"betters" poems
my naked lady framed
in twilight is an accident
whose niceness betters easily the intent
of genius—
painting wholly feels ashamed
before this music,and poetry cannot
go near because perfectly fearful.
meanwhile these speak her wonderful
But i(having in my arms caught
the picture)hurry it slowly
to my mouth,taste the accurate demure
ferocious
rhythm of
precise
laziness. Eat the price
of an imaginable gesture
exact warm unholy
20.7k
Love trusts, lust twists
Love rains, lust drains
Love reaches, lust catches
Love couples, lust combines
Love retains, lust detains
Love relies, lust relays
Love cares, lust caresses
Love binds, lust blinds
Love floats, lust flees
Love belongs, lust longs
Love ascends, lust descends
Love fames, lust defames
Love creates, lust recreates
Love commands, lust demands
Love chooses, lust chases
Love boosts, lust boasts
Love at heart
Lust in mind
Love in lust is good
Lust in love is better
Love likes privacy
Lust looks for piracy
Love opens lust
Lust closes love
Love is slow, lust is fast
Love is steady and stable
Lust is mobile and fragile
Love is reliable, lust is liable
Love is long, lust is short
Love is homogeneous
Lust is heterogeneous
Love is defensive
Lust is offensive
Love is precious
Lust is pernicious
Love is supportive
Lust is supplementary
Love is refined
Lust is defined
Love betters life
Lust batters it.
Love has character
Lust has conduct
Love wins over
Lust weans out
Love combines
Lust divides
Love is cool
Lust is crazy
Love is peaceful
Lust is pleasant
Love is wholesome
Lust is piecemeal
Lust comes first
Love becomes best
Love is progressive
Lust is aggressive
Lust laminates
Love illuminates
Love is slow n steady
Lust is hasty n nasty
Love is dense, lust is tense
Lust is conditioned,
Love is air-conditioned
Lust is lovely to begin with
Love is lustrous to end up
Love heals, lust wounds
Love owns, lust disowns
Love is onus, lust is onerous
Love is basic, lust is allowance
Love conforms, lust confuses
Love binds, lust blinds
Be aware of love
Beware of lust
That comes like
wolf in sheep’s clothing
Let the fair blend
of love and lust
rule the roost
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 5:15 AM UTC
If I should have a son,
Instead of mom, he's gonna call me Support
That way he knows, no matter what happens, I'll be there to hold open the heavy doors.
And I'm gonna paint the solar systems on the fronts of his game controllers
So he has to learn the entire universe before he can say "I'll school you in that!"
And he's gonna learn that this life will bury you
Deep
Underground
Wait for you to claw your way out just to throw dirt in your eyes
But not being able to see which way is up is the only way to remind your pupils how much they enjoy the beauty of this earth
And there is hurt here, that cannot be fixed by alcohol or drugs
So when he realizes Superman isn't coming, I'll make sire he doesn't have to wear the cape all by himself
"And sweetie" I'll tell him, "dont let your head get so big"
I know that trick, I've seen it a million times,
you're just looking to impress that pretty girl on the cheer squad who picks on other kids to adjust her own self worth
Or better yet, date the girls getting picked on, then dump her to adjust YOUR self worth.
But I know he will anyways
So I'll always keep an extra supply of "I taught you betters" and "Treat girls rights"
Even though all boys learn that at a young age...
Okay, most boys don't,
But that's what moms are for
They'll teach you to be amazing husbands if you let them.
When he opens his hands to catch, and drops the ball
When the girl he likes says no to going on that date with him
when it feels like the world is crashing in
Those are the days he has all the more reason to say thank you,
because there is nothing more beautiful than the way the sun refuses to stop kissing the horizon, no matter how many hours it must spend spinning away.
And yes, on a scale of one to greatest, moms pretty much know it all
But I want him to know that this world will throw curveballs that I can't see
And he can't be afraid to put on his mitt and catch it himself
"And sweetie" I'll tell him
Remember your momma is a queen, and your poppa is a king
and you are the boy with big eyes and a willing heart who never stops trying
Your aren't big yet, but don't stop growing
And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip peer pressure and sin under your door and give you hand outs on street corners of druggies and defeat.
you tell them
that they really outta meet
Your Mother
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
Haters, haters, hiding in the closets, hiding in faeces
your putrid minds full of fears and all your weaknesses
You are not men but degenerates and cowards in excesses
but in your attempts to distract away from your deseases
Look the parents you have and you know you're like rat fleas
you lack a lot which makes you so angry and in pieces
Washing once a week on other days its wet towel on faces
smerge on stunted wieners never to be a winner at the races
You're un-cool all you do is pretend but you ain't got the aces
as charmless as chicken *** you're the left-behind in chases
Never had a true compliment because you have no graces
deep down you're a mess and petrified of background traces
You have ***** linens and bad secrets buried in bad places
you're nasty, think nasty and 've done things that debases
Always afraid you pick on your betters rocking in perfect places
full of inferiority complexes real abilities get up your noses
You've wet your bed and at night you knowyou're *********
playing macho when in reality you want to do men's *****
Nobody likes the faceless cowards and abject scorn they entices
partners and frenemies are there for themselves and free passes
They see through them and smell their weakness without paces
faking laughter at their hate and anger at winners they despises
Haters are sick sad losers miserable inferiors with dark devises
never happy, never content just slimy cowards in dumb disguises
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater zest for me,
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I’m off to the Yards afresh.
I never was very refined, you see,
(And it weighs on my brother’s mind, you see)
But there’s no reproach among swine, d’you see,
For being a bit of a swine.
So I’m off with wallet and staff to eat
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat,
But glory be!—there’s a laugh to it,
Which isn’t the case when we dine.
My father glooms and advises me,
My brother sulks and despises me,
And Mother catechises me
Till I want to go out and swear.
And, in spite of the butler’s gravity,
I know that the servants have it I
Am a monster of moral depravity,
And I’m ****** if I think it’s fair!
I wasted my substance, I know I did,
On riotous living, so I did,
But there’s nothing on record to show I did
Worse than my betters have done.
They talk of the money I spent out there—
They hint at the pace that I went out there—
But they all forget I was sent out there
Alone as a rich man’s son.
So I was a mark for plunder at once,
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once,
But I didn’t give up and knock under at once,
I worked in the Yards, for a spell,
Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs.
And shared their milk and maize with hogs,
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs
And—I have that knowledge to sell!
So back I go to my job again,
Not so easy to rob again,
Or quite so ready to sob again
On any neck that’s around.
I’m leaving, Pater. Good-bye to you!
God bless you, Mater! I’ll write to you!
I wouldn’t be impolite to you,
But, Brother, you are a hound!
3.8k
I RANTED to the knave and fool,
But outgrew that school,
Would transform the part,
Fit audience found, but cannot rule
My fanatic heart.
I sought my betters: though in each
Fine manners, liberal speech,
Turn hatred into sport,
Nothing said or done can reach
My fanatic heart,
Out of Ireland have we come.
Great hatred, little room,
Maimed us at the start.
I carry from my mother's womb
A fanatic heart.
3.4k
One spoke: "Come, let us gaily go
With laughter, love and lust,
Since in a century or so
We'll all be boneyard dust.
When unborn shadows hold the screen,
(Our betters, I'll allow)
'Twill be as if we'd never been,
A hundred years from now.
When we have played life's lively game
Right royally we'll rot,
And not a soul will care a ****
The why or how we fought;
To grub for gold or grab for fame
Or raise a holy row,
It will be all the ****** same
A hundred years from now."
Said I: "Look! I have built a tower
Upon you lonely hill,
Designed to be a daughter's dower,
Yet when my heart is still,
The stone I set with ***** hand
And salty sweat of brow,
A record of my strength will sand
A hundred years from now.
"There's nothing lost and nothing vain
In all this world so wide;
The ocean hoards each drop of rain
To swell its sweeping tide;
The desert seeks each grain of sand
It's empire to endow,
And we a bright brave world have planned
A hundred years from now.
And all we are and all we do
Will bring that world to be;
Our strain and pain let us not rue,
Though other eyes shall see;
For other hearts will bravely beat
And lips will sing of how
We strove to make life sane and sweet
A hundred years from now.
2.3k
He's part artist, part alchemist,
but a full-on con, self-professed with post-
graduate degrees in mixology
and the god-given sense to know which
smoldering home remedies will catch fire
(give or take an occasional legal glitch).
His healing pitch is grifted on the easy
comparison of queasily lowered brows to
their indistinctly raised betters. You'll doff
the scoffing face as he pulls back a masking
caparison, and your fever gallops hotly
hoof-in-mouth with an uncontrollable itch.
Tinctures, colloids, salves and potions,
they all have twisty caps, blithe boxes
bubbling over with hypnotic patterns
fashioned to cure your urge to avoid
his futility. First'll come the ****** then
the crumple followed by purse strings loosening.
Don't consider it capitulation.
His assortment of fluid manipulations
bear a singular branding at 100 proof,
and after the recommended daily dosing
(two jiggers with each meal), you'll feel
you're **** erectus made sapient.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 8:15 PM UTC
Clearing ivy,
pulling up handfuls of
choking bindweed,
uncovering delicate
wildflowers in
neglected garden corners,
and there’s this
tiny bird
lying in the dirt.
Feathers sparkle
pretty and golden,
as fairytale light
falls through
parted vines.
Surely dead,
but then
- like Snow White
surfacing from
magic apple-induced
dormancy -
the bird moves,
woken by the kiss
of sunlight and
being witnessed,
and seems to breathe.
A gloved finger’s
exploratory, leathery ****
a moment to realise,
then disgust,
sharp recoil.
A wing lifts;
gleaming feathers
parting reveal the
crawling mechanics inside,
the writhing, parasitic mess
behind the sick illusion,
the briefly faked miracle
of something
like life.
Away over a fence,
Union bunting
***** erratic and jarring
in a neighbour’s garden.
In a stuffy town hall,
the town band is practising
God Save The Queen, but
still can’t keep time.
Our betters wave to us from
high palace balconies
and golden coaches, and we
cheer them for it.
There’s such hunger, such
pain and desperation out there,
you can feel it, if you
forget to stop yourself.
There’s so much tragedy and injustice,
you have to go numb or go crazy.
There’s no future we can see,
and the past has been rewritten
to reflect the views
of focus groups,
fascists and fantasists.
And there’s a bird
lying in the dirt,
garlanded by fragrant petals,
feathers flashing like jewels,
so dead
it looks like
it’s breathing.
Jun 3, 2022
Jun 3, 2022 at 7:31 AM UTC
those of us in the middle muddle,
do not know from sides, boundary lines,
drawn by others, right-sided, left-leaning,
mean nothing to us, who seek something solid
upon to rest, when the clarity others profess,
more than evades us, even escapes us, and
the muddles of life seem to require simplest,
middling answers that are unacceptably refused
by grail seekers whose cause for cause, means
cause to cost others regardless, for regard for
the middle is disdained, by two-sided posts,
the know nothings, and the know betters
irony of irony, the rigidity of imposition makes
me more adrift, more aimless, and the task of
meandering through seems almost holy, for the
obstacles of society, requirements of modern life,
are so damning, wild expectations superimposed,
truths not just hard to find, almost indiscernible,
so I lay my pen down hard, awaiting for the
whatever-while, for to return, to go walking with
only the simplest grids to guide, meanderings in
general directions, ahead, always ahead, keep moving,
keep touching and when optimism returns,
I shall be relieved
once more,
I shall be released
once again,
good words will be caught,
released, returned back
into the atmosphere so
they will grow in size by
the very act of sharing
undated
————————————————-
*Everyone must leave something behind
when he dies, my grandfather said.
A child or a book or a painting or a house or
a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.
It doesn't matter what you do, he said,* so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime. ~Ray Bradbury
(Book: Fahrenheit 451)
Jul 17, 2023
Jul 17, 2023 at 6:14 AM UTC
So take my vows and scatter them to sea;
Who swears the sweetest is no more than human.
And say no kinder words than these of me:
"Ever she longed for peace, but was a woman!
And thus they are, whose silly female dust
Needs little enough to clutter it and bind it,
Who meet a slanted gaze, and ever must
Go build themselves a soul to dwell behind it."
For now I am my own again, my friend!
This scar but points the whiteness of my breast;
This frenzy, like its betters, spins an end,
And now I am my own. And that is best.
Therefore, I am immeasurably grateful
To you, for proving shallow, false, and hateful.
1.8k
X-rays of the soul,
Madame Chan proclaims,
translucent we stand,
visible out and inside
before our creator,
but only to that
limitable being
if only there were a machine such,
on earth, as in heaven
perhaps seventeen Frenchman,
one hundred and forty five,
mostly Pakistani children,
or thirty five
no longer alive,
just barely mentioned,
already forgotten,
Yemeni young
police cadets,
two NYPD,
might still be adjudged
innocent by those
who only see themselves in mirrors,
blindly believing
they are created
in the image of
God
and knowledgeable in the
execution of
his will
if human Justice is thus blinded,
perhaps God is too?
we need much betters cameras...
more accurate selfies...
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC
I've said some bold words in my time -
Made tragedies of pantomime.
I've kissed some morons in my day -
Too young I thought I'll lose the hay.
I lived as the greatest lover
(Or the most pathetic, rather) -
Mad walks in the rain and letters
Oft took judgement from my betters,
Let's add to the pile morn roses,
Bookshop rushes ere it closes,
Philosophy and late night talks,
And still more mad, but sunny, walks,
Journeys on the train to Glasgow,
Two tickets to Panic!'s last show,
Bekhôled reading Thomas Hardy,
Sapphires costing a fair farthing,
And now, and then, in your study,
I'd be your debating buddy,
Then your patient, then a girl:
An embrace set you in a whirl.
Our first kiss was in tears, my love,
Our confession was at a shove,
Our first handhold was without hope,
You always said we had no scope -
And yet you'd loved me, lover mine,
Or begged for it upon my shrine,
Conceived it in my breast of stone -
You conquered, and I lost, and won.
I never spoke more equally
With any man, but now my plea
Falls down on your attentive ears
As would a rusted pair of shears.
I do not mean to **** you, love,
I meant to raise you up above
The idol that my head construed -
I've held you, never rough or rude
As loving is, but passionate
And real and true, and I, to date,
Have never felt more like a queen
Than in our kisses, sweet and keen.
And all my verses do abuse
This love of mine - I have no ruse
For I am rendered dumb by you,
And know no truth but in your view.
Sweet Uiginn's son, whom I must meet,
Swept sev'ral times from off my feet
But never truly, only now -
Why say you "No", and ask not "How?"?
Jul 16, 2024
Jul 16, 2024 at 1:17 PM UTC
JP Pyper
There's fire in my soul.
From the heavens she flowed
She betters my best.
She bridles the beast.
I feel her heat in every set
I touch her flame in every rep.
It burns
It purges
She leads me to perfection
She enfolds me in her affection.
I feel her fingers of fire
Blaze through me
As she trace each fiber
And she sculpture every muscle carefully and patiently
A never ending flame in her embrace
As I raise the weights to touch her again and again.
And I die to self each time we touch.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC
It has an edge unparalleled, it's accuracy is keen
the implement is unexcelled, all lines and curves are clean
No markings mar the hilt or blade, no runes upon it's length
by Godly hands this tool is made, it yields a Godly strength
Of masters, few may claim it, of betters, there are none
ware the hand this tool will fit, beware the things it's done
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
I snuck into the party with an ID I hastily made
and stumbled, out of step, into the poetry parade.
In this beautiful country club, I'm surrounded by my betters.
I wave my kindergarten rhymes to show the men of letters.
In the echo of the learned men who came this way before me
I hear the patterned minuets, that if followed, lead to glory.
I chafe in those traveled ruts and I long for something varied
and I hope to spark a unique verse, between school and the cemetery.
May 21, 2023
May 21, 2023 at 8:48 AM UTC
I've grown tired of love poems,
They are all dried up ink,
Forgotten valentines,
Stale ideas to think,
Upon receiving your letter,
I remembered the weather,
Care package bouquets,
and I hope you get betters,
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
A man standing tall; a madman in leather shoes.
With a wave of an unseen hand, with the aid of a pen,
The thoughts and minds of a species are forged.
The beasts teach by doing. The evolved teach by writing.
Yet a word only contains the truth one assigns to it.
So where does honor reside?
Where does that unconquerable and objective
Nobility rest its tired limbs?
Is it found in the ****** of lawlessness?
Or in the temperance of our betters?
Is all certainty lost to them?
With abandoned streets and crowded fears,
The evolved, so different from the beasts,
Look nervously for that that unseen hand.
That hand aided with a pen.
And still,
Safe amid the outer rim,
The beasts look on.
And the proud and evolved accept their blindfolds.
An existence where truth and falsehood ...
Where good and evil ...
Where freedom and imprisonment ...
... Are all just words written by an unseen hand.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 8:14 PM UTC
Sing the songs monkey.
Bash the gongs monkey.
Do no wrongs monkey.
Do as you're told.
Life's a game honey.
It's all the same honey.
What's your name honey?
Come when you're called.
Don't back down sweetie.
Yell in the crowd sweetie.
Take off the shroud sweetie.
Fight it till your death.
Where you going kiddo?
Time keeps flowing kiddo.
There's just no knowing kiddo.
Give it up or else.
Run the risk of dying dear?
For the chance at flying dear?
Sadly I've been lying dear.
Get down from there.
Listen to the letters kid.
Listen to your betters kid.
Just accept your fetters kid.
You won't change anything.
It's not real dude.
You can't feel dude.
All you do is steal dude.
So just shut up.
Break from all the violence friend?
Break from all the silence friend?
Or maybe just the islands friend?
You can try all you want.
I'm just a clown spirit.
Talk me down spirit.
Break me down spirit.
Please, do it for me.
Break the rhythm.
Break lies.
Break the sadness.
Break me please, spirit.
Bring me ease spirit.
And as you leave spirit,
Shut the door behind you.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
Racehorses carrying......
Injured riders, dying horses
The shoot horses don't they.
The druid fell surprisingly.
All for the money.
Waiting for reports of any destruction.
Are these horses really having fun?
Roasting winner, he's unwell.
Toasted by the betters.
I'm glad I'm not jumping fences, falling trenches, breaking legs.
What's grand about the national?
If no horses get destroyed I will be shocked.
(c) Livvi
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
Twenty-nine belts bravery from a bottle.
It feels like all talk and no game.
Twenty-nine has thighs that don't lie
and a finger that motions you
to come closer.
It relearns each facet of love
and finds beauty in its own reflection.
Twenty-nine betters the invention
instead of reinventing it.
It imagines kissing strangers to feel alive and
gifts the pearl to the jewel thief
with no words- only smiles.
Twenty-nine strikes a match
in the middle of a pitch black nowhere,
only to see the smoke twist up and away.
It cracks and hisses when it feels its been forgotten.
It smells like pine needles, orange peel, and sun bleached cotton.
Twenty-nine forgets those who have forgotten it
but thanks them for the lessons.
It likes church but only for the music, architecture, and sociology.
Twenty-nine won't apologize for passion or pity,
but it will drip with empathy at inopportune times.
Twenty-nine steeps itself in scalding water
only to discover its true flavor.
It finds no comfort in the opinions of others
but will only rest at the signal of a nod of approval.
Twenty-nine looks down into the neverending
and can't decide if it wants to jump or run.
It handstitches a parachute
as it dangles one foot over the edge,
says a prayer to no god
but writes hymns that bring tears.
Twenty-nine keeps breathing.
It keeps breathing.
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 11:17 PM UTC
Hut, two, three, four
What do you think you are fighting for?
Four, five, six, seven
Invasion is the path to heaven.
Seven, eight, nine, ten
If it doesn’t work, do it again.
Six, seven, eight, nine
If innocents die too, never mind.
We need to clean things
Wipe lessers out of the place.
They’re a total threat and
Weaken our beloved race.
We don’t have time
For anyone sick or poor
We must go somewhere
And fight unreasonable war.
Helping the weak and sick
Costs too much money to allow.
Besides, there are among us
Suffering rich people right now.
This land owes it all to the rich
So, we must do all we can
To support them with each pitch.
So, hut, two, three, four,
Now you know what we’re fighting for.
Three, four, five, six
Now, none of your liberal tricks.
Five, six, seven, eight.
Don’t question your betters, that’d be great.
Hut, two, three, four
We are who you are fighting for!
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 5:41 PM UTC
Can't write a poem right now.
Can't figure out the sound,
or how the rest of this should look.
My phrasings are obvious most times,
and don't get me started on my slant rhymes.
So what do I have, as a writer, to offer the betters of my peers?
Quiet conversation,
loud argumentation,
fingertips clacking mechanics and a penchant to steer
myself across the happy, golden union.
I sometimes forget the only thing holding me down is the force
of something much larger than I.
It's the firing pistons alive in the mind behind both of my
grey-blue faltering like the autumn to the winter eyes.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC
I cannot tell you
The remedy to your emptiness,
But I can share with you
That of a treatment of mine.
It can be hearing of progress
On any front
In the forms of beautiful ideas
And new expressions,
The world of us humans.
Of newfound love
In many kinds of companionship
Whether by person or by animal,
Or even by plant.
Of new discovery
Which betters our understanding
About the fundamentals of the universe,
Like walking in the wild;
Cherishing all that is natural.
Being a humble observer
In the courts of law
Under honorable nature.
Just by being an animal.
Dec 23, 2024
Dec 23, 2024 at 9:23 AM UTC
Before I became a son,
Before I became a brother,
Before I became a boyfriend,
I became a citizen.
A member of this glorious republic,
A brethren of a religious majority,
A student of an ideology far beyond my understanding,
A disciple of the right way.
A cacophony of wisdom,
Unwanted yet gained.
The more I learned,
The less I understood.
The rights and wrongs,
Like Upanishads and Vedas,
My role was set,
Through religion and gender.
But as the giants spoke,
Like gospels their truth,
It was the voice of the unheard,
That in me grew.
Even today,
I don't always know right from wrong,
Yet I'm taught by my betters,
That giants always fall.
My sister, my mother,
My better half together,
Guide me, direct me,
Ensure I don't slip through the large societal faults.
The world that we live in,
Is biased and grey.
But all it takes is a spark,
A voice to blow the dust away.
Jan 16, 2018
Jan 16, 2018 at 2:18 AM UTC