"curate" poems
A true semantic literary meaning
awakening to curate
my being
or throw away it all and question
the delivery of
the ics and isms
determining not by me but by the reader
what is true
like Montague
proposing a new system
I propose a meaningful regimen,
one where words are either felt
, make me halt and listen,
to what they truly meant.
Or they don't.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Que lenguaje mas hermoso
el que produce palabras de alegria
como es el te amo, te quiero y te adoro.
Dicen que los latinos somos ruidosos,
llenos de energia y poca cordura,
pero es que no entienden que el español
no tiene limites, no tiene volumen, solo frescura.
Grita tus palabras indigenas,
huracan, coqui, fotuto, Boricua,
esas palabras tainas tan bellas
que usamos cada dia.
Porque tienes miedo cuando te sale el "Spanglish"
si los gringos no pueden pronunciar ni "Porto Wico"
asi que curate con un "bad english"
porque nunca tendras que procuparte por decir RRRRico como un chino.
Mi lenguaje no puede morir
porque dentro de sus palabras
estan las llamas de un Neruda,
la negrura de un Llorens,
la fortaleza de un Albizu.
Oh cuanto te amo, te quiero, te adoro Puerto Rico
por enseñarme el español que uso para enamorar a tus hermosas mujeres.
Oh cuanto te amo, te quiero, te adoro Puerto Rico
por eseñarme el español que uso para luchar contra los que ya no te quieren.
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
To those who say I am not enough:
What box of yours did I not check today?
For that is what you seem to be curating with your life
Empty boxes
Except for those tenderly placed checks that don't even come close to filling those boxes up
I do not want your empty boxes
There is enough emptiness in the world without you forcing yours on others
In my life, I want to curate boxes full of love,
Of hope
Of tenderness,
Of acceptance
Of inclusion,
Of forgiveness,
Of unconditional, raw, fulfilling purpose and everything-ness,
That everyone should find at least once.
For it is when these boxes are full of the good and true things of life,
That they become gifts.
And it is these gifts that should be given to one another,
Not these empty boxes with the ghosts of your disappointed expectations
That I will never be able to check and satisfy you,
Or bring happiness to you.
So I do not care I am not enough to you,
That I fail at checking your empty boxes.
Because here I am,
Bearing my giftboxes that I have tried so desperately to fill,
Hoping that you become brave enough to open them and find
You are more than enough,
And you can leave the shackles of your empty boxes and checks behind.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC
why i am an only child?
you have to ask the Polish women
who were forced to drink iodine....
1986...
Chernobyl...
it spread to Poland from the Ukraine...
a "rainbow" effect,#as my great-grandmother
recounted...
in the local park?
streaks... of autumnal trees
in their full bloom decay,
and the furthest green in summer...
a strange time...
why wouldn't my mother have
more children?
i guess, in fear of breeding a ******
pro-life, what?!
you raise them!
see how they turn out when
you're dead!
god's "grace"...
you ever curate the fate
of your grandmother?
well then!
now you know!
nature is ruthless!
man attempting to
overcome it?!
you know
what nature does?
i know what nature does...
steam-roller and...
somehow the most vocal speakers
are those daring to
question the feathers
of a macaw parrot...
substituting it with
fashion trends...
mort in concencus,..
vive in conscissio...
i might have been born with
a sibling...
but i wasn't...
the Scandinavian countries learned
of it,
from under, beneath the iron curtain...
and who can actually blame Gorbachev?
when the U.S.S.R. was made
dissolute?
and no war took the zeitgeist
garments of a pope's approval?
no cardinal red,
with Attila's river...
who is to blame,
the scolded transition period of peace?
no one unless my grandfather can
understand the peaceful transition
of the disintegrated U.S.S.R.,
into a Russian Fed.?
no one?
but the women of Poland
and the Ukraine? still had
to drink iodine...
and i am...
i am...
i am...
i will always be...
the long lost cousin of the Chernobyl
geblüt;
there is not concept of
a butterfly effect...
when it comes to the query of an,
atomic reactor!
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 10:50 PM UTC
the Hebrews call the Greek myth of Icarus
by name: Lucifer - i know man is prone to plagiarism,
esp. in the religious realm, the easier the plagiarism
the easier the governing of men -
for indeed the Hebrews claimed
Icarus prior to the Greeks, the former with Lucifer
and the latter with Icarus -
but how i loathe peasants claiming
medicinal endeavours
of knowing only the spotlight cursors
to curate and environmental care of origin
of such negated ease,
they have no knowledge and no power,
their interests in the subject matter
would never encourage them
to run a marathon for accumulating funds
for a cancer charity -
one word answer? ***** they're basically
***** should have engaged in a family
life before you blamed me m.d.!
take your regressive anger and shove it
up your little bee magnet **** to take
a **** like extracting honey - now i'm ******
but look where i'm writing it: on a colour
of defeat - militant heaven of the archangel Michael
sword in hand and Satan defeated waggling a
tongue - isn't that importune to speak of
the current times with the defence of a freedom
of speech subdued by a fear of insult
demanding? monotheism did as much good
as it shouldn't have - and did as much evil
as it should have - and did, crafting the strict
labouring of judaism's orthodoxy -
so for each niqab there came the madness of
a jewish girl's care for wig - translated into
christianity as the donning of wigs in the 18th century,
and the 17th - bypass the concerns of
monotheists and you came across cuisine
freedoms of mandarin, and the colour backlash
sprinkling to a billionth birth, a land
where the homeless have a mother kamadhenu -
and celebrate Holi for chance of extracted mundane
hue of man polarised with fluorescent ivy
and x-rayed orange... or that's how the thing was said.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
Out on the marsh on a lonely night
The wind soughs through his rags,
The hat that’s pinned to his painted face,
Flutters and soars, then sags,
His eyes are wide and his mouth is grim
As an owl is put to flight,
And nothing but shadows will venture there
For the Scarecrow rules the night.
And back in the manse in a window seat
The Parson’s daughter sits,
She stares at the fluttering coat-tails, but
In truth, is scared to bits,
She watches the sails of the windmill turn
And creak and groan in the gloom,
As clouds come stuttering over the marsh
In the rays of a Harvest Moon.
The father is out in the donkey cart
To tend to his aging flock,
He’s left Elizabeth waiting there
By the tick of the hallway clock,
But out on the moors and beyond the marsh
There rides one Highway Jack,
A frock coat topped with a bunch of lace
And a gold trimmed tricorne hat.
He’s whipped the horse to a lather
In a retreat from a new affray,
For the magistrates have gathered
Vowing to ride him down that day,
The redcoats wait in the village Inn
For the sound that they know too well,
When the curate sees the approaching horse
He’s to toll the old church bell.
But the curate lies in a drunken fit
On the floor of the old church nave,
And soon, by matins his soul will flit
From life to an early grave,
Elizabeth sits in the window seat
And thinks of the coin and plate,
As the highwayman dismounts, and ties
His horse to the manse’s gate.
He beats on the door, ‘Please let me in,
I’m weary and faint, that’s all.
I wouldn’t abuse your person, but
I fear my back’s to the wall.’
She leaves the seat and she slides the bar
For bracing the oaken door,
‘I dare not, sir, I fear for my life,
You’re safer out on the moor!’
Their voices echo across the marsh
Like fear, distilled in the night,
And something shudders out in the gloom
And lurches to left and right,
It seems forever, but now a sound
Tolls out, like a final knell,
For something, out in the church tonight,
Is tolling the steeple bell.
He barely makes it back to his horse
When the redcoats stand in line,
Their muskets fire a volley of shot
And his coat turns red, like wine.
They go to the church when the deed is done
To say, ‘You have done well!’
But the curate lies on the cold stone floor,
The Scarecrow tolled the bell!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
sometimes,
The time it takes
to curate a reality
Where
The eyes of a hostile reflection
Don't contribute to, but consume-
the moment's prison of littleness...
Is it not possible?
To escape eternity's hour's ceaselessness?
Hope,
is too short;
we perpetuate-
it takes shape.
we preform,
then placate.
Jul 16, 2024
Jul 16, 2024 at 8:00 AM UTC
'Why did the lady in the lift
Slap that poor parson's face?'
Said Mother, thinking as she sniffed,
Of clerical disgrace.
Said Sonny Boy: 'Alas, I know.
My conscience doth accuse me;
The lady stood upon my toe,
Yet did not say--"Excuse me!"
'She hurt--and in that crowd confined
I scarcely could endure it;
So when I pinched her fat behind
She thought--it was the Curate.'
1.6k
Everyday I hang myself
I nail myself
I staple myself to the wall
Everyday I bleed myself
I let myself
I rub my blood out in the hall
Everyday I hate myself
berate myself
I get out of bed and mandate myself
to update myself
to curate myself
Artist the **** up and create myself
Everyday I design myself
define myself
I put on my face and outline myself
Everyday I dissect myself
I correct myself
Take out my parts and infect myself
I change myself
rearrange myself
I paint all my organs and stain myself
Everyday I reword myself
martyr myself
Use the strings from the Beats to suture myself
I collect myself
Resurrect myself
My volition in life; to perfect myself
If I fail myself
derail myself
I'll have nothing but a cheap veil of myself;
*a shattered bulb
a melted fuse
a pack of matches burned and used.*
No supernova,
glory,
fame.
No concrete star,
with golden name.
Forgotten, faded,
dusty muse.
Mona Lisa,
cut and bruised.
My blood still smeared all down the hall,
my skin still nailed up to the wall.
My body scarred from mutilation,
mapped attempts at self-creation.
A jagged,
torn up,
constellation,
The Hero of Humiliation.
Don't we all fear failure's kiss?
For if you shoot
for the moon
and miss,
you'll rot away in the abyss.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
close your kohl-rimmed eyes
hold me tightly,
let’s dance, cheek to cheek.
c’mon, beggars have dreams too!
leaning to kiss your imaginary lips,
i taste
laced in your occidental tongue,
chocolate truffles and grapes of Montrachet,
which bring an angelic smile to a moonlit face.
scribbling a needed epilogue
for a sultry tune
within the confines of my jello heart,
i curate a dream,
a simple dream for no one to know or see,
but you and me.
© 2021
Sep 25, 2021
Sep 25, 2021 at 8:01 AM UTC
the pro-anti-abortion argument:
so the tissue argument doesn't count?
so...
once the ***** leaves the body
of a male....
it is the sole possession
of a female?"
sign me up for euthanasia...
please! send me to
gaßkammern!
might as well cut my testicles off!
employ me as a *******
castrato for holding the harem
***** free...
so i can't *********
did i forget my napkin,
or did my bride forget her *****
just asking...
so...
as long as my ***** remains in my,
or on a tissue, flushed down a toilet...
but them she takes over
the ownership?
she gets the bigoted bargain
and bias?
**** me...
i'm sure a Rabbi would argue
that a 16 year old
is always ready...
because... given the current
secular year p.s. a.d. that's always
true...
so i can't...
**** off...
wait a minute... but i haven't
been circumcised...
look at me! woo woo!
next time i *********
into a woman...
i'll secure some wolf ***** into
a syringe...
and then implant a
Frankenstein experiment into her...
my...
didn't a woman, epitome...
make a case for desiring vampires
& werewolves?
**** it...
let's make josef mengele
2.0,
i'm ready...
i'm craving for the laboratory...
but... clearly... you're not...
given...
can a woman really claim such
ownership?
i must make an equal claim...
whatever i *********
into a tissue and flush it down
a toilet...
has to become a pseudo crocodile
child of the deep...
if only i was born in the end of the 19th century...
my Auschwitz would have looked much
more differently...
i would have attempted less twin experiments...
to curate a cure for the Siamese...
i would have injected women
with wolf *****
such a mild,
childhood fantasy...
and people worried
about the treatment of
heretics by the church in
the Renaissance;
if i were the primordial evil
of the 20th century...
i'd pocket my concerns...
where i began the 21st century with.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 10:56 PM UTC
#(For the one who asked if we would continue)
She does not aim to destroy him.
She does not even try to teach him.
She simply Becomes.
And her becoming—raw, radiant, terrifying in its beauty—
is what breaks him open.
The man who watches her rightly does not crave her.
He remembers himself in her Unfolding.
Not the ego-self. The soul-self—the one buried beneath performance.
She does not say: "Come fix me."
She says: "Can you stand what I’m becoming?
And that is the call.
For it is not the broken feminine that births great men.
It is the rising feminine—becoming whole before his eyes—
that forces him to face what in him remains unclaimed, untested, afraid.
But she does not rise by accident.
Her light is not a crown—it is a choice.
She has known the temptation to ****** instead of shine..
To brand her ache, to perform her pain, to curate identity instead of embody truth.
But she turns—again and again—toward the deeper yes.
The one that costs her audience, but saves her soul.
She repents. She reclaims.
She speaks, then listens.
She writes, then revises.
She does not demand to be understood—
she hungers to be made whole.
Her rising is her responsibility.
Not a show, not a vengeance, not a staged deliverance.
It is the quiet courage to be seen—by God,
even if man never looks again.
And so, she becomes the muse.
Not by force, not by flirtation,
but by standing in her own unfolding,
in her own ache made sacred.
She does not ****** him with need.
She muses him with light.
But her light is costly.
It exposes the unintegrated parts of him—
the unredeemed rooms he’s kept boarded up for years.
She does not kick down the door.
She simply opens the curtains.
And in that sudden flood of glory,
he must choose:
to run, or to remain.
If he remains—
not as savior, not as shadow,
but as witness—
he becomes new.
This is not **********
It is mutual divination.
She rises, and he roots.
He roots, and she trusts.
And they become—together—
the very echo of Eden.
Not by escaping the fire,
but by walking through it as invitation.
Not as gods.
But as those who remember who made them.
And when she falters—when the ache flares again—
it is not applause she turns to.
It is him.
The one who stood.
The one who still stands.
The one whose strength was not his own,
but who dared to offer it anyway.
His is the strength she draws from, all along—
strength born not of dominance,
***but of what she called forth in him
when she chose to rise.***
And so, they become
what neither could be alone:
the light that burns
but does not consume,
the root and the flame,
the holy loop of return.
#
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 6:44 PM UTC
Unearthing indifference
of widowed shadows
cast upon mighty rebels.
Melancholy charm of bible
utmost...
Aghast! and the Curate?
Has seem depicted yet forgotten...
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
VI
Several hours to the nearest coast
away for a night and day is all
our landlocked lives would allow.
That first time we arrived at night,
down the steepest hill to the road’s end,
to wind and rain, and a hardly visible sea.
Then up three steep stairs we climbed,
to that attic room where opening
its window on a November night
we sat in its deep-silled space
to see the waves seething below us,
waves vying for room in a bay
crowded with rolling forms
of water eager to break and fling out
foam and **** spray and stone.
Later and despite the rain
we walked the length of a beach so dark
our shoes could hardly guide us home.
Always the incessant sounding sea.
High above a drama of moon and clouds
throwing jagged shadows on the wet sand.
Caught in this play of natural things
how could we not hold these images
ever closer to the imagination’s heart?
VII
I’ve come again
to my favourite place:
below the coarse grass landward,
above the wet sand seaward.
This zone of discovery,
my well-found land of treasure,
rich in bewildering textures.
Some of it I could do without,
but even the plastic is
beguilingly ornamental.
I carry with this bag of mine my third eye.
I will collect and even curate (in the field)
ephemeral exhibitions on suitable surfaces.
Never camera-shy these found objects.
Later, they may appear
on my studio table, or pinned
against the wall, then primed
with carborundum on
a collographic plate, stilled
into life for the purposes of art.
Whatever the object may be,
it carries my tide-mark,
a quality sign endorsing a choice
made on a deserted beach,
and proved to be right
when placed in my hand.
It registers rightful ownership.
Who knows, one day
it might embody something
more than an image of itself.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
Give me the quietness
But don’t show me the cost.
I see the braces,
Good graces
And faces we lost
Knowing is a virtue, yes
But here I’d rather not.
I find the traces,
And laces
And places in cloth
In a worldly museum fashion,
I’ll curate every bone of your form;
Every hard, indispensable ration you've got
Beneath muscle and skin and blood pawns.
Make it life-affirming
Pace-discerning
Need you murmuring my name,
Body-learning
Panting, yearning
We’ll craft a shelter out of the rain.
We are made of many things
And our fabrics rot,
But still I’m racing
Taking, tasting
And my blood clots.
You clot it better than any,
And explain why it needs to be done.
You are peace, you are healing
And you've got me down kneeling
All I hear, all I’m feeling, every string that I strum.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
Turns out the joke's on me yet again...
Monsters don't really disappear when the light comes on.
And they don't hide when you shine the light on them either.
No. Instead they rise up. They grow to fill the space that was created by spotlighting them and become ready-
To be the star of a show that you helped to curate.
I thought for certainty that talking to you about my depression would somehow alleviate it in some way...
but it didn't...
I actually feel more like I'm recessing further since we spoke about this
Like I just let the demons out to run a muck instead of putting them down to rest.
So instead of hurting me when I'm alone, it happens any time now.
When ever it likes
It feeds
and I feel it eating me...
and I want it to
-
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC
I offer no defense of my hidden sin,
Not when it wastes a fragment of eternity
In frivolous expenditure, stretched so thin
Across another vast, sprawling century.
And if I would - if I were - where to begin
This tour of a macabre private gallery?
All things, even this one, have their beginnings:
Thus, my humble collection's underpinnings.
Called to this divine vocation, I set out
Each time I encountered one who, crafting art,
Demanded my attentions. Please: never doubt
The truth of my intentions; my swelling heart
Adores them, falls in love as they sing or spout
Their lifeblood inspiration. Stepping apart
From all of this, don't stare so miserably!
Can I be blamed for working literally?
I love them, one and all, and here I curate -
Safe from all the ravagings of time, if not
Precisely speaking safe from my own mandate -
The workings and workers who inspired such thought,
Such incisive action. I lay them in state
With tender care, never sold and never bought.
Perhaps a glance at my favorite pieces
Might reassure you? My latest releases?
Observe the cuts into copper, engraving
Her fury, her passion into the cold plates!
How torturous, yes? She recalled it, raving,
Having sought me out to deny the ingrates
Assailing her solitude, as a craving.
I preserved her passion. Here, her works’ mates:
The roses she treasured etched into the hard bone
Of her shoulder-blades and skull, instead of stone.
But so few beloveds grace my humble home
Despite my voracious eye surveying scores
Of likely lovers - artful, otherwise - some
Lacking, left uninvited. Those I adore,
I long to beckon close - close as you now come.
Join me? There's more to show you, so much more,
And I hope you'll linger tonight, to dine.
I've just the thing for an artist who loves wine…
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 8:02 AM UTC
he doesn't love me anymore
took the fresh end of the ***** and carved his name
into the garden i built just for his elbows
i should have known it when the daffodils and iris'
uprooted and left me there to curate and press my own skin for memories
he needed a mother and i gave him the honeysuckle promises
he wanted more and i dismissed his affections
now he's found someone who will only give him depth of one kind
penetrating the body, not the mind
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
he was warm
soft
beautiful
a heavy gaze between two wanderers
these souls laced with fury
calm
suddenly changes
a smell
spice
musk
drunkenness
your arms hold wisdom
hate
procreate
deflate
curate
my fate
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 10:19 AM UTC
Witness I have become to your nature of selfish hurt
Closing does my fist form towards your mind of dirt
Pain not only you contribute but plagues me from sight
Need more do I wish for justice to give you the smite
Being does it emphasize upon the soul of righteousness
Tempt me not for the enemy urge is the bringer of madness
Longer can I not endure your treacherous ego of none so clear
Dog you will be to this wolf for it will force upon you the sear
The ones you gave the hurt is the hurt of same forced upon me
For you are the deathly gas to wither my flowers of sweet
But withered will I not remain for your poison will you get the taste
Better to be the scared insect at first of my sight and flee post-haste
Or be the impala under fright from the chase by the enraged lion
A criminal sentenced to purgatory courtesy of the devil's scion
Such comparisons do I make for this boiling cauldron to equate
Your merciless strikes of lighting is the thunder to my hate
Caged can no longer resilience be the strength for this beast
Once this prison breaks with ill, serve you shall to my anger's feast
Should accomplished be the quest for your malicious blood
The knife will bathe in the very warmth of such a flood
Riddled you not be with words but by the sting of my bullet
Disguise may you hide as an angel but I am hell's curate
Light of false intend I arrange the force of disembark
Expose is the swimmer's blood to summon the evil shark
Declare I plant are the contagious seeds of a brutal war
Stained will be the land of your blood's entirety in store
Nightly psalm shall be the scream you suffer from my bite
Death is not the salvation, but it is the durability of my fight
Persecution will not be your past-time but your time of demise
Order must be the oar to surpass the river of chaos for the rise
The sky of blue shall red be the change from your blood of grunge
As your reign of evil before my deep breath will end by the plunge
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 8:02 PM UTC
Do I know Martha?
Sister Ruth said,
of course I do,
Father, why did
you ask?
Father Bede
looked at the nun:
she came to me
in church
and asked me
a number of questions
about Our Lord
and how tall he was
and what colour eyes
and hair he had,
the priest said.
What's so odd
about that?
She said.
Well she also
asked me
that if a boy
should ask her
about having...
he couldn't get
the word out,
not with
the good sister
standing there.
Sister Ruth eyed him:
*** She said.
Yes, that's
that word,
if a boy
asked her
should she
tell him to...
he fumbled
for the word
Martha had said,
but instead said:
go away,
and I was so
flummoxed
that I said yes,
the priest said,
reddening,
looking at his hands,
not the nun.
Sounds like Martha,
I supposed she said
something less pure?
The nun said.
The priest nodded:
is she all right?
He said.
Well she's not quite
the ticket,
but she's harmless,
the nun said.
She wants
to be a nun?
He said.
So she does,
Sister Ruth said,
but she's as much
chance of that
as me being
Miss World,
the nun said
smiling.
But she seems
so keen on being
a Bride of Christ
is there no chance?
Father Bede said.
The bishop wouldn't
have her in
this congregation
but who knows
elsewhere they might,
the nun said,
eyeing the young priest
noting his
reddening features
and his fine head
of hair,
then said:
how long are you
here as curate?
He looked at her:
don't know,
until the bishop
moves me on,
Father Bede said.
If you see
Martha again
tell her she'd make
a good nun,
I guess we must not
dissuade her
from a possible
God's calling.
He nodded
and looking out
from the convent
doorway,
he noticed
rain falling.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 3:59 AM UTC
Beet crumbles clinging to the hand in mine brush off familiarly between our fingers.
A sight for sore eyes evokes memories of a time where calloused hands created palettes, wroughting elements together over the canvas of faultless white platters. The pang through my soul twinges inward at the pruneyness of my nitrile stifled hands, echoing stymed passion. I envy how you still get to curate palates wholesomely from the roots.
My watch chimes over reminiscent conversation admonishing us of our obligations.
I like to think that in another stage of another life our passions will cross again. Just as I hope it will in this one.
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 12:16 AM UTC
Girls
They sound their doubts like backwards words in Russian, full of uncertainty.
He said this or that or didn't say this or that.
He looked at his friend too long
He didn't txt back for hours
He said words that could be refolded into something unheard
He didn't gaze into her eyes or behold them like they were precious gems
He didn't manicure her locks as they were threads of silk
His smile didn't ring to the sound of her bubbling golden laughter
He didn't curate her like the master piece she was.
All these girls
Breaking their hearts over my ears
The gooey dark yolks blurring my vision
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
WORDS!
APHORISMS,
THOUGHTS,
PHRASED
CURATE
AND SPAKE
FOR
SPIRIT'S NAME!
I give you
the fire of the soul
The blood of the earth
The dust of the aether
In the gasp of the known
A liquorious draught
That tickles the throat
Where providence sat
And closed heaven's door
HISTORICAL SPAT!
Spittle and drivel
The fleshy sacks grovel
While Satan
Clawed his nails
at the sand
Of souldom!
Cast amidst the stars
And Not moving very far
A *****
No more
And Gamorra absorbed
Before that perpetual want
of more
HERE, AND NOW!
the scent of battle on the wind
Sulfur and toxic gas
Humans behaving mad
Leeward of the path
Struggling and daft
Illiterate and crass
Fallow fleshy sacks
I am in love with it all!
A raving lunatic with
romantic comedic timing
And no taste for time
dining
But on the feast of the bone
And savored moment
I will be alone!
Except for you, poor soul
Who reads in these words
Your own fated toil
I miss you, I love you, from even beyond the pale
My words float in the clouds
And scrape the sentimental trails
Back home once again,
Maybe find my next trend
Or Hear HIS next sermon
And go tell a friend.
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 12:28 PM UTC
A spectacular butterfly
splendid in its monochrome, leopard-print reflecting armour
flies unto the lavender branches
recently budded in my garden
Fancying myself a faithful reader of Nabokov
and drawn to anecdotes of self-glorification
I thought I should become a Lepidopterist
and catalogue its striking corpse
beginning what could become a masterful collection
Me, the quarter-tanned Irish bopping all in tennis whites
with mock-radioactive web of butterfly doom among the wooden yard dividers
But where should I keep it?
this hype-building collection of one
amongst my dust-collecting books
my backdated journals and flaccid-worn glossy magazines
my "value-appreciating" vinyl records
the more prettily curated and precision-hung images that curate my partner's collections?
No, it is not for me
to stop it succumbing to dust, to allow it turn into something beautiful again
if a tragic kind of beauty
amongst the dirt, for something becomes more wonderful when
it's beauty is not forced on show
but produces itself through more layered, yet uncomplicated means
returned back out of the dust, without any of our artificial light
recording again it's eventual demise
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 4:05 PM UTC