"fops" poems
*Let SPAM reign supreme
Same as all mediocrities
Hello Poetry*
*Let lame egos win
Peacocks, fops, vacuous thoughts
Hello Poetry*
*Let psychopaths shine
Make all the peacocks *******
Satan ruling hell*
*Hello Poetry
Tireless self promoters
Hoarders of nothing*
*Let the clueless gawk
At the boneyard of Peacocks
Feather blatherings*
*Hello Poetry
******* all life out of it
Allowing lame writers*
*Wolf Spirit blows hard
Clueless rube awful Pontiff
Hello Poetry*
*Stars shining in void
If ever there was lameness
Hello Poetry*
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
Oh love! that stronger art than Wine,
Pleasing Delusion, Witchery divine,
Wont to be priz'd above all Wealth,
Disease that has more Joys than Health;
Though we blaspheme thee in our Pain,
And of Tyranny complain,
We are all better'd by thy Reign.
What Reason never can bestow,
We to this useful Passion owe:
Love wakes the dull from sluggish ease,
And learns a Clown the Art to please:
Humbles the Vain, kindles the Cold,
Makes Misers free, and Cowards bold;
And teaches airy Fops to think.
When full brute Appetite is fed,
And choakd the Glutton lies and dead;
Thou new Spirits dost dispense,
And fine'st the gross Delights of Sense.
Virtue's unconquerable Aid
That against Nature can persuade;
And makes a roving Mind retire
Within the Bounds of just Desire.
Chearer of Age, Youth's kind Unrest,
And half the Heaven of the blest!
2.4k
Oh love! that stronger art than Wine,
Pleasing Delusion, Witchery divine,
Wont to be priz'd above all Wealth,
Disease that has more Joys than Health;
Though we blaspheme thee in our Pain,
And of Tyranny complain,
We are all better'd by thy Reign.
What Reason never can bestow,
We to this useful Passion owe:
Love wakes the dull from sluggish ease,
And learns a Clown the Art to please:
Humbles the Vain, kindles the Cold,
Makes Misers free, and Cowards bold;
And teaches airy Fops to think.
When full brute Appetite is fed,
And choakd the Glutton lies and dead;
Thou new Spirits dost dispense,
And fine'st the gross Delights of Sense.
Virtue's unconquerable Aid
That against Nature can persuade;
And makes a roving Mind retire
Within the Bounds of just Desire.
Chearer of Age, Youth's kind Unrest,
And half the Heaven of the blest!
2.1k
“When people move-when they travel-they look at where
they come from,
not where they’re going.” -Martin Amis, *Time’s Arrow
*
Let us now take this chance
to praise those dancing demons
of ambition,
whose feigned clairvoyance
of fortune
and exactitudes of fame
burn as the smell of smokey fallow
to the new-retired mare.
Travel, and all its takeoffs,
all its energies in skidding towards
an unopposed truth, makes its mince
by outlining all we ever look for
but leaving the chalkdust prints
of what we fail, at first, to find.
Yes, spaces contrary to the familiar exist
Carnivore cities of grind and result
cascaded above the floodwalls that save
the vagrant’s midnight search.
Coastal clearings of pacific civs,
best kept secrets where trees are still planted
and further kinds of nowhere that you never expected
to simmer with all the prospects of bored and implacable youths
who pine to efface the status quo, which ,after all, is quite the average,
is quite like “HOME”
Though I suppose, we eventually find
whatever space can be considered our own
when everyone grows up and stops
pretending they read Burroughs,
have a lot more going on, or are a lot less busy
than they make out over infrequent coffee meetings
(where it is also admitted
that they brew their own hot beverages,
or tell their own jokes)
Somewhere in the near-space continuum where Travel has
become for us what essentially differentiates
the commonplace in nature from
that most human of neuroses,
the acceptance of a willing to improve the conditional.
And so to Ambition, and its fiery fops who make us refute
steadiness, accountability, the routine of the resolute
Who let our ships of sanctimony attack
implied with the luxury of steering back.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
one day
I will bring you birds of prey
they will fall from the sky
like stones with my mighty shafts
through their hearts, no longer
ripping flesh with their piercing beaks
or snatching field mice with their terrible talons
I will quiet their ferocious screams
and purloin their gift of flight
I will place their fine feathered fops
at your feet, and my hubris will show
in mine eyes, with all the glory of the ****
you will wonder where my innocence
went to hide, how I learned to lust for blood,
to take my place in the pecked order,
to no longer mourn the death of the butterfly
whose screaming I once heard
against a black sky, but now is silent
I will bring you birds of prey
and celebrate the day
I became one of you
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
J.C.C., he's bigger than J.C.
Cos' he's got an extra C, see?
The best thing since B.C.
Since the wanna be man climbed down from the tree
He's a lyrical Bruce Lee
Cos' he's got chops
You see, not ALL poets are fops
Some of them are hound dogs
With poisonous bark
And some of them write tributes
To John. Cooper. Clarke
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 8:08 AM UTC