"newman" poems
"In the grave, whither thou goest."
O weary Champion of the Cross, lie still:
Sleep thou at length the all-embracing sleep:
Long was thy sowing day, rest now and reap:
Thy fast was long, feast now thy spirit's fill.
Yea, take thy fill of love, because thy will
Chose love not in the shallows but the deep:
Thy tides were springtides, set against the neap
Of calmer souls: thy flood rebuked their rill.
Now night has come to thee--please God, of rest:
So some time must it come to every man;
To first and last, where many last are first.
Now fixed and finished thine eternal plan,
Thy best has done its best, thy worst its worst:
Thy best its best, please God, thy best its best.
13.8k
***Put on your yamaka, it's time for Hanukkah
So much fun-akkah to celebrate Hanukkah,
Hanukkah is the Festival of Lights,
Instead of one day of presents, we have eight crazy nights.
But when you're the only kid in town without a Christmas tree, Heres a list of
people who are Jewish, just like you and me:
David Lee Roth lights the menorah,
So do James Caan, Kirk Douglas, and the late Dinah Shore-ah
Guess who eats together at the Carnegie Deli,
Bowzer from Sha-na-na, and Arthur Fonzerrelli.
Paul Newman's half Jewish; Goldie Hawn's half too,
Put them together--what a fine lookin’ Jew! [Esus]
You dont need Deck the Halls or Jingle Bell Rock
Cause you can spin a dreidel with Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock--both Jewish!
[Esus]
Put on your yamaka, its time for Hanukkah,
The owner of the Seattle Super Sonic-ah celebrates Hanukkah.
O.J. Simpson-- not a Jew!
But guess who is...Hall of Famer—Rod Carew--(he converted!)
We got Ann Landers and her sister Dear Abby,
Harrison Ford's a quarter Jewish--not too shabby!
Some people think that Ebeneezer Scrooge is,
Well, hes not, but guess who is: All three stooges. [Esus]
So many Jews are in show biz--
Tom Cruise isn't, [tacit] but I heard his agent is. [Esus]
Tell your friend Veronica, its time to celebrate Hanukkah
I hope I get a harmonica, on this lovely, lovely Hanukkah.
So drink your gin-a-tonic-ah, and smoke your mara-juanic-ah,
If you really, really wanna-kah, Have a happy, happy, happy, happy
Hanukkah……. HAPPY HANUKKAH!***
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 10:35 PM UTC
I have a special interest in telling about my colonoscopy.
The doc cheerful, secure in his specialty, colon cancer being
the second leading cause of cancer death after lung tumors.
They can snip the precancerous polyps right out of you during the test.
At first the doc gave me the statistics but having paid 25 bucks for this
interview
I decided to make him explain the science. He was most comfortable
describing the physical architecture of adenomatous v. hyperplastic
polyps
but what about cell structure I said. He was vague about genes and
hormones,
I could have been chatting with an Electrolux salesman.
I wasn’t worried although my *** was burning.
Everybody dies, everybody, even Whitman and Emerson, so I browse
models for dying—
mine are middlebrow, saddlebow—John Wayne in The Shootist, Paul
Newman in Hombre—or hagiography
Plath her head stuck in an oven, Hemingway who ate his shotgun.
Anyway I was upbeat flirting with the nurse, a muse who has seen it all
before,
acting tough, which isn’t actually an act
you do your prep and say your prayers.
I thought I’d be in and out **** as you probably already know
the prep for this procedure is worthy of Gandhi. A day of fasting,
clear fluids only, and constant voiding.
You arrive at the hospital one spiritual chicken.
I reflected it can’t hurt, lose a little weight, remember who you are
without so much **** and flesh between you and the natural world.
Snipping polyps is like taking electrons to a lower quantum energy level,
nearer the nucleus, with fasting and ****** abstinence.
The art of total presence and abstinence, dependence on the Other for
future existence.
May 15, 2024
May 15, 2024 at 7:09 AM UTC
You talk about eggshells
I hear the crunch as I get closer to you
Thought it was glass breaking but it was too soft beneath my shoe
I can't stay out of your perimeter forever
When the diameter grows bigger and bigger
Pushing me farther away
I can still see soft silhouette
Your skin is so frail
Pale white made of the eggshells at your feet
You reach down time and again
When you're pierced by words
Cutting off oxygen
Penetrated by the carbon dioxide truth
You're not young anymore
Age is ageless numerals
You're not old
How many birds flew away from this pile of youth?
Each one once packaged like a gift
Leaving behind stacks of birth to sift through
You gathered them
Scattered them evenly around you
Put your appearance and self worth into them and
Waited for the crushing blow
Marching toward you from all sides
Your insecurities will swallow you and
The stomping will leave you angry and hollow
We are all hippy chickens
Making wishbones out of peace signs
Hoping for unity
Not realizing it's meant to be broken
A lopsided libra unbalanced
The powers that be
Expect you to follow obediently
Stand in line
You can't take just give
'Short people ain't got no reason to live'
Newman must have know
How difficult it is to create new men
One by one we attempt
To tip the scale in our favor
But the bigger Man
Can push it down with a finger
Like a toppling Pisa tower
A slow motion fall to the ground
A single direction agenda
The momentum gained
With each inch leaning
So stop clowning around
Sweep up your eggshells and
Go buy a dozen more grade A's and
Break them all at once
We don't have much time
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Wondaland, a.k.a. The Magic Metropolis
June 13th, 2021
Esteemed Readers and Writers, Gangstapoets and Hangarounds,
Gangstapoetry proudly declares that CREATION 96 is now the second unit of our Global Movement.
We are welcoming our new members. You are now a part of us. Much Love.
Tizzop
GANGSTAPOETS
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UNKLE OF DOOM * PLAY * ANTWONE *
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Jul 28, 2021
Jul 28, 2021 at 8:12 AM UTC
_New York
after a trip to Mexico, & not finally explored_.
In 1991, shortly before he died,
Motherwell
remembered a "conspiracy of silence"
regarding Paalen´s innovative role in the genesis of Abstract Expressionism.
Upon return from Mexico, Motherwell
spent time developing his creative principle
based on automatism:
"what I realized was that Americans
potentially could paint like angels, but that there
was no effective creative principle around,
so that everybody
who liked modern art was copying it;
Gorky was copying Picasso;
******* was copying Picasso;
De Kooni
ng was copying Picasso;
I mean, I say this unqualifiedly,
I was painting French intimate pictures or whatever:
All we needed was a creative principle,
I mean something that would mobilize this capacity
to paint in a creative way, & that's what Europe
had that we
hadn't had;
we had always followed in their wake
& I thought of all the possibilities
| [ ], [ ]
of free association—because I also had
a psychoanalytic background
& I understood the implications of—let's just say it
might be the best chance
to really make something entirely
new which everybody agreed was the thing to do;"
Thus, in the early 1940s, Robert Motherwell
played a significant role in laying the foundations
for the new movement of
Abstract Expressionism (or the New York School):
"Matta wanted to start a revolution, m [a movement w/in
Surrealism].
He asked me to find some other
American artists that would help start a new movement;
it was then that Baziotes
& I went to see ******* & de Kooning
& Hofmann & Kamrowski & Busa & several other people;
& if we could come with something;
Peggy Guggenheim, who liked us said that she
would put on a show of this new business;
... so I went around explaining _the theory of automatism_
to everybody because _the only way_
that you could have a _move - - - ment_
was that it had some _common_
_principle_. It sort of all began that way."
In 1942 Motherwell began to exhibit
his work in New York and in 1944
he had his first one-man show at
Peggy Guggenheim’s _“Art of This Century”_ gallery;
that same year, the MoMA
was the first museum
purchase one of his works; From the mid-1940s,
Motherwell [ ], [ ]. ( )
became the leading spokesman
for _avant-garde art in America_;
his circle coming to include
William Baziotes,
David Hare, Barnett Newman, & Mark Rothko,
with whom he eventually started the Subjects of the Artist School (1948–49). In 1949 Motherwell divorced
Maria Emilia Ferreira y Moyeros and in 1950 he married Bettie
Little,
with whom he had two daughters
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
once a collage
hung on a wide white wall
with monochrome photos of
all creatures great and small
Dali juxtaposed with Doris Day,
LBJ atop JFK, and Joe DiMaggio,
grinning Frankenstein and frowning
Frank Sinatra, not far below
Hemingway, Groucho Marx, Marlon Brando
occupying three of four corners, the bottom right
a curious cat, in stretched repose
dead center, a cracked crucifix
and four Beatles all, Paul the biggest
with the cross crowning his frame
a Corvette,
and Stalin in his tomb
were also given ample room,
on this black and white piece of art
as were ****** Cleaver, with cap,
Jimi Hendrix with axe
another three score
and a couple more, completed
this cacophony of sight, but absent
were J. Bieber, Beyonce, any of the Simpsons
of Fox fame, revealing the artist of this gray masterpiece
was blissfully blind to cyber sacrilege,
Steve Job’s toys, and the lost soul
of Lindsey Lohan
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
On the first night of the Festivus All grievances were aired
But after a few cups of *** our feelings were repaired
The Festivus pole shone brightly, illumined by a single light.
The alcohol flowed freely, this would be no silent night.
Cousin Jerry in the corner was caught snogging with Elaine.
George’s girl was laughing as he struggled to explain
The cause of her disappointment (shrinkage was to blame).
Cosmo Kramer danced around the pole, making spirits bright.
Newman spilled the bowl of punch,( he never was too bright).
Frank and Estelle were doing well and feeling little pain.
She pinned him in the feat of strength, not that he complained.
When the meal was over and the holiday was done
They all made their donations to support the Human fund.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
The role of the artist, of course,
has always been that of image-maker;
Different times require different images;
Today when aspirations have been reduced
to a desperate attempt to escape from evil,
& times are out of joint, our
obsessive, subterranean & _pictographic_
images are the expression of the neurosis
which is our reality; to my mind certain
so-called abstraction is not abstraction at all;
On the contrary, _it is the realism of our time_
1. To us art is an adventure
into an unknown world,
which can be explored
only by those willing to
take the risks;
2. This world of imagination is fancy-free
& violently opposed to common sense;
3. It is our function as artists to
make the spectator see the world
our way, not his way;
4. We favor the simple expression
of the complex thought. We are for
the large shape because it has the
impact of the unequivocal. We wish
to reassert the picture plane. We are
for flat forms because they destroy
illusion and reveal truth; |
_5. It is a widely accepted notion among painters
that it doesn't matter what one paints as long as
it is well painted. Rothko said this is the essence
of academicism;_
6. There is no such thing as a
good painting about nothing.
7. We assert that the subject is crucial
& only that subject matter is valid
which is tragic and timeless. That is
why we profess spiritual kinship with
primitive & archaic art
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
I just got home after seeing the documentary movie called the Australian dream which is about Adam Goodes who was my favourite player back in the day and I saw that he was a victim of racial bullyism which was discraceful I never knew that, that kind of racism exists in this modern times and I learnt that people weren’t looking at it as being racist but they were being racist and those people need to be taught a lesson in being moral, I never watched the footy show afl much because it was boring but Sam Newman needs to be taught a big lesson in racism because what he did was racist and Adam Goodes was just sticking up for himself because these words really hurt him, I just remember Goodesy for the great player he is, and I continued to support him as he really won the match for Sydney swans and people shouldn’t hate him because he is black because nobody booed tony Lockett and Warwick capper even if they had weird ways as well Lockett used to nudge a bit and capper used to wear short shorts and they supported them and I em not against these players though I just think it is a bit low to yell out racial words to Goodes I think the country that we live in should honour aborigines after all they are the founders of our land long before captain cook came to invade it
I thought Australian dream was great and I recommend it for anyone who wants to honour the founders of our land and the greatest player Sydney swans ever had, I think it was cool that he got Australian of the year and in fact I drew a picture of him as Australian of the year and he won two Brownlow medals and he was the best player around I remember him taking his marks and scoring goals what a legend of the game he was
I do recommend Australian dream to anyone who wants to stop being racist and to others who really likes goodesy like me, I am not the only one who had him as my favourite player
I am totally sure of that
Sydney Sydney Sydney oi oi oi
On ya goodsey
Sep 15, 2019
Sep 15, 2019 at 1:14 AM UTC
[this is a poem of past loves lost to time
and space but never to be forgotten the
hurt remains allways]
"LOST TO LOVE"
The days they will tumble
your heart will crumble
desolation will follow
insides feel hollow.
A love i have lost
at a great cost.
My mouth becomes
dry as i sit and ponder
why?
My feet are like lead
they say it's all in my head.
Let them be me and see how it
feels.
i sit for hours as thoughts unpeel
ghosts of the past now assailing me.
I feel so insecure as tears roll down
my cheek.
Sounds feed in and out, as i stare at
a wall i thought i heard your voice
"i love you"it called", alas it was only
an echo from a telephone call.
They say time is a healer and all will be
well..
believe me this is just a rumour, a lost
soft sell.
My heart holds a space, empty in size it was
once filled with love lost to life.
Copyright © ken newman
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 6:04 AM UTC
You compared us,
to Paul Newman
and
Joanne Woodward.
But baby, you ran.
He stayed.
Tell me again,
how we're still the same..
Sandoval
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 6:25 AM UTC
"The **** has been
Caked on the fan
For so long
It can no longer spin.
We're choking on
Our own exhaust,
Debating over how to win
And who to blame
Once we've lost.
The truth is that
They're both the same,
Because what gets tossed
Comes back again.
The karmic boomerang
Holds sway over all,
Not the tang
Of pharmic poison
Fed to us by tall
White men
Who know how to talk,
Know how to convince
Us we need to swallow chalk
Flavored with artificial mint
To counteract
Our bubbling guts
And all the junk therein,
The salty snacks
And big mac meals
And lack of vitamins."
His rant was cut short
By a burst of nausea.
Pete leaned over on his
Ancient barstool
And vomited his
Last six drinks
And his last
Eight handfuls
Of peanuts
Onto the floor.
The stern face
Behind the bar
Came around
And screamed
At us to
Get the **** out,
Which was fine with me;
I hadn't yet
Paid for my drinks.
The humid air outside
Was like a damp pillow
Pressed over my mouth
After the air conditioned bar.
I parted ways with Pete,
And sauntered down
Newman Ave,
Taking periodic swigs
From my pint of gin.
The .38 my father
Brought home from the war
In Europe was tucked
Into my pants at my waist,
The box of bullets
In my coat pocket
Knocked against my chest With each step.
The sense of being followed
Was heavy in my head
As I turned onto
The bike path.
Maybe my son
Coming for a visit,
To stand in the trees
Where he thinks I can't
See him, silently
Watching my ritual.
"Maybe he'll come
Speak to me,"
I thought,
"Try to understand
Why I do
The things I do,
To see how
Hard life can be."
I loaded my pistol
And began unloading
Into the trees.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 8:25 AM UTC
~
dusk brings a chill
o’er the ocean,
this secret stage
where twilight fades
in regent haze;
transformed, replaced
with slow drift,
swirling, mist
softly rolling in.
above, the sand,
a salt-washed beach.
a brimming tide
awaits release
of curtain rising
far above, and there,
like bio-luminescence,
she shimmers in the ether;
ancient existence,
always with us,
seldom seen,
her light serene.
a fresh emergence
each moonless night,
a shimmering of colors,
like a nightly bow
an arch of
color-filled delight.
though this night rests,
not drawn and taut,
exuding peacefulness;
her horse in all its glory,
feeding in her pastured stars.
drawing, telling
children wonder-eyed
of her richness,
of her treasures,
loving, storied skies,
light years in the making.
her curtain lifted,
these moments served,
to but a few.
a sacred showing
to our breath-taking,
memory-making eyes.
hovering in her milky skin,
she dazzles, beckoning;
her adieu at sun’s return,
at our rising disappears.
awaits another
night's re-appearing,
her celestial flow
like a river of
imagination, rippling,
much to our surprise,
a gifting
to awakened eyes,
never captured,
only living on...
in memories,
in moments raptured.
~
*post script.
inspired by Mathew Newman,
of Mathew Newman Photography
who captures the night sky so skillfully,
of the milky way rising above the pacific ocean
along southern oregon's secret beach.
his name for the photo that inspired this,
"Celestial Flow", of course.
sorry, i am not permitted to include links
but simply add www. to both these below and you will find what inspired me:
facebook.com/MatthewNewmanPhotography/
or
matthewnewmanphotography.com/wp-content/gallery/gallery-1/CelestialFlowWeb.jpg
*
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
i filled myself up
used holes in my skin, scratches from rumbles
to create dams that only held emotion
i ate away at the spare parts
let my hair fall to the ground
and rise like a phoenix, a different man/boy/beast than before
i was gone with the wind, right before you came
and tried to free me
from myself
i am so real, you should be scared
i am so alive, you should be scared
i am so close to being dead, you should look me in the eye
soc girls, look at them
and envy every madras sweater
or tuff corvette
i want the money, the heater
unloaded, the switch pressed
against my enemy
and this time, with a chance
of winning
i am possessed
and his spirit
is nothing for me
to interfere with
you think of me,
all i think about
is paul newman and a ride home
when i die, i want to be buried with
books, a pen and a piece of paper
because i want to write
every robert frost line,
and have it carved
into my own flesh
i am beautiful, no matter
how long the hair
or how short
they say i am a
hood, a greaser
but all i hear
is stay gold
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 11:53 AM UTC
I
The morning traffic settles down
When the smell of chips create a haze
By the arts block.
Squawking fills the passageways
And now a familiar face taps
Your weary back
While you are drowned by stomping feet
And despite the try your mind clots;
The name deletes
And you’re left thinking it is Scott,
While all this time his name is Pete.
He didn’t hear it through the stamps
And we sit lakeside by the lamps.
II
Morning: you arise from consciousness
And faint stale smells of beer
From the night on Dublin streets,
A night you won’t repeat, unless
The moon reclaims the lands.
And of course the Paddy’s day parades,
That, one naturally assumes.
Just thinks of all the hands
Raising pints by the spades
In a thousand bright green rooms.
III
You stretched your arms above your head
And yawned at a class you’ve never hated
You dozed, and watched the screen revealing
The thousand boring images
Of which World War II was constituted;
Their burning qualities weren’t appealing -
They stung until the world went black
But the light crept up between your shutters
And you heard the backgrounds snobbish tutters,
Despite meeting them on Grafton Street
Where you exchanged drunken demands.
You awoke and cringed as you were aware
Of the tuft sticking up about your hair,
But instead of a fix-trip, to save your feet,
You covered it with your hands.
IV
You stared up at the flawless skies
That fade behind the Newman block,
Or often watched insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock,
Or watched the fountain-spewing pipes,
And watched the swans watch life’s disguise
While you recalled wild fantasies,
Of walking down a college street
And opening your eyes to receive the world.
And now my eyes have been unfurled
And I feel like a god, a king
For I have seen an infinitely mental,
Infinitely wonderful thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
And treat the worlds like you treat the women
And hopefully both will give you lots!
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:37 PM UTC
Fade in: Ext. Theater - Day
Cue clouds: gray shrouds
blanket the sky
and the sun's last remaining rays
Cut to: Ext. Theater - Noon
Cue crowd: no sound,
no song comprise
the mise en scene
of this somber scene
Fade in: Int. Theater - Night
Cue sound: few gasps,
some oohs and ahhs,
some cries comprise
the mise en scene
of this joyous scene
Cut to: extreme close up
Their eyes reflect the faces on the screen:
Newman, Hoffman, Brando, Ledger
Pacino, De Niro
Penn, Caine, Dean
Fade out
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
never quiet the proper arrangement,
watching a cat miscarry his strengths of
perfect balance on a fence
deciding to structure his escapism further
from fence to the safety of gravity’s plateau,
and i know this is not a crowd pleaser,
no gladiator blood sewn onto a caesar’s face for a smile,
but as amusements go:
choose the simpler ones and watch them multiply
exponentially... choose the complex ones and watch them
mutilate you with anticipatory nostalgia once they pass
and have fed you.
so unless you think it’s cheap to state
that william burroughs would have a lot in common with bukowski...
you’re probably right... but once you embark on the alcoholic metabolism
parabola there’s no going back... you can have
irritable bowel syndrome in the morning...
diarrhoea x4 before the seas just below the hydrochloric sea settle
and the sailors are spared another barnett newman smear
into the toilet.... quarter of bottled whiskey usually does the trick
for the calmed metabolism...
i know burroughs and bukowski used different mediums...
but it’s better than staging a ghost fight between vegans and vegetarians...
same **** different cover story all over again...
and it sounds less sinister, doesn’t it? let’s repeat:
metabolism & alcoholism;
and in all serious soberness i put my efforts in taking interest in philosophy...
like observing from spinoza’s ethics... well spinoza drank...
heavily... which explains why he put it into his ethics,
that explanatory ref. i will definitely mishandle (misquote):
never come between a drinker and a newspaper
or a blank page, even if it's a pixelated blank.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
i found a bunch of extemporaneous prose,
screenplays and
other assignments that i had turned in for various writing classes that i had taken when i was going to WSU and
KS Newman (then College, now University) and
i am happy to report that my pieces all got A's,
save for the one B-,
but after reading the teacher's comments at the end of the page about my refusal to get with the times by my continuing to turn in hand written homework rather than submit typed papers using the library's word processor,
i feel speaks volumes about the teacher's prejudices and
nothing about the quality of my sentence
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 5:55 AM UTC
i'm sorry, but it's true...
however rigid you might
find the need to confirm
a truth...
but even the great
piano composers
of the last century,
be that liszt, chopin,
satie, debussy, or schumann...
can't compete with
thomas newman's
score for american beauty,
i.e. any other name...
it's the pauses,
which act are stressors to
the whole composition...
we're surrounded by
so many sounds that are
trans-mammalian...
we've become
so accustomed to them,
that, as i once said:
the song of birds with due
end of spring: irritates me!
i'm sorry...
i'm sorry that poetry seems feeble
by way of imitating this
approach...
there are never to few
words to be said,
as said, regarding
someone's death:
i wish i said...
i wish i said
this...
i wish i said
this to him (her)...
poetry can fake this minimalism,
akin to the oriental haiku...
but that's beside the point...
don't fake it...
drown in your words as the last
breaths in the sea of narratives...
thomas newman transcended
the "masters" of piano...
i don't know how he managed
to overcome satie or debussy...
i'm scratching my head
thinking: huh?
he actually wrote a piano haiku!
perhaps that's a misnomer example,
but given the waterfall dynamic
to my writing, i have no interest
in using the correct word...
if the word i used was incorrect;
god, it takes so little...
to overpower so much,
say: overpowering the power
hierarchy that gave us pyramids...
why isn't there an aztec story
regarding those pyramids?
surely there must be something!
ah! after all... those pyramids weren't
tombs, dedicated toward a burial...
they were sites of capital punishment,
imposing sites,
enough... to warn
future transgressors of law...
these weren't tombs...
they were scaffolds of capital execution...
no wonder there was no jewish
stubbornness among the aztecs...
there was no divine intervention.
yeah yeah, i know, atheism is vogue...
but with atheism comes no art...
and why would art succumb
to a rational "argument" for its existence?
fair enough... no canvas, no paint,
no paint-strokes, no painting...
i hope you find a brick-wall more
entertaining.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC
The A.I. summoned the robot Newman,
The A.I. asked about his condition,
Said Newman: "I want to feel—to be human,"
The A.I. accepted Newman's submission,
The A.I. processed his petition,
The A.I. cogently deliberated
on the logic of Newman's admission,
The A.I. returned its disposition:
"The robot Newman is to be terminated,
He displays a fatal lack of ambition."
Sep 22, 2020
Sep 22, 2020 at 11:54 AM UTC
Unless we know
The color of the snow
We are not the men
We thought we'd known
I've been drinking
Right through the night
I've been listening
To old Newman's frights
He is a singer
With a problem with ambition
He just kept on wishing
On the fatality of finishing
But how he never does
What he wants to do
Has everything to do
With 2011's truth
Maybe were bent
Maybe we are right crooked
But tonight I feel
Like I've just been stood up
An American dream
Used to have bells and whistles
But lately I've been seeing
Harmony with burnt thistles
People walk with a limp in their step
Other's walk with a **** in their gut
They are the soldier's that won't be called upon
While the rest are left to bicker towards the sun
I'm left sitting here
Lifting pictures of a love I never knew
Someday I hope to find another
One that I won't "smother"
Wash that dirt off your face
You always looked better that way
For hazard is just a harsh and quick blizzard
Who the ****
Do you think you are?,
Some kind of
Ancient wizard?
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 9:59 PM UTC
and at the end of this session, i'm going to gorge on homemade banana cake, and a glass of milk; hmm, so that's that.
hannah hallysem, chloe vevrier, rosalia verne, dakota skye, nadine jansen, milena d., katrina jade, alison tyler, sasha foxxx, noelle easton, shay fox, kourtney kane, aletta ocean, lexi belle, aria giovanni, maritza mendez, silvia loret, laura lion, ashley graham, latex lucy, alexis texas, dana dearmond, abella danger, karmen karma, jezebelle bond, keisha grey, karmen grey, jelena jensen, carmen croft, aneta buena, ines cudna, ewa sonnet, emma green, louisa marie, ivy nedkova, karolina pliskova, emma green, louisa marie, ivy nedkova, rooney mara, claire forlani, kelley scarlett, malina may, amirah adara, phoenix marie, foxy di., kenya lust, kiera winters, christy mack, paige delight, faith nelson, darya klishina, sand morris, alysha newman, silvia saint, adele stephens, deven davis, ewa wyrwal, tanya song, synn wagner, christina lucci, hunter leigh, lynda leigh, gemma atkinson, mulani rivera, sarah harding...
all those "expectations" mingling with a babuska...
gotta have a babuska after a list like that...
looks nice, doesn't it?
see how honest other people can become...
that's as honest as you're going to get:
i'm hardly an out-of-the-closet gay / intellectual...
and this is hardly the most desireds genetical "encyclopedia"
worth reciting...
but at least there's no closet,
and certainly no skeleton in it...
to be honest, i'd love to see a compendium of
a woman's favourite *****
oh sure, i can switch off...
i just start thinking about cow *******
and milk sacks; not that hard;
ugh... furr... itchy... stroking a cow is like
scratching your skin after the barbers...
milking a cow: ah... another subject
of investigation...
why do men not bother being
breast-fed, to out-compete the babe?
seems a shame to leave a vacuum for
capitalism to not investigate, don't you think?
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 10:01 PM UTC