"fatuous" poems
Delightful march
breathes in on the sound of the swallows
chirp, and in the pungent scent of lemonade.
Daffodils brave the curtain call
and splash in yellow fountains which
powder the grass canary
and rich caramel.
Boughs of cherry trees burst
once more with indulgent,
fatuous blossoms of sugared coral,
Their marbled paper florets billow
in the gusts rising and falling like
the flocks of starlings.
The future is close, wide and happy.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
I'll be the sea, fatuous and chaotic
You be the sky, melting into marigolds above me
Tasting colours, orchards of hues
Close my eyes and lift up my libation
All my arid poems of sybaritic self pity
Sand on my lips, wind sweeping my hair, seashells in my ears
Salty spray on my eyelashes
You're my sweet clemency, verdure and elusive
I want all of you, your ochre and your chartresue and your auburn melting into each other
I want your contradictions and contraindications and complications and dreary storms
Your bleak Tuesdays, your burnt clouds, your blurry edges
Your unknowable horizons
And your azure, pastel and electric, harsh and soft, misty and empty
Do I need to spell it out, darling
I want to kiss you, isn't it obvious
Jan 3, 2022
Jan 3, 2022 at 11:02 PM UTC
It gets easier to laugh at yourself when you know you’ve been frivolous.
You’ve wasted a great deal of your time indulging in fatuous, totally conditional constraints.
You’ve been misguided by the red and pink colors of happy shapes and bewitching designs.
You’ve forgotten the most important of things, and even the small things such as matching your socks or earrings.
You’ve been too content with enticing words and completely undiscerning of actions.
It gets easier to laugh at yourself because even though it hurts like hell, you now know it was only premature amity.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
Move him into the sun -
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds, -
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved, - still warm, - too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
4.4k
I never chose to be heartless
My heart broke, I just couldn't keep the peaces
I Never thought anyone could ever mend it
To myself I thought "what's the use of keeping something broken?"
I lost hope..... My mind was filled with hatred, I turned into a lier, a busted ,a **** ,a hypocrite, a traitor you name it... Just to get my revenge ,everyone was a victim I just didn't care, I knew I wasn't fair But it eased the pain When you and I met ,no lie I got your name. On the list too But you were different,you got me patient,got rid of the fatuous me.... Then you gave me your heart ,gave me Hope, taught me how to love Without knowing I was deeply falling for you My heart grew fonder,started caring ,feeling,loving..... couldn't believe it Thought my mind was playing tricks on me It wasn't I was in love once again.........
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 6:12 PM UTC
I cannot recall the precise moment of my arrival at Anhedonia
memories blindsided by a phantasmagoric comorbid collage of cant
precipitated by some newspaper reportage or holocaust story
some creepy instance that breached the precipice between simple sorrow and permanent melancholia
some fatal blow that cinched the deal
some horrid event that could not heal
some dejected disappointment that could not be resolved
some moment of unguarded clarity when integrity dissolved
nevertheless I have arrived at this mangled juncture
élan a mania not even Edison's medicine can extirpate
I was quite lighthearted before the inferno
before my brain broke
ennui now a turgid companion
feeding on gaiety, never sated, seeking famine
esurient unrelenting usurper of happiness
go away, leave me alone, relish some other soul's madness
gone is any exuberance, glee or mirth
miseries are mine, many the days since birth
better I was carried from the womb straight to the grave
a fatuous existence, clamoring and grasping in vain
it's as if I was born into a well
but these waters they burn
the bludgeoning alcohol a liquid hell
Oh florid loquacity, you are an impostor
your verse is an adversary
a foray of jagged rhythm justifying a storm
a sordid verbosity assuring no norm
a plaintive scratching guild of recriminative collaboration
some alliance of fulminating disquietude
the cost for the fare on the adventure to:
the stunning moment you too will visit Anhedonia
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
I was looking for ***
but hoping for more.
You came and broke my hex
and that changed my core.
That simple kiss felt great
a call from above.
What a glorious fate
this fatuous love.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 10:11 AM UTC
Under a stagnant sky,
Gloom out of gloom uncoiling into gloom,
The River, jaded and forlorn,
Welters and wanders wearily--wretchedly--on;
Yet in and out among the ribs
Of the old skeleton bridge, as in the piles
Of some dead lake-built city, full of skulls,
Worm-worn, rat-riddled, mouldy with memories,
Lingers to babble to a broken tune
(Once, O, the unvoiced music of my heart!)
So melancholy a soliloquy
It sounds as it might tell
The secret of the unending grief-in-grain,
The terror of Time and Change and Death,
That wastes this floating, transitory world.
What of the incantation
That forced the huddled shapes on yonder shore
To take and wear the night
Like a material majesty?
That touched the shafts of wavering fire
About this miserable welter and wash--
(River, O River of Journeys, River of Dreams!)--
Into long, shining signals from the panes
Of an enchanted pleasure-house,
Where life and life might live life lost in life
For ever and evermore?
O Death! O Change! O Time!
Without you, O, the insuperable eyes
Of these poor Might-Have-Beens,
These fatuous, ineffectual Yesterdays!
2.3k
Seeing such said-to-be veracity
made spurious by truer voracity
left me in a downward maudlin spiral
caught in the gravity of pejorative thoughts.
(They were right about you)
Shown to be mendacious and meretricious
with such audacious and ignominious cupidity
that is, apparently, insatiable
by external stimulation.
These words are for thee.
(They were right about you)
A
Mistress of Verisimilitude
Sorceress of Perdition
Goddess of Rapacity
Nugatory Luddite
Fatuous Epigone
Specious and unctuous Girl
of gratuitous turpitude
These puerile and rather flavorful words
fueled by seemingly insuperable motifs
arranged in a terse, inimical verse
for a rather insipid person
who will likely never even know of them,
and yet;
such sweet felicity.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
You need a porcelain mixing bowl and a wooden stirring spoon
a cup and a measuring jug.
Add one teaspoon of ripe inconsequentiality.
then add two teaspoons of innate stupidity.
Pour in one cupfull of political lack of integrity
preferably nurtured in hot smelly air.
Add 4 cupsfull of facile celebrity chatter,
preferably with the volume turned down..
Add 2 cupsfull of shallow religious nonsense
full of obsequious morality.
Add 2 cupsfull of vain "god" chatter
and sacrificial demands.
Pour in 1/4 cup of nonsensical "goddess" humbug
and fatuous posturing.
Sift untold millions of youthfull soldiers dried
and powdered bones until finely ground in the crucible
of never ending wars.
Take up the wooden spoon of societal hypocracy
and stir slowly with gossipy backstabbing.
When all these ingredients are blended as smoothly as a shaven young girls **** put to one side covered with a bloodstained cloth for a millennia to rise to the occasion.
Back in an hour
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
If a tale need be tattled,
the snawky Snawk would arise.
With its snickley tongue of arsenic blue,
and loathsome gamboge eyes.
To the King of the stickley Snicklers,
the Snawk would spill his talk.
But scuttlebutt was all t'was,
for he was but a snawky Snawk.
Might you ask
who am I be?
I am a jawky Jawk
who talks incessantly
of the snawky Snawk,
with his snickley tongue,
and his breath of kyarn,
and Beelzebub dung.
You see I knows of him all too well
and well he knows of me.
Invidious brothers, one of the other,
same Mother both have we.
Now the snawky Snawk spins yarns
so dark and thick and odious.
One might find his fatuous canards
to be though flatulent, commodious.
But If ye be a gawky Gawk
of the snawky Snawk beware,
For his loathsome camboge eyes
can squinny a ribald stare.
To your knees his gaze will bring you,
you'll tell all the tales you know.
Then he'll tattle them to the Snickler King
and off to the headsman you will go.
That is, unless, you know the ballad
the Snawk is most offended by.
'bout the frowzy blowzy stable boy
with only just one eye.
He lost his eye in a snickering match
twixt The Snickley King and he.
But got the best of the old nabob,
for he could cachinnate you see.
He did cachinnate and aggravate,
till the old King did concede.
The stable boy was the better of the two,
his tongue cut like a snickersnee.
For the frowzy blowzy stable boy
was not able to tell a lie,
nor could he mince his words with honey,
of the truth he could not hide.
And if one day you find yourself
in the land of the quidnunc kith.
Shun the snickley Snicklers,
and their sniggering King forthwith.
But if ye meet up with the stable boy
though untidy he may be.
Dare not tattle of a soul,
he'll let fly his snickersnee.
And remember well, the ballad he sings,
of the King he did do down.
Drink in its waspy strain and keep it nigh,
lest the snawky Snawk cometh 'round.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
the words spilled
out in a rush.
they dove
from the tip
of my tongue
before i could bite
them back:
i told a friend today
that i would die
for this. i have no
sons or daughters,
no cats or dogs,
not even a fish
to provide for. if i
could place my body
on the line to depose
this fatuous fascist,
then i was obligated
to mount a resistance.
and i almost caught
myself by surprise—
my empathy congealed
to galvanize and, in an instant,
catalyzed conviction.
the tears of a student
wearing a hijab, frightened
to show her face outside,
crystallized in my mind
like a mirror, with the phrase,
"the least of these" scrawled
upon its surface.
the shouts of a student
hoisting a hand-drawn
protest sign, almost as high
as her middle finger,
set my heart to aching with pride
as we stared down riot cops
on mounted horseback. she stood firm
and did not falter.
and though i choked
back tears when i said
that i would lay
my life down
for a stranger,
at least i can say
my voice
did not falter.
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
Your kind of loving, your kind of feelings
Your way of living, your way of thinking
Your thoughts are everywhere,
Your mind wanderers, your eyes lie
You held on to my every word
hundreds of words we uses daily
Without the physical action,
you say you love me
That doesn’t mean you love me
Because, you think it weaken me
We both use it, we both **** it
Your kind of loving, your kind of feelings
Your way of living, my way of thinking
Is what we reap is what we sow,
You **** your words, I bargain with myself
my words are counterproductive :
My kind of night, my kind of day
Productive, inquisitive and worthy
Your kind of night, unfilled and frustrated
Deep down you love her, she hates the aging you
somehow you still manage to love her
with all her imperfections,
you woke up at dawn, and make her oatmeal
and you serve her breakfast in bed with a dying rose
How idiotic, how clever, how fatuous
A good marriage is something you have to work at. It doesn’t drop from heaven
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 9:23 AM UTC
I have a picture of you saved,
For no eyes but my own,
That I take out of my drawer
Every day when I come home.
I pretend you're here in front of me,
As your body remains statuous,
And cry into the picture
As my grief for you grows fatuous.
For though your captured smile is still
I hear your loving laugh.
That joy can't even be contained
Inside this photograph.
And though your captured skin is still
I feel your heat reach mine,
Radiating through the frame,
Its mem'ries stopping time.
And though your captured eyes are still
The beauty of your gaze is just
Too much for this poor photo
To be able to contain.
They say a thousand words
A single picture can confess.
But your frozen lips say nothing
As the sun sets in the west.
In your melancholic silence
I place the picture in the drawer.
Tomorrow I'll take it out again
And grieve your love once more.
- p. winter
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
i am lost in the wisp of your faltering
the fluttering of concrete entrenched
into stoic rigmarole
to reach out layer by layer
peeling unearthing
a catatonic subdivision of disjoint subdivisions
a limit ordinal
between touch and feeling
where we kiss on the cusp of that silent ocean on the edge of sound
drowned in the nebulous familiarity of
a distant melody
a tired resolve
re solve the old puzzle muscle memory's misted amnesia
half the pieces falling out the warn tinderbox
inarticulate drowned severed isomorphisms over
brea(d)thless infinities
self adjoint matted topologies
nestled snugly in the amniotic absolution
of form before being
hands of matted ice
contorted into perfection
by the sculpting propensities
of undulations of estrangement,
where we touch in the cusp of self reflections thousand mirrors inverted propensities
infinite infinitesimals
nestled meromorphic partitions
hidden corners in the brevity of dusk
multiplicities fragmenting behind empty veils
( to be seen is to be made discrete
to be discrete is to flicker
and disappear
(inevitably invariable
inevitable invariability))
we
stand in a waterfall of gravel
and drown our voices in the choke of our cellophane hearts
caked
into fillets of aphasic tundra
where we whisper our nothings in the desert on the boundary of silence
our words
escape us
like rats from shipwreck
we are
disembowelled catharsis
intentional and fatuous
retching upon itself
severed
and free
and dead
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
My work site is climate controlled,
No Pigeons threaten my peace.
Of all of my gigs, this one is the best,
no acid rain scours my cheeks.
Yes, it is boring at times;
stuck in the Louvre, night and day,
but, as I’m a creature of Marble,
I cannot run outside and play.
Instead I’ve become an observer
of the tourists who whisper and gawk.
That girl with nice ***** is from Paris,
that fat little guys’ from New Yawk.
I pose for their pictures for free
as they snap up some memories for home.
My maker, long dead, was the master
who painted those frescoes in Rome.
Its hard to believe that the heirs
of the Renaissance men of my time
have gotten so fat and complacent,
gorging on fast food and cheap wine.
pig like are their fat chubby faces.
They prate like some fatuous child.
They are, compared to their forebears,
like butterball turkeys to wild.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 7:54 AM UTC
Belittled in space
Across soft oceanscapes
Like Alice's wonderland mushrooms growing
Through thickened moss.
A figure, blurry, dispersed like a witches
Ingredient around the room.
I'm softly lying, breathing uncontrolled on some
Pullout bed, in a random room I'll enter again with
No memory of lying so drunk and gone.
Parties heal my heart
But the boys seem fatuous.
In the wake of these tender unrecognized years,
Bitten lips, that swell purple the next morning.
Left alone to slumber till noon
"Wake up! It's noon!"
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 3:22 AM UTC
catch a person,
of African/Asian/European/Amerikan/Antipodean extraction,
by the prejudices.
When she/he files a fatuous complaint
at the Court of Human Responsibilities
let him/her board a Plane back to where she/he came from
clutching a Louis Vuiton goody bag full of
strings of meaningless associated but fine sounding
politicians speeches,
and as much moolah as he can carry
and several contracts to appear on reality TV.
Food for the journey will be a Cup of bitter gall
and a rapidly melting Vanilla Ice-Cream
containing at least 20 chemicals that will destroy his/her
ability to synthesise Testosterone.
Inflight entertainment will consist of the oft repeated lies of
all major "religions"spoken in oh so sincere voices,
by old paedophiles wearing bedsheets,
consumed with stupidity
and hatreds that are thousands of years old
******* stewardesses and bottomless stewards
will hand out suicide tablets
with cheery smiles and hearty cries of "Bon Voyage!!
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
I was stung by a wasp
But I wasn’t poisoned
Instead I fell in love
Now my heart needs an inspection
Is it swollen?
Is it fat?
Is it mad?
Is it sad?
My heart's become a hodgepodge of emotions
Is this an illusion?
This is a double dose of bloated emotions
Noxiously in love
I’ll ***** until I’ve had enough
Because this
Fatuous love really stings
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
Morn hath come, and I rushest out of my bed;
I washest my hands, and striketh my fingers wet;
I cleaneth out dust, which keepest falling from 'em stilll;
I greetest lone dew, clouds, and yon usual mornin' shrill;
I washest my face, and ponderest over Thy Grace;
I soaketh my lips, and saith Thy love verses;
Verses of love, my florid comfort and solace;
Best of wonders, justice, and solar miracles;
I slideth hastily into my white gown;
For dawn hath come, and greeted me when alone;
Night hath but been a dream and a tiny song;
With chords unreal, and words t'at were not long;
When winds are gurgling and my fantasy is torn;
I still wantest to think but of Thee alone;
The verses of love t'at hath long been gone;
Leaving me deathlike, and breathless on my own;
My blood is again thirsting for Thy love;
Whose enemy hath been dishonest all t'ese years;
When I boweth to th' floor and looketh again at Thee above;
Within my chaste gown, I recalleth my prudent inward tears;
Tears t'at hath never real faded, nor waned;
Tears t'at hath hitherto kept me all sane;
Thy verses of love made me once more feel loved;
And healed my congested soul t'at was sorely halved;
Within my heart dwelleth but one lump of scars;
But all t'ese years I'th known Thou art ne'er t'at far;
With Thee only, my past regrets might just seemeth fatuous;
My whining heart cometh relieved, and my virtues turneth joyous;
Ah, Thee, Lord of th' Worlds and of nights and days;
Ah, Thee, Whose verses are prettier than what we hear;
Ah, Thee, Whose Light is tenderer than any poems I might say;
Ah, Thee, Who ruleth but alive and always stayeth here;
Ah, Thee, Who engendered earth, hell, and heaven;
Ah, Thee, Who tamest wild souls, and enlightenest the chosen;
Ah, Thee, under Whom enemies canst be our best friends;
Ah, Thee, under Whom misery canst be glad, and hearts are patient;
Ah, Thee, by Whom an infant shall healthily grow;
Ah, Thee, by Whom days shall fade, and be braced for tomorrow;
Ah, Thee, by Whom th' luminous shall win and as ever glow;
Ah, Thee, Who always listeneth and heareth and ceaseth not to know;
I praiseth Thee and Thee only with joy;
I claimeth my blessings and honour to Thy Prophets;
Thy delight is th' sweetest t'is life canst employ;
Thee, by Whom I was created--and by Whose Mercy I am fed.
And I boweth again and again to the floor;
I criest my deepest tears, and cite t'ose anew from th' core;
Thy verses of love t'at were once then thwarted;
But as I ever know, Thou shalt always leave my heart rewarded.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
Lethargic energies found on the corner street
Dreams devoured by their caustic cigar
Infatuated with not what to eat...
All the seek is the next bottle of liquor
The women selling mealies and vetkoeks
Hoping for at least, a penny
The kids are back from school but too hungry to entertain books
No wonder these kids grow to be as fatuous as Lenny
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC