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neth jones Jun 28
Man enters the tavern                            
Claps down some cash and outbursts ;
                                                       'Thirsty Things Firstly !'
The barman evaluates his condition      
And provides a session brew

Man tilts toward potential company
(a ferrety bloke in the shadows)
"Pull up that stack of milk crates        
                 And halve a heart with me"
(he earns a quick friend                      
                         in a tolerant stranger)

Soon fellow gaspers fill out the gloom
And an eve of humour descends
Though soon upending
Gourds downed the gullet
Sunk ugly into the scene
The tippling wit drags the night
              to the Slurry Pit

things turn Psychologically Rugged
his Mates soon round on him
bulldozing at the Elbows
saying he's a Cheapskate
they Berate him with rigorous Rattleprat
he's been goated with the Cain's mark
they tousle his crown malicious
Thorough in his cups and eaves
he mumbles and leaves
heaving up bile words

outside is dark and harsh
Outside the whole wild world does wail and weary
he sings to match its melancholy
but sadness lifts with his altered view
he sees 'a flock of moons' weigh down the sky
and natures churn                                    
                     makes a phosphorescent stew of it all
... decay                        
                 to lifes' celebration
'to see a flock of moons' is an old saying meaning drunk


decay to life (first part)

the scentless winter over
snow melts            
evacuates into the ground                        
                   under Spings attention

Springs arrival elevates mood
alleviates the heart halved by Winter

our strained eyes are relieved
                                  with the dismissal
of reflective snows

'thirsty things firstly' ;
from the groundswell and sponge
the air is steeped with earth ;
decay to life
recipes and bookmarks
in strawberry are falling,
stains upon my fingertips
grasp colourblind for
reds and yellows and pinks

and all they find is dust,
people, just falling away,
crumbling inescapably,
coming apart in my hands, just
cracking, like mirrors,

and all they do is stare,
stare straight at me as they
dissolve like sugar. they don't
stay together, no matter
how much I want them to.

people cannot stay together.
it seems that we're all breaking
at different speeds, and I might
be broken tomorrow, and he
could be next week, and her,

just dust in the cracks, human
skin in the still air, floating
aimlessly until we're
****** up by the hoover
and quietly disposed of.
Ylzm Mar 28
Incorrigible hoarder of the useless and perishables
Fridge full of forgotten decay and unfinishing leftovers
A comforting illusion of plenty and unending riches
To which she nibble away, always leaving behind ten percent
Shane Lee Mar 26
There was a thought,
but it is lost.
It had been pure in the
impurest of ways.
It sought to defile the innocence,
prolong the sin that is writing.

It is too late.
The thought that wants,
that needs,
but will not.
It will vanish and leave nothing

It is there
without words to describe it;
without the moment it lives in;
without a slivering snakes sssslush
        sac full of venom.
Venom, that it is.
Injecting itself
without the mind knowing.
Killing, callous,
couth - as one might imagine.

It exists
but not in context,
separately from its source.
erratic despite it's sharpness,
it's potency.

A thought that if thought about
you cannot elaborate enough.
It is sophisticated,
in the ways that writing is.
It will come and it will go
but it will always fester.
Decaying the process of thought.
© Shane Lee
A proper BLAH that it is lol Working on my NOT Poetry series lol
LC Mar 21
a frosting-filled slice
eaten one day is a treat -
fluffy, sweet, luxurious.

eaten every day -
nails encrusted with frosting,
cloying, drained, decayed.
These are my reflections on social media - in two haikus.
Zywa Mar 19
The piano, skew

on the beach, slowly subsides --

in the rising tide.
"Mijn ware verhaal" ("My true story", 2019, Karin Bloemen)

Collection "Truder"
Zywa Feb 14
Every seven weeks

the hairdresser cuts and trims --

me three weeks younger.
Collection "New Ago"
Ceyhun Mahi Feb 2
I see decay and death in middle youth,
Remembering the shroud by each gray strand.

My heart is restless now, without an aim,
Because this is not what I once had planned.

I cannot speak the tongue I want to speak,
And cannot find a soul who'll understand.
The qita or qitah (fragment) has a rhyme scheme of: xa - xa, varying between 2 or 15 couplets (longer ones do also exist). It was and is populair in West Asian and Middle Eastern literture. Its western equivalent is the epigram.
Zywa Jan 24
Upon street boxes:

tears of time, shreds of something --

to be seen somewhere.
Torn posters

"Hogere natuurkunde" ("Higher physics", 2019, Ellen Deckwitz)

Collection "After the festivities"
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