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Mane Omsy Jun 2018
Up to the limit
As they wish those bad things
Dreams haunting at mornings
Yes I dodged with excuses
Pushing to the limits

Yes I bailed out from a job
Hesitated to work
Just a hunch for liabilities to come
Only for this time
Hustling for the next time
Hope there is a next time
Like in queues over me

Though I need a lifting
Lifting Myself
Up to the limit
index finger of left hand
     (likened to Michelangelo
meticulously chiseling away
     at marble block), this poe
whit attempts to coax (zealously
     tap into his latent indivisible quo
shunt, sans self imposed

     quotidian literary endeavor slow
lee witnessing, an emergent
     reasonably satisfactory, though
hooping unbeknownst readers
     (perchance even a scribe from Yugo
Slav via) will only resort
     to lard out positive unsolicited feedback,

yet this scrivener well aware
bluntness evokes
     fulfillment loud and clear
inflating jowly machismo thru ether
narcissist quintessential rabid glare
     unpretentious vain warbling yakking

     zither plucking boastful demonstrably
     fatuous haughtily immodest luminaire
dismissively smug,
     sans literary endeavor aye share
thus, tis one objective when attempting
     to corral rampant thoughts,

     (that charge hither and yon, to and fro)
     at pace of greased lightening tear
chasing hash-tagged elusive
     Smokey and the Bandit
imp posse sub bull
     back to the future of 1977 year  

temporarily abandoning awoke
motive, i.e. initial challenge,
     viz going for broke
to sweat blood and tears
     digging deep within noggin, or choke
myself if merely draw blanks

     versus (beginners blind luck), and evoke
accolades accidentally
     tapping into creative
     (qua literary) mother lode
     joining belle lettres authored folk,
whose metier comprises compendium

     of alphabetized words
     receiving surprising windfall
     asper pig in a poke,
novel idea after nostrils emit smoke
the amazing dragon
     within (sol fully bellows)  
     finding me to feign taking a smoke

aware fame and fortune,
     where a written best seller brings renown
can essentially only be verbalized
     as a pipe dream from this clown,
who best **** sitter
     living hard scrapple

     (scrabble playing) hand to mouth shuffling
     along (the littered boulevard
     of rejection slips)
     wearing out one after
     another of me buster brown

shoes, perhaps posthumously
     gleaning raving reviews,
where famous names
     amidst cadre (espousing
     wife fours smiting
     social injustices extant loose

zing potential harmonic convergence,
     whether gentiles or Jews
throughout all foursquare corners
     of the world wide web
an economic eclectic diaspora,
     where underbelly of civilization
     pay heaviest ****** dues!
e're since dawn of civilization
being borne aloft in aerospace did excite
hence, Icarus myth popularized notion
to take winged flight
against principle of Physics

soared limitless height
away from temporal light
witnessed awesome might
into infinite night
realization to soar right

heavenly vault in spectacular sight
brainchild of genius minds left legacy
obeisance acknowledged
this hundred plus-year anniversary
aero planes success got off the ground

pardon comment appearing trite
Century21 elapsed since machines
attempt to remain aloft, where man made invention
glittered silvery white
beauty, grace and poetry in motion

excise Luddite trace despite
countless fatal crashes tragedy of loved ones
in fiery plight,
where corporeal ethereal, and groundswell right
lee invisible essences dwell and hover some place

maybe occupying a netherworld
with fellow at last count (seven) nymphs up
and at least one bubbly sprite
returning to Earth delivering
whipped miracles coolie and

Help ping prevent futures fiery disasters
many skeptic (like me)
ascribe phenomena to angelic intervention despite
such mirage, postage sized visage
Impossible to dispute quite

cuz soundcloud shields spectral savior air tight,
whence as mortal dusky Eve
twill firmly reveals if adherence valid
sans, via after death thar iz an in vite.
Anastasia Webb Apr 2014
Poet for hire:
has a year-and-a-half’s full-on experience
likes metaphors
and similes that don’t make sense.
Will probably write poems about
weird things like grass, glasses
and corn.
Can write rhyming or non-rhyming
structured or not structured.
Will happily spend hours writing
and work overtime.

For more information, please call,
or send a note by
carrier pigeon.

(chocolate will suffice as payment)

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