"fronts" poems
who lit the candles
placed so eloquently
behind purple rock?
that sculpted radiance
and chapel grace
wound in a chosen
defined way
down the spiral
stone stairs
street cars dawdle
alongside
the packer slew
biding merchants
shuffle their wares
as the front man
and pock face
sing their sullen
holy blues
cut jazz echoes
over the accompanying
gabble and drone
incense and haze
pour from
a lower trap door
sack fish, truffles
and splendid crafts shine
inside the stained glass fronts
a wide mouth snapper
with a bloated tongue
greets the
morning tide
(not camera shy
in the least!)
the fish traps
and beaneries
bring life
to the flourishing causeway
hula hoops
and circle ballers
join the
cobaine stage
favoured rogues
and mac jacks
speak easy
of the big daddy
beth’s triple by pass
taking firm hold on
tricky ****
and the nutcracker
maze ways,
taggers and
lost tunnels
of cu chi
strike a
nerving blow
a poised finger man
belts out his tune
(with a sniff sock
and iterating glare)
his nosey neighbors
cut artisan bread
(with a white wine
and jelly spread)
midwives push forward
for an afternoon
toddle and stroll
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 11:12 AM UTC
we like to shower afterwards
(I like the water hotter than she)
and her face is always soft and peaceful
and she'll watch me first
spread the soap over my *****
lift the *****
squeeze them,
then wash the ****
"hey, this thing is still hard!"
then get all the hair down there,-
the belly, the back, the neck, the legs,
I grin grin grin,
and then I wash her. . .
first the **** I
stand behind her, my **** in the cheeks of her ***
I gently soap up the **** hairs,
wash there with a soothing motion,
I linger perhaps longer than necessary,
then I get the backs of the legs, the ***
the back, the neck, I turn her, kiss her,
soap up the ******* get them and the belly, the neck,
the fronts of the legs, the ankles, the feet,
and then the **** once more, for luck. . .
another kiss, and she gets out first,
toweling, sometimes singing while I stay in
turn the water on hotter
feeling the good times of love's miracle
I then get out. . .
it is usually mid-afternoon and quiet,
and getting dressed we talk about what else
there might be to do,
but being together solves most of it
for as long as those things stay solved
in the history of women and
man, it's different for each-
for me, it's splendid enough to remember
past the memories of pain and defeat and unhappiness:
when you take it away
do it slowly and easily
make it as if I were dying in my sleep instead of in
my life, amen.
33.5k
Another silent mid-Fall afternoon
Icy raindrops slash into my neck
The forecast calls for falling thumbtacks soon
One thin umbrella folding
Just 18 feet to the front step
With champagne acquainted
But forgot how to sip it
I slurp it down, eager,
'til I sit soaked and dripping
In time, fevered minds
will lower ears made for hearing
under waves of migraines
as mighty storm fronts are nearing
So I close down the bars and stumble home under awnings
Just to search for your name among newspaper cuttings
I've read the whole issue
and I've frowned over headlines
put it down
Now, soaked or dry, I've got only time
I've wasted so much of it losing my mind
I'm blind in the rain that now sticks in my hide
and they were right--
The forecast called for this squall to last all night
Another lonely mid-Fall morning walk
I follow gangs of specters in their steps
And, in the crunching gravel, ghosts will talk
November winds come howling
The second I leave my front step
The flavor's familiar
It comes back every morning,
when sunlight and sparrows
ignore tornado warnings
So the gales pick up strength
and a small bird's bones are hollow
The clouds lay oceans down
setting many sips to swallow
"So goodnight." I depart, but circle back in my wanderings
I'll always wind up here--shaky, ash-faced and yawning
I've read this before
it's printed on poor paper
in red ink
I can't say why I'm still walking by
Those other front doorsteps that I never try
The thick thumbtack rain stopped but I can't stay dry
the ghosts were right--
But if I find your name I might stop by.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
Be gentle with us.
please.
or not
it's your call
but keep in mind that we as poets
we feel too strong
which is not to say that that is wrong
we don't ease into love, we quickly fall
we love like we're dying
we live like we're small
but in our minds.
in our minds we are flying
we feel everything at once
you wouldn't think it by looking
looking at our normal fronts
a disguise, a charade
but prey don't believe a masquerade
a poet can be but anyone
existing silently
a poet can be but everyone
existing violently
we all make up stories
we're all acting to a degree
so things aren't so different
no not so different you and me
we notice the quirks
we notice the nothings
if you meet a poet then you should believe
you should know that we
we love what we see
and appreciate all forms of beauty
for to us imperfect is lovely
perfect doesn't exist
we have those markings on our wrist
of all the awful places we've been to we kissed
we've kissed the devil when we went
to hell and back again
so now that you have been informed
that a poets heart is easily scorned
knowing we feel deeply
knowing we feel more
more than we really should I've warned
we don't just love a person when we fall
we love their whole world
we love it all
and when we're hurt it is hard to trust
and thus
please.
Be gentle with us.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 12:33 PM UTC
Progress is wasted here
the high street draped in uniform glass fronts
why shouldn't we play our bugle
to rebuke this shard ?
yet in a corner there's still a market street
refusing the final nail,
there's a shoe, bakery, cycle and jewellery shop,
in our hearts we will
wear pride to headline the clarion call
and shed anger at being accused of,
carrying congress with the past
at our coffee stall.
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC
Rugby town, of landlocked streets,
of wasted field and barefaced retreat;
I miss you now, in absence of a friend,
I miss you now, in the verse that I lend.
Suburb grove, of sleepy mist,
oh, battered housewife, oh blastocyst;
you will remain in place forevermore,
and forevermore, you'll become a bore.
Holding cell, of sporting fame,
you stole my dreams but gave me my name;
I think of you: a multi-storey view,
of happy faces, of which there is few.
Still, my town, in debt's nightgown,
the shop-fronts vacate, we're feeling down;
these streets are poisoned with names of the past,
each memoir to teach: nothing's built to last
Rugby town, of weary folk,
the private school is a private joke;
I miss you now, as I sleep through the day,
I miss the old walks, and all that you'd say.
Old market town, the aftermath,
of British summer, suicide bath;
of open mics and closing the shutters,
of waking graveyards, sleeping in gutters.
Hopeless climbs, of dreary times,
of childhood state and nursery rhymes;
each time that I come home, I know you less,
becoming a stranger in my redress.
Clock tower, chiming, chiming loud,
singing for history long and proud;
of Rupert Brooke and the question: “what if?”
What if I was born to some lover's tiff?
To some large and friendless town,
to some body of land, which I drown;
to some active place of pain unknown,
to some place that I'll not gauge that I've grown,
oh Rugby dear, stay with me,
let me live on the periphery;
and although this town seems terribly dull,
it could be worse – I could live in Hull.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
If I should have a son,
Instead of mom, he's gonna call me Support
That way he knows, no matter what happens, I'll be there to hold open the heavy doors.
And I'm gonna paint the solar systems on the fronts of his game controllers
So he has to learn the entire universe before he can say "I'll school you in that!"
And he's gonna learn that this life will bury you
Deep
Underground
Wait for you to claw your way out just to throw dirt in your eyes
But not being able to see which way is up is the only way to remind your pupils how much they enjoy the beauty of this earth
And there is hurt here, that cannot be fixed by alcohol or drugs
So when he realizes Superman isn't coming, I'll make sire he doesn't have to wear the cape all by himself
"And sweetie" I'll tell him, "dont let your head get so big"
I know that trick, I've seen it a million times,
you're just looking to impress that pretty girl on the cheer squad who picks on other kids to adjust her own self worth
Or better yet, date the girls getting picked on, then dump her to adjust YOUR self worth.
But I know he will anyways
So I'll always keep an extra supply of "I taught you betters" and "Treat girls rights"
Even though all boys learn that at a young age...
Okay, most boys don't,
But that's what moms are for
They'll teach you to be amazing husbands if you let them.
When he opens his hands to catch, and drops the ball
When the girl he likes says no to going on that date with him
when it feels like the world is crashing in
Those are the days he has all the more reason to say thank you,
because there is nothing more beautiful than the way the sun refuses to stop kissing the horizon, no matter how many hours it must spend spinning away.
And yes, on a scale of one to greatest, moms pretty much know it all
But I want him to know that this world will throw curveballs that I can't see
And he can't be afraid to put on his mitt and catch it himself
"And sweetie" I'll tell him
Remember your momma is a queen, and your poppa is a king
and you are the boy with big eyes and a willing heart who never stops trying
Your aren't big yet, but don't stop growing
And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip peer pressure and sin under your door and give you hand outs on street corners of druggies and defeat.
you tell them
that they really outta meet
Your Mother
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
in baler where the sun shines and the waves visit
is where freedom bathes under the blue skies
in the seaside realm of surfing
simple hotels line the shore
where you can run to the beach fronts
after settling in little white rooms,
and in the blue water
wait tanned, youthful surfing instructors--
local boys of the province who've grown up
with the salt water as their playground.
get on your surfboard and
join the waters,
"mag-timing ka sa alon,"—
"wait for the waves", the instructors say
and lie down on your stomach on the surfboard,
and when you do get the waves you ride them fearlessly,
you are lifted, invincible,
by the hands of the philippine sea.
and if you don't surf,
the smooth sands are there,
calling you to lie around
under the seaside sun.
and when night falls
and the waves are reckless,
you can sit on the sand
with a bonfire and some drinks—
watch the stars
with the sound of the tides as your music
and do not fear;
for in the morning
the waves will come rushing
back to the shores of Balers
to give anyone freedom
as they always do.
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
Clambering and clawing
Grasping hooks, crannies
a crown of thorns
flowering purple red blood
bright fluorescent
she wore her designer nails
to the summer ball
strapless and holding up
her rounded dignity
spoken in a plunging neckline
She flowered
was deflowered
that twilight under a silver orb
whispering ocean fronts
dropped off at her starlight home
sealed that memory
with a bougainvillea kiss
of immense sensuality
and down the drive
thinking how beautiful she was
in making memories.
years later
I still remember the look
of that velvet sky
and the nails that scoured
a language on my back.
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
Again the time has come for all to gather round the fire,
"That time again", we say, while we assess the money drained,
The looks of disappointment from the ***** with stupid attire,
And truth will leak from drink fuelled mouths, with need to be restrained.
Your mum is singing drunkenly, while flirting with the vicar,
And dad is out the back sneaking a joint with cousin victor,
The dog is ******* aunt Jemima's artificial leg,
And someone just had a turkey fart,the kind that makes you sicker.
The christmas lights have fused again, so grandad's on the roof,
Sheer will power keeps him up there,and of course, martini vermouth,
Grandma's lost her teeth,and someone screams near the eggnog,
They're sent flying across the room and land in the fire on a log,
You feel your patience slipping as the pandamoniem mounts,
With thankless moans of "Oh well, its the ****** thought that counts",
And not forgetting Glenn, invited by your mum, but why?
So you and he can marry, and honeymoon in Hawaii.
With no idea that Glenn is gay, i guess the joke's on her,
I mean, what straight guy wears his y fronts entirely made from fur??
The night draws to a close,as bitter, crying family leave,
And relief is all too short, as there's still new years eve!!!
Dec 20, 2009
Dec 20, 2009 at 7:54 AM UTC
“but if you have to move your best friend’s body…
…you’re on your own.”
Your best friend dies
Before your eyes
Somehow stays alive
Then what?
***** salt-licked hair
Brittle and frayed by medicine
World’s unfathomable weight
Trembling beneath the Wisdom Tree
Her whole being crumples (arrugar)
But her life-force remains intact
Body bone
Running on spirit reserves
Why is that?
She stands and cries
Staring into ether
I sit
Wringing my hands
Her tears strike the ground
In tree-gecko unison
'''
Pacific parasite super-strains
Blood coated throat
The full range of abuse’s color on all fronts
for decades
Attempted assaults, ****
Dengue
Giant Centipede venom to the skull
But worst of all
Rootlessness and fear
the monkey on her back
had a monkey on its back
and was smoking a cigarette
'''
Have you ever seen someone
Completely broken?
Corpsic shell of a woman
Gaunt, wan in the tropics
“Don’t put your trust in walls…
…walls will only crush you when they fall”
Brick-bludgeoned body
The shrapnel lay like
Sun scorched
Novice-woven baskets
At her feet
But now she can see
And breath
Real breath
'''
Genocide’s a ***** yes.
Africans seem fatalistic to Americans
Baby boy body, Grandpa human- shield
“They’re your babies”
Short-lived, yes
But now they have peace
Witnesses still weave the jungle
What do you do with a friend who’s
Seen real atrocity? Evil?
'''
I’m learning.
Prayer is power
Will transcends the concrete (Bunkle, too.)
She serves realness only
Her seeking hands unweave the sacred
Time is of no luxury right now
Serve people through love
and Grace awaits discovery
'''
I’ve never carried a bleeding body.
I needn’t “fear the terror by night,
Nor the arrow by day”
But I saw someone perish
And resurrect
What a gift
What a gift
Gubaadagem, Tinmad.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
Ophelia, Ophelia,
voracious daydreamer,
how dare you
upset this delicate orbit.
your hands were the kiln
for my sloppy and misshapen mind,
but that was nothing,
relatively, compared to the way
your eyes reflected lost souls.
my dear, it's a catastrophe.
now when the moon chides me,
and the stars reek of your smile,
I run my hands across
the fronts of empty dresses
that you wore years ago.
Ophelia, Ophelia,
I recall the way your eyes shone
like the peak of madness
and how your shoulder blades
touched in a subtly avian manner.
how simple are the remnants
of your existence, of your melancholia,
I cling to them like a ***** to touch-
and I know they will bring you no closer.
stale shadows haunt my lingering eyes;
where you should be standing
I see only lost time.
Ophelia, Ophelia,
smoldering star in my hindsight,
stone in my chest-
I'm sad to see you go.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
A star of blood you fell
from the point of the hypodermic
singing of fabulous beasts &
spitting out the *** of vowels
Your poems explode in the mouth
like torrents of ***** on a night
full of zebras & bootheels
Your ghost still cruses the river-
fronts of midnight assignations
in a world of dead sailors carrying
armfuls of flowers in search of
your unmarked grave
Your body no sanctuary for bees,
Death was your lover in a rain of
broken obelisks & rotting orchids
In the tangled rose of a single heartbeat
I offer you the shadow of a double
profile,
two heads held together at the bridge
of the nose by a nail of *****
smoke
in the long night's dreaming
& memory of water poured between
glasses
In my mailbox I find a letter from
a dead man & know that for every
shadow given
one is taken away
Yet subtraction is only a special form of
addition and implies a world of hidden
intentions below a horizon of lips
thin as your fingernail sprouting
mysteries in the earth …
The ace of spades dealt from the bottom
of the deck severs the hand which
retrieves it & the eyes of Beauty
sewn together peer over a black lace fan
in the ****** sunlight of a Spanish
morning without horses
The Belt of Orion is loosened
before you as you remove the silver
fingerstalls from your mummy hands &
kneel to plunder the nightsky in a shower of
bitter diamonds.
(Somewhere under a blanket someone weeps
for a lover.)
Peace to your soul
& to your empty shoes
in the dark closets of
kings with no feet!!!
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
Off to the park a picnic yeah
three women a wean
and a man who don't scare
well not too easily...
as long as the swings
don't make him queasily
up the slide ok wee girl
she's gonna fall my toes all curl
nope she seems to have it dialled
little hurricane dynamo child
then the swings
for about12 seconds
three turns on the roundabout
maybe less I reckon
then back to the slide
God I am puffed
hasn't the wee girl had enough?
Ok I grab achicken roll
two bites its in a muddy hole
this picnic is turning out to be
endurance playing for Jeremy
tried the kids swing I got jammed
like wearing steel Y-fronts
my privates were crammed
ok so it was all my choice
I say in a funny high-pitched voice
"Jesus go up" I am told so I go
Only she calls me that now you know
where she got it who can guess
got an idea won't confess
(better than being a skinny Welsh Tw*t)
starting to flag like I smoked a ***
need an emergency sicky bag
go home soon and lie down quick
after picnic and playing I am quite sick
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 7:55 AM UTC
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, not as one that weeps
I come once more; the city sleeps;
I smell the meadow in the street;
I hear a chirp of birds; I see
Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn
A light-blue lane of early dawn,
And think of early days and thee,
And bless thee, for thy lips are bland,
And bright the friendship of thine eye;
And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh
I take the pressure of thine hand.
4k
Kindness is not nice.
‘Nice’ is soft and inoffensive
‘Nice’ is careful and non-assertive
‘Nice’ is easy and effects no change
she’s cotton wool trying to soften the pain
but not stuffed tight, just resting on the surface
ready to be blown away or pressed
under a muddy boot of disinterest
‘Nice’ is a damp whisper
a mouse cowering in the corner
hoping you will blink and miss her
lest she attract your notice
lest she presume too much
and cause a whisker of offence
Kindness is not like that –
Kindness pushes in, quick and nimble
a hero with no mask, unasked
unexpected, dodging the turmoil
leaving nothing unsaid and little undone
in her pursuit of creating a counter-disruption
Kindness defies convention
Kindness carefully aims her weapons of choice
and advances relentless and regardless
of any and all obstacles in her way
Kindness perseveres all the love-long day
Kindness doesn’t delay
Kindness is gleeful for the chance of invasion
ready to disarm with expert compassion
with her regiments of patience
armed to the teeth with gracious
placing tanks of good faith on all fronts
Kindness confronts
Courage is her currency, boldness her language,
trust and hope are her passports to lands long unexplored
happily wearing all-weather clothing
for any and all unexpected storms
Kindness transforms
Kindness weakens all defenses
and challenges all camouflaged pretenses
Kindness pours itself out to fill unhealed wounds
and on shrapnel-seeded battlefields
she - blooms
Kindness is not 'nice'
Kindness isn’t in this for the likes
Kindness bites
She’s a take-on-all-comers, undefeated delight
Kindness never bails from the fight
never fails, never takes flight
Kindness is nothing casual,
nothing incidental
This Kindness is elemental
She is Avengers-Assemble,
End-Game-level
monumental
Kindness is not 'nice'.
Kindness is loving awe-ful.
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
Disturbing Behavior
disturbing behavior, is what you'll see from me,
disturbing behavior, is what you'll get from me,
I have only one thing, on this troubled mind,
what next disturbing thing, can this freak show find
obnoxious revealing, of my inner faults and fears,
gentle concealing, of my blow gun darts and spears,
telling you one thing, when I'm meaning something else,
hoping I conceal the truth, releasing my magic spells
cause I am so caught up in me, its all about my wants,
hiding behind my fears, showing artificial fronts
revolting persuasions, is what I try to employ,
persistent evasions, from the truths my ploy,
never giving straight answers, to any questions asked,
have to keep my feelings, yes my fears stay masked
disturbing behavior, is what I'm all about you see,
disturbing behavior, is what you'll always get from me,
there's just one thing, on this troubled mind,
calculating the next disturbing thing in this hollow mind
cause I am so caught up in me, its all about my wants,
hiding behind my fears, showing artificial fronts
David Nelson aka Gomer Lepoet
New song lyrics, get me to the recording booth quickly
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 10:00 PM UTC
They are silent and beautiful,
gorgeous in in the white halo,
cemented in a beautiful terrazzo,
baring the names of fallen soldiers,
the European soldiers that fell in Wars;
second and first and the heinous silent wars,
i hope this is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre,
only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian.
Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa,
in India , panama , Latin America and europe,
the active fronts in which the allies fought ******
they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas,
in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa,
in Matisi when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar,
They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved
on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires,
which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman
in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands,
he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard,
for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption.
I walk around the commonwealth graveyards,
in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire,
looking for the names of African soldiers ,
who died in thousands fighting for the queen
the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth,
Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with
the second duce Benito son of Mussolini,
fighting for Hitler,for Shintos in the European war,
i have seen no name of any African,
I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo,
who was conscripted into the first world war,
Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo,
Biket back after seven years in 1918,
carrying Wandabwa's Belt,
Wandabwa died in the field,
Where was he buried, he is nowhere
Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries,
I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo,
who was conscripted in 1940,
to fight against ******
he was conscripted on his nuptial evening,
even before he had had the first ***
with his new wife, he went away crying,
he never came back, his name is nowhere in the graves
the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen,
Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world.
you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt,
whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen,
you hear someone is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya,
or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya,
you meet a man that is of the circumcision age group,
Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini,
Keya is subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR
the African sound for KAR is Keya,
in reference to mass conscription of Africans
into the KAR, to fight ******
A child born during that time is Keya,
A man circumcised during the time
is in the age group of Keya,
A simple lesson in regard to our people,
taken away to fight the colonial power
and left to died and rot away in the bush
with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial,
that come along with the death of soldiers,
who passed away in the battle field.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
Closely relevant to the ideas
we shared,
they bring nothing to the table
when battle is on the fronts.
Gloating freely with no chance of a successful endeavor
and after everything that's come to surface,
your perception reflects which light
within grows stronger.
As one, you are nothing.
Together, we will rise beyond expectations.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
A Cold Affair
She'd been the queen from the moment she was born everybody felt her. She knew it and at some point became sure of it, but nothing lasts forever in the circle of nature all four siblings got their turn and every one of them brought their own drama with them. She was the cruelest of the four because when she came around everything in it's different existence had their mixed reaction towards her. Some animals would hibernate and humans would almost do the same but for them it was a part time thing specially when her moods were up. She would make them feel her every single move they would get cold, change their usuals clothes and trade them for their warmer versions which usually stay stuffed in the deepest parts of their closets. They'd put on scurves, boots, track suits to hand gluves since even their hands would nearly freeze she was one hell of a cold women. As her circle was nearing the finish line on her last run she would become the meanest. To be honest she was never cruel or mearnt to torment, being cold was the only way she knew how to show love and by the cold breeze and a wave of cold fronts it was her only trying to be remembered as another sibling was about to take their turn. She would over express herself and yes she would be felt as it was winters last goodbye.
Swoo
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
Everything has become so different in a couple of months,
I have become the most beloved on all fronts.
But the mere thought of getting married,
Gives me goosebumps.
My heart starts pounding,
And my body becomes numb.
But just to become Mrs. from Miss,
I have to forego on all these?
Life would be so much different,
And every move so uncertain.
Responsibilities that I never took as a daughter,
Would be forced upon me, as a daughter-in-law.
My complaining mother will have nothing to nag about,
Seeing her daughter as punctual as a clock.
All these thoughts fills me up with anxiety,
That now I have to take care of a new set of relatives and a SOCIETY.
Now everyone would expect me to become the nicest,
But why they don't understand? I am still Daddy's little princess.
Yeah i know, overthinking won't help,
And even if i make any mistake, he willl be there to weld.
Sep 21, 2020
Sep 21, 2020 at 11:01 AM UTC
I’m losing grip on deeper thoughts,
I wish to stand on war torn fronts,
I turn away from all I’ve fought.
I cannot mask my clear remorse,
Un-satiated hungry fear.
I must leave this to run its course,
My dusty bones are crumbling here.
I am a force to all I love,
A fearful storm that leaves no trail,
A burden they cannot hold up,
My storm, it carries hell and hail.
Slipping back into the sea,
My mind is lost inside of me.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
Give a Centimeter, taken is a Light-Year.
Ask for an Inch, you're lucky to get a Centimeter.
Buy an Ounce, get a Gram.
Sell a Gram, taken is an Ounce.
Corporations are the ****** dealers of modern society:
Subsidized and Multi-Faced
Financial fronts for the Military-Industrial-Propaganda Complex.
They seek our cognitive tranquilization.
They seek our placification.
They seek our pacification.
They seek our inurement.
They seek our inurnment.
They're in it for their own profit and that of their friends,
as well as the perpetuation of sociopolitical-economic stratification;
not the happiness of the customers, or anything so ******* quaint.
-
"Satisfaction Guaranteed" doesn't mean ****
in this materialistic world.
A corporation saying 'Satisfaction Guaranteed' is like Monsanto saying it's milk is Organic;
A paper thin lie designed to get your money out of your hands and into their coffers forever.
Of course, their "Satisfaction" is "Guaranteed";
they have our money now,
and all we have useless, expensive toxic waste. (Literally and figuratively.)
The Swinepeople love that **** of theirs to roll around in.
The overwhelming nature of our Crapitiolism is underwhelmingly superficial.
-
"Time to bring it down again.
Don't just call me pessimist; try and read between the lines.
I can't imagine why you wouldn't welcome any change, my friend."
-Tool, Aenema
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
Dear Night;
The day breaks like a child's neck,
And there she is -
Like a fresh sand hills beckoned seductively
By childish poetry that
Rings off the fingertips like marshmallows
Burnt from too much *****
A cradle erupts:
Two deaths turning into one,
A turning sensation of philosophers timid to experience
We are what?
We are the writhing fiends caught on
By electricity sought upon by
The high priests of a no man's land
Billy the Kid
Tragic care giving fiends telling tales
Of naturality that grow like figs neath virgins
And we share the fragrance of foreigners
Dancing neath' their dead bodies for we
Are the store fronts of the epileptic rich
Sharing nothing, we forgive the dead angels that
Share in nothing but their own salvation
And we the nation hold their hands as they are handed
Their medals that shine and beat against innocent
Sun where we - Good Humans - will always feel inferior
I take thee for my own prisoner
Let's go and check out the sun for mine own
I said I was having sun...asleep
Mine own mind was bent, crooked, doomed
Warranted evil will of course be put to light
Teller tell me what I wish to know
You tell me the secret
You wish to hold, oh' you wish to keep
We are the children you asked for
But you are so unwilling up accept
But the press is something that is intangible
They are spread spearers that are accepted as they are:
A good german; a fair dutchman; a funny Chaplin;
Genius moving with insecure marijuana.
But she presses her own soul on the glass
Never lasting - a pure bread horse
There she stands, like an egyptian statuette incarnate
Breaking through the clouds like a pillar
Bent only for salvation and glory
A cool informant next to Hemingway that breaks
The next vinyl that's hot mixed with devil sweat
Someone breathes something on my neck and I'm soon
To wonder what the next place I need to be is
So...I wonder...Myself is the one to take care of this mess?
Here we are - stagnant - like a tombstone,
Wondering what we are meant for and wondering
Where we are not supposed to go.
We have our labels.
We have our names.
And, yes, we have our jobs that were
Given to us by companies that have no face,
Only a name and yet we obey...
Too push a confidence you have to ask me
What I wish to know for the assignment that no one cares about
After I get what people will listen too
What the truth is a very thing
I love the hash that beeps like a dead hyena on the road side
Howling like a lost lover without someone to love
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
*Reflections of Paris this morning , for all the inhabitants of the world , especially those inspired by beautiful works of art and architecture ! Those fortunate enough to have dined in world class eateries on cuisine prepared by Master Chefs , marveled over the downtown skyline high atop prominent monuments ! Impassioned lovers perusing her avenues , window shopping store fronts , boutiques along famous boulevards ! Senior couples recalling their yesteryears with great joy , frolicking , happy children playing in parklands , feeding songbirds with euphoria and curiosity , strolling walkways along the riverbank at Dusk with great wonderment and personal reflection
The poet and poetess , musician and thespian , ballet dancer and street performer .. To lovers young and old , the continued hope of gaiety and splendor at every turn !
She is lovely indeed , the Queen of all that is beautiful on this Earth* ..
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC