"savant" poems
*here's how it happens
the morning after
you reach into the drawer
where the your t-shirts live
to find it austere
you'll shrug because
you're still drunk
& you can't remember
when last it was
that you had something wet
or how long it's been
since you made the floorboards blush
or why the carpet is upset
who wouldn't be
the contents to the upended ashtray
strewn around the apartment
resemble the aftermath
of the smallest war
to ever take place in norfolk
some midnight thief
must've made off with the lighter
because it isn't in
any of your favorite spots
maybe you chucked it
along with a hundred other things
that make noise when they land
in the neighbors yard
you won't remember putting
the refrigerator's belongings
in the bathtub
or scrawling a buzzard
on the bedroom door
but then again who would
you'll pretend it's spring again
before putting on your winter coat
to go out front with a cigarette
in your mouth
you'll hope for a passing stranger
to *** a light from
or drag yourself to the corner
with couch cushion change
to buy a new lighter
and on your way
you won't bother looking back
this is just another day
on eggshells for no reason
another november
choking on birthday candles
on your way home
you step over beer cans
the kind you fell in love with
and wonder who
had the last laugh last night
or if anyone said a word at all
it might've been another
moment of clarity
it might have been some idiot savant
any adjective that feels like home
anything that keeps you thirsty*
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
Though you've barely had a ramble
are no wayward canine daddy of note
that brief encounter in our brambles
has left the experts fearing a cancerous growth
So we starve you of your pine nuts and bacon rinds
so we can feed you anaesthetic
and betray you to the thief of time
only to make you, I imagine, feel pathetic
And you often so full of life's exasperate scurry
I worry
will the shine stray from your eyes
those hazel pools of so much of
my feeling mature, just for
pertaining to a creature's care
we all seem in too much of a hurry
to stifle what little spirit
that surrounds us
to wear
down on every minor aspect
of childish delight
in this silent sacrament
of the aging process
and with arguably years
of your fatherhood left
in the very ***** some dry eyed savant
decides it correct we should tamper with
Tomorrow I will snuggle you in favoured, bouncy eiderdowns
that will blanket your unknowing
and treat you as if
you were an eastering child
on cured hams and other saltiness
after you awaken
from those strangest enforcements of sleep
and through our eyes we will trade more secrets to keep
And we will hope, as we only can, that it was for the best
For you, Yorkshire's son, or Sheringham's
And consider with all of your
exhuming breath
That we meddled, stilling over life
To cheat a slightly delayed death.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
70
“Arcturus” is his other name—
I’d rather call him “Star.”
It’s very mean of Science
To go and interfere!
I slew a worm the other day—
A “Savant” passing by
Murmured “Resurgam”—”Centipede”!
“Oh Lord—how frail are we”!
I pull a flower from the woods—
A monster with a glass
Computes the stamens in a breath—
And has her in a “class”!
Whereas I took the Butterfly
Aforetime in my hat—
He sits ***** in “Cabinets”—
The Clover bells forgot.
What once was “Heaven”
Is “Zenith” now—
Where I proposed to go
When Time’s brief masquerade was done
Is mapped and charted too.
What if the poles should frisk about
And stand upon their heads!
I hope I’m ready for “the worst”—
Whatever prank betides!
Perhaps the “Kingdom of Heaven’s” changed—
I hope the “Children” there Won’t be “new fashioned” when I come—
And laugh at me—and stare—
I hope the Father in the skies
Will lift his little girl—
Old fashioned—naught—everything—
Over the stile of “Pearl.”
4.8k
I'd last about an hour as a clerk inside a store
invariably I'd shoot my mouth off
about someone's daughter dressing like a *****
or making comments about the dreadful things consumed
which would include a good 99% of the people in the room
I'd eventually end up getting my lights punched out
after ********* someone as a fat *** undiscerning lout
or cracking some aside regarding what comprises that crud
and making faces of revulsion "you'd be better off eating mud"
ewwwww, you really eat that stuff?
this store should be sued for selling such bluff
children with diabetes, a third of adults obese
the courtesy clerk dies a little for lack of surcease
line after line of vapid consumers
mindless knee-jerk impetuosity belay the rumors
what's an adulterant, what's a filler?
propylene glycol alginate, yum yum
sorbitan mono sterate, shut up and eat it, its fun!
I can't even pronounce it, much less do I care
need I be a scientist to enjoyably savor fare
Go ahead and poison yourself
the quirky clerk exclaimed
its ever so clear you're stupid and lame
stay mired in your pig-headed muck of ignorance
you're exactly what they want
another brain dead consumer
a regular culinary savant
stuff your face with no remorse nor heed
no worries, the clerk of little courtesy knows your need
he'll limply wheel out your cart of miserable choices for you
and wise-crack some snarky rejoinder
then promptly get beaten, black and blue
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
Many people I know find it funny that I know so much about music. They call me a musical savant at times; it doesn’t bother me at all. It is actually kind of true. The only reason I know so much is because when I was going through one of the darkest times in my life music is the only thing that brought me back. Music was my therapy and there was one band in particular that I credit to saving me.
That band is… The Wanted.
Yes I know they are not a band right now. This dark period was from 2010 through 2012. At the time The Wanted were still together making music.
One day I was watching random music videos on Youtube and I came across the song I’ll Be Your Strength by The Wanted. When I heard that song I started crying because it was exactly what I needed to hear at that time. I felt like for the first time in a long time that I wasn’t alone and I finally had someone tell it was going to be okay.
Yes I realize that they have no clue who I am and that it is just a song.
But no matter how old I get I will always credit that song and that band with bringing me out of the dark.
That song made me realize that I needed help, BAD! There was so much going on that I had become depressed. I also felt like I was all alone and had no one who I could count on as my rock.
My friends did try and help me as best as they could but it wasn’t enough.
I started listening to music a lot more. I would spend hours just surfing ITunes listening to 30 second previews of songs.
Slowly I started to feel better emotionally and that made me feel better physically as well.
Music has a hidden power and if you really listen to the lyrics it can be everything that you need to hear. Before that time I never really paid too much attention to what songs were saying. I would just put it on for background noise.
It has been two years since the darkness disappeared and music is still my therapy on a daily basis. I don’t go anywhere without my IPod. If I can’t figure something out I just put on one of my favorite musicians and I will always get the answer I need.
Now a days when I talk about The Wanted everyone around me just thinks I’m a severe fan girl. I just go with it because I don’t want to go into the real reason why I’m so devoted to them.
So I leave you with this quote that sums up exactly how I feel:
“He took his pain and turned it into something beautiful. Into something that people connect to. And that's what good music does. It speaks to you. It changes you.”
― Hannah Harrington
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
No, do dread my glance ,im Helen.
im the purest creature of rage ****
a lapse glance alas , a doom .
a dream of Luth's sealed gloom.
sinister glare of Gomorrah bright.
soured sight of sere flower blight.
im venomous kiss of sweetest lips.
deadliest breath of daughter of Rappicini.
come fair son of light and beauty.
date me with naive lurking desire.
receive my poisonous breath satire .
i will sail thee near a pestilent fountain.
im the sinister Titania and Bottom and more i contain.
behold you not with my innocent beauty .
perverse is my nature intend but my name holy.
dost cross the path to purity on mount Sinai.
cause i shall rule and Helen the offspring of my ****
is lure untamed fiend,feed her she behold with leech.
no, one of my breath is a blast to thy life to leash.
my glare is illuminated like azure Vegas.
my nectar Pompeii larva of past .
my beauty is heaven flame it charms .
come; rich, beauty ,savant and fame.
for thou dost not behold with immortal Ichor.
sip deep my breath.
and meddle you with my luring glare.
im Titania i hang over my head a dagger.
upon which thy blood stream to the Bottom.
thou thinkest to entwine me ?
no,lo King Cophetua and the beggar maid.
and my judgement hell fire .
Thebes is in rout but Capaneus bid dust.
what dost thou want ,thou Sophist ?
no the sojourn of thee is Zeus Kirma.
beset for worst as the writ Apocrypha.
come thee savant ,come thee poet.
bekneel before the sacred attire .
heaven bow before the holy Dionysus.
for we beset you with frenzy ,ecstasy, and drama.
all behold the same destiny.
but elixir yonder in Kimmerian trinity.
try not you for eternal bloom .
cause error at Achille right heel.
but Maqueros, Lazarus , and Leviticus.
all will queenly glance at our Caduceus.
behold you not my beauty.
but behold you with our Pow wow.
behold you ! say Amen RA.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
A toadstool is swelling
inside my limbic system.
Spores sweat amongst tissue cavities,
dining out on grey matter,
until they force me
to stay in bed through the day.
What a thing it would be.
Depression as a fungus.
A mildewed mind as damp sets in,
the trumpet player
with athletes foot,
casting out the air-borne blues.
Misfortunes follow one another
along straits of fate,
as if sadness were a colony itself.
I want to take a pill
to **** the mushroom
that plumes over my head.
You can only diagnose
through words and symbols,
only treat once you set down your pen
and hold the hand
of a patient lover,
of the savant drinking at the bar.
For now I will let air in
through the open window,
watch the dreamcatcher sway
and hang like a tarantula
over the stars and crescents,
spilling out over my bed.
When I close my eyes
I hear the ocean in distant traffic,
sounding as waves when rolling by the door.
I will drown in seawater
and hallucinate a scene
of happiness.
Of a place for a poet's retreat.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
An abyss that echoes shrieks of eagles circling above:
the moon lies smashed in her sunken depths by nights,
this pit of enveloping darkness, a vessel emptied of life.
Brick by brick, aeons layer her walls, who knows when
she was dug? she carries fragrances of primordial waters
gathered in the heart of earth to the winds of the present.
Long before Joseph's well, she stood when desert land
was verdant wood, and before the earth was tread
asunder by the chariot, this graveyard of the stars.
Plunder she has seen, and abuse as she towers over the past.
Not a wellspring, emptied dry, but a bowl abegging.
The bowl that gave a creed to a continent?
Caravans pass by disgraced crevices remnant
of that era, gone long of stone. Effeminate, she pawned
her bricks over for a life. Or a well to collect the dead,
frightened by the hundreds by the colonial bullet.
Rise and fall, she carries in her wheel of life, her spoked zero.
Of which yet arises a homespun yarn of dreams.
Darkness wells forth from this abysmal chasm, and her
waters cause feuds by brother to brother. Men of straw,
of whom in a few years, no trace would remain,
yet remain and the dove that flew the night a tryst was made
still challenges the jacketed savant on Parliament square.
A pair of inverted eyes guard the gates of darkness.
And now and again, you see yet a star
shooting out to the skies again from the waters: to the moon,
a mushroom cloud, a circling satellite, and an octet notes.
She's not one well: her waters brackish, are
a thousand islands, that came together under the shadow
of an empire on whom the sun never sets.
Count the roots of the banyan, trees.
Her sons grow weak and lumpen. Her daughters rise.
And so she endures, this ancient mother.
In her depths, on the day, when the star of David is reversed,
she endures the ******** reversed, that shined in her of ages ago.
Of men, two quarters great, arise from the same shadow:
The eagle on the west, and the dove on the east.
The not is the all, the zero is everything.
Eternity, two zeros conjoined.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
The artist only used black,
he wouldn't say why his mum named him after a King
in palaces where feral children investigate
the mysteries of the Bermuda Triangle from their sofa where
they translated “idiot savant” as
stupid servant was written on permanent files
somewhere hidden alongside
DVDs that were posted on line showing monkeys in boxes
throwing themselves to death against perspex walls
splattering Rorschach patterns of childish nightmares,
the boogeyman.
A butterfly.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 11:54 AM UTC
Its nefarious arrogance, that's scaring grandparents, but its in the air and I'm airing it, as we are seeing all the signs, but just staring at them.
Somehow there is safety as an arian, where we are safely alien to Americans made in sapient sanitariums, shooting you first for glaring at em.
So what if i'm Dolling up my delirium for a serum to cure them all.
I am awol, from my call to duty, recreating movies, for serial groupies, suiting up to slither a delivery of a soothing sour piece.
I am stalling to clean the secretions from hostel sheets from the screamers being eaten, by Cretans, with beaten dogs at bay, staring blank at the fanfare from a cage.
Im burning white sage, under pages of poetry anointed by a stoical spleen, tuning out the dreams, of lesser beings, until complete.
A zoo within a zoo within a zoo, i barely know you now
Barely know how, to know you as a model citizen with baller trimmins, fixins, and a life with others wives, in the rough diamonds of the bluff, before the door opens just enough, to look through and confirm what you already knew.
Love is the stuff dreams are made of.
And through you..
Im through.
Pleading, to seed the need for repentance and with reduced sentences, bleeding the demands on stances of chance, in costly cants.
I am convulsing in the congruence, in which I am influenced, by my afflictions of depictions in my head
I might be addicted to the dread of previously said decor, in my adorable horror show afloat, deplorably denoting the nopes of logic, and the slippery slopes of khangi, that spring off me when i'm coughing on my green tea.
You are wrong to stop me in my dislogic, dodging the narcotic mocking of toxic strong arming, in proxy alarms, setting barns ablaze.
I praise the poetry pushed on me, dauntingly haunting me with savant like ambiance, from the have nots, having things as far as the eyes can see.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 12:51 AM UTC
he read
somewhere
her name
means warrior
tough
indeed
fierce
in fact
five feet
"tall"
protesting
a picket line
because she hates the hate
they love so much
stronger than him
she never lets him feel that
she knows
he doubts himself
she tries to doubt
herself
but can't
really
she is too busy
trying to make the world
alright
he too is busy
making it all wrong
but she never loses
touch her
savant memory
hearing her living
in the echoes
her laughter
medicine
for the deepest
wound
she falls around sunset
to rest in
dreams
of the next battle
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
I aimlessly drifted in teenage years,
From subtle scion to zaftig plebe.
Seen phony glory, vanquished fears,
And the stench of a wicked glebe.
From below, saw the stars up high,
Igniting horizons with callow wonder.
Beheld colossal beauty with mine inner eye,
Begged for chained thoughts asunder.
Amidst the serene flock to be slain,
Oft' a titan, seldom a vacant savant.
Known sorrow, elation, gain, vain, pain,
This mortal hour, hear joyful lament.
How quick we are to bid farewell,
How slow for friendship to pierce the cloth.
The rhythmic ache of that darkened knell,
The sobbing whimpers for a lover's warmth.
Nix for reciprocated amity, yet!
My seat of affection thrives in twilight.
Herein discipline is adamantly set,
Whence shall this ****** ire take flight?
Into the night that covers my soul,
Unleash that verdant star I see.
The divine abyss have taken its toll,
I pray the shadow is only me.
Note the ease to neglect one's clan,
Yet savored glee of reunions by blood.
Fury cease my elder ties, an infant plan,
By filial ardor, I still kneel in mud.
Star-shine ablaze onto vivid blooms,
Arise the stench of broiling debris.
Beauteous summer-tide metronomes,
The sinking scythe follow gales of peace.
Labor come sweat yield sweet fruition,
Tis annual come the bronze harvest.
Wrongful vengeance seek humble redemption,
Autumn under siege of well-fed zest.
Stormy vista rime graying meadows,
Entrench the sepsis by the ice age.
Taste weeping woe of guilty widows,
Lest their beloved hunger in cage.
Arise young lilac out of barren frosts,
Touch the vital aura to begin anew.
Altruists gladly pay auric costs,
To stalk vile leviathan into dew.
May stones bear indistinct distinction,
So my stride shall stumble and falter.
Peace paint heroes of sluggish fiction,
Chaos rouse prodigies from quiet slumber.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:12 AM UTC
They say money is time
but technically time does not exist
so we need to make money
because time is what we make it
but money is power too
because to make money takes time
which we do not like to spend
so people who crave it quick turn to crime
but money is freedom
giving us time to do with what we wish
the power of choice
the ability to switch
but money is material you say?
simply paper?
real life is spiritual ay?
well see if a smile pays the bills
regardless of what you think
accept that money is a choice
and realize no one listens
to the man without a voice
So deface it if you will
belittle it if you want
but money is microphone
although I am no savant
I know money is money
and not much else
so treat it as such
and save yourself
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
Casual catastrophe
The hollow yearn of death’s widow
Bites the pavement on a thunderous night
For crippled rattles to ignite
The insidious ruin
Rides a blanket corpse into the liquor store hold up
Feigns apparitions for the madness
Distilling cruelty as a hand’s reach for addicts
A sleeper savant
Stretches his face across barren lust
A killing grin between rotting tusks
That rent the light out of a ****** still blood
Devouring maggots
Of the ignorant, the arrogant, the cruel
Kiss the blisters on the swollen hearts
Of starving nations left to tear themselves apart
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
I am scant a savant and know it
I do I am just a wannabe poet
A shrew a devotee of
Poe and others
I wish for their talent
And notoriety
At a loss for words
Occasionally I just
Go ahead
And make them up
Dream up a verb
Ending in q
or a noun with no subject
I do
And shame is a good
Descriptive word
Adjective or adverb
I think I am sane
As I digress nightly
into a colored light fest
Of was crayoned
flesh
On the canvas
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 1:44 AM UTC
through my microscope, I spend hours
looking at the interstices of a plant cell wall;
if the earth did not spin, I could endure the whole
frigid night staring through my telescope at one violently still
crater on the moon
but I eat only soggy cheerios for breakfast,
ramen--chicken flavor--for lunch, EVERY day,
and either Dinty Moore stew or cheese ravioli
for my evening repast
my toothbrush must be blue, the paste pure white
and I could never tolerate the plight, of socks slipping
down past my ankles
I love Vivaldi, Brahms, and the sound of soft rain,
but hail batters my brain like a billion ball bearings
on an defenseless tin ***
my alarm must face due north
and my bed sunset west, beyond those things
I have no peculiar request
except
that things remain EXACTLY the way they are/were
for eternity
I can't play a savant symphony
like some would expect, or do cataclysmic calculations
in my head
though I can recall,
two years and four months ago today, a gold thumbtack sitting alone
on my dead granddad’s wood work bench, and the gray smelling roll of duct tape I placed precisely three inches from it, to keep it company
and if I ever again travel 365.26 miles to visit Granny
in Milwaukee, Wisconsin USA, it better be there, not having dared
to move a nightmarish nanometer
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
I am love's Savant
Of perilous divining;
No simpering hierophant,
Of the desperately climbing.
For love arrives naked,
Sans cloak or cloche,
While love's finger beckons,
For me to come close.
I'm privy to his prophecy;
To the keyholes I tiptoe,
Where I see the aristocracy-
In flagrante delicto.
As his scribe, I'm resigned
To write impassioned words;
Still, desires will not rewind-
Even though they be absurd.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 12:15 PM UTC
In misplaced demographics, an underlying figure
Gets lost in the middle of double-helixed bound’ry lines
Dissolving past parameters, confounding to the mind,
A deadlocked debate decides if pain or love is bigger
It’s like the world’s hardest riddle, answers buried deftly
That no savant or prodigy is able to surmise
And the truth does differ from what words can now describe.
I’ve learned that one can tread life’s forest with a steady course
And with the best of intentions and stark, concerted path
Turn winding bends ambiguous: mistake a birch for ash
So to end the tiring journey in tangent to its source
The nature of the Earth is neither white nor black
It’s more like the palate used when blue becomes grayish sky
But, then again, it’s not this easy to describe
Inside my head there lies a circuit, closed unto itself
So, through this loop I’ve learned to see the difference between
Progress and regression, what has been and has never been,
Is like finding from a deck why each hand differs that is dealt
But the answer matters not, for the circle spins again
It’s kind of like the ocean where the calm and break collides
But, then again, it’s not this easy to describe.
I’ve watched a daunting fog descend upon my clouded eyes
It curbs the hue of ev’rything to darker spectrum shades
So this shroud submerges light until definition fades,
Frustrates the sense of passion; luster steadily subsides
When the mind’s only window is comprised of rippled glass,
It’s like a drunkard’s double vision having not imbibed
But, then again, it’s not this easy to describe.
Each step I take grows even more uncertain than the last
If I could convey to you the shape of this confusion
If I could draw a diagram or picture of delusion
Then you and I might, together, construct and raise a mast
So with to steer life’s wayward ship back toward a purpose
At times, I’m unsure if living’s just learning to survive
So, in this pall, I reach you now, and in you I confide.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
The wisdom of the ages
falls deaf on silent ears,
when those of 'better' knowledge
lack in better years.
The words they speak are naught but verse,
a pretty, failing void;
They barter time and trade despair,
and on ignorance are sold.
They traipse about with jaunty stride-
merrily nonchalant-
flinging thoughtless wording
like an idiot savant.
To all those who have viewed them,
they are deemed to be unfit;
For who would suffer morons
when they have but half a wit?
In truth, they are our future,
but 'tis a future that I'd fear;
Too many of this generation
talk and will not hear.
They crave with desperation
a life too dark and harrowed,
for live lived in deprivation
'tis a point of view too narrowed.
They do not seek a power inside,
instead, they seek a chalice;
in which all the world's a stage-
but 'tis a poison breeding malice.
Oh- I weep!
for the years that lie ahead-
my brain rebels in horror,
my heart bleeds, raw and red;
The youth are turning old enough,
the future is uncertain;
and all because the high schools
treat education like a curtain.
"Behind this doors, labeled number one,
we have a distant future,
where minding manners, and respect
will make you kind and nurtured;
where all the pathways open up,
and you've made a great success;
...Or pick door number two,
and make life, now, a mess."
Of course our cock-sure young ones
will pick the latter door-
for partying, and breaking rules,
surely, there couldn't be more?
So to all the world, I say Nay!!
This is not the way for things to transpire!
What happened to change, and progress??
What happened to stoking the fire??
I won't support a mindless flock,
I will not suffer fools;
But most of all, I will not suffer
no education in our schools.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Now that we are lungs of our own,
no longer governed by each other
or good-humored light,
angled to make us beautiful;
I leave, tightly grappled within,
as if still in genuflect
still spinning
inside our billowing confessions,
two bodies conquered by cool
curious, cunning damnation...
A friend,
in her venues of Valentines,
a countess of stones thrown
proffers me the hangman's colloquial
"You still feel him...?"
nodding, I recall
the contours & colors of love's collision
*"You just keep feeling it,
however much you wish it stop.
Feel it--feel it all,
there's no prompt drug
to make it go away..."*
She coddles my sloth of shoulders
with ginger wisdom of grandmothers.
Nodding, I give in
to the germinating futility...
I still remember him
blowing out the candles
at our small table
with our unfinished meal;
how we thatched anger-strangled hearts
with saffron sauces of exasperation...
each etching kiss
close to a divine cure,
each curve of our crude pose
close-captioned
for the appetite-impaired...
Each saline scurrying tear,
each lonely-wilderness of day,
I force a sort of Nut-cracker's strength
not to feel
that barrel-hollow loss
that gallery of Use-To-Be's
and my friend,
in her Carmen wisdom,
is surgeon savant
stitches me up,
I am less in swarms of his tangibility;
I breathe less of his fetch
flooding
I am slowly becoming
just a single prefix,
my own word and crutch
no matter how often I recall
the music of his touch
or all the colors
we felt so much...
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
We speak of "truth" and "beauty"
with a savant , knowing air.
We are the keepers of the flame
who formulate the prayers.
We play with your emotions;
we heighten every sense.
We labor at this constantly
with little recompense.
...but...today... today I saw her,
and for words I'm at a loss.
Like Saul approaching Tarsus;
Like a second Pentecost.
Her beauty knows no simile
indeed , and it's a pity
Only George Gordon, at his height,
could , perhaps, describe her beauty.
I saw her but a moments time
and she's not mine to hold.
but from that brief encounter
I can now tell dross from Gold.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
advance floorplay
that's how these fourplay
money, power, respect, thats my forte
lifes a *****
that's what my dog say.
i walk the talk- don't listen to Beyond-says
karma busy gettin that foreplay
while finishing first, .
seems to be my forte.
life goes around,
and it **** around, been waiting all day.
i expect the same around fourty
these dudes don't measure up
my spit game slicker than WD-40
turn a grown man to a shorty
i'm even first in 1st class, the view is excellant
serving these fools, I'm a lyrical savant
if i'm talking about the keys, i could be trippin
I frequent flyer miles, so i must be trippin
i'm frequently flyer, now that's advertising!
And they still won't give a nikka credit, how surprising!
took it like a grain of salt, now the steaks is meszmerizing
sipping Moet over the rocks, appalachians
me myself and my iphone uniting nations
they just hope its Opuss, with your hokus pukas
you can point fingers, just don't poke us
I fear no one, cause life ain't a fear
they still criticize god, so I'm fair ground
speak it into to manifest,
let got then handle the rest, with fanase
and since i got a heart of gold,
all i do is treasure chest.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
Sonnet.
Pascal avait son gouffre, avec lui se mouvant.
- Hélas ! tout est abîme, - action, désir, rêve,
Parole ! et sur mon poil qui tout droit se relève
Maintes fois de la Peur je sens passer le vent.
En haut, en bas, partout, la profondeur, la grève,
Le silence, l'espace affreux et captivant...
Sur le fond de mes nuits Dieu de son doigt savant
Dessine un cauchemar multiforme et sans trêve.
J'ai peur du sommeil comme on a peur d'un grand trou,
Tout plein de vague horreur, menant on ne sait où ;
Je ne vois qu'infini par toutes les fenêtres,
Et mon esprit, toujours du vertige hanté,
Jalouse du néant l'insensibilité.
Ah ! ne jamais sortir des Nombres et des Etres !
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