"lounging" poems
Wake up Mi Amor enjoy the Day to Come
Life isn't a sprint it's a marathon run
Hold yourself together through the good and bad
As we ride the roller coaster of happy and sad
Emotion like weather here comes a storm
Take shelter in me I'll keep you warm
We can take a trip don't worry about money
Lounge all day feed you when you're hungry
A picnic for two with a bottle of wine
Relax read a book as day unwinds
Refills of affection overflows your cup
In a daze as we gaze to deep..
Peaceful sleep I'd hate to disrupt
Return to me my love
It's time to wake up..
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
A catalyst is a chemical that speeds up reactions.
At least that’s what I learned in chemistry class.
Catalysts sometimes are the major factors in a reactions and without them,
The reaction could never happen.
Catalyst can be lab chemicals,
alcohol,
drugs,
coffee even,
or a person.
While lounging around one afternoon you were talking physics
And I turned it on your head and spoke of chemistry,
Knowing full well that I was speaking of our personal chemistries.
You were right, the physics of a relationship gives us the laws,
But CHEMISTRY can predict the outcome.
If you do the math and follow the directions,
you can determine the product without even doing the experiment.
Unless the reaction you are creating has never been attempted before by the scientists preforming the experiment.
They can flip through the books,
Read the essays,
Study the theorems,
Even attempt the calculations,
But if they don’t do the actual experiment,
They will never find their outcome.
Some things need a push,
A catalyst,
For them to form a bond,
React,
And combine into a stable combination.
Hypotheses must be TESTED, ACCEPTED, and RATIFIED
Before becoming a law.
No matter how based in logic your hypothesis might be,
You need the universe and its fundamental laws to back it up.
There are still surprises left in the universe.
Maybe you and I can be one of them.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.
On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.
We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
I’m working to unwrap you slowly
To form you up like a theory
To create a habitat for you in my head
My steps grow wider when I see you at the end
Lying, lounging, an old lion
Afternoon sun low and tired
Rays and shadows streak the road like enveloping arms
As I grow closer, you project even further away
I just long to reach you
Rest my head against your ***** and
Sleep against your softness like a pile of feathers
To rest at last.
But at times I think I’ll never reach you,
As I approach you reflect even further away
I wonder that this road is endless, thinning into the distance
The black wires radiate into the air above me
Mutating my simple DNA into something else entirely
A sole purpose survivor, a solider
The cause is more desperate now
They’re buzzing to each other above my head, talking about me
Their scrutiny banging between my ears
The dust becomes a new layer of me, with incredible thirst
Just fields of dehydrated dandelions, just nothing
They soak up the liquid from everything
With their chemical and electrical waves
The fields are screeching as they shrivel up, like dying children
Now it’s all yellow, beige, and far away
It’s all so tiny against the horizon,
For all I know, your silhouette has become a statue by now
Just this long stripe of dirt I treat like a passageway
Just a ladder to a final place of rest
I’m desperate for a stop in my trudging motion
But I know I can’t lie down in this unworthy sand.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
Hear the LION'S ROAR
As the many indignant souls
Find themselves restored
In his majestic presence
As he rattles the very fabric
Of this world as many
Broken men become renewed
Their fractured parts
Collect in the melting ***
Of the Lions stare
So let us all dare
To live life like a Lion
Lounging in the sun
Owning and surveying
His beautiful life
Storing great forces
Reservoirs of strength
To pounce and punch
Soft pads of silent stealth
Gather for all his wealth
His appetite strong
He honors every parts of self
But there is no where
To hide in the cats eye stare
As my many fumbling phoney selves
Dissolve in his melting glare
As I am shamed by a look
As I approach life like a crook
My procrastinating belly exposed
In my lack luster display
As I breath a contempt
For my precious life
Standing strong in stature
And rich in golden shine
Radiating with a presence
Of Absolute rule
The air washed with
A bristly respect
A natural pride
Beams with a beauty
Freed from all that is false
His being effortlessly
Embraces the fields
Of his own nature
As I am silenced by
The strangle hold of this
Bitter dysfunctional world
Tightened by a
Multitude of silent gestures
I sit to listen
To the LION'S ROAR
I feel my throat burst
My gagged tongue freed
My choked throat
Beams like the sun
As I softly delve
In to the LION'S ROAR
An open infinity
Cuts my many collars
Releasing my self expression
As a thousand trap doors
Open in me
Learning from the loving LION
Our self expression freed
And our appetite renewed
We live a new adventure
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC
Our lives are a Jenga masterpiece,
a collage of self-interpreted
debauchery that we have been
told is the work of R.F.
Is it necessary to destroy ourselves
for the things that we desire?
Why do I have to be symbolic
of an Irish dome of the rock?
(have you ever touched the rock?)
(has anyone?)
I am tarot prophetic in my
loathing of our distorted level.
I am chronic mime gestures
on the West Banks of the Jordan.
We are rouge lipstick
smeared across blue collars
and twisted pretzels lounging
citrus grove clean and sad.
I am just a man.
We are just people.
The buildings are just Lego's we have
crushed and spent combating azure tides
to stand ourselves straight against that
last wall...
but I love you still,
despite.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
curled in bed
eyes pinched tight
whole body trembling,
sleep escaped hours ago
this is how it is trying to talk to you.
like pulling teeth with pliers
clenched in a small boy's fist
a wry grin on his determined face,
knotted eyebrows will ache for days
like being pulled by a speedboat
tossing and turning in the wake
skin on my palms already gone
taking a breath, giving up, letting go,
crashing hard onto cold water's surface
like my chest giving out
every breath catching on its way in
hands digging through a too messy bag
inhaler nowhere in sight, help nowhere in sight,
breathing is too hard to handle right now
like a beach beyond the caves
crawling through at low tide,
sand gritty under fingernails, sun stinging on flushed cheeks
lounging on sharp boulders that dig between shoulder blades,
then rushing back home to escape being trapped for the night
toes tickled with goodbye kisses from the dark, growing waves
through missing teeth and breath,
under wrinkled sheets, and sand and water,
I can't hear anything.
I never could.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
I remember a dog with matted fur lounging in the shade
of a collapsed arch, staring in a way that animals sometime
stare that makes me wonder if the beliefs of Kantianism are
nothing more than old wives’ tales spun from smoke and cinder.
I remember the faint smell of sulfur mixed with seawater
in the shadow of the volcano that poured out its wrath
by the bowlful, the golden urns of the gods spilling
fire and magma from the very cradle of hell.
I remember the empty bathhouses, the villas with
half-painted frescoes, the expensive red paints made from
crushed beetle shells, the overturned tables and chairs,
the uneven stone streets carved by horse-drawn cart wheels.
I remember the skeletons huddled in boathouses,
unearthed from their ash-spun graves for prying eyes,
for the rapid shutter of camera lenses, for the proof
of their existence, as if to leer at the living and say,
“We are all nothing but carbon and bone.”
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
I am a pumpkin.
I am new and young and happy. The grass is comforting and cool. I spend my days lounging in the warm sun surrounded by other pumpkins.
I am a pumpkin.
The grass is changing but I am still comfortable. The sun isn't as warm but my company makes it all okay.
I am a pumpkin.
I have been taken from what I knew. Everything is different and I'm scared. Why has this happened?
I am a pumpkin.
Until I'm not.
I am a pumpkin but something is wrong.
My head hurts.
It's gone.
I am a pumpkin.
I feel wrong.
I can feel you removing my seeds.
I know I can't stop you but please, be gentle.
I am a pumpkin.
I am a pumpkin.
I am... hurting.
The carving is sharp and mechanical.
It's excruciating.
It's okay. It'll be over soon.
Smile.
Smile? Why?
I am a pumpkin.
I am a pumpkin.
I am a pumpkin no more.
I am a jack-o-lantern.
I am changed.
I am sore and in pain.
I am bitter but concealed.
I am a jack-o-lantern.
Watch me wither.
Watch me rot.
Watch me smile.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
Crocodiles catnapping cuddling in cordial cliques,
Loafing, lollygagging, lurking low like lounging leeches,
Protective postures pouncing prey with piercing pinned precision,
Brilliant belligerent beasts basking boldly by swamp beaches,
Agressively angry attitudes among alluring adverse animals,
Deep daunting jaws of death damage drastically when dropping down,
Scales shaped like stabbing shards scrape while swimming strongly,
Opposing opposition order obedience of outrageous odious opponents,
Raged ravenous rapacious reptiles rank repulsive ratings and resourses...
©Michael P. Smith
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
In a Somerville coffeeshop, waiting for his single origin light roasted Pour over,
Frankenstein reads a philosophy magezine, seductively planted by the lounging area.
"One lives two lives."
The magezine reads,
"That which one spends in their physical body,
and that which begins the moment one leaves that body,
lasting until all witness to ones first life has spoken its final word".
The baristas eyes widen when he sees Frankenstein,
The barista says nothing.
He knows better than to raise the dead.
Frankenstein is often confused
for his monster.
Condensation rises between crocheted mittens, Frankenstein Lingers on the Cherry notes in his Coffee, while it combs icicles into his snow white mustache.
He likes this new version of an afterlife. It empowers him to take advantage of the time he has now, to make his second life last as long as possible.
He's in the middle of this thought
When his face slams against ***** snowbank.
Dog **** mixing into the icicles of his moustache.
A familiar mob of torches and pitchforks only see the monster.
They take turns kicking.
Kicking
Frankenstein wakes to a lynching.
When he lives
He is not a monster.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 8:06 AM UTC
cupidity is a dizzy thorn smoldering in the pith your heart
where happiness is frail and mighty and all joy a thing so vast
you can hardly keep up with how happy, but can’t stop now,
so kisses rain down from simple days lounging on couches
with adorable dimples the shape of your afternoon **********
and all is the kingdom of vulnerability
wrapped in the impossible
happening
NOW,
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
A River
In Madurai,
city of temples and poets,
who sang of cities and temples,
every summer
a river dries to a trickle
in the sand,
baring the sand ribs,
straw and women’s hair
clogging the watergates
at the rusty bars
under the bridges with patches
of repair all over them
the wet stones glistening like sleepy
crocodiles, the dry ones
shaven water-buffaloes lounging in the sun
The poets only sang of the floods.
He was there for a day
when they had the floods.
People everywhere talked
of the inches rising,
of the precise number of cobbled steps
run over by the water, rising
on the bathing places,
and the way it carried off three village houses,
one pregnant woman
and a couple of cows
named Gopi and Brinda as usual.
The new poets still quoted
the old poets, but no one spoke
in verse
of the pregnant woman
drowned, with perhaps twins in her,
kicking at blank walls
even before birth.
He said:
the river has water enough
to be poetic
about only once a year
and then
it carries away
in the first half-hour
three village houses,
a couple of cows
named Gopi and Brinda
and one pregnant woman
expecting identical twins
with no moles on their bodies,
with different coloured diapers
to tell them apart.
~A.K.Ramanujan
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
So,
now they want a debate after
they got us in this hell of a state.
The knock on the door,
'Labour does more'.
'Preserve the Conservative, go with the flow',
The Greens don't you know want the whole ****** country to grow,
biodiversity?
are there no limits to what we can be?.
Well,
you can all **** orf
take your policies and shove 'em
I've made up my mind to grind up manifestos
plant them in pots and see what grows from them.
Probably tulips or grey men
Nothing will change whoever gets in
whoever's first past the trough they all stop to
dip in,
they're all of the same, using us by
confusing us by using a different name.
But I'll wait and then see on the BBC
Who's going to be the new 'pope',
whoever it is
there's no hope,
I'll still be poor.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
HE always gets the higher rank,
Not just HIM but any
Of the fall soldiers.
What do they fulfill,
That you are missing,
Are you troubled behind closed doors?
You have a youth of your very own,
Standing right here,
Tacitly craving just a loving expression.
You wound me when you advise tactfully,
that I should vacate,
So you and your vernal pibe,
Can take in abortive entertainment.
Little did I know,
Lounging in the same environs,
Was a taboo in the posh palace.
I would reflect,
Reimagine & rationalize.
If you neglect to
You may find a solitary soul.
My heart hopes for the highest,
But days past tell me otherwise.
Humans argue, fuss and struggle,
But those who,
Value and treat unconditional loves,
Warmheartedly get the real pleasure.
If I ride off from this declining,
Tormenting cliff, like a lost knight,
Know why.
&
When things get distressing,
Maybe then you will understand.
Love & Art,
Offspring
1991-20??
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
Ghost Relics
Downtown,
where Main intersects Main
you'll see the last living tissue
of a breathing bazaar.
They weighed down her chest with bricks and girders.
It's a wonder she breathes at all.
-
Wander too far in any direction
and you're sure to see the husks
of once proud and bustling businesses.
Abandoned sanctums of mortar and majesty.
Scars of the Midwest etched as constants in our mind.
Dusty and silent since the cradle.
-
The theaters are bedeviled with dolled up haunts
who just wandered over from Greenwood to catch the matinee.
Management still leaves the lights on for kicks after hours
to throw off their sleep schedules while they wait for the feature to start.
Up all night, sleep all day; they read by neon and slumber under Sol.
Here I am, left lounging in The Devil's Chair. Crickets keep quavering.
-
Underneath the Franklin Street overpass sleeps a family bound by naught.
They watch in dawn's light as the few pedestrian that traverse Cerro Gordo
advert their eyes as some sort of silent symbol of respect for their situation.
It's as if the very stare of a privileged man could drain 'til depleted.
They never ask for anything, they just wade it out and listen to
the cars overhead, the train-clock's trumpet, and the heartbeats in between.
-
Leaks are patched, potholes filled, and yet
we're still loosing blood; becoming beguiled.
So many stray cats in the civilian savanna,
aimlessly seeking names and second chances.
"This premises is under police video surveillance" -
hanging like ornaments from streetlamp poles.
-
Guarding the gates
of a dwindling dominion,
as the armies of Union and Grand
wait in their camps
for the rust to take hold
of her iron veins.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
Sing me a lullaby
Put these thoughts to rest
With the best high
The warmth in your chest
I knew you before
But not like this
Did I open a new door?
What did I miss?
I've seen another galaxy
It's just for you and me
It could not have happened
If this were another day
Wouldn't, couldn't, but did
Work out this strange way
It was perfect, you see
Led down the same path
We stumbled blindly into each other
Our galaxy was born, alas
Calm, crazy, hot and happy
How could just one night
Make me feel so right?
Ah, tread swiftly, softly
For our galaxy is just that:
Ours.
And they will not understand
They will pull back their hands
And curl them into fists
Or damage their wrists
We are their light
They are our shadows
Crouching tiger, hidden dragon
We lie awake til’ our sun shines on
The curtain will draw once more
Never to be closed again
And sun will pour over our bodies
Like an orange being squeezed
Fresh from the trees
It will weaken our knees
It will engulf us instantaneously
And we will be swallowed
By the humbled body of serenity
Left lounging on cloud mounds
Left with each others'
Complementary company
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 2:00 AM UTC
His jealousy is like a poison in my blood
I can feel my limbs getting heavy
in my attempts to ease it
but it just gets stronger.
My limbs are like dead weight
sinking sinking deeper
drowning in the water
unable to rise
unable to feel.
I fall to the ground
so deep I can feel the hounds of hell breathing
breathing me in
the way I breathed in the smell of my coffee
the smell of his blackberry tea.
He prefers tea to coffee
it has a better taste to him
he only likes iced coffee.
His presence has gone silent
he no longer speaks.
I don’t hear from him
he’s done
he just disappeared.
It’s like it never happened.
I never watched him play
with his tea cup after it was gone.
He never kissed me.
He kissed me...
Maybe he did have a right to be jealous of him.
Maybe it made sense...
I just don’t know.
I wish his presence would come back.
I enjoy talking to him
seeing him
being around him.
But I also enjoy being around the other.
How can I expect him to not be jealous
when I know how he feels,
but I still tell him when I hang out with another guy?
Like Eli and his blackberry tea
his blackberry tea and my coffee.
My coffee I sipped at to make the moment last longer.
I’d been so scared he wouldn’t like me.
I was already wondering why he wanted to hang out with me
he’s a freshman in college I'm a sophomore in high school.
The only conversations we had before then
was always about poetry
poetry
poetry
poetry.
But what did I do?
Why did he just stop?
All I did was say I couldn’t hang out that night.
He asked at eleven at night.
I was already lounging around.
I was watching movies.
I had to work in the morning.
Why did he wait till eleven at night to ask?
I was free all day
but he waits till its dark and I can’t leave.
Why does that give him reason to ignore me?
I guess two can play at that game
but its a little harder on my end.
When you’re already being ignored its hard to ignore them
especially when you just want them to talk to you.
Talk to me.
Talk to you.
What am I talking about?
If he messaged right now
we all know I’d answer.
What’s a girl to do
when she wants to be around the person
that’s ignoring her?
Before you ask
no, I don’t like him like that
at least I don’t think
I don’t know.
I don’t know what I think.
I don’t know anything.
I don’t know me.
I don’t know you.
I don’t know her .
and I apparently don’t know him either.
But I know the other.
He’s still there
watching quietly in his jealous stupor.
He’s still talking to me
but that has made no difference.
Especially when he quotes my own poems back to me
“‘This inexpressible, uncontrollable feeling’
*for you
you
only you
no one else
just you*”
I don’t know how to respond to that.
how does he expect me to respond?
I don’t even know anymore!
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
*Most of the time
He's the lord of the jungle
Everyone grins while he gripes
Usually he's found just
Lounging around in his stripes
His tiger lady's
A superfine feline
Just what his highness deserves
A sweet purring pussycat
Proud of her pussycat curves
He's a tiger in the rain
It's the thunder and lightnin'
He can't explain
A tiger in the rain
Who's frightened
Caught in the storm he came
Searching for shelter
Right up to me and my spouse
We both stroked his chin and
Invited him into the house
He's a tiger in the rain
It's the thunder and lightnin'
He can't explain
A tiger in the rain
Who's frightened
He's a tiger in the rain
It's the thunder and lightnin'
He can't explain
A tiger in the rain
Who's frightened*
*****************************************************
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
I started writing a poem and somehow found myself
comparing your traits to that of a sweater,
and there might have been an allusion to buttery clouds,
So I decided maybe love metaphors aren't my thing,
but I don't need analogies to tell you that
your eyes make me think of tree houses and that
kneading your skin like dough is just as soothing
to my own soul.
If I could, I'd compare your lips to something
life-sustaining, your hands to the sole thing that
grounds me, but I can't think of
anything clever when our foreheads resting together
makes me see stars. When your breath heats my neck,
those stars explode.
You make my solar system change rotation,
planets straying from orbit, which is a stupid metaphor
because I'm not the universe,
just a dandelion in a field of assorted weeds.
You're a bumblebee hovering, maybe, or a cricket
lounging on my petals. That's
dumb, too, because I'm not rooted to the ground;
I have legs to run, maybe wings. Point is, I'm not going to use
comparisons to tell you what you do.
Every line has been used before and your love is like no other.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
A passion dripping of sin
A drunken epiphany
Plucking all my heartstrings
In the perfect melody.
You soothe me with your words
Profound and adoring
I think of you in debauchery
The fantasy is flooring.
I'd die for your arms around me
Just for a second I lust
A desire burning like hot coals
You around me I trust.
Cover me with your poetic form
Your limbs lounging about
A warmth radiating from your sweat-skin
I welcome your nakedness with no doubt.
My sighs are heavy and hypnotized
I'm wrapped all up in you
And I'm not fighting at all
Because it's all I want to do.
Be with you
Be yours
Let you stroke my hair
My want is practically seeping from my pores.
But I am all ready yours
I just wish for you tonight
A moment apart from you
Brings my ache to an astounding height.
I miss you, I miss you
I'll say it a million times
As if that would put you in my arms
By writing all these rhymes.
Sleep well without me, love
If only for a night
I'll kiss you naked in my dreams
And forget this temporary plight.
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 7:42 PM UTC
last night i almost
gave up thinking of bronzy brazilian girls
perspiring pure coconut oil, eau de margherita ;
supermodelas eating my dreams like concord grapes, lionesses
lounging on new york balconies, lithe, reading céline.
(esti ginzburg, on the phone, considers another pomeranian) .
almost stopped.
almost derailed strange vogue-like fantasme of irina shayk, standing legs planted
left knee out-thrust and foot
in ebony heel, cocked against the earth.
set being imitation of gloomy coal mine, east of prague. thin arms firmly controlling the
arc of her pickaxe, clothed in leather, high heels;
sheen of sweat holding her feline body in sweet embrace.
imagining that when shift's end buzzer echoes thru the tunnels she smokes a cigarette
on a bench in the women's locker, apple planted on old planking, elbows on her knees.
cover-alls peeled
down to her waist and her hair,
free at last.
(click)
on the tram back into the city all the smoked glass
cartier storefronts pass by like polaroids held in the hand. the same speed.
giggling, 'rina thinks of the six she could place
along her arm; gilt gold, brushed silver, diamant...
there are 11 smoked belmonts by the back steps; i did
little with the night. (tall shadow of a woman in a black dress and my mouth
a cotton ball)
that is to say:
i did almost give up thinking about bronzy braz ilia g rls ,
-
but i didn't/and so there's nothing else.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
Fashionable entourage
people dance in step
to the beat of hidden
native rituals
Hidden here and there
seeing a pair clad up to the hilt
with colored shades
cool as mountain glades
that never
shakes or simmers
on fire
a real deep desirous searching soul
Rapping about nothing
even though
face to face
words bounce off expressions
as cool as mountain glades
that soon melt-fade
into the distance
Rap, tap, clap
never nap
the cannibus-filled room
embellished by flashing lights
on nights
that take spatial flights
into another world that enters upon
lounging everywhere
people lost in space,
in time,
in androgynous acts
In vogue, you speak to me
about fashions
that dazzle, frazzel, razzle,
and lip curl
and eye twinkle
me to you,
in real
but unreal
cannibus-sweet-dusky-dreamy-rooms
MTV blotched, bleached
Sergio Valente dungarees,
then a real feeling child cries
in the background
and is soon hustled off to bed
And never a hurt we laugh
and smile
and smile
A frozen smile grin;
take it on the chin sport
Keep up the good front
Keep up the grinning fort sport
A sported fort fortified Disneyland
and life's forever
carousel ride
and sweep the dirt under the carpet
A speak about profits
And speak about"ME" yuppie things;
about golden rings
that wrap around ears, around wrists, and cattle noses
Seek time entwined
to search geometrically
the advertisements
that lead you
and nobody but you to you
A love ballad between
one and no one but you
You and you
and you
and you
Being good you
you being good to you,
Being good to nar-sa-see-you
you being good to only you,
to yoou
to yoou
to yoooooooooou
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
There are bare-breasted women
lounging in the unmade bed
of my mind.
They teach me chords on the piano,
and how to stay grateful
in the face of time;
how it lingers between seconds,
but years go by unannounced.
We don't make love. We ****
taking back each wasted Sunday
spent talking to G-d,
or waiting for political truth.
They run their fingers over my back,
send me to a sleep
of dried sweat and loving violence.
They send me sunflower seeds and ****
in the post,
so I can bloom by the open window
and feel warmth through winter.
There are powerful women
laying down the law by the clock tower.
They stand up for Syria
and challenge the authority
I had conjured in my mind.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC