"credible" poems
harambe salami
king of the apes
with some credible japes
oh how i miss your sweet smile
you could slam dunk a crocodile
but there was nothing they could do
to stop you from turning that kid into poo
so they shot you through the heart
and you're to blame
you give love
a bad name
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!
Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'
Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?
One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!
Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'
Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?
One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!
Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'
Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 9:40 PM UTC
Spines curve as sweetly as drops from a honeysuckle
Notes in a melody fill the void spaces
Gentle rushes stir like the swish of rustling leaves
Flushed as red as the cherry who’s stem is knotted
Time stolen from the hands of a frozen clock-
Still like snow fallen from a winter shower
Senses fully awaken to chase alluring aromas
Repetitive jolts of candied sin trickle throughout the body
Electric flow in the veins sparks an extended invitation
Contagious appetite will mirror aches of desire
Surges of shock in the body join the mind and soul
Accelerating spikes in heart rate kiss private secrets
Boundless longing branded to one another
Yearning indulged by limitless exchanges of energy-
Transfers immune from harm
Pressure from oneness loosens the tremble in pleading breaths
Hands close around each hip to clench their hollows
Credible fingers drenched in admiration coat mingled skin
One is composed by the gravitation of two
Defying moonlight to surrender at an immeasurable ******
Reaching for the highest point to let go
Sharing traces of untamed wind with soaring wings
Collecting innocence altered by ecstasy
Choosing vulnerability to expose what cannot be said
Fantasies traded through the rhythm of touch
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
an incredible incite (the ruthless volatility of words)
~for L.B.~
the only place of solitaire solitude in the city accompanies me
like a faithful country dog that doesn’t know better to be afraid,
of moving cars, sleepless night terrors and unscripted “dreams”
where image and words say come “follow me” with ruthlessness and no cloying come hither looks and
see and take and recall with perfect midnight blue sky clarity for
the incredible incite of credible insight
surfacing unexpectedly in a intemperate pool of slushy snow,
that will be an ice storm of painful confrontations with naked
inner truths standing outside in sunny sub zero playground
there is great risk. volatility gone wild. when the speed
governor is removed and you live at 100 mph on local streets,
when the merest slight of an accidental incidental touch
transforms into an incite incident and hell is the threat
that you will not die today and your own words will ruthless
pull from the nerve places where sensible and sensual cannot
coexist and this write this script is a poetical insight inside, an
incredible incite and what your spilling is spaghetti sauce blood
when you left your brain on broil, instead of the faking daily of
slow simmering ineffectual intellectual words that just don’t
cut the crap. your addiction complete, you cannot live without
the incredible incite, the ruthless volatility of words,
otherwise why rough write what you see
in the blind
beyond the blind
1/6/18 5:03am
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 5:17 AM UTC
a HOME credible THE BISHOP accusation ADMINISTRATION is PARISHES one MINISTRIES that, SCHOOLS after RESOURCES review SAFE ENVIRONMENT of EMPLOYEES reasonably CAREERS available, CONTACT US relevant MAKE A GIFT information BISHOP’S FAITH APPEAL in LOVE AND JUSTICE consultation AFRICAN AMERICAN MINISTRY with CATHOLIC CHARITIES the PLANNED GIVING Diocesan CHANCELLOR Review OFFICE OF CONSTRUCTION Board HISPANIC MINISTRY or CAMPUS MINISTRY other CRIMINAL JUSTICE MINISTRY professionals, STEWARDSHIP AND COMMUNICATIONS there YOUTH MINISTRY is FINANCIAL SERVICES reason MODERATOR OF THE CURIA to MAKE A GIFT TO THE CAPITAL CAMPAIGN believe SOCIAL MEDIA POLICY is FAMILY LIFE MINISTRY true VOCATIONS
The soup today is not what it could be;
We’d better search out the old recipe
Explanatory Note:
I fear the poem as written fails, which is my fault (perhaps I have lapsed into fuzziness from reading Leonard Cohen), so here is a bit of exposition:
The words in small print are a quote from the Bishops of Texas (long may they wave), generated by some in-house scrivener, about what constitutes a "credible accusation." "Credible accusation" is not a title in civil, criminal, or canon law, and it appears to be some sort of Article 58 (cf. Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago), a means whereby anyone is guilty because he has been accused. It stinks.
Also stinky is the behavior of some few priests and religious.
Anyway, I pulled the quote from a diocesan web site, and scattered among it in LARGE TYPE categories from that site. I stirred 'em all up in a soup because the matter of paedophilia and the bishops' responses seem to be a soup, making it difficult for a "good simpleton" (cf A Canticle for Leibowitz) like me to understand.
May God have mercy on us all.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
It was, as the New York Times all but sniffed
(Even then, a haughty mix of bluenose and black ink)
Further proof the poor, misguided Upstate rubes
Were no more than ample fodder
For any tinhorn, two-bit confidence man to take for a ride.
Fair enough—it was, to the careful eye and unheated psyche
Clear as the azure blue sky that,
Despite the best efforts of acid wash and a year underground,
So obviously a statue as to be absolutely laughable,
And yet the vox populi came in waves,
Not only one-gallus farmers from the fields nearby,
But from the great cities near and far
(Chicago, Philadelphia, and, yes, even New York itself
To throw Hannum a quarter to view his gargantuan grotesquery
Just as described in Genesis itself, he noted solemnly
So many, indeed, that Barnum himself was divinely inspired
Not only to purloin the giant, but its prior owner’s epigram
As to the frequency of the manufacture
Of his too-credible customer base.
While there was (briefly, at least) some mystery surrounding
The origins of the brobdingnagian mass of stone,
It remained (to some, anyway) equally unfathomable
Why scores of folks would careen in unsteady coaches
The full length of the Catskill Turnpike,
With its questionable lodging and uneven roadworthiness,
Or patiently suffer the mosquito-laden flatboats of Clinton’s Ditch
All to spend the cash equivalent of two trips to the county fair
To see a perfectly good hootchie-kootchie show
Simply to gawk at an unevenly carved rock of questionable authenticity,
But that explained quite simply,
As the public always gets what the public wants.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
I have met Masters and OGs
within joint commissions.
While my dear, Granddaddy Purple’s
spending my tuition.
But, it was merely a Blue Dream
at blunt ceremonies.
While Hindus and Afghans breed in
holy matrimonies.
Look at all of Mary Jane's strains,
I want to be like them;
stuck pondering my bud's embrace
and all’the broken stems.
Reuniting the Skywalker's
was quite like the Death Star
far out, in space and burns fast like
Sour Diesel’s quick car.
I rode the Pineapple Express,
then I hit the Train Wreck.
Lights out! The conductor demands
that we have our pipes checked.
Look at all of Mary Jane's strains,
I have plenty of them,
still pondering my bud's embrace
and all’the broken stems.
My bud's came less often and I
became less credible.
I told my bud Bubba that we
should switch to edibles.
“But, you can't eat these sweets unless
the treat's gradual high
stops your bud’s from disappearing.
You need me to get by!”
Where are all of Mary Jane's strains?
I need some more like them;
losing the embrace of my bud’s
and all’the broken stems.
All my buds have vacated me.
All that's left is Reggie
and Mid, who aren't like my kind buds;
they’re leaving me edgy.
I’m hanging with Mid and Reggie
hoping they'll come around
But now, even they’re gone, and I
have lost what was once found.
The strains of Mary Jane are gone.
I can't live without them!
I dream to see my bud's once more
and all’the broken stems.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
The match on Sunday was matchless,
For Ozzie lost to India with grace,
Indian players snatched from them,
Indians stole the victory so easy,
But it just seemed easy in the end,
Each one of the Ozzie hurlers,
Couldn't even ask for the water.
Virat - great was the beating!
And to be credited is just not Virat,
Anushka Sharma is equally credible,
Had she never broken up with him,
Virat Kohli would still be distracted,
Against ultimate opponents Ozzies,
Our team stood not a single chance,
If not for his sweet vengeful courage.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
Letter from a dead man,
His souls up where is he?
Letter from a dead man,
To Heaven or hell he will see.
Letter from a dead man,
To where at can he be?
Letter from a dead man,
No more food can he feed,
Letter from a dead man,
His life's up as you read.
Scared so scared like the millions heard,
Scared of death and me,
Food for thought like the old man said,
An innings of eighty three,
Letter from a dead man,
Stand up remember thee,
Letter from a dead man,
His hymns sheets of real cacophony,
Letter from a dead man,
Sing up and let it be,
Letter from a dead man,
Switches off his life machine,
Letter from a dead man,
A celebration of his legacy
Buried treasured no mans land
In the hills of this cemetery,
Ashes to ashes dust to dust
Just remember him when he leaves.
Letter from a dead man,
To the point of its will,
Letter from a dead man,
No good when he's lying still,
Letter from a dead man,
No more laughs his body chills,
Letter from a dead man,
After he takes his last sleeping pill,
Letter from a dead man,
In Forever credible.
Disappeared no land frontier,
Tales to wander now,
Tears for fears after all these years,
Distinguished with a crown.
Letter from a dead man,
Shall he spell out to you now,
Letter from a dead man,
More ups than been downs,
Letter from a dead man,
Snarl bites from a vicious hound,
Letter from a dead man,
Safe grace under ground,
Letter from a dead man,
Not safe as it sounds.
Worry, Worry, Super Hurry,
To the day that they bereaved,
Money, Money not so funny,
Something changes as he leaves
Letter from a dead man,
Its with you that he thanks,
Letter from a dead man,
A new change of circumstance,
Letter from a dead man,
Sons&Daughters; admirals,
Letter from a dead man,
As love has a chance,
Letter from a dead man,
He's happy with its deliverance.
In days gone by I took to past,
Reflected on happiness as if to last.
So many wondrous days, jolly, quiet, crazily loved been raised.
In many parts chapter arts, like as youngsters we drove our racing carts,
I pinned a bullseye dart with an eye to target the centre of my whole being. Teenage days of bad school days to my first pint with the Trin! Laughter and such worked harder as much for the shackles I threw away!
Up, Up and away my off spring played with hay, did me proud as they made their way! Middle age to this very stage to people I've met. In love, friendship, peace and loyalty to you I will never forget.
Letter from a dead man,
Insane or nice you may think, but with a life time guarantee.
Letter from a dead man,
With r.I.p love from me..
O'Reily@05032013
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
anxiety creeping on
anxiety taking over
i'm the youngest in a room
filled with folks i don't know
three old blondes
one middle aged man
i don't belong
just like out there
so how am i supposed to learn
when my stomach is in this churn
like butter i want to be spreadable
anywhere, and in everything
butter is so much smoother than me
for once i'd like to be credible
maybe, one day, incredible.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
I get scared easily.
And I always have persisted to allow my mind to be torn out when I let it affect me.
They say, "Worst case scenario is rare." in most situations.
I have yet to seek why they ignore worst case, become it, leaving nothing left for the worst.
Habitually it creates an aggression with associates: replacement and correlation.
Without me noticing inevitably.
Behind.
This shadow that follows, desires its personification;
Consequently the main man must fall,
He will dissipate towards the rock where the one before him stood.
Rather take a spot of one greater, it is that of less higher.
A demotion of sort.
In order for it to transpose into progression, a compromise is of order.
The compromise of time, itself, playing the waiting game - (let us back step)
…replacement…correlation…
The understanding of this is of which I no longer feel that emotion;
It is configured by the other, making a statement which is unrecognizable.
So much, not even I, the speaker, can do anything to prove to you what I mean.
--For keeps sake--
This is no where near a poor pardon for my actions.
They are far from a credible stature. Far from a pity fete;
Indeed a fare apology is in par.
Yet this is a means of report to say in far value: worry.
It is of pure arrogance that I state this claim. Keep this in mind.
That I fear the replacement emotion shall take place in fair time once more.
As the tail is coming back again, second time to be specific.
And your steps in self-fulfillment climaxes,
The steps to which I take are mimicked to that of the first tail.
(The apex forms and your entitlement proclaims its spot.)
I wish it not, to be furthered in my rut.
As of the annum before, was explained by dis-valued ties.
This is not to which I think.
It is your confidence which speaks and separates your feet.
Placing one foot in one path, far ahead from the other.
As I stay with the other, while the other one is altered.
Being free as it walks along with out I.
I wish for an ignoring of replacement, and to this I will forcibly try.
For you, my love.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
This is not a poem, a poet wrote some white lies about Israel and I want to share the truth that we’re not told by our media’s.
Remember, we can disagree about things and still agree about a lot of other things.
If you search, you can easily find this information.
Most of it comes from Israel media.
Israel already had over 10,000
Palestinian prisoners locked up long before the Oct 7 when the genocide begin.
Men, women and children in their prisons with no path to freedom.
Not to mention the open air prison that the Israeli’s kept the Palestine society trapped in for the past 50 years called Gaza. Committing human rights violation against the indigenous people of the land.
The biggest percentage of all the people that were **** on Oct 7th, were killed by Israeli’s killing their own people because they were ordered to follow the Hannibal directive.
I suppose you’ve never heard of that, no? Then your news source is limited.
Last year in Israel, their high court decided that **** and torture in their prisons, being committed by the Israel army was no longer illegal. Most of their society did not want these prison guards to get in trouble for torturing and ****** the Palestinian prisoners.
All those things you claim some unnamed source told you, have already been debunk by many credible sources.
Hamas did not do it, Israel rapes, cheats, lies and kills indiscriminately. They own our leaders using AIPAC lobbist who have Trump by the *** (They own Epstein’s library)
AIPAC is the reason you believe lies. They own media and congress.
Their propaganda rules the networks.
And just in the last two years, Israel has started war with Iran, Lebanon and Syria.
And of course their genocide happening now to the people of Palestine. I don’t understand how anybody support them. But I’m not a superstitiously impaired Zionist either.
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 12:29 PM UTC
what am I...
if the mere color of my skin
smears fear, suspicion and dread
in the heads of perfect strangers...?
what am I...
if I feel the need to
recede to a sanctuary within
my very own black skin
allowing the familiar stranger
sharing the elevator
to exhale
and set her bundle of apprehension,
perceived and imagined,
aside
for the ride...?
what am I...
if I instinctively
hide my black eyes
in the screens
of iphones and ipads
avoiding icontact when isolated
with nervous strangers
lest I inflate the balloon of anxiety
to panicked proportions....?
creating that space of comfort
for all nervous strangers in my life
becomes my obsession...
and I switch lanes
by night
crossing to the other side
of streets with dim lights
lest I collide head-on
with trepidation personified
in the eyes of perfect strangers...
and I ditch the hoodie
for a crew neck sweater
by abercrombie and fitch
lest some slug with a 9mm gun
profile me as a ****
and defy order, rhyme and reason
to exercise his license to ****
in the still of a rainy night in florida
with no credible witness
in sight...
what am I...?
~ P
(7/18/2013)
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
I’m sick of the lies
I’m sick of the guise
Be an ******* to my face you piece of ****
Cut me out like a man
Don’t ****** walk away like I did you wrong
I’ve given you nothing but love from the beginning
and you snap it back in my face
***** I can your disgrace
and this race of ungrateful haste should rethink their approach in the presence of a kind heart and unwavering loyalty
boy,
you pushed me to the edge
and so I pledge
to never trust a soul
cuz this tossing and turning in yearning cuts deep
and I don’t get enough sleep
so count your sheep and be gone without a peep you ******* creep
I’m too real to pretend
In a world of fake embellishments to conceal god’s embroidery
I really thought you’d mean more to me
but you blend n bend just like the rest and to me
you’re just a guest so save me
the best
As I attest to never rest my pen for a pimpled partridge laced to dance to the tune we all know is rehearsed
I’m different
I see your past
I see your essence
I know your actions before you make them and lemme tell you
I could sell you here and now but you wouldn’t be worth it.
Don’t name me n game me like your dame to-be cuz I hear your hesitation and bruises
look like ******* on wanna be bad boys
**** all that noise
I’ve done that ****
I’ve lived that life
And I can play ***** less flirty and more wordy than a whole gurney of gays with no praise for your plug’s percocet purse you’re tryna nurse cuz no curse will salvage a sick man’s mind
Next time, don’t even bother
hittin me up for a quick ****
cuz you blew that chance a long time ago and I’d have to be on twice the amount of **** I was on then to **** you now
Ha! Like you’d even know how!
I’ve seen your hickeys of conquests Do you think I’m blind?
And that shows you’ve still gotta brag
boy, I’ve ****** your whole family with out a scratch so catch a disease cuz you’ll never please between my knees
You were beneath me from the beginning
But I gave you the doubt
And still
you’d rather smash for the clout cuz your way out of this drought are delusions of grandeur
not credible candor
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 2:09 AM UTC
Love got drunk one day
And slipped away as quickly as it came.
Leaving impressions and marks and a ******* memory
Why did it have to do that?
He told me
Perhaps the brightest insight
To human history
Since Copernicus Said
Hey maybe
We’re not so important
That the world
(literally)
Revolves around us
But perhaps it is us
Who revolve around the world
(as it should be.)
What my Copernicus said was
Individualism
Is the single most sign
Of continual human progress.
That without it
We just become droids
Or peons
Or mindless beings
Without sentience
Without intelligence
Without the single most important vocabulary word
“Why?”
You can see why he intrigued me.
Ever-going quest to
Make love stay.
Slipping out of my suitcase
Man it was cramped in there
I looked up
And saw my name written in the sky.
*********
Always finding new ways
To tell the world
What we are
And what we could be
If I cashed in my chips
And went all-in
For just one hand.
Tears came
Hanging ten on the edge of eyes
Refusing to fall
Uncertain of their plight
So they do what people do
When they are scared
And they freeze.
It crushed me to know
I’ve cashed in my chips
One too many times
He thought I’m incredible
When really
I’m un-credible.
Love didn’t stay.
It took the next flight to Vegas
To gamble some other poor soul’s life
Leaving me
To look up a nameless sky.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
danke, und scheiße geruch um beachten! (if ungrammatical then ensure you do not waver to correct me, but speak as correctly as possible and leave me to my insolence and gratify my mistake as championing your correctness, at least thus i'll be glad to make you see what i too wanted to see with my imperfection the suggestive).
western society has taught me
that i'd be better off
not having educated myself -
and that reading philosophical
books is considered a mental illness;
such heightened literacy rates
i almost clamour to buckle
in marking journalism a synonym of propaganda.
no, of course i'm not happy where
i live, i what's deemed a civilisation or
an exportable social model,
a place where you say the word Kierkegaard
and people think you've said gonorrhea,
so the French kiss outlasts oral *** -
tongue here, tongue there, tongue up your ***
you're a credible ****** should it matter,
while all the menial tasks for the unruly
have been exported to made in China -
i ****** Poland for ever wanting to join
the E.U., thank god they didn't adopt the failed
Euro currency - the diversity of the project
would always fail - no slingshot Indians
or bow & arrow akin mattered
when the other Indians gave us the Taj Mahal...
wise too i would be as an Ewok... and a Vindaloo...
wait a minute, why am i writing
like a reformist coloniser? i've been duped!
i learn the english tongue i suddenly
become nothing less than a coloniser myself;
might as well be a viking in york
or a norman at the battle of Hastings!
otherwise i'm a concubine on a mechanised
dildo-throne while the irish are Yuppie
with psychos of american Wolf St. scenarios
awaiting the 1980s discography of
a lucid John Peel commentary.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
This is the time of your life!
To do your deed to the country you love
For the promise of a prosperous land
A brighter future for the nation
Our pledge for a credible leader
Guide the citizen with religion faith
Lead our life with nobility, integrity and honesty
In the present day, Future and the hereafter..
vote ! dont lose your voice
Dont you keep your grievances at heart
Let your voice be heard...
So do not lose your vote... VOTE!
To win or to lose
To die or to live
Winning or losing is part and parcel
Of a COMPETITION...
Contestants please play fair
Voters stay calm and cool..
Try not to spread evil and hatred among us..
Leading us all to chaos..
Also Try not to remain silent
when given the right to choose
Play democracy! Play fair!
Chaos may end up bad..
If we do not maturely contest
For who’s wrong and who’s right...
Chaos may end up a disaster, a massacre...
Explainable chaotic phenomena
If we do not curb our lust for greed..
Campaign maturely for Malaysia..
We despise chaos and fights
Votes are the voices of people
Let us all do our bit to Malaysia
Stop this Chaos!!
Silence the words of slanders and hates...
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 5:39 AM UTC
As an IU Bloomington student,
I frequently made the drive back to
the fraying rusty fringe of Chicagoland,
the land of greasy-dappled gyro joints,
of Italian Beef, and Italian Sausage,
and Italian Beef and Sausage.
Some described it as one of the most boring drives
in America, lamenting the flatness and unvarying
scenery, but I always drove it under the shroud of darkness.
Nine Inch Nails, My Life With the Thrill **** Kult, and
the Revolting ***** spilled through the stereo.
Al Jourgensen growled his strange Rod Stewart cover,
his ode to crack-cocaine, and his heavy industrial soundtrack
that makes you feel tense, like a prime time victim show.
As the aggressive beats and resonant past washed over me,
I realized my cozy hometown offered comfort
but could sustain no credible
fantasies of the future.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 4:27 AM UTC
Cannibalistic are the teeth jagged in curl and grin. They grip fastened between gums of grime and sin. They prey leeched to toys strung under webs so few. My fingers creeped between their eyes so suffice and blind.
Like storms choked in stark sky and drying rain, my views christen and bloom. Eyes bleached gold, lavish the corners donning streets and side shop. I myself lark on apartment edges and strewn roof tops, balancing death and door bells along my crooked spine. Wide faces swirl in faded lights along morbid streets blazed in night. They the oh so happy and innocent leech the drinks and sway the narcotics. Hand on breath, tongue on tip. It’s so heart full to stare from the roofs so grimaced.
All words muddled in dread, lick their rosy lips, as stare catches the late night shift. All the blossomed couples curl and constrict in arms so selfish I must keep edges sharp and dull in bliss. Balance sways in dim, darkest are the days flattering night and cursing day. I wait amongst the walls above wavering innocence to demand. I shift on roofs so frail and wary that life seeks no bounds as the heights do not scare me. I will slip feudal in their creviced minds, but merely of pity to all their credible crimes. Here the world cries and here the cannibal lies. I break to be broken, but never to die, only to fall within the world’s eye.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
I’m…
Sitting in my flat,
To my couch I am thatched,
Kyle’s yelling,
He keeps telling,
Me to,
Get a job,
Like walk straight into one,
I get slightly indignant,
That it’s easier said than done,
He points it out,
So his main demographic
Don’t switch off en-masse,
Ending his quasi-infographic
Combination of hot air and bad gas
Mr. Kyle’s relatable,
He makes an effort
So unlike certain Eton educated conservative western capitalistic illuminati slaves,
He’s not hateable.
SO, my now easily distracted mind turns to Mr.C,
The way his policies A.K.A BEDROOM TAX negatively impact me
The way he forces me into obvious and obnoxious modern day slavery
Through way of a work programme
How he has decided that I need to experience real life life,
Through legislation and universal credit,
Credible implication to make the poorest poorer because they have the gall to spend it
SO my rhyming thought full of tangents
Must now come to end
As the tangent I have accomplished
Is impossible to defend.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC
An idled peace in the forest breathes
Every thought in itself
Whole.
It must be the life spirit, the ministry,
Pole to pole rejoicing.
The thin veil lifted, a school of
Sweeping wings. Let this strange
Hill of nature's suit cradle
Itself.
Let that child rest.
My cottage beads in July's torment.
I dreamed of a fair day
Is why I'm here.
Revolving perspective, will someone
Please hand me a credible vantage point.
The lens to get an even look.
This ancient, contemplating
Frost moon.
Quiet thought.
Night beats on platters. Heaves
Roving breath.
Dwelling in Innocence
Till birth
Tender eyed, forgotten.
Sweet,
The day will come.
She, today, moves in fabulous array
Of shimmering sparks. Light pale drips
From her shoulders.
Bare wax, the space between myself
And the candle.
Blow away the pride and stand straight to her.
Step in stride. Give her
One to look at.
The sense that life esteems joyfully
Hosting frenzy indeed.
Vast scenes of shipwrecked landscapes.
Ruins whipped by choppy dust.
Heaven's heart treads alone,
Through the ocean's side.
The path of dew is told by the sky.
Lightning takes care of what is left.
The sunken lesson,
Knowing night is close. Shall
We bend through the lilacs weeping?
Laughing?
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
I want you to understand
How long two years is
Seven hundred thirty days
Longer than five hundred, but less that one thousand
Two years is the chorus of Seasons of Love,
Sang twice.
Two springs
Two autumns
Two winters
And two summers.
Two years is the curving and twisting path
That leads up
To the crests and valleys of triumph and frustration
Which, ultimately,
Leads back to your eyes.
The summer breeze used to smell of you
But, in these two years, it smells like defeat and
Regret and remorse and
Climate change and my sneezes.
Winter used to take me back
To your penmanship
Your bold faced, shouted, loopy cursive
Declaring that yes, you love me
And that you hope that I like this book.
Winter now, is cold solitude
That seems to never fully dissipate
Not even for a moment
In two full years.
I don't remember spring,
Or autumn
You were never in the liminal.
You were black, or white
Unstoppable, or silent
Hopeful, or bitter
All solstice
And no equinox
Two years is as long as the strands of your influence
And the reach of my memory
Which I try to hold out to and touch
But it is intangible, and vague
So I flinch away
Two years is the quiet ambivalence
That penetrated all the levels of my consciousness to no end
All you, you
Always you
Two years is the pain of recall
The suffering of unforgetting
Which cannot be drowned out
By bitter alcohol in the throat
Or burned out
By fire in the back of the tongue
I remember you told me
That you were scared of pain.
I told you I live for it
And you called me Optimus Prime
So when you wonder
Why I never called
It is because I am Optimus Prime,
I will die, if you ease the pain
As I have lived for two years.
I want you to know
That I am not sorry.
At least not today
When your name is mentioned in the TV,
I switch channels
Because they almost always say that you are dead
Which is half-credible.
How long is two years?
Long enough, I guess
But not nearly long enough to forget your words,
Or find someone new.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
she's desperately
rummaging
for the few remaining shards of modesty—
'cause yeah, they'll bite into her palms
but the heaviness of a reputation
is pounding her flat.
blood throbs in her veins.
it's the only credible evidence she has
that this isn't some
sick
twisted
semi-permanent nightmare—
no, she's not lucky enough to sleep.
the room's a child's diary
left out in the rain
and everything she owns
is soaked in memory
manifested
as salt
and water
and black spider stains on the pillowcase.
and they build webs in her head
and they whisper feed us!
so she cries a little harder to appease them—
after all
their silk is lashed around her wrists
and it's the only type of contact she has left.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 11:08 AM UTC