"honorarium" poems
~a letter for you
Kita,
Dari daerah melangsir ke kota
Dari kota berbalik ke daerah
Dan takkan dapat lagi ke kota
Lain sebab apa, lain sebab kenapa
Kendatipun impresi memberontak kita
Kota,
Kita ingat tentang kota
Kota takkan ingat kita
Sebab kita tak miliki tahta
Lain sebab apa, lain sebab kenapa
Apa daya reminisensi meronta
Kota,
Kita ingat tentang kota
Kawanan sutet di kota kita
Menari menawan menara kota
Dekorasi dari kita, gradasi ufuk dunia
Persuasi para penguasa kota
Prasasti Suwarnadwipa, pula
Visualisasi ragam abiotik Tuhan Yang Esa
Kota,
Kita ingat tentang kota
Hamparan ladang pabrik di kota
Riasan pipa asap terus-menerus menyala, gradasi ufuk dunia
Luas menggugah animo di daerah
Meski honorarium tak seberapa
Kita duga cukup tuk besar di kota
Manalagi di daerah
Kita,
Telah lama tak singgah pada kota
Lain sebab apa, lain sebab kenapa
Kota kita indah katanya
Kota, bilamana kita berjumpa pula?
Kita takkan abaikan memori tentang kota
Lain sebab apa, lain sebab kenapa
Kota kita indah katanya
Kota, bilamana kita berjumpa pula?
Dari pengagummu di daerah
Tuk segenap kenangan kota yang hampa.
May 14, 2020
May 14, 2020 at 10:40 AM UTC
Heinous, immoral, sinful swine!
To what I am demanded to oblige,
This unravelled given flesh, falsely acclaimed.
By who, are we to bestow such honorarium upon specimens?
We, this, it... YES it! For no other alias be deft to pure ****
If it be for me, I'd not be so haste to shift to utter, cosmic vile!
And alas tis that which I am, and as all my fellow ethological, fleshy hominids.
I do not care for it.
And seek the purity of it, but such use may be eternally latent.
God!
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
Man goes through his existence walking on the edge of nothingness, while his bones are cracking viscerally; his humiliation from slave to slave is now constantly ripening, since he has long been the petty plaything of worms and maggots. Now he would rather practice walking in place a little more stubbornly, the tactics of the guest-passenger, stripped to the bone, are straining against each other, a writhing swarm of beetles is stopping his running, because a rubbing interest would decimate, lick the big whole, from which the average person certainly gets less.
Belittled, low-lying ants fight in a noisy concert quite often, because whoever begs for a warning, calls for help or hopes is now a suspect element; This current vile Age plants dust-scattering arguments in the ranks of corruptible souls, because everything and everyone is accompanied by the fever of possession for a lifetime, the depths of the underworldly filth often disgust even those who try to tolerate the filth.
In tendered dog nests, they would tender the juicy marrow bone, which the average person can never receive, and cannot win, as some kind of deserved, simplified honorarium, or pleasing compensation, rootlessly, to the detriment of life and other accounts, and a few hearty slaps are due to those who speak up and humble themselves for remaining European and human.
And while the canings are increasing in number, they immediately **** off the homeless who are begging and begging, they have to struggle sleeplessly, like a miserable ***** with the uncertain hurricane tide raging to the point of unknown, with storks' nests, not just a whistling nickel samovar that will last another hundred years - but a century of nuclear mushroom clouds!
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 12:22 AM UTC
THE DEEDS WE DO FOR LOVE
I gave up my father, for love.
I gave up my dreams, for love.
I gave up my heart, for love.
I gave up money, for love.
The things we do for love.
We test ourselves as we walk amongst the vitreous path
of which we created.
We canvass ourselves daily.
Can I do this?
Will I avail?
Love hath seized many a possession of mine.
I do not care.
The deeds we do for love.
We eschew many an asset for the honorarium of love.
The deeds we do for love.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 8:02 AM UTC
so Olson (#2), Honorarium
around here,
poets have been advised and disclaimed
the genuine praise of others get repaid
in kind, in k i n d
no, nope, not in
succinct pithy praiseworthy commentaries
that pays the quid pro quo bills
no ******* it,
a full blown poem is your honorarium,
you have torn open that envelope, and gosh **** golly gee...
debts must be paid for the scales can not exist imbalanced,
until pieces of me equal pieces of you,
and I hate owing (for one never can be owning) poems...
Honorarium
*this lonely business, never paid the rent,
at best, I hear them whisper, leave him be,
he’s entranced in other galaxies, breathing
words of nitrous oxygen, which has oft
produced excitable effects, copious weeping, hysteria,
and uncontrollable hyena laughter and
a sadness so deep, we fear for his retrieval*
*while
conversing with others in his head,
but when he writes of honor & love,
beware his bewitched bewitchments,
when all flu-like symptoms starburst all at once
the words are corded and stacked.
for fiery consumption in a hearth hearted fireplace,
word fries with aioli spice tendered in repayment*
*not a one lost, for those poems, though up in smoke,
lung imprinted, and breathed out into the clouded atmospheres,
dragon exhaling, poems roaring, stored and restored
honorarium in the crematorium of word debtor prison*
*an “the end” sigh dot dot dots the bitter end,
the anchor resting on sandy bottom,
at last, the last word, debt paid, honor restored*
*this, this
he loves best, when the beast released
and then returns to rest-in-chest and
await his next self imposed commission,
immolation in isolation*...
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 6:51 AM UTC
So honestly, my true intention
is to live this life better than you.
Petty, I know.
But just so tempting to declare
that I can come to my end,
somehow elevated with an esteem
that will grab the gods' attention.
Perhaps, they will applaud,
and grant me a life saving boon.
In my excellence, I will request
an honorarium for my sacred duty-
To leave this world with all of you
brimming in the knowledge
that it does not mater how well
you live your life.
Because you'll know that the love-
my love, your love, the forever love-
is more compliant than desire,
and more abundant than the wind.
Step outside, for you might leap
into eternity from there.
Gaze to the right
and be comforted and fearless.
Know that I am beyond,
and armed with my gratitude
for our imperfect loving, I have been able
to discipline doomsday.
It looks away so sheepishly now,
so aware of its inability to build
an alter higher than the tears shed,
the cries of joy,
on the day you were born.
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 12:09 AM UTC
Four score young poets meet
in a metropolitan city.
So many living
in one century
no one country has !
Times have changed !
So has
their number and
their tete- a - tete !
Years ago:
What were they writing ?
What was being written ?
A comment, a lament , a complaint !
Some excitement !
But now :
A mere meaningless conversation !
Jobs and jubilations !
Grants and gratifications !
Influences and references !
Honours and honorarium !
But
no talk of poetry !
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC