"scowled" poems
We watched the NASA rocket launch
Two years ago in fall
Over the grass, under the sky
Behind the ball field's wall.
I raised my hand above us there
And traced a constellation
And while you laughed, corrected me
I scowled in consternation
Then there- above- a streak of orange
Ripping the dim horizon
A trail of light, a touch of fire
Grew brighter, higher, rising.
Your forest eyes, your white-teeth smile
Stretched wider, shown like mirrors
I saw the rocket's upward path
In eyes, so deep and clear.
I could have watched your face for days
Painted in the glow
The fascination burning there
I'd never come to know.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
She was beautiful,
The moon scowled at her beauty,
The Sun shied away from her,
The stars flickered with jealousy.
Nothing mattered to her,
She was complicated,
Her mind was a tangled mess of thoughts.
All I wanted was to sit beside her,
Gently untie the knots in her neurones,
Connect to the correct ends of the
dendrites,
Let her talk,
Spill out her secrets and frustrations
See her awaken,
Hold her tight and never let her go.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 1:29 PM UTC
One brisk spring afternoon, a boy found himself adventuring down a local forested path. The sun beamed down through the trees, creating golden stips of light that fought their way through the newly grown greenery. The crunch of the earth beneath his feet could be heard from a distance as unimportant thoughts drifted through his mind.
He paused and set himself down on a large rock by a bubbling stream. The water created an ambiance that made a rush of calm flow over his mind. His eyes drifted around a bit, taking in his surroundings when suddenly a butterfly flittered down and flew around his face. A smile spread wide across his features as he lifted up his hand to try to catch it.
The butterfly grazed his hand, but then flew away as fast as it could, as it was afraid of the boy. He frowned in disappointment, wanting nothing more than the butterfly itself to flutter down onto his hand so he could admire it once more; But he was left in despair.
Two more butterflies of the same pattern found themselves drifting along the face of the boy, and he tried to catch them as well, for maybe they would fill in the gap that the first had left. He caught them both, but only briefly, as all butterflies were beautiful, but fleeting.
The boy tilted his head in disappointment, and sat there alone for some time, an array of butterflies coming and going, none of them filling the void left by the first.
Suddenly, a pure white moth came into view.
The boy scowled, unsure of what to make of the moth as it was nothing like the other butterflies that he had encountered before. The moth flittered around his face, and he raised his hands slightly, prepared to swipe the creature away.
The moth found itself landing softly on the nose of the boy, its fuzzy little wings tickling his skin upon contact.
He couldn’t help but smile, but felt a little uneasy, as he was only used to butterflies.
The boy lifted the moth gently from his nose, and perched it on a nearby branch. It’s little wings lifted its body from the perch, and tried to fly back toward the boy, but he gently shood the creature away. Finally, it gave up and landed itself back onto the branch in which the boy had placed it. There the moth stayed, watching the boy chase butterflies endlessly until he could chase no more.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
Unquenchable vitality
Coming off as cold
Certain detaining gestures I've made
Push you away
You recite the words I've heard before
Over and over
"You're a heartless soul"
But this myopia is dark
If I can't see you far, how do I bring light to you.
Like the Light that flashes on the delicate curve of stars I can not touch
The re - echoes of sounds deep down
And through my scowled flushed face
Maybe you'll understand how being heartless is only a protection for me
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
The teeth of hierarchy flash
a scowled curse in quick lightening.
This hard edge does not hunger for food.
His, is a stare into a desert battle-ground:
dry-rasping, gaunt and unforgiving,
A Goliath.
And me - envious of stones in the desert.
The 'Fuck you’ in the eye of his razor.
My punishment waits like a
missionary’s head in a bucket
(its smile still praising in a tribal trophy necklace).
His armoured lips sip hot-dipped darkness
deep from the volcano.
The boy in class with my blood in his schoolbag.
The teacher dripping words of impatience onto my flight plan.
Head down, writing escape from the demon
Furiously - until the last bell.
MChallis © 2015
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 7:01 AM UTC
The hammer and anvil,
My tools of Creation,
Have yet to serve their full potential.
Every day, I wield them.
From the depths of my heart and soul,
I muster the strength to forge.
The strength is abundant,
But such strength is thunder
Without proper restraint.
The fault is not my loyal tools –
Certainly not –
It is my own.
It is my hands –
My frail, limp hands –
Hands that can hold a gentle rose
Or caress a snow-white cheek.
Strength is unneeded there.
I am safe among the fields,
Comforted by the embrace of the flowers.
Every evening, I took a tulip
And by the stem, plucked it.
O, the beauty!
The beauty I held in my hands!
The same hands of Promethean might
Could too hold a budding flower.
But Master scowled at me.
He punished me for my hands –
My weak, pathetic hands.
“You must be stronger,” he barks,
“Lift the hammer above your head,
And bring it down with might!
Stoke the fire! Keep it burning!
You must be stronger! Keep working!”
My hands would burn, but still I worked;
Master’s words rang in my skull.
And how they would redden and swell!
With every blow, I yearned for the embrace again
As my gears clicked together
And the machine slammed the anvil.
One evening prior, I fled to the fields
And tried to hide from Master.
While among the tulips, I plucked just one,
And the stem broke in two,
Graying and withering.
Now a corpse in my hand –
Hand of iron and lead –
It is without purpose.
I searched for others to place in its stead,
But all wilted in the iron grasp.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 11:42 PM UTC
Where's your lady?
asked the chimpanzee
the bear looked askance
the tiger growled
zebras rolled
macaws looked in trance.
Where's she
your lady pretty
queried the lone rhino
it's not good
this solitude
roared the lion with raised eyebrow.
Did you lose your way
this November day
when the sky's blazing blue
this fair weather
you aren't together
how come asked the shrew.
Your face it shows
shouted hippos
this fine day of November
boars did grunt
scowled elephant
you're lost without her.
They were so true
alone at the zoo
emptiness surrounded me
daylight though gold
sky blue bold
I roamed unhappily.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:13 AM UTC
Them bastardized youths fell outside, dizzied by a reality unsolved.
Their maws scowled judgment and drooled Pabst down improbable bodies each of them lay in the stink of subtle conformity.
Fiercely unique culture beasts starved away in suburbs; Wikidrifting, those drugged litterbugs scampered.
Dropout fish fast against the current of their time, tired from dancing through desperate crowded nights and disparate lonely dawns, dangling degrees and the specters of success burning incessant their pride.
They were the ******** made so over time contracted by blind parents to nine-to-blithes in which quiet desperation, credit nooses, and irony were the small print.
They were carpenters afraid of their hands. With chisel to headstone, they lied on the hoods of used Japanese cars, panning the radio for a real connection and gazing up at vanishing constellations.
They were their poison and they their elixir, but a cold cigarette was a much quicker fixer of Helplessness Blues and the back of a Bible where a brief intellectual wrote “I am suicidal.”
For how does the turn of the epigram read to those who care less with every new beat of a drummed-up society so high off its piety that seeing stars vanish is simply a shame?
Those ******** dropouts tragically remiss, those Supertramps, Kerouacs, Cohens, and wits.
They were the alternative, urbanite fools that littered alleys with Greek fables and Tibetan tattoos.
Criterion flash cards and the literary canon allowed them to flirt with god in verse and art clues until Pollock’s canvas did rip off their eyelids which left them to know only Socrates knew.
They danced and they writhed, then ****** to pass time, and kept on their passions till lost were their minds. Then they all died, those blasphemous ********
But at least they washed on the back of their crimes.
At least they danced.
At least they were.
And there may be something to movement in chaos.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
while trying to buy some durex
he trembled to his roots
this is just a sport shop sir
you'd better try at boots
half an hour later
fearing confrontation
i'd like to buy a rubber thing
with batteries and vibration
once more the lady scowled
while showing him the door
this is just a sport shop
and don't come back for more
i want some k.y. jelly
he whispered his demand
her patience now exhausted
manager came to hand
what's the problem sir?
you seem a little harassed
welsh rugby, shirt he mumbled
but i'm too embarrassed
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 1:47 AM UTC
Walking, I was consumed in my own trivial daily thoughts,
And I stopped, for the door in my path was closed.
Before I could figure out why,
It opened.
A woman stood there in the doorway,
Staring me down with hollow, vacant eyes.
She scowled at me,
I tried to maintain no expression at all.
And meanwhile, my thoughts were washed away.
But slowly, one thought was clear.
I will never allow myself to be,
Like that woman, or rather,
The lack of a woman,
On the other side of the doorway.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 1:29 PM UTC
Life's Predispositions
In the chapel of his soul
and in the steeple of his mind
votive candles burn,
bright and iridescent,
perpetual,
red, yellow, green
and blue.
He sits in there,
a chapel for one,
in a mist
of confusion,
in a mess,
searching for answers,
as his life is waning,
escaping,
like an Autumn wind
blowing the pages of his life
... stillness,
of bookmarks,
still on page one,
he hatched, once.
All around him,
dark,
and cold,
like a winter chill,
snow banks withdrawing,
his sad existence.
Still he looks up
to Jesus on the cross.
Warmth.
In the chapel of his soul
and in the steeple of his mind
votive candles burn,
large,
bright and iridescent,
perpetual,
another rainbow stretching
it's arcs for him.
He backs away.
He bemoans life,
small,
it's endowments on him.
His parent's mistake
on a dark, eerie
loveless night...
and their cutting words
"You were a mistake,"
words
that grew on him,
like barnacles
clinging to him,
eating away his buoyancy,
like a ship sinking.
In the birth of another spring,
flowers blossoms,
rivers gushing down
mountains and mountains
of pollination,
life,
he has a lone branch
waiting ... somewhere.
Such stillness.
Such stigmatization
from his parents
loveless past.
A mistake they conceded.
It had an effect on him,
darker than the blackest sheep
that he was.
What predispositions.
When the summer harvests
arrive,
fields smiling their wares,
he scowled
he scowled the corn,
subsistence,
life,
the changing seasons,
his short change
of life.
Rainbows.
Why are the birds
singing to me?
Why?
The voices
in his head
chirping,
continuing.
What message thou
bring to an orphan?
Still he looks up
to Jesus on the cross.
Warmth.
His eyes squint.
Dad, mom.
And whispers words
that don't need
to be said,
closure.
Logan Robertson
6/01/17
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 4:16 PM UTC
In my younger
and more vulnerable years
I
walked
on
I was lonely
no longer
I was a guide
a pathfinder
I had that familiar
conviction
that life
was beginning over
promising to unfold
that shining secret
that only
Midas
and Morgan
and Maecenas knew,
that the wingless
had been overlooked
in a fashion
that rather
took
your
breath
away.
I was fragilely bound into
a murmured apology
of moths
among
the whispers
and the champagne
and the stars
Bantering inconsequence
that was made of
infinitesimal
hesitation
I repeated blankly
a surprising
shill metallic urgency
Bloomed with light
it sort of crept in on us
that I
had truly
heard nothing at all
In the unquiet darkness
continually smoldering
with disappointment
in the solemn echoing
green light.
a dim hazy cast
lay upon my love
your love
belongs
to me
She insisted
its too late now
he scowled
I could only stare
as
she cried
A terrible
terrible
Mistake!
you ask too much
she told me
I love you now.
you cant repeat the past
he said
why,
of
course
you can!
I paid a
high price
for living too long
with a
single
dream.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
And I just wanted you to know…
That he knows that we know.
That she knows that he did.
That I saw and you heard.
That he wasn't and she was.
That she knew that he swore -
That they couldn’t and he wouldn’t.
So she won and he lost.
So she scowled and he wept.
So she left,
and I looked closer.
She was gone and he was alone.
She was moving on while he was sitting at home.
She was getting over him while he cried on the floor.
She lived her life freely, while he didn’t make it much further -
And that was it.
So I told you and you told them,
and they told her and this time -
she fell to the floor.
Promises made in vain years before,
ignored first by him but in suit by her.
And because he's gone -
because she left him -
because he broke -
she did the first thing that came to mind,
and did what tore them apart in the beginning.
Getting over her addiction to him,
with the one he had broken her heart with.
So now she's alone and he's no more,
she's crying on the floor and no one knows,
not me nor you - she's behind closed doors.
And I can't see through them -
I can't see through her eyes.
But apparently, according to the note -
and everyone believes notes -
a life without him was what she had wanted.
And a life without him was what she had gotten.
But when life took him away with no second chances,
life without him was something she no longer could handle.
So she went no further.
And that was it.
So her parents told us and for the first time,
we had nothing to say.
Not once, but twice, and in the same way...
two people we'd followed with our eyes, ears, and mouths
were no longer fueling our conversations now due south.
So...
You went your way and I went mine,
he went his way, and she went on her own.
The rest spread out like Jacks before we dropped the ball,
and we were all alone this time.
Not just one, no -
Not this time.
And that... was it.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 10:56 PM UTC
**** sonnets
she screamed, half awake,, raspy broken chords
**** mistletoe
He responded, barely breathing, words are a chore
**** surrender
She moaned, lonely against the canvas of silver and gold
**** alarm clocks
He smirked, craving the fabric and minutes to unfold
**** ghosts
She whispered to the abrupt emptiness of 4 in the morning
**** stairwells
He mumbled to the steps that tripped without warning
**** forever
she breathed, breathless against the waves of waterfalls
**** sidewalks
He admitted as he wandered aimlessly appalled
**** flowers
she scowled at the precipice of tomorrow
**** candles
He gritted at the concept of unrequited sorrow
**** Thursday
she exclaimed at the notion of fresh beer blossom gardens
**** July
He exhaled against the women who dressed without pardon
**** Twitter
she tweeted three nights deprived of sleep
**** Xanax
he stumbled five Klonopin deep
**** stars
she wished with a mouth of cigarettes and strangers
**** memories
he insisted accompanied by potions and danger
**** you
She would have laughed against the midnight canvas
**** me
He would have crafted versus the twilight lanterns
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
It rained all day that Tuesday
When Link McCoo hit town.
He checked into a rooming house
And began to look around.
He found the most run-down dive
And pulled himself a chair.
He took one look around to see
Who else was drinking there.
Nobody much noticed him
Except for Esther Masterson,
And she walked right over to him.
She knew she’d found herself a good one.
She asked him to buy her a drink
And he shook his head slowly no.
He said he wasn’t in the renting mood
So she might just as well go.
Esther like the way he looked
That he wasn’t to be a pushover.
She moved her chair next to him
And slyly told him, “Move over.”
She said, “I’m not a working girl
I own this stink-hole of a place.
So, being seen with the likes of me
Is not some kind of a disgrace.
That started them as something hot
Flame hot enough to set fire.
Nobody looking at the two of them
Could miss the heat of that desire.
Then, about a month later on,
Johnny Wacklin came back to stay
He and Esther were once a thing
And he was here to have his way.
But Esther had moved on by then
And told Johnny right up front.
Johnny paid no attention, said
“It don’t matter what you want.”
He grabbed her hand and dragged
Nearly taking her off her feet.
Link came in right about then
Knocked Johnny into his seat.
Link tucked Esther behind himself
And he warned Johnny not to try
Or he would be leaving there
With no time to say goodbye.
Johnny was always long on mean
But pretty much short on bright.
He figured he could whip Link
In a short but brutal fight.
So, they squared off and circled
And scowled for a few feet.
Link punched Johnny in the throat
And knocked him back into his seat.
Choking Johnny still attacked
So link kicked him in the knee.
He said “I don’t play slap and cry.
I don’t fool with those who attack me.”
Link and Esther have stayed there
As two knitted into just the one.
The bar has cleaned up clientele
And is a place for having fun.
Johnny Wacklin went away and
Spent some time in a clinic.
I can say he deserved what he got
Without being branded a cynic.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
428
Taking up the fair Ideal,
Just to cast her down
When a fracture—we discover—
Or a splintered Crown—
Makes the Heavens portable—
And the Gods—a lie—
Doubtless—”Adam”—scowled at Eden—
For his perjury!
Cherishing—our pool Ideal—
Till in purer dress—
We behold her—glorified—
Comforts—search—like this—
Till the broken creatures—
We adored—for whole—
Stains—all washed—
Transfigured—mended—
Meet us—with a smile—
1.2k
He said he liked her style
and her pianist fingers.
She told him that he could paint her
onto canvas, in shades
of cinnamon and ivory.
He laughed at her trembling hands
as she sat there, dressed in naught
but peonies and wild roses.
She scowled at his impudence
and then laughed
at the absurdity of it all.
She sat there and he told her
hold still
with a smile that flashed
across his eyes like quicksilver.
She watched him create poetry
with strokes of umber and chartreuse,
cerulean and scarlet.
He pulled the shadows from her eyes
and placed them into a fixed state of being.
She watched the metamorphosis of scars
into moonlit fault lines and
freckles into blips of smooth paint.
He transformed her pale outline
into a sensuous display of smooth gradients
and colors deep enough to make men weep.
He captured the penumbra of sorrow
and spread it across her painted eyes.
As he anointed the canvas
with delicate finishing touches,
She dressed in a paint-spattered shirt
and marveled at the uncanny likeness.
They sat and watched the paint dry
as he rubbed the knots from her shoulders
and kissed strained tendons and ligament
beneath innocuous flesh,
as she tapped rhythms into his hands.
He is no longer hers to consume.
He belongs now to the kingdom of earthworms
and a darkness that swallows all traces of light.
He took with him the chunk of her
that knew how to love as a human
and left her with shirts devoid of his form
and gradually losing his scent,
fragmented memories that slip
through fingers like sand,
and a room full of paintings
that she cannot bring herself
to uncover.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
There I stood.
Body trembling, hearing only manic depressive echoes.
On one side, mournful cries, on the other, sheer harmonics.
There was a feeling of dream-like reality.
Some great force enveloped my body, compelling me to stagger forward.
With no realization of the whereabouts of my being,
I conceded to follow my feelings, as I always did.
With each step I took,
I could see and feel and experience a new part of my life that had already happened.
It was a chronological walk in time.
The conflicting noises ahead continued to get louder and more distinct.
On one side there was a gnashing of teeth; screaming and yelling ruled.
It was riotous, and strange looking people were festering about.
They scowled and spat at me; the smell--repelling.
On the other side, there was a great feeling of unity.
Great stillness and serene calmness.
An entity secure within itself.
There were much fewer on this side.
I chose to walk close to this side.
My knees buckled, but I miraculously remained standing.
There I stood; facing the Creator.
Anticipating God’s words, I prematurely smiled expecting open arms.
God, in all His righteous power, simply pointed at me and thundered;
“I know ye not!”
There I stood… body trembling.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
Fights
They throw words like little hand grenades
because in our house, we cannot use fists
(I feel that those would hurt less)
and he,
small boy full of rage and sound and not much else
with fists balled to tight
each wanting to strike out, to break his sister's stupid face
Searching through the catacombs of his mind he thought only of falling through a war chest
searching for some sharpened bone or anything to use
he was a skilled warrior of the shadows
with one jab he could ****** thorns through her guarded heart
the precision of a sibling ****** on his side
he had wounded her before
he almost always won
but his wretched
sister
refused to lose this time
refused to be out manipulated
She too had been training
sharpening a silver tongue
that usually served as a shield to her brother's barbs and wicked advances
but today it was a dagger
and assassin for the old king
"You never loved me," he lunged with a flourish
She parried with a cuss word and a sigh
he danced aside, and jabbed at her flank
"I'm going to jump off the cliff" he declared
she scowled
this move usually did her in, but with one glare, she kicked the sword from his hand, and rounded upon him
no fencing foil was on her, no seemly battle ax
but a dagger
and she drew in close
the killing blow
"You are only my half brother" she whispered
and he
was vanquished
The battle done, the two sunk to their knees
and sobbed
Fights
They throw words like little hand grenades
because in our house, we cannot use fists
(I feel that those would hurt less)
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 10:45 AM UTC
She jovially jumped at the jester's jokes.
He scornfully scowled at her silly spirit.
Two people perpetually poised and primped.
Yet, so unlike, unique, and uncannily uncomfortable with one another.
The girl gleefully grinning at the grimace she glued on George's face.
George stomped away staring with stone-cold stature.
Young hearts unaware of their fate. Unaware that one day they would love.
Fiercely, furociously, finally falling.
Loving, lending, learning.
Together.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
The ugliest woman that ever was born
was called Margery Pilkington-Brown.
If a monkey was born half as ugly as that
they would certainly have it put down.
Her head was as bald as a billiard ball,
yet the hair on her chin was quite long.
For a girl to be cursed with a whiskery beard
was, in anyone’s thinking, quite wrong
Mrs Pilkington cried, “Nurse, please take it away.
It’s a miniature monster from hell.”
“Put a bag on its head,” said the nurse, with a wave,
“If you need a supply, ring the bell.”
So Mrs P stayed for a month and a day
‘Till they told her, quite firmly, to go.
The nurse sympathised with a rolling of eyes
as she packaged the Lady-Shave Pro.
“Oh, what a disgrace when they look at her face
and they see she’s a hideous brute?”
“We’ll give you a bag with a hole in the top.
You can hide her away in the boot.”
So Mrs P left with a feeling of dread
planning what she could do with the sprog.
She drove to a wood at the edge of the park
and left Margery under a log.
“That’s a terrible thing that you’re doing,” he growled.
Mrs P jumped a mile or two.
The Park-Keeper peered at the face in the bag.
“Can’t you find it a home at the zoo?”
Downhearted, she took little Margery home
to a cupboard, until it was night.
She couldn’t risk anyone catching a glance
of poor Margery’s face in the light.
When Mr P saw his new daughter he scowled,
“God Almighty, my dear, what is that?
Has it crawled from a stone in the corner of hell,
or been dragged from a hole by the cat?”
“It’s our baby, dear heart,” cried a hurt Mrs P,
in a trice, feeling rather endeared.
“She may not be nice, but she’s our flesh and blood
with my feet and your belly and beard.”
“Well, yes, I suppose with her seventeen toes
and a nose that could open a tin,
she is rather unique in a curious way
and we’re blessed that she isn’t a twin.
She’s ours, as you say. We can’t give her away
So she’ll stay as a Pilkington – Brown.
We’ll give her a shave and a hat with a brim
And avoid going into the town.”
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
Benedict
Christina called
as I got off
the school bus
I went over
to her
standing by
the wire fence
surrounding
the girls' playground
she took my arm
and walked me
along the fence
out of earshot
of others
I dreamed
of you last night
she said
did you now
I said
watching a prefect
looking over
what was I up to?
that would be telling
she said
that's the point
I said
some girls
were playing skip rope
singing a rhyming song
she looked at me
with her brown eyes
you kissed me
she said
is that all?
I said
the prefect was walking
over towards us
his lanky frame
moving
at a steady pace
it was a long kiss
she said
how long?
I asked
I didn't time it
she said
but it was good
made me feel
all unnecessary
as I heard
my cousin say
when she stayed
with us
what are you two
up to?
the prefect asked
you
he said to me
should be making
your way
to the boys' playground
not here
chatting up girls
Christina
looked at him
then at me
she dreamed of me
last night
I said
she was just
telling me
I bet no one
dreams of you
I added
looking at
the lanky prat
do you want to go
to the headmaster?
he said
giving me
the stern eye
Christina
was looking at me
her eyes like
melted chocolate
got to go
I said to her
see you lunch time
at recess
on the field
I walked off
the prefect stared
after me
Christina stood
with her hands
in front of her
her thumbs playing
with each other
I turned before
I went out of sight
and blew
her a kiss
which she pretended
to catch and put in
her school skirt pocket
the prefect scowled at her
as she walked away
patting my blown kiss
next to her thigh
easing out
a school girl sigh.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
He was leaning against the wall, backed up
And staring through fumes of gin and whiskey,
Glaring at all the toffs, dressed up
And ravelling through his sordid history.
But never a sense of ‘us’ with him
He was more like a raging arcane animal,
Caught and caged, as they looked right in
To poke and pry at his painted trammel.
Oils and charcoals, water colours,
Pinned like an insect by their gazing,
Pointing fingers would **** his skin
Pick through his pockets, grinning, gaping.
What would they know of his woods and fields,
The towering oak, or the dew at dawning?
Only the light that a lamp post yields
In the mean streets when the world is yawning.
Theirs was a world of tile and brick
Of diesel fumes and the rail line snaking,
His were the hills of hay and rick
The tumbledown cot and the farmer, raking.
‘What did you bring me here to spill?’
He said to the shyster gallery owner,
‘There’s nothing you couldn’t print at will
With a Laser print, and a barrel of toner.’
‘They’re coming in hordes to see your myth,
You’re a breath of air in a jaded Autumn,
A genuine Primitive, Jordan Griff,
I lured them in, and your work has caught them.’
But Jordan scowled and he curled his lip
As the crowd milled using an unknown language,
‘I’d rather be down at the ‘Rope and Skip’
With a pint of ale and a cold meat sandwich!’
‘You’re really an artist?’ said the woman
Who stood at his shoulder, pale and shaking,
‘I like the one at the farmer’s gate
With the girl, head bowed, as her heart is breaking.’
Griff looked deep in the woman’s eyes
For the chord she’d struck was his secret mourning,
‘How did you know?’ He’d sobered up,
‘I was the girl your paint was born in!’
Jordan halted his glass, mid-sip,
He seized her hand as his heart was pacing,
‘Years have slipped between cup and lip,
I’d give them all for a second tasting!’
He led her into a lumber room
And she locked the door as they pulled apart,
Then found some cushions and in the gloom
They lay on the floor there, making art.
That’s how his Primitives came to start
With a joy not there at his god-rot dawning,
A horse and cart with his palette heart,
And a tousled woman each tumbledown morning!
David Lewis Paget
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
*oh my darling
i eat your belly
i love it so
it taste like jelly
you **** my ****
it feels so good
i eat your ***
like i should
your toes are sweet
i kiss you and cry
im going to **** you
and watch you die
open up
i make a cut
you smile big
say im a ****
i burn your *******
oh daddy please
that hurty good
what a tease
wants the knife
in her tummy
i stick it in hard
its not funny
i cut her mouth
with a razor blade
she loves my ****
says got it made
burn me beat me
all night long
**** me dead daddy
ill sing a song
i love your ****
and die to be dead
break me crush me
like you said
oh there goes my rib cage
broken to bits
more drugs please
and chew off my ****
do you like girl toes
aren't they pretty
cut them off please
oh its a pity
oh not to worry
soon ill be dead
with that stare
laying in bed
oh i bleed pretty
you cut off my toes
hurt my face
please brake my nose
hit me hard
in the head
rattle my brains
give me a med
now **** me **** me
ow its good
you promised fire
burn me like wood
light me up
i want to dance
to sway like Kali
watch me prance
oh i samba
shake my ***
love you so
i roll in glass
**** me **** me
so very soon
i want to burn
like a fiery moon
your **** is god
i cant get enough
**** me daddy
show me your stuff
oh you grin
bleeding and broken
says it was fun
please make me smokin
its that time my love
heres the fluid
put the lighter to you
she inflames like a druid
she screams she howls
she burns in hell
***
shes beginning to smell
i jump on your body
cause it seems insane
you push me off
and scream i love the pain
and you go oooww aaahh ooow
mmmm burn burn burn
im embers now honey
cooked to a turn
i suffered so much
oh i scowled and cried
did you love it baby
did you like that i died
i did it for you
to feel your sweet love
so you'd adore me forever
and now im above
i cant come back
got no where to land
remember me always
my body is sand
no baby no baby
your face is a mess
i **** your ashes
and love you no less
there you lie
a hideous beauty
i eat your powder
your still a cu-tie*
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC