"lank" poems
Opgedra aan ‘n kind wat gebliksem moet word.
Deur: Desperaatheid en vrees
Jy klim in en uit die ***** van bestaan,
beide die rede vir liefde en
die kind wat sy baar.
Jy is ‘n drievoud van godelike hervertellings
, want wie kan regtig liefde
in ‘n enkel sin verhaal?
Geminag , die seun van liefde en haat
- jou einste bestaan ,van die vroegste
paradoksale meesterstukke.
Verewig , verewig tot ‘n kind
tussen die Groottes wat
blindlings onder jou boogpunt swik.
Vir elke nasie ‘n ander droom
Vir elke geloof ‘n ander naam en
Vir elke mens ‘n ander god.
Amor , oh Amor!
Die sinnebeeld van liefde
wat die mendsom verbly
, maar Eros jou ramkat
jou hupse hygelbek!
Jou erotiese aanraak!
(die begeer ek)
En ek?
Met my koker van lig en van goud,
wat hulde blyk en bou en bring
maar bestorwe le voor my Laurel
oor ‘n lood-stomp pylpunt vir haar ‘n treuerlied sing!
Amor, Amor word wakker!
My son le liefdeloos in my bros hart
, wat instaan teen logika
– sterk op die oorlogspad!
Jy wat na my heuning reik
-met honger hande vieslik gryp
en ek wat jou met angel steek
in desperaatheid jou nat vel breek…
“Oh moeder”, roep die wetter na bo
vir die planete om aan te ****
“Oh moeder, Oh liefde “ ,spat die sot se treur,
“ *** kan so bietjie , so klein – so seer!”
En die heumel druis soos die moeder lag
haar humor eg , maar haar woorde sag:
“ My naakseun, my hinksperd
My fallus met vlerke!
Jy ,nog ‘n roosknop.
gaan ook so te werke!
Aanvaar die poëtiese justitie
Stil nou liefstetjie
Lamtietie Damtietie …”
Amor, Amor!
Weerstaan tog skoonheid se wieggelied
en wees my genadig!
Begunstig my ten einde laaste
, selfs vader tyd is verveeld
met die son se enkelpad!
*** lank nog wil jy sluimer?
Amor, Amor!
Tel weer op jou leisels
en bring liefde op die wind
my wereld lê in afwagting
vir die dolfyn en sy kind!
Wees my genadig, Amor!
Deurboor my leemte met goud,
,want die bringer van lig is slapeloos
en my hart is droewig en koud.
Oh Amor, Amor!
Ek weet jys nog jonk,
maar *** speel jy dollos met lewe se vonk…
Amor, Amor!
Word wakker!
Amor…
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
1670
In Winter in my Room
I came upon a Worm—
Pink, lank and warm—
But as he was a worm
And worms presume
Not quite with him at home—
Secured him by a string
To something neighboring
And went along.
A Trifle afterward
A thing occurred
I’d not believe it if I heard
But state with creeping blood—
A snake with mottles rare
Surveyed my chamber floor
In feature as the worm before
But ringed with power—
The very string with which
I tied him—too
When he was mean and new
That string was there—
I shrank—”How fair you are”!
Propitiation’s claw—
“Afraid,” he hissed
“Of me”?
“No cordiality”—
He fathomed me—
Then to a Rhythm Slim
Secreted in his Form
As Patterns swim
Projected him.
That time I flew
Both eyes his way
Lest he pursue
Nor ever ceased to run
Till in a distant Town
Towns on from mine
I set me down
This was a dream.
4.8k
Skin as White as Winter Snow
Legs as Boundless as the Sea,
Stationed in Venice or Bordeaux
From Blue-collar to Bourgeois.
Hair is Chic, Yet not Pristine
Soft and Cropped and Fine,
Cheekbones High a Distinct Ravine
Embellished by a High Neckline.
Undefined Peaks and Troughs
Cumbersome and Lank,
Garnished in the Finest Cloth
Awash with Unassuming Swank.
Miss Androgynous hear my call
For I've Become a Virile Gent,
I Yearn for your Unwieldy Frame
That God in Heaven Sent
February 2011
Apr 3, 2011
Apr 3, 2011 at 3:11 PM UTC
Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month,
Under the lank, fourth folly on Glamorgan's hill,
As the green blooms ride upward, to the drive of time;
Time, in a folly's rider, like a county man
Over the vault of ridings with his hound at heel,
Drives forth my men, my children, from the hanging south.
Country, your sport is summer, and December's pools
By crane and water-tower by the seedy trees
Lie this fifth month unskated, and the birds have flown;
Holy hard, my country children in the world if tales,
The greenwood dying as the deer fall in their tracks,
The first and steepled season, to the summer's game.
And now the horns of England, in the sound of shape,
Summon your snowy horsemen, and the four-stringed hill,
Over the sea-gut loudening, sets a rock alive;
Hurdles and guns and railings, as the boulders heave,
Crack like a spring in vice, bone breaking April,
Spill the lank folly's hunter and the hard-held hope.
Down fall four padding weathers on the scarlet lands,
Stalking my children's faces with a tail of blood,
Time, in a rider rising, from the harnessed valley;
Hold hard, my country darlings, for a hawk descends,
Golden Glamorgan straightens, to the falling birds.
Your sport is summer as the spring runs angrily.
2.5k
Spring sunshine's loving glance
lights a repondant glow
in all things young
but she is not so kind
to the old
where man has been
exuberant nature is evidenced
in decline and decay
riotous hedgerows
unpruned trees
lank lawns
while nature prepares
to don Easter finery
the best you'll get from man
is shabby genteel
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
There’s a door that leads into the hallway
Of the house that lives under the trees
Whose trunks are beleaguered with knobbles
Like a twisted collection of knees
The handle looks faintly organic
Any moment it might come alive
The paint is like vertical shadows
And the number is seventy-five
The foot of the stairs is before you
And the door sidles shut to your rear
The carpet is damp and disfigured
And the walls are uncomfortably near
The windows are coated with algae
So the light is all mottled and rank
The varnish and the paper are peeling
And curtains hang mouldy and lank
There’s a hole in the wall with an angle
And a view of the kitchen within
There’s a nest in the bowl on the table
There are rats living out of the bin
Disjointed lugubrious echoes
Of a whisper without any voice
The spoons haven't stirred in a decade
So the cups haven't had any choice
It’s then you should really be leaving
But you've taken your time and the bait
For a sound of a footstep behind you
And a voice saying simply "too late"
There’s a breath on the bone of your collar
It’s as cold as a final decree
There’s death to be found in that kitchen
And a death that came looking for me
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
-Ek en my geraamtes het soms ook 'n uitval
Verdoem deur drome van 'n wakker oog
gee ek in tot die eindelose gekarring.
Waaroor die ophef van 'n silwerdoek beeld
die trane en inspirasie , aangemeld -
en saamgesmelt in elke belydenis?
Ek spaar toe maar my knieë en sak neer
voor die rekenaar en fynkam
die intrieke sydrade van ons spinnerakke
Vergrootglas die letters, opsoek na:
'n Gebed vir - 'n Gebed vir hom...
NEE MY!
Toe speel my storie... Ag ek meen
Sy outobiografie af en ek's aleen.
Elke nou en dan en dan en wan
vee ek oor die rekenaar skerm en
skrik as ek sý gesig sien.
Hy wou dit nie aanvaar nie!
- ek wou regtig nie!
Hy wou verander!
-ek wou regtig graag verander...
ek... - ek bedoel hy;
Ons ma's was swertsend selfs
godslasterik lief vir ons en
haar stickynotes het ons oral vasgekeur
, want Levitikus!!!
Levitikus sê NEE...
Ma sê die Bybel sê:
"Ons is dood".
Ma se sy wil ons nie verloor nie.
Kom sy nie agter dat ons in
haar geweierde woorde versmoor nie.
My knieë is lank genoeg gespaar.
Na 90 minute se snikke en trane
val ek neer voor die Heer en
almal wat nog wil luister.
Ware ellende stort uit perelpoele
en plas neer op die koue wereld.
Uiteindelik bid ek vir hom, maar
my gebede is te laat - met so
dertig jaar of wat -.
Ek hoop iemand bid vir my...
ek hoop die gebede vind my
- maar vir my , betyds-.
Want ek sit met VIGS van die
siel. 'n Tipe kanker op sy eie 'n
lifelong companion om die eufemisme
mooi te stel...
Ek is Hy.
Hy is ek.
Ons is ons eie tipe mens.
Amen
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
Alleen staan ek in die gang
Onsigbaar vir die om my
My woorde het geen krag
Soos ‘n warrelwind is dit gou verby.
Maar die bome ritsel nie eers nie,
Die wind verroer nie ‘n blaar.
Die warrelwind keer terug na my
Om saam met die ander op te gaar.
Hierdie woorde-winde binne my,
Worstel in my siel,
Dit deurdrenk enige gevoel van samesyn,
Soos ‘n slak onder ‘n trok se wiel..
Splat,
Squish
Eeeuw, gross!
Lê my lewe op die steen
Sies, Ga
Ag nee a man
Spoel dit weg saam met die reën.
Wie sal die woorde wil hê?
Wie sal die warrelwind kan verstaan?
My soektog is nog lank nie verby nie,
Maar vir nou berus ek myself op papier
en by die Maan.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
ek staar dae lank na n lee wit muur
binne my brand als soos vuur
in eensaamheid word ek toegevou
buite kou die druppels dou
die laaste uur voel ek so koud
voel so amper amper oud
al die dinge wat my pla
dra ek diep, dit volg my na
ek kou en herkou
my tong so amper flou
steeds ***** jy naby my
en ek kan jou net nie kry
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 11:01 PM UTC
So word ons wakker in ons tent en dit reen...aggenee!! Maar dis koel en ons voel gelukkig.
Ek is vuil, so amper dat ek wil huil, maar huil van lekker soos n krekker want dis vakansie tyd!!
My hare is so waar deur mekaar, maar wat maak dit saak want niks gaan my keer om vir n gogga te wys *** deur mekaar ek rerig kan weesie...
Tanne geborsel en room half gesmeer, laat die dag begin want dis ons en ons ford bakkie die keer...alweer...
Kies n rigting en so voeter ons daarin...
Saans kom ons by die kamp moeg geploeg die bosse in om nou rustig te raak met n koeldrank in ons hand.
Dan word n vuurtjie gemaak deur die braafste ou ini land om n vleisie te braai vir die fraaiste meisie, hand aan hand.
Mens voel gou dankbaar vir klein dingetjies soos n stort... n warme een, die oop velde of selfs die digte bosse, die veld blommetjies so geel of die gras so lank en groen, die voels so mooi volle kleurrig en die jakkals so skaam maar nuuskirig.
En wanneer dit donker word le daar baie voor soos die uile se geluide, die sonbesies wat hulle vlerkies saam klap of dalk n hihena wat na oorskied kom krap.
So geniet ons die bos vol avontuur gepos net vir ons en ons se dankie aan ons Skepper vir n skepping net vir ons. 2016/03/14
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 1:32 AM UTC
Lydia's mother
sliced the bread thinly
and buttered sparingly
and handed Lydia
two limp slices
and said
get that inside you
can't have you going
everywhere
with your stomach rumbling
people'd think
you've not been fed
Lydia took the two slices
and a mug of stewed tea
but she hadn't been fed
that was why
she went and got
the rolls and bread
but she said nothing
just nodded her head
and followed her mother
into the living room
and sat at the table
her big sister
had gone to bed
her father was sleeping
off the beer
Lydia nibbled like a mouse
a thin long haired girl
of a mouse
can I go up West?
she asked
up West?
her mother repeated
as if her daughter
had sworn at her
up West?
she said again
turning the words around
in her head
to see how they fitted in best
can I?
her daughter
asked again anxiously
you can in the sense
that it's possible
but if you mean may
as a permissibility
then no
her mother said
what?
Lydia said
uncertain where
she was
in her request
your gran always said
that the difference
between can and may
is one of possibility
over permissibility
said Lydia's mother
may I go?
Lydia asked softly
no you may not
her mother said
why not?
her daughter asked
because I said so
her mother replied
why do want to go there?
her mother asked
Benedict said
he was going there
and that he'd take me
Lydia replied
oh him
her mother said
she sat and took a bite
from her sandwich
picturing the boy
from upstairs
in the flats
with his hazel eyes
and big smile
and self assurance
about him
why does he want to go
up West?
she asked
he likes adventures
Lydia said
adventures?
her mother said
repeating the word
as if
it were unknown to her
who does he think he is
Biggles or someone
like that?
Lydia sat nibbling
frowning
holding the bread
in her thin hands
he's never mentioned Biggles
Lydia said
don't talk
with your mouth full
her mother scolded
Lydia swallowed
the bread
he's not said nothing
about no Biggles
Lydia said
well you can't go
her mother said firmly
looking at her daughter's
thin frame
and lank long hair
do you mean I mayn't?
Lydia uttered gently
I said what I mean
her mother said
and don't get mouthy
like your big sister
or you'll feel
my hand
across your backside
Lydia nibbled
and looked away
a train steamed crossed
the railway bridge
leaving grey white smoke
behind it
lingering there
unsettling the air
her mother muttered words
but Lydia didn't listen
she watched clouds
cross the sky darkly
carrying a storm
or rain
she liked her backside
as it was
she didn't want
no pain
she'd not ask
again.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
His hair was dark as pitch, night dripping from the ends of the long strands. His eyes were bluer than that of the sky, clearer than the ocean and more crystal than a diamond underwater. His lips, full and ever-smiling, crooked and wicked. Pale rose with teeth white in between and a tongue that teased with a simple flick over his lips. The line of his jaw was strong, the angles of his cheekbones and nose chiseled fine enough to cut. He had the face that you would want to see last before you died, or fell asleep so that the imprint was left behind your eyelids. His hands were slender, long fingers tapered to slim tips that could caress you into dreams deeper than that of the universe. His wrists were small but not so much that you could break them, and they grew into wiry muscled arms, strong enough to embrace you and lull you to love. His chest, wider than his hips which were slim, the kind that jeans hung onto and slid off of. His waist was trim, and his abdomen carried a lank pack of abs. His legs, lean and long drifted over the ground when he ran to talk to you with his smile all off center.
He moved like a gazelle, graceful like the wind that whipped a flag into a frenzy. He could hurdle in track like he hurdled my heart, just barely but enough to skim it with the toe of his left foot. He caught me between the tread of his hand and the material of his skin.
He listened to me as intently as a rabbit listening for a fox, but with much more movement than an ear twitch. He cried with me, laughed with me, sighed with me. He huddled me between the wall and his chest and stilled my shivers caused by the monsters under my skin and the closets in my mind. And he loved me enough to make me whole again, squeeze me back together with the glue of his adoration. I fixed him, too, fitting him into place among my missing puzzle pieces that I had lost long ago. Never did I know that more than one person fit my edges.
And he isn’t real yet. But I feel as if he will come along, meet my eyes, match my timid smile with a full blown grin and grab my heart in both of his cupped palms.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
The age-old rhetorical question:
bask in hedonism or preserve innocense?
Shamelessly flirt
and makeout with hotties on the beach
or stay quiet and "moral,"
which is really code for "I'm afraid?"
Is a kiss with a stranger
really a kiss?
Or merely brushing lips against other lips,
maybe accidently,
gently,
couldn't be any harm, right?
Or would my first kiss with a stranger who holds no relevence to my life
be a life-long regret?
Would not cutting loose and being "loose" be a regret too?
So uptight
my hair is forever permed,
let it down and lank
will I still be me?
Would I still have self-respect?
Would others respect me?
Urges are strong
but will they ruin everything?
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 6:07 PM UTC
No spring nor summer Beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnall face.
Young beauties force our love, and that’s a ****
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot ’scape.
If ’twere a shame to love, here ’twere no shame,
Affection here takes Reverence’s name.
Were her first years the Golden Age; that’s true,
But now she’s gold oft tried, and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
This is her tolerable Tropique clime.
Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,
They were Love’s graves; for else he is no where.
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit
Vowed to this trench, like an Anachorit.
And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,
He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.
Here dwells he, though he sojourn ev’ry where,
In progress, yet his standing house is here.
Here, where still evening is; not noon, nor night;
Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at revels, you at counsel, sit.
This is Love’s timber, youth his under-wood;
There he, as wine in June enrages blood,
Which then comes seasonabliest, when our taste
And appetite to other things is past.
Xerxes’ strange Lydian love, the Platane tree,
Was loved for age, none being so large as she,
Or else because, being young, nature did bless
Her youth with age’s glory, Barrenness.
If we love things long sought, Age is a thing
Which we are fifty years in compassing;
If transitory things, which soon decay,
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.
But name not winter-faces, whose skin’s slack;
Lank, as an unthrift’s purse; but a soul’s sack;
Whose eyes seek light within, for all here’s shade;
Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;
Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,
To vex their souls at Resurrection;
Name not these living deaths-heads unto me,
For these, not ancient, but antique be.
I hate extremes; yet I had rather stay
With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.
Since such love’s natural lation is, may still
My love descend, and journey down the hill,
Not panting after growing beauties so,
I shall ebb out with them, who homeward go.
1.5k
Morning; I awake
with stiffness in my
lank legs.
Yesterdays long run
has taken its toll
on my
ungrateful, ageing
body.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
I glimpse her profile
Off the glare
Of the overhead
Transparent
Cloaked by lank,
Swinging hair
Eyes curtained
And a negative space of
Existence
Round her chair.
Forgotten
Neglected
By the rowdy, stinging noise
Peers whose vibrant adolescent mouths blare
Out one-note identities
She is there and
Then she’s gone
And my mind
Disconnects
Mid-lecture
Squinting into the shadowed corner
Looking for my grade-8 self.
Sep 13, 2009
Sep 13, 2009 at 7:39 PM UTC
The leaves in winter, they all fall in place.
In endings hidden, embers of a new life.
Every once in a while an unknown girl
walks up close on a smoggy night;
And an awkward lank woos her with
half-withered roses by the south bank;
Going after severed kites,
landing now by the memory lane:
by the Thames, holding a palmful,
saying, this river's named after you:
she has a dimpled smile;
By the lakes, deep at night, when the moon
walks over the waves, dancing with the swans;
Where the Lee bends around the corner,
a red bus emerges out of the mist,
a hero on chilly nights of the early autumn,
when the dhak welcomes the Goddess home.
Teals, wobbling out of the pond, by
the temple of love, closed for ages now;
Crimson paint dripping from the evening
sky at the corners;
Every day when loving this way
seems like a picture painting away,
get lost walking by the Thames;
Whirling back like the descent from the Eye,
time and crackers light the sky,
on a Guy Fawkes night.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
What's arsenic?
Lydia asked
she broke the word down
into two components
making it sound
a bit rude
it's a poison I think
I said
POISON?
she said loudly
we were walking up
Meadow Row
it was Saturday morning
and we were
on our way
to Saturday matinee
why?
I asked
looking at her sideways
taking in her lank hair
and thin frame
my mum said this morning
that she'd put arsenic
in my dad's tea
and poison can **** you
can't it?
can do yes
I said
and where does
she get it from?
Lydia asked
don't know
chemist I expect
it's a sort of chemical thing
I said
what if she gets me
to buy it
will I be arrested
for helping Mum
poison Dad?
will I hang
if I'm found guilty?
she said in desperation
we crossed the bomb site
off Meadow Row
over rough bricks
and rubble
I think she was kidding
just saying it
I said
she sounded serious to me
Lydia said
why'd she say it?
I asked
my dad came home
drunk again last night
singing at the top
of his voice
in the Square
I'll walk you home
again Kathleen
and Mum was none
too pleased
I see
I said
looking at her
as we walked
the faded flower dress
she wore had seen
better days
and the cardigan
of off white
had only two buttons
I don't think
you can buy
arsenic that easy
these days
and they wouldn't sell it
to a nine year old girl
I said
they wouldn't?
she said
no not these days
but what if Mum buys it
and kills my dad?
she won't
she loves your old man
too much
I said
I don't think she does
Lydia said
not this morning any way
we walked across
the crossing and along
the New Kent Road
if she does
I said
and your old lady hangs
then I'm sure
my mum will adopt you
as my sister
Lydia looked at me seriously
I don't want
to be your sister
she said
I want to marry you
when we're older
and I can't marry
my brother can I?
I looked ahead
as we approached
the ABC cinema
I guess not
I said
the thought hadn't entered
my little boy's head.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 2:19 AM UTC
Trees suppressed by sunshine
Lank black across baked salmon
Paint brush brick strokes
Hugging heat against
Sun faded pavement
As 85 mile per hour
Sleek through
wavering heat waves
Slick as
Unwavering commitment
To the fire
Both passion
And the burns
That make staying here
Worthwhile.
The End
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
Doppelgänger
by Michael R. Burch
Here the only anguish
is the bedraggled vetch lying strangled in weeds,
the customary sorrows of the wild persimmons,
the whispered complaints of the stately willow trees
disentangling their fine lank hair,
and what is past.
I find you here, one of many things lost,
that, if we do not recover, will undoubtedly vanish forever ...
now only this unfortunate stone,
this pale, disintegrate mass,
this destiny, this unexpected shiver,
this name we share.
Keywords/Tags: doppelganger, namesake, twin, lookalike, grave, tomb, headstone, inscription, weeds, shiver, recognition, destiny, fate
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 5:47 AM UTC
The walk
from Peckham Rye
train station
to my aunt's
is quite a trek,
but Lydia and I
set off along
Rye lane.
Never been here before,
Lydia says.
I been here tons of times;
I was born up the road.
What this road?
No, at the hospital
nearby.
She has a thinness
about her,
her lank hair is caught
by the sunshine.
We pass by shops
and cross side streets;
pass people shopping.
Dad hates shopping,
Lydia says,
he says it's a ****
of a game,
worse than kissing
his boss's backside.
She laughs;
a link of light
brightens up
her eyes;
there's a hint
of beauty
about her.
Your mum
wasn't too keen
on you going with me,
I say.
Anything that hints
of spending money
and she's up in arms;
she wouldn't care
if I went
with the milkman
as long as he paid.
We walk on
and down a street
that leads
to my aunt's place;
the shops have gone now,
just houses and flats.
I heard your old man
singing in the Square
the other night,
I say,
drunk as a lord.
I know, I heard him, too,
Mum wasn't none
too pleased;
she dragged him in
and gave him her tongue;
I couldn't marry
a man like that;
does your father drink?
No, only the odd pint
or port at special times.
We pass a dog peeing
against a wall;
it wags its tail
as it runs off
down the road
leaving a pyramid shape
of wetness behind.
My brother Hem does that,
Lydia says,
***** ***
There is an aspect
of light
when she's angry,
like a birth
of a new world.
Is your dad Irish?
he seemed to be singing
an Irish song
the other night?
No, he always sounds Irish
when he's drunk,
like he sounds Welsh
when he's sober.
She holds my hand
as we cross a busy road;
it's thin and bony;
I feel it
with my thumb
as we walk along,
her bony knuckles;
I squeeze it gently
and she softly
chuckles.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
Considering some scribbling to figure everything out, I expect to either be entirely burnt by this fire,
or to be defined by it. Whatever it is.
It burns. Love, anger, passion-
what is in this heart, old and black?
as I lay in this, my heath of images-
all warping and swirling above my bed,
and death haunts and linger in the corner of my eye,
and I realise large parts of my lie,
and I am cold to the bone,
fattening like a pig by the day,
I shall be as poe, dying slowly day by day -
amongst the red red roses, lank hair and morbid tone.
Synthetic whisper in the woodland greet,
I ran, I could not stop, meek to the core.
Entombed in happiness, quiet and forever unspoken
she lets me down, she will never cease.
I am Vampyre, and so is she.
soon to be-
******
Eternally.
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 12:49 AM UTC
you smile.
not because the world is a beautiful place, where happiness blossoms like an indian night jasmine in the hearts of every single being that exists upon it, no, you smile because sadness is relative. you smile because when melancholy visits and your face feels lank and rubbery, the only thing you know how to do is put on that surface smile you leave the house with everyday, the one that doesn't stretch to your eyes.
you smile because the world makes you frown and cry, and frown lines are unacceptable.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
So loop ek deur die strate van Paris en voel dadelik tuis;
Tuis soos in n vreemde wereld wat juis net vir my gemaak is.
Die outydse geboue wat vertel van jare terug, die noue strate wat ver af le amper verby more, die klasieke fietse met klokkies wat "trieng" in die verby gaan na ander plekke, ook die french brode wat jou vertel van vandag en die krag van twee hande wat gebruik is om die smaak in jou gedagtes te laat verdwaal, om n storie te vertel.
So loop ek deur die strate van Paris en voel dadelik bly;
Bly soos n kind wat haarself bevind in n lewe vol nuwe dinge, vol nuwe betekenisse soos n nuwe paar oe wat oop gaan om te sien en dan te verstaan.
Maar die lewe gaan aan met n lank terug en n more wat kom of n vandag wat verby gly na n elke dag;
Wat my vertel van n lewe van geluk en plesier om te geniet vandag, elke dag.
2016/07/17
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 1:39 AM UTC