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"savants" poems
Kung walked by the dynastic temple and into the cedar grove, and then out by the lower river, And with him Khieu Tchi and Tian the low speaking And “we are unknown,” said Kung, “You will take up charioteering? “Then you will become known, “Or perhaps I should take up charioterring, or archery? “Or the practice of public speaking?” And Tseu-lou said, “I would put the defences in order,” And Khieu said, “If I were lord of a province “I would put it in better order than this is.” And Tchi said, “I would prefer a small mountain temple, “With order in the observances, with a suitable performance of the ritual,” And Tian said, with his hand on the strings of his lute The low sounds continuing after his hand left the strings, And the sound went up like smoke, under the leaves, And he looked after the sound: “The old swimming hole, “And the boys flopping off the planks, “Or sitting in the underbrush playing mandolins.” And Kung smiled upon all of them equally. And Thseng-sie desired to know: “Which had answered correctly?” And Kung said, “They have all answered correctly, “That is to say, each in his nature.” And Kung raised his cane against Yuan Jang, Yuan Jang being his elder, For Yuan Jang sat by the roadside pretending to be receiving wisdom. And Kung said “You old fool, come out of it, “Get up and do something useful.” And Kung said “Respect a child’s faculties “From the moment it inhales the clear air, “But a man of fifty who knows nothng Is worthy of no respect.” And “When the prince has gathered about him “All the savants and artists, his riches will be fully employed.” And Kung said, and wrote on the bo leaves: If a man have not order within him He can not spread order about him; And if a man have not order within him His family will not act with due order; And if the prince have not order within him He can not put order in his dominions. And Kung gave the words “order” and “brotherly deference” And said nothing of the “life after death.” And he said “Anyone can run to excesses, “It is easy to shoot past the mark, “It is hard to stand firm in the middle.” And they said: If a man commit ****** Should his father protect him, and hide him? And Kung said: He should hide him. And Kung gave his daughter to Kong-Tchang Although Kong-Tchang was in prison. And he gave his niece to Nan-Young although Nan-Young was out of office. And Kung said “Wan ruled with moderation, “In his day the State was well kept, “And even I can remember “A day when the historians left blanks in their writings, “I mean, for things they didn’t know, “But that time seems to be passing. A day when the historians left blanks in their writings, But that time seems to be passing.” And Kung said, “Without character you will “be unable to play on that instrument “Or to execute the music fit for the Odes. “The blossoms of the apricot “blow from the east to the west, “And I have tried to keep them from falling.”
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Canto 13
Kung walked by the dynastic temple and into the cedar grove, and then out by the lower river, And with him Khieu Tchi and Tian the low speaking And “we are unknown,” said Kung, “You will take up charioteering? “Then you will become known, “Or perhaps I should take up charioterring, or archery? “Or the practice of public speaking?” And Tseu-lou said, “I would put the defences in order,” And Khieu said, “If I were lord of a province “I would put it in better order than this is.” And Tchi said, “I would prefer a small mountain temple, “With order in the observances, with a suitable performance of the ritual,” And Tian said, with his hand on the strings of his lute The low sounds continuing after his hand left the strings, And the sound went up like smoke, under the leaves, And he looked after the sound: “The old swimming hole, “And the boys flopping off the planks, “Or sitting in the underbrush playing mandolins.” And Kung smiled upon all of them equally. And Thseng-sie desired to know: “Which had answered correctly?” And Kung said, “They have all answered correctly, “That is to say, each in his nature.” And Kung raised his cane against Yuan Jang, Yuan Jang being his elder, For Yuan Jang sat by the roadside pretending to be receiving wisdom. And Kung said “You old fool, come out of it, “Get up and do something useful.” And Kung said “Respect a child’s faculties “From the moment it inhales the clear air, “But a man of fifty who knows nothng Is worthy of no respect.” And “When the prince has gathered about him “All the savants and artists, his riches will be fully employed.” And Kung said, and wrote on the bo leaves: If a man have not order within him He can not spread order about him; And if a man have not order within him His family will not act with due order; And if the prince have not order within him He can not put order in his dominions. And Kung gave the words “order” and “brotherly deference” And said nothing of the “life after death.” And he said “Anyone can run to excesses, “It is easy to shoot past the mark, “It is hard to stand firm in the middle.” And they said: If a man commit ****** Should his father protect him, and hide him? And Kung said: He should hide him. And Kung gave his daughter to Kong-Tchang Although Kong-Tchang was in prison. And he gave his niece to Nan-Young although Nan-Young was out of office. And Kung said “Wan ruled with moderation, “In his day the State was well kept, “And even I can remember “A day when the historians left blanks in their writings, “I mean, for things they didn’t know, “But that time seems to be passing. A day when the historians left blanks in their writings, But that time seems to be passing.” And Kung said, “Without character you will “be unable to play on that instrument “Or to execute the music fit for the Odes. “The blossoms of the apricot “blow from the east to the west, “And I have tried to keep them from falling.”
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100 A science—so the Savants say, “Comparative Anatomy”— By which a single bone— Is made a secret to unfold Of some rare tenant of the mold, Else perished in the stone— So to the eye prospective led, This meekest flower of the mead Upon a winter’s day, Stands representative in gold Of Rose and Lily, manifold, And countless Butterfly!
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A science—so the Savants say
Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue? Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)— Though some savants make earth include the sky; And blue so far above us comes so high, It only gives our wish for blue a whet.
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Fragmentary Blue
with bodies relaxed, but eyes observant, they sell five dollar bags of ***** weedy poetry mixed clientele, there is no age or gender or ****** preference discrimination, certainly none requiring critical taste, in the buying and selling of ***** weedy poetry commercial savants, organized by topic, available for purchase love, depressing, rants and whines, discounts for pre-owned anti boyfriend rhymes in his day, they say, Whitman partook, ferried up from his Brooklyn nook, William Carlos Williams too, from New Jersey came, better to understand the most common patois they'll do custom stuff, the suppliers, mix and blend  all kinds of **** their database exponential, give them the requisite hashtags, and within it, in it, thirty minutes, no more, they'll requisition, providing an acquisition - you'll get your name-your-own-hash, Freedom to entitle your own ***** weedy poetry or you could grow you own on the window sill in the earth of your discarded despair
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Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
on quiet Manhattan street corners, in two's and three's
They don’t want what they say They don’t say want they want They play their games They’re dating savants I’m looking for love, could I be the only one? Butterflies and goosebumps And thousands of hugs If true love exists, please let me know I’m running out of faith Should I just let the dream go?
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Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Does Love Exist
Learn to walk with cotton savants Or lend them all that moonstruck leer It's love- fissuring, surging, -blotting the lions and olive-skinned tiers. it doesn't need the faintest trace of us. and we couldn't be more lucky.
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Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
January 26th
168 If the foolish, call them “flowers“— Need the wiser, tell? If the Savants “Classify” them It is just as well! Those who read the “Revelations” Must not criticize Those who read the same Edition— With beclouded Eyes! Could we stand with that Old “Moses”— “Canaan” denied— Scan like him, the stately landscape On the other side— Doubtless, we should deem superfluous Many Sciences, Not pursued by learned Angels In scholastic skies! Low amid that glad Belles lettres Grant that we may stand, Stars, amid profound Galaxies— At that grand “Right hand”!
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If the foolish, call them “flowers“
Fiery Lady She is brighter than the sun Hotter 'cause she knows what she wants Don't need men to get things done 'Cause fiery ladies are savants. Try to harass her She'll spit back flame Call her a slur She'll leave you with shame No one can invade her Without being scorched She will never deter 'Cause she's a Fiery Lady (woo hoo) Queen of the world Gonna show it a thing or two Fiery Lady (woo hoo) With hair straight or curled She knows there's nothin' she can't do Fiery Lady (Fiery) Fiery Lady (Lady) Fiery Lady (Fiery) Fiery lady (Lady) Magazines tryin' to fool girls (fool girls), Tellin' 'em to change who they are. Songs tryin' to exploit girls (exploit girls) Pitying them cause they think scars mar. But wounds are tales Of fiery ladies; Their trials, their trails, Tests from Hades But ladies don't care, They always dare, And each one's a Fiery Lady (woo hoo) Queen of the World Gonna show it a thing or two Fiery Lady (woo hoo) With hair straight or curled She knows there's nothin' she can't do Fiery Lady (Fiery) Fiery Lady (Lady) Fiery Lady (Fiery) Fiery lady (Lady) Woah-oh-oh Fiery Lady (woo hoo) Queen of the World Gonna show it a thing or two Fiery Lady (woo hoo) With hair straight or curled She knows there's nothin' she can't do Fiery Lady (woo hoo) Queen of the World Gonna show it a thing or two Fiery Lady (woo hoo) With hair straight or curled She knows there's nothin' she can't do Fiery Lady Fiery Lady
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Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 11:16 PM UTC
Fiery Lady
Cast a glance to the comet up high with a name sounding awkward and dry (in the stellar marquee it's marked 'six-seven-P') and a motion that's hard to descry. As the comet continues to fly, caught in gravity none can defy (yes, it traces ellipses through solar eclipses), we ask 'does dark matter comply'. So, we sent the Rosetta to pry and I can't help but wondering why (once in orbit) we spun it so close to the sun, it is likely to sizzle and fry… But before, we may soon verify that the comet's a custard cream pie made of green cheddar cheese, like the moon, if you please (though that's gospel the savants deny). When receivers no longer reply (at the end of their solar supply), we won't seek to debug 'em, instead we'll we unplug 'em and turn off our spy in the sky. If it's certain Rosetta will die then, oh lordy, I surely will cry if we land it like Philae behind the sun, shyly, before I can whisper goodbye.
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Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
The Probe 3
together we sit and scan through pages searching for knowledge of savants and sages apart by wires and  spaces deemed cyber together in some places besotted by  desires for that which you seek and that which you share your hasty interests  may lead you to stare into the abyss of the nets'  unending the maelstroms vortex you'll soon be winding going ye here and going ye there hopeful your meanderings shall leave you fair for within some sites there's the inveigle snare ultimately constructed to leave you bare go wittingly into the all- electric  fray some sensitive toes you'll invariably  belay don't fret over words harmlessly mislaid to err is only human, short-circuits  allayed
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Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
A prosodic ode to WWW, an episodic paean
Supine, I sonder... all syzygies and cromulent salons. Stalking inlets, outbound.... surrounding swathes of simpletons and awkward savants. Sublime, I bombinate blithely... babbling oblique begonias - abloom... beyond barbarous gardens. I tune my loom to weave a wondrous garland - the envy of every Harvest Moon eclipsed... [ and beg no pardon ] As The Aurora of our angular momentum aptly allude to our diluvian droughts. boundlessly departed from all dominion... Like - a dessicated deluge dormant at the heart of an epibenthic pearl of dew. I slake my thirst at the First Well... desolate of mirth. yet ever at peace. contiguous in the extreme. Supine, i sonder.... stitching my brother's shadow to the heel of my odyssey. My Wilderness complete... when I go missing. [ where i oughta be ]
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May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 12:02 AM UTC
Supine, I Sonder...
Bored poets write ennui Sad poets psalms Bad poets penning's Are made into songs Silly poets write limericks And limericks they read Drunk poets write scribbles Drunk on their mead Angry young men Write rants by the hour Wide-eyed young girls write Of bunnies and flowers Idiots write nonsense Off the seat of their pants, Got news for you, scoffers! So do savants! Gays write of rainbows Saints of sonnets of old, Storytellers write pirate plunder and gold. Broken poets write humbly Strong writes unadorned, Happy write of roses  Bleeding poets of thorns. Soul Survivor aka Write of Passage aka Invisible inc
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Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
You are what you write
Where were you When the rope snapped Predicate your excuses The vernacular dichotomies of savants and fools These love lessons comparative to Step dancing in a mine field These guerilla tactics of yours Are lamentable My neck already broken By the force of your linguistic blows Etymologically patterned for adoration Love theory wasted on your lap Sanctuary for kittens and babies I bear the distinction derived from years Of practicable nonchalance The inflectional brutality Of casual words Spat out barbs of cyanide We could have ..... forever But I gave you my soul Now the best of me is wasted space Asphyxiated by the torque of adrenalin and ****** frustration There is nothing left for you here Pick up your paper chains And wander home… 121209. TL Boehm
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Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
Where Were You?
My mouth stands strong. Ribbon of drool match those in reflection. My accolade full circle, royal undertow. Vellicating in dishonourable mysticism. Moving here & there. Moving water, wine & a wisdom separating love from the ore. Learning where musical savants & initiates dim the lights. Inspectors test restraints, narrowing memory. Now forgotten. Wake up, remove hairs sprinkled in hidden testimonial. Misgivings in this shellacked house of homes. Intellection. Ascending, bending bones. Fissured left-behinds. To purify all your thoughts. Resisting universal locomote. Heels in foreign grease. Bare soles departed. Movings of brilliantly painted soil. Telephones relate & relay the balmy decisions you are making.
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Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
Electra Complex & Libreta.
Oui, si j'étais femme, aimable et jolie, Je voudrais, Julie, Faire comme vous ; Sans peur ni pitié, sans choix ni mystère, A toute la terre Faire les yeux doux. Je voudrais n'avoir de soucis au monde Que ma taille ronde, Mes chiffons chéris, Et de pied en cap être la poupée La mieux équipée De Rome à Paris. Je voudrais garder pour toute science Cette insouciance Qui vous va si bien ; Joindre, comme vous, à l'étourderie Cette rêverie Qui ne pense à rien. Je voudrais pour moi qu'il fût toujours fête, Et tourner la tête, Aux plus orgueilleux ; Être en même temps de glace et de flamme, La haine dans l'âme, L'amour dans les yeux. Je détesterais, avant toute chose, Ces vieux teints de rose Qui font peur à voir. Je rayonnerais, sous ma tresse brune, Comme un clair de lune En capuchon noir. Car c'est si charmant et c'est si commode, Ce masque à la mode, Cet air de langueur ! Ah ! que la pâleur est d'un bel usage ! Jamais le visage N'est trop **** du coeur. Je voudrais encore avoir vos caprices, Vos soupirs novices, Vos regards savants. Je voudrais enfin, tant mon coeur vous aime, Être en tout vous-même... Pour deux ou trois ans. Il est un seul point, je vous le confesse, Où votre sagesse Me semble en défaut. Vous n'osez pas être assez inhumaine. Votre orgueil vous gêne ; Pourtant il en faut. Je ne voudrais pas, à la contredanse, Sans quelque prudence Livrer mon bras nu ; Puis, au cotillon, laisser ma main blanche Traîner sur la manche Du premier venu. Si mon fin corset, si souple et si juste, D'un bras trop robuste Se sentait serré, J'aurais, je l'avoue, une peur mortelle Qu'un bout de dentelle N'en fût déchiré. Chacun, en valsant, vient sur votre épaule Réciter son rôle D'amoureux transi ; Ma beauté, du moins, sinon ma pensée, Serait offensée D'être aimée ainsi. Je ne voudrais pas, si j'étais Julie, N'être que jolie Avec ma beauté. Jusqu'au bout des doigts je serais duchesse. Comme ma richesse, J'aurais ma fierté. Voyez-vous, ma chère, au siècle où nous sommes, La plupart des hommes Sont très inconstants. Sur deux amoureux pleins d'un zèle extrême, La moitié vous aime Pour passer le temps. Quand on est coquette, il faut être sage. L'oiseau de passage Qui vole à plein coeur Ne dort pas en l'air comme une hirondelle, Et peut, d'un coup d'aile, Briser une fleur.
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Conseils à une parisienne
Oui, si j'étais femme, aimable et jolie, Je voudrais, Julie, Faire comme vous ; Sans peur ni pitié, sans choix ni mystère, A toute la terre Faire les yeux doux. Je voudrais n'avoir de soucis au monde Que ma taille ronde, Mes chiffons chéris, Et de pied en cap être la poupée La mieux équipée De Rome à Paris. Je voudrais garder pour toute science Cette insouciance Qui vous va si bien ; Joindre, comme vous, à l'étourderie Cette rêverie Qui ne pense à rien. Je voudrais pour moi qu'il fût toujours fête, Et tourner la tête, Aux plus orgueilleux ; Être en même temps de glace et de flamme, La haine dans l'âme, L'amour dans les yeux. Je détesterais, avant toute chose, Ces vieux teints de rose Qui font peur à voir. Je rayonnerais, sous ma tresse brune, Comme un clair de lune En capuchon noir. Car c'est si charmant et c'est si commode, Ce masque à la mode, Cet air de langueur ! Ah ! que la pâleur est d'un bel usage ! Jamais le visage N'est trop **** du coeur. Je voudrais encore avoir vos caprices, Vos soupirs novices, Vos regards savants. Je voudrais enfin, tant mon coeur vous aime, Être en tout vous-même... Pour deux ou trois ans. Il est un seul point, je vous le confesse, Où votre sagesse Me semble en défaut. Vous n'osez pas être assez inhumaine. Votre orgueil vous gêne ; Pourtant il en faut. Je ne voudrais pas, à la contredanse, Sans quelque prudence Livrer mon bras nu ; Puis, au cotillon, laisser ma main blanche Traîner sur la manche Du premier venu. Si mon fin corset, si souple et si juste, D'un bras trop robuste Se sentait serré, J'aurais, je l'avoue, une peur mortelle Qu'un bout de dentelle N'en fût déchiré. Chacun, en valsant, vient sur votre épaule Réciter son rôle D'amoureux transi ; Ma beauté, du moins, sinon ma pensée, Serait offensée D'être aimée ainsi. Je ne voudrais pas, si j'étais Julie, N'être que jolie Avec ma beauté. Jusqu'au bout des doigts je serais duchesse. Comme ma richesse, J'aurais ma fierté. Voyez-vous, ma chère, au siècle où nous sommes, La plupart des hommes Sont très inconstants. Sur deux amoureux pleins d'un zèle extrême, La moitié vous aime Pour passer le temps. Quand on est coquette, il faut être sage. L'oiseau de passage Qui vole à plein coeur Ne dort pas en l'air comme une hirondelle, Et peut, d'un coup d'aile, Briser une fleur.
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It’s that my bedroom walls Are two cupped hands, clammy And cradling, how it feels inside Of a sliced fish, pink sometimes Too, like the gums lining eyes Under a Spring sun But they’re painted green, The green of spotty mold florets And planks with split ends Shine like ironed dyed auburn hair Molded in a cheap wax, That never melts, Though the desk lamp cheaply Spotlights the thumbtacked Rubric by the impotent light switch And makes the doorknob warm By association, it’s nice and still So that I stay in here, developing Absorbing phrases like “the Activation of relational defenses” Or ornamental gems from The despondent Russian savants, Even things that may be useless (How to Clean Everything is turned, binding back, bristles out, beneath Popular Card Games, and I don’t Own a deck of cards) that I still Open and snack on in times Of disorientation, and to go out Would crumple the whole, delicate Cocoon, the paper cloister, the Draft that wafts around my hard and Numb toes would escape And I’d dry up like a defunct worm
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Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC
Why I Don't Leave my Bedroom
I cross the bridge to nowhere, in the cold, in my underwear Intense winds push me to edges, where I contemplate ledges Looking down, spirits swim and stare; icy waters are their lair I levitate and meditate; medicate with mental dredges Such mundane nonchalance; my bridge leads to idiot savants I would be crowned their King, kindred soul of unsound meditations We've left our lost souls unburied, unhurried to right the carriage Take a deep breath of the ether of dregs and suppurations Take the one whom you love, not in marriage, in ************ On the bridge, I pass a young ponce and hear echoes of "Bon Chance!" Purple rags greet me at the gate, royal flags of highest distinction Winking my eye, scratching my head, the dead are now forgotten Deep in my pit, so deep I forget, a pang of extinction In my palace of darkness, no light will shine on the rotten In the court of fools, coarse avowals can't be washed by the fonts So lines are drawn by idiot courtiers and indigent warriors Cities with no regret or sorrow, tomorrow trampled to tatters Through smoke and burnt flesh we ***** we hope to soothe the worriers We are all Babylonians, babbling on as if nothing matters The bridges to nowhere we cross, we cross bridges to Babylons
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Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 1:05 AM UTC
Into Babylon
Where is she, in her impeccable timing and charm? She's gone to roam the Earth, And all its great civilizations left to conquer. She'll sing at the throne to become Empress of African empires And keep me waiting. It's shameful to think about the stuff I've cried over recently, and the things I saw of her while intoxicated, Her beautiful face and the words of a woman who'd grown both petty and sad. It sounds familiar. It makes me want you more. /// Is 1:30 too early to get ****** up? I have nothing better to do. Where have you gone, And have you lost the plot on your journey from Cumberland River to Puget Sound? I hear you're the Queen of Seattle. I hear Eastern Kentucky has a long history of intoxication, Blessed with unbelievable quantities of prodigies and savants. Shouldn't it be a sign that they all leave?
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Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC
The Flower Queen of Seattle.
IN DREAM I LAY . I just wish to heaven to grant me one dream . even though all about me is but lean . i want to be with you when all thing past away . dream for you as much as my heart sway . tangled in disaster but hobbled with one harkening . live your dream even my procession seems no meaning . dream of kings upon heaven of glorious story . but i have no courage , i have no power ,hope you be laudatory. dreams ,so many swept and washed over my face with a mark. the bloom and gloom , and all but with you i wish one remark. i hope you be the witness of my bleeding heart that will see sun , through your smile . maybe you cant be mine ,grandeur aloft when my throne is vile but if you once dreamed of love , im beggar fighting against the the door of nightmare . it means nothing when i pain , when i bleed but all bad i mar . im beggar at your door but for Sapphira or gold i refrain . only , with the dream of your heart i do sustain. i just wish to be in your arms when all thing past in dream . slumber with you though we are hasten with disaster and lame even if your tongue is the most venomous kiss . let me sip it till and lay in forever dream abyss . i know kings , servants , fame , savants , beggars thither reside. but i fain be there , cause in love i perish and in its dream i ride . oh what a dream to feel love with you . and praise to lay in forever dream in your arms to see anew .
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Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 2:54 AM UTC
IN DREAM I LAY .
I am the monarch of my tea -- which I drink at ten-past-three -- Whose praise Great Britain loudly chants, As they lose themselves in caffein'd trance, As they lose themselves in caffein'd trance, (Of Loose Leafed Tea that's sourced in Ceylon,) And clap their batons, in breeches and ribbons, in a dance! When the amber brew is spied, My ***** swells with pride, And I snap my fingers in the tea-house haunt, In the estaminets and the restaurant, In the estaminets and the restaurant, (Of Loose Leafed Tea that's sourced in Ceylon,) To get my quota, of ice-tea soda, as my want! But when the brew is cold, I generally arms mine fold, And seek my rights with an English rant! And demand my due of this G-d-blest plant And demand my due of this G-d-blest plant (Of Loose Leafed Tea that's sourced in Ceylon,) of hot English tea, with milk 'n honey, to decant! Alternative: I am the monarch of my tea -- which I drink at ten-past-three -- Whose praise Great Britain loudly chants, And so do its critics and its pundits and savants! And so do its critics and its pundits and savants! Its critics and its pundits, especially its pundits, and savants! When the amber brew is spied, My ***** swells with pride, And I snap my fingers in the tea-house haunts, And so do its critics and its pundits and savants! And so do its critics and its pundits and savants! Its critics and its pundits, especially its pundits, and savants! But when the brew is cold, I generally arms mine fold, And seek my rights with an English rant! And so do its critics and its pundits and savants! And so do its critics and its pundits and savants! Its critics and its pundits [some of whom are bandits], and savants!
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May 24, 2021
May 24, 2021 at 6:59 AM UTC
English Tea (Parody)
I am the monarch of my tea -- which I drink at ten-past-three -- Whose praise Great Britain loudly chants, As they lose themselves in caffein'd trance, As they lose themselves in caffein'd trance, (Of Loose Leafed Tea that's sourced in Ceylon,) And clap their batons, in breeches and ribbons, in a dance! When the amber brew is spied, My ***** swells with pride, And I snap my fingers in the tea-house haunt, In the estaminets and the restaurant, In the estaminets and the restaurant, (Of Loose Leafed Tea that's sourced in Ceylon,) To get my quota, of ice-tea soda, as my want! But when the brew is cold, I generally arms mine fold, And seek my rights with an English rant! And demand my due of this G-d-blest plant And demand my due of this G-d-blest plant (Of Loose Leafed Tea that's sourced in Ceylon,) of hot English tea, with milk 'n honey, to decant! Alternative: I am the monarch of my tea -- which I drink at ten-past-three -- Whose praise Great Britain loudly chants, And so do its critics and its pundits and savants! And so do its critics and its pundits and savants! Its critics and its pundits, especially its pundits, and savants! When the amber brew is spied, My ***** swells with pride, And I snap my fingers in the tea-house haunts, And so do its critics and its pundits and savants! And so do its critics and its pundits and savants! Its critics and its pundits, especially its pundits, and savants! But when the brew is cold, I generally arms mine fold, And seek my rights with an English rant! And so do its critics and its pundits and savants! And so do its critics and its pundits and savants! Its critics and its pundits [some of whom are bandits], and savants!
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I have winnowed words from red earth Birthed mad poetry in silence Rumbled under sullen skies Cast my cries to the birds of the air The cadence of mind Blind expectations Venerations The ache of angels and soliloquied Mantras of savants and idol fools I’ve plated my thoughts with bits of Sugared glaze to coat the rendered Offering dolloped in the sickened Fawning My voracious ego tasteless Vinegar on the palette The sweat of my brow spat out In a shallow glass The circumstance of banality Nothing more than the dull ache At the base of your spine You dismiss me by degrees Inconsistencies Secrets grow fangs and Spider themselves webbed Close to the bone Crunched underfoot Weary words spin in the thin air Senseless surrendered chattel Trace my petty dreams in the dust Of the space between You and me and we Will never grasp the significance Of a blade of grass Or the depthless black ocean Where your terrors luminesce On the cusp of a pirate moon You breathe the algorithms Temporal And I have lost my taloned grip On your poet soul TL Boehm 04/2013
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Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
Soliloquy
Minos, ne pouvant plus suffire Au fatigant métier d'entendre et de juger Chaque ombre descendue au ténébreux empire, Imagina, pour abréger, De faire faire une balance Où dans l'un des bassins il mettait à la fois Cinq ou six morts, dans l'autre un certain poids Qui déterminait la sentence. Si le poids s'élevait, alors plus à loisir Minos examinait l'affaire ; Si le poids baissait au contraire, Sans scrupule il faisait punir. La méthode était sûre, expéditive et claire ; Minos s'en trouvait bien. Un jour, en même temps, Au bord du Styx la mort rassemble Deux rois, un grand ministre, un héros, trois savants. Minos les fait peser ensemble. Le poids s'élève, il en met deux, Et puis trois, c'est en vain ; quatre ne font pas mieux. Minos, un peu surpris, ôte de la balance Ces inutiles poids, cherche un autre moyen ; Et, près de là voyant un pauvre homme de bien Qui dans un coin obscur attendait en silence, Il le met seul en contrepoids : Les six ombres alors s'élèvent à la fois.
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467
La balance de Minos
We, O Yes we stuck together in a time A time of our needy voices shattered not to brake, less we find our Bloom. How we became one another, another one over one Timeless time left as we Savants were Devoured. We, Ancient and Misinterpreted   Left not gone as in, has our voyage forgotten? O saving grace of shining lights. You Constantly position Guidance of Art structured against a self embodied frame Yet Time set's upon us so aimlessly breaching its uniformity Aside a long lost gem. His mind, too relevant throughout a fixture immaculately irrelevant, Gone with identical rhythmic violations confining thy universal equation of all living life into a painting, this particle of ye O lord. Doth me wise in finding a will to have endless appeal with thee. To find with utmost certainty fixation on thee shall parallel the birth of a new age with inside one who rules all of who is now what is his self. Take me O Lord or can God save the king?
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Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
Take me o Lord
I am lunatic, My life's not static, Like most of us are, I'm just above par, In the league of savants, With imaginary havens, Wake up in the afternoon, From my delusional honeymoon.
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Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 5:13 AM UTC
Delusional HoneyMoon
I’m afraid yet amazed by the stain of your grace and the bittersweet taste it has left on my brain of distasteful disdain But if all life is suffering am I right to feel strife, when my heart can’t depart that which has haunted my nights with the stark darkness of life? That knowledge alone can only be known by the savants of the Road after finding a home where only the lonely can go But the common truth thats now grown alongside wisdoms new throne; is if you can’t bury the hatchet You must exhume the casket for the dead are only as dead as the ghosts within your head
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Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 1:51 PM UTC
The stain of your grace