"eyesore" poems
In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of *** with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for *** with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.
Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The ***** of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.
Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The ***** bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
***** clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.
From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
a dark place,
dingy and cobwebbed:
the forlorn basement
below an unfinished house;
there is no hope
of an HGTV house-flip
or a makeover
or the sort of boring/heartwarming story
where some nice white family
—or conveniently diverse—
sets up shop,
smash-cuts through a renovation
and gets their dream home.
no,
the house will remain gloomy,
this basement filled with emptiness;
no one desires
to come through the door,
no one except the tweakers
and the vagabonds
and the runaways,
the ****** and the pimps,
the celebrities and psychiatrists,
the demons and the ghosts,
the preachers and their seething
congregations of judgmental ******
that live across the street,
and the ***** teenagers
hunting for a place to try out ***
no cleaning crew
or maid service
or organize-your-life guru
or even the most experienced
of all the world’s janitors
could enter this house and clean it
or beautify this basement
or disenfranchise the squatters within;
the neighbors just try
and demolish it
every chance they get,
to rid their sparkling, spotless community
of this disgusting eyesore.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
Rachel’s hair, black as ink,
splatters my blank skin.
It’s a rewrite for bad readers,
a stroll for quick-to screamers,
a phone call at 3 a.m., and
a sickening high that just won’t end.
Rachel’s teeth, sharp/jagged like littered glass shards,
dig into my aged, faintly seasoned flesh.
It’s a feast for lazy vultures,
an eyesore for devout heathens,
a dusty revolver on a Sunday, and
a lone drunk at a flybuzz wedding.
Rachel’s soul, battering ram/sputtering mad,
dilutes toxic mine, leaves only the rind.
It’s a constant reminder for dangerous nostalgia,
a blanket smoldering in fire within winter-without-end,
a handshake and a heart attack for closest kin,
an elevation, a joyous atomic cloud, and
a sky crying elative confetti tears of future me.
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 2:52 PM UTC
Alexander K OPICHO
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
from north in Kaduna of Okigbo to south in the Rhoben Island
of Mazizi Kunene and D M Zwelonke who sang the song of Shaka;
in Zulu Heroism that beautified our face in the armpit of Ezkia Mphalele,
the sons of Africa in the knighthood of poetry,chantery and incantations
you are hailed with with glory and dignity for your service to humanity
your service to literature and gods of poetry in the spirit of the song
that we chant in the spirit of love and peace the glory of hour heritage
is an eyesore to the lazy ; who though ill will can stop the flow of African river,
Sing our songs and chant our spirituals as you write our poems
open your poetic ***** for the world is a ******
in which the seed of African poetry will plummet and flower
to glory of man the essence of Godliness,
Let Soyinka and Achebe sing our songs without fear of home
As Okot P' Btek revamps from the ashes like a phoenix
to re-plant the bumpkin in the old homestead of Taban Lo Liyong
Who sang the cacotpic song in the dystopia of black diaspora
when he saw another ****** dead in the guest for Nocturnes of Senghor
who feared Marxist poetry and African songs which Aime Cesaire chanted
in the mayoralty of Paris.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
grey and worn
the lawn chair has dead leaves stuck to it
its one bent arm an expression of pained indifference
mud clings to its feet
and a single vine like a thin snake
wraps its way across its frame seeking the sun
i pull at it to set the chair right
to seat myself
and **** at the breeze from the open field
marvel that a cow stands not five feet away
silently watching my every move with a wary eye
lunching on the grass and ****
but the chair now uprooted from its long held position
seems more than ever a proclamation
of mans intent to be seated here on heavens lawn
clear illustration of the intent that you are supposed to
take this bent greasy seat
sit at your leasuire
in the bountiful sunshine
it is one of a dozen in the field
in this beautiful slice of heaven
the lawn chairs
litter the field like broken teeth
set in a line that wanders across the wilderness growth
each having suffered from years standing in the open field
two almost completely consumed by bushes
one had been tossed into the tree
where time had swallowed it into the bark
this broken and brutalized fence of chairs
these lawn chairs of heaven's field
sit in this beautiful place some would say eyesore
i say artwork of life's randomness...
what party of fools once sat here
dressed no doubt for the occasion
perhaps celebrating
perhaps mourning
then got up from these plastic seats
and left them behind as testament
to that forgotten day...
so i sit in heavens lawn chair
a mute salutation to my unknown compatriots
who painted this pastoral scene
of plastic in a field
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
Derelict, decrepit,
Just a waste of space
A relic from a different age
One who'd run the race
An eyesore
Gives the place a name
Represents a time long past
It's no longer in the game
A stiff wind would take it down
It's not worth a single dime
Take it down, demolish it
It's enemy is time
A single pane of glass is left
Cracked from side to side
In fact it's cracked the whole way through
As tall as it is wide
The others are all boarded
Keeping out nothing at all
The only thing the wood does
Is act as canvas to them all
Graffiti covers every space
That is left standing here
It used to be a factory once
That made a local well known beer
BUT ON THE OTHER SIDE....
Inside the building squatters sit
Derelicts, wastes of space
The building is their home for now
Away from the rat race
Eyesores, hidden in plain sight
Humanity at it's worst
That is the image given them
Because of addictions thirst
A stiff wind would take them down
So thin and frail are they
Protected by a building that
A storm could blow away
One side thinks it awful
The other, thinks it's good
An eyesore and a fragile shell
Of old bricks and glass and wood
But...for one plain window
Separating worlds apart
A crack runs through the window
It is the buildings heart.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
Never behaved in the school porcine;
Had wise words for everyone to opine;
Full of wise thoughts and memories refine;
Rachana Sharma is ready without any supine.
An eyesore progress she achieved school in
Even the trustees could no longer decline;
Her help for others whenever did she design
Was a feast – a great help and fun to dine.
For 8 years was she my dear mentor fine
From whom I learnt how to continuously grin
In adverse situations and start from begin
So that new fight and efforts lead you to win.
Earlier she was looking like a pumpkin
But now she managed her past confine:
Looking beautiful, smart, nifty and divine
Is ready ever any problem to define.
She is my inspiration, she is my Kline,
She is the best lady as a helpful friend in.
With her I developed Monorhyme fine;
And defeated many enemies malign.
A good mentor and nice for nation mine
Is none than Rachana - a brave feline.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 6:51 AM UTC
glass windows
crystal panes
quite mesmerized am I
colored parts
crimson shards
I wish to have you for my eyes
womanly arch above my head
your shapes are all that I have bled
my story starts like your creation
there was a time when all you were
was magnificent idea
in the mind of a man
a quiet plan unwelcome in the land
a time when you were a naked chaos
trampled by cattle
the dust watched your birth
you rose screaming from earth
men cursed while they worked
a torture
an eyesore
with potential at best
Barren poles for arms
Slabs of marble legs
when your beauty arrived
all were surprised
and verified the validity
of your maker's pride
his blood, your paint
his teeth become your enameled wall
the iris of his eyes, your windows
his mind the crowning dome
his life the mascara of your shadows
the bones are at rest now
no one pounds out their song
on the old wintry walls
and the days are long
the wounds shown are old
long out of style
you will soon recover from man's victory
and slip back into old ways
for from dust you were taken
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 10:06 AM UTC
"I'm sorry." That singular phrase. I hate it, it makes me feel weak.
No one ever means it. They should give up and just not speak.
It's a habit of mine to say sorry for something I'm not sorry for.
I'm not sorry, not one bit. I hate that it is part of me, it's an eyesore.
Please stop my pity parties. I can't contain them, please help me.
I'm sorry I'm like this. I'm sorry I'm the one making an apology.
I can't stop saying sorry. It's an essential part of my internal code.
It seems that I'm sorry is the only phrase my brain wants to upload.
I'm incredibly sorry and I don't really know why?
Maybe I'm apologizing for something useless that I identify?
I have many questions for my sorry brain, why am I sorry? What for?
I see this as a negative quality that no one will ever adore.
I keep saying sorry, I don't know how to stop it, please help me
I can't stop, help me get rid of this depressing and pitiful apology
I hate myself for feeling this weak, I'm definitely not strong
I hate that my feeling of strength always feels wrong.
I can't stand this feeling of being unwanted wherever I go
My tears say I'm sorry and they fall like glistening snow
I'm sorry that each time I say it, I start crying uncontrollably
I'm sorry that you can't really help me, it will go on inconsolably.
