"propriety" poems
Day by day I fritter away
Observing decorum as best I may
Meet me as you meet — reserved somebody
Leave me as you leave — dull nobody
Dreary, weary, listless, spiritless
A resting spirit clamours to emerge
Unguided, wild, free and seeking
Boldly defying reserved somebody
But how, just how do I unleash this defiant spirit
For it is to cross all conceivable limits
Oh but a mask, of course a mask!
The perfect accessory for this task!
Careless of propriety
Boastful of daring
Acting against my will
Or in tandem with it?
This mask — just now I can't discern
Ponder I do with great concern
Does it shield my identity
Or render truth to it?
So now just what fun in masks
One may ponderously ask
Masks, bring to life fantasy
Fantasy, a realm of our reality
Reality, wherein lies multiplicity
Multiplicity, within each individuality
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 11:04 AM UTC
People, they just ain't all golden, not at all.
Not even silver, magnesium or copper.
Maybe zinc, because it tastes like ink and it does your body good,
but you never get enough, even though you know you should.
But had I the means, and the ends were understood,
would I be zinc? Would I carry the common good?
Would I feign precious metal? Or am I nothing but wood?
I met today aluminum, he said, "I'm bad luck."
"I know it," I said, "You're out of your element."
"My melting point is 660.2°C!"
I told him my name was Kristian Huselius,
but that turned into a testament.
"You're just lucky you aren't a duck," he said.
"Maybe, but I find I've got too much will."
"You can't spread will on bread, my friend,"
he said, much to my Brazil,
"but lucky for you they make contraceptives in pills."
I didn't want children anyway, but when Boron arrived,
I was feeling less than sublime.
Boron said, "My name rhymes with 'moron'!"
"No kidding, Boron," I replied.
"I can come in both the dark crystal and brown powder variety!"
"That may or may not be true," said Aluminum,
"but at least I benefit society."
Oh, yeah, he said it, he went there.
"I value correctness and propriety!" Boron shrieked.
"And you can be flimsy, squishy, and weak!"
I wanted no part in this, so I meandered.
Not too long after, I met Helium.
I told him my name was Carlton Deandre.
"I don't believe you, mealworm," he bombasted.
"You're gaseous," I said, "I wouldn't put it past ya."
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
It’s the morning after the last heart session
Eyes open but brain still crackling with static and white noise
When I try it again
Hoping to get pen to paper
Before consciousness can recover sufficiently to intervene
And proffer pretty syntax to the poem
Hold the mind blank
And stack the words in rows of green growth
Like garden beds
That only need time and attention to bear fruit
Let truth come from some other place
Than reason or left brain
Or the extensive vocabulary
Meticulously indexed in the cranial cavity
Somewhere near the brain stem
Or maybe in the DNA
As C, T, G, and A
Storing data like binary only twice as complex
The recall mechanism operating in the darkness of our comprehension
Apprehension of its failure threatening to leave the poem unfinished
Unillustrated
Uncalibrated
Un-fact checked
Like that matters somehow
Like the facts are important in art
Like the right brain has no sense of propriety
Just as surely as the heart tells lies in gibberish
A chattering maelstrom of syllables in a cyclonic vacuum
And yet somehow the heart speaks with perfect clarity
Uncluttered rhythm
Timing and flow
So you know there is more going on here than we fully understand
Lend a hand to help decipher the intentions of a part of yourself wayward from the rest of you
Leading to a collapse of the ego
And a blurring of the lines between you and I
Turning discrete data into continuous
On the fly
On the run
Under sun and and moon and sky
Until the day that even death fails to be discrete
Or even an event any more important than a fire
Converting energy from one form to another
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:42 PM UTC
I used to live in a country
That was based on liberty
And where just anybody
Could achieve prosperity
That with assured equality
And working diligently
One could expect definitely
To succeed economically
If you saved all the money
Left over from your salary
To save to bring your family
A step closer to solvency.
Not an impossible proposition,
It was based on the condition
Of a grand national institution
Which promised that stabilization
By taxing us and corporations
With an equitable correlation
Between folks of humble station
And the larger organizations
Working in happy syncopation.
A welcome feeling of elation
Would descend upon our nation
And keep us from stagnation
Or going into nationwide deflation,
Or just as scary, a huge inflation.
Now I look upon our history
And see decades of misery
Laid upon us by calumny
By those meant to fortify
And build up our security.
The constant forces of calamity
If we accept less than probity
From those who have no honesty
Choosing leaders based on beauty
A national cult of personality
Then permit political chicanery
By people with no dignity
Only a greedy criminality
That pretends to propriety
And a devout base of spirituality
When what we have is actually
A kangaroo court of dishonesty
Without a care for the citizenry.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
it was a strange and fragile Kombination--
a desperate, lonely Hunger,
frenetic Thrill to sate--
we didn't speak each other's native Tongues
but Tongues we shared
in what we found, of random Meals,
and Pocket Lexika to taste
hidden Idioms we strove to understand..
our Bodies splashing Wasser
in the murky Spree, ******* Fountain by Berliner Dom
licking Lips of Bier und Eis a ways away from Reichstag Bullet Holes
below the steel Spirale encased in Glas
transparent Government--a Show for Tourist Stroll..
our Smiles glinting, coated international, that Week agreed
"eine schwester-bruder liebe.."
temptation--and propriety--preserved--
pale lotion, paler skin to honey in the sun
aloft in hostel bunks we shared--
a cush historic castle, touristische nook
of maps and candy pockets, so geil..
gleeful us, to melt from moscau and new york
we shared the deutsch between us,
ein bisschen englisch,
a bit of russisch too for fun...
our soulwise checkpoint charlie held the lust at bay
despite lustgarten romps
and walks beneath the lindens, lane of sighs..
an awkward bridge of question-words we built to muse about the stars
and what we see with only strangers never seen again.
we named ourselves an instant familie...so you could snore on me,
and let me stroke your hair
without the guilt of infidelity
the freedom from, we traded in our blatant,
goodbye tears you shed, i kept inside to craft mnemonic gems
i share and savor in again
'
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
Many were their numbers
Living in city streets and slums
Brothers and sisters torn asunder
Gathered up like bums
Nineteenth century’s answer
Created by Children’s Aid Society
Indentured servants to farmers and ranchers
Shipped in cattle cars like propriety
Struggling in their suffering
Confused used and oft’ abused
Terror in their wayfaring
For being parentless accused
The disruptive ones placed in chains
Scattered to the winds across the land
The far west and the Great Plains
North to Canada and south of the Rio Grande
Billy here, Danny Boy there, and Sally who knows where
The Children of the Orphan Trains
r 13 Nov 13
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
Alice in her wonderland could never have imagined
that the bounty of the promise land was not found in her companion.
She would have sought to make him king
she would have bought him everything.
But falling short of all her providence,
he would need some sort of evidence;
to show that indeed twas he
who from greed was very free,
and could love her in her poverty
if say, from above she'd loose propriety.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
*Integrity over Popularity
Mystique over Physique
Wisdom over Education
Spontaneous over Meticulous
Patience over Anxious
Peace over Pace
Grace over Face
Elation over Frustration
Spiritualism over Materialism
Honesty over Secrecy
Passion over Fashion
Honey over Money
Poetic over Pedantic
Relaxivity over Productivity
Attitude over Pulchritude
Gaiety over Propriety
Intuition over Sophistication
Intimacy over Privacy
Devotion over Ambition
&
Love over Everything*
~ For my best friend, Piglet <3 ~
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
Shoot me, You might as well, cause I'm a threat
A threat to your system, a threat to your net
profit and status quo, so pick up that gun shoot me and pray to the ground I go, and when you bury me you better call me a madman and pray that the martyrs don't grow
You may as well shoot me Mr.Police officer,
It may put your employers at ease
One bless black man with a heart of power
One less antibiotic to your disease
Don't forget to tell me I'm resisting, don't forget to tase me til I fall
Don't forget to choke me so those listening won't hear my struggles, my calls
Don't forget to have the media depict me as a **** and a criminal and a menace to society
Don't forget to reprimand and berate me
Remind your older white listeners that my kind, my skin color
is still not considered American Propriety
But more like American property, disposable goods
So **** me, the cameras are recording but don't worry you'll get off free
Might be just a conviction but your Massa's new henchmen and ***** still got the key
A couple months paid administrative leave so you can sit on a beach, drink some ice tea
Mad that you can no longer put chains on our wrists so you put handcuffs instead
No longer pulling whips across our backs so you bury hot burning lead
No longer working your fields for all to see but instead privatized free prison labor with your warden holding the key.
Martin told me when he us that he had a dream
I got his same DNA in my bloodstream
And in every cell in my body I feel the effect, I teem
I boil I scream, when I see a black mother or father gunned down by police men and the children witnessing the death, the blood, the stream.....
I scheme, and when I sleep, I dream
And when I dream it's bad news for you
to avenge those we lost by crimes, undue
To put a stop to all of you.
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 9:13 PM UTC
Oh, I should like to ride the seas,
A roaring buccaneer;
A cutlass banging at my knees,
A dirk behind my ear.
And when my captives' chains would clank
I'd howl with glee and drink,
And then fling out the quivering plank
And watch the beggars sink.
I'd like to straddle gory decks,
And dig in laden sands,
And know the feel of throbbing necks
Between my knotted hands.
Oh, I should like to strut and curse
Among my blackguard crew...
But I am writing little verse,
As little ladies do.
Oh, I should like to dance and laugh
And pose and preen and sway,
And rip the hearts of men in half,
And toss the bits away.
I'd like to view the reeling years
Through unastonished eyes,
And dip my finger-tips in tears,
And give my smiles for sighs.
I'd stroll beyond the ancient bounds,
And tap at fastened gates,
And hear the prettiest of sound-
The clink of shattered fates.
My slaves I'd like to bind with thongs
That cut and burn and chill...
But I am writing little songs,
As little ladies will.
2.9k
I have eyes
But I don't see what I don't like
I have ears
But I won't hear what I don't want to hear
I have a memory
But only remember what's convenient
I have thoughts
But I keep them in safe cages
I have a mind
But I refuse to change it
And so, you see
Let rhetoric over-rule logic
Let fake news obscure truth
Let corruption replace propriety
Let bluster confound reason
Let nepotism overcome merit
Let democracy be obliterated
As long as I don't have to admit I was wrong
By Phil Roberts
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 8:05 AM UTC
To start --
being an adolescent with autumn eyes,
seeking a prophecy for long-standing bravery
to further the spinning spokes for minutes, five more,
I burned the drapes to reveal a humanity only I could see.
The expectations were elaborately existing, unsatisfying. Sons
and fathers, years refrained from matters
that reverse reverse reverse curses and maturity
without purpose.
Those idle accepted neglect, and the existence of an
unsalted bridge was quickly detained. Alone, the foolish described
to search for the future in geometric formation and coffee ring
stains fading the desk.
But the sense proposed in my decided equality drank dignity
straight from the bottle. The road that lead me between two cliffs,
Propriety and Statistics, with the rocks already pelting down,
could not diminish my enthusiasm for necessary absurdities.
There's no flesh in declared mediocrities.
I became a luminary for pleasures of eminence, hope with resolve,
opportunities in destiny. Blind gambles obliged the fear of exacting
sensibility. Passionate follies created no-regret-consequences,
satisfied stability. Only the **** are granted victories in eternal gaiety.
Mortality is irrelevant if you let mystery be your urgency.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
Rile, you of the critic poets,
at this disregard, which mocks
your sense of propriety
regarding entitlement.
Even you, few stuck-up poets,
must feel the edge of your lip
twitch, turning sharp corners round,
leaning to spy grotesque calm.
Nose through as you would, higher poets,
you shall find no garbage here,
within what space you can sniff.
You snotty few can't complain.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
Congressmen, police and ministers
All can be particularly sinister
When they take it upon themselves
To think of us as shoemakers elves
Fairytale beings who then madly
Exist only to work for them gladly;
Drudges to work for them out of sight,
Creatures that give in without a fight.
A sense of privilege causes this.
As fate is always rather hit and miss
It’s not granted by common sense,
More like a caprice of something dense;
A dark deity that is impressed by wealth
Without regard to someone’s right or health.
And the scary people the malady infests
Seems unaware of the evil it ingests.
Limelight and spotlights are the energy
That often drives their ***** perfidy.
But just as often, these fools don’t care
Who knows of their arts, no need to share.
They while away at greed and perdition
And certainly need anybody’s permission.
They only live to gobble and acquire
And never need anyone call them ‘sire’.
The most frightful of these lustful ones
Are those who ply their will with guns.
They decide the good from enemies
And few seem good to these entities.
They only plot their murderous plans
Without regard to the rights of man.
If you get in their way, you are foe.
That is as far as their thinking goes.
For that is the point here, after all.
These creatures ignore propriety’s call.
And the same with society, it is true.
Those needs, for them, will not do.
They work sorcery behind the scenes
And create acts that are truly obscene.
It matters not what is wrong or right
They are ever-vigilant, day and night.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
As a teenage boy I used to fall asleep at night
listening to the graveled voice of Ernie Harwell
fashion for me word-images of the exploits
by a band of superheroes called the Detroit Tigers.
In those semi-lucid moments before slumber,
I could see the shimmering outline of my destiny:
you see all American boys are meant to be Tigers.
So imagine my confusion, when I fractured
the right talus bone my Junior year of high school,
even putting on weight around the middle,
where no athlete worth his pin stripes would gain.
My karma had begun to take on mass.
I began to acquire knowledge, as the only perceived defense
against some parallel universe impinging upon reality.
Oh, I had everyone convinced, even my keenest teachers
believed I was destined to make my mark in scholarly pursuits.
But no one saw the crying ego of one meant to be a Tiger,
nor how that bottled up the emergence of the Man.
Never reconciled, the Man curled up in fetal dormancy.
Lifespan became synonymous with interstellar drift.
And every encountered star of knowlege was dwarfed,
having long ago collapsed of its own gravity.
Still the heavens of knowledge are auspicious,
so I looked outward, when all the answers lay concealed within.
Only as my life left the outskirts of occluded reality
did I then begin to inherit from my instinctual id,
begin to listen to disconsolate internal voices,
who had known me all along, perhaps better than myself.
The thing is ... the stage has long been set on middle-age,
what props lie about are encrusted with patina,
laden with a dust impossible to gauge or preempt,
made worse by the lack of cast, save one.
Neither Beckett, nor Pinter, could have absurded this.
So, when my acts strike you as quixotic,
when I cut with a penknife through propriety,
it's because I finally remember what it meant to be a Tiger.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
On the edge of seventeen,
And on the brink of eighteen.
Wow ain't that a scary truth?
Growing up is such a funny thought;
You're a carefree kid once upon a time,
And then a mature adult on the clock's next chime.
Turn eighteen, they said,
Join the big boys, they said.
But truth is, adulthood is a serious business,
One that comes with bills, and debts, and losses.
It may be my one ticket to freedom and legality,
but it sure is hell carrying all that responsibility.
So thank you sir for the nice offer,
But I don't really want to get involved there.
I'm comfortable here in my naivety,
Where my childish whims are the propriety.
So let my eighteen candles burn bright up ahead,
Cause I'll douse it out without an ounce of dread.
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 11:53 PM UTC
He’s trick, like enrapturing
Wherein lies the paradox of his pantheism parapet’s paragon
Extraversion embezzlements and euthanasia extortions
Diction’s enunciation echoes of opaque opulence
Its redolence a savory waft
The evolution of psychic clarity’s élan vital
Bizarre dichotomous augur the singer’s aural austerity
Gypsy Queen, his guitar’s moniker, romanced aimed intention
Elaborate elliptical empathy endeavors for posterity’s predication
Pandemically phatic propriety venerations
Their apex crux axis beyond finite solution
Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma
Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix
The individual must remain sacrosanct
Traipsing through the fallow furrows of assimilation’s xenobiotic barratry
Like capillaries' capricious and intravenous intrepid
Incalculably sensual beyond emotion’s expression
Impetus intrigue's intuitional verve
Ethology’s entelechy, theosophy’s theophany
Zoomorphic zoolatry's social contiguities
Futurity's corporeally preternatural fatidic
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
Elope me in your thoughts and all this mental pain.
Like a rope you seem to choke me and cut me off from my brain.
I can't make sense of it, nor can I explain it.
I tried to paint the picture from the window I was "paned" in.
Sprained mind thought I still want to reach you,
Teach me to love you, don't preach that I bug you.
Release my anxiety, I "Leach" on to propriety.
Sobriety is getting harder by the day...
Society is watching me, I'm not sure what to say...
I'm sitting in my rocking chair, typing away a blurred array,
I still write about you everyday,
you haven’t read a word I've saved.
I still think about you every night,
Your closeness is what I crave.
When I talk to you I cave, man I don't know what to say..
I feel less intelligent, but hell your smile, I relish it...
It shines so bright no need for embellishment.
I want to see it all the time, so much I feel so selfish..
It's pure happiness in it's prime,
but the crime is that it's for a lie.
You hurt inside, I seem to help.
I'm on your mind, and you're on mine.
That's fine with me, you're divine.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
It’s a race to the bottom of the bottle
between sanity and sober realization
to every impaired negation and how to
alleviate and mediate the dependancy I
place on finding new routes to the
end of the flask. —
The hands of the bottle hold
dreaded burdens above my head,
bringing life to each morrowed breath,
and write hyms towards yearning
a long awaited wish for death,
sobriety weaves this addiction
of solitude through each thought of
halted life, and pushes it’s back
as it’s heels leave crevices to follow,
a view of darkness to come,
with turning back placing another knot
down a throat with attempt to swallow.
as each run of whiskey drips down the
walls of my throat the sinking ship within
my veins finds strength to stay afloat.
a Wiser whisper tickles at the anticipations
towards taking another sip,
the Hennessy tendencies stutter
a ****** equilibrium captivating
and inching my sanity towards
a shot of sequel librium. —
As ***** spews and consumes
the inhabited ground, a paroxysm
of unconsciousness feels
mentally sound,
blacked out with the following
morning full of acts to repent,
the monetary blackness
proves to be nothing but content,
recollection of priors
seem to fade with the desire of
sobriety and eliminating any hope
towards thoughtless propriety. —
Momentary happiness through
intoxication provides no mediation
between a sober fight for death
and a drunken one, the wish for
lifelessness is just subdued by
stumbling to bed and the inability
to steadily hold a gun to my head.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
i don't believe in the hypocritical moralistic dogma of this so-called civilized society
everyone is finicky, demanding, and ignorant, like society runs on their selfish need
humanity is unhealthy, diseased, deceived by the smoke and mirrors of propriety
starving poets living off their art, starving celebrities living off their titanic sized greed
and people wonder why we have criminals who will do anything to get away with crime
if everyone saw the real side of people, trust would be another delusional superstition
guilt is like spiders crawling onto your naked skin and onto your famished spine
some people believe they are the bricks to rebuild a home with ammunition
we are force fed trust in these strangers in a extremely vulnerable habitat
like a bird's feathers clipped off, we are unable to fly, unable to breathe
like an army without weapons, we are unprepared for the sudden combat
like a witches cauldron, the brain's contents bubble and seethe
-kra
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
I stand,
tender and wild
at the water's edge.
I'm told,
as waves punch my knees,
that it's a great day
for a viking funeral.
Water's at my waist,
salt-wind pulling at me,
the soft veil covers me,
my face, hair
and extremities so cold and unevenly tanned.
I'm told,
that I look as if I'm waiting
for some fisherman husband to come home from see.
Maybe I am.
And then my mouth is full of saltwater,
as are my eyes,
my face,
hair,
grains of sand carried by the atlantic
travel the lifelines of both my palms
when I lift my chin above the wave,
I'll have wrinkles,
and a mortgage.
I'll be on the street.
clothed in a trench coat, trousers and my propriety,
when i'll be told
that I look as if I'm waiting.
Maybe I am.
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 7:48 PM UTC
Enclosed
In the cottage
If this
Writer’s Blockage
Lasts
For too long
How lost
Would I be
The reason
For being
Alone this season
Was to grow
My talents
Like an Eagle’s talons
And claw through
The surface
For the purpose
Of providing
A service
That
Serves vice
The plate of truth
Unknowing to those
Who don’t know
Right
From wrong
Produced as a song
Bereft of a beat
Unleft alone
The agitation
Becomes aggravated assault
As I rip the pages
Out the book
To my own fault
I locked the lessons
I was to learn
In a vault
Which doesn’t collapsed
Under the pressure
But becomes stronger
Time lapses
As my mind run laps
And replays the days
When control
Was in tact
Now I let loose
And dug myself
Further in the hole
Any further
Sleep’s cousin
Will become us
Me
And my goals
Lie dead in the same bed
All because
I was too proud
To beg
Myself for forgiveness
Of putting me in this prison
Away from society
With plans
To raise propriety
But how
Can one learn
To better himself
When he’s alone
With no teacher
But himself
So selfish of me
To leave
The fate of the world
In my hands
Too stubborn
To share
My final air
With theirs
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 3:28 AM UTC
We were born untainted like empty canvas; a bud of roses.
But as time linger we digress from our innocence and actual selves.
We were scratched and polished, from diamonds pulvarized to dirt.
The facade we kept after succumbing to society’s propriety became us,
And the true face and being what we were became lost in time.
The mirror no longer reveals us, because we metamorphosed to someone else.
Another face in society, swallowed by the world’s expectations and encumbrance.
The appropriateness of etiquette, social conformity, and worldly priorities.
Day by day, we became less of ourselves, and more like everyone else.
Converging needs and wants, we lost our personal uniqueness,
And it seems like our attempt to be different is the same as everyone’s else.
By and by, we effort for elopement to get out of the box is futile – rather impossible.
Epitome of wealth and exclusiveness; highest degree of poverty and martyrdom.
In between those of extreme pillars, everyone seems to be in between and at both sides.
The world has become more dimensional, efficient, yet ineffective.
For our sweat and blood goes out for the wrong reasons;
And we fight against one another, (thus fighting against ourselves), to become the winner.
The winners aren’t actually victorious; neither are the loser the ultimate champions.
And this is only a mere microcosm,
to signify how the multifarious constituents that the world has formed:
a composite, complex, compound conformed convolution.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 12:07 PM UTC
Though I wear no crown of decadent jewels pressed down around my brow,
It can be said that I am beautiful.
Needing no assistance from a mask of make-up and every hair doing as it pleases,
I am told that I am beautiful.
Without the burden of corsets, push-ups and garters; no cocktail dress draping my shoulders,
I look in the mirror and am satisfied.
I wear blue jeans, t-shirts and tank tops; tennis shoes, flip-flops and high-tops,
And still my legs are long and lean; my shape curvy and full.
And while I walk by, a southern sway in my step, you know you take more than a cursory glance.
I have attitude, and bluntness inherited from my line of honest folk.
I am country. I am bold. I am ruthless.
I am simple in the way that diamonds are simply compressed carbon.
I am beautiful in the way that only a southern girl can be.
I am a huntress with my 243 across my lap in a camo blind.
I am an actress as I smile and say “Bless your heart.”
I am a lover if there ever was one.
I am a fighter when the chips are down.
I am my father’s nightmare and my mother’s dream.
See me with my mut from the pound that’s better trained than your frou-frou, AKC registered pom-poo.
Join me as I sing the hymns my granny sang with the same tone and inflection.
I am educated with my poor country grammar I use only to spite those who think I’m ignorant.
I know more about tracking a blood trail than I do about propriety,
But I’m studied in the art of being couth.
My southern charm is mixed with brazen straight forwardness.
I am proud. I am American. I am beautiful.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 12:50 PM UTC
poor Man
was made in the image of God
(especially man, especially the he's!)
and so he he he must abide
with rules and propriety
and commandments and ideals
whereas I,
I am free to go
where I choose
to wing myself
(no doubt I fear the fly-swat
though I escape that mostly with dexterity)
ah, strange that it is a petty fly
just a common fly, a housefly
just me
that knows unconditioned freedom;
for I have no ideals to pursue
and am not judged nor do I judge
and can fly low and high
and no one cares if I feed at dung-piles
and sit cleaning my feet on most sacred altars
or run up the nostrils of most reverend masters
ah, to be a fly -
far better a short soul-less life
(ended perhaps by your fly-swatter)
of daring and freedom
than an eternal life of burning Hell
or eternal, unquestioning drugged obedience
poor Man
was made in the image of God
(especially man, especially the he's!)
and so he he he must abide
an eternity
of rules and propriety
and commandments and ideals
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 2:52 AM UTC