"dullard" poems
they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle)
400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence)
red ant drivers (who can forget those little ******
caked fir needles & feather cone
bug hologram & cedar moss
graffiti crack & cut joist
wheel rut & pick
pike stain (s)
sow bugs
electric
blower
purple
fueled
washer
missing
foul bits
and two of
its former pins
somewhere near
the erratic 9th stroke the
side kick (and his sloppy dullard)
fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter
anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems
lacewings (ladylike in their task), third door down windows
old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes)
all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting ~
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
The Dullard
A well intentioned
Comrade dropped
Off a basket of learning
Tools for my niece and nephew.
Among the colorful array
Of big red dogs
And purple dinosaurs
I find a book titled
"God Thought of It First."
I paused to consider
Pernicious Anemia,
Gary, Indiana, Republicans,
The Ford Pinto...
I sure never would
Have thought of it.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
Nor thou, Habib, nor I are glad,
when rosy limbs and sweat entwine;
But rapture drowns the sense and self,
the wine the drawer of the wine,
And Him that planted first the grape-
o podex, in thy vault there dwells
A charm to make the member mad,
And shake the marrow of the spine.
O member, in thy stubborn strength
a power avails on podex-sense
To boil the blood in breast and brain;
shudder the nreves incarnadine!
From me thou drawest pearly drink -
and in its pourings both are drunk.
The Iman drives forth the drunken man
from out the marble prayer-shrine.
Blue Mushtari strove with red Mirrikh
which should be master of the night-
But where is Mushtari, where Mirrikh
when in the sky the sun doth shine?
Now El Qahar to Hazif gives
the worship unto poets due : -
But songs are nought and Music all;
what poet music may define?
Allah's the atheist! he owns
no Allah. Sneer, thou dullard churl!
The Sufi worships not, but drinks,
being himself the all-divine.
Come, my Habib, the roses blush,
the waters gleam, the bulbul sings -
To pierce thy podex El Quahar's
urgent and and imminent design!
5.2k
(a satirical pop at the Illuminati)
It's time to slay fatted consumer cows
It's time to fumigate the Great Unwashed;
To sow mutation's seeds behind the ploughs
To see the dullard's dreams forever quashed.
How movingly they pray not to be harmed!
How doggedly they work to make a wage!
How prettily they line up to be farmed,
Yet, how they long to be at centre stage!
The Useless Eaters eat their pizzas deep,
Their double fries and creamy mayonnaise;
Produce only some methane while asleep,
And fodder for landfill, throughout their days.
It's time for the superiors to win;
Unleash the virus, let the cull begin.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
Can you settle for more or less if today was your last day
And what would be your retort if you were denied another chance?
How life introduces sobriety and the impending inevitability
The interstice and it’s ingress that encloses before your eyes
The demanding pouring of importune time
That soothing allaying sighs that evoke incalculable alleviation
If someone were to impart as they closed their eyes
As they died with a commital of happenings with not enough time
As to burden you with the impression of only one chance
It would seem and with the impending inevitability
Of your death which would subito compromise the day
A bearding contrivance plight of obligations engagement and commital no alleviation
An abecedarian dossier concealed for a long time
All this time the inevitable coinciding incident only for your eyes
The emotional habituation was of quotidian rendition each day
Of how trivial things take us on a dance with only one life one chance
With your attention and awareness on the answer the inevitability
Of what you are becoming with each passing second for each
Thought which transpires and no alleviation
Is there an epoch a replicating limn a depiction of our linear time
As we perpetrate and pursue progressively for our alleviation
Engaged to staying the course the day
Stirring closing in on our deliberate objective determined chance
Which remained for a terse duration from the inevitability
In which at the atrium of this erstwhile portage of a duvet to belabor
To stifle firsthand with your eyes
The variant from this domicile from this residence on a day
Is the vagabond to perish in yonder with no alleviation
Once man was a brute dullard or a curmudgeon spinster at a time
Which offers a mute disconnection ragged miscreant the inevi
Naivety or absent mindedness to somnambulist and its silhouette
Notwithstanding change
The quagmire and it’s nightmare the ingrate delighted with coined
Shunned eyes
Reputation with a flagrant obscene defilement galvanizing
The alleviation
At the heart of this lies another chance
A precocious inevitability
A man who lies to die another day
The annihilation in desperate want for from those argent eyes
To the starving newfangled optimism which in its sheen
Shines sunshine dulling the ocular orbs of time
Forwithal in befuddlement remain here
The time if infringement to comprehend the volatile vertigo
And the inevitability
The harrowing of hell
Glance at the shinning suns in her eyes intention considers change
After you heal and left are the cicatrix
Will you plunge further for alleviation
Or on the intent of regression once again
From long ago to another distant day.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC
this dream has no other dream
it lingers in the fair Between
and seldom in the inkling think the slightest thing
less interesting
than an overture, an ode to Odin
or a stillborn child's
twitch.
in a box of halos you will find petroglyphs in the hollow of bright yellow sugar-cube skulls with red dots
you will spread the virus. or hire lemmings to do your bidding in your war
on angels with too many arms. on those little plastic shakers, with the little holes: filled with glitter.
your annex of Poland, last june, and your Easter revolution... i could go on. no less bitter.
but many harms have visited your dullard nova
you could spit in god's hand
and fix your cowlick with your reflection.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
3/2/2015
“I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything,
couldn’t do it anyway,
just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made
any sense, anything.
And I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t sit still or fix things and I wake up and I wake up and you’re still dead.” Richard Silken
I wrote of vultures once, I'd found in the sepulchral little category of "poems I had burnt a while ago" that I kept in my brain. I spoke of predatorial lashings against the dead prairie dogs of her and I, class of 2005- add ten more years and...
Contended May heat like the May-December romances in trope, I'd walk to bridges with notebook in sullied hand, a bit flushed, a bit healthy with the sun on my gold flakes shoulders If I had only known? Right? Haha.
The grammar rules of english: you (I) is a proper noun- but of course, i refuse to give myself that much pomp. To be full of such vanity is to be full of treacly purity- which does not apply so much now.
I had been given time to love you - until I didn't need you anymore, you said, then you'd leave- a sweetly sardonic little note, seeing as you hated the conjugal and impossible implications of "forever". I feel, now that you are gone, this is an imprisonment I am doomed to til atrophy...
You are dead. Your corpse rots in the sun of the soil in the coffin and it is still cold outside. Everytime I leave the house I ask myself what I seriously am expecting from March. The heat, the permenance of your being gone makes me sit down on the cold snow,
My dullard heart sits with a bread knife wedged on a rib when I realize how utterly alone I am- so alone the vultures do not even circle.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
As she sits there silently,
rocking back and forth
to and fro
in her wooden rocking chair.
Her eyes closed,
head pressed firmly into the patterned blue cushion,
pushed by her tense fists
that grip each sidearm
and threaten to leave marks
into the dullard rich grain
that smells like "childhood"
covered in dust mites.
Her feet propped up
on a matching rocking stool,
it's a set.
She used to lie flat on her stomach,
with her feet on the chair,
and her belly on the footrest,
backwards...I'm flying.
Now she's grown,
too awkward,
too sad.
He sits there
in an armchair
drooping with age
with memories sewn into its brown decor.
Smells like basement
and home.
Feels like creativity
when life wasn't so hard.
When its cushion and pillows held back the world
and a blanket provided a ceiling, that drooped,
until it plopped on his face
And he would climb out and fix it
because inside,
he was safe,
and happy.
Now,
his feet would be cold
and his head would break the roof
not that he has the imagination anymore
nor the time.
Sitting there,
with fingers dead
and withered
crackling dry,
voice depressed
heaving sighs with every sentence
and a general gloom about the room.
Perfectly still,
entirely quiet,
that stems from silence that is only apparent
after a presence has left
shed from a carcass growing cold
born anew to live a life till stretched and old
now a red neon sign lit up,
"Vacancy."
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
this dream has no other dream
it lingers in the fair Between
and seldom in the inkling think the slightest thing
less interesting
than an overture, an ode to Odin
or a stillborn child's
twitch.
in a box of halos you will find petroglyphs in the hollow of bright yellow sugar-cube skulls with red dots
you will spread the virus. or hire lemmings to do your bidding in your war
on angels with too many arms. on those little plastic shakers, with the little holes: filled with glitter.
your annex of Poland, last june, and your Easter revolution... i could go on. no less bitter.
but many harms have visited your dullard nova
you could spit in god's hand
and fix your cowlick with your reflection.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
That dullard Percival Crane
he's boring into my brain
he's talking train
timetables and grain
sizes and portfolios
and shares
**** he's assaulting my ears
Next time when I spy his magnified eyes
I'll say, see you Percy, my how time flies
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
Tundralabra
My amethyst fist
in sank soil
on a rank day
where my hour clocks in
at Forever at a time
while Time
is a dream
on a perpetual
porch…
I slip
into my own
blood in the guise of a lightning bolt
murdering my
dullard.
With Open Eyes.
I come up!
when the conversation
is lapsing into a whimsy
that snarls at Death…
and when I have no pigeons
to tell Nothing too…
I have no Reason
to not
Keep a Sky for Myself.
II
Here I come from slumber’s thunderous churning
in more mornings than your handful
of Nightfall…
I watch you frame
an echo like a Fool under glass
and carry on
in your slim way
weaving Madrigals of Low tolerance
where a Pantomime Horse
had a better chance
at being an Indian
than You!
I’m
Chaucer with a softer brick.
And Balloons!
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC
Jubilation rings to the sound of its own drum
while glistening on its vibrant accolades
the fool prances on a pile of bones
with a rhythmic crunch.
The dilapidated ideas crumble off old hegemonies
as he dances slack-jawed whimsy to a world collapsing
behind his eyes.
His gaze is an arid wasteland
where the only sound is the dusty wind
and the only smell is that of gray clay.
His dry ****** lips are as brittle as crackling paint
that decay and abandon have flecked off with a breeze.
And his dullard smile exposes sharp teeth...
the only bit of clean left in him.
when you see him...
this vacant thing...
your wet tears remind you of your own existence
in comparison to this misery
slumping by.
The glorious death he witnesses is his to bear.
What you cannot bear to witness
is but the side effect of his metamorphosis:
A sorry
and temporary state
of depravity
that lingers on your tongue
and holds you down
in your lofty leisure.
I would not trade a crooked nail to experience this man's perturbation.
Alas,
I know life has a funny way of whispering mysteries yet to come.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
Pity naught the fool who stood agape at the mouth of the abyss,
Who henceforth became a delirious, demented *******
For very few are those who return from the precipice
Left with scars that are all but a trifle.
‘Tis not fire that burns, that brings about anguish.
‘Tis not rain that drowns, that brings about pain.
A sanguine dullard will forever seek to diminish
What a benighted scholar will endeavor to sustain.
Hath thee the prudence
To discern the ciphers
In the deafening silence?
In the earsplitting whispers?
The fiends,
Their eyes
Of sordid coal
Conceal the truth
Of what they are after.
Their forlorn cries beseech the soul
With venom as clear as polished lacquer.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC
nothing drags a frame of reference out of bed
like a fresh start on a pike.
you strap your business-end to a playful lark
and stave off the broken moons
as you Tetris the Possible
like an unknown god.
I hoist my genre by rote;
my tropes charmed and dangerous…
for the pen is mightier than the fjord
of our most opulent shadows.
My Etch-a-Sketch memories diverge
like Christmas geese
flocking to a pagan potluck
as cellular as a private moment with
a Neilson rating of zero.
I tune in when a gadfly lands on the nose of a spite,
and make a poet’s face.
I sleep like a baby on
the Titanic-
but my average epiphany
bobs for apples
in a bucket
of Northern Stars
too keen on wisdom
for a dullard’s
petard.
at first glance, every blank stare
like a horde of eyes
with pitchforks
and torch songs
made of
why?
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 8:07 AM UTC
Let me tell you life is a game
Play it to win by its magic
And you'll win the war.
Eliminate to win
Substitute to win
And keep your poise in victory.
You are only a dullard
When you refuse to put
In your dollar of chance.
It takes courage to substitute
It takes bravery to eliminate
Tell me, who can win life's battle
Without bravery and courage?
In the heart of life's battle
Lies the treasure of victory
For those who can explore
And exploit life in wisdom.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
Apples in orchards
Apples in orchards crashing like snowflakes to the ground,
They fall into the baskets to be eaten now.
They have ripened and at last we can taste their juices;
This fruit of the loom brings pleasure to our mouths.
Vineyards drunk dry by drunken Mediterranean’s,
Create a wine so divine, you would swear it was a God send.
There is no end of pleasure to be found in this land of ours;
Sip the wine and spit it out and then while away the hours.
Summer shines upon us, as we are drunk in love;
We have tasted her, we are with her and she is the one.
The one who brings us happiness when all else is dark.
She brings us the warmth we crave; she is euphoria for the heart.
Dance for your lover and take off your clothes
And you will see the smile on their face.
Love each other truly and who knows,
You could grow apples in your orchard and savour the taste.
Love is your apple and your life is your orchard;
It takes two to grow an apple, so come on now don’t be a dullard.
Smother them in love and your orchard will grow
And at last you will have a place you can feel at home.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC
I Recall… by Jessie 10/06
Recall the day from whence you came
When endless days were not the same
Take hold and care
Do not let go
For I recall
Black and white and hues of gray
Recount the dullard of the days
Eyes reflect of empty stares
Untouched, remote
As I recall
Both corners of the mouth
Turned, neither north nor south
All affect was lost, cast into the night
Twas but the shadows, which changed the face
As I recall
Turtle days, creeping by
If only I, knew how to cry
Swallow hard
Choke it down
Yes! I recall
Then, sun lit rays seeping in
Stained the room, and cleansed the sins
Melted heart and heightened senses
Colors now abound
As I recall
Tranquil peace, this stranger’s name
Known by more, but all the same
Intervening, locking heads
Saved me from my tortured cell
As I recall
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 2:03 PM UTC
nothing rapturous but the weight
her life affords me, as i lift it
without effort, to a place above
the dormant and the gifted.
nothing wholesome as the tongue
she proffers sweetly to my lips
that find her luminous aplomb
ignites a wriggle of my hips
nothing dangerous but the shapes
her limber form unfolds and frees
a team effort to escape
the dullard limits of our knees
nothing as intimate as the truth
her words wring deftly, warm and young
and we vanish into slumber
with all love done
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 10:28 PM UTC
Dude is wide awake
His waking void understill
Five minuteplastic
The water congeals loudly
In front of his tonsure
Explode out of oceans of salt
To empty that illuminated ditch
When he parts
She supine in other days
Out of a matter filled gas
Over the shell of wellness
Or feather brush
The risen Antigone
Stuffed in her tonsure
Obviously never hearing the lie
Which carries darkness
Away from valleys of pride
The silence of the watchful Dullard
A cold stillness
******* in the forms
Exposing the Moon
She ****** medicine out of her mother's
Nose
Crawled clothed
Into her father's chair
Healing her mother's solidity
("Forget her")
Easy to remember the day
After the wake
She was found in the concrete
And the mother stuck in
Her grown-up gums
She tears his sickness
Not an apathetic ****
Away from him, black tendon
Reinforcing his unity
Without blunt gums
Eternity is drawing her hateful grunts
Of none these abrasive poems
We were a tiny Tonsure
Of the naked ***
Or a pristine sweetbird
Those sated turkeys are cowards
Empty of reverence
The sands were still
Of the red corpuscles
In that second spirit
Our divorce was undone
Sated
Against the white Moon out of his foot
Sated in the noise
This chills
The rejected plans of the impossible
That flitter on possibilities
Look behind ye
The rottings of all that remains
Never staring into
Junkyards of roses
Physical waterspray
Waking forest man
And she, last of the truly ignorant
A whisp burying opiates
Nightmares
And the obvious
Potent dwarves squinting up
From tiny depths
On those haters
Who cool
And freeze
And remain inert, careless, the missing stumps
They stop shrinking
"You lose what you don't want"
He tells her
His oft-described tonsure
Was in his toenails
"Confidence is a weak malady
Go away waking octogenarian
Go to sleep, Go to sleep..."
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 9:17 PM UTC
small, mean,of a frigid mindset
you sit on your pile of obscure knowledge
like some old decrepit dragon
where is the joy, the love
harsh words and scathing looks
you wonder why few come to sit
at your feet
where is the love, where is the joy
you are a breed dying,
simply for wont of trying
something new and different
once the golden child
now you are dressed
in dullard's clothes
and atop your pile
of worn out woes
you sit, a caricature
in a defensive pose
having lost the love, the joy
your opinions are outdated
and put simply ...on the nose
retire gracefully...
before you are bulldozed
like an old statue
whose point and meaning
nobody knows..
your time and place
has been and gone
for god's sake
realize you are
an antiquity
and move on.....
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 5:37 AM UTC
Formalist conceit: striving mad
'Til driven mute, the pattern
wraps you up in a
blanket made of shackles.
See the poet Pagliaccio
Suffer muses' scorning laughter,
Bound and stricken witless, dullard.
Sheathe that poison knife you call a tongue,
Leave the pen your gun in its holster.
Cast your bullet words into the gutter.
The formless form: scatter words and
Enjamb your wits against null space.
The water is the container, no buckets,
No brackets. From disorder, order.
Jul 9, 2019
Jul 9, 2019 at 11:09 AM UTC
If I could see myself through your eyes,
Would I experience a pleasing surprise,
Or be sadly disappointed by what I'd see?
Would I wonder as to how Life might be
To find the man I married; full of vitality,
Replaced by another that today is elderly?
If I could see myself through your adoring eyes,
Would I still be your especial, rare found prize
Or boring dullard, as some might think of me?
Having experienced many years: an eternity,
My set ways and strong held beliefs, vented loud:
Are often heard above the less vocal crowd?
If I could hear myself, through your ears,
Would I remain tuned to my likes and fears?
Ready to listen and comfort, ever paying heed,
When support and consolation, are my need.
Adding subtle nuance to say "I Love You"
A hidden message, known only to us two.
If I could hold myself, as if cuddled in your arms,
Would embraces received, still retain the charms
You offer, or when loving compassion is required,
Respond with empathy as you do? When tired,
\I\/ould I join to face and conquer unexpected woes,
That threaten our loving ties? That, no one knows'
If I could see or relate to myself as you do to me,
Would I be seen more loving. Would you see,
A man with genial ways, showing more caring,
Accepting Life's restraints, and yet, more sharing?
To see me through your discerning eyes, cannot be
I will remain content, to be what you presently see!
Rhymer, March 10th, 2018..
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 11:20 AM UTC