"readied" poems
you slept on the inside of the bed
I on the outside
you were cooler
I was calmer
and we talked of everything
but of course - mostly - nothing
you left early in the morning
I slept while you readied
you eskimo kissed my nose
to say you were leaving
and leaving me there
and before my smile reached both ears
you reached the door and were gone
but still there in my head
heading toward my heart
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
son spreads knee blood into ******* &/or
sidewalk chalk.
mixes reds to pinks with head cracking asphalt.
of god & country.
of soggy bread in a lunch-bag; snackpack readied.
he skates.
the concussed ****** of booming youth.
omega he:
to the wolf pack outers.
breathing love of summer, he
is the son drunk on hi-c
& burping.
watching teenaged supersoakers yodel
on a bridge.
florida.
son sneaks out late to rationalize
the city’s features
under strange light & love of nightly people.
boy sculpts body out of beast,
turned dark corners.
arrives swollen.
his father erects a roofed flattop in the backyard slab
with flood light electronics taught to worship
the shred.
mother rattles the blender
on the kitchen outskirts, ***** breathed
& nearing with hugs.
blister-itched.
glossed folds of scar tissue.
those days on summer-beyond when the neighborhood pulsates.
with satellite dishes tuneforking high-frequency vibrations
from outerspace & pigeons explode.
son’s ears bleed, &
the television goes unwatched.
he snaps plank & ankle protein, refurbishing
his legs into iron-rods
or wands of summer anthem.
cold war.
he empties sugar-sweat & toxins
into the storm-drain.
essence of wet heat, skin pinched, & friend
of ghosts.
a three legged dog lay in the shade
leisurely watching the boy skate
on endless.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
The Sun was slowly Sinking.
The Day was almost Done.
When Darkness fell around Us,
We readied Ourselves for Fun.
I felt Her, with My Eyes.
To Memorise Her Golden Spot.
She Kissed Me on My Lips
and watched Me turning Hot.
With Her Ten gentle Fingers,
She guided Me to Her Door,
The Lion in Me got Woken
and We both landed on the Floor.
Hearing Her Moan and Whisper,
I went fondling Her Curves.
Each stroke that I rendered,
we're Tennis Aces one Serves.
Jun 29, 2020
Jun 29, 2020 at 7:56 AM UTC
Banished before thon barren plains,
Where treacherous tears abstain
Fare. Fair is the waste,
The impurity of deep, decrepit weeds.
And dage brings fruit then touched
Only by their ravens of rot.
May they paint thine tainted stave
In golden garth and lull the lark;
“Mine, Sweet babe,
Robbed of cradle
Readied for ritual.
Mine, Sweet babe,
Gore masked black
Within the crimson bath.”
Lacen their throats, the gullets that gloat!
Lest langes of thorns, wrap the bairn sworn.
Death breeds glore o’er luid nights
Beldam rise belles in wicked repel.
Round the funeral pyre.
Jul 19, 2021
Jul 19, 2021 at 1:38 PM UTC
.
•unchain me from unrest•
shovel me out of the dirt•
une- arth
my conge- sted chest•
let my secrets blurt•
let them
spill.....•
just for
the wor-
ld to see
•..string
me up...
..against
my will
•harvest
the fruits
of the bi-
tter tree•
let eyes
see what
will show
•...let feet
be caught
in stubbo-
rn mud...•
let prying minds be baffled.....by
what they would come to know
•...let wanting hearts choke...on
the dirges of my stale blood....•
now dig me up quickly•'cause
it's been far too long..... and i
have been readied•exhume
all of me completely•for
no longer should i
remain as........
buried•
.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 7:36 AM UTC
He walks through a wood once every month
He takes the same route near The Wishing Pond
He meets with the Collector in a secluded building
Who never fails to purchase every new painting
The man was an artist, the Collector was a fan
His works and his reputation was known throughout the land
The Artist had it all: a nice house, a loving wife,
friends in every town and city, and wealth to last his life
Every month, another painting
Every month, the Collector's money
His life was set, his life was perfect
All he needed as an artist was a self portrait
So this next month's painting would be special
For when he would pass, this will be his memorial
He started on an early morning, standing in front of a mirror
With skill and patience, shading and texture, the first sketch was done
The painting process took a few days
Without sleep or food, for hours in his room he stayed
Near the end of the month, the portrait finally done
Proud and exhausted, the artist exclaimed, "This is a special one."
The next day, he readied his portrait to take
To the Collector, who was expecting to be amazed
With a glance at the picture before he could leave
He noticed many flaws and said, "I want a perfect me"
He sent a letter explaining the delay
To the Collector, disappointed, he lessened the pay
For days, the Artist fixed each flaw
The big ears, the small nose, the feminine jaw
Every day he found a new imperfection
But after months and months of fixing, he achieved satisfaction
He took his self portrait on his once monthly walk
To the Collector's house, pass The Wishing Pond
He tripped on a rock, dropping his portrait
Falling into the pond, his art was ruined
The canvas had sunk, the water grew murky
The paint spread around and clouded before him
The cloudy colors swirled in the water's waves
The Artist, distraught, sat in heartache
A figure rose from the water, the colors had faded
He recognized it immediately as the perfection he painted
His portrait was alive for to not be was imperfect
His creation looked back at him and exclaimed, "I am The Artist"
Throughout the years, the portrait had adopted The Artist's life
With perfect skills, perfect fame, and even the love of his wife
The Collector, impressed by its own work, gave it double the pay
He also terminated his contract, he and the Artist had made
The Artist was left with nothing
His life stolen by his painting
Embodied perfection had taken it all
Living wishful thinking, alive from The Pond
He tasked, and pushed, and berated himself to achieve perfection
He succeeded, but lost everything to his perfect version.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 10:46 PM UTC
(and I cannot live
from with-out)
<>
a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo
<>
I, too:
- am an embryonic work in progress,
well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight
I too,
live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs,
but suspect the innards of the houses differs little,
the decor, quite similar
- my house shrewdly requests a rethinking,
noting, it lives my artifice,
with in & with out
Then, we are a We:
- my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born,
- Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go”
This duality:
- where the haunting of words providential,
emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing
She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something,
for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung
from with in to with out
She, Poetry:
- leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with
depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements of
externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands be refilled, fresh in, stale out,
for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which
when Poetry’s birthing:
- chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal,
abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language,
no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling,
product of the screams of pushing,
squeezing it forth*
*you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations,
for if you fail, a poem
noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks,
where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes
maliciously glimmer~winks at me
with a sarcastic thank you*
*“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn,
gone to rest, biting the nether dust,
without hope of resuscitation…”*
just another unfinished work in progress
periodically
a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished,
amniotic fluids cleared,
poem resurrected
blessed with eternal life,
readied to be shared and delivered,
affirmed
and you say to no one and to everyone:
this poem will be our poem,
wither it goes, ascending, descending,
all live in the house of poets,
one house,
many apartments,
each poem a god,
and
my God will be our God,
your God, my God,
in the House of Poetry
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
Baby I've got a six-pack
of Coke
We're gonna have a good night
Goodnight
Don't you think that we should
give up
Don't you think that we should
start a fight
I was born and raised
on methane
I was always taught
to never profane
Green and yellow grass
were my best friends
I was always taught
to make amends
All I've ever been
is full of ****
and I wear it proudly
with a grin
All I've ever done
is plug myself
and I wear it proudly
on my chin
You told me you could do a back flip
then ran away when I asked your name
I've never felt as sad as that day
I took a course on lust and relay
I took some pills that looked like diamonds
Readied myself for a life of staring
How could I be so bold and daring
Guilty of sin before preparing
You know, I should at least TRY to take over the world
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
I ached for you last night,
and I yearned and I cried and I shaked for you last night.
I wanted nothing but to be near you,
to hear your heartbeat in your chest.
But I did not want to break you down,
or put this love to rest.
I dreamt of you lying beside me last night,
and I kissed you and I held you and I felt you last night.
I traced out the moon beams surrounding your spine,
and kissed every ligament, still hoping you're mine.
But before I could sleep, and before I could slumber,
I readied my mind and I phoned to your number.
I wanted you to come here to me,
and I wanted you to be near.
But with wanting and heartache I hung up that phone,
and I watched the blood moon appear.
(i.r)
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
oh sure, forgiveness of sin... or perhaps crimes... or just fetishes? like John Paul II forgiving sin, once polite society answered and John Paul staged the forgiveness session in a prison cell... forgiveness alright, acted out, with all the preliminary provisions readied - ode to Mehmet Ali Ağca, forgiveness always played out great for photography when all the Chinese laws were passed - Siberia welcomes all keen joggers; but you know one thing? raised in a canine environment as a child i learned to attach a different perspective with felines:
like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse like you'd play with a mouse - you keep teasing - you keep teasing - you keep teasing - you just wait... crocodile or boa insomniac - and when the opposite party has banked enough to cry about having lost it... you spit at your enemy's mother's face while ****** her; **** me! you get to prove god along the way! how's that for a Camden Market daytrip? and if you don't? well, it was a nice thought - feels like being a woman with a foetus craving doughnuts and pickles.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
These streets are postcards.
Moments of my youth,
My loves.
Each park bench enveloped within,
Licked and pressed to
My forehead.
Return me to those times.
I want my streets back. My memories
Present and my friends
Still readied for me.
Pour moi.
Pour me another drink
Whilst I forget the ones I had.
Red wine has long since replaced
My blood,
My skin; gone stale.
The streets press in on
My chest.
I can’t breath for the dizzy memoirs,
Yowling at the moon in
My brain.
The simple sway of a tyre swing,
You and I,
The chains.
The simple fog of your ice machine,
You and I,
The cider.
The simplicity of you and me,
You and me,
The years.
These streets are ghost ships now.
Bounty once abound, now gutted.
Do not tease me with your platitudes
Oh town,
And just let me be on my way.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
you never tried to analyze me.
you never took a flashlight to the darkest parts of my mind, never checked my aching bones to make sure they were alright.
you never checked my lungs to see that they were filled with water, never saw my shoulders, the burden they were under.
you only saw my face, readied and pristine, my face constantly smiling whenever i heard your name.
you never examined the backs of my eyes to see what keeps coming back, never checked my spine to see if something makes it crack.
you never checked my muscles, you never checked my heart. if you had dusted it for fingerprints, you would've only found his marks
[this heartbreak hollowed out my bones, and weighs a thousand pounds, it pushed me underwater, but your name, i can't quite drown out. you're trapped inside my head, i hope you do get out, you're the burden i am under, i really have no doubt. if you had checked for fingerprints, you wouldn't have been invested, if you had checked my heartstrings, you wouldn't have been tested.
you failed the science test this time and i'm so sincerely sorry. but if you had checked for variables you wouldn't have had to worry]
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
You are witnessing a prodigious talent and promise, and to a lesser extent but still to the degree whereby it should keep you awake at night writhing in cold sweats, your life, slip agonisingly through your open and clammy palms. Promise means so little if not actualised. You have been granted chance after warning after fortuitous escape yet have blithely spurned every omen and will one day fall, swiftly and perhaps terminally. You are almost certainly depressed. You say you love your girlfriend, and you mean it wholeheartedly when you do, but you worry that the relationship perpetuates as without her there would be no reason to rise with the sun. Even if the relationship is unstable, and at times verging on the unhealthy, you believe you love her but are too great a coward to consider decisive action if that belief is to reside or subside. Your friends range from kind and honest yet deeply flawed to somehow toeing an inextricably thin line between dependability and duplicitousness. Conversations with a certain few of your friends necessitate decrying every undercooked ethos you've every conned yourself into believing you hold (you could well be the most hypocritical liberal to walk the earth, for you are innately and irrepressibly selfish) yet you still nod placidly as your conscience squirms. Grotesquely, like a beaten spouse, you crave the gaze of those who have treated you with the most insulting derision, but are too proud (of what?) and, a running theme, too cowardly, to stoop to a simple detante. You must change, for it pains you on a most base level to have to accept the feeble, whimpering, simpering spectre you have become. You must be bold, brave, unashamed in your convictions, anything but pursed and silent lips. You have a voice, and you must now speak loud enough for them to hear, for that which has become blunted must be whetted, sharpened, readied for battle to be unsheathed at an utterance. Heed the signs and change, for our sake. You, a milksop who attentively notes the sophistry of courage, you can still be brave, and you must be.
For one day you will be swelled with a courage and fortitude to fill your sails taut, enough to leave this place, forget these people and bear you away.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
there's no point writing out what poetry is... if you don't actually write it.
a whiskey prior noon,
too soon, too soon,
too soon?
i'll be cooking a turkey curry later,
a whiskey prior noon,
too soon, too soon,
too soon?!
rhyme or rhythmic, perhaps the latter
in Dante's trinity of rhymes -
poetry of the near-illiterate,
who never read as much as could
have been -
thinking it out as origin and originals -
a man without influence is
not worth reciting -
he'll still have to borrow
the life of a Henry VIII somehow,
whether he has or hasn't read a book
concerning the man -
while the Vatican emerges as the gossip
library of all the European royal families,
and indeed Henry VIII dubbed
Anne Boleyn's cow dangler *******
duckies - i think it's due to the fact
he quacked while he suckled the *******
like a pre-mature **** not producing ***** -
seriously, no milk;
and as honesty goes, ********** literature
does it for me, patron saint kenneth rexroth -
self-education moulds the self into a
pristine sequence of surprises -
there the pop of a balloon,
there the weeping clown...
there the giraffe on stilts!
indeed even at university entry point
where i deposited my self
i came back with debts!
idiotic treachery of teaching the politicised
version of language,
as language per se simply called grammatically
sound, in politics simply versed "correct";
two satans from Syria while Solomon
had his harem,
a third from Poland,
they say the holocaust,
6 million if not more citizens of the world
with polish passports - mind you
they took the Diogenes quote
into left and right parallel readied for a march -
Apollo listened then laughed at
the failures counting to 13 - laughing
while the words 'too the moon!' were eased
out from his helium filled lungs.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC
it was the last day of winter
unseasonably warm
I was standing behind an Imam
his arms were raised
hurling prayers for peace
into the face of intransigence
black dressed armored
SWAT teams amassed
swinging readied M16s
vigilantly guarding walls
constricting penned citizens
waiting to place an
American flag
draped coffin
onto the growing pile
of other coffins
covered in the
multicolored flags of
Iraq War belligerents
swelling at the base
of the wrought iron fence
surrounding the White House
I saw a curtain in the
White House part
the window filled
with two tiny faces
I imagined it to be
Sasha and Bo
taking a break from
rambunctious play
to peer out on
a grim assembly
wondering
in confusion
whats going on?
why are these people
placing coffins
in front of our house?
Sasha and Bo
ran upstairs
to the
Oval Office
she burst through
the door
“Daddy people are
piling coffins
in front of our house
Why?”
The President
hugged his daughter
and answered…
“we’re at war
Sasha...
“the Evil Doers
hate us for
who we are...
“they want to
hurt us...
“we must ****
them…
Sasha asked…
“one sign says
our bombs
**** children…
is that true
Daddy?”
Thats a lie
right Daddy?
If you knew
children like
me were being
killed you wouldn't
let that continue…
would you Daddy?”
John Kerry
popped his head
into the office….
“Sasha,
your Daddy
would never
**** children
in service to a lie”
Sasha’s head tilted…
The President flashed a smile…
John Kerry walked away whistling…
giving no notice to the photo of the
Vietnam War Memorial
as he passed
Music Selection:
The Shirelles
Soldier Boy
Oakland
6/11/14
jbm
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
*why do people always pain themselves to write as if they could ever be understood, when so few read them, and even a fewer number care to understand? and why do so many ably bodied ******* themselves with writing? why have they lost the taste for fresh air and instead chose a wheelchair that writing is?*
in legal terms - are you implying a play on synonyms or
just simply stating: d'uh, i don't know what
that means? ah, a limitation on the vocabulary,
an atypical symptom of lawyers - when socrates attacked
eloquence per se, he also defeated himself
by ensuring law abided by the law of highest eloquence,
and the rabble got diddly-squat, his attack on rhetoricians
lost the prowess of attracting debased educators
with himself the most debased educator:
and instead attracted lawyers... thus the law of the eloquent,
rather than the rubric of the least eloquent...
lost an eye for an eye, lost a mouth with it too...
i rather be fed eloquence and education
and coarseness to equally educate
than be fed a justice fed by eloquence alone,
because if this is to be the equilibrating case,
then serving justice will just be a case of speaking
in a satin tongue of readied rhetoric
as justice so called,
and when speaking in a coarse tongue
no justice will be made applicable...
i rather be educated by someone in a coarse tongue
than be brought to justice by someone in an eloquent tongue,
i rather not be educated by someone in an eloquent tongue /
i rather be brought to justice by someone in a coarse tongue
(the mob),
at least the coarse tongue is well equipped to
address the many who require educating,
unlike the eloquent tongue equipped to
address itself and itself alone, rather than addressing
the jury who blindly pass judgement, because
the lawyer's tongue is not in the mouth of the defendant
but in the lawyer's mirror of social strata of respectability
appearing so guiding, kindly tying a bow-tie of applause.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
Last night I watched in silence
At the end of the road in forest deep
I hid amongst the trees watching in awe
As gypsies dance while others sleep
Under the violet hue of evening sky
Haloed by evening's golden moon
I watched gypsies dance and sing
As flames from bonfires leaped high in the air
Dark haired women in shawls and beads
Happily dancing and twirling without care
Casting their spells of magic and enchantment
Performing their honeyed seductions
Blended with aphrodisiacs of scent and sound
Gypsy men with kerchiefs around their necks
Hoops of silver adorning their ears, singing joyful songs
Children laughing, dogs barking
As if they’re singing right along
Oh, I so wanted to join them as I stood watching in awe
Envious was I of their freedom and joy
Caravans painted in bright images and colors
Tambourines jingling as velvet shadows danced in the night
Skirts swirling, gold and silver bangles on their arms
Dancing 'round the bonfire's fiery light
Accordions singing, with happy notes from a fiddler's bow
As they sang and danced barefoot under evening moon
In the coming dawn once again...
It will be time for them to pack and move on
With a last meal served...
The caravans are readied to make another journey long
"Gather yourself up gypsy girls
Wonderful as it may seem…
A gypsies’ life is never their own
Time to move on
Time to find another home
You must have gypsy blood
In order to survive"
As their wagons move along dusty trails
They'll be looking for a place to camp
A place to call home... at least for awhile
A place to hang their colored paper lamps
Until...
Suddenly- a cry rings out
"Stop the wagons, ring the bells
We've found the perfect place
The perfect place for magic spells
Tomorrow brings a brand new day!
Let's feast, dance and make merry
Come on let's get things underway"
And so...
The journey goes on
And never ends!
"Gather yourself up gypsy girls
Wonderful as it may seem…
A gypsies’ life is never their own
Time to move on, time to leave
Time to find another home
You must have gypsy blood
In order to survive"
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC
The words float wonderfully across the open meadows of dew,
Transforming after each bounce, every green blade aiding the future tense.
Where is she?
The words sing gleefully as they play in the morning sun greeting the new,
Creating in a birds mind for the angels always have wings, their hearts immense.
We have found her!
How is she?
The words dance around her aura, admiring the warmth of the fog, the breath of two,
Imagining only a walking stick next to foot prints, compassionately using sixth sense.
Well, what do you think?
I quite like the sound of her!
Who is she?
The words visit my throat shakra, my hot blood pumps connecting, trusting in you,
Rebirthing poetic love, Meditating towards the peaceful calming lavender incense.
She reminds of someone I know, or knew...
Wow, does she remind you of tink?
We should all be together!
But will she?
The words kiss me good bye, twinkling in my blue eyes, and I bid them adieu,
Reharnessing my self worth, becoming a readied spirit warrior, taking on the intense.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 9:59 AM UTC
There was a time when we were strangers;
ships that passed in the cover of night.
We sailed parallel those lonely waters
not knowing that soon we'd be in sight.
There was a time when we were friends;
you wished only to reach the shore,
but my compass was spinning, our journey just beginning
and so I took you aboard.
There was a time when we were lovers,
but our ship soon started to leak.
We battened the hatches, bailing her out,
but hopes were battered and meek.
An unspoken pact and a final kiss,
letting you drift from my fingertips.
I readied the very last lifeboat,
but the captain goes down with the ship.
Strangers become lovers and lovers become strangers
through sailing the seas of time,
but this mariners tragedy's worth the memories
of when I called you mine.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 11:10 PM UTC
"It's a universal urge to pair up." They say.
It's 3 words and
Suddenly files are executing
Auto-running and auto-installing.
When you've been alone,
It's like
Every rancid dream inside of you is
Awakened. Hyper aware & readied
Preprogrammed bugs start to run.
Users in remote locations
Triggered by tracking cookies
Wheel- in backdoor worms
And all I have to do is click
I/O corrupted
Cloudy decisions, decisions
Ads for free cars, free girlfriends
Glittering pop-ups.
"Hot guys in your area!"
But **** is for the lonely
Bait;
A smiling **** Madonna
accompanied by
Beguiling hooks, fly-paper,
You-name-it
Can't tell if I'm in love or in lure.
But I have to go for it.
And that's the point.
"I love you"
[Click]
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
*the ones warring on the flag of defeat can't be called either troll or parasite... too noble such entitlements, they are the **** genus worthy of ignorance, that they are found roaring on the flag of defeat, when such publicity is allowed of public musing deeper than soft-spoken in one's own room, as transcript of thought made public, ironically without one's geographic coordinates... and what lack of honour to be warring with such circumstances being allowed.*
i shouldn't have written my words among poets,
too many simplicities surrounded them,
with the poets came made surrogates,
a stillbirth, if nothing more
9 months of **** as the new economics
that gave us appreciative homosexuality,
a curbing of the expeditions of population
we didn't blame on Chinese or Blue Indians
due to having inherited masochistic Christianity,
the last greek mythology, THE, LAST!
and no more from the greek tongue! no more!
then the second feat of the suffragettes
that became the surrogates...
and yet, i stilled braved to sing
for the escapist tongue of
brotherhood that the misty mountain's cold
encapsulated... in which i braved
the brotherhood, every, second, counter,
to marriage to a woman...
domestication is no adventure! it's no adventure!
there is no fear and sudden death in
domestication... it breeds cattle! readied for
death not ready! *two dungeons deep and caverns old...
the pines were roaring on the hight!
the winds were mourning in the night...
the fire was red it flamed and spread,
the trees like torches, blazed with light.*
this... this is my ideal afterlife! take your Koran
and terrorism and take a **** in the desert with
the cats for worth of knowing such "exquisiteness"
as it might be worth mining in the dunes of sand!
while the thirst of metalloid and abstract horse-tow
gives your false timing...
and when you take this anger written on the flag
of defeat, and turn to warring with it on your own
flag of defeat... you will be conquered,
slain and tortured, as is my promise, always
honourable.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
The night I had her was the night I lost her
Our first night, was our last night
It was I who ended it the first time
I did the unthinkable
I chose my happiness over hers
I chose dreams
But now I was looking for a second chance
Oh, but she had other plans,
This wasn't a new beginning, but a final end
For the record, she was one of the best
And I pushed her away
And second chances don't always work
Especially one sided ones
But I'm an optimistic when it comes to unrealistic hopes
To me, her yes meant more than just a date
To me, it meant she saw me as more than a once upon a time
And for once, I was ready to make the jump again
Dinner was cordial, but the messages were clear
We were both hungry, and not for the food
I took the check and we hit the road
But where to go?
Destiny, it seems wanted us to dance
My phone began to tickle my pants
A friend close by
"Drinks and games tonight?"
I looked in her eyes, they lit up with delight
"Let's have a few, and have some fun"
I hit the gas like an action movie
We flew through the polite introductions
And the beer began to flow
By round three I couldn't keep my hands off her
And she seemed not to mind
By midnight we were covered in smiles
Dancing and touching beneath the spotlight of the old suburban garage
She breathed her breath into mine
Pulled me close and whispered
"Let's get out of here,"
The goodbyes were quick as we ran for the door,
Plowed through the snow and dove into the car
As the Chevy warmed up, so too did we
Our hands and lips protected each other from the cold
I readied the car to leave, but she stopped me cold
and cooked me in her arms
"Take your pants off, NOW"
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC
*i've become as lazy as composers
when writing titles,
example of tautology is as lazy
as beethoven's ninth symphony...
yeah, grand... but what a dull title!*
so i was reading this article
about bim adewunmi
about the singer laura mvula...
and you know how it goes...
leftist liberals tend to write
tautological spaghetti,
likened to bim's example:
'short-haired, dark-skinned
black girl', bim, we get it...
could have said rancid cinnamon
for all i care...
tautology is a logic of adding
more salt than the salt required
so it doesn't taste too salty when it
does... i could also proof-read
other journalists...
restaurant critics are the best laughs,
esp. when reshuffled like
a ****** cabinet of the labour party
to the opinion columns...
then it's not called opinions section
but table talk... a bit like saying:
do i woo the sea back into this oyster
before i gulp-down-the-hatch-it?
well what do you expect,
free democracy and subsequently
free journalism has a judas kiss /
brutus stab at everything,
why not laugh at it as a useless
get up in the morning read a newspaper
be pulverised by stories from kingdoms
far far away and opinions of people
who'd send ******** dubbed
soldiers off to the slaughter fields of Flanders
so they can keep erectile egos ready
for a salary readied...
journalists always divert the heat & fire
to the politicians... while
journalists get away with satirising themselves,
and i dare say, they are the clumsiest
satirists of themselves,
the most wonky ready to dismantle itself
noumenons in existence.
- journalist: huh?
- the public - (elvis') aha uh um (frolicking
without the stiff upper lip).
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
.
(Sippy cups are for toddlers, designed to let them sip but a little sip at a time, and when it falls, the disaster is lessened.)
totally by accident is this dedicated to TL Sipple, whose introspection offers comfort to more than many.
~~~~~~~~~
*who among us has not begun the
journey's poetic, by first examining the
mirror that reflects organs internal,
flipping the reversible glass over,
for all you exposed,
it's the curse, the birthing natural,*
of the first poem
*all your life, streams bustling, streams drying, drought dying,
leaves windy flying up, but final poisoned by gravity,
come to rest and crunched under your footfalls,
but of this did you write, scrivened or scribed?
no
our first child is of our ***** where real borning does occur.
the rest too, but now, and soon thereafter,
put aside the me, and write of he and she,
the first love, always the second child,
for this the nature of the soul and ermine robe,
you elected, when you first self-selected*
I am a poet, therefore I hit send,
*and the diecast, is the first of many hot rods
piercing, invading, calling out to you,
poet,
"set me free, set me free"
then when walking in September,
the leaves un-glistening, cracking and *****
like an old person who cannot care for them self
then you lift your pen, point to the sky or to the earth,
no matter which, for both are loco parents in loco,
and the truest hardest journey begins,
looking outside in, with eyes colored by
global truths
then and only then the real journey begins,
a differing agony to be learned,
to see as others see,
to write as others have before you and me,
and in doing so, this testing travail,
will earn you, could earn you, a time grade of
pass/fail
you are the only judge in this show,
the only contestant,
what grade will you assign yourself,
what standards will you set,
until you ask,
who are the poets time idolizes?*
american idol, throw away your sippy cup, and drink from the river, from the sea, drink deep, until sated,
then begin your foolishness
readied, all over again
poet to please invisible gods,
that all can see
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
Christmas was just two days away
The letters were all sorted
One of them was pulled on out
And to Santa was reported
A young girl asked a question
Dear Santa, she did say
How can you love most everyone
Each and every single day?
You have your list of children
Some are naughty, some are nice
You review the list quite carefully
I'm told you check it twice
Santa read the letter
It gave the old man quite a jolt
A question from this little girl
Hit him like a lightning bolt
She asked about the adults
How could Santa love them too?
Especially the bad ones
Who do the naughty things they do
What about the children
Who are not Christian in belief?
This short and simple letter
Was giving Santa Claus some grief
He thought about replying
Tell her how he felt this love
But, he knew he could do better
It was then push came to shove
He called down to the stables
Ordered Comet be made ready
He was told "It's nearly Christmas"
He won't be flying steady
Santa said "I need him"
"There's somewhere I must go"
"There's a little girl out there somewhere"
"And there is something she should know"
Santa went and got his parka
Comet readied for some air
Santa had to give his answer
He thought that this was fair
Two nights before Christmas
Santa set out, Comet too
To tell this girl his reason
It was something he should do
Somewhere down in Kansas
Sleeping deep inside her bed
The little girl was dreaming
Christmas thoughts did fill her head
Down the young girls chimney
Santa came without his sack
It was two days on from Christmas
And he knew that he'd be back
He crept up to her bedside
Leaned on in and whispered low
He told her, it was Santa
There is something you should know
I love all the worlds children
They are innocent and free
They choose to be so open
Innocence is the key
Innocence, it surrounds them
In time the innocence is lost
You aren't born to hate
Innocence burns off like frost
I love all the worlds children
Adults once were children too
They were born without their darkness
The same as me and you
I love on different levels
That is why I have the list
That's why I double check it
To ensure no one's missed
So, I do not love them always
But for a short time, I do
The change is loss of innocence
It isn't all that new
Believe and you will feel it
My love for all the world
Now sleep, and wait for Christmas
You are a special little girl
He left and she lay sleeping
He made it home by break of day
Comet went back to his stable
Santa put his suit away
He had a cocoa and a cookie
It made him feel much better
It had been a huge adventure
Started by a single letter
Keep the faith and innocence
In the season winter kissed
And know that every person out there
Is always on one list
Remember, write your letters
Ask your questions, do not fear
For maybe, maybe one day
Santa will come and whisper in your ear
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 11:58 PM UTC