"regaling" poems
autonomous memetic devices
mewling absurdism after absurdism
incognito the non-sequiturs substantiate
administrative staff of the regaling suppositories
for all the good they will do you
you might as well shove them up your ****
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
<•>
BusBusNYC (A Live Love Bus App)
•<>•
if you made it this far, so fare one,
be undressed with thyself and impressed as well,
for thou joints me in holy matrimony upon a living map
where our presences can meet
in virtual real time as if eye new what that meant
but that blue dot is where this body possessed can be located by the nearest satellite finger snaking down from the heavens to Cain mark my foreheads location,
just like on Game of Thrones
don't you desire me, or rather,
the knowledge of mine
whereabouts?
the who of me, that very useful information, can best be
seen moving crosstown on the M72,
which is a mythological bus for in twenty years eye never
seen it come, go, though all its stops clearly marked
see me moving in fits and spurts of bursts of movement,
leaping streets and avenues in a single
unbounded, unstoppable superbus leap
in a city of anonymity where all who walk it streets,
ride the tides of its buses,
all ask a single Job-like question,
regardless of age,
"I am desirable, do you want me?"
eye say the ayes have it,
no,
this is not a great poem
but!
this live bus map app is the dating site ever created by
geeky human cells
alll this virtual meeting possibly leading to coitus
with a stranger while Pandora serenades
with perfect synchronicity, playing and plying us with
Romance for a Violin and Orchestra in F Minor,
a combination musical **** work of
Dvorak-Mehta-Midori
this bus app is
the social media's most immediate,
so meet me on the bus
at Broadway and 86 Street
where our metro cards can be
merged and we will be recognized
as a legal couple(ing)
in the eyes of MTA,
a multi-state agency and be bound in bustrimony
(legally married when riding on a city bus, only)
jeez, a crazy poem, not just, not a good one
but a true tale from the one who rides the buses and only
alights and delights with regaling tales and tellings
of love sortie sorrow maybe tomorrow the busbusNYC
app wil apply itself a smidgen better and
let me love you even with
a good under the hood
bus poem
but!
someday we will,
this, thy poet,
who does desire youalone,
will hijack you and a NYC bus,
and visit the poets from India and
the Great Northwest
won't that be a fabulous poem!
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
The color of the night
Watched wide-eyed
Solitary comfort
Warmth of darkness
Stars as witnesses
Stripped of inhibitions
Laying supine
Neath the night sky
Night regaling me
Magnetic presence
Attracts my attention
Only me and night
The other half of life
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
There he is
the loudest guy in the bar
Boasting about clandestine OPS
and battles he’d ‘prefer not to remember’,
But he does,
because he has an audience
There he was in Ramadi, Korengal,
Tikrit, Kandahar, pinned down by dozens,
no hundreds, of enemy fighters.
His best mate, was hit by shrapnel or an enemy round.
He screams for Doc
But no help comes
The barroom hero
applies a compression bandage,
but the blood continues to flow through his fingers
Minutes pass, his buddy worsens.
Doc arrives, finally.
The buddy is stabilized and loaded onto a stretcher
He’ll be on the first bird out
The battle hardened warrior continues his tale,
regaling his table with airstrikes, CQB, and
taking the battle to the enemy.
Someone asks, “What unit were you in?”
He replies proudly, “The Second Ranger Battalion.”
You set your own beer down and spin from your chair.
You make your way from your table to his.
You place a silver coin upon it,
“Second Ranger Battalion,” you say,
“Coin Check.”
The color drains from his face
Fear in his eyes and an ‘Oh **** expression on his face,
He stammers something about being ‘attached’
and having orders for Ranger School once.
Your icy glare tells him that he’d better
**** and **** before he is no longer able to do either.
He throws a $20 onto the table and finds his way to the door.
******* ****
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
The Boy called Tony by his grandpa and others, lights up his corner of the world. Be it kids or very old Big Kids,(adults who are kids at heart) wherever he goes, “Hi. My name is Tony. What is your name?” Usually following this introduction, if the response is received warmly is, “How old are you?” Than after that is decided, “My grandpa is really old.”
Kindergarten year saw the two of them at the Arctic Circle most days after school. The older “Big Kids”would see him come into Arctic Circle and wait for their turn to talk to the Boy called Tony.
Many times they stopped at Tony’s and Gpa’s table and talked before leaving. New people who had not talked to him before but “listened in” on Tony and Friends conversation, they would then stop at the table to say what a “delightful little boy he is”.
At the time of this writing, sitting in Arctic Circle, he is regaling a mother about the fine points of Pac Man and Frogger on Gpa’s phone. Let’s see, Gpa had that phone for years and did not know Pac Man and Frogger were on it. And so it goes…
And so it went… everywhere he went Tony learned People’s names and remembered them. Later, where ever he happened to see them, “I know you! You work at… or I saw you at…” and the conversation would go off in a multitude of directions… eventually.
One Saturday morning in January after the “BIG GAME!” (see note) Tony, his Aunt Kristen and Gpa were entering IHOP for breakfast. He bounced through the door still wearing his basket ball uniform as an older couple was exiting. Gpa was holding the door for the older “big kids” when the woman got all excited and said to Gpa, “Isn’t that the Arctic Circle Boy?” At which Gpa replied with certainty, “Yes it is.”
Graduating from kindergarten, if such a thing is possible,the class sang a song “Don’t Talk to Strangers”. Gpa thought at the time it was a scary little piece. But what does he know. Later in the afternoon a couple came walking toward Tony. Tony observed them approaching, he studied them intently, and then just as they were going by him, he called out, “HELLO STRANGERS!” Gpa thinks they are the only strangers he really knows.
——————(c)09-12-2011————————-
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 1:52 AM UTC
Words are ****
They make me want to rip a pillow with my teeth
Or marinate in a sensuous heat.
Where you'll be, sitting there.
Waiting to kiss my spine and touch my hair.
Tell me regaling tales of what you think.
Of what is rational or obsolete.
Worlds like *Suggestive, Sarcastic.
Forlorn* and Bombastic.
Makes my skin melt and heart palpitate.
I will no longer settle for those who are adequate.
I need substance. I need someone (you) to say.
That you're enamored and beg me to stay.
I want that learned passion that only we
could portray.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
the days all seem to blend into one
long song of regaling minstrels of mixed temperament
and poets of a different tongue
all she can say to you as she shows you the door
is that she wishes you well
and hopes you enjoyed the ride
cause you know its the right thing to do
and she kisses your cheek
out into the night you shuffle
you wander the carnival of the city streets
and wonder at the creatures of night
who don't need a home to know who they were born to be
who don't need directions to know right from wrong
the passive shadow
retreats across the floor
as the day slips
my gaze rides the rays
out the window to
breathtaking panorama of sky
but after few moments
the skies silent awe evaporates
as day crowds back in
these are days in the length of my years
that i pause to ponder the small ripples
the slight thing that becomes a tidal wave
later in life
sets in like the worn heel
of favored running shoes
its bitter dregs taste sweet in comparison
to the taste of her eyes as she rejected the venture
its a fine gift
like a box of gold
like a treasure of the soul
but it is not real
it is not true
it is simply a feeling of comradeship
a heartfelt desire that things could be different
late afternoon sunlight
through the narrow window
falls on the burnished oak
bringing to life the the beloved scents
of childhood home
my parents library
of books spread through the house
and all that knowledge that once thought was so precious
has turned into a phone that dont ring
the passive shadow
retreats across the floor
as the day slips
my gaze rides the rays
out the window to
breathtaking panorama of sky
but after few moments
the skies silent awe evaporates
as day crowds back in
and i remember that i was once a footloose son
and once danced in the dust of a summer sun
with a girl wearing a rose printed dress
and all seemed so right and true that day
and it was
and it was
these are days in the length of my years
that i pause to ponder the small ripples
the slight thing that becomes a tidal wave
later in life
these days are long gone before they ever came
aint that just like her
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
transducer -
a device that receives a signal in the form of one type of energy and converts it to a signal in another form: A microphone is a transducer that converts acoustic energy into electrical impulses
~~~~~~~~~
so many names,
none of them, kind,
none of them, nice words
The A, The B, The C word.
she would laugh and mock a spite and spittle filled man's
feeble curses and flit off to
charge her battery, steal electric life,
from a new outlet, another male body.
now a queen bee, regaling me,
her private audience,
with takes and tales,
of newly arrived
used up worker-boys,
her pleasure sources,
discards after a
singed single discharging/recharging
why come back to me,
what perversity,
did I supply?
she was elegant,
not stupid mean,
she was royal, imaginative,
her conception of a life well lived
was freedom from responsible,
self servicing,
the only motive
the negative pole, was I,
her cruelties energy, supplied
she was a transducer,
she was a re-former,
making her hate into her positivity
the original sin, mine,
hardly original, a cheating a beating,
plot of a rerun, rerun
the fist of being her
first
and then,
her last,
and now her only,
was
her curse returned,
sevenfold unending
her vocabulary was her deeds,
and her stories,
raw rut, well writ,
notated with selfies,
to insure my eyes agonists,
lest I cover my ears
I am your Transducer
she boasted,
pronouncing it languidly,
completing its proclamation
with the venom of a shotgun
I am your
Transsssssss-ducer!
I am a woman more sinned against than sinning,^
I am a woman more avenged by revenging,
I have taken your energy,
learned your cruelty,
and it has transformed me.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
Mind is roaming like a pariah dog
in some dusty lanes and lonely paths,
Sleeping on debris, regaling in waste and dirt.
I was its master once
But has lost the control now,
Time ahead looks bleak with
the equation reversing slowly
When I see me trembling before his bark.
Jan 15, 2021
Jan 15, 2021 at 4:38 PM UTC
Her lilting voice,
sweet and soothing,
once moved audiences
to laughter and tears.
Now, at bedtime,
she hones her celebrated art
for her daughter's enjoyment,
regaling her with stories
of wizards and talking birds,
of princesses and castles
and magical visits to a
glittering fantasyland.
She tucks her child in
and listens to her prayer,
then sleep tiptoes
into the quiet room
as the little girl
turns over gently,
all her lovely dreams
just waiting to unfold
like a glorious sunrise.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
I awaken to the chirping of birds,
Sparrows chattering gaily,
flitting and fluttering,
In their thicket of green,
Regaling the dawn.
O happy contagion,
O irrepressible joy,
Their siren song beckons,
To share in their exuberance,
Their zest and passion for life!
To give humble thanks
For the start of day,
To trust in that Love
Where all life issued,
Where all Creation
In gentle balance hangs.
My spirit rises,
My heart races,
To face life anew.
Drawn on by a sense
Of hope,
Of purpose,
Of excitement,
A new beginning unfolds.
O the carefree spirit
Of the sparrows!
Without labour and toil,
Finding fullness of life,
Sustenance and freedom,
Enjoying flights of fancy
In the leafy expanse
Of their emerald world.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 12:36 AM UTC
it is for
the sake
of my mother’s
brother
that I
am named.
I know only
the most
insufficient
detail
of his life:
that he drowned.
a kind
great uncle
I imagine
he would’ve been
to my sons.
him regaling to my daughter
stories
of his wild
sister; wiling away in houseless trees.
whenever I hold my breath
my brothers fight.
Jun 30, 2012
Jun 30, 2012 at 4:34 AM UTC
After a while even Heaven fades,
exalted tube journeys
and flourished delicatessens
helps change the mind.
Weekend Bed sits in Notting Hill Gate,
regaling stories of her missed A levels
and dreams of being an actress,
before being misunderstood,
in turn he intended to go to Polytechnic,
two potentially interesting people
future's denied by defenestration,
too late in building bridges
learnt by confirming hurt.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:57 PM UTC
"I am freedom itself" hummed aloud,
the wind that passes agitating tree tops,
air am I, the giver of life,pumping energy"
"I am with you" I echoed his song sans words
"Though I won't hazard a guess where do we go"
"Don't you bother, our circumnavigation is yet another
of the stories, in the compendium,universe does cherish.
We belong to all, as movement that never ceases"
"Get in to my vehicle, the heat will look after the rest,
the transporter,that makes everything light,
by burning down, I am the transformer too"
"I am the hunger you possess" I replied
"I eat and digest, create growth, make things move,
in my ***** is the hunger to procreate,progress.
Once the hunger is satiated, I get back
slithering in to the burrow, like a serpent
Anger I become when I decide to destruct,
it's from the ashes of the old,the new is constructed!
"From the salt in me,everything living sprout"
earth, the begining and end of everything
in customary silence,implied, I was overwhelmed.
she is the nurturing mother of every seed with the
potential to life, wants to open eyes to the sun
then grow roots deep to entrench, stand *****
"I am one with you mother earth, from you
sprung my body, that seeks light, rest at night"
Sky was full of birds,regaling in every presence
in it's fold, sky beams"I am a vessel fathomless,
come in to my space open,dance your way to bliss,
and seek wistful dreams written by interstellar light"
"I am filled by you where there is an absence of other
my mind limitless is in you exist, I am you in spirit,
when I withdraw from all,I am all in you, nothing left"
Water did speak both to my silence and eloquence,
water is beyond the markers of darkness and light,
From earth to dust, dissolving to be water and flow
from one kind of existence to other, till the limits of cosmos.
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 11:03 AM UTC
Die hard hipsters
Wildly clinging to images of
Adolescence
Regaling epic fables
Lost inside **** infested minds
Grazing shoulders with the
Super cool young things
Franticly plunging ahead
Towards perceived sophistication
Bearded dudes
Heads cocked at a jaunty angle
Whiskey in hand, lust in their eyes
Confrontation
Just one sip away
Painted princesses
With ***** smeared lipstick and beguiling costumes
Stealing glances in the direction
Of anticipated adulation
Dreamy trumpets from bygone days
Colliding with breakbeats
Deliciously intoxicating
Shimmering
Across dance floors
Bodies blending
Contorting in need
Cheeks flushed
From a desire to complete
Glorious in their absurdity
Pretension festers
Brilliance diminished
Hidden within conformity
And a compulsion to submit
Its Friday Night
The pressure is on
To 'be seen'
Where intention is necessary
But the encounter
Is
Everything
(C) Pixievic 2016
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 9:20 AM UTC
A certain ray of light pierced day
As if to burst the bubble into colored beams.
In the dazzle of the day a bloke felt moody;
Trapped in the maze of his voiceless mind
As he walked oblivious of passion to his prison
Yet prepared he was not for the finery he was yet to see.
A chill crept through his Snaky spine:
When his fell eyes fell to the gravity of the being descending-
The Murky dusty Creamy Stairs
A goddess! regaling in a fiercely flowery gown
Embracing her Sculptured Succulent frame.
She met his eyes with the force of a stray beam of light.
A thud was heard as his heart exploded down his bowel.
Her presence decorated the air stylishly with a musk of femininity.
All at ones he became alert of nature's essence.
An instant Hum perfumed the epicenter of his sordid heart.
He reached out to touch her slender arms
As he breathed almost mechanically "You are beautiful"
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 12:28 PM UTC
What if people were not flesh?
Perhaps instead made of books
Sheaves of paper and pots of ink
Words, words, words
Filling the pages
Shaping the heart, shaped from the heart
Telling the life story on the skin
And through the layers of body
The heart detailing the loves and passions
And heartbreaks it has felt
The tongue and stomach telling
Of the delicious foods they've tasted
The mind regaling the stories and tales
It has heard and read
The eyes etched with pictures
And places and people
The ears curling around their recollections
Of songs and voices past
And last, the lips.
Inscribed with the memories and tastes
Of every kiss stolen and each word spoken
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
HP maidens, poetesses,
Scribes refined in frocks and dresses,
Silver words and golden tresses
Fall upon your page.
With your slender painted fingers,
Tell the tales your hearts would bring us,
Let the marching bands and singers
Take you to the stage.
Have no fear of failing,
With your words regaling,
All the seeds of mighty deeds
And heady heights you're scaling;
With your thirst for love and sharing,
Let your trumpet sound it's blaring,
Tell it bold and tell it daring,
You are all revered!
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
I lay on stained mattresses amidst oil paintings and mirrors
Lattice veils of mascara run down my pallor cheeks
As I stare down at the blood pooling in my outstretched hand
Reflections stare down at me, winged suicide girls and soldiers
All eyes across the room staring down with me, to the checkered floor
My pale pink toes brush the tile, the soles black smudging the gloss
White, blaring, chandeliers above, candelabras with jeweled adornments
Gracefully falling downwards like tears, my own indenting upon satin sheets
Wrapped tight around my legs, falling loose around my shoulders
Caping me, hanging open at my ******* bruised and swollen
Though I've no babe, and so, I clench my eyes against the staring
Chiding me, beguiling me, burned in behind my eyelids there,
you. are.
Whispering like chiffon, along with the fabric of my dress beneath your manicured fingernails
Tracing the edges of my gooseflesh and regaling me with tales of woe
and wonder, of the conquests of art, fine frames and fantastic auctions
Our freedom, held capricious on the winds of chance, before
Now love, our love, your love, provided such an opportunity, a chance to fly away
This you mumbled to my neck with adoring kisses
as relieving as fresh rain against my skin, hands tuning the zipper along my back to play such a fine melody like a phonograph
A pretty thing, to be molded by such hands, with as much regard as handling a Monet painting
I see it clearly after all
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
easy access and proliferation of firearms,
now begs a serious hard question
presenting daunting task,
quite aware that passionate
stalwart supporters of the NRA,
embrace weaponry likened
to garnering an Aboriginal trophy mask
(particularly in light of violent mass killings)
immediately forces people
of all stripes comprising this nation ask
quite aware of diametrically,
jarringly, and politically
doggedly entrenched fierce position
each polarized stance challenges,
especially when pitted
against die hard proponents
of the Second Amendment,
who would sooner burn to ash,
and/or adopt a siege mentality
glowering akin to red hot metal
regaling opportunity asper Liberal heads to bash,
than relinquish (lock, stock and barrel)
prized, coveted, and cherished cache
amassed collection of firearms
permissible in accordance
with (literal interpretation
of Second Amendment
of the United States Constitution)
to mean no deterrent preclude
(birth right to equip bare arms),
deprivation against amassing a stockpile,
would trigger an immediate saber flash
and instantaneously, another Civil War, would
(with gnash of clenched jaws violently
opposing manumission
to release obedient snap, crackle
pop in je nais sais quois ***** the provocation
rendering revision, sans sacred covenant
would sting whip lash
snuffing out any first and last hope to reconcile
divisive national issue
with cool collected talking heads,
cuz shoot at the hip diplomacy
be loved American style,
that indomitable fighting
esprit de corps tis fire in belly trial
though this skeptical and devout atheist,
would welcome being proved wrong
generating the better angels to render obsolete strong
arm of the law as plucked harps evoke swan song
witnessing unbelievable savoir faire
(forcing me to retract pessimism
and willingly swallow my pride), minus long
time overdue, and negotiation
celebrated with tolling from a gong.
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 4:14 AM UTC
Lips dripping with the blood of gardens, you caught my eye and held it close, like the crying babe I was in my heart. Regaling us with imagined tales of space travel, your eyes turning the chrome color of a sleek, silver ship. You can place your hands on my shoulders, my cheeks, my slowly tanning arms, I am your crutch and you are my captain. You can place your mouth so close and stare at my lips dripping with the blood of gardens, and I fail to accept that I am real to you.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
The burning sun dips behind the buildings
That blur my view.
They stand, strong sentinels,
Soldiers from another time.
Heavy with rust,
Bowing with age,
Yet their proud necks extend
Stretching tall toward the Heavens,
Regaling another far off time.
An epoch when the world still,
Flourished.
Before the insect-like destruction.
The tears coursing down my cheeks,
They are memories.
Stories and tales of my beautiful world
Before it slipped through my grasp
Like water in cupped hands.
I mourn my loss
And your loss.
The epitaph of the world reads:
Silence.
Illegibly carved onto the backs
Of those who walk her surface
And for now, we all choose to ignore it.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
The rats run in, the rats run out
thats just what they do
spreading disease and parasites
eating inside, and out, of you
PETA would have you imagine
that it's just another living thing
oblivious to the death
such creatures always bring
Cockroaches scurry around
rats are their only fear
carrying more viral death
each time, that they, appear
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
However I tried to hide, to flee
He taunted, "You’ll never escape from me”
Once tried to go yet stayed on flailing
Adjusting to the barbs he’s nailing
Cooperating with my own impaling
Gave up the dream of our smooth sailing
Nothing here is worth regaling
Late at night I keep on wailing
Deciding the step to take by bailing
Staying here means just keep failing
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
Vane glorious and absolutistic,
though I defiantly,
cavalierly, and blithely attest
Yukon bet your (laugh-in) sweet bippy
mine acidic breast
houses anarchic, anti-poetic ballistic,
barbaric, and bubonic
cannibalistic demons within thy
safely guarded Pandora chest
atomic cesium clock
timed to trigger avast
burst of anxiety, frenzy, and
(What me worry
Alfred E. Neuman) blast
ting mental quietude at most
inappropriate, inconvenient,
inopportune, out classed
adrenaline rush, nausea,
palpitating heart, vertigo
besieging, corrupting,
endeavoring fractured arrant
cleft daemonic gripping
hellishly psychic chant
rendering unto sieze ****
a choking vise grip extant
yule hiss sieze indomitable
banshee fully controlling grant
diabolic, dogmatic, and dynamic,
anguished corporeal ache
easily, egregiously, and emblematically,
exemplified historically
graphic fatalistic, and ecstatic coup,
(koo), when I caused furious frantic flight,
and/or fight betake
king angst causing just desserts
for Marie Antoinette,
who got her humble pie cake,
thence dispensing with formalities,
where a joshing drake
(named Gill O. Teen)
also known (solely known
to mine selfish source error ways)
alias i.e. as; the Lewis (loose)
lunatic, heady harvester,
and decapitation Deacon trumpeting,
trouncing, and triumphing tranquility
for fifty three Tuesdays,
thence sea king punishing psychotic
pre pound payment
basking in glory (re: gory us)
amidship crashing quays
music to mine ears hearing plaintive neighs
high pitched straining
vocal chord hamstrung keys
regaling oceanographic
lambent hagiographic essays
and keeping at bathos bays.
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 11:45 PM UTC