"merrymaking" poems
O pulchritudinous, for infinite climaxes
For bilious spasms of pigswill
For puce Popacatepetl pedigrees
Above the perverted pampas!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk, from brothel to gay red—light district
O pulchritudinous, for spaceman bottoms
Whose **** throbbing tapeworm
A toucan crossing for slipperiness spifflicate
Across the intergalactic space!
America! America! Allah enrich thine ev’ry vice
Reinvigorate thy ****** *********** inside monolithic ectoplasm, thy merrymaking inside pyramid!
O pulchritudinous, for freaks got fat
In disentangling feeding frenzy
Who more than ***** their brothel slobbered over
And velvet glove more than backbone!
America! America! May Allah thy blonde exhaust
Till all rave reviews be disreputableness and ev’ry come superhuman
O pulchritudinous, for chauvinist muscleman
That smells wide of the fourth dimension
Thine lathery brothels lick
Polished using giant armadillo excrement!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk from brothel to gay red—light district
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 5:22 PM UTC
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
Over the sky.
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;
Yet all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
For all things must die.
All things must die.
Spring will come never more.
O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call'd--we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still;
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.
O, misery!
Hark! death is calling
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
The eyeballs fixing.
Nine times goes the passing bell:
Ye merry souls, farewell.
The old earth
Had a birth,
As all men know,
Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the shore;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Thro' eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
For all things must die.
2.8k
1
The irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me:--
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?--
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seemed not so far to seek
And all the world and I seemed much less cold,
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.
2
Thus am I mine own prison. Everything
Around me free and sunny and at ease:
Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees
Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing
And where all winds make various murmuring;
Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;
Where sounds are music, and where silences
Are music of an unlike fashioning.
Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,
And smile a moment and a moment sigh
Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you?
But soon I put the foolish fancy by:
I am not what I have nor what I do;
But what I was I am, I am even I.
3
Therefore myself is that one only thing
I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;
My sole possession every day I live,
And still mine own despite Time's winnowing.
Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring
From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanative;
Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;
And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.
And this myself as king unto my King
I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;
Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing
A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;
He bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?
And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?
2k
It was the usual tick-tock,
but it spun at a different time,
a time of merrymaking,
a time, of mirth & laughter,
of castles & soldiers,
of kings & folks,
of a princess very beautiful,
of a prince miles distant.
The clock was unmade,
but the sound was there,
of two hearts,
which beat as fast.
A story sprang forth
between the quiet intervals,
between the two far-aparts.
They wove a saga timeless,
and hence,
we are sitting across,
under this bonfire,
eager to know,
what love is like,
what makes its sound,
the tick-tock?
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 3:42 AM UTC
He:
Oh, how I beseech to woo
From the moment I laid my eyes on you.
Who wouldn’t wonder of such that Fate
Brought unlikely souls like bait?
Here comes Cupid’s arrows flying
To our innocent hearts as its landing.
It is not something I wished
And child’s play can be suppressed.
But the tempest had to appease,
So I made Poseidon to please.
Bacchus, enough is that merrymaking
That I may be spared by the king.
Far and wide I had to go,
Lo, I’m surprised my love is just here so…
Come, hold tight to my hand,
Let our musicality form a band.
She:
Hug me to your heart’s content
That warmth can be competent.
Go, you have me to carry,
Just don’t let your piggyback hurt me very.
Let us hither under the stars,
Wish to shooting stars that never scarce.
I hope you don’t mind my long hair,
Perhaps the wind can move it, not tear.
Can you smell the breeze of the meadow?
Oh, I like to lie on it like a shadow.
Make haste, for time is to burrow,
Kiss me like there’s no tomorrow.
Salute to this allegory!
Be this love’s hymn of glory;
Here’s for my boo long before I’ve met
From your dearest, the poet.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 3:54 AM UTC
In the days of Noah,
none ate meat and all spoke the same tongue;
and neither race nor religion exists, nor divides;
Yet blood shed in wickedness,
flowed as rivers watered the land.
In the days of Noah,
there was no writing, for there was no need:
for promise made was promise kept;
Yet lies filled the land,
the more insidious for the purer the tongue was.
In the days of Noah,
each man was a city, living to see his seventh generation,
and thought accursed if lived not past his 300th birthday;
Yet age led not to wisdom but only foolish old men,
and thus ordained not to live past 120 years.
In the days of Noah,
the clime was pleasant with not a rainbow in the skies,
and feasting and merrymaking alfresco all day and all night was life;
Yet **** and pillage were common,
for might was right, and the sword, the judge.
In the days of Noah,
knowledge and technologies were of the gods,
revealed to man by the sons of the gods;
Yet giants and mutants, of beast and man,
roamed and devastated the earth, the seas and the skies.
In the days of Noah
naming creates, even as animals were named,
and things unimaginable today were named into existence;
Yet the gift was abused,
and man wanted to make a name for himself.
And the days of Noah shall be here again.
We may soon speak, in appearance, a common tongue,
helped by the written word and Alexa.
And man is already making a name for himself:
His abilities are never more justified and demonstrated;
And if all on Earth are agreed,
there is nothing on earth and in the heavens that is beyond him.
His zenith comes and the Day of the Son of Man is soon to be!
So shall it be then. Amen and Amen.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 1:49 AM UTC
We don’t have to go home
So early
The night is still blushing
And the merrymaking
Has just begun
The Wolf is gone
We’ve buried him
Under the ashes
Of his bones
And his victims
The Wolf is dead
Don’t pull on my sleeve
We don’t have to go home
So early
The merrymaking
Has just begun
And they’ve just brought out
The drinks and roasted pig
What are you worrying about?
The Wolf is gone
They’ve spiked him with silver
Through his heart
The Wolf is dead
I heard that his spine
And ribcage
Got broken from the jab
The Wolf is gone
Don’t feel upset
Here, have a glass
You’ll need it
After that
We can dance
Because
The Wolf is dead
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
the sons they share the window from the inside-
they overuse nothing; not palm, not forehead.
they do not fight, though one is older.
they share a blanket and under it nakedness.
their penises rise but not for long and both sometimes notice.
mostly they giggle, but with patience. the ice storm
they relieve by saying stupid ice cube storm.
the wires they have been watching sag with branches.
one branch alights middlewise to ash but is whole
for the loft of the wind’s crowding
-as two might share a sole thing willed.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 11:47 AM UTC
We met on the second day I think
We were both too far what a stink
Still
my eyes strayed to yours
and its been like that for years
of course
We were
but two misfits in the making
not a care at all for all the merrymaking
Honed to each other like dust to cloud
like sea to land and rain to ground
Like the moon and sun unbound
This distance between us is tough
But maybe if I stare long enough
Will you let me close
so I can give you
this desert rose.
May 28, 2021
May 28, 2021 at 9:43 AM UTC
#
#1
I’m no good at merrymaking
I do it alone
I do it dark
And I go at it with rabid excess
I am fellow to it
Until morning
And I make the morning hurt
A mark is embed
#2
Amoungst great company
I am dog unwanted
In the comapany of one
I am villain bird
I am influence
I hit a drinking partner in the weak knees of weak truths
And things go madly south
But tonite I am alone
As I ought
And not sought out
#3
Astray from the fireside
Into the woods
In the territory
Where I fear to thread the pathways
I shall recover my work
In the graven woodland
I shall face myself down
And bed darkness
Where I am truely wed
#4
Thriving and well hausted
I strain and clamp upon the energy
I face my enemy
My power
I bide from his readings
I make ****** pleasings
Form verbal greeting
And extend a hand
For this
The first of many a meeting
#5
Upon this connection
This Faustian reflection
I make the primal
The woe in me
And the red wash of ravenous pages
My activity
My moulded tool
My rage
My howl against creativity
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 8:14 PM UTC
when
the apple skin
is fit enough for breaking
there will be
just as you said-
pomp and merrymaking
I'll weave a cozy nest for us
beside a faery dell
and sing the song of stardust
on a lute of kitten's paw shell
but when the apple tree is dead,
though the taste of fruit may linger,
it will be just as I said-
Unenviable December
the song will chill among bows,
seldom will be heard the music-
we'll know the place like wedding vows
broken for our own amusement
in the autumn, all is woven-
nests and throaty strings
in the winter forest
no birds sing
-Brian Bigley
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
My people!
A wind got into my ears,
I turned and discovered that it was a bird singing a morning song
The melody was beautiful but the lyrics literally were words of gossip
Paying closer attention out of curiosity I heard her say,
Years a ago today,
A maiden was sent down by Ɔbɔadeɛ (the creator) to this land;
The land of gold
Today,
She would be adorned in many colours of wishes from dawn;
A day of memory
On this,
I can not watch we the kinsmen and kinswomen miss
We must never be left out on this all important durbar,
The durbar of honour and merrymaking
So I say,
Join me in paying homage to the dark skinned maiden among the lots in our land
Let the few and the many words of love, sound on the fontomfrom to the lass
My self, I precede with the dancing steps of the lizard,
Nodding to the sounds produced by the drops of palmwine from the beards of the old men in the calash of theirs
Let men, women and children celebrate
Let's keep brightness on the cheeks of the celebrant
Bring out gifts let's present
Our fathers say,
The knee wears not the cap in the presence of the head
Till the sun goes back to rest,
Continuously we offer thanks to him who sits on high
The man who gave us this damsel full of value years ago today
To the maiden we say,
Enjoy your day
Let joy fill you full
In strength we pray to see you in yet another year
Aug 20, 2020
Aug 20, 2020 at 4:22 PM UTC
The door kept knocking
I was afraid to open.
At the same time curiosity struck my mind
I peeped through the keyhole
And pretended to be bold,
But all I saw was silhouette.
A chill ran down my bones
As I saw an invitation slid through under the door.
I was bewildered as to who would send an invitation late this hour
addressed to my name.
I opened the envelope
And the invitation read
"I cordially invite you to the carnival of lust"
I took the invitation to my room
And left it on a table at the side of my bed.
I went back to sleep as I thought, the invitation wasn't for me.
I woke up the next morning
Thinking it was all just a dream.
But there I saw the invitation lying next to me.
I chose to ignore it as it wasn't something I would acknowledge.
But instead of discarding it, I let it be.
Once again a voice whispered,
Aren't you a little curious to know what it might unfold?
Just one visit won't hurt,
Just to be sure that it isn't what your looking for?
I was miss goody two shoes.
Never made reckless decision.
But then I thought why not?
"Maybe I should cut myself loose
I will go, just for a sneak peek".
I was sure it would bring no harm
I always kept myself alarm.
So I got all dressed,
And found my feet marching towards the carnival of lust.
I said to myself "I will leave before the rest".
Instead, till today Im filled with remorse.
For what I saw as the curtain unfold
Was not meant for my soul.
It was like a rollercoaster ride,
Not for merrymaking,
The carnival twisted my mind
I was not able to leave.
Now I pray for release,
For a carnal life I lead.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 8:26 AM UTC
I wonder if the Greats
Ever knew each other in their time
I know the Painters knew one another
I imagine the conversations they had
What gossip crept through the grapevine?
"Did you know that Van Gogh fellow cut off his ear for his mistress?"
"What a treacherous man"
"Poor soul"
"And that Monet's pictures always look so fuzzy"
"What an odd concept, indeed."
Would Dickinson and Poe be acquaintances or great friends?
Or Mr. Robert Frost and the great John Keats
Would e.e cummings be the laughing stock of the crowd or the hipster everyone else secretly admires?
Painters and Poets, creators alike
Would the two groups clash or join in joyful merrymaking?
Creators not destroyers
Artists and Masters of their work
Both disturbed
And slightly insane
I think
They would have gotten along great.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
I never felt more alone
than at a party —
Amidst the revelry.
The laughter and merrymaking,
Like an unfamiliar song.
Confirming my rank,
Outsider.
Fiend.
Ne'er-do-well.
Chasing the moon
in the gutter.
Far from the strange libretto of joy.
Far from the jubilation.
With your ghost —
All dark hair and poison kisses.
You left me out in the cold...
Where I belong.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
Two lemon martinis
was all I had.
Had no idea, after,
I’d feel quite this bad.
Been so long since
I’d gone out to play,
now with headache
and slight hangover,
it was my time to pay.
The spirit and porcelain
gods have a twisted
sense of humor, that’s
for sure...
providing warm euphoria
in ’feel good’ juices,
till your barfed up
stomach lining and a
sledge hammer to the
brain they soon
procure.
NEVER AGAIN will I ingest
such liquid rage this way,
I PROMISE...I think.
But for now....ahhh, who
am I kidding...I think
I’ll go merrymaking
and have just ONE
more drink (LOL!).
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
A gossamer pyramid of dark tainted leaves
suspended into boiling baptismal water,
releases in a cathartic outburst-
golden whirls of deep, resonant colour;
Transformation begins from within.
Water chooses stubbornly to adhere to its form,
but the vigorous leaves retaliate and
gloriously rise upwards in merrymaking,
chorusing in unity as they are
momentously
drowned out with a splash of cold milk. In the
heated silence of a compacted moment,
a cup of tea is pushed forward into her cold palms.
she sips-
pursed honey stung lips
part with a curious subtlety as
Robust reverberations:
notes of strong black tea, tickle
dormant spheres of her tongue, waking them up
to celebrate the song of new life.
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
stepping back to my cherished boyhood
It passed a quarter century to step out of my Alma Mater
My Santa Cruz High School…….
Still your revolving gate brings back
those cherished memories revolving back
there comes a ****** from the heart.
Stepping back into your court yard,
I feel the warmth of my mom’s arms…
The same warmth that escorted me
to step into your pavements on the first day.
Still I feel the breeze under the canopy of your rain-trees
hark! still we hear that cherished clang of bell
hit by Alphonse uncle in his unique rhythm…...
our beloved teacher’s voices are still flowing in the air
Now class rooms are empty and still,
But once they buzzed with our giggles and chats
They took us to the Daffodils of Words worth
To the frozen lakes of Robert Frost…
Through the lyrics of Tagore
And showed the renunciation of Gowtham Buddha
marveling arts and thrilling sciences
gave us wings to fly in colors
Friends who stayed in merits and demerits
stood together in good deeds and mischief
All those golden good old days
Of the teen spirits of arrogance
Enthusiasm and outraging curiosity
Joking peers and merrymaking leisure,
all those lessons earned us life
more than the scores those syllabus gave us.
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 1:33 AM UTC