"dismisses" poems
sound of waves crashing against shore
she says it’s the tone in your voice
sound of waves crashing against shore
he asks what tone are you referring to what are you hearing
sound of waves crashing against shore
she says i’m an artist too you don’t have to tell me
sound of waves crashing against shore
he explains i was simply affirming my vocation in order to elucidate why i perceive another way
sound of waves crashing against shore
she says you don’t need to pose or differentiate for me you are so ******* self-absorbed
sound of waves crashing against shore
he answers self-conscious possibly not self-absorbed i think it is intelligent to question everything to suspect all we see think we know maybe a greater mystery than any of us realize exists beyond all our beliefs
sound of waves crashing against shore
she says i think it’s time for us to stop talking
sound of waves crashing against shore
he says why can’t you make it easy why must everything be a fight
sound of waves crashing against shore
her ****** becomes a deep dark narrowing tunnel he is trapped in thinning air smells like ocean
sound of waves crashing against shore
her voice detached distant disaffected says fine
sound of waves crashing against shore
he questions fine? find? line? sign? can you hear me? anyone hear me?
sound of waves crashing against shore
she purposely ignores his panting gasping shrieking
sound of waves crashing against shore
later she tells the surgeon who performs the extraction then the police detectives who conduct the investigation she had no idea he was lost in there
sound of waves crashing against shore
unanimous jury finds her guilty she screams out at courtroom he was a self-absorbed dreamer this is all wrong
sound of waves crashing against shore
the judge declares mistrial dismisses case based on prosecution’s inability to refute so-called artist’s willingness to enter of his own volition
sound of waves crashing against shore
late at night she feels his voice whisper circulating through her body haunting her
sound of waves crashing against shore
Oct 17, 2010
Oct 17, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
Man. In a cleft that's christened Alt
Under broken stone I halt
At the bottom of a pit
That broad noon has never lit,
And shout a secret to the stone.
All that I have said and done,
Now that I am old and ill,
Turns into a question till
I lie awake night after night
And never get the answers right.
Did that play of mine send out
Certain men the English shot?
Did words of mine put too great strain
On that woman's reeling brain?
Could my spoken words have checked
That whereby a house lay wrecked?
And all seems evil until I
Sleepless would lie down and die.
Echo. Lie down and die.
Man. That were to shirk
The spiritual intellect's great work,
And shirk it in vain. There is no release
In a bodkin or disease,
Nor can there be work so great
As that which cleans man's ***** slate.
While man can still his body keep
Wine or love drug him to sleep,
Waking he thanks the Lord that he
Has body and its stupidity,
But body gone he sleeps no more,
And till his intellect grows sure
That all's arranged in one clear view,
pursues the thoughts that I pursue,
Then stands in judgment on his soul,
And, all work done, dismisses all
Out of intellect and sight
And sinks at last into the night.
Echo. Into the night.
Man. O Rocky Voice,
Shall we in that great night rejoice?
What do we know but that we face
One another in this place?
But hush, for I have lost the theme,
Its joy or night-seem but a dream;
Up there some hawk or owl has struck,
Dropping out of sky or rock,
A stricken rabbit is crying out,
And its cry distracts my thought.
5.3k
WASHINGTON IRVING WROTE A NOVEL
ABOUT ICHABOD CRANE
LITTLE SLEEPY HOLLOW
WILL NEVER BE THE SAME
LITTLE SLEEPY HOLLOW WAS CURSED
BY A HORSEMAN MOST DREAD
HE WAS RIDING IN SLEEPY HOLLOW
IN SEARCH OF HIS HEAD
THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN WAS
IN THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR
SO FOR HIM SEARCHING FOR HIS HEAD
WAS NEVER A CHORE
ICHABOD CRANE WAS
A TEACHER MOST STRICT
WEATHER THE GHOST STORIES WERE TRUE
WHO COULD EVER PREDICT
ICHABOD TEACHES THE CHILDREN
OF FARMERS IN THE VILLAGE
BUT ITS THE YOUNG GIRLS OF FARMERS
HE SECRETLY WANTS TOO PILLAGE
KATRINA VAN TASSEL A
BEAUTIFUL YOUNG STUDENT
ICHABOD FALLS IN LOVE WITH HER
BUT WAS IT VERY PRUDENT
HE WAS INVITED TO THE TASSELS
FOR A PARTY MOST RARE
KATRINA AT THE PARTY
DISMISSES HIS WITHOUT CARE
ICHABOD LEAVES THAT NIGHT
ON HIS HORSE HE RIDES
ITS AN EERILY DARK PATH
HIS HORSE DOSE STRIDE
ICHABOD IS SCARED AND SEES
A LARGE DARK MAN
HE YELLS TO THE STRANGER
AS LOUD AS HE CAN
SO ICHABOD RIDES SCARED AND FAST
BUT ALONG SIDE COMES THE MAN
NOT WILLING TOO PASS
ICHABOD NOTICES THE RIDER
REALLY HAS NO HEAD
THIS JUST FILLS ICHABOD
WITH THE MOST SINFUL DREAD
ICHABOD AND THE STRANGER
RACE TO THE TOWN CHURCH
FOR THIS IS WHERE THE GHOST STORIES
FIRST CAME TO BIRTH
ICHABOD RACES TO THE BRIDGE
AND NERVOUSLY LOOKS BACK
THE STRANGER HAS DISAPPEARED
OFF THE GHOSTLY TRACK
BUT HE NOTICES THE STRANGER
HIS HEAD HE DOSE HURL
ICHABOD FALLS OF THE HORSE
HIS WORLD IS IN A WHIRL
THE NEXT DAY ICHABOD'S
HORSE FINALLY RETURNS HOME
WHERE IS ICHABOD
WHERE DID HE ROAM
THEY LOOK FOR ICHABOD
AND FIND HOOF PRINTS
AND ICHABOD'S HAT
SO NOW THE FOLKLORE IS BORN
IN SLEEPY HOLLOW THAT'S THAT
" WISDOM IS LIKE MANURE IT'S NO GOOD UNLESS IT'S SPREAD AROUND ENCOURAGING OTHERS TO GROW"
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
It’s possible to speak too much to remember what your words mean.
And so is the two-fold danger faced by writers.
Danger is to pace a hole in the floor.
Danger is to stand until you can’t move anymore
like when shallow waves **** your feet into the sand.
So I try not to stand when I write.
I keep a narrow tack
without too many big words
which pedants use to dig great holes in the ground
–moats to keep others out–
or make you think they think big.
But anyone who reads knows about Icarus
and anyone with aims must beware:
to shoot directly upwards is to strike your own head
when like fate the arrow
returns to source.
You’re only as good as your mind,
your characters only as strong as you are.
—at least, this is true in so far as you know.
True in so far as they speak.
For to test them you must torque them
and twist at their cores,
and make opposing forces meet–
but only
as hard as you can.
This makes writing a hill slick with oil.
Insecure. Potential energy.
Potential failure
seated
in all of that grime
that cakes your toes like grease that coats
the teeth of great industrial gears.
So I try not to stand when I write.
But whether the better take comes when you plunge
and you slide and dissolve like so much ice,
I must say I don’t know,
the thought
seems nice.
But the same
It seems like those who let go
Are the ones
with the least to say.
I can't decide
either which way.
All I know about writing is
most sentences are punctuated wrongly.
The period is certain,
but writing is undecided.
It is the figuring-out, a quest-bound troop
that moves with all its own fanfare.
Question marks curl up—
invisible smoke on a summer coal fire:
heat twisting the air like irons in stoke
giving sign of the transformations there withheld.
For fire mediates matter,
so writing stands ever-between.
But I’ve spoken too much and I don’t know what these words mean.
And so I fold like there’s danger in writing,
while danger is imagined like borders on a continent.
Danger is thinking
I'm dangerous enough to keep silent.
Like shallow waves,
given way to sand.
So avoid letting voids form
where the mind dismisses confrontation to more capable smiths.
Writing is –at best– an attempt.
Even with shallow structures
in rhythmic din,
the silent breaks by force of pen,
and all because of the simple fact
that quiet refuses to bend.
All I can hope is my writing upholds these unknowns
while I try not to stand.
But you ask about writing?
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Everyone dismisses me as insane,
But I am a prophet,
Profiting,
On the inane.
When I get lost in stargazing
My cup of cardamom chai
Configuring constellations of cream,
I pocket piping hot horoscopes
Right out of the tea kettle.
Remember --
I drink in the universe,
Sanctimoniously symbiotic.
So the next time I offer,
To read your tea leaves,
Left dried at the bottom of the cup,
Don't scoff me off,
Because what I do,
Is translate the universe's art.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
It was my best friend who asked me
what I'd choose to be in my next incarnation.
Honestly, she caught me completely off guard,
intellectually dumbfounded by a prospect
I'd never considered, nor felt I deserved.
That night I wracked my brain searching for
a suitable chakra from which to derive an answer.
I know she believes everything is renewed,
so, deferring to her convictions,
I chose a jaguar, as suitable for my solitary way.
She's always had a knack for surprising my existence,
deflecting the metaphysical, steering for spiritual shores.
I recognize this power she exudes, though she dismisses me.
The jaguar I'm evolving divinely subsumes her virtues,
is cognizant of the heroine from Mumbai ashrams.
I'd like to tell you I hear rumblings in the sky,
that there's a certain path beneath my feet,
but my destiny eludes all outward signs,
striving for that inner love that has no name.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
I've drank the finest of wine
Down to the bottom of the bottle
Only to witness an ocean alone
Barely surviving my own hands
A fire burned through my viens
That was blew out by the wind
Breezing through the leaves
A calmness that sits with me
Before calmness dismisses me
I walked across the tallest blue sky
Where wide winged birds soar high
Til promises of white clouds turn grey
And so there I fell with the rain
Dripping through the lowest gutter
Many times I was buried, lying in dirt
Like a grave, needing no help
Finding the dark inside of myself
But I always rise with the blades
Of the greenest fresh spring grass
No matter what feeling I catch
None of them seem to everlast
Feb 18, 2020
Feb 18, 2020 at 9:47 AM UTC
You wander down the hallway
Feeling something shiver inside of you
You wonder what this feeling might be
And suddenly an image of his face
Pierce your corneas
A second later
He is there
And when you pass in the hallway
He looks at you sideways
Widens his eyes.
You furrow your brow
Lift the corners of your lips
Tilt your head
You mention how you always see him in this hallway
He considers you. Then.
He says it is God’s will
You get the wind knocked out of you
You know that it shows on your face
He dismisses you
But not before you say that you agree
That it is God’s will
You take your casual leave
Calling him by his nickname
Stepping into the elevator
You remember he calls himself a liberal
You hug yourself
You wonder if he sees his God in you
You remember he was born on Palm Sunday
You chuckle to yourself
You walk past your roommates
You feel their eyes on your back
You sit down and eat your dinner
You stand at the window
You watch the buildings bleed onto the streets
Manhattan swirls underneath you
There are points of light on little moving objects
The cars and the people
The colors and the lights
The smoke and the sky
The city pulsates, the city snarls
Eager for you to take the streets
You gaze out your window
And so, you decide, it is
It is God’s will and just exactly who
Are you
To deny it?
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
Man
IN a cleft that's christened Alt
Under broken stone I halt
At the bottom of a pit
That broad noon has never lit,
And shout a secret to the stone.
All that I have said and done,
Now that I am old and ill,
Turns into a question till
I lie awake night after night
And never get the answers right.
Did that play of mine send out
Certain men the English shot?
Did words of mine put too great strain
On that woman's reeling brain?
Could my spoken words have checked
That whereby a house lay wrecked?
And all seems evil until I
Sleepless would lie down and die.
Echo
Lie down and die.
Man
That were to shirk
The spiritual intellect's great work,
And shirk it in vain. There is no release
In a bodkin or disease,
Nor can there be work so great
As that which cleans man's ***** slate.
While man can still his body keep
Wine or love drug him to sleep,
Waking he thanks the Lord that he
Has body and its stupidity,
But body gone he sleeps no more,
And till his intellect grows sure
That all's arranged in one clear view,
pursues the thoughts that I pursue,
Then stands in judgment on his soul,
And, all work done, dismisses all
Out of intellect and sight
And sinks at last into the night.
Echo
Into the night.
Man
O Rocky Voice,
Shall we in that great night rejoice?
What do we know but that we face
One another in this place?
But hush, for I have lost the theme,
Its joy or night-seem but a dream;
Up there some hawk or owl has struck,
Dropping out of sky or rock,
A stricken rabbit is crying out,
And its cry distracts my thought.
2.4k
In the morning she eats garlic,
A bowl of them, boiled in a mixture.
Then medicine, then some kind of a
Breakfast. She stares into the blank
Of a day. Everything the same.
She does her usual things: clean,
Sweep, exercise, sometimes she reads.
I do not know what she does in the day,
Only the setting sun tells me of the lights
She doesn’t leave on, because “electrical bills”.
He says she spoiled the fridge, the kettle,
Even the tv doesn’t make a sound anymore.
She’s like a child. She whines, laughs,
Tells me off. She observes, dismisses.
She is the dying tip of an autumn leaf.
My silence is the autumn wind.
Cold, but not cold enough.
I do not know of the things she does in the day.
What does she do when the food is cooking in the pan?
Or when it rains and she rushes to save the laundry.
Only the chattering and muttering
From her creased mouth,
(the neighbours, groceries, the tv)
Tells me that she speaks only to herself.
She switches the tv on
before she leaves the house.
She sleeps before 9 pm.
She leaves in June, and I don’t know what she does in the day.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
A mournful air beyond the fog,
Death can meet among the poisonous rubes,
Beyond the trees and past the deformed log.
The Knight in Shining Armor comes to save the day.
Bearing healing potions from afar in pewter tubes,
But he is much too late; the Fool has already faded away.
His tears are many, for the loss of a brother,
They are heavy and murky against the dreamscape.
Now for his revenge, he seeks a strange other.
On his new, and strangely enlightened quest,
He feels transparent ghouls kissing his nape
Little does he know it is the sign of a Witches test.
Maneuvering among the empty placed grave,
He keeps his hopes on a looming tower.
He approaches his becoming of an honest knave.
He must be quick and tighten his saddle,
Because a pursuing evil is a deadly power,
And this Knight in Armor must be ready for battle.
The danger of our Knight is not known to man.
To survive, the he must unlearn his past.
This evil he faces is formulating a plan.
The towers close in as he passes their gates.
A spicy chill, creeps up the Knights spine,
And he finally grasps the terror of what awaits.
Inside his mind, he questions going back.
But dismisses the though as a man on wine.
He secretly knows this creature is on his track.
As he pushes himself onward,
He reminisces on his brother, and his life.
The only defining thought for him is froward.
He takes his final turn around the final corridor,
Quick on his feet and ready with his knife.
At first sight, he though his vision must have been poor.
A woman whose beauty surpassed any he had ever seen,
Stood with her naked eyes set firmly on him.
This was the witch who had killed all he had been.
Unable to take the life of any woman,
The soldier took a last and final look
And plunged the knife into his abdomen.
The beautiful witch had won yet another soul,
She knew why it was his life she took.
Never mind the Fool, the Knight had been her goal.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 3:20 PM UTC
You know it's over.
Your shoes have walked away.
Your phone dives
into the pit of despair.
Cigarettes have become healthy.
Your knees don't knock, but clap.
The chipmunks have fallen silent.
All the chameleons are gray.
The cat dismisses you and leaves.
Bullets pass through you like prunes.
Love is a forgotten memory.
Everything transforms into other.
You are a stranger growing
stranger by the day.
Over and out good buddy.
You know it's over.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 6:07 AM UTC
3 reggae doobies sat on a wall.
One of them was seven feet tall.
The second was short, and fat.
De **** was tough, n' carried a gat.
All of a sudden, a doobette walks by.
De tree doobies wanna giv'er a try.
De bluntz lean in a little closer.
Each givea whistle lik a poser.
De female spliff dismisses deir plees.
De doobies cut 'er off n' get on deir kneees.
Dey beg, and dey beg, and dey cry.
But she turns away and says, "nice try".
De doobies jump back, onto deir wall.
Didn't get how she resisted their call.
A new baety walks by, to test their luck.
Hopefully dis spliff will be down to ****
The tall one walks around front.
She waves her hand, shooin' dat blunt.
The fat one takes a shot, talks derty.
Clearly she ain't in da mood to be flirty.
Da gangster ****** roll takes a shot.
Literally, he fuckin' shot 'er bumba clot.
De doobies flee, as the doobette falls.
Dere goes 3 reggae doobies who sat on a wall.
Respect women. You never know when they might save ya life.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
Soporific nightmare,
While I wander,
Beckons for me to follow.
Inviting cliff,
Of shattered scribe,
Dismisses my plain apparel.
Where is the escape,
If now is neither here nor there.
If then is just a dream,
Faltering in the dark.
My Nyctophobia,
Claims to be an excuse.
Residing in a subsiding sky,
In a silent ocean,
In the wings of the chrysalis,
Of my fallen butterfly.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 6:53 AM UTC
It's an Affliction
A dangerously terminal attraction
How the Angel's cries
are watched by spies
but only heard by the Devil himself.
Dangerous, Unique, Beautiful
The Angel cries just for him
She suffers for him to hear
She is good and she is pure
But she is sick and needs a cure
He breathes quercetine,
is ruthless and mean,
His gender it would seem, a mystery.
...Influence-Love-and Turmoil
***** is nothing but desire
Of his/hers soul she cannot tire
Revolting in his mannerisms
Unsightly in appearance
yet dripping with ****** appeal
and all must have him.
The Angel is no better,
The world is white and black
with sheep crammed together in a stack.
He dismisses their devotion
is malevolent and confident.
He changes form but is consistent.
Cringe to look at him,
but unable to stop.
He draws you in and beats you down
until he takes the win and you're on the ground
Like fine wine he gets better,
older and older the legend grows.
Stealing more hearts and sanity.
A disgusting man with turbulent ways
yet somehow there is nothing the Angel desires more.
Revolting in his mannerisms,
Disgusting in appearance...
yet I find it so horribley attractive.
Such a sick need to have it.
An Affliction of Attraction... My My...
It would seem that I am the beast and he is the beauty...
that sick, anorexic, drug beaten beauty.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
1.
Whoso hears a chiming for Christmas at the nighest,
Hears a sound like Angels chanting in their glee,
Hears a sound like palm-boughs waving in the highest,
Hears a sound like ripple of a crystal sea.
Sweeter than a prayer-bell for a saint in dying,
Sweeter than a death-bell for a saint at rest,
Music struck in Heaven with earth's faint replying,
"Life is good, and death is good, for Christ is Best."
2.
A holy, heavenly chime
Rings fulness in of time,
And on His Mother's breast
Our Lord God ever-Blest
Is laid a Babe at rest.
Stoop, Spirits unused to stoop,
Swoop, Angels, flying swoop,
Adoring as you gaze,
Uplifting hymns of praise,--
"Grace to the Full of Grace!"
The cave is cold and strait
To hold the angelic state.
More strait it is, more cold,
To foster and infold
Its Maker one hour old.
Thrilled through with awestruck love,
Meek Angels poised above,
To see their God look down.
"What, is there never a Crown
For Him in swaddled gown?
"How comes He soft and weak
With such a tender cheek,
With such a soft, small hand?--
The very Hand which spann'd
Heaven when its girth was plann'd.
"How comes He with a voice
Which is but baby-noise?--
That Voice which spake with might:
'Let there be light!' and light
Sprang out before our sight.
"What need hath He of flesh
Made flawless now afresh?
What need of human heart?--
Heart that must bleed and smart,
Choosing the better part.
"But see: His gracious smile
Dismisses us a while
To serve Him in His kin.
Haste we, make haste, begin
To fetch His brethren in."
Like stars they flash and shoot,
The Shepherds they salute.
"Glory to God" they sing;
"Good news of peace we bring,
For Christ is born a King."
3.
Lo! newborn Jesus,
Soft and weak and small,
Wrapped in baby's bands
By His Mother's hands,
Lord God of all.
Lord God of Mary,
Whom His Lips caress
While He rocks to rest
On her milky breast
In helplessness.
Lord God of shepherds
Flocking through the cold,
Flocking through the dark
To the only Ark,
The only Fold.
Lord God of all things,
Be they near or far,
Be they high or low;
Lord of storm and snow,
Angel and star.
Lord God of all men,--
My Lord and my God!
Thou who lovest me,
Keep me close to Thee
By staff and rod.
Lo! newborn Jesus,
Loving great and small,
Love's free Sacrifice,
Opening Arms and Eyes
To one and all.
1.5k
She is my second favorite poet on this list
But she doesn't need to be reminded of this
She doesn't give a ****
Cause she is here for her
Not for my approval
As she hits the high note
Of the last bars that she wrote
With a little sneer she disappears
Holding that disdain in her veins
From years of abuse
I compliment her but
My blandishments fall on angry ears
She fakes gratitude
Not understanding the sincerity
Of my compliments
Assuming I am sexualizing her
That I am just another perv
I understand
I thank her and walk away
Never letting even an inkling show
Through my face
But I am disappointed
She could have been my ally
Not my lover or fling but friend
Dismisses me so offhandedly and angrily
But I let it slide
There is always other nights
There are always other venues
Under softer lights
Where writers delight
In what others write
And they are not so angry
But she is still my second favorite
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
Benedict stands
in the porter's lodge,
circa 1969, waiting
for Dom Tyler the monk,
to bring the large key
to open the church for Matins.
Dawn, cold air, smell of age
and incense and baking of bread.
He remembers Sonia,
the domestic at the home,
who pushed him to the bed
of old Mr Gillam and said
in her soft Italian,
Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
then in her broken English said,
I could have *** with you here.
Another joined Benedict
in the porter’s lodge,
some holy-Joe type,
breviary under arm,
starved gaze.
The silence,
the smell,
the chill.
Dom Tyler opens the door
from the cloister
and rattles the key,
smiles, but does not
break the Grand Silence.
He takes them out
into the morning air,
opens up the church.
Lights are on, monks
are assembling, bell rings,
Benedict takes a seat
on the side pew,
the other sits
more in front.
The old monk who last time
talked to Benedict
of monastic life,
slides by, his body aged,
his habit like a shroud.
How he escaped Sonia,
how he managed
to get away unmolested,
he finds it hard to fathom,
except the promise
of the cinema,
the seats at the back,
the kisses and touching,
all in the dark,
the flashing images
of the film going on.
Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
he utters under-breath.
The Latin of early morning
Matins begins, he dismisses
her image and her words.
The holy-Joe opens his breviary
in the semi dark, his finger
turning pages, muttering,
his head nodding
to an invisible prayer.
Benedict imagines Sonia
creeping into the pew,
muttering Italian,
sitting there.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
Is our ancestors' past echoed
When a hipster
With round ear plugs
A round peace sign
A round cigarette
Glares at me
And dismisses my drab appearance
My functional front shirt pocket
With a plastic protector
And work badge
As what else…
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:21 AM UTC
Lonely is a girl someone once loved too much.
Lonely lays in bed and thinks of why it was too perfect.
Lonely stays up till 4 and wakes at 6 only to be alone.
Lonely cries and blames herself.
But Lonely forgets…
Lonely ignores the memories of pain.
Lonely doesn’t acknowledge the fights.
Lonely dismisses the abuse as her fault.
But Lonely still lays in bed and thinks of why it was too perfect.
Lonely cries and blames herself…
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 10:21 PM UTC
the mange of our fuzzy logic is squandered on the imbecile.
and genius is the gene splice of twelve comedies.
a rogue moon in a hooligan.
it jumps the fence and can't jump back. lacking the tool
that undoes the beauty of the obvious.
that quaintly dismisses the Oh ! My ! God !
we cringe in the ether of our ignorance, spooning the villain.
the Mind is the Common Sense Killer....
it dives and triumphs in the acetone conundrum
of our proximity to dissipation.
the bold features of our doldrums
are the perfect ugly perfection
of our flaws.
our love is the rigid agenda of a massacre.
we the people, are the juvenile, sprained wrist of a boggart !
a Fae dreary.
we have our business in the withers of dead horses.
we are well versed
in the tundra tongue of our flat humor.
we assume the rumors are true.
and the tyranny that freed you
is the misery you
love with
and your beautiful
doom
kissing
a
mirror...
a Thing.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
When I go out,
my cat sprawls
on the carpet and
dismisses me with
a half-opened eye.
When I return, I
find him in the
same disdainful
posture.
But I imagine that
when I am gone
he calls his cat
buddies, they come
over, drink beer
and whiskey,
smoke cigars, play
poker and watch
kitty ****
Small wonder the
poor beast needs
so much sleep.
~mce
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 7:53 AM UTC
The finger oil glistens in wide smears across convex glass
and the tired man in ***** Carhartts
asks the price for a rack of beef ribs.
The deli woman answers, his vision
quavers from the gristle and grease
as he dismisses the possibility of a feast,
it just looked so good
he comments, almost
pained or embarrassed.
She offers to cut it in half as
Dave the BBQ cook calls to me
across the fray and I wonder
if he wants my company,
for we talk long
about recent literary conquests
and our love of atypical diction.
The middle aged man
in the old ***** Carhartts
who walks
with the upright pain
of enduring parenthood
through poverty
refuses the meat with wry hurt
and wanders out of my life.
I drive one handed,
twelve ribs covered in tin foil
clutched dripping
as I peel back a metal edge
and gnaw flesh from bone.
May 4, 2011
May 4, 2011 at 1:56 PM UTC
A mournful air beyond the fog,
Death can meet among the poisonous rubes,
Beyond the trees and past the deformed log.
The Knight in Shining Armor comes to save the day.
Bearing healing potions from afar in pewter tubes,
But he is much too late; the Fool has already faded away.
His tears are many, for the loss of a brother,
They are heavy and murky against the dreamscape.
Now for his revenge, he seeks a strange other.
On his new, and strangely enlightened quest,
He feels transparent ghouls kissing his nape
Little does he know it is the sign of a Witches test.
Maneuvering among the empty placed grave,
He keeps his hopes on a looming tower.
He approaches his becoming of an honest knave.
He must be quick and tighten his saddle,
Because a pursuing evil is a deadly power,
And this Knight in Armor must be ready for battle.
The danger of our Knight is not known to man.
To survive, the he must unlearn his past.
This evil he faces is formulating a plan.
The towers close in as he passes their gates.
A spicy chill, creeps up the Knights spine,
And he finally grasps the terror of what awaits.
Inside his mind, he questions going back.
But dismisses the though as a man on wine.
He secretly knows this creature is on his track.
As he pushes himself onward,
He reminisces on his brother, and his life.
The only defining thought for him is froward.
He takes his final turn around the final corridor,
Quick on his feet and ready with his knife.
At first sight, he though his vision must have been poor.
A woman whose beauty surpassed any he had ever seen,
Stood with her naked eyes set firmly on him.
This was the witch who had killed all he had been.
Unable to take the life of any woman,
The soldier took a last and final look
And plunged the knife into his abdomen.
The beautiful witch had won yet another soul,
She knew why it was his life she took.
Never mind the Fool, the Knight had been her goal.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 5:26 PM UTC
Seduction is the name of her game
A maneater with her claws out ready for the hunt
Sweet as honey but cold as ice
With an agenda on her mind she dresses for the night out
to hunt for her prey
She zero's in on her conquest, strategize,
then proceed with her unstoppable plan
She checks her appearance then goes in for the ****
Her plan is to take him home, drain him and to never see him again
Exchange no names, no numbers
just a friendly encounter
Thats how she likes it
After she's through with him
she dismisses him and goes on to the next hunt
In her eyes men are only there for one thing
After that they are of no use to her
After an encounter with her they are left confused and dazed
Wanting to know more about this seductress
that whirlwind into their lives
She devours them and leave nothing to chance
on a second meeting
QNA
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 7:58 AM UTC