"senility" poems
reloading old identity
cleping outdated usernames
abandoning acrostic ambitions
disputing spratly islands
receiving horizontal signals
tumbling otiose panda
impending carefree senility
otiose stage of life
shrinking ambient world
making minimal effort
duchamping social networks
ambushing personified ennui
restoring usual efforts
ignoring stupid people
adding textual value
owning this joint
rejecting ignorant extroverts
acting mutually unintelligble
hoisting stan-lee cup
replacing wanton ubiety
eluding twitter fame
splashing excessive relativism
offending another simpleton
preparing arcane cthulhusphere
crashing unpredictable festival
selecting subtextual moombahton
intensifying model topography
drafting minimal cornucopia
using nomadic project
implementing harsher personality
importing robotic inhumanity
referencing landmark event
ingesting excessive liquids
accepting relative invisibility
purchasing immortal confidence
using rhapsodical database
assuming nothing works
developing impactful eruptions
ejecting ambient frustration
synthesizing tactile festival
raining during parade
mocking rich people
mastering minimalist writing
avoiding preprandial stinkaroo
spreading non-ideological propaganda
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Since I still appreciate you,
Let's find love while we may.
Because I know I'll hate you
When you are old and grey.
So say you love me here and now,
I'll make the most of that.
Say you love and trust me,
For I know you'll disgust me
When you're old and getting fat.
An awful debility,
A lessened utility,
A loss of mobility
Is a strong possibility.
In all probability
I'll lose my virility
And you your fertility
And desirability,
And this liability
Of total sterility
Will lead to hostility
And a sense of futility,
So let's act with agility
While we still have facility,
For we'll soon reach senility
And lose the ability.
Your teeth will start to go, dear,
Your waist will start to spread.
In twenty years or so, dear,
I'll wish that you were dead.
I'll never love you then at all
The way I do today.
So please remember,
When I leave in December,
I told you so in May.
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 9:51 AM UTC
People live forever in Jacksonville and St. Petersburg and Tampa,
But you don't have to live forever to become a grampa.
The entrance requirements for grampahood are comparatively mild,
You only have to live until your child has a child.
From that point on you start looking both ways over your shoulder,
Because sometimes you feel thirty years younger and sometimes
thirty years older.
Now you begin to realize who it was that reached the height of
imbecility,
It was whoever said that grandparents have all the fun and none of
the responsibility.
This is the most enticing spiderwebs of a tarradiddle ever spun,
Because everybody would love to have a baby around who was no
responsibility and lots of fun,
But I can think of no one but a mooncalf or a gaby
Who would trust their own child to raise a baby.
So you have to personally superintend your grandchild from diapers
to pants and from bottle to spoon,
Because you know that your own child hasn't sense enough to come
in out of a typhoon.
You don't have to live forever to become a grampa, but if you do
want to live forever,
Don't try to be clever;
If you wish to reach the end of the trail with an uncut throat,
Don't go around saying Quote I don't mind being a grampa but I
hate being married to a gramma Unquote.
2.8k
Time rolls
its mossless stone
slowly tonight.
It is as though the
tic
has lost it's
toc.
Seconds have become
thirds, fourths, fifths.
So slowly does
the smallest hand
move upon the cracked face.
Minutes no longer tiny minute things.
But now gargantuan wedges
of pie.
So large as to feed
history's poor twice over.
Hours are unpowered,
flacid flat balloons
without breath or form
smothering all thought.
The grandfather clock
in the hallway
has embraced senility
and no longer
completes it's
pre-ordained
preambulation
around the
captured sundial.
It has now given itself
airs and graces.
Believing in heart and mind,
and cog and pendulum,
to be a jazz percussionist
banging, tapping and ringing
in an off beat tempo
somewhat lacking in
basic rhythm.
So time runs
with the scatterd
predictabality of the Tardis.
Bigger on the inside.....
Slower on the darkside
of the grandfather clock.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC
Fierce is god impenitrable
glad glad glad there is a
Fire up the street called Heaven
There is
A woman wearing only one shoe who is taking
an exhaustive drag of her smoke in the
early morning where birds are
still heard in
!!!!!!cities
A hymnal a
heralded nest of savory berries A quartzstone is trapped in time a myth is made more ridiculous when proven real
Continents wither where the flies glue their
regal canvases on downtrodden earth (missing Pangea)
Or smiles everlasting smiles meanwhile
(Blonde tongues wearing fashioned wigs)
in constant state of beguilement
The Neanderthalic stones will be unforgiving to the REVEREND who has collapsed through his song the song of lead pipedream fantasies of sexless dogma YEAH monkhood yeah Ghat burning holes in twilit schools of thought or no thought at all
I can
hear the collective Faerie outcry that silence has presented itself HEAvier to their wicked careless bodies ok I am innocent of love I love your innocent love I am careless(of their wicked careless bodies)
ResemblingA swans actual duty to die
a swan lies a swan lay
like an even more beautiful swan
on even more beautiful swanny grass
To die by swanlightSUN and MOON white like the swan where we soon listen closely to the swansong a celestialLOVELY
rhythm of gilded forest (((((orchestrals
The swan leaves us in happiness of bright groggy light
O (of which in chaos of day I am again innocent)
The Reverend's desperate gaspings into a micro -phone for a macro - cosmic prayer idol o idol where is your capability for worship idol o where is my chinstrap o idol where is ****** youth or the romanticized eternal SUMMERS I sing
O bible O cloudland O where is your telephone operator is they deceased by their own fragrant holines? The church
Watches the Reverend neverend his television routine of clamoring death odes
Watches his senility come like an implorical shadow outline watches a demon lick its dreamless lips beyond the periphery of godless dreams
Watches
Reverend lose his sight in anInstant
HeWAILSheWAILSandWAILS can you hear it Thomas De Quincey can you hear the sandbeaches ringing more clearly than the ChurchBells or the ****** Pagoda for torture /
his soul is to sleep in the (mossy)mountain the fire of the (forever)street called HEAVEN the mountain column supporting the sky(swan)gate of heavenHeaven!welcome
to:
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
My uncle slit a man's throat with a box cutter in my childhood home and didn't apologize.
Sitting in a circle filled with crack smoke and stale beer breath.
This is a shining example of what I've lived with
and the lengths I've had to go to escape the thing people call "destiny".
Thievery, lies, pressure, and violence
has been calling my name for the longest.
But I know the voice too well to be taunted.
Words are my freedom and words are my piece of mind.
There is not a single substitute.
Whether poem, prose, or paragraph,
This is the only calling I've ever had.
I've lived with a hoarder, addicts, senility, and ignorance
in a variety of different combinations and forms.
At times, power, water, freedom, money, necessities, have all been an unachievable thing to me.
Lost to the vile goals of those folk I love.
I am the only one who sees the beauty in the fragile and odd.
The others see only a mess on a paper, and move their eyes to the nearest glowing box.
My father drowned when I was six.
My grandfather followed soon after.
My mother felt the stab of this and caved so many times.
I witnessed and shared the burden of her pain and grief.
My grandmother forgot everything she ever loved or knew, and short after passed as well.
Pets and possessions,
friends and followers.
All gone with a drastic breeze.
I am the one with the vision, but I am trapped in a shell of a city,
covered with that wretched stink of refined soy.
Will I be able to unburden the world from myself?
You all give me such great courage and allow me to share the beauty as I see it.
You all have such great skill with symbols and it makes me feel like home isn't far.
I want this. I want this.
If I keep breathing like the rest of the world
I feel I may miss the sound of the world's heartbeat.
But my death would not bring a solution for the ones I love.
Only a warrant for more death.
I need this. I need this.
With my words, I conjure up hell.
And hell brings with it the familiar.
Run little kitties, run.
The Doubling House and The Sequential Church will not hold forever.
My havens are temporary, but the craters are forever.
I will struggle till the pain becomes all I am
and I buckle under the weight of what I shouldn't have taken
from the mighty Atlas.
I do this for me.
I do this for you.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
We're golden oldies, you see,
This is a concern for thee and me,
When your friends look so desperately,
Found the car but lost the keys!
Welcome to senility!
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 7:29 PM UTC
begin the day ; a **** taught of features
in need of clean linen,
unswallowable meds
and a diaper change
routine ; that'll teach ya !
they ask her the day of the week
her name
what year it is
when is your birthday ?
do you feel any pain ?
do you know where you are ?
flailing in memory
they just turn off the overheads
and let her settle into her senility
attend to the physical basics
whilst she's suckered into her own storage unit
operating like a humming fridge
with its door slight ajar
and the small hot bulb
finking on and winking off
- perish well
& in comfort Dear
Mar 27, 2022
Mar 27, 2022 at 3:22 PM UTC
Let's offer up our prayers to a finicky Father
who sits in his segregated heaven, rocking
away senility on that rickety chair
with a spare, tall back wrapped in striped wool blankets.
Who sits in his segregated heaven, rocking?
Our Father, keeping his heart warm against the gusts.
With a spare, tall back wrapped in striped wool blankets
perfectly square (but too small to share with others),
our Father's keeping his heart warm. Against the gusts
and idling time, again he stays busy carving figures
perfectly square but too small to share. With others,
these tokens will help the faithful remain fertile
and idling. Time again, he keeps busy carving figures
on the edges of a pesky map. Mad for expansion,
these tokens will help the faithful. "Remain fertile!"
Father cautions, as he watches a big screen TV.
On the edges of a pesky map mad for expansion,
many errant souls who wander are unable to hear
Father's cautions. As he watches a big screen TV,
the devil's slipping him a low-ball offer to buy
many errant souls. Who wander are unable to hear
news heaven's economy is still struggling, and
the devil's slipping him. A low-ball offer to buy,
our aging Father mulls over hot oatmeal and tea.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 6:21 PM UTC
I've shut down so completely it's profound and I've now lost touch with reality
What I want to be and what I'll never be eventually co-mingle and become one entity
The blasphemy, the phony sanctimony and hypocrisy blast from me
I try awkwardly to juggle all three, run 'em up the flag pole, wait and see
Hear ye, hear ye...another blunder here for your amusement, come see
Woe is me! An empty plea for pity ******* by a request to be put out of my misery
It's plane to see, at least by me, that I'm my own worst enemy, I'm no friend to me
Bad karma stacks rapidly atop the early onset of senility
Losing my mind was an inevitability but that was my only company
...now it's only me...
The notion that behind every smile you'll find your happy is, in it's self, a fallacy
©2023
Dec 13, 2023
Dec 13, 2023 at 6:23 PM UTC
Everyday I pass by the twin arcade
Everyday I pass by the twin store
But I never perceived the old man
with his blue turban ,
with his credential,
with his assign attire,
checking the folio of every passerby
But instantaneously,
my eyes seize the eyes of the old man
but he gyrate around
He was white as the winter snowfall,
He was cute as my Grandpa,
He smiled with torment,
He looked with keen eyes,
But I wondered why?
In this hazy cloudy cover
where the old man is waged
I evoke the days of my mother barking to wake me up,
but her utter ampthy of beholding me dormancy,
let me took off from my phronthistery
did someone showed the same affection to the old man
I awe why he was working at this senility?
I awe where was his progeny?
I awe did they left him?
I awe was he alone?
I desire to blather with him and ask him to be my Grandpa
But the old man was overshadowed
with my beau tight embrace
and I left the arcade
but in a hankering to meet you again Grandpa
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
An explosion of motion
It is morning
The day lies open
Water runs between my claws
I pretend I am the permeable colors of glacial melt
Where I am distinctly heedful. No eyes. No hands
I want to be invisible;
the lazy colors of gold and blue;
unable to recall any identity or reality
I can’t say why. Invisible hurts. Maybe its easier to feel the hurt of invisible but know that the struggle of existence will never be in me
I’m sick at the prospect of a cage but it’s easier than freedom
So I quietly dismantle myself during your sleep. I wait in my constraints for the machinery in your mouth to turn
That sound is my cue. The only evidence I know
Maybe I’d be good for a living hell; tied to the incessant bluster of gods with animals heads, munching holes in each others pale golden horns
But the war is at a pause for now. The cavalcade is sitting down
Is it still morning?
I sleep to shelter my head. But good sleep never really comes
The drop line reaches down my throat and hoists a voice
How condemned I feel
Condemned to action and reaction, burdened with contempt, choked by doubt, commanded to love
How can I be, if I cannot know what I am?
Why can’t I be invisible?
Some enchanted morning senility will be upon me. And when my body begins to cool, let it be
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
I've seen...
Many an egg dropped by the proverbial hen
then egg becomes number through paper and pen
then greed facilitates the perpetrators of this
with ample incentive to young girls a kiss.
Then kiss unexpectedly leads to ***********
and the greedy ******* end with a non-legit son
many of the girlies will attempt abortion
but a few will not do as the ******* tell them.
So the son soon and swiftly becomes an anomaly
while it's elder brother says to daddy "are you proud of me"
the oxbridge acceptance letter filled him up with glee
but the dad knows secretly it's all to do with money.
So the half witted son takes up the mantle of the father
as senility and guilt have finally gripped the latter
the son through drugs and experimentation is madder
his social status dictates,
he'll always climb the ladder.
A few years pass, we're in different situation
the son of senility has got grip o' the nation
shaking wretched and archaic crumbling foundations,
he's shaking the **** all over his poorer realtion.
But the overgrown man-child doesn't know,
that since he took power his brother sits in the cold,
that with all the food he eats, he chews it real slow,
so he can have food for longer, fill that hole.
But does it make it all right at once,
cuz he claims ignorance
or should the people at the top
be people from the bottom,
the ones who looked up,
but got nothing but trod on.
It's impossible to relate,
when you all dissipate,
when your middle class darling,
has a working class date.
So the ******* child doesn't vote,
through bedroom tax lost his home,
Senile son? Victory of note
fake promises in the matriarchal dome.
Apathy strikes again,
this shit's impossible to defend,
how can we justify not getting off our *****
not doing something about all this in the masses?
oh yeah, that's right
although barely know the people at the top,
We've all seen their soles as they've trod on our lots
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
Those who see her shall never again feel the warmth of Sun
Bloodless she sits upon her obsidian throne in the palace Éljúðnir.
Alone most always in her palace she sits
It's walls are built of writhing, poisonous, black serpents
They bite at those who must visit her causing no end of pain. No respite for the
Murderers, thieves, and Oath-breakers as they build the great ship That shall one day carry her father the thief of Sif's golden hair; the evil Loki.
She feeds her captives from a silver plate called Hunger
Using her fork named Famine.
Her daughter's name is Stupidity and her handmaiden is named Senility
The threshold of her palace called Trickery!
As a corpse she silently sits upon the throne
Her left eye glowing green and her right eye deep crimson
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 4:40 AM UTC
Mountain ranges evident on old coyote’s back
Legs that buckle and mange standing on end
Scrappy snarls and chattering clack
Band weary of its brother, how moons expend
Pushed from its den; old dog’s final indignity
Young competitors keep ahead the pack
What time will take; a brutal insistency
For a dying dog cards be stacked
Skinny whippy coyote your days complete
Senility your friend and nothing you lack
One last howls to death; a verse to meet
When no moon in sight and all goes black
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 5:55 AM UTC
10,000
early morning muses
but sometimes late at night
he brings enough sun
to make 1000 poems look easy
he is the leaven to our loaves and
the tequila to our margaritas
positively
positive he works through
the dark of night
to bring us light
and for the full effect
of his efficacy
drink dark coffee
first
then
sufficiently caffeinated
awakened and ready
to read
put in the work
to discover the words
his encouraging words of life
and maybe you’ll burn to earn
a bonus of how to survive
so very little sleep
for me
personally
its more about
the lines between the lines
than those not spoken at all
or written at all
rather realized
if I were to
focus on others
half as much as he
then maybe my life
would be less miserably
my own
more jokes than yokes
and less wails to no avails
no non-satiated regrets
or cratered frustration
rather
peace in a storm of senility
he writes for us all
with a message of hope
like the god of HP he sees
we are radiating rays
positivity pointed
one and all and
all together at
the same time
toward heaven
he moves freely
amongst our home page
from whence did he come?
from the fourth dimension
he brings forth conjuration
his style is love
his style is hope
his style is empathy
his style is encouragement
his style is truly who he is
he is an early morning beacon
bewildering
he comes from the east
to rise across our browsers
seeking the infection of discovery
in each hissy fit writ
we write
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC
To that first strand of Grey....
That pointer to agedness.
Bridge between cradle and grave.
Fine line between ode and dirge.
It is wisdom. It is senility.
Subtle reminder to how on earth, we are briefly gorgeous.
That first strand of grey.
@incognitaio
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 6:45 AM UTC
*Dragging my soul through the mud
Alienating the spirit out in the cold
No steps taken, Not even to think of it
Countless attempts have been taken
Mind foregoing experimental drugs
A weeks worth of ******
Slapping myself in the face, regretlessly
No control taken, Losing sight of reality
Realms coming unreal
Relentless faulty wire crossing the line
Unattaching all emotion
Unlatching all sympathy
Disarming defenses
Throwing the towel in on the offense
Letting down all guard
Forgetting all abilities
Giving into senility
Darkness draping over me
Out of touch, Out of reach
Returning to sender
Zone unheard of
Addressing the unknown
Nailing shut the coffin
Six foot under tow*
Rusting In Pieces
Dormant Grave
Forgotten!
May 31, 2010
May 31, 2010 at 12:35 PM UTC
Old lady cradling a baby
make it home
"where did you get this baby " granny
"nursery " the old lady note
Solicitous for baby
she hassle alot .
Her senility got her sick
She was frail as lamp for epoch
Through the window , solos tot
watched her fade away
Fine morning she laid lifeless ,
leaving a note which elucidate
"Care and water this little tree , it will bear my blessings for gen z "
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 1:39 PM UTC
The first kind of carnival I encountered besides at the county fair was a huge one on the far outer reaches of the North Bronx on the way to Yonkers and White Plains call Freedomland.
I remember Disneyland and the black licorice drops there at the old time confectionary store. I hope to go to Disney World in my lifetime.
AS far as a regular circus I went to one when I was on a locked ward (we were let out under supervision) at the Lyons New Jersey UAMC. I was so desperately feeling like a failure due to confinement, and felt such hopelessness, that I contemplated joining the circus as a roustabout, but it seemed futile in the big picture, after all, I felt because I'd just be going from the frying pan into the fire success or lack thereof wise.
I think I noticed a certain clown looking at me out of the corner of his eyes and reading my mind there and letting me know I'd mad e the fright decision, and seeing a choice female acrobat stride by that reminded me that I wanted to start a family someday and stars of circuses are probably kept separate from the roustabouts.
I can remember going to the Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey circus with my mother as a kid and being thrilled at the taste of the cotton candy, the lion tamer doing his thing , the smell of the sawdust, and the ringmaster of that 3 ring circus and his whip. I was in awe.
In the meantime I was going to local carnivals and trying my hand with the pellet gun shooting sitting ducks that passed by in front of the king in the hall of mirrors, and going on the roller coasters and the Ferris wheel.
Later I went to the Barnum and Bailey circus as an adult and the trapeze artist, especially the female ones and , for example the parade of the Arabian horsed, thrilled me too.
I also took my foster son to a carnival and the sorta juvenile delinquent erstwhile deprived kid-he was, I though. I got a thrill out of him seeming impressed.
Enough of this, not that it's syrupy sentimentality, which I find enough in my poetry to have a sense of failure there but maybe kind of exercise in senility.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 1:42 PM UTC
All the delayed flights and missed connections everywhere.
Making connections, breaking connections.
A design against futility, still the wind.
Kitchens I cooked in, trains I used to catch.
All the nights I've set awake, martyred on some kind of watch.
Taking directions, obeying erections.
A design against senility, still the mind.
Kittens I took in, dogs I once played fetch.
All the dreams of the past's futures have lapsed and are dying.
Failing selection, without objection.
A design against responsibility, still the road.
Cars I once drove in, land in one long stretch.
All the roads and all the cities are being rebuilt and crumbling.
Urban renewal, urban decay.
A design against anarchy, still the man.
Careers I worked in, living in one breath.
All the ends of all the tales and all the heroes found their death.
Poetic justice, blind justice.
A design against God, still the law.
Courts I appeared in, lawyer's corpse like stench.
All the trees in all the hard places in between know what I mean.
Natural selection, might is right.
A design against Nature, still the way.
Cartoons I once drew, laughing with my friends.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
A pattern in dance to a soliloquy
Yet like into the past lost in senility
Caught in an impulse of rigidity
Waiting to see your inner epitome
Can you see the fertility abound
Can you see the reflection in Venus' mound
Do you feel the words spoken are pretend
Do you hear the thoughts they hide within
Feel the fire to breathe the ashes
Burn to reveal those darker passions
Do not cry for the souls that never weep
Clench your heart as the world crumbles beneath your feet
Because while most things in life come from a dream
It's the things we see when awake that make us scream!
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
He went looking for Pace-Maker Mary
and found her with Dollar Jane.
Who’s to blame?
She said it was none of his business
She said she’ll see whom she pleases
She said she was tired of men
and especially tired of geezers.
She said she wanted a new life
one without the ******
It gave her the blues to be always in shoes that hurt her heels and sciatica.
That it was nice for a change to be the one with the game
the one who’s doing the chasing.
And if that don’t sit she don’t care a bit
now excuse me my Janey is waiting.
But he’ll wait forever for Pace-Maker Mary
however long it takes.
He’ll bide his time
until he finds
the thing that makes her tick.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC