"lim" poems
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart.
Spilling out snapshot flashes of life like a flick book's muffled cries.
Controversial plastic shell, elastic strap, stick insect mattel covetted for months
until Santa dropped it down the chimney,
almost as fast as she sprogged and regained her figure
- the original scrummy yummy mummy set to spread low self esteem.
My daddy said anyone can crank out a kid like she did,
as my mother ground her teeth to protest on behalf of her traumatised frame.
Strange, I almost became one of the lost - before I grew cells and self,
another fragile foetus swinging on a noose
from gallows where once a ****** failed to stayed closed.
Little life curled tight self soothing sings al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
as I lie beneath my shroud of sadness filled with down shrinking from the light of day
I want to tell you that I love you,
that my heart brays, beats, bleets, breaks, aches for you.
My soul, spirit, self thrice chorus al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
as waters flow from deep to deep
where danger dances and solace is sought
from beyond the fruitless orchards and willows weeping
branches reaching out for you.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
surrounded by madonna, ***** and all betwixt
spheres of life protruding, pronounced, announcing themselves;
in streets where bundles, terrors, cherubs, banting, brat and bairn alike
shriek, scream, squeal, shout, squalk, squabble, sing
in a cacophony that makes my heart weep and ache in longing
to sing to self in solitude al na tivke iredem bim'nucha.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
pulsating thoughts, dreams, hopes of you through the whole of me.
Brought to my knees I seek wisdom, guidence, strength to let you go.
The river is waiting for you, you who I hold tight in my caul
trying to trust, seeking strength to hakshev le'ivshat haga'lim
holding the thought of you,
the love of you,
the hope of you
tight in my arms crooning my lullaby of lament
al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
sweet an nice.mek mi mash a pum pum
Like a lizad pon lim a goin mash a pum pum.
Me can't. Feel sewwt relief les I mash a pum pum.
Peaches an cream.
Cunnamon dream
Rock and come in
Fi go mash apum pum.
Drive yu wild when I masha pum pum
Lone free style fi go mash a pumpum.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 8:29 PM UTC
What on Earth deserves our trust ?
Youth and Beauty both are dust.
Long we gathering are with pain,
What one moment calls again.
Seven years childless, marriage past,
A Son, a son is born at last :
So exactly lim'd and fair.
Full of good Spirits, Meen, and Air,
As a long life promised,
Yet, in less than six weeks dead.
Too promising, too great a mind
In so small room to be confin'd :
Therefore, as fit in Heav'n to dwell,
He quickly broke the Prison shell.
So the subtle Alchimist,
Can't with Hermes Seal resist
The powerful spirit's subtler flight,
But t'will bid him long good night.
And so the Sun if it arise
Half so glorious as his Eyes,
Like this Infant, takes a shrowd,
Buried in a morning Cloud.
3k
I can't
I can't handle this anymore
What used to be me heart it tore
I sit out in the dark and cry
I can't figure it out why
A Loss of my bestfriend
I wish I had a letter to send
But you can't right a letter to the dead
I close my eyes se his curly hair on hishead
His face looks sad but why
That how I last saw him I think with a sigh
But he's in a better place
No need to make haste
But I want to join him
As I start to cut my lim
My rist covered in scars
I wish I was old enough to go to bars
I'd just drink the pain away
But for now I'll sit back with this J
Only one I say at first
But nothing can quench the thirst
My sadness is in control now
But how
I can't let it beat me
It was all fun
But now the pain and sadness won
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
Your love,
Is sharper than the edge of the crescent moon
that was struck in my heart and i futilely mourn.
Glimpse of angelic dagger was your lies,
and you burried it deep within my eyes,
and now im blind.
Your love,
Is hypnotizing like the beauty of the moon above,
In the vague sight of my blindness you're a white dove.
Pain chastised me! tears drowned me! but i still love you,
For you're my heavenly poison that i can't resist through,
and now im weak.
I as your moon wanders beyond lim'tation
just to flicker my lil light even at your reflection.
Go run away from me as far as you desire, leave!
But when you're in need, it'll took only 1 glance above to give,
and you'll see me waiting for you.
Far above the grey sky i silently watch o'er you,
Tears frozed, blood drowned my crippled heart as i stare at you
With your new found happiness that's far brighter than me,
You have your sun now, so ill just force a painful glee,
and you'll see tears in me as i smile for you.
Far above the blue sky you look up and found me no more,
But you never care and thought I'm atlast gone for sure.
Your sun just blaze to its peak & covered me from your sight,
Now my love you're so blinded with her spurious light,
and you never see that i still light for you.
Far above the black sky and now that your world's down,
Now when your life's darker than the darkest night's lawn,
I'm your moon, gladly being a moon rather than your sun,
to give you light in your tragic night when your fake sun sets down,
and you'll see that I'd never will ever leave you.
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 5:46 AM UTC
There once was a pirate named Janus
whose deeds were particularly heinous,
so when he was caught
the trial was short:
Two years with a mouse up his ****
Oh, the agony,
no rest, even when I sit.
Two years, a long time!
When Janus was finally free
the mouse was nowhere to see
but Janus was clever,
instead of a lever
he lured it out with a Brie.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
Shroud, encompassing
The blanket over my head I am the twin of
The sleeping spring, hers is snow my sister
The one I actually like
The unending winter, blank white
Now I see why animals hibernate, in the winter there is
No color to paint your thoughts on The sky is spliced with the ground, blazing white unending no limit to ponder
No sky to ponder the limit of (lim as x approaches 2, calculus, my bane)
You tip-toe through pure white banks, your soul is ***** in comparison you are old ugly jiggly and soft in comparison
To sharp clear fractals, individuals sparkling even in the whitesky's frank stare whiteground whitesky white
I don't add up I don't add up I don't add up I don't add up
They say this is the longest winter ever recorded for Canada
People joke we're Canada we live in igloos anyways I can confirm
This is wrong; I have distinct memories of spider-holes in damp dead grass
Furious water rushing down rock blasted for a highway
Warm sun damp air damp grass rubber boots and most of all
Bluesky greenbrownground an imperfect world to wonder in
To not feel incomparable to
Mud as jiggly and soft as fat and muscle layered on bleach bones, bone marrow chunky porous redbrownred
No white to speak of, even my pale skin is pinkish dotted with islands of moles
When I wake up the blanket is a shroud over my head to block out the light and now I understand what I must do
Hibernate and forget like the bears I miss
Let the white light filter through colorful sheets I will feed off the blue light instead
Remember, it can't last forever somethings gotta give
Express sympathy for the car crashes and wait.
Patiently.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
I'm sorry God, but they've taken you prisoner.
Their words indubitably once streamed from your lips,
as your fingers projected beams of light,
falling from the Heavens:
people dumbly read your signs so literally.
They've closed you in a book and recalled your name
when such mentioning benefited their own name,
hypocrites they are;
for there was never a hypoChrist
capable of making wine a commodity
and bread a demon,
unless it is gluten-free.
How your intentions are clouded in veils.
****** in your name.
To glorify you.
Pushing scared young lovers--two men-- against barbed wire fences
and insisting they are sinful, foul--better off dead.
Maybe the hate is right
because it wins ten times out of nine.
God, they constantly judge each other
when they don't believe in the "right" version of you.
And they represent a new hipper you for the youth:
they want to understand you, when really they just
want to be understood.
Some days I walk past strangers and wonder,
"Who do you want me to be?"
Am I not Muslim enough unless I cover my hair?
Am I too Moz-lim if I say Allah and mean God--
just God, not whatever inane misnomer you'll tell me I really believe
you to be.
I think you tire of our piddle paddle,
how we puff up our chests, only to blow out a tiny breath of air,
that in one instant you can extinguish:
the candle had no choice.
We think we give the world meaning.
We feel so special when we hear ourselves think,
but sometimes, I wish you'd speak instead of all these false prophets.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
1
when I was at university
I did some babysitting:
Send the kids to bed
after meals
Never smile at them
and be very strict –
you know the trick
Instill fear in them
They’ll just stay quiet
in their rooms
while you watch TV
till the parents return
2
So there I was in the living room
and the kids in their room upstairs -
except for one brat
looking down and creeping down the stairs
And I’d say: “Back to the room!”
and he’d crawl back
Three times he did that, that brat
3
Then there was a
knock at the door
It was the neighbour, it seems -
a Mrs Lim; she wanted to know
if her kid Sam was in the house
“No,” I said
but the brat from the stairs behind me shouted:
*“I’m here mum –
but he won’t let me out!”*
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 6:13 AM UTC
I trod the liminal
But the walk is never long enough
Between is where time and space collide
I the liminal walker
The world resolute
in stagnant unsympathetic response
But for my walking feet
Resolution flits and flees
And leaves empty spaces
Gaping holes in my narrative
I walk over and through them
the metaphors becoming tangible
I trod the liminal
and run the same word
over around my tongue
liminal
liminal
lim
i
mal
lim I nal
where am I in it all?
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 4:12 AM UTC
.*i still can't find my generation bv limp bizkit online... that's... just, just ever so bothersome... and what did: the who, ever receive.... oh... right... the sunday times magazine front-cover.... HIS generation... roger daltrey, the Who frontman, on the groupies, the madness of keith moon - and backing Brexit... nice... nice... but i can't search for lim bizkit's my generation - song... this is the part where you pray with the congregation... when the last of the Auschwitz survivors die... hmm... a free world... when the last of the Auschwitz survivors die... hello wowld.*
like burning out
cigarettes on the tips
of your knuckles...
just because...
you're too cheap
to intake tattoo ink.
always a blast with
a blur,
of a remnant scar;
sure as hell
beats taking to
defining self-harm
with inking.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 8:23 PM UTC
.
Tom
Ford Yves St
Laurent Bill Bl
ass Tommy Hil
figer Christian
Dior Michael K
orsMarc Jacobs
Karl Lagerfeld
Oscar de la Ren
ta JohnGalliano
JeanPaulGaultie
r ChristianLoub
outin GeoffreyB
eeneCalvinKlein
R a lph L au ren
Pierre Cardin Giorgio Armani
Zac Posen Phillip Lim Jason Wu Gianni
Versace Prabul Gurung Emanuel
Ungero Rick O w ens
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
we can say without inhibitions: the english novel, the russian novel, the french novel... akin to the german thought, the polish thought; we really can't say: the english thought, the russian, the french thought... we can only say the german thought, the polish thought... i'm already frolicking in censorship... but that's how it is: the english / russian / french novel v. the german thought the anti-novel; perhaps even music.
they allowed trans-gender,
but **** me bubbly bumblebee
they will not allow
trans-profession anti-gender
stereotype, they'll keep on
feeding me humanism
by those educated in english literature
and not those educated in
physics or etc. boors and crass
willing to suddenly experience
a need for change... educating people
to write books... i'd stick
to educating people to write
journalistic columns, the times of
Tolstoy are dead, no one has the time
for blah blah poetic technique blah blah;
why?
we're missing the bored girls at leisure
in salons,
instead over-sexed girls in limousines
(anti-dyslexia: spelling a grapheme e.g. æ
is like watching multiples of
donkey and carrot arrangements
distributed via images of photo-sensitivity /
phonetic-sensitivity, like
admiring the excesses of ***********
and censoring the words f**k).
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
The orange sun yet sets again,
As my drifting thoughts so simply flutter over you,
I can’t help but keep my mind close, and near,
As it seeps through the cracks looking,
For your simple smile, something that could so easily break hearts,
Oh and I see, as all these tiny trees grow inches in the time it takes me to say not even a word,
To you,
And I can’t help but collapse in on myself, like a black hole slowly caving in,
I could name a star, some galaxy, after you,
But then where would I be,
I’m only yet falling, looking for these simple lies that keep us apart,
I’ve got a noose around my every lim and I feel so torn apart,
It’s so much harder getting out, once you’ve already dived in,
And it’s like,
A scary gravity, so strong that I can’t swim up,
I can’t look you in the eyes, for all I see are hopes and dreams,
And my own light, diminished in the dark,
So yet again, I fall appart,
And seep through rough cracks, water breaking rocks apart,
I am but blood dripping down a bland colored wall,
Beloved, and so it seems, like I am of the same thing,
All these things that I blankly stare at, thinking thoughts I’d rather have nightmares about,
No more than move inches and strive for the sun, that falls away every night,
What is day,
When I’ve lost all hope in night?
May 31, 2010
May 31, 2010 at 5:14 PM UTC
There was an Old Man of Japan
Whose lim er icks never would scan;
When they said, "What the fu?" he replied, "They're haiku!"
That Irish Old Man of Japan.
Jul 24, 2024
Jul 24, 2024 at 5:40 AM UTC
in the winter night flew Elisha in the blizzard snow after that they said don't shoot elisha he might be there on the branches down below and when they when hunting in
the winter chill it gave the rancher a scare He said I raised him from a
baby he was so smart he drove me crazy one day I went to my sons house he was a priest and we went to a monstary all the priest were in a hurry to see this smart raven one of the priest held him up to give a blessing but he dropped him on the floor but he didn't say never more never more he flew up and on the wall there were pictures of the priest
and young elisha never ceased he found the picture of the priest that dropped him and pecked at the picture and flew out the window on a branch lim I caught him and said elisha i'm sorry that happen to you and he loved beer so I gave he some brew one day there was a storm
and I had to get the cattle in were it was safe and warm elisha tried to catch up with the herd he was defoted and relentless bird but poor young elisha couldn't find his owner and poor elisha became a loner
the rancher cryied but he always had hope that elisha was alive and the next winter came there was no one to blame that that raven was gone and when his son was old enough to hunt he told his son the story and siad you were this black had I wore when elisha was around and he would sore you were that hat to remind ya so you don't shoot elisha
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
Life shouldn't be rated
beyond what it's not
beautiful parts there are
but not all are to be celebrated
that which is deemed wise
lies in juxtaposition with the absurd
laughter is conjoined with tears
worries often appear in a horde-
in the web of time, restless and intricate
frequent fevers are inevitably caught
beauty and ugliness fiercely struggle
to regain their desired spot:
life shouldn't be held
as certainty---such it's not-
each of us bears our own cross
and we ache silently in heart and thought
copyright Peter Lim. 2024
Nov 26, 2024
Nov 26, 2024 at 12:38 AM UTC
jeg har ikke brug for nogle andre
spiser ikke morgenmad eller nogle
andre måltider, har nok i dig og
du sætter dig som lim lige på
min tungespids, du siger ikke så
meget mere
jeg lyver, når jeg hvisker, du skal
lade mig være, jeg taler sandt, når
jeg siger, jeg stadig hader dig for det,
du lod dig selv gøre
med maling under negle lader du
mig ridse overfladen af, du siger
jeg er smuk, fordi jeg ikke ligner dig,
jeg siger, du har øjne lavet af marmor
og du ser oftere bare på
spørger sjældent
for du kender godt svaret, hvis du
tænker dig om en ekstra gang, vil
du vide
at jeg ikke har brug for nogle andre
end dig og dine døsige ord
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
I know of a Nomad people there.
They would even marry kids,
About 8 year olds I refer to here,
Lay them in the desert sand,
**** them they would every night.
Alas, a new creed was started,
Bet they do for camel derbies,
Often they Halal their necks,
Up they drink camel blood,
Totally exploiting their women.
Them we fear the most,
How shameless they are,
End their hatred will never.
My indication is towards them,
Unintelligible who have become,
Slim are their famished girls,
Listening is the entrapped Shiva,
I know that He'll be finally free,
Many still repeat the enchantments,
So dumb they circumambulate anti-clockwise.
An effigy of Ravaņa is afire annually,
None of his descendants is brave,
Demean they the Hindus therefore.
Them the world fears on this day,
Harmony is harmed by them,
Escaping them is not possible,
I mean that they are everywhere,
Regal they think that they all are.
Originating in Hinduism,
Road to heaven they have lost,
I too got visions from heaven,
Go to the mausoleum & break it,
Ignore what the world says,
No followers of Maha Maada,
She was a demon princess originally.
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 4:46 AM UTC
I would have liked to meet
Edward Lear
his limericks are very sweet
and marvellously dear.
He would have gladly welcomed me as a friend
as my surname is Lim---close to lim-erick
we would have had fun to no end
and I would have acquired his every unique poetical trick
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
There was a man from Beijing called Not Tee Lim
Ugly, bald, belligerent, recalcitrant and slim
Won the year's First Prize for Insolence,
Belligerence, Indifference and Intolerance
He was bestowed a knighthood--his new name-- Sir Irreverent Lim
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC