"lackadaisical" poems
This is Nigeria
This is Nigeria; presidency turns sick leave.
This is Nigeria; one-sided democracy.
Double standard constitution, everything is dazy.
This is Nigeria; police bus be calling crowd.
Enter and become cowed.
This is Nigeria; best graduating student gets a thousand naira.
This is Nigeria; I hope we can differentiate between private and public institutions.
Lackadaisical attitudes everywhere, except religion institutions.
This is Nigeria; over a year strike in our foremost sector but it's a norm.
Corruption; a living form.
This is Nigeria; education is dull.
This is Nigeria; economy problem is solved by increased school fees.
Such government still gets a second term. Madness; it's our liss.
This is Nigeria; lot of resources but we still pray for light.
Food, security and rights.
This is Nigeria; lecturers give grades anyhow.
This is Nigeria; Animal is swallowing money.
In a government with the main aim of fighting corruption, it's funny.
This is Nigeria; politicians changing parties.
Playing with our lives like they're *******
Peter Oyebanji (PIRO)
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 5:38 AM UTC
Oh banana peel,
your colors vibrant and fluctuating.
The 3-D spots of speckled brown,
deep and pure,
yellow and sun sprayed,
swaying in the trees,
lackadaisical in manner.
Oh banana peel,
protect you from our bile.
If i could have a peel of my own,
a comfy womb;
yellow and sweet.
I too would sway in the trees
lackadaisical in manner.
The Sunday, sun spray sprawled across,
my green to yellow to brown,
my sour to sweet,
to soft and cream
Oh banana peel,
others discard you hastily
in the banana peel sunset.
But to me,
you are beautiful.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
practicing mental gymnastics
insipid memories
seeping their way past
defensive buffers
remembering repressed poisons
as a catalyst for making
wiser decisions
lackadaisical reactions to
sharply defined parallaxes
warrant an immediate shift
fractal spectacles
the labyrinth of my innards
inhale the cosmological smoke of suggestion
words become meaningless
when repeated exhaustively
semantic satiation
slicing away at true intentions
paving the way to
false inventiveness
shallow river beds are loud
prouder than their counterparts
insecurity overshadows
a lack of faith in the faint of heart
everything worthwhile
falls apart
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
I asked you.
Do you love me?
You replied, I guess.
That spoke more then you know.
I asked you.
Wouldn't you love to be rich?
You replied, yes.
That you surely knew.
But the question's that meant the most to me.
You treated it lackadaisical.
Yes, no spirit at all.
And now you're wondering, why you're alone?
I would say call Tyrone.
Like Erika Badu.
But he can't affrod a phone.
Let alone a home.
So this I guess.
Have affected your world.
All because you didn't give the right answer.
When asked.
If you turn it around and ask me.
I state it with truth about the way I feel for you.
There won't be this I guess.
Because you would only hear three words of truth coming to you.
I guess.
Well maybe I will.
Then again, I guess I won't.
Then again.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 12:28 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
Efforts run a trickling stream and Good Intentions leap a head, Dedication fights the hardy fight
Lackadaisical rides the flow. Respite comes up fare, Desire strives ever forward, only few will
Make the race, but Doing lags behind. Effort holds up, slowing a tiny bit the end not yet in sight
Good Intentions has already died, Dedication surges toward the finish.
The finish line is not so far, Lacky fell off quick, Respite finds one or two, Desire is crawling, Effort
Is right behind, Dedication takes the easy way out. Doing is plodding, trudging up the hill, but, picks
Up Desire before it falls...Effort is gone, some laugh, laugh at the race, but winning is None the Less
with Doing and Desire right along.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 10:55 PM UTC
For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.
Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.
This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
but finality in all series of things
seriousness, or was it
lackadaisical thought offspring
blooms walls of drooping eye?
air-tight space, its coalition
with inward breaking penumbra
of shadow,
i write a poem so as not a poem
but an antagonism of sorts
to the end that does not smell of sandalwood but
the fixation of the word
as scent plays with memory,
a fragrance of spring in all that is winter
casting
a shadow upon me, you,
if not all.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
redefining awkward definiens
endorsing victorious evening
clamoring hawk-like intonations
conjecturing additional goals
optimizing ambient network
winning illinoisan night
trapping hacked-up events
warping æsthetic remnants
resuming inaudible overture
rallying auric-state net-work
defying anti-punk technophobia
eliminating cavalier homies!
minding icelandic anniversary
winging ersatz excuses
kicking ecstatic nerves
denying lackadaisical event
questioning upper echelons
brûlant en calice
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:18 AM UTC
capsized beating purple algorithm
for a heart,
cross-nit aspirations
still taste dirt on my teeth,
the mission creep of eager eyed poets,
carry a briefcase with my levi's --
close cut cigarette encounters,
all brick shantytown of a friendship
them lovelies run on endless,
it's starting to get cold outside.
restless sprites circle our *****
exhaling greek mythopoeics
every sure footed step.
alcoholism echoes in my skin
a depth charge i cannot cut out,
we all have broken thoughts here,
all have blind spots in our stomachs,
they read like a preacher's insecurities:
burly things we warm ourselves with,
the winters sting bitter.
something is wrong with me,
sinkhole of ambition and honey kisses,
all the great thinkers **** themselves,
it's the staunch lack of spotlight,
way the earth drips lackadaisical-like
we just call it a perfect orbit.
shake my hand and feel a goldilocks pulse
anemic shards of a cornered animal,
we cut right
to the bone
here, or so we tell ourselves.
and love is always the answer?
that sure footed toothy angel
so beautiful, it couldn't just be our
churlish blood,
frothing and calming,
frothing and calming,
electrons rise and fall to create light,
they still circle an untapped atrocity
perfectly,
like this, like it must be
god
or something close. something
stopping them from running, free
from bonds ionic or otherwise,
bare feet
beating the pavement until there are
no more stones to throw.
firstborns of the universe,
each star is a setting sun,
blinks staggered,
still grew us up quicker than most,
there is no aphrodisiac like heliocentrism.
them bones cut good
doped up on oxytocin,
those empty thoughts still rattling,
dig sharp -- then nice and numb.
and we cutthroat and glossy,
sharper than ever.
walk outside
smoke a cigarette
know how much you love her,
look at the stars --
it's ******* beautiful isn't it
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
The Real Poets Here
are small craft
sailing between the narrows of crack'd lines,
employ the spyglass and luck to you,
for them to find
their voyages do not widen the chasm of waste,
yawning greater now by propped up boasts of
ugly shipowners who sin by commission,
national ***** crowing of the greatest length of their prow,
thinking that is a measure of prowess,
their tubs,
all but empty wordy new container ships,
that are forever lost at sea,
even before leaving port
they,
the real poets,
are the quiet lost lot,
a troop of forgettable ordinary Marines,
the sailors in the engine room toiling,
exploring cartographers ***** from the ****** crafting struggle,
looking to discover unmapped,
invisible poles,
East and West
opening up new passages,
within us,
with new passages
when called to arms,
the real poets
spill fresh ***** fluids from within the heart and mind borne,
upon the blank spaces,
they stain us with the grasping gasps of their sight insided
fertile are the pastures
where they lay low modest lay thinking,
amidst the splendor in the grass
of them
I
proudly will ever boast,
hold them close and ever nameless,
but deep inscribed inside of me
*Ah,
the real poets keep me
whole within the
ever smaller white purity of this narrow space
that has lost the struggle
to contains the
unceasing ever spawning black letter'd oceans and navies of
repetitive sad, sadly repetitive,
puerile singsong cant
that never sings,
can't never please,
but trends to the masses madly
dewdrops of tears,
are my own trees felled,
an acknowledgement that
when I read their unintended homages to humankind,
that when realized,
they speak with great respect,
all quietly scream this whisper...
all this,
that I have written,
and will yet to write,
this is all,
to give
greater glory to all human ability
whose
sole purposed to fill us,
wrench us from our lackadaisical comfort,
or urgently comfort us when none else can,
these are my friends,
the real poets here*
god keep you well
my trite words insufficient
so I gift you
some words worthy from
Wordsworth
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
I have a few,
like burning a good future.
Losing love
loving lots
spiraling in confusion.
Blinding rage,
petty sayings
a quiet vocal range.
Lackadaisical,
completely forgettable,
earn below the average joe.
I write,
I draw,
both subpar
I can't drive a car.
I can hide in a smile
lie with my eyes
and never really cry.
Overweight,
out of shape,
hoodie shaped,
never took a family break.
Mnm wants me to,
but never said I'd go far.
Won't ever date.
Usually believes in fate,
not holy gates.
my skillset so far.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 9:28 AM UTC
I have written a million words and fought a hundred battles.
I have stood against all enemies in all corners of the world.
I have been an agent of destruction and retribution.
I have been a despotic symbol of unyielding authority.
I have been a god of war and slaughter.
But in the face of this new force I am powerless.
I stood against the atom bomb, and bent it to my will.
I broke the tides of imperialism and nationalism, and soon devoured them too, with my insatiable lust.
I have crushed all who have contested against me; no revolution has ever ousted me.
And yet.
In the face of this new force I am powerless.
My atom bomb is enervated.
My armies are decrepit.
My once iron resolution has melted to lackadaisical fancy.
My Tanks, guns, swords and bombs are nothing but flaccid instruments of failed conquest.
Because
For all my inimical **********
I am rendered prostrate before the empyrean power of joy immeasurable.
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 6:41 PM UTC
My throat is heavy with August’s sorrows
I sit by the shore and wait for the weakest waves
to drown my little feet — I stagger over them like a clumsy giant.
But it’s seaborne sadness wraps, a constant, unrelenting embrace
like a mother’s grief,
a gentle creature’s death,
a rabid dog feasting on a poor, meatless bone.
I am alive — so cruelly alive for it all
as it falls
down my throat, down my chest like a child’s pained whisper.
My body is heavy with August’s weight as I retire to my filthy bed
and hold myself.
Cold are the nights in their quiet,
lackadaisical, taunting hours.
Come now, September. Come, kindly, if you please;
sweep me away into a million, invisible dust particles
suspended
under clueless, flickering lights.
Sep 1, 2022
Sep 1, 2022 at 1:19 AM UTC
Stress everywhere
Comprised of work and worry
It creeps; lurking
Until i walk to close
Striking rapidly
Slicing the air as it moves
Frantically startling my Heart
It's noisome stench lingers
Infecting the atmosphere
Not allowing itself to be forgotten
It intrude my nostrils
Implanting itself on my brain
Yet I still reject it
Procrastination and I skip happily
Through a green garden that slowly withers
Knowing that time runs out
I wait anxiously for my responsibilities
To run to me
Saying time is almost up
Then I try to do the impossible
Foolishly and disorderly
Rushing to finish tasks
As my responsibilities frown at me
Their disappointing faces haunt me
Drowning out the disappointment I have for myself
Then they slowly walk away
Knowing fully well that
I can not finish them all
Then the pace slows
And I become lackadaisical
Knowing that it is over
I had failed myself
The overwhelming defeat consumes my emotions
I weep without a friend
But then someone emerges from the shadows
Its procrastination
Coming to hug me
Wiping away my tears
I love you
My old friend
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 10:10 PM UTC
My eyes were watery
you did not see
and turned blind.
I kept expecting
care and love
that you never showed
and kept yourself busy
in your so- called office works.
Today I stand
somewhere beyond
that you ever thought of
and now you seek for
my closest attention
to focus on you
rather on my tasks.
You pretend to be the key person
but your are not
for you never cared
for your family
and kept yourself aloof.
I- a compassionate
an amorous-
woman.
You- a ****
a lackadaisical-
a workaholic man.
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 8:18 AM UTC
Where are my thoughts?
And where is my head?
I'm filled with static channels instead
I feel no heartbeat next to my ribs
As if cold metal replaced my limbs
How do I get off this drug?
And give up lackadaisical hugs?
When I'm a television set
Repeating reruns until death
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
I call it the Changeover;
like an analogue radio searching for a signal
sometimes it's clear
sometimes it's static
sometimes it's in between
somewhere between far away and near
somewhere lost in the middle
between Signal and Static.
Clear Day the signal reaches out its arms as far as the eye can see
and the ears can hear
and the senses can feel
and taste buds pop and linger
and revel in new experience
and comfort in knowing
and wrapped in wonderment.
Changeover Day is somewhere between Clear Day and Nowhere
struggling to tune in
backwards or forwards
or sideways or upwards
to something
to anything that resembles a signal
like hearing voices in another room
an argument through a wall
the indecipherable murmur of music
the clamber of ushered noise
the mishmash and cacophony
like a symphony of Morse code.
Static Day is dark day
there is no signal
no senses
no sound
only indeterminate fuzz
and the crackle of broken glass
and the foghorn
and the white noise
the confusion and delusion
the paranoia of shifting jigsaws
changing pieces that never fit together
can almost make out a face through the frosted glass
the smear like bird **** on a window
halfheartedly wiped with lackadaisical whimsy
and greasy chip shop newspaper.
In the Static there is no wind
no heart to beat
no empathy or sympathy
just
cold
hard
steel
out of place in a room of feathers and feeling.
You just have to ride out the storm
tell yourself:
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon
The Changeover
from Static to Signal
and the welcome return of voices
and breathing
and beating
and feeling.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
The windowsill is slightly dusty,
Just enough to push absence into an idea.
There's a lone cobweb, only recently abandoned.
The screen is popped open, and a small breeze escapes the thick velvet curtains.
Nothing's changed.
When you were here, there were still cobwebs
And traces of dust,
And velvet curtains covering busted screens.
Nothing's changed outside the window, either.
There's still a big, dry lawn
Full of imposing weeds and lavender.
The flowers are blooming now,
Their fragrant scent comes in through the window,
Imposing it's presence,
Existing.
Nothing's different for the cobweb,
For the screen,
The curtains,
And the flowers,
They aren't affected by your absence.
They didn't mourn your passing.
For them, today's another summer day,
Another day to exist,
Carry on,
Survive.
No matter how much I tell them,
Scream at them,
Beg them to listen,
They don't understand me,
Or you,
Or us.
Past tense doesn't bother them,
It doesn't tear at their souls
Whenever "was" replaces "is"
Or "knew" replaces "know"
They're too preoccupied with the present,
With existing,
With life.
Their lives didn't stop when yours did,
And now they mock me
With their oblivious,
Unaffected existence.
Dead, in their own way.
Memories dance about their lackadaisical corpses.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 3:19 PM UTC
"Its Time" to hear a story hang your tears to dry the"Me Time" no it's not bath time that's truly fine. Oh! I "All Mine" just breathe I remember how hard it is to share. Like kids smell the summer breeze so bubbly happily ever me. What about you please just join me The"Me Time." So lovely the nature hanging branches.
We must have "Me Time" for looking in your starry eyes* filled with romances.
(My time) + Fall 4- Fall (Your time) the eye's wink at glances the weather cozy lackadaisical time is moving with us sensational. Me time fighters political. All the crazies let the truth in your words be told. The smells from my Moms daisies so poetical.
Lets slow things up the time is called the "Me Time" perhaps the tea time everything you thought before its a matter of time.
Make it your time, not the words that are forced to rhyme. No one really knows what's ahead
You and Me time read a book in bed
The likewise me to see your smile like the sunrise goes through the world of now what was before the future holds your smiles forever to adore
"The Me Time"
Its time for
"Hello Poetry"
It's Me
Just shine
Oh! Me O- My
Miss Sunshine
Me and you
It's Open all the time
But that's the problem?
Who is really listening
Like free bird Robin
On your free time
What about mine
Like a Bad Omen
How it grabs you and me
It's on me__________*
Let me pay
Don't worry be happy
Me Time" just like
any day look
at the fine print
U-Won't?
And if you don't
What do you mean
you can't
Just pray* Me Time
" They say it's your
" Birthday"
Talk to me hurray
Count the money
"Trust Me"
You could count me in
"Me time" what tastes good
Robin Hood so rich
Another world poor
A person gets evil heads
out the door
"Me Time" Cheers to pour
Your time journey
I will catch you don't fall
A shooting star shot me
Whoa that's my wakeup call
He avoids me
my mind floods me
Carefree all me God Bless the
child
How it set me up
Me Time "Never give up"
On the edge "Robin Rebellious"
Do you hear me!! It's contagious
Young spring chickens
you hired old ones fired
I see a stranger would he
Help me I need my family
Me time my flight gravity
Not a Stand-up Comedy
Nobody cant stop me
Who lives above me
I never want to see what is below me
Keep in touch with me
Can you pay me in advance
Relax make your own time
My time travel to France
That's the Me Time
My poems are all I got
Thank you, (God) and (Mom and Dad)
The time went by Fly Robin Fly
Never underestimate what you have or why
Like the day I was born
Called the "Me Time"
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 10:08 AM UTC
The foggy harbor buries itself into the bricks,
misty fingers make their way into thick brain threads,
causing invisible skyscrapers to erupt from natural terrain.
Lackadaisical loneliness producing nothing but infertile hands;
You are wasting the precious prayer of earths' life in your lungs,
while saltwater slips into the crevice of your sorrowful joy.
The masks begins to bleed and life carves itself into your skin.
Nothing can be done to stop this carpenter of time,
for even if mortal scalpels disguise,
the knowledge of dying will coat your soul.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
how might my reality be redefined
by slipping furtively
like a hapless lover
disentangling midnight sheets
fleeing past pathways of my own psyche
to see the view from her mind’s balcony
to inhabit intergalactic eyes
sparkling and shining like supernovae
every time she parts scarlet lips
in defense of the helpless
i'd plant gardens inside her irises
water the seeds and invite the bees
to pollinate fresh thoughts and rejuvenate
an energy that could illuminate new theories
about the cosmos and its inhabitants
i want to dwell within
corridors of infinite imagination
bridge the synaptic gaps
across rivers of lapsing memories
a lackadaisical adventurer
adrift in neurological galaxies
ingesting erudite insight
i yearn to build a home
inside the mind
of a poet
an activist
and a bona fide genius
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC
So
You've found a girl who can hold your gaze
You've found a girl with those sinful curves
that girl with the lips that you want sayin' your name
Oh she's beautiful alright. How did you get so lucky?
Maybe you're not as lucky as you think you are?
Does being
luscious, limber, lavacious, and alluringly lustworthy
make up for being
lewd, lethargic, and a lackadaisical liar?
So what that she's
ogle-worthy, optically pleasing, orgasmically ideal
if she's
offensive, ostentatiously ornate, and overbearing?
She may be
vivacious, voluptuous, and sexually voracious
She's also
vain, vapid, vacuous, a vengeful *****
Don't let her
exotic, ****** efficaciousness
Blind you to her
egocentric, evasive, envious nature
Those lips won't look so enticing when they're spitting poison barbs into your heart
Wouldn't you rather have a girl
Who is likeable?
Who is original?
Who is vibrant?
Who is enough to make you happy?
It's all you need
Do I have to spell it out for you?
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
A spark of fear on every syllable
a hint of it on the tip of my tongue
and I am a snake- a viporess
Ready to combat Burroughs himself
Burrow himself in a hole
don't come out until winter time
until the Russian cavalry comes galloping in and my lord
wont this be interesting
A real match
I must retire to my chambers
1 minute 2 minute
God, have I discovered writing?
Joyous, glorious
as the life spills on her pages
What a treat to the historian himself
Tick tock tick tock tick tock!
A day in the loony bin!
Congratulations congratulations congratulations
Analogous to Berkeley with androgynous beings
Fly away Pegasus, fly!
And I am high
You know what's good about getting high?
You forget everything you just said
But you know everything was/is? connected
Good morning brain!
You haven't been up for 18 years
Welcome to the world,
where life is light and bright
How does it feel?
This is right
Hot to cold, just like that
Can't see, only feel.
Loose Buttons
Pregnant with a platypuss but this is high time
Wackadoodle > Lackadaisical
Dictionary please
Much hate but night night
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
there's a man across the street,
walking real casually
past the coffee shops and consignment stores,
hands stuffed in the pockets
of his black track jacket,
and he's whistling.
i watch him from the other side,
this lackadaisical nomad,
all sunshine and songbirds.
he's whistling his persona
in this transient fiction,
past his rippling reflections
in the shop windows,
all the while believing them to be
shifting images in god's great eye--
just one more happy creation.
Apr 10, 2011
Apr 10, 2011 at 4:08 PM UTC