"socialite" poems
**I have an issue
One that weighs heavily upon my heart
One that, if left unchecked, threatens to tear our social moral fiber apart
An issue I will express in English, with some help from my old friend *Swahili
Hii imenisumbua akili, kwa hivyo kuiongelea ni kitu tunastahili
Hii story ya immorality tunaichukulia so so light
Dem akiji'expose kidogo mbele ya kamera haina mseo, tunampandisha cheo kwa society, all of a sudden ye ni socialite
The new cool, eti ‘good girl gone bad’
Hiyo njaro siyo polite*
We have a lot more to live for than that which we seem to be aware of
It’s not always about a good time, or lack thereof
Our reputation as a culture I believe is something we badly need to take care of
*Siyo game
Siyo Jokes
Si eti mambo na fame*
It shouldn’t just be about who drinks, who smokes, who vomits and who chokes
*Hiyo lifestyle siyo dope
Na siyo right*
Six hundred and seventy something ways to die… choose one
I refuse to go… speeding down a highway, drunk out of my mind, on another booz run
However, I may not exactly be the right person to point out how messed up you are
On a scale of one to ten?
I’m probably as guilty as you are
******
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
Midnight just stands there
It watches me with a stare
She doesn't like to sleep
Yet she sleeps with everyone but me
I'm calm as it storms
In this mental fire I am warm
I'm not without but within
As I let midnight in
There's a hollow in the sounds
Resounding through the pounds
Of my insomniac heart
In the silky black dark
She was made in the light
But lives in darkest night
Solemn and upright
Like a high-end socialite
She makes me feel alive
Before the sun slowly dies
A martyr for my dreams
But nothing's what it seems
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
six-inch heels abandoned
in lampless corner grimy pennies embedded in carpet
rent's due
wedding band girl "fab polka dot frocks"
waterfalling past knees outta place
on casino bus destined for rest under Ft. Worth stars
now, now ********* borealis speckled dice
true love waits
socialite lip balm and bourgeoisie hips compete
in bidding war over which black face triggerpulls
which black face eyes the ground
passerby the red light the green light
all night diner egg on chin coffee-stained porcelain teeth
"I forgave, I think. I forget."
crowded and paranoid in the left lane the right lane
empty and weak and surrender and soiled underwear in ammonia nursing home
children is a word time is a lie the polka dot and the interstate ain't selling
divorce the consequence of acoustic shadows
reblog undo #sotrue reblog
living through x-ray radiotherapy the dotted gown
never the veiny calves or the blush or the eyeliner
somewhere in North Texas shawtys are in the club
shawtys are backin' it up shawtys are dropin' it down
hit me+hit me+hit me=blackjack mishap
the marvel of the wind and of wind turbines
cognac decade brides the epitome of class and natural elegance
standing like oil derricks and treated like oil wells
so secretive and philanthropic
this taxon remains nameless
casino turned dance hall dance hall skinny ties still a thing
this wine is good. is it a merlot? no. this is purely recreational
for birthdays for weddings and Ft. Worth missionaries
10-50 passengers we've got 53, no 54 #hahahaha #whoops #party
who needs unprescribed drugs? me, me (!)
decomposing mascara sweat on brow the interstate no longer lit
polka dots has got the suicide by Manet pulled up
on her iPhone the financial stress which shudders warm-blooded moms
on her lips every mother a librarian every mother a swing-pusher
but digression next to bitterness the lowest sin
edging the cultural gateway of the old west
miracles in and miracles out of tradition following
the slender bends of middle ancient Trinity River
children a word pattycake a game
and time time a lie we left to museum panoramas
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
I'll cut out my bad habits
It's time to be classy
Sit straight
Be polite
No anger
Be classy
Small smiles
Small laughs
Genuine
Dressed to the nines
At all times
Be classy
Heels
Scarves
Sunglasses
And gloves
Unique and stylish
Be classy
A right socialite
A Queen who plays the part
A Goddess of a lady
Love, Class is an art.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
Exotic trollwood harlotry and mule kit blues
Tyrannical tyrannosaur traction padness
Cohort cavorts clastic and witch’s *** hues
Ontological ontogeny somatalogy fadness
Inductive endemic veracities and talus weather clues
Epistemological equilibrium’s homogeny badness
Timeless rhetorical ruminations and ephemeral exigency dues
Transcendent ascensional equivocal madness
Tactile acuity prescience capacity intrepid intrigues
Mystical symbiosis dharma sensorium sentiment proselyte
Torturous tractive prosthesis umbrage ultraism colleagues
Newfangled nocturnal nonchalant nether nestle neophyte
Top notch topography tortoise trauma fatigues
Faustian faux pas foist felicitous fealties socialite
Agnate nous ontological ontogeny euphenics in league
Mentalities evocative introjecting sycophant eulogizing apposite
Mystical terrestrial equestrian tellurian tableau
Panoramic imagery empiricist
Evocative exserted apomixies’ ethereal should show
Ontological somatalogy lyricist
Reflective refraction remissions opulence could know
Theosophy theophany epiphany equilibrist
Magniloquent inductive extrapolation quantum back ***
Transcendent nimbus nimiety exorcist
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
This young man walked in
Black suit and black shoes
In his left hand was a briefcase
And in his right was the news
His face seemed tense
He had a crease in his forehead
Probably thinking about his job
Who knows what he contemplated
But his eyes told a different story
They personified moonbeams
His eyes told me his soul
Was thinking about other things
His pupils were ballet dancers
That were caged in normality
His eyes did not agree
With his outer formality
Within him I saw a hungry
Beast of a lion
Within him I saw a vision
Of a fire that was dying
He was doing what was expected of him
He was conforming to them
He was doing his normal routine
Of the socialite man
But he’s so much more than that
His heart was aloof somewhere else
I watched him pay for his coffee
Take a sip
Then he left.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 7:06 PM UTC
There is insincerity in my electric praise,
regardless of response I drip cool pools of soft cloth on floor
and utter abstruse succulent phrases.
Even with all this, I am insipid in lending lip service to ***
I absently inhale acrid smoke because
I never pretended to be a hermetic socialite-
because it is a socially acceptable
form of self hatred.
Obsessive animality has become
disinterested sexuality,
I have done anything
ever asking "what then?" and
everything done:
has me **** in the eyes of men.
Gleaming ideals of girl on girl,
feverish licking,
slick sweat dripping and all this
boredom:
the initiated
subjects of whoredom
come undone with the gripping of slippery moans
and now lay soiled in sheets
where hearts beat fast,
striving hard,
deep in keeping the motions of man.
We are stripping off flakes of soft humanity,
which we feed each other to watch it melt on the tongue.
So very unlike writing,
*** is hard wired,
it needn't be learned-
only practiced with intent for perfection
and when the edges bleed together within the edacious mind,
all is bared
unclothing only sloven swine.
The truth is:
I only deal with shadows and
align them in a malignant play of poetic puppetry.
I outline a silver coated tongue
seen to deliver elaborate loquacious lies,
I **** deep at cultural control
and I huff full lungs of the social soul.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 12:03 AM UTC
You strip naked and then
Display your protruding ribs and your gentle curves
Bask in the lust and admiration of drooling men
Glued to their MacBooks, fingers pressed to nerves
You think you are a *** symbol
Your beauty commands respect
Strong and nimble
Attention simply what you expect
But you’re wrong about your power
You’re weak, tied with a tether
A fragile, dainty flower
Crumbling under a feather
You do what they tell you to do
Tiny **** are better than sagging thighs
Body hair like buzzing flies
Cellulite
Overnight
You are a socialite
Swallow pills so hearty
Starve day after day as you become more vein
Stay up all night at parties
Prolong the pain
Hover over the toilet below
Half crying, half vomiting, hungover
Your guilty pleasures are reality shows
The Biggest Loser, Extreme Makeover
Love, *** and lust
Drive you to do this
Or maybe you just want trust
For someone to care instead of dismiss
The powder from the thick white sponge invades your nostrils
It is the bread, your red nail polish the wine
Vogue and Cosmo your glossy gospels
Your closetful of designer shoes a shrine
Cocktail dresses and Gucci are your new burger and draught
Finding nourishment in Martinis, icy words
Why do you think this will make up for your past?
All it does is make it worse
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
Hungry teeth razors
Slice to scar my hand.
Watching the black symbol redden
Quenches my thirst like a cold beer.
Shield me from their fear;
and with clear eyes,
among socialite imbued rags,
I shall face my pain
Or live a conscious death.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
Breast-ache woman, you beautify
behind redden scars
and befriend those who are
free from languid storm-hair.
I see you rate the raw breast-worship
of frantic whistles which collide against the
callus freckles of a moon-sea.
You ask, "Can you see the satellites that sate
lights of the city...Creating
causeways or ways to cause
the first chill of dirt in a Martini?"
I take a drink.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 3:11 AM UTC
I'm not Shakespeare, not some romantic poet clad in flowers and doves
I'm no Fitzgerald, a dapper socialite at home with the intellectuals and aristocrats
I'd like to be Hemingway, a man in all senses of the word, guided by a certain wit and drive
Hell, I'd even take Bukowski, or Kerouac, drug addled and safe in the strength of my arrogance
I'm not your favorite department store
no recognizable brand
no jewelry
My love is not measured in the moments quenched with awe
no symphonies or trips to the opera house
In a dime store I trudge through the aisles of shelves
rummaging through the lost and found of people long forgotten and dead
I find a necklace, shells strung together on a piece of fishing line and I think of you
young and happy with a bucket and a *****
so curious as to the motion of the ocean, you slowly approach
only to run away - giddy in your fear - as the cold tide licks at your heels
digging up ***** to show to your Mom and Dad
I think of you, my hand clutching that Dime store necklace
I think of you now
Me so intrigued, I draw up my plans with tact
only to crumble before you
I am the shells you dug up
I am the fishing line your dad cut off for you
the knots he taught you to make
I am your lost and found
helplessly missing you always
I am your Dime Store love
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
What if Neil tripped down those famed steps
One small st-
And collapsed in a heap of vacuum-resistant debris
Cracked glass and aspiration
Shame-sweat beading on his brow
And the president’s hands hit his horseshoe forehead and he frowned like the big man he was
And the mayor pounded his fist against the mahogany recently polished by the secretary
And the wrists of socialite women hit their foreheads and they gasped and crumpled on to couches white with scrubbings
And the children thought he was ducking-and-covering, just like Ms. Merryweather said
And the Haight-Ashbury hoodlums didn’t notice because the needle was already sunk in like incisors
And the traitors giggled fuck-you's in their colonies festering like mold?
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
9:23 i threw a piece of cake at my dad
9:40 i am trying to climb up the wall to the beat of *** drop by wiz khalifa
9:52 my girlfriend is asleep so im just ************ to ****
9:54 i can't get off so i start singing *** drop by wiz khalifa very loudly
9:56 my dad yelled at me for singing
10:15 the whole kitchen is clean now and i run back upstairs
10:19 exchange with my mom goes really bad we are mad at each other now
10:21 slamming my door shut three times because the wall shook really hard the first time
10:45 and no one is awake and no one is talking to me and i am alone
3:45 i am watching intervention and sobbing because the alcoholic socialite is more beautiful than i will ever be
3:58 google search: ptsd flashback racing thoughts grounding skills creative
4:00 surprise surprise the internet has disappointed me i can't breathe
4:12 i'm writing a poem about bipolar disorder because at least maybe it'll get me some attention
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 4:12 AM UTC
Legs pinched and yellow as ginger root
My hands like yams, and belly,
The whole of me looks plucked from the underground,
Topped with a thin sprig - enough hairs to count in an afternoon
Face pink as potatoes in the kitchen,
Eyes plain and brown.
A trip to the market yields a bag of onions
and whispers of the monster woman.
If I am a monster, I am a recluse
Curled around and polishing the opals that grow fat as melons inside me.
Cut, I do not bleed.
My veins only hold the roar of a thunder storm
Field mice find homes in the folds of my ankle.
The weather cannot be contained in my blood alone;
My open mouth stumbles like rain drops thucking in mud.
Angry, I howl sunlight.
I used to be a school yard socialite,
But was always twice as wide as tall,
And a careful turn would tumble three of my comrades
It wasn't long before they turned on me
Back then I thought that children were the cruelest creatures
All rocks and fierce joy,
But the mothers watched with condemning eyes,
And snarled.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
To accept knowing
Is not knowing
But still knowing some
Is enough
To know life and
Not know life
Seeing the creases
Of the newspaper
The *** rests his weary
Head on
Is enough
To see breath enter
Escape the broken body
Of a young boy
Ignorant to the facts of the world
That surround him
Is enough
At the time
The worried
Worry
The anxious
Toil over things
Within themselves
Outside of themselves
Out of
Their full
Control
The bigots
Picket a cause
They know nothing
About, embracing
Their unity in Hate
But the spellings wrong
The forward thinkers
Caved in with
Paperwork and
Hopes and dreams
Billowing plumes of twisted
Curled, cigarette smoke
Ashen intellectuals caught up
In the overflowing ash trays
Of the overzealous socialite
This is our chance
To Be Someone
The realist
Staring blankly at an
Empty salt shaker sitting
Next to a full
Pepper shaker
The veteran
Wishing there
Was no such thing
As bullets
The president
On a pedestal
Showing how fragile
Man can be
We people enter
Through these doors
Escaped convicts of the eternal
Holding a key of
Impossibilities
There are so many roads
That are open to us
Who sways us to take the
One we tread upon now?
Who has enticed us to the
The path we now walk upon?
I see a glimmer of the horizon
The lights show a blinding
Ancient yellow, the color of my mother's
***** blonde hair;
The clouds
Her laughter
As she squints, hiding
Her joy, keeping it for herself
"Safe keeping"," she always said
For soon
She knew
I would be
An echo
Remembrance of Sound
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
Shallow: a desert puddle, arid June
Voracious need for lavish fortune
Pseudo socialite, sprayed on tan
Would die in a minivan
Black Benz, hairdo, I, beep
Drowning in the deep
Judged by your frown
Risible
You will
Drown
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
I'm an apocalyptic mess.
Feathers have weakened,
my spine.
Fathers defeating your
Slate of counter-morals.
And grandsons fighting,
In your perfect dark ambience.
You slide along
Their dim sunshine.
Stars in long strands of hair.
Air –
Air, within a bolt of
Thickened smoke.
I'm a pivotal truth.
A potential socialite.
I'm the average placid child.
A protruding noise.
A prolific stride.
I'm the plastic hero,
In this poisonous state of mind.
I'm fickle.
Dainty.
Drained in his fortune
Of sins.
Her life,
Her subway train,
Filled with brains,
So politically innate.
An infrasonic plea.
You dive an impossible,
Trance of trenchant treasures,
And happy measures.
We will sit our lucky posture,
You & I.
My sixty-second genius
Flee the inner torture.
Let us finish in the pop culture.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 12:50 AM UTC
Where do good ideas come from?
They shrivel away from the hypnotizing light of a virtual socialite
They grow toward the sun out above the clouds
Ever-present from birth to death,
They're the latest permutations of the same explosion that started that
Fusion core up there running
Running without stopping for a billion years
Fueling the experiments of life that consciousness spontaneously manifested
Across the planets
Each a test of a different vibrational frequency
Incompatible with one another but coexistent
Mercury's barren silver mines
And the Venusian valleys
And the regal red sands of Mars
And Jupiter's infinite wisdom and so forth to the edge of the Oort Cloud
And the green and blue ecology of earth, the waterworld
Where the entire drama we've seen so far has been carried out
The audience has grown in appetite
And doesn't always see that it too is the performance
But the unwilling blindness is all part of the sublime suspense of this subcosmic game
The planetary curiosity,
Can we make it? Would it matter?
We'll never truly die when we forget time
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
A girl walked out of the thrift store,
Sporting a green leather pea coat.
She was accosted by a budding socialite,
Who complimented her garish green.
"How dare you call it 'Green'!,
Can't you see what this is?"
The socialite-turned-desperate shook her head.
"'Tis the colour of the trees after spring."
"Green?"
"No, silly. Beautiful."
And thus a trend was set.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:52 AM UTC
being insulted by someone
of a trans-
status quo
classification
will never be enough
to mind, had i the pairing
to a higher tier of socialite endeavour -
to be debased with a fragrance of
a misuse of language
on a level of comprehension will
always place me steadied with placards
of 'hello, my name is Samauel'
well hello Samuel..
boiled herrings pan-fried readied for
a star wars sequel akin to rocky 7,
boxing-catchup K.O. no.31 -
an here the champ gives way to a chimpanzees'
worth of gurgled laughter -
readied speed at a Bronson's uppercut -
and we're too the readied ones
annex to the molars that might be considered
the chewing apparatus should
we not have juiced with bites as if a load's
worth of hammering was taken place:
chewing as if hammering, imagine
the cranium gush extract - it would be
like porridge if reverse due to diarrhoea!
flaky shit-bits and anaconda's suntan to measure up to;
well, there was the leather chair to mind
in terms of approving leisure activity as coercing
a carefree fortitude of futuristic investment -
mind you the loss of the Celtic vocabulary,
I.R.A. and the instigation of Anglo-Saxon
vocabulary to suppress the populace
of renegade Catholics or the twin Belfast known
as Glasgow - indeed Edinburgh remained
as much conservative as St. Andrew's would allow,
an extension of England, even with parliament
it was a Basildon of northern Essex...
scots among the multitude of accents usurped from
pole-dancing with kilts! Tartan su doku!
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
In life you are a total nobody if you aren't:
A "socialite superstar" who sacrifices moral for popularity
A tech freak
A work-a-holic
A married man or woman (opposite *** only!)
An insensitive "cowboy"
A confederate flag sympathizer (incomparable to ****** I guess)
A religious fanatic
Someone who is so open minded they are open to bad or EVIL
Rich as hell
Extremely violent or purposefully "unaware of bullies"
Anyone who graduated with honors (3.5 or higher, please!)
Certain everyone should work and/or drive
Covered by expensive life insurance
Popular with dozens of "honest friends"
A gun owner who doesn't believe in the need for regulation
A cigarette smoker (but *** is a "bigger devil!")
Hating cross dressers
A nudist hater
Built with a six pack
Absolutely certain that every hippy is "the devil"
A nature hater
Willing to **** anything that moves (they are the pests)
Giving away all natural love for money
One who loves to go to war, a.k.a. "gung-ho"
Gifted with perfected teeth
One to ignore the "little lower people" at work/school
A "brown noser," trying to even out-do your mentors
A cheeky person obsessed with being manager (I'm #1!)
Poised to kick someone out on a moments notice (no hustlers here!)
Always on "mommy" and "daddies" side, even if they went too far
The list goes on and on, but you need to be most of these to succeed!
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 4:27 AM UTC
Sometimes I realize
I don't have it bad
My parents are still together
We have power most days
Plenty of people talk at me
But then some days
I have to shower at Lilly's
Some times no one talks to me
And some I don't eat
And some I can't eat
And then I'm confused
I'm somewhere in the middle
Of a poor loner
And a middle class socialite
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 8:42 AM UTC