"contemporaries" poems
A slow walk up Centennial
and I still can’t find the place
it's menacing cold, and muted
and the street sweeper and winter breeze
move the Turkish blend and dust pack
A novice mixed duet plays
Brahms on broken strings
the erhu and overcoat
veiling a blue heeler and sphinx
Maggianos is settled in the center block’s
luminance and seasonal drape
it's festive warmth bringing home Bedford Falls;
the flavour and character and social circles
Annie’s playing and the keeper's singing
(his word pool and slander
raising everyone in arms!)
the crowd chants and mayhem breaks
as crawlers and contemporaries
smash their steins
Dark alleys and dripping holes
hold a grim reminder of the pierced underside
paddies flutter and forge their words
with a broad manifesto
Night gardens come alive
(slowly sapping the respite)
hunched figures and ladies in lace
shuffle inside the big orange door
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 11:25 PM UTC
Though in dexterity my physically challenged carpenter father,
Than the physically fit proves better,as a source to his anger,
With contemporaries a level ground he enjoyed never!
From late childhood there was one thing that me used to bother, why my so discriminated father
On his turn true to cultural dictates,ill treats my domestic chores saddled mother
And heeds not her say though by the sweat of their brow
As responsible parents they were happily bringing my sister and I together?
I still wonder why ,why ,why my sister who has IQ
On par with me if not better,to help out mother
Suffering a cold shoulder even by her mom was denied the right to pursue education further
While I was given a chance to prove a man of letter(s)?
I remember, crossing many a pool, barefooted, I used to trek
A long distance to a nearby town's a school,
Where for my provincial and shabby clothes I was seen a fool
By the relatively rich in showing courtesy far from cool.
Though stationery they didn't lack , sad,I had a hand tied behind my back.
Alas,up on joining campus where I yearned for the sagacious a chance
There too in my class,I was looked down by students
Hailing from families of the top brass.
When I went abroad for a higher education enjoying fellowship and donation
Worse still, I met many, colour has coloured whose vision.
Ironically my dissertation was drawing attention
To why should the broad mass be standers by
And with ill-fate marked die
While the favoured ,racist and the corrupt few gobble over 3/4 of the pie? /
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes much impression on him, and another none. This sculpture in the memory is not without preestablished harmony. The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us represents. It may be safely trusted as proportionate and of good issues, so it be faithfully imparted, but God will not have his work made manifest by cowards. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise, shall give him no peace. It is a deliverance which does not deliver. In the attempt his genius deserts him; no muse befriends; no invention, no hope.
Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have always done so, and confided themselves childlike to the genius of their age, betraying their perception that the absolutely trustworthy was seated at their heart, working through their hands, predominating in all their being. And we are now men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; and not minors and invalids in a protected corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers, and benefactors, obeying the Almighty effort, and advancing on Chaos and the Dark.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
"Fitter Happier"
"more productive
comfortable
not drinking too much
regular exercise at the gym (3 days a week)
getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries
at ease
eating well (no more microwave dinners and saturated fats)
a patient better driver
a safer car (baby smiling in back seat)
sleeping well (no bad dreams)
no paranoia
careful to all animals (never washing spiders down the plughole)
keep in contact with old friends (enjoy a drink now and then)
will frequently check credit at (moral) bank (hole in wall)
favours for favours
fond but not in love
charity standing orders
on sundays ring road supermarket
(no killing moths or putting boiling water on the ants)
car wash (also on sundays)
no longer afraid of the dark
or midday shadows
nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate
nothing so childish
at a better pace
slower and more calculated
no chance of escape
now self-employed
concerned (but powerless)
an empowered and informed member of society (pragmatism not idealism)
will not cry in public
less chance of illness
tires that grip in the wet (shot of baby strapped in back seat)
a good memory
still cries at a good film
still kisses with saliva
no longer empty and frantic
like a cat
tied to a stick
that's driven into
frozen winter **** (the ability to laugh at weakness)
calm
fitter, healthier and more productive
a pig
in a cage
on antibiotics"
- A song by Radiohead. I did not write this.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
~
*I work in the clouds
Building a world out of hype
I could be a beekeeper
A prison guard
Reverse pop idol
Extinguishers, all
Hackers ferry contemporaries
Around the diseased city
Merchants of transference
Polymorphing
Paths and angles
Pieces of eight
They could be brutal war fantasies
White noise translations of the snow
Cathedral nights in the deli
Ghost recordings from an opera house
Each with its own price tag
All the pretty girls
Thick with mascara
Go to plasticity
Drink chloroform
100 aspects of subterranea
So long as they come home
With a credit problem
Money devotion
It's what transferred us
Into numbered silhouettes
Slavishly pouring our blood into the sea*
~
Aug 24, 2022
Aug 24, 2022 at 5:12 PM UTC
In an age of persecution
When Christians died
For their beliefs
Apostle John wrote
Revelation
To encourage and
Bring relief
First century folk
Who held Jesus' tenants
Were martyred in
Most horrid ways
But John wrote about
His coming
Christ described the
End of Days.
The early faithful
Found their solace
In the Gospel
Sweet & pure
The Bible's WORD
Was ever spoken
And its precepts
Still endure
Modern man cannot
Believe it
Because he has
A hardened heart
But when tribulation
Finds him
Rest assured he'll come apart!
So we put our trust in Jesus?
IS He simply "fairy tale"?
Why did Christians
Sing their hearts out
When lit on fire and impaled?
How could they endure
Having their heads drilled
Molten lead then poured within?
How could could they
Be so calm & joyous
When lions tore them
Limb from limb?
Their contemporaries
Could not believe it!
When Christ was preached
It was received!
The Gospel forwarded
By each man dying
By their blood
The folk believed!
Now Christian people
Won't mention Jesus!
They give sin a little wink!
They're afraid of persecution
By caring what the
Lost may think!
Wake up, folks!
The toast is burning!
Give witnessing
The college try!
There are hearts
Who're out there yearning!
Cap'n Crunch waves us goodbye!
I may get flack
For this assertion
I may get comments
For to spare
I may get called
A backward person
People... I don't really care!
If I don't warn of
God's Judgment
Tribulations in this land
I'm not a Watchman on
The Wall here
And
your blood is on my hands!
I'll read & preach
From Revelation
The ending always
Helps us cope
Read the outcome
Of our suffering
It will give ETERNAL HOPE.
SøułSurvivør
(C) 9/27/2017
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 1:41 AM UTC
complex moveable pulley systems
consisting of rope
had hardened his heart:
that moveable block
a native of rocks
a kernel of nourishing corn
pumping starch to starving veins.
his naïve nerves reborn,
new to nature
where nothing is known
but the trumpets of judgement.
a society of contemporaries
with a common condition:
speak your latent conviction
while avoiding exhaustion by speech
(know the limit of the lungs),
so we accept the same transcendent destiny
of intense despair while it lasts
but not for nothing.
when we end up in the ground
do we still dream of the sky?
Jun 15, 2010
Jun 15, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
Like the portrait by John Singer Sargent,
of two helplessly hopelessly wedded souls.
The portrait was dim, even in 1897.
The couple grimly seeking searching reaching towards heaven,
timeless romantic.
Mr. and Mrs. Isaac Newton Phelps, who are you?
Starring through a century of fading oils, all my emotions become,
revoked. I sit and stare in repose.
What's left but to stoke the flame; the burning desire, love, and addiction.
Mr. Sargent did you understand my affliction?
Lest I travel back to the Rocky Mountains, those billowing rocks so beautifully captured by your contemporaries, by Albert Bierstadt.
I am a lost wandering critic, traveling through time using paint as my medium, to form these rhymes.
Ridding myself of a life that has become full of all things labeled tedium.
From the French to the Austrian to the English to the American, a new world unfurls.
All cultures aiming to capture the intrinsically fleeting moments of life, nature, and the beautiful, as they curl.
In and out, a dance of colors, a pageantry of light yet again is unfurled.
Only then does my soul feel full and bright.
The fog clears as my headlights part the mist, and I realize, as these masters before me, I do have something to offer...
Love!
Forgiveness!
Hope!
...for a new tomorrow...
*A new heaven.
A new Earth.*
Today
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
"What dew drops is, Miss W?"
Where do I start?
What dew drops is?
Should I address the syntactic structure of that question?
Should I even bother to correct the grammar here? Will it matter?
Or will this student roll their eyes because they've heard it all before?
They know how to speak properly. They simply choose not to.
Or that, at least, is the opinion of many of my contemporaries.
I don't know how I feel. I can't form an opinion about anything.
I'm too young.
Not much older than the 18-year-old squeezing into that tiny desk asking
What dew drops is?
Should I go into a scientific explanation about
how the heating and the cooling of the earth,
each rising and setting of the sun,
affects condensation?
I'm not even exactly sure how it works.
I apparently know more than this kid.
What dew drops is?
Have they ever been outside?
Have they been up early in the morning or late into the night?
Of course they have. This is high school.
There is no sleep.
When I was in high school, I woke up before dawn and worked late into the night.
I knew what dew was because it dampened my pant legs
as I walked to my car in the morning and at night.
What dew drops is?
Is this a real question?
Is this really what one addresses in a 12th grade English class?
Shouldn't I be sharing the true meaning of literature?
Or some life-altering insight into a canonical work?
No. I teach English at a high school.
And that means I answer questions like
"What dew drops is?"
And I love it.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
What strange memory serves this fate?
Why the silly sheep has lost its way?
In subterranean dungeon lies the secret,
Guarded by the wicked wolf, they say.
The Oracle of the high priest,
Along the testaments of old gods,
Has told the tale of an Apocalypse,
A due judgement against our odds.
The sulfurous land has grew a thorn,
Right in the sane hearts of men,
Like a wildfire in a scorched summer,
The lost sheep led to the lion's den.
Through these seasonal dark days,
The pristine shots of old Bourbon and the sour taste of a lemon squeeze,
Over the pages of a forgotten book,
Were now the ghost under cease.
For this old eyes has seen the waves,
That broke us down like a beach tree,
With nature bells once we played,
Now they became our arch enemy.
Through civilizations we pursued,
Shallow contemporaries and history,
We forged nuclear swords on wooden fields,
And reap the fruits of downhill misery.
We treasured the featherbrained ways to progress,
And recklessly stroke the beam of balance,
For we waged the song of disasters,
To now sing in this sulfurous silence.
As the blue water has turned to air,
The green leaves dyed themselves brown under drought,
The soil poisoned by the radioactive breeze,
And to our miseries, we all laughed, we all laughed.
So won't we plunder the right actions,
Course the way to a changing surface,
The secret of everlasting existence,
Lies in the red flames of the old furnace.
The sheep was rescued by mere chances,
For the lion was not yet born,
For this looming night is still to come,
As the world hangs on that silly thorn.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
I have never seen a mermaid-
With her fins so slender and gentle;
Or when you swim so weightless in water-
Any of them could have done with their bristle.
Cindrella could not have looked so ugly beautiful,
When you ran down to me leaving those landscapes behind;
And in the course you have broken the straps of your silver shoes,
Glow and shadow on your face were contemporaries and dutiful.
I have never imagined an angel ****
With their ******* hanging for becoming stiff with magic,
Comparing your ****** to a sorcerers cave without any logic-
And you release fireballs from your canon eyes crushing me so rude.
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 22, 2010 at 11:03 PM UTC
Free from the sins of the America’s bureaucracy,
you were always indifferent
To jealousy,
Yet your poetry
Has fostered poets
To compose legendary verses,
And, though you are distinguished from,
The majority of your contemporaries
The wounds of the broken have been mended.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC
Impressionist Monet,
Was rejected by his contemporaries
À Paris
No longer wanting
To be a small fish in a
Large pond
He moved on to form
Anonymity amongst
Those who created
Independently
Resulting,
In Starry nights
And dots that
Transmogrify
Into tranquility
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
Dawn , pulled into the light and warmth of Titan , refreshed , inquisitive and studious with paper and pen , charting the human condition with great zeal for today your Master Stroke , committed to paper and lauded by your contemporaries ! Sapientiam scribe in corde pueri et senes !
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
i always aimed at returning Nietzsche's ping-pong serve of poet-philosopher, as philosopher-poet... well, you know, any vanity project will do these days, given our current celebrity culture... there's nothing celebratory about it, so my little festivity of hope in establishing a self-style vocabulary might be too much for Gucci... but you got to try and whiff up a tornado of absinthe sweeties in licorice black (lee ko reesh).
there's only one argument i cling on to,
it is theological,
i'm biased toward the theological argument
always,
because i've seen the ontological argument
become desecrated by oncology -
every theologian argues the same:
there's a god, because, to be frank,
whatever ontology provides us, it leaves us more
bewildered than anything:
how we expressed our freedom will
never be compensated in terms of how
others expressed theirs...
so even Kant said: my ontology is based on god...
so his contemporaries said:
my theology is based on no god...
which is why Kant professed a theology
without an ontology, and his contemporaries
professed an ontology without a theology -
or as the other, in existentialist terms might have
suggested: timing - but no one desires a godly status,
so even his promenade timing made affinities
with serfs begging for a watch rather than watching
their shadows dwarf at noon...
this is called
translating rhyme into philosophy, or philosophical rhyming...
words of close proximity are prime exponents,
given the spelling, i.e. the suffix - but which are totally
antonymous - they look so alike, but then thinking
provides disparity of intention, not so lazily done
with red
and dead...
head
and Pb... is it?
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
born was this day -
the king of the kings
the monarch of the south
the lord of the war elephants
the nightmare of the enemies
the upholder of the righteousness
the fervent patriot of the nation
established had he -
the mightiest empire of the renaissance
the kingdoms that don’t know dearth
the cities with surplus rubies and diamonds
the villages with flourishing greenery and jubilance
the sites with fascinating monuments
the territories with impenetrable borders
known was he as -
the ambidextrous sword fighter
the indomitable malla wrestler
the maven of the fine arts
the polyglot patron of the five languages
the prudent administrator and strategist
the paragon of an ideal ruler
been had he –
the hope of the people
the savior of the Hindu culture
the beacon among his contemporaries
the generous and the inclusive king
the valiant frontline military general
the esteemed scholar and poet
ended had he –
the atrocities on the peasants
the societal repression on the women
the ludicrous taxes on the residents
the brutal conquests of the invaders
the pernicious rituals in the communities
the chaos and disunity among the kingdoms
left has he -
the fear in the evil
the legacy of his deeds
the stories of his glorious reign
the prolific heritage sites to the people
the spectacular literary upsurge
the inspiration for the united India
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 1:54 AM UTC
you know I slept
twenty years
and woke to find
all things changed
when I sleep now,
though only a few hours
each night,
I wonder
if it had not been better
if I had slept forever
I had not known
trouble in my long sleep;
and I was not bewildered
by a world
that is strange and distant
though I move in it all day long
I had not known
any care or worry;
nor had I to think where
my next meal was to come from
or hang over things like
what today's contemporaries
fret about:
things like retirement funds
and aged care; and a will
that will be ample and fair
I had not known
people of strange ways
when I slept;
I had not to condone
the conceited and those whose
only concern is self-interest;
and men and women of twisted emotion
and hell-bent on ****** and blood
and lust;
and a lawn that must be trimmed
and in my bear-sleep
I had no encounter
with the fool, the arrogant, the ambitious
and the tyrant and the greedy;
all I knew in my long sleep
was quiet, oblivion and bliss
and so I ask myself often
as I sit in the shade of the tree:
*I wonder
if it had not been better
if I had slept forever?*
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 8:10 PM UTC
I’ve reached the age when most of my contemporaries have
kicked the bucket,
turned up their toes,
popped their clogs,
and other such unsavoury activities.
I take every opportunity
to memorialise their lives.
The question I ask myself is:
when I finally pop my clogs,
kick the bucket, and so on
who will provide the tribute to me?
De mortuis nil nisi bonum is the Latin phrase
of Greek invention.
Speak nothing but good of the dead.
I cannot accept this.
What good can I speak of Adolf ******
Osama Bin Laden
or even Senator Joe McCarthy?
Better would be De mortuis nil nisi veritas.
Speak nothing but the truth.
But, if I had to choose one for my own obituary,
I think I would turn to the late, great Harold Laski,
who coined De mortuis nil nisi bunkum.
I’d be very happy to have nothing but claptrap
talked about me.
after my demise.
At least let there be something written,
be it good,
truth
or codswallop
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC
I've read the old poets and they're boring.
I've read the modernists and there might be something to it.
I've read my contemporaries and they're strictly hit or miss,
but I don't read my own because I know it's all ****
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 4:09 AM UTC
it's just a welcome distraction...
that's all it is... modern art
is an act of: being distracted...
i do agree that it's in the bin
when compared to the renaissance
aesthetic...
but then translate that appreciation
of the beautiful... and you
get an immediate counter:
***********
**** shaming and the rest of it...
evidently my contemporaries can't
appreciate beauty...
we need welcome distractions...
it's called: re-evaluation!
i know it's just a canvas
with a black square painted onto it...
but i've been having restless nights
while roofers are refurbishing my roof
and i've been waking too early for
my pleasure... i blamed it on spring
at first, and then i was like: huh?!
oh right... there's some ******* banging
a nail into wood on my roof...
like today... there's a lot of mess on
the mini roof outside my window...
and then there's this block of "artificially"
glued-together clippings of wood...
and i'm looking at it with my sunglasses on
and thinking... hirsch... hirsche...
gonna bake me a' apple pie...
(' = h) -
so there they are, doing the roof
and i notice all the mess outside my window...
and i spot this thing glaring back at me...
it's a piece of wood that's been made
into a blank from all the offcuts...
but the patterns on it are like
a kaleidoscope... it really is what modern art is
truly about: a welcome distraction ****
it really stinks of the building site... i'm
not going to keep... out the window it goes
from where it came) -
(the current background) -
but it's a welcome distraction...
it has to be, that's why modern art
isn't **** - but it's an antidote to adversiting
that has become so "artistically" infectious -
modern art isn't **** per se, it's so simple
because the "art" of making an advert is
so ****** psychopathically complex!
variations of a forest.
this be one: the digital complex
regarding where paper came from... the ******* trees!
now they're saying: paper doesn't grow on
trees... sure... but it's imbued in the bark.
p.s.
i tried to forget her, she introduced me to
in extremo...
i had to find antidotes...
akin to: corvus corax, garmarna... etc.
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
The sky split, cracked open through sheer force. A spectre’s mind is hailed away to a foreign shore, nestled amongst unsolidified generalities, binding it to the aftermath of time’s relevance. Hope came in a voided sun, imploding in the sky over Bethlehem, and through its transparency, a vision of the end was brought forth to this unjust land, where filth rules supremacy, and dominion is granted for a grandfather’s pittance. It displayed the market value of a soul through a diminished stance, collapsing on the shore as violent waves crash and beat the resonant senses held within.
…
Contemporaries held in fear, chucked and pushed down back alleys, ending up under the pier, vandalizing a vanquished peer, awkward glances insuring no one is near. Washed away with the evening tide, passed up to the coast after a lifeless ride. Broken down, drifting with the stream, token now, drifting with the dream.
Naturalized and neutered before a board of advisors, composed of highly unsanitary elders, pieces of flawn stuck to the chin, picked up while eating from another’s bin. Dictated and deemed to seem all right, recreations shown on daily late night, refracted and turned into a joke, remuneration held as big brother had spoke. Patience restored as order forms in line, hastened into place by fluorinated wine, individuals return to their lives, and negligently pass over recent lies.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
I spent a good portion of the day
Writing poetry I'll never publish
Competing against people I'll never see.
The faux-socially aware
Stand on the shoulders of the confused,
My enemies have solidified over the years.
I'm a rolling stone
Never giving my contemporaries
The privilege of emotion.
Cold and uncalculating.
The only girl I tell myself I truly love
Has thrown away my notebook
In a fit of rage. I had written
Of another girl not unfamiliar.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
The fear of life’s rich pattern, is an affliction that can be seen,
from princes to paupers, and everyone in between,
The daily grind and intensity, that plagues the very soul,
relief is sought in different remedies, for seeking a loophole.
Throughout history many have suffered, from this sensitivity,
personally I find respite, in oblivion, and my creativity,
of course, this is not a perpetual state, it comes on like a cloud,
but when it hits, it envelops you, almost like a shroud.
Brad Pitt, Gwyneth Paltrow, Abraham Lincoln, Churchill and Mark Twain,
just a few of the well-knowns, who have suffered just the same,
I especially like Churchill’s phrase, he described it very well,
He had times, when the Black Dog visited, and his descent, to utter hell.
It’s described as a mental disorder, but of course, there are many forms,
Those who suffer mildly, to those, where life, is a constant mental storm,
For those who can sleep at nights, it affords a margin of respite,
Until the dawn comes again, and you’re back, into the fight,
Plan my day, what am I saying, it’s not as easy as that,
Should I get up or stay in bed, swirling mental promises, am I as mad as a bat.
from behind my eyes, my problems are insurmountable, with unabated haste,
What’s even more disturbing, are my contemporaries apparent distaste,
For an affliction that affects, one in three people, in the working space,
A web of illusionary sickness’, woven to hide, what’s exactly taking place,
As you may appreciate, this is part of me,
But in this crowded room, can you identify, another three,
probably not, it’s a taboo subject, secretly you devise coping mechanisms,
knowing all along that my openness, will cause me, much criticism,
I’ll even go as far to say, that some, yes some psychiatric professionals, dispense dubious wisdom,
Stop taking the medication, get out more, find more life rhythm,
Well, that was certainly my intention, but it’s a bit like taking away an addicts drugs,
and saying, there you are, you’re fine now, don’t get in to trouble, your family will give lots of hugs,
If only that simple, there’d be no need, for mental health command,
From Alzheimer's to the psychotic, and for all that in between, there would be no demand,
I fear, I shall dispense my wisdom, from experiences, I’ve had a few,
Your on your own with some things, unfortunately, it’s your life to chew,
Normal, what is normal exactly, and on whose measure do you gauge, for the treatment to take,
So please give us crazy people, a considered, even break.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC
somewhere in the past
before my grandfather's time
I paid a visit
back in my family tree
I'm not sure how it happened
I just closed my eyes
tried to think of nothing else
until I passed out
I awoke in a strange land
a time of horse and buggy
kept pinching myself
the pain was real enough
it wasn't a dream
but it was all very weird
no one could see or hear me
recognized the house
it was my family home
familiar faces
seeming contemporaries
but no one there that I knew
I couldn't stay long
felt the pull of the present
felt myself fading
when they posed for a portrait
I stood in the back and smiled
that's how it happened
the camera caught my image
looking like a ghost
a strange man standing in back
whom no one saw at the time
"There's a spirit there"
the family legend goes
"We call him Oscar"
today no one notices
old "Oscar's ghost" looks like me
Del Maximo
© October 8, 2009
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:20 PM UTC
Nailing it in
and the hammer slips
and I lose my verbal vigor.
Right now is when you catch me.
Of course,
I was caught before I started.
You've long had me pulled under the swell of your flow
and I cannot be the sword-tongued aggressor.
We became friends this way.
You must keep worthy contemporaries
and I only lose the Battle Tongue in Cheek
to you and a few.
Ten years is a long time
and I can't expect,
much less expect you to apologize.
This Chia Pet, I don't know if it'll grow, but
I'll take the peace pipe.
It's none of the dog's business what the cat had for dinner,
but the nosy mutt eats that **** anyway.
Like I said,
gum on a shoe, man.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC