"derided" poems
My my, what a special little snowflake.
Why did you choose to be this way?
You chose to be different, you chose to rebel.
No binary for me!
You chose the grief, the pain.
You chose this abuse, bruised by
the verbal ferociousness, forged by physical fallacies
To be thrown out of bathrooms
because doing your business in the bathroom is abysmal.
You chose to be derided by decisive discrimination.
You chose to be murdered by misconceptions,
***** by ridiculous requirements.
You chose to be beaten, assaulted.
You chose the words I weave to weaken your will.
You chose the sacred sermons I spit at you.
You chose to be
What I find disgusting, despicable
because you chose to be what you aren't,
but I realize what I really regard you to be.
My my, what a special little bigot.
You think I chose to be this way?
You think
I chose the injuring, injustice,
the jester, the joke
the target, tortured,
This pain, my poison,
the prey, praying,
the sinner of sins so bittersweet,
So I could be "special"?
Special isn't a sacrifice of physical self
Nor the gunshots and gruesome grief
Nor even the crass comfort of a half-assed comrade.
You think I CHOSE this,
and you didn't choose
to spit and spew your sour speeches
to disperse your disgust in discrimination
to integrate your ignorance into my existence.
Or did you not choose
to deal the abuse
by your hand
yourself?
My special little bigot,
You live as you are.
So be it, if I am so "special", the special little snowflake.
Yes, we are the little snowflakes that your palm's presence melts away,
And you're that burning persistence of life
Blocking with your own self our slow, wistful descent,
As if it were futility and not of your own will.
If I am the snowflake, you are the fire.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
There's a contentious subsection
Of the homosexual community
That go in a different direction
Hoping to find social immunity
The word masculine
Is the mask they're in
To live life saccharine
Wearing a plastic grin
From the sensation
Of over-compensation
Actuating placation
To differentiate
From the effeminate
They say they're separate
But really they're just desperate
To be accepted
By their own dejectors
To not be rejected
They become defectors
To avoid ridicule
They stack their deck with nothing but physicality
Their mind minuscule
The albatross on their neck is a lack of personality
To please those that compare them to **********
Internalizing their homophobia
An infernal mighty cornucopia
Creating an over abundance of rules
One must follow to be a proper male
But we should jump out of the pool
If being miserable is what that entails
The more genuine version we see
The happier we all should be
Then we might all be free
But if I were to show glee
Someone might call me a ******
And I don't think I could hack it
When the rest of society backs it
With an approval that is tacit
So I convince myself I'm avoiding identity politics
Using total discretion
To make no impression
But my friends and family would know that's not what I'm doing
So why not tell them?
I haw and I hem
Because the underlying ghostly shame
Is the true nature of this social game
When you have the fame of the flame
You're told to get in a lane of the same
Erase my ******* sin
With the title masculine
There are practical reasons to hide it
But how much time will be bided?
Will my life be derided
Until the evil are delighted?
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 12:58 AM UTC
My Nan just took away my nose,
she's got it in her pocket.
She did it 'cos she saw me
put my fingers in the socket.
I said "not me!" so she decided
to teach me quite a lesson.
And though her tactics I derided
soon I'll be confessing.
I cannot breathe without a nose,
cannot smell dad's awful toes.
Cannot sneeze, only cough
and my glasses will fall off!
So put it back, oh Nana dear,
and from the socket I'll keep clear.
And for a spare nose I'll be wishing,
in case the one you take goes missing!
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC
So...there's this girl who's rather smart
that, when her lips begin to part,
drives me up the wall in a good way.
I sort of want to see her everyday.
She's usually busy though,
so I occupy
time with one constant sigh
until she calls and then I go.
I don't really know too much about her ---
she's Aphrodite's caricature! ---
no,no, that's a bit rash and inflated,
but in my stomach butterflies've congregated
each time her face comes to mind.
Severely interesting,
her hands are often clean
and she's never proved less than kind.
I think it might be good to write her a song
(I should've been writing this all along)
so that she'll feel sublimely delighted
and is happy, though consistently derided
by the upkeep of her garden's flora.
She could use a lot
of things uncommonly wrought,
like poems stuffed with anaphora.
*In time all the snowflakes will evaporate.
In time the sun will sleep under an iron leaf.
In time acetylene darkens human hate.
In time all time will seem quite brief.*
So, in honor of her I have created
this mediocre song so dominated
by use of the Yeats-stanza's rhythmic-rhyme,
offering it to her as ends to the crime
of my deplorable mannerisms.
I hope it's well-received,
being arduously conceived,
but I'll openly accept criticisms.
Coral, though you must (and do) work a lot,
work harder at those things which can't be bought
(i.e. relationships, love, and empathy)
for even the natural workaholic bee
requires mutual love.
Even while working
find a small moment to sing
this song. I hope it's enough.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 2:54 PM UTC
We've heard of a woman's grace,
And romantic fables of her charm.
But delve beneath the surface,
And stir waters outwardly calm.
A woman, if pleased is divine
And will do plenty to prove her grace.
when angry she'll turn serpentine
And descend like a meteor from space.
She’ll be sarcasm personified,
Every sentence riddled with a taunt.
You’ll be slandered and vilified,
And derided as shabby & gaunt.
When pleased she’ll be friendly and chatty
And lure you to reveal your fears.
But soon she’ll turn vile and catty,
And delight in your failures.
She won't leave a chance to ridicule
And bring up things you’d rather forget.
She will attack with every feminine tool,
And force you to mull and regret.
And when you've had enough of her satire
And try to give her a piece of your mind,
She will breathe out tons of fire,
And to crisp she'll burn your behind.
So don't **** a woman to show
Her ****** and vindictive side
Be a gentleman if you don't want to know
That Far from being Jekyll, she's Mr. Hyde
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
(Written 12/09/09)
Sometimes the sun sets early
On times that passed too soon;
When reality's not worthy
And our dreams carelessly strewn;
Sometimes hope appears as worthless
As the secret tears we cry;
Some people die on purpose
With no thought to say goodbye.
Perceived selfishness, derided
Over all they left unsaid;
All their years of trying to hide it
- All for nothing, once they're dead;
Though they never meant to hurt us
Agony is always there;
Some people die on purpose,
Driven by profound despair.
Misery is bleak and mindless,
It devours from inside out;
And we only seek the kindness
That so many go without.
Feeling purposeless and worthless,
Trapped by drudgery and fear;
Some people die on purpose,
Some wish, but are still here.
Sep 12, 2009
Sep 12, 2009 at 2:43 AM UTC
Would you believe me,
If I told you,
That I'm in love with a ghost?
She who knocks on
pulsating, red doors,
But absent when I open them?
Yes, I'm deeply in love,
With an ethereal figure
who leaves her front door ajar,
And puts a huge "Welcome!" sign there,
But expects no guests.
Yes, she's a gentle specter,
Whose intangible fingers
****** my cheeks,
But when I reach out
to her, all my fingers grasp is thin air.
And I, left, derided with vanity.
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 12:02 PM UTC
1586
To her derided Home
A **** of Summer came—
She did not know her station low
Nor Ignominy’s Name—
Bestowed a summer long
Upon a fameless flower—
Then swept as lightly from disdain
As Lady from her Bower—
Of Bliss the Codes are few—
As Jesus cites of Him—
“Come unto me” the moiety
That wafts the Seraphim—
1.4k
I'm a tool pondering skyscapes.
Fondling a memory
Left behind
On sunset marquees.
It raced into the horizon like
A toad on the road.
A neon dream waving farewell.
Exploring mindsets:
An act in caressing
Bloodbath tesseracts.
A roundhouse rollercoaster,
Spinning at velocity of perfume
Hitting nasal perforations.
Core memories surface along spine cutlets,
No longer intrinsic
Doubt.
I'm settling for more.
Time is a moment
Too long to endure.
Hindsight is
A parson's lake passage;
A mad monster yet to be tamed;
A grain of salt to a fresh wound made;
Moments of grace from a fake great ape.
Blue morons slide
Into Mormon jovial footsteps.
Derided ice forestry into
King's cloaked ancestry.
A sad fisherman sailing
Ceaselessly out to sea.
And yet here I am
Talking to you,
Eyelight through obelisks
In hotbox barricades.
Hiding behind
A past of newspapers.
Headline reads 'ONLY DEVINE'
'TRADE REIGN WARNS JEWELS'
'PRINCE THREATENS ECONOMY
... AND CROWN.'
Wipe the frown,
Draw the sword.
Don't be ignored anymore.
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
Sometimes silence is preferred
To those constant constricting string of compliments
Written in your words and thrown off your tongue
With careless heed of the damage that they do
Irrevocable words of the lies of love and lust
Drip drip dripping down from your lips
To fall simultaneously in hearts and in the gutter
Where ******* collects and rains pour down
Eradicating all trace, but for the heart in which it kindled
No recognition from lips whose secret they once held
Now long forgotten and poorly remembered;
Lacklustre speech trailed and its meaning dismembered
Ill-gotten feelings poorly deceived when hopefully conceived
From the deceptions which derided and descended
From lips once bloodied; now full of false testament.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
I've lived off pressure
Ridden on expectant falls
Derided by some
I've been loved without measure
Tripped over some hearts
Hated by some
Whatever it is you do
There are expectations to flog you with
But always bear in mind
That humans
We never stop judging
Dressed in stereotypes
To our burial sites.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 1:19 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:39 AM UTC
How to start an ode to one’s dear daughter
Remains a true protégé to her mighty gist
In the beautiful pearls that they are not loyal
Brains and poetry are not loyal to one,
Yes, they can find abode in any and all,
As the spectre of poetry is haunting Africa,
It comes straight from University of Wits,
Beautiful like an angel in a lion’s roar
She sings and chants in a unique power,
Perhaps available in the paragonic muse,
The voice of reason is out above vice
Often laziness pays as tribute to virtue
As her excellence habitually comes forth
The daughter of Africa here heals my heart
Her small mandibles crests my soul to bliss
Her powerful poetry does marvel to my home,
Vuyelwa is bound above the scent in the name
As she puts melanin in the injured chocolate skin
To restore Africa back to her pedestal of glory
As positive shame in the name devoid of Christ
Is effortlessly condemned to ash pit of selfish culture,
To-night she bits you not to **** her blackness
Nor to accuse her again of being a black Soweto
Out of racial envy to preserve your intolerant self
She has promised freedom of space in your bed
Freedom of space in your royal cultural bed,
Vuyelwa my daughter your birth was happiness
To our poor home in the blackness of Maluleke,
Your slender and tall physique; goddess’s poise
In her holy ministry of poetized freedom to all
Whether white like snow or as black as Africa,
Your only anchorage of prettiness to sing my songs
Sing my songs in the name of our mother
You do Africa proud to manage your gods,
As the spectre of poetry foot loose from nether
Is haunting Africa, with art in vogue and reason
Singing to Africa what others derided to eerie
Africa can too sing in the voices of excellence
In lyrics and other all Africa can sing
African can sing Vuyelwa can sing
Can sing and chant in the voice of the people.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:03 AM UTC
The semi-salmon hued curtains have begun to pale;
The carpet's trodden down from door to closet;
The books keeping me company are crippling, their spines
Derided.
Shimmers of sunlight bounce off water-stains on the window,
Reminding me of your blonde flash of a head of hair.
And where are you now?
And what myriad hearts have beat beneath you?
And how many lives have been interrupted by that dulcet fury?
The wind outside shakes the shutters, knowing how deep you run through—
And how you're tattooed to—
My very pulse.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 1:45 AM UTC
To my dark scar, my black mark,
The shadowy spectre that follows,
you have constantly fought me down.
But know - I will not stand for it anymore.
I will reduce you to lower than anonymity
you are less than a stranger or an enemy
I will stare straight through you
you are not even nothing to me.
I no longer believe the lie that I need you
I will deny you the attention that feeds you
You are no more my inspiration or my muse
instead I choose to see things differently.
You will not be beautified or elevated,
You will not be derided or hated,
I won't dignify you with a single thought,
but, from now on - I will stand above you.
I am greater than the pin ***** of your existence
my heart beats with strength and persistence
You will not longer be the fear that lies in me
I will see the truth shining behind your darkness
You have tried to take my living breath
but I have already hit the depth of depths
and you can do me no more pain -
time and time again I will find my feet
and though you may bring me to tears
and poke my imagination with a thousand fears
I will not bow to you, my eyes are fixed on something higher,
and I will be wholeheartedly blinkered.
I will be me and that will be good enough
I won't measure myself by any of your should'ves
I will not blindly pursue an expectation of emptiness
instead I will profess my own self worth
I will see all of my differences - indifferently
they are beautiful and flawed but are unique to me
The rights to this story are paid for and they are mine
and I vow to myself that I will hold onto my pride
And when you rise up in me and begin whispering
when you are sat upon my shoulder - I won't be listening
I will block you out, I will sing above you
I will sing unashamedly because my voice is mine
and you will no longer dictate my course.
And when you are the brick wall standing in my way
And you try to cause my reason and my sanity to sway
I will rush you, I will break you and I will crush you
You will be no more than the dust beneath my feet
And I will run faster and stronger than before
And I know it won't be the last time I say this
But this will be my statement of intent and I will believe in it
And so right now, right at this moment
It ends.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
*being the topper in the class, he developed certain pride
that the envious derided, ignored flatterers on his side.*
the first bench was his permanent place
from where shone his haloed face
when the teachers spoke seemed it thus
there was only him in the whole class.
all questions he took the answers he knew
solved hardest sums others had no clue
not once an intruder could invade his space
he shined in glory of his flawlessness.
from him was never unfinished homework
ruthlessly made on exams his mark
was taken for granted he would win first place
the rest of the herd would just run the race.
the teachers indulged him the pride of the class
but you know all fame are fragile like glass
it so happened a new teacher joined the school
unbiased he was not to blindly toe the rule.
he asked the first boy if he had ever flown a kite
played marbles on road picked up a fight
if ever he had walked barefooted on the grass
stole a look at sky bunked even one class.
if he had ever chosen to close the book
hid him alone in the scariest of nook
scanned the horizon to catch first moonrise
counted the stars bamboo grove's fireflies.
he looked nonplussed didn't utter a word
anything than studies he hardly bothered
had he answered it would all have been no
to him most precious was his place at front row.
he bowed his head down with ashen face
for the first time in class he failed to impress
what happened next was no riddle to guess
that teacher was gone without a trace.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
Brexit means exit,
Brexit means exit.
It doesn’t mean:
Ignoring the masses who had their say,
Action replaced by incompetence and delay,
Having thirty-nine billion pounds to pay,
Giving our fishing waters away,
Compromising the borders of our precious UK,
Calls to vote again, the Brussels Mafia way,
Hope of a nation reduced to a faltering ray,
Democracy treated as if its had its day.
You promised,
You promised,
To implement what the people decided,
Those promises now watered down,
Refuted and then derided.
But most of all,
But most of all,
Mrs May,
Our vote to Leave,
Was definitely,
Was definitely,
Not a vote to stay!
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 2:40 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,
Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.
Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, weed-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.
Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
“ Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.”
Scorned, derided object of the culture’s rumor mill,
Laughed at, mocked, and ridiculed and all because you still
Held to One Who holds to you with scarred and nail-pierced hand.
One Who prophesied this persecution for your stand.
Yes, you knew that, as His servant, such would be the case,
For your Master, long before you, suffered like disgrace,
And the prophets faced the same mistreatment in their day--
When the world shot messengers for what they came to say.
So it’s not surprising it should happen now to you,
That the world would find anathema what you hold true--
And that it would crucify all those who bear His name
Celebrate, rejoice, be glad! When it treats you the same.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 7:22 PM UTC
The story is in Grimm’s ancient tome
Of the girl who wove straw into gold
Bamboozling the evil, gnarled gnome
With subterfuge both cunning and bold.
*Sing songs of cold tea in Styrofoam
And rude brown bread, dry without butter;
She knows no carriage nor castle home
Awaits the princess in the gutter*.
The dwarf chose not to concede defeat,
Rightly convinced that a deal’s a deal;
Filings and pleadings finally complete,
The circuit court to hear the appeal.
*Sing songs of cold tea in Styrofoam
And rude brown bread, dry without butter;
She knows no carriage nor castle home
Awaits the princess in the gutter*.
The panel’s judgment swift and direct;
The lower court had most gravely erred.
*Petitioner may rightly expect
Payment plus damages*, they concurred.
*Sing songs of cold tea in Styrofoam
And rude brown bread, dry without butter;
She knows no carriage nor castle home
Awaits the princess in the gutter*.
Bailiff took heir and inheritance,
Leaving nil which could be sold or pawned,
The king’s glances gave full evidence
The scapegoat would be a clever blonde.
*Sing songs of cold tea in Styrofoam
And rude brown bread, dry without butter;
She knows no carriage nor castle home
Awaits the princess in the gutter*.
There was no chance she could be returned
To her former home life in the woods
The miller’s girl, derided and spurned:
She’s a beauty, yes, but damaged goods.
*Sing songs of cold tea in Styrofoam
And rude brown bread, dry without butter;
She knows no carriage nor castle home
Awaits the princess in the gutter*.
A room in Amsterdam’s red-light tract
The former princess is on the game.
Still works under an implied contract;
The terms, however, not quite the same.
*Sing songs of cold tea in Styrofoam
And rude brown bread, dry without butter;
She knows no carriage nor castle home
Awaits the princess in the gutter*.
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 10:53 AM UTC
Pilate asked Him, “What is truth?” when Jesus stood on trial,
Bearing witness of the Truth to all who heard His voice.
Though philosophy rejected it, stood in denial,
Still, the Way, the Truth, the Life allowed mankind its choice.
“What is truth?” though, sounds urbane, superior to law.
Hermeneutics of humility smooths out the field.
I seem more sophisticated, cultured, not bourgeois,
If it’s all a mystery, still hidden, unrevealed.
So I claim, “There are no absolutes; it’s relative,”
Disregarding that my statement’s antithetical.
My assertion controverts itself (though tentative),
By proclaiming proclamations “theoretical.”
Next I try, “Who really knows what truth is, after all?”
All my friends agree with me; they wisely nod, concur.
Confident in doubt, with inconsistency banal,
Logic cast aside, to diametrics they demur.
How about “There is no right or wrong; it’s in your head!”
Satisfying concept until I’m the one abused.
Then my default is to judge the wrongdoer instead,
Never asking, “Why impose my ‘truth’ on the accused?”
“Well,” I claim, “I make my own reality; it’s true.”
If you counter me on that, I’ll argue all the way.
Think about it, though, because just how can I undo
True belief with skepticism; how will doubt have sway ?
Really, if I don’t have Truth, I don’t have anything.
Two plus two must equal four, or all the rest is void.
If we have no premise to employ linguistic string,
Then our discourse has no point; we’re barely humanoid.
Truth’s the binding to our book, the glue that holds secure
Logic, Reason, plain Consistency, our common ground,
Making possible each conversation to be sure,
Infrastructure of our culture, verity profound.
Then . . .
Let the relativist hush, he has no argument.
Making absolutist claims without the Truth is mad.
Only schizophrenics would attempt to circumvent
Rationale with their subjective unbelieving fad.
Maybe Truth’s “behind the times,” unstylish, square, uncool,
Maybe if I cling to it they’ll call me “Simpleton.”
All I know is Truth, derided, under ridicule
Still is True, and I’ll be its “minority of one.”
Yes, I’ll make that choice to speak the Truth against the tide.
Orwell’s “revolutionary act,” though I’m alone,
Pilate asked Him, “What is truth?” and history replied, . . . that
Truth, though spurned, remains civilization’s Cornerstone.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
I've scorned and derided,
Needled and spited,
Those, who are closest to me.
I've cheated and lied,
Vilified and decried,
Those, who are closest to me.
I've toasted many glasses
With strangers in places
Where I shouldn't have been.
I've smoked and laughed,
Admired strange ***
In lands where I cannot be seen.
But mention your name,
And all seems so vain,
Those promises I failed to keep;
The losses that haunt me in sleep.
Despite confessed sins,
My transgressional whims,
I know I've always been true;
And when I bow out,
My whisper will shout,
Above all, I've always loved you.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC
darkness withers the heart
but for some that thrill is life itself
unseasonal to her tenderness but she is drawn to it
to her mind it was the tempest she sought
a desire too strong to deny
she derided him for his winter heart
magic he would say
liar she would cry
but she would never turn him away
never deny him his pleasures
dire and dark a man with his winter heart
bright eyed she opened herself to whatever he desired
passions flame burns quick
untill all she is and has is gone
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
Best enjoyed
listening to the B-side of Tom Wait’s
Heart Attack and Vine
The needle pierces the old dusty vinyl; cue anticipation.
An amalgamation of artificial nostalgia and the feeling like
someone carved a six-inch valley in the middle of your skull.
A Gravelgarglingchainsmokeingdevil (God when he’s drunk)
spilling guts at thirty-three revolutions per minute.
And with each screaming note there is not violence, but the
sensational. Tell me about jersey girls and china white.
All I want to do is ride upfront. Light cigarette off of cigarette
and fail in attempts to pronounce the place names (shu•be•na•
cadie, Ko•uchi•bou•guac (when I was a kid I though it was Capital A)).
Maybe real music is found within silhouettes of silence. Standing
on the marsh flats gazing up at the abyss. The stars reign down
over the tide that is coming in the bay and the ice,
cracks and echoes with a natural reverb. I think
I am creature driven and derided by vanity.
Or maybe its just time to flip the record.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC