"airing" poems
Out here there are no hearthstones,
Hot grains, simply. It is dry, dry.
And the air dangerous. Noonday acts queerly
On the mind's eye erecting a line
Of poplars in the middle distance, the only
Object beside the mad, straight road
One can remember men and houses by.
A cool wind should inhabit these leaves
And a dew collect on them, dearer than money,
In the blue hour before sunup.
Yet they recede, untouchable as tomorrow,
Or those glittery fictions of spilt water
That glide ahead of the very thirsty.
I think of the lizards airing their tongues
In the crevice of an extremely small shadow
And the toad guarding his heart's droplet.
The desert is white as a blind man's eye,
Comfortless as salt. Snake and bird
Doze behind the old maskss of fury.
We swelter like firedogs in the wind.
The sun puts its cinder out. Where we lie
The heat-cracked crickets congregate
In their black armorplate and cry.
The day-moon lights up like a sorry mother,
And the crickets come creeping into our hair
To fiddle the short night away.
30.8k
I feel so out-of-touch and small talk seems out of reach.
Are my thoughts worth airing? Maybe its better to not speak.
See, lately I've been thinking. More so than usual.
And its come to my attention that my attention is unusual.
I can't believe it took me this long to realize
just how egocentric I can be.
A fourth of my life is gone and its always been about me.
I know and acknowledge that you're a person too
but something has changed and I feel like I can't talk to you.
Where once it was effortless, now conversing is difficult.
Instead of truly listening I'm preparing my rebuttals.
It isn't that I don't care.
It isn't that I'm disinterested.
But it feels like my volume knobs got ****** up and I can barely listen.
Why is my head louder than reality?
It's exhausting to focus on anyone but me.
Truly a self-serving, self-centered friend I am.
Sorry.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime
Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies
Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time
Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....
Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood
Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation
Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *************
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression
Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks
Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ************* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines
In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo
Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
Strap on a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men
The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
*Luscious and curvaceous
Sometimes with a pout
Airing some disapproval
With the wave of her hand
She turns back and
Gives a nonchalant glance
Sometimes disapproval
But her side glances
Reveal a different story
The gait of a ballet dancer
There’s rhythm in her feet
Voices her opinions
With her surreal notes
Her piercing gaze
Tears down all defenses
Here, helpless soul
Is mesmerized
It’s a luscious night*
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
SpongeBob SquarePants is an American animated television series created by marine biologist and animator Stephen Hillenburg for Nickelodeon. The series chronicles the adventures and endeavors of the title character and his various friends in the fictional underwater city of Bikini Bottom. The series' popularity has made it a media franchise, as well as Nickelodeon network's highest rated show, and the most distributed property of MTV Networks. The media franchise has generated $8 billion in merchandising revenue for Nickelodeon.
Many of the ideas for the series originated in an unpublished, educational comic book titled The Intertidal Zone, which Hillenburg created in the mid-1980s. He began developing SpongeBob SquarePants into a television series in 1996 upon the cancellation of Rocko's Modern Life, and turned to Tom Kenny, who had worked with him on that series, to voice the titular character. SpongeBob was originally to be named SpongeBoy, and the series was to be called SpongeBoy Ahoy!, but these were changed, as the name was already trademarked.
The series was previewed on Nickelodeon in the United States on May 1, 1999, following the television airing of the 1999 Kids' Choice Awards, and officially premiered on July 17, 1999. It has received worldwide critical acclaim since its premiere and gained enormous popularity by its second season. The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie, a feature-length film adaptation, was released in theaters on November 19, 2004, and a sequel is currently in production, with a projected release date of February 13, 2015. On July 21, 2012, the series was renewed and aired its ninth season, beginning with the episode "Extreme Spots".[2][3]
Despite its widespread popularity, the series has been involved in several public controversies, including one centered around speculation over SpongeBob SquarePants' intended ****** orientation. The series has been nominated for a variety of different awards, including 17 Annie Awards (with six wins), 17 Golden Reel Awards (with eight wins), 15 Emmy Awards (with one win), 13 Kids' Choice Awards (with 12 wins), and four BAFTA Children's Awards (with two wins). In 2011, a newly described species of mushroom, Spongiforma squarepantsii, was named after the cartoon's title character.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
An ither Burns night,
Has finally come alang,
If you've got an invite,
You'll hae to sing a song,
You'll soon be reciting poems,
Wi a whisky in one hand,
A haggis in the ither,
You'll be feeling mighty grand,
Daein wan o Rabbies,
Or wan you've writ yersel,
Gie it public airing,
You'll hae us in a spell,
Once the night's ower,
Poems spinning round yer heid,
Burns night is for aw body,
It's a pity that he's deid.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
A red jumper
in the airing cupboard,
thrown over a pipe,
drooping like it had melted.
“Académie culinaire de Toulouse l’enfant”
on the breast in fractured, iron-on plastic.
It was perfect.
Something that wouldn’t be missed.
I took my sister’s wave-edge scissors to it.
I took it to bits,
all but a jagged circle of a sun
full of furry solar storms
of thread ends.
I ignored the red fluff
falling slowly
like so much ****** snow,
mixing into carpet fibres
under my bare feet.
And my heat
Disperses into invisibility
everything but the colour,
like any memory will.
-
A green t-shirt,
it looks up at me lostly,
toyishly small,
from some forgotten shop
bought at some forgotten time.
A childhood comfort still smiling
but not soft anymore.
The front’s all robots smashing apart tower blocks
with tin pincers and laser vision.
People’s screams of indicision.
Staticky speech bubbles,
broken car windows,
exclamation marks.
And a Marilyn monroe type
in the midst of the fray,
bra half-undone,
hand cupped to her mouth
Calling into some furious colonised sky
into which I pinned my sun.
-
A cornish cream baby grow
with grandmother stitched flowers
hours of sowed leaves.
A polka dot horizon
and an orchard's evening shadow
from a lifetime’s washing.
It showed.
So I sowed my mechanical horrors
and it’s crimson fear atmosphere
onto the pastel world.
And now it’s all there.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
jars of peanut butter not yet opened
and being the first to scrap the silken surface
with the knife
your favorite movie airing on television
and watching it again all thrilled because
some tv execs wanted to share it with the world
taking a t-shirt out of the dryer
and for a brief wonderful moment
it warms your cold morning skin
being alive
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
Lavender thoughts hung in her heart, airing
out her blood with the scent of daydreams.
She wanted to believe in love letters
but a blue fox warned her not to.
Handwriting is a dying art he said between cigar puffs. Even we know that.
She longed for the purr of an R, the double swerves of an S.
The snow brought her breath to life
as she stood by the frozen pond, staring up at the stars and she wondered
if she’d ever hold someone’s heart on paper.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
it's not a problem when there's nothing to sweat,
the humidity between your fingers only exists if you let it.
disconnection from socialization is nothing immoral, more than anything, it's probable.
no eye contact at uncomfortably long red-lights,
don't try to discuss the compartimentalizing in the back of your head.
you are a molecule.
molecules are small,
you are small.
on second thought, think more about what i couldn't stand in the world
than what i would change.
consider the opportunity and bottle enthusiasm like it's a commodity.
segregate mind
from
self.
seperate syllables, content, and over-accumilation.
inside, i would never expect you to work your own way out.
and again, i spat out black, fine lined ********
there was no more than the predetermined depth that they've come to expect from me,
i went no further than to soak my readers, then force them out still wet:
go ahead,
drip-dry from my dignity.
it's like the fire they insisted deserves to be cradled in a cage.
because freedom is threat:
consuming until she bursts into a sheet of liquidated decision.
but there is still room for appreciation:
for the consistency of
light, warmth and relativity.
swallow back a mouthful of something i cannot pronounce.
what does it matter if losing sleep makes you feel ten,
the lie is still that you're twenty-seven.
but what drove through,
down,
enough to come out the other side, is still being ignored.
my loyalty proved as a stunt in the precious growth you claim i lacked.
just when it became lyrical the reality becomes increasingly evident,
no woman needs poetry about the sun, or the starving lions out back.
so just let me burn in the grass.
because it'd only be wasting my time,
airing out.
it's your pope's, not my prophecy that doesn't believe
in the gravity you say
forced you to
fall
into
me.
one day you'll laugh.
one day i'll stop getting lost when i drive to new places.
one day the water will stop running from our taps.
i'm sure you realize i sexualized you,
like the young thing i am.
i should apologize,
but i'm also pretty sure you don't mind.
rewind: you'll go to waste like fine wine, and i'll drive you home over the phone.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
You don't love
me;
you love the
tip of the iceberg
that is your idea of me;
the sugar-coated mute
leading herds
of unfinished sentences
down the copious hills
of his insecurity;
the nice little writer
whose constant attempts
at legendary one-liners
are as hit-or-miss
as a sitcom still airing
far past its prime.
I possess three biomes,
or, rather, three networks
of personalities and identities.
I am much more than
the Jack Macfarland archetype
lip-syncing to Cher in the one
gay bar in town, tyrannically
governing your wardrobe,
possessing a razor-sharp wit
cast toward the backs of his community
in the form of an outdated punchline-
my work on that show
lost its Willful relevance
and Graceful naivete
years ago.
I am of the generation
fed media saturation
three four-hour meals a day,
who ingested cardboard cadavers
as if they were mother's milk
and internally mutated their
thoughts and desires
to fit the compact time frame
of 30 minutes
to settle the series' worth
of traumas and neuroses
while making it home for dinner
to stay tuned for what's
next in the lineup.
Speaking as a casualty of this
inevitable chain of events,
I regretfully declare that even
those who have seen
every episode of myself
for the past six seasons
are still light years away
from the room full of faces
unencumbered by euphemism.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC
1
The hardest thing you will ever do
Is care for someone who has no interest
In caring for themselves
It is grocery shopping at 2am
Shortly after work
When this morning I realized
There is no food in the house
It is a week’s worth of food I can barely afford
2
Growing up there were 2 churches in my neighborhood
On Wednesdays
The one closest to the elementary school gave away bread
On Fridays
The one near my grandmother’s house gave out canned goods
It was always fun to see what arrived in the big brown boxes
It was like Christmas
Except if it was close to Christmas
Because the boxes were always a little more full than usual around then
3
She sits all day in a robe
Mismatched socks
A cigarette between permanently pursed lips
She is the closest thing to crazy cat lady
That I have seen in real life
Except
These are not cats
These are children
Still dumb enough to not see that something is wrong
4
He is an old man
Doing what old men do
Around the time of forgetfulness
And the time where your body stops doing what you tell it to
Like to not **** your pants
5
They are like houseplants
And goldfish purchased from the same market
Living things whose only interest is dying
Like sheep open mouthed at the beauty of the rain
Sheep sometimes drown in the rain
6
I feel like I’m drowning
In a shallow pond
The kind of drowning that takes effort
And humility
The kind where the gasps of air are enough
To fill me with hope for a little longer
It is water-logged hope
At the bottom of a drying well
When the mouth at the top
Look so much like laughing
7
I know
Airing out your ***** laundry in public
Doesn’t clean your clothes
As much as it lets everyone know how bad you can smell
Which reminds me
I have laundry to do in the morning
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 7:02 AM UTC
Autumn flares out, its flame burst clouds
strewn about misted cliff sides, loam whites
of winter taking their place. A stiff willow breeze,
ten thousand things withdrawn to burrows and immortal
pine heights. First snows stream down, duckweed carpets
of August fade, jade peeking through white. I embark
on the seasons final sail in hardening ice waters.
Til spring my sails will be folded, my raft in idleness.
~~~
Rafting on moon drenched river, avoiding cascades and crash of
rapids and falls. Silvered driftwood a warning. Silent glide of
mulberry oar through dark azure, another crafts sail in silhouette.
From the deck a black spectre dives below, stillness follows
splash, re-emergence, beak wrapped around a dazzling rainbow.
From my raft dangling lantern sways, trout swiping at
gathered moths – scatter and return, some from a far off realm.
Some trout in the net, others not. Luck or the way – who can tell?
~~~
Dusk colour gorge sheathed in
emerald blankets, rising into sheer
cliffs of auburn cinnabar, all
underpinned by the fathomless
flow of azure clarity. Snowy Egrets
nest in pine top heights clear of dust.
On white sand shores gibbons howl
towards squawking beach gulls, squabble
over landlocked trout – debate without end.
Peach blossom petals swirl on spring breeze
over carpets of jade inter cut by king
fisher blue zipping over duckweed. Oriole
song weaves in and out of mulberry branches.
In these vast and vague waters -
coves, creeks and streams all one,
a river dragon lives an undetermined
existence. Mud stirs below, merely a
catfish airing grievances.
Red tail flares in dirt,
my mulberry oar rows me back home.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
Maybe its a midnight drive
Reminding you of an escape route
Listening to the wind
Wind through your hair
Wind through your lungs
Airing out between your ribcage
The worries weighing down your spine
Falling like wind chimes making music to dance to
Or maybe its just you.
Breathing life into me
Driving that car to the edge of nowhere and still driving
Dragging wind chimes behind us as we go
A galaxy of sounds
Melting the demons away.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
Waning dappled moonlight mantles
the margin at the wild-wood edge
Stiff tufts of summer dried grass spears
sporadically sway — raking against
the scarlet poison oak leaves
gently sweeping away the moonlit silence
airing the sounds of velvet antlers rubbing
barkless mountain willow trunks bare
Subtle nuances constantly animate
twilights rhythm; heaven flickers
upon a dark umbrage of forest pillars
softly as a candlelight’s fluttering glow
evanescing half way across the sky;
the sparse illumined clouds stream through
the lambent halo around the rutting moon
fleeting in the blink of sleepless eyes
and like the silent touch of a talisman,
transfixed eyes are entranced by all
the restless night disrobes,
captured and cocooned by the seeker’s
awakened senses
An erratic, familiar feral bark peals haughtily;
a pack of maturing spring pups yip, bellow and shriek
in youthful pursuit; the howling report back,
ignited by the scent of a rabbit's paling squeal,
aroused by the pulse of brother wolf
rippling deeply through their blood
The dried grass game-trail crackles towards the ridge top:
an aging full moon is not enough skylight
to see beyond a seeker’s stirring silent reverie
the coyote choir’s sudden reveling echoes rekindling
an extraordinary sheltering intimacy within;
bending slithers of moonlight into a dull moonlight mantle
but I can feel its weight breaking me ,... forlorn I can't physically
reach out to touch them in an absolving moment —
understanding love was always the purpose of being ,...
futilely repining — I can't face myself alone again
harlon rivers ... October 2019
.
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 8:39 PM UTC
She said, "How can you just stand there and not care"
I stood my ground as she melted On to the kitchen floor
Told her, "You don't have to hurt no more."
As I walked out like her deadbeat Farher. The door slammed.
Went. Copped a bottle.
And let the project shadows swallow me
Darkness mixed with Hennessy.
I pictured you in my greatest dreams
A minime, a better me
The hurt the pain was just airing out me
Talking to myself in these empty streets
Who is there to hear me!!
Never did I ask why me
Thought I'll help you find your destiny
But God had a better plan for you that didn't include me.
Was it my fault child?
Did I *** short child?
From the **** and the liquor in me
No rubber on when she begged me... to stay.
