"reworked" poems
●^●
Mistletoe with berries red, chestnuts roasting, kids in bed.
Glass of eggnog,cheeky kiss, how I live for times like this!
Wrapping done, and stockings filled, brandy warmed
and champagne chilled. Baking done, put up our
feet, and sip the drips from lips so sweet x
Turkey thawed, ready to roast. Cards
all sent by last nights post. Treats
left out for old St Nick,
but maybe add a carrot,
quick! Snowman built,
and robins fed. So now
hush my love, it's time
for bed. Midnight
bells, and wicked
grin, as one last
glass of port and gin.
Maybe, dear, before they rise
you could unwrap just one surprise?
If you can't find it 'neath the tree, then maybe,
baby, your gift's ME! So Merry Christmas, all
my friends, as with a bang
this poem now
ends
x
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
In the narrowest of lanes
I found the sweet shop.
Behind dusty crumbling glasses
dozed the old keeper
smelling of sugar, milk and sweat
over fossils of Paleolithic sweets
on a time machine from the century
he never was
to a millennium he doesn't bother about
clinging onto clay by pottery
not succumbing to synthetic
counting not on android
but accounting on parchment
with the art of finger's arithmetic
most intricately scribbled with pencil
announcing progress is a trouble
not designed for the simple
and contentment has no more nitty-gritty
than price and quantity.
Over his head
spiders worked and reworked
from the ceiling to the glass
as have been doing
since Carboniferous.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 9:04 AM UTC
Stories, truths, lies, all these lines,
So confused as to what is happening.
Like riding a rodeo, Dust and rope, rain and shine,
Been a year thinking, and breaking bones,
Healing, taking bumps, watching phishermen
As they try to pick the lock of my heart.
The truth is no one knows my story,
No one knows his story,
They take letters, unscramble them to make a sound
A sound that is not yet proven to be true, either way.
I have time to think and make my move.
No one is rushing it, I am not, he is not,
We are on the same page, but the healing begins.
The only way you will get the answer is not by words, Understanding math, and finding the common denominator
Is the only possible solution.
I am the solution to the problem, not the problem.
Math can sometimes be difficult, because
There are ways to finding the solution,
But if you're not careful, there may be many numbers
Not useful, and the remainders will have to be
Reworked until there is a clear denominator for Solution to this equation.
Rumors have it that I did not show my right to him.
However, truth says that time and space heals wounds.
I do not have to doubt my love,
Because I see where the common denominator is.
Rumors have it that I drove him crazy,
Truth is that I feared love and he opened me up to it.
Rumors have it that I am not right for him,
Truth has it that solutions are sometimes painful,
But only the one can be the solution to my problem.
Rumor has it that I think I am the one,
The truth is the only common denominator that seeks
To make the math problem whole is the one.
Rumors say, that I will not feel loved again,
Truth says, it is love that is opening me up from a distance. Rumors say I do not belong in his life,
The truth says, I already exist in his life,
I am the one he suffered to fix me, and I accept it.
Rumors say I have no peace because I have no love,
Truth says he is the one that opened me to love.
Rumors say I am a broken dream with no hope,
Truth says I am the hope that brings peace to dreams.
Rumors say I am nobody and fat and ugly,
Truth says, my heart opened and my ugliness has Moved on to peace, love, and understanding.
Rumors say, why you like younger people?
Truth says, my youth is what brings me the joy I seek.
Rumors say leave it alone, you will never have him,
Truth says, I already did, and now I am more open.
Rumors say you will never last,
Truth says, true love, lasts a lifetime.
Rumors say you caused the separation,
Truth says, my heart was inseparable and I will prove it.
Rumors say, distance ruins relationships,
Truth says distance is what heals obstacles and barriers.
Rumors say I have some many barriers to open love,
Truth says love is what opened my barriers to freedom.
Rumors say the foundation to my heart is broken,
Reality says brokenness is the foundation of fixing
The broken pieces that will show the one
Who is the one in space and time to fix my brokenness.
Rumors do not believe in love but fear that love exists,
Truth believes that love exists and hope is the key.
Rumors need a reality check,
The truth knows where it is heading on this journey.
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 3:34 PM UTC
.
Carving me
new heart . Mine,
that won't be
morphing
& bleeding knowing
you. Fragility, reworked into a pyroxene dragon
of ancient. Gemstone of hard, changes
to beauty over time.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 8:54 AM UTC
He was an alchemist,
Turning my lead tears to gold,
Because to him I was beautiful
To him I was worth more.
He was a metalsmith,
Fixing my broken copper wings
With tarnished feathers
Because to him, I could still fly.
He was a clockmaker
Resetting my fragmented cogs and beating pendulum
Spending hours and hours
Because to him I was fixable.
But I am a just broken clockwork angel
With lead tears, broken wings, and severed insides
Rusted away by time and life
And no amount of mending can save me
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
I was standing by the window
On one cold and cloudy day
When I saw the hearse come rolling
For to carry my mother away
Will the circle be unbroken
Bye and bye Lord, bye and bye
There's a better home awaiting
In the sky Lord, in the sky
I said to the undertaker
Undertaker please drive slow
For this lady you are carrying
Lord I hate to see her go
Will the circle be unbroken
Bye and bye Lord, bye and bye
There's a better home awaiting
In the sky Lord, in the sky
Oh, I followed close behind her
Tried to hold up and be brave
But I could not hide my sorrow
When they laid her in the grave
Will the circle be unbroken
Bye and bye Lord, bye and bye
There's a better home awaiting
In the sky Lord, in the sky
I went back home, the home was lonesome
Since my mother, she was gone
All my brothers and sisters crying
What a home so sad and alone
Will the circle be unbroken
Bye and bye Lord, bye and bye
There's a better home awaiting
In the sky Lord, in the sky
We sang songs of childhood
Hymns of faith that made us strong
Ones that mother maybelle taught us
Hear the angels sing along
Will the circle be unbroken
Bye and bye Lord, bye and bye
There's a better home awaiting
In the sky Lord, in the sky
________________
"Can the Circle Be Unbroken (By and By)" is the title of a country/folk song reworked by A. P. Carter from the hymn "Will the Circle Be Unbroken?" by Ada R. Habershon and Charles H. Gabriel.[1][2] The song's lyrics concern the death, funeral, and mourning of the narrator's mother.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
Plotted, charted according to popular theorem,
meticulously fretted over,
worked and reworked--confirmed.
Follow the order and find the balance.
But, variables.
Solve for x where x is an unknown.
The question may yet have an answer--
a suitable conclusion to prove the proof,
but has the problem a solution?
At rest, we are simple equations,
rounding ourselves to the nearest whole,
adding fractions of a percentage,
drawing a line and calling the bottom number
-------------------------
TOTAL
But, variables.
1(x), where x is an unknown.
And all the fractions we add
leave us fractured,
divided from the solution, the end sum.
remainders to be rounded off,
estimates of ourselves.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
a girl found a crown on the street
clink, clank, and rolling to her feet
cold gold touched her pinkish toes-
during inspection the jewels bit her nose
she wore it all day long, in strength
found her chores list lessen in length
people blinded by it's brilliant glint
it gleamed eyes away, replaced the print
each precious stone reworked memories
envious green glass once enemies
now pink, mirrored, singular, hers
to match the crown, she wore silver furs
her cloak dragged upon the ground
other children picked it up, and found
themselves wrapped inside and gone
the village became smaller, the cloak became long
the elders dug deep at the edge of their home
while the girl was away, living alone
they discovered bones, gnawed to stumps
bugs and beetles, full, in mounds and humps
they fit the girl's old clothes perfectly
renewed dead flesh, but hurtfully
her eyes were gone, the crown's centrepiece
the flesh left again, puddled their knees
the girl had died and was eaten, long ago
it took some time, they cried, but now we know
the metal melted her fat and skin and sinew
pock-marked her bones, rotted right through
replaced a monster with her spirit, living dead
used her soul as the cloak's first thread
vacuumed others, knitted them close and thick
a pretty trinket turned poisonous trick
the elders chased the monster away
along with their children, that day
they cried and created new children, then
never let them wander again.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
As you may know, I continue to collaborate with other poets here, most frequently with Helen. Below is a poem of hers that I have edited and reworked, her original notes to me are contained in the notes section below. So if you like it, tell Helen. If you "choke" on it, tell the editor. That's why they pay us the big bucks! So, send me your scraps yearning to be free...
I am choking
on words.
chest clogged,
throat seized,
as I await to deplane,
when I will perforce,
speak these words,
but for now, held in a
prison garb of my own design.
organs can be donated,
the broken heart,
the shattered liver,
the kidney failing,
eyes for the blind,
lungs for the breathless.
the human psyche
is not replaceable.
I need a mind of titanium,
will gladly settle for either the
Tin-man's heart, or
Cowardly Lion's courage,
both, too much too hope for...
but they are not sold at the airport shops.
perhaps my unseen editor
will accompany me,
hand firmly on my writing elbow,
guiding, refining, selecting
les mot parfait...
How come?
How come everything
inside a body can be replaced
so artfully, artificially
except words inside a broken mind?
I cannot get these words out,
who can transplant a soul?
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC
A vista
spiels with neon
Non-essential conversation repeating
Humanity hovers at the entrance
In this shopping centre every need seems urgent
Mouths pause their chatter
To sip at coffee or chow down burger
Gestures are reinforced with nail polish,
jewellery on many fingers
and small change passing across counter tops
In here the weather is neither warm nor cool
and everything seems designed to stimulate my mediocrity
Reflection in the shop-front is on sale at bargain price
but today I cannot afford to buy on impulse
I turn away to blend
With colourful blah
MChallis © 2009 (reworked 2014)
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
Poignant prose chucked out and recycled by morning.
Turned out trick repeated til boring.
The local band just started touring.
Sonnet's blasted until the ladies are 'whooring'.
...
Roxy Music dropped David Byrne.
For Ellie Goulding and a remix of burn.
Robert Johnson's been reworked.
Ratatat rap as interest is perked.
Dylan picked up the silent game.
Making ambient noises which all sound the same.
The Rolling Stones joined the church.
After buying some of Hoosier's merch.
Nicki Minaj claps her ****
Laying down a tribute for Terry Fox's stump.
Benefit concert soon to be run.
By the played out Glee Club composing Fun.
Beach Boys dragged in with the tide.
...And Stars Collide.
NOFX has gone clean
Fat Mike's gone and become a dean.
Tom Waits stomps out to Kendrick Lamar.
Hacking up bits of blunt induced tar.
Bumping out in Steve Ellison's car.
To Captain Murphy's karaoke bootlegged from a bar.
...
Less than 10 good tapes a year
Even fewer if referring to those others actually hear.
Jack White's gone third eye blind
Getting over run by his drug free mind.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
He’s trick, like enrapturing
Wherein lies the paradox of his pantheism parapet’s paragon
Extraversion embezzlements and euthanasia extortions
Embark embargo extraditions
Diction’s enunciation echoes of opaque opulence
Its redolence a savory waft
The evolution of psychic clarity’s id conclusions
Bizarre dichotomous augur the singer’s aural austerity
Gypsy Queen, his guitar’s moniker, romanced aimed intention
Elaborate elliptical empathy endeavors for posterity’s predication
Pandemically phatic propriety venerations
Their apex crux axis beyond finite solution
Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma
Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix's vertex vortex
The individual must remain sacrosanct
Traipsing through the fallow furrows of assimilation’s synthetic synthesis
Like capillaries' capricious and intravenous intrepid
Incalculably sensual beyond emotion’s expression
Impetus intrigue's intuitional verve
Ethology’s entelechy, theosophy’s theophany
Zoomorphic zoolatry's social contiguities
Futurity's corporeally preternatural fatidic
Elan-vital's apotropaic apotheosis
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 3:20 AM UTC
1 simple set of instructions
4 heavy flatpack boxes
5 square aluminium legs
27 painted pieces of wood
100 ridged wooden dowels
101 white plastic ***** covers
102 blister-causing screws of various sizes.
Assumption that no unter or ober
Equals drunken waves of shelves
Sadly means finished is unfinished
Reworked masterpiece complete at last
Male ego boosted by admiring plaudits
Value enhanced by effort expended
Flatpack frustration in 4 easy pieces.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:00 AM UTC
wild night videos
for the dark web
3 Atlean men
and a girl
she got it
by a mob
of Moroccan **** rockets
and will pine
for the rest of her days
screaming to the hells
in a reimagined language
the regression to Lilith
**** *********
the world
when hell touched paradise
***** and man handled
shot by shot
mouth to ****** to ****
split and folded
tooth and nail
to drive the ****** tides
of the world
***** monsters like
T Rex
force a ritual infliction
butter meat of dreams
pain sensually
reworked into pleasure
blister-hot and oh so sweet
married to a paradox
like feeling bad
about feeling good
give me your ankles *****
an unveiled immediacy
right off the bat
i got just the girl
confiding in me
so ready to die
like an Aztec princess
to be the star
like a peacock
in an engorged circus
blizzard of jealous snakes
strangled fanged and spewed
a swansong exhibition
in blood-soaked ponytails
a bobbing head
and choke throat ***** picnic table
with mayonnaise wounds
mediating power
in a psychoanalytic fetish
death is not death
but performative submission
her body ransacked
in tooth marks
and red tipped *******
steaming eraser head
pulses
a **** soaked
chicken on a plate
eradicating reality
are you gonna eat that?
pass the ***
collapses time
lust
custodian
of human archeology
**** piñata
bearing gifts
of squirty pork gasms
******** and cuchifritos
corpus of ****** horror
as liberation
crosses-temporality
and breaks the vessel of time
oow
Nefertiti where are you
a tongue up the ***
sniffs
Prada's Candy Perfume
**** blinking licks
up there where havoc lives
in **** **** farm country
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 2:28 PM UTC
Thee Artiste Carvó's "Fumility"
I am a tróubled Tróll, yes I be
draped in bonds of turgid fumility
endowed with a mind's inanity!
Indeed, I fantasize the glóry of Thee
floating like a cork in lunacy
at the edges of the dredges of futility!
But then, as I hallucinate visions of greatness in I and me,
the Vóices come, singing fóllies of my destiny
buzzing in my head like a bumblebee!
The mystic maggóts envelop the I, the fartistic see
birdies tweet to coo coos in the jujube tree
while the lónely Lóg swims in I and Thee,
counting buttons, deviant in insanity!
Some souls are just simply shallower than others. There is no shame in recognizing I's ówn drabness, and appreciating the bóredóm Thee'self has unleashed upon the world. When Thee writes crap about the greatness of I, Thee is displaying I's disappointment for I's lack of gifts...
Would you yourself not feel pity for the finest fartist alive?
*Original ('Humility') by: Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
Moirai
sits
with
the
cat's
cradle
of your
life
in
her
supple
hands
and
never
still
fingers
she
threads
kismet
karma
fortune
and
potluck
into
wonderous
configurations
and in
order
to
keep
the
threads
pliable
yielding
and
graceful
she
dips
them
in
puddles
and
oceans
of...
lust
laughter
love
joy
hope
and
sorrow
fear
anger
and
everyday
madness
all
of
life's
fibres
and
oils
scents
and
tastes
mingled
together
deftly
worked
and
reworked
as she
deems
fit
and
in
this
thread
a
knot
that
joins
birth
and
death
Moirai
sits
forever
patient
and
twiddling
until
knot
is
let
unravel
and
you
are
left
to
hang
dangling
at the
end
of
fate's
frayed
and
ever
fraying
thread.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
Where do I begin?
Should it be at the height of fog hours,
doping up infallible images of affection,
among sifting smugness,
end over end in my sun-stroke mind?
Should it be it all tore down from closed doors,
every imperfection, every cyst, reworked by
some sort of Mortician,
consumed by grandeur for his practice?
Or should it be at the exact
moment
that all was realized– astuteness to
how fragile every meter of my unused offal really is?
Second to sick second, and day to well day,
all woven itself into a tapestry thats harder and harder to recall
Sew the squares, and caress the texture with tips of printless fingers
Each inch calls– no, howls –out into the basin where I sit
Howls of pain
howls of stone
howls of criticism
howls of analysis
ripping through the brail that's sung to the bone
Tell to beg, where do I begin?
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 12:19 AM UTC
Thee Artiste Carvó's "I Went Berserk Today"
I went berserk today...
They locked the cell again...
And I started to pray...
That they didn't forget my meds...
And pray...
Because my cell was filled with horrors...
And a fine **** came...
It passed through the hole in my soul...
And the fine **** was my art...
That I had made...
It smelled...
Oh oh...
Oh so good...
A truly fine ****
My meds now no longer needed...
The visions reappear...
Tomahawks...
Fly in flock...
And are dropped by the smell of ****
A fine, fine **** from Thee Fartest
Dust storms...
Stay in a rut...
Between the frail cheeks of my divine ****
And are expelled with my next fartistic emission...
I...
I stay stay on top!
Floating upon the winds of ****
*Original ('I Went Home Today...') by: Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
Single sneaker rolls down a road
As the dog barks at empty room corners
Limb shaking winds replace august heat
With an off key church hymn humming heart
And
Two toned makeup, matching stain on new---old shirt
Animal tested
Cheap
Incomplete
Like a José guzzle, airy gag
Shots of half assed smiles
Across an empty bar
Read half assed headlines
Bury corporate hatchets
In pocket or timepunch
Wish we stood for more
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 12:47 PM UTC
I know how to read
thinking, interpreting,
it's all fresh in my head,
yet writing is different.
I have a penchant for using used words.
The phased out phrases,
the reworked rhymes ,
the secondhand sentences that fly over pages upon pages of my poetry,
that's the writer I am.
Someone made of words written so many times before,
captivating carelessly.
Literature made from the same recipe yet turning out different each time,
new art made from recycled paint.
They say imitation is the highest form of flattery,
yet I wonder if i'm simply the lowest form of fraudery
as an imperfect wordsmith writing over printed pads
and old book pages.
Touching on topics tactlessly,
Living through artists vicariously,
weaving with words i could never properly pronounce.
But in thought
looking back
I can only write what I know,
and if I know not the world beyond novels,
beyond poets and artists,
at least I know how to read.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
Thee Artiste Carvó's "Embrace Thee Blight!"
Thee Artiste's **** once more is freed!
Oh! Wandering fumes do flatulence heed!
Bubble forth! Through waters so impure!
Thee's ***** **** is near!
Bowwow to Thee…
for Thee's smell's a doggy's dream...
Embrace Thee blight!
Gasses new, gasses old…
pass through Thee's dual manifold…
Thee's thee fartiste of forever…
Cro-Magnon man who's mentally spent,
******* on creativity's flames
Oh perfect ****
exudes from Thee who seeps…
for he is Thee who sets the winds of fartistry free.
Only Thee (the no one) knows!
How true fartistry blows...
like Thee who is the evoker...
of the fartistic flow...
Oh Thee who is Logbrain Crappó is master of the fartiste's blows!
*Original ('Embrace The Light') by: Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
The Artiste Carvó's "The Greatest Fartist Alive"
(Another Crummy Acrostic)
T is for **** I am attended by flies...
H is for Haughtiness, I am flowing through the fartist's stanks...
E is for Enema, my fine **** pollutes the very hole...
G is for Gigantic, I am the biggest ego in history...
R is for Refluxing, my fine putriditry puts artistry in ******
E is for Emetic, I truly am expelling...
A is for ******* I posses the gift of ****
T is for ****** I leave no stomach un-turned...
E is for Excrutiating, my words torture the very soul...
S is for ****** My logic is slimy....
T is for Tag-along, I truly am shadowed by all and everyone...
F is for Fatuous and Flatulence, the essence of I…
A is for Archfiend, demon am I...
R is for Revulsion, My art is abomination - My art yet *****
T is for Tedious, I have been placed here to bore people to death...
I is for Idiot, I am truly unblessed...
S is for Selfish, I place **** before I's self...
T is for Talenticide, I have killed all things of art...
A is for Asinine, I possess all lacks...
L is for Lifeless, I truly worm the artistic heart...
I is for Idolize, I worship I...
V is for Venomous, I am all that is spite and impure...
E is for Emasculated, I am indubitably impotent...
This sums up why I and I alone am the greatest fartist alive,
And I will of course do one of my great farts in time.
*Original ('The Greatest Artiste Alive') by: Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
Thee Artiste Carvó's "Maggot O' Pus"
I open my fly
I beat
I close my eyes
And seep
Watch me now
To see the art
Thee art of a master-bater
I read your eyes
they show horror
They reflect Thee MasterPiece-of-Shit
Thee art of a master-bater
Thee art of Loghain Carvó
I open my lips and ****
For all these works are Thee Maggot O' Pus
*Original ('Magnum Opus') by: Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
My whole life is a battle between heart and mind
And you always send them both
Barrelling in overdrive
Despite the hits my heart has taken
The childlike state hasn't died
The one telling me no one will hurt me
And that everyone can be kind
But i've built a cage around my heart
Barbed wire trying to stamp out feelings of love from the start
And my mind is no more reliable
The things it whispers to me always keeping me in the dark
Fear and sadness keep me rooted to the spot
Always replaying peoples cruel remarks
No end to the horrid thoughts tattooed in my brain
Somehow you've gotten through the barriers my heart has put up
And for some reason you deal with all the demons my mind has ingrained
My heart wants to believe you when you say that four letter word
How you could love someone who hates herself is an idea my brain can't comprehend
I think it's time I let my heart free once more
And silence my brain screaming "You'll only get hurt!"
Despite the fact that it's only hurting myself
It's time for my mind to be reworked
And now that my heart controls my mouth I can finally say
"I love you too"
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC