"franchise" poems
Are you listening to the whispers? are you feeling scandalised?
Harbouring ***** little feelings that you wanna sanitise?
Walk through the swinging doors of a catholic franchise
Ask em for that sailors knot a black-n-white man-ties
To the pairs of prying eyes his practical rebuke
Is a marital disguise and a tactical puke
Throw the garter ‘mongst the pigeons, the voluntary victims...
Whose single minds are filled with matrimonial conviction
Paired up poets pool their miseries; the price of art
Each miserable synergy - the sum of its parts
Did he swear that he’d hold you ever dear to his heart?
To love and to cherish til your knees did part?
If she wants you like her father and you want her like your mother
What the hell are you gonna do when you’re bored of one another?
There she stands on ceremony all silk and sinew
While the vow evicted from his Adam’s apple continues
To stutter as the panic builds like stifled farts
Til it splutters its devotions on her lady parts
Her eyes sentence you to sit though your neck-hairs stand
She’s the ****** ****** written in the lines on your palm
Old scores squeeze sideways through her gritted teeth
And he takes on the debt of every promise she believed
Hide the love-bites in a polo-neck, your love life in a Rolodex
When the ***** hand of happen-stance runs its evil down your keks
Cos like the indelible digits on your bathroom mirror
Love is for life until you dress it with liquor
If she wants you like her father and you want her like your mother
What the hell are you gonna do when you’re bored of one another?
We are but experiments, seven billion shades of wrong
The clever ones stay celibate, the others pass it on
That’s an easy line to settle-on in present company
Single-riders in the peloton to pick up the debris
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC
Corpses proliferate in soaring violence; heirloom of franchise and eminence— perish in erosion.
Timid denizens of derision, cynicism in roaring silence — optimism’s paling vapor—commodity of Indecision, our halcyon days forgotten.
Chosen token of audacity; the onyx maladroit feigns, prevaricating beneath the Sacred canopy.
Etudes of apathy; attrition unlamented; streams of guile— quixotic squall conversely merge — veiled conceit, eloquent arrow of equivocation.
The policy of attenuation.
Treason’s vine obscured beneath the blind surf of consent.
© 2014 & 2016 W. S. Warner
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
Compliments to the baker
and so too my Barista
Smoothest crema on the tongue
juxtapose to lemon vapour.
Intense acute sensations
insist I close my eyes
Submit in rare humility
in awe of nature's true franchise.
Clarion note of citron zest
resounds on mellow creamy seas
Mediterranean sun distilled
now is witnessed here in me.
Tempered, rounded bitter hues
from Amazonian dark recess
waited aeons to infuse
and bring about this wanton bliss.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
The first fight club was just Tyler and I
pounding on each other.
It used to be enough that when I came home angry
and knowing that my life wasn't toeing my five-year plan,
I could clean my condominium or detail my car.
Someday I'd be dead without a scar
and there would be a really nice condo and car.
Really, really nice,
until the dust settled
or the next owner.
Nothing is static.
Even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.
Since fight club, I can wiggle half the teeth in my jaw.
Maybe self-improvement isn't the answer.
Tyler never knew his father.
Maybe self-destruction is the answer.
Tyler and I still go to fight club, together.
Fight club is in the basement of a bar, now,
after the bar closes on Saturday night,
and every week you go
there's more guys there.
Tyler gets under the one light
in the middle of the black concrete basement
and he can see that light flickering
back out of the dark
in a hundred pairs of eyes.
First thing Tyler yells is,
"The first rule about fight club
is you don't talk about fight club.
"The second rule about fight club,"
Tyler yells,
"is you don't talk about fight club."
Me,
I knew my dad for about six years,
but I don't remember anything.
My dad,
he starts a new family
in a new town
about every six years.
This isn't so much a family
as it's like he sets up a franchise.
What you see at fight club
is a generation of men
raised by women.
...
You aren't alive anywhere like you are at fight club.
When its you and one other guy
under that one light
in the middle of all those watching.
Fight club isn't about winning or losing fights.
Fight club isn't about words.
You see a guy come to fight club for the first time,
and his *** is a loaf of white bread.
You see the same guy here six months later,
and he looks carved out of wood.
This guy trusts himself to handle anything.
There's grunting and noise at fight club
like at the gym,
but fight club isn't about looking good.
There's hysterical shouting in tongues
like at church,
and when you wake up Sunday afternoon
you feel saved.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC
.*well **** me, after writing such a revealing piece, i really need a double whiskey gob-smack... i need a drink... i really need to have drink... but it's honesty, i'm not ashamed of it... people have a harder time owning up to gay bar pop songs in their closet, like a Belinda Carlisle song... ooh... personally? i've never come across anything more **** than a pregnant woman ************ or, to mind the pursuit of the Wendol idol? exhibitionism to boot; a striptease? pare by comparison... you can't exactly possess the carnality of a woman, and the concept of the mind's eye... with a fetus, to boot.*
in terms of jerking off...
**** me,
i moved away from
fine art nudes...
found an alternative
outlet....
https://tinyurl.com/ybhzl3x5
i.e.?
the exhibitionism
of
pregnant women...
it's like peering into
a wormhole,
of sorts...
who the hell needs
****** glory-holes,
******** crap?
pull me to sight
a pregnant woman
encouraging exhibitionism
and i'll be there,
within second,
with a tissue...
**** it...
she can do it, and doesn't shy
away from?
**** is
so lost...
been catching up on
the whole American Pie franchise...
m.i.w.i.l.f.
mom in waiting i'd
love to ****
who said that jerking off leads
men to ******* ***
****** *****
who said we would turn the
******** avenue?
oops? for not being
adventurous enough?
adventurous consisting
of watching
a pregnant woman
exhibition herself,
oiling herself,
jerking off...
what... if i were married...
could probably
become the mouth and tongue
of God in terms of oral ***
******* losers...
having the negligence
stipend in allowing a wife,
as pregnant as she is...
to exhibition herself like that...
for me to pick up
the crumbs from the table...
******* losers...
i'll admit it...
jerking off to a pregnant
woman exhibit herself
beats jerking off to fine art
nudes.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 9:46 PM UTC
Star wars
star wars
What's there not to love?
Laser swords
and clone trooper hordes.
The action is thrilling,
the plot is chilling.
And everyone is just plain
badass
Starships and land rovers,
life is all in the galaxy.
The begining is epic,
*A long time ago
in a galaxy far, far away...*
What's more iconic?
Yoda so fly,
ain't no other franchise can try.
Star Wars,
my first true love.
Always wantin' to be a jedi,
destroy all sith
and bring balance to the force.
Almost may 4th,
May the forth be with you
there was 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6
but 7?
you bringin' me to heaven
Star Wars,
is there anything better
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
I want to be your franchise player;
The reason you come out under
The lights.
My name and number sewn;
A hall of famer that will
Inevitably grace the walls
To the corridors
Of your memory with
A bust of my face.
I want to be the One.
Not the backup on
The bench with a
Crooked cap on my
Head and my helmet
Between my feet.
I need playing time
With you.
I want to win.
Fiercely. I have
No intention of
Joining other
Clubs, and I
Wouldn't handle
Free agency well.
Ill put you on my
chest everyday
And go to war
for you. Point
To you from the
Field when we score.
Then come home to
You.
(Every time we're distant is the offseason. Every time we're
Together is a championship
Parade)
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC
You change my mind like a massive industrial factory.
Because flowers.
Supposing friendly.
What if therefore.
You crush my forethought in your mandible machinery
For after yellow.
Beside a lake.
Through crimson humility.
I melt under your molten supervision on the grandest scale
Melodic franchise.
Hypothesize sunbeams.
And if replace me.
You reorient my viewpoints on your conveyor belt of
liquidated mellow
jurisdiction.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:33 AM UTC
SpongeBob SquarePants is an American animated television series created by marine biologist and animator Stephen Hillenburg for Nickelodeon. The series chronicles the adventures and endeavors of the title character and his various friends in the fictional underwater city of Bikini Bottom. The series' popularity has made it a media franchise, as well as Nickelodeon network's highest rated show, and the most distributed property of MTV Networks. The media franchise has generated $8 billion in merchandising revenue for Nickelodeon.
Many of the ideas for the series originated in an unpublished, educational comic book titled The Intertidal Zone, which Hillenburg created in the mid-1980s. He began developing SpongeBob SquarePants into a television series in 1996 upon the cancellation of Rocko's Modern Life, and turned to Tom Kenny, who had worked with him on that series, to voice the titular character. SpongeBob was originally to be named SpongeBoy, and the series was to be called SpongeBoy Ahoy!, but these were changed, as the name was already trademarked.
The series was previewed on Nickelodeon in the United States on May 1, 1999, following the television airing of the 1999 Kids' Choice Awards, and officially premiered on July 17, 1999. It has received worldwide critical acclaim since its premiere and gained enormous popularity by its second season. The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie, a feature-length film adaptation, was released in theaters on November 19, 2004, and a sequel is currently in production, with a projected release date of February 13, 2015. On July 21, 2012, the series was renewed and aired its ninth season, beginning with the episode "Extreme Spots".[2][3]
Despite its widespread popularity, the series has been involved in several public controversies, including one centered around speculation over SpongeBob SquarePants' intended ****** orientation. The series has been nominated for a variety of different awards, including 17 Annie Awards (with six wins), 17 Golden Reel Awards (with eight wins), 15 Emmy Awards (with one win), 13 Kids' Choice Awards (with 12 wins), and four BAFTA Children's Awards (with two wins). In 2011, a newly described species of mushroom, Spongiforma squarepantsii, was named after the cartoon's title character.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
Any slave that escape bring him back and torcher him.
Strange, but mostly true were slave masters mentality.
So it's amazing, we still, have these slave matters today.
Oh, I forgot, we call them business owners of professional teams.
Who?
Have dictated to their slaves?
I'm sorry players.
What required of them?
When the national anthem is played?
Oh, yes it's America.
And we have the first amendment as freedom of speech.
You BETTER stand during the playing of the national theme.
No choice!
Yes, your master has spoken.
You better listen?
Wait!
Do the players realize the power they posse?
Unions, years ago brought manufactures of product to a halt to settle deals.
Players, especially the National Football League African Americans can HALT any season from being played?
Power in numbers.
Who?
Would be hurt?
The masters of the slaves.
They business owners.
Many locked into deals with a various organization to make a profit.
Cities, the economy will suffer.
All those tax breaks that cities cheaply gave to get the team.
All those soda, food businesses that make money during athletic seasons.
Sure, you lose some fans than many are like fair weather friends.
When winning, they there.
When suffering you can't begin to see them.
In modern time, the slaves have the power.
Oh, my fault, the players has the strength.
And forget about threats from THIS president.
Years, ago.
He played the owner of a franchise in a sub-par league.P
Probably, still holding a grudge cause we see many present owners gathering up to him.
And, what if?
The NBA players throw ALL their support to their fellow group.
Heck, imagine the thunderstorm of losses.
Only ones safe is the baseball owners.
The odds of these players supporting them is slim.
And that based mainly on the racial hue.
So just think of the power that players got in the NFL/NBA?
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 8:42 AM UTC
Let's go for a naked dip-
my bathing suit is cute but so is my birthday suit-
oh egg head
don't fall and crack
spill brains and embryo everywhere,
not good for the kids at all
might leave mental scars on long-term memory
let's get tatted like good old native americans
I am Chief Awesome
you are Franchise Emperor
pouring fries and salt into my arteries,
slow, delicious death
why must thou be so appealing?
Don't be so stupid
taste buds are my best buds
blooming like beautiful bulbs in berry season
blossoming
absorbing flavors and releasing neurochemicals
oh so sensible and seductive
get a hair cute Mr. Scrutiny,
you are outdated and overrated
Power-aded lemon-tossed
concluded in cuddling under stars and blankets
blame the infantry
they couldn't save themselves
poor things
just doing duties
just not all appreciated
but we do the appreciating
graphite collages and collagen fills
spill orange juice on tables
perpetually sticky
dodgeball eyes
yes we will be friends.
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 11:15 PM UTC
(I)
So concretey, these jungles
but not like this
Glass shards shoot up 45 stories
only to have tarp covered markets
populated by shouters
Oh, Powerpuff Girls on backpacks
one green
one purple
one pink
And 10 dollar Gucci bags
these people have it made
Four blocks from the world stock exchange
these people have it made
(II)
You ain't had won ton noodle soup
Or chicken feet
Or shrimp stuffed eggplant
Or food from Chinese franchise Pizza Huts
which happens to be an escargot joint
What does that say about US?
hopefully not much
(III)
Red taxis between every other car
Double decker busses
more common than city pigeons
Still the city finds time for trees
whiskery ents rising out of
ancient volcanic soil
You would think it's a city full of sin
Seven million souls, what-
that's higher than I can count
It's not
Everyone here is cute and wrinkly
Confucian
except for the young
These people have it made
(IV)
In this city, you're expected to stay
home with mom and dad
As they get cute and wrinkly
you're to return the love
Confucian
these people have it made
11 seated dinners
these people have it made
(V)
Here in this ancient city
the gravestones dot the hills
coat the hills
And then the cremation jars bury the hills
(yes, they're dead)
cough
Here's how a Chinese name is structured:
[family name] [given name]
Confucianism
and then these names fade too
These people have it made
but it's alright.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
Adieu chère maison de mes ancêtres
Cette fois ci, le sort en est jeté,
Les acquéreurs improbables, les propriétaires chimériques,
ont consigne la somme convenue sur les fonds du notaire.
Et toi, chère maison, tu vas changer de famille et d'amours.
Désormais, nos enfances envolées, ne retrouveront plus le secours,
des vielles boiseries et des tapisseries centenaires,
de toutes ces armoire en châtaignier et ces commodes de noyer,
auxquels nous rattache encor comme un fil invisible,
tant de senteurs, d'images et souvenirs fanés.
Et le tic-tac mélodieux de la vieille horloge dans l'entrée du 19.
Et ces mansardes, chargées d'objets hétéroclites que nous aimons tant fouiller.
Quant au jardin qui aurait pu être un parc,
comment oublier ses massifs de groseilliers et ses fraises des bois ?
Et les plants de rhubarbe, la sauge aux grandes vertus, aux dires de grand-mère.
Ainsi que les allées de marguerites, attirant les abeilles,
plus **** remplacées par des rosiers blancs, roses et rouges si odorants.
Cette maison de famille qui résista a tant de coups du sort,
a péri des impôts et des frais d'entretien du jardin,
du manque de modernisation aussi. Alors que tant de logements sans âme étaient construits.
Surtout de l'âge et du départ de sa chère maîtresse, ma mère, qui y avait trop froid et ne pouvait y vivre seule.
Et aussi un peu, ma franchise l'admet, du manque d'initiatives et de goût pour l'association de nous tous, de notre fratrie.
Certes l'on pourra trouver bien des excuses.
Les uns furent trop **** les autres manquèrent de moyens.
Mais dans mon fors intérieur,
Je sais que cette maison manqua surtout de notre audace et de notre courage commun a la faire vivre.
Aussi notre maison de famille fut comme abandonnée a son sort par ses enfants disperses par la vie.
Pauvre maison, nous n'avons su te garder; puisses-tu tomber désormais dans des mains aimantes, artistes et vertes !
Paul Arrighi
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
Sonnet.
Quand, les deux yeux fermés, en un soir chaud d'automne,
Je respire l'odeur de ton sein chaleureux,
Je vois se dérouler des rivages heureux
Qu'éblouissent les feux d'un soleil monotone ;
Une île paresseuse où la nature donne
Des arbres singuliers et des fruits savoureux ;
Des hommes dont le corps est mince et vigoureux,
Et des femmes dont l'oeil par sa franchise étonne.
Guidé par ton odeur vers de charmants climats,
Je vois un port rempli de voiles et de mâts
Encor tout fatigués par la vague marine,
Pendant que le parfum des verts tamariniers,
Qui circule dans l'air et m'enfle la narine,
Se mêle dans mon âme au chant des mariniers.
1.6k
*Bus poems are shorties written on the way home,
riding the M31 thru Manhattan. Often silly, often not...*
There is a contest that does not involve my P.S.F.
(Preferred Sport Franchise) this weekend,
truly don't give a good ****** who wins,
but that is no excuse to deny me my sir sore-losing,
victim status,
so richly deserved.
A triumvirate of doctor, g.f. and medical tests,
have on the field ruled,
once a year, a conjugal visit permitted,
tween my arteries and chicken wings.
there will pigs in blankets demanding attention,
potato knishes, and cole slaw juices, and a
foreign dignitary, Sayyid Cous-Cous,
lining up along side the quarterback who will be
'winging' honey and spicy passes to his favorite receiver,
this couch coach and impartial observer.
This is my Sunday fare.
If insufficiently highbrow,
for all you poetic aesthetes,
have no fear,
this athlete gastronomic,,
victim of his victuals,
will prepare mentally
by hanging with King Lear once more,
sharing a verbal tasting menu,
the day prior,
who once called me,
at a Giant super bowl party,
*“A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a
base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited,
hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a
lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson,
glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue;
one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a
bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but
the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar,
and the son and heir of a mongrel ***** one whom I
will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest
the least syllable of thy addition.”*
― William Shakespeare, King Lear
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
The tourists will be packing bags
eager to make the trip.
Not to go and see the Broncos.
Not to go and see the Mint.
They will flood the mile high city
hoping to get higher still.
Put that in your pipe and smoke,
Denver does the people’s will.
For folks who **** on Cannabis
Denver must seem like Heaven
Me I want a franchise there,
Selling munchies at seven Eleven.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
Four kings rode in with strings and skins to bring salvation to me on the streets of New Year's Eve. My friend would lend contents of bookends that induced solutions to a common teenage problem. I became incepted and indebted to the greatest escape artist, plus drowned-out voice who talked me through the agony of lonesome pains. Though association fades, those days still replay in heavy bass, or on the screaming face of a DVD case. But when handshakes are met with drunken compliments, it makes me question what it all meant. Veins no longer contain baselines or nets because the rent doesn't even cover travel expense. There are hotel pillars in a lake up town, tacky Christmas decs have been taken down, while two Jags are parked up outside dad's house. The nice-eyed lad, Welsh running track, smiling dancer and security-defying chap in a flat cap keep me from collapse. As the album dies, benign podcasts thrive. Franchise rise, repeated lines, gym life, energy drink lies and paper bag highs make laugh-cry emojis hard to find. With Wi-Fi or offline.
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 11:57 AM UTC
I scratched lyrics into the walls of this dump they call joint
finally became a tree with branches, wrote new raps every night
working out like crazy, punched my hands into walls
just like oldboy, then i became steel, endlessly tough
as my lucky number, this eight
tizzops became more popular, but never an other
sticking out my chest, ******* away all stress
albanians against serbs, greeks against turks
everything broken, everything in shards
but then comes Marissa, and she's calming me
i'm getting calm, getting calm, become
the old tizzop again, a ******* and thief
but everybody likes me, I remain --
tizzops, spreading fistfights like the Klitschko's
and I'm the most faithful, when I really feel love
not just talking about females, all my brothers
get nuttin but respect, their souls are wit me
most peeps live rushing lives, in our rushing times
they talk briefly, cause they don't know their inner
i'm not ridiculing them, cause they simply lack the words
they are lost and questions are flowing out of their ears
since they have no brothers or sisters to lean on
lifestyle like a frantic slalom, but I'm not wit 'em
putting stickers on the franchise, just to get by
I dominate every day; like the magic of the night
my raps are mania for me, me, and for me
cause I love and I have *** with my lyrics
forever being a chaser: where is Jason, baby?
without him, I won't make it through the night
life is infinity like eight, I feed you a knuckle sandwich
can you hear my c**k whistling? dem are hardcore-songz
straight out of my ***** suddenly millions of fanz
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 4:03 PM UTC
"qui es tu?"
qui es tu? Je ne sais plus. Avant tu étais l'amour, l'âme soeur, l'ami , l'amant, le tout. Mais maintenant qui es tu? Une blessure, une vilaine cicatrice , une épidémie, une nuit blanche, un malaise constant, une pensé qui honte mon esprit, un passé douloureux, un présent douloureux? une éternité? Je ne sais pas exactement comment te qualifier. Je sens que bientôt tu va devenir un souvenir lointain, un soupire désolé, une remontrance. Mais va tu un jour allez jusqu’à en être un regrée? Qui es tu? Un lit chaud pendant la nuit, glacial au matin.Qui es tu? Un étranger, une âme perdu, un esprit fou. Qui es tu? La colère, la jalousie, l'envy, le mal, la souffrance. Qui es tu? Le plaisir, le bonheur, la vie. Qui es tu? Un espoir ou désespoir? Joix ou tristesse? Qui es tu? Une leçon? Une plaisanterie? Qui es tu? Le mensonge ou la vérité? Qui es tu? Une envie ou un besoin? Qui es tu? Un départ ou une arrivée? Qui es tu? Gloire ou perte? Qui es tu? Le début ou la fin? Qui es tu? Un chapitre ou toute l'histoire? Qui es tu? Un sourire ou une larme? Qui es tu? Franchise ou hypocrisie? Qui es tu? La folie ou la raison? Qui es tu? Le bien ou le mal? Qui es tu? Qui es tu? Qui es tu? Non ne me lance pas ce sourire narquois! Non ne me dis pas que tu n'es juste pas comme les autres! Cela ne me suffit pas! Arrête! Ne t'en va pas, reste avec moi, aime moi, protège moi, prends moi dans tes bras et dis moi des mots doux comme tu le fessait avant. J’abandonne, je me rends, je suis a toi, fais ce que tu veux mais ne me brise pas ..pas pour la énième fois! Efface ce regard victorieux de tes yeux , je sais que se cache en eux de la bonté. Tu sais la bonté et le pardon ne sont pas des faiblesses, au contraire c'est de la force. L'amour non plus n'est pas une faiblesse mais une bénédiction . N'aie pas peur de me faire confiance. Pourquoi cette hésitation dans ton regard? Je t'aime! Comprends le. Je ne te ferait pas mal promis. je sais que demain tu partira encore une fois, que tu n'es pas encore prêt et que tu dois vivre libre de tout ça, libre de moi, mais embrasse moi quand même, laisse moi le souvenir de tes lèvres pour me garder saine. Peut être que c'est ce que tu es a la fin, un baiser passionné qui laisse nos lèvres rêvasser d'une prochaine collision entre eux, ce désir fou qui fait battre nos cœurs, se plaisir qui laisse nos corps tremblant après une nuit torride.. Tu es le ******
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
The new family dog
sits at the table
with sugar in his cereal
I talk to him so he won’t be lonely.
I ask him how his day was.
He looks at me
through his brown dog eyes
sitting in the chaos
of a hallucinatory disease.
I sit at the sidelines
of gradual Death.
I babysit him on weekends
and even from the shore, i can see him
on his island
chasing the tail
of dissipating thoughts.
He wasn’t always a dog.
He had a big bushy afro.
And a truckers moustache
that got him attention from the ladies.
He managed an automotive parts franchise
and travelled often.
He owned twelve of the worlds finest tobacco pipes, and
smoked *** out of all of them.
He married the love of his life
at 19 years old.
When the doctor told them, she would never bear children.
But he watched
four boys become men.
And only two were adopted.
He became a grandfather
and every passover, he sat in the throne
of a kingdom
he built.
His grandchildren
loved him
unconditionally.
When he tells me these stories now,
he sits behind glass, where he watches the kingdom.
Without him.
Sitting at the breakfast table, I want him to know:
I love you, I can’t help you.
I love you—
Goodbye.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
*I'm nineteen. I don't know where to go. What path to take?
I'm strong yet scared of people.
I'm fearless but I'm afraid to talk.
I have my strong thoughts.
I have my will. But I am afraid. I don't know where to go.
He's 23; got his 30M and his own factory.
He's 22; got his own factory inaugurated by the president.
They're in their 20's. Their bringing in a big chain of a foreign franchise to our country.
They're young. They are meeting with the big bosses of hotels.
Back to me.
Here I am. I'm nineteen. Where do I go now?*
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
Changing the channels in the middle of the night
Mixing old plots into a new program
Ugatti sells tickets to an illegal fight
Another quarter for the juke box, Sam
Patrick McGoohan strides angrily into Rick’s
But finds that he has lost his credit card
Vultures, vultures everywhere, Number Six
Ilsa falls for Major Strasser quite hard
Rick’s Place is purchased by Raymond Massey
And Leonard Cohen in his famous blue coat
Emails of transit from Kate Beckinsale, so classy -
‘Tis she who leaves poor Rick that rain-stained note
And Captain Reynaud?
He ends his days pushing each shopping cart
In from the parking lot down at Wal-Mart
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
There's a better version of me,
up, ahead. And
he loves you in ways,
I can't figure ways,
how-to. Yeah,
you cried when he
left you.
And lonely,
you screamed.
"But if he'd come back, then,"
you think,
you'd believe it? The
roads don't just sparkle, every
time that you need it.
In the poem I write next,
we're both losing games.
I press up then, catch on,
turning to flames.
In a grand winning gesture
you burst
into diamonds,
before I can remind you
about asking Simon.
In the distance, outside the door to your
basement, a crowd la-las the
Star-Spangled Banner.
From the bulkhead and foundation,
from "the Hobbit door," but,
behind me,
the Anthem goes silent.
"Not home. Headed home. Stopped
here. On-my-way."
"Where would you rather be,
than right here, right now?"
Ralph Wilson died a rich man,
with a football stadium
by which to remember him.
"Well then trace your
depression to its sources."
I'm afraid I'll never own the franchise.
There's a father, presiding
over a service,
for both of us. It's the
same priest, at every
front of the room.
Our parents are crying, regardless.
I'd say somewhere, we sit,
together,
sipping on the universe. This one
or another.
If we don't, then they do.
And they're having the best time.
But in our past,
the same one we share now,
a version of you stiffens.
She glazes her eyes, sugary.
Holds out her palm, fingers to the sky.
And he matches her thumb first,
before the four digits.
Her face bursts, all rosy.
His turns away.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
If you're heart is always over-explosive,
people will call you a maniac,
I know some folk who fall in love too easy
and they're broke and they live in 2 bedroom apartments,
their rent is like the Romans sticking
nails in their wrists.
I'm not really interested, I.N.R.I.
My younger nephews crying
because I tipped over his new toy,
I laughed way too hard.
I laugh way too hard.
Sleep before work before **** you
and **** your day,
constellations on constellations.
Everyone I admire wants to die.
We all commit to suicide more sincerely
than our current relationships.
We're all incompatible,
and no one sleeps enough.
I am a culprit too, I am invaluable,
I'm in denial over a lot of things,
drown it out with aspirin and youtube,
and vitamin D and spicy foods
and water and orange juice...
Enough coffee to drown a child,
they say it only takes three inches though
[everything's a *** joke, everything's innuendo,
or it's a gritty reboot of a silly franchise,
Robocop was ****** up in the eighties
now it's warm milk and
grandma's pull out couch].
I can't figure out why we need
two holidays to celebrate genocide,
my friends probably think I'm insane
and I'd never call them wrong.
I'm not really interested though.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 3:26 AM UTC