"ointments" poems
did you know
that the
self effulgent light
of God it self
is **** shaped
as above so below
the inner revelation
******* above...light woven
*** hole below ...flesh woven
does this not infer
a magical operation
perhaps a hermetic
ritual of adoration
perhaps a puja
to the ****
with ornate
kaleidoscopic mandalas
replete with wrinkles
and folds
emerald toilet bowls
silk *** wipe
with full color florals
to be ingratiated
by **** art prints
and to be fussed over
and judged
by certified *******
clergy
then to cleanse
with fragrant ointments
that it may remain
unsullied by its
birthing labors
voluptuous
smoldering
fecundations
for purities sake
as god remains
free of limitation
it too
must remain
free of its forgetful
tarnished children
i build temple of ****
high above the people
the little *****
do they
even know
where they come from
how they may
devote themselves
to the grandeur
of the solar ****
and its bestowals
of clumpy torpedoes
the catechism
of the solar ****
to know
to adore
to prostrate
to proselytize
the glory of ****
to the
for corners
of the earth
to be faithful
unto it
to be obedient
and present
your *******
for ritual manicures
by the true initiates
the fussy
******* faeries
those who have
the secret knowledge
and remain true
to the lore
and precepts
set forth
of divine correspondences
to fully appreciate
its eminence
its glory
and have no
God before it
that mercy
will follow them
all the days
of there lives*
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
<>
**”To dream by the oak and awake by the sea
when August has ripened and turned Jubilee
you must enter dominion of summer's delight
and live in the rapture of candescent light
Oh to live and to love one must first learn to kiss,
the kinetics of summer, with eternal bliss.”**
~from vienna bombardieri’s poem, “Kinetics Of Summer~
(with her kind permission)
<>
First verse pinpoints accurate, this,
my spot!
by oak and sea,
my precise longitude and latitude, where my summertime
eyes open to receive the gift of morning’s light, observing
the conjunction of land, hard by the sea, the land-ed avian gentry
and sea~sailor birds interacting, sharing the uprising currents,
for sport and observation, travel and pleasured sailing,
these “Masters of the Sky can fly for hours (or days), while barely flapping,” and this verse stuns, and
my shock,
at these, her words
my breathing is gasped and grasped
by oak and sea, for so it be,
this is where
my morning’s operatic scrum, ballet and dance hall hullabaloo,
my diurnal natural choreography is performed,
while slow sipping my very heated first coffee
it was here
that I learned to love more easily,
for the kinetics of summers trio of sun, sky, and moderate breezes,
lulled the turbulence of my disheartened lives into an easier
order, the world~surround, a living, breathing exercise that
warmed the spirit, cooled the soul, and spoke without uttering
a single word,
here dear person, is the where and the when,
the comfort of the natural-blanket
that enwraps, covers, cherishes the atmosphere entire,
containing the healing elixirs and protective ointments,
that remove the
plaque of life’s accumulated injuries, slights and scar tissue
simply put,
here I breath freely,
here I see with clarity
here the infusions of
living in nature, prolongs,
restore, remind, enliven
and enhances,
the intermixture of
body and soul
here in actual deed,
the kiss of summer bliss
upon
my tiring cell’s walls,
are resurrected even unto the nuclei,
by the warm breath of sun life and sun light,
and the breezes of salty sweet caramel air
and under their loving, combined-dominion
am I
resurrected and will yet sense,
one more Jubilee again
as I lay dreaming
by the oak and the sea…
Aug 2, 2023
Aug 2, 2023 at 4:05 AM UTC
Underneath this myrtle shade,
On flowerly beds supinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o’erflowing,
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state
Love himself on me shall wait.
Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up!
And mingled cast into the cup
Wit and mirth and noble fires,
Vigorous health and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way:
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments shower?—
Nobler wines why do we pour?—
Beauteous flowers why do we spread
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but dust can show,
Or bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with roses while I live,
Now your wines and ointments give:
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive my pleasures have:
All are Stoics in the grave.
4.6k
.
Henry VIII was a deluded monarch,
he could never have ruled the Earth,
for he hasn't seen his **** for years,
hiding beneath the bulk of his girth.
And wobbling onto the battle field
is not the behaviour fit for a King,
he would have to sit nursing his cysts
and hoping the ointments don't sting.
His eating excess was cause for concern
but his syphilis remained largely unseen,
and one really has to feel so sorry for
whomever it is that is currently Queen.
His penchant for young and younger Ladies
made him a stranger to baths and soap,
and his bed hopping antics to sire a son
bought him much trouble from the pope.
© Pagan Paul (09/12/18)
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC
****** ****** on my lip;
You itchy little reddish blip.
You come and go just as you please,
O, how I wish to rid ******
What is it about my face,
That you would want to bring disgrace?
You hide behind the name “coldsore,”
But your just herpes…nothing more.
Wheres MYpes, and HISpes, and what about YOURpes?
Why does it always have to be ******
Ointments and creams, the hell just won’t end!
O no! My herpe just grew a friend!
There’s two of them now! What do I do?
Well, here’s something I know to be very true:
That sharing is caring; that’s what they say,
So kiss me and let’s share my ****** today!
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
The Quantum Poetry Theorem
from a long time ago,
a thousand poems a priori.
**Dedicated to you, Albert Einstein and the cast of TBBT, special thanks to the OWS movement.,
But especially to the few, the brave, geeks who write poetry in word and in equations.**
Scruffy, yet ennobled,
my own 99% invade and
occupy all my senses,
in my eyesight encamped
sensing opportunity,
the 99 demand
that each shutter eye snap,
all nominal exhalations,
every quantum minutia perception,
be live streamed,
direct tv to you
Everything I witness,
transformed into an
acoustic guitar rocking vision,
a levitation of poetic expression,
set to a primitive three-chord
rock & roll overture,
and my iPad,
appointed Recording Secretary,
compiles exhalations as ecrivations
a preservation society of the verb,
strings of words emanating non-stop
within my head, from a guitar playing
twenty four seven, ironically,
expressed mathematically
Street strolling,
busy brasserie bar,
a Pinot Noir arrives,
a large pour of
stanzas and a
napkin upon to scribble
mind in ferment but
A Capella smooth cool,
my bossy brain requires
incident reports,
a "write me down, please,"
and
no matter how much I drink,
ain't anti-matter enough to
stop my eyes from seeing
every human interaction
as a poetic, probabilistic,
verbal equation,
quantum expressions of sensory upload
The brain revels and reels from overload,
no mas, no more,
poetry fatigue incurable,
caplets and ointments,
string theory,
can't cure or explain
the compulsion I feel,
and the 1% of me
protests my
overtaxed mental capacity,
and
hear the, see the, masses,
the shouts, the placards,
outside my home,
shut it down, no one cares,
no one wants your transplanted mechanics
in their eardrums
Huzzah, found in my gut,
a Grand Unifying Theory
to coordinate, gauge and harmonize
my internal asymmetries,
yes, a coupling factor required,
but still,
one equation that explains everything!
my fatigued, pointy, index finger
refuses to tap any more,
my Theory of Everything,
and my poetry, forgot, overlooked.
in my library buried,
black holed, forever silence-stored
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
I come from the green winters,
the beady drops of sweat
running like lawnmowers
down the side of a face.
The bugs, bugs, bugs
and freakish hailstorms
of the way-down-south.
I come from the trash-can lid
that I made a sled and took flight on
soaring over the inch-thick ice.
I am from howdy-land and yeehaw-city,
but the thing is,
they really weren't.
I come from a fascination with rocks,
the round ones with the white stripes
and the white ones with the round stripes.
I am from bee-stings and wasp-nests,
and the kind ointments that were
whispered into my battle wounds.
Down the side of a cliff,
running like lawmowers,
the beady drops of sweat
come from green winters.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 7:52 PM UTC
I look down at my feet,
toes adorned with chipped nail varnish,
a pitiful plaster clinging to the sole,
and I grimace at the
purple marks, reddening blisters,
cicatrices of stories long forgotten.
The ***** of my feet are thin and worn,
my heels rubbed raw from
shoes I have loved and shoes I have detested,
faded scars from childhood accidents.
I have aged hating my feet,
the discoloured skin, dotted with odious callouses,
my throbbing, wrinkled soles.
They have grown with me,
from tiny clumps unrecognisable as a foetus,
to wide, long size 7s.
My toes are misshapen, twisting this way and that,
freckled with sun kisses from foreign countries.
They’ve been battered and bruised
repeatedly,
victims of my hurtling abuse and mortal neglect.
I have punished them
with verruca socks and freezing ointments,
pin ****** small shoes, razor blades, nail clippers and
not once
have I nurtured them, soaked them with praise.
These feet have walked me up mountains,
aided me in athletic championships,
withstood six inch heels on weekends,
ran me through marathons,
enduring my never-ending physical torment and though
they may buckle,
with weeping blisters and aching pains,
dry skin, broken bones and sprained ankles,
they will recover,
rebuilding the scabrous skin.
Regardless of how unstable my life may become in later years,
whether I am stranded on a deserted island,
or walking the ***** streets of the city, no room to call my own,
my feet will always,
undoubtedly, lead me to safety.
And when I am old
and withered, an exhausted heap of human life,
with my last dying breath,
I will thank my durable, reliable feet.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
Dedicated to all my Poet Friend, as I wish them a Merry Christmas & a Happy New Year - 2019 ! Kindly read the footnotes too. If you like it, do re-post this poem for wider circulation please! Thank You, - Raj
A BRIGHT STAR OVER BETHLEHEM !
* By Raj Nandy*
“We three kings of Orient are,
Bearing gifts we travel afar;
Field and fountain, moor and mountain, -
Following the yonder star ! “
- A Christmas Carol.
Named Casper, Melchior, and Balthasar, - @
The Three Wise Men came from the East,
Travelling west guided by a Bright Star,
To seek out the child born under this lucky
Star ;
And to pay their homage and before him kneel,
For He was to become the Savior and King !
They brought Him precious gifts of Gold,
Frankincense, and Myrrh, -
Which were also symbolic gifts by far!
Precious Gold has been a gift for royalty always,
For the baby Jesus was to become the 'uncrowned
King' one day!
Frankincense as a soothing perfume was really
good ,
Which also symbolised His future priesthood !
Myrrh as an embalming ointment was being used,
By the ancient Egyptians as a preserving perfume ! #
This gift of Myrrh was like a breath of new life -
in the prevailing gloom;
While symbolising His sorrowing, suffering
and crucifixion;
And leading to His final resurrection, -
To save mankind from their sinful affliction!
So Friends, when you celebrate Christmas this
year,
Let us with love bring hope and good cheer!
And help to wipe out those sorrowing tears, -
By giving gifts to those destitute children
and bless,
Since we generally tend to forget them always!
And let our gifts become a true symbol, -
Of His kindness and love let them reflect and
resemble!
……………………………………………………………….......................
NOTES : - @ = One 8th Century AD Manuscript says that these Three Wise Men were also astrologers, who had known about the Prophecy of the birth of Jesus who was to be the King of the Jews! They were guided by a Bright Star which had shone over the town of Bethlehem in Judea, ruled by the mad King Herod! Their three symbolic Gifts signified the King, the Priest, and the Savior of Mankind respectively! From the ‘Gospel of Matthews’ we learn that King Herod had told them to inform him about the Baby’s location! But since they had been forewarned by a dream, they returned by a different route! So Herod gave orders to **** all children 2 years and below, fearing this ‘King of the Jews’ will one day take over his throne !!
#MYRRH = was being used by the Egyptians during the 5th century BC, which they had obtained from Africa. It was used in incense, in perfumes, & in holy ointments; mostly for embalming , - signifying Jesus was to die for mankind ! Thanks for reading, – Raj.
ALL COPY RIGHTS WITH THE AUTHOR ONLY
,
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 8:45 AM UTC
Dedicated to Ms Valsa George & my Poet Friend, as I wish them a Merry Christmas & a Happy New Year - 2017 !
A BRIGHT STAR OVER BETHLEHEM !
* By Raj Nandy*
“We three kings of Orient are,
Bearing gifts we travel afar;
Field and fountain, moor and mountain, -
Following the yonder star ! “
- A Christmas Carol.
Named Casper, Melchior, and Balthasar, - @
The Three Wise Men came from the East,
Traveling west guided by a Bright Star,
To seek out the child born under this lucky
Star ;
And to pay their homage and before him kneel,
For He was to become the Savior and King !
They brought Him precious gifts of Gold,
Frankincense, and Myrrh, -
Which were also symbolic gifts by far!
Precious Gold has been a gift for royalty always,
For the baby Jesus was to become the uncrowned
King one day!
Frankincense as a soothing perfume was really
good ,
Which also symbolized His future priesthood !
Myrrh as an embalming ointment was being used,
By the ancient Egyptians as a preserving perfume ! #
This gift of Myrrh was like a breath of new life -
in the prevailing gloom;
While symbolising His sorrowing, suffering
and crucifixion;
And leading to His final resurrection, -
To save mankind from their sinful affliction!
So Friends, when you celebrate Christmas this
year,
Let us with love bring hope and good cheer!
And help to wipe out those sorrowing tears, -
By giving gifts to those destitute children
and bless,
Since we generally tend to forget them always!
And let our gifts become a true symbol, -
HIS kindness and love let them reflect and
resemble!
………………………………………………………………...........................¬..
NOTES : - @ = One 8th Century AD Manuscript says that these Three Wise Men were also astrologers, who had known about the Prophecy of the birth of Jesus who was to be the King of the Jews! They were guided by a Bright Star which had shone over the town of Bethlehem in Judea, ruled by the mad King Herod! Their three symbolic Gifts signified the King, the Priest, and the Savior of Mankind respectively! From the ‘Gospel of Matthews’ we learn that King Herod had told them to inform him about the Baby’s location! But since they had been forewarned by a dream, they returned by a different route! So Herod gave orders to **** all children 2 years and below, fearing this ‘King of the Jews’ will one day take over his throne !!
#MYRRH = was being used by the Egyptians during the 5th century BC,
which they had obtained from Africa. It was used in incense, in perfumes, & in holy ointments; mostly for embalming , - signifying Jesus was to die for mankind ! Thanks for reading, – Raj.
,
Edit poem
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 7:37 AM UTC
A BRIGHT STAR OVER BETHLEHEM!
* By Raj Nandy*
“We three kings of Orient are,
Bearing gifts we travel afar;
Field and fountain, moor and mountain, -
Following the yonder star ! “
- A Christmas Carol.
Named Casper, Melchior, and Balthasar, - @
The Three Wise Men came from the East,
Traveling west guided by a bright Star,
To seek out the child born under this lucky
Star ;
And to pay their homage and before him kneel,
For He was to become the Savior and King !
They brought Him precious gifts of Gold,
Frankincense, and Myrrh, -
Which were also symbolic gifts by far!
Precious Gold has been a gift for royalty always,
For the baby Jesus was to become the uncrowned
King one day!
Frankincense as a soothing perfume was really
good ,
Which also symbolized His future priesthood !
Myrrh as an embalming ointment was being used,
By the ancient Egyptians as a preserving perfume! #
This gift of Myrrh was like a breath of new life
in the prevailing gloom;
While symbolizing His sorrowing, suffering, and
crucifixion;
And leading to His final resurrection, -
To save mankind from their sinful affliction!
So Friends, when you celebrate Christmas this
year,
Let us with love bring hope and good cheer!
And help to wipe out those sorrowing tears, -
By giving gifts to those destitute children and
bless,
Since we generally tend to forget them always!
And let our gifts become a true symbol, -
HIS kindness and love let them reflect and
resemble!
………………………………………………………………..........................................
A Very Happy Christmas To All My Reader!
NOTES : - @ = One 8th Century AD manuscript says that these three Wise Men were also astrologers, who had known about the Prophecy of the birth of Jesus who was to be the King of the Jews! They were guided by a Bright Star which had shone over the town of Bethlehem in Judea, ruled by the mad King Herod! Their three symbolic Gifts signified the King, the Priest, and the Savior of Mankind respectively! From the ‘Gospel of Matthews’ we learn that
King Herod had told them to inform him about the Baby’s location! But since they had been forewarned by a dream, they returned by a different route! So Herod gave orders to **** all children 2 years and below, fearing this ‘King of the Jews’ will one day take over his throne!
#MYRRH = was being used by the Egyptians during the 5th century BC,
which they had obtained from Africa. It was used in incense, in perfumes , & in holy ointments; mostly for embalming ; - signifying Jesus was to die for mankind ! Thanks for reading, – Raj.
,
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
That flesh’d vizard – does it decay,
So much alike the ******
My mortal stature – emaciated –
Forthwith; it’s programmed.
Do those lines – like trenches deep –
Carve moats for tears to flow.
And do they flow – like rivers march
My countenance; fallowed.
To rejuvenate – vials and vials,
Ointments in plethora.
I rub and rub, till the vizard cracks
Lo! Restore my aura.
Pseudoscience, falsehoods galore –
A vice of fiscality.
Like a cyst, does it tremor,
Melting my vanity.
Visage – deep – a pick inside my soul.
Those flakes of ego crumb.
A mien so ****** yet so loved…
Can they not see how numb
I am.
Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 8:23 AM UTC
i always knew i would never be
"girlfriend material"
maybe the gods forgot to cut me carefully from the same cloth they doted out to everybody else
a thicker and more claustrophobic material
one that overheats and suffocates you
my mouth is a forest fire that ignites at the first sight of thunder ahead
other people use their words to heal and comfort their significant other while i'd always had a natural disposition of wielding my tongue as a freshly sharpened knife
i wanted to learn
i wanted to teach myself that in order to be in a relationship you have to treat the hardships like delicately gauzed wounds
changing them out every few hours and applying ointments to soothe and mend the broken flesh
but i don't know if it's because of my mother
who was never very nurturing
taking emotional withdrawals from me throughout my entire childhood
teaching me to cultivate my isolation and find comfort in my loneliness
i'd see the signs of her packing up her bags and departing from a mile away and the only survival method i knew was to let her go before she let me go, again
and again
and again
and again
i tried to mend myself for you
to be less broken down for you
i promised myself i'd be healthier and fight my depression like a true viking at battle
i knew i was never girlfriend material
i don't have the patience or understanding to learn how to nurture wounds
my natural instinct has always been to throw salt in them
to slit my throat and slit my throat and slit my throat until i bled out all of you entirely
it's not that i never knew how to love
but that i never knew how to love properly
caring too much and showing too little
displaying my fear of losing you with an anger that destroys everything in my path
instead of affection and vulnerability
my lovers never know if i love them
i display my feelings in watered down sentiments that take shape in the way i allow my body to mold into theirs under bedsheets
the love i carry though, suffocates me
it drowns my internal organs
and floods the entirety of my body
leaving me speechless and incapable of articulating how i feel or why i feel the way that i do
in turn i appear cold to the touch
and that is how i knew i was never girlfriend material
i want to lay down on train tracks and sacrifice my body
again
and
again
until i get it right
but i fear it only leaves me in poorer condition than the last
i'm sorry i don't know how to love you properly
i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry
you see, i'm just not "girlfriend material"
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
born of blood
from a thorn
of a beautiful flower
from the love
of the horned
adorned
in power
cowering
in the vicious
maliciousness
of the constituents
in the deliverance
to my ridiculousness
saw
twisted shapes
and contorting faces
heard
blurred words
displaced
in hateful slurs
of aggression
and i cannot count the cases
in my tasteless confessions
in my reluctant concessions
in my brutal perfection
of my obsessions
imposed against my will
you're supposed to feel
what they do
right?
opposed to killing
for the thrill
but it sometimes
just feels right
shanky gone unscrupulous
shivering
his shimmied
blood on the walls
stuttering stanleys
still silly stringing
calling for candy
but missed last call
and fell to the floor
as Bruno butchered the boar
in a deplorable fashion
a crime of passion
we were hungry
rubbing our tummies
for the honey
of bee hives
jive turkeys
turning to bunnys
for good times
but we were alive
while others were not
fraught with darkling majesty
sparkling at the seraded points
disjointed
in Freudian
ointments
self anointed
as god
standing over
some butchered
brod from abroad
wiping the fog
of dislodged
eye sockets
from my grog
how you get
from there to here
isn't really a fair mirror
on my intention
i meant to
suspend her
just enough
to face f--k
and with luck
strangle her
but she prayed to be ripped down
in her own way
my f--king way
stripped her
of dignity
wimpering
in little cute sounds
who am i?
but the guy
who spaced
hit her
too many times in the face
and replaced her
facelessness
with ***** toiletries
disappointingly
underwhelmed
still in search of a fairy
to take the helm
and ferry me
from this film
disparagingly
just spare me
the tragedy and grief
blaring from the TV
as i mock
their expressions
in my lessons
of humanity
before the flock
to shelter
my anxiety or not
gonna be
a real boy one day
and conform
to the
wayward ways
the way
of sheep
sleeping
soundly
in decay
blue fairy
gonna
marry me
one
day
be
real
one
day
one
day
1
d
a
y
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
i've got an iron plate
covered in a definitely liquid fate
behind a spherical unlocked gate
popped open to peek not too late
to see the life that awaits
i've got a trigger happy brain
a kid who complains
an old man who does not remember his name
a star with no fame
honestly lame claims
i've got a bed made of rocks
rooms with walls that talk
premonitions and assumptions that stalk,
gawk, walk and smock
the fantasy ship that never returns home to dock
i've got pairs of no color
foundational pillars that shudder
magnets that reject one another
though positive the father, mother or brother
no force could make them huggers
i've got a memory of the future
and vacant sheets that still stir
lonely animals that still pur
on the backs of women as fine fur
not ever damning the fact they could not also skin her
i've got a bomb with no fuse
useless skillful attributes
an unreachable noose
somewhere near that train with no caboose
a newspaper that never bore news
i've got an inner psychotic earthquake
erupting, held together with paper weights
silent clocks melting against time and space
warped beyond conceivable replace
and a pace set for waste producing smells of unimaginable distaste
i've got millions of appointments
pimples and hemorrhoids needing ointments
osteoporosis making a spine bent
an empty bank due to money lent
an obsession over time never spent
i've got a dangerous urge
to lick a dish for the surge
that stripped the bull of its courage
cracked knees creating pains that gurge
pleading relief from the thaumaturge
i've got a cat with ferocity
only defeated by that curiosity
covered in gems to disguise its true atrocity
that wished it could refer to itself anonymously
but sporting a name that claimed it was descriptive of me
i've got a handful of severity
motions that want sincerity
an over cast of side effects promising what i could be
eyes dialed in, foggy and stripped of clarity
in the mirror its no longer human that i see
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 11:20 PM UTC
i will never love you as much as i love the silence of my neighborhood right now that reminds me that although it's lovely not to hear from my usually loud neighbors, it's gruesome to hear absolutely nothing from you. the sound of your voice is more comforting than any quiet. i find more peace in your laugh than anything.
i will never love you as much as i love the snow covering the ground. this may be because i am so used to the feeling of frostbite that i have become numb to the pain and i am more grateful for the loss of my sensitivity than i am for the loss of your toxicity.
i still hope you know that neither i or the snow intended to harm you and we apologize if we did, although i'm not sure what the **** i could have possibly done but care about you more than i knew i ever could.
i will never love you as much as i love flowers and my books and the feeling of cold water running over freezing hands and green tea settling in an empty stomach and watching children truly enjoy the limited years they have until their first heartbreak when they stop finding joy in the little things and think it can only be found in the mouths of people who fed them lies like you fed me promises but in reality their tongues are snakes and their saliva is venom and they are as dangerous as the amount of alcohol they put in their bodies so they can feel something or maybe they don't want to feel anything at all because these cuts are not wounds on our knees that can be healed with bandages and antibiotic ointments. these are cuts on our wrists as deep as the sea would we be willing to drown in for someone who will never feel the same way for us as we do them and our upper thighs that we wish were as thin as our hearts.
i will never love you as much as i love the smell of old paper and stage lights and pointe shoes and gliding through the air or across a wooden floor of the dance studio i feel terrible for betraying by thinking i could find a home in you when my home is in the mirrors that i criticize my body i should have never let you defile in and the floor that has always caught me when i felt i was falling over the edge even when i didn't want it to because all i wanted was you.
i will always try to love myself more than you loved me
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
one star so bright,
shine, shine through the dark night
i love to see you shine so
because i know
how lovely you are
how precious and yet so far
that lovely bright light shine among high
o lovely star
shining in the skies like Christmas ointments so lovely.
alas shining star, shining star,
i reach for you and you're so far
come to me, come down to me
and let us be friends.
dawn peeks over the hill now
awaking is the **** bringin' in a new day into town
the sun shines and stars are sleepin'
for a new day has come that God has made for us all.
11-2-82
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 9:52 PM UTC
a lady of colorful blood
prepped in white uniform
she'll put your heart back together
whenever you feel down or torn
she deeply loves a boy
as if he's from her books
way past his words and actions,
way past his looks
ointments of her embrace
and her medicinal laughter
she dreams and doesn't know it
but she's already a doctor
sometimes her puns are die-worthy
yet sometimes they give life
she cures with her compassion
and bandages the strife
people give her their sadness
in return, is happiness, she gave
all will be unnumbered--
those lives which she saved
i liken her to the sun
i liken her to the stars
i liken her to the brightness
outshining the scars of dark hearts
she's no plain jane
she's no ordinary girl
i brought her into my life
and she brought healing to my world
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
I make myself so happy for no reason then stick my own back,
melancholic acts of treason, cut and measure my own lesions;
a line between pleasure and pleasing.
Not an pessimist nor a type of optimist but a realist who has mastered the execution of delusion and illusion.
Oxymoronic, Guess I'm just human;
Apparently the semblance of a god,
so making something from nothing isn't odd,
but I was given everything from a soul to my bones, hair to my toes;
Even to me who stays in this, sinew and ivory, home the reason is unknown but I know the weight of this form has its toll.
Ties made are rarly cut
more than the material is used,
bonds spirt imbued,
that which feeds hate and love.
My soul is the ocean my form the soil my mind the heavens so it's wisdom guides the toil.
What I put on to my body will seep to the sea, be it poisons or ointments that is to be seen, my wish for foresight seems obscene,
a noxious tint colors the scene
Ah this is but a show, how else can I explain the tragedies sown.
Who wrote this play?
No
Who paid its commission,
who conscripted us to suffer, no need for permission, no fine print played off as a simple omission?
Actors with no access to backstage
so it is do or die,
freedom in a cage,
the 4th wall blocks our eyes.
we get no reactions for our performance
no real feedback,
so we face our troupe like opponents, for no real reason.
Whilst some seem to flourish in a limelight others perish in darkness
some disappear through trap doors others fly with out harness.
seasoned thespians sometimes show us a way; how to perform our parts, from when they entered the play.
We are told there is a script, so I would say some have forgotten thier lines
but honestly the script has never passed these eyes,
all I know is that somes voices are drowned out by the soundtracks of anxiety and sadness;
The polyrhythms of fear and deafening sound of loneliness and madness
How could the director have this?
That's the purpose of a tragedy; make the watcher feel like they are living lavishly.
Wanted a reason why I find it so tragic.
In the words of Life 'There, you have it.'
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 5:57 PM UTC
A friend dropped by my shop today
looking for some grooming muck
I told him where to find it
And that he was just in luck
I said "is it a present?"
He said "no, it's for me"
I said, it's cream and shaving gels
You're talking stupidly
He told me that he manscaped
What the hell is that I said
It's a man's way of new grooming
From his feet up to his head
He told me he got waxed "down there"
I cringed and just said ouch
With out hair on our *****
Men just slide off of the couch
He said he kept himself real clean
In case the situation did arise
where his tan lines were quite visible
and showed white down on his thighs
He talked to me of ointments
and of implants in his pecs
i started going la la la
when he started talking ***
i told him do not tell me
of the grooming down below
we're friends, but there are some things
even friends don't want to know
i told him that my father
told me keep it clean down there
and never, ever, ever,
take a scissor to that hair
a woman wants a manly man
and i am certain of this sir
a woman will not ***** you
if you're prettier than her!!!!
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
Red-haired artificially
with shiny teeth,
clean knees
with a gap in between.
and my voice will carry
like a songbird in the morning.
Beautifully composed
uttering a peaceful warning
My linens
So pink...
no blue stains to be seen.
And the skin I wear
Porcelain.
airbrushed and screaming
a lulled importance
With my night creams
and appointments
lessons and ointments
I will become the most perfect woman-made sculpture America has ever seen.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 12:22 AM UTC
Your smile foretold
I'd screw-up this poem.
We had foresight then,
And anticipation
Invoking the future.
We leaned back,
Looking down the well,
Swept away clouds
In tea-cups,
And smoke in cauldrons
To seize the summer.
The suddeness of loss
Is not prophesied;
One does not pre-order
Ointments.
If I'd been spiritual
I would've seen a sign,
Like a bird,
Building a nest.
I don't hear voices.
When I slice through
A tomato, I don't find
An embossed relief
Of a martyr.
I only have this picture.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC
The **** on the steeple
Proclaimed and denied to
Four corners, looked down,
And twisted.
Old men in green suits with crow's eyes
And alabaster covered bones push open doors
With wooden feet.
The postman, empty-kneed, rides his Deere
Over green fields with rabbits,
Laughing to himself.
Rentals in drives plan the day's jaunts
To ****** or Kenmare.
Shops carry faded signs:
Donovan, O'Sullivan, Finnegan.
The crow drops on the roof of Holy Cross
Which doubles as a retirement home;
Its clients plaint palms skyward with the wind.
Five hundred leave each week:
"Ireland's best... so fresh it's famous."
The laggers serve tea and scones,
Or ply in shops they may someday own.
There are no slow boats here.
The green suits leave naturally,
Others by air.
This is no country for the young
With their hillside tilting windmills of power.
Below, a young woman eats, holding
Her knife like her father, eating,
Silent, staring.
Crow and rabbit inhabit,
Stones tumble and lay for a hundred years.
Each day a new apocalypse offering
One opening. No wrappings,
No ointments, no fresh water.
No throne to approach, no voice calling
Them home.
No seventh son to dip his finger in the well
And soothe.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 7:59 AM UTC
*the mirror eyes of the corpse, long after people
voiced their concern of the fear of seeing
them no longer blinking, or allowing a peering
into the window of soul, either shuttering
them still to suit the numb limbs, or preparing
them with two coins for Charon and the crossing
of the Styx - that foul river of modern combustion
engine ointments of unrefined diesel.*
i'm angry at my piano of letters,
i call it the dog whistle piano,
the silent piano that rightly can also be
compared to a machine gun -
and that dumb musicology of poetry
is rhyme, or as one english teacher
revealed, the poetic alphabet of 52 letterings:
roses are red (a)
violets are blue (b)
dearest repertoire of procrastination's jive (c)
a head donning a beehive (c)
better dead than red (a)
i wrote this wearing only one shoe (b)...
and like this onto:
bring in the four elements,
atheists argue life ought to be like air,
never connected to skeletal structures,
randomised in atomic form and our bodies too,
the ones citing life's arguments
using earth have the easy inhibitory
village life, they're the characters
on b.b.c. radio 4's the archers (not
that peach schnapps, the mighty
"i'm living on a farm yo ** **
what do you call a non-urban benefits
system? farming subsidy) -
those of argument from water we take
to imply basically all of us -
the fiery ones' motto better to burn out
than fade away - the 27 club -
and then the lightning ones
are stuck in a dying light-bulb epilepsy
of constant mirroring rejuvenation -
mind you, the moths are bewildered,
it's a lysergic acid (can you imagine
a lysergic alkaline?) trip for them,
so they don't even bother smacking the
**** thing for an instant light-bulb-tan:
moths invented u.v. sun-tan parlours long
before we had the thought of it.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:15 AM UTC