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None but the cobbled Hackney will accept
Their Postcards sign this Doveling Bond, betwixt
So both decide a Limo; And dated Theft
Of many Soul-Chasers which do not Exist
From there both Virgins took a Scandal-Plate,
Wrapped in Hookahs only the Wise could see
Goodbye, First Perfume! Not from what will sate
The Photographed Script of what they should be
From this a Problem looms. In such Stone-Bowl
We become the very Thing we disgust
Hearts still cry out for the Thunder they stole
And baste their Image on the Throne they must.
Realise, just now, the Name of this Theme
From Enlightenment whose Founder they blaspheme.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Benjamin Apr 2018
Hilda died before her time—
just before
her honeymoon—
she’d spent it all,
every dime
she’d made in tips
on afternoons.

she wore her mother’s wedding dress—
dated lace,
a size too small—
but beautiful
and full of grace,
she read her vows.

she hid her bruises with a sleeve—
finger marks
(his grip was strong)—
she promised him
she’d never leave;
(the little things
we keep in songs).  

he killed her with a forty-five—
had it hid
below the bed—
so what’s it mean
to be alive?
the only ones who know
are dead.
Anastasia Sep 2018
You’d ask how many guys I’ve dated,
really wanting to know how many guys I’ve ******
...or have ****** me?

Well, anyway, it doesn’t really matter,
the point is - you're getting into numbers.

I’ll joke about how guys would multiply it
and how girls like doing it the other way around.

You’d say: "Just go ahead, I honestly don’t care."
How cute,
you're terrible at lying.

So I’ll do that, I’ll go ahead, I will divide it.
You'll smile, I will smile back
hoping you bought the number.
Must we rub elbows, Post-Dated Brother
Because of my Drama to her commit
I know my Roles; Her tongue was the other
For my Radar to pick the Better of it
Perhaps our Wine seeps better with Age
On my Canter I drink less of Question
Why? For her, Heart's Duty for joy her page
Quill my Weak Signature's uncondition
Your Cross-Founder states we all must Forgive
And His Baptist turns those Elders from stone
Meaning, my Tarnished History did live
Of which I murdered to leave me alone.
Easy to say, as long as I draw breath
And that is my Purpose to Act in Health.
Once when an Angel called me,
Not single right now; sor-ry…
Like a shadow with wings,
I see him around…

Not that it really matters,
His dress is torn and tattered,
A shadow of flap-ping wings,
Lit-tle breezy…here with no sound?

Kiss of a fool and the angels above…
And they’re falling forever, falling in love,
Kiss of a fool and the angels above…
And they’re falling forever, falling in love,

Hey you…angel who called me,
Am -I...really that pretty?
Get out of that tree,
Come down to the ground!

Dancing with wings, moving around,
Twirling…still, there’s no sound?
Dating an angel; falling down!
Dated an angel, fallen down.

Kiss of a fool with the heavens above…
And we’re falling forever, falling in love,
Kiss of a fool and the heavens above…
And we’re falling forever, falling in love,

Okay angel who called me…
It was okay but sor-ry,
Dated an angel, fooling around,
Broken up, sorry, shadowy ground.

Kiss of a fool and the angel above…
And he’s fallen forever, falling in love,
Kiss of a fool and the heavens above…
And they’re falling forever, fallen in love,

I hear Sheryl Crow when I sing this.
Jayantee Khare Aug 2018
one night i visited the dreamland
just to assess how many dreams stand
found many floored when explored
few were killed prematured
few flushed in the time's streams
few murdered by other dreams
few elightened ones crushed themselves
few learned ones locked them in shelves
few dated and were reset
future of this sort most of them met
found some lucky ones still dance
in the eyes of new romance
few could turn into reality
few survivor went till eternity!.....
Most of the dreams die....
Come with expiry dates
The date of your first job
The date of marriage
The day when you become parents
Or the day when you've heartbreak...
Sometimes killed by self....

A negative write provoked by one of my close relatives failed marriage...
Stephen E Yocum Sep 2013
There are times in life
when a man needs change,
And I don't mean,
dimes and quarters.

Remember when you
were just sixteen,
Driving all alone, solo,
in your old man's Buick?
All the windows down,
radio music blaring,
Your bare arm draped
out over the side of the door.
to better exhibit your bicep.

Hell mister, no doubt,
you were ten feet tall,
the king of the road.
Ever wish you had,
that feeling back again?

Cars were always my thing.
I owned some Detroit
Muscle, Full blown Chevy,
Firebird 400, Chrysler Hemi.
Smoked some tires and
went to Court a time or two.
Of course all that was long
ago in my fitter youth.

When I became a Yuppie
I acquired a Poodle Puppy,
a Porsche and a MGB.

But the ***** does turn.
and so then, did I,
And my road got,
a little bumpy.

Along came marriage,
then a baby carriage.
And a big house
In the Burbs.

Then came a progression
Of Volvo Station Wagons,
to Soccer Dad Mini Vans,
to large SUV's.
All for hauling,
any number of things.
Kids and dogs, strollers,
bikes, kites and scooters,
Fellow car poolers,

And less we forget,
"Pulling" things too.
Boats, RV's, Utility trailers,
and all nature of landscape,
gardening, and general
shopping paraphernalia.
Little League Teams,
Drooling big dogs,
Papier Mache Volcanos.
Home Coming Floats,
Once even a Goat
You name it, I hauled it,
Or pulled it!

Years rolled by,
eventually the Kids
flew the nest, got married.
And low and behold,
The wife and I split,
Each going our separate way.
No one's fault, just grew apart.
The thinly veiled allegorical
Previous Patriarchal
arrangement became,
A whole new start,
A workable self allegiance
to just one.

Soon once more, I was the MAN.
I ran out, bought a **** boat
But not having the kids around,
Soon sold it, having found out,
that alone, I was not a water sport.

I caroused around, dated women,
got my pockets picked,
learned a few lessons.
Fell in love, fell out again,
Took a few pretty good blows,
Right on the chin,
Even some down lower.

Round about then,
An Epiphany kicked in.
Remembered my most,
ennobling, happy events,
behind the wheel,
driving Dad's Buick.

As I stepped on the lot.
There was never doubt,
There was only one choice,
I just had to have that,
Little VW Bug Red Racer.

Nothing like your Mother's
Beetle, the engine's up front,
Not stuck in the trunk,
And man it produces over,
200 Big Time Horsepower
Not to mention,
Lays rubber in three,
Of six gears.
Getting all the while,
33 miles per gallon.

Receiving additional help,
from a sweet Turbo Booster,
Just like a big, Indy Track Bruiser.

There's 19 inch racing
tires and alloy wheels,
They look so cool,
Spinning in motion.

Dual stainless steel exhausts,
And best of all,
a cool collapsible,
Convertible top.

Rack and Pinion steering,
Handles like a sports car,
Yet still offers a backseat
To take my Grandkids,
out for a spin.

Dude, it's got,
All the bows
and whistles!

Top Down Driving is such a thrill,
Makes me feel sixteen again.
The open road, the sky above,
The wind blowing thru my hair,
what there is of it.

Perhaps the only thing that
Could possibly make this
Driving experience greater,
Would be to speed down,
The road, going eighty,
Behind the wheel of my
Little Red Racer,
Completely **** naked,
And of course all the while,
Feel the wind in my hair.

I don't know, I'm too old,
To call this a mid life crisis.
But on the other hand,
Maybe the acquiring of
This little red sporty car,
Has something to do with,
Those Testosterone shots I'm taking.
I'm even thinking, of dying my hair,
naw, lets not get crazy!
'And when was this? I dunno, I dunno:
like everything else, twenty years ago.' - August Kleinzahler

Whosis slunk next to the rastamagnet
dj booth, in a limabeanhued suit
jacket, limabean sleeves rolledup to
deploy albino ancons for jostling.
My ****** lungs ached; gluttonous Venomised
pelicanbills. Cig o' no mercy, cig of life.
Serpivolent smoke is nicocreaming
ceiling of this dive Dasein dosses in.
Unrequiting snoutcloud of her chuffing
form siffles thru her mousy enamel.
'Light reflecting booster technology',
advertising Boswellox, scents her hair.
Male Black Widow Complex boings in my brain,
as the vogueress exits conceivable zone
of address. Yet she cigawrenches
my stalking thoughts across the pumptup ballroom.
O those farouche salad nights following
swotting up in the humid Octagon!
Male Black Widow Complex, th'always boinging,
lidded by lemony orange lager.
I crashed Crasherkid frabble, rocked to
DJ Shoppinghour feat. MC Niche Jah.
My Sax Pustules & Dead Kinnocks LPs
accusingly mouldered in my heart.
Crasherkids twatted then, dated now, now
grooveriders haggard. But time was the thud
of arterial Cherry7up
was the dub of their youthful BPM.
Triptown beefnecks w/ classic legoman's
Acid House ecaf (before e-cafes
had come & gone), mandy stag party.
I still slow my pace at their fearless napes.
The rock club had delusions of grunger,
crush at the bar was lumberjack cubism.
Era of Jingajing-chicka-jing-jing Kurt,
anno domudhoney, left a zeitgash.
& in the goth club, cadavolescent,
guylinered Xennials listened to
Placebo, but poo-pooed manginas.
Identi90s: genres, not genders.
Blotto elbows on sudsy bar, I cross
lanky barkeep's gulchy palm w/ nugget
for latest in a lost count of snakebites.
Streak of **** is a broom in a skinnytie.
'I'm hyperboring as much as you!' quip I
to a cheetahthinking softdrinker.
There'd be no ruction if pickled franion
spilt his Tab Clear Kaliber, H2ooze.
Yestreen's teen mums of teen mums, renubile
on the glash. Simuladies who soft soap
saps to buy them...a drink, QVCexy.
If shopgilfs surrender the goods, QVChy.
Whosis, tattie-bogie of the floor,
turned Turok w/ liebestorschlusspanik.
But his limabean lines are jejune, even to
zirconia Zsa Zsas on the zhelf.
Whosis, lima green last chancer, I'm a
aphroluddite like you. Both crud dancers
too, corybantersauruses. It's all
smoke 'n' mingers & we've got lunge cancer.
'There's a party on the hillside, would you like
to come? Bring your own cup & saucer
& your own cream bun!' Friends joyride
home dead, so ride dead joy home alone.
Simian, simulacrum, something for
the weekend, sir? Or are weekends just for
something before ip dip dogshit
******* ******* silly *** meet the kids then what?
Stereotripe, not Stereospeare, yet unknown
plexors would kick in. Or was it the joypop?
Popliteal self on higher neon knees,
Mother Brown's got nothing on me!
Anansesum of my fancy footwork,
Bez in blossom under tiger strobe.
Chemical cochise, call me 'Tarantulip':
totem, tarantism, bruxism, bloom.
Yeah, I liked DJ Offroseanne before
the coward sounds of Simoncowellland
killed Cool. Taxi for the Corpse of Cool/
fetch your coat, love, you've pulled the Corpse of Cool!
Since the ears dot, aural laurels were hot.
& the beat authenticity lays down
is still the drill sergeant instrumental
that leads blind zeit pipers of all pied geists.
Lima bean fugue, forearm flash, Dear John tats.
Nocturnal vernal mental of the comeup
becomesdown w/ no summerlove, bad trip
(Raggaman Kafka say 'Uneazee Dreamz').
'Taxi Driver' cinematography,
neon printcest of clubland signs dimmens.
Pick up your tuttifrutti braindamage
- time to go home, hungover twichildren.
The day I met you,
I wanted to be yours,
I wanted you to be mine,
I fell in love with you,
My world seemed to change,
In a way, it never had before,
My world was a broken clock,
But when I met you,
My world became the Cascades of wonder and possibilities,
The day you said "I love you,"
Was the day I knew,
You are the one for me,
I am not used to being treated,
In a wonderful way, you treat me,
People I dated in the Past treated me like an object,
To move at their own whim,
You treat me like a human,
An equal,
You love me in ways,
I never knew possible,
I opened myself up to you,
In ways, I thought long gone,  
I hope,
To be yours in eternity.
I love you always
Sleep oft colludes with night
Pulls wool over my eyes:
By announcing itself anon
On my station's platform.

Evermore delayed to reach this vessel,
It refuses to hypnotize a compliant patient
Despite the dated rituals performed
For slumber to strive-to-thrive:

Prayers chanted in your name,
Darkness donned in your chase,
Silence kept vigil, sung as lullaby,
Consciousness sacrificed for your gain

Yet you refuse to sway me in my cradle,
Yet I lay squirming on your saddle,
Incapacitated by thoughts—untenable
Enslaved for their cause—unassailable

Many a sleepless nights were my penance.
Upon which, one of sleep's commandments
To sleep: toil to reach the summit;
Inhale the thinned air
Exhaled by a content-shaped mountain.
zebra Dec 2018
just because your dead
doesnt mean we aren't dating anymore
like you would have dated me
dead or alive
yet i am haunted

you humming
so we must have chemistry
or am i interminably obsessed
like a ghostly house

your poems
had there way with me
like a strip tease
and soft slipping fingers squeezing
making little red veins hemorrhage
like a thick **** intravenous drip
rumbling down a phantom ****

warm breath
on the lay away plan
infernal lips
**** face
a lit match
immortal burning
holes in my stomach

bits of my heart like skin *****
nailed to a wooden plank
by the tormented photograph of you
tender aged thirty year old
with your head in the oven
languishing gracefully

your generosity in death
a carnival ride of fascination
like a dropped bird

nerved up cat
to tormented to pet
to love
to be well
to smile
to calm
better hors d’oeuvres of rat poison

i like to think
you where inviting me
like a necrophiliac
to love your slender corpse

please baby one more verse
for the thin air road
your poem
a dark crime
behind the big white door
your so pretty in penny loafers
bare legs dangling
a gassed ***
a moveless flower
head in ovens grave
corridor of rabies
finally vacant
honking at my face for a last kiss
to brush my wet mouth
smooth against your goddess buttocks

smudge face
sunken skin
and that stupid stare
like a half filled ashtray
tongue out and cunty fingers

"dead ball gods"
your weight no longer measured in grief

you turned the gas up
deep breaths now darling
common you can do it
so steep baby
feel the caress

i was born to late
to die with you
to save you
pretty nymph in a downward spiral
ravens clutch

still crying,
horney for you
and your black light
to busy being dead
to give a ****

i'm fixated on your suicide pose
beauty and horror tangled lovers

here and gone

here and gone
almost in the same split second

i'm obsessed, obsessively obsessive
for what could never be
and is;
am i not your fan,
your creep

if I pulled you from the oven
saving you for your rattled life
no doubt, you'd be all pissy at me
your magic rescue voodoo hero
your straight jacket of love
keeping you alive
cavalcade of dead girl faces
you would have hated me for that

your dead now
and i'm left here reading your poems
telling you softly
they are the best poems ever
and making believe
you love me
Epilogue: Ann Rice

"The longer they're dead
the deader they get"
UA Mar 30
"I'm seeing someone, but I don't know what to say...can you give me some advice?"

Meanwhile, you've never dated anyone, can't tell if it's you or something that's hidden behind the sun...

Stuff like this is what causes living with people to be not so fun.

And to top that, you've liked this person, but now they come to you...

.A.s. i.f. t.h.e. u.n.i.v.e...r..s.e. .w.a.s. w.a.i.t.i.n.g. .t.o. t..e.ll. .a. .j.o.k.e.. .t.ha.t.. w..o.u.l.d. .e.n.d .w.i.t.h. .b.r.e.a.k.i.n.g. .y.ou. ...........too.
Zetir Jun 2018
To all my past lovers
No this does not mean everyone I've dated
This is to the few I loved
The boy with the smile hidden from the world
The boy with eyes that could calm a storm
And the boy with a touch to ease pain

You all
Are my lovers

You all
Will never be forgotten

You all have left a mark
That will never be forgotten

You all have taught me a lesson

One of you taught me to give people second chances
But not all people

One of you taught me that when you find someone dear to you
To never let them go

And one of you taught me that what the world says doesnt matter

As long as you are yourself

And you are perfect
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