"conspiratorial" poems
Teetering on her baby legs
A newborn with a Solo cup
bombastic red with a few
undulating ribs
Held firmly in her hand
Is this her first or her third?
Somnambulant yet eager
And just a little out of place
In a foreign territory
On newly contested lands
She stumbles through a raucous crowd
Or was it just white noise?
She’s lost her companions
Somewhere
Although they could very well be close at hand
In the distance she can make out
Laughing faces
Bodies moving to and fro
Spilling forward, little messes
Throwing back cheap libation
She passes through a room and out the door
Into the out-of-doors
Someone following her unbeknownst
Watching her cautious, curious steps
And when she turns and sees the blur standing
She greets it
“Hail Fellow!”
Bouncing from variable to variable
Frequency to frequency
Confident and in command
Of a seemingly controlled chaos
He approaches smiling and holds out his hand
Anonymous
Having drawn her attention from the stars
That she could not find above
Leaning against the garage’s eastern wall
She takes it awkwardly
Tentative she smiles back reassured
Wobbling she returns standing alongside him
Or was she in front?
Purposeful and en route
Emboldened by his presence
And how the way was parted before her
Just by his being there.
By being so close.
She felt vaguely special
it showed in her half-smile
Cloaked in bangs
She held her head just a little bit higher
The co-conspiratorial glances
Met by boys eyes
And shes
Went unseen by the girl with the
Solo cup
One of tens upon tens upon tens
A coven would have known
It’s better not to
However.
She was shown a seat to rest
And her cup refilled
She takes a sip and smiles again
She takes another and then a gulp
That spills
He takes the cup away
And places it on the low table
Suggests she go to the restroom upstairs and get herself
Sorted
Embarrassed she is relieved for direction
Someone knows what’s going on
And his caring
Taking the time
His kind eyes
She’s usually alone
She waddles up the stairs to find
a toilet and a mirror
God she thinks
I look a mess
She tries to fix it
The hair
The eyes
The lips
The dress
The stomach
The *******
The thighs
She shrugs her shoulders at her reflection
Exhales and steps out again
To find him standing there
waiting for more.
She wants another cup.
She’s missing her cup.
I’ll get you the cup he says
In just a second.
Come.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
midnight dark
is my true love’s kiss
of clove and citrus scented
cradled in the subtle
woven voices
of the conspiratorial night wind
soft as the silver-blue
edges of light
cast from nocturnal lanterns
sharing in silent thunder
secrets held in coffers
of crimson jade
blazing with the vibrance
of constellations
blown before celestial storms
full as skyward Luna
rounded and buxom
heavy with desire
veiling my worldly sight
so her truth can pierce me
blinding me
that I may see
Mar 8, 2023
Mar 8, 2023 at 11:25 PM UTC
.ha ha! of course they'd be the ones asking for money! what did you expect? payment by peanuts?!
digital beggars...
nice term... nice...
very nice...
digital
beggars...
& ***** donors...
whatever
the **** that means...
replica to a d.n.a.
continuum?
seriously?!
go ahead... ******
oi! ****** *** Goliath!
that one song,
garbage's song...
stupid girl...
sing-along ballerina
happy...
aged 18 / 16 and thinking
she's a ********* fest...
last time i heard...
that was the legal age?
no?
Ficklestein was on board?
APPLAUSE!
APPLAUSE!
you want the opposite ratio,
of the *** galore of
the black swan ************
impromptu, introducing the french
into the conundrum?
no?
by now?
i'm so past giving a ****
that, giving a ****
is an act of conspiratorial neglect...
no... **** it...
you're on your own...
now watch my face;
pretending to assume the
****** expression of
being, bothered.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 9:40 PM UTC
A brook runs through my Grandmas farm,
That used to carry gold.
My Grandpa
-Benjamin-
Did not yield the land,
To the British, who wanted it dammed.
In 1968, they took him in,
To have his appendix removed,
And Grandma never remarried.
My Aunt Alice,
Was a witch.
She flew in on broomsticks
We never saw,
But heard in the barn,
Where she parked.
She brought foreign sweets that didn’t
Crack our lips,
And told us naughty jokes.
-Oh Pope the *******
Please pass the Custard!-
We’d squeal and never tell,
And feel all grown up and,
Conspiratorial.
Grandma says she died running with
The wrong pack,
That she was knocked from the sky,
By a cross.
Later we learned,
It was a broken heart that did it, that
Grandma wouldn’t accept a,
Jewish man in the house,
So she killed herself.
Mary was dead when we got here,
Her tree is the prettiest.
It’s a large yellow poplar that
Trembles in the slightest breeze.
She was a violinist,
A frail, little thing, who
Is fading away in family photographs.
Irridescent sparrows trill,
Beautiful harmonies,
From skinny branches,
Shielded by the most delicate,
Drooping fronds.
You see, my Grandmother has three beautiful trees,
Growing in her garden,
One for Benjamin, one for Alice, one for Mary.
My grandmother used to sit under these trees.
They’re feeding off the bones she says.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
i cannot tell you
how many well meaning
eyes have looked deeply into mine
as lips questioned,
"now what are you doing for you?"
i find that such a bizarre question.
i don't know
staying alive?
avoiding death by
getting maimed
malnutrition
the elements...
isn't that what everyone is doing?
what people are looking for
is something more like...
girl, let me tell you
pull your chair closer
(said in a conspiratorial way)
these disasters couldn't have
happened at a better time!
i've been taking my
government cheese
paying all my bills,
going out to dinner every night
you know i got a life coach
a yoga instructor
and a therapist?
yeah
i have a lover for
every day of the week
i get a massage every wednesday
and a pedicure every monday
because i deserve this me time
what the ****
what am i doing for me?
what are you doing for you?
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
Indoctrination of the American nation
Relocation of native populations
Slaves labor, creating plastic toys
To distract the little girls and boys
With media propaganda saturation
To numb your brain from realization
That we're living a lie as children die
To fill your tank so you can drive
To Wal-Mart for some motherfuckin' Cheesy Poofs
That scoop the dip in which you ****
Lay waste to nature's beauty abundant
Political doublespeak redundantly redundant
Television's collision with consciousness
Has dimmed your awareness to idiocy
In an illusion of democracy
Where only the rich have control
As upon us all they take their toll
And we blindly follow, believing as we hear
Their scheming lies of security and fear
It's time the power structure fell
No more this **** to buy and sell
Reallocation of the hoarded wealth
And power for all people, not oneself
Mental stasis, awaken from this hypnosis
And avert the coming catastrophic crisis
Our leaders are masters who march us to disaster
As the clash of our cultures ignites so much faster
Than mere cognition, dimmed by television
Can comprehend the impending collision
Of conflicting interest in collective vision
It's time to rise with a battle cry
And tell the Feds we won't lay down and die
We'll evolve and resolve the situation
And bring new meaning to revolution
An end to the media's web of confusion
Confusing reality with an illusion
Conspiratorial governmental parallels
A trumpet's blast, as Babylon.... fell.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
The night conspiratorial,
A certain unfriendly bite to it,
heaviness like things undone,
Autumn is television cackle mahogany scented,
one creature making sense
Of its biology,
Legs and arms and hearts and minds entangled,
Until lethargic resignation
Slipping our memories in years to come,
Like we were absent from our bodies,
Fleetingly appalled at my abandonment,
To what extent do the walls know?
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 9:28 AM UTC
tense as the rolled up newspaper thrown
slapping against the step
at dawn
awakening conspiratorial
slinking around the truth
sleuthing sniffing
my way to find
out this way or that but the way
about the signs the clues
preachers words the same weight
as the street corner girls
a way to think
in our detectiving
then the ultimate
DNA almost
the penultimate
remains of the doer dids
the who what did
whats the ne'er do wells on
Mulberry street , I know them hoods
no they were not the culprits
I scent along above below
sniff and snoof
behoove behind the wildest dogs
to find it was
mine own trail I had found
among the shivering forest green
I sat considered
a shylock set this up
then saw the bacon on my foot
I had been following.
I set off again my foot clean.
I will find this bandit.
I like bacon , though.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 1:44 AM UTC
She then wears her special smile
an inamorata's conspiratorial
signalling her arousal, need to get me closer
right there in a room full of people
all of us in the midst of serious business.
I have deep yearning in my eyes
that in turn sets fire to her love central
we burn to be in each other's arms
lovers in exile, commandeer private moments
deflecting watchful eyes of jealousy
every time our secret rituals of amour
take unexpected arms and win wars.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
OUT of the testimony of such reluctant lips, out of the oaths and mouths of such scrupulous liars, out of perjurers whose hands swore by God to the white sun before all men,
Out of a rag saturated with smears and smuts gathered from the footbaths of kings and the **** cloths of ****** from the scabs of Babylon and Jerusalem to the scabs of London and New York,
From such a rag that has wiped the secret sores of kings and overlords across the milleniums of human marches and babblings,
From such a rag perhaps I shall wring one reluctant desperate drop of blood, one honest-to-God spot of red speaking a mother-heart.December, 1918.Christiania, Norway
1.3k
**The vivacious little girl
occupying the table next, with her parents
counts me too, someone close to her
I don't know, what prompts this,
or why she wants to cheer me up.
Smiles at me like I am an uncle
lost for long and now found by chance,
offers a bite from her candy
with a conspiratorial wink.
Its a pity I lost touch
with that part of my psyche
that used to act like a kid
and rejoice, without a thought'
when something like this happens.
Yes, things change
you may not even sense it,
I suddenly realize.
I just look away and see
a bleak cloud fully lost all morning flush
at the corner of the sky limping forward,
dissolving little by little.**
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
If you could only let it drop
we would not need to bear it:
that holy hoity-toity
illiberal burden you announce
from where you wear it.
Would you then be able to live
with your fellow citizens:
fellow toilers in rhyme
buying gluten-free time
at Whole Foods
US; your citizen-neighbors
online cloud of witnesses
Looking at used Subarus
and paying our dues
with you
at the dealership.
Could you only see
through deplorable eyes
and love with a deplorable heart
you would appreciate the art
of the real deal,
loose the seal
of your own apocalypse;
let love reveal
landscapes your pride
has kept hidden for too long.
If you could let your hatred drop,
Slough off the smug and the sneer
If you could stop
signaling to your own
long enough to know REAL diversity, and live
perhaps you’d give
a thought to your own fallibility
lost in a forest of woulds, failing to see
Your neighbor’s Tree of Life. . .
But you are busy perfecting strife,
screaming Timber!
before the axe has even been laid
at the root of your poetry.
If you knew, as the rest of us
how often you have shouted thus
you could understand why
we tend to ignore your warning cry.
Perhaps it could be feasible
to stop blaming
that orange source of all unreasonable
derangement, cease from naming
your neurotic projections
as they are unscrewed
to reveal another inside:
crazed conspiratorial Russian doll
of your own
discredited obsessive offended perpetual alarm.
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 6:16 PM UTC
The insane man with uncommon zen,
I encounter now and then near the city center
poses a nonsensical question each quite different,
every time he and i come face to face by chance,
then shares a smile with a conspiratorial wink.
"Every one in this planet, even those ones
who are at war with themselves or others
inanely clamors'light, light, give us light'
they sincerely believe it or not, do you think
there is enough light, for all, assuming they all deserve it?"
I see the night getting near and the electric lights started
opening their greedy eyes in quick succession,
I see a drop of it reflected in the well of his eyes,
He expects a "YES" or "NO"from me at once!
as if it's crucial to the survival of planet earth"
I look around and see light valiantly fights the army of darkness,
now tell me my friend, who now reads this, what would you advice?
I am waiting, I am all ears; darkness and light too listens.
I know you as a nice one,a good soul, balanced; come on tell me..,
,
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
I am to know: her skill she poetically makes me see
come: to a point,
conspiratorial at times, but, aren't we all?
orphans?
In shells With heads hidden in?
She is destined: nature knows
she has an ear no matter how
sometimes: I yell, she always comes back.
She is from hell : or a guide sent to save me?
She knows all the words: knows every dead poet.
She grows: on me, and in my head more every way
with each day, wonderful.
She is my Queen, my muse:
my today: Tomorrow.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
Fire fire burning bright,
Your power and dominion respected,
As you imbibe our offerings of poetry, rhyme,
And ancient storytelling of free men.
Conspiratorial keeper of our secrets,
Mastered by none,
Your red embers and golden flames
Nurture and cajole us
To share our
Deepest
Darkest
Thoughts
And
Desires.
Nov 8, 2022
Nov 8, 2022 at 7:14 PM UTC
Darkness slowly encroaching.
A small island of light, illuminating her hands.
An office chair moving back and forth as she talks, animating her conversation with gestures.
Half smiles, one mocking, the next conspiratorial.
Eyes that flash between shyness and flirtation.
Her neck, smooth and perfect.
He rises, and walks to the back of the chair, standing behind her.
Joking but not joking about watching her, about wanting her.
About touching her.
Freeze that moment.
No, not freeze. the word is too cold in this too long winter.
Hold still, and listen to the expectation in the silence.
Sense the breathing, chests gently rising and falling.
Watch skin flush slightly red as they pause.
Feel their knowledge...
Will she turn?
Will she ever turn?
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
our pockets are filled with stones
in conspiratorial fabrication of fictions
as chemical colors seep
by conscious deployment of illusions
transforming human misery and violence into wit
in loquacious gestures
that fail to expose the artifice
of gender distinction
that intolerable wrong
that leaves stones in all our pockets
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
Arise children of the fatherland
The day of glory has arrived
Against us tyranny's
****** standard is raised
Listen to the sound in the fields
The howling of these fearsome soldiers
They are coming into our midst
To cut the throats of your sons and consorts
To arms citizens Form your battalions
March, march
Let impure blood
Water our furrows
What do they want this horde of slaves
Of traitors and conspiratorial kings?
For whom these vile chains
These long-prepared irons?
Frenchmen, for us, ah! What outrage
What methods must be taken?
It is us they dare plan
To return to the old slavery!
What! These foreign cohorts!
They would make laws in our courts!
What! These mercenary phalanxes
Would cut down our warrior sons
Good Lord! By chained hands
Our brow would yield under the yoke
The vile despots would have themselves be
The masters of destiny
Tremble, tyrants and traitors
The shame of all good men
Tremble! Your parricidal schemes
Will receive their just reward
Against you we are all soldiers
If they fall, our young heros
France will bear new ones
Ready to join the fight against you
Frenchmen, as magnanimous warriors
Bear or hold back your blows
Spare these sad victims
That they regret taking up arms against us
But not these ****** despots
These accomplices of Bouillé
All these tigers who pitilessly
Ripped out their mothers' wombs
We too shall enlist
When our elders' time has come
To add to the list of deeds
Inscribed upon their tombs
We are much less jealous of surviving them
Than of sharing their coffins
We shall have the sublime pride
Of avenging or joining them
Drive on sacred patriotism
Support our avenging arms
Liberty, cherished liberty
Join the struggle with your defenders
Under our flags, let victory
Hurry to your manly tone
So that in death your enemies
See your triumph and our glory!
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
What kind of obscure analysis
Implies
What instantaneous retraction
Denies
Although I still believe
The illuminated illustration
Stands fast ... in resolute conviction
That poets can be and often are...
... word butchers!
And then... In...
That hyper Inflated
Monumental moment of Silence
You can hear the discourse
Running rampant through
The metaphorically impaled
Dignity...
As it swallows
In hardchecking defense
Restraining those words
Rising up... in roiling need to avenge
This appalling offense
Screaming eyes burning holes
And every single letter as it streams past
Resolved
To the abrogated
With a sudden conviction
That None Shall be absolved
Not a single a or double m
Whit or whim
Simply waiting with war raging
Beneath this thin veneer
Of social mores and polite adherence
The smiling face and the calm appearance
Of an understanding listener
Knowing and aware
Of the growing
Self-affirming
Sense of indignation
That's such effrontery as to call
Any poet
Even if it is themself
That they spoke of
Just 30 seconds ago
And now winding up and winding down
Any point have this interdiction
Sudden ponderous silence echoeing with a question mark laden intensity of the guantlets swing...... how can you call yourself a word butcher and be any kind of... of... of... A poet?
With quizzical eyes. and mild surprise
My face pops forward and up
To gaze upon the springboard
Of this questioning ...
... but obviously sincere
Learned yet learning... lover of words
So leaning in close
And then in whispered tones
Whispered in conspiratorial antipathy
Because I treat them gently
I weigh them Fair
I carve just enough excess
to leave them with value
I wrap them in clean white parchment and tie them up with pride ....
....then pass them over
to be ...unwrapped
savored and enjoyed by...... I hope
a recipient
who enjoys what was related
Then
With all the luck in the world
ends up sated... by the words
and the thoughts
That I had created
Then watching them walk away the army disbanded and the war horses went calm while the learned yet learning lover of words..... couldn't think of a single word to say.
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC
Silence
When the heart stops beating, the lungs stop breathing
The footsteps, they are no more
Hands no longer snap, clap, wave
Vocal chords no longer vibrate
Mouths no longer twist these vibrations to word
Laughter is gone, as are the tears
Sobs, they are no more
Noses, no longer blown
A conspiratorial whisper is history
Teeth rest still in the cold
Dead.
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 5:24 PM UTC
after the final RENDITION
(and all that......
.................conspiratorial
babble....)
by the poor complaining
rabble
who refuse to simply lie
down and die
in the street
revolution is what cowards
"do"
when all options are gone
so i learned
at the FINAL RENDITION
when all became
known
to me
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 11:45 AM UTC
I'm afraid to lure to you to me,
I know they won't like it.
I'm scared for you to know me,
I feel like I'm a ball you'll hit.
Foreign people, foreign disputes,
Pacing unrealistic promises.
Trying to make up absolutes,
Even though I'm the only one making crash courses.
Tying to talk to us again,
Attempting to rhyme;
Like sewing tattered linen;
Quite easy, but not easy on time.
I left just for me to return,
I typed just for you to know;
I'd never stop, I'd never learn;
Like a madman resurrecting someone from a barrow.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 8:12 PM UTC