"detailing" poems
Great tragedy suffered,
Impossible circumstances conquered,
The warrior walks upon the field flanked path.
The wanderer's armor tells a tale,
Battle scarred and partially rent asunder,
A face of stoicism that hides the haggardness underneath,
Peeking out beneath the mask of a hardened soldier.
The clouds clap ahead, preceded by flashes of light brightly illuminating the world,
Accompanied shortly after by the rainfall.
A trickle becomes a downpour,
The battered individual trudging along as the road becomes a bog of mud and slop,
The message firmly planted within their mind.
Coming upon the dark outline of the castle ahead the warrior picks up pace,
Reflecting upon what would happen to those that the Warrior helped.
The pace is now fueled by a different kind of urgency.
The rain is cold upon the face's of those that it falls on,
The torn edges of metal digging in at places,
Some already wounded and tender,
As the final hilltop between them is crested.
The gates are closed,
And this loyal soldier is for the moment shut out,
A fist is raised,
The declaration of allegiance given,
An angry detailing of the warriors achievements and adventures shouted,
And a challenge of one's path,
Building in anger and fury as the dam finally breaks and gushes forth,
Threatening to shatter the gate and doors to splinters and twisted metal.
A long ago promised gift to be rewarded,
For all the things endured,
Things that could be considered so cruel,
The storm picks up in force until it's akin to that of a hurricane,
As if brought forth by the warrior's grief and pain finally being released,
For the first and only time.
These things ringing out despite the storms roaring wind,
Gathering force,
Perhaps in affirmation of the warrior's words.
After a pause the gate begins to lift,
It's metal screeching,
The doors groaning as they begin to swing outward, and the battered soldier is bathed in light,
Taking the weight from the warrior's shoulders,
As the threshold is finally crossed.
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
The dead-bolts on the interior doors
Against the nephews most securely locked
(One is destructive; the other explores)
Ignored by their mother (usually crocked)
The brother-in-law babbles about his bowels
And surgeries over the festive spread
Ignoring his wife’s disapproving scowls
Detailing each grim therapy and med
The puppies are safely penned inside
Because of an incident with a crowbar
And a nephew who kicked and screamed and cried -
He wasn’t allowed to **** the dogs or bash the car
His mother comforted him in his tears
And glowered at me for telling him no
And comforted herself with a few more beers
Her special child is sensitive, you know
The brother-in-law’s colonoscopy
With lurid adjectives of graphic doom
Comes with the pie and more iced tea
His miseries circulate around the room
Then from the living room an expensive crash
“Not me!” “Not me!” More screams and denials and cries
An old family vase – it’s now just trash
“You shouldn’t have glass around,” their mother sighs
The brother-in-law offers to show his scars
He finds his shirt buttons, makes his move
We other men escape outside for cigars
Cigars!? The women uniformly disapprove
One nephew leaps upon a garden seat
And jumps and yells until it falls apart
Their mother says her boy is cute and sweet
“Are you all right, my dear little heart?”
The brother-in-law holds his tummy and groans
And tells us all about his flatulence
And just which foods lead to what moans
(Perhaps he should practice some abstinence)
The women come outside to cough and choke
With practiced puritan disapproval and sneers
About the satanic scent of tobacco smoke
The world’s best mother chugs a few more beers
The brother-in-law explains why he can’t drink
It’s about his digestion (be surprised)
And we shouldn’t smoke; if only we’d think
And we (got a match?) are properly chastised
Then at the end of this mandatory day
Of mandatory Hallmark merriment
All of them finally go the (space) away
And how did the mailbox get broken and bent?
But the brother-in-law pauses at the garden gate
“Say, did I tell you about my new pills…?”
And so dear solitude again must wait
While darkness slowly falls upon the hills
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
she waited for him to erase her
as he put his pencil to paper
and created her
he traced the upturn of her smile
precisely picturing the laugh that proceeded
he sketched out the smoothness of her legs
intentionally illustrating the eagerness inside
he outlined the curve of her shoulders
carefully capturing the sadness contained
he shaded in the color of her hair
deliberately detailing her fallen darkness
in his eyes
she was more beautiful
than she could ever see herself
but with every stroke
she flinched
fearing that only inches away
from his creation
was her demise
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
Once i was seven years old, a dream had told me
one day i'd be married under palm trees
Once i was seven years old
I was a girl with a plan but you thought yours was better
You pushed me close to the edge then sent me sweet love letters
By eleven i was broken, crying in your sweater
Never again would i fall, you couldn't stand the pressure
Once i was eleven years old, my brother told me,
don't worry 'bout these boys just get your money
Once i was eleven years old
i always had that dream like my brother before me
so i started working, grinding, started stacking money
Everyone called me honey, cause i was still so sweet
I didn't let the riches change me, never folded in heat
Once i was sixteen years old, the parties got old
The morning after was always so gloomy
Once i was sixteen years old
I almost went to jail, almost ruined my future
who would want to be around a girl that's so stupid?
I had my boys with me, at least that was in my favor
Then those same boys went and put my ******* life in danger
Once i was eighteen years old, being alone got old
I went and found someone who was there at night to hold me
Once i was eighteen years old
Soon we'll be thirty years old, our story pretty bold
We got married barefoot under the palm trees
Soon we'll be thirty years old
Little ones learning about life, our love is constantly growing
I'm so happy as his wife, he's what keeps me going
Most of my friends are in jail, dead or close to dying
I did my best to save them but they just kept justifying
and its so hard to talk to someone when their ego's showing
If I reach sixty-years old, then he'll reach sixty-five
We'll sit back and reminisce of simpler times
When we were young and happy dancing in a waterfall
with nothing to lose because we'd already lost it all
If I don't reach sixty-years old, will my story be told?
Or should i write a book detailing everything?
If i don't reach sixty-years old
If I don't reach sixty-years old, will my story be told?
Or should i write a book so you wont miss a thing?
If i don't reach sixty-years old
Once i was seven years old, a dream had told me
one day i'd be married under palm trees
Once i was seven years old
Once i was seven years old...
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
Sorry to trouble you,
but there’s something I ought to tell you now that you’re here.
If you came here looking for an interesting poem to read,
I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.
Why?
Because this is not a poem.
This is not a narrative detailing a certain someone doing something in a certain time and place.
This is not a series of lyrics longing to be converted into music.
This is not a picture made up of a thousand words – or thousands for that matter.
This is not a fancy epic or tragedy or comedy bound by the treacherous laws of stanzas.
This is not an ode to a pre-existing memory – or several memories for that matter.
This is not a set of verses born free from the daunting laws of stanzas.
This is not even a collage of pre-existing poems mixed and matched to the heart’s content.
Simply put – this is anything but a poem.
Even if it was,
I doubt that it would be the kind of poem you would want to read.
You would most likely find better poetry somewhere else.
Here, there is no narrative, no subject matter and no context.
Therefore, if this was a poem,
it would be about absolutely nothing and have no meaning whatsoever to anyone.
That’s why I’m telling you that this is not a poem.
That’s why I’m advising you to look for a real poem elsewhere.
But, no matter what I say,
you wouldn’t listen to me anyway, would you?
I made it clear from the beginning that this is not a poem,
but you read it through to the end regardless.
Why is that?
Why would you take the time to read something about absolutely nothing?
Were you curious?
Did you just happen to stumble upon this while minding your own business and decide to take a peek out of curiosity?
Or were you bored?
Were you feeling desperate to find something completely different from the poetry you would normally read?
Either way,
this was never meant to be a poem waiting to be read.
And yet, in spite of that,
you read it anyway.
For that, I feel that the least I can do in return is say this:
Thank you.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men
early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.
despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-damn anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…
8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
<A manuscript detailing a new origin>
There is no Rok-elixir or any magic, no, -Nazis, Hydra...there are no super-soldiers."
-Captain America
Chest-size aside, let's be clear here; I know because my father was the head of that super-soldier program...
That, honestly, birthed you, "America,"
*I know this because they tried and failed to **** my father stealing it."*
There is not now, nor was there ever, a Nazis or Hydra super-soldier program. Ask any German Nazis?
-Tony Stark
FADE OUT
1858
Rudiger Bannerstein plays.
Plays in the woods. Alone...
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 11:08 PM UTC
Feet in the slippers being ready to dance
The orchestra begins for the Red Dancing Slippers to advance
As the curtain goes up, the applause from the audience being the chance
The Red dancing slippers performed a production of “Inspiration written in the sunshine”
It required dramatic moves and low slow dancing soothes
But the Little Red slippers had a surprise
The Little Red Slippers were joined by the Gold Slippers in a number together
The number was music detailing a King and Queen in powerful roles of anarchy conquest
The Red and Gold Slippers paralleled in the air and demonstrated a fall of the empire
Yet as the Red and Gold Slippers performed on
Appreciation for the arts from the audience applause for the Red and Gold Slippers on stage in where they belonged
It also created a remembered masterpiece
The audience was simply treated to a musical dancing feast
Dancing beyond anyone’s expectations
All you had to do was use your imagination
The Little Red Dancing Slippers who never loss a beat
It’s the Little Red Dancing Slippers with a stage meant for dancing feet.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
Do you still go into your
"Executive Chef" voice when people
ask you to describe the ingredients of your famous palleta,
detailing the use of saffron to
brighten the rice golden
in a throaty, overly masculine voice,
deepening as though it too
was hue-d golden by
saffron
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
We visited an art museum today
“The Guggenheim” with it’s white spiraling architecture
I felt slightly cultured as I flipped through a book detailing an artist whose last name I vaguely recall started with a Q
Conveniently forgetting the very reason for my presence in that room being to charge my phone
Feeling educated as I recognize the names Matisse, Lautrec from my brief intro to art history courtesy of our overly enthusiastic design teacher
Basking in my elegance, taking petit little bites, of a macaroon in a cafe outside the museum
...Before noisily slurping my blood red ice tea
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 7:48 PM UTC
My biggest fear has nothing to do
with monsters, the dark, death,
or any of those usual frights.
No, my most intense scare comes
from the anticipation that one day
you may see me the same way
I see myself.
For you see I'm not the girl that guys
conjure up in their daydreams.
I could never hope to pass as one
of those flitty girly-girls who know
of quizzical things such as
make-up
cute hairstyles
or fashion.
My blemishes show, and honestly
I haven't a clue how to hide them
anyway.
I look at braided hair, beachy waves,
and effortless updos with envy
My hair has two styles: up or down.
I've never in my life looked casually cute,
and am obviously uncomfortable
in a dress. Please just pass me
my jeans and t-shirt back,
I'm much more myself in them.
How does one even walk in heels?
I'd like to think I'm one of those
"cool" girls that guys claim
they love, the low-maintenance
type chick, but I don't think
I'm "cool" at all, really.
When guys describe those chicks,
they do things like
play video games
quote Star Wars
read comic books
like some ideal gorgeous geek.
Well that's **** sure not me either.
I **** at video games,
love Star Wars, but
I'm terrible with movie references,
and have never read comics.
Does manga count?
I'm kind of starting to get into that...
I'm not the nerd's epitome of perfection
either, the everyman's ideal.
So what am I? I'm just boring,
little ole me.
I love to read, and would rather
spend the night reading
or watching something than go out.
I'm shy and self-conscious to a fault,
so don't try bringing me around
friends, I'll just bring you down.
Honestly, I'm basically a child. I love
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Gargoyles
Tom & Jerry
Animaniacs
and cartoons in general.
I'm quiet and contemplative, often caught
writing in my notebook,
detailing my observations
about the world around me.
I have a ***** mind and a messed-up
sense of humor, giggling
of the worst times occasionally.
But all in all, I think of myself
as pretty boring. Laidback,
but with the most capricious of moods.
I'm both low and high maintenance.
I don't know why you think positively
of me, but I anticipate the day
you realize I'm really nothing
special at all.
The day you discover the truth
I already know all too well.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
My grandmother sends me a birthday card, all glitter
and for the child in me.
The cover shouts,
“Happy Birthday to a granddaughter who has a sparkling personality, good looks, and a great sense of humor!”
and my sister asks if she has seen me lately.
We laugh.
The only handwritten inscription within declares
“Carson fell again—had to go to hospital this time.”
Happy Birthday to me, with love and
the unintentional reminder that I’ve not yet reached an age where a simple slip could result in
broken hips
or worse.
I’ll send her a thank you card, detailing my ambition,
what I will do with the money,
and a big thank you.
I suppose the most secrets I keep from anybody,
I keep from her.
I figure grandmothers don’t need more stress, don’t need to worry about
the somewhat-problems of life from a girl who will always seem too young,
who will always be glitter and
a child within.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
an impurity
inherent or invasive,
identity, purpose, all unresolved,
substantive, long-lived, minute sized,
flexible, formed, yet more,
clearly shapelessly, so well visible
we'll disguise it
to survive it
without passport, an émigré
illegally legal border invasive,
but somehow more knowledgable
of the unmapped byways within,
more than me - how can that be?
never motionless, indeed,
always hurried, even when energy gathering,
despite it's detailed timetable,
detailing plentiful stops and
interminable unexplained
screeching wailings,
it has no smooth gliding,
nor rumbling grumbling halting,
to a final destination imprinted
this impurity,
a beheaded brainy horseman
searching for what,
I'm not permissioned,
unquenchable questioning,
all I am allowed is
sensory
surceasingly, unseasonably seeking
the undresser,
the verisign
of veritas
eyes mirrored reversal internal,
you can't understand why finishing
this poem is so hard
because you don't want to
confess this
impious impurity,
no étranger, it is but
copious insecurity,
of the all of you,
the ecstasy of
the rushing,
the upsetting,
universal unique to us, you,
unholy, ecclesiastical, catholic,
that impurity is just
the heart pumping the
mottled blood of
life coursing through your words
and out your fingertips,
onto those
stained drumsticks
used
to play the keyboard alphabet
about an
out-of-tempo
impure ecstasy
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
This home is becoming
Like a weathermast of the soul
Beaten into responding silence.
To awaken here again
And to only wear this armour
As a riposte sufficient to self-assurance
And to rise, out of lazy eyelids and
Consider the opposing wind turrets
Laid as the proposition
All slack and starkly
Poised on the trapeze
The wallpaper durability of family headaches ;
The spurned lover's recurring luminosity
The marked and re-imagined lists
Detailing personal no-shows and defeats
Bookended by
The passing on of friendly eyes.
Assuming the universal, and in doing so, blindly holding out for the miracle :
For falling out of love is completely plausible
Whereas letting go of shame is mostly incomprehensible
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
I’m looking down at my worn-out air force 1’s,
while I’m sitting on the bus awaiting my weekly neck-choking at my job.
I notice that I’m trampling a fake pearl necklace and overused copy of the ‘Metro’ detailing that there’s a million pounds to be won in today’s lottery.
The frame of several seconds captured countless visualisations of strangers with lottery tickets,
but the one woman who sat on my seat stood out,
this lady decided to give up her delusion along with her fake jewellery, which she left on the floor with the newspaper for some other dreamer.
I take a photo of this somewhat ironic occurrence on my BB,
and I am welcomed by vain stares from a bus-load of strangers waiting to become famous.
Jul 29, 2011
Jul 29, 2011 at 5:36 AM UTC
Dance of the wind, shakes the trees, shakes the sky
Turn of the seasons
Turn of the storm
Sweet Ulyses on a broken tulip, dying
Reaching for the last of time
Within the great mystery.
Oh, holy land walking underneathe feet
With tired eyes and repeated lies -
The carrion song breaks down and cries
Yesterday closes in on thought's illusion
Of telling today to run around
Chasing past days gone
For the sake of youth gone
Crystal eyes and flaccid goodbyes
The carrion song breaks down and cries
Under soft caresses of Nature's glow
Ceases to be, the gift of selfishness
Asleep in the fog
Spinning madly, this rock of earth
Around star sun, a one-eyed Buddha
Taking gravity, magnetic energy
Invisible force
Orange burn, holographic sin
Make the clock jump ahead
Forward in time, backward in rhyme
Poor things of words
Emotionless, bodiless
Detailing worlds, both inner and outer
But never receiving rightful admiration
Or recognition
Oh, sad words of symbolic reference
Lay down your weary tune and collapse
Sink back into the void of a hum
Yesterday opens around thought's illusion
Of showing today the masterplan
When bizarre happenings stir the crowd of mind
'Tis the moment to step out of time
And examine the line,
The dire chime of truth
And thus enters the chance to realize
The carrion song that breaks down and cries
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
I wake up and feel something is askew.
Then I remember what I heard last night on the news.
Then I push it aside and turn on the TV.
I’m sure someone can deal with it better than me!
Our politics are failing. Society’s flailing.
Getting’ crushed under the weight of our own pompous detailing.
But I don’t mind, there’s nothing I can do.
I’ll just grab a bite, get another tattoo.
Maybe by the time I’m done, it’ll have worked itself out.
If it hasn’t I’ll just shut my eyes and think of something else!
I guess I could try to make a difference,
But I’ve got more important things I have to deal with.
Like the season finale of my favorite show,
A bottle of Jack to finish and a party to throw!
I guess I can try to help out, if I’ve got the time. We’ll see.
Hey, look! Beer over there is buy-one-get-one-free!
I gotta stock up for the big game tonight.
Gotta go. I’m sure you got the problem covered, right?
Drunks and liars and posers, you’re fired.
Idiots, ********* worldwide mob masses.
Outcasts that walk alone, self-loathers, homophobes.
Jesus freaks. One more drink. Intelligence levels sink.
Dumb jocks and ****** Gangbangers. Guerilla wars.
Drop the dime, save the time. Pretend you’ve lost your mind.
Uppers and downers. Immigrants, minors.
Emos and cheaters, and ******* wife-beaters.
****** ex-girlfriends, freaks, frauds, text message sends.
Alcoholics relapsing. Governments collapsing.
Oil spills, anything for thrills. Hold on, just one more ****
Suicide bombers, no mothers, no fathers.
This world’s so ****** up, how will it end up?
I don’t wanna know, don’t wanna see.
Don’t make me face reality!
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
So you've dared your girlfriend to write you a poem
Detailing why she loves you,
So what shall she write?
Perhaps that she imagines your kiss will be ambrosia to her,
And that she so easily trusts, and talks to you.
But the point of this poem is why she is in love with you
And so I think she'd say this;
I love you because you're so crazy, and different, and that's so right for you
I love you because you're so kind and sweet to me and other people
I love you because you've got awesome taste, in music and movies and the arts
You're a poet, artist, genius and I love you for it
I love you because you challenge me, and you appreciate intellect
I love you because you don't act excessively proud of what you've done, even though it's really great
I love you because you're quiet, unlike what I am most of the time
My list could go on for pages if I wanted, I've got so many reasons to love you
I love the way your hair covers your eyes
And when it gets ruffled up it's so cute, and reminds me of a flustered bird's feathers
I love how you use words and graphite to create beautiful art and gorgeous depictions
I love you, and pretty much everything about you
And you've got this sort of air, an aura one might say, about you
One that I can only describe as irresistable and curious, curious in both senses of the word
I love how you don't put me down, and are actually so supportive of me
I love how you comfort and understand me so quickly
I love you for talking me out of all sorts of depression, cutting, anorexic tendencies, and still loving me despite my craziness
I really truly thank you for that
You're an incredibly fantastic best friend and boyfriend,
I'm still so amazed at how I got lucky enough to get you, and that you feel the same
The only thing I don't love about you in this moment is that you aren't here
Because I miss you more than life right now
And I love you so much
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
there’s something so deeply and inherently terrifying about romantic love and attachment; it’s like giving someone a neatly written postcard detailing all of the various ways in which they could take your heart and pick it apart into a heap of broken fragments.
it’s the fact that you were so agonisingly in love with your sadness that i became (always was?) an afterthought. it’s like mum always said, “you are powerless in the face of someone who doesn’t want to be helped”.
i wanted to soak my skin in your madness and chaos.
to take all of the mismatched jigsaw pieces of your mind and will them to fit together enough to love me back even a little bit.
one day that you will realise that they are just boys. they are boys with closed-off hearts and cynical minds. with their inherent need to drain and empty you of everything you have to offer; with the burning desire to be both fixed and left alone all at the same time.
i actively avoid thinking about the estimated number of minutes i spent trying to burn the imprint of your fingers out of my lungs.
oh honey, one day all these valiant notions of self-sacrifice are going to get you hurt; you won’t know how to tell him that you are in pain.
that every time your knuckles brush against my lips my heart feels like it’s going to give up on itself.
i don’t know what to do with the knowledge that i am heartbroken over someone who is indifferent to my plight, someone who watched the cracks deepen and spread yet still chose to walk away. that’s the problem with feelings; you can’t simply pick them up and store them in a jar for later.
you left and i’m stuck with limbs which ache from the sheer weight of the feelings that i can’t shake.
with gentle fingers full of promise and parted lips you drew confessions from me that i swore would never come; you were messy and indignantly proud of it. your mess leaked into mine and for a few precious minutes we coexisted in our state of disarray.
your hands knew me far better than your heart ever did;
it must have been so dark up there, on the pedestal that i nailed you to. a martyr for your cause, i tried to tie your wrists to mine in a desperate fear of being alone again.
all i wanted from you was to coexist but you were never shy about telling me that, for you, that wasn't enough.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 3:15 PM UTC
These storybooks woven with leathery imbrication
Filling my palms with vile indication
Detailing such wickedness and strife
What ethereal threads cling to life?
Such labyrinthine desires scrapping in my mind
My soul from body; that body which isn’t kind
To delve deeper within the wounds that sever
To fellow wolves, demons and toothless beggars
Unholy martyrs preach from a podium underground
Ablaze in hellfire, monsters of the ravenous mound
Black tongues and cheeks full of worms and leeches
Coals flung and burning over deafening speeches
Sumptuous in eloquence, these tossers and man-boys
Evocative displays of violence, hushed by silence and toys
Beseeched, reprimanded in city squares with common folk
Feeding dogs in heat slop with a pail and tote
Children waving hi to people in cages, smiling indifferently
Don’t they know what this is? Yes and no, forever in shame
Don’t they know there be wickedness afoot?
There be shadows of molestation
And whips of industry
Eyes removed and replaced with bar-codes
There be devils amongst the valiant
And dark angels amongst us
The few and proud
Recite aloud:
“Darkness brings uninvited guests
And our bodies are bare
Give us a blessing, a crumb or drop
Of life that we all can share.”
Veins full of rubies and auburn sapphires
Creepers laced in the cowls of cadavers
Red water thicker than mud and spit
The fatherland sicker than a rotten ****
There be dark angels amongst us, telling tales deep-seated
They be grave and weary, their lives left defeated
Now in the wilderness they give slothful lectures
But it’s only fools who listen to these rambling specters
And soon no one listens
Save for the moon that glistens
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
the doctor scratched notes with his pencil describing our heartbeats
our veins spread through our bodies in little lines
our bodies were a blank manuscript of life
pages of measurements
Mother's ******
Mother's stomach
still in the process of being written,
our DNA and chromosomes silently orchestrated themselves as we awaited our own arrival
suspended in profound silence as we rested,
counting down to the moment when we
would
break
the sound barrier
(ii.) silence
the doctor will scratch notes with his pencil describing our last heartbeats
wrinkles will be spread across our bodies in little lines
our skin a dead manuscript of beauty that once was and music that will never be heard again
so many
pages
with no blank spaces
detailing
what time
how
where
we will make no sound
our ultimate beat of breath (final word) is naught but a distant memory
suspended in the minds of our loved ones
as our internal metronome is laid to rest
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
a poem for the presumed dead, French Hostage, Denis Allex
An unmapped forest
grew upon chin
and cheek;
3 years in the making,
the no shaving,
helped to grow by
his tears from his crying.
Orange, orange,
orange again jumpsuit,
prisoner in the arms
of those whom shoot-
not to wound, but fire
with the intent to surround
and then to
close in
to cap a bullet for the ****
Fire flares into the night
so phosphorous full
stops hail down, and on
the floor in front of the believers,
a paragraph shall form, with perfectly
placed punctuation;
detailing and listing
why they plucked this man
from a French farmhouse village,
and let him grow young,
in fear,
in this far, middle eastern haven.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
All around campus there are these little black ***** like hanging
alien eggs. Glossy, obsidian bubbles concealing cameras that
record time-stamped, audio and hi-def video.
Could this surveillance footage ever be sent to parents?
Imagining letters sent to parents about campus/dorm surveillance
Dear Mr & Mrs Vionet, we have observed countless kisses,
disheveled morning walks and late night visits which indicate
that your daughter is a scandalous little ***** We just wanted you
to know, in case you want to know more. As campus security it’s
part of our business to keep a full, digital record, detailing her sluttiness.
Your friends in campus security.
P.S.
Would you care to donate to the University endowment fund?
Feb 8, 2022
Feb 8, 2022 at 8:17 AM UTC
Gabrielle Union wore a gorgeous fall look in New York City while promoting her show, Being Mary Jane, on Tuesday.
The 42-year-old looked like a vision in her fitted white Sophia Kah dress with crimson lace overlay, as she was spotted leaving Live With Kelly and Michael.
The short-sleeved frock featured intricate detailing on the upper portion, while the bottom half was all white.
The skintight dress, which showed off the Think Like a Man star's amazing body, fit her like a glove.
The pop of color from the wine-colored lace added a bold touch to an otherwise minimal look.
The Bring It On actress kept the bold vibes going by choosing shiny gold heels, which added a new dimension to the look.
She added gold rings to compliment her similarly hued strappy heels with gray polished nails.
The Being Mary Jane star wore her shoulder length dark hair loose and wavy.
Opting for a more vampy makeup look, the starlet wore smokey eye shadow, glossy red lips and rosy cheeks.
During her appearance on the morning show, the She's All That actress wore a more understated look, rocking gray slacks, a black top and bright pink heels as she spoke to Michael Strahan and guest host Ciara, who filled in for Kelly Ripa.
The brunette is married to NBA star Dwayne Wade, who plays for the Miami Heat. The couple first met in 2009 and married in August 2014.
Her husband has three sons: 13-year-old Zaire Blessing Dwayne, eight-year-old Zion Malachi Airamis and two-year-old Xavier Zechariah, from previous relationships.
The 33-year-old athlete also raises his 13-year-old nephew Dahveon.
On her show, she plays the character Mary Jane Paul, an on-camera reporter who has to juggle work, love and family.
The third season of Being Mary Jane premieres on October 20th on BET.
The starlet is also currently filming The Lion Guard, an animated TV series where she voices the character of Nala, set to premiere on the Disney Channel in 2016. She recently wrapped The Lion Guard: Return of the Roar TV movie, which premieres this November.
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/sexy-formal-dresses
www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 2:18 AM UTC
Recruitment without Naukri
Is like a cobra
Stripped of its venom
A tree without leaves
A musician without an instrument
A Mutton Biryani without the mutton
A laptop without a battery
I can go on and on
But you get the gist, right?
Recruitment without Naukri
How does it even work?
Of course, there are other portals
LinkedIn, Monster, Indeed
TimesJobs, Shine, Updazz
Dice, Hirist, Instahyre
But do they even come close
To matching the pin-point accuracy
The sheer amount of detailing
The refreshing practicality
And finally, the user-friendliness
That Naukri brings to the table?
The answer to that, unfortunately
Is a resounding no
Recruitment without Naukri?
Can it be managed?
As mentioned earlier
There are other portals
But will your boss be ready to pay
For any of them, apart from LinkedIn?
The answer to that, unfortunately
Is again a resounding no
Recruitment without Naukri
Coupled with a miserly boss
Is like chasing 350 in 50 overs
On a seaming wicket at Leeds
All your hard work at the nets
Goes to the drain
As you keep trying to hit boundaries
And end up getting clean bowled instead
Ultimately, the loser is not the client
Not the boss either
It is you, and only you
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 2:22 AM UTC