"scion" poems
1298
The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants—
At Evening, it is not—
At Morning, in a Truffled Hut
It stop upon a Spot
As if it tarried always
And yet its whole Career
Is shorter than a Snake’s Delay
And fleeter than a Tare—
’Tis Vegetation’s Juggler—
The Germ of Alibi—
Doth like a Bubble antedate
And like a Bubble, hie—
I feel as if the Grass was pleased
To have it intermit—
This surreptitious scion
Of Summer’s circumspect.
Had Nature any supple Face
Or could she one contemn—
Had Nature an Apostate—
That Mushroom—it is Him!
7.5k
Little Box talks back
With a new set of teeth
And pink gums
A fake nose and a wax mustache
She disguises her voice
To sound like Groucho
•
Little Box opens up
And cries to her psychiatrist
I don’t know why they hate me
I’m such a sweetheart
I volunteer at the zoo
And teach Mandarin
To their bratty children
•
Little Box is not happy to see you
So she closes herself up for months
Years, decades, and two millennia!
She tacks up a sign that says
Nirvana
•
Little Box is undead
She sleeps all day in a coffin
Hands over chest
At night she cruises the mall
For juicy victims
She prefers type A
But AB if she has to
What can you say
Vampires can’t be choosy
She likes your stupid brother
•
Little Box is on the psychiatry couch
Everybody hates me
Nobody loves me
Little Box lies on her side
And spills her guts
•
What’s in Little Box
A perfect orchid
A chocolate-covered strawberry
A new iPhone
With a glittery sleeve
Amber earrings from Pushkin
Keys to a new Porsche
A retro Chanel brooch
A Getty scion’s left ear
A Czar’s *****
Gifts so rare
Please don’t stare
•
What’s in Little Box
Rancid chow mein
A sliver of cold pizza
Last week’s hummus
You’re a starving orphan
From East Brooklyn
And you’ll eat it
•
So you want to **** Little Box
You want to know her secret
She won’t open up
She won’t give it up
And you are genuinely repelled
By her filthy ribbon
•
You want to DO the Little Box
You are a sorry story
You big creep
Why don’t you get off the couch and find
A real girlfriend!
•
Boss Box
White, square, and without a soul!
•
Please don’t analyze Little Box
She’s just cardboard clogging the landfill
Her mother Precious Jade Purse
Has been regifted
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings
When far away upon a barbarous strand,
In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,
Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!
Poor boy! thou shalt not flaunt thy cloak of red,
Or ride in state through Paris in the van
Of thy returning legions, but instead
Thy mother France, free and republican,
Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place
The better laurels of a soldier’s crown,
That not dishonoured should thy soul go down
To tell the mighty Sire of thy race
That France hath kissed the mouth of Liberty,
And found it sweeter than his honied bees,
And that the giant wave Democracy
Breaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease.
2.8k
He itemized his medical bills,
Maxed retirement deductions.
He's given cash to charities
and Democratic functions.
This scion of the one percent
knows its his cash they're after.
Manipulating tax returns
will keep him the last laugher.
A death this year is profitable
before tax cuts expire.
While he'll probably miss his parents
Still he set their house on fire.
He hates to see the old place go
but still he watched it burn
while thinking of deductions
for the Estate tax return.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
I see you in the storm
Of rain lashed eyes,
I feel you in the wind
And tumultuous tides.
I see you in the fire
Splendid tendrils of desire,
I hear you in the songs
Of solemn, mournful choirs.
I found you in the stars
Sat upon the shoulders of Orion.
I found you in the shadows
Another lonesome scion.
I found you in the fall,
Leaves encaptured and enthralled.
The weight of an oceans promise,
The allure of waters call.
Yet for all our senses we couldn't see
The sense of foreboding melancholy.
That which was found in the depths of the sea
You found it all,
All except for me.
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC
Grab the tools
Load the truck
Don't forget lunch
Off to work we go
Bending still
Building castles
Milking the livestock
Proud men doing MAN's work
Grab the bag and Tablet
Load the Scion Xb
Don't forget lunch
Off to work I go
Bending minds
Building futures
Milking young minds
Proud man doing human's work
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 9:31 PM UTC
I want to be Paganini
I want to be Alexander the Great
But I'm only Pagliacci
A Faustian soul in sorrow and hate
And this is not a surrender
I will never stop fighting this war til I die
But passion is burning my heart to embers
Smiling wide hides the chaos inside
Aimed for the stars
Just to crash upon the moon
And reconstruct my broken pieces
From the ashes of my doom
I am reborn through death and madness
Scion of Nihilistic Sin
In my wake, I leave a trail of sadness
Soon all will hide inside THE GRIN
Choirs of Damnation!
Your Maestro has arrived at last!
Majestic Orchestration,
Barking dogs and shotgun blasts
The sound of frenzied feet as they pound the city streets
It's a symphony of victory against the riot police
Fear me, heroes
For I am near thee
Come one, come all
Hear ye, hear ye
The Jester dances on your Graves
the Joker wears the Crown
And the man who has the final laugh
At last will be the Clown
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 8:05 AM 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
The Siren's song swimming into my ears,
sweetly against the harsh instrumental.
The angelic vocals flood all who hear;
a love of a melody so gentle.
Hair long and dark as the lyrics she sings,
eyes a bold green and skin a soft, pale tone.
A Goddess of elegance beauty brings,
whose talent does her no justice alone.
But nurture does as it will always do:
A son born from such grandeur; a Lion.
The immaculate voice is all but through;
A respite of lull sulks from the scion.
The achievements of song left in her wake;
I'll wait evermore, as long as it takes.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
I tremble from the stare you place becoming listless I'm collapsing
The allure of seemingly immortal eyes
like an ambrosia descendant from grand heavens
A miracle amulet coquette being elysian and unbeknownst
You speak vibrant optimistic
I adore you
A scion from the gods
The solipsism in my dimension
This desire motif mediates
Behind pages eluding my mind
Like a germinating flower blossoming in grounds of my soul creating lovely harmony
Alas
The dreams of her never ends
A sempiternal idea of holding you in eternitys concepts of white pearly beyond semantics
A message inheritly received though my life
Passing improvised dreams during midnight
Your champagne-esque brown eyed woman glissens with light skin strikes me drunken
A beacon in the night
Your my light house over seas
When the dream breathes
Sometimes our hands meet
Then time freezes
As your flesh
More delicate than dandelions
Cleaner than spring water from the gods garden
A voice from jehovahs procreation
Jasmin
the proof of intelligent designs
dazzle me silly beautiful alone in dreams
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
What automobile do you drive?
Is it an old Scion XB?
It's economically sound.
It looks like a toaster on wheels.
The most important question is
What automobile do you drive?
It is better than DNA
To reveal who you truly are.
Do you drive a Mustang so fast
That you can't see us broken-down?
What automobile do you drive?
Some people sure could use a lift.
Does your car cost more than a house?
You splash mud on starving faces.
Cars aren't the "be all to end all."
What automobile do you drive?
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
A filthy rich Russian kid named Anna,
an oligarch's scion, searching for manna,
she struts around in a skimpy dress,
doting dad's private jet, is her address,
On earth, vrooming sports cars gives her Nirvana
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
I feel unlike everyone else
But I know I'm not the only one walking trough hell.
I guess I; need an angel, or maybe a demon.
It really just depends which one I'm feed'en.
And I have them both standing on my shoulders. One giving me orders. The other is my soilder. And they both talking about my disorders. But I ignore them and blow them off like mortars. So I guess I need to find that shoulder to cry on, the one to rely on. I wouldn't care if she drove an ion or a scion. But she knows that I'm keeping my eye on her. But its really just a fight of surviver. But really its the insider myself the fight through hell. Is there anyone else?
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
Ah, young Sir, most elegant young scion
of a noble family of our Great City -
how well you play even these games
as cards and board games
with such composure, calm and dignity
that we of the lower classes
can never muster
and with what generosity of spirit
young Sir
what dignity and skill
even as you deign to play cards with us,
such ordinary folks, such untutored people like us…
but honest we are, young Sir,
and so in your wisdom and learning you have seen
and so you have chosen to come in our midst
and to play with us…
so you no doubt wish to know the world
so that you may have such wisdom as when one day
you move even deeper in court circles
and in the halls of power
as no doubt by the signs on your face and in your manner
young Sir
you are destined to do so…
ah Sir, how well you consider your moves…
…forgive me for talking, it is my admiration for you
that makes me talk…I shall be quiet the while
as you pause to make your next move…
…ah, Sir – such gravity and poise you have...
and such deep meditation you make
before every card move…
it is a dignity and insight, most noble young Sir
you have no doubt acquired
in the great schools, and from your most learned tutors
no doubt such wisdom as you have acquired
in all your studies
as noble youth like you are privileged to…
not like us poor street urchins
and common people of the street
in our ignorance, in our pettiness…
but still, Sir – we are honest people, you will find
and perhaps one day, young Sir,
you shall speak for us in those halls of power
in which you shall shine –
perhaps then you will speak for us ordinary folks
how though common and plain, yet most honest you found us…
play on, young Sir, play on….consider your moves
and hold your cards close to your ***** indeed…
indeed…indeed…I shall be quiet…so you can
deliberate and apprehend your every move…
but honest ordinary friends of yours we are, young Sir…
always we remain your honest friends
of the taverns and streets…
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 7:46 PM UTC
The catiff faces flashes of flame-colored streaks within an effluvium of a Chinese-red aura;
Alabaster feet descend into a lucent, moist,sensuous terra cotta of an ancient Acoma clay;
The inner sanctum is torn asunder,a convulsive maelstrom gyrating in a vertiginous gale;
Formerly coherent chambers designed neatly to fit the one and only size reclines in ruins;
The newly anointed vagabond shivers, bones radiate,an icy hell,skin shredded to the soul;
A flood-tide rolls through the wanderer's field of vision ,as it provokes a foreboding terror;
Total disintegration of the rover's den fails to obscure the scion's bent and battered corpse;
Thoroughly shattered, the frenzied creature discerns a well-tapered icicle dangling above;
A stray bat swoops out of the decay as the deadly and frozen blade raised in anticipation;
Plunged into the sternum as she screams at the sight of the cold, lifeless body of her lover!
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 8:35 AM UTC
Scion child of the house,
Gentle, kind and gay,
He makes me smile all day,
With joy impossible to douse.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
Plays are good acting
It's just the bridge
Where moonlight suffices
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 3:44 PM UTC
i love my dad
you do not see it
but that's the way
it is
three hour van silences
are no longer
awkward
i am the scion of 4
that's never going to greet him
i know a child
scratches his belly from the inside
i'm in the house of mirrors
while everyone is eating
i see through the
teasing, the
shouting
mom shakes her head "no one
can ever talk to you"
i see
through
the
pain
my silence as a message:
67 years no longer let you
rush to climb the stairs
to embrace the plush worm
of colors: i do it for you
i do not greet you
but i dress a shirt
with the caption "DADS"
and a picture of us two.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 8:08 PM UTC
They swarm all around me, I've given up the count
Far too many to be seen, too many, to surmount
Its a mob mentality, a furious, greater fail
A serious abnormality, a ship, that cannot sail
Way too needy, a snowflake in the heat
not mentally that speedy, fast, or ever fleet
What can be said of scion's, what they dream of, while asleep
Strive to be a lion, struggle not to be a sheep
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 8:11 AM UTC
I think of you
The day is fresh
Little pockets in this new day
Got me hoping and praying
That you are always safe
Cause I know how fast you like to go
When your running late
In your tiny Scion
Everyday I pray and I hope
I don't know why I do
It's been that way since...
I met you.
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 3:47 AM UTC
Witness I have become to your nature of selfish hurt
Closing does my fist form towards your mind of dirt
Pain not only you contribute but plagues me from sight
Need more do I wish for justice to give you the smite
Being does it emphasize upon the soul of righteousness
Tempt me not for the enemy urge is the bringer of madness
Longer can I not endure your treacherous ego of none so clear
Dog you will be to this wolf for it will force upon you the sear
The ones you gave the hurt is the hurt of same forced upon me
For you are the deathly gas to wither my flowers of sweet
But withered will I not remain for your poison will you get the taste
Better to be the scared insect at first of my sight and flee post-haste
Or be the impala under fright from the chase by the enraged lion
A criminal sentenced to purgatory courtesy of the devil's scion
Such comparisons do I make for this boiling cauldron to equate
Your merciless strikes of lighting is the thunder to my hate
Caged can no longer resilience be the strength for this beast
Once this prison breaks with ill, serve you shall to my anger's feast
Should accomplished be the quest for your malicious blood
The knife will bathe in the very warmth of such a flood
Riddled you not be with words but by the sting of my bullet
Disguise may you hide as an angel but I am hell's curate
Light of false intend I arrange the force of disembark
Expose is the swimmer's blood to summon the evil shark
Declare I plant are the contagious seeds of a brutal war
Stained will be the land of your blood's entirety in store
Nightly psalm shall be the scream you suffer from my bite
Death is not the salvation, but it is the durability of my fight
Persecution will not be your past-time but your time of demise
Order must be the oar to surpass the river of chaos for the rise
The sky of blue shall red be the change from your blood of grunge
As your reign of evil before my deep breath will end by the plunge
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 8:02 PM UTC
The Non-Subliminal Criminal
High Priest of Hypocrisy
The Diplomat of Draft Dodgery
The Great Example of Paying Test-Takers
The Loudmouth of Wealthy Fakery
The Main Proof of Miseducation
The Nanocrat of Non-Payment
Potentate of ***********
Sultan of **** Patronage
The Grand Poobah of Poopoo
The Big Wheel of Blather
The Salesman of Bull-puckey
High Lama of Skullduggery
The Master Purveyor of Inaccuracies
The Pride of Misrepresentation
The Scion of Misdirection and Nepotism.
The Black Knight of Spite.
The Grand Lizard of Hate and Bigotry
The Fomenter of Torment.
The Master of Catastrophe
The Master of the Quick Disaster
The Worshipper of War by Proxy
The Lover of Lies and Liars
The Promiser of Pusillanimity
The Handmaiden of Bribery
The Worshipper of Massive Greed
The Purchaser of Fake News
The Dandy With Unseen Clothes.
The Undead Ghost of the Capitol
The Horrible Haunt of the Presidency
The Embodiment of Embarrassment.
The Shamelessness of Gross Shuckery.
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC
And he had said,
"Ladakh is a barren piece of land,
Let the Chinese have it,
Nothing grows over there,
And it's a useless piece of territory,
The lesser the liabilities for my government,
The better."
And the Chinese still sit in Aksai Chin,
That part he called barren,
It's our lost land that China usurped,
Yes, the expansionist China,
And how shamelessly he escaped his duty,
His responsibility to maintain the integrity,
Of our nation he ought've known the nitty-gritty.
But now we face an uphill task,
That Hindi-Cheeni Bhai-Bhai,
It's now a laughing stock,
Yes, sir, people laugh at it,
Albeit less than they do at your scion,
The same scion who has nil experience,
And simply a negative IQ, perhaps.
But that was just one of your mistakes, sir,
How can we forget your ambition to be the Prime,
Even at the cost of the national integrity,
You let them unleash a rein of terror,
Both the sides suffered civilian casualties,
Not just the dead I refer to,
I also refer to the ***** and mutilated.
You behaved so power-hungry,
So irresponsible and immature,
So ignorant and inexperienced,
So unwise and unintelligent,
Of that post, oh sir,
That position that you won by your clout,
You knew that Bhai made a better choice.
Yet you felt entitled to the post,
By the mere virtue of your birth,
Born with a silver spoon in your mouth,
Linen sheets underneath your body,
Much like your dumb scion,
Yes, the very same one who fumbles.
He fumbles in his speech,
And in his lack of preparation,
The Grand Old Party, it trembles,
Trembling under the unwanted burden,
Voices of dissent grow louder,
The Party you usurped is slipping away,
Drifting further everyday.
Apr 7, 2024
Apr 7, 2024 at 1:07 PM UTC