"respectably" poems
Falseness becomes you, little plastic angel
marble eyes roll, liquid sky drops of ***** coolness
never-changing
hair so fine, my heart wants to glide along your ribbons and silk like
figureskating
welts glow red on my skin as your bronzed alabaster shimmers respectably
kiss me once more; i want to taste the diamond on your lips
glitter glitter glitter
until it's time to tear away the mask
and then what are you?
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
Ebony.
Skin smooth as silk.
A yellow tint or cocoa hue.
You do not experience what we do.
Being viewed as the enemy is imminent.
And it's evident, that the color ebony's negative connotation is remnant.
Of a past connection to Nubian kings & queens--
Stripped of their crowns.
A piece seen, in my name.
No...it is not fabricated, but actually holds meaning.
It's the closest thing I got to my slave ancestors.
Stop trying to degrade me...
And chain me, with your everyday preconceptions.
The concept that I'm beneath you, when the foundation of this nation and slave bones lie beneath you.
Looking out your peripheral, unspoken prejudice fabricated.
Wondering how I'm dressed respectably, like "That's an expensive fabric, ain't it?"
Cause the last time it caught your eye, my ancestors were picking it.
When you see me hold my head high, you feel the right to question it.
But I already told you, it's a new day
Don't saturate this generation with racism
Like you did civil rights marchers with hoses.
We've come a long way, but I still have a question for you...
If God holds all humans in the same regard,
Then why is accepting the color ebony so hard?
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
lovely, banal, **********
she smilingly slides the
respectably slip transparent
around the resistant
pleasurable hips
thighs riotous pulsing
cleaved calves clever
neatly witha3inchheel
sli n g s
it into the hamper
clicks her sway into
the bathroom,
plum-ripe lips juicy) saying
(i'll be out in a jif, hon
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 5:35 PM UTC
NEITHER rose leaves gathered in a jar-respectably in Boston-these-nor drops of Christ blood for a chalice-decently in Philadelphia or Baltimore.
Cinders-these-hissing in a marl and lime of Chicago-also these-the howling of northwest winds across North and South Dakota-or the spatter of winter spray on sea rocks of Kamchatka.
1.4k
I was ill,
convalescing in fact
when I read this book
On Poetry.
I was a captive audience,
couldn’t move much.
I sat by a window
and enjoyed the light
playing shadows.
Twice in two days
I read this book.
It convinced me I was already
a judge of poets and like its author
only needed seconds to know
whether a poet was present in a poem.
The book encouraged me to
*‘Read all the way back.
Read what made it.
Read what’s still here
And work out why . . .
Read up on the old stories
Know a little of what past poets knew
And what their poems still know.’*
I thought that was quite enough.
But no, a little later
there was more I had to learn.
I was given as a gift
a collection of poems.
Its prizewinning author
had published respectably.
Imagination would take flight
into airspace off the radar screen.
Childhood scenes were to chill and disturb,
erotica left a bad taste in the mouth,
narrative poems told with a twist, and
common-place objects freshly observed.
Dear Reader, this I can truly say
is a confident, page-turning volume,
full of proper poems,
full of a poet’s presence.
But, for me
there was a significant absence of wonder,
a sad deficiency of joy.
When I brought the book to bed
to read out loud to the one I love,
not one of the poems seemed
right to read to end our day.
These poems called for hard chairs
and the bright lights of a seminar room.
Later, awake in the night,
I thought,
I’m not hard-edged enough to be a real poet.
My poet’s view is too parochial and kind.
I write about penguins, the moon,
even Christmas cake . . . and prose poems
on subjects filched from postcards
picked up in museums and galleries.
And there is, inevitably and always,
this ever-present thing called love,
creeping about when you least expect it.
Know I’m at one with Dr Givens
in Guteson’s East of the Mountains
who laments that with death
the tender memories of life
will be gone –
forever.
So with my poems I try to record
the daily wonder of life and love:
for those I care for
and those who care for me.
Life is so inexpressively full
of images and moments
waiting for words to bring them home.
Oh I know there’s pain,
and fear and distress,
hate and abuse and terror . . .
This is not for me what poetry
is there to express.
I’ve read enough to know it can,
and does. That’s enough.
*Poetry forms in the face of time.
You master form you master time.*
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:00 AM UTC
*looks like someone's dancing in their underwear...
touché - looks like someone's buying pints
of milk in their pyjamas.*
night privy, nocturnal India
i get to do the dance over your grave
while your relatives grieve a pointless
grief: just in the same way they grieved
a rotten chestnut, or egg....
maybe this sprout of anti-imagination
might be a floating limb of ambition
to being simply reattached - *the black keys'
lonely boy* -
spastic maestro number uno - chillies
and the Chilcot KKK inquiry -
got buff results with the whitey crew -
took out the trash, fed the gerbils,
saved a Latex ****** from the hood...
well... the Kentucky hooded brigade,
fully tent equipped parishioners -
and whenever you dress up as sheep
you better barbecue - c k q - what a long shopping list -
**i've got a love that keeps me waiting!
ooh oh oh oh!
i've got a love that keeps me waiting;
i'm a lonely boy"* -
to cue or to queue -
a forever question unanswered -
of simply quit... they call it the lack of
solar tattoo pigmentation -
i treat the argument for god
like i'd treat winning the jackpot in lottery,
it just has the prefix existential- prior to what's
being gambled: someone suggested respectability;
i guess that's fair enough - otherwise
i call it a fail with potatoes acting as bricks
in Northern Ireland... and a blatant lack
of back-up colonialism....
that ****** better sprech Anglo
or he's toast.... then came the Voodoo Vindaloo -
screaming: churn out the chillies into chokes! aah!
oh oh or excessive umlaut agitation -
poor tool tummy - when have you experienced
the ****** in surgical syllables taken
to the butchers for coarse timing
that never coerced?
i danced that dance, angry though,
when they played Pendulum's Tarantula
in a Basildon's night-club - you heard a roar
when spotted an "epileptic"
(both dittoing as said, and ambiguity) weaving a web of
personal space - truly and originally,
not your cup of tea - i'd ensure you as
respectably assured -
mind the Sundays and the roast beef and
the home office and Yorkshire fundamentalism;
Newcastle? Newcastle is too hedonistic.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
The sun sits high now, and I am but a man.
Though as time passes, the sun sinks and
my silver moon surfaces,
I become a hunter.
As the bartender splashes cheap liquor into spotted glasses,
I stalk quietly in the corner as a lesser man’s prey stumbles
drunkenly, clumsily across the sticky floor.
My eyes glide smoothly over the room,
evaluating my most promising prospects.
My eyes settle on one;
she sits proudly and respectably, and I watch my plan
unfold in my mind.
I will be charming, and convincing;
modest and self-depricating.
She will resist, at first, as they always do,
but the sincere look in my eyes will persuade her that
I am not “every other guy.”
She will fall head first into my pool of lies,
and tonight she will be mine.
And tomorrow,
she will mean nothing.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 7:11 PM UTC
in ref. to the supposed "unholy" trinity -
i can only clearly identify one member,
antonym of the holy spirit (alias of
a community, rather than a person,
as stated by Žižek - in his words, should
it be different, it would be a profanity) -
if that is the case, then the variation
of holy spirit is ascribed the title zeitgeist -
or: the spirit of the times - the 20th century's
example is filled with zeitgeists -
communist, nazis, hippies, punks, goths,
beats, squares, or 21st century's militant atheists
and Jihadists, Blairites...
as is evident, the zeitgeist is short lived -
it's naive in being easily influenced - but because
of its gullibility it's also brutal in not being
influenced for worth of establishing a religion -
it's "unholiness" is precisely the reason why
it's poly-adaptable - multi-faceted - unruly -
it changes very quickly and is never rock-like -
but because of its gullibility it's also brutal in
not being influenced to the point of permanence -
the fluctuations are numerous, and democratically so,
many people can attach themselves to the "unholy
spirit" at any time they want, without knowing
they're actually part of a congregation - and as soon
as a congregation is established, the zeitgeist
implodes and disappears - the congregation breaks up -
soon overpowered by the forces of imitation -
ah - now the second person of the "unholy" trinity -
the Imitator - the flawed first entry post-zeitgeist -
never reaching the zeitgeist's potential, this tsunami
wave lasts longer than the actual zeitgeist - it's
a variation of nostalgia - not a nostalgia of thinking back
but a nostalgia of trying to revive - resuscitate -
the assortment of vanity projects; now i'm either too
hangover or just know what i have to do today
before the Royal Opera House and Verdi's Nabucco -
a peasant is heading into town, peasant better iron
his shirt and trousers and look respectably urban.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
I shuffle my "socked" feet to the window to see the blue and red lights flashing brightly.
A few minutes ago, sirens blaring loudly.
Now there's two police cars running idly.
Frantically a woman scans the vicinity.
A officer questions the woman both carefully and calmly.
I watch carefully from my five story apartment.
Its an eerie feeling, watching the police stand as idly as their vehicles in the night.
As if they wish they could've dealt with something more interesting than a domestic fight between man and wife.
One of the officers come out of the building with a respectably tall man.
His hands clasped together as his wrists were bound by cuffs.
I wasn't surprised to see that his demeanor was resonating a sense of, "I don't give a ****
The woman locked eyes with the guy and immediately began foaming at the mouth with anger, pain, contempt, and disdain because of beatings and bruises that she has obtained.
From Him.
He was calm, cool, and collected.
From what it seemed, nothing he regretted.
Unaffected.
Before his head disappeared within the police vehicle, I could've sworn i saw him smile.
The dispatch scratched through the car.
Complex codes and orders resonated from afar, as the cruiser quietly accelerated, then the siren blared through the cold brittle midnight air.
Quietly i stood there and stared and stared until the both the sound and sight of the vehicle was no more.
I shuffled my "socked" feet back to my bed.
Back to sleep.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
This strange kind of numb has chased away the desolating pain
there seems nothing in the part where love grows
not in the heart or mind or soul
Is this what death feels like?
Every shred of decency you stole in that **** weak moment of betrayal
you shook the hand of the beast that gave the burden
the thief of my dignity
it was an inncent action between men who respect each other
you had had no right to placee all my shreds of respectably in his palms
to anialate me without provacation
to give me up to avoid confronting the truth
you let my pride die a silent death
the humiliation.
the state of shock
and constant scraping up my self off the floor
it was because you found it easier to forgive, than fight for me
so I died A million painful deaths in that moment
like the love that swore it would die a thousand more
it vanished emphasising the nothing that I am
and you didn't even blink an eye.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:26 AM UTC
I love that your
So polite and
Old fashioned
Always asking
Before you
Touch
From the start
Having respect
For my body
And even when
Its obvious I want you
You ask
The first time comicality
Surrounded by the beginning
Of true passion
Can I touch those?
As though
They were mutants
But that's how the
First touch goes
I love it when you ask
Because each time you do
I know I was suppose to be with you.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
They wield the button as a weapon of
their verse, throwing words like a glove.
But it was limp like there inconsistent verse,
like a lefty throwing, right handed but worse.
Your momentary time of the month, I gave
you an emoji tissue to wipe off the embarrassment
of sweaty words you opened up on now behave.
needing a little dignity, reverse on your disembarrassment.
Either that or been known for your CAPSLOCK stutter,
seeing you tripping over yourself amid ridiculed clutter.
now see that light on the side, click it speak respectably.
now calm your rage, and talk respect others expectedly.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
while soaring the heavenly heights
many hours ago
every major metropolis appeared
about a million miles below
the rarefied atmosphere
ideal composition beckoned angels,
who bustled, hustled, and jostled elbow
(which bedlam, flimflam, and mayhem
intimated Hells Bells)
wing trying (heavens to Betsy) to flag attention,
and snag coveted soundcloud Netherland Award
cap ping bulging port folio,
which hubbub charged crackled, popped,
snapped amidst light emitting diodes
with a snazzy aura, charisma
harp pulling, piping, and chiefly
paying praise (CI years post haste)
to William Henry Perkin
whose credit able karma
(and unwitting) claim to fame didst glow
purple, which jumpstarted incandescent halo
couture culture club, via constant comet inflow
of Plasmodia vaguely resembling microscopic red Jello
illuminating swath of dusky
shutter flying sky sustaining
self contained feedback instagram loop know
wing lee broadcasting mauveine staccato low
to the groundswell of chemists dyeing, Googling,
and gratefully huzzahing insinuating
killing, kindling kissing
malaria goodbye, an outlook
(nee a once in a lifetime moe
mint - je nais sais quoi) win out loud
respectably sedulous honoree, a no
bill sine qua non bit player aniline
(to conclude this short poem) about his oh
penning accidental discovery kickstarting pro
noun est contribution to the fashion industry.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC