"cocksure" poems
...seeing purse dressed, flowery-folds,
knows the pleasure, -heaven holds.
Standing proud, -cocksure his breast,
exhausted her, laugh-ter, -nothing left.
Weakly submissive, exhilarated now pressed,
emboldened by she, guardedly bereft...
No strawberry, cakes, honey, grape,
you know what's coming;
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
Once I knew a spider
wore Doc Martens on his feet,
eight holes on eight hairy legs
he wasn't too discrete.
He rode a lengthy shadow
while he stomped around the floor
this micro “muy macho”
unabashedly cocksure
I trapped him in a glass one night
And told him at the door
“My wife she doesn't like you
don’t you come around no more”
But spiders rarely listen
and ignoring my request
next evening he returned once more
our octo-booted guest
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
It’s the early morning that does it for me
I don’t mean to seek it
But I am sought in these quiet empty-full hours -
All or nothing out-with-the-bath-water seclusion.
(Delusions of liqueur
cocksure
Every flavor of azure)
Oh god what I would give to extend the great expanse of 4am, ribbon slick and taut as a ******
And me, warm and creative.
It’s the early morning that does it for me
I’m staying up with a song.
-Call-
Respond
Eyes and lips and abandoned ships
Mirages of **** below long, fluted throats
Gliding between notes
and me too
Ready to drown you.
(It’s the early morning that does it for me)
As you give yourself over to the caresses of the mistress
and dream of flying over perfect fields of wheat
and then land
and then wake
≈furrowed≈
disappointed to find
a cold pillow where a head should be asleep
I release my held breath and meet you
Half way
I was singing
I say
And collapse in a heap
Wet hair
Bare feet
It’s dawning and day
Closing my eyes
Sunset at sunrise
Holding onto a secret key
I dream of the sea
Nov 6, 2021
Nov 6, 2021 at 4:43 AM UTC
When we see what some people are dishing out,
we know what Bertrand Russell was talking about:
"The stupid are cocksure, the intelligent full of doubt."
When you meet someone who thinks he's clever,
but seems much too confident in his endeavour,
and talks to you non stop and forever and ever.
When he acts like a prophet defying convention,
never admitting a lack of comprehension,
promptly has a cure for everything you mention.
When he hands out his advice on a silver platter
convincing you that his opinions matter,
you can be certain, he's as mad as a hatter.
Jul 14, 2021
Jul 14, 2021 at 3:53 AM UTC
When in the pasture
They don't offend;
We avert disaster,
When they're penned.
But that crusted crap
Is everywhere;
If not aware,
We step right in.
We'll scrape the pooh
To no avail,
The smell's
Stuck to our shoes.
We can't quell
The **** we're in.
There's one steaming
On my walk,
Leading to my door.
Leave your keys
When you leave,
That patty leads
To court.
The Internet's beset
With bullish threats;
Hard to miss
The patties here;
Our lives and much
That we hold dear,
Is shared and smeared
For all to read,
Milking us of privacy;
An abattoir,
It's piracy.
It's utterly insane.
They entice us,
Then enlist us,
Like leading
Cash cows
Down the lane;
Then tap
For one drop more.
Friends may offer
Cow pies
With an aromaticfluence;
They pressure you to choose:
Step right or left,
Then smear you with
Their cocksure ********
What enemy
Could do less?
Shopped pixelled patties
Are reprehensible,
Making one
So susceptible:
You *****
Then starve,
Then lose your hair
Until one day
You disappear.
We get caught up
In the flash,
Of all the stars
And fast cash,
But they have patties
Underfoot,
They slip and slide,
Get clean,
Then smirk.
We can smell'em
On those jerks.
There's a patty
At your boyfriend's place;
You're deep in it
If you're late.
There's a patty
At your girlfriend's place,
And you're deep in it
If she's late.
Some patties
Are so well disguised
In the colours
Of lover's eyes.
Intoned in lover's lures.
But step in it,
They call you *****
Some patties
Are good
At getting you high,
But one mis-step,
And you may die.
There's hidden patties
Lying within,
Crusted beneath
Veneered skin:
They waft with doubt,
Fear and longing;
Side-step that mass
At all costs.
Don't crack the surface.
You're better than
You think.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
Upon a hill hopped a rabbit,
Little to knowledge of talking
He eventually picked up the habit
And finally learnt how to speak.
His first words were to a cat,
'Miss, might I say you're beautiful?'
He asked looking for a little chat.
'It's fine by me' replied with slight purrs.
'Do you mind if i sit next to you?'
Asking once again to the purring cat,
'I just want more orange, less blue'
The rabbit said with a little sigh.
'I know some don't carrot all-
And it hurts my little feelings
Because though I'm not tall
I have a heart as big as my chest'
The rabbit looked in her direction
'You sure have a large meowth' cat said,
'You sure have perfect complexion'
The rabbit replied with cocksure glee.
'You've got to be kitten me' cat snickered
Cats eyes gleamed under the light of beauty
'At least I'm not a hare in your burger' rabbit bickered-
Back and forth till their smiles shone bright.
'May I say one more thing?' bunny asked
'Yes purr sure you may' cat replied.
'No star can leave a light like your cast-
Because you are the brightest and most beautiful
star to ever lived on this Earth'.
1837–1901 Rosoideae
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
there’s a semblance
of order
in the pink eye
of the street man
(that messianic soul
caught deep
in the binary)
glancing on
with rose colored glasses
and magical spoons
skimming whimsically
(and cocksure)
dancing on the
crab grass
with his
home grown *****
and cheroot
lost in a dialogue
(complete with
wink and jest)
embracing
the day with
spontaneity and cheer
grinning profoundly
(an incomprehensible grin!)
covering a nicked
and scarred
ear to ear
summer drought
or winter rain
are indifferent
in this mind
(culling on his own terms
with a honed discretion)
pundits would say
that he spoke
in a broken crow
or nigerian slang
(but only he knows
that eloquence)
cloaked, and head steady
behind whispers
of tavener
(he had always
said they were enough)
he gets on
with the rosary
to find
comfort lost
Jul 19, 2019
Jul 19, 2019 at 1:58 PM UTC
Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, when the cliff tops call its name with disparaging diatribe? And how do you fare as the undulating waves tell tales of a million generations of fish? I sat there as the days wore on like so many jazz men beating holistic drums and blowing those crazy brass horns as if possessed by the demons of some ancient tribe way out in the Kalahari, masked by the illuminating stares of wonderment and the children in the darkened bar, silent, speculating. I see the waning wood through magnificent trees, behemoths in the dusk skies. I see the ground too, for it is stable and true. As true as one could attest to its objectivity, I often ponder the relevance of truth and whether the whole concept is but a twisted lie fed by the men before us. Quite cruel these thoughts, and barely worthy of the hours I waste. The ocean too speaks truth but its truth is one I have faith in. Sure as I am, sitting here, witnessing the waves as they mourn the changing sands and the rubble they sift, sure as I am, that the gently faltering ripples will retreat before attacking the shore once more. I am sure of these acts, as I am sure that I will die with laughter on my lips and a tear in my eye.
Take your water and let it flow through the bodies of man, take it, take it and do good. Let those clear drops circulate and bring about true knowledge in one and all.
Let your rocks fall to the ground, erosion of the city and decay of the populace. Let them fall with dignity, while we scream from the Atlantic and feel tumultuous waves of apathetic foreboding ripple into our skin and bring us to ******
These rocks in the sea, these rocks in you… and in me.
Has the land seen distress like its inhabitants, or have they been the harbingers of such malcontent abuse to these fare isles? Have you, You, have you seen the sea when its tranquil repose turns to solemn spite at the ego of the cliff face? I have heard the ocean speak, and it told me to fall to its mercy and ebb into the unified conscious.
Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, or do you too stand with your back to the truth and one leg bowed cocksure over the top of some deteriorating construct?
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
My Principal is forever ready to explore
New things from students who implore
And set a new goal for them to outscore
In their own life. He is ready to restore
Intellect and discipline in school therefore
Stands out and administers students’ footsore.
Cherian sir the one who is fighting war
Against anxiety and worry on door,
Which pester children and occasionally gore
Their morale and self-esteem. They spoor
Away from study which he sojourns before
They reach to larger extent and be cocksure.
Never he criticizes without any reason poor,
As he is a positive thinker. All of us roar
Which is pacified by him but for sure.
He is the man of principles and decor
Whose blessings on all of us ever pour.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 6:42 AM UTC
I stared, stupidly, at his head
and the pool of red he bled
from the brass rail down onto
the barroom floor.
Had it been a half an hour
He, so cocksure of his power,
had first set foot
inside the barroom door?
I'd been alone but for the Doc
a Presbyterian Scott
who just come from
a hard delivery.
Mom and child were doing well
but the Doctor looked like hell
so I sat him down
and gave the man some tea.
I 'm the Pub man's assistant
and my job that Winter's morning
was cleaning up the place
for this day's trade.
Had I been out in the snug
I'd have never met this lug
who is lying on the floor
fit for the grave.
I am Irish from Tyrone,
He was from Lancaster-shire.
To his thinking I was
a blight on English soil.
He was spoiling for a fight
which he started with a right
that sent me sprawling
on the barroom floor.
He said "Get off the floor,
and I'll treat you to some more."
"You stupid ****
His boon companion smiled.
I'm not one to shun a fight
when I'm firmly in the right
and these arms were toned
by years of quarrying stone.
Was it surprise I saw
when He learned I'm a southpaw.
Satisfying was the sound
of fist on chin.
As he commenced his trip to earth
It was the foot rail caught him first
He cracked his skull
and then he was no more.
His friend ran for the police
as his pulse and breathing ceased
Doc looked up at me and said
"This won't go well"
" Take my bicycle and flee
Off to Scotland , listen to me,
unless you fancy
dancing on the wind."
So I rode like one possessed
on the narrow winding roads
Early winter darkness
coming down.
After, I worked on dairy farms
and spent three years in the mines.
Eventually, the case grew cold
and went away.
I emigrated to the States
where they too have
their loves and hates
but the Irish are accepted in a way.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 7:08 AM UTC
Ruthless
Recklass
Cocksure Alpha male nutjob
Addicted to adrenaline
and the smell of burnt gunpowder
Never back down
Always throw one punch too much
Downward spiral walking
Total nutjob you can rely on
Redline all the time
ready to shoot a man in the leg
and leave him as zombie bait
No turning back
when you **** another man
Even if you do it with zombie teeth
not with your bare hands
Trapped
Car wrecks
Collapsed
Snapped necks
Losing his mind over Lori
Double cross his best friend
Now he's a head shot zombie.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 5:24 AM UTC
Forgive such indifference, sat beneath a peach tree shaded
Cocksure, word of mouth, rambling through the straw
Squirrel gnaws bark on the ground, and leaps away vibrant
The sun was wild, in the sky she sings
The heat she brings, Mother watching, smiles
Sir, did you see the Big Sur. Sure did, young sir
Australia weeps for she misses the heroine in a green dress
- and with spry wrangling hands, gliding from a cliff-top
The endlessly named Mrs of the fire does soar
Forever on the shore
Forever and some more
Turn to the moon and remember how she swooned
Mother nature's child, oasis in the wooded world
Long leaves of the languid days
Beneath the peach tree she lays
Lighter in the breeze, swinging chaotic
In voluptuous trees, she's symbiotic
The new sensation of grass at your back
When the cold brick saloon in memoriam
is only Sunday's idea of boredom
and the grasshoppers are chirping
and now the city is quiet
For it waits, for her
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC
I sat watching 3 girls,
couldn’t be any older than 12,
wearing shorts cut by
expectations and
taking pictures
with coffee cups and
wearing make up
stronger than
perfume clouds
following like
hitchhikers
and
a slow car.
**** magazines and enraptured
by the irrelevant famous,
exposing the youth’s lack
of interest in literature,
callow and murderous,
glasses filled and cocksure,
the world in front of them
and yet they’re taking
steps backwards
MJB
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
New mantras yoked around their neck.
Songs of sorrow and embellishment.
Some with smoke filled mouths, twisting through their teeth just like their mothers warned and taught to chatter.
They gurgle and blow,
steamed tops.
Secretly afraid of the iron fist,
Fair weather anarchists.
One day domesticated, but not tonight.
Raging against the machine in the moonlight,
cocksure the sun would never rise.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
PRUDENCE
I paused and took a step back
I looked around and was unsure
' You're a coward ' my critics chided
I replied: ' For folly there's no cure'.
Prudence has taught me
Life's prizes and trophies are never easy to secure
I've seen so many mighty giants fall by the roadside-
They were too arrogant and too cocksure.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
When one walks in the night
As I do,
There is nothing for it
But to switch on your torch
And pray that the batteries don’t quit on you.
If anyone tells you they know this town,
Well, that is a cocksure lie.
If anyone tells you that the alleyways call to him
Then he is simply running from the bridge
Stretched over the river;
It’s that long drop into black that’s inviting him.
I had a friend once,
Claimed nothing was alive
Till that one clanging clock,
But he saw the dawn too early
And stepped out like it was daytime already but—
Let’s not talk about him.
No, I’m not saying
No one has business on the night streets.
That’s my own call out there,
Business.
I like thinking I protect the town,
Like any other man on the force,
But I know what the real danger is.
No man should step outside his house at night
Dressed up and looking out like the sun’s high in the sky.
Fun, yeah, sure,
But the potholes will rob you
And the little rats will trip you up as well,
So it’s really for the best that when I see you
Rambling the dark
And not skulking like any proper man would
I shake my truncheon at you
And point your drunk **** back home.
Apr 26, 2011
Apr 26, 2011 at 6:58 AM UTC
You cannot un-see what you have seen
you may ignore, ha, so you wish!
but you are a slave to your queasiness
you know your so called heart
will ram inside your grossly chest
and gnaw at every bit of its flesh
until
you could look at me just one more time, to feel cocksure
stare, may be, a glance is too constringed to see
I am not ugly
It's your eyes that aren't contrived to grok beauty.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
The heart;
in all of it's tragic
cocksure
glory,
is nothing
but a victim.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 2:52 AM UTC
We rocked, we rolled,
strolled through the revelers,
rocket scientists
wearing ripped jeans
& pointed rattlesnakes,
some had rose tats.
Cocksure, we rode
the ferris wheel
above the skyline
of never never land
& right down the street,
there was enough armament
to level all the strip malls
in the Springs.
Funny, they told us
we were the violent ones,
the dangerous kind,
tightly wound psychos
who sung anthems,
those sweet child 'o mine
pop tunes.
So hell yea,
we were tough,
the no-prisoner-types,
trained-to-kill fighters
wearing pearled buttons,
sipping Boone's Farm,
we continued
to spin circles,
spitting into the
cold Colorado wind.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
a broken vessel
and bailing water is drowning
out the ability to drift back to shore,
it’s always calm before the storm
but when a breeze disappears
the chance of moving anywhere
flies away like the seagulls
laughing in cocksure,
the water seems so thick
like drifting in ink that draws out
abstracts of stagnancies
and ever time I row,
the boat rhymes in harmony
with the singing current
and cisterns will begin to cry,
I can’t travel alone and
I don’t know how to swim
but at least the sand below
will be softer than rock bottom
MJB
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
There is a mirror in the front,
a mirror at the back—
wedged in between,
I reel,
into a tunnel of faces,
all similar.
They smile together,
wink their eyes together,
scratch their noses together—
so cocksure
in their conspiracy together!
Who,
who might have done the crime?
An eye-witness,
sommoned to an identification parade,
I peer closely at each face—
matching it with the vague memory of a face
I had seen at the fatal scene.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
the touch screen reflects my face
past the lines of text and blurred definitions
that they speak
the soft tapping on the screen as i
type each letter into the still and vast void of the page
like footsteps of intrepid adventurer as he
walks alone into a vast white desert
walks alone and unafraid into the
dense resistance of the day
as it seeks to distract
but our fair haired hero is undaunted
brandishing his blade leaps forth
and proclaims the conquest of this page
sets the standard of his queen upon
the bold words he has laid
and stands so proud and cocksure
till i hit the delete button
and he is nevermore
so cried some dumb bird
so cried i
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
i just looked at friedrich hölderlin's
life and thought: fair enough, Hegel might
get his bagel... but i'll have this madcap's
treaty of honour... the rest can have
the woman who will assuredly spend, and spend,
and keep the economical side of
things in tip-top ticktock... i don't mind death,
having embraced it once, my only fear of death is
a death that i should not wish to exercise against
the educational demonology of the Catholic church,
i.e. not exercising my rights to admit euthanasia...
as one poet said: the sane are too numerous,
too moralised, too cocksure and ***********
you can hear them talking but it just ends
up being a chance to hear them gagging
with a fur-ball... your thoughts on suicide are one,
but your thoughts on medical suicide are another...
that a: the joke wishes to die, what will the people
ever do next? cry? i believe in the Sinai Sun...
i believe in Taiyō as i believe in the Ensō -
Thai-yo-yo... if i am not allowed this luxury
i believe there's no need for a sofa, or a television...
or a care for your opinion being matched
to consider the way to live equal to mine...
your own the path sown and sewed...
each to our own straitjackets and the signature alive,
and epitaph dead.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
that's the words i hear when i hear European
films, esp. in French,
Quarus! Dvór! Baganiet Buda! the cat just
escaped into the night while i was refilling my glass...
i end up feeling so outlandish, so Essex,
so ******* caveman, so Darwinism
making me feel it only writes English history...
so ******* sorry... so ******* whatever...
living in England for the past 20 odd years
makes me miss continents,
it even doesn't make me Icelandic...
it just makes me ******* sad...
it kinda makes me want to rap...
establish the special relationship with America...
well... n'ah, forget the biblical McKenzie...
sleepers sprout from nowhere,
my father played bridge and water-polo...
i was caught catching pokemon...
grew a beard and grew a satchel of fat...
**** yeah mickey mouse!
charcoal cha-cha smear and
jokinie in French i want to sink this godforsaken place;
every, single, time, i, hear, of America,
in, England, i imagine rednecks equivalents in Dorset,
never bothered to learn a line of parlez-vous...
it eats at me... the laziness... the xenophobic
cocksure libido... it ******* chokes me...
i just want them to learn French, but they won't...
they're sailing all the way toward Mars!
i hope they bring back a bacterial meteor back
to excavate an extinction...
no, next week's Sunday isn't good either,
to hold a receptive care for a lunch...
****** die;
i'm starting to feel English claustrophobia...
which means everyone has to speak English...
**** me it feels like itchy honey smears up
the **** ugh.
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC