"smashes" poems
the walls of the inside passage
look the same from sound to straight
tugs and plugs dot the coastline
as the quartermaster rolls
giving time for evening glare
pods are in sequence
as the high tail smashes and jaws at the krill
white bellies and sea cows bob and weave
as bow heads glide over haida gwaii
northern lights dance
and tlingit chant
as the tide settles softly on savory shores
their getting hungry in hoonah
as the blue back and beating drums
mark the life blood of the sea
driftwood nets
and sitka spruce
surround the cook house
ravens and tinhorns
man the scullery
kerosene lamps flicker
as clam shells roast
on open flames
villagers stroll
on pebbled sand
*in the harbor of souls
where ships set sail
on might and mass
into the steady winds
of the golden skies*
ice fields (to the north)
of kryptonite blue
cutting hills at
a glacial pace
knuckle clouds
above the snowline
where warlocks
craft a hidden trade
trappers, skinners
muscle shoals
grizzly feasts
in kodiak bowl
determined pilgrims
on a dead horse trail
in search of gold
the holy grail
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 11:52 PM UTC
The truest bliss you impart upon me
sends a shiver down each column of my spine,
etching track marks over all my body,
a drug no-one can perfect or refine.
Your visage leaves lightning bolts on my eyes
and a heart palpitating in my chest.
Your body silhouetted in night skies
melts my deepest poetry to mere jest.
When we touch, it smashes my composure
into oblivion and far beyond.
When we lock eyes, I'm chilled from exposure
but for certain, only I feel this bond.
Although I strive for a day we would meet,
with the others, I could never compete.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
Face first crash,
****** mouth full of gravel,
some say this is how depression hits you.
Others say it is like
a freight train
that collides into them head first
and smashes them against the tracks,
Leaving bits and pieces of themselves
in places they don't belong.
Face first crash into depression,
so unexpected,
always hurts the most.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
Sun at its peak, everything outside is so bright,
but her room is giving a horrific sight.
She stands in front of mirror wearing his favorite dress.
Her reflection looks back at her, asking
"who are you?"
She touches her lips, closes her eyes.
"You're a freak and I love it. Can you be mine?"
She opens her eyes wide,
as woke up from a nightmare,
or maybe it was only a haunted memory.
But something is breaking inside.
She picks up lipstick, paints her lips red.
Looks damaged but but beautiful outside.
"I love you so much. You're the best thing happened to me. Stay with me forever. You're my life."
She walks towards the side table.
A suicide note is waiting there to get read.
Burning it with her lighter, she smiles.
"Why are you so depressed all time? What is bothering you?
Why you get this anxiety? You got me baby. Its all fine."
She turns and makes her calendar marked 6th of July.
Putting all pain behind,
she lefts a sigh of relief as if the beast,
that stalks her is duped forever.
"Why are you so possessive? I hate it.
How can you have a lot of Internet friendships but no friends in real? You gotta change yourself."
She walks through the door.
A new life is ahead her.
"No you don't have to change yourself this way. Don't be childish."
She is going down through stairs.
"There is nothing normal with you. You always exaggerate things. Sometimes I hate even myself to be with you."
Suddenly she hears a phone ring coming out of her room.
Her stomach drops.
"Things are not working out baby I'm sorry..."
She is going back to her room.
"We must get separated."
Her hands trembling, her heart making a one last wish.
"Why did you cut your wrist? I hate you even more now"
Mommy's text was there that she might get late today.
"You're a freak. Get out of my life."
She smashes her phone into mirror.
She is done with being all fine.
She is not going outside now to show the world that she is strong.
Her screams filling the room.
"I love you please come back."
But only echoes are there laughing back at her.
And here she goes
writing again a suicide note.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 11:50 PM UTC
like a good poet, I whine and whinny:
the muses are unreliable, get too much paid vacation,
unlimited unpaid, and pretend their cells are out of range,
even when they are in bed with you and you’re near desperate
to cop a feel of inspiration
my problem is a variation on the theme. Everyday I jot down
too many possibilities, a handful of words added to the list of
pound bound childless titles, sad faced orphans, dogs and cats,
squeaking “pick me, pick me,”
our reply a casual
“you on the list” rather than admit they are titled, but bodiless
until cupid smashes a cupcake in my face and the bell rings
there they stand - at a friendless crossroads - direction home,
path unknown, awaiting a poet tour guide to complete them
if this sounds a bit like a bad achy breaky country song,
then you and I, on the same side of where I could be headed
cause at the friendless crossroads, always unsure, left foot first? that first line, first step, could be a false messiah,
or a free-at-last, a free-at-last emancipation
but there are no sidelines in a forest there no sidelines in a poet’s mind; there are the minefields of mindfulness that can explore explode and explain why it is tempting to believe that every gifted one deserves a break today
but you cannot be broken or break off from the community
“Hillel said: Do not separate yourself from the community; and do not trust in yourself until the day of your death. Do not judge your fellow until you are in his place. Do not say something that cannot be understood but will be understood in the end. Say not: When I have time I will study because you may never have the time”
my friend,
substitute writing poetry for study, for study is for us the analysis of everything, that is, everything we say, see and know the need to communicate
so
those who abide in the life of good words will not suffer an abdication (yours)
do not think
there are friendless crossroads,
there are only crossroads that the eye cannot yet see a fellow sojourner coming toward him,
bearing an oversized load of
the inside insight of responsibility
that demands sharing
that is why we call our meetings at
a crossroads,
a cross
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
The Avengers all gathered together at the Justice League
Crimes are taking place
There is no time to waste
Villains in every category
This is where our journey begins being the story
Popcorn Man along with all Villains who want to make a spread in Gotham City
But all the Villains are helping become witty
The plan is to make Gotham City be buried in streams of Butter
Popcorn Man is determined to make all Gotham City residents to flutter
All the Avengers rush to defend
But later then
A trap has been set
Superman suddenly falls from the sky
A mysterious substance makes Man of Steel turn weak
For Superman this looks bleak
Across town Batman and Robin’s Batmobile is stuck in quick sand
What options are in their demand?
A plan needs to start now
The Hulk uses his strength ****** creating a deep hole being a straight line leading to the river, which makes the Butter head for it
Later, Thor and Ironman make the Butter dissolve
Meanwhile at the Popcorn Factory, Popcorn Man and every villain known to the Avengers are plotting the kennels in forming an army to over throw Gotham City, where Popcorn Man will be the Mayor in Control
But behold
It is not going without a fight from the Avengers
Hulk smashes here and there
Wonder Woman and Captain America battle with the mission to villains in beware
Thor and Ironman team up and utilize combined resources
Well all the Avengers forces win out
Popcorn Man and Villains have loss their punch
They are taken away to jail
The Avengers mission in they didn’t fail
Superman regained his strength
Batman and Robin escaped their ordeal
The Avengers stand hand in hand with a sunrise and sunset that will continue to shine, and let all Villains know, “Where there are the Avengers comes might”.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 6:26 PM UTC
bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual slope from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,
torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs
he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)
the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….
he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)
the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about
he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene
off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
The curves that could **** a man
Aren't at her hips
But dance around her lips
As words that serve neither to stroke nor strangle the silence that tangles inside your grip, but sings and breathes beneath wings of wit from
Those casually crafted curves
Weaving a wind into a wave
Never tumbleweeding out
But either darting
Or floating
To and through you
As an inner voice would
Had you not muffled it with music
And reduced it to one or two loose lipped quips and semantic antics
Curves, warm with form and with friction
Neither liquid or gas in state
With no mass but with weight
They're past but don't pass away
They lay aloft, lingering in the light they were given unto
Or, did they bring the light to you?
Oh yes.
Sultry sounds of synchronizing synapses
Seep and slide deep inside, into the spaces
That two souls so similar, long have sat
Seemingly separate from the infinite vastness
Telepathic, though she doesn't act it.
Hourglass figure, go figure
The hourglass smashes
Or remains undetected, in those seconds
The curves that could **** a man
Form the words that could resurrect him.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
Masochism is my favorite way to love; I adore deeply the one that is eager to leave me in the dust for his superficial passions. I cry infinitely as the rain over the Pacific, but it does not storm. It only blinds me with stinging tears that make a shore invisible. I had you wrapped around my finger, and you slipped off like an oversized ring, falling between the spaces of a gutter to travel sewers of risk; rank with the smell of doubt and returning loneliness. I travel these sewers barefoot with your risks up to my ankles, searching for you, my ring, dress hiked up to run as if you hadn't already seen such exposed leg. But only I splash. My lover is elusive. When he trembles in anger, he comes to me; when I tremble, he only flees. He does not understand his debts. I do, only I don't wish that he pay. My kindness is self-mutulation, for I know he will not appreciate my generosity. I think of him while he daydreams of riches and soaks in his wanderlust. I am simply a piece, a fragment, a speck of dust swimming among many in a ray of sunlight. I am not something he truly wishes to strive for. This murders me, and smashes my already broken heart into smaller, sharper pieces that seem harmless, but develop greater capacity to cut flesh.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
Through loud crashes
And heroic smashes
Through long nights and lonely walks
July you stayed by my side.
July, you were there
When few could claim thus.
You showered your care
When others made hardly a fuss.
July, you were there
When the bottom fell out
July so fair, so constant
When all I could do was shout
July,
You were my first days without her
My first lonely nights,
my misery, my muse,
my history, my news
July I don't know why you came to me
Or how I ended up with you at my side.
But now that time has past, and those wounds have scared and healed
I'm ready to return to you and say that Im grateful for you, and for those really hard nights.
They taught me the brevity of life.
They taught me to hold on:
To those I love a little tighter,
To those I cherish a little deeper,
To stay up talking a little longer,
To drive a little farther,
To try a little harder,
To love a little richer
July July,
I cry to think
I cry to remember
I cry to retrace those summer steps
Those first days without her.
July July,
Thank you for being there
When I didn't understand
And I couldn't comprehend.
Though I didn't see it
You were what was best.
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 1:10 AM UTC
I ask what your favourite word is.
You say you don’t have one, and
I don’t understand.
See. I’m a poet.
I tried hard not to be,
Rejected it with every
Fibre of who I am but
Words form in ways I can’t
Negate.
See,
You speak and I notice
There’s more in what you say than
You know.
Your voice is delicate,
Not in the way you sound words
But the way you phrase sentences,
Like the subject is something to be
hidden behind premises.
Some people grab chance by the throat,
****** you right into the center,
Until you’re drowning in meaning
And unable to listen to anything but the
Beat,
B-,
Beat,
Of your heart but
Not you.
I can respect that.
You’re all tact and logic and
It’s not about feeling
It’s about thought process and
I still don’t understand.
See, my tongue is clumsy,
It stutters and stumbles and smashes its way through life,
But it finds meaning where there isn’t any,
Notes how you say “Spoke”, not “talked”,
How you dance through every word in the English language because
Deciding on the right one
Has to be perfect.
I think that,
You are perfect.
My favourite word is puddle.
I don’t know why, but
When I say it, my tongue kicks
my teeth and
It reminds me of the way my
Consonants get heavier with
******* in my brain.
It makes language ridiculous,
Because the end of its vowel is so sudden
It should cut
But it’s so ******* round.
Puddle.
I can’t explain, not in words,
But I smile when you say it and
I promise you that sometimes
language is less about logic
And more about that feeling
in your gut
When you look
at me and verbs flow out of your mouth
And for once you’re not thinking
And, -
"I love you."
If you thought, it wouldn’t be true and -
"I love you."
Cogs whir to a halt and,
"I love you."
I don’t trust you for a second because
My mind is now skipping stones across oceans
Waiting for depth to show, yet
There’s nothing below,
but still,
Sail away with me.
Let’s leave language behind and use touch to define
The borders between where I start
And you stop.
We’ll find they’re less obvious than we’d thought,
Because I love you.
Not in the way that I say it but
In the way that your presence makes my stomach churn out musical notes
And I was broken, but I don’t want to seem desperate and
I guess that when you say you that don’t have a favourite
I realise,
Puddle’s a scapegoat.
My favourite word is whatever name you’d give for the
Goosebumps on your skin when I touch you.
My favourite word is the colour of your eyes.
My favourite word is the way your voice goes real high when you’re excited.
My favourite word is how I can feel where you touched my flesh, for days after we last met.
My favourite word
Is you
But I’m too shy to say it.
So here, take puddle,
And run away with it.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
A brick falls
A feather falls
Which hits the ground first?
The brick smashes into pebbles
While the feather hovers down,
Oh so gentlly
Is it the same case with people?
The weight of the world makes us
Like the brick
Guilt, fear, anger
In our hearts as we sink
A feather falls
It makes no sound, no crashing noise
Yet it reaches its destination
With great poise
Twisting and turning
And correcting itself
Watch the brick fall
No twists and turns, no direction
Straightforward, with no correction
It comes with a roaring thud
Known only by the noise it makes
Ignorant of its own mistakes
Pulled down by the haul
Of its own weight
Be like the feather
Be weightless!
It does not mean
You are late touching ground
You just take your tender time
Getting there
Be like the feather
Be complicated!
Without twists and turns
There can be no correction
Recognize mistakes
And learn from them
Be like the feather
Be flexible!
Do not fall so hard
To one destination
You never know where
The winds will guide you
The brick falls
The feather falls
The brick lands
The feather is falling
The feather is falling
The feather is falling
The feather is falling
The feather is falling
The feather is falling
The feather is falling
The feather is falling
The feather is falling
The feather lands
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 9:15 PM UTC
Wailing walls, howling fences
Encaged and blocked by barriers
All smashed, sorted in security fence
Miles of humanity and flesh torn apart
Why is it that we can’t live together?
We bleed the same coagulating blood
Lined up and humiliated in alleyways
Paths of iron bars and imprisonment
My veins wringed, intensive torment
Mentally distracted, strained by grief
Settlement, conflicts and border struggles
Governance, religious trickles of disunion
The biblical birthright verses human rights
The unsighted straining peace settlement
Shadows of the peace blueprint screams
Ongoing reconciliation, milked in small doses
Whose home is whose? Subdivided in areas
Controls of disillusionment undisclosed
Unmanned checkpoints evokes fears
Revolving cameras tossed and turned
Bansky slogan “make hummus not war”
Smashes freedom to uproot and merge
Constitute and construct peaceful resorts
All horns blowing to collapse duality
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
choo choo
next stop.....perdition
(no, not really...no-one believes this Stygian opacity)
1.
look how Time doth ravage thee
look what it did to thy visage
in smithereens, lies youth
it so artfully takes away
what is held so dear
rivers and streams
valleys and hills
arching to ecstatic heights
plunging to abysmal lows
into the ravine of chance
stirred by the spoon of Time
slowly around the cauldron
brews the self-same mixture
then poured into chasms of forgetfulness
using the eternal sledgehammer
it
smashes the foundation of thought
grinds the nutmeg of speed
pulps the fruit of mentality
slows the pulse of sensation
and pardons none.
2.
what was once sensuous and voluptuous lips
now are merely two dry slits on your face
once stared-into eyeballs, now glass over
vitreous cataracts steadily grow, weed-like
toned into lithe elastic bands now stretch
away into forever, a pale platform to walk on
life's morn is encompassed by years' slanting
clouded and bedimmed by mists of age
butterfly's existence outweighs a man's
by mere night-veiled windowpane of true sight
draw the curtains; close the shutters; screen the eyes
the time has come to shed all blinkers and face the sun.
3.
crimp
sag
limp
drag
mud cracks down a dipping dale
scalding pain sears sore half-foot
yes, time is but a disease
ravaging all
without fear or favour
sunken eyes
slower reflexes
tardier mind
scraggly body
hides not
condescends not
forgets not
the glimmer of ....
a time of ...
4.
cathedral invites the walker in
cool and calm recesses
sit silent
wait....
then they walk in, carrying
one who had but a lucky half-score lot
clear soprano note becomes a rudderless bleat
announcing the folly of stifling ego
now shorn of burning frost of circuitous fervour
beams of mercy cast a final look-see
jump the barriers of
time
to
carry thee off.
pipe organ-stops are pulled out
(art thee ready? platform number 5)
S T, 9 May 2013
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
I have come to understand things
in a rational way.
Even love, that endless mystery,
can be broken down
into respect, reliance, trust and patience
With ample evidence available
for each category.
But a blast
from your long-ago eyes
destroys the shelves,
smashes the glass cases
and smothers the labels
in cryptic Pagan pictograms
I have no words,
only a feeling
warm and welcome
that something remains
forever, unexplained.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 10:40 AM UTC
Southeast, and storm, and every weathervane
shivers and moans upon its dripping pin,
ragged on chimneys the cloud whips, the rain
howls at the flues and windows to get in,
the golden rooster claps his golden wings
and from the Baptist Chapel shrieks no more,
the golden arrow in the southeast sings
and hears on the roof the Atlantic Ocean roar.
Waves among wires, sea scudding over poles,
down every alley the magnificence of rain,
dead gutters live once more, the deep manholes
hollow in triumph a passage to the main.
Umbrellas, and in the Gardens one old man
hurries away along a dancing path,
listens to music on a watering-can,
observes among the tulips the sudden wrath,
pale willows thrashing to the needled lake,
and dinghies filled with water; while the sky
smashes the lilacs, swoops to shake and break,
till shattered branches shriek and railings cry.
Speak, Hatteras, your language of the sea:
scour with kelp and spindrift the stale street:
that man in terror may learn once more to be
child of that hour when rock and ocean meet.
2.2k
rock smashes scissors
break our swords
Scissors cut paper
tear up our poetry
paper covers rock.
shielded by policy
we have our voices.
all rock, all scissor, all paper.
all spock, all lizard
we do not play games, we Speak.
We throw spock hands like Gang signs
spit parsel tongue at pride haters
we write love letters to revolution
We cut red tape with our long fuzes
Hit rock bottom, more bass in our
Voices than god knows what to do with
So we tell him exactlly where it should go.
Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Spock
They hold their pens like scissors
carving history books into erasure poems
We would swing our pens like swords.
But no leader we trust has been elected yet.
We would have a leader to guide us
But snakeoil salesmen plague our trenches.
There would be no snakeoil salesmen if
we had a stable government
We would have a stable government
but the stability was sharpied out of our history books.
And To history, loud voices sound
like the fires of god.
And are we not the voices with more bass then God knows what to do with.
without words on the wind,
There is no flame
so aren't we fire.
We all have tealights waiting in cold oven hearts.
stone hearths begging for Ignition
eager for bootleg promises of warmth
The orange rhetoric of our future
no warmer than tinders logo.
or a video recording of a fireplace
flickering on a flatscreen at best buy.
We are distracted constantly.
misdirected by Houses of paper cards
origami swans we don't dare unfold
Staying ignorant of the tire track liner inside.
origami swans are so much more beautiful
when they have secrets, right?
I have a matchstick
watch me strike it lit
flare this paper swan into a pheonix.
And hold it in my fist.
there will be fire.
and it will not be a metaphor
But It will be a revolution
And it will be a pheonix
and the pheonix WILL be a metaphor
The Rabbi at Temple Beth El
said when a mans consumed by gods fire
it is a severance from faith, a spiritual death.
what have we done
if not lost faith in our government?
Been consumed by the fires of god.
and why not tattoo pheonix feathers
on our backs?
at least this death gave us warmth.
a home in the world's ashes.
I stared at the dragons fire that stormed towards me
thanked it for the oppurtunity
to walk out of this world
holding dragons eggs
Like Daneris Tygareon
and they will be real dragons.
incubated by REAL fire
despite this crumbling cataclysm
you call a great america.
Spock handed Lizards larger and louder
with all the rocks
paper and scissors they need
to set the world on fire.
To Finally see something beautiful be born.
A Home that keeps them warm.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC
Rippling waves bursting through
Encaged chests springing, smashing
and smashing as all love is
rolling over
In the Love of the abandoned ocean
Breaking shells and all packaging
a packaging
Love never wanted
All love being free
Its depths to be accessed
For all to see
Oh the great Sea
The abandoned ocean
No one can see
Whispering sweetly it tickles
Relaxing all our stresses
Soothing our shores
As it lovingly caresses
Enticing us all in
How the abandoned ocean
tries so hard to get us
All to just jump in
Foolishly men with their
backs to the ocean stare sadly
in dismay at empty rock faces
rigorously searching under
pebbles and hidden places
With all the love of the abandoned
ocean sitting behind them
Lifting itself up and over
The ocean pours its
Love all over
Giant Whales start calling
Comeback comeback
We are all waiting
In an eternal forever
rhythm no stalling
just keep on pouring
Waves smash and bash
breaking our cliffs and edges
That push away the Love
Of this vast abandoned ocean
May the Love of this ocean
find its way as it smashes
through hard places seeping
through hidden spaces
As it penetrates us all
so very very deeply
Let us all return to the
LOVE OF THIS
ABANDONED OCEAN
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
She smashes windows
and watches them fly
like tiny glass birds
and now and again
she likes to smash mirrors
that capture her eye
to see if she flies
the same...
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
True darkness materializes
On the precipice of the mourning tower
Wails of agony ring throughout chambers of antiquity
Where the souls linger in misery
A discordant choir rises up amidst the still air
And here death becomes an entity
Endless torrent of pain, death, and doom
Mindless shells of men march with hearts of gloom
Skies of grey rain tears of blood
Hope had its throat slit, face down in mud
Pointless existence
Subject to extreme animosity
Endless voids pool on the ground
******* everything down into the abyss
Fingernails splinter and break as I try to claw my way out
Nailed down in a casket, mouth sewn shut
Screaming internally
Misery smashes through me
Like a hammer through a child
I will lose everything here
At the hands of this curse
And I'm not sure I care to carry on
A broken man, once driven
Now devoid of any and all reason
To keep living
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
I do not know why I travel back to you,
My steps forever eschewed as I make my way to that sullen place.
It smashes my soul and crushes my spirit,
Your words, your lips obliterate the fire in my purgatory.
Yet as I pen down each word, it never makes sense,
Like the words I write now, they warp and distort into shapeless and meaningless beings.
Do you get what I speak as I touch your cherub lips?
Or are they lost like my heart that shall never come back home.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:38 AM UTC
Blue streaks shew across the sky.
Manic days and semper fi.
Red dawn smashes out the sea.
Honor is all I claim to be.
Though I love and feel like saintly.
I reek, timorous, spineless and dainty.
But I have no respect for you!
Till we are in court, tried and true
It was the world, the world of defeat.
I planted my flag on a daisy and creek.
On a light dominion of my summerhouse place.
There sit, the lovely Welterman case.
Weltermans family gathered in boon.
Farewell to a daughter, a motherly loon.
I killed her. There. I said it okay?
But don't blame me, she was just in my way.
On a cold summer day, and a hot summer night.
Cicadas bizzled but hardly struck a fright.
Daisy lay sleeping, sweet next to me.
Leaving behind her unfinished dreams
But lo and behold, an undertaker.
Ruinous desire, I decided to take her.
My confession means nothing, my killing, an iota.
So love would not infect Alexander of Macedonia.
Down the throat and across the sea.
Of loquacious gelatinous sanctimony.
I'll cut deep without thinking, I'll slash without aversion.
Ophelia and her love is a tainted **********
I bathed in the blood and cried myself silly.
She only deserved death, that ***** old filly.
No more would Welterman reek of my sin.
To lower a king, to a peasantly Tim.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 2:59 AM UTC
A black cat with a grin and
A scythe, slashing thru
Space-time with a giggle
Invulnerable & finite. Untouchable rabbit
Stretches it's torso many meters out
Evading a cannonball.
Time to go to work; no doors here!
Rabbit shaped hole in the wall
Ever never fear!
4 Thirty minutes on a Sat. morning network
Talking animals accordion back
From falling crate crushes
Index fingers stretch their cheeks
Ha ha ha ha!
& a wagging red tongue, almost all week.
Piano dangling by a thread
Shrinking Shadow under your feet
It's right above your head!
You step aside just in time -
An anvil smashes you instead.
Too hard to explain to a real-lifer:
This has no point!
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 1:44 PM UTC