"serf" poems
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands;
Soft in defiant laughter,
when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines
Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception;
Boast, not a breathe,
though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land—
A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand
and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring
Devours the crescent Moon
in big pink petals of bloom;
A garden so fertile
it could look pretty in wartime—
with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence;
(Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence
but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,
patient building of Spring Reign sure
as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is
(Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,
the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned
for the greenness of hope.
)May it never come, Be All The Same; (
be gentle, though whispering wind)
Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile,
carried by the Wasps and the Clouds
To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage,
illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign
fears,
as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—
Consume the years between Here and Now;
Watching from blank perch, among
the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.
Sing the branches of experience, to wake
in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms
of waking,
ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline—
Those Who Are Will Be
again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;
Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers
optimists and pessimists, toast to them
and their rarer player’s hands,
Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost
to fairer wearer’s air and land;
Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine
from disemboweled gourds
of their own divine—
Warped, in jowls of hungry fix,
no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.
I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.
I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.
I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.
I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.
I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.
I am a Citizen.
Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a **** a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;
A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.
Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,
I'm elastic.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:35 PM UTC
i.
Agone day's, I kneweth not amour' mine godly Apostle
I only understood fear, sorrow's, none outlook for tomorrow;
Though I kneweth, ourn creator wouldst send me a seraph
Twas I, was only a serf, I didn't not deserve a queen and a angel.
ii.
I never couldst discover where that secret treasure was hidden
I looked, and waited, and hoped, also hopeless on the find;
I wore mine heart on mine sleeve, waiting, waiting, none to be,
But now I do knoweth, Jehovah hadst his plan, thee: one in tan.
iii.
Yahweh tooketh away, all the substandard's and ourn past strife's
Just at his right moment, in his will, not ourn own, he made right;
He parted the sea's, and moonlit dream's, for me and thee lover
For me and thee queen, forever to be; eternally husband an wife.
©Brandon Nagley
©Earl jane nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
I saw you on the news again, aiming lies at civilians
You work like a serf to abhor the herd, which was merged by Lords to bore and encore, like a trap door in a dungeon.
What you earth and managed has got me famished, like the dense or pretentious, the meek and the senseless
And type endings to the finest that cry less, the winos that digress, or the shyest who digest
The plate which was purchased, paid to feed liars by the loudest were poisoned by us rebels running incense to the proudest.
Violently passive when distracted, these masses wreck havoc to have their heads handed to them
Sullen sweet to deter, you lure and reserve what is versed or inferred or implied or implored
Like the goodbyed or complied or the ladies waiting with lunacy lining their luxury gowns
Your disheveled and neat demanding appearance has me locked down with pirates and principle pilots
Dulled sick, they spy less, echo with insist, enlist and exist
As terrorists and presidents
Marked with malice making misfits that were mocked and disgraced, maced or laced by daydreams and magicians to assist beggars behind blueprints constructing islands
Which make slaves in to riots that capture journalists under wide tense
To suspend or impend doom sent hell bent by your priestess
You conduct chaos with fast hints, but quit slow when engaged with your conscience
Touched by divine tricks
Decided and destined, best in business
Prince of the wise man
Captain of the compassionate
Comrades with the crack heads singing anthems in kingdoms
We are heartbreakers painting bad graffiti
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
They crawl hands and knees!!!
Lacklustered fanatic's,
Groupies of needleshooter's and powder transits,
Their noses they wipe off fairied dust!!!
Their skin fragile and delirious!!!
A spoon to copper boil,
Eyeglasses to split the sun ,
Sticky fingers to stop and go..
Bloodied toast!!!
They cringe their pearlies,
And wobbled by to and fro waves,
Their here for today,
Gone for tomorrow!!!
A vein full of sorrows!!!
A hitch hiker of fertile roads,
Though,
Thy load leadeth one down to the pit!!
Within millipede's of Spit,
To drippeth the argot that slurreth them!!
Taketh thy hector out of thy baggage,
Thou serf of emptiness!!
For thy plentiness thou seeketh,
Lies beyond the ark,
Behind the purple shroud!!
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
The rhyme of the poet
Modulates the king's affairs,
Balance-loving nature
Made all things in pairs.
To every foot its antipode,
Each color with its counter glowed,
To every tone beat answering tones,
Higher or graver;
Flavor gladly blends with flavor;
Leaf answers leaf upon the bough,
And match the paired cotyledons.
Hands to hands, and feet to feet,
In one body grooms and brides;
Eldest rite, two married sides
In every mortal meet.
Light's far furnace shines,
Smelting ***** and bars,
Forging double stars,
Glittering twins and trines.
The animals are sick with love,
Lovesick with rhyme;
Each with all propitious Time
Into chorus wove.
Like the dancers' ordered band,
Thoughts come also hand in hand,
In equal couples mated,
Or else alternated,
Adding by their mutual gage
One to other health and age.
Solitary fancies go
Short-lived wandering to and fro,
Most like to bachelors,
Or an ungiven maid,
Not ancestors,
With no posterity to make the lie afraid,
Or keep truth undecayed.
Perfect paired as eagle's wings,
Justice is the rhyme of things;
Trade and counting use
The serf-same tuneful muse;
And Nemesis,
Who with even matches odd,
Who athwart space redresses
The partial wrong,
Fills the just period,
And finishes the song.
Subtle rhymes with ruin rife
Murmur in the house of life,
Sung by the Sisters as they spin;
In perfect time and measure, they
Build and unbuild our echoing clay,
As the two twilights of the day
Fold us music-drunken in.
2.2k
In a classroom neat as a pin
the sixth grade social studies class
discussed serfdom in western Europe.
Young voices decried
the inevitability of life for serfs. They
espoused running away from the manor,
could not conceive of a lack of options. One
young girl asked if a serf girl could marry
the lord, if the lord really loved her.
She had been sold on an idea of
equality. Marrying a serf, I told her,
would be like a farmer marrying
a cow from his herd. The concept
was beyond her. Of that I was glad.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
To some twas a majestic force,
Mysterious and beautiful,
Courageous and never full
From a vast, adventurous feast.
It roamed – a horn upon a horse,
A gallop one could never cull,
It thought itself invincible,
Yet to some it was a beast.
Its orchestra – a masterpiece
Assembled from around the Earth,
But labouring perfections birth
Was a harpist’s absent beat.
The pains of searching now could cease
As landing upon emerald berth,
The unicorn unearthed its serf
As sublimity filled that seat.
The harpist liked her homely scene,
Despite its audience so small.
She’d rather stay than leave it all
And face the unicorns stampede.
And so she suffered wrath obscene:
She was forced to attend the ball,
Waiting centuries for the call
To leave an orchestra based on greed.
In present day the harp is home,
Back to where it is meant to be,
Beauty played independently,
But the unicorn does not mourn,
For now both creatures often roam
To a ball outside of history
And play a peaceful melody:
“The Harpist and the Unicorn.”
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:34 AM UTC
Therein lies the fur, filled with running wind,
Milkweed in the scruff, the scent of wild-wood,
Some mystery-hearted forest where pulse begins.
Therein lies the Centaur, satyr, and god-disguised swan,
Ageless wonders prowled upon by an age-old Parthenon.
You broke your wolf’s tooth through those haunches of lore.
Therein lies the fur, filled with barking dust and dandelion war,
With a spine that stretched back to the she-wolf and city-birth,
The peeled nerve of a howl once tremored your Aurelian lips.
Therein lies the serf, hunter, fairer hand, and lord,
From wattles and daub, the wandering-sands of Saracen, or Crusader’s moor.
You kept the path beside to remind that instinct shines as the holiest earth.
Therein lies the fur, the warm, ungovernable peasant of sleep,
Ever prophetic in your skies by eyeshut-trace of the hunting moon,
Twitching at the day’s thousand faces, all asleep in themselves.
Therein lies the soldier, nurse, chaplain, and fell-prayer,
Mange-like war is the whimpering season with its flea-bitten welts of stars.
You struck blind but true at the throat of gas-hissing war.
Therein lies the fur, outracing the rain and the spout,
Nested with more birds and Autumn song than rain,
Your sleeping ear pooled like cool eaves of the barn.
I sing once more like a boy into your unfolded ear.
Listen always for my ancient, choral voice and your chores of play,
And race earback to the sun in the belly-grass of your free-eyed fields.
Leave your last paw mark, torn on the red clay of my hand.
You are forever wrapped in human touch, ageless and aged,
And if ever the dark in madder darkness encroaches,
Leave black eternity to my faithful eyes.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 1:23 PM UTC
I am concubine in another time
and another I am serf.
What purpose fate,
but
to make men wait
and to change the role
we play.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
You are the shining armour
that this knight is wrapped within
His shield against the elements
without which he could not win
You are are the strength within his heart
his courage and his pride
Which carry him to battle
like the noble steed he rides
Without you he is just a man
a lowly humble serf
But with your love inside him
this knight can rule the earth
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 10:40 PM UTC
The banker sits for his lunch. He sits with his superiors. They ask, “how do you?” He replies, “Good, and you sir?” After pleasantries comes food. Everyone ordered a salad. Food is picked at with dashes of chatter. After food comes business. Business among superiors. The banker sits quietly using his wasted acting talents on feigning interest. He twiddles thumbs, smacks gums, and adjusts weight from one flank to the other.
The bored banker nods conformatively. When addressed, his name varies from Tim to Tom to Jack. They were close it was Al. He fills in facts and numbers the optimates don’t care to recall themselves. It’s the only use he has at lunch. Those superior to the banker could have brought his report he made up for this occasion. But, there is an air of aristocracy when one has a serf accompany his master to a meeting of patricians. Like all courtly meetings, the barons and governors hide slights in compliments, cloak ambition in kindness. Use pens as daggers, dried ink as poison.
It’s not the banker’s place to notice such things, it is place to serve those who deserve his servitude. Every time he services his lordships, his tie gets tighter, his skin looser, and his bald spot increase its diameter.
The bored and defeated banker rises with the Bourgeoisie, clings to their heels, and gets the door. His lunch is over. His break is done. Back to his desk he retreats. Back to work. His time as a squire is done. Until his masters call upon him again. For lunch.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
When the King came down to the counting house and found all his money had gone
he ranted on as only Kings can in the Kingly way
for a year and a day,
which was surprising but only in that it reminded me of the pea green boat and the ***** cat
the loss of his dosh had nothing whatsoever to do with that.
The King was now potless
not a penny to spare
he couldn't sell knighthoods or forested woods,
he was as they say,'boracic lint'
skint
a pauper.
His Daughter,
the lady Jamille
cried a lot
for now she'd to deal with the peasantry and pleasantly so,
she had to learn how to grow,
cabbages,turnips and broad beans it seems she did well enough to feed the family with vegetables
she could stuff tomatoes with mince because quince was 'orf' the menu
she made ragout and that was a mess,spilled it all down her best lavender dress and she cried a lot more.
Being poor was not good and being knightless and single was worse,she was sure she'd been cursed by some well versed old witch who was concocting a spell to leave her quite naked,not even a stitch to her name,
I did mention her name was Jamille?
yes
Jamille learnt to steal and to lie and to cheat
a normal occupation
if you have to stand on your own two feet (in shoes which she stole)
She got caught in the end and in the courts of the justice was ordered to mend her ways.
The old King was ashamed but could hardly be blamed for this circumstance which caused him such grief
it was down to the thief who stole all of his money and the same thief pretends now to be posh,
well he would do with all of that dosh
but we know different don't we.
Clothes may make the man as much as any amount of money can but
it does not make you a king and vice versa,
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
doors are paved
buckets are heavy
fingers are glazed
pockets are ******
give and take
wife and man
pride and joy
hope and plan
air is toxic
back is failing
sleep is painful
bed is creaking
start or stop?
lows or highs?
smith or serf?
debt or worth?
car not starting
strap not locking
meds not working
wheels not stopping
Nov 23, 2021
Nov 23, 2021 at 12:17 AM UTC
I remember you from the dream
Face wet not with summer's sweat
When I awoke
Didn't think a man could cry
For the softness of a moon beam
Tomorrow's promises unmet
Death of hope
I'd see God in your eye
That day of autumn was to be
Farewell - unplanned and awkward
Two young lovers
Wrestling with goodbye
I tried to understand the need
To move life, career onward
But consoling prize
Under covers, soft thighs...
And you were wrought by accident
Tsar's serf and African queen
Triumphant, WE!
For the moment...
Then dire message from heaven sent
On lost souls' ether carried,
You were buried
And still my dreams you haunt
Post Script
I would like to dedicate this thought to Blaise Brown, poet, who passed away August 2, 2009. I regret he would only read the first two stanzas of the then unfinished work, and hope he would approve of the final form.
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 4:40 PM UTC
I made myself a promise but it didn’t last the morning
Submit to my illusions yet again forming patterns
Journey down the rabbit hole with safe return uncertain
Constantly I push the boundaries of introspection
I demand more from seen scenery, seek to enhance
For years my body went about and I its faithful shadow
Kept silent and obedient, thinking I was clever yet
Just a jester, a sleeping shackled servant, serf or slave
Life as a dreamwalker consumes imagination
Hollow and endless, a cardboard cutout with a background
Made of muddied shades of grey, filling up physical space
While behind my eyes I could be anywhere
In pursuing solitary silence, problematic fissure to foundation
Radically alters self perception creating warped identity
I linger as a ghost, heart beating cold venom
As I haunt the places where I could have made something of myself
A lifetime spent exploring the deepest psychological caverns
Has left me accustomed to dim lighting, shy and wary of the day
Evolution passing me by; I was hiding in my cave
Inventing fire and the wheel as the universe went digital
To emerge and join the societal stream, be swept up in the current
Would almost surely overwhelm me, leave me submerged and suffocating
I must swim to the surface, escape my dependence
Before the water freezes over, holding me tightly through the seasons
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 2:20 PM UTC
It was the running Roman Legionary,
Who hid from troops his own,
And spoke of evil men did do,
For it was why he ran alone.
It was the serf, an ex-soldier,
Who spoke against the sword;
Yet for these words which he did speak,
He earned the sword as his reward.
It was the humbled noble Lord,
Who wrote from tower's tall;
Against all endless border wars,
As it caused good men to fall.
It was the musketman in red,
Who stepped-on out of line;
Opting not to die so still,
As he said, "This life is mine."
It was the trenched machine-gunner,
Who chose his targets quick,
And wished for more than anything,
To cease this endless click.
It was the Spaniard,
Who fought Spain,
And knew the truth was dark;
Yet fought-back fists of fascist pride,
His mission now, to leave a mark.
It was the Frenchman,
Chased by fright,
Who scrambled for the shore;
Escaping from his bled homeland,
He died of bombs in Britain's war.
It was the prisoner of Korea's gore,
Who sat down with the Reds;
Speaking in appeasing awe,
He saved his severed head.
It was the man in Vietnam,
Who was forced the cross the sea;
To fight a war he wasn't for,
Against his will, he stood as free.
It was the Roman,
And the serf;
It was the noble Lord.
It was the musketman in red,
And the dead Spaniard,
Who fought for freedom,
Spoke for peace,
And dreamed to see with their own eyes,
The human mind, taught to be wise,
And cease these endless lies;
To end the "me's" and "mores" and "my's,"
And to remove mans dark disguise.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 7:43 PM UTC
You Gonna be Cursed, Ain't Nothing You Can Do...
*Dedicated to those who understand
That if you look at life askew,
Then your head will likely be
******* on straight and your
Poetry will set you free
And help me too, stay that way*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
**You are refrained, restrained,
Unconsciously, the wire inserted right thru
Your eyes when wide awake and
You sucker, oblivious, clueless are...**
When older you'll blah blah blah,
Understand, realize,
Cause you will be accursed
With cautionary tales,
Wisdom from cowardly fools,
Familiar with the stupor of life,
a/k/a, experience,
Symptom but one, over-caution.
With the caution that comes from
Stubbing your toe, losing your job oh no,
Getting ****** the night before before,
The most important day of whatever more,
Marrying the wrong woman cause,
You can't find the one with secret sauce
Enlivening your boredom with a secret whoredom
To anything but her, you, a not-so-secret serf.
Go the safe school,
Or pretend you're a rebel with pink streaks,
But that's b.s. too, self deluding
Real rebels only come one way,
Demeanor modest, keep your eyes on the
Quiet ones who run around happy when raining.
Cockeyed, squint, then you'll see it straight,
***** you, experience,
You take so much more than you give,
But most of us ***** don't know it till is
Gad **** way too late.
Preaching cause I am the fool
Biggest, sacrificed 30 years of misery
Afraid to apple cart, slept alone for decades,
Till I found the right one who before you,
Here, have embraced, repeatedly.
So when read your heartbreak hotel songs,
So weary-laden, no future foreseen,
Think of this, the only pain,
This heart break of failed love
Y'all write of, so oft,
Is the chiefest exception to this curse.
Live and love are one and the sane,
Love lose pain love again, dangerously,
Do it over and over, unstintingly,
Get experienced, but never cautious,
Fail, fail, never cease to be edgy.
**In this endless struggle stay involved,
No pause button, no recess,
For when the love accident happens,
There are no words I possess to
Adequate communicate,
The euphoria of having thrown caution
In the garbage can, next to its ******* cousin,
Experience.**
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
You have a poem;
Spring brings you poem.
I think Anthony must be your court's poet;
a serf turned grateful for his god-gave muse.
Genuflect he's to this Fürstin,
trip he does, too, over himself
getting you water
both up and down the stairs;
when presenting his poetry,
rebuts extended portension,
yes, pausing liking um-ing, tsk;
and all so when reaching for his dagger
to cut our darkness away,
does seem dance with shadows
like fire was a pomethean bane.
Still he gets it from his sheath,
brings it to her bloodless yet
dulled from the escaped swings
of misaimed blows into shrubs.
Wants me to call him Reichsritter.
I’d indulge him but he’d still
have to synthesize faith from
some avian metabolism,
(it’s known that poets’ health’s all
flat feet, weak livers, shallow lungs,
and consumptive coughs);
or, better yet, find knighthood
in the books read for your sake;
nay, I too must keep honest to you.
So does he, you know? thinks
sincerely that there’s the stuff of art
passed to him when he entertains you;
doesn’t think himself the lordship you insist,
thinks he’s groped and somehow scalded
himself upon the empyrean fire,
and bows recedes away feeling just
a bit impious.
*That’s it though! :
You’re a young seraphim took earthly shape,
faring the angelic order’s routine errand
to forget absolute, embrace listless hate,
then forget it again.*
Well, isn’t this where Anthony missteps?
cries wolf, burns midnight oil,
clutches his stomach in pain.
The ‘seraphim’ draft is just a wish
for your eternal life, please believe.
Every comet and season makes him
just as mouthful and excited.
A heart of love and head of art, tsk.
We can’t judge the heart
and the head
together can we?
Regardless,
a court poet essentially a jester,
pinned his poem
to my chest.
So, meine Fürstin,
you have a poem,
Spring has brought you a poem.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:44 AM UTC
The Queen of the Diamond,
she of beauty and grace.
she of poise and elegance,
she of ribbon and lace.
The King of the *****
he of joking and laughter
he of roughness and fun,
he of jacket and leather.
The Queen stood tall,
over her subjects, the
serfs of the schoolyard.
The Barons, Earls, and Counts,
alike tried to garner her favor.
All to no avail, as the Queen
was not interested in their advances.
Or in affairs of the heart altogether.
She was busy with her own lofty goals,
yet, how the countesses talked...
The King was once but a serf,
a simple, silly, joking jester.
But he had a way, and a manner,
an ability to please and to appease,
in ways the nobles could not.
However, all he really was
was a punchline, a tool for laughter.
He longed for more, and then more.
He desired importance, and status,
and not the derision of the clowns.
The Queen graced him with
her royal presence, one spare day.
With his jokes, and jests, and
his knightly sincerity, the King
managed to win her over.
In time, they made an alliance.
A partnership, an agreement,
sealed by a regal kiss. Together,
They won what they both desired.
in spite of what others conspired.
The Queen got some solace from
the nagging hand-maids, her fellow
nobles and others asking when she'd
find herself a sweet suitor, a man.
So that she could focus on her dreams.
The King finally earned respect,
the kind that comes from moving up.
No longer was he just another serf,
he could instead joke and upshow
the smug nobles of the royal court.
Yet as the seasons passed, they came to
realize that little had they in common.
The Queen was studious and stern,
The King was slack and slow at work.
They had fun, but little was earned.
Respect only went so far really,
and the King could feel it was forced,
and the Queen still had to put up with
questions of when they would be wed.
Their struggles were still present.
Camelot would not amaze much longer,
as the King and the Queen would go
their separate paths, amicably as could be.
The Queen realized that only she could
determine her own self-worth.
A lesson that rang true for the King,
as well. Self-respect mattered more,
than 'respect' from others, that can flit,
and flutter. And so, through each other,
The King and Queen got what they needed.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 1:11 AM UTC
I in fact
Did not rule the world
when I was 19.
I did not
Know everything.
I was not
The ruler of my own kingdom;
I was just a serf
In someone else’s.
I came out of Neverland
And knew I needed to grow up.
Because I was not the one
Who wouldn’t.
Life became
A learning experience
Rather than that
Which I’ve already conquered.
Secret spider solitaire
Behind the desk.
Discovering Heartache
And Heartburn.
Realizing I can’t love like I’m 19 anymore.
And I can’t eat like I’m 19 anymore either.
Lord of the Rings soundtrack
Just to remember
What hope sounds like.
Loving my bed
For engulfing me in a duvet
But hating it
For eyes that won’t sleep
Like
It’s laughing at me
While my exhausted body
Lays awake in paralyzing insomnia.
I think the most adult decision
I can make
is admitting
I want to escape with you
to a place
where we can both be 19 forever.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
Blossomed darkness unfolding
breeding death like gold wings
melting
burning hours like candles
in abandon
this is not a note left waiting-
that paper's turned black and crumbled
commitment flushed and taken
five months I wrote upon it
carved into that fallen tree
till winter's arson took
warmth, breath, and weakness
howling desire to the wind
a broken carriage flying
still strong enough to carry
sound,
or silence maybe
whichever rings loudest
bells of steel and stone
charred remains
my naked bones
my surviving frame
serf to stagnant violence
left to regrow a body
that can walk the long road home
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
- Stay away plagiarizers - (ß?)
and who the **** would want
to plagiarise you?! i'm guessing nobody,
let's become serf-like ignoble,
let's keep this capitalism afloat....
oh, got the feelings awry?
can't mix the Koran
with capitalism... someone's
bound to suffer with, or without
the Royce Rolls...
you better be awake
when testifying for Moroccans
as equivalent of Napoleon
taking a **** on the throne of thrones
and tongue waggle and **** to boot...
as the Led Zeppelin immigrant song,
i just keep conjuring Genghis Khan...
and we're done when the horde erects
a cranium pyramid of skulls at Baghdad....
we didn't come to these islands as *******
we came here as Williams...
the Muslims could teach donkeys a half trot
to what we were establishing,
and it wasn't pretty, we were disgruntled with
expectancy lost along the way...
the Muslims could teach them post-colonialism,
so they agreed, crafting a new India
and prayers for the Hijab preserved...
they teach me one more ************* time
i'll start preaching with agile pursuit, duping
their endeavours for an Ian Fleming novel and why
spies have no regard for a C.V.,
never mind the hope for a person who might provide
me a suicide vest:oh sure i'm tickling
the authorities... i want them to spy on me...
i want them to become paparazzi:
when the two parties mingle we get comparative swoons:
Lucifer and Icarus.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
The Spanish navy strong enough,
maybe too strong for their worth.
Led with the cross and then the sword.
Never questioning their Lord.
The infantry, the Tudor reign,
grabbing at what's there to gain,
As history repeats itself,
living as a helpless serf.
The Tribesman who once conquered all,
dying with the lions roar.
As history repeats itself,
nothing ever making sense.
The Christians, Jews,
Muslims, all,
each one shall forever fall.
Upon their blades,
those raised in hate,
Each one to their own sweet faith.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
Here I am;
King of all the lands,
Stripped from his throne
Thrown into the fields to work,
a serf of flesh and bone.
For no longer a deity,
Shall he ever be;
He's bound to live a peasant's life,
for an eternity.
Born the life of sound luxury;
A product of the Sun
His chariot of fire diminishes,
plunging to the ground.
He did his deed,
It couldn't be undone;
His insatiable need
His overwhelming greed,
consumed an immortal god.
All the jewels,
All the riches,
a man could ever own;
Everything was not enough
to turn his heart to gold.
*Day and night
lit by candlelight;*
a heart as cold as stone.
The king of man,
King of all the lands,
in the end dies alone.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC