"simpering" poems
They have spent their
content of simpering,
holding their lips this
and that way, winding
the lines between
their brows. Old folks
allow their bellies to jiggle like slow
tamborines.
The hollers
rise up and spill
over any way they want.
When old folks laugh, they free the world.
They turn slowly, slyly knowing
the best and the worst
of remembering.
Saliva glistens in
the corners of their mouths,
their heads wobble
on brittle necks, but
their laps
are filled with memories.
When old folks laugh, they consider the promise
of dear painless death, and generously
forgive life for happening
to them.
28k
Those that are complacently designed
By the simpering vanities
of a domesticated world
rarely find the peace of mind
of which we all strive
because their materialistic
beliefs constrain them
in pools of normality
Drowning them in the pressures of society
and hanging them out to dry
in downloaded photos
that never fade
our lives are all dictated
by the subconscious influence
of one another
thus our souls
are irrefutably intertwined
locked together in endless struggle
mind against mind.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
"What are you up to?" his simple text said
"Just eating cereal and laying in bed."
"What if I was with you." He responded with ease, "I guess I'd get more cereal if i please" and that's when he said it, that simpering lad, that stupid response that makes us all mad.
My mind filled with dread,with a twist in my gut,
I picked up my phone then read "Haha,then what ;)"
"And then what?!" Shocked by his assumptious pleas,
"Leave me alone, I'm begging you please"
And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, he muttered those three dreaded words. Yes, I kid you not. That little *****
I opened his message that read "pic 4 pic?"
The I retorted: "No do not send your unsolicited 'pics', I can surely see past your little tricks."
And that's when things took an alarming switch
The boy with the wounded ego replied, "You're just an ungrateful *****
The very next morning, the boy put on his fedora and let out with a sign, "Why does no one like me? I am such a nice guy"
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
You woke me in the thin dawn.
Like a riot of rain in a bleached dry summer.
small green shreds of shrub sprang from my heart
as tumbling birdsong might litter the long pale sky.
your voice came drifting through the shallow line
And I let the sound seep like a soft assault on my senses.
I hear the words and picture your lips
Folding around the consonants like a dance.
I hear your breath carry the words and taste the phrases
That linger on your tongue as if to speak them in a kiss
These words that spin this cloth of gold in whispered utterings
This silken tease with a wild sprinkle of kisses and anatomy.
And would my words soften your eye and entice your body
With fevered adventures seeking to be sated with a touch?
Could you taste the blessings erupting from my tongue?
Would you ache inside far beneath the longings of the flesh?
It seems that every cell is sighing a simpering listless want
to be captured by the haunting breath of a lover’s call.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
The coffee is on
It won’t stop simpering
The mugs are jingling
The sugar spoon is glistening
The creamer is singing
Hello, come make your morning Joe
Hurry on now
You’re not paying for this show
Dec 21, 2020
Dec 21, 2020 at 10:04 AM UTC
You pose and pout,
Seduction by superficial sauciness.
You tell me of your day
With that simpering voice,
Raising each last word
Long and loud.
You show me your flash cars,
Your sumptuous wardrobe
And who knows what else?
You and your kin call yourselves “Influencers” –
A great word,
But all you do is make people:
People who have grafted long and hard
For a little spare cash,
Go buy things they
Do not really need.
Right Said Fred was Right:
The global catwalk
Is a sham.
I too would love to be an “Influencer”,
Such a fine word,
But I would be one to encourage folk
To Love others,
Stop all this Conflict
Between polar opposites and extremes,
Fight only for the Common Good,
And make the world a better place
For All.
Paul Butters
© PB 15\1\2021.
Jan 15, 2021
Jan 15, 2021 at 5:21 PM UTC
Where is the cake? You
totally promised me there would be
cake. Words fail me. That simpering
gleam in your eyes is well-deserved,
you swine.
Yes, I'm still ****** about it.
You said I could have some. All
I wanted was a bite because I don't even
particularly like cake, but I guess
all those sweet words of yours were
just artifice.
No, that's okay. I understand, you
just did what you had to. If that entails
giving away my cake, I don't care.
I'm not going to hold a grudge or anything
over something stupid like cake. Ha!
Don't be ridiculous, it's not like the cake was good, right?
Carrot cake, you say?
Someday there will be time to reminisce,
But now my current plan is one of dread:
To yank your hair and whisper **** on this,"
And pull your eyes out of your ******* head.
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 8:18 AM UTC
Know this—I am well acquainted with the wolf,
Well versed in his ways, his demeanor,
His dispassionate relentlessness,
His pitiless focus on hunt and hunted,
His workaday disdain of pity.
There are those who would laud the mythical Spartan lad
Who hid the wolf beneath his cloak,
Affecting some gallant stoicism
As the beast consumed him without restraint,
But I say to you that is a mere romantic fallacy,
A wanton failure to apprehend the true moral.
I have learned that there is no accommodation,
No covenant to be reached with the wolf,
And any attempt to do so is merely to invite destruction,
And so I choose to engage him openly, without reservation,
Rolling tail-over-teacup in the streets,
Attempting to hold his jaws open with bare hands
While those who find such battle unseemly and uncouth
Jeer and hoot from porch and portico.
No matter, for I will continue to meet the cur on my terms,
For staid suffering in the hopes
Of reaching some accord with the beast
Is the not the act of the noble sage:
It is the mock heroics of the coward,
The sad acquiescence of the simpering fool.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned--
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind--
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the ***** strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
3.5k
My Lucifer, unwitting Muse, dog-eared Vonnegut,
afrobeatnik third eye, howls escaping
from your headphones, wailing about secrets, about infidelity,
about analyzing life until there ain’t nothin’
left. Then you shuffle by in your black and white Adidas,
hair in twists, wearing the striped sweater
of nihilistic intent, quoting the rants of Holden Caulfield
in your blog like you never didn’t know him.
I never asked to know you, to want who I can’t have
when I can’t even love myself. And every fiber
Of my being yearns for reciprocation. What is there
to return? What is there to feel, you meditate on truth,
fallen angel in the parlor of rebellion, blasphemous goodbye,
bright and morning star simpering like crickets in the palms
of daybreak. Your musicality radiates from subway chatter
and overheard profanity down El Camino Real.
I take in your ballad at my post office mailbox,
in the abandoned echoes of daydream monologues.
You’re a philosopher, exploring theory of mind, a cartographer,
mapping the labyrinth of your deepest desires.
Tell me again about desires, demonstrations of divine sadism. Tell me
about human empathy, the animated faces of wordless expression,
the metaphysics of free will, my beginning and my end,
alpha and omega, my fortress in the land of chic.
Blasphemous hustler, let your idealism simmer, your wit, your mojo,
I come to you an amateur, a neophyte, a lowly scab
in the strike against ignorance. Give me my melody, my song,
my one-hit-wonder of all that is cliché and unknown.
But I can’t be the other woman, your girlfriend, your aspiring
Playboy bunny only 10-bucks-a-throw. Your highness-who-yells-
his-ideas-into-the-ears-of-echoes, your every quirk spellbinds me.
Each day I wake to your entourage vibrato.
I am held captive by your brooding stare, empress of liberal
doves. You visit in my dreams when the sky is a force of darkness
viewing light through peepholes, your flaws an aphrodisiac, a love drug,
a fast hit in the basement from the ecstasy of words.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 5:37 AM UTC
hole in the sky. tap tap, the empty vessel flows out. a weightless sink. the hour goes, blaring swell of humidity, and the jug lukewarm, leaven oft in the barred space. I return to my room. I drink the cold milk on the sill. I finish the third wretched spill of the journey to Olympus.
Downstairs a howl, a wind slam SOLOM OBSERVATIONAL MATRIX STRUCTURED TASKS AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY TO ASSIST WITH INSTRUMENTAL DECISIONS. I close the door I close the door I close the door I close the
In this uneasy slumber, the bed shakes, the windows rattle, the sky splits, the earth floods a red simpering capitulatory spasm of earthly flesh. Here is the circuit, the tired nervous tic of inaction, I shrink back from the outstretched hand, a condition which recommends two pills in the morning to mask the double image beneath my hands.
i have slept through the week again, this pathetic flesh obeys nothing, where are my pills inescapable ******* dullery
THE JUG IS HOT. I return to my room. I close the door two pills on the sill to go down with the milk
THE DOOR SLAMS GALL BUCKLING FIT ODE BREATHLESS CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER BUT THE SOUND REMAINS
Figures muffled by the walls. There are guests in the house, the looming presence of multiple species with incomprehensible intentions. In a bout of uncharacteristic curiosity, I slip my sight through the crack of my door. UNDER RCG IT WILL BE MANDATORY FOR ALL CUSTOMS CARGO REPORTERS IN THE AIR SEA AND ROAD INDUSTRIES TO SUBMIT REPORTS TO SARS ELECTRONICALLY. I am unmoved by such perceptions. I prepare the final climb to Olympus.
the cyclone is ended. the front door is barred. the jug is cold. the yard is littered with unmoving shapes.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 11:19 PM UTC
You are witnessing a prodigious talent and promise, and to a lesser extent but still to the degree whereby it should keep you awake at night writhing in cold sweats, your life, slip agonisingly through your open and clammy palms. Promise means so little if not actualised. You have been granted chance after warning after fortuitous escape yet have blithely spurned every omen and will one day fall, swiftly and perhaps terminally. You are almost certainly depressed. You say you love your girlfriend, and you mean it wholeheartedly when you do, but you worry that the relationship perpetuates as without her there would be no reason to rise with the sun. Even if the relationship is unstable, and at times verging on the unhealthy, you believe you love her but are too great a coward to consider decisive action if that belief is to reside or subside. Your friends range from kind and honest yet deeply flawed to somehow toeing an inextricably thin line between dependability and duplicitousness. Conversations with a certain few of your friends necessitate decrying every undercooked ethos you've every conned yourself into believing you hold (you could well be the most hypocritical liberal to walk the earth, for you are innately and irrepressibly selfish) yet you still nod placidly as your conscience squirms. Grotesquely, like a beaten spouse, you crave the gaze of those who have treated you with the most insulting derision, but are too proud (of what?) and, a running theme, too cowardly, to stoop to a simple detante. You must change, for it pains you on a most base level to have to accept the feeble, whimpering, simpering spectre you have become. You must be bold, brave, unashamed in your convictions, anything but pursed and silent lips. You have a voice, and you must now speak loud enough for them to hear, for that which has become blunted must be whetted, sharpened, readied for battle to be unsheathed at an utterance. Heed the signs and change, for our sake. You, a milksop who attentively notes the sophistry of courage, you can still be brave, and you must be.
For one day you will be swelled with a courage and fortitude to fill your sails taut, enough to leave this place, forget these people and bear you away.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
at its own axiomatic level
we begin a dance
a dance
a dance
and there are shades
―
fly off from the other?
a spindle
a
a
fly
―
difference
we make ourselves a difference
a complexity
an intricate form that spills over and everywhere
and is alive
apart from itself
as if this difference making
were for itself, for our own ego
rather than to pull the other
the other’s difference
pointlessly intricate
motionful machines that well up beyond their own depths and
but the content
―
a meaningful making
and on and on and
drives
―
turns on it urns iand urns un n uwuw uwuw uwuuwu wuuwuwuwuwuuwuw
―
the measure of a drop
is in
―
everyone dances in their own light
―
what if satire is all you see!
―
everything ive ever wanted to say 12 yr old has already fallen out a tree
―
everybody hold themselves so high and precious
but their own being is only meagre pitiful one space arrow
e
there is a being
that we strive for
but only ourselves feel
and only others know
yet so many want the other to feel
what they can only know
come grieff and grief and grif
―
i dont get why anyone cares
we do what we do
and it stupid
why you wanna
let the other in ?
only reason u think they smart
is they aint let u in
so i says let em be .
―
everyone all love precarity
cant love themselves
sothey strike out when the other they want to love them for themselves dont love them for themselves
thats an impossibility !
―
FRAGILE PEOPLE
PRETENDING THEY’RE NOT
BaM BAM!
whys all the
positivity
make all lie and
die
why do you care so much about yourself
that you desire the other to see?
you are meagre
you are petty
and that’s all you are.
resentment is thinking otherwise.
nobody cares about your drives!!!!!!!!!!
and the more you think they should
the more they wont!!!!!!!!!!!silly!!!!!!!!!
the togetherness of not-
let people sweep and slide
then drift n loop!
―
everoy !
neurotic big
weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
―
then why are peopplr loenly?
―
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
cherished being in a bridge of light
―
its own singular yearning
pulls back
the body of marx
and the whole black moon
―
black moon! black moon!
howls the end
howls the night
simpering spat spat spat spatchooey! cross yarn and tip a spews the thunder
and the back back back of
no where
curses like a shut down whine
―
are you perfectly everywhere not
this is the only series of questions
in philosophy senpai desu desu bakkkooou!!
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 10:54 PM UTC
The symphony of your skin
suffocated my senses.
Smothered my resistance
against the sensations
you sparked down my spine.
I surrender to your siren call,
my simpering protest
met with sinful seduction.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC
“The side of her head is shaved,
isn’t that weird?”
Afraid to admit my attraction,
I nodded in agreement.
And in a low voice
I responded with,
“yeah, weird…”
Yet again he pointed out,
“Look at her septum piercing!
Doesn’t she look like Benny the Bull?”
I looked away. Under my breath
I said, “I think…she’s cute.”
My friend turned
with simpering eyes.
“Really? Cute?
You’re a ****** too.”
I looked up, “I’m not weird.
I just think she’s pretty,
that’s all.”
He scoffed,
“Nah man, you’re really weird.
Tattoos and piercings aren’t attractive,
they’re weird but I guess weirdos
are attracted to other weirdos.
Flustered, I looked up to him.
“So what? Punk rock is pretty.
At least I’m not a pretentious ******* like you.”
And with that, I left him there.
© Matthew Harlovic
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
On campus, warm sun bathing my shoulders
as I listen to two girls discuss poetry
(and the dreamy guy who teaches their class)
and I try not to laugh at them as they talk about
how romantic I would be to have poetry written about
them. I want to ask them if they are really that stupid.
Instead, I bite my tongue and enjoy the taste of pennies
that floods my mouth and keep my laughter gurgling inside of me.
I long to ask these simpering, silly girls
if they have ever read any poetry about life. Not about the
romantic notions of life, but about really-real life. Poetry about
blood and pain and ******* and dying and loving and art
and I want to force feed them great ****** bites of
Chaucer or Ginsberg or
Bukowski.
Yeah... Bukowski. Visceral, blunt, gory, beautiful Bukowski.
But I have a feeling that this action would go unappreciated.
Their poets don’t use language like **** or ****
Their poets don’t talk about the world I know.
Their poets live in a world of rewrite and revise.
I want to scream at them how silly they are and how much
their views will change over the next few years. And I realize that I may
have been staring (glaring?) at them because they have fallen
silent and are now looking at me with the squeamish discomfort
of people who have just realized that they’re being observed.
And I think to myself, **** it,” and I smile and tell them that
their handsome poetry professor is married, and their idea of poetry
is limited. “You should read some Bukowski,” I tell them, “Then,
you just might get it” and they gaze up at me slack-jawed, staring blankly
for a moment, and I want to make sure I have not sprouted another head.
Instead, I gather my things and walk away. And as I do, I revel in a fleeting
feeling of superiority because I know.
I understand.
I get it.
And I can almost feel special.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
If my bed was bigger would you have laid with me
Will you excuse the squeeze in the place of comfortability
Our bodies close, replace our blankets with the heat
flowing, mellifluously reverberating, from within
My heavy mind, spiralling in self abhor
Dawdles on a pillow, simpering with decay
Solace I discovered in your arms instead, taming the uproar
The bane of your predicament, your spirits sway
The twilight of distraught tickles the hairs on my arms
But now comes the noon of melancholia.
My Ivy legs cripples your limbs, the bruises I see- constellations
Contradictory you lament, the cries a synergy of appoggiatura
A long time ago, you asked for my hand
Belittling the shards in my bossoms
Dismissing my remonstrance; to Hell with it
“I can bear it, I know I can.”
But you couldn’t. No, you wouldn’t
Your body has began to gnaw
The dilapidated bed creaks, your temper peaks
“I’m out, loving you isn’t the law.”
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
Cassie Lane Gray, ever so slight of frame
Hit harder than a train, playing her martial games
Cassie ran eight miles a day, and she never strayed
Her routine was tough as iron, her boxing gloves were frayed
Her momma put her in ballet, but later on, she disobeyed
Strapping wraps to wrists, uppercut finisher each day
And when she said she wanted to box, her momma turned away
But she was gonna fight, with no one in her way
Cassie Lane Gray grew up poor in San Jose
Never had much to say, just wanted in the fray
Her ballet, in a way, made her opponents pay
As she moved with dancer's sway, they later would convey
Cassie's family prayed that she would portray
The sweet and simpering visage of a classy dame
But it wasn't in the cards, for Cassie Lane Gray
The "Bantam Weight Ballerina"
A strong young fighting woman
Was in the ring to stay
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 9:36 AM UTC
In my mind,
the fight was a result of your undying love for me,
an act of protection,
for your fair maiden.
I was the perfect damsel in distress,
simpering,
dragging you away from the bad guy.
How I ever managed to daydream,
over the screams
and the struggling,
is beyond me.
Wishful thinking
I guess.
As you gracefully caved in the guys skull
with your elegant knee,
painting a watercolour of red on the concrete,
I stood back and watched.
Each drop of blood,
that splattered the night scarlet,
mirrored a drop of the salty tears
running down my cheek.
I wanted him to get back up
and smash your beautiful face into a perfect Picasso.
He didn't do anything but lie in his own river.
I wanted to be washed away with it.
Instead, I had to watch you triumphantly step back from your ****
the picture of alpha male,
a predator,
and look for your mate.
Why won't you capture me?
Because you want her.
My best friend.
The one who I should be comforting,
for having two guys so in love with her that they'd **** each other.
I'm scared if I place a hand on her shoulder,
I might crumble.
I'm chalk,
she's marble.
I could leave my soft white mark on you,
if you just gave me the chance.
Marble's cold.
But maybe you like the chill,
the chance to pull her closer.
I can't look anymore.
I step over the battlefield and make my way down the street.
I see her get in a taxi
with the guy you just half bludgeoned to death to win her heart.
I see you stood amongst the wreckage,
confusion on your war wounded face,
not knowing what went wrong.
You cared.
Just like I gave in and cared about you.
What idiots we are.
Somebody punch me in the face.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:54 AM UTC
Her back like a sunset sitting crouched in a cold tub,
terrified and disillusioned. I watch her from the doorway,
unable to paint over her purples, yellows, and blues.
I watch her trembling deer legs tumble over the linoleum
and all I can think of is that last thing he said to her as
she slipped away.
"How could we have disappointed each other this much?"
I was there, watching her petals wilt, her body slipping into
a vase for him every night in the bar as he looked at a simpering
Los Angeles girl over his beer glass.
Sometimes love comes in like the roll of a fresh spring breeze
over a mountain, sometimes it's like a knife twisting in your
gut, but sometimes love can make you believe he's worth
tearing yourself up.
I pulled her up from the bathtub, crumpled and wilted and tired
and heartbroken. I brushed away the tears and smudged eyes,
and let California's sunshine shimmer on her skin, I opened
all the windows in the world for her,
just to let the right love in, to sweep up the insecurities,
and only leave strength in its place,
and as she tried to thank me, I put my hand on her
heart and said, "You've got two eyes, two legs, two arms,
but only one heart. And someone out there has the pair."
I held her hand to my heart, "But that pair will stop beating
then moment you let yours stop."
And I watched her wash her face, and heal the bruises,
her smile returned and wobbled, and finally I stopped
looking into mirrors to remember what pounded so steadily
and so strongly in my chest.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
I am love's Savant
Of perilous divining;
No simpering hierophant,
Of the desperately climbing.
For love arrives naked,
Sans cloak or cloche,
While love's finger beckons,
For me to come close.
I'm privy to his prophecy;
To the keyholes I tiptoe,
Where I see the aristocracy-
In flagrante delicto.
As his scribe, I'm resigned
To write impassioned words;
Still, desires will not rewind-
Even though they be absurd.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 12:15 PM UTC
The winter was unkind
Yet you loved it
So much,
It was your gauche friend,
Reclusive in its blankness,
Complicit with its demands for
Many layers,
As snow is complicit in ****** -
Snuggling coldly into
Footprints.
And I remember the simpering
Light
That night,
As it squeaked into the
Room like
Lab rats bred for death.
I remember the slip
Of your body on the sheets
And your
Speech bubble breath
Spearmint ellipses,
Your teeth white
Your eyeballs white
Your watch-face white
The witch behind you
White,
Whispering the content
Of her
Turkish delight
And sculpting you
For her museum.
(Nothing ever really warmed you up.
How I hated that winter.)
I put the heating on and
Showed you the
Wedding dress –
An antique affair
That had been passed down.
My sister did not want it,
As she is not at all romantic.
When I got back from
The bathroom
You were out of bed,
Holding the dress against yourself,
Stuck in the mirror,
Head turned,
Absolutely lost -
A tiny bride
White as a
Snow tongued branch
And just as still,
Waiting for the wind
Or the clouds
Or some kind of joy
To move you.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
ash stains and cosmopolatin zines
bathroom savoring night-rain
like lorn and lone trucker tobacco
sky forged in dark blues outside a cracked
window, like you in the closet ****
but the door opened up enough to tell.
1. flesh simpering but the voice a sullen
conversation of silence and broke dreams
television with hundred and forty channels
and half open beer cans.
2. silence still drags kissing and murdered
autumns, shadow of hands over flush skin
lurking moonlight invited.
in morning i'll wake with a human
but tonight you are a god with your hands
roaming my hipbones & sleep with
you, my mind running thoughts
like trains on spinal cord railroads
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 2:51 AM UTC
“What’re you up to?” His simple text said.
“Just eating cereal and lying in bed.”
“What if I was with you?” he responded with ease,
“I guess I’d get more cereal if I please.”
And that’s when he said it, that simpering lad, that stupid response that makes all of us mad.
My mind filled with dread, with a twist in my gut,
I picked up my phone and read: “Haha, and then what ;)”
"And then what?!" Shocked by his assumptious pleas,
"Leave me alone, I'm begging you please."
And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse,
He muttered those three dreaded words.
Yes, I kid you not. That little *****
I opened his next message that read "Pic 4 a Pic?"
I then retorted; "No, don't send your unsolicited 'pics', I surely can see past your little tricks."
And that's when things took an alarming switch.
The boy with a wounded ego replied, "You're just an ungrateful *****
The very next morning, the boy put on his fedora and let out with a sigh,
"Why does no one like me? I'm such a nice guy."
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
On a patterned nebula, paramour's giggle whilst locking warmly hand's, like two stray's of a different course, they runneth by none command's, all promises filled, as their cheek's do touch, like flourishing rainbow's, heaven to ground's lunch. They maketh their own commandment's, as tis the world's just a stage, grandiose in their delightment, making newsstand page. Bambino's of the unknown, covered in flamboyant flakes, overcoming the new-age step's, of this passing place. And whilst they art simpering, their taste buds over-runneth, their cup is not made from steel, but gold of king's and Queen's chalice. And whilst at dusk, when the blood moon cometh out, the neighbor's canst heareth their love, out the window's it doth bounce. Echoe's of their novela, they'll speaketh many tongue's, and whilst their alone together, their embracing head on shoulder love.....
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC