"accoutrements" poems
Sequacious demonstrative mongrel fantastication
Overt fantasias and monstrance clarification
Rhetorical rote of empirical justification
Whimsical enervations elicit ramification
Incite legendary fables of rectification
Tempestuous mendacious erudite personifications
Endemic epistemological semantics of edification
Evocative illuminism engenders mortification
Judicious spontaneous phantasms of gratification
Numinous salutatory statutes of ratification
Heuristic existentializing empiricisms alleviate confusion
Adamant machismo machinations eliminate delusion
Eulogizing enigma entity’s illustrious illusion
Torridly allusive revelries of reverie effusion
Educing morose maniacal moribundity’s inclusion
Epitomizing empathetic revulsions to corroborate elusion
Probitous erudite solicitations evade contusion
Raunchy riotous accoutrements appreciate exclusion
Optimizing subjunctively torpid recalcitrant collusion
Scenario syntactics of mythically epic allusion
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
We rode our horses cross-country,
Through the nations of the unknown,
We survived the snowy mountains,
And lived off the land and the trees,
Through hot summers and cold winters,
Through deserts storms; we circled the trails,
We learned from the birds and the bees,
We hunted the elk, the deer and the buffalo,
We fished to feed the travelling spirit,
We turned acorns into flour,
We set our senses free.
$
Europeans brought Soldiers, missionaries, smallpox, the common cold, scalping, reservations, whisky and the rush for gold.
You brought land grabbers, oil barons, fencing, bricks, barbed wire and all the accoutrements of your civilised culture!
You made this country your own; and forced it's 1st nation people into a 3rd world culture.
You ***** the land of its resources, filled it with waste.
You wasted the water to make coke, burgers,
and fantasy towns.
To reign supreme in a new-world without shame!
Savages!
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 4:38 PM UTC
Our snowmen, they're not made of white,
they're tumbleweeds, rolled up tight.
No top hat upon his head,
a cowboy hat sits there instead.
His face and buttons, tree ornaments,
boots and lariat, his accoutrements.
Saguaro cacti with lights wrapped round,
illuminate the landscaped grounds.
Old horse drawn wagons get the festive touch.
With lighted garlands, packages and such.
Porch rails glow with colored lights,
Christmas trees in windows, warm the nights.
Our little town gets all decked out.
Then we gather along the old parade route.
Folks on horseback with ribbons and bells.
The horses know the parade route well.
Marching school bands play Christmas songs,
trucks and tractors carry carolers along.
Floats abound from businesses and groups.
Braving the cold, the Christmas Cowboy Troops.
We all stand up to clap and cheer,
as Santa, as usual, brings up the rear.
Waving his red cowboy hat, in a horse drawn sleigh,
Welcoming Christmas, the Wickenburg way.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 11:42 AM UTC
Tonight's grey cloud hangs over the pearlescent blue and pink of today.
The gray is an avalanche
criss-crossed
with black
powerlines
that spread like cracks in a mirror.
The rain starts to fall.
To my right is a young blonde
age (17?) unknown.
Her bag and telephone
would
match
but for a shade.
The rain starts to fall.
Young lovers kiss in the calm embrace of one another
beneath an awning the colour of
old ladies - no
boredom - no
subjugation -no.
the under side of an old mattress.
The rain starts to fall.
Across the gap stands an Asian man with the complete accoutrements of a golfer.
Obfuscated now by a train
with the palette of a McDonald's ad.
The rain starts to fall.
The streets are become slick
and every lamp bleeds the start
of an oil painting
with brushes made of light.
The air is cool.
There is a canal that stretches between seats, walled by rows of heads.
In the distance a little girl peaks her head up in the middle of all this,
she wears a bright pink plastic bow on her head that blinks and glows.
Traffic lights streak
green and red
over black gesso.
Cars streak
silver and blood
down black gesso.
"I simply don't need to cheapen things further"
Matching work uniforms.
Matching looks of boredom
Matching shoes and glances
Matching telephones
Matching lack of conversation
Matching hair
Matching matching carpet and drapes
Matching posture
why is everything matching?
(they got off at the same station)
Suburban princess holds the phone like a bible.
I attempt to sketch her arm in my head....but I am too ******
I am hungry.
The outside air is cool.
This is a carriage for the antisocial
3 rooms of solitude.
Everyone is plugged in
No-one dares to speak.
The Art of Conversation.
An old woman sits in front of me, with the face of Ray Winstone in drag.
Her hair is a dandelion
and her eyebrows are birds
painted in the distance.
Hands wrinkled and knotty
like old fruit.
Trains are predictable
the purest form of modern transport
all the little fishies
in the giant metal can
are silent to one another.
The train conductors voice is boredom.
I mistake ambient noise for music.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
Gilded cage so small and tiny
Even singing comes out whiny
Stinking of fake fresh and piney
Tis the season
Leaking water warm and briny
With good reason
Christmas cheer and glasses toast
Loved ones smile and laugh and boast
I sit perched upon my post
A tinsled column
Invisible reluctant host
A heart that's solemn
A longing for a love so distant
The melancholy is persistent
A smile could erase it in an instant
On a face cherubic
For my heart is not resistent
It's theraputic
So that smile that is perfection
Is mirrored in my own reflection
Without a thought about rejection
Hallucinations
About the subtlest inflection
In Salutations
Surrounded by the merrily intense
With drunkard tendencies immense
A bar with all accoutrements
They pound tequila
Drinking away the sacraments
Oh yes, I feel ya
Merry time with old Kris Kringle
Guests all lubed enough to mingle
Mistletoe hangs and sleigh bells jingle
Gifts homemade
Tables adourned and glasses tingle
Gold brocade
Still I sit all caged and flightless
Blind to joy all sad and sightless
Drink could make it hurt a mite less
I'm going backward
Laying here all limp and lifeless
Broke and fractured
Surrounded by the fake and vexing
Artificial and quite perplexing
Reality they are rejecting
The devil may care
Bellies bare and muscles flexing
Lost underwear
So ******* dancing to the jukebox
Lost alone here in the boondocks
There is no snow upon the rooftops
Ahead they forge
Find a room before that thing pops
It's so engorged
Neighbor ***** all dressed in orange
Wearing gold to make the poor cringe
Stripping time to fill her syringe
I'll be her hinderance
Still too drunk from her last binge
Faulty remembrance
Ridding riff raff from the party
People still drunk on Bacardi
Noxious gasses burp and farty
With toilets makeshift
Worn out makeup on the smarty
She needs a facelift
Time to let the people go
Too tired to keep watching the show
Drinking hard and walking slow
Verbose yet listless
Honey I don't want to know
It's not my business
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
On rainy days
I look up poems set in Seattle,
then look back at the rain set against the window
I imagine the water was carried here
from the shores of their bay
across Pike Place, through Belltown,
in buckets they use
to carry Pacific salmon off fishing boats,
or in lidded Styrofoam bowls used
to take out clam chowder
I practice walking in this manner, sans umbrella, through the parking lot of a South Florida strip mall.
When I reach the 24-hour Dunkin Donuts, past the laundromat and the check cashing store, I channel my inner Seattleite: poised in wet socks,
unrushed as the sips they take from their mugs when its **** pouring outside
I renounce sugary accoutrements and have what they're having:
Black coffee with a splash of rain,
A balance perfected on their slanted hill streets
that breed more poets per capita
than anywhere else in the country
Vegas can have its mirages in the desert
San Francisco, its gold bridge
I think I should just have this coffee,
and this rainy day
as the poem it is.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
Imprisoned inside tall red brick built tenements
curtained in by cheap store bought accoutrements
and locking up the world outside within with a needle and a pin and sewing life away.
where we stitch up every day as if only cross stitching could show or say how angry that we are
and far above some half existent but quite persistent feelings that the life we live is what we get for being better than the dogs that line the streets with pockets bulging emptiness
is more or less the happiness that we were told of, when we read books in those classrooms dripping coldness from the cold lights,prefabricated by the councils to educate the poor and in this we have believed for fifty years or more.
But technograbbers took the high road
ripped the legs from under desks by which we sat
and then they spat on former teaching
teachers in the pay of local educational authorities
had no authority to intervene
and preaching texts that they had learnt by heart 'cause all the textbooks burnt far brighter in the fires in tenements
where former pupils with dilated eyes felt the cold much keener,much cleaner than the dogs upon the streets
and behind the curtained windows I weep for a yesterday when as a young child I could play outside and not wonder what the future held.
Held spellbound by the monkey man who turned the handle on his barrel ***** and put a flat cap on the ground which magically
naturally filled with pennies from the folks who had such things.
Sadness and the lack of more or less brings me nothing but the bulging emptiness
and the breaking of another spine
another book a former time
and locking in the world outside
I bide my time
and watch
the black and white
the day within the night
I'll be alright
just me and shotgun joe beside the bed
and nothing else to spoil nothing
that we never had but there are badmen in the badlands
roaming tenemental bands that would cut your throats
if you looked twice or even once at them
Like the dog down in the street I never raise my eyes to meet
anyone or any other
why bother
it's just the way it is.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
Of the thousand reasons there is no God…
yet god lives in the thousand and First;
humility
Of all the Homos, One persists
by feasting upon the Fruit of a Tree;
Humanity!
A human ***** full of Pride
will ignore that which sharks abide;
the LAW
And ‘God struck down upon the deck
while Atheism commands all Ahoo and knows
the flaw.
Man adorned with all Its accoutrements
of flaked flint and purified plutonium
submits
to the Universe Man thinks He creates
until the noose of Its laws ‘round His neck
persists
To all God’s creatures past present
and future there is one dubious Gift;
Sentience
Whose edge is but one of a pair
and threatens the user with that ‘other edge’;
Common sense
God in his omnipotence stands all alone
despite what demons, angels lambs and fishes
Plan
So He creates a Tree to tempt His dust to rise
and contemplate the distance between He and
Man
If man is truly God’s image writ tolerably small
then what is man without a notion of humility at all?
He is ‘god’ with the power of an infant in tantrum’s fit
with Entropy standing ready to swallow all of It.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 9:32 AM UTC
#*They are the fierce writers
They ride on horses and write past you
They have rode on this earth before
And wrote with reed on various seeds
Armed with fine parchment and accoutrements
Meadows and the cemeteries
Their favourite haunts*#
Jan 3, 2021
Jan 3, 2021 at 1:28 PM UTC
*god,
ive never seen a girl that empty.*
pathetic,
hollow skin in unwashed jeans.a blown egg,
empty casket
cracking sidewalk.im lonely but i can play the part,
bravado biting the sky like lightning but
you can hear your own breath echoing in me when
you sit too close.
im a mine shaft, im stale air and stone. i dug myself empty when i tried to believe
i need no one but myself.i don't need anyone else.blisters on my heels,
thoughts on self-defeat, self-pity,
self-immolation compared to arson.
when you pulled out all my teeth you told me it was so i could kiss you fuller,
deeper; you said *now you dont have to be afraid.
now you cant hurt me.*
it rained last night but i thought this was a drought year, should i feel something?
i slept through the thunder.GOD, i hate thinking about this,
i hate these harness ribs hate air pockets in my chest i cant take this pressure.
when youre leaning down to kiss his lighter i'm sending you 50 texts that all say the same thing,
accoutrements of disorientation,
swollen fingers. i dont think i'm doing this right.i think i'm a different person
every time i get dressed in the morning,
every time i sleep.all the words ive misheard stack up like unfinished manuscripts,
like letters from neglected friends.
this was wrong when it started and now it's just confused.
hoarding matches, hoarding lighters like that'll save me from the rain.
think about the bones beneath your flesh.think about the sturdy rock within your soft thighs.
think about your liver.think about your bloodyourskinyourmeat.
think about the last time you spoke with feeling.
think about the last time you dreamt. remember when you said you wanted all of me? said you felt afraid,
you said sometimes you feel like
i could eat you alive,
reaching over my event horizon,
leaning towards antimatter lips.
why did you call yourself a storm you're only hurting yourself?
why did you call me an earthquake when i'm the only one
im ripping apart.
you keep sticking your tongue down the throats of people who just want to bite it off.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
I will wander
into wilderness
to find myself.
I will leave behind
my accoutrements,
memories of medals,
of past applause
and accolades,
accomplishments that
warranted degrees
and diplomas
portending future
successes. I like
who I am, who
I have become. No,
I love myself, and that
is my greatest achievement,
the acme most men
are blind to as they
mistake wealth for worth.
Most would say
I will be lonely,
but they are wrong,
because I will always be
with my best friend ever,
my real self. And I will
share my joy with
squirrels and rabbits
and deer, with bushes
and broken branches
and brush, with rills
and rivulets and rivers,
with rising and setting
suns and countless
stars coruscating in
night's sky. I will say
prayers to piles of pine
and sycamore limbs
that once were live,
but now make monuments
I worship. I am at one
with all I prize. My eyes,
even when they are closed,
see their beauty. I know
I will be blessed forever.
I lie on my bed, Earth,
and wait to join all
in solitude and grace.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jul 13, 2021
Jul 13, 2021 at 2:31 AM UTC
Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.
On the internet
nothing’s permanent.
I like that.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.
Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.
Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.
Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.
Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.
Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.
Mar 19, 2024
Mar 19, 2024 at 6:54 AM UTC
The night, is present with all her special accoutrements,
see how mystifying her final role is; from now time is at a stand still!
the stellar remnants, after the play is finally over
--interstellar medium of gas, dust and dark matter
accumulated waste after the rock concert, light years long.
Sell it to the best collector of art in the cosmos
go fast, find him before all the universes crumble.
Let each piece feed to his ego's need and the greed to possess
make him brag to the cosmic pantheon that he has the Piccassos, Dalis
and The scream, Munch's epiphany of mankind's predicament,
and all the galaxies from the dwarf to the most massive
present, past and the ones just fermenting on a wasted hope,
and the most original of the nights, the very last ever.
We'll drink the bubbling white blood of the day and dance,
the moon is our accomplice, we want to disappear together
before everything starts to disintegrate,
humankind on a pilgrimage, has then a change of mind
ladies and gentlemen we now are going
not for a fishing expedition in tranquil seas, but for a hunt in the wild.
hunt the rest of the world that rejects
our proposal to surrender, to the inevitable, we invited
we were immortals till the day before
but then we found out everything has a price.
For the gift of fire to the mankind, Prometheus had to
endure tantalizing days and nights, countless
let's forget the fear of sin, and false happiness of hope
even water becomes our pain,
once we are forced to think in terms of sustenance.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
wife beaters and boxer briefs
for wife beaters and boxer briefs
we share an affection affectation in common,
for these understated, statement accoutrements
indeed I’ve caught her bare chest
hiding out beneath, via my side view mirror, revealing,
what hints lie beneath
my armless hair-shirt more than once
she loves the freedom of the stolen land grant
she's claims only to have borrowed
her deed and title, she says was
god given
she seems to enjoy as well the
impertinent attentions of this suckling pig,
driven by the hints of her pertinent robusts,
which have proven poorly resistant to the woodpeckers, ahem,
lips
but my boxer shorts she ignores,
as the differential in waste size,
about a Subway foot-long
so no wonder why
when she asks if I own any suspenders?
***who me?
Yes, you, Mr. Sinner?***
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 3:12 PM UTC
Synesthesia as a Synthetic
Cynthia recognizes my Synthesis
If I agree to this decree
I will need the silence
For this positivity unseen
in this scene, a black coat
hides its sole in the corner
under a pale, wingless painting.
If I agree, my Conscience
be free, accoutrements as duality
a binary in my triplicity, I
will smack God four times for
Mein Serenity
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
Ethereal Theories and Rituals
By Rosicrucian's and Masons
And The Knights Templar
Secrets whispered in listening Ears
Bound to Silence by unknown Fears
Symbolic Accoutrements Adorn
Compass, Cross, Aprons and Horn
Secret Rituals done in Dark Shadows
Robed Members with Incense and Candles
Perform ancient Tomes with Canticles
Reciting Century old Chants of Words
Enarmed with Pike Shield and Sword
Perpetuated through the Centuries
All Carried out in total Secrecy.....1/19/15
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:36 PM UTC
A museum, a post office, a hoard of trinkets:
Think of all these things, and beyond them.
A room, vast as knowledge, filled clumsily
From top to tail with books and songs and poems and pictures;
Accoutrements of one life, lived.
All is quiet, save for the slow, sonorous ticking of time.
All is still.
Until:
A pale silver sliver of a
Jewel, locked loose in its box, starts to slip forward from
The chests and crates and jars and
Begins to roll, threads its winding way through
The labyrinth of shelves,
Picking up speed,
Brought back from beyond by
A ****** of song, a whisper of
Heartache…
… and drunk as a skunk I am roaming, reeling
Raw from a gig with the lads.
And as we chorus, cradling
Dreams and hearts and
Each other in our arms,
The night above is infinite
And the ground below is solid
And the starlight flows like our laughter
As we stumble home.
Time does not stand still. It never does. But in that moment, a
Measure of starlight, a ****** of song, come together and
Crystallise.
And deep in the recesses of the room
A pale silver sliver of a jewel
Is catalogued, logged, noted and filed
Before being locked away, for who knows how long…
…and then I am back. The gem once more
Is in its rough box, the key in the lock
While on the radio, a song ends.
All is quiet, save for the ticking of the clock
And the scratching of my pen.
All is still.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 1:59 PM UTC
Silence rarely ends in a whisper
For it is too common that life
And all its accoutrements
Begins with it's rival
...
BANG!
...
Leaving behind all certainty that solitude
Is commonplace in the universe wide
Nay, sound is all around us!
It reverberates in our very molecules
Enticing us to sway and flow
With the motion of space itself
Which is ever expanding like a balloon
In the process of inflation
Continually getting bigger and bigger
Louder and louder
Until critical mass is achieved
With the world we dance upon
Sitting at the very epicenter of tragedy
Whereas all matter reverses course
To crunch with a
...
BANG!
...
Leading to the first whisper of silence
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 7:16 PM UTC
~for the (young) fathers~
Sunday.
An ordinary Sunday, with blue sky accoutrements.
They say, mostly sunny, with a high temperature of 75 Fahrenheit.
The children in the ever-shrinking bed shout Yay! Gesundheit!
when they hear me say Fahrenheit, ensues laughter belly originaheit!
The mother sleeps drowsily through the morning event planning,
content that as Mother’s day nears, she’ll wait for breakfast in bed,
but until then let’s all pretend she is sleeping late with three kids
decorating the plateau where their notional was celebrated+conceived.
The father reviews the day which has been quite full, even though
not yet Nine O’clock has to make an appearance. Last nights dishes
washed and shelved, breakfast made, puppy fed, hard boiled eggs peeled, muffins with Frenchified pear mermelade have magical disappeared!
His coffee needs a rehearsal reheating, but never mind, lukewarm will
be just fine, for the warmth of an ordinary exquisite Sunday suffuses
his chest, and the breathing heat of a mess of bodies roiling and rolling
is so more than sufficient, he whispers ‘thank you’ to no one in particular.
Sun May 3
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 9:51 AM UTC
In this restless desert
things are not as
dry as they seem
for after the plentiful rains
the temporal grass has spread
as quick and alive as wildfire
Looking velvety to the touch,
it waves in synchronicity
as the wind sweeps through
its sharp blades
like a tender stroke of hair
from a lover
wildflowers peep
their heads of color
over the shoots
in vibrant frequencies:
crimson, yellow, purple
I want to run through them
festoon them upon
my queenly being
not actually touching them
just reveling
in their existence
I want to become vested
in the accoutrements
of simplicity
wear them upon
my essence
in tiny points
of effervescent love
particles of colored joy
that mark me with pointillism
so that when I am sitting
in the cold lonely of the night
I can embrace them
in their royal glory
and be caressed by
the loyalty
of their
spark
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 5:29 PM UTC
Sequacious demonstrative mongrel fantastication
Overt fantasias and monstrance clarification
Rhetorical rote of empirical justification
Whimsical enervations elicit ramification
Incite legendary fables of rectification
Tempestuous mendacious erudite personifications
Endemic epistemological semantics of edification
Evocative illuminism engenders mortification
Judicious spontaneous phantasms of gratification
Numinous salutatory statutes of ratification
Heuristic existentializing empiricisms alleviate confusion
Adamant machismo machinations eliminate delusion
Eulogizing enigma entity’s illustrious illusion
Torridly allusive revelries of reverie effusion
Educing morose maniacal moribundity’s inclusion
Epitomizing empathetic revulsions to corroborate elusion
Probitous erudite solicitations evade contusion
Raunchy riotous accoutrements appreciate exclusion
Optimizing subjunctively torpid recalcitrant collusion
Scenario syntactics of mythically epic allusion
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
Worldly accoutrements adorn our lives with Ah ~ such wonderful pleasure
He who finds
Real love in kind
Beholds true priceless treasure ~
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
I’m a gal of fine sensibility
apt to demand credibility
for my choice of man, he’ll be no sham
with notions conceived of nobility.
He denies himself nothing of luxury
the cut of his suits suggest much to me
his grooming precise, **** he smells nice
a cologne of his own secret recipe.
He’d never countenance faux
all accoutrements must be “just so”
he’ll not partake of anything fake
he’s quality from head to toe.
Leather-soled, tweed-wrapped pure gold
when they made him they sure broke the mould
dyed in the wool, no fashion slave fool
such style is to have and to hold.
This gentleman’s rituals suffice
to see him sartorially through life
with manners divine, this husband of mine
Lord, I’m so proud I’m his wife!
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC