"gauge" poems - Hello Poetry

"gauge" poems

You seeing me rapping will never happen Before that I’ll start cappin Walk off like nothing happened Since I’ve mastered this art of war I tend to take things too far Don’t give a **** who you think you are Your rap handle doesn’t exist anymore My rhythms galore, your rhythms manure Best left in a bag On your steps At your front door Hottest your rap crap will ever get I’m so polished this is a blemish not a scrimmage I treat you little ******* Like a teacher’s pet Up against a Vietnam war vet Giving you your first shoots Flipping the script Double barrel twelve gauge extended clip Special grip pressed against your lip Having a hard time talking **** A pistol whip left your tooth chipped Fake rappers rapping hard No street creed; they ain’t legit This wack imitation **** Got me ****** off Don’t get me started you rip offs should get lost at all cost dealing with a real boss I can handle a loss Testing me lyrically, you must be previously ******** Now you are dearly departed I’m styling on you I’m wilding Bloodline of Goliath So go ahead start a riot With my mic on autopilot You can get chewed like trident Eating wack MC’s essential part of my diet this ain’t even a battle verse it’s a gift and a curse running its course on my high horse

0

Oct 7, 2014

Oct 7, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC

Freestyle Rap Battle

You seeing me rapping will never happen Before that I’ll start cappin Walk off like nothing happened Since I’ve mastered this art of war I tend to take things too far Don’t give a **** who you think you are Your rap handle doesn’t exist anymore My rhythms galore, your rhythms manure Best left in a bag On your steps At your front door Hottest your rap crap will ever get I’m so polished this is a blemish not a scrimmage I treat you little ******* Like a teacher’s pet Up against a Vietnam war vet Giving you your first shoots Flipping the script Double barrel twelve gauge extended clip Special grip pressed against your lip Having a hard time talking **** A pistol whip left your tooth chipped Fake rappers rapping hard No street creed; they ain’t legit This wack imitation **** Got me ****** off Don’t get me started you rip offs should get lost at all cost dealing with a real boss I can handle a loss Testing me lyrically, you must be previously ******** Now you are dearly departed I’m styling on you I’m wilding Bloodline of Goliath So go ahead start a riot With my mic on autopilot You can get chewed like trident Eating wack MC’s essential part of my diet this ain’t even a battle verse it’s a gift and a curse running its course on my high horse

Continue reading...

My beautiful blue skein of yarn, Here in my bag you sit, I'd love to pick you up to knit, If only for a bit. But clothes need washing and babes need baths, And food needs cooking too, Besides, I'd have a hard time choosing, What to make of you. You see, my stitches were not even, My gauge, no one could guess, My beautiful blue skein of yarn, You would not have been impressed. But oh how I've practiced, how I've improved, I'm sure you'll find it so, My stitches fly right off my needles and sit in pretty rows. My gauge is constant, my edges neat, now I am ready for you, But still that nagging question comes, what with you will I do? Maybe I will make of you a felted wooly bonnet, And everyone would stop and gaze and cast their eyes upon it. I'll wear you on holiday, we'll march in a parade, I'll prance so proudly, show you off, and say, "yes, you're handmade". Maybe I will make of you, a purse, like those I see in Vogue, I'll put in you my favorite things, and then, we'll hit the rode! We'll travel round the city, and everyone will see, How beautiful and remarkable a skein of yarn can be. Maybe I will make you gloves, My baby's hands to cover, And everyone who saw her'd say, "her mother must really love her". A hat, a purse, a pair of gloves, your beauty for all to see, But, only if I stop and knit, Now look what you've made of me, Your potential's not all I see...

0

Oct 25, 2014

Oct 25, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC

My beautiful blue skein of yarn, Here in my bag you sit, I'd love to pick you up to knit, If only for a bit. But clothes need washing and babes need baths, And food needs cooking too, Besides, I'd have a hard time choosing, What to make of you. You see, my stitches were not even, My gauge, no one could guess, My beautiful blue skein of yarn, You would not have been impressed. But oh how I've practiced, how I've improved, I'm sure you'll find it so, My stitches fly right off my needles and sit in pretty rows. My gauge is constant, my edges neat, now I am ready for you, But still that nagging question comes, what with you will I do? Maybe I will make of you a felted wooly bonnet, And everyone would stop and gaze and cast their eyes upon it. I'll wear you on holiday, we'll march in a parade, I'll prance so proudly, show you off, and say, "yes, you're handmade". Maybe I will make of you, a purse, like those I see in Vogue, I'll put in you my favorite things, and then, we'll hit the rode! We'll travel round the city, and everyone will see, How beautiful and remarkable a skein of yarn can be. Maybe I will make you gloves, My baby's hands to cover, And everyone who saw her'd say, "her mother must really love her". A hat, a purse, a pair of gloves, your beauty for all to see, But, only if I stop and knit, Now look what you've made of me, Your potential's not all I see...

Continue reading...

How do you gauge democracy, when democracy has been corrupted? How do you know what is just and what is right, when the system itself has fallen apart and the original idea has been completely lost. Lost to the wayside for a quick profit.

0

Jul 24, 2012

Jul 24, 2012 at 1:17 AM UTC

Gauge Democracy

How do you gauge democracy, when democracy has been corrupted? How do you know what is just and what is right, when the system itself has fallen apart and the original idea has been completely lost. Lost to the wayside for a quick profit.

Continue reading...

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.

0

Mar 14, 2014

Mar 14, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC

Rugby, Warwickshire

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.

Continue reading...

What I'm imagining isn't considered pretty You don't want to know where you're sitting What I'm imagining isn't considered pleasant We're inappropriately using a pheasant What I'm imagining doesn't go with God And is laughed at because it's odd Into my life they peer Trying to insert fear My owl head on a swivel My rabbit ears perked When people don't act civil And decency is shirked I needed answers For my cancer I find them in love and pain They both seem the same I begin to view the rain As a type of gain Everyone knows love's scorn Which leaves me torn I can't help but feel my situation differs Something about the rejection seems stiffer So I become a shapeshifter To avoid the hate gifters To avoid bearing the shame Of being called names I know other people have it worse Sometimes that feels like a curse I can't gauge the importance of major events In my life I don't know whether to think they're intense Or just right Maybe I'm just being dramatic But these instances aren't sporadic When those that I love Push and shove I start to wonder if I'm broken or stained Until I realize we're all burnt by love's flames We all have a path to travel And they're all made of gravel Our feet become sore Which affects our core We find people below us on the totem pole To know how it feels to treat someone cold For when our enthusiasm for love has faded It's easy to become jaded There are things we're ashamed of That morph us into something unrecognizable In which we should be truly ashamed In the mirror we look the same But our actions are toxic We become radioactive We see where our stock sits And become merely reactive And it's hard to find grace After being punched in the face But one must remember punches come in all forms And we must not punch back to survive the storm

0

Oct 18, 2017

Oct 18, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC

What I'm imagining isn't considered pretty You don't want to know where you're sitting What I'm imagining isn't considered pleasant We're inappropriately using a pheasant What I'm imagining doesn't go with God And is laughed at because it's odd Into my life they peer Trying to insert fear My owl head on a swivel My rabbit ears perked When people don't act civil And decency is shirked I needed answers For my cancer I find them in love and pain They both seem the same I begin to view the rain As a type of gain Everyone knows love's scorn Which leaves me torn I can't help but feel my situation differs Something about the rejection seems stiffer So I become a shapeshifter To avoid the hate gifters To avoid bearing the shame Of being called names I know other people have it worse Sometimes that feels like a curse I can't gauge the importance of major events In my life I don't know whether to think they're intense Or just right Maybe I'm just being dramatic But these instances aren't sporadic When those that I love Push and shove I start to wonder if I'm broken or stained Until I realize we're all burnt by love's flames We all have a path to travel And they're all made of gravel Our feet become sore Which affects our core We find people below us on the totem pole To know how it feels to treat someone cold For when our enthusiasm for love has faded It's easy to become jaded There are things we're ashamed of That morph us into something unrecognizable In which we should be truly ashamed In the mirror we look the same But our actions are toxic We become radioactive We see where our stock sits And become merely reactive And it's hard to find grace After being punched in the face But one must remember punches come in all forms And we must not punch back to survive the storm

Continue reading...

Small talk is much more of the former than the latter, small, definitely, but I've rarely, ever, talked. My favourite? "How Are You?" As if the true gauge of such a complex question can be summed up in a random stop and chat. My response? "not bad", or something similar no doubt, but sometimes, I feel like being honest... honestly... i feel like boo radley in a town full of atticus, feel like i deserve no more than the back of the bus, feel like every single word that i say, is another cliche, just another cliche, feel completely silent, scream with no effect, hope to find a true meaning, it still hasn't happened yet, feel divided, from this joke we partake in, where every single victory, is simply, a fake win, why is nostalgia the only feeling that's appealing? back when inadequacies weren't worth concealing, that's all i cherish, that's all i want now, and instead i'm standing here, and you're wondering how... am i? “...How Are You?!” when fate's gentle whisper turns into a scream, and crashing down come all of your dreams, a roaring tide from what once was a stream, tell me, is everything as lost as it seems? "when one door closes, another one opens!", that's nonsense, i'm staring at a one-sided peephole, hoping, that the people that said they would help, and forgot, truly feel how the hell i've felt. ...that's how i am.

0

Jan 21, 2011

Jan 21, 2011 at 10:14 AM UTC

Small talk is much more of the former than the latter, small, definitely, but I've rarely, ever, talked. My favourite? "How Are You?" As if the true gauge of such a complex question can be summed up in a random stop and chat. My response? "not bad", or something similar no doubt, but sometimes, I feel like being honest... honestly... i feel like boo radley in a town full of atticus, feel like i deserve no more than the back of the bus, feel like every single word that i say, is another cliche, just another cliche, feel completely silent, scream with no effect, hope to find a true meaning, it still hasn't happened yet, feel divided, from this joke we partake in, where every single victory, is simply, a fake win, why is nostalgia the only feeling that's appealing? back when inadequacies weren't worth concealing, that's all i cherish, that's all i want now, and instead i'm standing here, and you're wondering how... am i? “...How Are You?!” when fate's gentle whisper turns into a scream, and crashing down come all of your dreams, a roaring tide from what once was a stream, tell me, is everything as lost as it seems? "when one door closes, another one opens!", that's nonsense, i'm staring at a one-sided peephole, hoping, that the people that said they would help, and forgot, truly feel how the hell i've felt. ...that's how i am.

Continue reading...

People are ... Funny ... !?! They Now ... make me laugh ... You talk ... They DON'T ... listen ... !?! MP's ... keep restricting ... IGNORANCE ... in people ... has now become ... SICKENING ... !!!!! Kinda gets me to ... " Thinking " ..................... What a ... CRAZY WORLD ... !!!!!! Girls ... Loving girls ... Men ... Killing men ... !!! Abuse of our children ... by some who ... Teach them ... ??? But ...... What about those ... ? with ... Abusive children ... ?!? Those who ... Don't Care ... about those ... who ... Made Them ... !!! Adults are now ... being chased by ... Children ... ?!? Teenagers ........ RAGE ... !!!!!!! Their acts of ... Aggression ... are now ... OFF THE GAUGE ... !!!!! Words on ... This Page ... are my feelings ... Today ... What more can I say ... ? I write things ... This Way ... to avoid seeing life behind bars ... in a cage ... Seems like ... ... " End of Days " ... is Not ... far away ... !!! But Many ... DON'T LIKE ... The things that I say ... because ..... Things that I say ... Reflect on ........................................ What's TRUE ... !!!!! But Many think wrongness ... is just .... TV News .... But .... " Some of it's " ..... True ....... and can happen to ... YOU ... !!! So .... What would you do ... ? if ... Sadness and Misery ... Tainted ... your view ... !?! Probably ........ LOSE YOUR COOL ... !!!!!!! Be an *** ... or it's ... Mule ... Give in ... to clues ... that you ... HAVEN'T BEEN ... true ... !!! True about ... " Things " ... that ... Luxury brings ... Like ... " Flash Golden Rings " ... !!! or ... Diamonds that ... BLING ... !!!!! Well ... Here's the ... " Dilemma " ... ??? Life is for ... LIVING ... but now we see ... KILLING ... for ... Mobiles that ... " Ring " ... ?!? or Jewellery that ... BLINGS ... !!!?!!! So .... What will you choose ... ? to think you're a ... KING ... ? cos' of ... Your .... Diamond Ring .... ? and .... wait for the ... KILLER ... to come with ... " The Sting " ... !?! Oh now ... Just for you ladies ... Let's ... " Rework " ... the scene ... You've got to ... Realise .... Luxury's ... for a ... " Queen " ... But ..... to those who ... Don't have them ... Your Bling ... is ... OBSCENE ... !!!!!!!! Then YOU ... like the ... Fellas' ... Might find that ... " Your Dream " ... is SHATTERED ... One Night ... by a ... RUTHLESS ... " Street Team " ... !!! I'm CHANGING ... like seasons ... because of ... " These Reasons " ... cos' actions ... some make ... are Equal to ... TREASON ... !!!!!!!! I REALLY ... am Dark ... like that man ... Liam Neeson ... This life has ... MORE MEANING ... !!! than ... " Custom Made " ... Jewellery ... !!! Like Bruce ... when i'm writing .... My fists ... bring the ... " FURY " ... !!!!! cos people act ... CRAZY ... !!!!! Their outlook seems ... " Hazy " ... to make themselves money .... Their Slim's ... REALLY SHADY ... !!!!! Do you ... Trust your lady ... ??? to bring up ... " Your Baby " ... When Coc' ... is ... " The Drug " ... she likes to take .... DAILY .... !!! ? !!! Well .......... Maybe just ... " Maybe " ... ??? If you see ... what I see ... when you ... look around you ... You may just agree ... with ... A Brother ... like me ... The world we now live in ... is TRULY .... ..... " CRAZY " .....

0

Nov 23, 2016

Nov 23, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC

" Crazy World " ... A Poem written by Big Virge 25/4/2005

People are ... Funny ... !?! They Now ... make me laugh ... You talk ... They DON'T ... listen ... !?! MP's ... keep restricting ... IGNORANCE ... in people ... has now become ... SICKENING ... !!!!! Kinda gets me to ... " Thinking " ..................... What a ... CRAZY WORLD ... !!!!!! Girls ... Loving girls ... Men ... Killing men ... !!! Abuse of our children ... by some who ... Teach them ... ??? But ...... What about those ... ? with ... Abusive children ... ?!? Those who ... Don't Care ... about those ... who ... Made Them ... !!! Adults are now ... being chased by ... Children ... ?!? Teenagers ........ RAGE ... !!!!!!! Their acts of ... Aggression ... are now ... OFF THE GAUGE ... !!!!! Words on ... This Page ... are my feelings ... Today ... What more can I say ... ? I write things ... This Way ... to avoid seeing life behind bars ... in a cage ... Seems like ... ... " End of Days " ... is Not ... far away ... !!! But Many ... DON'T LIKE ... The things that I say ... because ..... Things that I say ... Reflect on ........................................ What's TRUE ... !!!!! But Many think wrongness ... is just .... TV News .... But .... " Some of it's " ..... True ....... and can happen to ... YOU ... !!! So .... What would you do ... ? if ... Sadness and Misery ... Tainted ... your view ... !?! Probably ........ LOSE YOUR COOL ... !!!!!!! Be an *** ... or it's ... Mule ... Give in ... to clues ... that you ... HAVEN'T BEEN ... true ... !!! True about ... " Things " ... that ... Luxury brings ... Like ... " Flash Golden Rings " ... !!! or ... Diamonds that ... BLING ... !!!!! Well ... Here's the ... " Dilemma " ... ??? Life is for ... LIVING ... but now we see ... KILLING ... for ... Mobiles that ... " Ring " ... ?!? or Jewellery that ... BLINGS ... !!!?!!! So .... What will you choose ... ? to think you're a ... KING ... ? cos' of ... Your .... Diamond Ring .... ? and .... wait for the ... KILLER ... to come with ... " The Sting " ... !?! Oh now ... Just for you ladies ... Let's ... " Rework " ... the scene ... You've got to ... Realise .... Luxury's ... for a ... " Queen " ... But ..... to those who ... Don't have them ... Your Bling ... is ... OBSCENE ... !!!!!!!! Then YOU ... like the ... Fellas' ... Might find that ... " Your Dream " ... is SHATTERED ... One Night ... by a ... RUTHLESS ... " Street Team " ... !!! I'm CHANGING ... like seasons ... because of ... " These Reasons " ... cos' actions ... some make ... are Equal to ... TREASON ... !!!!!!!! I REALLY ... am Dark ... like that man ... Liam Neeson ... This life has ... MORE MEANING ... !!! than ... " Custom Made " ... Jewellery ... !!! Like Bruce ... when i'm writing .... My fists ... bring the ... " FURY " ... !!!!! cos people act ... CRAZY ... !!!!! Their outlook seems ... " Hazy " ... to make themselves money .... Their Slim's ... REALLY SHADY ... !!!!! Do you ... Trust your lady ... ??? to bring up ... " Your Baby " ... When Coc' ... is ... " The Drug " ... she likes to take .... DAILY .... !!! ? !!! Well .......... Maybe just ... " Maybe " ... ??? If you see ... what I see ... when you ... look around you ... You may just agree ... with ... A Brother ... like me ... The world we now live in ... is TRULY .... ..... " CRAZY " .....

Continue reading...

Does evil exist? Well, does it, or not? I demand an answer And if it does, hold that thought Because if wrong does exist We must face the reality That calling something wrong means There's a right way things ought to be But if wrong does not truly Exist in bright colors Well, what, then is justice But a meaningless construct? If the **** of a child In all histories and cultures Can be called pure evil Even by society's worst prisoners If the ****** of innocents Is forever and always An evil in society That can't be tolerated If imprisonment of a woman Like chattel for sale Being held as a *** slave In her own private hell Or murdering Jews Like Hitler's evil plan Or starving millions unjustly In Stalin's Ukraine Or killing the masses For political expedience Culling babies in China Or locking up dissidents If beheading of heretics Is inherently wrong Or even violating your privacy Or invading your home If these are universally bad And there's meaning in words Then there's universal good That our souls are drawn toward Something more than just philosophy Because that lacks authority And if good is defined by the majority Then what about the minority? Tyrants run roughshod When rights come and go At the whims of the powerful Because what they say goes No, evil is something More than laws, or from cultures Or philosophical sophistry From ivory towers To try to stop badness Is really to defend That there's a god of pure goodness Who wants us like him We can discuss who that god is And what is his substance But the least we can do Is acknowledge his existence You can say that religion Starts evil wars and such And you might just be right But you've just proved too much Because if there is no god Whose nature defines goodness Who are you to call war bad Or **** evil, or hate, darkness? Who are you to sit in judgment Of the religious who you think hate you? If there is no moral standard That makes hate wrong, and judging too? If morality is nothing more Than just a social contract Then it's just he said/she said And there's no moral compass You see, your compass is as good as mine And that may be fine, generally Until the ****** asserts his own Warped idea of morality What makes his wrong And yours universally right? That's a tough question That keeps philosophers up at night Because indeed, if there is no god There's no guilt to assuage For the wrongs that man does Because there is no such gauge It's like measuring empty Without knowing what full is Or like trying to describe love Without knowing who God is

0

Jun 24, 2014

Jun 24, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC

Does evil exist?

Does evil exist? Well, does it, or not? I demand an answer And if it does, hold that thought Because if wrong does exist We must face the reality That calling something wrong means There's a right way things ought to be But if wrong does not truly Exist in bright colors Well, what, then is justice But a meaningless construct? If the **** of a child In all histories and cultures Can be called pure evil Even by society's worst prisoners If the ****** of innocents Is forever and always An evil in society That can't be tolerated If imprisonment of a woman Like chattel for sale Being held as a *** slave In her own private hell Or murdering Jews Like Hitler's evil plan Or starving millions unjustly In Stalin's Ukraine Or killing the masses For political expedience Culling babies in China Or locking up dissidents If beheading of heretics Is inherently wrong Or even violating your privacy Or invading your home If these are universally bad And there's meaning in words Then there's universal good That our souls are drawn toward Something more than just philosophy Because that lacks authority And if good is defined by the majority Then what about the minority? Tyrants run roughshod When rights come and go At the whims of the powerful Because what they say goes No, evil is something More than laws, or from cultures Or philosophical sophistry From ivory towers To try to stop badness Is really to defend That there's a god of pure goodness Who wants us like him We can discuss who that god is And what is his substance But the least we can do Is acknowledge his existence You can say that religion Starts evil wars and such And you might just be right But you've just proved too much Because if there is no god Whose nature defines goodness Who are you to call war bad Or **** evil, or hate, darkness? Who are you to sit in judgment Of the religious who you think hate you? If there is no moral standard That makes hate wrong, and judging too? If morality is nothing more Than just a social contract Then it's just he said/she said And there's no moral compass You see, your compass is as good as mine And that may be fine, generally Until the ****** asserts his own Warped idea of morality What makes his wrong And yours universally right? That's a tough question That keeps philosophers up at night Because indeed, if there is no god There's no guilt to assuage For the wrongs that man does Because there is no such gauge It's like measuring empty Without knowing what full is Or like trying to describe love Without knowing who God is

Continue reading...

Not an amulet, an off white vertebrae; bone. Brass wire, a loop at one end. It bends as to make sure this will fit. A gauge that measures mesmerization, And we both must get along, but Not because we're not tough enough: Most of us aren't soft right yet. So many stiffs, folly after folly. The whole carful of loose cadavers, Dangling, their feet hang with wet snow And carnage, Not even musk deer pop up, They've all gone. Roosting in a parabol, With X's sprayed to their groins. Burning pop couples Doing it like laboratory mice. Capybaras Hiss, my own burnt blood is also Flocculating. Turn the cup upside down and See the fire's balmy lachrymal opaque Moss while it does not drip. This is the story of man you asked me about; Devoid of a muzzle, fur onto his chest; coarse Hair in a garland. It is the God of a tool that buzzes into the night. A plateau for this most sensible study. We feel another coming. And when you awoke, your larval tongue My eye mush, a song of verse and melancholy. This half list of greatness, a tally we both wish to see.

0

Apr 26, 2014

Apr 26, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC

Not an amulet, an off white vertebrae; bone. Brass wire, a loop at one end. It bends as to make sure this will fit. A gauge that measures mesmerization, And we both must get along, but Not because we're not tough enough: Most of us aren't soft right yet. So many stiffs, folly after folly. The whole carful of loose cadavers, Dangling, their feet hang with wet snow And carnage, Not even musk deer pop up, They've all gone. Roosting in a parabol, With X's sprayed to their groins. Burning pop couples Doing it like laboratory mice. Capybaras Hiss, my own burnt blood is also Flocculating. Turn the cup upside down and See the fire's balmy lachrymal opaque Moss while it does not drip. This is the story of man you asked me about; Devoid of a muzzle, fur onto his chest; coarse Hair in a garland. It is the God of a tool that buzzes into the night. A plateau for this most sensible study. We feel another coming. And when you awoke, your larval tongue My eye mush, a song of verse and melancholy. This half list of greatness, a tally we both wish to see.

Continue reading...

Your truck knows it all It contains our whole relationship It knows the beginning, middle and end I loved seeing those lights Knowing you were driving to come pick me up It made me really happy And sometimes Even a little nervous But in a good way In the summertime We had the windows rolled down because it was hot In the winter it was cold But we'd find a place to park and make it July warm I almost lost my innocence in that passenger seat We did so much in that truck We talked Laughed Shared Kissed Argued Cried Stressed Freaked out Held each other Loved That truck knows it all Those camouflage seat covers still hold our passionate sweat The drooping brownish red ceiling absorbed all our words, feelings and keeps them there Even today The plastic in front of the gas gauge doesn't feel as whole without one of my pictures covering it The center console probably still holds one of my notes Saying how much I love about you Who knows, the glovebox still may hold my garter The lace with a tear on it from prom When the truck heard you say you didn't care anymore That truck holds everything All the feelings and emotions Maybe not so close to the surface anymore But it will never forget the stuff you've let yourself unremember That maroon Chevy still loves me Even if you don't.

0

Oct 21, 2013

Oct 21, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC

That Maroon Chevy

Your truck knows it all It contains our whole relationship It knows the beginning, middle and end I loved seeing those lights Knowing you were driving to come pick me up It made me really happy And sometimes Even a little nervous But in a good way In the summertime We had the windows rolled down because it was hot In the winter it was cold But we'd find a place to park and make it July warm I almost lost my innocence in that passenger seat We did so much in that truck We talked Laughed Shared Kissed Argued Cried Stressed Freaked out Held each other Loved That truck knows it all Those camouflage seat covers still hold our passionate sweat The drooping brownish red ceiling absorbed all our words, feelings and keeps them there Even today The plastic in front of the gas gauge doesn't feel as whole without one of my pictures covering it The center console probably still holds one of my notes Saying how much I love about you Who knows, the glovebox still may hold my garter The lace with a tear on it from prom When the truck heard you say you didn't care anymore That truck holds everything All the feelings and emotions Maybe not so close to the surface anymore But it will never forget the stuff you've let yourself unremember That maroon Chevy still loves me Even if you don't.

Continue reading...

A sigh signals some sort of disclosure. – glancing over his eyeglass frames at the slow downward tilt of her chest her gingham blouse rises again as she inhales energy for her words, words intended to clarify or confuse, he does not know. His own exhale and a frowning brow signal that he is listening- to judge whether her statement is real or fancy. Her words a mercury for her mood no gauge left as he guesses seeking to understand her, to crawl through her veins like a virus, to know her every desire, every expectation, even every fear. He is adrift in his own flaws, unable to grasp precisely her feelings, her expressions. His distrust is great whether of himself or of her. Salt honesty with caprice and tasty fare is spoiled. Gripping the arm of his chair, muscles straining to lurch forward, he escapes toward the door leaving her words to fill the hollow behind him. Tomorrow he may choose valor, today the fear of authenticity scares him to his den.

0

Jun 22, 2014

Jun 22, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC

william-a-poppen

Fear of Authenticity*

A sigh signals some sort of disclosure. – glancing over his eyeglass frames at the slow downward tilt of her chest her gingham blouse rises again as she inhales energy for her words, words intended to clarify or confuse, he does not know. His own exhale and a frowning brow signal that he is listening- to judge whether her statement is real or fancy. Her words a mercury for her mood no gauge left as he guesses seeking to understand her, to crawl through her veins like a virus, to know her every desire, every expectation, even every fear. He is adrift in his own flaws, unable to grasp precisely her feelings, her expressions. His distrust is great whether of himself or of her. Salt honesty with caprice and tasty fare is spoiled. Gripping the arm of his chair, muscles straining to lurch forward, he escapes toward the door leaving her words to fill the hollow behind him. Tomorrow he may choose valor, today the fear of authenticity scares him to his den.

Continue reading...

You're an inspirational exciting jolt Like an invitational lightning bolt I'm suddenly shocked by the results When I am blocked by your revolt You have my beating heart in your hand Holding me hostage where I silently stand Staring at your ****** butcher's cleaver That morphs me into a landlocked ****** You're a two-hander Like a sledgehammer Or a radar jammer I start to stutter and stammer When I see your weekly planner And the lack of my presence Because I'm incessant You hold a pencil and an eraser You delete when I become a tracer And start to draw a better replacer You hold the scales of justice Though I claim you're unfit You say add that to the list From the throne where you sit And there's no avenue for any recourse When your other hand holds so much force I must deal with your actions So I can stay in your faction For my heart's attraction I am never right So we never fight And we never might Understand each other When we're taking cover From exposing vulnerability An exploding soul is filling me Because the cold mist killing steam Between us until you are only a dream And my mind starts bursting at the seams Until there's a monster barely mentally caged But the bars shake when it is constantly enraged When your saccharine emotions are cynically staged My bustling brain will unfortunately always be plagued By your neutral reactions which I'll never be able to gauge You hold two hands behind your back Will it be an attack? Our two hands should meet Instead I'm trampled by feet

0

Nov 23, 2017

Nov 23, 2017 at 5:00 AM UTC

You're an inspirational exciting jolt Like an invitational lightning bolt I'm suddenly shocked by the results When I am blocked by your revolt You have my beating heart in your hand Holding me hostage where I silently stand Staring at your ****** butcher's cleaver That morphs me into a landlocked ****** You're a two-hander Like a sledgehammer Or a radar jammer I start to stutter and stammer When I see your weekly planner And the lack of my presence Because I'm incessant You hold a pencil and an eraser You delete when I become a tracer And start to draw a better replacer You hold the scales of justice Though I claim you're unfit You say add that to the list From the throne where you sit And there's no avenue for any recourse When your other hand holds so much force I must deal with your actions So I can stay in your faction For my heart's attraction I am never right So we never fight And we never might Understand each other When we're taking cover From exposing vulnerability An exploding soul is filling me Because the cold mist killing steam Between us until you are only a dream And my mind starts bursting at the seams Until there's a monster barely mentally caged But the bars shake when it is constantly enraged When your saccharine emotions are cynically staged My bustling brain will unfortunately always be plagued By your neutral reactions which I'll never be able to gauge You hold two hands behind your back Will it be an attack? Our two hands should meet Instead I'm trampled by feet

Continue reading...

I thought Van Gogh had it figured out he fell in love and cut off his ear he died july 29 1890 from a self inflicted gun shot wound He painted He painted the sky He painted men women bedrooms flowers shoes street corners chairs boats and fields I thought Basquiat had it figured out ****** NYC He painted memories in the present August 12 1988 NYC apartment ****** overdose I thought Picasso I thought Warhol I thought Stalin ****** Buddha Had it figured out but sand fills our shoes in dry texan sun and the dog howls howls for its mother howls for its brother howls for its sister I thought the dog had it figured out eating insects smelling my hands eating the ham on the floor I thought Hemingway had it figured out Late at night reading Old Man and The Sea Suicide July 2 1961 12-gauge English shotgun I thought Fitzgerald had it figured out I thought Ginsberg I thought Kerouac did too drinking across the neck and back bone and gutter lips of America and back I thought Bukowski had it figured out the cigarettes the wine the women the type writer the sad nights accompanied by cockroaches and a city that is indigestible I thought Phillip Glass had it figured out Beethoven going Def Mozart lost in his grave writing symphonies for Death and his cruel tripled eyed angels I thought The drunkards were lost The Junkies were ankle-less The Mothers were done for The Fathers had given in The Young True The Elderly gazing through the bifocals of heaven and hell The Prisoners cemented in Time I thought the Dead were the ones who published our Dreams I thought the painter had it figured out So I painted I thought the pianist had it figured out So I played the Piano and listened to the bilingual codes of the keys I thought the Ballet dancer had it figured out So I watched her I studied the movements and the bruised toes looking for a design of an answer I thought the Poet had it figured out So I wrote a poem and I saw the world.

0

Apr 4, 2013

Apr 4, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC

I thought Van Gogh had it figured out he fell in love and cut off his ear he died july 29 1890 from a self inflicted gun shot wound He painted He painted the sky He painted men women bedrooms flowers shoes street corners chairs boats and fields I thought Basquiat had it figured out ****** NYC He painted memories in the present August 12 1988 NYC apartment ****** overdose I thought Picasso I thought Warhol I thought Stalin ****** Buddha Had it figured out but sand fills our shoes in dry texan sun and the dog howls howls for its mother howls for its brother howls for its sister I thought the dog had it figured out eating insects smelling my hands eating the ham on the floor I thought Hemingway had it figured out Late at night reading Old Man and The Sea Suicide July 2 1961 12-gauge English shotgun I thought Fitzgerald had it figured out I thought Ginsberg I thought Kerouac did too drinking across the neck and back bone and gutter lips of America and back I thought Bukowski had it figured out the cigarettes the wine the women the type writer the sad nights accompanied by cockroaches and a city that is indigestible I thought Phillip Glass had it figured out Beethoven going Def Mozart lost in his grave writing symphonies for Death and his cruel tripled eyed angels I thought The drunkards were lost The Junkies were ankle-less The Mothers were done for The Fathers had given in The Young True The Elderly gazing through the bifocals of heaven and hell The Prisoners cemented in Time I thought the Dead were the ones who published our Dreams I thought the painter had it figured out So I painted I thought the pianist had it figured out So I played the Piano and listened to the bilingual codes of the keys I thought the Ballet dancer had it figured out So I watched her I studied the movements and the bruised toes looking for a design of an answer I thought the Poet had it figured out So I wrote a poem and I saw the world.

Continue reading...

A few months I haven't called him At the beck and call at any hour And the shortest notice A dial to him has saved many an emergency Last night a broken female voice On the other side of the wire Mumbled he died on May 13 Left her with three daughters At forty at short notice The plumber is dead Now who would clear My choked wash basin The plumber is dead And I've no other number to call I couldn't see her face Gauge the faceless sorrow At the other side of the wire The plumber is dead I must find another And then rejoice Forgetting the widow's choked voice

0

Jun 13, 2016

Jun 13, 2016 at 6:05 AM UTC

pradip-chattopadhyay

Death of a Plumber

A few months I haven't called him At the beck and call at any hour And the shortest notice A dial to him has saved many an emergency Last night a broken female voice On the other side of the wire Mumbled he died on May 13 Left her with three daughters At forty at short notice The plumber is dead Now who would clear My choked wash basin The plumber is dead And I've no other number to call I couldn't see her face Gauge the faceless sorrow At the other side of the wire The plumber is dead I must find another And then rejoice Forgetting the widow's choked voice

Continue reading...

How will we progress today? Will we risk life attending Mosque, Or have an affair with our spouse's boss? Will we take the dog out for a walk, Step on a landmine, use plastic straws? Perhaps we'll play with our kids today, Or call Amber Alert, wait scared, and pray? Will we defy authority with a righteous tone, Or leave our tail tucked, like a dog with his bone? Will we gauge goods today for our Vegan menu, Or show a distention as millions today do? Will we drive around town for cheaper gas, Or choose our pickings from picked-over trash? Do you sling eggs and sausage for sub-minimum wages, Or attend a visitation in a tortured MADD rage? Will you tee off at eight, or do a spin class, Or sit solitary watching the hourglass? Did we place our script at the shiny drugstore, Or wade across water to Jordan's fair shore? Will we question the teacher at our kid's school, Or play Avatar falling off our bar stool? Did you set a reminder on your AI phone For chicken delivery to your suburban home? Will you lift copper tubing from construction sites, Proclaiming your station in life gives you right? Do I recline in my La-Z-Boy for a nap with a book, Or teach someone to live with a line and a hook? Will you take out your family, Are you last on your list, Will you reciprocate a handshake Or raise a gloved fist? Our words can't bind all our wounds, Few are born with silver spoons, We're not wrapped in silk cocoons. A metamorphosis is coming To this world of gloom, A rousing group flight, And it can't come too soon.

0

Feb 1, 2019

Feb 1, 2019 at 9:36 AM UTC

Words Won't Bind Our Wounds

How will we progress today? Will we risk life attending Mosque, Or have an affair with our spouse's boss? Will we take the dog out for a walk, Step on a landmine, use plastic straws? Perhaps we'll play with our kids today, Or call Amber Alert, wait scared, and pray? Will we defy authority with a righteous tone, Or leave our tail tucked, like a dog with his bone? Will we gauge goods today for our Vegan menu, Or show a distention as millions today do? Will we drive around town for cheaper gas, Or choose our pickings from picked-over trash? Do you sling eggs and sausage for sub-minimum wages, Or attend a visitation in a tortured MADD rage? Will you tee off at eight, or do a spin class, Or sit solitary watching the hourglass? Did we place our script at the shiny drugstore, Or wade across water to Jordan's fair shore? Will we question the teacher at our kid's school, Or play Avatar falling off our bar stool? Did you set a reminder on your AI phone For chicken delivery to your suburban home? Will you lift copper tubing from construction sites, Proclaiming your station in life gives you right? Do I recline in my La-Z-Boy for a nap with a book, Or teach someone to live with a line and a hook? Will you take out your family, Are you last on your list, Will you reciprocate a handshake Or raise a gloved fist? Our words can't bind all our wounds, Few are born with silver spoons, We're not wrapped in silk cocoons. A metamorphosis is coming To this world of gloom, A rousing group flight, And it can't come too soon.

Continue reading...

Trump's nemesis beamed from the stage while she simmered with well-suppressed rage. Their unkind dialectic seemed purely synthetic; results will be harder to gauge.

0

Oct 20, 2016

Oct 20, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC

Debatable Limerick

Trump's nemesis beamed from the stage while she simmered with well-suppressed rage. Their unkind dialectic seemed purely synthetic; results will be harder to gauge.

Continue reading...

Did Lovecraft have it right no heaven but hell cold and wet and dark Wandering insane not right in the brain hell having left it's mark The slip and the slide unheard and unseen creeping just beyond ken Plausible creaks and blood that will streak every now and then How do we gauge it's existence comprehension just out of reach Letting our own imaginations wander and stumble the peaks Our hair standing up high on the napes of our neck Superstitions of myth and of legend no facts, just fictions too check

0

Aug 28, 2018

Aug 28, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC

Did Lovecraft have it right no heaven but hell cold and wet and dark Wandering insane not right in the brain hell having left it's mark The slip and the slide unheard and unseen creeping just beyond ken Plausible creaks and blood that will streak every now and then How do we gauge it's existence comprehension just out of reach Letting our own imaginations wander and stumble the peaks Our hair standing up high on the napes of our neck Superstitions of myth and of legend no facts, just fictions too check

Continue reading...

If you want to find out about someone’s character you ask them how do they gauge truth, or how do they know something is true? Most will say because so and so said so, some variant of outsourced knowledge. Some "Religion." Some "Scientist." Some "Dr." Some "Guru." Some "Parent." Some "Mother." Some "Father." Some "Thought triggered by someone else." Some “Theory.” Rare people will say they don’t know, they’re a bit more evolved because they see the conditioning. They see the confusion. The rarer people will say they know because they’ve observed for themselves, not blindly, but with purity enough to observe correctly.

0

Sep 14, 2014

Sep 14, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC

If you want to find out about someone’s character you ask them how do they gauge truth, or how do they know something is true? Most will say because so and so said so, some variant of outsourced knowledge. Some "Religion." Some "Scientist." Some "Dr." Some "Guru." Some "Parent." Some "Mother." Some "Father." Some "Thought triggered by someone else." Some “Theory.” Rare people will say they don’t know, they’re a bit more evolved because they see the conditioning. They see the confusion. The rarer people will say they know because they’ve observed for themselves, not blindly, but with purity enough to observe correctly.

Continue reading...

*Don't make me laugh Your not in love with me Let me tell you why It's just your fantasy Cause this is not love You surely are mistaken You've never felt love or anything close to it Cause you never had love to under stand You were too busy with pleasing Standing up to expectations Trying to fit a larger than life figure Chasing dreams that were impossible You drove yourself harder Hoping that somehow you'd make up for the affection you did not receive. Your running on empty And empty is all you can give. Love is not keeping yourself bottled And taking flight for the smallest threat. To your grandiosity. Love is not sending cryptic clues Trying to gauge responses Love is not in hiding But in making itself felt Love's presence is silent Yet the warmth radiates. So I have nothing to expect from you. Your tethering is not astonishing I can understand the see-saw you feel inside. An emotional wave you fear to ride. So it's best we let bygones be what they are meant to be. Don't start the process all over. Try not to kindle the spark Cause the fires have blown over. I've healed myself, of the emptiness you've left behind. I am not turning back this time. My resolve is deep, my mind made up. I have promises made to myself. To live a full life and always be content. So, heads up I walk into my future Closing the door of my past. Letting go of the riddle of a relationship And leaving the hurt behind. You are now a closed chapter. The book I could not complete.*

0

Sep 8, 2014

Sep 8, 2014 at 9:21 AM UTC

*Don't make me laugh Your not in love with me Let me tell you why It's just your fantasy Cause this is not love You surely are mistaken You've never felt love or anything close to it Cause you never had love to under stand You were too busy with pleasing Standing up to expectations Trying to fit a larger than life figure Chasing dreams that were impossible You drove yourself harder Hoping that somehow you'd make up for the affection you did not receive. Your running on empty And empty is all you can give. Love is not keeping yourself bottled And taking flight for the smallest threat. To your grandiosity. Love is not sending cryptic clues Trying to gauge responses Love is not in hiding But in making itself felt Love's presence is silent Yet the warmth radiates. So I have nothing to expect from you. Your tethering is not astonishing I can understand the see-saw you feel inside. An emotional wave you fear to ride. So it's best we let bygones be what they are meant to be. Don't start the process all over. Try not to kindle the spark Cause the fires have blown over. I've healed myself, of the emptiness you've left behind. I am not turning back this time. My resolve is deep, my mind made up. I have promises made to myself. To live a full life and always be content. So, heads up I walk into my future Closing the door of my past. Letting go of the riddle of a relationship And leaving the hurt behind. You are now a closed chapter. The book I could not complete.*

Continue reading...

Three thousand miles navigating a storm without drop of bad weather Abacus odometer clicks rotating forward ― spinning with the world go round Circling back down a long and winding road; where unforgotten memories were once searchingly explored, untrodden pathways coursing way up north of alone on the low highway Now an aging shepherd wonders without a compass ; a vagabond deprived of light from an ever blurring north star Heart empty as a gas tank with a broke down gauge, running on fumes of hope for unpromised tomorrows Running from loneliness just to be on the run The gales of silence bellow No feelings I can see ― lay me low Wild-eyed daydreams of Full sails billow out through the windshield, only hearing the unspoken moments sigh restlessly ― The dull droning road rumble re-sighs renunciatively, a tired monotone voice mimicking the loathe silent echo wallowing in an omnipresent hollow void deriding unspoken chaos between the passing centerlines ― A frost heave pothole erupts, with a leaf-spring rattling thud, as a fleeting cloud of dust arises, set adrift with the draught headed off the east side of the Alcan highway: blown way outside the lines, towards the Alberta prairie White knuckled steering wheel held sway, rolling down a beckoning wilderness reincarnation; default reset button paused ― stuck in a moment ― until another jaw rattling frost-heave pothole in the highway, jars it free Leaving it all behind like a sigh breathed in a silence a heart has outgrown; just a fleeting cloud of dissipating dust,.. a paling whisper the past seems to send forth like a fading last breath Letting it all unfold to become what it is harlon rivers ... May 2018 ... travelogue 2 of some

0

May 18, 2018

May 18, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC

Finding lost rivers ― ( a travelogue )

Three thousand miles navigating a storm without drop of bad weather Abacus odometer clicks rotating forward ― spinning with the world go round Circling back down a long and winding road; where unforgotten memories were once searchingly explored, untrodden pathways coursing way up north of alone on the low highway Now an aging shepherd wonders without a compass ; a vagabond deprived of light from an ever blurring north star Heart empty as a gas tank with a broke down gauge, running on fumes of hope for unpromised tomorrows Running from loneliness just to be on the run The gales of silence bellow No feelings I can see ― lay me low Wild-eyed daydreams of Full sails billow out through the windshield, only hearing the unspoken moments sigh restlessly ― The dull droning road rumble re-sighs renunciatively, a tired monotone voice mimicking the loathe silent echo wallowing in an omnipresent hollow void deriding unspoken chaos between the passing centerlines ― A frost heave pothole erupts, with a leaf-spring rattling thud, as a fleeting cloud of dust arises, set adrift with the draught headed off the east side of the Alcan highway: blown way outside the lines, towards the Alberta prairie White knuckled steering wheel held sway, rolling down a beckoning wilderness reincarnation; default reset button paused ― stuck in a moment ― until another jaw rattling frost-heave pothole in the highway, jars it free Leaving it all behind like a sigh breathed in a silence a heart has outgrown; just a fleeting cloud of dissipating dust,.. a paling whisper the past seems to send forth like a fading last breath Letting it all unfold to become what it is harlon rivers ... May 2018 ... travelogue 2 of some

Continue reading...

414 ’Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch, That nearer, every Day, Kept narrowing its boiling Wheel Until the Agony Toyed coolly with the final inch Of your delirious Hem— And you dropt, lost, When something broke— And let you from a Dream— As if a Goblin with a Gauge— Kept measuring the Hours— Until you felt your Second Weigh, helpless, in his Paws— And not a Sinew—stirred—could help, And sense was setting numb— When God—remembered—and the Fiend Let go, then, Overcome— As if your Sentence stood—pronounced— And you were frozen led From Dungeon’s luxury of Doubt To Gibbets, and the Dead— And when the Film had stitched your eyes A Creature gasped “Reprieve”! Which Anguish was the utterest—then— To perish, or to live?

0

3.2k

Emily Dickinson

Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch

414 ’Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch, That nearer, every Day, Kept narrowing its boiling Wheel Until the Agony Toyed coolly with the final inch Of your delirious Hem— And you dropt, lost, When something broke— And let you from a Dream— As if a Goblin with a Gauge— Kept measuring the Hours— Until you felt your Second Weigh, helpless, in his Paws— And not a Sinew—stirred—could help, And sense was setting numb— When God—remembered—and the Fiend Let go, then, Overcome— As if your Sentence stood—pronounced— And you were frozen led From Dungeon’s luxury of Doubt To Gibbets, and the Dead— And when the Film had stitched your eyes A Creature gasped “Reprieve”! Which Anguish was the utterest—then— To perish, or to live?

Continue reading...

I think I'm going blind. I'm under the impression you've disappeared. That you're gone for good. That you've eliminated yourself from my retinas in order to escape my mile wide stare. That you've constructed homes under tombstones hoping I'd mistake you for A box of under-appreciated skeletal remains Because all you've ever wanted is to be dead to me. Like you wanted my eyes to forget about their day job and resort to conceptualized adultery Because God forbid I commit to an honest day's pay. I've never intentionally visualized imaginary fabrications. But the truth is, my eyes do everything but tell the truth. 1. My eyes write monotonous picture books with your face plastered on every single page Just to recreate your physical beauty time and time again So the world knows your look tops my mind's best seller list. 2. My eyes climb mountain tops and skinny dip in stormy seas Because sometimes crazy is the only way I can get you to look at me. 3. My eyes fly hot air balloons carried by the echoes of your soft spoken sentences As if exhaust pipes could spew such sweet nothings into the night sky. 4. My eyes invade foreign lands with every intention of burning down Prehistoric villages and discovering your secret hideaway because I too Want to know how it feels to savagely destroy former sacred territory. 5. My eyes struggle out of bed every morning. Not even Three shots of espresso can perk my eyes up enough To allow the radiation you still give off enter my pores. I think I'm going blind. Or maybe I just can't see straight. Or be straight up with you and tell you how it takes every part of me To not gauge my own eyes out for betraying the rest of my body. It takes every part of me to admit my misjudgments spawned the downfall of it all. Because I told you I saw the two of us trekking through unfamiliar lands With each stride another step towards our destiny. Because I told you I saw something in your eyes That gave mine the ability to smile. Because I told you I saw us redefining what infinity Looks like to the senseless visionary. But my eyes don't tell the truth. I'm going blind.

0

Jul 15, 2013

Jul 15, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC

I think I'm going blind. I'm under the impression you've disappeared. That you're gone for good. That you've eliminated yourself from my retinas in order to escape my mile wide stare. That you've constructed homes under tombstones hoping I'd mistake you for A box of under-appreciated skeletal remains Because all you've ever wanted is to be dead to me. Like you wanted my eyes to forget about their day job and resort to conceptualized adultery Because God forbid I commit to an honest day's pay. I've never intentionally visualized imaginary fabrications. But the truth is, my eyes do everything but tell the truth. 1. My eyes write monotonous picture books with your face plastered on every single page Just to recreate your physical beauty time and time again So the world knows your look tops my mind's best seller list. 2. My eyes climb mountain tops and skinny dip in stormy seas Because sometimes crazy is the only way I can get you to look at me. 3. My eyes fly hot air balloons carried by the echoes of your soft spoken sentences As if exhaust pipes could spew such sweet nothings into the night sky. 4. My eyes invade foreign lands with every intention of burning down Prehistoric villages and discovering your secret hideaway because I too Want to know how it feels to savagely destroy former sacred territory. 5. My eyes struggle out of bed every morning. Not even Three shots of espresso can perk my eyes up enough To allow the radiation you still give off enter my pores. I think I'm going blind. Or maybe I just can't see straight. Or be straight up with you and tell you how it takes every part of me To not gauge my own eyes out for betraying the rest of my body. It takes every part of me to admit my misjudgments spawned the downfall of it all. Because I told you I saw the two of us trekking through unfamiliar lands With each stride another step towards our destiny. Because I told you I saw something in your eyes That gave mine the ability to smile. Because I told you I saw us redefining what infinity Looks like to the senseless visionary. But my eyes don't tell the truth. I'm going blind.

Continue reading...

After comparing lives with you for years I see how I’ve been losing: all the while I’ve met a different gauge of girl from yours. Grant that, and all the rest makes sense as well: My mortification at your pushovers, Your mystification at my fecklessness— Everything proves we play in separate leagues. Before, I couldn’t credit your intrigues Because I thought all girls the same, but yes, You bag real birds, though they’re from alien covers. Now I believe your staggering skirmishes In train, tutorial and telephone booth, The wife whose husband watched away matches While she behaved so badly in a bath, And all the rest who beckon from that world Described on Sundays only, where to want Is straightway to be wanted, seek to find, And no one gets upset or seems to mind At what you say to them, or what you don’t: A world where all the nonsense is annulled, And beauty is accepted slang for yes. But equally, haven’t you noticed mine? They have their world, not much compared with yours, But where they work, and age, and put off men By being unattractive, or too shy, Or having morals—anyhow, none give in: Some of them go quite rigid with disgust At anything but marriage: that’s all lust And so not worth considering; they begin Fetching your hat, so that you have to lie Till everything’s confused: you mine away For months, both of you, till the collapse comes Into remorse, tears, and wondering why You ever start such boring barren games —But there, don’t mind my saeva indignatio: I’m happier now I’ve got things clear, although It’s strange we never meet each other’s sort: There should be equal chances, I’d’ve thought. Must finish now. One day perhaps I’ll know What makes you be so lucky in your ratio —One of those ‘more things’, could it be? Horatio.

0

3k

Letter To A Friend About Girls

After comparing lives with you for years I see how I’ve been losing: all the while I’ve met a different gauge of girl from yours. Grant that, and all the rest makes sense as well: My mortification at your pushovers, Your mystification at my fecklessness— Everything proves we play in separate leagues. Before, I couldn’t credit your intrigues Because I thought all girls the same, but yes, You bag real birds, though they’re from alien covers. Now I believe your staggering skirmishes In train, tutorial and telephone booth, The wife whose husband watched away matches While she behaved so badly in a bath, And all the rest who beckon from that world Described on Sundays only, where to want Is straightway to be wanted, seek to find, And no one gets upset or seems to mind At what you say to them, or what you don’t: A world where all the nonsense is annulled, And beauty is accepted slang for yes. But equally, haven’t you noticed mine? They have their world, not much compared with yours, But where they work, and age, and put off men By being unattractive, or too shy, Or having morals—anyhow, none give in: Some of them go quite rigid with disgust At anything but marriage: that’s all lust And so not worth considering; they begin Fetching your hat, so that you have to lie Till everything’s confused: you mine away For months, both of you, till the collapse comes Into remorse, tears, and wondering why You ever start such boring barren games —But there, don’t mind my saeva indignatio: I’m happier now I’ve got things clear, although It’s strange we never meet each other’s sort: There should be equal chances, I’d’ve thought. Must finish now. One day perhaps I’ll know What makes you be so lucky in your ratio —One of those ‘more things’, could it be? Horatio.

Continue reading...

Lines of life through gene transmission When handed down through ***** Tho’ rugged, sound or sickly matched, Are caste about like coins. Luck ensures a robust chance Of longevity and health With intelligence or dolt hood As a final gauge to wealth. Traits of blue eyed, fair haired lovelies Brown eyed, freckled, long of limb, Temperaments across the spectrum Placid fat to fiery slim. Aptitude to run the long race Good endurance, depth of heart, Lady luck decrees their worth Tho' the Priesthood may depart. Frontal lobes of clear retention Heightened rationale of thought, Reasons through the problematic, Resolutions made as ought. Capacity to empathise In tears of joy and sorrow spent, Capacity for true belief When wrong is righted with repent. Goodness and black evil Are caste about like chaff, Depends upon the show of cards Who laughs the final laugh. Conscience can be virtuous But then, so can be greed, Depends upon the circumstance And if approached at speed. And finally indulgence Plays a massive hand in this, For love and lust determine If a union is remiss. And should that union founder, Should Lady Luck throw in her hand ...You can blame it on the chromosomes Which confounds the Makers stand! Marshalg @theBach Mangere Bridge 14 June 2011

0

Jun 13, 2011

Jun 13, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC

March of the Chromosomes.

Lines of life through gene transmission When handed down through ***** Tho’ rugged, sound or sickly matched, Are caste about like coins. Luck ensures a robust chance Of longevity and health With intelligence or dolt hood As a final gauge to wealth. Traits of blue eyed, fair haired lovelies Brown eyed, freckled, long of limb, Temperaments across the spectrum Placid fat to fiery slim. Aptitude to run the long race Good endurance, depth of heart, Lady luck decrees their worth Tho' the Priesthood may depart. Frontal lobes of clear retention Heightened rationale of thought, Reasons through the problematic, Resolutions made as ought. Capacity to empathise In tears of joy and sorrow spent, Capacity for true belief When wrong is righted with repent. Goodness and black evil Are caste about like chaff, Depends upon the show of cards Who laughs the final laugh. Conscience can be virtuous But then, so can be greed, Depends upon the circumstance And if approached at speed. And finally indulgence Plays a massive hand in this, For love and lust determine If a union is remiss. And should that union founder, Should Lady Luck throw in her hand ...You can blame it on the chromosomes Which confounds the Makers stand! Marshalg @theBach Mangere Bridge 14 June 2011

Continue reading...

I was gonna write about how I was writing standing up like Hemingway at some bar in Key West, but instead I ended up nearly lying down, like some Roman eating grapes, and I’m not scrawling with a pen. I’m typing. Why the standing up, Ernest? Was it to gauge how difficult it was to keep good posture? Was it to better measure how drunk you were getting? He would have boxed me for those asking those questions, or maybe he’d just slam a few shots. All of us Northeasterners enjoy getting drunk somewhere tropical. I never have a choice in the matter. Whether it’s Florida, South Carolina, or the South Caribbean (I've never left the Western Hemisphere), all I really like down there is beaches and seawater. Everything else gives deep cringes. Those other tourists, so annoying just to look at. Flip flops, whole families, and the god awful shops they keep open. You go to a place good for a beach, green hills, seawater, and fruit, and you want to buy diamonds? C’mon. I wish you’d want these islands to be like national parks; nature over here and cities over there. But the tourists enjoy fake grass huts that try really hard to sell them junk. So who’s to blame for the sellers perpetuating petty sales and mediocre values? Is it the islanders that make a profit, or the buyers that want the wares? Or is there a third party guaranteeing that the buyers and sellers alike are propagandized to expect the less than fine things in life? Are the salespeople actually working the shops, the ones really getting rich from the sale?

0

Aug 16, 2014

Aug 16, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC

We're not just Mediocre

I was gonna write about how I was writing standing up like Hemingway at some bar in Key West, but instead I ended up nearly lying down, like some Roman eating grapes, and I’m not scrawling with a pen. I’m typing. Why the standing up, Ernest? Was it to gauge how difficult it was to keep good posture? Was it to better measure how drunk you were getting? He would have boxed me for those asking those questions, or maybe he’d just slam a few shots. All of us Northeasterners enjoy getting drunk somewhere tropical. I never have a choice in the matter. Whether it’s Florida, South Carolina, or the South Caribbean (I've never left the Western Hemisphere), all I really like down there is beaches and seawater. Everything else gives deep cringes. Those other tourists, so annoying just to look at. Flip flops, whole families, and the god awful shops they keep open. You go to a place good for a beach, green hills, seawater, and fruit, and you want to buy diamonds? C’mon. I wish you’d want these islands to be like national parks; nature over here and cities over there. But the tourists enjoy fake grass huts that try really hard to sell them junk. So who’s to blame for the sellers perpetuating petty sales and mediocre values? Is it the islanders that make a profit, or the buyers that want the wares? Or is there a third party guaranteeing that the buyers and sellers alike are propagandized to expect the less than fine things in life? Are the salespeople actually working the shops, the ones really getting rich from the sale?

Continue reading...