"plebeians" poems
She walks down pavement
She makes the government’s infrastructure look like beauty
Her beauty turns away the rules of the snooty conservative government
The constitution loses its soul
When she bends over to check the hood of a car about to roll
Her boyfriend accompanied by other boyfriends who hit on her
I stand on the sidelines
Problem is I murmur
You probably thought a stutter was worse
She’s such a high class gal
Despite her sultriness and I’m not judging
But I must mention she goes to Church
So you might still mistake her for being an uptown sister
She dances to rock music
Her head doesn’t even sway to the EDM that the plebeians surrounding her play
She’s an anachronism
But she just needs me to introduce her Monet’s impressionism
I bet her cultural values force her to mould Picasso’s Cubism
Even though I’m not a man’s man
She without influence is not enough
Because influencing is love
And I hope it is to this cute rebellious dud
I suppose from her house she ran
When she looked morose in school during period nine
It was English Drama and suddenly she couldn’t seem to remember the line
With her friends flanking her she walks and talks
She’s on the phone while she’s wearing her socks
She’s on the prowl she’s an active girl
That women is close to my heart
And I hope to treat her like a clam treats its pearl
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
I house thunder inside of these bones.
I contain lightning inside my heart.
I contain raindrops in my veins.
I am the storm.
But, do not worry dear plebeians, I do not strike on dark days of gray,
Only on dark days of pain.
I pour down on the suffering, to wash away all of their troubles.
And I'd rather have a lifetime of saving rain than a constantly-glowing sun.
Because the Sun is just too dim compared to the fire that burns inside of me.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
Rainy day people and frogs
Packed New York streets, mossy bogs
Umbrella or bumbershoot
In quagmire and crowded route
Splashing masses, polliwogs
Precipitation, cascade
The alley or everglade
Plebeians and ***** toads
Wetlands, winding back roads
Holding brolly or sunshade
Mobs, croaker in the wallow
Soggy marsh, bypass below
A sprinkle, pitter-patter
Parasol, doesn't matter
Your bullfrog and average Joe
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 3:30 AM UTC
Girl, do you want a bad boy?
Warning:
if you can't handle the heat,
get off the stove.
Know them:
Bad boys are bad
not there to put up some suave show
they do bad stuff with ill intentions
not just some petty mean stuff.
Identify them:
They may not even look like one
cue the handsome look
they may even act like angels
it's really hard
differentiating them
from their goody two shoes counterpart.
How i find one when there's no archetypal look??
Game plan and execution:
1. Do something to blend in,
not asking you to dabble in crime.
2. Make them feel at ease with you
If you're hot, you can opt to skip to step 2. You can be rest assured you won't blend in like the normal plebeians.
So open your eyes wide
you might strike the lottery!
if you're (un)lucky you may score one
*real bad ***
Good luck in your pursuit.
P.S: They are not a species near extinction.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
*Italic drumroll...
imperial cavalcade with Roman horns, eagle standards raised*;
♪ ♫♪♫ ♪♪♫♫♪♪♫♫♪♪♫♫♪
ALL HAIL !
Ye screen-fed sacrificial citizens, seething simpletons and volatile voters:
attend now, with republican fervor, tempered by democratic zeal, to the golden-tongued orator of our epoch, gallant guardian of American greatness, avatar of avarice, the Jeffersonian gentleman, anointed autocrat and Sultan of Swell, windswept Wazir of Wonderful, emissary of towering eminence in empire, The Anti H-Rod: Donald J. TRUMP !
(Plebeians look up from their circus-bread for a second—)
And may Our Sovereign Savior & Almighty God also bless his worthy opponent and adversary *HILLARY ("H-Rod")*
(Patricians murmur, nod; a few salute)
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
I drop to my knees.
I keel over, coming hard.
My **** in your mouth;
My throbbing **** in both your palms,
I sink calmly into oblivion,
The happy ending devoutly to be wished,
For any ******* worth its salt,
What most matters to draftees of the Legion,
Roman plebeians applying most of their salary
To local honey BJs.
Salt: the poor man’s ******
Go ahead sacrifice my life for Rome,
Waste me in Gaul or Britannia,
**** me away for the Empire,
Exploit my wives,
Demean my offspring prostitutes.
But, please,
Just leave me my *** and TV,
Free Velveeta and Obama-Care.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
Providing you survive the drive inside the suicide lane,
The inane objections of several secular seconds will both drive you insane and tame the frame of irrational sanity,
Which stripped away the man in me,
And grabbed my sleeve convincingly to lament the angry laugh of free...
Enterprise; do I comprise of many lies,
As you do?
A gift or prize; yes I surmise the former plays no voodoo.
Like the latter,
Piter pater, I ask exactly, "Do you,"
Truly
care
to know...
If existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor,
Who washes
Shame
Away
In calm, hot showers.
What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.
What malcontent.
We thought dissent would overthrow the circus tent,
Which represented forced consent with the oppressed by blissful fraudulence
Remaining 99 percent.
Peasants, plebeians, proletariat;
We poke the U.N. Secretariat,
To ask again,
"Are we there yet?"
"Are we there yet?"
And silence is how were always met.
We drop it, trust they won't forget,
About us, suffering cold sweats;
As we fear unwanted debt,
They won't forget,
They won't forget,
They won't forget
About us.
Yet competition takes it place,
And twists that sympathetic face,
To grab a poor man's knowledge base,
To ask him,
"What do
I gain
from assisting
The likes
Of you?"
The poor man bellows, "you're poor too!
Like those who can't afford shampoo.
You can't afford my point of view,
It risks a loss that's overdue,
And money makes you misconstrue,
Existence."
And if existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor;
He forgot the human aspect should always be the biggest factor,
On his spreadsheets as he calculates productivity's next chapter;
What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.
This isn't right.
I question fines,
And wonder, where's the kindness?
What happened to our kindred spirits?
Did we leave all that behind us?
Is money truly all we want,
And happiness put second?
The future is unwritten,
So follow me;
Expect resistance.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
It's Sunday again for you cloistered patricians
aloof from the madness, the magic and myth;
who trust in your wisdom, investments, physicians
unready to answer forthwith:
"Why bother with worship—in church or the zoo—
why weaken the links with a dull set of tools ?"
you ask yourself over your high-end Tarrazu,
bemused at the fables of fools.
You've bartered salvation for New York Times articles,
sipping on bitterness (shade-grown organic).
You settle for molecules, atoms and particles
unfairly-traded, satanic—
while you celebrate emptiness, general futility
musing on nothingness, sure of specifics
ensconced in your kitchen of pampered gentility
flirting with atheist physics.
Those simple plebeians: you'd love to enlighten them
help them, like you, to become a free-thinker
but you remain tasteful, for boldness might frighten them
reeling in fairy tales: hook, line and sinker.
Yet somebody, somewhere has uttered your sentence
(though you abhor judgement, let's read it again).
Sheba and Nineveh, versed in repentance
await you—not whether but when.
The darkness is brewing unholy filtration;
the wine of the harlot approaches the rim;
your guilt is augmenting in slow percolation;
you shrug it all off on a whim.
The souls of Assyria rise from your paper
they watch in amazement, prepare your abyss.
Your coffee now brims a more sulfurous vapor;
oh sinner—there's something amiss:
The crypts of Marib and the tombs of the Axumites
shudder and groan while you're reading the Times...
(immune to the words that some Christarded poet writes
mixing psychosis with rhymes.)
Royal Sheba will chastise your erudite unbelief,
smug self-importance and cynical squawk.
Then she'll sigh with immense Ethiopian grief
and her Highness Queen Bilqis will talk.
It is Sunday in Babylon. What if your sunlight ends...
why are there mobs in the streets of the nation?
Shall you have breakfast—or calculate dividends...
what would you pay for salvation?
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 10:30 AM UTC
A HUGE discovery (on an overheated wet snow stinky stuffy bus
no one
not the grannies, the discolored, the over bundled,
or even the seven and eight year old noisy brats,
(towing blonde nineteen year old au-pairs from Sweden)
doesn’t have their face planted on a screen
most messaging
when the light shines in and the illustration is illuminated
through the stink of overheated humans on a bus-poet
i can tell everything about you from the way
you tap on the screen
you nice you mean
you possess a southern drawl, a handwriting less ‘n a scrawl,
you are a passionate lover slow and languid,
you’re a bath splasher, a snowball thrower,
believer anything wet, well, should be a shared liquid
your think all lives matter especially mine
who plods thru life slow and safe one key tap at time,
making love in the same way and never in the afternoon
whose mother loved them swell well and made them
crazy people who smile at everyone
sharing their terra chips, body parts and
sweet spicy spit
with loving tenderness
the ones who write beneath colored decorated fingernails
so careful not carefree using the finger pads to message and
never break a nail or own a heart making a mess worthy of
cleaning up with a repairman
who lies ‘n cheats on their taxes and their lovers with
reckless impunity because you are so important
then what the heck you doing on this bus with us plebeians?
and the one next to me generationally born to use two thumbs,
but pauses to reflect on the way humans speak to one another before desensitizing blurting any old thing
And the one to whom I show this poem and insists I miss my stop so she can text me her digits and kiss that thumb
a year later in front of a smoke perfumed fire and she whispers
smarty pants, mr smoke scribe,
who writes only love poetry
watch, what does the smoke say?
but it says nothing that cannot be best expressed by
letting my thumbs do all the talking by tapping
all over her body
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
I)
At year end oft, we think to say
Look back no more, as comes new day.
Some will see it with their spoons engraved
Though sadly, many remain enslaved.
But Hopeful ever, we press right on
As we search for good in everyone.
II)
In store and warehouse food is bailed
Urgent supplies for when crops have failed.
While shattered lives in tents on hillsides
Families caught in the refugee tides.
As earthquake victims lie underground
Courageous rescuers listen for sound.
Some must rely on drug-lord’s favours
In lives that no sane person savours.
Yet here are we in our clean safe home
From which we’re always free to roam.
III)
Complaining often, we fail to grasp
The richness of our situations
In truth we live in comfort zones
Free from terror and deprivation.
Whilst some no luck they ever see
Until in death at last they’re free.
IV)
And who should tackle such terrible woes
It should be us, plain as your nose
So we elect fine politicians
Who mainly only serve patricians
From whence they mainly are derived
Plebeians forgotten, of voice deprived.
For even though your vote was cast
And Bills you disapprove get passed
You only get to vote one way
And never really have your say
Your troubled mind creaks with unease
As those in charge do as they please.
V)
And in inertia nothing moves
The rut of hopelessness just proves
That though we feel the pain of others
Around this Earth we all are brothers
The comfort zone adapts to fit
The place within in which you sit.
VI)
Meanwhile, those victims still in tents
Await such help as we have sent
Which waits in ports in rotting state
While shares are argued in debate.
We did our bit they all will cry
But did that stop young children die??
©Joe Wilson – Those who are at the end of the queue, always…2016
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
Smiling as we groan
A nation filled with hatred
The poor feels the pains
As the plebeians labour in vain
Who can salvage us?
The souls of men wane
Crying for the liberty
Why the hatred of the conscientious?
People dance to the public naked
Animals bemoan the sufferings
The sky bleeds blue blood
Why do men hunt their fellows?
Silencing the souls of men
Marching orders of vagabonds
Hatred of the cries of the victims
Why honour the stained boots?
Jul 23, 2024
Jul 23, 2024 at 2:14 AM UTC
In the rainswept city lie
Wannabe beatnicks strung out
On fantasies of martyrdom
Awake and alive in a crowded room,
They suffer self-imposed secrecy.
They whisper mantras of Fitzgerald
While drowning in green label jack.
They frown upon the instagram
Girls bedecked in pencil skirts
Of centennial imagery. "It’s petty"
They cry from their lonely mountaintops.
Folk is a fanfare; flannel
a robe of imperial purple.
As an invisible emperor he reigns
Over his plebeians. He sneers
His verdicts, chin held high.
The unwitting peasantry pay
No head, but he does not mind
His ambiguity is his throne
And silence his scepter.
Jovial laughter, sweet serenity fills the happy hall.
But looking on, they turn their backs to the warmth
Preferring the company of raindrops.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
Granted its slanted but my purview's pervasive
Third eye lens changed
perspectives rearrange
Engaging the plebeians
never dawn so little do
Get a grip and deal with it
I know its ****** up
Corrupt, unjust
Needs sussed
@~_~@
|
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
Before we watch the sunrise
We dance amongst the fireflies
Inches away, miles apart
Only noise is the beating of my heart
Hushed tones blown away by the wind
Sideways glances as if we have sinned
She reaches for my hand
Writes our names in the sand
So temporary yet I am fixated
For this we are berated
What we feel is different than expected
They tell us our love is misdirected
But what we feel is true
For three simple words are hard to misconstrue
Suffocating in this intoxicating air
As she brushes away a strand of my hair
With each touch it becomes harder and harder to breathe
And never do I want to leave
We are together in the same room
So close I can smell her sweet perfume
The room is filled with waves of tension
Her eyes sparkle, the color of gentian
She is my secret and I am hers yet
We sing a strange duet
With all the misguided plebeians gone
We mount a hill whereon
Without a single threat
My beloved and I watch the sunset
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
Atomically, I’m dropping bombs on the musical anatomy
Bohemian Rhapsody, blasting through speakers, boom went the casualties
Humans, reasons, life choices, treasons, are going up in flames, I’m the man for all the seasons
Cause I’m hotter than a summer with satan and all his demons
I’m blowing your mind like autumn in the north east region
I can turn colder than an unbeaten secretion of weakened policemen who are uneven by the corruption of a legion of plebeians.
I give cohesion and a voice for philosophical reason….
Overeatin’ … the competition, I take out their nutrition and replace it with some sort of decomposition of a squirrel with rigor mortois who had a premonition of getting hit by the car at the intersection cause he wasn’t expected by the Spanish inquisition
I’m a juxtaposition of rap and borderline contemplation of why we live in this nation of straight up fission and opposition
An omission, I love this country and all of its mathematicians and physicians who spend time building rockets and bombs and ammunition instead of helping those with ambitions to be something like a pediatrician who can then help those who have a tradition for addiction
Don’t even get me started with the politicians
Cause the suspicions have been running through my head so long they need an intermission
I need an electrician
To put back and connect the wires in my mind that have been so chewed and torn apart by the media and their contradictions
I hope the future that I’m seeing is one of fiction, and not a true definition.
Be a dreamer with defiance, have bold opposition.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC
I come from the city of a thousand planets
Covered in a dark grey mineral called stannite
My orbit spirals, loops and dances
Creating hypnotic trances
The proletariats , march on, one by one
Colonizing, constructing, creating around the sun
Plebeians flock on mass to marvel
Its castle with glass and marble
Sparkling water flows from the heavens
Unleashing its powerful Armageddon
Returning to the unholy seven.
The proletariats march on, one by one
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
We are the forgotten, the lost, and the rejects.
The ones who give love, but love always neglects,
And we are cast aside, but not without no effects.
Our souls are dying with no one to pay respects.
We are the invisible, the laughable, the misfits.
Not without our scars caused by all our critics.
It will **** some who become just a statistic.
That won’t stop the ones wanting to crush spirits.
We are the jokes, the gossip, and the rumors.
The ones who give you fuel for all your pointless humor.
The ones that get treated like cancerous tumors.
Wishing you’d have gotten rid of us sooner.
We are the options that you place on a back burner,
There when you need us, but you’re not a quick learner,
And we don’t have it in us to be any sterner,
So we will continue to allow you to be a spurner.
We are the geeks, the freaks and the nerds.
The ones who get hurt by all your ****** words.
You question our lives and even our worth,
But the geeks are the ones who shall inherit the earth.
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 5:17 AM UTC
Hark, hear me! I spin the tale of a squat dandiprat residing within the cerulean sphere. Sunup to sundown suffering visions of cobalt. As he was inside and all around.
Sky abode! Likewise periwinkle aperture and icy steed. All is azure in his eyes, personally and interpersonally, as he lacks ears to hear him.
I am turquoise non lexical vocables
I am teal non lexical vocables
Behold my beryl lodgings and indigo casement! Such is the tone of all my vestments. The roads and flora follow suit. Lo my sweetheart also Sapphire.
Like the plebeians as they Promenade, as my steed. It is within and throughout. My utterances and perceptions, the operative stirrings deep within.
I am royal non lexical vocables
I am ultramarine non lexical vocables
Most Central and public.
Sky abode! Likewise periwinkle aperture and icy steed. All is azure in his eyes, personally and interpersonally, as he lacks ears to hear him.
I am turquoise non lexical vocables
I am teal non lexical vocables
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 12:57 PM UTC