"pouches" poems
The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida
where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world.
Quickly fantasy comes alive
through a corporation of disguise.
The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life
-like costumes to charm little children’s hearts.
They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World
must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business.
The flying trapeze is too elegant,
people now want to be strapped in,
buckled up and whipped around
to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment.
Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches
on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers
holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest.
This is vacation,
strangers of people in massive conglomerations
with confused expressions and burnt faces.
Even the food seems wickedly unnatural,
like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise.
Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades
of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance
fixation of lights and whistles.
They line up like schools of lemming,
plunging on rides,
one by one.
This is the place
Where memories are made
And dreams come true
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
The Warden announces; as the Diseased children cower in fear,
The mother stands beside the Warden.
"Evy'body remain calm, The Plague doc'or is 'ere!"
May God forbid; That you ever see that Mask,
Those cloaks, those masks,
those herbs and flasks...
It creeps towards the children; Looming in the silence.
equipped with little mind for medicine, a cane for violence.
Those soulless eyes,
the Putridly herbal aroma close, they despise,
but this masked creature ignores their cries.
The warden feeding mother Lies.
Dimly lit the cold room,
the pungent fume,
''I'll leave 'im to it"
The warden leaves.
but the Doctor stays and silently breathes.
Question on the matter if this Doctor's even Sane,
As it stares upon the child then whips him with the cane.
No Law defies,
the Mother Cries.
Pulling out it's Vials of vial Herbs, this Freak,
Staring coldly around the silent room, pointing everywhere, it's beak.
It passes the two Children pouches of leaves; Mother grieving,
everybody remain Calm, The Plague Doctor is leaving!
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 7:06 AM UTC
Beneath the surface of the earth,
Beneath the green and sodden turf,
Wendy wombat, supreme digger
Raced to make her tunnels bigger,
Pulling dirt with mighty claws
And toiling hard without a pause
Ensconced within her little pouch,
So small they had no need to crouch,
Her children slept, all warm and dry,
As mud and dirt went flying by,
Quite unaware how nature planned
To lend them all a helping hand
For wombat pouches don't get full
Of dirt and mud as mommies pull,
For mother nature in her wisdom
Looked upon her magic kingdom,
Saw the wombats under ground
And wisely turned their pouches round!
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
Stretching and shouldering night away a sun crouches
to birth black's ousting
by one more empty circle of dark's hollowed pouches
then outs in sparkling showers.
Spangled with myriad star-labour unfolding membranes,
like numberless leaves
dreamers listen to soft serenades as the universe favours
lullaby-songs to deep breathing.
Silvered surface shivers with night-eyes as glittery dust
follows with dart-swift
flight each soul's winged journey while murmuring such
mysteries to those sleeping still.
Glimmers on sightless horizon reveal light's celebration
while untrodden dew
newly writhing in close-capped life waits inertia's frame
stirring to shake before rising.
Piercing the brain time's needle regathers worn threads
and remembers that more
sown seed means now-grown grain needs re-collection
in daylight's mind-aware storage.
Open-eyed, naught is over as hinging on less or more,
sun, with slumber done,
now hurries to open the thin partition between yawns
of torpidity to more hours won.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 5:12 PM UTC
the green and waxy confusion is your cape and covering
topaz wings strum and flutter,
branches snap
beast and bug
geranium and dogwood
woodear spore and wolfsbane
flower and firm hedge
all wear goosebumps:
the whole army of generation, the waft and release
ready to conceive, to love and make root
to spill and ****
daylight, moonlight
well-fed and hungry
west and further west
a brush against your thigh flattens you
climbs your spine like a curse
robes you in purpose
to be and be alone
there you are: croucher, scuttler,
position known only to yourself
subclade of womankind
treasure in your soul
(in purses and pouches;
taking in, taking in)
it is private here and musty
you own your hands, your knees,
the dirt under them both,
the roots beneath that,
everything on the wind and below the blue sky
everything dark, and everything light:
kingdom of your own discovery
shroud and mountain and cache of mystery.
A door far away slides open
an echo of busy house, busy bones on the air.
Something in the oven.
Something in the heart.
What is the voice calling?
Who wants you home, child?
And if home is a warm meal, a bed,
a bath, a glass of milk,
a known touch,
then do you own your skin?
Aren't you small and lonely?
You are not.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 5:05 PM UTC
It’s all laundry and cigarettes
White-knuckle odd jobs
And freezing your *** off, at 7 AM, to
Help your buddy out
Breaking and bleeding, and
Smoking and shirtless, and
Spinning your finger and thumb
Counter-clockwise until the
Resulting ring of fire and fury can
Torch your inhibitions
No one ever restricted you from
Rioting with grace
And through the windshield of your vision,
The streets wake up to the smell of
Alcohol and experience
It’s all rubble in dumpsters, and
Spray paint that swears
Oaths, to bands and bandages
Singing the praises of
Stolen promises, their swiftly
Prying minds can’t understand
And you’re standing
In front of the truck
Arms outstretched
Pistons firing air through your
Organs, that vibrate with the
Trepidation of nightmarish resolve
It’s all battlefields and accomplices,
The kid that kicked you down so,
That you’d eat the dirt,
Place your teeth in
Leather pouches,
And taste defeat for decades
You’re pleasantly high on the
Smoke of your still-burning debt
You’re a supermarket superhero
You’re the queen of the Gasoline Dream
It’s in the way that
Your outline is
Edged out
By your insides, and the
Arms of the chair have become
Wings, that unfurl over
Valleys and oceans, of headstones,
And nursery wards
Tinted windows promise nothing
Regarding secrecy of soul
What would your wisdom teach me
About sentience?
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
You got her from the tailors
All neatly wrapped in pink tissue
Plenty of pretty dresses
But he did not attend.
The phone calls appeared promising
In the beginning, even excited
But then it was always six o'clock
And inconvenient.
Loving can't be part-time
Need is a regularity
Not a hundred pouches of food
When you promised to be around.
Bluebell smiles in the silver bracelet
A trophy baby for a quiz night
And you can't move on
Because your lighter is broke.
And you can't see in the dark
Because your scared to death
Because no one knows
Bluebell wriggles her toes.
Love Grandma ***
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
You, my old companion,
I’ve junked three trucks and still I keep you.
Buried five dogs. Raised three children
who are now raising children.
And still I wear you.
You jingle when I walk.
Nails clink in pouches.
The drill in its holster slaps my leg.
The hammer in its clip spanks my ****
You bristle with screwdrivers, chisel,
big fat pencil, needlenose plier.
You call attention. Random kids
who have never seen a tool belt before
follow me around asking
“What are you doing?”
Then: “Can I help?”
You smell like me (and I, like you).
Leather, fourth decade.
I’ve washed your pouches with saddle soap,
sewn your seams with dental floss.
Now the web of your belt is fraying,
wrapped (silly, I know) with duct tape.
Your pockets fill over time.
Once in a while I remove every tool,
every last ***** and nail.
I hold you upside down and shake.
Sawdust, a dead spider, little strippings
of insulated wire will fall out.
And once, my missing wedding ring.
It had broken. I had taken it to a jeweler
for repair, but when I got there
I couldn’t find it. A year later,
you coughed it up.
When your webbing finally snaps,
when you drop from my waist,
maybe it’s you, old tool belt, I’ll take
to the jeweler for remounting,
for buff and polish. He’ll understand.
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC
Oldest thing I ever did see,
Skin a mountain range of
Crumpled/crinkled crepe paper
Peaking in altitudinous pouches
Under his eyes, dragging with
Their weight dewlapp jowls
Down to a waddling,
Flabby neck, eyes camouflaged
Under light, fuzzy swatches of cotton,
Mouth slack and vacant, dribbling.
Hobbling with a stoop, knees bowed,
Back arched at an angle, a
Tilted arrow. He tottered over to me,
Inches, feet, miles, years too young,
Smiled brightly to reveal an empty,
Gummy mouth rimmed with
Birthday cake, pallid arms
Outstretched, head splotched with
A thin, wispy cloud of hair,
Half-full and forgotten baby’s bottle
On the carpet behind him.
How quickly they do grow.
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 12:18 AM UTC
**The fairest hair, peroxide blond
beer shampoo feeding the roots
primped and pinned with paperclips
blown and set as candyfloss sticks.
Hydro-pack cream erasing the pouches
colourful lashes, stuck to the lids
with copyright brows by electrolysis
both almond eyes are now penciled in.
Lines of life filled with putty
trowelled in layers, foundations built
delicate cheeks, powdered, pampered
rouged and shaded, giving them youth.
Clinical lips, Botox injected
tattooed outlines guiding the brush
the budding artist colours by numbers
pouting, she paints in weatherproof gloss.
Turtleneck sweater hiding the wrinkles
genuine paste, drawing the eye
both purl and knit-one inside the jumper
pulled and snagged by glued on nails.
High heel shoes, stretching the sinews
of Lycra clad legs, holding them taut
a girdle of whalebone hugging the figure
gently molding, the form to behold.
With grace we age throughout the years
a time filled life, craves respect
hairs of grey are marks of distinction
an occasional blemish, a beauty spot.
Tiny crow's feet, signs of good humour
experience of life, lines proudly worn
for with laughing eyes and glowing smile
who need wear a plasticine face.**
... ... ...
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
A boy named Jake was so obsessed with finding a different reality where he was truly himself that he created it in his brain and entered it through a doorway while he slept.
He knew he didn't need to knock but thought of it as polite.
The door wasn't answered with an opening, rather
an invite to open.
So the boy opened.
Inside he found himself in a desert. It was almost time for the sun to begin its setting.
He realized that his hand was still on the door **** so he released and then shut the door.
He turned back around.
There was a small house a football fields length away. He could see a well just to the left and a stable holding no animals on the right.
He began walking over.
He was thirsty.
And hungry.
And full of questions.
Arriving at the house he found water in the well.
Cold, dusty water.
Inside the house he found a pantry full of corn, bottled sunflower seeds, and a odd yellow grass wrapped in pouches.
He ate sunflower seeds and walked outside.
There he looked back to where the door is.
Or was.
At first he was alarmed
but then liked the idea.
He was stuck here.
He was free.
He slumped down against the house and began to doze off.
His dreams were filled of memories of this desert. Of growing up in this house and occasionally visiting the town some miles away.
This became his reality.
He was himself.
A man dressed in black approached.
He pretended to sleep.
The man came and went.
There was no food left in the pantry although the yellow grass was still there.
There was no water in the well.
He waited for nothing for days.
He slumped against the wall and fell asleep again.
He awoke to find a new man approaching him, from the direction the other man had came.
The direction of town. DOOR, his conscious screamed. He pushed it aside.
The man came.
He was on a quest for a tower.
He was nice.
Jake grew fond of him.
The man said he would stay, only for a little while.
He was pursuing the Man in Black.
He was pursuing the Dark Tower.
Jake knew the man would stay, however.
And he was happy.
He was himself.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 2:41 AM UTC
rich with red passion
deep shades of blue
a girl in love with
the way people speak
and who pouches
rainbows in her room
a little flame
lit up for her love
for this boy
who's miles away
one day
she'll see him:
without her wearing colors
with no barriers of speech
a simple look
a simple hello
he'll be in her reach
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
The blade runner,
The blade told me to calm down,
Stop seeing red.
That moment lasted momentarily,
The blade ran across me like an ice skate,
On grooves already used before,
Protruding into the skin and floor,
Momentarily,
As we see red.
Then replaced by new cells,
Or related like ice plains,
Like a new day,
Coincidentally.
Scars remained
and like my palms,
Lifelines that tamed the desires
To be,
Famous,
Or aim for the place where I won't wake up tomorrow.
For the moment has passed
And I'm shattered like glass with tiny pieces of blood drop pouches that decimate the surroundings as they fall to the floor,
I'm sure;
I never asked to be the blade runner.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
The fuselage must gleam
in a pink Pacific sunset
at 29000 feet
inside, I am brought puffed cellophane pouches of tamarind by attendant ladies and men
and a sanitary case wraps my pillow.
Bangkok’s taxis are driven by a man with bones for a neck on cracked
roads that vanish into blind ways.
Later a child – spying left – pulls me through a curtained door into an ante-room to
sell me cling-wrapped copies of Japanese slasher movies. “Cheap!”
Flies circle a mound of meat spiked to a vending cart -- “special for you.”
A sea of mopeds rumble up the road and chase me between parked cars
Tattered hunks of plastic bag blow past off the beach.
At night gut rot infects the air, and I walk in brown puddled streets.
The tar sky smothers above the neon and the barkers and the *** for $10. This last part was in the guidebook.
A woman sits, cloaked in a shawl, selling women’s apparel, all arranged on pale and chalky mannequins, angled at attention.
They wear the rouge of the truth-telling jester.
Their mouths are gaping, smiling, lurid, laughing, howling. Eyes wide, piercing and empty, excited.
They look like me. And I look away.
The woman’s throat moves. Or does she chuckle?
“For you.”
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 11:14 PM UTC
this is how women should spend time with men...
she's lying in a missionary position...
and she's telling you: with eyes closed...
i'm dancing...
you what?!
you're dancing?! **** me... if you're dancing...
i'm riding a ****** horse to the next Mongolian horde
conquest!
that's how nights should look like...
i get th8s plump ass-bitch:
i tell her... i think i dreamed of you...
does it matter?
the one time i tried *********
i wanted one of the girls to not be there...
this first time i tried getting a *** replacement of
****** i was like: fair ******* enough...
we're both moaning without taking...
i'm talking to the night and constellations...
my shadow: i am the shadow... i have no shadow...
this how men should be allowed to live their lives...
i love the scent of a woman on my body...
she might have ****** a thousand ***** before me...
but?! she's the most eager to kiss me!
she even showcased her legs.. barely shaven...
to me... sure... girl... you might require a shave or too...
i don't mind... your lips are candy-sweet to me...
that's why i perfumed my beard for her...
i wanted her sickly sweet dreaming...
my god.. i love a fattened girl!
the more fat on a girl the more... allowance...
pouches of kisses and disagreeable hands
touching pouches that ought not exist!
the excesses of thighs! my god!
i rub my beard i grind my teeth...
these women are alive!
i need more of them! i need them fattened-up!
more hip frenzy and less school-girl no thigh
ick...
i need them fat... i love a fat girls...
with bulging brown eyes...
thank god i washed myself before the encounter...
i spread enough aftershave onto my beard...
i love the scent of a woman on my body...
it's like the Cologne of Cologne...
i love the scent of unwashed hair...
raven... **** i would rather sleep with 100 women
than encounter an exploration of consciousness
with a hallucinogenic drug...
**** me... before she ****** off to Romania:
i'm the "BIGGIE"...
great... now i have a nickname in the brothel...
light-fucking-fantastic...
i'm "BIGGIE"...
she closes her eyes and plays the "violin" with
my ******* and chest hair...
fuck's sake... "BIGGIE"...
call me BAGPIPE from now on in...
BIGGIE...
o.k.: i can stomach that...
i'm BIGGIE.. fair enough... if you want to love as many
as you want to love but not marry: which actually
implies more than one... i can be BIGGIE...
i don't mind... i love prostitutes too much!
Aug 27, 2022
Aug 27, 2022 at 9:40 PM UTC
*Mimesis:
the deliberate imitation of the behavior of one group of people by another as a factor in social change.*
Somewhere, someone
knows these colors to be home.
Not only the sandy complexion of the boots,
but the laces slipping and sliding
into loops and over
soft tongues and slowly pulling,
constricting, suffocating.
Even its shape—
the shallow curve of a man’s ankle,
the slow descent to the tips of his toes—
these are the sandy silhouettes and generous hills
recalled from their youth.
Someone, somewhere
admires jagged peaks of pale crested mountains.
The same jagged peaks
they have seen rising and breaking
in the wrinkles of loose fitting fatigues,
and complimented by vests,
spotted with the gentle green pastures
once ruled by their jidd’s sheep.
There are chains of mountains
as wide as chests under Mandarin collars
and just as full of pockets and pouches
as military issued BDU’s—
but this is cheap imitation.
It is a failed mimesis.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
I’m not a ditzy tulip,
or a bent erratic stem,
I’m not a trapped crysthanamum,
or a wilting gray hydrangea,
I’m not a pollinating prophecy that gives to all of nature,
I’m not a zoo of daisies,
I’m not an incessant rose,
That ****** the first to bow,
or a zinnia that pallied dawn,
I’m not a scentless lavender that pouches sweet consent,
I’m not a blossom specks of red that blanket willow trees,
or a bush that dupes that soil,
after frost descends the weeds.'
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
My eyes have never had the opportunity to even glare at diamonds.
I’ve never had the experience of tasting water from the cup of life.
The shame of my current status, in a suburban purgatory; where all the houses look the same.
And the town is slowly decaying.
The radio, television and computer spew promises of golden treasures
Dionysian parties.
Lavish, mischievous endeavors.
And never even taking a moment to mull over the choices.
Bentleys soaring through the city nights.
But it’s just in our prayers.
A watch covered in rubies that won’t tell time,
Because it doesn’t matter,
Pricey top shelf alcohols,
Exotic purebred animals,
Paying no mind to the expense.
I have no time to listen to your lustful desires.
We may never be these magnificent stars above…
For our blood isn’t lucky or holy.
Yet we don’t crave extravagance.
But desire that eluding excitement.
Name me king!
And kiss the ring!
I’m just a fool.
It’s all but a dream.
We have unraveled the clandestine riddles.
Rolling pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters,
On our way to the wishing well.
And it’s effortless to distinguish between barren pockets and bursting pouches of dabloons and denarius’.
No nuisance to us we’ve worked for what we have.
The curse of greed, self-indulgence,
Splurging on foolish fixations.
Impaired, decked out
Obliterating the palace.
While keeping their noses in the airs they put on.
Pumpkin carriages at midnight,
Platinum plates for a marvelous feast.
Airplanes, cruise ships.
All we need are the keys.
Ride on the horizon.
We maybe become millionaires, take the money and run
But we don’t need the luxury;
We only yearn for the golden sun.
I’m not an emperor,
Nor a leader.
Just a player in this life,
They call a game.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
that it is a journey
Of
1000 miles
//
She was sittin on the bed with the 200 lbs of
Macrame string that we managed to buy
At Fisherman's Wharf
With the help of 5 complete strangers
Who had showered us with the
Life altering kindness
You think really doesn't exist
( but it does ! )
//
And she said
DO YOU WANT TO HELP ME MAKE THE BELTS AND POUCHES ?
I turned to my brain and told it to tell my mouth
To say NO
Firmly ( but nicely )
I turned to her and said
SURE
WHEN DO WE START ?
//
JESUS **** !
I started screaming ( silently )
at my brain
YOU TRAITOR !
And you , MOUTH !
You knew ! You knew !!
••
She became ecstatic !
And said
GREAT!
WE' LL START WITH ME TEACHING YOU
THE BASIC SQUARE KNOT !
//
I started to give my brain it's obvious instruction
BUT !
I blurted out
WOW !
I ALWAYS WANTED TO LEARN HOW
TO MAKE SAILOR'S KNOTS
//
I turned in a huff to these 2 fiends of brain and mouth
And said ( silently )
ALWAYS ?
YOU MADE ME SAY
ALWAYS !?
A WEEK AGO WE HAD NEVER EVEN HEARD
OF SAILOR 'S KNOTS !!
///
Then the song
Of
JANIS JOPLIN
came to me
FREEDOM ' S JUST ANOTHER WORD
FOR NOTHIN LEFT TO LOSE ----
//
and I now had nothin left
My life was surrendered to hers
( due to the love and kindness of strangers ! )
••
But ( you see )
There was a massive mistake in my calculations
( again )
You see
SHE
had ( unknownst to me with my selfish heart )
Made a similar commitment to me !
And / more and more /only asked me to do what
I really wanted to do
( even to learn to do macrame )
What I was afraid to do without encouragement
••
WE BECAME A TEAM !
//
We both had different social skills
She was so unbelievably compassionate
She was so able to break thru people's fears
And enter into such trust inducing relationships
It seemed like magic to me
//
I was really good at organizing things
Setting plans
Seeing the picture of the goals
We needed to accomplish
//
In a certain sense
We never talked
--
A glance back and forth
A subtle gesture
//.
Complete unity
••
People would ask
HOW YOU 2 GETTING ALONG !?
ARE YOU IN LOVE !?
""
and we would look at each other and wonder
GETTING ALONG ?
IN LOVE ?
And not have the slightest idea what they were talking about !
//
And that might help explain
Why
When I read the poems here
I don't know what you are talking about
//
( not the slightest idea )
//
Like there is a weird thing happening
And then it gets weirder
And then someone gets upset because it gets weirder
But it was weird already !
••
And then the strangest vocabulary gets going
Trying to describe some feelings that are really only thoughts
About something that isn't really happening anyway
( or something like that )
••
So
On and on it goes !
I just try to be
Like those strangers on Fisherman's Wharf
Trying to make the magic
That is pure human kindness
//
To throw myself upon
The BARBED WIRE OF EGO
So that you might
climb my back
AND LEAP INTO THE FREEDOM
OF INFINITY !
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
Don’t let the medium dry
Moisten This Creation
by ANY MEANS necessary
It’s vulnerable
For This Creation to become pedestal WE MUST :
feed it
off of a capillary bag
mist it
under a dense healthy breath
lead it
to suckle an engorged breast
For
IF WE DO NOT
we risk it becoming husk ;
good only for digs and dust shops.
For This Creation, WE MUST queue
with our blood tapped
and ready
our breeding fluids
our various flows carefully labelled
and in sterile pouches
our donor cards filled out
steady for sacrifice
Keep This Creation wet
and it shall be a beacon
a call to awareness
a beckon of craft for us all
and not some common art-hole
In time THE CREATION SHALL SERVE US
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
walking the concrete pave
i started to feel a bulging softness in my liver,
just the sheer balloonness of it,
not attached to any bone,
it was too much for me,
i had to walk into the greenbelt darkness
to feel the soft pouches of earth
beneath the feet and banish
all livery sentiments of the silken doughy thought,
and in there i said:
with the abolishment of asylums
psychiatry has become evermore bothersome,
imagine if the churches were closed
and priests freely roamed,
not since henry the eight such travesty,
with it, psycho-synthesis and very
little psychoanalysis:
because who the hell would diagnose a
child of two with some symptoms accumulative
as a.d.h.d.? where's the: climb a tree
break a leg then tango on with crutches?
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
I wish I could be a book
I could send myself to you
in envelops and postcards
over a laconic lifetime
rungs of ladder climbed
waded through like the push
of legs in the water, over sand
chewing on the words you sent.
We, are a family now,
some privileged in the boundaries
of grandiloquent bags and pouches,
some forgotten in the drawers
before relocations,
versions of a person’s state of mind
over time, we make history books
capturing people in the making
of an indistinct next moment
sometimes we carry our own praises
outsourced by the wits of our writers
like love they did find not in the other
but their own selves, blind still.
Does your reader pause too?
basks in the glory of an empty wall
staring at nothing in particular?
I wish we had will and means
to write ourselves on ourselves
so that we could reach other and do that.
Instead like our creators, we are
dilapidated ruins of yellow bodies,
left to live and die on dirt and air
once they are gone, aren’t you scared
of death?
Seeking Reply
Letter A
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC
Sequence of words and repetetion,
made of beautiful lines and concentration,
deep thinking makes the sentence to flight,
all is called along and named as rhyme,
in it there are pouches of errors,
makes the expression of fellings that matters,
modified meaning of writing,
belongs to a thing,
sharp and blunt teasing collection of experiance,
it does not have any limitation or resistance,
it is a flow of small nick in mind,
passionate feel it winds,
every time ****** spelling it consists,
anyone can write a rhyme if he break the walls of cyst
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
The preacher lifts his old hand,
“This is where we are meant to be!” and,
The geese croon overhead as the day turns around,
“Here in the country! A mighty place to be for men so small!” said he,
The preacher, or the carney, the very angry canary,
“Here is where the wind blows and whistles across the fields,
Making waves and currents that show early eidolons in the rye,
And here is where the willow trees make curtains
For mid-afternoon ********** with a sultry sweat on the brow!”
The preacher clenches his pink fist,
“Here is where holy work is done,
And God is surely watching!
Here is where the lilacs create a musk that staggers,
And leaves the devil in bewilderment!
The son of God is in your boot,
He is in the locked gun cabinet,
Which you threw away the key!”
A woman drops to her knees,
And I ask why, in which she replies,
“Of course! Of course! I love him! I hate myself!”
Ay, slow and easy,
Her lips took the scenic route.
God!
The ugly and plain,
With pouches and paunches,
**** a dime a dozen,
Come here to settle in the humid heat,
Of a thousand fields spread eagle across,
The American hot bed.
Yes’a, I thinks,
The boonies,
Is where I should be,
When God comes around.
The preacher points his fat finger,
“Leave the city for the gluttons!
Leave it for the sinners! Leave it for the lazy!
Leave it for the intellects of bygones,
And aggravated souls who are not just,
Content with what God has given us!
Leave it for the hounds! We have only to hear,
The gospel of sweet nature like honey dew,
Or golden sopping molasses!”
The sun came in through the stained windows,
Shooting colors across the pale flat faces,
Of the god-fearing townspeople.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 2:34 AM UTC