"curvey" poems
Cordoned off from moneyed people
Kept at distance by the clique,
Separate by class and culture’s
Moneyed boundary is their trick.
Wealth creates a boundary zone
Where only wealthy tread,
Admission is beyond the reach
Of those who toil for bread.
The maintenance of status
Is defended by their code
Of only Rich association
With no dilution in the mode.
Rich parties held on tropic isles
Exclusive to their wealth,
Accessable by private jet
And curvey blondes with stealth.
With status strictly guarded
By muscle, dogs and fence,
And fawning politicians
Who clamour to commence
The photo opportunity,
The handshakes and the smiles
Of wealth and power in unison
To win them votes for miles.
The Rich protect their Rich friends
In their universal club
Exclusivity’s the keynote…
And you’ll deftly get the rub
Should you smear your gloss and polish,
Lose your money in a fraud,
Then you’ll be exorcised at once
And immediately ignored.
The rules here are quite simple
And elementary my friend,
No matter how you gain your wealth
Or make it in the end….
By fair or foul’s acceptable
Just so long as banks’ remand
That you OWN a ****** fortune….
Then the Rich will shake your hand.
Marshalg
Broke@the Bach
Mangere Bridge
4 December 2010
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 1:47 PM UTC
She saw me one way
Now she sees me in another
Because of what I had to say
she no longer wants me to bother
Mature relationships I hope to have
My time I continually bide
In the wise words of Corgen
Love is Suicide
A new chapter in an old story
Self-improvement is what I need
From the lips of a past evil
Motivation and confidence is the key
So here I sit writing about my woes
she doesn't want me and that's okay
I'll find another friend who has no bo
Who actually likes what I have to say
I'm not bitter or resentful
I only wish I felt worthy
It's my fault itz seems
I let myself get curvey
Eureka, I've found it!
the life I must now live
one where I learn and be fit.
And meet those who do not shiv
It needs to be for me.
There should be a consensus
That the new life I forsee
Is not held on the fences
It's called self-actualization for a reason
A transformation done for me
My body's last days are up this season
I'll prove my worth and they'll all see
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
body mind and soul
old young and untold,
our cold folds waiting to role down the gold toll
another destination that we have to go and see
another body of water
but not as pretty as the sea
as she
her beauty and physique
curvey like the creek that speaks
in whispering melodies
singing sweet songs that hum in mesmerizing remedies
the memories
remembering that angels wings.
she is the wind that blows off your hat
and she is the fat rat that teases your cat on the front porch welcome matt
she is the flower in the weeds that wrap your house
she is the lucky dollar bill that you find in your couch.
she is the oceans tide and the sandy shore
she is the earths crust mantle and its core.
she is life
and she is death
she is everything that ever runs through my head.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
She saw me one way
Now she sees me in another
Because of what I had to say
she no longer wants me to bother
Mature relationships I hope to have
My time I continually bide
In the wise words of Corgen
Love is Suicide
A new chapter in an old story
Self-improvement is what I need
From the lips of a past evil
Motivation and confidence is the key
So here I sit writing about my woes
she doesn't want me and that's okay
I'll find another friend who has no bo
Who actually likes what I have to say
I'm not bitter or resentful
I only wish I felt worthy
It's my fault itz seems
I let myself get curvey
Eureka, I've found it!
the life I must now live
one where I learn and be fit.
And meet those who do not shiv
It needs to be for me.
There should be a consensus
That the new life I forsee
Is not held on the fences
It's called self-actualization for a reason
A transformation done for me
My body's last days are up this season
I'll prove my worth and they'll all see
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
Standing close, head tilted back
with eyes pressed shut,
small curvey hollow of neck exposed
by an open top button on her uniform,
she waits to taste her very first kiss.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
Before I woke this morning
this title was peeking through the cobwebs,
eventually waking me before dawn.
Now with Bernstein’s Grofe Grand Canyon Sunrise
is playing before first light, violins barely audible,
mules waking up with their weird wail
ready to hit the high trail.
Those magnificent odd beasts.
My old body still dull,
my left hip protesting the early wake,
my brain puzzling with this title
me saddling the mules
for their trudge down the curvey canyon walls,
young adventurers on their old swaying backs.
Here I am looking out over the trees beyond the back yard
into the gray dawn.
I write with the thought of visiting my old friends
on the poetry website,
they probably wondering where I’ve been for the last several months
with nary a word posted there.
Last night, the Beatles’ White Album played,
those young shaggy heads
awake with popping images
tunes and words tumbling from John and Paul,
they too, like me, oblivious of where the trail would lead.
Put me back together.
That’s what the Great Spirit is trying to do
between my synapses
while they still stir up there in the attic
among the dusty old books and broken furniture
and the all but forgotten dreams there
among the silverfish.
Recently Moses was trying to teach me and the new generation
in Deuteronomy
before they crossed the Jordan into the Promised Land.,
his old body still holding on in the mountains
where he would finally be laid to rest.
I never thought I would get anything from that old book
but Moses had one more old mind to reach.
I am grateful his words were preserved
for me before I too make it up
beyond the top of the mountain
finally put together.
Sep 12, 2024
Sep 12, 2024 at 9:04 AM UTC
every painting in the house is
modestly crooked due to the
twinning effects of
vibrations and moon-full
spoonfuls of gravity.
causing the tensile strength of the wires to
pensile (1) slowly surrender to point downwards.
It occurs, perhaps
it’s me that’s crooked,
but that’s just plainly
in depth insanity,
like writing a thousand poems
in one 14 day
long sitting.,
now that’s
croissant curvey crazy
nah, not me,
not totally nuts yet,
after all these years,
though not for crooked trying.
Jul 23, 2023
Jul 23, 2023 at 10:45 AM UTC