"sevens" poems
I
A playing raging guitar
Of a kid with taboo thoughts
The first cigar
Who fired shots of dots...
Don’t care and
The revolt of caring
Be scared and
Be the scare!
The acquaint of survival
The wrath of revival
Is everywhere
Anywhere, not visible too
The wrath is the root of trouble
But the root of solution is not wrath
II
A desire so
Excessive,
Rapacious and
Overweening
Of wealth
A pursuit so
Excessive,
Rapacious and
Overweening
Of status
A need so
Excessive,
Rapacious and
Overweening
Of power
A greed so greedy
III
Slaves of virtual reality
To whom dictatorship is not real
To whom liberality, brutality and unreality
Is not real
But the ticking clock is not sloth
Tick-tock, Tick-tock
Men who walk toward sloth
Tick-tock, Tick-tock
'till old growth
Tick-tock
Loath
Tock
IV
Sit idly-by low self-esteem
Caused by lack of ******
Translated to scheme
And unfortunate dream
For achieving an alleged excellency
Or a lengthy and empty possession
What frenzy
And all for envy
V
Advertising
On bus stops
On train stops
On metro stops
On everything that stops
To make you stop
And start
Over-consumption
Over-indulgence
Over everything
Obesity!
Wealthy
Withholding from the needy
From what they really need
Advertising gluttony
VI
A feature of abstinence
Leads to a lack of extravagance
But there are no angels
Only fallen angels
Or angels about to fall
A feature of desire
Leads to an higher feature
Noisy or hushed
It can't be crushed
It's just fuel swallowed
A tool for lust
VII
Pride is divergent
A dreadfully enemy
Or an inside allied
Pride is divergent
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
across the Liverpool plains
the gas exploration
goes on without
being contained
drilling is never ending
holes sunk
which invariable
cause in the farming community
a disquieting funk
Santos
cares little
for the environment's
well being
its pipeline
must garner
all the gas
in the stream
landholders and those in the green party
have banded together
to protect the agricultural lands
from the rabid abuse
which the company
will wrought on
the water table
flora
and
fauna
they cry ****
as the company
exploits
the countryside
making of it
a harlot to be pillaged
and misused
the state government
is at sixes and sevens
so many competing
interests
must be listened to
should it give
Santos
permits
to
**** and plunder
or
will
it
allow
the
broad acres
to
continue
without sunder
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
I pity anyone visiting us with
A language besides English;
Who tries to understand the words
We like to use with relish.
We seem to say so many words
Just to keep our lips busy.
It occurs to me the so much of it
Has never graced a dictionary.
Upscaling, downsizing
Offloading the whole magilla
The whole nine yards, bottom liine
The big honcho, the whole enchilada
I was completely plussed and then
I had my self a hissy fit
I didn't know I had a flabber,
'Til someone went and gasted it.
Hanging out, kicking back
Into myself and whatever
***** it, man. I am like, wow.
And y'know, yodda yodda yodda.
Some mean kinda fudpucker
Betcher bippees, yabba dabba doo.
Mazoomas and headlights,
Totally hyped megabitch, too.
Talkin' about 'sup bro
Stufflike windas and winders.
Jammin and gittin widdit
And sumpinbout pillas and pillers.
So, I goes and he goes,
And I'm all jazzed and by golly.
It really rocks, rad to the max
Get down to some serious party.
Sixes an sevens, p's and q's
What's your point? Get real!
It's pretty much a ******
So, what's the big deal?
Too much, I mean it's tough,
And stuff, and really far out, man.
Twenty three skiddo old bean.
Just a flash in the pan.
It ***** It blows, It bites, big time
A wicked righteous mindfuck.
Get jiggy with it. Kiss my crank;
Slob my **** Lord Love-a-duck.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
Hands tied
Blind folded
And in pain
He sat there
As she explained
Explained to him
The rules of the game
*“Every day I’ll cut off one of your fingers,
And you’ll count back
From one thousand by sevens.”*
Going through her drawer
Of clampers and tweezers and scissors
She said
“Now let us, rehearse?”
She took out one of her knives
And oh so calmly
Chopped off one of his fingers
Asked “What’s one thousand minus seven?”
He couldn’t hear her over his own scream
She asked again
“What’s one thousand minus seven?”
“Nine hundred…nine hundred and ninety three.”
*“Good! It isn’t that hard you see?
Now I’ll be back tomorrow
Oh, and this is just an experiment
In ten days, we’ll see what you become.”*
He sat there crying in agony
Wishing tomorrow never comes
But it did, and he counted
“Nine hundred eighty six.”
*“Do you know why I’m making you count?
It’s a trick.
I’ll tell you about it in the end.
Don’t bother trying to figure it out, you won’t.
So just keep counting till then.”*
Days went by
And he was counting
“Nine seventy nine.” “Nine seventy two.”
As he was screaming and shouting
He lost all hope of freedom
At “Nine sixty five.”
Now the only freedom for him, was to die.
After ten long days
He finally knew what it was about
At “Nine hundred and thirty.”
She finally let it out
Unashamed as she explained
*“You see?”
It was all just to keep you sane."*
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
I am the monarch of the Sea,
The ruler of the Queen's Navee,--
When at anchor here I ride,
My ***** swells with pride,
And I snap my fingers at a foeman's taunts.
And so do his sisters, and his cousins, and his aunts
His sisters and his cousins!
Whom he reckons by the dozens,
And his aunts!
'I am the lowliest tar
That sails the water.
And you, proud maiden, are
My captain's daughter.'
'Refrain, audacious tar.
Your suit from pressing;
Remember what you are,
And whom addressing.'
For I am called Little Buttercup,--dear Little Buttercup,
Though I never could tell why;
But still I'm called Buttercup,--poor Little Buttercup,
Sweet Little Buttercup I!
Fair moon, to thee I sing
Bright regent of the heavens;
Say, why is every thing
Either at sixes or at sevens!
He is an Englishman!
For he himself has said it,
And it's greatly to his credit
That he is an Englishman.
3.4k
One shot two shots three shots four
Five shots six shots seven shots floor
Tiny bubbles in my whiskey
makes me happy makes me feel frisky
seven and sevens on the rocks or sours
whiskey has some magical powers
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 2:20 PM UTC
"In order to achieve success, you need a little luck"
While true for some, I do believe
That as roots grow down, we grow up
Roots may not stick out
In the eye of the beholder,
But they allow the fruit to sprout
And make branches that stand shoulder to shoulder
Dig in deep where none can see
Your roots are what will reign you
And when you're finally a tree
Remember what sustains you
Success is not a four-leafed clover
Or three sevens in a row
It's digging over and over and over
Then refusing to let go
It's choosing soil and sticking to it
No matter what may come
It's built by sweat; it's built by grit...
And a healthy amount of sun
🌞︎
Apr 27, 2021
Apr 27, 2021 at 10:46 PM UTC
Chances!
Faith in an empty space.
Blazing maybe,
After a perfect kiss.
Loving perhaps.
Given half chances.
After gone issues.
Spent like chocolate pennies,impractical.
In wild romances.
Chances are wishes and kisses are dreams.
Nothing at all is what we perceive.
Chances are odd.
Not even the evens.
Dressed up to the nines, but only find sevens
Where nothing else matches.
When nothing else matters
In the sentiment from the diligent delicacy.
As only women bleed.
****** tears bless face.
Enigmatic smile retained!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 5:40 PM UTC
Argus was the only thing I could remember,
though I knew it was December.
The images before were only white noise.
Ringing in the temples.
Something new was implanted in my thoughts.
Now I have a watchful mission,
to keep my eyes up towards
the deep blue heavens.
But before me,
a series of sevens are written on the wall,
and “Fizbin” is flashing before my eyes.
I started my vexing fall
to the depths of inside my mind.
The flesh that holds our thoughts
is hardly safe from peeping voyeurs.
But I fell and I fell,
then I reached my destination.
Now my beckoning grasp for oxygen
leaves me suffocated.
And I lie still awaiting orders.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
buy me on the black market like the instability I am.
watch me hurtle through negative space backwards,
the planet-wide catastrophe of a sun-sized storm in me.
Call me Carbon-14.
it’s the latest piece of my galaxy-sized identity, another chemical
small enough to wage nuclear war.
you’re witnessing my radioactive decay,
the deterioration of everything I used to be into
everything I might be,
a kind of reaction that happens when one of my ‘downs’
becomes an ‘up,’
no aces up my sleeves or full houses of face cards in spades,
but I’ve got straight sevens,
protons neutrons electrons, carbon to nitrogen.
beta decay, the mass production of passive procrastination;
second in command, sidekick sidetracking heroes.
Call me Nitrogen standard 14.
watch me decay into the air that you breathe,
seventh most common gas in the Milky Way galaxy,
keeping things fresh and stainless like my steel armor,
try and make me combust but I’m fireproof, bulletproof,
balanced and on my toes in a defensive position,
fists raised for the fight that you’re going to put up.
my axis is more stable than yours. step into the rings of saturn,
ring the bells to start the rounds, champion takes home the stars,
wraps orion’s belt around their waist and buckles it tight with nuclear waste.
everyone loves an underdog story, but only when they know,
positively, that the underdog will win.
with you and me, it’s a 50/50 on who exactly has the upper hand
and who exactly is going to win, but I’ll make bets with the elements around me,
the carbon that I used to be hashing out 20’s and oxygen
claiming she’s not one for gambling.
baby, you’re in my lungs, you’re in my corner of the ring.
she’ll slip in a 50 like my chances, and I’ll pretend that I don’t notice.
phosphorus is too fiery to root for me,
he’s more of a heavyweight believer than me.
Call me contagious
when my knuckles bloom across your jaw and knock away
all of your sensibility, stability, bruises like moons
as the mirror shatters every reflection of who I used to be.
Call me Carbon-14, but know that I am radioactive,
actively changing, reigning champion of breaking perceptions,
and you’re just the impression of the death that I’m carbon-dating.
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
Today is the third Day
Even as everyday is Sabbath
When the Son rose, the world
received the promised Ghost
First of firstfruit blessed
day after the Seven
when it was still dark
And the kingdom came
day after Seven Sevens
yet hidden to this day
For a week, Israel wandered
For a week, bread is unleavened
Evening of the Seventh approaches, fast
But time shall divide, till not one is lost
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 4:12 AM UTC
Anybody etches the longwave, tadpole lyrical,
and its a poem (woa- teakettle, tweaker)
Satellite poem, thunder poem, ******** poem.
Sevens sluttiest angel writes a eulogy so beautiful that we give her the title of funeral director.
We just give it away. (Its still only a eulogy)
I have ten toes and ten fingers. Ive counted on them. I wrote a poem about getting
a bikini wax, and its still only a poem. A joke. Only tadpole lyrical. I wish it had a
revolutionary hermit to choke it with fingers that taste like black pepper and motor oil,
and then to rake its fall crumbles into ruffles,
and then all aboard the sci-fi fantasy. /Radiant,
radio the masses, raffia slipping, I got the zipper of my winter coat stuck in orbit, you sea/Ive got a poem to
write about synthetic jungles deep underneath our cities, lush with fiber-optic
wire, you say. Air rich, the mountain.
Find yourselves in dungenous traps: dead-blue thou art.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
Heavy-handed-slit-lidded, I’m casting those bones
- didn’t play my game as close-chested as I should have, though –
And now I’m throwing with higher stakes than I’d known prior,
starting to regret the forced nonchalance of trying to “keep cool.”
Cast and weighted as I could,
but don’t watch: I’m blind to the hustling pit and
eyes-dimmed of hope-glimmer, I’m resigned against
double-sevens and sacred fourteens, anticipating instead
the triple-ones and maybe solo-fours of feigned failure
- they’re the usual roll, anyway, but I’m standing, moving, gone –
I can’t watch this.
Black/whites give rise to new metrics of haste,
the cubes bouncing and dancing on damnation,
and as the headsman’s axe falls, the die settle:
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 12:23 PM UTC
Birds like airplanes like crosses in the sky
Give me strength and weakness at the same time
The trees a loft for the first realm of heaven
A grid of sixes beneath the mighty sevens
He was the firstborn of every creature
And the last of all the great teachers
Thirst for his word, cleansed by his blood
Rise out of the ashes like a lotus in the mud
Glorification means being ready to die
To submit to the rainbow throne on high
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
.
I play my guitar,
now crying in sevens
a cold vacant morning
with rain on the ground
Sorrowful chords,
on the strings of emotion
in three quarter tear drops
where sadness is bound
*And the storm clouds they form
on the edge of tomorrow
with thoughts ever yearning
for your melodies
dreaming of yesterdays
caught in the feedback,
out of tune longings
in lost harmonies*
Breathing in silence
of fret seperations
seeking a songlist
of lyrics unfound
A chill strums my heart,
sitting empty and hollow
I play my guitar
and there isn’t a sound
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 7:11 PM UTC
This routine moon
Spells my doom
When it's a dragon's tail
Of a day that's failed
Like the rays that bailed
My time turned stale
When the moon kept appearing
Like the echoes I'm hearing
When I wake in the morning
To see the same plot forming
I try to escape back to sleep
For the repetition makes me weep
And curse the indifferent heavens
While waiting on my lucky sevens
To get me out of a life so mundane
I feel the constant need to switch lanes
But the routine moon haunts from above
When the routine life is missing all love
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 12:47 AM UTC
Circling Earth circling Sun
Circling Moon circling Earth
Days cycling within Months
Months cycling within Years
Wheel within wheel within wheel
Sphere within sphere within sphere
And a day is a day in every sphere
Their shadows of which on Earth
As Days, Months, and, Years
Life's inescapable rhythm ingrained
In Man, Beasts, Bugs, and Herbs
But only in Man do we count
In joy and sorrow we feel it passed
Fearful and hopeful all in ignorance
For Time's beyond Man's wisdom
Though they speak, a threefold echo
Each revealing, each foreshadowing
For on Earth as it is in Heaven
Yet Wonderful as it is, it shall pass
We know, for all Earth's given a Sign
A count, an unnatural cycle of Sevens
Of Seven Days, Months, and Years
The Seventh of Each, is a Rest
An Eternal Rest, An Everlasting Peace
Pondering What is Time, the Master of Time
Pointed to the Sabbath, and Ezekiel's Wheels
Sep 1, 2024
Sep 1, 2024 at 11:17 PM UTC
Its Tuesday,
You turn off your movie,
Ready to get to bed.
You wonder what time it way be,
And suddenly, you regret your movie watching spree.
Five minutes to midnight.
You panic,
Remembering that gigantic,
Test you have the next morning.
You scramble to put your laptop away,
Trying not to crumble your essay,
Into your book bag with the rest of your school things.
You lie under your cover,
Only to discover,
It is 4 minutes till midnight.
You close your eyes,
Only seeing the lies,
You told about going to sleep hours before.
You toss and turn.
Realizing you may never be able to adjourn,
You movie night brain.
Your eyes wonder off,
What they see makes you cough.
3 more minutes till midnight.
You gasp,
Just wishing you would just clasp,
a sweet visit to dream land.
You then hear the loud thunder,
And start to wonder. . .
Is it giants?
Stomping angrily from the heavens?
Or dancing with glee in groups of sevens?
And then, as you think,
You suddenly need a drink!
You get out bed,
accidentally hitting your head!
You grab a drink from the kitchen,
Scooping up your kitten,
As you go back upstairs.
You spot the clock,
You feel as if you need to knock,
on wood as it is
1 minute to midnight.
You crawl back into bed,
listening to you kittens purring,
You feel the fur ball stirring,
trying to get comfortable.
The giants above quieting down,
You see no reason to frown.
You close your eyes,
and take a deep breath.
You did not get a visit from death,
But you did get to sleep,
Just as your clock hit,
Midnight.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
The color of Vegas
Is the gradient of a fading sunset
The color of Vegas
Is neon signs and crackling smiles
The color of Vegas
Is grey smoke and three golden sevens
The color of Vegas
Is overpriced steak and wet sand
Today
The color of Vegas
Is broken teeth
And
Grasping at a lover’s sleeve
And
Tears stained red
And
Flashes of blinding sound
And
Terror and screams
Today
The color of Vegas
Is splashing in the streets
The color of Vegas
Is the color of you and me
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 7:27 PM UTC
“Can you state your emergency?”
“There’s been a lung collision.”
He’s stealing your breath, darling I can’t feel your lungs
What an aberration, forced to bleed the river of an emotion
You were never taught to feel growing up
I think nobody told you how to feel a colour so hard
Crimson on your neck, on your chest
But I cannot find a wound
Your breath feels like knives
But it’s funny, you’re dying
You’re trying to tell me something
It sounds like the kind of thing you would say right at sunset
Slurring your sevens like you have mints on your tongue
But you are only gasping for air
Marble gazes
Your eyes are lolling back
They are the same eyes that have cut through me
The same eyes I’ve always thought were beautiful
When you were sad
You are weak and you are failing
Completely unlike the times
You would walk in like a sandstorm
No less powerful than a serpent
Beautiful
Now you are trying to speak
“Feels like a fishbone dislodged in my lungs”
And you laugh
You are laughing and you are dying
And this night still feels like day
I tried scraping out the difference
Between guilt and self-loathe
But the answer only lies on the blade of this knife
Maybe I could tell you I don’t know what I did with it
The reason we are not sure from which wound
This blood is seeping from
It wasn't just a lung collision
It was the explosion of a galaxy in your chest
When your ribs bent and cracked
Now they are broken, dust
You are breathing in rust
But it does not matter because you are dying
In the distance there is the sound of sirens
They are coming and they might be far too late.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
Maureen the mean lottery playing machine
when I see her I mutter something obsene.
sometimes it's seven am on a Saturday morning
and she shows up with no warning.
"ill take a three number on the daily,
I could call her a loser and she can just pay me
behind her there is always a line
and when she buys donuts that's a bad sign
because she's always camping out in her car
And she never goes very far
when she comes back in I can feel my heart sinking
she's my reason to maybe start drinking
"I really have to go shopping"
but not before dropping
more money on tickets then I make all week
because fortune is what she seeks
she smokes basics but only the hard packs
when she hits the million I hope she doesn't have a heart attack
"these tickets are terrible." she keeps playing
There's a disconnect between what she's saying
and what she does
but that's because
she has a terrible affliction
a gambling addiction
"two brown cash two silver sevens and one golden spin
the odds are stacked against her so she can't win
maybe she can't see
what it looks like to me
she's blinded by a tiny prospect of glory
but sadly this is just one telling of a popular story
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
__12
• •
• •
|
9 «——— >§< ———» 3
• •
• •
6__
_“Struck is the hour from its ivory tower,
At sixes and sevens, the stars in their heavens,
As minute hands dance at twilight's advance,
To the cadence of time, the archangel’s chime;
Listen closely for me at a quarter to thee,
‘Twixt the tick and the tock of grandpapa’s clock,
Unquicken thine pace, for run is the race,
Hear the pendulum lock, ziccoty, diccoty, dock._”
Sep 23, 2020
Sep 23, 2020 at 4:55 PM UTC
in the surveillance of our story, 850 seconds perhaps, in glorified memory,
little jews open their eyes amongst the flaming sculptural spire
and the third of her name, Jerusalem, (is it him?)
(artistic was her surname)
unfortunately, her ID, consumed by torch & flame (.........)
another mourning, another brown, & soggy & tasteless ******* day
in which to despair at the state of her very purposeful Occidental ways
surrounded by fake patriotism & fourteenths & sevens & May
contrast the Marseillaise's rightful sudden death
[ violet haze ]
the saddened by the tragedy
have more to lose at stake
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 8:13 AM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
"O my dearest,
darling, bijou,
*born the silver
worker's daughter*,
"*how so fortunate
mine eyes
to witness thine
palatial wonder*!
"Mine pleasure t'*would
to take hold and
to pick the fruits
among your vine*—
"*the shyest heart
of rose hips what
has pewter cruxes
bold t'shine*!
"*And as eyes and
I pay credit
to a distent,
nearing nimbus*..
"These gem'*nate
tongues b'twine as
oaken staves—
the Brav'ra Lingus*!"
(..she responds,)
*"Mine auburn falls
for thee*, my dove,
but thy fervence, *once
to mine*, abates?"**
"Quite, my dear..
"tho, *ginger trapped
in tantric bond
what's sweetness*, *rare
n'a boon*, belates!"
*"..well*, *then
please use a ******
she said*.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
Can you tell me what true love is like?
Like gold spun into silk?
Or maybe it’s be just like,
A perfect glass of milk.
Perhaps, like a beautiful field,
Admired from afar.
Or instead, a road with no sign to yield;
A song on in your car?
Tear drops that will never fall;
A child that can’t stay still?
A dog that has a rubber ball,
Or a fire you’d never ****
An angel spotted near the Heavens,
Or a devil far below.
A jackpot; three sevens?
Bare feet on icy snow?
Can you tell me what true love is like?
Is it painful? Is it nice?
Please, tell me what true love is like.
For I fear its grip is upon me like a vice.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC