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The wake of nevermore
To be forever and more
Flowering

Through the doors of metamorphosis

With whorish twists
To twine the submissive slits
Into bracelets bracing for a face lit
In joyous glee

Cheek to cheek!

The sheen of sheep
Greased and ready to eat

Oh Gristlesworth
Smiling from a bag

Bahhh!
Don't eat the tag
I almost wrote you a love song once

but then I remembered how much I hate love songs

and I decided to just

write you this instead

see most people live life backwards

they’re dead before they find life

and it’s usually too late

and I was that person until I stumbled across you

I found my heartbeat in your spontaneity

and I found my smile in your lips

you touched me in places without

using your hands

and when I cry, you don’t silence me by telling me

"it’ll get better"

you don’t wipe away my tears

you let me cry

and that’s more than anyone has ever done for me

and when I want to thank you

I realize I don’t know how

but you tell me “you’re welcome"

in a million different ways

and I want to thank you for that too

but I don’t know how to do that either

that was when I almost wrote you a love song

but I stopped when I realized that I hated love songs

and I loved you

so I wrote you this instead
knowing
that i am                                                               ­                           and you are
here                                                         ­                                           there
is
sad
because
time flies so quickly when you are beside me,
but seconds
pass as hours
when you are not.
The other day, a house nearly fell on my elbow
Berating the sky for being so impolite
It gifted me this chevalier ...

Wh-what a rad surprise!



S T, 11 july

, , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , , , ,
gift = gifting = giving ....as they say, never look a .......

:)


sub-entry: 'Ballad Of The Soldier’s Wife' - Caroline Henderson

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From the ancient city of prague
From prague came a pair of high heels shoes
With a kiss or 2, came the high heels shoes
From the ancient city of prague

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From Oslo over the south
From Oslo came a collar of fur
How pleased her, the little collar of fur
From Oslo over the south

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From the wealth of Amsterdam
From Asterdam he got a hat
She look sweet and that and knew that hat
From the wealth of Amsterdam

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From Bruxelles and Belgium land
From Bruxelles he sent her laces so rare
So have and to wear,
Oh those laces so rare
From Bruxelles and Belgium land

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From Paris, the city of lights
In Paris he got her a silken gown
It ended in town, that silken gown
From Paris, the city of lights

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From the south, from Bucharest
From Bucharest, he sent her a shirt
Embroided in purf, that remain in shirt
From the south of Bucharest

What was sent to the soldier’s wife
From far of Russian land,
From Russia, there came just a widow’s band
From death to be wed and her widow’s bells
From far of Russian land
From far of Russian land.



• www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECzqOoQKO64
our fruiterer is a riddling prankster
who jumps up from every corner
and tray and stacks, with any old silly riddle

(1)
“Looking at apples, eh?”
he approaches Sandy
“What did the apple say to the bug?
Oh – stop bugging me!”


And he laughs at his own humor
(or lack of it)
while severe Sandy rotates
an apple in her left palm
and he ventures to the next vulnerable customer,
who is me

“How, my dear man,” he proceeds to ask
“do you fix a broken tomato?”
I shake my head, bewildered
and he unpacks his own riddle:
“Tomato paste!”
And he roars with laughter
his chilli-sharp eyes pointed
at his next customer


(2)

And off he goes with his riddles –
with his booming voice, no pause
and wrapping his answers in cracking laughs

He jumps to an old man
and he says:
“Why, do tell me, do bananas
never feel lonely?”

“Cos they always come in bunches”

And the young couple he regales with:
“Why did the tomato go out with the prune?
Oh, come on…simply cos he couldn’t find a date!”


And to an old woman he says
in  near-Oedipus style:
“What did the Dad Tomato tell his Kid Tomato?
Ketchup!”


And as in a light musical
he turns about and whoever he finds
he unleashes his final:
“How do you fix a cracked pumpkin?
Easy peasy – you use a pumpkin patch!”


Ah, our fruiterer is a riddling prankster
who jumps up from every corner
and tray and stacks, with any old silly riddle
...poem based on a bunch of jokes I harvested online, and that I've put together through this persona of my imagined fruiterer...
Come with me, oh, dear! Let me take you there,
This world isn’t good for you, it’s greedy and unfair,
Come with me to the place, where sun rises up high,
Enlightening the buried hopes in hearts of you and I,
Where greed has no place,
Where anger has no face,
Where clouds shower happiness, high up from the sky..

Come with me oh!dear, where nights are not dark,
Where moons shines up so bright that even dawn blush to embark,

Come with me to the place where there will be no more pain,
Just close your eyes and dream and don’t wake up again.
A sweet lullaby.
A sweet denunciation.
lips on her mouth
spitting sweet nicotine south
with a smile to conclude
tonight's entertainment
and this morning's mood.

French accents on video screens
and blind blank volume dreams
that plunge our village into darkness,
houses and shops made with black
cotton tops where the heartless live and breathe.

legs that stretch,
legs that are worth more than I can fetch,
legs that hurt, kick and wreck
those you cannot forgive or
pay back debts;
debts in excess  of hundreds,
a size 16 dress size prize that you'll never be able to buy back now that it has been plundered
by greedy hands, and worse,
a shifting sand lifestyle.
coffee
shop
poems
.com
Lives destroyed
His wasted too
No waiting virgins
Seventy two
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