"basset" poems
Oh black negus. Why do you hate me so much?
Noticed I called you by your rightful title.
Negus
King, Ruler, Emperor
Not ***** or ******
The derogatory term originating from the crackers, or ***** the mild disparagement softened by society made to think that it's acceptable.
But anyway let's get back to it.
Why do you hate me?
Is it because of my full lips or my round hips?
My low tolerance for ********
The way that my stretch marks are engraved in my skin?
Or how the roots of my hair aren't so thin.
Is it my naturally sun kissed skin? Even toned complexion?
It just can't be my uncanny resemblance to Isis the Egyptian Goddess!
So why not praise me for my natural features
Why go on one knee for their paid for enhancements
Should I react like Angela Basset in Waiting to Exhale?
Screaming and shouting while my face is growing pale.
But pardon my melanin
I was perplexed by this darkness that stared at me in the mirror
That stared at me looking in my lovers eyes and taunted me
Smiles behind hidden hate they constantly berate my beauty
But pardon my melanin
My superiority is in my melanin
Encased in my skeleton
Our ancestors wouldn't like this
They would not be proud of that colorism that exist
They slander us for our features yet they list after it
This systematic thinking has our men slandering us but they won't admit
You continue to beat me down yet I am your mother.
I am the fruit of this nation.
But pardon my melanin
So I'll ask again
Why do you hate me?
We are carved in the same beauty and without each other we can't exist
I still remember the first day that we kissed but a few months later you left me for hailey in an unfortunate bliss
Melanin filled girls I am here to say
You are a queen never be afraid to be seen
The brother that disrespect and degrade are absolutely absurd!
You are not ratchet bitter or mean
Youre a stunning melanin queen
So pardon my melanin?
Naw enlightened by me melanin.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 1:02 AM UTC
a bottle of scotch had bad dreams.
bullets twitch, junk sick
in 3 inch thick
mustard ****
toe nails clipped from yeti
lay strewn about the **** stained corpse
of a motel six dixie cup -
root canal trophy,
next to
a black fez
with scab tassel
upended.
down in it. belching apnea
propaganda
and belladonna
waiting for curious george
to find a shotgun
and a yellow
hat
and a brick banana.
blowflies inhale the rank damp
of a fresh ****
the odd dog whines
like a clown in -
a blender.
[ the ]
house wins
with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers
into acned rosacea
bloated with sleep lack
and mortgage
back stab
chasing twenty ******
with a hollow point
pull from an acid
flask
while hailing a black cab.
tinsel sutures
stitch eyelids as a mercy
shattered bone knit
hand-grenade
cozies
old glory, at half mast
half wasted
fifty stars, no light
dragging on
the grounds of immunity
to do a line
of coke stock
with a basset hounds'
finesse.
your taxes at work
in columbia,
hiding from a lost farm
in Idaho
your american dream
turning tricks in shanghai
for a counterfeit
egga roll
your meme, devoid
like an ice cube
tombstone
your freedom, parking cars
for italian escorts
smoking skin flutes
for ferraris
and white teeth.
your integrity, sold to a hedge fund
for astroglide and a pez dispenser
packed with prozac
pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela
in a narco slum
that ain't seen radio
since cinder blocks
had wings.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
pulsating underneath my tingling human flesh
trillions of red blood cells dancing and swaying
simmering underneath my dreary basset hound eye bags
flaming fire and desire born out of my own need for sleep
shaking are my cold and violent hands
while my body pouts that it does not get its way
if my physical manifestation were free
it would spend a million dollars on things it doesn’t need
if my legs broke out of their rightful imprisonment
they would dance until they were drenched in a sticky humid sweat
chains bound my wrists to prevent my imminent collapse
from the rush of a mind blowing high i did not endorse
i will sit in silence on the edge of my seat and wait
for the rollercoaster ride from hell to end
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 9:29 PM UTC
Heaven
. . . Have Mercy . . .
Rest, rest, rest, for ye be none,
pitiful Fallen One.
Quivering bows flow over grave strings
bassoons and basset horns ring
pounding timpani’s announce:
Master of the Holy Choir
- - Renounced - -
Vain, fluttering heart
sublimely denounced, scorned;
fouled, ousted:
Horned.
Wailing strings, bassoons,
basset horns, thundering kettle drums
lift angelic voices to glorious requiem.
Pleas for Eternal Light’s remain
in wings refrain.
Heavenly Chorus' cradle to sustain,
mercy to soften
disdain.
The Holy Oracle contests --
to no avail.
Siblings’ choir protests.
Beauty beyond measure,
Angel of pure, Divine tessitura,
Absolution for Thee?
Foretellers of dark illusion
open Holy Scriptures to reveal
the drone of Eternal Damnation:
trumpets of ill
drag Thee to Hell.
Deep, ephemeral rhythms
exalt dancing strings,
seal destinies -- Kiss The Almighty King.
Glory be unto His Majestic Reign,
Will Supreme,
Tremendous,
Powerful, Holy Being.
Scribes record,
recite this dreadful day,
condemn Thee: Fallen One.
trumpets lament, strings mock
this unholy, forbidden way.
Bows flutter -- a memoir
of redemption.
Cries of confusion
dissipate
into muffled choirs,
murmurings
of deliverance.
Delicate chants
beg for forgiveness;
a Soul’s salvation, fusion.
To no avail!
Turbulent strings strike the Holy Duel
in wrath, writhing hatred,
majestic wings tumble --
twist to wrenched ******
Death devours, Birth becomes
the Fallen One.
Angelic dissolution --
distraught, agonized Ethereal,
Eternally beautify
these ghostly, trembling
winds, strings, harpsichord, drums.
Voices of brotherhood remembered,
cushion Angel’s earthly descent.
Breathe into infantile genius
heavenly symphonies
to sweeten a life
trapped, scorned,
condemned,
mourned
Love of God: Amadé
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 11:02 AM UTC
A good friend with a basset-hound face is on his feet
The rest of us are weak
as newborn puppies,
from the late hour, the numbing glory in our lungs
But, mostly from laughter.
This young man is a connoisseur of altered states, an apprentice butcher, and one of the chosen few who breath music in and out effortlessly
And he's preaching
Prosthelytizing
Three minutes before,
he had been happily day dreaming
Three feet from the floor
with the boob-tube beaming
happy
simple
moving colors
The man on the set shows us how to stir-fry chicken
Our mouths water, but we're content to sit.
But with the fire coming up that glass pipe
and setting his boiler to churn along feverish
He caught an insight
or it snared him, like a spiderweb across a peaceful hiking path
On his feet
He was beginning to see connections
And had to share them with someone
Now
I'm a limp doll at this point, fully immersed in the body-high
Thoughts are glacial, movement glacial
Oh, my friend.
You're talking to the wrong audience
We can't hope to see it as you do.
But he keeps on keeping on.
And tells us a thing or two.
Cooking
He says
Is like ***
As our laughter dies down to a dull roar, he continues
The speeds and heats and intensities can all vary
to give you countless subtle differences.
But the true constant is care
Loving attention to the finest detail.
His brows furrow, his toes test the fibers of the rug
and he glances back up, and I imagine a podium in front of him.
Or maybe it's like Jazz. He says.
We learn, or glean out, how things are supposed to happen
But in the moment, the twanging instant
Beautiful things will themselves to exist
and they defy all well-laid plans.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
This *****
Artificially awake
Lydia
apples 20 years have passed
oranges i want a do over
manhole cover coins
savage glares across the 4 wheeled property lines
young moms not giving a **** that's alright
kiss of sun hidden from
anxious from blue oak , it's ridges pluming in the dappled twist
and floundering wave, wiggling wave of oak leaves green as frogs.
ponytail suzy, *** from galaxy sci-fi
i brought up a cup while it was empty there,
but so distracted by my own trembling effort,
every hair a furry hood, every fatty fixture of my face a rebounding basset hound
tennis shoes up to my neck, dumb naked in my greenery,
already old somehow, the window closing,
the permanency of parks, like a stilletto in a limosine,
green fixture of my white blinded attempt to see tomorrow,
tourist .
thoughts of Sylvia
, my gaping awe at the feminine,
and its green garden.
-cbrander
Jun 26, 2022
Jun 26, 2022 at 12:26 PM UTC
there was a basset hound he thought that he would be
a super sleuth detective solving a crime spree
a proper sherlock holmes in a little stalker hat
and his friend called watson who was his friend the cat
he would have a spy glass so that he could see
if there was any fingerprints to who the rogue could be
looking at the facts to help him solve the case
things that had been moved and were out of place
this is what he thought and one day he would be
a super sleuth detective just like on tv
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
She must always be the center of attention
Loud as hell too, if I even need to mention
You know when she's around
She bellows like an old basset hound
When she's here she'll let you know
As picture after picture of herself she'll show
Always bragging on herself and her's
Like under your saddle a well placed bur
The same old stories over and over
She can talk anyone sober
I can only take her in a small dose
Not in walls that are close
In an open field, in case I need to bolt
Because I just can not cope
With the stream of ****
That spews from her lips
I'll run like a wild horse
It would be hard to follow my course
When I can't put up with her any longer
That attention seeking monger
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
What's wrong with you humans?
You have water in your eyes!
Stop that!?
Please don't cry
not with those
basset hound eyes.
Don't look at me like that
with those droopy eyes!
Don't worry about me
I'll be fine just...
don't look at me
with those...
basset hound eyes.
Do you remember
the good old days?
Where I clang my dish bowl
every single day
or the time we took long walks
around the neighborhood
as the neighbors smiled
and began to talk.
Do you remember,
when I was attacked by a hawk
and y'all came to rescue me ?
I was so in pain that I couldn't even talk
I could've died,
but I didn't
Didn't I?
Therefore y'all
shouldn't cry
not with those
basset hound eyes.
These memories will never die
and neither will mine.
God knows that it's time
So please don't cry
not with those
basset hound eyes.
Before I leave
promise me
that all of you
will never forget me.
This is a way of life
and I must go now
It's my...time.
Therefore y'all
shouldn't cry
*not with those...
basset...houn...hound
eyes.*
**I love y'all and let God
be your guide.
Don't worry I will always
be by your side**
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
I heard whispers of a secret sound,
from Alexandria, hidden under the ground,
it was the steady beat, beat, beat;
more like a heartbeat, than a busy city street.
Now, they told me once and they told me twice,
that all occasions are played out thrice.
Three times of pleasure and of heartache too;
of a blood-thirsty conquest, the people's coup.
It was a global awakening, felt in the birth
of a bleak disregard for the marketing church,
a trinity of profit, of heat, light and gas;
of teenage lovers, beneath the underpass.
We stole through the farmland,
I pressed to your chest;
we sang to the autumn,
the coming of death.
We learned in science, of covert destitution,
prostituted knowledge to save the institution,
of rockets now missiles and force-fed thought;
where opinions are rote, and all politics bought.
The whispers returned in Sumerian sound,
tattooed on my skin, tattooed in the ground,
they came back to me, in my deep, deep sleep;
gold hair descending from the great castle keep.
I climbed from my body, led up to the sky,
as oceans gather from the tears that I cry,
in solemn disdain, for the conquest of man;
their synthetic wasteland, their three-year-plan.
We collided in memory,
as time was stripped away,
forever we were kissing;
forever we would stay.
I heard catcalls from a stone-circle mound,
clear as citrus to the basset hound,
whilst Jesus was caught dealing on the street;
exchanging numbers with the ****** he'd meet.
Now, they told me once and they told me twice,
that all occasions are played out thrice,
three lovers now nothing but a status update;
that we're nothing but slaves, licking the plate.
An introvert awakening, the three states of water,
hoping one day, to nurture a daughter.
To teach her of love without any condition;
to tend to her strength, to be her nutrition.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
Nothing in this alley to crow
about—backboard and bent hoop
leans against an old refrigerator.
Over at McMillin’s place
bags of garbage pile atop
a turquoise Chrysler.
I’d give the family a pick
and shovel if they bury
their old basset after it dies;
it’ll probably keel,
the first cold day
of 2017.
My boots like this alley
even if my eyes don’t,
it hasn’t seen
a snowplow this winter
and, why should
it?
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 9:50 AM UTC
He's lying in bed paralyzed
It's made me all so fragilized
White walls, blue box, and twisted head
On the silver hospital bed
He says no words, just garbled sounds
His jowls shake like a basset hound's
He points to what he wants
On the little paper, nothing to flaunt
Images, memories, all they do is haunt
What do you think of when you lie
In bed, when your only future is to die?
While life races by, a baby is born
Without a grandfather, will the child be forlorn?
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
I thought you were dead
or close to it.
And I cried for days
Did you hear?
I tried to be silent for you.
Be strong for you.
Have healing hands for you.
You tried to be strong, too.
You tried to smile
And laugh
And cuddle
Like an old basset.
Your eyes gave you
Away.
They still do sometimes
Fill with flecks of crystal
And become the ocean.
A warm ocean
that basks in the heat
but knows it’s
a warning
Of what’s to come
And feels guilty for knowing the sun.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
love~worn to the extremity (get a dog)
rare condition but not so rare,
that a first year intern might guess
the prognosis from visible symptoms,
the alternating listless groans, contextual
unexplained weeping, no singlized source
of pain but short hard stabbings in odd,
multiplex moving theaters of the brain ‘n body
slow onset, then signs manifest in increasing
rapidity, till your buddies attempt to drown
your context in a local pub, but to no avail,
just a guttural persistent wailing failing
where they beside themselves, send you home,
you’re tossed on your bed, to search for no rest,
for this malignancy is cured by lingering time,
and even then, it is a never fully excised tumor,
shedding bad humors, cells to witness to exist,
decades, a precursor to a life long disease, composing
just
one more bad
lost love poem, a
disease cancerous
in its aspect, look for the paling, waning now near
permanent discoloration around the eyes, and surely
you will have ease instantaneously recognizing me
get a dog they said,
so I did, so now, two sad eyed
lowland lady mates, two basset hounds walking each
other on silent daily trip with no destination until
one of them commences the serenade of howling
olp
Mar 27, 2024
Mar 27, 2024 at 3:58 PM UTC