"murray" poems
It was only the other day you fell asleep in your old chair
The one that was in your front room decades ago
You didn't see Andy Murray lose but you didn't care
You’d eaten well and heavy eyed you dozed
I’m sorry but when I lost the house it had to go
I know throwing it out was a bit wrong
But if chairs go to heaven though
At least you’ll have something there to sit on
I wish I’d never told you off for smoking by the pump
You looked so sad that I’d made you feel a fool
But imagine how you would have made those people jump
As they were all engulfed by a massive fireball
Enjoy your new lungs and try keeping them clean for a few hours
Enjoy your time with Granddad it’s been thirty years too long
Enjoy strolling through those heavenly gardens with all your favourite flowers
But in heaven, please don’t bag cuttings; I’m sure up there it’s wrong!
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
You were born on a cusp.
friends on the other side
couldn't decide,
Scorpio or Libra.
You yourself,
as constant as the tides.
A tenth sign ram
was blessed to cross
your lovely path
and the ram learned:
Short curly hair
pinned back reveal
asiatic eyes.
As you pass by and by
Time and time hearts race
Chicken salad sandwich,
its moist mayonnaise
is never as delicious
without a pickle.
Grubhub.
No, Scrubhub.
Too content to leave the room.
Yummy Rummy,
food in our tummy.
forever.
Broth, cheese and wine.
Mushrooms and time.
If ever I tasted love,
it was shared with me,
in a recipe.
Sound opinion in scores.
Royal, like the Tenenbaums.
Bill Murray fantastic.
Pink Moon over and over and over.
Divide that by nine.
And now I know,
almost as well as you,
how good Goodfellas is,
even after the tenth time.
Early morning awakenings or
snooze again and again and again.
Paralyzed in a dream or
awoken with a scream,
we tried a routine:
Once parts of a team,
a memory faster than it seemed.
Ran for miles.
A boy and girl in the hall,
amongst the boys and girls
in the hall.
Digital regulars in ecstasy.
Wake next to you a daydreamer.
So, when life gets hard,
and you're feeling down,
don't be so glum,
ignore your doubts,
don't feel left out,
I'll be there for you,
when you need me to.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
Here’s a new form of Clerihew,
For Andy Murray who
Won twice at Wimbledon:
The fun has only just begun.
Paul Butters
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 5:45 AM UTC
Davis Cup to Andy Murray,
Oh my God that man can scurry, in a flurry.
Sports Personality on the BBC,
Andy’s the pride of Team GB.
Andy Murray,
Replaced Fred Perry, the past to bury.
(Yet praise he does not curry).
First Wimbledon, then Davis Cup.
Team GB is on the Up.
Paul Butters
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
Far from my reach
Listen to me
Paradise up yonder
Don;t have to ponder
Answers up high
Far from my grasp
Speechless gasp
Paradise from afar
Heavens know
Where i
Are
Lord oh Lord
You've blessed my soul
Sent a paradise
Only i know
Lighters ready
Ready
Set
Blow
Paradise
Paradise
Melted mixture
Needle
Spoon
Paradise
Im coming
Soon
Close to my hands
Running through my veins
Paradise
Sweet home of mine
Time flies
Laying on my spine
Gardens of lilies
Daffodils
Purple valleys
Yellow pills
Paradise
Sounding surrender
Lovely vice
Shooting stars
Paradise
Where
I
Becomes
Our
Glorious place
To meet again
Paradise
You are sin
Murray
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
Down here by the Murray River,
where life swims all around;
above and beneath the surface,
in this heat, everything flows —
Beers, BBQs, budgie smugglers and babes in bikinis,
memories bobbing above ground
capturing freedom; post-pandemic and pre-celebrations.
Down by the Murray River,
watching things flow safely and soundly,
birthing new possibilities:
boyfriends, babies, businesses and brews?!
Endless possibilities abound,
prophecies realised; salvation.
Down by the Murray River,
with nature, our souls sing loudly,
simplicity is possible,
trusting and enjoying,
everything is allowed.
Jan 13, 2024
Jan 13, 2024 at 4:28 PM UTC
Crooked road
Dragging down
Satanic dimensions
Twirling
Spinning
Unfocused camera
Snap shot
Tapping nails
Scraping walls
Harlot in the corner
Creeping out
Freaky ways
Strapped
Tapped
White room
Yellow bed
Bleeding limbs
Chambers
Of horror
Demonic town
Take away
Death around
***
Kills the body
Helas the mind
Treated
Insane
Cured
Refrain
Cuts on hand
Bit a man
NIce jacket
I go
Little house on the prairie
Hell no
Crooked road
Haunted down
Satanic dimensions
Twirling
Demonic town
Creeping out
Freaky ways
White room
Where i stay
Murray
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 12:44 PM UTC
Time: 1
Us: 0
Will it always be like this?
Swinging our racquets at Einstein's illusion.
Singing, singing, singing 'Stop
the World I Wanna Get Off
With You'
when nobody hears
over the relentless tick-tocks.
As
as
the clock's hands
push
push
pull us together,
apart.
Hey, you.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
Let's look at the scoreboard.
Time: 1
Us: 0
In school, they taught us perseverance.
So we keep
dancing, dancing, dancing
around
the hands of the clock.
I'm on number 3 and
you face me.
What's it like on number 9?
What's it like to be on the edge of
the next hour,
the next day,
the next big thing?
You're on number 9, I'm on number 3.
I face you, you face me.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
I face you,
you face me.
So easy for us to...
So easy for us to love, but
so easy for us to leave.
So easy to fight, to
wrap our hands
around
each other's throats
simultaneously.
So easy to embrace, so
easy to walk away
when you are the west and I am the east.
I'll ask you again:
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
Eyes flit up to the scoreboard,
even though
we don't want to look
away from each other.
Time: 1
Us: 0
The ball is in no one's court anymore.
No more back and forth,
stichomythia, repartee.
Nor round and
round
when it's all an illusion,
isn't it?
Don't look.
Don't bring it up.
Time: 1
Us: 0
The figures are getting bolder, louder
than the ticking.
Tell me, tell me, before
you move to 10
and our angles get skew,
tripping over the clock's hands,
because we forgot the steps of
our dance.
Tell me, tell me, what it's like
when you see me
all the way from number 9
while I'm on number 3.
The scoreboard's screeching
like a train ready to leave.
Time: 1
Us: 0
The audience is already beginning to clap.
They have loved us
and so have we.
We put on quite the show,
enough to rival Djokovic or Murray.
But neither of us will walk out with gold.
Not when we've lost to an abstraction
that can swallow us into
memories.
We get silver medals.
Around our necks, choking
but we clasp them tightly
so they can sparkle on our chests.
My silver beams to you,
your silver beams to me.
On and off,
a Morse code speech.
When we can't speak,
can't breathe,
that seems to suffice.
Here is a case of beautiful irony:
How did we meet?
Your eyes
saw in
my eyes
that silver gleam.
My eyes
saw in
your eyes
the very same thing.
Remember:
I face you, you face me.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
The scoreboard screams:
Time: 1
Us: 0
I bought a watch today, why
did I do that?
I'm so smart but
I'm so stupid.
I face you, you face me.
It's not an illusion, is it?
Look at me.
Is it?
Time: 1
Us: 0
We're finished.
But then how could we have ever won
when neither of us knew how to play tennis?
We look at each other
so the scoreboard can dissolve
instead of us.
Like your eyes
in my eyes
a tethering glance,
could hold us in an eternal position.
Like a single look
could sustain us
stationary.
I face you, you
start to leave.
It doesn't matter now.
Everything's spilling out
on the loudspeaker.
(And for once, you don't wish to seek this one truth.)
Time: 1
Us: 0
It will always be like this.
Time: one.
Us: love.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
The Empire State Building is a giant middle finger
Concrete is broken, NYPD, taxis racing, red light green light
I enter the hand of the city through it's capillaries breaking mad concrete
Warm gusts of **** grime, and transportation swallow me
The city feeds off dreams and hope which we personally, willingly give up
We all somehow learn to accept this fate
The passerby no longer human but broken mirror
The hand inundates my eyes from breezes of tomorrow
The spacy apartment, and the affluent career and the acquantanceship
Of the handful of New Yorkers that run the hand: all questionable plans today
It's as if the hand's grasp, although sharp and brick, would venerate your intellect, guaranteed
If that's the case, I see wizards of wisdom everyday snoozing on concrete and cardboard and plastic
Bearded, black with dirt and skin, threads ripped by a world inferrior than the one in thier minds
Empire "Middle Finger" State of intellect, scrapping billion dollar clouds
Sardine can subways, escalators, elevators, high on crack **** speed of sound
The cash nerve system meltsdown into golden chips to feed the pigeons
Glass and steel craft spaces for modernity to be sold like a Washington Heights *****
You can feel the growth of the hand at the end of your intestines
It's a warm, uncomfortable vibration revealed in your ********
Foreign tongues buzz through the air, through your hair for 19.95
New York needs a haircut, some profound discipline so we wake up from this bizzare life of welcomed pain
You once charmed me with hopes of culture, open minds, connections, real connections, love and laughter
Yet, Today I am hungry in Murray hill
I am cold in Chelsea
I am broken in Union Square
I ***** in SoHo
I have fallen in the East River
And I bleed on financial monoliths
Someone have mercy on my wills
It is an intention trying to be fulfilled
But failed when it became self-aware
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 11:44 PM UTC
I tilted my head . I wilted and was dead -
No longer entangled in this snare called life -
none the less remembered, respected
Dejected in my illusion -
Where i wander most often, unclaimed and disillusioned -
Whatever was I hoping for-
longing in which to see -
the distorted , unreported - dismemberment of ME -
Expectations are like curses, drowning and alienating ALL who dare to dream -
The Ideals of a stranger - I am now what I seem
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
Yes we held hands
Sure we kissed
{The weekend we were in love}
Simple gazes
Moment filled bliss
{The weekend we were in love}
Soft lips turned to smile
Strong arms held me for a while
{The weekend we were in love}
Weak laughs covered
Sensitive conversations of the night
{The weekend we were in love}
Playful feet comforted icy ones
{The weekend we were in love}
Discussed serious matters
Talked about everything and nothing
{The weekend we were in love}
Never said never
Thought we'd live forever
One another is also two people put together
{Whenever you fall in love}
Murray
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
If life were a wes Anderson movie
My wallpaper would be faded 70's vintage.
I would live a hard life and love an impossible woman
Who would shower me with misguided affection.
If life were a wes Anderson movie
I would have the knowledge to complete
Completely useless tasks
That would somehow be useful in any given situation,
Like chiseling a canoe out of a solid oak tree
Or weaving a hexagonal basket.
My eyes would constantly be filtered
With a color so vibrant my skin would glow chartreuse yellow.
If life were a Wes Anderson movie
My happiness would exalt and spread to those around me.
My stories would fill pictures and paintings,
My walls covered in obscure posters and murals
that no one really knows the purpose of.
If life were a Wes Anderson movie
Bill Murray would be my father,
Best friend,
And lover.
If life were a Wes Anderson movie
Nobody would understand my purpose
But everyone would love my presence just the same.
If life were a Wes Anderson movie
I would be king and crown those around me my subjects.
My crown would be encrusted with the Latin phrase,
sic transit gloria.
I would be king and grace my subjects with timeless tales of ages past,
of tear soaked laughter.
If life were a Wes Anderson movie
I would be king.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 10:39 PM UTC
Yes Sandi is my name
Im the player in her game
Chess is
Checkers times two
Had fun toying
With you
My friend
My friend
Mandi mentioned you
As I laid
Fingers splayed
Teasing her sin
Sandi
She moaned
Playful lusted tone
He's a great young man
Thoughts of you
Interrupted
She begged
Grabbing hands
Mandi
Mandi
What a woman you are
Kept a young man falling
Free like comets
From stars
Oh Mandi
You knew
That you had a lover
Who looked just like you
Mandi I assumed you didn't lie
Notice shock
Looking up
On you
Going down
On that guy
Sandi
Baby you called out
What the hell was that about
Mandi i thought you cared
Somehow the exhausting
********** we shared
Couldn't satisfy you
Mandi go to hell
Take your man
Downtown with you
My poem
Murray
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 8:07 PM UTC
"Lighten up Francis" -Bill Murray, Stripes
I have you in my head
sitting down
reading
now you're
smiling
looking amused
as you realize
I'm making
you up
It's my hallucination
you'll wear what I say
I like what you had on
yesterday
Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 4:17 AM UTC
Andy Murray lost in the final
Some said he lacked something spinal
That ****** Fed
I don't wish him dead
But I'd stick his head in a ******
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:40 PM UTC
Sunday 40,88 82 82 80 82 Between South Africa, Brazil and Macedonia 600-100-300 300 John Wilson, 300 + 40.82 Congress, eight letters, George Washington. Brazilian art gallery More than 1,300 years later, German, African and Chinese ****** arrive in South Africa, Mexico, Brazil, 60.6006 million 40600300600 (20) ******* divorcees, 8,8,8,8, Brazil, Brazil Brazil, 600 600 600, 600, 82 300, 300, 300 Brazil, 40.82 - another "teacher" in France France is full of ****** from Brazil 600-100 - Six dogs and ****** are full of the fruity aromas of Carmen Campbell, a woman who lives with prostitutes; Prostitutes have existed for 300,700 years (according to Tom Wilson) 300 8 George W. Ashington, USA Euro, Brazil, Brazil, Gabon, Morocco, Ra Ramalin, Harlem, 0.82, Latin America, Africa, Macedonia, South Africa, 40.82, Yobe Africa, Morocco, 40-82 years. MacDonald's, May 2, South Africa, Curse, United Kingdom, Russians, whores' ****** and G'ilimão de Mécoques 2011 6,000,000 days in South Africa, China, South Africa, Go-Go UK / EU. Yuku Uyu and 600, 600, 600, 600, 600 Google ****** Yeh, one Sunday, George Washington attended the coronation of George W. Murray 40.82 600-100-300 300 300 Tom Wilson has Good News for Ephraim in South Africa, ****** from Africa And South Africa bloom in the dust of South Africa. 82300300 has a place of landing for Brooklyn ****** Washington ****** and ****** from East New York in South Africa with 600 600 000 300 (8) 600 doctors, South Africa Google with more than 600 people. 5-300000 600,600,000,600,600 600,000 John Wilson, George Washington, 200,000 in 50000 - 60000600402 in the morning 6006,0066 3006 63 00000 100 600 600 600 600 ****** are here. 600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,
600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,00,600,660,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,
600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,60,6 ******* canned report 600600600 40, 82, Brazil, South African and possibly poisonous, 300B - ******* for Tom Wilson, Rudolf, Morocco 600-100-300300 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 1300 Brazilian Producers Paul Paulson, Wilson 2: 40.82, South Africa, South Africa and Brazil 600 600 600 United States' 'Hamster' Washington 100 6006006 Miami, Florida 300,600 82.3003 million more in Brazil, South Africa, Mexico and Russia; Tom Hamilton 40.82 to Morocco and Brazil, South Africa; Freedom in Ohio as a frontier wife, Macedonia, Brazil; United States, Spain, Brazil 20.8 Aborigines, Moroccan, Brooklyn and Harlem ****** 0.82, Decoration: Often, a professional, in fact, is a pre-recorded decision. Others see teenagers, while others see "magic." Doyle is the most vicious woman, of the bride for $15 per night to support her classmate, the "ex" ********** who is still a ********** The figures show that prostitutes are from the local community, that they are disgusting ****** and a woman who has been trafficked for less than a month can reduce stress she receives through using a ********** **** ******* your *** is your money! Your ******* donkeys, and donkeys are your money.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
If you have problems understanding feelings of the present moment: just relax and time your take (take your time*[1]** ); start to day dream about it and let it come to you like the film of a disney movie...*[2]** as I talk about the time I randomly met Bill Murray.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
Creamy purple
Red
Steamy bed
Silver hugs your bones
Lungs blackened
Triple blue tones
**** yellow green
Legs wrapped
Inbetween
Canvas lain down
Work of art
Abstract
Wood carved
Circles
Amber brown
Luscious lips
Painted frown
Orange ***
Tastes of grey
This is art
Hushed cries
You came
Creamy purple red
Whitish mixture
Stained bed...
This is art
Murray
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 9:15 PM UTC
Looking for inspiration
In a desolate dreary wasteland
The same **** just different days spent
Hoping life will finally make sense
Cos I've got bored and aggravated
With the drama I know will unfold
Is this really the end of the road before me I behold?
So I form facts from fiction
To try avoid repetition
Of dreary events to which each week ends
But my yesterdays tomorrow
You know so my yesterday will follow today
A bit like Bill Murray
From that film Groundhog Day
But with a lot less adventure
Or comedic reflection
A script not to question
And no seams between scenes
I'm caught in a dream
I can't see me come free from
Those are the facts son
There's no lights camera action
No glitz and no glamour
Definitely no famous actor
With the hardest tasks keeping track of...
Straight from morning to night
In the flash of an eye
The same simple ending
A yawn then a sigh
Only to wake with a shudder
Butterflies inside flutter
Feeling nothing but gutted
No new day
No new dollar
It's the same as before
As I walk out the door
The same route to work
To live out another day stuck
in my white collar Call Centre curse
Apr 16, 2022
Apr 16, 2022 at 5:22 AM UTC
Margaret Murray, the one with the glasses.
The psychic, the mystic, her tarot card classes.
Told Sheila her mangoes were ready to eat.
Told Mary her cousin'd be back on his feet.
Beverley Spence was a sceptic, tough cookie.
In seeing her fortune snapped up by the ******
Decided to tell her her ulcer would heal.
It's better than sharing with friends what was real.
Patty was eager to hear from her mother.
Jessie bereft at the loss of her brother.
Beatrice needed the skills of a healer.
For Margaret saw death and she would not reveal her -
True destiny seen in the cards at the clubby.
Preventing a scene with her hard drinking hubby.
£20 fortunes, no refunds, no worries.
There's no better tarot than Margaret Murray's.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 1:18 PM UTC
Closed heart
Closeted mind
Apart as one
Closely fine
Stitched seams
Loosely tight
Everything's great
And not alright
Fighting internally
External bruises inflicted
Carrying burdens
Heavy
Even oxen
Wont
Bear
Spooky night
Haunting chills
Souls taken
Upon thrills
Oh closeted heart
Closed eyes
Gouged
A sight
To devious to view
Do you think of me.
For i dream of you
A love
So lustful
Sexually taunting
Welcome sensual spirit
Goodbye wanting
Shoveling fears
6ft under
Lightening
Shocks of thunder
Pul me down
Closely fine
TO far from me
Near being mine
To hell i go
For i truly know
Demons stich me down
Loosely tight
Moments right
Shoveling fear
Laying burdens
Hard to care
The end is here
Murray
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 12:59 PM UTC
We like to dance
Feet moving in a trance
Transition to a different stance
All of us jump and prance
We get in a groove
People’s rhythmic motion is smooth
The head banging is proof
Dancer’s enjoying the beat and *****
With Deejay YouTube on rotation
Music revives the good sensation
As boys and girls pair up to charleston
The vibe is lively in Camden
Everyone is revelling
In the style of crip walking
Zimmer frames towards the ceiling
As the old start break dancing
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
**** if I know.
I scarcely understand much anymore.
I am but a puddle of coherent reminiscences
oozing across the floor into decoherence and
diffusing into maximum entropy.
We are in Hell:
all is Maya,
all is Mara,
all is Dukkha.
Yet, we are slaves
who love our chains.
And I am a lifeless, fetal,
**** economicus,
mortifying de rigeur
in the ossified skull of a
long forgotten **** sapien.
If only those kinship instincts could've
survived the havoc we've wrought.
Look at what we've done.
Look at what we do.
**** for money.
**** for oil.
**** for land.
**** for 'justice.'
**** for God
**** for 'the cause'
**** for the sake of killing,
and pave over what's left.
Leave a few trees and bushes for our
dystopic terrarium.
'Our Synthetic Environment,'
old Murray[1] called it.
Now, walk into the forest.
Be there. Stay there.
Do you feel it?
Any of this nonsense we call
'civilization'?
Or
is it that you feel something more. . .
poignant?
More true?
To a point where our heated debates
appear as no more than frivolous diatribes?
When do we stop all this narrative solipsism
and get to the ******* point?
None of this is real.
Our thoughts are not our own.
Have they ever been?
The Spectacle [2] reigns supreme
as we idle spectators
speculate idly upon it.
Borges's fable of the cartographers [3]
has reached its apotheosis,
and we are its unwilling
and unwitting victims. . . .
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 2:01 AM UTC
Beyond recall
Shaky knees
I fall
Judgement surrounds
My God
His son
Tears cruise
Drowning ships at sea
This battle i've lost
Fornication
Lust
Conquered me
Wooed my existence
Addressed my mind
Betrothed this body
Took me down
Laid me cross
Nails in his side
My God
Your son
They've laughed at me
Picked fun
Bruised lips
Quivering hands
Jesus please
Cocked gun
Alone
Captured by demons
Devil at the door
Quickly sprinting
Hospital floor
Room 342
I stared at you
Kissed your lips
Last breath you drew
They cant accept this
Me inside you
Farewell to goodbyes
Hello to hell
You've been slain
My heat has died
Murray
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 12:37 PM UTC
I miss hearing you excitedly explain your dreams about Bill Murray saving your life
I miss hearing you explain why you never take Advil
I miss hearing your voice slur "what" and "hmm" together in a way only you could,
asking a question and simultaneously thinking about it too.
I miss telling you about why my mom takes the scissors out of my room.
I miss telling you "sorry i called last night" when i got drunk and you
weren't around,
(even though that never really stopped)
I miss my heart forgetting how to work every time we were together,
like morse code through my body pounding the scaredest possible "wow"
I miss you telling me "You're the worst" with a cocky smile.
I miss lying under the stars with you,
just looking while our friends made out beside us,
my neck uncomfortably on your arm because i was too shy to lie on your chest.
I miss sitting on your lap and worrying I would crush you,
and you reassuring me out of pride that I wouldn't,
that I couldn't.
I miss that day when we were drunk in you're best friends bed,
I was too scarred to kiss you so I just giggled,
and too drunk to remember how it eventually happened
I miss you making me feel small and beautiful and wanted.
I miss you making me feel big in a different way than my height ever could.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 5:58 PM UTC