"incorrigible" poems
spring omnipotent goddess thou dost
inveigle into crossing sidewalks the
unwary june-bug and the frivolous angleworm
thou dost persuade to serenade his
lady the musical tom-cat,thou stuffest
the parks with overgrown pimply
cavaliers and gumchewing giggly
girls and not content
Spring, with this
thou hangest canary-birds in parlor windows
spring slattern of seasons you
have ***** legs and a muddy
petticoat,drowsy is your
mouth your eyes are sticky
with dreams and you have
a sloppy body
from being brought to bed of crocuses
When you sing in your whiskey voice
the grass
rises on the head of the earth
and all the trees are put on edge
spring,
of the jostle of
thy ******* and the slobber
of your thighs
i am so very
glad that the soul inside me Hollers
for thou comest and your hands
are the snow
and thy fingers are the rain,
and i hear
the screech of dissonant
flowers,and most of all
i hear your stepping
freakish feet
feet incorrigible
ragging the world,
10.8k
The hour that demands the following day be wasted.
The hour that proves you are irresponsible.
The hour for those under twenty-five.
The hour birds wake to begin their incessant morning clamor.
The hour the body begins to loathe the mind.
The hour focus drifts away on the smoke of tonight's last cigarette.
The hour of what-am-I-doing and how-can-I-live-like-this.
The incorrigible hour.
Chronic, hopeless.
The most degenerate of all hours.
There is little pleasure in familiarity with four in the morning.
If those birds are screaming love ballads to the early morning sun
three cheers for the birds. And let me now lie down to sleep
if I am to go on living.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
I don't consider various eye colors "beautiful" nor "enchanting".
In all honesty; I've never really understood the incorrigible obsession with iris pigmentation that is genetically inherited and beyond the control of the possessor of the same pair of eyes you deem "beautiful".
But in contradiction to the callous statement I've opened with;
I've found a pair of eyes that I can unhesitantly call beautiful.
It should be noted that I only fell in love with the eyes after I'd seen them roll back with pleasure
(a memory that still makes me shiver)
And from that night on; I started to notice every single beautiful thing the eyes did.
The way they lit up with frenzied excitement,
The way they burned with raging desire,
The way they filled up with salty achromatic tears.
I've loved the eyes for as long as I can remember.
But I don't consider myself lucky just because those same eyes look at me lustfully midweek; but because in a seemingly redundant life, those eyes became something to look forward to seeing; or feeling pierce through your skin on a warm Saturday night
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 10:45 AM UTC
The glass remains half empty
And disappointed I remain
In love
In life
To me they're one and the same
My expectations too high?
Is it wrong to want more?
In love
In life
To me, I'm not one to adore
Disappointed at times
Beyond belief, unimaginable
In love
In life
Told often I'm incorrigible
February 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
Something about her
makes you curious.
Her beauty
turns many heads
as she glides across a room.
Her laugh,
a mellifluous sound,
envelopes you like mist
on a winter morning.
She has pearly, neat handwriting
that leans in a different direction
every other day.
She is also kind.
An incorrigible affinity to broken wings,
she likes to fix people
and their problems (on occasion).
Is her heart full of compassion?
Or is she trying to escape
her own life by finding the solution
to any problem
other than her own?
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 9:03 AM UTC
*Incorrigible heart
Believes only in love
Eternal flame that burns
Aglow with anticipation
Love shall redeem
The eternal belief
Heart is always right
Mistaken so many times
Heart does not relent
Incorrigible heart*
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
She, with her eyes wide and far searching, and her
palms to the space above her reaches out, and
tastes the bright new world and the blue sky.
It is like sugar in lukewarm water, sweet, and
envious of her ability to breathe in the oxygen
and smell the perennial flowers and feel the wind
across her cheeks. She, who although has lived many
years, is once again taking her first steps, incorrigible
and timid. God, in code places his palms on her back,
and gives a gentle push, helping her along the path she
was destined to take. I, who am that girl at 4 am know now
that He, who unlike any other, is beside me, pushing me to
that path. And the darkness is only a temporary obstacle that
has been teaching my blind eyes to see and my deaf ears to hear.
The lukewarm sugar has now run cold. I think I like it better that way.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
He takes out the trash, or makes dinner
thinks he’s cleaned the whole house
he’s not capable of being quiet as a mouse
full of self-praise
himself, he amaze
selective hearing and speech
sometimes hard to reach
never practices what he preach
loveable and incorrigible
he’s not interchangable
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
As you attempt to pour more political doctrine down my throat
I check the change in my pocket
for
the laxative I‘ll have to buy
from my legal drug dealer
REALLY!?!
Did you not know that your words are;
indigestible,
incorrigible
&
wholly corruptible?
How do you manage
to
politically caress your own eardrums
reach
through your sinuses,
tickling
the lining of your
esophagus
and yet,
make me cough?!
Your response to truth is truly painful,
you feel it in your chest,
your ***** heaves and razes
you have a fit gesticulating policies
flipping birds that won’t fly
It’s too late!
Mr "I went to Oxford so I must have the plan"
Mr Self-Interest man
Mr Ivy-league, Whitehouse, Whitehall...."Cambridge was better",
Mr I can do all things that superman can.
Mr “If we win the elections next year”...
Man
Take your leave,
your term is over,
School is out
&
the old boys no longer love you.
Time!
to
run for
cover,
under the
colour,
of
your favoured
currency umbrella.
But
If you’re African
"it's okay"
you can stay a little while longer
and bequeath the throne
to your brothers', sisters', uncles', sons' junior brother!
Turn it into a dy-nasty
Bring on board;
Kwadjo,
Mary,
Abena,
Kwesi,
Uncle Nepa,
Sista Tism
&
Aunt Ivy.
Ah-Geee!!!
This nonsense is highly unpalatable
I’m past the word puke
my bile sack is empty
because your drunkenness is spreading
&
**y o u’r e
s t i l l
b l o w i n g
m e
f u m e s!**
*Your democracy
has made your Guinea-Pigs
demi crazy,
has captured this poets’ goat
Slaughtered it
&
mandated this verbal frenzy*
Enough!
Of this alcoholic experiment
I’m not drinking anymore,
I’ve cried blood!
and now "my eyes are red"
Looking forward
to being 'tee-totally' sober,
while
U
**c o n t e m p l a t e
t h i s
v e r s e
o f
p o e t i c,
p o l i t i c a l,
M U R D E R.**
© Qwey.ku
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
Wiggin's was a wombat
a legend in his underwear
and everywhere he went
you would hear him *** and swear
He was a very unpalatable chap
where ever he roamed, caused havoc
He had no cares for no one, not one jot
his mantra matched his favorite film, Salem's Lot
a incorrigible beast of heinous intent
a bounder, a blaggard with all truth bent
One nasty piece of work was Wiggin's
Vombatidae would hang their heads in shame
knowing this cad of a man did scare it's name
and with grief stricken tears say, oh how lame how lame
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
I woke up with gloomy dreams,
A pretty face I remember,
She had the vive of a queen,
While I was the slave of cold December.
Dream again, I ask my heart and mind,
Fading images meant this story's end,
So my eyes wore a sailor's dress,
Searching for a lost pile of sand.
The minutes of that dream shaped my hours dull,
With no awe in this life , I waited for her call,
I became what they call incorrigible,
As this desert heart now needed a last rainfall,
I never asked for her lover's heart,
Just to watch her skip my heartbeat,
Nor craved for those moonlight lips,
As I spend a lifetime watching our eyes meet.
The dream may never come,
Her sunset eyes may never rise,
For the sake of my capacious heart, I still close my eyes,
To live a thousand deaths to once see her blue sunset eyes.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
she smiles for me
she was born beautiful
with golden hair and green irises
but when did she get so pretty?
a pleasant upside down triangle smile
a collaboration of lips, teeth, cheeks and eyes
shining in affection for me
for happy childhood memories
singing Disney songs
painting unicorns and waterfalls
stringing beaded bracelets
and learning how to draw good
because she "keeps on trying"
at times she was the devil's child
incorrigible
other times she was the sweetest
little chatterbox
at the corner drugstore
I couldn't get her to stop talking
"Why are we following that man?"
she said within his earshot
"Because he knows the way out", I replied
at four years old
she could beat me at video games
truly a kid from outer space
now a young woman
at life's threshold
with doubts and questions
and confidence
and more strength than she knows she has
working and going to school
I have no fears for her future
I know she'll keep on trying
till she gets what she wants
that was my advice
spoken so many years ago
to my little niece
my Godchild
Dani
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 12:52 AM UTC
Incorrigible hoarder of the useless and perishables
Fridge full of forgotten decay and unfinishing leftovers
A comforting illusion of plenty and unending riches
To which she nibble away, always leaving behind ten percent
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 12:42 AM UTC
SuzAnne, nee Christine
Irascible, Incorrigible, Indefatigable, Affable
Adopted sister of Doug and Mike and sort of Jill
Lover of ideas and stances
Who fears laryngitis and deafness
Who needs music and malleability
Who gives grades and advice
Who would like to see Firenze and the Pyramids of Giza
Who lives in Hot Water
Wilson, nee Doe
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
The terrible threes
Are here at last
The terrible threes
I wish were past.
The terrible threes
They scrape their knees
The terrible threes
They snot, they sneeze.
The terrible threes
Are worse than twos
The terrible threes
They go "boo-hoo."
The terrible threes
Are terrible, incorrigible
The terrible threes
They're just plain horrible.
The terrible threes
Know how to climb trees
The terrible threes
Know how to say, "Please."
Copyright From A Poet's Heart
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 7:40 AM UTC
Purely noumenal or epistemologically maieutic? Existentially transcendental transmogrification, transmute, transude, transubstantiate. Spiritual apercu’s incarnate. Infinite possibilities eidetic prospectus perpetrates incorporeity ideology’s perfectible ontology. Elan vital’s entelechy’s apotheosis. Psychic clarity’s evolutional ascension. Perpetuity’s adamant tenacity. Sentience’s inevitably irrefragable logistical tactician. Preternatural’s ostensibly immortal fecund. Yes, lie with me and I will indeed proceed to exceed the parameters of your mind with mesmerizingly enrapturing ecstatic euphoria. Sublimely surreal futurity fatidic and decadently arrogant blatant flagrancy. Incorrigible atrociously impetuous impudence, pusillanimous no. Enthrallingly endearing sensually demonstrative flirtatious flamboyance. What’s to extravagant exorbitance portray……… exserted protuberance’s indefatigably indomitable. Sexuality’s infrangibly latent virilities, erotica erectile errantry’s hubris! Feral phrenic frenzied ***** salaciously seductive.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC
Life is glorious
With a taste of gore,
But it seems
That glory has no value
And gore shall prevail
Forevermore.
Hand in hand
Go glory and gore,
For, rainbows are not found
Without a sunny downpour.
Magnifying trouble
Doubling the rubble,
A flaw engraved-
Incorrigible.
Harder and hardest
We name them apart,
But truth lies in neither
For, it's only hard.
Choking and bleeding
To death and beyond,
Send us to our eternal home,
To the grave we belong.
We need not love
To live a life
Without burns
Within the soul.
We need not heartache
To maximise gore,
But only the need
For sympathy and pity.
Although some of us
Need not any pity,
Only a helping hand
To change the future.
Past is past
Untouchable,
We have no time turner
To change what's over.
But gore maximisation
Is what is shameful,
Exaggerating
Pretentious nightmares.
Stories of blood
Stories of tears,
They may be true
But only what
It means to you.
Keep the rubble
They way it is,
Don't falsely increase
The heavy burden.
Yes we cry,
But not die.
Death comes once
And takes us away,
Completely disconnected
And entirely stray.
We sink to the bottom
But we don't drown,
Breathless and shivering
But still alive.
Going over these lines
I only see
A blank page
Staring back at me.
*Oh you hypocrite
Don't tell these lies,
You know you double
The rubble and the cries.*
I despise this poem
But still, I write
For, I need to be loyal
To the growing demons.
Paradoxes contaminate
Words of wisdom,
Scattering constellations
Back into stars alone.
I question myself
What is it I want,
I realise that the answer
Only lies in a web;
The web of life.
Live life to the fullest,
Don't live in a dream world,
This is reality
There is gravity.
***But, to hell with life
That's what I say,
Live your dream
Make it your way.***
Be considerate
To what others want,
But never bow down
To unreasonable taunt.
Look at good
Look at evil,
Choose your path
Let it prove
Not fatal.
*A cursed hamartia
Ruins many a life,
A flaw so fatal
A remorseful light.*
Ending this vague haze,
Of many a peculiar phrase,
I cannot comprehend myself,
For, I am caught
In the inevitable daze.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
Paper ***** flew around the classroom
masquerading as a cricket ball
Hit as hard but managing to hardly go anywhere
The chaos in the class would soon end,
as the diminutive figure will walk in, book in one hand
Prying eyes trying to catch the laggards
shuffling back to their seat and
pretend to be very obedient and behaved lot.
The pinch, the hit on the arm with ruler, or the words
will bring about absolute silence,
masking the transient pain and shame,
that will soon followed by snickering comments and giggles
from those who escaped this time by their agility or luck.
The pencil boxes will soon start to play multiple roles,
like the actors in a play on a tight budget,
Transporting bits of papers with probable clues to the
questions put forth, the wrong answer to which,
could lead to repercussions of varying degree..
Like standing outside like a flagpole,
but failing to act as a deterrent to us incorrigible lot.
Lunch time will be like an oasis in the day of claustrophobic pedantry
where the darwinian principles will be set to test,
hands drawn towards the most delicious tiffin boxes,
the rightful owner of which will be lucky to even find a morsel
But however mundane and monochromatic sometimes those time may be
Looking back its was all worth it
when we could pick after 3 decades later where we all left off
and engage in hours of debating, leg-pulling, sarcasm, enlightenment
not withstanding the boundaries of time, space and temperament.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 7:40 AM UTC
What rage there is,
In youthful lovers.
The lustful want of incitement,
Excitement.
Passionate energy.
Unreserved and incorrigible resentment
For the men in suits,
Settle down.
Don’t settle down.
The pressure of ***
And the stench of expectation.
Bated breath as I reveal your weak
Underbelly.
Don’t speak, don’t apologise
As I count the freckles across your
Inner thighs.
I need to know I don’t need you.
Let me love you,
Let me.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
She went to Russia as a student
To study fashionable nuclear technology
At the communist Patrice Lumumba University
At the center of ideologue creating city of Moscow,
She went there an accomplished total ******
No African eye had ever seen her naked bossom
She came from the western region of Africa
A girl so couth in all the platforms of life;
In manners, dress and ****** appetite,
With only education as the prime focus of her heart;
To bag a science degree in her African leather wallet
Under her arm pit, sandwiching culture and discipline.
But communist racism turned her into an ape *****
All the tricks of European racism were employed on her,
The young girl lost her seed of self-worthwhile sensibilities,
She conceded that perhaps she was a daughter of zinjanthropus,
In the land of dignified civilisation of the Russian humanity
Where communism struggles to achieve universal Godliness
As ***** blackness strives to achieve universal communism,
In this negative personality feat, my dear daughter goofed,
A poor girl of Africa joined communist *** workers market,
And hence the door was opened to communist loutishness,
Comrades came in arms and went out, to collectivize her love
Making her ****** rights state property, subjected to proletariat dictatorship,
Only to suffer the bane of the time on her complain of woman rights,
She was declared as an African ********** in Moscow,
Suffering from incorrigible explosive African anger,
***** irascibility never seen any where in mother Russia
Only capable to be corrected in Siberian prison .
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
I remember all of the stupid things.
The gap in my first love's fringe
that appeared only when she was flustered,
or torn between *** and G-d.
The nursery teacher who resembled
Jane Goodall and sat with me
whilst my hayfever was too potent
to play out in the sun.
I remember the exuberance of heat
on the concrete slabs in my first back garden.
How my mother would take
boiling water to the empires of ants
that would find life in the cracks
and crevices between my footfalls.
I remember how silent they were
through oppression and death.
I remember my first sight of the ocean.
How serene it looked in the distance,
how unforgiving and cold it was
once I threw my whole weight into it.
The shivering donkeys on the beach,
agitated by the ice-cream crowds;
the man who handled snakes for a living
and persuaded me to touch a killer.
I remember my first guitar
and how I stared at it helplessly
for two hours, like a teenage boy
on his first sight of a ******
The first sad song to deliver a feeling
never experienced, but communicated;
how adults failed to answer the questions
that music gave forth effortlessly.
I remember when you started leaving
kisses at the end of your messages,
the formulaic gaps in time
before I would hear from you again;
your costume of nonchalance.
The way you appeared in the wasteland hours,
playing the therapist with your kind words
and history of neurosis.
I remember the sheet of plastic
that shielded me from the rain as a child,
the rubber wheels of my carriage
buckling through puddles and gaps;
the first exposure to nature's lullaby,
as I fall asleep through storm and traffic.
I remember how easily sleep once came,
and how I resisted it all the same.
I remember my recurring nightmare.
A big red button and the doors of hell;
some spectre of infinite density
that caterwauled for the destruction
of all things human, all things new.
The way my mother's arms were infallible,
the priest's glare, omniscient;
the revolting concept of a cigarette.
I remember all of the useless things.
The rings around my grandfather's eyes
on the only occasion I saw him cry.
Kissing Rebecca on the lips,
cementing our love with tree sap
and the promise of an endless summer.
I remember the first time I felt sad
without having a reason to be so.
I remember the shine of the room
when I took pills for the first time;
the incorrigible thirst for water
and the racing confessions that followed.
I remember how it felt,
the first time I trapped someone in a poem;
how easy it was to forget them
once reduced to words and half-truths.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
Bonjour, mon Cheri, mon petit Chou!
The doorbell rings with a solemn telegram:
- this just in -
I am exactly like most girls - in civilizations lost, or civilizations in other civilizations, Italy hiding in Toronto and a government hiding in a shameful self-promotion, and 20 seconds later I'm a poly-sci major (incorrigible!)
- 911! 911! 911! 911!
What's my emergency? What's YOUR emergency? But really, what is my emergency? And when it comes to that, What's in an emergency - an aristocracy in high-waisted shorts, an ice cream social (media) scream - lets back the car out and park and loop and inevitably end up in a straight line caterpillars away from
(The truth) - (but more of that later)
Cross-continental cigarette and now I'm running out of material to trade it for. I am lonely, can't you see? A fair trade, for a night with me-
**** me so hard I can't walk, **** me over so bad I can't detour a one-track mind)
I am not the one Hemingway prepared you for, I will not blow smoke rings in Spain or wander the streets of Paris, I will sit right here lounging in a plaid vinyl sinkhole and carry myself with delusions of grandeur
(Beyond novels unread - yet sadly written - by the unwashed and falsely educated masses)
Life as an existential film, life as woe is me in backwards bus terminals. Life as when you marry someone you hate and life as cold tempura on a booze-stained tablecloth. Pass the peas, please.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
Pessimists are good lenders -
because they know
I’ll never return what I borrow
and it’s not worth trying to get
me to return anything
Pessimists are honest
because they tell me I’m horrid
and worthless and have no talent –
whereas my wife tells me lies about how
unique and fantastic I am
and how I’m destined
for greatness and fame
the same lies my parents and teachers
and all the sugary people in my life
told me to believe in
and so brought me to grief and megalomania–
better a pessimist than incorrigible liars
Pessimists let me do what I want:
jump the queue, rob them in daylight
steal their cars and take what I like -
because they say, with a helpless shrug:
“That’s human nature – especially people of his kind!”
Pessimists tell me the world will end tomorrow
that I’m destined for hell and I’ll never come to good –
hey, that allows me reason never to try
enjoy life for the moment
and just cruise along and let everybody else
die of stress and work-addiction
*Pessimists I love
for they validate everything I do ;
truly, they were made for me,
for they make my every wrong right…bless ‘em pessimists*
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 8:19 PM UTC
when all of the home, or underneath
the bed, or even throne of dream
all lay with life of felled bodies,
— lest I feel forever the joy
of the fall,
when all scrumptious light bend in
incorrigible water, strangeness pursues
all dark;
soft, soft,
soft, encircling in cage
the soft,
soft, aloft hills and dead pools
of sweat
soft and supple skin
raged thud of fragmented name
on walling up lips
love is man and man's prison sees
to it all silence when everything is set free
and we have no use for them anymore,
imprisoning us, the love–
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC