"anachronism" poems
abolitionism
absenteeism
absolutism
abstractionism
absurdism
academicism
academism
achromatism
acrotism
actinism
activism
adoptianism
adoptionism
adventurism
aeroembolism
aestheticism
ageism
agism
agnosticism
agrarianism
alarmism
albinism
alcoholism
aldosteronism
algorism
alienism
allelism
allelomorphism
allomorphism
alpinism
altruism
amateurism
amoralism
anabaptism
anabolism
anachronism
analphabetism
anarchism
anecdotalism
aneurism
anglicism
animalism
animism
anisotropism
antagonism
anthropocentrism
anthropomorphism
anthropopathism
antialcoholism
antiauthoritarianism
antiblackism
anticapitalism
anticlericalism
anticolonialism
anticommercialism
anticommunism
antielitism
antievolutionism
antifascism
antifeminism
antiferromagnetism
antihumanism
antiliberalism
antimaterialism
antimilitarism
antinepotism
antinomianism
antiquarianism
antiracism
antiradicalism
antirationalism
antirealism
antireductionism
antiritualism
antiromanticism
antiterrorism
aphorism
apocalypticism
apocalyptism
archaism
asceticism
assimilationism
associationism
asterism
astigmatism
asynchronism
atavism
atheism
athleticism
atomism
atonalism
atropism
atticism
autecism
authoritarianism
autism
autoecism
autoeroticism
autoerotism
automatism
automorphism
baalism
baptism
barbarianism
barbarism
behaviorism
biblicism
bibliophilism
bicameralism
biculturalism
bidialectalism
bilateralism
bilingualism
bimetallism
biologism
bioregionalism
bipartisanism
bipedalism
biracialism
blackguardism
bogyism
bohemianism
bolshevism
boosterism
bossism
botulism
bourbonism
boyarism
bromism
brutism
bruxism
bureaucratism
cabalism
caciquism
cambism
cannibalism
capitalism
careerism
casteism
catabolism
catastrophism
catechism
cavalierism
centralism
centrism
ceremonialism
charism
charlatanism
chauvinism
chemism
chemotropism
chimaerism
chimerism
chrism
chromaticism
cicisbeism
cinchonism
civicism
civism
classicism
classism
clericalism
clonism
cockneyism
collaborationism
collectivism
colloquialism
colonialism
colorism
commensalism
commercialism
communalism
communism
communitarianism
conceptualism
concretism
confessionalism
conformism
congregationalism
connubialism
conservatism
constitutionalism
constructivism
consumerism
controversialism
conventionalism
corporatism
corporativism
cosmism
cosmopolitanism
cosmopolitism
countercriticism
counterculturalism
counterterrorism
creationism
credentialism
cretinism
criticism
cronyism
cryptorchidism
cryptorchism
cubism
cultism
cynicism
czarism
dadaism
dandyism
defeatism
deism
demonism
denominationalism
despotism
determinism
deviationism
diabolism
diamagnetism
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
We have engendered them.
Our babies.
Our annelids.
Facsimiles of Us.
A gushing warm viscous fluid
And a conglomerate of meat
From the womb pods of our hive
Rush out into your oxygen.
Our mass will grow indeed.
And,
Our perfect mitosis will repeat -
More beautiful
Babies.
Our perfect mitosis will repeat -
More beautiful
Babies.
8 become 16; 16 become 32
You (solo)
Must know by now; no doubt
Individuality is a cold, broken loop
An anachronism of a bygone era
Pass through Our membrane , insect.
And be born infinitely back through it.
We will have you spread-out in our warmth
Under our skins; apart of our million-chambered heart
Join Us.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
She walks down pavement
She makes the government’s infrastructure look like beauty
Her beauty turns away the rules of the snooty conservative government
The constitution loses its soul
When she bends over to check the hood of a car about to roll
Her boyfriend accompanied by other boyfriends who hit on her
I stand on the sidelines
Problem is I murmur
You probably thought a stutter was worse
She’s such a high class gal
Despite her sultriness and I’m not judging
But I must mention she goes to Church
So you might still mistake her for being an uptown sister
She dances to rock music
Her head doesn’t even sway to the EDM that the plebeians surrounding her play
She’s an anachronism
But she just needs me to introduce her Monet’s impressionism
I bet her cultural values force her to mould Picasso’s Cubism
Even though I’m not a man’s man
She without influence is not enough
Because influencing is love
And I hope it is to this cute rebellious dud
I suppose from her house she ran
When she looked morose in school during period nine
It was English Drama and suddenly she couldn’t seem to remember the line
With her friends flanking her she walks and talks
She’s on the phone while she’s wearing her socks
She’s on the prowl she’s an active girl
That women is close to my heart
And I hope to treat her like a clam treats its pearl
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
single mother
pale, Chekhovian
her social status an anachronism
the length of her skirt another
dollar bills bring sustenance
while the ends that are ever so failing to meet
remind her of an inability to cope
in every single way
every single day
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 12:49 AM UTC
greece, even, in the nostalgia decades sometimes wore american clothes
but she spoke no english, was starkly unilingual
save for the french "sillage". she was the reason they teach you safe ***
and abstinence: the reason they couldn't trust you
she dressed more american than everybody else; she was a beautiful cockeyed anachronism
your jimmy stewart baby blues on her, brandy-sanctioned
better than the everyman. and a hallucination of your stand-in therapist
asking you "why should there be guilt if there is pleasure?"
and you replying horselike/illogical "it is the unconscious fantasy that i can be torn apart"
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
Tea sprouts wildly
by the roadside:
jade splayed fingers
flaming the earth
in warped green flicks.
Mild, astringent,
the aroma drifts
into the
triviality
of the present.
Looking over
my backyard fence
toward the road,
quick, damp-green scent
antiquates my
vision: Eisai,
holding seeds from
Kyoto, hikes
across border
hills into a
feudal Japan.
The tea-lined road,
framed by my
imagination,
is an anachronism,
a snapshot that’s
double-exposed.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
*outlined in shades of reality
replete with eclipsed potential
the morning moon in revelation
unaware of her ageless touch
the language of time is floral
the color of anachronism is sage
so asymmetric in its beauty
so linear in its dictates
but her silhouette defies projection
refracting moments into mosaics
collaging aspirations into awareness
as dreams clarify into appreciation*
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...
Love lived a decade ago;
Calendar dated 10th century,
Top chest smeared with last millennium's dust and dried rose petals,
Bottom shelf stacked with the Recent epoch's chronicles in scrolls,
And I wrote this anecdote during the late Eocene,
But I am now an era old;
Too short of memory to remember fairytales,
Too outgrown to believe magic tricks or play a game of chance,
Too outworn to have my heartstrings plucked,
Too callous to bear a soft spot,
Too archaic to belong in any contemporary world,
Too ancient for a technological revolution.
Fixed in a period that won't age,
Absent of a timekeeper, missing every timepiece;
My antique mind couldn't only smarten up for
This relic of a body, camouflaging skin-deep among prototypes,
Preserving the fossils of my endangered heart.
Maybe one day a noble clocksmith will come
And build us a time machine.
Maybe I'll have my youth back
When Ana teleports back to Erin,
Where her misplaced soul will finally be home with the gods,
For I think I'd do fine without her anymore,
As I land inside a time capsule,
Or wake up as a hand-me-down,
In time at long last with today's pendulum clock.
I'd be lucky if it's the clocksmith who takes such artifact.
But until such time warp,
Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 9:26 AM UTC
Each afternoon in June,
I loiter-linger on the corner of 37th avenue,
Both eyes asleep,
A summer’s sunset smile on my face,
A flock of fairies in free float round my head.
My habit, a daily pause,
Plant my haunch against the blue barrel mail box,
Old empty drum, anachronism, stubborn antique.
I cringe at the mad jazz of shrieks and horns on cue,
The hatter’s rush at end of day,
There is purpose in this cacophony,
My city boasts and brags with noise,
Intoxicated on aroma,
A frequency with every smell.
Baptiste’s Pizza owns the breeze at 4 p.m.
Inhale this baker’s breath,
An oven-joy in one warm gust,
Blond baked crust,
Tomatoes boil and bubble cheese,
Salt fresh anchovies, red peppers,
A currency of meats.
I salivate and lick the wind,
Hunger is desire.
Sudden harmony in one sweet waft,
A pleasant jet stream,
A toker passes by,
And gifts me with a 60’s contact high.
A small girl’s mouthful voice,
A jam cram of donuts is my guess.
The rattle, clap and black lung cough,
An old school diesel delivery truck,
The air brakes squeal for release,
It’s quitting time and everything wants to be free
A homeboy, my local jive,
I know his dreams,
A lacquered finish,
In love with his axe,
You feel me... tap, bump and go.
Vinegar and toxic spice,
A window washer’s delight,
He squeals a squeaky clean
Fresh roses, oh a hopeful night, bonne chance,
The catastrophe of a cigarette,
The killer joy of a fresh cigar,
An uptown girl's stealth perfume,
She knows her prey,
He knows her ploy,
A mid west girl and a downtown boy
Daylight begs to dim,
The sun will witness just enough, no more,
My corner holds its own,
Each afternoon my part in scenes,
I dream,
And never wish, but often wonder,
About the life that might have been.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
Seconds, minutes, hours-
They constitute and make up time,
Yet my very fabric of time,
Was made wholly of you.
Time started when you came into being,
Time flowed when u breathed,
Time was what you made of it,
Time had only you in my head…
Time slowed down in your absence,
Mere seconds seeming like hours,
Time flew when I spent it with you,
Hours and hours seeing like mere seconds…
Times were happy when you were happy,
Times were sad when you were sad,
Times were good, times were bad,
All according to your state of mind…
My time was synchronized to you alone,
Certainly not to some GMT,
I was accurate, precise, to the dot
In time when it came to you…
A person ceases to exist when their time comes to an end,
That’s exactly what happened to me when I lost you,
My foundation for living completely destroyed,
For all the time with me you had toyed…
Without time, there is no existence,
So also, I stopped to exist,
Without time, there is no sunshine,
So also, I stopped seeing the light of day…
Without time, there air doesn’t blow,
Without time, the water doesn’t flow…
Without time, I have nowhere to go,
Without time, what to do I don’t know…
With you absent, no control on time,
The end to my life’s chronology…
I exist, as but an anachronism,
Like a hellish beast of necromancy…
I would say I’m dead, or dying, or both,
But cant, as there is no you, no time,
So all I can say is that Im non existent,
Since you wiped away my chronicles…
And to think that it all happened but a year ago,
A year in GMT measure…
A year which seemed, and still seems
More of an infinite eternity…
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 11:50 AM UTC
day 1: today i found out about the machines. sometimes i can feel your hand in mine. you used to grab it and pull, like you couldn't go as fast as you wanted to without taking me with you. war is never pretty, but you sure are. were. you were pretty. i still remember the last time i saw you.
day 2: do you remember when our names were joined together? people used to spit them out in one go, 'cause there wasn't a day either of us went somewhere without the other. they don't do that anymore. wish you were here.
day 3: i had a dream about you last night. i still can't feel my left arm. i miss you.
day 4: they're working on building machines that look and act like people. maybe i was a test drive. i still miss you.
day 5: i remembered something today (this is rare for me. if you were here i'd tell you why). you used to curve around your sketchpad, like it was a part of you. one night (june. i don't remember the year) i traced your spine and you shivered. i think about that a lot. i'm not sure why.
day 6: i miss you.
day 7: i love you.
day 8: remember our old bean plant we had growing in the windowsill? you used to fuss over it so much. (i used to fuss over you so much, too, but to be fair you're slightly more important than a bean plant. slightly.) you wasted a summer's worth of water on that **** thing, and never regretted it once.
day 9: we used to fold into each other during brooklyn winters, when the heat cut out and we had nothing but each other. now i just have nothing.
day 10: i can't get drunk now, either.
day 11: i saw my gravestone today. yours is right next to it, did you know that? they're both empty. they never found our bodies.
day 12: monochromia. that's what you had. i wonder if it went away after. you never saw colors and i saw too many.
day 13: i dreamt about you last night again. i've been remembering more. it's slow, but steady. fragments of memories every day. maybe one day i'll remember it all.
day 14: again. i think my subconscious is trying to punish me. i wish i could just forget again. maybe it would make everything easier.
day 15: again.
day 16: i haven't left my bed in twenty-one hours. this is the only way i can see you.
day 17: i wonder if you'd have married her if you hadn't died. a part of me (i'm sorry. all of me. every single ******* atom in my body) hopes you wouldn't have. it also knows that you would have. i miss you.
day 18: it's your birthday.
day 19: anachronism: a thing belonging or appropriate to a period other than that in which it exists, especially a thing that is conspicuously old-fashioned.
day 20: hello again. i missed you.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
The old man
A broken down factory
Sagging within the crumbled graffiti of his skin
Sits and stares out the window
An anachronism
Out of place among the smooth
Modern hospital walls
The man sits in his wheel chair
The thrown of landless kings
Carrying all the memories of his years
Like a net
Hauling in the silverfish of his stories
Though many have swam away
And in his hazy recollection
He remembers the feeling of bare feet
On summer grass sprinting
The shotgun of a ball exploding
From the barrel of his bat
The hush of a spring storm
As it dresses him and some lover
All the shades of wet
Staring out the window
The old artifact
Wiggles his proud toes
Following them back to
The night clubs in Chicago
The handshake of the president
And the feathery wings of jazz
In his feeble arms he catches
The kick of a rifle
The whisper of a bullet
As it reaches out to bury itself
Into the lullaby of his bones
The dirt of war in his teeth
And the smell of burning hair
But most of all he looks back
On the empty picture frame
The days that have blurred into
Darkness and smoke
What did I do on all the days
I have forgotten
This question hangs like the last petal
Still clinging to the branches
As the winter wind grows bold
It is unfair he thinks
And looks out among
The dogwoods in full swaying dresses
That line the hospital
I am a barren husk
Of bark and bone
But this world blooms so brilliant
Lean back in his chair
The old man thinks
I am so happy I got to see
The trees laughing with the wind one last time
And smiles like a toothless sunset
His soul swallowing and swelling
On all the beauty he has ever gathered
Behind the cameras of his eyes
So full of life that he can no longer hide it inside of him
It must go dance with the blossoms
When the nurse found him
The tears had not dried off his cheek
His mouth frozen into a smile
Like a sunbeam burning through the clouds
A single dogwood flower folded in his fingers
As she looked upon the hallelujah of his death
She wondered
What secrets did you take with you
You old geezer
What was so beautiful
You smiled so hard your heart broke
When you saw the other side
Did it have dogwoods
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
What do all these unread books mean,
a life that must move, but intends to someday have
more time to sit and ponder?
Or am I slothful from the smudged screen gleam?
Endless tool possibilities, you've become my lvl. 70 distraction
No capture, no defeating
just the monster in the cave
without an escape rope, or even matches
Go so crazy
I wanna light my shirt on fire in protest
and forget to take it off first
I wish for old days of street loitering gossip, and busking
How'd we lose it so fast?
You can't even find the picnic spot without a digital pamphlet
so excuse me as I lament
the dying days
I hardly lived
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
the Man is no longer a Man
in this day and age
he is a strange Middle-Aged Boy
an Aging Adolescent
hair going grey
with the hours whittled away
on Xbox video games
the Man that is a Man
is of a bygone age
The Real Man in the films of old
Age-ed Anachronism
strong and proud and brave
standing tall to face the day
and keep the wolves at bay
that I am a Man-who-is-not-a-Man
a product of this modern age
has vexed my Heart and Soul
my Arrested Ascension
how can I always play
when a Real Man works all day
but really who's to say?
the Boy is also a Man
in our culture at this stage
in truth both young and old
Advancing Adolescence
we get to play our lives away
yet still have bills to pay
the balance of the middle way
I am a Boy and I am a Man
by internal and external age
work only to play is my road
an Admirable Aspiration
that I get to live My Way
a little boyhood every day
is the great gift of this age
**** it
I'll be okay
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
Let’s go back to 1.
To start again, to meet you, to seventeen, to yellow
and hugs, to hammers and strings.
Nobody knew me then, and I ****** up
told them the true story.
Let’s go back, and I’ll tell you a different one.
It started out a prepschool fantasy. I had a
Great Perhaps, and you
(were there, probably)
And then I ****** up, my friend.
I’d like to revert to 1: a second round
I’m ready, now.
Hello, nice to meet you
Would you like to have a drink with me?
I will say yes. I will be thin again for you
And when you touch my arm
I will not shrink
from you.
Let us. Let me, at least
Revert to 1
and promise
(I do—to do better now).
On money-soaked leather, we’ll make angels
no I’m sorry—we’ll make amends
I will talk breathy and flutter my eyelashes; I will be Daisy Buchanan
a rosewater anachronism that needs no cigarettes and no pretense, only
Attention
(I stood at, when you said goodbye)
There will be no end. There was no end. Not a goodbye.
On rust-red rooftops we will soliloquize
(about what?) (it doesn’t matter)
We will throw lit matches and watch how fire makes its mark
And we will separately wonder where it goes
and—are you listening?—we will watch the sunrise
and I will tell my daughter about that day when she is older.
A prepschool fantasy. We will drink to the word “contraband”
and it will be 1966—the rich kids’ 1966, the whitewashed one we pretend we are ashamed of.
I will be Daisy Buchanan, and thin again for you.
Let’s go back to 1. I would love to
try again, and better now.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
benjamin franklin was created by benjamin franklin
one of his most ingenious inventions
you could never read all the books about him
when you finish one, two more have been written
i party in his colossal footsteps
thanks ben, for lending me all those volumes from your library
you invented bifocals, i see clearly
your stove warms my heart
i give away my **** too -- no patents for me either
let’s jam sometime on your glass armonica
i’m packing one of your divided soup bowls on my next ocean trip
i’m sick of losing my clam chowder to the waves
these terms you added to the lexicon:
"battery," "positive," "negative," "conductor," "discharge"
i’m positive i bought a battery the other day
you designed the first penny – only now an anachronism
no matter how many of those saved pennies have been earned
all those aphorisms, my god
i bet you mumble them in your sleep
you started the philosophical society, me the secret music society
you studied whirlwinds and gulf streams when sailing to london for a cup of coffee
you designed flippers, hung onto a kite for windsurfing
used the kite to summon lightning
invite me next time you blow up a thunder house with an ungrounded lightning rod
we’ll make pittsburgh tremble
and congrats on the grounded lightning rods
you saved millions of people and neutralized religion
it’s not the deadly finger of god, the vengeance of the lord
it’s just a buzz
lighting the streets at night comes in handy
though the night watchman concept has gotten a bit fascist
brokering the french alliance was stellar for our onion soup supply
but your suggestion that we unite these states
i’m not sure that one’s gonna stick
and thomas jefferson was a cockblocker
we declare independence from his scolding us for all our mademoiselles
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 5:12 AM UTC
There is nothing
Like the wind
When it sweeps
You
Off your feet
The way
The walls
Stand purple
Filled
With dancing
Indians
The prickles
Of the pines
That walk
Across
Your back
Then
They tell
You
To go
Back
And start
Over
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
feeling as ifstuck in rewind
an old cassette perpetually turning
towards anachronism
like sepia toned photos
yesterdays memoirs revealed
your sunshine and the
absolute absence of clouds
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 5:12 PM UTC
Oh Optimus Prime,
Were you still in your prime when
you thought of that name?
Were you still in your prime
when you ruined hundreds and thousands of kids’ lives
by discontinuing your adventures?
Oh Optimus Prime, were you still in your prime when you fled from my life and never returned?
And to this day I wonder Optimus Prime,
are you still in your prime?
Here I sit and wait
Counting the clock, peering at time,
Hoping someday my answers are met by fate
So a state of satisfaction may be mine.
So sorry dearest Gawain, I am Optimus Prime.
I tried desperately under the stresses of daily life as Optimus Prime
to seek out the answers and address these questions,
but they are so plentiful.
As you know, I had to fight many troubles
and fend off many enemies,
all the time trying to stay in my prime.
Though you are the first to ask these questions,
I know you will not be the last,
For many often seek out the heart of the one they wish to save.
Untidy though I have written
Your conscience I pray,
Will keep you from being smitten,
As it is answers that I too crave.
I have long awaited your response Optimus Prime,
and I thank you.
When I watched you on TV, I would speak to the screen,
but there was never a response.
With all my imagination I believed you were alive,
but only now have you proven that you are.
Though many questions remain unanswered,
one question we may lay to rest,
and that is Optimus Prime,
whether you are still in your prime.
And at times when you may think you are not,
it is of your soul that you ought wonder.
If you a man but four and I a man but three,
the answer lies with the God of thunder,
Ascending your soul, like climbing a wet tree,
Is a slippery riddle I dare not blunder.
I thank you Gawain. I struggle and mercifully I am in debt to you.
If it wasn’t for you, there would be no soul of Optimus Prime.
You have created a soul for me like I have created myself in the hearts of kids throughout the country.
And though I was born from pencil,
I will go on and live in the hearts of these children,
not because of pencil,
but because of people like you
who choose to look beyond my prime.
I call now on my heavenly muse
to guide me in this new adventure,
And offer up his strength to me as I lay aside my prime.
Sir Gawain and the God of Thunder
Through random discovery we may find,
If none of us go asunder,
‘Tis likely we may place this soul of mine
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 11:59 AM UTC
Spare me but a moment,
No longer,
No less.
Allow me to drift away from this place;
Allow me to close my weary eyes,
And disappear.
In this moment,
I shall be freed from the anachronism
That is within me
And surrounds me.
I shall no longer hear the shriek
Of fleeting automobiles,
Nor the scattered screams and shouts
Of the fools in the city.
It shall all vanish,
Only to be relieved by
Those ancient, mesmerizing melodies
Of both music and laughter.
No longer shall I see the gray tiled floors
Glazed with an insidious toxic polish,
Nor strain my eyes to see beyond
The flashing neons of places I dare not tread.
I shall see only the fond smiles
Of lovers,
As they sway back and forth amidst
The mellifluous music of the gala.
I want nothing more than to sway,
To be held in the arms of a man
Who no longer exists.
Through agonizing ages,
It seems the gentlemen could not endure
All that threatened to erase them from
This world.
The tower grows ever taller wherein
Rapunzel waits;
The taste of the apple that
Poisoned Snow White
Still lingers upon her lips.
Sleeping Beauty ever rests;
No prince shall come
To her aid.
Spare me but a moment,
For if time is truly manmade,
Allow me to drift away
Eternally into the past.
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 2:08 PM UTC
A relic, so I once thought
Then no, I must have come early,
too soon to the party without a gift
But I took breath, reckless,
coughing out the past,
future leaking away wetly
And I knew then I was made this way,
imperfectly perfect for this place,
this universe alone, just now—
Never out of time
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 11:29 AM UTC
There I was, waiting in my world for a guide to step outside. The first thing I did, when I reached the other side, was walk. It's so easy to move forward with the breeze at your back, and the grass beneath your feet, and the sun making the sky the most inviting shade of brilliant blue. The trees parted and the ground flattened as I stood before my equal. A beautiful anachronism, so imposing and awkward in this rolling sea of green, I felt immediately akin to it. But the more I encircled it, the more I realised how desperately it fit. Its hues were soft and subtle, its stone structure had nicks and faults, as ageless and as natural as the trees that kept their distance. There had to have been a day when it had felt as I did, new-born, intruding, unwelcome. It had turned from being a flame for my defiance, to a glimmer of hope, not as bright as the initial fire, but far more enticing.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 10:05 AM UTC
(cuz ma life iz such a drag...
this **** kin “FAKE” hemp
pyre aye roll out to you dear reader).
As a double jointed mathematical abbot
and amateur chemist
specializing in cannabinoids
my favorite delta-9-tetra
hydrocannabinol (THC),
isolated and synthesized in 1964
weeding thru bathroom rag
while athwart the *****
i.e. measuring adequate perforated
square roto root er, sans
regular toilet tissue paper
prior to completing important
private business matter
on the sacred porcelain chamber ***
Mary Jane made a token appearance,
and boy she looked smoke kin hot
asking if I wanna marry (Jane) her attired
in drag at a joint where Billy Bong
banged on by the hands of
a phenomenal drummer
taut as a hemp knot
with music in his blood
while blowing fractal rings – holy Scott
the immediate utterance,
and rather creative bon mot
found me stock still like stone wall Jackson,
who unfortunately got deprived a hit,
nonetheless got shot
unwittingly by his own (confederate troops),
whose demise an awful blot
per southern cause during
the Civil War and if anachronism
to receive medicinal aide available
instead of primitive treatment he got
(as well other wounded soldiers
of misfortune on the battlefield),
whose faith the any almighty power
could do little to save their roach invested lot
yet availing my imagination
to twist time like that Mobius strip
mortally wounded rebels and Yankees
free from facing death on a cot
might be successful hemp
entrepreneurs cultivating a little spot
of land hemp would outstrip cotton
as king as export to trot
orange you glad I avoided
the analogy with a kumquat?
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC