"dynamo" poems
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
anti-
qua-
-so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
Marxist-
liberal-
Hegelian-
whatnot...
they don't
use abstract prefixes,
their prefixes
are concrete,
they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
con-
has to be conservative
pro-
has to be socialist
you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
*** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
Off to the park a picnic yeah
three women a wean
and a man who don't scare
well not too easily...
as long as the swings
don't make him queasily
up the slide ok wee girl
she's gonna fall my toes all curl
nope she seems to have it dialled
little hurricane dynamo child
then the swings
for about12 seconds
three turns on the roundabout
maybe less I reckon
then back to the slide
God I am puffed
hasn't the wee girl had enough?
Ok I grab achicken roll
two bites its in a muddy hole
this picnic is turning out to be
endurance playing for Jeremy
tried the kids swing I got jammed
like wearing steel Y-fronts
my privates were crammed
ok so it was all my choice
I say in a funny high-pitched voice
"Jesus go up" I am told so I go
Only she calls me that now you know
where she got it who can guess
got an idea won't confess
(better than being a skinny Welsh Tw*t)
starting to flag like I smoked a ***
need an emergency sicky bag
go home soon and lie down quick
after picnic and playing I am quite sick
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 7:55 AM UTC
I am a raging fire on the inside and what the
world only sees, a wisp of smoke
emanating through me. Lightning, thunder
crackling on my skin I carve history on streets.
Sneaking quiet tender as a beast,
people bow down to the tremble I speak.
My hair is a string of storm, raising up in
the smell of abhor. My flesh runs in a fire of lava and gold
Fresh and real, like a snake I peel off my skin. Through the ashes I am reborn
I stir and devour men with my breath of smoke
Tingling, Fleeting like bright sun glow, I
I am the revelation of today’s tomorrow.
Scare, beware my lips a poison of reality
Drunk to the liquor of skulls, I am flexed
my body taken from an Agate stone
Sinister smile I am a black onyx erratic and wild
to every screech I keep. My finger on people’s lips
Be still I come revolting crackers in my head
I am the child of love, born with a stone in my bed.
Come all you who dare, eyes like a cat,
I will slit you naked with a stare
I run the city wild, shouting the ecstasy burning beating in my head
those who are laughing think I’m in despair.
Shiver, I fly high, swiftly like a storm, I greet people with a blow.
This is my confession, the true disclosure of lady leo limbo
I am a magic dynamo, those who cut will bleed and disappear in my timid ****
Walk, fly, run with me I’ll tie you in my body, those who whisper my name
I’ll build you a cage and and in my presence, I’ll slowly poison your veins.
Haven’t they told you of my stories,
I am a natural force of misery masked in smooth ivory.
The great fire I hold cuts swifter than a sword.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:50 AM UTC
the night of the fake dead has become eternal
(i will wear Susan Lucci's face for it)
staggering through excesses unknown
and the uncertainty of this ranking system,
you tried to eat my earlobe
but lost interest in it quickly.
your scent safe in this butterfly net,
i am surrounded by the
murderous howls of your perennial
buttercups, determined to tempt
my animal ******* instincts.
(enuma elish la nabu shamamu)
(shapiltu ammatum shuma la zakrat)
i have tripped in the garden of Eve's desire
and felt torrents across my cheeks
of alternating salt and sugar-sweet nectar.
i have held the red locks of wort
and danced on the blossom-littered ground
in remembrance of wandered attention.
(When in the heights heaven had not been named)
(and below, firm ground had not been called...)
i have wept in the shadow of Adam's twin towers
and seen the rift between the continents
ebb and fall under silence's blanket.
i have leathered my skin under this star
to defend my eyes and tongue from
the bite of the turtle goddess.
i have seen the feast of the water,
devouring the naked soil of Pangea,
and tasted its salt with my eyes.
i have undertaken the toil of the shaduf,
churning mud and planting seeds for
the return of the floral messiah.
(Amaru baur rata)
(Shagane Ir Imshi)
i have borne the yoke of the oxen
and reaped stalks of wheat
in the summer's first harvest
i have broken bread with companions
under starlight mixed embers
glowing log light orange dynamo
(The Flood swept thereover)
(His heart was filled with tears)
Will you scream for me?
Can you profess the holiness
of my mission?
My name, my motif, echoes
across the ages...
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
In the end we are called upon by
stronger forces, blank expressions, glassy eyes
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
Siaynoq!
the cold of the world's knife,
pressed against the flesh of our selves,
unconscious rhythm heartbeat pounding
twisted sense rhumba of a thousand tiny shards
Siaynoq!
Call me to a greater purpose
Siaynoq!
Spill my blood across the sand
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
is what i wear.
it is a loreal campaign offering the art of concealment
wrinkles are for unironed clothes and old folk homes
all creation and destruction spun from tomb
the glow emanating from a woman's womb
this spf
isn't always available for the wear
its not some cap we can slip on our hair
or the glasses we use to hide the despair
for our pimples have awoken from
their nightly slumber
allowing the light to
illuminate their number
best we take it all in
the midnight pukes
and
the morning glow
lets carry on with our dancing dynamo
all starry eyed and audacious
all messy and pugnacious
with our lips soaked in red
shouting words of poetic gibberish
to statuesque lovers
who spin in and out of the revolving door
as we sing our tune under helmets
under bleeding stars
and wind up with tattooed legs and arms
for there is a radiant rose in your brain
permanently blooming
against the ticking of time
as you stand in alliance
with lust and love alike
when they conveniently misplaced their pain
at the local bookstore
i can't imagine they'll go looking for it.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 8:31 PM UTC
The rain left an a stamp on time
like a postcard to mother nature,
making the drops on the grass into new
modern language to make contact with
some sort of transcendent hazy dynamo
that presides in metaphysical invisibility.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
Come all you story readers
Be you young,or be you old
To the land of sir dolly dimple
Where fairy tales unfold
Now not so far away
And not so long ago
Lived a boy named dolly dimple
And his horse named dynamo
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
At sunrise
I awake from
A violent comatose
I welcome the fiery rain
Soak my flesh from the faucet
Taking deep breathes in stride
With an arsonist anthem playing
Eyes closed and heart racing
The immolation takes flight
Bones made ash become warpaint
A far cry from help as I burn
An unstable dynamo ready to blow
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
ohlil'elf I SPEAK magictricity
boastsevenafter manyayear
myluv TO THEE, 2b a dynamo
myheritage isasoft taleincandy apple gold
AND THEE IS HER, AND SHE IS THEE, dirtdiggerdigup edgars poems; AND TO W H O M I REFER.
andso COULD SHE BE oncemine
protectherfromAS MUCH damage
as oncewas INTO ME itseems
AS I AM INTO HER?
we'll see
AND IF SO, THEN THIS PLEA FROM ME WITH W O E F U L
rocket TEAR,
stars WILL NOT GO TOO LONG moon
ringing UNANSWERED HERE, opalstone
iou FOR HER SILENCE HURTS, BUT IS inpearly gems
R A R E.
benfranklin deadseafrom SO FAR AWAY! acrimsonsky and YET SO NEAR! even tiny bugs heedseen
we arewherewe are
BUT I WISH YOU WERE NEARER, DEAR! indialogue
love-in-a-mist
lone BECAUSE stars
by EACH DOMINION dawns
early ON SUCH OCCASION light
silver MUST UNWIND, streak
bombs SO AS TO burst
solely BE a sole
redredrosy
heaven REBORN IN THE MORNING SHINE, sent
RETURNING AS GLORIOUS and
mighty AND AS FRESH AS THE NEW DAY SKY, might he
repent
once AND THEREUPON SHOULDST CARRY ON upon
adream WITHOUT IMPERFECT MOAN OR a my tier
luving SIGH. ofluv
fortunate I PLEAD WITH THEE TO MANUMIT cookie
wrench YOUR TIGHTENED CLASP chromium
calcium THAT BINDS, petalstems
ouija heArts knoweth
asdf REST fdsa
zxcv YOUR WEARY vcxz
lkjh HEAD A BIT ON MINE, hjkl
mnbv AND EASE INTO PLEASANT REVERIES. vbnm
yeseth noeth
isitasif or asis youwillhaveme
oh AFTER ALL, THE DUSK HAS COME TO GIVE REST TO THEE, to all
pay AND I AM YOURS AND YOURS AM I notmuchattention
to me yet
openmetoyour -I AM RESTFUL SLEEP. interpretation
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC
i know, it's not exactly mesmerising
such bounties with such curdling
crudeness, but that's how it is,
with eyes vectoring into the above,
cobalt, the highest pinnacle of the depths,
a shade like any other,
and then seeking the horizon, the dilution
of the formidable shade into Arctic...
a near white, but not exactly white,
not exactly worth metaphor that's a kindred
of white & black as lack & lack...
just the see-through colour for the allowance
of possessing eyes, not near melted mirrors
of mercury, but by day,
the highest peak blue in hue of cobalt,
and when walking from the mountain's peak,
the eyes spot the Arctic and Adriatic mist hues
outlining a bordering of all things elemantal...
the transparency of the whole dynamo
on being grounded from all elevations,
before dipping into the seas' shrubbery...
for indeed the sky makes use of the close-up, apparent
green shades of the sea, or the Thames grey
without an earl on a royal gondola worthy a parade,
nearer then the grander colour scheme,
but up from space, indeed, all is blue and all is green,
and all is sandy suntanned bronze
and seemingly serene; lest we forgot the dollops
of skeletal, floating in cloud - those scouts of Antarctica;
but from the elemental blue of the sky
receding into the seas of mirrors via arctic into white
if not seemingly see-through, there too i spot
the antidote of white nearing the pristine state of
claiming being see-through, a crow's
bleak colour of being shrouded
in celebratory mourning: the pupil of my eye, black,
and all the world around me, the flattened earth
of my iris, for no astronaut i am to imagine it otherwise,
from a perspective of such heights reached by
fellow man, if i am to be so humbly grounded,
i'll imagine it counter-productively as thus.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
out goes
software developer
web designer
computer ****
mercahndise managers
vacancies now:
virtchandise manager
cloud transformation officers
outcome aggregator
data evangelist
sensemaking analyst
sales ninja
digital dynamo
happiness advocate
online community facilitator
web funster
you ready?
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
I often forget how to write.
Not because I am happy,
and, as they say, happiness writes white.
Nor for any lack of sadness,
for, as I see, sadness is a bottomless ink well.
But for any wild and outrageous feeling,
any like spirit who possesses my hand to start --
with awesome, judging faces sliding on the ceiling,
icons of the mother and god-child
dripping down eternal blue and martyr red,
like arms hanging, waking, pinning!
"Woman, behold your son!"
Behold me, my THC and psilo-sin life,
an endlessly whirling maelstrom of emotion!
flanked by monstrous, winged choirs of Motown
slinging fiery spears, gold rays penetrating!
"Oh, oh, God!" The Ecstasy of St. Philip!
Visions of horse-hung hosts and celestial orbs,
Heaven's dynamo, an **** of screws and cogs!
-- are hid.
I too watched the best minds of my generation,
anesthetized by sanity in a bottle
(id est: pills, pills, pills, pills, pills);
mesmerized by patterns of flashing lights
of digital desperation crying, "affirm me, friend me!" -;
drowned in an endless sea under a twilight of information
or else cats, cats, cats, cats, cats;
and ever afeard of mortal judgment.
“Big boys don’t cry” (so poets do in breathy meter).
A generation asleep
- and though in hopeful dream -
We are placid.
We work obedient.
We speak soft.
Because the whole world is medicated now.
Because the whole world is fixed.
And I wonder if there is a Spirit.
I think, if there is,
We have drugged her.
We have ravished her.
We have wasted her.
And the whole world is silent now.
And the whole world is fixed.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 11:51 AM UTC
I
I celebrate my pants, and sing my pants,
And what I wear you shall wear,
For every thread belonging to me as good belongs to you.
II
I saw the best pants of my generation destroyed by madness, bleaching faded skinny,
dragging themselves through the crowded malls at noon looking for the perfect selfie,
man-bunned hipsters burning for the contemporary digital connection to the social dynamo in the machinery of online relevance
III
Let us go Pants, you and I,
With evening wash spread out against the sky
Like a ghost dancing upon the breeze;
Let us go, through certain half-full baskets,
The smelly caskets
Of unwashed trousers from one-week neglected hampers.
IV
Something there is that doesn't love my pants,
That sends the frayed-torn-cuffs under it,
And spills my muffin top in the sun;
And makes love handles even two can hold to love.
V
I have stolen
the pants
that were in
the dressing room
and which
you were probably
wearing
for a party
Forgive me
they were comfy
so soft
and so stylish
VI
Because I could not fit my Pants –
I kindly split the Seam –
The Problem is quite obvious –
I need some stronger Jeans.
VII
The patterns on your pants
Could make a designer cry;
But I hung on to your stance:
Plaid boldly with tie-dye.
VIII
Call the maker of big pants,
The fabulous one, and bid him zip
In seamstress studs sumptuous sewing.
IX
What happens to lost pants?
Do they stiffen up
like paper as it dries?
Or do they balloon up —
and into the sky rise?
X
I bought some tremendous pants
and held them beside the cart
half off the hanger, with the hook
fast in the belt loop around the waist.
There was no fight.
No one had fought at all.
They hung a defeated weight,
overlooked and spurned.
Jan 13, 2020
Jan 13, 2020 at 4:51 PM UTC
I reassemble,
The wind flows backwards to your hands,
I am returning from whatever version of “beyond” you choose to believe,
Each particle caring a manifest blessing back with it.
Perhaps tears flow up your face, retracing the progression of grief down your cheek.
Or maybe I was an awful at the end and in rewind you whisper “dead is ***** old that god thank.”
But either way that is the past… or the future,
It isn’t prudent to examine such distinctions now
It’s movement not direction that matters.
My form is re-forged by fire,
My bones smoothing in the heat
My flesh hardens from liquid to coalesce around my uncooking muscles,
And still I rewind,
Personality and character drifting through the cobweb wrinkles of my skin,
Till somewhere in the dynamo of my body my heart finally beats its last *** ba”… and then it’s second to last.
How strange is a life lived backwards?
Would words taste different in my mouth, have new meaning in rewind,
Would I find satanic messages in my everyday phrases or just speak in nonsense, a string of “a-blah-blah” that takes too long to be made sense of.
How different would my actions be?
My hands could peel away bruises, unbreak eggs, and **** insults out of the air
Yet who would be responsible for these miracles,
Some dreadful foreword version of myself.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
subhuman.
desolation.
desolation.
discrimination.
distribution
It's nothing but a everlasting dynamo.
Powered by anger and rage
it will never cease to turn.
Spawning
the hatred that has conquered our race.
Overcoming
the mutual love that has seeped through the cracks.
Defecating
the morals of those immoral.
Foundations
that our fathers built
have been destroyed.
Killing
the dream that
is now a nightmare.
Suffocating
the choices that define us.
Abandoning
all hope, ye who enter here.
Deformation
of the unborn child.
God.
Heaven.
Hell.
Earth.
Nature.
You.
Me.
Them.
All of us.
We're all the same.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 6:34 PM UTC
by Arcassin Burnham
i need a repent,
to erase all my sins,
i just can't get over you,
i just can not shake this feeling,
if you feel its over due,
i don't need anybody's help,
to conquer all my demons,
i could scream and yell,
it won't do anything for a reason,
did you even notice?
doesn't mean you cut your loses
and get out of dodge,
these problems are bitter sweet,
of course,
what about that thing you made on the blog,
somewhere theres a limited amount of time,
to fight a good rebellion,
if your seldom,
then your lying,
or the automobile you want to drive,
but you can't have,
in the sea of selfishness,
you dive,
but you had,
so much on your plate,
and many people in your life,
maybe this is the wrong place,
up and away,
you feel like you can fly,
did you even notice?
green screens,
and the darkest abyss,
alter the fabric of reality,
by the power of one fist,
like an anniversary,
of carrying out evil plans,
i fight with all your memories,
we've been through a lot of rules,
and demands,
again with the fabric of reality thing,
don't let your illusions get the best of you,
but in the mist of actuality,
will lead you to perfect virtue,
misery loves company very much,
been married for thousands of years,
you could have been super dynamo,
leave you unorthodox,
or you can escape your fears,
did you even notice?
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
Chronology Dynamo(Cogwheel Goddess)
Excogitation; twiddling my thumbs…
My eyes are glued to the soil beneath me; I shall sink into the mud.
The winds embrace my untimely surge of vain equations.
My metacarpals have contorted; supplication exhausts my soul.
“You my Goddess, who I look to for Time, yes Time and solace“.
“Thou shall not reveal to me vicissitudes of vernal decay”
“When shall the Great Harvest arrive?”
“I ask myself this oh Mother of Divine Infinity; Scythe of Era in the hands of thou.”
-When-
-When shall my flowering forth arrive from aegis wings?-
I sweat; I bleed; I murmur; I fade; I glow; “now what am I?”
Translucent in skin; hollow to the core; dying to warp through dimensions; lithe like a sylph.
Her diadem is one of metallic gears and bejeweled bolts; a Manufactured Diety of the Glorious Space and Time.
Her blade of mascara beautifies those who gaze upon her luminous needle lashes;
Her apparel that of disassembled clocks.
The sand of the hourglass composes her tears and blood; she bleeds out every second of wasted chronology.
Her corona is iridescent and she is one with The Universe.
“Ye shall not waste Time, yes, Time, for it is the essence to all things that are and all things that are not!”
She speaks to me as the nebulae around her glimmer, adorned with supernovae creating a phantasmagorical and celestial overload.
My eyes are clocked with sensory overload; so many colors and luminous neon lights.
“Before the collapse of Mother Earth; the Liminal Sphere, you must feed the Galaxies with the brilliance of your heart.”
-When the rivers of time run dry-
-Act-
-Do Not Wait…-
By Sanders M. Foulke III
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 3:50 AM UTC
I stared at your face I was touched by the look you had on your face it contained sadness mixed with
Beauty and the unforgettable serious that holds as you look upon your face your blond hair frames you
So well the more I looked the more the human ebbed and flowed from your picture I’m only left to
Guess about the real you but you came at a time when I need to connect to another human being
Stillness the photo was snapped when your lips were open as if you were getting ready to speak it
Creates a haunting quality blue eyes of cool hard or tender they match your circumstances to rule
By the spirit if you are invaded you fall back to the wall now everything is right your strength rushes
Forth your fortress at your back is not your power or defense it is your confidence the inner swelling
Well you are not unfamiliar with life’s jagged edge your hands not visible truly will carry the marks of
Scars a defender will call out the warning then lead the necessary charge with a boldness the field holds
No greater honor than selfless sacrifice a pillar that stands fearless when you know you are in the right
Only the lonely know true glory a rock Asbury carbon by this fuel a dynamo has its switch flipped she
Drinks courage in like it’s her own homemade brew she strikes a pose sweet as a rose and truly the river
Widens its flow the heavens burst into a glow a soul of fire has passed among the dark and wild wood
Just a visitor that left her words that were indeed silent with wisdom beamed from her essence she took
And held our imagination for a little while shared her humanness broadened our existence stillness
Captures by its frozen immobility it wills and holds you until it evokes in you a response tenderness
Speaks a language all its own it never fails it has all the emotional tools that works in the soul thanks
Desert woman there are truly streams in the desert you prove that thank you
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
I am electron
You are positron
I am moon
You are sun
Me, winter
You, summer
Yet continuosly turning in a dynamo twist
Burning, cooling, forgetting our places and time
We forgot, totally forgot.
This is the rule of the Universe:
The opposites are destined
To make the world go round
And shake it
Tremble it
In a bursting ball of passionate fire!
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 7:57 PM UTC
**Can you feel my heartbeat?
Mine can run a dynamo**
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
The purest stranger
in my life
has jolted me
with a million volts
of sheer-excitement.
I crave the electric-feeling
she sends through
my entire body.
I am supercharged
at the very thought
of creating static-friction
with her between the sheets.
I will be her dynamo,
will spin her turbines
like she's never felt before.
She will buzz with radioactivity,
enter another dimension,
scream for more energy
as I split her atoms
with sexy-fushion.
There's something
totally magnetic,
extremely attractive
about starting a new
sensuous-reaction
with a total stranger,
especially her.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
The Mills Brothers sang about them
Must be fifty years ago
And science has long figured out
Just what makes them glow
But still when you see one
It’s sure to make you smile
And they can see each other
From a country mile
Hey look at me!
I can light up half the bark on this old tree
Hey can't you see!
The precious gift to you in me
And pay no mind to Jim, can’t you see...
His butts a little dim"
The odds are stacked against them
In every single way
With twin-engine Beechcraft
Shootin' mosquito spray
And the kids they still do it
Tear them all apart
And of all things, sickly things
Make slimy diamond rings
(insert whistle solo)
Trees are getting dozed down
To make room for a bigger town
And scientists want their ***
For Luciferase
But tonight he's not worried, 'bout loss of habitat
Got just one thing on his mind
Her yellow-green behind
Hey look above
A flyin, dyin, dynamo of love
Let it go by
A wonder of the world has touched the sky
And pay no mind to Jim
Can't you see...
His butt's a little dim
And so when you see one, flashing on the fly
That's the male and like most males, just a loving guy
And laying on the leaf, in brilliant dress that's all aglow
Come to me and introduce, we can reproduce
(repeat whistle solo)
Jasmine and Sweet Olive
Grace the evening air
A silver-sliver crescent
Rests into the west
The din of tiny creatures
calling out for love
Stars wink their approval
From the velvet above
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 10:55 PM UTC
Stout. A dynamo of opinions about men and about people's cooking, and their habits, of food service, of the dryness of red wine, of kittens and fish, of whether or not we are to forgive atrocities of war or rejoice in ****** splendor.
"Give em' a cup of coffee and make them face the wall. Blam! right in the ******* cerebellum and taken out like swine"
Never a writer like Kesey, or Cosgrove.
But everyone's outlet first goes unrecognized.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC
I looked on and he looked back;
I wished and wished the glass may crack
But on and on I stared at me
And saw not what I used to be.
Instead I saw an image there;
Moulded hard by life’s despair,
Etched upon a lived-in look,
A tedious text, an epic book.
Many pages now dog eared
I saw a face I had long feared;
A face that age did now behold
Of molten limbs that now run cold,
A dynamo without youth’s spark,
A fading light with looming dark.
I turned my eyes to look away
But in my mind reflections stay;
I turn them back and still I see
The image there that once was me!
Dec 29, 2009
Dec 29, 2009 at 11:59 PM UTC