u/SupDawgMiaow

Apple in the palm, laughter coming down from the cheeks, while the old men ask to see a new picture and the children refuse in bleak and foreign anger

Courteous and fingered with hopeless marriageful promise, indian dots on the forehead become  dreaming point for the older children, while they are put to bed

Ribbed and rabid dogs eat for they are unsure and they hurt the white lamped handler, and they bark hello in the morning

Birdsong looks like Tuesdays and the ribbons are tied in your hair and they are watered like the daffodils that come in bite sized packages

Argyle uniform starch comes in your throat like the hand of the man who said he wanted to help and the waitress, or the cashier, says to go slower

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1unpwyj/comment/ovnb7if/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1um5rtw/comment/ovnosnl/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

I ate a cat
a stupid thing to do, no?
she had a small orange body
and velvet and rose 
petals falling all over her figure
the cat
called out in hurt 
midway through my cutting and she attempted 
to raise her head, but I silenced her 
voice and it died with the autumn

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1ul5ohk/comment/ov21gqn/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1ul6olg/comment/ov1zwrh/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Hey ENTJS of reddit, INFP here. I just wanted to say that you're aweful (in the older sense of the word, that I am in awe of you) and very, very scary <3

Pink blushing light
Outline of a tongue
On the tide
Warm winds
Talking, tactile
In the long necked flax
The sky is vague
Black, understated
Oil residue
The stars are underfed
And smooth like bones
Picked clean

On earth, 
Green mossed highways
Rouged and pink taup
Duckling feathers
Slippery
Like a veneer
Like an ice rink
Over an ossuary
And the suffused thrill
Of the commuter
Will make good conversation
And so 
He takes a cracker
From the empty kill seat

Cocoa shrapnel
In milk
And so 
They whimper
Until morning comes over
The lip of the townhomes

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1uhm7np/comment/ouamm84/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1uhpck8/comment/oualqjs/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

The portrait of the device, alien
From another time?
The alabaster of the glut on some new forrid
The divulge of two foreign conversing pails
The cumbersome simper of a thwarted plot
The rebeginning of thorough process 
Industrialised in red horned patience
Progress feels as if sastrugi or good cornice
Coming in on your ankle height boots hitting off
Enormous crackles like akin to condiment
Traipsing up in Sartre subterranean 
A mild moment, declared in competition
Careered, and reared sanguine on hind legs
The colour of willed or wounded wasabi 
Shedding blood on our virgin white flag
The Eugene Delacroix
The Red Bulled hugger oddity
Bobbling in time to the grey song
And the weak waking of the unrepented
And superstitious unrepenting
Passable, in the arena
Lad, or once a lad, you been forgiven?
The heights of ivy embarking the Battlement
The crevices in the pale face, the crooked south
Periwigs and blush clobbered cheeks
The walkers of the olden way
Make courted pictures which disregard
The outer linings of their voluptuous make
Portraited wise men or duke, demoted perhaps
Reinvoked, procellus into oblivion for his behaviour
Picture, rose in capricorn sea showers 
Public image, holding ashen gaps of romanticised debauchery
Likening hymn to devil fingered limestone 
Salmonella of the forty battles of archetype
Hacking of a harboured resistance
So, lo hand over, to torch
Pipette in inconceivable impunity
Piping at plasma ashlar fig- faced men
And choking off lakes of well-policed oxygen
Vocational development, or mechanical reapprehension
Surpasses imagination, yet claw the hoarding 
Portraited, ill-portrayed, faux reddish men
Men tight to bottle shaped catheters that recheck
Culminated catharsis of a supple kicking cancer
The re-enraged shapes of the baby flax
The weeping aggregate flourish of the agate
The bowed basket break of the antiquated arch
In art that renders the pain of absent parent
Where do these people go?
Evil, it is bent sardine salt through vegetable aisle
Evil, Jesus frets in his muscular composition
Evil, teases cardinal noise from unbought eggplants
Feet, soldered leather bowed and corf caked shoe around it
Cricking, clocking, clocking, lock, locking in keyhole
Break white snow beak in petered timbers
Draw red pictures in the Utah undergrowth
Blow cool breath on IPA glass rim
In positions expectable of thirteen century marauder
He waddles upright in endless swathes of sepia oil
He masturbates to the pattering of soliciting orca necks
Evil, can we blame this pain response, made free to regurgitate again
And with contortable clarity, in answer the echo of resounding yeses
And twenty, perhaps or thirty, evident refusals 
From cork eyed scout starers with starry guilt stains
In coffee brew or edifice, areas where bathwater is not perused
And still in democratic badgered ill-willed enmity or fear
We let the welts of humanity feed off victimised courtesan
And the vulnerable viagra sounded milky flesh of 
The torched and aggravated skirt in pencil pointed meadows
Where little babies, with notches of fourteen measures
Or lesser, hobble, dutch braids tumbling like
High and empty and open doses of deery flour
As they're rubbed more or less like a windbreaker, and 
Left hunched and grisled, leaden pallid ballad to 
The children who will be warned forevermore

This way of talking goes as I like to say it
Like the pinning of a shirt with a hole in the side on the washing line
Where the bluebirds liked to admire my slim-fingered efforts but
Only they did ever know how my blouse was all stained with red when it came back
From the laundromat 
And I swore to the calling of the new nest thrushes
That I would never walk that way again

Hey, any thoughts on this poem?

Hey, anyone keen to exchange poems or just discuss poetry in general? Would like a poet buddy :)

Pretty much the title. If you would be keen, hit me up. I’ve written a few poems recently but haven’t got any feedback.