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CLARYT May 2018
Hush! he approaches
Rush! here his coach is,
Try to silence all the fear your trembling poor heart makes,
Stop! or he'll see you,
Chop! that's what he'll do,
Dismemebering you bit by bit, a moment it will take,
Come! let me show you,
Run! this you must do,
Evade the cuts and thrusts from such a menacing sharp knife,
Look! keep your eyes peeled,
Shook! that's how you feel,
If he ensnares you trust me, he will bleed away your life,
Oops! i've deceived you,
Nice! how i've played you,
enticing you with urgency into my masters lair,
Tricked! how delightful,
Stripped! oh so frightful,
your gut spills forth its contents but your screams are never heard,
Spared! that's what i am,
You! sacraficed lamb,
I live another day while lord and master feeds on you,
Search! nightly i scour,
Creep! in the wee hours,
providing my lords food supply, or i will be killed too......
an attempt at some victorian horror, needs a few tweeks, i'll get round to it soon enough, any ideas? i'd be happy to listen
Vinnie Adams Apr 2018
And
within moments of pity,
pride, possession, avarice;

and still, moments must resentful,
lustful, arduous, close;

some great current, unmoved
unblunted, unweakened, unswerved,
remains aflow;

for common nearness, a bondless magnetism,  
abounds through within faith-constance,
ever-surmounting that sight or scent
there without.
SangAndTranen Apr 2018
You’re preaching your vanity
To my innocent insanity
But I will hide within
While you strut and jut your chin.

Feeble destruction, I confess
Sitting in my pretty dress.
Ribbons of gold and silk of blue
I wouldn’t lift my skirt for you.

Roses white and gentle pink
Stained with red when the thorns *****
To behead a rose - 'tis not wise
Our stinging beauty terrifies.

Among the peonies, footsteps soft
Pretty little ladies’ faces don’t rot.
Corsets choking our manic laughter
Underneath her frills it’s a disaster.

My innocent insanity
Comes with a smile.
Take my paper hand good sir
Stay with me for a while.

You’ll enter blind
And leave a new man
Able to hear
That that is not there
And barely able to stand.
InSanItY
Danielle Mar 2018
A soul, a skip, a time, a page.
Twill and twine, butter me up.
Bowler hat, dapper gray.
Tea and twist, slap it away.
Hatpins stab and teamice snore.
A soul, a skip, a time no more.
The rhythm got stuck in my head for days and wouldn't leave me alone until I have written it out.
Sharon Talbot Sep 2017
How many heroes have chosen this path,
Of least or no resistance?
In the face of overwhelming odds,
Or staring at cubicular, corporate submission;
Elect instead the stance
Of simply
Doing
Nothing?

Victorian ladies thought it amusing;
20th Century Centurions and Puritans condemned it.
The spoon-fed rich live it and lose nothing.
Russian aristocrats sometimes recommend it…
When spurned in love & up against it.

Oblomov, for instance, whiled his time away,
In bed, or staring out at the wood,
Writing meaningless letters and ignoring the day,
Yet it still did him some good.

Marat in his bathtub, Proust in his bed,
Still accomplished SOMETHING
Or we’d have forgotten them instead.
Is there still no virtue in doing nothing?

Against the tide of corporate work,
Aquarians rebelled with dance.
Later on, Generation X
Came to work in a greedy trance.

Peter Gibbons was hypnotized,
To escape his lifeless job,
Destroyed the office as it was downsized,
But was promoted by “the Bobs”.

Some lesson there, for those who strive,
That work alone is not enough.
Attitude is more important to our lives,
That revolt by nothingness is not that tough.

Abbie Hoffman was thrown through windows,
While preaching peace instead of wrath.
Despite nobility of cause, does humanity still go,
The inexorable way of sloth?

Sharon Talbot
Someone criticized me for my tendency to do nothing other than stare out the window, yet is that so bad? It renews my soul. Ideas often congeal out of the air! There is a reason so many paintings of women lounging are entitled "Dolce far niente", isn't there?
Joe Cottonwood Mar 2017
The carpenter in one glance
undresses the house
with his eyes.
She, a Victorian dame
of voluptuous frame
in faded, ragged dress
seems to blush
at his appraisal.

He yearns to explore
intimate spaces,
strip her pretension,
commit filthy acts
hammering skillfully
with strange pleasure,
the work of hands,
attention to detail,
rubbing sweet oils
her inner beauty revealed.

It will end in soft strokes
a thoughtful cleanup
leaving an afterglow
of rejuvenation.
Her timbers moan
with anticipation.
First published in *Workers Write!* April 2016
I have heard stories
of gas lights and
cobble streets

their glare glowing,
amber dreams,
holding tight,
screaming

as we slip into a
stupor, rattling
windows

the hunted and the
haunted, stumbling
across these *****
stones

shoes creek, old
and broken,
and no one.
No one.

No one

hopes for the rays
of an orange sun,
the smell of
Spring rain

or victory
Graff1980 Aug 2016
I do not enjoy
your anesthetized
clean pictures
of the Victorian past
with your fantasies
about nobility
and high society.

The truth is *****.
The people were poor,
and the poetry spoke truth.

It did not cover up such pains,
but placed them on display
in word play
to say,
“We are human and we are here.”
Angel of Sin Nov 2015
So proudly we stand by liberty's side
She's fraught with lividity
With no life in her eyes
We are plagued with insanity
So we can't see this disgust
So blinded by grief
That this is what has become of us!
Posing the corpse of our beloved mother...

Searching for an answer that cannot be found
Too reluctant, too proud to put her corpse in the ground
A picture is taken, we smile so wide
You can't even tell that liberty has died

Cursed is the seed of our creation...
Our mothers not too rotten for manipulation
We try to conceive an infant nation
But a dead womb can only host...
A carrion infestation

"Why mother, why did you have to die?"
Too much malediction had poisoned her mind
Abused by strangers to create a home
Thus killing the only mother we've ever known
How is a nation that claims to be free
A nation of lepers, of beggars, disease?
Because of insanity we cannot see the disgust
Of this Mourning Portrait of America!
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