"pejoratives" poems
He knew it would take muchos huevos to play,
but his game plan was good, and he’d be okay.
Cause his were as big as the black or the bay
patrolling with tabletop backs that were stacked
with corrupt, hairy pigs who loved to talk smack,
and who bristled with weapons to fend off attack.
And, though the opiners would say it was rash,
he never could stand it to sit on his ***
So, he hurled his armored gelatinous mass
with a splurge of insouciance at all those legs.
The guards slung pejoratives – bent to fillet
his ovoid trajectory into a splay
of malfeasance – but their slashes only caught air
as he flew like a mortar past their stony glare
and that bold lettered sign he had read as a dare:
“Tis Forbidden To Sit On the Wall” -- the King
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
Such pretentious pretense presumes a plethora of personal pejoratives,
please pay the predicament proper attention previous to persevering with proposed promises of placation.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 7:31 AM UTC
though not a man in the mirror, per se
more a man behind it
with a penchant for schaudenfreude
smile yellow with sadism
the rot, the cavity
grinning from behind the glass
like some ******* Cheshire Cat
to my Tired Insecure Alice.
no two ways about it:
he is there and i am here
symmetrical
but for the man's barbed tongue
perforating mirror and
licking at the corners of my brain.
he sings an ode to a spindly leg
torso of crush'd cardboard box
predisposition for loquacity
(not a city you should visit)
and badly drawn countenance
scrawled across coffee-stained parchment.
so convincing is this
man behind the mirror
with his pejoratives
administered with utmost precision
surgically removed volition
saying things like:
"The City That Never Sleeps
would cower at the indelible image
that is the hulking bags under your eyes."
i have nicknamed him "Conscience"
in the hope of wrestling back control.
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
Where I’m from
the cat gets disowned for her curiosity,
but not before a lengthy trial
a litany of pejoratives
testament to synonyms.
Where I’m from
the persecution does not end
until the pyre has been built,
a verdict conceived of perceived faults and failures.
Where I’m from
singularity is superfluous.
You’re only as good as the clarity and carats
of boulder you shoulder with a Colgate Smile.
…
Where I’m from
I will be publishing
under pseudonym:
a witness to individuality in need of protection.
Jan 19, 2022
Jan 19, 2022 at 11:40 PM UTC