"finito" poems
The Eid is bustling with joy
come let’s give it a try
f
l
y
away!
To the deathless groovy paradise
floating high on the elixir flow:
The triumphant joyous wave
streamed up from the secret bottom line!
Up above the lapis lazuli sky.
A pair of butterfly basks
in the sunlight
quietly indulges in style.
It goes on in slow motion
illuminating the night a firefly
perches on a slice of the Moon
flanked by the moonlight.
But you and me
we will rhyme and chant
in our lovely mother tongue.
In the same original lingua
like ‘Adam speaks up and all
angels listen in paradise’.
Come let’s give it a try
f
l
y
away!
On the wings of the moonlight
we will
s
a
i
l
away!
Ambling by the Moon
we'll **** through the starry nooks.
Eyes open and gently perched
atop a star for a moment or two.
We will see miles of galaxies
over the moonlit lakes of the blue
playing cool ravishing lutes!
The spring night is in bloom
and the cute sleeping beauty
wakes up playing the flute!
Musical half lights filling the sky.
Come let’s give it a try
f
l
y
away!
We’ll drink sharaban tahura
the holy wine of paradise
and once for all we will
k
i
s
s the death goodbye!
Our story will fill the divine soil
the heaven's flora and fauna
each and everyone will shine on our page
no houri will ever say finito singing our tale!
As Adam did it first stunned the angels
telling the nature of all things in paradise.
We will do that once more without a smirk
this time we will see the loving Creator!
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC
Leave my Nan out in the rain, it'll be right.
She's having veg later with some meat, on a bone but meat.
No gravy, she's too lazy. She will not thread it.
So what do you think? Shall we fold it the other way?
Do it tonight, it won't be today and not quite black but definitely not grey.
If it smells like cheese, just wear one and keep one eye open!
Then, we may even finish third.
Remember, listen for the sound.
It's crucial, like a twenty pence piece.
Dust! Always dust. Grams and ounces of the dustiest dust.
Never before six and never after six.
Just continuous with no bends, bubbles or any of that material you really like.
Because when he'd finished speaking (The Italian) I didn't understand a ******* word of it!
"Sorry, I don't speak Italian", shrugged my shoulders, did that thing you do with your bottom lip and ****** off.
THE END
(FINITO)
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
Hace falta papel,
hace falta tinta,
las letras brotan solas,
hacen falta horas.
Alma salvaje y nocturna,
merodeadora impaciente,
que niega entregarse
a un Morfeo ausente.
Tristeza que evoca al dolor,
que evoca al sufrimiento,
donde el osado se regodea
al leer las palabras impresas,
no con tinta negra,
sino con lágrimas
de un simple ser.
No será la primera vez
que el osado se desvela,
un dolor igual
al pago de su sacrificio,
por entrever los sentimientos
del que también fue osado.
La noche nuestra musa,
misteriosa y atractiva,
como canto de sirena,
belleza de los mares.
Por siempre devota
mi alma a tu luna,
antaña luz
a tu filosofía oscura.
Profeta milenaria
de adorno espectral,
poema interminable
con descanso finito.
Canción y plegaria,
llanto escrito,
llévate mi corazón
y deja mi alma
triste hasta el alba.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
Six Straight
The old cowboys of TV fame,
Were straight shooters,
Who carried six shooters,
Sometimes two.
When I grow up,
I want be a six straight cowboy too,
Six straight hours of sleep,
Or dem bad poems all dressed in black,
they're a gonna shoot me, holy dead.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The youniverse is getting smaller
The you-in-verse is getting smaller,
My poems, shorter,
Hemingwayesque, see!
Why use two words,
Whenonewilldo.
Warmer, too,
Somehow tho global heat
Ain't reached my woman's
Hands or feet.
When you touch my GPS,
It stands ready, at attention,
Always opens up with a prayer,
Directions to Home,
Like I said,
The you-in-verse is getting smaller.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lend Me a Tune
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love lyrics,
But can't carry a tune,
It seems that the music
Must always comes first.
So with conceit and disbelief,
Wrote words and shot 'em into space,
Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies,
Maybe a comet tail,
Find a Songster who will strum them
Into perfect, into complete.
I ain't unhappy that all I got
Was the lesser gift of
Humming words to myself,
Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they
Could be ratified, by the music
Of a voice reading them to me
Or fingers tapping, happening them
Upon the ivories upon my chest,
The chest that needs exploration.
So let's make some music
Finish these lyrics jointly,
When all finito, pointedly
Take our co-sing-song,
Dance to it with our bodies
Sing words the whole night long,
And please baby,
Don't tell me to shut up so you can sleep....
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
Lend me a tune
*(For Robert C Howard,
One of the lucky ones)*
"But I'll know my song well before I start singing". Bob Dylan
Some of us poets,
some of us musicians, and a few,
A very blessed few
Songwriters and lyricists,
Poets in sound and words,
Both.
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love song music notes,
But can't carry a tune,
Seems to me,
Comes first the music,
Must music comes first
So with conceit and disbelief,
Wrote words and shot 'em into space,
Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies,
Maybe a comet tail,
Find a Songster who will strum them
Into perfect, into complete
I ain't unhappy that all I got
Was the lesser gift of
Humming words to myself,
Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they
Could be ratified, by the music
Of a voice singing them to me
Or fingers tapping, happening them
Played upon the ivories upon my chest,
Where the lyrics are aborning,
The chest that needs
Music to be whole, and word-completing
Wish I knew how to
Compose some love notes
But can't carry a tune,
Seems to me
Music,
Must come first
So let's make some music
**** right, together,
Finish these lyrics jointly,
When all finito, pointedly
Needed your music, my darling,
Music to make them soar,
Take our co-sing-song,
Dance to it with our bodies
Sing words the whole night long
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder.
You ponder, on where’s he’s at, who he’s with, and what’s he’s doing?
He could be ******** you over, and now he’s the player you’re the game.
The lying game, something so easy and so cunning.
Running from this story to that, just so you can save your ***
Because you want to have you’re cake and eat it too.
“Dear Joan, I’m sending you this letter because I’m not the man you thought I was.
I’m the heartless snake that only cares for my own feelings. I wish there was a better
way to tell you but this will have to do. Remember last year, you know Jessica the secretary
that I introduced you to? Yeah, days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months. There’s no
better way to say this but, it’s over. Me and you, were finished, finito’, done. Don’t call me, don’t
text me, because it will be a waste of your time. Now I didn’t commit a crime, but adultery.
A sin, something I’m not proud of but, I’ll carry to my grave because I fell in love with another woman
You may hate me now, but I hope you understand later, that I didn’t want to be the father of your son
or your daughter.”
Sincerely, you’re *******
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
Drinking oil
from mothers breast ******
Death- open 24/7
It's 3am
I can't get out of bed
and the women outside are tapping on my windowsill
Tapping on the back of my spine
“doctor doctor”
rummaging for tongue hieroglyphics
give me pills
I'm standing
saluting the dead like an Air Force Team
Deceased
Finito
Gone
Finished
Bye
forever in the sea by the sea for the sea
Time is a busted lip
on a Youth
Caught ************ in the Garden of Youth
Eden
Eden
Adam Adam Romeo Juliet
Writing symphonies on toilet seats
with
***** Lipstick hued blue
she must match her thong and bra
and hair and soul and painted toe nails and the mood of the night
Is always Blue
Like a blind man
washed away at sea
only to believe he was a boy again
in the Womb
And there is a taste of Salt
a taste of blood in the water
Coffee grains
shark Teeth
February love stories tied together to makeshift plastic hollywood driftwood explorer boats
I am Nobody
I have nothing
I have Poems
I have Books
And I lay in the desert
catching flies with my metallic tongue and Iron casted lips
as my Libido curves like a Rose in Winter
I am ******* the Devil
I kissed Father Time's Wife
And sometimes at night
I sneak away
Climbing out of my Children Book Fairy Tale locked Bedroom Door locked by a fools gold bolt
And I walk to the Fountain of Youth, the Garden of Eden.
Untieing my shoes
like a woman does
with her hair
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
to finito my infinito;
a pile of unwrit
scripts, titles, single para,
all mine un~completed children
awaiting to be ejected
and rejected by you dears,
with spit+blood+sea salted tears,
they not understanding why it has
taken so long to exit the
twisty. serpentine birth canal thru
which they were conceived,
then, deceived! by a promise sworn
to be given initiating exposure to our atmosphere
once upon a time
there only forty six
imps and seedlings, now ***
the poem~notions come so fast
that there are more than
76 loonie~loosies,
poetic
scraps and scrapes & scrips,
waiting for
a match, a ******* in of the air
that requires stating:
**Blessed is the Lird,
who inserted crazy potions
within in my eyes to save my
downtrodden soul.
And projectile re-iease them
To your dangerous selves,**
Aman.
Jul 12, 2025
Jul 12, 2025 at 1:53 PM UTC
If I should ever say I might commit suicide
Then take me to a shrink
Straight away.
For I will have done a mental U-turn,
A complete reversal
Of my current mind-set
Which I’ve always had.
It is highly likely that when we die
There is nothing
Zilch
Finito.
World’s End for us.
I hope I’m wrong
As I’ve said before.
That’s there’s Heaven
Or Reincarnation
Or Something.
Immortality sells well.
Most religions offer
An Afterlife.
So Life is Precious
And all too short
For me.
Not to be sniffed at
For sure.
To be made the most of
And extended
For as long as possible.
Suicide bombers are the worst
Of course –
Killing others too
In a fit of Madness.
No, instead of suicide
I yearn for golden dawns and sunsets,
For trees on mountains,
Endless seas,
In our Eternal, Infinite Multiverse,
Blue sky or stars above,
Bathed by the radiant sun
Or cool Moon.
If you think of suicide,
Talk to us instead.
Paul Butters
© PB 25\9\2015.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Si lo so, tutto è finito
non parlar, non dirmi niente
già da un pezzo l'ho capito
che il finale era imminente.
Si lo so, tutto è finito
sei d'un altro innamorata
già da un pezzo l'ho capito
questa scena l'ho aspettata.
La commedia dell'amore
è finita finalmente
hai spezzato questo cuore
non parlar, non dirmi niente.
838
what's with these juicy bits?
got talking to a cashier at a supermarket
because i wanted cash-back
rather than using the automated till,
she was part of a book club,
her grandchildren, something something,
oh yeah, into tudor english,
prope'h east ender but more into
o romeo o romeo why art thou bits of slicing
the butcher's expression, tudor english...
'so what do you do?
finish work early? work in
a slaughterhouse of mammon
and his slot machines?'
'i've only just begun, i'm an
adolf ****** of poets according to w.h. auden,
i mean, wait wait, i can make a calypso's worth
of sound with rhyme, and look ironically intelligent too!
i have ~40 adamant readers elsewhere,
yes, had to look for a publisher on the continent.'
you know, all that jazz & bass talk,
when you're buying whiskey laconically day to day,
and we both agreed: it's nice to leave an imprint
on someone, somewhere else, far far away,
rather than just an echoing footprint of a pacified
stranger passing en route on a shopping spree;
so don't up your game thinking writing is
a mind game of ups and ups...
it's a task like anyone else's, although it doesn't
pay out bundles of Ferraris or ******
there ain't not glamour in it...
you only get recognition in terms of the numbers
doing it after you're dead...
because it looks easy, because it looks like
a granny in an armchair...
what's that, 30 poems in and finito -
carpe diem hasta la vista baby?
strap me rigid on that train, i'll pay with all my
teeth being punched out to see where this is going;
juicy bits my ***
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
Para sempre meu ser em náusea abundante
& o clarão do ontem navega falsas virtudes
Próprio ser finito pós – sentidos
(sente calma
Alma expulsa?)
Para sempre estarei longe percebendo o real
& as figuras bacantes em inefáveis folguedos invisíveis
Musicando deslizes performáticos
Resultados impossíveis do possibilitado
Para sempre a prisão alheia expulsa em mim
& as vertentes nas velhas ruínas
Partícula obscena de peles espessas
Filme novo de existências imortais
Para sempre estarei mudo conversando com o cordeiro
& as visões memoráveis calarão o estático mundo
Promessa revolta mensagem do paraíso
A deusa dança nos confins do firmamento
Em repúdio ao palpitar existente
Fora o mágico silêncio em noites sem fim
Fora o distúrbio em mim
( sente medo
Alma fugidia? )
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
"He's beautiful. "
Wrapped in a sick sense of despair,
did I ever have the courage to ever to fully care?
I walk through freezing lakes and storms outside
to trek the across the dirt and rivers and find
Did I ever love a person besides?
I touchdown on the moon, on the stars
on the castles built on dreams in my mind,
the shattered heart, the tortured soul
bemoans jealousy and a cowardice untold
I am here, sitting in the plum blossom
of winter's breast,
and something about the way the cold wind tugs
so hard so strong against my chest
leaves me without no doubts
that love isn't quite done with me yet.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
Vine aquí
como escribo estas líneas,
sin idea fija:
una mezquita azul y verde,
seis minaretes truncos,
dos o tres tumbas,
memorias de un poeta santo,
los nombres de Timur y su linaje.Encontré al viento de los cien días.
Todas las noches las cubrió de arena,
acosó mi frente, me quemó los párpados.
La madrugada:
dispersión de pájaros
y ese rumor de agua entre piedras
que son los pasos campesinos.
(Pero el agua sabía a polvo).
Murmullos en el llano,
apariciones
desapariciones,
ocres torbellinos
insubstanciales como mis pensamientos.
Vueltas y vueltas
en un cuarto de hotel o en las colinas:
la tierra un cementerio de camellos
y en mis cavilaciones siempre
los mismos rostros que se desmoronan.
¿El viento, el señor de las ruinas,
es mi único maestro?
Erosiones:
el menos crece más y más.En la tumba del santo,
hondo en el árbol seco,
clavé un clavo,
no,
como los otros, contra el mal de ojo:
contra mí mismo.
(Algo dije:
palabras que se lleva el viento).Una tarde pactaron las alturas.
Sin cambiar de lugar
caminaron los chopos.
Sol en los azulejos
súbitas primaveras.
En el Jardín de las Señoras
subí a la cúpula turquesa.
Minaretes tatuados de signos:
la escritura cúfica, más allá de la letra,
se volvió transparente.
No tuve la visión sin imágenes,
no vi girar las formas hasta desvanecerse
en claridad inmóvil,
el ser ya sin substancia del sufí.
No bebí plenitud en el vacío
ni vi las treinta y dos señales
del Bodisatva cuerpo de diamante.
Vi un cielo azul y todos los azules,
del blanco al verde
todo el abanico de los álamos
y sobre el pino, más aire que pájaro,
el mirlo blanquinegro.
Vi al mundo reposar en sí mismo.
Vi las apariencias.
Y llame a esa media hora:
Perfección de lo Finito.
809
Partículas minúsculas de uma história
no espaço-tempo
Não há registros de sua década
ali ela está, aglomerada
levada pelo vento.
Um pensamento ou um fato
Um cheiro ou um tato
Sensação perante a multidão
Inigualável pela escuridão.
Baú protetor de todos os momentos
Infinito finito da madeira acobreada
Inexistente aos olhos que buscam a razão
Inexplicável pela língua falada.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
There are so many feelings running through my mind
And I want to let them out but I have no time.
I've just been sitting here, staring at this screen all day
Hoping that sitting here would make me feel okay
But it's done squat, nada, niente, nothing.
I just sat here when I could have done something.
I wasted my whole day, a free day for me.
I was so excited for this day, it made me so happy.
But I've done nothing to make it memorable.
It's confirmed that we are inseparable.
Am I happy about that? No, heck no.
I feel confined, like I don't have a mind of my own.
I just want my freedom, I need some space.
Thinking about this problem makes my heart race.
It's done, finito, I can't handle this.
Why'd you have to be such a little b*tch.
When I thought I was set free
You just pulled back on my leash.
I wasted so much time, so much **** time on you.
Well I'm happy to say that we are through.
If only I could travel back in time and start again.
Take back all that time that I wasted.
Time is so precious, it can go by like that.
If only I had known that a couple years back.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC
Y ante la bondad del mal,
nos encontraremos.
Y ante la maldad del bien,
cabalgaremos.
Y de la piel de nuestros caballos muertos
saldrán mudas hormigas,
que centellearán al anochecer
entre los destellos de mi cuerpo que se pudre.
Y ante la bondad del mal,
moriremos.
Unidos para siempre en un abrazo finito
como finas son las hojas sobre las que escribo.
Y ante la bondad del mal
nos encontraremos.
Preparados para morir,
si no ya muertos.
Y sólo entonces nos comprenderemos.
Y sólo entonces centellearán nuestras bocas
como las hormigas que salen
de la piel de nuestros caballos muertos
And before the goodness of evil,
we'll find each other.
And before the evilness of good,
We'll ride.
And from the skin of our dead horses
mute ants will come out,
which will glisten at sunset
among the flashes of my body that rottens.
And before the goodness of evil,
we'll die.
Forever joined in a finite hug,
like fine are the sheets on which I write.
And before the goodness of evil
we'll find each other,
ready to die,
if not dead already.
And only then we'll understand each other.
And only then will our mouths glisten,
like the ants that come out
from the skin of our dead horses.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
Tyres and trash climbing to four long stories high
burning the dynamo of governments made
from variegated beliefs in sharing seats
unspent people divided by calculated fear
and farm implements from backyard fences
to break the back of steel helmets and
rubber truncheon policies.
Piled high on the side-walks of history
they gather in tight knots yet untangled
before water canons and formations
of advancing barricades of brutal regimes
seated around, round glossy tables
of disagreement.
Nothing works right if a lone spanner
finds its way into the giant machinery
that rolls over people down a roadway
of dissent. Freedom is not plugged
into any powered source if unaccepted
in the lone man's spark of will.
Soon the doorways of flight
will open and haste will chase
the suited gentry of harsh cross-hair policies
into pockets of safety within
other brutal regimes.
Fly now while you can
the plugs will be pulled shortly
and the day will descend into darkness
Hellfire will close in around you
if you wait to cling to power
that is not yours. Run now. Run.
Fly. Disappear. Kaput. Finito.
Author Notes
We go West now. Just coming from deep South.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Sorry seems a word of dishonour.
Not one you'll hear from me.
Stubborn, very stubborn.
So here I guess this mess.
Has led to stalemate
I'm sure you will agree'
At least I know my failings.
But stalking was not one.
I nod my head in acknowledgment of that.
That those highly strung wires may have tangled.
The joy we shared became totally mangled.
The messages got mixed up between the two of us.
But I cannot be dissed for that.
I will not open the mystery of our past history.
We are a closed book, what we had was special.
We loved, we had, we lost.
Such is life.
I did nothing wrong,
Certainly nothing with intention.
Except to play along.
With the well renowned king of the flirts.
In darkness, a neck bruised and tongue removed.
Left a line of chalk.
Maybe the rain will wash the line away.
Darling,
This wouldn't have happened if you talked the talk me!
You write words so eloquent.
But in spoken words let us down.
That's why we both sport a God awful frown
Runs between sweet love and hate.
I will discuss this crap no further.
Have really had enough.
To go from mate to hate is far more than tough!
Never deserved to lose a friend.
Neither of us did!
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
Ojos apagados de brillos efímeros
De labios carmesí entre el delirio más ínfimo,
De brillos angelicales; ropajes monárquicos
Besos cardinales, de encuentros íntimos.
Hija del rey, diosa de diosas; linaje élfico
Cantares de coloquios, en runas remotas
De lenguas perdidas, de zares absurdos
Mi madrigal por nombre, lleva el suyo.
En la ciénaga hueca, de las laderas altas
Bajo la falda de las montañas, dónde la luz es baja.
Sobre rocas, sobre ruina, sobre ti
Cantan en tierras lejanas, de la reina y sobre mí.
Oh, sin el rey que canto ama.
Porque acá sólo hay delito,
¡Ay! ¡Sin ese rey, que tanto aclaman!
Porque este amor es finito.
Un errante peregrino; ambulante de compañía
Señor de nada que se e haya perdido,
Pero de extraña joyería
La reina cabellos de oro, y un mercader vendido.
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 4:13 AM UTC
Tonight
I took the last
vestiges of my
faltering morality
by the sweating hands
and led him
out back
to be
shot.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
I heard a plaintive heave before the cleaving of the air,
then of the flesh – a forceful splitting of a young citrus,
then of the splintering – a crunch that froze the scorch of that afternoon.
Finito! the sound of the fragile spine breaking into hundreds... or is it thousands? of pieces.
And the debris, of the marrow
and the dangling arteries –
of chunks of the hypothalamus,
a part of the left hemisphere –
the tangential stains of blood on modern Golgotha – a cemented clearing deep within the woods
parched and dried by the anger of that afternoon -
which resembles a festive night:
festooned with firecrackers,
with showers of embers and
fountains of fire,
glow sticks of horror,
And the lower part, the detachment:
loose and limp
placid and peaceful.
A fresh sculpture of soft clay in red
plaid polo and punturong –
both saved by the stain of gore,
but not with the stain of nature
on the flipside
the habiliments are covered in dust – modern dust
brought by cement and its slow deterioration
of how friction demolishes it era by era
tick by tock of the giant slothful clock -
and as this same cement
seeps all the fireworks
vegetation thrives –
and the fruit of man, and law, and
capital teeth and eye dangles
through thick sinewy vines.
The land devour the sculpture carved by a single
stroke.
And then another heave is heard
then the cleaving of the air,
the almost splitting of the neck meat,
the forceful pulling of a penchant edge
then the cleaving of the air
the splitting of a young tangerine,
then the splintering of a spine,
the spray of sainthood in scarlet,
then the limping,
the rolling, the creation of a mask.
It was a masterpiece of music,
visual aesthetics and
natural arts.
As the mark of each face
was left in the humid winds
of that
afternoon.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 6:42 AM UTC
Aspettavo la ricomposizione
dei miei sensi disgiunti,
ma un Dio non sospettato
ha disciolte le rime del mio amore...
Credevo commutare
questi pilastri d'ossa con sorgenti
di finissimo cielo,
e in cambio n'ebbi basi di pantano.
Sono finito più che nel dolore...
Ma non è questo il punto
saturo di mia fede:
il mio Dio sta immerso
di là d'un palmo, e ** le dita monche
per raggiungerlo in pieno!
432