Long Congeals Poems
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This is a song to be sung by a lady so if there's one out there who thinks this worthy, sings and writes music take this and run with it. The only thing I want is the knowledge that someone used it...thanks if anyone can do this:
THE GIRL NEXT DOOR GETS NEXT TO THE BOY NEXT DOOR
I remember when the boy next door first knocked upon my door
I’d seen him washing his ninety-six Chevy two days before
He was shirtless and sweating while wetting down his wheels
And that is when a lady’s desire and lack of better judgment congeals
I think it was blue with writing that read “Body By Design”
I’m talking about the shirt of a man I’d like to make mine
With ripples and his rough spots in all the perfect places
Yet soft enough to hold me and enfold me in his embraces
The boy next door had a two-door Chevy he named “Beth”
He saw me as I walked by in short-shorts and very short of breath
The boy next door was breathtaking with eyes of beautiful blue
Someone who could make this girl next door’s dreams come true
But who, I wondered, was this lady by the name of Beth
Could he have confused the “B” as in boy with an “S” as in Seth?
Yes, that’s the circumstance now I’m sure with certainty
His name is Seth, there is no Beth, and I know that certainly
I remember when the boy next door first knocked upon my door
I’d seen him washing his ninety-six Chevy two days before
He was shirtless and sweating while wetting down his wheels
And that is when a lady’s desire and lack of better judgment congeals
That boy next door went from door to door looking for a kiss
While I waited at my door for the boy next door to come and kiss this miss
Finally we kept kissing and his beauty made my feverish flesh cold
And still gives me chills and thrills while he carries me over the threshold
The boy next door had a two-door Chevy that he named “Beth”
He saw me as I walked by in short-shorts and very short of breath
The boy next door was breathtaking with eyes of beautiful blue
The boy next door who made this girl next door’s dreams come true
And now the boy next door is the boy next door no more
Since that boy next door and I now share the very same front door
The very same…………… front door!
© 2012…copyright PHREEPOETREE..~free cee!~
most instances when i initially seat
myself priming creative literary juices to flow,
an unspecified number hours elapse
before that eureka i.e. Jackie Oh
revelation transpires
witnessing, this scruffy, prickly,
and madly scratching itchy hairs
dotting chinny chin chin of this hobo
hook huns hitters hymns elf
tubby a generic home
er run (hitting) mill
(on the floss sing false teeth)
common everyday fluky,
nippy, nap noopy Joe,
whence upon gestation ova hen chic idea
(Egg heads, merely
scrambled random thought fragments
at that stage) scrunching brow
activates laser focus,
a scattershot burst of tangential thread populate
formerly barren tabula rasa,
sans, Lenovo external screen
once again defying (tomb me
akin to some eternal mystery),
trucked since time immemorial
inexplicable, that sudden ignition
asper cerebral automatic
catalytic converter kickstarter
(hmm...perhaps cogs and gears
housed within medulla oblongata)
foster fecund fertilization,
an inexplicable phenomena,
I dune hot know
explanation, but upon advent
whence, wispy vague undefinable inchoate
coalesce analogous to genesis of animal new life
when there appears just the merest hint
of fledgling wispy notions strive similar
to sperm cells
fervently whipsawing vis a vis,
via flagellation motility misfits
and false starts before this crotchety scribe
mollycoddles crux of embryonic idea
congeals, expresses, and forms
grandiose manifest destiny
mentioned above i.e. Ho
Lee Judas Priest remaining catharsis
seems like a versatile
self determining tour de force
whereat fingers of the lefthand
move of their own volition spilling forth poe
whet tree once expended leaves (of grass)
finds me Walt sing whit man nigh hick cull
tickled pink with a soft after glow.
8 months down the drain
Blood congeals then clots but has no time to scar
I bleed myself empty, my vessel full of progress, full of hours and days and weeks and months
lies slashed and broken on the floor, sliced through by my own shaking hand
The fullness that I felt is flushed when I clean up
No one can know.
No one but you.
Doctors swarm around me, needles and gauze, pills and cold water
They poke and prod and promise not to tell
I beg them not to tell
Because no one can know
But I did tell you, faint red finger stains on cracked glass
It hurt more than why I’m here, telling you
Because I could see that hollow, helpless look in your eyes from miles away
8 months down the drain, why bother trying again?
Why bother trying at all?
7 months and 30 days ago I said those words
7 months and 30 days ago I reached into the ugly mess of my stomach, my fingers dripping, and pulled out the words I sent to you
7 months and 30 days ago I saw flesh slide over itself loose from the bonds of bone, saw blood on tile and wood and sheet that would not stop
I called for help, for you, for the world to stop turning and my static brain to rest. It didn’t. I saw blood again.
7 months and 29 days ago I hurt again, I was still bleeding from the day before but new wounds did not open
7 months and 28 days ago still hurt from the day before, I stayed in bed all day but new wounds did not open
27 days ago
26
25
And despite my static brain and turning world, the black hole of my progress from before, new wounds did not open
1 day in the future I will once again hold 8 months
My vessel, scarred from gashes and needles, will be as full as it has ever been
Then one day will pass
Then another
And another
And I will call you again, clean fingers on cracked glass
And no one will know
No one but you
You have led my course through fractured lanes.
Your groaning ballad my only light.
Kill blessings from stained lips safely float our steps.
Where would I be without you Michael?
Crow mother lies broken at our hand.
Eyes, lips and tongue smeared on stone.
‘You are just like me,’ she bleats through shattered teeth.
Thank you feathered protector, my septic pedagogue.
Poisoned Papa gags as we grip him heart in hand.
Oesophagus glove binds wrist, forearm and elbow.
Pushing down to Hell, void swallows his crushed vena cava.
Dislocated mandible squeals leaving the path clear and final.
A baptism from a splintered bucket washes away our rusty halo.
We have built a fine church you and I.
Can you hear me Michael?
Are you there?
From Father’s secret chest, blades, saws and spikes are repossessed.
They are now our beautiful burden, our sanctified implements.
Ground and honed to a steely whisper that will glide down to the bone.
Beyond the door you beckon to me with your silvery, distant song.
Night air sears through our lungs like freezing ammonia as
Shifting constellations light our winding passage through London.
From Threadneedle Street to Guthrun’s Lane all dreams are devastation.
We select a lost tenement as a playground and trudge through stinking mud.
There is a family within – Mother, Father and Son.
They are the fruits of our maledictions.
‘Cry no more little one,’ his voice congeals in my veins.
Soon we will be clean, huge and stinging.
At my touch the door yawns like the prelude to regurgitation.
In the darkness soiled, saintly fingers caress a razor.
Taut, ablaze, locked.
Tonight we will sculpt what we never possessed and love what hurts the most.
We are Destroyer.
House of Leonard
I gave my legs to a flag with a blood marrow spoon
You blurred a moment of truth with your dying baboon
I swam the oceans of funk to get a soul full of bone
You asked a priest for a gun to practice panic alone
I operate underneath along a wet paper road
You ply the easel with grease and give away what you’re owed
And when you come calling as winter turns green
With a lisp and a whistle and a need for latrine
I’ll trip down the eighty-eight and spin up the tone
As we lisp through the whistle and polish the stone
I find that gagging is best when followed with food
You cut a hole your head to let your brain come unglued
I sent a handful of peace to a planet of pain
You chewed 10 yellow pills and made a horrible stain
I wished a well in the west and got a wallet of cheese
You broke the law with your hair because you do what you please
And when you come calling with twelve summer sins
With a flag and a crank and a saddle that spins
I’ll let in the nuns and flatten out the food
As we sift the crank and flag up the mood
I placed bacon with skinny in a basket of pockets
You understand only ugly replacing arrows with rockets
I rolled my clover in a bonus and flailed facing west
You changed a spaceship to a handbag and passed the test
I sucked a window through a teaspoon to see if I was right
You pushed a sofa to the ocean and sailed into the night
And when you come calling under woolen grey moon
With a gong and a sandwich and a half drunk spittoon
I’ll bring forth the load spoil and rip off the wheels
As we swallow gong salad and the sandwich congeals
The delicious aroma circulated
As the heat from the oven radiated
The stove top warmed
As white chocolate chips melted downward
Into a candied thick syrupy puree.
Thoughts flashed across my mind
Of white paste plastered across polyester bed sheets.
I turn away from the smoldering flames
Imagining
A shadowy figure draping over luminescent lights.
Egg whites and velvety oil
Drenched the skillet
Like lubricated breasts at twilight.
I falter and catch my breath
This was the old me.
Ivory cake mix spilled out
Awaiting to be released.
The waxen texture splashed my fingers.
Reminiscing of a time,
When this was all I had.
I pour a little too much of champagne,
Hinting of a dangerous night.
I whisk and blend the ingredients in conjunction
Like bodies distorted
Contending for air.
I linger around the cookware
Till the mixture congeals.
I scoop a handful,
Conforming to my touch,
Creating spheres,
Pressing gently, as I weep.
One by one the orbs fluffed
Grew as I appointed
Vanilla flavored frosting on the polished surface.
I placed four on a dish
As I drizzled gold flakes along the edge.
I wondered how many I could consume
At least two, I thought longingly.
Placing them against my tongue
Icing smearing against lips
Spheres slapping my skin
Champagne drenched,
Filled with melted cream.
How I long for your touch
This is it for me,
Too much excitement for one night.
In desert that is poor and dull
On soil that is scorched with fire
The Upas-tree stands as a hull
as guard who's one who knows no tire.
The prairie's nature had a thirst
begetting Him in day of fury,
It filled dead green of branches first,
It poisoned roots these give no curing.
The poison flows through pale bark,
Noon smelts with heat His poisoned dripping,
The Eve congeals Him like a mark
as limpid pitch on trunk - He's sleeping.
There are no birds to fly to Him,
No tiger walks to tree, just swirl
embraces tree of death with scream
and runs away with toxic evil.
And if the cloud will irrigate
His ancient leaves and pause its motion,
Its fallen rain flows down as fate
along the branches like deadly potion.
But crafty man had sent a man
to Upas-tree with glance of power
And man had walked according a plan,
He brought the bane in morning hour.
He brought the bane - the deadly pitch
And branch with faded leaves of Oro
And sweat ran down the brow and bleached
it with cold streams in silent sorrow.
He brought. He's weak, he has laid down
under the arch of the tent on flooring,
The slave has died in feet of crown
that knows no loss that knows no longing.
The Lord fed arrows with this bane,
They are obedient to his power,
He sends the death, he sends the pain
to neighbors in decisive hour.
P.S. This is my translation of poem by Alexander Pushkin
Modern Times
Universal truths or Universal Studios?
Can one distinguish any longer now
That the Universe has shrunk to a
Binary system of code,
Arcane enough to keep most believing
In a higher power, that is
until
Brown-out causes
Questioning
albeit fleeting like light, like
fliker of a dying cathode ray
the modern equivalent of firefly,
A sad beacon warning of troubled seas, yet
We sail forth steadfast in ignorance
gaining
no truths just
making sure the water stays murky enough
for the ensuing generation of questions.
We never listen.
I love the motion pictures and
We need some Chaplin now.
His modern times guttered out
Like a heavy candle in a Trappist's window
too as
Charlot became Godot and yes,
I stay rooted in that century
Where pilgrimage did not lead to Progress
but morass which
----we should all fear---
congeals like treacle every year
Cloying and suffocating in its sweet enough promise
To tempt the waiting generation yet, to suckle,
Purchase into the myth
Enjoy overpaying for the cheap seats
While the projectionist is
asleep at the wheel
reel to real to reel...
Adieu my century
Welcome to the next phase of blind.
Barchans go on droughting in Yagyakarta sods
outpaced here I throw a soliton in gaze-mirage
*
Here we stand on this, the Lee of
Dual Sandhorns { and they
the Phantom Tips of those horns they know what you say -
such fees to demand and how you shall pay no dues!
I’d rather make alive downward facing forms of genesis! I
know, I do know of raining beyond the slip face,
of angles reposed to the honest tenor of our shared Ocean Sky,
where the firmament congeals
to dream postures of
Carretera Interoceanica
where pools in the cool shade of memories that yet are to be
remember of strange filaments, of knees
reclining and worn to urn-dust in their riggings,
reduced to the once-wet bones of Joshua ash and yet!
i r i d e s c e n t s t r e a m s
punch
through
the utmost firmness of form - coalesced
in situ hubrisae,
borne still upon gusts of human wresting,
human heft en masse like all your favorite waves of sound, water and light
slammed by force into prophecies that might
release -
and so unseen
be,
like Zastruga-dew trees
or this home we call Kzynda.
To look around the corner of a time, a hovering,
and know that there is more, a gathered mist
of portent stealing comfort, roiling waters
calmed amid the dust trails of a heritage
that didn't want to be disturbed—
there's incentive for another breath,
another setback for the march of death
along the pathway of a life
that only stopped to wonder
just a while ago.
It is Molly Malone who calls us
past the curtain of the years, imploring
with a voice heard only as an echo,
as a haunting fantasy, perhaps
encrusted sentiment that moment
in the Dublin fog where we thought
we saw her there again.
How curious the parallel
that we would long to bring her back,
for it is history in all its darkness
that congeals into a strange nostalgia,
speaks in distant cries that it is we
who vivify the murky ghosts—
who see ourselves alive in Molly's shade!
It is the gentle earth that feeds us.
Consuming and consumed we share
an immortality we do not understand;
we are gifted, rising from the sea
no more confined, and still we hear
across the ages, Molly's cry
assuring us we do not die,
her voice across the square we know,
"Cockles...and mussels alive, alive O..."
~