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mark john junor Sep 2014
the promise that her tenderness has no fences
made her linger on my mind
like a rough bottle of fine wine
and as the evening rolled back daylights clutter of thoughts in my head
that smile she flashed me came back to kiss my heart
it came with such delight sparking in her sweet eyes
that i just felt myself drowning in the moment with such wanton joys
made me illustrious by her soft-spoken side
made me happy to be alive...

once the sullen girl in baggy sweat pants and pink slippers
dragging a bag full of noisesome beatnik romances
she has grown to love freedoms road
cast aside such tin-plated gods and rough-house boys
that a pretty boy isn't a man if he wont make a stand
found herself holding a wishing well coin
and a map showing paradises shores
and came down to find me again....

sitting in a coffee house full of lost voices
full of magazine honeys chilling before the big break finds em
listening to the sounds of heartbreak in glasses chatter
and waiting for a road that made sense to me
when she walked back into my life
like a rough bottle of fine wine
like a candlelight evening with true loves joys
i will be here forever know that now
florida moon-surfing
holding her in my arms
breathing the magic that is her
exploring her romances
(dedicated my friend dean and his girl mary who i wrote this poem about)
Lysander Gray Dec 2013
The suicidal optimist with his noisesome breath
watches the moon for shooting stars.

He talks a lot about it;
but everyone's seen Christ in the clouds.

Picks his way to an early death
with romantic subtitles
and a continental breakfast.

He halts his noisesome breath
and checks for excitement -

"Darling..." he whispers
"I must have you."

Your sob was like a thunderclap

Your sob was like a thunderclap
in the deep and ancient night.

And the stars did sigh
For servitude
in the deep and ancient night.

Clearing his head
whilst muddying the meter
He realises :

Jesus was an astronaut
Smoking zen by the fire.

And everything makes sense
in an unexpected moment
That he thought
would never come

And all our yesterday's lighted fools
the way to dusty death.
mark john junor Jan 2014
its a daily bread
wolf it down with your daily grin and bear it softdrink
talk out the night till  you are a sleepyhead
and you mix and match your yawns with frowns
you carve it all out in your journal
little doodles illustrate the page
stick figure men battle
stick figure women try to look ****
and the bird flys free on a paper sky
the bird flys free
like the hopes that this will someway be you
in some incarnation of your
ever changing life spectacle
your ever changing detox from her poison pen tongue
be a bird who flys free on a paper sky
high above the noisesome stickmen
and such dire devils of nervous hands
twitch and fumble through compulsive motions
draw to keep the hand from being idle
draw to keep the mind flowing
and the bird breaks free
of the paper sky
and floats free in a realistic appearing world
in your sleepyhead dreams
paper birds deserve to be free too
just like you and i
This prison with no walls
The mind is even too hot for thought to linger upon
Creativity vanishes when the contents of the dustbin are emptied
Hunger, lie and poverty
The everlasting diet of this wall-less facility
Noisesome ideology forcefed through the sphincter ani
Mother ran away from the constant tantrums of the AK
Forty seven men played that instrument and stole her dignity
The music was too loud she said
So she is still hiding six feet under
Brother coughs a lot, spits a lot and is a skeleton of wonder
What the hell? Where is heaven?
Sons mistook for dustbins constantly being reclaimed by the grave
This wall-less prison
Trust is no more between husband and wife
Men **** men and dog eat dog
Mothers shun their wombs
Vatican shut its doors
Hell is contemplating too
We dance to our heart beats, the only hope
I thought I’d visit the place we met
Drenched in neon, old regrets
As cougars stalk the noisesome streets
Roll out, angry sheep, sorrowful bleats
The bogan cries out to the moon
The hunchback hipsters sing of doom
The fancy dressed and terminally blessed
The puddles reflect an endless stream
Of broken hearts and wilted dreams
And the neon lights buzz proudly
Our gods, our morning stars, so loudly
Call to us like lanterns on the bows
of a thousand lost ships and broken vows
I saw you once within the sea of skin
Handsome, strong, but deep within
I knew I’d known you all my lives
As brother, lover, husband, wife
And now the caribou part their ways
To **** and fight and live their days
or perhaps to slumber, to retire
Yet I stand alone and admire
The post that held you, my darling one
Lover, absentee saint, my sun
I stare at the corner and I weep
For love itself must also sleep
Simon Monahan Nov 2017
O Knowledge! Thou, in vestments plain and white
Art deceptively appareled, for deep
Runs the well of thy treasures; human sight
Cannot fathom the depth of such wealth. Leap
Into her pasture, poor searcher! Her sheep
Are ne’er shepherded awry; you will find
Her embrace the true fortune of the mind.

O Knowledge! Vision to a brain born blind!
O Sweet sight intellectual! I’ll praise
Thee, who alone art so gracious, so kind
As to seek out poverty so to raise
Up the poor captive from the witless maze
With gifts abounding, though unseen. I’ll sing
Thee, who in false silence makes truth to ring!

O Knowledge! Do thou my petition grant,
And come, my pauperdom to richly bless,
Break up the noisesome dark with thy fair chant!
O consoling balm to ignorant stress,
Thy seal upon our anxious minds impress;
For when the glass of our wits seems filled up,
Thy divine outpouring deepens the cup.

— The End —