"bilge" poems
The river is polluted
The skies are grey in falling night
The stars are hidden from our sight
Constellations convoluted
Bilge water and bile
Corrupted hearts so vile
Defile of a sacred form
This is not divine
Only desecration
The river is polluted
The seeds we plant do not survive
And even life is doomed to die
The trees are all uprooted
We want the leaves
We want the flowers
We want the scent of the forest
The river is polluted
Our dismay is all man-made
Unwholesome branch that holds no shade
Our hope for shelter all eluted
Brackish is the water
Swim if you care to drown
We take giant gulps
Deluded with hope
And still we die of thirst
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:09 AM UTC
I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green **** hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
4.2k
Here
Is a timely
Noun to consider
From the Merriam-Webster page.
"Trumpery."
Note (at bottom) the list of near-antonyms;
what is the opposite of trumpery?
[Popularity: Bottom 40% of words]
trumpery
noun trum·pery \ˈtrəm-p(ə-)rē\
Definition of trumpery
1
a : worthless nonsense b : trivial or useless articles : junk <a wagon loaded with household trumpery — Washington Irving>
2
archaic : ****** finery
Origin of trumpery
Middle English (Scots) trompery deceit, from Middle French, from tromper to deceive
First Known Use: 15th century
Examples of trumpery
<claims for weight-loss products that are based much more on Madison-Avenue trumpery than on bariatric science>
Related to trumpery
Synonyms
applesauce [slang], balderdash, baloney (also boloney), beans, bilge, blah (also blah-blah), blarney, blather, blatherskite, blither, bosh, bull [slang], bunk, bunkum (or ******** claptrap, codswallop [British], crapola [slang], crock, drivel, drool, fiddle, fiddle-faddle, fiddlesticks, flannel [British], flapdoodle, folderol (also falderal), folly, foolishness, fudge, garbage, guff, hogwash, hokeypokey, hokum, hoodoo, hooey, horsefeathers [slang], humbug, humbuggery, jazz, malarkey (also malarky), moonshine, muck, nerts [slang], nuts, piffle, poppycock, punk, rot, ******* senselessness, silliness, slush, stupidity, taradiddle (or tarradiddle), tommyrot, tosh, trash, nonsense, twaddle
Related Words
absurdity, asininity, fatuity, foolery, idiocy, imbecility, inaneness, inanity, insanity, kookiness, lunacy; absurdness, craziness, madness, senselessness, witlessness; hoity-toity, monkey business, monkeyshine(s), shenanigan(s), tomfoolery; gas, hot air, rigmarole (also rigamarole); double-talk, greek, hocus-pocus
Near Antonyms
levelheadedness, rationality, reasonability, reasonableness, sensibleness; common sense, horse sense, sense; discernment, judgment (or judgement), wisdom
By: Robinson Bolkum
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
Ben Sanders sat in his final days
By his cottage, up on the bluff,
He’d spent his life as a rover, and
He said, ‘I can’t get enough!
The sea, the sea, the lure of the sea,
It whispers at my front door,
And calls to me, here up on the bluff,
‘Come down, come down to the shore!’’
‘But I can’t go down and I won’t go down
For I daren’t go down, you see,
Not since I was caught in the maelstrom
When the seabed beckoned to me,
My mate had clung to the mast, while I
Had lashed myself to the rail,
And he went down to the stony ground
Along with the yards and sail.’
‘I hear the sound in my ears still
The roar of the whirling pool,
I’d cried, ‘Let go of the iron chest,
But he’d not let go, the fool.
It was filled with gold and pieces of eight,
Dubloons and precious stones,
It carried him down to an awful fate
Is spread, all over his bones.’
‘But I clung on ‘til the turn of the tide
I could almost touch the ground,
My head was spinning, deep in the pool
As the ship whirled round and round,
But then the tide began to subside
And I said goodbye to Bjork,
For then the ship rose up to the lip
And popped right up like a cork.’
‘We’d sailed forever the Spanish Main
The ship, Bjork and me,
And searched the atolls of rocks and sand
Of the Caribbean sea,
We found the treasure that Blackbeard hid
In a shaft, six fathoms deep,
Then Bjork had pined for Norwegian lands,
Said, ‘What we’ve got, we’ll keep!’
‘The further north that we sailed, the sea
Grew surly in its ride,
The waves crashed over the foredeck and
They tossed us, side to side,
The squalls came in and the rain came down
And we had to reef the sail,
The water rose in the bilge, until
I thought we’d have to bail.’
‘But then one night it was flat and calm
And the water lapped below,
I heard the voice of a siren then
That whispered, sweet and low:
‘Come down,’ she said, ‘you can rest your head
And give up your earthly seat,
But lie instead on a seaweed bed
With a mermaid at your feet.’’
‘I think of Bjork on the ocean bed
Though I don’t know where he lies,
His bones are covered with precious stones
With two dubloons for his eyes,
I’ve never been back to the sea since then
For I fear it, more and more,
As still it whispers on moonlit nights
‘Come down, come down to the shore!’’
Ben Sanders sat in his final days
By his cottage, facing the sea,
He seemed remote, but a final note
That he wrote was left for me.
‘My days of watching the sea are done,
I think that I’ve had enough!’
And then he strode as the tide arose
And walked, right over the bluff.
David Lewis Paget
(Inspired by E. A. Poe’s ‘A Descent into the Maelstrom).
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
Where my heart should be, there is an ache or a pain,
Yes that physical geography, I shrug with vague disdain,
I thought that had turned to stone oh so long ago.
My eyes well with tears, I feel emotions and I am glad,
But it is my fears, that want to stop the drumbeat so bad,
I had hoped for longer to get it right, or left, of centre.
Years became months and they turned to weeks, then days,
For excitement a walk amongst the freaks but the mundane won't go away,
Finally realizing I was the main attraction, the reason they showed up.
Busking my talent, to take risks, to make it rich, to feel alive,
What they threw was pennies, and insults, I barely survived,
But no one threw the one thing I needed most, something real.
An honest healthy heart, that beats a steady sound,
That is strong and fair and built to sincerely care, pound-pound,
Wires are getting crossed, on emotional waves I am tossed.
A short circuit in a bilge pump, thump sputter thump,
Water instead of blood finds a way through my rooted stump,
of a body full of remorse for the course my life has run.
There is no race for which I am fit, I plead no contest,
I would not pass any test, if I was allowed to write my best,
Down so low, found in the bottom of a heel print in the snow.
Yet, I have hope, I have a yearning to throw words down, and
with my voice lift their sounds to echo 'round, breathing air,
forcing sound to get my blood to break past clogs.
Yet, I will write, and live to write another day,
Whether it is by resuscitation, or heart-healthy habits stay
the course, spew the filth, to find a measure of peaceful treasure.
Writing in the moment.
©DWE022013
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
Does this really matter anymore,
coming from a passionless former *****
I speak from the depths of me,
a broken ship cast out to a stormy blue sea.
Holes in my bilge overflowing,
and my sail is barely even showing.
Engulfed by dark salty waters,
sharing space in Davy's locker with my forefathers.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
Linking the spotlight into the dark score
Rutting out the jagged envelopes that
Refuse to be opened, clinging onto their
Sticky tape with a passion; Don't ask me for
Release, I'm shuttered up, swathes of emotive
Blankets worn out from their duty to keep me
Warm; to blot out the morning light from
Penetrating my skull. Shame.....sorry self
Introduced to the firing line. BANG....the snaked
Tongued 'Medusa' who entangles her mind
With vipers, serpents dishing out their forked
Shots of maggot infection, generating wormy
Warriors burrowing into the ruby red warmth
Chewing and bubbling neuron to neuron
Exploding at boiling point into a vast mix up
A collision on course, snapped in two, vibrating
With sheer panic, wrapped in destruction.......
Utter bilge.......built this bridge
So I'll knock it down..............
to start anew
And so I smile.......
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
GOOD HOUSEKEEPING
Not stated
( though it’s understood )
she will not say a word
like dust
swept under a rug.
Good
Housekeeping.
His anger
ripens
into the bruise
she wears upon her skin
a jewellery
of fear
written upon pale flesh
his hieroglyph of hatred.
Love’s lustre
tarnished from the first
the tattoo
of boot and fist.
Holds her hand
under the grill
until her eyes bulge
gulls screaming overhead.
The bilge
of his vile
vomiting insults
upon her scared face.
“Slut...slut...slut”
his screams in a rut
matching each word
to each rising fist
a blow by blow
account.
He the liturgist
in the nightly rites
of violence
uglier than can be imagined.
Lilies cower
in a vase.
He the high priest
of her despair.
An ugly bruise
upon her soul.
Her eyes now
null and void
slit wrists
upon polished table tops
in a room
now sunlit...now unlit.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 3:15 PM UTC
Never seen again,
Going and soon gone
To pipes thorough the air as steam.
Give the libations, those
You never did need, to those
Up top, they, towering kings.
Never still. You demanded to be
Going, to be gone.
To-morrow through the streets,
Let the moon guide your bilge.
You admit defeat, temporarily.
Down with humility, was your sickly hound of pride.
Never then, did the waters ever part,
Going was not so spent, or to be done.
To the shores you wept.
Turn the tide, thoughts grew in vines
Around the sun,
And you felt stronger, drunk.
Desert the power once given by me, now go on.
You were blistered from the sun, only drunk from the ***
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
The Cormorant was the darkest ship,
As dark as a ship could be,
Not only the paint was pitted black
From the funnels to the sea,
But deep inside in its rusted gloom
In the echoes from its shell,
It was like a monster roamed abroad
Released from the depths of hell.
It roared and echoed by day and night
As the boilers turned the *****
Lurching across every wave that might
Try to break its hull in two,
It was laden down with a thousand tons
Of a cargo that made it groan,
While breakers slapped its quivering sides
As it made its way back home.
The Captain stood on the shuddering bridge,
A man with a heart of steel,
He tried to control this raging beast
As he lashed himself to the wheel,
He gave no quarter to any man
Who would shirk, avoid his task,
But called the crew to witness his due
As the man was soundly lashed.
Down in the depths of the engine room
The firemen shovelled coal,
Each shovel sprayed like a black dismay
In the light of that glowing hole,
And steam built up on the pressure gauge
Of each boiler, one and two,
As men would fret, while running in sweat,
To do what they had to do.
The seas built up and the rain came down
As the Cormorant rolled and swayed,
Then lightning flashed and it ran to ground
Like an imp in a masquerade,
It left three dead on the afterdeck,
They hurried to help them there,
But the captain roared, ‘Throw them overboard,
We’ve more than enough to spare.’
A mutter grew up among the crew
As dark as the bosun’s hat,
I never knew what the crew would do
So I wasn’t in on that.
But the Captain disappeared from the bridge
And the wheel was swinging free,
With the Cormorant broadside to the waves
At mercy of wind and sea.
They said it must be a miracle
When we finally entered port,
The bilge half full of water, they said,
And the Captain fell overboard.
But the ship was done, had made its last run
As the fires went out in the hull,
Then raking through the mountain of ash
I found the late Captain’s skull.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 3:18 AM UTC
Man Overboard
the storm was well observed
you could see it in the distance
signs of discourse obvious
there was way too much resistance
the skies were turning hell fire red
serpent seas thrashing at the sides
visibility extremely limited in his head
prepare for oncoming tides
batten down the hatches matey
set the main sail in it's proper place
rocking to and fro sickness coming on
taking on excessive water splashing in his face
the bilge pump is out of order
sinking deeper by the moment
huge wave of discontent knocking now
increasing the internal torment
with a final fling of natures force
all this energy that was stored
flung him to his watery grave
sos came the call the man was overboard
hypothermia wont take to long
to settle in his aching heart
bitter cold words of his final song
tearing the canvas binding all apart
Morpheus aka Gomer LePoet...
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 7:45 AM UTC
sam i yam not,
nor will this 'lo bot go away
cuz, every coordinate in cyber space allows,
enables and provides
an opportunity to bray,
and thence get access
to each excel lent power full point
one among the beguiling bajillion,
thus this ming boggling concept proffers
(even the generic mom and pop hacker
tubby in her/his element field gloating
as if they won
the Irish Sweepstakes that day
despite neither could claim
direct lineage, sans Emerald Eire
analogous to Celtic temptress,
whose grand geography
beckons toward entranceway,
where sensory, levity,
and ecstasy punctuate foray
boot that diverges one hundred
and eighty degrees asper gateway
onrush of spam enters electronic hatchway
spilling forth like
offal horrific bilge interlay
sloshing violently, revoltingly,
and nauseatingly, witnessing a jay
bird donning mask (yule hating)
beak coming contrivance fashioned keyway.
force full brainstorm to firewall
to place on indefinite layaway
inundation of spam midway
between now and eternity,
essentially noway
no more, and if necessary
hermetically seal myself
stationing a pal in drone willingly overpay!
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
Nemesis Tales(The Slaver)
------------------------
**Far to the East, a prowling Beast,
The Prow of the Nemesis Seeks a Feast,
a Tautened crew and a Hardened Master,
avert your eyes Shipmate-he's a Tartar!,
like summonin' a Genie,here he Strides,
The Nemesis Sails and the Harbinger Rides,
above the deeps of the ocean gloom,
where Leviathan sleeps,a Predator looms,
we cut the Line four watches past,
much merriment fore and aft of the mast!,
no Grating rigged, no rating flogged,
"aye not even you you drunken dog!"
avast now mate- just shut your gob,
from the Dragon's Cockpit issues Smog(pun:)
we've seen such Fog before recall?,
Mon Capitan, Le Diabole!**
*Prepare for squalls messmates of mine,
ill work ahead this side of the Line,
a foul Miasma disturbs me deep,
I toss and turn and spurn my sleep,
A thousand souls cried out to mine,
no fat Merchant, nor Ship of the Line,
could cast such ripples across the surf,
nay, a thousand times this curse is worse,
we beat to quarters no man waver!,
Two points off the Larboard bow- lies The Slaver!,
from every throat there came a Growl,
from those enslaved before a Howl!,
no Mercy Sir? cries one such Martyr,
Nor asked Nor given Shipmate said the Master,
we sink Merchants and live life hard,
and if we're caught we're strung from the Yard,
yet there ahead with the seal of a King,
lies a monster worse,let the chase begin!(Echo)*
**She's laden deep, and stinks of Death,
I'll know no sleep til she's sunk in the depths,
All sail Aloft, then run out the guns,
we assault from the East and the rays of the Sun
will blind their eyes until broadsides RIP!
the Lateen Sails from the mast of the ship,
then load with Grape, sweep the deck then board,
and free those souls chained down in the hold,
shackled down from head to toe,
in their filth rocked to and fro
in the Bilge with the avid rats to fight,
some die of plague,of fear of fright,
some just give in and slide to the night,
some founder through and become Wights(important for the next chapter!)
but not this time, its Free or Dead,
now we've work to do, and enough been said
are you with me Crew "AYE ONE AND ALL"
as the Nemesis sails let the Slaver Fall!**
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 8:18 AM UTC
///
Oh! You could not try
To wit yourself
You are in the loop and banded,
How will you?
So you shore at halfway
The person who prop
On a boat at a distant river
He roosts into your soul,
As pieces exist in a showcase
You mount at darkness
Men live and brace into your heart
A man who has bilge and dumb
He who say in your voice
You don't know who you are!
Just behold!
Who grill god?
Where is the amorphous?
If you want to know yourself
You discover the man
At the end of the path
Wisdom says,
You underneath on yourself
God ascends on yourself.
///
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
God made the country,
Unbeknowst to hope are we all as
Great oaks from little acorns grow;
So many countries gilt,
So many cultures, alack
unblemished feathers of eternal service
Scabbard in sheaths quilling Gods glossary
And man made the town, pilgrimiges and suffrages;
A foredoomed geniture of the Evil Ones chaology
Hewn to bell the cat.
The worst of Heavens vengeful justice is not
Always rightous as in faithfullnesses eschewal.
The Heirophants pen a tolling knell
Without any hope; least said
Heaven twice, soon mended-
As words in mode of passion are
Material manifestations and
Manners make the man whilst the
Hand that rocks the cradle cannot
Put brains into statues; but,
Yet, rule the bilge when the
Angels doxology enunciates war on
The world as the Devil espies all
And God ensconces but the few!
ELEETE J MUIR
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn’t fight.
He hadn’t fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green **** hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
—the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly—
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
—It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
—if you could call it a lip—
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels—until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
Your lips hang,
pulled by the murk, the grime,
smothering your face.
Separated from your kind, your kin.
Have you haunted these putrid waters,
patient for your time?
Or do you plot, terrible dreams of revenge,
to take the light?
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 6:29 PM UTC
It is easier
To simply remove everything of value
And fill the hollow space
With mental detritus.
There is nothing painful left
in that space.
It's all deliberate,
The dross, the drone, the sleb sludge,
Brain-bilge-water.
When I'm ready, I'll purge,
And make the hollow ready,
For a healthier obsession.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC
Man Overboard
the storm was well observed
you could see it in the distance
signs of discourse obvious
there was way too much resistance
the skies were turning hell fire red
serpent seas thrashing at the sides
visibility extremely limited in his head
prepare for oncoming tides
batten down the hatches matey
set the main sail in it's proper place
rocking to and fro sickness coming on
taking on excessive water splashing in his face
the bilge pump is out of order
sinking deeper by the moment
huge wave of discontent knocking now
increasing the internal torment
with a final fling of natures force
all this energy that was stored
flung him to his watery grave
SOS came the call the man was overboard
hypothermia wont take to long
to settle in his aching heart
bitter cold words of his final song
tearing the canvas binding all apart
Morpheus... aka Gomer LePoet...
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 1:18 PM UTC
If you will tell me why the fen appears impassable,
I then will tell you why I think that I can cross it if I try..”
-Marianne Moore
When this world teeters on the abyss of emotion
and those I shepherd cannot find a way through the fog,
I try and hang a lamp from the front of this old rowboat
and paddle out slowly into the fen. That mind/shadow space
that surrounds and swallows their light.
I ask them what they need, and offer a steady hand
as they step onto the old planks. The children always begin
in silence but something about the way the water
Whispers to the wood, how the boat glides almost
unheard that always drives them to eventually speak
Of what carried them out beyond the threshold
of what one might bear stoically in public.
The oars provide some solace, something physical to pull
On that moves when these hands claim strength.
So much of what anchors us cannot be unshackled from skin.
They are loads we must drag along the deep until our hearts
forgive us for their weight. This is why I travel slowly, accepting
Silence as a cleverest answer, I ask my travellers where they are headed.
To acceptance they often say, or vengeance if they are not ready
To escape the shape of their shadows. I to dress in gloom, but
only when I put down the oars, while rowing there is no room
for night to claim my kingdom.
Often there is nothing to do but listen to their stories
Let the sound of the lake lapping lapse into whatever tale is waiting
To be told, and sometimes just speaking its name is enough to banish
The wendigo that hunts behind teenage confidence, and sometimes their
Is nothing I can do but row. Rarely, they jump overboard but I
Weep but only when even their echoes have faded. Carve
their name into the planks in salt tear and let it mix with the bilge
And yet, there are those days that if I row just long enough, and can
Keep the silence within my cheeks, that suddenly a soft glow
Will rise from out of the darkness, bubble up like a lighting fish
and settle upon the bow. Those are the days the calluses are worth
Their calling. Those are the days the docks rise up from the mist long
Before fatigue creeps into these old bones and we spend the end
of the trip almost in each other’s arms, holding tightly to each other’s
Essence as my hands pull against the sea of time, as both of us heal,
And I call out goodbye as they step ashore, but they are already dressed
in gossamer glow, shining in the early morn, already wandering back into the light
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 5:54 AM UTC
Bilge Water barbarians bludgeoned the butterflies you became when you busted the glass you blew
But i would bring you back like the bottle broken on my lips and back, and the blushing blood reminds me of you hair
These beasts stormed the beach, our bastion, beyond the backlash you left on my breath and back, beyond bones broken bringing bitterness but you bestowed the best gift of beating out the black and bringing warmth, billowing into my body
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
Cast off
The dependable shores
Sails full of wind
Stores brimming, burdened
Take heart
Captain and first mate
These waters are calm
Painted dark by your own bilge
Drop anchor
Steering clear of land
Eschew taking stock
Your course needs no reason
Fret not
Though the world continues
Sheer force of will moors you
To wallow as you wish
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:07 AM UTC
GOOD HOUSEKEEPING
Not stated
( though it’s understood )
she will not say a word
like dust
swept under a rug.
Good
Housekeeping.
His anger
ripens
into the bruise
she wears upon her skin
a jewellery
of fear
written upon pale flesh
his hieroglyph of hatred.
Love’s lustre
tarnished from the first
the tattoo
of boot and fist.
Holds her hand
under the grill
until her eyes bulge
gulls screaming overhead.
The bilge
of his vile
vomiting insults
upon her scared face.
“Slut...slut...slut”
his screams in a rut
matching each word
to each rising fist
a blow by blow
account.
He the liturgist
in the nightly rites
of violence
uglier than can be imagined.
Lilies cower
in a vase.
He the high priest
of her despair.
An ugly bruise
upon her soul.
Her eyes now
null and void
slit wrists
upon polished table tops
in a room
now sunlit...now unlit.
Aug 21, 2020
Aug 21, 2020 at 3:00 PM UTC
Perhaps I should blame
my inner demon for how
complicated my mind has become
this uneasiness with the easiness
of stress free living
and maybe I've lived in the present
long enough to know what is to come
living in the present is like
sailing on the bright blue ocean,
the beauty is everywhere,
surrounds you, wind in your face,
the sun on your skin,
cool spray across the deck
while the boat gently rocks
yet an uneasiness calls from below,
a black bilge pump and drain with
leaky seals, and deeper still
the ocean depths, cold, dark,
and suffocating
that which lurks below is more
real than whats above
I'm taking on water,
its only a matter of time before
the boat goes down
I'm acutely aware of what
it feels like to drown
The past encroaches on the present,
fills it with painful regret
while the beautiful bright
blue slips away
I wish I could explain it better
I'm in a vicious cycle
of contradicting regret
there's a storm on the horizon
a leak in the boat
everything that exists below
is darkness come upon me,
I feel it in my gut at
this very moment,
right now, right here,
an impending doom,
my own little apocalypse
retrospect and regret
they never go away
today is nothing more than
tomorrow's yesterday and
I am continually being shamed by
that which I am already ashamed of
I'm in a vicious cycle
of contradicting regret
and I embrace it
because its the only thing I know to do
.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 3:43 PM UTC
Banks super lives, super-way, any union folded web of life,
conceal slights, only if we deliver the Arachnoweave Amoeba
in the ear of the Nordic ghost. The magic does not silence more
pro spirit, pro livelihoods rotating wheel terrified, provided the wheels of more to come, beyond, carried on tireless arms, washing the shoulders of my Maximus, along with its Grandfa Bernardino, with soap detergent on its soothing back, slipping his eternal dilatant lives ... while I moisten the cloth in water from your derogate juice Violin bilge her new life ahead. Coax, beings who now they mess up good news this spring. Makeup oils in their faces, multipole smiles, high orbits both love you, about back again,
Work hard in defining access mechanisms, and the answer to this question is implicit in the submissive book, lignum passed here concludes dyslexic and putrid for many feces on your gums !!! . The Faltering history shows that new developments that were unimaginable arise every day.
One or two generations before, and they are supported by all desiccated knowledge, tribal smoke signals or Bosca Stove in my lotus mind ...?, from the Tungus to the Mapuches Indians, speaking alone with such rage at the edge of each split hill, chemistry beautiful tree or river, who would like charmed life well made., falling prostrate with his dry lips, both parties pray to the life pattern and Earth for a dignified life.,
Utterance: Proverb by Default is flashing words of luminance beings, nothing encoding, it is only a proverbial asthma magical literary wanderings the illiterate time, whose purpose is to propose ranges of understanding, achieving suppress oxygenation even in the art of live. By transposing for new paths excelsus poetry, to deploy new signs and indications of communications prophetic.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC