"nondescript" poems
You don't know her
She is always forgotten
In your memories but soon your lips will only describe her as nondescript
The script of her life
How did she go from being so sweet to rotten
From just nightmares to sleep walking
Sweet ole her
Innocent and pure
Now she is impaired
In the need of refinement
But she doesn't have the strength to try it
You see she is chained to the past
Barely saw her dad
He was mean
Always got the last word
Drunk and abusive
Her mom was an unbloomed tulip
Looked kind but was bitter to her daughter
They'd fight and she would cry at night
She was ashamed of and had extreme anger for mother
How can you watch as she takes hits
Instead of intervening
Police bust down the doors and drag dad to jail
To the homeless shelter we go
No money, no home
It is cold
I barely knew what was going on around me
Refuse to talk to adults because they were all so confusing
And honestly my questions only led to answers that were lies
I had fear in my eye
The things that I had seen
The smoke filled air I'd breathe
Let's not forget the bullies
That talk stuff because I was so "imperfect"
Never had the latest brands
Because mom had no bands
Let's not forget how dad was back again
All hope was drained
She had thoughts of suicide and then a boy came
Walked his way in
She spilled her ink onto his page
He left anyways
Guess her story was too boring
You don't know her
You did at a time
She is nothing but rotten
And only meant to be forgotten
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC
Retail-hunter gatherers pick
clean processed bones, digging graves
with their shiny teeth, studious in
their reveries as they drone
past worlds dumped in the thresher;
the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped
gore splayed lustily before the managers
wound tight in Machiavellian design.
A shepherd herds his flock of
wreathed iron back to its pen, its
skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by
swords flung from lambent eyes of
pre-dawn’s shunting chariots
Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats
chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes
of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting
colours to float through archipelagos of
paper towel and chocolate blocks past
the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic
wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of
perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen
ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while
Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like
nightshade—slutty and serene—coating
shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the
shelves reach their arms out for more.
The check out chick hatches
a sense of déjà vu as carrots
and biscuits drone towards her
mind berEFT of any twitching
sense of POSsibility that wised
up and flew this leering coop and
deep in her catalogue of grey folds
something stillborn and waxen is
perched on gleaming steel, reeling
out her guts like cassette tape with jerky
nightmare arms and laughing like a
banker watching ***** films, mornings
dull cerise an invocation through
auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble
with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
Thirty years had passed me by
I was approaching fifty one
For my birthday I thought I would go
to New York and take my son
I'd been there once many years ago
When my boy was not yet born
With his mother gone, I thought it time
To go back there with my son
I checked the web and booked a room
In a hotel that looked real nice
It was just three blocks from Broadway
I guess I should have checked it twice
We flew on in from Michigan
We were set to see some games
We would also go to Broadway
And see some plays with some big names
I should have seen it coming
Problems arising from the start
Our plane was late in leaving
They had crashed the luggage cart
An hour to reload it
Got us off and in the air
With a strong tail wind behind us
The pilot said we'd soon be there
We landed at the airport
Waited forty minutes for our bags
You see, when they loaded us in Detroit
They forgot to fasten all our tags
We went outside to get a cab
We were almost to our stop
We would find the Biltmore Hotel
My young son and me...his pop
We told the taxi driver
To the Biltmore Hotel please
He said "Sir, are you certain"
"They've had bed bugs and there's fleas"
"I checked it on the internet"
"It looked nice and was cheap"
The driver said "OK Sir,"
"But, the Biltmore...it's a heap!"
I thought a bit, but said...."come on"
"It cannot be that bad"
But as we pulled of Broadway
The neighborhood looked quite sad
The street was dark and nondescript
there was no one to be found
Except for idle yelling
You could not hear a sound
Windows were all boarded up
The farther we went east
I thought, for thugs and hoodlums
this street would yield a feast
I thought the cabbie might be right
A new hotel we'd get
But, I still had not decided
Even though the streeted was quite the threat
The sign outside the hotel
Was burned out in some spots
But, I guess from our reaction
We both deserved what we had got
I told the cabbie, do not stop
Just floor it and we'll go
The sign outside the Biltmore
lit up as "BI T MO **
I wasn't gonna stay there
We went back and made it quick
Just looking at the Biltomre
Well, it really made me sick
I learned one thing this trip
Next time, I'll call ahead
And won't book at the "BIT MO **
For I might just wake up dead.
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 7:30 PM UTC
This sleepy little galaxy,
lost in the milieu of a billion others,
is filled with song and the finite
thrum of human hearts.
This glow-in-the-dark Milky Way,
whose pinwheel arms
are spun with satin stars,
emits Mozart from its crevices.
This nondescript spiral,
axled upon a super-massive black-hole,
frisbees across the universe,
curving it with the maths of Einstein.
Space travelers are we all,
learning the gravitation-crawl.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 11:13 PM UTC
Hero
H-E-R-O
One word, Four letters
Loaded with meaning
But what, daresay, is the meaning?
What makes a hero?
Well, there are stereotypes
Storybook characters, playing the role
Strong, brave, handsome
Chivalrous, even. Bold and daring
But that isn't a real hero
A real hero is weak, cowardly
They lack confidence, they aren't strong, smart, or handsome
They live their lives in the background
If they had a color, it would be something nondescript
A beige, perhaps, or a muted blue
They live and let live
Until the time comes, where they must step up
The true hero, they seize the moment
They act against their fear, they gain strength they thought they lacked
To save the day
And fade, into the background
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 6:16 PM UTC
They're a normal family
As normal as they can be
The father is a veteran of WWII
He runs a tight ship
but one can tell by
looking into his eyes
(the one that works)
that he loves his wife and children
The mother isn't a homemaker
because she's forced to
she actually loves the challenge
of keeping a household in order
it gives her something
to take pride in
The daughter is sweet sixteen
bright as the stars in the night sky
She wants to be a concert pianist
drawing in crowds of thousands
to listen to sweet melodic
sensations
The son is naught but an infant
slowly learning the benefit
of moving in order to get places
his eyes constantly wander
in wonder at his surroundings
innocence in its true form
They are a normal family
But they're not.
Look closely at the father
You can see the mangled remnants of his chest
Where he fell on top of a grenade
He is, indeed, a veteran of WWII.
His name is on the large memorial in Washington D.C.
Just another young man willing to sacrifice
for something he believed in
His wife died in 1926 from complications during pregnancy
She never got to see her daughter's face
as the doctors carried her from the room
The mother's pale face and unliving eyes
staring at a nondescript hospital ceiling
The daughter's crushed skull is the byproduct
of a drunk driver who is still haunted by
the vision of teenage dreams sliced
apart by windshield glass in 1985
He drinks alone at home now
The child has a gunshot wound through his neck
a stray bullet from a gang fight that found flesh and blood,
just as the man who pulled the trigger intended it to
every time the infant giggles, one can hear the gurgle shortly after
This family exists somewhere outside our consciousness
They don't go on vacations to Disney World
You won't see them at the corner grocery store
They don't Celebrate the Holidays
They don't have
a favorite sports team
a favorite pair of shoes
a favorite band
What they have is eachother
four random souls that found one another
lost in the ether
living their afterlife
the best they can
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
when the world within me is loud -
constant cacophony, clanging, clashing -
I hastily throw pieces of my soul
into large, nondescript bags,
and I take a trip outside of myself
as my heart races and my legs shake.
but when the world is soft -
silent, somnolent, soothing -
I arrive home from the trip
and slowly unpack my bags.
I take deep, cleansing breaths
as I put my soul back together.
Dec 27, 2021
Dec 27, 2021 at 12:57 PM UTC
*to be
or
not to be*...
he stands at the lamppost, screened from view
evening light slopes across the street
and cuts an oblong square of light
from the Hotel de Ville lobby-entrance.
she wonders who he is, standing there so
almost melding into post, his nondescript shadow sidling alongside
while early eve strolls through Le Parc des Céléstins
steady presence, half but not quite menacing.
he gazes down at his silhouette, Gauloise alit
and it, in turn, looks into the kerb...or up at him...
he turns his head up slowly, hazy wisps
as bewilderment draws reredos.
she hears footsteps clack across the parquet floor
as someone leaves the rez-de-chaussée
she wonders what he wants; why he stands there
who he waits for; and why so long.....
she can never see his face, ponders much on this
she longs to understand, yet feels afraid
as if she's seen that shade before, across the road
moving slowly, as the hours steal away...
visible from her second floor, she eyes
daddy-long legged limbs and dangly shapes
he has merely wandered into his past
seeking only the one he hopes to find.
traveled so far and sought so wide
crossed oceans, traversed treacherous terrain
perseverance the clutch word of the day
only to linger long to recover dashed prize.
later, as she peers into the heavy night
from windows shut, all her eyes can pierce
are nought but empty shadows 'neath that solitary lamp post
seems the mist carried off her spectral fear.... as well.
*or...
did it?*
S T, 28 June 2013 (Fry-day:)
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
There is, one supposes, a certain nobility
In simply carrying on with the whole **** thing,
Though that assumes some epiphany,
Some clawing toward grace, or at least common decency.
He had, in some once upon a time,
Cast his lot with a better class of people, so to speak;
It had not ended well, though,
In line with how such things are resolved,
His fall not a spectacular, tempestuous thing,
But a gradual, veiled affair, not a fiery spectacle
With metaphorical medals cut away, epaulets stripped,
But a shaded silence, a shrouded yet palpable shunning.
And so he is here, in this fading little city
Perched forlornly on the banks of a nondescript little river,
Having taken an apartment above a pair of offices
(One occupied by a seemingly ancient and disinterested lawyer,
The other by an ostensible private investigator)
Which is sufficiently large and reasonably warm
Come the seemingly perpetual winter.
He lives, if not in such a manner
As he was once accustomed to, comfortably enough:
He has his practice, and an adjunct position
At the little cow college down the road in Alfred,
And there are the occasional women,
Sad divorcees marooned in this hill country,
Dewy-eyed undergraduates unable to discern
Suit coats that are a bit shabby and somewhat passe
(There is a haberdasher in Buffalo whose garments
Are in the neighborhood of up-to-snuff,
And he could certainly manage a trip
Down to New York for better tailoring,
Though he would be traveling in places and circles
Where he is not remembered fondly.)
Stepping outside, he encounter snowflakes,
Light and unprepossessing,
But he studies the sky anxiously, apprehensively
(One learns that he must pay Nature its due fealty in these climes,
And give into the primal, the instinctual)
For he knows what can transpire
When the wind blows off the big lake out west just so,
Turning innocuous flurries into a malevolent blankness,
Making the landscape inscrutable, alien, utterly terrifying.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
I saw the rest of my kind scour against the streets, hands calloused-laden,
wizened by erratic explosions – nondescript music analogous to silence;
terse sleep stiff in wind, homes filled with tension, arrow-headed men
quiver through the busy streets as tatterdemalion as stray dogs.
inverted triangle, sidereal vertigo, mutilated rose and the beheaded tulip.
the ambiguous spiral of the downcast climb. I see all men maddened
by wine over the rooftops.
choking in dank light – the night exudes its flayed machinery.
an empty bottle of whiskey and a body stripped of skin melded with fright
raised higher than the maladroit sky.
I, whose name is but an algorithm of formlessness. I, whose silence is but the contemplation of stone. I,
whose voice toboggans like a tender ramshackle of incantations
filling tubercular pockets with spare hope yet none are we but only poorer.
whose fingers are but tired girls tousling in bed lacquered by sunsets – whose nails are paler
than a ****** of moonlight, whose homes are inflamed hemmed in by petticoats,
whose eyes set affixed to no avatars in juxtaposition of parks
falling madly in love with everything that glints.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
Behind a speakeasy
in a ***** moonlit alley
silhouettes climb up a tired
and worn out stairway
vacancy signboard beneath
an incandescent light bulb
marks the nondescript entrance
for the nights commerce
Outside the window ledge
a billboard hums an electric tune
between the blinds neon light
sneaks into the room
casting shadows on a naked
landscape across the mattress
spread totally disinterested
pockmark flesh limply waiting
Clumsy hands fumble
to unzip stained denims
hobbling with unsteady steps
to the edge of the bed
a drunk smelling of cheap whiskey
and ***** smiles at me with
two rows of rotted stumps
my first customer of the night
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 6:48 PM UTC
Tread the bourgeois carpet
of 5000 feet
caked in airmiles
Enter the ornately crafted
nondescript facade
passed the chap in the tall hat
Rank and file -
standard issue pleasantries
Sign the guestbook
of illegible memories
Acclimatise to the room
of temporary devotion
devoid of belonging
or emotion;
the ruthless economics
of designed practicality
The impending ideology:
that what you pay for
you dont get to keep
That nameless hotel
dressed in uniformed vulgarity
is the fourth to be welcomed
as Home this week
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 4:14 AM UTC
Dear...
This haphazard poem was written solely for you
Matterless, what you came garbed in
Fever elicited, passion anew
You’ve graced me, the repetition of ‘could-have-been’
I loved the way you speak
Of knowledge and triumph
And I, bumbling and meek
Tirelessly I sought and now still seek
Your council, your court
For my amusement, for my sport
Conversing over a poisoned well
I listen in genuine
Raise my voice
Sing with my friends amongst the din
Higher on the pillar, you I hoist
Pure skin my well intentioned hands mar
Clumsily, I lean into a similar heart
To discuss life and literature, fantasies these hands take too far
How eloquent the silk you weave, which you impart
Which inveigles and entices, cajole us into the city
On pale page, the street lamps and dim moon, art
Palpitations and liquor test the pity
Of light and fire
I cannot help but explore your shapely form
And yet, without bar
Across miasma, my guide is a cute little hand
Solitude, the pulsations do doggedly solicit
I just want to be close, you grant this
Bewitched by the creamy satin of pale skin
Distantly, warmly, I gaze in those God-given sculptures
Of the richest green and azure hues, bespeak feminine
Engaged in the other’s stare, two drunken apers
The night, black as sin,
The mould of outcome of we are the shapers
And I shape regret that rises with the sun
You come back vividly and lucidly
Distant and opposite, worlds across, you from me
A nondescript ghost in the corner
Who speaks so placidly
I remember with regret
I remember with exultation
I’ve ruined our relationship
Our relationship topical felicitation
I haven’t had time to apologize
I haven’t had enough time with you
If I ever see you again
I’d mend everything
I’d discover the girl behind the name
And cleanse the projection askew.
Love, Me
Dear... .
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
The enduring ephemerality,
Strung together moments of blissfulness,
Each fleeting in its temporality,
But feeling infinite in wistfulness.
The hands of time spin circles without end,
While memories live in moments discrete.
Some moments blur to a nondescript end,
Moments with you time will never defeat.
Events live so long as not forgotten,
Life’s meaning breaks time’s continuity.
With each breath a new time is begotten,
So time gone lives in perpetuity.
When timeless blissfulness is in the past,
The paradox of time still makes it last.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
Deep down mind’s dark alley
Lies a room, almost a crypt,
With old memories stashed together
hazy, misty, nondescript
They were once fresh,
vivid and flagrant,
in times sunnier,
merry and vibrant
Until –
A day a friend lost,
A day a love broken
A day innocence died
Or a day trust stolen
Each time filled this room
With never-to-return memories
And I stay away from the crypt
To save myself the miseries
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
Waiting like always sitting with hands in lap and head bowed
Just knowing I'll hear news that you messed up
Not knowing, like ever, the words to change or chastise or
Save
Not knowing why I want to
Not knowing why I need you
Protected
Not knowing why I need to
Not knowing why I want you
Directed
Nursing your head wounds with the TV on while you tell me
We are watching the news that you messed up
We are cuddled and sitting how the god and the child
Would
She doesn't remember what I remember of the years she means to me.
She will fix the pieces eventually so why don't I give her just one small piece?
So I take Miriam to the cemetery.
The cemetery at sunrise.
Looking over a rail yard.
Revealing old gravestones.
Nondescript in the lay lanes.
She doesn't remember why she doesn't visit the grave of her mother.
She will fix the image much sooner than later so why don't I give her some relief?
So I tell Miriam in the old green graveyard.
The graveyard filled with carbon.
Speaking of another girl.
Revealing I knew her
As another distant frame.
You are married with the orange scene in gleaming while I
Look,
Not knowing why I want to
Not knowing why I need you
Protected
Not knowing why I need to
Not knowing why I want you
Directed
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
Out beyond the edge of reason,
beyond where my senses can claim
I cannot sleep or wake…
nor dream.
In a state of
nondescript stillness. Bereft of
unnecessary memories.
I am not loved,
I do not love
in ways I can any longer
understand. Stark states of
stalemate.
Melpomene and Thalia
hunched over game pieces
a drunken heart
laments all a sober mind must
reason.
When liquid gold
and golden light
take to loving,
we as humans,
are no match. Either of
these elixirs in their limpidness,
bronzes our throats and
smothers our breath,
consumes our vision
with that last still drift of
sulphur, struck…
My flickering writhe
is a lambent match flame
Leaning in
to kiss a wild bonfire.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
Another kiss,
sent where the rivers of our souls aether meet
underneath a starfall refracting crystalline rainbows
winding through the cosmos playing hide and seek
riding on asteroid belts,
dancing under the rain of shooting starss
...
remembering the feel of your touch
the night seems less lonely by much
even now when we are lifetimes apart
my day ends and sweet memories start
a shady breath of wind from above
on a hot stagnant journey
you are my shadow love
...
a sweet warmth,
glowing on dark cold winter‘s mourn
a bright smile,
over a miserable sky
a shower of energy and sparks
on a nondescript day
my sane little hidey-hole in this crazy place
how I yearn for that time again
somewhere lost
in the deep shadows
of our space
everywhere I go
your shadow love
whispers
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 6:01 AM UTC
11:00 PM July 7th 2011
Outside Delacorte Theater,
Home of Shakespeare in the Park
Central Park, New York
~~
What wretched wags
we have become,
sold rhyme and couplet
into slavery and meter sacrificed,
upon the altar of expediency.
LOL and BRB, the hallmarks
of our
insincerity,
forgetting that civility
is resurrected when
we employ the poetry of speech
in our plain and
simple communiques,
most especially in the simple,
please let beauty hold sway.
Brutalize our tongues,
thus our lives,
compression of our language
into single words that celebrate
the mundane, as fashionable.
yeah, yeah, yeah...
Our speech, its fragrance lost,
sublimates but does not sublime,
one liners demean our humanity,
grunts of yeah and cool,
are awesome not,
our future hope is in
the details of our expression,
whereby we inject
into our verbal demeanor
a grace that sets human
above the existence animal.
So touch this screen and
let us begin,
to take our measure
by our measure
of the care we demonstrate
when we communicate.
These words have transversed
from weekday to weekday,
soon at morning prayers
to the gods inside of me,
David's hymns and poems
I'll recite,
a slow eloquence will infuse
my hallelujah eyesight.
Plain truths will be spoke,
in rhyme with
diction apace,
transfuse my soul
elevate us
severally and jointly
above the confused noises of
the prison of nondescript lives,
leaving me a believer that
all's well that begins well.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Standing as a posthumous syllogism on the main platform of the terminal, is the statue,
Of what is perceived to be man. Nondescript in attitude and feature, balanced
By the raw fact that a craftsman was disposed to cast it in bronze.
The likeness of the general populace, defined through blank eyes, in the perfect reflection
Of the truth. It seems that the epitome of accepted natural progression, that there
Should be no inscription, no engraved statement of popularity or definition on its base.
The dank smell and dust on the edifice on which it resides, continues to be a grim reminder
of the expected and the commonplace. The reminder of what was and is, is left unnoticed,
Forgotten by the familiar repetitive sight.
The dying terminal (a redundant epithet) has grown dark through the cast of despair
And false hope showering its massive windows from above. Light source has been cut off,
Leaving only a path of beaten resolve, to direct the feet of the misguided.
Not unlike the path, closest to the fence, struck hard by the hooves of the cattle, prompted forward
by the hand out of food in the first cold days of winter. The stream grows on a daily basis, more and more
The masses trip and stumble aboard the trains, to find their lurching, rocking way to self destruction.
Nobility could have been found in even handed choice. Those who chose the line, the prolonged rail of
Indifference and non-comprehension. Rails of iron, rusted like the rotted cheap pines on the waters edge.
It is the longest journey, containing the most miles, the last station, the end of earth and existence.
In some way you have known the base emotion, and what has been the guise of continuity, it is a new
Reality, a new abstraction, there are no contradictions. The checked premise and the realization
In words and concepts, those things we have known all along.
The realization is loved and hated at the same time, and it can only be beneficial that the welcome
Exceeds the hatred. The desperate homage to the masses is fading from the tangibleness, and is
Replaced the the disquieting base physical feeling of the impending no mater being undesired.
More important is the knowledge, that the precepts and premises held
Without words have the tangible meaning long desired,
And that the intangible reward, that can only be shared with few.
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 9:02 PM UTC
Loft for the weighted memories still stuck to earth by way of highways in mind deciding worth lost to the odds just might light your best and not the worst to leave you burned and make you hurt with a hole left mid breast so the whole heart started at first sight turns wild in flight and down to depths of stress plumbed once per month while you cry out little droplets blessed with time passed and spent at life's expense, listless and bound to recollect proud moments of ownership, passe notions of leadership, the one who leads and was led is nondescript, if it's turbulence or asphalt smooth to speed in sleep in place of days waking, walking two by four recede to dream where you toss and kick fears and pain away under thick rain you'd rather dry with orange rays and haze of heat, one mute mouthed faux biker writer always at the call though no admittance, transmits recognition of what feels like martian love at collision where no rocks were hit but rifts roared and wracked the soaring sky, pyres and stars reflected in moist eyes at night with even gentle wind or slight breeze, these fragments of us chipped off at cycle's start darkness whether live or lie, do not comply to be cautious when the very thought, though heavy, brings loft for the weighted bevy of ties that chain what happiness we weep to celebrate.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
the horse rummages on the track
and the victory is owned by the ****
soon sleep will engulf my body
like the oblivious quietude of Aokigahara-jukai.
things and their semblance of utmost care.
light begins to burst
and there is little left to see,
wide-eyed, crunched by the efficacy of aches.
taking all to the very heart of hurt
as gamblers wager,
and coming back with the sound of completeness:
a man is a man in his chronology of defeat -
left torn by madness,
a cornered beast pressed against the woods.
the moon plays its lyre, white-washed,
sound wading in the very source of quiet,
hauled out of the Sun, its mother.
this hound stalks the world
with woebegone legs, a reflection of the entire world fractured
by a singular shot at the end.
i hear the guttural snarl of engine
unwavering in its limitations. say, at first light, all exists to paint darkness quicker
than any obfuscated conclusion -- hiding in
itself, its mood for squalors.
the mud dug deep for bones
pared from the slaughter of midnight,
hiding them to mask my defeat:
everything around me sparkles with
the vigor of frailty, all the same.
the nights are too long, scarce as froth
from an opened mouth left flat,
a dry gin bottle.
i imagine sad armies dissolving in pale moonlight, and crosses thumbed down to the snaking hiss of its nondescript prayer.
gears gnash like teeth in anger
of you in your young clothes, the pace of cars
hurrying back to homes.
i remember the splintered wood burning
the last in the round kiln of the Red Lion.
the upholstery of night is the twilight's
catharsis. the coast of dread widens like
the vernal metamorphosis of a young ********** in Gibraltar,
come in, come in with undecided ******
you can hear the fall coalesce with the levitation of ember, landing like feet blunt
on the asphalt beside desolate bicycles
in seedy parks.
the surreal tabulation of analogue repetitions:
death's myriad, in all corners screaming
the countenance rebel, against the floored masses.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
I am one of those
who do watches
and people love to watch me -
they watch, but ironically,
they call me Watch Man
Well, for a start, I can eat watches
At a recent show
I ate 4 watches in 6 slow hours -
it was time-consuming
My wrists stretch on the touch of
watch bracelets
and so they made me wear many to see
how many I could wear on each wrist
20 on either wrist is what my stretch could take –
yeah, you could say,
I just had too much time on my hands
Last on show they made me wear a belt of watches
which was a pretty waist of time,
if you know what I mean
Look I’ve applied
to join DC Comics
Me as Watch Man
along with the likes of Iron Man, the Hulk
and Spider Man and such characters nondescript
But I’ve been turned down
Just not your time yet, I’ve been told
Well, so I content myself meantime
as Watch Man at Freak Shows
Doing the Time
before my Big Time
When there are enough time-savvy people
Who can recognise the genius
of those who do watches
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
The Modern Sleeping Beauty is not found in the middle of a forest
Surrounded by flowers and small animals
With a light shining through the treetops
Illuminating her pristine body
The Modern Sleeping Beauty is not awoken by a prince
Wearing a royally white outfit
Who softly kisses her on the lips
To remove the magic curse
The Modern Sleeping Beauty does not finish the fairy tale
Marrying the handsome prince
With a happily ever after
Disney-style ending
No, the Modern Sleeping Beauty can be found curled up on a couch
Wearing a leather jacket and grass-stained jeans
Listening to someone else's music
Undisturbed by the world bustling around her
And the Modern Sleeping Beauty is awoken by a nondescript character
Who heard the bell ring
And wanted his headphones back
So he shook her lightly
Still
The Modern Sleeping Beauty
Is more beautiful
Than any fairy tale
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 5:13 PM UTC