"marquis" poems
How can my eyes hunger for tormentors bodies
where in my soul can I find desires for sadists
Eves threw on fitted coats of Marquis de Sade
borrowed his manuals and added even more pages
pierced the heart of a Dove defending his nest with lethal pins
And in joyous indignities with devilment aplomp
they reclined and crackled in wanton doltishness
He thinks of and desires us and wants to make amor with us
How can a heart marinated in love truely sincere
a soul ready to die rather than any harm to Eves
Be mother or sister or perchance even a stranger
alas in utter ********** and grotesque situation dire
Come undone with healthy pristine heart ripped to pieces
hung drawn and quartered and sliced in tiny morsels
Like fish baits for mice and minnows or hens clucking
All at the hands of Sirens who worshipped in Satan's cravens
How can a soul with only the spark of Salvation aglow
where it once housed his heart and enduring humanity
With brimful joy and devotions in fitting measures true
as all Eves where to him nowt but sisters and earth angels
Now his burning blood runs cold like rivelets in the Arctic
their words ring hollow and smiles shows rapiers of snakes
Nothing stirs desires for all Eves now seem and look like wicked corpses
Delilahs' wrecking vengeance on Samsons in wickedness supreme
[email protected] rights reserved
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC
i like to turn into a girl once in a fortnight
after i just washed my hair...
and take a selfie!
then i read the fashion magazine alongside marquis de sade...
and it makes perfect sense to **** beauty like that...
well according to the marquis it does.
how's my hair? styled properly brushed to the side
long against anti-clockwise curtains of lock
that was propaganda with ****** adopting the charlie chaplin
moustache and people after ****** ensured confusion
whether to split it to the right rather than the left?
i’m right-handed, i need the power base of keratin on my cranium
hanging to the left!
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
My manner of thinking, so you say, cannot be approved.
Do you suppose I care? A poor fool indeed is he who adopts a manner of thinking for others! My manner of thinking stems straight from my considered reflections: it holds with my existence, with the way I am made. It is not in my power to alter it; and were it, I’d not do so. These manners of thinking you find fault with is my sole consolation in life; it alleviates all my sufferings in prison, it composes all my pleasures in the world outside; it is dearer to me than life itself. Not my manner of thinking but the manner of thinking of others has been the source of my unhappiness. The reasoning man who scorns the prejudices of simpletons necessarily becomes the enemy of simpletons; he must expect as much, and laugh at the inevitable. A traveler journeys along a fine road. It has been strewn with traps. He falls into one. Do you say it is the traveler's fault, or that of the scoundrel who lays the trap? If then, as you tell me are willing to restore my liberty if I am willing to pay for it by the sacrifice of my principles or my tastes, we may bid one another an eternal adieu, for rather than part with those, I would sacrifice a thousand lives and a thousand liberties, if I had them. These principals and these tastes, I am their fanatic adherent; and fanaticism in me is the product of persecutions I have endured from my tyrants. The longer they continue their vexations, the deeper they root my principles in my heart, and I openly declare that no one need talk to me of liberty if it is offered to me only in return for their destruction.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
Plumped rouge with pigment
her lip fills to graze the ********
intent to disquiet the likes of de Sade
autografted with ocular detachment
should a Marquis wish to harness
the song of the morning
within a bandolier of Seine
to ensnare any bustled Persephone
gilted by discharge of ions
into a ménage of torment
through the Porte des Lions.
Hers is the tincture of doxy
caramelized and debrided of naivety,
empowered by the eve of invention,
swollen to curves and grounded in Paris.
Illumination defies pervasion
down to every gear and pulley
she has hushed through mechanization
and lulled by steam,
swaging a cacophony of flickers
encased in glass by the Lady’s watch,
where every rivet of her plate glisters silken
reverberation in cascade,
elegant, caged, and towering,
outspoken in silence,
ever challenging the Champ de Mars.
"Paris by Gaslight," written by Dionne Charlet, is the title poem to be featured in the upcoming steampunk anthology Paris by Gaslight, the third anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books. Look for the first two collections of poems and short stories set in Victorian Times, New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528). Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hings his head, an’ a’ that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Our toils obscure, an’ a’ that;
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp;
The man’s the gowd for a’ that,
What tho’ on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin-gray, an’ a’ that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man’s a man for a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their tinsel show an’ a’ that;
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord
Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that;
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that:
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
His riband, star, an’ a’ that,
The man o’ independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a’ that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that;
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their dignities, an’ a’ that,
The pith o’ sense, an’ pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank than a’ that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a’ that,
That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth,
May bear the gree, an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s coming yet, for a’ that,
That man to man, the warld o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that.
2.6k
Sent his woman a letter in French.
In obsession, The Marquis De Sade.
As in thy passion thy ***** thou didst wrench.
Thy being held high in disregard.
Obsessed with the perverse.
Creator of ******* slavery cruel.
Written his violence as ****** curse.
This power crazed man did his harem rule.
In ******* and pains.
Lashed up in a gimps.
Whipping with chains.
Wants lots of dosh, wishes of pimps.
Modern day tale of the Marquis De Sade.
A cruel ******* whose *** was hard.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
. revolution?!
what revolution?!
i can't see a guillotine!
****
hey! guys! there's no guillotine!
there's no talk
of a revolution
when there's no guillotine...
your talk of, a, "revolution"
would make Marquis de Sade
cringe,
and shout down a toilet
than out of window
of the Bastille..
this isn't a revolution,
it's on;ly 2018....
you have to wait!
why are tthe people so slothful,
yet at the same time,
eager, to work?
we're looking at "changes"
come 2045...
the year...
that apparently stabilized
the 2th0 century for
20 / 30 / 40 / 5...
no...
let's keep it with
sucker-punch Billy...
i love being a drunk...
makes all the sober
people look...
******* stupid;
and i don't even mean that....
it's just a military
fatigue...
it akin to:
coulrophobia...
yeah... big time... women making
excursions
for fatigued wool and silk
dresses...
one question does the job...
*honey, can i play the clown
at our honey- berry's birthday
party?*
do women go into
mascara parlors,
window shopping,
with a man tagging along?
honey...
do you really need me to tag along
while you shop for
make-up chemical
parade of tested adherents
for your beauty of your
expectation of fur...
Mike and Moany - the gerbils...
i thought you liked them?
no...
i can do the sheered
woolen artifacts...
when it comes to spreading
lipstick on frogs
and testing their
pyrotechnic susceptibility potential...
watching the Mike Myers' twins...
no... really...
count me out of
the necessity to make
an argument for a race...
i'm out...
done...
i never liked the English
existentialist argument to begin with...
too individualistic,
too finite...
too much of:
enjoying a hell
of a good time...
it's a simple economic logic
focus...
what you're selling?
i'm not buying.
it's that simple!
i don't have to buy what you're
selling!
stand with it all stacked up...
i'm not buying!
somehow i think
the English intellectuals
forgot the basic principles...
i'm, not, buying!
savvy?
god... ugh...
i know the French are bad...
about their oversee of diacritical
application,
and how they make no
sense when syllables
come into play...
and the Germans... yeah yeah...
i get their scrutiny of
method and dedication...
their teutonic charge within
the confines of ******** screws
into place...
but i'm still not seeing
an clearer...
there's talk of a revolution
in the English tongue...
so...
where's the guillotine?!
oh...
so...
what revolution?!
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
The Marquis de Sade was dead keen on ******
And thought those who weren't deserved a lobotomy;
He ******* all his friends both from the back and the front
So on his gravestone they wrote, "Here lies a right ***** ************* ****
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
The Marquis de Sade was dead keen on ******
And thought anyone who wasn't needed a lobotomy;
He ******* all his friends both from the back and the front
So on his gravestone they wrote, "Here lies a right ****
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC
Everyday I'm trying so hard to like my favorite things for reasons having nothing to do with you.
Today when I decided to drive on the meandering border of Walloon Lake,
Wildwood Harbor rd,
The canopied trees
flashing shadows of squirrels peaking through paws
reminded me of every motorcycle ride I accompanied you on.
Holding tight to your chiseled stomach,
hands cupping your belly button through your sweatshirt pockets,
you would maneuver your mobile machinery through every dip and dive,
garnishing curves with streamline, flawless breaking and acceleration.
I would lean into your spine,
imagining the path of your lower back as the map of our road ahead,
each bump and curvature a flawless representation of reality,
the living moment.
Something sensual existed about the way you and I forged a relationship on pavement,
riding the asphalt the same way your bending fingers rode my thighs.
And every time I choose to drive our road with my less than aerodynamic Marquis,
each stomach flip from the unsuspected slopes
transports me to lazy mornings-
Naked and alone in any way imaginable.
Purity and solitude,
truth, the end of it.
So I turned onto M-75
trying to forget every reason that I love Wildwood Harbor for you,
and only remember the reasons I love it for me,
but couldn't find any worthy of space.
You made everything so memorable.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
*and i too thought the english banknotes were big,
but by god... have you seen imperial russian's
banknotes?! you could wipe you entire **** with one.*
no, i don't own an imperial russia's
banknote,
or a kopek dating pre 20th century
that Dostoevsky might have used to
gamble,
no, i don't own an imperial russia's
banknote with tsar Nicholas the 2nd's
face on it;
you can rob me all you want,
i think the banknote to be cursed...
a cursed luck of lost reason and logic...
but when i look at that all familiar face
and stare into the ageing face of elizabeth the 2nd...
i see papered ****** gravitating
to forfeit a chance of excelling in Olympics...
Olympics indeed, of muscles turned
into oyster mush... about to be exercised
in breathing exercises of forgotten
oxygen toxins...
no... i don't own imperial russia's banknote
with Tsar Nicholas 2nd's face on it;
i did tell you my maternal great-grandfather
spoke 7 languages, didn't i?
only bothersome and subsequently fake
nobleness stresses its point...
the true aristocrats suffer with enforced
ailments that only breed an exaggerated libido,
to quote myself... *i'd **** anything that moves
within the framework of the trinity of mouth
**** and **** my ******** are always
goosebumps frolicking to a tingle and i
just want to relax with an unloading of the content,*
i didn't read marquis de sade for no reason,
other than the quoted bibliography of
the marquis himself, having read books
using only one arm, with the other...
"making bookmarks", ha.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 6:15 PM UTC
I GAVE YOU ALL I HAD TO GIVE, STILL YOU WANTED MORE
YOU STOLE THE VERY HEART RIGHT OUT OF ME.
I LIVED AND BREATHED AND DRESSED FOR YOU, AND EVEN UNDRESSED
FOR YOU. NOW, THERE'S JUST ONE THING YOU MUST DO
IT'S SO HARD TO ADMIT TO THIS MISTAKE
TRUE CONFESSIONS OF A ROYAL RAKE
AT TIMES YOU WERE SO VERY ODD
A VALENTINO, A MARQUIS DE SADE
I GOT CUT UP IN YOUR ONE-WAY GAME
I'VE GOT NO ONE ELSE BUT MYSELF TO BLAME
I'LL GET BACK AT YOU, SOMEDAY YOU'LL PAY
BUT FOR NOW I CAN ONLY PRAY THAT YOU'LL
PUT IT BACK WHERE YOU FOUND IT, THE LOVE YOU TOOK FROM ME
PUT IT BACK WHERE YOU FOUND IT, MY HEART'S IN MISERY
PUT IT BACK WHERE YOU FOUND IT, THE LIFE YOU TOOK FROM ME
IT'S SO HARD FOR ME TO LIVE WITHOUT, WHAT YOU TOOK SO EASILY
YOURS IS THE KIND TO TAKE CONTROL
A THIEF OF LOVE WITHOUT A SOUL
RETURN MY HEART AND TAKE THESE BLUES
THERE'S NO USE KEEPING WHAT YOU CAN'T USE
I'VE KNOWN LOTS OF GUYS BUT YOU'RE UNIQUE
THE WAY YOU HYPNOTIZE AND YOUR MYSTIQUE
I FELL FOR YOUR SCENT, AN APHRODISIAC
BUT YOUR JUST A CLEVER KLEPTOMANIAC SO...
PUT IT BACK WHERE YOU FOUND IT, THE LOVE YOU TOOK FROM ME
PUT IT BACK WHERE YOU FOUND IT, MY HEART'S IN MISERY
PUT IT BACK WHERE YOU FOUND IT, THE LIFE YOU TOOK FROM ME
IT'S SO HARD FOR ME TO LIVE WITHOUT, WHAT YOU TOOK SO EASILY
THE BEST THING IN MY LIFE THAT I COULD EVER DO WOULD BE TO
SIMPLY STAY AWAY FROM YOU, BUT I CAN'T AS LONG
AS YOU HAVE THAT DIVINE PART OF WHAT WAS ONCE MINE
SO I'M ASKING YOU PLEASE, JUST PUT IT BACK!
David John Clare ©In Perpetuity ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Clairvoyant Music / BMI
http://www.mynoisyplanet.com/davidjohnclare
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
166
I met a King this afternoon!
He had not on a Crown indeed,
A little Palmleaf Hat was all,
And he was barefoot, I’m afraid!
But sure I am he Ermine wore
Beneath his faded Jacket’s blue—
And sure I am, the crest he bore
Within that Jacket’s pocket too!
For ’twas too stately for an Earl—
A Marquis would not go so grand!
’Twas possibly a Czar petite—
A Pope, or something of that kind!
If I must tell you, of a Horse
My freckled Monarch held the rein—
Doubtless an estimable Beast,
But not at all disposed to run!
And such a wagon! While I live
Dare I presume to see
Another such a vehicle
As then transported me!
Two other ragged Princes
His royal state partook!
Doubtless the first excursion
These sovereigns ever took!
I question if the Royal Coach
Round which the Footmen wait
Has the significance, on high,
Of this Barefoot Estate!
1.3k
and it was as if
the entire universe
shrank to the size
of a microscopic dot
and found its niche
perched atop
my chest
there it lingers
spinning
at once
an unstoppable force
and an immovable object
a paradox of
time and space
void
a black hole the
size of a quark
swallowing everyone and
everything with an
appetite unlike anything
anyone in the galaxy
had ever seen
so complete was its
crushing gravity that
nothing escaped its grasp
neither fire
nor ash
not life
not death
its emptiness was total
it gobbled up the light
and garbled what mangled
remnants of hope remained
contracting on the event
horizon's scope before
digesting the detritus
in a series of
torturous depravities that
would make even
Marquis de Sade
tremble with a mix
of shock and awe
in his padded cell as
he begged a nonexistent
god for forgiveness
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 1:33 AM UTC
******* in the dark because you could be anyone.
I could be anyone. Two anonymous animorphs moving
in a twisted pile of lithe limbs and hot breathe. You are the
Marquis de Sade. I am Madonna on the rocks.
You are Gaia, I am Nikola Tesla. Our touch static. Ecstatic.
Ecstatic addicts acting frantic in the deep sheets of each other's
heat. Noiseless poise-less loyal-less coils; hot&high; and never
flickering only f u c k i n g f u c k i n g feeling love and hate
and other things you can only feel when someone else is inside of
you. Thrilling angry unfulfilling like killing things that don't
want to die. Our *** like ************ because
in the dark you could be anyone.
I could be anyone.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
Marquis de Sade was arguably
the most dangerous man alive; until
the Reign of Terror & Napoleon; who
was arguably the most dangerous man
alive; until Jack the Ripper, who was
the most dangerous man alive; until
WWI & ****** who was the most dangerous
man alive; Al Capone was the most
dangerous man alive, until Hoover,
who was the most dangerous man
alive; Malcolm X was the most dangerous
man alive, until the AK47 & AR-15; now we
can all be the most dangerous person alive;
but human beings have always been the
most dangerous species on earth;
the nuclear bomb was the most dangerous
thing on earth until climate change; now
the earth itself is the most dangerous thing
on earth
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
(the reconvening of my mind)
It's always the extremes
that bring me back to center,
but it's the trips I take on purpose
that remind me its time to go home.
Today it was the thought of blood.
I cannot stand the sight of it,
and neither would I brave a plunge
in icy depths this time of year.
I’d rather gather sunlight
and convince myself there are
no ghost revivals,
only blood reprisals from
daddy's DNA.
I tell myself
I need to get away
to where I can pray
again, to quit giving in,
to stay and fight wars,
the black, the white,
the gray fluttering darkness that
comes out of nowhere swooping
past my ear, scaring the **** out of me
as if it never happened before
but it has, its just been a while.
So I call for a council of angels,
then prepare for the riptide
of demons that join the fun when
my cranial convention convenes.
The left against the right,
The east against the west,
The pros against the cons,
all the ups and downs,
I don’t give a **** what it is
just give me back my wars.
Give me back my reasons to live.
Give me Nietzsche
Give me Brennan Manning
Give me Sam Harris
Give me Frederick Buechner
Give me Bertrand Russell
Give me Henri Nouwen
Give me Daniel Dennett
Give me Gerald May
Give me M Scott Peck
Give me Pia Mellody
Give me Dante
Give me Jane Kenyon
Give me the Marquis de Sade
Give me Dostoyevsky
and that should just about do it.
Within these names exist
enough controversy,
enough conflicting views
on life, on love, on God,
enough heresy,
enough truth,
enough lies,
enough knowledge,
enough beauty
to keep me waging wars
inside my head until the day I die.
Give me back my wars.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
I
Drag your child dreams across my teeth
and hold your army at the gate.
A thousand pikemen 'neath the flag
Now reign within the court of sleep.
Their hands wrapped round oaken shaft
their mail a-glittered in the sun.
Shields all bared 'gainst mortal pain
To raze and conquer, one by one.
They hung the king and in his place
Poor Yorick sat with crown and mace.
And we vassal's question deep
The choices fools will make and keep.
O sky awash with blinking snow!
O land drowned in golden light!
No force will come and claim the day.
No end to this, O sleepless night.
Drag your child dreams across my teeth
and trace the Ande's over skin.
Release the Marquis from your eyes
to sovereign now my realms of dream.
II
Drag your Child-dreams across my teeth
And run your pistol dry.
Bite into the ears of hope
Now feast upon the flower.
I ran my taste across your lips
and draw a fire with my tongue.
the Y of sin;
Staccatto on your neck
with the silence outside;
Audience to Reverie.
The Verse we sang
With child dreams dragged across monster teeth
hold this holy, once revered hand.
Lay your breath on heaven's gate.
III
...she dragged her child-dreams across my teeth, the edges and tip rubbed me on the range. Her fingers groped for the discarded uniforms of youth, now a size too small.
The white and stark reflections of the passing car-gaze illuminated the comfortable moment for what it really was. She didn't know it yet, she had no idea.
IV
I glanced upon the holy mound
awash in evenings light.
The dew smelt like memories
soaked in pollen.
A black sun yawned between the hills.
Then the earth began to quake
when the river was dammed and its trees deforested.
While all the while
She dragged her child-dreams across my teeth.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 2:30 AM UTC
ｐｌｅａｓｕｒｅ
ａｓ
ｐａｉｎ
he told his partners
unwitting souls
commanded by his
physical
beauty
strong
self assured
manner
unwillingness 2 accept
anything but compliance
acquiescence
compelling
in his self assurance
many were led into his lair
gullible
some to escape
never the being they’d been
some
attempting
to flee
flogged into further submission
and eternal darkness
pleasure as pain
he told them
the once innocents
© 2017
rf
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 9:03 PM UTC
written while talking to a dear friend, Irene, who i met on my travels to Paris, and who i'm spotted with, in a photograph, by the Moulin Rouge, hunched in homage to Quasimodo, with Paul the wild haired australian.
i'm always depressed before composition
and the first whiskey to
stop me throwing up anything i might
ingest,
but then the seemingly graceless magpie
with its extended tail flies into eyesight,
then the blackbird, the crow, the seagull (huh?!
30 miles inland and a ****** seagull?)...
and then i open my eyes a second time,
take off the eyes that see lust gluttony colours
and shapes, and put on my x-ray spectacles
of looking at a white page and typing for a while...
and then a song crops up and it bothers me,
mortiis' parasite god from the album *the smell
of rain*, if there is such a thing as a parasite god,
we'll be constantly thinking about it,
it will be an ontological implant of ours to
then debate whether we're atheists, theists,
gnostics or agnostics... it would be a burden, indeed
an oversized tapeworm to put it mildly -
but then the other description floating about,
the entitlement of a title, akin to prince, knight,
sir, baron or baroness or even a marquis...
the lord of hosts... and with vain attempt at sounding
in blossom of a magnolia tree attentive of courtesy,
a host is someone who contains a parasite,
why would i want to contain a parasite of thought in
me, that would necessarily sway me from denoting
myself an atheist, theist, etc.?
atheists do indeed uphold the principle stated in this
song i mentioned mortiis' parasite god;
i among the jews a parasite of the host of
ancient egypt;
i mean, they always say they're atheists or whatever,
they want that little sticker at a speed dating gathering
*hello, my name is, queue (oh sorry,
Hugh)*, but when it comes to
defining what sort of thinking defines you as such and
such, it's vaguely satisfying to hear a presupposition label,
followed by a string of even more unsatisfying propositions,
and since i'm not a fisherman in that department,
i think i'll just stick to what i know, or at least what i think i know.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
When I left my father's house,
he looked at me with sad eyes.
I wondered why. Here I was off
to marry the marquis of my dreams
and there he was in the shadows
of a crumbling house
turning into a dream instead.
I wanted to tell him
that I was his daughter
through and true
and he would be proud yet.
But we didn't have time
not for silence nor for words.
So I left my father dusty and alone
and silent and never looked back.
When I returned to my father's house,
he looked at me with love in his eyes.
I wondered why. Here I was because
the marquis of my dreams had become
blood, flesh of my flesh and bone of my bones,
living in an empty house of gold.
The reality of it hurt like a raw wound.
I had to leave.
I wanted to tell my father
that I was his daughter still
but maybe not so true nor so brave
and not so much a cause for pride.
So I told him so in silences and in
still, small words.
My father listened, dusty and alone,
and all he said was
"I'm glad you're back."
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
*I wish I could write like E.A. Poe,
Where dark and sombre, rule the flow,
There's death and despair at every turn,
To have his skill I truly yearn.
Villainous, evil, haunting, macabre,
A poet version of the Marquis De Sade,
His writings dark, visionary, bleak,
Providing no signs of the hope you seek.
A poetic genius, without compare,
His delivery leaves you within Satan's glare,
And why I know this thing for sure,
I wish I could write like E.A. Poe.*
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2016
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
I’ve been a cracked soul walking on whole concrete
tar black soles slappin rapidly under weary feet..
the slaps are getting old but still, they repeat, they repeat..
like energizer bunnies, beatin deep on the ground beneath..
the sounds drummin off the walls, comin back, an rattlin my teeth..
I added a couple curses and spit it back rattling the streets..
that day I became a shell of a man walkin on cracked concrete
Cerebellum in hand scratchin my head hopin for thoughts to leak..
caught me starin again, eyes open to the sky, posing like an artful greek..
had this eerie feeling inside, tellin me my soul is an authentic antique..
but I still got uncomfortable when my current eugenics got critiqued..
I’m awed and terrified at what’s to come in my last couple a hundred weeks..
but I knew someday I wanna see laughter passin over a couple of my childrens cheeks..
So that day I began to be a whole man, soul searchin and walkin on my own two feet..
I started off by scratchin words furiously on a tattered old blank sheet..
but I don’t do it purposely to get my name on a brightly lit, white, and gold marquis..
it’s just this is the only voice I’ve got to spit a Kodak picture of my soul for free..
so my hands dance out a thousand words on paper.. every moment, a snapshot of “me”..
I rush to gather the images before they drown in reality like hazy morning dreams..
they stand up as living proof of who I am so I frame em for this crazy world to see..
cause today I stand on solid ground with well planted feet, as the man my family always wanted me to be..
I am the conqueror of both whole, and cracked concrete!!
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 1:52 AM UTC
You are lucky, luckier than me
You have not one pet, but actually three
Throughout your house I see games and cars
Boathouses, computers, and bars
You have everything you want, you live like a marquis
You are lucky, much luckier than me
But now I have found out something special, something very true
As a matter of fact I am lucky, luckier than you
I may not have all the money in the world, or the latest game
I may not have the hottest looks, or all of the fame
But I can tell you this, I'm happy with my life
I love my friends, my family, and my wife
I have something that you'll never have, something not shown in the latest debut
I have love, happiness, and great friends, so in a sense,
I am lucky, much luckier than you
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 2:38 PM UTC
Those tears forced to manifest
By poison thoughts of venom fears
Are old news to me.
I've cried them too, you see.
Those knuckles white around
Princess Paranoia and Marquis Mortality's
Slender wrists will not hold
Their punches back.
That pound of ice in your stomach
Is the worst our foe Fear can do.
I will share this with you.
You think back, back nearly broken by
The weight of grudges.
Bitter bag on your tired shoulder,
Barbed wire strap biting.
I've been to darker places
Than you will ever see.
Share your blackest burdens with me.
I fear no man, nor god.
I've paid my rent with sweat and blood,
The next payment is far from due.
I will share that time with you.
My hours on Earth are mine alone,
But no terms are written in stone.
I like it down here.
Liking I'll share.
That warmth on your face
Is only my hand.
Your guardian angel is merely
A man.
Both scholar and warrior, and girl,
I have learned:
The skin has grown back on the hands
That I've burned.
You can choose to cry,
You can choose to smile.
I learned that truth, but it
Took me a while.
I have seen the Devil. He was pleasant,
He was kind.
I have seen the face of God,
It was yours and mine.
We have the power to create.
It's not in vain; not too late.
Let us face this storm together.
We'll be the gods of weather.
The choice is yours, it is true.
You are the foot, not the worn-out
Shoe.
You are not the sky; you're
The Blue.
You'll never need my comfort,
But until you stop believing that
You do,
I will play your game
Like a loving parent;
Having given you room
As you grew.
I will share this
With
You.
I will
Share
This poetry
With
You.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC