"councilman" poems
I stand alone in the dark Fulton Street subway station,
Breathing in the urine-scented air,
Breathing out clouds of steam,
A subway train rushes along,
Not stopping,
Biting at my eardrums,
With the painful percussion,
Of thousands of people,
Silently screaming,
I don’t want to see,
I don’t want to see,
I don’t want to see,
The air fanned by each subway car,
Rushes against me,
Pushes the ozone and the smell of burnt brake linings,
Into my nostrils,
Along with the air,
****** through the iron gratings,
Along miles of Brooklyn sidewalks,
Carrying the odor of a prostitute’s festering sores,
And the cries of a hungry, fatherless child in ***** diapers,
And the hoarse moaning of a city councilman mentoring a young intern,
And the cheap perfume of a fourteen year-old runaway,
Turning $20 tricks in an alley,
Smelling of stale Chinese food and wet dogs,
And . . .
I don’t want to see,
I don’t want to see,
I don’t want to see,
. . . the smell of spoiled cabbage soup,
And the rancid remains of a hotdog buried in sauerkraut,
And putrid lilies lying in a gutter,
All assaulting me, forcing me backwards,
Until my back presses against,
The grimy once-white tiles,
That coldly burn their graffiti on my spine:
God is dead,
Bake a ****
Whitey *****
**** the *******
I don’t want to see,
I don’t want to see,
I don’t want to see,
The train finally passes,
Its red eyes receding into the dank,
Dark tunnel beyond the platform,
The screeches and screams slowly die out,
Their echoes ******* behind them,
The smell,
Of my,
Warm
*****
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 10:54 PM UTC
King Arthur the great, a man to be noted,
head of the table, of greatness t'is coated,
slayer of dragons, killer of kings,
***** of brats and fellater of things.
After a triumphant skirmish, which Arthur did lead,
it was decided he'd celebrate in his great hall of mead.
One of his councilmen, being ever so corny,
decided to throw old Arthur an ****
he rallied his men,
about a hundred and ten,
and proved to Arthur that they were quite *****
He yanked Arthur's hair,
thrashed his fine heir,
and while in the process, he was not far from bare.
He spread Arthur's *** and shoved in his large diaphragm,
then threw in his huge **** and yelled "Here comes the leviathan!"
He thrusted and pounded then started to moan,
he ****** on his ******* and continued to bone.
The councilman, not satisfied, pulled out his large knife,
his eyes were bloodshot , his **** was his life.
He stared at Arthur's *** crack, it looked rather thin,
he carved it and sliced it then shoved it back in.
He looked into Arthur's eyes and said he wont waste,
he told all his men to **** with such haste.
Not one hole was spared, his nostrils were bleeding,
he turned at the councilman and asked for a beating.
The councilman nodded and with such a strange grin,
put it in Arthur's mouth, t'is no mere sin.
He slapped it, shook it and cried for power,
the gods must have heard him, his men started to cower.
He screamed and yelled as he let out his gravy,
he licked Arthur's eyes and cried "too bad theirs no baby!"
Arthur's eyes turned red, mad with such rage,
he snapped off his **** and thrashed the old sage.
He ripped out his stomach and had it ****** clean,
he shat on the sack and ****** on his spleen.
He stripped off his shirt and threw him on a bed,
then blasted a load, my word he was dead!
he ******* the mans carcass and licked his curved spine,
he exploded with power and yelled "By God it is time!"
And with a snap of his fingers the man turned to dust,
Arthur then cackled "well he earned my trust".
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 5:44 AM UTC
The cottage stood at the outer edge
Of the village of Helsomewhere,
It held a slate on the garden gate
That scribbled a ‘Don’t Go There!’
It housed a cat and a resident bat
And something that moved within,
A thing unseen that was quite unclean
With various types of sin.
The folk that entered the garden gate
Had never gone back there twice,
When asked, they shuddered enough to state
‘It’s something that isn’t nice!’
The weeds were thick in the garden, and
Had grown right over the path,
And filled with sand by an old wash-stand
The remains of an iron bath.
Nobody walked the bullock track
That led by the old front door,
To go to town, they’d hurry around
A path that was there before,
The cottage stood like an ancient crone
That blighted the village scene,
A pointing finger, pared to the bone
Reminding them what had been.
At night the Moon rose over the ridge
And it cast an evil glow,
Down through the leaves of the eucalypts
To the cottage, far below,
The windows looked like a pair of eyes
As they stared out through the gloom,
While something was rushing around inside
Like a demon in a tomb.
‘Perhaps we ought to have burnt it,’
Said the senior councilman,
‘It stands alone as our conscience,’ said
The crusty old farmer, Stan,
‘We have to bleed for our own misdeeds,
Including a lack of care,
Each scream was seen as a nightmare dream
When Lloyd was living there.’
When Lloyd was hosting his dinners for
The girls from a nearby town,
Nobody seemed to question them
For Lloyd was always a clown,
But screams would happen at midnight
And would often be heard at dawn,
When Lloyd was digging his garden patch
By the light of the early morn.
And Lloyd would wave to his neighbours as
They hurried along his way,
Give them a cheery greeting, crack a joke
And say ‘Gidday!’
They didn’t suspect that evil lay
Inside in that old tin bath,
The one that is filled with sand, and now
Sits there, outside by the path.
One night the villagers crept on out,
And they took it each by turn,
To set a brand to the cottage, then
Stand back to watch it burn,
But something was rushing about inside
In a black and evil cloak,
While screams had seemed to come in a tide
With the dark and acrid smoke.
The embers were floating far and wide
In the haze of a Harvest Moon,
They set up fires in the eucalypts
That rained in the village gloom,
And every cottage went up in smoke
For the villagers’ part, they share
In the deaths of thirteen innocent girls
In the Hell of Helsomewhere!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
A pity that your city couldn't find it in
the budget to prop up another "civic win!"
'Cuz the clinic closed its doors at 6 p.m.
for the final time.
When you're wearing out your shoes on their unplowed streets
in the Winter, while they cheer the college football team,
will the ledger sport the error margin for relief?
Or will your hole-filled coat suffice?
Goodnight...
It's so hard to say
if we could script out any other play.
The blocking's down.
It's so hard to know,
when your prescription's low,
what you're gonna do--
or where you're gonna go now.
The new athletic center on the campus gleams,
a glass-and-money beacon. They slashed faculty.
Rent is climbing ladders with the cost of heat
all the God **** time.
Your eye's on midnight pleasure at the liquor store.
That snowy route will wind you by the nice wine bar,
and then past the clinic's closed and boarded doors,
under buzzing lights.
You see him through a window sipping fine, dry whites.
His vote to cut off funding drew his party's line.
His lips are sketching praises for the team's O-line.
That's a city councilman's night.
Good times...
It's so hard to say
if we could script out any other play.
The blocking's down.
Will the curtain fall,
when cooler nights turn cold?
What you gonna do?--
What you gonna do now?
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
Words on the wall.
Go with Paul.
So profound.
Like a crystal ball.
Okay, all coming back.
Should have read.
Julie, will you go with Paul.
But it didn’t.
Surely a message.
A deeper meaning.
Check the celestial phone.
A message awaits.
You ***** lying scummbag, drop dead.
Should I tell her there's only one M in scumbag.
Could this be another message.
I enlighten her.
The other M is for ************
But is it.
Is there an even deeper meaning.
The celestial phone bleeps.
I peruse the heavenly text.
Actually there should be an extra B with the extra M, *******
I see pain in her text.
I feel it myself.
There is a wanting.
Flowers and chocolates.
I feel comfort walking through the graveyard.
Knowing random people are helping me in the pursuit of love.
I throw a pebble up to her window.
Holding my mixed bunch of flowers.
Old Mrs Jones looks down, smiling.
If I was seventy, I’d do, I digress.
I bade her in, throwing the pebble up to my true love.
Who opened the window maybe a tad too early.
She screams my name.
Which was comforting in a strange way.
Old Mrs Jones looked out, recoiling in horror, knocking herself out in the process.
I realised I had forgotten the chocolates.
Darling, could you borrow me ten pounds.
Something in her one good eye told me no.
The paramedics told me to go.
The Police read me my rights.
Putting me up for the day, and the night.
Still, as the Councilman said as I was scrubbing the wall.
It’s not like you’re Banksy, is it Paul.
I felt a deeper meaning.
A thought had occurred
It would take a lot of paint.
But would be worth the pain.
I worked through the night.
Such a delight.
I threw a pebble up to her window.
Old Mrs Jones looked down at the naked mural of me, and dropped down dead.
Julie sort of squinted in dread.
But the gun in her hand.
Well, enough said.
The Police charged me with indecent exposure.
Though the court said that wasn’t quite true.
Still, the Councilman said.
I’m really impressed.
I mean, it's different.
Maybe you should have added a verse.
He stopped me scrubbing.
We bowed our heads.
As old Mrs Jones passed by in the hearse.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
Names are funny funny things
like a bell that often rings.
Time brings in its crazy swings;
surf the web and memory pings.
Can't negotiate this site;
rhymes are all I can recite.
Well, I here submit a flight
of feeble rhymes to frame my plight:
I cannot find a Councilman
McClester, a real gentleman.
If you the poet and that man
are different, then this dumb fan
will simply have to find more guides
where Councilman McClester hides.
But if it's here the C'man bides
and frees your soul as it derides
in lay upon delightful lay
the foibles of the current day,
then I can only truly say
your probity has made my day.
Geoffrey Riggs
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC