"pander" poems
The night is young
& full of rest
I can’t describe the
way she’s dress’d
She’ll pander to some strange
requests
Anything that you suggest
Anything to please her guest
13.9k
I am a thriving survivor
Though twice betrayed and abandoned
Often been lied to and cheated
Plutoed*, fired, hired then mistreated
Struggled getting up off the couch
Alienation caused self-doubt
For this thriving survivor
Release all the hurt and slander
To that past I will not pander
Determined to walk through the door
To a life with so much in store
For this thriving survivor
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC
unmotherly love envelops you in all your childish ways
snickers and jealousy
emotional vampira
vacuous hole holding love at ransom
unmotherly mother
narcissim reigns over your sadistic ire
never satisfied
manipulation and cunning
pander them to exact perfect cuts of pain from me
but this is the last heart bleed
this the last compassionate faulter
I am no longer your prisoner
my babes are safe in bough of my loving arms
a million miles away from your strategic abandonment of me
your Radom spates of visitational cruelties
it spread a generation too far
you went too far
It will no longer reign
My humility is gone I am the best version of every dream you ever had
and I did it on my own
despite the cruelty of your cold
a lesson must be learned
now I'll show you a mother with a fierce love
the mother you choose not to be
a lioness crouched over her cubs guarded by claws
though capable as my other siblings seem to attest
you only have interests for their best
no more last
no more future
no more past
you don't hurt me anymore
my progeny will rise to all they aspire
challenged and sheltered
all equally loved
a child can not be her own mother's mother
you are nothing I need, now nothing I want
my only regret is, that I didn't leave your black hole sooner.
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
There's a raccoon inside me,
I've never liked raccoons.
He nuzzles my heartstrings when I feel worthless,
and cackles maniacally when I believe that I'm worth it.
Whenever I'm bold enough to speak he claws my vocal chords closed,
leaving me dumbfounded with an obvious lump in my throat.
I feel his grimacing face and beady bandit eyes in constant stare.
He hisses angrily when he catches me unaware,
of just how afraid I am.
His grubby paws pander to my love of cancelled plans.
I guess you could say we're selfish,
because I relish the nights spent alone with him.
And I'm positive that he does too,
because he knows I'm often too weak to leave my room,
and disdain is a dish that makes a feast for two.
I really like raccoons.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
Is not only ordinary in the most vile sense
It also lacks the creative imbalance
That which pulses through the blood of cryptic elders
Although being encaged in a box
has the comfort of rigidity
It destroys the fetus of all that pretends to be beautiful
Contemptuous moments ruined
Because we are weak enough to ask, why?
To pander For a something as feebly human as a definition
Why must everything be placed
on the hand of the glockenspiel
When the world has clearly indicated
The presence of a divine anomaly
The trees are freezing
into crocked chapels
The blackened oasis
tearing slightly along the buttons
Through this all the celestial ambiance awaits
Its complexities weave
each stroke unparalleled
r
The urge is to destroy
That which makes our eyes sting
And our brains blast through the unseen hallows
Riding the coattails of a blastiod
This gusto is blanketed over in our simple minds
Forged into a hammer and sickle
Of absolute and definite terror
Destroy it all
All of which can chemically mix and produce
A new mystical pattern of deficiencies
Naked spayed on the cutting room floor
We must destroy it
By forcefully coding its gnome
Correcting what appears to be a hint of insurrection
When we already no the what already know the why
but the current answers will make us their slave
They will bind us in hopeless ecstasy
So we form new words that don’t do it justice
Outlandish plans for this invention
Destroying its capability to be
simple
beautiful and
without purpose
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
For years, longing long years
I mourned my smooth, young honey-hued, freckle-filled summers.
My tears, pander-eyed tears
Trickled down the furtive, long-sleeved, camouflaged decades.
I hoped hopeless hopes
That the pallid,white-lashed jig-saw stranger in the mirror should leave.
My fears, shadowy fears
Multiplied, forming stark splashes across the carefree canvas of my psyche.
Resigned, and re-designed
The pattern of my life became cheery-faced denial-by-self-tan.
And there, just where despair
Had me in its mottled, stubborn, white-knuckled, piebald grip
The long, long, longed-for thing
Occurred – showering my bleached body and soul with golden shards of joy.
The white, bright white
Which blighted my confidence and leached the tones from my being
Is going, going, gone
And I am once again becoming who I always so secretly and subcutaneously was.
I’m me… I’m free
And blissfully, gratefully, ecstatically aware that the final letters of my life’s curse are…
... "I GO"
Vitiligo © October 2011 Vitiligo Protocol
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic **********
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the ******* kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
The tuba player in a park walking, shouting through an amplified medium of open air.
You are the park, I am the tuba.
Who is the author?
I ask this not to pander or to interest you, but because I honestly do not know.
Why are there so many questions asked these days without the realization that the answer is unobtainable.
Why do we think that by putting a curved line over a period we’ll find the truth.
I am tired of asking and expecting a reply?
I am tired of telling others what I want to hear back “that’s what everybody wants.”
If that’s what you want so much, then stop going to malls.
Stop pumping fossilized plant life into your gas tank.
Stop buying new clothes and cell phones and computers.
Stop telling your parents you love them just because they’re the easy ones to love.
If god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, then who's our ******* father?
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 5:11 PM UTC
Christ, people
you're all an
utter ****** embarrassment.
you showed great promise,
in those early days,
crackign skulls with stone clubs,
howling at morning suns,
filthy and *******
but you've only gone and lost the bleeding basics, haven't you?
you don't **** on your territory- what territory?
some big old boy called 'government' has been ******* all over you,
and you applaud like a foolish clown.
you clip your nails with metal, out of necessity,
because they're not being ground on rock
in the fling and throes of the hunt.
you've become terrified of dirt, and the possibilities of the body,
you can't even stomache your meat raw. pathetic.
meek and obsolete, wandering lost and lonely.
you've no pack instinct, and pander on and on and ******* ON
about 'love.' what a villaniously clean word,
not even a scratch of dirt, no delving in warm pink orifices,
*filthy and *******
you may be top dog, but you've lost the dog, and are falling from the top.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
The P inside lifts to shallow pools of thirst and moving pictures.
P is purpose, personality car crashes to park the private Idaho.
A sign of the cross, will not stop P.
Prove it to the pin drop puncture of ****** on heat,
insecure to many tongues dripped in keroscene pantomine.
P is pretty. P is pop. P is pandamonium. P is plucky. P is pink.
Patter, panky, pips, puddle, paraquet, puncuation.
Property is theft Parker, pity, purity, punt, plunder, *****
Past, paint, pander, pringle, puppy, pesky, pest,
petrol, patrol, pamper, pastel, plunder, pongo, plip plop.
P.................
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 3:25 PM UTC
Unfortunately you are not for everyone. Not everyone will like you. Not everyone will love you regardless of what you do and how nice of a person you are. Not everyone will vibe with your energy and not everyone will understand and support you.
Even though it is a bitter pill to swallow at times don't let it make a turmoil of your emotion and deplete your energy. Because your time and energy is so much more precious than exhausting yourself by shapeshifting to pander to the whims of others, moulding yourself to fit in every where and hence retaining no shape to call your own.
Choose not to sacrifice your uniqueness to succumb buttering up their bread. To Be selective with your energy by politely waving them goodbye to stand by your values and lifestyles that most deeply resonate with you. Choose to take social risks regardless of the awkward glances and haughty whispers. Choose to not care of what others think to the point it stifles your ability to take risks and disrupt your social satisfaction.
For there is nothing more liberating than to not waste your life allowing the faultfinders to dictate your actions. To seek to align your actions with your heart. To stand up for something, to do and believe what brings content regardless of it being disliked. It is beautifully candor being your authentic self.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 6:50 PM UTC
somewhere;
close the door.
engine.
headlights too.
it's dark at this time of year.
to think, that to live is to be lost.
north, east,
orientation is confident;
with a destination, bold.
roads are busy.
other drivers, bold themselves.
to go and stop.
those stopped are not those going;
a permutation of an uncertainty,
decision one of a thousand.
a left at the light means The Waiting Game,
a test of patience.
enough to pander one's position on a map.
relative to home, not very far.
a few minutes,
the answer.
the eternal search for an answer,
emulated and abstracted in a metal box,
the pilots so sure of their actions.
they're sinking so far in to the game now that
their origin's memory is too obscure,
to see the irony is to think too much.
headlights.
engine.
open the door.
tired hands and feet inherit a mission--
next objective, in this much time.
a stone path is a suggestion,
it'll do.
who is to argue with the ground underfoot?
skilled men though they found the answer on their search
and were so kind as to lead the next.
wrong as they were, it's the thought that counts.
of course the mistake is made in kind,
a pilot's success and the search complete.
a sigh.
and the resigned optimism that perhaps instead
a bit of reconnaissance is enough for now.
maybe to find oneself here is success.
would they buy that?
here
relative to home, not very close.
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 8:18 PM UTC
Somedays I don't feel like writing
and it worries me because
'Writers write everday --
real ones, at least.'
I fear being ordinary,
which is tasteless because
maybe being ordinary
is what I need.
The appeal of snapbacks
and hipster haircuts
is starting to make more sense.
Blending into a crowd
might suit me better;
to be invisible but
to no longer be insecure.
