"rousseau" poems
My parrot is emerald green,
His tail feathers, marine.
He bears an orange half-moon
Over his ivory beak.
He must be believed to be seen,
This bird from a Rousseau wood.
When the urge is on him to speak,
He becomes too true to be good.
He uses his beak like a hook
To lift himself up with or break
Open a sunflower seed,
And his eye, in a bold white ring,
Has a lapidary look.
What a most astonishing bird,
Whose voice when he chooses to sing
Must be believed to be heard.
That stuttered staccato scream
Must be believed not to seem
The shriek of a witch in the room.
But he murmurs some muffled words
(Like someone who talks through a dream)
When he sits in the window and sees
The to-and-fro wings of wild birds
In the leafless improbable trees.
12.7k
I grew up in South Auckland, Takanini
the only Pakeha in the caravan park,
I learnt how to be tall, smart and skinny
how to raise the end of my sentences in an arc.
At school, we were told words held power;
but for teachers words were flowers,
and my friend Cruz had two brothers
Harley and Davidson - they belonged to Black Power,
their fists tattooed with something like “Smother”.
But there was never violence on our street, gang was family;
I usually never felt more at home around Bourbon,
loud Reggae, bags of **** and men so manly
they’d cry over love, and I wouldn’t get a word in.
Though my Father votes National and thinks Michael Laws is right
so moves us to Dunedin where it’s ninety percent white.
I stopped reading Lenin and picked up Rousseau
became a vegetarian, thought it was so cool you know,
even wrote a blog that discussed rise from below.
But I’ll never know below again
until I’m drunk in an old shed at 3am on a school night
singing along to Bob Marley in Maori,
sunk deep into the mattress propped against the Harley,
the one you and I would cruise on until dawn together
as police took to the streets in riot gear -
we’d get lost in the country and learn to smother
our thoughts in starlight then stagger over,
listen in to the darkness,
and just slowly breathe
the crisp, cool air of the kiwi tundra.
They say New Zealand has two flags,
but in the country, when you’re blazed
on the benefit, ****** on the disdain
for positive discrimination, you can pick out
all the small bright koru unfurling in the stars.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
I watched the old
gray haired
son of a *****
approach my fence
in the back yard
today,
he - looking up at the
beautiful work of art,
a brilliant Magnolia
that had just flowered
like a proud yawning
lioness at sunset,
his gilded tool
with it’s dangling rope
to hang a miracle
because it had spilled
into his yard
like pink paper leftovers
everywhere,
he decided to repress it
bordering the fence
it was annoying him
and his domain
Rousseau was dead-on
about my chained freedom
the manacles were dangling
and I could hear
him severing and slicing
her arms
it somehow made him
feel better
and he moaned
his wretched realm
on his side of the trellis
and he walked away
after the limbs had fallen
to the ground
to make his cheap ***
ground chuck on rye –
it smelled like ****
the amputated Magnolia
and grease spinning
around my head
I stood there, quietly
thinking how this was
so unwarranted
and what a waste of time
this was,
the tree crying out to me
and somewhere else on earth
another yawning
with laughter.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
Almost happy now, he looked at his estate.
An exile making watches glanced up as he passed,
And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast
A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell
Some of the trees he'd planted were progressing well.
The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.
Far off in Paris, where his enemies
Whispered that he was wicked, in an upright chair
A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write
"Nothing is better than life." But was it? Yes, the fight
Against the false and the unfair
Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilise.
Cajoling, scolding, screaming, cleverest of them all,
He'd had the other children in a holy war
Against the infamous grown-ups, and, like a child, been sly
And humble, when there was occasion for
The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie,
But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.
And never doubted, like D'Alembert, he would win:
Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest
Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done,
And only himself to count upon.
Dear Diderot was dull but did his best;
Rousseau, he'd always known, would blubber and give in.
So, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,
Earthquakes and executions. Soon he would be dead,
And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses
Itching to boil their children. Only his verses
Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead
The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.
2.6k
Is humanism Utopian?
You really have to think about it.
Or is it rather more dystopian?
No, then I think you’d never doubt it.
It seems that disbelief is best.
Humanism owes a debt
to thinkers of the Enlightenment,
although I haven’t paid it yet,
I think of it as my entitlement
to settle it at some behest.
I very early cleared my mind of Kant,
experiencing a vast relief,
approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant;
removing knowledge to allow belief;
the opposite of what he had expressed.
It occurred to me I ought to dig up
(or should I say instead ex-hume?)
what constitutes at least an egg-cup-
full of wisdom that I might consume
with non-platonic zest.
But wondering how on earth to do so
and thinking he might hold the key,
I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau
and set sail for my destiny,
while trying not to feel depressed.
Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears
as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu
and failed to still my latent fears.
And thus I felt no need to rescue
Adam Smith (morality-obsessed).
To put Descartes before the Horse-
men of the Apocalypse
War, famine, pestilence and worse.
Who could guess it would eclipse
my thought, wherefore I was oppressed.
Or take the case of Denis Diderot
a friend of Hume and others seedier.
and one you might consider so
rash as to produce an encyclopedia
to get his knowledge off his chest.
That precious quality of truth
was Mary Ann’s# description of it.
It would not take a Sherlock sleuth
to simply thus produce a conviction of it:
an elementary request.
I cut my questing teeth on Russell.
His secular logic had a profound effect
and seemed to stir each red corpuscle
inhabiting this fervid non-sect-
arian but doubting breast.
I later turned my eye on Dawkins,
and his concern with my divine delusion.
A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings
validate my disillusion
and emphasise an ill-starred quest.
And so I felt the pointlessness of it.
Progress is the best end for a man to see
And belief simply produced less profit
for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy.
So, in the end, I acquiesced.
#Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in Adam Bede
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Here I'm rejected
there I'll be condemned
I'll not be excepted
anyhow--slammed
in my face, subjected
to every form of malice-- crammed
among those suspected
of betrayal--- contempt
raises its venomous# head and I'm hated
for the views I hold-- hemmed
by envious forces-- everywhere hunted
I am an innocent victim--damned
and left to ideas I've constructed
my own pain to consume---stamped
TRAITOR* -- my only hope is to be vindicated
by future generations which would have my thoughts revamped!
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 10:44 PM UTC
Apples & plums high on their boughs
autumn is not far off now
nearby, red brick houses
sleep in the after-shower sun
only a few more days
& summer's done
the cyclists are speeding
on their way from work
along the Bristol-Bath cycle path
also ' railway path' called
& with a three year old laugh
a child in an anorak unsteadily sways
I've walked this way in the night
with the moon shining up above
& seen a fox run out in plain sight
into the middle of the path
the street lamps either side
amongst the trees, shining on it's red fur
& in the early morning light
watched a mysterious toad blink it's wide eyes
& walked it all the way
to Bristol town & back
& also to the old Steam trains
out past Warmley
dressed in my old boots
waiting for the sunset & the dark
calling up ghosts
musing on Rousseau
listening to birdsong
& wanting nothing more
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
***** Attacked by a Jaguar, after Henri Rousseau*
Unaware, arms sway.
Attentive green gazes
at a tuxedoed man
and his broken bride.
Pink perfume glides
over the jade scene.
A red disco light
hovers above raised limbs,
spinning stardust
rain down upon them.
In the corner
he hides -- peering
around fibre-optic
shrubs. Blackening
this white moment.
On the ballroom
floor they dance.
Rendezvous in the Forest, after Henri Rousseau
In the wilderness
they meet, horsebacked,
whispering nothing
sweet, meaningless.
Captain courts, seeking
victory beneath bare
branches... hidden
where all can see.
Curious trees bend
to view the scene below.
The lady's palace
chaperones her mistress
from faraway brush.
Antiqued cotton tufts frown
overhead, lost souls
driving by wreckage.
Vultures. Scavengers
of hunting season.
Pausing to behold
the carnage
of predator and prey.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 12:25 PM UTC
All that will remain is bones and rotting meat
Toss it in a cheap wicker box for worms to eat
Topped just with wild flowers and no cement
Plant a weeping willow instead of a monument
It can do the weeping, please don't you cry
There is a chance that I'll be busy when I die
For if I am wrong and there is life after this
I have plans with whom I'll dine and reminisce
I'll be dining with Oscar Wilde and Caravaggio
Cocktails and conversation with Kant and Plato
Then with Bellini, Verdi and Rossini I'll take a Show
An interval tipple and discourse with Rousseau
An after party with Bakunin and Proudhon
Whisky and blues with Howlin Wolf til I'm gone
I shall breakfast the next day with Tz'u Hsi, Homer and Malcolm X
And take morning coffee with Gandhi and Marc Bolan from T.Rex
At noon a spicy ****** Mary with Mary Queen of Scots,
Freddie Mercury, Lou Reed, Picasso and lots of tequila shots
Lunch that day with Saladin, Karl and Groucho Marx
Then smoke a pipe with Newton whilst discussing quarks
Afternoon tea with Queen Victoria, Kipling and Colin Ward
Followed by a game of Tafl with a viking on a giant board
Dress for flamenco with Carmen Amaya (then dress the blisters)
Then pre-dinner drinks paid for by Geronimo and the Bronte sisters
So you see, if I'm wrong
And we actually move along
A fascinating after life awaits me
Yeah, when I'm gone from here
There'll be plenty gin and beer
Cucumber sandwich's and tea
If you wonder what I'm doing
Give your watch a quick viewing
Then just check this poem and you'll see
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
This one's for the 20 kids
Now all dead, god forbid
For the parents who now cry
Who always ask themselves, "why?"
For those teachers killed on the job
Their entire city mourns and sobs
For all the people who took a fall
I support you and I bless you all.
To the familes of Charlotte Bacon, Daniel Barden, Rachel Davino, Olivia Engel, Josephine Gay, Ana M. Marquez-Greene, Dylan Hockley, Dawn Hochsprung, Madeleine F. Hsu, Catherine V. Hubbard, Chase Kowalski, Jesse Lewis, James Mattioli, Grace McDonnell, Anne Marie Murphy, Emilie Parker, Jack Pinto, Noah Pozner, Caroline Previdi, Jessica Rekos, Avielle Richman, Lauren Rousseau, Mary Sherlach, Victoria Soto, Benjamin Wheeler, and Allison N. Wyatt.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
Hegel’s Hero in Dream
Hegel’s Hero appeared with video of heroes
To teach me Ideas and dialectics in society;
I saw there, Lions and Foxes of Machiavelli
Fighting , growling , springing from bushes.
Aimless Dame Fortune moves in history past
Politics of India, snowy, foggy, and shadowy!
Shivering men squat passive keeping “ID card”
As Greek slaves, before the Democratic Lords.
General Will ,as Rousseau says ,forms society,
Nation, Governments based on Ideas extant.
Lords, and the wealthy ruled rudely the ruled
In the past, as history moved as cruelly as fast.
God’s own Universe sans universal concept
On Peace; builds walls around each groups.
Religions fail to link the parted and parched
People who worship vicious Cain and Mammon .
Marx, Engels , and Mao came with the legions
Stumbled, humbled and stifled by the Mammons.
Buddha, Christ and the Prophet Mohammad
Told of Love, Grace, Patience and of Pardon
My Lord, why, we fail to wipe tears and fears?
“Sambhavami yuge yuge” says hazy, Hegel fades.
parithranaya sadhunam/ vinasaya cha dushkritham/
dharmmasamsthapanardhaya/sambhavami yuge yuge.
When in India can we expect such a Hero:Kalki,in Kali?
To be trapped, jailed as terrorist protestant, really!
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
I didn't take a photograph of the statue of Robert Burns.
His sightless eyes were looking out over Dunedin,
the most Scottish town in the southern hemisphere,
and there was a seagull, not a pigeon, standing on his head.
I would have called it "Robbie Burns and Friend."
And I didn't take a picture of the bus shelter
painted all over with jungle foliage and a tiger
peeping out over the simulated signature of Henri Rousseau.
The title would have been "This Bus Shelter is a Forgery."
Neither did I photograph another painted wall,
one round a cemetery full of ornate and sombre tombs,
with a large and skilfully executed advertisement -
Renta Sanitarios Mobiles (Hire Mobile Toilets).
It would have been called "Is there no Respect for the Dead?"
I didn't take the photo of a Fijian policeman.
A pity, for he had such a practical uniform,
very smart and cool,
in a tasteful shade of policeman-blue,
based on the traditional sulu
with a striking zigzag hem.
The title would have been "A Policeman in a Skirt?!"
I couldn't take a photograph of sunset over Popocatépetl
– although the sun was setting in a red and golden haze,
and the most romantically named mountain is just
what you imagine a perfect volcano should be,
even to the wisp of steam at the peak
– because the sun was actually setting over Ixtaccíhuatl
and "Sunset over Ixtaccíhuatl" doesn't have quite the right ring
The shape of the mountain is not very picturesque either.
Yes, I would have called that one "Sunset over Popocatépetl"
– if I could have taken it.
My camera wouldn't focus on the crescent moon
hanging over the Egyptian skyline,
horns pointing up, so close to the Equator,
and the evening star (Venus or some more ancient goddess)
just above and almost between the points.
If that one had worked it would have been called "Islamic Moon."
I couldn't possibly have taken a photograph
that would do any justice to the young piano student
in a Hungarian castle
hammering out Liszt as if the hounds of hell were after her,
but if I could, I would have had to call it "Apassionata."
And I didn't even have time to get my camera out
to take a picture of the wild humming bird
darting green and unconcerned
among dilapidated tenements in the heart of Mexico City.
But that living jewel shines bright in my memory,
even without a photo.
I don't know what I would have called that one,
and I'm sure it doesn't matter.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
PRISONERS
Men are born free
but everywhere are in chains
thus wrote Rousseau--I take the point further-
upon themselves they inflict pains
in being prisoners of time
which with a sword of Damocles hangs
over every head and herds them into closed barns
where they sigh and lament in silent pangs
of anguish with no hope to be free
they have lost the will to fight
to regain that which was once their heritage
and fundamental right
men are born free
but by the loss of freedom they are condemned
time is the slayer--would they wake up
some day and look upon time with contempt?
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
This is his Henri Julian Rousseau taboo land,
here he appears as the lion night after night,
with his tail stiffened, erect--but the Gypsy wasn't there
Bathed in psychedelic strobe lights, now
here on a plush confession table doubling as their stage
his Gypsy lies spread-eagled,
til there is no secrets left in her body, he now tries
to pry open the many chambers of her peripatetic mind.
With a lingering kiss, he in vain tries to arrest her
never subdued spirit and begins his secret rituals
for the angel of sin, black magic maiden, yin for his yang
who in ways direct, sly or by allusion, is the bestower of
a million forbidden pleasures, whispering,like a mantra thus:
"There is no right or wrong, all illusions, within an imagined truth"
which made him stray, albeit, within the labyrinth
like innumerous men of power, which they gained
shedding blood, sweat and tears; as if there is nothing beyond.
She who by instinct engineered his downfall
from the pantheon of the anointed is finally here
but this is no retribution, only return of the favors received,
his throbbing lust seeks her deep interior's caresses
giving her forgiveness in return, his masculine urges
wish to be gripped by her unusual craving,
she is melting like butter, her sweet urges fight back
in unison they seethe, wreath, roll and race to culminate.
On a swing hanging high ,above the poisoned earth
for a few sweet transient moments they remain,
weep in pleasure til they fall in to slime and crawl back to life
--then the Gypsy and the Lion remember nothing .
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
**
I have six fingers on my right hand;
I write from the tip of the sixth finger;
All other fingers are supporting me
By all means; by all ways; by all strength
The pen is usually linked with writing.
It helps a writer to record his or her own
Thoughts, themes, concepts on paper.
Sword is a weapon used against someone.
A sword can be wielded well only by those,
who are physically fit. But words can flow
from the pen of even a feeble man.
If he is a good writer, he can use the
words to their desired effect.
Many great writers had inspired revolutions.
The French revolution for example
was the result of the writings
of great French writers like Rousseau.
Writings can evoke different emotions
as love, hatred, sympathy etc.
It is something that is to be regarded
with awe and respect.
Hence pen is always
mightier than the sword.
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
**
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
Fleeing
Tail between my legs
From the ravishes
Of your lashes
I take refuge in the ramblings
Of madmen long dead
Seeking to tap the will to power
That I may refute
Your imposing master-slave morality
Compelling in its distracting hedonism
Beckoning in its languid ambiguity
Suffocating my
Dizzying, radical freedom
Oh, noumenal world
Take me now.
One look at you
And I abandon
My categorical imperative
Doomed to the fate
Of a being-in-itself
Powerless to recreate
And renew its essence
Too busy being caught up
In your scent
I see what you are
And scramble to
The conclusion of
What you ought to be
With me
For you are beyond
That which empirical validation
Can encapsulate
You are
My Prime Mover
And life without you
Is nasty, brutish, and short
And Rousseau was full of ****
I flee
Because inner language
The beetle in the box
Can never be shared
Not even with
The most symmetrical of soulmates
And what we may share
May not even be authentic
What we believe
May not even be true
Nor justified
Are you not satisfied
With the power you already wield
Over me?
Please
My geisha
Do not let your lips
Be the antithesis to my pen.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 3:53 AM UTC
Through the towns and country lanes
fortress walls and ancient stains
Roman treasures, aquaducts
the running bulls, a stroke of luck!
Cobblestone and feudal cracks
the culture weaves and summer smacks!
enchanted ramparts, medieval ruins
coliseums and communes
Aigues Mortes to Avignon
the rolling hills and castles strong
fields of grape and olive trees
cicadas singing on the breeze
Tranquil rivers, lost lagoons
horses prancing at high noon
flora and fauna in lofty decree!
say the sycamore and cypress tree
De Lumières in tomb-like calm
illuminating sounds of Brahm
Vermeer, Picasso and Van Goh
the ghosts of Voltaire and Rousseau
Les Baux-de-Provence's immersive stage
brush strokes wide from another age
chambers deep at quarry rock
the mesmerizing notes of Bach
Sacred figures, holy shrines
monestries in grand design
blocks, arches and polished stone
gladiators at the throne
Castle turrets and dungeon bars
the ancient bridge of Pont du Gard
chapel bells across la ville
spiral stairs where time stands still
Scrolls and chronicles filled with scars
church and state with dark memoirs
scholars, artists and dignitaries
in pursuit of God...and all his glory
Aug 30, 2023
Aug 30, 2023 at 12:00 PM UTC
If I write a poem, and make it extra dumb
A lot of reads it gets, what has this world become?
-
The stupider I make it, the more it is received!
Like a purple chicken and green cow, who would have believed
-
But if I make it serious, like WW3 is almost here
Just a couple read it, no one I endear
-
So what am I to do? I'll say I told you so
I'll keep on writing Gloom and Doom, and pretend I am Rousseau
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
She wakes up at 4pm
leaves the house
only at sunset
she talks
in feline nothings
to her cat
& reads
Rousseau
in the afternoons
10 years ago
the last time
she saw her friend
not her fault,
the distance
of course
sometimes
she goes to the pub
where she doesn't
know anyone
& drinks
half a guinness
comes home
drunk on the night
& it's thousand stars
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
So unconventional you were Mrs. Wollstonecraft
Witty and courageous too
It took great daring to criticize Rousseau
I think I love you
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
*and he said: there are plenty of neo-Nazis in Poland... and i said: i won't even cite what's pop in England; comparing Poles to rats i guess i have to give you a sieg heil salute to keep it chequers cheap and ask William how he felt anally ******* Harold's merry men.*
it would be so good to include the good people
in the whole affair...
never mind the ******** was always
the punk pop hit for *** pistols...
when the self-titled rock metal album wasn't...
call it subterfuge, i just call it subhuman...
but that's what defined radio 1
when Iron Maiden hit it with:
bring your daughter to the slaughter...
chappies gaffed and choked at their no. 1...
the latter rejected, glorified Rousseau
and later ****** gassed at Ypres
stiff from Mustard... later justified at Auschwitz...
here comes a beginning,
former colonial powers sticking to being
the vocabulary powers of interests, not to be done...
god those English colonialists are
fake nervous, with the Irish glorification
anti Northern Eire... i look at it as it is:
****** was gassed... what's the horror
of Auschwitz? Himmler or the Third *****
tango? the man was gassed in the trenches...
why is it that you can't craft a Dracula from him?
oh wait... now i know...
because he experienced the same as his victims...
and as the Jewish poet Tuwim explained:
he too, was human....
it's funny how nothing mythological will come
from ****** i too count myself human...
your idiotic far-left vocabulary will only
assert a following of so-many hungers readied to
engage in protest -
i don't know why far-left politics is always eager
to make people revise their vocabulary,
while the far-right politics is always eager to make
people revise their actions...
well... as the vermin of England said...
you're never too sure whether you're drinking
a pint of Guinness on a friendly footing
with the Irish, or whether the ales are out
for separatist conversation with the Scots.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 10:40 PM UTC
Rousseau lingers in the souls of lethargy. "I know
that [civilized men] do nothing but boast incessantly
of the peace and repose they enjoy in their chains..."
Efficiency is a masquerade for same old,
same old; undaunted herds recycle cud,
new food demands passion.
Allegories of independent thought
paint extravagant ethereal world portraits
in many shades of one color.
Legends are born in feebleness - dilitary hammers
riddle red cap gun ribbons sparking
outrage insufficient enough to make a statement
Let them cry muted cries
in one act plays to empty seats, as they
preen unripe scabs to detour unresolved issues
Yearning is vacant, yea, absent, as an
occasional yeoman's hail song is heard
in the distance milking a lily for a reason to go on
?s are the only things that exist
in reality. No one knows who they are
in the bell tower...they simply ring the bell.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
Bras en sang *** comme les sainfoins
L'hyperbole retombe Les mains
Les oiseaux sont des nombres
L'algèbre est dans les arbres
C'est Rousseau qui peignit sur la portée du ciel
Cette musique à vocalises
Cent À Cent pour la vie
Qui tatoue
Je fais la roue sur les remparts.
614
Rousseau
I desire
In a heat of summer
Zeno
Disregards
My triumphant return
From wild brush
Sudden wilderness
Harsh temperatures
The north
Or south
Anguished by gold
Needing a solid
Fixation
Condemning love
Validating the truth
Of my delinquency
Letting death overcome life
He was so pretty
The scion
My child...
So pure
Like snow
With the name Napoleon
He was mine
My son
Natural blood
Chelsea
The rose so cold
Living in a spring of chill
Where is the love
We once shared?
It has to be rotting in the ground
All is gone
The money
My *****
I want more
Something substantial
Not hunger
Nor your whining
I hate
And fear the searing leach
That you have become
My bonus from life
Is this
Trouble
An uncontrollable
Falling out
I revise
God's device
Informative drive
I have to run
Baby
To the bay
With torrential rain
Sudden winds
Hateful lies
I have no explanation
Her name is Betty
And contrary
To happy endings
With a tome of reality at ready
I contribute to life
By saying
That...
I hate you
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 11:30 PM UTC
She spent a disappointing morning gathering poison
In a hollowed out heart,
And farted in the Tuesday darkness.
I’m Dumpty, she said, Call the Leader.
Feed me in the face.
Then she drew two ***** circles on the pillowcase.
Mrs. Hydrogen arrived in Mr. Rousseau's socks
To talk to Randolph Paradox.
Exceptional thinness is finished,
They said,
So she took a chisel to the sea
And hung all her hair in a snake egg tree.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 8:07 AM UTC