"depose" poems
We entered the holy city with palm branches to welcome
Parading in as they sang 'Hosanna!'
They honored Him as if He were their king
As if He had come to set them free
Oh how right they were, the Promised King, come to set His people free
We shared in communion with the Lord and the betrayer
On the eve of the darkest day in history
Hate brewed at one end of that table
While love stirred peacefully on the other
And all of us living in blissful ignorance in between
We celebrated the passover with our master
And we prayed that The Lord would not pass over us again
That instead He would stoop down to us and save us
But we denied Him in His hour of need
We slept soundly as He was betrayed by us
Like a lamb led to the slaughter, He gave His life for another
They beat Him within inches of His divine life
They cast lots for his garments, and spit on His bloodied face
No longer did they yell 'Hosanna!' to welcome their king,
But they yelled 'crucify him!' to condemn their Divine Lord
They drove nails into his frail hands
He cried out to heaven asking why The Lord had forsaken Him
He declared in defiance ‘It is finished’ and He passed on to death
They threw a sword into his swollen side
His holy blood and holy water spilled to sanctify the earth onto which it fell
So silly they were, they thought that they could **** God
That they really believed they could depose the Lord of all with mere nails
But the sky darkened, and heaven turned away as to not see her Lord die
The earth shook and the world changed
Suddenly all knew 'surely this man was the Son of God'
The once bright and beautiful sky turned suddenly dark
The earth shook violently in disapproval that her creator lay dead on her face
The warm humid air turned suddenly bitterly cold and dry
For the promised Messiah had been defeated
Death itself had victory over the world, and the world knew it was so
There, on the cross, lay the Life of the World, dead
The Light of the World had been snuffed out, and the world left in darkness
The hope of all mankind suddenly vanished
The steady hand holding the world wavered in mourning
And darkness covered the seemingly God-forsaken earth
Who are we at the foot of the cross that stood silently?
We stood by and watched the promised Messiah be taken away and killed
We reap what we sew, and will now live out our days in darkness
Without hope we shall suffer for all time, a punishment fit for our crime
We crucified the Messiah, we gave the Lord to death, we killed God
For three days the sun did not rise
For three days the world swayed unstable
The demons danced in the darkness
Hell was victorious
Because for three days, God lay dead in a tomb.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
i’ve long dreamt
of black flags in the streets
tonight i marched beneath
the shadow of their wings
shoulder-to-shoulder
in hope and solidarity
an anarchist professor
with a climate change activist
an independent journalist
and one of my students
as mid-November winds tugged
at her pink-and-brunette hair
she lifted a hand-drawn sign
of a gigantic sneaker
smashing a ****
and i felt
for not the first time
an enormous sense of pride
how humbling to at once
inspire and be inspired by
an eighteen-year-old
punk and artist
who asked to borrow
The Moral Imperative of Revolt
two scant months ago
then took to the streets
to oppose and depose
a twisted fascist virtuoso
for two whole hours
we hundreds owned the streets
we marched down Rosalind
Central and Orange Avenue
as protest slogans rang angelic
we raised hell and found heaven
in liberty equality and solidarity
but then the pigs closed in
cordoned to Lake Eola
to scream acquiescent rhetoric
at the fish sleeping
blissful in their innocence
beneath the jet black surface
a half-dozen cops in riot gear
astride horses loomed
ominous before us
backlit by the headlights
of the aggravated motorists
our march had forestalled
as the people abandoned the streets
we’d won so easily
i felt my chest wilt beneath
the weight of forsaken opportunity
my eyes scanned the remaining crowd
four stood strong
rooted to the concrete
by the world's weight
anchored by conviction
an anarchist professor
an independent journalist
a climate change activist
and a freshman college student
i heard the professor whisper to his student
i heard him say she'd put herself in harm’s way
that they'd lost the day when the marchers
turned their backs and walked away
but she didn’t flinch or move an inch
she stood silent and vigilant
shoulder-to-shoulder
chin held almost as high
as her Nazi-smashing protest sign
and her matching middle finger
and in that moment
i could’ve died
smiling
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
*My nature, once pleaded for one of these darling ones!
The amazing hope only found in the fair women down here.
A strength found only in the wilderness having the ability
To drink bourbon until dawn being absolutely naughty
And then the next morning to show you how to properly
Use a fork and knife while signing thank you cards.
To be raised up to all the heights any man could bear:
Has my God ordained my fate to be southern reborn?
Perhaps he has indeed given this soul another turn.
Gullied without a patriot's name, have I lost my sense?
Yet to be treated as if I were by law a prince.
Am I so brave or just this Belle’s tool?
I never saw a patriot yet that wasn’t a fool.
Here comes she now with religion and the laws
Should I be Absalom or should I be David's cause?
But I am the instructor, or have I lost my place?
She has taken me over with so much grace.
Good heavens, how fast must a patriot pant!
She stole me away by saying “A saint I ain’t.”
Pulling off my shoes as she pulls me down from my throne
I cross my eyes as I moan and I groan.
A kingly battle within the sweetest of torments,
Was their ever a prerequisite or my consent?
The look in her eyes – flames, fire and fury – nothing to lose.
Inferring this infernal night is ours to depose;
Oh God it’s true she’s petitioned me to approve her by choice,
But are not my hands still powered by my voice?
So my pious subjects, for my safety please pray.
I do think this Belle has taken all my will away.*
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 11:32 AM UTC
the words spilled
out in a rush.
they dove
from the tip
of my tongue
before i could bite
them back:
i told a friend today
that i would die
for this. i have no
sons or daughters,
no cats or dogs,
not even a fish
to provide for. if i
could place my body
on the line to depose
this fatuous fascist,
then i was obligated
to mount a resistance.
and i almost caught
myself by surprise—
my empathy congealed
to galvanize and, in an instant,
catalyzed conviction.
the tears of a student
wearing a hijab, frightened
to show her face outside,
crystallized in my mind
like a mirror, with the phrase,
"the least of these" scrawled
upon its surface.
the shouts of a student
hoisting a hand-drawn
protest sign, almost as high
as her middle finger,
set my heart to aching with pride
as we stared down riot cops
on mounted horseback. she stood firm
and did not falter.
and though i choked
back tears when i said
that i would lay
my life down
for a stranger,
at least i can say
my voice
did not falter.
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
803
Who Court obtain within Himself
Sees every Man a King—
And Poverty of Monarchy
Is an interior thing—
No Man depose
Whom Fate Ordain—
And Who can add a Crown
To Him who doth continual
Conspire against His Own
1.7k
1280
The harm of Years is on him—
The infamy of Time—
Depose him like a Fashion
And give Dominion room.
Forget his Morning Forces—
The Glory of Decay
Is a minuter Pageant
Than least Vitality.
1.4k
Now know I, Parting is such sweet sorrow
No more, twixt moon and stars, that face to behold,
Goodnight, Goodnight, til it be morrow,
Fair smile that banisheed dark and cold,
Soft words no longer shall indulge my laboured mind
Nor calm this heart of captive bird,
Away with thy witchcraft, my soul to unbind
Much worse, it be done, nay utter a word
Mind must such fancies ****** ‘neath night skies
And yet; No more can I your ghost depose,
Than with mine own hand, pluck out mine eyes,
And by such act, forget a rose
No longer graced with thee to stroll,
But return to toil, my penance, my toll.
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 5:00 PM UTC
in the brief habitual habitat of
your strenuous lily leaps infinitely
to my lips
your strong horizontal aroma .a clean
poesy angling soft heaven a little garden
and i
tend
it
htiw
ym
thuom
a succulent thorn protruding indiscriminately
and you take it up. take it safely. take its hideous
drab voice and muffle it in your elegant song
and
the
base winsome shape of your fracas explodes perpendicular
roses blushing shamelessly in the hard languid chamber
's
clumsy petals stupidly, anon and hither and verily
the husk of *** drips
completely. i drink of your sensual geometry and every cup
full and blasphemous sprints a heavy sweat clasped
sorely muscles breeding contractions
ugly.
but i am but will not be and shortly. only are any of we, so ladle
and depose upon me your hot brutish stink.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC
I sit here staring at this blank page,
Gathering my thoughts
Like drawing motionless water droplets together
On a glass pane until they flow as a single stream.
In the silence ensured by my noise cancelling headphones
I hear my heart manifest the thrill of a novel idea.
And I wonder why I avoid the word ‘heart’ in my poetry.
To me it is an ***** too base in its functions
To be declared the seat of emotions profound.
I may depose it from the seat of the feelings,
But not as an executor of their will.
For the effect is always more certain
Unless I want to lose myself in
The infinite regression to
The original
cause.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 6:09 AM UTC
an intrepid inheritance
predicated on delusion
processing profuse refuse an
iconoclastic self-absorption suffusing
each and every molecule
we’re confusing consumption
with an inane ideology
as we choke the atmosphere with
CO2 and pump toxins into
our food will we pause as
the doomsday clock tick-tocks
closer to midnight
and the terror alert
goes code red
to consider that we
are at once
this planet’s cancer
and its cure
if Jesus is truly the
reason for the season
do you suppose he’d
impose on those
who do not
share your faith
for the love of Christ
let’s depose the overlords
the Nazarene opposed
hell
that’s something even
i could get behind
Mary
did you know
that your baby boy
was an anarchist who
practiced non-violence
and met death on a cross
as a terrorist rebelling
against the unjust
to those who deign to
name themselves Christians in
homage to the divine
why profane the memory
of a socialistic hippie who
bred an insurrection and
bled for the cessation
of human conflict
the negation of
self-serving intentions
disguised in capitalism
in the spirit of Christmas
defy the death drive
propelling us towards mass extinction
abandon corporate bookstores
protest in front of city hall
the kingdom of god is within you
so go home
kiss the ones you love for
“if we are not the word of god
then god never spoke”
it’s up to us to recognize
that we ourselves
are progenitors of the divine
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
“We’ve engineered the world for comfort and ease. Most people rarely step outside of their comfort zones these days—we’re living progressively soft, sterile, temperature-controlled, overfed, under-challenged, safety-netted lives1. And it’s slowly limiting the degree to which we experience our, as the poet Mary Oliver put it, “one wild and precious life.””
Michael Easter, Substack
<>><<>
five months have expired
from when this notion
1st caught my notice
but fallow lay,
unattended, unremarked
unforgiving
of my ignorance and inattention
but it freshly, rightly,
core challenges me
guilty of the underbelly softness
so well described,
I
choose to scribe,
wrestle with angel and devil,
two~on~one human,
and yet, still a
fair fight
"wild and precious!"
how rarely we employ these
adjectives,
that conjure the edginess of an
existence
lest you think,
that we are here to implore, urge,
skydiving, remote wilderness trekking, or other physical states
that set adrenaline on fire,
I am not
afterthat for them
oh, my
wild and precious
is far more treacherous and enthralling
what I beg you to embrace is
no farther than
nubs, knobs and stubbled nibs of your fingers,
the taste buds flowering invisible
on the wily, twisty tongue,
the tiny-vibrating little hairs of your nostril,
two extra large eggy pupils of your two eyes,
here lies danger,
your customized throbbing throbbing your drumming,
leadings
access to the garden of
The truly wild and precious,
the poems you will scribe,
from the safety of your captains chair,,
Throwing caution to the wind compose and depose yourself with bitter questioning,
For which the answered answers must be truly be
wild and precious
cyan sighs,
oaken cries,
furious colorless invasive tears,
steely stabbing personal truths,
yes those wild ones,
in your. chest close held,
spill them like cold coffee,
surrender the precious, and
inward confess your
shame, gains and the relit
that you are not merely
wild and precious
but a sea borne sailor,
a navy voyaging to
to where
danger enthralls
enlivens!
Jun 21, 2025
Jun 21, 2025 at 10:23 AM UTC
.how many coordinates does it take to draw a straight line? last time i heard: two... so why even bother with two spells of being a politician in office... why not extend the tenure to 8 years to begin with and scrap the 2nd cycle of elections? the "people's will" wouldn't require a 2nd election cycle to elect a politician... given that a politician can be given a 2nd "referendum", but the people, with their iron will, are not entitled to collectively express the plethora of doubt? good! and upon with each and with each upon every other: their own version of an autocrat.
so...
why would you have
a mid-term vote
in America?!
what's the point?!
why have a mid-term
vote?!
people are either too tired
to give a ****
or too engrossed
to mind: either...
i don't need some pompous
diacritical
exfoliation from the south
of England,
to mind whether it's
a politician or a journalist
talking...
fuck's sake...
Lord Andrew Adonis
sounds less pompous
than Peter Hitchens!
so... why have a mid-term
vote?!
what's the point?!
you voted blond-quiffie
in power...
so... the mid-term vote
could depose him?!
no... i'm too dumb
and without much of a libido
to give a **** about
the politics of these people...
and...
i'm lacking the fetish for lying.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 8:04 PM UTC
back then, when communism was
heralded on the fifth of may
to glorify work,
you had old people dump coffee
beans into the river because
no one told them what to do with it,
you had unselfish atheism back then,
you were encapsulated as a species,
fully noble to be categorised as
**** sapiens; but now you're not;
we're all artists now,
spare time writing wonders,
full time displaying unmade beds
in former power-stations of vast spaces...
i guess in order to provoke thought...
after all, congested spaces breed
claustrophobia, a display in an economised
space like that is no comparison to a
large open space where you sort of
have to attract thinking
about the most debased work imaginable
to be considered in the realm of being, a
qualifiable work of "art"... well, what do you expect,
qualifying an unmade bed as art will
give you insight into newtonian causality
(i know, einstein muddled it a bit):
to qualify an unmade bed as art akin to
the statue of david will eventually
quantify an expression of art in another
medium exponentially, namely poetry;
modern visual art is the reason why
we have an exponential increase in
poetic output - if the beauty in visual art is
missing or is abstract or just plain ugly,
people will turn to the 26 signatures
to simply un-imagine what's being plated,
by the time we return to the grander aesthetics...
well, by the time anything is accomplished,
people will have to re-imagine the body
by salvaging it from ***********
and poetry will have to depose what advertising
does to the phonetic units, with so many
fonts and copyright trademarks whatever.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
Don’t expect evil men to do good things,
They are sick and twisted and addicted
To the bastardy they do. It’s up to you.
You must block them and defrock them;
Throw them out of your political party
Give a hardy heave ** so they know,
Because any word but ‘no’ means yes,
And to them even no can mean okay
If their party pays enough money today
So they can say whatever they want
They’ll flaunt lies as the people’s choice
Unless you give voice to their crime.
They will repeat it each and every time.
Ride them out of town on a rail if need be,
Their seedy behavior will justify it.
They will deny it in face of film footage.
The usage of many lies they will coin
Showing those who are paying attention
That any mention of truth or honesty
Will get instantly reversed and wielded,
Fielded like a pop up ball, by lawyers
And spin doctors on their political team
To make it seem like the good guys
Are not as wise as the black hats
And that will be that, if you don’t stop them.
So beat them, defeat them; turn it around!
Those clowns can only lie for so long
If you don’t go along and okay their crap
Then slap them into jail when they cheat.
Knock them off their feet, depose them
Compose the right paperwork to reverse
The worse things they do and then more;
Even the score by sending them home.
Comb the laws they wrote for corruption
And the interruption of human rights.
Fight fire with fire. If they holler, you shout
And leave them out of the next round
Of sound logic because they have none.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
Are not thou supremely good and wise,
Imparting these prodigious gifts - not in vain,
What wonders are reserved inside the breadcrumbs reign?
Amidst the breadcrumbs - the arguments have shown
Such truth’s only given to guide us all home.
Your visions’ mildness I shall not condemn,
Taking up my pen to force your diadem.
'Tis true, Q grants the people what most they crave,
Even more perhaps - than mortals ought to save -
For lavish grants suppose the monarchs were all tamed
With more than goodness than my wit can proclaim.
But when should good people strive their bonds to break?
If not when evil tyrants are negligent or weak?
Let Q give on till he can give no more,
‘Lest we find ourselves homeless and poor -
And to every shekel which Q can retrieve,
Shall it cost a limb, a choice - or a prerogative?
To supply new plots, shall be not my core,
Nor to plunge us deep in some expensive war,
Which, our treasures were never meant to supply,
We must, with our remaining kinship, refuse to buy.
Oh faithful friends forget our jealousies and fears
Call on each other to solve the issues, don’t rejoice in tears.
Whom amongst us, when our aid is torn,
Shall be left naked and left to public scorn?
Are we not the next successor, whom we fear and hate -
If we allow these obnoxious leaders of state
To turn all virtue into nigh and overthrow
And denounce all righteousness both good and foe?
Q’s right, they fight for sums of personal gold,
The collateral is all of us to be pawned and sold -
Like sheep to the slaughter, Where We Go One We Go All.
They corrupt their titles into law,
If not, we the people have the right to reign supreme.
We did not make them the kings, these kings are made by them -
An empire has no power unless that empire has trust -
And without trust, it can no longer be just.
Take them all down for the general good redesigned,
In their own wrong any nation cannot be defined.
In altering that, we the people can be relieved,
Better the evil ones suffer, than all nations grieve.
We all know their evilness their sins they chose,
God was their king, and God they durst depose.
Call now on your own piety, your spiritual, filial name,
It is our right, to be fearless and let us build our own futures’ flame.
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 3:44 PM UTC
O, cry morning, sun breaks again
In that history of banalities
Are written, I finished the cigarette
Before the coffee, twirling wind
O, sigh morning as inverted
Could carry me to the rock wall, thinning grey,
Of the house where egos, bruised, seek guidance
The black bird builds a decoy nest
O, shy morning. churlishly answering questions never
Asked before, “nah-uh, nah-uh, nah-uh,”
(A ****** is heard, of most[ly] fowl)
Spoken mostly to the fact:
It is what it is. Acceptance
O, belie morning. builds a brutalist window, round by row
The they that walks whistles low with nebulous intent
To remind itself to forget
Abysm is a stranger in your city streets.
O, blithe morning. Such cringing in place
Of those sleeping hours, parsing the drop-ceiling’s
Calligraphy: kings be draped in robes of flesh
To depose the anarchists in cerebral lands,
O, yes, my morning. a lechery for the heart,
That religion of my given path
Or its surrogate, the lawful rebels
Writing on every city row, so willing but rough,
My guest, O, my morning, such a pity!
Restless and genuflect, the they does not find itself
Swayed by the largess of absence
Craning neck eastward toward the perfect morning,
Ever on the cusp of the perfect twilight.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
Lord, depose our Apollo,
Be our true Lord of Poetry
And so give us poetic licence
To fulfil,
To craft,
To create
With a God given palette
In your own imagery.
Blaze a trail from your heart
To the spirits of men,
Taking captives and setting them free
To feast on your words of life,
To move to your music of love,
To emerse into an eternity of dance,
To celebrate and so to reflect
Your devine Artisan Soul.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 3:12 AM UTC
As the parch eternal light
Waves logue stolid homage
After death to exhort a ubiquitous warrigal
Inherit yet to suckle sole
Fickle penury lightening squares terse
Malcontent eugenics dragoon, limitless
To depose upon clouds of fire the mammoth
Patrician lynchpin heard to glower farther
Sovereignty; spate renascence soliloquies ravage
And winkle out Almathea to give
Deus sentence weoponry
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 11:14 PM UTC
Hollow words **** Eat the egg by the pound
Now the garish middle trees are supporting falling off the ridge
Dare we go on with this dredge
Like a lightbulb a canon filches the purse
Byron you wrote you write
Every substantiatable corn
Harp harp on the nails digging into the digable ground
Not like the pillow filled with clouds is the
Syringe tinted
Immobile tank last windows breath sank
Lycan depose
Merry hard rot and decompose
Songs of worth and old
Diametrically opposite to the
World on its toes
Blalala let the intern take his copy of its book to the marlin fishing grounds where the floodbanks roar over the waters and the tree leaves sank into the gravel patterns brave little capitol letters
Hee hah hee hah
Tripe and tripe on the wheels of Atlantis
You’re exposed! Naw
Thought and thoughted that the world was a cup
Believe a word and your life could be ruined
Believed their words now my life is ruined
Have I now peddled the unmistakable
And I ask, “But can truth be sold?”
While a million others stole by
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 6:54 PM UTC
Time as got by the caravels, is a fluid motion propelling us forward
and in a hopscotch moment, time leapt ahead by one hour of the morning clock.
I am again in the shadow of a church where the dour looks of fanciful figures
carved by loving hands from unforgiving material weigh heavily on my shoulders.
The street sweeper who tells me his name is Stephen stops for a while to whisk a cigarette from the depths of a long tunic.
Another artist to depose other artists.
We talk of change and will the weather hold true, I offer a sip from my flask, he offers one from his, a most wonderful way to open these tired shutters onto an as yet unseen day.
The old lady arrives with cheese and wine, I think she remembers, I think of breakfast, two cards silently placed in her hand and she smiles, later I wondered if I should have intervened and perhaps the impossible task is the only one possible for her day,
the minutes flick my eyes as the sun lifts its own.
But it is still calm for this hour, for this Holy Easter Day.
No children yet to speckle the breast of innocent air,
and no owl today,
I look to where but no hoot from there and I ponder more deeply as the sun rises higher and my body sinks lower.
Soon she wakes too,
'reasons to ask if you care then to answer', she says.
I have no answer to answer and stay silent.
A kiss on the Rose of her lips
as we are and become two ships sliding fluidly across an ocean of time.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
Darwinism has much more
to do with phonetic encoding
than with theorising
an absence of theology
(with signs an absece of the
practice of 2 + 2 = 4), or
trying to depose god or Tsar
of Henry VIII prior to the bishop
the cardinal... the priest, a dog...
forget genesis or creativity,
remember dentistry...
in vacuum who's the happiest?
a dog... and by god's grace we're the
remnant of his existence, dodging dogs
in mirror not so chiral...
merely saliva... and by demand
i know how to berserker a revisionist
stand-off for a lampoon to say but one
ensured non-differential letter!
hence him less operatic than her,
with her ******** vowel ooh ooh ah
and his netting stability in Cumbria and
Shropshire and suburbia in general,
i.e. hula hoop... a sexuality of symbols,
to think any man might treat
vowels as feminine and consonants as male...
hmm!
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
You predictable communists rant,
your lobotomized zombies may chant.
But the people for Trump
are now over the ****
You'd depose him, we know... but you can't.
PS:
** ** Hey Hey - Donald Trump has got to stay*!"
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 4:04 PM UTC
"A robot went away", I depose,
"He'll surely deprave" , I posed with a red nose.
He'll commence a new world of intelligence,
Where there will be no values, no fragrance.
No society, no feeling, no excitement, no heredity,
He'll develop a society of discipline and punctuality.
Are these 2 things only responsible for a country's economy?
They'll rule over us, crush us.
And , we'll be left lamenting ..and watching the eroding lust..
Surbhi Dadhich.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 7:20 AM UTC
*sie wann eingeben krähenschar,
sie lernen zu krächzen wie.*
brrrrrrp... rülpsen die blitz...
London en flammen... ähnlich:
hängend auf ihr meßerschmitt flügel:
zu total... liebe... unt: zement.
ja.
for some reason speaking vater deutsche
makes perfect sense to care for:
tochter englisch -
deine vater, mein tochter:
ist wenig volk diese tage.
unless i have some
undeciphered fetish
dealing with the movement of
people... m'eh... me as clueless
as you -
but i'll do the same unto you...
mein tochet...
funny how i can speak
very bad german and then return
to perfect english (unless you're
my Irish critic) and
perfect Polish (i have no critics
there, being an exile,
i'm technically non-existent).
but it was all about a proverb
an old Polish lady said:
if you go among the crows,
you must croak like a crow...
that didn't get me far...
the most painful expression encompassed
by Solomon...
certainty vanities really do
include crucifixes and iron maidens
to depose the king to grovel
in his self-erected care to ask for
wisdom and later keep a brothel...
because it can't be called a harem
once the king ages to 70...
the harem becomes the bordell,
no old walrus can compete;
but i like speaking careless german...
i just like the sound of it;
if i'm bound to move to Frankfurt,
i'll start reading die welt
and not write my own crass volkspreschen.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 9:16 PM UTC
Set Aloft in fabled scale
Our heroes fought and they wailed
Ascoff at the heretic way
Against which he'd kneel and pray
In Sordid aerial ritual fashion
Deposed with an aural passion
That helm against Helen goes
While little fingers and toes depose
Those who fight to stay aloft
crushing those with figures soft
Continued on in settled aims
Some will settle with only fame
For at the end, blood becomes dust
The floating hollowness of what is must.
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 1:09 PM UTC