"quasimodo" poems
I've never been to Paris in the spring summer or fall
Nor seen the Champs-Élysées blanketed in winters fresh snow
I've never seen it, Why? As I could never go alone
I seemed to miss the part where two lovers met and kissed or stood for 20 minuites in a passionate embrace
Then slowley walk together hand in hand in the rain, along the banks of the river of romance, the Siene
I'm not in the lovers photographs, beneath the Eiffel tower or the playful Quasimodo pose outside of Notre Dame
You won't see me in any of them, for I was never there, because while my lover travelled I stayed and built a home, a place we could call our own.
But bigger and better was never enough your greed for things was just to much then one day off you went as you didn't hear a word I'd said
To you by now I was simply staff and just like them I was sacked
But now alone I look at things and know what I can do
Change the way I look at life and why I never went with you
For Paris is for lovers and not just those who share the rent
So one day I'll go to Paris, even if I am alone
I shall walk the streets and see the sights that lovers call their own
Who knows If I'm the only one who needs to make that trip
Do others think of it the same in reverence and wish?
One day i'll go to gay Paris and a blank post card I shall send
"From Paris" with a smiley face
"I learnt to love myself".....
A picture of the tower or a snap outside the Louvre
Unsigned
No senders address
From Paris
With Love
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 8:22 PM UTC
Innocent Hyacinth tinted with mint
Tingèd grey hinged on stem singed
With chestnut leaves flowing, to me a fair hint
Of off-centred carousing, black eyes perusing
Wares of all sorts and stocks of all shares
The leading on of a pleasure most gracefully enthusing
Drops dews of all shades, of selfsame structure
And we full of rowdy Sedition;
But Wait! Recognition.
In my hopes and tired efforts, a puncture.
Music blaring loud, aftertaste of rejection
And full on full strand of all smoke addled people
Oh! How great Quasimodo I fell off my steeple
In the midst of the crowd, full dejection.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
Marie's in-laws start bashing the bell,
a Quasimodo supper for the reckless, the insane.
It's two hits of Lily's blue, four pocket shots of ***
it's the backdoor, it's the snowstorm, it's the 100th of December, it's the cell phone;
it's nostalgic.
I call Katherine, my sweet Indian princess. She talks in Mexican smoke rings,
and laughs only in a bed of Peruvian blues.
Marie describes her as, "Uh-huh, her", and Katherine's James describes me as, ******
So, when Katherine picked me up behind States Street,
I licked her espresso skin, I kissed secondhand, and benediction, benediction.
Choirs of angels moved me, while we ****** under moonlight in her drug supplier's driveway.
I pulled her hair, beads of sweat danced and gleamed around me,
I got a call, I got a call,
I finished and took the call,
"Hello. Yeah, I'm sorry. Just stepped out for a second I'll be right back. Love you too."
Back to the mundane with a enough fix of fantasy to get me through the month.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:07 PM UTC
Quasimodo, ringer of the bells
Quasimodo, hidden in his hell
Watching from the bell tower as life is squandered daily
Nobody seems to understand the truth of human frailty
But there they chime again!
It's that time again!
You know Quasimodo's still alive
Because the Bells are right on time
In the shadows of Notre Dame
A monster stalks our halls
A giant, hulking, hungry mass
Searching for ****** girls
It's the truth, don't you believe it?
The beast is out there creeping
It's much easier to see
than the demons we all keep
Under lock and key
Inside you and me
Quasimodo, ringer of the bells
Quasimodo, hidden in his hell
Watching from the bell tower as life is squandered daily
Nobody seems to understand the truth of human frailty
But there they chime again!
It's that time again!
Quasimodo's still alive
Because the Bells are right on time
A monster forged in hate
was a man who died for love
and though he suffered the slings and arrows
of the cursed world he lived above
Quasimodo died
as Quasimodo lived
Believing that the gift of love
was the best gift we could give.
Quasimodo, ringer of the bells
Quasimodo, dying in this cell
Lying in the crypt with arms wrapped tight 'round his beloved
Embracing his dark angel as eternally as love is
But it's that time again!
Why don't they chime this time?
The Halls of Notre Dame are still
Quasimodo must have died...
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
Are you a cat or bird,
devil or saint?
Villain and victim, dichotic romantic,
bruised and beaten, ostracised.
Bruised and beaten, demonised.
A willow bending against cruel fashion's wind.
A thousand storms of impotent hate,
jealousies and malignant complaints.
Rain like sonnets before the deaf!
As your gifts are pearl before swine.
And yet thy brow is regal still.
The profile of a demon prince -
no matter what shape taketh the face.
Be thou Quasimodo or Adonis by fate.
Whose smile has lit a thousand candles
in thankless, bitter hearts,
and fires in the hearths of freaks
who need but a spark to break the leash.
Or art thou Prince of Cats?
Yearning for the freedom to roam, to hunt.
Seeking pleasure, his mistresses pats.
The enemy of closed doors and cold paws.
Or could thou be a bird?
Clipped wings, a gilded cage,
whose song can only go so far.
If not let to glide into the night, to rise,
to greet the dawn with bleary, satisfied eyes.
Of one who has been given the chance to soar!
Or else to wilt, and yowl no more.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
.
these are things that make me Sad:..
imagining how sad that Powder must be...
...after Labor day.
imagining how sad rabecca Black must be...
...on Wednesday.
imagining how sad quasiModo would be...
...in Gattaca.
imagining how sad rosie oDonnel would be...
...in Ethiopia.
imagining how sad benjamin Button woulda been..
...in Neverland.
imagining how sad sleeping Beauty would be...
...finally waking Up........n seeing meDusa.
imagining how scared free ***** must be...
...of sunshine aQuarium.
imagining how scared jimmy Neutron would be...
...in sleepy Hollow.
imagining how scared that Pingping musta been...
...of Sultan.
imagining how scared that Avatars woulda been...
...of ******
imagining how scared that Petrified wood would be...
...of paul Bunyan. (Dumb xD)
imagining how scared
six jodie Fosters would be
in a Panic room with seven Hannibals.
imaging how bad trig Palin would be...
...at Trigonometry. (too Much..)
imagining how bad epiLeptic children are...
...at Laser tag.
imagining how bad steven Hawking would be...
...at Roller derby.
imagining how bad that Rainman woulda been...
...at Rain dancing.
imaginging how bad helen Keller woulda been...
...at Karaoke.
imagining how bad desiree Jennings musta been...
...at Hopscotch.
imaginging how effortlessly,
robin willams was Acting...
...in will Hunting.
too Soon?...
...Oh........Sorry.
"Thats okay...
...its not your Fault."
Thanks babe.
.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
Phantom posture cocked
its spear and stuck it
to another friend
like an unglued Quasimodo
The incense of a level-headed fate
tosses its burn from one context
to another
breath
consumption
sarcasm
And all that remains
are matchstick stumps as clues
to the promise of origins
birth
a dance
and a sprain
Feral intimations of mortality
eating on bonds like rust
And I can't even ask
for a turn without knocking
on the ignorance-enforced door
of self-promotion
Violation via Wolverine caress
Feel-good stories
strip-searched
by a generation *****
for conspiracy theories
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
I feel my head exploding,
splitting really,
into a thousand clouds of
silver.
An uncharted breakdown
that is so very familiar.
People should be held accountable for
the actions of others.
The pressure lessens its grip on
my spinal cord.
The musical adaptation of my life
blossoms before my very eyes.
Seen through a dream catcher
that is broken with
nightmares of fallen ancestors.
Please,
forgive me for rambling.
Words are hypnotic and
let me forget about
the ringing in my head.
A thousand decibels of silence,
shattered.
They are forgotten by society.
Forced to live in gangways with cockroaches and
the pages of old leather bound books.
They leave on
a wing and
a prayer.
Bathed in dust and dirt,
they hear the barking of the pitbull
inside my head.
Brought down by the blade.
I once observed a church being boarded up,
blocking out the elements and homeless.
It was calming.
Does that make me a horrible person?
Eerily beautiful.
I wish I could go back to that moment in time,
frozen in place.
My head explodes.
Can you hear the bell tower ringing Quasimodo?
Chimes louder than a bomb,
falling through the rotted out wood.
It's for the best.
The Horseman didn't need a head.
The silence will bring me back.
Remember,
our actions now
are our actions now.
Ring the bell!
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
*You see things,
you keep quiet about them
and you understand.
Because life changes, friends leave
and life doesn't stop for anybody.*
**You feel more deeply, isolated
your true heart, so understated
but things you see
as they flicker by
keep that strong resolution within held high.**
*Pain & suffering are always
inevitable for a large
intelligence and a deep heart.*
**Time stands still
as life takes your photo
feeling outcasted like Quasimodo.
Life is but a tapestry
one part you and another, me.**
*You are confined by the
walls you build yourself.*
But never limited to your imagination and desire
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
A twisted body: neither man nor god
Was he, but rather ‘brute’ and ‘beast’ and ‘thing.’
Jove saw the creature worth naught but to fling
From heaven; landing face-down in the sod.
The Quasimodo--set ‘gainst every odd--
Found in this dreadful winter chance of spring.
He lusted after one day being king,
And saw his ruined body rightly shod.
Yet fortune saw the noble hero doomed
In giving him a wife with supple breast
And pretty face. There, in the distance loomed
The lame, repugnant blacksmith’s only test.
From jealousy sprung rage; abuse assumed,
When war-like Mars her hourglass caressed.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 8:15 PM UTC
*i vent, i'm sure you heard of the invention known as the ventilator... it's like a lung-clone-subservient of a "nanny quality" of automating the words: breathe in... breathe out... breathe in... it precursors the in and outsources the *out, there's a cult-like-scheme involving the use of... the stated tools... worthy of a suggestion that epitomises August as the month of harvest - i.e. the sun finally sets to auburn crops and **** me, isn't the bread rightly puffy?! toad-squidgy aye aye? go on, give us a burping caricature of a squeeze!*
imagine uttering the words:
i hope your mother lies
eternally run-sacked with hopes
of former ****** glory,
***** bleeding,
as if a Mongolian horde just passed
her with a glorious encore of
clapping to match...
because that's what i assert
as been done to my mother,
you don't even understand the verb
or adjective or conjunction behind
the noun.... after all, you're an African
Muslim and a pyramid builder,
a *******
jaded jock-strap and gag's
worth of you the Ben & Jerry...
praise the Koran
but don't understand that behind
each noun there's a collective grammatical
structure, **** you English political correctness,
**** you! **** YOU! have your Reagent's Street
and Oxford Street, have 'em!
behind the noun all grammatical categories
follow suite... universal noun, what category
for the particular? ape transforms into apish,
or Quasimodo or ~ape, nouns are units,
like centimetres, forget the other things, unless you:
let the shoppers drop dead like flies!
but imagine saying the words:
i hope your mother gets gang-raped by
an equivalent of a Mongolian horde;
yep, Mongolian necrophilia.
you said it to my mother, and i'm mourning,
alive, and counting.... once more... so **** you*!
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
I'm the bran bucket boobie
I'm the dollar bargain bin
I'm the prize that they still give you
Even though you didn't win
I'm the chipped cup in the cupboard
I'm the last sweet in the tin
I'm the cheap dime store necklace
that irritates your skin
I'm the actor on the telly
or at least I am his twin
that's the one I'm Quasimodo
wishing he was Errol Flynn
I'm the tattoo after drinking
I'm the one night stand and sin
and the hope that you're not pregnant
or I was too drunk to put it in
I'm the pill in the morning
and the mourning for more gin
I'm the prize they always give you
Even though you didn't win.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
thanks
no i mean it
thanks
i was actually feeling a bit
d
o
w
n
and i needed you to tell me
on a monday night
at 7:53
in the middle of july
that i had i nice ***
it really brightened my day
to know
that i
a human person
can be complimented
because of my
assets
instead of the fact
that i work
all the time
without getting tired
or giving up
or that
i study
so much
i feel like
i'm falling apart
or that
i spend time
trying to make the world
around me
a little
bit
better
i really wanted to affirm
what girls are told
from the time
they can listen
that cup size matters
and whether or not
you fill out your jeans
means
whether or not
you might matter
that we will be ignored
in the work place
if we aren't
supermodels
and even if we are
that is all we become
bodies
not people
you know
somebody once told me
it doesn't matter
what you look like
because your personality can make up
for anything
which should be good
like
i look like quasimodo
but with a sense of humor
and a bit of *****
i'm esmerelda
i can look like a spork
but if i laugh
and play along
like nothing's wrong
like girls should
i can be a full fork
i love that i have to be something
really
i do
i love that being
is more important than
existing
i love that i have to be someone who listens and never speaks
i love that i have to work with all my might to be thin enough for people who don't care about other people
i love that i have to have a double d and up in order to be even noticed
i love that my **** has to be filled out and gigantic so that i can be assured personhood by a man
because girls are only
what
the
men
see
we are reduced to objects
who give up
and don't fight
because the women who fight
are criticized
and *****
and killed
and we can't stop it
because the more we speak
the more we are silenced
so thank you
sir
for reminding me at 7:53
in a menards parking lot
your wedding ring glinting
like the malice in your eye
that all i am
is
what you see
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 8:52 PM UTC
Hung upon every word
Clinging to every vowel
Each consonant a thrill
A big word simply tingling
Speak of the universe
He became the centre
The fixation of her purpose
He could have looked like Quasimodo
It wouldn't have mattered she wanted his brain
The intelligence aroused her
It filled the intellectual void
Being seen with brains made her weak
Weak with desire, hunting, stalling her prey
The next to consume
He oblivious to her twisted needs
Believing she loved him
She loved only his mind
The rest, the *** the games ?
All a part of the need
Her symptomatic sapiophilic ritual
She's out there now
Listening...
Waiting.....
For her next mark
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
**Can't explain, your lack of concern
Shallow mind in the shallow gutter**
With all the other dark souls warm from their own light
They scare you; you can't help but lock the door and overheat
*Keep yourself away from these ugly people
So you can only lose it on yourself
I'm your Quasimodo dancing on stage with no music
Because I'm the music and it makes us all sick*
With all their behavioral token and superior thoughts
You smile hatefully and spit in their eyes
**You walk so high and you think of yourself
You think you're a prophet to everyone's problems
You are comic relief but you are not pain relief**
*I'm a problem to everyone and most especially you
I'm a ******* and I want you to know that
And that I'm always your low-life Apocrypha
Also know that suicide is the hardest place
for the living and breathing
And that sinners laugh below in a Heaven without actors
Because they know how hard they try*
No you don't
*So they perish
They don't ask for help
I waste everyday I try with myself*
I give all my energy for you
*You tell me who I am like I am
your holy bible*
You're pathetic
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
written while talking to a dear friend, Irene, who i met on my travels to Paris, and who i'm spotted with, in a photograph, by the Moulin Rouge, hunched in homage to Quasimodo, with Paul the wild haired australian.
i'm always depressed before composition
and the first whiskey to
stop me throwing up anything i might
ingest,
but then the seemingly graceless magpie
with its extended tail flies into eyesight,
then the blackbird, the crow, the seagull (huh?!
30 miles inland and a ****** seagull?)...
and then i open my eyes a second time,
take off the eyes that see lust gluttony colours
and shapes, and put on my x-ray spectacles
of looking at a white page and typing for a while...
and then a song crops up and it bothers me,
mortiis' parasite god from the album *the smell
of rain*, if there is such a thing as a parasite god,
we'll be constantly thinking about it,
it will be an ontological implant of ours to
then debate whether we're atheists, theists,
gnostics or agnostics... it would be a burden, indeed
an oversized tapeworm to put it mildly -
but then the other description floating about,
the entitlement of a title, akin to prince, knight,
sir, baron or baroness or even a marquis...
the lord of hosts... and with vain attempt at sounding
in blossom of a magnolia tree attentive of courtesy,
a host is someone who contains a parasite,
why would i want to contain a parasite of thought in
me, that would necessarily sway me from denoting
myself an atheist, theist, etc.?
atheists do indeed uphold the principle stated in this
song i mentioned mortiis' parasite god;
i among the jews a parasite of the host of
ancient egypt;
i mean, they always say they're atheists or whatever,
they want that little sticker at a speed dating gathering
*hello, my name is, queue (oh sorry,
Hugh)*, but when it comes to
defining what sort of thinking defines you as such and
such, it's vaguely satisfying to hear a presupposition label,
followed by a string of even more unsatisfying propositions,
and since i'm not a fisherman in that department,
i think i'll just stick to what i know, or at least what i think i know.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
Watching those two
Happiness and Envy
The green-eyed monster attacks me
And I am left defenseless against a force I will never attack
The smiles and cuddles
The trust and passion,
I wish I could console them all within my heart and life
But I cannot get grip
I cannot hold on to the sparks of my former self’s heart
And I am left as cold as the unlit fireplace
But something stirs
The spark within myself is starting to reheat my body
To reheat the passion and trust I once had
Then it hits me
The fact that I cannot truly love
That I cannot truly have passion
I cannot truly be in love
Because I cannot be loved
This hideous monster
The thing many hearts have wisely shut out
The thing that loves like a hunchback Quasimodo
And needs its Esmerelda to set it free from its isolation and pain
But she is long in the future
And all I can do is wait
Wait through the pain of happiness
And the pain of envy
The green-eyed monster attacks me
And I am left defenseless against a force I will never attack
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
Jammin' in Jamaica
Driving my DeSoto
Being pursued by
My foe Quasimodo
Lying on the dash is
The missing person photo
When my phone rings
I hear "Hello Moto!"
(Chorus)
I don't have to work
When I'm in my pajamas
Acting like a ****
When I'm in the Bahamas
Really go berserk
When I'm feeding my llamas
We all go to pieces
When we’re talkin' to our mommas
Jammin' in Jamaicaaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaaa...
Rush hour traffic
So I park my DeSoto
Nowhere in sight
Is my foe Quasimodo
See a man who looks like
The missing person photo
Then his phone rings
Shouting "Hello Moto!"
(Chorus)
I don't have to work
When I'm in my pajamas
Acting like a ****
When I'm in the Bahamas
Really go berserk
When I'm feeding my llamas
We all go to pieces
When we’re talkin' to our mommas
Jammin' in Jamaicaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaicaaa...
Jammin' in Jamaica
With the man in the photo
Who's not really missing
Just roving incognito
Suddenly appears
My foe Quasimodo
Truce as we pose
For a group selfie photo
(Chorus)
I don't have to work
When I'm in my pajamas
Acting like a ****
When I'm in the Bahamas
Really go berserk
When I'm feeding my llamas
We all go to pieces
When we’re talkin' to our mommas
(Repeat chorus and fade, with "Jammin' in Jamaicaaa" playing in the background with lines 1, 3, 5, and 7 of the chorus.)
© 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 12:06 AM UTC
Desire of your hands bright
in the penumbra of fire:
they knew of oak-trees, roses,
death. Ancient winter.
The birds searched for seed,
and were suddenly snow;
so, the word.
A little sun, an angelic halo,
and then the mist; and trees,
and we making dawn from the air.
Salvatore Quasimodo
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
Ours is the kind that hurts the most.
The love where one would give their everything to receive absolutely nothing.
To make sure that at the end of the day you have a smile on your face, and contentment in your heart.
Evermore I will be the Pip to your Estella, Quasimodo to Esmeralda.
And in the shadows I am cast to watch your heart break time and time again.
I want to fix it. Heal it and make it whole again.
But alas I watch from the distance as the choices you make bring you farther from me than before.
And with each passing day, with each change of the leaves I love you more.
More than yesterday and not quite as much as tomorrow.
My mind paints a picture of perfection every time I dream of you.
A Goddess among mortals dancing in the wind.
And though my love for you is unrequited, I shall continue to guard you my dear.
I promise to be there as long as my heart beats strong and there is breath in my body.
For I love you.
Now, and forever.
Until my death does us part.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
The poets dwell
within their Hell
on a Sabbath day
witching hour
Their minds a wreck
Their hands
of tech
They grind their teeth
in angst
Silence staid
The beds unmade
Searching for who
knows what
Snaps a pencil
It's indefensible
He can't go back
to bed
Quasimodo?
Was he noble ?
Played center for
Notre Dame
Came draft day
He was cast away
Which foot was it
you ask ?
Well the venom's drip
that sank a ship
Manned by mushroom
brained morons
Will be the first
to experience the worst
That trickles down
that piggies leg
"We all live in a yellow submarine"
It's just another "Day in the life"
After all happiness is a
warm warm gun
May 11, 2025
May 11, 2025 at 3:31 AM UTC
keep barking
what,
mongrel?!
never to a chemist
what, suddenly there is
no notion of a cognitive
mongrel, i.e. a bilingual breed
of man?
i found that people
complained about having
a mixed-ethnic rooting,
never was the case translated into
the cognitive element of
vocab...
you are allowed an ethno-allowance
"stipend" and be left off
the hook if your mother was
white, but your daddy was black,
but then it comes to
possessing two languages,
good luck Buck!
akin to psychiatric disorders...
the pills don't work!
tell that to a chemist:
the **** was i doing all this time,
so running, cardiovascular
oxygen to the brain will solve
all the problems?
the last thing you want a chemist to hear
is: the only medicine is exercise...
i'm not saying it's perfect,
but to suggest that all pill taking
is bad makes the study of
chemistry: pointless...
might as well be studying
arachnophobia!
if i actually did make it into
the profession i'd be as much hated as
a police officer...
chemistry: bad...
make sure you wash your teeth with
cow dung extract,
and perfume yourself with
freshly plucked daffodils then!
jobs retain a tinge of absolutism
because relativism doesn't exist between them,
the only relativism shared is
the relativistic fact that such jobs
exists, and can exist because
they are coexisting...
a bus driver coexists with
a cabbie because: e.g. e.g. i.e. a mechanical
means of travel...
psychiatry undermines
the benevolence of a chemist,
by over-simplifying
the case-study of a cardiovascular trainer...
the **** is the point
running a treadmill without
generating energy?
you can't suddenly explain
to a chemist:
your pill aren't worth popping!
well, that's one way of saying
the currently exploration
of the impotence of antibiotics...
that worked...
but what's the point of telling
a chemist to suddenly "dig the groove"
of divorcing himself from
synthesising synthetic mimics?
- and instead analysing analytical
precursors?
a chemist is not going to suddenly
rephrase his quest
to agree to:
a futility his own work -
culminating in an effective
plagiarism of nature isolated...
but then popularising biology
and physics reduces chemistry as
being the Quasimodo of science,
a hunch-back ugly-face of endeavour...
a science crucified in terms
of modern ethic...
once the only adventurous
branch of science,
now the most ethically conducted
patron of rigour...
it has truly become nothing
short of a farce...
something worth being ridiculous,
but not inclined to be subject
of ridicule.
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 9:13 PM UTC
Until today
I could not see you
too afraid to look in a mirror
Skin loose
Jaw tight, a motar grinding teeth
A confused looking man,
already?
Are you ready?
Adrift, we alive are dizzy, mad, confused, or blank.
Stroking our nostril hair,
portraying different parts,
one a banker, a father, an assassin
Once even a sort of Irish troll, slash, Quasimodo,
do you regret the metaphor?
How it happened...
akin to looking back
And thinking nothing,
black on black
Whiteshade in light
Static void (smiling cow).
Who was chaufeured around Paris in that film anyway?
That girl, you know, the one who won't wear shoes
Or socks
She plays in several scenarios,
once a mother, a nurse, a nun on the run,
a chemist, a voluptuous ventriloquist,
pregnant, humming, doing the dishes, going to church,
staying up late to feed the cats
can you imagine
playing all those lifetimes on a raft
an inventive vehicle wouldn't you say?
I'm a nobody
Arranging words so they align with thoughts
Uneven and impure
These poems are like living on snack food
What I want to say is,
half of me is out the door
Living with the ants.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 3:05 AM UTC
He was hideous,
ugly as hell,
& a little bit slow!
But can you blame him?
Once bitten,
he couldn't help himself,
he was smitten!
And it cost him his life!
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC