"felons" poems
I have left, pig-mudding drunk,
having sipped from stock to stock on fraying cheer, stages.
I have stood in foreign basements; sweaty cellars of youth;
begot by attitude breeding spaces of the hip;
drawn circles searching for love in recreating nonsense:
a silly pupil, moon-eyed, out of breathe.
I have heard them quack, reveal their cords;
heard them whisper a thousand and one secrets,
heard them deconstruct their circumstances as pilgrims, penniless and sick.
I have their memories now, an image of a depressed,
ass-imprinted pillow soaked in liquor and a feeling of nausea
where ribs sleep on this couch tonight, every night.
I have heard one refute the weight of living, ******
on the banks of his best friends hospitality, and thought
How much is it worth?
And I have envied every **** greasy pored hipster,
the ones fixing on makingitnew now kind of clan; stared blankly at fashion,
a culture back door where pink fish scales sparkle high from runway halters
to the tops of grown men, bearded and chesty.
And your mothers pearls sit, not your mother’s pearls but your mother’s, mother’s pearls,
that old world clout ornamented around those hairy *******
Oh yes, I have seen men become peacocks, charmed animals of **********
seen them teeth at discourse in the noise they create, wide-mouthed and pointed;
I have seen them masked like frantic felines: wooly bully cats trying-to-roll their own meter,
their tobacco stained black charcoal over soft bricked lips quiver to their beats:
those painted lemmingings, without a parachute: kamikaze felons.
I have desired absolute sterility: white china,
in the egg of a toilet bowl I spewed out, shut-up my exuberance for the night;
sorry-pleaded my resolutions to gag out the naughty nouns in my life.
I have quit; turned in my lust for performing the lioness, paw-licking,
snarly creature: the predator of my youth, and now,
I am pretty-headed, tamed in bath oils and schedules;
a spotted fox, in plain view, one medium-sized mammal getting by.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
I see your hand waver, now you're faced with a ghost,
not the raw, killer features that were nailed to a post.
Just an old, dying cowboy, trying hard to play host.
There's a chair if you've mercy, and a story...come close.
The liquor of youth lights a fire in you, son.
Puts that flame in your eyes and the heat in your lungs.
I wore that expression, before your thread was spun,
so let me unload, you can shoot when I'm done.
Growing sore in my saddle as the nag became lame,
I sold off my shooters, then re-mortgaged my name.
But tease out the creases, we're exactly the same;
two felons of fortune, wanting someone to blame.
See, I never got settled, didn't take me a wife.
Sailed a ship in a bottle, on the edge of a knife.
I put stock in misfortune and invested in strife,
took diminished returns, paid no interest to life.
But corralling cattle won't hold them for long,
they're born to roam free where they know they belong.
Soon the lipstick and whiskey begins to taste wrong,
as the backroom piano sighs its monotone song.
By a tangerine sunset I scraped off my boots
and considered an orchard as it set down its roots.
As a buzzing of insects idly nurtured its fruits,
I was deafened by silence. My own garden was mute.
So I clutched at the earth as I fell to the floor,
to ask for forgiveness, as you darkened my door.
Seems redemption's eloped, like a gold digging *****
Just a name on a tombstone, for a few dollars more.
Quite an end would be fitting for a fool so innate,
who has squandered his years until the hour is late.
Son, unholster your weapon and wipe off the slate,
I beg execution, swift vengeance, But wait...
Did I catch my reflection as it fell from your face?
Like a hound in a heatwave, too tired to give chase?
Son, the trail that you're riding is easy replaced.
You can stand in the sunlight, or come sit in my place.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
A mob boss for president…
Yikes! That's what we've got--
One who profits from crime
Without a second thought;
Who keeps his family close by;
Who's close to each paisano;
Who looks less like a Lincoln,
And more like Tony Soprano;
Who praises convicted felons,
And pardons them as well;
Who cares less about country
And more about his cartel.
Loyalty is his mantra.
His underlings owe him all.
He sounds like a mobster when
His back's against the wall.
He'll rip you a new one if
You ever decide to flip
And prove that you're a rat,
Or try to give him the slip.
"Flipping should be illegal,"
He brazenly repeats.
Without it he knows there'd be
More crooks on the streets.
A power-hungry bully:
It's his goal to be one.
Listen to his rhetoric:
"I know a rat when I see one."
His fixer threatens reporters
And does the boss's bidding.
But when he seeks revenge,
The boss isn't kidding!
Driven by ambition,
Egomania and greed,
He lets mob ethics guide him
To always take the lead.
He's the kind of guy
You read about in books.
Watch how he surrounds
Himself with other crooks.
Those who cooperate
With law enforcement will find
That he retaliates
If ever he's maligned.
Top decision maker,
He gets such a thrill
Promoting or demoting
Anyone at will.
Having a no-good mob boss
As leader strikes a nerve
Because it's hard to accept
That that's what we deserve.
-by Bob B (8-25-18)
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 10:56 AM UTC
Last night Gary Facebooked me:
11:03 PM
"Can I ask you to be crazy with me?"
Gary said he had been flirting with this girl, May
for six months.
She wanted to see him in person tonight,
And he needed a ride.
Gary and I met 11 days ago.
Strangers brought together in the streets of Freeport by pokemon GO.
he spotted me holding my phone out from a mile away.
"Team Instinct?
TEAM INSTINCT!"
Lightning cracked above us
as we cryed in harmony:
"THERE IS NO SHELTER FROM THE STORM!"
My knowledge of him consists of three things.
1. He works as a security guard
Is first responder for medical emergency
Tackles felons and escorts people with restraining orders.
plays it up like he's a security guard for something mysterious
He is a security guard for Wal-mart.
2. Gary buys peoples affection.
Throws his money aimlessly
Pointing at his trophies
Prooving he too is expensive
3. To Gary,
there is nothing better to do
from 12 - 5am
Than wander Looking for pikachu.
With me.
besides visiting this May.
"A taxi would be $80
but I'd rather pay that to you, Bro."
On the drive there,
He is Squeeing, Singing,
Flipping out.
"I've got knots in my stomach Bro."
Upon arrival,
He readily jumps from my car
"Go catch 'em Brock" I say.
When I get back to Freeport
he sends me a messege.
1:04 AM
"Dude.
I think she fell asleep waiting
I'm not inside yet."
I park my car in Freeport,
Finish catching a Weedle.
"I'm on my way, stay safe."
"Man I'm so down."
"She's not coming to the door Nick."
"I'm just gonna curl up on the ground and cry."
"I've called her 24 times"
He heavily thumps his backpack into my backseat
Slumps down into my car.
"There is"
"no shelter"
"From"
"the storm"
"In my heart."
We stare out the window.
At the two homeless men
With no teeth
That he didn't beat.
He's holding night vision binoculars
And a clean Knife.
"I'm sorry I got you involved, Nick
I asked you to be crazy with me."
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
I walk around my hundred person hot tub party
and I
cannot feel anything
crawling through my veins alcohol takes over
alone in my yellow living room full of people
\\
The girls from the local apartments are here
they arrive in groups of three
five
six
sometimes in long trains of sixteen
I try not to **** my pants with laughter
as I hug and greet each one as they grace my home
I never thought I would be this person
this tongue tied host
\\
the felons are here talking about their latest stints in jail
the Olympian is talking about how he walked next to Lebron James at the opening ceremony
the musicians are serenading a girl that does not want to hear it
plastic bags have been placed over the smoke alarms
the marine is talking about killing in the desert
leaning on the northward wall I take a long drag of my blunt trying to look aloofly attractive
, but failing miserably at the act
until she walked up to me
red leather jacket
skin so soft
binding black dress
I liberated her from it and she kissed me
Kissing her back emptied my inhibitions and the morning after: when I found out he was in love with her and I had slept with her; I felt alone all over again
She ran when this was spoken
Me and him fought with our fists
nothing got resolved
all of a sudden
I feel isolation again
just like the party
leaning on the northward wall
having made thirty conversations
none of which compel me
finally leaving me to the world
that exists in my head
THE ONE I CONTROL
\\
I have this negative kick back
whenever I feel something going too nice
I just want to be in my room
alone
with a computer
books
marijuana
a chair
pen
paper
precious paradise
I want to run
tear my flesh off my chest
rip into a heavy metal howl
then have blasting music come in
come in from every corner of the room
the bass tones would bounce from the corners
the high tones would bounce of the walls and refract rapidly
and I would be gone
now wondering
what my position is to where they stand
\\
What worlds we can mentally create
and which do we want to step into
Sometimes the ability is strong on Tuesdays but not on Thursdays
Why the inconsistency?
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
All this air is getting so thick
With sick, powerful people, taking the open space all away
Concrete on the parks, we use to play
Imprison the mind until those dreams start to fade
We're fighting for oxygen
Suffocating on the stuff they make us breath.
We're fighting for oxygen
Make like the trees but, denied the ability to leave.
We're fighting for oxygen
They sold the air for a lot of corporate greed.
You wouldn't understand all the hands
Shaking ***** plans behind closed doors
You wouldn't understand all the rich
Switching winning sides of a poor man's war.
How can I respect this beautiful land
When it's governed by grease-palmed ******
How can I respect these political felons
While I'm just fighting for oxygen?
They tell me to take a stand for what's right
In this place I still call free
They tell me to take a stand
"But only if it holds the same view as me"
I'm looking up to stars, light years from this place
Aligned to show a for sale sign on my face
They'd sell the earth I enjoyed living in
And make me fight for this oxygen
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 1:00 AM UTC
in my city, my pretty pretty city,
People lock their doors driving through my pretty pretty city.
in my city, my pretty pretty city,
Dogs are the kings in my pretty pretty city.
in my city, my pretty pretty city,
Harlots bargain with panderers in my pretty pretty city.
in my city, my pretty pretty city,
Felons avoid the police by hiding in schools, in my pretty pretty city.
in my city, my pretty pretty city,
Eye contact is discouraged, in my pretty pretty city.
in my city, my pretty pretty city,
Walking alone can be the biggest mistake you ever made, in my pretty pretty city.
Oh-
but in my city, my pretty pretty city,
the sea sends you salty, sandy kisses, in my pretty pretty city.
Oh-
and in my city, my pretty pretty city,
the railroad tracks take you to Zion from my pretty pretty city.
Oh-
in my city, my pretty pretty city
i have left behind my blood and promises to return.
Oh-
my city, in my pretty pretty city,
hearts break, while others mend,
tears fall, while smiles are conceived,
hate roams, while lovers love,
fear attacks, while fortitude prevails,
Oh-
my city, my pretty pretty city,
that's where i belong.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 11:59 PM UTC
why is it these days that all the good die young?
when there's prisoners and felons waiting to be hung.
see it's only the innocent that get hit by blind eyes
when the bad ones they rot, in an eternity of lies
rapists and killers get visitors daily,
while my sisters lucky if anyone thought about her lately.
my good friends are being mowed down like spring grass
and the convicts are playing checkers and sharing loud laughs
the man who killed my sister is sitting in a cell,
while my sister is lying, 6 feet in the ground
how sad is that my friends are fading
while empty jail cells sit anticipating?
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 8:07 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
Dispensing Keys
by Hafiz aka Hafez
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The imbecile
constructs cages
for everyone he knows,
while the sage
(who has to duck his head
whenever the moon glows)
keeps dispensing keys
all night long
to the beautiful, rowdy,
prison gang.
Keywords/Tags: Hafiz, Hafez, translation, imbecile, cages, sage, duck, head, moon, keys, night, prison, gang, prisoners, inmates, felons
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 2:33 AM UTC
The Immigration Act
of 1917,
barred
"all idiots & imbeciles,
feeble-minded persons,
epileptics,
insane persons,
... persons with chronic alcoholism;
paupers,
& professional beggars,
and those with tuberculosis"
It barred ...
"felons,
polygamists,
prostitutes
& their traffickers."
Trump & Bannon's
Immigration Act of 2017
bars Muslims,
able-bodied Muslims,
needy Muslims,
starving Muslims,
fleeing Muslims.
Muslims in refugee camps,
student doctor Muslims,
short-sighted Muslims,
limping Muslims,
school-teacher Muslims,
ordinary Muslims,
in a word,
Muslims.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
Hopeful maiden,
Mistress of cotillions,
Depthless, devoid of culture,
Unquestioning, incurious,
Seeks her warrior-beast-of-burden,
A man's man, a sportsman of sorts,
Yet sensitive and without ego,
A staunch provider,
Seeking beauty for its own sake,
A coy, coltish fawn, un-artful,
Un-fawning, who cannot keep a house,
Hold her tongue nor navigate
Social gatherings, one whose passion
Is only on offer, never proffered,
She seeks an old fashioned man
Who appreciates her
Mannish manner and business
Acumen— artists, musicians,
And above all penurious poets
Need not apply, I wish
To learn to cook one fashionable
Day, I am working on
Being famous, it is such
A burden being lovely,
Beautiful.
Are all the good
Men Married? Gay?
Professional athletes,
A-list actors, incarcerated
Felons wanted, perfect
Listeners needed,
Kryptonians preferred.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
I mingle with rasputin in the moments between grasping thighs
I allow myself to peer within the Frankenstein of your skeletons
the Dracula of your love
and the hearts of all your felons
I too live like enigma between the branches and the dirt
and I smile with a ease when you tear off my shirt
and when we rub against each others warmth
as if we have never been hurt
and with your monsters the boundaries
between water and fire I flirt
you would always whisper in my ear
and touch my shoulder lightly
when nobody was watching, but I knew what it meant
I knew what the very movement of your fingers enticed
I knew your love like my favorite book
sitting on my shelf naked, reading its beautiful lines
over and over
and over again.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 11:16 AM UTC
Hopeful maiden,
Mistress of cotillions,
Depthless, devoid of culture,
Unquestioning, incurious,
Seeks her warrior-beast-of-burden,
A man's man, a sportsman of sorts,
Yet sensitive and without ego,
A staunch provider,
Seeking beauty for its own sake,
A coy, coltish fawn, un-artful,
Un-fawning, who cannot keep a house,
Hold her tongue nor navigate
Social gatherings, one whose passion
Is only on offer, never proffered,
She seeks an old fashioned man
Who appreciates her
Mannish manner and business
Acumen— artists, musicians,
And above all penurious poets
Need not apply, I wish
To learn to cook one fashionable
Day, I am working on
Being famous, it is such
A burden being lovely,
Beautiful.
Are all the good
Men Married? Gay?
Professional athletes,
A-list actors, incarcerated
Felons wanted, perfect
Listeners needed,
Kryptonians preferred.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 8:48 PM UTC
What if I told you
I had all the answers.
Would you accommodate my allegations
Or assume my observations are obsolete?
Let's see.
What if I told you
There are approximately five abandoned houses
For every so called vagabond in America.
Let's pretend some simple addition could remedy this situation
And a few sets of steady hands plus a plethora of dry wall
Could dramatically increase the living conditions in these residences
And decrease the number of five year olds
Who consider dreaming on concrete comfortable.
Would you lend a hand?
What if I told you
That minorities make up the vast majority of inmates in America
While corporate crooks who believe distributing the wealth
Means purchasing penthouses in every time zone
From Ponzi Scheme paychecks
Receive bailouts rather than handcuffs.
As if felons in white collars are invisible to proper punishment.
Would you take the stand?
What if I told you
Believing in Buddha and his blessings
Or the New Testament teachings
Is not reason enough to persecute anyone
Based on their personal beliefs.
Because believe it or not
We were all blessed with the ability
To show compassion for others regardless of religious indifference.
Would you make amends?
What if I told you
I had none of the answers.
That my words were merely that- words.
That my call requires actions
And answers mean actually acting on abstractions
That most people keep inside mental concepts.
Would you hear me?
Would you help me?
What if I told you nothing?
Would you listen then?
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
Boxin' up progression
Lockin' down session
Rockin up to lesson
Dressed
Fine pressed
Geared up for givin' blessin's
Confessin' to felons
Commitin' crimes
Soakin' up voddy in our melons
Shoddy villains lookin' back at us
Jhon Goddi riddums
Billin' em for scandalous
Band of trust
Lost
Wankers spittin fictitious
Malicious lies
Leaves respect for wise guys sleepin' with the fishs
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 7:06 PM UTC
TASMANIA, The Apple Isle,
rooted in conquest, convicts
and cannibalism.
Into this desolate paradise,
suffering, starving Englishmen,
dreaming of home, planted
row upon row of small neat
cottages, graciously adorned
by native English roses.
Convicted felons, shunned
from polite English society,
became her upstanding citizens,
and like her fuel-laden forests,
she smouldered, a daughter of
mother England, steeped in
her heritage like a lauded
*** of Earl Grey.
For two centuries, England
grew, a wild sunflower,
with London's sprawling
population sprouting from
1m seedlings, to over 8m
at the peak of her growth.
And somehow, somewhere,
something broke inside.
Today, proud Englishmen
mourn a loss of the spirit
and freedom of their forebears,
still proud, yet yearning
for the simple, honest
existence of a yesteryear
long lost, and not forgotten.
In Tasmania, time drifted
lazily, as outposts sprawled
into small towns, small towns
into small cities, like miniatures
mimicking the motherland
her pioneers had left behind.
But unlike her proud parent,
Tasmania remained true to
the spirit that raised her
from the ashes of convict
settlements, and a fledgling
society intent on defending
the spirit that put England
at the heart of an empire
flourished.
I am an Englishman, proud
to be born and raised in
her heartlands, and prouder
still, to have found that most
distant corner of our once
great empire that embodies still
the spirit of hard work,
fair play and decency that
is found within the beating heart
of every true Englishman.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
*(Children in unison)
I pledge of allegiance to the flag
of the united states of america,
and to the republic for which it stands;
One nation, under god, indivisible,
with liberty and justice for all.*
Hey! Hey son!
Here, have a beer.
I hear there's not much to drink
but have no fear!
This is for your country
You were born to be here
And tomorrow, oh tomorrow..
You'll go
Hey Ma'!
There's plenty of beer,
and too many women to count.
We've got cheap herb and opiates
But have no fear!
There's plenty of needles here!
and tomorrow, oh tomorrow..
Lt. Calley claims the rain will drown our sorrows
Hey! Hey son!
Here, have a beer.
I hear there's not much to drink
and the drugs are really cheap!
But this is for your country
and tomorrow, oh tomorrow..
You'll go..
Be a hero!
Hey Ma'!
Today I shot a boy.
We set the village ablaze
gunned the innocent
tortured the children
and I helped to hold the girl down
and those..
those heroes ***** her
and they asked me
the-they said
"them zipperheads ain't nothin'
they deserve this! And you!
You sonny boy well I'm sure a fine time
with this young dime gon' do ya' just right!"
And hey Ma',
don't be disappointed in me
but I was wrong..
I was..
I'm not strong!
I'm no **** hero!
Ma', I'm comin home from My Lai
cuz' the guns and drugs ain't too far from my way
the women still get treated like dirt,
and the felons and murderers and predators walk away
as the man who stood innocent lending a hand for help takes the blame
and he gets a life sentence because he couldn't walk away!
I'm no hero!
And the man is the devil!
And hey ma',
I'm comin' home
you'll see me no more
cuz' the boy you raised
has too much shame
But Ma',
Don't tellem' what I'd done..
I was a good man, an honorable one!
But Ma', don't tell no one..
Don't tellem' what I'd done..
(shots fired)
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
I wonder how my ancestors feel
Knowing their escape from home
Would lead
To children ***** in cages
Traced
Nameless
Unheard of conditions
Like their rabid dogs
But really puppies still needing their mothers milk
Who made those cages you call sanctuary
Who made those tinfoil sheets you call warmth
Who made those regulations?
Ripping the child from their parents grip
I've seen the ******* pictures
Those kids were strangling their mothers and fathers in order to not let go
There's no need for translation
This is universal
These children are treated like felons
With no warrant
No warning
Is this justice?
Does my so called president get off to this?
Is he not satisfied enough with his spray tan?
He takes it out on us?
I wake up in my bed
Every day I cant fathom
The nightmare those children wake up to
Alone with others like that look just like them.
Looking in the reflection their tears molded onto the shivering pavement
I cant even imagine
The thoughts that may race through their young and impressionable minds
Do they think they deserve it?
Do they think this is their fault?
If and when they do finally escape
How scarred will they be?
They already have a criminal record for being born
How will they survive in a society that imprisoned them before given an education
Before given a ******* a chance.
Sep 6, 2020
Sep 6, 2020 at 5:33 PM UTC
Hopeful maiden,
Mistress of cotillions,
Depthless, devoid of culture,
Unquestioning, incurious,
Seeks her warrior-beast-of-burden,
A man's man, a sportsman of sorts,
Yet sensitive and without ego,
A staunch provider,
Seeking beauty for its own sake,
A coy, coltish fawn, un-artful,
Un-fawning, who cannot keep a house,
Hold her tongue nor navigate
Social gatherings, one whose passion
Is only on offer, never proffered,
She seeks an old fashioned man
Who appreciates her
Mannish manner and business
Acumen— artists, musicians,
And above all penurious poets
Need not apply, I wish
To learn to cook one fashionable
Day, I am working on
Being famous, it is such
A burden being lovely,
Beautiful.
Are all the good
Men Married? Gay?
Professional athletes,
A-list actors, incarcerated
Felons wanted, perfect
Listeners needed,
Kryptonians preferred.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
My first life lasted long enough
A wife I loved and children real stuff
The war changed everything
Family dead except for my son
where was he when we won?
Forget it all
My second life a depressed teen
Counselors fail to make me clean
Phonographs and tapes
The start of my new life
Why do I keep thinking of my wife?
Forget it all
Third life wasn't strong
Discrimination with my hair long
Women disguises aren't the best in 1900's
This goes with my fourth and fifth
I really wish this was a myth
Forget it all
Sixth was really fun
Did some drugs and went to clubs
Became a show host
They all found out
They started to shout
Forget it all
Aute Lun didn't go to heaven
Nothing phased number seven
His life did not last
Number eight was burned to the steak
That hurt I needed a break
Poor sweet number nine
His bills made him commit
Suicide
Ten and Eleven
Nearly became convicted felons
But they got too sick to even try
Forget it all
All these lives
Do they matter?
Just forget...
Number 12 was one of the longest
A guy by the name of Alex Coneales
I was finally myself again
I made a friend or two
They help me through
They never know
Wilson Maxwell a friend with laughs
He found my tapes, my phonographs
We exchange our secrets
He says he'll help me no matter what
He knows too much so I keep shut
I'M SCARED
FORGET IT ALL
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 9:58 PM UTC
Hopeful maiden,
Mistress of cotillions,
Depthless, devoid of culture,
Unquestioning, incurious,
Seeks her warrior-beast-of-burden,
A man's man, a sportsman of sorts,
Yet sensitive and without ego,
A staunch provider,
Seeking beauty for its own sake,
A coy, coltish fawn, un-artful,
Un-fawning, who cannot keep a house,
Hold her tongue nor navigate
Social gatherings, one whose passion
Is only on offer, never proffered,
She seeks an old fashioned man
Who appreciates her
Mannish manner and business
Acumen— artists, musicians,
And above all penurious poets
Need not apply, I wish
To learn to cook one fashionable
Day, I am working on
Being famous, it is such
A burden being lovely,
Beautiful.
Are all the good
Men Married? Gay?
Professional athletes,
A-list actors, incarcerated
Felons wanted, perfect
Listeners needed,
Kryptonians preferred.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC