"simp" poems
don’t tell me “I love you” ~by Roxanne, for Cyrano~
<>
that’s a verse I’ve heard many too times before,
that’s a curse of low majesty, a quatrain too plain,
if that’s your best sally, retreat, say no more,
too simp verses, or ungolden silences, agents of dissatisfying pain
I need the best of your taste
the finest visions that you eyelids occlude,
make haste for my mouth grows exceedingly
impatient for the other senses to do their tandem wooing
slap only my face with the creature comforts others savor,
words of diamonds and pink pearls mined from your breast,
the bejeweled words that will decorate my evergreen,
that never dies, lest, unless and until,
you want my mortal affection suppressed
give me your linguistic promiscuity, wake me from the stupor
of ordinary, arouse me with thy tongue coiling, a bee sting delivery,
a wet poem that makes all my orifices!|offices weep, your mouth,
my souls recouper,
your wizardry bewitching,
answer my inquiry with unbounded festivity
then and after all, the plain simplicity of an “I love you,”
will be edged with sublimity, my mercies, your mercies
our jointed, sharp pointy, introverting, interlocking,
*our futures becoming
our pasts*
11:07am
19-9-30
<>
https://thenewgroup.org/production/cyrano/?gclid=Cj0KCQjwz8bsBRC6ARIsAEyNnvoENpdnWyqeUEwq0avNStgWCf4CocB1i239c2mHdNSFF8gOlWZtfjsaAls4EALw_wcB
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
I can do this too, when I'm not au naturel
And trying to beat all of your @sses with how well
I make the gentleman, how excellently I am the imp,
How swell I step, dancing, aside, how terribly I simp -
Sometimes catch me getting back and giving the barman a chance -
I heeded their call; I washed off the day, and stepped into a trance
Of raspberry, rose and sandalwood; I donned my blue and pink silk,
And my black boots, tights and blazer - She's got style; And in that ilk
I also painted my face, with blues, whites, pinks, blacks, golds
And it was late when I stepped out, and in the very holds
Of the night that a lady like I should find terrifying, but I walked
The quarter of an hour to the Silk Mill; talked
For something more like four or five,
Face sharp, hair artfully mad, alive
In every sense, aided by the fine cocktails in this student setting
I could enchant all in four languages, and I did, forgetting
For a bit that another one of my faces I believe to be repugnant:
Because it begs for attention; and my current, commanded it
Because I came expecting nothing, and asking nothing,
And I quite frankly didn't give a d@mn about much of anything,
But if I wasn't very much a part of the room, and very much she
Whom every boy needed to speak to, and would ideally keep the company
Of, if that wasn't I
Then every lie's a truth, and every truth, a lie.
Mar 20, 2022
Mar 20, 2022 at 11:15 AM UTC
~
who knows the definition of a poet?
~
*for my friend, S.Y,
who I will embrace with both hands,
both eyes, when he hands me a signed copy of a book
that answers the question*
weighty subjects deserve your best work,
expressions of affection and introspection,
need careful reflection, a proper set up for the
tumult inevitable when delving in the unopened recesses
where the answers kept
so, of course, the writing commences well after 1:00am,
when the darkness of night clarifies the process,
for I work by day but live by night,
when summoning up my one tool no one can take away,
the joy, the relief, the spectacular exultation of
rearranging the aleph bet in new ways,
when the quietude of reflection transports me
across the continents in visions of what will be
I don't know if I know the answer, perhaps, any answers,
but when this man demands
the ebb tides of soul to depart,
to make him stand alone on the shore of endings,
forcing him to acknowledge his reckonings,
lonely, only humanity and frailties
I hear a voice gruff growling and me laughing-
"cut to the chase, make your point, get out of people’s way"
so in your honor, this simp fool who asks questions
no human has any business, the answers knowing,
will one last stanza grant and give and
yours to keep,
and commence countdown waiting for that day of welcoming
*from the underground comes a chorus of voices,
in one voice but many languages, chanting:*
***all humans are poets
who acknowledge and freely confess that the
blood and stuff, the kisses and the touches of family and friends,
parent and child,
are the ***** and the egg,
the beginning and the circulation of the never ending,
the open entrance that penetrates the berm surrounding real life,
all these are the root and the stem and the blossoming,
of poetry writ large, for they who have these in their possess,
are surely by definition certainly
humans, poets***
~
5/14/17 2:05am
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
The young poetess^ writes:
*Sitting on the edge of brilliance,
that cuts my youthful pride to shreds,
are the verbal shards of bards,
poets, beyond my experience.
Expelling their lifeblood,
I can, but only,
place my hands upon
their open wounds
murmuring hopeful platitudes,
praying that their blood spilled,
is not their excellence drained,
their wisdom wasted and stained!*
The old hoary replies:
Wishful thirsty drinkers
from the cups of youth are we.
We 'presumed' ancient bards
have lived to regret the
burden of our accumulations,
the weightiness of our pages,
owning insights, steeped,
fermented, wine-to-vinegar,
spoiled by age, time-wasted.
Our words, product of visions
grown dim and simp,
under no duress,
we-eager confess!
Better poets were we,
when possessed of
blood hotter, skin smoother,
brow clearer, innocent of fear!
Your eager cuts run
zesty red and freely,
Ours, clotted ones,
anemic, yellowed from
the curse of the boundaries
of too much experience,
purchased pricey rules,
murderers of our uninhibited courage.
You cogitate with
passions unlined, unruled.
We shuffle, bemoan
our drizzling days,
waiting for relief,
and yet, rue
our inevitable conclusion.
We curse our fate, our slow dissolution.
You bless the opportunistic rising sun,
enervated by energies unbounded,
You animate for answers, solutions!
We sit caned and quiet, acidic,
damning Solomon and his caustic words -
There is nothing new under the sun.
Perhaps we know a word or two more than you.
Gladly we'd trade that for youthful hands
that pray, point and scribe, with the eagerness
that sets words upon paper of spirits enflamed!
Time, our master, has shred our writs to pieces,
yet, you young poetess, greet the morn, confident, saying
today I will give birth to the first of many, masterpieces.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
call me a simp
or maybe a wimp
but i'm so down bad
that i've gone mad
every second spent
in torment
thinking about you
and feeling blue
while in the back of my mind,
i know that you don't know
my existence.
Jan 11, 2025
Jan 11, 2025 at 10:20 PM UTC
my questioning,
directed at myself
and the answer simp,
not necessarily simpatico,
cause the answer is either
today, or never,
could be
both or n-either
yeah,
of that age,
when I awake
first two words are
******* again?
and
if I hurry,
one piecework,
one mo’ poem,
hurried,
may yet be
vented,
scurried,
aired out
or for
quick disposal
sad dispatch
one mo’
disgorged poem
within and withouted,
either side
of midnight
been gorging
on letters ever since
They fed me
sugared letters
& lemons
for breakfast
and the last twenty
sending them you
in a disembodied
softly softly
voice
no matter how
far your imaginary
ears are from me
Sunday AM 9:52 2/19/25
🥲
Jan 19, 2025
Jan 19, 2025 at 9:51 AM UTC
today,
walked the river arcade,
by the river~side.
same,
where, & when,
a decade earlier
and a laugh ago,
we performed
a daily differential calculus
of the distance to that line,
a watermark,
where my accidental drowning
would be insurance covered
don’t recall, if back then,
poetry writin’ was a good
a daily companion, or-even
a mere passing acquaintance
but went to
all-in-all-alone-freedom,
found riches,
yet still pressed in rags
of remorse, mourning surely,
until & still a
woman, or
three, rated me a
good looking edible,
even
if only didn't always dress
in black, head to toes, like an
extra cool new yorker, or an
attendee at my own fun~ereal
since those days,
gallons millions, zillions
of brackish seawater has flowed
out to sea as far as
England, Philippines, New Zealand,
whichever be connected to the
rain water of Adirondack mountains
flowing past East 57th Street,
my salty tears replenished,
but time changed the causation,
from oy to joy in simp terms
that rhymes…with me and yours
water woman water woman water
makes the heart capable of weeping
tears of joy,
oh! happy drowning
how do
you cross from woman to water,
that, now I walk on a
water bridge of loving
hard, steel & liquidity of
concrete, smooth roughness
became the path to loving living
Nov 21, 2024
Nov 21, 2024 at 7:13 AM UTC
I am…
A beat without a sound
A stray without a pound
A flower without the ground
A person without the noun
A girl who believes in men
A writer without a pen
A solider who's off to battle, without a country to defend
A moment without a stage
A book without a page
A innocent man who's on the run without a cop to start the chase
A verdict without a case
A puzzle without the maze
A smile of given defeat, without the sour face
Water without the vase
A crime without the trace
Blood that doesn't stain
A scar without the pain
Circus lion who isn't tamed
A man who's in the mirror...without looking the same
A color that's black and white
A blind man who can read and write
An image of your sunny day...that's an illusion of your figment night...
But wait!
I've come to an conclusion...
Im An ill mind not willing to listen, who's thoughts are reminiscing..about a past life when the good rules and his golden heart wasn't missing....even without his illusions...but I walk in a realist dream?...Is this life really...all an illusion?
-Dougie Simp #LostLoveWriter
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
I know nothing about
The semblances of affection,
Or the pretension of passion;
I only know one kind of love:
The one I can't part from,
I really cannot, I really don't not.
I suffer ultra extreme separation anxiety.
No psychotic weird stuff.
We don't want to be apart,
But we do, for years at times.
I'm not a simpering wimp,
Or a wimpering simp.
This love lasts a lifetime,
A sane lifetime.
It makes me want to live.
I'll succumb to prayer and hope,
Whatever to never have it end.
(I do mean never)
One love shouldn't have to subscribe
To the same cruel rules as everything
(I do mean everything)
Else.
Something serious is askew
When one love leaves and love
Lives on in the other.
Our love lived once,
But died twice.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
I miss your eyes on me,
And I can’t sleep,
Your voice in my head,
Unable to think,
The mist and the tears,
I can’t decipher between;
And another glass sits empty.
I’m blank of meaning
Without any ideas to say,
Just tell me if I’ve been pushed
From your mind already
Because the silence
Has taken me to an asylum,
And when I yell to the breeze against my face
Barely alive and disregarding speed limits,
I wonder if the lyrics I speak
Tear you to pieces
As they do me,
Since they speak truth better than my own.
When did you forget me?
It’s degrading to only know
By feeling,
And not by telling.
I can taste the sulfur
In the air tonight.
Why didn’t you warn me?
Apr 18, 2021
Apr 18, 2021 at 11:09 PM UTC
Once I feel a little comfort
I'll start blabbering about my dreams in progress
She's so supportive
thinks I'm a renaissance man
for all I find important
all the albums and paintings I've planned
Young da Vinci to a T
Little she know I don't dot my eyes
So I'm just sitting there
looking at a bland pole
with blurry vision
She's too great
so my childish totem's fade
cause all I want is you babe
Streaming binges on the couch
I sense the boredom bubbling up
So I start sifting through that rolodex
of perfect dates in my head
Walking through the naval museum
I still sense things are out of step
'cause a flawless Connery impression
just fell flat
I double down
beat the dead horse
of course, of course
So we sat down on the bench
across from the U.S.S. She don't give a ****
We talk about us
and I'm hit with a brick
"You used to wanna be a rock star
write books, teach college
and travel far
What ever happened to the "Will to Power"
you never used to shut up about
You're just content to be a hobbyist simp
that talks big and likes to hold my hand
I fear I'm holding you back
You've gotten so lazy since we met"
I wipe the brick from my face
and explain that my mind
is the only chains
that stopped me from doing those things
I was never even happy with those lofty dreams
She got me outta a dark place
and I'm content with just
strumming chords on my front porch
and exploring Western New York
So long as it's with someone more gorges than Ithaca
And you'll be my Penelope
She says she doesn't deserve me
but as she stares at Lake Erie
I know she means that I'm not the man she hoped I was
I used to rap about snatching power and holding gold
while beating myself like an opus dei catholic
just for being too lazy and not doing enough
I'm sorry you made me comfortable and happy enough
to live a modest life
(Oh good tidings of comfort and joy
comfort and joy)
Now I'm alone again
and it's opening day
Wreck myself with unachievable goals
just to reel them in
Get secure and balanced 'till
they'll throw me back into the mercury waves
I'm an ancient treasure in the making
don't excavate me.
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 6:55 PM UTC
Ill, my white lies lay
along black-truth's way,
attracting the stranded
eyes of idle watchers.
Dropped so indifferent
in hands that lead up
to one man's simp'ring god,
our antique worlds meet
and shake. His wired head
sits uncomfortably
near us, and spits words
by life left unspoken.
They feed the moon full
with dwindling day, to flesh
out love and make our steps
half-brothers, again.
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 8:19 AM UTC
Si lent
fig ures
un der a du vet
I do not know them
the pic ture is not clear e nough
I simp ly can't
i ma gine the breath
on a no ther one’s skin
crack le be tween fin gers
and so - called sparks
but I would dis cover
the wi res that con nect us
und er stand our net work
like a be guil ing lab y rinth
quick blink - touch es
qui et ly
crad le your name
as if it were
a snow flake
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Reclining ****
For a scribbler in that art magazine
“…bodiless heads, green horses and violet grass,
seaweed, shells and funguses...conventionally
arranged in the manner of Dali.”
-Evelyn Waugh, Put Out More Flags, pp. 31-32
Making messes is but poor huswifery
Tie-dyeing creativity into
A finger-painting school of assemblage
Asymbol’d: “Reclining **** with Pet Frog”
In praise of working people and, like, stuff -
Your comrade cleaners whom you claim to love
Could tell you what a simp you are. They won’t
Because they need their jobs, dear precious ****
So, disappear your selfies into your ‘phone -
The 1960’s are over and gone
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 3:46 PM UTC
Green shoots,
little shocks of brilliance
from mouths so oft distracted
tis a wonder they’re not more malnourished
the courage to give an opinion
on long dead white kings of literature
who speak Christ knows what but it ain’t English
is, as they themselves may say, lit
my tired soul has read the lines so oft
I feel peppered for all this,
so finding out Romeo is now a simp,
has the hot blood stirring again
May 7, 2021
May 7, 2021 at 2:36 PM UTC
I was known as the white knight
the king that could smite
a man that would defend all women
if an other man offended a women I would kick his head in
not literally
I could never do it really
but now they have changed my name
it is really a shame
I am now known as a simp
I could have been a ****
of all the e-girls
they are the only thing that I care about in this world
from start of belle
till she fell
but only if they are attractive
and I will wait till there boyfriend is inactive
that's when we come
but we don't do it for fun
we do it for the women
and also jimin
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 5:03 PM UTC
I used to think I knew what to think
Reading too many books and stuffing my opinions
Never having lived them
But then you'd meet me in my basement
And you coyly asked me how my day went
Shyly loving the attention
I'm tired of playing chump
Every time that you hook up
FOMO as God's playing favorites
From my place down in the pavement
I know that nice guys finish last
Chivalry's best left in the past
While you SIMP for all them
I'm a shmuck but a gentleman
I give you my coat
Hold you close
Provide you comfort when you're crying
Let you get drunk
Drive you home
Each time you break up with that guy again
I'd jump out the shower
Just to buy you flowers
When he forgets your birthday, he's no gentleman
You deserved better than him
Since we were 17 we were always such a team
Just like Buffy's Scoobies
or too many John Hughes movies
And over the years when we'd lose touch
I just wasn't friend enough
For both of us to keep up
With all our changing scenes
I hope you don't feel something missing
With your second husband and your children
You don't find a missing laugh
When you cant find that photograph
I was just a place and time
Best left only to my mind when you've forgotten me
The gentleman, your best friend
I'd still give you my coat
Off my back
In the middle of a snowstorm
I don't even know you now
I'd still pick you up when
your car breaks down
Deliver you safe home
From wherever you roam
I'd jump the next flight
If you call and say you need me
No matter how far we may be, I'm still your gentleman
Hug your husband, kiss your kids
You are still a piece of me and until my end
I'm your gentleman
I wish we were still friends
Some cliche about lost time
Another dumb story or bad rhyme
Insert lame joke here, my dear
Darker lines
Less and greyer hair,
Maybe I'm a little more distinguished
I got this far
Because you were there
I took too long to say I still care
I'm soaking towels every hour
to stop my burning bridges
and I am missing you
my friend
Signed, your gentleman
Jun 27, 2024
Jun 27, 2024 at 8:46 PM UTC
i'm ch _ o _ ck _ ing
^On ^It
the glass
lodged. in. my. chest.
you / need / some
' '' ''' time
you're not | ready |
For.
This.
yetmydarlingdearestlove
>ask >ing
this to
#stop
is like [[holding onto]] eels;
& trying to find brakes
is like trying ~to ~chew ~steel;
& i know you mean
the best sweetheart
& i-know-that-time
₩ill tell
but the be( space )tween
the }now{ & then
is
simp ly
£iving
h€ll
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 4:07 PM UTC
Drawing a real scene is hard
Remove details keep it simple
Scientific rules are complex
Reduce unknowns turn it simple
Life on earth is getting tougher
Forget excess, be more simple
Human relations are involved
You do better, being more simple
Express your thoughts effectively
Avoid wordiness it’s better simple
You have to work hard to achieve
What you needn’t if you were simp
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 12:42 AM UTC
Hopeless romantic is what I would call myself
Hopelessly falling in love
Hopelessly giving my heart away
Hopelessly giving you my all
Hopelessly a simp
Now I’m hopeless
Hopeless of the idea of romance
Hopeless of the idea of the one
Hopeless of the idea of not being lonely
Hopeless of the idea of falling in love
I hate it
I’m hopeless
What’s left in romance
What’s left in love
Pain
Sorrows
Endings
That’s love
An endless cycle of pain and hopelessness
Leaving you high and dry
Oh love
Why do you have to be so cruel
Why do you have to leave me in pieces
Leave me clueless
Leave me uncertain and broken
Leave me hopeless
Hopeless that I will find you again
Hopeless that I could fine someone to be romantic
So I guess I’m finally a hopeless romantic
It’s hopeless. Romance
Sep 19, 2024
Sep 19, 2024 at 2:52 PM UTC