"indolent" poems
Terrifying are the attent sleek thrushes on the lawn,
More coiled steel than living - a poised
Dark deadly eye, those delicate legs
Triggered to stirrings beyond sense - with a start, a bounce,
a stab
Overtake the instant and drag out some writhing thing.
No indolent procrastinations and no yawning states,
No sighs or head-scratchings. Nothing but bounce and stab
And a ravening second.
Is it their single-mind-sized skulls, or a trained
Body, or genius, or a nestful of brats
Gives their days this bullet and automatic
Purpose? Mozart's brain had it, and the shark's mouth
That hungers down the blood-smell even to a leak of its own
Side and devouring of itself: efficiency which
Strikes too streamlined for any doubt to pluck at it
Or obstruction deflect.
With a man it is otherwise. Heroisms on horseback,
Outstripping his desk-diary at a broad desk,
Carving at a tiny ivory ornament
For years: his act worships itself - while for him,
Though he bends to be blent in the prayer, how loud and
above what
Furious spaces of fire do the distracting devils
**** and hosannah, under what wilderness
Of black silent waters weep.
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Paris;this April sunset completely utters
utters serenely silently a cathedral
before whose upward lean magnificent face
the streets turn young with rain,
spiral acres of bloated rose
coiled within cobalt miles of sky
yield to and heed
the mauve
of twilight(who slenderly descends,
daintily carrying in her eyes the dangerous first stars)
people move love hurry in a gently
arriving gloom and
see!(the new moon
fills abruptly with sudden silver
these torn pockets of lame and begging colour)while
there and here the lithe indolent **********
Night,argues
with certain houses
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unto thee i
burn incense
the bowl crackles
upon the gloom arise purple pencils
fluent spires of fragrance
the bowl
seethes
a flutter of stars
a turbulence of forms
delightful with indefinable flowering,
the air is
deep with desirable flowers
i think
thou lovest incense
for in the ambiguous faint aspirings
the indolent frail ascensions,
of thy smile rises the immaculate
sorrow
of thy low
hair flutter the level litanies
unto thee i burn
incense,over the dim smoke
straining my lips are vague with
ecstasy my palpitating ******* inhale the
slow
supple
flower
of thy beauty,my heart discovers thee
unto
whom i
burn
olbanum
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Born to the night in the cry of wolves,
We are….inked lovers spilling secrets, under velvet skies,
Shrouding the night in silver spools;
The season of silver silence, hangs upon shades of silken soul,
This midnight offering, a white entice;
My hair shimmers brightly, a wet fleece of gold, of shadow and starlight,
And shimmering hues, emerald and sapphire breathe kindred embers into the bellows of passion;
Challenging the flame that burns; entwined....
Whispered intrigue lays in the crescent of moon,
In an eminent blaze of sweetest surrender
Unborn whispers lie entwined with heated petals, silken;
We shiver....I shiver,
I am warm arms embraced;
Your lips hard yet soft against my side,
The feel of flesh warmed to a rising flame...
The long moon steps into midnight;
My ******* full of your hands as candles, pour hard against the ebon fall,
Luscious to the hush of soft smiles
Steeled eloquence flows in ribbon ripples;
Winter sown, blood quilled, in midnights cast;
Cloaked in beautiful, shadow's bed a bouquet of lacy foxglove...
Eyes closed and deep of breath,
Moistness seeps the sugared flower, and longing surges deep;
Shudder me wicked, drench me quick;
The wildness swirls inside as he moves like a shadow over my heart
His tongue eager to swim the gushing urge;
Touching, slick-slide, the soothe of smooth fingers slip past softness;
Lips cross, moist to moan me quick, sliding to quivers.
Thigh's whispering and heart pounding ,
Soft, the wind blows, tapping walls, fingers dancing
And shadow sways to moonlight...
Velvet-soft, the sweet of tongue's mesh,
Fire burning,
The tips of breast's aroused by the touch of a slow hand lover;
Your tongue gently rolls, wet and burning hot,
Hungrily, it feeds diving deep, and sandalwood spires upon the malachite air,
And burning murmurs the silent song, pleasures
Your flame to touch me hot, softly hard,
Against the darting quivering rose, stokes sweet, the flame of conjure....
I weep as you strain to slay this huntress of indolent submission;
Descending into darkness, I squirm upon your touch, lifting my altar upon your hunger,
Eyes lost to ecstasy, the flow quickens from abyssal moans;
Overflowing with need, release bound by gold shattered stars
Suckling whispered thoughts;
With us, for us, in us, in dreams, in thoughts, in love
....And in....time my love..................
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 5:31 PM UTC
idle, shiftless, indolent
not a care in the world
a white oblivion
of simple, peaceful, blissful
nothing
looming, threatening, impending
charged with energy
electricity just
hours away
gray consciousness
and lazy days
hair-raising, spine-chilling, nerve-racking
strikes of pure shock
mother nature’s roars
reverberating off the blackened firmament
drops of liquid vigor
crashing to the ground
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
Who else in this inhumane edifice
can dance while the suspecting eyes stare
at his moistened armpit?
Pathetically unknowing music uplifts not just the soul but the intellect.
Who else got the fire in imparting?
or …
did theirs even start a single spark since then?
Who else brings out the best in these hopefuls?
It’s all the worse and worst that they see.
And you think San Pedro would be pleased
when you gloat you made all the priests, doctors, and engineers?
Woe to you who humiliate the chair by your indolent butts
while uttering kindergartenous blabbers you claim to be education!
Then you get all you want while tabula rasa remains tabula rasa.
And you
You seated on the higher chairs!
Why don’t you trample down awhile
and put your cataracting sight to use
before it even brings you to the death of light.
Has anyone of you even heard what your god told to Pontius Pilate?
Ha! The you-have-no-power-over-me’s have always been impervious to you bigots!
And you say to your kin let me handle it.
When it is delayed and their impatience grows
you see they’ll leave.
Did you ever fret about deadlines
of bills, of matriculas, of debts?
What do you feed to your clan? Feeds?
Get Ripley’s here!
Oh how divine to utter all the Fs!
©Glenn L. Sentes
February 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 5:41 AM UTC
It is true that the rivers went nosing like swine,
Tugging at banks, until they seemed
Bland belly-sounds in somnolent troughs,
That the air was heavy with the breath of these swine,
The breath of turgid summer, and
Heavy with thunder's rattapallax,
That the man who erected this cabin, planted
This field, and tended it awhile,
Knew not the quirks of imagery,
That the hours of his indolent, arid days,
Grotesque with this nosing in banks,
This somnolence and rattapallax,
Seemed to suckle themselves on his arid being,
As the swine-like rivers suckled themselves
While they went seaward to the sea-mouths.
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With a blistered heart
From unnumbered breaks,
A cloud of unshed tears
From untold betrayals,
I reenter the world
After an eternity or more
Of self imposed asylum
From a world of superficial bliss.
A world unchanged!
A cruel untended garden
Of deceptive beauty
And unkind thorny roses.
Lovelorn shadows,
Masquerading venomous claws
With beauteous flamboyance
And undesirable attraction.
Lethargic feelings,
Dousing my desires
With drowsing memoirs
Of countless emotional abuse,
Causing momentary spasms
In cerebral regions
Parading nocuous images
In the plenitude of projected beauty.
Scarred beyond immediate cure,
I recede from said world-
Too adverse for tender hearts
Back to hibernating moods
To nurse evergreen cuts
Cuts so deep, so lethal
Only the indolent strides of time
Can attempt to stitch!
Awaiting prophetic moments
Moments with mirage qualities
When in-love I can fall again
When a damsel I can trust again
When my heart can beat again
For one with pure intentions
Not putrefied by Hollywood mentors
*But virtuous in biblical ways*...
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
187
How many times these low feet staggered—
Only the soldered mouth can tell—
Try—can you stir the awful rivet—
Try—can you lift the hasps of steel!
Stroke the cool forehead—hot so often—
Lift—if you care—the listless hair—
Handle the adamantine fingers
Never a thimble—more—shall wear—
Buzz the dull flies—on the chamber window—
Brave—shines the sun through the freckled pane—
Fearless—the cobweb swings from the ceiling—
Indolent Housewife—in Daisies—lain!
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his ancestor a coolie
laid the rails many long years
but returned to Peking
to fight white devils
this, the tale
passed through the generations
with the jade necklace which
never left his mother's neck
first born son
spawn of two doctors, expectations
were high he would practice
honorable healing arts
early in his years
he fueled their fears, and ire
coming through their sterile door
with bloodied knuckles
black eyes, fat lips
they tried various exorcisms:
confinement in the temple, lashings
and hushed cabals with head healers,
but none could shrink his will
much to their dismay
Stanford rejected him; he landed
at a community college, where he spent
an indolent year, before vanishing
a thousand tears and fears later
the PI revealed what a hundred
billable hours had reaped
the son was so far west
he was east, in a village on the Yangtze
stooped over paddies, his feet firm
in the mire the generations
had yearned to escape
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
Most late summer days fade into night holding a tepid dreariness in their breath, beating away with the tedium of the sun from late July through early September.
Yet ephemeral as it may be, the life of early summer is purely sanguine in the face of its oncoming age, as willowy saplings sway in the blustering breezes of June, and sprouts of vivid animation appear all around.
This is when the soul heals, and out of the mulch rises new beginnings and the ripening fruit of various works.
In this early season of summer, many taciturn inhabitants of the flourishing earth made their home, and among them, Lily: a creature of reticence and intricacy.
She burgeoned in attitude and character as days crept forward, extending her limbs upwards in an eternal paean to the heavens― as such was her sinecure and quiet delight.
In this, she stood insular to her ubiquitous family, an outsider to the sisters who flitted about carelessly on the wind, satiny gowns of pink and yellow billowing as they twirled.
Always invited into the fray, Lily was evermore stalwart in her choice to keep out of their plainly sordid affairs.
Yet in her isolation, the night whispered to her many a berceuse.
The sleepy stars implored of Lily’s indolent nature as she gazed into their eyes, trailing across eternity into peaceful slumber.
The night sky held wonders and questions that filled her paltry existence but placed her in stasis with the decorated heavens of her dying season,
Left to wither away with the insidious heat and vibrant splendor of late summer evenings.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
your gloom rubies roam the miracle, miraculous; lasting orange in the parlor of our most red wednesday... your mood blooms in the parlor of our most red Wednesday
in convolution, bathing everywhere in discrete voluptuous, nocturnal by day and dawn purged. a complete confusion of unique bliss and utter distraction,
masking the perfect lonesome of lost buttons.
to magnify the utter not so !
and not so
at all !
Mab is the Queen.
you float on black goats. fallen. small feet in fleece of midnight. star lit.
your imminence faire beyond pondering. Literally.
you are dreamt intensely.
you leave me as empty as a horn of plenty [ enigma ]
where you. And you alone; have spread
your feast.
you float on white lichen and baby's breath,
churning the waters of auguries
too lovelorn to be well met, but yet, they sustain life
at just that pitch
that forks
the road
there ! you glow in the mirk of my desire. gilded in shadows
far too fierce for the sun's darkside
there !
you abide in
nameless
wisp
your heart, Fey
and indolent.
and your
throne
cats !
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 6:56 AM UTC
LOOSE-VEINED and languid as the yellow mist
That swoons along the river in the sun,
Your flesh of passion pale and amber-kissed
With years of heat that through your veins have run,
You lie with aching memories of love
Alone and naked by the weeping tree,
And indolent with inward longing move
Your slim and sallow limbs despondently.
If love came warm and burning to your dream,
And filled you all your avid veins require,
You would lie sadly still beside the stream,
Sobbing in torture of that vivid fire;
The same low sky would weave its fading blue,
The river still exhale its misty rain,
The willow trail its waving over you,
Your longing only quickened into pain.
Bed your desire among the pressing grasses;
Lonely lie, and let your thirsting *******
Lie on you, lonely, till the fever passes,
Till the undulation of your longing rests.
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Unable to read your convoluted smile ,
I trusted you with the undiluted faith of a child.
Lightly forsaken, a new fetish of the hour,
Yielding to a physiology of morals.
Your degenerate love travels though me like influenza.
As you fall into your drunken sleep,
I’m just a weary dancing girl,
Snorting the pieces of my heart for one last high.
Regulating my hatred for you,
Ill leave it to fates spite,
As I walk out the door.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 6:16 PM UTC
In her dark eyes thou canst see thine own mortality
And with her white arm in some imperiously indolent gesture,
Long fingers carelessly pointing -- rosemary, rosary,
Rose petals rotting on a Sunday -- Baudelaire would like her,
With her nightshade beauty and red lips in a frown.
"Fier et nonpareil," like some rue-flowering queen
And not even the dark red of the faded rose
Resembles the color of her voice, a color which can't be seen
Morbid and beautiful and indolently morose
*Et son visage serait celui de Baudelaire ***** rêves*...
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 3:30 AM UTC
Indolent,
they say.
Yet drag her...
all the way.
Annoyed,
she is.
Stubborn
is not her intention.
Relaxed
is what she's wanted.
Once comes a chance,
never lasts forever.
Tied up
to the shackles of obedience.
Dec 29, 2010
Dec 29, 2010 at 10:01 AM UTC
(To Ellen Terry)
As one who poring on a Grecian urn
Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,
God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,
And for their beauty’s sake is loth to turn
And face the obvious day, must I not yearn
For many a secret moon of indolent bliss,
When in midmost shrine of Artemis
I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?
And yet—methinks I’d rather see thee play
That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery
Made Emperors drunken,—come, great Egypt, shake
Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay,
I am grown sick of unreal passions, make
The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!
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Today
Sunday
Slows
Today
Apathy
Grows.
Today
Indolent
Desires
Today
Scarecrows
Stand
Today
Talents
Wane
Today
Numbness
Reigns
Today
Sloth
Drove
Today
Just
Froze
Today
Good
Failed
Today
Evil
Grows
All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.
Edmund Burke
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
I must have been raised wrong,
I believe in being generous.
I think people should be loved;
That meanness can be onerous.
I have seen what evil does
And I want no more of that.
I don’t think that selfishness
Will really feed the captain’s cat.
I have watched back biters
And gossips and thieves
Bring themselves all unawares
To the point where everyone grieves.
I have witnessed liars who get
Tripped up on their own tales;
Regular folks and politicians
Get the air taken from their sails.
I know well that our elderly
Have already done their job
So it’s fine with me if they just
Sit around and act like slobs.
They took care of us when we
Were the indolent folks kids are
So, they are entitled to rest,
More than we are, by far.
I was raised to let people be
If they had some philosophy
That did not match mine
Or even the vast majority.
Someone thinks a different way
That’s fine if it hurts no one.
Not everybody thinks the same
Carnival rides are that much fun.
I saw for myself that people
Were individual in so many ways.
Different in how they dressed
And what they had to say.
Some liked sports TV
And many preferred the soaps.
All of that is fine with me
So, why call each other dopes?
Is there something wrong with me
That I don’t go along with the crowd?
That I don’t enjoy the fights,
The sports fans shouting out loud?
Am I silly for not slowing down
When I pass a wreck on the highway?
Well, if I am, then that is fine.
I will go on doing things my way.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
To the tune "Red Lips"
Tired of swinging
indolent
I rise with a slender hand
put right
my hair
the dew thick
on frail blossoms
sweat seeping through
my thin robe
and seeing
my friend come
stockings torn
gold hairpins askew
I walk over
blushing
lean against the door
turn my head
grasp the dark green plums
and smell them.
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The brandy just as common
With the daughters
Reassuringly following to feed
The right howled lark
Into worn times.
Carry the jean size that you wore in high school
Since the advantage is not forgotten:
Drifting footmen believed manners
Learn prettier face,
But lean into the interrupted light
of another
gun-shooting hurricane on the television.
Indolent raisings are the explanation;
The snort of adolescent judgment dreadfully happens,
And we couldn’t free the dog’s role
Into the
Gently
Busily
Sulkily
… Oh how you’ve been.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
Indolent dipterous demons
Disperse maudlin thoughts, omniscient
Towards the undercroft as they drink
From the sinuous amphora
Whilst the knell echoes throughout
The belligerant zenith of conflagration
Stated still upon the burning of sepulchre
Canonised by the death of angels
As the blood sheds red like paint
On canvass throughout the murderous
Battle of Heavens legions.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:20 AM UTC
There is a heavily barred chamber between,
the bitter end of reality and the dream gone dark,
she was locked up there with a window open
to the nightmare created with marvelous illusions.
with a start, she saw little angels with clipped wings
looking out through the gaps of barbed wires
of a window, more of a hole on the wall, on the top floor.
They looked too young, trapped, blooming buds,
and they started to wave wildly at her, perhaps
thinking she could somehow help, take them out,
she felt dazed, as if a poison arrow hit her chest,
everything was dipping in dark, didn't look good at all,
felt like crying, she remembered, tears dried up, long before
from a safe distence seeing all this he felt crying out loud,
but didn't forget, he is only a butterfly, with fragile wings.
a girl with painted lips, he noticed was blowing a kiss
to a man in the balcony, perhaps.he didn't clearly see
his face, but why such affection, they didn't look like lovers!
The setting sun, he thought was fiercely crying,
with, heat , light and deepening shadows, that dance,
her eyes, indolent, fixed on a flower bed, a girl was
talking to her lover boy"Äll good things in life dwindle"
as if suggesting it's all over once and for all between them,
close by sitting on a tired flower, preparing to close,
the butterfly saw the swarms of bees of night, approaching.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 6:03 AM UTC
Its rare that I hear
the words truly express
things that seem so truly indescribable.
How am I to describe?
How am I to relay such thoughts to men?
It's impossible to imagine the dark from the suns point of view
It would take true pride
and blistering ignorance
to see oneself in such collosal
and lonely shoes.
the first wind chill spells geese in the sky
and the squacking made me think of you
so i took out my old 30 aught 6 and fired away
they said the stuffing was bad
but that the rest was perfect
and i think about the sky blue
but for an instant splattered red during some southern migration
good god himself was once a paradox
I'm sure something that has existed forever must be bored by now
worthless ********** that he is
Does heaven really sound that good?
i want debauchery and drunken laughter
and want my heaven to run red with immortal blood testing the limits of new found power
i want to be able to keep things strait
what am i talking about again?
wait
with who?
do i know you?
can i kiss you?
are you as drunk as i am?
Am i drunk?
no
no I'm not
**** a dog
a family insult by any standard
handed down through generations
of the worthless *********** in my family
*********** too
but then again they weren't
do *********** get to go to Cornell?
yes
yes they do
I am lost
or confused
do you have a map?
i need a choreographer
Google maps hasn't made it here yet
that sky is still blue
the geese blood fell to earth
good gravity
cute gravity
why does gravity get its own laws?
spoiled *******
How does this end?
wouldn't everyone like to know
wouldn't we all like to get our one on one
with some benevolent ****** in the skies
**** him
i would
in my one on one
its a power trip thing for me
I'm not gay
where was i going?
not here.
not ******* god.
I hope gods a woman.
Impossible
a woman couldn't **** things up this bad
unless her period was in proportion to eternity.
Men have drunken periods induced by testosterone flushed brains
We are ruthless, and indolent.
I miss the sun and beaches covered in drunkenness and freedom
I'm missing something
right
reason
who?
******
Well at least I got that over with.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC