every poet—
a foreign language
learned only through immersion

read my words
speak my tongue
bleed my heart
breathe my lungs

a soul—
a collection
of memories

to be unwritten is
to be unremembered

immortal be the word

bad love poem #2174

this smile:
an effort

this love:
a compromise

stop trying to convince your stem that it’s a flower

thethicknessofvulgarity:

by d.c demurs

[these elements are meant to be defied]

Vignettes and Beignets Don’t Rhyme

They made a promise never to meet. She was visiting San Francisco on business and had not told him she was coming. He had often talked about the coffee shop near the corner of 3rd and Mission where he bought his morning cup of sanity at 6:43 am every weekday.

She caught his eyes instantly as he walked through the door. Recognition and disbelief short-circuited his muscular system and he froze where he stood. Her eyes dropped down to his feet and back up again, at the speed of slow-motion seduction, scanning him, drinking him in. She stood up from her seat and joined the other customers waiting in line. He regained his composure, walked towards her, and stood behind her.

He breathed in the scent of her hair, of her, clenching his fists as he fought the urge to grab her by her shoulders, spin her around, and plant his lips upon hers. She stood, as still as steam, her heart clawing its way out of her chest, as she felt his breath brush past the strands of her hair and rest on her neck.

Each step toward the counter was done in unison, the distance between them – unaltered. She placed her order, brushed her hair behind her ear, and walked away. His eyes followed her, watching the grace with which she walked, drinking her in. The girl behind the counter awakened him from his trance with fingers snapping in front of him. He placed his order, completed his transaction, walked away, and stood next to her. They waited.

“Tall hot chocolate”, the barista announced. He grabbed for the cup, as did she, his hand around the cup, hers around his hand. She pulled it off as if singed by fire as she felt the ring on his finger. “I’m sorry”, he said. “This is yours”, and he handed her the cup. “Tall hot chocolate”, the barista announced. She grabbed the cup, handed it to him. “Then this must be yours”, she said.

He placed his hand around hers and the cup, left it there for a millennium, before taking the cup away, still warm.

Oceans swelled behind their eyes. He turned and walked quickly out the door before the flood gates burst open and he left her there… alone… holding her cup.

“Stupid,” she said. “This was stupid”… she sat herself at an empty table and buried her eyes in her palms.

Read More

themonkeyreview:

chucklingpecan:

Rest your lips
allow your hands
to stutter

"I could shoot myself ten times
and still not be dead enough."

D.C. Demarse (":blams", thethicknessofvulgarity)

"I didn’t create flowers to be beautiful. That’s just how plants fuck."

— God (The Almighty Creator of Everything, including pedophiles)

(Source: purplemonkeysexgod69)

Tags: quote God

"trigger warning: reality"

Aditi ("shaving my legs in the shower/ i do not belong to the women before me", esn13)

Tags: quote esn13

steffenroymitchell:

All right, snugglebutt, sit down for a minute and I’ll tell you a tale. 

When Billy Certain finally persuaded me to upload my poetry to this limp biscuit of a website, I was overjoyed because, for the first time, I had an audience. It wasn’t much, maybe a hundred people, but it was an audience! People liked reading my work, holy shit! So I leaped in. I started posting frequently. I got featured on the tag (back in the day a tag feature would often amount to fifty or more followers), and that’s when I started getting a little greedy. I wanted more! I wanted a bigger audience! So you can imagine how glorious I felt when I was appointed an editor on the poetry tag. It wasn’t something I had asked for, nor was it something I felt particularly passionate about, but I did my duty and I did it well.

Because when I put people over, my roots would stretch a little farther into the ground. I had a steady stream of people coming in because word was spreading that Steffen would put you over. Steffen would read your work. Steffen would promote you. Steffen liked this place. Steffen wanted to help.

And I did want to help, but not in the way most people would think of help. I wanted to shake this place. I wanted to destroy it and reshape it in my own image. I wanted to mop up the cliches and the poems about scars and rib cages and wring it all out somewhere else. I wanted the big people in this community to be people who actually wrote good fucking poetry and had legitimate, unconditional passion for their art. To some extent, I succeeded. I made a lot of people around here, but ultimately, my goal was selfish. I wanted my fingers as deep in the pie as I could get them, you know? 

But in doing that I frequently found myself putting over people who wrote shitty work. People who had no technique or drive or love for what they were doing. People who just wanted an audience. But I continued to do it. I continued to be the tag editor. I continued to host poetrydromes. I continued to hand out free features because I thought, hey, there’s no changing this place. It’s going to drown in shitty poetry forever, but the more people I promote, the bigger my audience gets.

Then I realized that I was just another contributor to the deluge of literary diarrhea. I was deliberately putting my stamp on terrible garbage because it got people to read my poetry. I never sold out my work, but I sold out my approval, and I sold out my authority. I WAS who I was featuring. I was just another mother fucker who wanted an audience.

So I started distancing myself from this place, but with that came a lot of guilt and frustration. This was my only audience. The people here were the only ones who cared. I tried to find other avenues to participate in this community, like administrating new-poets-society and doing writer interviews (which I never did). 

Ultimately, I realized that there’s no way to take part in this community without feeding the doo doo beast. There is no way to change it from the inside or the outside. The diarrhea deluge is inevitable and all encompassing. It’s the sea level rising, and any duty I undertake ends with me being extremely frustrated, suffering my way through terrible poetry to contribute to a community I don’t care about.

So I’ve expunged myself from this community. To my surprise, I still have a sizable audience. Ask me for nothing, and you will receive nothing. If you like my poetry, continue to read it. My words are now the only thing coming down the pike.

steffenroymitchell:

All right, snugglebutt, sit down for a minute and I’ll tell you a tale.

When Billy Certain finally persuaded me to upload my poetry to this limp biscuit of a website, I was overjoyed because, for the first time, I had an audience. It wasn’t much, maybe a hundred people, but it was an audience! People liked reading my work, holy shit! So I leaped in. I started posting frequently. I got featured on the tag (back in the day a tag feature would often amount to fifty or more followers), and that’s when I started getting a little greedy. I wanted more! I wanted a bigger audience! So you can imagine how glorious I felt when I was appointed an editor on the poetry tag. It wasn’t something I had asked for, nor was it something I felt particularly passionate about, but I did my duty and I did it well.

Because when I put people over, my roots would stretch a little farther into the ground. I had a steady stream of people coming in because word was spreading that Steffen would put you over. Steffen would read your work. Steffen would promote you. Steffen liked this place. Steffen wanted to help.

And I did want to help, but not in the way most people would think of help. I wanted to shake this place. I wanted to destroy it and reshape it in my own image. I wanted to mop up the cliches and the poems about scars and rib cages and wring it all out somewhere else. I wanted the big people in this community to be people who actually wrote good fucking poetry and had legitimate, unconditional passion for their art. To some extent, I succeeded. I made a lot of people around here, but ultimately, my goal was selfish. I wanted my fingers as deep in the pie as I could get them, you know?

But in doing that I frequently found myself putting over people who wrote shitty work. People who had no technique or drive or love for what they were doing. People who just wanted an audience. But I continued to do it. I continued to be the tag editor. I continued to host poetrydromes. I continued to hand out free features because I thought, hey, there’s no changing this place. It’s going to drown in shitty poetry forever, but the more people I promote, the bigger my audience gets.

Then I realized that I was just another contributor to the deluge of literary diarrhea. I was deliberately putting my stamp on terrible garbage because it got people to read my poetry. I never sold out my work, but I sold out my approval, and I sold out my authority. I WAS who I was featuring. I was just another mother fucker who wanted an audience.

So I started distancing myself from this place, but with that came a lot of guilt and frustration. This was my only audience. The people here were the only ones who cared. I tried to find other avenues to participate in this community, like administrating new-poets-society and doing writer interviews (which I never did).

Ultimately, I realized that there’s no way to take part in this community without feeding the doo doo beast. There is no way to change it from the inside or the outside. The diarrhea deluge is inevitable and all encompassing. It’s the sea level rising, and any duty I undertake ends with me being extremely frustrated, suffering my way through terrible poetry to contribute to a community I don’t care about.

So I’ve expunged myself from this community. To my surprise, I still have a sizable audience. Ask me for nothing, and you will receive nothing. If you like my poetry, continue to read it. My words are now the only thing coming down the pike.

Tags: relevant

vincentphilip:

Stop calling yourself a poet and start blowing up everything you write

Tags: ok

renebofene:

you
are a garden
of thorns
stuck between
sighs

© 2014-Rene

you
are a stampede
of horns
impaled between
lungs

© 2014-Monkey

"I am not poetry, I am tumblr."

Joy (aquietjoy)

azukilynn:

mmenomicatomic:

elisabethlaurenisalive:

azukilynn:

mapetrow-from-allofit:

curvypervyme:

elisabethlaurenisalive:

I am not a sailor.
I am a captain.

I’m not a mermaid
I’m a shark

I am not an archer
I am cupid

I am not the bow,
I am the heart.

I am not the candle
I am the flame

I am not the clouds
I am the rain

I am not the storm,
I am the calm.

I am not the devil,
I am the platypus.