"populus" poems
We met during a meteor shower
at a party on Cloud Nine
And we were high, high, high
out of our minds
Drinking the Elixir of Life
From Vampire bartenders
The bumble bee of time
whose sting is reality
And idealism is a crime
You were trying to plant trees
with seeds inside rain drops
Like Redwoods and Populus tremuloides
I think your father was a giraffe made out of sticks from the Swahili language
by the carpenter that is your mother
Who you look like
I wonder what you would carve from the
wood of your harvest
A Wife like the Blue Fairy?
But you only saw in colors of green
With absinthe stuck in your teeth
you wear windchimes and windmills like earrings
and hummingbirds nesting in your ears
Your blood is honeysuckle
You caught me a Shooting Star,
Calling me Eyelashes and Pretty dresses
I like it best when the stars fall,
sizzle sizzle pop Like the beginning of time
and water fighting for its Life
I asked you, "Have you ever cut down a tree?"
Pause button lingers on your lips
"What does that feel like?" I ask.
Your reply, "Hot, like the burn on your chest from the sword you made for the King of Aliens."
"He was just an Ex boyfriend" I reply.
You continue your work, eyeing as ghosts
linger like houseguests on my shoulder pads
Pretending to be my consciousness
I put my morals in the recycling bin last week.
And threw my soul into a Wishing Well.
You said you were going deep sea memory diving.
Amnesia a Past time, last time, previous life girlfriend you had
Who cheated on you with Reincarnation
You say that's why the dinosaurs
are extinct
I ask you if you need a ride home in my Time Machine.
It's made out of cardboard and childhood memories.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
NA KS. DRA HAB. NATANKA W GRZECHYNI MUSZELKI 52 OKTAWY DWIE VON STEFAN KOSIEWSKI Studia Slavica et Khazarica XXI Prolegomena do Niebopolityki PANDEMIA PSYCHOZY Zniweczona Rzeczywistość Zarys Estetyki Chazarów Fascynacja Obłędem
I
Czy Arcybiskup Krakowa Jędraszewski żydoską babkę Wojtyły
z domu Szulc wyniesie na ołtarze Kościoła Rzymskokatolickiego
za rodzicami Santo Subito Lolka przez tzw. populus Romanus
ludzi siatki ojca Hejmo w ramach działań operacyjnych SB?
Czy ważne święcenia kapłańskie ma Jędraszewski od kropienia
wodą święconą żeliwnych klap kanalizacyjnych w mieście Łodzi?
Czy uchodzi, by cudownie rozmnażane przez Dziwisza relikwie
zachowały ważność do usranej śmierci, jeśli gówno przychodzi
II
Kubicy w sporcie z przedmiotów szamańskich nie posiadających
nawet mocy placebo, bez wiary w modlitwę księży i biskupów
Episkopatu Polski, którzy w porze Pandemii CORONA ograniczają
liczbę członków Rodziny Góralskiej na Mszy św. za Ojczyznę?
PS. Nie licząc przychodów Kubicy pochodzących z dofinansowania
amatorskiej aktywności państwowymi dotacjami Morawieckiego
hojną ręką słupa Obajtka w PKN ORLEN, jak poseł Kaczyński nie
zalicza do Rejestru Korzyści obstawy i kierowców biseksualnych.
https://sowafee.jimdofree.com/2020/03/15/na-ks-dra-hab-natanka-w-grzechyni-oktawy-dwie-m52-von-stefan-kosiewski-ssetkh-pdnxxi/
Mar 15, 2020
Mar 15, 2020 at 4:31 AM UTC
She met you in the Arctic, we both twirled and marveled
Now that she is me and I was her, we can tell you something true
We’ll never tire of your sweet light, poured limb from limb
Or the way branches shift, too timid to know
A life of severe promises, even in the bleak gray
She can still smile at you, but I know better
I know you have things to tell and burdens to share
She doesn’t think you possibly could, as you stand so tall
On still moons you **** your head and
wonder about the clusters, about the stars
And under a spell she cast years ago
I walk by with moon filled eyes
Disguised as a star: trying to be your light
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
Because her eyes were always
glancing downward
to see what lay at her feet
between strides or before the next step
it was inevitable that leaves would
one day summon her attention
Autumn time and the colour and curl
the drift and crackle under foot
their sculptured forms
so well curated against the drab
gallery grey-wet pavements she trod
But their very delicacy wore her down
until one day she saw a leaf
with a print mark the pattern of a boot’s
press and sole against the fallen foliage
of a Populus tremula
(or so she thought)
Taken then to her mantelpiece to dry
it slowly curled like a rug
to show only the weaver’s side
plain but variegated with nature’s stitch
ready to be carried on a merchant’s horse
this fine kilim of autumn
with its footprint signature
hidden from view from harm
on its journey over the mountains
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
In the breath
of a
sprawling
metropolis
your tiny moves make
sacred populus.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 11:47 PM UTC
the drive down hardscrabble is filled with
the rasp of Jim's feed truck and the heavy
jangle of steel parts in the side compartments.
For a while we don't speak and i lose myself
in the stars, eaten up by Ursa Major, broken down
and condensed, blown out and away--
His headlights wash across the aspens
with their rangy bodies congregated on the
western slopes; spectral and reminiscent of
dancers or other sylphlike beings captured
unannounced.
when I think back on this moment
I realize that's where it all ended
the last moment where for a few
idle seconds, it seemed like
maybe it could work
out.
there's a barely-there eroticism about the
way he touches me, with rough, seasoned
fingers pressing eagerly between the tendons
in my wrist, racing up my shin or gingerly sweeping
the inside of my thigh.
I
used
to feel all the time
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
Be brave to stand up against the overwhelming power of a monopolous tyrany.
All should gather as one to liberate the populus from decades of dynasty.
Let everyone know that the righ time has finally come.
And it is timely to restart and let the people know to end this sham.
Over two decades has and have been long enough for them to rule above us.
Arise, take a stand and prepare your spears to aim and ******
No more mugging of our towns people, no more summoned ones will go home crippled.
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 5:56 AM UTC
you know how you become intelligent?
by playing the idiot;
lies walk on short legs,
sooner or later, once enough lies have
been told, people "mysteriously"
shut up, and turn into "claustrophobics"
in their own little lives;
nothing quite like the szalinski affair;
ah yes, the simple lives,
those "complicated" lives,
the unlived lives;
as long as another batch comes back
into the grand theatre
you'll get nothing but applause!
point being - some people enter
and leave quasi-copies of themselves,
they have children, and leave behind
a genetic history,
a history that's so mundane it ought
to scold an atheistic tongue -
some people mark their presence
with what is best described as:
that summa populus -
and people are afraid of that...
those who want the 3.2 chills
of diaper changing, dog and
life insurance...
and then there are those...
who leave a shadow,
that arches over a polygamous
americana of 32 brats from 5 women
and 1 man.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC
The Patient, with one name after another branded, like a hot iron on the roof of his mind, roams around a lonely populus; continuously giving but being capable of receiving that which he gives.
It smites like a snout in the fog.
Difficult to make out but impossible to deny its existence. The snout becomes clearer as the mist fades away, the grey fur glows, and then, with one single ****** of motion the whole wolf appears itself with the dynamism of a lightning bolt striking violently. It refuses to remove itself from the Patient's view as it stands there stubbornly.
The Patient gestures, nudges, speaks and screams yet the Wolf's head can never, will never and, finally, should never, ever truly turn.
And so from the first chemical secreted in his brain till the last the Patient lives.
Scared.
Confused.
Unloved.
Unknown.
Alone.
Nov 16, 2019
Nov 16, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC