Flatterer (n).

Bits of silver whispered
from a well-polished tongue;

a certain flexing of fondness

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 16, 2015)

The fallacious belief that a person who has experienced success has a greater chance of further success in additional attempts.

The major award, a crest of Likes, the very nice email
you received from someone in South Dakota, the flatterer—
like a stack of very deceptive poker chips
leaning like the Tower of Pisa.

The universe should open up like show curtains
with three hundred and fifty new friends awaiting you
all dressed to the nines which could mean you’re moving up
in this world except you’re not because there’s no where to move.

It’s like walking across a cemetery. You go up and down,
up and down depending upon how the dead sink into the loam.
Harrison Ford’s still auditioning; Aaron Spelling never stopped pitching.
One minute you’re a rock star, the next minute your tour bus catches on fire.

Tomorrow you are always climbing out of
old hat, new and untested. Turns out
those are the same thing.
How lucky for you.

Your love and pity doth th’ impression fill
Which ****** scandal stamped upon my brow;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o’ergreen my bad, my good allow?
You are my all the world, and I must strive
To know my shames and praises from your tongue;
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steeled sense or changes, right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others’ voices that my adder’s sense
To critic and to flatterer stoppèd are.
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense.
    You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
   That all the world besides, methinks, are dead.

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by,
As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky;
Young Albert, in the forest's edge, has heard a rustling sound,
An arrow slightly strikes his hand and falls upon the ground.

A dark-haired woman from the wood comes suddenly in sight;
Her merry eye is full and black, her cheek is brown and bright;
Her gown is of the mid-sea blue, her belt with beads is strung,
And yet she speaks in gentle tones, and in the English tongue.

"It was an idle bolt I sent, against the villain crow;
Fair sir, I fear it harmed thy hand; beshrew my erring bow!"
"Ah! would that bolt had not been spent! then, lady, might I wear
A lasting token on my hand of one so passing fair!"

"Thou art a flatterer like the rest, but wouldst thou take with me
A day of hunting in the wilds, beneath the greenwood tree,
I know where most the pheasants feed, and where the red-deer herd,
And thou shouldst chase the nobler game, and I bring down the bird."

Now Albert in her quiver lays the arrow in its place,
And wonders as he gazes on the beauty of her face:
"Those hunting-grounds are far away, and, lady, 'twere not meet
That night, amid the wilderness, should overtake thy feet."

"Heed not the night; a summer lodge amid the wild is mine,--
'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'tis mantled by the vine;
The wild plum sheds its yellow fruit from fragrant thickets nigh,
And flowery prairies from the door stretch till they meet the sky.

"There in the boughs that hide the roof the mock-bird sits and sings,
And there the hang-bird's brood within its little hammock swings;
A pebbly brook, where rustling winds among the hopples sweep,
Shall lull thee till the morning sun looks in upon thy sleep."

Away, into the forest depths by pleasant paths they go,
He with his rifle on his arm, the lady with her bow,
Where cornels arch their cool dark boughs o'er beds of winter-green,
And never at his father's door again was Albert seen.

That night upon the woods came down a furious hurricane,
With howl of winds and roar of streams, and beating of the rain;
The mighty thunder broke and drowned the noises in its crash;
The old trees seemed to fight like fiends beneath the lightning-flash.

Next day, within a mossy glen, 'mid mouldering trunks were found
The fragments of a human form upon the ****** ground;
White bones from which the flesh was torn, and locks of glossy hair;
They laid them in the place of graves, yet wist not whose they were.

And whether famished evening wolves had mangled Albert so,
Or that strange dame so gay and fair were some mysterious foe,
Or whether to that forest lodge, beyond the mountains blue,
He went to dwell with her, the friends who mourned him never knew.

I like  you.

I like  you  a lot.

I want to be bored with you.

I want to hold weekly board meetings over the topic of you.

I could impress the shareholders. What do you think?

     I think you enjoy honesty, and despise flattery.
Believe me, I know the difference. I hope you do too.
I am no wily flatterer
I would never say something like, “I’ll sail to the MOON for you,”
something impossible and irrelevant. With the consistency of soupy puke.
I should just as soon say,
“I WILL jump recklessly from the top of a very tall tower, and land—perfectly intact and unharmed
… for you.”
I hope I am not the only one who sees a problem with this sort of logic.
So instead I’ll say:

Let the madness of what this fixation has turned me into, fuel my fears and my ambitions and drive me therefore, to construct a missile, with enough space inside to harness only myself, enough kick in the engine to erase my past—and all the laws of life as we know it.
I will have those memorized by then, and plan to have my hands on new laws unforeseen by any of the other
mainstream earthlings;
maybe using my new third eye to grasp at something up there that was previously air —
& I will beg this nonconsensual devotion you’ve evoked in me please grant me the derision to press the button, and launch myself into that forgetful lazy river that contains all the planets, asteroids, black holes, spaceships, a lonely-wandering U.S. radio transmitter, spilt-paint nebulas, one of Tiger Woods’ golf *****, a drunken astronaut, some of the crew from that Malaysian airplane (you know, the one that went missing), and also there are suns (often called stars), and moons, and there has gotta be a little love floating around somewhere with the celestial ants
and supernovas
and EVERYTHING.
and dissimilarly nothing you can grasp.

to the Moon?
sure,
why not babe,
if moon-rocks could somehow make you fall in love with me,
I would plan to rob the Smithsonian (or probably a similar museum of history but one with less security),
and if that ended up a no-go,
thenyeah.


     Mad. Zoom.


straight to the ******* moon for you.

If slumber, sweet Lisena!
  Have stolen o'er thine eyes,
As night steals o'er the glory
  Of spring's transparent skies;

Wake, in thy scorn and beauty,
  And listen to the strain
That murmurs my devotion,
  That mourns for thy disdain.

Here by thy door at midnight,
  I pass the dreary hour,
With plaintive sounds profaning
  The silence of thy bower;

A tale of sorrow cherished
  Too fondly to depart,
Of wrong from love the flatterer,
  And my own wayward heart.

Twice, o'er this vale, the seasons
  Have brought and borne away
The January tempest,
  The genial wind of May;

Yet still my plaint is uttered,
  My tears and sighs are given
To earth's unconscious waters,
  And wandering winds of heaven.

I saw from this fair region,
  The smile of summer pass,
And myriad frost-stars glitter
  Among the russet grass.

While winter seized the streamlets
  That fled along the ground,
And fast in chains of crystal
  The truant murmurers bound.

I saw that to the forest
  The nightingales had flown,
And every sweet-voiced fountain
  Had hushed its silver tone.

The maniac winds, divorcing
  The turtle from his mate,
Raved through the leafy beeches,
  And left them desolate.

Now May, with life and music,
  The blooming valley fills,
And rears her flowery arches
  For all the little rills.

The minstrel bird of evening
  Comes back on joyous wings,
And, like the harp's soft murmur,
  Is heard the gush of springs.

And deep within the forest
  Are wedded turtles seen,
Their nuptial chambers seeking,
  Their chambers close and green.

The rugged trees are mingling
  Their flowery sprays in love;
The ivy climbs the laurel,
  To clasp the boughs above.

They change--but thou, Lisena,
  Art cold while I complain:
Why to thy lover only
  Should spring return in vain?

Thee gnome had called
hymm mein flatterer, then
an ape fight for quills, to be
or naught, hidden by a hive
patch of bramble.  Do ordinance
iris search of apart theorhetic sea,
Adeiu mostly, can wearwolves
as sultry be known to chew
rawhide bones teethlesslee.  
Gather by a dared deity
of A Roman's antiquity,
all of course to femine
posterity.  An Aye for Aye,
a sythe to seize do naught
ii and cling.  For better is yet
to OyYea' and I, causes instantly
be and bee.    

cliche toupee'

The little injustices serve to remind me
That you were not, never were
The plan. No,
Not even when things were light and my heart sang
And I could ignore, gloss over that one tuneless note in the refrain
Could I believe we were fate. I had to follow that lie to survive
The cold, thick swamp his rejection left me in the will.
Then I believed it like it was where I wanted to be.

You are selfish, but never cold. You make a mockery of me
With no thought, knowing I am Artemis
And telling your cookie cutter lover to tie your memory to the moon.
You weep when you hurt me, and your tears slide down
Almost as easily as your zipper will for the next flatterer exhibiting lordosis.
You can't help yourself, maybe, and so I wanted to sink under your failures
Instead of taking responsibility for my own success.

I will always love you but I have never needed you.

We, don't speak the truth.
All because someone takes a defensive tone.
We aware of the flirt, the flatterer that got promoted on looks.

Worked less to get ahead all because the attention of a needed man.
And have the nerve to get offended when another test them upon it.
Then suddenly they complains because they been called out.

Many men and women seen this thousands of times.
Power and money holds weight of changing people morals on a daily basis.

Many have sold their soul to play the play game behind doors.
Then suddenly they cry foul.
When they standing in the unemployment line.

Then suddenly they seeking sympathy.
As if they were the victim of the game.
Power and money makes many lose their senses.

Then suddenly they wise up.
But , now many are divided on the complaint.
When some they victim's never said they won't!

Power and money is a deadly tool.

Stay the blade
Till you’ve lathered the face,
It’s only a shave
Not the digging of a grave.
Hope you know what this means?
The dentists do the drilling;
Their procaine is painkilling,
The poet can slander;
He also is the greatest flatterer.
This also requires reason.
Flies hear a drop of honey’s call
Not the din of a gallon of gall.
Friendly remarks multiply friends;
Your frankness alone shouldn’t be the trend,
Be known also for some kindness.
Walk, tall, all you want, tall;
Let this be your goal, not another’s fall.
When the demand is to mock;
Choose instead to be a rock,
Make life easy – it is!

The fragrance pen

I'm unnerved by hearing flattery.
Did I invite it with my neediness
or coax it with a smile? Perhaps
the words that follow are less
appetising fare. Or is the flatterer
expecting reassurances in return?
Unless I'm sure it's quite sincere,
I'm left unsure what to say.
I add a simple "Thank you"
in the hope it goes away.

One who has forgotten
the companion of her youth

A flatterer as deadly
as David's five smooth stones whose words are so uncouth

The one who holds the passport that communicates with the shadows of the ghosts

Those who go into her never return to the consequence of choice