"madams" poems
i love peperoni
i love the madams sconey
it tastes like gold
even though it ain't that bold
my favourite meat it ham
ham is my jam
everyone loves pizza except for that old geezer
yolo
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 6:34 AM UTC
ARMOUR AVENUE was the name of this street and door signs on empty houses read "The Silver Dollar," "Swede Annie" and the Christian names of madams such as "Myrtle" and "Jenny."
Scrap iron, rags and bottles fill the front rooms hither and yon and signs in Yiddish say Abe Kaplan & Co. are running junk shops in ***** houses of former times.
The segregated district, the Tenderloin, is here no more; the red-lights are gone; the ring of shovels handling scrap iron replaces the banging of pianos and the bawling songs of pimps.Chicago, 1915.
1.9k
I happen upon this realization tonight, this one among many others:
I keep many lovely "Night Buds..."
in a collective nocturnal realm.
That is to say, good sirs and madams who care to lend their individual respective gentle ears for the sparing;
There are many women with whom I only seem to engage with in conversation or for companionship as night time falls over my conscious self.
I happened upon this truth earlier tonight in deep reflection, my friends and fellows.
And I wonder to myself, to what significance do these few coincidental female fates have on my person?
Am I more friendly at night, when the sun is gone and the moon is up? Is this the fate I have fallen to? Is this the life I've made?
Am I more alive than dead when my motionless body just crawls into bed and I lye there for hours or days at a time and feel happier alone in that bed than when I'm out around the house with my family; this because I've forgotten how to love, and their beautiful friendship makes me terribly saddened by the wish to reciprocate such friendship, but all for not...as I cannot love anymore.
I'm saddened by love, I've only the Night Buds to turn to and share my woes with collectively.
I wish I could be strong like some, and have no need to turn to Night Buds for consoling, for deflating my troubles, and for wishing good fortune.
I perhaps someday shall not have such need, but for now, I'll work on improving and keep my Night Buds all the same.
You see I really am quite found of my Night Buds: they make me feel like life is not all that bad, and that choosing to feel happy is the only way to really in fact be happy, regardless of living situation (though I still struggle to swallow that pill of logic).
Until my heart dance slows and I express this sentiment of self-realization aloud, I shan't sleep a peep.
Post- heart normalization and expression, I will perhaps have slipped off into a final slumber...thereafter having only this to say:
Night Bud!
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
There was nothing ahead
but the blazing red
brazen brake lights watching
for the likes of us,
with somewhere to be
besides the whipping chills
of concrete and ice
spliced into our state,
uniquely white.
Inside, the air
surged the song out
and over our bundled bodies
thermal anomalies
in the amalgamating night.
Music
wrapped and coiled,
covered the lazy silence
like insulation commitment
to keep us safe,
deployed in case of a conversational
head on collision,
curtailed with soft sounds,
in amber lamps
simple.
Your particulate words
freckles in the face of ill
conceived ideas of entitled
Sirs and Madams,
my van Gogh brush
damning them all to hell.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
Presidents
Washington, Adams and Jefferson,
had *** with slaves just for fun.
Madison, Monroe and Adams,
I'm sure had secret madams.
Jackson, Van Buren and Harrison,
not sure how they ever won.
Tyler, Polk and Taylor,
before elected lived in a trailer.
Fillmore, Pierce and Buchanan,
should have been shot from a cannon.
Lincoln, Johnson and Grant,
each once had a cotton plant.
Hayes, Garfield and Arthur,
sinking fast with no life preserver.
Cleveland, Harrison and again Cleveland,
both of them killed at least one Indian.
McKinley, Roosevelt and Taft,
all too fat to float on a raft.
Wilson, Harding and Coolidge,
should have jumped from a bridge.
Hoover, Roosevelt and Truman,
wondering if they were even human.
Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnson,
neither of them can still run.
Nixon, Ford and Carter,
not sure which one was smarter.
Reagan, Bush and Clinton,
shot, stupid and a Monica.
Bush and now Obama,
one was dumb,
and the other looks like a black llama.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
Have I done this?
Have I done that?
Wait.
I forgot to do something.
PANIC.
Every day,
You do the same,
Follow a list,
And give it a name.
We all do it,
Even me,
I try to rhyme,
As you can see.
But what if we all
Made a change?
Did something random?
Tried to rearrange?
What if I choose
Not to rhyme?
Would that be better?
Worth my time?
Let's give it a shot.
So randomness.
How shall I do it?
Find the answer?
And then the question?
Bananas are cool.
Goodbye sirs and madams.
Hi there!
Fly away!
Eat a snail!
Catch a fish!
What's your favourite fruit?
I'm on the ceiling!
I'm underground!
Have we started?
Nearly done.
Qwertyuiop.
Asdfghjkl.
Zxcvbnm.
The contents of my keyboard.
And that is all.
Hmm.
I think I'll keep my list.
Because that was exhausting.
And the order I missed.
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 12:11 PM UTC
Susan
Oh how I long that you could share the same life as mine
It saddens me to hear the stories you tell. You work In mansions but live in a shack, you pick up while we snack,you wake up early while I sleep in.
Susan
Oh how I long I could give you a reset button.
Susan I long for the life where you were never a victim of the apartheid Regime.
A life where your skin colour nor gender classified your class.
A life filled with smiles that aren't put on just because the madams in the house.
A life where you felt like a person with dreams that weren't unrealistic but rather very optimistic.
Susan I'm listening
I hear your groans as your aching aging back gets up from the cement cold floor
I hear your footsteps as you walk along the sandy dry road
I hear your frustration as you wait for your RDP house in anticipation.
Susan I hear you
I've never had the same struggles as you but I ankowledge you
I see you
Not just the outer complexion of your aging wrinkled face.
I see the real you. The strong victorious women who raised a family, and walks miles to provide
The grandmother who will never give up a fight.
I no longer have broken eyes I see the truth and Susan you are the truth
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 4:28 PM UTC
Dear Sirs or Madams,
Of a literary persuasion.
I write today with,
A professional inclination.
I fear, and worry, my imagination’s clock,
Has, sadly, hit a writer’s block.
In short, I hope
(with a hesitance, hereout),
To employ the services of a muse.
Both, male and female,
Are encouraged to apply,
Though, I admit, my bias may lie,
Towards those who kindness, mercy and love,
Are praised and placed inherently above,
The human desires of power and wealth
And selfish ambition and pride in themselves.
Though, I suppose, this seems hypocritical,
I would confer this is politically cynical,
Rather, I’m looking for something. . . irrational,
An inspiration to fuel and flame my passion as,
Something and someone,
Yet, nothing and no one,
An ideal, an idol, a god and a human.
Something to write about,
A story to tell.
A depiction of the fire inside them that dwells.
The light, the colour the sun in their eyes,
The mountains and jungles, though secret, resides,
The palaces, mansions and kingdoms that hide,
Though present, disguised and entwined in their mind.
Alas, I digress,
Too often, I confess,
My mind wanders and turns,
Till I’m lost and undressed,
Left naked of topic, ideas and abreast,
Of chemical incapacity,
Of pure relativity,
So, a point of focus, a centre,
I seek, you see?
To aim my passion and love and thoughts,
And kindness and lust and heart, of course.
So please,
If you find yourself,
So inclined,
Write to introduce,
And flirt with my mind.
Tease with your words,
And caress with your lips,
And, if it elicits a feeling within,
I’ll write you a letter,
Of black ink emotion,
And seal it with blood,
And endless devotion.
Send it on its way,
To rest in your hands,
We’ll see where it takes us,
Let fate make her plans.
Yours forever,
Your humble admirer.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 5:18 AM UTC
Charred Chicken and broth
steamed in a ***
Pies are for dessert.
Sweet no savor to save her
Lustful froth.
Papered Pastries and jam
cooked together in al/
Dente is for pasta.
Crunch no chew a choice of his
friendly madams
Sweetened Sodas and pork
grilled on char
coal is for trains.
Thinned out thoughts lost
in transit to New York
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
Confronted by a towering wall
spanning miles above me..
..I..
Get a grip! says one of my men.
it shan't be long now-
attach the hooks and wires,
and climb-!
As I stumble towards the wall
something arches fourth
from my stomach
some kind of muck or mire
comes rushing forward
and my mind disappears
Awakened by the foul stench
of burning sulfur and coal
I open my eyes, groggily
and though blurry and strained
I perceive small little hooven feet
dancing about me
Yet no fear is within me
my aversions long gone
for this sight is one
I have grown accustomed to
I live among them
pray among them
I search my soul
which is littered with
legions of these horned monsters
each having various faces
are they me?
are we you?
are we sane?
I hardly care anymore
the clutter strewn about
is what remains of my
sanity
the cobwebs attest
to just how long
I've treaded hereabouts
I'm tired...
I say good Sirs, and Madams
I am so very tired.
Shall we fetch you a cup of tea, sir?
No, get me that bottle over yonder
Yes, Sir-!
Mam, the bottle appears to be empty
Empty you say-?!
I swat away the pest
and hunt for something by which
I can use to dim the light of my vision
stampedes of friends bring me many more gifts
illusions, fantasies, various pains, and love letters
each smiling with crooked menacing teeth
they appear gifts in hand, and up to evil no doubt
Sir, shan't you take your morning brew?
Madam, I have taken it, and I am indeed due for more
With cup in hand, I ask of my friends
to lay me down and help me to sleep
using their tiny hands and arms
they pull shut my eyelids,
and as I begin to lose my vision
I perceive in the distant clouds
the saddened face of someone I once knew
frowning
as the face disappears into the moisturous clouds
I faintly remember I had something to do
or maybe somewhere to be?
However for now
I think I shall enjoy various brews and cups laden with
miseries
and I shall share them with my horned and bedeviled friends
because my body, mind, and soul
has come to very much resemble them
or perhaps they me?
Cheers.
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 2:01 PM UTC
Love Minus Zero / No Limit
My love, she speaks like silence
Without ideals or violence
She doesn't have to say she's faithful
Yet she's true, like ice, like fire
People carry roses
And make promises by the hours
My love, she laughs like the flowers
Valentines can't buy her
In the dime stores and bus stations
People talk of situations
Read books, repeat quotations
Draw conclusions on the wall
Some speak of the future
My love, she speaks softly
She knows there's no success like failure
And that failure's no success at all
The cloak and dagger dangles
Madams light the candles
In ceremonies of the horsemen
Even the pawn must hold a grudge
Statues made of match sticks
Crumble into one another
My love winks, she does not bother
She knows too much to argue or to judge
The bridge at midnight trembles
The country doctor rambles
Bankers' nieces seek perfection
Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring
The wind howls like a hammer
The night blows rainy
My love, she's like some raven
At my window with a broken wing
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC