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Julian Jun 2018
The ******* of embezzled glory staunchly defend their counterfeit stature by defalcating the public trust of industrious societies governed internally by compunction and sabotaged externally by the tempests of acerbic fate met with inclement aleatory convergence. To supply a society with ingenuity without being complaisant or officious with unctuous pleas to the overlords we must fashion a new vogue that taps the bustle of giants and aggrandizes the margins to oversee their own creative destinies with scaffolded arrangements of titanic promise and justifiable fluidity to conquer the blinkered dogmatism of a dissolute chastity to inveterate apocryphal tenets of factitious but unmerited perspectives. Democracy crumbles when the convenience of sensationalism supplants the resolve of those that fossick hidden wealth and promulgate validity instead of undergirding pomp with precarious prevarications of duplicitous omission guarded gingerly by the gatekeepers of a ****** sanity that whitewashes the discussion with invented hobgoblins and purblind catharsis. To defeat simplicity and enshrine byzantine elegance as the paragon for voguish commentary rather than abide by a bowdlerized decorum for appeasing simpletons with divisive balkanization through identity politics we can overcome the impediments to human progress that are engineered to persist because of the inertia of the listless and the stubbornness of doctrinaire politicization and invent vivacity and festivity anew. We need to divorce ourselves from pedestrian quibbles of hero-worship that endanger the vitality of the common discourse because of fastidious pedantic disempowerment that ravages us with debased dreams by underscoring nuisances and tolerable nightmares that emasculate the virulence of the liberated individual and subvert his ambitions to contend with a picaresque world of limitless promise and self-motivated internal wealth.
      The bane of modernity is how chary the world becomes because of fractured histories intersecting with controversial destinies and the antidote to that poisonous self-defeating self-censorship is the audacity of brazen challenges to expurgation through assiduous resourcefulness and delicate diplomacy in wrangling controversies with outspoken courage rather than whispered resentment. Temerity waged in inclement circumstance is justified and curiosity stoked by lambent flames of fulgurant individualism should be fortified to the extent necessary to conquer the feckless spoilsports of unctuous puritanism and institutional obedience. The quacksalvers that blather about inconsequence strand the imagination in a desiccated desert that is ostracized from the palettes of the artistic whim to wield efflorescence rather than squander life in pursuit of perfunctory lucre or tenuous solidarity around banal idealism promised by social justice warriors that forget the biggest war being waged on humanity is on the ingenuity of the common discourse and the liberty to opine about real issues rather than saccharine conventions of emasculation through linguistic imprisonment and epicurean slavery to fashimites who relish the buzzword but never the enlightened audience that scoffs at feeble attempts at cultural commentary like Childish Gambino’s “This is America” music video. This particular artifact is a demonstration of how childishly fickle the plebeian mentality really is, stitching together a bricolage of violence to engineer controversy and serenading it with the most banal music imaginable and exhorting people to herald it as a high artform while inundating the world with unimaginative comic book movies and Star Wars rip-offs because of the lucrative business of formulaic replication. “This is America” should be regarded as a parody of itself because of how hackneyed its design is and how cacophonous it sounds and mocks its audience with lowbrow tactics of adding tinsel to trash and marketing it as the glory of tatterdemalions rather than the refinement of true cinematic achievements that have been relegated because Warhol’s Campbells-Soup-consumerism trumps true belletrist in the public view.
        Cultural watersheds punctuate our history with salient achievements in experimentation, but the formulaic profiteering of buzzword sensationalism and yellow journalism and the ostentatious glorification of promiscuous boasting and fancy cars tantalize the mice to continue playing slot machines rather than penning a novel or doing something promethean. The world scoffs at Trump but ignores the bigger institutional caveats that endanger us much more than a pragmatic albeit unconventional pontificator who is complicit in constructing a false narrative to enslave mindless people to fret about eminence rather than delight themselves in the consequential nuances of established refinement that used to serenade the world with flourish and spectacle. The world kowtows to the crusade against flavor-of-the-week enemies of the liberal-conservative syncretism because it has been conditioned to believe that synthesis is the only logical solution for the polarized worldviews of churlish people that become parvenus not on their merits but on their marketable pitfalls and their public foibles. Peccadillos are more important to people than virtues and this makes society morally bankrupt if we loiter around Astroturf causes that have been infiltrated by corporatism and venal debauchery and acquiesce as disempowered gossip hounds that hunt in packs to find jest in aberration rather than achievement in self-created narratives that defy the stupid purblind boorishness of the mainstream media and its haughty liberalism or the persnickety condemnation of priggish conservative moralities that had an expiration date 50 years ago. Who the **** cares about transgender-touting-gender-fluidity quidnuncs and the snooty obsession with lurid personal endeavors of reputable people that made minor ****** transgressions in a world policed by wide-eyed feminazis that seek to ransack men of their vital virulence to spotlight their unjustifiable oppression. Women are oppressed but the carnal nature of their calumniation and their vindictive powers of persuasion are deployed with such vehement vigilance and such distaste for the majority that the world relegates itself to quibbles of celebrities rather than substantive issues. There is a systemic feminization of society occurring that seeks to demarcate despotic uxorious pleasantries as an incarceration of vocal dissent against supercilious women and their tamed men that slavishly grovel in repudiation of anything prickly.  Men historically have oppressed women but the solution to this quandary isn’t a reverse discrimination where the minority concern is spotlighted as a majoritarian issue that overshadows the disproportionate nature of our society where nominal accreditation is afforded in a non-meritocratic way to absolve people of their carnality and demote the vigorous defense of human liberty as secondary to compromise solutions that appease more people than they offend but simultaneously result in suboptimal conditions that reward arbitrarily coachable people while jettisoning anyone witty enough to be capable of insubordination of a hedonistic epicurean world obsessed with appearance and ravaged by the decadence of formulaic profiteering at the expense of originality and true promethean art that is herculean enough to defy hackneyed tropes and siphon the best elements from a piecemeal world variegated with complexity but stifled by fomented hatred.
The solutions to these problems is to create a watchdog group of artistic critics who become eminent and ubiquitously heard enough to offer creative consultation to the artistic endeavors that we consume and the music that is curated for fastidious ears that crave euphonic originality rather than the banality of easily dovetailed bass-heavy cookie-cutter garbage and the gaudy tactics of talentless rappers whose swagger derives from  the intersection of opportunism and the divestiture of an industry that rewards gloated supercilious epicureanism and meretricious marketability. Am I the only one jaded by second-rate superhero movies that infest the cinemas that borrow from Michael Bay while thrusting pulse-pounding but narratively bankrupt movies down the throats of consumers that might prize the cinematic originality of the heyday of filmmaking? Is it always high art to invent controversy that is witless or half-witted just because it will create buzz? Shouldn’t we condemn the laziness of society in acquiescing to the penury of the modern cultural narrative which belabors the dead horses of racism and sexism ad nauseum? Shouldn’t we fight the war of against inequity through legislation rather than hibernating about scandalous eminence and testy malfeasance?
          Liberty should be championed above all else and we are turning our backs on the future unless we muster the resolve to diminish the sway of the common narrative and aim our spotlight at consequential endeavors rather than the tropes of prosaic and pedestrian bastardization of art and culture. We need to fight artistic laziness which has ravaged our culture and castigate the tactics of wannabee celebrities that use lurid tactics to attract an audience by bedizening themselves with Pyrrhic ostentations and rampant fakery to create more melodrama in a world that needs to be less histrionic. YouTube celebrities swarm us as they get high on ******* and lean-- at our expense-- and vandalize property and convincing nine-year-old’s like Lil Tay to flex her money like it is infinitely renewable in a finite world where all our attention is wasted on artless artifice of less talented people that know how to engineer a ruckus by strutting themselves beyond all decency and selling out to a corporatist nightmare of enslaved convenience. We need to be more vocal about the dissolution of artistic merit and the formulaic repetition of successful formulas that jade us and make us yawn about another retread of a previously successful idea that is milked to the point of cruelty.                                                         ­                       
       Let’s change the narrative and focus on creating true art rather than reacting to the meretricious tinsel of the vogue consensus which is so impotent in its ability to rivet audiences because it has become so notoriously lazy. Fight laziness in art, dismiss your news feeds, be resourceful, seek true happiness rather than find yourself hoodwinked and duped by the idea that Trump is the most important issue or getting caught in thought loops and brooding about sexism and inequality. Let us strive to be egalitarian but within limits that would also appease hominists rather than just the hypertrophy of the leftist narrative that seeks to cage us with the doublespeak of complaisant conformity.  Reject the unctuous charlatans that pretend priggishness when their banausic purpose is barbaric but beguiling to be a lullaby for laggards. We need to fight for the future of civilization rather than hobnob with convenience and loiter around decrying false perpetrators rather than systemic injustices that could otherwise be rectified if enough people fought for it. We can invent a future that is a great festivity serenaded by cultivated artistic refinement and forget about the trifles that divide us. United in ambition and fueled by ingenuity we can defeat artistic laziness and be resourceful with how we decide what is newsworthy. Spurred by the argosy of proactive motivation we can change the world in a substantial way by deciphering the subtext that governs the world. The subtext is everything!
Song one
This is a song about tarzanic love
That subsisted some years ago,
As a love duel between an English girl and an African ogre,
There was an English girl hailing along the banks of river Thames
She had stubbornly refused all offers for marriage,
From all the local English boys, both rich and poor
tall and short, weak or strong, ugly and comely in the eye,
the girl had refused and sternly refused the treats for love,
She was disciplined to her callous pursuit of her dream
to marry a mysterious,fantastic,lively,original and extra-ordinary man,
That no other woman in history of human marriage ever married,
She came from London, near the banks of river Thames,
Her name was Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill, daughter of a peasant,
She came from a humble English family, which hustled often
For food, clothing, and other calls that make one an ordinary British,
She grew up without a local boy friend, anywhere in the English world,
She is the first English girl to knock the age of forty five while a ******,
She never got deflowered in her teens as other English girls usually do
She preserved her purse with maximal carefulness in her wait for a black man,
Her father, of course a peasant, his trade was human barber and horse shearer,
Often asked her what she wants in life before her marriage, which man she really wanted,
Her specification was an open eyesore to her father; no blinkers could stave the father’s pale
For she wanted a black tall man, strong and ruggedly dark in the skin, must own a kingdom,
Fables taken to her from Africa were that such an African man was only one but none else,
His glorious name was Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
When the English girl heard the chimerical name of her potential husband,
She felt a super bliss in her spine; she yearned for the day of her rendezvous,
She crashed into desperate burning for true English love
With a man with a wonderful name like Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya.


Song two

Rumours of this English despair and dilemma for love reached Africa, in the wrong ears,
Not the human ears, but unfortunately the ears of the ogres, seasoned in the evil art,
It was received and treated as classified information among the African ogress,
They prevented this news to leak to African humans at all at all
Lest humans enjoy their human status and enjoy most
The love in the offing from the English girl,
They thus swiftly plotted and ployed
To lure and win the ******
From royal land;
England.




Song three

Firstly, the African ogres recruited one of their own
The most handsome middle aged male ogre, more handsome than all in humanity,
And of course African ogres are beautiful and handsome than African humans, no match,
The ogres are more gifted in stature, physique, eugenics and general overtures
They always outplay African humans on matters of intelligence, they are shrewder,
Ogres are aggressive and swashbuckling in manners; fear is none of their domain
Craft and slyness is their breakfast, super is the result; success, whether pyrrhic or Byronic,
Is their sweetest dish, they then schemed to get the English girl at whatever cost,
They made a move to name one of their fellow ogres the name of dream man;
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
Which an English girl wanted,
By viciously naming one of their handsome middle-aged man this name.

Song four

Then they set off 0n foot, from Congo moving to the north towards Europe abode England,
Where the beautiful girl of the times, Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill hail,
They were three of them, walking funnily in cyclopic steps of African ogres,
Keeping themselves humorously high by feigning how they will dupe the girl,
How they will slyly decoy the English village pumpkin of the girl in to their trap,
And effortlessly make her walk on foot from England to Africa, in pursuit of love
On this muse and sweet wistfulness they broke out into loud gewgaws of laughter,
In such emotional bliss they now jump up wildly forgetting about their tails
Which they initially stuffed inside white long trousers, tails now wag and flag crazily,
Feats of such wild emotions gave the ogres superhuman synergy to walk cyclopically,
A couple of their strides made them to cross Uganda, Kenya, Somali, Ethiopia and Egypt
Just but in few days, as sometimes they ran in violent stampedes
Singing in a cryptic language the funny ogres songs;

Dada wu ndolelee!
Dada wu ndolelee!
Kuyuni kwa mnja
Sa kwingile khundilila !

Ehe kuyuni Mulie!
Ehe kuyuni mulie!
Omukhana oyo
Kaloba khuja lilia !
They then laughed loudly, farted cacophonously and jumped wildly, as if possessed,
They used happiness and raucous joy as a strategy to walk miles and miles
Which you cover when moving on foot from Congo to England,
They finally crossed Morocco and walked into Europe,
They by-passed Italy and Spain walking piecemeal
into England, native land of the beautiful girl.

Song  five

When the three ogres reached England, they were all surprised
Every woman and man was white; people of England walked slowly and gently
They made minimum noise, no shouting publicly on the street,
a stark contrast to human behaviour and ogre culture in Africa, very rambunctious,
Before they acclimatized to disorderly life in England, an over-sighted upset befell them
Piling and piling menace of pressure to ****,
Gripped all the three ogre brothers the same time,
None of them had knowledge of municipal utilities,
They all wanted to micturated openly
Had it not been beautiful English girls
Ceaselessly thronging the streets.



Song six

They persevered and moved on in expectation of coming to the end,
Out-skirt of the strange English town so that they can get a woodlot,
From where they could hide behind to do open defecation
All was in vain; they never came to any end of the English town,
Neither did they come by a tumbled-down house
No cul de sac was in sight, only endless highway,
Sandwiched between tall skyscraping buildings,
One of the ogres came up with an idea, to drip the ****
Drop by drop in their *******, as they walk to their destiny,
They all laughed but not loudly, in controlled giggles
And executed the idea minus haste.

Song seven

They finally came down to the banks of river Thames,
Identified the home of Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill
The home had neither main gate nor metallic doors,
They entered the home walking in humble majesty,
Typical of racketeering ogre, in a swindling act,
The home was silent, no one in sight to talk to
The ogres nudged one another, repressing the mirth,
Hunchbacked English lass surfaced, suddenly materialized
Looking with a sparkle in the eye, talking pristine English,
Like that one written by Geoffrey Chaucer, her words were as piffling
As speech of a mad woman at the fish market, ogres looked at her in askance.

Song eight

An ogre with name Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya opened to talk,
Asked the girl where could be the latrine pits, for micturation only,
The hunchbacked lass gave them a direction to the toilets inside the house,
She did it in a full dint of English elegance and gentility,
But all the ogres were discombobulated to their peak
about the English latrine pit inside the house,
they all went into the toilet at the same time,
to the chagrin of the hunchbacked lass
she had never seen such in England
she struggled a lot
to repress her mirth
as the English
never get amused
at folly.




Song nine

It is a tradition among the ogres to ****,
Whenever they are ******* in the African bush,
But now the ogres are in a fix, a beautiful fix of their life
If at all they ****, the flatulent cacophony will be heard outside
By the curious eavesdroppers under the eaves of the house,
They murmured among themselves to tighten their **** muscles
So that they can micturated without usual African accomplice; the tweeee!
All succeeded to manage , other than Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Who urinated but with a low tziiiiiiii sound from his ***, they didn’t laugh
Ogres walked out of privities relaxed like a catholic faithful swallowing a sacrament,
The hunchback girl ushered them to where they were to sit, in the common room
They all sat with air of calm on their face, Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
led the conversation, by announcing to the girl that he is Victoria’s visitor from Africa,
To which the girl responded with caution that Victoria is at the barbershop,
Giving hand to her father in shearing the horses, and thus she is busy,
No one is allowed to meet her, at that particular hour of the day
But he pleaded to the hunchback girl only to pass tidings to Victoria,
That Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya from Africa
Has arrived and he is yearning to meet her today and now,
The girl went bananas on hearing the name
The hunch on her back visibly shook,
Is like she had heard the name often,
She then became prudent in her senses,
And asked the visitor not to make anything—
Near a cat’s paw out of her person,
She implored the visitor to confirm
if at all he was what he was saying
to which he confirmed in affirmation,
then she went out swiftly
like a tail of the snake,
to pass tidings
to her sister
Victoria.


Song ten
She went out shouting her sister’s name,
A rare case to happen in England,
One to make noise in the broad day light,
With no permission from the local leadership,
She called and ululated Victoria’ name for Victoria to hear
From wherever she was, of which she heard and responded;
What is the matter my dear little sister? What ails you?
Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya is around!
She responded back in voice disturbed by emotional uproar,
What! My sister why do you cheat me in such a day time?
Am not cheating you my sister, he is around sited in our father’s house,
Is he? Have you given him a drink, a sweet European brandy?
My sister I have not, I feared that I may mess up your visitors
With my hunched shoulders, I feared sister forbid,
Ok, I am coming, running there, tell him to be patient,
Let me tell him sister just right now,
And make sure you come before his patience is stretched.





Song eleven

Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill almost went berserk
On getting this good tidings about the watershed presence,
Of the long awaited suitor, her face exploded into vivacity,
Her heart palpitating on imagination of finally getting the husband,
She went out of the barber shop running and ululating,
Leaving her father behind, confounded and agape,
She came running towards her father’s main house
Where the suitor is sited, with the chaperons,
She came kicking her father’s animals to death,
Harvesting each and every fruit, for the suitor,
She did marvel before she reached where the suitor was;
Harvested ten bananas, mangoes and avocadoes,
Plums, pepper, watermelons, lemons and oranges,
She kicked dead five chicken, five goats, rams,
Swine, rabbits, rats, pigeons and hornbills,
When she reached the house, she inquired to know,
Who among them could be the one; Akhatembete Khobwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya, But her English vocals were not guttural enough,
She instead asked, who among you is a key tempter go weevil car no lawyer?
The decoy ogre promptly responded; here I am the queen of my heart. He stood up,
Victoria took the ogre into her arms, whining; babie! Babie, babie, come!
Victoria carried the ogre swiftly in her arms, to her tidy bed room,
She placed the ogre on her bed, kissed one another at a rate of hundred,
Or more kisses per a minute, the kissing sent both of them crazy, but spiritual craft,
That gave the ogre a boon to maintain some sobriety, but libido of virginity held Victoria
In boonless state of ****** feat, defenseless and impaired in judgment
It extremely beclouded her judgment; she removed and pulled of their clothes,
Libidinous feat blurring her sight from seeing the scarlet tail projecting
From between the buttocks of the ogre, vestige of *******,
She forcefully took the ogre into her arms, putting the ogre between her legs,
The ogre’s uncircumcised ***** effectively penetrated Victoria’s ****** purse,
The ogre broke virginity of Victoria, making her to feel maximum warmth of pleasure
As it released its germinal seed into her body, ecstasy gripped her until she fainted,
The ogre erected more on its first *******; its ***** became more stiff and sharp,
It never pulled out its ***** from the purse of Victoria, instead it introduced further
Deeper and deeper into Victoria’s ******, reaching the ****** depth inside her with gusto,
Victoria screamed, wailed, farted, scratched, threw her neck, kissed crazily and ******,
On the rhythms of the ogre’s waist gyrations, it was maximum pleasure to Victoria,
She reached her second ****** before the ogre; it took further one hour before releasing,
Victoria was beaten; she thought she was not in England in her father’s house
She thought she was in Timbuktu riding on a mosquito to Eldorado,
Where she could not be found by her father whatsoever,
The ogre pulled Victoria up, helped her to dress up,
She begged that they go back to the common room,
Lest her father finds them here, he would quarrel,
They went back to the common room,
Found her father talking to other two ogres,
She shouted to her father before anyone else,
That ‘father I have been showing him around our house,’
‘He has fallen in love with our house; he is passionate about it,’
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya was shy,
He greeted the father and resumed his chair, with wryly dignity.


Song twelve
An impromptu festival took place,
Fully funded by the father of Victoria,
There was meat of all type from pork to chicken,
Greens were also there in plenty, pepper and watermelons,
Victoria’s mother remembered to prepare tripe of a goat
For the key visitant who was the suitor; Akhatembete,
Food was laid before the ogres to enjoy themselves,
As all others went to the other house for a brainstorming session,
But the hunched backed girl hid herself behind the door,
To admire the food which visitors were devouring,
As she also spied on the table manners of the visitors, for stories to be shared,
Perhaps between herself and her mother, when visitors are gone,
Some sub-human manners unfolded to her as she spied,
One of the ogres swallowed a spoon and a table fork,
And Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Uncontrollably unstuffed his scarlet tail from the trouser,
The chill crawled up the spine of hunchbacked girl,
She almost shouted from her hideout, but she restrained herself,
She swore to herself to tell her father that the visitors are not humans
They are superhuman, Tarzans or mermaids or the werewolves,
The ogre who swallowed the spoon remorsefully tried to puke it back,
Lest the hosts discover the missing spoon and cause brouhaha,
It was difficult to puke out the spoon; it had already flowed into the stomach,
Victoria, her father, her mother and her friend Anastasia,
Anastasia; another English girl from the neighborhood,
Whom Victoria had fished, to work for her as a best maid, as a chaperon,
Went back to the house where the ogres had already finished eating,
They found ogres sitting idle squirming and flitting in their chairs
As if no food had ever been presented to them in a short while ago,
One ogre even shamelessly yawned, blinking his eyes like a snake,
They all forgot to say thanks for the food, no thanks for lunch,
But instead Akhatembete announced on behalf of other ogres,
That they should be allowed to go as they are late for something,
A behaviour so sub-human, given they were suitors to an English family,
Victoria’s father was uneasy, was irritated but he had no otherwise,
For he was desperate to have her daughter Victoria get married,
He had nothing to say but only to ask his daughter, Victoria,
If she was going right-away with her suitor or not,
To which she violently answered yes I am going with him,
Victoria’s mother kept mum, she only shot miserable glances
From one corner of the house to another, to the ogres also,
She totally said nothing, as Victoria was predictably violent
To any gainsayer in relation to her occasion of the moment,
Victoria’s father wished them all well in their life,
And permitted Victoria to go and have good life,
With Akhatembete, her suitor she had yearned for with equanimity,
Victoria was so confused with joy; her day of marriage is beholden,
She hurriedly packed up as if being chased by a monster,
You've got a thousand hands
but only one mind.
Correct the clock's time -
anticipation stings the chest
but you can't complete the rest.

Maybe this is futile.
Reptilian-claws scratch for an ounce of denial.

For the sun awakens
when you scream for relief -
it is the only thing that can be done
for the doleful meek.
And the moon hides it's shine
when searching for the divine.
The darkness was meant as a guide.

Slow down your single mind,
and use your thousand hands,
that are untied.
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2014
As the sun went down,
Her smile after my apology,
  .  .  .  Little gift to me.
Kelly Rose Nov 2014
Voice unheard
she tries to remain silent
Words twisted
turned back upon her
She feels compassion
for Pyrrhus
as she may have won the day
but the war,
well...
she has been totally defeated
11/2/2014
Deviant that is what I have been deemed
I am pagan, I got a new tattoo
I laugh
but it is not fun
Wake up on the shower floor
Feelings scattered on the tile
With nothing left to cry about

The devils holed up in your head
Have finally reached a reverent lull
Hoping you won't laugh them out
Omnis Atrum Nov 2013
To be imbued with the conviction that empathic listening is a panacea,
by the surreptitious, murmurous harbinger and his mellifluous words,
provoked brooding that my comprehension of his susurrous eloquence was a mondegreen,
when this scintilla of sagacity left a fetching ingenue crestfallen.

By the surreptitious, murmurous harbinger and his mellifluous words!
I adopted a propinquity to this furtive, ephemeral epiphany,
but when this scintilla of sagacity left a fetching ingenue crestfallen,
I discerned this lagniappe beleaguered our dalliance.

I adopted a propinquity to this furtive, ephemeral epiphany.
When she became inured to petrichor I knew my method pyrrhic,
and when I discerned that this lagniappe beleaguered our dalliance,
I vowed to rectify the imbroglio for my quintessential cynosure.

When she became inured to petrichor I knew my method pyrrhic,
and I ruminated that her insouciance was only forbearance.
I vowed to rectify my quintessential cynosure of the imbroglio,
and fabricated a denouement to return her to halcyon incipient.

I ruminated that her insouciance was only forbearance,
until hearing her state our conflation made each a moiety of our own panoply.
She fabricated a denouement to return us to the incipience of halcyon
with ineffable felicity, and I remembered with ebullience my inamorata's words.

Hearing her state our conflation made each a moiety of our own panoply
provoked brooding that my comprehension of her susurrous eloquence was a mondegreen.
With ineffable felicity I found ebullience in my inamorata's words
and was imbued with the conviction that empathic listening is a panacea.
Ugo Jun 2013
Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread
ren Jun 2016
My soul ached
For his skin and bones
And all the beating somethings in between-
That nothing,
Perhaps not even time,
Could revoke the hormone-driven,
Empty-souled desire I had
For every participle of his being
To deluge me through my core
And past every withering remain
Of sanity or stability
I so feebly clung to.
You told me not to worry but you never told me how. Somehow I see you even when you aren't here. I understand why you left I just wanted you to tell me why. I still think about what happened and I still think it was my fault. I want to ask you what it felt like to hear me cry and if she's what you thought about when you were holding me. But all I have is Good Bye.
Mirza Lazim Mar 2020
Miss the heaven of your soul
In memories far away
Will you ever evanesce?!
Will I always feel my way?!

Not having bidden adieu
Left me in purgatory
Ah, I fell in love with you
Like the Pyrrhic victory

Warriors never give in
And their values carry on
I will drive dolours away
Till your voice is clarion

As dreams are effulgent,
Living is no more bitter
Your laughter is echoing
Through the endless Ether

I have the panacea
A true poet never fails
We gain little solaces
Owing to hard travails
Some try to save the world but can't save themselves.
WhyamIaSpoon Jan 2012
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.

My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.

A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.

A devilish ******* of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.

Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.

A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.

Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.

Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.

Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.

A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.

A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)

A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.

A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.

A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.

An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.

A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.

A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.

Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.

A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.

Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Julian Aug 2015
The haystack is the needle and the iceberg is compact
Scions of attrition tremble before the contract
Jaundiced world-weary tears lament the frailty of days and the evanescence of years
Senescence a cruel destruction, distracting garish comfort escorting the fears
Displaced and forlorn love beckons a second chance
Itinerant hopes know no commitment to simple embezzled parlance
Of dice and kin, nepotism’s high-roller antics are the linchpin
Frittered patience staking its bets on internecine dynamics of skin
Affirmative traction of disenfranchised hopes rests on fallow seasons
Traduced mirage tantalizes until the activation of regaled treasons
Shock wed with dismay appoints the tutelage of prestidigitation
Juggled triage aborts an unborn reason and anoints intimidation
Aliens flummox the borders to enlist a new world disorder
Trailblazers succumb to lawlessness and for every dollar gained we lose a quarter
Chaos checkmates as power rests from decrepit hands foisting the meretricious brand
Cattle scorched and sheep scattered as the broken hourglass can no longer count sand
Time toppled serenaded by applause canned
Toppled pyramids blind the eye of providence in the hour of unheralded prominence
The terror of history unfurls the efflorescence of piracy as ghosts work to subvert the invisible hand
Next dictums emerge that say supply on command, and entropy desecrates the land
Phone home to arm the putsch, clone home for aliens we push
Revisionism subverts the instruction of years and empowers the apotheosis of fear and the fourth ***** of George W. Bush
Dynasties envy the anonymity of a bald-eagle cabal of skinhead guffaw
Irascible genocide cavorts under the premise of shock and awe
The lullaby of morons is flinching assent to the supremacy of the unelected and unassailable tyrants
Discarding covenants on the principle of principality and counting on every knight to become errant
Pyrrhic victory of the perverted cross corrals the flock
Openly announced secrets enable the aliens to dock
At the port they are greeted as the victors and granted not only amnesty but indemnity
They brandish the unprecedented concept of an enumerated infinity
To amuse the zero-sum victory they author a new history of utilitarianism dethroning deontology
To the future readers they make contrite apologies
But when the races of men are annihilated by the evil Zen boasting of its utilitarian ken
The rubble of time cannot ascertain exactly how or when
But on the dreaded hour the virus will conspire to elect the most reproachable power
When panic reaches crescendo all the sugar in the world cannot but help to taste anything but sour
Abort the tyrannical machine no matter how convincingly it preens
No matter how much bunkum elevates the enchanting prevarication while concealing the affairs behind the scenes
Voting for balkanized splinters designed to weather the winter sustains the monopoly of sophistry
Ballyhoo saturates the airwaves and suddenly catcalling becomes gallantry
Tune out the pulpit, divest the culprit and impugn systemic venality
Dismantle the verisimilitude of shadows and hoist a giant mirror to reflect stark realities
Cue the curtains fall, the specters grow tall, and the clout is daunted by establishment doubt
The skeletonized truth severs the root but the behemoth armed to the teeth wages a bout
Cartels conspire with arms and fire and resurrect stodgy tenets to prowl like an army of vampires
To feed a fatuous superstition and to empower a censorship of convenience to enthrone a dark empire
Cunning preponderance enlists divisive shills to let the ghastly thriller exact its thrills
Occult obscurantism funds the vulnerable and tramples over the outspoken to actuate its will
Hopes dashed, stocks crashed and strife abundant
Generational dissonance revokes the incumbents
Chapter one of this unsung war come and gone
Stay tuned for the next addendum to see what is lost and who has won.
Ashley Chapman Nov 2017
High on the O2:
Red Rossopomodoro, Wagamama,
and on the bus shelter, Marc Jacobs,
and again higher,
Habitat,
then Metroline moves past.
It's the 113
to Oxford Circus,
and the 13 to Victoria:
Thrilla Lives On,
shouts the slogan,
while National Express has
All Set For Take-Off.

They're gone...
It calms
empties,
nothing much
just the red lidless eyes
of cars
two, three, four dozen pairs
hover
over the asphalt road.

Where...
where am I?
Ahhh, yeah,
in the Oriental Star,
the road seen from a table and stool,
waiting
for food.
Where have I hailed from?
My lover's womb.  
No, no
NOT THAT!
The North Star, yes:
A pub on the Finchley Road,
Where Tottenham beat Liverpool 4-1
A pyrrhic victory!
Over a couple of beers.

Warm years, and tears.
A sense of place,
a home, a nest,
Receding in the traffic
Of a busy road,
Waiting on noodles.
This air bag is suffocating me.
All i can breathe is the sulfur.
I don't have a witness.
It's a bitter, sweet, sweet, pyrrhic victory.
Lights looking left are lights looking away.

I promise I'll drive into the distance.
Your lights illuminate only exits now.
You can drive around in circles for years and years and never do justice to all of your fears.
A traffic circle.
And the ringing in your ears is the car wreck I'm trying not to escape. This sulfur is suffocating me.
circle, circle, circle, circle, circle, circle, circle, circle, stop.
It has now gone an epical song
like the fables of Homer and Ramayana,
or else a national anthem like the poem of Tagore,
in India and lesbian song of Brenda Fasie in south Africa,
that six million Jews were killed in the  world war II ,
that they were killed at Dachau,that it was holocaust,
That the Jewish Holocaust  was  protege of ******.

As if  the war was between the Jews and the world,
as if the Jews alone died in the war,but none else,
as if Africans' death  is not death,but ethics of war,
as if more than six million Africans who died are not news,
as if humongous compensation with state of Israeli to the Jews,
means nothing  until what we know not must happen.

African deaths in the second world war  lacks statistics,
given the sub-human conditions of the Africans  by then,
before thrones of colonial psychology of white civilization,
they were more than six million black men  and women,
conscripted by white man's force in kings African Rivals,
They were fronted  without training to shoot and take cover,
they were placed as front guard,white soldiers the rear guard,
then they became shield and human barricade to ward-off,
volley of bullets lest the white soldiers get wounded.

Black men  and women rarely came back alive,
once taken into war that was death as a must
those who survived the war in Panama or wherever,
were never taken back home, they were left there,
to walk on foot thousands of miles back home ,
without food ,clothes,arms or  map to guide,
some were even shot by the their own  fellow white soldiers
on the grounds of the race, because the war was over,
Black men as such died of hunger,thirst,exhaustion and Malaria,
they were eaten by wild animals in the bush,their cadaver went to dogs,
Millions of black men  never got home for ceremonial burial
and this was not Black holocaust, only the Jews had a holocaust.

Black men had no stake in the second world war whatsoever,
they had no interest , they were not in any colonial scramble
they were not in any  arms race nor imperialism of any sort,
Jews had what they wanted; land or money whatever it was,
but where can you get land and money without the cost ?
loss of lives or personal heritage can be the cost,Pyrrhic or Byronic,
Jews are obviously truth bound to accept this virtues of history,
to accept their lot as a swallowed misfortune
from the universal holocaust but not Jewish holocaust.

The Japanese in Nagasaki and Hiroshima will say what,
was not the atomic bombing of their land
occasioning mass death of the Shintos
and sons of Japan the owners of the Sun
immense enough to be a Japanese Holocaust ?
Nagasaki and Hiroshima is not an anthem in Japan,
but  blurred number of Jewish death in Dachau
is a universal anthem as the Six Million Jewish Holocaust,
what a selfish motivation to commit collective lies?

Jews who died were not six million,
Germany by  then was not such populated,
Germany had less than ten million people,
Kwani, were the Jews more than the native Germans ?
if then war is the game of numbers ,
couldn't the Jews  defend themselves from less Aryans?
Jews died, yes like any other race and community,
like the French,Britons,Germans,Russians and Indians,
Just like more than six million black  Africans who died,
But Africans have forgotten and forgiven their  conscriptors
they have never made the Black Holocaust  their epical anthem,

Black men were compensated nothing for their wounds in war,
Ask Richard Wright the Native son of America in the realm of ancestors,
he has a story in the black boy , he will tell you ,We black men ,
We swallowed  the most  bitter bill of  global history,
were toyed between the extremities of cruel historicities;
from slavery to  colonial terror to world war back to colonial terror,
The Jews were given Israel as a compensation for their wounds,
The  UNO wanted to Give the  country of Uganda to the Jews,
As  saucer compensation in addition to state of  Israel,
imagine brutality that Black man harvests ,
from his relation with the white  world.

How  many Arabs have the Israelis killed since 1948,
the year when Jews had Palestine's Atlas get shrugged
in the American  efforts to pamper the Zionist  Israelis,
are they not  more than six million Arabs , or they are less,
Arabs are not ****** who told the Jews to take a shower,
A lethal shower of ammonium gas at Dachau chambers,
Arabs are not Joseph Goebbels who ployed death of  the Jews,
But Jews have amassed all type of menacing weapons,
they have killed men,women and children of Arab nation,
in the past six decades, Jews have killed violently and brutally,
more than six million Arabs, is this  not an Arab Holocaust,
or no a Palestine Holocaust or no the Gentiles' Holocaust ?

the events of second world war were universal in dint
they never befall a single race,community or faith,
every community lost its people through death,
But Africa had the worst experience of all the cases,
absence of statics cannot make this sham claim,
Jews must stop lies and make genuine claims,
Jewish Holocaust is a misnomer for war event,
we all suffered and agonized in equal measure
why again formulate lies to justify avarice.
A sonnet's what this is, that much is plain
There really isn't any need to stare
Its introduction's made in this quatrain
Two more will follow, then a rhyming pair

It is iambic, so it goes “dot dash”
Two syllables a foot, five feet a line
The rhythm takes you onward in a flash
The sense of structure's reinforced by rhyme

After the first octet, a change of mood
The sonnet's true intentions are revealed
Its themes are love and essence, nothing crude
Hard hearts begin to melt and ******* to yield

Then closure as it slowly slips away
A soft exit – a pyrrhic fall – spondee.
Leigh May 2015
A ripened sky splits and bleeds
Mangled reds and blacks;
An instant melts as heat from
Clustered newborn suns --
Blistered from the wounds --
Collects and beams 1600 feet
Earthwards from Fat Man's
Plump and pompous underbelly.

The pure-light pin-***** stopped
The city's pulse for a moment;
Collecting remnants of the
Beating hearts (of artists,
Doctors, students, parents,
Preachers, rats, and peasants)
To plant on rotting soil -
A hellish fungal pustule.

The swelling abscess breathed
But once and burst to
Ripple excess outwards
Soaking up the landscape;
Ingesting miles and spewing
Spores towards septic skies to form
A mass of mushroomed
Might and pyrrhic triumph.
.



.
PoetWhoKnowIt May 2013
Ingénue, Ingénue
mellifluous intonation;
within my ear
intangible embrocation!

Emollient to my inure
lithe and lilt affections-
A panacea, a talisman
fetching provocation.

Ingénue, Ingénue
Why must you fall
into such fugacious
dalliances?

Becoming and comely
are you
The cynosure of men
dissembling by demure

Ingénue, Ingénue
how easily I imbue
sempiternal scintilla
into naive little you

Lo, during my brooding-
arrive in halcyon gambol,
Dulcet or Saccharine
Is it me or you?

Ingénue, oh Ingénue
an epiphany, so true
a furtive labyrinthine
past the offing of you

None so opulent
cast more than penumbra.
T'would simply be Pyrrhic
to go on, continue.
Someone once told me my vocabulary was lacking... so I started writing poems to remember words.
Ingénue - a naive young woman
mellifluous - Sweet sounding
intonation - inflection
intangible - unable to be touched or grasped
emborcation - to apply a lotion
emollient - a softening agent
inure - to become jaded
lithe - slender and flexible
lilt - move musically or lively
panacea - solution to all problems
talisman - a good luck charm
fetching - pretty
fugacious - fleeting
dalliances - short love affair
cynosure - focus of admiration
dissembling - deceive
demure - shy and reserved
imbue - instill, infuse
sempiternal - eternal
scintilla - a small spark
brooding - thinking alone
halcyon - happy, care-free
gambol - to skip or leap about joyfully
dulcet - sweet or sugary
saccharine - overly or sickishly sweet
epiphany - sudden realization
furtive - sneaky
offing - area of ocean between horizon and offshore
opulent - lush, luxurious
penumbra - half-shadow
Pyrrhic - victory but with heavy losses
Paul M Chafer Nov 2013
Nothing intimidates me more,
Than a woman’s inviting smile,
It pierces right down to the core;
Appealing to everything I adore;
This subtle, suggestive, wile:
Whetting the sense of anticipation,
Igniting fires of the imagination.

Nothing possesses more power,
Than a woman’s determined will;
Disguised as a delicate flower,
Sweetness smothering the sour,
Regardless of the pyrrhic thrill;
Bewitchment in everything but name,
Savouring the illicitness of the game.

No ordinary man has a prayer,
When a woman stakes her claim;
She’ll welcome you into her lair,
Reject her desires if you dare,
Her revenge has legendary fame;
Travelling incognito: deadly intentions,
From this wrath, there are no preventions.

Do not ever, ever, underestimate.
That which cannot be understood:
Avoid the temptation to speculate,
Categorize, classify or evaluate,
The secret mysteries of womanhood;
Whenever tempted by an inviting smile;
Nod politely then turn, and run a mile.

© Paul Chafer 2014
For Foolish men, wherever they may be, under rocks and thumbs, and wonderful women: so clever;)
P Pax Sep 2012
We were a beleaguered bard born,
a chief in chatoyant charms charged with
the principle petrichor of passionate paramours;
to drive the dainty dalliances
of incipient ingénues immured in
glamourous gossamer gowns;
lilting, lead lissome lads 'long labyrinthine love;
mischeiviously make mellifluous mondegreens;
sing of such serendipity: surreptitiously susurrous sessions
scintillas of Spring's sempiternal sentiments!

But fetching fugues fade fast, felicity's fated to fly. For
penumbral poets, it portends a pyrrhic pay.
We wander woebegone, waiting wistfully.
Lovers leave lyricists to languish in lonely lassitude.
The halcyon heyday has harbingered
inbroglio in the inured inventor of infatuation.
Why? With what wherewithal?
Often our offerings off us, opposite of, obviously, obtaining, or,
lucidly: lyrical lacers of Love likewise lack its livening lagniappe.
Eunice Amor Oh May 2014
each hour that I see you here, my heart starts to forget. all the times I could've held out my hand and when that something held me back. something, so minute: like a grain of sand or a sliver of light, that'd pull me into a chasm of remembrance, my hole of thought — my inner turmoil.

I'd remember how you'd embrace me with your hug of deceit and end it with your kisses of retreat. I'd remember how you'd shape the curves and ridges of my heart's making then poke it as if I was your little play toy. how you could toss and turn me just like my insomniac behaviour and get away like a thief in the shadow of the night. I'd remember your love for hate and how you thought I was your game, a taste of pyrrhic victory: your temporary satisfaction.

but as I see you walk through those doors, I remember my one regret:
that I learned to love your soul when you only chained me back.
27/3/14
when I go
it will be
impossibly late
and I’ll leave you
not multi-talented bars
or pairs of randy ingots
itching to procreate
in a splendid explosion
of golden delight
what I’ll leave you is
a stale-air larder
filled just this once
by dully packaged thoughts
and duller feelings
when I have them
they could only couple
if enlivened with musical prodding
or the sigh effecting benefits
from hands full of mood-altering
pharmaceuticals
so please yourself instead
and don’t
put them to any use
bury them deep
better yet
pile them high on Pyrrhic pyres
where the gathering scorch will send
down leaden puddles
while precious platinum curls rise
up to trickle trickster tears
my greatest possible reward
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Chuck Feb 2013
As you read this tee,
I spy into the depth
Of your
Pyrrhic soul
igriegazeta Apr 2010
Cheers from inside the catacombs of just-alive vagabonds & miscreant self-delusions of sagacious sabotage & pyrrhic moonscapes, brandishing our eternal return

a tabula rasa for respect & character - bottoms up, too. Mona Lisa
Shroud of Turin, ******* on a trunk. Gamble 66
for trays, dealing steam carrots.

Gag reflex to polite televangelists giving viewers auspicious immunity.

Habits cede to Power, acquiesce to Power, love power.
Peculiarity can recognize & organize to displace.
Something suspicious may run amok , antithetical to the divide & conquer trite.
Defeating paragons, i , Plumed Serpent of release & capture beats, borrowing color from a skylark in forever-flight, conjure remedial winds
Guide inimical bows subsumed in a cosmo-prole dew against the fasces of a few.
Danielle C Jun 2012
The spring’s efflorescence,
the sunshine halcyon,
the withering rose fetching,
the ripple in the lake a talisman,
and the birdsong mellifluous,
is ephemeral,
yet quintessential.

Through wherewithal of it all,
we find ourselves pyrrhic,
because it passes like a scintilla,
but in our hearts, it’s eternal.
Derrek Estrella Dec 2018
On the evening of August 6th
The body is separated, eviscerated
Stone walls
Lost thralls
A family takes their evening stroll
And finds themselves imprisoned
Their umbilical cord, cut down the half
Microwave oven
Searing monsoon shower
Vagrant feet are shackled
Eyes are blinded with exhaust pipes
The East is not allowed to cry alone
Decay, wail on
Wail on
Contain us
Dear Marcus, free me
From these Pyrrhic victories
Clean this dusky mall
I feel safe under phosphoric lights
Guerillas swing on electric wires
Transatlantic conversations
Acquired on paper
Perverse
Desecrated
Red cloth seizes everything
Stray, running felines
The impassioned, waving flag
Kept in a velvet pocket
Stay here, stay a while
This cold era is a rising draft
The Bermuda Triangle
Quarantined
No more ships crawl along the winded shore
A time capsule
The nation sinks into antiquity
The brink of armageddon
Cusp of oblivion
Crimson hand of eternity
An old, whittled clock
Last minute
Cold Turkey!
God almighty
Peace is never promised
But we may yearn again
Nobody is free
But we are safe for another hour
God almighty
Leases on the lands
Paid in thorns
Nations playing circles
Mr. Versus Mr.
An ever-changing world
Stagnant and tightly oiled
Save this soil
It will cave in silence
The clockmaker sits in the backdrop
Readying her tools
Nancy Katherine Nov 2011
You won and won
again
Pyrrhic victories
lost your
war
One of my new favorite words!
A Pyrrhric victory : a victory whose costs outweigh any advantage that may have been gained.
Neat history on the origin of this noun, if you're interested.
mira Feb 2017
it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. it was a pyrrhic love, it was a herculean love. how the new life will begin i do not know,
but i know it will come from the lovers,
the loverly trees sprung forth at my
birth.
i can't comb out my eyelashes,
i cannot comb these lice out of my eyelashes
i wish i did not have lice
please give me an excuse not to change my sheets
i miss the girl in my bed
i wish i did not have lice
just say something back to me
xyloolyx Sep 2014
goodbye poetry
some get none
now to write for a cause and not applause
majoring in alienation
hijack a popular avatar
just for a pyrrhic victory
put everything into the microwave

universal wealth care
***** it all
ensuring that all this isn't for everyone
only the best continue following

gone to get a life
(aka self-inflicted pain experience)
real life just dragged on and on
the same names keep coming back

observing their well-established cliques
like an anthropologist observing chimps
that glorious era
when the streams of consciousness
suffered a drought
maelstrom of ragnarok
took summer off life support

tasty

electoral fraud as a way of life
just shredded all the "yes" votes so nobody would know
looking to buy an extremist audience
and wondering if maybe walmart has one
the carnage has just begun

seething rage into the vault
tabs opened to liveleak videos of beheadings
all that freedom and she says "vanilla, please"
ideas with which everyone agrees
ideas embraced by all

everyone loves megalomania
everyone enjoys violent passion
everyone loves paroxysms

90 percent of you don't actually exist
low intelligence levels in all but four followers
make that five

hail eris hail discord hail chaos
mark all as read
mark all as ******
trapped in a vicious cycle
eating white toasted bread and acting all stable

invisible at last
discovered a way to speak
freely without judgment
discovered a way to avoid
positive feedback
sitting down for lunch with two popes
rhymes losing structure and becoming chaotic
Mary McCray Apr 2013
Today we get trochees and pyrrhic feet
slacked like the clouds of New Mexico floating
high across the blue canopy of sky.
Today we get spondees vaulting like towers,
cumulous syllables dwarfing mountains,
a vast landscape full of metric vapor.
Substitutions are what Stephen Fry calls spondees, trochees and phyrrhic feet in "An Ode Less Traveled." Our exercise today was to use them.
Victor D López Feb 2019
Such artificial nonsense rhyme,
That can turn art into slime,
And make your thoughts not worth a dime,
And words a total waste of time.

Throw away the limiting forms,
Burn all the idiotic norms,
Old-fashioned rules apply to fools,
No one but me plays with my tools!

The new trinity is Me, Myself and I!
I set the rules for every game,
And follow none, just the same,
Anarchy rules all, and that's no lie!

Iambic pentameter? Pyrrhic substitutions?
Who the hell cares about those illusions!
Counting syllables and each line?
Grand, old, pompous idiocy most sublime!

Write a sonnet? I'd rather wear a pink bonnet!
But if I do 15 lines it will be
Why, 'cause I say so, doggone it!
And no idiot ABAB CDCD EFEF GG

I am GOD and rule it blasphemy,
To follow both hard and easy rules,
That can make heads hurt, you'll agree,
Or burn in eternal hell as reactionary fools.

There is more art in a cow's mighty ****,
Than in Milton, Shakespeare, Wordsworth and Pope,
If you can't beat them, marginalize them from the start,
Drag them through the mire to raise me up, that is my hope.

From now on all couplets shall triplets be, thus do I decree,
Come to me on bended knee and I will set you free,
Everyone's a poet, welcome to the new reality.
This was originally submitted to another poetry site a short time ago in response to a challenge to essentially write an anti-rhyme poem in rhyme. For anyone who takes this at face value and misses the point, I hear my shrink has some openings available this week. Glad to pass along her contact information . . . :)
Bob Horton Jun 2013
In a tunnel
Like a wedding where I am behind
A black veil
The darkness embraces me: my new bride

But I see a light
I run! I run!
Run towards the light
But as I reach the light
I see

Matador! Matador!
My executioner, dressed in lights
A sponge for the cheers
Of a bloodthirsty people
I see your face and I know: I will die this day
But whether I will **** is another matter

To you our exchange is but a game
To me it is a war
If I win it will be a Pyrrhic Victory
In which I am the only casualty:
You will live forever in memory
I am just beef to you

You hide behind your mounted friends
Their spears make a porcupine of me
I will be weak when you finally fight me:
The hero is but a coward.
I am the only character who knows the truth:
The truth dies with me

My horns are not weapons or tools
They are a symbol of my family’s pride
A pride you slaughter when you take me for sport
I fight with my pride: my sharpest blade

I cough and cough and cough
But I cannot dislodge your sword
My spine is a broken chain
My pride smeared on the sand
I ***** blood for one last time
To ***** your hands
Because in the eyes of your family you are clean
That couldn’t be further from the truth

I die beneath the lights
Listening to the cries of
TORO!
Toro!
toro…

The darkness is my new bride
"Corrida" here meaning "Bullfight", and "Toro" meaning "Bull", the poem was written in Spanish and I've stayed faithful to the original where possible, so this doesn't read as well in english, but for the benefit of my non spanish speaking readers, enjoy :) (because Google Translate does a poor job of the original)
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2013
He follows a win, shoddy as tin,
What a week, one sorry victory
And tales to be strewn, too thin
His climbing hill, a pyrrhic story.
Caleb Jaren Feb 2010
It's said to move like
this..stop-start, stop-start
like a sullen auto refusing to comply
with its operator -and the words, so arcane they must have
been hand delivered from an untouchable
source of divinity
iambic, pyrrhic, choriambic and amphibracic
what ever can they mean and
of course secondarily
can they be understood enough to make even
half-hearted progress?
A N Friedman May 2013
Could barely get out the door today
Funny, ‘cause I walked away
Amazing how fast you get used to things
How comfortable you get with what the weekend brings
And how fast they end and go away
Left alone to face a new day
Now all left alone with all of this time
Feeling like this will be my last rhyme
Where once there was warm flesh,
Now only cold pillows and dusty blankets
Where there was comfort and company
Bad TV and empty hours
Methodical release and dark sunny days
Punctuated by corporeal storms
Half smiles with the Pyrrhic comfort
The knowledge that this time I did what was best
I stood up, I stand up, I gaze around proudly
And see that I am still an island.
With waves rapidly eroding my shores,
Dents in my harbor from boats that came to dock
And left far too soon
Sun shining on my face to attract new visitors
And I sit and wait,
Trying impossibly to be happy
with just being an island.

— The End —