i am the saddest man on earth.
my rock is mud,
my life has lost its worth.

savage, heart
so hurt
and empty
blackened pools of
pain, not envy
given into sleepless nights,
and pain-filled days,
where nothing's real,
where nothing's right.

this is the way it is,
the way it seems to
be
now i peer into a
dusty mirror
seeing little left of me.

Far, far away, in a kingdom long ago,
There lived a ***** King who had a **** made out of gold.
He ****** his royal Queen, he ****** his royal Knights,
He shoved it in the Chambermaids, and up his Horse--did twice!

From the Page-boys down, to the Peasants in the fields,
He even ****** the Flowers whilst reaching for a feel,
-Of his farting ****, to scratch up and down,
'Then he headed through the forest to **** the whole ****** Town!

If you seem to wonder why this King continually ****** and Farted,
Perhaps this poem will teach you a lesson on how Government was started!

i love you (when you're)  rambling
i want to hear what you say after work
i want your face in my hands
i want you in my studio with a glass of wine
(telling me things)
i want
you.

Like a lollipop,
LICK ME.
Like a lemon,
**** ME.
Like a balloon,
*******.
Like a banana...

A
B
C
D
E
F
G
H
I
J
K
L
M
N
O
P
Q
R
S
T
U
V
W
X
Y
and
...Z.

Now I know my A-B-C's,
...could you kindly
*******!

Love,
d

the way we wish
it was
the way
it ought to be
but
fate has set us
on a course
of would haves
should have
been.

The original verse by Wm. Shakespeare:
Sonnet 18

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date".
_______

The satirical by D. Conors


"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art hot, damp, sticky,
too short, too bright
and too ****** seasonal."

On the streets of heat and movement
lie the evidence of pain,
she walks, he talks, the children run
throughout the burning rain.

I can smell the smoke of lifelessness
along the living death,
we talk, they walk, the sirens wail
today may rob our breath.

In the rooms of waste and apathy,
sit silent the insane,
she writes, he writes, the samll hand ticks
the hours fast away...

More along the lines
of my loneliness discord,
I stepped into the crime
of a *****, painful sword.

Too many closing doors,
and sorrow always there,
a memory has flood the moors
of my eyes a-brim with tears.

We have watched the sacred clock,
tick-tocking away delight,
yet never understood the shock
that something was not quite right.

Tomorrow's now never hoped for,
yesterday's a shattered dream,
we now crouch behind a closed, locked door,
and in silence loudly scream.

long ago,
leaving me to weak to yell,
i
saw a single stone laying in the dust
along the road.
Taken by its
loneliness,
i
reached
down
to pick it up,
placed it
crying
inside my left breast-pocket
without
an angry word,
(or none)
as the world
imploded
from within my
empty soul
and the birds
above
had ceased to
sing.

dconors  love  know  sweet  like  time  day  want  eyes  hands  kiss  just  deep  tears  long  left  heart  slowly  night  look  lips  hair  horner  ol  air

From puppyhood's hour I have not peed,
As others sniffed, I have not gleaned,
As others pawed, I could not seem,
To bark along with the canine teams.
From the hydrants red and wet with drizzle,
I have ne'er to leave  my yellow stream,
For my bladder had all fizzled,
Clogged with endless hordes of fleas.
Then- at the vet's, one gloomy dawn,
A very strange device was drawn,
And poked and prodded where I ill,
Then I was forced to take a pill.
Then from  the torrent of this river,
My shaggy fur began to quiver,
Upon my haunches did indeed I rose,
Feeling wetly coldness on my nose,
Then the raging yellow stream,
At last dislodged itself of fleas,
And to my great and sweet relief,
They lay a bone befor my feet.
_______
The original poem:
  
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Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
--edgar allan poe

it's a
tear-
drop
this time

you
can't have it,
it's
all mine

not
many left,
but you'll
be fine.

tear-
drop
all gone,
now dry...

it's going to be
so easy to do what i have
got
to do
when i do
it
since knowing
that doing what
i am going'
to do
won't matter
to you

(or anyone else for very long, anyway)

which makes
it
easy
to do,

soon.

lay down with me in your dreams at night
carry me in your thoughts at day
and i will never be far away

i may never
see you
or be
with you,
i
will always
love you.

never forget that.

with no one to talk to
and
no plan as to where i should go,
i fall into a listless,
waking slumber
and
feel covered up in cold.

...i shall affix a sweet
red hibiscus
to you hair.
i shall live in the petals,
always near,
you
until the leaf doth wilt,
then live in
your heart
forever still.

There once was a poet called D,
stopped in with some strange poetry,
he began to write,
caused a pub-room fight,
then fled the scene with mad glee!

nothing on earth
could brighten the dooryard
of my studio,
like your shining face....

Rise & shine,
I'm online...kisses good morning
...you look so fine!

(Loving you is grand it seems,
I love you more than cheesy
poetry.)

i think about you all day long
no matter
how soft the thought
or dear sweet the song...

I would, at this point
in time
kiss you
kiss you
kiss you
all over
and
love you as mine...

oh, really? are you really, rolling
on
the
floor
laughing?

I'd so love to see that...

hey, you
i love you
so
smile...

is sick
and to die...
all i can do
is sit here and
cry...

D, I'm new here, but I love what I see .....


D   i love what i see too

Read more: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/the-last-word-for-m/r/#ixzz0qVRH4dD4

d.conors: i want you.
M: no you don't
M: ****
d.conors: i say what i want.
M: fine
M: go on

d.conors: i look at your pics all day
M: you do?
d.conors: i set my pc up with your pic on my backdrop
d.conors: i look at you and have little silent chats
M: silly boy
d.conors: yes
M: crazy boy
d.conors: and paint and smile and look at that beautiful woman who loves me
M: so ....that's how you spend your day...
M: do I chat back?
d.conors: i spend my day working my tail off with no real contact with other people
d.conors: no, you do not chat back
M: but I do
M: in my head

d.conors: you just stare at me from off the screen with those crystalline eyes
d.conors: and i want you.
d.conors: i lay me down to sleep
d.conors: and
d.conors: i want you.

M: deep sighs
d.conors: i wake up and make coffee for me
d.conors: and
d.conors: i want you.
d.conors: it was rainy and cold today
d.conors: and
d.conors: i wanted you.

M: gulp

M: I sit at my computer
M: stare out my window....and I want

M: you too

...and for with mine own
and simple hands,
i would pick for you
every tulip on the sod,
lay them at your feet
and beg my tears to stop...

we are
in
love
that's why.

sometimes i find my
self-trembling
at the
thought
of
you.

you blossomed
in my life,
made me see
the world
in a different light,
you scented the air
with your love
and affection,
gave me
a new artistic direction.

It is Autumn, once again,
my
favorite season,
and again,
the leaves turn by way of the wind,
in colours of palettes,
around my aloneness again

I look long down the avenue,
the street,
the sidewalk, the trees,
I wish
I could watch myself wandering,
with someone
I love
     in the breeze,
but,
this again is uncertain
as my cigarette lifts
in this crisp
Autumn air...

     my aloneness has gathered here.

...that The Goddess
has hands of ivory white
or black as ebony night,
fingers that glisten
with the intensity of immensity,
of stars,
over-flowing with the seeds of trees,
scattering them in splendorous openness,
across the moist, brown earth,
where they'll grow like grass
and cause the quenching rains to
fall,
from the sky made azure
'neath the endless streams and strands
of Her hair
which is the wind itself.

o goddess...the tears that spill like oil
chokes the seas...
pray for
us left lost in the mist...

intake of
breath
lines perfect
composition

i
want to cry,
when i think about
your eyes,
i
want to touch you
and wish
for just a single,
endless
kiss,
a kiss upon your
eyelids
and lips...
just one?

touch my hand,
touch my hand,
all day long (or
perhaps all night)
let me smell your sweet
perfume,
and i will not request
the taste of your
lips,
lady, oh, those lips
touch my hand...

by simply seeing you,
not to mention,
talking to you,
sends me...

Satin-textured shamrock flower,
whose eyes chrome the seas
of the faded cushioned theatre seats,
with their sparkling, piercing power--
You,
saunter sprightly up and down,
lyrical laughter over-bounds,
in quick-timing
to the taste
of your Irish school-girl ways.

We take time enough to see,
those livid, lush-red cheeks,
(ripe, rose-blushed every time
as you savour sweet the wine)
that sanctifies
your softly senses,
sans pretenses,
whereon your wings of
wonder float and fly.

Scented, tactile spirit-showers,
all the joy we need,
as the stage-light's haunting beam,
Sheers the magic of this hour--
You,
lightly lift us off the ground,
set us oh, so softly down
upon those rhyming wisps of air
that caress your auburn hair.

Now, I, a poor poet,
upon this paper
play
pleasing poetics of your praise,
whilst the ink upon these lines,
dries far faster than the tears
falling
from my wistful, yearning eyes
in exaltation of
your Wings of Wonder Ways.

"One is at last killed by what one loves violently."
--Guy De Maupassant

During the nights when I cannot seek the sanctity of
sleep,for it does not come over me until the
deadly light of daybreak;
I listen to the still, small voice
calling out from the cracked, crumbling and
falling
plaster firmament hanging over me--
a proverbial coffin-lid
threatening
to close in over me, nailed tightly
shut
with antique copper spikes
to keep
the good dreams
     out.

I am so often told in tones
echoing sad and
silent
in the O Holy Night,
to write
the elegy of insanity
creeping
     up
from my feet
beneath
these ***** blankets,
seeping,
working its way to my throat
where lies my stifled
cries
that engulf the labored breathing
as my tender, simple
heart
threatens to explode.

Tossing a pillow against the
peeling,
painted wall, I utter
a course *"*******"
to the weathered, unwashed window
by my head
that pounds;
needing the soothing
song-sounds of
whiskey, scotch or
lukewarm beer to revive
my
   sinking,
burning soul as
     i lay me down
     to die,
     i pray to nothing
     and embrace the lies

O, the lies...

I can scarce recall
a time of peace and
bliss,
laying lonely in your arms,
with regret I had to
kiss
your sour lips
perfumed bitter with stale smoke,
***** and other such things like
this...

...this nowhere outside goiing,
going
     gone:
The Wheel of Misfortune,
the agony of armies in
retreat,
the ****** of the mind,
the birth
of Jesus, Muhammad, Krishna
and the plastic
Elvis Presley poking up
off your dusty dull-blue dashboard
like the other man's
***** you left
for mine.

Yes,
on these and every sleepless
forever nights
     I know,
I show that
O, still, small voice
the things
we refuse to see,
and maybe after it's all over
it
will sing myself to sleep.

Sweet, your darling non-touch of what we can say is real,
you make me feel when the sun-streaks high-time your
birch-brown tasty hair beneath the deep and always sky,
above the gleam-gleam-glisten of the sparkle eyes, i
know to love to listen when we speak nothing-sweet to the
almost nobody i can sometimes seem to be that explains
these sweet, your darling dreams i dream of thee.

holding you in the comfort of my embrace...breathing together...how soft your touch...my heart, my heart yearns...

The sea is the land's edge also..."*
--T. S. Eliot

It's a sand-castle in morning tide
slowly constructed
for the first time; and the horizon
sea-blue, distinctly separated from sky-blue
with a razor fine-line
liquid running steadily
into time.

I saw a small boy, ankle deep
in steaming sand
building illusional dreams of
Kings and Queens and Knights
because he can
do anything he wants,
while dolphins dive and dance
in the sunrise crystal morning
with his tiny, growing hands...

And when the seagulls circle by,
above hearty, browning palm trees,
eating as they please,
the kiss of water hits the shore
invoking a magnificent mystery music
just before

I
realize as certain memories arise,
that beyond this circumstance
lies connectedness,
an ******, wavering consequence,
leaving me to forsake
alone
ness:

When I wander along this temporal shore,
flying, sometimes falling
through these storms:
like the sea I am in many ways
so sometimes slowly dying
without pain,
and in a certain collectiveness, she reaches
forth her foamy hand,
blistering my cheeks in colours crimson, sweet,
erasing that child's castle
in the sand.

Wonder where I'm going, past azure fields of pain,
where the wild wind is blowing,
where damnation earns its name.

Rivers running bitter cold, through dusty, ancient woods,
and as my soul was starving, I'd forgotten if I could
love or laugh, cry or sigh, gain or pain, live or die
(I slept on cairns of greystone and never realized
there was a bed of feathers so close by.)

Wonder where I went, through dusty courts of dew,
as when the air was steaming and my emotions screamed at you.

Flowers falling on the floor, time wasted by the yard,
as all you wanted was to open up my tangled, shattered heart
soul and mind, soft and kind, enduring all you stood by
(I forgot myself, on an empty shelf, where my spirit
slowly slipped and died).

When I discover where I'm heading, along the highway where I'll
vie,
in the land of rocky bedding, as my anguished thoughts are shedding,
something softly tells me, (somewhere deep inside)
your gentle, tiny hands will hold me,
should I ever learn to cry.

When I walk alone and by myself
for a day or two or perhaps a minute,
nothing makes sense and everything does,
and I want to write without words
and love myself while hating me, too,
and prove to you the world is ours
or maybe just yours
when all is paved in pain
like some puzzle missing pieces vital.
But only when I walk alone.

When I have to be with you
for an entire day or a few minutes,
it all makes sense and it doesn't
and I want to talk in silence
and be your friend and maybe more
and prove virility while wrestling the lions
or just by simply holding you
when the tears fall from your eyes
like the blood from one thousand wounds
but only when I have to be with you.

I
am in a strange
and
wonderful state of
being
so amazingly
captivated
by the
pulse and passion
of this our new
and genuinely
gorgeous,
totally amazing,
absolutely astounding,
instantaneous,
multi-syllabical,
humbling,
caring,
di­scovering,
sharing,
fondly affectionate,
mutually magnificent,
tender
and oh, so
tantalisingly timid,
breathtakingly
beautiful
love
I have for you.

"Tell me where all past years are...
or who cleft the Devil's foot.
Teach me to hear mermaid's singing..."
--Donne

...and all other lessons
came to pass,
those of night-fall,
fallen too fast.
Crickets screeched within the leaves
around the rocks,
rocking the weeds
...instructions lost in lonliness,
good-byes, good-byes,
hello to death,
not breath nor sounds
of love or life,
just lessons passing
throughout the night:
by memories of times long gone
to Hell and high Heaven
in the Mermad's song.

The Devil seems
to have had his share,
he ate our dreams,
left none to spare.
But, who can blame
the poor ol' man,
he's only doing
the best he can;
and what we don't,
(because we won't)
in language lost on sailing ships,
as we the cargo
are shipped off to crypts;
still wondering now
as the dank ground surrounds:
where went those years?*
whilst the dirge resounds.