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CK Baker Jan 2017
leg on the table
you red face recruit!
put on the offensive
and break down
the bolted door
you are the soul saver
the peddle maker
the calibrator
with colored handbills
and front line
rhetoric

join the masquerade
in ivy league style!
politicking with
cunning guile
invisalign smile
blackened vile
bleeding the funnel
with gold plate omegas
and crocodile shoes

get on stage
and dance you fool!
you are the headline maker
the pantomime juggler
the compromised closer
pull out that 5 page review
(bullet points only please)
and polish those weathered lines

did you give it your all?
the door tags
and pleasantries
the tidings
and clippings
the irrevocable claims
and postured blames
all the impressionable basics
put to the test?

you know the call
(straight from
those cold academics)
the pie chart gurus
and contract killers
(complete with bone in finger)
whipping their
frenzied crew
in an all night
charade

old yellar
and the gatekeeper
sure seem amused
(sharpening their inquest
behind closed doors)
firing up the **** storm
with hostile ******
and a slew
of insatiable
cures

there’s laughter from the back room
the dripping nose
and wavering hand
the cut white lines
and checkpoint tales
the pipeline romance
and lacking form
(of a basic essential
character!)

soundboard
and narratives
for logging time
slouching on the
steel case
over moot points
ready to play
the 3 weight
butter card
(if need be)

might I remind you
it’s only an inquiry
(with a slight hint of concern)
surely no
malfeasance
or deception intended
so step back from
the melt down
and cut to the chase!

headlines to breadlines
penthouse to outhouse
those immoral pursuits
have taken their toll
(haven’t they?)
madman or rogue
(you take your pick)
for the scores
and tabulations
are final

shame on you
for the foul play
the bold hypocrisy
and order desk games
the back stabbing blames
and spurious names
just sign on the dotted line...
this banter
is killing me
Slouching...

                   From an idea suggested by Robert Graves in
                                       On English Poetry

I. Thesis

Formalist poetry to attention stands
In ordered meters, ranks and files and lines
Of scansion as determined by disciplined minds
And set in place through skillful strategy

II. Antithesis

Other poetry slouches indolently, insolently with its louche trilby askew
Sleeping late, smoking cigarettes,
                                                     sauntering off
                                                                ­              for a beer
Through scansion as admitted by the heart or the pancreas or something
And seldom set in place at all unless it just sort of happens

III. A Perhaps Unnecessary but Useful Conjunction

But

IV. Synthesis

All poems ramble the same neighborhood
In quest of the true, the beautiful, the good
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is: Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA, PALEO-HIPPIES AT WORK AND PLAY, LADY WITH A DEAD TURTLE, DON’T FORGET YOUR SHOES AND GRAPES, COFFEE AND A DEAD ALLIGATOR TO GO, and DISPATCHES FROM THE COLONIAL OFFICE.
Saltnoon Apr 2016
i saw the veins on your hands as you carried me to safety
I saw you slouching with your back as you waited patiently for the doctor's words
I saw you feeding me rice when I could barely say 'grandmother'

And now I'm watching you sleep on the hospital bed
I am as worried as you were when I was too sick to breathe

Your inconsistent heartbeats brought my mama to tears
But I'm still here
remembering how much you told me to stay strong
get well soon, grandma..
chlorine Jul 17
every guilt trip you’ve hung above my head is what keeps me slouching.
the words pile out of your mouth
my heart won’t slow down,
I'm melting into my bedroom floor,
but adrenaline makes me want to turn around.
your hands grace the railing
as the screen door hinges shut
long gone,
forever wishing that pit in my stomach would have been enough.
Nassif Younes Mar 2016
On a beat back street
In a dirt cheap
Glasgow room,
Where the sunlight glow
Fights through an unwilling window
Of stained-glass stained
With *****, beer and the cheapest wine
Like a film to dim the shine
Into a glimmering East-end gloom.

At 2 a.m.
With sweaty hands and soaring head,
It hadn’t happened,

At 6 a.m.
With desert hands and pounding head,
We think it happened,

Sally swears that Harry kissed Mary,
Who had been leading on Larry,
Who was torn between Mary and his girlfriend,
Jane.
Opinions flew in a flurry
And tensions built in a hurry
“It’s such a worry” she said.
“Such a scandal and worry;
You go through life
And life goes through you.
Don’t you think?
No?
What do you think?”

I think we are all slouching
With both feet in the grave,
Too rotten for the worms.

At 10 a.m.
With empty hands and nothing head,
It happened.

We step through the hole in the door,
Staggering beneath a sickening sun
As it sheds its yellow skin
Over a canvas of modest graffiti
And a bin spilled over
By a beggar from Tahiti.
A man asks his lover where they’re going
And with both hands
On her phone, she said
“You can fill me,
But you’ll never complete me.
One day you will leave me…
Or maybe even delete me.”

Round the corner,
With both windows broken,
The first bar we find is already open.
We raise our glasses -
A drink to start the day
Or continue the one we started
The day before yesterday.

***********
2 a.m.

What hands and what head?
It never happened.
We are one day older
And nothing will ever happen.
zebra Jul 3
a one dimensional
*** ***** brain
in a three dimensional hologram of consciousness

i am a dumb wind
a slouching mongrel soul
carved in corpusles

its twenty six dimensions stupid!

mind like a radish in a **** slum  
inhabiting a no return winter
of hollow helled mountains

  soon to be dead
like disappearing smoke
i hear my voice
trying to count its molecules
with a slathering tongue
needle numb
and a brocaded Vox throat of tears
while eyes plead floating
like cataract clouds

no
Shadrach Meshach and Abednego
shinning baptism ufo's
god ***** shimmering in space
no
no reality quotient here
in a fitted sim built blood machine
of flimsy bone locomotion's
looking for time slips
tormented
by lifes prodding night stick
in a distortion field

i turn the wheel of shapeless shadows
in Satan's mill
waiting dormant
****** and  muzzled
in a 666 cosmic zip code

im just another
****** **** ***** Jew
******* ******
apple bend over
living to pay the ******* rent
in a house fallen before its built
panting staccato deja vu's
in a no return winter
of pandemonium

in this knot of blotting screams
i try desperately to levitate
from this spittoon of ascending ***** matter

here marble turns to chalk
and i'm always doing gods work
with the devils pride
like a bug in the grass
There's a tattered photo
Carbon dated
250,000 BC
Looks just like me
Except my skull
Looked like a balloon
Catteleya Fukui Nov 2018
Her
She's there, slouching slightly, tall and lean, her eyes like lapis
Who can't fall in love with her? I feel like it's impossible
Her short hair dyed like an ocean in the moonlight, her sparkling smile
Her light voice and her face dappled with small freckles

She can't see it, but she's absolutely beautiful
Literally everything about her, she's amazing
She's the best person in the world, she's perfect
I could describe her endlessly

She feels like dying everyday and it physically hurts me
No one that nice or beautiful should feel like that
Why would someone so perfect want to end her own life?
How did she come to hate herself this way?
Bastet Nov 2018
There they are.
Lined up, one by one.
Standing tall, perfectly ordered, not a hair's width out of line.
They're strong, still. They're the strongest in the world, refusing to abandon their formation with a finality I just can't argue with.
They seem unmovable, so certain in their stance;
and so gentle.
Not even a whisper of tension controls them;
they stand with ease,
and the reassuring practice of time.

Then I look at mine.
Shaking, fluttering.
They can't seem to find their place, scrambling from spot to spot with desperation.
They seem like they can't stand still, slouching and fidgeting, and certainly not getting along with each other.
I can't seem to find even a hint of confidence when I see their hunched shoulders.

But they're not ashamed, and neither am I.
I look back at those weathered masters.
Like little soldiers, lined up and ready,
watching my band of new recruits struggle to find their place.
They're so calm, and so experienced, and I believe that some day, mine will be just like theirs.
So I take up my instrument again, watching my teacher.
My fingers are hopeful, and so am I.
Andrew Jul 2018
We were equally matched
Until a plan was hatched
You became the subtle aggressor
By making appearances lesser
Using your passion aggression
To steer a passive direction

You perform a vanishing act
By canvassing flak
Balancing black
Against a sky so blue
Teaching me that which is true
Is different from what I knew
So my anxiety naturally grew

You launch a resistance
By remaining silent
On this plane of existence
Where you're the pilot
Not taking the right angle
Into the Bermuda Triangle
That is your social sphere
Where you disappear
From committal fear
Of love being near

So I throw a search party
But your presence is tardy
Because you're departing
On the journey you're starting
Without me
Slouching
From my submission
To your anti-admission
Splitting our position
Like nuclear fission

The air has become radioactive
Through light that is refractive
Through ways which are retractive
Living this **** way to live
Sharpening my shiv
To escape this cell of decay
Where flowers bloom and fray
But can't see the light of day
Not one ray

Stuck in the marked moor
Of this dark war
I use parkour
To avoid aggressor attacks
Never cutting me any slack
Bringing pain back
Until I crack

Lost in your blank expression
I make a grave concession
Enslaved to your impression
Yet afraid of your aggression
Caught between
Taking heed
And fulfilling needs
Born from greed
I'll only impede

You scream aggressively
Like you're ******* me
Just by addressing me
After making a mess of me
With deafening quiet
You attack with a diet
Of a steady riot
And I won't buy it

You left when you were here
But stayed once you weren't near
You switched to a guillotine gear
Based on how you wanted to appear
Striking me from the equation
By utilizing deflation
For a sinister elation
You removed our relation
Sky Yang Aug 2018
as the bus pulls along the lazy river on Main,
a slouching mind and pressed cheek is a swimmer,
dipping toes

and meanwhile
the gentle murmur of pool-goers living inaudibly,
like hunched bunches
in shawls of shade

(interrupted only
by the occasional l-urch)

nodding, nodding
off and on and off and
into the water,
the swimmer slips in
...

Here, it is heaven on earth

an oasis
...

and the mind swims ever so far
ever so deep
...

i wonder...
...

and outside
a boy, barefoot
runs upstream

a shimmering second
an apparition of summer?
and out of sight
please help revise and improve! <3
Rowan S Jan 3
Take life
              s l o w

Move like thickened molasses
I slip step by step
'cross the thinned ice
Testing for the cracks
Gaping holes that lead
To my icy end
This slouching snail'd pace
Comes from past life
My bones still chilled
From former submersion

Take life
              s l o w
⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️ Out in the woods, where anything goes, critters
are making light of sacred Great Western Xtian politics.
They're ******* & slouching, slogging & scratching themselves
in the open—a sure pathway for infection to set in.
Terry Jordan Mar 14
So easily I slide
Into an old chenille robe
Slouching to accept defeat
Feeling each past failure’s probe

My isolation morphs
Into alienation
I slip into a winter
Of my discontent again

Familiar imprint there
Tattooed backside on the couch
A negative reminder
Under dark shrouds of self-doubt

Passively sinking
Wallowing in all things bleak
Difficulties must precede
Enlightenment that I seek

Can’t hardly lift my feet
Both beneath my tree-log legs
I shuffle with some coffee
Time to empty out the dregs

After the longest day
I kick takeout boxes aside
I ricochet off balance still
No fall comes without any pride
CharlesC Jul 29
Now I Know..

A blank gaze
Of a pitiless Sun has
Ignited a flame exposing
Painful perceptions of
Separation and anarchy..
These vexations of centuries
Are now visioned
As garments clothing
My rough beast
Slouching toward
Bethlehem for a
Flaming reentry and
A naked recognition
Of what I am...

Now I Know...


This is a response to:

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
~~William Butler Yeats, 1919

— The End —