"calves" poems
The burning flowers underline the sunset and
Dash before the fire (k)night catches them.
Ripe berries cheaply
tremble
but hopefully their vitality won't burst the pulp pulsating
beneath.
Crumbling flowers
crumb the floor
And Prisms of catching silver refract rose quartz and petal
and crimson
dust.
Bejewelled in Scarlet,
the air,
as the (k)night approaches, grows colder,
Unsure of whether he will bring
solace or strife.
In his chariot
he flies faster than the bees which buzzed around the fruit flutes
in the morning and among the trumpeting bluebells.
Stars fleck the (k)night
like freckles
and the milky ways resins stain his spouting steams lovely.
The (k)nights kind onyx reaches his crescendo and the floating moon danced drowsily through the cloud's spiralled tendrils
Which diminish as dawn
approaches
so their Tentilcles
droop to crinkled tissue paper sheathed in pink.
And so the (k)night
rides on into
The frivolous sunrise.
The lowing, glossy calves
in sage beside the ***** fields
cast a beloved ambience
As though
we are safe
in the knowledge
that the sky will remain
forever
topaz and the leaves
forever emerald.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
It's cold in Duhallow this morning and the fields that were green yesterday
Lay chilled to the frost that the night brought a cover of silvery gray
And the little dunnock on bare hedgerow too cold and too hungry to sing
On **** branch he perch sad and silent the hardship that January can bring.
The robins and sparrows by back door like beggars they wait to be fed
In hope that when breakfast is eaten the housewife might throw out some bread
With no thought for song or for nesting their battle is to stay alive
How many will live to see April the Winter so hard to survive?
The first heavy snows of the Winter have fallen on the higher ground
On Clara, Shrone and Caherbarnagh the hills are so white all around
The blackbird and thrush on the bare branch their feathers fluffed against the chill
And hare has come down to the lowland there's nothing to eat on the hill.
But I can remember the bright days when sun shone on the leafy tree
And robins and thrushes and finches piped in the woods of Knocknagree
And to her nest on barn rafters the sparrow brought feathers and hay
And out on the dandelion meadow the pipit sang all through the day.
Young calves and young lambs in green pastures were full of the frolics of Spring
And joy too had come to the river the song of the dipper did ring
And moorhen was out with her babies and she chirped loud if human was near
Her first lesson to them survival to teach them the meaning of fear.
It's cold in Duhallow this morning the thrush silent on the bare tree
And gray on the fields and the hedgerows and gray over all Knocknagree
But I can remember the bright days when nesting birds piped all the day
And hedgerows and woodlands and meadows smelt sweet with the blossoms of May.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
Flirting with dreams
and myths
a fling with Aphrodite
so **** in a bikini
lying on the sand
with ivory skin
finely formed arms
swelling *******
slender waist
navel
sumptuous buttocks
flaring hips
and convex belly
comely thighs on either side
with calves and feet
perfectly poised
the purity of ******
for all eternity.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
It kinda ***** to be hispanic.
Because apparently,
my ***** tastes like salsa.
and my calves are not strong as a result of exercise,
it’s because I’m hauling pounds of marijuana across the borders.
and I’m automatically dumb,
you know your people have been brainwashed when even they start to believe that they’re dumb.
that’s what I learned when the Mexican girl next to me in math class leaned over to me and said,
“You’re really smart for one of us.”
if a white woman has my skin color, it’s beautiful.
when my naturally tan skin is pictured, i’m now wearing “too much bronzer.”
I’m a fake.
I “don’t belong in this country.”
Because my ancestors looked up to this country as a place of refuge and stability, but I tend to disagree,
I gotta leave now?
Take a moment and live in my home. Live in my country. Know how my life works.
And then tell me oppression isn’t a thing.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
I threw out his socks today.
Those ******* socks.
Long Black Nike Socks that went up to his calves.
Long Black Nike Socks that he wore with his Two Hundred Dollar
French Raw Denim Jeans because he needed the Short Black Nike Socks
To wear to work with his Khaki Dickies Shorts.
Black Nike Socks that he reminded me for months he "needed"
For his birthday in order to function properly.
Black Nike Socks that didn't cost enough to be considered
A sufficient birthday gift,
Along with some other cute things (I thought),
Including a homemade coupon for dinner at
Any restaurant of his choice.
Short Black Nike Socks whose thirty-dollar price tag
Wasn't quite up to par with the forty-dollar
Concert ticket his obviously-better-than-me friend had
So benevolently bought him.
Those ******* socks.
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 6:54 PM UTC
Did you know that if you don't stretch in the correct way, you might end up thwarting the entire purpose of your workout and suffer unwanted injuries?
Doing pre-workout stretches thoroughly will determine whether you are benefiting from your workout or whether it's worsening your muscle tear. Here are the major stretching crimes that you should never commit.
Not doing a proper warm-up
According to gym instructors worldwide, this is the most commonly committed crimes in any gym. A warm-up is a must before any kind of workout — cardio or weights — and must ideally last at least 12-15 minutes.
Assuming that stretching is a warm-up
Stretching and warming up is not the same. You need to warm up first, before you are ready to stretch. A slow jog or brisk walking on the treadmill is a good warm-up.
Rushing through your stretching exercises
Stretching should be for the entire body. You cannot skip any parts. Involve stretches that work your lower back, shoulders, calves, stomach, quads etc. You should not move from one stretch to the other in very quick succession because that may cause untoward injuries. Try to hold each stretch for 20 seconds. When you breathe deeply and hold the stretch, your muscles get trained to tolerate the maximum that your limbs can go to.
Giving stretching a skip after a workout
You have done an hour of strenuous exercise and now you just want to rush out of the gym; that is a huge mistake. Spend some time bending and stretching after your sweat session. Then, do a cool down before you leave the gym.
Not stretching every day
You need to be your flexible best always and that can only happen if you stretch daily, even on the days that you aren't gymming. This ensures that your gym days are more fruitful and that you make the most of them.
Not breathing properly
Breathing right is a very important aspect of stretching. Breathe naturally while you inhale through your nose, expand your rib cage and upper abdomen as you fill in your lungs. When exhaling, breathe out through your mouth, preferably making an audible sound. This relaxes you. While stretching, you need to breathe out when you are exerting, that is, when you are actually contracting your muscles.
Doing static stretches
Never stand still and do stretches that work only one muscle. You should rather do stretches that work a group of muscles — like a lunge that stretches your upper hamstring muscle, your ankles and also your glutes.
Ignoring pain while stretching
When you are in the middle of a stretch and you feel pain, stop immediately and consult an expert. Your stretch should make you feel a gentle pull only, not immense pain. If you are hurting, you are doing it wrong. Rest a few days and then go back to working out under a qualified trainer.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:40 AM UTC
Dear Brianna Evelyn Heins,
Stop Spanx sitting me, I’m old enough to take shape of my own.
Sincerely,
You’re Hips
P.S.
Stop convincing the lips to call me flab-u-lous!
I have my own name.
Stop knocking the knuckles to bone
To hear that hollow hound sound, now don’t use me in your measurement references, I want to live a day
Without spinning round the bouncy bands of your operation game
I’ve seen tweezers fall out of your eyes, to plummet under my moon shone complexion
Please keep in mind the brain is a liar.
And well, I have no twins; your pessimistic ways don’t acknowledge my individuality
The color of shame is not moving, while your red majestic
beast hair torturously tickles my clear space of face.
Brianna,
The brain is a liar!
I know you are told you’re observant;
The deception is grand
Stop pretending you know me
Let me dance dizzy
with the calves
Like coming out of the closet
I’m showing you I’ll never be straight
but brains whisper “weep, weep, weepweepweep”
at the sight of the salt soaked, taffy stretched skin
the brain sends me signals, but I beg for the heart to seep in
Please listen up
rarely do I talk,
for you think words are merely a sound
but the profoundness hasn’t shaken
I know you must feel my urges like
I’m on tonight and my hips don’t lie
beauty may lay in the fragile way I sway
said I’m below
But to hell with you
because this bridge can be crossed
but embers fly in you eyes
and the brain is a liar
a family member I wholeheartedly despise.
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains
the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.
All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge
on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs.
The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers
there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of
the sea!
And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages
on the depths of the seven seas,
and through the salt they reel with drunk delight
and in the tropics tremble they with love
and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods.
Then the great bull lies up against his bride
in the blue deep bed of the sea,
as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life:
and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale-blood
the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and
comes to rest
in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whale's
fathomless body.
And over the bridge of the whale's strong phallus, linking the
wonder of whales
the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and
forth,
keep passing, archangels of bliss
from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim
that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the
sea
great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies.
And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-
tender young
and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of
the beginning and the end.
And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring
when danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless flood
and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat
encircling their huddled monsters of love.
And all this happens in the sea, in the salt
where God is also love, but without words:
and Aphrodite is the wife of whales
most happy, happy she!
and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin
she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea
she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males
and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.
8.9k
Don't you dare look at me with those eyes
You don't own my body anymore
Not these freckles that litter my skin
Or the bruises that ink my calves
Your big blue eyes were never there to fall in love with me
But rather to teach me a lesson
The lesson being that before I fall in love with anyone else
I must first fall in love with myself.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
O Krishna, Lord of Hindustan, I sorrowed by the lonely Jumna river bank, where Thy flute-notes thrilled the air and led the lost calves to their homes. O Lotus of Love, musing on the sad absence of Thy delusion-dispelling eyes, I saw Thine invisible Spirit take form, frozen by my devotion's frost.
Thy divine form of sky-blue rays, with feet of eternity, walked on the banks of my mind, planting lasting footprints of realization there. I am one of Thy lost calves which followed Thy flower-footprints on the shoals of time. Listening to the melody of Thy flute of wisdom, I am following the middle path of calm activity, by which Thou hast led many through the portals of the dark past into the light.
Since all of us are of Thy fold, whether moving, sidetracked, or held stationary by the fogs of disbelief, O Divine Christ-na, lead us back to Thy fold of everlasting freedom. O Krishna, Thou reignest on the heart-throne of each knower of Thy love.
From: Whispers from Eternity
A Book of Answered Prayers
1949 Edition
7.4k
You just can't
compete with
**** Me
boots.
The leather-clad calves
that
whisper "come to bed...
I promise so
many touches"
Cardigans merely dictate
"shoulders maybe...
You so much as peek
at my
collarbones, and you're
done for,
Mister."
Spoken -
Maybe I would
tease...
"Try only,
to kiss
my cheek
because I'm
on the
boring bus"
(and especially
in your Chamber)
Or so you
would suppose.
But inside this
sweater, I'm
a Butterfly.
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 8:09 AM UTC
Do you remember me?
I am fed up, strung on night
And closed in by time.
When I dine with dearest
Friends there is always a place
Set for you, there is always
A story, untold to them,
But not for strangers
Who know even without saying
What you never said to me.
My eyes are cracked dams
Above the flood plains,
My heart is dented brass,
Bent, out of gear and turns,
Mournful, dried, pocked
As rust, tarnished red,
Petrified.
If I look at the diamond moon
I am hooked.
When the flower brushes my calves
The lifting scent caresses, teases,
Rising with my memory of fire and stone.
If I travel to the balm Paris
Of the southern hemisphere
La Belle Époque is wearing your
Dress, the pampas fires and undulates
Like your hair, the Polaris star
Points at me, dreaming
Of you, dreaming,
My jewel, my,
Little moon.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 12:02 AM UTC
Inhale exhale
Counting breaths
Can’t stop the thoughts from
Flooding.
Have to stop the thoughts from
Flooding.
Before the day begins.
Before feet hit the floor.
Inhale exhale
Counting breaths
The only way to
Calm the mind.
Inhale exhale
Can’t stop the mind
Can’t stop the mind from
Running.
Lengthen breath-
Inhale 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 exhale 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Inhale 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 exhale 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
The thoughts fly in one ear
And out the other.
**Out **** thoughts.
Out I say.**
Relax the feet
Relax the ankles
Relax the calves
Relax the knees
Relax the thighs
Relax the hips
Relax the stomach
Relax the chest
Relax the shoulders
Relax the neck
Relax the mouth
Relax the face
Relax the mind
Relax the mind
Inhale Exhale
Relax the mind
Relax the mind
Exhale 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8…
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
Around the table,
Literacy discussion turned elitist...
Bemoaning some poor Johnny,
Son of a plumber who does not read
Beyond the practical need,
And has no desire to.
I stopped to check my sense of what I had just heard...
Was transported to a prairie farm;
Thought of my Father, then in his eighties
Who felt no need and no sense of loss
For not having read Shakespeare nor Kant
For missing Milton's Paradises and Hemingway,
For by-passing Black Elk Speaks and C.S. Lewis.
Every morning, he read his Bible;
Some nights he read the mail's
Motley collection of literature:
Ads and politicians and fanatics,
Demanding money and his time,
But mostly money.
"I don't have time to read!"
He'd shout when I suggested a novel.
What literature he had was in his head,
Poems memorized when he was a boy
In a two room school, or
His own lines, written as a young man,
Describing work and friends
Long distant now, but still alive
In memory.
Dad taught me how to read
In different literacies and different texts:
Nuances of sky to read the weather -
What chill or storm or drought was on its way
("Storm's coming, boys! Let's get that hay!");
Cows and calves and bulls,
(Which one was sick or well, dry or bred);
Ways to diagnose mechanical ailments
("Start with the easiest options first");
Metals, to know which welding rod applied
("Aluminum sags, and cast iron cracks");
Grain, rolled crisp between hard hands,
(a test of ripeness);
Cement, to blend the perfect mix,
("Clean gravel/sand, no dirt, not too much water!);
Conservation,
("Always keep some grain on hand" &
"Keep your fuel above half-tank").
So many literacies...
Dad, the Master Reader of them all...
No wonder he'd no time for books.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 9:26 PM UTC
your curves are **** beautiful
your legs that show tiger marks
your thighs that were created by streaks of waves
the arms and calves build with love
they are criticized
judged by the eye of everyone
hello? is this fat?
*** that’s gross
they say
avoiding contact with
the realistic things
words do cut deeper than knives
and the thoughts were too cruel running
in my veins me being fed
so i changed
ate a little
starved myself
commitment to such
self abuse
being embarrassed of
how the curves of my body shapes me
why oh why?
who are you now
now i’ve got
bruises forming everywhere
on my body
scarring my pale tan skin
or should i describe it
as ash gray dead?
never would’ve thought that every words
that build up in my mind
became so life threatening
how they slay my emotions
and torture me
with pressure
sorry dear self for making you suffer
trying to fit in the wrong crowd
taking all these diets and pills
to make myself gorgeous
but in the end
the smile begun to fade
dark circles started to show up
and my perfect days were daunted
by the sickness of me,
anorexia.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 10:28 AM UTC
Elizabeth and God exist in a sunflower grave. Her mother and father slit her stomach open and watched the contents pour out like
spaghetti confetti.
Tommy, Elizabeth's boyfriend, rode his ocean blue Huffy, until the tread on his tires grew bald and until the grips were blanketed by dead skin. Looking for her, panoramic views of the horizon leapt beside him. Silhouettes of his legs, churned and kissed the orange and caramel dusk. With every tear in his hamstrings and calves, the **** in his sky grew and swallowed the memory of Elizabeth Mendenhall, Honor Student.
Margot, Elizabeth's twelve year-old sister, was an idealistic soul. Taking a Sharpie, she wrote on her sister's wall, "Liz, there is no death greater than the loss of self, and no life greater than one where we continuously search for what self is." Margot struggled with concentrating and frying eggs - but focused on the sunflower garden, dangerously and perfectly.
Hilary and Brendan were thirty-five and thirty-six years-old. They stabbed their daughter thirty-seven times. They don't know why they did it, they just couldn't think of a reason not to do it.
She begged for her life. The yellow petals of the sunflowers caught blood-drops and, after enough struggle, floated down to kiss and lay on Elizabeth's slow-twitch body. Hilary looked at Brendan and said, "What does this mean?" Brendan shrugged and said, "This is new to me."
The garden was an oven, and digging her grave was like pulling back on a cheap, plastic latch. Elizabeth had pale, pre-cooked pie crust skin. The slits in her stomach looked like peeks into a cherry stuffed filling. Crinkled lips looked indented by a stainless steel fork, back and forth, side to side. And the soil rained upon her like the reversal of hot vapor, returning home.
Elizabeth and the Sunflower Garden.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
All through the night
Heartburn kept him sitting up
Stubbornly refusing
To read the signs:
Indigestion...
Heart attack...
Hiatal hernia....
Indigestion...
Hernia...
Heart attack...
Heart attack..
Heart attack.
By five, he agreed...told Mom
Baking soda wouldn't work.
His son came in from checking calves,
Worrying over the kitchen light,
Surprised to see his dad
Still sitting on the couch.
At, "I guess we could go to town,"
Son and wife moved into action.
"I need some help to dress," he said.
His helplessness filled them with dread.
First, some socks, but wait....
The nails were long, unkempt.
"I haven't been able to bend that far,"
My brother took Dad's feet in hand,
Cut the nails,
Wondering how he'd failed
To see how fragile, pale, old
This man we loved and feared
Had somehow suddenly become.
There probably wasn't time
To trim Dad's nails,
What with the heart attack,
And all.
But one should never head to town unkempt...
An old familial rule...
And one should cut one's own nails...don't even ask...
Another family rule....
And last...
Father has the last word...
The rule that kept him home all night,
Instead of calling 911.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
Dear Beyonce, I love you, but I loved your thighs more. They gave me a reason to believe my thighs were just fine. I believed that they were worth the time it took to get my jeans on or trouble when I found a dress that fit the rest of me perfectly, but finding another because my thighs were making it too short. I was under the impression that the pressure on his lap from my thighs was just fine and that if he couldn't handle them, he couldn't handle me.
My thighs were supported by calves that were the pillars that support my *** that is almost too much for the eyes to handle. It was okay that my thighs jigged cause my muscles were chiseled from my *** to my heels when I walked in a pair of heels, revealing marble stone that Greek statues envied.
Where did they go?
Now I'm told that I have to cover them from the summer sun and they can't wade in waves the crash on them when I stand in water that's just below my waist. They can't be mimicked by a pair of jeans or matched exactly by a pair of leggings. They have to be lonely and never be reminded of one another's presence because they can get lost with increased degrees of separation.
But I will not eat the lies that media, airbrush, needles, and people feed me. My legs have walked a thousand miles and have carried others along the way. I will not doubt them because they have never failed me.
I think I've made my decision. Thank you.
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 2:18 PM UTC
I'm learning to lay awake
with myself,
Peaceful and warm I
can be with me,
Caring for myself like I do my chilli plant,
Testing my own leaves for lack of nutrition,
Or love,
Cheap, clean sheets beneath my hands and calves
Light the wick.
Colin Meloy's liquid voice falls
like hail,
Excitable under my skin.
So as I watch the light move across white ceilings I can clear
and muse
and breathe.
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
*Dust on the ledge, before me, magnified
Smell of gun oil in my nostrils and cramp in the calves
The boredom of the wait intensifies,
Stale air in my loft is full of must
With the failing light I’m grateful it is almost time to stand down.
Through the cross hair sprints a target
An ordinary, everyday, running target,
I know not who this target is,
I know not why it runs across my sights,
But because it is, where it is,
It becomes my enemy.
In a microcosm of time
the loud bang alters things forever.
The buck of the rifle’s recoil,
The immediate sour stench of the shot washes back across my face.
The intoxication felt, in being the one who caresses the trigger.
The satisfaction earned in deservedly making the ****
My target spirals in mid stride,
Contorts in agony
And collapses to the rough tarmac
To lie dishevelled, an insignificant, dishevelled item.
Checking the **** through the telescopic sight
I see the rough stubble of the chin,
The nicotine stain on the fingers,
I see the colour of the eyes are pale blue.
…I know well, it will breathe no more.
With descending twilight
I trudge from my tower perch
With the long ****** rifle slung across my weary shoulders
The crones in the street glare as I walk by
There is a loathing in their aged eyes, It is a tangible thing.
I know they have no knowledge of the target,
But they know, however, that there has been a killing made for the cause.
A cold beer would be nice.
God! how I hate these young punks with purple hair.*
Marshalg
Gaza, Palestine/Mogadishu, Somalia/Kabul, Afghanistan/Tehran, Iran/Cairo, Egypt/Islamabad, Pakistan/Soweto, South Africa/Dier El Zour Province, Syria/Beirut, Lebanon/Baghdad, Iraq/Tripoli, Libya/Pristina, Kosovo/Grozny,Chechen Republic/Veracruz, Mexico/Guatemala City, Guatemala/Sao Paulo, Brazil/Moscow, Russia.
27 November 2012
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
Observing these old men sitting at the stockyard cafe,
Suspendered bellies hanging above huge buckles
And button-crotched Levi's tucked tight over leather boots,
Legs grown bowed and thin, but carrying them to the sale, still,
To hear the auctioneer, talking fast to work the buying crowd,
And get their fill of cattle, shoved indoors,
Sold beneath the steady cracking whips,
A spectacle to burn its way into my minds's forever eye:
The skidding steers, the rolling eyes, the frantic scramble to find cover,
While buyers gave their quiet signs:
A tilted cap, a winking eye, a thumb or index finger up or at a side,
To purchase cow or bull or horse, in living flesh...
Then out again, through the other door,
And turn our heads to wait for more, and read the scrolling numbers:
How many head, how much per pound, perhaps a buyer's name,
And then the swinging sound of other cattle coming in to start again.
So, here these old boys sit again,
Slurping coffee through their yellowed teeth,
Remembering days of indoor cigarettes and harried waitresses,
The smell of cow manure and jingling spurs,
Though now the smokeless ring seems tame, more civilized,
I see the glory days reflecting in the old men's eyes.....
I was just a boy back in those good old days,
My memory is a little hazed, but I can recall
When smoking was allowed and sawdust covered the filthy floor,
A Coca-Cola cost a dime, and the cattle sale with Dad was the big time;
Quaking as we treaded light on the catwalks above the pens,
Looked for our calves, or cows Dad culled to bring to sale,
Then going down and in to see them sell.
Fondly now, I can recall the restaurant at the ring
Where I hoped for a slice of lemon pie from behind chill-fogged glass,
Saw cowmen wearing spurs and neckerchiefs and chaps...
Dreamed of growing up to be a cowboy.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
There once was a rat, a gym rat that is
When it came to fitness he was a wiz.
Powder and chicken was all he consumed.
All of the other foods were surely doomed.
Ripping, rushing, running around the town.
He liked to pick things up and put them down.
From his traps to calves, his muscles were ripped.
Pushing and pulling, the scales he would tip.
His veins did pop like pink birthday balloons.
His buns resembled big-booty baboons.
Many beads of sweat would drip down his face.
Gallons of water he’d drink case by case.
Visions of protein shakes danced through his head.
Others that trained with him soon would be dead.
The rat would pump iron day after day.
But, out of the gym his life was astray.
White tank tops, jean shorts, and sneaks he would wear.
In hopes that all the fit ladies would stare.
Alas poor gym rat could not catch a mate.
Perhaps, a brain workout would score him a date.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
Hey you, are you hiring?
Business men dressed in 3 pieces, are you ready for this?
I don’t have much experience and I don’t have a fancy degree, but boy do I have SOUL. FUNK! A dazzling personality. And nice calves.
Assess me, judge me like you own a gavel.
Today I was walking along Paradise Lane, I stumbled over someone’s lost hope and fell on another’s pile of pride. Hey, I never said that I was ON Paradise Lane, friends.
Hey you, are you hiring?
Something on your breath doesn’t smell right, and the twinkle in your eye basically says that I was turned down from the moment I said, “Hello, my name is_________…”
Numbered. An unassociated member of free-thinking, I am in the business of dreams and tree forts, let me take YOU for a spin.
You wake up, dread doing so. All for some monkey in a 3 piece to put you in the system as a federal reserve payback bill.
HEY YOU, ARE YOU HIRING?!
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 3:56 PM UTC
March in the streets
But I urge you beware
They’ll still butcher the sheep
With the arms that they bear
Private properteers part with
No slave cropper’s share
So this Northern aggression's
Like Freeman’s red scare
All the colors of wind
Through the head-shavers’ hair
The Guevara adventures
These pigs wouldn’t D.A.R.E.
The Arabian knights
In the grand wizard’s lair
The denaturalized dreamer’s
Recurring nightmare
Of the Stalingrad ghost
Still witch-hunting like Blair
The projects to the precincts’
New modern welfare
The post-trauma disorderly’s
Empty screen stare
The savages they thought
Were waaaaayyyy over there
The debt clock ticky tock
In the heart of Times Square
The 1st world problem-children
Who commonwealth care
Because some barely EAT
And we’ve so much to spare
But these cowherds still like their calves
Medium rare
And the bulls try to sell you
Their laissez-faire snare
Till your trapped in a minimum cage’s
Last prayer
And the only escape
Is upgraded software
Like automaton autobahn’s
In disrepair
In this fascist facade’s
Fragrant breath of fresh air
Just as toxic as stocks
Of the mock billionaire
So I shock ‘em like Tesla’s
Bolt-action Voltaire
And I leave it to you
To go **** it out there
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 6:27 AM UTC
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the ****** starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.
And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the **** on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.
And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would
take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
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