"impecunious" poems - Hello Poetry

Thanks thespis for another muse anew, Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song, To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters, before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin, as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis, neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time giving classical balance for wondrous poetry. Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed, Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity, Warped physique not short of history, Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry, nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times, That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest Of man and woman to the cultural matrix Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia, From which was born Pushkin that took poetry Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars, And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear, The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov, Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky. A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax, Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of ***** bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed, poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany, writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus, that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing, but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal, as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles, the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka, that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.

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Jun 6, 2014

Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC

alexander-k-opicho

NEUROTIC LAW OF POETRY

Thanks thespis for another muse anew, Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song, To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters, before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin, as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis, neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time giving classical balance for wondrous poetry. Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed, Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity, Warped physique not short of history, Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry, nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times, That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest Of man and woman to the cultural matrix Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia, From which was born Pushkin that took poetry Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars, And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear, The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov, Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky. A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax, Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of ***** bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed, poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany, writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus, that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing, but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal, as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles, the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka, that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.

47

As the inclement weather crash all over the city, I discovered the untitled disc of a lost movie I turn the t.v on and saw the family Gaining something in return called ‘sympathy’ Surreptitious pictures of the impecunious Propitious time for those opulent Impudent behavior, Gratuitous violence Amorphous hope and lucid nightmares Misery, anguish, sorrow and pain Hapless child hold tight to God Pathetic story will end soon as the morning sun dissipate the fog Worry less, pristine day will come to heal your soul and broken heart

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Jul 30, 2017

Jul 30, 2017 at 6:41 AM UTC

danica-tuquero

Placid

As the inclement weather crash all over the city, I discovered the untitled disc of a lost movie I turn the t.v on and saw the family Gaining something in return called ‘sympathy’ Surreptitious pictures of the impecunious Propitious time for those opulent Impudent behavior, Gratuitous violence Amorphous hope and lucid nightmares Misery, anguish, sorrow and pain Hapless child hold tight to God Pathetic story will end soon as the morning sun dissipate the fog Worry less, pristine day will come to heal your soul and broken heart

13

When death’s errand boy arrives to collect the grocer's bill, The balance will have remained unanswered. The mythology of life is death, And like tales dispensed in the oral tradition— The Iliad, Beowulf, the Odyssey— The story of death changes with nearly every recitation. The order that I seek is something more like chaos, And it perpetuates despite all reasoned inhibition. Like the machinations of a tired Proteus, Being accosted at unawares. It will surface and speak to my indignation, This, while the soul concedes to my self-effacing tradition. Yet, it cannot be mine, and it cannot be yours. I too often return to evaluate my position, And still find it impenetrable— Unmoved by any fool’s tepid fears. But death’s account grows continuously nearer, And one cannot pretend that accounts of its comings and goings, Were ever disseminated by a man who, in his egocentric violence, Was anything like sincere. This reality in which I squander spiritual and moral trust, Achieves its most cutting sentiment, When it proposes that I change into it, And I lean now on a bleeding altar, The last bastion of an impecunious star child-- A false conduit.

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Feb 7, 2018

Feb 7, 2018 at 9:43 PM UTC

rthayer86

Bleeding Altar

When death’s errand boy arrives to collect the grocer's bill, The balance will have remained unanswered. The mythology of life is death, And like tales dispensed in the oral tradition— The Iliad, Beowulf, the Odyssey— The story of death changes with nearly every recitation. The order that I seek is something more like chaos, And it perpetuates despite all reasoned inhibition. Like the machinations of a tired Proteus, Being accosted at unawares. It will surface and speak to my indignation, This, while the soul concedes to my self-effacing tradition. Yet, it cannot be mine, and it cannot be yours. I too often return to evaluate my position, And still find it impenetrable— Unmoved by any fool’s tepid fears. But death’s account grows continuously nearer, And one cannot pretend that accounts of its comings and goings, Were ever disseminated by a man who, in his egocentric violence, Was anything like sincere. This reality in which I squander spiritual and moral trust, Achieves its most cutting sentiment, When it proposes that I change into it, And I lean now on a bleeding altar, The last bastion of an impecunious star child-- A false conduit.

26

Subtle solace savvy like a suave and sultry specter surreal Augmenting audible augar with its accidence ambiance acoustics appeal Torridly tactile transpicuous from its tacitly tractive terrestrial seal

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Sep 13, 2025

Sep 13, 2025 at 8:01 AM UTC

toreinss-pinwinkel-iii

Mesomerism's Prospectus or Impecunious Obviation

Subtle solace savvy like a suave and sultry specter surreal Augmenting audible augar with its accidence ambiance acoustics appeal Torridly tactile transpicuous from its tacitly tractive terrestrial seal

3

that's the thing about missing you. the days feel alright and I think I'm ok until I'm alone and then the days start to feel like months and the hours feel like seasons and the minutes feel like years until I'm only one half, incomplete, impecunious in every sense of the word. every second of the day.

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Nov 8, 2013

Nov 8, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC

philosophie

Untitled

that's the thing about missing you. the days feel alright and I think I'm ok until I'm alone and then the days start to feel like months and the hours feel like seasons and the minutes feel like years until I'm only one half, incomplete, impecunious in every sense of the word. every second of the day.

2

Thirsty for tasty spicy Tardy latter days of visualisation yearning of our souls, albeit impecunious longing incessantly to own a *** of tarmasalata Norms beheaded, of course we ain't the wretched son of a pauper plastic spoon turns silver, someday the table will turn we will own pakora and samosa with a tantalising subtle lemony taste oh-oh-one our language But soon, we'll throw a birthday party with hamburger patty Rays on our green pasture The sun will smile, moon will grin Then, our murmur will transmute into voices Quenched! our thirst for tasty spicy.

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Apr 20, 2020

Apr 20, 2020 at 10:39 AM UTC

BintanOla

Untitled

Thirsty for tasty spicy Tardy latter days of visualisation yearning of our souls, albeit impecunious longing incessantly to own a *** of tarmasalata Norms beheaded, of course we ain't the wretched son of a pauper plastic spoon turns silver, someday the table will turn we will own pakora and samosa with a tantalising subtle lemony taste oh-oh-one our language But soon, we'll throw a birthday party with hamburger patty Rays on our green pasture The sun will smile, moon will grin Then, our murmur will transmute into voices Quenched! our thirst for tasty spicy.

15

"The link with exiguities was abundantly clear, It exists there in the cloth's she wore, It takes currency to purchase what one wears, Exiguity is in the language they speak, Present in the language or words spoken, Speech begins to feel as currency to one as they interact, It is everywhere it stains everything as it hovers about, It oscillates about It watches from every corner of the page, Exiguity is not something one can leave behind, A child born into exiguity will always feel its presence, At the edges of everything existing matter that shared, At any moment they can feel the fractures of exiguity, It is in there gaze back to others as it seeps and oozes in ataraxy, These abhorrent things of exiguity as the daily impecunious, Even right now its presence is apperceive surrounding thee, As you fear it is in thy words these tiny fractured words of dearth, Fear not for you shall ascertain knowledge free from EXIGUITY" By Andrew Guzaldo © 3/08/2021 Posted HP #197

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Feb 8, 2021

Feb 8, 2021 at 7:04 PM UTC

andrew-guzaldo-c

“Exiguity”

"The link with exiguities was abundantly clear, It exists there in the cloth's she wore, It takes currency to purchase what one wears, Exiguity is in the language they speak, Present in the language or words spoken, Speech begins to feel as currency to one as they interact, It is everywhere it stains everything as it hovers about, It oscillates about It watches from every corner of the page, Exiguity is not something one can leave behind, A child born into exiguity will always feel its presence, At the edges of everything existing matter that shared, At any moment they can feel the fractures of exiguity, It is in there gaze back to others as it seeps and oozes in ataraxy, These abhorrent things of exiguity as the daily impecunious, Even right now its presence is apperceive surrounding thee, As you fear it is in thy words these tiny fractured words of dearth, Fear not for you shall ascertain knowledge free from EXIGUITY" By Andrew Guzaldo © 3/08/2021 Posted HP #197

18

Not just the absence of light It’s much worse An inhabited netherworld Feel it immerse You in lonely, forlorn Raging storms Of despair Impecunious Broken hopes Beyond repair To awake The nightmare And to dream The escape From desertification You can’t cultivate A thirst you can not sate No, despite how the torrential Rains inundate The virulent, Unruliest Throngs of diseased Masses begging And praying On prostrated knees The gods still send their plagues Further north from the jungle As millions enslaved Still To climate-change hunger Succumb to the rumbling of tummies Imploding The bloating unsightly An air of foreboding Still looms over me Not a cloud in the sky And when blinding The sun in it Opens my eyes To a scenery Stretching and rolling Serenely I can’t help but stare And at peace Give a sigh I suppose there are places Much worse I could die

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Nov 29, 2019

Nov 29, 2019 at 3:27 PM UTC

michael-marchese

The Dark Continent

Not just the absence of light It’s much worse An inhabited netherworld Feel it immerse You in lonely, forlorn Raging storms Of despair Impecunious Broken hopes Beyond repair To awake The nightmare And to dream The escape From desertification You can’t cultivate A thirst you can not sate No, despite how the torrential Rains inundate The virulent, Unruliest Throngs of diseased Masses begging And praying On prostrated knees The gods still send their plagues Further north from the jungle As millions enslaved Still To climate-change hunger Succumb to the rumbling of tummies Imploding The bloating unsightly An air of foreboding Still looms over me Not a cloud in the sky And when blinding The sun in it Opens my eyes To a scenery Stretching and rolling Serenely I can’t help but stare And at peace Give a sigh I suppose there are places Much worse I could die

48