"concession" poems
~for L3igh~
the briefness of brevity,
the quality of giving
and indeed, it is a-quality,
a luxury item so affordable,
yet, so totally, rarely purchased,
When
giving up the
requisite,
only the lonely, but
always the critical,
relevant or necessary
exquisite
in a few words
Let us practice:
I love you,
but only the very
first time, in a memory
bronzed and burnished,
putting to shame the way
too short modesty of
forever…
uttering a precious
precision of a soulful
thank you
to a passing
stranger, who runs
into your home afire,
saving all of your
family's lives
could go on, and on,
But that would not be,
A Concision,
instead,
a concession, to the
very few times in a day,
in the world's entirety,
when those are the words,
are only the only,
a sufficient holy,
a devout summary
spectacular,
akin, but only a
just, derivative of,
a sincerely uttered:
Thank You God^
nml
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 8:02 AM UTC
Perfection
The subjection of one’s interjections
Based on the world
The world of today
Can you change what you think
What others have to say
Were interconnected but not in connection
With a convection of perfection that inhibits rejection
Or constant correction of certain parts or sections
That people fail to mention for their own protection
Believing a misconception to gain desired affection
Wasting their discretion for a false obsession
Thoughts of concession and encouraging suppression
This is just one dissection of perfection
It is but one path, one direction
But this should lead to many other questions
What about succession from the term perfection?
Is it needed to drive people to higher ascension?
Maybe one day society can undergo a social resurrection
Where creed, religion, race, freedom are not held in contention
No more crimes, no need for detention
Everyone is happy, no more thoughts of depression
Everyone can be comfortable with their own reflection
Hopefully this dissection can leave a lasting impression
And drive home the need for a universal intervention
To stop and think what it means strive for perfection
For you may have it wrong upon further inspection
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 2:45 PM UTC
In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set
orbit nearly closed,
the radio announcer gleefully
chirruping, the twittering fool,
"only ** graves to X off till
spring"
the weight of the prior
the wait of the more
no matter how little
yet to come
too much insufferable
having suffered
multiple life sentences
you snit **** u don't know better,
ha, they don't even run
concurrently
there are no sunsets
in the girding grays
of harsher enough and words that fail me,
are the winners in the
winter of the ****
tests and hunts,
I have successfully
failed
of course I'm wrong you
petulant hobgoblin wringing
nyet from me you'll get no concession,
**** science,
there are no sunsets in the winter
and the sunrises,
short unsweetened,
light-less, less of less,
frigid glaring revealers
of dead trees
and deader
men
maybe in the Rockies,
perhaps the Alps,
wonderlands photoshopped,
pretty lies on the Internet BS posted
where I live,
wear the wear the weary
neath the sweat stink of layers of
unbundled choking hands,
winter's damage
assessed and assessment is
never overdue, payable in
immediacy
heating bills I can't pay,
a job that said no more of you,
unpretty please,
a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself
right freaking black magic quick,
trust me I have certified verified,
me and Nixon,
X's on the kitchen calendar,
there is daylight, there is mighty night,
almighty in long and colorless
and nothing in between,
but the smog stained slush of
smothered life
but definitely
no sunrises and no sunsets
watched all day from the
imprisoning kitchen window
which doubles
as a **** you
mirror
there are no, not any,
you know what,
cannot even say them,
the pipe dreams of better yet,
pipes that have beaten down
me and my
disassociated senses,
signed sealed and now delivered,
from the formerly known as
The Summer Man
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
sad boy;
what a pathetic
ploy
this is for my attention.
all you contrive
tastelessly
always lacks concession.
every word,
and image you fake
I reject, from my
possession,
for all you are
's worth less than this
effortless expression.
you see, my natural
creativity
surmounts your ****
impression
of the beauty of my work
and my powerful
transgression.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 7:02 AM UTC
Depression, is a concession of unstable chemicals made from the memories of cruel intentions,
My life is still here plodding along..
But only I hear the sound of my own thoughts like an annoying repetitive song.
I hear that little voice, calm down it says! stop filling your stupid head,
with anxiety a lack of self motivation and such a thing as recreation, only self interrogation and constant ************
I think of ways of ending it.. A rope around my neck?... or a cocktail of prescribed drugs?
I try to find help but no one is willing or the nhs has started billing,
I blame society and the burning of the bras,
things were simpler with our evolutionary past.
Nothing is moving I am stuck,
I feel useless and out of so called ambitious luck.
My patience is wearing and poignant preparations, is it really that necessary?
I just can't be fckd!
Move on, try again and again.
Run away!...
But financially there is no escape!
The cruel beatings,
the childhood ruined by my selfish relatives and a man I fell pregnant with.
Take away the memories..
please take them away before I cry the tears from the river of blood and pain.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
He finds repression
Skinned naked
By depression
In ultimate digression
Healed by succession
Only cheated by obsession
Fooled by impression
In every session
He burns confession
Hated for his transgression
In ultimate digestion
He finds progression
He finds repression
Skinned naked
By depression
In ultimate digression
Cut by oppression
Cheated by misconception
Fooled by concession
He burns mental possession.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:31 PM UTC
*Differentiate impression
to understand the question
that guarantees concession
of alternate force of will.*
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
**We are a funny lot
As in, seriously… we delve into ‘funny’ a lot
Very rarely does a day go by
That I don’t come across something that cracks my funny bone…
Or as a Kenyan would put it ‘makes me just die!’
Body bag
The Kenyan
This specimen of human is always quick and capable of ridiculing anyone’s apparent "swag"
Everyone gets a turn here… so do not huff when you’re ‘it’
There must be a reason you joined this dissing game… this unique Kenyan version of ‘tag’
Just remember
The rules are simple, really
Keep it above the belt, unless upon exception...
They also clearly allow one to feign concession
Yes, these rules highly encourage strategic deception
Kind of like what our politicians do before the main election
But also if you paint a target on your back… you will get shot at...
By everyone… and I mean everyone
I haven’t seen anyone do that and elude the social media firing squad yet
Computers and phones in this case, acting as the internet's version of the bayonet
And watch closely if you’re ‘it’… for the inevitable, the friends that will stab you in the back
It’s bound to happen, as much as this may ****
The memes will come by the truck load… in what may seem like a self driven truck…
With a life of its own
Just ask Susan Mirfat
The most recently owned!
We’re a funny lot I tell you
Loose cannons almost
Our leaders’ shenanigans, our parents’ semantics and our own clownish antics…
Prove that despite…
How mature as a country we've become…
We’re still all just a bunch of children, inside.**
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC
If she studies you with that particular look, and you know the one I'm indicating.
Kick off your shoes and glide across the floor towards your loved one.
Place your palm firmly on the back of her neck and your other at center mass.
With your lips pressed firmly against hers, open her mouth and clean her teeth, stroke her taste buds, feel her heat and free your minds together as one exploding fire ******* soaring vertically with the sporadic curvature of the bottle rocket.
Don't stop there, you've got her. She wants you to take complete control. Push her with gentle pressure against the nearest wall and allow progression. Fuse her neckline with your bite and move south to utilize her forearms and thighs. All the while you've cupped her **** cheeks like palming a basketball. From there on, use the organic passion that comes from within. She's giving herself to you. She will not hold this against you. On the contrary, this memorable concession of unbiased surrender is a gift, from your other to you. When it comes to a woman's love, these are some of the best times that you will be offered. Keep desire on fire and make your way to completion together. This recollection you guys are developing will hold years of reminiscence.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
#*Multitudes will be liberated by that recognition;
and although multitudes obtain liberation in that manner,
the number of sentient beings being great, evil karma powerful,
obscurations dense, propensities o too long standing,
the Wheel of Ignorance and Illusion becometh neither exhausted nor accelerated*.
The Tibetan Book of the Dead
translation: Lāma Kazi Dawa-Samdup
Free Tibet your sticker tells me…
Yes, I think, perhaps I should –
and the noble thought compels me,
uninformed, half-understood.
Will their freedom help my Karma?
Upgrade my reincarnation?
(Soul who could not dare to harm a
fly… much less a Buddhist nation.)
Not to justify aggression
by the ever-brutal Commies,
let us grant no glib concession
to the Maoists – or their mommies.
Slogans echo in the void,
shining in bardos of the dead;
stopped by the light, I am annoyed
impatient for the change from red.
A bumper crop of human woe
beams forth a mandate to my brain
while red Dakinis circle slow
in Buddhist hells of karmic pain.
The eastern concepts here diverge
and bow before brutality.
They make this driver long to merge
with incorporeality.
Then I glimpse a monkish fellow
swathed in saffron, calmly seated.
His, the cloud-borne sage’s pillow;
mine the traffic; stalled, defeated.
In his gaze of stern displeasure
I perceive the orient stars
calculating man’s mismeasure
trapped, exhausted, among the cars.
Flanked by Spirits wreathed in fire
he extends an accusing hand:
Western slave of base desire:
come and liberate my land !”
I meditate before the stop light:
am I ready for the task ?
Should I just refuse it outright
Can’t it be someone else ? I ask…
Must I free this mountain nation
from the Buddha, demons and Reds?
Shall your sticker’s declaration
shatter the yoke and raise their heads ?
Somebody ought to free Tibet,
and heed this Himalayan cry.
Maybe we should get upset…
The red light changes. Cars pass by,
predestined for benign events
and unconcerned for persecution;
oblivious to dissidents
awaiting execution.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
There is a love that goes beyond passion. Beyond desire.
A love that is felt within the very fiber of the soul.
One with ardent, inexorable devotion.
A love of imperceptible depth, and intense adoration.
There is a love as unyielding in its fervency,
As it is in its sanctity.
A love that is immutable, and enduring.
There is a love that sustains and validates one's existence.
A love that is uncompromising in it's absolutness.
There is a love that leads one to their destiny.
One that is incomprehensible. Without concession.
A love that holds the heart in passionate seduction.
There is a love that is timeless and unending.
A love that is unyielding in it's conviction.
There is a love with irreducible and fierce conviction.
A love with immeasurable compassion.
And that love, is the love I hold for you.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 5:06 PM UTC
Summer's almost over,
It's threadbare
As your towel;
The summer sands
Are shifting,
The beach is headed south.
The initialed picnic tables
Are stored for other outings;
The concession windows
Flapped now,
The busker's shouting quelled.
Sails are dropped
Like maple leafs,
The moon's rising
Too soon;
The night lights blaze
Over pitch and field,
Where sunshine
Shone in June.
Geese are wedging daily
To escape the wintery gloom;
I'll reacquaint
With the hinter sounds
Of lake winds
And banshee loons.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
Oh, the sensation, the media frenzy,
The spotlight, the fame, the hullabaloo,
When anti-evolution laws
Were challenged by the ACLU!
The year: 1925.
The place: Dayton, Tennessee.
To say it was an extravaganza
Wouldn't be hyperbole.
For many people it was hard
To find a way to reconcile
Biblical accounts with science,
So science found itself on trial.
A young teacher, John T. Scopes,
Was willing to face prosecution
For breaking a Tennessee law for having
Given a lesson on evolution.
The "Monkey Trial" it was called.
The challenge meant swimming upstream
For the feisty lawyer Clarence Darrow,
Who helped to lead the defense team.
A prosecutor was William Jennings
Bryan, who with no apology
Loved to stir up outrage against
Evolutionary biology.
Defendant Scopes quickly found
It wouldn't take long for him to know
What it was like to have a part
In a multimedia reality show.
The courthouse received a make-over:
Platforms for newsreel cameras were built;
Extra spectator seats were added.
They were playing the trial to the hilt.
Concession stands sold food and drinks;
Toy monkeys were on display;
A chimp was dressed in a suit and fedora;
The clergy also joined the fray.
The media and the public loved it!
The country watched the trial progress.
What would win: science or scripture?
The answer was probably easy to guess.
After an eight-day trial, the jury
Deliberated. Nine minutes later
They had their verdict: guilty! How
Could someone question THEIR creator?
Scopes had actually never given
The lesson. That's what he later said.
Strangely, five days after the trial,
Williams Jennings Bryan dropped dead.
Laws later changed, but even during
Current times, some people feel
That stories from the Bible should be
In science textbooks. Now THAT'S surreal!
-by Bob B (11-6-18)
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
We were equally matched
Until a plan was hatched
You became the subtle aggressor
By making appearances lesser
Using your passion aggression
To steer a passive direction
You perform a vanishing act
By canvassing flak
Balancing black
Against a sky so blue
Teaching me that which is true
Is different from what I knew
So my anxiety naturally grew
You launch a resistance
By remaining silent
On this plane of existence
Where you're the pilot
Not taking the right angle
Into the Bermuda Triangle
That is your social sphere
Where you disappear
From committal fear
Of love being near
So I throw a search party
But your presence is tardy
Because you're departing
On the journey you're starting
Without me
Slouching
From my submission
To your anti-admission
Splitting our position
Like nuclear fission
The air has become radioactive
Through light that is refractive
Through ways which are retractive
Living this ugly way to live
Sharpening my shiv
To escape this cell of decay
Where flowers bloom and fray
But can't see the light of day
Not one ray
Stuck in the marked moor
Of this dark war
I use parkour
To avoid aggressor attacks
Never cutting me any slack
Bringing pain back
Until I crack
Lost in your blank expression
I make a grave concession
Enslaved to your impression
Yet afraid of your aggression
Caught between
Taking heed
And fulfilling needs
Born from greed
I'll only impede
You scream aggressively
Like you're ********** me
Just by addressing me
After making a mess of me
With deafening quiet
You attack with a diet
Of a steady riot
And I won't buy it
You left when you were here
But stayed once you weren't near
You switched to a guillotine gear
Based on how you wanted to appear
Striking me from the equation
By utilizing deflation
For a sinister elation
You removed our relation
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 3:23 AM UTC
*There once was a boy over yonder
Who gave the girls something to ponder
And I must confess
Though loathe to acquiesce
Despite my denial, I've grown fonder*
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
What happens
____ to space______
between us
This is the
human race
Ah, Vey?
Just pray
Overly smitten
But not seeing
clearly picture-prey
He or she runs!!
Little darlings
here comes the sun*
The lime doing the time
Falling trees of coconut
Feeling- overloved
Deviant artist
splat coconut milk
No Security Cat
comfort box
So out of recession
Killer fox______
Chocolatey coconut
Cleanse my mind detox
Almond Joy concession
Rise up Face Botox
He cannot
read you
Haywire always
wired up his words
Hurried Hazelnut
coffee if you mind
Over-sugared
Increased brain
functions bitter rinds
So commercialized
The Cocoa Puffs
Going bananas
monkey ***
Lexie Vamp Vex
Mr. Ed overload
of Oz colors baboon
Going up Air Balloon
So many airheads
The Rainforest
GQ he's gone IQ
((Quarterly Neck of the woods))
Not orderly Outback
Steakhouse
Dinosaurs
******
Vicarious
No shortcut
The nervous system
The fast have a drink
furious
Cracking a coconut
Her Safe______**
6-6-6 combinations
Could crack her
Coconut oil neck her
City Girl call her
Intellectual brain
Singing
Gene Kelly
umbrella
Raining coconuts
(On Overload)
Strawberry Fields
This will be short
Yeah right forever
shortcake, not any sort
The trend of
coconut
Nearer because
of you I am
further
She was the
Brazilian Nut
With her
blind gut
((Coconut Houdini))
Island of Bali
Beauty of Judy
Somewhere so over it
rainbow
King Kong
Hairy chest banging
coconut drink slurping
Of girl talk
Strong New Jersey
Stamina
***** of Venezuela
Overload of
Prima, Donna's
Instant Karma
going to get them
Knocked them off
there feet
Where is my
John Lennon
He has the best beat
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 6:58 AM UTC
**My life is foretold in every crevice of this universe,
in serene seas, and swaying sands,
in scorching degrees and holding hands,
with a lover in my longing arms,
fires raging, and yet i am sheltered from harm.
and throughout my journeys,
it is my deepest desire,
to ignite and set my ambitions on fire,
in the midst of euphoric dreaming,
with my lover on this late summer's evening.
and i shall be at one with the stars,
and my doors in life shall forever remain ajar.**
*Walk into this space it is endless
sublime congruence with the heavens
open is the third eye looking directly at abyss
i feel a divine hint on my skin
as if it were a celestial kiss
there is no need to travel in doubt
it is written across the evening canvas
open the gates of exotic awareness*
**It is writhing, it is gifting, entrusting me, and quaking,
yet I, within mine, remain still.
Fore be it told, and beneath footless form, it's subversive,
yet, I dance a sure tango, uphill.
I must be sure, so sure not to mind lone notches and disparity,
as crevices, you see, they arch to transverse.
Fearing but forging the depths of what is migration, we say,
from this hallowed tangle be my rise, my verse.
I’m floundering, I grant, when I think I hold discovery,
so, I tug at the rein of imprint and plan.
It is here my beloved reliance, my precious doubtless tread
is afforded the fair crossing of Pan.
So, although it contests and chides and outreaches,
I am in love and as love, an apprentice.
A conquest won, no never, but here, a concession, a regard-
I am, with no poet’s journey, amiss.**
Lilting ebulliently in ineffable fields of ecstasy.
Mellifluous waves, in life's voyage,
inure us to pulchritude paths, refined by old age.
Multifarious, nascent jubilant days, swaying in paint,
array the way as we sail away.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 7:27 AM UTC
Vous êtes brune et pourtant blonde,
Vous êtes blonde et pourtant brune...
Aurais-je l'air, aux yeux du monde,
D'arriver tout droit de la lune ?
Et cependant, on peut m'en croire,
Vous êtes l'une et l'autre chose
Comme Vous êtes blanche et noire,
Des cheveux noire et de chair, rose.
Mais peut-on dire dans le monde,
La plaisanterie est commune :
« Si votre belle Amie est blonde,
Elle est blonde, elle n'est pas brune ».
À moins d'arriver de la lune,
Peut encor dire tout le monde :
« Si votre belle Amie est brune,
Elle est brune, elle n'est pas blonde ».
Pourtant ! le savez-vous mieux qu'Elle ?
Leur répondrai-je (Tu supposes)
Eh bien ! moi, je ne sais laquelle
Elle est le plus de ces deux choses.
Bien que personne n'y consente
Et qu'elle semble inconséquente,
C'est une brune languissante
Et c'est une blonde piquante.
Aurais-je la bonne fortune
De mettre d'accord tout le monde,
Concédez-moi donc qu'elle est brune,
Je vous accorde qu'elle est blonde.
Elle a, pour faire à tout le monde
Une concession encore,
Une longue mèche de blonde
Dans ces cheveux bruns, qui les dore.
Enfin, je vous dis qu'elle est brune,
Je vous répète qu'elle est blonde,
Et si j'arrive de la lune,
Je me moque de tout le monde !
Après tout, ce n'est pas ma faute
Si, sous ses longs cheveux... funèbres,
Le corps blanc dont votre âme est l'hôte
A du soleil... dans ses ténèbres.
2.4k
#
*There is a love, deeply embedded into
fear's reverence.. and what we fear most,
is the threat of annihilation.. yet, is not
that, which is within the deep hooks of
annihilation's looming leer, that which
is also the very seeds sown-- giving way
to the very firstfruits of Life-Anew..
within itself?
So then, is not death's very fear,
in itself, a conceding to the inevitability
of Love's unfolding conquer?
The condemnation-shadow, so unfairly
placed into you, at such a tender
young age, has run amok for so many
unrestrained years within your beautiful
spirit, and body.. is no longer
an end-all..
or catch-all,
But is now, but a spring-board; albeit,
fear-driven.. into that (finally, Beautiful-one)
which brings Life.. directly out of death--
Not with the annihilation of the very Death..
(which gave you Magic) but through its own,
very power to draw us towards Love,
through its own, very fear (respect) of that Love..
does not then, death.. through Love, become upheld?
So how then can the condemnation within you, be bad
except that it be allowed to, for life.. keep you
hidden in shadow? Is not then Love's Light, the
very thing that creates Shadow's, shadow, therefore
exposing Shadow's nature by bringing forth,
its own shadow.. leaving the vulnerable rawness of
condemnation, exposed..
Hence, the horrendous sting of Love's truth.. yet also,
through the Faith-increasing training of experience alone,
is the strengthening into resilience the beautiful, war-torn
Spirit that has become able to begin to finally.. take in, Love.
This is where you are now at, beautiful girl. While under
condemnation's death-hold, you have hated me for so long
that the love.. mixed with fear.. became its own natural
concession into Life, itself-- giving way to the Magical
falling-off of the scales that have covered those beautiful
eyes of yours for so long
Bring your Death, beautiful-one. Through your Faith, it is
established.. and then made, Complete. The giftedness, borne
from the deep, catacombs of Death's Unholy Hold, come forth
in fullness.. into fruition.. as you pass from Death, into Life--
right here.. in the land of the Living.
The Death you have known, does not fall off at the gate
as you pass through it.. but instead, through the newness
of your beautiful eye's, Life View.. Death's previous Unholiness
becomes instantly, Holy.
I am in love with the death that is in you. From its hold,
were born every Magical gift that I love so much, in you..
and while in your presence.. will forever
take my breath away.
Welcome to my life, Beautiful one.*
#
Nov 4, 2021
Nov 4, 2021 at 10:00 PM UTC
Before the screen door factory closed,
we used to go down to the Dairy Queen,
almost every Friday night.
I lived in a frozen dream land of hope
and whipped cream and chocolate sauce.
Before the screen door factory closed,
we used to go to the drive-in theatre,
and watch movies, on Saturday nights.
I lived in a world of triple-features and warm beer
and french fries from the concession stand.
Before the screen door factory closed,
we had a home and a charcoal barbecue,
and a yard, where we'd sit on warm evenings.
I sat in lawn chairs and barbecue smoke
and smiled and waved to the neighbours.
Before the screen door factory closed,
the phone would ring and we would answer it,
and it wasn't the bank, and we'd sleep all night.
Life was peaceful, and it would go on forever,
and never have to change.
Before the screen door factory closed,
Life was good.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
All birds
All birds should make noises
On tree branches with full choice
Loud or small but with nice melody
Naturally attention drawn at them by everybody
Of late I have lost little hope
The revenge and bloodshed doesn’t stop
In every street there is violence
Life has become hell since then
The change is must and welcome
Let it be blown from any direction and come
It must be encouraging with enthusiasm
There may appear some improvement with mechanism
We hear disturbing news
Worst affected countries may be hardly few
Yet it has witnessed lots of carnage
Blot on humanity and painted as dark page
It could have been avoided
Little concession would have been given or granted
What were they holing back and asking in return?
Little peace to live in and prosperity in turn
Who can be trusted upon?
Law protector or merely lip actors?
Honest military rulers or civilian representatives?
All are corrupt and wants to rule by proxy or relatives
Power is such a greed no one may want to leave
It has to be imposed on them forcefully to relieve
They want mass concentration of wealth and power
Rule over millions, keep them starved and poor
I wish no god may shower them with blessings
They have to flee the land and face the worst chase
No place for them to stay peacefully and alive
Alas! They could have earned blessings to survive
There can be no end to any kind of lust
Even animals may want or have it as must
We are human and should know about the result
Why not then it come peacefully without curse and insults?
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 8:34 AM UTC
A Massey Fergie tractor
An old VW beetle
A worn out pair of boots
Manuela the 3 legged dog, and Senora
In their humble tumble home
The small concession to modern life
Just a mobile phone
Nothing special here
No status or wealth is evident
I love you Senor Mujica!
You do not change your way of life
Just because you're President
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
Call me mad if you must
But please first hear me out
I just got back from the Cryogenics lab
And guess who's head I picked from the crowd
If your thinking Jimmy Hoffa
No, he's somewhere deep asleep in concrete
I grabbed someone much more spectacular
I grabbed the frozen head of Walt Disney
You see years ago he had himself chilled
At least that which contains the brain
The useless part they put in a casket
And far be it for me to dig up a grave
I've now got Walt packed on ice in a cooler
It wouldn't do to have his head melt
What kind of operation do you think I'm running here
Some kind of Mickey Mouse?
First on my agenda find Mr. Disney a body
One that won't give out on him too soon
Cause once we thaw out Walt and he starts to talk
There's no telling what he'll want to do
So I let my fingers do the walking
Here's something interesting...Bodies By Jake
I just hope we find Jakes place in time
Before the ice melts and we are to late...
...talk about false advertisement!
Jake the snake didn't sell bodies at all
Walt and I are more than a little disturbed
There really should be some sort of law
Guess I should have thought this all over
Long before I thought of it now
So as a special treat I thought Mr. Disney and me
Could go see his "World", so we headed South
Standing in line to purchase tickets
The cooler shakes when Walt hears the prices by chance
No need to tell you that if he had lower extremities
He would crap them if he wore any pants
We decided to do something a little cheaper
And with a Disney movie just out today
It was kind of hard to follow along though
When all you could hear was his body spinning in the grave, miles away
Guess it's to early to try and bring back Walt Disney
Maybe one day I can try it again
But before we leave for the trip back home
We stop at the concession for diet soda and Jr. mints
Once we got back to the Cryogenics lab
They're looking for me so over the fence I let the head fly
No need to worry, one of the guard dogs grabbed it
And I'm sure drug it right back inside
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 10:51 AM UTC
Consuming devastation
as if it's life-giving bread
Flesh, a merciless master
Ineffectual thoughts sway my head
With each indulgence
the captor becomes more emboldened
Betraying the true master
to whom I'm beholden
Surrender comes easier
with each new concession
Just one more link
in the chain of spiritual recession
Slaking every desire
as the senses grow cold
While the battle rages
between body and soul
One will be nurtured
the other put under thumb
Sin is spiritual Novocain
just making me numb
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
1
Pete sets off the alarm as he walks in the doors
Tells me his new heart must be talking to the machines
He talks like Jimmy Stewart was from Boston
All elbows
While I am bruised ribs
Vera sounds like an airplane concession cart
With all the right liquor
Her faded blue walker
Drowns out her sighs
Maybe it’s her knees
I am not sure
2
Before our bodies blend
And I am part appliance
I want to love your sound
If your navel were a ****
I might turn your soft belly
Into a music box
So I could listen to your heart
Through your ribcage
After I bury my head there
Put me to sleep with your
Human sound
I want to hear the rust in your hips
With my head on your lap
The sweet sound of our lively decay
There is no better music
It is simple
Like my name
You can still say it while being punched
In the gut
You breathless barbarian
Just dance with me
Until it is all that we have
To know we’re still human
Dance like flames
Without the fear of swelling joints
Dance like waves trying to break the boardwalk
Dance for your future fake hips
Just dance
3
We link arms as we walk
Even through your jacket
I can tell how soft you are
I want to tell you about our footsteps
How when we are old
And we both have canes
When walking down hallways with linoleum floors
I know we will sound like the saddest horse
So I tell you that I will still love you
Even after our bodies are made into glue
You know me well enough by now
That this is just me being sweet
I kiss you goodbye
Listen to your car’s engine hum
It is so quiet
You might actually hear me sigh
When the sound of you driving away
Sounds like the horsepower of one sad horse
On his last three legs
Like
One sad old lady
Even if we’re just friends by then
I won’t forget
The sweet music of our decay
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 7:24 AM UTC