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"convertibles" poems
Blinded by the sunlight that shines so brightly, it proceeds to massage my spectacles, rinsing the grime away from my eyes, there lived mankind, buildings, plants, and animals, but where was I, unaware of the planet I saunter, I look in amazement, unborn to what to forecast, but then I distinguished the dark side, somber and bleak, impoverished skeletons walking hunchbacked, desperately scrambling for silver, as so to purchase a bottle of liquor and a burger to indulge his vacancy that absents him, as I trek my way further into this metropolis, I hear a sudden commotion arising from the right direction, it begins to steer me that way, luring me in deeply there was a mass of onlookers chanting on, of what seemed to be two individuals pummeling one another into a bloodbath, but then it escalated, the crowd began to all partake in the beating and it caused a mayhem, that was uncontrolled, I bolted the scene, protecting my mask from getting dismantled, as suddenly I hear a very deafening noise, it was a four wheeler wagon, that speedily amtrac it's way towards the locus in which we was in, everyone scattered the scene, as the people who dressed in uniform annihilated the scene, putting an outright stop to the madness that occurred, forestalling future procreation from the participants, my heart shriveled and I gasped for air, I ran aimlessly into a town that was lively and sunny, as I saw mankind playing sports, clubbing, riding nice convertibles, homes were futuristic, plants were vegetated, smiles and giggles were infectious, everyone was cheerful and amused enjoying this utopian I discovered, it was care-free, as folks walked in suit and ties, formal dresses, luggages entering and exiting, dialect as clear as caribbean sea, friendly animals chaperoned by their owner, "where am I?", "what was this strange but yet interesting soil I embark on?", ..... I don't know, but it closes me in like a maze and I'm forced to live as they.
0
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
Unworldy Newborn
Blinded by the sunlight that shines so brightly, it proceeds to massage my spectacles, rinsing the grime away from my eyes, there lived mankind, buildings, plants, and animals, but where was I, unaware of the planet I saunter, I look in amazement, unborn to what to forecast, but then I distinguished the dark side, somber and bleak, impoverished skeletons walking hunchbacked, desperately scrambling for silver, as so to purchase a bottle of liquor and a burger to indulge his vacancy that absents him, as I trek my way further into this metropolis, I hear a sudden commotion arising from the right direction, it begins to steer me that way, luring me in deeply there was a mass of onlookers chanting on, of what seemed to be two individuals pummeling one another into a bloodbath, but then it escalated, the crowd began to all partake in the beating and it caused a mayhem, that was uncontrolled, I bolted the scene, protecting my mask from getting dismantled, as suddenly I hear a very deafening noise, it was a four wheeler wagon, that speedily amtrac it's way towards the locus in which we was in, everyone scattered the scene, as the people who dressed in uniform annihilated the scene, putting an outright stop to the madness that occurred, forestalling future procreation from the participants, my heart shriveled and I gasped for air, I ran aimlessly into a town that was lively and sunny, as I saw mankind playing sports, clubbing, riding nice convertibles, homes were futuristic, plants were vegetated, smiles and giggles were infectious, everyone was cheerful and amused enjoying this utopian I discovered, it was care-free, as folks walked in suit and ties, formal dresses, luggages entering and exiting, dialect as clear as caribbean sea, friendly animals chaperoned by their owner, "where am I?", "what was this strange but yet interesting soil I embark on?", ..... I don't know, but it closes me in like a maze and I'm forced to live as they.
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12
When you paint houses bring your little brother Hoffa couldn't keep his mouth shut Mannlicher Carcano carbines cleave off the tops of skulls Cosa Nostra prove The idiocy of convertibles Pretty boy politicians sprayed across Jackie's face Kennedy never should have rocked the boat Bufalino brotherhood born for bloodshed Irishman knows that .32 goes in but doesn't come back out Turning grey matter into brain sauce pudding Hoffa couldn't keep his mouth shut Got what he wanted kept demanding more Stupid Sicilian stooges get sliced up in pork store backrooms limbs spread to the four corners of Michigan Irishman painted his house Hoffa couldn't keep his mouth shut
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Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 6:22 AM UTC
Hoffa
Il n'est pas donné à chacun de prendre un bain de multitude : jouir de la foule est un art ; et celui-là seul peut faire, aux dépens du genre humain, une ribote de vitalité, à qui une fée a insufflé dans son berceau le goût du travestissement et du masque, la haine du domicile et la passion du voyage. Multitude, solitude : termes égaux et convertibles pour le poète actif et fécond. Qui ne sait pas peupler sa solitude, ne sait pas non plus être seul dans une foule affairée. Le poète jouit de cet incomparable privilège, qu'il peut à sa guise être lui-même et autrui. Comme ces âmes errantes qui cherchent un corps, il entre, quand il veut, dans le personnage de chacun. Pour lui seul, tout est vacant ; et si de certaines places paraissent lui êtres fermées, c'est qu'à ses yeux elles ne valent pas la peine d'être visitées. Le promeneur solitaire et pensif tire une singulière ivresse de cette universelle communion. Celui-là qui épouse facilement la foule connaît des jouissances fiévreuses, dont seront éternellement privés l'égoïste, fermé comme un coffre, et le paresseux, interné comme un mollusque. Il adopte comme siennes toutes les professions, toutes les joies et toutes les misères que la circonstance lui présente. Ce que les hommes nomment amour est bien petit, bien restreint et bien faible, comparé à cette ineffable orgie, à cette sainte prostitution de l'âme qui se donne tout entière, poésie et charité, à l'imprévu qui se montre, à l'inconnu qui passe. Il est bon d'apprendre quelquefois aux heureux de ce monde, ne fût-ce que pour humilier un instant leur sot orgueil, qu'il est des bonheurs supérieurs au leur, plus vastes et plus raffinés. Les fondateurs de colonies, les pasteurs de peuples, les prêtres missionnaires exilés au bout du monde, connaissent sans doute quelque chose de ces mystérieuses ivresses ; et, au sein de la vaste famille que leur génie s'est faite, ils doivent rire quelquefois de ceux qui les plaignent pour leur fortune si agitée et pour leur vie si chaste.
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2.3k
Les foules
Il n'est pas donné à chacun de prendre un bain de multitude : jouir de la foule est un art ; et celui-là seul peut faire, aux dépens du genre humain, une ribote de vitalité, à qui une fée a insufflé dans son berceau le goût du travestissement et du masque, la haine du domicile et la passion du voyage. Multitude, solitude : termes égaux et convertibles pour le poète actif et fécond. Qui ne sait pas peupler sa solitude, ne sait pas non plus être seul dans une foule affairée. Le poète jouit de cet incomparable privilège, qu'il peut à sa guise être lui-même et autrui. Comme ces âmes errantes qui cherchent un corps, il entre, quand il veut, dans le personnage de chacun. Pour lui seul, tout est vacant ; et si de certaines places paraissent lui êtres fermées, c'est qu'à ses yeux elles ne valent pas la peine d'être visitées. Le promeneur solitaire et pensif tire une singulière ivresse de cette universelle communion. Celui-là qui épouse facilement la foule connaît des jouissances fiévreuses, dont seront éternellement privés l'égoïste, fermé comme un coffre, et le paresseux, interné comme un mollusque. Il adopte comme siennes toutes les professions, toutes les joies et toutes les misères que la circonstance lui présente. Ce que les hommes nomment amour est bien petit, bien restreint et bien faible, comparé à cette ineffable orgie, à cette sainte prostitution de l'âme qui se donne tout entière, poésie et charité, à l'imprévu qui se montre, à l'inconnu qui passe. Il est bon d'apprendre quelquefois aux heureux de ce monde, ne fût-ce que pour humilier un instant leur sot orgueil, qu'il est des bonheurs supérieurs au leur, plus vastes et plus raffinés. Les fondateurs de colonies, les pasteurs de peuples, les prêtres missionnaires exilés au bout du monde, connaissent sans doute quelque chose de ces mystérieuses ivresses ; et, au sein de la vaste famille que leur génie s'est faite, ils doivent rire quelquefois de ceux qui les plaignent pour leur fortune si agitée et pour leur vie si chaste.
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6
Ever seen the inside of a Teletubbie's belly? I did that **** gave me cataracts and glaucoma which lead to injesting large amounts of guacamole got huge mostly in the head- found a homeless man, let him sleep on my couch he liked to tell stories about his encounters with celebrities oh which he was one back in the day, I think he was on Rosanne never watched it but he was cool enough we biked to the overpass to drop waterballoons on those who needed them most like fake-tanned blondes in convertibles and bicyclers. I love all kinds of people and can forgive their beligerence though mine are quite strange I like canoing in trees and making mosaics from bone fragments and rubies just a bit of a mind juggler smacking singles on counters for pregnancy tests and breath mint tell a tubby his belly is wide and boy you'll be scoutin' a whole new skull.
0
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
Bene, grazie!
On Saturday any Saturday every Saturday multi-themed pedestrian parades pour down commercial corridors celebrating a holiday known as WEEKEND. Middle school queens throw exaggerated waves from backseat upholstery tops in imaginary convertibles marking the current flow route between Foot Locker and Game Stop. Marching throngs display personal banners on plastic handled brand bags drawing peer clusters, human petaled floats, vying for ribbons passing devoutly interested sideline spectators now feeling a bit empty without score cards. Hippos, thin men, package jugglers stroll along the branching avenues labeled in chest advertisements including everything from Magnetic Health to Jesus. No mega-city floatilian compares to the mall regalia in a midsize hometown duck-n-spend. Though it may be a little short on free candy it is still sponsored in part by Macy's. Interlocked peddler palaces reign as shopping centers, though shopping is the least of the reasons to be here; not unlike people going to a hockey match are not going to watch hockey, or partakers in Nascar don't actually go for racing. Truth is, we are all hoping to see a collision, Haves with Have Nots, Lovers with Haters, Colored Hairs with High & Tights Refined with Undefined Talkers with Solitaries Personal Loathing with Itself. Unanimously, they all come for the curiosity of encounter incalculable, anxious, wanted or unwanted. In secret, dreamers hold royal hopes praying to Aeropostale gods pleading favor with credit cards and a bump in popularity that if so anointed the purest of this parade's followers would be next week's Grand Marshall.
0
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
Sitting on a Bench in the Mall
On Saturday any Saturday every Saturday multi-themed pedestrian parades pour down commercial corridors celebrating a holiday known as WEEKEND. Middle school queens throw exaggerated waves from backseat upholstery tops in imaginary convertibles marking the current flow route between Foot Locker and Game Stop. Marching throngs display personal banners on plastic handled brand bags drawing peer clusters, human petaled floats, vying for ribbons passing devoutly interested sideline spectators now feeling a bit empty without score cards. Hippos, thin men, package jugglers stroll along the branching avenues labeled in chest advertisements including everything from Magnetic Health to Jesus. No mega-city floatilian compares to the mall regalia in a midsize hometown duck-n-spend. Though it may be a little short on free candy it is still sponsored in part by Macy's. Interlocked peddler palaces reign as shopping centers, though shopping is the least of the reasons to be here; not unlike people going to a hockey match are not going to watch hockey, or partakers in Nascar don't actually go for racing. Truth is, we are all hoping to see a collision, Haves with Have Nots, Lovers with Haters, Colored Hairs with High & Tights Refined with Undefined Talkers with Solitaries Personal Loathing with Itself. Unanimously, they all come for the curiosity of encounter incalculable, anxious, wanted or unwanted. In secret, dreamers hold royal hopes praying to Aeropostale gods pleading favor with credit cards and a bump in popularity that if so anointed the purest of this parade's followers would be next week's Grand Marshall.
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67
Leaflet through the door on a 5K run for charity. Spam email on the benefits of the Paleo eating regime. Pals posting photo's of culinary creations on Facebook, and Im in the queue for the food bank; a hand to mouth existence. In Scotland, half the people in poverty are working families struggle to survive day-to-day and the basics of food to live being asked to work longer hours for less money while the politicians say they have nothing more to give and the "Queen talks about austerity while wearing a £1 million hat" (I'll thank Frankie Boyle for his razor sharp insights on that) and Im in the queue for the food bank; a hand to mouth existence. Contrary to common misconception it doesn't always rain in Scotland. This week its been 26 degrees, and Glasgow is awash in t-shirts and shorts, and beer gardens with bees. Cold beer never looked so refreshing. West Enders in their top-down convertibles extolling the virtues of organic produce from Peckhams and their exclusivity price-point gourmet cheeses, and Im in the queue for the food bank; a hand to mouth existence.
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Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
Hand to Mouth
Hot summer mornings, Cold summer nights. I wake up to the smell of sun block and bronzer My body absorbs the rays of the sun like a mermaid at sea. Hot summer days full of ice cream and riding convertibles, Oh summer days, how I love you. The days dragging twice as long, the drag I like, the drag I crave. Hot, **** bonfires at the beach the smell of freedom youth wild & love The sound of the waves is as loud as the beat of my heart That's how much I love summer days & when it's over? Memories have been made.
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Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 1:16 AM UTC
Summer days
I am from the pond out back, from frogs and dogs, and camping under the stars. I am from camo and rifles, from gardening with my grandma to family reunions. I am from blanket forts and Saturday morning cartoons, from late night adventures with friends to stories told by the light of a campfire. I am from family and friends, love and happiness, but I am also from divorce and tears, from locked doors and yelling through walls. I come from weddings and new beginnings, teaching me that even though there is a dark side to life there is a light at the end. I am from ****** knees and biking down dirt trails, from adventure and mystery, not knowing where the road will take us. I am from convertibles and the wind in my face, from predictable jokes to fishing on the lake in the warm sun. I am from late summer nights on the beach with my friends to sled races down snow covered streets. I am from memories that I have and the memories I have yet to make. My past is what makes me, me and I cherish last bit of it, good or bad.
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Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
From the past
He was certainly buzzed, Drunk, a better word, When his convertibles wheel Struck a tree near the curb.. A woman’s scream; then silence, shock. He whispered her name But no one answered back. The artist was dying, But still he observed: The drip, drip, of his blood Onto asphalt that’s cracked. Death imitates art. Now break, gentle heart. Sirens sound in the distance a bright light in the dark. As all neurons fired in search of a spark.
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Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
To a Violent Grave
Butterflies and snow angels Snowflakes floating across the sky Cause such wild seasonal thoughts Butterflies and snow angels As the sun shines through the grey Rainbows and snowdrifts While traveling from place to place Convertibles and snow plows And life near the beach with Snowmen and life guards Playtime for children Snowballs and baseballs Copyright 2016 Richard L Ratliff
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Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC
Butterflies and snow angels
In the claustrophobia of the ally, The hobo sits Wearing a smile on his sleeve Under the pink neon lights Of convertibles and the 1960's.   Where time stood still And never moved. Hobo-man saw, Saw with his glassy light bulbs. That the red, white and blue Does not thrive on me or you. Hobo-Man sat and watched time change Watching the blue turn to gray And gray turn to green He will stay here, he thought. Here in the ally way. The world, too twisted, he thought. Unable to make him stay. For Hobo-Man does not live for time here, time now Everything only makes him frown. But Hobo-man still smiles somehow In a world so crooked and hollow. Hobo-Man burns like a fire And lives life to live life Mad to live Mad to laugh Mad to cry Mad to love Mad to die Hobo-Man screams to the sky Burning like a Roman Candle.
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Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
Hobo-Man
Back in the day, the 70's and 80's on the west side of Buffalo at Nativity Playground, we young men and women were all friends. We all tightly hung out together! Some, were much more than 'friends'. One SOBER summer night, I was introduced to Carrie by the girlfriend of my good friend Wayne. I wasn't interesed.... at first. I was sober! Anyway; She wasn't ugly understand but rather, she just wasn't my type... well, on that night anyway. The following night, Carrie ended up where I happened to be, and on this night I was partying and getting drunk. I remember, after each drink went down... Carrie was quickly becoming 'my type'. Folks were skinny dipping in the canal and I began taking a good hard look at Carrie by the bonfire. Before I knew it, my pants were unzipped and in front of everyone, my ***** was in her mouth. It's then I stopped her to save her a little face and instructed her to go up the hill... and I would follow. We ended up on a concrete pad, no bigger than 5 foot × 6 foot in the back of the west side rowing club in the spotlight with Carrie riding me like I was a horse in the Kentucky derby. She was good! Make no mistake, Carrie was good! The next morning I awoke and... my underwear was sticking to my *** and I was confused as to why? Carrie, apparently rode a winner. I never had brush burns on my knees as bad as the brush burns that Carrie left on my *** from that concrete pad. I dated Carrie for the remainder of the summer of 83'. No reason to wonder why, right? That summer we went on to christening brand new Chrysler Lebaron Convertibles of our friend's parents, Carrie climaxing on church steps with all of our clothes on in front of visitors from Kentucky and so much more. I swear that song by Europe; 'Carrie' was sung about her. written by me... ..
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Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 8:04 PM UTC
80's Carrie
Back in the day, the 70's and 80's on the west side of Buffalo at Nativity Playground, we young men and women were all friends. We all tightly hung out together! Some, were much more than 'friends'. One SOBER summer night, I was introduced to Carrie by the girlfriend of my good friend Wayne. I wasn't interesed.... at first. I was sober! Anyway; She wasn't ugly understand but rather, she just wasn't my type... well, on that night anyway. The following night, Carrie ended up where I happened to be, and on this night I was partying and getting drunk. I remember, after each drink went down... Carrie was quickly becoming 'my type'. Folks were skinny dipping in the canal and I began taking a good hard look at Carrie by the bonfire. Before I knew it, my pants were unzipped and in front of everyone, my ***** was in her mouth. It's then I stopped her to save her a little face and instructed her to go up the hill... and I would follow. We ended up on a concrete pad, no bigger than 5 foot × 6 foot in the back of the west side rowing club in the spotlight with Carrie riding me like I was a horse in the Kentucky derby. She was good! Make no mistake, Carrie was good! The next morning I awoke and... my underwear was sticking to my *** and I was confused as to why? Carrie, apparently rode a winner. I never had brush burns on my knees as bad as the brush burns that Carrie left on my *** from that concrete pad. I dated Carrie for the remainder of the summer of 83'. No reason to wonder why, right? That summer we went on to christening brand new Chrysler Lebaron Convertibles of our friend's parents, Carrie climaxing on church steps with all of our clothes on in front of visitors from Kentucky and so much more. I swear that song by Europe; 'Carrie' was sung about her. written by me... ..
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143
dare to look into the eyes of a dreamer once you do the world changes pink palm trees and blue suns old convertibles and black and white films a song drenched with nostalgia burning your ears and making you want all of the time you wasted back but once you look into the eyes of a dreamer you realize that youth is never really wasted on the young because the only worry in the world was making your curfew and making the most out of a Friday night minds that were as infinite as the ocean on a breezy summer day barefoot feet as free as the sun above the waves all that lied ahead was the endless possibilities that the excitement of a night with the right people could bring once you look into the eyes of a dreamer you realize only the young know how to dream
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Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 10:35 PM UTC
“Youth is wasted on the Young”
I crave what I see in my mind
 The future I have constructed I see a messy bed and the rising sun
Bare legs peeking out from wrinkled sheets
 Our love written in every crease
Evidence is ever present I see hands sliding
 Fingers tracing
 Mouths speaking with no words 
But still
 The message is received I see open windows letting in the breeze
 Sparkling lights in the distance
 The moon yearning to feel our love Perched above I see my breath
 The cold night air engulfing me 
 Though never reaching my heart 
 I’m warmed indefinitely by the love at my side I see my hand on a soft chest Discovering, for the first time, acceptance and 
Freedom 
 The only things I’ve ever wanted I see the world in a new way
 Each night is a new city 
But happiness never sleeps 
Life never rests it’s weary head
 Neither do we I see summer
 Flowers sway with our whispers
 Sunlight sings it’s song on your shoulders
 I kiss and reminisce… I see turmoiled oceans
 As we drive down winding pathways
 Atop cliffs 
 High as kites I see convertibles and buses
 Afghans and kaftans 
Guitars and bonfires and sand covered bodies
 Psalms of palms that sway in the west coast wind I see beads in my hair
 Fringe on my sweaters
 Rings on my fingers
 Jewels on my brow I see you in our makeshift home 
 Sitting cross legged in briefs
 Your back to me; face to the ocean 
Painted gold by the suns halcyon kiss I see undying allegiance
 To freedom in its freest form
 No red white and blue
 But the sun, me and you I see clearly in this still silence
 No fear here, only peace
 And I have you by my side 
 To keep me safe from solace
0
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
What I crave on a rainy day
I crave what I see in my mind
 The future I have constructed I see a messy bed and the rising sun
Bare legs peeking out from wrinkled sheets
 Our love written in every crease
Evidence is ever present I see hands sliding
 Fingers tracing
 Mouths speaking with no words 
But still
 The message is received I see open windows letting in the breeze
 Sparkling lights in the distance
 The moon yearning to feel our love Perched above I see my breath
 The cold night air engulfing me 
 Though never reaching my heart 
 I’m warmed indefinitely by the love at my side I see my hand on a soft chest Discovering, for the first time, acceptance and 
Freedom 
 The only things I’ve ever wanted I see the world in a new way
 Each night is a new city 
But happiness never sleeps 
Life never rests it’s weary head
 Neither do we I see summer
 Flowers sway with our whispers
 Sunlight sings it’s song on your shoulders
 I kiss and reminisce… I see turmoiled oceans
 As we drive down winding pathways
 Atop cliffs 
 High as kites I see convertibles and buses
 Afghans and kaftans 
Guitars and bonfires and sand covered bodies
 Psalms of palms that sway in the west coast wind I see beads in my hair
 Fringe on my sweaters
 Rings on my fingers
 Jewels on my brow I see you in our makeshift home 
 Sitting cross legged in briefs
 Your back to me; face to the ocean 
Painted gold by the suns halcyon kiss I see undying allegiance
 To freedom in its freest form
 No red white and blue
 But the sun, me and you I see clearly in this still silence
 No fear here, only peace
 And I have you by my side 
 To keep me safe from solace
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54
~~~~~@~~~~~ On the roof I let cats of flashbacks take me on a ride of vintage convertibles and Buddy Holly ~~~~~@~~~~~
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Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
Antique
The lost seas of writhing souls Deep and the darkness, bucolic peasantry carrying a basin of mud Protesting for better wages, in the bruised bulls of Wall Street Seeking pursuit of happiness, and finding the answer With each proceeding need and the greed just stops being a word Mirrors and global skyscrapers, objects, all forecasted We know what we will build for the future A future of objectivism, and plants with books overlooking New York streets Dreaming of better living in extravagant Manhattan Teaching others about the poetic license, how you can lie Blues and ***** and the breaths of the cold morsels Murky hills, carrying pitchforks in boreal forests Barking and biting, these are now chilly pine peaks The heart seeks what it seeks, and omniscience and ubiquitous Gods Like modern infrastructure, and precarious progress for the army recruit There are plenary structures and assemblies of kitsch Kilimanjaro, replicas of mountains and wax models Romancing each stone, and feelings of someone you once loved You thank heaven, that she walked into the right bar Sometimes, you hope she walks into the wrong seat and meets you Greets you at times, as an alarm for the correct time Tresses of eve-teasers lay ******** on great cars, some of them even make haste with purloined convertibles Purring cats walk through Plainfield and Mclaren streets, foraging for serendipity You'll be glad that heaven brought you to the right bar, to tell you are the right desire In this sea of lost souls, thinking they are struggling But, actually, they are tied to the confabulating and changing climate Blaring horns of the bungholes and dungeons of bald men spot the madness from afar from the humble abode All of them dying peptic ulcers, cirrhosis and drinking themselves to illness Indemnified by their art, art is the way to explain these insecurities and voids of despair, we are a civilized bunch, right?
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Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 5:08 PM UTC
Mulberry Wine
The lost seas of writhing souls Deep and the darkness, bucolic peasantry carrying a basin of mud Protesting for better wages, in the bruised bulls of Wall Street Seeking pursuit of happiness, and finding the answer With each proceeding need and the greed just stops being a word Mirrors and global skyscrapers, objects, all forecasted We know what we will build for the future A future of objectivism, and plants with books overlooking New York streets Dreaming of better living in extravagant Manhattan Teaching others about the poetic license, how you can lie Blues and ***** and the breaths of the cold morsels Murky hills, carrying pitchforks in boreal forests Barking and biting, these are now chilly pine peaks The heart seeks what it seeks, and omniscience and ubiquitous Gods Like modern infrastructure, and precarious progress for the army recruit There are plenary structures and assemblies of kitsch Kilimanjaro, replicas of mountains and wax models Romancing each stone, and feelings of someone you once loved You thank heaven, that she walked into the right bar Sometimes, you hope she walks into the wrong seat and meets you Greets you at times, as an alarm for the correct time Tresses of eve-teasers lay ******** on great cars, some of them even make haste with purloined convertibles Purring cats walk through Plainfield and Mclaren streets, foraging for serendipity You'll be glad that heaven brought you to the right bar, to tell you are the right desire In this sea of lost souls, thinking they are struggling But, actually, they are tied to the confabulating and changing climate Blaring horns of the bungholes and dungeons of bald men spot the madness from afar from the humble abode All of them dying peptic ulcers, cirrhosis and drinking themselves to illness Indemnified by their art, art is the way to explain these insecurities and voids of despair, we are a civilized bunch, right?
Continue reading...
28
people people people people **** people and their dreams of white fences and tidy suits and red convertibles **** that life oh the profanity the profanity! you serious ******* do I terrify? I’m watching all natural disasters at once melting all together morphing into this human race american exceptionalism! I’m dead in my boots walking across the shriveled streets of rolling cornfields of the past’s future of the optimism the ******* optimism that is nothing but words that is nothing but hope we can’t eat hope we can’t drink hope time to starve and pretend that we’re changing when we never moved in the first place
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May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
People
A true beauty is never forgotten It stays in the covert closet of our soul unattended spoiled rotten while we go outside build millions of buildings burn millions of trees A true beauty is always instantly sold for a price too big for convertibles but too small for make-ups When girls put it on something is changed something is lost in a split second We are touched but eternally never moved A true beauty could be as untangible as a sparkle in the air we laugh but we don't know why Once I thought i had found it during a fight with a dog in a dark alley Another time when a girl said no but looked me in the eye for so long i forgot who i was In an apocalypsed world the true beauty will finally reveal itself Survivors keel down in front of it the chosen ones crooning chanting relishing their reward For that moment we understand the value of death and eternity then a million ****** in the remnants of civil society in everything that glowed every corner that denied every discourse that faded to reminisce the passing of a million trees For that this unforeseeable future I'm grateful To sift through a million false beauties tortured convoluted i'm still looking waiting for the sign a sign concealed in that minute dance of wrinkles on your face a dance that contains a million years of evolution and some day somewhere in that divinely lit shopping mall of royalty of ancient colours of trivial romantic tragedies you will see me after seeing a million others you will be touched and moved and time will forever pause for us for i have found it the sign of a true beauty in your glimpse
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Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 10:28 PM UTC
True Beauty
A true beauty is never forgotten It stays in the covert closet of our soul unattended spoiled rotten while we go outside build millions of buildings burn millions of trees A true beauty is always instantly sold for a price too big for convertibles but too small for make-ups When girls put it on something is changed something is lost in a split second We are touched but eternally never moved A true beauty could be as untangible as a sparkle in the air we laugh but we don't know why Once I thought i had found it during a fight with a dog in a dark alley Another time when a girl said no but looked me in the eye for so long i forgot who i was In an apocalypsed world the true beauty will finally reveal itself Survivors keel down in front of it the chosen ones crooning chanting relishing their reward For that moment we understand the value of death and eternity then a million ****** in the remnants of civil society in everything that glowed every corner that denied every discourse that faded to reminisce the passing of a million trees For that this unforeseeable future I'm grateful To sift through a million false beauties tortured convoluted i'm still looking waiting for the sign a sign concealed in that minute dance of wrinkles on your face a dance that contains a million years of evolution and some day somewhere in that divinely lit shopping mall of royalty of ancient colours of trivial romantic tragedies you will see me after seeing a million others you will be touched and moved and time will forever pause for us for i have found it the sign of a true beauty in your glimpse
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