"japes" poems
harambe salami
king of the apes
with some credible japes
oh how i miss your sweet smile
you could slam dunk a crocodile
but there was nothing they could do
to stop you from turning that kid into poo
so they shot you through the heart
and you're to blame
you give love
a bad name
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
The Aces check their sleeves,
Hearts rippling across the breeze.
The Queen arises
Slowly,
Torn dress ripped at the knees.
The Jack saw his fill
And quickly took his leave.
Stood trembling in a doorway,
Mind struggling to believe...
The King was an alcoholic,
It was widely known to be so,
Each eve he would sit solemn,
Wine in hand and sword on show,
Clapping to the Jokers' japes
As he danced and sang
About love and fate.
But how was the King to know?
Not two rooms away
His wife had lain,
With a smile and a *****
Creating a cuckold and a fool...
The Jack had had enough
And promptly marched
To the throne room.
Armed with only knowledge,
Unleashes inevitable typhoon.
The winds will rise,
This house shall succumb,
Imploding inwards
Till the house is done.
And all that remains
Among ash and decay,
Broken hearts and broken spades,
Is the Jokers last laugh.
A mockingbirds call as daylight fades.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
Through darkness, laced in edges of light,
And rain, falling like angels plagued by blight,
Shattering their heavenly bones and wings,
Onto the eyeless dust of their return;
Through paths stranger to the hope of spring,
Where voices of ghosts hang with cries of “Burn!”
And moss mottled trees, like macabre jesters
Dance, limbless, leaves flailing grotesquely
To the secret japes of wind-bourn nesters;
Through corpse-ridden forests of insanity,
To where the rocks dress as the three witches
And chant midst their vainglorious riches
*“All hail, Eremita, bound to the adamah altar,
All hail, Eremita, your blood soma from the mortar,
All hail, Eremita, thou shalt be dead hereafter”...*
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
You partied hard when you could
Gold mini skirt and heels
But underneath the glamour
Were guts and nerves of steel
Home was fun and jolly japes
A lively social whirl
But work was war zones, scary scrapes
For our brave reporter girl
You found yourself in Libya
Met the mad dog's stare
He liked you, it was a feather in your cap
You made your name out there
Sri Lanka's where you lost an eye
To shrapnel flying in the dark
They thought you were a Tamil Tiger
Hiding in the grass
Back home someone told you off for smoking
Quick came your reply
Don't concern yourself, I promise you
That's not how I'll die
In Chechnya you made it out
Escaping with your life
As mortars fell you legged it
Eight days over mountain snow and ice
East Timor was your finest hour
Fifteen hundred people protected by too few
You refused to leave, they were saved
That was down to you
Luck ran out in Syria
You feared another massacre, tried to warn the world
So the shells once more homed in on you
And killed our brave reporter girl
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 6:26 PM UTC
Sharp shrieks piercing night,
terror or pain, a mother’s worst fear.
Old husband bumbling, fumbling,
but a mother is vigilant.
Rush forth, answer quick.
There is no time when they cry.
What is it, what is it?
Monster, human, or worse?
Child’s chiding tone calms the heart,
but arouses it another way.
Why so difficult, so stubborn?
Unruly and cruel, but so beloved.
Door ****** open, lights flicked on.
There it is, sight not believed.
Glint of metal, shocked face.
A mother’s worst dream not understood.
Explanations falling out, knife hidden.
Less a plea and more an excuse.
“I wasn’t going to, it’s just a joke.”
Why such japes all the time?
The other cowers, child of womb,
cries and crawls back, still so shaken.
“It’s fine, Mom. Really,”
That’s what he says.
Can’t stop, won’t stop. A mother’s fury.
Simply unacceptable, so unthinkable.
“How could you, why would you?”
Scolding stings mothers more.
Knife is relinquished, hesitating, unwilling.
More excuses, more assurances and from both.
A sibling’s honor goes before all,
even one’s comfort, even one’s life.
Father arrives, so late, still grumbling.
Too late for this sort of thing.
Oh, what is even going on.
Shut up by realization. Oh God how?
Talk on the knee while father comforts son.
Scolding, molding, pleas and questions.
But still there’s a hug, and kiss, and tears so many.
A mother’s love so resolute. Always. Always.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
Ill-gotten knave! Thy witless candle burns
Bright as a baboon's **** Thy gnarlèd brows
Greet, meet and mingle like the wildling ferns
And thy breath turns and churns insides of cows!
Thou stompest me? Ha! Bring thy brothers all,
Beneath my steely boot thou shall be trod!
Dust be thy supper, feast upon thy fall,
Eat hearty of thy just deserted sod!
Thou comest hither with thy merry folk,
Thou japes a merry jest upon my kin?
Thy bandy leggèd jiggery a joke,
To spilleth of mine cup is thine own sin!
If thou be not afraid, let thee not hide,
My gauntlet speaks! Will thou comest outside?
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
Maybe after sighting
Each other buck naked
That ends the fighting
About whose is bigger
Or whose are real.
There ceases to be a trigger
Of envy, or competition,
As being clothes free
One is in no position
To hide behind frippery.
It is difficult to be snobbish
About your fabric and style
When all you are wearing
Is a sun hat and a smile.
Acting like you are a ****
Of taut body and shape
Wearing nothing but a sock
Makes you a target of japes
About getting over yourself
And maybe even getting real.
It really is that kind of situation;
That basic kind of reality deal.
Most of what is artificiality
Disappears when you’re ****
It gets easier to face reality
And much harder to be rude.
We quickly see that we are
We are sisters and brothers
And we do not need to live
By rules of fathers and mothers.
They were taught to be afraid
Of body parts called ‘naughty bits’;
Words like ‘nasty’ and ‘stop that!’
You adults can say, ‘I want none of it.
I’m through with thinking my crotch
Is something evil, sick and twisted.
Take my genitalia out of the book
Where you have sinfulness listed.
I exist as nature has made me
And it is wrong of you to correct
The natural person as I was born
Being a ***** is just a side-effect
Of being raised by people who
Were never raised quite right.
Maybe if everyone were ****
That would end the need to fight.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
1.
The scent; amber
The color; pine
The touch; echos
The sound; blind
They are
All
of the senses
Intertwined.
2.
Sweet Robin, alight... takes to wing
Bruce's laughter, a booming thing.
Mark serenades, Michelle My Belle
Rog recants exploring tells
Scott japes, and keith's ad libs
Karen oh Karen, heaven forbid!
Artists Dreamers Escapists Poets.
Jesters Lovers Genius Knowers.
Alarmists minimalists
Extroverted introverts
Fighters flighters
Together
Loners
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 10:25 PM UTC
He first notice Elaine
as she waited
for the school bus
standing there
in the pouring rain
with her younger sister
and other kids
from the village
he noticed
how drowned she looked
her spectacles so wet
she couldn’t see out
her dark hair
hanging limp
about her face
and she looked down
not up
as she climbed
aboard the bus
making her way
down the aisle
of the bus
like some female Crucified
and sat in the seat
by the window
and peered out
her sister sat
next to her
equally as wet
yet unperturbed
laughing at another
who jested
at her state
but Elaine's
was a separate state
a lesser one's fate
knowing other eyes
gazed and sniggered
and whispered
into their hands
but not John
he saw her through
his own eyes
pushed away
the sneers
and sighs
and sniggering japes
and saw a deeper soul
within peering out
through the window glass
that showed
the falling rain
he looked away
taking note of her hair
and eyes
and glasses smeared
and how she pushed
her wet hands
between the caresses
of her knees
and dampened skirt
how by the look
of her face
revealed
her inner hurt
and as the bus
moved off and on
the radio blaring
some Mike Sarne song
the voices of children
competing for the space
and John half listening
to Trevor talk
some such of fishing
with a friend
at pond or river
he did not discern
or Trevor’s sister
across the aisle
chatting of some dress
her mother bought
not the fashion
she complained
but John held close
the image of the girl
who sat behind
across the aisle
whose dampened
state of dress
and soul
had moved his mind
and touched his heart
but said nothing
to either Trevor
with talk of fish
and rod
or Monica's dress
or clothes whatever
it had been
unfashionable or such
as undesired
he looked out
at the passing scene
as the bus raced by
thinking of Elaine
sitting a little way
behind
wiping the raindrops
from glasses
so she could see
and not be
half blind.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC
Soliloquies sharpened
And
Silhouetted by the tongue.
Viscous virtues,
Masterplans undone.
Confessions confided
Yet
Forgotten by the sun.
Knights and paupers
All may become.
Inebriated needs
And
Inception planted seeds
Grown like the wheat
That sways in the breeze.
Fermented folly,
Merry japes and jollies.
Shall bring us all
Down
Upon our knees.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
on Stage
a peacock of makeup
the comedian
bating thunderous uproar
knighting fury
turning humour over the belfries
of the overcharged assemblage
he fouls with them
utilizing his vile material
putting together ideas that no brain wants scribe
visuals
you create yourself
(but
your twist at his bidding)
you become broken down and ******
applied apart by his gagging speech
and his splintering costumes of mood
the comedian builds from this
until rage
and ruptures of relief
integrate...
a berserk laughter is result
kettled in the mob reaction
a collective convulsion
a need
more than a mirth
japes dressed in death
have foraged a credible rebirth
his soldiers attired
he has seized his corps of souls
his Mad recruits of Chaos
the comedian pulls out a plastic toy Sabre
and directs the revulsion
(the Grand Prank)
in a charge against
the wealthy neighbours
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 11:41 AM UTC
Once,
I was the teachers pet but
I was bad and now
I'm on the naughty step.
I rue the day that
Loki took me out to play those
naughty japes and jokes on
older folks.
Though I must admit that for
a while
it was great fun and made me smile.
I think on this upon the step and
wonder if being teachers pet was
half as good as being bad.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
When we straighten out the kinks
give up the high jinks and the japes,
the capers that we catered to
who do we become?
Stiff collared stuffed shirts or
ladies in their bolstered skirts?
peasants as pleasant as they may be
are not the people I want for me.
I like the middle of the road brigade
The marmite, toast and marmalade
set on the table ready laid brigade
actually
I just like brigades
the words sounds so military
full of shot and shell and blood and
guts,
the dead don't go to hell
they join
a brigade
brigade, brigade, brigade, brigade
the call I hear must be obeyed
my kinks are just as ***** now
don't know how and do not care
the table's laid in time for
one more and one
brigade.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 6:24 AM UTC
Familiar hands tease my throat
With japes and whistles
Like when we returned
The albatross
To it's nest and her children
Hatched violently
Forests in their eyes.
They are my hands and
The clock is heavy with guilt.
Long since he and I acquainted
He knows when I falter, when I ache.
The clock chimes out many times
Each and apology for raising
His hands and so he raised mine too
We match yet
He is guilty, the clock
And I am empty, the envelope
Sealed right with a kiss
A long hairy lick from a muscle
Wet with power and rage.
They are my hands but still
The clock feels guilty.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Valueless how nothing lasts forever, life is an empty bucket
Who would care if you didn't exist, if I didn't exist?
Feeling as empty as my old jean's pockets
Open bottle and drink happily
Of course until happy
Only to finish up with the abused opposites
By my blurred eyes, I seem to be nakedly nacred
Questioning whether I'm real, is sadly consecrated
Questioning if its love... rapidly grows vapid
Close, as the unhappy body drawn to my noteworthy pace
Close, as the rain that draws attention to my morbid habits
My happiness is a circle collapsing into a dreaded mess
Erroneous notion that we're all little gambits
As it pays to be negative
It can't be right, I know we're all not evasive
Two days of being convinced, that I am not actually homeless
Face emotionless with xanax on my left wrist
I'm addicted to my truest sense, that'll forever be hidden
Open bottle and drink happily
Of course until happy
Lacked ones open highway road, lonesome wind please blow away
Tie a silk scarf around my neck, and kiss on my benighted soul
As goes below, unnameable
Sniffing more than air and watching my issues blow away
Out my nostrils into the tissue of my flawed escape
Open bottle and drink happily
Of course until happy
My head is swimming from wine
I'm about to spit bedraggled japes
Soon to overflow, soon to dilapidate
Fit my body, warm my old sane mind
Torch patience, I'm a ******* light
Without actually breathing
I somehow stay alive
In my eminent vintage bucket
Of taint time and caned wine
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
The bells ring boldly
they've sold me on
Sunday
what japes
men in capes
giving sermons to the sinners
*** luck, *** roast
I'm as warm as toast
heading off to hell with
a handcart for that old ****
old Nick.
Did you pick your nose?
could have picked a better one
( another joke that creaks)
but not as much as this place reeks
of sulphur, sufferings
and empty promises
of better things.
Giving him a benefit of
any doubts about that
other place
where angels play all day
I sink away and very slowly,
become the fabric from which
new dreams are made
Sunday and one more motorcade
through the crossroads
and fade into our history
until the powers that be decide to
disinter you as if that would change
what happened to you
they've sold me on Sunday
but I can blame the bells
what's your excuse of choice
delivered in a sonorous voice to
an audience of Lincoln lookalikes
If
and if only or only if I pass away
I'll take my chances with the ones
that play
harps.
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC