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"repertoire" poems
1. Nymphomaniac-addicts, Overweight bisexual vegetarians Climbing trees to stay fit and eating 80’s fried chicken ******* 2. just imagine Aquarians full of class valedictorians Swimming on display for graduation ceremony… reverse-symbolism of how Moolch drowned His ***** 3. Better yet, just imagine Holy wars, Beautiful words written to describe the burning pains Of holocaust...the Kristallnacht nights Under the mistletoe, Watching Hall of fame ball hawks on pivot toes Driving through hoes After the whistle blows 4 College Literacy classes teaching basic: Ideas that good questions leads to good answers, Reading reminders Free association conceptual constructions 5. But ************ professor: free association **** shticks misfires, false alarms are all art, too, Like sticking a dagger into an apple, Not the edible, but the technology. 6. Go head, deconstruct the philosophy Of oral cute-tification, according to the Tautology of Leviticus, With the same three half truths, pogroms against biological deviant... FLAGS! 7. Cryptic gospels of a ************ Where three F.F.F’s Stands for six six six Like how 1mg of juxtaposition And a dose of metamorphosis is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon ‘cause even the Holy Ghost drinks from the cup of Christ’s blood. 8. Reading, Self-flagellation gospel-manual of Pope John Paul II, At shrink sessions under the daze of heron Piper methysticum blunts With sweet phat butts like lit lickerish that droop eyes Like the psalm of Valeriana officinalis root extract.
0
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 12:46 PM UTC
ugochukwu-charles-onyewuchi
Phrenology of SAMO (from 1.Amativeness to 8. Acquisitiveness)
1. Nymphomaniac-addicts, Overweight bisexual vegetarians Climbing trees to stay fit and eating 80’s fried chicken ******* 2. just imagine Aquarians full of class valedictorians Swimming on display for graduation ceremony… reverse-symbolism of how Moolch drowned His ***** 3. Better yet, just imagine Holy wars, Beautiful words written to describe the burning pains Of holocaust...the Kristallnacht nights Under the mistletoe, Watching Hall of fame ball hawks on pivot toes Driving through hoes After the whistle blows 4 College Literacy classes teaching basic: Ideas that good questions leads to good answers, Reading reminders Free association conceptual constructions 5. But ************ professor: free association **** shticks misfires, false alarms are all art, too, Like sticking a dagger into an apple, Not the edible, but the technology. 6. Go head, deconstruct the philosophy Of oral cute-tification, according to the Tautology of Leviticus, With the same three half truths, pogroms against biological deviant... FLAGS! 7. Cryptic gospels of a ************ Where three F.F.F’s Stands for six six six Like how 1mg of juxtaposition And a dose of metamorphosis is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon ‘cause even the Holy Ghost drinks from the cup of Christ’s blood. 8. Reading, Self-flagellation gospel-manual of Pope John Paul II, At shrink sessions under the daze of heron Piper methysticum blunts With sweet phat butts like lit lickerish that droop eyes Like the psalm of Valeriana officinalis root extract.
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52
my whispers, they float over the currents braving the undulating waves in our overture... around their necks, hung time-worn pendants whispers... struggling to convey my sentence like wreaths adrift perhaps with hope like a requiem filled perhaps with remorseful penance but more like weakened footholds on a slippery slope... this dream... only spoke grandly of sprawling blackness where nothing did gleam only thoughts heavy but... oddly weightless except for... a repertoire of transgressions... raucous and obnoxious mischievous taunts that pull me back caging me, enslaving me, smothering me senseless that was my consciousness where second chances exist... in faint sporadic eruptions through the heavy curtains of uncertainty's mist finally awakened by hastened breaths heavy and laboured as like previous temporary deaths I could hear my heart thumping... beating... fighting... to set its beats apart breathe deep... allow the new day's air sink in rise fully from sleep wake up and... let today begin
0
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC
ryn
Unsettled Heart
my whispers, they float over the currents braving the undulating waves in our overture... around their necks, hung time-worn pendants whispers... struggling to convey my sentence like wreaths adrift perhaps with hope like a requiem filled perhaps with remorseful penance but more like weakened footholds on a slippery slope... this dream... only spoke grandly of sprawling blackness where nothing did gleam only thoughts heavy but... oddly weightless except for... a repertoire of transgressions... raucous and obnoxious mischievous taunts that pull me back caging me, enslaving me, smothering me senseless that was my consciousness where second chances exist... in faint sporadic eruptions through the heavy curtains of uncertainty's mist finally awakened by hastened breaths heavy and laboured as like previous temporary deaths I could hear my heart thumping... beating... fighting... to set its beats apart breathe deep... allow the new day's air sink in rise fully from sleep wake up and... let today begin
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39
Ornery odious ordinate ostensive opulence ornate optimal Motivity meatus meticulous morsel moribund mendacity monstrance Lucidity lingam loquacity longevous licentious lurid languishing Votary volition verve venery vector vauntness vast Talismanically telepathy tantamount terrestrial tellurian transition tractive Idolatry -ics incus ictus ichor icon icky Yogi yowl yore yoni yerk yenta yantra Gimpy gesticulation genre gestational glitch genuflection grandiose Dastardly douceur denouement denigrational deplorable despicable desperate Paltry potentate portentous plagiaristic pandemic plenipotentiary plenary Jouncy jocular jeopardy jettison jurisprudence jaunt juxtaposition Ramify repartee radix recital rectitude rendition repertoire Beastly bartizan bodacious belligerent brusque blatant blasphemously Enmity exigency exacerbation extemporaneous edifice eulogy exoneration Zoolatry zoomorphic zilch Zephyr zoic zygosity zealotry Sultry solace subtlety substantiation suborn subliminal sensorium Unity ultimatum usurping unfathomable uncanny unbridled unary ***** hornswoggle horizon huckster homogeny holistic heuristic Nugatory notch nostrum notorious nihilism nimiety nimbus Wrathy wreak wroth wrought wrest wrangle warranty Artistry autonomy articulation agility acuity asperity acerbity Keeky kangaroo court kowtow kobold kleptomania kinetics kinesiology Xylography xenophile xerophilous xylophagous xylem xanadu xenobiotic Critically credibility critique coercion conjugational conjunctive corporeal Queasy quasi quantum quintessence quagmire quixotic quantify Flighty flippant flamboyance faux pas fornicatious fictitious finite
0
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 5:31 AM UTC
toreinss-pinwinkel-iii
Iconoclasm
Ornery odious ordinate ostensive opulence ornate optimal Motivity meatus meticulous morsel moribund mendacity monstrance Lucidity lingam loquacity longevous licentious lurid languishing Votary volition verve venery vector vauntness vast Talismanically telepathy tantamount terrestrial tellurian transition tractive Idolatry -ics incus ictus ichor icon icky Yogi yowl yore yoni yerk yenta yantra Gimpy gesticulation genre gestational glitch genuflection grandiose Dastardly douceur denouement denigrational deplorable despicable desperate Paltry potentate portentous plagiaristic pandemic plenipotentiary plenary Jouncy jocular jeopardy jettison jurisprudence jaunt juxtaposition Ramify repartee radix recital rectitude rendition repertoire Beastly bartizan bodacious belligerent brusque blatant blasphemously Enmity exigency exacerbation extemporaneous edifice eulogy exoneration Zoolatry zoomorphic zilch Zephyr zoic zygosity zealotry Sultry solace subtlety substantiation suborn subliminal sensorium Unity ultimatum usurping unfathomable uncanny unbridled unary ***** hornswoggle horizon huckster homogeny holistic heuristic Nugatory notch nostrum notorious nihilism nimiety nimbus Wrathy wreak wroth wrought wrest wrangle warranty Artistry autonomy articulation agility acuity asperity acerbity Keeky kangaroo court kowtow kobold kleptomania kinetics kinesiology Xylography xenophile xerophilous xylophagous xylem xanadu xenobiotic Critically credibility critique coercion conjugational conjunctive corporeal Queasy quasi quantum quintessence quagmire quixotic quantify Flighty flippant flamboyance faux pas fornicatious fictitious finite
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26
Cheers! We praise our lined faces. We forgive time. We raise our cups of double-pressed wine. We know brute forests from our seed-time We know heaven will cleave those we entwine The season of heat is slow to erupt. April is late. March is still covered with snow, Its shabby sheet weak shoots barely interrupt., Succession and succession is what we know. In the thronged marketplace we know we’ll find Lines of who came before and who came after All seem in be arranged by some infinite mind Knowing where our line goes will not stop our laughter. We dance. All dances are in our repertoire. We know we’re headed to that sacred abattoir. Marc Tretin
0
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
marc-tretin
Cheerful!
Cheers! We praise our lined faces. We forgive time. We raise our cups of double-pressed wine. We know brute forests from our seed-time We know heaven will cleave those we entwine The season of heat is slow to erupt. April is late. March is still covered with snow, Its shabby sheet weak shoots barely interrupt., Succession and succession is what we know. In the thronged marketplace we know we’ll find Lines of who came before and who came after All seem in be arranged by some infinite mind Knowing where our line goes will not stop our laughter. We dance. All dances are in our repertoire. We know we’re headed to that sacred abattoir. Marc Tretin
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16
Finite fictitious fornicatious faux pas flamboyance flippant flighty Quantify quixotic quagmire quintessence quantum quasi queasy Corporeal conjunctive conjugational coercion critique credibility critically Xenobiotic xanadu xylem xylophagous xerophilous xenophile xylography Kinesiology kinetics kleptomania kobold kowtow kangaroo court keeky             Acerbity asperity acuity agility articulation autonomy artistry Warranty wrangle wrest wrought wroth wreak wrathy Nimbus nimiety nihilism notorious nostrum notch nugatory Heuristic holistic homogeny huckster horizon hornswoggle ***** Unary unbridled uncanny unfathomable usurping ultimatum unity Sensorium subliminal suborn substantiation subtlety solace sultry Zealotry zygosity zoic Zephyr zilch  zoomorphic  zoolatry Exoneration eulogy edifice extemporaneous exaserbational exigency enmity Blasphemously blatant brusque belligerent bodacious bartizan beastly Repertoire rendition rectitude recital radix repartee ramify Juxtaposition jaunt jurisprudence jettison jeopardy jocular jouncy Plenary plenipotentiary pandemic plagiaristic portentous potentate paltry                      Desperate despicable deplorable denigrational denouement douceur dastardly Grandiose genuflection glitch gestational genre gesticulation gimpy Yantra yenta yerk yoni yore yowl yogi Icky icon ichor ictus incus -ics idolatry Tractive transition tellurian terrestrial tantamount telepathy talismanically Vast vauntness vector venery verve volition votary Languishing lurid licentious longevous loquacity lingam lucidity                                 Monstrance mendacity moribund morsel meticulous meatus motivity Optimal ornate opulence ostensive ordinate odious ornery
0
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
toreinss-pinwinkel-iii
Iconoclasm Epithet
Finite fictitious fornicatious faux pas flamboyance flippant flighty Quantify quixotic quagmire quintessence quantum quasi queasy Corporeal conjunctive conjugational coercion critique credibility critically Xenobiotic xanadu xylem xylophagous xerophilous xenophile xylography Kinesiology kinetics kleptomania kobold kowtow kangaroo court keeky             Acerbity asperity acuity agility articulation autonomy artistry Warranty wrangle wrest wrought wroth wreak wrathy Nimbus nimiety nihilism notorious nostrum notch nugatory Heuristic holistic homogeny huckster horizon hornswoggle ***** Unary unbridled uncanny unfathomable usurping ultimatum unity Sensorium subliminal suborn substantiation subtlety solace sultry Zealotry zygosity zoic Zephyr zilch  zoomorphic  zoolatry Exoneration eulogy edifice extemporaneous exaserbational exigency enmity Blasphemously blatant brusque belligerent bodacious bartizan beastly Repertoire rendition rectitude recital radix repartee ramify Juxtaposition jaunt jurisprudence jettison jeopardy jocular jouncy Plenary plenipotentiary pandemic plagiaristic portentous potentate paltry                      Desperate despicable deplorable denigrational denouement douceur dastardly Grandiose genuflection glitch gestational genre gesticulation gimpy Yantra yenta yerk yoni yore yowl yogi Icky icon ichor ictus incus -ics idolatry Tractive transition tellurian terrestrial tantamount telepathy talismanically Vast vauntness vector venery verve volition votary Languishing lurid licentious longevous loquacity lingam lucidity                                 Monstrance mendacity moribund morsel meticulous meatus motivity Optimal ornate opulence ostensive ordinate odious ornery
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26
Ever heard your voice take a trip mid sentence And start scrambling eggs, Ending sentences with verbs, Mixing Soy sauce with Bacardi And chasing the laughter down your throat with onions Cuckolding in the middle of the afternoon Where violet doesn’t recognize blue As a hue worthy enough to frolic with the afternoon dew, And then your brain smiles to your ****** And you choke on a giggle And wiggle an index finger just a little And remember black widows Were once angels who bought into self fulfilling prophecies Like wearing Armani suits barefoot And breathing through your skin Hoping life doesn’t die in your arms And leave a beautiful corpse With great stories suffocating inside And make the subpar ambitions of an unborn child jealous. Now ever heard a genius cry? ‘cause then you’ve heard an artist cry. Ever ate pork fried rice on a Sunday afternoon? ‘cause if you have you’ve heard the words of Leviticus cry. Ever read these written words? ‘cause if you have you’ve heard memories die And pains scream in alphabets of pleasure— The universal language of immaculate deception That sweeps through every tongue in involuntary pneumonia Like waltzing to the Amen’s of the devil With oxygen choking your nostrils And monoxide nodding your fingers to pull the trigger Of death dancing on the tomb of your destiny Like how a dose of metamorphosis And a 1mg of juxtaposition Is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon. But ever heard a musical note?   Then you’ve heard the story of how joy lost the war of happiness to bitterness. Ever heard the sound of silence? Then you’ve heard the face of evil and the thoughts of serenity Joined at the hip of rock of Gibraltar, Nodding heads at the gospels of Gothic prophets Spewing sermons of a perfecter way to word the meaning of love. Ever heard a Mockingjay sing? Then you’ve heard the lullabies of suicide, Like falling from grace from the eyes of your one true love And landing on the plastic bag made of her silence Only to wake from the land of death and catch your voice breaking at mid sentence And mend it with the lies of sunshine that you call your life.
0
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 2:51 PM UTC
ugochukwu-charles-onyewuchi
EXU
Ever heard your voice take a trip mid sentence And start scrambling eggs, Ending sentences with verbs, Mixing Soy sauce with Bacardi And chasing the laughter down your throat with onions Cuckolding in the middle of the afternoon Where violet doesn’t recognize blue As a hue worthy enough to frolic with the afternoon dew, And then your brain smiles to your ****** And you choke on a giggle And wiggle an index finger just a little And remember black widows Were once angels who bought into self fulfilling prophecies Like wearing Armani suits barefoot And breathing through your skin Hoping life doesn’t die in your arms And leave a beautiful corpse With great stories suffocating inside And make the subpar ambitions of an unborn child jealous. Now ever heard a genius cry? ‘cause then you’ve heard an artist cry. Ever ate pork fried rice on a Sunday afternoon? ‘cause if you have you’ve heard the words of Leviticus cry. Ever read these written words? ‘cause if you have you’ve heard memories die And pains scream in alphabets of pleasure— The universal language of immaculate deception That sweeps through every tongue in involuntary pneumonia Like waltzing to the Amen’s of the devil With oxygen choking your nostrils And monoxide nodding your fingers to pull the trigger Of death dancing on the tomb of your destiny Like how a dose of metamorphosis And a 1mg of juxtaposition Is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon. But ever heard a musical note?   Then you’ve heard the story of how joy lost the war of happiness to bitterness. Ever heard the sound of silence? Then you’ve heard the face of evil and the thoughts of serenity Joined at the hip of rock of Gibraltar, Nodding heads at the gospels of Gothic prophets Spewing sermons of a perfecter way to word the meaning of love. Ever heard a Mockingjay sing? Then you’ve heard the lullabies of suicide, Like falling from grace from the eyes of your one true love And landing on the plastic bag made of her silence Only to wake from the land of death and catch your voice breaking at mid sentence And mend it with the lies of sunshine that you call your life.
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48
how many paths, how many loves living and changing and ever climbing learning and growing and springing over like purple sunsets entering red mountains each experience reopening your eyes, gaining wisdom and freedom, ever increasing strength Atlas holding Gaia, never ending strength becoming charged and overcome with love     encircled with history and caring, gaining a repertoire of eternal connections, climbing into dream fields surrounded by mountains will this serenity ever be over? though hopefully the uncertainty will be over and that we will have strength to conquer all the encountered mountains created by each newly attained love embrace avenues crossed and obstacles climbed to have pleasure and confidence gained though will paradise ever be gained allowing forgetfulness of pain we're over while still remembering friendships we climbed every node you pass gives strength for the next stage of love giving elemental power to move mountains our past shadows creating fresh mountains to relive, to adore; understanding gained so many different forms of love meaningfully distinct, passed but never over, each one providing new wonderful strength to allow us unique nirvanas climbed always strive for larger heights climbed those hopes will be worth mountains don't fear any loss of strength, weakness endured is often willpower gained hate and sorrow should never over- come the treasureful bliss of love *Don't be afraid of the climb to the top of the mountain unbelievable strength will be gained, all the adventures that are over will become unforgettable love*
0
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
joan-karcher
Transcendental Willpower (Sestina)
how many paths, how many loves living and changing and ever climbing learning and growing and springing over like purple sunsets entering red mountains each experience reopening your eyes, gaining wisdom and freedom, ever increasing strength Atlas holding Gaia, never ending strength becoming charged and overcome with love     encircled with history and caring, gaining a repertoire of eternal connections, climbing into dream fields surrounded by mountains will this serenity ever be over? though hopefully the uncertainty will be over and that we will have strength to conquer all the encountered mountains created by each newly attained love embrace avenues crossed and obstacles climbed to have pleasure and confidence gained though will paradise ever be gained allowing forgetfulness of pain we're over while still remembering friendships we climbed every node you pass gives strength for the next stage of love giving elemental power to move mountains our past shadows creating fresh mountains to relive, to adore; understanding gained so many different forms of love meaningfully distinct, passed but never over, each one providing new wonderful strength to allow us unique nirvanas climbed always strive for larger heights climbed those hopes will be worth mountains don't fear any loss of strength, weakness endured is often willpower gained hate and sorrow should never over- come the treasureful bliss of love *Don't be afraid of the climb to the top of the mountain unbelievable strength will be gained, all the adventures that are over will become unforgettable love*
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39
I am reading poems by Billy Collins: AIMLESS LOVE, a retrospective, A sampler, as it were For the Books and Brew; Our monthly selection. Nine manly men Meeting for monthly meals And book-talk And politics And, of course, good beer. They like nonfiction, I like fiction. Richard Hughes, British writer of poems, short stories, novels and plays said: “All nonfiction can do is answer questions; It is fiction's business to ask them.” Still, my repertoire has expanded: Nike shoes. Civil War. Institutional racism. Opioid addiction. Rafting the Grand Canyon. Climbing mountains. With Baron Von Humboldt. And now this: Poetry. Nine manly men Reading poetry to each other While sharing a meal, One lovely poem after another. You can't read a book of poetry Like you consume other books, Fiction or nonfiction. The table of contents: The lid of a box of exquisite truffles— A map of pleasures contained within. You look at the map, And make a selection. The caramel truffle Is not the coffee truffle. You look at the map, Make a selection, And bite! The crusty chocolate cracks! The darkness melts, Floods your mouth with taste. Then the rush of caramel! Flavors, smells sloshing Swooning with sensate memories. What? Turn the page and read another? Reach for the coffee truffle? No. Linger with caramel; Luxuriate on aftertaste. Is that a note of citrus or salt? I will enjoy my coffee truffle tomorrow.
0
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
james-floss
EXQUISITE TRUFFLES
I am reading poems by Billy Collins: AIMLESS LOVE, a retrospective, A sampler, as it were For the Books and Brew; Our monthly selection. Nine manly men Meeting for monthly meals And book-talk And politics And, of course, good beer. They like nonfiction, I like fiction. Richard Hughes, British writer of poems, short stories, novels and plays said: “All nonfiction can do is answer questions; It is fiction's business to ask them.” Still, my repertoire has expanded: Nike shoes. Civil War. Institutional racism. Opioid addiction. Rafting the Grand Canyon. Climbing mountains. With Baron Von Humboldt. And now this: Poetry. Nine manly men Reading poetry to each other While sharing a meal, One lovely poem after another. You can't read a book of poetry Like you consume other books, Fiction or nonfiction. The table of contents: The lid of a box of exquisite truffles— A map of pleasures contained within. You look at the map, And make a selection. The caramel truffle Is not the coffee truffle. You look at the map, Make a selection, And bite! The crusty chocolate cracks! The darkness melts, Floods your mouth with taste. Then the rush of caramel! Flavors, smells sloshing Swooning with sensate memories. What? Turn the page and read another? Reach for the coffee truffle? No. Linger with caramel; Luxuriate on aftertaste. Is that a note of citrus or salt? I will enjoy my coffee truffle tomorrow.
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55
crisp atmosphere, special ordered for perfect pumpkin patching, apple picking, stout sweaters all, a blueish autumnal sky, orange 'n red leaves delivered on time the old uber-man-grand-pa, hired as a day driver, saddles them up, three generations all tucked in a repeating mise en scène a replay of some thirty years earlier, when the now-father was about the same age, as his boy, three years aged and yet so impatient asking the same question his father perfected, in the same sweet voice, at about the same time, in the same way, a little voice from deep in the cavernous back seat, sighing, squeaking with an I've-seen-it-all ennui, some mere five minutes into the hour's plus journey to the 'country' bound "are we there yet?" titters 'n snickers from assorted adults, but grandpa weeps words with composition instant, so many answers to such an important question, so serious that an admission, confession required, due you, grandpa still asks the same question every day of his life it's Sunday and longish poems per Yeoman, strictly verboten, God knows there's an essay unwritten as the answer, a symphonette with a thousand opus, by-your-command repertoire, a pumpkin for every patch, some answers that even may be a young prince's carriage in hiding but for now let this suffice, sometimes yes, sometimes no, and sometimes, the goal line just goes and moves on ya so with utmost seriousness a purposed thoughtfulness proposed, posing said inquiry knows no age limitation, if you have not asked of yourself this day, "are we there yet?” then the answer is surely, not yet
0
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
are we there yet?
crisp atmosphere, special ordered for perfect pumpkin patching, apple picking, stout sweaters all, a blueish autumnal sky, orange 'n red leaves delivered on time the old uber-man-grand-pa, hired as a day driver, saddles them up, three generations all tucked in a repeating mise en scène a replay of some thirty years earlier, when the now-father was about the same age, as his boy, three years aged and yet so impatient asking the same question his father perfected, in the same sweet voice, at about the same time, in the same way, a little voice from deep in the cavernous back seat, sighing, squeaking with an I've-seen-it-all ennui, some mere five minutes into the hour's plus journey to the 'country' bound "are we there yet?" titters 'n snickers from assorted adults, but grandpa weeps words with composition instant, so many answers to such an important question, so serious that an admission, confession required, due you, grandpa still asks the same question every day of his life it's Sunday and longish poems per Yeoman, strictly verboten, God knows there's an essay unwritten as the answer, a symphonette with a thousand opus, by-your-command repertoire, a pumpkin for every patch, some answers that even may be a young prince's carriage in hiding but for now let this suffice, sometimes yes, sometimes no, and sometimes, the goal line just goes and moves on ya so with utmost seriousness a purposed thoughtfulness proposed, posing said inquiry knows no age limitation, if you have not asked of yourself this day, "are we there yet?” then the answer is surely, not yet
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52
She is the world to me, An infinite source of eternal glee… She is the pinnacle of compassion, God’s greatest creation… Looking into her eyes gets you transfixed, Into a world where love, joy and sanguinity is mixed… Her voice, my rhythm divine, Which makes me glad to know she’s mine… Her heart, that’s the sole reason for my being, Since she’s into the habit of heart stealing…. Her smile that inspires me into motion, Her mind that brims me up with every positive emotion… She doesn’t realize, she’s worth lava to a volcano, The fish to every Eskimo… She thinks I’m joking, but she’s my life’s repertoire, My one and only true desire… She’s as sweet as candy, And as intoxicating as brandy… She’s my sweetheart, one of very few, Who makes every day of my like adventurous and new… She means everything to me, For now until all eternity…
0
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 10:35 AM UTC
rakesh-vijayakumar
What she means to me...
She is the world to me, An infinite source of eternal glee… She is the pinnacle of compassion, God’s greatest creation… Looking into her eyes gets you transfixed, Into a world where love, joy and sanguinity is mixed… Her voice, my rhythm divine, Which makes me glad to know she’s mine… Her heart, that’s the sole reason for my being, Since she’s into the habit of heart stealing…. Her smile that inspires me into motion, Her mind that brims me up with every positive emotion… She doesn’t realize, she’s worth lava to a volcano, The fish to every Eskimo… She thinks I’m joking, but she’s my life’s repertoire, My one and only true desire… She’s as sweet as candy, And as intoxicating as brandy… She’s my sweetheart, one of very few, Who makes every day of my like adventurous and new… She means everything to me, For now until all eternity…
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22
My scars remind me of many things… Some I want to remember and others I want to forget. I am pure to the truth but I swell in regret. Shame, pain, triumph, strength… scars represent. There are no badges to wear; I have no pride to hide. I am not a product of the stories; I refuse to be a prisoner of my descents. The past is often forgotten... Memories distort beyond recognition. Scars will fade, darken, stretch and shrink. But the deep ones stay; I still can’t forget. Emotions dissipate... or so I thought. But now I believe they simply hide beneath layers of damaged skin... keeping those scars painfully alive. It isn’t protection; it isn’t healing. No badge I’ll wear; no pride I’ll find. Yes, these scars are mine… But I am not my scars! And my scars are not yours. To some, I am marked for life; I cannot control their stereotypes. I **** them and their forced opinions! They thrive on my scars; they try to create new wounds. Sometimes, I let you see my scars… but I am far from naïve. I know I am giving you a temptation and a tool. Don’t try to own me… you are a fool to think you know me. The why, when, and how is my personal mystery. I won’t let you look beyond the fragments; Deep below the layered scars hides my truth. I will not allow you entry; I am still afraid. Self-inflicted wounds are far more acceptable. I do not wish for more scars… to add to my repertoire. I do not wish for more adversaries… to shove me back into the ground. My past is mine and mine alone; it remains a part of me. But despite the spite I feel… My past is not my present; my past is not my future. And it certainly is NOT any of your business.
0
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
shelly-woods
My... Scars... Are... Not... Yours
My scars remind me of many things… Some I want to remember and others I want to forget. I am pure to the truth but I swell in regret. Shame, pain, triumph, strength… scars represent. There are no badges to wear; I have no pride to hide. I am not a product of the stories; I refuse to be a prisoner of my descents. The past is often forgotten... Memories distort beyond recognition. Scars will fade, darken, stretch and shrink. But the deep ones stay; I still can’t forget. Emotions dissipate... or so I thought. But now I believe they simply hide beneath layers of damaged skin... keeping those scars painfully alive. It isn’t protection; it isn’t healing. No badge I’ll wear; no pride I’ll find. Yes, these scars are mine… But I am not my scars! And my scars are not yours. To some, I am marked for life; I cannot control their stereotypes. I **** them and their forced opinions! They thrive on my scars; they try to create new wounds. Sometimes, I let you see my scars… but I am far from naïve. I know I am giving you a temptation and a tool. Don’t try to own me… you are a fool to think you know me. The why, when, and how is my personal mystery. I won’t let you look beyond the fragments; Deep below the layered scars hides my truth. I will not allow you entry; I am still afraid. Self-inflicted wounds are far more acceptable. I do not wish for more scars… to add to my repertoire. I do not wish for more adversaries… to shove me back into the ground. My past is mine and mine alone; it remains a part of me. But despite the spite I feel… My past is not my present; my past is not my future. And it certainly is NOT any of your business.
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40
head to pillow heart asleep my eyes: exhausted for insomnia has taken my mind endless sleep on morning's light yet night never takes me irritated eyes I toss and I turn I beg to fall into slumber my head does not stop moving but then it halts halts into the most obscure position halts into; "why am I thinking about this"? insomnia, it is 2015 your existence is as old as time but instant streaming is new, and I'm not alone with my thoughts in fact... I believe my literary repertoire is built off insomnia... let me sleep now for rested sounds peaceful 2:00am poems never bothered me and music sounds better when no one is awake but please, let me sleep allow me to loll into drowsiness I am telling you I am tired 2mg of Klonopin...still restless 2 boxes of chocolate...still broken Insomnia, you are an illness but please have mercy on my sanity for I am losing it, and yearn to merely breathe
0
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 2:14 AM UTC
manicsurvival
Insomnia
head to pillow heart asleep my eyes: exhausted for insomnia has taken my mind endless sleep on morning's light yet night never takes me irritated eyes I toss and I turn I beg to fall into slumber my head does not stop moving but then it halts halts into the most obscure position halts into; "why am I thinking about this"? insomnia, it is 2015 your existence is as old as time but instant streaming is new, and I'm not alone with my thoughts in fact... I believe my literary repertoire is built off insomnia... let me sleep now for rested sounds peaceful 2:00am poems never bothered me and music sounds better when no one is awake but please, let me sleep allow me to loll into drowsiness I am telling you I am tired 2mg of Klonopin...still restless 2 boxes of chocolate...still broken Insomnia, you are an illness but please have mercy on my sanity for I am losing it, and yearn to merely breathe
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30
once you take that first step down the path the decision has been set upon and you cannot go back now it is up to trust, that invisible demon or angel in waiting right or wrong the pendulum will swing in either direction time a curse or a blessing guided by a compass beholden to no one it has its own destiny for love once betrayed is a vengeful enemy setting off a cornucopia of storms of anger unleashing the torments only goddesses can bestow their ire ****** forth like a thunderous lighting strike wishing to smite those that have broken her heart there is no hiding from the maelstrom your betrayal has unleashed bringing embarrassment to those that inhabit castles a dire misjudgment in a moment of voluptuous temptation is there now regret to having succumbed to human wontedness it would appear so, hands now tied striding towards the inevitable step by step moving closer to the sentence handed down the walled fortress now a corral with no escape and then I am there, she and a legion of men in waiting a gilded sword sharp as any in the kingdom prepared her golden hair blowing in the wind, delicate features revealed utter beauty astonishing in the backdrop of a scorching sun how could I have traded this for a night of passion with another now I am pushed down to kneel before her my heart racing wildly she is judge and jury and as she draws back the sword I wonder if there is one morsel of sympathy in her repertoire so I close my eyes and ponder why has my lust brought me here all the whilst listening for the whoosh that will end my days or not Andreas Simic©
0
Apr 30, 2022
Apr 30, 2022 at 8:50 PM UTC
andreas-simic
Betrayal
once you take that first step down the path the decision has been set upon and you cannot go back now it is up to trust, that invisible demon or angel in waiting right or wrong the pendulum will swing in either direction time a curse or a blessing guided by a compass beholden to no one it has its own destiny for love once betrayed is a vengeful enemy setting off a cornucopia of storms of anger unleashing the torments only goddesses can bestow their ire ****** forth like a thunderous lighting strike wishing to smite those that have broken her heart there is no hiding from the maelstrom your betrayal has unleashed bringing embarrassment to those that inhabit castles a dire misjudgment in a moment of voluptuous temptation is there now regret to having succumbed to human wontedness it would appear so, hands now tied striding towards the inevitable step by step moving closer to the sentence handed down the walled fortress now a corral with no escape and then I am there, she and a legion of men in waiting a gilded sword sharp as any in the kingdom prepared her golden hair blowing in the wind, delicate features revealed utter beauty astonishing in the backdrop of a scorching sun how could I have traded this for a night of passion with another now I am pushed down to kneel before her my heart racing wildly she is judge and jury and as she draws back the sword I wonder if there is one morsel of sympathy in her repertoire so I close my eyes and ponder why has my lust brought me here all the whilst listening for the whoosh that will end my days or not Andreas Simic©
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29
The is my commune. This is my sanctum. It's transforming into something solid. Somehow, the back cracks before it's due. And I'm left with this twisted image of you. My oh my. How you have grown. This body is something that you have never know. You'll walk on my shadows and I suppose that I'll tug you along. Churning masses that never happen. I don't want you to stay here, but where would you go? I'm not sure how to respond to this repertoire, this power play of sort. I do what I do best, I'll turn my back on yours. I'll fold you up and tie you to a carrier pigeon's leg, let it take you away. The bag lady will feed you in the city park. You'll cluck and duck like the rest of them. Naked on the cold cement sidewalks eating bird food with your tiny little beak. No one will see you but me. And I don't care. I'll jog right past your groveling hands. You won't remember me, I'll be a dream in some forgotten land. Go hide your head under your wings. The dove that is the loudest, isn't always the most lovely when he sings.
0
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
orbitalmucus
Sign of cruelty
The is my commune. This is my sanctum. It's transforming into something solid. Somehow, the back cracks before it's due. And I'm left with this twisted image of you. My oh my. How you have grown. This body is something that you have never know. You'll walk on my shadows and I suppose that I'll tug you along. Churning masses that never happen. I don't want you to stay here, but where would you go? I'm not sure how to respond to this repertoire, this power play of sort. I do what I do best, I'll turn my back on yours. I'll fold you up and tie you to a carrier pigeon's leg, let it take you away. The bag lady will feed you in the city park. You'll cluck and duck like the rest of them. Naked on the cold cement sidewalks eating bird food with your tiny little beak. No one will see you but me. And I don't care. I'll jog right past your groveling hands. You won't remember me, I'll be a dream in some forgotten land. Go hide your head under your wings. The dove that is the loudest, isn't always the most lovely when he sings.
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23
Always some drunk ******* standing in the back of the bar who feels his life's mission is to continuously shout boisterous requests for "Freebird" during the encore. Second hand smoke thick as English fog and deadlier than a toxic chemical spill in the middle of the driveway. The load out and equipment set up in which the drummer inevitably excuses himself from working with any other piece of equipment besides his drums, since  "there a big enough hassle on their own". The inevitable bartering for free beer which during later years became a case of being lucky if you got your drinks at 50% off but even then sometimes you wouldn't be given a tab. The lone dancer at the very beginning of the first set, never the most attractive lady I in the house and all too often she made it through a whole song without a dance partner.  It always seemed like some kind if code, especially when an inebriated gentleman would hook up with her. But I never figured out what the jig was about. Always a drummer in the house, the real deal or an enthusiastic amateur. They will find a way to play the drummer's kit. Don't even try to stop them, for any reason. They will play. Likewise the older gentleman with the button up cowboyshirt, the one with the stale pack of Marlboros in the front pocket, he will try to impress you by claiming to know every song Hank Williams ever sang. The wise gambler bets that indeed he does have an encyclopedic knowledge of Hank's repertoire. Unfortunately he never claimed to have the pipes to pull one or two or three off himself...but that won't stop him from begging and soon enough he'll be under the spotlight singing "Your Cheatin' Heart" with every word and melody spot on but voice that could turn Hank's mother away. He is the anti-PR agent for Hank Williams. After people hear him butcher the songs they don't want to know what Hank sounded like singing them. The bouncer is your friend. If such is not the case before the show begins make every effort available short of paying him your whole salary to secure his loyalty. Trust me here. To be continued Yep, much more to com
0
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
james-arthur-casey
Things I hated about playing in a classic rock/country music cover band over the course of 30 years
Always some drunk ******* standing in the back of the bar who feels his life's mission is to continuously shout boisterous requests for "Freebird" during the encore. Second hand smoke thick as English fog and deadlier than a toxic chemical spill in the middle of the driveway. The load out and equipment set up in which the drummer inevitably excuses himself from working with any other piece of equipment besides his drums, since  "there a big enough hassle on their own". The inevitable bartering for free beer which during later years became a case of being lucky if you got your drinks at 50% off but even then sometimes you wouldn't be given a tab. The lone dancer at the very beginning of the first set, never the most attractive lady I in the house and all too often she made it through a whole song without a dance partner.  It always seemed like some kind if code, especially when an inebriated gentleman would hook up with her. But I never figured out what the jig was about. Always a drummer in the house, the real deal or an enthusiastic amateur. They will find a way to play the drummer's kit. Don't even try to stop them, for any reason. They will play. Likewise the older gentleman with the button up cowboyshirt, the one with the stale pack of Marlboros in the front pocket, he will try to impress you by claiming to know every song Hank Williams ever sang. The wise gambler bets that indeed he does have an encyclopedic knowledge of Hank's repertoire. Unfortunately he never claimed to have the pipes to pull one or two or three off himself...but that won't stop him from begging and soon enough he'll be under the spotlight singing "Your Cheatin' Heart" with every word and melody spot on but voice that could turn Hank's mother away. He is the anti-PR agent for Hank Williams. After people hear him butcher the songs they don't want to know what Hank sounded like singing them. The bouncer is your friend. If such is not the case before the show begins make every effort available short of paying him your whole salary to secure his loyalty. Trust me here. To be continued Yep, much more to com
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10
The best thing about me is that I'm mute I can say whatever I like and no one seems to hear me I like being mute I don't feel the guilt of my words Because they go unnoticed The best thing about being mute Is that I can throw my voice around And I can scream my words of pain eloquently crafted into the night And I'm not deemed, "drama queen of the year," The best thing about being mute Is that I can I sing "Hurt" at Joan Sutherland volume And the only thing suspected Is that I'm widening my range Becoming well-rounded in my repertoire The best thing about being mute Is that when I'm approached by my comrade Four years my junior And am scolded for not taking care of what I was "supposed to" And now HE must bear the burden of my carelessness and selfish tendencies I can drop my vacuum and set down my washing Beseech him to not use those words against me again And am later chastised for usurping my lieutenant's role Out of personal, hormonal hurt No-one suspects The fact that I am scolded in this way Means that they don't hear And that's when I start to wonder When my throat is sore and my lungs ache If I'm not really mute at all And if they're just deaf The best thing about being mute Is that no one hears me at all No fingers of shame and eyes of admonishment are cast The best thing about being mute Is that I can look in the mirror and tell myself, "I'm strong" "I'm smart" "I'm generous" "I can do it" But the words mean nothing If there is no fog of breath Ghosted against the glass
0
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
samy-ounon
Mute
The best thing about me is that I'm mute I can say whatever I like and no one seems to hear me I like being mute I don't feel the guilt of my words Because they go unnoticed The best thing about being mute Is that I can throw my voice around And I can scream my words of pain eloquently crafted into the night And I'm not deemed, "drama queen of the year," The best thing about being mute Is that I can I sing "Hurt" at Joan Sutherland volume And the only thing suspected Is that I'm widening my range Becoming well-rounded in my repertoire The best thing about being mute Is that when I'm approached by my comrade Four years my junior And am scolded for not taking care of what I was "supposed to" And now HE must bear the burden of my carelessness and selfish tendencies I can drop my vacuum and set down my washing Beseech him to not use those words against me again And am later chastised for usurping my lieutenant's role Out of personal, hormonal hurt No-one suspects The fact that I am scolded in this way Means that they don't hear And that's when I start to wonder When my throat is sore and my lungs ache If I'm not really mute at all And if they're just deaf The best thing about being mute Is that no one hears me at all No fingers of shame and eyes of admonishment are cast The best thing about being mute Is that I can look in the mirror and tell myself, "I'm strong" "I'm smart" "I'm generous" "I can do it" But the words mean nothing If there is no fog of breath Ghosted against the glass
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42
Love is a blazing furnace in ones soul. I have forged unforgettable emotions and experiences in the fires of such Love. They are the unshatterable,  tormenting,  over thought feelings you get when you are all alone,  and no one is around watching  you. True Loneliness. These emotions are the most genuine,  most authentic emotions I've ever felt.  That is what makes these emotions the most terrifying. Ha,  what a funny thing Loneliness is. A child of Love, a sibling of Happiness. You are truly alone when you simply cannot feel. Anger? Sadness? These are emotions which comfort you,  and drive you in some way. Ah, but Loneliness is the only emotion in the repertoire of the mind which truly disables.   Loneliness is the devil of the mind. A disgusting, terrifying, sheer amazing thing to feel. Disgusting because of the sinister thoughts it conjures  in your sorry mind. Terrifying because you are paralysed. Unable to escape the thick,  cold, jail cell of your own mind.  In this,  there is no comparable equal. Amazing because it is truly a fascinating thing that a human being should be subjected to such an incredibly powerful emotion. Loneliness is the great evil of ones Soul. Pray that when you meet it,  you're strong enough to endure it's everlasting torture.
0
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
jesse-davey
Loneliness.
Love is a blazing furnace in ones soul. I have forged unforgettable emotions and experiences in the fires of such Love. They are the unshatterable,  tormenting,  over thought feelings you get when you are all alone,  and no one is around watching  you. True Loneliness. These emotions are the most genuine,  most authentic emotions I've ever felt.  That is what makes these emotions the most terrifying. Ha,  what a funny thing Loneliness is. A child of Love, a sibling of Happiness. You are truly alone when you simply cannot feel. Anger? Sadness? These are emotions which comfort you,  and drive you in some way. Ah, but Loneliness is the only emotion in the repertoire of the mind which truly disables.   Loneliness is the devil of the mind. A disgusting, terrifying, sheer amazing thing to feel. Disgusting because of the sinister thoughts it conjures  in your sorry mind. Terrifying because you are paralysed. Unable to escape the thick,  cold, jail cell of your own mind.  In this,  there is no comparable equal. Amazing because it is truly a fascinating thing that a human being should be subjected to such an incredibly powerful emotion. Loneliness is the great evil of ones Soul. Pray that when you meet it,  you're strong enough to endure it's everlasting torture.
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15
Heavenly blends, of soft-loud melodious, like miraculous, the repertoire liquefy, even frosty heart to turns cordial. It’s authentic.
0
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
Violet1990carrie-amber
Pianoforte #1(The Introduction)
Heavenly blends, of soft-loud melodious, like miraculous, the repertoire liquefy, even frosty heart to turns cordial. It’s authentic.
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6
Chatter she. what are u listening to? me.  melancholy song writers broken love tunes she. ugh.  why? me.  wanted to see how deep into the bed I could sink, till you came a looking to play with me, my spirits to raise, a game of capture the flag indoors --————— Aural vs. Oral her night dress rides up, I awake to an undressed waist and thigh, take advantage of the pomp & circumstance, cause i believe whole heartedly in waiste not, want more as tongue performs its repertoire of magic tricks, i.e. reciting poems, to the standard whelps and yelps of “oh its just you,” keep hearing little tiny whispers but not those accustomed sweet nothings? turns out she is listening to her book, quite the mesmerizer, on her new cordless earbuds which are tablecloth covered by her blondini tresses upset? nah. applauded her multimedia tasking, but took it as a challenge, my efforts redoubled she didn't seem to mind now she wakes me up to show me, Surprise! her cordless earbuds, in place sigh. --——————- Ordering Coffee weekends, get coffee in bed in my 19 oz. porcelain cup from Toronto, standing order is: fill it to the rim, extra cream she says.   isn't ironic! that is exactly what I charge for my coffee payable in advance
0
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 11:08 AM UTC
ogdiddynash
ogdiddy's explicit bedtime stories
Chatter she. what are u listening to? me.  melancholy song writers broken love tunes she. ugh.  why? me.  wanted to see how deep into the bed I could sink, till you came a looking to play with me, my spirits to raise, a game of capture the flag indoors --————— Aural vs. Oral her night dress rides up, I awake to an undressed waist and thigh, take advantage of the pomp & circumstance, cause i believe whole heartedly in waiste not, want more as tongue performs its repertoire of magic tricks, i.e. reciting poems, to the standard whelps and yelps of “oh its just you,” keep hearing little tiny whispers but not those accustomed sweet nothings? turns out she is listening to her book, quite the mesmerizer, on her new cordless earbuds which are tablecloth covered by her blondini tresses upset? nah. applauded her multimedia tasking, but took it as a challenge, my efforts redoubled she didn't seem to mind now she wakes me up to show me, Surprise! her cordless earbuds, in place sigh. --——————- Ordering Coffee weekends, get coffee in bed in my 19 oz. porcelain cup from Toronto, standing order is: fill it to the rim, extra cream she says.   isn't ironic! that is exactly what I charge for my coffee payable in advance
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58
Bathtubs don’t work for quantum suicide But every time I take one, A part of me dies What was nice under the crescent aglow? Drunk on stars, or the moon lit show… Ash of night, cradled what was once mine, The repertoire of ever-syncing- jawlines. Puissant is the chalice, its exaltation shined so bright, Bestowed liberation underneath the chatoyant light, The open windows left  niveous  fogs- Breathed -stained –air,  against crystal ***** Alive and one, under the entire earthly tempo, Together left her organic imprints of art nouveau. Beneath the warmth and petrichor ground, The Lord and Lady commence to be crowned. ...Tree roots sink as veins of gods. The serpent whispers his mellifluous facade... The sharp shove of love’s first arrow Lover’s spit, a seed for cupid’s bucolic furrow. Scripture of Solomon’s *** temple of doom All within the nicotine-stained-blue-infrared-bedroom, Velvet allure, bellies of vigor, The cold point, the pulled trigger. Dance of Thelma, ancient cults of non-lovers Feasting north, under the Horned God’s antlers. The concoction of the widow’s deviated lust Skins alive, the excited wolf-mans’ husk… The gun’s mouth ex hailed bullets of smoke Piercing hot wounds became tender lilts in up word strokes. Still, they brought, perforating ice knives through the chest Catching fades perpetually, just until two came abreast. The shadow dalliance and hair pulls leave those weary, The anise flower seeds sanction the suffering query. What was once so beautiful at night? Forgotten, as I turned red-haired-heathen in morning’s sight So I take my hot bath, inure in my offing. Emollient paean of the porcelain, ...which is my skin See you, my ethereal being, In short time spring will be fleeting
0
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 11:43 AM UTC
katharine-kvh
Ritual Song
Bathtubs don’t work for quantum suicide But every time I take one, A part of me dies What was nice under the crescent aglow? Drunk on stars, or the moon lit show… Ash of night, cradled what was once mine, The repertoire of ever-syncing- jawlines. Puissant is the chalice, its exaltation shined so bright, Bestowed liberation underneath the chatoyant light, The open windows left  niveous  fogs- Breathed -stained –air,  against crystal ***** Alive and one, under the entire earthly tempo, Together left her organic imprints of art nouveau. Beneath the warmth and petrichor ground, The Lord and Lady commence to be crowned. ...Tree roots sink as veins of gods. The serpent whispers his mellifluous facade... The sharp shove of love’s first arrow Lover’s spit, a seed for cupid’s bucolic furrow. Scripture of Solomon’s *** temple of doom All within the nicotine-stained-blue-infrared-bedroom, Velvet allure, bellies of vigor, The cold point, the pulled trigger. Dance of Thelma, ancient cults of non-lovers Feasting north, under the Horned God’s antlers. The concoction of the widow’s deviated lust Skins alive, the excited wolf-mans’ husk… The gun’s mouth ex hailed bullets of smoke Piercing hot wounds became tender lilts in up word strokes. Still, they brought, perforating ice knives through the chest Catching fades perpetually, just until two came abreast. The shadow dalliance and hair pulls leave those weary, The anise flower seeds sanction the suffering query. What was once so beautiful at night? Forgotten, as I turned red-haired-heathen in morning’s sight So I take my hot bath, inure in my offing. Emollient paean of the porcelain, ...which is my skin See you, my ethereal being, In short time spring will be fleeting
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40
We have seen your greasy lips Of supple warmth nibble our geographical space with relish With your cerebral repertoire of Machiavellian tactics A savage sage gleaning with resounding skill And crafty navigational sail Your masterstrokes through climes and tongues reverberated With your sparkling craft of vile crypt Across regions, tribes and locales Of your fangs that foiled good governance But this time… Your gladiatorial glide on this political turf Shall experience a firestorm of rejection Your emissaries across territorial divides Shall be hounded to delusion For the masses shall maul your mushy mantle of self grandeur To the abyss of dishonour For your subsequent arrival shall be booed to your doom Your waning clout shall swing you to judgement Of abysmal invasion We are watching your fragile trot through this fearsome terrain Of your permutation in levitation For Damocles’ fiery sword shall haunt your ambition Your raging mist on this cloudy night Shall encounter a violent tussle Prepare for war! The scarlet venom from your cruel camp Shall cease with instant visitation From the warhorses of this fearless infantry Armed with the right tools to disarm your fortified fortress As you dispatch your foot soldiers Of monsters and Leviathans To play a callous hoax like the cunning fox Their morbid mien shall encounter an eternal fall! Let the music begin… Onuchi Mark © 2010
0
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 6:32 AM UTC
onuchi-onoruoiza
DARKENED TRAIL
We have seen your greasy lips Of supple warmth nibble our geographical space with relish With your cerebral repertoire of Machiavellian tactics A savage sage gleaning with resounding skill And crafty navigational sail Your masterstrokes through climes and tongues reverberated With your sparkling craft of vile crypt Across regions, tribes and locales Of your fangs that foiled good governance But this time… Your gladiatorial glide on this political turf Shall experience a firestorm of rejection Your emissaries across territorial divides Shall be hounded to delusion For the masses shall maul your mushy mantle of self grandeur To the abyss of dishonour For your subsequent arrival shall be booed to your doom Your waning clout shall swing you to judgement Of abysmal invasion We are watching your fragile trot through this fearsome terrain Of your permutation in levitation For Damocles’ fiery sword shall haunt your ambition Your raging mist on this cloudy night Shall encounter a violent tussle Prepare for war! The scarlet venom from your cruel camp Shall cease with instant visitation From the warhorses of this fearless infantry Armed with the right tools to disarm your fortified fortress As you dispatch your foot soldiers Of monsters and Leviathans To play a callous hoax like the cunning fox Their morbid mien shall encounter an eternal fall! Let the music begin… Onuchi Mark © 2010
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35
it was in the darkness that i found her there by the dry fountain its basin gathered the paper thin years like withered leaves like soul searching written with her lips like a castle keep penned with the inks of my regrets the dry fountain flowed once upon a time with a rich river of all manner of worldly beasts the fabled ones and the forgotten ones and their tales like tapestry's woven with heart strings now the dry fountain was her home she bid me take my leasuire for a moment from my fleeing so my bone thin horse could rest his weary heart i offered her coins in gratitude for her shelter with a gentle hand she turned such aside and instead took my hand and withdrew the pen embedded in my skin and said to me that 'each dawn requires a darkness with which to begin' she began with fragments of me i tried in vain to be the candle that holds back the shadows but in truth she is venus finding gentle sweet sainthood in her repertoire like a frail swan of the ethereal grace she wanted only to see the glory days to return to this place to see the fountain flow once again see its thriving life and its deep magics of the heart we spent that winter camped there gathering each paper thin tomb and placing them at the alter of the written word but to no avail the days had fallen to cold stone and not even the brilliant light she shed soulshine and heart could revive the dry fountain the last i saw her she had glanced back from her road leading away with a kind woman's smile she gives to friends she once said i was too reckless with my heart now i knew what she meant
0
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
mark-john-junor-1
the dry fountain
it was in the darkness that i found her there by the dry fountain its basin gathered the paper thin years like withered leaves like soul searching written with her lips like a castle keep penned with the inks of my regrets the dry fountain flowed once upon a time with a rich river of all manner of worldly beasts the fabled ones and the forgotten ones and their tales like tapestry's woven with heart strings now the dry fountain was her home she bid me take my leasuire for a moment from my fleeing so my bone thin horse could rest his weary heart i offered her coins in gratitude for her shelter with a gentle hand she turned such aside and instead took my hand and withdrew the pen embedded in my skin and said to me that 'each dawn requires a darkness with which to begin' she began with fragments of me i tried in vain to be the candle that holds back the shadows but in truth she is venus finding gentle sweet sainthood in her repertoire like a frail swan of the ethereal grace she wanted only to see the glory days to return to this place to see the fountain flow once again see its thriving life and its deep magics of the heart we spent that winter camped there gathering each paper thin tomb and placing them at the alter of the written word but to no avail the days had fallen to cold stone and not even the brilliant light she shed soulshine and heart could revive the dry fountain the last i saw her she had glanced back from her road leading away with a kind woman's smile she gives to friends she once said i was too reckless with my heart now i knew what she meant
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36
Unfolding into itself, inviolable in prosaic self-penetration, a boundless repertoire of shape yearns forth surreptitiously from inscrutable amniotes to claim time as its own:   Here a thicket   of sycamores, there a baldaquin     of pinnate branches, yonder       a periphery of marigolds, below         a cacophony of hyraxes, above     the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight    jink of a darting swift and moribund   crawl of a mollusk;      Hymenoptera coaxing      their haploid broods into teeming      life as a cell of the swarm          and viviparous apes cajoling          suckling chimerae at the fathomless          fountainhead of a rosy breast;        Higher still,        Cirrus cephalopods traversing        the trench of sky, dandelions        hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'        wavering hum on cockchafers'        forewings and a turbine's        bombinating pulse, the chattering        of roots ravenous for depth -- Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes of lascivious manes --    inchoate sprout-hood the daedal    nonage of towering evergreens --       the plaintive shrift of elegiac       redbreasts a goad to silent elation -- A likeness unlike      (vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)           (the eyes of ignorance closing)              (the mouth of the mystery)                 that spurns the truth of tongues                      is nature naturing.
0
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
misadventuresofcrow
Proteus
Unfolding into itself, inviolable in prosaic self-penetration, a boundless repertoire of shape yearns forth surreptitiously from inscrutable amniotes to claim time as its own:   Here a thicket   of sycamores, there a baldaquin     of pinnate branches, yonder       a periphery of marigolds, below         a cacophony of hyraxes, above     the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight    jink of a darting swift and moribund   crawl of a mollusk;      Hymenoptera coaxing      their haploid broods into teeming      life as a cell of the swarm          and viviparous apes cajoling          suckling chimerae at the fathomless          fountainhead of a rosy breast;        Higher still,        Cirrus cephalopods traversing        the trench of sky, dandelions        hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'        wavering hum on cockchafers'        forewings and a turbine's        bombinating pulse, the chattering        of roots ravenous for depth -- Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes of lascivious manes --    inchoate sprout-hood the daedal    nonage of towering evergreens --       the plaintive shrift of elegiac       redbreasts a goad to silent elation -- A likeness unlike      (vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)           (the eyes of ignorance closing)              (the mouth of the mystery)                 that spurns the truth of tongues                      is nature naturing.
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40