"pret" poems
tres chaud
et tres froid
je ne suis pas que tu penses de moi
je n'aime pas cette
je suis juste essaye
gris porte pour moi
fermer!
fermer plus
je ne suis pas pret
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
The problem,
blemish on the proplan
to insist the culture oaths essential
for any child any where at any time,
to be so informed,
as to belief-lock all value sets,
hell is real
and the mind
that imagined hell willed
it's lasting benefit,
in the enterprise
of enslaving free will, inducing submission,
rites of inclusion, to where ever, after dying
in the faith, whatever faith, theevidentone.
But look, it has a non lying Jesus,
how can we not now hold ourselves true?
Let this mind
be in yo… pret-near your own idea, here, I see,
just so happens to have reportedly sent his son,
history testifies this does give heft to some ideas,
samsara,
generational curses,
religious induced left brain mastery.
Ever after, always, predictably next phase.
There is a proverb warning mindful future you,
fetchit, step in to my retirement,
as any well known personality may assure you,
little
worth, beats none… and often one
is tempted to rationalize, set an example, note,
quote the heroic image saying,
never, never, never quit.
softly mmmumbleitsallbullshat.
Mar 1, 2023
Mar 1, 2023 at 4:06 PM UTC
floor to ceiling windows
stacked two upon two
capillaries bursting with office work.
neon signs and patina streaked doors
opening up valves at lunch times
Pret A Manger bloodletting.
final call at The Angel
heralding the end of the work week
teams of cleaners flush the system
to restart for the following Monday.
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 11:47 AM UTC
He never bothered to look through her flesh
He never cared to look past her
chalk powder face and rose petal extract rouge
Or the kohl that lined her shimmering eyes with the
fine,
charcoal,
powder
He never thought to ignore her petals
And dig to her roots
So when summer died
And her petals fell
He left her alone
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 7:37 AM UTC
From the outside of everything
To the inside of you
I sit here on the back porch thinking
What else there is to do
I am an infinitesimally small part of the whole
The center is within my divine spark
Everything is moving around
As I sit here still in my pret
If I ever become a seventh density being
I hope I can finally get you to fall in love with me
All these big thoughts and philosophizing
And I still haven't gotten to know a woman well enough to make magic
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC
Yep
it's the unmistakeable odour
of fried onions and sweat,
jeez
please
do me a favour.
One of these days
bathe.
Okay
enough about that
what about the burning
question,
is the Earth really flat?
yeah
it's
going to be
this kind of a day,
Corbyn and May?
'twixt the two
you could say,
not much difference
apart from the obvious
if X marks the spot
and you've only
got one chance
you'd better
cross your fingers
or it's four more
years
of the devils
dance.
and we know
it's a con game
but we accept it,
are we that lame?
A fairer system
is the system they use
and the system they
abuse us by
don't fall for the lie
Don't
swallow the line,
are you oblivious to what's
going on?
can't you see it's all wrong?
for one day
out of many
you're made to feel
as if you really count
as if
what you think
matters.
and enough about that too
I've heard it al before
career cowboys
will still take their seats
and
I'll still have to bow
and scrape
nothing
is what it used to be
but I see
It never was.
There is always a brighter side
a dial a ride
a broomstick in a room full of brooms is just a broom
and a stick,
obvious
enough to make me sick.
Them in the Pret'
don't smell of
no sweat
just desperation.
Politics an
ideal laxative
for
constipation.
they're all full of it
and
getting their
greedy hands on
a bit of it
is the order of the day.
Corbyn or May
who're you voting for?
Haha
who're came out in predictive text as *****
I wonder why and what for.
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 1:46 AM UTC
Once my mind is an empty vessel
Then I'm ready to begin
Now just lose more weight
To the point where you're waifishly thin
There's no Jah or Lion of Judah or me
It's all just I and I
Fusing that into the traditions of the East
Is not so hard to do
What is the sound of one hand clapping?
That's a common zen koan
How can I make a sound
When I'm out here waving alone?
I'll wait for you in the bardo
Between this life and the next
And if I don't see you I'll just move on
We're the same as every beast
There are so many books and so little time
I haven't read the Book of the Dead
Although I understand the core of it
Will my heart float on or sink like lead?
I'm in touch with my inner child
But I still need to grow up
To walk the line in my space and time
With grace and a little luck
Karma is out there reverberating the heavens and earth
You're never alone in your pret
My morality flows like ocean tides
Then ebbs back when I forget
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
The manager who seems obliging guides us by saying ‘this way’,
Turning on the light on the long hallway, she says ‘Red to the right’,
The destroyed revolving door; bird of paradise flowers on the floor,
Tarantulas crawling on the satin walls, I turned back and laughed
Where’re you going baby?
I wait on this chair; don’t open your eyes until I count to seven
Pret un, the dewdrops of night on your neck; to the extent that you lost your voice,
Deux, a castle made of blocks that ***** together, to between your fingers,
Trois, the spider web which entangles and entangles like this, continuously,
The sandclock which started to go backwards to 9095
The noise that echoes throughout the long hallway, ‘Have we met before?’,
‘The blue to the left of the red’,
The rusted angel’s wings; yesterday’s dream that has been deferred,
Concealing your eyes from the direction of the claps
Who are you? Tell me baby,
That’s when you put your hand into a mirror that reflects nobody
Et quatre, the scent of nostalgia even on your back, your hot breath,
Cinq, the eyes which rise even in the darkness; if it’s not permitted,
Six, if your tears are reviving, then somehow,
The remains which slowly come to live in 9095
Don’t try to find anything more than this for I’ll be by your side,
Even though you can’t go back once you have opened your eyes,
If you still like it then, silently,
Pret un, the dewdrops of night on your neck; to the extent that you lost your voice,
Deux, a castle made of blocks that ***** together, to between your fingers,
Trois, the spider web which entangles and entangles like this, continuously,
The sandclock which started to go backwards to 9095
Et quatre, the scent of nostalgia even on your back,
Cinq, the eyes which rise even in the darkness,
Six, if your tears are reviving, then somehow,
The remains which slowly come to live in 9095
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 4:21 AM UTC
**** me in
a pit
filled to the brim with
pret-
ty things i've never
lit
myself on fire for
you, to
feel a bit warmer ****
this poem is
****
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC