"sot" poems
Opgedra aan ‘n kind wat gebliksem moet word.
Deur: Desperaatheid en vrees
Jy klim in en uit die ***** van bestaan,
beide die rede vir liefde en
die kind wat sy baar.
Jy is ‘n drievoud van godelike hervertellings
, want wie kan regtig liefde
in ‘n enkel sin verhaal?
Geminag , die seun van liefde en haat
- jou einste bestaan ,van die vroegste
paradoksale meesterstukke.
Verewig , verewig tot ‘n kind
tussen die Groottes wat
blindlings onder jou boogpunt swik.
Vir elke nasie ‘n ander droom
Vir elke geloof ‘n ander naam en
Vir elke mens ‘n ander god.
Amor , oh Amor!
Die sinnebeeld van liefde
wat die mendsom verbly
, maar Eros jou ramkat
jou hupse hygelbek!
Jou erotiese aanraak!
(die begeer ek)
En ek?
Met my koker van lig en van goud,
wat hulde blyk en bou en bring
maar bestorwe le voor my Laurel
oor ‘n lood-stomp pylpunt vir haar ‘n treuerlied sing!
Amor, Amor word wakker!
My son le liefdeloos in my bros hart
, wat instaan teen logika
– sterk op die oorlogspad!
Jy wat na my heuning reik
-met honger hande vieslik gryp
en ek wat jou met angel steek
in desperaatheid jou nat vel breek…
“Oh moeder”, roep die wetter na bo
vir die planete om aan te ****
“Oh moeder, Oh liefde “ ,spat die sot se treur,
“ *** kan so bietjie , so klein – so seer!”
En die heumel druis soos die moeder lag
haar humor eg , maar haar woorde sag:
“ My naakseun, my hinksperd
My fallus met vlerke!
Jy ,nog ‘n roosknop.
gaan ook so te werke!
Aanvaar die poëtiese justitie
Stil nou liefstetjie
Lamtietie Damtietie …”
Amor, Amor!
Weerstaan tog skoonheid se wieggelied
en wees my genadig!
Begunstig my ten einde laaste
, selfs vader tyd is verveeld
met die son se enkelpad!
*** lank nog wil jy sluimer?
Amor, Amor!
Tel weer op jou leisels
en bring liefde op die wind
my wereld lê in afwagting
vir die dolfyn en sy kind!
Wees my genadig, Amor!
Deurboor my leemte met goud,
,want die bringer van lig is slapeloos
en my hart is droewig en koud.
Oh Amor, Amor!
Ek weet jys nog jonk,
maar *** speel jy dollos met lewe se vonk…
Amor, Amor!
Word wakker!
Amor…
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
I'm making a pub pilgrimage,
A malted Mecca trip;
I'm leaving all I love at home
Crusading with the Picts.
I'll be alone with all my thoughts,
It's what must needs be done,
To keep the demons off.
Publicans meet me on the steps,
On Sundays by the side;
This trip of three thousand miles
May **** should I survive.
My altar's elbow worn,
The finest oaken wood;
I'll climb the stairs on knees,
Hear bells, raise cups of cheer.
There's games of chance,
Some romance,
With songs and several fools;
It has trappings of Canterbury
In pubs all called O'Tooles.
There's Highland mead,
And broken bread,
With harps from inner rooms,
I'll have dispirited spirits
And revel inside tombs.
My cave awaits on my return,
It's dark and hard and cold;
But I know the light's within my sight,
If I move this granite stone.
I'll bring with me a scapula
To make those visions stop,
The relics that I sought,
Those demons of a sot.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
equanarium brizzle fer
qouckly triz
o
preform x rated
blizzebance o f eq
uananimous
remitelely
fueled smote
of someairily sot
sweed
wroted down
what?
ever>
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
A drunken ould sot named O'Reilly
Drank a bottle he thought of most highly.
On his way to the well,
He stumbled and fell,
And was hoist upon his own shilleilly.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
some days, his eyes are full with angst
his arms down his sides, with his fists as closed as his ears
and all I want to say is *I know how it is
to be so angry you don't know where to go
because the whole world lights you up like a dry stick of explosives,
how it is to have your feelings being so big they start to feel
like extensions of your limbs,
waving uncontrollably
and all you can do to avoid their friction from setting you on fire
is either to cut them off or keep your arms down your sides*
but I step aside, because he can no longer take in my words
his six year old eyes are filled with the nothingness of
an anger so big and unlabeled
but someday, I will tell him and he will understand
I will tell him that even though my blood is not in his veins,
I will cleanse it from soot and silt,
I will be his human shield from this world
I will tear kingdoms apart and slay every last creeper
just to help him level up
and I will uncontrollably, explosively and unconditionally
love him
//
vissa dagar är hans ögon fyllda med ångest
hans armar längs sidorna, med nävar lika hårt stängda som hans öron
och allt jag vill säga är att *jag vet hur det är
att vara så arg att du inte vet vars du ska ta vägen,
för hela världen får en att tända som en torr bunt sprängämnen,
hur det är att ha känslor så stora att de börjar kännas
som förlängningar av dina egna armar och ben,
okontrollerbart viftande
och allt du kan göra för att förhindra att deras friktion tänder eld på dig
är att antingen hugga av dem eller hålla armarna längs sidorna*
men jag går undan, för han kan inte ta in mina ord längre
hans sexåriga ögon fyllda med ingentinget
av en ilska så stor och oettikerad ilska
men någon dag ska jag berätta för honom och han ska förstå
jag ska berätta för honom att även fast mitt blod inte flyter genom hans artärer,
ska jag rensa det från smuts och sot,
jag ska vara hans mänskliga sköld från den här världen
jag ska slita kungariken itu och döda varenda creeper
bara för att hjälpa honom att levla upp
och jag ska okontrollerbart, explosivt och villkorslöst
älska honom
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
I'm as clever as a bag of wet cats when it comes to jokes
dumb as a stump
thick as a brick, dense as a sack of hammers
accurate as a spastic
as sharp as a **** heap
as refined as an oil spill
elegant as a heap of a sot passed out spread-eagle in some gutter
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
Il n'est pas donné à chacun de prendre un bain de multitude : jouir de la foule est un art ; et celui-là seul peut faire, aux dépens du genre humain, une ribote de vitalité, à qui une fée a insufflé dans son berceau le goût du travestissement et du masque, la haine du domicile et la passion du voyage.
Multitude, solitude : termes égaux et convertibles pour le poète actif et fécond. Qui ne sait pas peupler sa solitude, ne sait pas non plus être seul dans une foule affairée.
Le poète jouit de cet incomparable privilège, qu'il peut à sa guise être lui-même et autrui. Comme ces âmes errantes qui cherchent un corps, il entre, quand il veut, dans le personnage de chacun. Pour lui seul, tout est vacant ; et si de certaines places paraissent lui êtres fermées, c'est qu'à ses yeux elles ne valent pas la peine d'être visitées.
Le promeneur solitaire et pensif tire une singulière ivresse de cette universelle communion. Celui-là qui épouse facilement la foule connaît des jouissances fiévreuses, dont seront éternellement privés l'égoïste, fermé comme un coffre, et le paresseux, interné comme un mollusque. Il adopte comme siennes toutes les professions, toutes les joies et toutes les misères que la circonstance lui présente.
Ce que les hommes nomment amour est bien petit, bien restreint et bien faible, comparé à cette ineffable orgie, à cette sainte prostitution de l'âme qui se donne tout entière, poésie et charité, à l'imprévu qui se montre, à l'inconnu qui passe.
Il est bon d'apprendre quelquefois aux heureux de ce monde, ne fût-ce que pour humilier un instant leur sot orgueil, qu'il est des bonheurs supérieurs au leur, plus vastes et plus raffinés. Les fondateurs de colonies, les pasteurs de peuples, les prêtres missionnaires exilés au bout du monde, connaissent sans doute quelque chose de ces mystérieuses ivresses ; et, au sein de la vaste famille que leur génie s'est faite, ils doivent rire quelquefois de ceux qui les plaignent pour leur fortune si agitée et pour leur vie si chaste.
2.3k
My dear, it rained last night
And I remember
The alleviated rise into
Lush sobs and lavish emotions
The way your dilatation relieves
Every worry and anxiety
But sometimes when we speak
A violent lie radiates
And last night you were naught
But an alienated virile sot
A view unholy I omit
I remember the tin roses on the tiles
Devastated, shattered.
Sometimes you hum
Your hands delicately miming secret memos
And I can see it in your eyes
Irises shining like teal devils
And the music carries you
White with adrenaline, pupils likes violists
Headwaiters lie, strumming tin violins
Their alienated visions wilted with passion
I see the way she cleverly conceals
Lies as vows to you
A veil called "us" she puts on "me"
And I call for mutiny
But youth is vim, vim is now, and now is lies
Every hug from you is just a violet whim
In noisy rooms
My vision is misty
My aura dies little,
Oh if only you could realize your reign
You’re the master, the ringleader
But you’re lazy; you work without zeal, you’re idle and lazy
Eyes glazed, agile hands getting greedier
Have you ever seen
A dearer lion?
He roared, the lonesome rider
Alone, an alien.
Well sometimes you lie
And I dare to become
An oral denier
My radar detects one lie,
Then two...
You become red
Redder than a ****** lion's ear
Adieu, you say, with a gently undefined lilt
My tears speak more reality than your words
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
The big teetotum twirls,
And epochs wax and wane
As chance subsides or swirls;
But of the loss and gain
The sum is always plain.
Read on the mighty pall,
The **** of funeral
That covers praise and blame,
The -isms and the -anities,
Magnificence and shame:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
The Fates are subtle girls!
They give us chaff for grain.
And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,
Like bolted death, disdain
At all that heart and brain
Conceive, or great or small,
Upon this earthly ball.
Would you be knight and dame?
Or woo the sweet humanities?
Or illustrate a name?
O Vanity of Vanities!
We sound the sea for pearls,
Or drown them in a drain;
We flute it with the merles,
Or tug and sweat and strain;
We grovel, or we reign;
We saunter, or we brawl;
We search the stars for Fame,
Or sink her subterranities;
The legend's still the same:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Here at the wine one birls,
There some one clanks a chain.
The flag that this man furls
That man to float is fain.
Pleasure gives place to pain:
These in the kennel crawl,
While others take the wall.
She has a glorious aim,
He lives for the inanities.
What come of every claim?
O Vanity of Vanities!
Alike are clods and earls.
For sot, and seer, and swain,
For emperors and for churls,
For antidote and bane,
There is but one refrain:
But one for king and thrall,
For David and for Saul,
For fleet of foot and lame,
For pieties and profanities,
The picture and the frame:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Life is a smoke that curls--
Curls in a flickering skein,
That winds and whisks and whirls,
A figment thin and vain,
Into the vast Inane.
One end for hut and hall!
One end for cell and stall!
Burned in one common flame
Are wisdoms and insanities.
For this alone we came:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Envoy
Prince, pride must have a fall.
What is the worth of all
Your state's supreme urbanities?
Bad at the best's the game.
Well might the Sage exclaim:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
1.6k
My heart is a machine
Broken gears and rusted
No longer ticking
It's cold metal and busted
I see the people
through slanted lenses
Cracked and diffused
Blank stare, no senses
Touch my drunk hands,
For feelings are sot
Grab and behold
Twisted up knot
I am not human,
my heart is not real
Get far away,
it's nothing to steal
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
The big teetotum twirls,
And epochs wax and wane
As chance subsides or swirls;
But of the loss and gain
The sum is always plain.
Read on the mighty pall,
The **** of funeral
That covers praise and blame,
The--isms and the--anities,
Magnificence and shame:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
The Fates are subtile girls!
They give us chaff for grain.
And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,
Like bolted death, disdain
At all that heart and brain
Conceive, or great or small,
Upon this earthly ball.
Would you be knight and dame?
Or woo the sweet humanities?
Or illustrate a name?
O Vanity of Vanities!
We sound the sea for pearls,
Or drown them in a drain;
We flute it with the merles,
Or tug and sweat and strain;
We grovel, or we reign;
We saunter, or we brawl;
We answer, or we call;
We search the stars for Fame,
Or sink her subterranities;
The legend's still the same:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Here at the wine one birls,
There some one clanks a chain.
The flag that this man furls
That man to float is fain.
Pleasure gives place to pain:
These in the kennel crawl,
While others take the wall.
She has a glorious aim,
He lives for the inanities.
What comes of every claim?
O Vanity of Vanities!
Alike are clods and earls.
For sot, and seer, and swain,
For emperors and for churls,
For antidote and bane,
There is but one refrain:
But one for king and thrall,
For David and for Saul,
For fleet of foot and lame,
For pieties and profanities,
The picture and the frame:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Life is a smoke that curls--
Curls in a flickering skein,
That winds and whisks and whirls
A figment thin and vain,
Into the vast Inane.
One end for hut and hall!
One end for cell and stall!
Burned in one common flame
Are wisdoms and insanities.
For this alone we came:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Envoy
Prince, pride must have a fall.
What is the worth of all
Your state's supreme urbanities?
Bad at the best's the game.
Well might the Sage exclaim:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
1.6k
Enfin ! seul ! On n'entend plus que le roulement de quelques fiacres attardés et éreintés. Pendant quelques heures, nous posséderons le silence, sinon le repos. Enfin ! la tyrannie de la face humaine a disparu, et je ne souffrirai plus que par moi-même.
Enfin ! il m'est donc permis de me délasser dans un bain de ténèbres ! D'abord, un double tour à la serrure. Il me semble que ce tour de clef augmentera ma solitude et fortifiera les barricades qui me séparent actuellement du monde.
Horrible vie ! Horrible ville ! Récapitulons la journée : avoir vu plusieurs hommes de lettres, dont l'un m'a demandé si l'on pouvait aller en Russie par voie de terre (il prenait sans doute la Russie pour une île) ; avoir disputé généreusement contre le directeur d'une ***** qui à chaque objection répondait : « - C'est ici le parti des honnêtes gens, » ce qui implique que tous les autres journaux sont rédigés par des coquins ; avoir salué une vingtaine de personnes, dont quinze me sont inconnues ; avoir distribué des poignées de main dans la même proportion, et cela sans avoir pris la précaution d'acheter des gants ; être monté pour tuer le temps, pendant une averse, chez une sauteuse qui m'a prié de lui dessiner un costume de Vénustre ; avoir fait ma cour à un directeur de théâtre, qui m'a dit en me congédiant : « - Vous feriez peut-être bien de vous adresser à Z... ; c'est le plus lourd, le plus sot et le plus célèbre de tous mes auteurs, avec lui vous pourriez peut-être aboutir à quelque chose. Voyez-le, et puis nous verrons ; » m'être vanté (pourquoi ?) de plusieurs vilaines actions que je n'ai jamais commises, et avoir lâchement nié quelques autres méfaits que j'ai accomplis avec joie, délit de fanfaronnade, crime de respect humain ; avoir refusé à un ami un service facile, et donné une recommandation écrite à un parfait drôle ; ouf ! est-ce bien fini ?
Mécontent de tous et mécontent de moi, je voudrais bien me racheter et m'enorgueillir un peu dans le silence et la solitude de la nuit. Âmes de ceux que j'ai aimés, âmes de ceux que j'ai chantés, fortifiez-moi, soutenez-moi, éloignez de moi le mensonge et les vapeurs corruptrices du monde, et vous, Seigneur mon Dieu ! accordez-moi la grâce de produire quelques beaux vers qui me prouvent à moi-même que je ne suis pas le dernier des hommes, que je ne suis pas inférieur à ceux que je méprise !
1.8k
One Sunday night a drunken man went down the streets about three sheets in the wind and bumped against a tree. Thinking he had hit a man, he backed off, took off his hat, and said,"scuse me,sir- scuse me." He staggered on a few steps, struck a man, and courtesied again, before staggering away.
A neighbor came along, seeing him stumble against a fence."Why, William! You need to go to revivals with me."
Accordingly the two set out for the meeting held at the nearby church, all the while William recalling what a hypocrite the deacon was.
Making his way down the aisle he threw himself on the pew beside the disgusted looking deacon, while Neighbor Jones took the bench behind.
As deacon Goodwench rolled his eyes in horror, William grinned and winked at him.
Presently the evangelist came to an eloquent Biblical passage and called, "Where is the drunkard?"
Whereupon William rose, folded his arms, and shouted,"Here's the sot. Blaze away," and proceeded to stand at his pew till the evangelist finished the verse.
The Reverend Crawford came to another Biblical passage and called out, "Where is the hypocrite?"
Nobody moved and you could hear a pin drop.
Suddenly William arose,reached over and gave Deacon Goodwench a rough nudge in his side. "Get up and take your med'chine,< Goodwench! Likes I did when he called me..."
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
listen up all tube socks
draped lightly over stiff cots
rise to the knee
this is a call to arms.
cleanse yourself of nostril snot
store it in a safe spot
this is for a poor old sot
with whiskey-breath
whimpering forget-me-nots.
drop pure silver into jangling slots
while your veins rot
and your heart and brain begin to clot
ask your neighbor for a quick five-spot
spin the wheel again, sonny
this time, give it all you got
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
The underbelly of my ego;
limpid, wrinkled carpet
of scars, petty thoughts,
and fearful self-machination.
Cold as a mottled monologue;
Selfish and maudlin
as a sneaky sot,
stealing affection from strangers.
It lurks in the alley of mind;
sinuous and grim
with cynical ire,
waiting to devour my dreams.
Approaching Creativity;
sweet progenitor of
color, light, and lift,
it pounces with dull, fiery claw.
Dripping venom and phantasm;
slayer of fairy tales
barely enwombed,
heartless Avatar of failure.
This then is my secret battle;
to slay and triumph
and win clear the way,
so the children of my light survive.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
Fable II, Livre V.
Je suis un peu badaud, je n'en disconviens pas.
Tout m'amuse ; depuis ces batteurs d'entrechats,
Depuis ces brillants automates,
Dont Gardel fait mouvoir et les pieds et les bras,
Jusqu'à ceux dont un fil règle et soutient les pas,
Jusqu'aux Vestris à quatre pattes,
Qui la queue en trompette, et le museau crotté,
En jupe, en frac, en froc, en toque, en mitre, en casque,
La plume sur l'oreille, ou la brette au côté,
Modestes toutefois sous l'habit qui les masque,
Moins fiers que nous de leurs surnoms,
Quêtent si gaîment les suffrages
Des musards de tous les cantons
Et des enfants de tous les âges.
L'argent leur vient aussi. Peut-on payer trop bien
L'art, le bel art de Terpsichore ?
Art unique ! art utile au singe, à l'homme, au chien.
Comme il vous fait valoir un sot, une pécore !
C'est le clinquant qui les décore,
Et fait quelque chose de rien.
La critique, en dépit de mon goût et du vôtre,
Traite pourtant, lecteur, cet art tout comme un autre.
Quels succès sous sa dent ne sont pas expiés ?
Qui n'en est pas victime en est le tributaire.
Le grand Vestris, le grand Voltaire,
Par sa morsure estropiés,
Prouvent qu'il faut qu'on se résigne
Et qu'enfin le génie à cette dent maligne
Est soumis de la tète aux pieds.
De cette vérité, que je ne crois pas neuve,
Quelques roquets tantôt m'offraient encor la preuve.
Tandis qu'au son du flageolet,
Au bruit du tambourin, sautillant en cadence,
Ces pauvres martyrs de la danse
Formaient sous ma fenêtre un fort joli ballet,
Un mâtin, cette fois ce n'était pas un homme,
Un mâtin, qui debout n'a jamais fait un pas,
Campé sur son derrière, aboyait, Dieu sait comme,
Après ceux qui savaient ce qu'il ne savait pas,
Après ceux, et c'est là le plaisant de l'affaire,
Après ceux qui faisaient ce qu'il ne peut pas faire.
Quoique mauvais danseur, en mes propos divers,
Pour la danse, en tout temps, j'ai montré force estime.
En douter serait un vrai crime ;
J'en atteste ces petits vers.
Mais que sert mon exemple à ce vaste univers ?
Je n'en crois donc pas moins le sens de cette fable
Au commun des mortels tout-à-fait applicable.
Chiens et gens qui dansez, retenez bien ceci :
L'ignorant est jaloux et l'impuissant aussi.
1.2k
King wing nut fancied himself a fashion savant. No one was ballsy enough to tell him "you caahnt".
He sewed a nice shirt from riverbed dirt.
"Wonderful sire was the obliging blurt.
He stitched a cocked hat made from rooster
Fat.
"Mahvelous sire was the rat a tat tat.
He sewed wooden trousers
to so many wowsers !!!
His stockings were crafted from gobbledygook.
Superlative sire!! and "Oh goodness look"
The Vapid sot laid down on a cot for a nap.
He woke at two,recharged an refreshed.
He stripped down to the skin and proceeded to sew a suit from the thinnest of air.
He stepped to his throne from the twilight zone.
bemused and with hardly a care.
What say ye now said the simplified oaf.
All eyes drifted skyward as he strutted about.
to applause and stifled guffaws.
"Your majesty has outdone himself".
"Leave the rest of your clothes in the closets and shelves.
Nothing more needs be said.
Gassed up and content with an over-sized head.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
Agassou will stalk and have his way
What was will be no more. Life exists and goes it's way
Ainsi soit-il. Ainsi sot-l.
Azaca withers and falls away. Boucane drift skyward and take away
What was will be no more. Ainsi soit-il
Ainsi soit-il .
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
attendance
fumbling my entrance array
passionately late i pull off my tie
and crashing here without apology
all-ready a crowd sweated room
low ceiling candy glass munching underfoot
the senses are rushed upon fuming
lit up and strobing with the chaotic humour
and tumorous smells
furious ingestion
swellings and releases
pelling and girling with the dances
hectic music making hero's of uz all
a steaming sot lady lands before me laughing
she climbs me till her bare feet find ground
naked from the waist up
her dress has fallen into a trampled magpie tail
doughy features unfocused
my heart is gurning with ruckus
installed with an addicts engine
it caves and puffs for attention
these are my people
these are my people
now that they're reached their peak
of ******* inebriation
and raving chorus
i am drawn imediate into the density
Feb 24, 2022
Feb 24, 2022 at 11:43 AM UTC
Sometimes, I wish I could fly.
Soar above the endless spacious sky,
Run my fingers along the fluff of the clouds
And look down at the world from above
viewed as nothing more than a speck,
Why did you not create me to be able to fly?
Sometimes, I wish I could climb.
Grapple with the backs of rocky mountain sides,
Touch the tippy tops of sharp, jagged peaks
And shout my accomplishments into the wind
heard as nothing more than a slight breeze,
Why did you not create me to be able to climb so high?
Sometimes, I wish I could swim.
Dive down into the deep, flowing depths,
Plunge myself into a whole new world filled with danger and mystery and beauty
And pour my discoveries into this magnificent and vast sea
becoming nothing more than my swept away dreams,
Why did you not create me to be able to swim so far?
Sometimes, I wish I could run.
Dash into endless forests and over countless hills,
Race alongside cheetahs amid the golden savanna
And let my strong legs carry me to wherever I may go
with nothing more than sot sunlight on my face and stars above my head to light my path,
Why did you not create me to be able to run so fast?
Sometimes, I wish for too many things in life.
That I could be someone or something I'm not.
But I am who I am, you made me this way, God.
A limited and restricted being,
bound to exhaustion and pain and ensnared in materialistic desires.
I hope that one day, I will be able to experience it all,
Free of the way of human life.
Seeing the world the way that wild animals do,
Truly living, like today is their last day. +
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
J'ai fait autrefois de la bête,
J'avais des Philis à la tête,
J'épiais les occasions,
J'épiloguais mes passions,
Je paraphrasais un visage.
Je me mettais à tout usage,
Debout, tête nue, à genoux,
Triste, gaillard, rêveur, jaloux,
Je courais, je faisais la grue
Tout un jour au bout d'une rue.
Soleil, flambeaux, attraits, appas,
Pleurs, désespoir, tourment, trépas,
Tout ce petit meuble de bouche
Dont un amoureux s'escarmouche,
Je savais bien m'en escrimer.
Par là je m'appris à rimer,
Par là je fis, sans autre chose,
Un sot en vers d'un sot en prose.
955
He slipped on a banana skin
but it didn't make me laugh
I've had more fun when cleaning
the tide stain from a bath
And the joke I heard from that great wit
I didn't even smile
the punch line soared above my head
and missed me by a mile
When at the circus clowns were playing
and their car exploded
comical I found it not
my humor has eroded
Not even a grin was on my face
while others screamed with joy
it seems there is no hope for me
I'm a melancholic boy
I search in vain for my funny bone
but it look like it's not there
nothing can amuse me
and no one seems to care
Before I'd get a "Cheer-up Dad"
and encouragement all round
now they just pass me by
and look for safer ground
So I'll have to just accept my life
and say that this is it
and accept what they're all saying...
That I am a miserable sad old ***
The End
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:51 AM UTC
the holes run together to make nothing
that consumes everything
torn to bits with nothing left to rebuild
pulling threads from passersby
gluing them in spit and sparkles
forming the fabric of a frayed future
hidden behind that toothy grin that blinds the best of 'em
a bit of accidental charm and sparkles turn gems
catching the moon you just hung
besotted sot
truth like poison thick on spirited tongue
can't believe what the bottles tout
can't trust liquid truth in ashen breath
dragons of legend breathe Fireball lies
that smell of candy and taste like the death
of tomorrow's enamoration
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
Fable V, Livre I.
Pataud jouait avec Raton,
Mais sans gronder, sans mordre ; en camarade, en frère.
Les chiens sont bonnes gens ; mais les chats, nous dit-on ?
Sont justement tout le contraire.
Aussi, bien qu'il jurât toujours
Avoir fait pate de velours,
Raton, et ce n'est pas une histoire apocryphe,
Dans la peau d'un ami, comme fait maint plaisant,
Enfonçait, tout en s'amusant,
Tantôt la dent, tantôt la griffe.
Pareil jeu dut cesser bientôt.
- Eh quoi, Pataud, tu fais la mine !
Ne sais-tu pas qu'il est d'un sot
De se fâcher quand on badine ?
Ne suis-je pas ton bon ami ?
- Prends un nom qui convienne à ton humeur maligne ;
Raton, ne sois rien à demi :
J'aime mieux un franc ennemi,
Qu'un bon ami qui m'égratigne.
934
As he sat the trash can back down gingerly
He sighed Well, it’s a long story.
We were drinking beer in my backyard at four in the morning
On one of those sticky September nights
Where sleep was more rumor than reality,
And, as I noted the time on the clock for the umpteenth time,
I heard a song outside my window;
Not some drunken caterwauling of “Danny Boy”
As rendered by some stray tabby in a Dublin alley;
This was…singing, like you’d hear on a CD
Or, perhaps, Live From The Met,
And at first I thought some poor sot with an artistic streak
Had pulled off the main road to sleep it off,
But the singing was punctuated
With the clatter of can-lids and the occasional grunt,
Until I understood that baritone and trash barrel
Were part and parcel of the same man.
As I handed him a second bottle,
He recounted how his lifelong dream of riches, glory,
And a glorious career on the world’s great stages
Came to a sudden halt after a Manhattan debut
(*I sang my *** off that night*, he recounted)
Was met with mild praise, the odd bit of outright scorn
And a healthy dose of apathy.
I ‘spose, he said between sips, *I could have done all right
Givin’ lessons, singin’ bit parts here and there.
You’re on the road a lot, but the money ain’t bad*,
But one day, just before an audition for a supporting role
In a regional production of Carmen
Up in Binghamton ******* New York,
He simply left the theatre, got into his car,
And drove some sixteen hours
Until he hit town here, and then he stayed.
But, I countered, why not go back?
The years of lessons and Julliard,
All for celebrating our refuse and squalor
With roadkill requiems, arias for rats?
Well, some days it’s a hard way to make a living,
He said, stroking his chin thoughtfully,
*But it does give me a venue to sing,
And, to date, I ain’t been panned by no **** cat*.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC