Submissions by muscularteeth
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
esoteric inspirational powerful strange
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
15th Oct 2015 3:43am
15th Oct 2015 3:43am
The Thought Process to an, I
one.
In the temple of economy,
worth is sent through the wires:
life sings hymns to avarice and sells thought
to its progeny in praise of infinity,
void where ideology eclipses
the limitation of matter—
Our belief in existence is eternal.
Mortality,
its death, starts in the brain of power
but does not spread to the cells,
even atoms seek stability
and it makes me wonder—
About consciousness:
a radioactive responsibility and faith
splits the nuclei,
the books says,
you can be...
In the temple of economy,
worth is sent through the wires:
life sings hymns to avarice and sells thought
to its progeny in praise of infinity,
void where ideology eclipses
the limitation of matter—
Our belief in existence is eternal.
Mortality,
its death, starts in the brain of power
but does not spread to the cells,
even atoms seek stability
and it makes me wonder—
About consciousness:
a radioactive responsibility and faith
splits the nuclei,
the books says,
you can be...
624 reads
2 Comments
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
2nd Oct 2015 3:02pm
2nd Oct 2015 3:02pm
Wednesday
Monica drew portraits of the beautiful women in her mind's eye. She framed them in stained cosmos, beads in their hair and neon color on their lips, blotchy fushcia complexions and narrow gold eyes. She named them all Samantha,
but an hour ago, she blew smoke against the plush rippling ceiling of Jake's car. It bubbled and dispersed gray. A conversation was lost beneath the music. Dylan wouldn't stop talking. Monica tipped her head back and pressed her hand against the window, laughing when everyone else did,
so she was out...
but an hour ago, she blew smoke against the plush rippling ceiling of Jake's car. It bubbled and dispersed gray. A conversation was lost beneath the music. Dylan wouldn't stop talking. Monica tipped her head back and pressed her hand against the window, laughing when everyone else did,
so she was out...
715 reads
3 Comments
DRUGS POEM
Published
2nd Oct 2015 3:02pm
2nd Oct 2015 3:02pm
Induced Spiritual Awakening
When everything comes together,
only a finite piece missing
within the grasp
of another epiphany,
I recall I am only
the neuron of a cosmic giant
who proceeds boundless
from every point, eyes stuck
open,
I surrender.
It all sinks
even.
only a finite piece missing
within the grasp
of another epiphany,
I recall I am only
the neuron of a cosmic giant
who proceeds boundless
from every point, eyes stuck
open,
I surrender.
It all sinks
even.
692 reads
3 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
30th Sep 2015 2:24pm
30th Sep 2015 2:24pm
How are you?
I wouldn't say I'm unhappy.
On some sunset Chicago's glass
caught fire and most days drag between
highlights: I see him often,
he makes me laugh,
I am no Sylvia Plath.
My ego won't reflect from
every pale face,
but I am tired of living
in a reel,
when we missed the exit I wish
he'd kept driving,
at least until
I couldn't recognize
the street names.
On some sunset Chicago's glass
caught fire and most days drag between
highlights: I see him often,
he makes me laugh,
I am no Sylvia Plath.
My ego won't reflect from
every pale face,
but I am tired of living
in a reel,
when we missed the exit I wish
he'd kept driving,
at least until
I couldn't recognize
the street names.
636 reads
5 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
30th Sep 2015 2:24pm
30th Sep 2015 2:24pm
Disassociate
Happiness
was first defined
as a state of being:
from solid to liquid I would
puddle
like gasoline in rainbows,
thoughtless,
streaking cracked tar,
but they turned the hose:
I remember the minute when
everything was okay.
Before the window shattered, the car
shrieked on the highway, his fist
in red after he said the day
was just too
beautiful,
I wore glitter in my hair.
I thought my mother was an angel.
The water was cold,
ran into the gutter where
nothing made sense,
two...
was first defined
as a state of being:
from solid to liquid I would
puddle
like gasoline in rainbows,
thoughtless,
streaking cracked tar,
but they turned the hose:
I remember the minute when
everything was okay.
Before the window shattered, the car
shrieked on the highway, his fist
in red after he said the day
was just too
beautiful,
I wore glitter in my hair.
I thought my mother was an angel.
The water was cold,
ran into the gutter where
nothing made sense,
two...
754 reads
5 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
30th Sep 2015 1:56am
30th Sep 2015 1:56am
Grown Ups
When I was seven,
I played house with my little brother just
because I knew he wanted me to tell the story
of our brief imaginary lives: once I was a lost heroine
who came to the axeman's shed, so I taught him to sword fight
in exchange for a magical blade he had come across
beside a river. By the creek behind our aunt's
apartment he stopped me to ask
what I wanted to be.
"To be?"
"As a grown up."
so I told him, "A poet."
and years later, we sat beside the same
creek, this time a beer
in my hand...
I played house with my little brother just
because I knew he wanted me to tell the story
of our brief imaginary lives: once I was a lost heroine
who came to the axeman's shed, so I taught him to sword fight
in exchange for a magical blade he had come across
beside a river. By the creek behind our aunt's
apartment he stopped me to ask
what I wanted to be.
"To be?"
"As a grown up."
so I told him, "A poet."
and years later, we sat beside the same
creek, this time a beer
in my hand...
733 reads
4 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
30th Sep 2015 1:42am
30th Sep 2015 1:42am
Immortal Theory
6.
My brother believes
in reincarnation
as history repeats itself,
or at least that's what he slurred
on the anti-psychotics that made him
sweat.
5.
One little man didn't know
there existed a continent
between him and a spice trade,
so the world got bigger: or at least
that's how I imagined it,
coloring brown smiling Indians
dining with prim little pilgrims
in kindergarten.
By second grade I knew
Native Americans died of diseases like small pox,
pictures in the textbook of sad weathered...
My brother believes
in reincarnation
as history repeats itself,
or at least that's what he slurred
on the anti-psychotics that made him
sweat.
5.
One little man didn't know
there existed a continent
between him and a spice trade,
so the world got bigger: or at least
that's how I imagined it,
coloring brown smiling Indians
dining with prim little pilgrims
in kindergarten.
By second grade I knew
Native Americans died of diseases like small pox,
pictures in the textbook of sad weathered...
895 reads
5 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by muscularteeth
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