"bespoke" poems
The distant park
Was a graveyard of dead stars.
Each streetlight a system of worlds,
So many lives between each mote of light,
Indistinguishable in their unique love,
Bespoke hate, and the drama of the modern age.
Drunk laughter behind transparent
Double doors. Another hotel balcony,
Another cloud behind the canopy
Of marijuana eyes
To unsettle me from the crowd.
She points out, when you look closely
You can see the disorder
Amongst all constellations
Of life and love and litter;
Of discarded Coke cans
And temporary highs.
She says this is not a scene
To imbue the ****** of a present mind,
More to baulk at the incompletion
Of one thousand to-do lists;
A million reasons why
You should just stay inside.
She says you can see the human swell
Of ignorance, our city lights
Blotting out the stars
In a black ocean of broken politic
And irretrievable fault lines-
Divisions between us all.
Lives twisted with professional smiles
And eyes lit with stunning indifference.
Still, I have felt charity and warmth
On the doorstep of lunatics and fascists.
I have read the love of life
In faces of those who gave up.
I have recounted countless artists
Who saw beauty
In moments that precisely lacked it.
I have spent too many nights
In anaesthesia,
Fleeing each instance of feeling
And terror; all the tremors
That tell me I am still alive.
Continued to stare at the lights
Long after her voice
And the laughter inside had gone.
Heard waves in the traffic.
A world so large, so expansive,
It can never truly sleep.
Every broken heart,
Every war-torn land,
Every promotion,
Every one-night stand.
I wonder what would happen
If we all stood still.
If we all took one moment
To observe the motion
That unfolds beneath
Our static windowsill.
If we all took one moment
To recover our loss.
The wars that we won,
The feelings, forgot.
The hell we retain;
Our paradise, lost.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
.. For as flying.
Spying
Places repose.
Dream, suppose.
Dreams loll without respite Shady oak. Bright swirl spring breeze
Of green crisp apple bite. Shelter bespoke. Insects morn, vast seas
As gold burns warmer. Sleep, still abuzz. Clouds as beat wings
Sun shadows corner Seconds love. Million insects sing
Dreaming more light Eyes shut, island. Time goes, seconds fit
Colours mix despite. Twig woodland. Seen today, exquisite
Great light bested. Instant, rested. The rays pestered
Shadows nested Dreams vivid. Up, now rested
Colours
Mull
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
Begging you, Sterling Mentor of the Card
Patient and Calm are your Methods in-check
May I take this Learner to Living afar
Bespoke my Efforts and Services are met
For if I noticed this Lack-of-Command
Married to sane Verbs I try to absorb
Even out of Bounty; Trust be at Hand
To remember such Stubbled Skills I bore
This is an Artist-on-High. That which speaks
With Curried Words much tempting to forget
At expense of Duty is no longer meek
And my Salt's Wager now easy to forget.
Bear me Calm. I can adopt to re-learn
The Blue Eagle's shriek which can eat the Worm.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
A branch of the tree,
split of the yoke.
Bee of the mouth,
heart thus bespoke.
New year crisis of men,
fire works, fire, smoke.
I have heard The Calling,
-anguish of The Woman.
Tree
Branch
Bee
Christianity
Islam
Bee
"If You engage War and the spirit of the Lord is with you; then the wind of his spirit shall blow open the mouth of the Dragon bringing victory in order." *
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC
Britain has few trees . . .
Fools bespoke: Lord cut them down,
. . . Ecological disaster.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
We were told freedom would make us artists.
We were told freedom would set us free.
But freedom made us consumers—
scrolling, streaming, drowning in plenty.
Peak content.
Peak noise.
Attention—the last currency.
And we are broke.
Then came the machine.
Infinite. Bespoke. Frictionless.
The tribe dissolved.
The story fractured.
Each of us—
a society of one.
Do not mistake this for culture.
Culture bleeds.
Culture resists.
Culture divides.
This is mimicry.
This is slop.
Outliers cribbed, stripped,
and rebranded before the ink dries.
This is the singularity.
Not awakening.
Collapse.
Not tribe.
Not ritual.
The machine as tribe.
Self-satisfaction—tribe enough.
But listen—
creativity still breathes.
Not to be seen.
Not to trend.
But to testify.
To mark the ruins.
To scratch in the stone:
A human was here.
Do you remember?
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 5:12 AM UTC
Tsk tsk tossed
go out
Your suggestions.
Whisk whisk washed
flow south
Your directions.
Hiss hiss sorry
no time for
sage reflections.
Songs you sang will not be sung
Nor any tales of strength believed.
The brain embodied in such young
Must think it he first to perceive.
Ask every man
Who first made sparks?
From rocks to barks?
Blinding night and fooling fear?
Wholly gone ghost
Our first bright creature
He harnessed fire
Then disappeared.
Realizations when thought anew
Seem to skip from us awry.
So no Salutes
nor an ovation
For those who fostered
Us will be spied.
Gods truth your lips bespoke to youth
Yet still it's not their time to hear.
For these ears are full of magic
And your end rolls
Crushing near.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
I chased the first rays
of an autumn morning
but to my sorrow
when I arrived at
the urgent place
the sun had
already
risen
breathing a
crowning glory of a
seasons brilliant
splendor
alighting
the glowing amber
of golden woods
shining like gleaming
constellations of
dazzling morning
stars...
though I
desired to find
ascendent beauty
the ubiquitous glow of
transfigured leaves
immersed me in
a divine chrome...
as I traversed
the woods, my
solitary steps found
companionship
with a sullen
mistress singing
a sad rustle
of dry fallen leaves
and as the drone
of cars faded from the
receding road
I searched myself
for courage and
found resolve
I pondered truth
and discovered
the wisdom
of resolution...
yearning to
realize a
deeper faith
I hiked
further up
the wooded hill,
visiting the gay
playfields
of my youth
and received
an epiphany
of wholesome
closure
opening
new
timeless
doors...
still questing
for more light
a prophetic wren
whirred a pliant
secret into my ear
she bespoke
a symphony
of avian
improvisations
conversing in
a thousand
luminous tongues,
relating a sonorous
elegy teaming with
the brightest
joys of life
raising bold
proclamations
celebrating a
seasons radiance
imploring me
to join the chorus...
though the canopy
of the woods still
boasted boughs
of green
the
infant hues
of spring had
run its course
the glory of an
expiring season
strewn on the
forest floor
covering the
mouldering stags
inching back into
the compost of life
breeding blankets
of furry moss
feeding on the
primal organica
of seemingly
expired flora
here, in this
darkened moment
I realized
the transcendent
miracle
the loam of life
incubating
churning
in concert with
the turn of
seasons...
to my sorrow
I missed the first
rays of the morning
the first
peeks of light
a breaking day
gracefully bespeaks
upon a sleeping earth
awoken in new light
yet I am filled
I am transcendent
I am the first ray
of an eternal light
I am the first ray
of my earthen
gloaming...
on the morrow
the best of me
is in the marrow
of all who loved me
and all whom I loved
these rays of me
will forever rise
in an eternity
of dawnings
For Joey
Godspeed Beloved
Vaughan Williams:
Lark Ascending
Oakland
101313
jbm
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Barking along the seething sea
Tethys sparkling
Sans Pellagrino
Bubbled up with volcanic
Albido
And it exposed the cragged shores
Of a incessantly compiling
Or
Completely snuffed
Mountain
Bored and drilled by time
Sharper than a dying dimond
Cooked and left to rest
A Dinar plate
To which an all you can eat
Buffet
Played out pleasently
From antiquity
To present
A gift to an aging child
To be which pure joy can behold.
Today it is home of the Croats
The ancient Frontier of a meiotic Rome
And over small-grain time
Made coats
Of arms and animal manes
To give a name
To the nameless
To give a place
To the missed
That old Tethys barks like a fish
Beyond the Odoacerean boot, Scylla and Charybdis
Where the whales float
And great souls
Stolen deep within
wishing to find god
Fumbling in the dark
Searching for Alexandria
The flame of life
Become great stories to be told
And nothing more.
Odysseus
Hug the shore
Follow the land of the mysterious Croats
Do not venture beyond the threshold
Or you will be consumed by time
And lost to her Circedean jealous pines
Do not anger the constant love of
Helios
No,
These Croats have never croaked
They know not of amphibiotes
And the sharpened clades of life
Made and tailored bespoke
Sowed
In the fractals
Of the quiet word of
Eloah.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC
Bless me this Mentor of Sole Beauty's Heir
Yet Strong but Soothing Overtones bespoke
Your Man won your Lot; Such Blue Maiden Fair
Whose learned Feathers brushed my mind pre-note
Which perchance teach me this Indigestion
Of Quarter-Terms whose gods we must rely
Your Patience, prized, covet my Attention
Which by tri-week's end I will soon come by
And hope within months my Master become
Whilst you dear Lady try to taste our Flag
I realize, this Truth: Work most embalm
Then my Skills effect to Experience had.
Before I forget, I'll thank in advance
This Dumb Poet's Song in foolish romance.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
You can identify your own flaws by scrutinizing strangers.
I watched a woman
from across a platform
at the subway station:
Straight, dishwater-blonde hair
glimmering in the subterranean fluorescence;
striking posture—
a dancer's figure—
and a thrifty ensemble that bespoke good taste
in spite of budgetary constrictions.
She pulled a circular compact from her purse
the way people in films exhume a pack of cigarettes.
Then, in deliberate fashion,
she removed a pill and swallowed it.
Birth control is like receiving a governor's pardon
in the process of planning a crime.
I resent her having that kind of indemnity.
I pass judgment on assumptions of character,
high on the blissful soapbox of bigotry.
As that pill crested the ridges of her teeth
and met the soft tissue of her tongue, then esophagus,
my mind conjured a phantasmagoria of lewd images
on the surrounding subway walls--
more a reflection of my character
than hers.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC
The Other Woman (Kisses Incessant)
*There always is one.
I am a man, and yes that's my excuse.
It's not as if I kept her hid from your penetrating eyes.^
She has icing on her nose,
Heart shaped sunglasses hiding her pizazz,
She knows about my other woman too.
I write love poems for her too,
Like this one.*
Kisses incessant,
ten thousand for the present,
ten thousand more,
stored away for the future,
secreted in this poem
lest my lips dare to forget how!
Hugs galore,
beyond no more,
limitless,
defying foolish boundaries of
"enough, grandpa!"
Limit is an artifice,
a mind-made precipice,
kisses for the children,
are ethereal, open sky-wide,
limitless, here and now,
forever, for herein,
an oath sworn, taken.
Horizons demand demarcation,
physical selves,
containers for multi-taskers,
simultaneous five sense users,
ultimately biodegrade
after three or four choices made
But fret not, rest easy,
my love, my darling granddaughter,
here and now
and yet to come,
for the love I feel
and the kisses I provide
are spiritual cells,
that will divide and grow,
and never fade
**Kisses incessant,
one for the present,
millions for the future,
lest my lips forget how!**
Tears now, as I write,
thousands more to share
with you for when,
the inevitable arrivistes,
heartbreak and sadness,
Boyfriend troubles,
infuse your inexperienced heart
Even my best friends,
these bespoke words
that I string together,
for our future together, unneeded,
for when I go silent...
The reality of this composition
of kisses incessant,
of hugs galore,
tears and thoughts,
is for you, for us,
for now, for whenever,
for our forever, whatever that be,
but that too, limitless,
for this poem will be stored, incised in our
cojoined hearts
and in our genes
**For my beloved, my Isabel full of Grace
Oct 22, 2011**
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
A rainbow is a beauteous thing,
Its wonder we behold!
And ponder if we’d ever find,
The elusive *** of gold.
If it were not for the sunshine,
And the clouds upon the sky.
There would not be such colours,
Such beauty by and by.
There would not be the promise,
That is in every stroke.
There would not be the wonder,
Of the mercy God bespoke.
And how often do we miss it?
The elusive rainbow not see?
And just keep travelling onwards,
That through the *** of gold we would be free.
But freedom comes from the beauty,
Of the sunshine and the clouds.
The journey that we travel,
The joy and troubles found.
They each compliment the other,
Would bring out our true colours see?
And create a beauty more wondrous,
Than any other you would see!
So friend as we would travel,
This journey of our life.
Lets remember the beauteous rainbow,
The promise of eternal life.
Lets know that through our troubles,
We would just require the rain.
And soon will come the sunshine,
To bring out our beauty again.
And through this wondrous beauty,
Others too perhaps may see
The gold is in the rainbow,
The end is where we be.
Oct 21, 2009
Oct 21, 2009 at 1:07 AM UTC
Earth in iniquity overall clad,
in a stained satin of sin:
loose garment
of a loose life.
Heart's maidenhead in twain was torn,
in Eden,
by Satan's scissors of lies
and wiles,
so crimson did stain
the purest soul
with red spots.
Gold embroidery of righteousness,
silver stitches of sanctity
have all been marred
by Lucifer's tailor-made sophistry.
Wherefore bespoke beauty
and dignity fell
off Adam's body,
and his nakedness seen.
Calvary's grace, the bleach,
the remover of blemishes great,
doth make darkest heart
than cotton to be whiter,
dressing man up again to the nines
with heaven's glory nice.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
The Universal Declaration of Human Rights
says we all should have equal dignity,
but is that the way we think
in everyday life?
I live in a big house in wealthy suburb
and you live in a small house in a poor suburb:
Should I have more dignity than you?
Or should we have the equal dignity of fellow human-beings?
I drive an expensive sports car
and you drive a second-hand sedan:
Should I have more dignity than you?
Or should we have the equal dignity of fellow human-beings?
I wear a bespoke suit
and you wear an off-the-rack:
Should I have more dignity than you?
Or should we have the equal dignity of fellow human-beings?
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 6:36 AM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
“A groan of tedium escapes me, startling the fearful
Is this a test? It has to be, otherwise I can't go on.
Haven't written a word in three and a half years.
Time to take the broom out to this shallow grave”
Middlesteps
~~~~(|)~~~~
For
deep is the fear, coated in thickening veneer
of might-be-bravery,
the weight, Oh, the weight!
of that writing utensil that both
bears and bares all,
an uncomfortable unconscious,
uncontrollable surrender
that sweeps down upon us,
when first we seek the unwieldy unwinding
of our proactive fist of a first step,
the unclenching, the open face palm,
seeing our lifeline’s revelation, the shame,
the lines we thought that faded away,
upended, open ended, that the worst
un-finishing, but here I am, my taking, the
baby steps of Middlesteps,
only looking
back to forwards for permission,
a new looking inward
forward!
we confesses, beg for our own forgiveness
for ourselves, the years of summary silence ,
at last!
unveiled and unbound, this first step stinks of
tremors, poems never writ up, but on our mouths
and fingertips yet memorized as IF they were bespoke
this return,
“startling the fearful,”
a provocation to the mirrored images
caked on my disheartened body,
goes lightly noticed, but not by me!
daily, I ask the bay and the sky, the animals,
the query lives in almost each of my scripts,
Where is Shelter?
today the answer is not an apparition,
but the question is rephrased,
not where! but when
the answer is now apparent,
for the seed planted, this is for you,
watering the seed, feeding the shoot,
that I know too well,
for asked and I answer,
everyday…
Sep 24, 2023
Sep 24, 2023 at 11:53 AM UTC
Every era that has ever been
Has engaged in the auto-dissection
Of their yellowing underbellys.
Yes, every generation has predicted
that the end is nigh,
That god is on their side;
But the devil has a crowbar
And is busting out of the basement.
Each decade is a mimicry of the last.
Different fashions, same trends
And always, with a fool on the hill.
A lonely steel harmonica can pierce the airwaves
Across space and time,
Through the grooves and crackles
To enthral an audience,
And to beguile that every generation
Into believing in their autonomy,
Their solitude,
With a fate independent of all those centuries past.
Through every disembodied spew of Dylan lyrics,
Or the corporeal and common alienation
Sympathised in every Wilde reference,
Comes the same fury at the chaos of a world
That is no more than indifferent at the plight of the people it houses.
Indeed,
Every generation has sought to either
Cure the ills of the Earth;
Or else set lighter fluid to the lot.
This stretches back to the first blood-spattered edition of the Bible,
And further, much further.
To all of the captains,
The heroes,
The anti-heroes,
The road gritter,
The malevolent dictator,
The schoolteacher,
The emancipated woman
And the borderline feminist.
To every young child who is reluctant to take the spotlight,
Or look you in the eye,
Ask questions, or speak out.
For every one of those who at some point were labelled
‘maladjusted’.
And so the Pharaohs and Caesars are all but gone now,
Replaced by the big-wigs,
The fat-cats,
The purple hearted,
The playboys -
The men in suits.
But they are all the same.
The same behind the decadence of
A solid gold sarcophagus
Or an Armani pair of shades.
They all built their empire on shifting sands.
And so we will all kick and scream
To our own tone and our own time
At the indignity of the world.
At our bespoke knowledge
To deal with all inconvenience
But that which privates the preclusion
Of any and all major slaughters of justice.
As for that young child,
With the lack of eye contact -
And all that he will become:
He will sit. And he will type.
He will type until his words fall beyond that
Of the spiralling noises inside his mind
And blossom into something pure and ugly and beautiful.
He will sit and he will write
To forget.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
Six humans trapped by happenstance,
In bleak and bitter cold.
Each one possessed a stick of wood
Or so the story's told.
Their dying fire in need of logs,
The first man held his back.
For of the faces round the fire
He noticed one was black.
The next man looking 'cross the way
Saw one not of his church
And couldn't bring himself to give
The fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes
He gave his coat a hitch,
Why should his log be put to use
To warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back and thought
Of the wealth he had in store,
And how to keep what he had earned
From the lazy, shiftless poor.
The black mans face bespoke revenge
As the fire passed from his sight.
For all he saw in his stick of wood
Was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of this forlorn group
Did nought except for gain
Giving only to those who gave
Was how he played the game.
Their logs held tight in
death's still hands
Was proof of human sin,
They didn't die from the cold without
But died from the cold within.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
the nation's pride in graceful wave
delivered 'fore the thousands
the millions as they roared 'n raved
in worship smiles that roused them
from those ever graceful lips
kissed by Jove 'n Venus
that spoke the majesty of queenship
of love above sweet Eros
the smile that shone out from her eyes
with sincerity none could hide
of interest and intelligence wise
up welled from deep inside
no mawkish sentimentality
nor false, nor common rot,
her smile bespoke reality
a truth that G-d begot
Fare thee well, O gracious Queen,
never from nation forgot,
Farewell in flight to Heaven's Sheen,
To bind Celestial Knot
Sep 13, 2022
Sep 13, 2022 at 10:16 AM UTC
Decorations are up
hung from fishing wire,
fishing for good luck.
There’s Christmas on her neck
and as she stretches out in front of me
a wake of cinnamon decks the halls.
It remains and lingers,
falls away past nostrils and
turns to festive well-wishes.
The market is in full swing
wrapped up tight in large scarves,
like a low cut sling cradling the cold.
Winter has the streets in its hold,
the wind is sour, bitter to taste,
and punters, commuters, Asian lost-tourists walk in haste.
Shop floors are warmed by radiators
hung above their wide open doors:
let the heat out, let the customers in.
And when the mid-November light dims
and the council gets past the
everlasting electrical admin,
streetlamp sticks will light and spark,
sending effulgent embers down onto
the Cambridge cobbles.
Children will peer wide eyed into windows
remembering names for their lists,
hoping to unwrap them as gifts later on down the line.
Adults, some probable parents and others newly-wed together,
enjoy the festivities, the weather, the bespoke crafts
bought from Argos sold as Handmade Swedish Chairs
And do they care? No.
It’s Christmas in Cambridge and
winter is settling in.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 7:38 AM UTC
Some types of blood arrest this mouth.
Yes, some types of lips breathe fire and shout.
Some types of women shuck men of their gain, then some women run hurriedly back to their beaches again.
Some people catch anons between their legs. Others swallow vespers BeSpoke by the lust that they crave. Then envelop Gonzo love on the tip of their quill, if only boiling themselves for five minutes to ensure themselves potable.
I live for the taste of rust. I sit in the second-to-last seat on the back-left side of the bus. And I greet her legs with my aching skin, touch my fingertips to my lips to prove that I’m alive to myself.
If her scent was obeyed by royalty. I’m traversing the world if only once more as I’m praying that she’ll see me. I’m praying for our faces to believe in we. And her taste is the bang that is big from the beginning of time, one twist of the fresh zest of a lime, while the years are turned back into the furnace of time. I’m craving faces and loves I once saw. I need to feel the skin tailored for the female gods. I’m certainly loud and catering forth, I turn up the pre, and force the gain and amp up. If only to be noted again, in a bed with my goddess together we’d spend, every moment together in eternity. Immortality conceived of the beasts we achieve. Trampled by the light and tortured by the sound of ourselves. Please won’t you help me to not be forgotten myself? I’m pursing my lips and shaking my hands, I’m jumping off rooftops and eating mouthfuls of sand. Is our hero here or has she she run? Help me find Britni West, my one true love. She’s in California last I had a taste. It’s only everyone else that I lay chaste. With her I’m on top of the world, I’d quaff her spit and champion her skin. There is nothing nor no one that could come between. She’s the only one that is for me, and I’m the only he she’s told me.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
It was well said of him,
“The clothes bespoke the man”.
Yes, he stumbled in the mud.
Yes, his reputation soon was stuck within the stinking sludge
and, granted, it was all of his own making.
But surely you remember how he'd been so impressive.
Once I said, “You're spotless as a manikin”
and shared a hearty laugh with him.
Be we also had some serious conversations,
discussing what he meant by “loveliness”.
That was all before the storm that hit us
with the force of filth from continents and generations.
It reminded us, again:
not every love is innocent;
the finest gentlemen are capable of
(some say inclined to) monstrous crimes.
After, no one spoke of him.
He tried to hide behind his usual accoutrements:
the matching tie and handkerchief;
silk shirts;
his feathered hat and crimson mackintosh;
the smell of musk.
But he was tainted, spotted once the news was out.
As the headlines had it:
“Gilded Lily Withers – Roots Exposed”;
“If clothes have made this man, they're now irreparably torn.”
“Patent leather ******* now well scuffed.”
God knows what his publishers had to put upon his jacket
to sell off the remainders.
Yet even from the darkness of his prison,
he seemed to think he could rely upon
the persuasiveness of beautiful adornments
- “Always envied; often copied; never matched” (his line) -
trusting it would make him seem attractive once again, even clean.
He died the 23rd of May, 2007.
They say that night he'd tied his shirt a special way,
with a feminine flamboyance,
but it failed to impress as he intended.
In some dark hall (we don't know how) they caught him,
stripped him to the bare essentials,
leaving him undressed and cut, an ochre ugliness.
What were his final thoughts,
when all that he had left was soiled and bleeding?
What we he really needing?
Still, I'm glad I knew him,
Still call him friend, and miss him.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
There is a brisk discountenance
in an angry Mother's Moon
for their bespoke Sons onwards,
they snap their beaks,
pea size humanity,
resurface buried adrenaline
from hockey days,
inwardly angry at their profligate fertility.
Its enough to de merit the spirit,
then store
a prosaic promise
that when older
their *** is marked for attention,
a discourteous tail chasing.
A mark of a indoctrinated Son.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 9:00 AM UTC