"forgivable" poems
*Nice,
Slick,
Steady,
Unbuttoning...
She makes
Naughty
Things
So
Forgivable.*
© 2014 J.S.P.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 7:45 AM UTC
Flashback to as far back as the mind goes,
Masculinity is mighty and feminism is flawed,
Man is right and woman is wrong,
Boy is strong and girl is weak,
I’m a gentleman as long as I’m on top,
She can’t speak unless spoken to,
No place for women at the pulpit,
Men can’t learn from lesser beings.
Flashback to four years old,
The first time he was told,
Homosexuals will burn eternally,
Because they’re *******
He said God doesn’t love them,
They’re an abomination to creation.
Flashback to age twelve,
Welcome to the USA,
Export the Mexicans,
Eliminate the rag heads,
Burn the gays.
Flashback to seventh grade,
She left him for her,
The hate talk convinced him,
All gays were wrong always.
Flashback to freshmen year,
It was Halloween,
Debate class in the morning,
She was dressed as a nerd,
But obviously that so wasn’t her,
Because she was Iranian,
He asked where her turban was,
Said her outfit wasn’t complete without it.
Flashback to the close-minded, conservatively, homeschooled child,
Racism was as familiar as his father’s laugh,
Sexism known like the scent of his mother’s casseroles,
Ignorance was his bestfriend,
And hate pumped through his veins.
I don’t know if right wing racist remarks are forgivable,
But the one he was bred to despise showed nothing but forgiveness.
The Iranian girl shed tears,
Which caused him to shed his foggy lens,
For the first time, he saw his own sins,
A joke rooted in hate hurt an innocent girl,
An innocent tear hurt an ignorant boy,
I am an ignorant boy,
I felt her pain,
I stabbed myself with shame,
She befriended me,
She forgave.
Flawed people produced twisted identification,
She isn’t the Iranian girl,
Just a person.
Mexican, black, dark skinned, or light,
Christian, Atheist, Muslim,
Left wing or right,
Straight, gay, man, woman,
Irrelevant.
Mexican, black, dark skinned, or light,
Christian, Atheist, Muslim,
Left wing or right,
Straight, gay, man, woman,
Human.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
They enter the café just as some sappy pop song is playing
They order then immediately hug
Embrace
Swaying to one side, together, like the wind
Encircling the leaning tower of Pisa
Then teetering to the other solstice
Foot to foot, smile to smile, hand round skirted waist
Forearm resting on his tall blazered shoulders
This is forgivable in the young
Those teeny-boppers with defiant hair-cuts and posters
However, he has peppered hair
She, though voluptuous and tanned,
Must be in her 30s.
“Affair.”
My cynical devil snickers, between sips
But I sit mesmerized, and for the first time ever
Envious.
The chairs and the tables somehow seem more distant
The song now sounds as if it’s funneled through some crackling phonograph
The very light disentangles itself from stones
It’s as if a sky has opened up in my chest
Flying high overhead, one lone raven,
Its slow shadow
Gliding across my heart
Oh, how I miss you
5 states away
I see your smile on magazine covers
I vaguely sniff your scent on passing women
Yet you remain elusive - immaterial, haunting,
While this visceral assault
Leaves me bewildered - empty
An echo in a chiaroscuro cavern
Fading for thee
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
Why do you people
think it so despicable,
that I won't share my time
on occasions in which
I'm particularly ******* miserable
I'll give you my reciprocal,
I don't need your help
I'm strong as an individual.
And I do not, intend to be critical,
but too many choose to use emotion,
over thinking that's analytical
That's why i need to be alone,
Both mental and physical,
It's kind of a ritual, interaction is minimal
It's never been personal, it's more of a principle
I hope you'll find it forgivable,
I am sorry,
But I'm strong as an individual.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
maybe it's okay i don't feel anything for you anymore.
maybe it's okay i've moved on.
i am no longer fueling the fire of the hatred you possess for everyone you can't understand.
you couldn't understand me.
i didn't want you too.
i was unpredictable and selfish.
you were naive and hateful.
i want to get better.
you want to subject more victims.
i can live without you.
you can't live with knowing i no longer care.
i've always known how to torture you inside.
you always knew how to push me to that point.
i'm happy knowing you're still sad.
i am happy knowing you're in pain.
i'm ****** up.
but you ****** up.
now you can't live with your mistake.
but mine was always intentional.
that's the thing that made you so angry.
the thing that you could never understand.
how could everyone always forgive me?
i guess i'm simply oh so forgivable, honey.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
I understand they find dinosaur bones there in your backyard. Big ones. I've never been to your house or even close to that neighborhood, but ever since you've written me, I am completely intrigued. What you said about me, I think about you in an execrable Hemingway way, maybe as in his "Death In The Afternoon." All the goring. Faintheartedness is nothing to be carried by bullfighters or by bone hunters, I suppose. If there were a way of going back to days of nobler more romanticized slaughtering in bullrings, without the controversy, I'd have to say it is more evident in our modern day Jurassic Park flicks where nerdish paleontologists are transformed into fiendishly handsome toreadors.
I know I'm not making much sense. Bullfights and dinosaur rustling, what's to compare? One being non-civilized though colorful and bathetic, the other fantastical but forgivable because the beasts bite back. Oh, if only I could explain these machismo machinations. What a ruse. How song and dance does intrigue. Please write me again from South Dakota. I'd like to book one of those dusty dinosaur tours before I go extinct. Bone hunts, bullfights, same difference.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
Now you're breathing champagne
I can feel it sparkle on my skin
while you revel in the falseness
of forgivable sin
Now I can feel the air around you
deflate and search for words
to stop your own from hemorrhaging
and to heal whatever hurts
Now you're breathing champagne
while you stumble to the places you once called home
like the park behind my house
and the west end record store
Now you can feel the world behind you
nipping at your heels
like the hundred hungry hounds
and the weapons they conceal
Now you're breathing champagne
like it's oxygen
and you are
lost at sea.
I wrote a note on the bottom of the bottle
you can read when you're in pain
"keep the memories in your chest
and keep breathing champagne."
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
Before I knew that I could fall in love with another boy,
I had already had those feelings stolen out from underneath my feet
50 years old cold and old with a lust for blood,
and innocence,
At 16 years old there wasn’t even a whole lotta innocence left in him,
But he worked and moved in places that felt like dark alleyways,
and promises that seemed too good to be able to break,
The way his tongue slithered out from underneath the church pews,
looking to lap up whatever he seemed to have missed from his youth
I remember the first time I went to therapy,
the way that my therapist kept asking me if I was confused about my sexuality,
It shouldn’t have started like that
Wrinkly, angry, and full of adrenaline, young in the head and sick in his veins,
He liked to touch them,
He liked to hold them,
His eyes always matching theirs,
he made it perfectly clear that he’s not looking for a fight,
he’s already fighting,
and he knows he’s going to win
I’m not a religious person, but I believe the devil comes to all of us in different ways,
Sometimes beautiful and forgivable,
Other times in a black t shirt and a pair of nikes, disgustingly promising,
a place to make you feel comfortable
We let so many people use our bodies to prove their points, it’s so exhausting,
I can’t tell the difference anymore between wolves and sheep,
But I know that he’s a wolf,
And I know that no one listens to a boy who cries ****
And the blood is always going to be there,
The alcoholic breaths taken deep into lungs that promise to carry on, are always going to be there,
The hatred and phobia of old men with mustaches and eyes that look just a little too inviting,
is always going to be there
Your Innocence is always going to be there, just don’t let anyone convince you that they can steal it from you
We are more than their torn muscles and “really, I’m a nice guy”s,
More than their “I’ve never done this before”s,
More than their “You don’t have to mention this to anyone”s,
More than what we think we deserve,
More than what love used to mean to us
We don’t have to love like that anymore,
Our bodies are new,
Not used anymore, but brand new,
We just have to teach our bones how to use the beautiful new skin that they’ve worked hard for
So to the man who taught me how to love myself,
You are nothing more than a distant memory I’ll continue to pack into the bag of luggage I carry and unload when I need to remind myself that I am more than whatever you made me think I was
I forgive you, but only because I forgive myself
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC
I don't know if I know you yet,
I'm only 19 after all.
I don't know if I've made you laugh,
But I can already hear it now.
I've probably made you smile,
I'm sure it made my day.
I probably even once have made you cry,
I hope it was forgivable.
I know one things for sure,
Future wife.
I already love you.
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 12:18 AM UTC
A trinity of three styles one man no religion one morning over a lifetime
Temporary (we tat too)
Temporary love
has no precision definition
so if I say
love you forever,
as I do,
know know
just know
this particular
phrase
is temporary,
unique and forgivable
as temporary
as our permanent tattoo,
the one embellishing you,
the one marking me,
the two hearts tat
that means
we are a
tat two
If you begin a poem,
a love, a tat
with temporary,
usually, but not always,
you have already failed
See http://hellopoetry.com/poem/if-you-begin-a-poem-with-i/
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Invalidation
my living bones, twisted.
my words, slurred,
disfigured with a panache,
that makes the mirror
turn away, ashamed
invalid. in valid.
I have been invalidated,
I spit at your too late heroics,
unwanted.
I spit at myself,
for missing the moment,
when choice was mine
I would have self-destructed, freely,
reborn in an act of self-validation,
be my own living will,
if only I had not been enslaved to my
**********
Fear
invalidation, the Cain mark of every failed man
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bootyoir
three day weekend has commenced.
it's con-occlusion
now in rapid descent
mini-vacation, maxi-sensation.
the only question remaining,
present but debated,
as yet undecided,
whose turn is it
to answer
the doorbell,
when the delivery guy
brings our break~fast
for it is forbidden,
a transgress,
to egress
from the bootyoir,
except for the
call of nature,
and naturally,
I am calling
you,
comeback comeback
hungry time
it's time we
co-authored some
bootyoir poetry
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
Candlelight is romantic, unless
you're in a dungeon.
Context changes everything.
Context makes you look down
at the bridges you build and realize
they are plywood: thin, cheap, but
soggy enough from this rain that
they're impossible to burn.
Realism is a myth. Everyone has a lens.
People believe what they want to believe,
or they believe the worst. Sometimes they
alternate, tense and relax at all the wrong
moments, a sigh of relief before the crime
has been committed.
Everyone loves a hero until they are up
against them.
The unforgivable becomes forgivable
in the right context, ****** as self-
defense, or in war. Fear and arousal
provoke identical symptoms in the body.
Sometimes the boundaries bleed together.
Sometimes ethics surrender in the face
of love.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 5:37 PM UTC
Seven New Poems For Seven Days #6 & 7: Live like you're dying
Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?
Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.
Live like your writing.
Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to **** in words, forgivable...
Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.
No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.
Huh?
Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.
You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.
Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.
Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
my father knows a midget. it’s not my fault. the two of them share a cigarette outside of a house they’ve never been inside. it’s winter. I scroll across Ohio on a sled with makeshift sail. I associate sorrow with the very short. I associate my father with sentences that end abruptly. I wear the mark he meant to leave on the world. I understand. it is forgivable. there are harder things to get in the way of. a mirror, perhaps. a hand on a bible. my own hand, which tells mother I’m adopted.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 3:57 PM UTC
If I confess you my sin,
would you finally let me in?
Your book say I'm sick,
but your words tell me I'm forgivable.
If I shout "Amen",
would I be a better women?
Your followers say you will send me to hell,
but your words say show compassion.
They say "Prise the Lord!",
but I don't know what for.
I'm still looking for my hallelujah,
maybe I can have faith in you again.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
Dad, daddy, father?
What am I to call you, sir?
A hug, a handshake, a slap?
How am I to greet you, pops?
"Happy father's day!"
Is that what you want me to say?
"I've missed you throughout all these years!"
Is that really what you want to hear?
What am I to do when we meet again?
Tell my failures, tell my accomplishments?
But do you even deserve to hear any of these?
When you've been gone for all these years?
Why did you leave me, dad?
Was I not good enough; was I that bad?
What was wrong with me that you had to leave?
Did you even feel any regret or grief?
When I was younger I thought you were dead.
That's what I believed though it was unsaid.
And now that I know better,
What's your reason to render?
I just wish I could've known you.
Your name, or what you went through.
Only once, I've heard from you.
But that doesn't suffice for the chances you threw.
You were my first role model, daddy.
Cause of you, I don't get hurt easily.
I've learned leaving someone is inevitable.
And that hurting them is forgivable.
You taught me that love doesn't exist.
All love comes to an end, leaving a bitter mist.
I've learned everyone will disappoint you.
Although they're not supposed to.
You've created, within me, a monster.
Aren't you just proud of your daughter?
Because of you, I know that I'm worthless.
And everyone I value, will leave me regardless.
Now my heart's filled with hatred.
The suffering you caused has ended.
I'm not vulnerable anymore, daddy.
Now you're nothing, not even a memory.
So, dad or daddy or father,
The man who left and threw me away.
What now? What do you want me to say?
Happy Father's Day?
-djs
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 11:11 AM UTC
*yeah, they cut out my third ****** from my shoulder blade and i turned into a bond girl; oh god, you're not one of those bulletproof people confused about love like a nurse confused by a disease? you are? oh god help me... you'll go far! straight to daddy's pocket purse and saturday night... you'll throw stilettos at chandeliers and expect a catwalk blackout... god forbid that should happen with everyone biting their toenails.*
between us we share the bathroom
and the bedroom,
we sit on the stilt framing see-through of it admirably
airy and welcoming stars:
wishing for foxes and women respectively,
all you can hear is a meow... meow... meow...
meow meow... moo... µ... meow... meow interchange
between these two rooms in the garden air,
it’s like a fetish orchestra giving ‘prior to sleep’ crescendos,
and it makes sense to write a forgivable poem
of this least content, content with the least as me writing it;
well d'uh, of course i had to write it,
i wasn't going to stage a boxing match with stella artois
losing care for words and taking care of action,
i was going to mediate the page like a kite being passed
on with paddington bear's secret inscriptions to get from
london to sydney; i hope it worked.
the drunkard? oh... he's either silent, crying, laughing,
or simply reading.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
i.
the blood scared me
would mother be angry
maybe stitches
the hot anger of betrayal
mixed like a bonnet pepper
to spice the fear
and the confusion
ii.
playing with friends
in the neighborhood woods
the oldest of three brothers
threw a wooden potato
masher and struck me
in the back of the head
iii.
the root cellar seemed
a good place to hide
i ran out of the wood
across the open field
across the street
in through the
open garage door
the kitchen entrance
to the mud room
and down the back
stairs to the laundry,
might she be there,
and into the root cellar
filled with mold, dust,
and musty mason jars
iv.
hiding there, i forget
how long now, but the
had the blood stopped
running warm and sticky
down the back of my neck
i felt a swollen lump
and an aching head
v.
i do not remember
now how long i hid
there in the root cellar
but the feeling of betrayal
the sense of exclusion
the intense longing
to be a part of that
boyhood group
all seemed lost
vi.
some things are
not forgivable
deliberate cruelty
is not forgivable
i hope that cruelty
is the only real thing
i lost, crying, in that
cellar, so long ago
deliberate cruelty
the one thing of which
i have never been guilty
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 10:30 AM UTC
How many parts? Transient…
Tearing apart? Permanent…
An angry one. Powerless…
It’s never done. Sorrowless…
The battle rages. Survival…
Till one prevails. Revival…
Is there a third? Unaware…
Has it been heard? Everywhere…
Forces at play. Unresolved…
Hear what they say. Unabsolved…
Fight for your soul. Unlivable…
Your self-control. Forgivable.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 10:09 PM UTC
Sleep deprived
Deranged just a little touch/just a little
Tip
Crack your
Knuckles work your bones
All around this town is shaking
Shiver/moan
All the ways we get horizontal
We get up to
Get down, always a little off
Always a half-second early, drop
Let it all fall off
Devolve your way to the light, little moth
We're so god ****** enlightened here
But you've got a long ways to go, always
Stagger long my wayward friend
Lots of beds but
None that feel like home
We get weird but
It ain't so strange
Tie your hair up in tangles like you've been had on the ground
Alley dirt on your ***
Dance your way to the front
Alternate between confident and terrified/cigarettes naked fall
Asleep alone
On some weird couch
While your best friend
***** your ex in another house
Forgivable, forgivable
Can't be mad at the poet/drunk but it's okay just breathe
Your way to the next day sit and look at pictures be jealous
Of the you you used to be
Shower like you're poison
Fill your car and
Head South Head South Head South
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
Wherever the drum is sounded
There will his feet and ego lead him
For there's none so adept as he
At fouling the mood with a few
home truths
when the village brew is frothy and virile
There too will his keen appetite him drive
For there's none so deferred to as he among
Folk hungry for forgivable misdemeanor
and some home truths
He's the inimitable village drunk
Endowed with a surfeit of expletives
For there's none so free as he here
To douse all and sundry in invective ubiquitous
laced with a few home truths
This village drunk is high on the power granted him
By a grateful captive audience that's allowed him
Freedom to free them of secrets and all
When he dons his invisble crown and dispenses
a few home truths 'bout everyone
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
Oftentimes we can be inanimate as an insentient being,
If not, then lost, torn, or broken,
Drifting off into a minimally-conscious stupor,
Responding only the the most prominent of stimuli,
Quite frankly, most of the time, we aren’t really alive.
And this--this is condemnable!
This is a pleasureless trick!
The human mind has incredible potential,
Yet it's hardly active,
And essentially quite thick
Still, such is forgivable
For when we originate the formidable,
Dreams come true,
Aspirations brought to place
Life is brought to life through inspiration!
Have you never experienced some urges?
Strong desires that can never be explained?
They rain down,
As a blessing,
Better use them--
They're quite shifting,
For the love of yourself and your species:
Respond to compulsions of ingenuity!
Out of all indecipherable anomalies,
Creativity is by far the strangest.
Yet, strange is commensurate to lovely,
If put into practice,
Creativity is quite comely.
Some might say said compulsions are
Granted by the influence of divine beings,
Yet I believe they manifest from the divinity IN us,
I could grant a rant,
An oration,
Or a panegyric about compulsions
But only under the circumstance
Of such an aforementioned trance
Oh Life!
Such compulsions are
The love of me!
My pillar of strength,
My foundation of truth,
Mainstay and
My hope!
My perceived ESSENCE
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
When people call me fun sized I don't know what to say.
Like if I was another size the fun would go away?
Some of my friends call me Nano, meaning very very small
A name I got in middle school and actually don’t mind at all
But this is because I own it and find it quite original
Unlike the normal comments that really aren’t forgivable
They say good things come in small packages but how can I know that’s true
When the world is full of big macs, and supersized taboos
Small things are always quiet, in corners or on display
I don’t want that fate for me, I’d rather be in the way
Making change is hard to do when adorable is your namesake
I’m activating feminist mode and trying to make an earthquake
No I don’t want to be your armrest, yes I’m tall enough for that ride
I’ll kick your *** at limbo, just watch me and abide
I used to wear high heels, to fit in with the crowd
Until a friend my size told me to embrace it and be proud
Now I wear flat shoes and am comfortable all the time
So when I’m kicking *** I can pivot on a dime
Sometimes my legs are tired from the height I’m trying to personify
So if you ask if I want a piggy back…that’s actually one thing I won’t deny
I like seeing it from your point of view even if it’s jaded
I do wish you could see it from mine though and find why my ideals have faded
“You’re cute when you're angry” they say, just like it's a compliment
But how would you feel if your emotions were reduced to words that aren't dominant?
When you grow up in a world where cute is your middle name
You don’t trust the ones that call you beautiful but who really is to blame?
Let alone if you ever hear **** being said in your direction
Have you ever heard of a man getting a cute ********
I’m ready for a shift and I can feel it in my bones
They’re aching to dance a new routine, with Beyonce in my headphones
Maybe that means they’re catching up, it’s about time for my growth spurt
After a life of half pint, shrimp and short stuff, watch as I convert
12/01/2016 Amanda Powell
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
I'm a ***** because I'm honest.
You keep breaking promise's.
And you just expect me to not forget when you make your next one?
Am I Dumb?
Is it not obvious you would need to prove yourself before your trusted?
I don't think I'm the dumb one...
Again I get to hear how I have no income.
No income doesn't make me irrelevant.
Nor does it make me useless.
And your money can't buy my respect.
You can't pay me to shut up.
I know you will be sorry...
That's something you always are.
Me, I only wish I could ignore your ********
But instead here we are.
I'm writing, cause I fucken hate that your such a fucken *******
And I bet you regret not being with someone less confrontational, and more forgivable.
I can't say what my mind's thinking.
I know you don't believe it, but part of it ends with me leaving.
Nobody would think this argument is really about a drink...
But a promise of any size is a promise worth keeping to me.
I'm fucken crazy...
I'm out of my mind!
Cause I want you to mean what you say all the fucken time!
This feeling we created is dangerous.
If I were stronger, I'd deal with it better.
If you were thoughtful you'd understand my side.
I hate a liar.
And it makes me sick to my stomach.
I can't believe your such a fucken ****
FUCKEN AUTO CORRECT TRYING TO MAKE YOU A DUCK INSTEAD!!!
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
*my interests in / with philosophy are grammatical,
" " " / " theology " linguistic.*
as philosophy did not entice grammatical words to express it,
as philosophy did not entice grammatical words to be utilised,
so thus the study of language became distinct
from philosophy, with only english or german or italian
teachers using these words as a forgivable badge of honour,
but what if a philosopher decided to "steal" these words and use
them, what then? it would be secondary, to have learned
a language in order to progress to the second tier of language
and erase colloquial truths, idiosyncratic truths, etc.,
those maxims that never really matter, but find me one philosophy
book that deals with words rather than ideas by submerging
itself in ideas and theories not of the world, not political,
metaphysical, theological... but simply grammatical... as to why
the pronouns clash when used as the universal stipend of question:
who, how, when, what if, etc. it's a minefield of considerations,
categorisation of words to only craft learned plagiarisms
of the pulpit, that such rigidity in grammatical classification
of words is so aged ashen leaky and rickety and sir sneeringly sneaky
as to be disregarded by philosophy is a gaping black gravity vortex
of travesties. how do i write you ask, with what ease
and with what machinery of split second bullet fire (sometimes)?
i simply declassified certain words, rearranged their
grammatical classification, some permanently, some impermanently;
such is this curse of the orthodox theory of language,
this ungrammatical denotative classification,
before the sun or the moon can be a subject for a poem
or some other form of inspiration, it's firstly a subject for nouns;
oh i believe in grammar, but not how it's organised
for the sole purpose of schooling, the odd jack-in-the-box popup
lightning slosh of um um ah when the teacher labours momentarily to
utilise grammatical words to explain a bewilderment without
actually explaining anything other than the classification coupling
obvious(ness) in a poem... esp. one beginning with a conjunction such as and.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
Written May 9, 2011
You said that something just didn't make sense.
Said you didn't understand.
I promised. I promised.
I swore this time we'd get it right.
I thought, I prayed
That I could keep it.
Keep my word. Hold it tight.
But again, it crashed.
And as your voice cracked
I could hear.
I could tell you felt as if I'd lied.
I tried.
But couldn't spare your heart.
Above everything else,
That hurt the worst.
And my promises came crumbling down.
Falling apart.
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 7:22 AM UTC