"babbled" poems
Sunshine,
Birdsong
And children drunk on
Lemonade
And laughter.
That Welsh picnic
Has lasted forty years
And will last forty more
In daydream
And nightmare.
The stream babbled
Over pebbles,
Fern fronds
Brushed our sun-browned shins
Till the dead sheep
Slugged us in the guts.
Bloated and bulbous,
The body dammed the stream,
Its lifeless eyes
Crawling with life.
Those pearly marbles were
A child’s looking glass into death.
The rocks we hurled at it
In reckless revulsion
Were the screams
Of violated youth,
And those empty dead sheep thuds
The dawning of our mortality.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
[From Fragments, The Following...]
... so it was that the Urth bled less. The Birch Moot was becalmed by the Anvil Cloud of Impending Deluge.
The Young Gods made sport of Their Names, and aimed to Oblique the colony of clever flesh
groping at the tender roots of an insipid devastation. The First Ones had vanished.
But Time was born and the Mortal Whirl released the Hounds of Change. Transition fused -
with the Eternal; and the offspring of unloved Spirits, roamed the Tangible. All Suffering was amplified
in the diamond lungs of a divine corpse, dreaming.
... for when the iron heart of The Cast Out was retrieved, the Legion of Heaven poured unseemly Grace upon the Fathoms
and the High King of Doubt, forced his blade ' Nimue '
into the soft palette, of the First Mouth. The Stars were born and The Void overheard the First Naming.
A solid drizzle of enchantment cloaked the oaken Yggdrasil
and The Pattern unleashed the folly of Pattern
to mask the virtue of succinct Chaos. The Children of The Lower Sky ate their Masters and thereby swollen -
gathered in the underbrush of the Fecund.
They came to Know Regret by Answering Prayers. The Kingdoms of Wane were waning in the fearsome riot of Creation
and not a boy, a man from no woman
and no woman
a man.
... the siege lights of the petty stars, babbled in the wake of yawning eruption and nullification. the ****** theater of blood
was made Holy by way of forcing camels into eyes of needles in constant dystopian joy.
... and that's how the rain gets in.
[ From the ' Kingdoms Of Wane ', a Lost Tome from Antiquity and Dada ]
What ?
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
I
Half of the fellow father as he doubles
His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk,
Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles
To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk,
Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone
Bolt for the salt unborn.
The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled
Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop,
The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled
The swing of milk was tufted in the pap,
For half of love was planted in the lost,
And the unplanted ghost.
The broken halves are fellowed in a *******
The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep,
Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble
Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep,
And stake the sleepers in the savage grave
That the vampire laugh.
The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded
The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees,
******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide,
And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs,
Rotating halves are horning as they drill
The arterial angel.
What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble
The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,
And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,
The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew
Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.
II
My world is pyramid. The padded mummer
Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt
Incising summer.
My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet,
I scrape through resin to a starry bone
And a blood parhelion.
My world is cypress, and an English valley.
I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards
Red in an Austrian volley.
I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads,
******** their bowels from a hill of bones,
Cry Eloi to the guns.
My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.
The Arctic scut, and basin of the South,
Drip on my dead house garden.
Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth
The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn
Through the Atlantic corn.
The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel
On casting tides, are tangled in the shells,
Bearding the unborn devil,
Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.
The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide
Binding my angel's hood.
Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour?
I blow the stammel feather in the vein.
The **** is glory in a working pallor.
My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn,
The secret child, I sift about the sea
Dry in the half-tracked thigh.
3.9k
Benevolent Krishna blessed
Gandhari saw the dead.
Shattered stingy bodies lay
Scattered, smeared with blood.
Oh! Krishna! You are the cause
Cause of all these loss”
Sobbing Gandhari babbled, but
Krishna stood- mute and smiling
Krishna was duty conscious
What Gamdhari failed to do.
Neither a good other was nor a queen
Inpartial , she stood for justice.
Audacious Duriyodhana was brought up,
Reckless Dussasana belittled Panchali;
But ,Gandhari remained blind and dumb.
As our modernist mummy does
Justified her sons ‘nd blamed others rude.
Test-tube babies and Hostel wards
Grow up sans love in them.
Crying mummy cry thy lot; else…
Properly, morally, foster thy progeny.
Gandhari doomed the life of Panchali
Woman are foes of women-folk
No law can save, unless themselves
Do their destined duty fairly.
(A poem based on MahaBharatha story.)
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
Your skin wasn't so soft
Not the softness you'd find
In great love stories
You didn't always have the
Words to say something
You fumbled with them
While I babbled
You snored -
Only a little, I promise
Yet in ways I found
Them so endearing
Perhaps it was just you
And I find myself
Tripping and tumbling
And scrapping ideas
Of not needing love
Or just not being aware
Because I'm just yearning
To brush against that arm again
Stories be ******
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC
when we met, it was tipsy tuesday and donnie had swollen fingers
and nate sank into his plaid frock and dropped his shadow
on the patio like a heavy slug, and the flies
cavorted in the vortex of our subtext
as the night skies spat stars
at our foreheads.
you were beautiful; too beautiful then.
i was smitten, i was tossed on stormy seas, unsick.
i was healed. the world spun filth and dull glamour
but your face hurled fireworks
and my mind leaned into my heart
and i knew i loved you.
whoever you turned out
to be.
i babbled and groped, as the inertia
of falling, filled my sails
and I was purposefully adrift -
in your brown-black eyes;
as a dog fetched a frisbee
for an illiterate.
and i think i bit my lip a bit.
I saw you for the first time.
for the last time
in my life
and was never
the same.
my heart, now more precise.
you had fierce speech
underneath your sweet speak
and long hair.
i had you in my soul's yurt
on a plain of windswept pavilions
with free horses and costly
remoteness.
i was ' there ' less
and more somewhere else
alone with the perfect you
reading my lips
as they tremored
delight of it.
i babbled speechless.
i remember you tossing your locks
at my cage. and i was set free.
please add me to your wishlist
and complete me.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
No one born too far from Niedersachsen, said Oma,
ever quite captures their sing-song intonation.
Characterized by subtleties, like an umlauted vowel,
all non-native imitations sound inevitably as ******
as would a cry of “ello, guv’nah!” in a London coffee shop.
Her Plattdeutsch instincts neutered
by decades abroad, married to a son of Milwaukee,
her permanent, dormant longing for Salzgitter awakes only
to trigger hunger pangs of irreconcilable nostalgia
at the passing whiff of a Germantown bakery.
She taught me the word “sehnsucht” over lukewarm coffee
and a pause in our conversation: a compound word
that no well-intentioned English translation
could render faithfully.
It isn’t the same as just longing, she sighed— longing is curable.
Sehnsucht holds the fragments
of an imperfect world and laments
that they are patternless. How the soul
yearns vaguely for a home
remembered only in the residual ache
of incomplete childhood fancies;
futile as the ruins
of an ancient, annihilated people.
How life’s staccato joys soothe
a heart sore from the world,
yet the existential hunger, gnawing
from the malnourished stomach
of the bruised human psyche, remains—
insatiable, eternal.
Long enough ago, a reasonably-priced bus ride away
from the red-roofed apartment in which she babbled her first words,
a kindly old man in a pharmacy asked her
about her peculiar, exotic accent. Once inevitably prompted
with the question of where she was from, she responded only
that she was a tourist off the beaten track.
And when I pointed out, to my immediate regret,
that she gets the same question back here in Ohio,
I realized then that, not once, has she ever referred to the way
the people of her pined-for hometown spoke
as though she had ever belonged to it.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
Few dared to date Medusa,
For they feared being covered with contusions.
Those who did wore a blindfold to hide their eyes,
A blind date with fate and a disguise.
One of the braver men,
Who thought he could apprehend,
Medusa, his name was Trent.
He didn’t last long,
He took his blindfold off,
And like many before him,
He turned to stone and wasn’t heard from again.
Another challenger’s name was Wren,
Like the bird,
Medusa thought that was the strangest name she’d heard.
So, out of spite,
She reached across the table and exposed Wren’s eyes.
He gasped as his skin turned coarse,
Mouth open wider than a horse.
Medusa pushed him over,
Watched as he shattered,
And smiled to herself,
Even though she was lonelier than anyone else.
Medusa didn’t mean to be so cruel,
It was the consequences of her being used.
By a man to do things she didn’t want to do,
Unspeakable and terrible abuse,
She was the only one to lose.
So, she became a viper,
Her gaze became a noose.
Asphyxiation,
Righteous indignation.
She wouldn’t let herself be used again.
Finally, a man named Hunter arrived,
He tightened the blindfold around his eyes.
He sat across from Medusa, the table lit by candlelight,
She blushed, for he was quite a sight.
He reached across the table and shook her hand,
And he asked her if she had any plans.
She was taken aback, her mind rolling off the tracks,
Lost in a flashback, she babbled about tasks she had to do,
None of which was true.
Hunter laughed, a sound so sweet,
It made Medusa nearly fall out of her seat.
Was this the one she had been searching for?
Or was he just another liar?
Authenticity tends to hide,
Just like the scars Medusa had on her thighs.
One of her snakes whispered in her ear,
Advising her to ignore what she wanted to hear.
The snakes only wanted what was best,
But for whom? What was the purpose of their quest?
Hours passed by like comets,
First date turned into many happy moments.
Before Medusa could catch her breath,
Half a year had passed,
And Hunter had asked,
To see Medusa’s face.
She insisted that he didn’t,
But she knew he wouldn’t listen.
He lowered the blindfold,
As teardrops glistened,
Medusa thought she had just lost,
Her heart…
Hunter had heterochromia,
Left eye green, right eye a shimmering blue.
Medusa’s eyes were both red,
That pulsated in blossoming hues.
To both of their surprise,
Hunter didn’t turn to stone.
He captured her lips in a kiss,
Both of them were alone.
Medusa found the one who could see her,
She no longer had to hide.
Hunter loved Medusa,
It made her cry.
The world is filled with hurt people, like Medusa,
Who may push you away and leave you in contusions.
But underneath that deadly gaze,
Is a mountain of pain…
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 10:14 PM UTC
Was driving
To shivaraathri manappuram [1]
With idichakkas [2]
To meet you
One day.
Enroute
To a vow made one life
The two chakka dumpkins
Their smug demeanor
Drove me to chuckles.
Like guys
On a global tour
They
Waved buddies bubye
Babbled on
To the jackfruit trees
On the boulevard
Singing “salaama salaama…”
The jackfruit rap
Boisterously.
I was beside myself
With laughter.
The exertion
Exhausted my cheeks
I stopped near a shop
For a cigarette
Saw there,
Two packets
Of fried chakka chips
Among other snacks.
My chakka dumpkins
For you
Overwhelmed them
They broke into tears
They recalled
Their haughty ride
In a car once
Singing salama
A festering past
That throbbed with
The agony
Of getting torn to shreds
Of getting fried crisp
In boiling oil.
The chakka dumpkins
Were dumbstruck
They stopped singing
And began to cry
Looking upon their sisters
Sister, you have forgotten me!
An utterance from Khasak
Muffled the scene.
Sad at their plight
I held them close
My chakka dumpkins
For you
Forget it honey
Forget it dear
I patted them
Trying to stop their tears.
The chakka fries
And my darlings
Continued weeping
And wailing.
I smoked a cigarette
Went to them
And whispered in their ears
That I am consigning them
To you.
They laughed innocently
Showing their gums
They bid adieu to
The sisters
Promising
They would meet next life
I felt like
Laughing
And crying.
Laughing
And crying
I sang
Salama, salama
Salama….
Translation : Shyma P
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 2:04 PM UTC
The serpentine queue refused to budge.
It were the grown-ups that were stressed
the children babbled showing no unhappiness
with the pause offering so much more to do
and nothing that useful to look forward to.
Some faces looked as though made no sense
this waiting for mundane taxing patience
but were eyes that peered staunchly keen
as if the wait's end God would be seen.
Though lumps of time allowed break from the run
not one face showed up some feeling of the fun
anxious and jittery they smoked up the place
to my mind the children were only saving grace.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 11:04 AM UTC
The evening sipped
Its golden bright,
as the sun spilled
it's yellow stomach
spoke in streams
of babbled havoc.
Slinging a silvery palm
along the slender hip
of wanton youth in
wishful grip.
O' to be young,
to be young
without the cares
of the infirm full,
of knar's and knot
like the desires of an
old oak tree.
To touch,
the velvet rose light
of the beauty
in her skin,
lovingly caressed
of wistful eye
and
age of bristle.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 7:36 PM UTC
Remember the last time we sat together?
I was boxing up the last of my things,
And you turned to me with that condescending scowl.
I could tell you were thinking of something poisonous to say,
Then you spat out,
With the only passionate tone ever to come from your lips:
“Mary, you romanticize everything,
Like that time we ate Ramen for a week.
You slurped a noodle and nodded around the room,
Then babbled on about how we were starving for our dreams.
Well I have news for you,
We were starving because you were late again.
And I couldn’t find my ******* tie,
Remember?
We found it a week later,
Under the bed, next to my bowl,
And then played gin rummy for the last few hits,
How’s that for a dream?”
I continued to pack but you kept staring at me,
Like a creature you have never lived or slept with,
I don’t know if it’s true, but I think you hated me for my innocence,
I do know that I began to resent you for snatching it away,
I wish I never went to that concert on 8th and McClair,
Or asked you to not look at my ID,
So I could drink another *** and coke.
I was a different person then, I wrote about the color green,
And its connotation to nature and eyes.
Now I find myself in a room with stained sheets, bourbon, and Bukowski.
Just so you know,
I never thought we were starving for our dreams.
It just sounded pretty out of my mouth,
Like something nice someone says when a relative dies.
I was just trying to take away the blow,
Of knowing that everything was not how we planned.
Then again maybe you were right,
Maybe I do romanticize things.
Because I still have your Rolling Stones albums under my bed,
And “Let Me Down Slow” helps me sleep when the silence hits.
But at least I have soul, and heart, and butterflies,
All that mushy stuff you hate.
The way your eyes went dull would scare me.
So how are you now?
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
We are gathered here today in a space
cluttered with you and you who I’ve cried and tore
The voices that I’ve played in my auditory canal
When sentience has made me raw.
And our collective limbs have babbled through fields
or roved on roads of tyre
Watched mitosis play with our fingers
So our heads float to bricks that are higher
We are sewn together by memories
Shooting synapses bounce inbetween brains
The first time she wobbled a milk stone
The pink cardigan left on that train.
We will stretch out our patience to mountains
Nearly burst in our tallies to ten
But there’s always a rope shared between us
Always straw in our symbiotic den.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 4:17 PM UTC
You played and sang a ****** of song,
A song that all-too well we knew;
But whither had flown the ancient wrong;
And was it really I and you?
O, since the end of life's to live
And pay in pence the common debt,
What should it cost us to forgive
Whose daily task is to forget?
You babbled in the well-known voice--
Not new, not new the words you said.
You touched me off that famous poise,
That old effect, of neck and head.
Dear, was it really you and I?
In truth the riddle's ill to read,
So many are the deaths we die
Before we can be dead indeed.
1.2k
He threw caution into his red cup.
He named his drink the forget-me-not.
This would be the night of remembrance.
One-fourth Sprite and three-fourths *****
The crisp wind greeted him as he stepped outside.
He charged into the night.
Forget-me-not.
He babbled with his friends.
Forgt-me-not.
He took another sip.
Forgt-me-nit.
He danced with a girl.
Firgtn-e-nit.
He drank every drop of his forget-me-not.
fIrgtne-nit
He went till the break of dawn only to be swept up by the wind.
The next day he woke up with saliva crust down the side of his mouth.
He had forgotten.
The night forgot him.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
perhaps it was the weakness,
brought on with aspic jelly,
perhaps the truthfulness
that lives inside me.
i admitted it was me, and in
the confusion babbled and fought
embarasment. it is truthful
and honest work i do each day,
yet i am discovered now.
secrets will come out, lies will catch
you some day, they do say.
he was a nice man, who explained,
who takes photographs. I will leave
him gifts.
sbm.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
He never asked me for anything.
His humbleness and fruitfulness grew on me
Without knowing that his hand could carve words into ellipticals and parabolas.
His cooking skills were awful,
but he can make a Ramen soup
That'll make your knees melt like overcooked chicken broth.
He was 24 when he first came to this country,
his English broken like the glass protecting his eyes,
He left African battlefields and deserts
To generate cereal boxes and lithium batteries.
His pockets stuffed w/ month-long receipts,
because he always wanted to keep track of where he spent his hard-earned money.
Nobody gave him a cup to **** in, much less a ***
But he always felt optimism grow in his foreign lungs,
swinging his voice like a hammer to build maturity,
to stand like golden shrines.
He’d pray every night to speak to his lord,
to ask God to help shape him into something a bit more,
like his shoulders were too weak to bear the struggles of his cries.
He works harder than ghosts to keep his heart in this world.
The Beach Boys were his favorite band when he first came here,
and he always babbled about Brian Wilson because he wrote poems.
He searches for lost poems that he's buried inside the mother of his children
He visualizes the pages of these poems,
writing themselves on the faces of his children.
He tries not to see too long, too hard,
because then he may see too much of himself inside his oldest son.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
When I contemplate all alone
The life that had been thine below,
And fix my thoughts on all the glow
To which thy crescent would have grown;
I see thee sitting crown'd with good,
A central warmth diffusing bliss
In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss,
On all the branches of thy blood;
Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine;
For now the day was drawing on,
When thou should'st link thy life with one
Of mine own house, and boys of thine
Had babbled 'Uncle' on my knee;
But that remorseless iron hour
Made cypress of her orange flower,
Despair of Hope, and earth of thee.
I seem to meet their least desire,
To clap their cheeks, to call them mine.
I see their unborn faces shine
Beside the never-lighted fire.
I see myself an honour'd guest,
Thy partner in the flowery walk
Of letters, genial table-talk,
Or deep dispute, and graceful jest;
While now thy prosperous labour fills
The lips of men with honest praise,
And sun by sun the happy days
Descend below the golden hills
With promise of a morn as fair;
And all the train of bounteous hours
Conduct by paths of growing powers,
To reverence and the silver hair;
Till slowly worn her earthly robe,
Her lavish mission richly wrought,
Leaving great legacies of thought,
Thy spirit should fail from off the globe;
What time mine own might also flee,
As link'd with thine in love and fate,
And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait
To the other shore, involved in thee,
Arrive at last the blessed goal,
And He that died in Holy Land
Would reach us out the shining hand,
And take us as a single soul.
What reed was that on which I leant?
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake
The old bitterness again, and break
The low beginnings of content.
883
Her $50 hair carouseled about her head
As she turned to mouth me the answer before walking through the screen door.
Her collarbone showed, shouldering through the 5-year linen blouse
She’d bought from an upscale consignment store the same morning she bought
Her second car for less than her parents spent on shoes.
Before I’d seen the sea, I pictured space;
Stars and Galaxies and Ice and Infinite, bigger than I would be and gold,
Hot orange. And quicksilver and crimson. Too white to know, too bright to see.
I dreamt of eyes, thousands. And voices and outstretched, glittered, sweaty fingers
And swirling, sweeping spirits and sad songs about love.
“Please, I need this.” “I need you, please.”
I pictured golden, heavy hands with wine and French cheeses. And clawed, chalky bathtubs
Of marble veined grey, windows bigger than their walls and shiny cherry wood and leather.
I pictured her lips parting and eyes dewy as I drifted to the door because they needed me
And I couldn’t stay any longer, I’d already stayed too long, and they needed me.
Everyone else had tried so there were none left.
I was the last, so I was the first. The moon and its stars were blinking open their eyes as my fingertips
Left her waist and I backstepped into their world that couldn’t do without me.
I could have been a martyr, clipped my locks after God gave me all he could and all the rest.
I would have been a martyr, but my blood started to burn and the flames licked my legs.
Her gentle push tugged at the nails holding the mesh to the screen door as it creaked
Open to faded wood and gravel and patches of green grass and golden sunset-light.
I hadn’t heard but I’d known the answer as she walked outside. My hands were lighter
Than the grains I’d used to make her dinner, and I found strands of her hair on a 3-year t-shirt
I’d never wanted to throw out after I wore it in my first car, a rental I bought wholesale.
Sad songs about love babbled and murmured on the Crosley she found for us during
The Christmas my cousins slept on our couch and floor. The sink poured, dribbled,
Stopped, and the sliding bottle of oil ground across the countertop. Through the door I could
See Tall Metal Skyscrapers and Helicopters. But before the moon and all its stars
Could take my eyes for their own, she found her voice and used it:
“Did you find a path to the stars?” She asked.
“I never did,” I said. “If I think to, maybe I’ll look again tomorrow.”
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 2:43 AM UTC
Listening those melodies of winds
on the top of a hill
where no human traces could ever exist
except those scribbling of lovers on rocks
strengthening the ******* of their love.
From the top i can see those small houses
appearing as the scattered drops of paint
on the background of greenness!
Those monkeys,
being enlightened seeing the upgraded species
welcomed our hard breath with utmost sarcasm
showing me those tricks in climbing
notating the life i lost...being a man.
A very lonely place it is...very lonely hill
those rocks
unmoved since some years became tangible for our senses
as we took those lifeless things
and tried to relieve those rocks from their tyrannical posture.
No foot mark...not even a small trace of human existence
not even a good road to reach the top of hill
so adventurous...so adventurous
and those clouds...those frantic...freak clouds
moving like tortoise...on shore
trying to escape from the eagle.
I babbled in my inner tone
with utmost insanity as i walked along this uncommon road
and all of a sudden...in a particular instant
i found that irrational resemblance between the world of mine
and this world...
from which one can look at the remaining world
wow...
a splendid experience
and at lost
a water drop tickled my exhausted muscles
leaving no idea
if its a rain drop or a sweat drop
which rinsed my soul
and gave birth to a news poet!
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 3:56 AM UTC
When you were so small
you felt weightless in my arms.
I wanted to freeze the times
I held you close
so I could step back into those moments
and relive the warmth of your silken cheek
against my breast.
To smell your hair
and watch your perfection
as you slept.
Swiftly time flows
tossing us upon rapids of change.
Yesterday you rolled, today you walked.
Yesterday you babbled, today you spoke.
Your toddle steadied
now you run.
You lost your diapers,
your chubby cheeks,
your training wheels.
Candles now cover your birthday cake.
I held your hand to keep you safe,
now you hold mine in company.
As an infant
you warmed me with your flame.
As a child
you feed me with your fire.
You push my anger
you pull my love.
I'm learning more than I teach.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
with the sword we tore apart,
i carve this message unto you:
brandished bark bears
names etched in time,
our honest tale it shares.
it tells of my meeting you,
brown eager eyed girl,
hair black scarf subdued,
oh precious pearl.
a simple shy hello
and tongue-tied good bye.
so our babbled ballad goes;
a mere shift from high to low.
~ Inori
Sep 6, 2021
Sep 6, 2021 at 8:27 PM UTC
Normalcy?, what the **** is that! When you ran around the block in a t- shirt and those vintage laced ******* screaming "an eclipse isn't to be had!,an eclipse isn't to be had!", what did I do? I stood there, I stood there and waited patiently for you to come inside. The bottle was still corked, the venison covered and the album of the evening (Ok Computer) turned down. Nooooooo!!!! Was that good enough, Nope!, I think not. You reluctantly came inside because you had to **** but not before you babbled a few one liners from every ******* motion picture we ever saw together. Remember that time on the cliffs when we almost lost it all and the car was hanging on 2 tires off the edge, remember what you said to me? I do,... you leaned over in that bright flowered day dress that barely covered your body and you whispered in my ear. "feel me breathe, feel me breath baby." and that's when I first took you.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
Conscious nonsense
Don't you see I'm trying to
think about my
next
~move~
I've
run out of pawns I've
babbled with this brook for too long to
think
is the
idea
but
not
even
idealists
consider
that a
possibility at this stage, do they?
Ripped fabric in my head
kerpow
and the lights
go
out.
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 10:06 PM UTC
His stream of consciousness was shallow. If a leaf were to settle upon the brook, to grace his life by falling gently to the waters, it would be swiftly babbled away.
A leaf, a friend, a lover - none were given a chance to reach the calm below the surface. His thoughts, the stones, and pebbles were constantly turned by the ever flowing tide that carried him along his path alone. Go deeper **** it.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC