"jaundiced" poems
This is me...
Seeking refuge
under a tree,
As the wind released
it's pensive sigh.
Leaves sapped dry
were then set free.
Shades of yellow
took to the air in an
attempt to fly.
This is me...
Peering through
jaundiced eyes.
Laying still
in a torrent of
ochre.
As leaves fall
from lowered skies,
Drenching
and
submerging
me in a sea of
scattered amber.
This is me...
Captivated by this
spectacular phenom.
Flavescent dance
governed by
wind and gravity.
This is the dream...
Too long held for ransom
By the relentless
grasp of reality.
This is me...
Awaiting such time to
arise and run.
In my heap,
my safe haven,
my fortress of yellow.
Till the inevitable set of
the orange sun
Only then...
myself to the moon
I would again
show.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 9:22 AM UTC
Four walls; a pair of cupped hands.
Jaundiced like an open eye; an open cove
Prescribing solitude to those whom solitude cannot withstand,
And I choose this cold corner which is furthest from the door,
To be where I am not, before
Your proclivities become my own, I write. I write,
My window holds my breath and frosts the world,
The moon in his amber gown, dressed in chatoyance and spite,
Godspeed; dark, dark shroud for naked skies!
Six floors, walls, doors from you am I.
I couldn't write when the sun peered in,
Her inquiry evangelizing the specks of time left upon the glass -
I've heard it all before; God's shining face leaves none unloved (unseen)
but his spotlight has no starlet; so who can see me up here?
We can't see from windows, dear.
I'd live and sing for the cloudless hall
The nursery of misanthropists crawling on the grey cobblestone
And the lilt of the wind on the rose; through squares nice and small -
The peevish moth shudders at the sight of itself obscuring the day through the glass.
It seems we're always in the way.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 5:40 PM UTC
the child recieves his paper
****** backward by the one in front
flip the three pages flippantly
one : intimidating . . two : boring
the third adorned unexpectedly
a longer -than seems can be usually- grown hair with a clump of green root
sprung out and slaughtered, down across the width; stuck above the questions beneath
how could he not have seen?
a pile so viscous and obscene?
does everyone else have one???
are they holding their disgust beneath?
he looked up at the teacher.
A look of vigilance his face bequeathed.
B ut now it sprung out almost pus like
a faint smile,
a teachers calm reprieve
he then leaned back on his chair in comfort
drooping his head back
his nostrils flared now toward the child
the hairs brustling from inside, all locked up in a ***** days remnants
all foul
and long
and dehydrated
like a swamp now sunned crisp; reeds on a stale bank
drawn in he felt uneasy
unable to cease to stare
incased inside the world that spawned
in the swamp that lay up there
in the cavernous orifices there
then he saw the teachers eyes, his gaze it
stuck on him, the teacher began to grin
further back his head leant
his eyes jaundiced
his teeth tanned
his face pale
his grin outstretched and thin
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
the nature of this night
spreads its thin harvest upon my table
a gruel and water porridge feast
with the fanfares of her jaundiced hand
many more lined up with eager grin
for the warmth of paupers kinship
thin blanket wrapped round our shoulders
snow gathers at feet
she captures the moment on paper
the image of all of us gathered like when we were young
the grandiose illustration
with its brilliant colour fanfare with
jugglers and wine swilling laughing men blinded by drink
chorus line of female dancers who wear costumes of the hundred years war
lead the assault on the last bastions of the ignorance of bliss
all descrying that we can ill afford to be sleeping
while empires are built in our namesake
the so daintily shod soldiers whos feminine wiles misunderstood
have taken over the dancehall beneath us
and have taken up song
the grandiose illustration
caught by her pen on sketch pad
has leanings to the Marxist revolutions
and philosophys of the rhetorical
but in the end we join them and
drink the port sing the song
a thousand years of tales to be told
in the eyes of a single girls sweet thoughts
epic landscapes filled with noble men and storybook girls
the grandiose illustration
shows the two of us on the beach
with the sun racing down to touch the high towers of miami
and fill the laughing joys of thouse who toss and
tumble in the breaking waves
the nature of this night
in one small corner of the illustration
a simple window with the shade drawn
that says goodnight
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
her skin is jaundiced, quite like the color of the sky before a storm
if you look at her long enough you can almost smell the rain on her skin.
her ribs are not unlike the rungs of a ladder.
once delicate fingers have been burned at the touch of acid and bones have been made brittle.
her nails are jagged, each impacted with crescent moons of soil.
the digging is ceaseless.
she is searching for something she will never find, something that beacons like a lighthouse on the horizon
a sign of safety but blinding when you try to take a closer look.
she slinks along the edge of an unremitting chasm,
dancing with the devil throughout the evening,
but the night draws on and she comes dangerously close to stepping on his toes.
her rhythm is wrong, the metronome is feeding her lies,
but she is greedy and devours them all.
the gnawing inside her returns.
to sleep she goes, under the spell of the guilt washing over her like the sweet, sticky air of the summer, as the gnawing inside takes over.
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 8:34 PM UTC
i'm from a small, yellow bedroom
yellow flowers, yellow layette
and yellow jaundiced skin
i'm from the taste of the tea mother makes me when i'm sick
and from the sound of her singing
about how she looked and looked for the light
like the roots and the leaves floating in the boiling water
her voice a soothing sound
like bubbles in simmering tea
i'm from words written on a page-
the feeling of an old book and the smell of a new one
and i'm from hiding beneath the covers
falling in love with black letters printed on white paper
i'm from lots of illustrations and then none at all
when my mind became colorful enough to fill all the pages
i'm from "the game is afoot"
and "after all this time?"
i'm from all over the world
pieces of my heart, a jigsaw puzzle
like my family scattered all over the globe
i'm from canada, from the US, from france from lebanon from italy
i'm from a country nobody wants
but a country that desperately wants us back
i'm from messy hair, oversized sweaters
half-finished sketchbooks filled with promises
and ******* poetry lines
i'm from the echo of my own voice
against the splatter of the shower
i'm from reading in the flashes of street lamp lights
i'm from pursuing science and desiring art
drawing on the airplane's foggy windows
and wondering how it flies
with a clear head and with clouded eyes.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:31 AM UTC
The distance ever so touchable
Yet you're still far afield
The glimmering glitter in your blissful
Translucent almond irises
Waiting to deviate from them
Yet they have imprinted themselves
Now affiliated with my heart
Seeing your lips brimming brightly
Rejuvenating your flawless visage
Embodying my love
Not even half your beauty
Inwardly made you mine
Realistically destined for another
Drastic jaundiced waves
Crashing the shores of heartbreak
Sentiments
Thus the eminent work of
Patience
Silence
Benevolence
Enshrouds my blooming admiration
For you
Unfastening my feigned ethos
For you
I comprehend the significance of dignity and family
But my love
Ceaseless and eternal
But my love
Yours only
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 1:30 AM UTC
you were a jungle bird
in high heels,colourful clothes
the rest were black crows
jaundiced beaks,
mean souls.
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 1:17 AM UTC
Away, ye muses, all away!
Away with songs of finch and fay.
Away the jaundiced sight
That magnifies the firefly’s light
To bonfire bright;
That sets ablaze at once
My musing’s dimly burning lamps;
That ornaments with rhymes
The penury-stricken looks betimes;
That over-clothes the logic – lord
With fancy –swollen words.
Away, the partial love
That ‘boldens Nature to sit above
Her Maker!
This day I fasten eyelid doors,
With absence wax my ears,
With languorous peace congeal
My tongue, my touch, my tears *
That I within may pore
Upon the things behind, ahead,
In the darkness round me spread.
I lock Dame Nature out
With all her fickle rout.
Somewhere here,
In the darkness drear,
I myself with cheer
My course will steer
In the path
E’er sought by all:
Its magnet call
I hear.
Not hear, not here,
Apollo would his burning chariot steer;
Nor Diana dare to peep
Into the sacred silence deep.
Not here, not here,
Not far or near
Can mounts or rebel waves
E’er make me full of fear;
Nor evermore
Their dreadful grandeur to adore.
Not here, not here
The soft capricious wiles of flowers;
Nor swarming storm clouds’ sweeping terror,
Dishevelling the trees
And light-haired skies;
Nor doomsday’s thunderous roar,
Dismantling earth and stars-
The cosmic beauties all to mar –
Not Nature’s murderous mutiny,
Nor man’s exploding destiny
Can touch me here.
Not here, not here:
Through mind’s strong iron bars,
Not gods or goblins, men or nature,
Without my pass dare enter.
I look behind, ahead –
On naught but darkness tread.
In wrath I strike, and set the dark ablaze
With the immortal spark of thought,
By friction-process brought
Of concentration
And distraction.
The darkness burns
With a million tongues;
And now I spy
All past, all distant things, as nigh.
I smile serene
As I expose to gaze.
In wisdom’s brilliant blaze,
All charms of the Hidden Home Unseen:
The Home of Nature’s birth,
The planets’ moulding hearth,
The factory whence all forms or fairies start,
The bards, colossal minds, and hearts,
The gods and all,
And all, and all!
Away, away
With all the lightsome lays!
Oh, now will I portray
In humble way,
And try to lisp, if only in half truths,
Of wordless charms of Thee Unseen,
To whom Dame Nature owes her nature
and her sheen.
3.1k
The
Decider-in-Chief
made
another
hard
decision,
rebebilitatin
a debilitating
Gaddafi.
The
Agog
Decider
sleekly
peeked
into the
bleak
soul
of the
master
Bedouin.
The
Pious
Decider
peered
pretty
deeply,
so its
hard to tell
what his
arcane
rebelations
revealed.
Some say
The
Jaundiced
Decider,
saw the
desert
bleeding
deliciously
malicious
sweet crude
onto the
scabby
tongues
of
Halliburton
Executives
while
Big Time
Vice
Dickey Boy
******
a petrol
nozzle
dry,
licking
the dripped
drops
that
drizzled
from the
shoot
hole,
so as
not to waste
a precious drop
to satiate
the black
viscous
goo
coursing
through
the ebony
veins of his
chingling
heart.
Others
say
The
Condoning
Decider
sized up
the man
and saw
a brother-in-arms
in the fight
against
The Evil Doers;
yet failed to
see the
revolting
obscenities
his new
comrade-in-arms
inflicted
upon his
own body
politic.
The
Forgetful
Decider,
blessed
with amnesia
forgot
Lockerbie and
applauded
BP's royal
court of
justice
for
pardoning
all perps.
The
Oblivious
Decider's
near
sightedness
failed to
foresee
a brewing
blow-back
amassing
in the
desert
winging
its way
home
on the
blasting
sands of
a blistering
Saharan
sirocco.
The
Pollyannish
Decider
envisioned
grand
spectacles,
only happy
visions of
Beyonce,
JZ, Usher
and the
Def Jam
Buddha
Russell
Simmons
yodeling
filthy
lucre
tunes,
sending
giggling
tweets
while
partying
down
with
Muammar's
posse
of martinets
and
way cool
far out
crazy
execs
drunk
with the
power
that blinds
the eye to
all discernment.
The Decider
decides.
Music Selection:
Lady Ga Ga
Beyonce,
Telephone
Oakland
3/3/11
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my prick.
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!
We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.
We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.
The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
i fall and ascend in a sea vantablack
spiral light
fire ghosts and ice
that cut the soul to pieces
like scissors
that split rabbits
industry of a hissing creation
polluted altar of sleeping lakes
and scythe
bludgeon and howitzer
prods of push and pull
in a grindhouse
necropolis of craters
scattering satanic eggs and tumors
i am here born to you thin of bone
mother of catastrophes
on a colossal ball of scab and callous
that moves sonorous dazzling shapes
careening through
ephemera workhorse torches
of doom
you fill me with knots of terror
and desperate dreams of stairway wings
veils and glimmers
resolutions dissolving
petaled apertures of desire
and night whispers
in a spider web of sonic bulls
before undertows gravity
i was vibrant
but then i died into the rock ash of earth
they called it my birthday
my parents with party hats and balloons
blinked fetters
against nights of granite and stone
i got deader still
until i was nothing
but an imagineless gob of mud and breath
an eye looking out
behind red nerve forest fires
and tears shook tambourines
down heavy lashes
cascaded fluttering tassels
i am born to you mother of senile seas
citadel of shattered glass
in a slate cube of cyclones
mute and screaming
my fate deep shock
encased in mausoleums led nautilus
blatting hells jaundiced shriek
Pluto conjunct Saturn
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
*sudden-bouquet
delight finds
reduction in
citric-colour*
goal-post abrupt
a million birds in a jaundiced-sky
trees bold-growing up to the edge of the cliff
a flattened mosquito on a screen
folder atop the lemon-ladder
wings all neatly spread and legs flayed
*yellow roses.. in the abbey
given away to orphans
with full-hearts*
forever-journey in honeyed-posey
S T – 01 Oct 2013
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
I want the poetry to mean something tonight,
as I pace in my bedroom for hours
under jaundiced fluorescent light.
I want to write something profound and true,
something of solvence to rid the demons to which I'm glued.
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 12:31 PM UTC
A jaundiced adaptation
of fillers raucous threats
attempts obsolete mimicking
in a conspicuous pomposity
of disfigured reckonings
slipped us the tongue of your
ostentatious audacity
mid judgmental manifestations
Disengaged, as our eyes grew dim
' neath the masquerade
of multiplex duplicity
**who the ****** hell do you think you are?**
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
I’m in the dream again: not the one I had while awake in
the catacombs of St. Callixtus in Rome. Where the darkness was
so impenetrable that it began to echo. To look like the mixture of colors
that burst when you rub your eyes too hard for too long. Like the
neuron rupture before death. To shape and morph and become liquid.
Where the darkness cobbled itself into a physical form.
Not the dream where I kept seeing
flits of my mother out of the corner of my eye. Behind
every street corner.
Every turn. Every tunnel.
Reflected in the casts of the bodies in Pompeii.
Mirrored in the waves of the Trevi Fountain.
I’m in the dream where the soil churned from the bottom to the top.
where the hand outstretched from the grave.
where my grandfather clawed his way out and returned to my grandmother﹘sopping wet, covered in thick mud, socks torn, skin sallow and jaundiced, spitting out the wire the embalmers put in his mouth, melting makeup, and ravenously hungry. And it’s been so
long since he was hungry.
“He came back to me, Taylor,” my grandmother tells me.
“He came back to me.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that he’s undead.
I’m physically unable to spit out those words.
And it’s a dream and it’s a dream and it’s a dream, but
it just fits so perfectly. That he would come back to her.
That death would not be a barrier. I can’t explain it. It just is.
My grandmother is a shell without him.
The body that’s missing the limb.
The body that keeps score.
Jun 13, 2021
Jun 13, 2021 at 11:36 PM UTC
******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.
On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!
Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.
Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.
A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?
Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.
Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.
Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause
and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:
apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.
Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.
Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,
googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,
gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting upon the weightless walls
to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Ascent
The narrow passage arched over the gaping river
like a gymnast vaulting backwards,
gracing the ground with open palms.
I began to climb--
beleaguered on both sides
by insecure concrete obstructions;
I diverted my attention to the ascending road ahead.
I continued to climb,
like a slowly chugging roller coaster,
meekly scaling up the track
with subdued anticipation.
I sunk into the road;
the sky merged with my pseudo-perpetual path, forming the offing--
where it seemed the road ran eternally into the heavens.
I saw blue reach into black in the late afternoon's
fading visage.
Summit
Gliding over the mountainous ****
I stared over the horizon
where the sun was neatly tucked
under the trees--
silhouetted against the dusky sky,
looking like fingers reaching up into the void,
accumulating like earthly pillows to a heavenly face glowing brightly.
I watched a murky blue dip into a wet grass'd green,
then a traffic cone orange,
followed by the passionate (infra)red of two lovers' entwined,
climaxing in a jaundiced yellow--
tucked neatly like a layer of film
atop the silhouetted landscape.
Descent
I wished I had
descended the adret
of my ascension's perceived perpetual offing,
rather than this gritty one--
to dip into the horizon,
where I would metamorphose
into a dazzling array of colors;
feeling myself slowly fade away
into the impending night sky.
Tucked away for another day,
sleeping under the stars,
in the fingertipped forests
now obliquely reaching into their absent luminescence
but relishing the cool night air--
silently waiting for light
to soon again
breach their gloomy shells.
[Enlightenment lingered within the visions of my ascension--
I danced with its transient spirit at the summit--
to be decimated as the car lurched downward into mortality.
I saw what could be as I moaned into the
fading afternoon's dipping colors.
Who knew the descent was the hardest part of humanity?]
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC
her face a bold echo of all she left behind
a slow symphony of nasty things that linger in her mind
she lives them over and over
in the off color technical vision
of an artist trying on her own guises for a adventure
the night crawls over her thigh
lodges in the warm wet of her fingers
and spreads into the windows
grey fades into black
the slow devolution
into the jaundiced eye
into the nicotine stained tapping fingers as she impatiently
waits for words that can never be spoken aloud
the slow desire for tears
so deep and immediate that its a bible to the lonely soul
and her senses deny you
even as you touch the door
even as you evaporate down the hall
melt yourself into the humid night
so fair is her face that you live each of thouse seconds in dire regret
so fair is her touch that you must lean on your last breath
to let go
the night crawls
in her bed clothes
laying its fetid eggs
like a stain of pollution tender and sickly sweet
its insect face bitter staring from her soul
now i see you
you escape over and over
door
hall
humid night
door
hall
humid night
but you never leave
narrow her eye jaundiced and rancid
lay open for the world to see and be seen by
and she molds him to the stain of her hurt
deep impressions over the years leaves him little room to
wiggle wiggle worm, wiggle wiggle worm
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
Jonathen
Jonathen wake up
She stands in my doorway
Green knitted scarf
***** pink pajamas
Eyes and skin jaundiced yellow
A ***** Babushka if I were Russian
If this were a movie I'd be cursed by now
There is a man with a shopping cart in the driveway
I think he's trying to break in
With my baseball bat
I step outside full of all the anger I had reserved for the day
The street is empty and cold
It's the fear
We make it up
We always do
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 4:43 AM UTC
Starlight …
Icy crystalline sparkles
beaming brilliance
‘gainst the moonlit winter sky
Stars bright.
Luminescent wonders.
Scintilla laid bare in the heavens
by the pale white light of the moon
Full moon
bathing dingy cityscapes,
their dim lit ****** tales told
‘neath streetlamps’ jaundiced glow.
We walk,
slip on ice, crunch through snow,
watching for sliding cars
and dangers lurking in shadows.
Moonlit
whitewashed winter wind
winds through desolate streets
on a pale cold night in the city.
Walk on.
Whistling winds, barking dogs,
chill us, spur our pace, on
through the moonlight and cold.
Our wish
upon this night’s heavenly stars
is to be safely home, watching
from icy windows … winter walkers.
Doug Curry
1/6/10
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 11:50 AM UTC
Put this matter with trowel and ***
Into the dark and fertile ground,
With each hit, he loosed the soil
A once happy man thou condemned to uselessly toil
His claws, cracked and broken shells
Jaundiced with the duty long days that did require
Lamed by grief and forced to work
Here, till the end of days, within this garden, this mire.
Deep does a ****** live here, past the clay and bedrock
Like the pride and valor and resolute spirit of the domineering ****
Or so her mien, it does beget
Or some other erroneous sentiment
That she, not he, were to bear this labor.
Within the ground, he did remember, in his spritely youth,
He planted, and thought none of, but a seed,
Into this verdant splendor, which bore that infernal ****
And, thence, thereof came a fruit,
Of malignity infinite,
All the while it poisoned the Virgin’s white and water’s pure,
As its eerie little spines proceeded to take root.
Her garments poised to emulate white, instead
The ****** to him, had lost her white
Or never had white at all,
The ****** to him, had lost her white,
To him, the ****** was dead.
The fruit and seed, effulgent and pretty, to those who saw them bloom
Attractive were they so to them, irresistible to behold
That they, to him with great chagrin, did immediately consume.
“But the ****** he cried. “The ****** has poisoned them!”
Yet they continued to eat.
“We do not believe you,” they replied, and slept ceaselessly on their feet.
One by one did they all collapse from the toxin of its juice.
The ****** watched and laughed, of caution was there no use.
Powerless and sullen, he stood, for remedy was far passed.
The ****** now regarded with delight,
Has he, poor, poor man, to tend to his blight.
The garden gone, its cleanliness perverted,
His words were ignored, and thrown wayside,
His admonition he so heatedly asserted,
The ****** her words never to be trusted
Had won over the people, whose homes she sought to entreat,
And with her rite, so treasured, so adored,
They enslaved and force him to his mire, to tend to the rag and filthy lands
Where he would remain with the garden
His words, his skin so like the sands
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
I felt this primal urge
This trance-like instinct
To set things right
In case I have to leave
Move on, so to speak
So
I took my jaundiced eye
And rolled it from corner to corner
Of this, my situation
And I felt so very small and hard
Lost in largeness
For cynicism is a tight thing
Which allows little movement
A strange kind of chastity
And then, you see
Changes
Honesty demanded that I see more
Grow, so to speak
And oh, my poor sore eyes
See how the children starve
All over this bitter world
This bitter, sickened world
And cynicism did this
Through the slack hands of millions
Who still refuse to believe
That things can be changed
By Phil Roberts
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 2:31 AM UTC
if you were the sun, i'd be surprised.
shocked and a daze in the sheer miracle of how exactly " That " happened.
we might be dumb to the Algebra of Our Taint. you might say it ***** to be us
but you might be right; And we can be Absolutely certain
Our purpose is to Love, and be ****** the Loved !
if you were the moon, i'd be careful.
how would you choose to eclipse without Harmony ? How may I Follow ?
but you might be already gone...who's to say you ain't been right " there " ?
When you never Confess your Absence, but Maintain -
You Dare !
You ! You ! Screen the camels !
Through the Eye of a Needle
In Love's Eye.
You swan in the fury of my wet tongue
yearning for the Desert to quench the Oblivion
of Perfect Love.
if you were the space between stars, I'd buy " That " for a dollar.
but no one
would hear me
scream
at a black
sun.
a jaundiced black, to square a color wheel.
a slice of black Pi.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
He died with his boots on
but he was no hero of mine
he was the famous grouse
and hen pecked husband
of a cuckolded wife.
having made the stickleback and
jaundiced Moon resolute .
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC