"bedfellows" poems
Strolling through the park
With humans, dogs, and birds,
Pink leaves make their mark
As they hover down in thirds.
Drifting along lazy airwaves,
An amplified guitar echoes
As a band soulfully misbehaves
For all nearby bedfellows.
Apartments loom over trees,
From a place of urban gray
As blue air works to appease
Spaces between dusk and day.
Sturdy street lights rusted and old
Accompanying a worn path ignite,
One by one flashing dark to gold
On a normal Wednesday night.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC
falling in love with her is like taking the square block and trying to put it in the circle slot
i got the premise set in stone but the execution was poor
like twisting and turning a rubiks cube to find that four colors of each side are missing
but im trying to solve it in spite of forgetting what the colors were
so i ****** up
really bad
and i guess romance is dead and there’s no extra lives
and now im playing hide and seek with my smile
looking in places that she smiled
where sunsets lie that even van gogh couldnt paint
but im not drinking yellow paint to make way for some fabrication of euphoria
because my euphoria sleeps with her
they’re really quite the bedfellows
but everything inside me is just the way she left it
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
Nine months after I was born, the Twentieth Century began to collapse.
East Berlin,graffiti-mural concrete, a jutted enigma scratched
on ordinance maps, the sort found
landscaping westernized Primary School walls.
Where within, labored in real time, the television told my parents
(and everyone else given to social conservation in 1989) that a wall falling down
would bring an end to the gap between the working and the working poor.
Freedom waited for many on the other side.
But of course, History draws up different plans.
Never content to just go out with a bash, or to
fleetingly drift by leaving
in its absence an underwhelmed lull
The bloodiest century yet
left the new world entrenched
in an odyssey of hatreds
handed down from the past
right about the time human suffering became a bit dull
and the peaceful countries were too busy
tripling their money instead.
What does History really teach us and what are the real benefits
of being free, or freer than you were before?
Human ambition, which burns it way out of any oasis of calm,
which calls children out of sleeping in the night
Always seeks out the exhaustible
An inveterate Black sheep leading astray
the ever susceptible ****** lamb
Delusion’s strange bedfellows are the worthiest adversaries
to run away from, to reserve contrition for.
Unlike the inevitability of uprooted animal migration
during a monsoon swell
Can a people with an invested addiction
to the pursuit of happiness
Ever truly be prepared
for the inevitability of rapid change?
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
come fly with me;
remind me of my own mortality
that child dreaming of
the adult waning:
a depth inside with many questions
unanswered
sleeping rainbows
are colourful bedfellows
open arms with empty words
are these your welcome smiles
unbeknown to me
chase the feelings that disappear
like raindrops that ebb moisture
on a warm day
Where are you now?
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 9:56 AM UTC
***1. Thou shall not worry, for worry is the most unproductive of all
human activities.
2. Thou shall not be fearful, for most of the things we fear never
come to pass.
3. Thou shall not cross bridges before you come to them, for no one
yet has succeeded in accomplishing this.
4. Thou shall face each problem as it comes. You can only handle
one at a time anyway.
5. Thou shall not take problems to bed with you, for they make very
poor bedfellows.
6. Thou shall not borrow other people’s problems. They can better
care for them than you can.
7. Thou shall not try to relive yesterday for good or ill, it is
forever gone. Concentrate on what is happening in your life and be
happy now!
8. Thou shall be a good listener, for only when you listen do you
hear ideas different from your own. It is hard to learn something
new when you are talking, and some people do know more than you do.
9. Thou shall not become “bogged down” by frustration, for 90% of
it is rooted in self-pity and will only interfere with positive
action.
10. Thou shall count thy blessings, never overlooking the small
ones, for a lot of small blessings add up to a big one.***
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 11:27 AM UTC
. what's the difference between
thieves, and magicians?
not much...
both have quick hands...
and an awake,
yet asleep public communal
presence...
the thief has a public of
the victim,
and the c.c.t.v. "stage"...
the magician?
has a public of the crowd,
and the "dajjal" stage of
a camera replenishing
a concept of:
not enough public...
thieves and magicians are
bedfellows...
you allow one to flourish...
the antithesis will come
along, and in an indiscriminate
fashion...
allow the "magic" / "thieving"
to take place...
what is a magician,
a public figure... compared...
to a thief?
i can't see the difference...
the audience was fooled
by the magician...
the individual was fooled
by the thief...
are they... so much unlike
each other?
magicians can own
a theater stage...
thieves, sometimes... just sometimes...
own the, basic...
pointlessness of english
c.c.t.v. mechanics,
to make police officers make:
a follow-up investigation...
oh, but i have genius
interrogation practices...
no one wants to listen to...
like 10 hours straights of listening
to stefan molyneux...
or 48 hours, sleep deprived...
listening to BBC 24 hour news reels...
that **** could crack anyone...
what the americans did to the Iraqis?
last time i heard...
they blasted the slayer oeuvre
down headphones into their ears...
Americans... feeding conquered
Iraqis with a slayer oeuvre?
BRAVO! BRAVO! ENCORE!
and didn't the encore come?
******* retards...
crows feeding seagull chicks
with sinew and
regurgitated scavenger meat!
if only they played them some
Bach...
i'm pretty sure...
the Iraqis would still be left...
disorientated...
but the American army "interrogators"...
ha ha!
played them the slayer oeuvre!
WEE-TARDS!
anyone... and i mean anyone:
will relieve themselves as being
"tortured": doubly charged up,
and ready to ingest hyper-coffee
in the form of the Luftwaffe tactic
of ingesting amphetamines
(pervitin) -
night-raids... the londoonoirnischt
blitz, sloth krieg...
ya ya yawn...
urgh... burp...
and always... those poncy -
english, gay, aristocratic men...
and their... psychotropic women...
so what's the difference between
a common thief...
and a spectacle magician?
one "owns" cctv footage,
the other owns a stage...
yet both share a: quicksilver
take on, what cannot be
interpreted in either handwriting
or stenography...
hmm...
can't be sure whether
both could be considered legal.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 12:16 AM UTC
But rocks are hard
And buttocks are soft
And the two do not
Good bedfellows make
And I cannot remain here,
And so I climb,
Again,
Scrabble painfully up the scarp,
Again,
Towards the light
Of a sun which seems
So very far
And unfeeling
In an azure sky that
Holds little hope
But each painful inch
Is one less in the shade,
Every focused lever against the
Gravity of pain and loss
Removes me from its grasp
A little more,
Until eventually the suns rays
Start to penetrate the cloak
Of my depressed state
And even my wracked muscles
Start to warm and,
At the cliff top from whence I fell,
I spy that rock which my back
Missed still stood in place
Where it always was
Did I lean the wrong way
Or did it wobble?
Or was it a bit of both?
Either way it feels stable now
A rock
On which I pause to lean
Jan 17, 2022
Jan 17, 2022 at 7:43 AM UTC
born 1900
when Austria was still a monarchy
that did not know
it was approaching its end
growing up as the daughter
of the mayor of a little district town
big fish in a small pond
educated accordingly
as a ‘higher daughter’
be a home decorator
do needlework
be a gourmet cook
play the piano
be a respectable member
of the community and the parish
when she turned 18
after the end of world war I
the social order for which she had been prepared
simply disappeared
her father became a disillusioned monarchist
the town’s republicans elected a new mayor
she married a railway engineer
who left her after her daughter
my mother
was born
she managed to survive world war II
as a single mother
watched her daughter
fall in love with, at Christmas 1946,
and marry in April 1947
a guy who had just escaped
from a Soviet POW camp
looked like a walking skeleton
my father
AND
was the son of a communist
who had survived world war I
as a POW in Siberia
strange bedfellows
they used to play cards together
once a week
with great gusto
class warfare
morphed into social entertainment
both my parents were working
grandmother led the household
on the side did bookkeeping for local businesses
to bring in some money
practically raised me and my brother
cared for us when we were sick
taught me to play the piano
was always afraid we would not get
enough to eat
for a while, as a little child,
I slept in the same room with her
and learned that she had
a wondrously melodious snore
going over an octave & some such
when, after grade school,
I had to leave at 5.45 am
to catch the train
pulled by a sturdy steam engine
that took me to the high school
50km down the road
she was concerned when I
rushing out the door
just grabbed parts of the breakfast
she had so lovingly prepared
when I left home for university
she was not happy
when I went to the USA for a whole year
she was disconsolate
she did enjoy her great-grandkids
when they visited, though
too much distance for too long
from the place of her birth
made her uncomfortable
in her later years
she needed a familiar place
that came with its familiar things
to do and know
she lived to be 87
I saw her last
after a second stroke
had mostly incapacitated her
a tiny woman
curled up
waiting to leave us
for a world that finally might heal
the pain and disappointment
she had so bravely mastered
throughout her life
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
Bring, in this timeless grave to throw,
No cypress, sombre on the snow;
Snap not from the bitter yew
His leaves that live December through;
Break no rosemary, bright with rime
And sparkling to the cruel clime;
Nor plod the winter land to look
For willows in the icy brook
To cast them leafless round him: bring
No spray that ever buds in spring.
But if the Christmas field has kept
Awns the last gleaner overstept,
Or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blue
A single season, never two;
Or if one haulm whose year is o'er
Shivers on the upland frore,
--Oh, bring from hill and stream and plain
Whatever will not flower again,
To give him comfort: he and those
Shall bide eternal bedfellows
Where low upon the couch he lies
Whence he never shall arise.
1.9k
a solider and a sailor
sing a lonesome song just for your entertainment
but in it you are betrayed by visions of heaven
shine with the late night ribald drinkers
after all after a few bottles even mortality seems lively
disjointedly you pick your way
through all these salvation's
never quite believing that you could exceed
your worth and standing
after all you can buy a new life for dirt cheap
long as your willing to give up your lifestyle
long as your willing to be disarmed
of all those quick witted answers you think fit so well
and give up all her peek-a-boo paradise's
the solider and sailor buy a round
and toasting the queen they bury the hatchet
no expectations can lead you on to the
brink of such strange bedfellows but you'll try
you can only hope not to be a victim of such defeatism
when all the ribald drinkers have left the saloon
walking in the thin light of dawn
you will remember all these beautiful things
and dream better dreams
build better sunrises from the gloom of days ending
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
Ringed fingers run across sculpted chests,
and they don their red stained lipstick vests.
"Roxanne" plays in the background,
and it feels like raindrops falling down,
because my eyes are cold, and blue, and wet.
Misty eyes and tired smoke
breathe deep through aching, weary lungs.
We cry in alleyways and choke
on strange bedfellows with probing tongues.
My heart is filled with tear stained jokes.
My jeans are filled with crumbled ones.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
When Donald Trump opened the floodgates last year,
by basing his campaign on paranoid fear;
By embracing the zealots, the hawks, the alt-right,
he emboldened the racists to take up his fight.
When Donald Trump barks and belittles and bellows,
he ends up with strange and revolting bedfellows,
who think, 'cause they're white they can fight and can ****
which, with horror, we witnessed there in Charlottesville.
When Donald Trump won't quickly, strongly condemn
the racists and nazis, he's standing with them.
When he's vague, non-committal, or responds with delay,
he's disgusting, pathetic, and as worthless as they.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 7:06 PM UTC
~
*I see starfish from
my false bottom
canoe
stretching the wave,
a shimmer to the sound
—slow, fast, wide, and narrow,
then gray over blue
in the empty mirth.
I see trouble and strife,
a beacon of
decadence,
trembling consistently
on each note as if
she had the permanent fever.
I see death and transfiguration,
(equal bedfellows),
out of the ground
as glorious
wisteria,
there's ether on hand
and a lot of bridge work
to cross the vocal span of our
vibrato wars.
I've only got time
for the business at hand,
these cobwebs in the corner
(of history) can linger,
or die like
flies
on the Queen of Compromise,
who never was,
who might have been,
who will always be.
am I cantillating
or have I ventured into
false memory syndrome
again?*
~
Apr 25, 2022
Apr 25, 2022 at 12:45 PM UTC
Religious zeal and explosive prowess make incendiary bedfellows
searing calculating moralism where all fall short and deserve to suffer
self righteous corrupted calumny put forth in a sally of sectarian selectivity
your ilk is heading for Hell and I'm (already there) not
fanatical zealots marginalize intellectuals with their mythical mire of mucked up claptrap and copious lack of a priori specificity
a glorified preposterous plethora of pompous pontificating platitudes
the sins of others they deplore but of themselves they don't keep score
Sunday's best is Sunday's worst
you sanctimonious ******** just can't leave people alone
who elected you to point fingers anyway
Jesus was born in a barn to an unmarried woman
And your mommy got shtuped when you were conceived too
you don't walk on water you insolent impertinent fool
the brain police can't wait for Sunday's
oh the satisfaction of a mutual admiration society
knee-jerk hackneyed pavlovian dog speak
Is anything anymore real if you jump around and shout about it
recipients of adulates get accustomed to sycophants
fawning complacent obsequious kiss ***** and Sunday suck-ups
pass the plate
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
She spoke in a whisper a faint glimmer of existence I had yet taken from her in the moments the darkness would embrace her and leave me to reflect.
they believed me a phantom a ghost haunted in in shadow now the truths of my existence would show the ugly scars of my true self.
Pain was there only understanding and a burden to the guilty I had no remorse for the actions simply a found indulgence into the darkest pleasures .
A red wine and a black rose made such perfectly different bedfellows soon they will know but for now let there ignorance call out wolves to a full moons embrace .
Nightmares are my colors and this canvas I take from your flesh and break your thoughts to suit my own.
She whispered faint to the emptiness that stood before known only as I.
I wonder did we view this monster the same ?
Nightmares exist I breathe from the gates to show my face in malice do you care to indulge me if only for awhile?
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
L'heure verte
The mountains. The heaps of their bountiful gravels, and earth, and soil, large oversized masses of half-frozen water teetering on the precipice of subzero masculine ******* Francophilic cleavage jetting out of this deserted white pastoral dressing. The inaugural bawl, wanton fixations of putting the imperialist foot on every spot of tree, each and every shrub, until the limbs' cast reaches each dimple that foliage braves, where that blue eagle of patriotism dredges its claws to form every river, rill, estuary, creek, channel, flume, littoral, and waterway where the iron-rich gullies once brimmed in the interamnian basins, rich crimsony waters riffling through fruitful and extravagant aquifers. Beyond that, where an inexplicably feral wind rips vines from their dendritic housings, where barely an eye can see, this place of exsanguination and abysmal phytocide.
At the end of this lamentable torture, only a desert of human interest remains. There is no reason to laugh, or smile, or cheer, or put a leg up, to call on a friend, or to have ice cream. There will be no more ice cream. There is only the loathsome incredulousness and avarice in the semblances and familiarity of those with whom we thought we once knew. Little can ever be known, for there is much to gain in the absence of knowledge, and even greater that can be acquired in the alms of wisdom through patient examination and thorough silence. Here on the buttes and cornices, the thwacking gavels of evil power deities throw down their lust for more and soon become adjoined to these grand discrepancies greed mistakenly loses to a lack of awareness and to self-aggrandizement.
Power is the weapon of inexperienced wielders. Passion is the immortal frequency that is worn by artisans and artists, poets and painters, it is the business of quietness to learnedly evolve to protect our tomorrows from personal needs, but to instead preserve the integral parts of society. The words of languages, artifacts, and cultures, rather than the skeletons of ****** and the deeds of possession. Each who sleeps knows their bedfellows to equally be at peace. For no wealth can exceed that of comfortable pillows, soft quilts, and sheets. We are all the same while we sleep.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
August
Even then, you know, you
were right about one thing-
I -am- insecure. That, which
unsettles me to my
core of worth
was the selfsame fuel
for pathos with you,
my foe.
September
See, I was all too willing
pressing my ear against floorboards
to catch echoes of smear, until
I bled crimson anguish.
October
I became infatuated with your name,
entranced by your body, identity that had
shared such a ferocious similarity with mine,
that we have both riddled our helpless portraits
in the heart of hazel eyes with the beautiful
terrifying wonder of what-if-always?
November
The more ghastly your claims, the more
affixed I become for your passion for me, I
could feel your heat crawling from the coast,
a welcome malaise.
December
You know, often I've felt caresses though your skin.
A shallow breath as if against your neck-
wrapped as tightly as you must have,
and I wonder at how it must have been
such a
bitter
bitter
bitter
broken.
January
I pay attention to you, I
read what you write, I
listen to what you sing,
it's not a healthy addiction but
how could I possibly help myself?
February
I didn't plant a flag so much as
stumble over a root
I didn't steal so much as
find
I didn't dictate so much as
quietly ask.
March
Possible, that the heart of your extortion was envy,
though envy of what, I may only guess.
I suppose, the bottom line is, we're both imperfect,
good-trying people who are shattered with the terror
of vulnerability.
April
When I realized this, I could have
cradled you like a sister. I could
finally see through your eyes.
May
I'm not a viper.
I'm simply a piece of you, as you
are a piece of me.
June
In this way we will be
forever bound together,
hollow with each others' desolation,
Tossing with opposite bedfellows of doubt
Slowly ******* out the same poison.
July
The funny bit is-
in another life
we could have been friends,
and all I can do is write letters,
letters to miss Anne,
that I shall never
ever send.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
sitting by the window.
with the sounds of some nondescript
parisian accordion sounding
bourgeoisie muzak playing overhead.
all the while I write poetry in a coffee shop.
*******
this may be the trite-est of ironies
any explanation would not be weight bearing
for this ridiculous setting.
only suitable for student films,
with a beret on top.
who by no fault of their own
originate in new york
by way of black and white paree.
cigarettes and drowsy violins,
odd bedfellows and conjoined twins.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
Clothes held close as menfolk left.
Clutched close to wifely bodies.
The scent of that last embrace.
She smells his left behind clothes again.
Nobody else knows his smell.
It tickled her nose.
Memories of last moments of closeness.
This moment maybe their last dance.
Uniforms of formality in such organised organisations.
Firm protection of noble nations.
Action stations, yet again.
And the death bell tolled.
And the trains rolled into the station.
Waiting to clamber on to the war bound train.
Walking away.
Heads held high.
Stiff upper lip.
After kisses goodbye.
Which of the bedfellows will survive?
It's a long drawn out slog.
This war is a dog.
Big.
Black.
Vicious.
Still alive?
(c) Livvi
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:17 AM UTC
There are pieces of torn tissue scattered around the bedroom.
A head board; the head to a nonexistent bed frame
askew in the corner.
The afternoon sun is brilliant for December,
unusually warm for these parts.
I am standing in the suns reflected haze,
such strange bedfellows these past few days.
My ragged soul speaks to me:
"There is nothing here for you anymore."
A death, silent and shocking, mocks me.
I am doing my leaving Las Vegas thing,
to try and turn it all off.
My body speaks in a foreign tongue:
"There is nothing here for you anymore."
I am not well.
It’s a long way off,
breaking the cycle, of this despondent spell.
My bitter anguish screams:
"There is nothing here for you anymore."
So it seems,
your lies, intricate, exacting, told well,
are truly a perfect product.
Every fiber of my broken being screams:
"There is nothing here for you anymore."
Why can't I bring myself to leave?
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC
Cast your ballot for your party's running mates
Strange bedfellows in Roman
**** compromising positions
Straining to see what once was
Their original clear-cut goal
(Even the hot sands of the
Sahara becomes cold at night).
Tarred and feathered goes the ideals
Run out of town on a rail of policy.
Politics of law
Politics of religion
Politics on every level
No real friend’s only polite interests.
Party politics in the bedroom
Workplace
And church
Spinning ethics and morals
To be fit for desiccation
By whatever spider desires
To make their web in
Palace royal
Church pious
Courtroom solemn
Family room secure
Where only a sort of twisted gestalt
Applies and the lesser of two evils is
Often greater than the sum of the
Two--the package being more
Important than the contents.
All that
Is important is the law of the jungle.
Tone-up poser muscles
Groom rhetorical fur
Sharpen intimidation fangs
Demagogic rule being the rule of thumb
Firmly planted where the sun never
Shines because truth is exposed
Only in the light. Plans made in the
Nether regions of base instincts
Where the true nature
Of we humans reluctantly steps
Out of its ancient cage nightly to
Prowl only to return by morning to
Have pure and honourable melodies
Sooth the savage breast.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
Strange place, even stranger times,
Every unfit thing, strangely finds its place,
But in kleptopia strangers become bedfellows,
The strangeness all the more welcoming;
Outside the uneven lines, weeping, wailing,
Many complaining, more agonising,
But within the cesspit of gluttonous philandering,
Merriment upon merriment, endless mirthing;
So they negotiate a rollback,
Of the misaligned circumference of the perimeter,
Try to redraw this untidy arrangement,
Only still at it, many lifetimes after.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
Who needs sleep,
when crazy thoughts
cozy up to me?
loss, grief, pain,
shame, and guilt
are warm faithful bedfellows
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC
Our English language? A curious thing!
Hammers don't ham and fingers don't fing,
Grocers don't groce and ushers don't ush,
And why is a rear called a toosh, not a ****
What is the plural of mitt? Is it mitten?
And what's a caboodle if there is no kit'n?
Do women count coins when they go through their change?
Is all lucre filthy? Are bedfellows strange?
You can't have the willie, the heebee or jitter,
And patter is noisy unless it's with pitter.
If a guy's queer, is he gay or just odd?
And if a girl's skinny, is she still a "broad"?
Can you do a flip? That's an interesting word...
Flip a house or a pancake or even a bird!
You'd never say fum without fee, fi or foe,
And why do we go to the bathroom... to go?
Slim chance or fat, they are one and the same,
And **** can be naughty unless it's your name!
So if you love words and you don't take them lightly,
You'll find by and by that you can-can write rightly!
Source: http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/war-of-the-words#ixzz35Z943NKD
Family Friend Poems
Our English language? A curious thing!
Hammers don't ham and fingers don't fing,
Grocers don't groce and ushers don't ush,
And why is a rear called a toosh, not a ****
What is the plural of mitt? Is it mitten?
And what's a caboodle if there is no kit'n?
Do women count coins when they go through their change?
Is all lucre filthy? Are bedfellows strange?
You can't have the willie, the heebee or jitter,
And patter is noisy unless it's with pitter.
If a guy's queer, is he gay or just odd?
And if a girl's skinny, is she still a "broad"?
Can you do a flip? That's an interesting word...
Flip a house or a pancake or even a bird!
You'd never say fum without fee, fi or foe,
And why do we go to the bathroom... to go?
Slim chance or fat, they are one and the same,
And **** can be naughty unless it's your name!
So if you love words and you don't take them lightly,
You'll find by and by that you can-can write rightly!
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
The secret is
There is no secret
Everyone else was told
The secret is there
Sometimes they forget
to tell the poor kids
We just guess
the secret is important
and funny enough
figure out first
that there is no secret
Now I can't help
but to speak and stop
blathering fools
from speaking around
the non-existent secret
to how life should be
Poor kids know
it's whatever you want
that life becomes
unless you're rich
then life is
what the commercials say
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:46 AM UTC