I will always be sorry, there's no changing that fact
I always apologize to people only when I'm feeling attacked
You can't help me in any way possible, I'm forever broken
No one can hear me scream because I will always be outspoken.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 9:11 AM UTC
Excuse me if my edges are a bit jagged
If they cut and scrape you, I am sorry
I really didin't mean it, you know
You might think I'm an eyesore
Not worth all that much or very useful
But I fooled you, didn't I?
For I'm simply a chunk of coal,
Seemingly dark, rough and lumpy
But you know what happens to coal, don't you?
It takes a heck of a lot of pressure
And it sure takes quite a while
But in the end it is a diamond, clear as crystal
Its many facets shine up in illumination
A valuable, precious gem to behold
As many of us are refined to become
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 4:35 PM UTC
the blood
the spiritual
eyesore
of the woman’s
body
mirror
-
here is what it said, it said
I think
I have
a mother
whose hands
he tells
apart
-
christ I’m close to my face
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 1:31 PM UTC
My love doesn't love me anymore.
She says my kisses she abhors.
And living with me is a heinous chore.
To stay here... She'd rather be a street *****
Throwing her wedding ring on the floor.
If she ever had to touch me again,
It would be to **** me she swore.
As she set fire to the wedding dress she wore.
"I hope you choke to death while you snore!"
"I hate you right down to your core!"
"You're such a hideous eyesore!"
"Grrr! The wasted yore!"
"Touch me, nevermore!"
There is a fact I can't ignore.
She wishes for me to leave,
it doesn't matter which door...
My love doesn't love me anymore.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 1:29 PM UTC
Sigh no more,
Put it all in a drawer,
Don’t let life be a bore,
Go out and explore,
Cast your line from ashore,
Do the things you adore,
Remember it like it was pre-war,
Like you ran out the backdoor,
Didn’t stop screaming till the encore,
Waited and watched the downpour,
While kids called you ********
And you listened to folklore,
Praised the big uproar,
Traveled to ecuador,
Chose to ignore
Listened to the troubadour,
Forgot to abhor,
Gazed at the eyesore,
Praised the antiwar,
Dreamed evermore.
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 5:01 PM UTC
Power line cutting a thick
Scar across the
Hillside of
Trees.
Signatures of Civilisation; straight
Lines and angles,
Perfect circles. All within
What has none.
Needs none.
Wants none.
Maimed and modified
By the cynical scalpel
Of laziness named Progress,
By incompetent
Surgeons.
Waterfalls tamed and forced
Through turbines.
This naked mountaintop
Was a mile stone
For pedestrian generations.
Now it holds that giant antenna
Like a spiteful eyesore
To those who love
The land.
Power and signals, to sit
In air conditioned comfort
And watch
Nature shows on TV.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
Better days were in the past
For the bar and all inside
Windows broke and lights burned out
The bar had long since died
Carpets gone and floors all worn
Scorch marks on the wall
Smells of stale beer in the air
the bar had it's last call
Welcome to the Stagger Inn
Good Food and Cold Beer Too
Live bands every single night
And it's air conditioned too
Welcome to the Stagger Inn
A bar befits it's name
We'll take you the way you are
And we're mighty glad you came
The stage was now an eyesore
As was most of what was here
Way back in the corner
Sat a woman with her beer
Hair was streaked with boot black
From a time, who knows when
The bar was dead or dying
As were most in this old den
A few nights folks would still come here
To see the towns old jewel
What once was gold and glistened
Now was just no longer cool
The lady way back in the corner
Hadn't danced since eighty three
Ten times a night she'd go and
Play the jukebox tune 5B
A song about the devil
calling him silver tongued was her pick
She'd hit the worn out buttons
While giving her chapped lips a lick
Sitting in the back and nursing
A beer as dead as the bar
On a steady diet of Winstons
That had made her voice as thick as tar
Welcome to the Stagger Inn
Good Food and Cold Beer Too
Live bands every single night
And it's air conditioned too
Welcome to the Stagger Inn
A bar befits it's name
We'll take you the way you are
And we're mighty glad you came
Maybe fifteen people came here
When the other places were full
You could see the worn out tiles
Where there once was a mechanical bull
Trends were never big here
Though they tried a few to survive
The bar was dead and dying
Housing folks who now were barely alive
The last band that they had here
Was a cover group from down in NC
They didn't last the evening
Getting out done by old 5B
The woman in the corner
With the boot black streak of wild
closed her eyes and listened
To the memories she had compiled
If you ever choose to come here
I don't think you'll stay long
But, I know you'll hear a singer
Talk of the devil in that 5B song
The door is always open
At the dead and dying Stagger Inn
A place that still lives through the ages
And the folks remembering what might have been
Welcome to the Stagger Inn
Good Food and Cold Beer Too
Live bands every single night
And it's air conditioned too
Welcome to the Stagger Inn
A bar befits it's name
We'll take you the way you are
And we're mighty glad you came
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
And let me down easy but do break my heart
Otherwise I'll never know if I should chase after y'all. And the longing comes nightly, the bourbon rings twice, every time I'm out living, y'all stop me from dying. But a man is worth pennies when his work is the dirt, and I've never known forgiveness I've only ever known hurt.
With my skin on the desert, my hands cut from the piste. If a man's responsible for fire, then it must be woman who's made the stream. Everything is an eyesore when plague cuts at your flock, and the shepherd is aching to be rid of his cloth, the end of evil corrupts it, the sheriff he breaks his own laws. They take all that they want, leave you to look up to the dust, you can't sustain the pains of heartache, you words shorter while you talk. So please take it away, the flat and the plains. And only fires concern them, water drowns for them and cries. I don't need no one to listen, no one to soften my eyes. I've been bit by the river, it's taken my breaths. Filled my chest full of water, brought my time to new depths. I saw the valley, and I saw the moors. I saw the valley, just tell me, will she be here tomorrow? I've seen the valley, and I've seen the moors, just please won't you tell me, will she be here tomorrow?
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC
Mumble Rappers be on something like:
"gotta bad b...she ain't be walking righ°..."
Double-dipping,
No-stopping
Frames-dropping,
No-clipping,
wutta glitchy sight ..
I've been sitting super stealthy cypher.
I've been running with my do-or-die fir.
[Careful]
I would die for what
What you would eye for
Cloudy with the red eye
Insight, eyesore
I swore, pops, that I'd be different
Spec ops man, Mine's been misting
Foggy froggy frothing
when I spit distance
3eyes shifting
2Split da difference
Any1 asking Meh:
How have I been getting....?
Guru Minds have been sitting
squarely as a cube in cypher
Make mah breathes for human
CubanS matter as I decypher :
Life is living truth
or daring to choose to live
or die for ...
Ai just a silly Scyth0r snipping sidebar sowings
stow no baggage. That's what I'd be towing.
Rats staining, stinging
pocked and potent.
Out of the Cabbage patch
that I've been growing
01011011 01111101 01111011 00101110 00101110 00101110 00101110 01010000 01110010 01100001 01100011 01110100 01101001 01100011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00101100 00001010 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01100010 01101111 00100000 01100100 01100101 01101110 00101110 00101110 00101110 01111101 01111011 01011101
Sorry to be blunt, man
.... it's a sour twist,
Undid the trap mode
went too lavish
>> the-Gentle-Ghost-o'-ghetto
hopes at most to let go,
Building out hell bricks
Pave- too -close -to -level<<
it's all in the mental,
in the same lane stack
Shake a Lil when treble trains track,
Shake, shake when the train track,
shake shake, shake when it trains
shake when the trains track.
I swear, it's not a bad tick.
Just bring the brains back.
It's not a bad tick. Just get the brains back
it's not a bad tick. The brains back~
just bring the brains back
bring the brains back
Bear with me. >>Music turned up.
Are the windows cracked?<<
..............Who should have brought the show...vel? And the WAXWHALESTACK.....................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Dec 9, 2023
Dec 9, 2023 at 12:28 PM UTC
There are poor neighborhoods
that are tucked into towns,
where the less educated,
where the lesser of means,
find in the dregs, the ability
to coexist with higher society.
Society is grown to the point of disease,
killing the feeble, disabling the lost,
in the name of and for some ease.
So here comes the city, meaning so well.
They said, "Let's add a train line
to a town that has none!"
Well, there goes the block.
There go the people who
barely have homes.
The Council wants to drop a line
where they see shoes bounce power lines.
What's the harm in displacing
the part of the community already dead?
The town now seems to be just fine
now that the poor are paying fines.
Why not double down and just
gentrify when history tells the story best?
Expand Portland, rid Tigard of blemish,
trade your rug for cement and track.
Beautify Tigard, please your ill desire,
don't be surprised when your eyesore
comes back.
Go ahead, pave your poverty.
Go ahead, clean your streets.
You're thinking, "Lines for dimes."
What do you think a new line means?
What do you think the traffic brings?
The sweet guillotine repeats.
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 11:27 PM UTC
One day he came home with a tank from the thrift store
bought five tiny fish
and named one Princess Peach
said, "that's you, I named her after you"
I looked at this eyesore in my haven
then at him;
a completely disheveled lump of black clothing
and just laughed
On February 14th
in the middle of a Maine winter
I was accosted in the kitchen
with Day Lilies and chocolate
"Happy Valentines Day"
"Stop skateboarding in the kitchen.
I'm trying to nap"
"Sorry I didn't know you were home"
And after I left he said,
"When you come back,
we can sit and watch cartoons again,
just like in Peach House"
I didn't know how to tell him
I might not come back
Every single time he looked at me
it was like I was the only thing
that had ever been kind to him
and I am too soft to say I never loved him
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
Well now, haven’t you got the prettiest shell?
So smooth and glossy, bright and slick,
And so unique!
So different from everyone else!
Although…
Are you sure about pink? Doesn’t seem right
Not green! It doesn’t suit you!
You don’t want black! Too boyish!
That much red?! What an eyesore!
Oh, don’t look so blue! We’ll get this right
You know the young ones always look darling
Always pure white, they look so angelic
Wouldn’t you want to be more like them?
It was only a suggestion dear!
Don’t storm off in a strop! What’s wrong with you?
Think outside the box? Why would you need to?
I’m sorry darling, I guess you just -
I guess it just doesn’t...feel like you
You know, I think we’ll just paint it for you!
How about a nice white?
Maybe grey or beige
Oh, no dear grey is too ugly…
How about charcoal, a nice dark shell yes?
You’ll blend right in!
There we go! That is much better!
It’s perfect this way
You’re perfect this way.
Jan 28, 2022
Jan 28, 2022 at 7:38 AM UTC
Since 1876 the building had stood
In the middle of town
In a bad neighbourhood
But, empty for decades
And an eyesore to some
She was no longer "The Lady"
And her time had come
The old man sat there staring
As the charges were set
To bring down "The Lady"
he would not forget
His first visit inside her
In nineteen and ten
He'd been inside her much more
he figured since then
Talking to no one,
For no one was there
He talked of her being
He talked to the air
"She started out as a theater"
"Built by Colonel Tom Shaw"
"To showcase an actress"
"Known as Katie McGraw"
"He built her a showcase"
"To play many roles"
"But, Katie...instead"
"had other life goals"
"It stayed as a theater"
"Until Colonel Tom Died"
"Others took over"
"and failed as they tried"
"To bring in top talent"
"To play on the stage"
"But by then, yes then...vaudeville"
"Was now all the rage"
New owners and concepts
Vaudeville died
To keep it afloat as a theatre
Many had tried
A store full of trinkets
Of baubles and rings
A department store future
And the money it brings
The next incarnation
Was in retail not show
And for twenty odd years
They gave it a go
"The Lady" adapted
and was a great place to buy
But, her past as a theater
Well, it never would die
New owners took over,
A cabaret place
Was the next incarnation
She had a new face
"The Lady" was re-done
With tables for meals
Great entertainers
and she held wide appeal
"I remember Bob Darin..."
"Dean Martin and Jerry"
"Came here in to town"
"And they all made quite merry"
"Great singers and shows"
"Kept "The Lady" on point
"But, tastes changed again"
"a new King they'd annoint"
"Elvis, came through here"
"Played "The Lady", two shows"
"But, rock and roll stars"
"Don't come up where it snows"
"The Lady" closed up
became a hostel for a time
To hide all her beauty
Was truly a crime
She's been a store and a warehouse
And a place that made hats
But for thirty odd years
She's been home to some cats
Derelict, vacant...no one comes round
It's about time for "The Lady"
To be knocked to the ground
Some piegeons and vagrants
The bats, cats and owls
all leave in the morning
When the cityscape howls
The owner, not caring
Signed off on her long ago
It's been fifty odd years
Since she housed her last show
Her boards held up Jolson
George Burns, ***** Brice
And I said, she housed Elvis
He played here twice
But, now "The Lady"
Sits and waits for the call
Of the man in the crane
With the old wrecking ball
The old man, wiped his eyes
And he turned from the scene
"I would remember
"Of how she had been"
"A palace of talent"
"A place one should be"
"Now, she's only a relic"
"But she's "The Lady" to me.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
I remember
Gran’s bony hands gripping my wriggling wrists
Crossing streets,
Watching my parents leave for business trips
Screaming, crying and kicking at their departure
Gran held me firm in place poker faced
Family additions
Dragged away like furniture:
Made felt like I was the fist that punctured the peace,
A surgically removed cyst from familial bliss.
Trying to demonstrate
That she was not as straight
As die, rulers, skyscrapers, line geometry,
My one time fathers frivolities
Preoccupied my attention
Until austerity crept back into her manner,
A gulf snatching me away from her temporary lapse,
Her gnarly hand seizing my shoulder.
Her part played to a fading friend and children gone
Continental drift.
Ocean crossings for funeral celebrations
Ravines forming in her fathomless foundations
Avoided my attention
Bright wrapping paper covered my childhood perception,
There was no melancholic manic depression
no lashing out with verbal accusations of abandonment.
Isolation.
Bubble wrap layers of armour; parental protection
steadily cast off in adolescence,
Left me reeling with raw emotion after seeing my grandmother broken.
My father staring at the TV ignoring the reality of her sanity,
It is easier coping with the match score rather than the eyesore.
Sitting in silence sooner than covering circular topics exhausted.
This is the most either can hope for, every move calculated, deliberated.
She waits for death so she can be liberated
He waits for deaths so he can live again
In memories reclaimed,
bony hands gripping wrists,
Establishing familial bliss,
My one time grandmother’s frivolities ,
A collection of her life’s mythology,
Not the sum of her anthology.
We will rewrite her biography.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC
The cardboard jigsaw,an eyesore but it's sods law and when you've nowhere to go and all doors are locked,
you have nothing to lose by sleeping on a box.
We're a city of flatpacks and the homeless with knapsacks are the ones who are stacked up,jacked up and cracked up and for the lucky ones who've packed up and moved on, that memory is gone,
(the one when they're cast out and last in the queue)
So they do what they do when the night closes in,some take to beer and some to the pin and no one can win when the odds have been fixed or the ****** mixed with bicarb' or brick dust,
this twenty five to one shot which the outsiders have got is not a chance,it's a kicking,a beating and they're being deleted,a rewrite and the new world might never know about the down and the outs down and out on skid row.
I say
God bless the Queen but I bet she's not seen the rough sleepers with rough hands and faces and no places to go where they've not been before.
The revolving door says, come in here for a beer or a pin,come quaff some dry cider or fix ******
you've got nowhere to go and all doors are shut,
there's no maybe or might do, you'll pick one of the two,the pin or the beer to forget that you're here where you don't want to be.
Me,
I chose both locks and both locked me in and only my dreams let me out.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
Snake Bite
And let me down easy but do break my heart
Otherwise I'll never know if I should chase after y'all. And the longing comes nightly, the bourbon rings twice, every time I'm out living, y'all stop me from dying. But a man is worth pennies when his work is the dirt, and I've never known forgiveness I've only ever known hurt.
With my skin on the desert, my hands cut from the piste. If a man's responsible for fire, does woman make the stream. Everything is an eyesore when plague cuts at your flock, and the shepherd is aching to be rid of his cloth, the end of evil corrupts it, the sheriff he breaks his own laws. They take all that they want, leave you to look up to the crop, you can't sustain the pains of heartache, your words shorter while you talk. So please take it away, the flat and the plains. And only fires concern them, water drowns for them and cries. I don't need no one to listen, no one to soften my eyes. I've been bit by the river, it's taken my breaths. Filled my chest full of water, brought my time to new depths. I saw the valley, and I saw the moors. I saw the valley, just tell me, will she be here tomorrow? I've seen the valley, and I've seen the moors, just please won't you tell me, will she be here tomorrow?
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 4:13 AM UTC