"feted" poems
so if we
stand still
smell the heat
of an enemy's
bullet through our veins
for once
court outcome
of supplanting views
imbibing another's sweat
casuist's bile
scrawled on prison walls
of savaged confines
they salute
their spiel
with the same
toxic hold
as we concoct
world views
venomous elixir
polymorphous maze
shadow of a sphinx
looms clearer
as steps leading
to torn pages
of feted book
uncover dichotomy
of a self split
so that shooting a child
of shunned genes
amounts to nil
for in but a blink
his uniform
arrives home
to stroke the
golden locks
of his only daughter
playing Chopin
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 5:31 AM UTC
some of us walk insistently,
instinctively, and instantly to
and upon the edged path,
this physical nexus & abstract mental locus,
a cliffside enticing rock strewn trail,
drawn of men, by men, for men
(yes, men are people too, still)
enthralling views,
down to the riverside,
where eyes intuit the
beauteous aroma of
precious precocious
precarious precipices
and the near-stench of
mortality
amidst
wafting scents of inane undesirable need,
hints of destruction, or,
alternating eager relief,
like a ****** infused, instant attractiveness,
making weakness in the knees, all too real,
trembling with a delicious accented edge of
a fresh, familiar scent, fresh baked bread,
an all enveloping consumption need now!
to
crave what we fear,
to fear what we crave
our cravings are craven,
this twisted sense, annuls
our common sensibility, yet,
titillates our pleasured imagined relief,
releases, our unsated, even better,
our insatiable curiosity to tremble,
an entire body enjoined by vibrato~
enticing tremulations, shaken and stirred,
this danger choice releases something primordial,
escape? a reckless wrecking so deeply designed,
it has its very own designation…death wish
multitudes of easy choices afforded my senses,
and by accident, all mine chosen, all nearby,
I travel the esplanade près de the East River,
where even if calm is the sole visiblilty,
undercurrents and the unpredictable passage
of container wakes and the larger freighters
will hand you down, so easy, to become parcel
to a littered river bottom of centuries’ artifacts
but even more tempting, the balcony,
a hop, skip and a jump unlocked,
mere ten steps, no need for a running start
why it’s the “height of convenience,”
he ruefully winces, and not even any
TSA lines or inconveniencing “conveniences”
Why this calamity seems so desperately desirable,
Why this unabrogated feat so featured, nay, even
feted in our hot? cold? bloodstream
“Why just men?
*I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.*”
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 5:42 PM UTC
Andrew Gn
Probably the most prolific Singaporean designer, Gn graduated from the renowned Saint Martins School of Art and Design in London and the Domus Academy in Milan before joining Emanuel Ungaro in 1992. He launched his namesake label in 1996, establishing a fan base among the Parisian high society and A-list celebrities such as Jessica de Rothschild and Sarah Jessica Parker for his luxurious fabrics and exquisite embellishments. Gn was awarded the President’s Design Award in 2007 and is stocked in all the major continents, with his atelier based in the Le Marais district in Paris.
Ashley Isham
The other Singaporean high fashion designer to hit big time in the international circuit, Isham established his namesake label in London in 2000, and is a show fixture at London Fashion Week. The label is known for its sharp, contemporary tailoring and high-octane glamour, and is a hit among film, TV and music stars as well as British royalty.
Aijek
Self-taught designer Danelle Woo creates easy-breezy, ultra-feminine pieces in sustainable fabrics. Aijek is stocked at multi-label boutiques in China, Hong Kong, Malaysia, Indonesia, Latin America, the Middle East and the United States.
Depression
The neo-Gothic ready-to-wear label’s stark, minimalist designs are stocked in Hong Kong, Belgium, Japan and the U.S., and counts celebrities like Adam Lambert and The Black-Eyed Peas as fans.
Sabrina Goh
The feted Singaporean designer stocks her easy-to-wear pieces from her namesake label at multi-label boutiques in the United States, the Fred Segal store in Japan and a London-based online store Not Just A Label.
