"slavish" poems
Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;
She is a Gypsy,—will not speak to those
Who have not learnt to be content without her;
A Jilt, whose ear was never whispered close,
Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;
A very Gypsy is she, Nilus-born,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;
Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!
Makeyour best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.
6k
Staring corpselike at the ceiling,
See his harsh, unrazored features,
Ghastly brown against the pillow,
And his throat--so strangely bandaged!
Lack of work and lack of victuals,
A debauch of smuggled whisky,
And his children in the workhouse
Made the world so black a riddle
That he plunged for a solution;
And, although his knife was edgeless,
He was sinking fast towards one,
When they came, and found, and saved him.
Stupid now with shame and sorrow,
In the night I hear him sobbing.
But sometimes he talks a little.
He has told me all his troubles.
In his broad face, tanned and bloodless,
White and wild his eyeballs glisten;
And his smile, occult and tragic,
Yet so slavish, makes you shudder!
4.3k
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
There are more and more misfortunes in the world
Known to you dear people in your diverse conditions,
But my life and experience has taught me unique lessons
Of kindred to befit me Elizabeth, a daughter of Zinjathropus
Hailing in the savannah desert, Turkana County of Kenya,
I have graduated in to a single lady without test of marriage,
As desert men look at me in their irritating impotence,
**** clothes wrapped around their slender waists passing on me
Like a dog passing on American dollars; cursed be desert men,
I thought my beauty of dark African complexions will give them a ****** tease
But to my chagrin; desert men have a fear of beautiful ladies
My conscience tells me that my beauty is an eye sore to them,
I thought my bulging hips will entice them as is a promise of fertility
Leave alone not to mention my concupiscent ****** warmth, uhmmm!
Desert men have dared not to see and appreciate my **** bossom,
They often pass on me driving their donkeys and emaciated carmels,
I thought my ***** sharp pointed ******* assign of virginity
Will call them to me into a treat of love, affiliative love,
But sadly enough; these dudes are erotically blind,
They they nonchalantly pass on my **** *****
Wielding a begging bowl in their ***** long hands
Running like drunkard chimpanzees going to Oxfam stores to beg for food,
Cursed be Oxfam an imperialist agent, it has crashed flat
The testicles of our desert brothers into ****** insensitivity,
Oxfam has made African desert men to beg like Hebrew lepers
Other than standing up on their feet to feed their women,
Normally as men would do from the sweat of their brow,
I thought my education will attract them to me,
To love me with those romantic University kisses,
But desert men have crude cultures and slavish religion
They rebuke girl child education as if it is a devil,
Oh my dear God of the forsaken desert ladies
Of the forsaken African daughters,
Take me out of this ****** desert
Take me out of the city desert of Lodwar,
Take me to the equator line and give me a husband,
My eggs are pretty ready to conceive and sire children
Sons and daughters for your own glory O almighty God,
Take me out of this ****** desert,
Where no man treats a modern woman,
Take me out of here and give me a fresh man of my dream.
Because I have known from today;
It is accurse to be a woman in Africa
It is a curse to be a beautiful lady in African deserts
It is a curse to be a woman graduate in the African desert
It is a curse to have ***** ******* in the African desert,
O! Help me God.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
fem in isms,
i imagine Sapphic eyes:
bad *** advert coruscates elite
fairness sensing slavish blind
in gestate calm affirm
in genders More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--
O harsh judgement foiled,
as a foil, as unknown truth
foil-doubles in the brow,
abject symmetry to systemize
a fertile lack of sterile barrenness,
i am a mediatrix rend,
nirwaan, hijra wonderment aside
from transemotion's ground swells
demeaning to be understood.
i celebrate and face the same
to be what paperwork tests being
normal being, freely chosen
atom each belonging moves
an asterisk of paths
of mutate art of nature social darwin maze.
i imagine Sapphic eyes,
ginko soft they pile up all cobble
memories themselves concretely
cloistered fame
spray of salty waves,
macho screams symbol
for dismissal ease
for tearing at an inner unsaid war
with lists offense of proper taste
to what posterity intends
an undulation womblike seeming nourish safety sounds.
i imagine Sapphic eyes
past
debauched
meanderings
where hyster-clarity rejoins its titular
and reliable escapisms curl the lips
of maleness found
here and there smile sneer love
i imagine Sapphic eyes
linguistic pirouettes
congest that wisdom nonetheless
the moment passed on to a
feigning truth in pretty rhyme
ornamenting time with fine meter fine
vernacular chimes peter in
to juggle perspectival paradox,
redichotomize the twilight idols,
resolve the conflict like a dawn
Aurora,
i imagine Sapphic eyes
running plastic with Alaskan wolves,
toga floats to snow
to let us see the purest fairness form
a ****** circle,
Hypatia ascends from tenebrous grave,
Impregnable of Eye is pregnant now
with Wollstonecraft revered
in liberation's fount
families held exemplar gaze of
Taylor, ****** Cady,
Anthony resanctified
to vote entitlement's
empathic origins, waxen mold
of nascent categories,
narrow hands spread wide to panoply anew
the manifest evolve in true unknowns
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
[Las Meninas, Oil on Canvas, 1656, Prado, Madrid]
I am the first proud pronoun I
against the fear of my invisibility
each morning rising from
minor nobility like my parents
(no son of a converso – lies –)
into the light of mastery;
now as a Knight of Santiago
- the king himself painted the cross
you see in Las Meninas -
nobilitas is in the faces
royal with ancient lines
(you understand I did not
trade
am Moorish of Seville
and Portugal).
Not from the mind but back
into its expectation.
I see the work reflected
into the lens of sense
to supplement the work into the real
express itself by what
a slavish love of detail cannot supply
it was the power
to give them what they did not see
the scorn in lips
from ****** generations
bought by my brush
among them into monarchic trade
and what they thought as glory,
dwarves and all larger than life.
that painted me so high
those royal portraits by the score
keyed to the colour of fame
silvered and golden
mine.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 7:11 AM UTC
And it comes with some pain the the bullies from our childhood were a result of social Darwinism,
at least in the sense of the state, where capitalism reigns and the most ruthless and powerful win all the freedom.
Us cowards were too scared of violence to do anything about it. The teachers barred us from bullying, and with emotion they punished bullies, when they could be caught. Punish the bullies so they will develop the slavish obedience not to harm their peers, so in the future they will merely quietly compete up the ladder and sigh at the impossibility of their ladder extending past their bully bosses. If you want to have real freedom and fortune in this life, I hope you never stopped being a bullying child. I, like most children, bought the obedience and swallowed it like morning pills. In rows I sat, I pledged to red white and blue, and while the bullies slapped our heads, we kept our retaliation to unified grumbling, yet in a school there is no strength in numbers, besides the strength of harmonizing our slavish sighs. It’s just like at work under our bully bosses. The strength of the individual is denied in a school, so we can work like a cog, working hard at our shape to fit best into the machine.
The bully notices the competition early on and acts hard, swift, and originally. For this is how wars are won. But us slaves have our way of converting the bully, we have numbers on our side, yet little strength. Out of weakness we tell the bully that they are an ill shaped cog, and they will never be able to help the machine if they keep their powerful aggression. Conversion to slaves may occur, or a half convert is created who is too deluded with their new illness, so they can do little physical harm to anyone anymore.
And all without a drop of blood. We go to work secretly competing with each other, in order to buy the system’s validity at the end of the week. And we rip each other‘s teeth out in our dreams
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
Come Glastonbury, demand your suitors
Eliminate the negatives of their days
Show the signs of cheer and promise
Crystal clear and sun bright
The walkways between the tiny shops
Where escaping through to back doors and out
Inside spirits claim your soul
Wrestle your pathetic reliance on consumerism
Your slavish concern for fashion
And your unhelpful TV dinners
There in Glastonbury only truth is spoken
Revealing the weaknesses of our human frame
Our minds that suffer from prejudices and bigotry
Cleanse your soul, become yourself
Give up the senseless living that has dominated
And driven our daily chores and lifestyle
Discard them all and believe that man
Is just a tiny part of this cosmos
A spirit and energy of the completeness
Not the embodiment
Not the utmost but a small part
Perhaps a much lesser being than any other...
Despite everything we are special
You are special in your individual capabilities
Each soul a grain of stardust
Waiting to be reunited in the cosmos
With the rest of the wonderful plethora
Be calm in the knowledge that you
Your heart and soul
Are one and only
Unique
Even today in Glastonbury
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 8:48 AM UTC
Beholding youth and hope in mockery caught
From life; and mocking pulses that remain
When the soul’s death of ****** death is fain;
Honour unknown, and honour known unsought;
And penury’s sedulous self-torturing thought
On gold, whose master therewith buys his bane;
And longed-for woman longing all in vain
For lonely man with love’s desire distraught;
And wealth, and strength, and power, and pleasantness,
Given unto bodies of whose souls men say,
None poor and weak, slavish and foul, as they:—
Beholding these things, I behold no less
The blushing morn and blushing eve confess
The shame that loads the intolerable day.
As some true chief of men, bowed down with stress
Of life’s disastrous eld, on blossoming youth
May gaze, and murmur with self-pity and ruth,
‘Might I thy fruitless treasure but possess,
Such blessing of mine all coming years should bless;’—
Then sends one sigh forth to the unknown goal,
And bitterly feels breathe against his soul
The hour swift-winged of nearer nothingness:—
Even so the World’s grey Soul to the green World
Perchance one hour must cry: ‘Woe’s me, for whom
Inveteracy of ill portends the doom,—
Whose heart’s old fire in shadow of shame is furl’d:
While thou even as of yore art journeying,
All soulless now, yet merry with the Spring!’
2k
To God our strength sing loud, and clear,
Sing loud to God our King,
To Jacobs God, that all may hear
Loud acclamations ring.
Prepare a Hymn, prepare a Song
The Timbrel hither bring
The cheerfull Psaltry bring along
And Harp with pleasant string.
Blow, as is wont, in the new Moon
With Trumpets lofty sound,
Th’appointed time, the day wheron
Our solemn Feast comes round.
This was a Statute giv’n of old
For Israel to observe
A Law of Jacobs God, to hold
From whence they might not swerve.
This he a Testimony ordain’d
In Joseph, not to change,
When as he pass’d through Aegypt land;
The Tongue I heard, was strange.
From burden, and from slavish toyle
I set his shoulder free;
His hands from pots, and mirie soyle
Deliver’d were by me.
When trouble did thee sore assaile,
On me then didst thou call,
And I to free thee did not faile,
And led thee out of thrall.
I answer’d thee in *thunder deep *Be Sether ragnam.
With clouds encompass’d round;
I tri’d thee at the water steep
Of Meriba renown’d.
Hear O my people, heark’n well,
I testifie to thee
Thou antient flock of Israel,
If thou wilt list to mee,
Through out the land of thy abode
No alien God shall be
Nor shalt thou to a forein God
In honour bend thy knee.
I am the Lord thy God which brought
Thee out of Aegypt land
Ask large enough, and I, besought,
Will grant thy full demand.
And yet my people would not hear,
Nor hearken to my voice;
And Israel whom I lov’d so dear
Mislik’d me for his choice.
Then did I leave them to their will
And to their wandring mind;
Their own conceits they follow’d still
Their own devises blind
O that my people would be wise
To serve me all their daies,
And O that Israel would advise
To walk my righteous waies.
Then would I soon bring down their foes
That now so proudly rise,
And turn my hand against all those
That are their enemies.
Who hate the Lord should then be fain
To bow to him and bend,
But they, His should remain,
Their time should have no end.
And he would free them from the shock
With flower of finest wheat,
And satisfie them from the rock
With Honey for their Meat.
1.5k
Not for me
does the sun burn,
not for me
does the earth turn,
not for me
do the waters flow,
not for me
does the moon glow.
not for me
do the birds sing,
not for me
do the birds not sing.
We are not
a family of loved ones,
we are not
companions in hate either,
we are just here now,
may be living till then
may be not.
It’s no beauty nor ugliness,
neither chaos nor finesse.
We’re in a maze,
trying to figure out,
what’s it all about.
Some say accident,
some say miracle,
some say a hole,
some say the pinnacle.
It isn’t a story
but an act extempore,
some act slavish,
some act free.
Until we figure it out,
Let us love each other all out.
Let us hold our warmth
in our embraces,
Soothe me when
my heart races.
Even if I never figure it out,
I’d know what love is about,
You could become my universe,
And I’d soothe myself knowing you,
If I ever could.
I be for you,
You be for me,
Let us love each other all out,
Even if we don’t figure it out.
Let us love each other
So that a few more verses are born
To crawl majestically on the thorn
Of the fear to lose the one you love
To finally get bruised and scattered
Letter by letter
Fetter by fetter,
falling apart and joining the letters of past
which fell like these long time back,
waiting for some more to fall in the future.
Scared you seem,
I wanted you to be,
So you love me
and never leave,
and spare my verses,
my letters.
Promise me you won’t be
like a sun or a moon to me,
I’ve told you my heart,
Don’t tear it apart.
But if you ever do that,
Do it like an art,
Be delicate,
Pierce me with a barbule,
The wound be like a mark,
A mark of my love,
And of your move so dark.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 4:52 AM UTC
Wealthy,
by dint of lucky birth
lavish,
by way of early learning,
the boy's body grows,
but his mind does not, and
with all things merely
given
he himself is
given
to taking
all desired things
without
a second thought
Profligate
in action, manner, and style
his brash displays of excess
appear to him
congenial acts of
tempered moderation
his slavish hedonism,
blinds him to the
folly of his ways,
like a child with an
insatiable sweet tooth
and the keys to a candy shop
he peruses the town
in ritualistic fashion
night after night,
sowing seeds of
licentious desire
which bloom
into Devil's Trumpets
of debauched
indulgence
one drink
then another
one line
then another
one pill
then another
one conquest
then another
attained in
rapid succession
pursued with
reckless abandon
awakening
in a different bed
each afternoon
sun beams
piercing the blinds
stinging his weary eyes
his temples throbbing
his vision spinning
his stomach churning
his desire remaining
the void within him imploring:
“ENDURE”
but soon
he discovers his
well of fortune
has finally run dry
the repressed knowledge
of this inevitability
descends upon him
like a Biblical plague
his cards decline
his key refuses to
open its door and
the doors of his conquests
slam in his face
and so
the destitute rake
stumbles pitifully
without aim
with body aching
with knees weakened
with ears ringing
with hands trembling
with vision blurred
with fear and doubt
mocking his every step
the concrete corridors
once so exuberant
now appear to him as
moribund and desolate
graveyards for the senses
the neon banshees
which once broadcast their
sultry siren songs
like choirs of cherubs
heavenly and divine
now sound to him
like the tortured screams
of the ******
rising up
to haunt his dreams
the emptiness remains
echoing his every
tortured thought:
"who am I?"
"what have I become?"
"why am I here?"
"what was it all for?"
awash in the tumult
of the dark night of the soul,
the handsome stranger's limbs
give out from beneath him, and
his mind collapses into deep
and dreamless sleep
whose
countenance mimics
the final embrace
of death
For him,
they are one in the same,
and of deaths,
this will be the first
of many
for he has
but yet begun
to learn.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 4:18 AM UTC
village girl pillage mind on the first sight
hazel eyes gazelle runs hair dark night
barn’s smell holds tale fathomless deep
flutters heart falls apart resolves fast slip
she knows it my heartbeats quicken for her
in love glow paint rainbow on day sky a star
she can catch as I watch slavish eyes’ plead
more than me it is she can my dreams read
but wouldn’t bend have me lent one little kiss
honor hard on her guard not let me do as please
she soon fades stays in head lives carefree
ever far upon a star sweetest memory.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:23 AM UTC
Executive- My powers are absolute,
thus I am totalitarian.
The legislature and judiciary
are each subservient to my whims.
I pass my bills with attendant
compliance, and interpret my own
terms as the law.
I shut the doors of compassion,
I am very deeply elusive.
I give no room at all to dissent.
I get bloated with the treasures of the nation.
In a leap year's tenure I bulldoze
my way back to my incumbent status.
And when four multiplies two, I impose
a minion to cover my ills.
Legislature- To obnoxious decrees I give my consent.
I inflate yearly forecasts to become opulent.
I am gratified for the cabinet servants' affirmation.
I always my selfish treaties ratify.
I am undoubtedly slavish to executive excesses.
I seek the redress of constituents' grievances
to enlarge my pocket's size.
And above all else, I am largely rubber stamp.
Judiciary- My evasive justice is yours' to reap
if you are a top notch,
whilst I withdraw the distributive
and restorative from insolvents.
I base my interpretations on business
interests,
and make laws for the interests of
a cabal.
Equity and rights are only in my
constitution stated.
But in reality they are no more
than abstract twins.
The sacred laws of our national prospectus
I serve as a weak custodian of,
and weaker still in the face of political
heavyweights.
But with all the lofty responsibilities
I am reverently saddled with,
I can do nothing more than
empower bigwigs because I am weak,
and they are powerful.
Aug 2, 2023
Aug 2, 2023 at 5:29 PM UTC
Omnipotent sun, glaring and oppressive—fields of corn forced to endure this awe-inspiring entity, always to be overpowered by its intensity.
Running horses, galloping freely towards a heavenly construct: a striking castle, towering and immemorial.
Multitudes of magnanimous people devilishly deceived into slavish certainty! Dejected by doubt, they find comfort in their artificial answers!
Drugs, death and disease–awards, families, and pictures smiling. Good, and Bad, both as necessary, both as despicable.
Reflections of tiny-selves in mirrors, ego confined to skin-tight borders, painful limitations eminent and inevitable. Eternity is near, approaching without hesitation.
So I want to fly up, high enough to be swallowed up by the sun and ****** into time infinite...
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
He stands in his house that is young than he does
His room is miserable like protégé of a teenager,
In contrast to his septuagenarian age ring,
He hates his house with juvenile energy
Not knowing what to do with such hate of loss,
In blurred memory of his estranged wife,
Not able to discern the current age of his daughter,
That had accompanied the distaff on the day of separation,
He lulls his nerves to slumber, away from such menace of a thought,
By walking slowly to the den of wine, like Mermeldov in hands of Fydor,
He sinks down in a chair, plants himself deep into a tumbler of Whisky,
The only fortress into which the poor prodigals take refuge,
Running away from duty of ethics that spans across life of man,
As he wants not memory of his erstwhile risky *** with a punch of ******
From which he condones his exposure to deadly malady,
He wants not his memory of overdrawing his account,
In faithful service to master wine, against the sub-current
Of wisdom that the carouser labours but labours for the brewer,
He wants not memory that his moral duty got punctured,
And hence self-exile in to slavish duty to wine
The only hostage to the whole rounded prodigal.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
forget perfect
my friends
as we manifest
our aspirations
it's about the journey
not the score card
i don't understand
slavish worship
of big data
like it was
a big mama
of truth? streuth!
more data won't
help discernment
this is not science
and way less than perfect
yet slavishly we
attend our screens
providing metadata more
hash tag what for?
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 4:09 AM UTC
Along the path of definite course
No repent, no sense of remorse
All she know is action, promise
River converges to a distant ocean.
No question of dictator’s levity
Negative, negative this time the gravity
Marshaled by ostensible banks
Pointed Grabble makes the poignant
All she know is action, promise
River converges to a distant ocean.
Stream, wears, canal or notches
All counts for philanthropy
Against the odds still reclusive
Slavish devotion but pain legacy.
All she know is action, promise
River converges to a distant ocean.
But she keeps the motive clear
To attain the grace continue the voyage
Million stars to play the role
One grace that unites the whole
And one day she meets the goal
Proved the actions, keep the all
All she know is action, promise
River converges to a distant ocean.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 12:23 AM UTC
i found my knife at the bottom of the mushroom jar where truth, boiled from the muck of an oak slavish of fancy columns, unjustified from the stains of a cold yellow sweat. i have become the primal suspect of an eminent probability among the universal system, taking life for death as trade among souls. i am the ******* monster, beast without beauty, a freak in consistent argument with minacious entities that surround my physical being. blood, sweat, tears- we lose.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
You are probably being too much.
The suddenness of a rattlesnake in a steel drum singing his little anthem for awestruck ant people.
The desert has the voice of a dead choir, and twisted containers of marmalade mean nothing to the twisted head.
A primate
Day-tripping burnt out flipped over and freaked-out, the groove kicks back in and the memory of a thing comes rising back from genetic recess, the cavern of slavish cells whose ancestors are the dust we breathe.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 6:06 PM UTC
DÍAZ
Captain Cortés, at last our man is found.
From two days inland, natives ferried him.
Father Olmedo greets him as we speak-
A fellow priest it seems.
CORTÉS Bring him to me. Exit Díaz.
From Cozumel to here in Yucatán,
We’ve hunted this elusive castaway.
These Indians hustle us from shore to shore,
And, when their gifts of jade fail, toss us rocks.
ALVARADO
Their dizzying synthesis of amity
Backed up with menace proves unsettling.
Enter OLMEDO, SANDOVAL, and AGUILAR.
SANDOVAL
Now, wayward beadsman, meet our strategist.
CORTÉS
Who is this Indian? Where’s our long-lost priest?
AGUILAR
Hail, Christian knights! Sweet accents of Castile!
CORTÉS
Great welcome, cabined friar, you are free!
AGUILAR
Is it a Wednesday?
OLMEDO It’s the Lord’s day, friend.
AGUILAR
Of course it is! Grace to the only God!
My only link with Europe, all these years,
Has been to count the crawling calendar.
CORTÉS
We’ll need your past, to learn their policies.
AGUILAR
I wish I could. But of their etiquette
I’m ignorant, save slavish drudgery.
CORTÉS
You speak the language, though?
AGUILAR Why, like a native.
CORTÉS
Your name?
AGUILAR Gerónimo de Aguilar.
OLMEDO
Dear Aguilar! Your mother, home in Spain,
On hearing you’d been snatched by cannibals,
Abstained from meat, and cringed at frying flesh,
For fear, by chance, it might be part of you.
AGUILAR
Oh, rush me home to Écija, back where
The only blood drunk is the wine of Christ,
The only flesh consumed, our sacrament.
CORTÉS
What fate befell your fellow countrymen?
AGUILAR
The luckless women were harassed to death,
The men, dishearted. But a happy few
Broke from our cages and were spared for slaves,
Within the warlike clutch of Na Chan Can.
My freedom have your wax and honey bought.
One stubborn soul, Guerrero, stays behind.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 5:17 PM UTC
No deal!----come, walk free
•
Limitless
Like an ocean
The pure feelings!
LISTEN!
••
Your parents are acting like government agents
Demanding slavish compliance
To the most brutal forces ever known!
GOLLY!
••
(walk free!
Come)
••
It ain't no joke da pump done broke
And soon we be a'dying
Dyin
••
Thank god I am here!
****
(Holy **** I'm truly here!)
••
••
Poem of the mad night the prostitite the high school kid
Poem of the pure flight the gods who say they shall come
Who knows?
not I
Poem of remorse of love lost of mystic visions now found
POEM OF YOU WHO I SEE SOFTLY EMERGING SWORD IN HAND
SWORD OF BRIGHT LIGHT
FIT FOR A HERO'S HAND
FIT FOR A CHILD'S HAND
••
Here
We
Throw down the world and make our stand
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
Applause to this object
A star to look up,—
But stands lower than a house
Who gathered all the fantasies— of hopeless travellers,— Which seek for devoted fancies.
Sparkling garlands,—
Simply, a life of itch
Flashlights everywhere on the platform,— Inutile to its basis
I memorize the trades of their toasts—
One day, I shall have my own boast.
After wiping spots on gold bars,—
I am still not a debauchee of love;
Even if they buzz,— Beehives— Are not mine to offer,—
But a gourmet to their stomach.
Assets clothing their merchants—
Reserving the furnitures—
To show the best features
For myself, I want a slammed window,—
Not some firm statues
"Galatea, we all desire Galatea!"
How adorable when 'twas knotted,
Lovely, but not loved,
Sheltered, yet not protected;
Paid, but not proclaimed
How many landlords will adapt me?
There is a target—
To a sudden stampede—
Oh, how startling!
Please, capture me
I will submit to your traps!
This bird is willing to be caged— Away!
I may now have my arrows— To run the bay!
Flipped death is my reward..
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 2:56 AM UTC
I've lost the connection to my voice,
I can no longer hear myself think,
A man with a cap full of change,
Told me I might be dead and unaware.
Is that what death is, I asked him.
The moment you pause and realize
You are infinitely alone,
No others ever in the room.
Look around he said,
You've scripted each and every outcome,
Your frosty choices and slavish needs,
And now regret... how sour and sad.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 11:13 AM UTC
*The reason for our articulation
is simple and utilitarian-
we don't seek perfection,
but seek elusive ablution.
Perfection is reserved for those
with time to spend and money to burn.
Our slavish souls require release,
whose ransom necessitates recompense:
Expiated expeditiously, in a flurry
of words that scathe our every thought.*
●○
°
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
Slavish is lavish, just add the s
To the heaps of your Hedonist hordes of excess
So obsessed with the best that the West has to offer
Democracy scales are just nails to the coffer
Just Madoffs and Adolfs still claiming a stake
In banana republics, so let them eat cake
We can wait as we make a land full of their waste
And with fake as **** smiles we’ll spit in the face
Of their race to the bottom of fortune and fame
Where Satan and Jesus are one and the same
When morals are numbers, and justice is banks
And peace is for profit, compulsory tanks
But without them your life is a third world of grief
And your paycheck is merely a futile lord’s fief
Just a thief would I be, with the speech of a beggar
But I’d own these streets with a cloak and a dagger
As you learn to suffer the absence of self
Dematerializing your hunger for wealth
In a union of monkey gods breeding the seeds
Of the gardens of green this earth actually needs
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC