"excesses" poems
Beloved,
In what other lives or lands
Have I known your lips
Your Hands
Your Laughter brave
Irreverent.
Those sweet excesses that
I do adore.
What surety is there
That we will meet again,
On other worlds some
Future time undated.
I defy my body's haste.
Without the promise
Of one more sweet encounter
I will not deign to die.
15.1k
1119
Paradise is that old mansion
Many owned before—
Occupied by each an instant
Then reversed the Door—
Bliss is frugal of her Leases
Adam taught her Thrift
Bankrupt once through his excesses—
5.9k
I make a lot of enemies without intending,
They outnumber me greatly with their size
but they cannot withstand the wrath of fury;
I come ****** but unbowed to these wimps
Hence, they unleash a band of Anthropophagus
Well, I have the ***** to slain these monsters
The sight of them is infuriating, less frightening
I gave them something to mourn - I have to
Again, I walked away from the battle unbowed
Because I have what it takes to **** a mockingbird
But, it didn't make me feel better or worse
I have to put up with them and their excesses
Now, you will understand why I never turn to see
who stab me in the back - it's not worth turning
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
/ beelzebub
*(given employs the spider a posteriori
and spiderweb a priori, and then back
into a bicemeral reverse psyche-analogy -
the id est contra the id erat -
but there is no latin revival -
given that the latin encoding has been
translated into a.i. algorithms...
forget putting the pandora
into a box into a box into a box,
into an etc. or what is a russian
cultural artefact... forget it...
a black fly would not take upon
itself to make a dustbin, a *******
maggoty brothel, like a green bottle fly
might... black flies have character,
style...
they're the ones that take
to tango, with spider architecture,
akin to the theological spider analogy
about an ad infinitum a priori argument)*:
a bit like watching
a black fly - "washing" itself -
rubbing it's front limbs
together, "attempting"
to start a fire...
god, those awful
green bottle hypers -
with maggot excesses -
in a potential well
expressed into practice -
black flies?
i can entertain them -
like i might entertain spiders
that do not require aquariums -
the non-exotica types...
so i sometimes find myself
rubbing my hands together,
like a catholic amounting
to an altruistic prayer symbolism...
so kommen faust,
so kommen faust,
so ist pseudo-faust -
or rather:
england?
deutschland jr.
america?
deutschland sr.
and if that wasn't the case?
oh me, little old slavic
babuшka...
i still can't explain rubbing
my hands together,
like a black fly might...
keeping standards of where
to take a maggoty dump's
worth of procreation value...
black flies?
compared to the others?
the priests of the whole
spectrum...
i sometimes wish they were
red,
so i could call them: the cardinals...
alas...
not to be, god said otherwise...
but i can fathom the priesthood,
like i can fathom -
an aspiration of a sleeping
samurai, devoid of the zodiac
delusion,
encouraged to make
chiromancy initiatives
(readings) to alleviate,
******** monotheism.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
Kung walked
by the dynastic temple
and into the cedar grove,
and then out by the lower river,
And with him Khieu Tchi
and Tian the low speaking
And “we are unknown,” said Kung,
“You will take up charioteering?
“Then you will become known,
“Or perhaps I should take up charioterring, or archery?
“Or the practice of public speaking?”
And Tseu-lou said, “I would put the defences in order,”
And Khieu said, “If I were lord of a province
“I would put it in better order than this is.”
And Tchi said, “I would prefer a small mountain temple,
“With order in the observances,
with a suitable performance of the ritual,”
And Tian said, with his hand on the strings of his lute
The low sounds continuing
after his hand left the strings,
And the sound went up like smoke, under the leaves,
And he looked after the sound:
“The old swimming hole,
“And the boys flopping off the planks,
“Or sitting in the underbrush playing mandolins.”
And Kung smiled upon all of them equally.
And Thseng-sie desired to know:
“Which had answered correctly?”
And Kung said, “They have all answered correctly,
“That is to say, each in his nature.”
And Kung raised his cane against Yuan Jang,
Yuan Jang being his elder,
For Yuan Jang sat by the roadside pretending to
be receiving wisdom.
And Kung said
“You old fool, come out of it,
“Get up and do something useful.”
And Kung said
“Respect a child’s faculties
“From the moment it inhales the clear air,
“But a man of fifty who knows nothng
Is worthy of no respect.”
And “When the prince has gathered about him
“All the savants and artists, his riches will be fully employed.”
And Kung said, and wrote on the bo leaves:
If a man have not order within him
He can not spread order about him;
And if a man have not order within him
His family will not act with due order;
And if the prince have not order within him
He can not put order in his dominions.
And Kung gave the words “order”
and “brotherly deference”
And said nothing of the “life after death.”
And he said
“Anyone can run to excesses,
“It is easy to shoot past the mark,
“It is hard to stand firm in the middle.”
And they said: If a man commit ******
Should his father protect him, and hide him?
And Kung said:
He should hide him.
And Kung gave his daughter to Kong-Tchang
Although Kong-Tchang was in prison.
And he gave his niece to Nan-Young
although Nan-Young was out of office.
And Kung said “Wan ruled with moderation,
“In his day the State was well kept,
“And even I can remember
“A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
“I mean, for things they didn’t know,
“But that time seems to be passing.
A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
But that time seems to be passing.”
And Kung said, “Without character you will
“be unable to play on that instrument
“Or to execute the music fit for the Odes.
“The blossoms of the apricot
“blow from the east to the west,
“And I have tried to keep them from falling.”
4.6k
Haters, haters, hiding in the closets, hiding in faeces
your putrid minds full of fears and all your weaknesses
You are not men but degenerates and cowards in excesses
but in your attempts to distract away from your deseases
Look the parents you have and you know you're like rat fleas
you lack a lot which makes you so angry and in pieces
Washing once a week on other days its wet towel on faces
smerge on stunted wieners never to be a winner at the races
You're un-cool all you do is pretend but you ain't got the aces
as charmless as chicken *** you're the left-behind in chases
Never had a true compliment because you have no graces
deep down you're a mess and petrified of background traces
You have ***** linens and bad secrets buried in bad places
you're nasty, think nasty and 've done things that debases
Always afraid you pick on your betters rocking in perfect places
full of inferiority complexes real abilities get up your noses
You've wet your bed and at night you knowyou're *********
playing macho when in reality you want to do men's *****
Nobody likes the faceless cowards and abject scorn they entices
partners and frenemies are there for themselves and free passes
They see through them and smell their weakness without paces
faking laughter at their hate and anger at winners they despises
Haters are sick sad losers miserable inferiors with dark devises
never happy, never content just slimy cowards in dumb disguises
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
i just lamented a more complex version of this; i just cannot believe we denote the same thing in order to share an understanding of the same by denoting as such, but when acting we feel so differently about it; imagine the noun iran in the mouth of an american, then picture the verbs subsequent... then imagine the noun america in the mouth of an iranian, then picture the verbs subsequent: words hold as much emotion as actions discard, even though the actions are worded, and the words are almost imaginary when concerned with what iraq was when given belshazzar.
i wonder if as many people would **** or die
for the noun apple, as they do for allah -
say the noun apple... apple apple apple long enough...
will you get apple juice? well no, so if you keep on saying
the noun allah allah... will that thing materialise?
the imaginary atheistic sense
of the word allah, is that humanity
turned the noun allah into a verb
of its own chosing due to man's free will,
i.e., say allah casually over coffee,
now say allah in jihad clothing...
the same noun among diverse verbs...
might as well invent a new grammatical
category of nouns and verbs mingling...
nouverbs... what noun invokes what action,
consolidated in what are excesses of adjectives,
given the quality of a life lived -
the man who casually said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in denmark managed to integrate
into danish society and start up a newspaper...
the man in syria who "casually" said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in syria didn't manage the former...
because his orientation of the noun
changed the path of the sequence of nouns / beheaded nuns,
since the cutting of the word verb,
managed to craft non-verbum-ergo-actio.
in defence of avoiding one’s own mortality,
one speaks against one’s own death,
thus one speaks with the enemy of the people
one shares a life with, for a fake chance of the feeling of prolonging.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
Run, Gemini child
And run fast
For tragedy is hounding
You in the guise
Of glory
And billing you
For excesses uncontrolled
The end is drawing near….
Though you have no fear,
Must you also have no shame?
Hide, Gemini child
And hide yourself well
Hold still, unmoving
Drop out of sight
And out of mind
For the consequences
Have exacted from you
A high price to pay
A form of revenge
Festering in your unkempt spirit
How could you live
As you have allowed yourself
To lead?
Destroy not your soul
For materials that put their
Patents on you…
Must you go so low?
Can you never go slow?
Downwards is a long
And empty route
It was not the road
That the heavens had
Destined you to take
Though it be the one
You will never, ever forsake…
Be kind dear Gemini child
And go down alone
If you think that you must
Your looks might be lasting
But your heart remains wanting
Let other people move on
And share not
This unnecessary pain
Let time be the judge
Nor excuses be made
For your living the fullest
Through irreverent ways….
Curse of the seasons
Child of the star
Rest but your head
On a pillow of stone
Walls that constrict
From maggots insist
Anaesthetize all emotions
That plagued you in life…
Meet me at Forest Lawn
Where to you I will sing
To wipe all your tears
And sunflowers bring
Moodust on my pocket
And one for the road
Dear Gemini child
Running from cold
Kiss to the fate
All the prophets fortold
Dear Gemini child
So beautiful and so bold
Mine is a love
That time can not fold
Depicted in stories
That shall never be told…
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 6:47 AM UTC
Riding the air
In dark morning
A steady current of rain
Descends
Upon everything
The fir tree
The house roof
My dogs fur
The empty Ash tree
The fallen leaves
Brown, red, yellow, orange
The bird feeder catches the water As does the bird bath
The puddles
The street
The cement
My head
My ears hear each
Multitude of patterned drops
In apparent chaos
Reminds me of the
The synapses in my brain
Circuitry, each drop a connection from
Dendrite to dentride
Messages of the unknown
Of falling to earth
Of vulnerable life
Unprotected.
The unhoused, in the cool soaked air of December. Will you remain blessed?
Will you spread your joy in the patter of rain to those who bare the rain in their skin, on their dampened clothes? Adding a chill.
Will today you find some without a home
Bringing tarps, blankets, source of heat, to those who listen
To the same rain
While they shiver
And you stay in your glow with your tidy wood burning fireplace. Stay comfortable? Risk giving for giving sake. What floods of love can you share in December rather than giving to
Your precious family, the left overs, the excesses
And give to charity that make each day another day for breath in rain from the heavens. I choose the rain. I could be the one in
The open now, soaking as I pen these words.
Hoping words of love, neutrality, non-judgement and altruism be the "church" we reside in. Drop by drop.
Over a hundred different sounds of rain brought to earth by gravity, in my receiving ears, and the tiny sparkles of light reflected upon the light from the street lamp shining upon concrete saturated by this extended morning rain.
Dec 3, 2023
Dec 3, 2023 at 9:10 AM UTC
Now I am all
One bowl of kisses,
Such as the tall
Slim votaresses
Of Egypt filled
For a God's excesses.
I lift to you
My bowl of kisses,
And through the temple's
Blue recesses
Cry out to you
In wild caresses.
And to my lips'
Bright crimson rim
The passion slips,
And down my slim
White body drips
The shining hymn.
And still before
The altar I
Exult the bowl
Brimful, and cry
To you to stoop
And drink, Most High.
Oh drink me up
That I may be
Within your cup
Like a Mystery,
Like wine that is still
In ecstasy.
Glimmering still
In ecstasy,
Commingled wines
Of you and me
In One fulfill,...
The Mystery.
3.3k
Run, Gemini child
And run fast
For tragedy is hounding
You in the guise
Of glory
And billing you
For excesses uncontrolled
The end is drawing near….
Though you have no fear,
Must you also have no shame?
Hide, Gemini child
And hide yourself well
Hold still, unmoving
Drop out of sight
And out of mind
For the consequences
Have exacted from you
A high price to pay
A form of revenge
Festering in your unkempt spirit
How could you live
As you have allowed yourself
To lead?
Destroy not your soul
For materials that put their
Patents on you…
Must you go so low?
Can you never go slow?
Downwards is a long
And empty route
It was not the road
That the heavens had
Destined you to take
Though it be the one
You will never, ever forsake…
Be kind dear Gemini child
And go down alone
If you think that you must
Your looks might be lasting
But your heart remains wanting
Let other people move on
And share not
This unnecessary pain
Let time be the judge
Nor excuses be made
For your living the fullest
Through irreverent ways….
Curse of the seasons
Child of the star
Rest but your head
On a pillow of stone
Walls that constrict
From maggots insist
Anaesthetize all emotions
That plagued you in life…
Meet me at Forest Lawn
Where to you I will sing
To wipe all your tears
And sunflowers bring
Moodust on my pocket
And one for the road
Dear Gemini child
Running from cold
Kiss to the fate
All the prophets fortold
Dear Gemini child
So beautiful and so bold
Mine is a love
That time can not fold
Depicted in stories
That shall never be told…
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 6:27 AM UTC
/ *oh no no no... you don't get a jew artefact at this point, when the play of words comes between the son and the mother... no no no... you're target; she should be a **** a stripper, a ***** but when you do what this, "englishman" did? undermining the concept of personal property? ownership? his property infringes on your property, and somehow: my, yours, our's doesn't compute... i'm ******* craving to **** my neighbour... because all i have left to lose is... frothing at the mouth.*
at a supermarket:
within the confines
of a cashier:
- 'is this your typical
friday night?'
say it plain, chubby...
**** it: more cushion
for the pushin'...
sunglasses at 6am?
a reply:
- 'it could be'
- 'if you were part of it'
- 'what?'
i'd love to fiddle with excesses
of porky...
migrant crisis?
more like a ***** cricis...
import black ****
given the white boy lay low...
it's not even funny,
i find it funny attempting
to whistle...
which i can't,
given that i found laughter...
just don't come between me
and mt "neighbour":
cos i'll **** the ******* ****
and "he's" watching me?
sorry:
i'll **** the ******* ****
fuck-face-tard!
no, i will;
i can't conceive retaining
the anglophone aspect of comedy
within the confines
of the monologue,
with a cabaret....
i'll **** him...
next time we exfoliates
speaking to my mother,
and not... looking
into my eyes...
"englishman": spew!
you! now! clean up this
***********
******* english!
like you bred a people,
gesticulating with
a hand gesture...
new yankies...
britain: home,
of the the wankies.
p.s.
no... private property contra
private property
within this ****** vogue...
i seriouslly will throw
a **** into his garden,
and say...
not enough fox hunting,
d'uh!
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:18 AM UTC
building purist æsthetic
proselytizing solar-powered heliolatry
commemorating historic concert
sensing dark forces
fokken lekker antwoord
pumping sensory overload
featuring high-tech dee-jay
admiring gelato micro-truck
laxing laying lazing
"doing something nasty"
continuing quality content
entering another cathedral
journeying without borders
"exactly one year
since visiting vatican"
appreciating full-time gigasphere
awaiting pyongyang performance
depicting unlikely crowdsurfer
foreseeing exponential improvements
furthering esoteric agenda
sensing profound incompatibility
data-mining people's infidelities
anticipating futuristic caffeine
perfecting invisible propaganda
researching mind-control techniques
polishing psycho-social weaponry
sensing social embargo
flourishing frantic fanfare
admiring longitudinal monument
parodying marketing slogans
cycling through österreich
eyeing dystopian disneyland
streaming crosswords extended-play
herding glass kittens
deleting idiosyncratic fragment
loremipsum-ing laconic loudmouth
receiving ultramodern telegram
eigo-ga wakarimasu ka?
guzzling duck-fat fries
encouraging panic selling
(juxtaposing past incarnations)
getting black-and-white privilege
renewing boutique account
relishing cinema poutine
re-entering hibernation mode
opening old windows
continuing zoo motif
absquatulating excessive excesses
nullifying originality claims
proliferating protean persona
disappearing sidewalk alphabet
shrugging opprobrious moments
enjoying vertical alignment
re-entering cyberpunk paradise
approaching island sun
soaring beyond monoliths
trivializing extraneous argy-bargy
decreasing character limits
dumping generic accounts
uglifying commit message
escaping into idiosyncracy
moonshining great lake
exuding idiosyncratic propaganda
living nineties' dreams
making occidental cuisine
envisioning idiocratic president
expropriating your time
ascending homely helix
singing fat lady
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).
ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;
or at least an exfoliation curbor.
i write honey,
honey honey honey,
i write honey,
honey honey honey
p'ooh bear
droned in on it.
when i write,
i write honey,
honey honey O'Milee.
from serving in the US and A
navy, to a beach-buggy
accident.
when i write, i write
honey -
*** e -
Atilla styled liquorice -
lee co reesh - not
liquidated rice -
ghosts of latin almost everywhere;
quadruple that.
convene and converse -
contrary collective.
some say this might as well
be the famous goldberg sardines;
when i write, i write honey,
i write: honey honey honey...
will you be my Duracell bunny?
honey, will you be my
******** par excellance?
i see... no, you won't be.
the museum of Greek sculpture
was vandalised!
guess what they took,
the ****** fiendish crooks!
with a wet splash of colour
comes the cold marble artifice -
a bit like the cool-mouth
refrigerator of a woman during
felatio... still don't know
how she gets that gob down
below room temperature.
(heresy input, never start a
sentence with an) and
there you have it,
writing, catering for
abstractionism,
just after he said: they're on a diet.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:49 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
One Republic
pick and mix, assorted all sorted
wrinkles missing, smooth as glaciers
toils reversing on harbingers like excesses does
walking the trodden alleys learning Sods mathematics
organs pains for non-organics are inherent consequences so
one Republic and the anthropologists utters a myth in passing
all bananas look like all bananas because bananas are bananas alike
sing a song of three pence and a pocket full of fear
Plato's cave a grand auditorium for lames
united disunited ages in anti-virus glares
white noise in white air and masses sigh
the emperor's coat plays invisible chess
ladies think long and hard in minds
for a dolphin swims like none-other
the glides of the sweetest depths
and in those places unseen
expanded vibes of feels
know reasons why so
it's the bigger snap
it's the difference
the forbidden
fruit lures
will not
move
not
go
in
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 6:07 AM UTC
oh... so now i know where my
"st. vitus'" take on sporadic,
uncontrollable dance routines
took place:
drunk, i attempted to
whistle...
each and every time i attempted
to whistle...
i burst into a fire and fury
of laughter, as if i waa hearing
political satire!
every single time i'd try to whistle:
giggles...
a bit like watching
the laws surrounding marihuana,
on a friday evening
lodged in amsterdam...
asking myself:
am i here for the ****
or the puerto rican plumps
of pork chops still breathing
with a 17th century fetish
for excesses?
perhaps neither...
perhaps both...
i'll have heiny ec-ken
(bite of a buttocks)
nekken -
(bite of the neck):
huh!?
i really expected
matthew mcconaughey
to be much taller, in real life,
let alone the oscars' ceremony.
i.e. is that a ******
or a ******* leprechaun?
no good trying to whistle,
when all you can do
in "return" is to giggle at the attempt, to.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 8:13 PM UTC
.the moral obligation, to be cognitively dissident; which has to align with Heiddeger's da-sein at some point... a piquant fervor for reality as: static, yet at the same time moving in the realm of the Titans / orbs - time, is a concept that has to match up to the orbs... otherwise all this space... whatever the wind, the clouds... is just static... inanimate... time could only be derived from animate objects, which became subjects which became momentum... the rest, the rest is just space, and its excesses of the vacuous night... space became a probing mechanism, an investigative vector, posit, charge.
now you call me a germanophile...
like a Caligula or some
odd ****
kennts ihr selbst:
know your self...
which is a reflective form of
the reflexive Anglo
counterpart: yourself.
so i noticed...
whenever i become, really,
and i mean really reactionary
(not angry)
i tend to drift into
writing in my native tongue...
funny...
mother tongue,
fatherland...
but it's the opposite in Moscow...
motherland...
and the epitome
of the Cyrillic?
well... there was
a St. Cyrill...
but father-tongue just
sounds so ****** stupid
in English...
maybe in German?
vaterzunge...
well... sure as **** that
sounds better than mutterzunge...
but hey,
preferences preference preferences,
not everyone says: om, om,
ooh, chocolate,
when taking a bite of a ****
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
I wheel it out, my green and black bicycle
The roads shiny and quiet, the grey skies overcast
I start slow, breathing in the clean morning air
The fragrance of wet leaves and mulch, moss and old trees
I hear the morning song of the birds
And see the blossoms heralding spring
I nod to the old woman walking her spaniel
And notice the beating of my own heart
The rucksack a comforting weight
My breath even and warm in the wintry air
My derriere sore from yesterday’s excesses
The road, glorious, wide, welcoming and endless
Crossing the road, I am struck by the symmetry
Of a lone tree, leafless, bare, proud, naked
And the beauty of an old, stone church
And the wheels of the cycle keep spinning
The roar of traffic on the motorway always a shock
As I adjust, I breathe in the manure
From green fields so vast, flanked by white
And pause to see the muddy, turbulent stream
As I rack up the miles
My heartbeat is a sledgehammer
My legs are on fire
And I feel alive
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 3:38 AM UTC
when i heard about it,
when i heard of “free art:”
i thought of free bread and wine,
and celtic sirens,
i laughed though... you made the earth
so ******* boring we all wanted to become astronauts.
when art became free we tried to moralise
drinking wine (as a portent of richness)
and eating bread (as a portent of the russian revulsion),
i bought my art.. and waited for the ones who
discouraged it complaining buying their bread “well fed.”
the celtic sirens hung on though, singing softer and softer
but more prone to the acid tongues dragging the democrats into
a hope of kings and village kindred elders,
but i still didn’t hope for free artistry that was akin to circus,
caged the gypsy have i?
i have, but i did not warrant free food or free aquas of variation,
i simplified freeing the demands with the demands freed into excess,
well... if i were kingly i’d still have provided free bread and wine
rather than music and the curbing the excesses of lyricists;
making music free just discouraged all originality, all creativity,
it just became a realism of a struggled acting -
i feel cheated having missed the antics of britannia in
the 1960's and '70's like it was greek and roman without
the epileptics of watching a documentary on trans-sexualisation
of brazilians and ******** disco to gag on an excess of flashy lights
just to sell lipstick... and have these quasi-epileptic shivers
without having an opposing opinion to counter the freely stated & fluxed.
i guess my convulsions were due to the fact that the men
didn’t call it either homosexuality nor trans-sexuality,
and that i was actually looking at two dodos talking, meaning
i was seeing the extinction of the human race through the ****
meaning i was watching the knights templar idol, baphomet,
realised 2000 years after the crucifixion in that crown of thorn dreams,
perfected in thailand... of all places;
that actually beats the identification of ibn saud as the dajjal,
moving further east of mecca than riyadh and
the assassination attempt within the framework of muhammad’s hadith of ‘no entry’ into mecca by the dajjal.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
Addiction
No, not what you think, not needles, not bottles, not too much food or too little, not sleeping 18 hours or running until feet bleed, not *********** not voyeurism, not pole-dancing or jello shots or driving 150 mph down dark streets, not working to exhaustion, not bizarre rituals, not staring into bright lights or ******* on sweet treats until a migraine sets in, not pulling out fingernails or walking with pebbles in shoes, thinking any of this brings God to the door.
No, none of these excesses
But, life? Yes. Addicted to breathing, yes. Addicted to sweetness of morning-light, yes. Addicted to aroma of salt water, when the sun swings low and pelicans skim the curling waves in search of dinner, oh yes. And playing hide-n-go-seek with my three year old neighbor, yes. Addicted to not giving up on that African violet in the windowsill, despite its crispy appearance, to watching my child shimmy, yes and yes. To her well-being, her off-key singing, a resounding yes! To letting family be. To the solitude of a hot shower. Addicted to your righteousness, your swagger, the way dimming sunlight cups your body, I’ll admit it, yes. And anticipation of oysters still in their rough shells. And never, ever worrying about whether these are excesses or not because it’s in the elusiveness of the word (addiction, for example, or desire or want or tenacity), in the lone gesture, the moment before that door opens and the house empties of terror and fills with human breath that the balance is reset.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
*Atop the blanched plume of a pampas grass stem,
Overlooking a sea of white daisies
Stretching out to the edge of a wild flower lea
Where the forget-me-not bumblebee lazes,
Is the grandiose house of the butterfly king
Filled with treasures and precious excesses,
With a bright yellow spire built from pollen ball bricks
Home to three rather lovely princesses.
The fairest of all in that field and beyond
Their beauty was famed and fought over
By the slow sliding slug sheiks of blackberry nook
And the ladybird lords camped in clover.
Each one with wide eyes firmly fixed on a prize
That made shy spiders scurry and scutter,
To see those red painted yet delicate wings
Underneath sun kissed skies gently flutter.
Lovesick and besotted with hearts beating fast
Each suitor petitioned for marriage,
To win for themselves a sweet butterfly bride
To parade in a crab apple carriage.
But the majestic monarch alongside his queen,
Both filled with parental devotion,
Wished for their three daughters to choose for themselves
And would not entertain such a notion.*
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 7:40 PM UTC
This dot kami’s ‘Nam when I see you’re all neutral
To futile lords still passin’ Acts of Removal
Pretentious performers as if upon stages
Of casting call characters caught up in cages
Like ****** who off-shore **** the poor on vacations
I’m diggin’ up dirt on the founders’ plantations
When bail-outs are ballots and bullets are mallets
Why not be a rabbit hole in Hefner’s palace?
And dare call it talent, a gift or a passion
Just model behavior for slaves to a fashion
Show running the breadlines when crimes are a dime
In the dozens of ***** Weinsteins on your minds
Instead of the felons when court is in Sessions
Instead of the under-oath treason confessions
In rapid succession they feed you the buzz
Until nobody cares what the debt ceiling was
When the roof has been raised for the privatize party
The right wants us dead and the left shows up tardy
I’m sorry “you people” are making me sick
Guess I’ll just pop a pill from the cabinet pick
Like has-been Michael Flynn’s and these Ex-Tillersons
Resource hogs cloggin’ bogs up with smogs of odd jobs
They’re the slEASIEST Slytherins still seemin’ Jesus
Pro-life until *** aid is the fetus
Egregious excesses of who the **** needs this
Huge 2nd place trophy wife ivory tower
Big guns for a stickless diplomacy coward
Here’s my golden shower tricklin’ down your faces
You blatantly ****** repeal and replacists
You war-profiteering, grand **** of old Racists and fakers, uranium cacres
Still stuffing the stockings of doomsday clock-makers
With melting North Pole lumps of coal-hearted cash
‘Till every last Christmas trees nothing but ash
As the fascist machine builds its pyramid scheme
On the dreams of the themes of your Disney World screen
But the credits will roll as the talking heads stroll in
The shoe bombs of Terrorist’s livelihoods stolen
But I leave ‘em spinnin’ like Christopher Nolan
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 2:27 PM UTC
My Grandmère and I have long, gossipy conversations,
where we fall into our own chatty, slumber party rhythms.
She’s met or knows everyone important, and people tell her things.
They DM her or whisper secrets of lives ordered but loveless,
of careers choked by excesses and indiscretions.
She gets stealthy, leaked business reports of purported fortunes gambled and lost or of innocence wasted in bittersweet embrace - delicious, tangled narratives that expose the gaps between facades and realities that can’t be purchased.
Sometimes we pop popcorn on our private ends of the Atlantic,
watch Netflix, share secrets and laugh conspiratorially.
.
.
Songs for this:
Us by Regina Spektor
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
Jul 30, 2024
Jul 30, 2024 at 7:44 AM UTC
i.
if you attack the darwinian
supply & demand...
who the hell is going to be
homosexual?!
you just attacked hetrosexual
males,
i don't feel like paying politician's
taxes or making children...
thank you, no, bye bye;
women never sang of beauty, they
merely shouted about it:
a father's hands in weeping
crafted a fountain
of the son's clouded approximates
that gave unto us spring's joy
whether that be an abundance of water
or colour.
ii.
if i can't laugh into the night,
and think of the muse,
then i am endeared by your
want of sleep, as a vitamin loss;
oddly enough there are only 1.5mg
of potassium in 100ml of water,
and old ladies
think there's a concern for potassium
imbalance when you drink too much
coffee,
and have to drink excesses of tomato juice
to balance the "books."
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC