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Tryst Sep 2014
As I sit beneath the midday sun,
It too sits in a cloudless
Light blue sky

Behind to the left,
Away from the sun's glare,
The blue sky is richer and deeper,
Unbleached

To the right,
The constant babble
And raucous laughter
From a green and white marquee

And here I sit,
In the middle of it all,
Happy and alone

A football too sits here
On the grass,
Seemingly lost in thoughts,
Watching ducks on the pond

Soon the beer and wine
Will flow freely,
The gaggle of excited ducks
As the babble leaves the tent
To mock the afflicted

They will delight,
Kicking the ball,
Passing it around,
Laughing,
Shouting,
Screaming,
But to what goal?

Is that all I am today?
A football to be played with,
A childs toy for the babble
Who enjoy their endless
Gaggle?

They talk at me,
And all I hear is
QUACK!
Zach Gomes Mar 2010
Joseph only nine sat at the dinner table, conversation passing around, a muffled, undulating vibration of utters.  “Don’t stare like that, it makes me uneasy, Joseph,” chided Joseph’s mother.  The hum resumed.  An hour later the table was emptied of its contents, except for Joseph, alone with his uneaten plate of food.  The TV, flickering its wantonly swirling amalgam of colors onto his mother’s face.  “Joseph, please, eat your food.  I’m worried about your eating habits,” her distant voice languidly taking its time to reach him from the couch.  His sister, all of seventeen, sat down across from him.  “Hey, kiddo,” in her reassuring singsong.  They talked and he ate.
Joseph hadn’t liked school since the kids began to make fun of him.  They poked and prodded him with words sharpened by blissful ignorance.  “Crybaby” the boys would jab, their penetrating and mockingly wide smiles, like jaws.  Each clinging to their inclusion, girls, in their giggling gaggles pass by him, atypically hushed.  “Yeah, he’s the one, the one that cried alone in the bathroom like a big baby” amongst themselves, but barely audible from the outside.
Joseph in his room, crowded by the darkness, lost in his imaginings.   The doorbell cries out for attention.  “Hey, kiddo” his sister affectionately, leaving the lights off.  She takes her jacket and leaves. “I’ll see you later Joey.” Hers and her friends’ voices waft, beckoning, upwards through the floor into Joseph’s room.  “What took you?” “Had to get my jacket from my brother’s room.” “Oh, he’s strange.  Sometimes it scares me how weird your brother is.” And Joseph, listening intently, as if balancing his entire weight on one single twig in fearful anticipation.  And his sister, her words forming slowly, then with gathering willingness, “Yeah, he can be pretty weird sometimes.” “Yeah, let’s get going.”  Joseph’s heart dropped, like a stone falling into a lake—less like a lake than an indentation filled with jet-black ink for water, and the stone, falling to the bottom, curling up on itself in the darkness.
Joseph, turning to his mother, her silhouette eclipsing a chunk of hallway light.  “You broke the mirror in my room today Joseph, you ought to clean it up now,” voice straight as an edge, though she layered it with a loud blanket of sweetness.
“No!” screamed Joseph.  “I won’t!  I wish dad was here, he would never make me do what you make me do!”
Her rage bursting suddenly through her self-control, flooded the entire room.  “Don’t talk to me like that!” her sobs even louder than his screams. “Its not easy for me!   Its not easy to do this alone, can’t you please try to understand…”  Joseph was having trouble hearing her, her voice and all else fading, as if the world’s voice were being smothered by a pillowcase, and he became distracted in the silence that enveloped him.
Joseph looked up and to the right, saw the stars, friendly and welcoming, with bright, honest smiles.  He decided he would rather be with them.  Joseph left his room, floating upwards, upwards, still higher, and to the right.
Joseph stretching his eyesight, saw something approach as he drifted further and faster into space.  As if from a horizon that couldn’t be seen and didn’t exist, there approached a colorful object.  Jupiter flashed by, looking very much like his mother’s TV.  It’s random assortment of colors whirled violently around in that confined space.  He said out loud, Jupiter is the most beautiful planet, I’d like to go there.  The planet whisked by.
Joseph, not disappointed in the least, kept floating.  He left the solar system, the galaxy, and came to a black hole.  It called him in, like a Siren, and Joseph smiled an angular, disjointed smile, and fell inward into the black hole’s embrace.
Seán Mac Falls May 2015
Flowers so rare and fine,
Missing from this dry world,
Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet
No ones and none despaired,
They then planted their garish
Seed in blot sun, most sodden,
Soppy soils sprayed which fell
On the plainest, most commoner
Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought,
Then, all who came to view where
But gaggles of proud mediocrity
Who arrived to revel and preen,
Unjust, they remade this earth,
Once lively, to be lame, what
Celebrations they now need
What praises they do crave,
Sadly, they could not know,
A flower for the weeds.
Before we met,
Warm summer days,
Were as eternal,
As the life,
Of a goddess,

It was common
For gaggles of girls,
To tighten ranks,
When he walked
Around the corner.

His jaunty stride,
And brooding glare,
Causing the mothers
Of teenage girls
To warn their daughters

My own mother's words
Fell on deaf ears,
As the growl
Of his bike
Filled my silence.

The words he spoke,
From poets mouths,
Long since dead,
Yet in his voice,
Even more profound.

I'd grown tired
Of my world,
Of endless summer,
And wished for
The taste of winter.

So when he came,
Astride his bike,
I took the helmet,
And sat behind.
Held on tight.




I choose to feel,
Those winter months,
Not kidnapped,
By unrequited,
Obsessive love,

She did not see
My mother dear,
The way I needed
The annual thrill
Of summer death.

So I came back.
To sun my skin,
And kiss her cheek,
Only for a while
Each year.

Before the growl,
And brooding stare
Broke the summer
To bring me home.

And free my soul.
Kinetic waves of sweet water blessings , steaming blacktop
thoroughfares , trickling from gutter caps , rushing from downspouts , tapping my bedroom window like a childhood friend calling me to venture out
Petrichor melodies , Sun glistening Red Tip hedges
Wetted , diamond zoysia gardens
Culling roadside berries with cool naked
feet , with operatic fantasia rumbles the ubiquitous ' Thunder Roll ' , Blackbird gaggles resume their familiar treetop chorus in the ebony sky retreat of the afternoon Chattahoochee Summer heat* .......
Copyright July 29 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Doug Potter Oct 2016
I wish all my writing  depicted gaggles
wedging south over mossy lakes.

They more often wander to  legs,
tangerine tongues, the taste

of sweat and smell of cheap hairspray;  
for thoughts like these, I feel no
                                          shame.
They tried those amphibians
got their rocket ships ready
croaking if only ... gulp
we could reach heaven

The king of the frogs
lifted himself of his slimy throne
gulped and with gaggles
with spittle and slime
said to the stars so you shine
and in that moment so did time

Croaking with fury
he is called to account
all the fears of yesteryear
if only to reach heaven.

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Mgboafor, my mothers name.
Names of seasons to live and love
Her mate Nkwo the market
Recognizable had no fight for Eke
As Oye lies around the corner.
Season, season and seasons

Seasons of exchange and banter
Exchange to cherish and savour
What is Eke for Afor musses
As Nkwo do no reject entreaties
And Oye mingles with joy
What Afor, Nkwo and Eke shares and offeres.

Mgboafor, Mgboafor Mgbafor
Your mate Nkwo has long gone
As it never done on us
Her sayings and fears lingers:
Monday has replaced her
And Tuesday supplanted Eke
Oye weeps its exit for Wednesday
As Thursday has usurp Afor.

Your children mourns and groans
In the weight of Friday
To celebrate your exist
And  Saturday swallowed  up
Your caked frozen body to
Mother earth, Thanking God on Sunday
As another Monday hovers around.
Exchange in rounds and rounds
Movements in circles and circles in rounds.

Afor, left without notice
To join Nkwo her mate
Turning deaf hear to Ekes entreaties
And Oye exists in  oblivion
Completing   defiance and disappearance
Of ego and a people’s prides
Voiding recognitions for your children.
Who have traveled far and away

They sojourned in lands and places
You only heard and dream of Yesterday.  
Today the children toiled and labor
In ways you never imagined.
The years pass by the days rolls in
Seasons craws in and out
Your children labors in pain and tremor
In fashions and factions  
They toiled in torn cloths
Crowded by not just the people from faraway land
But contents and ideas never known and sold in our market.
They are crowded with wears Eke, Oye, Nkwo and Afor
Never sold and will never sale.

Mgbo-afor, Mgbo-oye, Mgbo-eke and Mgbo-nkwo
The celebrated names of our markets
Depicts our seasons of beauty and time
The beauty of our women and their wares
Admirable wares that flaunts and flatters the men
Wares that puts us on our toes and gaggles our inside:

Okafor,Okoye,Okonkwo and Okeke
Your male version who clogs around
Peeping your substance dreaming
Making joy of  your swinging buttocks as you walk pass
Farting and panting from the labour the night before.
Celebrating their exploits and conquest
Taking pride you belong to them only.


Okonkwo keeps his name not your ideal
For Mgbonkwo long lost her ordeal.
Okafor strives without its full form - Mgboafor.
Speed has overtaken Mgboeke as Okeke now wears torn cloths
Working and walking in torn ideas and concepts.
Mgboye long lost the arguments to Okoye
A mirage of our time
Living life abridge ideas like carcass.

Our men…..?
They no longer have strengths that
Gaggles Mgboafor’s likes and climes.
As no Virtues chides and glitters the face of  Mgbeke
No Tickles to defines Mgboye’s and Mgbonkwo's personalities.
For we now live in season of pity and regrets
Rounds and rounds in formless circles
No fashionable logic in today’s changing sphere.
The truth of  our logicday
Gary W Weasel Jr Feb 2011
Do you know you're bleeding,
Before you see your blood?
Does loneliness burden the heart
When about gaggles of babble?

Yet where is my tourniquet?
Oh sweet tourniquet...
For the taste of iron,
Is too much, often.
Written Feb 11, 2011 @ 9:37 AM CST
Around the room
I parade your stain
to gaggles of impassive faces.

Nobody asks where it came from,
who published their carmine
mark on my cheek.

But as I say hello to whatshisname
I rerun last night’s episode,
the Merlot-riddled memory.

The way you gently leant across,
your decorated lips on my skin,
and afterwards.
Written: January 2016.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time - all feedback welcome. Please note the title may change. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP at some point in the future.
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2019
.
Flowers so rare and fine,
Missing from this dry world,
Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet
No ones and none despaired,
They then planted their garish
Seed in blot sun, most sodden,
Soppy soils sprayed which fell
On the plainest, most commoner
Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought,
Then, all who came to view where
But gaggles of proud mediocrity
Who arrived to revel and preen,
Unjust, they remade this earth,
Once lively, to be lame, what
Celebrations they now need
What praises they do crave,
Sadly, they could not know,
A flower for the weeds.
.
Butch Decatoria Apr 2016
You are
worshipped
like a regal gilded thing,
charismatic and proud
you are

A people pleaser
with a stern strength
like stone
a face
within a smile
which outshines and belies
the mysteries beneathe
kept well away
those closest
have the faintest of clues
the best of you
learned & removed
A people pleaser

And still
they run to you
in babbles
in gaggles
in herds
to catch you speak
songs of birds
nightingale
hyperkind words
that lift
hope and fallacies
your friends far from plenty
a people pleaser
And still

They covet the time
when you christen the dusk
full of stars and its dust
in their weeping eyes
shower you with adolation
gifts of virgins
virtues
or savage relations
They covet the time.

You are
their lord of lush
their harbinger of pleasures'
promise
a great septre
to baptise them
of sin
release
You are

A man
in a crowd,
pulled in all directions
loud in your reflections
fair to those you meet
shelter them
those heavy
with concrete
streets
A man

And how a man becomes king
your passion and touch
which outshines and belies
lost lust
and a wuthering
heart
of lions
if only they knew
of what I know
of you
with me
we start anew
I am the evidence
another apostle
disassembled
apart I'd
die
unknown
how change is noticed
like a shadow
underfoot
or a deed behind a grin
a footnote
of your transformation
a light
within.
Eye am the evidence
How a man becomes
                                      King...



*(Love is the crown
and you are chosen...)
Edit version from original found in www.writerscafe.org/poeticfluffer.
Rejoice upon the subtle murmurations -
of angelic voices , gaggles of blackbirds performing
within naked hardwoods , Whitetail companions
dwell o'er living , wetted pasture , wintered neighborhoods
Novembers invisible strength racking evergreens ,
cold cover mingles with tall Pine canopies  
Fall turned , brown sugar fields with calling Herefords ,
bound for eventide shelters* ....
Copyright April 26 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Reinhardt  and  Hendrix , snowflakes , unscripted speech and the month of March ! Schools of fish , butterflies in flight , true love , dreams , the gaggles of blackbirds in Fall . You and I have the power of deja vu coupled with the gift of improvisation , like musicians , keys or boundaries exist but we are granted the freedom to choose any note within these parameters not unlike our brief time on Earth , for better or worse !
Copyright October 1 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
When the 'Canadians' return to the countryside in November ,
morning gaggles will fly right by my very window !
Off for a break on the banks of Port Lake , to rest a spell from their
arduous travel , to stretch their wings , collect their thoughts and get a few winks !
Up in the morning for a quick 'Dixie Breakfast' then back to the business
of travel along the river .. Cruising down the Chattahoochee with a brief rest stop in Columbus , then back to 'The Blue' , nonstop and bound for home in warm , serene Florida ...
Copyright March 3 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Afternoon storms smother the candle of Tuesday
Cars come and go by shuttered portal , gaggles of cautious blackbirds evacuate West as a gust of wind opens a screen door  
No thoughts to pen
No blissful outcome to portend
Devoid of August sunshine pleasantry
Riding the high-speed symptomatic causeway
Searching for a better tomorrow* ...
Copyright August 12 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
what is it, gaggles, giggles, hiccups, frivolities of nonsense, you can stream me all of them to perform the rightful description - point being, like any "ally" to an idea, i move up the chain of history, beyond pole, czech, russian... there's the pearl, the oyster to attach myself into the ethnicity counter-germanic, slav, with a missing e? well, słowianin (swovianin - sw'oh-via-nin, you alright on the consonant count, brat?!) słowo = word. i could be called mad, but then i write parallel to what i see, and what i write is what happens before my eyes, obviously mismatched to say the least, and never the perfected hindenburg perfection of "waiting for it"... but this isn't a back to the future prediction of lightning either.

e-ver -
            i-ver;
  talk about a need for a grapheme...
             it's just: ha ha ha ha... funny...
     i remember this one time,
my ex-g.f. younger sister...
  the one that became my muse:
cushioning lips -
  almost ***** -
     you know: fat, plump to invite
cordiality -
                         you know the problem
with poles migrating?
  they don't congregate,
hammersmith is an exception of
an area highly concentrated by poles,
otherwise?
    a pole meets a pole in england:
what a surprise!
    i saw you buying polish beer...
  żywiec?
          a **** good beer...
                     mazo mazo mazowsze (sz = sh
cz = ch, yzwz) -
                  one hand knows:
the H catches the vowels - but it also
serves as the pivot for laughter -
  aH hA hA hA!
           batman? probably the only
"superhero" worth investigating,
   given that all the baddies are batman's
alterego...
              two-faced joking billionaire
who's enigmatic with a pet penguin to boot...
a "superhero" who's only "super power"
is a **** load of money...
and some grease in the cranium...
          really, the russians are behind all of this?!
i find that the germanic tribes of lore
can never find themselves agreed-upon
singularism of an origin -
the french will remain french,
the germans german,
       lost the spaniards -
the english were always a tad bit paddy
mongrelling themselves with celt...
                in an anglophone realm of
language -
    it's much easier to identify yourself
as a slav, than a pole, a czech, a slovak,
       a russian,
                             a bulgar,
      a roma,  
                          a croat,
                     a slovene,
     funny... it's almost desirable, to be able
to identify yourself in the most accessible
           and broadest spectrum of tattoo...
   in the end there's only western europe
   that's described as western at the limit of
berlin...
       never helsinki...
                     and my god, so much land after
berlin -
            tilting toward *anadyr
...
                        the process of subsetting in
the anglophone world -
          if only welsh and gaelic was more pronounced
in this realm,
perhaps then the english could identify themselves
along a more germanic heritage,
embrace it, and not treat their affairs
down the simpleton route of a football skirmish.
i actually can't find any "english" in all
honesty - on these isles it's easier to
name a gael and a pict, a wael too,
  but an anglican?
                what are they, really,
  anglo-swabians, anglo-saxons,
   anglo-pomeranians?
     these days you're already talking about
                            anglo-slavs & afro-saxons!    
i'd still prefer a blackbeard sharpshooter
  (3:1 mixer of *** & pepsi) -
                    or a flaky monotonous-****
cosmopolitan;
  just saying, who am i to judge,
       i once tried laughing gas -
                  and didn't even laugh -
        as always, the sometimes apparent banality
of cogito per se came up with all the necessary gags;
because it shouldn't be, the prompter of
all "necessary "gags"?
     to consider the brain as devoid of thought genesis,
since man tends to think about the entirety of
his body-geography -
     nuisance, or nuance?
                       thinking is the unnecessary
action that resolves no necessary "action" -
         it's a free-falling limb -
                whenever a prompt to kick,
to throw, to spin,
                            to mix - never is there
an equivalent prompt to think...
             that said: to truly meditate is to harness
a slingshot's worth of straining -
to refrain from thought -
                     to allow the building up of strain -
prior to a release such as this...
                  and from what i found is that:
thinking revolves around a quasi-claustrophobia...
its boa constrictive presence suffocates -
   until it reveals what is its most naturally
ontological about it: pathos & irrationality;
obviously if scrutinised beyond this -
   a homing device for specified interests -
               thought in autism -
                                thought in specialisation;
but by a majority rule-of-thumb:
          a pathology and the most
                 irritable irritability - irrationality:
the random selection of non-coherent set of
"intertwined" set of facts.
Norbert Tasev Mar 2021
Gaggling gaggles are bluffing, and they can imagine being immersed in screens in five-minute positions; they burst like imaginary greats with low IQ! They're shrewd! Navel peeps and self-appointed snowmobile self-propelled! “They maniacally print little-known relationships as they turn from *** lovers to consolations! The World puffing on stilts stands for hijackers of hope!
 
The pumpkins of grandparents swim like yellow rotting fruit in the buzzing idiocy! S rhinoceros-brain gorillas boldly stab their fangs while it lasts a night of artificial seance! Only the suddenly attacked lizard millionaires and fake Predators still bask in the golden sands! For every other livelihood, an enduring creature is dying with its wind-lined wind cramps exploding daily into an arrogant phlegm-like!
 
World-beautiful mermaids also all pass out; thirsty intellect has already escaped the conversion and another stumpy **** is being made in electric brains! Man stands as a selfish carnivorous pond and the Executioner's Time Index also returns! The constantly functioning Brain is constantly shrinking and cannot feed more Estonians; the outrageous free thinking thickens on a pinhead! Airborne dirt poisons the drying up possibilities!
 
In the lap of lasting Peace before Man, the suddenly attacked, crowded camp of penniless caresses clings to, while thinking intellectuals can shovel fu… diligently after others!
Jamie L Cantore Mar 2016
Among, or, in dispersion thru,
The great misty and smoky view,
Of a Springtime gaggles' morning peal
Sets the pageant as all seems surreal.

By candlelight, and hearthside fire,
With shadows dark out in the mire
Which knocks me out if truth be said
When looking out by window ledge.

I hear the windy banks call my name
As I begin to drift, and start to dream
Of all the passing most precious things
That I see, which do so have effect on me.
Olivia Kent Apr 2015
At the end of night there is morning.
In morning shadows hides a light.
The nightingale calls and the whale sings.
True love and joys, all nature brings.
Maturity brings forth gratuities.
Tips for living to the max.
Riders on storm clouds.
Sky getting louder, gaggles of geese.
Calling lambs, maternal sheep.
Not followers with bellies of perfect yellow, not lemmings or chasers,
hunting tornadoes.
Strength in discovery of passionate words.
Swans trumpet, chickens' cluck.
Thus far into life who gives a **!
(c) Livvi
Seán Mac Falls Sep 2017
.
Flowers so rare and fine,
Missing from this dry world,
Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet
No ones and none despaired,
They then planted their garish
Seed in blot sun, most sodden,
Soppy soils sprayed which fell
On the plainest, most commoner
Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought,
Then, all who came to view where
But gaggles of proud mediocrity
Who arrived to revel and preen,
Unjust, they remade this earth,
Once lively, to be lame, what
Celebrations they now need
What praises they do crave,
Sadly, they could not know,
A flower for the weeds.
Jamie L Cantore Feb 2017
Among, or in dispersion thru,
The great misty and smoky view,
Of a springtime gaggles' morning peal
Sets the pageant as all seems surreal.

By candlelight, and hearthside fire,
With shadows dark out in the mire;
Which knocks me out if truth be said
When looking out by windows ledge.

I hear the windy banks call my name,
As I begin to drift, and start to dream,
Of all the passing most precious things
That I see, which do so have effect on me.
Chris Slade Sep 2020
Friday night, half five. Offices, factories,
fish docks, shops’d unload…
Pan-stick applied, lippy, slap, fresh scent…
ancient Brits in finest 'warpaint' woad.
Oxford Bags, double breasted jacket, 10 ****,
Brilliantine and Brylcreem.
The Hull to Withernsea train stood ready
with a full head of steam.

The preened, the pummed - the chancers, romancers…
loves young dreamers, the loved up dancers - .
Laden with laughter, the Friday night
‘With’ Special lurches out of Hull…
15 miles of glistening steel…
an escape route from the drudge, the cludge,
to ‘Crazy Night’ chances of a naughty weekend.
It’s anything but dull…      

Paragon to Scullcoates,
Southcoates & Marfleet
the carriages already full to burstin’
and the wackiness awaits.
Hedon Speedway, Rye Hill
and Burstwick trundling by…
Hedonists through Hedon’s Gate
sleepy Patrington, Hollym… With!

Piling off the platform toward digs
and guest house fun, stuffed weekend bags…
A thruppeny bit to the sack truck boy
and one of your precious ****.
We’re carousing down the street,
half the city must be here
and the feeling… well it’s reet!
Gagging for a beer - but first…

“Ooh, Mr & Mrs Smith is it?”…
the landlady asks with a knowing wink.
Bags in, **** out - into The Alex  for a drink…
before tripping to The Queen’s and 'Crazy Night!'
Tuppence and a jam jar (don’t ask) gets you in
and it’s mayhem - out of sight!
What a din! Lively band, cheap drinks… what a night!

Girls giggle in gaggles,
dancing round their bags…
The lads... a beer, a laugh, a leer
and passing round the ****.
The whole of Hull turns out in our With
on a summer’s Friday night.
1935… the town’s throbbing…
will it, ever again, see the like?
One of my dad’s many ‘businesses’ when he was in his teens was wheeling bags from Withernsea Station to the ‘digs’, guest houses, that people stayed in on ‘weekenders’ away from Hull… He used to make it all sound great.
Tuppence and a jam jar? Back in the day I suppose a jam jar was currency! They used to get supplied back to the bottling plants! Those were the days - Before today's recyclng!
btw… The Withernsea locals call their East Yorkshire seaside town ‘With’.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 23
Francie Lynch gets it! (The Thin Red Line)

https://hellopoetry.com/francie-lynch/

“A poem is like a tickle,
it gives both joy and pain:
with blissful tears and tearful
giggles, you'll read that poem again.

A poem is exactly like
a damaged heart in
need of surgery:
a cut that heals,
a line that
leaves a
scar along your heart.”
F. L.
<~>

I,
now in possess
of said thin red line,
where they cut me
just so, opened
stem to stern
for a rethreading repair, a repaving
of the highways & byways of
my little blue engine that
almost but couldn’t quite could but thought…
b e l i e v i n g
it could eke by for a little longer

new observable routine,
first item of my daily rising
now includes a pre-diurnal poetic
extraction~*******~ejection,
an intro~introspection
of an
introductory, petite reflexive
contemplative
reflection
of life’s mysteries,
like enjoying that
first bang of eye~opening conscious breath and a
disruptive need to spill
a few verbal beans before the
daily dead~lines of to do’s
strangle me into oblivion

a morning dispatched
by the poet paperboy
on his cardio bicycle

with
tearful eyes,
and many mirthful
gaggles of
giggles

yep,
a tickle
too,
no
extra

charge✅
James R May 2018
Fresh and familiar. Without a glance,
The oily crimson smears.
Investigation festers, fragments. You are not
Alone. Wise echoes crow. But,

what do they know.
Of blots which twist and tear.
Previously unbeknownst terrors they rear,
What a mess.

Mere sight repulses and sickens,
Inside no clot can keep or
Confide. In those who cheep and grasp;
Gaggles assure - assanine.

Out ****** spot! I banish thee!
Cleansing with unholy water; tainted rose.
I ought reach this point eventually
And yet.

Cherchez la femme, alas
To seek is feeble,
unbecoming to attest.
When this weak ends,
let me lie.
A poem about weakness.
Butch Decatoria Apr 2018
Creation’s in the distance...

Dreams
Vast fingers
Light

The lovely numb
In twilights’
Silent snow
Storms

Lust
Plays slow
The honest shadow
Shine on
Unfearful
While waiting
Smoke
Waves
From our house
From nature
Blue rides of lonely
Bones
Break in shade
Skin and flowers
On stones & doors
Of malleable deeps
The Wild unquiet
Worry
Running
In games
Shaping seeds, roads
To desert dust
Bowlderizing
Reality’s
***** milk bare
Touching
Midnight mischief
Futures’
Flames
Picture frames
Fallen ugly
In the early
Wee corners
Of crowded rooms
Drinking cups of ink
Gaggles of
Greys fathers
Founding
Landing
Pretends bleeding
Heart

The perch of birds
Hardly choose
The lovelorn
Small talk
With Lotus asleep
Searching everyday
For the way
To clarity
The unseen
Pitch/ walls whispers
In tongues
Katauta s afloat
In the brilliance
Without their bliss
Hiss
Loss of sense
Across the pond / commons
Nest
Dragons conversing
With bone and unknown

Barely a caress
Those voices
Of rest
Eyeless watching
With distant ache
Unlearned well
Brown and blackouts
In cold teeth
Of wealth and hell
Where wish
Teaches classes
How to be foolhardy
Rocks off
To cosmic heights
Iron bare
Lessons of stained
Wood
Fires
Painted stares
In heels
Of steel / existence
Blame
The richer
Glitter
Not spark or secret
Precious hearths
A scent of silver
Bells
The thunderous
Imagination
Of living
Proof

World dies without
Light
Love
Life / no truth
No wonder..
Approximately 41500 words posted to here...
T R S Dec 2019
It turns out that gobbling up gaggles of desperate souls is a perfect way to con humankind.

I really don't mind being wrong, and occupying the space of the poor.
That's nothing more than asking me to be who I always was.

What does bug me is offering hope from the top of Olympus, and then patting yourself on the top your back,

when in fact,
You're the weakest.

Finding the slightest pimple on your face in the morning would set
you back so many hundreds of years,

It makes sense how selfish and petty people can be.
Because life is so hard and blinding, it would take a chosen person,
so special, so real.

It would take a real human being for us to realized what a human should be.
Mohan Boone Sep 2020
The Bear's Paw
standing at the bottom of the hill
guarded by psychedelic sandbags
filling in the cracks opened by the daily pilgrimages of sheepdogs 

King Kong cries
his battery acid caught with it's guard down on the wrong side of town
bearded vultures, pecking his ears in the rain
and his chin setting down a towel on a **** beach while people touch each other,
everywhere

Pol ***
reeeeeeeeeeling.

hundreds of millions of tiny microscopic parasites
dancing in gaggles while a 140 year old dog lies dying,
slowly steering his magic carpet through a stratus
of lightly spiced sausages

The Popo,
all the gear but beached like blue whales on the wrong end of a tsunami 
lions have played backgammon for a thousand years around this watering hole so tell me why
after so many famous moves
would they get bored now?

old man, with tobacco eyes and a homemade pool cue
his dancing demons his own and his chin working from home
you can't win them all but if you hit the ball with conviction 
you might just catch onto the coat tails of an incredible journey

King Kong has been divorced 3 times and has never met his kids
Daddy Kong packed a swimming pool with watermelon's when King Kong was merely a glint in the milkman's eye and told him that he would DANCE
WITH PINK DOLPHINS
because he was the fruit of the pangolins 
and that's what pangolins were born with the right to do

tobacco eyes eyes the black
the parasites swipe right, go on dinner dates, then give birth to 10 baby parasites in under a minute.
the baby parasites grow hair,
learn to ride bikes,
travel the world,
then settle down.
sand-pit. wax roots. cheat.

before you've even squinted to see the next train,
thousands of great great grand-baby parasites are getting dressed up for their first day of school
all in the time it takes
for a pint of Guinness,
to finish ******* ITSELF.

LOVE, in every stain on the carpet
a lifetime of 10/10 potatoes
shirts, tucked in - just like it says on the rota
stories of adventure and death traded in phone boxes with infinite shelves and shipping containers loaded with questions

answers always the same - 
same ****, mate
different day, mate.

The Bear's Paw
standing at the bottom of the hill
old wooden door wide open
love stained carpets buttered to the edge with the marmalade of the free

no King Kong's, 
no pangolins,
no PINK DOLPHINS.

just microscopic parasites
and loyal sheepdogs
who have travelled across a thousand fields 
sat waiting to bewitch you with their tales
Dawn peeks over rippling navy lake

where gaggles of geese honk

flying in zaging vee form



I can hear chirps of robins 'n

blue jays outside my bedroom

window visualizing their winged flight



deer are already hiding invisibly,

while skittering squirrels, bushy tailed,

pack their jaws with acorns



brisk winds whoosh coaxing leafless

trees to branch dance, shimmy 'n shake

while meadow grasses do the limbo
Nature, Thoughts
Butch Decatoria May 2020
Break time smokers digging for gold
Oblivious finger flicks a winning nugget
Outside, from the nose, flung without direction
Gasps gaggles of gossip girls unamused
Emptying casinos fearful of mucous, or swine flu.
Reality’s TMZ, latex gloves and masked celebrities say
Stay at home, with your cigarettes and boogers in ashtrays.
Amidst a ****** of declines

Lie heaps of somber morrow.

Leered upon by a pack of morose

Lured by a school of utter dispose

Through tides of hungry Prides

My gaggles of  dreams took flight;

My shiver of desires slept the night

A congregation of mind's elation.

An arbitration of puns and nouns

With a sense of little to an ounce

Is all this morning ever took

For a smile to look good.
2023

— The End —