"patronage" poems
The diamonds shone like broken glass
Upon the midnight street
And all atop the walls were wet
Their white eyes glint & sleek
Then from afar a gnome appeared
An angel flashed on furry feet
The boulevard became a river
While waiting crowds began to quiver
I was in a motel watching
Whiskey in my hand
Her breath was soft, the wind was warm
Someone in a room was born
~~~
Accomplishments:
To make works in the face
of the void
To gain form, identity
To rise from the herd-crowd
Public favor
Public fervor
even the bitter Poet-Madman is
a clown
Treading the boards
~~~
Cold electric music
Damage me
Rend my mind
w/your dark slumber
Cold temple of steel
Cold minds alive
on the strangled shore
Veterans of foreign wars
We are the soldiers of
Rock & Roll Wars
~~~
Whether to be a
great cagey perfumed
beast
dying under the
sweet patronage
of Kings
& exist like luxuriant
flowers beneath the
emblems of their
Strange empire
or by mere insouciant
faith
slap them, call their cards
spit on fate & cast hell
to flames in usury
by dying, nobly
we could exist like
innocent trolls
propogate our revels
& give the finger to the
gods in our private
bedrooms
let’s rather, maybe,
perhaps,
get ******* out in
the open, & by
swelling, jubilantly
Magnificently, end them.
12k
'Dockery was junior to you,
Wasn't he?' said the Dean. 'His son's here now.'
Death-suited, visitant, I nod. 'And do
You keep in touch with-' Or remember how
Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and still half-tight
We used to stand before that desk, to give
'Our version' of 'these incidents last night'?
I try the door of where I used to live:
Locked. The lawn spreads dazzlingly wide.
A known bell chimes. I catch my train, ignored.
Canal and clouds and colleges subside
Slowly from view. But Dockery, good Lord,
Anyone up today must have been born
In '43, when I was twenty-one.
If he was younger, did he get this son
At nineteen, twenty? Was he that withdrawn
High-collared public-schoolboy, sharing rooms
With Cartwright who was killed? Well, it just shows
How much . . . How little . . . Yawning, I suppose
I fell asleep, waking at the fumes
And furnace-glares of Sheffield, where I changed,
And ate an awful pie, and walked along
The platform to its end to see the ranged
Joining and parting lines reflect a strong
Unhindered moon. To have no son, no wife,
No house or land still seemed quite natural.
Only a numbness registered the shock
Of finding out how much had gone of life,
How widely from the others. Dockery, now:
Only nineteen, he must have taken stock
Of what he wanted, and been capable
Of . . . No, that's not the difference: rather, how
Convinced he was he should be added to!
Why did he think adding meant increase?
To me it was dilution. Where do these
Innate assumptions come from? Not from what
We think truest, or most want to do:
Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They're more a style
Our lives bring with them: habit for a while,
Suddenly they harden into all we've got
And how we got it; looked back on, they rear
Like sand-clouds, thick and close, embodying
For Dockery a son, for me nothing,
Nothing with all a son's harsh patronage.
Life is first boredom, then fear.
Whether or not we use it, it goes,
And leaves what something hidden from us chose,
And age, and then the only end of age.
2.5k
*if charles chooses a coronation name that isn't his baptismal name, he'll be ****** after all: we need that name for a hope of patronage and idiocy when politicising saudi arabia as a "reliable" ally.*
why is it that
cats love listening to handel?
well, when
active during charles ii's
reign he was the cream
of the crop, and a cherry on top;
the cats say: handel over bach
any daydream to come!
they should have never
renamed big ben (after benjamin
disraeali) as the queen elizabeth tower...
she's got the ****** bridge
at dartford!
what's next, Lizzy of Stonehenge?!
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
The elephant in the room
has taken a liking to the indecisiveness
of its patronage
Unsure words
to match unsure feelings
Fear of what lies ahead
blurred by whats behind
Uncomfortable experiences, they're new to me
You want someone, but cant be sure
if its worth the risk
So you hide behind a veil of indecisiveness
waiting, hoping, for them to open you up
with the key to your heart
but you never gave it
so they leave
and all your left with
is sobbing what ifs
and whys
All your left with now
is what was buried underneath the lies
you fed yourself
Indecisiveness kills
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
Night appears in an avatar
of a sweet chaperon,
coming with a lovely dark gown
to dress the shy, blushing evening
cajoling her for a slow make over,
she implies, it's better letting
the will of darkness prevail.
Now she is a perfect charmer
night, lets her long dark tresses
loose, that flows in waves
down through her back and
caresses her rotund proud buttocks,
adding to her silent grandeur,
till the next spectacular day breaks.
Night is an ace temptress
with full moon at her side
as an irresistible magical charm
to sway even nature, catch
the sea in her net,
of attraction and makes it dance,
bewitching night makes
the stars in her coiffure gleam.
Night is an agile courtesan,
having royal patronage,
eyeing you wistfully,
hellbent upon her this day's conquest,
her amatory skills one can tell
will be kinky,she is classy nevertheless.
In her boudoir, women are salacious,
hungry men too dance to her tunes,
what you gain after a spirited
amorous duel, is the gift of dark eyed night.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
I remember the first time I laid my eyes upon your dark, golden-highlighted ringlets siting haphazardly on your nimble head. They were positioned above your flat, south Asian face, as if some wayward artist took his paintbrush and, in a fit of creative chaos, splattered and sputtered paint across a blank and endless canvas. Your hair represented the kind of sweet, quiet entropy that people needed in their lives. The great offense the artist had committed by being so reckless with such a delicate subject could be forgiven, however, because he surely acted as such simply because he had previously exhausted himself whilst meticulously creating your enrapturing eyes. Round cerulean orbs, speckled with bits of yellows and greens with a péridot ring centered around a pitch black pupil that represented the contents of your dispassionate heart. This is not an accurate description of the man who holds my unrequited love, however. You have achieved this sort of romantic, majestic rendition of beauty through the bias of my foolish heart and through my patronage of the arts. A typical person would do much better to portray you as nothing more than a hellish brute who is in desperate need of a haircut and a perhaps a larger assortment of clothing rather than torn, raggedy jeans and hand-me-down heavy metal t-shirts.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
I have seen it, O world,
I have seen it as one sees the clouds
or as one feels water naked in the cool lake
at the break of dawn
I have felt it as one feels the grapes
seized with savage hands and crushed against one’s teeth
O I have seen the rise and fall of pain
and greed and name and fame
and I have lived the grand ways of the world
of favor and office and recognition
and reward and loss and desertion and days of merry company
and years of desolation and years of patronage and commission
and I have cupped young soft flesh in both my hands;
and I have seen loss, death and growth and promise
and stealth and destruction and infamy
and I have seen genius and I have witnessed mediocrity
and you know, I have amazed and I have disappointed -
as you, O world, as you have disappointed and amazed
I have seen the pageant of emotions
of the rise and fall and the transition and journeys
of all thought and ambition and desire and want
O world, I have seen you and you have much of me
and we have struggled and we have cursed and approved
and we have raised our heads and we have looked the other way
and you have heaped praise and dispraise
and I have created and I have destroyed
and I have cut my own canvas into parts –
but still, O world, still,
if you look at me, if you look –
you know, you know
*I, Rembrandt,
I am always the Monarch*
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 7:19 PM UTC
*Ever since time immemorial
Even before the existence of now defunct phenomenon
Society’s had a stranglehold on “goodness”, a fact not entirely circumstantial.
On the high pedestal of “moral high ground” it’s stood, a loose canon
At the behest of “moralists” and “immoralists” alike
Malleable to all manner of situational conundrums
Rubber-stamping all manner of questionable theatrics with lord like
Patronage, this artistic fashioned manner of duplicity detailed in compendiums
Of information passed down from generation to generation
“For posterity’s own good”
Rhetoric construed
To imply the wellbeing of every individual born.
Subject to the above I implore society to effective immediately
File for moral bankruptcy in the court of public opinion, humbly.*
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 4:34 AM UTC
I lived through it,
The up and down times
When I sold ***
And did other petty crimes.
I was there when
Hot girls were really guys
Hiding floppy secrets
Between their nyloned thighs.
I loved through it,
Saturdays that started
On Tuesday morning
When I first departed;
Two packs of cigs
And a week’s doobies,
By then a value
Almost that of rubies.
I laughed through it,
A **** ***** your jokes
Were so funny if
You were providing smokes.
I flattered and flirted
Whatever it would finally take
To score a bit of ****
Even the skimpiest shake.
I lolled through it,
Lying buck naked in your bed
Or with your guests
Whatever you originally said
Because you scored,
You were the source of dope.
Without your patronage
I didn’t have a moment of hope.
I hitchhiked through it,
Long trips back from Malibu
When I had worn out
My welcome to the world of you.
I hope the ride might be
Another adventure; more ****
Or some food and drink
To satisfy my every begging need.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 5:51 PM UTC
One must take charge of his or her own life
Someone once wrote that
Life, like marbles block is given to all,
However, everybody doesn’t know how to layered such blocks
Even if they read the manuals on life and survival skills
With careful observation, it seem that the local
women spirit cracks so easily on the small Island of Bim
as the men moves on to other women’s
Leaving many on suicidal watch
I visited my old friends, on the island as time permits
And nothing seem to change, they older folks
Weakness still shows:
they lives seem to be on a standstill,
The little island girl in me Grieves within for them
Over the years, I have grown into a stronger woman
I demand respect from my friends,
especially the men
Its more women and not enough men to fulfill
Their ****** appetites, so life on the island become a *** war,
Infidelity is higher than ever,
where the flying fish is plentiful
whereas, some of the women seem so pitiful.
Older men with younger women
The middle-aged women either have to join a church
Or unfortunately,
lined the walls of the dance hall,
or pubs
While looking for love in all the wrong places,
The nights slowly moves into the wean hours of the morning
while the Barskeepers promotes the beer three for ten dollars
Snip snaps sounds is heard throughout their establishments
It seems more like humiliation than enjoyment
In the meantime broken hearts merges all over the place
The only patronage that seem to be having a time of
their lives was the tourists from abroad, who show
signs of unsteady gaits; but were having a wonderful time
On the Island of Bim
The barbecues grills filterers golden spark,
the music
Entices the air
the salted breeze, balm our lips even
Merging with the taste of the Bank beers,
and it was all well
on the island for that short period.
However, with all my finding and frustration, nothing
Can beat cold, cold coconut water
or a refreshing Bank Beer
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
You have become like the specter of my youth
A knothole seeping deadly fumes
Surrounding me, embracing me
Leaving me intoxicated and defeated
In a pile of filthy belongings
Tethered to this pole of existence
Wrapped in disregard
Postmarked for the gates of Valhalla
Addressed to sirens of the flat rivers
And dropped at the feet of irreverent lovers
You are my memory and the end of all complacency
The beginning of a new chapter
In a volume to be published
Bound in leather
Taken from cows raised in pastures
Decapitated and sawed open
Removing vital organs from lifeless bodies
Supported by a hook
From which brain chemicals drip
And neurons fire
Through a convict with his blindfold on
Moist cigarette, dangling off his lips
Air breathed by love’s guillotined victim
Rattlesnake’s discarded skin
You take from me coconut’s milk
Fuel for foddering the future
And willingness to triumph in battle
I leave your kingdom
Hopeful for patronage
Seeking refuge, perchance amongst palms
Floating on what seems a sliver
In your filthy sea’s apathy
I bide my time, until delivered
Until my tawny encasings unravel
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 11:00 PM UTC
scent towers oh thy lowers perfumeth of a four legged
hoof creature, from which thy parents descended
to mate with a mare, thy head and structure fully
capable of aiming the arrow, thy patronage
either Zeus- for me the better example maybe, horse,
whatever- speaks of ********** There I draw the line.
I shall never google that. Give me tall, hot,
and wet woman on woman.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
music is a medicine, music is a must.
music is the beating heart, rising from the dust
all the wondrous talent leave their mark behind
for future generations to search and look and find
only in the mainstream is patronage assured
we who work the backstreet's are lucky when we've scored.
we scratch and scrape and struggle and face all detrement
the coin collected for the task is soon shared out and spent.
so people walk your backstreet's search and you will find
the myriad of talent who work with you in mind
musicians need the spotlight. before the sound has gone
search and look and listen...'rock on' ....'rock on'....'rock on'
KASH.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 6:44 AM UTC
Brightness approached when I sprinted towards you-
Studies reached its pinnacle when I touched you;
Speech was of holistic turns,
Yet, Relax, relax were the terms.
You were furnished gorgeously, with items to pick
Perceiving you, I sat on my chair just to freak:
To sense myriad hues of creamy scarlet
And the drapes distinguished with it…
Flowers of love, books of romance
And laid-back lives.
Conspicuous memories, silent nights
Unobtrusive paradise, hot windy days,
Contemplations of life, spicy weeks…
Poems, stories and patronage to sense success.
Humors of sarcasm, laughs with irony,
Were all bestowed by you with treasures of worship…
And Me, with all marvels, and encompassing love
To be with you and with all you afford
Seemingly seamless to be -MY ROOM,
You are all for me-
Astronomical longings to the final offerings
MY ROOM TO ME IS ALLL…
Tucked away at the rear side of the stairs,
You are just more than a room
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
The Patron Saint of Saturday morning cartoons and The Patriot have died
They've died from patron-hate
We've come to pay our respects and show our patronage
We give the quarters we hid behind our ears for all these years
People go up to their friend, The Saving Grace
Saying, "I'm sorry for your loss"
And she deadpan replies, "Why? Did you do it?"
She was funny like that
All the people coming out of the woodwork
Who knew it was just a matter of time for these two to finally kick the bucket
No bones about it
It's just the luck of the draw
All the mourners come to talk about the two stiffs in the coffins
"IT WAS MY FAULT I WASN'T THERE!" cried The Merchant
"Don't be so hard on yourself" I said trying to comfort him
But I knew in the back of my mind that this guy was reading off cue cards and had such a hard-on for himself
Matter of fact, this caterwauling fool knocked everything The Patron Saint of Saturday morning cartoons stood for with out even trying to understand
"No taxation with out representation gives one a bad reputation"
The Patriot loved drawing baths, stipple dotting, still lives
Always paid out of pocket for the supplies
The best piece of advice he had given me was
"Cheesy stereotypes are just truths that were left out to age and gain a powerful smell we try to avoid because we can never face it"
The Signer and The Co-Signer went off on a tangent in the middle of the whole thing, I think they were having a war flashback or something
"Metaphorical formalities
Formulaic manic depressive
Compulsive obsessive
Metaphysical
Fairly impressive!"
These two were friends of The Patriot during his times at The O.K. Corral
They we're buried in Potter's field
The only two headstones in the whole place
The Patron Saint's read, "Stick & stones may break my bones but boards don't hit back"
And the Patriot's read, "Write me up, write me off, write this down, right on"
-Tommy Johnson
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
*You smile at me- uneasy!
Suppressing the frown underneath
You sigh and you say nothing
Not a single word you bare!*
*Your face is smeared with scorn
Your silent words are cruel
Stabbing repeatedly with pain
Yet, you're too nice to say*.
*Your words would have been harsh
But your silent words are venom
You haven't said a word
But your eyes, they reveal volumes*.
*Why the difficulty in speech?
Why the patronage and deceit?
If only I could read your mind...
If only I could hear your heart...*
*It would tell of how I repulse you
Of I embarrass you in public
Of how you hate the hugs I crave
Of how far apart we've strayed!*
*But why the silent regrets?
Why paint a dead flower red?
For the words you dread to say
Are softer than the silence you sway!*
*I know you mean well for you
But you're just afraid I'd hurt
Afraid to rip my heart in two
When your silence has crushed to dust!*
*A little openness if you cared,
Could have left us bound as friends
A little honesty could have saved me
But we've both died in your silence!*
© Raphael Uzor
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
His favorite protégée
Mentors her day by day
You are his curious delight
You're always affable
And so unflappable
Yes you're his favorite acolyte
Though your aura's sacred chic
Radiating cool mystique
Your life story does bespeak
Constant fight
His patronage for your art
Remains for you're his dear heart
Shine favorite protégée shine
Rejoice that your lives intertwine
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 4:12 PM UTC
if art is to survive the rich have to remember the
concept of patronage,
but like all the rich with the pope included
they think patronage equates itself to philanthropy,
but not all the poor can provide escapism with a sistine chapel,
patronage patronage patronage...
god, i’m sounding just like anthony blair
giving children almost free education
and the afghanistan / iraq wars... you know that
famous slogan: educationeducationeducation...
yeah, let’s juggle those idiots for the conveyor belt of our whims...
otherwise self-promotion will take over without patronage
and with self-promotion we’ll have absolutely no original content...
just a lot of people in queues shuffling through with elbows tearing
feathers for “the golden manuscript,” “the goldmine of applause!”
without patronage you only have patronising content of a work,
that’s the evidence: no patronage = patronising evaluations;
but then again we’re talking about people wanting free art,
which means that everyone can become a self-righteous artist
and no art will leave the high school art class rooms,
while “true” artist will require large open spaces,
coat hangers, toilets, mummified plastic sharks, mannequins
in ***** poses... and added space
for thought... don’t know where the added space for thought
will come from, given thought itself is the added space...
i guess we’ll need to cross-reference timing that space with ooh, ah,
hmm, what do you think about this piece?
‘can i smash it to pieces?’
wow... so innovative! so original! what would you call it?
‘pisces in a herring swarm of ***********
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
The sweetness of dismal forth?
Space and a tapping heavy will of the wish
Greeting the dread, a host of silence, music for worth...
Naked real enough, naked felt to mention
Raises an eyebrow, raises a hunger
To the table of vestige, the tone of mystique
For a doting hope, dancing in the arms of thunder
Reach and purpose, in the shielded eyes of a lead...
Curious rhymes and times with a patronage's bag
Hurt feelings for a lore, in the needs of more
Had like a thought, in toil we save the cursory to add...
A callous few, the society of timid eyes, knows you somehow stranger
Lights that remind, you...
Three pigs and a wolf to tell the time
Have a mirror in mind, one for alienation
Two for a side of salt, and three wishes that should, a crying...
And a wolf in the first place...
Space for happening homes, the tale of synergy in grasp
That has the continue if not the view, of when a soon is sate
Is a requite of voice and its taste in joy, a new past to ask?
Exorcism of a priest, and a tale of youths?
Without the kindness of privilege, or the epistolary of count
The wailing and the stolen tryst, of powers that be our couth's?
In the dim and violent, misery we will note, is but a secret's pout
Passionate days, with a reason to be here
Aching eyes on the verge of unity, if not use for a cross
That has said, in a treatise of vice and quiet offering, of fear...
The none, the fulfilled song, and ourselves in an eye to toss...
Jun 3, 2023
Jun 3, 2023 at 12:15 AM UTC
I’ve got triggers.
Triggers in places I never knew.
A smell, a touch, a taste
Can all send me reeling;
Lost in a memory.
Treading the dark waters
To keep my mind from going under,
A fight I nearly always lose.
Not many would understand.
Cigarette smoke and alcohol,
That vague perfume you’d find
In all those seedy bars
We used to frequent.
I find myself drawn to that
Faint fragrance & my pulse quickens.
A mental sketch of us crosses my vision.
You, with your hand sliding up my thigh,
Me, hoping the patronage of the bar didn’t see.
And then it fades.
My pulse slows, slows, slows,
... Stops.
Skips a beat.
Like it used to when your
Hand would wind its way,
Wrap itself around my neck.
My vision would blur,
Images would sway.
Relaxing your grip,
While my body burns
And the fire in my lungs is quenched.
My lips pressed to your skin;
The bitter, sweet, salty taste
Of sweat and lust on my tongue.
My pulse quickens again,
Faster, faster & faster,
Then sinks further into memory.
Drowning, gasping, grasping for reality.
You spoke in whispers so carelessly once
And the song in my mind
Swallows me down to the depths,
To the haze of smoke,
Where all I hear is the engine
As you drive away again.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 1:59 PM UTC
Madness moves selflessly
Never giving thought to it's own exhaustion
A lesson may be learned
Time may protest it's potency
Still
I cannot deny these acutely defined distractions
Whose hysterically sublime patronage only rendered time irrelevant
Nor can I negate notions of fine line fanatics
Whose frenzied flight only solidified a world's absurd rotation
So I excuse myself from this more conventional navigation
Knowing that time spent stagnant can only perpetuate presumption
Knowing that a mind concluded before the void consumes...
Is indeed
A mind worth rearranging
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 2:25 PM UTC
I've done strange things for the sake of rings spun around solar systems
Myself I seek for a silent leap into a fantastic fracture
No world need convince me that these cracks completed spill serendipity
I separate them neatly when they start breathing scenes best left for a blind patronage
Perhaps your malfunction is a product of something more sinister
A human condition decides on renditions torn from a black white horror show
Freezer burn for our nutrition when the world insists on absurdists amplified
Our sincerity is matched only by electricity extinguished for better imagining
Ghosts consider our progression like hindsight heros
Decadent glee when a plastic choked sea swoons from hurricane hijinks
Paranoid pirates tuck treasure into garbage heap grottos the size of Texas
No map for a wealths navigation
Buried beneath distraction contraptions and know how hardware
No connection like the steadfast junctions that perpetuate envy
Skies cease their indifferent observation and decide on surrender
A wooden giant crumbles while the modern slowly assembles
The vanity runs like storm stained dancers
pooling politely for easy consumption
Scoop the slips and magnify some misconceptions
Sometimes normalcy negates these more formidable formalities
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 6:57 PM UTC
In the name of blood, for it is the source of life itself,
Plasma's crimson essence of liquid infusion, to the undead's
Pulsating heart.
Intravenously feeding cravings passion, through the carotid
Artery at the throat of humanity, thou'st not love, suffer
The pleasure indulge the pain, the out come shall be the same,
To be embraced by the black ebony arch angel of death,
Release thy darker side, let the instinctual behavior of the beast,
Know freedoms unshackling at last.
Become one of his sacred disciples, a creature of his dark dimension,
A kindred being, unto the legion of the night.
In the moon's elliptical light, shadows thus move from
Left to right, shifting as transparent figures, phantoms of
Illusions, taking winged flight, soaring on the currents
Of air mingling with their ancestral brethren, the vampire bat.
Run does not the lone wolf, along the side path next to man,
As we do so walk amongst them, yet never attempting to belong.
Oh are we not the a shunned, the accursed, by a God known
For his forgiveness, to love all living things under
Heaven, but for us this mightiest of lords, turns
His gaze away, not acknowledging our existence.
Our we not his lost sheep, missing from his flock, why
Does not this Sheppard seek this black lamb’s wool,
Is it too coarse for weaving's wheel, as it spins thus
And is it not said that he created all life within his image.
Nay I pray this vamperic prayer, why has he abandon
Us, the darker of his creations.
Behold the unascended, begging to enter beyond the gates
Of light, children of the lost are we, seeking a father blind
To his responsibility.
Harvesting, by the basic instincts given unto us,
Taking only what we need to survive, for this he has turned
Against us, and thus taking the light of day with him.
So my father of damnation's hell, has offered salvation's
Darker domain as a sheltering harbor of comfort, I will not
Abstain his patronage.
For I am the ashunned, living by the moonlight's haunting glow,
Yet yearning to see one last horizons sunset, but the Holy Father,
Hears not my humble vamperic prayer.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC