"prompting" poems
I adore you
With your forward brow,
Eyes of nightshade and black treacle.
Your image floats and unfurls in the ****** spaces
Between marks posed in gazette.
You stare back at me knowingly,
Cunningly,
As though watching the course of my life unfold.
You have stretched your hand through time
To let it fall in a cold gust across these pages,
Betwixt the folds of my cerebrum,
Your spectral lips prompting faintly
In the nook behind my ear.
-O goddess, O muse!-
O fellow soul…
You have found me.
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 7:29 PM UTC
I'm sad and alone and everything I touch turns to gold,
but that's the life,
amirite?
Money's the only matter that matters and some kids three worlds away are getting kidnapped and killed for quotas while these kids are worried about their quote of the day. And,
by kids,
I mean little girls at age three being sold on the streets and in between sheets in countries that aren't all that far away, and little boys whose coloring pages are filled with explosions and guns cause it's literal
war
they're waging. But down the way, parents are posting posters in their children's rooms prompting inspiration: it's something about peace and love-- I mean, that's what they all say.
Well, I've made my peace with the pieces of this prayer, a priest standing golden over me as I throw my diamond-encrusted hands to the air and scream, "Someone
save me."
But these people don't care.
I am a man of gold with a heart of stone and no one cares because, frankly,
Neither do I.
Statistically speaking, everyone in the States clings to the belief that if they just earned an extra fifteen percent wage annually,
then they could live happily.
But,
darling,
when everything you touch turns to gold, statistics don't
quite
fit
the diagnostics.
I
am the outlier, the outright liar, the purveyor of pride that cost me my life but
who cares? I mean,
I've got my money.
I've got my money in a capitalist country that feeds off circulation and circumstance that leads brains to short-circuit short-cut economic politics and slaughter chances, rather than enhancing the value of a life that money can't add up to.
Welcome to the slaughterhouse.
Welcome to the tolerance of intolerance of humanity. Welcome
to the closing scene, where we can be seen on the Globe, on William Shakespeare's pun-fully named stage cause that's what all the world is,
and so's
this gold.
It's a play,
cause some day the curtains will close and all my props will remain on the stage and I am sad and alone with my heart still fo stone but without any gold. I've
lost
my
touch, and
without this cash I'll be nothing but a ten second news flash announcing to the rest of these underpaid actors that I've been knocked off my throne.
I don't think I was ever a king to begin with,
just a man who could forge
fool's gold.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
All the earth speaks to Your glory Lord
The trees strong and tall stretch up to the sky
Giving food, shelter, shade to so many creatures
The flowers so delicate and beautiful bringing color
And joy to so many. A wonderful gift
The birds, insects, and all creatures create a symphony
You are the master orchestrator Lord
The wind: at times gentle and pleasant others powerful and destructive
Sometimes moving or inspiring, still more, pushing, prompting
Water: reminding of patience, calm, creativity
Great power. Life giving and Life taking. Water shows
The power of teamwork.
Fire: so much power and destruction. Violence and death
But cleansing, purifying, strengthening too
A little bit can be light, a source of pleasant warmth
A guide and used properly a blessing; attractive to others
All nature all earth speaks to Your glory Lord.
Praise and Glory and Honor to You Lord of All!
Amen!
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
Eyes soft as silk, mirror moon-fire along the silver cusp of my soul,
Enchantment wanders the opalescence of this dream,
Heartbeat to heartbeat it pulses, drifting down soft, as stolen breath
Along the throat in this trembling garden of body....
Whispers of hunger, penetrate soft folds of midnight’s caress upon
Velvet’s pout, a taste of honeyed tease, searing spoon-fed ecstasy,
Brushed new, upon warm whispers,
In the wet of US....
A moist fragrance of sighs, unleashed, capturing blossoms swelling, under moon-spill,
Urgent fingertips dance delicately across shadowed yearn;
Undressed, beguiled, stirred sweet, behind naked eyes,
Where lavender ache beckons....
Satin pleasures unbutton heaven in the breath of swollen whispers, and
The breeze of destiny lays tangled in sheets, touching, teasing
The shores of prismatic submission;
Spooning wet, the wild of embers scorching need, prompting the meld of ***** as
Seduction fuses and passion licks unholy wet, cocooned in silk spill...
His melting shadow arches, quivers the canopy of my offering,
Roller-coasted beneath his lip-ride, where fire bleeds my skin, and I am lathed upon the parched desert of his tongue;
Where crimson visions seep, thrusting, deep the lilac of petals, and
Hungry hands trace the rhythm of trembles,beyond the swallowed screams....
Darkened eyes watch, as I burn the ****** slipped from his tongue;
My trembling, hips glisten, trailing whispers, slowly swallowing hidden breath,
Drowning him in an oasis of silken desire, where dewdrops of my rain trickle from the corners of his smile,
Orchid nectar sliding between two tongues, saturated, tasted beyond the press of lips...................
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
Drug; he controls my brain.
He stirs an irresistible blend of chemicals in my body and convinces me to fall for him; he increases blood flow to the primitive areas of my brain and activates the circuits responsible for love and desire.
Adrenaline; he balances my stress.
He keeps my heart strong and healthy as thoughts of him and us dominate me and excite me, prompting me to get tachycardia (fast heart rate above 100 bpm) and my blood pressure to rise.
Dopamine; he regulates my focus.
He stimulates desire and triggers pleasure in me; I remember everything about us, then forget about my surroundings; I am motivated to please him, then I daydream and become unable to stay on task.
Serotonin; he stabilizes my mood.
He charms and induces me to perspire and relax, crave and distance him, lose and gain sleep, feel pain and relief, get happy and upset, and decrease and increase my immune system functions.
Medication; he forces my loveswept cells to go haywire.
He has cured my lovesickness, shooed away my regrets, helped me move on from my past, boosted my (self-)confidence, made me look forward to tomorrow, and offered me a ticket to bliss.
Oxytocin; he enables me to produce lovestruck hormones.
He affects my moral molecules as he attracts my undivided attention, pushes me to trust him, raises attachment and empathy, brings psychological stability, and encourages me to want to be closer to him.
Vasopressin; he causes me to secrete lovetastic chemicals.
He renders me monogamous and continues to have me hooked onto him; he makes me thirst for him, display amorous behavior, defend him and us, and maintain a strong partnership.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 7:18 AM UTC
Sixteen has never tasted so sweet,
Her innocence stains my teeth
Her essence rolls over my tongue
And sits in my cheek
Her taste leave me breathless
Unable to speak
Her grip tightens
Her head lulls back
She breaths in
Heated, laborious breaths
In her eyes
I see untouched depths
I play her nerves like puppet strings
Prompting and pulling her
To heights unseen
We tumble into euphoria
In a fervor of hands and lips
In the light of the moon
We're transported with a kiss
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 9:05 PM UTC
a family album
perhaps especially
or happenstance discovery..
breathless vistas
seashore places
evening laughter gatherings
stark recognitions not
mistaken..
precision abiding..
and then
sudden emergences from
nowhere..
habitual viewing torn
prompting new explorations
awakening patterns unseen..
iceberg revelations
now realizing our settling
assumptions
deceptions and unexpected
origins..
other slices
parabolic mysteries
left and right..
perfect picture now..?
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 3:25 PM UTC
Sa pamamagitan ng kabutihan ng Kanyang Kabutihan
~~~
*the message arrive by private telegraph line,
"write,"
she behests,
more than a mortal's requests,
an authoritative pleading,
an urgent prompting
with an element of divinity attached,
almost a command
by virtue of
her virtue,
who am I to refuse,
though the writing gene/genie,
somnolent, suppressed, quiescent,
melatonined by the pills the
life force feeds us
from a bottle lonely labeled,
"whether you like it or not"
reckless explore the venues
you would prefer to never venture,
so,
this poem becomes her,
this poem be comes her,
this poem be comely
for and because of her
unbare chambers that have rusted shut,
be unafraid,
she seances me telepathically,
in the poet's way,
a crying smile accentuated with
"write of the titles you have confessed
to the body's mind inquisitor
that be stored
in the warehouses
of thy heart"
this irrecusable, willing bidding,
sneaks in the back door,
so easy oiled opened
by virtue
of her virtue
seven years of grain Pharaoh stored
in preparatory for the lean ones that
inevitable
come
yes, have so many would be's
gestated, but not fully formed,
none adequate to honor sufficient
her comely
behest
thus commissioned,
my purposeful mission,
to honor her once more,
with a simple honorific,
her wish, no matter how couched,
t'is my duty to fulfill
so here, full and filled
I grant her wishes,
with impoverished verses inadequate,
for you know her too,
as she full and fills us all*
***by virtue
of her
virtue***
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
I am a physician.Last fall, I had a very interesting
conversation with a patient who is a trucker. I asked her if she knew
anything about deep underground military bases, and then I played ignorant
to see what she would say.
Without further prompting, she informed me she is an independent contractor
trucker, driving 18-wheeler rigs cross-country. She said the bases are real
and are located all over the country, "especially under the mountains out
West". She said one of her main contracts over the last few years has been
with DHS.
She said there are underground roads running all over the United States,
connecting the underground facilities.
She said she has personally delivered many truckloads of supplies to the
underground facilities. For each DHS shipment/delivery, there was a stack
of non-disclosure forms about (by her description) six inches thick she had
to sign.
DHS would attach a tracking device to her truck for each of these shipments
and monitor her truck's every move. She would be told where to go to accept
delivery for each shipment. In each case, she would be escorted by guards
"with machine guns" away from her truck, so she could not see what was
being loaded into her rig. The truck would then be locked by a large lock
with a ring 'as big around as your finger", which had to be torch-cut off
at the time of delivery.
When she would make deliveries, often within underground facilities, she
would again be escorted away from the truck by armed guards, the lock would
be cut off, and the goods would be unloaded.
She said the only shipped goods she ever saw in these DHS shipments were
stackable black plastic things that looked like coffins.
She told be the gov't is getting ready for a collapse, which she told be
she expected might happen as early as late 2014.
She also told me she thinks the gov't has just about everything is needs
stored underground, because the number of DHS shipments has been
declining.
I asked her if she would be willing to have lunch with me and tell me more.
She replied, "yes", but afterwards when I contacted her, she had changed
her mind and would not talk further about it with me.
Another pt of mine, whom I saw within about a week of this lady, is a local
trucker, but he told me that he has lots of friends who are truckers, and
through them, he said he had learned that there are "thousands of miles of
underground roads" running across the country, connecting underground gov't
facilities.
He had just recently, in fact, heard among his trucker friends of a
shipment of frozen meat being shipped to one such underground facility,
totaling four million pounds of meat.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
The simple answer is they were just stories masquerading as promises:
I love you, misunderstood application
Alcohol, induced honesty
Hands, need no prompting
Making love, choreography
Compliments, grammatical recitation
Place in your heart, the corner lining.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
Gentle acceleration secures your every need to lie unbroken
In the midst of the opulence you have found
Prompting the splendor of the arrival of mystical inquiries
Into a tumultuous ocean of feelings unbound
A deluge of fortune revered and proficiently secured
Pours in the radiant warmth of cinder
Polishing the obvious abundance of your need
With moves so unbelievably tender
Unbroken and unbound your intuition refines the spaces
Once only exclusive to a well chosen few
While all knowledge of the mysteries glowing in the cinder
Plunge deeply into the soul of you
You rejoice in the enlightenment of the opulent treasure
Which empowers the depth of the knowing
While watching from the shadows in the back of your mind
Unbroken, unbound and glowing
Jul 1, 2010
Jul 1, 2010 at 7:58 AM UTC
I sure miss you here,
(In the hope that
you miss me too)
And if you don't,
I don't know
where this narrow path
through dense woods
will take me at the end.
No way, I could go back
to the begining when
my hope is there in the
journey's end.
Presumptions, we think
would have no thorns to fear,
but cause vein jumps
again and again that may prove
the grapes were sore after all.
Every wish prompting one
to hit the road, often with
no rhyme or reason, would
have underlying conditions,
though unseen from where one starts.
Why, are we afraid to speak openly
how the journey would end
even when we set out so excited?
On your wall beyond the reach
of my eager eyes are sketches
still incomplete;
that may break or make me.
And what it does to you then
is an idea vague in my imagination.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 3:23 PM UTC
The bridge character
is essential to the narrative,
it's just not HER narrative.
And later,
as if because the readers
have asked for more,
as if something about her
caught their imagination,
prompting fresh fan questions,
she features again
and the panels frame
more detail,
more of her back story,
her motivation
and perhaps we learn
her true name.
In a few years time
it may be that
a reader develops into a writer,
or perhaps an editor,
and a story is commissioned
telling HER history
with colour,
with space
and we see, at last,
her scars
and at last we see
the essential essence
of how she came to be.
And we identify
with HER.
But one night
when we look back
when we read again
that first appearance,
we realise that there remains
some unexplained detail,
a few missing pieces of her jigsaw
and as we put the final touches
to our too tight cosplay,
we wait, with hope
for her OWN title
that just might reveal
her full narrative.
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 2:02 PM UTC
Saintly cassock,
Glittering altar
Ornamental pulpit.
Driving the congregants
in a paroxysm of fib,
Gullibility enshrines adherents
hearts.
Do you know the Messiah more
than the apostles ?
Thou traders in the temple.
Parrotic tongues set out
commands
Loquacious sweet-coated mouths
misdirects faithfuls.
But the uncreated Creator who
creates creatures watches
Dreadful silence astonishingly
permeates the entireness
of the universe.
Do you preach love?
Do you follow peace with all?
Ye robbers in the temple.
Command darkness to produce
light.
But you turned moonlight into
tale.
Can you display Davidic dance
steps on the road?
Profanity of sanctuary with
false homiletics.
Merchants of dross in tabernacle
Speak.
Let us hear you.
Preach
To the congregants.
Righteousness afar from the
apron of faith.
Charity locked up in the
tunic of hope.
Sanctity of holiness sprinkled
into the tributary of sin.
Commanding the stars to turn
to sun,
Captains of night in light.
Ye robbers in the sanctuary.
Pastoral advertisers of chattels
in the tabernacle,
Merchandising gold dross in
sermonic hymns.
Sugar-coated doctrine wept in
the tomb of Lazarus.
Prompting Him to weep again?
Ye merchants in synagogue.
Disentangle faithfuls from the
webs of worriment.
Dislodge congregants out of the
shackles of sin.
Deliver ignoramus from the
isle of incendiary.
Let the sifter of strength
separate out afflictions from
feebleminded faithfuls.
Ye robbers in the temple
You love prayers more than God
But who answers prayers?
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 3:45 AM UTC
Everything is happening so quickly
so many negatives surpassing the
insignificant glimpse of positives
that never seem to suffice,
there’s always this light at the
end of the tunnel that everyone
speaks of, yet i continue to see darkness;
a journey down this long tunnel brings
no illumination but only a continuance
of nihility, the damp walls
seem to bring the chill humidity
closer and closer with each step,
the droplets echo the narrowing,
flickering lights dissipate at passing,
the gag sparking stench of sewage
and ***** make the voyage to
light even more unbearable than the
previous hesitant inching towards
the so called spoken about bearability of life,
sudden scintillations of light bring sight
of russet, worn doors, consecutively placed,
discoloured of crimson roadkill,
I open the first door and see a woman
tied and bound, gag in throat,
beads of sweat turning the white gag
to watered milk,
the dirt beneath her nails entwines with skin
and blood dredged by her own fingertips,
to front is a tray of what seems like
torture tools
*intrigued, I slam the door
and avoid a kiss
from Judas*
The next door, I open and see a man
sitting facing the corner,
wrapped in a flickering fan,
staring at a wall of carvings of ticks and dashes,
to see arms of cuts and gashes,
with a tray next to him
comprised of razors and knives
he sits picking at skin of bruises and hives,
tempted to grab the tool and corrode self,
with the reflection of whats within, I slam the door
and avoid
Finally the third door
eagerly stares to
me with anticipation boiling veins,
I press my ear to foreshadow,
I hear a cries; a man of hatred
and a woman of pain
I open the door and find a bottle of whiskey
I take a swig and feel as if Judas kissed me,
Within the third door; walls
with peepholes to confirm the calls
on the left I see the sliding knife
over-panting roadmaps of russet to
the neck of the bound woman,
the screams are deafening,
they present a vibration,
stuttering thoughts, and releasing the fixation,
prompting the admiration
to view the second door,
I see myself, in door 2
tremors and convulsions
seeing blood expel every vein
as the verticals
halt oxygen to the brain
Departure brings me
to the abysmal realm of society
where the burden of negativity
proves to provide no proof towards what
differs between the endless, narrow
tunnel-visioned cesspool of bone marrow
and psychosis driven visions and the
narrow pathed voyage of life.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
the puppet man
the puppet man
pulls on the prompting
strings
he makes good use of the
things
them dolls answering to his
rings
how well he handles the
strings
the puppet man
the puppet man
oh yeah he's got a tight
*****
influencing what the dolls do on his
pew
all of them dancing along in
review
ever he'll call with the strong
*****
the puppet man
the puppet man
manipulating the dolls every which
way
he has them co-opted by his
sway
coercive the show's tugging
display
so he'll obtain his own
way
the puppet man
the puppet man
a
stellar
hotshot
all
the
dolls
working
for
his
spot
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 7:05 AM UTC
Ripe Berries
a lifetime on the vine
Forming, filling with desire
Juice brewed in the Seraphim's Cauldron
Whose taste is yet unknown
Its foreign scent of dark cinnamon and salty caramels hang heavy in the air - thick
The season of the blossomed jewel comes, emerging
as a lunar eclipse sailing silent, darkly, ships in the night
hidden from all mortal gaze, except the most discerning eye,
guiding the fortuitous thumb -
meeting the firmly placed finger, to deliver sweetness from the branch to the welcoming tongue,
as the handsome praise of the berry's thorough flavor will reach far into the heights of eternal sensations, soaring beyond planetary lust,
prompting us to fathom the size of the possible
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 10:40 PM UTC
it rains
and i smile.
dopamine pumps
as water vapor
excited by evaporation
and
exalted by the elevation,
wishes to remain in the clouds.
but the float is fleeting
and eventually a rain falls.
with it the water,
so enlightened by the episode,
returns to the surface
as it was before
but somehow new.
to remember but never miss being a gas,
understanding the evanescence of effervescence
while
everblue junipers
caress the wet sidewalk
and twigs hug the curb
as they float down the street.
tomorrow sand will appear
at the edges of the road.
I haven't
watered my garden
in over a week.
but
now spear shaped tendrils
of liquid hydrogen monoxide
plummet down at
twenty two miles per hour
making patterns across the
wet surface of the earth.
in the bright spots
rain drop splashes
stumble back and forth
across the dance floor
like cymbal crashes.
wasps,
grounded
by wet wings,
begin their slumber
early,
jaws locked,
legs dangling
off the stem of a flower
whose petals are
battered and wet.
the newly
pregnant
ocean
swells unnoticeably.
streams emerge,
rivers rob banks,
puddles form
around
orangeskin pores;
and the
everblue junipers
caress the wet sidewalk.
triggering
the docile drum
of dopamine,
pulsing,
pumping.
prompting
the corners
of the
eating,
speaking,
spitting hole
to elevate,
elongate, ebb,
and stretch apart
exposing crooked
violent jagged bones
that broke our gum.
the docile drum.
as water vapor
comes to understand
the evanescence of effervescence
to a syncopated beat,
i smile.
May 28, 2011
May 28, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
Insane some, wild some
Show some
Right then, they them
Palatable Showmen
High hold, glimmering gold
Unfaithful men of bold
Hypnotic beads of satin,
Women of exotic
Crippling scars at birth
Becomes this fellows worth
Odd...
Melodies of Nightmares
A mirror, a hole - of Human's participating role
Amused, by Truly our fears our utter disgust,
But under the tent one feeling robust
Hidden in intoxicating luster
Mildly prompting the feelings of pride, and a condescending guise
Under the Fabricated tent, there's a disgrace
We feel beauty, oh how I, the better man!
Only because it's not our face
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC
That drunken altercation
With legs writhing and
Palms larruped
Leaving hand-shaped welts
On pink skin,
That error that cannot be undone
Will forever haunt me,
But the ghost follows
Two hosts.
When he looks into my eyes
And feels himself within me
The vision of the other man
Tip-toes around the back
Of his brain,
Lingering like the smell
Of garbage,
Prompting him that he’s
Not the only one to
Kiss my lips,
Or trace the curves of
My hips,
Or tell me that he loves me.
Though he gave his forgiveness,
Let me stay inside his heart,
The memory is crippling,
And a part of me is lost.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
i have long since desired to "be somebody", for i already am.
sometimes confidence escapes me, as if it were carbon dioxide.
positive prompting enforced by words from a friend down the street, or across the country may be what keeps us all going
when the coldness of doubt creates hesitant characteristics.
as i get lost in thoughts, i want to guarantee that i am not alone.
but a guarantee might just be an unfulfilling word in this false advertising world.
an outside perspective is often necessary, even when isolation can give the impression of trumping solidarity.
After all my decisions are the one and only true responsibility
learning to have have faith, and performing my actions with assertive behavior is indeed something i need to work on.
Jan 31, 2010
Jan 31, 2010 at 9:44 AM UTC
I used think
Of suicide
All the time
How
When
Where
But really,
Suicide
Sounds like a lot
Of work
What I really wish
Is that death
Would just take me
And I wouldn't have to come
To it
That I would fall from great heights
But not on purpose
That a bear would eat me
Without prompting
That water would take me
Without my help
That I would just die
But not on purpose
Or even better
But truly impossible,
I wish I had never been born
That I had never disgraced
This world
With my presence
That I never
Met you
So you wouldn't have to pretend
To be my friend
That I never
Forced my
Ugly words
On people
I honestly wish I had never been born
So no,
I do not
Want to commit suicide
But yes,
I do want to die
Or have never been alive
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
Writing about you is cheap and easy:
Fast-food poetry.
I can queue you up in ink
Wherever a pen is given to me
With little more prompting
Than that soft black hair,
Those unhappy eyes.
You're new old shoes,
Worn thin around the edges
And where the world weighs the most,
But I reach for you for every long journey,
For every quick trip.
I wear you in line
At the McDonald's in the airport.
I don't order anything,
But I pour you onto napkins
And let you flutter away-
Nothing new.
'Q
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
Part One
We sat on a strange wooden platform
Which hung suspended
From a strange metal structure.
And we kissed in the daylight
With cars passing by.
It struck me then
That I hadn’t kissed anyone in the daylight
With cars passing by
In over two years.
And I’d never before
Kissed anyone in the daylight
With cars passing by
Who identifies as a Marxist.
Or who loves Virginia Woolf.
Or who takes her sandals off to splash in muddy water without prompting and
Without even rolling up her jeans.
Or whose love of life captures her in the same contradictions as mine.
And I haven’t written a love poem
For someone who might also be writing me love poems
In over two years
But this is it.
Here it is.
This is it,
Here it is,
In four days
We will live in separate cities
And then I might not kiss anyone in the daylight
With cars passing by
For two more years
Or two more after that but
Such a possibility strikes me as unlikely.
Not because we can commute but because you showed me
As we hung suspended on a strange wooden platform
Kissing in the daylight
With cars passing by
(As we braved the mosquito bites in that field that night;
As we waded through the creek today
While thunder cracked all around us
And rain poured down right upon us)
That I am someone who someone worth loving
Can find worth loving.
Part Two
Or hang on.
It doesn’t have to be like that.
It doesn’t have to be like kale soup,
Which has been connoted for me as representing the preservation of tradition and community while effecting radical change within the food system.
It can instead be like artichokes
Which I just like
For no ******* reason
Other than that they’re good.
We each got over 40 mosquito bites because,
While we lay in a field under the, like, five stars that decided to show themselves at the peak of the Perseides meteor shower,
We were too busy making out to give a ****
And it was fun.
It was fun, and tonight when we got dinner and you asked me to explain why I liked artichokes so much
We abandoned our tradition of narrative, us English majors, and we decided to study Sociology,
Because sometimes it’s better to look at how things are
Before you even ask yourself why.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
Assertion
Clammed-up
On the relay
Second guessing
The shrunken head
Of old therapies
The clock says
It's time
To nod off
Greet the morn
With withered fist
Rationalised fury
Trying to
Replace the
Pimply face
Of ******
Angst baseless in
Content
On the tether
Of just another
Addiction in a
Succession
Of spiritual
Vices perpetuated
By the nonchalant
Visage of a world
Uncaring
In derision
From calloused hands
Caused by
Hard work
With little or no
Monetary avail
Hand to mouth
Foot in mouth
Hand on crotch
Crotch saddle sore
What's the point
Of a worn-down point
Dull but
Double-edged
Just to prove
The sword of Damocles
Is still hanging
Over the head
Of your enemies
Who pop
Their heads
Up over
The hedgerows
Like pictures
In a shooting gallery
At the carnival of
A battlefield distant
Filled with relics
Of another
Dead-end
Ill-purposed war
Of the worlds floating
On the crest of
Mine-dotted airwaves
Prompting viewers
To drown negativity
And to salvage
The positive
A broadcast from
Bipolar formats
In living colour
Double-edged
Double-standards
Double-dealing
Double-meaning
Double-minded
Double-jeopardy
Double-trouble
Double your money
Doppelganger leading
Double life
All propagated in
Double-time
Best
Double your efforts
And tune out!
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 1:42 PM UTC