#allusions
I heard the door open. It was Leeza (Lisa’s 14-year-old sister),
she’d been out on a date. I was the only one in the living room
as she came in and sagged, dejectedly onto the huge, white
sectional couch, right next to me. She looked positively
deflated. Which is unusual because up until now,
she’s been all freckles and smiles
Ok, here’s where we get poetic and rhyme, with innuendo and allusion:
Me: “Did you have a good time?”
Leeza: “No but I was trying.”
Me: “Did he get handsy—the swine?”
Leeza: “Argh! No—but his kisses are a crime.”
I gasped: “You didn’t give him a climb!?”
Leeza “NO!” she said, somewhat horrified.
Me (trying to be neutral): “No judging, it would have been.. fine (I lied).”
Leeza: “That’s never going to happen.”
“Good,” I declared, “he was just a distraction—and, you know Santa.”
“What about Santa?”
Whew, that’s enough of THAT (rhyming business).
She asked, so, yeah, I sang it.. I had to.
*“He knows who you’ve been kissing,
what you’re thinking when you’re awake,
he knows if you’ve been bad or good—
he’s kind of like a cop that way.”*
After a moment's silence Leeza asked,
“Is there something creepy about that?”
“Only if you think about it.” I admitted,
as she put her head on my shoulder.
.
.
A song for this:
Fairytale of New York (feat. Kirsty MacColl) by The Pogues
.
.
A Christmas Playlist! There’s 6 days til Christmas (and Hanukkah)
http://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_25.mp3
Dec 19, 2024
Dec 19, 2024 at 12:14 PM UTC
Downward a brink strewn with craggy rubble,
I, confounded by impervious haze,
Despair the convoluted path and stumble.
Slick, sable stones reduce me to my knees.
The glorious Pilgrimage beckons me:
“Rise and seek out yonder city of gold,
descend ye from thy safe promontory
And subject thyself to dangers untold.”
On bended knee, head bowed, I pray and plead
For provision and eased yoke -and trudged on.
Abandon all hope, and many concede,
At the wicket gate, where I near anon.
Tenant of celestial city now.
With robust garden, I reflect my plow
Dec 5, 2020
Dec 5, 2020 at 11:34 AM UTC
Every morning a beaming carmine penetrates my brain
unbeknownst to their perilous call
a smiling bird and a white heal all.
Violates me at my eyes
from green chasing lies
from wicked placed disguise.
Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the stalker of stalkers that haunt my pre dream routine.
Every evening a lustrous crimson punctures my lungs
unbeknownst to their unsafe swath
a quiet bird and a paper moth.
Vexes me at my eyes
from yellow following lies
from haughty placed disguise.
Pencils of light at three trips
Here's the lurker of lurkers that submerge my pre dream routine.
Every night a hazy velvet pierces my heart
unbeknownst to their loving provider
a dead bird and a snow drop spider.
Visits me at my eyes
from red moving lies
from stoic placed disguise.
Pencils of light at three trips
the finest sliver of silence you can imagine.
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 8:35 PM UTC
Since feeling is first, and syntax is lies,
To enscribe you, my darling little jay,
I would have to ask, "Is there any way?"
Not of mimsy guise and anything-dyes,
But of nоnce-nonsense and everything-sighs,
Keep these thoughts pastiche on a wayward bay,
And perhaps leave them, removed on display,
Entirely altogether?
You are this fool's ". . ."
". . ." as '. . .' but ". . ."
Lea ve me ". . ." on, a . . .
A skip! for,
". . . & . . ." "can"t; f o r get
(love ". . .") and you,
". . ."
Jan 31, 2020
Jan 31, 2020 at 5:17 PM UTC
While crying in the moonlight,
The tears of icy cold.
Snow fallen lies surround me,
Trading rice for dirtied gold.
They know I have a weakness,
Achilles’ tendons found.
Fighting in my own Antietam,
Ignore the bloodied ground.
As one things ends another comes,
Start as I end another shift.
Feel so small in your surroundings,
Mammoths in the continental drift.
Buried in the secrets,
Not everybody knows.
Climbing Mount Everest in the winter,
Snow shoots back just as it goes.
Grasping hands I always miss,
Warming fingers turning blue.
True, I could not help me,
But I won’t make the same mistake with you.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 9:11 AM UTC
Each night is good for reliving
the inside wrath over again
just as each day is good for
dying without pain
I'd look for it at all the same old places
but again, I've got stars in my sight.
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 6:01 AM UTC
why was rome
built on bones?
hundreds of dead
caught by arrows or
blind cuts of steel
crowd the rivers,
the roads, the very
air and it is so so hard
to breathe–
every corner is a reminder
of public executions, outdoor
gallows, diving into shallow seas,
exsanguination in the roads till
red rivulets made new paths in
tempered cobblestone;
caesar was not the first man to
bring about *pax *** bellum*
to train armies to battle their own
hearts and find nothing there at all–
caesar falls,
rei republica falls,
rome falls
.
.
the dead do not become lazarus
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
it is often in the face
of adversity that people
flourish, pushing past
cement and brick to bloom
or so you are told–
the lion you find is not
filled with honey,
and only sand scrapes your tongue
its ribs do not yield at your touch,
they do not fall apart
in ivory waves as you
crawl into its thoracic cavity
no, it is but a decaying relic of god;
a carcass left in the dirt
and you can’t help but wonder
how such a thing ever roared
you are no samson, but you
let your hair grow out anyway
and hope to coax strength
from the maw of the forgotten beast
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
On a foggy dark London day
Strode Mr Prufrock, Alfred J.
He made many an allusion
About ****** confusion
Now he’s dead like Phlebas…ok?
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 3:13 PM UTC
Keats may’ve died of consumption
And Dante in his personal hell
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Or so I’ve heard them tell
Shakespeare’s mortal coil had shuffled
And Byron could a-rove no more
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Of that much they are sure
All of Auden’s clocks had stopped
Dickinson felt death in her brain
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Though it’s heavy as a ball and chain
Blake had entered Jerusalem
For Carroll, Wonderland beckoned
But no one ever died of a broken heart
Yet I wish I could any second
Miss Rossetti’s winter was bleak
Thomas raged into that good night
But no one ever died of a broken heart
At least not without a good fight
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 9:03 AM UTC