Rap lyrics make more sense,
even though I can't relate;
these words are my sedation,
these clothes aren't armor
but marketable camouflage.
My words have been said before,
but that might be okay because
I'd hate to torment myself
wondering about my relevance.
So, to move on, I write,
and I write, and I write
to pander and to conform.
Substituting thought for
appealing diction and
strong imagery, afraid
to show myself because
maybe you're too much
like me, which, surely,
would eat me alive.
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
wise men hack through tea leaves. pitch their sermons underhanded.
then wander off. they walk divided. as one. seeking;
they merge into a path, more ocean than open road.
a Stillness, of no roman craft, but deeply engineered;
there
they gather to
disperse pamphlets,
more
steam creased and yea thick
than Answers.
they flock to a star made of Not Orchids, with brittle bones.
they sew bubbles to the souls of their feat
of Reason.
they peter pander
to the crocodiles, ticking in The River.
and salt their crumbs of wisdom
with their
tears.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
Melancholy is the man who cannot sort the wheat from spam
and drowns in undiluted dross,
while others toss the waste away that keeps them from a fruitful day.
Fill my in tray with this harvest ,let me reap what I sow and not what others would throw at me,
and knock on wood
that what is sent is all good,
no deletions to e-mails,no begging letters or sad tales,no hawkers to sell me the things that they tell me I need,
let my line feed be clear
as I sit here and wait for the logic gate to crush me as the messages push past me,
I want to be free of those details of the plight of **** backed whales and the starving in China
or the food that's on offer in the shopping mall diner,the cruising of liners over sharp salted seas and how to say please in Kampala,Uganda.
Pander to the worst of them and let sleeping men lie,but the spam stacks on up and I don't wonder why,it just does and it will until I disengage from this wonder of the age and go back to
the abacus
where beads are all I need
no spam
no feed
no green screen to lead me on
just me.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 4:41 AM UTC
The chalky Cliffs of Dover crumble in my fist.
Tucked away neatly in my pocket.
I have the power to become a person completely in control.
The tension seething in my chest no longer.
All I need is the key.
A simple motion not readily accepted by the masses.
'Tis not we who wait for the dust to settle but for the dust to settle we.
The reuptake of life hidden but always near.
We care not for the hands that pass the life from person to person.
For they could be from the grimiest of grim and still our hands are cupped for their foul crooked benevolence.
We are gods and what is purity without the soot and **** and **** to define it.
Synthetic courage and emotional restraint what more could the people want.
Only a few care for the real me, the anxiety, the truth.
Why pander the rest when I have complete control within a plastic seal, tucked neatly in my pocket.
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 9:54 PM UTC
Lately
I think my muse
Is amused by me
I’m confused
Is she tired of being
Misused by me?
Writing only what glorifies my skill
Skipping the substance
And removing what’s real
She whispers
“Write something
So someone can be healed”
But instead I pander
With topics that have
A popular appeal
Sick of the fake
She escapes
Without notice
Just slipping away
Without a trace
Ignoring my invitation
To meet in my imagination
So I may sneak a kiss
Of her sweet inspiration
I know that
She won’t forever say no
Eventually she will come back
And the creativity will again flow
So
That’s why I’ve opened up
Every window
To my soul
I’ve opened the door
To my mind
Hoping that she knocks
But guess who is standing there
…I’m not shocked…
It’s my old familiar foe
Writer’s Block
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 4:05 AM UTC
The president loves to carry on
About his gut and how it guides him.
How can anybody believe
A word of all of his nonsense besides him?
His gut encourages him to lie
And do it while he keeps a straight face.
It helps him create far-fetched stories
To dupe and galvanize his base.
His gut is great at seeking out
The shiftiest autocrats around,
So he can make America
His autocratic proving ground.
It's also very good at distracting
The country from what is REALLY going on--
At how to attract his servile lackeys
While he plays the role of the don.
It helps him to be great at knowing
How to pander to various groups
Such as evangelicals
Who kiss his you-know-what. Oops!
His gut tells him that scientists
Are full of baloney when they proclaim
That global warming is a threat
And humankind is largely to blame.
His gut says illegal voting
Is rampant. Doesn't he find it odd
That experts have found no proof at all
Of widespread voter fraud?
His gut says he hires the best people.
That makes him SO excited.
But how many have left their jobs?
How many have been indicted?
His gut said that he could pay money
To silence affairs and get away with it.
Did his gut let him know
Whether his wife would be okay with it?
His gut tells him that as the leader
He can do what he desires,
Which must include collusion, obstruction
Of justice, and calling dissenters liars.
Yes, I agree: gut feeling
Can be useful at times, BUT
Why can't the president
Start using reason and NOT his gut?
-by Bob B (11-30-18)
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
Give it back,
From New York to Los Angeles.
It's conquered land.
Move embassies from DC to Texas--
It's not a capital just because it hosts your parliament.
Open your jailgates,
Set free those pacifists oppressed by your terrorist democracy.
Take a seat with a target on its back and cameras trained,
Pander to the ones with ready aim
While we count coins to pay for good behavior.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
So cramped in here,
I can barely breathe.
The facade I've given to
the God I abandoned,
to my loving, naive parents,
to the authority we're all forced to pander to.
My facade, it is crashing down.
Oh, how did I get here?
So smart, so handsome,
so handcuffed in the back of a police cruiser.
No more time for poetic formality:
****
**** **** ****
This is the kind of ****
that belongs in a ******* Kafka novel.
I remember, even minutes ago
I sat safe and content with the illusion
of freedom.
There is no "home" anymore,
even there is not safe.
These thin wrists were not meant
for handcuffs.
These fingertips were not meant
to be printed in ink.
This mouth is "real pretty,"
or at least that's what I'm told
as I enter the cell.
Dec 12, 2010
Dec 12, 2010 at 1:49 PM UTC
Upon idolized lips I gander
Such flesh quite pleasurably divine
Within their hymns I seek to pander
Upon idolized lips I gander
Brandishing lustful hints of banter
An appetite dawns for your design
Upon idolized lips I gander
Such flesh quite pleasurably divine
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 2:58 PM UTC
*like sugar and spice in separate jars
opposite but complementary, neatly-packed
and labelled on Mother's clean shelves
sweet and cloying like sunsweet sugar
tangy and exotic like the spices of yore
that launched hapless ships into stormy waters
that's what this thing called life is like
often a dream to live and revel in, but also
a nightmare of garish detail in relief
fouled by the ghoulish glee of decadence
and the things that we do to pander to our tastes!*
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
His affection rushes wickedly,
Like pestilence, through my veins
The lilts of his venomous voice
Sending my heart into a frenzy
But he vanishes into oblivion
As quickly as he came
And I am expected to implore,
To pander, and ******
Lest I lose the chance of reunion;
The sliver of good fortune
One that promises idyllic nights,
Iridescent moonbeams on skin
That's how my parents started
The young days teeming with hope
Which soon shriveled into bitterness
And vacuous, dejected nights
With one glance, I see my folly
This caricature of love
This twisted travesty to life
I jettison the nonsense and bid goodnight
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
Cresol dusk imbued to rustic hypnosis,
The civic stroll outside,zombified with
What must be glorious ataxia.
The masquerade hosted by dust,
An implicit surrender to the elements,
Basked in nocturnia-- lo,
The elements ceased having meaning
When I learnt I could not hold control
over them.
See the sky ramp and shiver,shuffling stars
In a showcase to those loving,an augury to those
Self-appointed sinners--
And see me,disconnected and without a care,
I surrender my breath as limboid tangents
And the elements do not rebut.
I am homed in becoming alone,
I am possessed in converse and I am lost
without the choice to be otherwise.
I watch the gimcrack mannerisms loop effably,
Understanding the road to omniscience is tipped
In ego alone--
One must not surrender,rather accept
And work a way round the system.
The cosmic map is eidetic,it's lanuage
dares not pander to speech,
it's sleep is one day needed
and complimentary to our own--
I listen to the madrigal and no longer seek to compose it,
I choose to believe that nothing is chosen.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 3:22 PM UTC
I'm a romantic, even when girls flip. I choose not to dip
even when it's over,
the home planet of love knows a thousand rovers,
and they all leave tread-marks
in yesses
and not
nos.
The yesses of coming back
and back
for more
moon rocks,
because no jewel
can make you
more confused.
So when the planes
march across the sky
in a cluttered
night,
I stumble over
marlboros
and trip
over the hope
for tommorrow.
The hope
that I could someday return
to the reaches
of your farthest
star.
It's such an escape
when I feel
your loving embrace
your tiny body
with
its
gargantuan
gravity.
I've never hugged
someone,
the way I hugged you.
Put me on the back
of your warping love,
because I could fall anytime
and the atmosphere
could rain in acorns
as I look for the dropping sky.
I'll always fall
for your games,
and I'll re-enter
with a broken heat-shield
waiting to break my neck
and teeth
and heart
over the heat
you
yield
in uncountable
atoms.
In the smallest manner
I pander,
trying to get you back
over messages
travelling like radio waves
across a galaxy
with a black hole at its heart.
The beep, beep, beep,
can travel forever
uninterrupted,
but when it hits a raw body,
it falters.
So I'll let the knees
of my heart,
bend at the altar
of your far-off blob
of life.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 10:54 PM UTC