"cloy" poems
My eyes search
the navy air
but are unable to
depict the
soft features of the rabbits
loping tentatively
through patchy glebe.
I wish it was spring with
bright white fruits.
Just ripe.
Not summer, because
in the summer we cloy
under the fat cream trees.
I want to see you,
and the wild hares,
but the twilight's
hiding
its secrets from us.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
Well then; I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne’er agree.
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does of all meats the soonest cloy;
And they (methinks) deserve my pity
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings
Of this great hive, the city.
Ah, yet, ere I descend to th’ grave
May I a small house and large garden have!
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!
And since love ne’er will from me flee,
A mistress moderately fair,
And good as guardian angels are,
Only belov’d, and loving me.
O fountains! when in you shall I
Myself eas’d of unpeaceful thoughts espy?
O fields! O woods! when shall I be made
The happy tenant of your shade?
Here’s the spring-head of Pleasure’s flood:
Here’s wealthy Nature’s treasury,
Where all the riches lie that she
Has coin’d and stamp’d for good.
Pride and ambition here
Only in far-fetch’d metaphors appear;
Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,
And nought but Echo flatter.
The gods, when they descended, hither
From heaven did always choose their way:
And therefore we may boldly say
That ’tis the way too thither.
How happy here should I
And one dear she live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.
I should have then this only fear:
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me,
And so make a city here.
2.8k
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden ****
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
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525
I think the Hemlock likes to stand
Upon a Marge of Snow—
It suits his own Austerity—
And satisfies an awe
That men, must slake in Wilderness—
And in the Desert—cloy—
An instinct for the **** the Bald—
Lapland’s—necessity—
The Hemlock’s nature thrives—on cold—
The Gnash of Northern winds
Is sweetest nutriment—to him—
His best Norwegian Wines—
To satin Races—he is nought—
But Children on the Don,
Beneath his Tabernacles, play,
And Dnieper Wrestlers, run.
2.8k
Bait, cast, reel me in.
In to your trap.
Flatter, flirt, tie me up.
Up around your finger.
Push, pull, make me succumb.
Succumb to your will.
Shove, coerce, force me to feel.
Feel things I did not ask for.
Jade, cloy, leave me in secret.
Secret love for another.
Resign, decamp, abandon me.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
I presse not to the Quire, nor dare I greet
The holy Place with my unhallow’d feet:
My unwasht Muse pollutes not things Divine,
Nor mingles her prophaner notes with thine;
Here, humbly at the Porch, she listning stayes,
And with glad eares ***** in thy Sacred Layes.
So, devout Penitents of old were wont,
Some without doore, and some beneath the Font,
To stand and heare the Churches Liturgies,
Yet not assist the solemne Exercise.
Sufficeth her, that she a Lay-place gaine,
To trim thy Vestments, or but beare thy traine:
Though nor in Tune, nor Wing, She reach thy Larke,
Her Lyricke feet may dance before the Arke.
Who knowes, but that Her wandring eyes, that run
Now hunting Glow-wormes, may adore the Sun.
A pure Flame may, shot by Almighty Power
Into my brest, the earthy flame devoure:
My Eyes, in Penitentiall dew may steepe
That bryne, which they for sensuall love did weepe:
So (though ‘gainst Natures course) fire may be quencht
With fire, and water be with water drencht.
Perhaps, my restlesse Soule, tyr’d with pursuit
Of mortall beautie, seeking without fruit
Contentment there; which hath not, when enjoy’d,
Quencht all her thirst, nor satisfi’d, though cloy’d;
Weary of her vaine search below, above
In the first Faire may find th’ immortall Love.
Prompted by thy Example then, no more
In moulds of Clay will I my God adore;
But teare those Idols from my Heart, and Write
What his blest Sp’rit, not fond Love, shall endite.
Then, I no more shall court the Verdant Bay,
But the dry leavelesse Trunk on Golgotha:
And rather strive to gaine from thence one Thorne,
Then all the flourishing Wreathes by Laureats worne.
2.3k
\\\\\\\\\\___------/////////
Sitting in the blue-grey stillness
Of my bathroom
Temperature set to make a perfect
balance
between hot and cold.
Except I am leaning on the cold side,
Prickly hairs.
Porcelain bowls,
cupids, angels,
catholic saints,
preasthood,
Angelic ivory
white
toilet bowl
Stained with our animal ****
Over time creating cracks
Of filthy streaks
Just like
how humans carve into
the Earth,
Denying our birth,
Killing our worth,
By overstuffing
our girth
To hide our
true nature.
Ivory bowl
I have just released my blood to you
Blood of my ancestors
Sacred blood
Blood pasted down
in this lineage.
Deep, deep
womb blood
Blood of mistakes.
Blood of stupid conversations and lies
I lived.
Blood of my dear dear
Precious baby
Blood of shame
Further ingrained
Into this white ivory
perfection.
Blood of the savage within me
Crying to break out
While I stand stout
And pull my bow
Tighter and tighter
Sharpen the peaks
Of my fake smile.
I'm happy
I'm happy
I'm normal, normal,
Normal!!!
While inside drums cry
To be beaten
Battles rage on
in explosive contemplation
My bodies ovulation
Of fertile
Formation
....
Then the immunization
..
I try to move to the beat of the nation
But it's a boring station
Feeling my souls frustration
With this numbing radiation.
The baby in my body wails
I am NOT(!!!!)
To be born
To a ship that
fails
The sails.
I am sitting on this
Cloy toilet bowl,
a mirage of all that's wrong
Ring wrought
Fought
rung wrong
Throughout me.
I've been living so long
Killing my song
Killing my dear
Sweet, sweet baby
Hiding demons behind flesh
An obsess
to hide the less
Only ever the best
The best, best,
Best, Best!!
And now I sit,
In porcelain stillness
A full release of the wild woman
woven deep in my bones and blood
Now I sit
Smothering myself
in the mud
I was born in.
Once too ashamed to accept the actuality
of this physical form.
Now I sit
In the silence after
The storm.
Miscarriages, miconceptions
Flopped contraceptions
Illusions, lost directions
Miscarriage means:
a foiled outcome
Of something planned,
Lost dreams,
So strongly bound
Into my bone.
Now I'm feeling
Alone.
They say you must be empty to be free...
Pulling the scattered pieces
Off of the wall
Reshaping after
The fall
Courage. Courage.Courage
COURAGE!!!!
Courageous heart
How I let you fall apart
I'm here
I'm now
I'm ready
to grow
Run free
run strong
And let blossom
The seeds
you sow.
--thank you--
.. sweet blood..
.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 1:21 AM UTC
Lord God that dost me save and keep,
All day to thee I cry;
And all night long, before thee weep
Before thee prostrate lie.
Into thy presence let my praier
With sighs devout ascend
And to my cries, that ceaseless are,
Thine ear with favour bend.
For cloy’d with woes and trouble store
Surcharg’d my Soul doth lie,
My life at death’s uncherful dore
Unto the grave draws nigh.
Reck’n'd I am with them that pass
Down to the dismal pit
I am a *man, but weak alas * Heb. A man without manly
And for that name unfit. strength.
From life discharg’d and parted quite
Among the dead to sleep
And like the slain in ****** fight
That in the grave lie deep.
Whom thou rememberest no more,
Dost never more regard,
Them from thy hand deliver’d o’re
Deaths hideous house hath barr’d.
Thou in the lowest pit profound’
Hast set me all forlorn,
Where thickest darkness hovers round,
In horrid deeps to mourn.
Thy wrath from which no shelter saves
Full sore doth press on me;
*Thou break’st upon me all thy waves, *The Heb.
*And all thy waves break me bears both.
Thou dost my friends from me estrange,
And mak’st me odious,
Me to them odious, for they change,
And I here pent up thus.
Through sorrow, and affliction great
Mine eye grows dim and dead,
Lord all the day I thee entreat,
My hands to thee I spread.
Wilt thou do wonders on the dead,
Shall the deceas’d arise
And praise thee from their loathsom bed
With pale and hollow eyes ?
Shall they thy loving kindness tell
On whom the grave hath hold,
Or they who in perdition dwell
Thy faithfulness unfold?
In darkness can thy mighty hand
Or wondrous acts be known,
Thy justice in the gloomy land
Of dark oblivion?
But I to thee O Lord do cry
E’re yet my life be spent,
And up to thee my praier doth hie
Each morn, and thee prevent.
Why wilt thou Lord my soul forsake,
And hide thy face from me,
That am already bruis’d, and *shake *Heb. Prae Concussione.
With terror sent from thee;
Bruz’d, and afflicted and so low
As ready to expire,
While I thy terrors undergo
Astonish’d with thine ire.
Thy fierce wrath over me doth flow
Thy threatnings cut me through.
All day they round about me go,
Like waves they me persue.
Lover and friend thou hast remov’d
And sever’d from me far.
They fly me now whom I have lov’d,
And as in darkness are.
1.9k
Aug. 10. 1653.
Answer me when I call
God of my righteousness;
In straights and in distress
Thou didst me disinthrall
And set at large; now spare,
Now pity me, and hear my earnest prai’r.
Great ones how long will ye
My glory have in scorn
How long be thus forlorn
Still to love vanity,
To love, to seek, to prize
Things false and vain and nothing else but lies?
Yet know the Lord hath chose
Chose to himself a part
The good and meek of heart
(For whom to chuse he knows)
Jehovah from on high
Will hear my voyce what time to him I crie.
Be aw’d, and do not sin,
Speak to your hearts alone,
Upon your beds, each one,
And be at peace within.
Offer the offerings just
Of righteousness and in Jehovah trust.
Many there be that say
Who yet will shew us good?
Talking like this worlds brood;
But Lord, thus let me pray,
On us lift up the light
Lift up the favour of thy count’nance bright.
Into my heart more joy
And gladness thou hast put
Then when a year of glut
Their stores doth over-cloy
And from their plenteous grounds
With vast increase their corn and wine abounds.
In peace at once will I
Both lay me down and sleep
For thou alone dost keep
Me safe where ere I lie
As in a rocky Cell
Thou Lord alone in safety mak’st me dwell.
1.4k
Taking our place in the rainbow world
our wandering concern will fall on love
and with shaking hands we survey the prize
we hope that life will render.
The passionate kind
filled with pounding blood and sighing breath
tight and sharp and quick
caring not for time or place.
The cold kind
with eyes of white fire and lofty mien
protective, stern and strong
given freely and broken never.
The fierce, angry kind
glassy and bright
that breaks into beautiful shining pieces
and glories in the pain of its destruction.
The soft and yielding kind
brimming with warmth and constancy
giving comfort without cloy and light without glare
and asking nothing.
That we choose is ours and ours alone
and our fate we freely hold
until another's gift we enviously eye
and see that choice can have its edge.
Mar 2, 2010
Mar 2, 2010 at 5:57 AM UTC
Today
I Dreamed
That I was sitting with her by a small, rectangle pond
And I was talking to her.
And as she cooled, and sweetly, expectantly, almost apologetically, changed the subject,
I loosened my hair, and began to pull from the pond as it began to cloy and foamed
Handfuls, upon handfuls
Of knotted, used hair bands.
From all the times I had sat there before
And talked to her
About you.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
blood of the covenant,
thicker than the water of the womb.
pale and paler birth want
of healthy contrast and muscles
decontracting and heartbeats
slowly slowing and freckles invent
a dance across her kiss across my lips.
she ties a celtic knot around my throat,
suffocating in a pretty way,
a pretty bruise for the pretty pale place.
if we use our naked limbs
to trace our lineage back thousands
of millions of years we find
a common ancestor or two.
i am not Adam or Eve and neither is she
able to break her tree branch bones
and fit herself into one of them,
to mold herself into the shape of a perfect
untainted human.
so we forget our roots,
we are flowers picked by
circumstance and hardship and
pale skin is not reflective. we let ourselves
recollect in
shaking breaths and ruffled hair and
ruffled feathers and loose vetements and
a whisper that tears the sheets and tapestries:
i love you.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
Knees quake, stagnant faces caressed
smearing red, smearing salt across painted dress.
Some eyes barren, some eyes gone,
stomachs lurched and stomachs drawn.
Mountains with their moss play bed to fallen boys,
to their wasted lungs powder does still cloy.
Rivers play mother’s cool arms
washing way the mess of harm.
Within in the field are stepping stones of flesh,
made colored canvas with wounds still fresh.
These boys have died a thousand deaths
a thousand different ways
sometimes several thousand a day
losing each and every choke of air.
All morning rebirth is an unlucky fate,
for fellow friend’s faces freeze
mid-word
mid-breath
mid-life.
Their warm splatter upon your skin,
a hole in their head you were yours.
And these bullets, these bayonets
are bombarded on you,
on your boys
by your brothers.
Who you have loved.
Who you have touched.
With whom you have sung your song.
These boys
Are not fighting for cause or crime
or love
or what heats the mind.
You fight.
You die.
Your bodies are reborn.
You bleed
for those seeming Caesars
for those napping Napoleons
who dust powdered sugar off their
plump lips and
canter over each cobblestone as if it were a country.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
We rarely go drunk, or perhaps that is I, when I told Marc that all people are nearly up on exits
and barely exists now is feeling – he started swinging a running joke between the two of us
facing the planetesimal – lights their strobes of secret I am on my 7th beer and still nothing
when being listened to by frantic fret of fear because indulgence is key to demise
when it is said to pull apart but didn’t, I halved the 7th beer and felt my gut cloy itself with
the muck of fat from pork rind and stale chicken
I deem myself incompetent in the slug, gild of attendance: freckled wall with dotted red,
linoleum plastered, defaced somewhat, Marc moves to Hannah and I further
the dark with my groping hands – I do not smoke inside my car.
Ortigas is unusually dull, minutes trickle slow like *** or un-sex,
whichever it may, I quickly said as I stole the mic from his hand the words I imagine
to become filled with the purpose of frayed upon exactitudes.
He always brings his knife with him and I always ask him even if I knew
that it’s somewhere in his acid-washed jeans – I have always been fascinated
by the lives made better or worse by knives. I remember Gabriel and I talking
about Holden Caufield when all we ever wanted was to fall
immensely in love with girls we chase around in sophomore year, Gabriel
I do not know where you are and listening to Radiohead now reminds me of
something strange with unwilling potential; perennial silence permeates
Ortigas and somewhere a couple is hot and *******
whereas I, asleep on my 9th beer, probably my last,
willing to give up for a laugh or some sense of place
while I hear them all
laughing in front of my parked car, poking fun at something
I can barely identify.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 12:23 AM UTC
The Black Queen of
The Hacker Scene
Blood Goth Style
And Silent Screams
Her Coding Skills
Were yet Unseen
Many were 'pwned'
By her Data Schemes
'Til she tried to crack
The Encrytion on the
Pentagons firewall
It was Her Down Fall
She got the Option
Prison Time or
Work for them
Fighting this crime
She ended up meeting
Darren who was her
Carmel Candy Joy
Their chats dripped with Cloy
She started with the FBI BAU
Cracking info and Flirts with Darren
She tracked signals world wide
Till the IP was Enprisoned
Cracking Data to Criminal Minds
What ever they ask she can find
And she's anticipated like a digital
Reader of Minds, A Fashion Fatale'
Bright pink Pigtails and
Blue Cats Eyed Glasses
With Glitter Lashes
She's a Digital Data Diva
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
Holding a red, flowing scarf
on a day of all days
when leaves dance in circles
in corners tuckered away.
Enchanting weather today
with a gathering protest of winds
against an acrylic sky, opaque blue
grasping to steal sway a streak of red.
Laughter stumbles over and down
on a night of lonely nights
to be had over lost scarves
trickled away by cloy, boiling bathwater.
Phase in blackout, flickering lamp lights
where past looks back on future
and memories shift like the earth below
in constant motion
she cries
help me.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
for we fall like moths at the strike of lighting.
and slip to earth for change.
we sit in 10 seconds of silence.
yet we never wish for years of action.
for we cry into the heavens--to God--in disarray,
false water in our glossy eyes.
for with magazines and a host,
atheists are our middle name.
knees soaked in kerosene and eyes used as ashtrays,
we are fire coated in and of itself,
for we burn midst tear-sealed lips,
and expect for the earth to revolve.
for we lay unclad together in bed,
whispering cloy gooeyness into ear canals,
and tie each other up with thorns,
for kink--we say--then you're brain has no mouth.
for we are sadomasochists,
emanating soulful breaths with heads tilted back,
at the thought of a bullet in our marrow,
and chuckle off--chuckle off lots,
at the red we draw from that hidden blade we borrowed.
they know not of what we think,
for we are madman in a cradle,
with large starry eyes, we look for inspiration--intention,
and--when asked for and found--the parents don't see those stars anymore.
for we are heartache,
and bodies with stones in our hand,
for they don't understand,
the power in corpses we seek.
for we are the heretics,
the verses in the Bible no one reads,
for when sought out and seen,
we bathe in the honeyed milk and spoil it.
for we are selfish--even if we beg not,
we are hypocrites--even if we needn't be,
we are labyrinths--even if redirected,
for we are killers and everyone knows,
all we need to do is bury our weakness 'neath the meadows.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC
Like rivers, it falls
from my cheeks the tears
this farewell, it appalls
I'm perplexed by these fears
And yet, your embrace
it brings comfort and joy
your love I cannot replace
such sweetness shall never cloy
But it is that I will miss
such lovely sways
to my heart, what bliss
but now we must go our separate ways
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 12:18 AM UTC
Twas all green, all life a lovely sheen
the things anew, all fresh--not askew
About they went, energy unspent
None foresaw, though, in their awe
the season range, the world change
Things were bright, but then the plight
of harsh fires dry, some good did die
in that they wept, but soon slept
in lovely warm, but then a storm
but soon the tempest left, and they were not bereft
A chill soon came, the sun tame
a brisk to the land, and colors all grand
twas a sight to see, they all in glee
and a feast they had, for this change was glad
sated, they didn't care, as all the trees were left bare
before they could know, then came the snow
world all in white, and moods all spite
in bitter cold, they were so bold
as to hew the trees, so they wouldn't freeze
but even so, some n'er woke, and too became smoke
But then it passed, all gone at last
the new things born, the world in green adorn
and in great joy, that could never cloy
for they knew well, without tell
that winter too soon would come, and again they'de be glum
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 11:43 AM UTC
How small of a toss
Can create such great loss
The wrong words to a boss
Showed meaning with cost
A tiny young boy
Misuses a toy
States things that are cloy
On food too much soy
An older girl rants
She needed new pants
The seeds that she plants
Itch like some red ants
You can't find your ring
Shouted words in a string
Accusations that sting
... You sat on the thing
How much did you gain
In time of long pain
Heard the howling of rain
No songs had you sang
Life gave you pleasure
Though Lacking in measure
Like clinging a tether.
Than none it was better.
How fun has dwindled.
Love that sloped downward.
Loss casts And it shadowed.
'Til no more has remained.
Loss.
Cost.
Gain.
Pain.
Pleasure.
Dwindled.
Shadowed.
Words. Lost.
mgm 1/10/2016
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC
Whether virtual or actual paths cross,
aye great thee ahoy
no fear Mademoiselle or Monsieur,
thy harried style haint cloy
rather, when embarking
on introductory acquaintance
ship, aye employ
swiftly tailored indistinguishable,
asper this wordsmith mebbe goy
or Jew, yet genealogically
thine Semitic lineage,
unknown descendants begat,
one generation after
stitched another thread,
whence warp and woof, sans dat
(moth eaten tattered wool worth
coat of arms), twas slim and/or fat
chance biologic dice throw
adumbrated me Matt,
a skinny, quirky,
and nerdy kid, who sat
alone during lunchtime
at school pained, plagued,
and pronounced with extreme,
where introversion didst agitate
chronic state of misery being alive
immobilized, hogtied, and forfeited
natural predilection
to discover and create
heterosexual relationships,
viz interpersonal experiences
re: raison to date
initial intimate rapport
(anxiety fraught) fate
full situation with a gal
giving her good grief great
(yes, twas Maryann Sage),
who understandably became irate
predicated on lack
of mine demonstrative affection
quickly becoming an unsuitable mate
though now in retrospect
(hindsight always 20/20)
a sudden resurgent spate
finds remembrance of things passed
(with her) engendering
cerebral tete a tete
rankling memories,
hence for death aye cannot wait!
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 12:54 AM UTC
Pale blue violets shimmer
Among rag-tag fungal forests.
Branches tick-tock with
Burly blow of the sky;
Forgotten blossoms from
Your failed antiquity.
The summer that once was
Is hungry for more.
Discontinue your reticence,
Only you can consume your fate.
Green will gorge on you
Despite the bitter chill.
So go, go now and
Sit amongst the campfire.
Forage for the hum-drum you forsake,
**** your soul on a marshmallow pick,
Then eat it all before the night falls.
Derelict tulip tips lay idle on the mantle,
Dangling on the precipice
Of time and the void.
Maybe I'll engage myself in a chat with Freud,
Tell him I'm envious, remorseful,
And annoyed.
Golly gosh,
Your soul tastes cloy.
Or was that the marshmallow?
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 2:43 PM UTC
Rise up with passion,
Rise up with joy.
Rise up with Love
That can never cloy.
Keep rising
Way beyond the stars:
Much further than Venus,
Well past Mars.
For Life is a Wonder,
Only lived once.
Don’t ever waste it,
Don’t be a dunce.
Let inspiration guide you
Way beyond this realm
From the shortest grass
To the tallest elm.
So Love all Life
Is What I Say
Be kind to everyone:
Try to make their day.
Show every mercy
Whenever you can
Respect all others
Woman or man.
Every Life is a freak of chance,
So play the music,
Begin the dance.
Paul Butters
© PB 21\5\2018.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 9:07 AM UTC
when just a whippersnapper
of a little boy
me late mum and octogenarian pop agreed
for doctor removal of my adenoid
less to prevent their only son
from being coy
than fear of said male heir
to the harris throne becoming an android
a less than agreeable likelihood,
especially in tandem
with predilection of goy
this fateful outcome unfazed,
this now green giant, not the least bit annoyed
as captain crunch (before childhood didst end
i.e. distend into middle age)
beckoned yours truly with “A HOY”
horrified that my parents would be so blithe
to steer their son clear to avoid
psychotic outcome to deliver obliviousness,
and thus bring inner joy
so, they sent their peculiar male progeny
believing himself to be Pink Floyd
who found himself evicted desperately,
and in sore need of gainful m ploy
so he began his therapy in orifice
er office of Sigmund Freud
who bore a striking resemblance
to a wooden pecked prickly shaped toy
(a pickle iz just a pickle)
this mental analysis delved into past –
outcome I felt less than overjoyed
despite boss be addressed as Oedipus,
and pay verbal homage that did cloy
dredging layered past devoid
of love, yet flush with fallacious
prevaricated abuse from mister Lloyd
Lavinsky, a demon of a grade school bully
forsooth sanity he destroyed!
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 2:55 AM UTC