"horatio" poems
It was only a legend, my dears,
A normal town, living in fear,
There were fat feral urban virgins here,
Hell bent on their pleasures, cheers!
"Down with boys' daks, get here!"
A whole town living in fear,
Was it all an urban myth, my dears?
Urban virgins strolling the streets,
Battleships waiting for boys to meet,
Immaculate conception, each miss,
Having divine parthogenesis,
Yes, real fat funster chicks,
It was all about ********
For each little Horatio,
Or was it a fantasy of bliss,
From an urban ****** miss?
Did urban virgins wander away?
Normal town, not a normal day,
A normal town, living in fear...
It was an urban legend, my dears.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 4:08 AM UTC
When Hamlet was young,
All was good,
Elsinore was proud,
Hamlet was young,
Ophelia too.
Now he is older,
Not everything is good,
Some things still are,
His uncle is his father in law,
This is not so good.
Now he is dead,
Ophelia is dead,
Laertes is dead,
Gertrude is dead,
Cladius is dead,
Yorick... is dead,
but he was at the start,
so he doesn't count.
Rosen... Guilden... dead
Old hamlet is dead,
Plonius is dead.
Horatio is alive;
can't imagine he's very happy,
because everyone else is dead.
Laurence Olivier is handsome,
he's dead too.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
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.
3k
Oh Hamlet, what a troubled life you had in the end
How cruel, How sad, How fast was your life
I still can't believe you are gone, my dear lord and friend
You bravely avenged your father and this kingdom's honour
To be or not to be, noble Hamlet our friendship was like honey to bee's
Oh my wretched soul, does ache for your quick dismissal
I don't know how your true self stayed sane in all the insanity
Your story shall live on through time, that this deed may not come again
You were like a brother to me and I to you
May your soul find heaven along with your great father
It hurts to much to say goodbye, so for now adieu till I see thee again.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
If you are Horatio, let me be Hamlet
Because I need you right by my side
If I must face what is to face
If you are Horatio, let me be Hamlet
Because if I face what is inside
I might need you to be my brace
If you are Horatio, let me be Hamlet
Because if I need someone to hide
All the ghosts I see, it’d be my ace
If you are Horatio, let me be Hamlet
Because if I get caught up in the tide
I’d need you to bring me down from space
If you are Horatio, let me be Hamlet
Because when my hands are seldom tied
I’d need you to come unlace
If you are Horatio, let me be Hamlet
Because if there is someone to be alongside
You’d be in just the right place
Because if you are Horatio,
let me be Hamlet
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
Horatio Alger is whispering his stories in my sleeping ear
painting me as a lowly street urchin
who conquers adversities and moral wildernesses
with only my wit, determination, and guts
and he is painting me as a phoenix of the new world
rising from ashes of banality and
the naturalized familial trappings of my past
a dirt road in the socioeconomic desert
carved out with care by the hands of forefathers I will never know
but Mr. Alger died a long while ago
and the sun inevitably rises
shattering the stained glass story of my rags turned riches
now the big men upstairs
jot me down as numbers on a chart
of consumption trends of millennials
Go to college
they say
make something of yourself
they say
you are all too entitled
they say
What went wrong
they say without a hint of contradiction
I am not equipped to say if the story of humanity
is a cycle or a downwards spiral
I am not equipped to say
that it is the job of every generation
to ensure that they clear the debris
from the path of their progeny
but I say it anyway
everybody want’s a trophy
because we were raised to believe that
everybody deserves a trophy
In the same breath they expect us
to take the puritanical mantle of the breadwinner
the frayed saddle of the noble western outlaw
the lethally honed sword of the entrepreneur
the martyr making cross of the socially conscious family man
and then wonder why we so willingly
give ourselves over to the currents
of apathy and passivity and masochistic narcissism
giving us guns and bullets with no idea how to shoot them
so instead we turn them into sculptures of modern art
and scream to the empty heavens
for just a hint of recognition
I can’t decide if history will forget us
or memorize the lyrics of our collective heart beats
but I have decided
to wake up from my American Dream
have decided
to forge my own reality
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
Every limerick follows a ratio
like, Alas, poor Yorick, Horatio
you've known them before
then after line four
they predicatably end with ********
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
I mean, it felt like I was a dead fish
Or something, left to rot out there in the sun,
Left there on purpose, you know, like it was
A threat—and Charles, it stinks—you know that?—
—the stench of all those old thoughts—
Yeah, thoughts…you know,
Like guppies maybe, sturgeon, or flounder.
You laugh? Why? Fish can think, can’t they? They flounder.
Suppose as we grow old the ancient thoughts
Appear as songs a child might sing—sotto voce.
Suppose they’re like the masks the actors wore
In some Commedia dell’Arte farce,
Or like the web a spider strings across
A road, hidden, dark, all subtle tension,
The strands still wet with the coagulate air…
Too wet to breath, Charles, way too wet.
There’s more. Suppose a face inside that mask
Looks back, looks out. Suppose the rings run circles round
The eyes, for fear. Suppose it’s an old face of yours,
Charles, smiling too, with all that sullen pride
You once were so capable of…so proud.
This is not the Lone Ranger, kimosabi.
Not Zorro either. Man is least himself
When he talks in his own person. So let’s
Try on that mask, shall we?
One for you and one for me.
Masks aplenty, masks abound,
Masks askance…
There, it fits. Welcome, Charles. Welcome back.
And welcome ghost.
…a ghost to prompt you in your mask, a ghost
off stage, and hoarse from shouting, diaphanous,
just like the real thing: for curiously,
at that moment while he is in you,
in situ, as it were, I will be left
au naturel—yeah, me—king for a day.
We were all meant to crawl away from the sea,
were we not?
…and I count the collective ghosts here too,
Charles…
… atavistic, frightened, unaneled,
and openly integumentary
(thus, open to the sea, but repellant
to air)
—owls, Orion, a star-scarred sky,
too cold to breath that night,
too cold not to, eh, Charles?
Like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza,
like Hamlet and Horatio,
out with the watch, in search
of ghosts and fathers…
ghosts and fathers, Charles.
You remember that?
Back then, when you used to listen to me
when I spoke. You did listen, then, Charles when
I said things, right?
All those old thoughts…
When I could sing…
Charles?
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 8:52 AM UTC
Jay Horatio
By the door in the flower pot The man who planted all these trees
Among the beans in the veggie plot Alas I knew him well
In the lawn, everywhere -little oak trees- He did not see them to maturity
Do you know who puts them there? How long our years we cannot tell
I've only ever seen it once Now strong and spreading to their prime
He does it when you're not around They seem to thank him for their chance of life
He does it taking lots of care In gratitude they sway and soar
He puts an acorn in the ground And breathe for him as he can breathe no more
He thinks he's coming back to it We thank the Jay for acorns
When he feels the need Unwittingly he sows
But mostly he forgets And plant like him we must
So germinates the seed Although like him we may not see them fully grow
As I look up at this fresh green canopy
I think of all the tiny saplings
And of what will be
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
I prayed to God in the silent house,
In the quiet stillness, in came a mouse,
Yes, in scuttled Horatio the Mouse,
Sardonic God has sent me a mouse,
So, a little fur friend,
God's blessings don't end,
This mouse is way too hyperactive,
I ask, does it come from a mouse collective?
Is Horatio pregnant? think twice.
Shall I be plagued by furry mice?
I bought poison and mousetraps, too bad,
Is the mouse collective about to be sad?
Thus spake God, in the silent dark house,
"I shall send you a fur friend mouse?"
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
our love was a loaded gun
the beginning
and the end
your lips grazed mine
before swallowing me whole
one last bite
of the serpents apple
the sweetest martyrdom
and just like horatio
i'm aching
with the anticipation
of your ghost finding mine
waiting for sleep
just to hear your voice once more
each syllable
still the sweetest hallelujah
even if we're nothing
but the whisper of a memory.
Mar 29, 2024
Mar 29, 2024 at 5:28 PM UTC
Did you know that when Ceres formed the moon, and hung it in the sky, it shone for you? That Apollo races his chariot across the skies because he wakes to see your face? When the seers see beauty in the bones and rocks, they see your eyes shine back at them. When the witch-men in the darkest, deepest parts of the jungle wish to bestow beauty on their callers, they invoke your name! When the Delphinewhi Oracle rocks her body, possessed with the wisdom of gods, she smiles savagely, and thanks Olympus for fashioning her in your image. When the roses blossom, and the honeysuckle blooms; when the violets show their beautiful dress, and the magnolia flaunts in the sun, they mimic you! When the lilies swim their graceful circles, and the snapdragon ushers forth it's sweet scent; when the lilac spreads its musk through my nostrils, or the dogwood dances in the wind, they devote their lives and beauty that it might stand in the shadow of your presence! Rocks crumble, and sands shift because they know you will need soft ground to tread upon. Thunders clap, and wild things wail because they envy any other that looks upon you but them! The stars themselves cast forth their light and burn themselves out because they know you will see their long-dead light, and appreciate their token of praise to you alone.
Did you? Did you know that when Shakespeare wrote about his beautiful, mysterious woman, he thought of you? Did you know that when Horatio sung of woman's beauty, he had your face and figure upon his eyes? Did you know that when Beowulf slew the seven serpents, he fought them in your name? That Helen of Troy, and Cleopatra are your ancestors? That when Cockney resolved to fix the language he spoke, he did it in the endeavor to accurately describe your beauty?
Alas, my littless, there is no man, nor beast, nor god that can comprehend your beauty. Save those you smile upon, all are lost in life, trying in vain to grasp the extent--the breadth and height and depth--of your immaculate form. Oh, if one could describe your smile, the earth would narry need the sun again! If man could describe the pools of color in thine eyes, man would be happy to look at a grey world to keep the memory of those prisms of light. If only one could touch you, caress the silk you wear for skin, he would be happy to never feel again....
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
Being a winner to me
Is not so much about
Winning the Battle of Waterloo
Neither is it about
Defeating the Axis Powers in WW2
Nor the heroism of Odysseus
After the fall of Troy
It is to me something simpler
But subtler
Like the equanimity of Horatio
In the Hamlet
And the fortitude of those who
Win unheard wars
Winners are those i'd say
Who in spite of losing believe
In the strength of their RESOLVE.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 6:43 AM UTC
There was a man named Ty
He was a Jack of all trades
But like any other average Joe
He had his own Achilles’ heel
In his mind Elvis had left the building
To say he was as happy as Larry
Is a big no way, José
It was elementary my dear Watson
What you have seen is not the real McCoy
Alas, poor Ty! You thought you knew him well, Horatio…
But now Daniel has come to judgement
And the only place Ty would be happy
Is down in Davy Jones’ locker…
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
Behind the double oak doors at 71 Horatio Street, lower west side, there’s a pink striped hallway with a checkerboard floor. Up the stairs to the right there’s a corner bathroom with a drip in the whitewashed stucco ceiling that will start when you take a long shower upstairs. The window has rusty bars over it and looks out over a backyard made of brick, with potted plants. Past the corner bathroom there’s an apartment with long rooms and creamy walls. This was my house,, but across the apartment, past the corner bathroom, through the striped hallway, and down the stairs to the left was the entrance to my home.
**** and Liz Merryman to this day live in the bottom apartment at 71 Horatio Street, lower west side. Between each spindle on the carpeted staircase down is a wind up toy from ***** antique collection. They still work, but my sister and I may be the only kids that he’s ever let touch them. Beneath the staircase is a jar of butterscotch that magically refills whenever someone takes one, or five, or sometimes even ten.. The living room in their house is where all the living goes on. The kitchen is in the living room, recipe’s hanging from the ceiling on bit’s of faded cardstock or stationary. The dining area is tucked between the spice jar and the bookcase, a glass coffee table from which **** and Liz have eaten their way through thirty years of marriage. Out the sliding door is the brick backyard. If you sit on the faded stones and watch the unrestricted ivy wrapping around the potted fruit trees you can almost imagine you are in London, and that under the brick there is real soil not a subway station. I paddled my way through childhood in that backyard on 71 Horatio Street, lower west side, and if I cried when I left New York City, I cried for **** and Liz, and the apartment at the bottom of the stairs.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
This is Horatio's elegy,
He and the mousetrap had synergy,
That's the end of mouse energy,
Alas, Horatio is no more,
That fur friend predator,
He ran into the mousetrap's door,
Alas, Horatio is no more!
How to embellish this ode?
I'm in hunter-gatherer mode,
Shall I serve him up for lunch?
Nuke him for tasty munch?
Eat it skin on for nutrients,
Now I know what Nigella meant,
No, Horatio wasn't pregnant,
Now I have a fur friend remnant,
That little mouse predator,
Of mice I am no amator,
Alas, Horatio is no more!!
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
a wise eyed cynic
head full of rational thought
ignored by his only friend
as i descend into madness,
will you be my Horatio?
standing through it all
with the utmost clarity?
Oh, to be Horatio
as your closest friends are dragged into the clutches of insanity
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 8:27 PM UTC
AHHHH HORATIO I HARDLY KNEW YA!
me stuck up in the air
somewhere in oh I don't know
'63 or '64
Nelson on his pillars
chatting to a sea gull
all Dublin spread before us
like a living map
shops like tiny boxes
people like full stops
166 or was it 168
steps for 6 old pennies
panting for the view
here be the Wicklow Mts.,
there the Mournes
seeing how a bird sees
over there there's rain
though there's no rain here
everything crystal clear
all this of course
before the statue got itself
blown up
just in time for
the anniversary of
the Easter Rising
Nelson nothing now
but a pile of rubble
brought down to street level
his head stolen
by persons unknown
a ballad where Nelson once stood
"Up went Nelson
in auld Dublin!"
me forever stuck up in the air
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC
The crazy weatherman
was sure he'd soon be
a billionaire with all that
climate change
jingling in his pockets.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
everything withers on a vine like
grapes
to
raisins.
Seeking the power of sublimation,
I grasp the ghost of my sadness
by the scruff of it's ghostly collar
and look it in the ghostly eyes to tell it,
as resolutely as Horatio Nelson
screaming
commands to his fleet to attack
Napoleon's assembled navy
at the mouth of Aboukir Bay
two centuries
and
19 years before the meanwhile write,
that I can't breathe.
I can't breathe.
I really can't breathe you
sonuvabitch.
*but in the end, my victory is as
assured as Napoleon's eventual
defeat. I will route my demons at
their own little Waterloo...
and even if they return
from exile to rule one last time,
they will find their second attempt
much
more
fleeting.*
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 3:34 PM UTC
Ami, le temps n'est plus des guitares, des plumes,
Des créanciers, des duels hilares à propos
De rien, des cabarets, des pipes aux chapeaux
Et de cette gaîté banale où nous nous plûmes.
Voici venir, ami très tendre qui t'allumes
Au moindre dé pipé, mon doux briseur de pots,
Horatio, terreur et gloire des tripots,
Cher diseur de jurons à remplir cent volumes,
Voici venir parmi les brumes d'Elseneur
Quelque chose de moins plaisant, sur mon honneur,
Qu'Ophélia, l'enfant aimable qui s'étonne,
C'est le spectre, le spectre impérieux ! Sa main
Montre un but et son oeil éclaire et son pied tonne,
Hélas ! et nul moyen de remettre à demain !
376
& now for young ladies in love & Wedded
w / naked girls mothers, . Ethiopia's
Dead-Head days of the year of the number
of the goods to the poet's long coat,
Caledonia - The distance between a mother's
face White snooch fair ground in the dark
Green thought; Rose said girls the great city
in the world, the art of living in a flood lifts
the needy; American money to pay the skin
to the Sun; Specifically, they found that
choosing to be In the good old war,
a great abundance of them; God save you
sea hard Dream of Cătellus through the blood;
fire 1 young female stars in the Street
or hearing of the word, he thought,
was not a man, indeed, those who reach six
are said to live after breaking off the marriage,
what is The Turquoise is a local poet;
Watergate Cover-up Catholic
infancy at the height of the feet of the place
the stone of three sons, the arc; Leave
the Abbot General in The head of Medusa,
to show that he is truly man; These free from Most
wild Little Browns; The former star of the current
state gay Feeling the standing invisible
In cursive script writing by hand, Worms
The old pier when they are afraid, but my heart
'the cat's White was also the Secret
of the Consumer Voice; Lately a lot of guys
are wet; They were filled w/ a sweeter
sad mouth on the side of the window
knockers, However, is speakingof the Great
Plains; Deep between the Russian civil law;
Friends & blind dogs wearing mirrors to the
Heroic Virgin's Kiss, but the history of the
revolutionary time strippers & sending the
mother of all Strippers of a dog, the school
of Marcus; In the northwest of the island
Society Friends Dream of perfect modern
House Garden The girl gave birth & asked
to quit the evil behind the back of the daughters;
For the rich smell of unknown; The weather,
the fall of Horatio's World; Alchemy's mom
touched to meet Him speaking his mind in the air
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 5:36 PM UTC
It's a different buzz when
I hear of someone who isn't like anyone else,
Like a mellifluous cukoo in middle
of a metropolitan, a wave of fresh air breezing past
the sailors of Atlantic or as if it rained upon
the deserted desert where ozymandias is buried.
All the myths were buried
About things glowing brighter when,
I happened to glance upon
her gleam; where else,
Have I seen such shine, never in mine,past
which only she stands, next to The Sun, none in middle.
This sestina is hers,thou shalln't disturb in middle,
Those traits Methuselah said, is long lost and buried,
I don't know if it's hers, or she borrowed from the past,
Maybe she learnt at the right time, I don't know when,
Maybe she learnt it from someone, I don't know who else
can guide my way to the place, Redeemer was once built upon.
She is the Horatio, you can freely trust upon,
Tom to the Huck Finn,when stuck in middle,
"Acceptability" as she puts it, is second to none else,
Eleos must be proud of things she left buried,
Aesthetic in itself did her trait sound when
I caught upto myself in wake of my past.
Don't fool yourself, everyone still has a past,
But weak are those who keep clinging upon
the setbacks of life , the scars you get, never when
you came across but when u get stuck in middle
of holding onto it over keeping it buried,
But she isn't us, changing times doesn't wear her but everyone else.
It's not something I only observed, ask someone else,
It's what she stands for , way above her past,
I always worry about the good things being buried,
But oblivion is what her world's built upon,
Infinity and beyond is what she will be deciding in middle
of choosing destinies she'll own, time will tell when.
Who? I hope you got her upon, the hints I dropped in middle,
My examples are all the buried , yet her hint lies in only their past,
I might sound cliché when, I say like you there lies none else.
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 5:42 AM UTC