"rigour" poems
WIFE and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name :
For when that fatal knot is ty'd,
Which nothing, nothing can divide :
When she the word obey has said,
And man by law supreme has made,
Then all that's kind is laid aside,
And nothing left but state and pride :
Fierce as an eastern prince he grows,
And all his innate rigour shows :
Then but to look, to laugh, or speak,
Will the nuptial contract break.
Like mutes, she signs alone must make,
And never any freedom take :
But still be govern'd by a nod,
And fear her husband as a God :
Him still must serve, him still obey,
And nothing act, and nothing say,
But what her haughty lord thinks fit,
Who with the power, has all the wit.
Then shun, oh ! shun that wretched state,
And all the fawning flatt'rers hate :
Value yourselves, and men despise :
You must be proud, if you'll be wise.
8.2k
***** feet
***** of them ache
they're dry
all dried out, moisture to face and digestive tract make little difference
but comfort a little sort of; maybe
subdue to replenishing
skip the pain with a drink fucken, fucken drink fucken
dust lingers in the brain, it swirls
a cloud of ground envelops the shape of u
u become covered
u have a layer,
salty,
and dry
and 'organic'
(surely bio (though im not sure what is or why are))
full city boy, suburban boy, not particularly gritty boy
along side hippies
and volunteers all tripppy
and unwashed, and un plastic
yet forcefully hemped
drunk of micro beer
and burnt brown and blotchy red
and wire-y
and dry
and matted
as if nothing really matters except for principles
misguided and randomly enforced
feel like a husk; peanut shell
insides swallowed by the mouth of the party embodied
a monsterous sweaty man tanned and thickly bearded
and beered
fat dreads fall around and surround u; a forest of hair
a circle encroaching of fuzzy pillars in fibres
entrapped inside them; feel their lingering time matted hold
a wealth of effort to become unkempt; they are bars
they are walls
and the FACE!
……………………… ………………………………… oh
looming down, wafts of armpit vapour cloud; a looming puft that surrounds
engorged by the scent as it circles u, the mouth that lowered onto u
chews u and spills bits of u
chomp chomp
protein for vegetarians; u; ur rigour ur vigour ur guts
eaten in a flurry of chomps and slurps and it crunches
and it grates
like the rocks on the ***** of ur feet it grates
u are digested
and reused
as they would like
but for them; for a collective u dived into
for fun
2 days to peddle ur wares
to progress ( admittedly through some days of regression…)
for all humans, and Humans; for fun
on monday we will repent
for the damages waged on the inside of the body
and the outsides too
for some gain
i guess on this which we settle
for always for display for fun
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
Behold bright symphonic Blast!
Halt the snail bite damage of youth.
There is none to resist the place and time of one who missed the equal avenue.
Dropping before your phantom, dispirited dew, before shadow portrait drops.
Swine with silver throats!
Corpse of embers preamble multi-various multi-vacuous semi-forte polar rhythms.
Sequencing selves in wood and wire. Pinions at drifted tempo, quavering for poly-syllabic idioms,
In sectioned hostels for their sense and glory restrung.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
What if this present were the world’s last night?
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell,
The picture of Christ crucified, and tell
Whether that countenance can thee affright,
Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light,
Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell.
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,
Which prayed forgiveness for his foes’ fierce spite?
No, no; but as in my idolatry
I said to all my profane mistresses,
Beauty, of pity, foulness only is
A sign of rigour: so I say to thee,
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned,
This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.
2.3k
What is it with some men?
Is this what those nuptials meant?
You are turned into his mother figure,
A holy cow, housework, meals, rigour,
Maybe there's no luck in love,
So much for wedding doves,
"I am not your mother!"
I wished I yelled at another,
Maybe I don't know how to train a man,
Maybe a manual should come in a can,
Then you could have twins in tins,
Fully formed, no ***** pins!
Maybe it is the male gender,
They really want a nanny for their benders,
Is this what those nuptials meant?
What is with some men?
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
It was dark outside,
Sun is yet to break the dark quilt of night,
I was on my bed,
Fighting with slumber and trance!
Fight hours after hours.... nothing comes out..
All of a sudden wake up with the sound in my door,
Run and open...
Newspaper was on the floor,
The hawker was passed by on his bicycle,
Sun already on the top of the mango tree,
My trance flyaway and stupor enclose by..
But reverie of politics over news paper again beat on..
If you vote you will change your state of happiness.... with words on to with wealth
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
Had I ador'd the multitude, and thence
Got an antipathy to wit and sence,
And hug'd that fate, in hope the world would grant
'Twas good -- affection to be ignorant;
Yet the least ray of thy bright fancy seen
I had converted, or excuseless been:
For each birth of thy muse to after-times
Shall expatiate for all this age's crimes.
First shines the Armoret, twice crown'd by thee,
Once by they Love, next by Poetry;
Where thou the best of Unions dost dispence:
Truth cloth'd in wit, and Love in innocence.
So that the muddyest Lovers may learn here,
No fountains can be sweet that are not clear.
Then Juvenall reviv'd by thee declares
How flat man's Joys are, and how mean his cares;
And generously upbraids the world that they
Should such a value for their ruine pay.
But when thy sacred muse diverts her quill,
The Lantskip to design of Zion-Hill;32
As nothing else was worthy her or thee,
So we admire almost t'Idolatry.
What savage brest would not be rapt to find
Such Jewells insuch Cabinets enshrind'?
Thou (fill'd with joys too great to see or count)
Descend'st from thence like Moses from the Mount,
And with a candid, yet unquestioned aw,
Restorlst the Golden Age when Verse was Law.
Instructing us, thou so secur'st thy fame,
That nothing can distrub it but my name;
Nay I have hoped that standing so near thine
'Twill lose its drosse, and by degrees refine ...
"Live, till the disabused world consent
All truths of use, or strength, or ornament,
Are with such harmony by thee displaid,
As the whole world was first by number made
And from the charming rigour thy Muse brings
Learn there's no pleasure but in serious things.
2k
Strolling beside a stream
On a crisp Autumn day
The water frothing like cream
Getting drenched from the spray.
I see a Kingfisher further ahead
Perched on an old Oak twig
Its breast a bright brick red
To offset his very blue wig.
The blackbirds sing to me
A sweet tune they know
They are high in the tree
The Kingfisher thinks it’s time to go.
The leaves crunch underfoot
Delicate veins being crushed.
Like Mother Nature’s put
Down stuff to be brushed.
But the wind blows them to a pile
Neatly arranged by the bank
In colours in single file
Like soldiers in their rank.
The stream flows with vigour
Taking no prisoners, no stone turned
The force, compelling rigour
Another penny earned.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
Porcelain white is painted polite.
Grown-up to be perfect, and pretty in lace.
Long shiny hair tied up with a bow.
A beautiful pro at hiding her woe.
Dressed to the nines with diamonds that shine,
to blind those from seeing her broken design.
Her body a shrine all knotted with twine.
Privileged, and coddled.
Loved, and swaddled.
Prepped for ascension,
despite the fine lines that grow in her spine.
Cracks in the porcelain, rigid and sly,
grow bigger with rigour as time flies by.
One more bawl and she’ll break above all.
I am a china doll, would you like to see me fall?
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 6:51 PM UTC
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
Is’t not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be?
Me from my self thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engrossed.
Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken—
A torment thrice threefold thus to be crossed.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward,
But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail;
Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard,
Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail.
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.
1.5k
My heart is a derelict graveyard
Sodden with poetry that reverbarates miles and miles away with each painful throb
And so...
The aftermath, the ache
Tantamount to phantom limb pain
Surgical exorcism of the heart from the other
Here we go again
Some dude said Love is a dog from hell
And maybe its a fairy-tale mirage like Christmas
Hail Mary
Rid us of this daemon
That which instills terror in these frail hearts
Schizophrenic attempts to make the Mermaid of Venice copulate
Filthy little beast LOVE
Next season I might never unleash you
And forever extinct you shall be in me
Good riddance, mind pollutant, even air
Nothing like love is in the air
I couldn't have jammed into darkness and stench
Today you might just fall down into your ****** organs and vanish
Like a pin dropping into the Grand Canyon
These feelings
Phantom limb pain
Finally the warmth is dissipated
Culmination of the opposites is impossible
Not with you and other various forms of human ****
Rigour mortis of my soul
So what choice do I have?
Except to evacuate this fantasy of madness
And secretly nurse my phantom limb pain
At least this "Stiff" gave birth to a poem
And maybe a poet
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 2:41 AM UTC
Can we dismantle,
Just for a moment,
how one should behave,
and take a wrecking ball to social etiquette .
Watch it explode,
the particles like fairy dust,
let it fall through our frozen fingers,
as we rejoice in the downfall,
watching as the flames combust.
We'll be knights of valour,
Just for minute,
Become the acid rain
Hit the calcium carbonate with rigour.
Because it's tiring,
pretending
that everything's fine.
So will you allow me,
Just for a second,
Be messy and uncontrollable
So I'm not repeatedly saying I'm sorry.
Let my tears destroy the pavement,
Grant me some grace,
Sanction my wallowing,
I'll find peace to soothe my ailment.
And when it's done,
blown away fleetingly by the breeze
I'll be the same.
But my dear,
when it's concluded
I'll be hale and
a little more sane.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
Dear,
During our distressful dispersal,
Due to dismal dismissal on my defense,
Your dreary demeanour is decidedly
Distressful.
Earnestly,
I evince my emotions, expressing every
Effort to ebulliate my everything,
But ephemeral expulsion excommunicates me
Exceptionally.
Apathetic,
You arrive, always akin to antipathy,
Although any alacrity you attempt
Assiduously alleviates my alerting
Affliction.
Reconsider
This rejection, revile in my respect,
Rescinding no recompense for this respelendance.
Rejuvenate while I receive the rigour and
Reward,
Dear
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 9:56 PM UTC
there are some facts that will my anger trigger
as when a child eats ******* from a skip
or dumb inanity escapes some lip
or when the worst express themselves with vigour
for i love best good honest thought and rigour
and want life to improve at a smart clip
to have a world with neither chain nor whip
where no one will be called a slave or ******
this is a future all can understand
and tightly hold in each understanding
where gold is not a synonym for worth
and help is to be found from every hand
while every boat comes tinto a safe landing
and every child is welcomed at their birth
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 8:04 AM UTC
Through a split lip
red foam,
froghopper froth
fizzing, haemoglobin, half-life
sitting thickly-thick,
on a paving stone.
Looking like Clinton’s cards
think human hearts
are shaped like.
But mine’s an artichoke
a watery phloem thistle core
folded in fronds and furs,
bristles of cowlick baleen,
sailing, ship-lapped bark,
darkness and birdcages.
Mine’s a rigour-mortis pill bug
potato fly, oddball, ***** slug
an ammonite, a butterfly tongue,
a bending toe curled in ecstasy.
Exponential shell chambers and septums
ending alongside everything.
And the guts of my heart
incessantly churn mechanically,
maniacally and obliviously rhythmically
Keeping me malleable
soft,
moving,
un-enveloped by beetle wings.
Just like the platelets
of my hardening spit-heart
are, blackening blood,
amber caught bugs,
clay in mud,
elliptical,
eclipsing.
Nothing
like we think it is.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
Well, that's it, my brain is now rotten.
Lost in its fungus are feelings, forgotten.
A spur may occur, on a scarce blue moon,
Of energy telling me I'm back in tune,
But really it's vacant and harsh little lies.
Synapses shooting a brain as it dies.
Misery fruiting on mould colonised
From grey matter, shattered behind fading eyes.
Now just a hollow man, left with no bang,
Merely a whimper with such little whim.
Watching as slowly the old me is lost
While filling the blanks with a bad pseudonym
And sealing them over with mushrooms and liquor,
Though quicker and quicker the struggle gets bigger.
Sick and then sicker, from fluid to rigour.
Stuck in the mould, now forever disfigured.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
Smoking is terrible for you - we all know that,
But there's nothing quite as **** as a cigarette
With its wafts of smoke curving sensuously up
Like a winding staircase to heaven.
Maybe it's that, that Bacall and Bogie dance
Of noir fog above a lit cigarette,
Or it could be the intimate way
The word "young" is carved out on your slab,
Or the intimate way that the smell lingers
On the clothes of loved ones long after
You're dead and buried.
Nothing makes a guy harder than rigour mortis.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
ok, to be serious for just a minute,
is to cook anywhere defined as microwave
science? Is boiling water and adding Ramen noodles
and putting the spice thing in , after opening it, haha,
I knew what you thought there, the beginnings of a bachelor chef,
or must I learn all the de rigour
of nutritional knowledge and buy a garlic press
along with those eight dollar fry pans
at Dollar General?
Just wondering.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
keep barking
what,
mongrel?!
never to a chemist
what, suddenly there is
no notion of a cognitive
mongrel, i.e. a bilingual breed
of man?
i found that people
complained about having
a mixed-ethnic rooting,
never was the case translated into
the cognitive element of
vocab...
you are allowed an ethno-allowance
"stipend" and be left off
the hook if your mother was
white, but your daddy was black,
but then it comes to
possessing two languages,
good luck Buck!
akin to psychiatric disorders...
the pills don't work!
tell that to a chemist:
the **** was i doing all this time,
so running, cardiovascular
oxygen to the brain will solve
all the problems?
the last thing you want a chemist to hear
is: the only medicine is exercise...
i'm not saying it's perfect,
but to suggest that all pill taking
is bad makes the study of
chemistry: pointless...
might as well be studying
arachnophobia!
if i actually did make it into
the profession i'd be as much hated as
a police officer...
chemistry: bad...
make sure you wash your teeth with
cow dung extract,
and perfume yourself with
freshly plucked daffodils then!
jobs retain a tinge of absolutism
because relativism doesn't exist between them,
the only relativism shared is
the relativistic fact that such jobs
exists, and can exist because
they are coexisting...
a bus driver coexists with
a cabbie because: e.g. e.g. i.e. a mechanical
means of travel...
psychiatry undermines
the benevolence of a chemist,
by over-simplifying
the case-study of a cardiovascular trainer...
the **** is the point
running a treadmill without
generating energy?
you can't suddenly explain
to a chemist:
your pill aren't worth popping!
well, that's one way of saying
the currently exploration
of the impotence of antibiotics...
that worked...
but what's the point of telling
a chemist to suddenly "dig the groove"
of divorcing himself from
synthesising synthetic mimics?
- and instead analysing analytical
precursors?
a chemist is not going to suddenly
rephrase his quest
to agree to:
a futility his own work -
culminating in an effective
plagiarism of nature isolated...
but then popularising biology
and physics reduces chemistry as
being the Quasimodo of science,
a hunch-back ugly-face of endeavour...
a science crucified in terms
of modern ethic...
once the only adventurous
branch of science,
now the most ethically conducted
patron of rigour...
it has truly become nothing
short of a farce...
something worth being ridiculous,
but not inclined to be subject
of ridicule.
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 9:13 PM UTC
oh, the hours I have lost to the mirror
staring into my own eyes
studying every edge
every inch
with scientific rigour
watching
as my face and body
contort themselves
into new and grotesque angles
the longer I look
the tighter I am wrapped
by the suffocating bonds of truth
the flaws mount
on a carefully noted list
graffiti on my brain
each word seeping thick, black ink
pooling at my feet
rising to my neck
self-loathing is bitter and viscid in my mouth
when I tried to swallow
it wedged
a dry lump in my throat
I wish I could take a knife
to cut away every imperfection
to slim the nose
to slice the fat
to carve the cheekbones
to dig out the freckles
and leave myself a beautiful, ****** mess
I wish I could hold a candle to my face
until it dripped
like wax
soft enough to be moulded
into whatever
whoever
they wanted.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 7:55 PM UTC
pirates, with a Huckleberry
******* row boat...
doing the Achilles vs. the tortoise
logic macabre with
Somalis...
if ever a microaggression...
meaning, curbed bodies and alliances
with ****** in the morge...
well... sign me up Libido Jim...
tis an un fo 'ah bone fide...
ah... fy fy n'oh fide... n'oh fight...
bonding fade... or post Latin post Brit
dicritical enclosure, loss...
Gaulish excess spelling
and not wonder:
the last remnant literacy monopoly...
dyslexia... eyes see one thing...
tongue speaks another...
trash the bib.,
remnant 0f bible, diacritical marks...
bone fide...
tetragrammaton fiddle with
the diacritical violin...
no, no Anaïs Nin ands a father figure...
id est more fetish figure and less
father rigour...
bond fíd(e)...
like all french... shy on the suffix ***
loss of diacritical canon...
as literate as the pastoral...
and God forbid I ever make the sort of dough
worthy of the sistine chapel or
the da vincy code...
I shadow, and the undercurrents...
John "kukła" Paul II...
or? John Paul "the wickerman"...
at least they allowed Ratzinger
the dignity of papa emeritus...
poles like bangladshis are
expendable... but worth the:
princess ought to have that unicorn...
my my... came slurping honey,
the sugar baby...
and the delayed claustrophobia
of the inescapable ratio
of women, outnumbering men...
and even Solomon,
employed eunuchs to tend
to his harem, stemming from
the myth of ****** stamina.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 8:13 PM UTC
I may have a nose
Succumbed to the stress of suction
But I can still smell a rat
I may have a mind
Fogged by the forest of forgetfulness,
But I can still remember to be forceful
I may have ears
Ringing with the rigour of revenge
But I can still hear your repentance
Illness is in the body
My mind is unaffected
Let's talk
And tell only truths.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
there's a definite skill in tugging strings
marionette controllers understand these things
cords of manipulation pulled left and right
to keep each puppet working for his might
a deftness of tasking beyond compare
this capability he'll show with much dare
an accent always being on the wire's desire
as to how he'd like his wooden figures to fire
we marvel at the maestro's astute vigour
in employing his expert's toggling rigour
commanding all the dolls by ace orchestration
he's a supreme professional of the vocation
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
Sunk into the sink again
With only a bottle to keep me company
Playing a game of poker with my shadow
While my mirror-image is trying to avoid me
I went over to the corner
As if somebody had told me to
But despite my wicked ways
I won’t take two-faced lessons from you
With every other ticking of the clock
Another heartbeat skips away
But I’m not the man to cry for all things gone
People they come and go anyway
It’s been six long days
Since you tried to get my attention
And despite my hand’s habit of giving in
My head is immensely immune to rising tension
So I swapped the happy holiday memories
Forever captured in a motionless scene
For movie heroes and nature’s splendour
I choose what never was over what has been
I do forgive you that you won’t forgive me
That is the natural order of things
But I must admit that I lack the rigour
Of fully clipping this pretty bird’s wings
So I choose the path of cowardice
And put you in a dusty box inside my head
It’s much more easier to forget you there
And clutch unto make-believe instead
It’s been six long days
Since you tried to fight your way back in
But all I need is the comfort of loneliness
The illusion of doing it right, mixed with a sip of gin
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 4:51 AM UTC