"braggart" poems
I can't wait till I'm awake..
Plugged into the wall.
Nothing noted until the shell of the capsule
collapses under the weight of your trembling hands.
No there is no notation for what was said between us, just figure-less voices and a strenuous pain that strained our throats for the fear of nothing being communicated between the exasperated gasps of what was less than incommunicable silence.
Ugly is not a word but a feeling applied with meaning, applied to a certain truth about that metallic taste in my mouth, that tearful pain jostled in my chest and that consuming fear.
I know little of what this ugliness could mean other than it harbors shame in my corners. This shame is not inborn in anyone, but it builds it's presence as a drunken braggart who shouts obscenities and believes he is a prince of highest regard.
His ugliness is in what he slings from his tongue and his criticisms of all who in his mind toil about. But he is simply a angry troll with no heart and delusions of grandeur, frittering away time.. for time stands as an eternal judge and measure.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
MESSENGER
Now at the Seventh Gate the seventh chief,
Thy proper mother's son, I will announce,
What fortune for this city, for himself,
With curses he invoketh:--on the walls
Ascending, heralded as king, to stand,
With paeans for their capture; then with thee
To fight, and either slaying near thee die,
Or thee, who wronged him, chasing forth alive,
Requite in kind his proper banishment.
Such words he shouts, and calls upon the gods
Who o'er his race preside and Fatherland,
With gracious eye to look upon his prayers.
A well-wrought buckler, newly forged, he bears,
With twofold blazon riveted thereon,
For there a woman leads, with sober mien,
A mailed warrior, enchased in gold;
Justice her style, and thus the legend speaks:--
'This man I will restore, and he shall hold
The city and his father's palace homes.'
Such the devices of the hostile chiefs.
'Tis for thyself to choose whom thou wilt send;
But never shalt thou blame my herald-words.
To guide the rudder of the State be thine!
ETEOCLES
O heaven-demented race of Oedipus,
My race, tear-fraught, detested of the gods!
Alas, our father's curses now bear fruit.
But it beseems not to lament or weep,
Lest lamentations sadder still be born.
For him, too truly Polyneikes named,--
What his device will work we soon shall know;
Whether his braggart words, with madness fraught,
Gold-blazoned on his shield, shall lead him back.
Hath Justice communed with, or claimed him hers,
Guided his deeds and thoughts, this might have been;
But neither when he fled the darksome womb,
Or in his childhood, or in youth's fair prime,
Or when the hair thick gathered on his chin,
Hath Justice communed with, or claimed him hers,
Nor in this outrage on his Fatherland
Deem I she now beside him deigns to stand.
For Justice would in sooth belie her name,
Did she with this all-daring man consort.
In these regards confiding will I go,
Myself will meet him. Who with better right?
Brother to brother, chieftain against chief,
Foeman to foe, I'll stand. Quick, bring my spear,
My greaves, and armor, bulwark against stones.
4.8k
Merrily swinging on briar and ****
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,
Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat;
White are his shoulders, and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Look what a nice, new coat is mine;
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,
Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,
Passing at home a patient life,
Broods in the grass while her husband sings:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Brood, kind creature, you need not fear
Thieves and robbers while I am here.
Chee, chee, chee.
Modest and shy as a nun is she;
One weak chirp is her only note;
Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his little throat,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Never was I afraid of man,
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.
Chee, chee, chee.
Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight:
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.
Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Sober with work, and silent with care,
Off is his holiday garment laid,
Half forgotten that merry air:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Nobody knows but my mate and I,
Where our nest and our nestlings lie,
Chee, chee, chee.
Summer wanes; the children are grown;
Fun and frolic no more he knows,
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum drone;
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
Chee, chee, chee.
4k
you are the Pres
Oh Donald Trump
it seems like America
has hit a bump
your pitiful braggart
mean as a cuss
a bludgeon for a mouth
with a mind full a ****
its understood
you hate the press
you like the shadows
to relieve your stress
well big boy
you are the man
some people say
your loved by the clan
thanks for telling us
about the size of your *****
while conservatives smile
and give it a lick
your a star studded pageant
of confusion and lies
do you work for Putin
are you one of his spies
show us your taxes
are you a ***** for a foe
are you owned by a devil
we need to know
your purging the swamp
is that what you say
Exxon and Goldman-sax
so thats how you play
you talk so big
why not give it a rest
lets see what you can do
besides be a pest
it doesn't bode well
that you don't pay your bills
let subcontractors go under
so what if it kills
break up some families
of Latin decent
with a heart like a razor
are you really that bent
are you big blabber mouth
but don't a have clue
about our constitution
that keeps us true
we trust you completely
let your kids to the job
no problem at all
are you still friends with the mob
are ethics for others
ah to hard for Trump
will America wither
are you cancerous lump
we need some one
who can help us out
not a reckless fool
that fills us with doubt
you are the Pres
Oh Donald Trump
it seems like America
has hit a bump
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 9:07 PM UTC
My ***** Lover
Irrationality always wins
Chicago is aspirated beast
Braggart forced laugh
I had a vision but I have no vision
Dreamed I was making out with a woman
Who had long stretchy pink octopus tentacles
Sedulously legato ephemera
Growing from external rim of ******
Sobriquet inimical desiccation
One tentacle wrapped around and tickled
Diurnal nugatory verisimilitude
While other squeezed testicles
What was I talking about, oh yes
Everything got out of hand
Expect unthinkable gusting winds
To huff puff blow house down
Filthy rotten scoundrel but
Started out so sweet
Inchoate caliphate apocryphal
Wish I had her gift
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
You swore,
You said,
We'd do it together,
So is this the end?
He asked you the same thing,
And you promised sure!
Did you not once think,
In my face you slammed a door?!
I trusted you,
I felt relaxed,
Then here comes a liar, a braggart a rogue,
To steal everyone who promised,
With whispers of gold.
My eyes finally opened,
The reality they see.
In politics, they will lie
While telling you you're free.
My right hand betrayed me,
And took everything I planned.
Be sure to watch your back,
You will die under MY hand.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
I cannot spare water or wine,
Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose;
From the earth-poles to the Line,
All between that works or grows,
Every thing is kin of mine.
Give me agates for my meat,
Give me cantharids to eat,
From air and ocean bring me foods,
From all zones and altitudes.
From all natures, sharp and slimy,
Salt and basalt, wild and tame,
Tree, and lichen, ape, sea-lion,
Bird and reptile be my game.
Ivy for my fillet band,
Blinding dogwood in my hand,
Hemlock for my sherbet cull me,
And the prussic juice to lull me,
Swing me in the upas boughs,
Vampire-fanned, when I carouse.
Too long shut in strait and few,
Thinly dieted on dew,
I will use the world, and sift it,
To a thousand humors shift it,
As you spin a cherry.
O doleful ghosts, and goblins merry,
O all you virtues, methods, mights;
Means, appliances, delights;
Reputed wrongs, and braggart rights;
Smug routine, and things allowed;
Minorities, things under cloud!
Hither! take me, use me, fill me,
Vein and artery, though ye **** me;
God! I will not be an owl,
But sun me in the Capitol.
3.2k
What a name! what a joy! To have her called by Mrs yours,
What a beauty! to load over a a man,
Nayanoi is the name, brought up by a mother who is embedded to tradition,
It carries all fame and this is not a game but another ingredient to tame monstrous heart union.
There is indeed touching love after perennial failures,
Rejection over rejections builts emotion-shielded heart,
It kills dangerous emotions,it destroys
barbarians.
Such is life, don't you know,
Nayanoi demonstrated the saying,
Marrying a man not for money but love,
I have came to admire the Maa community,
They don't fake around they are what they are.
Unlike ******** who are really cheap indoors,
But fear displaying it in full glare of our cameras
Nayanoi won my heart, As a true African woman,
She is the wife of my kinsman.
Am not lusting for her, she deserve all the earthly praises,
A woman sired and raised perfectly,
She wears all the smiles in her face,
Knowing she is a beauty queen and not a braggart.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
"I think ***** may be a tragic hero,"
A student said,
"Linda tells her boys he is an average man,
And it's time for average men to be attended.
That he gets up and goes to work each day
Is enough to make him a hero."
We listen in the darkened room,
Breaking to think our thoughts aloud
Before we dive back into the pool
Of Loman miseries:
The braggart wearing down,
The cringing rage against
The darning of socks,
Silken stocking memories,
Naughtiness recapitulated.
And sons spinning round
The vortex edge,
Wondering whether
To bail or pledge....
The stage is growing dark,
The audience darker,
Receding from bright memories,
Nobility's idyllic days denied,
Nothing left but the emptiness of pride.
Accepting brassiness and braggadocio,
We lean, breathless beneath skyscrapers,
Accepting commission-only pay,
The emptiness of false news,
And mediocre heroes.
"Boys! The woods are burning!
Can't you understand?
There's a big blaze going all around!"
But no one understands.
We are all dreamers,
Hoping America makes us great again,
Wishing to live the Salesman's life,
Willing to leave Plan B hidden
Behind the fusebox for now...
If only hope remains,
If only champagne wishes,
Caviar dreams besot us in our schemes.
"Nobody dast blame this man!"
Says Charlie, and he is right.
It's tough being out there
Living on a wing and a prayer,
Promising the moon,
Promised the moon,
Age coming on,
No seeds planted,
No sun to shine
On what's left
Of the garden....
A little salary,
A smile,
A shoeshine,
Cannot suffice.
Believing dreams that lie
Is no reason to live;
Seeing the blue sky alone
Is no reason,
If there's nothing to own,
And no place to call home.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 4:20 PM UTC
Hmphh. The Goat. Ruled by the Black Hand of our solar system. Gate of the Gods, but you truly fail to see your real potential because you're clueless how real motivation works. You are not a prodigy, you are the most basic construct of a human, next to the over achieving Leo. The two idiots of the zodiac flitting about. You would think with being the Goat, you'd want to aim high, climb, and grab life by the ******* ***** right? Nope, most of you are homebodies who are phobia ridden. Saturn got your pessimistic ways? Boohoo, go cry with Cancer, there's a "whipping sign" you can take out your miserly and grudging ways on. Discipline? More like, "I'd rather watch paint dry than your ridiculous dreams you always seem to be chasing". And why you try to come off as hard workers is beyond me. You do very minimal and claim some ******** grandiosity; highly annoying in your braggart ways. ***** please, don't come off as serious, we all know Elvis died on the toilet. Get over it.
Advice: Do some real work without all the nonsensical stupid, dry humor. You aren't as brilliant as you think.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
I taste the brightness
Of citrus when she smiles,
Almost like a sunrise.
I taste something mournful
When I remember our midnight conversations.
Blackberries, dark and bitter,
But as the tang fades,
The stain remains.
People say crying tastes like saltwater.
Yes: the stale sting of sweat on my palms,
Tastes like graphite and desperation,
Like expired mangoes,
And a voice that won’t stop talking.
I remember the ache of
Evenings, lonely and suffocating.
Mornings that I still wake to
Where I dream of breakfast and
Treat myself to black coffee.
It sounds like a braggart king’s
Biggest lie, the taste of death.
It tastes like showering in the dark,
Like metal and blood that won’t wash off,
Like black coffee when I would
Rather have Cheerios.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
In a maze of endless death
Every turn is love and war
Any wall can constrict any man’s sinful neck
Life leaving his heart’s cold core
A twisted, greedy man appears,
Seeing a tangled man with a lustful expression
His eyes see the treasure, gold and bright
And is caught within a poisonous suppression
A fierce woman soon approaches
Bitter and angry, her maw and claws sharp
Burning through the coils and gas
Falls to endless sleep with the help of a harp
A wistful child comes forth
Living in envy and through a disguise
Treads, like a thief, past the harp
To fall into the ground through his shadow’s demise
Five have failed and five faced death
So an animal consumes his way through the vines
Through the gas, harp, and trap
Only to die by it’s purposeless cries
Now a small ant rises
And slowly makes his way through the maze
He reaches a gate and opens the door
And sees a figure that brings endless raze
Who is left in this cold cruel world?
Who can become the seventh to the prize?
A god, a hot-headed braggart, reaches the gift
And loses faith through his guilt and his lies
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
The days will rally, wreathing
Their crazy tarantelle;
And you must go on breathing,
But I'll be safe in hell.
Like January weather,
The years will bite and smart,
And pull your bones together
To wrap your chattering heart.
The pretty stuff you're made of
Will crack and crease and dry.
The thing you are afraid of
Will look from every eye.
You will go faltering after
The bright, imperious line,
And split your throat on laughter,
And burn your eyes with brine.
You will be frail and musty
With peering, furtive head,
Whilst I am young and *****
Among the roaring dead.
1.5k
Being a parody of Abou ben Adhem by Leigh Hunt
(See glossary below for translation of italicized words)
By Yossel Zweben (1929- )
Moishe Ben Shlomo (may his nostrils drip!)
Awoke as they approached the landing strip
And saw within the cabin (business class)
A stewardess with an exciting ***
The badge pinned to her ***** said Lorraine.
A life of chutzpah had made Ben Shlomo vain
And to the well-endowed hostess he said
“I bet that I could land us on my head!”
The crew who had endured his endless yack,
Found this the straw that broke the camel’s back,
And to this trumped-up braggart they declared
“Our magazine contains a questionnaire
To test your aptitude to fly this plane.”
“What a metsieh,” thought Moish, wracking his brain
And mentally the crew echoed his thought
As, finally, they got the peace they sought.
When El Al published names that had been blessed.
Oy veh! Ben Shlomo’s name had failed the test.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
Oh I often wonder,
I always want to prove
That there is something behind your kindness
Yes
There's something behind that move.
Is it because you are sincere- profound from the heart?
Or is it because you, yourself is a major key braggart.
Is it because you want to prove something, the simplest thing ; that you can't say no
Or you're just in need of a good name
If it's not genuine it's not an inch of fame
Kindness varies in many different forms
Yes there's quite much
They're only kind to give you their eyes,
Their peering grudge to touch
Music, dance, poetry,
Writing freelance,
Are the only thing some people give, their hands are tightly closed,
Words and movements are the only thing that grows..
They'll give you their sense of humor,
To you they'll gain your trust
But if you choose to ask for something tangible,
They'll cry, Ooh how that's too much!
One of the major trick is to give when you have too much,
You don't want to waste your treasures, you'd rather give it away than keep facing all the dust;
Many give only to exchange ;
Oh I'll give you that sneakers in exchange for that beautiful dress
You can't say that I'm not giving
Only if you knew kindness was just my guest!
Peek a boo
Don't be surprised
Yes I've noticed those unidentified marks
Yes you say, you are kind
Which are you?
Say something I won't ignore your remarks.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
Shoulders heaving, eyes cry
Begging love out of every night
Emptying your loneliness as a braggart to a child
Off his shoulders and onto mine
From his **** to my spine
Always lying about why
In all your darkness, love,
Where are you tonight?
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 4:49 AM UTC
you're not half bad
at your candlewick blossom snuffing -
got your braggart game up loud
in your repetitive silence
beaming at the doting strange phoenixes
darting in between your
bending fingers,
snatching up my flames
in their return to their
static progress on
life skills that are lingering
far too long
in the forging stage.
baby, baby
please -
tell me those aren't
your voices
slithering up the tall
columns of echoes,
wailing out
overzealous,
too pompous
orations.
nevermind -
my mind's pretending
to sleep somewhere marvellous
in this mind-field
of
the littlest
pink *******
trying to act like
i don't suddenly feel
as if
the tomorrow
up next
will be bringing
a different star.
so i just sit here -
pointing my toes at occurrences
that i really wish had've gone down
a whole lot more
differently,
praying that
by some miracle,
tossing a bit of dust
from my careful bag
(paired with the experimental
levitational practices
i keep doing in my free time)
will somehow
make room
for all these
eggshells you won't stop
throwing onto the floor.
too many have found me
playing patty-cake
under that possessed streetlamp
down Hardy,
the one that always seems to flicker
when i walk by -
snatching back its potency
just long enough
to highlight the
unsolicited red apple ritual
happening in my
cheekbones.
i've got a game to catch.
not trying to be the dawdling girl,
throwing all of her hopes
into the air,
willing the destined one
to be something that will
cradle us both.
you gotta be on this
wick snuffing trip
searching for something a little more than
a butt-tossing buddy.
better get a pack of matches
and try to beat me to it,
'cause i'm putting up my fire-red can
and the light's gonna follow me out.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 12:21 AM UTC
I want to kiss your cheek in the morning,
to write love on your arms with my hands,
these broken things so undeserving of your worship.
You saw me when my skin was broken,
when I clung to all that had left,
when my love was wasted on gutter dreams.
So now I seek your hands,
the ones that held me so close,
when I was too scared to be loved.
New moments holding a memory sweet but harsh,
like the times you were mine, yet never us,
never something that held any trust.
Nobody makes me laugh like you do,
still I'm uncertain, uneasy in your eyes,
everything I want, yet our sentiment is strange.
A liar's tongue, a braggart's mouth,
the ways we increase this love's promise,
but I'll never find a way to tell it all.
Maybe I sensed it in the beginning,
how we'd always be star crossed
and I'd always want more from you.
...but now it's different
"protege moi, protege moi"
I see you and I'm home.
maybe this always was
the one thing
we'd never know the meaning of
lucky to trust
bound by love
hands intertwined forever
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
Figure on the hill,
the vast and dark;
heinous conqueror
with single, vaulted eye.
That common passing mark
a whitish spear
who often in the morning
passed unheard.
Color in the walls,
the tangent all of space;
and I most meet
and he the thrilling knight.
Braggart of the ears,
where sleepest thou,
an curvature would bite
that runs upon the steely edge of wit?
In this repose, and let no man declaim
that music cannot work the bones of fame.
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 9:18 PM UTC
Let me tell you about God
Sure he is a lover of Peace
Loves gentleness; wants us
To be joyful in His abundant
Gifts, but make no mistake
When He breaks a man he
Breaks him and he can He
Saves only the good part.
The rest he throws away
And it is likely the greater
Part of the treacherous; the
Hypocrite and the braggart
The deceivers the lovers of
War and such like. Sure
He is patient and slow to be
Wrathful but you would be
Wrong to think He is weak
Afraid to let you know who
Is boss in case of forgetting
He said: Vengeance is mine
And I know He meant it too.
So remember that the next
Time you meet some fellow
Wearing love beads or a girl
With Flowers in her hair.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 12:41 PM UTC
the initial purport
this literary effort delivered atchew
to reed constitutes hazmat tocks sin
within White House blew
per, viz thee president be
getting a Hollywood love story
with "Stormy Williams" despite brew
haha murmur, now dapper Don in deep doo doo
thus, this garrulous married pro LIX prone papa flew
off (like a bat out of hell)
to his Macbook Pro laptop presenting myself
implicating Trump as po' faux guise Mister McGoo
affiliated, confused, and explained
being on par with Winnie the Pooh
especially stuck right tub bear arms in grr...
Rabbit's House, now he doth stew
nsync, nonetheless this path a logical
rhyme stir on the straight and true
composeing grist sill for ye to view
now, nar hating, hit ting
private links provide attention turned toward
two thousand twenty presidential election campaign
no Iron nee, anno putter opportunity,
how he diplomatically strived, and nearly scored
to boast asthma, overt braggart, stalwart
asper ideal consistency of cement poured
affiliation, aggregation, and attestation moored
prevails ma (Jack booted - magical) lord
rolling back to Timbuktu progressive liberal
Democratic initiatives star Apprentice
sans ("NO LIES") being linkedin, he almost ignored
with voluble chattering class hud hoard
hobnobbing (with the likes of Missus Muir's ghost,
who resort to Matthew Scott's turf brand),
reconstituted, recycled, and repurposed, gourd
nonetheless Trumping protocol necessitates me bing bored
predictable feigned "FAKE" non accord.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
"I bagged this one
out in In-di-A!"
...the braggart's boast.
"It's a very rare
( these days)ALGERNON!"
And indeed, an Algernon
bares his teeth
above the roaring fire's
mantlepiece.
He looked startled as
he had been shot just that second.
"The head is splendidly mounted
complete with handlebar moustache
...& monocle.
One feels that one could
pop next door and there
would be ha ha...the rest of
Algernon
sticking out the other side.
The glint in the eye
the sneer just so
...right.
"And to the right of the Algernon
is a genuine Cuthbert.
Again from 1901 or there or
thereabouts."
"It is indeed a perfect specimen of
the good old chap..."
the white rhino brags yet again
of what he calls his baggings.
White Rhino's
collection of colonials
is the envy of
all the other animals.
"Some more hot *** old chum?"
But the White Tiger
puts a paw over his glass.
Declines.
The fire's flickering
leaping up the wall.
The shadow making
the humans almost
come alive
as if the Cuthbert
could turn to the Algernon
and say
"OH...I SAY!
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
hahahaha
strangled choke
with your head in the sand
standing bent over
for just any man to walk by
still you try to mumble
while I sigh...
You make me cry
while all your life prose
cools just like a wet dream
upon a body not breathing
stiff as a cold breeze
You sit like a scarecrow
guarding your non de plume
drowning out your own scream
why don't you
attract that ravenous beast
that will feed upon
your braggart heart, tear apart
your broken bones to the meat
that rots like a rancid ****
all covered in mildewed
strawberries
and curdled cream
You were never smart
Eating away at the morning dew
chomping on a feast that few
ever completely inhaled
but only just nibbled on
bit by bit except
I did
but do you know
what really gets my goat?
I do
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
Silver linings are just a cover up
Crocodile tears are all you had
Red as the blood I tried to spill
Every time things got too bad
Why did you carve up my heart?
You never thought I would fight back
Outside you're all sunshine and light
Underneath your braggart heart is black
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC