"petulance" poems
cackle sublime savagery
in domineering supremacy
a knee repletes successive concussions
and by viscous absurd petulance
crack this gourd, thought bearing toothed
i
evol
ot
hurt
uoY,,,;
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 11:11 AM UTC
I always wanted to be that random style of writer
Writing about things which have no connection
In reality but they are connective only by the ingenuity
Of his genuflection; the circumvention of his
Circuitous routing, his plaintive perturbing petulance
Which insists on stacking things of different orders
Flying birds together of different species
If I could write something of the ticking of clocks
Not as though the ticking were of premeditated duration
Embedded in metal tracks around perimeters
Of prevaricated die-cast hours; but as though the ticking
Were only a random fixture of a theoretical day
In which random clocks ticking played a minor role
During the still life of which a poet happened along
And copied it all down dutifully, not caring if
Ticking clocks were related to pitchers of Forsythia
Or falling off of cliffs into the Aegean;
The only task of the poet to capture it all
And let the reader sort it out later
In the random tracks of his circuitous brain:
Whether the pitcher was full of sea
Or the sea was stealing into the pitcher
One blue, serendipitous drop at a time
And where no clocks were keeping time.
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
The sun was up, and daylight blue
Filled all the air, but in the streets
An obsidian dress fast cloaked la rue
As evil crept on stealthy feet
Which seemed at first to be small threat
And undetect; but threat was rife
With subtle moves the spylings breathe
The stench of death, they lower life
In a malicious, abrupt way
Bewildered me, made themselves known
Enemies to Freedom they
Serve only to protect the crown
We tangled, thrashed, my soul abashed
As in obsidian pall it drowned
And so throughout the bleak days, years
They barricade the street and skies
Their poxy prisons bring me years
As they cull freebird as he flies
He nimble tells their secrets for dear
Price, a price upon his years
Whereon the chase upon my back
The devils apace to do their Ill
Behind, beside me hearts pure black
Know only evil Love no thrill
For ****** rank they have the knack
Of making life turn still
The car swerved in with metal groan
I run past them ever fast
They the inquisition to my Joan
Freedoms flag upon my
mast
Such fearfulness I have not known
Than that they inspire, all hope lost
What will become of our good man?
Their petulance stalks him, his friends
If all this time with strength he can
Put doomed world on the mend
He hath outwit them, beat the man
Even if to grave they him send
It is about a year ago
The hunt, chase for me was afoot
As we pacing to and fro
In that town of soot
A town of beauty till I behold
The black coats and jackboots
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC
There are some pro wrestlers
Who always have to get all their **** in
There are people who expect things from them
And they give those things to those people
But for the rest of us
The match becomes predictable
As we await their signature moves
Which is why I think we need more wrestlers like Chris Jericho
He never had to get all his **** in
He served the story
Not his glory
He displayed the petulance of man
And showed us how we can say the right things
In the wrong way
Yes, we need more wrestlers like Chris Jericho
Someone who can host a talk show or headline Wrestlemania
Someone who can be comedic or vicious
We need people who understand the importance of looking foolish
As well as the obligation to maintain an edge
And people who can mentor the rookies
While hanging with the veterans
Yes, wrestling needs more people like Chris Jericho
People who don't depend on wrestling
He makes music
And has a podcast
Avenues being paved
For the crossroads many wrestlers face
Between business, art, physicality, and mentality
Where the road being left behind is physicality
It is hard to watch people hang on for the business
Yes, the world needs more people like Chris Jericho
He never cured a disease
Neither did he make one
He's a performer who creates
He creates for the benefit of himself and others
He's not a wrestler who has to get all his **** in
He understands signature moves can become crutches
On the path to a boring finisher
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 4:37 AM UTC
I hate the way you run around
Telling everyone I’m a ****
I hate the way your apologies sound
In fact, they make me sick
I hate your lack of confidence
In everything you do
I hate your rejection of the compliments
I showered over you
I hate how you ended things
And that you were so blunt
I hate how I never told you
That I think you are a ****
I hate that I showed you devotion
Every single day
I hate that I invested emotion
In every single way
I hate your ******* dad
He did a ****** job
I hate your upbringing being bad
Because it made you a ******* ****
I hate your ******* petulance
It drives me up the wall
I hate you pretending to be delicate
When you’ve got no heart at all
I hate the way that you pretend
You don’t want to get hurt
I hate the way you talk to your friends
Like I’m a piece of dirt
I hate that your attention span
Is like a ******* fish
I hate that I’d never have been your man
If I had just one wish
I hate that you’re so beautiful
And that that fact is true
I hate that my soul is so full
Of love and dreams of you
But most of all:
I hate that there was a time
When I made you feel good
I hate that I tried
In any way I could
I hate that I was short-sighted
Enough to fall for you
I hate being reminded
You haven’t got a clue
I hate that I adored you
Even when you took the ****
I hate that I never ignored you
When you moved in for our first kiss
I hate all your awful qualities
Even the ones you can’t see
But most of all, I hate the fact
That you, blame me.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
Walk softly, she said, softly
on hearts around you.
Your power crushes, your love
is unseemly, your tender eyes
behind yellow teeth and make-up,
your gifts are petulance,
and your own heart,
your own quiet beating drum,
passion-beat ceased long before
under the heavy tread,
the power protecting, the dreamy love,
the hard eyes behind white teeth, gnashing
the giving of precious priceless gifts,
not given freely,
and the loud thrumming incessant hum.
The masculine muscle, throbbing,
beating proudly, smugly,
handsomely sometimes.
It weeps for you and itself,
Carved of it's own destruction,
as it tends to be.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
Pharmacopoeias
Pseudo psychedelic phantasms
Kaleidoscopic deliriums
Mushroom acerbic cloud igniting
Truth denying exposition
Chemical makeup
Dressed to ****
From seed
To harvest
To market
To dinner plate
To grave
In wooden box decaying
Infatuations with infrastructures in frustration
Genetically modified bullets
BT Corn ripping organs
Exposing the explosion
Imploding on a sunny afternoon in March
Ants on the streets
Trampled by elephants’ ***** in the parade
Rats in slavery’s maze
Corporations’ corporate mandates
Sold out government conspiracy
To cover up the conspiracy of conspiracies
TV eyes ratted out you and yours
A fist-full of dollar bills
Some odd change to clink in the wishing well
Monsanto seeds die at plantation
Reincarnation of a deadly virus
Sow the soil and reap rewards of petulance pestilence
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
you don’t own me. you can rent my body for a night or three, but don’t knock on my heart’s door because there’s nobody home. you could try to break in but i’m circling you in the shadows with a can of gasoline and a box of matches, waiting to jump at the opportunity to ignite this night with a little more fun than the kind that can be promised with a bottle of gin and doing the horizontal shuffle against a boxspring.
you wanted to **** me, and that was fine with me, but then you got greedy and wanted to love me and darling this just won’t do; i don’t want it, i don’t want you. (you might be inside me, but you’ll never be able to find me)
plEasE... i want to hold you close, but you have been infected and when your body is near to mine, the bile tilts and drips into the perforations in my skin. i’ve already been worn thin and this acid hits deep to the exposed nerves strung together like broken piano strings and sparking frayed wire.
petulance is a small child with his index fingers in his ears and his eyes ******* shut, as if he can erase fact from factuality; "it didn’t happen. i can turn back time, i can restart this game. insert 4 coins.”
i’m not dancing anymore; my bones are cracked eggshells held together only by how still i can stay, tongue bitten raw with the focus placed on my concentration and concealing my previous reputation--man, i’m not lost, i’m just searching for the person i used to be.
--- i don’t accept who i was, so how could i accept who you are? you are tainted and i am rust and the primordial soup of stardust, decay, and dust.
i am one incapable of loving, i am ugly and there are no pretty words to dress up my hate; i’m dressed with rage, dressed to **** i should play tennis, because love means absolutely nothing to me.
you are the kinda mistake i’ll learn nothing from.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 1:52 AM UTC
The man who wants
To be left alone,
Bringing the hatred to
The forefront
The man grumpy and
Grouchy in a beer soaked
T-shirt
Waiting on the next
Delivery of angst
Writing his bad words
Pretentious in his outlook
Driven in his petulance
Greedy and needy
The man, ancient and aging
Fattening on the high fructose
Diet of beer and pastries
Keeping it all in and sharing nothing
But the fabrication
Never lives up to the hype
So the man crawls into his sack
Sleeping the day away,
Awaiting another night of tv,
Jerking off and sugary treats
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 12:43 AM UTC
I’ve been playing perfect princess
Glittered-up to keep them guessing
Breaking my back and sweating daily
To build a throne to lord it over
I was thinking, on a pedestal
Life would never let me down
They said petulance would be my undoing
Jealousy my unraveling
And unrelenting childishness the block that toppled the tower
I fell hard one day and wondered
If it was really worth the work
I’ve been losing myself in pieces
Bits of fluff that swiftly scattered
Torn away by city wind tunnels
And the terror of disappointment
All I have left are sticky feelings
The worst bits that wouldn’t stray
This city has me restless
Turning circles in my bedroom
Wishing for a different skyline, different season, different shore
If I weren’t averse to running
I’d be miles away by now
Yet the pavement has been calling
Has been tempting me to sprinting
Flying down an empty highway
With the hope of something more
Same old same old has me snapping
Lashing out at all I know
I’ve become uneven compromise
Tried to spare myself the conflict
But ended up too vexed to enjoy things either way
I’ve been dreaming, still, of running
Though I’m scared of what I’d find
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
A shadow at dusk becomes
Two clouds in the night
No moonlit sky
Dust from our surface earth
Most have less worth at times
Amber suns burnt out beyond
This horizon nearly done
Visibility is often said to be earned
The crowds of which chatter
But who lies behind
Tally up Tally ** for a house of old
The race of petulance soon be gone
Some cities fall and people go on
To grow into the next steps
We always call upon the young
Jan 10, 2021
Jan 10, 2021 at 2:19 PM UTC
Querida,
I'd wished I could hold you here
amidst the splendid songs of the twilight
and the humorous singing of the sky-larks
under the harmonious untouchable blue skies.
This afternoon I beheld thy sheepish movements
pure as the rainbows, and those sparks of levity
of thy salubrious, noble soul.
Querida,
I long to have you here in my bare arms
Thinking of you is marvellous;
your soul is of nothing but the beauteous.
Querida,
I did not seem agile today
I tired my senses
I lost my airs
My breaths in wreaths
of sour demons, their petulance none but
unbecoming, hostile, and drowsy,
but thou! Thou, Querida,
thou breathed again life in steady beats
just like the swords of the lingering sun
until my heart warmed, and bloomed as the plump spring cherries
rosy and windblown in a genial way:
thou art my soul, my hopes,
thou art the knight to my battle lights;
thou art the king to my dry sights;
thou art the owner of my dreams
thou art the loveliest love of my every day.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 8:24 AM UTC
You kept your fish hook out
so long that you forgot it was out there, and
now it’s the time for you to leave but
I still want you to stay, circling the bait
with my fins teasing your taut line; you watch as
i bite into petulance greater than infinity
(if there was such a thing)
and i claim i went after another: a thinner wire
a stronger lead weight, a further cast
but even you see past these big
snow globe eyes equidistant as your
debonair lures me in as my final
gulp of home drags me up to your arms
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
How can you conveniently more fit
Me inside of you, your life
What do you expect inspector?
Granted I can't fool you for too long
Goodbye to solitude only in your presence
I say farewell to folk on most occasions
Expect rain on rainy days and sunshine
You are
Conceited in the mind yet don’t realize
How lost you can't find nor be
Found inside chocolate boxes of youth
Nor flower petals of petulance
Your eyes burn with exhaustion
and rage
Locked like a bird in your cage
So tight wrapped up coiled like
A snake ready to strike full of
Poison and venom
Medusa in Reverse
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC
Shall you forever follow the ways of your selfish desires?
Surely you know where you are leading yourself.
If I had the power I would give you my insight for the toils you shall endure.
We must all learn one way or another.
Although some would choose to continue grabbing the hot stove.
Spiritually Dead
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
i.
did you know Thomas Jefferson rewrote the bible during his presidency? he gutted the passages, crucified the scripture. he cut out the mystic, the magic. turned Jesus into a man, a mortal, a shepard who knew how to herd his words into an ordered flock at the nape of a hill.
ii.
did you know every time i speak i feel atoms splitting in my chest? i hear the crack of a whip in the croak of my voice. i swallow sharp shards of broken conversations, they leave long scratches down my throat. sometimes i like to see how long i can go without speaking. everyday the soreness grows.
iii.
did you know during the black plague people killed black cats believing they were omens, harbingers of death? as if petulance is a spell spat from the yawning mouth of Hecate. believing this they killed with claws forged from rusted steel and hisses of spit flying from tongues like unholy sling shots, the townspeople’s gums black with sickness. the line between believing and being true is a lot thinner than one is lead to think. the skeptics say there is power in sight, the blind know the ebb and flow of ghosts.
iv.
did you know i used to eat meat? i used to **** red juice from fat steak, let it run down my chin in a steady stream, used to savor the crunch of wishbone and smash of teeth, the grinding of molars. i stopped when i turned seventeen and realized i was an animal too.
v.
did you know during human sacrifice the Mayans would hold a still beating heart up to the sun? let the red turn gold in the afternoon, decay to dust in the morning while mothers mourned. there is beauty in the macabre, there is truth. there is blood and salt and heavy breath. the human heart is only the size of the human fist. a thick, heavy handed fist pushed into my mouth and used as a gag. i would gladly offer the Mayans my heart, gladly splay myself on the alter, wait for the sun, only the Mayans died in 2012 with the rest of me.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
these are gems
your tongue kissed in a fit of pink.
your luminous dark, weaving sharp cotton to photons as swiftly as first love.
you are remarkable. so mark.
these are the feathers of dead wings, staring at the sun through the ashes of Icarus
unharmed.
a blindfold of petulance between the deep and the blue
aloft.
this is the air that we breathe, you and i
the construct, struck dumb by the fierce knowing of a soul
the ponderous gaiety of lithe thoughts
that shimmer-twink
in the bleak fears
just cause.
an Earthless
poised in random
sky
but now
adorned.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 3:45 PM UTC
posturing plentitude of platitudinous petulance
the sulking face of the pride of disgrace
pretentiousness replete, retorts repeated
a compensatory litany of honesty forlorn
what is your objective, your ultimate intent to be
a divisive monster of truthfulness, to be some sight to see
with all your money and ill gotten gain
you can not buy love, you can only by fame
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 2:28 AM UTC
I'M FROM AYUTHIA IN THAILAND, MADE OF TEAK,
I HAVE SO MANY STORIES IF I COULD SPEAK,
I'VE SEEN YOU LAUGH AND HEARD YOU CRY
AND EVEN WATCHED YOU WAVE GOODBYE;
STANDING HERE ON THE TV, THERE'S NO
BETTER VIEW IT SEEMS TO ME, THAT MAYBE
I SHOUD WRITE A BOOK - DON'T FROWN NOW,
I KNOW THAT LOOK, KNOW YOUR MOODS, KNOW
WHEN ANGER EXUDES FROM HIDDEN PORES AND
PETULANCE SHOWS ITSELF FROM UNKNOWN STORES;
THERE HAVE BEEN THE GOOD TIMES BUT MY MOOD
IS FIXED, NO WAY OF SAYING - EMOTIONS MIXED,
JUST REMEBER THAT I'M HERE FOR YOU, BROUGHT
WITH LOVE - A GUIDING LIGHT FROM HEAVEN ABOVE.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
You burn me like the sun,
blind until morning comes
that skin is tinged with blisters:
it’s an overwhelming glare that forges
composition with my eyes
until I’m dancing with the synthesis
of you and winter,
once more trapping us within the night,
where I rely on the false comfort
of your light
If we are stuck in this petulance,
I will dispel your volatile plans
with my unending distrust
while my mind strives to digress
into half formed math problems,
calculating an answer as to how
I let you pass by the line I drew up
while vying for our sanity to be wasted
so cycles can once more begin anew
owing to spring and it’s eternal bloom
Was it designed this way from the start?
Were there ever words kept to heart?
Do I cling to the safety of warmth?
Or listen and surrender
to this mountain
where passerby boast
about its peak as a safe haven,
absent of fear
So I tread alone
with a struggle of heavy breaths,
as the thought of settling for less
leaves me in scorn, once again,
I’ll redirect this energy into resolve
to keep a steady pace
where lines will be drawn
with a permanent pen
and I’ll learn to fan the flame
of this burning sky
that I call letting you in
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 5:24 PM UTC
posturing plentitude of platitudinous petulance
the sulking face of the pride of disgrace
pretentiousness replete, retorts repeated
a compensatory litany of honesty forlorn
what is your objective, your ultimate intent to be
a divisive destroyer of truthfulness,
to be some sight to see
with all your money and ill gotten gain
you can’t buy love, you can only by fame
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
Dave slipped on a banana peel
And fell into an accusation of nepotism
And illegible label makers
This was the start of a losing streak
A stifling of his creativity, a hesitation of inspiration
So on and so forth
Cherry did somersaults
And watched the Doppler radar
Snorted lines off a shattered mirror
And quoted tongue twisters
In a car without safety belts
She was a contentious insect
With cauliflower ear
These two divorced a fort night ago due to irreconcilable differences
There was an upheaval in their relationship
After their lobotomies
Just one of the variables
There was pistol with only one bullet which caused them to fuss and fight
Then the argument who would be on top when they went to sleep in their bunk bed
A mahogany end table went through the window and a serpentine stream of blood oozed across the floor
It was an act of petulance on someone's part
Who ever it was got away through their underground passageway
All the connotations of the word "brash"
And gray porous creatures
Are mere trinkets of their die hard love
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
Tried to explain my psyche via Charles Bukowski.
Penned a list that included being up all night,
plus the lack of humanity endured while working.
But concluded the result was mere petulance -
probably because my next mood sank deeper.
This country has a sickness that shackles
the joys of life. Felt its hands strangle me.
Fingerprints are still molded in my clay brain.
Words reach me from below Finnish lakes,
countryside estates and snapped smiling faces.
Can't explain the stories I've been told,
only share what it means to lose all hope.
Could disguise this inside a metaphor
but for what? In order to see the light,
we must shine it on every naked limb.
Hopelessness, then, is searching for that
very word on Google as your love sleeps.
Feeling your heart rejoice and concave
simultaneously when the text describes
everything you've kept inside for x days.
Sometimes in the lonely dead of night.
Sometimes noon stays by your side.
Energy burns that a good run can't fix.
After splitting living rooms, its the wrist.
Tough to admit but these thoughts exist.
Now you know all this, please forgive me
should I despair when hearing it repeated.
Or write this down when nothing is hinted.
If this triggers problems deeper-rooted...
I'll delete it.
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 12:02 PM UTC
outer, inner what are realities
conscious, unconscious
differing thought that gives
tangible form to such as that
which has only existed in my imagination
when voiced indicate the delirium
of those dark despairs
that hang pitch black draperies upon the wall of my mind
in continuous distortion of ordinary motives
amplify my feelings, implosive and apocalyptic
forming an agonized arena of anguish
whose illusion is a disguise of perplexities
in a deployment of destrubing exchanges
of dubious sense that sit like a petulance
upon the mind
while I in patience stand smiling at my grief
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 5:31 PM UTC