"dandies" poems
What happened to the dandies
Those gentlemen of the grandest Culture
Destroyers of dreaded boundaries
Mockers of meaningless morality
Inquisitors of a profound lack of imagination
Guardians of good taste
Messengers of modernity
What happened to those 19th century hipsters
Who so gracefully dissected Society
And whose wit and wisdom
Shook the foundations
Of mainstream hypocrisy
Of inept intellectualism
And lamentable lies
We are in dire need of retrieving
The lost art of being a dandy
To shake the foundations once more
And to revoke the righteous rage
Of the cultural creed
To set society aflame
With wit and wisdom
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
It's Christmas Eve
and here I sit
drinking a drink
and giving a ****
The mistletoe's hung
way up in the air
on the semi off-chance
that you'll give a care.
With stockings and trimmings
and ho-hoes and tree
and candies and dandies
and gifts not for me.
So welcome to Christmas
a wonderful time
with tannins and balms
and lonely red wine.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 7:14 PM UTC
One tiny fiery ant
with a tiny wand,
deftly conducted
a grand orchestra of
ants with varied talents,
resulting in a musical storm,
unheard of in the
craggy ant world before.
The ants with diaphanous wings
smug, complacent dandies
that counted themselves
nothing less than regal
buzzing above unaware
of this magic electrifying
the land of ordinary ants below,
but had a hunch somehow
wondered:
"Are we missing out
on some fine thing
ants like us should aspire for
or is it just a feeling
without any basis?"
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 1:18 PM UTC
Give me
new morns of splendid sunshine
and clear blue skies with soft wind
humming sweetly to the timeless rhythm
Give me
fresh air with gentle whispering of breeze
to be kissed passionately and tickled playfully
Give me
quiet days sans the bustle of hectic crowds
each promising new wonders and joyous tidings
Give me
country sides with luxuriant vegetation
and rich plantation to feel partitioned off
the soot and dirt of roaring cities
Give me
woodlands of varied flora and fauna
so rare and rich that nowhere else are seen
Give me
gardens and brick laid pavements
where there grow such lovely blooms, nodding amorous
to flirting dandies on colorful wings
Give me
running brooks and rushing streams
upon whose fertile banks tall trees and bushes green,
in singles and files grow
Give me
orchards, beautiful and fair
with fruit laden trees, so wonderful and rare
Give me
vast fields of ripening corn and paddy
where farmers joyfully gather to harvest their year’s toil
Give me
vineyards of trellised vine
with hanging clusters of grapes, green and maroon
Give me
ponds and wells of crystalline water
to quench the thirst and turn fallows into fecund lands
Give me
woods and forest tracks
where spring lingers all the year round and beyond
where birds on tree tops merrily sit and sing
whose harmonious notes in every nook and corner ring
Oh! Give me
Nature in all ‘its primal sanities’
And souls with nicety of hearts, free of all affectations!!
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
A mere illusion.
Mosaic shadowland in black and grey;
Yet in this silent world
Cottages stand, sunwashed,
Long after their demise.
Lured by the past
I wish to enter cool dark doorways;
To draw back faded curtains
And scent the wood-smoke
Within those secret walls.
Forgotten dandies
Watch from under crow-black stovepipe hats;
Memories of Waterloo
As fresh as Vietnam.
The Mutiny still unborn.
Moments after this
Stolen faded second, they turned away
Down Sheep Street to the 'Dog Inn';
For Porter and cold beef.
A clay pipe and cider.
Silent halted streets
****** back to vanished life and rural din,
The reek of horse and men
Now past recall. Lost
Moments. Gone forever.
While in her ghost garden,
Close by the gate and vanished red brick wall.
Anne Wheler, dressed in crinoline
And broad silk ribbons, keeps her
Rendezvous with my gaze.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
There's more singular saplings
Reading violet dandies
Instead of make believe
-Manuscripts
Where voids
Live in non-existence.
-Mountains creep slowly,
Towards the sun
While trees trample-
Moons with footprints.
And I--I feel stuck-
Suckling quicksand
From beneath my bones.
-Waiting for midnight
To catch away,
The rain.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
Feast your eyes
on this!
100% Super One-Twenty,
Windowpane, chalk-white,
on a navy backdrop.
Fully Canvassed, mind you,
for the elegance of the suit
is dictated by its drape,
the structure the cloth streams
from shoulder to waist.
Here!
Do you see it? No?
The shoulder, it’s expression:
Spalla Camicia!
Simplification of the cumbersome Neapolitan,
shedding all the padding
of the English shoulder.
(Padding, I emphasize,
is for insecure prepubescent girls.)
Ah, but the star of the show,
the six by two,
the armour of choice of all dandies,
the de facto of the eternally stylish,
the double breasted jacket!
Shoulder wide peaked lapels
drawing horizontal lines
that elongate the torso,
nipping the waist.
(And as they say,
I like my jackets like
I like my women:
Double-breasted.)
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
Tis not in commitment
To love that warrants beauty,
For fickle a girl beauty is indeed, not to be bent
By sorrow and pain filled gazers and dandies,
Eyes gleaming in fleeting hope, without sense,
That their smiles, enwrapped and dependent,
Will have recompense
By her gaze, resplendent,
And perhaps, if in good favor,
Have admiration bestowed on them amorously.
But nay, beauty is a fickle girl. Alas, we love her.
So as the breeze sings melancholy,
And the leaves reflect her lips of flame,
As milky clouds remind of her skin,
When her hair is night, dark and sleek, putting others to shame,
Filled with expectation
And apparitions of loveliness,
I think of the sweet longing,
Hoping for the moment not to pass.
The sweet longing
I loved then,
For a moment,
Lingering in the agony of emotion,
In a short eternity that I underwent.
I then found beauty.
But then the lights were no longer low,
The emotions, so resplendent in ardor, escaped me.
The façade was gone after the show.
Nay tis not in commitment to serve
Love that hold beauty.
Tis in the memory of nerve,
Tumultuous as a stormy sea.
Tis in the very slow-grown enthrallment
Of her melodious voice.
Tis in the memory of through what my heart went
When I told it to her by my choice.
When I told how it was stolen by her raven hair,
By her star-drenched skin,
By her cherry lips at which I’d stare,
And the voice so in apprehension, rife with emotion from within.
Tis not in the resolution itself
Of intricate harmonies and dissonances,
So pleasing to the ear in their discord and wealth,
But in the expectations and resonances
Of this ecstasy,
That resides beauty,
Which is why I told her my love and melancholy,
Letting her forget, and proceeding to flee.
For the wonderful nostalgic memory
Of the shortness of breath,
Would by intimacy,
Certainly be put to death.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 9:11 PM UTC
joy is transient
but its brief journey is golden to the
hearts eyes
in this place that must suffice for a reason
to remain
some come to bind themselves
to some inglorious fate
so that they may have that one moment
in free fall where they may open up golden wings
held quietly since childhood in hopes one day to shine once again
may once more soar among the clouds
light and free
they come here to sing with the angels of a better nature
or battle with the demons of a dark past
she walks with slow care
placing each step tenderly gathers her voice
and mutters the words in guttural whispers
to the soundtrack of her mad mind
where the ashes of burned cities settle like snow
on the image of a broken landscape she painted in dark watercolours
i came to build temples
out of the streets driftwood faces
the nameless who wash up on distant mystery shores
and leave intricate carvings in the minds scrapbook
that show like a roadmap to one souls journey
my coming to this tropical Christmas
and cardboard cut-out hero sortie into your world
if i could rescue you
i would be there on a sterling english steed
with a loud proclamation
that only the prettiest damsels get fine young dandies
she smiles for my soft approach
as i glide in under her eyes
joy is transient
but its brief journey is golden to the
hearts eyes
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
brittle day,
the singular flake
of your naked
obtuse ******* are
fine, "what dandies,
thick, toppled in
golden and tipped
in lightest, pink skin,"
conquers men and
flesh divine; the radiant
twin prongs of your
chest are rich, swollen,
and my fingers laid 'tween
them wreak of mint, lavender,
and they taste like warm blood
that i can barely fit inside (but
you like like it and drag me into
snarling night
(
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 3:38 AM UTC
A king may buy whatever he likes
A canary, for example
may he choose to please his knights and gents
And the canary she is ample
For what? They know not of her grace
And shining boys become dull jack-a-dandies
Singing to a barren dope's dream by the creek
Drinking a fool's dumb brandy
But a pleasant peasant such as I
Would miss Miss canary's tale
A bountiful breast of song she bears
Ceaselessly singing yonder till the day is pale
Tis she who taught men so bold
And frail girls down at heart
"No meaning lies in a white man's life,
neglect till death do us part."
And death did part a king and his bird
Where is my song this morning, love?
By ashen heart and ill minded men
He traded the people's money for a dove
Twas no great doing for he to trade
Pure beauty for plain brash
I heard her sing her sad farewell
And break her wings through a broken bride's mad dash
Oh how the moons fly by
I'd pray to catch Miss canary in the highest blossom tree
That she did love as much as I
The home of his highness, his royal majesty
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 2:50 AM UTC
When fires flame,
you always have me to blame.
Icebergs would melt
if they could feel what you felt.
Look at all the mess
you have made;
it won't fade,Alice,
it won't fade.
Even the world in wars
is able to see night with the stars.
You're so childish,Alice.
All those dandies
have no candies.
Don't be annoying,
don't go deep.
It's my secret,
now go to sleep.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
I sprung out of this polka-dotted haze
rose up into a new exotic phase
a spring of fleurs erupted from my fount
forced
bulb March of mother May I's
forget-me-knotted hair
sashaying Miss American me
Ms. Primrose Promise
sprouting a court of daffodilian dandies
defrosting smiles of delight
tip-toe-Tiny-Tim Tambourine man
faerie of frivolity
waves his wand over
my zone 8
I bloom anew
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
I'm not the kind of fool
Who goes first on fondues
Wreak havoc on travels
And get lost and bruised
And fight for anything
And anyone of feelings
I am the son of cold
And the grand child of vulgarity
Never the strong man
Nor the spiritual insane
Running my highway
In my own truck lane
Never ink blotted
By the time I felt I'd like to
Overdoing scatterings
Forcing pusses to pop lingerings
Cropped out from photographs
I am the eagle from the south
A day older from my mere shadow
Of dandies and slouch
I am the charmer of ghosts
In this fatigued jacket
Taking charge of bullets
Triggered from your guts
From your sub standards
Pulled from the gauntlet
Off your misfiring ammo
Crash dummied rocket
Murmurs and prophets
Fake gay dimples
Soft brushes
First class test crashes
In the middle of the zone
Blows my head
Leaves my lights on
Off to bed.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 11:01 AM UTC
delicacy
your blooming self
smeared with
golden sun
accessorized with
dried dandies
wrapped around your wrist
i saw you
milk skin
back sinking into open earth
eyes open
searching
hoping
longing
and i turned then
face tucked inside my arm
and i spoke
mouth muttering whispers
and you,
you didn't speak,
not at all
you just laid there
like a ghost
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 1:27 AM UTC