Your mama brought the devil out from me
But I loved her, loved her more deeply than what I've loved anybody
You were the make or break
The should I go or should I stay
Only man to smile when the cycle didn't come around.
Ask God where I go from here now?
Where you a boy?
Where you a girl?
It doesn't matter with her looks and my attitude you could have taken over the world.
Sun rising as I walk back in to the projects fading shadows
A sticky lobby while wait for this pissy elevator
32nd floor express
As I walk in I see your mama there melted on the kitchen floor
This is a letter to my unborn child
Hope my words reached you in my prayers
Letter to my unborn child.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
Avisala! Halina sa TED ng CapSU-Dumarao o Encapsudia
Kahawig nito ang Lireo sa Encantadia
Elemento ay hangin, sagisag ay bughaw
Lireo na kanlungan nina Danaya, Amihan, Pirena at Alena
TED na kanlungan nina Dela Cruz, Arriola, Penson at Araneta
Avisala! Halina sa Crim ng CapSU-Dumarao o Encapsudia
Katulad nito ang Hathoria sa Encantadia
Elemento ay apoy, sagisag ay pula
Hathoria na naghari dahil sa lakas at dami
Crim na naghari din kung pag-uusapan ay dami
Avisala! Halina sa Agri ng CapSU-Dumarao o Encapsudia
Kapareho nito ang Sapiro sa Encantadia
Elemento ay lupa, sagisag ay dilaw
Sapiro na sagana sa yaman ng lupa
Agri na nakatutok sa pagpapayaman ng lupa
Avisala! Halina sa Vet.Med ng CapSU-Dumarao o Encapsudia
Kamukha nito ang Adamya sa Encantadia
Elemento ay tubig, sagisag ay berde
Adamya na kapiranggot na alaga ng brilyante ng tubig
Vet.Med. na kakaunti na alagang hayop ang hilig
Avisala! Halina sa Computer ng CapSU-Dumarao o Encapsudia
Kawangis nito ang Etheria sa Encantadia
Elemento ay kuryente, sagisag ay lila
Etheria na nasa gitna at naglaho na
Computer na nasa gitna rin at wala na.
-05/19/2017
* a tribute to CapSU-Dumarao and Encantadia,
written this day of final airing of Encantadia 2016
Sep 28, 2019
Sep 28, 2019 at 10:04 PM UTC
She has a baby, the other has a honey, the last is lonely
three ladies all loving, sweet and independently hot
they all having various mediate metamorphosis
the beats of a Barry white song airing my sensors
i feel like they're all with me in this studio hut
what do i say to get away from this love prone stampede
she has a baby so only a voice like Barry White
can suite her flaring flames of Mother hood
"Believe me , I used to but I ain't a boy anymore
there's no love that can touch me anymore than
all you've given me, My baby carrying my baby..."
exhales in slow paces, how do i survive this longer
the beats of a Usher Raymond song hits me up
**** mama, you're the same girl i saw with him
oh! no i ain't jealous of your man, i'm just sure
he ain't man enough for you like i would
don't call me when he wants you no more
take this i got to go, i really have to go now
i ain't leaving you, if you're going with me
Exhales in heightened paces, i'm getting there
loneliness only brings you closer to your inner man
togetherness brings out the best in you and your man
at the corner of the crowded dance floor beauty sat alone
glaring at all the gesticulations and rigorous body movements
how lonely she looked alone in the corner rejecting all invites
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
Its nefarious arrogance, that's scaring grandparents, but its in the air and I'm airing it, as we are seeing all the signs, but just staring at them.
Somehow there is safety as an arian, where we are safely alien to Americans made in sapient sanitariums, shooting you first for glaring at em.
So what if i'm Dolling up my delirium for a serum to cure them all.
I am awol, from my call to duty, recreating movies, for serial groupies, suiting up to slither a delivery of a soothing sour piece.
I am stalling to clean the secretions from hostel sheets from the screamers being eaten, by Cretans, with beaten dogs at bay, staring blank at the fanfare from a cage.
Im burning white sage, under pages of poetry anointed by a stoical spleen, tuning out the dreams, of lesser beings, until complete.
A zoo within a zoo within a zoo, i barely know you now
Barely know how, to know you as a model citizen with baller trimmins, fixins, and a life with others wives, in the rough diamonds of the bluff, before the door opens just enough, to look through and confirm what you already knew.
Love is the stuff dreams are made of.
And through you..
Im through.
Pleading, to seed the need for repentance and with reduced sentences, bleeding the demands on stances of chance, in costly cants.
I am convulsing in the congruence, in which I am influenced, by my afflictions of depictions in my head
I might be addicted to the dread of previously said decor, in my adorable horror show afloat, deplorably denoting the nopes of logic, and the slippery slopes of khangi, that spring off me when i'm coughing on my green tea.
You are wrong to stop me in my dislogic, dodging the narcotic mocking of toxic strong arming, in proxy alarms, setting barns ablaze.
I praise the poetry pushed on me, dauntingly haunting me with savant like ambiance, from the have nots, having things as far as the eyes can see.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC
Due, the times
Arrival of a concerted friend
At the designated since, the basis of every crime
To be, a whole salvation of what ends
Keep, the times
Rue and divulgence to a rapid and just
Merit, the coping suggestion of what ides
Were, the note of atonement in fair, if not ought's must
Solemn, the times
Strange horizon's with a calling
Ably, the needs of another, shied
And true, sigh of curiosity, that has seen falling
Adage, the times
Sworn to better kind
Turns of repose, have the sense to shine
Well and could, the very order of what mind
Secret, the times
May to fore, the airing, a league with might
To know a callous sorts of claim, the history of why
We are that we are, the other side of what mercy might
Stars, the time
Worth neither whether willing nor would
Comparison needs the let, the better in a wishful lime
Tow and certainty to hold, a portrayal of hosts who could...
Mar 8, 2023
Mar 8, 2023 at 12:27 PM UTC
to air and store, to host
the mouse that eats the soap.
no longer . it is stored in tins,
now, even the chewed bits.
it left the government soap
alone, that just dried out slowly.
in the tidying we lost
the bandages and rattling threads,
found remembered handkerchiefs,
starched, boxed with pins.
oh joy of tidiness, so much could be
thrown, so much can be kept.
these are the falling days.
sbm.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC
down the lane the summer homes all yawn,
open & airing out,
depositing mothballs, musty deck chairs/on the lawn
strolling i see all last year's forgotten furniture
waiting
on the roadside, dust covered.
here a couch groans out to me:
*"such a life!
reeking of mildew,
springs worn from children jumping on the weekends
--and the old man couldn't stop them.
too busy slamming drinks on the porch!"*
i very nearly weep,
"poor tired old thing!"
for it is a hard ride to be a couch.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 6:39 AM UTC
family intrigues
were secreted in the closet
there they stayed
out of sight and out of mind
keeping them
under lock and key
twas always thought best
dragging them out for an airing
wasn't a good idea
but often intrigues
slide from under the closet door
there they are on display
a slip of the tongue
an old letter in a box
things of the past
no more interred
and causing
the discoverer
shock and surprise
the intrigues
positioned
under
open skies
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
Now In This Day And Age...
of... Cancel Brigades... !?!
You Can’t Afford To Be Afraid...
To... HAVE YOUR SAY... !!!
Our... Freedom of Speech...
Is A Basic Right... RIGHT... ?!?
Or Is It Being DENIED...
When Certain Websites...
Are Now DICTATING...
What People Are Saying...
On Their Website Pages...
From Average Heads...
To... Ex-Presidents... !!!
Free Speech Dumped...
And Stumped Liked Trump... !!!
When It Comes To Airing Views...
That Don’t Have Proof...
Or Hold Values...
That Are Proved To Speak TRUTH...
But... Is THAT TRUE... ?!?
Cos’ Who’s Fooling Who...
When It Comes To The News... ?
And Speech On Vaccines...
Because Any Kind of Speech...
Linking Them To 5G...
Is QUICKLY Deemed...
To Be Some Kind of THEORY...
That Is... PURE FALLACY... !!!
And A Conspiracy That...
Has NO Basis In FACT... !!!
But That Shouldn’t Mean...
That Those Whose Beliefs...
Do Not Agree...
With Those Who Lead...
And Speak On TV...
Now Should NOT Be Heard...
Or Be Allowed To Be Seen... !?!
So Folks HAVE YOUR SAY... !!!
..... WITHOUT DELAY..... !!!
Because It’s Okay To Disagree...
With Mainstream Teams...
And What They MANDATE... !!!
As Well As DICTATE...
Pretty Much EVERYDAY... !!!
Into Peoples Pysches...
And In Turn Their Mind States...
As Being What’s RIGHT...
And The Truth About Why...
We’re Needing Lockdowns...
And Vaccinations To Get Around...
And Have Vacations In NICE Locations... !!!
So... HAVE YOUR SAY...
Because THEY Have THEIRS... !!!
Those With FAME...
And These WEALTHY Heirs... !!!
Who Speak FREELY...
EVEN When Their Speech...
Is HATEFUL And MEAN... !!!!!
Like *** MP’s...
And Presidents Seen...
In... TWENTY TWENTY... !!!
And As For The Blender...
of Modern Day Genders...
Are People NOT FREE...
To Air The Kind of Speech...
That Doesn’t Agree...
With How They Be... ?!?
Anti Hate Laws...
Have Come QUICKLY... !!!
While Racists Seem...
To Just Make Apologies...
And Don’t Get As Much Grief...
From These Cancel Police...
When They Use Terms...
Like... “ Piccaninnies “... !?!
Double Standards And...
...... MUCH HYPOCRISY...... !!!
Go With Policies...
That Now SUDDENLY...
Have Come To The FORE...
In A Time Where Disease...
Is RUINING MORE...
Than Economies... !!!
Freedoms SHREDDED...
Whilst Normalcy’s Presented...
... In A Whole NEW Way... !!!
So HAVE YOUR SAY... !!!
Before It’s TOO LATE... !!!
And BEFORE Things Sway...
Towards Police States...
Being What We Face...
ALL OVER The Place... !!!
Don’t Delay And Wait...
And THEN COMPLAIN... ?!?
When You Are Told...
To Keep Your Mouth Closed...
By Those Who Control... !!!
Who Don’t Seem To Know...
How They Should Behave...
In Political Zones... !?!
They’re Being Exposed...
And Being Shamed...
More And More Nowadays... !!!
So Before They Make Claims...
And Laws That Change...
How People Can Relate...
Their Views On Their Ways...
And Demands That They Make...
That Are Found To Be FAKE... !!!
Don’t Make The Mistake...
of Choosing To WAIT...
Because Your AFRAID...
To Voice Your Opinion...
On Things Like Dominion...
Gender And Prescriptions...
Now Causing Divisions... !!!
RESTRICTIONS To Living...
And FREEDOM of THINKING...
I Suggest You Make SURE...
That You DO NOT DELAY...
When It Comes To The FREEDOM...
To...
..... “Have Your Say”..... !!!
Sep 27, 2021
Sep 27, 2021 at 10:10 PM UTC
they didn't think anyone had a clue or knew
but what they were doing was well on view
their secret rendezvouses were not so secret
they were like clothes airing out of the closet
they had a little liaison in the local park
they were kissing and hugging just on dark
the lady at the post office saw them in an embrace
when they spotted her they did an about face
they've been having a clandestine affair
and of this fact her husband isn't aware
she is a woman of so called propriety
he's the local stud of much notoriety
the village grape vine is working at full capacity
telling of the lover's out and out audacity
relationships such as the one in this narrative
are commonplace where us country folk live
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC