"flout" poems
Many of us wanna be trippy,
Sliding through life,
It is very slippery,
Cutting acid with a knife,
Popping shrooms like a hippy,
This causes us to get high,
Leave the real world and say goodbye,
Saying **** our lives,
Like everything was a lie,
This is whats really trippy,
"When you are trying to get something out of water there are ripples that appear,
Never knowing if the ripples will cause it to come into reach or flout farther away."(my own quote btw)
Think about that the next time you wanna say bye,
Because you will miss your chance to survive!
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 3:35 AM UTC
How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind
Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;
Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
And wreck the solace of the poet's mood!
Young Zeno, practis'd in the Stoic's art,
Rejects the language of the glowing heart;
Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;
Condemns th' effect whilst looking for the cause;
Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,
And sneers because his fables are untrue!
In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,
But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!
Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast
The grateful legends of the storied past;
Whose tongue in censure flays th' embellish'd page,
And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:
Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough
Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?
Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye
Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;
Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,
And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze
For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,
While reedy music by the fountain rings;
To whom the waves a Nereid tale confide
Till friendly presence fills the rising tide.
Happy is he, who void of learning's woes,
Th' ethereal life of bodied Nature knows;
I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,
And flout his gravity in sunlight dreams!
7.9k
Dirt on my name never
My loyalty is forever
Dirt on my name never
My loyalty is forever
Never talkin ****
Never takin it
Now I take a hit
And pass the ****
Never sink to a putdown
Never will I be a letdown
If I go down I always know I'll never be out
I'm not in it to get paid ain't about all that clout
False laurels and accolades, not something to flout
People always frontin don't even know what they about
These fake people always say you ain't a fan of that
"Oh I bet you don't even know this, know that"
"Bet you don't really feel the way you feel" It falls flat
Don't need to put down, to know I feel so let's run it back
"Oh **** man, you a fan of that"
"Did you know this, know that"
"I feel you and I feel that"
No need to doubt some idle chit chat
Dirt on my name never
My loyalty is forever
Dirt on my name never
My loyalty is forever
Heard from a friend lost in the wild hadn't seen em in a while
Asked for my help and knew that I'd be there with a smile
Didn't matter to me that I had to walk there over four miles
Never turn the back on someone who I know trusts my smile
Always there to help and if you can't hit me back
Then don't worry just do what you can and stay on track
Never put myself in a position where I can't come back
And if I ever did I know I have Friends so I can fall back
That trusts been broken but I won't give in
Won't **** the trust I hold because a few gave in
Few scars on this back where they put the blade in
Forgiven but never will I let it be forgotten
Never forgetting that I can't trust them
And it makes me sad because I love them
But if all they have is that hate then **** them
Still unhappy knowing they can't love themselves
Dirt on my name never
My loyalty is forever
Dirt on my name never
My loyalty is forever
My loyalty is forever
This loyalty is forever
This love is forever
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 8:25 PM UTC
We make ourselves a place apart
Behind light words that tease and flout,
But oh, the agitated heart
Till someone find us really out.
’Tis pity if the case require
(Or so we say) that in the end
We speak the literal to inspire
The understanding of a friend.
But so with all, from babes that play
At hide-and-seek to God afar,
So all who hide too well away
Must speak and tell us where they are.
4.2k
STOP CREEPING
(Road signs in Australia thus remind us to keep to the speed limit)
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
William Shakespeare: MacBeth, Act 5 Scene 5.
Creeping, seeping, peeping, sleeping,
What’s the common factor through these ‘eep’ words deeming?
Shakespeare calls them dusty and aligns them up with death.
Our world calls it shadow but it chokes you out of breath.
Churches cannot see them so they flout invisible.
Jesus calls them idols yet they sound so plausible.
Christians follow teachers in a roundabout way.
Teachers crave disciples which determines what they say.
But these are all poor players on a poorly structured stage.
Their stage gives way. They tumble. They rise up in a rage.
“Life has not been fair,” they say, and “Where is God in that?”
Did they ask Him in the first place? Did they call God up to chat?
The churches have no answers. Now where do I go from here?
Go right back to the Bible, Friend. The truth is written there.
Check it yourself. It’s relevant to eras far and near.
Like natural laws it cannot change with fashion year to year.
So do not mix the fashion in philosophies of life
With Truth that stands forever among raging seas of strife.
Counselling in modern terms can get you sympathy,
But will it give you backbone for the next antipathy?
Feminism needed to support the weaker staff,
But now of our humanity it rejects one whole half!
And money is too much an issue when it must be said
That what is not of love is valueless to Christ our Head.
Of all the thousands who are found in church each seventh day,
How many can indeed discern the right and faithful way?
How many put their lives on hold for truth and nothing less?
How many first set out their plan and build their faith round this?
Is there not one who will apply to God for his blueprint
So s/he can play the part of power for treasure in Heaven’s mint?
The Spirit of Truth cannot be found where ideas pull such weight.
He’s somewhere else you don’t suspect. Chase Him, and don’t be late!
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
I have built this temple
I have mounted this throne
made myself ruler
of a cold empty world
passed my own laws
that I flout everyday
for mine is the glory
of my special way
I have been left deprived
of love and affection
now I give myself
everything never left wanting
you can enter this realm
maybe sit yourself down
I need someone to polish
my oversized crown
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 7:30 AM UTC
Forbidden fruits hidden in the roof
of my mind
Its time to set fire to the mimes
Larcenous pursuit of greater acclaim
than is taped and pasted to your brain.
Dripping copper pipes cold in the November light
bright shadows gently crush the fabric of unreality.
Love is a howitzer
it can **** alot of people
quickly and often.
Love is a pool of amniotic fluid,
it sustains and cushions, and soothes with warm comfort.
Cardboard cutouts of cutthroat gangsters with gout,
flout societies mores, with Cuban cigar smoke synthesis.
Brandy
snifterfull
Awaiting the dinnerbell.
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 10:04 AM UTC
. . . . . . .
. .
. . . . . . .
i would like a space marked out
wherein in silence i'd observe my sacral auguries,
and insularly divine
amid mid-dawning light contingencies,
to sweep a magic sweep for sunrise-
-tabula|_|rasa
and find, founded in a flout: a sect beyond sects
to section self sectionless~
inwrought helix interhelix nest~
and there reside attentively
()blinking() s l o w ...ly
in rainbow eyelash quiver flow,
arrows soaring ' ' ' ' ' 'centerly
to pin
each
whirl
of dream,
of sleep,
mneumonic residue,
prehensions right or wrong clear through --
symbological goo, too--
all too evidently called
from out an obvious deep
oblivion of plenum om,
or so it's said it's seen
in clear eidetic percept room
of alter overmInd of mindstuff's tomb [*]
and form of selfish altar drama gone and soon
for looking in or out or neither both
oblique, about aboutness-mirror zoom~
to which what spectionism halves
behaving in a twofold twining intro free: the finest of the fine:
insight-interred intuited sign
quiescently, albeit doubtfully at times, benign
.
.
.
.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
Dear mentor:
You taught me to see the world
Through the eyes of opportunity
Gave me the bravery
and the delight, and desire
To flout expectations
Disregard my GPA
And soar to new heights,
Taught me to value education
As the greatest gift that could be given.
Dear friend:
You taught me to smile
Because I could make a difference
To be kind,
Because everyone is insecure
To laugh when the stress overwhelmed me,
To see the humour in politics
And philosophy and the human condition.
Dear mentor:
You taught me about debate
Taught me about family
Beyond genetics,
Bound by common passion.
And when you left,
I realized,
You'd taught me, in turn,
To teach others.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die,
And yet complain’st of his great jealousy;
If swol’n with poison, he lay in his last bed,
His body with a sere-bark covered,
Drawing his breath, as thick and short, as can
The nimblest crocheting musician,
Ready with loathsome vomiting to spew
His soul out of one hell, into a new,
Made deaf with his poor kindred’s howling cries,
Begging with few feigned tears, great legacies,
Thou wouldst not weep, but jolly and frolic be,
As a slave, which tomorrow should be free;
Yet weep’st thou, when thou seest him hungerly
Swallow his own death, hearts-bane jealousy.
O give him many thanks, he’s courteous,
That in suspecting kindly warneth us
Wee must not, as we used, flout openly,
In scoffing riddles, his deformity;
Nor at his board together being sat,
With words, nor touch, scarce looks adulterate;
Nor when he swol’n, and pampered with great fare
Sits down, and snorts, caged in his basket chair,
Must we usurp his own bed any more,
Nor kiss and play in his house, as before.
Now I see many dangers; for that is
His realm, his castle, and his diocese.
But if, as envious men, which would revile
Their Prince, or coin his gold, themselves exile
Into another country, and do it there,
We play in another house, what should we fear?
There we will scorn his houshold policies,
His seely plots, and pensionary spies,
As the inhabitants of Thames’ right side
Do London’s Mayor; or Germans, the Pope’s pride.
1.7k
For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five grey hairs, or ruin’d fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his Honour, or his Grace,
Or the King’s real, or his stamped face
Contemplate, what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.
Alas, alas, who’s injur’d by my love?
What merchant’s ships have my sighs drown’d?
Who says my tears have overflow’d his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.
Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
Call her one, me another fly,
We’are tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find the’eagle and the dove.
The phoenix riddle hath more wit
By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit,
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.
We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We’ll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns all shall approve
Us canoniz’d for love;
And thus invoke us: “You, whom reverend love
Made one another’s hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world’s soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes
(So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize)
Countries, towns, courts: beg from above
A pattern of your love!”
1.6k
I live my life
for the jolts and tingles
the prickling of skin
and the involuntary wrinkles
I live my life
for instances of bliss and euphoria
the experiences that floor ya
for the moments of clarity
when I make plans with sincerity
whether or not accomplishment,
may indeed be a rarity
I live my life
for the sensular shudder
of the feminine other
for the flashing and thrashing
and skin-tingling flutter
for those shots to be made
without use of a putter
I live my life
for new connections and epiphanies
for misdirections and the mysteries
for all the questions without answers
like, why does life give you cancer?
according to the state of california.
I live my life
through a miasma of sidewalks
and ticking clocks
through drunken walks
and forgotten talks
for the chance of a Win
and the inevitable balks
I live my life
sometimes for him or for her
in sin or while pure
and without hope of a cure
for the human condition
"the human condition?"
you know, when the world says,
"assume the position!"
and your teacher says
"are you even listenin'?"
I live my life
for zoning out and finding Rules to flout
for the workings of my mind
the ability to rewind
analyze the times
and uncover the blinds
I live my life
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
He. Never until this night have I been stirred.
The elaborate starlight throws a reflection
On the dark stream,
Till all the eddies gleam;
And thereupon there comes that scream
From terrified, invisible beast or bird:
Image of poignant recollection.
She. An image of my heart that is smitten through
Out of all likelihood, or reason,
And when at last,
Youth's bitterness being past,
I had thought that all my days were cast
Amid most lovely places; smitten as though
It had not learned its lesson.
He. Why have you laid your hands upon my eyes?
What can have suddenly alarmed you
Whereon 'twere best
My eyes should never rest?
What is there but the slowly fading west,
The river imaging the flashing skies,
All that to this moment charmed you?
She. A Sweetheart from another life floats there
As though she had been forced to linger
From vague distress
Or arrogant loveliness,
Merely to loosen out a tress
Among the starry eddies of her hair
Upon the paleness of a finger.
He. But why should you grow suddenly afraid
And start - I at your shoulder -
Imagining
That any night could bring
An image up, or anything
Even to eyes that beauty had driven mad,
But images to make me fonder?
She. Now She has thrown her arms above her head;
Whether she threw them up to flout me,
Or but to find,
Now that no fingers bind,
That her hair streams upon the wind,
I do not know, that know I am afraid
Of the hovering thing night brought me.
1.6k
Pretentious youth--
Fervent sapling, impatient
In your early hours;
Whimpering, persuading
Premature unfolding;
Quelling such desperate hunger.
Perhaps you dress so quickly
In fear that canopy elders
Will flout your need and
Consume all of your pledged sun.
Pliable and shallow rooted,
You elope toward unobstructed light;
But are remiss of your future.
Bent, curved, blossomed--
You will feed well
As the banquet is first set.
Yet, Summer shall find you
Strained within the shade;
And only narrow filaments
Flowing between green cloaks
On which to feed.
The advent of Autumn’s wind
Shall press firmly against
Your crooked breast; and
Displace your sipping feet.
You will flame quickly, blushing--
Then disrobe amongst the clothed.
Naked and unable to suckle
the sweet reserve
Ahead of Winter’s frozen grasp.
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
We live in a world of noise,
of parallel and asymmetric movement,
where nonchalance has become the norm.
Sweet, melodious and pleasing
is our phony makeup.
We are animals that reject our animalness.
We dread nuclear, secular, red lights, cockroaches, love,
threats and non-threats alike.
Fear has taken us on its morning stroll,
and predictably we bark.
(The sun is almost up)
We are turned on and turned off
by oil-, wind- and hydro-powered switches
that respond to clapping.
There are beige, mauve and burgundy
curtains to choose from,
and supersized french-fries, pots, and cars.
We have lost ourselves in a mess of options,
and strive incessantly to complicate.
We fly in formation
and flow through carefully placed
and beautifully colored rocks made from Styrofoam,
down an improbable slope
of over-romanticized hypotheses.
We are ******** ego-centric and nepotistic,
and asexually multiply.
Thought and all other wasted rationality
keeps the axes of our unsustainable and fanatical wheels
from breaking loose (into free space and true autonomy).
We create meaning where there is no meaning,
and scientifically and thoroughly flout
god and the truth,
whilst we absorb, photosynthesize, bear fruits and grow leaves
(we are still, essentially, vegetable).
With every step we go deeper, and faster and better,
and farther from our selves.
Hence, we barely feel.
We are deaf and blind and mute
and approximately frozen;
and dance, swirl, sing and scream
in our vague, whimsical life,
till we fall.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
Yes the tinge stood out
Eyes saw its clear tout
Light cast on the flout
Leaving one in no doubt
Oh the moment of knowing
Well this hue kept showing
Clueless one used to be
Overt is the color of he
All ken I now understand
Truth is well in thy hand
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 9:17 PM UTC
We’re F. Scott ingénues.
Curious cases.
Brilliant but fading
fast--enamored
by the evergreen glow
of fate.
We flout convention
to tout our lofty “truths”
star-written and palm-read.
For passing thrills,
we study the sun.
Sleepy scientists searching
not for an answer,
but the blinding light
that precipitates Eureka.
Illusions of healing:
ice packs, heating pads,
band-aids that proclaim
our status as bad mother *******
carry more weight than any
ultimate solution.
We’re dilettantes.
Tinkerers.
Hobby-Lobbyists.
Will we ever burst
the bubble-wrapped life
to seek the exact?
Where is our Great Perhaps?
Have we found it yet?
Or are we just
a passing fad?
A cunning plan?
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
The plagiarist hath vacated this space
Yet his shadow still lingers at the place
In the nose one well senses it about
So oft an odor doth waft on the air
Which can be veiled by visage fair
The eyes are peeled they're ever watching
For that person of the copyist's cloning
Twill not be duped by untruthful flout
This day of its appearance yet unseen
Could there be a hiding behind the screen
Though the master duplicator hath fled
His presence is hovering over the joint
Of type in image same he did anoint
Within HP's walls it doth share our bed
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
A triolet's first line echoes throughout
Its second line is also heard again
As if (within a cave) it was a shout
A triolet's first line echoes throughout.
These are the simple rules you must not flout
Only two rhymes, repeated by refrain:
A triolet's first line echoes throughout,
Its second line is also heard again.
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 9:31 AM UTC
your words
a wondrous pipe
a windy weapon
of pure persuasion
how they manage
to uncoil me
thoughtlessly
tantalized in your tune
moony-eyed fakir
you flout me
with your fairy flute
You think
I am only just
mesmerised
but when
I ****** my gaze
forward at you
I mean to ensnare
your soul
the way your silver tongue
has poisoned
mine.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
Do your dreams lead you up to Nirvana?
Do you travel on tendrils of foam?
Do you wake in the night, does your heart pound with fright?
Are you scared when they leave you alone?
Are you happy to be a good person?
Do you feel you deserve a good name?
Do you anxiously flout all your money about
And try hard to accumulate fame?
Do you help when a baby is crying?
Do you lend when your best friend is poor?
Have you fought for your rights in political fights
Or just stood by and noted the score?
Does your life feel speciously empty?
Do you cry in despair in your bed?
Is the pointlessness true is it happening to you?
Do you dream you’d be better off dead?
Does it all seem a little like hard work?
Are you ****** off before you begin?
Should you shampoo both hands and discard all those plans
And ignore the egg on your chin?
Are you angry and filled with frustration?
Have you ground your teeth with rage?
Have you mounted a fight before this day is night
And determined to turn a new page?
Are you coming together at long last?
Has the breeding come to the fore?
Is your spine now straight, has your heart lost it’s hate?
Are you showing your shit..the door?
Is euphoria blowing a fresh wind?
Are clear eyes searching the shore?
Has a day not begun without blue sky and sun?
Have you dreamt love might happen once more?
The freshness and sparkle of raindrops,
The smell of new mown hay
Makes the being intense it discards all pretense
And announces hope for this day.
Do your dreams lead you up to Nirvana?
Do you wake with a song in your heart?
Are you ready to fly in this peppermint sky?
Or does something here… blow you apart?
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
18th December 2007
- From Watching the Ripples Radiate
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
*there was surely no doubt
that his eyes were a drought
both of them lacked a spout
for no fire to put out
would ever make him pout
so all he does is flout
and sometimes hang about
but he will never sprout*
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 11:31 PM UTC
Let's start with some words
before we go any further
before I get lost in this world
that exists on your shoulders
before I allow you to break me in
& wear me out
I'm about to convince my nerve endings
that we need to fly south
but I flout
I doubt bouts
as I
shut
down
my mouth
in fear of every word
burning
my insides & out
cause they are loud
& it shrouds me
like a cloud or thick smoke
you evoke this hoax that I've drowned in
& throw boats down my throat
how can I float in a landslide ?
it's making me dizzy
how can I grow if your lies are what's keeping me busy?
it's misery really
& the feel won't fulfill me
so I dump myself out and rebuild what i'm missing
I spilled all the will I had left for this feeling
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
Ostracized and banished! Banned and throne out!
Kevin and Allpoetry, they give me a big flout
-
Just because I write, that Queers will burn in Hell
They kick me off their site, my *** they did expel
-
Kevin Kevin oh tisk-tisk, don't you want to burn?
Guess what oh ****** Fruitcake, your Damnation you did earn
-
You'll roast upon a spit, you'll fricassee and fry
In Hell you'll have a "Gay" old time...I won't even say goodbye
-
Hey Kevin Kevin Faggot...write some poems down in Hell
Write about your TORMENT! In fire you can't quell
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC