"scap" poems
Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw—
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no on like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!
Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!
He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair—
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!
And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it’s useless of investigate—Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
“It must have been Macavity!”—but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macacity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
5k
On my First Son
By Ben Jonson
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.
Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage,
And if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, "Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry."
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
I long to be sat in summers youth, that feels as crisp as my pages.
I am always sat on my empty bookself.
A one of a kind, first edition, tragedy.
My authors working on projects much more important than I.
Chapter 1:
summarises the bliss of fresh flesh, unmarked, unripped, ungrammatical because nothing ever mattered.
By my final chapter I had lost my friends, abandoning all hope I lost everything, as my protagonist writhes in agony from heartbreaks that are as fresh as when they began.
On my bookself, dust collects by my blurb (which is only half unwritten), I cannot move though my spine is unbroken.
Half of my contents, speak of brighter times.
Times of infactuations appearing in spring.
Times where playing in the streets was an everyday thing.
Times of scraped knees, bruised arms and hair which was once neatly plaited turned into tendrils spiraling out of control.
Times of being called in for tea.
Being told to remember suncream otherwise your baby doll face will turn to a shrimp.
Times where the nettles sting would be sweeter than the honey of a bee.
As every day closes each chapter, I know they will continue while I stay stuck in my days. Just a scap of literature upon a shelf with no map nor compass. I sit on my shelf and come 5:43 every evening, I watch. The streetlights flicker on and illuminate brighter every second.
I remember.
A happier time.
Before I was written.
Before my pages became tattered and torn.
Once again, I long to be sat in summers youth, that feels as crisp as my pages
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
I am a blankhead writer. I wrote a nonsense poem. I write a pointless prose. I used to sell my 1000 words of claptrap for a one dollar bill to the low market publishers in town for a hopeless living. I used to walk on the busy street of Metropolis looking for job-flyers. I was scammed, robbed, snatched and been kidnapped. I even been tortured to death but managed to survive. I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. I dreamt to be a famous author in town. I imagined my scap works on the best seller bookstands in the corner of the bookstores. I tried to call myself brilliant despite of my incapabilities---mind incapabilities to be exact. I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. Like how I used to be. I wrote a nonsense poem. I write a pointless prose. I usually forget the goals along the way. I always choose raw emotions over witty decisions. I always make a plan for everything and give up. I let every little opportunity slides on my hand. I wonder how I called myself a writer. Maybe because, I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. Alive but barely living. Trying to keep up on everything that was left behind. Dreaming but can’t find the urge catching up. Losing tracks continually. Lost determination, inspiration, everything to keep myself moving. Yes, I was indeed a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writter. I loved and been loved. I leave and was left behind. Was hurt just how every human named it. I cried, so hard that I even want to **** my eyes out from it’s socket. I starved just how the poor lost child felt along the busy street. I fought and I lose. I have been bewitched and have never been reclaimed. I am a blankhead writer.
I am the blankhead writer. Yes, its me. . I wrote this nonsense poem. I wrote the pointless prose. I know nothing but breathing. I never fought for the right nor speak for the good. I never look in the eyes of those old weak men I met in the road. I am afraid and scared. I am heartless and brainless. I have nothing but dead conscience. I have ... I have nothing because – I am the blankhead writer.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC
Îmi deschid gura și e fum
De parcă winston m-ar fi luat și câștigat
Ca pe un trofeu.
Cancer deraiat de eu.
Ciuda zbiară.
Înghite ca o termită toată camera asta din lemn răstignită în casă-goală
Roade păr, unghii, gânduri, șoapte
Speranțe.
Deșarte.
Împletite în părul unei alte eu.
Una ce nu e răzbunătoare.
Una rămasă copil stingher pe o strada de București mai puțin tulburătoare.
Dumbrava Nouă portal spre Strada Bîrca numărul 15,
O mișcare, 7 fețe.
Ilinca minte, Ilinca doare, Ilinca crește, Ilinca ucigătoare.
Ce mârşav gând, să scap de mine.
Mă holbez la oameni poate uit și revine
Viața într-un moment maniacal al zilei.
Un spate îndoit, un umăr întins pentru tine
Să-l mângâi, să-l fărâmi în palme
*** dorești.
Eu ard dar am răbdare.
Să pier ca cerul dimineții în favoarea verii.
Rupt din soare.
Jan 6, 2022
Jan 6, 2022 at 2:39 AM UTC
Îmi alunecă ochii în gură
Nu mai contează câte ore am dormit.
Mă uit în oglindă și știu că mă-njură,
Zilele dinaintea mea deja au trecut până am clipit.
Și urlă viața după mine:
"Ce-ai făcut cu mine curvo ?"
*** face orice orgoliu cu sine.
"mi-am futut o zi întreagă pentru o amintire redată la viteza disperării turbo"
Vorbesc cu moartea în fiecare seară și îi spun că nu știu ce vreau mai mult *** viață sau să scap de oboseală.
Îmi spune sexul e o iluzie la fel ca viața
Și oboseala stă doar cât e lăsată.
Ce viață deraiată!
Nu-ți lași ochii să se închidă dacă ai fost prea onestă.
Și dacă dormi, te trezești cu regret cusut în țeastă.
Eu nu răspund
Eu nu vorbesc
Eu nu stau la rând
Eu nu știu să mă feresc
Și totuși încă trăiesc.
Mama a zis că ceața e a lui Bacovia
Eu cred că nu știe nimic despre ea.
Nu așa funcționează lumea.
Tata a zis că mi-am ales soarta
Mi-am negat fericirea și viața
Că mi-am tăiat șansele pentru alta.
Eu mi-am propus să nu mai văd
Să nu mă mai las urmărită
Coruptă de ură, oamenii se lipesc când eu vreau să dispar din orbită.
Vreau să fiu într-adevăr uitată.
Nu-mi permit să fiu iubită
Nu-mi permit alt suflet în purgatoriu.
Sep 5, 2021
Sep 5, 2021 at 3:11 PM UTC