poMotion poetry

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With Fuzzy Balls

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“Remember when we fucked?”
asked the clown
as she spat in my face.
tongue-tied and stumbling backwards
I unzipped my pants to reveal
nothing

she just stared blankly
wiped the clown make-up from her face and laughed
“only in America” she quoted
while undressing layer by layer
until all that was left was
a shadow and shoes
high-heeled shoes, pink
with fuzzy balls

By Brian Feist

Written by lickmypoetry

July 31, 2012 at 7:42 pm

Posted in poem, poetry, Random

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A Day

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“You know the way you smell in the morning? That’s how I feel.”
The man was saying into his cell phone as he dug in his pocket for a quarter.
Producing two shiny prizes he put them in the machine and pulled the handle, then with out removing the phone from his ear (using his elbow to hold the spring-loaded door down) he pulled out a newspaper.
“No, no I don’t need any of that,” he continued to someone, somewhere else.
Opening the paper in a flourish he eyes darted back and forth across the page,
“Here it is,” he suddenly blurts out, and almost drops the phone.

by Brian Feist

Written by lickmypoetry

July 15, 2012 at 10:06 am

Posted in poem, poetry, Random

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In A Motel in Hayward, California

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What is the point of pain
if it doesn’t teach one how to live
What is the point of emotion
if it doesn’t teach you about yourself
the only point of losing is to learn how to win
fucking, sucking, smoking, joking
are all games to learn about the value of love
the importance of those around you

We hate only to learn the value of distance
the pain of faith and belief
God foresaketh thee to a wilderness of empathy

Everything is battle
a game of winners and losers
wandering through the field unequipped, untrained, and unprepared

By Brian Feist

Written by lickmypoetry

July 15, 2012 at 9:56 am

Posted in poem, poetry, Random

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Politics

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by A. Little-Greenman

Politics is not
ohh who’s going to win the election?

Politics is the action of deciding how best to use resources

The people who have “earned” the distinction to be the ones who make the big decions, call themselves:
Politicians

But that is only because they have no real job. They are not electricians, or plumbers.
And yet electricians and plumbers also have to decide how best to use resources. So they too are politicians.
Why do they call themselves,
Journalists or Firefighters or Professors?
Because they have real jobs.

Forget about politicians and focus on politics

 

Written by lickmypoetry

February 11, 2012 at 8:37 am

Posted in poem, poetry, Random, submission

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Pot is such a wonderful drug. -The poem

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by A. Little-Greenman

 

Pot is such a wonderful drug, that one can stop using and actually lose weight.

That never demands anything of you. Way too hard to write this while stoned. Don’t print that.

Beauty, beauty, beauty, ha ha ha ha,,
Very long green stems of bliss that force themselves to flower out yellows and reds
even blues and purples

How can you go wrong with a purple flower of spongy moistness?

And fire
don’t get me started on fire.
The red glow and the heat and the movement, and the …
oops there I go off,
but then you bring the two
together

they consume each other, the fire goes into the flower and the flower pulls the fire to it with each breath.
The fire dances while you exhale then leaps back to action at the moment of suck

suck suck blow
is there a carb on this

cough cough
ha ha, beauty, beauty, beauty!

Then to not have the fire dance, or the flower is only
Meh

not vomiting in dirty closets, or sweating in dirty clothes. Or aching, just

Meh
ha, beauty, ha! beauty, beauty

almost forgot the best thing about pot…
ahhhh
crap I forgot, again

Written by lickmypoetry

February 11, 2012 at 8:35 am

Ode to the beautiful

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thank you God, or Shiva
for uniting and creating

than you Kali
for destroying

thank you mom
for teaching

thank you friends
for comfort

thank you
for the dance, the game, the adventure, the bouncing tigers, the hidden dragons, the falling leaves, the growing flowers, the flying insects, the confused pets, the missing links, the ugly, the misshaped, the intervals of pain and pleasure, the fact that there are no facts, the first the last the middle in no particular order.

Thank you Beauty
for you are

and for that I admire you

Written by lickmypoetry

May 20, 2011 at 2:33 pm

Posted in poem, poetry, Random

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Prophecy

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“I don’t really know,” he said, his hands covered in blood, “h-how this happened.”
He could remember the screams and the cold rush of adrenaline climbing up his spine.
The face on the floor was contorted in such a way it seemed to be saying, “Ahh”
It had an almost angelic glow. The blood was sprawling out on the floor making wings for the departed soul.
“It wasn’t supposed to go like this,” he kept repeating in an awkward whisper.
He thought back to the chow mein he had earlier.
The cookie with its poigently phrased fortune:
“You will change someone’s life today.”

Written by lickmypoetry

May 4, 2011 at 1:57 pm

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Work in progress

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I have sat in noisy rooms of telephone wire begging ghosts for pennies
I have hauled ass through cars and pedestrians honking   charging with flaming red sauce meant for upper floor apartments
I have gotten drunk and drove top speed down US 36 vomiting out the window crying

I locked my self in bedrooms, bedrooms, bedrooms staying one step ahead of the on coming onslaught of company
went dancing but ended up making out at a bus stop, lost on new adventures
been broken by the glowing howling fuck called love
but was stupid enough to do it again

I have thought and wandered…
why
what if
only to wake up sweaty in a puddle
totally lost on acid in 99% humidity not sure if it was raining or not, worried that they would know:
what if I had no job and woke at ten to a cheerio’s bong?!
what if I tossed out all my books for class because I realized they had never seen the things they claimed to explain?!
what if I stayed up all night reading anarchist lit discovering that I was an anarchist all along

Once as a kick I worked for two years in a ballpark
hotdogs beer pretzels
the repeated remarks about how much this costs or how much that costs while throwing money at me
I winked as I shoved their money in my pocket
this place pulls in thousands a night they won’t miss a few hundred, I consoled myself while smoking my menthol cigarette

then while delivering in a red toy car, I peddled round disks of Italian ‘pride’ to the mansions where they kept their money tight and under surveillance
and laughed, as only the poor can laugh, at their stupidity

in rented vans I have seen corn fields, flashing police car lights and snow
jumping out to put on snow chains only to discover we don’t know how to put on snow chains
fumbling around with frozen hands while wiping snow from the Japanese instructions
but not caring, knowing this is the best trip I have ever taken
sleeping on the floor of an abandoned theater full of history and coughing and groaning
smiling radiantly
finally to wander to the stage full of electricity
but instead I watch the fog roll over the hill in rising crescendos

have seen perfect sunrises that seem to last an eternity while cheering on the dawn like pagans
in drunken rituals of debauchery
to arrive home beaten and tired but ready to howl at the moon if need be

called senators and congressman, high, demanding equal treatment
shouted from rooftops and into forests about my problems, national problems, rational problems, irrational problems
seeing no one listened I crouched in the corner and smoked

jacked off to illustrations of Molotov cocktails believing myself to be radical
just as the books told me I would
became who they said I would be when I swore I would be anything but

Written by lickmypoetry

April 29, 2011 at 9:08 pm

Posted in poem, poetry

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Poetry – Shmoetry

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To write something with power
with meaning
That is the goal
to do it while your butt looks good all the better
but
short of
flinging words at pages
drunken
with the sounds of Kansas
or football fans screaming
walking out the seven steps of the fellow craft degree of freemasonry
they hang elusively out of reach

the words
that ring true
or incite, or invoke
or inflame
lie beyond,
off this page

the distance larger than space
and time
can only be overcome through work
and patience
and I have neither

Written by lickmypoetry

April 22, 2011 at 4:10 pm

Posted in poem, poetry, Random

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Pain seems to be truth

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picture me in my fucking flunky uniform

flipflopflipflop

frying

fries, burgers, buns, ketchup, mustard, fuck

the ketchup. A red puddle on the floor.

“My boss is going to be pissed!” I exclaim

half to convince myself to clean it,

half to see if my boss is paying attention.

Moving faster than if cracked with a whip the floor is

wiped, swept, mopped, polished

flipflopflipflop

frying

fries, burgers, buns, mustard, the fucking unpredictable ketchup.

I’m addicted to frying

Addicted to monotony.

But what is an addict if not a seeker of truth,

but the only route to truth is through pain.

Minute pain is minute truth.

Was I talking to myself againflip

flopflipflopflipflopflipflop

frying

fries

Written by lickmypoetry

April 18, 2011 at 6:03 pm

Posted in poem, poetry

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Untitled 2

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My throat is hoarse
from yelling at robots
about the beauty of difference
and the benefits of change

They just smile and nod
bob and weave and
dance and drink
lost
looking for an app for that
waiting to clock out so they can get on with their lives
only to get up and do it again tomorrow

The smell of singed flesh
fills my nose as I watch
these “beings” surrender
to ticking and tocking
limbs become electronics
electronics become god
and wife and friends

“can I buy you a drink?”
I ask the blond
whose blouse is buttoned to her
neck
collarbone (just barely visible)
shows stress and strain
“Huh?” she replies never taking
her eyes from her phone

“one for the road” I shout to
the bartender who had long ago given
up on life
I am on my way to join him.

 

Brian Feist

Written by lickmypoetry

January 25, 2011 at 1:16 pm

Posted in poem, poetry

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Voyeur

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A shadow blowing smoke.
I am a single orange eye
across the parking lot.

Two shadows dance
framed by a night bright gazebo,
a velvet forest backdrop.

Music in their heads
pulses rhythm lower.
Flesh of hands, of face have become
naked bodies.
Flesh, unashamed.

Lips meet.
Persistent butterflies
battling for the same space.
Small gasps escape
mouths half open.

Even the trees seem to turn away, embarrassed.

I wait a moment longer.
A flash through my mind (you) and
I leave to go home and feed my cats.

 

Sue Zalokar

Written by lickmypoetry

January 12, 2011 at 11:25 pm

Little Sister

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little sister
hold that sneer
do you honestly believe
these hips
havent been there?
do you think
the scent of your smile
hides
the lack of laugh lines
around those beautiful eyes?
do you think
i havent felt
the fear behind the flirt?
or the desperation
in the promiscuous slide
of those arms
around his neck?
rest assured
little sister
a grown man
doesnt require
the honey
between your thighs
to grant his protection…..
and he can’t
be your validation
no you ain’t
the next barbie doll queen…
u just another
little girl
trying to get grown…
rest assured little girl
that when
beauty was my only weapon
i was
a beautiful woman….
don’t let that gaze slide
over these scars
in such a sinister fashion
hush up little one
and listen….
they rest on my skin…
because
i valued my loved ones
over vanity
they are marks of honor
not shame or sin….and i am not
gonna hide them
to ease that smile
or your comfort
back into place…..
rest easy child
i own the skin i live in
its values or content
isnt contagious
you wont catch anything
by sitting next to me…
except maybe the ability to see past
those narrow little misconceptions
you seem so intent
on keeping

Julie McCurdy

Written by lickmypoetry

January 4, 2011 at 10:44 pm

Blank

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Outside of anger is forgiveness
outside of forgiveness is fear
fear of forgetting
the guns pointed at people to protect them

remembrance is inside of anger
anger is inside of fear
fear is the one unifying emotion of both
sides
fearfulness is out side reason

we have no reason for the treatment of cattle or people, or which one is which
“It can’t be helped, we have to move on,” is
the mantra or the mooing
the cattle prod reminds us where we are
fear of the cattle prod keeps us where we are

Brian Feist

Written by lickmypoetry

December 24, 2010 at 3:54 pm

Old Drunks

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late nights on public transit
are always an adventure

old drunks
try to pick me up
all the time

they gravitate to me
as if it is so apparent
how sympathetic
I could be
to their situations

and somehow appreciate
that I don’t give a fuck
about them

Cassandra Kolsen

Written by lickmypoetry

December 3, 2010 at 10:54 am

Dinner with dunces

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right now the melting pot is boiling
the cream has become diluted
watered down on top
while the mixture at the bottom
full of rich colors and flavors
burns

the stirring and mixing has increased
only to the dismay of the powerful, but blander
flavors
causing tension to undiscerning palettes
the garlic, soy, and potato once diluted
with salt and sliced thin
have become the staple of the dish

while the spices, the fringe has been
forced to the back of the throat

Brian Feist


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Written by lickmypoetry

November 25, 2010 at 9:23 am

It Is Forgetfulness

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Right of perpetual ownership that non-memory
Nor its name by aspect of province seat.

She, a young person
When returning late from grammar school

I knew of the its
Death knew that
That One believed!

And that I am a person of energy?
If there is to the saying
By the people that brought the news

I must believe, without vacillating a point,
That my name is in the pupils.

Noah West


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Written by lickmypoetry

November 21, 2010 at 9:35 am

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