Will you still dip your hands in “Aro” to make “Àdìre?” for our dear mother?(1)
Will you?
The market still a beehive of activities
Every market day is as rustic as you left it,
Our women the same, untainted by the new ways
Our men have not also faired any better,
Still suspicious of the innovations of the town people
Our children are not ashamed of showing off their beauty for the world to see,
The harrowing cries of our virgins still pierce the night,
As they fall under the mutilators knives
Will you still remember how to savor “Iyan” (2)
Pounded with the sweats of the maidens and
Molded with “Egusi” from earthenware? (3)
When you return,
Will you not now be repulsed with “Ila” (4)
That soup which you handled with such mastery with “Amala” (5)
The leaves from the forest still keep us strong and virile,
Their medicines have not offered any hope to all our ailments,
When you return,
Teach us not new things about our Land
O sojourner,
When you return from the distant land of subjugation
That dungeon that robbed us of our cultures and creeds.
Aro is the source of the indigo-dye which is used to create Àdìre? cloth.
Iyan: A paste for food made from Yam.
Egusi: A soup made from the melon seed.
Ila: A gelatinous soup made from Okra.
Amala: A paste for food made from Yam flower.
The autonomic response seeks a trigger
within familiar brainwave states of being
to toss aside the conflict of conscience
inherit behind the valor of mortal peril.
A batting eye or moistened lip sends
corpuscles on a dance of endorphins
pattering in time to the mother pulse
that stirs the fiber of chattering bone
defiant beneath flexing musculature
soaking up lipids and protein strands
to quake the bleached core of form
that lines us erect with proud notions.
Within the field directing our gait
are ricochet messages from cohorts
and scoundrels with intent on returns
reigning dominion over human action.
The structure of the machine grinds
regardless of purpose or preference
until cellular matter loses gelatinous
resistance from such bombardment
of sigil energy and profit centers in
constant dialogue with all instincts
selectively pursuing black or white
in balance with the Boolean hoard
shaping the appropriate margins of
acceptable thought processes until
sharp knifes cure our insufferable
ideas of mitosis feeding liberation.
the baby's head
crowns as Father watches --
a dozen red roses
When but a speck gelatinous, unformed, you watched
Watched as the determined swimmer pierced my soft core
Smiled at the countless me's, in the sea of thee, birthed.
Your joyous laughter spins universes with a roar,
marries diverse minions in delight astonished,
as made and unmade we rise, a holy labor.
You watch each molten mountain crest an aching sea
as stark white stars shine in my lovers tearing eyes
smiling at the she's and he's, who chose to be free
of what if's and enjoy this never ending ride
in this holy labor we abide.
In the spring rain,
the cedars bear alien fruit:
gelatinous growth
like orange sea anemones,
slimy creatures whose
slippery tendrils quiver
sporeful
revolting and fascinating
life
fills all niches
4/22/2018
Heavy, soaked.
Stifled gasping, climbing.
Wounded and broken,
Clung to the thorn vines.
Arms cannot grip, stringy gelatinous pus
Oozing from where dust and tears meet.
Crimson films dull vision, scraps of metal
Embedded in skin, breath drowned in blood.
Trenches hold no warmth nor light of the sun.
Though stinging, crawl upon to see one last time
The sunset upon angelic, pink clouds.
Falling and cracking ribs each time,
Life no longer whole, drained like a cracked chalice.
Heartbeat echoes the battles of batteries in distance
Writhing, floating, dragged out of consciousness,
Until dreams of amber clouds and ethereal song
Cause burning longing. Cursing the chorus,
Scraping the walls of unfulfilled good without fingertip,
Meeting the end, there is nothing of choking dust
Or the biting envy for the moth floating freely above.