"conspirators" poems
Challenges and competition notified.
Every step codified.
Tears and sweat pacified.
Achievements and advancement glorified.
Regression and depression terrified.
Muscles and struggle verified.
Foes and conspirators mortified.
Plans of progress and purpose sanctified.
Grace and the Goodness of God testified.
Sweet pleasures of life.
Trials, Torment and Torture.
Eulogies and Elegies of visible characters.
Promising and decisive.
No conflicts, No dilemma.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
The young maricones and the ***** muchachas,
The big fat widows delirious from insomnia,
The young wives thirty hours' pregnant,
And the hoarse tomcats that cross my garden at night,
Like a collar of palpitating ****** oysters
Surround my solitary home,
Enemies of my soul,
Conspirators in pajamas
Who exchange deep kisses for passwords.
Radiant summer brings out the lovers
In melancholy regiments,
Fat and thin and happy and sad couples;
Under the elegant coconut palms, near the ocean and moon,
There is a continual life of pants and *******
A hum from the fondling of silk stockings,
And women's ******* that glisten like eyes.
The salary man, after a while,
After the week's tedium, and the novels read in bed at night,
Has decisively ****** his neighbor,
And now takes her to the miserable movies,
Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes,
And he caresses her legs covered with sweet down
With his ardent and sweaty palms that smell like cigarettes.
The night of the hunter and the night of the husband
Come together like bed sheets and bury me,
And the hours after lunch, when the students and priests are ************
And the animals mount each other openly,
And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically,
And cousins play strange games with cousins,
And doctors glower at the husband of the young patient,
And the early morning in which the professor, without a thought,
Pays his conjugal debt and eats breakfast,
And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other truly
On beds big and tall as ships:
So, eternally,
This twisted and breathing forest crushes me
With gigantic flowers like mouth and teeth
And black roots like fingernails and shoes.
10k
Against too many writers of science fiction
Why did you lure us on like this,
Light-year on light-year, through the abyss,
Building (as though we cared for size!)
Empires that cover galaxies
If at the journey's end we find
The same old stuff we left behind,
Well-worn Tellurian stories of
Crooks, spies, conspirators, or love,
Whose setting might as well have been
The Bronx, Montmartre, or Bedinal Green?
Why should I leave this green-floored cell,
Roofed with blue air, in which we dwell,
Unless, outside its guarded gates,
Long, long desired, the Unearthly waits
Strangeness that moves us more than fear,
Beauty that stabs with tingling spear,
Or Wonder, laying on one's heart
That finger-tip at which we start
As if some thought too swift and shy
For reason's grasp had just gone by?
4.5k
Strike the match!
Light the candles!
Conspirators gather 'round!
For we have come to eradicate,
the world of the old,
the useless,
the weary,
and the crowned.
Watch the wax!
Drip down so fast!
Let this drop seal our order,
the world of the chaotic,
the frantic,
the paranoid,
and the crying soldier.
See the flames!
Light the faces!
Of all who gathered today,
the world of the noble,
the sinner,
the suspicious,
and the people stuck in dismay.
The wax stops!
It drips, no more!
The infamous clock strikes twelve,
the world of the lights,
the candles,
the flames,
and watch as they drip the other way.
Look, those candles!
They melt in reverse!
All that work was sent backward,
the world of destruction,
the pain,
the confusion,
and the candles never burn downward.
The candle has melted!
It's just wax!
It had cooled on the table,
the world of the conspirators,
the liars,
the cheaters,
but the flames were always stable.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
(for the unknown You) –
Sweep up a mound of achievements;
layer dogwood and newspaper beneath;
find a small, secluded shoreline to sleep an endless sleep;
shovel money (in at least twenty currencies),
some status and fame
onto the funeral pyre’s unremembering flame;
write furiously with computer or pen,
fill out the days’ whitespace with enthusiastic fantasy;
revel on a fallacy (or three);
win the gladiatorial games in the Corporate Arena;
rediscover a bit of ancient folklore;
set up nice altruistic societies to make orphans feel infinite;
plant a little garden – give guidance in its growth;
build four or five fine-but-small boats
with richly decorated keels;
fight for something worth believing,
though I’m still unsure what that means…
A(my) guess: lyricism and poetry and prose,
musical composition, simply being kind and open;
A suggestion(for You): lay Your hand on a patient’s slowing heart
in a cancer ward, catch their tears with a jar
and meditate on better things to do;
give the old folks a laugh;
steal the Elgin Marbles back for the Greeks,
or, for the memory of ancient Greece;
find where lay a psychopathic fascist’s bitter ashes
and give them to the conspirators for closure;
(for me) place letters on the graves
of John Keats, Percy Shelley,
Wystan Auden and William Yeats;
rescind, abolish, annul, invalidate
my station in God’s dysphoric, existential reverie;
heap up beautiful words and send them off to sea
inside a laptop on a cellophane-wrapped raft;
(for both of us) think thoughts uplifting;
smile thirty-three times a day (or more);
plan for the future of ourselves and others;
give just a bit of love to our mothers;
sweep the kitchen and the city streets for free;
by your garden plant a tree.
Beyond these things for us to do,
be proud-yet-humble, open-eyed and acquiescent;
just accept; all things inanimate and animate, accept.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
I knew we were in trouble
when they taught the machines to talk
parliament of artificial owls
nocturnal park line pirates
watch and learn
these conspirators
abduct the listening chair
and strap deniability to
another infernal device
so some hotwired pilgriming woman
possesses superior ****** abilities
and a skill with
the violin, the pointy end
camera is king
yet all the negatives
have been destroyed
still somewhere out there
remains a flash card
and a hybrid set of eyes
watching all the people fall to pieces
we're perambulations around
collapsed buildings,
rather than the collapsing buildings themselves
me and the machine
of contradictions
sick as our secrets
with all kinds of shenanigans going on
welcome to the age of copying minds
onto hard drives and cellphones
a future too heavy to carry
and so we plant it deep into the soil
letting the cables sleep
like fading city lights, receding
like strange fractured reactors
at the edge of the world
in lieu of flowers send hope
Aug 10, 2022
Aug 10, 2022 at 6:37 PM UTC
*O come
gentle persons all
and listen to the woeful tale
of an unfortunate lover*
1
I pitied Cinderella
and knocked at her door
when everyone was away
and I sang:
*Come, run away with me
and I shall look after you -
all the days of my life
all the days of yours*
Get lost, she said.
*I’ve a premonition
of glass slippers
and Princes and castles*
2
And so I went to fair Verona
to see if Juliet would
give me her hand
but it was her father
who showed me the toughness
of his servant’s hands
3
And ah, I went to Rapunzel
and I said: *Oh, let down your hair
and I’ll come to you;
and I’ll find a way for both of us
to run away to better lands*
Get lost, she said
*You don’t look like a man
who can afford to get
me the best shampoo
and golden diamond-studded hairclips -
new ones everyday
for my hairdo*
4
And so I waited
for Cleopatra
till Brutus and the conspirators
stuck their daggers into Caesar
and I went to her mansions
but the guards seized me and they said:
*You ever heard of Cleopatra’s needles?
Where’d you like us
to stick them in you?*
5
and so, desperate,
I went to **** myself
back in Verona
in the family crypt of the Capulets
and woe is me -
I really don’t know why -
but I’m thrown into prison now
*‘for the ****** of two’*
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 9:51 PM UTC
The prison bus
passes this way
every now and then,
surfacing without
warning—a leviathan
of metal, grease, and glass
its dark windows secured
by squares of rusted wire
its diesel engine heart
spewing exhaust that
turns morning rain
the color of seawater.
The prison bus
does not stop
for stop signs;
red lights are nothing
but violent memories
strung in an overcast sky.
When the bus strikes
something in its path
the prisoners bounce
slightly in their seats,
lifted into
impartial air
liberated
momentarily
by the familiar
co-conspirators
of blood and laughter.
In his dreams,
the guard who
drives the prison bus
circumnavigates the globe,
plowing through clouds
of insects that shimmer
like fuel above the road.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
A President fell into
the conspirators trap.
History was rewritten
as easy as that.
Remember the riots
the blood and the gore.
Remember the protests
of an unpopular war.
Think of who benefits
when young blood is shed,
for its they who put bullets
in J.F.K's head.
It was they who put Johnson
up on Camelot's throne.
Do you still think Lee Harvey
acted alone?
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
A general and statesman,
reformer and conquerer,
summoned to the senate,
and hastily issued a petition
of which to bring back a senators
banished brother.
The Dictator Waves him off,
and Cimber grasps his shoulder,
“Ista quidem vis est!”*1
Cascas dagger is drawn,
swiftly toward the neck it darts,
yet caesar nimbly catches such
attack,
“Casca you villain! What is this you do!?”
Casca fearing, cries “Adelphe, Boethei!”*2
Then like the wolves descending on
a lonely foe, they lunge and leap,
Brutus too…
Caesar at the sight of him,
averts his eyes and makes for the door,
unable to escape he falls upon the floor,
“Kai su, Teknon?”*3
The man who was harried,
crawled to the steps, and
saying nothing,
Caesar dies…
The Lower steps submerged in the
Emperors crimson blood,
the body cold, limp,
lifeless,
had at by the vultures,
armed with knives, and
stabbed times twenty-three.
The conspirators proud,
marched through the streets,
and announced to fear-struck
citizens,
“People of Rome! We are once again free!”
Yet, no one came out…
for now.
until, Three hours passed,
and only then,
was the fallen mans lifeless,
corpse drenched in blood,
collected and cremated.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 10:35 PM UTC
you are walking the streets
you do not walk the boards anymore
your trousers are frayed, your shoes dusty
and the hard walkways have worn them out
you are not presented in the glorious costumes
and the stage crowns anymore
the illusion is gone, it’s reality
that’s permanent now
you’re the beggar, the recluse, the plain and shadow
you walk down to the shops
and your speech raises eyebrows
where’d he learn to speak like that?
they ask, in whispers, like conspirators on stage
your actions are too lofty, your manner too distant
it threatens them, they must crush you –
so that’s why you’ve learned to blend in as well as you can
those were the days
when they heard your words, and they felt it resonate
when they noted your pronouncements
and there was acknowledgement
but those were the days, a long time back when they
looked at you, and they knew you, and they looked in awe
now the children sneer at the old man,
and when it’s too cold, your nose runs
and you need to **** more often
and the women notice you hobble,
you leave the art of significance
and you learn the art of the indistinct
and you’ve learned
which practice is more difficult:
acting the prominent, or acting the anonymous
*Go, old man, old actor, every dog has its day;
the new breed eats the bones today*
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
(Can be sung to the tune of "Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town")
You'd better take heed; you'd better not bawl
When you read all the writing on the wall:
You are going to be IMPEACHED.
You can deny what you have done,
But you cannot fool everyone.
You are going to be IMPEACHED.
Mueller's digging deeper,
No matter what you do.
No matter what you think or say,
He's got the goods on you.
So! You'd better take heed; you'd better not bawl
When you read all the writing on the wall:
You are going to be IMPEACHED.
Putin can say he wasn't involved,
And you say, "Hey! Now I'm absolved."
You are going to be IMPEACHED.
Republican friends in Congress can try
To undermine the Mueller probe and lie.
You're still going to be IMPEACHED.
The people in this country are jumping up and down.
Finally there'll be oversight: the Dems have come to town.
So! You'd better take heed; you'd better not bawl
When you read all the writing on the wall:
You are going to be IMPEACHED.
You think that you are free and clear.
Keep your eyes open as storm clouds near.
You are going to be IMPEACHED.
You can say "No collusion" each day.
The truth of the matter won't go away.
You are going to be IMPEACHED.
Among your co-conspirators someone's spilled the beans;
Someone's told the truth about you,
And you know what that means.
So! You'd better take heed; don't weep and wail.
Worst case scenario: time in jail.
You are going to be IMPEACHED.
-by Bob B (12-10-18)
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 9:29 AM UTC
i have spent the last three days humbled
on hands and knees, relinquishing all of myself
into the welcoming mouth of the toilet seat.
i don't know what is wrong with me.
i havent seen you for a while but i am certain that you hate me.
i can't help but think that this is my fault,
wonder if i should be giving more of myself-
something other than mucus and bile.
i look back on the day that i cut my hair,
embarrassed that all i had to give you was
a lock of it, a small insignificant piece of me, knowing that
you wouldn't have accepted all of me if i had offered.
i don't know how to show you that i've tied myself to you,
that you now possess a piece of the last nineteen years of my life.
i bet you threw me in a drawer or underneath the bed,
let me drop unnoticed behind the bookcase:
out of sight, out of mind.
i now know what lovesick looks like
although it is not the kind of love (or sickness)
that you would accuse me of being capable of. it is more like a mother
ripped away from her suckling child
by the guilt instilled in her through a man's laughing eyes.
i wish i could leave this body,
fly away to worlds untouched and forget you, but
i am still learning that we are rooted to this earth by hatred and hips,
destined to be left behind,
no lumps of flesh to save us,
flapping behind our backs or between our legs.
and when hagar looked down upon his beautiful face and froze,
i'm sure she contemplated driving that knife
in the centered nook right below her own ribcage,
confused as to which she should aim for:
the heart or the womb,
both equal conspirators in her shame.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 10:27 PM UTC
this is the dwelling where wind is a bell and a beacon for death.
where youthful pursuit is punctured by family names or famine of fortune.
boys in bands buoyed by Onos and shared women.
lawyer fathers and social ***** mothers whose children are forbidden to **** up.
one street reserved and smothered by talking townsmen
whose belligerent brides keep tabs on their fellow middle-aged malicious
minded low-lifes
engorged in gossip are the parading fat men who rise early to feed off ones business capital tragedies
****** shortcomings of the stuck and single prey off tweens tweeting of body glitter and b-cups.
clique chick coquettes play house with their shiny image seeking male counterparts
who sing songs of their leather faced lady friends with plastic claws they now admit they would never marry
antagonizing cute couples secretly copulating with former loves' lust
only to mingle with conspirators molding to dominant thought
once a waitress always a waitress
with overdrawn bragging rights and unemployment checks
serving snobs like themselves who sip savignon
self-righteous polo popping perverts accompanying their prized play things
who join the charles river emigrants and stale french pastries
scouting the waste colored palace of prejudice.
now blades of winter draw months of blue blood
bringing forth frozen thoughts slowly dripping onto thawing skin.
another warm summer sun forthcoming
foreshadowed by this wind-chafing forlornness.
though i will fall in love again
and bridge rats will always be kings.
Apr 21, 2011
Apr 21, 2011 at 3:33 PM UTC
Written for a challenge on my
former site... he wanted us to
rewrite Shakespheare...
a daunting task to say the least!
I can only hope that I
did The Bard justice!
O! Wretched Stars!
Look not down upon this maid!
Your wheels moved well upon
your merciless plans so laid!
You cross' d conspirators!
You... content in your spheres...
do you not find my eyes stricken...
... with tears!
O! Morose and meddlesome Moon!
So swollen full!
Let not this dagger pulled
from my loves gold'n sheath be dull!
You... gliding the uncaring sky
as ship with sail...
let mean, pernicious fate take me...
... your winds prevail!
Take me to where
my lover doth wait...
... take me to shroud, I prithee...
... to my mate!
O! My fairest husband!
Do not lie so still!
Can you not kiss me this last time. ..
... by force of will?
Can you not, with your
fair hand instead,
Take slender blade
and pierce my bossom
til it be bloom'd rose red?!!
Romeo... Romeo!
Wherefore art thou Romeo?
At last you're dead...
... and thus without a name...
As in the halls of graves
... all occupants the SAME!
A pox on your house!
A noisome pestilence!
And thee, o dagger?
Come and take me themce!
As for my house? Let them lie
with palsey in their beds...
... but not 'til this sweet dagger
finds me... its host... DEAD.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/26/2014
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
the lame decade
(the ...........depression 1930's)
the wars were coming...and
OF COURSE!
they came!
and ...
.......
........................who died?
well, it was them
to whom
DEATH
was,
(as if by the very GOD, himself)
ordained
necessitated, if you will
by economic realities
------
and then there were also the jews, zionism communism, fascism....etc-ism..etceterally...over and over face down in the mud dead child again
and then
presto!
MICKEY MANTLE AND THE NEW YORK YANKEES!
and of course HUAC, the rosenbergs, the rothschild's
and perhaps
(if you'd awaken)
you and me
------
but you never awaken!
and now
the lame decade
(the............ depression 2010's)
and the wars are coming
coming!
coming!!
HERE THEY ARE
(and the necessary
economically speaking
DEAD)
Aug 19, 2010
Aug 19, 2010 at 11:19 AM UTC
I think I'm pretty hot ****
most of the time.
Humility has it's place,
and it's place is in the podium.
Used to meter smiles and sighs and double talk,
with hopes to fill the ballot box.
See,
the heretics will tell you,
"You have so much more than we,
share a bit. Especially with me."
**** those ******
I don't fall for
concerned,
condemned,
condescending
conspirators
of the big philanthropist in the sky.
Intimidating,
masticating,
wishy washy,
woe-is-me,
cross carrying,
brother burying,
evangelical,
superintendents
of self-deprecation.
Where does my wealth of mental health come from?
I take pleasure in peace, that is to say,
the lack of both pleasure and pain.
And yes, I feel I get "It" with a capital I.
Because, you see, there is no "Why"
only I and I.
These eyes have seen 22 calendar years,
through bouts of laughter and selfish tears,
but these eyes have the years behind
the comprehension of Your minds.
I am older than time.
I am younger than those yet to be born.
I have had the wealth that comes with scorn.
I have thrown my back out beating corn.
I've had lover's lost, and love retained.
I've dissolved my brain, yet remained sane.
Every song, every people,
Every plant, stone, stick, or bone,
sceptre, crown, yoni, or throne,
are composed by moi so apropos.
You
are all deluded to deduce separation from each other.
You have spent lifetimes slaying the Other.
But then, again, so have I.
Sin is separation. To feel the disconnect,
whether by sense or intellect,
is to lose yourself within your
Self.
When the I is so infinite, what need is there to share?
Teach a man to fish...
Grant him his wish.
We are all we need to be.
"I" is all you need to be
Take this moment as it is.
Don't ask permission.
Don't apologize.
It's your right to breathe
It in.
It's your right to take that step outside your comfort zone
and wander off into the unknown on a whim.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
El reloj es tranquilo, metódico, incluso cuando corre mi mano fuera de control, empujando palabras que se escapan de la ***** de mis cinco dedos de lápiz.
El poema se levanta en el este y se pone en el oeste, los conspiradores están de acuerdo.
La carrera debe seguir este curso.
<•>
The clock is calm, methodical, even as it races my out-of-control hand, pushing words leaking from the lead within my five pencil fingers.
The poem rises in the East and sets in the West, the conspirators agree.
The race must follow this course.
12:34am
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC
. {a parable of celebrity} .
Ol' Rip [died January 19, 1929]; was a horned lizard
commonly referred to as a horned toad, or ***** toad,
whose supposed 31-year hibernation
as an entombed animal is believed
by some and doubted by others.
His name is a reference to the fictional character Rip Van Winkle.
In 1897, a horned lizard was placed in a cornerstone
of the Eastland County Courthouse in Eastland,
Texas along with other time capsule memorabilia.
When the courthouse was torn down 31 years later,
the cornerstone was opened on February 18, 1928,
a live horned lizard was produced,
allegedly from within the time capsule. The lizard became a celebrity,
and went on tour,
even being taken to Washington, D.C. to meet President Calvin Coolidge.
Ol' Rip died eleven months later,
and his remains are on display in the new Eastland County Courthouse.
In 1973 the body was stolen
and an anonymous letter explained
that the finding of Ol' Rip alive had been a hoax
and demanded other unnamed co-conspirators come forth.
When no one did, another letter was received
saying the coffin and body could be found in the county fairgrounds.
The coffin was found there and returned to the courthouse.
Some speculate that the body in the coffin was a substitute,
the real lizard
| now held in a private collection. |
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 3:28 AM UTC
One feverishly feigned embrace
And struck with hand, dagger graced
Though the votive venial
It precipitated the coup de grace
Ignorant stood captivated,
Discourse evaporated
As conspirators followed suit
Silence serenaded the orchestrated,
Symphony of treachery accentuated by sovereignty's strikes, resolute
Although he knew the fate awaited
And pain he could not substitute
The fight he would not forsake, and so suffered mute
Until his soul was devastated by the visage venerated...
The coda extricated,
"Et tu, Brute?"
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
Connections bring out the worst in me.
Sitting next to you, dark brown eyes
that light up too readily, lips turning at the corners
and a laugh that brings out mine, instinctively.
Secrets shared and confidences brokered
as we lean in and whisper, co-conspirators
facing the world, as a unit we rise together,
my thoughts mirrored on his face.
Tongue in cheek exchanges and insults
parodied and paraded between cross-roads,
intersects as we dance verbally, smiles
all too often exchanged as I know, now,
that I am heading for the fall.
That one that I always anticipate, the one that
has only happened once before, excitement
coursing in my veins as I try to tell myself stop,
think, take a breath and see the wall where this ends.
I can't help it though, his presence is like lightning,
as I glow from within enjoying this brief moment.
Desolation brews, but it is future-bound and I give
myself to the moment, pleasure paid for with future pain.
He is not mine, nor will he ever be,
we will never dance again and our eyes will not meet.
