Poets & Plebs

10/10

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Good

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Yes, as long as it is vaguely creative and self-contained.

haha just kidding like my boyfriend tyrone is looking at the screen right now, he likes making fun of you racists and I occasionally laugh also suck his big black dick

you white “men” will never get this pussy

psycho

this is great, got any more?

hehe jealous incel

Nice! All of my harem maids are panting

I’m actually really really good looking

me too!

>my boyfriend tyrone
>suck his big black dick
>you white “men” will never get this pussy

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im posting on tumblr right now

What’s ur tumblr link

He picks up the phone quickly because such a vulgar thing
cries shrill enough to pierce a dream’s solitude.
A mechanical voice pronounces his name in disjointed syllables,
rising bright where it shouldn’t then thudding like dead leaves where
there ought to be light,
Informing him that governmental agencies are already mobilizing,
Sending their couriers along vague bureaucratic channels,
In order to apprehend him, —sir your position has become one of friction
in the apparatus, at this point it is necessary
that we have your mother’s maiden name

If by dint of light off ugliness
you see beauty glint,
then squint, it might be yours reflected,
as challenges there are in flesh
we trade as tender, more dressed
in light we become as beads
form upon we members, lesser
members, of a line of deeds
now gone, once shone, now gone,
continue:

our successors must perspire, so squint,
and see them garbed in every light
through the tumult of their days
and the waves of all their lies,
not being gleamers of your rays,
see that neither are you adorned in yours,
and you are not dressed in your father's,
and what by dint of light off shame
you see written in your name,
implied, is change.

This made me laugh

Kinda pretentious. Who the fuck says 'doth'? I want to punch you.

I want to paint the contours of your body with my tongue

Hands tracing, gripping raw with greed

I want to fill my lungs with your breath

Our lips, alliterated.

Our hips, syncopated.

You are poetry and the lines of your body sing like sirens that murder me with beauty

Let me crash into your rocks, I want no mercy

Bite me, scratch me, fuck me

Show me with what tender violence

I want to consume you

I want to arch your back and show you how I can make your teeth rattle

Sweat and flesh smeared together

Take from me everything I've taken for granted and let me forget my mistakes

Dissolved into one, lets forget ourselves

I crave oblivion through your absolution

Men and the horses all outside! Women and children all inside!
Clanging and Din shout! Skirmishing breaks out! Over and over
we rout! Over and over we rout!

Towers and walls and gates fall, all fall!
Riders on horses assault! Archers on horses attack!
Fire and smoke! Taking the noble best!

Fire the Darkness beget! Smoke the Fire had brought!
Darkness and Smoke they bring! Daimons infernal begot!

Choking and Ash and Cinders and Flame! Riding on horses
our best they claim!

i have a few but they all are in spanish. sorry!

no mames, pon lo guey

Nicely done.

another night fades,
chased -- by stagnant light,
revealing harsh edges,
seen softer in shadows
I resign
to the stasis of dreaming,
not belonging,
in this realm of substance

ok. this can be my best attemp.

Mi rey va descalzo como una garza,
de las manos de sabios: oro, mirra;
a la usanza de Roma, rojas zarzas,
y el incienso lo esparce el viento entre hurras.
Yo onions de mi casa y de mis padres;
ellos me dieron estas suelas grises,
por mis padres y mi casa las llevo,
y si algún día, algún buen nazareno
me mostrase llagados ambos pies
y tocadas las llagas por infieles,
en la cruz de la vida, de esta ley;
por mis padres y mi casa querida
dejaría estas plantas desalmadas,
y andaría descalzo, como un rey.

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>onions
actually meaning ((onions)) i dont know why Yea Forums hates spanish

to be 1ª persona del singular

Me gusta

Es que se escribe igual que soja en inglés

joe momma
joe momma is fat
FAT!
JOE MOMMA A FATTY

desu

Muy bueno, tienes mas?

yeah. but not very much (talking about quality)

Mi niña que está en el río
le da vida con sus lágrimas.
Sus ojos, antes dos perlas,
baratijas son de lástima.
Ay niña, ¿por quién me lloras?
Clavada tengo -tan plácida-
como espinas su mirada.
– Tristes luceros, triste ánima;
ya por amor ahogó
su infancia, en el río, Fátima.
Las ranas le croan salmos;
los sapos, plegarias mágicas.
Me cuentan, en tierras húmedas,
lo que se dice en las áridas.
Ay niña, ¿por dónde fuiste?
Allá huyó por Sierra Mágina
con un villano montada.
– Tristes luceros, triste ánima;
ya por amor ahogó
su infancia, en el río, Fátima.
Clavó el villano su lanza
con una lanzada rápida.
Batiendo el Duero de sangre
por entre la carne pálida,
bebía el caballo tordo
fría sangre y agua cálida.
– Tristes luceros, triste ánima;
ya por amor ahogó
su infancia, en el río, Fátima.
Ahora solloza, rota,
como virgen de cerámica.
Flotando por la ribera,
muerta sin misa ni lápida,
su virtud yace en el río
ante un cortejo de águilas.
– Tristes luceros, triste ánima;
ya por amor ahogó
su infancia, en el río, Fátima.
¡Ay pobre niña! ¡Alma en pena!
Mi Señora no la escucha.
Tal vez lo haga Magdalena.

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It's a fucking dude

underrated

I really like the imagery in this poem. Although the concepts are not identical, your beads remind me of Indra’s Net.

My goodness gracious, it's Ms. Rupi Kaur!
Whose footgame began an Indo Smut War
Igniting from Bhuj to Hoshiarpur
Riled crowds’ lusts for Rupi proper
Her pedal bloom floored millions so jealous
Archlets, stub-toed wives thrown from high trellis
Ministers pledged crisis chiropody
Besieged by footlusting scurillity
Kashmir first then Gujarat’s Feet Riots
Ascetes pledged pedis with karmic diets
No alms could sate Rupi’s lurid haunting
Toes of vert, bice, teal and rose, so flaunting
Dreams of Rupi’s ruddy duned soles, so fair
Askew expectations and blighted prayers
Vexing cities, hills, trenchant fetish thirsts
Vortical infatuations soon bursts
Statewide calamities roust refugees
Mumbai podophiles spend like bougies
None rival but one Rupi toe cranny
Not Humaima Malick, Pakistani
Nor Asin or Priya’s feet, still thrilling
Sans Rupi’s nuance they’re unfulfilling
UN relief atop Delhi’s blather
Stayed not the surging footlusts’ viscous slather
Oracles, savants dumbstruck by her feets
Women spurned, soles lacking velveteen pleats
Wrecked ruins plume smoke while fapper fists froth
Beware all counterfeit Rupi foot broth
Dissolved cities, fetishists hermetic
From one poetess’s hot aesthetic
Girls unshod, their men then struck by bathos
Rupi’s shoe slave quips, “Finna pay f’ those”
Outside India, this crux ludicrous
Cannuck Rupi bathes in Juniperus
Sudsing her soles, how bubbles slowly slide
Pumice and files, deftly her hand glides
Trimming the hairs along toes’ regal length
Wiggling and flexing, bewitching her strength
Strappy heels compress, her toes seem Grecian
But barefoot she slinks wavy, Phoenician
Thinking the riots as all a bit weird
Detoxifying her soles, charcoal smeared
On idols and shrines, foot pilgrims do weep
Recording laments after iphone’s bleep
Solace from old texts, The Queer Solestry
Enlightened by a sacred shoeless creed
Army convoys guard her Ped Egg shavings
From dangerous desires and cravings
Upon Caucasoid writers, her full weight
Her soles feeling their heart by skull’s pulsate
Lesser feet drove men furious, hateful
Where Rupi treads, the ground is quite grateful
Cosmetics, prosthetics, footlets juicing
Surplus silicone feet, just adducing
No peers to Rupi’s sleek sloping tarsus
Struck to the face by her, sweet catharsis
Fixate Chakras upon those phalanges
Manifest her scents until as Ganges

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Somewhere, I remember my empty bed,
And my long lost love, my lone lover boy;
The kindling to my flame, that I had burned
Without ever realizing, or knowing.
I had never heard from him after that;
His long walk never led him back to me.
Another story, gone with no closure-
No conscious soul told me that he had died,
But somehow, deep within myself, I knew.
He was torn from me by that which wrenches

Sisters arrayed in fine silk from brothers,
Fathers with solemn faces from mothers,
Open armed, wailing lovers from lovers.
In the way that Jackals know corpses are food,
In the way that Crows know to roost and brood,

In the way that Snails move with the grey purpose of glue,
It was natural instinct that told me "I knew."

I did not despair at first.
I had no time to.
The Sun shone brighter than anything;
It blinked, and everybody beheld it-
Meaning me, and you.

Have you ever wondered about the days of old,
Where the rare eclipse was a malign portent?

Now, with telescopes of glass and burnished gold
There was little, if any, assumption of intent.

It blinked once, and it was a fluke;
Twice, and it was a strange occurrence.
Fifteen times in a minute, however,
Is a whole new world, an unknown territory.

A world supraluminal, a world supraumbral-
It was as if the end of days had come for all.

And yet, every sapient who saw the sun stumble
Silently wished that it would actually fall.

small section from a 40 page eschatology chapbook I recently finished and am now editing.

Birthday Poem

To mark this day, I have scribbled a verse
Off-hand and unplanned, no time to rehearse
The content is pure, in no way debased
About this lovely lass, so fair and so chaste

To the day, just over twenty years ago
With laboring breaths, her mum shouted “Oh!”
The sweat on her brow, glistened in the light
Without a break, she pushed with all her might

At the crack of dawn, frail screams announced
The arrival of baby, a success on all counts
Tears of joy and broad smiles of delight
Fitting rewards, after such a grueling fight

Later that week, the whole family converged
To lay eyes upon the one who recently emerged
From the womb of Irene, her lovely Momma
And the loins of Jonas, the jolly Papa

They soon took notice of her piercing blue eyes
Eastern in origin, almond in shape and size
As they gazed, she cried in despair
So many people, young Kate could not bear

Over the years, she grew in wisdom and grace
Supple curves lined her figure, sharp features on her face
And now here she stands, in full-bodied glory
Time will tell, how she finishes her story

I could imagine this as a diptych. Now write an opposing piece, identical in form, from the view of the other lover.