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SøułSurvivør Jun 2015
A TRIBUTE TO HELLO POETRY

This will be a long write.
There are so many I wish
to honor and thank.

Please, if you can, pull up
Bruce Cockburn's song
Maybe the Poet on YouTube.
Listen to the words as you read this.
It will greatly add to your enjoyment.

I play no favorites...
you ALL are class acts!

Here's a tribute. Yep. It's long!
But listen to Bruce Cockburn's song.
I want to emulate what's sung
Yes, not miss a poet, one!

ryn has got a range of art
Ded Poet's got a poet's heart
elsa angelica's soul resounds
Bhumika's a dove
with a golden crown!

Wolfspirit's pen can spill his love
Wonderman's ink from up above
sjr...1000 words so wise
Scarlet Pimpernel's talent's
not disguised!

Joe Malgeri's a spiritual gent
Paige Pots' work is heaven sent
Tivonna has love for natural things
Helena's work has roots and wings!

Pradip, in my eyes number one
as is Thomas A Robinson
jeffrey robin's style is loose and bold
Rupal has a heart of gold!

John Stevens has an earthy wit
Pax means peace, his candle's lit
Tryst's ballads are a perfect fit
and I love Lidi Minuet!

donna's sweet as honeydew
Jason Cole fits like a shoe
Prttybrd sings songs with style
Day Wing flies! He has a smile!

Deborah's walking on her beach
her talent has a range and reach
Rapunzel let's her hair way down
Weeping Willow
has a pleasant sound!

Joe Cole loves all fantasy
SSilkenTounge has a mind that's free
Solaces is a very old friend
I hope to see Botan again!

Urmilla writes beyond her years
Chalsey Wilder writes bring tears
Tonya Maria and I share pain
Wise is K Balachandran!

CA Guifoyle lives in my town
Adam Childs' the best around
SE Reimer can put us in the mood
Musfiq us Shaleheen
Is so VERY good!

Richard Riddle honors with poetry
Love my collab, Arcassin B!
Sally A Bayan's good and kind
Hayden Swan's a real find!

Love comments from Joe Adomavicia
zik, I'm always glad to see ya!
TGWLY has a heart that hurts
Erenn Y does heartfelt works...

Elizabeth Squires has classic writes
Frank Ruland's fights
for what is right
And if a scare you want to see
just look up POETIC T!

Oh! There are SO many more!
There are poets by the score!
I don't want to be a bore
But read them ALL! You will be
FLOORED !!!

MORE POETS!!!

Lori Jones McCaffery
Kalypso
Niamh Price
Mya Angel
Mike Hauser
Vicki
Ignatius Hosiana
Frankie J
Chris Green
mark cleavenger
brandon nagley
Winn
Puds (Pete)
Deborah Brooks Langford
Timothy
Marian
Hilda
Harriet Tecumsah Watt
it's gonna make sense
mybarefootdrive
Dark n Beautiful
WL Winter
Margaux
Pamela Rae
Venusoul7
Eddie Starr
Olivia Kent
Brenden Thomas
Zoe
Raj Arumugam
Elijah
Sukeerti
Manny
M.A.N
Jonny Angel
Dylan Mitchell
James M Vines
bulletcookie
i am miss brightside
Chris Fracc
Cat
Ocean Blue
Phil Lindsay
Mike Hauser
PearlSy
Christi Michaels Moon Flower
Raj Nandy
SPT
PoETEPETE Now RePETE After PETE
Makayla Kelly
Paul Gafney
Nan Trapp Messer
Chloe
Steven Langhorst
Daniel Palmer
Chris Smith Dark Poet Soul
C A Guilfoyle
TRAVELLER
Soul
GitacharYa VedaLa
Rosalind heather Alexander
S R Matts
Paul Gattney
Danny Mak
patty m
liv frances
Gary L
Ngamau Boniface
IOWA
Earl Jane
ber
Justin G
James
ste'phanie noir
born
Aztec Warrior


Last but not least... olestoryteller
and Francie Lynch! Ketoma Rose!
If there's someone I've forgotten
PLEASE TELL ME!

Also please read Hello again, Poets!
I wrote more! Also please read the poem 'diamonds'. There are many tributes to people who i missed in this write.

I'LL WRITE A SPECIAL POEM
JUST FOR YOU!

---
Graff1980 Apr 2015
It was about fifteen years ago
No romantic notions
No grand stories
Just another part of my strange journey
For a high school dropout

It was a wooden bed
In a blue storage trailer
One and a half month long
Sleep deprived
Long drive
From site to site
One week
Per city
Doing my laundry
At laundry matts
With strange pretty girls
Hanging at a bar
Playing slutty slot machines
No drinking
Cause I was only nineteen

It was two vets
From different wars
Smoking *** in the morning
It was my first *** buzz
Staring stupidly up
At the ceiling
The strangest set of strangers
Bathing in the back of a semi
Getting lunch with a lemon punch
Using carny credit

It was sketching for a distraction
No artistic satisfaction
Very few journal entries
And those journals are now lost
Searching for myself
As all young men do
In the end it was just another job
JP Goss Apr 2014
“Amanda,” she said, in a bold assertion
“We really are the same
Person.” Limp in the dew and
Wise like a sage, no wound cut
No blood shed, yet,
There was something this
Bandage shut,
Something yawning, gaping
But I don’t know what…
How sad! She’s crying, that Amanda,
Shrugging ‘gainst the colic rain
And almost lost in the copes-y veranda,
Weeping softly on
Those concrete flats, wearing “Red Tom’s
And” both “Dating Matts” while
I saw her fear in that moment, appalling, stalling
With soroitous heart, “and fear of falling!”
Binding them tightly: “That’s US haha!”

How many laughs does a limp spirit draw?
—(a disparaged few or none at all…)
Still, she writes, “I am so glad” (a huff annoyed
From Amanda, distant and sad, that I
Can’t tell why “you” ever “joined.”)
But this is not my place, a passerby,
To pick up trash, inane and lonely,
To cast my judgments and inquire—why?

To heal the unbroken with words unspoken
But scratched on refuse, she may
“[heart] you” but refuse you, too
The spirit of [heart] in Amanda awoken
—(But she refused it, too!)
And then be a token
Some stranger takes home.
rachel Dec 2013
I distinctly remember the white walls and the scratchy bed sheets that lay on top of those matts that gymnasts used. I remember these things because the walls and the sheets were riddled with names and dates of people who had been there before me, slept in that bed, craved their name into that wall. I remember their voices too, the ones that were compassionate but not really caring at all, just doing their job.
It was April 1st, 2013, to be completely exact, when they brought me to the hospital. I'd broken down crying earlier that day and I finally caved and told them I wanted to die. They picked me up off the floor and drove me to that white walled prison. I'll never forget the way my mother told the recprtionist, "our daughter is suicidal and needs to be admitted," and the way the receptionists face stayed constant and showed no emotion. She slapped a hospital bracelet on my wrist and sent me to the waiting room. I sat there for a few hours.
Finally, they came for me.
We walked into the emergency room and they put me in a secluded room with absolutely nothing I'm it. Police officers and nurse came in to collect my clothing and other belongings I'd had with me, which they then placed in a locker.
I sat alone for more hours.
It was night by the time I was evaluated. I'll never forget the monotone voice of the women evaluating me.
"You're suicidal?"
"Yes..."
"Have you ever been admitted to a hospital before?"
"No"
"Well, were going to admit you for a little while, and keep an eye on you."
Her voice was emotionless. She was emotionless.
They brought me upstairs to the adolescent behavioral unit at 11:00 PM, and checked me over a few times, took my vitals, and sent me to a room with a sleeping ******* one bed, and scratchy bed sheets on a second empty one. I cried myself to sleep that night.
When I woke up they took more vitals and blood tests and evaluated me again. The new doctor was the same as the nurse, absolutely monotone. It was as if these nurses and doctors didn't feel anything, because they worked with children trying to take their lives.
At the time of my hospitalization, I didn't believe that happiness was a choice, and that I would actually get better. To be completely honest, I thought I'd die just as sad as I'd been for the past two years. Although I thought this, the doctor continued to tell me after each session, "being happy is your choice, you can choose whether you want to live like this forever, or if you want to be happy."
Now that I'm out of the hospital, and in recovery, those words mean more to me than they'd ever meant before. Happiness truly is a choice to some people, and it's a choice between being sad or being happy. I'm aware that being sad is a natural emotion, but not depressed, depression was a trap. It took me a week in the hospital, plus 9 months, to finally understand that my happiness was a choice.
I needed to write something.
This year in my English class, were studying personal narratives, and it got me thinking. I needed to write about that day, about my most life changing experience.
matt Oct 2014
concentration camp of my emotions
every statement i make gives the feeling of fake. its been less then a day and already i want to say, **** this is tough I’ve almost had enough. i have to lock down my thoughts like there are spotlights searching for any escaping expressions. I’ve put limitations on my own emotions all I’m allowed to show is pity for my self, hell id rather off my self. the situation isn’t a cold war the glass cover over the launch button is shut, crisis averted we can all go back to being automatons emotionless, cold like stone statues buried under the field. i can’t even share what is going on in my head without a censor bar blocking because i feel like its too shocking and it would be mocking the proposal i composed. I’m allowing myself to believe in a false sense breathing in false cents. I’ve never felt so uncomfortable to talk to someone who, when we walk made me feel….. well a lot. this situation is unbearable but i don’t know how to coupe without my fix. my mom said i need new kicks because theres holes in it but my heart is fit for a good stitch but nobody has a sewing kit. why do i continue to push when the door says pull i guess I’m just not on the ball when i fall. i don’t check the ground first. i didn’t look to see if there were matts to brace my impact, no i just fell and said “oh well” i sprained my leg but broke my heart. I’m in a camp where my emotion is lined against a wall and publicly shot on the spot, red lead hits the spot as emotions drop motionless its pure hopelessness and ******* do i miss it already. the word freedom has no meaning, theres no formal greeting in prison just keep your head down and hope for the best walking in a crowd wearing similar striped attire all tiered looking somehow wired to string strung and hung down from the set. the puppet masters pet. i don’t know where this all will go but i know……….. i don’t know but I’ve lost hope years ago.
Fish The Pig Nov 2015
Indigo darling,
Puff disappeared
so I stopped reading your poems,
I didn't know
Puff turned purple
but now I'm reading
now I'm reeling
Indigo darling
put your gloves on
wrap a scarf around your slender neck-
it's winter now
and the world to you
might seem mighty cold
so keep wrapped up tight
keep warm through the harsh winds
and dreary rain
that matts your envious mane
Indigo darling
look at your hot breath
in the cold air
know that you're alive
and human
and nothing can be more beautiful
Indigo I think of your smile
and soul
and century-old eyes
that glisten like stars
mapping out your past
and hopes and dreams
Indigo darling
you are loved
by many
by all
by I
Indigo darling
don't harm yourself so
don't say unkind words
you don't deserve that,
know that it's winter
clouds are overhead
but the sun lies just underneath
just wait
just wait
eat well
and breath
and adventure
don't you dare weigh yourself
until those clouds break
the holidays are gone
and the sun's warmth
can wrap around your slender neck
and lighten your hair
and blare brilliantly
off your pale hands
reaching to the sky
thinking philosopher's thoughts
Indigo darling
let that warmth touch your heart
because you can say unkind words
and shake your head at the mirror
and stamp your feet at the scale
but these things
won't stop the world from loving you
it won't stop the truth
so Indigo darling
write a happy poem
wander up a mountain
and please
just stay warm
stay warm
You feel alone
I know how that feels
and I know
that it's hardly ever true.
Shannon McGovern Oct 2011
When I realized I had fallen in love with you
I slit my wrists to stop the bleeding.

I used threads of your hair I had stolen,
from a voodoo doll to sew them up.

But it seeped through my sleeves so I tye dyed
my shirt with phlegm, feces, and ****.

After it was dry it looked like your face,
like finding Jesus or Mary on a pancake or in coffee.

You're my messiah and I would wash your feet
with my hair but I haven't any, cause I shaved it off
when you left.

I wear hats all day now, my head gets cold, and the beanies
smell like hair oil, shampoo, and follicles.

And sometimes I wonder what you would think,
of the way my hair matts down from the pressure and heat.

Kind of like the way you bedded me down with the same,
weight and warmth of blankets and body hair.

What do you do when you haven't eaten all day
and you're scared of being fatter than your significant other?

Paint your nails **** red and hope your heels are high enough on Saturday.
Yesenia Acevedo Sep 2015
Eve tormented herself daily for the death of Sam. To her it was the not knowing what had lead Matt to **** Sam that really plunged the dagger of self hatred and regret into her repeatedly each second of each day. She had asked Matt countless times to tell her what had happened. He would either refused with an explanation of not wanting to upset her or he'd just avoid the question altogether. On one occasion she begged him for closure in the form of a written letter. His response was that maybe they should quit writing each other. Enduring his refusal fueled her further into depression leading her down a path of anger  towards destruction and with that she began to lose hope she'd ever know why. She had forgiven him, even told him she still loved him from the very first letter she sent him. Still he could not find it in his heart to tell her. At first each letter she received gave her hope it would contain an explanation, but at the end of each one she was left broken by the lack of information. Eve learned to smile for the people who surrounded her in her life including the friends she shared with Matt making them believe she was okay to an extent for the sake of knowing what Matt refused to tell her. She knew the autopsy listed the cause of death as aspiration and cardiac arrhythmia due to sudden impact to the chest supporting Nora's claim of what Matt had done. To her that was a cause of death not a reason why Matt killed her son. She needed to know why in order to let go and move on. So much had change since the night Sam had died on Oct 12th 2001 between the hours of 3-4 am. On Sept 23rd 2003 a letter would arrive to Nora's address for Eve finally giving her the answer why Sam was murdered.

Eve drag out that day just like any other, step by step, obsessing over the death of her son. She walked the sixteen blocks from her mothers house to Julie's apartment with her head low and her spirits lower. On her way a small Honda drove slow and close to the curb containing the woman that had once been her friend. Alice dove the Honda spitting hateful remarks at Eve,

"What's the matter *****, you ain't got a car?"

Eve glanced towards her with sad eyes that held the pain of her life refusing to let the tears hidden beneath make an appearance. Instead she glared offering Alice anger instead of sorrow before turning her attention to the pavement of the sidewalk ahead of her. Alice laughed with excitement as she continued to beat her words into Eve's reality,

"Keep walking *****. Just keep walking. You ain't **** ugly *** *****."

Alice's words were echo'd by the laughter of the passengers in her car. To Eve's relief Alice drove off leaving her to enjoy her misery alone. When she arrived to Julie's apartment she found the front door open. She stepped inside the apartment with Julie in her line of sight she made her way to and sat on the couch next to her.

"Hey girl. Watcha up to?"

Julie said as she dug through her purse. Eve answered with an even tone,

"Not much just bored."

"My mom gave me this for you. It's from Matt."

she said as she handed the envelope to Eve. Eve took it from her with glimmer of hope and an anchor of regret. She opened it and began to read the letter. When she arrived at the sentence that started the events of the night her son was murdered through Matts point of view she stop and headed to the bathroom. She closed the door then let herself fall to the floor as she continued to read the details. She arrived to words-I stopped and buried her head in her lap as she screamed with agony. Tears flowed as she lifted her head spilling and crashing onto the letter she had waited one year, eleven months, one week and one day to read. She gasped choking the air down her throat as Sams voice played through her mind hearing his last words. She could see her baby's face in the glare of her tears that continues to spill. Regardless she kept reading.

It was so quiet my ears were ringing. Then i took him inside and you left to the hospital. I got a ****** up mind and i went crazy, I lost it. Now i'm in here and I read the some strong signs of a ego disharmonious killer is abuse, cruelty to animals and arson. When I was little my mom and my uncle used to beat the **** out of me and I've burnt two houses that my mom was renting. When I moved to Peach Springs i burnt somebody's elses house, i burnt a garage like four cars and probably like twenty trash cans. I won't even start with how many animals i was cruel to. But all that ***** in my past. So ima stop talking about it. I'm sorry for the ****** up **** I've done but I am what I am. And I hope that my stay in prison will help me to change. I've been thinking about a lot of **** in here and I think I should have just walked away but i was so drawn to you. I should have just left you alone but I was drawn to you. By what? Love? I don't know and wish I did. But I'm not gonna start talking about love, because it's like you said love can hurt as we all know. So **** love, know what I'm saying? You said you loved me, did I believe it? No. I said i loved you, did you believe me? Probably ******* not, so **** love. About those letter you said you wrote, just get rid of them. Three year, two months, two weeks and four days that's how old he'd be now. I think about him all the time. I sit here and wonder what his voice would sound like. I would really like a picture of you. I haven't seen you since my court date and it wasn't really tryin to look you in the face then you were crying. Do you ever wonder what it would be like if I never did what I did? What would be up with you and me? I do, I think about what could've been, what might have been, and what would have never been. And I always ask myself, what were we? I can't put a name to it. What were we Eve? Do you even know? I hope you like the drawing on the envelope, i think it's good for you because i always thought you had beautiful eyes. Besides, all my other envelopes got hearts and roses on them. The one with the roses says love you and you don't want to hear that ****. So, bye                                                    

        September 17,2003                                                                Matt

P.S.
Would you please tell Julie to write me and I said Hi.

Eve felt lost and catastrophic. She sat on the bathroom floor for twenty minutes after she finished reading the letter without making a sound as she continued to release her sorrow.
I close my eyes and dream of winters so pretty that even angels sigh at the scene  
cascading snowflakes softly falling, in shapes of doilies and paper ruffle dollies  
Winter hats and muffle mitts of red, snowman whispers as red sled rides go by
carnival rides and children full of chide, what a wonderful world of white...
A winter scent of magic, white deer and shadowed antlers of incandescent wood
log cabins with fireplaces and verandas with copper foot welcome matts, come in
make yourself comfortable while the kettle roars to life, tea toddler or coffee lover?  
Enter into our little jovial cottage story and stay a while.
emptydurbansky Dec 2015
I have a name
One of those names you leave on welcome mats, but don't leave a key under because you're afraid of letting someone in.
Its easy to dust your feet off on me.
You do so everytime you leave this half empty house
I'm easy to leave
You don't think twice about making sure  the door is locked
You don't linger on the porch steps near my name
If the house was on fire, I'd be the very last thing you'd save.
You don't bring me inside in the winter
I'm a placeholder
I keep the dirt from reaching  your crippled frames.
I'm not a necessity.
I mean, how many people have welcome matts anymore?
I have a name.
But it doesn't bring joy to your home.
I'm not a welcome mat.
I am a mat of despair and anguish.
"Yes, please enter our lovely home! I've died here more times than you can count on your temperate fingertips!"
I do not feel like home
I do not soothe you on cold rainy days, but rather sit in the damp haze of depression.
I am not your welcome mat.
Fiona King Mar 2017
It's cold in the fields, and the wind it blows fierce.
My fur is all matted, but the ice rain can pierce.
My paws, they are bleeding, I have walked a long way,
with no destination, no place to stay

I curl up in the bushes and hope they give cover.
I close my sore eyes and I think of my mother.
She was tired but kind and they took me away.
I cried for a long time and did quietly pray.

I stayed in a cage with my brothers and sister.
She went away first and I desperately missed her.
The boys went together and I was alone.
No family, no dinner, no pride and no home.

I tried to get comfy but the cage was so hard.
I saw no green fields just a bare concrete yard.
The men came with scraps they were rough they were cruel.
I slipped out of that cage breaking their rule.

I ran like a bullet and never looked back.
To the pain, and the fear, and the loss of my pack.
It's just me now but at least l'm alive
Battered and broken but still I survive.

I crawl out of the bushes disheartened and numb.
My stomach is growling, I can't find a crumb.
I chew on some grass but it makes me feel ill.
I will move on again if I can muster the will.

I spot in the distance, a human, I'm scared,
but I smell something good and I no longer care,
I run to the man with a devious plot,
I'll grab his good breakfast while it's still nice and hot.

As I approach, he speaks to me gently
He bends down to my side and says god must have sent me.
There are people who long for a friend just like me.
Just to play in their garden and curl on their knee

He gives me his breakfast and smiles as I eat.
He tickles my neck and lifts me off my sore feet.
He carries me home I'm too tired to fight.
I'm taken away to a shelter that night

I still feel lonely but the humans are kind.
They give me some food and my wounds they bind.
They bathe me and brush me and cut out my matts
They give me a bed, and some strokes and some pats

Some new people come in to visit one night.
I am happy to see them, they are moved by my plight.
They promise to come back so I can go with them.
They are sure of the joy and the love I could give them.

I go to the house, there's a garden to play in.
I got my own toys and my own bed to lay in.
I've got lots to learn about life with a family.
But I'm as clever and sharp as a little dog can be.

Soon we are family and now I belong.
My memories of past times will shortly be gone.
I sigh to myself as I munch on my bone.
Now I am happy, now I am home.
Ayesha Feb 2021
before she was death I
often saw her in the orchard with
her pet ducks and fluttery dress
when ancient pear trees abandoned their leaves
she’d pick the weakest and tie them to her hat
collect the newest, give them to the river
the longest, she’d knit into baskets and matts
gift them to old maidens and lonely men

and the rest, she fed to the flowers

and I know that before she was death
she loved flowers but she
never plucked them
she waited for their mothers to let go,
then she’d take the cadavers home
and make beauty out of them

before she was death, she liked
to talk to the graveyard at night
dark wasn’t ugly to her,
and silence was only the trees talking

now, night lives in her obsolete house
when sun goes down, he likes to come out and
pluck stars off skinny bushes
her brightly painted walls are old lattice leaves
behind, the mountains laugh
and beneath them, a kingdom flourishes
not like corn fields near the bank,
a dust-storm, or a mistletoe

and no one talks of where she went though
the talk goes everywhere—

but I know she too feared lone woods
and moonless skies
she saw beauty in all, but nothing
sweet in the softness of flesh

and I know she despised the old cave
behind her house, for it was where she went

her crown is beautified with scared salvias,
petunias tremble at her name, and
daffodils don't even speak, and I
know I don’t want to take her place
so don’t offer me these pretty tiaras
and silence is so much more than trees talking

and some plants like to crawl up on others
**** the life and spit it out on the dirt but I’d
rather be towed down by those furious winds

and meddle not with me or my blood
I could show a softer way in—

like how her blades cut through grey grass
and how her fingers twisted to tie them strands to sheets
and meddle not with me or my blood
I could show a faster way out—
how the leaves bid goodbye as they glided
away with the waters; how her paintbrushes
emerged, soaking, out those liquids
and how she painted poetry out of dust

meddle not with me or my blood

she, who moulded the ground
into toys and pots, taught me
to befriend the daggers, and trust them
taught me how stinking corpses were better
than scentless lilies—and fanged
wolves were often what willed the sheep to live

before she was death she
used to sing a ballad unusual,
'I do not wish to take your place on that
throne, dear death,
I’d rather rot in your prison cells'

but death has not time for pleas.
I had kept this folded away in my drawer for so long.
always felt incomplete; a puzzle with a single piece missing.
it still does. i guess that's just a part of it.
Madeysin Jul 2015
Hypnosis,
I drunkely post this,
You made love to a can of bud lite,
Too cool too cool,
Burnt ash on matts deck,
One hell of a night,
You carried me home.
since maintaining a diet
of exercise heeding "yo dude"
(you look like a lady)
the inner fitness maven against
the temptation of high caloric junk food

and nightly snack king
on a flexible fitness routine,
this LIX aged body electric feels good
these myopic eyes and

well-calibrated hands measure less dense hood-
winking *****, that if I feigned being
a "bared naked lady" -
as per this chest lewd

city in reference to "man *****"
that seemed to materialize overnight
now appear to decrease as well
that unwanted "love handle,

this chap more inclined
tubby in a greater mood
to parade around
this non crowded house shirtless
AND definitely NOT in public,
BUT no weigh Jose
would this generic guy go completely ****
cuz being self-consciousness of my physique
might prompt outsiders

to consider me a *****
and even during closed bedroom door
****** exploits deter me tibia rude
fellow (with average go daddy long legs)
and my dangling dipstick smallish
(concluding biology *******)
a chap worthy tube he more endowed,

though gratitude proffered
to same divine cosmic consciousness
but as the year's pile up appreciation
of functional faculties alter matts' at tee 'tude
accepting physical characteristics
more or less static
*** ping believe mass elf ya wood.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2021
22 hours ago LOL! I'm not Asian at all though Asian cultures are so rich and beautiful, their mythology interesting and less convoluted (perhaps?) than Greco-Roman mythology. Norse mythology, though, is interesting as well though just as fickle. And Egyptian! Of course, that stems from the months that I spent reading too much Rick Riordan. Either way, race isn't relevant between us. You're British. I'm American, and definitely not a "bad" person. Plus, not all ****** encounters are worth a moan or a groan.

  11 minutes ago you know: every time i para (i new term i picked up from someone else's comment... para implying paraletic) i have to wonder: what was it that i wrote that wasn't on canvas that might haunt me the next day... but you did say you don't get suntans... i went out with this russian girl once... very tsarist and all who did think that having a suntan implied you being of lower class... lower rank... because the aristocracy were all feeble vampires that hid in chateaus and what not... not exactly screaming vitamin D! just an idea: if you don't get suntans... i presumed... well... perhaps: your skin just doesn't do the copper-serpent trick of trickling through down to auburn / whiskey when the sun has its play with it... unless raw-ish ginger and freckle by freckle: it doesn't matter... you porcelain would be lobster by the end of it... all peeling and... eczemic...but i always have his nagging sensation in the back of my brain like i'm somehow Tony Soprano the narrator having "second thoughts"... sentimentalist through and through... mythologies... you cited a few but it's not like you would cite the Slavic mythologies... then again... what's there to "cite"? Rick Riordan... never heard of him... too much time spent on Heidegger, Knausgaard and Dickens, lately... three books i'm reading simultaneously that i don't seem to "want" to finish since... a little bit of this, a little bit of that: my grandfather having died and me being close to him... blah blah... ponderings VII - XI, my struggle vol. 4 & the Pickwick papers... respectively aligned to the rubric of authors... you're right... race isn't relevant... but saying you don't get a suntan... or can't... sort of enforces me staging a bizarre comment like this... i didn't jump to the logical conclusion of why you don't suntan... you can't? or like i already cited this one Russian exclusivity of: only serfs and farmers have suntans... it's a lower class "thing": we chateau dwellers like ourselves... porcelain skinned... anaemic... you're absolutely right in confessing that race isn't important... antics with a black girl i will not summarise... the self-evident works of piston(s) and lubricant of oysters... but unless you've been living under a rock... what's with all this attack on "abstraction" regarding pronouns and grammar... in general? it's like being attacked on two fronts: it's like the shared invasion of Poland by Germany and the Soviet Union... i fall back on race because it's so... charismatic at times that it becomes unavoidable...  it's like detailing the exclusionary inheritance of a daffodil... or a giraffe... "race" wasn't important until the point of: people having other people telling them "what languge is appropriate" and "what language isn't appropriate"... come on... you're not wed-locked (whim-locked more like) to this pre-suppositional stigma of fearing the tag "bad": i hope you're glad to still allow yourself a tendency to sometimes denote yourself as: person... i recently filled out the census for stats... i was also recently applying for a job as a prison warden... race popped up: or how i'd identify... i had come to encounter a neu-begriff... being American you know of Italian-American compounds... the stereotypes... Irish-h'american... blah blah... British is such a joyous term... god forbid i'd "identify" as English... Anglo-Saxon... so i kept the prefix... Anglo... and attached... well... have a look: Anglo-Slav... i don't see how some people feed the etymological lie that there's somehow an "E" missing... of a collective of a people that competed with "your" tribe during the cold war... bogus points for me as being of a people fudge-packed between the two: of the most... inglorious ******* of events... hell... i sometimes wish i was Croat or one of those Balkan ******* juggled between Rome, Byzantine and the Ottomans... heritage... i best compose myself: last time a Muslim identified me as a ******* ***** at the Reagent Park mosque while selling me prayer matts i was like: i'll let it pass... perhaps i have a more pronounced occipital bone... but i agree: race is not important... let alone in how language is used... a zebra, being a horse... is not exactly stripe material... a leopard doesn't have dots... the tiger doesn't have stripes... they're all cats... how about the grammatical issues concerning: the big cats don't ******* meow? it's not like i was going to make a joke about cushion-*******-lips either... while chalk girls torture themselves with imitation botox: duck... ****'s sake... came the world of chalk and choccie and all the world's masochistic mantras hit a ******* high note for the castratos to sing about! race isn't important: but calling a square a square, an apple an apple... a tiger a tiger: somehow bloodily obvious, is... i can get with the project of abstracting man (woe... +man)... but when the attack comes within the confines of the asylum of ******* grammar & algebra?! what would i otherwise resort to? when i drink to excess & only have a canvas to work with... fine... but when i faced with someone directly: i became doubly drunk on conversation... i'm somehow assured of being race-baiting... like reimagining dragon chasing: down the steeps of "old"...h'america... which part? i always imagine myself living a life of fullest fulfilment living in one of those... fly-over states... in some ******* where i can become my truest taoist...beside the current tongue i've acquired.... the past tongue i want to: less than merely forget... i sometimes thought: bilingualism could be an advantage? isn't mandarin the vogue-"prose": these days? i'm glad, though... i was certainly drunk... but i spelled out the most fathomable discretions...here's to you: and (a) tomorrow!
Beer matts
Stack them
Under my leg
Fix me
I’m broken
Fix me
I beg
I wobble
I tilt
Your hope in me wilts
You leave me
You’re gone
Forever
Too long
One of my many poems written from the perspective of an inanimate object. The poem is untitled as it is left to the reader to guess which inanimate object’s perspective the poem is written from.
kromwellfarkus Mar 2020
Me lad.
He's 14.
And, hes been in ****
At school.

Now, we have his back
And all that.
He's my boy
Me lad.

It has come to light
At such recent time
That his forgery skills
Have been paying his bills
To freedom.

"Uncle Matt"
Has a note for you teacher.

You must do
What Uncle Matt wrote.

As per Uncle Matts last note,
Here is another,
Signed...

Uncle Matt.

The signature said
Uncle (fukn) Matt.

They accepted this
And off he went
To where ever he desired...

Good ol Uncle Matt.

Me lad,
He's 14.
And he's playing the fools
For the fools they are.

We had a meeting.

Me, the missus and me lad,
It didn't turn out too bad
But, then it did
And we had to take a step back.

Me ol mate.
Me lad.
He's got demons in his head,
That I can't slay...

Cos he's in his room most of the time,
Figuring out his identity.

So, from outside looking in,
I just let him breathe...

Cos he's me lad
An I'm his Dad.
The following constitutes a rather
twisted as a pretzel SUBTITLE:

I dash with my jiggling ***** in an attempt to escape...
being overrun by teddy bears and beanie babies
while carrying out heavy duty spring cleaning.

Twas the bright idea of zee missus aye air
and dedicate this poem
(yes tis correct, if you bare
lee remember this mister
did formerly she push lee duck clear
addressed said spouse
"my little buttock blaster” endear
ring - for obvious reasons,
and before she begat two 'ere
rip press ably lovely daughters),

anyway thee wife I fear
to publicize contracted a benign
strain sans incurable glare
ring housecleaning malady;
thus far no unpronounceable hair
raising name affixed
to non contagious condition, nevertheless
accursed malady,
whereby to keep her
from auctioning me on eBay,
I squarely hide in root cellar.

She frenziedly scrubbing stubborn stains
from clothes, dishes,
and gamut of hibernating
Oryctolagus cuniculus domesticus
horde (nee motley crue)
entrapping scampering dust bunnies
that come breathing alive
nsync with beastie boy
city rollers culture clubbing babes
upon first spring day
engrossed in this, that,

or some other sweeping floor foray
(analogously to Velveteen Rabbit)
shedding fifty shades of gray
winter coat when warmer temperatures arrive,
where humongous fur clumps would lay
comprising sudden empty raft
of shelf space minus a may
zing globules, oh...lemme get on track,
whence frenzied fever
"cleaning bug" nee
major virus afflicting wife,  

would necessitate impossible task
strapping former feisty Norwegian farm gal
in straight jacket livingsocial every
would be no game to play
24/7 daily challenge devious skullduggery
Smokey and the Bandits
an imp posse sub bill
outlaw gang, who lived
like Aristo curr Rats along the quay,    
which unpredictable timeframe

boot tiring and cruel task
of her life Yukon say
thine remaining lifetime,
that's my wife oye vey
would frank lee zapping
every last oomph of mine
if able twin door remaining with spouse
meanwhile 'till she obviously
plucks persistent sprouting stranded follicle
tiller broad forehead resembles
a minuscule tarmac way.

Though far fetched, not impossible
for me and Joe Six
Pack to become one and the same
since a concerned counterpart
contributes to the mix
cuz, she waves a scolding gold finger
dying with craven craving for sweet licks
to grace tastebuds longing
to savor and dissolve sucrose
in any one of the natural
or synthesized combinations
in an effort whose memory
of a washboard tummy
doth hunger for youth afflicts

recent embarkation since maintaining a diet
of exercise no more pesky heeding "yo dude"  
(you look like a lady),
the inner fitness maven against
temptation of high caloric junk food
and nightly snack king
on a flexible fitness routine,
this lxiv aged body electric feels good
these myopic eyes and
well-calibrated hands measure less dense hood-

winking *****, that if I feigned being
a "bared naked lady" -
asper this chest lewd
city in reference to "man *****"
that seemed to materialize overnight
now appear to decrease as well
that unwanted "love handle,
this chap more inclined
tubby in a greater mood
to parade around

this non-crowded house shirtless
AND definitely NOT in public,
BUT no weigh Jose
would this generic guy go completely ****
cuz being self-consciousness of my physique
might prompt outsiders
to consider me a *****
and even during closed bedroom door
****** exploits deter me tibia rude
fellow (with average go daddy long legs)

and my dangling dipstick smallish
(concluding biology *******)
a chap worthy tube he more endowed,
though gratitude proffered
to same divine cosmic consciousness
but as the year's pile up appreciation
of functional faculties alter matts' at tee 'tude
accepting physical characteristics
more or less static
*** ping believe mass elf ya wood.
Mystification prevails stupefying yours truly
befuddled, he blindly stumbles along rocky
pathway illusory impediments strewn helter
skelter intangible obstructions hinder access
psychological barricades effective impasse

detains, deters, detours manhood maturation
manumission manifestation materialization
linkedin, when permanent submission arises
beckoning corporeal leaden entity into avast
eternal realm, where material disintegration

promises venerable salvation releasing angst
strummed plucked fretful existence denied
utmost exploration sequestered soul hermit
tickly sealed courtesy custom made NON-
GMO supercalifragilous expialidocious

airtight, vacuum sealed with trademarked
matts scott good housekeeping approval
lifetime achievement award maintaining
quasi pristine mint like condition afford
double (FREE for the taking) full refund

if dissatisfied with stutt...tut...tut tearing
functionality, yet batteries NOT required
and assembly unnecessary, but maximum
remaining life usage, asper garden variety
mutant requires preservation within sterile

bubble, lest exposure to human contact are
rouse dormant (latent) propensity breeding
biologically pre programmed predilection
to propagate species, this despite low libido
level, thus Memorial sale steal (actually no

expiration coincides with natural longevity)
slight depreciation before cessation arises,
which I project - little less than half life of
ordinary Earthling, whose quixotic, poetic,

ecologic, plus conscientious ethos promises
greater fulfillment, sans spirit, mind, and
body versus being addicted, hypnotized, or
tranquilized by latest technologic contraption.
Mystification prevails stupefying yours truly
befuddled, he blindly stumbles along rocky
pathway illusory impediments strewn helter
skelter intangible obstructions hinder access
psychological barricades effective impasse

detains, deters, detours manhood maturation
manumission manifestation materialization
linkedin, when permanent submission arises
beckoning corporeal leaden entity into avast
eternal realm, where material disintegration

promises venerable salvation releasing angst
strummed plucked fretful existence denied
utmost exploration sequestered soul hermit
tickly sealed courtesy custom made NON-
GMO supercalifragilous expialidocious

airtight, vacuum sealed with trademarked
matts scott good housekeeping approval
lifetime achievement award maintaining
quasi pristine mint like condition afford
double (FREE for the taking) full refund

if dissatisfied with stutt...tut...tut tearing
functionality, yet batteries NOT required
and assembly unnecessary, but maximum
remaining life usage, asper garden variety
mutant requires preservation within sterile

bubble, lest exposure to human contact are
rouse dormant (latent) propensity breeding
biologically pre programmed predilection
to propagate species, this despite low libido
level, thus Memorial sale steal (actually no

expiration coincides with natural longevity)
slight depreciation before cessation arises,
which I project - little less than half life of
ordinary Earthling, whose quixotic, poetic,

ecologic, plus conscientious ethos promises
greater fulfillment, sans spirit, mind, and
body versus being addicted, hypnotized, or
tranquilized by latest technologic contraption,
boot cyber surfing mendicant surrenders self.

Yours truly beckons angel of mercy
or effective altruist to please intercede.

Though predominantly skeptical
concerning divine intervention...
crushing desperation grinds heavily
kickstarting, mortgaging, pummeling
ripsnorting, unraveling, ar...wresting...
sense and sensibility...annihilating

joie de vivre exceeding Herculean powers
to defy overbearing blitzkrieg,
luftwaffe pounding psyche
wickedly, unbearably suffocating,
helplessly choking
impossibility to gasp

even one breath
lifesource within ******
dry as a bone,
hence desperation beseeching
salvation to triumph
over mailer daemon adversity

wildly analogous to aerialist
readily clasped linkedin
clenching tight teammate's hands
thwarting being pitched
feather head over tar heels,
whereby yours truly

grasps empty air
spiralling untethered from gravity
lost in space
scanning distant heavens
to espy prayerful rescue
courtesy winged warrior

benevolent endearing joyous
miraculous celestial being
rendering genuine ambition
to mend figurative fences,
with kith and kin,
where orneriness (mine) cleft

delicate whirled wide webbing,
thus me metaphorically dangling
bandied to and fro
hither and yon
free falling unmoored
grudgingly surrendering

mine mortality nsync
with manifest destiny
regarding death be not proud
of all corporeal entities
temporarily suspending atheism
in limbo where faith no more

steady Rock of Gibraltar
(though steeply entrenched)
peering skyward gleaning any hint
to perceive inimitable

otherworldly gifted helpmate
to usher deliverance, viz exaltations
experiencing unbridled affinity
toward kith and kin.

— The End —