"dastard" poems
Sloane swallows.
***** is ****
I execrate extraterrestrial.
We are all kaput to conk out.
Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.
If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing **********
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.
We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.
I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id. Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
The only thing that ties me to this quilt-patched land, is memories of a flag: red, white, yellow, and blue.
Red is the blood used to paint our doorways—protection from ghostly wolves that sought our firstfruits. It is fight, even if our weapons are terribly flimsy. Bamboo tinted spears, mashed with berry paint and maskara on our brows is our arsenal. We fight in, and with the shadows. Light chases them down. Memories of GomBurZa, Noli Me, Balintawak, Tirad Pass and even EDSA remind me of how the wounds are slowly closing. Red is the color of our scars.
White is the gifts we received from our conquerors. The plow and the print: an awakening of consciousness new. White is the color of skin that polished us. White is also the gift of void, bleakness and forgetfulness. In exchange for the new, we shafted the old: our language, our anitos. A gift of disconnect: resolute Babel collapsing, burying us in tongues filled with sorcerous lisps. We curl in vain our own lips to fit their shapes. We speak gibberish now. The ghosts scoff at us in an even newer language of their own invention.
Yellow is the sweet sun which kissed us tenderly—even as we were surrounded by bolo, spear, sword. The sweet sun fights to give us light, and reaches out to us misunderstood. It shaped our land—softened our soils and gave it fruit. It is mangos, and papaya skins, and ripe bananas. It gives us joy and sweetens our sweat.
Blue are the lakes beneath which linger our roots. With the water is our identity: our hearts, our gait, our dance: the light shuffling of feet, the sway of brown hands, the wind waving at the rice buckets bobbing on our heads. We were never a warlike people. When we are wounded, we seek refuge in our seas, in the saltwater wounds that so painfully clean us of dastard memories. They sting like a freshwater song. Like the harsh howling of the monsoon rains, and the tides rising and falling with our chests. Humming.
We forget and we remember, like the ebbs and flows of the shore, the coastal highways that we leave in peace, like a languid dance. They float in and out of history—as one hops in and out of bamboo rods as they dance the Tinikling. The songs, they string us well. String names like humble Rizal, larger than life, and manic Bonifacio, who looked us straight in the eye. Names that sing of the prairie wind—softly massaging the hard grains that we till quietly in the fertile soil.
Soil—what ties us together is our history.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
Incuse your life,
With a mighty aim,
Perish your fear
And live with cheer.
Trow your potential,
Be the fantast.
Follow your desire with echo.
Because you're 'unbreakable you'.
Laugh with glee,
Be a livable tree.
Don't be dastard,
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 1:25 AM UTC
Another year!—another deadly blow!
Another mighty Empire overthrown!
And We are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dare to struggle with the Foe.
’Tis well! from this day forward we shall know
That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
That by our own right hands it must be wrought;
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.
O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer!
We shall exult, if they who rule the land
Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band,
Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
And honour which they do not understand.
1.4k
Oh Satan's
vexing, gypsy moth.
Icarus
of the lamp.
Torched, foul, smoldering ember.
Aye, the jokes on you.
Good riddance
netherworld gadfly,
dust covered
moon splashed wings,
who flitted too close the sun.
I shall miss the not.
What of thy
onlooking brother?
Is he not
the bright one,
bathing in incandescent
blissful ignorance?
Though he be
but Nature's Dastard,
he'll bask the morrow,
whilst thy apparition flies
to hell, whence ye came.
*While enjoying a beautiful Summer night, I was attacked by a squadron of moths and millers. The zealous, daring, but stupid one, flew too close to a lamp and got fried. The other, pious, yet too afraid worshiped from afar. By the way, one's just as stupid as the other one. The lamp is not the moon cretins. *
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
Oh, factious viper! whose envenom’d tooth
Would mangle, still, the dead, perverting truth;
What, though our “nation’s foes” lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great;
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expir’d in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscur’d his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits “war not with the dead:”
His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber’d in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending “’neath the weight”
Of cares o’erwhelming our conflicting state.
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear’d,
Who for a time the ruin’d fabric rear’d:
He, too, is fall’n, who Britain’s loss supplied,
With him, our fast reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people, only, raise his urn,
All Europe’s far-extended regions mourn.
“These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;”
Yet, let not canker’d Calumny assail,
Or round her statesman wind her gloomy veil.
FOX! o’er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour’d marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e’en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes, alike, his talents own.—
Fox! shall, in Britain’s future annals, shine,
Nor e’en to PITT, the patriot’s ‘palm’ resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour’s sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dar’d to ask.
1.2k
wild and crude as oil, he can't figure
what this place is, or is not. No comparative framework
Just blown circuits, but what other
thing can a rose garden ever be?
When he grabs the baby
and jams her face into the roses
the pair, darting in wild spirals
rose to rose to rose, his disbelief
nearly topples them, and he howls
“Can you ******* BELIEVE IT?
He is a man
having his insides dynamited out
and dancing to
keep from having to look
His woman smiles and smokes
and strolls along behind.
And when her smile reaches me,
not a: to keep away the bounty
kinda smile
but a: we are the ******* rose garden, smile . And the sudden
delight comes for me on a felled swoop I did not
see coming, thank god, or I’d a done a thing
to get ready for it and that
spoils the pudding again and again
so dastard and unexpected, I make
room for it, despite myself . What else
is there to do but to long to be a thousand fathoms
simpler,
in the way that water is simpler
than lemonade, simpler even
than that:
to smoke,
if I want to. And be happy,
if I can. And to love a man utterly undone
by a beauty he knows
no name for.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 6:40 AM UTC
Not for the first time
I tried to feel blank
To rid myself of the overwhelming sensation of dastard emotions
That wring you exhausted
I can't keep up with the swing of highs and lows
The fluctuation beyond control
Not for the first time I wondered
If the good of the highs was worth the badness in the lows
And that I'd rather not feel anything at all
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 6:00 PM UTC
God Has A Plan
God has a plan.
A plan?
What does it mean?
And what is God?
Not meaning to be mean,
I want to take in
Them’s that do and them’s that don’t
Believe or doubt.
If followed to the end,
All roads lead home to Rome.
Good-natured, good humored,
Dastard, *******
Substandard, no standard
Which means bad, good and all the world.
The plan, a plan
Is interesting indeed.
To analyze, interpret, give word to,
For we need
A word to read, be heard,
To take into the heart and head.
If you are a keen observer
Of the concrete and empirical,
You see that things have patterns,
(for example, thought and matter).
Post- and pre- the pattern makes it lyrical.
(That for fun – the main thing is the plan.)
Laws to measure, near and clear,
Self-evident, plain as the nose upon your face.
(Water seeks the lowest space).
Laws unclear, obscure, inferred,
Laws that find no place in science.
Plan, the God adored - is Law;
Door short of adoration.
There’s nothing wrong
With seeing through those eyes,
To please
Those on the border
Of belief and dis-
belief.
God Has A Plan 3.30.2017
God Book II; Circling Round Science II; Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Reality;
Arlene Corwin
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 2:52 PM UTC
I write to ast I know later
What i,ve sone but i
Opologize my mind can tkeep up
With up with my fingers and thumb.
SO hose that read my poems i say
Sorry after people have read them i edit
To undo the wrrors that have been done
So please do tell if I put an e instead
Of an i but please dont be a dastard
As i write my ideas while stil fresh before
They are gune.
Thank you for reading mistakes may be
Done, but please bare with me as insults
Dont solve anything, i love to write and
Mistakes are some times dome.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
Twinkle twinkle, you little star,
You don’t deserve this world, by far.
For you got killed with such brutality,
By a few who can’t be questioned about their mentality.
You got dragged into something you could barely
understand,
The aftermath of which left you with a broken hand,
They dispatched you at a dump, cold and dead,
After the sadistic thought of seeking vengeance struck
their head.
Maggots had fested your body,
Rodents had bitten your leg down to bones,
How could they even fathom something so dastard,
Those men without backbones.
As you laid there in the dump,
Your eyes gouged out.
As it reflected your helplessness,
A cleaner saw it and let out a shout.
As the news spread across the nation,
Every citizen might have had a similar notion,
‘Twinkle twinkle, you little star,
You don’t deserve this world, by far!’
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 3:40 PM UTC
He perched upon his steely throne,
beset by plebs and debtors,
and made his judgement, more astute
than any man of letters:
"This usurper who bears no name -
he never sees the sun,
and thus daren't start his daily toil
'til evening has begun.
'Til the twilight bell doth knell
the pastures he'll surrender,
for in this land of habitudes
he is their one defender.
A rider came, with news; he has
conferred with his committee -
the dastard has concieved a plan
to **** and raze this city.
As such," continued on the king,
"'tis well within my reckoning
that any decent gent would not
to such a man be beckoning.
And therefore," he went on, "I do
declare that he and we are foes -
so, rally, soldiers! Go ye forth!
Let him regret the path he chose."
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 3:43 AM UTC
Viva our Anarchist, viva our Revolutionaries
those magnificent dudes in their underwhelming cabral
with shining mad grins showing unwashed brown teeth
they devised another supernova anarchical dastard deed
Here comrade
we anchor his neighbour to his parked car outside
remember the neighbour is same national as the Mata Hari girl
we make the neighbour engage him about the car
just casual enquires and info about the car and knowing a possible
buyer for the car
off course there's no buyer
all this is just the anchoring bit
Then
We steal the car,yes we steal the ****** car
No one's gonna talk, we have them all in our pockets
we already told them he's loaded and a parasite
a leech bleeding us the working classes
everybody hates him, there are all on our side
Bingo.......!
He's gonna go spare, that will do his ****** head in
he's gonna think neighbour has something to do with the theft
he gonna hate that neighbour, he may even go confront him
but not only that, he's also gonna hate the Mata hari girl
because neighbour and Mata hari come from the same country
so that's his love life ruined and no friend for our man
Isolation quickens mental breakdown plus all the grief and stress
Ahh....is that devious or what ........
we're not anarchist for nothing
we create emotional hurt and pain for the man
we give him grief and stress, we frustrate the ******
we foil his plan to go meet the Mata hari gal
it's all suffering and depression all the way......
( But we know he's not meeting the Mata Hari girl,
we know there's nothing going on in that end )
( Yes, we know that, silly, but the punters we are using
as gang stalking perpetrators, don't know that)
(Keep up with things, we manipulate them and all the other
foot soldiers with lies, delusions, distortions and make them all think, they are controlling the man, do you want further training
we are rogues and con-artists, that's what we do, silly!)
Our intrepid leftist Anarchist have foiled a non-event again
The used and manipulated crowds are all smiling in satisfaction
A car has been stolen with community approval, another Tax they say.
The man has not hated or blamed his neighbour he is not an emotionally immature or unintelligent fool
the man has not anchored any of this to Mata Hari, who is also
just a pawn as are all the other contributors to this saga
This is how the Anarchist Leftist divide people and infect communities with Hate, division, unrest and ill wills all round
This is the politics of Hate and Division
This is how things roll in Modern britain today......!
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 2:23 PM UTC
“Countable nouns can be counted, e.g. an apple, two apples, three apples, etc. Uncountable nouns cannot be counted, e.g. air, rice, water, etc. When you learn a new noun, you should check if it is countable or uncountable and note how it is used in a sentence.”
“countable nouns” goes ding ding in the left-side-brain receptors,
where the write side is humbly aboded, unbounded, and well-recv’d,
countable nouns not simplistic apples, the mundane, not sweet, crisp,
important stuff like sins and dreams, lies and schemes: life alterations!
a single sin, two sins, then three, soon you’re another noun, a sinner,
a dream, two dreams, three, teach labels you a serial day-dreamer,
it takes just one little lie, be well on your way to a pants-on-fire-liar,
a get-rich-quick-scheme forms a life long persona, dastard schemer!
methinks these self-adjectives deserve a special denomination, for my
sins, lies, dreams and schemes are uncountable countable nouns!
they are a class of biological, taxonomic things, living and breathing,
a singular genus, many species, like slime molds of human characteristics
you don’t believe I’m a scoundrel, here is not the place to list,
each action/no action curse-courses animating suppressed brain cells,
when the lids close, the enumeration of sins & deeds, all sheep,
vivid colored, injured pointed hooves, silent screamed reslaughtered,
confession offers no solace, until someday the sticking point of the right brain actually resolve the misdeeds, undoing stabbings, healing
time to quit the confessional, no beads or Hail Marys will ever suffice, elides the wrong religion and mine done don’t lets you off so easy,
no siree…no siree…
even a few miscreant visions, originate from childhood indifferent…
perhaps you tire of my self-flagellate:
**these deeds, actions, some remediable, but not all, and these 50 years on, my palpitations fiercest knowing, that they are now
uncountable countable nouns!**
Apr 7, 2023
Apr 7, 2023 at 10:29 AM UTC
This is poetry--
Unknown and discussed
In no particular matters
Until death
Doth part
the Poet from his art
And ought to be--
But the saddest lovers are the living--
Who weave dastard tragedies
In goldpence and fame
And in hope, break Foundations
on laureled mounts,
Calling desperate to empty crypts
Which once housed their Muses
Praise and please to you, Polyhymn
Us hominids speak so bold
In our kindness to you!
While this is computed
And tooled to the ringing of gold
Glass
And transitions--
Mere sparks
In the ember of forge
That these mint implements
Are the forgery of that art
Consumes Hephaestus in his doubts
Of a father's true fires
And the alchem of his own
Clio, remember thy crowning!
The doubts of this mournful sphere
And the pain of our pasts
Are yours to cast within the stele
And praise be, toward your simple carvings of man!
Doting and careful could I be,
Lashing my wrists with decay
Stash my words by the reeds
I could hold the world up to keep
Our own love of the earth
In the same way
she should be earned
There is a certainty of that
Loveless act, the plotting of land
To place corpses upon the earth
For circus and grandeur
This is ultimately
The fate of you poets,
Cast as stones amongst the stream
Blackened and cold
And you will not know but the soul of you in deed
And your words will fall Deaf
Upon these fears of the freed
When they devour themselves in the temples
And massacre the streets
Exhume worn roads
Which bridged their father's feats
And when it is done
And the words come to rest
In the ruins and the spires
All but symbols and jests
No more, no more!
For it is all in their speech
It is all in good kind
And all left to me.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
You say you want to run away
From your world and all its dismay
I told you, don't worry about a thing
Follow me and let yourself unwind
Stare into my eyes, dive deep into my mind
Swim through the seas of my thoughts and deepest desires
My world is yours, just let me make your dreams come true
For there isn't anything I wouldn't let you do
All through and through, I was never enough for you
Perhaps you were just dastard, too scared to try something dignified
For to come find it's all a lie, and I willing to forgive
An utter butcher, you wouldn't even let it live
I wondered if it was my ignorance that led to the end
But no....it seems it just wasn't meant to be
But why is there something inside me that just won't let it be
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 12:15 AM UTC
Past regrets lost in an emulsion of sorrows
Paralyzed to the point of leaving yourself behind because of these dastard individuals who you call stress, anxiety and depression
However theres a fraction of an enigma that still exists within me
The fans of reality blows and steers possibilities and likelihoods towards my life
Such a thing as nepenthe doses seem relevant and present in the world?
Contrary to my uncertainty, society could believe it does in various shapes or forms
Although, our constant search for content proves a sort of doubt
Trapping beautiful leaves with different colors in a jar never to be experienced but hopefully found by a wanderer who would demonstrate what a prize they were in the first place
Negligence ultimately derived from perpetual speculation
Build, construct your house of memories as vivid and as sorrowful as they come
They are yours!
An identity, defining who you are without all the torment
Escape the wrath of your past regrets, mistakes and insecurities
You can, if you allow yourself to
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 12:04 AM UTC