"eunuch" poems
I.
the emperor
sleeps in a palace of porphyry
which was a million years building
he takes the air in a howdah
of jasper beneath saffron
umbrellas
upon an elephant
twelve foot high
behind whose ear
sits always a crowned
king twir-
ling an
ankus of
ebony
the fountains of the emperor’s
palace run sunlight and
moonlight and the emperor’s
elephant is a thousand years old
the harem of
the emperor
is carpeted with
gold cloth
from the
ceiling(one
diamond timid
with nesting incense)
fifty
marble
pillars
slipped from immeasurable
height,fall,fifty,silent
in the incense is tangled a cool moon
there are thrice-three-hundred
doors carven of chalcedony and
before every door a naked
****** watches
on their heads turbans of a hundred
colours
in their hands scimitars like windy torches
each
is
blacker than oblivion
the ladies
of the emperor’s
harem are queens
of all the earth and the rings
upon their hands are from mines
a mile deep
but the body of
the queen of queens is
more transparent
than water,she is softer than birds
2.
when the emperor is very
amorous he reclines upon
the couch of couches and
beckons with
the little
finger of his left
hand
then the
thrice-three-hundredth
door is opened by the tallest
****** and the queen
of queens comes
forth
ankles
musical with large pearls
kingdoms in her ears
at the feet of
the emperor a cithern-
player squats with
quiveringgold
body
behind
the emperor ten
elected warriors with
bodies of lazy jade
and twitching
eyelids
finger
their
unquiet
spears
the queen of queens is dancing
her subtle
body weaving
insinuating upon the gold cloth
incessantly creates patterns of sudden
lust
her
stealing body ex-
pending gathering pouring upon itself stiffenS
to a
white thorn
of desire
the taut neck of the citharede wags
in the dust the ghastly warriors
amber with lust breathe
together the emperor,exerting
himself among his pillows throws
jewels at the queen of queens and
white money upon her nakedness
he
nods
and all
depart through the bruised air aflutter with pearls
3.
they are
alone
he beckons,she rises she
stands
a moment
in the passion of the fifty
pillars
listening
while the queens of all the
earth writhe upon deep rugs
11.2k
Hard light bathed them-a whole nation of eyeless men,
Dark bipeds not aware how they were maimed. A long
Process, clearly, a slow curse,
Drained through centuries, left them thus.
At some transitional stage, then, a luckless few,
No doubt, must have had eyes after the up-to-date,
Normal type had achieved snug
Darkness, safe from the guns of heavn;
Whose blind mouths would abuse words that belonged to their
Great-grandsires, unabashed, talking of light in some
Eunuch'd, etiolated,
Fungoid sense, as a symbol of
Abstract thoughts. If a man, one that had eyes, a poor
Misfit, spoke of the grey dawn or the stars or green-
Sloped sea waves, or admired how
Warm tints change in a lady's cheek,
None complained he had used words from an alien tongue,
None question'd. It was worse. All would agree 'Of course,'
Came their answer. "We've all felt
Just like that." They were wrong. And he
Knew too much to be clear, could not explain. The words --
Sold, ***** flung to the dogs -- now could avail no more;
Hence silence. But the mouldwarps,
With glib confidence, easily
Showed how tricks of the phrase, sheer metaphors could set
Fools concocting a myth, taking the worlds for things.
Do you think this a far-fetched
Picture? Go then about among
Men now famous; attempt speech on the truths that once,
Opaque, carved in divine forms, irremovable,
Dear but dear as a mountain-
Mass, stood plain to the inward eye.
4.6k
Yes. I am ****** not a beast.
Why do you scoff at me?
Was it my wish to be so?
Had you wished to be a man?
And you too to be a woman?
The sun never fades away to see me.
The stars never stop shimmering.
The moon never goes into hiding.
The breeze never stops blowing.
The clouds never draw back.
All these angels fully know.
The Almighty made me different.
And all are same under the sky.
Are you so sensible so wise?
Would you stop me from rising?
You are melting day by day.
Then?
Let me breathe easily
Or He is ready to drop His wrath.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
Algeria a rich land poor people,
Angola seems to have kings,
Benin is blessed with voodoo,
Botswana blood bulls diamonds,
Burkina Faso can't cope coups,
Burundi twelve years a slave,
Cape Verde has half a million,
Cameroon got cocoa,
Chad's lake is shrinking,
Comoros has under a million,
DRC is third largest,
Congo is it's neighbour with capitals facing,
Côte d'Ivoire has few elephants,
Djibouti's on the horn,
Egypt has mummy's,
Equatorial guinea struck oil in 95 but didn't loose change,
Eritrea has 5000 running annually,
Ethiopia's great rift is pretty ******
Gabon is subject to black gold,
Gambia got a peace of it after 65,
Great Ghana oasis of peace,
Guinea is diverse,
Bissau too,
Kenyans have beautiful smiles,
Lesotho is SA's baby,
Liberia oldest republic,
Libya needs liberty,
Madagascar where are the penguins!
Malawi has warm hearts,
Mali is 8th,
Mauritania is 11th,
Mauritius marvel,
Morocco fine leather,
Mozambique keeps the dugongs,
Namibia Windhoek ah,
Niger after a river,
Nigeria makes zuma rock,
Rwanda listen,
Sao tome and principe 2nd smallest,
Senegoals,
She sells Seychelles,
Sierra Leone free?
Somalia loose,
S. Africa reign,
South Sudan independent?
Sudan - black,
Swaziland more than solo men,
Tanzania trade,
Togo up down,
Two knees yeah,
Uganda teacher come simeon,
Zambia's peace?
Zimbabwe got rid of Mugabe.
Always thought zed was co.za but we're actually co.zm,
so what's zim?
One way we'll loose change is when the overseers begin to acknowledge the under looked.
-nyanta
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
if you drill down,
past the hair,
flesh and bone.
into my mind
where the ego
and id reside.
then turn to the left,
and follow the i.q.
down the alley,
you will find
a place.
where on thrones of
cogitating thoughts,
king big questions asked,
reigns in conjunction,
with, queen yet unanswered.
they watch with interest benign,
over a field of an eternal tourney,
split roughly down the middle
by a chasm quite wide.
on one side
of the gorge is arrayed,
the banners of philosophy.
at the vanguard,
the epistemological knights;
plato, descartes, ferrier,
kant, hume,spinoza
and bosanquet.
the major forces ride beneath the banners, of their schools of thought.
followed by the lesser lights,
and those,
obscure or forgotten,
who walk at the rear,carrying the gear and
to set the tent poles.
as to the other side,
that is given to,
the seminaries of religion;
bhuddism, taoism,
islam, hindu, juche,
rastafarian, sikh, diasporic, parsis, tenrikyo,
judaism and christianity
with all its clans.
they array themselves in cadres,
according to belief.
and to the rear,
there rides,
an interesting guerilla band,
of intertestemantals,
about 3 or 4 hundred years wide.
these are the few who are accounted for,
when god spoke nothing,
or perhaps
a lot but the message just got lost.
they number in their disparate clan,
alexander the great, ptolemy, the hellanic masses, seluecids, maccabeans, hasmoeans
and pompey the great,
not all, but the noteworthy.
across the divide,
by arrowing thought
were fought rallies of acumen
and battles of wit
and occasionally,
a persipacious fire was lit.
but there is one more player,
to mention.
apathy,
the great hulking ******
who for want of gumption, and get up and go,
sat crouched,
(quite uncomfortably so)
on a spire.
made of mediocracy,
cemented by woe,
in the iddle of the rifted abyss.
unable to decide
with which team to go.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
I
Our ****** dreams, all seedless in the light,
Of light and love the tempers of the heart,
Whack their boys' limbs,
And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet,
Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night
Fold in their arms.
The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds,
When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm,
The bones of men, the broken in their beds,
By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb.
II
In this our age the gunman and his moll
Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel,
Strange to our solid eye,
And speak their midnight nothings as they swell;
When cameras shut they hurry to their hole
down in the yard of day.
They dance between their arclamps and our skull,
Impose their shots, showing the nights away;
We watch the show of shadows kiss or ****
Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie.
III
Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which
Shall fall awake when cures and their itch
Raise up this red-eyed earth?
Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch,
The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich,
Or drive the night-geared forth.
The photograph is married to the eye,
Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth;
The dream has ****** the sleeper of his faith
That shrouded men might marrow as they fly.
IV
This is the world; the lying likeness of
Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move
Loving and being loth;
The dream that kicks the buried from their sack
And lets their trash be honoured as the quick.
This is the world. Have faith.
For we shall be a shouter like the ****
Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack
The image from the plates;
And we shall be fit fellows for a life,
And who remains shall flower as they love,
Praise to our faring hearts.
3.7k
the latest theories on the Neanderthal
is they died out due to homosexuality
& the earliest evidence of actual civil
order depicts women as priestesses &
queens & men, even kings as animals;
monsters & giants coexisting w/ teenagers
& old people in complex structures ruled
over by older priests, poets & a professional
warrior class; the king could be murdered
w/ impunity & the queen taken as consort
by the next king or murdered if she proves
too ambitious; & throughout all this, scribes
record the passage of time, the declaring of
laws, engagements in wars, rituals, persona,
comic tales & history; notable women have
a roster of their own, some written by ******
scribes party to their secret names & habits;
all known things; bathhouse elect, her scribe
observing her in the dressing mirror invents
the adventures of her reflection; a princess
never to grow old yet her father-husband is a
bearded elder; her older brother a warrior-prince
& future king; her younger brother/son is the
poet who must reveal what he knows, if only
b/c he'll burst if he has to **** his baby sister
in ritual Hieros gamos w/out telling everyone
exactly how he feels about it; but daring to speak
means being ****** burned at the stake, beheaded
& drawn & quartered, so he writes in secret
[chisels actually, so it's resemblance is mostly
related to relief sculpture
& engraving, but writing], passing
the linear tablets to the young priestess who buries
them beneath the temple floor for some future age
of mankind to discover anew & perhaps heed the
warnings of the coming chaos (the poet, a prophet
before there was such a thing); the ****** priestess
worships him w/ unrequited longing; her heart in
chaos, sharing the poet's vision; nature calls her
to her big brother like a woman loves a man & on
that day when they are to publicly mate the young
siblings are gone & are presumed eaten by the
unseen unseen like so many others before them
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
Applied rouge on the cheeks
Tied a glittering necklace round the neck
Putting heavy makeup,
Over the stubble on her shaven chin,
She looked into the mirror
Through its cracks, saw a million bits of her/him
Those images sneering at each other
She felt trapped in a wrong body,
With its contours n’ longings mismatched
“Where do I belong”?
“Where do I fit”?
These questions plague her incessant
A rough stone with sharp edges
Too hard to be chipped down
Cast aside by the mason
That can never go into the making of a Cathedral
She walks around in haze
Life seems a twisted maze
Each time she tries to claw her way
She sees only walls that hems her in
Before her lingers the stygian mist
Phantoms of darkness surround her
The winds of change swiftly blow
Seasons come and go
But she is tied down in her chains
An anomaly of creation
A curse and a taboo
Swallowing stigma and abuse
Each day waking up with a start
Knowing that she is neither a woman nor a man
But a non binary... an accursed TRANSGENDER
Inviting snide looks
And sniggers from onlookers
People call her a ******
One divided between the selves
A hapless denizen of an inhospitable world
Disowned even by parents
Though flawed and far from perfect
She is human, one of a kind
And needs to be seen through the eyes of God!
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 9:03 AM UTC
. people are always left curious about the stories of homeless people... within the regards of why they became homeless... you want to hear my story? i sat down with one homeless person... you know what he told me? you want to know? he said: MY MOTHER TOLD ME TO NEVER TELL A LIE... wow... wow... so it became my ambition to never tell a lie... i became homeless because my mother advised me to never tell a lie... guess telling lies pays off... whatever it pays with or for... i became homeless because my mother told me to never tell lie! wow! so much for poetry being written while sober... what is expected? unruly truths, falsifications, this that and the other... hell... i'm a drunk... chances of me involved in a relationship are the basic focus of: SLIM... but? HEDNINGARNA - VARGTIMMEN... Finnish folk music.
***** does my head in,
minus the thought-and-question:
do i have a head?
dunno....
whenever the moon rises...
i get a tease of the giggles...
ha ha...
and my face contorts into
a posit of one if those faces from
an apex twin video...
funny as any royal ****
turned into ****
flushed..
now i want you to remember:
never meddle with a madman...
he's been prescribed his
medication,
he's been diagnosed...
come near me and a cancer
sufferer...
dox me!
dox me!
dox me!
i, dare, you!
but i know the person,
or rather, the type...
i won't be doxed,
because what i'm proposing
will not be matched
in execution....
****** parodies
of testicular cancer!
that quote for Albert from
the dark knight:
i am....
some people just like to watch
the world, burn...
i am...
dies, ich bin:
this, i am!
at least i have more constancy to
make comparison of
the Hebrew gott...
ich bin das ich bin...
my alternative?
dies, ich bin!
now...
i am: now!
and when i drink and turn
into a *******
it's to salvage some fathom
or what remains to be
justified as:
resolve.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 8:12 PM UTC
Nightfall, through the door,
Bedsprawl, a ritualistic bore. Movements, they're oppressive. Actions, they're aggressive but his eyes, they're depressive.
Our synthetic connection and self-hatred is created with projection and misplaced indignation. There is no love in our heads, no lust in our beds. The fear of emasculation and eternal damnation hides all self-loathing with boasting and congruent clothing.
My Y was castrated. I'm a ****** from the womb. I'm Female, for unsated gloom my X is berated. I'm named a disgusting mutation as he projects his deveation onto the population.
When his shameful "pride" has diminished, I know our joyless formality has finished. He doesn't sit in the pew, yet he stands in the aisle, locked in a prison of denial. Tough and brisant, trying to be what he isn't. He walks out like a ragdoll, his steps aneurysmal with alcohol.
Beside myself, salty tears act as an anaesthetic, the antonym of emotion. An apathetic ocean.
I clutch my centre, the daunting tormentor. Impregnation is a STD, an infection, an infestation. Glue for our miseries to undo our joys. Merriment induced torment, fidelity induced gaiety
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
Unmanned, like a bull bereft of all;
a flaccid decoration without use;
at least if thee had what I have
thou could be a woman; ******
hiding your treasure for marriage
and hypocrisy. And leave me
with empty decoration; rings
without sense, dresses without purpose.
Go about your business thou say
I want nothing to do with thee now;
yet not a month ago it was all Peggy this,
Peggy that; such are the changes
of the seasons. I do not want to give birth
to an empty ache; wet nurse it; teach it
its father's worth; I cannot tell the ache
how we loved, how we met, how we joyed.
I cannot sit round this mughouse days
and months I must out into the world
roll in the smell of Man again
with a jug of ale in one hand
and earning a stony crust
from some wight with a jangling purse.
And forget the bull that was castrated.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC
The other me is of the dastardly type.
Quite a ******* really.
The other me likes to stay out all night,
and is awfully fond of drinking.
He says, "Y'know what your problem is?
You spend too much time thinking."
The other me doesn't take advice.
He prefers to make his own way.
He says, "You've gotta stop going with the flow,
and start making some tidal waves."
The other me is good with women,
and often calls me gay.
He says, "You'd might as well be a ****** -
that thing between your legs gets no play."
The other me is restless;
uncouth, rude, and reckless.
He takes over sometimes for days on end,
then leaves me to clean up his messes.
The other me is an *******
with no regard for anyone but himself.
Arrogantly vain,
he puts those who care about him through hell
and drives me completely insane.
Me and the other me got into a fight today.
It started when he told me that I need him.
"Come on man, I mean, honestly.
I'm the only thing keeping you alive right now.
You're nothing without me."
(The other me likes to use the word "harmony."
He says it's a precarious balance.
"Our togetherness is destiny,"
but he'd **** me if I ever gave him the chance.)
So I hit him first when he least expected it.
You see, he'd never expect it from me,
but he laughed when he realized his nose was bleeding,
so I hit him again and he dropped to his knees.
"Dude, what the hell are you doing?
I thought we were friends . . ."
Then I leaned in real close and said,
"Stay the **** away during the work week,
and you can have every weekend."
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
Taming you
trickle by trickle
we're taking you
and
you'll dry
on the hot stones
we're making you
obso
so
obsolete
that's neat...
..and we have to
tame you,
prune you and make you
a ******
you never had much of luck
did you?
When we're through with you,
we'll get a new brand new newer you
and you
never had much of luck
did you?
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
I am a poet, yes, but I sing only of
what I know, and all of that is
bicycles, the cries of the giraffe,
loneliness, and walks on
radioactive beaches.
So what is this, when you
ask me to write a love poem?
For three days, I have sat and
tried to write; and from my hand
has only come three arduous lines:
"I shall **** your ******* so hard
that your external **** sphincter shall
forever cease to function."
What the hell was that, I beseech you?
Our poets down the ages, have
written love poems on their paramours' blue
eyes, their raven-black hair, their fair
faces, yet mine is of my lover's rear?
Alas, this love song is no better than
a eunuch's, as it lacks compassion,
eroticism, sentimental
tear-filled eyes and superficial flirting words.
It is nothing fit for a Valentine's Day card.
But know, my darling, my aim was true;
I wished only to express my love for you.
At your disdain, your unhappiness, with my
threat toward an orifice, I've written five
lines of some things that I do happen to know:
"The weeping giraffe,
rode his blue bike
in silence,
down the contaminated beach,
lamenting his loneliness."
In the tears of that giraffe can be found
my great love for you.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
the beauty of english nakedness, look at it for long enough
and you get to retract or at least crab-walk east
into the pincer plateaus of the frozen tundras and see
again, proustain afresh in the cork-lined room:
what bothered me was the acute stress on the faroese a -
english really is a blank canvas: or a complex canvas with
many unique distinctions of individual words - perhaps
the dementia crisis in english-speaking societies -
also why the accent diversity between all those who come
to learn it, and those who live in the zeitreich
of the absteigen sonne - but theories are theories.
so back to the blank canvas, which allows so see
the dynamics, although as i said, the acute faroese a
(acute, because derived from the latin verb of needlework /
puncture) - ~etymology (approx. because not
related to words but phonetic units, i.e. letters)
thus reveals that the latin accents died, truth tooth
of the phrase latin is a dead tongue - but not as dead
as when you see remnants of the transformation,
in that certain latin activities (verbs) spawned the stressing
revisions on letters to appropriate the nordic and germanic
slavic, *** and celt into its ***** acute to puncture -
like the polish acute o (ó), meaning to puncture the o
and make a U sound, although when otherwise acute is
needed, but the geometry is less obvious it means not to stress,
but sharpen, cut-short, exfoliate into a range of onomatopoeic
comparisons: sneeze - wheezing - high pitch flute -
play the clarinet - pincer the tongue - pliers -
god knows what instrument i'm really playing: ć, ń, ś, ź -
cut the letters from cen nan sap zed into the uniqueness
of the actual first letter, go into roman do re mi fa so la
****** musicology) rather than greek omega omicron
alpha beta. so this acute faroese a, what bothered me
was the suffix -áp... the p you see, if the accent dynamic
was to end with a german umlaut -äp or with a
māori macron -āp... i would have said the p...
rather than ending with a b.
*"heimlich" tongue-numbing d.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
Each couple is stopped on the way
this March spring hour
with the city attired at its best
with gulmohar and flame of the forest
in mad bloom of yellow and red
and the hand touches each head
adorned with the season's flower
*blessed be your love
blessed be your luck*
and most of them yielded
to the blessings of the ******
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
Maphrodite's Child
I am no greek goddess of love
neither am I a god
not quite sure how I got this way
maybe eating too much scrod
I like wearing frilly things
I also like to fight
owner of many golden rings
I'll kick your *** for spite
am I this or am I that
I do not really know
like a ****** I am fat
but some call me a **
I have no dangling participle
nor have I glove of fur
nothing to yank or dip into
yet my emotions stir
I might take an operation
to see how it would be
I'm leaning toward a manly man
have an add-a-dick-to-me
but I'll still wear my flowered skirts
and lacy underware like this
but when I'm out with the boys
I can stand and take a ****
yes I will be a legend
a kick *** girl gone wild
people will stand and point at me
there goes maphrodite's child
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 3:49 AM UTC
I'm a valedictorian not a *****
Each to their own, but really you should start thinking.
My ****** does not make me different, but my brain has a weird way of thinking.
It does not change the game,
****** me then maybe in football you could actually clutch me.
Say I can't make a difference I say pshh just watch me.
Sweetie I'm here to tell you that your beauty fades.
You're not Marilyn Monroe! Your smile won't be engraved.
All women use their vaginas, but how many use their brains?
How many have their own wants and peeves?
Or do you like it because it appeals male?
Dress up all you want! You will still feel the same pain.
After all is said and done...
You really think you'll look the same?
Sagging skin and a trembling voice don't you wish you behaved?
Touching boys and making noise, left you in an empty room with sorrow and pain.
Meanwhile someone else's room is extremely full while a maids cleaning, How do you think they paid?
Theyres always gonna be females that look better but brains are all but different.
So lately has anyone used it cause girls keep looking the same?
So listen to my warning and stop this raid, boys will be boys and love is obviously over rated.
Focus on education and then you will say 20 years later when life goes smoothly by, this is the poem that you will idolize.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
My **** is numb
My brain is numb
My heart is numb
From all that ******* drinking, smoking, and partying.
It felt so marvelous
So marvelous
But now I am so numb
So numb
Numb
Numb
But she still wants to ****
She's right here and she says she wants to ****
But I am drained, so drained
I can only manage to lean in and kiss her
She pushes me off and says, "No, don't kiss me. It's way too personal. Just **** me."
I tell her, "Let’s sleep a while, batteries need recharging."
And she says to me, "I don't think the batteries are the problem, baby boy. I think I might need to get myself a new flashlight."
Jesus Christ. I am a ****** married to a pornstar.
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 2:11 PM UTC
that leather skin beehive humming in the Hamptons
is just like the ziggarat ghettos of Compton
a fob on a boil on the face of your hidden face
and a stab at your entrails from the inside; commonplace -
Romans demure to your architect
you'll have your symmetries before breakfast...
let no one forget.
gorgeous ****** suns, gallant in emptiness
a horde of unfettered lovelies, spawning petulant ***** to other *****
a lull of ponderous, a bead of serene, swimming in hot pink mist
and peppercorn wavy gravy.
i slay these dragons to form new words
that Oodle your frenzy
and keep you
for mine .
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
1. I've said all I have to say. Please never contact either of us again.
2. Don't bother. I don't want you to. All you do is hurt me. I've been hurting for too long and I need to be strong.
3. I miss you but I've had enough.
4. You forgot you were my friend. You forgot you were my friend. You forgot and I told you NEVER TO FORGET.
5. No you won't, I'm closing every possible avenue of contact.
6. Grow a pair, ******
7. Go **** yourself.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 6:47 AM UTC
Everything I heard amazed me,
The treasure fleet's sixty two ships,
commanded by a powerful ******
Gone, he was captured,
he was castrated,
three jewels, from a dying Prince.
The Cheng ** had sailed from Malaku Island;
sight of flags, sound of bells,
guided them to Calicut.
Deny the social scientist,
cultural baggage prevails,
abstract freedom, kindling of change.
Moaning monsoon winds linger,
the allure of sparkling moons wax,
and dormant black seas swell.
The noble adventure of death begins,
where the legacy of leadership ends,
and stars trust him with their thoughts.
© christhamF 2011
Jul 3, 2011
Jul 3, 2011 at 11:22 AM UTC
I see the grey over Reno, From my window on top of my mind, The greycast feels over this town, Like fingers of gold feeling a head, As the down is placed down, Its fall and winter intertwined, And its on everybody's mind, We all here for reasons we don't want to say, So we all stay, Looking at the lights, and the vacation, We look at them like a ****** looks at ************ Full of wonder and hope, Yet outside our grey place we wouldn't beable to cope, "its raining in Reno and it won't ever stop", Said the ***** to the cop, As the sun began to rise, A poet writes, A knowitall admits it lost it's love during the fall, A singer and business man on a teenager lookout fumble nervously with buttons and zippers, While a Cinderella wonders how hell find her without loosing her slipper, A lover looks at her lust through the oversized windows on the bus, An awkward kid stays awake, wondering if he could be smooth, A girl with beautiful eyes, walks down the street with headphones playing jazz, A honest man question his lies, And an old woman and a young actor are singing a tune long dead, But they can't get each other out their head, All looking at the grey, Almost to say, Its always going to be this way
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC
The drifter and the comely young women who gleamed with charisma walk passed the rabble-rousers on their way to tie the knot
The rabble-rousers cheer, tossing out superlatives, praising their oncoming matrimony
The young woman is chomping at the bit to finally settle down
The drifter is on the same boat, he can't keep living the life of a rolling stone
He's gonna give the married life a whirl
She has her dress in a brown paper bag and he has on the shiniest cuff links this side of the Pacific
Some say they just portrayed a happy couple
But behind closed doors they had hidden intentions
But I'd wager that they truly loved each other
But my my opinion is superfluous, they know in their hearts what they're doing is right
So they got that going for them
They make their way to the ****** who is set to marry the two
Until they are ambushed by pinheads with the gift of gab and know it all's who know nothing but still try to talk out of their ***** even though their heads are already wedged tightly up them already
Egregious questions and tauntings of habitual bullshitters
What was God thinking during their creation?
Good thing the worst of them all has been tarred and feather and ran out of town on a rail, or so I've been told
They finally reach their destination and say their vows right off their cuffs
Say I do, kiss with just me in attendance
And leave all these sheep all these irritants behind
And embark on their new life together
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
White middle-class men.
I've heard them
Referred to, as the trans-emasculated.
Then the great white wave of women
Found him appealing, and then irresistable.
Hands down.
Who could hear the leaners, whispering,
Not daring to utter a name too loud,
Without bell, book and candle.
Surrogate or subrogation.
Rich in image, and derogatory by degrees.
Sugar Daddy, or real Daddy.
Enigmatic.
And I, being a ******
And not in need of support,
Followed her,
Then raised my hands
In supplication and prayer.
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 4:31 PM UTC