"pedals" poems
I want to taste your lips
Laced with your paste
Your flavor I savor with haste
your Amazing Grace graze my face
sweetness of a peach
The fragrance placed a memory
That will remember me the taste
Of your wetness
Your lips drip with
your juice sweet nectar
Ripe fruit with deeperflavor
than it's juice roots
Pedals flush with color
Lips swollen
Attraction potent
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 10:27 PM UTC
He felt
great pleasure
watching her
his desires bloom
staring at her two lips
the rarest of all flowers
pedals spread
breathing life into his desires
stiffening a hard stamen
as their bodies take root
folding together like a hem
pumping seed into her cavity
baring the juices of a fruit
into a fountain
that will never end
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 8:15 PM UTC
Ode to a Sunflower
I dare not speak against her beauty; beauty which encompasses the spirit of truth, the spirit of faithfulness, the spirit of light.
I was walking alone in desolation when I encountered the blinding sight of my sunflower. There it was staring at me with its inviting eyes, eyes which seemed a little lost, a little troubled, a little like mine. My hand trembled as it wiped the disbelief from my vision. The seeds which I had planted in an attempt to dispel my restless woes had sprout up in a seemingly un-fertile place, a place where I could not fathom I would find my Sunflower. But there it was in all its beauty: eloquent, mysterious and enchanting. A vivid portrait of heavenly grace. all could witness , yet, one could possess.
I dare not speak against her beauty; beauty which encompasses the spirit of truth, the spirit of faithfulness, the spirit of light.
From the moment I found my sunflower I did my best to nurture it, watering its spirit from sunrise to sunset. The beauty for which it possessed was captivating; stirring my very being like no other flower has prior. I spent days, months and years analyzing this gem. I wondered why this sunflower was so singular in its splendor, why after so long in my possession was it still shining brighter than a summer star painted against a black night. My admiration and love for this sunflower matured uncontrollably, cultivating in a whirlwind of blissful sunshine.
I dare not speak against her beauty; beauty which encompasses the spirit of truth, the spirit of faithfulness, the spirit of light.
Though my sunflower possesses the strength of a thousand armies and the magnificence of a thousand smiles, I sense a feeling of weakness when the wicked birds of prey attempt to uproot it from its rightful plot. I caress its pedals and speak to it softly assuring that there is a purpose for the gloom, and that upon all of us the rain of opposition will fall. I clutch its head into mine as splendid pedals of fluorescent beauty tickle my face, making me blush with joy. I whisper to my sunflower as I drop my seed next to her stalk, and I tell it that no matter what storms may sing, there will be no challenge to our garden as long as we continue to grow together.
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
Pink-Haired Wildflower
I know you.
I see you.
everyday at least once
Your pedals are short
and cute
chopped off at the chin
Your clothes are loose
and indie
style, you wear so well
You walk so confidently
each stride your own.
You glitter shining vibrantly
like the stud in your nose.
You smile so easily
and laugh with no care in the world.
Pink-Haired Wildflower
do you know me?
do you see me?
each time I pass you on the way
I look at you
and try not to stare
your flowered beauty beholds me
I wonder what you think of me
This bent over gait
dark-circle-eyed
fool. I am
struggling to stay upright.
Can you see the weight on my shoulders?
The stress in my complexion?
my gnawed on nails and torn skin
Tell me, what do you see in my gaze?
I wish I possessed your confidence.
Your grace in billowed petals.
Your fragrance has a trail
that always circles back to me.
everyday I see you.
though I say nothing.
Whatever you are
I want you in a bouquet on my bedside table
as I lie there
trying not to cry
or die.
Let your rank beauty infect me
aromatic surround me.
Be mine.
Lay claim to me.
Show me your ways.
or at least learn my name
as if I knew yours
You're a stranger to me Pink-Haired Wildflower
last night your dyed your hair Blue
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
In the garden of Eden
The creation forgot
Picking off the pedals
Of the last forget me not
He loves me
He loves me not
He loves me
Has he forgot?
He loves me
Please
Forget me not
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
I want to lay in bed with you
No thoughts of ***
Racing through my body
But the only thought
I'll allow tonight
Is the thought of holding you
Under every moonlit lullaby
And let stars watch with full smiles
As they witness my love for you grow
I don't care what the world has I say
I'd rather you call me your teddy bear
Than they'll know I'm not in it for the ***
The royal treatment is for you
And this late night cuddle session
Is only the beginning
Because tonight I'm going to show you
That even with my weakness
I'll protect you through the night
I'll be your dream catcher
Your luck rabbits foot
And chase away the worries of tomorrow
I'll cuddle concrete
I'll cuddle rose pedals
But nothing in this world
Could ever amount to the roaring passion
I can ever feel
When its your heart and soul I cuddle with
Your my yesterday
My every day tomorrow
And the last thing I want to embrace
When I fall asleep thinking of you
This late night cuddle session
Isn't over because I'll hold you
Till the moon and sun decide to collide
I love you like teddy bears love cuddling
And theirs nothing this teddy bear loves more
Than loving you
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC
So aged he is, but still so zealous for his job.
It feels like he has only known his rickshaw.
The ancient bard in him tells Punjabi poems.
He belies his wrinkles as he pedals his ride.
Just putting to shame his fellow rickshaw pullers.
None remembers or even cares to know his name.
He just pedals and remembers his deceased wife.
He told me a Punjabi tale of partition...
*"We were really happy when it happened,
I was 16 and married to my beautiful wife,
But then he pressed for a separate Pakistan,
Just so much wicked was this demand of his,
Punjab was alight due to some people's doing,
We were to cross river Ravi en route to Amritsar,
In Lahore my childhood home was burnt to ashes,
My beautiful wife was still so young at that time,
She was ***** on the banks of river Ravi & killed,
In no cloth was she draped as they burnt her body,
After pouring whiskey all over her lifeless body."*
His voice broke and a stream of tears escaped,
Down his eyes they flowed like the river Ravi,
*"In front of my two eyes the men had ***** her,
Her mistake? Looking at them once & smiling,
Sin as great to be punished by such brutal drab?
What God, Ishwar or Allah did they follow?
I have known all & none advocates ****
To which parents could they born?
Must be the devil & the witch."*
By now his nose was red and his sobs audible.
He said, *"She was not just ***** she was also killed,"*
The ancient rickshaw puller gasped for breath as he said,
"Would the high heavens thank them for killing my wife,
She was a Hindu and an idolater with my mangalsootra,
Why they spared my life I have no idea but just remorse,
Will their Allah or God spare them on Doomsday?"
==============
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 6:15 AM UTC
*Tender touching on creamy silky skin.
Hearts pounding like jackhammers.
Sweat dripping, warm rain.
Sheets melting.
70,80,90,100 degrees celsius!!!
Pulses rising,voices rising, music rising.
White rose moving down your spine tingling your sensitive senses.
Oh how you sing my name, I hope this song never ends.
Loss of air, loss of sense of self, two bodies in one.
Rose pedals broken under two lovers forms.
Waking up in a rose garden to the sound of your voice.*
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 5:55 AM UTC
Scattered across my bedroom floor,
glimmers of light staccato on wilted rose pedals
Memories of us,
the faintest slapback of the person I was with you,
flicker with lethargic buoyancy
Fondness for fondness sake,
denial as a delicacy
Your face, obscured in these floral polaroids
Impressions of who you were;
what you meant to me,
a struggle to behold
but recognizable in ripples across the faces of others
Remains of an entanglement that seemed to answer
why the universe was even formed to begin with
This omnipresent truth laying abed the other
jagged reality of our affair;
it was never you,
it was my self-possessing pursuit of wholeness
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 9:10 AM UTC
In a museum, or forgotten barn,
A small red twelve inch two wheeler
Hangs on invisible wires,
Or is covered in pigeon droppings and dust.
But Tannehill rode it once,
Like something in a dream.
He was too long-framed for it.
He controlled it, rounded the corner,
Pedalling hard down the sidewalk,
Across the street from our new house.
I gawked from the front yard:
He was a boy with his bike,
Like *The ****** on T.V.
It was the first I learned to ride,
And the falls were magnificient,
On grass or asphalt.
Girls' bikes were easy,
One size fits all.
Then I learned to pedal
Beneath the cross bar of the big boys'.
Push the pedals,
Shift the midrift, and be gone.
Always from somewhere
To somewhere else,
Far from the soft front lawn.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
come at her like
Whats your name?
What you in to?
naw thats not ganna work
got to get those words that ganna get you
Thinkin Thinkin
hold you like the pedals i'll never bruise
Naw to deep thats way to soon
how can i do this
step up to the table like hello my name is Luis
man im like ***** this
stressing to much thinking to far
gotta act quick before another dude raises the bar
I got it i got it i'll dance for her
naw got to think out the box
done thinkin ... i'll just wright a poem
Send her my thoughts.
End it with XOXO i like you a lot.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 7:58 PM UTC
I wanna **** myself in a thousand ways.
I wanna feel nothing but pain for days.
I wanna lose my ******* mind,
and never think again.
I want you to rip up
my pedals,
my roots
and my stem.
I wanna die
and be dead forever,
I wanna be plucked
of every feather.
I want no one
to sit around with,
to feel horrible together.
This feeling
is best felt alone,
it slips in
like a crisp breeze,
frosting your bones.
Then it warms up your heart,
but it doesn't make you better.
It ***** with my head,
and makes me write you these letters.
Until i want nothing else,
then to be able to forget,
the prettiest elf.
But you can relate
to how bad this must be,
accept that every day,
there's no one
Loving you
more than me.
And now
there is nothing
but fate to steal.
But i have faith,
that I could heal.
This terrible affliction,
you're forced to feel.
I love you,
and I want your life.
To be filled with love,
and free from strife.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
He loves me, he loves me not
A constant phase and a common thought
Spins like a halo occasionally
And it summons me unforgivingly
He loves me, he loves me not
Don’t lose hope, don’t get caught
Losing florets over the flower shop
So obsessed, I couldn’t stop
For I keep plummeting petals
Hands are excessive pedals
He loves me, he loves me not
My feeling’s loaded, my wisdom’s locked
Aid my soul inside the casket,
over the garden,
My harvested heart bleeds red,
Red as garnet
He loves me, he loves me not
Still waiting for a twist to the plot
Maybe tomorrow or maybe not
I can’t remain forever-aiming and then rot
He loves me, he loves me not
It’s getting cold and it gets hot
I can volunteer to squeeze myself until death
Because I’m running out of guesses
He loves me, he loves me not
A rising action and a falling one
What’s done with the rises,
when I am the fallen one?
I faded once but I’m alright
What a fool, to have another try
Here’s to the planets that can be worthwhile
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 11:27 PM UTC
He motioned for her to take her place on the back.
He braced himself steady as she slid herself onto the rack.
Once she had settled, he handed her his gunny sack,
He told her keep it safe as he tackled the offbeaten track.
The night was quiet, save for the crickets chirping in unison
Hiding behind the clouds, the moon gave out a dim ominous glow.
The tapper finally felt a tiny sliver of trepidation
He wasn't sure of the outcome, that night would eventually show.
The whole time, he was thinking in his busy little head...
He tried to devise ways to thwart this playful, mischievous being.
But those thoughts of his were quickly derailed instead.
For her perfumed presence was very much intoxicating.
Soon they had arrived at the foot of the hill
He hastened his pedalling to meet the uphill slope.
He would have continued slamming on the pedals until...
He felt her hand on his shoulder clench into a tight *****
He tilted his head back towards his beautiful passenger.
In a calm manner he mouthed the words asking, "What's the matter?"
Her voice came right after in a nervous stammer,
"Would you mind slowing down because last night this was where I had fallen over..."
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC
The knife cutter calls in the summer noon
on his bicycle he pedals his wheel
sharpens all that rust too soon
knives past prime too blunt to ****
Glues his hair the sweat of roam
his cheeks bear long uncut beard
pray he finds a wanting home
that needs to sharpen not just word!
If comes his way a timeworn knife
he sits to roll the clunky wheel
works to feebly sustain life
bowing to the smallest deal!
He is no poet no skilled scribe
an old hand from a vanishing age
belonging to a losing tribe
that still gives knife cutting edge!
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Her eyes were filled with love
But she wasn't looking at me
Even though it physically hurt
She was happy
Every time she looked at him
My throat burned and ached
I watched her as i was violently coughing up the beautiful red pedals
Knowing i was going to die
Because i knew she would never look at me
The way she looked at him
And for some reason not loving her
Hurt more then the pedals themselves
Her beauty couldn’t compare to the throned flowers
Rapidly blooming in my throat
I would happily die knowing
That i died loving her
I was going to hold on
Despite the feeling of being set on fire
And knowing exactly how this was going to turn out
But i wanted to die with the little dignity i had left
My vision got blurry
blood dripped from my lip
My throat began to close
And With one last breath
The flowers consumed my smiling dead body
That beautiful hanahaki
May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 10:59 PM UTC
I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Because it means you’re listening.
His piano keys are no different from mine.
I like hearing you talk about Mozart.
I used to play his pieces before I sleep.
His arpeggio is my lullaby;
His laughter, a sombre tune to which I tune
My keys.
There’s no denying that you like Mozart;
Never mind his spending habit.
I sometimes think you are Mozart.
I think Beethoven was fad gone true because
He was deaf to his laughter,
And Schubert was too old, too young to remember
How to step on the pedals
While he tried his many operas
On his baby grand piano.
I think of Mozart in my sleep, in my dreams,
On the toilet, while eating.
I think of Mozart and his young son
And the requiem he stood dying to finish.
Mozart became a
One night stand, and I am not proud of that.
I majored in advertising, God knows why, and maybe
Mozart had something to do with that.
I factored one and two equals the sign of what digit,
And maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I wrote a story once,
About a starving artist;
Maybe he was the force behind that.
I filled my library with fiction,
And fiction became a running schedule for me.
Maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I’ve grown roots and sprouted horns listening to Bach;
I don’t think Mozart knew that.
But it was the size of the shoe that never fit me in third grade,
And the roots run as deep as a well of Hope grown asunder.
I knew Mozart would not like that.
And it was holy.
We are holy.
He was holy.
Mozart was holy. Mozart was holy.
Mozart was holier than a cow gunned for meat turned to steak
And corned beef on my breakfast sandwich.
Mozart was holier than a dishwashing paste advertisement
That promises oil free, squeaky clean Experience.
Mozart was more than a religious façade played in the sala
Of some affluent geeky teenager’s house
Where no one bothers to eat the garnishing.
Mozart was holier than Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Wagner.
His flute promised a princess to remain priceless.
Mozart was holier than Salieri.
Mozart knew better than Salieri.
Mozart played better than Salieri,
And he got the better of Salieri when Antonio himself said,
**** that Austrian ****** who plays, lives and howls like a show monkey.
**** this court.
**** this Emperor who can hardly keep together his fingers to play.
**** Austria.
**** Vienna.
**** this era of opera played in German that hardly sells a ticket.
**** this requiem and this boy,
This mad man, pint sized and hardly put together like a china doll.
**** this piano, and to hell with his lovers.”
I saw Mozart once. He waved at me.
I turned and looked away because I was listening to you talk about Mozart.
And I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Than Mozart talking about
Himself.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
The listening stopped a while ago.
It’s like the monotonous sounds spewing from your mouth just didn’t meet the qualifications of entering my ears.
It wasn’t always like that, though.
You used to deliver information to my being like you were the great Giving Tree.
And I was a nearby flower.
A delicate, nearby flower.
A flower that went about its normal routines, such as photosynthesis or pollination or other flower things.
Ah, those flower things.
To me they are everything.
This flower would blossom in the spring and wither in the winter.
I would spend my flower days in the summer breathing in the glowing sunlight and living my flower life.
And in the fall, I would spend my flower nights rocking in the breeze, waiting for winter to come and bring me my renewal period.
I would look with my flower eyes toward you, the great Giving Tree.
Tall and ***** like the unstoppable force.
And I, there on the ground, the immovable object.
Your knowledge was so delightful at first.
It lit up my surrounding flower world more than the Sun ever could.
Your knowledge would come at all hours of the day, no matter rain or shine.
I remember once a long time ago when I was a little, tiny flower.
It was raining on my little tiny flower head.
But you knew what to tell me, great Giving Tree.
The rain that would beat pitter-patter on my pedals.
The water that would run down my stem.
You with your knowledge would tell me “Soak up the water my son. You need as much as you can hold.”
And I did just what you said.
Because I knew you were an unstoppable force, and could never be wrong.
And I, as the immovable object, would never let something stop me.
And then there was the time when I was an older, bigger flower.
The Sun was shining on my older, bigger flower head.
And you knew what to tell me, great Giving Tree.
The sunlight that shine zig-zag on my pedals.
The shadow that would cast from my stem.
You with your knowledge would tell me “Soak in the sunlight my son. You need as much as you can hold.”
And I did just what you said.
Because I knew you were an unstoppable force, and could never be wrong.
And I, as the immovable object, would never let something stop me.
But now I am a current, normal flower.
The world is passing by my current, normal flower head.
And you knew what to tell me, great Giving Tree.
You with your knowledge….
Said nothing to me, your son.
I didn’t know what to take in.
So I did just what you didn’t say.
And I just kept watching the world float by you, great Giving Tree.
You, the unstoppable force.
And I just kept watching the world float by me, the delicate flower.
Me, the immovable object.
And for the rest of our days you said nothing to me.
You don’t pass your knowledge to me, your delicate flower son.
Your immovable object.
And I stop listening to you, my great Giving Tree.
My unstoppable force.
The monotonous sounds spewing from your mouth just don’t meet the qualifications of entering my ears anymore.
The relationship we had has faded away.
But I had a feeling neither of us would win when we first met.
“Because you know what happens when the unstoppable force meets the immovable object.”
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
Forgetting is…
Forgetting is being told you've had two birthdays, for the fourth time,
Talk about a surprise party.
Forgetting is calling a number that has been disconnected for nearly three years and still expecting an answer.
Can I leave a message?
Forgetting is family portraits with a stranger in each one whom you cannot help but miss.
They say you have his smile.
Forgetting is not being able to close your eyes for longer than 8 seconds without thinking yourself 800 miles away.
How did I get here?
Forgetting is waking up from nightmares 7 times a night,
Right into another one.
Forgetting is the feeling of walking into a room and not remembering what you came for,
All the time.
Forgetting is wondering why the words "I love you" sit perched on your lips ready to take off,
When they have nowhere to land.
Forgetting is coming to in a room you don't recognize and slowly realizing that it's yours.
Welcome home.
Trying to remember is...
Trying to remember is running face first into a brick wall that you used to know was there,
Didn't you?
Trying to remember is riding a bike up a hill without any pedals.
Remember that time?
Trying to remember is being waterboarded in a bucket of question marks and memory fragments.
How do you feel?
Trying to remember is looking back at what you had written only moments before and being convinced that someone is in your house
And they have your handwriting.
Who's there?
Remembering is…
Something I've forgotten.
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
The grass flickers, as the
Wind pushes it down, in
A gentle but determined
Motion, sweeping upwards to
Swirl the blue-grey clouds
Around the radio tower, before
Dissipating into the milky
Sky, which at this moment
Is the lightest shade of
Blue, an open innocent shade
Of blue, like an angelic birthday
Cake, the pinker clouds, whose
Graceful tendrils embrace the
Air, and dancing twirl across the
Peaceful summer skyscape
Down below them, the
Emerald stalks of corn stand,
Silent sentinels, awaiting the
Coming of the dawn, they too
Feel the pushing of the wind, but
Brush it off, over their shoulders,
And continue their silent watching
On the sloping sides of the hill, the
Growling pines, resplendent in their
Glimmering needles, reflect the fading
Light, off the clouds, as the sun sinks,
Beneath the horizon, and I watch them
Silently on my bike, the only thing
I can hear, is the swish of the wind,
And the hum and whirring of the
Pedals, as my bike and I, we glide up
The hill, and down the hill, and
Around the posts that are meant
To keep the cars from disturbing, this
Peaceful walking path
A while later, we crest a hill, now
Having past the town, I see the work
Of the persistent wind, the clouds
Now whipped into a curling wave,
Of pink and blue-black, spilling
Over the horizon, behind the red-roofed
Country houses, which are strangely
Reminiscent of those old, red, barns
Which would sit abandoned in
Fields of perpetual wheat, and,
Through the turning of the seasons,
Would rot away into timbers, with
No one left to remember, what
They were, or why they remain
Now we have ridden in a loop, my
Bike clicks as I change gears, to
Crest a hill and coast down, at high
Speed, between the guard rails and
The road, with the wind kicking
Up behind me and whisking an
Upcoming tree in to a fluttery
Flurry of leaves and branches, while
Below a stream cuts a field, and,
Skirting a pen, passes by a pinto
Pony, I think it was, that was just
Standing there, as we rode past,
Onto the cobblestones and around
A bend, the group splits, some going
A different route, but I want to come
Back the way I came, and I ride
Beside the highway, listening to
The chirp of the crickets and the
Hum of the wheels against the
Cold, pavement, while up the hill
The verdant pines bob their bows,
Up and down, waving, waving,
The crashing blue-black wave has
Rolled, on past the tower now, it
Is crashing down over the silent
Sentinels, and I watch quietly as
The wind rolls down the hill, and
Whirls some leaves, making the
Grass flicker in the setting sun.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
I'm trying so hard
I don't know what to do
My heart is aching
Thinking of you
A small square of paper
Sits on my tongue
With razor sharp edges
and tasting of dung
It takes me to spaces
Deep in my mind
Where there's too many places
and not enough time
I've been drowned in guilt
and I'm suspended in shame
Repeatedly killed
like in a video game
Written upon
the sharp paper square
are words for destruction
and guilt and despair
It's a trip like no other
you won't even feel high
you'll feel like a bother
and just want to cry
'...You're wrong, you're wrong,
you're wrong, you're wrong
How could you do this
How could you
do this to me...'
I'm floating in place with
no lover to face
trembling, trembling
trembling heart space
I'm spinning in circles
looking for miracles
and it's proving to be
horribly difficult
Trying to fly
with no wings to spread
I crumble and cry
a song for what's dead
the sound of alarms
ring in my head
Take me
cradle me in your arms
Drifting in place
dead in deep space
You left me here with
tears on my face
Crystalline droplets
scintillating pearls
spinning in circles,
spirals, and swirls
Why did you think
to leave me alone
at the cold ugly brink
a frost to the bone
the cold hard shoulder
feels far colder
than a lifeless boulder
I'm cold, I'm
cold
I speak with my music
and these notes are my words
My harp is my voice
and these strings are the cords
I try hard to play
But you've cut them all off
My harp is left bare
naked, unstrung
I'll move all the pedals
But unto what end?
I can't speak my heart
I can no longer pretend
It's time to stand up
and take a great bow
Walk off the stage
The end is
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
I start out as a small seed, pushed deeply underground,
then I am a sprout, small and happy.
I grow leaves and am bright and happy,
I have a head, small and green.
Then....
I burst through the green and reach for the sun!
The sun is beautiful, and I am a sun too,
But I am waiting for the moon. It is beautiful also.
I become the sun of the night,
And the second sun of the day.
I keep growing, and it becomes hard to look at the sun,
my head heavy with pedals, and seeds of my own.
Staring at the ground that I came from, and I drop my seeds.
And I start again, as a small seed, pushed deeply underground.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
What moral magistrate
Monster of mediocrity
Makes a model citizen of me
Even if I don’t want to be
All upright and uptight
Humorless jackboot
Goose stepping toadstool
The fascist conservative fool
Who pedals misinformation
Counting on fear and stupidity
To turn strangers into tools
Yep that one eyed sheep
In the blind herd
Who wants to tell me
What I should or shouldn’t do
Why bother
With that proctor
Of indignity
Who counsels
The talented
To remain dormant
In their humility
Doctor of docility
Prescribing conformity
Storming the cities
Bleeding us of our individuality
To make more metal cogs
For the culture machine
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
My bike is still just fine
I've had it a long time
I rode it just the other day
It's the way it's been looked after
I used to go much faster than I do today
I got it when I was only ten
Could hardly reach the pedals then
It cost twenty seven pounds
From a shop in Maidstone town
It seems to know its way these days
To the pub and back
I shall never give my bike away
Or send it off for scrap
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC