"monocle" poems
the barker in charge
is sniffing markers
& the dog's the one
in the shock collar.
good god.
I'll come back
tomorrow.
galapagos, I'm sorry.
rocketship jalopy
wrote a handbook on
banana boat cutthroat
reconnaissance exotica,
abominable
beast of tropic atrophy
broke folk casualty engulfed
in telescopes & TV shows
being monitored thru a monocle
the theatrical apathy & topical misanthropy
can anybody understand me?
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
I can't imagine how this looks
Me, face of clay
Silent windchime mouth
Aquariam glass eyeballs
Snowglobe life
Swimming in glitter
Tsunami at your hands
Plastic toes stuck
Until I lunge
Eyes flare heat
Stove top face
Coiled brain
Orange is the color I saw in you
Finger painted pianos
Mole rat grass
You took my monocle
Smashed glass in the garden
Next to tulip bulbs
That will grow in as your teeth
Fingers on mice
Like your genes
Granola girls take paths
I am glued, plastic feet
You walk around me
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
.
The serpent around my eye
in perpetuity eating its tail.
A sigil to represent fluidity,
sheds its skin to no avail.
The Truths play around my head in loops eternal,
infinite possibilities of ***********
fractal gems cavorting in lustrous oceans,
that cleanse an hours disgrace.
Pan-Dimensional
and Omni-Directional
Truths are connecting.
Ouroboros, protector of the Tree of Life,
his apple is the gift of Knowledge.
Are those tempted weak and futile?
or hungry for the secrets of Cronos.
The fruit of Wisdom picked, and devoured,
in the garden quest for clarity.
And the serpent around my eye,
like a monocle allowing sight,
flows Truths into my mind,
reflecting matrices taken to flight.
© Pagan Paul (09/06/17)
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 1:57 PM UTC
write at midnight. edit in the morning.
write on a mountain. edit on a beach.
write inside a dream. edit & exist in reality.
write in a fever pitch as starlight kisses your cheekbones.
edit in the cold dawn light without excuses.
write loudly with Bjork screaming into the curtains.
edit in silence.
write as the clouds gather around the gibbous moon.
edit as the sun crests the hill & burns away the fog.
write inside, cozy under a blanket.
edit naked, cold on the front porch.
write asking questions.
edit demanding answers.
write blindfolded with your fingers waltzing across the qwerty.
edit bespectacled or with a monocle.
write like a mass ****** edit like a suicide.
or better yet
write like a homicide. edit like a detective.
write toward the open sky with your legs outstretched before you.
edit facing a clean white wall with your knees against your chest.
write because you are innocent. edit because you are guilty.
write during a fit of hyperventilation.
edit during mammoth exhalation.
write with complexity. edit into simplicity.
write, as Hemingway did, drunk.
edit, not sober, but hungover.
see your flaws in the sharp mirror of a headache.
write during sloppy explosion. edit during precise implosion.
write with your head in the clouds gnawing at the cumulus.
edit with your feet firmly planted in the ground.
write during violent collision.
edit during calm separation.
write with a pencil on soggy paper in a hot shower.
edit with a red pen sitting in tepid murky bathwater.
write among raucous laughter & banging skillets.
edit in secret while the kids are asleep.
write like a sadomasochist.
edit like a psychiatrist.
write while running on your tip-toes.
edit while lying flat on your back.
write in several languages with abandon.
edit beside a translator dictionary.
write as you are engulfed in fire.
edit with an extinguisher.
write with careless fluidity.
edit without assistance from amphetamine or coffee.
write with a full bladder,
standing up,
jitterbugging,
squeezing the tip of your *****
closed--urgently
squirm & trickle
your ideas onto
the porcelain page.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 11:33 AM UTC
an art gallery splattered with promiscuous color
a dotted canvas hangs on a sky of calm
next to a catscan -- modern art
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
No monophonic masterpiece
Sung on a monorail
In monotone with MSG
That's monosodium glutamate
I say that monotonously
A monoplane monopoly
A monomaniac with monomania
A monocle for monoculars
A monograph of monogamy
Monocetyledons- plants with single seeds
A monolith that's monogramed and monochromatic
You know the monosyllable of monotheism as fact
There is no monomial for mononucleosis
Are eggs mononuclear?
Monoxide just sounds dangerous
I have a monolingual term for mono
It's bad so please don't catch it
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
a blonde waitress in a diner on minimum wage
located off route 66
reads a battered book with a missing last page
hoping to find a quick fix
with no family, friends, or cash to her name
she needed to find a way out
but a greying old man with a monocle came
and quickly sorted her out
he placed a tablet before her
and ran off in a terrible state
but he called back over his shoulder
"oh my goodness, how could i be late?"
she was puzzled and thought she had imagined it
as the night shifts had made Alice sleepy
but she peered down at the strange looking tablet
and made out the two words 'eat me'
'what harm could it do?' she inquired
as she carefully picked up the pill
as she swallowed, her throat was on fire
and she began to feel rather ill
her surroundings, they became hazy
and her the blood in her body ran cold
she convinced herself it was a daydream
as she felt herself fall down a hole
she fell with a thud, then looked around
and noticed that objects were massive
then she realised that she was 10 feet underground
stuck in a dark, ***** passage
a light in the distance lead her to a door
'what's behind it?' Alice then wondered
and as she was now incredibly small
she was able to just slip right under
peering around, she was taken aback
as Alice saw things she did not understand
in the midst of the night lay a large cheshire cat
which grinned and said 'Welcome to Wonderland'
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
Just picked up my thirtieth pair of glasses
(perhaps you call them eye glasses).
Progressive, photo-chromatic, temples with wrap around cables.
Same round frames since I was sixteen (first saw them in How I Won the War).
I don’t mess with what works. We fit. No need to look further.
Had my eye on the prize.
They give me perfect sight. And I waited years to get perfect sight.
Always needed glasses. Finally got them when I was eleven.
Big family. Immigrants. No health coverage. So, no glasses.
Couldn’t see the forest or the trees. A genetic thing too.
Several sisters and brothers are as myopic as moles.
Mammy and Daddy never wore glasses (which is not to say they didn’t need them).
All granny glasses are wire rims with a golden finish.
All of mine were. These ones are round black wire rims. I’m being so adventurous.
I remove them (singular is a monocle) to shower and go to bed. I never ask to try on someone’s frames, and I never loan mine for a second (Period)
I also have a face that has grown so accustomed to glasses, that my eyes have surely deepened into my skull. I don’t recognize myself on my driver’s license, health card or passport (Why do they insist on that? I’m never asked to remove my glasses upon surrender of any document for visual verification).
I’ve yet to regret the wealth I’ve spent.
Their cost could pay the rent
For a third world family for years.
It would feed and clothe a village, I’m sure.
I'm not blinded by how good I've got it here.
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 11:35 AM UTC
I have been beginning to notice
that I(and I may not be alone)
always look at the past
through a marigold monocle.
This, meaning nothing now
ever seems to be joyous
or gay or splendiferous
until it is a past memory.
A cobweb.
A rafter.
A leaf on the ground.
…I guess.
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 8:41 AM UTC
i cannot rest towards sleep,
not insomnia nature,
but this mind's consistency
to intensively be critical
of cared units to measure.
continuing as each
tactile, contractile, dactyl pressing
against this chest contesting
examination against my inclination
to worry a hurried
yet impede succession
to assess these abscesses
within
weaving teaming thoughts
defensive to the x and o drawn
so that i may anticipate
tomorrow's entailed
beauty
wait, a change in tone
a drop in breath
rest, retired, and displaced
movement of consciousness
no longer anxious
gravity has provided
a pillowed valley
to allow this face
to rest this monocle
towards the dimly lit
neon green
pass the hour 4
am I divulging
my emotions
to conceived
mirror
dramatic animated images
alas spirits
lifted
time
remains
cycling
pedaling
from
unneeded
wakes
of waves
so
I may
dream
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 11:29 PM UTC
I don’t see your reason to play
Is there something you know that I do not?
Things I tell you are given away,
Much like I did and left them to rot
When things are seen through a monocle
Not two, not a pair
The acts I’ve committed are still canonical
As these clothes,
You do not wear!
So I anger when the truth is diluted
An answer it seems, must be reputed
While wrongness and hurt
Plant seeds in the dirt,
For trust between us feels polluted…
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 8:31 PM UTC
It’s often of a christmas time
When words will dance to relish rhyme
To tell the story of demander
Sharp of dress – the proper gander
His monocle peers down at you
An eye for flight and finesse too
He flutters out about your heart
You want him but he’s so apart
Put your treasures at his Tod’s
His feathers flutter and he nods
But you’re so crass, so undefined
Your love for him is leagues behind
While you chase with mollycoddles
He’s dancing with the supermodels
A candle dinner, just for two
He’s sharing with Chanel, not you
Leave him be, for the common we
Are odious to one like he
The proper gander often finds
He’s chased for love by lesser minds
He once brushed his Boglioli
And told me that for Christmas Cindy
Would meet him neath the mistletoe
I should not call him, hard I know
So let this poem serve as warning
Do not follow your heart’s calling
When you see the great demander
Sharp of dress – the proper gander
And now that you are out the way
I’ll wait until that special day
For within the wrapping and the ribbon
I’m hiding ‘till I’m duly given
The postie will deliver me
To his doorstep and we’ll see
I’ll burst forth from the wrapping paper
For Christmas we will be together
He’ll choose me over other women
He’ll show a side he still has hidden
The other girls may chase romance
But faced with me they have no chance
For my ship has one commander
My love’s the world, he’s Alexander
Without him life would be much blander
How I want the proper gander.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
*the stony silence
is an offshoot of the violence
brewed in the madman’s dream
none shall speak ever again
he will be king
drunk on brandy and power
and only he will speak
they must listen in perpetuity
he is a latter-day monarch in a monocle
and severe coat tails and top hat
everyone is a servant servile and compliant
his will is to be done at all times and in all places
always he wakes up to a continental breakfast
and an academic on radio talking in RP
like an Oxford-educated pundit of anthropology
who has theories for everything
including the shape of his own nose
lo and behold!
The days of change are here
men shall whimper and die
women shall rise up and rule
from the bedroom to the boardroom
it’s a woman’s world, ultimately
and the tin *** king shall tuck his tail away
and kiss the hand of she who rules*
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
what spawn of madness lies behind the crooked lens
chains tied to the entropy of ends
chaos bound to nothing but ourselves;
now unfolding fate that we’ve propelled.
somehow now, beyond the folds
withholding beyond reach;
the light of every star unknown
will rapture; be unleashed.
so I may bend and break the lines
of all the rules they teach
i’ve made my own,
this world is mine,
no longer shall I sleep.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
The ingrate is chewing on his ungrateful cud
But he isn't a liberty to say what's in it
He spits fire at social drinkers
And goes slow mo in the fast lane
Just to **** off those he considers wastes of life
He'd curse them out but that be a wasted breath
The milk maid's dunlap is protruding
But she doesn't give 1/16th of a ****
Or 1/4th of a ****
She has gunk in her teeth
But all the ***** ***** old men are all aboard The Desperate Express
The polygamist is off to the races
Then the roller rink to inject misinformation into the grapevine
He gallantly gives his consent to take a lie detector test
As they try to get past his veneer and get a confession compromised of cul-de-sac secrets
With their monocle and chronic swamp-ass they contracted while waiting on line at the concession stand
The spy's identity will not be compromised
He needs to investigate this world's nation wide arms race to the red button that will undoubtedly end us all
That's why hes undercover in the vineyard
His beliefs correspond with mine
He thinks the planet will be fine but its inhabitants are doomed
And I concur
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
"I bagged this one
out in In-di-A!"
...the braggart's boast.
"It's a very rare
( these days)ALGERNON!"
And indeed, an Algernon
bares his teeth
above the roaring fire's
mantlepiece.
He looked startled as
he had been shot just that second.
"The head is splendidly mounted
complete with handlebar moustache
...& monocle.
One feels that one could
pop next door and there
would be ha ha...the rest of
Algernon
sticking out the other side.
The glint in the eye
the sneer just so
...right.
"And to the right of the Algernon
is a genuine Cuthbert.
Again from 1901 or there or
thereabouts."
"It is indeed a perfect specimen of
the good old chap..."
the white rhino brags yet again
of what he calls his baggings.
White Rhino's
collection of colonials
is the envy of
all the other animals.
"Some more hot *** old chum?"
But the White Tiger
puts a paw over his glass.
Declines.
The fire's flickering
leaping up the wall.
The shadow making
the humans almost
come alive
as if the Cuthbert
could turn to the Algernon
and say
"OH...I SAY!
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
Keep your foot on the gas
Your heart on the brake.
return your map
to it's original destination...
the mad rhino
of your naivete, churning -
heresies
that remove
the mundane
carols
in the vault of
all choirs;
tongue kissing the Pegasus
of polyamorous
glints from god's
monocle
flanking the herd
of Gnostic Ferraris,
chewing the soft shoots of bonsai prairie
roaming the banquet
of aimless,
refreshing the lady's goblet
of godsmack
as naturally a termite
loathes a Queen that can't remember
your name
because she hates
your father...
miles and miles of
pink
accumulate the misfits of your jigsaw.
gaining on the horizon
of your blindspot
feels like an Ecstasy of Selfishness
baptized in chrysanthemums
of compassion.
whose pollen makes a black honey
that fills the gap
between the smell of a baseball glove
and third degree burns
from your heart's
desire.
you are pilgrim charmed, out in the open heart of serene surgery, on an errand, poppies fed to destiny
on pillows of rice and grey Callings...
you are tapping the apocalypse of previous Edens
witness to the birth of a vague distinction
between your honest mistakes and god's love in the 23rd row, catching the school play
you wrote in the margins of your error.
a fruit bat with scurvy on picture day... fanning a Polaroid of Duration
in kabuki.
your car, a Chinese beetle hugging the asphalt Rhine of a Blue Melon
tilting on the axis
of an early spring...
your windshield, yielding
with honor
to savage blows
from sunsets
that milk
nightfall.
mecca, entangled in your dead sea sonnets
is the hole in your shoe
where moons clog
and first steps shave
their heads, smooth
hiking on four wheels , approaching the true form of an open question
head out the window across from mirage with spin in it's teeth.
facing the jasmine of bittersweet typhoons
inking henna tattoos
on both arms
of stopped clocks...
like kudzu, in a difference engine, coiled around a spark
like a widow 'round a foggy recollection of her true love
39 pixels
of a better half
that made you
whole.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 3:33 AM UTC
With a Rose quartz around your neck
You’d figure Shakespeare had named you.
Depression is a heavy obstacle,
One that I can not save.
Could I provide a monocle,
Examine the stone.
It fades when exposed
To too much light.
You’re meant to be brave,
You’re never quite alone.
You’re time is not apropos.
I find you significant.
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 3:52 PM UTC
Archie Monroe, the swollen bell ringer of Lavender Moor,
Is looking to sell his copper claw,
His wartime Horlick’s pedals,
And his ferocious bone lick with its wet mink sheath.
He half believes in two thirds of a God every other end of the day.
He believes in St. Clank, and the spanking of the parable,
He believes in the Holy Bee and the miracle of the monocle.
He's walking all lookable
He talks about succulent;
The warm unbuttoned government;
The other worldly succubus,
And tickled sinners such as us
Who never want to make a fuss.
The curled up nurse of Russia Road is building ghosts of crimson brick,
Hurting the sick, and Christmas pale
With the poisoned tip of her sharpened nail.
She nestles by comparison with the dullards of noon.
Who would have thought it expensively cruel
To do it in the dentist froth,
Now that she's lost in Hoxton Square?
Barely able to breath;
Hairy and ****
Sticky to the last.
See the violent and widespread bed spasms of Arbuckle’s bottle,
And the lamp lit cancer of corrosive blue whining,
The ill mannered throat-goose
And the manicured miscarriage of Mendleson's twenty fourth mother.
Felix was peeling
We knew it to be true,
Even back then
In the pickled omentum.
The pompous rebuffs and the transparent gloves of yawning;
It seemed not she like.
See the museum’s scratched trumpet mask of medical sod,
And the soft dissection of the ink *****
Implements of ticking and slip with the slow itch and clop.
The anatomy doll, all green and glad;
Its uncertain internal shrinking of Crippen;
The skull’s Baron of the Intact Apparent.
She cradles her parents in terrified liver
Resembling dill with an unusual, excitable finish.
Meanwhile out in Kraków:
The idiotic London guillotine shop
Shows eight obscene operation reveals trembling on a saucer.
This, I'm unafraid to never say, is not almost uncertainly bowel pay.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
I'm static,
I'm stuck,
I'm riding the deck,
In silence,
I'm eternally seeking port.
I miss the wife and kiddies.
The waves are stilled now.
Although their crests are tipped with white.
There's not a bird or shark in sight.
I can't even smell the sea.
I'm picked up and examined,
Closely inspected,
by the old sea dog,
in the tatty tweed suit,
through his right eye,
using his monocle
He puts me down and creeps away,
moaning at the assistant,
that's much too expensive,
I'll have to leave it for today.
Next thing I see is a manic child,
with his mum,
he's running wild.
Hey nipper leave that alone,
Crash,
Air swamps me,
As the shop assistant with the dustpan and brush,
sweeps me up.
Wraps me in a newspaper page,
throws me in the re-cycle bin,
What will become of me,
one thing's for certain,
now I'm free.
(C) Livvi
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
His mustache twitches,
His monocle gleams,
With the tap of his cane
It's Silent.
His pea-coat is ironed,
His buttons shined,
With a wave of his hand
It's Silent.
His expression falls,
His slacks wrinkling,
With a hands to his chest
He's Silent.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
I prefer my actors live on stage:
Living, breathing, running around.
But sometimes you need a stiff;
I like them to be, metaphorically speaking, upstanding
With a military bearing and patriotic moustache,
Ideally tricked, or seduced, by cunning foreigners.
Once they are dead, I want them face down,
Fully clothed, shot in the back,
Being studied by a stooping policeman,
Or better still, an upper class pre-war sleuth
With a cravat and a monocle;
No need for ceremony with them.
A doctor arrives.
‘What seems to be trouble?’ he asks.
‘He’s dead, you idiot!’ cries the sleuth;
‘Make yourself useful. Get Lady Bounder here a cup of tea.
She’s fainted. Two sugars.’
Enter Inspector Dummy.
‘It looks like ****** he announces.
‘Give the boy a medal,’ comes the witty reply.
‘Oh, sorry, your Lordship. Shall I shine your shoes?’
Then there’s a sub-plot, a side issue:
The bones of a victim
Of a botched bank robbery
Forty years before
And the stiff was his grandson.
It’s a hard job, being dead on stage,
Or so I’m told, I’ve never tried it.
I once saw a ****** victim sneeze, twice,
Under a table in the library.
He deserved that kick; nothing like a good laugh.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
That bowlers cap fit you incredibly well.
A monocle for the laughs.
Constantly with a cigar.
A perfectly formed stash.
Never a hair out of place.
The personality of a tie-dye shirt.
The face of a businessman.
Rest in peace Tim.
You were more than a good man.
Truthfully a Titan.
Farewell Monopoly Man.
Heaven won't know what hit 'em.
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 11:04 PM UTC
Wearing a top hat and a straight
jacket with a monocle and goatee.
He owns everything like God does.
Nobody will ever tell him different.
He'll silence you and disappear you.
He'll buy your friends and family.
He'll define what's real and false.
He's the man who bought the world.
Our lives are in his cattle cars on
our way to his indifferent endings.
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 8:38 PM UTC