"crimped" poems
I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green **** hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
4.2k
love is not a safe word
it’s one haiku revised 400 times
on cracked leather chairs in the corner of cafés
some of us love badly
she says as she kisses the rim of her glass.
some of us love stretched out
like pizza dough that rips when our rolling pin rolls it too thin.
some of us love in secrecy
we do not trust your hands.
you try to pull our scalp off and draw your portrait on our mind
some of us love clean
like bubble bath that smells like lavender from some fancy store in the mall
some of us love *****
we cant clean you off our skin
some of us kiss with our teeth
some of us braid our lovers into our hair
and when we remove the hair tie
it is crimped and messy and tangled
some of us love love
but only far from home
when we slip into bed we start thinking
and we can’t stay still
some of us wash our clothes even when they don’t smell
or aren’t stained
just because it feels like you are inside of our shirts and pants and sneakers
some of us walk alone past your house
on the way to ours
and stop at the front step
waiting for you to come out
and smile at us
the only thing we wait for today
are the smudged signatures of snails
scrawled across your pavement
some of us love to the bone
until there are no more “ifs”
just “is” and “are”
the collected poems of our fingers
swollen, bruised, red like a bouquet of roses
some of us love
and we regret it
we never get home in time for dinner because of it, we leak like a faulty faucet, we sleep with our pillows over our heads to keep everything in
but some of us love
some of us own a watch and know the time with a glance at our wrist, some of us own a sponge to soak up the water, some of us own satin pillows that feel like whispers on our cheekbones
Jan 18, 2018
Jan 18, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
I suppose that I should be writing about the pencil itself, how its pale cerulean self lights up my taupe desk (yes, taupe.), or perhaps how the navy stamps that embellish it bleed a little at the sides
smeared, or even the sheer fact that it says "hoppy Easter"with little bunnies on it, which is ironic because it is January.
(and even funnier because the little bunnies look like demons waiting to pounce on your soul, slightly feline...feline bunnies?)
But no.
I sing instead the song of that metal thing at the end of the pencil, crimped like a tin can stuck in a sixties hair salon--the small item that sort of resembles Darth Vader; the metal thing that, when you think about it, you never notice; the thing that holds the eraser in place and the lead in the wood, and the wood in a line, the line for your pencil holder at the top of your desk (your taupe desk) that you write on and without writing you'd die...
Without life you don't exist.
I sing to the tiny piece of metal that is out of place, yet holds the world as we know it together. Because in a way, I know how it feels to bridge together two elements; two worlds, if you will.
It's a difficult task indeed to hold it all together. And I realize, staring at the satanic rabbits adorning my writing utensil that this thing doesn't have a name.
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:16 PM UTC
In Alarias eyes lies
a roast lamb mountain,
on a sea of the worlds
bestest gravy.
between her thighs
is peas pudding n pies,
cornish pasties,
crimped and savoury.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 7:16 AM UTC
did because i well jeez 10:23 farther steeper i'd was a outside 10:24 a junebug
is creaking on the well like a fine cylinder. it's because steeper or 10:27 clunking
a light of amiable is sort of. at 10:31 a common a cool the. into if.
a very sorry long is diacriticly loose with the scab of lunging trees
by the barn 10:31:53 is . it's was almost because i did i well jeez
the june is a crimped fine determined juice. did it seem because or and a breif
i s haloed somewhat or creaking a junebug is big for by the stalls shuffling with legs in the sort of barn by the 10:36 it's gabled a bit. or does it seem a because well did i and meyou. pm well it were 10:37 and longest brown is seemingly. otherwise unmarked a phonetic element. by a 10:39PM leafing softly
the scuttle a. unnerved little scraping. beneath or metatarsaled cadence a the grassed stripping earth went from the basest mouth of timbered certainly to the unskinniest blue. a vanity of wheels or because well did i jeez
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 12:19 PM UTC
I am from a big red door
that could have been bigger.
I am from the dust bunny colony
under my bed.
I am from chipped nail polish
and hastily crimped hair.
From the nine O'clock curfew,
From the first-born throne.
The tripping, wandering, hands-out-in-the-dark, throne.
I am from the tall grass.
The kind that has no paths waded through it yet.
I am from the lost, the loud, the longing.
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 7:56 AM UTC
September morning and the blush pink of a child's eyelid
layers
With soft Wedgewood blue
And a silvery white.
Feathery treetops shiver in the light breeze
And there is a delicious chill in the air.
Contrails break apart in slow motion
Resting on the daybreak's skyline.
A blackbird hops across the dewy grass
To take his morning slice of stale bread.
Rose petals crimped and heavy wait
Patiently to be dried in the pastel sun.
There is no sadness as the summer slips by;
Just memories of freshly mown grass
On parish fields, of light, of warmth,
Of sea and country walks
Sweetening, like apples
In a sand box.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
a noble man is set forth on a quest
to rescue a damsel in distress
who aches to leave all her pasts
and detach herself from woeful blasts
a gloomy day it is
for the man has not yet come,
who seeks to catch a fleeting glimpse
of the damsel's broken, crimped
and beaten heart
she's unlikely aware of what might come
it's why she sat upright and slummed
for the noble man is yet to come,
to mend and fix her broken parts
a big smile she wore
upon his' entrance to the door
she smiled at him, and curtsied deep
for she has felt some kind of relief
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 4:36 AM UTC
when i the you sweetly
sublime of
knees fleeting intensely
kiss inwardly
the entering sound
You
the perhaps exactly
shed a sliver of teeth
by catching skin
gag
upon a sliver
of ***** shyness
and seem feel
the arms by
youth hard
hands
crimped skinny hot
vulnerable teasing
to swallow
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
I do not understand how they do it,
having so much thought that they invented
an entire universe of elements,
components and small fixtures of greater
workings. Those incredible, beautiful
scientists, with their steam-crimped hair and curious
eyes; the wonderfully inventive mathematicians
who ponder over all knowledge in order
to realise something new - that is what
true beauty is. Chemistry, physics, biology
and maths are their own art forms, and what they
seek to create is more beautiful than my
words and paintbrush can ever dream.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
They never should have let me out of the box,
these harnesses are coddled in rust and will never do,
I nearly have an arm free now.
Tis the bloodlust,
the ever recurring,
I cauterize so sickly raptured and recoiled,
vile animal reveling beneath fang and flesh.
Tis the beast wrought beneath this parchment bearing,
what is left of mortal means
as the morals feast upon the limbs and lungs of one another.
Ever screaming,
my memories wrench and tear,
torn in ribbons splayed from lung to tissue.
My demon slaughters the remnants packed and hid way
in corner and shadow,
ideals and sockets of life scratch and rip
across the flesh of the air as their lungs flood so violently,
doused in creamy blood liquid.
I die so sullenly,
so intrepidly,
dripped in god’s sunlight beams,
bathed in crackling spine and broken butterfly wings.
I writhe not in brain fractured grenade shrapnel,
not felted amongst iron clad bomb shards,
I lie so serenely,
stomach basking in sun beam,
I bite and suckle upon such succulent fruits of flesh,
human meat and such soft hips of lustful imps,
so untouched and littered in my most precise of bite marks.
I stake claim to the everest of fiendish hues,
chains so kin to my sins,
mind so ravaged in demonish,
all thought is mother to acts so sickly in hellish cravings,
I seek no retribution for ideals so crimped and carved through my bones.
All is relative to one’s fiendish benevolences.
I take care to ratify my most ancient of antiquities,
the very blood line that so racks this mortal sense of the human reality.
This evil is ever bearing and eternal lasting,
nor it’s will softened.
Shackles crease and crinkle
so fondly with every sickly furnished breath.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 4:56 AM UTC
I cant tell a lie, not as well as some. Regardless of what words come out, my eyes will be rather lazy when it comes to hiding distress.
What impresses me is jest, you still have not noticed, and for that i owe you. I'll mark the debt in my little check book inside my head, jot it down like the others, put it aside and pretend it tended forth some tangible result.
Now all is overflowing, the pages ripping and crimped. Used up like the excuses we made to sway away rependence, but the only sorries given are the ones saved for ourselves. Poor modern-generation children, they really let us off the hook. Tucked us in to sleep soundly in feather down little beds resting our little heads, crying over little spits we regretfully didn't have the guts to spat. All told to hush up and pretend, fall to slumber and sleep and forget. Refrain,
You'll wake up to morning rain and tell your lies all over again.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
Savannah is beautiful is she not,
With her lovely homestead lots?
Have you seen her in the spring?
She is the most charming thing.
Azaleas blooming everywhere,
Adorning parks and town squares:
Fuchsia, red, pink, and white.
Such a breathtaking sight.
Dogwoods scattered here and there,
Nestled among the trees.
Magnolia fragrance fills the air,
Borne by gentle breeze.
Wisteria lends a delicate touch.
The aged oak we love so much.
How charming, spirited and brisk;
So beautiful and picturesque.
Crape myrtle with a crimped look
Brightens lawns and scenic nooks.
The river with its gentle flow.
The beach where many love to go.
Juniper, cypress and cedar too,
Give contrast with their dark-green hue.
The sago palm in bold fanfare
Is seen almost everywhere.
Savannah is fortunate to be
Richly filled with history.
Beautiful art for all to see
Adorns the various galleries.
Fancy eating, southern style.
Down-home cooking worthwhile.
A little time is all it takes
To visit the restaurants and lakes.
Come see Savannah in the spring;
Enjoy the view that nature brings.
And may God's blessings ever be
Upon our city by the sea.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
Under skies where umbrage is stitched with thoughts, I ponder, on the days, like copper, reticence is bent when voices, hushed, rise and take their place,
with colors sharp as blades, of stories then that crashed against the wall of silence.
Muted. Muted. Muted for so long.
This voice, a titan, bones crumpled in fetal position and slid into a box has been gagged for so long. The body now unfurls, a sapling having been denied of its spring for too long.
And I’m waiting for the day when I can keep my head up, when I can speak up and say my peace, say my piece.
And I’m waiting for the day, no longer I, a sunflower with shoulders hunched, head bowed, lips crimped, wilting under the star I’ve always loved, basking in the warmth and letting the shadow fall behind me, am afraid of parading the reflection the mirror holds for me. When rights are not hoisted as hopeful words scrawled on cardboard for no eyes to see.
No longer hidden, walk with neither shackles or shame, unapologetic without otherness and doubt, to stand tall, shedding the cloak of unseen, burst into darkness like new born light for everyone to see.
Under the crushing weight of novelty, head stuffed inside a crown for the surd, Humanity watered down until it turns into a pulp of flesh, no more. No more, I say.
Pay me no nods, nor embrace, nor tokens, but vows that we would dine at a table and see the beauty of existence in your eyes, take comfort in your smile, and speak my mind as you freely could, when you get out of line. If you don’t know, feel free to unbuckle my shoes, fill them, take root in them, walk miles in them, get spat in them, get persecuted without a reason in them, take a number, stand in line, keep your mouth shut in them, go home in them, if there are holes, feel the burn of friction, weep, weep, weep and be laughed at, be told what you feel is not real in them. Maybe yearn for a word or two and let somebody, anybody know you are crumbling into them, like a cinderblock too weak to cradle fire any further in them?
Maybe only then, that in them, you’ll take my callused hand to sand yours, and we'll find the stars that guide us home to peace, and in that space, our voices intertwine, the beating of hearts are in synch, with heads held high.
Let me, in confidence, be worthy of the space I claim and of equal measure know what it’s like to live free and not keep waiting for the day.
Jan 23, 2025
Jan 23, 2025 at 11:52 PM UTC
I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn’t fight.
He hadn’t fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green **** hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
—the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly—
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
—It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
—if you could call it a lip—
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels—until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
This Universe Without Edge
like Endless way of our Love
as tender kiss, very strong
burns the earth and above
as earthquake in tough wag
Agitating chills in each wave
in a movement such a flag
crimped move to dissolve
In true image of Analog
fusion of Feelings to Save
Will You Keep Them In Cage?
Or Free Them To Feel Alive?
Stealing My Heart with Strong Drag
To Hold It With You In Your Grave?
The Time Admits Not Flowers Not Leaves
Makes Daggers At The Sharpened Eaves,
To You Hard Crescent, As She Hangs
While You Focus On What She Founds
In My Univers There Is Two Marks
Twilight Mirror Reflecting Her Face
A Symbol That Nature Really Likes
The Other One Was Just To Be Wise
My Words, My Songs And My Poems
To Make Them A Symbol Of My Case
Her Love Like A Candle In Dark Place
Such Sun And The Lighting She Makes
To Keep Her Self Away Of What She Hates
And Show The World Her Only Prince
She Fall In His Love Early And Twice
Till The Other Far Part Of univers
Where Everything Cold Such Ice
Lighting Hard To Let Her Trace
The Time Admits Not Flowers Not Leaves
Makes Daggers At The Sharpened Eaves,
To You Hard Crescent, As She Hangs
While You Focus On What She Founds
Author / Aladdin Aures HAMDI
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 5:53 AM UTC
came thee by thee came
a posthumous day
(the fold most grand and eloquent
the lancing fragrance)
i,m uncareful lucid cadaver
of sensible powder
crimped finely
so in the clarity of feverish dawn i drew and bent the notch
a shady dappled riot
where i wait for some madly gabbing burst
of wet unkempt
S
P
R
I
n
g .
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 12:50 PM UTC
i believe in a story
(it is my love)
the passing of my hands through light,
the coming of slight graces,
the bended stocks of mute flowers.
my love
you are without skin,
your eyes do not see,
your lips do not kiss.
my love
i love you–
(and where
are you?
my love you
are the whole neatness
wishing within me
to feel the slight pressing
of heat beneath your skin;
the pulsed flexing of your vein
and hem. my love you are
the small darkness
and tiny quiet of my
heart to fill you kissing;
the crimped weakness of your knees,
the playing of your eyes after nightfall,
the winking fleetness of your cheeks.)
And, my love
are you
where ?
(i can feel you)
even with space
between breathing
and heat between us; my love
i can feel your someday lips
within my lips the
waxing of your palm
within my palm.
my love
(and i have always loved you)
will believe
in the story
of your hands and lips:
the passing of my hands through light,
the coming of slight graces,
the bended stocks of mute flowers.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
i thought about her again
all night
imagined taking her
curled lashes
and freckled skin
and crimped hair
and plush lips
to germany
to buy her a pretzel
as big as her face
although,
not half as golden
then clubbing through munich
and berlin
and maybe dublin
on the way back
no strings attached,
you know?
i could work every hour
between now and
whenever
she wants to go to germany
she used to tell me all the time
five years ago
when she wanted to go
to oak island
and every flea market
and guardians of the galaxy
and planet fitness
and sweet frog
and bed
with me
and as of last night,
i am sure
i'd still go anywhere
with that girl
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
I write on the tops of wooden desks,
press the tip of my pen deep into the wood
and scribble out inane hearts and Lee '15 and
dumb poetry that curls over the edges of the desk
on uneven lines like a disaster waiting to happen.
I scrawl words and designs
on the crimped edges of a TAZO tea packet,
crumpled in my pocket,
and rip the paper apart slowly,
watching the lines of pencil split and diverge
and never meet again.
I ink my fingers with expo and sharpie,
let the tips shine oily black in the light
then quickly press them
onto crisp printer paper, peel my fingers
off and count the dips of my identity
in the grooves of white and black.
I smear the side of my hand with black,
wipe charcoal on my forehead
as I sweat in dimly lit studios,
hunched over my stool and eyeing the x-acto knife
from where it lies on top of a box of glue sticks.
Beside me is a cup of black TAZO tea,
that has steeped for over 4 hours and is already
cold.
When I leave, it is past midnight,
but the sky is not dark yet because
even with only the light of the stars,
I can see sharpie on the flesh of my thumb,
and charcoal dust fills the crescents of my nails
and someone has probably already
crossed out my name on that desk in room 216
that I sit at for English,
and in my pocket there are 2 more packets of tea
that I need to drink because
it has been four hours,
and my tea is already cold.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
i was half asleep on a kitchen counter
curled up around the steak knives and
soup ladles, threaded through thick duvets
when you came and tucked yourself into me
with your burlap jacket, but I let you under the
covers--and I distinctly remember pressing my fingers
under your shirt only to feel how deathly cold you were
as if you had just come from the outside, or had risen up
from the snow drifts, opened your ribcage and let the cold
seawater fill the cab
but you were whispering something, a secret I couldn't make out
an undiscovered motive, slight of hand, slight of breath
you were lieing and I was letting you in, letting you in
beneath the weapons, beneath my skin, into my body
and you reached in for a handful of grain but I was a
barrel of cords and twine
meshed and tamped, you found the soft damp earth where
I grow and we somehow managed to make it seem ok
make it seem ok
you're out there ok
crimped and furious
a mean cuss on your lips
touching still means too
much to me
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC
Does anyone know
Really
That the ends of life are….
Rattled with dried
Labors
Notes left to oneself
Be true
Good
Play dead.Suffer little children.
Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow
Suffering into the light
Heal
The last time was so close.
I don't write what you want.
when I was young
Is a song.
I, however, a l …am a broken slab.
A well of drenched
marinade.
You could save me
Yet…you
Fold my poetry over
Into
Daylight’s
Hampers.
Wherein I lie.
Crimped
edges of a
Masterpiece
Caroline Shank
March 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 8:15 PM UTC
*Satan's *** nail is pounded in the floor
sharp side jutting up
pristine
it glows like a diamond in flames
be careful to wear the thick boots
of God
its a crime if you step upon this gleaming nail bare foot
there are dagged blades voluptuous
spired and protruding from every wall
made of black obsidian shards
be mindful to wear
Gods hair shirt
to keep from being pierced by edges so dark
they are the marks of Satan's lust
the stony land you inhabit
is torrid feverous
a world soul of scintillating rhythms
be careful to wear the warm woolly hat
of God
with thick ear muffs to shield you
from the rays
and Lucifer's
moans of seduction
don't take off your shoes
to cool and stretch crimped toes
or Satan's *** nail
will pierce your feet
don't remove your hair shirt
or
dagged cutlery
will score your torso
******
don't remove your woollies
or
the seductive rhythms
will set you dancing thread-less
a mindless dizzy sinner
shaking your ***
if you dare find yourself lewd
hungry for dark lechery aphrodesia
you will be aghast at first
a scourge even to your self
ashamed
that you are not ashamed
unable
to suffer the the protection of Gods garments any longer
thrilled dancing naked
your cut feet will be scorched with fragrant balms
and sweeten the earth with sensuality
your wounded torso
will be perfumed and fondled
with rich thickened unguents
the adoration of limitless love
your head will bob to the rhythms of the world soul
your raw mouth red slicked with creamy waters
***** ***** **** and ***
will fly like silky angels to gates of adoration
in the feral embrace of multitudes
and when asked
by men of God
why you dance naked
like a happy *****
clad in piercings
your torch a black fire
like a Babylon of harlots
you will realize horror of horrors
that you are hooked on Satan's *** nail
an abomination
to the good men of God
religion drinking piranhas
and as they ply their craft of wisdom and inquisition
with accusations of souls black heart
you may look around and realize
the God they praise
is a hard red fist
admonitions and threats
of endless purgatories and hells
to bind the lascivious heart delicious
a bean counter of transgressions
every pleasure a sin
every imprisonment a virtue
their
God
a
Vatican
of
curses*
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 7:20 PM UTC
I found an old ivory-decorated little box tucked away among her possessions.
The box was locked but easy to foil by a person determined to seek answers.
The old woman had a lived a charmed life full of money, travel, and whiskey.
She had worn her classical beauty as a haughty warning to all who came near.
An acerbic genius at inserting the dagger right into the softest spot with ease.
Her own soft spot was animals, the wilder the better. Her feral streak, I guess.
The box felt empty but it was hiding a small crimped note underneath the velvet.
I hesitated. My face in the above gilded mirror was not the face I depended upon.
Flashes of the old woman blurred my vision. I imagined the old cord between us.
The old cord, discarded continually. Seesawing between venom and disinterest.
No back-up plan, no come-to-Jesus moments, just an invisible border wall.
I can’t seem to breathe, the portentous air enveloping me as I read:
“I did the best I could. Mom.” I shut the box and put it back where it belonged.
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 1:29 PM UTC
...but here I am: Miss Oscar the Grouch.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXIII)
So pull your cat out of your bag to scale,
And I'll watch ***** foot it, for a sense
Of all the tricks you like to show off thence,
Disgust you culled mine likewise in betrayl,
Cuz that's 'most what is left. Her blonde detail
Crimped to effect, (and girls know girls from hence)
This sordid game two play sans tickets, whence
Let's play it to the hilt, swords drawn, t'avail.
If only I could listen to frogs' cure
For fevered brows, but it's TOO COLD. Did you
Call in the weather to draw up as twere
What I should feel, playing me the fool anew
For love; or come, what gives? Meow Mix poor,
I'm barking up no trees--um, are we through?
12Apr19c
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 3:35 PM UTC