"approximate" poems
Somewhere in the South Pacific
a human-shaped speck casts a bottle
from the shore of a tiny island
into the interminable sea.
The bottle contains a note
which bears:
a name
an approximate location
and a desperate plea.
The bottle drifts slowly away
flashing in and out of view
on the crests of passing swells.
It glides on mysterious currents
and a quiet modicum of hope.
Simultaneously,
Above a particular point in the Northern Hemisphere,
a ball of tin foil
labeled Voyager I
is crossing the threshold
into the world outside
the solar system.
On board are a pair of golden discs
engraved with:
images and voices of human beings
the relative location of the Sun to fourteen nearby pulsars
and a plea,
naively disguised to look like a proud declaration of identity
but what proud and accomplished
race of beings
would need to search for
companionship
among the stars?
The little metal ball floats away
blinking bits of data back to Earth
each grainier than
the last
tugged by the gravity of distant bodies
and a quiet modicum of
hope.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC
Like happiness, sadness is ephemeral. Nothing last forever.
So use your energy instead to improve your future endeavors.
The imprecise nature of our real existence,
Is an approximate level of our understanding
They say a calm mind and an optimist view
Can even save a Crash landing
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
Where are my stone cold optimist
Roll call all positive no hostages
I feed of the energy in my approximate vicinity
Then whole world will know an optimist
Gather your belongings and meet me at the rocket ship
Yes truly I will be with the hostages taking roll call all positive
Sergent! no hostages are in
Thats work for an optimist
Blood and sweat my middle name
Thats an optimist riding a rocket ship
Our heart beats so hard numbing our veins
Thats a maddening fit
But you know how sweet victory is for an optimist
Take is easy simpleton optimist
Real optimist be like oh yeah smiling in there hearts
All positive not a negated positive deluded optimist
The End
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
The painful part is how he talks like me.
I've got buckets of hands
and they all want to be around you.
The average human body is about 65% water
When I see you my body is about 88% water
I'm satisfied with approximate rhymes.
Like to rain again.
Or to lie for eternity.
I'll say your name for years, that'll sound off too.
Bobbing your head to your favorite song
You lent me an earbud
White noise
The painful part is how he acts like me.
Or maybe it isn't him,
or you,
or me,
maybe it isn't anything at all.
Wouldn't that be terrifying?
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
When great aunt Maggie passed away years ago, the one thing I really missed was her angelic voice.
The swaggering, sing-song lilt of the mid-Derry accent was as sweet as the confections she used to pass out to us as kids:
The inflection, the intonation, and the slight lisp she brought to it was so gloriously unique but was never heard again.
I often wish I could go back with a tape recorder to capture it in all its glory and relive how wonderful she was.
Now all I have is a untranslatable memory that can't be brought back to even vaguely approximate what it meant to me.
And now here I am again with the same obstacle.
The same tones, the same inflections albeit through a different light have just been extinguished before me.
This time there was no digital device rushing in to capture our time before it ran out.
No instinct for preservation was forthcoming - we were too busy having fun & 'being here now'.
No, once again I am bereft:
All I I have is here (in my heart) and and here (in my head)
The loved sounds I miss will always resound there albeit without backup
Voices lost but not forgotten.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 8:04 AM UTC
Like Oedipus I am losing my sight.
LIke Judas I have done my wrong.
Their punishment is over;
the shame and disgrace of it
are all used up.
But as for me,
look into my face
and you will know that crimes dropped upon me
as from a high building
and although I cannot speak of them
or explain the degrading details
I have remembered much
about Judas -
about Judas, the old and the famous -
that you overlooked.
The story of his life
is the story of mine.
I have one glass eye.
My nerves push against its painted surface
but the other one
waiting for judgement
continues to see . . .
Of course
the New Testament is very small.
Its mouth opens four times -
as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster,
yet somehow man-made
held together by pullies
like the stone jaw of a back-hoe.
It gouges out the Judaic ground,
taking its own backyard
like a ****** daughter.
And furthermore how did Judas come into it -
that Judas Iscariot,
belonging to the tribe of Reuben?
He should have tried to lift him up there!
His neck like an iron pole,
hard as Newcastle,
his heart as stiff as beeswax,
his legs swollen and unmarked,
his other limbs still growing.
All of it heavy!
That dead weight that would have been his fault
. He should have known!
In the first place who builds up such ugliness?
I think of this man saying . . .
Look! Here's the price to do it
plus the cost of the raw materials
and if it took him three or four days
to do it, then, they'd understand.
They figured it weighed enough
to support a man. They said,
fifteen stone is the approximate weight
of a thief.
Its ugliness is a matter of custom.
If there was a mistake made
then the Crucifix was constructed wrong . . .
not from the quality of the pine,
not from hanging a mirror,
not from dropping the studding or the drill
but from having an inspriation.
But Judas was not a genius
or under the auspices of an inspiration.
I don't know whether it was gold or silver.
I don't know why he betrayed him
other than his motives,
other than the avaricious and dishonest man.
And then there were the forbidden crimes,
those that were expressly foretold,
and then overlooked
and then forgotten
except by me . . .
Judas had a mother
just as I had a mother.
Oh! Honor and relish the facts!
Do not think of the intense sensation
I have as I tell you this
but think only . . .
Judas had a mother.
His mother had a dream.
Because of this dream
he was altogether managed by fate
and thus he ***** her.
As a crime we hear little of this.
Also he sold his God.
2.6k
11/24/2017
Everybody says i dodged a bullet
But the bullet landed
As for the trigger, was it him or me that pulled it?
I thought he helped my heart expand its hard to think i even could with
Both feet braced on solid ground
Our situationship wasnt planned
I know its hard to understand
From the outside its easy to brand me
Can we analyze every time i noticed how masterfully he handled me?
I understand that time is the only poultice
But for a moment Id like to be candid please
The bullet landed and it travelled
It ripped a path through my flesh
Day by day i ate less and less
Let this be as many lessons
As you can manage to pull from this
The side pieces and the rest is all fluff and ********
He put strings on my heart and pulled it
And i danced and said “how high”
And my soul became dull it became harder and harder to wake up every day
Is it ok to say the only redeeming quality is that he never struck me?
But i wanted to escape the pain of being stuck he told me never, ever again to cut
He didnt see that he was the reason i needed release
The Mona Lisa was out of luck
Finally the bullet festered
The pain became so great
And the benefits so much less
The bullet ripped a path
I cut it out and sealed it back
Now the bullet is nothing but waste
And i can find a new way to relate
New tissue to create
It takes talent to close, to suture they say
“Approximate, dont strangulate”
And now the bullet is disposed
So they say i dodged a bullet
But the bullet landed
It ripped a path through my flesh
Til i became so much less
And the wound began to fester
So i cut out the bullet and cleaned up the rest
Now i have a scar to show the truth
The bullet landed
And i still choose
Not to be bulletproof
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 8:21 PM UTC
keep the photographs
the city is overexposed again
take more walks in the nearby woods
the world we knew as children
watch out for frogs and detonators
mind the wires
new aerial boundaries at dawn
no one steps inside by choice
adapt to the proper order
and no sleeping under tables
the reflection tower is a good place to start
tourist trap, a certain approximate
bring the thing under the couch
in case of an unexpected visitor
more nightmares cut out of the newspaper
what is an Astra 600?
three different hat sizes
Hannie says yes to ménage à trois
the joy in discovery
the joy in forgetting
like God without a compass
not a lot, just forever
Jan 2, 2023
Jan 2, 2023 at 11:32 AM UTC
Use all the combinations of consonants,
Blends, short and long i's;
Try intonation or diphthongs;
Resort to linguists;
Spell in Welsh.
You can't approximate
The muted sound
Of a breaking heart.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
There is a silent street
Where poets go
And a tiger color of light
Rains down, a search
That is never found
Via symbols at the end
Of literature and pages
Mere metaphors for
The creative process
Of image and narrative
The act of encapsulation
Experience, such a myth
Like memory, only a ripple
Of the original, so the authors
Glimpse something unreal
And seek to translate it
But the poets know, they
Will never come through
Their vertigo of dream
Writing in the wind
On the sand in the desert
Catching reflections in the river
Of the sky, the essence
Is forever lost, of each moment
Only we can approximate
In art, part of the beauty
Of creation and hunt persecuted
Through time, the testaments
OF sun, wheat, flower, pomegranate
Bumble-bee, united at the same
Address, of autumn on a terrace
Somewhere near you.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
*concerning the last lines... all we can do with the Cartesian Libra is add adjectives to it, which is contrary to what the existentialists did by simply modifying a furthered abstraction of the compounds 'i think' and 'i am', via the inverted comma(s), otherwise known as dittoing, sic, prior said, or re-, true to the oddity; a king will continue to question his position / being a king by not thinking about it, hence his uninhibited delusions, hereditary, very much genetic; and hence someone who precursors his being with much concern for thinking, the inhibited delusion, self-serving - both are adjective expansions of the Cartesian Libra, just added qualities, given both are facts requiring a slab of marble to look like Rodin's kiss - or approximate, with therefore being the chisel, and so dependent the end product, indeed a slab of marble at first, but not necessarily Rodin's kiss at the end - perhaps a Notre Dame gargoyle...*
i am what i think,
that's what i came up with after
reading some of the bio sketches -
even though the truth is that
i am what i own -
thinking is the part that comes last,
if i own a bed and a roof over my head,
i end up i thinking about being
homeless - but sometimes you do find
the ones that are inclined
to be what they think, the extremes
we call them - supreme anti-materialists,
it's not satisfying to own a house
or a phone, more is required,
something tinged with transcendental
counters - they "own" a home
but rather not live in it, already the
looming fairy of heaven tells them
of an unnatural life expectancy -
some might say thinking a form of
uninhibited delusion sketches,
like i'd be a venture capitalists taking
a weekend away in Hawaii while
some ridiculousness of poverty in India
was to blame for my jet streams and
carbon footprints - they keep the
inhibited delusional in cages without
a chance to sketch - because the uninhibited
delusional have all the freedoms
that Versailles could allow - or...
uninhibited delusions of non-thought,
inherited, hereditary,
versus inhibited delusions of thought,
mutated, self-invented...
this could very well be a "magic" square
with two further variations, i.e.
uninhibited delusions of thought (psychopathy)
inhibited delusions of non-thought (coma?
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
I have half-written confessions about you
And all of them are simultaneously as weak and gauche as the struggling flight of a butterfly with half its wings ripped off.
I have no coordination when it comes to dancing, Darling, and it's probably becoming more and more prevalent as you catch me tripping around my declarations
Because I am filled with so much self-doubt, but I can't help it that this new piece of my life has me second-guessing the placement of my feet and the rhythm I'm swaying to.
And with you being so honest from the dawn of our affair, it's made me guilty for doubting anything at all.
But I can't help it that you're a natural dancer and I'm just a mess.
I felt that the strength in my emotions were something to be ashamed of and in turn I've put them on display
A lewd circus performance to weigh the mass of my words and predict the approximate level they could wriggle down beneath your skin
Because I can deal with the stern looks and careless scoffs from sporadic digital strangers,
It's just that you aren't one and that means your opinion counts most of all.
I want to dazzle you with crazy dance moves like the Charlie Brown or Jitterbug or even twerk a couple of times because I can't impress with my mastering of the Hokey Pokey and the Cha Cha Slide
But I digress;
It just seems that all I can talk about when you're not around is how swell it'd be if you were.
And making our sweet dancing anything but comprised of candlelight and champagne and red roses just insults the beautiful parts of myself I want to so desperately share with you.
I'm no poet, dude,
And I've got no graces in dance,
But I'll rearrange the constellations in the sky to help better express myself if it meant figuring out how I managed to fall in love
With you
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
Little ant, so small and insignificant
Yet in numbers up an elephant’s snout
How easily you make him indisposed
Lesson to learn: strength in numbers
Maxim to remember: unity of purpose
Oh termite, thou destroyer of civilizations!
How mighty when surreptitiously you creep in
Such ingenious civil engineering feats everywhere
Orderly highways with neither jams nor congestion
And tall imposing castles kissing the air proudly
Result: new architectures plagiarizing your prototype!
And you wasp of constricted waist and mean toxin
You make no attempt to hide or disguise your dwelling
Yours is a house built upon a hill for all to see and tremble
They say when a man has no obvious protection keep away
Lest you trigger subtle forces that mesmerize and pulverize you
Lesson from this: commandos are modern day human wasps
Everybody owes the bee everything, from sweetness to health
The bees a-buzzing speak of persistence and how it breaks barriers
In the end you listen because the message is ceaseless and urgent
And oh sweet bee of the hot sting shot from your posterior
No cordon bleu chef anywhere can ever approximate your finesse
Your formula and patent are hedged with natural mystery
Lesson to learn: the bitter and the sweet in judicious mixture!
Now little man recently so puffed-up and conceited and ever so inadequate
Hear ye this and know it well lest you stumble and fall into dark precipices
You’re nothing and you’ve created nothing; there’s a prototype of everything
In nature’s wonder store of huge surprises and unassuming wisdom
Lesson from all this: one day the other world will rise up and assert it itself
So steer your course differently and beware of those who bide their time
Grim in their purpose and determined in their unshakable resolve
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 4:00 AM UTC
Why do I guess?
Trying to assume
Again
This is not, not, not,
Not! how I do things
Those nuggets
You know the ones
doubt
of self and
people and
situations or
events
Slippery Suckers of
Sanctimonious Sacrilege
Guesstimate
Approximate
Fuck-a-mate
See the pattern or
Be the pattern
Maybe just...
Be
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 11:31 AM UTC
There was a blinding light,
Then silence,
Then a hiss.
Air escaping,
Gasping bliss.
Glass shatters,
Shadows play.
A nuke hit the stern,
Evacuate!
No delay.
Days passed,
No one came.
No one heard the message,
No one 'brought the rain'
The solitary escape-ship
Suitable only for one,
Headed forlorn to the next
Inhabited sun.
"Nine thousand, seven hundred light years away"
The computer said in its monotonous way.
"And what of our air,water and fuel?"
"Approximate range is 6.2365r light years,
Will that do?"
"No" he said with a sigh.
Confined to his coffin
Not much to pass the time...
Internal recording 00001// lifeforms:1// life support: 97%
"This is Hal Katurn of the trade ship 'Endeavor'"
"Can anybody read....?"
"It's just me here......
In the vastness of space...
A grain of sand..."
Internal recording 000012// lifeforms:1// life support: 88%
"It's been a while now just me alone,
No contact friendly, or otherwise
In any nearby zone.
The quadrant is quiet....cold..."
Internal recording 000021// lifeforms:1// life support: 67%
"The stars....They....
They look so peaceful...hehe
What do you say?"
"Was that directed at me?"
Said the ships AI.
"Not you, the ones outside silly!"
"............?..........."
Internal recording 000037// lifeforms:1// life support: 24%
"Row...row...row....
Your...mind......
Gently out to space....
Lonely lonely lonely lone
Life is but a race...."
Internal recording 000042// lifeforms:0// life support: 0%
"..............................."
The farmer heard a roar
And stopped his toil for
A moment,
No more.
He saw the heavens fall
And knelt in prayer and awe.
He hurried to the hole left in his land
Where a voice spoke in a language he didn't understand....
"This is Hal Katurn of the trade ship 'Endeavor'"
"Can anybody read....?"
"It's just me here......
In the vastness of space...
A grain of sand..."
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
We endeavor to construct boxes and file folders
This life being ****** complex
And messy to boot, so we approximate sanity
By filling compartments and writing thumbnail biographies,
And even though she packed the costume admirably
(Already forty, mind you, but nowhere near gone to fat)
Julie Newmar had already filled both outfit and niche
(And never mind Halle Berry’s turn,
Different raiment for a different time, after all,
And one suspects the next iteration of said slinky supervillainess
Will wear nothing more than feline-shaped ****** rings),
Not to mention she’d already entered our collective consciousness
With a frothy Noel novelty (unsubstantial, inconsequential
In and of its ownself, perhaps, but then one considers
The version foisted off on the populace by that woman
Who appropriated the moniker of the Blessed ******
All phoned-in faux Betty Boop, and one reconsiders)
So this was who she was, the book closed and sealed
(English only, never mind the other three tongues she spoke
Plus three more she proficiently purred in.)
They say when she died, she did not go gently, as it were,
But screamed and yowled for all she was still worth,
And maybe it was the cancer, certainly enough to do the job itself,
But perhaps it was the notion
That her era of innuendo and intimation was all done,
That she was transitioning to the static, to becoming a legacy,
A permanence that was stalking her,
Murderous, insatiable, inexorable.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
Life seems to be measured best in approximates currently.
I have a difficult time explaining that I am
fine, sad, good, grieving, angry, or relieved.
Approximate values, however, can be assigned to the various feelings.
Approximating allows me to change. To fluctuate.
To estimate something that may change at a later time.
This works because I am nearly every conflicting feeling
all rolled into one.
Conflicted is perhaps the only feeling that is consistent.
Conflicted is my stalwart feeling.
My rock.
It is always there.
No matter what.
I love him. I hate him.
I need him. I do not want him.
I trust him. He hurts me.
conflict. Conflict. CONFLICT.
No matter how you shape it, spell it, or write it; it is there.
Chances are, it is him. In my gut I feel it.
And from that feeling I know that death
is the worst feeling a stomach can own.
With each moment of decay,
that rotting feeling in my own body grows.
His decay is my decay.
I cannot eat, drink, or sleep.
I am terrified that in my sleep
I will not wake up and in that time we will meet.
More alive than ever before; he is in my nightmares.
His flesh makes my own creep with fear.
He is touching me, I feel his hands.
They are in my sleep and reaching towards me.
Once awake I am sad.
And I am guilty.
I survived and I fear I did not do enough to save him.
I did not make him a better father.
A better husband.
Nor a better human.
That one more chance I withhold.
Buried beneath my fears, his chance will die.
Could I have done something more?
Loved him better?
Loved him differently?
Hated him completely?
My head and my heart are conflicted.
And my memories are conflicted too.
*I remember the man who bought me a treasured doll.
I remember the man who brought me ice cream home from the store.
I remember a man that patted me on the head.
I remember the man who gave me my love of reading.
I remember the man who gave me my first dog.*
And then...
**I remember that same man who destroyed my favorite doll.
Who starved me for doing wrong.
Who brutally ***** me.
Who tore up my favorite books.
Who killed my beloved dog.**
***And then I am conflicted.
And I hurt.***
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
e3Author: Kristen Stevens
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
happy thoughts
Current mood: blissed out
Going to try something new for this one. I'm going to be happy or an approximate facsimile of it. Now you may ask, how does one go about getting into a happy frame of mind?
-Well, I find browsing the bumper sticker app is a good way if you are using your computer as a sole ***** of happiness.
-Watching the HMV hell video on my main page makes me giggle like the school girl (let's face it I was never a giggly school girl but the metaphor works)
-Thinking about how few people will actually survive the coming zombie apocalypse due to their utter stupidity finally catching up with them. (oh, I believe I’m getting giddy now)
-2012 because whatever is/is not going to happen people are going to lose their minds and well, I call it culling of the genetic herd.
-Milk, it does a body good. (I know, I know for any grammatical stickler out there it should be “does…well” but that’s not the line)
-Dr. Who, although I’m still waiting for my TARDIS boarding pass one day my doctor will come
Ok I’m going to quit now. If I get any happier, I might do some permanent damage to my cynical synapses. contented sigh
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 8:35 AM UTC
Each moment give lesson certain determines to us,
Often it echoes on frequent level in my mind,
And tranquil measureless moans accumulated still o'er guess,
And embolden too the state of perplexity bind.
Standing aloof solitary, from the worldly affairs
Mainly I feel behaving tutelary this nature,
To thrive in life as section indicates,
And react perennial affectionate voice of warbler.
Setting sometime in lap of productive reach,
Enrich with corn-seed, paddy and sugar-cane,
I assume numerous hidden hymnal consideration preach,
Sacrifice for betterment glide making other sustain.
Swinging swiftly at the hilly terrible groves
Shrub and thistly atmosphere, provoking gorgon fear;
Ne'er contradict genuine a horrible warning relieves
Give support always deserving deafen destructive cheer.
Or sipping brine, before nymphomaniac watching zeal,
Dumb caution centralize, beware alluring notion create
Nip stiff witty desire render stigmatize deal:
Ye propel next to Him in power approximate.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 7:42 AM UTC
*the new deconstructionism will focus on how you become a humanist after studying science into maturity, you will deconstruct being enmeshed in spider-webs and cobble-stones: moths in my wallet scenarios of complex greek alphabets given scenarios of constants - the circle of π (~∞°: well, approximate but i can still enclose a shape and not bother undermining the practice of architecture by bewildering myself over the geometry of the universe, it's a substance like water, a vacuum of infinite mirrors / black holes are two-dimensional objects in three-dimensional space, like in the first tomb-raider, the two-dimensional ferns and other objects on close inspection rotating) - randomised infinite negations of decimal digits in the spinning vortex beginning with 3.141... let alone state nothing as a necessary compounding of adjective purification of nouns or verbs - e.g. pure mind, true / undiscovered self, higher being... none of that crap. come back to π = ~∞°, well, that's because the shape becomes in transit, hence the "illogical" perpetuation of decimal points after 3, the shape is too useful to be a closed-case of Pythagoras.*
everyone knows the famous case
of the writers' block,
that big fudge-like-turd
of a blank page...
but no one really cared to mention
writers' claustrophobia,
resonating in the court of law of
proofs with such books as those
entitled: collected letter 1975 - 1992,
proof that writers who idolise
and champion isolation can't
handle the strain of filling a room
with so much of their own excrement
they have to whip the leash like
a horse jockey directly into someone
else's mind - mind you, that's better
than regurgitating facts, the now
famous form of journalism reciting
all the health parameters to basically
live on air and science, speaking out
the mechanics of someone's liver
with that tut-tut index finger pendulum
of whimsical scorn.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
What's the difference
between
Words Spoken
and
Words Read?
Is it
The warmth of breath?
The smell of a body
Close?
Or the unwanted desire to be touched.
To just hold hands.
To sit together.
Are we too afraid of looks?
Of clear emotion?
Of the possibility of something hidden.
Are we afraid of everything that can't be spoken aloud?
A body gives off the approximate heat of a candle.
I've always been drawn to fire.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 7:58 PM UTC
the byproduct of the aesthetics of orthography gave us dyslexia (dis-* / negation and -lexia / lexicon), as if already apparent... because dislexia would not look as pretty; alt. meaning of dyslexia? unease with vocabulary, a trouble finding a personal vocabulary - i already mentioned that letters are vox circa (approximate vocalisation), even i make spelling mistakes at times... given dyslexia not dislexia / disease not dysease. (in the polish vox circa the pronunciation of y is like a baritone or bass, while pronunciation of i is like soprano or mezzo, i could give a kabbalistic anatomisation of the mouth for they are indeed very much aligned... but let's just stick to the opera metaphor).*
i trained my œsophagus like a
minor roman noble at a banquet,
now i can smoke and not take out the
**** foley puppet
whenever i want on an empty stomach
smoking the first cigarette and drinking
the first coffee of the morn,
ah christianity’s operating grace...
let’s categorise every pagan practice as
formidable ills,
have the reasons for the crucifixion
loosely knit with the lamb of god’s wool:
that’s two wool threads over my bare chest...
because, just because that new testament
story is so so tightly knit that you can
see the pearly gates with st. peter playing
outlaw cowboy’s quick-draw with the keys,
from havana (of all places) on earth.
poor isaiah, i rather remember you: considering
the fact that you were cut in half at
the abdomen of all equators.
in conclusion? the added diacritic marks
on this latin alphabet came due to the barbaric tongue tie
on the œ and æ... from these two manifestations
we were given é and ó among others,
i still think it’s chaotic, chiseled v,
otherwise papyrus u and the umlaut.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
Let me scan your pretty face
Your wistful eyes and ebbing hair
Your youthful floral air
I distantly embrace
It matters little what you write
I’ll like whatever gibberish
You post, sober or feverish
Morning afternoon or night
You crave fans, and I oblige
You desire compliments
Hits, and shares, and comments
A digital mirage
To reinforce, who knows?
To find one who can comprehend
Truly, more than family, friends?
Love through a computer’s glow
Or escape whatever misery
Whatever flesh and bone
Has left you this alone
To log away to fantasy
You hum to yourself by the river
A low sad steady melody
But from the shaded woods, I see
Your pale visage shiver
So I approach, naughty or behaved
Like a wandering troubadour
Serenading mon amour
To save and to be saved
I’ll stream you instant endless praise
I’ll shadow your every move
It will approximate love
Unmerited as grace
So, let me frame your pretty face
Your chic angular air
Your parted lips, cascading hair
Forever fall through my embrace
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
a girl ends up saying:
'oh god, i miss my blonde hair',
a boy?
'oh god i miss Duran Duran.'
*meeting you... with a view to a ****
i want to stay up all night drinking
warm whiskey reminiscent of the
1980s;
honesty, just today a "nice Jewish boy"
with vanilla *** while
she got all the kinks out with
******* S & M to knock a few budgies
about in her leather knickers...
nice Jewish boy goes home vanilla intact;
i end up calling up the fire brigade
even though i should be calling Freud the popsicle
joystick friendly St. Paul, an ice-cream vendor
akin to Rasputin;
i know, comedians made fortunes from what
poets failed to compute, namely punctuation;
Eddie Izzard is a colon for each comma:
like zui quan - no, no, wait... there's more!
and it's worth an ingredients list of said hopes for
sat on **** forking the blob bits concerning argument
about ******* girth salt and pepper
on sausages! my excuse? the *carry
on* movies and zui quan meaning drunk boxing...
i.e. you pretend to be a tarantula that bit itself
by accident and pretended to be disorientated
but in fact focused like Hemingway on narration
after a cocktail of death in the afternoon
(absinthe mixed with champagne)...
but did i tell you that pine is almost like anise?
rub it into your hands after ******* in an alley
and it becomes the nearest approximate of anise.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC