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"ombudsman" poems
The many voices of the evening                    gramophone the sky voice the cell phone                    the tablet  the notebook, that monotone                    observer of mutations purveyor of maladies                    the persistence of memories, pale pink light sink burning in the fires lighting up the skies                    an old pang, smitten clang, the pain balm                    mug-life, pen-knife, kettle-strife, all the sheaves                    them echo-songs that haunt the drill-wells                    that are cut wounded and wear fetching chants, to an yearning oblation                   bay leaf, curry leaf, yes, them colander coriander                   there's a rhyme of charlies, looping from                   our holy wars to now our holy hours with                   the ombudsman, the omniman, the only God who used to thunder for the ****                  old Zeus, the Lord of Betelgeuse, him who we                  called dead, exhumation, exculpation, exaltation                  an ancient loneliness that calls from the nether                  depths, now science, now freedom, now pagan.
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Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
The persistence of memories
i've waited so long to get what i've got you must have pretended to be something you're not i feel as if it was a waste of time i did all this work with you on my mind i think of this as a mere prize to be able to look into your undeserving eyes if you leave, i'll pull the trigger stricken with agony, i will wither i'm stuck with this mercurial disease of self pity, brokenness, and jealousy the ombudsman will come and ask you "sir, i've looked over evidence, searched for clues do you know how much pain you've cost? because of you, her life is lost the troubling glances, the disturbing glares i hope they all cause you great despair in finding new love, new dreams, no strife because, young man, you've cost her her life no, not like that, she's not dead you see she's lost everything that fills her with glee for the rest of her life while she lays in bed she'll have thoughts of you running through her head" and with all that, i'll also leave this a lifetime of guilt and a goodbye kiss
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Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
oh, the horror
- i can just imagine how things would end up, me being a little more than hesitant to even consider vocalizing myself "Live" to dozens of listeners —_me_— starting out on a platform in some school gymnasium just a short million miles away from the safety of my writing cubical deep inside a worm hole underneath my domicile im sure that a few in the crowd will wonder what this _thing_ is doing there, my thin, shaky form walking erratically to center stage with a tablet in one hand and a cup of water in the other— well, it could be ***** the microphone will be way too big for what little i have to say, commencing with an unsteady vocal that many will find indistinguishable from man or woman, the rhythm should get better after the first of several stanzas, but i will have already spotted the ombudsman standing near the emergency exit listening in— just as i feared, _and as our eyes meet, his expectation of structure and rigidity will boil me down to the hardwood floor, reducing me to the basic size of a Cornish hen, spun lengthwise upon his rotisserie, roasting away as a smoldering torso from his slow hand-cranked rotations over the campfire which he will light his cigarettes from, leaving me choking from the smoke of his evaluations as i drip into the cinders and evaporate along with most of my self ~esteem.._ i realize that he'll just be some ghost that has haunted my every attempt at simple boldness, but i know he is gonna be right there if i ever climb up to laser like stares and the wide-open ~hears~ of kindred poets and curious ears, an easy fellow to pick out— he will be the one holding my neck in his hands... s jones 2008-2020 .
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Dec 12, 2020
Dec 12, 2020 at 8:34 AM UTC
audition
- i can just imagine how things would end up, me being a little more than hesitant to even consider vocalizing myself "Live" to dozens of listeners —_me_— starting out on a platform in some school gymnasium just a short million miles away from the safety of my writing cubical deep inside a worm hole underneath my domicile im sure that a few in the crowd will wonder what this _thing_ is doing there, my thin, shaky form walking erratically to center stage with a tablet in one hand and a cup of water in the other— well, it could be ***** the microphone will be way too big for what little i have to say, commencing with an unsteady vocal that many will find indistinguishable from man or woman, the rhythm should get better after the first of several stanzas, but i will have already spotted the ombudsman standing near the emergency exit listening in— just as i feared, _and as our eyes meet, his expectation of structure and rigidity will boil me down to the hardwood floor, reducing me to the basic size of a Cornish hen, spun lengthwise upon his rotisserie, roasting away as a smoldering torso from his slow hand-cranked rotations over the campfire which he will light his cigarettes from, leaving me choking from the smoke of his evaluations as i drip into the cinders and evaporate along with most of my self ~esteem.._ i realize that he'll just be some ghost that has haunted my every attempt at simple boldness, but i know he is gonna be right there if i ever climb up to laser like stares and the wide-open ~hears~ of kindred poets and curious ears, an easy fellow to pick out— he will be the one holding my neck in his hands... s jones 2008-2020 .
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51
Cursed in my daze Need to be saved by a omnipotent ombudsman The longevity of my loss of luck Lonesome underground Rather be burned in ashes To one day be replanted Being eaten alive doesn't sound like a dream of mine Paying it forward through my sacrifice In this air I never felt well Loss of sleep gave me bags to keep Desensitized from reality The more I see The more I feel dead as I speak Stop before you get close to me My soul isn’t lost My body is just gone Temporarily
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Feb 1, 2025
Feb 1, 2025 at 2:27 AM UTC
Gangrene under the green