Long Viscous Poems
Long Viscous Poems. Below are the most popular long Viscous by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Viscous poems by poem length and keyword.
And my body becomes the delicate flower which he takes up my scent by his instinct
He is breathing me in now sucking up my beauty as best his malignant will directs his olfactory---
I become a mission and the drives of millennium channeled int to this moment and billions of moments identical to this before it.., is setting the pace that clinks along like a metronome
As have a million Eyes watched a female click down the road her feet a rhythmic mechanical drum
tick tick tick
A vibration smelt and reverberated in the viscous pulse of multitudes
He sees the valleys and crevices rolling hills and wide plains of my flesh an eternity in the warmth of my flesh he feels all the past and his future rush before him like a vast expanse of space
He creates a home in my eyes an eternity in my thighs
color waves lengths I cannot see but know they exist spread over and through us as we perpetuate
The bees see flowers in patterns and hone in like the drone bees buzzing and humming buzz buzz buzzing along slipping down into the cloying throat of a damp flower..
Steadily carrying out tasks that necessitates the survival of their species
The eye of I drinks in the scene greedily faster it seems than the excitation the pudendal nerve sensory lets my conscious in on the little secret
I am mastered
We conspire with nature, we obey, we endure
And trillions of molecules cascades in to beauteous acts of life...
"The Book According to St Lovejoy 1:3 (Part 1)"
1. 3’s the Number so here we’ll commence
I’ll start moving while the non-believers
sit on their fence
A very little known Chapter, part of a
most significant Book
all the stories are written with 3 in mind
Locked in a cupboard
that’s gone missing
the big split in the spine
indicates it’s unique in it’s position
lost in fractured time
with stories spilling out between the many pages
hidden under a stockpile of
thick dust somewhere
won’t be missed in antiquity, nowhere
but has travelled so far
through canals its words cerebral
all swimming down a tight viscous
river of blood tar
out to that Sea, the Ocean
Life
perpetuating life another chapter arrives
into the world screaming,
it breathes
in this Book there are always 3
for reading, not pleasure, somehow the
chapters have all gone missing from
the Family Tree.
2. Another Peter became Simon
fished the Sea for his mother
he had a story in his chapters
that required slow
then swift delivery defied
the story of bittersweet childhood all
bottled up with a note, he threw into her ocean
but she’d already stepped onto the boat
down the Styx River
to meet God the Father,
Son and Holy Ghost.
Or so she thought.
Two fathers missing, two mothers host
but 3 is the number that will impresses
us the most
An unread story,
stolen delivery the Peter-Simon Creed
Nicene said before sleep to transport him away,
the other the piano self-taught
played his own keys
sang all the pain away
both abused not believed
seekers of retribution
now lost off course by several degrees
drowning in misery
one was down on his knees
LUX VITAE he said, this is my shield
he walks through the Light,
the Light is his Guide you see
the other looks for release
past his muster time, walks round and round
the sharp corners of his mind,
a small locked room
lying there supine
next to the sea,
he edits his story vigorously
before he signs his contract
by Her Majesty’s Final Decree.
(Lovejoy-Burton/2017 Dec)
The The - "Soul Mining"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IkzwnBqjRYg
FLUNG
against the drab ashen phonon sky
WEIGHTED
with the ghostly iron clad jaws
of bitter winter's grip
BITING
the feather-flared Doves
gravid with
FATIGUE
in the ill-laden onerous air
The rough coated dog
with ice-tipped ears
COLLAPSED
in a ravine of surrender
to the corridor of street gutters
SEEKING
shelter from the toilsome icy cold, he
WALLOWS
as a fugitive of neglect
of his chosen demise
In this empire city
a sovereign shrine to humankind
VESPERS
of frozen conflict
RISE UP
from its bowels like sweat
LEECHING
from otherworldly gargoyles
stone watchmen
SEALED
with mortar
high atop the spires that define
FORTUNE
at its utmost cost
Beneath these voiceless
STEEPLES
of holy crosses
PLAGUED
with frozen muted light
DRIFTING
through histories
STRIFE
for equality
now a mere picture of its
FAILURE
Heavily cloaked faceless people
TRUDGED
like blind phantom transients
SLOWLY
moving forward
through half-stacked drifts of dirty snow
as they
VEERED
further away from discontent
steadfast in the apathy
The grimy conspicUous yellow taxi
BEDRAGGLED
on its mucky, viscous boulevard
STRAINED
and bellowed
as a labored oxen
TRANSPORTING
the few to a suitable destination while
DESPERATE
surreal sirens
from a distant byway were
BLARING
like a young animal caught in a trap
ECHOED
and purged from the
back alley resort of homeless, despondent souls
HIDING
from the winter
LAYING
like pale-blue corpses
NUMBING
their pain with cheap wine
INTERRED
in their obscure tombs
of battered garbage bins
SHELTERING
their helplessness in this
SQUALOR
of ignorance and sadness
As i stood in the moment
DISPLACED
in this cold and wounded reality
my icebound paralytic soul
SHUDDERED
with hurt
WAITING
for the sun
Rewrite from "A Cold Day"
6-14-20
Brian's select H, any form, any theme
sponsored by Brian Strand
That was then….
When the tapestry of contentment enveloped
the enthralled expanse exhilarated,
of the sensuous sky called life.
When the fervent flight was friendly
for the esoteric essence to fly fearless
near and far like a free bird beguiled.
When happiness was convivially contoured
in the consummate cauldron of time present,
relationships extended arms all the way
to embrace with unreserved fervor.
Strangers mingled with smile of no pretense,
kept the dormant egos unexpressed.
When life had the gracious fluidity,
flooding the kinship landscape with candor,
flowed like the fragrant spring zephyr
over the contented topography of being,
touched the ebullient perimeter
of the fulfilled psychic sanctum.
When your onyx cloud of latent tolerance
showered the soothing rains of empathy
on my blazing mental mantle doused,
you enwrapped me within memory petals,
made the bouquet of togetherness
when I was gone from your garden of roses.
This is now…
When deranged life is desolately disjointed,
things that matter to you and me
don’t relate as relevant any more.
The lone journey in the connived course,
fraught with fright is to descry the destiny
in the uncertain horizon of the unknown.
When self-imposed isolation takes the mind
from tentative today to ambiguous tomorrow,
ruptured rapport unholds hands even in sorrow.
In life the solo actors make their own stage,
play the unreal roles in the drama they write,
till the curtain of self-inflicted seclusion drops.
When the impeded flow of time
stalls in the hourglass of verily viscous sands,
sliding in the manipulated tortuous trail,
crashes at the basal indiscrete instincts
of the impatient and imprudent life,
buried in the debris of dismembered dreams.
When compassion morphs into mirage
in the desolate desert of the desiccated life,
where my soul is a snapped string
in the frail fabric of human disharmony.
When I’m gone you instantly erase
my fading face from your contrived canvas.
In your shadow, lady of the torn and moist light,
I tear myself as wounded pilgrim in the desert of cruel grace,
where the tearing sand becomes bitter, salty manna,
the stone – a spring of warm blood, dripping on cracked lips,
and my heart, a torn altar, howls for the eucharist,
with echoes of deaf bells resounding in hollow ribs,
until agony, wandering, the total loss of self,
where the air smells of myrrh smoke and divine sweat.
Your splendor is not a flower, but a torn falling star,
with tail of green, red flames, in the cup of black night,
burning and consuming me alive with smell of burnt flesh,
like Moses' burning bush, where God roars cursed names,
with roar of subterranean thunder in the depths of my chest,
and I, lost child, scream "Love" with mouth full of ash,
trembling with sweet pain that splits me into two blades,
down to bare bone, blood flowing like red wine of passion.
I tremble under your touch like the torn leaf in winds,
divine, savage, full of smell of rain on burnt earth,
joined hands know not prayer or claws driven deep,
into your pulsating chest, soft as velvet wet with dew,
my tears – red wine, hot on bleeding bread,
with taste of holy yeast and iron, mixing ancient pains,
life becomes a torn gate to the apses of heavy heaven,
where the air is scorched burnt, withered flowers screaming in silence.
Everything – the first time torn, everything – eternal and wounded deep,
with textures of torn silk and hot tar on skin,
in your thin veil, I melt into You as in fires,
paradisiacal hell, with smell of sweet sulfur and rotting roses,
sacred day dissolved in black night, viscous as pitch,
remains as a bitten kiss on the brow of bleeding sunrise,
with taste of copper and honey, echoes of heavy breathing,
resounding in the void of my chest emptied of all shadow.
A Spider’s Web
a true engineering marvel
a mastery of tensile strength
flexible, firm, unrelenting
icky, sticky, viscous
this web most certainly is
all the better to trap prey
and cocoon them for later
for a tasty snack or dinner
its occupant . . .
a predator supreme
a master acrobat
in the vaunted
historical tradition of
Darwin's bark spider
(Caerostris darwini)
a true web mastery
to behold
the web’s silken-strands
give the spider
the wherewithal
to navigate its web
quite freely
swinging
to and fro
hither and thither
whilst
watching and waiting
for the moment
to seize and kill
its prey
a spider’s web
a true engineering marvel
a mastery of tensile strength
flexible, firm, unrelenting
icky, sticky, viscous
precision perfect
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
August 19, 2018 (Imagism)
Speedy the spider casts a small intricate shadow on the wall
The nickname had stuck from when she moved in slow motion
But by now she was blessed with formidable pace and lived
Up to full velocity other than in sarcastic ridicule of others
Mind you and mind me she was still under mischievous spells
Of young adolescent hominid bullies who redirected her path
Who taunted her with two yoyo strings attached to her web
Teasing little creature unkindly had been their attempt to spin
Their own yarn as they thought to teach humanity’s lesson
Viscous spittle challenged her net and the wannabe masters
Watched in disgrace as the little creature slid up and down
She is harmless does not possesses a scorpion’ sting but wait
For the tale because survival relies not on puppets nor strings
‘We altered her little helpless trapeze’ the youngsters marvelled
‘Just wait until we grow up and she faces the full adult power we wield’
But Speedy had been around the blocks of neat passage for good
And she concentrated on more important fight rather than flight
Swallowed her male companion and was a black widow for now
Arachnophobia darkened their self-righteous tricks up their sleaze
They needed their yoyo to make a slingshot to shoot vicious venom
But discovered discourtesy leaves you none wiser but devoured alive
14th February 2019
There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground
And I have found my place now that I am here.
When we exhaust our resources and the flame dies,
The house grows cold and the light fades.
I have been told no one can know
The true distance from your heart to mine.
Blood types pool and then they disperse from one another.
As if they had some place better to go.
It’s now putrid scent has clung too tightly
On my tender flesh all red and scarred.
Finger nails will leave their mark
On sunken and shadowed skin.
This viscous fluid flows slowly down your body
Like a terrible molten stripping down to bone.
This is who I have become
This is the sickness that I am.
Terrible damage running deep into my tissue
And I cannot believe the horror of what I do.
Striped bare and left here to die,
As you bind our arms with razor wire.
They rub this sulfur into my wounds.
Burning skin that reminds you of the truth
I don’t mind how much you hurt me-
Just that you kiss me while you do.
There's a breathing room looming
Around me, vacantly alive but viscous;
Feeling the bitter dead breath
While grating still, fully motionless
Like a thick,pungent mound of darkness;
As the chill runs unto my raw bones...
Nothing satisfies its hideous plight
With eyes wide open, a nightmare
Screaming devilishly at the ceiling;
Restless, growing weary down the marrow...
I reach for the lamp..it is shut, broken
Until my instinct wakes; this room is the Fear
Lying deep within a childhood's unsettled sin.
For Brian Strand's Mid-January 2018 Premiere:
Resubmitted 1/12/2018
I learned to swim in waters of amoeba
You shout "Regarde!" as I float to the surface
But it's far from Paris in this viscous river
Your hands of guidance turned to scoffs
Trading my pain for stacks of coins~
I no longer hear the crowds beg for mercy
Forced to nurse groupings of septic cells
My chest covered in ripples and blisters
The wet nurse of a generation of youth
Doctor, how come I must be a vessel?
Because my skirt fell above my knees
My womb is no factory of steel
All of this for more soldiers to train
For the crippling economy and labor
Why must your wealth stay tightly packed?
I will never earn my dress of white
Men of our nation will deem me impure
Forever a mandatory mother, never a wife
My body shall remain my own
Free of your legislature~