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I've worked hard
And smart
And have still gotten nowhere
When the value of what
You might add in a conversation
Is the same of that of a dying sorrow
Share it with the lamenters and the widows
For the ones with our heads onward and ahead
Have little time for a useless need in our heads

Useless ****** are abundance in this world
But dears, the only things
that look good doing nothing are statues
And your looks would pass ignored by the greeks, french, romans, and even the barbarians

Please, do mind me, this is the simplest insult
For the ones that prefer to glue their *****
Watching life passing​ by and the world spinning through
If there's so little you can do
Why don't you do us a favor and fly off
Today I tried to remain as Zen as possible, but you know when you get home and all your barriers melt down and that ball of infuriating fire is still lighting but because of the exhaustion it looked as if it were running out the gas and what remained was the ashes that crept into my mind threatening to evolve into a migraine, well you do? I felt exactly that.

As the fierce soldier I am, I haggled off this reality with that of my subconscious and adventure myself in the depths of dreams. What a journey, I dreamt with verboten love and with abuse, cliffs and heights. What I can highlight and what bedazzled me the most was a peculiar scene: I was in front of a pizzeria and the family in charge was in the middle of a severe argument. The father was holding forcibly the wrists of the mother, this one cried and implored him to stop, while their kids cried and shrieked. In the outlook of my dream I had the pleasure of having subtitles! How crazy is that! the family was talking an indigenous language and I could read what they were talking. Thing was my mother got in the middle of the argument and asked for the kids to take them, as in being their savior. I red that the little baby was in the "highest mountain", the father kept repeating that they were obliged to go there. I decipher it as the highest room in the tall building. Upon arriving no kid was there and despair started consuming me and just THEN my mother woke me up.
David Barr Dec 2013
Hugging a wall that is made of brick is a certain projection of an identity which has never been discovered.
Shower your soul with the warmth of French kisses and laugh at those imposed moral rectitudes.
******* bonding is a coercion of unity where aggressive independence lurks on the banks of youthful sexuality.
So, dominance no longer maintains power, and an empty shell of proclaimed significance is now rendered inoperative.
Truth has bared her gorgeous glory, and endless voices of self-disclosure resound throughout the cosmos.
Can you hear them?
st64 Mar 2014
Herr Stimmung—purblind—moves in corporeal time.

    Think how many, by now, have escape the world's memory.

    Think, how all his wandering is only thought. Having once tried to
live in the quasi-stupor of sensation, now he picks his way through
areas of spilth, seeking the least among infinite evils.

    His hope: intermittent.

    To a person so little conscious, what would it mean to die? Though
he feels, true enough, death's wither-clench. Thinking always of
something permanent, watching the while how everything goes on
changing.

    He has seen where Speed is buried. Eyes exorbitant.

    He has the tension of male and female: active, divided. Anger and
lust. What he eats tastes exactly like real food.

    He would search out interphenomena, if he could decipher the
interstices. The broken line. Immediate havoc. Circular heaven.
Square earth. He cries world world, and there is no world.

    He claims superiority over the other animals, being the only one
who can talk, the only one to have doubts.

    Herr Stimmung knows a whale is big. Its skeleton might shelter a
dozen men.

    Not existing, not subsisting—insisting. Not object, not subject—
eject. (He works within opposed systems, every one of them opposed
to system.)

    "Fillette"—in confusion he addresses himself—"n'allez pas au bois
seulette."

    He knows who is allowed to wear what kinds of beads. He knows
how fruit trees are inherited. All his self-objects lie in the inoperative
past.

    Herr Stimmung springs from a long undocumented ancestry.

    He has a special attitude towards terror.
Keith Waldrop
b. 1932

Keith Waldrop, who was awarded the 2009 National Book Award for poetry for Transcendental Studies: A Trilogy, has been a prominent voice in American poetry for over forty years.  He is the author of over a dozen books of poetry, prose, and translations.

Waldrop was born in Emporia, Kansas in 1932. He enrolled in the pre-med program at Kansas State Teacher’s College, but his studies were interrupted in 1953 when he was drafted into the US Army.
While stationed in Germany during the 1950s, Waldrop met his wife, the poet and translator Rosmarie Waldrop. He earned a PhD in comparative literature in 1964 from the University of Michigan and has taught at Brown University since 1968.  

In addition to being an internationally celebrated poet, Waldrop is a respected translator of French literature.
Waldrop’s poetry navigates concerns that are at once personal and philosophical by representing a world that is endlessly strange and fascinating.
There is, in Waldrop's work, a steady thought directed to the way that we make our way in the world by thinking and speaking. Where Wallace Stevens gave us the portrait of a man bothered by the march of ants through his shadow, Waldrop gives us the disturbances of the world in its representations.

Upon receiving the National Book Award, the judges said of Waldrop’s poetry: “If transcendental immanence were possible, it would be because Keith Waldrop had invented it; he’s the only one who could—and in Transcendental Studies he has.
These three linked series achieve a fusion arcing from the Romantic to the Postmodern that demonstrates language’s capacity to go to extremes—and to haul daily lived experience right along with it: life imitates language, and when language becomes these poems, life itself gets more various, more volatile, more vital.”
decompoetry Oct 2010
The drums of life
beat rapidly,
as the Nymph polishes
her red velvet knife.

The black hearted army
of gargoyles
sharpen their nails
on the outlines of Hell.

Rumbling like a lion’s roar,
black clouds of trouble
float their way,
to this brand new day.

Lightning crashes
to the ground,
marking the sound
of War on Earth.

The grass ruptures,
lava erupts,
following a flow
of the Devil’s corrupt.

Our winged savior
swoops among the hordes
of cruel intentions,
studying their battle behavior.

Searching for a hole,
a flaw,
a way to erase
every last one of them all.

Quickly she sees
an opening
of flight,
and thus begins the Fight,

The blade
slices through
the leader’s masquerade.
Nothing evil is allowed to stay.

Wishing stars
crash from the world above,
flaming the trees
like God’s cigar.

The arrow of hydrogen
rips through
the monster’s face,
as done by a true ace.

The Nymph is knocked back
from the recoil
of the
imploding gargoyle.

Soaring through
a flaming forest,
unable to stop
and unlikely to drop.

Speed decreases,
falling increases,
wings inoperative,
laws of flight uncooperative.

A splash
as a little
angel lands
in the river.

The current
carries her along
to the waterfall
of endurance,

of imagination,
portals zapping
to any chosen
time location.

**

Eyes open,
here we are,
strange thunders
cracking from afar.

Men in green
uniforms and hats,
shocked and appalled,
wondering what the **** is that.

But not in her
native tongue,
Что трахание является этим
it more likely rung.

Broken from this daze of
Beautifulness,
they open fire on this pure
piece of mythology.

A shred
in her wing,
knocked down,
she cannot let this swing,

A glow of ominous
green mist
conjures in her palm;
our Nymph is quite ******.

A flick of the wrist,
the soldiers freeze
like stone, in fear,
as their souls tear

apart,
like a sheet
of paper:
incomplete.

**

The Nymph
walks this
newfound Earth
of mysteries and fallen lymph,

searching for
her own kind,
the ones she
had left behind.

A journey
that never ends;
everyday begins
like the day before.

The drums of life
beat slowly
as the Nymph polishes
her red velvet knife.

Off in the distance,
it isn’t clear.
Is it near?
She holds her breath,

and awaits the Elephant of Death.
Sun Drop Feb 2018
Alcohol hanging on breath.
Going 90 in a 65,
High on speed, but not ****,
Finally feeling alive.

Sirens blare, heat following,
He called the cops, what a *****.
Yelling at her, hollering.
It'll take more than a snitch.

Takes a turn way too quickly --
You hate to see that happen.
Rolls over topsy-turvy,
Six flips, going on seven.

Vehicle gets located,
Bodies have yet to be found.
Seat belts inoperative.
Flung 'em bout 20 feet down.

Report: "One woman, one man,
Fatal car accident." Crushed.
"Female had bottle in hand,
Both suspects found dead in a bush."
diverged from my usual style a bit because I needed to write about a car crash
I will foment a backlash that entails a ******-loving, definitive gaze
like whitey enjoyed during cousin F.D.R.'s boozily-prohibitive days
when hirin' mechanics was mechanically-sound in inoperative bays
Dennis Willis Dec 2020
I can't be here
can't be seen here
somebody might
see me here nope

staring at my shoes
these need an update
is the blocking thought
as you here circle

are is inoperative
has been for sometime
i imagine u understand
in this light pocket

yet you scramble
and monkey about
relentless in claim
must you be so shrill

i know this isn't now
i know this isn't here
i know there is a when

— The End —