"outstrip" poems
Sloane swallows.
***** is ****
I execrate extraterrestrial.
We are all kaput to conk out.
Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.
If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing **********
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.
We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.
I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id. Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
She’s dead; and all which die
To their first elements resolve;
And we were mutual elements to us,
And made of one another.
My body then doth hers involve,
And those things whereof I consist hereby
In me abundant grow, and burdenous,
And nourish not, but smother.
My fire of passion, sighs of air,
Water of tears, and earthly sad despair,
Which my materials be,
But near worn out by love’s security,
She, to my loss, doth by her death repair,
And I might live long wretched so
But that my fire doth with my fuel grow.
Now as those Active Kings
Whose foreign conquest treasure brings,
Receive more, and spend more, and soonest break:
This (which I am amazed that I can speak)
This death hath with my store
My use increased.
And so my soul more earnestly released
Will outstrip hers; as bullets flown before
A latter bullet may o’ertake, the powder being more.
2.5k
On the busiest of days,
even prettiest of faces,
can sulk into nothingness.
Where is the smile
she used to have,
at the time when it all started.
Reassurance is gone,
And so is self-belief,
I might ask, 'what you did?'
Look back, you would find a way,
look back, if you want,
for pearls often are left behind.
During those hurried hours
of the flight to well-being,
when you race past everything,
Surging on like unceasing greed,
you outstrip your own noble deeds;
look back,
for pearls often are left behind.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
*hard skin of life to penetrate
soften that piercing stare*
1.
seems a shot spiked with kindness does the trick
that’s how we button up the moon’s sides with silver thread
to keep its seams from splitting solemn sides
and spilling all its jolly secrets: whorls of fingerprints sinking steadily into luna-grooves
like a neat domino-stacked roll on a never-ending trip into black holes
not far from Ursa Major
2.
to grant a delightful hop up and throw seeking eyes over the orb’s gentle curve
take a little look-see
the tiniest peek into Tucanae
where tidal forces push small clouds
and outstrip the western winds
towards cunning straits
to subtly tie into bows
cut ribbons of fate
drink a dram of mercy from a well-behaved thimble
yet poems don’t pay no bills now
when words tinker with heart’s mettle
3.
wonder if sagacious rue repays in full
or satisfies the exceeding cost
of the hankering in a vessel
caught eddying in giant nacred jetsam
while casting minute gems before the moon’s eyes
it’s nigh impossible to hide behind the sun
4.
best be ready with prêt-a-porter life-pennies
and be
wise to always carry a pocket full of sorrys
*stitch 'em seams together now
it all comes together
nice and neat*
S T, Moonday, 15 July 2013
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
never look back,that easy to say ,
harder to do when you're stuck in your ways,
replace lots wife with a Pillar of Sand...,(man-echo)
that's me to a T,never mind the plans,
but...-that was yesterday,clipped that string,
metaphorically,physically taking wing,
movin up-outta my shell,
like a Pupae burstin,time to raise hell,
The original Butterfly Effect in motion,
Sandman's Dreams cross time and oceans,
flap my wings-watch the firestorm,
EC take another land by storm,
Huh!-that's my role,the batterin ram,
mad March hare with the guile of the Sandman,
Kilojules outstrip a railgun,
first blast to the past,never goin back to Square one.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
And so, aherem, the nano, rrmpph rmphh
Of 21st century ahem thinking will be er
En, en aham eroom neurological medicine
So that topsoil tch tch avat ahem growth
Will er er ahumph outstrip human thinking
If only aratonkamaroon we learn the
Hem, haw, ar argch lessons of the past.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC
Stumble on the ragged bones and fur of a deer above the spring,
choke on fear and grab your dog, drag him (and you) away.
Three years later, come upon the picked over corpse of a button buck in the upper field,
notice that there’s only half of it, back away and shudder.
Older now, pass half a dozen bloated carcasses along back country roads,
sigh, swerve to avoid the bloodstains on the pavement.
Meanwhile, your father’s got a doe in the bed of the truck strapped down still warm,
step back to keep the ****** snow off your boots, smile.
There is blood dripping from your nose and your brain feels like it’s rotting,
a blight of molding fur in a fallow field; picture fire, not bones.
Before, herds crept from the tree line at dusk while you sat around the flames,
grazing the lower field until they bolted at the howl of coyotes.
There is a bottle of pills and a carved antler whistle on your dresser;
one could save you, one might **** you. You know which is which.
Stagger through the woods with blurring eyes and a hanging head,
trip on a mouse-chewed antler and pick it up, smile, list right.
There is a white fawn standing plain in the bottom field that will disappear come winter.
Pull the arrows from your eyes; you can feel them, you know they’re there.
When the pain leaves you will run, fleet as deer, and outstrip the exhaustion that
howls at your heels. You will be alive again, and stop rotting.
Meanwhile, try not to trip on your bones, body trying to drop as though from a headshot.
Don’t lie down yet- the blood will scrub clean eventually.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
Not for the sake of long outstrip, in lieu of affinity.
Not for the sake of anger, in lieu of affection.
Not far away, today I am far away.
Don't have that glad of touch.
Don't have that air, full of her smell.
The wet air of monsoon call me today with long breath.
Glimpse of lost somewhere.
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
Lonesome heart,
when the past is past, and the past lies dead,
let it lie.
Now is.
Then was. Tomorrow shall be.
But now is.
Too soon, what is becomes what was.
And what will be becomes what is.
But what was remains what was.
Before now lives, it is dreamt.
And after now expires, it is remembered.
Neither is substance.
But the now is the real.
Neither aspiration nor memory,
it is the vivid flame of certain present being.
The now is the turning point.
The cusp, the peak, the bleeding edge of now.
Dreams realized, memories recalled, the present.
Dream?
Certainly.
It gives now purpose.
Aspire?
Most definitely.
It gives now direction.
Remember?
But of course.
It shows now progress.
Reminisce?
Surely.
It shows now passion.
But you must be that now.
Always here, ever-present now.
Fiery, passionate, vivid now.
For the colors of now
outstrip the unformed hues of dreams
and the faded pale shades of the past.
The possibility of now,
more real than dream-shadows,
more potent than prospects left unrealized.
The only real time.
The only possibility.
The now.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 9:45 AM UTC
Let me write of the unknown
of the things we don't know
and have never been shown.
Like the string theory
do you agree?
If this space was put in place by invisible hand
and stars made to shine
by something divine
Why tie them up in a potage of science?
Where the sea meets its earth and where rainbows give birth
makes no difference to me.
It's enough that I see that it's so.
Where do Angels tread and
where can the bread of heaven be found?
These questions I ask as I bask in reflections
of someone's midsections in the
operating rooms where I peer hard to see
and ask again
'Is this the makings of me'
A universe without an end
e-mails that we never send.
These pending posts play host to me.
In one of ten million galaxies
It seems quite odd to make a rod and beat ourself
with what we do not know.
Whether the plan is to grow so big and become the giants we never were
or to be so bright that we outstrip and outsource our own dying light
and gain.
Is all the same to me I do not care.
It is enough to know that I am here and out there
somewhere
a table is set
A game is played and I will get
what I deserve.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 8:02 AM UTC
glow to the righteous and firmed in their ways
aloof and fervent forever steadfastly pure
we allow secret ways to uncover us then cover us
over softly so other realms may enchant
we participate open-handed, open-hearted
taking and sharing in delights of pleasure
and in all good measure, we seek the quiet
of love or god or spirits those special ways
to each delivered by cherubs or captains in dress
relentless we search for purpose or oppose
sureness that slurps away at us like melting dew
how can we know or see the ways to
delay or restart matters that can confuse
then reward and disappear as if listening to fallen rain
it's not that we can not see all
but more to it, the mysteries of the unknown
far outstrip anything found, written or even imagined
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC
In midst of our childhood,
When I found you,
You were devilish of all,
With child-like evilness,
but being purest of all,
For you hold a candid heart
beneath your devious sheath,
Always looking to outsmart
With your crooked teeth,
For even today, squabbling and quarrels are not unorthodox,
And have become our natural crosswalk,
Tell me, have you been more of a rival or a friend?
Hard to comprehend,
For what is evil in you is good in me,
And what is evil in me is good in you,
Though we are holding on a same anchor,
Still, we are being of different color,
For which I remember, grade 4 being the preface and spring of our friendship,
And grade 5 of our common infatuation,
Then, innocence ceases never to outstrip,
And you never ceases to being reasons of my irritation,
For you who is unnoticed season
Always laugh without any reason,
For you who is a lost star in a boundless space
Longing for an arms to embrace,
For you who knows my zenith, also knows my nadir.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
(cuz ma life iz such a drag...
this **** kin “FAKE” hemp
pyre aye roll out to you dear reader).
As a double jointed mathematical abbot
and amateur chemist
specializing in cannabinoids
my favorite delta-9-tetra
hydrocannabinol (THC),
isolated and synthesized in 1964
weeding thru bathroom rag
while athwart the *****
i.e. measuring adequate perforated
square roto root er, sans
regular toilet tissue paper
prior to completing important
private business matter
on the sacred porcelain chamber ***
Mary Jane made a token appearance,
and boy she looked smoke kin hot
asking if I wanna marry (Jane) her attired
in drag at a joint where Billy Bong
banged on by the hands of
a phenomenal drummer
taut as a hemp knot
with music in his blood
while blowing fractal rings – holy Scott
the immediate utterance,
and rather creative bon mot
found me stock still like stone wall Jackson,
who unfortunately got deprived a hit,
nonetheless got shot
unwittingly by his own (confederate troops),
whose demise an awful blot
per southern cause during
the Civil War and if anachronism
to receive medicinal aide available
instead of primitive treatment he got
(as well other wounded soldiers
of misfortune on the battlefield),
whose faith the any almighty power
could do little to save their roach invested lot
yet availing my imagination
to twist time like that Mobius strip
mortally wounded rebels and Yankees
free from facing death on a cot
might be successful hemp
entrepreneurs cultivating a little spot
of land hemp would outstrip cotton
as king as export to trot
orange you glad I avoided
the analogy with a kumquat?
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
The company of
horse's hooves...
a new caught sound
familiar to the
bone of night
An old alliance
Man with Creature's
might
Our longtime partners
willing yet reluctant
friends
Gaining strength
to be
in twain
a blend.
Wild withers wet
sheer in
weight of test
With growing speed
will outstrip
all the rest
Muscle strong
heart so sound and staunch
'Tis such friends
which
merit
laurel branch
Soul Survivor
November
2013
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC
if i run
as fast as i can
maybe
i'll outstrip reality
and trick it
into rearrangement...
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
(the smoker you are,
the drinker you get -
never vouchsafed by this
ill eagle non substance
nor amber liquids
of the dogs imbiber).
as a mathematical abbot
weeding thru bathroom rag
i.e. regular toilet tissue paper
prior to completing important
private business matter
on the sacred porcelain chamber ***
more revered than the king’s throne
molded from a gold ingot
which the heady Mary Jane
made more than hit token appearance
and quaffing
inxs of one hundred proof shot,
Nonetheless, boy gnome hatter
her inebriated state,
she still looked smoke kin hot
asking if I wanna marry
her attired in drag
at a joint where ****
banged on by the hands
of a phenomenal drummer
taut as a hemp knot
with music in his blood
while blowing fractal rings –
holy marcal scott
the immediate utterance
and rather creative bon mot
found me stock still
like stone wall Jackson,
who unfortunately got shot
unwittingly by his own
(confederate troops),
whose demise an awful blot
per the southern cause
during the civil war
and if anachronism
to receive medicinal aide
available instead
of primitive treatment he got
as well as other wounded soldiers
of misfortune on the battlefield
whose faith the any almighty
power could do little to save their lot,
yet availing my imagination
to twist time like that mobius strip
mortally wounded Rebels
and Yankees free from
facing death on a cot
might be successful hemp
entrepreneurs cultivating a little spot
of land hemp would outstrip
cotton as king as export to trot
back to lady gaga who
scorches throats yet delivers bagged
illicit goodies with bo diddly squat
narcotic as sweet
as savory kumquat
palliative that hits the spot.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 8:02 PM UTC
Life is a constant act of forfeiture.
We each begin as a singularity,
A concentration of pure potential,
In that moment, truly equal.
An instant later, the timer starts,
The years of our lives begin to drain away,
And thereafter we can know only the effects of our own clocks, and others', trickling sand across the sepulchre.
For me, this has long been the truth of all things.
Except you.
You came after me,
And so,
Years after my hourglass was turned over,
The trend was reversed.
You did not give me immortality,
That would be ridiculous.
The gift you gave me was far more simple and pure.
For every moment you were on this earth,
The hourglass meant nothing to me.
Every moment spent, was one spent watching you grow,
Learn,
Live.
Every child watches their parents age, unto infirmity,
Unto death.
For some parents, I know,
To watch a child grow into adulthood is to be reminded of their own aging, and encroaching mortality.
A sibling has a unique perspective.
I was not so much older than you as to feel old while watching you grow.
I was not close enough in age to you,
As to feel as though we were the same kind of creature.
A child's memory is a cloth which quickly frays and fades in colour;
As you grew and learnt, I did not remember my own passage through those stages,
And so all of your stages were new to me.
As I matured, I came to recognise what this meant to me.
I became engrossed in the observation of your life.
I discovered, with joy, that you were destined to outstrip me in every way.
Taller, stronger, smarter, more beautiful, more eloquent, more kind, and intrinsically good.
You put your grains of sand to better use than I did mine.
With every passing day, you gained strength.
And then, it was over.
And I realised that part of it had been an illusion.
You were real, of course.
None of what you were was diminished by this realisation.
If anything,
It only made you more valiant in my eyes.
Because you had been taken in, too.
The illusion was this:
As each of our lives is an hourglass on a table,
Yours and mine standing side by side,
Each appeared to hold about the same amount of sand.
It was a very convincing lie.
You lived your life as I have lived mine,
Making plans decades ahead,
Looking forward to a career, love, offspring,
Even so far as retirement.
The day you died, the truth was revealed;
That even at the instant you passed,
The lower hollow of my hourglass held more sand,
Than any part of yours ever would.
And that was the cruellest truth, for you.
The younger sibling spends all of their life,
Catching up to the elder.
Reaching every milestone in their wake.
The day you were born, I was two years and nine months ahead of you.
And you would never catch up.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
*it's no wonder they called you ******* and not kenyars... you ******* quasi Nubian allocations of sub-Sahara; unlike Indian, the darker you are, the more aristocratic you become... west africans are peasant in comparison to east africans; which is why their women are so much more attractive,; that lushness of plump skin, skimming the sea, meeting while at the same time engrossing the moonshine in being mutually reflected; Rhodesian beauty will always outstrip a Nigerian ambition.*
i'm starting to get worried
about afro-american women
these days,
who don't know what
dark choc east african beauty
looks like...
a sort of plump besuty
that might make a white
boy get a hard-on...
west african women are paler,
they have no aura of
a darker skinned east african
woman...
they arouse reprisals
of arrogance rather than
appeal of libido...
unlike the Hindus -
darker esst african women are
more desirable than the paler
skinned west african:
slave trade material
gummy-mouth-off-bitches!
with their castrated Herculean
slam-dunk dummies worth of
manhood.
at least east african women are
ball-dropping gorgeous
compared to the west african mouthing off
undesirability calibre of woman...
seems it translates around the
Greenwich bellybutton
timing of reference.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 10:45 PM UTC