"decrepitude" poems
Speech after long silence; it is right,
All other lovers being estranged or dead,
Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,
The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night,
That we descant and yet again descant
Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song:
****** decrepitude is wisdom; young
We loved each other and were ignorant.
8.9k
Bite me, Baby.
Take me down
Into your viral, hungry Limbo.
There we'll eat
The noisy neighbors
Wander through the streets
All night.
Naked but for
What cloth hangs on
To our slim decrepitude.
Bite me, Baby.
Hell don't want us.
Heaven's iffy
Anyway.
We won't need no shoes
Or money
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 12:09 AM UTC
there's a crazzzy devil
in
the white house
twisting our nation
into a denizens den
a tub of **** in a suit
ascending ***** matter
in
a clogged toilet
a black plague
we have a president with the attention span
of sea clams
an emotional ******* drip of impetuosity
a spiraling fit of rage
a snarling delusional dog
narcissist in a warping mirror
a pathetic complainer
a cyst on the body politic
clot
open sore
seething pustule
piggish **** lover
gangsters dupe
fascist wana be
heil heil
god your a pile
making Russia great again
licking Vlad's *****
protecting your assets no doubt
and hissing tweets
at war with with only everything
and figments of a disturbed imagination
a real windmill killer
his mouth
the devils mark
a yapping compulsive lier
forked tongued fury
possessed to a fault
by the vainglories
of money and ego out of bounds
the biggest and the best
at being
the very worst and a pest
grand royalty of ridicule
*****
a ham ****** cartoon nightmare
and clumsy stumbling bore
a seething volcano of perpetual excrement
reading from the book of chaos
aberrations of enemies
a war room president
at war with his own citizens
huddled in a panic chamber
burns and cuts himself
with his own hot sharp words
as there thrown back at him
a bully getting bullied
a ripper getting ripped
the brains of a lizards eyelid
in a shadeless socket
pulp hearted orangutan
menace to society
his mottled soul
like a black sun
on the verge
of a black hole
a hell mill of decrepitude
a dark creep creeping
tarnishing our beautiful country
lights dim
America
there's a devil
in the white house
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
Red lips are not so red
As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Kindness of wooed and wooer
Seems shame to their love pure.
O Love, your eyes lose lure
When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!
Your slender attitude
Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed,
Rolling and rolling there
Where God seems not to care;
Till the fierce love they bear
Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude.
Your voice sings not so soft,-
Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,-
Your dear voice is not dear,
Gentle, and evening clear,
As theirs whom none now hear,
Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.
Heart, you were never hot
Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot;
And though your hand be pale,
Paler are all which trail
Your cross through flame and hail:
Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.
2k
From shelves and racks, or lying in stacks, Books,
Of all ages and epochs—adolescents and youths,
Aged and venerable, and e’en those in decrepitude,
Much eloquent, but in all silence, share with us
Experiences wide ranging, emotions well pent up,
Passions, love and hate, and joys and sufferings,
Triumphs, failings, histories, biographies and maxims.
A pat or stroke, or appeal in awe, or in supplication,
They’d unleash to you, in varied moods and temper,
Their stories, in letters, words, phrases, sentences;
In prose or verse on folios, or in acts and scenes,
Of Helens, Quixotes, Falstaffs, Holmes and Othellos,
In the highs and lows of their pleasures and pathos,
Of Lears, Tristans and Isoldes, and procrastinators.
Of the plucks and spirits of Arjunas and Achilleses,
Of the failings of the ill-fated Kareninas and Bovaries,
Of the unwavering faith of Jobs, Noahs and Abrahams,
Of the lovelorn Sakunthalas, and Sitas under Simsupa,
Of God’s Garden, and of the wisdom of the Himalaya,
They speak in silence, of the real and the imagined,
As mighty godlike genies waiting for our summons!
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
Call me stricken
by her
my favorite color.
I want to fill my ears with static
to give my thoughts some room to move
and my eyes monochromatic
with an artistic side to prove
She writes
like shes giving
Noah Webster a *******
her labyrinthine constructions
of consonants and vowels,
leading in circles
obliterating disbelief,
and I
AM
the words.
She tastes like ***
and nostalgia
nauseating my pages,
wearing thin over keystrokes,
repetition,
the mother of decrepitude
so my muse
decimates my thoughts
one in ten
one in ten
one in ten
CRACK
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
i could taste her with my fingers
feel her sweltering tongue
like a red field burning
until our lives fell to snow
grottoes icy labyrinth
dismantling us
a bone at a time
we studied each others
shifting decrepitude
watching each other rot
naked, twisting to white ashes
like a fiction of flickering transparencies
drawn faces slope downwards
every day
a dark-eyed Halloween
and i cant hear her voice
still a giddy pig
with **** talk
floundering in the mud
laughing about death
my heart is a secret terror
my breath tangled in your words
every syllable like a pound of grain
breathing black pebbles
I'm facing destiny
a dark jazz
like all before me
and you
my beloved
until all is parched dust
with
one of us still left standing
haunted by the absence of the other
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
From shelves and racks, or lying in stacks, Books,
Of all ages and epochs—adolescents and youths,
Aged and venerable, and e’en those in decrepitude,
Much eloquent, but in all silence, share with us
Experiences wide ranging, emotions well pent up,
Passions, love and hate, and joys and sufferings,
Triumphs, failings, histories, biographies and maxims.
A pat or stroke, or appeal in awe, or in supplication,
They’d unleash to you, in varied moods and temper,
Their stories, in letters, words, phrases, sentences;
In prose or verse on folios, or in acts and scenes,
Of Helens, Quixotes, Falstaffs, Holmes and Othellos,
In the highs and lows of their pleasures and pathos,
Of Lears, Tristans and Isoldes, and procrastinators.
Of the plucks and spirits of Arjunas and Achilleses,
Of the failings of the ill-fated Kareninas and Bovaries,
Of the unwavering faith of Jobs, Noahs and Abrahams,
Of the lovelorn Sakunthalas, and Sitas under Simsupa,
Of God’s Garden, and of the wisdom of the Himalaya,
They speak in silence, of the real and the imagined,
As mighty godlike genies waiting for our summons!
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 8:51 AM UTC
one word. one thing
shows up on my face.
everybody knows it is a
keepsake:
*keep away from me today,
for fks sake!*
certain peculiarmornings
wake with a cross on forehead.
days when you certain,
everything worth saying
has been written, sung,
not a **** thing left to
contribute, except whining.
no way to purge, the compulsion
welling up, coursing down.
this overwhelms, my outlet store,
permanent closed, sign says
don’t ya know it’s a recession.
a one man recession.
no government intervention
gonna come my way.
the notion that I’ll never just
once more, feel the thrill of a
first love, a new born progeny,
woman, baby, poem, no diff,
wrecks me badly, worried sun consults
my animal friends, what’s to be done?
knowing the answer to my curse is,
not one wiling to courage to curettage
the lining of my decrepitude,
the end then, of no more next time.
though there is a first here. ever.
first time, every stanza writ,
closed off, finally ended, with a flourish,
a puncture of a period.
~~~~~~~~
postscript:
the closing scheduled for now,
have to change the name, says York,
it’s the common law, I’m legal bound,
gonna sign the documents as
no more love poetry.
919am Wed Jul 22 2020
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 7:56 AM UTC
Where regrets ice over,
The disemboweled freedom rings:
Strolling down defunct bridges,
Unseeing by the dismembered dolls, and orphaned house shoes,
Sycophantic candy wrappers boomeranging,
Piano notes tumbling by on dusty wings.
The air current adds a gauzy, cheap thrill.
Detoured and lost again, casting off the surplus as you go;
The rattle and clatter of the dirt raising roads,
Trying to remember what to disown and
What to abandon in the wake of leaves,
And random shimmers from old butterfly trails.
The forgotten hopes pooled, where you once spent a day
In decisive despair, and decrepitude.
The vacant future come tumbling;
Not so much unexpected, as unwelcome
The loose ends dragging
Bird song remnants, cottonwood pollen,
Unspoken dearness, and unintended consequences.
The key glitters its way to the shallow bottom of the river
I watch it going down, with a half smile-
I stopped marking time ages ago, in my half-life.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 1:03 PM UTC
My bus pass came today
I got it through the post
I take the bus 'bout every day
More frequently than most.
It's nice to have a bus pass
Means I don't have to pay
But there's this other feeling
Knew it would come one day
It's that bus pass lying there
Says to me "You're old!
The government has got you now
In a werewolf's hold
Now everything is regulated
Housing, pension, care
And if there's no bed for you to die in
They'll leave you lying there
They'll sigh in young frustration
As they pass you in the street
They'll laugh because you're old
With unsure, fumbling feet
So take the bus, don't worry!
It'll save your legs a mile. "
But I know the younger ones
Will stand me in the aisle.
Yet I still have my pride
And Youth won't conquer me
That feeling of decrepitude?
For now, I'll leave it be.
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 5:42 AM UTC
cracks me up
this erroneous error message,
looks at me and states authoritatively
nuh-uh, buddy, “it ain’t you you babe,
it ain’t you we looking for babe”
makes me crazy crying
copiously betw snorting fits of
eloquent derision
why oh why
is it daily savings time prematurely
(immaturely) aging me,
be it advancing decrepitude
or just the AI’s sullen attitude?
be it a secret messaging that my
mother’s slow descent into
senility, loss of speech is now me-
visible to the all seeing eyes on
a dollar bill, & or the iPhone genie?
this erroneous messaging appears
with an irregularity regular, just
enough to make me think that
this
is
not
accidental
come to nyC,
come me to see,
need an independent
judgement summary
please
before the winter pale overcomes my
poetic resistance and they park me
in the backyard, where I can sit yet,
studying for multiple hours
the river-fed bay on its way
to the vastness of the Atlantic
Ocean, where the water will combine.
all cells of each of our selected
those chosen body’s of water,
bodies now interring,
while populating
intermingling
taking stingling diatoms from
of each, they will kiss, greet, each other,
with the clarity of recognition that our
poetry has already bonded us in ways that are irrefutable, been coming long time
geological formations new and old,
still forces unstoppable foreseeing
every, every ever
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 6:46 AM UTC
nothing
prepares you
for
the ****** decrepitude of old age
an obscenity of
plastic bags for *****
plastic bags for *****
fear of losing
your teeth down a drain
egg white and crackers are all you keep down
grumbling old hags in the coffin queue
waiting for the shroud
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
Entropy hunts you down;
until around 60,
this remains abstract.
Then, it becomes fact.
"Things fall apart;"
bodies are things.
Hearts and souls
improve with age.
Minds and flesh do not.
Fight the good fight.
You can only delay
inevitable decrepitude.
Every day, a battle
against the inevitable.
War with a grim enemy
that can never give up.
Entropy will hunt you down
Until your walls collapse
and death, relentless,
roars through the breach.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
-mors vincit omnia
The many old who live alone
must pay attention, take care.
Any misstep might hasten their descent.
Tumble down the lonely steps.
Lie waiting in your own filth,
unable to reach a phone.
What loneliness must attend such a fall?
If only we could choose.
Proud Aeschylus was struck down
by a falling tortoise.
That’s not too bad.
To be hit by a bus while
lighting one last lethal cigarette.
That’s even better.
In bed, at ninety, chugging toward
one, final gasp of ******
Even better yet.
But not in a strange bed hooked up
to noisy, indifferent machines,
poisoned by chemotherapy,
surrounded by terrified
friends and family struck dumb,
embarrassed and uncomfortable,
stunned by their own fears.
Best on your own two feet.
Like a soldier before the bullet.
Like a Viking struck down in battle.
Like you might have even mattered.
But there is no choosing.
Decrepitude is woven in our DNA.
You cannot escape the
inevitable carnage of mortality,
but you can be very careful
where you place your feet.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 6:45 AM UTC
The warmth of fire light
During cold starless nights
Wraps me as once you did
When we first romanced the stars
Naming them for each other
And for futures bright with hope...
The gray overcast and cold
Brine in the wind upon a somber beach,
Before and after the storm begins
And the rain itself heavy on the sand
Reminds me, even then, when
It is a lonely day
How beautiful to be
Delivered here, knowing touch
To be made real
By love
By your existence,
having been
Having held a tiny moment
I see you
In the crest of the waves,
In the embers that spark to kiss the air
And the ashes of a once living
Branch of a tree
That I burned to stay alive
From the cold decrepitude
A melancholy like / on this rainy day
In the watery places of memory and emotions
I see how beauty blurs
Without you
I peer with one eye at paradise (spurned)
When everything is beautiful
Because of you,
I am sure
It is your love that makes it all
My
Shine.
My world.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
MOT
Took my body in
for its MOT.
It was getting a bit old
in the tooth.
"Sorry mate, but you
are going to have to
have your wisdom extracted
it's doing yer head in!
And the mind...well
you're just going to have to
change it
know wot I mean.
I would if I were you.
(glad I'm not!).
And I suppose it has come
to your attention that...eh
your mojo isn't
working.
It's not getting enough oil
for your coil
to start something
...innit?"
The only thing that seems to be
working was...the hair.
"Well..!"he was loathe
to have to admit it
"...it was interesting but
receding!"
I had to admit that recently
my thoughts had gone a bit curly.
"Let me put it this way...if
I was vet...would have to put you down.!"
He chuckled at his own
dumb joke.
"But lucky for you I'm not.
I'm a body mechanic is wot."
The same young self satisfied smirk
of the very young.
I could see him thinking
like a cartoon bubble
coming out of his head
"How did you ever get so old?"
"Now if you trade yourself in
can give you a good deal in
the Reincarnation Line
know wot I mean?
Take it or leave it.
Can't do better than that."
I left it and left.
Sooner be me as I know myself
to be
even in my great decrepitude
lights blinking on and off.
"Not long to go now anyhow!"
I said aloud
Knowing all too well
that talking to oneself
the first sign that
the mortal coils are slip...
slip...damn it...slipping!
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 8:31 AM UTC
I look at smoke,
as it flies in the sky,
and in curls carries
the beauty of the things
that, once, had bloomed beneath,
and were the pride of men's eyes.
I don't fear thee, O smoke!
though, within thee, I see
my innocence, my youth
and my decrepitude,
for,you can't ***** my,soul
and this,is the only thing
that in heaven I need indeed.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC
What shall I do, while I slowly wait to die?
Make a time-lapse movie of my withering decrepitude?
Tell a thousand jokes on Twitter that people will scroll past in their own journey toward death?
In trying to create meaning out of no meaning
We come up with some really strange, elaborate and often internally inconsistent ideas
All of which are designed to distract us from the mirror.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 11:39 AM UTC
another tear sheds,
another petal wilts.
the decrepitude of the garden
becomes more palpable with each passing day.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 9:12 PM UTC
the waters cold
the tips of my toes tell my brain
but today i am sad
and the sun is shining
so i show rationality the shore
and walk on the wild side with the waves
high tide sweeps me off my feet and onto my throne of seaweed
it draws me closer
deeper
sings me sweet songs of forever
as it opens up its blue mouth big and wide
i swim closer
through sharp rocks and wrecks and calloused coral
eyes wide
eardrums dancing to the hypnotizing music
i am neck deep in salt water now
open cuts litter my arms and legs
i ignore the sting of reality
nipping at my toes
like colorful reef fish
i open my arms wide to embrace the cold fully
and i no longer feel the chill
i have grown use to
it
i have grown tired
the sun is playing hide and seek now behind the clouds
it's color a dull yellow
like a blinking light bulb
slowly dying
the water around me is a dark red
the world around me growing dimmer
my eyes flutter close as i lose consciousness
i dream of the sun returning to kiss my skin with the same intensity of before
the cold keeps me company, cooing in my ear that everything will be alright. cradling my body like a mother would a child.
sharks circle below
a hungry frenzy
of teeth and scales
the shark creeps closer
it sinks its teeth into your calf but its numb from the cold so
you don't feel it at first
then
without warning
you're pulled under and completely submerged in coppery tasting salt water
it stings your nose and eyes
and all the gashes on your arms and legs
you reach your hand out
ask the cold for forgiveness
for assistance out of this mess that it's baited you into
but the cold laughs in your face
tells you, you were a fool for falling for it's manufactured kindness, it's imitation of warmth
then the bite really hits you
that's when you feel the pain
it's a defective, decrepitude creature
it doesn't understand.
it swims in these waters everyday it is use to the cold
and you are a stranger only knowing of the sun
**you must learn to swim
or
you must forgive yourself.**
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 1:14 PM UTC
Sad eyes of scribbles underneath your furrowed brow
Weather beaten, masticated, bashed
The lines of your face burrow and settle in to dwell
They check their mailboxes, set up lemonade stands
And drudge up demons beneath pores
Once you were alone in your purity
The occasional blemish or two
Nothing to make into cities
Nothing like decrepitude
Dec 31, 2019
Dec 31, 2019 at 1:10 PM UTC
In beautiful decrepitude
the structure stands bereft and crude
through windows cobwebbed and curtain’s torn
it gazes down where dust was lawn
the slated roof now patched with fern
its chimney stacks that once did burn
are housing rats that left the ship
but never quite abandoned it
and often when the Sun breaks through
it warms the rooms where love was true
and in that light see grandeur rise
where once the ruin beguiled eyes
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 5:20 AM UTC