"glum" poems
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.
My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.
And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the slope
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.
Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.
Love Mary x
My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC
Way back when I was younger
I was mistaken as a dude
They asked all sorts of questions
That slowly grew more rude
"Why don't you wear makeup?
Or dress in something nice?"
"If you ever want to get a guy
Why won't you just take our advice?"
When I began in high school
I had just begun to change
I had bought myself some cheap makeup
And clothes that just felt strange
Still, it wasn't enough though
The insults continued to come
"Ugly. Lazy. Undesirable"
It all began to make me glum
By the beginning of junior year
I had fully given in
Dresses replaced all of my jeans
And makeup covered all my skin
It was then, the insults changed
And people began to glare
Said I "cared too much about my looks"
And my "head must be full of air"
I still always got straight A's
The way I talked was still the same
But though I knew that they were wrong
Their comments made me feel lame
When senior year had rolled around
I was lonely as could be
People "liked" what I'd become
But I felt no one liked me for me
I'd never been on a single date
Because all the guys were crude
So it was only a small amount of time
Before I was labeled as a *****
When I finally started college
I expected something more
But people took one look at me
And labeled me a *****
I had not been sleeping around
I still hadn't even been on a date
Everyone just made assumptions
And looked at me with hate
The part that was most ironic
Was that after all these years
Of changing to be whatever they said
I was still hated by all my peers
I didn't want to dress like this
I didn't want to just conform
But there is only so much a person can take
Before they need to fit the "norm"
Society is what destroyed me
They are the reason I am this way
I changed to be what people wanted
Now I understand: I'll never see that day
I don't know who I am now
Though everyone else thinks that they do
Now please just take one piece of advice
It's so important to just stay you
You are perfect just as you are
So continue to stay strong
Remember no matter what they tell you
What society says is wrong
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 3:26 PM UTC
her rigorous objections
are herded slowly down the sheep trail
by studious pencil thin men with stylish mustache's
who have deep pocket pickers for friends
they gather round the weak willed and the willing alike
looking for cheap thrills and spare change
everybody needs a new road
when the old one seems to never end
but she with eyes cast down
mumbles her unappeased desires
as she shuffles a little closer to the truth as she sees it
she has it all written out in secret languages
she has books filled with life's coded thoughts as she see's them
barn burners and dare devils grace the cover of her latest creation
self titled to her own romantic name
she is stylized in her own way
so she adores the pencil thin men
with their dashing devil may care good looks
i wrote her a letter yesterday
full of stories from the great highway
full of chipper go getters and the glum go gotten
she is a forever stone on a necklace
she is a moonstone on a bracelet
she is graceful when it counts and
thats more than enough for me
the pencil thin moustache men
come to conquer the all night diners
in the small shoreline towns
but slink away in dawns first light
with stolen smiles and borrowed kisses
that they promise profusely to return tomorrow
but never do
such is the romantic night by her side
such is the wonder-wheel days of our
journey on the great highway
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Refrain:
The legend of our sweet Santa Claus
In December begins
Up on the rooftops, when eight strong paws
Make sounds of reindeers twins.
Santa had another noted name,
He was a simple man
Called Nicholas living for no fame.
He was a Christian.
His parents died, when he was still young,
In a village of Greece.
Thinking of Jesus, his thoughts he strung
To help poor kids in peace.
Refrain:
The legend of our sweet Santa Claus
In December begins
Up on the rooftops, when eight strong paws
Make sounds of reindeers twins.
Under Diocletian he became
A Bishop in mission.
He was imprisoned, and put to shame.
He changed the tradition.
In time, St. Nicholas' life and deeds
Have become a story.
He was a helper of those in needs,
A man in the glory.
Refrain:
The legend of our sweet Santa Claus
In December begins
Up on the rooftops, when eight strong paws
Make sounds of reindeers twins.
Nicholas became Dutch Sinter Klass,
But children changed his name.
The Bishop's red cloak changed with time's glass
In cloths for Santa's fame.
On that day, kids wait for him to come
In spirit of giving,
The Christmas tree looks no longer glum
And it looks like living.
Refrain:
The legend of our sweet Santa Claus
In December begins
Up on the rooftops, when eight strong paws
Make sounds of reindeers twins.
Down the chimney comes Papa Noel
Quite slipping and sliding.
From his sky with reindeers and sleigh bells
Just gnashing and gliding.
Spreading stardust glittering at night
He brings presents for kids,
They pray and sing in the Divine Light.
Then, to sky his sleigh skids.
Refrain:
The legend of our sweet Santa Claus
In December begins
Up on the rooftops, when eight strong paws
Make sounds of reindeers twins.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 12:23 PM UTC
You were born on a cusp.
friends on the other side
couldn't decide,
Scorpio or Libra.
You yourself,
as constant as the tides.
A tenth sign ram
was blessed to cross
your lovely path
and the ram learned:
Short curly hair
pinned back reveal
asiatic eyes.
As you pass by and by
Time and time hearts race
Chicken salad sandwich,
its moist mayonnaise
is never as delicious
without a pickle.
Grubhub.
No, Scrubhub.
Too content to leave the room.
Yummy Rummy,
food in our tummy.
forever.
Broth, cheese and wine.
Mushrooms and time.
If ever I tasted love,
it was shared with me,
in a recipe.
Sound opinion in scores.
Royal, like the Tenenbaums.
Bill Murray fantastic.
Pink Moon over and over and over.
Divide that by nine.
And now I know,
almost as well as you,
how good Goodfellas is,
even after the tenth time.
Early morning awakenings or
snooze again and again and again.
Paralyzed in a dream or
awoken with a scream,
we tried a routine:
Once parts of a team,
a memory faster than it seemed.
Ran for miles.
A boy and girl in the hall,
amongst the boys and girls
in the hall.
Digital regulars in ecstasy.
Wake next to you a daydreamer.
So, when life gets hard,
and you're feeling down,
don't be so glum,
ignore your doubts,
don't feel left out,
I'll be there for you,
when you need me to.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
loud sounds of sobs
filled the li'l kid's room
as he looked at the sky
filled with stars and the moon
the li'l kid was crying
coz he missed his mother
let alone those thoughts
never had he seen his father
memories of his mother
again did ignight
coz the memories were the only thing
to hug him tight
now that he was adopted
he still felt glum
he regretted his sixth birthday
when he had lost his mum
he missed his mother
again did he start to weep
he was only eleven
when he drugged himself to sleep
a harsh blow of wind
knocked open the window
a white rose had fallen in
by the sudden wind's blow
he held the rose delicately
and stared at it in awe
it reminded him of his mother
beautiful and without a flaw
he drifted to sleep
along with the white rose
innocently thinking
it pursed his mother's soul
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Minnow, go to sleep and dream,
Close your great big eyes;
Round your bed Events prepare
The pleasantest surprise.
Darling Minnow, drop that frown,
Just cooperate,
Not a kitten shall be drowned
In the Marxist State.
Joy and Love will both be yours,
Minnow, don't be glum.
Happy days are coming soon--
Sleep, and let them come...
4.6k
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of ***
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
4.1k
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
the child's house
domicile of estrangements
his parents dressed him like a little girl
against his will
a pox of gender confusion
glum aura
he ascended by violence
and lived through the logic of a mirage
except for copulating with demons
which of course
was ruined by
the good Christians
they who always hate ***
not wanting to be reminded
they are animals too
their heaven withheld
their halo's sullied
the vulnerability of desire their crime
Eros a disgrace
still beating their genitals until a wicked thunder
the pro-creative
an affirmation of paradox
between the continuity of life
and the dread of death
***** resurrections
a second *******
**** flood
without redemption
Satan standing on their necks
while God pulls them up by their hair
rebels to reason
bewitchers of wit
deranged by the myth
of dolls
wood and plastic painted corpses staring
and a blossom throated Goddess
ham handed monkey fist
jerking off in search of a bulls eye anyway
eyes bleeding on bare legs; lifting a white cotton dress
a bulwark of erections
like canons blasting puce spats
under his frilly skirt; a red rain
haunted by dead girls dancing
like homeless hip bones sway
a bewildered phantasm
in a doll house dream
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see
him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.
And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?
And must I then, at Friendship's call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?
And think you that I should be dumb,
And full DOLORUM OMNIUM,
Excepting when YOU choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?
Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendship true and deep
By day a lonely shadow creep,
At night-time languish,
Oft raising in his broken sleep
The moan of anguish?
The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
And posts them to her.
And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past
Of February.
Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
Perhaps to-morrow.
I trust to find YOUR heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.
4k
Now then,(Clicks fingers and stretches out),,,I know you men out there will think i'm all cahoots,But i need to vent my feelings on the, ever, splendid, boot,There,s black boots white boots, really outta sight boots,Baby boots, Mummy boots, ever just so yummy boots,X boots, Y boots, black patent leather thigh boots,(MMMMMM)Flat boots, high boots, heels like a needles eye boots,Work boots, shopping boots, **** , real eye popping boots,Going to visit mum boots, feeling very glum boots,Welly boots, smelly boots," i'm just watching telly" boots,Car boots,"?" truck boots, "come on babe, let's **** boots,All these boots and more would make a woman want to swear,But guys, you haven't heard me go on about our underwear!!!
Feb 25, 2010
Feb 25, 2010 at 7:21 AM UTC
All are limitory, but each has her own
nuance of damage. The elite can dress and decent themselves,
are ambulant with a single stick, adroit
to read a book all through, or play the slow movements of
easy sonatas. (Yet, perhaps their very
carnal freedom is their spirit's bane: intelligent
of what has happened and why, they are obnoxious
to a glum beyond tears.) Then come those on wheels, the average
majority, who endure T.V. and, led by
lenient therapists, do community-singing, then
the loners, muttering in Limbo, and last
the terminally incompetent, as improvident,
unspeakable, impeccable as the plants
they parody. (Plants may sweat profusely but never
sully themselves.) One tie, though, unites them: all
appeared when the world, though much was awry there, was more
spacious, more comely to look at, it's Old Ones
with an audience and secular station. Then a child,
in dismay with Mamma, could refuge with Gran
to be revalued and told a story. As of now,
we all know what to expect, but their generation
is the first to fade like this, not at home but assigned
to a numbered frequent ward, stowed out of conscience
as unpopular luggage.
As I ride the subway
to spend half-an-hour with one, I revisage
who she was in the pomp and sumpture of her hey-day,
when week-end visits were a presumptive joy,
not a good work. Am I cold to wish for a speedy
painless dormition, pray, as I know she prays,
that God or Nature will abrupt her earthly function?
3.7k
I feel like a ****
I feel that Bae is furious
I feel all I do to her is irk
Yet, it still remain curious
Bae says she is far from livid
She says that she never is mad
At points in time I feel timid
I feel like I've done something bad
But still, I remember the blithe times
Although I get worried, she's cute
And although I feel I commit crimes
I know it's just sarcastic, endearing dispute
And so no one is melancholy
I have no reason to be glum
Because there is no felony
Oh, Bae, why am I so dumb? ;P
Bae, you make me so very joyful
I won't forget you till the end of time
I feel utterly greatful
And I'm sorry I have run out of rhymes
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
I am not an octogenarian
I am undoubtedly not clever
But i gave you a piece of counsel
If you are glum,
Leave your comfort zone and
Penned the flowing words into a paper
To see a new world which,
Scribbles trickles sparkles
Twinkle twinkle.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
I'm an idiot, idi-fool,
Idiot, idiot, idi-tool,
Idiot, idi-lump,
Idiot, idi-chump,
Idiot, idiot, most uncool.
I'm an idiot, idi-goon,
Idiot, idiot, idi-loon,
Idiot, idi-berk,
Idiot, idi-jerk,
Idiot, idiot; a buffoon.
I'm an idiot, idi-plum,
Idiot, idiot, and so dumb,
Idiot, idi-pratt,
Idiot, getting fat,
Idiot, idiot, feeling glum.
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 9:00 PM UTC
The sight of rain,
of wet clothes, wet plants,
wet doorsteps, wet hopes and dreams,
and, that known scent of sadness and grief
all these...create soggy, sluggish minds
we just lost two dogs to the virus
the glum of monsoon rains affects the moods
the "yays" from cancelled classes
have all passed...
sun is shining, not too bright, though,
peeps like a tease, but,
enough to dry the ground...
i see vacant lots...almost naked now
motor's droning hum is a lullaby
that lulls the mind
a strong smell stirs the nostrils and
defines a welcome pleasance...
i sniff....and chase away sadness,
with this intriguing scent
.....of freshly cut grass....
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 6:19 AM UTC
"We're drifting apart,"
said the earth to the moon.
"We've been through so much, hm?"
replied the moon to earth.
"It'll be glum to go,
but sadly I must now."
"Why? Please don't go away,"
begged the earth to the moon.
"I will miss you for sure."
"And I will too," said moon
and earth silently sobbed.
"4.5 billion years,
for what?" The earth whimpered.
"I can't love you anymore."
"If I could say the same."
"..."
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 6:07 PM UTC
Your light is beautiful,
and mine is glum.
In your eyes, I find
sensations my estranged blood
has never felt—
to touch, to love…
a soul unselfishly,
for no other reason than to love.
I want to place my frostbit hands
upon your beating chest
and ****** you away,
or might I chain your hands
and take you with me.
I could pull you into my gale,
a hostage of my lonely curiosity,
but I’m afraid—so afraid that your light
will fill the empty, gaping blackness,
and your gentle breaths
will calm my feral winds.
You alone will effortlessly transpose
the thunder of my bones,
and I will assent that only your nearness
can bring the calm to the eye of my storm.
But what follows when you
tire of breaking my weathers?
When your chains rust into reddish ash
and I can no longer keep you, my love?
I can’t imagine this place will ever be
as fair as it was with you,
and I can only foresee that
which will become of me.
For when the day does break,
and I find myself alone,
when the silence of your absent lungs
deafens my troubled mind,
my storm will surge again.
And as the black clouds surround,
I will bring my withered hands
before me and remove the foolish eyes
that once lost themselves in you.
So there are two sunken holes
inside my skull.
I will cut through my sternum
and rip my dour heart from my chest.
I will undress from my flesh
and pull the nerves you once caressed.
And my naked soul will dig a grave
and settle into the dark.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
Before sleeves fight off chills, leaves begin to pour
Onto the raw ground, outside the window, as if they were tears
That belonged to the trees. Inside the glum house, their star
Is placed on the fridge with a glitter border to catch every eye,
But their own. They try turning away from her making the winning shot
At the basketball game, last season. Below the urn, the firewood burns
To thaw the bitter home, as the light providing candles burn
Out from exhaustion. The mother tip-toes to the kitchen to pour
Away her independence—maybe she’ll come back after the next shot,
Then I’ll stop—into a glass. Since the disaster last winter, silent tears
Can be heard only within oneself, but can be seen in their eyes
By those throughout the town. Not even a wish on a shooting star
Can bring her back now. The father only peeks up at the stars
When he goes for his evening strolls, his faithfulness has burnt
Away since she’s been gone, and everyday gets harder for his eyes
To process his vacant house. The town looks on and prays for the poor
Family, as they drag their feet to church; their son permanently in tears;
Forcing his memory to destroy the images. He ignores everything, but the shot
Echoing in his ears. He saw the blood embracing her after the shot;
Her body sprawled out on the red snow. Their basketball star,
Gone in an instant. This is all he sees—he tries to save her, but the tears
In his mother’s eyes tell him she’s already gone—as he stares into the burning
Fire. He hears his mother clink the bottle to the glass as she pours
Herself another round. He can hear her ask herself, “Why wasn’t it I
Who got struck by that bullet? Why would God even consider the i-
Dea that is was her turn? God, why didn’t you give her another shot?”
The mother takes the last gulp; she reaches for the bottle to pour
Another, but her eyes land on the photo of her fallen star.
She looks away and begins to cry. The fire continues to burn,
Keeping the house warm, as the son stares into the flames and tears
Continue to roll off his warm cheeks. The mother stands there, tears
Run down her face, her husband begins to hug her. In the corner of his eye,
The son sees his parents embracing, as the fire slowly stops burning;
He joins them. They all embrace each other and the echoing shot
Diminishes in the son’s ears. The struggle is not over, and her star
Is not forgotten, but that midnight drink was the last that she would pour.
Years go by, but that night stays burnt in their memories. Not so many tears
Are falling from the trees or eyes, this time of year; only the rain pours,
And at night all that can be spotted is the shot of a shooting star.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
Winter has steadily come,
And I'm not sure I can convey
How readily glum
The frost singed air
Feels as it sticks in my throat.
I might as well,
I might as well.
A pig pulled a
U-turn to warn me
Of the ghetto youths
Roaming the neighborhood,
He said to put my phone away
And be on guard,
This area is dangerous, you know,
How long have you lived here,
How long have you been alive?
My knuckles are stiff
And my toes need stretching,
And my mind keeps retching
From the smell
Of rotting leaves
Mixed with deferred dreams.
In this section of town
Named for Hughes,
I perceive the blues
He was wont
To sing,
I breathe the fluid
Inherent in the slums,
And think on why
The oil shines in
The gutter,
Why it's working in our blood,
But it's not the same as love
Why vagrants mutter
And Hope dissolves
Once the glitter of
The campaign wears off,
Left to sparkle in the dirt
With the cast-off gloves
And chunks of weave.
Oppression in the guise
Of freedom stresses
My beliefs,
And it's all I can do
To take solace in the relief
Of taking my seat on the
Bus I've been waiting for
That will drive me
Towards a different lie
And a less realistic
Metaphor;
Cleveland Park
And its expensive stores.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
got myself a donkey yesterday
got myself a donkey yesterday
and tethered it out there in the yard;
but when I looked out the window
I noticed
it looked glum, moody and testy
so I went out to see what I could do
I tickled my donkey
and he cackled and laughed a lot
and he hee-hawed aloud -
but yeah, you can bet your ****
I got the bigger kick out of it
my donkey died
You remember the donkey
I bought some time ago?
Well, I stopped feeding it for a week
and the stupid animal died
just as it was finally learning to survive
on clean air, positive thoughts and vibes
that's a donkey on the table
so my donkey died
and in my grief I lay it on the best table
and I drank and drank
and people who came to mourn
brought some hay
but some of them said, after two days
(and I was still drinking-mourning):
"You can't just leave that lyin' on the table
"
"That's not a lion, you idiot!
"
I barked at each one of them
"That's my donkey on the table!
"
And so I'd demonstrated my ability
to stay sober
and retain my piss-picuity
in spite of days of grief
and like me I am sure you too
cannot but marvel at people's inability
to distinguish between a lion and a donkey
donkey ride
now that my donkey is dead
it makes me reminisce
about the good times we had
________
We were in the car
my donkey and I
as I took it for a weekend ride
which was my habit
And a traffic cop stopped us
and he said:
*“Hey, what you doing
with a donkey in the car?
Take it to the zoo”
*
The next weekend that same cop
stopped us
and he asked me:
*“Still with that donkey?
I thought I told you to take it
to the zoo"
*
“Oh, I did,” I replied
*“and we enjoyed it so much
That was an excellent idea, thank you
Now we’re going to the beach”*
donkey at the cinema
the other time
my donkey insisted
I take it to the cinema
and so I did -
not that I got a kick out of it
but just so that I didn't get a kick
anyways
we were watching the movie
when the guy seated next to donkey
said: *"Hey, you're a donkey.
What 'r' you doing in the cinema? "
*
And donkey replied:
*" I reviewed the book;
now I'm here to review the movie"*
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
sad scared alone depressed It overwhelmed upset ignorant
irrelevant broken disgusting is you awful rejected numb stupid
unhappy lazy fat mad that protects me from the hopeless cold fear
glum tragic pouring rain and you shelter me from the worked poor
despair big wide world and for that I owe you my soul chubby
sick and I think that you are wrong
hollow B shame
empty e envy
anxst a remorse
grief u greedy
poorly t shallow
fed up i beaten
bullied f guilty
unheard u unneeded
stress l. bored
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
"Oh say can you see,
our land of constant misery.
Where dreams are crushed and faded,
from the Nightmare we've created.
We are born full of wonder,
till our lives are covered with terrible thunder.
Hopeless we've become,
a country so accustom to glum.
We are taught education is God,
but really it's just a facade.
Learning was never the mission,
greed caused this division.
Smart kids made depressed,
over a school system we don't address.
They can't get the perfect grades,
so they turn to blades.
State testing, grades, our lives judged by paper,
so much stress caused, some choose to meet the Maker.
Future doctors shunned because of a bad grade in History,
they are instead forced to live a life of misery.
Colleges and the goverment want only the "best",
so who cares about all the rest?
The man who could fix the economy?
Put down because of a bad grade in Biology.
Speaking of money,
wanna know what's funny?
Our future crippled with debt,
but yet they tell us not to fret.
Other countries' colleges are free,
but us Americans can surely handle such a "small" fee.
The system feeds on our scores and money,
while some of us live on crumbs, isn't that funny?
We start our adult lives behind,
and the goverment doesn't seem to mind.
We have to make the change,
we surely can't be this deranged.
We are the ones who have to fight,
with ALL of our might!
Remember, life isn't fair,
espcially in this American Nightmare......"
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
fed the birds.
fed the birds a
book about
my dead
weight.
fed the
birds a heavy.
fed them from
my thin
hands. The words
that live.
The birds ate.
The birds ate words that
lived and always
lived
in
separate
houses. if...
and i mean if
and only if
they
could afford
it.
if these
clever pagans
ever had
a dime.
they found
it boring rich
folk to
death.
i fed the birds
my indigenous
nomads. they dined
in high style...
dined black and
fancy
on
shabby
addicts, as they
hopped
trains . i fed the birds
my
swarthy tribe.
and they supped.
i fed the birds
a monologue
with trains of
thought
the words i fed
them... the vagabonds...
hopped
trains.
of thought.
I fed
the birds.
i fed the birds just
outside.
i sat
and fed them
black light and Harmalade
fed them blackly
fed them with
piano keys; the black
ones, the ones
that radiate
i fed
i watched them. watched
them fancy peck. and peck
and fancy
pluck.
i watched. they dined
on serene defeat
by technicality.
it was surreal
to watch a blackbird
pluck from black
keys - peck
a morsel of glum
from
the black rays, yes.
the black rays with
opposable thumbs
and a
lifeline. the only one i
know forbidding gypsies
with three eyes.
an open
palm.
a paranoid
black radish
white dwarf star
with piano keys
for black rays
of
nimbus, yes
mine is the hand that bites the hand
that writes the book
it wants
to ban, that ain't
a fan
not at all. just an appendage. a pen dirge ? What ?
i fed the flock lots
I fed
the black ones -
with dolls'
eyes...
tucked
under
wing.
i fed them, yes.
a book
about the size
of any welcome
malcontent.
i fed
them sorrows
and ellipses with
adjacent lawns.
wutherings in
stately manors, squatting
on either side
of memory
lane, like
a bourbon and
coke had
practically crawled
across shards
of hard
things to break,
with a drink
in your
hand
and crawled, well blended
down the hatch
of enormous, well appointed
gothic frogs, that -
were mostly refurbished toads
with odd columns.
i fed
the birds,
broke out the
Good
Chi
na
hang the tantrums !
yes
One should expect
a rich metaphor to want to
watch you
eat it's every
word
or
by extension;
lick the toad with 15 rooms,
three stories, unfit for children
and a full staff
of Adjectives,
highly trained
to
short-sheet the Bedlam, and fluff the pillories.
one should sip the liqueur
off the floor, inside the huge
and tipsy
gorgon
and be thankful
for the dank
and
the solid gold flyswatters.
they're complementary. take one
as you leave out
thinking
" toads, eat flies.... so it follows...."
apropos of nothing, on the
' Good China ',
now in the belly of birds, well fed
an unwell.
a book about
my dead-weight's
dream
to eat fewer
flies and
more
steak.
to grow wings.
yes.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC