"mapper" poems
my love brought
me tranquility.
my love bought
me tranquility,
in a Manhattan bodega.
late at night in my city,
everything is for sale
where least expected
in mini marts, local delis,
greek coffee shops, spanish bodegas
pizza parlors, hardware stores,
all selling
salves for late night salvation
purveyors of
differential equations of
differing soulful sustenances,
certain imports that will probably never be
for sale in Walmart after midnight
all, readily available,
twenty four seven
in my miracle Manhattan heaven
My woman,
mapper of the byways
of my ****** landmarks
worn broad~ways,
his-toric foot trails of tears,
lines of laughters,
even a
purported dimple
I call a crevasse.
a sole survivor of
a mother's birthing skill marker,
duly recorded by her upon my visage,
in my miracle Manhattan
She knows, as do
some of youse guys,
that my poetry is
water born(e) and water soluble,
but Peconic Bay always
ain't right handy,
so bring on a
substitute teacher,
a hot bath,
helps me to enunciate
my verbal visitations
my love brought
me tranquility.
my love bought
me tranquility
in a Manhattan bodega.
pour the aromatherapy,
my love brought me
for inspiration into and upon
my liquid writing table,
"Tranquility,"
a summer garden aroma
It soothes
my bad memories,
the herbs salve
accursed ancient wounds
that will never
ever fully heal
or be forgiven
my love brought
me tranquility.
my graces restored,
this poem offered in
grateful appreciation
with unlimited adoration,
something,
maybe even the
very one thing
**that can't be bought,
even,
in my miracle Manhattan**
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
Med falske dage
som disse dage
så kan min krop virkelig blive tom
og hovede fyldt.
Med hverdage
som varer for evigt,
og lørdage
som forsvinder hurtigere
end drenge
om morgenen.
Grå trøjer
som krammer kroppen
imens du lytter til ord
du ikke forstår,
og du aner ikke
hvad der foregår.
Passion er en illusion og syntom på ambition
og på livet er der en definition og konklusion
siger folk med mapper og trætte nethinder
mine hænder ligger sig op ad mine kinder
Trætte som mine små imødekommende øre
som snart lukker sig så de slipper for at høre.
Nogle mennesker lever bare fordi de er vant til det.
De gør dem selv vant til vaner der former deres verden.
Det fylder dine uger med falske dage,
giver dig en hentydning af en verden af vaner og uskrevne regler;
om at være som folk ser dig.
om at være som de folk du ser.
Giver dig falske dage.
Men i dag, med en kold kop kaffe fra i morges og bare tæer, så sætter jeg mig under mit vindue i loftet og kigger op. Falskedage er en advarsel. En hentydning til at løbe efter bussen og stå af når du har talt til sekshundrede. Til at gøre dagen ægte og elske den. Min kaffe er kold, men det gør ikke spor fordi når jeg sidder her og tænker over falske dage og verdner af vaner, så ved jeg at passion er ægte og jeg har det i min verden. Alt er sgu ikke så slemt alligevel
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
I could never say with any definite blending bark of the tree so tall as its leaves came and went weighted by the initials carved in the bottom the tree was a walking museum of a flash of light in some eyes cast into shadow by the ends of the souls natted dread the rasta clicks in the rhythym beat from the metals laying land with the seed of origins and the orchard or orzine.
Cateye stand by weve 12 months we rise by and ive been getting around with out the knowledge of experience ****** into the bouncing in my step. Its bot correct its just a by-product in transet to its next place of electrolytic typset indifference in the salt on our tables
You said you could be strong but the song burnt the fingerprints and gave waste to the disbelievers the surmised belief based on the last guys who wrote for a purpose
To just shed the light by the prowess built into everything
Inside the code of creation the key shaped by the tumbler it holds the sailing of present to future
Gimme song when im low in the lowlands leading to the opening of the deserted place of the sparrow where the songbird whisical and musical and a makeshift place to rest in the spirits own place of birth in the river of times brook
I just dont want to die alone or insane
Please be a day where im able to just shed it in somber dissolution only held in hearts and heat heathens and the reasons not to even ask why you are drifting by in its own ploy in the world where
A decoy is employed by the mister of the vessel in portrait like a general posed in the annals of legacy left by the mapper whom sat the sky by the suns angled drive.....
Skins on the outside and the souls stays on in and when will i be able to just be ok posted up by the innovations and glimpse the effects have made the music never pretending never pretending
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC
norstram apetite
dratatraacpampioliate illiter cy bragnainst fo preostate languastitside
archetypes by dreemons of mesi=sled beandeits, only seraches for their own tai;s wold tofind the atht rocks andthe s
levers spat tooo fast in theo thsky
branched and bargained like marhadded dag a like ddraggg
hampbolted by the porforalaimalice hoork a jork a fork founded for dailaiin dapper mapper AMDHAFHD HATYTEr
s
AMTER ATAJHATERRES
MAD HAETATERES
JAKECKAING TO THEIR OWN FECESS
LAIAND AN TORN TAKE YOUR ******* LAGHINGAS FOR A ******* NICTOINE HYRDRAAGTION
GO AHEAD AND WHIELR UNTIL THE FUACKING XOOR TF/inFINALLY SHUTS
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 2:42 AM UTC