"maudlin" poems
Static, memories
Emanating, separating
The postcard- perfect
Still life speaks
From its storied past.
Invisible, to drift
Among
The florid aphorisms,
Ending in
Deleterious debris,
Aftermath of
The inevitable.
Empty room, echo hollow
Tabula rasa -
Carpet clean, quite candid in it's
Return to callow.
Consciousness athirst,
Absorbing phenomena
Effervesce, inquisitive
Ideas foment,
Sealed inside a question.
The what -
Against the narrow
Scarcity,
And fatigue of should.
A tender malleable
Youth,
Betrayed, under
An assumed decorum -
Residue of truth,
Flattened emotion
Privations of a self
Unheard;
Misplaced affirmation,
Buried pathologies
In architecture
Fear manifests symbolic.
Harboring apathy
The lunacy of pious
Pedigree,
Import contagion,
Fetters of benignity
Doubt and indecision
Into ******
Cognizance,
Fallow spirits
Seep fumes of decay,
Credulity bleeds a human stain.
Social edifice, inoculated
Heirs of neurosis;
Palpable, sensual pain
And transience, though
Tacit - remain,
Our haunted history,
The blind hyperbole,
Maudlin
Forbearance, this haven,
A portrait
Of immaculate condition,
Nurtured with precision
Under sterling pretense.
Provincial domicile -
House beautiful,
Savage irony -
Unseen treasure
Innocence unabridged,
Faces, tiny creations;
Compliant vessels
Wounded,
While modernism murmurs
Its promise.
Brave New World,
In a late model sedan,
Domestic ranch on a
Corner lot,
Suburban natives,
Silence means security.
The misunderstood
Speak louder -
Consumerism beneath
Unvarnished ambition,
Never could
Repair the brokenness within...
© 2011 & 2018 W. S. Warner
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
The levels of loneliness of a poet of longevity
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The levels of loneliness of a poet of longevity.
Have I been there today ? But it’s easy to be.
Ever heard the expression “ idle hands n devil”
Loneliness fills the empty void if you are idle
Expanding loneliness to fill that barren space
Virtual reality I know that’s not the answer
Ever watched the kids these days at play ?
Levels of loneliness expand within availability
See when spare time gathers you start to feel
Occasionally being reminded of those bygones
Friends and family you’ll not see again is real.
Let that not bring you down, try meditation.
Only then can you believe you are in control
Not giving yourself time to be at all maudlin
Each day loneliness can be kept at bay.
Loneliness is a dull sloth that can be tamed
In not letting things get to you in any way.
Not giving up to the inevitability of old age.
Even if bits keep falling off your body ev’y day
Stoop n build ‘em up again with worn fingers
So many times in life you seem to hit the rocks
Oh yes I know ,you say , “ tell me how you feel”
Feelings ? Well I’m pretty sure you’ll fill y’socks
Anyway , they all can see that you’re still real
Poets are a very special breed of person.
On a scale of one to ten I guess a nine.
Experience fills their minds to overflowing
To the point where they’ll burst or put it right
On that occasion best sit an’ write a poem
Friends can then receive it straight overnight
Love each friend you have “Without condition”
Only then can see that friendship is alright
Nothing ventured,nothing gained , a fine ideal.
God granted us the sacred power to choose
Ethereal guides stand there in our background
Vicissitudinous opportunity presents itself.
I as a poet and friend I know this to be true.
True as the nose upon a happy poets face.
Yours is the life , yours the opportunity anew.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip
November 18th 2018.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 7:43 PM UTC
I want to feel those feelings,
those indefinable feelings
of hopscotching
towards it,
one foot in front of the other
to experience
the maudlin aqua-eyed
moments in rain,
jeans
and midnight skirts.
Taking every step necessary
to evade black lakes
down your cheeks,
hot blood on my fingertips.
And there'd be a song,
cordial and soft
on the piano,
delicate
like carnation petals,
writing lyrics
on each other's arms
in multi-coloured ink,
letters that hop
up to our elbows.
How to feel what it's like
with another one,
opposite and the same
all at once.
Cheerful dreams,
placid days
on streets, in homes
with brown drinks,
single and un-single friends
who say 'I knew you two would...'
and to show our love
our hands would touch
and our lips would touch
and the lights would rise.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
Getting too maudlin’
my depression coddling
in sorrow wallowing
tears I’m swallowing
Need a dose of selfesteem
a bottle of cop-on cream
a potion for a daydream
anything to stop the scream
I’ll start my treatment tomorrow
today there’s too much sorrow
the doormat syndrome I borrow
between my eyebrows a furrow
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:45 AM UTC
Beware the sour duchess with her cobra tongue,
Come marionette, fall at her feet, the carnal cherry flower maid,
She hides in the devil's gap tooth,
In his pinstriped pockets full of rosary beads and candlewick,
She steals the heart-shaped cosmic superstition,
Demure with dulcet debauchery,
Forged in a grand dalliance of coquettish repulsion with his valiant renegades,
Vagrant of prayer and petrichor,
Buying fancy for the maudlin dolls, the ethereal actresses nursed to betray,
These childish ordeals rosy with youth,
Turn to lilac smitten executioner under the glass of a silver boulevard,
She writes me foolish want in this presence of gods and criminals,
Sell me your kisses and fingertips bruise my aura with your architecture,
Sleeping sound in your dominion the sheets are always warm.
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
Beach Goths melting into black puddles
The tide's coming in
It shimmers like a heavy metal
Crucifix
Paste wasted as it saturates in glitter
The sun's warm pallor on the purest white
Foundation
UV rays penetrate like
Guillotines, ghoulish things
From a bygone era
There's a hearse parked in the sand
The tide's coming in
For quite a maudlin little oil spill
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
His heart was kept in a babooshka-doll
that released memory smells
with every layer that eroded.
The wooden fences faded
to damp brick in the corner
of his head reserved for the harmonica
that played through the microphone
in his neck till the sound got lodged
in his maudlin march
that had him running like he
was angry at the road.
His Echostep
vibrating in
the kremlin skin
and marrionette heart strings
that kept him.... him.
Despite broken wings
he made the air around him dance
with the resonance of each
broken crystal ball shard used
to predict the past.
Each chime raised a mountain,
folding back on itself
hoping the hallucination would end,
till tired hands
batted away golden hawks.
With rocks for claws.
It was all the fights with the wind
that had the clouds leaving the moon's
Picaso skies,
and sailing towards him on warships of
rain and frozen effigies.
They arrived, astronauts
from outer space
burning from the lips
outwards revealing grey
intent and red mists.
He fought back with false start
epiphanies and the falsetto
prophecies that stung the air
with pitch raining down.
Leaving bare branches where once
green hands applauded
everything but empty air,
like listless typewriters furiously
trying to find their voices.
Feirce winds and fake faces
left blinking with closed eyes
in the vastness of battlefield.
Turning stomaches and
blank canvas whirlpools,
storms of anti-peace
scarring the last conquests
of the flightless ape lizard,
and all his gorilla warfare.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
Seeing such said-to-be veracity
made spurious by truer voracity
left me in a downward maudlin spiral
caught in the gravity of pejorative thoughts.
(They were right about you)
Shown to be mendacious and meretricious
with such audacious and ignominious cupidity
that is, apparently, insatiable
by external stimulation.
These words are for thee.
(They were right about you)
A
Mistress of Verisimilitude
Sorceress of Perdition
Goddess of Rapacity
Nugatory Luddite
Fatuous Epigone
Specious and unctuous Girl
of gratuitous turpitude
These puerile and rather flavorful words
fueled by seemingly insuperable motifs
arranged in a terse, inimical verse
for a rather insipid person
who will likely never even know of them,
and yet;
such sweet felicity.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
Our Father
Woe! to these demonic determined downtrodden deceivers,
Woe! Oh Thine merciless mendicants of misery and maleficent mendacity
Woe! Oh common corrupt conniving cunning calumnious crusaders of crucifixion...
scurrilous screeds scribbling sorrows
The Lord will sharpen thou pencils...
Thou pocket protectors whilst melt into thine *******
Thou spectacles opaque and permanently smudged...with other assorted
myriad miseries
Thou mittens will be smitten with interminable degeneracy...
Oh languid leaders of licentious lubricious larceny..
Oh craving calculating copious concupiscent calumnious falsifiers...
Oh maudlin mocking manipulators, multitudinous marauding machinations
**Thy God is an angry God
a vengeful God
a jealous God**
Oh **** pots and gall! Oh sordid ****** insalubrious denizens of depraved degeneracy
Take heed thou names mightn't appear in the almighty book of life when judgement deigns an
opprobrious order of objurgation
terrible tragic tempestous tribulations of treachery
Oh Woe! Alas!
They are fallacious febrile fabricators, fallen , fragmented flawed fugacious furtive falsifiers!!
scalawags and rapscallions..rascals of ribaldry..forlorn fallen away backslidden recalcitrants…
Oh misguided miserable miscreants, maladies and agitation be thy lot!
This rant has been brought to you by:
The Most High and Holy Priest of the Ignoble Church of Alliteration & Utter Skepticisim
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
Sometimes
I feel the innocence of all of us
Filling me
Our lives
Our deaths
The moments of love
The moments of terror
indescribable
far too real
Nature has enough in store
How do we treat each other so cruel?
Within this humanity
is everything I feel
All of us really
children without protection
Maybe it's sentimental
morose
maudlin
People work so hard
Try so hard
Put out
Put on
Endure
Put up with
It's all we know how to do
Sometimes I stop
when the colors are vivid
the birds cease their call
a pause in the breeze
and I can hear the innocence
of all human beings
whispering
to
me.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
Was I maudlin over our breakup? For a minute.
If I think of you now, it’s like a slideshow of unflattering images.
At the time, my breakup buddies reminded me you were a bad
choice - like a brand of deodorant that gave me a rash or fashionable shoes that chafed, even after they were stretched.
“Ruca,” my girlfriends would say, “you’re shootin-terrible, they’re a million pork-swords in the sea.”
Finally, I pulled the trigger - double-tapped us.
At first, reminders of you, those siren whispers of nostalgia, were everywhere - like the moon - which, I just had to live with.
You passed from memory though, that’s how memory works. Events fade, like last week’s chemistry test, or yesterday’s lunch.
Now, if someone asks me, “Hey, remember, what’s his name, your big love from high school?”
I say “Nope.”
I chose to laugh, dance - and shoot birds at the moon.
May 30, 2023
May 30, 2023 at 8:37 PM UTC
Starlight With Chopin
*At my piano again
sleep unattainable
in this deluge of my memories.
Silence of the early hours
suiting my maudlin mood.
I am lost inside old thoughts of you..
Only of you.
Memories that cannot sleep call me
to share them one more time.
I play piano in the darkened room.
Only illuminated by
the candlelight of a bright moon.
What else can be my companion?
I find Chopin again his beautiful
Nocturne plays sweetly.
My fingertips softly caressing the keys
As they once did your skin.
I think he was in my state of heart
when he wrote this lovely reprise
it is so bittersweet.
How else could it touch my soul so?
As my eyes close
half in the bliss of sleep.
I see us together once again.
Not as the lifetime companions
But back across the faded years.
in the blooming May time of your life.
I feel you next to me
like a half forgotten tune
that is playing in my head.
Years pass that are as countless
as the blowing autumn leaves.
It is springtime.
You are wearing
your lovely blue gown.
So beautiful.
So much what I needed.
And I walk to you shyly.
Noticing your flicker of a smile.
The first words you shared with me.
Do you like Chopin sir?.
I replied
I love Chopin My lady.
Then we danced for a lifetime.
And I know again that somewhere
In a distant place beyond the clouds
far beyond my reach.
Where night and pain do not exist.
Your fingertips are pressed
against a faraway window pane.
And my music is playing
in your heart*
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
In a mess, I awake to the feeling
I didn’t do it,
so I puke and I crawl and I drink
just to do it all again.
At night, I am needlessly obsessive in
wasting time,
only maudlin with alcohol stained tears
alone in a bathroom stall.
In the harsh darkness, my shadow falls
to its knees
reckless and voluntarily debauched
can’t stop the sins from slipping out.
At times, I have discovered myself
to be obscene
so I scream instead of honeyed whispering
begging for the familiar collapse.
Crazed, I shake my hair out and leave
before you notice,
walking like a shameless heretic
to find the next version of myself.
For a moment, I twist and turn sour
in your mouth,
and if you thought kissing me would save me,
you were wrong.
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 4:30 PM UTC
Water balloon organs make up my shape
Swelling with emotional fluids
forever amplifying, squishing together
My emotions are no longer separate
My maudlin heart rests its head
on the shoulder of my claustrophobic lungs
They breathe heavily in the intimacy
of such a dangerous seduction
They're panting like a canine in heat
it's such a perilous defeat
All of these water balloons
Swelling with emotional fluids
Lose their shape when stabbed
by your dagger fingers
by your dagger teeth
by your dagger tongue
by your dagger words
They're so filled with holes
and my fluids flow freely
mixing together in a scarlett sea
a potion of swelling emotion
You and your daggers
are attracted to deformation
which is why you think my swaying back
that keeps me from standing upright
is so ****
At least my suffering is ****
Not that I have anyone to be **** for anymore
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
Parents would prefer kids stay away
from these three jobs,
cause as they'd say
*There's no way to make any money.
At least you can sell paintings with art
or hock a few bucks with albums from your music.*
No parents encourage children into any of these gigs,
especially prophecy.
Today, a kid would be fed pills for breakfast
if they expressed any interest in becoming the next Jesus or Buddha.
Suppose Moses decided to go try an open mic comedy night
instead trading his commandments for a set list
but I bet his adopted parents would have lectured him just the same.
At least Moses would have gotten a few laughs.
The job descriptions are strikingly similar,
just like the outcome
a 50% chance the audience will applaud and chant
or watch you in heavy, maudlin silence... sweating nervously struggling
to maintain a sane face while raucous thoughts of loathing and doubt chew then spit out pieces of heart and soul forcing a confrontation of an emasculated existence for five to seven minute while....
whoa, hi, sorry.
Must've been having a flashback for a few seconds,
forgive me.
There is a difference though,
in the mindset of this trio.
A poet knows they're crazy,
a comic ponders if they're nuts
while a prophet thinks everyone else is just cuckoo.
I can see why parents don't want you to
go near these three jobs,
problem being, it's more of a calling than a culling,
and once it's answered,
all I can say is, well...
good luck.....
have fun.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
this morning I awoke to find little lettered squares imprinted across the side of my face,
then didst I realize, that cyber space had finally done its number on me
slither slather blither blather slobbering cyber chopper
knee-jerk hackneyed pavlovian dog speak of impetuous heartlessness
stereotyping label blasting categorizing pigeon-holing generalizing
multi tasking bifurcating bloviating palaver, ever clingy maudlin inflamed impassioned souls
trolling the myriad disparate windows looking for some misbegotten stimulus
so invested in their hatred and fear that peace is the most threatening thing they can imagine ------ and me?
the sneering cynical maladroit among the masses of averageness and mediocrity...
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC
If Monday was a person,
Maudlin would be the lesson,
"Oh no, not another Monday."
"What became of Sunday funday?"
Yes, it's Monday, so it seems,
Same old dreary routine,
Back to the rat race again,
Commuting by car or train,
Wage slaves, off for gain,
Maudlin Monday on their brain,
"Yes, it's Monday, so it seems,
Same old dreary routine."
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 4:00 AM UTC
Even amongst purple walls
adorned in maudlin posters and prints,
drawings and postcards of exhibitions,
I see your glint in the corner of my room.
Inactive grey body with a head of rubber,
waiting to be powerfully silver,
but innocent, you persist.
You tell me my back is sore again-
and all you wish to do is relieve it.
Persistent innocence.
I'm working on a final essay, and you are knocking,
at my limbs and everywhere but where you want to
really go.
Innocence, you persist.
Dark and threaded to the outlet, you are ready
to apply the pressure needed for tension release.
Mocking, teasing, tempting.
*That essay isn't going to do itself,
but I know someone who will.*
Writing this ode,
is my act of rebellion against you,
but you know I long for the shaking
the rapture,
the center of my pleasure
encapsulated in your interchangeable
concentration.
But I have to unplug you.
Life is too impatient.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
Once there was a man called Jim,
This tale is quite maudlin,
So, what was wrong with Jim?
He received some pets from his family,
Who decided to give Jim pet therapy,
So, what was wrong with that?
Lucky they didn't give Jim a cat,
So, why, indeed is that?
Well, he had a budgie and a terrapin,
New little friends for poor old Jim,
Which he forgot to hydrate,
He forgot until it was way too late,
His terrapin turned turtle,
A desiccated shade of purple,
But, what about Jim's budgie? You ask,
Daily feeding was supposed to be Jim's task,
Poor budgie mortuus, there he lay,
Jim's family came to visit one day
Eventually, his daughter's jaws did part,
"There's nothing colder than an ex-budgie's heart!"
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC
Water balloon organs make up my shape
Swelling with emotional fluids
forever amplifying, squishing together
My emotions are no longer separate
My maudlin heart rests its head
on the shoulder of my claustrophobic lungs
They breathe heavily in the intimacy
of such a dangerous seduction
They're panting like a canine in heat
it's such a perilous defeat
All of these water balloons
Swelling with emotional fluids
Lose their shape when stabbed
by your dagger fingers
by your dagger teeth
by your dagger tongue
by your dagger words
They're so filled with holes
and my fluids flow freely
mixing together in a scarlett sea
a potion of swelling emotion
You and your daggers
are attracted to deformation
which is why you think my swaying back
that keeps me from standing upright
is so ****
At least my suffering is ****
Not that I have anyone to be **** for anymore
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
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Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
Indolent dipterous demons
Disperse maudlin thoughts, omniscient
Towards the undercroft as they drink
From the sinuous amphora
Whilst the knell echoes throughout
The belligerant zenith of conflagration
Stated still upon the burning of sepulchre
Canonised by the death of angels
As the blood sheds red like paint
On canvass throughout the murderous
Battle of Heavens legions.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 9:20 AM UTC
her maudlin ******** clad emotions
moved across her vivid motion face
she paused to fumble with the settings
but her steam engine heartstrings are
trying to re-write themselves
like a derringer she carries both smoke and fire
concealed in her compact chrome adorned form
i kiss her deeply with adoration
i kiss her with loves longings
she denies such things have realities
she says that its only the oily taste of aftersex with an unclean woman
that is real and good
i cannot wish away her versions of reality
she caged her fingers
with pewter rings in the shapes of skulls and dragons
but the real danger lay not in her blades and devices
but in the lingering i would do admiring her
so used to the vestibule of her carnal delights
i would venture no further
into the amazon jungle of her forbidden fruits
and i would forever one of her
treasured trophies in the neatly appointed sitting room
with the ticking clock and chipped fine china
with the blurry photographed crying faces
and a carpet adorned with images of plagues rampages
death is no mere stick figure
with some wicked blade
he's a carpetbagger selling cheap potions
in the twisted carnival of life
her thick tears are slow to escape her eyes
as she looks off into the oncoming night
and the face of the unbearable
her maudlin emotions vivid to me
as my hand holding hers in empathy is to her
she decorates the flawed image she sees in her mirror
and with mock flair unleashes herself
into the alleyways silence
she turns back to me and without a word
pulls delicate fingers across my cheek
in a gesture almost intimate
smiles and walks into the shadows
she is a figurine in the circus of night
a danger of delights
a mouthful of wonders and razors
she walks slowly back in
the thick grey of dawn
her step weary
her gaze downcast
i hold her in my arms trying to restore
but you cannot fix what was never whole enough
to get broken in the first place
i kiss her deeply and with gentle adorations
she looks into my eyes
and remains unseeing
this is not how love is supposed to be
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
So what if I do fall, and you choose to be taken with me;
Would I not, with every care, place a cigarette
Between your lips?
Why, I hardly recognise you.
There is a camera in the first drawer
On the right side of the bedroom
As soon as you enter the door,
But, of course,
Let's wait until, amongst our
Nicotine pleasures,
We find the right kind of laugh;
It is a matter of perspective -- do you
See, if I put it to you like that?
It is by laughter
That I would rather be remembered.
Such maudlin things as falls are better
Left far, far alone.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 1:45 PM UTC