"insouciant" poems
The diamonds shone like broken glass
Upon the midnight street
And all atop the walls were wet
Their white eyes glint & sleek
Then from afar a gnome appeared
An angel flashed on furry feet
The boulevard became a river
While waiting crowds began to quiver
I was in a motel watching
Whiskey in my hand
Her breath was soft, the wind was warm
Someone in a room was born
~~~
Accomplishments:
To make works in the face
of the void
To gain form, identity
To rise from the herd-crowd
Public favor
Public fervor
even the bitter Poet-Madman is
a clown
Treading the boards
~~~
Cold electric music
Damage me
Rend my mind
w/your dark slumber
Cold temple of steel
Cold minds alive
on the strangled shore
Veterans of foreign wars
We are the soldiers of
Rock & Roll Wars
~~~
Whether to be a
great cagey perfumed
beast
dying under the
sweet patronage
of Kings
& exist like luxuriant
flowers beneath the
emblems of their
Strange empire
or by mere insouciant
faith
slap them, call their cards
spit on fate & cast hell
to flames in usury
by dying, nobly
we could exist like
innocent trolls
propogate our revels
& give the finger to the
gods in our private
bedrooms
let’s rather, maybe,
perhaps,
get ******* out in
the open, & by
swelling, jubilantly
Magnificently, end them.
12k
we've been playing for months, yet
i am no longer the master of my own game.
i sit and wonder, "how did i get here?"
without ever truly questioning myself.
simply because i knew.
it is as though I am currently without a name.
considerably since "This" is no longer Me.
who I am, who That is,
I am no longer certain.
I have simply become a replica of Its impression on Self.
"tick tock, tick, tock."
the arrogance of time refuses to stop,
and "now" becomes a fleeting "then"
as My life slips through "Her"
into a dazed, drunken phase.
time only lingers in the present
for those who are truly Present.
Her time is lost, so what is My time
when the days blur together?
"Her" memory sanitized and wiped cleaned.
***** cleans wounds, right?
Dissociation to self, the insouciant desire to care.
an erratic, chaotic, tumultuous torrential downpour.
I'm theatrical sure, but passionately so.
"Passion," i'll drink to that.
"Pain" has me pouring another,
and another.
"Reward me," and we'll cheers to the clear liquid that
warms my throat with each increasing gulp.
"Relax." you worked hard, take one or two.
Six deep, Seven's the magic number,
plus, what's one more?
yet one will never be enough. "sleep or shoot."
don't forget to swallow.
you know you love it.
stop saying no when You can say "yes,"
and stop holding back, when I'm telling You "NO."
stop fighting...
...succumb to the misery.
besides, just one pour will make it all better.
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 2:23 AM UTC
All alone, again
Feeling meloncholy and captive
Within a cloud of intentional isolation
As each thought comes and goes without an answer.
Memories flicker in the crime scene of my mind.
My perception is clouded by questioning every suspicion.
As I try to stay unemotional and rationally make doubt my enemy.
This day has now ended and I have not made a decision.
Wondering when indecision and fear have intersected in my life.
Have I become so insouciant that I am blinded?
As I grow old and in my final hours, could this be my biggest mistake?
I am unwillling to dwell in the present and find happiness again?
Hours spent suffocating myself with regret
Tried to harden my heart to the point of no return
But, I perservere and try to rise above the abundancy of pain.
Licking the salt from my tears as they drip to my lips.
I now lay down, so silent that even my breath is quiet
Asking if the pain is worth the possibility of a true love that will last.
Will he crush my heart with unintentional love for another?
A chance, I guess, I am willing to take. Or too soon?
I can only pray that the right answer will come during my slumber
And it will be within the will of my creator
Praying that my dreams will be filled with the answers that I seek
And tomorrow will be full of love, trust and loyalty.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
I once was told
In Broooklyn New York
I had a lackadaisical attitude.
It was the first time I was hearing
That whimsical adjective !
So lackadaisical I was !
Looked like an illness
The way they said it
It seemed I could contaminate.
So I stopped a few seconds to think and dissect the word
Lackadaisical
I lacked a daisy somewhere !
Sounded like I lacked a fuse in my brain !
Next thing I know I was checking the word
In my reminiscences of the Oxford English Dictionary
Or may be it was Webster's
And it said in black and white ferns I lacked purpose
I wasn't properly lazy, I just lacked directions
I lacked enthusiasm, stamina
I was devoid of zest
I was blasé
Insouciant
Careless.
Translated into more French I was nonchalant and better said
Jemenfoutiste.
It was during an encounter group
And they threw that lackadaisical attitude ******** to my face
And guess what i did ?!
I just kept on smiling
Jemenfoutiste to the extreme.
And they kept saying
See what I mean, you 're so ******* lackadaisical , man !
You're so pathetic ! You're so apathetic !
It was Winter in America like Gil Scott-Heron would say
And it felt so good, so warm,
As far as I could see,
To be called lackadaisical
And not laconical.
I not only lacked a daisy
I lacked a bunch of tropical flowers indeed !
Like bouganvillea, orchid or hibiscus
Anthurium, jasmine or bromeliad
I lacked sun and sea
Strange as it was
Even though I was near Atlantic Avenue, Coney Island
So I was lackaseacal and lackasuncal
But what I didn't lack was ants in my pants
And until today they make me dance
My forever lackadaisical dance.
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 12:59 AM UTC
Her syllogisms repose trust in her adept beleaguering of unworthy opponents.
Constantly in a state of lassitude for this desultory, inure world of the insouciant youth which dwells upon it's cathartic terrain, she engages not in lachrymose nor is she crestfallen for the hope of romance and it's everlasting ineffability.
She is a fugacious moment of frisson embodied in a human form; a juxtaposition of the serendipitous moments that ever constantly come one after the other in a fickle wheel of steep highs and deep lows. All her life, this girl will lilt through the crossroads of her obstacles and show the world the efflorescence of her beauty. Hush don't speak lest you miss hearing the mellifluous music of her voice of fail to hear the lagniappe that is her name.
She is the cynosure of human attention, the goddess and we are but her humble servants. She is innocence most rare, love most coveted. She is infinite. She is peace.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
Rue the unlettered nugatory inequity
of insensate dishabille narcosis and
the insouciant clandestine ravish
perverse of durance's constraint.
AUSTRALIAS CODE GREY IS A HUMAN RIGHTS VIOLATION.
MENTAL HEALTH ARE RAPISTS. PUT AN END TO FORCED INJECTIONS
AND THE UNCONSCIOUS UNCONSENTING SEXPLOITATION OF THE MENTALLY ILL!!!!.
NO FUNDING FOR MENTAL HEALTH AND THEIR ****** REGIME!!!
MENTAL HEALTH LAWS ARE MENTALLY ILL!!!
''the pride of women will never be laid in the dust"- Gaelic Proverb.
MENTAL HEALTH ARE RAPISTS. LYING ******* ****** DOGS!!!
SAY NO TO BUTTOCKS INJECTIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
We are all oblivious in our own attentive way.
A babylon of fanaticisms call, in a dark song you must pay.
We are all content in our own entangled day.
A bravado of neologisms appall, in a stark verity you have kept.
I'm removed from society, in insouciant splendor, I wept.
A creation of serendipitous intent, in a dream impending you have crept.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 11:46 PM UTC
weaving these paths with a lost sense of compass
insouciant stroll when leaves crunch under toe
earth and dirt, green smell
the sign says no horses
and an arrow points up
the sun's fingers comb
dry wood and ask:
what is complacency?
'Lost self-sense,' J said;
eyes drooping, Hoku mind heavy
if the turtle wants to feel the spirit
then he must walk slow
ride the current from
Indonesia to Ngulu
Jamming in the name of the Lord
like Robbie does
and identify renewed, redemption song
let us praise the Lord
the jungle is cleaning her feathers
she says: My favorite
I say: My pleasure
Laugh and pause--
no unheard cause
feel the light happening through you
and rebuild your pieces
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Written by: Vince Chul'theg, MasikaniCorcodile and CrackPipeKenny (SpiderManJump)
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
in my child's eye...
it is possible,
for a frog, to choose to fly.
a dog to dance and
cats to swim.
it is possible,
to build a castle,
up into the sky.
to converse with stars.
for elephants to drive,
tiny cars.
it is possible,
that the world,
is without sin
and washed clean,
each morning,
which is to be met
with an insouciant grin.
it is possible,
to befriend the child
you just met....
no matter what creed
or colour.
it is possible,
to forgive
and live,
without regret
and to sleep
at night
without any stress.
it is possible,
at that age,
to know ....
a dollar found upon
the sidewalk,
is a treasure
of great proportions,
if made into,
lollies and shared,
with friends.
it is possible...
that fish can write stories
and possums delight
it is possible to count
a monkey as a friend.
it is possible to ride
kangaroos and
adventure to Timbuctoo
it is possible,
to love spaggetti
as much as your mother.
to make the new kitten,
your brother.
it is possible,
to love your dad
even when he is silly
or mad...
all this is possible...
....and much more
when you are just,
one year, past four...
...and you have a
sunny, lovable disposition
and the world has yet to
find the time, to revise
the freedoms of your amazingly beautiful mind...
it is possible....
and in many ways
so very probable...
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
Progress
by Michael R. Burch
There is no sense of urgency
at the local Burger King.
Birds and squirrels squabble outside
for the last scraps of autumn:
remnants of buns,
goopy pulps of dill pickles,
mucousy lettuce,
sesame seeds.
Inside, the workers all move
with the same très-glamorous lethargy,
conserving their energy, one assumes,
for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms,
pep rallies, keg parties,
reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.
The manager, as usual, is on the phone,
talking to her boyfriend.
She gently smiles,
brushing back wisps of insouciant hair,
ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.
Through her filmy white blouse
an indiscreet strap
suspends a lace cup
through which somehow the ****** still shows.
Progress, we guess, ...
and wait patiently in line,
hoping the Pokémons hold out.
NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time ***** spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, *******
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 9:43 PM UTC
There's a blank sheet of paper I hung on the wall
My mother suggested to after a fall
A fall of inspiration,
Dead of true life,
Hope prancing, leaping, dashing,
In the light of unconventional thought beyond all comprehension,
Of dancing on cloud floors, declining haze of the forests,
While insouciant specks of light, similar to glowing pointillism
Can sharply puncture one's un-anticipating boredom
And infect with a communicable virus of
Celestial inspiration.
I always look back on that paper and perceive,
Beyond my tantalized body and anguishing mind
Through it's blankness, it's empty slate,
It's disgusting plainness, piercing my hope,
It's beauty in its... Lack of anything, null, nought, nothingness--
An array, plethora, profusion, superfluity
Of inconceivable courses of actions
Breathtaking inspiration.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
I placed my lips on your neck, curved away from me, looking out the window
your soft hair stood up but you said nothing,
silent as the green countryside passing by.
"Where are you going?"
"I don't know", you said. It wasn't dismissive this time; it had been in the past
when we were still laughing on Princes Street and window shopping like all the other tourists.
Your insouciant smiles soothed that sinking feeling that was beginning to grow in my chest.
It was premature then but it had ripened now. All that careless energy evaporated.
I wanted to look into your eyes but I had to make do with their ghost on the glass, looking not at me
but somewhere else, or some time else perhaps.
Your hand fell on my lap warm and still. For a moment I felt like a man on the execution block
wanting desperately to stretch out time, by some alchemy turn a single moment into an eternity.
The hills no longer racing by but only passing slowly helped fuel my desperate wish.
An electric pre-recorded voice announced what I already knew it would.
You looked at me finally granting my wish. Your big brown eyes like still oceans. I could
no longer sail in them; I was drowning. You smiled a sweet smile and kissed me on the lips.
"Where are you going?"
"Away,"
I was too weak with sadness to embrace you, and I knew you knew. You got up, your soft curls
brushing against my cheek.
"Goodbye Andrew."
I counted your footsteps to the end of the car as if a number could give me power over them.
The train started up again, but I felt emptier than the car I was now sitting in.
A solitary hot tear fell down my cold cheek while I sat watching my Gypsy lover disappear into the distant green hills.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
caked on makeup, lyrical lash lines, clear
thoughts for the first time; trying so hard to type
out the right words to make the world stop spinning ten
times too fast in the wrong direction. can't you see it's making me ill,
the way you casually can't decide and lean
on calves of glass and card towers of achromatizing dust?
I am a kaleidoscope of many other ashes to ashes to dust;
cut across from rib to rib and leeching out the clear
air you breathe. I am perennial, the one to clean
you up when you fail to break the mold and fall back on type-
casted stereotypes of who everyone else thinks you should be. still,
I am the one who doubts and falters, often
has the idea that we are erased and quick forgotten
the moment our idiosyncrasies peter out and dust
replaces bones we came to know. I am shrill,
and I talk too loud at all the wrong times; I can never clear
the plates I stain with blood and pile high with subtype
after subtype derivatives of things I should do and glean
vivification from carefully, anxiously. you have this lean
skin and enviable, insouciant lilt to your walk towards me at ten
o'clock when I can't see straight anymore, can barely type
the last letters of my poems. your eyes are clear
and you're free of that indestructible and obliterating dust
that clogs my lungs and makes me feel so ill
so often. shallow peaks of your shoulder blades, time at a standstill
when I merge into highways of veins and clean
breaks from responsibility, softly tracing jawbones that clear
my head for just a moment; hands that tremble to fasten
the world back onto my hollow aches and faltering nervous system. I dust
off your window sill and think maybe you're the type
that complements an irrational daydreaming messy busy type-
writer kind of lover. you know, the kind that hates to pay the bill
on time because that's another deadline to miss, who lets dust
fly around because vacuums interrupt abstract art and lean
cuisine, who likes cats and very, very often
misplaces her phone somewhere on your clear
floor nothing like the type she has, like the type I have, like the way I lean
toward your infrastructure to hold me still; darling, you brighten
my mornings of habitual stardust and glass not quite clear.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:21 AM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 1:28 PM UTC
the ubiquitous screen
that we all have seen
for myriad hours
has magical powers
it brings us tales of suffering and woe
but allows us to vicariously go
to lands without menacing misery
with a simple tap on the remote
but when we think we've gotten our couch potato *****
far from the palpable pain of the muddied masses
we see the ads for... feline cuisine
tasty, tempting morsels
in delectable sauces
what little kitty could resist
yes, what little kitty could resist
while billions struggle to simply exist
like monkey'd maggots on rotting meat
they don't care if their meal is a treat
only that their aching guts are at least half full
while cat lovers are caught in the insouciant pull
of ads for the "cat chef's" royal feasts
for their most noble of beasts
who purr and play with ***** of yarn for our delight
and allow us to forget the interminable plight
of the muddied masses who have no magic screen
and couldn't give a **** about cat cuisine
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 5:11 PM UTC
Some are so very good at it.
Others, not so much.
Those so carefree about it,
cheaters, who's to trust?
Swindle me, my lover.
It's happened a few times before.
My "don't give a **** proponent
has kicked in, that's for sure.
Being nonchalant, about it,
is all that I can do.
For I've lost all trust, don't doubt it.
I'm as insouciant as you.
Is why we're made for each other,
on this we can both rely.
It frees me, from anxiety,
how we both do cheat and lie.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
insouciant
— adjective
free from concern, worry, or anxiety; carefree; nonchalant.
Can barely pronounce it,
Vaguely recall it.
When I was twelve,
Lived by the Atlantic Ocean,
On my red cycled steed,
Disappeared, roaming for days.
My parents were not insouciant,
Tho I surely was, by definition.
Perhaps
Someday,
Will feel that way again,
Recognizing the carelessness of living life
Without regrets, worries, all kinds of
bills to pay,
Re-collecting payments made
From my freedom, my early days.
But I wonder to you, H.
If my life was indeed insouciant,
Would my poetry be any good?
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
.
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
*a poetic collaboration
with Elizabeth Squires,
(thank you for the privilege)*
high in the infinite skies,
above the clouds.
where no, naked eye can see
particles in the ozone layer,
bounce around.
in a manner, most carefree.
these minute, wee, little things,
e'er bobbing and moving,
so happily.
we on the ground,
would delight,
in their existence of joy.
but we're tied to the prosaic, daily grind working,
in our nine to five,
coalface coal mines.
with axe and pick,
we chip and hack away...
whilst our minds delight,
in front-lobal play.
of waxed wing-ed flight,
of acrobatic, aerobatic display.
whilst working,
in the cramped and dubious
spaces we inhabit....
we dream, of spaces, blue, boundless and arcing-wide, forgeting, forgoing, forgiving the mindless, daily grind...
we leap,
with fragile hope,
into fledgling flight....
up to the ozone,
up toward the light...
there, in the freedom,
of this spacious playground,
we're at no command,
of employer's tools,
of work.
on our faces, we'll wear
those effervescent, unfettered smirks
hopping in rambunctious
fun
in the ozone's air,
upon the weary brow of labor release, is found.
in it's mirthful atmosphere,
which eliminates, our obligations, to our bosses.
we then farewell,
with liberating tosses.
and so we soar
in insouciant grace, unfettered,reckless,feckless
freedom, sliced and pared, away across our wings
and faces,
joy ungaurded,
is this moment's prey
unbidden, unbound.
no longer hearing,
the sound of the grinding axe.... at play
we soar eagle high...
we soar to the sun's eye
but we are not made
for such undulterated bliss our wings of feather
and wax....
become, around us mist
and to the ground
we do spiral....
into our adult occupations,
where there is little time.
for us to be engrossed,
in exuberant glee.
we're shackled
and yoked to,
our heavy work day shrouds.
but our dreams of play,
with those ozone particles,
seem too impractical.
happy little vegemites
we'd be,
if our days were free.
take heart, our days off,
are nigh and on the lounge
we'll sigh,
a well earned sigh.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
Insouciance
It drives reckless souls
Out into the night
Spreading their unruly plight
Knowing nothing of fear, only of fight
Irresponsibility is a term
Those of this heart know well
As it's screamed from rickety back doors
It's reek seeps through cracked floors
Gets pounded deep in their cores
They are taking over this world
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.
Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,
His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,
Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.
A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.
The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,
Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
Tik tok tik tok,
We look back,
To the people that we've met,
To the places we went,
To the events that touched our soul,
Tik tok tik tok,
As time passes by,
Some travel against the current,
Refusing to let go,
Unwilling to consign them to oblivion,
Hopelessly trying to salvage what was lost,
Reticently denying the future,
Tik tok tik tok,
As the clocks turns forevermore,
We realise that lost times will never come back,
What has been done can never be effaced,
The only thing to do is to be maturely insouciant,
As there is no such thing as a panacea,
Tik tok tik tok,
The voices of future past deafens us,
With every tik of the clock,
It seems to grow rambunctiously,
Thoughts run endlessly,
Of paradise on earth,
That we may or may not achieve in our lifetime.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
Falling, falling, falling,
forever
or is this
G
N
I
T
A
O
L
F
towards a shimmer in the distance
like a wind that carries a dead leaf
whispering through the chimes
that fall upon deaf ears
as if the message was sent
and it just wasn't heard
No, this is f
a
l
off l
the i
precipice n
g
as I watch the sky
march round in a funeral procession
of our history
F L O A T I N G
in this disorienting gravity
S E D U C I N G
in this magnetic propinquity
T E A R I N G
in this psychosomatic schism
every storm proceeds an epoch
of pleasure
as if pleasure
is an
Grecian artifact
in the backdrop of Ovid
The caterpillar
of Like
of Love
of Hate
cocoons into insouciant
vicissitudes
Y.
A
W
but refuses to fly A
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC