"damnably" poems
As the nights languish with a fond kiss from lover's lip; Spry words spring from the dwindling flame as to revive its languor. In vain they stumble; Quick to the sword.
Love is, alas, a simple trinket to be bought and sold as they chose. Let it **** the next folk who haplessly come across it's starry eyed embodiment. Oh how black and binding it becomes; blinding the eyes to the truth. Which foolishly enough we over take.
For any chance at the happiness we seek is a happiness we take; Little in the hearts of man do you find contentment in solitude. Such a desire that burns in the heart; Little do we know of the derangement that befalls us.
Damnable in all it's wiles; once as sweet as honey then in a blink of the soul a black churning cyclone. It is the destruction we seek; But yet we do not destruct alone. This is what love brings us.
Countless night up; With wondering minds and curious hearts. It brings spring on a whim to tempt the summer to come back to us. It brings heart ache like a dusk; As the sun sets and we have fear that tomorrow never will come.
When all you get is heart ache; Is this what you crave. Endless nights in the dark after the wolves devour all your happiness.
Crave this lust of love; For all your want, you'll never have. Bestow upon yourself this damnable title and live as you shall. For we are men, and this is our curse; This damnable want of love to escape the lonely pit of ourselves. If only for the night.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
Damnably grey, I sink into
A lightless sea. My breath falls
In gasps of air, my eyes
Shut as gas rises. Dear Pity
May you have my lungs fill with
Cold, watery iron until the
Sharks carry my pieces like
Prayers to fishing boats.
Stuck in the colloid
Of my wasteful life I create
My own shadow - malachite jaw
Swallow me before I am
Forced to burn the belly of
A whale. Moon thief lends
My paper body a dapple of stolen
Light to dry my soggy skin.
If only the black water could
Clean between my numb ears -
Instead it sits tepid and full of
Mosquitos leaking with eggs and blood.
All I wish is for a wind to
Uncloud me, for air to inflate
Me. I breathe, I breathe -
More fool I.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
(sonnet #MMMMMDCCLVI)
I swear, I love you, Robert. Drive me thence
Up every wall. In Spartan fashion scale
The hours down as I trim each sorry nail
Erm, with my teeth. And oh! What is it hence?
But you're the master of this ship, to fence
Unnumbered minutes with naught to avail,
Cuz I am spoiled? Or what?! In sheer betrayl
Oh help me! but I'm cussing in suspense.
To top it off you have compassion fer
My father. He swears I'm a task. You two
Make quite the pair to set me off as twere.
Okay, I'll take up knitting. That won't do.
You drive me bonkers! Tell me that's not your
Intent and I'll prove tis. I love you too.
06Jul16b
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
as space sufficiently expresses, or succinctly paraphrases with the concerns for time: or hue, or suntan, or baritone hummed weakening into a humph... crazy-bone etc.; sometimes poetry is so much more than the usurping of onomatopoeia... life is the essence of being timed, but that's hardly the essence in the space we occupy - over-versed thinking never formalised toward an outer-reaching imagination that might become copper-raindrops' worth of Disney, or a way memory is made adaptive to cure dementia... yes, space is the essential component for the compartment of life... i believe time has no place in what's to be called life, i believe time exists, but on an Olympic scale, in the metres and millimetres, on the minutes and seconds scales... space is the essence of life: so diverging from known apparatus to unknown operations, thus so diverging from known operations to unknown apparatus... and so on and so forth, until dinosaurs roar and we merely say: yawn - arrogant in our guise.
true, space devalues time; as said the people between us who we never had a meal with, but had the crazed look of craving an unnecessary contentment with despair. can i guess at something? i like your alphabetical onomatopoeia, i.e. pun for knocking, a sorta p p p / b b b, not necessarily needing the suffix for rhyme, why is it that poetry requires the echo, why not rhyme upfront? anyway... but it's there, that alphabetical onomatopoeia... a repeating of the first letter, like opening an oyster... which contradicts the orthodox methodology of rhyme... meaning that there's a repeated seance of an opening... which (although alphabetically staged to a prevailing repeat) equips the reader with many more surprising alternations - basically you begin with what rhymes alphabetically, but not necessarily phonetically: the lost suffix -ing via i had a cat called blinding, and he said all things were shining... one of your poems enabled me to spot this reversal of poetic orthodoxy, in that the rhyme became less musicological, and more rubric enlisting a coherent schema, such as a list... or rhyme via propped first, and cascading into oblivion, never really minding the waggling tail of a bouncy-ball of accepted verse. aardvark and acupuncture... the rhyme begins with A, and ends as it should end, diverging, so there's no feel for a repeat akin to drum or rhythmic bass... otherwise: shout an A into a cave and hear an echo... that's what poetry is damnably worthy to congest one's thinking with... don't rhyme: echo! and ensure that echo is alphabetical rather than musicological. perchance lessened talk, i too would have revised this example with some worthy emoticon.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
~~~
for the anonymous mother whom I value
~~~
Devils ain't so uncommon
we all got one or two,
the unlucky ones,
let them move in
and the line tween and us
and them
damnably blurred past no return
addiction is a cumulative,
sometimes thing
in this usage
sometimes
means merely the occasional
seconds
of remorse self-disgust
tween gut busting need,
incautiously craving constant,
the pleasure of inexcusable overlooking,
permitting yourself
to be the child,
allowing oneself to be
forgetting and forgettable
in this usage
cumulative
means the pleasure of a thousand
pills, drinks, smokes,
so long ago
forgetting and forgettable,
nothing sticks and nothing stays
so that each hit, each drunk
is brand new
and
nothing
accumulates
except just tolerable enough
remorse and intolerable pain
that brings that
devil desire
who always wins the seventh race
riding a horse called
"just this once more"
and you write me:
*"I wish I could be the sweet person
I wanted so desperately to be except... I'm not...
sadly, I feel your disappointment :("*
Devils ain't so uncommon
we all got one or two,
the unlucky ones,
let them move in
so whom am I to judge,
assuage, forgive and overlook,
and never condemn
cause you do it almost
plenty enough
for yourself and
every addict on this tour bus
so I answer as follows:
*the only words that come to mind -
the children are owed*
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
Everyone is isolated, if only they
would stop to think about it.
Because regardless of the battles
we fight, the wars we wage or
the love we spread, the love we make,
we walk through our dreams, and our
world with only one voice in our head.
It is not always a pleasant voice, and it does
not always ask of us the things we would
like to believe we are capable of.
Sometimes it will say “run.” when we always
thought we were the type to stand.
Sometimes it will say “yes” when we know
that the occasion calls for no.
Sometimes it will tell us to hate even when
it understands that the intentions were good.
It does not speak in hollow platitudes.
It does not spare feelings.
It does not care that a world exists beyond
the frame it is concealed within.
It is small, weak, self serving, and scared.
My god! Where is the animal confidence?
Here at the top of the food chain of countless
ecosystems, it's secret ambition is to make us think
like prey. Ever watching the ground, the corners the sky
for the predators it knows are coming.
And in the moment, when a plan goes south,
when, looking back at you with boredom glazed eyes,
she says that this was not what she expected, when
you wake from your lonely dreams to an unexpected
noise from a distant room, the clenching of your
bowels screaming terror unimagined.
In the moment when it is right about the
hostile world you inhabit
It doesn't even have the courtesy not to
scream that it told you so.
We are all isolated, with an animal fear
screaming against a civilization it doesn't understand.
We are all lost in a spinning ball of predictable yet
frightening chaos, trying not to listen
to the part of us that wants only our safety.
Cowardice is a word that crawls inside of us.
Digs out a pit in the stomach, and lives there
surrounded in your shame and your guilt
and grows fat.
Because it's easy to listen, to accept
the single minded voice. It is so hard,
so damnably difficult, to aspire toward
a loftier goal, to ignore the voice.
We are all Isolated, if we think about it.
Aug 19, 2010
Aug 19, 2010 at 6:54 AM UTC
Death stood staring stoically
As I let my last breath slip
Poised to ****** my soul
And take it on it's last trip
Fitting that in my last days
It's company I kept
Frowning, waiting
Watching as I wept
A breathless sigh
And rolling eyes
It mocked
My end was nigh
As if on borrowed time
It kept glancing at the clock
Nervously I kept praying for help
But I knew that door was locked
"Finally!", it would have crowed
when it's dark scythe appeared
A cold sweat broke when I realised
My judgement day has neared
It grinned at me
So damnably
As it swung it's evil tool
I waited, with my eyes tightly shut.
Then groaned when it shouted,
April Fools!
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 3:20 PM UTC
If only my ears weren't so damnably deaf.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXLVII)
And now a breath bestirs the leaves t'avail.
Boughs rock sae gently as the whisper hence
Flirts through, whileas I strain to see fr'intents,
Then dies away when I 'gin writing frail
Hope's fragile tread, planes' voices all to scale
As trees stand clustered far as eye frae thence
Can see. Twigs nod sae lightly wi' a sense
Of yonder jist in tow, beyond this veil.
I'm here because we've said too long now fer
All that lo, "Mum and Dad's dream will not do.
We MUST join step with whom we thought too poor
In their path through this world, and follow too,
What I deplored." The LORD God, what as twere
Did I blieve 'bout His Word? The Scriptures knew.
11May19c
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 6:07 PM UTC
she is out there
somewhere in the fog
that hovers over this city
so damnably silent and dark
while in my head
there is no quiet to be found
my thoughts clamor as if
they are an army sent to destroy me
and again i find myself awake
so cursedly awake
beyond the witching hour
oh what witches are out there
hiding in the fog like her
waiting to whisper sweet nothings
into the ear of the next poor soul
who is betrayed by beauty
beauty that burns the eyes
and scorches the soul
and turns what was once a sane man
into a howling animal
for here i howl into the fog
like a lunatic escaped from the asylum
cursing and shouting her name
with disgust and desperation
with remembrance in my heart
and painful lessons in my brain
all at once i feel it
i feel the war that rages on in my veins
between hatred and love
and for the life of me
i cannot make up my feverish mind
i cannot seem to understand how
there is a witch roaming freely in the fog
and yet i am the one
being burned alive at the stake
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
Ah my love, my sweet, my precious one.
You know how much I adore you,
and keep you close as my own beating heart,
you're worth so much more to me than anyone
and that I wouldn't bare to have neither distance nor object,
keep us apart.
My sweet, my love, please do understand,
remember the vow when I took your hand?
Know that I'll keep it forever, even should death do us part,
for only you I trusted, with my beating heart.
Now love, I hope to remind you this, in hopes you'd understand,
I've a lost friend that needs my help,
in some desolate and war-torn land.
I know you think it foolish,
but to them I must go and find,
because I was taught and drilled,
never leave a friend behind.
My search, my fight, is all for you.
The sacrifices made by my friends,
are so damnably great,
that to ignore their cry for help,
would put all my years of friendship to waste.
Please do not cry,
as I leave the door,
please always know,
I am yours, forever, and forever more.
But pray, for me, as I go now,
for I must find my friends, some way some how.
Their safety I must assure,
if not the weight of their bodies,
that I will somberly endure.
I hope to find them, in some condition,
but at least alive,
I'm going in head first,
just watch me dive.
I thank you, for your understanding,
and support as you always did,
this was my burden to bare,
I'm sorry I reflected for so long,
so sorry that this secret I hid.
Don't worry love,
I won't be alone as I go,
because I'll always have you close to my heart,
because you and I, shall never truly be ever apart.
Now off, and away,
into the dusk, the night of the day.
Now off I sail,
off I fly,
to do.
Or die.
Off and away,
to come back to you
someday.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 4:58 AM UTC
It's fading, I can feel it
You no longer get me high
It's fading, god, it's fading
You're not the light of my life.
I knew it when I hugged you
And you felt so damnably human
I knew it, I told myself to stop
But I never listen, I wouldn't, couldn't.
I've been scared of this since I saw you
I knew from the get-go you weren't like the rest
I've been scared of this since I saw you
And I'm fighting becoming unobsessed.
I knew I felt nothing particularly healthy
I knew I idolized you without reason
But reason enough was gut instinct
I can't just leave it behind, can't move on.
This is my personality's greatest flaw
I grip and hold and latch to anything
And when my fingers are to numb too hold on
I cry and scream and write farewells in poetry.
Goodbye sweet obsession
Soon you'll simply be a friend
Goodbye sweet obsession
While you lasted, you were godsend.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
*writing to a few has become wearisome,
so wearisome i'm about to give up,
and when i do i'll be relieved,
i'll finally enjoy drinking and not talking
rather than my version of slapstick humour
in mime, i.e. doing the excess body language
shaking off phantoms of ghosts enticing
signatures in the frost of car glass.*
carbon monoxide in cigarettes is most
effective after a dinner or a midnight feast.
man, i'm just tired, touch too irksome,
i have 10,618 poems on my facebook page
that no one will read,
i'm about to publish a book, yes papyrus
print on the continent, but
i can't be bothered to feel excited,
i feel like alexander dumas having written
so many novel but only being remembered
for the three musketeers,
and that's how it's supposed to be...
but it's so damnable, i can't believe i'm
to enact a constant here, of myself or some other,
it's can't be so damnably courteously 70 years in
and nothing more,
one might say: one thing to conquer the world
and loose a soul, another to conquer the world
and loose all sense of continuity of furthering
generations of brown-nosing a mozart...
the joker's interpretation of nietzsche:
what doesn't **** you... only makes you stranger...
i have no fighting spirit left in me
to pay honesty to the maxim, as philosophers
are quick to maxim / maximise a non-existent
exemplification, in their spare-time they provide
all eloquence of a stated truth but no example to follow:
i could write you 20 maxims about something,
but none of them would be true had i to write
about it in transit of experience.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC
I did not engineer
Nor attempt to construct
The human soul
No
Not I
The mere idea seemed frivolous
Damnably gelatinous and
Above all else
Impossible to comprehend
How silly it might turn out
Indeed I thought this
I did attempt however
To make a spicy jam
One evening at the
End of Winter I believe
Lovely time
When this,
What I consider the beginning of a debacle,
Began
I threw together
Bits, and things, and twigs,
And professional spices,
And Illicit words, and
Brown sugar,
And old tea,
And harmless fun
And Puppy Dog Tails,
And I’m allergic to snails,
And something that I called Steve
It could have been Tom
But it looked like a Steve to me
Despite its arguments that it was
A Barbra through and through
I stirred and fiddled and sang
To this black and thin glop
I indeed attempted to call
A spiced jam concoction
That was tap-dancing in circles
On my stovetop without permission
When, no I know, the usual happened
I became bored
Yes
Yes Indeed I did
Bored
Thoroughly
Bored
Bored
Bored
Where was I?
Oh yes.
Bored
Bored of this
Damnable,
Jammable,
Fred Astaire
Not spicy jam
So I left what would become
The self-engineering diluent,
Now a vicious, viscous, and crude thing
That would become the human soul
On the back burner
While I cooked some pasta instead
I prefer pasta
It is delicious
Not like that mistake of mine
It continued to be a mistake of mine
It was not pasta,
It was not spiced jam,
And I never remembered to throw it in the Hazmat bin
Whoops
For a year
I believe
It could have been a week
A very long and tiring week
Or seven years
When I heard the back burning
Singing back to me
About apples with a crisp bite
About fireworks that misfired
About drug needles used to sew together sanity
Was this too spicy?
With its two voices of
Hospital dust
And
Captive applause
Oh my,
This couldn't possibly
Taste good
I believe whatever this has
Festered into without
Adult supervision,
I believe it might be beginning to turn
Like milk and wine
I bottled it in a wooden bottle
And left it on the stoop of an orphanage
To find a good home
I wonder if this not spiced jam
Has found a good home
Last I heard
They all went from it to They
And attended Engineering School.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
I will admit that “caterwauling” is an ugly word,
But, no matter how joyful the noise,
It’s the only word which fits any sound
That ****** deafening come sunrise on a Sunday morning.
Once again, in song and speech, they were down there,
Loud enough to call all the souls of the just to Glory;
Indeed, the whooping and hollering
Was enough to lead one to suspect
That, just perhaps, they had followed the exhortations of the pastor
And thrown all the wild women, cards and drink
Into the river after all.
*It’s not like they do this every **** weekend or anything*,
I grumbled (loudly enough to ensure your transition
From the limbo of semi-awake to the real thing,
Part and parcel of ‘til death do we part, in my way of thinking)
But you simply wrapped an arm
A little more tightly around my waist,
Sighing *Each to his own, Baby.
Can’t you just celebrate the joys of sleeping in*?
I smiled to myself (my back to you, after all)
Ruminating a bit upon the business of revelation
Being a damnably funny thing,
Though I grumped and growled a bit as a matter of principle
How the good book made it a point to mention
That He was not averse to an occasional day off.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC