"malcontent" poems
I’ve been reading a bit about positivity, this past hour.
I have been trying to project what I’ve read, mentally, in scenarios where I’m under stress to see how things work out.
I couldn’t make peace with the fact that sometimes letting go and keeping quiet is the best course of action.
That sometimes, just sometimes, shutting up and letting things happen is the only way to get over a bad situation.
The fallout can be dealt with. The one percent of our animal nature within helps us rebuild every time.
I can feel an uneasiness settling, making its home in the center of my being.
Writhing in malcontent and uneven distaste, counterbalanced hatred for this feeling I’m riddled with. Where is the good in all this?
Is that what forgiveness is? Swallowing the bitter pill? Turning a new leaf?
Among other euphemisms for being a **** up.
Something that’s very hard to do.
Two minds too blind to make themselves up. Nothing is accomplished in confusion.
One kills while the other cries.
Despair and hope side by side, waiting for one to rise and the other to fall.
Positivity is elastic, it can be stretched to fit over what you deem right.
It can be mistaken for a rush of energy, a thirst for life, a sense of achievement, an inebriated night.
All the while festering, brooding, decaying inside, a heart of sadness, that once did smile.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:13 AM UTC
“Why do you love me?” he heard her whisper in the night. He closed his eyes, a tear forming sure to stain his pillow.
*I love you because I do. I love you because the Universe showed me the way to you. I love you because my heart beats your name, my mind drowns in your eyes, my soul feels yours even when we are miles apart.
I love you because I have no choice. I didn’t ask to love you. I didn’t need to love you, but I love you just the same. My arms aren’t filled unless you’re in them, and my thirst is not quenched unless you are the drink.
I love you because I feel comfort in being out of my comfort zone with you by my side. I love you because every cell of my body responds to your touch, to your look, to the way you move and the way you sound. I love you because something, somewhere, directed me to you. It was my soul, and you are its mate.
Through the paths we have taken to one another I have loved you. I’ve played in comfortable places among comfortable people until I had no choice but to leave there to come to you here. I battled the gods themselves and faced the raging storms of hell until, one day, the clouds parted and your eyes met mine. I waited, impatiently, for you until that shock from my heart announced your arrival.
I know you are scared, my sweet Angel. I know you feel the pangs of fear and the dread of a journey of which no arrival is guaranteed. But I promise you this. When the demons come I will stand strong with you at my back and you will be protected. When the brimstone comes raining from the sky I will shield you until each storm passes. When the swine and malcontent arrive, I will fight them, and when the battles are over and the storm clouds are gone I will hold your face, look into your eyes, and you will know why I love you.*
Gyandeva
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
There's this guy who constantly gives me grief online
as if I need a reminder that I am not funny or smart
that I am incapable of posting any story without his remark
as if he should impart and bestow all of social media
with his divine and seraphic academia:
what is with that?
He posts comments about how illiterate my poetry is
how it doesn't follow the rules; the do-nots and the do's
pontificates how its not properly punctuated
as if I should give up altogether and just shine shoes
and forget trying to construct sentences
just wander in the carousel of nebula's
eternally seeking the tentacle of enemas:
what is with that?
This guy enjoys winding me up like a persistent hobby
the reverent devilment of sadistic entitlement
pushing my head under water for a digital baptism
that I should thank him for his rhetoric enlightenment
as if he was blessed with a correspondence talisman:
what is with that?
This isn't even a poem.
I am letting off steam like an overused kettle
fed up of his mortar forever rammed in my pestle
the temples are raging and my brain is just draining
to explode on cue on the next digital heckle
the cracked and broken vessel
into a vengeful steam-driven projectile:
what is with that?
This, < here > , is my only escape
and creative cathartic vent
I'll post this lament
with the stench of discontent
and tag his name and then just wait
for his feverish malcontent
that I should dare to
prevent his God-like dissent:
memo to self
to a digital antagonist
and his verbose verbal cyst
and the keyboard of twists
when you push
sometimes you get
a big shove back
so don't be surprised
by my riposte
and this poetic attack.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
The irreveracable state of falling moral
Piecing together newspaper dooms dayers
Always curious about generalized detachment
Yet unable to see the forest for the trees
Picket lines are home
Raging infernos of injustice and malcontent
Laying stoically at their doorstep
Wrapped messily in insomniac nightmares at yours
Big, BOLD letters voicing the masses
We are, We are
Oppressed, Depressed, Repressed
No longer though
Passing out the hymnals of our revolution
Unsatisfied but spent
I sit back and enjoy the show
Saturating my senses with the smell of burning GMO fields
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
fed the birds.
fed the birds a
book about
my dead
weight.
fed the
birds a heavy.
fed them from
my thin
hands. The words
that live.
The birds ate.
The birds ate words that
lived and always
lived
in
separate
houses. if...
and i mean if
and only if
they
could afford
it.
if these
clever pagans
ever had
a dime.
they found
it boring rich
folk to
death.
i fed the birds
my indigenous
nomads. they dined
in high style...
dined black and
fancy
on
shabby
addicts, as they
hopped
trains . i fed the birds
my
swarthy tribe.
and they supped.
i fed the birds
a monologue
with trains of
thought
the words i fed
them... the vagabonds...
hopped
trains.
of thought.
I fed
the birds.
i fed the birds just
outside.
i sat
and fed them
black light and Harmalade
fed them blackly
fed them with
piano keys; the black
ones, the ones
that radiate
i fed
i watched them. watched
them fancy peck. and peck
and fancy
pluck.
i watched. they dined
on serene defeat
by technicality.
it was surreal
to watch a blackbird
pluck from black
keys - peck
a morsel of glum
from
the black rays, yes.
the black rays with
opposable thumbs
and a
lifeline. the only one i
know forbidding gypsies
with three eyes.
an open
palm.
a paranoid
black radish
white dwarf star
with piano keys
for black rays
of
nimbus, yes
mine is the hand that bites the hand
that writes the book
it wants
to ban, that ain't
a fan
not at all. just an appendage. a pen dirge ? What ?
i fed the flock lots
I fed
the black ones -
with dolls'
eyes...
tucked
under
wing.
i fed them, yes.
a book
about the size
of any welcome
malcontent.
i fed
them sorrows
and ellipses with
adjacent lawns.
wutherings in
stately manors, squatting
on either side
of memory
lane, like
a bourbon and
coke had
practically crawled
across shards
of hard
things to break,
with a drink
in your
hand
and crawled, well blended
down the hatch
of enormous, well appointed
gothic frogs, that -
were mostly refurbished toads
with odd columns.
i fed
the birds,
broke out the
Good
Chi
na
hang the tantrums !
yes
One should expect
a rich metaphor to want to
watch you
eat it's every
word
or
by extension;
lick the toad with 15 rooms,
three stories, unfit for children
and a full staff
of Adjectives,
highly trained
to
short-sheet the Bedlam, and fluff the pillories.
one should sip the liqueur
off the floor, inside the huge
and tipsy
gorgon
and be thankful
for the dank
and
the solid gold flyswatters.
they're complementary. take one
as you leave out
thinking
" toads, eat flies.... so it follows...."
apropos of nothing, on the
' Good China ',
now in the belly of birds, well fed
an unwell.
a book about
my dead-weight's
dream
to eat fewer
flies and
more
steak.
to grow wings.
yes.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
You enchanted the moon, didn't you?
Maybe you promised her a star or two?
She hunts me with Orion's bow, pacing behind shadowed cloud,
My celestial stalker ridin' low, wanly wrapped in misty shroud.
She whispers stark, yet soft as a breeze-blown tune,
Press on, my pet. You've done so well, we'll sleep again soon.
But we've a fortnight to go if we're to come full circle by month's end.
So many dreams still to sow...To reap those lupine howls once again.
Serenity to insanity, delirious depravity to moon-magicked majesty,
A cosmic clockwork cycle muddling my mind with lunar gravity.
She pushes me to frenetic furies then pulls me to solstice solace,
She masters tides in her caprice, what hope has a malcontent apprentice?
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 10:13 AM UTC
Bells that chime with malcontent
shall toll the sounds of dread.
Whistles cry with detriment;
the hour of death's ahead.
Fields are razed, and valleys hazed;
miasma shall ensue.
Mountains crumble; end of days
rides 'pon the heels of doom.
Death has come for everyone;
no cornerstone unturned.
Putrefy to purify;
with blood, your lakes shall churn.
Sanctity's naught but a dream;
rescind your factions few.
It's all for one to come undone,
and all shall burn with you.
Clouds aflame, for in His name
the sky comes thund'ring down.
And when this land rests in His hand,
He'll take our throne and crown.
Tyrant-force with no remorse;
from out the sea, He'll rise.
He leads His thrall to conquer all,
with fire in His eyes.
Apocalypse shall head the Styx;
the river shall run high.
And to the banks, you stand in ranks
and heed Lord Charon's cry,
"File in, all ye of sin."
His cackles crack the trees.
*"Thy Earth undone, my kingdom come.
Now sunder unto me."*
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
A desperate desperado shivering as the sun sets,
casts it's silky shadows upon the hollows below.
Beneath the cascading denizens of light,
a puff of smoke waltzes across the December sky,
a patient without his insurance with nothing left but
callous empty third-person reassurance,
"everything will be better" as she said.
But better is always easy when your hand isn't writing the letter.
Save your proverbs for an open ear,
this one is half deaf and full of itself,
despite your intent,
your lack of action perpetuates malcontent.
After all we're all just passing moments
gone and forgotten, evicted,
convicted of being a gutless mime,
going through the motions,
minus a true notion.
A confused calculator short circuiting under an oil leak
spitting out numbers, complicating already complicated complexities
subtracting numerals adding funerals
dividing families multiplying tragedies
It's just a numbers game, and we can't participate
we're just the studio audience, recorded live without any life.
Flashing signs tell us when to laugh and when to cry,
pre-determined automated messages contrived to convince.
And I'm stuck spinning in the corner,
with my hands on my head.
Senselessly blurting out: Why?!
But don't mind me, I'm just another lost soul
trapped with my head in the sky.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC
Providing you survive the drive inside the suicide lane,
The inane objections of several secular seconds will both drive you insane and tame the frame of irrational sanity,
Which stripped away the man in me,
And grabbed my sleeve convincingly to lament the angry laugh of free...
Enterprise; do I comprise of many lies,
As you do?
A gift or prize; yes I surmise the former plays no voodoo.
Like the latter,
Piter pater, I ask exactly, "Do you,"
Truly
care
to know...
If existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor,
Who washes
Shame
Away
In calm, hot showers.
What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.
What malcontent.
We thought dissent would overthrow the circus tent,
Which represented forced consent with the oppressed by blissful fraudulence
Remaining 99 percent.
Peasants, plebeians, proletariat;
We poke the U.N. Secretariat,
To ask again,
"Are we there yet?"
"Are we there yet?"
And silence is how were always met.
We drop it, trust they won't forget,
About us, suffering cold sweats;
As we fear unwanted debt,
They won't forget,
They won't forget,
They won't forget
About us.
Yet competition takes it place,
And twists that sympathetic face,
To grab a poor man's knowledge base,
To ask him,
"What do
I gain
from assisting
The likes
Of you?"
The poor man bellows, "you're poor too!
Like those who can't afford shampoo.
You can't afford my point of view,
It risks a loss that's overdue,
And money makes you misconstrue,
Existence."
And if existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor;
He forgot the human aspect should always be the biggest factor,
On his spreadsheets as he calculates productivity's next chapter;
What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.
This isn't right.
I question fines,
And wonder, where's the kindness?
What happened to our kindred spirits?
Did we leave all that behind us?
Is money truly all we want,
And happiness put second?
The future is unwritten,
So follow me;
Expect resistance.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
Time ticks away every moment, the fluid motion of hands turn the pages quickly day by day, way too swiftly, the storms all pass. The rain washes away the pain of the disturbing rust filled day. Awake, barely awake, senses touch, feel, and make some curious thoughts, wonders. The passing of light creates whiplash across the skin. Burning, never still, against weak wills of consciousness. Reaching, yearning for a hunger that cannot be filled. Beaches, mountains, valleys, highs and lows, no, nowhere can fill the void. Madness, vines of ever reaching obscurity keep the ground all too near. Here, there, glass surrounds, shattering at the slightest bit of resistance. The machines work flawlessly to produce each and every last breath, until all is spent in a blunder of malcontent. We’ve all gone mad, so crazed with wonder that numbness is all that exists. Resistance, resist, worn down by the consistence of the system. Far too complex, far too submissive, this could only be, not but an accident, but a purposeful disposition of a far too ineffable being. To live, we call it, should be humorous, a good laugh, mindless, in essence. Tell me why we try; it’s in the design, embedded deep within. Some sick game of a narcissist, some race that we cannot complete, due to lack of whereabouts, purpose. You should laugh due to the fact that you will go back to work eventually, inevitably. Work. Pointless and wasteful, trying to find a temporary need to exist. Society, all gone excessively insane, not a single logical reason for doing anything. To do, without the conclusion of completeness, and the answer to the question, why? I just don’t know.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Look me in the eyes and tell me I am not already dead.
Look within my soul and tell me, all is finally at an end.
Look with your silver eyes, which reflect my very own.
A chaotic wind right before the deadly storm.
The redden horizon, fading into the coldest of blue.
A will of a way, left to burn within the goodwill of our mortal souls.
I see you Dear Brother...
A man shroud in the facade of a devils red clothing.
But men, we are not...
Are we, O brother of mine?
Two hidden lies, masked within a mould of our own demise.
A shell our mother has bestow upon her demon spawns.
Masqueraded truths smeared, until all came crumbling down.
I spoke of my hatred as I slipped from your grasp.
I fell into Hell with a malevolent wrath,
a curse befalling my tongue;
I hate you
Another lie, another sin.
Added to a pile of our transgression,
shadowing us in its path of our own destruction.
Look into my heart and see my love.
A love, which has not commenced into something dark and malcontent.
Look and see another me, (mirrored in your stare.)
Look and believe all is fine.
Look and tell me my blue coated wrath,
is nothing compared to the inferno of a burning Dante
while playing the part of your savior, Virgil.
Two souls, forever intertwined.
Both born under the sacred son,
but destined to fall under baited spikes.
When will there be rest, O Brother?
With my blade in your chest?
Or the indirect request of your blessed reprieve?
Look, before all is too far gone...
nigh is the time,
Look and you might just see...
Me.
but alas just yet,
maybe,
you shall see a piece of yourself as well.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, when the cliff tops call its name with disparaging diatribe? And how do you fare as the undulating waves tell tales of a million generations of fish? I sat there as the days wore on like so many jazz men beating holistic drums and blowing those crazy brass horns as if possessed by the demons of some ancient tribe way out in the Kalahari, masked by the illuminating stares of wonderment and the children in the darkened bar, silent, speculating. I see the waning wood through magnificent trees, behemoths in the dusk skies. I see the ground too, for it is stable and true. As true as one could attest to its objectivity, I often ponder the relevance of truth and whether the whole concept is but a twisted lie fed by the men before us. Quite cruel these thoughts, and barely worthy of the hours I waste. The ocean too speaks truth but its truth is one I have faith in. Sure as I am, sitting here, witnessing the waves as they mourn the changing sands and the rubble they sift, sure as I am, that the gently faltering ripples will retreat before attacking the shore once more. I am sure of these acts, as I am sure that I will die with laughter on my lips and a tear in my eye.
Take your water and let it flow through the bodies of man, take it, take it and do good. Let those clear drops circulate and bring about true knowledge in one and all.
Let your rocks fall to the ground, erosion of the city and decay of the populace. Let them fall with dignity, while we scream from the Atlantic and feel tumultuous waves of apathetic foreboding ripple into our skin and bring us to ******
These rocks in the sea, these rocks in you… and in me.
Has the land seen distress like its inhabitants, or have they been the harbingers of such malcontent abuse to these fare isles? Have you, You, have you seen the sea when its tranquil repose turns to solemn spite at the ego of the cliff face? I have heard the ocean speak, and it told me to fall to its mercy and ebb into the unified conscious.
Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, or do you too stand with your back to the truth and one leg bowed cocksure over the top of some deteriorating construct?
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
Am I such a cold cruel creature
Ice the core of all my features
You think my frigid heart not whole
Yes, someone said I have no soul
Some are quick to sling torment
So full of hate and malcontent
Of my essence you've no control
Yes, someone said I have no soul
So on this lonely moonlit night
These frenzied thoughts I won't ignite
Firmly rooted no unpaid toll
Yes, someone said I have no soul
Am I such a cold cruel creature
Yes, someone said I have no soul
My spirit stands upon firm ground
My love for others is unbound
My heart is full my heart is whole
Yes, someone said I have no soul
It's you that I take pity on
Flogging others with your baton
Coldhearted jabs will take their toll
Yes, someone said I have no soul
One harsh day you will glance around
And find your gardens been cut down
Where once stood friends now just a hole
Yes, someone said I have no soul
My spirit stands upon firm ground
Yes, someone said I have no soul
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
The greys and blacks
Are fighting again,
Despite an abundance
Of food and shelter.
The greys are malcontent,
And bigger, with increasing numbers.
They've declared a Jihad,
They're relentless;
And won't stop 'til they've
Occupied all the trees out front.
The trees in question aren't the issue;
Others have similar branches and fruits;
It's their belief system
Territory is everything;
It's their manifest destiny.
During a lull in fighting
They graze side by side,
Always wary of proximity;
But the greys know
Their tails are larger and thicker,
And they recognize the enemy.
I know better
Than interfere
With their shenanigans.
Oh, I could quell the activity,
Scare them for a while
Pelting stones and gushing water;
But they'll re-group, stronger,
Like ants,
Like us.
It's a conflict I can't fix.
They need to figure it out
On their own.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
I didn't know your name back then.
I practiced love with other men.
I burned my lips on words like yes.
I didn't know your name back then.
I practiced love with other men—
a reckless, shipwrecked malcontent;
a willing, waiting queen undressed,
I burned my lips on words like yes.
I warmly, weakly acquiesced
and woke to wonder if I'd dreamt.
I didn't know your name back then.
I studied sin with other men
and broke my heart on words like when.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
i have traversed many miles
walking with the night,
she with her satin leash
wrapped around my neck,
ushering me under
a divine compass of stars
who navigate me
into a
grey fog of fantasy;
tempting me
away from
another tired night
of suggestion
and malcontent.
i do well
stepping into my role
of daydreamer
in the night,
eyes glazing over,
body weaving
like some
mechanical soldier,
as I slowly sink
further
and further
into the rabbit hole
of my mind,
where i touch
the membrane,
the pulsing vein,
the sturdy skull
which cups
the hiding
mass of brain,
and the tangled knot
of treasured ideas
and thought.
i enter casually
under the mark
of exit signs
searching aimlessly
for an idea,
stuck in a lightless cave
of a deeper depth,
the one born and lost
on the winding interstate,
without pen and paper
in hand to collaborate,
eighty miles an hour
of reckless power
births creation,
when
neuron,
synapse
and speed
galvanize into
conceit.
but this one escapes me.
it flickers out of sight
like the rest of them,
as i close into
where it hides,
like some feral animal
who knows
not of a friendly hand,
it scurries back
into it's lonesome wasteland.
but i remain
walking under the
invasive moonlight,
for I yearn to take my idea back home,
to wrestle it into submission,
sew it to hand and feet
and give it deserved recognition,
to dive my sharpened teeth into
the thick of it's juicy meaning
to bleed ink
onto paper,
for there is nothing
back in the stagnant terrain
of my body,
or here
lying on my desk
but the blank pages
of the greatest story
never written.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 12:16 AM UTC
I spot a drone today;
No bombs,
But with plenty o’ potential –
A will to malice,
To malcontent, to ******
I seek it south
And at its zenith,
Above dissent,
And the bastion that’d never know
Better, from worse.
So too, I spy it over the sands
And over cave,
Over Manhattan, over perdition,
And over “god,” over greed,
Over "great," and *********
Guaranteed;
A glistening, wrought silver teething,
“Dead,” come one wrong,
Word, or whatnot,
Anything antagonist “corporate,”
Our contradictory content,
Blessed, this,
“Complacency,” – indiscriminate.
Unbeknownst and melancholy-ridden,
The bombs have dropped,
And for some time now,
A sooner to be eternity
Whilst we’ve managed nothing but
The simplest of slumber;
We’re lucid but one second
And sheep more so the years.
The flock afar-critical,
As abstained become the hours,
The minutes, until, “then,”
Atop, “when,”
Whilst we learn again to breathe,
Maybe even dream,
And relieve the nooses continually
Knotted by others –
It’s an imaginary rebellion. Sure.
And I’m sure you’d agree;
Yet still, I soak a nightmare’s sweat
Whilst we gladly assume our
Peasant’s role
And as long as we do,
“They’ll,” gladly assume their
Thrones.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
Predictable,
always the same,
no differentiation in sight,
forever trapped in this silly game.
Day in,
day out,
definition of lunacy,
I hold a monopoly of sanity.
This city is founded on conformity,
the people, more of the same,
the city, a deformity,
the people, a symphony of the same.
Though I still dream of the mystical,
sifting through grains of sand,
crushed up glass,
always finding myself back at the beginning,
a malcontent in my own way.
Still I take comfort in the sound,
the sound of vibrancy,
of dissonance and playful rebellion,
lost in endless sands,
my name is homophony.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 5:26 AM UTC
The sun calms himself by setting,
As the sister arises.
Brightness slips away into the enigmatic encryption of the dark,
None can comprehend her beauty, her depth, her essence:
For she is the moon.
She rules by wishing, washing, the waves away.
Forever dancing, entranced by the allure of the luminous orb,
That pulls and tugs and holds tight as a comforting mother to us,
Her realm of encompassing shadow,
Oh sweet night, how we adore you.
Malevolent and menacing machinations of malcontent marauders.
And yet,
The sweetness of the lovers in bliss beneath you,
The palpable peace of the dreamers,
Forever balances with such sweet harmony.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
you may watch me crest the icy black
surface of your minds wide ocean
with moonlight catching brilliant spray
and casting shadows of doubt
follow me down
and listen to me
singing you to sleep
a pacifist lullaby
of malcontent
and lonliness
your breath is as level as the choppy seas
and your thoughts will follow wherever I please
I know that you have reservations
keeping your heart bound
safely to the shore,
your hopes lapping loosely around your feet
receding,
returning,
remitting,
refreshing,
and all the while you know
that the whitecaps
are the faces of regret
are the voices of dissent
are forces to be reckoned
and that stormy seas are only a problem
if you're trying to stay afloat
each night as you dream, your thoughts set sail
and I will be your great white whale
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
I'm known for navel-gazing my way to elation,
and am living in a country caught within
the grips of frenzied matriculation.
My insidiously
malapert generation,
my incessantly
malcontent gene-nation.
This is a Garden of Eden,
Where is our guard of Eden?
carefully removing
all who are not heathen.
Plucking the clouded excess from an already crowded bed of hegemony, as a gardener would and so should.
It is a mirage, a far off oasis of Arcadia and
I say this all unconcernedly, a basis for this absurdity.
I have stolen my ego from god,
I will carry this yoke readily,
and I shall take up my axe doling out mechanically.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 11:03 PM UTC
When Mr Manfred shopped for clothes
he always sought the best
long johns for the winter nights
and a stringy summer vest.
His Chevy was his pride and joy
he used it on weekends
and drove it down to Illinois
to hook up some old friends.
To neighbors he was the perfect gent
who never raised a fuss
so happy was this malcontent
he drove the high school bus.
But Manfred had a secret
it kept him so discreet
his captives couldn't run away
because they had no feet.
Moody Manfred kept them hid
force fed them through a straw
he wrote in chalk upon the lid
disappointment number four.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
Who are you, that you can palpitate my malcontent heart?
When you pass me in the street I avoid your eyes
For they are too much for my troubled mind
The way your doe eyes and mascara coalesce
and my spirit wanes with wondering thoughts of You and I
Oh blue-eyed seraph, queen of my callow folly
Is your name the password spoken to Saint Peter
When a man is to transcend this eternal struggle
Or are you the devil dressed in down robes
Come to drown me in wanton waves
You seem to have come here on gradient beams from the cosmos
With your platinum locks, alien in texture, encompassing and fine
Do your misdeeds and free my tortured mind
For these enumerations may drain these tortured veins
and leave this poor proletariat passionless once more
Pouting and winsome, your elegance is eternal
When the plants have all turned as blue as your eyes
and the cement golgothas all crumble
When every elephant of the Sahara, withers and dies
and the Cheetahs fall to the ground and mumble
When the skies turn black and curse our love
with the oceans boiling over
When the stars all fall from high above
and the cliffs are brown at Dover
When the Earth splutters and coughs, gasping for fresh water
When God yells obscenities and Jesus has no choice but loiter
When the racing rats stand still and ponder
When the hills all fall, way out yonder
When the noises of the cities are but ghosts on dead air
I shall remember your smile and know I have nothing to fear
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC
We are the bearded men in union halls
grown tired of the world as it seems.
Until our demands are met,
there can be no more search for truth.
We’ve grown tired of the world as it seems
from folding chairs in union halls.
There will be no search for truth—
we’ll gaze at our navels and curse.
From folding chairs in union halls
we shall pontificate our malcontent.
We shall gaze at our navels and curse
these indelible holes in the Real.
We shall pontificate our malcontent
at the crack in the wood-paneled wall
that indelible hole in the Real—
it must be filled!
The electric moon in the wall
streams in seductions of blue shadows.
It must be filled!
we cry.
The seductions of electric moonlight
make thinking difficult.
We cry,
but the tears only make un-forgetting harder.
Thinking has become more difficult
with each failed arbitration.
Un-forgetting’s so much harder
when forgetting pays the bills.
All arbitration has failed and
our demands remain unmet.
So long as forgetting pays the bills,
we shall be the tired beards in union halls.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:07 AM UTC
By Elizabeth & Arcassin
**by the gurgling stream
he fell into a deep dream
of a beautiful girl who
had eyes so pretty of gleam
how she did make
his heart sang with delight
as her image reflected
in the stream's
bright crystal light,**
What's darkest may come to light,
Fly from graduation or tutors,
Hurricanes ruin cities,
Mixed with high jackers,
Free loaders,
But in the dark,
Run to the light,
Trauma stricken,
In the foreseeable future we need to fight,
**the dreamer's perception
of beauty is wiped out
in the environs so broken
and torn horribly about
the shadowed lamp
of fantasy which offers unto
us the mired mirror
of malcontent which is
in this our abysmal society,**
If you come to a conclusion,
And have sense to maintain the illusion,
You can make it a reality,
Also to institutions,
Beautiful stages of goals to be made,
Grow a flower,
Open a door,
Influence the shade,
**we are capable of making
change
our purpose is to
bringing into existence
the mind of the dreamer
his purpose is to see
that by all humans
working together
they can solve the ills and inequities
which plague our earth,**
Success runs through the heart of people that are determined,
Trial and tribulations are sold separately,
Achieve,
Believe,
And don't a servant,
To people that don't wanna see you,
Give and succeed,
Your dreams.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC