"jaunting" poems - Hello Poetry

POLAND, France, Judea ran in her veins, Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle's cork. "Won't you come and play wiz me" she sang ... and "I just can't make my eyes behave." "Higgeldy-Piggeldy," "Papa's Wife," "Follow Me" were plays. Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? The newspapers asked. Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name. Twenty years old ... thirty ... forty ... Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter, a cab driver. And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths in France. A voice, a shape, gone. A baby bundle from Warsaw ... legs, torso, head ... on a hotel bed at The Savoy. The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for packed houses: A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark. She belonged to somebody, nobody. No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand. She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song. Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern cities Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.

0

2k

Carl Sandburg

An Electric Sign Goes Dark

POLAND, France, Judea ran in her veins, Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle's cork. "Won't you come and play wiz me" she sang ... and "I just can't make my eyes behave." "Higgeldy-Piggeldy," "Papa's Wife," "Follow Me" were plays. Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? The newspapers asked. Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name. Twenty years old ... thirty ... forty ... Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter, a cab driver. And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths in France. A voice, a shape, gone. A baby bundle from Warsaw ... legs, torso, head ... on a hotel bed at The Savoy. The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for packed houses: A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark. She belonged to somebody, nobody. No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand. She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song. Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern cities Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.

24

I The characters on the ashen keyboard were faded, now yellow smudges remain and the words that once danced like clouds in his mind had been evacuated Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was wrong while the shredder destroyed the lives of every personality he had created (God's fading smile) Littering the floor were the shards of paper, twisted and unnerving Thin strips made new languages, new words, forlorn dictionary Grasping at the shreds, our writer assembled a masterpiece Seward on the Ouija board, advice from beyond (Joyce laughed from) the grave Scrawling longhand in a notebook on a jaunting bus through the city No eye-contact, no interaction, careful contemplation To the river he headed, concrete conscience Writing nothing Careless disregard for the laws of language While they shunned his intellect and tore pages before him Scornful No education, just a passion for words Running away from his sadness and learning that it don't stop Ripples in the water Single raindrop Stop. II Start, A tear fell backwards Wrinkles in the brow begin to fade Experiencing happiness for the first time, sweet joy Sprinting in reverse, looking for the smile, return to a face Think back to schoolyard glory and the books that were once relished Admiration They glued his life together Praising the grinning genius before them Careful preparation, consulting his Bible, The English Dictionary Writing everything To the world he was headed, mind free of guilt Shaking the hands of a thousand folk, the happiness in a community Caressing the keys of a pristine writing machine, black ink perfection on a white page (Joyce sighed from the grave) Seward on the Ouija board, applauded from beyond Grasping at his hands, "this writer assembled a masterpiece" Thin pages made new languages, new words, pregnant dictionary Littering the coffee tables of many a home, words of beauty and precision (God's enlightened gaze) While the printer confirmed the lives of every personality he had created Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was correct and the words that once drifted like clouds in his mind, now bees making honey, eternal hive The characters on the immaculate keyboard were dazzling, free from corruption and scrutiny

0

Apr 17, 2013

Apr 17, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC

reece

A Poet They Called Him (A Fraud As I Knew Him)

I The characters on the ashen keyboard were faded, now yellow smudges remain and the words that once danced like clouds in his mind had been evacuated Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was wrong while the shredder destroyed the lives of every personality he had created (God's fading smile) Littering the floor were the shards of paper, twisted and unnerving Thin strips made new languages, new words, forlorn dictionary Grasping at the shreds, our writer assembled a masterpiece Seward on the Ouija board, advice from beyond (Joyce laughed from) the grave Scrawling longhand in a notebook on a jaunting bus through the city No eye-contact, no interaction, careful contemplation To the river he headed, concrete conscience Writing nothing Careless disregard for the laws of language While they shunned his intellect and tore pages before him Scornful No education, just a passion for words Running away from his sadness and learning that it don't stop Ripples in the water Single raindrop Stop. II Start, A tear fell backwards Wrinkles in the brow begin to fade Experiencing happiness for the first time, sweet joy Sprinting in reverse, looking for the smile, return to a face Think back to schoolyard glory and the books that were once relished Admiration They glued his life together Praising the grinning genius before them Careful preparation, consulting his Bible, The English Dictionary Writing everything To the world he was headed, mind free of guilt Shaking the hands of a thousand folk, the happiness in a community Caressing the keys of a pristine writing machine, black ink perfection on a white page (Joyce sighed from the grave) Seward on the Ouija board, applauded from beyond Grasping at his hands, "this writer assembled a masterpiece" Thin pages made new languages, new words, pregnant dictionary Littering the coffee tables of many a home, words of beauty and precision (God's enlightened gaze) While the printer confirmed the lives of every personality he had created Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was correct and the words that once drifted like clouds in his mind, now bees making honey, eternal hive The characters on the immaculate keyboard were dazzling, free from corruption and scrutiny

50

more toes in the river bank more jaunting through the clover field more watching the sunrise more catching your eyes in mine moresmilesmore laughsmorecakes icecream more popcorn spilling when crying at sad movies less work less hate less white on walls I want colorlesscubicleinsanity less cell phone ******** the notifications the calls Less taxicabsskyscrapers concretemortuaries more flowers more handshakes more hugs more sweetness more of feeling less of reality Tv moreoldmovies more tears

0

Jan 4, 2017

Jan 4, 2017 at 12:13 AM UTC

wordvango

more tears

more toes in the river bank more jaunting through the clover field more watching the sunrise more catching your eyes in mine moresmilesmore laughsmorecakes icecream more popcorn spilling when crying at sad movies less work less hate less white on walls I want colorlesscubicleinsanity less cell phone ******** the notifications the calls Less taxicabsskyscrapers concretemortuaries more flowers more handshakes more hugs more sweetness more of feeling less of reality Tv moreoldmovies more tears

23

Amid the morning traversal Isolated movement in peripheral optics Flashing visions caught my attention and passed so fast, then behind my back This contrast casts playful blasts Wondrous attacks upon question But the sights ****** with me, in a scarring way like cutting into me these incisions intent Almost as if she's demanding me to prefigure to anticipate her resolve in steps ready Trap and trace her shadowy inhibition An illusory female in swift glided mission She wouldn't be paying me attention If she didn't want me to see her in an apparitions condition Back and forth between ups and downs Omission transmits imagination, on repeat As she comes and goes Appears and disappears In a childlike hide and seek Transition to remission My jaunting disposition was put to shame While trying to chase and catch This, her silhouetted composition All the silent while I cursed blame on my beloved, for coming so close to smell her but not letting me hold her But in real time She kept reclusive in a remote wood... So many days without I would long and ache While her abilities are endlessly innate As determination continues to persevere She is alive, just away out there This figure I imagine is only that My need to see her presence is a desperate one Creating her graceful body in modes of bliss Any way shape or form these divine bits Her transparency I am offered Only it's the tangible I am wanting Her actual body and hair and hillside profile My style is my struggle As is this continual desire

0

Jul 20, 2018

Jul 20, 2018 at 2:26 AM UTC

JudLove

Beloved in spectral

Amid the morning traversal Isolated movement in peripheral optics Flashing visions caught my attention and passed so fast, then behind my back This contrast casts playful blasts Wondrous attacks upon question But the sights ****** with me, in a scarring way like cutting into me these incisions intent Almost as if she's demanding me to prefigure to anticipate her resolve in steps ready Trap and trace her shadowy inhibition An illusory female in swift glided mission She wouldn't be paying me attention If she didn't want me to see her in an apparitions condition Back and forth between ups and downs Omission transmits imagination, on repeat As she comes and goes Appears and disappears In a childlike hide and seek Transition to remission My jaunting disposition was put to shame While trying to chase and catch This, her silhouetted composition All the silent while I cursed blame on my beloved, for coming so close to smell her but not letting me hold her But in real time She kept reclusive in a remote wood... So many days without I would long and ache While her abilities are endlessly innate As determination continues to persevere She is alive, just away out there This figure I imagine is only that My need to see her presence is a desperate one Creating her graceful body in modes of bliss Any way shape or form these divine bits Her transparency I am offered Only it's the tangible I am wanting Her actual body and hair and hillside profile My style is my struggle As is this continual desire

49

Into the goblet of life did I poor myself, convivially jaunting; jumping for the juniper as if jolted into life for the first time by the cosmic current that sublimely filtered reality from the dream that had become my truth. I, beheld to the newly found perceptions, careening through the trees, trampling upon crisp leaves, on my way to scenic experiences, was ever looking forward to the hopeful thrill and living in anticipation of the next climactic excitement. I would be unable to be complemented by the moment, in which I did not truly live. The adventure became a tragedy, As is always with the changing of innocence into untoward regret. Tears were novelties that were bartered for kindness, traded for the rhyme, but never the shine. Illumination is priceless.

0

Jan 31, 2016

Jan 31, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC

cecil-miller

Illumination

Into the goblet of life did I poor myself, convivially jaunting; jumping for the juniper as if jolted into life for the first time by the cosmic current that sublimely filtered reality from the dream that had become my truth. I, beheld to the newly found perceptions, careening through the trees, trampling upon crisp leaves, on my way to scenic experiences, was ever looking forward to the hopeful thrill and living in anticipation of the next climactic excitement. I would be unable to be complemented by the moment, in which I did not truly live. The adventure became a tragedy, As is always with the changing of innocence into untoward regret. Tears were novelties that were bartered for kindness, traded for the rhyme, but never the shine. Illumination is priceless.

7

Pit knocked hard On the long way down Tumbling aimlessly Jaunting amongst thin air Flesh ripped and torn from bone Silence leftover in a screaming moan

0

Dec 22, 2014

Dec 22, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC

charles-lutwidge-dodgson

Coma

Pit knocked hard On the long way down Tumbling aimlessly Jaunting amongst thin air Flesh ripped and torn from bone Silence leftover in a screaming moan

6

the day bows down willingly to the darkness an your love well ties it up neatly, now so naked here in our starkness to love me so lovely and sweetly, in a slow sweet soft kiss now a lovely lit night time dance seductive in such gradated beauty as rhythms quake quietly, inside of the possible new fresh idea inside the sweet bud of romance, bright blue and pure white clouds billow me yonder in a wanting an just longing you- trance, oh to kiss me now jaunting neath my starry night sky in soft an yummy warm tangerine pink too as we talk here it's haunting, in the rarest of possible lifetime our chance an we've but only one, we are locked together until the shining bright sun, an eternally grateful feasting on the lovely sorbetto like skin all from just the one long lost an beguiling me- glance no an it just can't be a sin, to taste life as we wish to again, because I knew in that moment yes I knew of your magic because I felt it down deep way inside so I just let you then wield it my heart you have healed it an now I have no use for my pride come find me an love me there's no place I'd rather be or anywhere I'd wish to go to away an hide but beneath the sweet weight of your beautiful beautiful anciently aging holy wisdom and grace in the caressing of skin an the retracing of face we're returned to our to bliss in a state of pure grace so very lovely and perfect an beyond all time an space, I submit to the lovely new us now taking fine shape an from the tip of my toe to the top of my nape all over right now I will allow you to drape, your love on me baby, in here where we can always escape, inside each other, as I lay beneath your **** an sacred alabaster bones where I now know not any fear an I know for certain, I've finally come all the way home. Ma Cherie © 2017

0

Sep 5, 2017

Sep 5, 2017 at 8:49 PM UTC

Moi-Cherie

the day bows down willingly

the day bows down willingly to the darkness an your love well ties it up neatly, now so naked here in our starkness to love me so lovely and sweetly, in a slow sweet soft kiss now a lovely lit night time dance seductive in such gradated beauty as rhythms quake quietly, inside of the possible new fresh idea inside the sweet bud of romance, bright blue and pure white clouds billow me yonder in a wanting an just longing you- trance, oh to kiss me now jaunting neath my starry night sky in soft an yummy warm tangerine pink too as we talk here it's haunting, in the rarest of possible lifetime our chance an we've but only one, we are locked together until the shining bright sun, an eternally grateful feasting on the lovely sorbetto like skin all from just the one long lost an beguiling me- glance no an it just can't be a sin, to taste life as we wish to again, because I knew in that moment yes I knew of your magic because I felt it down deep way inside so I just let you then wield it my heart you have healed it an now I have no use for my pride come find me an love me there's no place I'd rather be or anywhere I'd wish to go to away an hide but beneath the sweet weight of your beautiful beautiful anciently aging holy wisdom and grace in the caressing of skin an the retracing of face we're returned to our to bliss in a state of pure grace so very lovely and perfect an beyond all time an space, I submit to the lovely new us now taking fine shape an from the tip of my toe to the top of my nape all over right now I will allow you to drape, your love on me baby, in here where we can always escape, inside each other, as I lay beneath your **** an sacred alabaster bones where I now know not any fear an I know for certain, I've finally come all the way home. Ma Cherie © 2017

79

I had visions, wasn’t in them They’re reflected into the mirror Absence couldn’t be clearer There’s nothing left inside of me Fingertips have memories Sightless, jaunting above my body And then they feel a little bit naughty I run it up the flagpole and see, Who salutes, but no one’s ever does I’m not sick, but I’m not well And I’m so hot, cause I’m in Hell Went through the roof and found That only stupid people are breeding The cretins cloning and feeding And I’m not even watching T.V Absent minded upward in the place of nerves Something wrong about me Starting to seem a bit crazy They cut off my limbs and now I’m an amputee, God **** you I’m not sick, but I’m not well And I’m so hot, cause I’m in Hell I’m not sick, but I’m not well And it was a sin, to live so well Torn blow the covers of ‘zines Ripped in the cogs of machines Forced to hold my tongue It doesn’t hurt, it feels fine Precariously sublime I’d like to turn back time And **** my mind You **** my mind, mind Paranoia, Paranoia Everybody’s coming to get me They are all pulling at me I’m running underground with the moles, digging holes I hear their voices in my head I swear to god it sounds like they’re snoring But if you’re bored, then you’re boring The agony and the irony; they’re killing me I’m not sick, but I’m not well And I’m so hot, cause I’m in Hell I’m not sick, but I’m not well And it was a sin, to live so well One, two, three, four

0

Jun 7, 2015

Jun 7, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC

charles-lutwidge-dodgson

Bored And Thinking Of The Nineties/ Re-Writing Flagpole Sitta Into An Outer Body Odyssey

I had visions, wasn’t in them They’re reflected into the mirror Absence couldn’t be clearer There’s nothing left inside of me Fingertips have memories Sightless, jaunting above my body And then they feel a little bit naughty I run it up the flagpole and see, Who salutes, but no one’s ever does I’m not sick, but I’m not well And I’m so hot, cause I’m in Hell Went through the roof and found That only stupid people are breeding The cretins cloning and feeding And I’m not even watching T.V Absent minded upward in the place of nerves Something wrong about me Starting to seem a bit crazy They cut off my limbs and now I’m an amputee, God **** you I’m not sick, but I’m not well And I’m so hot, cause I’m in Hell I’m not sick, but I’m not well And it was a sin, to live so well Torn blow the covers of ‘zines Ripped in the cogs of machines Forced to hold my tongue It doesn’t hurt, it feels fine Precariously sublime I’d like to turn back time And **** my mind You **** my mind, mind Paranoia, Paranoia Everybody’s coming to get me They are all pulling at me I’m running underground with the moles, digging holes I hear their voices in my head I swear to god it sounds like they’re snoring But if you’re bored, then you’re boring The agony and the irony; they’re killing me I’m not sick, but I’m not well And I’m so hot, cause I’m in Hell I’m not sick, but I’m not well And it was a sin, to live so well One, two, three, four

44

Truth is, you don't even know Half Or even apart of who I am!! I am probably The most wicked chaotic mess you'll ever feel Or lay eyes on. (that's a lie, that is only how I feel) ... Laughing for me is like Morning coffee for others Or like reading the paper, Watching the News every morning. Laughing cures my soul daily. People and sweet harmonies and melodies are reasons I smile. Yes. That's truly me. I am the way the sun shines when rain drops sprinkle down gently from light gray skies. I am the giddiest soul you'll ever meet with eyes as bright as the winter's northern night sky. I am the little girl jaunting around the store, singing love songs and sweet romance trying to get through the grocery list. I am the young soul, that wishes harder every year that passes by. sweet wishes of great wonders. Yes. I'd have to say.. I am one to hold on to people Hard.. Believing in every single aspect of their dreams Seeing how wonderfully made they are Gleaming at them in awe! Yeap. This is me. Believe it or not. That is your take on my wonderful world. Believe it or not. That is for you to decide to believe and see how deep and gentle this Lady's heart is. I am of many wonders Too many to count. Who am I? I am someone of a dream. A dream only few Dare to believe! Yes, this is me Mi Vida El mundo mia Tan Bonita. -b.v.r

0

Jan 10, 2016

Jan 10, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC

belen-rubio

WHo then?

Truth is, you don't even know Half Or even apart of who I am!! I am probably The most wicked chaotic mess you'll ever feel Or lay eyes on. (that's a lie, that is only how I feel) ... Laughing for me is like Morning coffee for others Or like reading the paper, Watching the News every morning. Laughing cures my soul daily. People and sweet harmonies and melodies are reasons I smile. Yes. That's truly me. I am the way the sun shines when rain drops sprinkle down gently from light gray skies. I am the giddiest soul you'll ever meet with eyes as bright as the winter's northern night sky. I am the little girl jaunting around the store, singing love songs and sweet romance trying to get through the grocery list. I am the young soul, that wishes harder every year that passes by. sweet wishes of great wonders. Yes. I'd have to say.. I am one to hold on to people Hard.. Believing in every single aspect of their dreams Seeing how wonderfully made they are Gleaming at them in awe! Yeap. This is me. Believe it or not. That is your take on my wonderful world. Believe it or not. That is for you to decide to believe and see how deep and gentle this Lady's heart is. I am of many wonders Too many to count. Who am I? I am someone of a dream. A dream only few Dare to believe! Yes, this is me Mi Vida El mundo mia Tan Bonita. -b.v.r

54

When faced with the kin of existance turning to me and asking for more when I'm staring down a wall of self-destruction I falter I fail I fall back into the murky past of suckling on my pain and feeding it's worrisome jaunting, it's callous remerks and the uneasy , unquenchable desire for everything to turn around and be just like how it was not , back in some distant moment , back in some dim memory of success of pain or failure. When faced with the kin of existance turning to me and asking for more I know i need a rest for just a moment but that moment is not worth it it is a festering When faced with the kin of existance turning to me and asking for more I turn to them and say here it is here I am here are my mistakes and my furrowed brows here is my vulnrable strength how can I give of that ? I breathe in deep and relinquish the need to know, the need to be right and I recognize, here in this moment is a greatness , a quality and a strength - we are alive and it will be aliveness until it's not it will be aliveness until it's not and that relentless living will turn and turn and turn as this planet does as these movements do and I will also. This is one of those things that I can't change - One of those things that I must embrace One of those things that will make me less crude, softer , wiser , gifted with visions of no more or no less, recognizing the quagmires

0

Mar 10, 2016

Mar 10, 2016 at 1:31 PM UTC

Fah

Untitled

When faced with the kin of existance turning to me and asking for more when I'm staring down a wall of self-destruction I falter I fail I fall back into the murky past of suckling on my pain and feeding it's worrisome jaunting, it's callous remerks and the uneasy , unquenchable desire for everything to turn around and be just like how it was not , back in some distant moment , back in some dim memory of success of pain or failure. When faced with the kin of existance turning to me and asking for more I know i need a rest for just a moment but that moment is not worth it it is a festering When faced with the kin of existance turning to me and asking for more I turn to them and say here it is here I am here are my mistakes and my furrowed brows here is my vulnrable strength how can I give of that ? I breathe in deep and relinquish the need to know, the need to be right and I recognize, here in this moment is a greatness , a quality and a strength - we are alive and it will be aliveness until it's not it will be aliveness until it's not and that relentless living will turn and turn and turn as this planet does as these movements do and I will also. This is one of those things that I can't change - One of those things that I must embrace One of those things that will make me less crude, softer , wiser , gifted with visions of no more or no less, recognizing the quagmires

23

Where has that classic romantic gone? The one that writes lines of poetry on paper, on skin The soulful sway of the heart, taking out time to separate Away from the world Within the world Like the feel of music under the skin In the veins warbling its majestic tune against the chilled goose-flesh of feeling The heart on the sleeve On the chest In the mouth. Gravity its working against me Taking away my breath Collapsing my wild heart under the suffocating weight Of that ragtime dime That jaunting beat of social feet Pulling me against the current To a colder tune Something somber filled with the lonely blues.

0

Feb 5, 2016

Feb 5, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC

emmieluv101

Feeling Like the Night At the Roxberry

Where has that classic romantic gone? The one that writes lines of poetry on paper, on skin The soulful sway of the heart, taking out time to separate Away from the world Within the world Like the feel of music under the skin In the veins warbling its majestic tune against the chilled goose-flesh of feeling The heart on the sleeve On the chest In the mouth. Gravity its working against me Taking away my breath Collapsing my wild heart under the suffocating weight Of that ragtime dime That jaunting beat of social feet Pulling me against the current To a colder tune Something somber filled with the lonely blues.

18

MOTECUHZOMA There is a third chance-medley you omit: The several forking paths of fortune’s walks. Seeing a panther lurking on my left, Would you not show your lord the right-hand path? When looking back, we do not note that fork, Yet fate allows some swing for the intrepid. SORCERER 2 To cure these feline fears, don’t run From either, or your jaunt is done. But left and right will both hold good, If you’re the panther in the wood. SORCERER 1 Ah, brother, who are we to armor Arguments against this charmer? What use, to change into a cat As we can? He can diplomat His way through spells, and alchemize Pure, golden truths from steely lies. SORCERER 2 From impotence to abstinence, Humility from arrogance, Plunder into philanthropy, And sadism to justice. SORCERER 3 See? No bird bones nor no wands are heeded, Only no character is needed. ALL SORCERERS All hail the high and mighty mage, The gazing stock of this flat age! MOTECUHZOMA Cart off to jail these jaunting cavaliers! Let them chirp out their pert remarks through bridles, And fix their flippant eyes on cold stone floors. Sans voice, sans books, sans tricky hands, we’ll see What muffled incantations might avail. Guards exit with the Sorcerers. PRIEST OF TLALOC These were but three. More might more prophets know. TLACAELEL Well, these ones missed the mark. MOTECUHZOMA I fear not so. All exit.

0

Oct 29, 2016

Oct 29, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC

david-betten

The Floral War 2:3:91-122

MOTECUHZOMA There is a third chance-medley you omit: The several forking paths of fortune’s walks. Seeing a panther lurking on my left, Would you not show your lord the right-hand path? When looking back, we do not note that fork, Yet fate allows some swing for the intrepid. SORCERER 2 To cure these feline fears, don’t run From either, or your jaunt is done. But left and right will both hold good, If you’re the panther in the wood. SORCERER 1 Ah, brother, who are we to armor Arguments against this charmer? What use, to change into a cat As we can? He can diplomat His way through spells, and alchemize Pure, golden truths from steely lies. SORCERER 2 From impotence to abstinence, Humility from arrogance, Plunder into philanthropy, And sadism to justice. SORCERER 3 See? No bird bones nor no wands are heeded, Only no character is needed. ALL SORCERERS All hail the high and mighty mage, The gazing stock of this flat age! MOTECUHZOMA Cart off to jail these jaunting cavaliers! Let them chirp out their pert remarks through bridles, And fix their flippant eyes on cold stone floors. Sans voice, sans books, sans tricky hands, we’ll see What muffled incantations might avail. Guards exit with the Sorcerers. PRIEST OF TLALOC These were but three. More might more prophets know. TLACAELEL Well, these ones missed the mark. MOTECUHZOMA I fear not so. All exit.

44

Here comes Auntie Taunting frivolously flaunting her jeering jaunting acting like Don King saying all the wrong things behind the protection of my own discretion after toxic injections dressed up as lessons fly in my direction I ask her to give it a rest to be told it's only in jest and she's just being honest but those jokes aren't best once it's her being prodded because to deride and cajole was always her prideful goal how to stop her I don't know because she hides behind my kindness and possible social consequences all I know is I don't like this person of obsolescence embodying annoyance my only answer is to practice avoidance.

0

Jul 4, 2023

Jul 4, 2023 at 9:08 PM UTC

andrew-rueter

Taunting

Here comes Auntie Taunting frivolously flaunting her jeering jaunting acting like Don King saying all the wrong things behind the protection of my own discretion after toxic injections dressed up as lessons fly in my direction I ask her to give it a rest to be told it's only in jest and she's just being honest but those jokes aren't best once it's her being prodded because to deride and cajole was always her prideful goal how to stop her I don't know because she hides behind my kindness and possible social consequences all I know is I don't like this person of obsolescence embodying annoyance my only answer is to practice avoidance.

24