"scouts" poems
Tentpole, stature tall and strong and
Firmly placed between the thin sheets
Members of the boy scouts, boy clan
Flames extinguished, his body heats
At dawn it rises, makes me wake
******* for the fire he gathers
Morning wood, embers of the stakes
Soon home; disapproving Fathers
Morning **** calls, but we're busy
Pack our bags, get all the work done
Juice of life makes me quite dizzy
Mem'ries of our weekend of fun
I'll be dish and spoon to your spoon
Spend nights together o'er the moon
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 6:47 AM UTC
She is, quite thoroughly, a mess.
You knew this, you know this.
And she comes back now
Like a drowned rat.
All maybes and I dunnos
And not a hint of why.
She’s just a disaster.
You were ten, just a child
In the scouts, newly moved.
You’d no one
No one save her, the wild child
Always causing a fuss,
Always making a row,
But you had her.
Even if she was a disaster.
There was a fight,
You were poked fun at by…
What was her name?
Sally? Sally, yes.
That Sally Walkens poked and prodded.
She laughed and pushed you.
You fell, fell right over
Off that rock, and you cried
Because you were fighting about…
What was the fight about?
And there she was
Your knight in shining armor, the disaster.
Sally went off the rock
Right into the river, not the floor.
Screaming, pleading, shouting,
Floating and drifting by so fast,
And she stood triumphant
Arms raised, howling “Justice! Justice!”
And for that moment she was so cool.
Even if it was all a disaster.
You laughed at it,
Standing up and feeling safe,
Feeling wanted. Here was a friend.
Here was a good person,
Even when she was scolded,
Held inside by the mother,
Badges stripped away,
There was a good person.
But now you know it.
Know that Sally could’ve died
And that’d be a disaster.
Now she is back and you know
Still know as you did,
Know so much more now,
Just what a mess she is.
What a mess she was, always.
But for one moment
Back when you were a child
Standing on that rock, shouting
Shouting for you
She was a hero,
She was your disaster.
And she still is.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
Ballerina stance leaner
porcelain poised demeanor
lined up for a chance at that old 500 gram repeater.
Yeah, a little firecracker,
a little fire eater.
Twiggy figure, ****** fire dome where her little wires teeter.
Excellent muse material
my ***** optics viewed ethereal
Beauty, and she knew it.
Arrogance.
Noted, duly.
Pittsburgh's resident fire ant, with a grace to match her face
And a whole crew of troglodytes racing to get a taste
So thanks Angela Chase;
I prefer the fantasy too.
And thanks to you my chickens won't be sleeping easy in their coup.
Loop Jabberwocky with Calligraphy
and dabbled in polygamy. purpose:
****** cyst bubbles to the surface.
Misinterpret the tongue touching and hand clutching,
you were baby girlie thumb-sucking
But thought more than twice about it when it came to dumb-fucking.
Pretty face: check
Depression: not yet
Appreciating phonemes, but still a nervous wreck
false carrot tops to bed, awkward with the ***** work.
Near waif redhead. Pittsburgh Boys. the city lurks
It's been a minute since the girl scouts got at me, I bought it.
Hop in the DeLorean tell Lauren that I'm off it.
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 16, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
A duo as diverse as can be found anywhere
but, once we were together, full of stories to share
Laughter and hardship made us both who we are
And now, to find those two people, is like roping a star
Baseball and cub scouts, standing in as your dad
These were some of the best times that I ever had
I wait for the doorbell, hoping that's where you'll stand
And that the burdens developed are gone with your hand
Two hard headed old mules,
As stubborn as the other
We've lost years of our past
And missed times as a brother
Two hard headed old mules
Growing old with regret
Both resistant to change
And ..what we'll never get
We'd stand with each other in times all gone by
We don't know how to fix this, but, someone should try
We're both so much older and wiser by now
This needs to be fixed up, but neither knows how
Years of missed laughter and growing as friends
Is extended each day, and we should make ammends
Our lives are much different, that much we know
But, we still sons and both brothers, with time left to go
Two hard headed old mules,
As stubborn as the other
We've lost years of our past
And missed times as a brother
Two hard headed old mules
Growing old with regret
Both resistant to change
And...what we'll never get
I wait for the doorbell, and know it's not you
I'm not sure if I found you, just what I would do
The sins of the father, should be put to rest
For our years full of laughter were some of the best
Fishing, and talking, sharing each others dreams
Have been wiped from our minds, at least that's how it seems
We'll always be brothers, right now just in name
We're just stubborn old mules, still playing the game
Two hard headed old mules,
As stubborn as the other
We've lost years of our past
And missed times as a brother
Two hard headed old mules
Growing old with regret
Both resistant to change
And... we're not done yet!!
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
We are afraid of tying knots.
Now, my brothers weren't fond of Boy Scouts, but those aren't the kinds of knots I'm talking about.
Our parents got us velcro shoes growing up (something about not wanting us to be overwhelmed with tennis shoes)
And that, perhaps, was the moment that started everything.
We could no longer trip on loose laces as we ran our races,
Our parents couldn't see our disappointed faces as we fumbled getting ready for school.
It was the perfect contribution to the flawed illusion that the human institution should be prevented from failing.
Oh, yes.
In my lifetime, cordless telephones were placed in every house because we did not want to untangle our own messes anymore.
Failure doesn't hurt as much when it is invisible.
We wanted wireless, no-strings-attached luxuries with no side effects.
But there were effects that couldn't be seen
(how could they until we were older than teens)
Because the end effect was this:
a generation that shirks responsibility
we have anxiety
because our parents didn't let us face our fears when we were young
we are jobless, loveless, purposeless
because we still haven't realized that everything has its opposite
love - lust
success - failure
happiness - sadness
peace - anger and commotion
you see?
there are full-grown adults living in the basements of their parents
watching **** from an illuminated screen
a no-strings-attached commitment to a video that will never require a vow or a promise;
so many see the term "settling down" as "kicking up dust" of a dull life "confined to a four-inch screen."
we've seen our own parents cut the ties
now living separate lives
better that way, but millennials can't fight
for love or for kids or for dreams
because their caretakers' examples couldn't teach
the right way to do a marriage
the right way to commit
we are shirking responsibility--
because we don't want to fail.
still as afraid of tying knots
as we were in kindergarten.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
Round the wagons,
and call on the dogs!
For there is fury in that mist,
there is malice in that fog!
Arm yourselves wisely.
Shoulder steady, breath slow,
give in to eye’s end.
Shower sky with shot,
And do so
with fatal intent.
Line, volley and rising smoke
Un-surreptitious spending of saltpeter,
leaves quiet rise
to billowing choke.
Loosen formation
Send scouts up ahead
“How many the count?”
“Report:
none dead.”
“How can this be
we took distance,
aimed well, aimed true
And still count you no heads?”
“Sir,
machinations of the mind
…maybe it was instead?”
Pleated-dress-pants
barks back his threat,
"Court martial, you!"
"March,
forward,
ahead!".
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 3:12 AM UTC
Shinchan, Shinchan we are his fan
He’s a tot but swanks as a man
He is too minute and he is so cute
Shot in the arm can put you in dispute
He pranks and clanks with pals or alone
Be it his school or be it his home
Mitsy his mom shouts as a norm
Harry his dad scouts to reform
Pranks and clanks both gets flop
When Mitsy gives him a pop on his top
Our fun gathers when he does not stop
And another one goes on top on his pop
Pops and shops is what he gets from his mom
We never go sad be whatever his form
Shinchan, Shinchan we are his fan
We will love him as much as we can
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 1:00 PM UTC
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and leopard spots.
All day she sits upon the stair or on the steps or on the mat;
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!
But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
And when all the family’s in bed and asleep,
She tucks up her skirts to the basement to creep.
She is deeply concerned with the ways of the mice—
Their behaviour’s not good and their manners not nice;
So when she has got them lined up on the matting,
She teachs them music, crocheting and tatting.
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her equal would be hard to find, she likes the warm and sunny spots.
All day she sits beside the hearth or on the bed or on my hat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!
But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
As she finds that the mice will not ever keep quiet,
She is sure it is due to irregular diet;
And believing that nothing is done without trying,
She sets right to work with her baking and frying.
She makes them a mouse—cake of bread and dried peas,
And a beautiful fry of lean bacon and cheese.
I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
The curtain-cord she likes to wind, and tie it into sailor-knots.
She sits upon the window-sill, or anything that’s smooth and flat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits—and that’s what makes a Gumbie Cat!
But when the day’s hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat’s work is but hardly begun.
She thinks that the cockroaches just need employment
To prevent them from idle and wanton destroyment.
So she’s formed, from that lot of disorderly louts,
A troop of well-disciplined helpful boy-scouts,
With a purpose in life and a good deed to do—
And she’s even created a Beetles’ Tattoo.
So for Old Gumbie Cats let us now give three cheers—
On whom well-ordered households depend, it appears.
4.2k
I carry a white noodle bowl,
carefully up to my chin.
I smile as my nose catches,
the steam so grey and thin.
I set the bowl down gently,
Because it was too hot.
and take this time to ponder,
The noodles I have got.
A small carrot captain,
rides his vessel south.
But the spoony seas are violent,
and bring him to my mouth.
Legions of green sprouts,
are armed and at the ready.
But their base was built on broth,
and therefore is unsteady.
A scallion sergeant paces,
He’s timid and afraid.
And hopelessly fell in love with,
A mushroom mermaid.
The brothy land changes,
As beef enters the scene.
And to the broccoli scouts,
this meat is only mean.
Finally the egg,
who knows he’s the best.
Will wander around the edges,
till he decides to rest.
The dinner’s duty done
I tilt the ocean east
And drain the sea of veggies
into the belly of the beast
I take the styrofoam bowl.
And poke a hole in its side.
The bowl is now found empty
All my friends have died.
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:33 PM UTC
I've told you once that I'm not a firm believer of the future, that I don't cling so much in it
Since it feels like I will only be disappointed if I keep my faith on it.
But ever since you made me feel something like my stomach is tied into so many knots that boy scouts would be jealous.
Butterflies filling it in that gardens would be envious,
and hot flashes flashing in that cameras would be covetous
I started and can't stop doing now something that is for me a future thing.
And that is waiting...
Waiting for you to feel the exact same ******* great feeling you've made me feel.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 8:35 AM UTC
Pine tree horizon,
stretched to the point of rupture
over the divine cardinal points around
A round world
which's center is me.
Roads I'll maybe walk,
most of which I won't
but the voyage goes on anyway
as long as I have feet.
Nothing this generation gets:
I chased this out of a bad bet,
and found heaven in a net.
We ate the scenery that day
let it drip onto our ***** sleeves
drying in the cold night
the stars,
God they were bright.
It makes me feel alone here in suburbia,
where the buffalo don't roam,
it's impossible to feel so small and so free,
so careless, in this city,
For there is more to Electricity
there's more to useless junk,
there's boy Scouts going
on a real adventure,
their adventure out of their hell
tha smelly parisian cage of pipes,
tubes, teachers and tests.
They get to breave here in Eden,
they see they're missing out,
they cheer the sun all morning,
till the nightime dries him out.
They get to hug the moon,
to face the secret truths under a piece of cloth,
a brown sky tent from which they
feel like they get it:
Men were apes and
they still are
they cannot live inside a jar
and when we breave that honeyed
air, when the smelly brezze rushes through
our clotted hair
we finally get to peek over the mountain,
and love it with
all we got.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
Where I live, you see, is the future
which nobody saw coming but me,
and I guarantee, its truth,
I consider ants sentient, indeed.
I cringe for my imaginary Jain friends,
I just smashed another dozen scouting sugar ants,
and I sang to them as I did,
hoping their tiny antennae
knew the deal,
we throw ant-edibles in rodent safe containers,
out past the edge
of the motion sensors,
ants of all common sorts are welcome.
- because our fire ants have some how mellowed
- since arriving from Texas
on waves of dread… fire ants,
maybe that kind never got here. any way
- now, we live with them and all the others
- on the edge of the eastern pacific
- super colony that has no war
- on its inner or outer edges.
But one must consider ants
as sapient sentients,
senders of signals, wireless radio,
wee-tiny antennae vibes,
to sing a song ants can translate that says,
This human says: I shall **** all you send to my kitchen.
It is a thought song, you think it, as you ****
You might try it if, you consider
ants are not just pests, but
interesting life tools, for living in dirt
with no screens, lack so obvious it is
noticed by any with attention to antennae
as intense as
that that of Everest Pax, who in April began his sixth year…
Now, who
can hold the ant mind
long enough to imagine the queen,
with Ender-vision?
Through the eyes that watched me **** the scouts,
and signal boundaries to the Queen.
Jun 12, 2021
Jun 12, 2021 at 4:36 PM UTC
you're drinking, and then you can't control
the reaction upon entering the tetragrammaton...
one h is for hushed up laughter, for sighs (ah),
and then the alter deja vu
is a cocktail of:
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,
yeah, so many, so you can look at it rather than
say it... it's a sunny day, go out and play
or something... leave me with the anchor of ****
humanity dragging us down, or simply basing us
in the underwater fudge of mud to a standstill...
it's sunny, go out and play, ride a bicycle or something...
you know, living 20 odd years in an english society
i never had an english girlfriend, i'm told she's a real
firecracker fortune-cookie... my hands are cold,
i swear by the oath of the old Bailey i never touched
her thighs... scouts' honour, cross my fingers
and wear woman's underwear with a bowler hat
to match my serious demeanour...
yep, an Abbey Road's standstill... a fifth beetle
chatting cheeky chat chat of a chirp...
gurgles of fizz in carbonated wine known as champagne,
well that's me... or as the roadrunner said to
speedy Gonzales... hark a sayonara when changing
the gears to a 100m sprint world record.
the Mayan disease? ah right... excess spontaneous
laughter, unstoppable like a tide;
got chatting to a ms. khan... Genghis' great great...
great great great great great... great great granddaughter...
a doctor from pakistan... nice english accent
gets you all the pleasantries so everything can
go to hell... the sleeping pills prescription is waiting...
now the sick-note... so i don't crash a plane
into the Swiss elevations by "accident"
while sitting on an arm-chair of nails while everyone
else is farting into cushions.
honest to god, the tetragrammaton is like a brick
wall for vowels, you hit the ball against the four
walls, and the vowels are either ****** up
or they extract the consonant stability of the four letters,
and your safest bet to express them is
to laugh;
well, i do call it a Mayan disease... because
my stomach is aching from building a six-pack with
the giggles.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
Today tastes like
Satisfied saturday lie ins
and accompanied sleepy yawns
Tea in bed
toast crumbs
Today tastes like
Washing pegs I hold in my mouth
while ******* things
out on the line
Today tastes like
Saturday sweetie day
peanut m n m's
and other sugary
treats hooray!
Today tastes like a trip to the zoo
animal antics
fruit bats
meerkats
and tamarin tantrics
Today tastes like
My son's hearty hugs
he's been away all week
with the scouts
a hearty dinner
whilst he recounts
his trip's losers and winners
Today tastes like
brightly coloured family
television shows
of sofa time and
cheesey toes
(before i put the boys
in the bath)
Today tastes like
relaxation
tea and more tea
Maybe I'll allow
myself a
cheeky glass of wine
to further relax
and unwind!
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
1582
Where Roses would not dare to go,
What Heart would risk the way—
And so I send my Crimson Scouts
To sound the Enemy—
2.6k
Mr. Rory Richards
Lived his life,
Taking garbage
Out at night.
He shovelled drives
He swept walks,
He listened intently
While others talked.
Others talked.
When Rory wasn't
Weeding the garden,
He was outside
Hanging laundry.
Moms were jealous,
Dads were shamed,
But whispering neighbours
Never complained.
Rory's good
At the husband game.
He presented well.
The neighbours continued
To tsk and tsk.
On his way home
From work,
He picked up the kids
From daycare,
He'd find time
To volunteer there.
He'd have treats
At home for them,
And their friends.
He volunteered with
Cubs and Scouts,
Always finding
Extra time
For jamborees
And overnights.
One day the cops
Came on the scene,
Rory wasn't
What he seemed:
His computer
Showed a different man,
A lurking, luring
Child **** fan.
And the neighbours'
Tsks cresendoed.
At his trial
He sat abandoned,
But neighbours there
Gave witness to
A man they thought
They surely knew.
A family man
In his pew.
All his life
He lived beside them,
A man they let
Their kids rely on.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
From poem #27 of THHT3
...We all know what’s going on,
The Young & The Restless could be a list that’s forever long,
of confessions composed as a set list but not sung,
we all know They are attracted to the Innocent & Young,
because in the twisted logic, of their perverted minds’ tongue,
they think by being with children, they’ll stay Forever Young,
it’s disgusting, & I’m so ashamed of the city I’m from,
that I’m not even having kids, nope not even one,
because I already feel bad enough for those already born,
wish I could warn every daughter & ever son,
& don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to single out Hollywood,
the problems are much more widespread just ask The Vatican,
or the over 800 Boy Scouts that say they were abused,
by the hands of those that were chose to lead as captains,
yeah man not much is mentioned but lots has sure happened,
lots of names go undisclosed in the drawers of the Pedo-Files,
Roman Polanski, R. Kelly, Brian Singer, Jeffery Epstein,
& those are just the ones that have been exposed,
we all know most crimes go untold,
& no please don’t take this the wrong way,
I’m not trying to say every celeb likes kids underage,
in fact most of those that act are kind, protect & fight back,
nor am I saying I always mean attraction in a ****** way,
I’m just saying I feel confused & it seems like everyone’s gay,
or at least strange & most don’t know how to behave,
& I want to care but these days who cares anyways,
I guess I don’t anymore, I just want to get away,
just want to escape, so I’m running away,
I’m leaving Neverland, never to return again,
I’m leaving Neverland, for real & forever man...
from The Hollywood Hills Trilogy vol. 3
I'm giving away 100 copies of my new book THHT3 for FREE right now on Instagram to the first 100 people that COMMENT and TAG a friend on my latest post. So go to my Instagram right now, @aaronlalux and tag someone in the comments so I can send you a digital copy of The Hollywood Hills Trilogy Vol 3 RIGHT NOW. No joke, for real, let's go! My instagram is @aaronlalux First 100 comments with tags ONLY. If you DON'T have Instagram just go directly to the Amazon page and leave a review of the book. If you review the book I'll also send you a copy for free, so there's TWO ways to get a free copy of my new book! Here's the Amazon Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XJRBSKD
∆ LaLux ∆
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 1:50 AM UTC
At school
Moorcraft said
about joining
the boy scouts with him
(the only scouts
you were interested in
were those who rode
ahead of the cavalry
in western films
and who got themselves
scalped by Injuns)
but he went on
about how they taught you
to tie knots
and light fires
with two sticks
of wood
and how to sing songs
around a camp fire
and be a good kid
and do Bob a Job
for old ladies
and he went on about it
quite a bit
and so you said
ok pick me up later
and so after teatime
of bread and jam
and a mug of tea
and biscuit
you went with Moorcraft
to the church hall
where the scouts met
and this tall scouts master
in short trousers
and hairy legs
and glasses
took you off
to join the rest
and introduced you both
and some kid
showed you how
to tie these knots
and climb ropes
and how to set up
a tent and make camp
and so on
until some kid
pushed you off
the ropes
and you pushed him back
and he punched you
on the shoulder
and you hit him
on the jaw
and then you were both
on the floor
and the good kids
were saying oh and gosh
and crowding round
until the scout master came
and asked what
was going on
and that good scouts
didn’t fight
and threw you out
of the hall
leaving Moorcraft behind
tying knots
and climbing ropes
but you didn’t
give a fig at all
and Moorcraft still in there
not knowing why
and you walked home alone
under an evening sky.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
The fifth day took a turn for the worst:
a sand shark swallowed three scouts,
protective glasses and all;
one second they were there,
the next
regurgitated bones pushed up from under the dune.
Uncle Mohammed picked up two kids,
one under each arm, like sacks,
and rolled down the rocky side
where the predator doesn’t hunt;
the beast
devoured two more women, and blasted out of the dune.
Its body shadow-blocked the Sun,
and irony engraved itself
on the travelers’ foreheads
in the form of twisted frowns—
a mix
of silence for the dead and for shade on the dune.
An utterance of names echoed
within a heat-waved skyline.
Accounting for the dead
proved tougher than expected:
no-one
answered, except for the vultures circling the dune.
Mar 15, 2011
Mar 15, 2011 at 6:04 AM UTC
*" It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews,
Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and
Illuminations from one End of this Continent
to the other from this Time forward forever more.”
John Adams – July 3, 1776.*
Webster Groves - 2016
The Townhall fountain dances
cheerily in the morning sun.
The red-white-blue shirted crowd
rises as one for the colors.
Laughing children scramble for
tootsie rolls and sweet tarts
tossed by a strolling clown.
Philadelphia, July 3, 1776
Carriages sped toward Philadelphia
where resolute patriots
would turn the pages of history
and tell an unsuspecting world
that a new nation had given birth to itself.*
Sousa strains peal from the marching Statesmen,
Girl Scouts guide their well-groomed mounts -
hooves echoing through concrete caverns.
Vintage firetrucks and autos
sound their horns and sirens
as candidates work the crowd, pressing the flesh.
*Each crass insult from the British crown
had tightened the noose on the colonial neck.
The middle ground was soaked with patriot blood
and revolution was the only course left.*
Barbecue clouds drift over Pat and Lee’s farm
Horseshoes spin and clang and frisbees fly.
A pot-luck feast with beans and franks
interrupts the pop and glare of bottle rockets.
*One by one, each patriot quilled the parchment
resolved to endure the costs of liberty -
knowing to the marrow that defeat
would spell certain ******* and death.*
We reach the lakeshore at dusk -
unfolding chairs - spreading out blankets -
strains of Americana drift over the lake.
then a pyro-technic extravaganza
blazes across the summer sky.
*Washingon’s tattered and bloodied men
cornered Cornwallis at Yorktown.
Then surrender - all British claims
to American soil banished to the tomes of history.*
The grand finale pummels the darkened sky
raising cheers and whistles from the crowd
Toddlers collapse in parental arms,
car doors slam, engines ignite
and head-lighted caravans, turn for home,
spiraling off in every compass degree.
“Happy birthday,” America and endless happy returns
"from this time forward forever more!”
Robert Charles Howard
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
i know, it's not exactly mesmerising
such bounties with such curdling
crudeness, but that's how it is,
with eyes vectoring into the above,
cobalt, the highest pinnacle of the depths,
a shade like any other,
and then seeking the horizon, the dilution
of the formidable shade into Arctic...
a near white, but not exactly white,
not exactly worth metaphor that's a kindred
of white & black as lack & lack...
just the see-through colour for the allowance
of possessing eyes, not near melted mirrors
of mercury, but by day,
the highest peak blue in hue of cobalt,
and when walking from the mountain's peak,
the eyes spot the Arctic and Adriatic mist hues
outlining a bordering of all things elemantal...
the transparency of the whole dynamo
on being grounded from all elevations,
before dipping into the seas' shrubbery...
for indeed the sky makes use of the close-up, apparent
green shades of the sea, or the Thames grey
without an earl on a royal gondola worthy a parade,
nearer then the grander colour scheme,
but up from space, indeed, all is blue and all is green,
and all is sandy suntanned bronze
and seemingly serene; lest we forgot the dollops
of skeletal, floating in cloud - those scouts of Antarctica;
but from the elemental blue of the sky
receding into the seas of mirrors via arctic into white
if not seemingly see-through, there too i spot
the antidote of white nearing the pristine state of
claiming being see-through, a crow's
bleak colour of being shrouded
in celebratory mourning: the pupil of my eye, black,
and all the world around me, the flattened earth
of my iris, for no astronaut i am to imagine it otherwise,
from a perspective of such heights reached by
fellow man, if i am to be so humbly grounded,
i'll imagine it counter-productively as thus.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
I cleaned out an old drawer
of odds and ends.
paperclips and the door to a battery case on some remote
an orange candle stub, from Halloween I think
batteries and four flashlights, though only one worked
and parts of things I'm sure made sense to keep at the time
I have no idea what they are now
I cleaned out an old drawer
of things forgotten
my daughter's picture in a setting unknown
a letter of gratitude from a friend, for what?
a postcard from Barcelona
graduation announcements for a friend's child
I don't think I sent a gift
I cleaned out an old drawer
of memories and my past
a ticket stub from an evening with Isabel
a newspaper clipping of my son in scouts
old mother's day cards from the kids
New York City subway map from October 2001
Memories of adventure and affection
I cleaned out an old drawer
and sorted, discarded and remembered
batteries went together in a small box
old fortune cookie notes in the trash
memories dusted off and replaced
out of the drawer and back into my heart
My life has cabinet drawers
stuffed with junk and trash mixed with treasures and tools
I think I'll clean my cabinet more often
To organize things that I've needed
like my mom and dads enduring affection
kind and playful friends'
Throw away useless things
like anger, resentment, and regret
to make room for treasures
And to be reminded of what has been
a real childhood of play and discovery
magical children and the wonder of them
my beloved's steadfast love and respect
I cleaned out an old drawer
and found some peace.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
a funny odd thing happened when plato banished
the poets from his republic,
he invited the likes of mozart
into it... oh god the jealousy grew...
i say, the Platonic idea of music
never mind relations with men
and women gave us opera! hmm!
opera! if plato didn't banish the
poets from his utopia we'd have no
opera! the market is saturated though,
england the most musical nation
has become over-saturated with music...
in it, i could write philosophy on toilet-paper,
wipe my *** with it and tell you
it's candy-floss... honest to god, cross
my heart, stand leg tied like on a crucifix
and name all the scouts' honours
including the one about aiding an old
lady cross the street...
the music over-powered, no wonder
the poets have a battering ram with them
(there's so many of them! ooh, a mongolian horde
on the prowl),
they're thumping and with trébuchets
launching rotten cabbages and tomatoes
at the walls of this ridiculed utopia...
sure, banish poetry, create opera,
and everyone "suddenly" speaks less
eloquently...
darwinism is just a nice way of talking
about genocide our species did unto
humanoids in between resemblance
and the assembly line... where no
other species evolved to extract history
so far back as to carve an existential
chasm, a grand canyon of despair,
hoping that a little stream of celebrity
culture feeding us would "do the trick"
of becoming satiating...
i just laugh... atheism and darwinism
don't mix... mass ****** torture and sodomising
children and atheism fits to a crescendo!
applause.... encore... applause... ah...
now that's my jaw dropping thing to smile at.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
Surely these surly bits
Must be burrs caught up in my
Makeup -
Making up reasons for
Why my spit was accidental.
I done been through a
Rough patch or two -
Crawling with these
Thorns in my knees
Across funky plateaus
That poke their chests out
In their scouts
For sunnier flora.
Though,
I assume their search
Didn't go over so well.
'cause these scabbings won't heal
Like I want them to,
Buried under gobs of
Ointment
That was supposed to take care of it
(And
One more bandage
Just in case).
I'm just moseying on through,
With my feelers out,
Making sure you're someone
I have to know.
In and on my way
Somewhere
In this crazy field,
Waiting for sunflowers
To bless my prayers
While I continue to
Make room for myself to
Slip past
Without being noticed.
I'm smiling so hard
To keep the soft-hearted
At bay -
Trying to avoid being forced
Into pinpoint relations
With clueless drifters
Who refuse to stay on their side.
They only mean well -
I know this,
I do.
But, the simple has yet to escape me.
Send your
Sympathies
To the weak ones,
Roleplaying
Alongside the meek,
For these are the creed
Who,
Without giving heed,
Deliver their lives
To bliss.
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 11:02 AM UTC
Friday night
Beneath the lights
The boys are set to go
The scouts are out there watching
It's time they got a show
Football in a small town
It's religion out of church
To find something open Friday night
You'd really have to search
The busses all are lined up
Down the street around the school
Alumni selling t-shirts
With old logos by the pool
There's a game that rivals football
That you can't see from the stands
It's make out time beneath the bleachers
While the fans are clapping hands
No flags for interference
Off sides, no way not here
The players don't wear protection
And in between they're drinking beer
The quarterback he steals the show
Making passes on a line
The college scouts are hovering
That must be a good sign
The smell of deep fried everything
It lingers in the air
There's flasks of Jim Beam passed about
without a single care
The band performs a drumline
Keeping beat for those below
The ones not playing football
The kids hidden from the show
Each Friday night it happens
Two rivals meet in church
And somewhere beneath the bleachers
Some poor kids left in the lurch
There's a game that rivals football
That you can't see from the stands
It's make out time beneath the bleachers
While the fans are clapping hands
No flags for interference
Off sides, no way not here
The players don't wear protection
And in between they're drinking beer
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC