"huffed" poems
So the day I say I'm done,and finished with it all..
Was the same day that the house of cards I built began to fall,
Karma huffed and puffed and blew it all away,
Whether i deserved it or not? well its hard to say,
I need to take it easy but im living life the harder way ,
Living life day to day - there's gotta be a better way,
Love Drunk from the potions from Amy's wine house ,
I sobered up but it was only to find out -
Your lion-like roars turned to Microsoft words,
I was in my own word - she was in hers,
No, I'm not modest and dishonesty's a problem for my nerves,
Approach the point of no return? We def on the verge,
Better yet the brink, and to think, our past you rubbed away -
Washed down the metaphorical sink,
And now all sounds of trouble power point to YOU,
My mind is now tainted, as you are in my point of view,
I'd hate to break the glue we used to make the news,
But i have to go away from you - Later boo..
Dec 15, 2023
Dec 15, 2023 at 2:37 PM UTC
Lipstick so red on lips so blue,
Shadows so black on eyes untrue.
Puff of smoke huffed to the air,
Swirling amorously around the lady fair.
Lust is dancing with natural ease,
Hips sway to and fro - what a tease!
Hands beckoning at night's affair,
Fingers snap with passionate flare.
Words whispered with carelessness,
Hearts shielded from tomorrow's mess.
For tonight lovers cling for security,
Such solace found in darkness' infidelity.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 5:53 AM UTC
Eight-
In a general store,
the middle of nowhere.
I stared at toys,
oblivious to the stranger too close.
A hand on my backside,
a rub and squeeze.
The cops huffed,
'are you sure it wasn't an accident?'
'Is it really that important?'
Suddenly I knew shame.
Twelve-
Last day of school,
cornered in an empty classroom
by my lifelong bully.
He tore my pink shirt,
grabbed me where Trump would have.
My father helped.
Did what he could.
Told me it wasn't my fault.
But the teacher,
a male who never liked my voice,
groaned in private,
'this will ruin that poor boys life.'
But what about me?
Sixteen-
A class full of people,
feeling pretty as a rare treat.
A boy with a knife
sitting too close,
hand inching up my thigh.
A malicious smile
with a dangerous whisper,
'spread your knees.'
I never told,
It had hardly mattered before.
But that's the last time
I wore a skirt to school.
Eighteen-
The officer taking my prints
made me cringe as he lingered.
His compliments made me shudder
but I told myself I was paranoid.
Leading me to a cell
he offered me a private room
leering as he mentioned
I wouldn't feel alone.
I almost laugh now
at his offer to pay me with juice.
But a year later at the hearing
his lude claims were loud enough
for everyone to hear.
A court room full of people
heard him brag about things
he never did.
Only one person shut him down
without even a word.
Simply a glare of digust
that I was too scared to give.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 7:18 PM UTC
I could see him standing beneath the bridge,
dressed in blue and navy
cotton and denim,
his beard was long,
longer than your train
the train you had as a kid,
his beard huffed and puffed
telling the story of growing old
his eyes were clouds
floating on his face
and if he was angry only his nose would know,
bent and flat pushed up farther on the right
hung down lower on the left,
I only assume he had lips
and teeth,
only his beard moved
but he never spoke
beards don't speak,
he wasn't wearing shoes,
it was cold outside,
snowmen would melt,
but it was still cold,
It had just rained
I could see the puddles
but I couldn't see the sun,
This man saw nothing
he just stood there,
I just walked by.
I could see him thinking all the thoughts
we try to forget,
his face was wrinkled,
furrowed brows make the deepest lines,
a soggy man,
he ate enough or drank enough
i guessed,
because he was warm enough,
a thinking man,
what better place to think than under a bridge,
I'll call him the troll,
I'll paint paintings
and write with chalk
I'll make a memorial
for a man who's only a memory,
I saw him,
I can't forget,
This man will never die,
he'll last as long as the chalk on the ground,
keep thinking for us troll
thinking keeps the boy insane,
keep saving us troll
we can't do it we keep forgetting,
keep standing troll
cause we keep falling down,
be my savior troll,
and I'll keep walking,
just don't steal my ****
Dec 4, 2010
Dec 4, 2010 at 2:59 PM UTC
Every now and then,
When I'm sitting alone in my
Pajamas, with a cup of hot
Chai tea and a dash of honey
In the morning
I sit against the wall
I breathe in and out
Once, twice, a few more times
And then I let down the
Gate in my mind
And my thoughts
Prance in the field of
Morbid dreams
I imagine my death
And I wonder just who
Would bother to show
And I wonder if
That boy, yeah, that one,
The one I loved for
Five years,
Would anyone even
Tell him?
Or would he be too busy
Shooting up, getting drunk,
Too busy trying to attempt
Inadvertent suicide?
I picture my mother
In her pressed black pants
And her modestly sequined
Funeral blouse that I've only
Seen three times or so
She'd rip the glasses off of her
Head and scream at my father
*Why was she such a *****
Didn't she know I loved her?*
Yeah, Ma, I knew
I knew you loved me when
You grounded me for an A-
I knew you loved me when
You glared at the food on my
Plate,
After I hadn't eaten in a week
And huffed,
*You're going to eat that?
Do you want to be an elephant
Or something?*
I knew when you read my
Diary in seventh grade
And yelled about all of the
Deep secrets I wrote to paper
I knew when you told me
How disappointed you were
When you swore you'd never
Ever
Be proud of me
Then my mind wanders over
To my father
The big teddy bear
Graying scalp, icy eyes
His suit from 1977
That always made me laugh
And I let myself wonder
If he would even
Bother to cry
I skim across my friends
Druggies
Thieves
Liars
Cheaters
They'd miss me, wouldn't they?
Last, I ponder over
Who would show up
That I wouldn't even want
To be there
The people I've crossed
And thrown away
The ones I loved
And wrote off
I'm sure there would
Be plenty of those
Spewing lies about
How I used to be
And it all swirls together
Down Tornado Alley
My ex's lack of interest
My mother's bleeding heart
My father's vacant stare
My friends' misplaced grief
My enemies' back stabbing falsehoods
And I wonder if any
Of these people
Would honestly be able to say
That they knew me at all...
Meanwhile, the Christmas music
My mother loves to blast
Flows down the hallway and
Under my door
*Fa la la la la
La la la la...*
Dec 21, 2010
Dec 21, 2010 at 5:35 AM UTC
little pills
to cure your ills
prescription fills
the bottle spills...
not to be catty
you're being bratty
rolling a fatty
and getting chatty...
you are crunchy
getting the munchies
getting chunky
like a monkey!
how's your wallet?
workaholic?
did i call it?
get the gold
you were once bold
now you're old...
don't get huffed
but
have you enough
STUFF???
losing vision
reclined position
TELEVISION
always scheming
never doing
you're pretty boring
there daydreaming...
see her bopping
'til she's dropping
out there shopping
the door is shutting
you're alone
to the bone
while you're cutting
what's YOUR thing?
will it bring
you
everything?
it's SO nice!
any vice
will entice
TAKE MY ADVICE!
don't be idle!
take the BRIDLE!
IT'S AN IDOL!
there's an award
when you've scored
with the LORD!
don't applaud.
we're all sod
HE IS GOD!
SøułSurvivør
(C) 9/2017
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 2:02 AM UTC
the bluebird had queries and questions
and thought he should ask the moon,
but the moon was dark that night.
its hood was pulled tight.
the bluebird sighed, and so did the sun.
the sea greeted him with a waving hand.
“bluebird, bluebird up there!
the moon does not speak easy.
having its skin broken too many times.”
the bluebird whistled a sad tune.
“whatever shall i do, when i need the moon?
he will not speak, and i am too weak
to fly to him up there.”
the sea crashed against the rocky shore,
and its response was, “you need not wings,
bluebird, when the moon will come to you.
for when your light falls the moon will rise,
in the darkness it lights the skies.”
the bluebird huffed once again.
“i am not the sun, silly sea.
you mistake my feathers for blue skies,
i am not the stars in the night.”
but the bluebird could not see,
how bright he was to be.
and as he flew away,
the moon began to say,
“your wings are bigger than they seem.
bluebird, do not fret.
our time is to come together yet.
so the bluebird whistled a tune
as his wings expanded and grew,
and lifted him high into the sky,
and to the moon he drew nigh.
he landed among the stars.
bluebird, you will indeed go far.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
#
You chased
I ran
You yelled
I turned
You swung
I ducked
You huffed
I pushed
The back of your ankle caught
on the underside of a gnarly root
You twirled
I watched.
You screamed
I watched..
You bled
I watched...
You gasped at air
I watched....
The old jagged branch penetrated
through your squishy eye
and kissed the back of your skull
blood burst and squirted
while the rise and fall of your chest slowed
and your body grew cold
A rose bush was born amidst the clutches of an early winter
I left
You haunted
I cried
You permeated
I stayed silent
You spoke in my dreams
I know they found you
I visit and leave you flowers
But I am through,
I finally convinced myself
that it's not my
fault.
#
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 8:43 AM UTC
She frolicked through trouble, and dandled with mischief. Alison Wonderland; everything I wished I was and so much more. Ever emanating her doe-eyed façade; proclaiming our jests mere “mischief.”
Yet, an unspoken verdict (Foretaste? Conception? Notion?) had cloaked the truth: wickedness rippled beneath our parade.
I nuzzled her contours; my peripheral eye – nailed to her profile, her blueprints, her chassis. I stalked her mirage – dancing with vapor.
She glissaded about, no fool to my truth, varnishing my mantle.
I belonged to Alison: perpetually at her side. Our couplet became a “we.” So, We regretted nothing. We veered for the pyre: caroming(skimming?) those embers alit with vice.
She narrated my mental seminar. Discarding my dogmas to uphold her own; and thus, my mind was hers.
My mind was her mind.
Alison made heads turn, and mouths water, as we sidled – hand in hand – down the street. She was my Christmas morning: each colloquium – giftwrapped with finesse. She personified paradise, she illustrated utopia. Hatching our Carnival; netting us, enamored, sidling the Carousal. We’d skim, we’d sail, her halo – my fossil. Her lips, her eyes, her hands… they echoed the innocence of a child. Niave, innocent, and giftwrapped in wonder.
Little Miss Wonderland: my very own fairytale. She was mine alone; she was mine to keep.
Did I want her, or did I want to be her?
Alison Wonderland.
Her aura – so celestial – paralleled my prose. When she banished my husk – Maple Thatcher – I cackled good riddance… And I grew a new personality to accommodate her own.
For, without Ali – devoid of our we – I doubted the very existence of me.
On my composition, she bestowed rhythm. She gave tune to my silence; her chimes, her cadence. My ink was her song – fusing a symphony. A symphony of Alison: the melody to solidify our tryst.
My mind was her mind.
And yet… somehow, I missed a carriage – or two – aboard her train of thought. For, the same felon spiting my existence, was the angel I loved to life. Gladly, I huffed, and I puffed, and I blew Maple down.
Fused against Alison, I needed none of Maple.
Carnival infatuations…
Alison Wonderland.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
Evil Tales
So you think, you know who I am,
I killed Mary, and ate her little lamb.
I killed Goldilocks and ate the three bears,
then dumped the porridge down the stairs.
I pushed Humpty Dumpty off that wall,
I'm the reason for his great fall.
I'm the one who killed Bambi's mother,
that deer tasted like no other.
I put the poison in Snow White's apple,
the blood from the seven dwarfs,
I put in every red Snapple.
I chopped off all of Rapunzel's hair,
yes I know that wasn't fair.
I'm the father of Cinderella's step sisters,
after midnight I gave her some cold sore blisters.
I put Sleeping Beauty fast asleep,
then ran her over in my new Jeep.
Georgie Porgie kissed the girls and made them cry,
that is the reason, he had to die.
Little Miss Muffet ate her curds and whey,
it was my spider who had a Muffet buffet.
Jack and Jill went up the hill,
I pushed Jack down and gave Jill a thrill.
Little Red Riding Hood went to Grandma's house,
then the big bad Allen pulled up her red blouse.
The Three Little Pigs never had a chance,
I huffed and puffed and ate pork til I **** my pants.
This old man, he played one,
knick, knack, paddy whack,
then my dog ate his thumb,
There was an Old Woman who lived in a shoe,
then one day, I filled it with crazy glue.
I killed Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy,
inside my head is very, very scary.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
He used it this morning.
Kevin Robinson,
Who has thick curly hair
And
Thinks
He
Knows
Everything.
And I told him,
"What kind of a word
Is
Irradiate?
It isn't a word."
And he told me
In his
Know
It
All
Way
"YES, it IS."
And he spelled it for me.
Because he's into spelling.
I
R
R
A
D
I
A
T
E
So I huffed
And left
Kevin Robinson.
But Randy Weidman
Whose last name
Has a whole different meaning
Had his fancy
New
iPhone 5
And during
First period
Which happens to be
Geometry Honors
He took out
Sira
Or
Whatever
Her
Name
Is
And he asked her.
Sira did not understand.
Sira is not so smart.
But autocorrect is.
And it turns out that
Irradiate
Is
A
Word.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
Nursree-Rhymed-Rap
you got yer Jack be nimble
you got yer Jack be quick
you got yer Jack jumpin over a candle stick
he jumped so high
he almost touched the sky
you see he burnt his nads
and it made him cry
you got yer 3 little pigs
you got yer Goldilocks
you got yer big bad wolf dumber than a fox
he huffed and puffed
and took a big hit
and they all joined hands
they were smokin some ****
you got yer Little Red
you got yer 3 brown bears
sippin on soup and sittin in chairs
Red danced on the table
yeah she danced really good
the bears gave her money
to see what was under the hood
you got yer Jack and Jill
you got yer buckle my shoe
climbin that hill what they gonna do
Jack played pattycake
according to rumours
trying to get inside
of little Jill's bloomers
you got yer Little Miss Muffet
you got yer itsy bitsy spider
he made a big mistake sitting down beside her
inside her purse
she kept a can of Raid
she drenched his ****
and now he's daid
you got yer hey ****** ******
you got yer dish and spoon
you got yer old spotted cow jumpin over the moon
there's Humpty Dumpty
and the fiddling cat
the little dog laughed
to see Jack Sprat splat
you got yer round the rosey
you got yer ba black sheep
pullin the wool over yer eyes as you sleep
****** ****** dumplin
so what is my point
whoever wrote these riddles
musta been smokin a joint
Gomer LePoet ....
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 10:02 AM UTC
i think we all addicted
prescriberd like lil sick kids
depressed for only fitted
new era for the news
to get bull **** for the twisted
mini van is two in front and get ******
took gin and juice but sniffed it
glue shoved and huffed
a bag
no lunch
asked to twix it or maybe captain crunch
take a break
chit chat with satan who offers a kit kat
say please satan stand back
demons with a stare notorious
b
i
g
glare
my eyes riding spines
backless lines
one word lies
as she gets shifted
christmas feelings the only part not gifted
reverons speaking one words up lifting
g
o
d
is a new prescription
because our days they are so limited like edition
section or fiction
a book did not quite fit him
becaue he was more interseted in women
who taught pain and sour living
taking faith that was not giving
spread hate as if they sinnin
then grinning
blasphemy is the only one listening
as to see every one living the way they sinnin
eating the plates they skimming
treating favors as dares to forbidden
that is so insignificant
of our innocent
oh so delicate
like a rebel or maybe a filiment
that leading the path with light and a laugh
the joker the midnight toker
taught take the money and run
you sure ******* cuss alot for a nun
teach our children that *** is fun
its weird how ignorant we all feel when its all said and done
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
You sat beside me and spoke so sweetly
Let your hands run up my back ever so discreetly
I felt you dancing along my vertebrae
To the tunes of your own words that mould like clay
It took all of me to lift my sleeves
And show you my scars, the reason why everyone leaves
You titled your head to get a better view
Pointed out every dark depressant hue
Then you let your tongue slip
To tell me they're not the wreckage of skin, shadow and ship
That they're not remotely close to how bad they could be
Little did you know how much those scratches mean to me
You spoke of a girl you once knew
Like a Broadway play acting on cue
Mine were nothing compared to hers
In your words, mine are like nicks from spurs
You left me blowing in an empty breeze
While I whirl around like branches falling from trees
Nicks and cuts becoming apparent
My chest transforming transparent
Now I sit curled in a blood soaked bed sheet
Unwillingly trying to compete
Keeping my bones warm
While emulating thoughts swarm
To think you were going to be the one to make my bed
To think you were going to be the place to rest my head
As if I don't hate my inflections enough
You turned into a wolf and puffed and huffed
Blowing me down like a house made of straw
Then you sat back and laughed as I crawled
Letting the stones cut my upper thigh
You asked me what it feels like to die
I told you that it feels a lot like this
And those tiny little nicks shouldn't be dismissed
Because every wound bleeds
It's a part of sufferings deed
And soon enough they'll bleed you dry
By then it sure won't help to cry
You will be the death of me
And only then will you see
That those nicks and cuts mean so much to me
And that they are as bad as they could be
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 4:18 AM UTC
Woke up in a motel
Don't know where I was
How on earth I got here
What it is I'd done
Made it to the lobby
Breakfast being served
The look they gave me had no need
For the spoken word
Eggs and bacon filled my plate
And orange juice on the side
Stares and whispers overheard
"Sorry, did you say bride?!"
That's when she sat down next to me
My new blushing bride
I hollered to the waitress
Could I also get a side of cyanide
Was I just hung over
My mind was so clouded
What was I thinking
She moved closer and crowded
"My darling lovey
You seem confused"
Her soft sweet lips
I had to refuse
With teeth of green and looks that screamed
Of farm animals on the loose
Forget the fairy tale wedding
I think I married Mother Goose
Not quite and old hag
But no beauty was near
Or maybe that's the liquor speaking
I just need to get out of here
She huffed and puffed
When I would not embrace
But oh my heavens
I couldn't bear her face
She spoke about our future
And the children we would spawn
All i could think, if we had triplets
We could name them Wrong and Wrong and Wrong
I couldn't handle the thought
I had to get far far away
But "what happened last night.."
Was all I could say
So we went to the little white chapel
And found Elvis...of all places
He sent us to Marylin Monroe
Who handles all of his divorce cases
My darling bride was rather upset
But I couldn't handle being her groom
So I did what any man would
And rid myself of my gap toothed bride and her broom
Next time I wake up in a notel motel
And don't know who or where I am
I'll pack my bags right away
And call the quickest cab
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 11:40 AM UTC
The cryptic mystic climbed the stairs to put fire to the lighthouse candle.
Two hundred circular winding steps to his nightly destination...lives hung in the balnce....you see the ships at sea clung desperately to the streaming beams of salvation......To guide them past the ragged reefs and jagged rocks.
The Cryptic mystic huffed and stumbled, and grunted as he mumbled " one hundred more to go".
For forty odd years, the mystical cryptic did dilligently climb to task as the setting sun did glow and bask the tower in fading light.
Preceeding dark and blinding nightfall.
Forty years and to the day or forty one I dont know which the crypic one was dutybound.
If he had only thought to look in the cellar there, he would have seen a light switch on the southern wall.
In the lantern two hundred feet,high a massive bulb hung high above the wick and tallow
And to this day,the old man makes the climb on creaky knees a penance paid pain.
A beam of hope for ship and scow still pierces blackest night as the cryptic one will still be found climbing up and hobbling down the winding staircase dutybound.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
Don't be scared to get a little dirt under your fingernails.
Dare to dig through the tunnels
her scars have built around her
wipe your hands when necessary -
pause - catch your breath
but keep going
Get yourself new spectacles
ensure they're clear enough to let you see the cracks
and when you do
pick and pull at them
start at the corners
they fall off more easily
watch as rock slips after rock
some heavier than others
because memories can be hard to let go of
look for the loose ones and caress them
listen to her song
let it guide you towards her
don't listen as tick follows tock
she is not a land mine
she is a hidden gem;
be gentle
when you are exhausted - sweating and panting
when the sand has huffed and puffed on your face
and doubt begins to whisper,
look at your bare feet
they no longer hurt from the miles walked
Mother Earth has painted them with strength
she has embraced them,
you are her child and
your feet are pointing forward;
Don't you dare defy them
Don't be scared to get a little dirt under your fingernails;
Dig through a few layers of society
and you will find unadulterated beauty
After you have climbed all her mountains
and swam her rivers
you will finally see
that she is not pretty
She is not confined in five letters
She is a sonnet, a love song
an unread novel
ready to be explored; liberated
ready to be alive
She is the happiness in your face
when you reach the hilltop,
an autumn breeze on a summer day,
she is the courage that it takes
to look into her eyes
and give her your lusting fingernails;
To say:
You are the true face of beauty.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
its the difference between separation and anxiety
that breath taken and the stars you see
my head spinning and the scars they bleed
hands with trees and parts for thieves
taking more of our wants notta needs
deceive and leave before our guilt does freeze
precede to do what our greed internal feeds
triggers the fingers that only haunt our sleep
it treats the feet as stumps
smiles flip flop and fronts
drugs snorted huffed and blunts
man thats just the story of my month
mouth cancer after spliffs with lunch
abdominal six pack or beer crunch
i can stop taking all the medicine that is you
an addiction that i didnt ever see before it grew
its true
who knew
that you
would only humility the few
that tried,
never lied
and flew beyond more then his backyard or stoop
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
Nursree-Rhymed-Rap
you got yer Jack be nimble
you got yer Jack be quick
you got yer Jack jumpin over a candle stick
he jumped so high
he almost touched the sky
you see he burnt his nads
and it made him cry
you got yer 3 little pigs
you got yer Goldilocks
you got yer big bad wolf dumber than a fox
he huffed and puffed
and took a big hit
and they all joined hands
they were smokin some ****
you got yer Little Red
you got yer 3 brown bears
sippin on soup and sittin in chairs
Red danced on the table
yeah she danced really good
the bears gave her money
to see what was under the hood
you got yer Jack and Jill
you got yer buckle my shoe
climbin that hill what they gonna do
Jack played pattycake
according to rumours
trying to get inside
of little Jill's bloomers
you got yer Little Miss Muffet
you got yer itsy bitsy spider
he made a big mistake sitting down beside her
inside her purse
she kept a can of Raid
she drenched his ****
and now he's daid
you got yer hey ****** ******
you got yer dish and spoon
you got yer old spotted cow jumpin over the moon
there's Humpty Dumpty
and the fiddling cat
the little dog laughed
to see Jack Sprat splat
you got yer round the rosey
you got yer ba black sheep
pullin the wool over yer eyes as you sleep
****** ****** dumplin
so what is my point
whoever wrote these riddles
musta been smokin a joint
Gomer LePoet ....
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
itself, it was much in comparison.
butane huffed thru handkerchief
blood-nose, brain-stem dripping
with a wet cleft hemorrhaging
knowledge like the internet.
billowing smoke from the
consignment allegory of
a whokah we all shared
'til confusion had us
asking. I waited
like a trail for
a ballerina
to tip-toe
her way
up my
spine
toward
a waiting lake;
cold and warm
in a nature so
solvent.. quiet..
peripheries embedded
with industry postured
on rocks, metal buddhists
asking all to vague-labor
meditate 8 hrs a day, 5
days a week == sleepless
like dreaming, sleepless
experience wafting
through an open
bedroom door
as chicken
dinner.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC
Now Smithy was as angry as poo
He said Mickey, "Oi, Listen, must you!
Come here for a meeting
It'll be only fleeting
But be there by a quarter to two."
As loud as he dared
With nostrils all flared
Smith ranted and raved
Like he was depraved
No wonder Mickey was scared
He began with a deep fierce roar
And huffed like a bear that was sore
"It's not easy to say
I can't stand things this way
I can't take it like this any more."
Smith blew his red nose on his sleeve
Then said "You must take now your leave
You've driven me crazy
No, I'm not being lazy
I need some more me-time to grieve."
"I know that our feelings were strong
I am sorry that you must now be gone
I'll always love you
You held my hand in the loo
It's not that you did anything wrong."
Now who should replace him within?
Our choices are looking too thin.
I do know a man...
This could be a plan...
A Zimbabwean that has a big chin.
Now the panel has been sacked
The whole system looks cracked
Who is next their line?
Graeme Smith would be fine..
The captain has not yet been whacked.
But what more can we say?
Madness now leads the way.
Since Onions' not out
South Africa have doubt
'bout all that's 'tween night and the day.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:47 PM UTC
The lames and children of the Lesser minds
are stirring, stirring, stirring
with paddles and ladles
with brooms and spoons
with knives and forks and slicers
with sticks and wooden mortars
with lean rods, brambles and twigs
Eagerly they stirred the cauldron
in demented exertions they huffed and puffed
Turn to the right turn to the left
one leg in and one leg out, we all turn around
we're stirring, we're stirring the *** they crowed
I looked into the ***
the *** was empty
I see nothing to stir
Nothing but hot air
nothing but hot air
What possesses lesser minds
into dances with the Gemini moons
The emperor's tailor
on yet another jape
Go on my puppets, stir that hotpot
I can sniff that delicious goulash aroma from 'where'
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 10:20 PM UTC
There’s a factory child, ragbone and alone.
Sleeping in between one mill and the next.
Used to toil and clamour, inferno and hammer.
Mother and master.
A slump-rat, slithering down the gulp, forgotten
As another factory child
And I’ll do my best to ignore her –
But her shadows still stretch the air
Belched and huffed,
the little bones that burned.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
a wind blew
from within my body
and tried to blow out
the Sun.
it huffed
and it puffed
but it could not blow
that immense house
down;
that great,
vast,
fiery idol
which stands as a monument to
the immensity of the Universe.
I have no idea why
it wanted the Sun
to go out,
I just know
it is the only way
to save myself
for we all have
our own idols within
ourselves,
bright and brilliantly
conceited flames
that just need to be
blown out
every so often.
this flame burns upon
the chest of the devil,
that evil and most vain lake of desire.
tongues of fire form
islands of
delusional self worth
convince themselves of
their large and grand importance
isolated and
surrounded by a sea
of themselves.
it burns within
the bitter bottle,
releasing its stinging vapors
upon the breaking of the seal.
these humors drift up
and into my nostrils,
coalesce in my lungs and
concentrate
into a fiery wind.
it burns within
my naive soul,
desperately needing a new-grateful
wind
to blow it
out
and quench its thirst
for immensity.
despite the irritation
I needn't have water,
wandering in the desert of myself.
to deny myself
all the comforts of a good life
and to reward myself
all the glories of an elevated mind
is what is most important;
I pinch my fingers
to blot out the Sun,
hiding that horrible light
behind my clasped together
fingers.
I replace it with a new monument,
an idol to
the things that have
shaped me,
given me this
gift of
silent reflection,
to wander in the sands
of introspective madness
until I come out
a prophet
or
a walking death.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC