"mortimer" poems
Missy, Missy Mortimer
How does your steel heart beat?
Your bloodline oxidized by hate
Satan can’t compete.
Missy, Missy Mortimer
Who do you think you are?
A pure facade of intellect
Matched by your ugly scars.
Missy, Missy Mortimer
Obstinate, careless, crude…
Hell awaits your filthy soul
As you practice being rude.
Missy, Missy Mortimer
Insult; demean; degrade
The power you pretend to hold
In your foolish mind is made
You cast away the moral code
Or perhaps it’s just amiss
You justify your horrid ways
Your arrogance now bliss.
Manipulation, you hold dear
As if all cannot see
With precision you decide your mark
You aim, and shoot; well pleased.
Missy, Missy Mortimer
No warning you deserve
To crush and stomp on human hearts
Compassion; no reserve
Oh Missy, you may think you’ve won
A pin for your collection
You controlled and shoved me out your door
Unjustified rejection.
As soon as I can gain the strength
Forgiveness I shall find
Your ugliness is pitiful
But the Lord’s a friend of mine.
He watched you’re actions closely
He sadly shook his head
Your Father, He wants more for you
But on thin ice, you tread.
Missy, Missy, Mortimer
I pray you hear His call
Until then, you stand on the edge
Your back against the wall.
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 10:02 PM UTC
I enjoy the word "sweet," it accurately describes the succulence of your lower lip
I wish to ****
and bite, and bruise.
"Hard" is your body, lean and tough
and assumedly rough
intense
passionate, all those lovely sensual adjectives that cheesy soft-erotica novellas
(that I "don't read")
use to describe a Man on a horse,
or in a fireman's coat, covered in soot,
saving kitties and pleasing cougars.
You are quite the male that I crave,
absolute perfection in human form that tempts and tortures my guilty thoughts and heaving breaths
so that I feel like one of those helpless heroines who swoon over a sensitive, wounded man.
But God do I want to inflict wounds on you, and lick them clean.
You have been a bad boy;
go to my room.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
I am from my father’s warm cooking,
From my mom and grandma’s baking.
I am from the soggy, overdone noodles, that, though disgusting,
I was proud of because I made them myself.
I am from lemonade stands with my sister,
Keeping careful watch to see that she didn’t run into the street.
I am from drinking most of our product that we were supposed to be selling,
And making my mother pay twenty-five cents to do the same.
I am from lights on my face as I slipped into the life of another person,
proudly singing a song.
I am from “break a leg,” and “you can do it.”
I am from dancing badly and the music that compelled me to do so.
I am from Emergency Room trips,
From falling and stumbling and crashing into things.
I am from the bonfires at the camp I hated
(sparkly, mesmerizing, didn’t feel as nice as it looked)
I am from Ernie and Bert’s pointless arguments,
From my old fears of
Cookie Monster,
and crying when he came on the television.
I am from June and Mortimer’s branch.
From the crazy heritage from my dad,
and the Native American woman and the English man
who are my great-great-great-great grandparents.
I am from the chemotherapy and radiation that
didn’t work,
and crying when I heard that the boy
I had never met had died.
I am from Milo and the Phantom Tollbooth,
From the adventures that I enjoyed with Harry, Hermione, and Ron.
I am from the books that I read at a very young age
that made me love the letters on the pages.
I have boxes, filled with memories.
A birth certificate,
shoes that barely fit two of my fingers.
I am from the stories that were told,
and the unwritten tales
yet to come
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
I shall gallivant after dark
when droves of waves depart at dusk
to point a gun at Mortimer here
still swears allegiance to France
but bid my bride on coach farewell
only to surmise inheritance again
how treacherous the streets lurk
there's upheaval in every crypt
so peruse if your dreams scheme with mine tonight
with a legion in silhouette
as her benevolent shall copulate
even corporeal lie mosey and
to pretend such revolution here
only justice might enhance constitution
on the road with sound
where golem ampleness in sweat
still sings a melody this ritual part in excellent lore
that would succumb world in the dark
if gander again jog along memory lane
while seance must intrigue each tog
that Nottingham's still absorption and namely a craft
in situ just to incept a suffragette abdication abound
this an extant with luxury again
and forthwith evermore.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
Miraculous Mortimer ( master magician)
Has sawn his assistant in two.
He can't recall how to reverse her condition
Has anyone here any glue?
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
The fabric owl.
Eyes wide open.
Deep in thought.
He really ought to do something to escape.
He's rather old.
Doesn't want to be caught.
Not up to flying away.
Can't anyway.
His wings are stitched.
Ginger mate sat next to him.
Eyeing him up.
He's thinking.
The moggy that is.
He supposed to chase birds.
Isn't he?
Who's going to make the first move?
Old fabric owl.
Her bedside company, since childhood.
When days weren't stressful.
Always good.
Vicki's loyal confidante
Around longer than Ginger Tomas.
Tomas looks and thinks and thinks some more.
Thinking that Mortimer, the owl that is.
Must be very bored never moves a muscle.
Doesn't go anywhere, ever.
Tomas wants to play.
Mortimer, well he's not up for it today.
Just wants to sleep some more.
Listen very closely.
You may even hear him snore.
(c) Livvi
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
“Anglo-Saxon Students Would Not Like to Be Taught by a Jew”
cited in
-Stanley Kunitz Lyrics, Songs, and Albums | Genius
To the Privileged Youth of Columbia University:
As a child of situational poverty
I am so grateful for all my Jewish teachers
Including
Moses
Joshua
Jeremiah
Samuel
David
Solomon
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph
Saint Peter and the others in The Twelve
Saint Paul
Elie Weisel
Chaim Potok
Herman Wouk
Leon Uris
Franz Kafka
Leonard Cohen
Anne Frank
Bernard Malamud
Isaac Bashevis Singer
Philip Roth
Osip Mandelstam
Saul Bellow
Isaac Asimov
Woody Allen
Mel Brooks
Edna Ferber
Yip Harburg
George Cukor
Mel Brooks
Oscar Hammerstein
Alan Lerner
Carl Reiner
Rod Serling
Franz Werfel
Alan Arkin
Claire Bloom
Leonard Nimoy
Chaim Topol
Ed Asner
Mel Brooks
Peter Falk
Werner Klemperer
Jack Klugman
Walter Matthau
Tony Randall
Mel Torme
John Banner
Kirk Douglas
Lorne Greene
Eli Wallach
Sam Wanamaker
Morey Amsterdam
Leo Genn
Otto Preminger
Jack Benny
Leslie Howard
Ernst Lubitsch
Cecil B. DeMille
Mortimer Adler
Allen Bloom
Harold Bloom
Irving Berlin
Boris Pasternak
Emil Ludwig
Eric Wolfgang Korngold
Elmer Bernstein
Max Steiner
George Gershwin
Dimitri Tiomkin
Samuel Fuller
Alexander Korda
Zoltan Korda
Emeric Pressburger
Erich von Stroheim
Billy Wilder
William Wyler
Fred Zinnemann
J. J. Abrams
Peter Bogdanovich
Michael Curtiz
Stanley Donen
Stanley Kramer
Howard Caine
Leon Askin
Robert Clary
Dinah Shore
Stephen Sondheim
Volodymyr Zelinsky
Simon Schama
Louise Gluck
Siegfried Sassoon
Isaac Rosenberg
Joseph Brodsky
Rob Morrow
Vasily Grossman
Stanley Kubrick
Viktor Frankl
And more, so many more, a cloud of witnesses
Whose names are written in gold on a scroll in Heaven
But somehow, in this world of beauty and truth
And humanity’s aspirations to the good
All you have found are bullhorns, trash fires, chants
Clinched fists, obscenities, lies, and shrieking hate
Apr 19, 2024
Apr 19, 2024 at 12:12 PM UTC
these things.
these things you do
on the 4th of July
at an age
without thought...
things happen in front of
Madam Maria's...
(things happen
on the boardwalk
in Asbury Park...
...the police officer,
with a glee in his eye said
he was going to put
me in the cell with
Big Mortimor,
the happy tone in his voice
(and it worked.)
I was ******** myself,
serial killer
hit man for the mafia,
****** roommate...???
this isn't about me,
what brought me here
to the city yard ...
as it turns out,
it was Reverend Mortimer
from Our Lady of the Perpetual Motion.
the issue it seems was
the sisters.
the Sisters of Perpetual Motion,
for a $20 donation and up
a sister will love you.
more later, about the reverend, but back
to what brought me here
to a cell in the city yard
of Asbury Park.
as I reflect on what brought here
(vaguely)
to the city yard of Asbury Park
ah, fight.?
I had said to her,
your boyfriend,
"he's only over compensating
for his receeding hair line
and feelings of inadequacy,
ah, ah, a fight went down, I believe.
(I didn't know I had hit
the mayor.)
what more can I say
about my stay,
in the City of Asbury Park ?
the sisters???
that things happen
and you end up
in a cell
in the city yard
in Asbury Park
with a room without no view...
...oh, back to Reverend Mortimer. apparently
the. U.S Constitution,
NAACP, ACLU.
it was a religious issue. AND SO, FREE
the Reverend Mortimer threw a big party
with the Sisters of Our Lady
of Perpetual Motion!!!
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 7:48 PM UTC