"cheapen" poems
My soul is tailgating the tour van of some band from SF that takes themselves a bit to seriously
My soul is somewhere in the woods, half submerged in a creek, caressed by ancient waters toughened by ancient stones
My soul is in a brand new a stadium, cheering on some logo with 80,000 strangers
My soul is the color of calloused feet and broken promises
My soul is the gorilla beating his chest and in a swing of his fist my soul is a little kid wondering how can he cheapen the family bills
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
Tonight's grey cloud hangs over the pearlescent blue and pink of today.
The gray is an avalanche
criss-crossed
with black
powerlines
that spread like cracks in a mirror.
The rain starts to fall.
To my right is a young blonde
age (17?) unknown.
Her bag and telephone
would
match
but for a shade.
The rain starts to fall.
Young lovers kiss in the calm embrace of one another
beneath an awning the colour of
old ladies - no
boredom - no
subjugation -no.
the under side of an old mattress.
The rain starts to fall.
Across the gap stands an Asian man with the complete accoutrements of a golfer.
Obfuscated now by a train
with the palette of a McDonald's ad.
The rain starts to fall.
The streets are become slick
and every lamp bleeds the start
of an oil painting
with brushes made of light.
The air is cool.
There is a canal that stretches between seats, walled by rows of heads.
In the distance a little girl peaks her head up in the middle of all this,
she wears a bright pink plastic bow on her head that blinks and glows.
Traffic lights streak
green and red
over black gesso.
Cars streak
silver and blood
down black gesso.
"I simply don't need to cheapen things further"
Matching work uniforms.
Matching looks of boredom
Matching shoes and glances
Matching telephones
Matching lack of conversation
Matching hair
Matching matching carpet and drapes
Matching posture
why is everything matching?
(they got off at the same station)
Suburban princess holds the phone like a bible.
I attempt to sketch her arm in my head....but I am too ******
I am hungry.
The outside air is cool.
This is a carriage for the antisocial
3 rooms of solitude.
Everyone is plugged in
No-one dares to speak.
The Art of Conversation.
An old woman sits in front of me, with the face of Ray Winstone in drag.
Her hair is a dandelion
and her eyebrows are birds
painted in the distance.
Hands wrinkled and knotty
like old fruit.
Trains are predictable
the purest form of modern transport
all the little fishies
in the giant metal can
are silent to one another.
The train conductors voice is boredom.
I mistake ambient noise for music.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
It's taking everything I’ve ever had,
not to crawl into the crevice between your arm and hip.
I want seep inside of you
and live with you,
like the parasite I am.
I’ve bribed to God to make you love me,
And bargained away my future sins.
I want to forget the golden retriever
You took on walks longer than our **********
And the way your body writhed beneath my touch
Like a body bracing for a car-crash,
And how with every kiss
I could feel your rigor mortis set in.
I want to read you poems about Kurt Cobain,
While we do ******* at midnight in Golden Gate Park.
And watch you have a visceral reaction
To the memories
Of the times you tasted someone else’s skin.
Instead I’ll
dye my hair black,
Cancel all my credit cards,
And run away to Chicago
to Cheapen myself
and reek of Popov
In a dive bar next to the railroad,
That no one’s heard of
so you can tell strangers
in the subway
and at the New Year’s party,
(at which you’ll meet your wife)
how much I’ve always meant to you
and how
You will always wonder what happened to me
(Even though
you won't.)
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
_I am not my words,
Nor am I the letters from which they are formed;
I am a beating drum,
A cacophony,
A riot keeping pace with mortal time;
Spinning order thriftily,
So as not to cheapen the divinely proclaimed language of the soul._
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 7:45 PM UTC
i fold my head into the
thin envelope of her arms
then she folds me into
the small space between her words
keeps me there for a time measured only
in the beads of sweat that gather on her
near perfect brow
she wipes me from memory and
deposits me on the pavement
the cold air shrinks me
the hot sun expands me
i cover her with evidence of wicked eyes
and impressions of nibble marks
i surf her skin with touches
that rival thouse that her nightmares
and the things her deepest desires are made of
her innocent demure hides her favorite things
jean nate scents spread like a casual laugh
i kiss her mind with the story vision thought dream of me and her
spending the night with some other honey pie
i relive myself on her essence
with the words that gave birth to her current personality
she changes faces
its just a metaphor
and she cant hide the fact she is ill at ease
with this nearness
this untamed and unpredictable
she needs on many levels to feel like she
is in control of somthing
i fold my head onto her lap
but the process has changed
she can no longer sustain the madness of this method
she can no longer pretend
that she can not cheapen herself for her own gain
for her own loss
that in the end she cannot deny
it is she who must choose the lesser of two evils
i would rescue her from this fate of her choosing
but i am beyond redemption in her eyes
and i am intent on this not becoming a fishing trip
casting out lines in hopes of
finding a future in the
destitute but romantic face of streetlife
or motel shuffle carpet baggers
after much wailing
at the little gain for much expense
and endless beating of the quality of life dead horse
we found common ground
which without a doubt will get some
banker trying to foreclose on at some point
but for the moment its just the three of us
verses the world
armed with a rubber duck and a bucket of rice
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
Isn't it ironic that
Silence screams so loud
we drown out the sound
and pray the voices pipe down
" they don't sound like me anymore
they won't go away and each day
a demented voice pulls me under
and now I wonder...
which way is up?"
Isn't it ironic how
playing cards can cut
like a razor blade
and red dice rolling
become an evil eye that winks.
Does that cloth
on a tricky table
feel as soft
as the lining on a nearby coffin?
Isn't it ironic
when love's soft touch
devolves into lust
and broken hearts
disintegrate into rust,
when a silent embrace
becomes an empty bed
but that void only deepens
when we cheapen
our body and soul
to feel whole
for a mere moment.
Isn't it ironic
we want a world
so far from reality
we blur the one we have
as we snort, smoke and swallow
our problems away
only for them to return
on a much darker day.
A hundred vices
**** a thousand men
and in solidarity we stand.
Let one brave soul say
I have been bitten by these...
and more
so many more!
Let me lean on you brother
Let me comfort you sister
Let us stumble forward together!
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 1:41 PM UTC
You prevent me moving on
You limit my horizons
You cheapen my achievements
And you delete me based on age
You are the judge and powerbroker
Little that qualifies you for this
And your prejudices and abilities gap
Run riot over my ambition
When you are from within
And not an agent for
My background scares you
And threatens your own standing
No perfect world
No meritocracy
No boat rockers
Just the usual suspects
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 5:36 PM UTC
I remember
when I found out
I was
****
or something
and there was only
the jolt
and horror
a bit of a trauma
as I trudge, I find
I took one step forward
and two steps back
I was never careful where I trod
over time, I find
we take on
the roles we were assigned
I do not know
when the name took root
I only know
I used to be less crude
as I trudge, I find
things cheapen
over time,
we fill
the shoes we were given
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
I don't want to rhyme with decomposition
All of it is too corny
But how sad.
Decomposition is where I'm headed.
And the idea of the process is so full of poetic juice,
But rhyming with that word would cheapen it.
As would a pun about de-composing this poem.
just **** yourself and make an appointment with your physician.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 1:03 AM UTC
There is a naivety in the absence of love,
the need for new affirmation in
the capability of the world to once
again hold onto your heart.
No patience within the presence of pain,
we simply cling to ephemeral half-life
traces of the real emotion we so
desire and therefore cheapen by
embracing tarnish.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
I brought her one flower
from the cemetery I borrowed
love leads to death
but it can work the other way
so the blackbird on the telephone wire say
I brought her one flower
a bouquet -- wasteful, sour
too many kisses cheapen
how else to pay by the hour
so the meadowlark's **** showers
I brought her one flower
in a corduroy suit, sunglassed tower
a corkscrew and 12 apostles
too far from shore, too young to cry
so the stupid penguin tries to fly
I brought her one flower
in some water, a tired bower
"I didn't try my hardest."
"I know." Wish my *** to the moon
So the robin lets out a morose croon
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 6:49 PM UTC
Old story man goes to work woman stays at home sounds like a downer for the woman it can’t be
Further from the truth and women are as great in the work place but man can’t or at least be as
Successful in the home he is an initiator she fulfills only woman can tilt her head and smile its radiant a
Guy would look goofy he is the essential steel but for feel the greatest need of human kind the woman
Delivers her voice is power it addresses in the most cogent she is natural man will have to work hard and
Then still possibly blow his top the woman knows the courses that are obvious and all so the subtle
Those that disarm gain with a style that everyone appreciates a taste a flair that is winsome you free fall
Into luxuriant grace that lifts you both to a place of nobility it’s all natural she possess riches that are
Uncommon but they pass without notice because she presents simple promise uncomplicated available
An open what is there to resist you’re in her natural element no wonder they have been called blessed
They use the blessed to maneuver their the most gifted creature for the fact of completing man that
Enriches herself to build others where they fall short what greatness dwells there in simple acts she can
Be breath taking just by kicking off her shoes putting on a man’s shirt how stunning again you see the
Flow she is given power of exactness don’t believe let a woman walk by se what I mean they carry
Unspoken magic that can’t be duplicated you can only say thank you Heavenly Father where would
I be and how incomplete I would be without her in my life well that’s my ode to the wonderfulness
Of womanhood so many abuse cheapen and disallow the greatest gift man was ever given
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC
Woman Completes
Old story man goes to work woman stays at home sounds like a downer for the woman it can’t be
Further from the truth and women are as great in the work place but man can’t or at least be as
Successful in the home he is an initiator she fulfills only woman can tilt her head and smile its radiant a
Guy would look goofy he is the essential steel but for feel the greatest need of human kind the woman
Delivers her voice is power it addresses in the most cogent she is natural man will have to work hard and
Then still possibly blow his top the woman knows the courses that are obvious and all so the subtle
Those that disarm gain with a style that everyone appreciates a taste a flair that is winsome you free fall
Into luxuriant grace that lifts you both to a place of nobility it’s all natural she possess riches that are
Uncommon but they pass without notice because she presents simple promise uncomplicated available
An open what is there to resist you’re in her natural element no wonder they have been called blessed
They use the blessed to maneuver their the most gifted creature for the fact of completing man that
Enriches herself to build others where they fall short what greatness dwells there in simple acts she can
Be breath taking just by kicking off her shoes putting on a man’s shirt how stunning again you see the
Flow she is given power of exactness don’t believe let a woman walk by se what I mean they carry
Unspoken magic that can’t be duplicated you can only say thank you Heavenly Father where would
I be and how incomplete I would be without her in my life well that’s my ode to the wonderfulness
Of womanhood so many abuse cheapen and disallow the greatest gift man was ever given
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 5:31 PM UTC
I see a flower in the sun.
Bright and yellow
it blows back and forth in the wind.
In short, staccato vibrations
It moves like nature's metronome
To a beat I cannot hear.
I am caught briefly by it’s radiance,
It’s beauty.
I hope to capture it in a memory
One that I can reflect upon
And hope to bring me peace
In times more frenzied.
And yet to do so would be futile.
To do so would be to disrespect
The ephemeral nature of such beauty.
It would cheapen it with presumptions
That I could own it,
Carry it with me.
Like nature’s rhythm,
It is unknown to me.
To see it is to hide it.
To want it, is to offend.
To me it is beauty,
Yet it’s experience is one of turmoil,
Battered by the wind,
Wilting before my eyes in the heat.
It’s scent is cleansing,
But for the flower,
It is odor.
Inviting predators
To violate it,
To cut it down
To take it from it’s family.
It is a promise of pain.
And yet that pain is inevitable.
The futility of my desire to keep it
Is the flower’s futile desire to remain free.
And so I pass it by.
With a gentle nod,
I acknowledge our intertwined destinies,
That neither of us shall know peace,
And that in knowing this
We have found it.
The wind gusts up
The flower bends low to me
Then whips back aright
As if to say, it knows too.
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 5:29 PM UTC
Being beautiful isn't about dating the most guys,
Or having the most trendy outfits,
Respect itself is beauty,
Self acceptance is beauty
You're priceless!
Don't cheapen yourself by giving in to every guys ***** desires over you,
Noone can treat you like a queen if you don't see and present yourself as one,
Define who you are,
And have self respect and count yourself worthy of true respect.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 5:21 AM UTC
I kept a quarter in a drawer next to my bed
for when I made decisions that hurt my head
where each choice came at great cost to my sanity
so I flipped a quarter to cheapen the price to twenty-five cents
and I said it's just common sense keeping innocence
but it's ignorance and guiltlessness that I wanted for me.
When a quarter felt too heavy I moved on to a dime
because it was lighter than its cost and fit my indecisive crime
but I find I tossed it too high and couldn't always catch it
so it clattered to the floor and rolled beneath my dresser
and maybe if I left it there, my decision-making stressor
would disappear like the dime then I could quit
Yet decisions kept on coming and so a nickel would have to do
five-cent choices should be worth less than dimes too
and yet again, I couldn't bear the weight of my choice.
So instead I flipped two pennies, to get my two cents in.
One landed heads, the other tails, and I still have a decision.
I can't keep flipping coins to replace my voice.
My treasure trove of choices worth less than the ones before
because they're all plastic, made so I don't have to endure
the weight of cost so I selfishly kept on flipping
all these coins and kept on wishing they would never land.
Fifty-fifty, leave my choice to chance, take it out of my hand.
If my coins never land, then my decisions cost me nothing.
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 10:02 AM UTC
There it stands modelling a fine coat of dust
covering the rim chips that cheapen it.
This vase stood for more than I can understand.
In earthenware fashioned from English clay
by English hands, but unfashionable now
a small squat *** of Dalton blue and brown.
Two necklaces of tiny beads clasp its neck
like corsets holding open its cornet mouth.
But we no longer hear its tunes or read its runes.
When I hold it in my hands I see Great Grandma's room
with highland cattle in a Scottish mountain scene.
The long-case clock of fear and fascination
where mother was threatened with incarceration
but never ****** Its rustic case reached down
to Earth's grim brimstone and fiery domains.
'There,' Mother said, 'lie Grandma's tortured remains.'
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
i don't mean to encumber you.
or devalue, diminish, degrade, debase, reduce, demean, humble, lower, cheapen, burden, saddle, inconvenience, ****** hinder, cramp, denigrate, belittle, deride, depreciate you, or shoot you full of holes.
it's genuinely not my intent.
i just really need you to go down with me
in flames
right now.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 5:31 AM UTC
5/24/17
our bodies are rhythmic
i could tell
you wanted it
we won't call it anything
but we could stop
but it's not easy
is it more painful to not have you
or is it more painful to have you
knowing you can share that rhythm
with someone who isn't me
the girl that's always
puts me at second
which is more of a compliment
reality says i'm better seated at fifth, or sixth
and you make me your universe for one night
and more nights after
and turn around
and turn against me
with lovely words and a grain of confidence
it's so painful
that you fill spaces in my body that perfectly match
but never settle in my heart
and we never did
the thrill of addiction
sugarcoat it so not to cheapen
this abstract love
where you make the rules
but you also give me a way out
it's not like i have to stay here
but i'd move away
from how crazy i'd be
not ******* not loving
i wait for the day you say
"you're beautiful"
even if it's not the beauty
you swear you're gonna find
in someone that isn't me
one day
it's pathetic
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 3:49 PM UTC
Hey Hollywood!
How are you ******
All of you!
Talentless Phonies
All of you!
Fakes!
Acting?
A Talent?
So sick of your lies
Pretending to be
A Somebody
STOP kidding Yourselves
Not one could compare
Not one
The Somebody died
And you couldn't act if your lives depended on it
All of you are
Nobodies
Useless
Actors/Whores (pick one)
Trollops
Taxi Dancers have more skill
Eight Children
With five wives
And all you do is cheapen him
He was referring to Wally
Not some phallus
IDIOTS
Somebody never pretended
to act
Somebody never was trained
to act
Somebody once dropped his pants
An Act?
No
Just bad behavior
Bud
Somebody knew how to behave
(take note whores) (did you get it right?)
A Methodist?
Maybe NOT religious
But so much
Better than some cheap act
Somebody behaved the Best
(even if he did love ***
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
Become, and unbecome,
In the altar of love,
Demolish knowledge,
Be a canvas, a sponge,
Let go of need,
Grab hope, for thy beloved,
And thy beloved alone,
Let go of the 'I' and 'you',
Reflect on the non duality,
If you really love,
Do not cheapen the emotion,
Become, and unbecome
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
It's the way you act,
It's the way you are,
The way you cheapen
Even the deepest scars,
The way you demand,
And the way you deplore
That has me drifting
Away evermore.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
Have you forgotten, old man, the wild youth?
Zephyrs will knock you back, zooming, stumbling drunk on power
All these children, worshipping speed in constant flux
Face-first, papercuts from paper cutouts all around,
I went crazy, old man, my mind exploded in wartime plumes;
You once called this yours, too, under hahas and rough guffaws.
Illuminating all, what remained unseen, with iron grip, I grasped at straws,
Remember old man, because when you forget, it wins all over again.
I beg you, salty old sinnerman, soaked in the spray of the silver sea,
Shine your lamp this way, but don’t dare Gaslight me.
Old man, our body was a wonderland, you’ve turned it a junkyard,
Salvage; choose optimism over efficiency,
Monumental, recycled effigy.
Our father told us he’d be dead by 27,
Remember, old man, he would roll spliff in the barn,
The green and brown, offered for lost time;
Creaking joints whisper family secrets,
Wheezing lungs paint a portrait over a mirror.
I thought I’d be dead by 27,
Dented and chipped, different ways to cheapen;
Trans-Am aspirations but a body of a bicycle; semi-collapsible.
My nose long since hollowed.
What will we be, will we see 27?
Clad in armour of words unspoken,
Polished in appearance like the bottle from last night.
Old man, you’re so funny, hungry and hard,
Leathered skin suits you well.
In these jean short summers, Be not afraid.
Twisted metal blocks out brains,
Tanning our shared skin,
Revealing our blood,
Secrets embodied,
One Grandmother madonna, another a *****
High cheek-boned olive skin,
Contrasted with Viking lovers.
Different pieces welded together over generations,
Tones and textures,
If there’s one thing we know, it’s that there’s no shame in sleeping with a Frenchman,
Gushing like the first time, when we were 16,
Silent and guilty eye contact, Sploosh.
Old man, some things never change.
We can be so much better.
We have been so much better.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
i wouldn't know what it's like
to feel the world
staring down my back
trying to find the soul
in all i do
nor do i want to feel
in me
those heartless eyes
look through your actions
like a sneaking spy
with files in the night
tell me when i'm losing you
to pictures in my mind
framing you inside the frail confines
of a dime
to cheapen souls costs money
that
the worth of knowing facts
cannot repay
its you i'm waiting for
not figures.
you i want to hold
not files
in a file-drawer
with keys to keep the door
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC