It's the 2025 Poem-A-Week Challenge! (This is a *poems only* thread.)

[Bn2f]

THE FOG OF YOU


White clouds are beautiful
High in the moonlit sky
Billowy playthings
For my imagination
That hide your truth
In the cover of our nights

Down here, hovering between my legs
You surround me with dense lies
Each word a step of confusion
Every touch sensed blind

Morning will come
And you will be gone
Drifting your way to her
Back to your bed
Before she lifts and wakes

 

[Tzara]

she has been silent

for as many days the moon
hidden behind clouds

this is why I cannot sleep—
even with this gentle breeze

Week 22 : Poem 1 : Total 27

 

[NivKay]

Monologue of the Repentant

When I awake one day
And sense is unhinged,
And the dogs no longer smile
Their dog-nosed intuition,
When my books, waiting
On muted shelves, play host
to white-tails and silverfish,
And their voices, spoken in
So many tongues and tenors,
Drown like meek crabs
Scuttling on ocean floors,
When days speak to me
In the language of half-emptied
tea-cups, and forgotten bodies
Hanging limply from a line,
Then I will know I have lived,
And I have lost.

Poem 9/52

 

[NivKay]

Ode to Roberto Bolaño

In the town of seven steeples,
There are seventy houses of stillborn faith.
Each morning their seventy doors open,
And the white belly of the day
Receives its daily sacrament.

There's a man in the South of the town.
He sits on a park bench, across from the bookstore
You stole your first book.
Starlets of day time soaps wax operatic,
As he dreams of the whistling in the streets
from seventy lips.

And soon it will dawn on him, the futility
Of his back-pocket pistol, like words in a desert.
He will give it to a wandering boy,
Who may kill for Love,
Or die for promised lands
(You've always known they are the same).

He will return to those seventy houses,
Whose number is less
Than the dogs who pant away obsequies
In the whistling streets of seven steeples.
The boy will never know his name,
But will write his poem in a brittle notebook.

Poem 10/52

 

[Bn2f]

MARSHMALLOW FIELDS


When
I
Drive
I fight the urge
To close my eyes
Let go the wheel
Not a care
Where I crash
Off a cliff,
Marshmallow field
I call
You ignore
Send you texts
Knock your door
But I
Am sick
For this

You’ve really got a hold of me
Can’t find the me I used to be

I
Get
Home
Sad, depressed
Start to cook
A meal
Cutting board
Frame my hands
Test my sense
Of feel
Pain, joy
Peel, slash
Cut my fingers into halves
To stop
From calling
You

You’ve really got a hold on me
I’ve lost the me I used to be

I
Sought
Aid
To help reveal
The things
That you can’t
To me
Pride in self, confidence
I’ve begun
To heal
Life gets tough
You get up
If love’s bitter
Smash the cup
Me
I am
Enough
I found me
I am
Enough

 

[NivKay]

Beauty is a wound

There are tender points
In one’s days and ways, the maze
Of unholy pray’rs,
When, like Owen, we are met
By silent visitations.

In these syncopic
Still frames, nor here, nor there,
Au de la, we lose
Vestiges of sheltered selves
Cloistered in sepulchered cells.

This I know, my friend:
Beauty is a wound, engorged,
It’s flowering pain
Blossoms multifoliate,
Like rivered blood, rubied death.

Poem 11/52

 

[_Land]

The Religion of Thighs and Breasts
By Bear Sage

Welcome, saints and sinners,
to the First Greasy Tabernacle of Flavor Divine,
where the choir is crisp,
the spirit is seasoned,
and salvation comes in an 8-piece box with two sides and a biscuit.

We don’t pass collection plates here—
we pass hot sauce.
And if your offering ain’t spicy,
don’t bother testifying.

Today’s scripture is from the Book of Deep Fry,
Chapter: Golden.
Verse: Crunch.

“Blessed are the crispy,
for they shall inherit the hush puppies.”

Oh yes, child,
this is the gospel of drumsticks and desire.
Where the oil speaks in tongues
and the holy ghost comes
in honey butter glaze.

Ain’t no judgment here.
You can be thigh-curious, breast-obsessed,
or just dipping your toe in the gravy of grace—
we don’t ask why.
We just ask: original or spicy?

Baptize your sorrows in buttermilk.
Confess your sins to the cook in the back—
she got more wisdom than any pastor,
and a switch for your foolishness
if you try to skip the line.

This ain’t communion, baby—
this is full-blown seduction.
Hot, greasy temptation
laid out on a red-and-white checkered altar,
and yes—
we do worship on plastic trays.

So come hungry.
Come messy.
Come broken and unbuttoned.

Because here,
in this cathedral of cholesterol,
we don’t cast stones—
we throw biscuits.

And remember:
In the name of the crust,
the crunch,
and the holy thigh—
Amen.

26/52

 

[_Land]

Origami Bedroom Routines
By Bear Sage

12 Prose Poem Vignettes on the Sacred Art of Sex and Shape

Dedication
To the lovers who fold each other slowly.
To the ones who understand that the body is a manuscript—creased, sacred, burnable—and still choose to read it by hand.
This is for those who worship not only the climax, but the curve. The ritual. The breath between the folds.


1. The Crane Unfurls

He doesn’t rush.
Because the crane cannot be rushed.
Because this is not sex—it is ceremony.

He begins at the collarbone, tracing its angles with the back of his knuckles, as if her clavicle is the crease that begins the ancient art. One fold here—just beneath her neck. Another, lower, parting fabric like parchment. Her breath catches, sharp as a paper cut, sacred as silence between syllables.

She is the sheet. Ivory, tender, blank.
He is the folding hand. Precise. Patient. Hungry.

The room hushes itself around them.
Lamps dim to voyeur shadows. The air thickens with the scent of warmed skin and the rustle of cotton yielding to fingers. His movements aren’t sexual yet—not yet—they are architectural. Each motion speaks of blueprints passed down through centuries of secret lovers.
Fold. Unfold.
Kiss the corner. Flatten the edge.
Trace the fault lines of her thighs like he’s restoring a fragile map.

When her legs part, they do not open.
They unfurl—slow, deliberate—like wings breaking free from centuries of stillness.
The tip of his tongue grazes her navel, a ceremonial mark.
She moans, but quietly, as though to disturb the process would be sacrilege.

When he finally enters, it is not a conquest—it is insertion into a puzzle already half-built.
A fit that surprises even gravity.
They hold—there, together—creased into a moment neither of them will be able to replicate again.

Later, when they lie breathless in the tangle of what they’ve become,
he will murmur, “You’re still folding into me.”
And she will smile with closed eyes and whisper,
“Then don’t ever smooth me flat.”

2. Temple Fold

It begins with stillness.
That deep kind—the kind carved into cathedrals.
Not quiet, no—reverent. The way air holds its breath in places meant for worship.

She lies back, slowly, knees drawn, a hinge mid-bend. Her body is the parchment altar, thighs folding like prayer doors—symmetrical, deliberate, not invitation but invocation. He does not reach for her. He approaches like a pilgrim.

His hands tremble, not with nerves, but awe.
Because she is not merely beautiful—she is aligned.
Every curve a ritual. Every breath a chant.

She parts her legs not to welcome him, but to test his devotion.
How deeply will he bow?

And bow he does.
Not with words, but with mouth.
A kiss between her knees.
A kiss to the softest part of her inner thigh.
A kiss to the place that is not a place, but a doorway.
And when his tongue touches her, it is not a tongue—it is a prayer bell rung in silence.

She shudders, not from pleasure, but from the weight of being seen.

He lays his body down between her limbs, chest to floor, spine arched like scripture. His palms press into her hips like an offering. He does not move—not yet. Because the temple requires stillness before it allows eruption.

When he finally thrusts forward, it is not fast.
It is reverent.
Slow as a hymn.
The kind of motion sung by monks, forgotten by men.

They fold into each other like sacred texts once hidden from the world.
Scripture made flesh.
Origami of spirit.
Two bodies, worshiping in silence.

And when her back arches, it is not in climax.
It is in rapture.

3. The Paper Swan Drinks

She is already kneeling, her spine in soft curve, hands resting gently on his thighs. Her hair spills down like ink from a brush, and he watches it sway, hypnotized by the pendulum of patience. Above them, the ceiling fan stirs air like breath—slow, deliberate, hot.

He stands, steady, as if any sudden movement would shatter her paper grace.
She rises—not all at once, but inch by inch—neck elongating like a stalk pulled toward sun. Her lips part. Not for speech. For sip.
Because she is a swan now. And swans do not gulp—they drink.

Her mouth encloses him like water drawn from stillness. No suction, no hurry. Just warmth. Just the firm press of reverence wrapped in wet silk. He gasps, not from lust, but from the fragility of it. The tension of being held and honored at once.

She moves with the rhythm of tide and tide alone.
Tongue like a ribbon.
Hands cupping the base, not to control, but to steady.
She is not kneeling to serve—she is performing a delicate rite.
And when she moans—deep in her throat—it is the sound of paper creasing under pressure.
A soft rupture. A folding in.

He touches her face, not to guide, but to thank.
A thumb brushes her cheek.
A finger tucks a loose strand behind her ear.
She hums again—this time with need.
And now her hips begin to rock, a pulse she can’t ignore.

Because the swan may drink, but she is also thirsty.
Because the mouth is not the only altar,
and soon, this sip will not be enough.

But for now—this moment—he lets her drink.
Lets her set the pace.
And he learns what it means
to be consumed tenderly.

When she rises, lips wet and eyes wild,
he is already trembling.
Already folding into his next form.

4. Reverse Mountain Fold

The bed is already a landscape—creased, rumpled, holy with sweat.
She straddles him backward, spine the bow of a question mark, her hands anchored to his knees like she’s bracing for the climb.
She does not ask permission. She plants herself.

This is not sweet.
This is not slow.
This is gravity pulling miracles from bone.

The reverse mountain fold begins at the hip.
The way her ass rises—arched, demanding—as if she’s folding her entire body into a peak he was born to summit.
He grips her waist like he’s grabbing the edge of a cliff, knuckles bone-white, breath caught in the free-fall between thrusts.

Every movement presses them deeper into the crease.
Downstroke.
Fold.
Upstroke.
Unfold.
She is the mountain. He is the fault line—breaking open under her.

She moans, head thrown back, hair a dark cascade down her shoulder blades.
He watches the place where their bodies meet, the sweet violence of impact, the wet, slick sound of two people coming undone in symmetry.
This is not rhythm. This is aftershock.

She clenches around him like she’s trying to trap the quake inside her.
And when she grinds down, hips spiraling, back arching—he loses language.
Only groans now.
Only the guttural hymns of men being remade.

He grabs her shoulders, pulls her upright, chest to her back, sweat slicking them like lacquer.
And now they are folded tight—crease to crease—one jagged sculpture in motion.

Her voice breaks on his name,
and he—already at the edge—spills like rocks loosed from the cliff face.

When they collapse, she still atop him, both trembling,
the mountain does not disappear.
It just… waits to rise again.

5.Koi in Repetition

They begin on their sides, spooned like mirrored fish—her back to his chest, his breath in the tidepool of her neck.
No words. No rush. Just the sound of flesh against flesh, soft and wet and ancient.
Their bodies curl, coiled into each other like two koi circling the same still pond, bound not by hooks or hunger, but by the need to keep swimming.

He slips inside like a current.
Not forceful. Not eager.
Just there.
And with the first stroke, they find the loop.

There’s a rhythm in repetition.
Not boredom—devotion.
Each thrust an echo of the one before it.
Each moan a ripple returning home.
Her hand rests over his, fingers laced tight at her belly. A tether. A vow.
The world could tilt, break, or burn, but here—here—they stay in orbit.

He buries his face into her shoulder.
Inhales.
Jasmine and sweat.
Salt and skin.
A scent he knows as well as breath.

She pushes back into him, gentle, insistent.
And again—he follows.
And again.
And again.

This is not sex.
It is muscle memory.
It is the sacred geometry of pleasure learned over lifetimes.

They climax like water lilies blooming beneath the surface—silent, unseen, but total.
She quivers in his arms, and he does not stop.
Because koi do not stop.
They glide.
They turn.
They return.

Even after the tremor has passed, their hips continue the dance,
lazy, lapping, devoted.
A cycle with no beginning.
No end.

 

[_Land]

6.The Lotus Lock

They sit facing each other—bare, breathing.
No one leads. No one chases.
This is not a position. This is a pact.

Her ankles cross behind his back, calves clasping the curve of his body. His legs fold beneath hers, thighs snug against hips, the entire shape a living mandala—circular, sacred, undeniable.
Their foreheads touch first.
Then their lips.
Then nothing.

Because this kind of sex doesn’t begin with thrust.
It begins with stillness.
It begins with gaze.

Her fingers trace the lines of his face, as if reading scripture written in skin.
He cups the back of her neck, thumb grazing that holy place where breath trembles. They hold each other—not tightly, but with the gravity of stars locked in orbit.
And when he enters her, it is not insertion—it is immersion.
A slow swell. A slide into silence.
He is inside, and yet they do not move.

Instead, they breathe together.
A single, shared lung.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The rocking begins not in hips, but in ribs.

She tilts her pelvis forward with each breath, hips blooming like petals pressed open by prayer. He answers with gentle thrusts—measured, slow, more presence than pace. The friction is subtle. The fire is not.

Every part of them is touching—chests pressed, arms wrapped, faces so close their eyelashes brush like moth wings.
They are bound in something older than orgasm.
They are bound in devotion.

Minutes stretch, soften, shiver.
There are no words.
Only breath.
Only the heartbeat of two people unfolding into something whole.

When they finally come, it is not with a cry—but a sigh.
A long, low exhale, like wind leaving the lungs of a sleeping god.
Their bodies remain locked, trembling in silence,
not from exhaustion,
but from awe.

7. The Fox Wrap

She moves like a whisper on broken leaves.
Every step toward him is deliberate, a dare in the shape of a smirk.
When she climbs into his lap, it’s not surrender—it’s strategy.

Her ankles lock behind his back, a velvet trap.
Her arms curl around his shoulders, elbows angled like hooked claws.
She doesn't kiss him yet.
She stares.
Close enough to taste.
Close enough to own.

The fox does not pounce—she coils.
And when she rolls her hips against his, it’s not friction—it’s a lure.
A slow drag of silk across a fuse.
He groans, already losing himself, but she doesn’t move faster.
No—she tightens.
Thighs grip.
Pelvis grinds.
Fingers rake the back of his neck like she’s reading the spine of prey.

He tries to take control, tries to grip her waist, flip her over, assert the old rules.
But she leans in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and whispers,
"Stay."
And he does.

Because the fox knows that dominance is a game of patience.
She rides him not with urgency, but with rhythm—the rhythm of pulse against ribcage, of breath withheld, of heat building just beneath the surface of control.
She bites his collarbone.
Not hard.
Just enough.
A warning. A mark.

Her hair is everywhere—curtaining his face, scenting the air with fire and sweat and something wild.
His hands slide to her ass, squeeze, but she leans back and grinds harder, faster now, and the creak of the bed becomes a drumbeat.

When she finally lets herself unravel, it is not a whimper.
It is a growl—low, victorious, guttural.
He follows her seconds later, neck arched, hands clawing the sheets like he’s trying to hold onto the world.

And after?
She doesn’t collapse into his chest.
She slides off slowly, stretches like a cat, and glances back over her shoulder.

No words.
Just the flicker of a smile.
The fox has fed.
The night is hers.

8. The Eclipse Fold

They meet at midnight.
Not by clock, but by feel—when the room dims just right, and their skin begins to glow under the hush of lamp light and restraint.

She straddles him.
Not the gentle kind.
The kind that claims.
Chest to chest, eyes locked, thighs wide, her palms pressed to his sternum like she’s pinning stars back into their constellations.

She doesn’t rock. Not yet. She presses down, slow and deliberate, until he fills her.
Not just her body—her breath, her spine, the echo chamber behind her ribs.
She holds herself there, still as an omen.

And when she starts to move, it’s not in waves. It’s in orbit.
A grinding rhythm so deep it becomes seismic.
The kind of movement that aligns planets.
The kind of thrust that changes tides.

When they climax, it’s not an explosion.
It’s a blackout.
A total darkening of thought, of form, of separation.
She collapses forward, face buried in his neck, and for a moment,
they vanish.

9. The Broken Fan

This is not elegance.
This is aftermath.
The fan already torn down one blade, creased wrong years ago but still beautiful in motion.

She lies sideways across the bed, hair tangled, one arm flung out like a fallen flag. Her leg is draped over his hip, half-inviting, half-anchoring. Nothing about them is symmetrical—bodies sprawled in a shape no book would teach.

He kneels beside her, one hand bracing the dip in her waist, the other clutching the sheet like it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment.
And he enters her with the kind of urgency that doesn’t ask—it remembers.
Not the first time.
Not the perfect time.
But the time that brought them back.

They move like the bed is cracked, like the frame might give beneath their weight, but they keep going—hard, desperate, unplanned.
Because love isn’t always folded clean.
Sometimes it tears.
Sometimes it rips open and bleeds.

Her breaths come ragged, mouth open, eyes glazed not from ecstasy, but from release.
Like this is the only place the ache leaves her body.
He thrusts harder, hips snapping forward with a rhythm born from grief as much as need.

The fan is broken, but it moves.
The edges fray, but the wind still comes.

He grabs her calf, lifts her leg higher, changes the angle.
She gasps—louder now—and the moan is not pretty. It’s a sob rebranded. A hymn sung through clenched teeth.
And when she comes, it isn’t in silence.
It’s in a shudder that shakes the bedframe,
a cry that sounds like confession.

He follows—collapsing half over her, chest to her spine, whispering nothing coherent, just noise, just presence.
And they lie there, open and misfolded.

The fan won’t close cleanly anymore.
But maybe it never needed to.

10. The Lantern Bend

She braces herself against the wall, palms flat, spine bent into a soft arch that catches the dim light of the room just right.
A lantern shape—curved, glowing from within, trembling on a single hook of breath.
The kind of body that sways when touched.
The kind of body that calls shadows closer.

He stands behind her, silent at first. Not in hesitation, but in awe.
Because she is already lit. Already burning.
And all he must do is enter the flame without flinching.

His hands find her hips, thumbs brushing the divots on either side like handles carved by gods.
He doesn’t push—he presses.
Guides himself into her slow, steady, reverent.
The way a wick kisses oil.
The way a flame knows its vessel.

She exhales like wind through paper.
And when he begins to move, the rhythm is not sex—it’s sway.
Forward. Back.
A careful rocking of souls in a paper cage.

The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin,
the quiet creak of the wall bearing witness.
He leans in, chest to her back, mouth at her neck.
Whispers something useless, tender.
It’s not the words she feels.
It’s the warmth of them—the way they curl into her ear like smoke.

Her knees shake.
Her hands slide down the wall.
But he holds her up, one arm around her middle, the other gripping her thigh to keep the lantern standing.
Because collapse is not the end.
It’s part of the ritual.

When she comes, it’s not a cry.
It’s a flicker.
A stutter in her breath.
A tightening of every fold before the final flare.

And he follows her, pouring himself in,
a surge of heat in the hollow of her hips,
filling the chamber with light one last time
before the flame,
at last,
dims.

 

[_Land]

11. The Butterfly Seal

She lies on her back, ankles drawn in, knees open—wide as wings.
The soles of her feet kiss each other, forming the shape of something about to take flight.
But she doesn't move.
She waits.

He kneels between her legs, reverent, watching the slow rise and fall of her breath.
She is not inviting him—she is testing him.
Because butterflies are not captured.
They must be approached with stillness.
With patience.
With awe.

He leans forward, forearms pressing into the mattress beside her hips, body hovering but never crashing.
When he enters, it is not deep.
Not fast.
But it is precise.

Their eyes lock.
And in that gaze, the seal forms—an invisible tether from her open thighs to his steady breath, from her parted lips to his clenched jaw.

Her arms wrap around his shoulders, hands at the base of his skull like she’s holding together something fragile—
not him,
but the moment.

He moves inside her slowly.
Measured.
Every thrust a wingbeat.
Every inhale a trembling bloom.

The world narrows to just this:
his body cupped in hers,
her moans the soft brush of antennae against the air,
the fragile fold of her body opening,
closing,
opening again.

And when she begins to shake—not from climax, but from being held too well—
he seals the moment tighter.
Presses his forehead to hers.
Still moving, still folding, still inside.

She cries.
Soft, silent tears.
Not from pain.
From recognition.
Because someone finally saw the whole of her—
wings, tremble, fragility, and flight—
and did not crush her.

They come together in silence.
Not explosive, but full.
A flutter.
A flicker.
A folding in.

And afterward, they do not speak.
They only lie still,
her knees still apart,
his body still draped over hers,
and the seal still intact.

12. The Dragon Scroll

She bends over the edge of the bed, palms flat against the mattress, legs parted with a warrior’s stance.
This is not invitation.
This is summoning.

Her spine forms a perfect arc—
not the delicate fold of a note passed in secret,
but the coiled script of prophecy.

He steps behind her like a storm wearing skin.
No words.
No warning.
Just the heat of his breath between her shoulder blades
and the heavy throb of want dragging itself down her back.

When he enters her, it is not gentle.
It is destiny.
The first thrust carves fire through her,
the second brands it,
and the third opens her like a scroll unrolling fast, fast, faster.

He grips her hips like the edge of a cliff—fingers digging in, desperate to hold on to the sacred unraveling.
She keens, body jerking with each stroke,
and her voice splits open,
half roar,
half plea.

This is no longer flesh—
this is flame
wrapped in skin.

The rhythm is chaos.
The creaking bedframe becomes a battle drum.
The slap of skin against skin is a war cry.

He leans over her, chest to her back, lips at her ear.
"Say it," he growls, voice thick with heat.
But she’s already writing it—
in gasps, in moans, in the claw marks blooming on the sheets.

And when she comes, it is violent.
A full-body quake.
A dragon finally waking.

He spills into her like an offering,
a molten gift poured into the hollow place between rage and rapture.
They collapse together, steaming,
the scroll fully unfurled,
the prophecy fulfilled.

Nothing left to write.
Only smoke.

---

End of Ritual
Twelve folds. Twelve flames.
This is not a manual.
This is a memory.
Return to it with care, with hunger, with reverence.



27/52 ? 38/52 ? Lol

 

[_Land]

There once was a forum so tight,
Capped posts at ten thou—what a plight!
If your thought's too profound,
They just trim it all down,
"Keep it shallow," they said. "Keep it light

 

[_Land]

Losing Baggage
(A Travel Guide for the Emotionally Overpacked)

Honestly, 10/10—would lose again.
There I was, soul freshly spritzed in overpriced duty-free hope,
and my baggage?
Taiwan.
Like a dramatic ex chasing enlightenment.
Gone halfway across the globe
seeking closure I never granted.

It was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Truly.
Because that Samsonite time capsule
was stuffed to the zippers with
childhood trauma,
mom’s unsolicited advice,
a carry-on of comparison,
and one truly ugly sweater
knit from guilt and obligation.

When it came back?
Crushed.
Scarred.
Tagged in Mandarin with the translation of
“This ain't yours anymore.”
I smiled.
Declined the reunion.
And that’s when I had the revelation:

You can just...
walk past the carousel.
Ignore it.
Let those emotional Samsonites spin like desperate contestants on The Price Is Right,
begging for your attention—
"Pick me! Pick me!"
No.
Let 'em orbit.

And if nostalgia strikes,
or your therapist insists,
you can always swing by the Lost & Found.
Peek in.
Wave politely at your abandonment issues,
your passive-aggressive sister,
your perfectionism with its TSA-approved self-righteousness.
But you don’t have to claim a damn thing.

After all,
it’s not abandonment—
it’s spiritual minimalism.
Bon voyage, baby.


28/52

 

[butters]

way behind (reasons) so I've lost count but dropping this here:

The Biggest Tent of All

Corruption doesn't care
about your history
which quirks of genetic interaction
shaded your skin
or which mother-tongue spills
in effortless lies
from lips shaped by others' choices

it doesn't care
about political affiliations
your age, upbringing
build, eccentricities
location, biases
or predilections

it doesn't care
about disposable wealth
your health, your education
who you fuck
who you love
who you cheat
what you wear
which god you scorn or pray to
or if you're kind to animals

Corruption doesn't hold a grudge
smiles in the face of rejection
and hands you a calling card
—ready to embrace you
should you ever change your mind

 

[_Land]

"Fucking Mad"
By Bear Sage

Zipper splits.
Metal teeth tear open.
No care, no ceremony.
A violent opening.
Consent folded into old muscle memory.

Breath—
sharp enough to cut.
Drawn in through clenched teeth.
No softness.
Just survival.

Flesh collides.
A slap that echoes off drywall,
then again,
and again.
Thigh to hip.
Rib to chest.
Chest to floorboard thunder.

Hands find flesh,
but not to hold.
To anchor.
To shove.
To claim something
neither of them deserve anymore.

The bedframe screams,
joints grinding,
a protest in wood and steel.
Nails loosen in the wall.
Drywall craters
where apologies used to hang.

Breathing—
not rhythm,
but rupture.
Heavy.
Jagged.
One inhale away from violence.
One exhale away from confession.

Mouths open—
not for words,
for invasion.
Lips torn against teeth.
Tongues moving too fast,
searching for the apology
neither will speak aloud.

The room becomes percussion.
Every motion a drumbeat of unfinished arguments.
The mattress wails.
Slaps become canon fire.
Moans collapse into shouts
held hostage in the throat.

She grips.
He drives.
They climb nothing
but each other’s ghosts.

No gentleness.
No choreography.
Only instinct
and the hope that maybe climax
can drown the sound
of what they’ve become.

Bodies tangle.
Sweat drips—
not from heat,
but from effort.
From the push to make pain
look like passion.
To make anger
fuckable.

Then—
a soundless stretch.
Climax.
Sharp breath.
Then nothing.


29/52

 

[_Land]

BoomBox in Compton
By Bear Sage


Check-check one…
Nah.
Check me.
The fuckin’ source.
The throat of the block.
The box that boxed God
and won.


---

I don’t play songs—I breathe bombs
got woofers for lungs and a tongue full of psalms.
My breath is 808, my pulse is decay,
I loop pain on tape and spit futures in delay.

They call me BoomBox but I’m preacher and pimp,
speaker of the streets,
ain’t a single part limp.
I got Pac in my ribs, Biggie in my spine,
and every bar I blast
is a motherfuckin' landmine.

Hood confessional—press play, say Amen.
I spit truth so loud I make God flinch again.
I’m the soundtrack of shootouts,
of mothers who pray,
of cyphers in alleyways
where angels won’t stay.

---

I’m the motherfuckin’ beat,
the steel-toe in the street,
when the verse gets hot
and the pulse won’t stop
I eat silence
and shit out heat.

I’m the motherfuckin’ beat.
Clap back, don't retreat.
When the rhyme gets raw
and the soul gets scarred—
I ain’t dead,
just on repeat.

---

They tagged me up with names
of boys who ain’t come home.
I carry ghosts in my wires
and grief in my tone.
But don’t you dare call me relic—
I’m reliction, I’m spell.
Each decibel a resurrection,
every kick drum’s a yell.

I seen boys with bars
harder than prison walls,
freestylin' their trauma
in the back of strip mall stalls.
They fed me their fury,
their fears, their flow—
And I gave ‘em back rhythm
to outrun the po-po.

--

I ain’t Bluetooth.
I ain’t clean.
I ain’t slick.
I’m the shit that raised 'em
when the lights went click.
When rent was late,
and the fridge was bare,
I was the drumline
in despair.

---
I’m the motherfuckin’ beat,
the preacher on repeat.
The choir of the block,
the scream that knocks—
I drop jaws
and I don't deplete.

I’m the motherfuckin’ beat.
Still stompin’ concrete.
From the cradle to the cipher
to the chalkline tape—
I stay live,
even when they delete.

---

I ain’t never been quiet.
Don’t start that shit now.
Long as breath got rhythm,
I'm still how
the hood remembers
how to survive
out loud.



30/52

 

[NivKay]

It began as a presentiment, not even that,
A thought, creeping through the seams,
Il y a, á la Levinas,
Such gravitas that it reeled,
Peeled me into the night, autumn deep.
Save for the mawkish glow of city lights,
Everything was sightless, formless.

Then I knew what it was that brought me there,
L’Autre, mais au de la, the obsidian lady of the Meads,
Winged, taloned, darkness in flight. It called out,
In its tenebrous song of the night.

What folly made us, what cretinous impulse to be heard?
I replied, mimicry befitting young Harry, my reformation,
Glittering o’er my fault, hoot-hooted across the obsidian
Air, till it must have – I can only conjecture –
Fallen upon its tufted opercula. Silence.

Dark was its shadow that impelled towards me.
Its span of wings, vast as the revolving cosmos.
I was prey, sitting duck, caught in the headlights
Of Night’s Prince.

Noblesse oblige. In a flash, he checked himself,
And passed overhead, Garuda Nocturne. And I?
I wept, soiled, and I knew he had taken me,
My Prince of the night.

Poem 13/52

 

[PotentPoetess]

Epitome Of Ecstasy

Your fingers must play the harp
They are as gentle brush strokes
Splashing abstract etches of your love
Across every inch of my slopes

Shades of heavenly blues and blood reds
Sweat and sweetness mixed to perfection.
Chants of loves apex seeps out in sensual sighs.
The notes elevated amid this colliding progression

Traversing the epitome of ecstasy in fiery unison
Quenching our desires in each other's fountains
Lips tasting nectarous infusions of euphoria.
Tremors magnitude 9.5, crumbling mountains

In the wake of our explosive entanglement
Lying in our scalding drenched bed of lust
Gasping for air in an exhaustion, our bodies aching
Smiling at each other our faces flushed

 

[NivKay]

There is a Cake Fridge in Shetland

There is a cake fridge in Shetland,
Along the Voe to Aith Road, north of Sand,
Off the Bitzer junction, pass the Ruins,
Where Bill O’Shaughnessy breathed his last.

You will find her there, thrice a windswept week,
With her van and dog and silence.
She makes cupcakes, meringues, and friands,
Some pies and tarts, and biscuits for tea. And
An honesty box, full of notes and coins of the world.

On bonny days, if she gazed across the mead,
She would just make out the testy sea, wild and free,
And perhaps, hear old Cregan’s ancient melody. But
Not once will she ask after the man,
Who lives in the abandoned chapel,
By the Old Sand Junction way.

Poem 14/52

 

[NivKay]

The Burning Tree
There is a burning tree in my head,
And its leaves rise up above its crimson halo,
In tufts of dark fire.
The flames grow, grow in my head;
It is all fire, raging nightmare.

What lies beyond the tree is a mirage –
Figures slip and slide – and in a blazing moment
They appear – a lost cat looking for a home, a man’s
Twisted face, like Dix’s Skat Players, the ruin
Of the years, like the vegetable bed overgrown
With nettles.

The blaze from the tree never relents. The tongues
Are endless, the sky is awash with black snow.
Even when I finally awake, I feel my fingers tingle,
Crackling like kindling in a bonfire. No one notices
My singed hair, as the 10.20 screams through
The Sydney tunnels.

Poem 15/52

 

[_Land]

The Honky Tonk Trough

Name’s Earl.
Third stall on the left.
Chrome chipped, cracked at the lip—
I’ve seen more dick than the Devil’s doorbell.
And baby, I ain’t blinked once.

I’ve caught the sins of cowboys
mid-two-step regret,
held the whiskey sweat
of cheatin’ hearts
and last-call lies.
Hell, I know when a man’s cryin’
even if he calls it piss.

I’ve swallowed gold rings,
blood from busted noses,
a lonesome wedding band
someone flushed like a curse.
He whispered “She’s better off,”
but his knees said otherwise.

They don’t see me
just the neon glow
bouncing off tile
while they unzip their shame
and pretend the night didn’t gut them.

I hear prayers.
Drunk ones.
Mumbled to God,
to mamas,
to ghosts of good women
they pushed out the door
for a jukebox dream
in denim.

And still—
I stay.
Warm porcelain prophet
of broken men,
catcher of remorse,
patron saint
of “I shouldn’t have.”

So go ahead, cowboy.
Relieve yourself.
But don’t think I ain’t listening.
Every drop tells a story.
And I remember them all.

31/52

 

[_Land]

Oracle of Anonymity

They treat me like a secret
they don’t want to need.

A slit in the wall,
two inches wide—
but deep enough to swallow
the truth they choke on
every goddamn day.

I know who they are.
By the twitch of a thigh.
By the way their belt hits the floor—
fast if they’re hungry,
slow if they’re ashamed.

They don’t knock.
They invade.
Shoving their cocks through me
like I’m a grave
they’re dying to crawl into
and moan their way back out of.

On the other side—
the mouth waits.
Quiet.
Hot.
Jaw tight from holding strangers.
Tongue slick with repetition.
Knees raw on cold tile
that’s never been cleaned properly.

You think this is about sex?
This is about erasure.
This is where men go
to forget their fucking names
for sixty seconds.

I’ve smelled the lie
on their skin.
Cologne meant for their wife.
Sweat from dancing too close to someone
they swore they weren’t into.
The stench of guilt
is heavier than cum
and twice as thick.

Some of them cry.
Mid-thrust.
After.
Biting their own fist
because this is the only place
they’re allowed to feel
without a name attached.

I’ve felt them tremble—
not from pleasure,
but from breaking.
From years of pretending.
From needing this
more than they ever fucking wanted to.

And the ones on their knees?
Don’t you dare pretend they’re not prophets.
They know how to read a man
by the weight of his groan,
by the pressure in his palm
against the stall wall,
by how long he lingers
after he finishes.

They take it all—
the hate,
the hunger,
the holy fucking wreck of a man
trying not to feel anything
while begging to feel something.

And me?
I never forget.

I’m not a wall.
I’m a witness.

I’m not a hole.
I’m a vault of every filthy,
panicked,
beautiful breakdown
they never had the guts to say out loud.

I am the oracle of anonymity.

They come here to be nameless.
But I remember
every single one of them.


32/52

 

[_Land]

“Cunnilingus in Rain Gear”

She said “It’s storming.”
I said “Exactly.”
Zipped the yellow slicker
up to my collarbone,
dropped to my knees
like a goddamn offering.

Wind howled.
Rain spit sideways.
And there I was,
parting her thighs
sky cracked open
to let me in.

Vinyl sticking to my elbows,
knees deep in mud,
but her scent cut through it all—
hot, feral,
that hurricane honey
dripping down
while my face became an altar.

I pulled her panties to the side
like a curtain in a cheap motel,
and dove in,
tongue-first,
goggles fogging from the heat of her.
She was steam under pressure.
A squelch I could feel in my bones.

The rain hit my back like applause.
My mouth was sloppy.
Loud.
Greedy.
I mouthed her like a meal I’d waited all my life for—
groaned into her
until thunder answered back.

She grabbed the hood of my jacket,
yanked me closer.
Her hips rolled
like ocean waves
with something to prove.

My chin was dripping.
Not just rain.
She gushed like the storm wanted to fuck her too.
And maybe it did.
Maybe we all did.
But I got there first.

Teeth grazing.
Tongue swirling.
Two fingers in
as I sucked the storm out of her.
She came like lightning—
no warning,
just a jolt that bent her knees
and filled my throat with rain and reckoning.

When she collapsed against the hood of the truck,
slick with weather and sin,
I wiped my mouth with my sleeve,
stood up,
and let the storm clean me.

Best part of rain gear?
I don’t feel a thing—
except her.
Every drop,
every tremble,
every fucking flood
she gave me.

33/52

 

[Angeline]

Barbara

June 3rd, 1967
we sat on a bench. Spring
was blooming toward summer,
trees a whirl of green and lilacs
scented the air. Fireflies floated
on the waning day and Respect
played on someone's car radio.

It was magical.

I must have known you
in a thousand lifetimes.

We talked for hours, we laughed
and knew the rising excitement
that comes with instant karma,
with connection deep and unshakable
that would see us through years,
decades, love and loss,
births and funerals and always

our jokes, the looks, a word or two
meaningful only to us, acceptance
after foibles and missteps that might
have broken others apart.

I don't have time for anything
less than forgiveness

you once said and you didn't
even know then that you'd be gone
six weeks later, carried away
by aggressive cancer, another ghost
to populate my busy inner world.

Fifty-eight years. Are you still
with me? Do you know
how much I love you?


Week 23, Poem 1, Total 21

 

[Tzara]

This Poem Is Best Ignored
by Anyone with Good Taste

I think I'm in love with a poet.
She's innocent and doesn't know it.
My thoughts, all the time,
Are of her and of rhyme.
I don't have the skills, though, to show it.

A limerick isn't the best form
For lyrics of love. Rather lukewarm
And strictly small-time
In no way too sublime——
Like a sonnet that's lost in a snowstorm.

But geez. I am writing my heart out,
My words drip as through a downspout.
Their expression I rue,
Though their feelings are true
Although fishy as three-day-old brook trout.

I guess that is all I can manage
To minimize poetic damage.
Though it hasn't much charm,
May it raise no alarm
And not show me to much disadvantage.

Week 23 : Poem 1 : Total 28

 

[_Land]

The Quiet Autopsy
By Bear Sage

I do not flinch at blood.
I flinch at the lipstick smeared like a prayer
on a girl who didn’t plan to die that night.
The mascara runs like a final confession.
Every wound tells a story,
but no one stays to listen.

They come to me
not as bodies—
but as broken biographies.
I read the chapters carved by seatbelts,
by needles,
by fists,
by despair.
I trace each scar like braille,
and sometimes, I swear, they whisper.

I hold the hands of the dead
more gently than the living ever did.
In this chilled theater of stillness,
my tools are not cruel—
they are translators.
Bone saws speaking for ribs that cracked
under the pressure of silence.
Scalpels translating sorrow.

I see the beauty too.
A tattoo of a hummingbird
right above a shattered ribcage—
a symbol of joy
over a heart that gave up.
A wedding ring still warm,
metal clinging to love
longer than breath ever could.

I zip up more than flesh.
I seal secrets.
The ones no one could carry
but me.

There is poetry in the aftermath.
In the hush after the horror,
in the dignity I restore
when the world has stripped it all away.

Call me the final witness.
Call me the last to weep in silence.
But know this—

Even death
deserves
to be held
with reverence.


34/52