"beck" poems
shrek is beck
deck is smeck
get top decked by the kripp
or u wont get any dipp
slip slop
drip drop
kip kop
hippity hoppity hood
goes the clock
tick tock
the mouse ran up the wall
and died
rest in pizza
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
And life came in, crowned in blood, kissed and messed,
announcing itself with a cry.
A girl-child, missing piece, fitted to my breast
her weight absorbed with my heart's sigh
She was fear personified, so heavenly blessed,
she made my terrified simpers her lullaby.
I felt my heart's core swell to absorb her scent,
and my eyes overflowed with love's cascading cry.
She cast light into my darkened chaotic hurt -
sparked a desire to wake, to live, to try,
clasping her whole fist around my ring finger,
holding me still; the whole world passing by.
And in her absence she left her shadow nestled in my chest.
And in my absence I hid my kisses in her sigh.
She grew with eyes of blue and a sympathetic smile -
all faerie dust on the wing of a butterfly,
an almost echo of a girl I once knew.
Except she didn't know that kind of cry,
wouldn't know anything less than rainbows,
than Christmas mornings and endless blue skies.
We tripped, clicked heels through the passing years,
from little girl to little woman in the blink of an eye,
till we were both wearing her shoes instead of mine.
And like Alice, she snapped from low to high
she grew - time sculpting curvy definitions
of who I hope and fear she will be.
She is golden curls and girlish giggles
ever wondering the where or the why
ever seeking to help, to heal, to try
to pour her heart into an undeserving world.
She has legs she claims to stand her ground
to be, to free, to hold her own.
And though like me, she is not me,
since she is so much braver than I.
Her finger is wrapped around her innocence
holding strong to consent or deny.
This life will make her cry her tears
and this world will realise her fears
but she will ever have the wings to fly
and I will ever ready to sing her our lullaby.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
bae is sick
his name isn't ****
this sounds like a rap
but it isn't a map
he pronounces stuff strangely
he can say "aluminum" barely
he has the flu I think
he needs to see dr dake
we have shows to go to
but he still has the flu
so I'm lonely as heck
for bae who isn't named beck
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
Shrek is wreck
Wreck is deck
Deck is beck
Black rack
In the back
Of the knick-knack
Zipppity bow
How is how?
In the luau
I only eat lard
Poems are hard
cancer
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
*If you were my sheets, and at my beck and call
fulfilling all my fantasies, into you, I would fall.
You'd cradle me so gently, and massage me everywhere
releasing all my juices, and all my stress, and cares.
In splendor we'd heat up the room, and I'd crinkle every sheet
and when we were apart, I'd rejoice, every time we meet.
Pillows would cradling my face and head, where jasmine scented rests
blending of our fluids as our bodies, orgasmically attest.
We'd fall asleep together, and spoon throughout the night
and in the morning waking, to unimaginable delights.
Your hands of silken sheets caressing, exciting every nerve
giving me all the pleasures, and climaxes, in you, I am immersed!*
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
Chant that you are brave,
Even as your body begins to quake;
Exclaim that you need not be saved,
Endeavor to alter your own fate.
Affirmations deserve more credit;
Say anything enough and you'll believe.
It's wholly possible to edit,
A new response to fear needs to be conceived.
Therapy is not at my beck and call,
But willpower will help me revise,
Prevent me from facing a dastardly fall,
A pivoting, terminating demise.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
you don't want me?
you don't have to have me
and i can leave
as quickly as i arrived
you're so sure you own me
and i am at your beck and call
with no life of my own -
don't fool yourself
you are not my world
and if you can't see me
nor appreciate me
and pull me around
as your little trophy prize -
i'm great at disappearing
just watch me
i don't even need to say good bye
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 5:33 AM UTC
Submissiveness:
give into man. silence yourself. his word is final. rush to his beck and call when he is angered. we are wrong. man is dominant, and woman is soft. if man is the bone, we are the gushy cartilage cushioning his fall. body dominated and composed of bone, but we are the organs that keep the body functioning. forever being transplanted, while our men are broken. submit.
Purity:
save yourself for man. wait for him with all your white so you are not tainted. innocence upheld. it is all for him, only him. wait for him to take it all, whenever he desires. be pure.
Domesticity:
the home calls our name. it is our calling. our knees bound to scrubbing, hands tied to kneading because our family needs us. we are to be the slaves of our homes just as we were to the white man. permanency of pressing collars that are not our own. domestic labor.
Piety:
we come from the rib of adam. without the presence of man we, ourselves would not exist. for this reason, we worship. we worship to reiterate our purity, to maintain our sanity when others challenge our virtues of womanhood. the lord is our shepherd. we uphold our lord. besides our husbands, he is all that we shall want.
womanhood.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
my simple response
“no.”
simply two letters
to your beck and call
is all it took
to immediately
come running back
to you.
Mar 31, 2022
Mar 31, 2022 at 7:07 AM UTC
Finally this Mint Assembly is Complete
As the Last Great Angel will sure confirm
Eight Gold Aureoles from Best Moments replete
A Standing Ovation his Spirit burns
See now, Prince of the Plym! And Testify
How they shared Lives to fertilise your Growth
There was no Contract; Only Hearts abide
Reminding you the Cradle of your Birth
Now you, Sweet Divine, to your Future's spout
Kindly live yourself well for Dream's extract
Know my Prayers stand as Friends throughout
Yet a Friend-on-Purpose I dress intact.
Eight Best Friends. Eight Blessed Souls I give Breath:
Kate. Dil. Jess. Beck. Lauren. Kat. Alice. Beth.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
She was the queen of Camelot in her dreams
She wore a golden diadem and a silver swirling dress
Servants were at her beck and call
Her king was kind and brave and caring and noble
But when day broke she was a prisoner behind bars
Trapped in her bedroom
With only her dreams to comfort her
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
Hey there, baby!
I got what you need.
You came into my store -
I got what you need.
You bought a stick of gum -
Do you want a soda with that?
You searched for a pair of shoes -
Don't you think these shoes are nice?
You liked a post about Darwin -
Darwin books: Half-off!
You listened to the Rolling Stones -
Try some Jeff Beck - I'm a Genius, I should know
you better than yourself.
You thought about ****** -
I can sell you seventeen ways to get away with it.
You thought about suicide -
Better buy one last pleasure before you go - you won't be needing
that money anyway,
Have you made your final arrangements?
You thought about *** -
I know you did
You typed "re"(demption)
Did you mean "Redbox"?
Here are the new releases.
I got what you need.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:51 AM UTC
I have just spent one-hour-and-a-half
handicapping tomorrow's
card.
when am I going to get at the poems?
well, they'll just have to wait
they'll have to warm their feet in the
anteroom
where they'll sit gossiping about
me.
"this Chinaski, doesn't he realize that
without us he would have long ago
gone mad, been dead?"
"he knows, but he thinks he can keep
us at his beck and call!"
"he's an ingrate!"
"let's give him writer's block!"
"yeah!"
"yeah!"
"yeah!"
the little poems kick up their heels
and laugh.
then the biggest one gets up and
walks toward the door.
"hey, where are you going?" he is
asked.
"somewhere where I am
appreciated."
then, he
and the others
vanish.
I open a beer, sit down at the
machine and nothing
happens.
like now.
from the 1997 Black Sparrow New Year's greeting, "A New War"
4.3k
A few months I haven't called him
At the beck and call at any hour
And the shortest notice
A dial to him has saved many an emergency
Last night a broken female voice
On the other side of the wire
Mumbled he died on May 13
Left her with three daughters
At forty at short notice
The plumber is dead
Now who would clear
My choked wash basin
The plumber is dead
And I've no other number to call
I couldn't see her face
Gauge the faceless sorrow
At the other side of the wire
The plumber is dead
I must find another
And then rejoice
Forgetting the widow's choked voice
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 6:05 AM UTC
I'm so sorry guys, it seems this is never ending.
Here is where I've found new stolen poems
http://www.experienceproject.com/
The user is http://www.experienceproject.com/about/marklovescoffe
(you may need to create a free account to check his posts)
and he's posted
Flying Fingers ~ Pamela Rae under I Wonder Who Reads My Stories with no link
http://www.experienceproject.com/stories/Wonder-Who-Reads-My-Stories/4785328
Know the Beauty of a Woman ~ Cataleya with no link and not only that, in the comments when he was congratulated for a great write he said 'Thanks mate'
http://www.experienceproject.com/stories/Know-The-Beauty-Of-A-Woman/4693147
new link 1 Release ~ POETIC T with no link and his comment was it was from his soul
http://www.experienceproject.com/stories/Love-To-Write/4781292
new link 2 I Am A Writer ~ Madalyn Beck no link
http://www.experienceproject.com/stories/Am-A-Writer/4631574
new link 3 A Kiss Upon a Blank Page ~ Kalypso no link, comments claim it as his own
http://www.experienceproject.com/stories/Kiss-Upon-This-Blank-Page/4577880
new link 4 A Thousand Colours ~ Amrutha no link
http://www.experienceproject.com/stories/F-I-Could/4534117
As you can see, I could sit here all night and point out the stolen poems however, I will now just encourage everyone to visit this link
http://www.experienceproject.com/about/marklovescoffe
join the site (it's free) go to the left hand side menu and click on Stories and see if you recognize your work (you will know the instant you start reading the post!) Then give it to him with both barrels! Like I said in my notes, I'm almost certain they are a member here!
Please share!
i have edited the links in here because he has changed his user name if you are looking for it, he dropped an e off the end... because we are sooo stupid....
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
I don't think most people understand **depression
suicide
PTSD**
or the cycles that they come in as if they were tides.
People don't see past the smiles and laughter to the darkness within;
That you could be surrounded by love and feel okay
yet still be dead
That no matter how much comfort or peace you have it still gnaws away in the beck of your mind and chews a hole in your heart.
Cut wrists and suicide attempts aren't a cry for attention but for help;
does anybody out there hear me? see me? feel the way I feel? does anybody get that I am on the edge and losing it? why does nobody listen? why don't they take me serious? am I worth anything?
It disgusts me we execute the wounded and condemn their suffering;
Maybe they shouldn't feel the way they feel, but it's how they feel, so quit trying to tell them to stop feeling that way!
QUIT TRYING TO FIX THEM
Just be there... they need to know they aren't alone.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 3:25 PM UTC
We seem to gravitate towards coffee shops, even those who don't like hot beverages find themselves there. I suppose it's a good place to let go your baggage. Lose yourself for five minutes. Loosen up and unwind. That's hard to do even on a good day. The world always has an agenda that needs seeing to. Rather selfish of the Earth to be honest, and quite damaging to your self worth. You can't be at it's beck and call 24/7. But we try to, dear God do we try. Of course this leads to us burning up rather spectacularly. Giving, worrying, stressing, doing. Until we are left smoking, steam rising like a freshly made coffee. But nothing is fresh here. Burnt coffee. Unusable. No longer capable of the great feats we once were. Like the world had chewed us up and spit us out when we're no longer useful. What a ******** But what can you do to stop a ******** Not much as they are inheritly selfish - deep down in their very core, nothing but molten arrogance, festering beneath their skin this sense of entitlement. That is what it is. You can't change the world from what it is. Just as much as you can not change who you are. So take five minutes and go to a coffee shop. Lose yourself in a hot beverage. Watch the steam rise and be thankful it isn't yours.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 3:41 AM UTC
shut up
shut up i say
i say
SHUT UP
who got a thing to say?
AL QAEDA!
traitors!
those like them
so
shut up shut up shut up
this is america
rachel maddow
glen beck
they speak
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 2:19 PM UTC
Day One:
A voice speaks to me.
When you realize that being lost is so close to being found, you see a sea of family members plagued within the lineage of licentious newborns and hospital beds. You become yourself, a lisp.
Day Two:
Long ago in a city left unscorned he was torn, from the cokeheads and colorful regimes, angels sing long songs of separation anxiety and **** withdrawal. I was torn from the deadbeats of supposed society and three day vicodin trips into my mind. So can you let me know when I get there? ‘Cause I left there running…I wonder, did someone ever tell you that two strangers could twist around your neck at beck and that three parked cars and seventeen lonely nights could haunt you for the rest of your faces.
Day Three:
Tell me of your drug induced hallucinations.
Day Four:
Wait. Hear. Can’t you listen to the relapse? Stop, think. No. gone. Left. Love. Return. My curious addiction. Go back into yourself and listen. Can’t you hear your soul call to me? It’s loud.
Day Five:
I remember prizes at the bottoms of cereal boxes, right before the net broke. Will you be first? Snap back to reality.
It’s dark in here. Wretch from me… I am crying, screaming,
haha! I’m melting inside!
Day Six:
By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower, but the seed inside
Caked over in grief, we are not plates that match. But fools of folly caught in a sea of coke and disillusioned discord. Speed stands between directing and orders to death’s soldiers.
Day Seven:
The difference between God and his counterpart is that he makes exceptions!
Except me.
Day Eight:
Accept me!
Please.
Wait.
No.
don’t slow,
speed.
I can only take so much forgiveness,
is a decision, and I cannot make it.
I am without it, leave me breathless.
Day Nine:
The angel of death waits
He comes for me, but I am running, finding, hiding my inner Nemo in the hands of oxycodon, privileged in the amenities of amphetamines.
I am tired of running!
Haggard.
Take away my hands, my restraints.
Let me feel
again.
Please.
Day Ten:
I am awake.
There is an apple in my field of vision.
Kiss it. Love it.
Take it to hedonism and back again.
But it knows too much.
So tell it everything will be ok.
It lives in epilepsy.
So placate it.
Resurrect my apocalypse.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
Part I
***Here they come to me,
To dance with me through the air,
Spinkling fairy dust!
I will walk with them,
Through the Enchanted Forest,
To see their sweet world.
It is so pretty!
With flowers and ferns blooming,
By the pretty beck.
Moss-covered boulders,
Making stepping stones across,
The beautiful beck!
Sunrays hit the beck,
And make it very pretty,
Such a pretty scene!
Daisies and flowers,
Lavender and bluebells grow,
Beside the sweet beck!
Every flower blooms,
Here in pretty fairyland,
Come along with me!!***
~Marian~
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 11:27 AM UTC
I truly thought
I had found myself
in a wondrous place
where you could truly see me,
and that all my words
were forever immortalized.
Held close.......
inside of your everything,
soft......as a breeze.
I laughed as you stared
into my eyes, asking my name.
With my heart in your hands
and the moonlight
at your beck and call.
Then......watching you walk away,
I smiled.......
even though I realized
you never knew me
at all.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
This scent of you, it clings to my skin,
it clings like a rash that's boiled over from within.
I scratch at this poison that has marked my flesh,
the scent of you, at your very ****** best.
I throw off the covers and hit the wall with my fist;
should lust be a sin, if lust is like this?
And no matter what with who, how, what or where,
everytime i sleep i can feel your ****** stare.
And the weight of your fingers on the back of my neck
drives me to nightmares, and meaningless ***
Tinged by the moment and forgotten by the hue,
my arms are brusied easily by the scent of you.
I'm running wildly through bracken and fire,
i'm running as a beast would run from apathy and desire.
I, the lone wolf, i'm moonlit, i scratch and i howl,
at the memory of your face, and your sneering sharp scowl.
I, the lone rider, in flight fearless, reckless and abused,
I jump fields, catch branches, torn, bleeding and bruised.
I hide in the woods, and float in the sea
I'm hiding myself from the deepest memory of me.
You're the poision ivy to my deepest forest of bark,
You're the drifting snow to my deepest vision of dark.
This scent of you, it clings to my lips
and i bite my tongue as i stretch my fingertips.
There is no sense in this dirt that flies through my hands
my thoughts are lost as stone is lost in beached sands.
I rip at my skin and i tear at my voice
I made this my dealing, at my beck, at my choice.
I draw upon my body like a breeze skims the ground,
there is no more wanton whimper, than there is my sound.
And at night when the nightmares come and i scream in my sleep,
the scent of you overwhelms my body, and i sow what i reap.
I lightly collect my feelings and throw them in a box,
I wrap in chains and cover it in locks.
I have been fooled, i have been fooled and blinded by you
and this scent lingers, in a memory of a distant bluish hue.
I watch as you walk away, your hips sway, tail high
And i howl and i scream and i sit and i cry.
And whilst i linger alongside this sharp vivid movie scene,
i count my bruises and feel quietly serene.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
It could Satan's cohorts cause, what portly
Political figures earn, to forsake his camp
And anon join the fray to the fat fiscal treasury
Of the country squander; and that to a cramp.
The pay plus pecks in a year they receive
Will most citizens in their lifetime never sniff.
So some who covet crazily such a mega-cheque
Also seek the same office for the easy favours.
Since our paunchy purse will at their own beck
And call be, they thus make elections endeavours
A dagger thing;--that if they cannot God's gross
Gold get, they must anyhow have the devil's dross.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
These lines are written
In the slow nowhere zone of sleep
My fingers animated with thoughts
All their own
I don't have to pretend
Ambien's licking in
Like a donkey straight
To the beck of my neck
I've seen it done enough time
Not to fooled into thinking it's here for
Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna hara hara hara Rama. Hara Rama , ram EMram hare hare.
Maybe that's the strong wind that guided my pen
Benevolent trickster soon to.bury. The things
that make him whole
Someone is mowing theirbli
It happens on ambien
But I swear there's. Meaning somewhere hidden between bags of honey oil **** ands great changjbbbbb
He might be a nice guy...... Nice and buxom, he could eliminate the thy free of before his Pixar
My mind thinks one thing and fgisvonytspio
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
Once upon a Time there lived a peasant
whose poems were whisperings of nature.
Nature aims toward growth, abundance
and decays softly back to succulent soils.
My homeland is not for your feet to step
upon, you belong to surrealistic cynicism.
My psychedelia does not approve of horrors
mundi and skips on every third classical tune.
What was impulsively chosen, can be a mistake
in pompous rituals on established compilations.
Apologies, for all the misdeeds lacking a true
appearances. You implied my life is a great lie.
No, it's not! Sometimes it is a knotted charade,
noose chameleon dreams wanting to create in
Castles build upon puffy clouds, youthful Ars
Poetica meeting a Pat Metheney's wonderland.
Beck is a phenomenal artist loving green lands.
Bachus was a goat. And Artemis protects us all!
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC