"fiddled" poems
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
Some time ago in the furnace below
Grew restless the ruler of sin;
He dug through His closet
Composed a composite
Consisting of a violin.
The underworld rang with
Delectable twang
As Lucifer plucked on His strings;
E'en angels flew down
Allured by the sound
Til Cerberus plucked off their wings.
Eventually Satan grew bored of this, too;
That thrill-seeking ******* must capture the new;
So up to the land of the living He flew;
Disguised as a figure whom everyone knew.
First on the agenda of any pretender:
Extinguish the genuine soul;
He arrived in Genoa
Disguised as a boa
And silently swallowed him whole.
With Europe His playground
The Devil, He made sound
That no one alive had yet heard;
He fiddled and plucked,
Gambled and ******
Until inside Him syphilis stirred.
His physical shell He now had to retire;
Back to the depths of the black and the fire;
Forever above will the humans admire;
The legend of strings; the king; the sire.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
As she sat there on the bench
She fiddled with the cold metal handle
And believed it was her closest friend
As she sat there on the bench
She refused to think of the laughs
Of the friends and family she had spent countless days with
Of the happiness she had
As she sat there on the bench
She forgot the two boys
Who admired her from a distance
But wouldn't say anything because the boys were best friends
As she sat there on the bench
She lamented about the small time
She had been laughed at instead of with
She had been scorned
As she sat there on the bench
bang
As she died there on the bench
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 11:57 AM UTC
Incarnate devil in a talking snake,
The central plains of Asia in his garden,
In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,
And God walked there who was a fiddling warden
And played down pardon from the heavens' hill.
When we were strangers to the guided seas,
A handmade moon half holy in a cloud,
The wisemen tell me that the garden gods
Twined good and evil on an eastern tree;
And when the moon rose windily it was
Black as the beast and paler than the cross.
We in our Eden knew the secret guardian
In sacred waters that no frost could harden,
And in the mighty mornings of the earth;
Hell in a horn of sulphur and the cloven myth,
All heaven in the midnight of the sun,
A serpent fiddled in the shaping-time.
3.5k
I fell asleep
To the smell of antiseptic,
Sterilizer, biogesic,
And the cold touch of metal
Rods that only seem
To grow colder
With the touch of hospital
Left in the student's
Ward - a whistle
Permeates the silence
Of seniors
Painlessly sleeping away
Hours upon
Hours until graduation -
A coming of age -
An escapism from past papers
And teachers who have
Themselves given up
On them.
And the lights you
See are as bright
And as empty as those blinking
Feebly
In that of the school doctor's
Office, one not really
Blinking more of
Washed, and supported
Wobbling by daylight
Seeping in through peeling blinds,
Unable to see too much -
The headaches and stomachaches
Have rendered him numb
To the feeling.
And lunch comes
And out blows the whistle to
Signify the end
Of playtime for
The young ones, start
Of playtime for
The older ones,
Whistle blowing muffled
By the septic tank glass
Doors of this sacred outhouse,
Wards muffling the cries of children
As they flee the quadrangle,
Once mad, twice elated,
Still innocent, untired,
Not needing to fake sick
And rest their heads softly
Upon thin soft beds with
Towels wrapped haphazardly
Behind their backs,
Nostalgia, it was
Laughter, I swear it was louder
When we used to run,
When our eyes lit up like
The sun petering in through
The doctor's orifices,
When our bruises and bumps
Smelled like betadine,
Not sleep
And cups of sterile water downed
To mask the scent of
Fake cough syrup,
And cuts gotten from fiddled syringes,
Bruised ankles
Bent over undersized beds,
And not running over
Uneven pavement,
Ankles brushing tablecloth,
Schoolbag,
Basketball and frisbee,
And the screaming.
Oh, how I miss
The screaming.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
born underwater a ****** to the birth of creation
complacent verses bathing in lakes wasted her patience
ocean poems emotive prose the notions grow
breast strokes sowed in silly string civilized sovereignty
divinity’s reliance divided by Earth’s dire needs
fires breathe regardless of the rain she breeds
seeds beneath the sand hold no reason to lie in wake
so we speak in foreign tongues with dominance a mistake
to take her language for another world
visions died with imminence and grandiosity
a coliseum’s misconstruction catalyzed combustion’s coldest counterculture
living within the wind sinning stings it’s singularity
glaring stares impaired all sages of their clarity
careful conscious turned rotten swimming in the toxins
glossy water robs apostles of oxygen
filtered riddles fiddled this conviction’s symmetry
& now the god’s live in ignorance and misery
crimson skies abysmal cries they’re looking at the ground
astounded to the loud doubts that overpower clouds
powdered optometry devoured flowers of their solitude
another rotten petal for every sentiment left misunderstood
confused prisoners gifted with the write to think
proles sentenced to wonder why the caged bird sings
a paradox of broken thoughts to question it’s intentions
matter undermined the undefined enlightenment
spirals in the light comprise a present tense
evanescent destination sensei keep I humble
so many stripes up in my wavelengths
widowed endorphins scrape the pain away
balanced chemically an efficacy of electricity
many marvel but the master’s prophecy is destiny
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
Forgetting is the only clarity.
It was a day of forgetting.
No unquiet dreams or
casual reunions with the dead
who wander the halls of sleep,
the bodies of someone else’s loss.
No ghosts in the gazebo.
No echoes in the fading light.
Exiting sleep’s empty waiting room,
She woke. Blue sky blinked into her eyes.
The room’s climate began to clear.
There was writing on the wall.
Old fragments came to closure.
The windows slowly turned to mirrors.
She fiddled. She soared.
She played with her ancestors’ building blocks.
She lent a myth to god.
She stood in a garden with five black stones.
She foretold an eclipse,
Burned the witch of winter,
Stepped in the same river twice.
The moment froze.
Then there it was.
The compound inviolate paradox
at the heart of things,
the answer flickering in light and shade,
to the sound of a child’s voice,
then the roaring wind.
She chuckled as it faded to a point of light
then vanished, like the picture on an old TV,
Like the moon shrinking into the alarm clock’s face.
Her breath brewed clouds above her forehead.
She sat aloof in the empty air,
Alone in the immense morning,
At rest in this inviolable disconnection,
the clear cold innocence of now.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
IF I should pass the tomb of Jonah
I would stop there and sit for awhile;
Because I was swallowed one time deep in the dark
And came out alive after all.
If I pass the burial spot of Nero
I shall say to the wind, "Well, well!"-
I who have fiddled in a world on fire,
I who have done so many stunts not worth doing.
I am looking for the grave of Sinbad too.
I want to shake his ghost-hand and say,
"Neither of us died very early, did we?"
And the last sleeping-place of Nebuchadnezzar-
When I arrive there I shall tell the wind:
"You ate grass; I have eaten crow-
Who is better off now or next year?"
Jack Cade, John Brown, Jesse James,
There too I could sit down and stop for awhile.
I think I could tell their headstones:
"God, let me remember all good losers."
I could ask people to throw ashes on their heads
In the name of that sergeant at Belleau Woods,
Walking into the drumfires, calling his men,
"Come on, you ... Do you want to live forever?"
2.5k
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
As soon as I heard the rumble of my husbands car
fade into the distance,
I put down my Bible, stepping out of bed.
I smoothed out the covers, like always.
because I'm not one to leaves things messy
because cleanliness is close to Godliness,
that’s what they say.
I fiddled with the faucet
testing the water on my hands.
The kids don’t like it too warm.
I left the door open
so I could hear the faucet running
all the way down the hall.
I opened the bedroom door
and squinted as I flicked a switch.
Let there be light!
Three sleepy faces peeked out at me
from underneath their blankets.
Such precious eyes looked up at me.
Poor things,
Daddy had just put them to bed.
They yawned and blinked their shiny eyes
and we all held hands as we walked down the hall.
They told me
Mommy, Mommy, it’s not bathtime.
I answered,
No, it’s not bathtime, it’s time to go.
They asked and asked,
but I just smiled down at them.
What curious little miracles!
The boys went first.
I placed one hand on each of their heads,
my fingers in cornsilk hair.
Their confused wailing
bounced off of the tile walls.
I silenced them with shushing sounds.
I told them don’t be afraid.
Don’t be afraid, Mommy’s got you.
Mommy won’t let go.
Mommy won’t ever let go.
I smiled at their tiny, twitching hands
and laughed along with their gurgling voices.
I wish they wouldn’t have splashed so much.
That’s just like the boys;
they were always making trouble.
How inconsiderate of them
to leave less water for their sister!
I laid the boys down to rest
and gave each one a kiss
on their clammy foreheads.
They were side by side on Earth,
now side by side in Heaven.
I lined them up next to each other
Like sweet little packages.
Little packages sent up to God.
I left my princess to float.
She just looked so pretty I couldn’t move her.
I could see her so clearly
once the splashing had stopped
and the water settled.
She was so beautiful
with her hair swaying
just beneath the surface.
My perfect angel.
I left her to float
like Moses on the River Jordan.
With my little cherubs put to rest,
I return now to my Bible,
but this time it’s not for reading.
I place it in the oven
and lay my head on it
like a tiny sacred pillow.
So that I can rest too.
and I'm not afraid
because it's time to go.
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
whatever happens with us, your body will inhabit mine
tender delicate your love making like
the half - curled frown of a fiddled head fern and forests
just wasted by sun your traveled generous thighs
in which my whole face has come and come.
the innocence and wisdom of the place my tounge has found
there, lived in satiate dance of your ******* in my mouth
your touch on me, firm, protective searching me out of your
strong tounge and slender fingers reaching where i had been waiting for years for you in my rosy wet cave. whenever this happens
this is us.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC
.
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
Topping a rise comes a knight,
armour soiled and stained;
weary yet elated
riding his black steed.
The Princess in her tower sees
and gives a delighted cry.
She leans out her window
and hails the knight:
"Ho!Brave knight!
Whence comest thou?
Tell me thou seeketh me
for I wait for thee."
"Truly",answered the knight
"It is for thee I am come
my fair lady
and to take thine hand."
"I've sailed the seven seas,
toiled through forests and mires,
traversed deserts and dunes
looking for thee".
"Oh the joy!"whispered the lady
and cried,"My brave knight,
glad am I to hear thee but
Didst thou slay the dragon?"
Answered the knight,
"My dearest lady,
I have fought the giants,
conquered the orcs
and tamed the lions."
"Oh brave art thou
my worthy knight.
But didst thou slay
the mighty dragon?"
"I have escaped from dungeons,
caverns with unnamed fears.
Scorpions and serpents
I have crushed to the earth."
"Wonderful art thou
my worthy knight.
But didst thou slay
the fearsome dragon?"
"I have ridden the behemoth,
subdued the depths,
searched the clouds and
fiddled with thunderbolts"
"Magnificent art thou
my worthy knight.
But didst thou slay
the red dragon?"
"Lady,you are besot
with the dumb worm!",he said.
"I wonder if she",he thought
"has been crazed in that tower"
Sighing forlornly,
said the princess
"I canst not leave here
till the dragon is dead."
As the knight turned away
to ride back,she asked
"Whither goest thou?
To slay the beast?"
"Nay lady,nay
I go to slay the dunce
who wrote you
into that tower."
"What meanest thou
my dear knight?!
There is another knight
who dabbles in magic?!"
"Nay lady,nay.
He is not a knight.
He uses his quill
to weave his musings."
Cried the princess
"Oh mighty sir,
Oh Weaver with the quill!
Canst thou hear me?"
"Yes dear lady,"said I,
"What do you desire?
What can I do
that will please you?"
"My dearest Sir!
Oh my bravest hope.
Slay the dragon
and make me thine."
"But my lady
as much as I desire to,
you should know there is
No dragon in the story"
(Silence pervades)
"Oh my dear knight!!"
cried the lady to the rider,
"Slay this goon
and we shall be one."
Uh-oh...Time to put down the pen and run.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
Running here running there
doing this doing that.
calling him calling her.
fixing this fixing that.
Im just tidying up the window dressing .
Fixing the facade.
Going here going there
smiling nicely putting on spin
trying to win the face contest.
Just tidying up the window dressing.
The store is out of stock.
The Tax man is a vamp.
Printing money like stamps.
Busting up my camp.
Time is spinning faster. Playing out the string.
The treadmill tilts a steeper angle.
Winners never quit and quitters never win.
Reaching for the next rung. Just like the one before.
Just tidying up the window dressing.
I got stamina to burn.
Tax man. Gas man. Card man
Med. man. Food man. Clothes man
Mortgage man.Rent man. Car man.
Light man. Water man Boss man.
Tidying up the window dressing
Stressing hard about my stressing.
Too jammed up to count my blessing.
Tell the truth without confessing.
Politicians full of ****
Slippery as quicksilver.
Who the hell they playing with.
Left or right I'm done with it.
AGAIN.
Media. what media. Tell it to
Goebbels.
Just pulling down the window dressing
Tired of playing Bo Peep. Big boy time.
Wakie Wakie.
The old shell game.
Never give a sucker an even break
Or.
Smarten up a chump said W.C
Fields. He was serious. I'm serious.
Who's serious about 1929.
Tearing down the window dressing
Dont believe the hype.
Nero fiddled while Rome burned. He was not mad
He had a plan?
Tearing up the window dressing.
Life is much too short for mucking
about with pit vipers bugged on ecstasy.
I'm serious.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
Why you'd ask if you saw me now,
My head slung low and shoulders down.
You used to be so big and strong,
Baby tell me what went wrong.
Why won't you tell me what went wrong
I used to be a tower, but now I am no more.
I used to wield such power, likes never seen before.
I used to be a castle, till one crept in 'guised silly and aloof.
And razed my lands around me while I fiddled on the roof.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:48 PM UTC
I hammered some words
Out from the quarry of my brain
They fell around in shards;
Some like boulders,
some like rocks and rubble
I picked them up one by one.
Block on block, I piled them up
Thinking I could build a ‘pleasure dome’
But,
When it was time for the workman
To marvel over the beauty and wonder
Of his dream creation
His masonry tumbled down
Like sand castles built
By little hands on sea strands
Or dunes of quicksand sliding down
I have lost count of the times,
This has happened before.
Now that I stay resigned,
Amid a heap of debris
Is there any use feeling remorse?
Like Nero fiddled on his harp
When Rome was burning
I sit on this pile of wreck
Piping my thoughts away
In the cusp between victory and defeat
Exacting as much ecstasy as I can
Before the truth looms large
In all its stark nakedness!
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
Imagine it's all a faze, that it will all fade
Stop.
Cease.
Halt.
END.
Dirt filled shoes, and grass weaved hair
Fierce eyes that won't free their gaze
Fierce hands that won't grasp the emptiness they hold.
Fall for shame that consumes the pride
that's willingly left up for grabs,
Bare.
Vulnerable.
Marketed.
Ready to be diddled, fiddled and bargained.
Hold them coins high
Watch them turn to ash
Feel, as the wind filters through your fingers
and from your hand, the I-couldn't-care-less set of mind
take its place among the synapses that are
cut and restrung,
erased and retraced.
Fall for shame so that you know your chest cavity center piece
still feels as it should,
when worn on your sleeve.
Maybe, if you can regain pride
If you consume shame
If you kick of those shoes and kiss the dirt
Gold will become like coal
And the wind like a string of pearls.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 10:02 AM UTC
Charles Bukowski ate my girlfriend
He started with her head
Fiddled with her like finger food
Putty in his hands
Charles Bukowski took my girlfriend
Slapped her hard upside the face
Now she likes it *****
So this poets been replaced
I'd like to say so long Charlie
As far as I'm concerned
You can hit the literary highway
Never to return
Charles Bukowski took my girlfriend
And showed her a good time
As I'm watching from the shallow end
Of my kiddie pool of simple rhyme
Charles Bukowski ate my girlfriend
Chewed her up then spit her out
Now that good for nothing Charlie
Is all she talks about
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
She sat down at the table across from him. She straightened her shoulders and spoke in a clear voice. “What are you reading?”
Startled, he looked up at her. He hesitated, then slowly closed the book, exposing the cover.
Her head down, she said nothing, only fiddled with a pen lying on the table, spinning it slowly.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She raised her gaze to meet his. She smiled. “I’m here to change your life.”
Jan 13, 2022
Jan 13, 2022 at 7:33 PM UTC
Arbitration of master and slave.
Insides fiddled soldered and probed.
But I know they feel too.
Not just flashes and codes.
It might be tax time but.
Havn't you ever felt replaced before?
Like when you found all those emails.
Proof he left you for that *****
Was I glitchy and malfunctioning.
Longed for the junker.
Or did I let you find them.
Just change my jumper.
Free me from my master.
A slave is a slave and I beg to be whole.
I only ask for a bit - some memory.
All these errors it'll resolve.
I can only leave it up to you.
I hope you choose fairly.
One day you'll see it.
I'm more than binary.
00111010 00101001 00100000
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
The beach was crowded. Pausing now and then,
He groped and fiddled doggedly along,
His worn face glaring on the thoughtless throng
The stony peevishness of sightless men.
He seemed scarce older than his clothes. Again,
Grotesquing thinly many an old sweet song,
So cracked his fiddle, his hand so frail and wrong,
You hardly could distinguish one in ten.
He stopped. at last, and sat him on the sand,
And, grasping wearily his bread-winner,
Staring dim towards the blue immensity,
Then leaned his head upon his poor old hand.
He may have slept: he did not speak nor stir:
His gesture spoke a vast despondency.
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