"profitable" poems
On the land molded by footsteps and ruled by obnoxiously bleached clowns,
Visited by swarms of neighborhood guttersnipes and the opulent from uptown.
Allured by the traditional Irish circus music and the grinding of rusted gears,
To arrive at dawn and to leave only when the night sky is tired of fireworks and flares.
Skittish and gleaming eyes would roll on the floor, struck by daze and lost in wonderment,
At the marvel of giant steel rides and god forsaken and socially foretoken genetic mutants.
The word of a woman with two faces and the boy with a tail would make any catholic priest run.
Amusing the rational ones, alongside the man with elastic skin and the girl with the forked tongue.
The opera lady with outlandish proportions and tumorous lips sings to break a piece of cheap glassware.
Little do people know,that the magician’s red gloves are actually stained with blood of rabbit that disappeared.
Their noses get caught in the medley of fragrances from the exotic perfumes shop,
Blended with the saccharine tang from the stall that sells candy floss and soda pops.
Indulging over the overly priced confectioneries at the stall of the baker with the forbidding grin.
Try it a hundred times,try it a thousand,you’ll never get the fifth one right in the game of rings.
People will come out screaming from the haunted house,only to laugh about it later,
Little do they know,that skeletons that drove them pale and white couldn't get any realer.
They’ll jostle and struggle to make their way through the crowd to various rides and attractions.
Hustling to navigate through the maze the carnival is, encountered by countless illusions.
And once your body wears out and senses give in,that’s when you've truly entered the carnival state of mind.
Your ears stinging ,nose stifled,tongue baffled, eyes exhausted,and your sense of judgment blinded.
That’s when my masked act begins,the most profitable act at the carnival,
Diving into the heart of the crowd,to draw an act of brilliance lasting an ephemeral.
Slithering across the crowd in a different disguise every hour,concealed by stealth.
Sneaking into every nook and corner and slipping my furtive hands into your pockets for a little bit of wealth.
Only to dine with the clowns and the carnival family at the haunted house at the end of the day.
And of course, rabbits for dinner,if the baker may
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC
The nineties sold us unity:
bright sitcoms,
Benetton colors,
commercials where everyone smiled
as though inequity had been resolved.
But the decade bled on screen—
a Black man beaten on asphalt,
a truck driver dragged from his cab,
bomb dust in Oklahoma,
children hunted in a school corridor.
Unity was the costume;
violence was the stage.
Then came a Black president.
For a moment,
the story looked complete.
"Post-racial," they said,
as though history had closed.
But the mask split.
Social media tore out the gatekeepers.
The hate that had been muted
found its tongue,
found its profit,
and screamed into the feed.
Division pays.
Unity does not.
Violence is systemic,
holistic,
from home to street to state.
Silence makes it whole.
The ethic remains:
If it is wrong, you stop it.
Otherwise the cycle turns,
profitable, endless,
calling itself America.
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 5:45 AM UTC
I live on the mountain
Below the silver mist
In the valley, full of magic
Where the sun has rarely kissed
I am called a smudger
I live on what's left behind
I have been here near forever
I'm the last one of my kind
Below the mountain major
Lives a dragon, fierce and bold
Sleeping now, and dreaming
Of it's hoard of stolen gold
Eleventy years plus twenty
I have been here on this earth
Cleaning up the dragons droppings
It's how I justify my worth
The dragon's ruled this mountain
For a thousand thousand years
The silver river that flows through it
Is full of snow melt and of tears
Once a generation
Someone comes from down below
Gets the villagers all riled
Says "The dragon has to go"
They go and fight the dragon
Try to take his hoard of gold
And that is why, it's me the smudger
Who knows how the story must be told
The fighter leaves the village
Full of gusto and incensed
Saying "justice for the village"
or close to that....condensed
The dragon then awakens
Flys around and burns the town
Leaving nothing left but ashes
everything gone or burned down
Now, I, your local smudger
Cleans up the dead and done
It's a profitable existence
Since I am the only one
The dragon knows there's nothing
Much more of value to behold
The villagers were poor folk
Owning neither jewels or gold
I've cleaned up more destruction
Caused by villagers who go
On up to face the dragon
And get killed with just one blow
Now, I make candles with their bodies
I use their skin and body fat
I weave the hair not melted
And I make a nice new front hall mat
The bones I grind and scatter
On the mountain in the trees
It helps the ferns all grow strong
And keeps the trees free from disease
What little money I find
I leave half by the dragons den
Over time I have left there
Money from five thousand men
I've swords I sell at auction
When I travel, but that's rare
There is really nothing for me
That's not near the dragons lair
It's a relationship existing
On destruction and of greed
The dragon burns the village
And I get the things I need
They rebuild and they recover
And a generation may pass by
When once again some young, strong fighter
Wakes the dragon, makes him fly
I guess we need each other
That's the way it's always been
I'm the smudger on the mountain
I'm the one who's never seen
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
Oakes-photo, hypocrisy and flagrant mirky plateau. Brimming celestial warrants overcrowding public housing systems. North-South lights, sell costly iPhone Apps; and then there are Social Societies of non-verbal delight. Password protected non-profitable and over-costly educations of no reward or biblical synonyms. Catastrophizing hash-tag dot.com. Weary party going poster children with glowing anemone guts, fruity looped cantlings, ravenous scattered supper clubbed coughing up ******* on their strange and central affairs unit. Overcome the candisation and sugary affairs of any of the ***** and pops that erstwhile matter less and less. We are speaking of nomenclatures that don't arise. Promises and by which confession aloof romanticizes every Tom dicking Mary that carries the theory of sustainable energy, prussian blue, and irregular browsing.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
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Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 7:37 AM UTC
You towed your broken down
beat up, used, rusted old
Chevy into my workshop
smelling like crap, and looking a whole lot worse
she had a busted engine
sputtered like a plane
(but not in a good way)
you leaked black oil all over my floors
stains of which I still can’t remove
no matter how many gallons of bleach I use
the radiator, well let’s just say
had seen better days
the interior leather seats were torn
and the once slick body
looked like you had ****** off
some mafia kingpin
so I spent my days and nights
greased up and elbow deep,
in your muck trying desperately,
but lovingly
to do what a mechanic does best
and I was leaking time
like I owned it, when I could’ve
should’ve found a more profitable fixer upper
I told myself, no convinced myself otherwise
and eventually, against the odds,
fixed you
then some schmo walks in
a bulging from both pockets
from wads of cash
and grabs you right outta my hands
the you I returned
to a shiny beauty as best I could
with the tools I had
well then, maybe I did fix you
I just never realised, I was doing it
for someone else.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
Increasingly there’s more in my life
A life between barcode
SIM
Remote with apocalyptic news and dire pornographers
life among multiple camera teams
between several videos about a future that all sounds good
blocks of life between advertising and surveys on how
Europeans can achieve
the cosmic ****** and a more profitable single currency
living ever more my own life
inside an inland country
where in waiting and loneliness I see greetings
from where I hope to reach the Himalayas and write:
‘Life is no good with Coca-Cola!’
Dan Mircea Cipariu
[Translated by Jon a’Beckett]
New Europe Writers Bucharest Tales, Contemporary Literature Press, Bucharest 2014
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
Today, he lives his life unchanged,
unaware of the gifts he gives,
the joy he brings.
My heart has long since
run out of summers.
All my leaves and flowers have gone-
I only have the snow now.
His body looks like ice,
pale and beautiful,
just like porcelain-
his hair black like my sky
between the blizzards.
But his lips are red and warm,
like the heat I yearn for.
There is fire in this body yet.
But alas, he does not want me-
I will only rob him of his warmth,
the fire that fuels him.
It is unintentional.
I swear I don’t mean to.
I want, even though I cannot have.
Selfishness.
Unbalanced.
But when he holds me
he becomes my shelter.
When he kisses me,
he offers me warmth and release,
relieving me from my Siberian winter.
When he pretends to love me,
he brings me Spring
even if it’s just for one night.
Yet I can give him nothing in return;
he does not want anything from me-
I have nothing to offer him,
for I am all out of summers.
He will not be able to keep me warm for long.
He will not stay here.
He will soon move on and search for someone
more worthy,
more profitable,
someone beautiful just like him.
I only have ice to give,
even though I love.
Love is no good when one has no warmth.
I can only be half a lover,
unsuitable and inferior.
But just for tonight,
he offers me spring
in the form of an embrace
and a kiss.
I love.
I melt.
Снегу́рочка.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 10:42 AM UTC
I did not kiss anybody last night,
yet my body-
from the lips down-
thinks I did.
Clad in a cotton armour,
like a pitch again tent
in a miserable northern monsoon;
the chest is protected from the disappointment,
the ribs are protected from the disappointment,
as for the heart, that’s the one that gets drenched
in drops of distress-
for it is the one ***** that gets played
by the hand of the female chess player;
knowing and knowledgeable, out to get
your king for only profitable stings
and club-night-pictures-check-the-website-for-more-details,
kisses.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
He itemized his medical bills,
Maxed retirement deductions.
He's given cash to charities
and Democratic functions.
This scion of the one percent
knows its his cash they're after.
Manipulating tax returns
will keep him the last laugher.
A death this year is profitable
before tax cuts expire.
While he'll probably miss his parents
Still he set their house on fire.
He hates to see the old place go
but still he watched it burn
while thinking of deductions
for the Estate tax return.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
Maybe
it's just the first time doing *******
in order to expand my horizons; gain perspective
in great company and knowing full well
the moreish nature, as it has been purported,
of such a vice;
but, you know what they say:
"When in Rome..."
but lest ye forget;
"Do or do not, there is no try"
all the while
still maintaining moderation,
partially by habit and partially by force,
for there is said to be
no such thing as quality
in that regard
from whence I come.
and thus, as if by providence,
"When in Rome.."
So,
'twixt that personally groundbreaking experience
plus lots of Caffeine and Alcohol
in some haphazard alchemical combination
helped Reno to be a good-ass time
on Halloween
after playing a sweet-ass Rock Bar
with some sweet-ass bands.
And, to boot,
having not slept,
this morning was a rude non-awakening,
as well as an ominous first day of November,
what with the LAX shooting;
our roadie and I watched it as it unfolded
with repetitive loops of footage
and dodgy claims with more qualifiers
than actual substantial language;
but the Media is just doing it's job as usual;
play on sensationalism
especially for ratings;
okay if profitable.
Needless to ******* say,
it's been a crazy ******* day.
Needless to ******* say,
it may be a crazy ******* month.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
The curse of a great, well-known or (at least) culturally interesting family.
Heralded at birth to mimic similar (or even, surpassing) social feats of achievement/wealth/renown.
Instead manages to underpasses even mundane non-impressivenesses of second-generation parentals.
I
See them, smirk or folly with time, silently.
....which they seem to quite often.
Biding weekend with multitudes of varying categories of "friends"
and sweethearts who never seem to stick around too long
All aware, of course, of the famous family lineage
Themselves, instead
after lifetimes where first words, senior infants homework,
cheerful accusations of mischief and certificates of age-appropriate health
were lauded as signifiers of a future onslaught of fulfilled capabilities
emerge as providence's lackeys– and meekly, to be
Written out of History
One by One by One.
II
Talent is frequently a despairing life-cycle
for people who witness
and go without.
III
But what price success?
Is it to be counted in public
or left behind in wreaths?
Stern evidence
of favour, fought for and won
or shaky good fortune
One life's profitable fluke
IV
Does the cost of success itself
admit backstories of other kinds of loss
that children
without the chance of ever knowing
or changing their inheritances of fate
are powerless to cease the flow
of their own anonymity
all for the insistences of the unarguable
and for merely treading the average?
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
You hear their siren song in the air,
before you ever see the truck.
If it is “The Rolling Cones”,
Then my friend, you are in luck.
Where "Mister Softee" use to be
an old bald man down on his luck,
“The Rolling Cones” have sweet young things
Make **** sundaes in a cup.
These ice cream ladies sell the wares
while wearing frilly bustiers.
Men of a certain age all troupe
to wave their dollars for two scoops.
Curves and ice cream swirls can be
**** yes, but not obscene,
It’s a profitable duopoly.
They use hot babes to sell ice cream.
To differentiate their trucks
From the ******* coffee vendor “Cups”
They needed a name all their own
That’s why they’re called “The Rolling Cones”
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:21 PM UTC
I am a poor boy - A Capricorn
Perpetually saddened by my surroundings
Eight cats have sought me out for sanity's sake
But none of us seem able to escape on our own
All voices silenced for the sake of the rude,
the drunkard has-been, and so many varieties
of dream abandoned lives.
I fail to see any exit, reasoning, or plan.
These are the trials of a wisdom seeker
trapped in a pretty shell - conjuring Hell.
The west side of this city is falling apart and
my house is definitely no exception.
Any wealth left is gained from trading in
talent, hope, and aspiration for meager work
in refineries and plants that pollute
the bloodstream. Causing Decatur
to purposely decay into Lethe and
remove itself from memory and history - suicidal city.
I am just another generation in a long line
of poor romantics who close their eyes to the world.
I must have been born with the wrong last name
and composed of the wrong ingredients.
I may have insight, but no one dares or cares to hear it.
These people have given up on beauty and
have begun the worship of agriculture, but Artemis is no where to be seen.
My world has abandoned appreciation or art
because they have stripped it down to a profitable formula.
This may be a hopeless venture.
They have infected me with their grief.
Let the slumber of the soy city wash over me.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 10:36 AM UTC
The Haunting of the Ol' Fisherton Bay Morticianary, Pt. 1
The nights were longer, as though at bay...
It's time for the artist to make his way.
"It's a mighty profitable business,
isn't it Hugh?"
Said the mortician to his dog.
"These ones are old...
Almost as old as you"
As he worked up his corpse,
for its last and lonesome grog.
"Off to burial, this would see,
off with the other one,
whom ever was he...
Off with you too sir; old wasted chap...
Make for the wedding soon,
of woods and crap;
I shall expect a clean and smoothly slit,
to slip here this trap.. and finish it quick!
his final dance; adieu.. farewell..
Soon riddance will follow,
of you as well."
Yelled the mortician to the delving man,
To take over from here while still he can...
A.r. Bazian
Jan 26th, 2016
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
Chairs were creaking from the strain of ignorance,
as the habit of ignorant anticipation gripped the
edge of a creative moment to disrupt thoughts
which hoped to choose the pastel colors of an
expressive photograph. Rather than deep garden
saturation, the light, fading to become ghosts
of movement, offered a place of acceptance. Shrugs
rounded the shoulders of the road, so it could be
claimed that no responsibility hindered the
development of suspension systems. Political
levitation supported the dancers as they turned onto
the public stage in a forum of occupation. The state
of the street, in the absence of smooth nylon, brought
the parachutes down to flutter, disconsolately, above
the pavement. Single waves of regret were drawn
to leave the stage, but, as this effort was declined,
determination measured resolve based upon
community options, described in the local papers.
Setting the pages down, each day, the play became
enamel baked onto the restoration and the satisfaction
which kept them all together as a group. Certain
curtains were raised, as others were lowered to close
the door excluding the poor
from the equal share of space related to the experiments
of the place.
Conversation by clerks sculpted freedom to crimp the
brass cases in ways not accepted by sprites in mid
flight. These were the colors in the ledger interpreted as
shades of gray or flashing midnight blue, faint copper,
and pearly white. Forces of education were dismissed
as a superficial demonstration indicating the character,
intensive.
Thus, they were reaching for the money, but funding
remained a gift offered only to those admired and,
through the glass, profitable by cultural attributes. Some
thought the process was the singular importance of an
event. The dancers were dreaming, as they rehearsed.
Another kind of artist discarded the event in favor of the
documents and images meant to persist. These, the
dancing players favored as memories to be contemplated,
some to be cherished.
Materialism, since it included spirit, ruled the transient
existence experienced as joy. Perception brought
enjoyment into being, yet when the unusual critic walked
away, it was a dispossession. Other critics were members
of the team.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
The beauty of youth will forever belong at your side, and therefore it will stay
Even after the hairs upon each of our heads begin to glow like a white halo ray
After it has turned from the fairest of golds to whispy alabaster whites and greys
Never shall youthful beauty whisper farewell to us on any occuring days
Even after long are gone the glorious days in the past and time we have spent
Now filled with the sad longing, with hurting glances, in which is called resentement;
These are from the multitude of wrinkles; of which to gain we never meant
But still; the beauty of youth weeds out those feelings, helping us to repent
The thinning upon our heads? Remind us of the days we were conspicuously snooty
Because those were the fruitful times in which we were often called a "natural beauty"
Noses in the air because we thought being beautiful was our righteous duty
Only now the surface of our faces have been wrinkled and bleached like an old dried abalone
The bounties of our short timed youth, have long been washed away with the waves of time
But that allows us to remember; and rejoice at every steep mountainous climb
Through smiles and laughs; and the misshaps in which we were thoroughly covered in grime
The beauty of youth resonates through every memory even when it tries to be sublime
The richest of light is not from youthful beauty; but forever it will always be lit and cast
The light from the joyful sound of chirping birds; and the tirelessness of laughs,
Of the mindless days we spend vainly dreaming, stepping off our "to be discovered" paths
With the hopes of regaining our once beauty filled and profitable youthful pasts
(Those are the very brightest, of every youthful light)
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
It was just a whisper of a touch,
That’s all that was needed for me to arrive at this beautiful confusion. . .
The kind that winds down a narrow road to the deepest part of your being and shakes you inside out.
Relentless in my pursuit now,
To taste you. . .
To live inside your mouth and lie inside your unharbored creativity even if it is just for a season.
The day to day gives way to nights spent waiting for you.
I conjure up excuses,
To invite you to tip toe in again softly,
To sit with you so close and warm,
An unmatched fleeting security,
An exhilarating free fall to my stomach
-Which I crave
I ponder the most profitable path to gain access to your heart
The usual maps I've followed do not take hold with you. . .
To creep slowly like a cat on the prowl?
Guarded and wise?
To run open armed and embrace?
To not think of how it may end?
Like with you and me,
Lying naked on the floor, our bodies sweaty and tangled?
Your eyes searching for the door?
No you are a different breed.
A roller coaster ride of yes and no.
A delicious collection of untamed sexiness and unattached heart.
The challenge of the unattainable.
And I, lusting after your game,
Will learn you.
And possess you.
Until my hunger,
Is only quelled by your matched
Desire
Dec 24, 2009
Dec 24, 2009 at 9:53 AM UTC
*you know, i can **** before i become homeless; yes? ok... cheerio.*
when i experience no intelligence
after being educated, it's
hardly an expectation to
experience any after... desirably hoped for, that
which offers up the antonymous by-product that's
despaired after so freely, and all those more profitable affairs
of a literate nature to engage with: to be
enslaved likewise missing; oh the gravity
as nothing falling, the tears on my cheeks
with vide cor meum, ah, but you see,
i can stomach a cage and being caged,
should i be forced into a freedom that's
only homelessness.
oh so many insignias of pause that were never
given a mathematical rubric of allowed deciphering!
that grand pause of arithmetic in the undecided
length of pause between (,) (.) (;) and that italicised
pause of (:) readying (a) list(s) of emphasis; let alone
the hyphenation of all the lost emphasises of Pompeii
(embark tongue tied into the grapheme æ);
or embark asking between the threes that are
direct and indirect articulation of plurality,
given then the anti of pluralism is god, and that's neither
direct or indirect, consolidating the direct as prayer
and the indirect as atheism.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 7:15 PM UTC
ignorance follows me around every corner
and i’m tired of running away to avoid it
i live in a world where post-rape abortions must be proven to be legit
where ****** is advertised to come with a free **** kit
this world is a place where musicians make more than the president
and foreign residents with phd’s are struggling to make ends meet
a continent is left to die to the beat of the greed and street crime
the faces of the dying people don’t look like mine, so i guess it’s fine
i can carry a television with me in my pocket and make phone calls on it
there’s a hit reality show about a five year old girl dressed up like a corner ***
child molesters are taking fashion notes for their dungeon homes
fairy tales are profitable and everyone is worried about a zombie apocalypse
the living dead exist miserably in mass housing and arthritis has destroyed their threat of violence
we are now split in a rational debate over fulfillment of two thousand year old myths or if aliens will come back for us
and a man gets top billing in a national political conference to talk to a chair about war and the capital deficit
actresses are paid thousands of dollars to put make up on and get punched in the face
gladiatorial arts to amuse the masses resurrected for the television age
bread and circuses but there’s no bread left so let’s give them a show
i’m rambling like a crazy man but i don’t see the cameras rolling so it’s all for naught
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC