"profligate" poems
Her name was Nanette -
A student from France
Who wore red blouses
And **** red pants
She wanted to check out
The U.S. of A.
So a couple with twins
Hired her right away
The twins had their own
Ideas for fun
They loved Disney World
Their place in the sun
They frolicked on rides,
Ate hot dogs galore,
Loved parades, Mickey Mouse,
Fireworks, and more
But Nanette's heart wasn't in it
The job was no fun
She had no real interest
In tending to the young
Nothing could cheer up
This nanny from Paree
She'd rather read tabloids
Than watch twins under three
She clearly preferred
The company of guys
With muscles, tattoos,
And Jello shots on the side
The guys were bad boys
Completely entranced
By the Parisian charmer
And her flair for romance
But the parents were upset
With her profligate passion
They decided to dismiss her
In a daring fashion
They took her to the
Tower of Terror one day
And left her shrieking
As they ran away
And that was the last time
They ever caught sight
Of that naughty Nanette
From the City of Light
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
There is a brisk discountenance
in an angry Mother's Moon
for their bespoke Sons onwards,
they snap their beaks,
pea size humanity,
resurface buried adrenaline
from hockey days,
inwardly angry at their profligate fertility.
Its enough to de merit the spirit,
then store
a prosaic promise
that when older
their *** is marked for attention,
a discourteous tail chasing.
A mark of a indoctrinated Son.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 9:00 AM UTC
In a carnal fervour, my desire doth swell,
An inferno of passion, a tempestuous hell.
My heart a cauldron, ablaze with yearning,
My mind a labyrinth, ever churning.
A symphony of sensation, a crescendo of lust,
My senses awhirl, my body ******
In a rapturous fervour, my senses alight,
With a longing unquenched, a hunger for delight.
My ***** ache with a pulsing need,
A carnal craving, my body doth plead.
A profligate yearning, an insatiable hunger,
A fervent desire, an insistent urging.
A tumult of emotion, a deluge of ecstasy,
A tempest of sensation, a maelstrom of bliss.
A whirlwind of passion, a conflagration of lust,
My heart aflame, forever to combust.
So let us succumb, to this frenzied desire,
And bask in the warmth of this passionate fire.
For in the realm of love, there is no higher law,
Than to yield to the tempest, and let passion be the awe.
Jan 22, 2023
Jan 22, 2023 at 6:19 AM UTC
I'd ask thy forgiveness,
but I know thy disbelief of blame.
Though thy terrors be great,
thy bounty is much the same.
Thy systems be wiser
than many can fathom,
and for their presence,
I thank thee.
We have loved you,
respected you,
revered you;
but, then
we also
***** you,
plundered you
and forsook you.
Though we inherit thy Eden,
we voracious inhabitants
squander and profligate thy lush resources
in the name of mere money-
in the name of ourselves;
yet, I dare to reckon
better is deserved by thee,
o Mother Earth.
I hope we can eventually become thy apt sentinels.
I have been honored to be in thy presence.
Thank you for thy selflessness.
I am ashamed on behalf of my kind,
but I know you understand that we're still young.
We'll come around one of these days,
or, if not, I know we'll inherit thy wrath, as well.
If such be the case:
so be it.
I wish it won't come to that,
but, if it does,
at least some of us will surely understand.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
his breath washed against me
like the sea into a pier
in the brown gloom of his basement apartment-
the greenness of our unemployed summer days
halted by Arsenault's phone call
those deep azure ripples in the mohawk river
tinged with creamy moonlight
brought this life to the shore
here we go lie down, lie down-
a conjectural pernicious crimson tide
we wore black as midnight
like still, ominous birds
shrouded, our eyes a profligate deluge,
the cemetery inundated with pink brio
and the ****** yellows of inexpedient sunshine
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
infinity
i stare at the walls for hours on end
and dream about a time when
this box felt like home
and this chipped paint looked like something
other than a reflection of the fist-shaped
holes in my heart from nights
where ****** knuckles were the only
security blankets familiar enough to cradle
against me all night long
the clock keeps ticking,
all day and all night,
like the hands on the glass
that measure the feeble idea of some
meaningless notion from a corpse now
rotting in the same earth he dared to
test the limits of
actually means something
in the big picture
but in the aerial view,
the hands on the clock are all
snapped in two
because time can't save anybody
from vituperative parents;
from profligate neighbors;
from the entire volatile essence of humanity
time does not, in fact,
heal a broken heart,
or toss aside the muddy rug
with footprints of those who whispered
"i love you"
into the pillow case but never
came back in the morning
time can't protect anyone
from even the most unholy
truth of all:
there is no rapture on the brink
of delivery,
there is no antichrist plotting
a resurrection of hell,
there is no divinity coming
to save you from the darkness
inevitably forcing its way
into this world
people are destroying each other
because humanity is flawed
and no amount of time can
ever find the piece of the puzzle
that would sync us all together in
a symphony of lives untouched by the
execrable blood pumping in the veins
of this earth like a poison
time can't save you from yourself
*and so maybe, the hands
on this clock are better off
broken.*
m.k.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
Are we profligate,
Disillusioned by fearlessness?
Running unkempt
Cut loose from Nature’s design,
We rest, only to rise
And seek restlessly
Fruits of a victory ripped from obscurity.
Past the grip of physicality, we speak
Sermons of profundity:
Inclined to faction,
Built upon acuity
of inclination.
An autumn glow
As I run my hand through sun-kissed hair,
Coursing though stalwart gazes,
She tells me I am he.
We kiss.
I shutter,
For I feel unfulfilled.
A causality of
The perceived:
Salience of difference no one sees
Stolen by wonder,
Palpitations of her heart
Slight the silence of her lips as we kissed
And I realized that there’s nothing more
Than to indemnify true sublimation,
Where hearts truly rest,
And rest together.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:06 AM UTC
Wealthy,
by dint of lucky birth
lavish,
by way of early learning,
the boy's body grows,
but his mind does not, and
with all things merely
given
he himself is
given
to taking
all desired things
without
a second thought
Profligate
in action, manner, and style
his brash displays of excess
appear to him
congenial acts of
tempered moderation
his slavish hedonism,
blinds him to the
folly of his ways,
like a child with an
insatiable sweet tooth
and the keys to a candy shop
he peruses the town
in ritualistic fashion
night after night,
sowing seeds of
licentious desire
which bloom
into Devil's Trumpets
of debauched
indulgence
one drink
then another
one line
then another
one pill
then another
one conquest
then another
attained in
rapid succession
pursued with
reckless abandon
awakening
in a different bed
each afternoon
sun beams
piercing the blinds
stinging his weary eyes
his temples throbbing
his vision spinning
his stomach churning
his desire remaining
the void within him imploring:
“ENDURE”
but soon
he discovers his
well of fortune
has finally run dry
the repressed knowledge
of this inevitability
descends upon him
like a Biblical plague
his cards decline
his key refuses to
open its door and
the doors of his conquests
slam in his face
and so
the destitute rake
stumbles pitifully
without aim
with body aching
with knees weakened
with ears ringing
with hands trembling
with vision blurred
with fear and doubt
mocking his every step
the concrete corridors
once so exuberant
now appear to him as
moribund and desolate
graveyards for the senses
the neon banshees
which once broadcast their
sultry siren songs
like choirs of cherubs
heavenly and divine
now sound to him
like the tortured screams
of the ******
rising up
to haunt his dreams
the emptiness remains
echoing his every
tortured thought:
"who am I?"
"what have I become?"
"why am I here?"
"what was it all for?"
awash in the tumult
of the dark night of the soul,
the handsome stranger's limbs
give out from beneath him, and
his mind collapses into deep
and dreamless sleep
whose
countenance mimics
the final embrace
of death
For him,
they are one in the same,
and of deaths,
this will be the first
of many
for he has
but yet begun
to learn.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 4:18 AM UTC
Obdurate and profligate from years of anomie,
I have become hallow due to this sessile pons asinorum
Incurring solely affliction, I know only discontentment;
My existence is damnation, and damnation is my existence...
Enmity and sorrow are the sole tenants of my heart
No matter my anguish, these demons nevermore will depart
Presiding within my occult and dingy soul;
Anon my antipathy will irrecusably attain control
For hope is naught but an opaque postiche-
A whim that dissipates, even when you beseech
-The Bagatelle
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
Profligate pundits and
Philandering plutocrats
Promulgating pusillanimous
Pandering polecats
Put partially putrescent
Punks and pettifoggers
Past pitifully puny pollsters
Pushing the party politics
Of petrified pashas.
Disgusting demagogues
Dealing delayed death
Deeming democracy dying
Deny diplomacy daily
Deftly develop departments
Defending discrimination
Dividing deities from devils
Draining dedicated duties
With disgusting dictatorship.
Sorrowfully sublimated
Citizens of society slide
Swiftly and sequentially into
Sibilant session of silliness
In which similes scintillate
Signifying sensitivities
Of separate sensibilities
Subtly smiting the senseless.
Sauce for the stunningly stupid,
Champagne for the saboteurs.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
This, my tomb of "solace", has not heard me stir,
For months I lay here dying upon little spoken words,
Ingratiating sadness upon what little I have left,
Forced upon a decision to return what was bereft.
-
I must make clear in present story
That I fear not God, nor Glory,
I must **** to not "feel" but "Be"
Whatever here entices me.
Pray tell, what is it that you fear most?
Your Hell, I fear, that I must host.
-
A couplet, a stanza, here and there,
About someone's false blood in air,
For fear of failure do I not agree,
At yet, I claim Death's Majesty.
For you see, I am Death's Reincarnate,
His Left Hand, His "Doom's Profligate"
-
Enchanting screams of splattering blood,
Empathetic scalpels from a figure in hood,
Fate loves the dying and Her wishes should
Bring actions closer to Her decaying brood.
I save the tears and sanguine to bathe,
The last exhale is what I crave
To hear regularly so I may sleep,
To never awake, is what I dream.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
Every blue ****
Rises up warm from the almost-guilt.
Old minds usurp the present
Curious, obdurate thoughts:
The blazing sister of the profligate
Is animal lusting in pale brains.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 6:00 PM UTC
sixty-one minutes ago, a stormy midnight;
I watched the clock hands join as lightning
struck my high pastures
only last month, a twister snatched a steer
and dropped it in my neighbor's stock tank--not a scratch
on its hide after a cylconic half mile ride
tonight I had no fear funnels would find my fields;
the distant thunder claps taunted me, reminding me
they have fierce fire, but don't always bring rain
I watched the clock, waiting for 13:02;
only last month, my wife hid with me
in our storm cellar, praying
I prayed with her, though I doubted
a god was listening, or cared; my entreaties
were not for refuge from the storm
instead, I begged the black sky
my woman would be saved from white
blood cancer--for a miracle
that was not to be--the almighty saw fit
to perform one for a dumb beast that very eve
but not for my wife of fifty years
she lasted until 1:01 AM yesterday
13:01 I strangely conceived; I had the lucky
steer slaughtered at high noon today
I'd let it rot in prairie grass, were it not
for her--she would not want it to be carrion
for buzzards, a profligate desecration
she would want its flesh to be
a feast for a family she did not know;
hands clasped, giving thanks
to the same god that saved it
but not her; I can't rest, I'll watch the clock,
waiting for 13:01 again and again
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 6:17 PM UTC
blasphemy,
is no doubt my intention
for every word I add
will be seen as profligate
there are no blanks to be filled,
but I will fill them
with guilt--not remorse
(or neither, or both)
for sale,
the dead sign
hanging in the window
keeping the sun out,
the whispers in
baby shoes,
ethereally white,
never to be bronzed
or filled with awkward
pink feet, never to be
outgrown or passed down,
with a few sublime scuffs,
to a brother
never worn,
left sitting on
a sky blue sheet
awaiting the feel of feet
stared upon, with rapt attention
by four faithful, faithless eyes
that would wait while words
of comfort fell on deaf ears
but never be filled with tears
as long as the sign read
for sale
blasphemy,
I have committed thee
along with he who convoluted hope, with
six bold words
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
Have you ever been blamed for something you didn't do
You feel violated of your own trust
Sometimes you don't even know the situation
Being blamed for something you didn't do is like a chain on you
Weighing you down from being sane
Propagate and profligate why your life is horrible
In your dreams, you run horridly
Beforehand you were happy
Therefore now you are worsening
Day by day
Have you ever been blamed for something you didn't do
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
Awoke to the sound of gunfire
Chewed teeth pacifying the burning rage against the disease
Mother's Milk a distant dream
And the sweet salt of your super nature
Caressing the cavities in my head
Swallowing the holes in my soul
as metal shards make more young soldiers whole
completing an illusion of control.
How long can you hold onto a necessary reverie?
As long as you need assuming you both agreed to dream tonight,
To face to face the side by side
To never ever lie
To reprobate the profligate
And accept the overwhelm
All allowing of the atmosphere
Loving every moment hard and soft
And every crevasse in the journey between.
Revive the sight of yourself within the mind of one who reveres
the eyes with which they have been blessed to look upon
a ****** deity,
and to worship fading gold and cracked plaster,
knowing it was born to age and die.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
Another glass to fill the void,
The pair cavort and make more noise.
In the picture I stood with this brash man,
he thought he was part of my story
but he was merely part of my plan.
He boasted of his profligate ways
and his tenacious stance was enough to run away.
I told him to cease the pablum jumping from his lips,
he told me he would,
if I would give him one more kiss.
But one was enough
and even that was the mistake,
a fool I was but these decisions we do make.
We drank and spoke so I could forget the past
the acrimony within me, it couldn't last.
His affectation did not pass me by,
But I let him be garrulous as I looked in his eye,
besides what was the harm,
I was only trying to pass time,
desperately trying to move forward
as I couldn't rewind.
A glass broke as we spoke
An augury? I hope not,
I've had it all,
I've had my lot.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
after dinner on the porch
was the best time, he and grandpa watching,
waiting for the storms--a thunderclap
the sweetest note to both of them
sheets of rain rolled across
the big pasture, downdrafts made the boy shiver,
even cradled in the old man's arms
neither would speak, grandpa's good arm
would point, or wave, these movements a code
between generations, theirs at least
finally a twister appeared in the west
growing plumper as it spun across the fields,
spitting gray dirt from its base, a zigzagging
dancer without a care in the world
grandma and Aunt Helen
fled to the cellar, imploring the pair
to follow
though they didn't, for all their hours
gazing at the heaving heavens would have been
profligate had they hid in the ground,
missing creation's greatest crescendo
the angry funnel ate a section of fence
wide as a football field, and felled a tree
not a quarter mile from the house--its roots
too shallow, grandpa thought
when the tempest passed, the sun made
an appearance, slipping between the cloud bank
that birthed the tornado, and the silent soil
in the devil's wake
in its final moments,
it glared at the interlopers on the porch,
perchance admonishing them the promise
of its golden rays was no sacred contract
but a fickle gift
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
We are travelers all our lives.
Like the sun and moon, never come to rest.
When the body stops, the motion survives.
Time twists inside me. I buried two wives,
their love spent on an endless road. My quest
consumed them, traveling all their lives.
Profligate summer mocks my waning drives.
Riddles of the road languish here, unguessed,
where my body stops. The motion survives
In my art’s vigor, you say, derives
force from what now seems the bitter jest
that we are travelers all our lives.
My friend, before the end arrives
There must be time to seek again the west
beyond the sunset, where motion survives
in the dying sun, blazing, as it revives
inhuman tongues that said it best
that we are travelers all our lives.
When the body stops, the motion survives.
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
Open yourself
up to me
like a delicate,
fresh blossom;
I will become
a wanton,
profligate
hummingbird
getting drunk
on the nectar
of your soul.
- mce
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 8:39 PM UTC
Mood
needs trimming,
handling,
thought
beseeches management,
preventions of digression
Yes,
I know these abled tangents,
-peculiar obsessions-
how they float up, moon- mouthed,
dream-lacquered vagrants,
Superlative deliverers
of profligate insistence
Their cool what-ifs
pontificate,
the vacant-eyed
rhetoricals,
excited by this delicate
existence
Aug 4, 2023
Aug 4, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
If I spoke too openly
or had enlarged on what was needed
I twice apologize,
were my plans too profligate,
was it right to want to flourish ?
I can offer no more than my envisaged platform
to safeguard the sedum and bearded iris
that had lost to a profusion of ivy and bramble .
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Methuselah, old profligate wastrel of evergreen time,
In giant generational strides, close the striking distance,
Take my face in its failed vision and drink out the eyes,
One fang at my cheekbone, the tendril of silver music
Shown through, pull out its roots and the topsoil of skin,
Blow from your cadaverous lips to the beadhole of ear,
And whisper about the hours of my hummingbird life.
Here you sing alone with weak-winded isotopes of your half-lives.
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 5:22 PM UTC
Thunder pealed from heavens above
and the clouds a canopy drew,
the drenched trees vigorously swayed
as stronger, the gusty winds grew.
Rage, rage, O storm, blow away
the sorrows and her grieves
bring order through chaos,
as Gaia, in her anguish heaves.
Vent your dolour, unleash your fury
upon prodigal, profligate humanity,
that, the Earth's chastity has sullied,
Besmirched it with utter profanity.
Let your whistling winds vociferate
her plight; thunders, her wrath dispense
let your soothing raindrops nourish
the ailing Earth back to convalescence.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 10:22 AM UTC