Quotes about visceral, page 4
Black Dog
A dark paranoia dogs my steps,
goes for the throat, leaps on my chest,
brings down it's prey and rips my flesh,
baying at the moon.
I am a tortured soul in hell,
flayed alive, not doing well.
A black dog obeying some primal spell,
baying at the moon.
Moods that shift from meek and mild,
to vile anger, all blast and bile,
courting danger and passions wild,
baying at the moon.
The hunt is savage and hard-pressed,
with gnashing teeth to stop my breath.
A scream of horror, mute in my breast,
baying at the moon.
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poem by David SmithWhite
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Keeps Affecting me Deep!
When his friends are roaming in shoping malls,
he is in the library, sinking in Shakespeare,
and not noticing me in the opposite seat.
When his friends crave for a glance from me,
he never looks at my face, while walking
on the other side of the road.
While taking food in the dining hall,
I am expecting a flashing gleam from his eyes,
refusing to respond for the calls from the eyes around.
But what nixes him from watching me?
When my friends find difficult to clear my doubts,
he tells aloud the answer to a surprising third person.
Why he tells it not to me, the longing darling?
He seems to ignore me but really not.
His scant attention on me keeps affecting me.
When he gets into the bus before me,
if there is a single vacant seat,
he leaves it to me and goes to the front of the bus.
He offers a fleeting smile when I thank him later.
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Freedom Of Expression
What some so casually name
'bad writing'
Could yet lay claim
To the title:
Good poetry.
With unenslaved words
Birth is given to
Freedom of expression,
The criteria it may lack
Is replaced with deep meaning,
Brave enough to explore
The depths, dangers and delights
Of simply being.
No shallow cliches.
No axes to grind.
Just flowing with the ache of desire
For lifes Love to find.
Ontic words mystically spoken
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poem by Smoky Hoss
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Laborer
In the sizzling heat of the afternoon
Clothes drenched and shoes filled with sweat
Last nights long shift makes the body ache
In growing age when the muscle is the only strength
The will like faith growing stronger with each passing day
A disease knocking at the visceral parts of the body
Joints now like the hinges in the machine need oil
Moved in hundreds and like all others
Away from the family and the little ones memory
A letter from the home in need of money
For the doctor’s fee as education is forlorn desire
Minimum wage half robbed by the supervisor
And like a true competition in economics
Out on the metal gates a replacement is waiting
Alienated from the production of the product
Creating surplus for the consumption of the rich
His toils are in the shine of the markets in goods glittering
Unaware of the political upheaval
No care for his welfare
He has no future; his children will also work like him
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poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Theocentricity (being touched by touching a rock)
What is this magnificent desert rock I have found?
Perhaps a piece of some sacred ground?
Or a grand work of ancient art
from the depths of a great creator's open heart.
-Mystery rides redolent in the air
Beauty abounds and distinct divination is to be found,
Everywhere.
The wind sings its sacrosanct song
With it the trees softly sway and dance along.
All of nature sings,
And the Wonder of redemption
Awaits in the wings...
The sunset covers the Western horizon with blood,
Washing the troubles of this day
Forever far away,
As God watches and blesses from above.
A full moon giving grace
Flows through the desert night
Allowing a view of
The most wonderous sight:
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poem by Smoky Hoss
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The Wide Ocean
Ocean, if you were to give, a measure, a ferment, a fruit
of your gifts and destructions, into my hand,
I would choose your far-off repose, your contour of steel,
your vigilant spaces of air and darkness,
and the power of your white tongue,
that shatters and overthrows columns,
breaking them down to your proper purity.
Not the final breaker, heavy with brine,
that thunders onshore, and creates
the silence of sand, that encircles the world,
but the inner spaces of force,
the naked power of the waters,
the immoveable solitude, brimming with lives.
It is Time perhaps, or the vessel filled
with all motion, pure Oneness,
that death cannot touch, the visceral green
of consuming totality.
Only a salt kiss remains of the drowned arm,
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poem by Pablo Neruda
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Heavenly Fire Enshrined in the Heat and Mind
Spoils of staged seduction
Boredom a sedative smoke screen
wandering twisted madhouse of
withering depth perception
Fucked up until the day we're found
whiskey bottle empty
passed out beneath the willow tree
staying in one place for too long
only worsens pain
dna distills an alchemy of
animal passions and ancestral spirit
senses drowned in an piscine
orgy of naked energies
and eyes groping endlessly
bodies and desire swimming in an
infinite visceral ocean of
fornicating stimuli
mental mirror masturbation
visual orgasms manifest and multiply
always pacing the mind tracing fairy circles
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poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Feed the Pigeons
The subway rides thru fields of steel
The lost horizon shines over the sea
All these dreams walk like the desert
Go see the fortune telling tower
Speakers blare and call the cave dwellers
Town square fills with snake oil
Open the curtains and let the circus play
Repeat the same droll lines
Agents of the bold new age
Time slips into paved columns
In the distance night is coming
Feed the pigeons while their alive
Painted cement reflects the sun
The revolution is a whore
Songs and anthems sell cars
Everything is for sale
Deep under the sea symbols sink
Forgetfulness of the base
Dreams drift without color
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poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Mr. Darcy
Is Obama Mr. Darcy,
fighting prejudice with pride,
or is it simply that he’s classy,
superior, and rarely snide?
Until with Hillary he dances
as Darcy would not with Miss Bennet
he’ll not succeed Bill with romances
in the White House, and the Senate
will be the only place where he
can demonstrate, while laughing at
himself, that he’s not truly lost in
a world where every Democrat
must be more feminist than Austen.
Though pride’s abominable, it
is far less reprehensible
than sensibility sans wit
in women who aren’t sensible.
Inspired by Maureen Dowd’s Op-Ed article in the NYT on August 3,2008 (“Mr. Darcy Comes Courting”:
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Barack Obama must continue to grovel to Hillary Clinton’s dead-enders, some of whom mutter darkly that they will not only not vote for him, they will never vote for a man again. Obama met for an hour Tuesday with three dozen top Hillaryites at a hotel here, seeking their endorsement and beguiling their begrudging. He opened the session by saying that he knew there had been frustration about what they saw as sexism during the primary. The Los Angeles Times reported that Hillary die-hards want to enshrine a whine in the Democratic platform about how the primaries “exposed pervasive gender bias in the media” and call on party leaders to take “immediate and public steps” to denounce any perceived bias in the future. That is one nutty idea. Perhaps it is because feminists are still so busy cataloging past slights to Hillary that they have failed to mount a vivid defense of Michelle Obama, who has taken over from Hillary as the one conservatives like to paint as a harridan….
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poem by Gershon Hepner
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Injected Lyrically
Black ink flows
in various vibes
and original scribes
Without words
I would cease
My soul would un-ease
my hearts beat would slow
Softer Lighter almost into Oblivion
If a pen drew breath
~n~ ink spilled til death
wouldn't missin it
burn a yearn
to want it back
This welling inside it hurts
deepened incisions
imprisoned to my wounds
there dwells a fire
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poem by Samantha Campbell
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