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Antonio Fonseca Sep 2014
Lon, lon, lon
Disdain emerges and clings up to my eyes.
Lon, lon,lon
I stop and mumble, rainbow and sunrise.

Lon, lon, lon
How words can break, they crumble
lon, lon, lon
I abstain of sorrow, I **** to stay humble.

Lon, lon...longer
I sing a song and I tumble, slighty used, nights I borrow.

Lon, lon, lon
And on I ramble,
September is almost gone.
Edward S Jun 2013
I was born and raised on Lon Lon Ranch,
I would always take care of the horses and sit on an Olive branch.

My mother died when I was younger,
My father, Talon always fed me and I never suffered from hunger.

One day, my father went to Hyrule Castle to go deliver milk for the Royal Family to drink,
I waited from him at the gate to the castle, thats when I saw a boy with a fairy, his name was Link.

My heart dropped and began to flutter,
And right then and there I began to giggle and melt like butter.

After that day, I didnt see him for seven years,
As I watched him walk down the road I held back my tears.

For seven long years I thought about that boy in green fleece,
I cried alot of tears, but it kept my heart strong and in one piece.

Now I see that he loves another, I believe her name is Zelda,
You deserve better then me, you deserve to be with the Alpha, I'm just an Omega.

Please take good care of Epona, for me please,
Take good care of her when you cross the Seas.

I hope you keep me in your mind, and that you promise you'll visit soon,
I love you Link, you're my precious blue moon.
whoever May 2012
buried in my chest, a young lass sleeps
warm and safe in her haven.
not a thought goes towards her action.
she's merely a figure i created;
to convince myself she exists.

note the way her breathing
differs with the seasons.
now she's silent,
but soon she'll be screaming;
the influence of my vituperation.
ryn Nov 2014

i
    am
       a sea
           farer•a
                  rider of the
                         dwindling air...

one day my ailing boat would invite
the water•i will finally sink into
~ ~ ~~
oblivion's lair•~~ ~ ~
~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~  *~ ~
~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~
~~ ~ ~~~ ~ ~~~ ~ ~~   ~~
~~ ~~ *•m y exis tenc e ~ ~ ~~  
    ~~ w ill then  be • but a we a k, ~
i ndis  cern ible... reflec  tion of my sel f
~   •  ~
                      ~     i' d notb e  free •but~
        ~    ~          t rapped i n abo x
                   ~   on a  lon g for-  ~~
              g o tte  n  ~
~    sh e ~
l  
f

.~
spysgrandson Oct 2012
Aunt Gracie took me there
for a philly and five cent cee-gar
old enough to fight,
old enough to puff on that stogie
she said
(and not much more)
I spun my stool like I was on a carnival ride
(had only one beer with Uncle Lon, but your first beer is the best)
and Gracie looked at me
like I was still the kid
who broke her basement window
with a bad pitch
when I was ten
yeah, I was, still that boy
seven years later
in that glass box of light
humming in the concrete night
big round Gracie smilin’ at me,
looking like she was gonna cry
she had signed those papers
lied with that pen
making me old enough to be a killer
and smoke that cigar, I suppose
the couple eating eggs and bacon
asked if I was shipping out
six AM, yes sir
the woman smiled like Gracie
the man nodded his head, said
**** a *** for me
sure thing, sure thing
me thinking killing one of them
would let me live,
forever,
forever, and wouldn’t be any different
from playin’ God with bee-bees and birds
which I had done a time or two
with my Daisy
cook put my philly in front of me
his eyes locked on the counter
like someone condemned
to never hold his head up high
and trapped in that diner
forever,
forever feeding
me and other nighthawks
who come to this place
the last space of light
in the hungry night
thanks for the sandwich, I said
he said that’s free
but the man eatin’ eggs
said it’s on me
cook didn’t look at the man
went to cleaning some pan
was then I noticed he limped
bad
I asked how he got hurt
he kept his eyes on his sink
said, it was a long time
before this night
were you born that way?
nobody born this way son
Gracie’s elbow nudged mine
but sixteen and full of all
of one beer, I was gonna keep askin’
how--
it was a long time
before this night
I know, but how--
guess you’ll know
soon enough
we were
clawing our way
from a French trench
filled with gas and gasps
of boys with your face
too dead to cry, too dead to scream
when those machine gunners cut loose
what I got was some good luck
and one of those big rounds
in my knee
Gracie’s elbow moved away
she put her hand on my leg
(my hand was on my philly, limp and still)
you got shot by the Krauts in the Great War?
he didn’t say anymore
and I didn’t eat my meal
 
Gracie was good to me,
I know she wrote all the time
but we didn’t always get our mail
on those big ships, many men
would leave their suppers on the floor
in all that stink of seasick
they taught me to play cards
told me jokes, gave me smokes
Lucky Strikes
we were going to some place
with a funny sounding name
Ee-wa Gee-ma, Ee-wa Gee-ma
at night, when I would look
at the black bottom of the bunk above me
I would see
someplace green, Ee-wa, sunny, Gee-ma
someplace with curling trees
and birds for my daisy to shoot at
other nights, in that dark,
in that stale stink of tobacco and puke
I would see the humming light
of the diner that night, wishing
I had eaten that philly sandwich
and smoked that cigar
(which I left by the plate)
I would think of Gracie
and how she begged me
to confess my sins
(to the recruiting sergeant)
to come back
safe, whole, she said
(but I didn’t know what whole meant)
after that, I heard only the voices of men
some barking orders and commands
others whimpering,
whispering
in the same dark
ship of steel
 
 
when I saw the grey rocks
and flak-filled sky, and heard
the swoosh of surf
and the thunder
of our ships’ guns
and some rat-tat-tat
from the invisible holes
I knew I knew,
nothing yet of hell
 
Happy, we called him
was dead
all nineteen years of him
on that **** hole of beach
his guts strewn across the sand
(his life story I guess)
making their peace with *****
and the red and black blood
of other boys and men
who played cards
and flipped open their Zippos
to light my smokes
told me jokes
and laced their boots with me
that very morning
 
by the time
the ramp fell
I spotted Happy
my stinging eyes stuck
to his shredded belly
we, all of us, fell forward
into the shallow Pacific
ran, with all our gear clanging
to dunes high enough to hide
to hide,
but only long enough
to catch our breath
and smell cordite, fear-sweat,
and burned flesh
we did not take time to gag
over the dunes we went
told to make it to a rock
some twenty of us
to a rock no bigger than Lon’s ‘36 coupe
by the time we hid behind the rock
only eight of us hunched there
the others were where?
didn’t know, didn’t care
I had my piece of rock
rounds kept poppin’ off
the other side
from all those invisible holes
filled with slant eyed demons
my ears were ringing
when I heard the corporal say
start putting fire on that hole
what hole, what hole, what hole
the words were stuck somewhere
deep inside, not in my throat
but they were there
trying to ask him where
what hole? what hole
(I thought for a moment about Gracie and coming back whole?)
the corporal, OK, I forgot his **** name
he wasn’t in my platoon
he said put some fire on that hole
one more time
but then when he got up to shoot his M-1
something made his helmet fly off
and most of him went to the ground
the part that didn’t go out the back of his head
Tommy grabbed my arm
(Tommy taught me that four of a kind beats a full house)
and said something
and said it again
over there, over there
OVER THERE
when I looked where he was looking
I saw them, one with a tan helmet,
the other with a shiny black head of hair
Tommy was trying to point his M-1
at those **** who were firing
their 92 machine gun
at those boys on the beach
I pointed my M-1 at them too
but my hands were shaking too bad to aim
Tommy aimed I think
and we both kept shootin’ at those ****
who finally just looked like they went to sleep
but they never woke up
but neither did the other six boys
who were hiding behind that rock with us
because as soon as Tommy and me
started shootin’ at those ****,
they turned that 92 at us
but all those boys were in front of us
pressed so tight against that stingy rock
they couldn’t breathe
or move
even enough
to get their M-1 carbines
turned
in the right direction
so when those **** turned that 92
on the bunch of us
Tommy and I were in the right place
behind six poor boys
who couldn’t move
and got their young bodies
peppered with every round
that come from the hot barrel
of that *** 92 machine gun
once those two *** boys were asleep
I felt something warm on my arm
it was blood from Hector’s face
but Hector didn’t have a face left
part of it was on my sleeve
I think
but I didn’t look
Hector was in my squad
and he wore a Saint Christopher
to keep him safe
Hector didn’t lose all his head
like I heard Saint Christopher did
but most of it
and if that pendant
and all his mama’s prayers
didn’t keep him safe
I guess nothing could
 
I don’t remember when
I was able to sleep
through a whole night
without wakin’ up
thinking about
Hector, the corporal
and the other five boys
who died right there
behind the rock
there were a million other rocks
where boys
“went to sleep”
only they didn’t wake up
feeling Hector’s warm blood
on their arms
shivering
before it even got cold,
dry, and black
 
Gracie told me
the diner closed
she didn’t know why
but now
when I can’t sleep
and walk the pavement
in the middle of the city night
I go to that dark corner cafe
looking for the buzzing light
I want my cigar I did not smoke
and once again hear the words
the limping man spoke
I don’t have any more questions
he won’t want to answer
but if I did
they might be stuck
down inside
not in my throat
but deeper
where things churn
but don’t ever get seen or heard
I do wonder
if those other boys
at the rock,
and those other rocks,
all those other rocks
are taking these lonely late night walks
or if they had talked
with a limping man
who fed them for free
who thought he was lucky
and spoke words
no young eager bird killers
could yet understand
Nighthawks refers to a 1942 Edward Hopper painting of a corner diner and was the inspiration for the first and last stanzas
TiReSooOmEe3 Sep 2015
"Werewolves Of London"

I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand
Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain
He was looking for the place called Lee ** ****'s
Going to get a big dish of beef chow mein
Werewolves of London

If you hear him howling around your kitchen door
Better not let him in
Little old lady got mutilated late last night
Werewolves of London again
Werewolves of London

He's the hairy handed gent who ran amuck in Kent
Lately he's been overheard in Mayfair
Better stay away from him
He'll rip your lungs out, Jim
I'd like to meet his tailor
Werewolves of London

Well, I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw Lon Chaney, Jr. walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic's
His hair was perfect
Werewolves of London again
Draw blood
ryn May 2016
.

estrate the          
orc-                       opus           
ong•                                  of right        
     of s-                                            and wr-            
      gh power                                        ong•k-       ⚫️  
    tales throu-                                       eep me             
   tell me...                                           ground-      ⚫️
                                                 ­            ed throu-          
                                                ­         gh lyrics          
                                                     worded          
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                                          embed  ­      
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                                 assline-        
    ­                   s that        
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      me a-          
lon-            
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•                              


The soundtrack to life deserves the most wicked of baselines.
.
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

        Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
        Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
        Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
        The short and simple annals of the poor.
                  (Gray, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”)

  My lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend!
      No mercenary bard his homage pays;
    With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end:
      My dearest meed a friend’s esteem and praise.
      To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
    The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene;
      The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
    What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!

  November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh,
      The short’ning winter day is near a close;
    The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh,
      The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose;
    The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,—
    This night his weekly moil is at an end,—
      Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes,
    Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

  At length his lonely cot appears in view,
      Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
    Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
      To meet their dad, wi’ flichterin noise an’ glee.
      His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
    His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,
      The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
    Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
An’ makes him quite forget his labour an’ his toil.

  Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
      At service out, amang the farmers roun’;
    Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
      A cannie errand to a neibor toun:
      Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
    In youthfu’ bloom, love sparkling in her e’e,
      Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown,
    Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

  With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet,
      An’ each for other’s weelfare kindly spiers:
    The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet;
      Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
      The parents partial eye their hopeful years;
    Anticipation forward points the view;
      The mother, wi’ her needle an’ her sheers,
    Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new;
The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.

  Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command
      The younkers a’ are warned to obey;
    An’ mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand,
      An’ ne’er tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play:
      “An’ O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
    An’ mind your duty, duly, morn an’ night!
      Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray,
    Implore his counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!”

  But hark! a rap comes gently to the door.
      Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same,
    Tells how a neebor lad cam o’er the moor,
      To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
      The wily mother sees the conscious flame
    Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek;
      Wi’ heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name,
      While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleas’d the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.

  Wi’ kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben,
      A strappin youth; he takes the mother’s eye;
    Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill taen;
      The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
      The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
    But, blate and laithfu’, scarce can weel behave;
      The mother wi’ a woman’s wiles can spy
    What maks the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae grave,
Weel pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.

  O happy love! where love like this is found!
      O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
    I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round,
      And sage experience bids me this declare—
    “If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
      One cordial in this melancholy vale,
      ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
    In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev’ning gale.”

  Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
      A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
    That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art
      Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth?
      Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth!
    Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d?
      Is there no pity, no relenting truth,
    Points to the parents fondling o’er their child,
Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild?

  But now the supper crowns their simple board,
      The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food;
    The soupe their only hawkie does afford,
      That yont the hallan snugly chows her cud.
      The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
    To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck fell,
      An’ aft he’s prest, an’ aft he ca’s it guid;
    The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How ’twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.

  The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face,
      They round the ingle form a circle wide;
    The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace,
      The big ha’-Bible, ance his father’s pride;
      His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,
    His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
      Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
    He wales a portion with judicious care;
And, “Let us worship God,” he says with solemn air.

  They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
      They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
    Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise,
      Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name,
      Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame,
    The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays.
      Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame;
      The tickl’d ear no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they, with our Creator’s praise.

  The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
      How Abram was the friend of God on high;
    Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
      With Amalek’s ungracious progeny;
      Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
    Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire;
      Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
    Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

  Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
      How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
    How He, who bore in Heaven the second name
      Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:
      How His first followers and servants sped;
    The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
      How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
    Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.

  Then kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King,
      The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
    Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,”
      That thus they all shall meet in future days:
      There ever bask in uncreated rays,
    No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
      Together hymning their Creator’s praise,
    In such society, yet still more dear,
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

  Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride
      In all the pomp of method and of art,
    When men display to congregations wide
      Devotion’s ev’ry grace except the heart!
      The Pow’r, incens’d, the pageant will desert,
    The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
      But haply in some cottage far apart
    May hear, well pleas’d, the language of the soul,
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol.

  Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way;
      The youngling cottagers retire to rest;
    The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
      And proffer up to Heav’n the warm request,
      That He who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest,
    And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride,
      Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
    For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

  From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs,
      That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad:
    Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
      “An honest man’s the noblest work of God”:
      And certes, in fair Virtue’s heavenly road,
    The cottage leaves the palace far behind:
      What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load,
    Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d!

  O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
      For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
    Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
      Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
      And, oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
    From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile!
      Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent,
    A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle.

  O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide
      That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
    Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
      Or nobly die, the second glorious part,—
      (The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art,
    His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
      O never, never Scotia’s realm desert,
    But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
VACUUM CLEANER TANGO

---Lyrics by Jonathan Caswell

(Some misspellings are due to rhythm keeping)



The Vac…cuum Clea…ner Tango,

Is like…a juicy…mango,

Those fi…bers will…entangle

Your teeth or brushes, pretty quick!



The girls…who do…the cleaning,

Are ev…ver so…well-meaning,

To move…around…guys leaning,

That watch…and approve…the show!



Plugs must…be changed…more frequently,

If lon…ger hallways…decently,

Are cleaned…the most…expediently,

It’s all…a part of…the dance!



The vac…cuum clea…ner tango,

A dai…ly chore…is wrangled,

By clea…ners star…spangled,

Perfor…ming it with…extra class!
Fermented undergarments
farmers markets, Targets, turn tarnish!
An angle of self-righteousness moves to left.
.
a group of cleft palates peel all the way back for the attic
after a thousand years of theft. (Arent you in awe?)
when hairless hands wrap and grab Tef – lon
get on one of the seven horses.
Hercules the matter seems urgent
Please
create morses.
.
Your Torsos show their bland position
portable valves, three of horse pistons.
so if they want violence, they certainly will achieve.
shout above the crowd and call for former foreigners – roll up sleeves.
in the white and black reality  
we flee once we believe
.
but perfection is a perspective
the artist is just an elective and a given
IN GETTING BITTEN BY THE SOCIAL TAPE WORM –
we let the world squirm  -
and turn
tighter in silky cob webs
the spider traps and they took laps
‘til the insect bled out
the original name for this was backwards society until i found something that meant more to me. just as an insider sunflower seeds make me **** grain-like sediments and is literally a pain in my *** - but like many of my self destructive tendencies i will not stop abusing them.
Lucid Sep 2014
lonely
lonel
lone
lon
lo
l
lo
lov
love
lovel
lovely
Vanessa Gatley Feb 2014
I annoy because I have no one really
  a compliment makes me fall so easily
   Cuz I never heard of thee words
   I want someone to bother me once in a while
It is it hard to follow those needs  I want ?
Dont get mad cuz that makes me brag bout having no one
The Good Pussy Oct 2014
.
                               ****
                         **** *****
                     Wiener Pecker U
                     nit ***** Piece T
                      ool Thing Shaft
                      Member Doink
                      er ***** Cack C
                      hour Chub Pud
                      ******* Wanki
                      W a n g    D ing
                      a ling Ding Don
                      g Kielbasa Brat
                      worst Meat Pop
                      sicle Meat ther
                      mometer Bolog
                      ny pony Salami
                      Sausage   Tube
                      steak ****** P
                      orkSword Nood
                      le Banana Corn
                      dog Magic wan
                      d Staff Divine R
                      od Love muscle
                      Third leg Tonsi
                      l  tickler  Power
                   ­   drill Jack hamm
                      er Wedding tac
                      kle Bat Club Rod
                      Pole Joystick Ja
                      ck-in-the-box S
                      kin flute D-trai
                      n Mr . Happy B
                      a ld - headed yo
                      gurt slinger Lon
                      g **** Silver Ji
                      my Johnson Kn
                      ob Captain Win
                      ky One eyed W
                      illy One eyed M
                      onster Peter On
                      e  eyed   trouser
                      snake The  Sala
                      mander   Horse
                      **** Lincoln lo
                      g Tootsie Roll F
                      Lesh trombone
                      Meat stick Meat
                      whistle  Dobber
                      ­Wanger Woody
                      Shake weight T
                      iffy   Frank and
                      the beans Ch o
                      a d    t h e  *****
                      wise man *****
                      Harry nut cann
                      on  Flesh   flute
                      Satan's clarinet
         Sexophone Th      e Mayflower (  on
     account of all the   Puritans who came
      on it ) The Wea         p o n   of   A s s
         destruction               junk mail
Paula Swanson Oct 2011
There's a party going on upstairs,
your invited, to come and have a scare.
H.G. Wells, will meet you at the gate,
costumes required, hurry don't be late.

Vincent Price will be tonights D.J.
Halloween is his favorite Holiday.
He's spinning "Thriller", while dressed up as "Kiss".
Watching Claude Rains do the "Transylvania Twist".

Steve McQueen came dressed up as the "Blob",
he's serving up the zombie shish-ka-bobs.
Elsa Lanchester placed real bats within her hair.
While Marty Feldman keeps yelling "Frau Blucher".

At the stroke of the witching hour,
St. Peter amps up all the power.
A disco ball drops down from a cloud.
Out on the dance floor, forms a massive crowd.

Michael Jackson then leads them all in dance,
while Lon Chaney and Karloff take their chance,
to join the angels in harmony,
While "Monster Mash" is sang by Lugosi.

Even the Devil made it through the door.
He's the one sporting an Elvis pompadour.
So much fun is had by one and all,
at Heavens Annual Halloween Ball
Geno Cattouse Jun 2013
Werewolf.
My cousin Floyd was one.
He would prowl the night spots
When the moon was full.
One minute. Shooting the breeze

Next he would excuse himself to use the facilities and sneak
Out the bathroom window.
Quiet as a weremouse.

They say he was smitten
And bitten by the girl next door she

Was a bit hairy but.that's no reason to
Jump to confusions.

what about the gent in sheep's clothing.

When I was a kid if you were accused of
selling wolf tickets, you had a
poker face while holding a bad hand
Or.
Feeling froggy but having no hops was another
Lycantropic adventure.

Lon Chaney JR.
howled at the moon in black and white

In that case his howl was worse than his bite.
this poem is lacking in teeth.
goodnight.
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
There's a party going on upstairs,
your invited, to come and have a scare.
H.G. Wells, will meet you at the gate,
costumes required, hurry don't be late.

Vincent Price will be tonights D.J.
Halloween is his favorite Holiday.
He's spinning "Thriller", while dressed up as "Kiss".
Watching Claude Rains do the "Transylvania Twist".

Steve McQueen came dressed up as the "Blob",
he's serving up the zombie shish-ka-bobs.
Elsa Lanchester placed real bats within her hair.
While Marty Feldom keeps yelling "Frau Blucher".

At the stroke of the witching hour,
St. Peter amps up all the power.
A disco ball drops down from a cloud.
Out on the dance floor, forms a massive crowd.

Michael Jackson then leads them all in dance,
while Lon Chaney and Karloff take their chance,
to join the angels in harmony,
While "Monster Mash" is sang by Lugosi.

Even the Devil made it through the door.
He's the one sporting an Elvis pompadour.
So much fun is had by one and all,
at Heavens Annual Halloween Ball
A Thomas Hawkins Jun 2010
If you want to have you poems read
from New York to Lon-don
just go make a submission
at tweetablepoems.com
Trelon Grant Apr 2019
For the ones that have ached; listen to me.

Know that you are loved.
Know that you are forgiven.
Know that no one is perfect.
Know that mistakes are okay.
Know that losing people is a part of life.
Know that you can make it.
Know that it was all for a reason.
Know that you have someone.
Know that God is good.
Know that regrets are normal.
Know that it will get better.
Know that you will overcome this.
Know that you don’t need to live to please another.
Know that you are love itself.
Know that you are you, and that is okay.

Hang in there,


I’ve been there.
Most have as well.
It’ll be alright.
It’ll be okay.
You’ll be okay.
And I’ll be here for you.

IV Winds: A diagnosis of love - R.E.V/ Tre’lon Grant ©️
Let’s begin the poetry book. A road from hurting to healing, a diagnosis of love.
I weigh myself on these scales as I’m keen for you to know I exist. I wanted you to answer my letters, realise that these words I write with dedicated perfection and chardonnay are for. You. I wanted to be your only to exception to the rule. I wanted to be your fool. I wanted to be. Just me. And that was to be enough, but the road was too rough. Drowning in pity, suffocating in sin. My words were too pretty and delicate. Worthless to the deaf ears they fell upon. My tears, my tears they fall wasted to the ground. Ravaged by my mis-communicated sound. The way I gave my body to you. I let you in. I let you feel my grief and you buried your way in. Deceitful you. Beautiful you. My life, my soul, what happens in heaven now?

I thought too many times I would be forgiven. This person was too much for even you to take. I kept falling. I kept going too fast and not using the brake. I thought I had finally landed, grounded myself from this stupid obsession. That someone once made me feel I gave the wrong impression. Too needy, too weak, too vunerable, too loud. Wore stupid clothes that stood out from the crowd. I gave too much then held it all back. Click, click, click, ******* clack. Where were you when I called your name. When I took you and held you in vain. There was my shame. There was my guilt and pride. Took you along for a ride? Are you sure my dear? Are you sure? Fed up of being told what I am worth waiting for. Yet I would make a pilgrimage for you.

Faster and harder braver than before. But you never liked that. You showed me the door. My light too bright, too shiny, too new. I was overall, too much, for you. For your highly expectations I was bound to fail. Just one small girl in an overpowering world of you. This power, this lowly pleasure, of giving you your due and then to hear your whatever. I am lost, I am lost, I am lost. I am bound by your words by their very cost. I never expected to borne to this, I thought I could just get on without your redemption. Lies and lies and more from your hand. This is not my world, your ideas are too un/planned? Who are you, who were you back then? To tell me that I am not right, I need to change from within. No. What? Your preaching’s are confusing to even the most intelligent man.

My body, my life. My heart, your strife. Not done with everything, you wanted more. Hell over high water, you threw me up on the shore. Please, oh please, oh pretty little please, wait, hang on a minute whilst I fall to my knees. Let me know when you’ve made your decision. Thanks. I’ll just wait a little lon-ger. Tell me. How does your faith instill such emotion? It’s all false love and devotion. Popular back in the day, the 80’s I may say, back when kids were high and it was easier back then, easier for me to write without a red pen. So you invented love as your folly, to prey on the weak, the young and the sought after. So you could fill your life with the ***** of your laughter. Ever-y-thin-g is so long and drawn out; be wild, be shy, be quiet. Don’t shout, so LOUD. At me. I need to hear what exactly you are telling me. To be.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
apparently we have to go, bypass the easiest crowd of the capital, the easiest crowd of the capital, the ****-pants girlies waiting for a fake ****** in idol worship... artist like wine bottle... bootleg us... they’re bootlegging us i tell you... we can only be considered when the young suddenly disappear with depressive suicides and the grey tide of mechanics of the conveyor belt of antics of the supposed ease - never mind the thrill of hunting the mammoth... first came the form of the four legged animal (cat, dog, lion), then came the square... after that... to exasperate us came capital H... or k... x... offshoots i say... allowances of photosynthesis nodding into the light... but first came the four legged animal... then the square... then the lettering to abbreviate the once wild animal now staged in domestication.... but still we’ll have to ferment like wine... to ask a bridal ****** to occupy a whitewashed house we can return to on the vector finitude of that claimant word home; so what are feminists waiting for? the chinese stole our jobs... we’re eager and waiting house bound males... like your grandmothers used to be being housewives... eh! came feminism a playground of fairness... come on! i’m not going to juggle torsos for entertainment of the decapitated head talking about flapping flippers / wings in frankenstein’s pose before the stampede of revenge. what’s that? ***** got wet and no one wanted to photograph a sell for the **** industry? it’s almost like the child slavery act of exploiting children by regina victoria. ooh ooh give me the gay gene so i can expect robinson crusoe rubbing a palm tree so fast as to turn it into fire up my ****... i might just **** a smoke signal big enough to be rescued from this corset tightening for “respectable speech therapy” coming from the asylum of the parliament of yank-a-doodle-do-nothing... but take a cabbie for a bus-driver in irish... ye gaz’d a per mill lon up the shore n ditched d per, eh, in via bear? shire rickety rickety cricket and the irish bigfoot known as an ‘obbit! god... where have the stereotypes gone to? switzerland?! my murky luck... yodel yodel yodeley michael jackson yo the who he hoo!
Zywa May 2021
(Translation below)

Kulupu kulupu
Lon li pona pona
E suno li pona
E *** kin li pona

En mi sijelo kin
sina sijelo kin
telo e kasi en
e kili li pona



Moku mute li pona
Lape mute li pona
Olin li pona pona
mi olin e mi mije

tan o ona li pona
Ona li pona mute
Unpa musi li pona
Unpa mute li pona



Pali pona mama mama
pali pona pona
E suno li pona
pona pona pona

Lon li pona pona
pali pona pona
Mi olin e sina
tan e sina li pona

----------------------------------------------------

Peopl­e people
It's very good to live
The sun is good
Clothes are good too

And my body too
your body too
water, the plants and
the fruits are good



Eat a lot is good
Sleep a lot is good
Love is very good
I love my man

because he is good!
He is very good
The joy of *** is good
Often *** is good



Thank you mum dad
thank you very much
The sun is good
very very good

It's very good to live
thank you very much
I love you
because you are good
Sonja Lang created Toki Pona in 2001, a language of 120 words

Collection “WoofWoof”
KathleenAMaloney Aug 2016
Recall  the Air SPACE
Air Space Air Space
Bespeak the Plane Back
Quickly Quickly
Saw The Flag Fly
Quickly Quickly
It Was a Lowx. Lowe X  Lowex
It Came Back Buick  
Wurick Wicca
It Came Back auricle
Quickly Quickly
It Means My Boys Please
Quickly Quickly
My George ,
My Harry,
Eric, Brother
It Was a Chess Piece
Hurry Hurry
Came Up and Over
Over. Over
It was An Angel
Angel Angel
Dressed like a Ewe Piece
Ger Piece, HerE Piece
It Fixed My
Breathing Breathing Breathing
It Was A Three Piece
Angel Angel
A Middle Three Piece
Allies  Three Piece
The Right Move
Is Move,  Ger Move
A Middle three Move
All Move
Now Move
A Lon Done
No
Move No Move No Move
A French Paul Ll N
Allwns Allies
Paul Apostle Allies
Atlas Alias
Anastasia Webb Jul 2014
without the knowledge and cyber presence
of  you  and  your           awareness  of  my
presence   (so   I                thought),   I   am
feeling    more                            and    more
unjustified,                                      groping,
unloved,                                                ugly
dissatis                                                   fied
lon                                                           ely
e                                                                m
p                                                                 t
y.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
/if there is but one use for Freudian theoretics, for a man who has jargon for dreams, or a man who rarely summons a need to dream, for a man who does not have the luxury of a dream worth interpretation, for a man who has not dreamt a recurring dream...

it is far easier to summon
a woman, within the hour,
to the confines of a brothel
room,
    unshackeling her
from the vengence of
artimesia and binding her
to: breaking the sacred
taboo of swallowing
a kiss...
      
        than it will ever be...
to summon a woman to the liberty
of equal fortitude in
playing the role of atom,
  father, son, brother...
      
far sooner a woman from a *****
comes, than a woman
from the ivory tower, cold cut
marble, halo labyrinth,
spotless "madonna"...

   for whatever the need for Freud these
days, i am adamant on
this one church gong echo...
   that Hades could only shed tears
when Cerberus died,
and Charon replaced him in
claustrophobic confines of deity...

after the wake, having slyly laughed
at my great-grandmother's funeral,
i gnashed my teeth hard enough
to scrub off a chip off my incisor,
and toyed with a red rose,
tickling it with a candleflame,
until i, managed to persuade
a bozo cardinal to step into a role
of a humble bishop,
    attired in a rare hue of burgundy,
namely a blood-purple
      mishap of what would otherwise
become: that glaring,  ******* red
of those would-be Kippah donning
Vatican mafiosos...

however much the tedium of a German
thinker, as far removed he might have
been from the airy fairy pancake square-i.e.i.e.  
starry ******* stay-ree?
    squack-diddly- a ******* toobah boo -
Belshezar receiving the paranormal
scribble in Timbaktu?
     squarry... rhombus... alias:
   some sort of etching resembling 90 x 4...

nonetheless: even the most tedious german
thinker.... will be more fathomable
to me, in techniqlaity over style,
over the hot-air balloon contra
zeppelin London bombardment of
french thinkers...
          
          as ever: building on national
stereotypes...
                       sure, had I been native geboren
und spreschen...
the French would appeal to me...
as novelists? hands down...
      no tin drum (perhaps
due to the eng'flush)...
                  or suma summarum
ping (cogito) | pong (sum)
                       Thai for:
**** 'ou lon' thai'm,
                       and then the *******
juggle and gamble
asking for a new version of
the niqab to, expose
the feminine parts...
     chubby Arab mama's hands...
who d' pretty niqab fwend eye
if not rottweiler hazel...
   swarovsky inorganic crystal
blue... hence the Madonna
and the halo labyrinth...

   far easier to stomach the tedium
of a German technician,
than a fence-tinkerer...
   namely gilles deleuze
                      and félix guattari,
since no one is about to call
out names,
   the western plague of premature
depression...
   ontologically old age is predisposed
to melancholy...
    the joy of building a home,
and the sadness, of settling in it
up in completion,
   but depression, and so early?
synthetic, unnatural,
                            cognitive malnutrition.

far easier to summon a woman
from the depth of prostitution,
than it is to summon a woman
from the height of the ****** birth,
and countless the number of
ways a woman can show her honesty,
than act out a juggling act...
how close am i to the materialistic
reading of Oedipus,
   by prodingoutside
              the siamese gene pool?

not far from the mantra of the mantis:
to stand a woman,
a man must disappear...
    hence the madonna reign...

monogamy among animals is more
mysterious than the thought
of god in man...
                   each to his harem and
a pound of flesh each night, thoroughly
funfaired...

      a woman from the depths
of prostitution, even if for an hour...
    it's enough that I have to stand my own
thinking, let alone
            to act in devistion from it...
that I'd have to submerge beneath
   the caucus of agony aunts and astrologers
to amplify,
    what remains,
     otherwise hidden,
   an executioner's transaction...
                    as the remnant daughters
toy the nest.

perhaps this is all but a puritanical
cleft of exhausting youthful swoons prior
to the plunge into responsibility...
     odd... i don't seem to recall ever
signing a contract,
     whereby I,  as an "individual" stressed,
was somehow to rationalise
the efforts of the collective in continuum,
who, somehow, magically found
Genesis Africa...
      but... somehow... can't tell me...
whereabouts, that Dodo Rock actually
fell and made such a great indentation...
dunno... maybe Sahara was
a great mountain range akin to
the Himalayas, given the transition
period of:

Himalayas - Dead Horse, Utah - Sahara.
TreadingWater Mar 2017
you <<< remind me
of
this girl
i used to love; one fall
when i fe
                 ll
for ^her ^words
& her song
tr _ ip _ , _ ping a _ lon _ g
there was ever so
M _ u _ cH
to | say |
untiltheday
she .wouldn't. speak.
{at all}
&  i 》headed 》
home
tomywaves & mysand
with-a-question-mark
& the nerve to write
[153]
#poems
about°
     * her
HaleyBoo Jan 2019
Heart containers are Red. Rupees are blue. Actually now that I think about it, some rupees are red, green or even silver!
I should have used a better analogy.

ANYWAYS; I’ll take you away more than Gannondorf ever did. Just ride Epona with me, right through the wind.

We can visit princess Ruto in Zoras domain. Though it might take awhile to get there, And it may rain. But I’ll keep you safe as long as I have Eponas reigns.

But if water doesn’t suit your fancy, that’s no strain to me. We can go visit the Great Deku Tree, or even my hometown or Kokiri.

But if you’re getting cold, or simply just feeling adventurous; I’ll take you to see the Gorons on death mountain. We can adventure freely through the caves until the light grows dim and we have to stop playing.

We can rest up at Kakiriko Village, spend a night at the inn. And maybe the next day I’ll take you to Lon Lon Ranch, to pet animals and play a game.

Oops, sorry, I realize now I’ve gotten terribly off track! As much as I’d LOVE to go on all these adventures with you, there’s one thing I forgot to ask!

Will you be the Zelda to my Link?
It’s dangerous to go alone, so here, take me ❤️

(I have enough heart containers + potions for the both of us )
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i o nim iskrą w rrdze,
          w gre na tło innych
  narodziń -
               i nim o iskre:
krzemień o krzemień -
    i kość o kość - nauka kaligrafii...
      jak i ten co o męke
               łuku ziemi w dary
oddać pierw chciał nic, a potem proch -
                o potem kichnąć
w sto braci leczy naród prośbą! też jak ja,
obudzić ozór! **** powiadomił...
niechaj ten ozór - horongiew nasza -
            akcentów ilości sie zajada,
         bo tyle umie -
  i tyle wyzna - jak i słowem sie
zachwyci: po rosaj i po germańsku -
na weekend - i tym tam,
na czeł  Mongoła: zapomnień, i
zapomniawszy: zwany Lach, hujem
przez sukiennice i kreski sławnych tabu
ilokroci -
                i ta bida... stokroci.
siała baba mak... ni widziała jak...
           chlop... chlop... chlop...
                       siała baba mak, ni widiała jak...
bo tu kurvasiet chłop!           chłop!
kak duszy Khrushchev? ni pomogje!
         naz gu!
                        niet harasho! niet! haraшo?
Las Vegas etя: Lon-don, Pa-ri-ri Piri Piri
                                    Mex hey ** i co. - etc.
******* ****** Bahamas **** cult яя.
Tonight's the night I take a chance,
A risk greater than the high school dance,
But dare I try, after this stanza
I'll stop firing my rhyming phaser,

I've always been one for lesser liberties,
Not unlike your favourite celebrities,
Such as the right to whistle my merry song,
On those warm summer days that drag out too lon-
No not that! Why can't I seem to break,
That longing for order, could my values be fake?

I'm a rebel, not a conformist of society,
I'm one for a cider not a hot cup of tea,
Notice that I'm getting better all the time,
Those lines only made up a half rhyme,

I'll force myself to ruin this pattern that I'm in,
Perhaps a subtle cuss will do: "Friggin'!",
That didn't seem to work I guess this is a sham,
Perhaps its inevitable that all poetry should rhyme...

Wait a second...
I honestly don't know what I was thinking.
This gallery of shape-shifting souls
Has become a theater of the obvious

Token observations presented as
Extraordinary divine revelation

A parade of window-shopping prophets
Pointing, praying, "oooh, I want THAT one"

Stuck in a mold, how many don't know any better?
Confined to their emotions

It's All they've ever known

But that's all it takes to get your foot in the door
Of this funhouse mirror maze

Listen now to the laughter echoing against the glass
Lon Chaney guffaws at all who got lost

Hopelessly walking in circles
Hungry snakes chasing their tails
michelle reicks Oct 2011
It was like
                   you were like

making music with words
                                    that make me

feel again

                I have to practice
being happy.

                             I think.
                                         you think?

because at the end of the day

when my hair is one billionth
of an inch

                   lon
                         ger
than it was yesterday,

                      No one notices

       except you.
I think I'm Durante, in a previous life I
could have been Cagney or being fine
and debonaire I could have touched the floor
and danced like Ginger Rogers kissing
Fred Astaire,

I might have been Monroe, I'd prefer her
to Castro,
I Could have picked Pickford, Lon Chaney and
Hitchcock or even Rock Hudson
it would be a dream if only
it did not seem so real to me,
who was I then or was I meant to be
the supporting cast
in the stars of the past?.

I think I'm Durante
I've got the nose and the voice
and if I had the choice
I'd be Jimmy Durante.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/                    falling asleep while doing an
all night, "vigil",
                           i curl a t-shirt,
and put it over me eyes,
          like a niqab in reverse,,,
people who own cats
complain that i sleep, "too much"...
how can i ever sleep:
             "too little"?
people are too bogus in
their desires to fathom others...
last time i checked:
i hardly felt inclined to
fathom them...
    as long as your freedom does
not infringe upon mine?
cool, cool...
                   but then it
does... and you gain my attention?
my eye-orientating-similitude-of-sound?
i'll simply reply...
with sniffing the air...
to gain the tertiary dimension
of orientation...
                   eyes and sight are
primary...
          hearing and music
are secondary...
                  there is no face behind
a screen, "hiding"...
       you've never allowed
yourself to explore a stab of beef
moulded into a burger,
sensing the cows being fed eggs,
right?
        mm... hmm mm...
            can you do anything
with a herring... other taker than attempt
the Baltic take on "sushi"?
i.e. raw, and in sour scream?
no?!
         oh well...
    Tokyo comes second
within the confines of the concept...

schönnacht:
mein kurz und süss,
     scheißkerl...
                
ist deutsche ist alles das bleiben
aus europa;
und was ist nicht:
         ist wert wiederaufbereitung:
antienglisch:
                       empfindlichkeit...

ts'eppelins!
            fallen!
                   bombe!
    aufregung die nachthimmel!
geben Lon'don,
         was Lon'don:
                  sollte haben!
You
Were so much more interesting when I thought Bela Lugosi was your uncle
And though the tales of summers spent in the company of Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney Jr. were not true
You had me goin', man
You really had me goin'
Until eventually you drifted your way and I shifted mine
You pimped Kiss while I paraded the *** Pistols
You never told me those stories were lies
Then again I never told you that I thought they were ******* either
I can't help but wonder two things
1.) Do you think I'm so naive as to still believe you were related to Lugosi, Karloff, Chaney Jr. (and MORE!)?
and
2.) What if Bela Lugosi really was your uncle?
No matter, we never could have remained friends
I can't stand obsessive Kiss fans

— The End —