I am trying to find pleasure in past moments
but now gravity claims me, my loss is only my own,
as he falls back into the non-existence from whence he came
and all that now remains is the absence of him.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
*it's a dead, obviously, working from per se, i only used prae to be near per, i could have used foris, or even ante, but given the dictionary and the necrosis of the Latin tongue per se as in: per - by rather than in - and se - himself rather than itself, you can imagine the complications of coining a phrase for the antidote of in-itself, i.e. outside-itself.*
revision of Enya: **** away **** away,
against the wind against the wind;
mash up... brrrrapt big up big up east end
Loud Don... bonkers bunch...
now that is random,
i wanted to make a serious point,
and i will (insert snigger)... eventually.
what i wanted to communicate was the revenge of
von Kleist against Kant...
Kant is the enemy of poetry we're led to believe,
i can imagine, only Heidegger took Holderlin seriously
and lectured on his poetry,
von Kleist committed suicide out of despair
having read Kant's critique...
but what i want to do:
to take each poetic technique out of poetry, and
then use each technique to describe it's origin...
so for example metaphor... given that poetry is
ensō (one smooth stroke) - ever watched the t.v.
series Wolf Hall? it's about the dealings of Thomas
Cromwell, all matters of intrigue, Henry the VIII,
and Anne Boleyn... so the metaphor describing
poetry... at the end of Wolf Hall
Anne Boleyn is about to be decapitated, because
she ****** like Catherine the Great (although i'm
sure the myth about the horse by polish / lithuanian
conspirators isn't true... or applicable to Anne)
and that offended the king...
so on the scaffold, there's the swordsman (using a sword
was a clean affair, axes were brutal, imagine hacking
at stump of wood, or like Longinus Podbipięta,
who with a Teutonic sword cut three Turk
heads in one go, so Longinus Podbipięta vouched
to a lady his chastity that he'd bed her if he also
cut three Ottoman heads in one go ref. Sienkiewicz
with fire and sword - the sword
that cut ****** Mary's head was, blunt)...
so there's this scene in Wolf Hall, ah man, the swordsman
is classy, Thomas Cromwell asks him, 'will it be a clean
death?', 'only if she doesn't move',
so on the scaffold, he takes his shoes off, speaks into her right
ear as if she's expecting the swing to come from there
and then with great stealth moves in the other
direction and cuts her head off from the left...
so i guess poetry is a metaphor of that, an ensō,
an evolution from haiku: one smooth stroke and you're done:
nothing airy fairy, like you need to sigh...
no... you need to drop the anchor:
poetry prae se, as described by metaphor.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
the old gang
had got together
with their minds focused
on a conspiracy
they were going to hunt
that ferret out
of their immediate proximity
the dang creature
twas making
their lives
a tormenting hell
so as a collectively body
they decided
to throw the ferret
into a deep well
but he sensed
that a conspiracy
had been formulated
by the gang's boss
to whit he let
the animal protection unit
know of the co-conspirators
intent to give him the toss
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
The porch light barely illuminates the overflowing ashtray
Moon, abandoned home, smokestack, alleys: view
Orderly circles of leaking lunar spectrum serve as steady sight
Otherwise torn by my mouth like a hooked fish to the angler-night
The streets are full of holes like the stories of conspirators
Kitten of gender nondescript plays in the corner, jubilant
Clouds pass and pay no mind, don’t associate with our kind
I hope she doesn’t find me foolish when I interject
Approached by vendor of the thieving sort with stolen radio offered cheap
Promised to turn potential customers his way as I planned retreat
A character amongst graffiti and gritty blacktop, the type I always meet
Nobody waited for us as we signaled from the crosswalk
Back to the quarters, friend needs a ******
Try to concentrate and write despite the bang on the walls
Distraction from *** I’m not having; she’s a screamer
Dark brewed beer is a bitter taste for bedtime
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 10:04 PM UTC
Diving into a cornfield of despair, a creamy boa constrictor hugging my chest. Unable to reach the pliers sticking out of my pocket, painfully teasing. It releases briefly to allow the venomous shards of tolerance to reach my lungs for a moment. No matter the seemingly friendly gesture, just one puncture after the other.
Conspirators directing their standard march, strangling on cue with as much enthusiasm as a turtle gnawing at its brunch. Useless ******* schedule, condemned to it for a life-long demise.
To stop and ingest, a team of euphoric soldiers filing into my beaten past and creating a future that never would have been. Dispersed evenly so as to cancel out that which is to always be present in memory. A ray of sun kissing my cheeks as a symbol of hope and thrill. A smooth, unceasing sense of gratitude enjoying its residence and occupation, never feeling the need to vacation.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 11:34 AM UTC