Max Tan
The avant-garde label features experimental silhouettes and a contemporary artistic flair, and is stocked in Europe, the Middle East, San Francisco and Taiwan.
Benjamin Barker
This stylish menswear brand founded by designer Nelson Yap in 2009 now has two stores in Melbourne and offers custom tailoring as well. It also offers shipping to Australia and New Zealand via its website BenjaminBarker.co. .
In Good Company
The well-loved minimalist label with unusual silhouettes fronted by designers Sven Tan and Kane Tan is stocked in Hong Kong at Kapok, at various departmental stores in Jakarta, Indonesia, including Sogo, Seibu and Galleries Lafayette Jakarta and in New York’s Saks Fifth Avenue.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 12:23 AM UTC
Treasure your holidays
in Llandudno, Alice.
Skip along the promenade,
play tag on the beach
and when it’s time for bed
wave goodnight to the sea
as it drinks the sunset.
Go boating on the Thames.
Paddle your fingers.
Listen to stories, doze.
Chase a talking white rabbit
sporting white
kid gloves.
Take tea with a dormouse,
play croquet with a Queen:
this is not your dream
but makes you smile.
Don’t wish too hard
for womanhood,
it arrives soon enough.
You’ll be feted, photographed,
posed as holy Agnes
and noble Alethea.
With "dreaming eyes of wonder"
Discover Alice
in your own looking-glass.
And when it’s time to dance
in your bridal gown
cherish the moment.
Two sons will die
fighting for their country.
Remember them
as flames that burn
long after each candle’s
blown.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
I stood there mute
Words harnessed in my throat ragging against the cage of reason
But I could not hurt you
The way you have hurt me
The deep trenches of doubt
The bleeding **** of shame
And the liquid infection of your love
My love
And its mutated form
Eatting away at the insides of my mind
Heart a black mass of rotted feted meat
But I could not hurt you
With the words I wanted to scream
With the torement of my soul
The tearing of scarred
Lightly burned insides
I could not wound you
With the lash of my angered tongue
The righteous injustice I have felt
For my own sake
I could not make you anguish
Over love like I have done
Still do and will do
Until you decide you don't need me
Even with you standing
There on in the gravel lot
Breath a warm cloud
And eyes sincere
Questioning me
Asking me
What you have done wrong
What you deserved to know
But I could not hurt you
With the truth
With the pretty lies
Or with honest half's
So I said nothing
Breathed deep
And tried not to cry
Looking away
Off into the setting sun
I could not hurt you
Warm lips on forehead crown
Hands touching
A face drawn in reluctant tears
A chest
The pleated plaid of button down
Steady rhythm of heart
I could not hurt you
My unpredictable rock
Tearing me down
Building me up
Tripping my tongue
And trapping my thought
I could not hurt you
My weakest spot.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
Buzzing
Humming hum-drum noise
This blatant blockage of dribble and sludge
Stupidity at its best
My god man
How do you live
With that spittle, of garbled words you call sentences
Do your thought really reflect the dirt that flows off your tongue
Like clay wrapped *****
Regurgitated out of the mouth of a brain dead mute
Seriously!
Are you deft to boot?
Can you not comprehend the English that I speak?
You ill witted simpleton!
God you make me reek
By contending with your ignorance
I stink
The smell of rotting brain matter
The feted meat, calling fly's
Who choke on the sensation of overcooked eggs
And the stench of distilled bile
Thank God I only have to deal with this for a short while.
Or else
Sink,
Like a rock
Into your bog of bigoted rag
My liberal mind to heavy to float
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
I navigate, I
swear I do.
This crew will not believe me.
I have charted far and wide across the seas,
but now I hide down in the doldrums.
'twas foolish of me,
this motley crew would like to do me in,
hush
was that a pin that dropped?
the silence stops my breath.
Nearer to and to thee I ask
to let me curl up one more cask
before this day is through,
before this scurvy crew discover me.
'Land ho', I hear,
a cheer topside,
I hide no more and am
instead
feted by this crew and
led to be
yet once again.
the Master of
the sea.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
that is what they come seeking.
yet, when I tell
them--pretending--Boy Scouts-to-be prepared!
*for the burning,
they gulp saying ok,
but the higher heat of the
fear feted in their eyes,
them instruments
that never lies,
so I send them home,
unscathed,
and
scathed
just enough that
they’ll never ask
twice.*
I’m so easy to please.
brandychanning
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 10:47 AM UTC
to quote a generation, “Whatever…”
history will mark the day this uselessness
is forever banned, this day will be paraded
along the Avenue where astronauts feted,
Super bowl heroes greeted in tall canyons,
no more ticker tape, will shred them invoices
marked overdue, so they will remain status
unchanged, but whatever will be part and
parcel of the disparaged disappeared, for
it insults the recipient twice as much as the
mutterer utterer, for why not say, best direct,
I disrespect us both and won’t give a moment
to consider what you’ve stated, afraid, that exercising a
right to minimal modicum of caring will die out
with that generation, and we will spake a loud
Aleleuya,
and all will answer with feeling,
with a smiling thumbs up,
and W. Whitman will join in…
11:40am
Sun May 25, 2024
May 26, 2024
May 26, 2024 at 11:49 AM UTC
*every time a poem completed,
its state of affairs, certified & feted,
the boys gather 'round, for serious
series of slaps on the back, and
drunken wisdom words,
"you'll never do another one, better, boyo!"
and the dread of correct
feels me up,
filling me up
with cream filling
whipped up
anxiety
of the now seizured defeated*
as I grab a clean sheet from top of the stack,
and the retired muses overhear,
delightedly, whispering to each other
just loud enough to hear
me shaking tremble,
"*and right they are,
and write they are!*"
and yet, ex-poet, still a fool…
9:42pm
Wed Aug 6
2025
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 9:43 PM UTC
Dictionary in hand Bobbies
manned state of the spy craft created
strategic peripheral outposts
a comma dated,
(sans syntax garnered monies) equated
justifiable to build galley ma free
Highland Manor wing - feted
via "FAKE" glitterati
creating surreptitious hated
surveillance monitor ring, which insulated
decked out starry eyed Starship
Enterprise surprise rated,
as an unbelievable well Spock kin
Duplicated Star Trek venerated
popular culture science fiction set piece,
where elderly residents waited
this other worldly architectural phenomenon
didst immediately outshine by alight
year among the original seven wonders
of the world prominant
as a buck toothed over bite
yet, didst camouflage top secret AngloSaxon
incognito missionaries delight
upholding correct language usage,
Thence trumpeting amidst
nonchalant onlookers as excite
mint hinted grammarians with listening devices
some flying unseen
as period size drones taking flight
other more sophisticated
electronic accouterments
dolled, gussied, issued with apostrophe
shaped flower buds scaling height
of cerulean sky, where blinding light
of a solar ellipsis, thus
arousing no discovered night
gallery suspicion during
feted occasion rife with polite
"FAKE" markedly questionable legatees quite
suitable asper The Art Of The Deal during
ribbon cutting ceremony,
and after words right
ting up citations slyly
slipped under windshield wipers
as the madding massed crowdsource,
would take dispersed out of sight
nonetheless echoes plenti chutzpah left
English figures of speech
uttering unstinting (quote unquote)
premature ejaculations,
eh so blandly trite
non-sequitur visited
by thee epic of Gilgamesh
for a dangling participle
during the split infinitive Sumer season
(exclamation point) no more to write!
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 2:15 AM UTC
A coronation, watched by our entire great nation,
Some with trepidation, others boisterous jubilation.
Trump feted, his fawning family silhouetted,
Basking in his light, his confidence and might.
This Grand Old Party, it's followers vociferous and hearty,
Anointing their chosen man, to rule their ever-growing clan;
No harm to love a cause, giving thought and sometimes pause,
To what this passion brings, the words the siren sings.
Whereas strong leadership is good, it can be tainted just like food,
For democracy renounced, cannot then easily be found.
Let’s be careful what we wish, lest it be a poisoned dish,
Our founders crafted choice, beyond just
one resounding voice;
Autocracy is not a word, that in our Lexicon is heard,
We must vigilance ensure, for our country's story to endure.
Unity the dream, but like salmon in a raging stream,
Needs fortitude and grit, knowing when to fight and for the greater good, submit.
Jul 19, 2024
Jul 19, 2024 at 1:49 PM UTC
Hel had fallen hard for the artist;
the _новый боевик_ heralding
a cautiously empty renaissance
of oblique ideation; conceptual
arriving late to postpostsoviet
faux bohemian culture; Pop Art
is banned, making it coveted;
Eli is feted by European royalty
for his enormous muddy smears;
Hel getting invited to write her
memoirs of life w/ Eli Simple:
avant-garde painter & movie star
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 5:46 AM UTC
Unlike the feted Ebenezer, our intangible visitors
Are not necessarily seasonal in nature,
Nor do they waft into scene
As the result of our direct malfeasance
(Sometimes the case, to be sure,
But more likely they are the stepchildren
Of our omissions rather than our commissions)
Coming among us not through wanton transgressions,
But the upshot of our mortality
And its associated failings,
And as they glide translucently among us
In this season where the darkness comes so early
(Yet the light clutching the western horizon
For an imperceptibly longer time each day)
Their presence may be somewhat more benign
If we are able to undertake the act
Of forgiving ourselves.
Dec 22, 2021
Dec 22, 2021 at 4:17 PM UTC
Mare Nostrum
On the coast of Augusta, in Cecilia this wonderful sea,
the bluest of turquoise, transparent and I saw fish play.
Blood and bloated corpses have made the sea less pretty
and fish nibbles on cadavers of those who tried to cross
the sea to escape the lunacy we created in Libya.
A president short of stature but with inflated ego plus
philosopher idiot, two men were responsible this disaster
of a war just to get rid of a dictator one of them had lent
money of the other who should not be left out of his confine
of academia, he should have in hidden in a university writing
books only historians take a passing interest in.
As it is the impossible vain man get feted, all because he is
an intellectual and wears a velvet jacket and clean collars.
My old Mafia friend Thomas the knife, has invited me to
Augusta, I will go there but not swim the hazy sea, but we
will eat langouste, drink child wine and talk about the days
when philosophers and presidents left us alone to **** only
when needed and never the innocent.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
I have a plan
Yes it may be unconventional,
But as a fan
I assure you its success will be intentional.
Most of you may know me
My talent feted shore to shore,
With puppets real as all can see
Talking, singing and much more.
I know I have a skill
And the will to use it right,
Some may say a magic pill
A potent weapon that can bite.
Now that I'm finally a Star
I need embrace the social causes,
No longer propping up the bar
I'm great at mimicking the poses.
One such thought that came my way
To help the old man pull it off,
It's for me to do and say
While he covers with a cough.
I can crouch behind the stand
Prop him up as best I must,
Work his head with my free hand
With experience I'll adjust.
All dear Joe needs do is focus
Read the screen and move his lips,
They won't know that's it's all bogus
That I've written all the scripts.
Only this way can he win
As my famous mates all say,
A little magic is no sin
If I get him through each day.
Should he stray I've got a treat
An ice cream cone well in his sight,
Only once his tasks complete
Will I let him take a bite.
I'm a patriot as all can see
I'll move mountains to beat Trump,
If Joe's to win it’s up to me
And if he flags I've got the pump.
Feb 29, 2024
Feb 29, 2024 at 10:35 AM UTC
The acquisition of a son
With an adequate corporeality, albeit with certain caveats,
Certain limitations in terms of progeny and posterity,
Had awaken something in the old man,
Certain forces leading him to the altar
And, subsequently, to the nursery once more
(A second son, brought to bear in the established manner.
With a minimum of drama and fanfare.)
The child was loved, in a rudimentary fashion;
While his flesh-and-blood bona fides were beyond question,
He was a consumer, a thing of constant need
More akin to a hardship than his celebrated half-sibling,
Whose command of the spotlight
Served as a gravitational pull for parental affections.
The old man passed on after a spell,
Hanging on long enough for his second son
To stumble onto the precipice of adulthood
(His mother had hot-footed it out
Almost immediately after the burial,
Choosing to stage-mother her feted stepchild)
Though his fatherly wisdom
Was limited to matters of his craft, his business,
Which was left to the young man, though grudgingly at that,
As a sop, a means of getting shet of two unwanted encumbrances.
He’d proved to have much of the old man’s gift,
Whittling and carving puppets and toys and dolls
(Though with a certain grim fury making it evident to all
That the work was not a labor of love)
Rarely stopping to speak to or even acknowledge his clientele,
Except if one of them happened to repeat the time-worn chestnut
That the toy chooses the child, in which case he laughed harshly,
All but barking *It’s the purse that closes the deal, not the ****
And then he would return to carving some doll or marionette,
Which would always seem to have a certain wan look
Around the corners of the eyes, the edge of the lips,
The look of a child’s toy equipped with the foreknowledge
That it was destined for the back of some closet shelf,
The bottom of some attic-bound chest.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
Bull eve me (Adam, whether existence
fact or fiction),
his immediate legion heirs whole
heartedly partook
to regale no Joe king paternal prominence,
sans legendary, fraternity,
and consanguinity subsequently implemented
faux pas threatening Nittany Lions role
attested by this papa, a curmudgeon
resident of the North Pole
burrowed deep within tundra
necessitated drilling permafrost black hole
son, which boring task found me dissatisfied,
asper penultimate existential goal
thus, I decided to sell coal
to New Castle, transported
within loco motive conveyance
doubling up as fish bowl
decimated crossing Arctic
great barrier reef Atoll
lauded me with mouthy gift horses,
(one Mister Ed, adore
hubble hoof only high saddled
Equus caballus neighing boar)
feted me, a hay er raising chore
followed by Mister Barns Noble encore
generation standing ovation,
a deafening applause
resonated across the floor
then an electrifying speech
by (plan net fitness diehard) Albert Gore
describing ****** pillaging,
And looting dip lore
able incursions as heath n (moor
or less opprobrious upon poor
sacred Mother Nature
whimpering and softly doth roar
ring, now treated like a *****
telltale global devastation
impossible to ignore agog
pollution extant across
entire world wide web bog
gulls restorative legislation,
when offal debris doth clog
estuaries, where watersheds habitat
choking with despair,
thus imperative to grab hold collective
figurative (corny as this may seem) ear
cuz jackknifed, irreparable,
horrible gnashing fear
fully betokens catastrophic
environmental fractured glare
ring ****** impailment here
and everywhere.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 2:12 AM UTC
Saint Patrick, to Fermanagh came once more:
off Devenish Island, he swam ashore.
Waiting there was an eager crowd,
Priest and Laity roaring loud.
St. Patrick smiled, then kneeling there,
bowed his tousled head in prayer.
“God Bless you one and all,” he said,
Grace and Mercy on the quick and dead.”
St. Patrick, cold from Lough Erne surf,
warmed himself by a glowing fire of turf.
Father Darcy gave out shamrock tea,
soda bread, buttered scones, a homily.
“Any questions?” the feted Saint enquired.
“Yes!” said someone, just then inspired,
‘Has Ian Paisley been rejected,
Or, now among Heaven’s elected?’
St. Patrick answered “No problem whatever,
but until he stops shouting ‘Never! Never!’
at St. Peter’s call, to enter ere the gates,
in Purgatory, Pastor Ian impatiently waits.
Next year, I will be back and fill
you in on his celestial fate, so I will.
You know, I never really went away.
Great to greet you on this special day.”
With that, St. Patrick ascended on a cloud,
while the awestruck watching crowd,
to praise, revere and honour him,
sang out this rare traditional hymn:
Hail, glorious St. Patrick, dear saint of our isle,
On us thy poor children bestow a sweet smile;
And now thou art high in the mansions above,
On Erin's green valleys look down in thy love.
(optional repeat)
On Erin's green valleys, on Erin's green valleys,
On Erin's green valleys look down in thy love.
Hail, glorious St. Patrick, thy words were once strong
Against Satan's wiles and a heretic throng;
Not less is thy might where in Heaven thou art;
Oh, come to our aid, in our battle take part!
In a war against sin, in the fight for the faith,
Dear Saint, may thy children resist to the death;
May their strength be in meekness, in penance, and prayer,
Their banner the Cross, which they glory to bear.
Thy people, now exiles on many a shore,
Shall love and revere thee till time be no more;
And the fire thou hast kindled shall ever burn bright,
Its warmth undiminished, undying its light.
Ever bless and defend the sweet land of our birth,
Where the shamrock still blooms as when thou wert on earth,
And our hearts shall yet burn, wherever we roam,
For God and St. Patrick, and our native home.
Tobias
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
Aisle putt ta ma head but tween these skinny legs
and kiss thine braying *** good-bye
asper ma person, thine gluteus maximus
a boot the size of a hand held palm pilot cell phone,
hence nada worth ache cry
though ah share a preference not hood die
yet if push (shin the atomic bombardier button)
combs **** hove Eli
zha would be nowhere in sight,
thence salvation might be sought from a common
(sad dulled) horse fly
to bring deliverance (due ling ban joe plucked solo) to this guy
who reckons, there will no time to converse
‘cept as mentioned earlier me high
knee will be the sole recipient I
will spout hot air
and confuse the burst of flatulence from ma bare
swaying per suede bell bottom as an echo – loud and clear
that used to be mode of en dear
mint ‘tween muss elf and spouse – wherever she may be ‘ere
a presumption, she met her demise amidst radiation with fear
and loathing uncertain who to vent her angry glare
understandable to pay price for the folly of heir
don trump – perchance he too got vaporized as faux icier
flakes flittering among the global debacle – where jeer
grim reaper will be feted as like
at a fancyfeast with choicest bit
of human remains of the doomsday,
and immune to perilous nuclear fit
loosed upon the terra firmae,
where most every metropolitan center ground zero
but with heavy-duty weapons of mass destruction,
one need not make a direct hit
cuz the deadly fallout will make the entire globe
tuff Hester and become liquefied bubbling
as one large snake pit
thus no more poetry competitions –
**** –
yet writing aye will not quit
but scratch out whatever thoughts seem worthwhile
*** ping will discover bunched inside a iron made in USA trivet
and held tightly sealed via many makeshift rivet.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 11:52 PM UTC
# The Hostess
Crowned in Afro-tribal headdress,
On her chest a Slavic tunic;
Appearing as a prophetess
Or a schizophrenic ******
On her wrists ring Irish bangles—
Wrapped round her waist a bright sarong;
On her breast a pendant dangles
Like some Oriental gong.
Multi-kulti represented
As a woman, weirdly dressed.
Every ethnic group is feted
On arrival to the West.
The Dinner
Everybody bring your dish!
The ethnic potluck has begun.
Afterwards your guts will wish
Your culture had remained as one.
Foods collide and almost mingle
In the cultural melting ***
Yet it’s hard to find a single
Way to describe this mixed-up lot.
Curry mingles with Kielbasa
Chinese dumplings, Jello, slaw
Deviled eggs, the odd samosa
Beans and rice, cheap sushi raw.
Soul food, Kimchi, Spanish rice,
Pad-Thai, grits, potato salad;
Gastronomic paradise?
Or a nauseating ballad . . .
Out of many, not quite one—
You bravely burp. It’s quite diverse . . .
But as your stomach comes undone
Digestion goes from sad to worse.
E pluribus to Alka-Seltze®
Groaning in your bed at three:
Let it fizz and hope it helps, sir
Lest you doubt diversity…
I’m Diversity. I am strength!
Sings the undigested food.
Perhaps we all shall know, at length
If global change was for the good.
Apr 29, 2023
Apr 29, 2023 at 3:52 PM UTC
I used to be fond of the Wizard,
his wand was the thing that
enthralled me.
A West bank scene in which
I dream of the artist.
The man who painted the universe in
colours that searched through the light of the stars,
and he,
perched on the edge of the abyss of bliss
unaware of his fame.
I can't remember his name
but I know he was feted
wherever he went.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
I keep forgetting. There
was a commotion in 1995 when
a bird flew inside a house to
eat Chia. Then, a truck killed
A boy’s pet dog. Leaves flew all around,
and a cockroach kingdom
feted underneath our road, in
The labyrinthine sewer systems.
These are my questions: who records
the super intimate crumbs of human moments?
Do they even matter in the blip of time?
Where are the books that failed to sell?
When a woman looked at the painting, it moved her.
What happens to that painting when she dies?
Will it look back at the woman staring and remember
A profound solace?
The music of 1995 latches
to the memory of a given, limited
demographic. But they had other things going on, too
at the time
Humans similar to them collected their bill payments
and sold them meat and sandals.
A fabric of time
taut, invisible
It streamed down naked with pollen. People of 1995 inhaled and sneezed it.
Where did it go?
It’s 2017 now. A stranger with fireworks looks me in the eye.
What do you think of your birth year.
The people that came before, who moved and admired
the Systems, the Comforts. As if each time they spent
Looked like a wholly different world to the future observers.
Just that, **** happens — and there’s nothing
you can do about it.
But maybe there’s one thing.
We can talk about it, yeah. But only
Say it in words, mime that whole timespan in pictureform,
Or mimic some simulacrum in moving pictures.
Once a fossil, always so, emotions.
By design.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 11:23 PM UTC
The essence of wit is brevity
which interestingly evinces chivalry
delivered verdict to hex **** size
(once and for all) president
dons mantle of deviltry
and trumps constitutional credo
defining American elementary
particular edicts denoting, enshrining,
framing, grand honorable inalienable rights
when foolhardy lobbyists prevail
evicting execrable“enemy”
i.e. forward thinking (progressively liberal)
which subsequently might help
timid citizens to invoke probate, procure, produce cojones
in opposition against rabidly power hungry,
misogynistic courting among the body politik
fostering future feverish fortuity,
toward risking life and limb sans
Uncle Sam selfless gratuity
(especially as Benjamin Button syndrome –
reverses aging process
acquired thru heredity
gets in full swing) stamping mindset
nonestablishmentarian identity
with my Kosher blessing despite any infamy
permission to go ahead with jocularity
from a superstar coach named Kennedy
thereby garnering homespun liberty
where icon bank on direct
laudable, linkedin longevity
with unrolled Scottish grandeur
(Pomp and Circumstance broadcast)
synchronized with precise
unrolled welcome mat
yule receive granted “FAKE” feted soiree
as curtain call doth close toward
final decade of mortality
yet dismiss bing hash-tagged
a scofflaw at any opportunity
especially if legislated mandate
earmarked as priority
in tandem with the key quality
apothegm stipulates decrease sing sanity
as the hands of father time
spin (Doktor Dude Little) backward
away from present day turbidity
increasing revanchism uber victory.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC