"anodyne" poems
1737
Rearrange a “Wife’s” affection!
When they dislocate my Brain!
Amputate my freckled *****
Make me bearded like a man!
Blush, my spirit, in thy Fastness—
Blush, my unacknowledged clay—
Seven years of troth have taught thee
More than Wifehood every may!
Love that never leaped its socket—
Trust entrenched in narrow pain—
Constancy thro’ fire—awarded—
Anguish—bare of anodyne!
Burden—borne so far triumphant—
None suspect me of the crown,
For I wear the “Thorns” till Sunset—
Then—my Diadem put on.
Big my Secret but it’s bandaged—
It will never get away
Till the Day its Weary Keeper
Leads it through the Grave to thee.
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What if they had a War and nobody came !
my sentiment all along
Actions so transparent and telegraphed a mile long
absurd anchoring, even more absurd triggering
so absurd as to be meaningless
the hotchpotch logic of simpletons on acid
The banal manifestations of the anodyne retards with advanced hysteria
Think unruly kids on Colombian marching powder
think advanced psychosis with total stage ten delusions
Watch mass hysteria contagion
Logic was never there, rationality bolted beating Usain Bolt
Inveterate liars and fantasists now control maddened throngs
Oh dear! they decided I am madly in love with acquaintance
neither I or poor acquaintance know this
But let not the truth get in the way of a soap opera by the insanes
After All meaningless triggers and Delusionary prompts
keep the sheeples busy in People's Power utopia
They are all having a war, nobody has told me about it
I don't understand their language yet they are very eloquent
Deep in their imagined Neuro-linguistic Programming or mental pygmies playing Pavlov Dog theory of the semi-illiterates
I just realized why cancer is prevalent amongst them
They carry so much poison and emotional ******* in their beings
It pollutes and eat away at them internally, they get cancer!
Never have been interested in little minds and liars and thieves
Have little time for dumb people, the toxics and the sheeples
What makes cretins think I take anything of theirs to mind
what can I learn or gain from contemptibles
I don't feel inferior so why would I want to learn
how to slander and defame others to bring them down
'Slander is the GREAT LEVELLER voiced one of them
poor inadequate soul, poor pathetic degenerate
I look twenty years younger than my years, no wrinkles
Just slightly greying, mind as sharp as razor
Because I don't carry acidic ******* hate or foul nonsense
in my head,
Because my mind is full of worthy knowledge
because I am not an ignoramus with attitude
because I am not a shameless coward or an empty headed nonentity
Because I am not amongst the madding crowd
I am not an insignificant pointless HATER with cancer in waiting!
I am NOT a SHAMELESS RACIST white THIEF discrediting the
Victim I STOLE from
OR
an OBNOXIOUS gang of SOCIALIST crazed subhumans cancerized
by jealousy and envy
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
There's spring and there's summer, there's all that's in between
no listless skies of anodyne; now nature flaunts and preens
What beauty fills the hungry eye 'neath a sky of blue, serene
verdant vales soaked in sun, awash in palettes of green
There are pastels that awaken and deep shades that passion brews
created hues that trickle...sprinkled with 'chartreuse'
There's the green of 'asparagus' and that of 'artichokes'
Of 'forest', 'ferns' , of 'moss', a brush of different strokes
Fragrant plants of 'mint', then 'myrtle' and 'green tea'
'Emerald', 'jade' or 'harlequin' and 'malachites' that be
Off creamy shells, just 'pistachio', 'green apples', then of 'pines'
It lies too in 'sap' and 'teal', in 'avocados' and tangy 'lime'
There's green of the 'mantis', in 'jungle', 'hunters' and 'shamrock'
The lithe 'parakeet' fluttering and the lazy sanguine 'croc'
In blessed 'basil', ' pickle', in 'pear', 'olives' in 'bottle green'
'Gourds' and 'peas' that farmers grow in cultivars pristine
'Tis there in 'aqua' and 'seaweed', in the ripple of 'sea green' waves
In 'turtles', 'sea foam', 'anemone' and a 'tropical glistening lake'
From 'laurel green' to an 'army green' , in 'sage' ( a shade of grey )
The color of 'grass' , the murky 'swamp' , hues in array
There's 'neon' and an 'Indian green', a 'Persian' one to mystify
A 'midnight green' to bright 'fluorescent', oh, for green rainbows in the eye
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
As the wet wind hums its way through our two tower six-cylinder apartment complex. Birds fall from their naked winter wept branches, braced by stiff bones, mapped out in Alexandria, carrying notes from El Salvador. The corner market is closed, never opened. A hair salon stands in its place, it wrings out the "R's" from a Philadelphia warshing.
And like every night, hot air cakes on an extra layer of indecipherable red dots up the arms and around the neck, minute pustules of hypochondria that steal my finger tips from the keyboard. I scratch and tip them, looking under their fiery scarlet caps for, I-don't-know-what disease. Paul says It's that magic school bus melanoma, typhoid drip, it comes at you from a computer screen and eats at your nervous system until you've got the wambles.
Tuesday's used to be the worst, until I OWNED THAT **** I make a pronoun out of aluminum foil and wear it as a hat on a first date. Tinder is not bad for conceptual art projects. I carry it within me like an anodyne complex, out into the frozenness; into my mouth the air comes around my teeth, behind my uvula until winter freezes my voice and I am breathless.
I abandon my miniature house to enter the pyramidal pinetum to the North. Wild paradise shrubs gather with songless animal noises watching as I take naked photographs of my father to preserve his body from anything less than his great immortal end. He lives on black moss and water from a nearby pond,
he authors the face of Anthony Hopkins, thrown about, another casualty of fervid and blurry dreaming.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
Let us Rise and Rejoice for the Wise Controllers of the Streets
Please give praise for the Keepers of Asinine Righteousness
Who have the power to read our minds easy as giving sweets
Esteemed Professors who are World Experts with Greatness
In Neuro-linguistic programming and know all the upbeats
For example anybody with working eyes can see with no cheats
The woman's complexions is not Black even without clearness
Alas I make a joke and lightheartedly say its Black in mirths
Nobel NLP Programmers jump in glee and frenzied eagerness
That is Trigger to void progressive actions with that lady petite
So Professors et vacuous masses devoid of brains go on heats
Sprinkling Blacks all over in project as useless as their dumbness
Tell not dorks I do not see her as black in any way but a tease
Another deluded wasted efforts from the addicted mindlesses
The poor lass graced with honey-gold skin tone is not for meets
Crass semi-illiterates play mind games on levels of bog peats
Psychotic obsessed nonentities with deluded tendentiousness
As if there's a meeting of minds with piffling anodyne greats
Dumbos declaring we are playing with your mind in earness
Show me how a genius compares with Quixotic foolishness
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
Here in the west borough, down three or four blocks from the epicenter, the shocks come to you in tides — little, electric, delightful in some alien way. Even the sounds of instant decay ring pleasant. The concrete, the bricks, the mortar, the Corinthian columns, the suspended ceiling tiles, the florescent bulbs, the coffee cups, the desktops, the family portraits all fall from their stations, screaming toward the cool pavement. It’s a temperate Thursday in January and the weathermen continue to talk in stunted disbelief. A car catches fire on Malcom X Boulevard, and weather is the wrong word, you think, for this phenomenon. It’s rage. It’s bitter. The violence of the sun-catching glass smacks of vengeance and this whole thing is man-made or, at the very least, god-made but not anything so indiscriminate as weather.
There’s still the pleasure of it though. The collapse of the old world. And there’s nothing but rubble on the corner of 9th and Dominican, and for the life of you, you can’t remember what stood there before. In your evergreen bones you know one thing: whatever anodyne brick institution reigned will be replaced by that glorious glass and that glorious steel, 100 towers impaling the sky. The future is now. A tremor. A cloud of dust.
For about ten seconds the windshield is worthless yet you speed up, hurling yourself through the fog of destruction into a **** world, feeling essential and brilliant and and and.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
Opulent expatriate of mine vision's,
I delayed for thee on a timeclock not known to terrestrial creature's...
I hath seen thy feature's
Whence I was perched upon the lozenge conduit,
Henceforth knowing it was thee,
Mine other half....
Mine anodyne of high godly class.....
Mine spirit without thee is halfed,
Like a split down mine center.....
For thou hath entered me
Through the eye's
And into mine conscience!!!!
For thou feeleth as if thyself hath no worth,
But I remembered thee at ourn spiritual birth
From whence we were covered in blankets!!!
Warmed by eachother's skin...
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC
755
No Bobolink—reverse His Singing
When the only Tree
Ever He minded occupying
By the Farmer be—
Clove to the Root—
His Spacious Future—
Best Horizon—gone—
Whose Music be His
Only Anodyne—
Brave Bobolink—
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~
*You're an island in the anodyne brisk.
You're a holm of lonesomeness.
Your divers in deep diorama
sink like boats.
There's coins and clothing
and troubling notes
left by a female passenger
imprisoned on watery shore.
Run aground,
you harbor regret,
and speak in tongues of folklore.
If I had an ocean I'd give you to it.*
~
Feb 8, 2024
Feb 8, 2024 at 10:15 AM UTC
Gallimaufries Incondite in-risible pules from anomie.
Recondite jeremiadtions of every pessimal influence.
Yearning for the Quid-am Xanthochroi to sybaritic in the manner I long to LOVE,
Unrestrained The pennicle of BATHOS
observations of human
hopes and dubietys of mankind
An anodyne, the demersal soul
attempts at pawky insights often written whilst
inebriated and Katzenjammered!
Dec 31, 2009
Dec 31, 2009 at 7:51 PM UTC
He's giving her a piggyback ride across Harvey Avenue.
She's barefoot, her legs tightly wrapped around his waist.
In her hands a killer pair of heels click against each other.
She whispers something to him and laughs.
I want to know what it is--but to know would
unravel both space and time--it would make this
Monday night, in this anodyne, red-brick district
partly mine. Walking past, I let them go with a nod
and a "beautiful night."
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
in my sweaty palm, melting
is medical-pink candy coating.
the pieces click, clack, roll around,
and the generic sugar tastes sweeter
than ever, sweet like a fever, sweet
like smiles under the concrete bridge.
tastes like sweet'n'low piled high in one-
dollar coffee drained in two seconds,
like buttercream frosting smeared
across your arm. tastes of the indoors,
of doors shut, of stale snicker-doodles.
it is sugar that tastes like promises gone far.
when i swallow (that is three, four, twenty more)
i can taste it in the pit of my stomach:
sweet, sweet candy coating masking
the poison, the anodyne, the analgesic—
candy coating to cover all the little scars.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
Anodyne eye's
Narcotic lip's;
Analgesic kisses
Tranquilizer hip's.
Soporific eyebrow's
Lashes Heavensent;
Skin anesthetic,
Relieving me of
Death. Morphine
Amour', ***** bliss,
Painkiller door's; to
Thine soul I feedeth.
Thy voice a sedative,
Thine hair calmative,
As thy nose maketh
Me warm when I'm cold,
As an expensive wine, or
neuroleptic. I'm higher then
The universe, inside of thy
psyche; it's cozy there, none
Place to compare, I'm at home,
Simply: wherein all is right.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley (Filipino rose) dedication
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
You're clowns, as laughable as hell
Go read the passage on Cyber troll perps
unemployed ******* paid to sit online
writing ******* to flood and demoralize
the ninocoops brain deed perverts
think others are weak inconsequentials dweeps
like the spineless nervous victims you usually terrorize
Go re-appraise your anodyne tactics
30 years, I am still standing still laughing
Am at my best when alone ready for turds
I don't hide, I haven't fled anywhere
Or go all shaky and trembly
You don't frighten or terrorize me one bit
My mind is razor sharp, my nerves steely as ever
Coward wiggas are contemptibles
Can't stand and trade face to face
Only brave when they gang up against one man
behind screens inventing false identities
You are laughable, odious little perp rats.
Deluded slaves controlled fools.....
Hahaha....hahaha....Hahaha....western rubish
trailer trashes, you can't even spell your lingo
PERP CYBER TROLL, VIGILANTES OF THIEVES
LAUGHABLE MORONS, SIMPLETONS YOBBOS
SHAMELESS FOOLS, LOOK HOW LONG YOU'VE
BEEN AT IT, CAN'T BRING DOWN JUST ONE MAN
WHITE THIEVES SERVANTS....Hahaha...hahaha
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 3:34 PM UTC
Sweet anodyne
Healing my wounds
Mending a broken heart
Relieving my stress
No more pain
When I feel you near
Sweet anodyne
Apr 22, 2010
Apr 22, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
83
Heart, not so heavy as mine
Wending late home—
As it passed my window
Whistled itself a tune—
A careless snatch—a ballad—A ditty of the street—
Yet to my irritated Ear
An Anodyne so sweet—
It was as if a Bobolink
Sauntering this way
Carolled, and paused, and carolled—
Then bubbled slow away!
It was as if a chirping brook
Upon a dusty way—
Set bleeding feet to minuets
Without the knowing why!
Tomorrow, night will come again—
Perhaps, weary and sore—
Ah Bugle! By my window
I pray you pass once more.
1.2k
A smile that postered peace has cracks…
Cracks that were covered that start to appear in times of great test, revealing its uncertainty, vulnerability, venom towards the thing that makes it fear…
The smile is a signature of submission
A stamp of insecurity
Because to feel one must think, not temporarily fix,
And to truly fix, one must insist on feeling - everything…
A smile full of love, wisdom and youth never fails, but is thrown; blasted by veiled vast-disappointments, so that the face that holds it moistens with incredulity…
But a smile that has no truth -
When it starts to fray; stiffens easily - turns anodyne, bitter, frozen…
Until the corpse behind that smile becomes clearer - and dictates death with no mirror…
But beware… you can turn away all mirrors
Yet in the darkness they will linger, slither, shimmer, hunt you down…
There’s no escaping from the silent screams in your head, and eventually this realm of darkness will fully consume you - if you choose to take this path of lies, safety, silk teeth…etiquette… wrong rest.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 6:06 AM UTC
Captivating, conspicuously charming
A fragrance so enthralling
Bewitching the senses
Enticing the unfocused soul
Hypnotizing, hardly hypnagogic
Such unparalleled grace
A peculiar dancer
Coaxing the mind to perplexity
Anodyne, aberrant anesthesia
Resembling an ethereal angel
A touch appealing to tame flames
Surreptitiously gathering fuel
Sacrosanct, superficially sacred
Donned with deceptive modesty
An ambiguous spark
Threatening to begin a wildfire
Efflorescing, escaping encumbrance
Soon, a firm grasp on freedom
The freedom so prematurely served
Too early to be maximized
Incantations, whisper incantations
Silence the demented demons
An unconventional ritual
To fortify the continence
Ebbing continence
Another attempt made
Stall the impending debauchery
Enunciation is needed -
Esurience is never innate, but provoked
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 5:06 AM UTC
As the wet wind hums its way through our two tower six-cylinder apartment complex. Birds fall from their naked winter wept branches, braced by stiff bones, mapped out in Alexandria, carrying notes from El Salvador. The corner market is closed, never opened. A hair salon stands in its place, it wrings out the "R's" from a Philadelphia warshing.
And like every night, hot air cakes on an extra layer of indecipherable red dots up the arms and around the neck, minute pustules of hypochondria that steal my finger tips from the keyboard. I scratch and tip them, looking under their fiery scarlet caps for, I-don't-know-what disease. Paul says It's that magic school bus melanoma, typhoid drip, it comes at you from a computer screen and eats at your nervous system until you've got the wambles.
Tuesday's used to be the worst, until I OWNED THAT **** I make a pronoun out of aluminum foil and where it as a hat on a first date. OKCupid's not bad for conceptual art projects. I carry it within me like an anodyne complex, out into the guzzling wind, the air that comes into my mouth and looks for any breath within me that it can go out of me with, and I'm breathless.
I abandon my miniature house to enter the pyramidal pinetum to the North. Wild paradise shrubs gather with songless animal noises watching as I take naked photographs of my father to preserve his body from anything less than his great immortal end. He lives on black moss and water from a nearby bourn,
he's the mien of an Anthony Hopkins, living in a hologram I saw in my dream last night.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
This anodyne morning *** of tea,
Is clearing the nebulous morning,
Plans that threatened to topple on me
Have muted much of their scorning.
Still there is reticence to put to the shovel
This mound of pending work-a-day tasks
They clutter my head, my week, and my hovel
Snoozing away days behind farcical masks.
Why do you mock me, oh gods of inaction?
What did I ever do to your ilk?
Did I once neglect to grant satisfaction
Tributes in gold, obeisance or silk?
Secretly though, I plan retribution
For what this torpor is stealing from me.
I'll wield hours of output and contribution
Office deliverables and domesticity.
But oaths and threats deliver poor solace,
Whilst I pontificate, not facing my work
The monster of time still tends to his malice
And here I yet sit, among the tasks that I shirk.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
Happy Birthday, Dear Departed Brother
We weren’t awfully close,
You far away in Hollywood,
I, far, far up north in Sweden.
But our soft sibling emotion
Never dwindled, for
We loved each other dearly,
Maybe more than siblings dwelling near,
And so, each wrinkling year,
When February fifteen comes around
(one day post-Valentine)
It’s effortless to love-propound
Through past and present anodyne
What’s lived no more, consigned
To storied history,
A morning, mourning benediction:
Happy Birthday, brother true.
I’ll always miss you
Just a bit,
Whenever I can think of it –
Like at this moment.
Happy Birthday Dear Departed Brother 2.15.2017
Birthday Book;
Arlene Corwin
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 1:21 PM UTC
In my conquest, to appease this insatiable thirst
For the greatest human error
I would call it perfection, a flash of grace;
An unsung beauty laid waste
Here, echoes my fanfare for the brave;
To the strongest impulse that the soul craves
The search for something as elusive as love;
The anodyne that turns crows into doves
Oh, it will **** me again and again,
But I hunt and yearn for it evermore
I pour out my soul, to this devil’s bargain,
For we are all victims of the heart’s ploy
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
call to me like a bird
and drown my senses
in soft clinging caresses
and wordless communion
dance to me like a fire
in flickering delight
consuming and illuminating
with tongues of flame
run to me in a river
crave emotions to the sea
in waves breaking over me
torrential and irresistible
bathe me like the moonlight
in shimmering strands
unravel my darkness
and banish my shade
embrace me like the smoke
that drapes its narcotic cloak
on my fragmented fantasies
and dreams them real
blanket me like the snow
that numbs my pain
and blesses my wounds
with its soothing glow
devour me like the end of the world
and grant me living oblivion
eternal and divine
in your celestial anodyne
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 3:01 PM UTC
They buried him at Calverton,
the sky provided tears.
His mourners were the Few, the Proud.
No next of kin appeared.
For years he’d wandered City Streets,
a casualty of war.
The V.A. patched his injuries,
they couldn’t bandage what he saw.
The State had little use for him,
once the Peace accords were signed
His tiny pension was just enough
to purchase anodyne.
The blessings of a dreamless sleep,
He sometimes found in wine.
Otherwise he was on night patrol
With friends he’d left behind.
It’s hard to live civilian life,
His haunted mind was too far gone.
His body slept in Central Park
while his soul patrolled Khe San.
Then one night, more cold then most,
that solider finally yields.
She found him, dead, beneath the bridge
That he’d called “home” for years.
That kindly New York City Cop,
who knew he was a Vet,
arranged a simple funeral.
-That’s more than many get.
Present, aim, ready, fire!
They fire three quick rounds.
Accompanied by a tape of “Taps”
They commit him to the ground.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 9:59 PM UTC
Across The Sea
Rupture me and sing a solemn soliloquy
Make me flounder,
Meandering into reverie
With a cordial glance partnered
With your bashful smile
Leave me astatic, relatively restive,
And flustered for a while
Pace the torrid beach sands
Stoically, and wait for me
Pray I make the journey,
Threading this vast seething sea.
Soothe my aches with the anodyne
Of your tepid amorous embrace
Animate me with a touch of life,
So I may have another glimpse of your lovely face
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC