"clinking" poems
homeless, no
metropolis without a home
blaring and clinking and laughing
lights sharp like daggers
me and strange men—and
you
blinding
motorcycle
red, yellow, purple, neon
all blurs together
then, music, like iceland, like
a flooded jungle, drowning
I let go,
take me away
you are my key,
---
gun in hand
orchestra in other
and bach and beethoven in between
I'm sure we heard the same organs that day
but you, other hand on bible
prayed
why hadn't I?
my actions will have consequences
.
---
my only chance
test after test
failure after failure
higher
and
higher
suffocating desperation
I
grab on and
never
let go
**** you, and
I'll
be
free
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 4:06 AM UTC
Clinking of ink bottles
Scratching of quills
Rustling of paper
Pouring out knowledge
Sweating students
Angry teachers
Swatting of fleas
No more patience
Old mad bat suddenly
Shouting
"Bring me the earmuffs!!"
Laughing, crying, farting
Interupting the quiteness
"Why would you ask that?"
Principal Harpy asks
"Surely it isn't winter"
"Goodness me, have I said that out aloud?"
"I take it back!"
"Kindly continue with your exams"
But no matter, nothing was the same.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 7:43 AM UTC
If we were the kind of friends who unironically
raised our glasses in toasts,
I would give one to the generation too comforted by the ease
of a honeybee in the plaintively nonexistent mind
of a tulip
To the generation, or at least its subset
that wrongly feels representative, who stumble drunkenly
or maybe just tiredly out of tents
to **** in the view of their friends, who are still at the fire
because the tent was too cold
To those who did raise their glasses in a toast
on New Year’s Eve at what felt, with the ball drop
not screening in luddite protest, enough like midnight.
Beginning with “dear friends” and a couple laughs;
concluding with “now let’s get ****** up” and
a couple more
To those who proceeded
as directed, clinking their shot-glasses
and swigging them back. If only because
they were not tulips.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
A delicate heart held in a shaking hand.
Pain.
Sorrow.
Joy.
Love.
I feel deeply; feel everything.
With what you are holding.
Don't close your eyes.
Don't give up.
Stay strong.
Please be careful.
Tender touches, fingers softly stroking my cheek.
Quiet laughter in the morning.
Turning over between warm sheets to see your sleeping face.
So peaceful. So vulnerable.
Leave your guard down for me.
I'm not like them.
I care.
Feet sliding against each other underneath the old oak kitchen table.
Spoons clinking against cereal bowls.
Tired eyes happily wrinkled as the morning sun finds its way in the window.
Warmth, happiness, acceptance.
Don't take it away.
Don't drop what you're holding.
I can only trust so many people to hold it.
Before it falls too hard.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
i hear you
piercing the silent
clinking of champagne
glasses
with the laughter of a
thousand waterfalls
for my benefit.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
Our houses, spitting-distance close
Feet propped on railing
cold beer with fresh lime
watching robins flung in flocks
to the failing of August
Too close-- Really?
John, on his cell
is fu_king the world again
from his garage
Why not-- squeeze in pool or a dog
Lawn mowers and **** whips tune in to whine
late Friday afternoon 'bout dinner time
Clinking silver, scrapes of plates
Running water for suds
through open windows to the thunk of pots
Doors bang behind on pathway to garbage
or joint in the woods
wafting over all
wordless squeals of delight from autistic child
Meanwhile, the odor of nail polish removes
all doubts of--
--Gawd!
lodging low and toxic
as the sun dissolves orange
in its acetone setting
Kids playing Man Hunt as darkness falls
Leaping hedges, slamming gates
No yards can contain these kinetics
restless legs, furtive minds
Muttering wind chimes
from four different porches
above the drone of highway
a half mile yawns
Pieces of talk
flipping the crickets
over--
Why or who or at what time?
Other-worldly glow from The Mall
dims stars
outlines mountains
brightens the horizon behind
Mosquitoes coming in for a landing
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
Molten glass molded Into a perfect circle,
Tinted with the shades of twilight;
- Lustrous lilac, blushing pink and pastel purple -
Embellished with shimmering stars, stolen from
the night
I gently slide them on my fragile wrist
reminiscing what he had once promised;
Like the roundness of these graceful bangles,
His love for me shall remain endless
They've heard me pray to the
Almighty
they've been kissed by the tears I've cried
Their clinking and jingling have always soothed
me
calling out his name when my eyes had dried.
A girls best friend may be diamonds
mine are these precious bangles
They've been the voice of my silent lips
And twirled at the touch of my fingertips
Sitting in a bangle box, waiting for me patiently
They will greet me again, merrily.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 7:05 AM UTC
You were just a boy,
Only a few years
younger than me.
I, too, was only a girl,
but one who wanted to be
a woman much too quickly.
Except we didn’t meet,
Because you found me
surrounded by sleep.
You had no need to shake my hand
Or learn my name. Just a body,
in the shape of your needs.
When I was a child,
younger of a child
Than when you came
Across me, I thought
Satan haunted me
and kept me from sleep.
That night, where you had
told others we'd met,
I thought Satan himself
had found me again.
Drunk on youth and whisky,
asleep in a stranger's bed,
I realized that Satan's
only a child's fever dreams,
or, sometimes instead,
a teenage boy,
clinking his belt,
invading my sleep.
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 6:13 PM UTC
Sometimes it is, poor Sylvia,
that we cannot find the answers. They're
not to be found clinking about in the stars,
blowing about in the August wind,
or blooming among the tea flowers, no matter
how scented. No charlatan soothsayer discerns.
No pull of the cards deciphers. If answers come
at all they'll be found deep within yourself, only.
Don't we all prove that countless, wretched
times? But know this, dear Sylvia, even though it's too
late for your sanity and your life, your daddy didn't
die because of you, for you, by you. Death simply
drew the line and pulled him across.
What were you to do when life puzzled you
to the limit, when all poems disappointed,
when the ink failed to flow smoothly,
the pen tore at the paper and the paper
turned to ash before a line could be written down?
What to do when your child's smile failed to ignite
motherhood, when Daddy's image floated in and out, when
emotional pain dragged you terrified under its
black cerement, that cold, wet, smothering grave cloth?
Fear, oh my God, fear, and the doubt that you had,
the whirling about of a shattered mind, bouncing
from this trap to the other - your muted, stifled inner
screams unheard, or worse, unexpressed. Yes,
you found a solution, poor Sylvia, but suicide
doesn't always equate with an answer. You found a
sad poem, a dirge to be exact, something that moves
us, but there is no rhyme to it and the ending is an
enigma, a great puzzle yet to be invoked, understood.
----
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
your ears were by far your best feature
they could deflect all my nervous trifles and absorb the jokes no one else got, the confessions I whispered through the phone, and the significance of being on the other end
(please remember)
I am not compiling a list of clichés with which to barricade the door when loneliness knocks
This is not a love song,
so please don’t use those ears to search for one
those ears were second only to your tongue
it possessed the unique ability to mold sound into exactly what I needed to believe
the confessions it sculpted
and glazed with calculated vulnerability fit so comfortably in my ear
that tongue was a love song and a mace rolled into one
(please remember)
not to use it to sing my praises, and I’ll grant you the same courtesy
your feet are so beautiful, too
the elegance with which they propelled you into someone else’s day dreams was inspired
with a screech, your tires left me reveling in exhaust
the fumes choking me, I never got a chance to say
that coffee from the place you used to-
we
used to like
is bitter now
it tastes the way goodbye did as it rolled off my tongue and chased your retreating back
I add more sugar
but the clinking of the spoon echoes the “I love yous” whispered to someone else
the sound fits in her ear the way your hand used to fit in mine
the spaces between my fingers now resemble apartments whose tenants have been evicted
the landlord hardened by rejection wears a coat sewn from the time and wears a mustache curled into the shape of desire
these lonely flats are plagued with shadows
(that’s what happens when the sun is so **** close you can taste it, but there’s something else in the way)
(please remember)
this is not a love story
(please remember)
I don’t want you back
I want coffee that won’t stain my smile
I want my favorite songs not to be harmonized by the sound of your breathing
I want my posture not to sing a Taylor Swift song and
I desperately want not to be the girl writing you poetry
(the kind that you would never listen to anyway)
your ears were by far your best feature
everything else is blurry to me now
I can’t picture your edges anymore, or differentiate where they separate from mine
Your ears were second only to your tongue
Your feet are so beautiful, too
With a screech, your tires left me reveling in exhaust
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
Dreams are made of chocolate huts
With burgundy windows, cherry **** doors
Sweet icing on cream layered roofs
Almond -walnut -caramel floors
Dreams are made of iris and jasmine
Jacarandas lined in purple rows
Tree blossoms in clustered cobs
Petals that dance like a ballerina's toes
Dreams are made of fern green forests
Oakwood trees that cast a spell
A gossamer web of magic and charm
The music of clinking coins in a wishing well
Dreams are made of cerulean skies
Contrails of clouds in ivory snow
Violet mystic misty mountains
A tangerine orb riding a rainbow
Dreams are made of romance laced nights
A golden peach vanilla moon
Venus lighting, igniting,love's fire
The silhouette of love in rain soaked June
Dreams are made of turquoise seas
Calm waters stroked by gentle waves
Or enticed by the charm of a midsummer night
Waters that heavenly Cynthia craves
Dreams are made of silk and satin
Dappled with reds, greens and blues
But the dreams that I love to dream the most
Are all the dreams made of you
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
As a child I dabbled in ******
No barbie was safe from the hands of their god
Ran hills caked to the toe
Roughed terrain with neighborhood boys
They called me girl
But I felt boy
Upon later years I learned:
Dress
Skirt
Bra
Flower
Amenities accustomed to this body;
A bustling street of hormones without a
red light
Next were *******
Wild & rambling, I soon
Mastered the art of shrinking
I kissed my first boy & felt it rattle through my bones
His hair an ocean in my hands as I rose up
to the surface
Later I discovered the shared experience of Woman,
Shifting about the world as a silly metaphor
Carved fingers into mace & metal
Ankles clinking busily on a subway platform
In learning to fight
The young boy dwindled into memory and
I couldn’t sense shape anymore
Fell in and out of love with woman and man alike,
Sinking deep into salt & sand
These days I can’t help but wonder if
attraction is a mode of defense
Or that of love
These days I run hills in heels
Caked to the toe in color
--
c
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
There was no knight to rescue me
that night - just a gentle breeze, whispering the secrets of the earth
The cheering of cheery companions taunt me -
Go and join in, have some fun
The night is sweet, the night is young
Empty glass bottles fill the house,
Not yet shattered, but waiting to be
The clinking of alcoholic beverages between each merry soul
Good to see you again my friend,
Good to see you again
Somehow, some thing is missing
Something isn't right
The gentle hum of the party's vibes as it swings into life
distracts me from my sole intention:
Keep a low cover, don't make any noise
Keep a low cover, stay away from the boys.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
The tangible entity of consciousness is fleeting
Scene:
A elegant party but not quite extravagant
Clinking wine glasses echo through transparent walls
Twenty-two hundred lulls over the city like that of a shadow
This isn’t an ungodly hour nor is this a typical night
It starts when She enters in a red gown that elongates her figure
A pianist smirks in the corner — a grin that’s almost sinister
The clinking of wine glasses abruptly stops when its replacement of grim notes fills the glass house
The attendants still seem cheerful
(How peculiar?)
A stranger pulls her into a waltz but his eyes look hauntingly familiar
Unbenounced to her, He too dances with a stranger
Both on separate sides of the glass room
Both dancing with the unknown
Yet each pair seems to recognize some prominent feature
Nostalgic for what has never been
(How do you preserve a memory in reality?)
Through the glass house mirrors sit in obscure angles
One could see that within each reflection He and She were projected into the other room
Each glance towards the mirrors posed no questions
For both pairs seemed identical
Now their lives may have been content in accepting this dance with a “stranger” I suppose
But that was not the plan of this party
For guests grew tired of sipping on Beaujolais and listening to solem tunes
The pianist presented a different song, more lively yet equally eerie
Their feet paced with the new rhythm which called for a spin
(An act as dramatic as such was only proper for the scene)
With a grand gesture She turns, finally seeing the glass barriers
And for the first time that night He and She were face to face
A perfect dilemma to entertain an audience
In a frenzy She tried to speak
“I love you”
“I love you”
“I love you”
But each plea for affection deemed futile
For the grin on His face became that of the pianist
Her emotions were a downward spiral of gray shaded confusion
And with a sinister laugh He (or he) smashed the glass, shredding all source of reality
He was the hallucinogen and She was angry at him for making Her feel
And each guest cheered “bravo” demanding an encore
But this tragedy, dear friends, has come to the end
She’ll never know how the stars look where he is
(Is such a loss truly a loss?)
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 12:11 AM UTC
Another copycat,don't do that it's all been done before and one more pretender shown the door,
swing out
swing in and another cat comes ring a ding, ding.
I need uniqueness
I want to feed on the sweetness of novelty,there seems to be less and less of that deliciousness and not much of that newness I can claim for my own,
I think I'm fading into the woodwork,full of knots and gnarlings and look at me darlings as I disappear.
No copycat here,
this is a first time,straight from the bread line into a basket case and how can I possibly face that which is new?
New is getting fewer and the few who do new don't know and never knew what few could be in this land of lots and plenty for me.
I was told that old is the new folding currency and that doesn't suit me,too many wrinkles,too many nooks and nannies with crooks,like little Bo-Peep,I wish they'd all sleep,
there is time for the sheep to try on for size,oh my dear Lion what gigantic eyes,
is that a bit new or just me cooking stew?
A copycat like folding currency folds flat and I'm having none of that,I like the chinking and clinking of real gold and that don't fold.
So beware if you share and don't credit the writer,who with meagreness in his pockets pulls his belt a bit tighter,one more notch he can't feel,,one more meal never felt in his gut,but
copycat see,copycat do,copycat never think anything new.
What are you?
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 5:13 AM UTC
The red-capped Cock-Man has just announced morning;
The Keeper of the Robes brings Jade-Cloud Furs;
Heaven's nine doors reveal the palace and its courtyards;
And the coats of many countries bow to the Pearl Crown.
Sunshine has entered the giants' carven palms;
Incense wreathes the Dragon Robe:
The audience adjourns-and the five-coloured edict
Sets girdle-beads clinking toward the Lake of the Phoenix.
3k
Glistening crowds shuffle in detached cadence
Sweating long necks on a production conveyer
The boardwalk
Pungent saltwater and fried dough coalesce
Ocean meets carnival
Teen screams and seagull shrieks
A multitude of color variation
Red to black
A scent of Coppertone and Noxzema
To ease the pain of the vain and pale
Summer at Happy Hampton Beach
Arcade upon arcade
Clinking bells and whirly sounds
“You're a Winner!”, the mechanical voice screams
Summer fades as do the summer flings, until next year
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
Jordan gave me rose quartz prayer beads. Freddy picked me up and spun me around.
I kissed the beads and kissed my hand and blew it to the stars, over and over again.
Thank you universe, for the kind hearted people you have dropped into my existence.
Thank you universe, for the good music, the good **** good wine, and good company.
Thank you, for the smiles, the laughs, the cigarettes, the numbers given out on backs of receipts.
Thank you for the swing sets, the campfires, the coffee and tea, the cars we drive around in.
Thank you for emotions.
Thank you for the feeling I get when someone kisses my forehead,
the feeling when someone compliments my smile,
the feeling when I notice the moon for the first time that evening.
Thank you, for the moon, the stars, the clouds, and the autumn breeze.
Thank you for the sounds, the crickets, the leaves rustling, the clinking glasses,
and the sound of small kisses.
Thank you for the snort I get when I laugh to hard.
Thank you for the bass, the guitar, the drums.
Thank you for the shouts, the soft spoken, the loud, and the whispers.
Thank you for the doors, the staircases, and the windows.
Thank you for everything that ever was, is, and will be.
Thank you for the indefiniteness of the now.
Thank you for everything.
I once read in a book, that the likelihood of our proteins folding just so to make us what we are is comparable to that of a twister rolling through a junkyard and assembling a jumbo jet.
This is something I like to remind myself daily.
It is so miraculous that we are here today to experience everything and everyone around us, and be able to document and share it.
I hope one day someone can look at my photographs and writings and feel these immense and overwhelming emotions that I feel in these moments.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
Mariana in the Moated Grange
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
3k
I only hear the chain clinking
under the endlessly spinning fan
& this continuous buzzing in my head.
I only see the light of my screen,
surrounded by the pitch of my room
& the veil of my solitude that covers me.
I only smell your memory in my mind,
of what once was really incredible
& what could have been so much greater.
I only touch myself privately,
the way you always did tenderly
& it's not nearly as good as you always did.
I only taste the abundant saline-drops
that carve deep lines down my sad face
& I know the flavor of loneliness,
remain starved for your affections.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 5:02 AM UTC
Friends, family, foes, and those of woe,
I invite you to dance this delicate tango with me,
right on the line of reality and fantasy.
It is here, that,
I invite you to the mad tea party.
Now, let us get one or two,
three or four,
maybe ten, one hundred, zero things straight,
you are not to be late to the mad tea party,
you are to set your time straight and do not stray,
but rather show up without delay at the time that serves your mental estate,
at a time that feels right with your bones,
now, now don't miss that time and don't be late.
We are of strict dress code here at the mad tea party.
You are not to wear what you saw on him and she and her and we unless it is of,
suitable expression to your situation,
you are to dress accordingly with your mentality,
nothing else will pass the test.
You are to act accordingly.
Do not laugh when not appropriate, and sit up straight when your spine tells you.
Do not speak when your mind is forced to be spoken.
Now, have we all straight.
I cordially invite you to the mad tea party.
Where we dine and wine and tell tales of time,
and rejoice on the words those delicately spoke,
and dance on the lines theatrically strewn across the room,
and sail across every last tale from you and he and yeah her over there too.
I invite you to the mad tea party.
I invite you tell of when you first saw the earth breath,
when the trees and the leaves set to dancing,
when you first heard the wind laugh at your grin,
and when the raindrops ran fearfully from the erupting sky.
I demand of you to tell nothing but that of truth,
and watch as the molecules in the air take to vibrating.
Take notice to musical clinking of the entities amidst you,
and take pride in the gentle stride of the clouds overhead.
Did you notice the flowers laughing at you,
in between the birth, death and rebirth in accordance with the sun?
Did you notice the flowers pull in their petals as they shyed from your step?
Take notice to the music and laughter around you at the mad tea party,
take great care with the feelings floating about the air, vulnerably buzzing from mind to mind,
before their decline and descent to rest their heads.
You see, it is here at the great mad tea party,
that we do not devoid you of the ability to do as your energy demands,
with the issues of time and dress and proper behavior.
It is here that we tend to focus on the earth and the breathing of the molecules and atoms around you,
it is here that we go mad.
and it is here that I cordially invite you,
but before you make your reservation, please eliminate all hesitation.
You see the mad tea party is not readily accepted,
by the constraints of society and the binds of reality.
You see the mad tea party is misconstrued by masses more than just a few.
Those who long buried their soul look down on the guests,
for they are different than the rest, in that, they're welcoming,
into their soul the ability to go mad which is taught to be bad.
So before you make your reservation be inexplicably sure,
that you are in fact,
ready, for the mad tea party.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
it was like waking up to all white fume
or a long washline — masturbatory, feeling something stiff like a hand gliding
over a monsoon of emotions, the affect
jazz and the crunch of fragrance
forever like sandalwood;
on my way to Dumandan, i conjure an inward miasma of thrill, unfurled yesterday, today, or was it before when our eyes were fixated on the passing of things in myriad ways without any relevance to what has died, say wilted,
like a flower going away in closing seasons,
children in hurtling speeds at twilight,
gates welcoming a resounding sound of
rusting hinges,
slow rise of night, its vertical climb,
shadows collapsing on the Hibiscus
and the Poinsettia from the Cordillera,
dreary men taking out ******* throwing
them into metalloid beasts, verdigris
painted, grisly caravan of steel and
worthless scraps —
past neighborhoods thinking about
the simmer of onion and the hustle of
the feral over rooftops, clinking wine bottles undulating full to empty — both
unaware of acumen and only dizzying
ourselves mirroring each other eye
to eye and bridging this unclose-enough
a gap in between,
because you need it,
and i want it, or simply in reverse,
a sidewinding thought through dunes
of afterthought.
because you have to walk my side
of the Earth and I have to meet you
somewhere halfway where we can both
lounge at each other's steady presence
while the flyblown dry air ravishes
the piquant morning, all-telling what
this distance meant from its
peak up to the very last
traceable steps where i found you
and you found me, trilling in the neighborhood like how void
stills itself into all the mood of the Earth:
all moony and
fretting in the disquiet.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
You know that feeling after you've downed a drink when you find youself breathing a little quicker
That's how it is being with you.
I'm drowning at the bottom of your glass, always gasping, breathless
Struggling for air after another swig of your emotion
But you're still oblivious, clinking your glass under the false pretense of giving Cheers
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
Joe wants to know
how'm I doing?
an innocuous query,
little can he know,
bye bye is my merry,
marooned on a skerry,
noxious fumes in the aerie,
currently inhabiting my foreheady,
worry waves, rolling thunderous tides,
have myself beside
thus the answer to your toll,
something bad, on me, got a hold
Joe,
life is,
more than a tad
concerting
concerting?
surely you meant
converging, or perhaps,
concatenating, or concaving?
discombobulating, or more likely,
plain ole disconcerting?
indeed, all of the above,
fit like a glove,
but best combinated in steaming mug of
concerting
"to contrive or arrange by agreement: to plan; devise"
the world is secret contriving,
the world is secret devising,
a plan for my demising,
forces are concerting re me...
most concerning,
as trends converging,
concave hollow chains clinking,
a concatenating chorus
voicing their displeasure,
at my happy existence,
which now gone,
its loss, wept for, in great measure
life dissing me, in a manner
concerting and dis-concerting,
my composure,
decomposing,
the ides of depression,
hip hop discombob-
(undu)lating throb
but then again,
what's in a word,
what's in a rhyme,
jes that old timey R&B;,
rhyming and blues,
of a verbal kind
so, Joe, how'm I doing?
now that you are knowing,
as men of distinguished letters,
students of history,
part time poets,
Your Reply
must only be:
"Oh no, Natty,
say it ain't so"
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 5:03 AM UTC
It would tie your brain up in a knot,
the clink of glasses on the barman's grate,
and the tones of creaky Dublin croaking,
In darkness, mourning the death, of the daytime light.
It would I say, to grasp the slender neck,
and to lift it, smiling, glancing beyond the glass,
at winking eyes and clinking pints of plain,
My brain is in a knot, when I think of you.
I held you on the banks, of the royal canal,
knew then what all the bards and lovers mean,
say it was the light reflected in their eye,
I never did hear tell, of eyes to rival glass
Yet confound revealing daytime light,
you are liquid of the night, stout and dark,
rebuke me not, till your own brain too,
Has been left in knots, by the dark slender boy.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC