"hotels" poems
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb
Where the yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of life and the tree of life
Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood is the flood of love,
The absolute sacrifice.
It means: no more idols but me,
Me and you.
So, in their sulfur loveliness, in their smiles
These mannequins lean tonight
In Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome,
Naked and bald in their furs,
Orange lollies on silver sticks,
Intolerable, without mind.
The snow drops its pieces of darkness,
Nobody's about. In the hotels
Hands will be opening doors and setting
Down shoes for a polish of carbon
Into which broad toes will go tomorrow.
O the domesticity of these windows,
The baby lace, the green-leaved confectionery,
The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stolz.
And the black phones on hooks
Glittering
Glittering and digesting
Voicelessness. The snow has no voice.
28 January 1963
20.6k
Visits of condolence is all we get from them.
They squat at the Holocaust Memorial,
They put on grave faces at the Wailing Wall
And they laugh behind heavy curtains
In their hotels.
They have their pictures taken
Together with our famous dead
At Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's Tomb
And on Ammunition Hill.
They weep over our sweet boys
And lust after our tough girls
And hang up their underwear
To dry quickly
In cool, blue bathrooms.
Once I sat on the steps by agate at David's Tower,
I placed my two heavy baskets at my side. A group of tourists
was standing around their guide and I became their target marker. "You see
that man with the baskets? Just right of his head there's an arch
from the Roman period. Just right of his head." "But he's moving, he's moving!"
I said to myself: redemption will come only if their guide tells them,
"You see that arch from the Roman period? It's not important: but next to it,
left and down a bit, there sits a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his family."
9k
Yes, your childhood now a fable of fountains. - Jorge Guillén
Yes, your childhood now a fable of fountains.
The train and the woman filling the sky.
Your shy solitude in the hotels
and your pure mask of another sign.
It is the sea's childhood and your silence
where the wise windows were breaking.
It is your stiff ignorance where
my torso was limited by fire.
I gave you the norm of love, man of Apollo,
the lament of a crazed nightingale,
but, pasture of ruin, you sharpened yourself
for brief, indecisive dreams.
Thought head on, light of yesterday,
indices and signs of what may be.
Your waist of restless sand
follows only trails that never rise.
But without you your warm soul
fails to understand. I must search
the corners of a halted Apollo
that I've used to break the mask you wear.
There, lion, fury of heaven,
I will let you graze on my cheeks;
there, blue horse of my madness,
pulse of nebula and minute hand,
I must search for scorpion stones
and your mother's childhood clothes,
midnight lament and torn cloth
that wiped the moon from the dead man's temple.
Yes, your childhood now a fable of fountains.
Strange soul of the space in my veins,
I must search for you, small and rootless.
Love of always, love of never!
Oh, yes! I want. Love. Let me be.
Don't cover my mouth, you
who search for Saturn's seed in the snow
or castrate animals in the sky,
clinic and jungle of anatomy.
Love, love. Childhood of the sea.
Without you your warm soul fails to understand you.
Love, a doe's flight
through the endless breast of whiteness.
And your childhood, love, and childhood.
The train and the woman filling the sky.
Not you, not I, not air, not leaves.
Yes, your childhood now a fable of fountains.
7.2k
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america, americultus, americate, dubiously **********
::: our gold-flecked bodies.
blackbirdian danceparty, i'll go.
washed-up beach bottles and all our feet amongst them curling time.
teens dream in orchid; they wait for stars and dark and los hombres of good dust.
they wait on eyes, and on embers, on belly belly.
jellyfish flashlight shrine.
we eat acid and strawberries and butter in the cemetery,
and feed foxes lizards face first :::
us lost ghouls on school-nights.
flash tag jazz, and yellow bicycles.
::: that hot eternal light.
that candy colored smoke don't smoke; go south on her body.
then thoughts form thoughts form action, form twangs all tuned to air.
& we, as notes, we notes harp like light
to dust.
our glistering hormonal thrusts beneath sheath of liquid love. her eyes,
with those multi-speckled strands
infinitesimally drunk :::
seed from my ****
pearled halo: smoke above my head.
::: waves and machines and weekends. filtered by the long ****
of existence.
boys wait in rooms of hotels for more drugs, and the girls bringing them.
like caterpillars on silky thin treadways,
with nothing but the flavor of our passions to ignite the way. we
exacerbate the boundaries of our intentions. we
curl under sheets, bending sheets of light and sound. we
flakey emaciated flakes. [sequence suffered time in motion] we
dirt. it’s what we are; dirt.
we are druggernauts, tasting ourselves along the iridescent brim.
::: we crawl up cross-glowing hillsides toward portals and faraway
bleep-blorps of hot god-head calibration.
we sticky-crackle go burn. [nature puzzles]
the brain shifts back; twenty-one grams they say the soul weighs.
they say things.
cherry blossom tree tips in the dark.
tele-portal surfing with an intergalactic pizza priest, and his satchel of secret sauce.
he heaves in the corner; rebirth :::
tendrils pulled tight, everybody **** chung…
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
hotels are casually destroying the enviornment
i love the feeling i get when
you accept that i'm
getting closer to you
I have so much to do but
let's get taco bell and
play minecraft all day
we can build a quiet town
while the world around ours
falls apart
snuggle baby, comfy love
baby talk, my sweet bliss
rotting me from the inside out, emotional decay
just one more
******* day i cannot handle
looking at your face
and i'm gone forever
I spend most nights suffering
but failing miserably
at relationships
babe if you only ******* knew
you were the closest thing to a soulmate
but the furthest away from true love
i still bang my head against the wall
I cover my ears and scream
when I can't handle the sound of this world's destruction
it's all louder and more apparent
without the saftey you granted me
you're probably happy as i'm being
tortured and devoured my soul
**** out and thrown away into a pit of
******* useless torment corprate casual slave hell but
we all die alone and that's what matters most so who rly cares
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
Manning up in Texas
Geldof overdose
needles at the bed stand
starlet comatose
California dreaming
killer meets demise
hurling in a taxi
puke fee on the rise
Fighting in the Gaza
Jordan's holy war
rebels on a mission
Jihad underscore
The North Korean riddle
pales in grand design
crisis on the border
planes fall from the sky
Cooking on a deadline
tempting tapenades
herbs are in the spotlight
wines that give a nod
Google maps the body
DOW at record highs
Uber comes to market
corn is on the rise
Apple on its earnings
Caterpillar dead
European sanctions
banks have **** the bed
Clippers threaten boycott
Longhorns follow purge
Lynch is out of training camp
James is on the verge
Leinart taking *** shots
coughing up a lung
lions take a licking
fans are throwing dung
Another day in Vegas
Primm from A-Z
rolling out an ankle
a flying SUV
Quiet tempting spaces
made better by design
multi color pea coat
silence fuels the mind
Stabbing in the subway
goat caught in a well
apes are selling tickets
(but leave behind a smell)
Puberty on trial
a man without a head
teachers feel alone
lets take them to the shed!
Jonah's tomb destroyed
wreckage in Mumbai
Sugar Daddy sites
Freedom 85
The immigrant debate
Russia's mounting toll
unions on a mission
heads are gonna roll
Beaches for the nudists
hotels on the cheap
the best generic brands
a list you have to keep!
Planning your estate
questions from the camp
a mansion up for sale
where once they filmed The Champ
Midwives threaten action
aboriginal act
truckers want concessions
that train has left the track
Sharks are found in Fundy
a prized but perilous catch
food we love to hate the most
an irrefutable batch
A family on the brink
I want my kids to fail!
politicians drains all hope
a ban on Israel
Follow out each headline
let the columns be your guide
all these things did happen
the day that Newhouse died
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
I hate it when dad comes home
He is ***** and he has smelly feet
Having spent long ours at construction site
Smelly and filthy.. what a sight!
I loath him, I look down on him
When I walk pass the working site
I turn my face, pretending he is out of sight
I constantly accuse god, I said he isn't fair
I want a different dad..
who drives a much better car
goes to work wearing tie and suit
The perfect dad I always think I should have...
At school one day
My best friend cried
She was devastated
Her rich dad left home
left for good with a pretty woman...
She has a house as big as a castle
Fat bank accounts and pretty outfits
Constantly travel around the world
Houses, condos, hotels
just name it where
but she has no dad to cuddle anymore
at night when she gets scared
of storms and thunder
I remember my dad's smelly feet instantly
annoying.. disgusting.. frustrating..
This dad of mine
I used to loath...
But he works all day
his sweat is his labor of love
to bring food on the table...
so we kids don't sleep hungry
This dad of mine
doesn't own expensive car
has never been overseas
has never worn a tailor made suit
and but he loves us wholeheartedly...
and always want to give only the best for us.
This dad of mine
whose smelly feet
will annoy me forever
but he loves his family truly
and will never leave our side
at anytime when we needed him most...
I love you daddy
All your perfect imperfections
I am sorry................
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 12:11 AM UTC
I tied together
a few slender reeds, cut
notches to breathe across and made
such music you stood
shock still and then
followed as I wandered growing
moment by moment
slant-eyes and shaggy, my feet
slamming over the rocks, growing
hard as horn, and there
you were behind me, drowning
in the music, letting
the silver clasps out of your hair,
hurrying, taking off
your clothes.
I can't remember
where this happened but I think
it was late summer when everything
is full of fire and rounding to fruition
and whatever doesn't,
or resists,
must lie like a field of dark water under
the pulling moon,
tossing and tossing.
In the brutal elegance of cities
I have walked down
the halls of hotels
and heard this music behind
shut doors.
Do you think the heart
is accountable? Do you think the body
any more than a branch
of the honey locust tree,
hunting water,
hunching toward the sun,
shivering, when it feels
that good, into
white blossoms?
Or do you think there is a kind
of music, a certain strand
that lights up the otherwise
blunt wilderness of the body -
a furious
and unaccountable selectivity?
Ah well, anyway, whether or not
it was late summer, or even
in our part of the world, it is all
only a dream, I did not
turn into the lithe goat god. Nor did you come running
like that.
Did you?
6.6k
Timbeck Tyu, Timbeck Tyu
Great City Timbeck Tyu
Coloured Walls Nicely Painted
Arts and Drawing Everywhere
Artifacts on every crossing
People's representatives feel like king
Magnificient buildings here and there
Bridges and flyover everywhere
Toll tax booth here and there
Statues standing everywhere
Banners hanging here and there
Hoardings, posters everywhere
Malls and Hotels here and there
Dance Bars and Casinos everywhere
Citizens always in Crisis
Struggling with poverty
Economical condition bad
Politicians has gone mad
Nationalism in Slogans
Here and there hooligans
Real nationalist are renamed
They are called anti-nationals
Corruption is on the peak
You need license to speak
Crowd imposes censorship
System respects the crowd
Mouse catches the Crow
Everything on the show
Real news not covered
Real issues are untouched
Fake news are implanted
Press and Media on sale
Laws are being twisted
Burden of proof shifted
Culprits are honoured
Innocents are hanged
Farmers are in debts
Their families are starving
They can't even pay their loans
Neither Principal nor interest
They either commit suicide
or land in jail for not paying loans
Hospital competing with hotels
Doctors busy in making money
Patients treatment is on Sale
Get cured only if you pay
Stray Animals on the rise
What you can do if you cry?
Black money in circulation
White money is called pollution
Rapes, Murders and theft on rise
Law and order is on the papers
Lawyers are with Politicians
Politicians are with Criminals
Criminals are with the Police
Police is with the Capitalists
Only the God is with the victims
That too only, if he really exists
Population almost exploding
Environment full of pollution
Fights and quarrels here and there
Religion and faith always on stake
Caste and Classes everywhere
Race and Religion everywhere
Common people struggling for food
Saints consuming wine and drugs
Rallies and protests uprising
The system has turned deaf
Goddess of law weeping and bleeding
Judges busy in process law and rules
Timbeck Tyu, Timbeck Tyu
Such a great city Timbeck Tyu
Have you liked Timbeck Tyu?
Want to live in Timbeck Tyu?
If you liked, Timbeck Tyu
Want to live in Timbeck Tyu
First apply for passport in your country
Then apply for visa from Timbeck Tyu
Hurry Up, Hurry Up, don't be late
Visa's are limited so take care
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 6:28 AM UTC
No place for me at my house.
Yelling, expectations and failures take what should be mine.
I will never be good enough
And so I have been pushed to the side.
No place for me in your heart.
I ripped open my chest for you to see mine beating rhythmically,
And you pushed me away.
I have had to pack my bags and look elsewhere.
No place for me in my mind.
Thoughts of who I have become make me want to crumble.
I cannot think about myself for too long,
Or I will not survive.
I have a tiny one-room apartment in hope for the future.
No place for me in my church.
I have hidden my bisexuality from them,
Because it is not exactly smiled upon
In the conservative community.
No place for me in my town.
All these ******* look the same
With their money and clothes
And the fact that they couldn't care less.
And do not get me started on their Republican morals.
Will their be a place for me?
In the ripples and folds of time?
Can I ever find a place where I can stay for a while
And be accepted?
I guess that's why they build hotels.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
Earth is my bedroom and toilet;
an empty cup, my self employment
Days of empty stomach churning,
a forced sermon at "Sunday Breakfast"
Fast-food places are my kitchens;
Shelters,my free hotels and free meals
Police are my nemesis;
human rights, a foreign fantasy
Jail cells are my places for philosophical,
contemplated thought
Filth is my every day attire;
alertness, my only protection
Weather is my lover or enemy;
cold empty stares, my other human contacts
Loneliness is my constant companion
New horizons are never sought
by this man-of-no-land
,
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
Listening to the song ‘daddy, super daddy’,
Worried and sad thinking about the father long gone,
While reading the news of a father who killed his girl child by hitting her against the wall
To some fathers and children
A father and son didn't feel anything more than that.
Remember uploading in Facebook, the news of the soaring price of tapioca in five star hotels
The tsunami of saliva which the tender yellow tapioca Crowned by curry leaves and red chilly created, is in the throat.
Today noon,
After lots of news
I am cooking tapioca raw
A green bottle is nearby
When the smell of cooking tapioca with salt hit the olfactory senses
Father came
You don’t have to be the Son of God to resurrect the dead
Told Jesus that just the smell of cooking tapioca is enough
Compound divided into patches, ashes, manure,
Properly cut tapioca plants
Mother rushing to get the rice gruel
Between play and squabbles
A lad is walking around with torn trousers, shirtless
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca
Tapioca, tapioca, tapioca
For sleeping, eating, hunger
Faith,
Tapioca, tapioca
phoo
For rice gruel, mid noon
At twilight when hunger develops faith
For last supper,
Dried tapioca
Lucky that one who was born after an enema
Was not named ‘black sheep’
With a green chilly, raw
In the shade of the green bottle
When I touch the tapioca,
Daddy is dancing
Daddy
Super daddy.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
Big ships, small ships, yachts and dingeys
Floating across the mighty sea
Carving their way, displacing their weight
To keep afloat the Captain and First mate.
Old ships, new ships, schooners and cruise liners
Have crossed paths throughout the ages old
Once to explore, make claim, pirate and fight
Now to wine and dine on a luxurious bite
Salted beef, rock hard bread and weevil-friendly biscuits
A 3 course meal fit for Old Salts alike
Weevils & worms and bugs of all kind
Along with sparse portions of meat, you might find
French wine, filet mignon, sushi and pastries
Buffets and fine dining, variety is key
All you can eat, whenever you'd like
No chores, no work, just eating all night'
What a contrast exists between these two worlds
Only 2 to 300 hundred years apart
Once grimy, risky, arduous and fraught
Now fancy, lazy, and much to be bought
What if the Old Salts could teleport to today
And live aboard our floating hotels?
With no masts to climb or sheets to tend
Would they break or would they bend?
I suppose that switch would be easy enough
But send us back to Pirate-ridden waters
You'd be sure never to hear from us again
Swabbing the deck would **** us alone
Not to mention the food and disease of back when.
- BPW
Dec. 11, 2013
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
in baler where the sun shines and the waves visit
is where freedom bathes under the blue skies
in the seaside realm of surfing
simple hotels line the shore
where you can run to the beach fronts
after settling in little white rooms,
and in the blue water
wait tanned, youthful surfing instructors--
local boys of the province who've grown up
with the salt water as their playground.
get on your surfboard and
join the waters,
"mag-timing ka sa alon,"—
"wait for the waves", the instructors say
and lie down on your stomach on the surfboard,
and when you do get the waves you ride them fearlessly,
you are lifted, invincible,
by the hands of the philippine sea.
and if you don't surf,
the smooth sands are there,
calling you to lie around
under the seaside sun.
and when night falls
and the waves are reckless,
you can sit on the sand
with a bonfire and some drinks—
watch the stars
with the sound of the tides as your music
and do not fear;
for in the morning
the waves will come rushing
back to the shores of Balers
to give anyone freedom
as they always do.
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
Memories can become blurry, over time,
like underdeveloped photographs,
or incomplete, like sunlight through blinds.
Our lives move ever forward,
like the inflexible patterns of stars.
Once fevered and immediate events
recede, with frightening, doppler effect,
as remembered yesterdays,
become forgotten yesterdays.
New Haven was abuzz. The hotels were booked and moving trucks had taken every free parking space for miles. Last Sunday was freshmen move-in day and 1,554 freshmen moved into their Yale residences. It’s one of our favorite days of the year. The hubbub of freshmen moving, lunching, shopping and later, seeing off their departing parents, created a delicious emotional chaos that we watched unfold, like a Greek chorus.
The movie ‘Love Actually’ begins and ends with montages of people greeting friends, family and loved ones at Heathrow airport - it’s emotional and heartwarming. Move-in days are a lot like that - with their gordian knots of beginnings and endings. My parents were nervous and emotional on my freshman move-in day - as was I - but we all tried, desperately, not to show it.
Welcome to New Haven freshmen, everything’s beautiful, but you’ll get too busy to enjoy it much.
We upperclassmen move in tomorrow.
Aug 24, 2023
Aug 24, 2023 at 1:20 PM UTC
Okay, the only one has been hiding their racism were whites.
Trying to blend into society with others because employers require a get along attitude.
Go to a bank and instantly you know the hiring schemes.
And this any community.
Same, with certain restaurants you attend.
It's the blend that point the management comfortability out.
White flight, existed because the "fearful" can't adjust to a changing society.
History has shown this.
And they have created it.
Jim Crow's laws weren't created by blacks.
Asians placed in America concentration camps wasn't their idea.
And these were American citizens.
History presently has shown that the new "pick on" group is the Latin communities.
They MS13 or this or that.
Many white businesses must be enjoying their employment keeping them in business.
For in many big cities they building the complexes and hotels, and sidewalks.
History has shown when it comes to justice they the first to try to scheme out of their crimes.
But quick to holler about locking up criminals until it's them.
History has shown when investigating wickedness in government.
They lead the pack.
Then this is just an opinion.
And no way connected to alternative facts.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC
empty black purse
old love notes
all wrinkled
now molding
damp and limp
boat trips and fancy dinners
airplanes and hangers
ocean views and hotels
princess treatment
promises made
one plastic ring
fit
if taped
texted pictures
a portrait
a yacht
videos shared
two months
later invisible
me and my quite room
and an empty refrigerator
let go
empty black purse
wild goose chase
just a distraction
a fantasy
let go
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
Overdevelopment in Bali
The Farmers lose valuable water
For use in the hotels
The mushrooming developments have clogged irrigation channels
To rice fields inland,
Often driving them up and driving up the cost of tending the land
The shrinking amount of land available
Has threatened Bali's self-sufficiency in rice
Tourism benefits the economy
But the environment should also be respected
A String of letters
The Height of a man stand in the middle of a lush padi field
They spell, "Not for sale,"
Gede Agus says the words
Are meant to scare off investors
This is his land
He inherited from his ancestors
Development must be halted
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
To it, I've never been.
but I've dreamed of a place where everything
is coated in corn and comfort.
Wished the past had taken me,
can't help but feel it was about my skin.
Cactus candy and cowboy boots.
Zydeco and haunted hotels.
The voodoo Frank sang about in the end.
The horns sound the streets.
Close curtains, be discreet.
Encircle the barest neck,
with colorful beads.
His family reunions
made me realize I'm on my own.
Until I met a prettier soul.
I don't kiss frogs for love.
I forget the ease in slime.
and let the grease define
an unhealthy outlook.
Sip another lime or a sour.
A ginger begs the hour.
Lonely never leaves,
but warmth is a soco shower.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
"i know it's cliche but-"
your throat is a graveyard spitting up coffee grounds and
used tissues / toilet paper / whatever you can get your hands on
(everything you own is covered in blood.
this is normal)
vulnerability turned burial shroud / tent / house
hotels arent wastelands for you to learn to hate yourself with
(*"i know, i know
not everything is a burial ground, etc"*)
glittery and sick and tired
[ and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning and burning ]
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
Silly games we play
on the game board
of life…
under the pretense
of irritable hushes….
and the stubborn
disingenuous excuses.
The games we play
as if we were twelve
remain with us and
cost us precious time
that neither of us
have to waste…
We move like pieces
and buy hotels or
rent rooms for the night
and play the games
only to hurt from
the loneliness,
self pity and confusion.
The games we play
are not as fun
as they used to be
when we were young,
because there’s so little time
left to enjoy them.
The games we play
are not games at all
but rather
the lives we
choose to live.
Dec 6, 2010
Dec 6, 2010 at 11:43 AM UTC
They enter the bus
Conversing
About busses
Like this one
And other passengers
Taking up space
Designated for them
They do not address us
But clearly
They are talking about
Us
Like they sit in the lobby
In cheap chartered hotels
Taking up space
Conversing
About other guests
Being loud
Or obnoxious
They do not address us
Or ask who we are
But clearly
They assume
And they are talking
About us
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 2:31 PM UTC
Under a large, round, yellow
Full November moon
The chill of the cold, dark night
Slips in through my window
It fights against the heating
To send a shuddering shiver down my spine
Under the full November moon
People spill out of noisy pubs
Leaving heat, light, music
A false, inebriated happiness
To stagger, swirling home
To warm beds of love
Or cold, empty houses
And late night T.V.
Under the full November moon
Teenager's breath leaves clouds in the air
Hanging heavy and mingling with smoke
From spliffs secretly held in cupped hands
Hanging around shops, parks
Even the disappearing phone boxes
Feeling the arrogance of youth
Course through their veins
Under the full November moon
The middle aged sit
In armchairs with tea mugs
T.V. droning as they dream of their youth
When they were slim and ****
Or hungry and virile
Before it all slipped so quickly away
Under the full November moon
Swingers swap flesh and fluids
In hotels and motels
With no more passion or emotion
Than passing the salt
Under the full November moon
Prostitutes haul their tired, aching bodies
From car to car for the price of a hit
The dealers swagger, stoked full of *******
With the power and arrogance of mediaeval lords
Under the full November moon
People sweat in police cells
Under grey, itchy blankets
On blue rubber mattresses
In a white - tiled nightmare
Under the full November moon
I think of them all
As I sir writing ideas
In a cheap, lined pad
Then turn off the lights
As the full November moon
Bids goodnight
To us all
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 4:06 PM UTC
I am just your average sinner,
sly glances say, I am second chance, time around .
I spin mediocre wildest-dreams
in rundown hope hotels
I am just a pretty sinner with a
dusty trail of lust
like green pollen in my wake.
A vehicle of possibility
to all the places we can drive our devils,
with cocktails and vague musician
who lean back on wooden chairs, against walls of fading paint.
with tables for sins
to be laid out like Thanksgiving.
My sins are neon signs in yellowed rooms,
My sins are rusted cans kicked in old beach towns.
My sins are hot pavement under cracked rubber tires rumbling above.
My back arched in a prayer to the sky.
The rise of my hipbones like majestic mountains.
My sins leak from my eyes. First one, then another.
Down, Down they fall
I fall to my knees.
They fall and I curse them for leaving me too.
I fall to my knees like the traveler who has journeyed too long,
On my knees and I kiss the dirt of home.
I am humbled and groveling...within my sinning.
And I pray a much louder prayer. I am a much humbler servant, with much to forgive.
I wear my sins like a raincoat to keep me dry from all the
good intention and 'well-deserved!' that might be coming my way.
I twist my sin into a paper flower and wear it in my sinful hair next to my sinful eyes by my sinful mind.
I am just your average sinner
Dreaming of living a better life someday.
Praying to be a better me, someday.
Someday is a funny place to live
With towering hopes
and skyscraping desires scratching at its sterile walls.
No, not for me.
I am just your average sinner...
with extraordinary sins.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
The Rent-a-Mob loonies, the gangsters and the Racists
damaged scums of society and contemporary politics
Ignorant arrogant sociopaths who want it all for nothing
Indulgent wasters in nation awashed with opportunities
In idle union they scream, feed us poor and **** the Rich
Strangers come Poland, Bulgaria, India and all over
to work in farms, hospitals, hotels and Constructions
Building futures and faring in endeavours with sweat
Crimson gangs and Renta Mobs states we serve nobody
**** the wealth makers, **** the parasites and let's drink
Our shyster gangs of Revo-comrades and malcontents
See killing fields, whereas strangers toil and find rich pickings
Our Revos Distract, confuse, sow seeds of dissent, make strife
Blame all others, lie and decieve, fling indulgent political turds
Rent brainwashed Mobs,into ***** bridgard to do their ***** work
We all know life is unfair and even roses have imperfections
Some are born to riches in spades and some born to beggars in dusts
Those with time, sit and ask God why, just a fact of life to accept
But from dust has risen billionaires, whilst riches have made duds
Insane Crimson sits in spurious guise and odious fallacy playing God
Yeh, **** the Rich and feed the poor, why hide and use Rent a mob
Why not air your case in broad daylight and stand your conviction
The coward you are knows it hold no sanity for those with sense
Except for thieves, the workshy and wasters who cheat to survive
In your city of merits aplenty, Revo-crimson is beneath contempt
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC