"spats" poems
The new # 69 hoochi coochi smoochi
rubberized *** robot ****** sucker model 2.0
now available
****** off
feelin lonely
tired of spats
credit cards charged up from dates that don't put out
don't like the same restaurants
not ***** to your taste
cant stand the in-laws
you wana live costal, they like Kansas
or
tired of internet dating
and no time for a quickie
when the one you love tells you they aren't in the mood
well bunky
its a brave new world
take a spin in our new model
robot 69, 2.0
they talk
they walk
warm all ova inside and out
scented oiled perfumed *** optional
and flavored
to include
chocolate crunch, vanilla, strawberry
and
phooey
replete with an array of assorted interchangeable
***** pussy's and butts
extra sturdy for ware and tear
and those little irresistible spankies and whoopins
you just cant live without
plus any colors, or rainbow rubber chasse
gay straight or mix it up how eva
trans trans gender
buy out right
or rent ala cart
deluxe or standard
voice activated
advanced multi lingual
baby talk and hits the high notes
talks back software program
and
NO always means YES
plus
screams
cu cu cu cu cu cummmmming
cooes I love you
**** me now *****
shred me you ****** ******
and many others
in over 50 languages
Other optional features include
age play
ethnic fetish
banjee
blow jobs
tipping the velvet
**** to mouth
salad tossing
tea bagging
spit roast
bare back
chicken head
death grip
*******
mammary ***********
***** call
Netflix and chill
donkey punch
golden shower
brown bath
cream pie
*******
motor boating
and the shocker
two in the pink and one in the stink
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
yahoo
its a road trip
she did the chicken head dance
hips swayed
like an evangelist of the lascivious
slicky, sticky, dicky
happily sicky
deep throat swallow
flooding her gullet
with spits, spats and waterfalls
for 300 gooey miles
like a Deer at a salt lick
to horney to send picture post cards
and her mouth sparkled
a regurgitating anthem of love
and a billion solar immolations
in the great
howling milky way roadtrip
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 2:04 PM UTC
It's never goodbye
Always see you later
Though my body is far
My mind is nearer
Than the air you are breathing
I'm with you there sleeping
Always remember
Never forget
The time that we've spent
Together again
Soon we will be
So don't you dare fret
The going gets tough
We've always had it a bit rough
Roll with the punches
And play with cards that are dealt
With a bond such as ours
We will always prevail
Over the hardships and toils
Our blood, it will boil
Tiffs and spats will be had
But, we'll never stay mad
It's been fun and will remain
Joyous all the same
Cuz it's never goodbye
Just see you later
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 11:34 PM UTC
*she said
being a feminist
i have forsaken the temples of normalcy
for dark gratifications and base seduction
and discovered that those who know the pleasures
of objectification
and frenzied ****** lucidity with strangers
are wiser then the children of sweetness and light
as marriage betrays the need to satisfy
secret dark labyrinths desire
and in its place
repeats ad nauseum
blunt fortitudes
in dim sunless rooms
for fear of the transgressive
satans *** nail
is conventions essential creed
exhaustions hand maid
rendered imagine-less
bereft of the new
until a mere stand in
for true desire is left
like a starved ghost
on a dead moon
a desiccated morsel
left for a hungry mouse
is romantic marriage a poetic conception
by love starved victorian imbeciles
vanquished in increments
by petty spats of blood and thunder
who know not the joys of the whips blood toothed kisses
purgation's brutal sensuality
and a creel
of ramming butter **** gang bangs
in secret fetish gardens
of cries and coos
that leave the *** wilted
and the soul lite
like a butterfly in heaven
slave girl asks
as hips sway
to sacred dionysian storms
in the smoldering pangs
of the heart
as backs writhe and arch
flex and sweat rhapsodic
and viscera panic with desire
are not such delicious degradations
pleasures ravage despicable
cause for an ecstatic celebration
kindling
fiery vapors incense
en-flamed dragons blood
for drooling kisses
that talk in tongues
in a language that everyone understands
infinitly preferred
over the rolling eyes of disapproval
in the tepid marriage bed*
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
they danced in a dream
of bending shadows
face down
begging ***
all hungry back door paradise
ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced in whorey nights
with pin needle eyes
beded
blood crimson neon's
cut curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese melting red slippers
gazing upwards rectums prayer
solar eyed insurrection
finger by finger
clutching wrists like the grave
for bloods salty cove
an injured landscape
a dire pink desert
like bogs hold bones
a rave for a slave
covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets
soft on the feet
x rated amputee costume
made of blood and spit
look mommy no arms
a bellied tattoo
of hennaed homunculi
burning Candomblé Jejé, skull
black eyed beauty hissing
while accordion throated
rip tie tighten
another notch please
a dizzy *******
down silver fluted gullet
in a steamed up bath house
party of blotted sockets
*** kitten
kissed dead girls thighs
tremulous and stretched
a shimmering serum
like wide tubular channels
as pontoon edges slit
through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl
who thrills
her head a veiled Jehovah
saliva wagging tongue ****
a stuttering ****** dance
a hula hot momma in rubble
slapping hot lipped kisses
over starved darkness
along telegraphs avenue
melting eyes like butter
a globed pudding spill
******* drool drops of gold
and black river gladiators
slaughter lies
with every long stroke
between cascading squeals
paraphilias mausoleum
like tumbling eels
a scapegoat pulp fiction
chiseled in cement
******* rips
drip drip drip
babbling **** bubbles
**** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun
fire spats soil cherry clover
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
What we have together is complicated.
It very well may be toxic.
But I am glad it happened.
I ask if you love me.
The physical representation of thirst.
You curve my appetite in so many ways.
I am full in knowing that you complete me.
Such a sensual smell.
My mouth burnt by the hot.
My taste buds go insane each time you are near.
Watering at the mouth.
I've eaten too much but know you fulfill my every need.
I often picture a life together with you.
Seasonal aroma, stirred and mixed.
Following your lead.
We grow older.
At times you upset my stomach.
I regret the decision of going to find you.
But this is the same reason I am drawn towards you.
Licking the corners on my mouth.
You fill what hunger I have and I love it.
Because I love you.
We may have our spats but that's anyone that confuses misunderstanding.
I am sincere in the way I am reminded.
Yet selfish in the way I am spoiled.
I love you because you always commit with purpose.
One spoon at a time.
To wake up and have you here with me.
I wouldn't trade anything for it.
To wake up and have you beside me,
To wake up and ask is that Shrimp Fried Rice on your breath
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
the child's house
domicile of estrangements
his parents dressed him like a little girl
against his will
a pox of gender confusion
glum aura
he ascended by violence
and lived through the logic of a mirage
except for copulating with demons
which of course
was ruined by
the good Christians
they who always hate ***
not wanting to be reminded
they are animals too
their heaven withheld
their halo's sullied
the vulnerability of desire their crime
Eros a disgrace
still beating their genitals until a wicked thunder
the pro-creative
an affirmation of paradox
between the continuity of life
and the dread of death
***** resurrections
a second *******
**** flood
without redemption
Satan standing on their necks
while God pulls them up by their hair
rebels to reason
bewitchers of wit
deranged by the myth
of dolls
wood and plastic painted corpses staring
and a blossom throated Goddess
ham handed monkey fist
jerking off in search of a bulls eye anyway
eyes bleeding on bare legs; lifting a white cotton dress
a bulwark of erections
like canons blasting puce spats
under his frilly skirt; a red rain
haunted by dead girls dancing
like homeless hip bones sway
a bewildered phantasm
in a doll house dream
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones—
In fact, he’s remarkably fat.
He doesn’t haunt pubs—he has eight or nine clubs,
For he’s the St. James’s Street Cat!
He’s the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impreccable back.
In the whole of St. James’s the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we’re all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!
His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational
And it is against the rules
For any one Cat to belong both to that
And the Joint Superior Schools.
For a similar reason, when game is in season
He is found, not at Fox’s, but Blimpy’s;
He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison he gives his ben’son
To the Pothunter’s succulent bones;
And just before noon’s not a moment too soon
To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
When he’s seen in a hurry there’s probably curry
At the Siamese—or at the Glutton;
If he looks full of gloom then he’s lunched at the Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.
So, much in this way, passes Bustopher’s day-
At one club or another he’s found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes
He has grown unmistakably round.
He’s a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder,
And he’s putting on weight every day:
But he’s so well preserved because he’s observed
All his life a routine, so he’ll say.
Or, to put it in rhyme: “I shall last out my time”
Is the word of this stoutest of Cats.
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!
3.3k
one foot in every world
one foot in every word
prophetess of yore,
foreseeing farseeing,
recoding recording
mundane supermarket voyages,
become paradoxical
holy lover spats
for all of us
become her
become her poems,
travelogues, snippets
of marvel at the DNA
each thinking
wanting to think
tween us and no other
she does not know me
but she has felt my
foolishness here
connecting like no other
in a long time,
have listened to each record
in the Queen-bee's collection,
she unknowing, mine,
her favor returned
verbal scientist
she uncovered discovered
a small gate on the edge
of the map of her brain,
that led here her her here where
t her e
am amazed
she sees me
like no other
voyageur ******
but I cannot
Write like Deborah
no but I can
Write of Deborah
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
Those Chicago kids danced till' they were teary eyed in them **** crepe-soled shoes
He said to me, "Mamma I walked my little crepe-soled shoes into the heart of the South and said 'Hello World!'"
And God be ****** if he wasn't wearing crepe-soled shoes when we beat the man out of that ****** trash
His body lay there
lacerated and bruised like goin' ten rounds with Rocky Marciano. His face was like a sack of potatoes with holes in it. On his feet were spats, no, crepe-soled shoes.
Did you hear the news?
Black boy's struttin' his stuff in his new soul-shoes
As we lit his things on fire that ***** bastard's crepe-soled shoes just wouldn't burn but once they did, the flame would not go out
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 12:40 AM UTC
tickity-clickity whirr went my father to set
the little merry-go-round musicbox by my bed
with its adorbsable mini-suction cups lining
purple porcelain tentacles
winding round and round
lulling gently with that nostalgic ice-cream truck tune
reminding me of sweet tang juicy mango slush
on a hot afternoon
where the posh-painted ponies fly by with the tide rising up and down
in a seaside villa of some spanish town
in all the grandness of their primary colors so carefully chosen to brush
at the command of a fairy princess with her crown gold-gilded
she's twirling whirling, a mechanical ballerina on springs
gracefully petite her frame, so small the sash on her shoulder
that slips in the breeze to catch the eye of a little soldier
in his regimentals properly fitted, buttoned in brass
a lass like me lovingly adoring bunnies in top hats and bow ties
spats on their feet to tap dance for me
in my dreams the never ending spin of a teacup party
the catch of a hook where the lullaby loses flight
but I'm already asleep with a kiss goodnight
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
before I knew he had.
His flight trailed off into a Utah
sunrise. He left behind a little strand
of thought, and, in a cramped, amber room that saw
long talks of topics that soon thinned grey,
a set of dog-eared books has been put down.
Books that brought nearer to my thought his own,
while somewhere Interstate-5 grates ‘cross the ground.
I sleep there still, although I left for good.
That house to this day asks me where he was.
Their smiles, the little comfort that they could
give, were emptier than their words. Often
I feel the vague pulse of their ragged stares –
torn, threadbare they unravel in the air
to mask their faces: that inner decree
which shades the truth. Where and how’d they ever grow wrong?
He must have, as the plane touched the runway,
felt the dawn’s shudder fracture his young bones,
his thoughts turning to those dog-earing days.
The seemingly endless months full of groans,
as they should have been, being spent alone.
And that set of books, at least it would seem,
ignited the wick on which our passions gleam –
slate-grey regards.
These six years past since they took him away
held minutes like a needle in plied dust.
There’s something in the spring that brings decay
here. The outward beauty of the world just
clouds the mind’s loss within the spinning gust
that all the blooming flowers usher in.
Then the rain comes –
in spitters and spats it spins the spire.
When gone the white-wick’s still on fire.
As the 5’s scratch cracks up the drying earth,
I recall Nietzsche, Guevara, Burgess.
Famed men who’d not anticipated births
inside my brother and I like cypress
trees, evergreen and coniferous we
drop seeds year-round. The setting Utah sun,
barely audible, gasps in the copse.
He’s with me now. What’s done is done.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
When something snaps
The ****** all bolt
Dogs out the traps
We all collapse
Down the plughole
Like turned on taps
Jaded expats
Bourbon, poker
All throw craps
Black top hats
Line the road
Like mourning bats
Marital spats
Crystal prisms
Where love refracts
Wear navy slacks
Stare out to sea
As mars attacks
Nightmares hide facts
Flattened like focaccia
Under fifteen all-blacks
Fuss over Goldman sachs
You know we only blink
When it's the shirt on our backs
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 5:12 AM UTC
We're antique and aware of it,
old fashioned and they stare a bit, but that's a part of the charm, a penny farthing to ride on with gaiters to tie on, keeping the spats nice and clean.
Home for some tiffin and the lady's been shopping down at Macy's for doilies, thank god it wasn't Tiffanys for diamonds, the wireless set goes off and the gramophone's switched on, a 78 Bakelite revolves in the room where the mood's right for romance.
We dance modernistic, the Cha cha's futuristic, they'll never do better than this
then we kiss and say goodnight, in separate beds we sleep so tight and a strip of carpet between them, keeping things nice and clean, men,
you know what I mean.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
this old year in its last hours
checks its tie
its coat tails
its long trousers
spats
its insalubrious look
gets ready for one last stand
at the times square of our minds
sick in singapore she wrote
i rather be caned that live one more day
and i concurred i rather she'd be caned
than i
here in ohio i hear some winter birds
i swear and i attest
their forlorn cries carry far
and sometimes i believe i see their shapes
remotely flitting far
their cries carry far
here in ohio
where the winter snow came and went in two whole days
its surprising whereabouts both seen and felt
now we are back to flimsy silver lace affixed on
windows
infirm in beijing she said
they all spit!
i took that as a sign she was getting well
here in the post soltice winter there is hope
for longer days ahoy
the maritime soul departs in yet another lost boat
inexplicably tied to the date
sick in mazatlan she said the water makes me puke
i heard later she bought a boat to sail from the west coast
down to the panama canal then up the east coast to new yor
k
that was her plan
but no she gave it up after she bought the boat
she realized she would have to fill it with ***** and nothing
else
choice give up the ship or sink under the influence
i hear the "Rosa Linda" i still tied in long beach pier
I mourn such passing as the days
disclose and hide in a foggy patina of misremembrance
see this was her coat her gloves
the angle of her visor gave us more of her
than i can just now tell i cant even remember the color
of her eyes
and yet firmly believe that we once met
as i get ready to welcome a new year
back to the chalk line
on your marks
ready
set
go to my habitual everyday
here in ohio some winter birds
pester the air with their calls
perhaps they know something about time
I don't know
anyway, let's go meet another minute hour or day
sick in
ohio i say
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 3:19 PM UTC
Listen to that big band swing,
Jippin dat doo dattin, with Bing.
Twirl and dancing that vinyl black.
Feelin' the beat through the thumpin' bass crack.
Movin' digits like dancin. Dames.
Tease out that trumpet's pinching twang.
Her dress twirls through the floor,
She.
Spiraling blackhole, spiraling through time net curvatures wormhole.
My ears crash, jazzy spats, of floppin' bop, on the tendrils of brain,
The ooze in my ears feels drunk from the tune,
Music peers to the table cloths wine stain.
She's the toilet water of my music.
Oh that swing.
Oh!
THAT SWING.
I cant help but love that swing like, child's kiss.
Bringing me soft love in lime blues, cross jazz legs,
Spazzing with cigarette drags, dragging my nails through your chest,
Oh that swing, smears me through your dress.
Love child, those legs,
Beauty those pearly notes,
Prickling whites,
Shark teeth scratching the record,
Or just dust.
Slides________________________
Slides the tip of the stylus through divots,
In the pavement street of record.
Missive.
Don't turn that table too slow now.
That swing can't stop.
Oh that big band swing.
Beat that rhythm,
Boys...take it from the top.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
I hung out
a bit
with those
Stylish Angels.
Listening
to their Wit
and their Woes.
They showed me around
their Haunted Hotel.
I heard some rumors
it was No-Tell
kind of place.
A Confessional.
I sat at the bar
and slammed back a few.
The Words on the
bathroom wall
told a Tale
or Two or
Three.
Those Stylish Angels
with silk
smoking jackets
and spats.
Do those dudes
really know
where it's at?
Or is it
only a Game...
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
There are no little wars,
no little death or destruction.
No little event
filled with lies, deceit, and corruption
There are no good wars,
not for those affected.
The dead, dying, and homeless,
the shell shocked left afflicted.
There are no little lover's spats,
although they all appear to be.
Devastating battles, ego verses ego,
with no one ever set free.
Poised with a finger on the button,
thinking either one has weapons of mass destruction.
They find the ***** in each others armor,
and give their esteems a sharp reduction
Should I stay or should I leave here?
That, is always the question.
Either way the sun will rise
on a battlefield of tension.
And what of million dollar missiles
lobbed upon a question,
while Detroit looks like a warzone,
sorely in need of reconstruction?
*I had a fight with my wife, I wanted to leave. But my battle isn't with her, it's within me.
Should we attack Syria, or should we take that money to rebuild this great nation?*
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
1.
There once was a couple of cats
Who engaged in continuous spats.
The result was a tie
When each scratched out an eye –
An old-Biblical *** for a tat!
The cats awoke bleeding and weak
And half-seeing the havoc they'd wreaked
They discarded their clothes,
Their backsides to expose –
A new-Biblical turning of cheek!
2.
There once was a man, oh so brave,
Who would sleep in a hole, called a grave ...
Well, he being the host
To so many a ghost,
He arranged a big bash, called a rave
3.
In days of Neanderthal knaves
When the men ruled like kings in their caves
And not being too keen
About keeping them clean ...
Often took on some wives, called them slaves
4.
There once was a man with a stave
Overseeing a holy enclave ...
Well, maintaining a grin
While absolving the sin,
He assessed wicked tales and forgave
5.
There once was a monk with a wave
Who desired a head with a shave ...
Well, the barber was such
That she cut back too much
Thereby leaving his globus concave
6.
There once was a man in the nave,
Although pious he could not behave ...
But they paid him no mind,
’Cause his name was maligned,
Being simply a sinner to save
7.
There once was a man quite depraved
A voluptuous life was thus craved ...
Well, continuous sin
Ended doing him in –
On his tombstone they carved ‘Misbehaved’
8.
Antoine is a Vampire Ghoul,
Quite barbaric, bloodthirsty and cruel,
With a fang in your throat
He’ll **** slowly and gloat
With a smile as you whimper and mewl.
9.
There once was a raven haired Shrink
Who had orange Juice Tequilas to drink.
Well her scarlet souled Beau
****** her tinted red Toe
And she paled when he tickled her Pink.
10.
There once was a travelling sage
Who yet lived to a very old age.
Well, becoming quite senile,
With problems (yes, ******
He packed his wee trunk in a rage.
11.
There once was a Nun and a Druid
Exchanging some ****** fluid,
When along strode the Father
Who heard all the bother,
Lost stickum while coming unglu..ed.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
I can be so brutal
or so you say you can tell
but stop and look again
this could be a match made in heaven
for two angels straight from hell.
We could sit here
and stare the clock down
stare it right off the wall
or dust off our top hat and spats
and strike out on a crawl.
Now I know what it is to be drunk
and I know what it is to be sober
I know what it is to be young
and quickly growing older.
The safest bet by a long shot
is to keep time hung up on the wall
make believe we can predict
just which way it's going to go.
Shake those dice
and give them a blow
dealt a straight in spades
you'll know just how it's going to go
we could do it up just like a drug
except we're all out of any float
it's back to throwing out a life line
to draw some heat out of this late winter's cold.
Heads I win tails you lose
you can flip a coin
a thousand and one times
before you just get tired and stop
knowing full well
that it isn't always the cream that rises to the top
no some times it's the slop
that makes the piggies come.
Dive in off the high board
zooming toward a teardrop,
waiting for the belly-flop
aiming at the blues
what side of the line are you on
when you disobey the rules.
A fist full of dollars
and a bucket full of small talk
about something, somewhere
being a once in a long time long shot.
I've got nothing left to lose,
I'm just aiming at the blues.
© 2012 All Rights Reserved
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC
What I want to know is why?
Why am I told to remember the tragedy of 9/11, but when I bring up the tragedy of my people once enslaved, I am told that it was years ago and I should “get over it”?
Why when I make a joke at a Caucasian friend’s expense does his face grow disgusted and he spats the word racist at me, then turns around and make a joke at a black man’s expense and expects me to laugh?
Why am I told that I am “boring” or that “no one likes being around an angry black woman” when I rise up to speak about the obstacles all people of color face in the modern society?
Why is it that my Caucasian friends are allowed to rely stories of being called racist with voices grim and shocked, but if I ask, “Well, were you being racist?” they look at me as if I’ve offended them?
Why is it a normal thing for people of color to rise and speak about their experiences of being a minority, only to have a Caucasian person slap a metaphorical hand over their mouth by saying, “You’re not the only one who’s experienced racism”?
Why as a child growing up was I taught by society that darker skin was less desirable, that if I was dark I shouldn’t wear pastel bright colors, that my blackness isn’t worshipped, but now in modern day society I am forced to watch Caucasians wear weave, get braids, do things they consider “being black” and have praise rain down on them?
Why should I have to listen to my Caucasian friends use the word ***** as if their ancestors didn’t pronounce the word the same way someone would call a dog a mutt?
Why when I asked my Caucasian friend to explain why her crush wasn’t her type, she mentioned his blackness not as a worry that someone might not agree, or because years ago it wouldn’t be allowed, or as a concern that the way the modern world seems to be against him, but as if his blackness deemed him less dateable?
Why?
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 2:53 AM UTC
I wish people were smarter
And even with this singular declaration you bristle
Cocked head, tense claws digging into air or own thighs
Ready on the defense
So I prepare to have “Pretentious Snob” branded onto my forehead
The metal meeting the fore of my skull
Don't act as you would do otherwise
I can see you dipping your tool into the fire,
Ready to reveal glowing edges
Beneath an illuminated face
But I stand by that which I have said before,
I wish people were smarter
That you would stop gossiping over her scandal
That you would instead remark on how scandals change the world so microscopically.
That you would attempt to trace the origins of gossip
That you would see the irony of wanting to know everything
about a person
if only from another mouth
But you don't even bother to entertain such ideas
And so I stand on stage alone, audience-nil
I wish people were smarter
So that when I have a new thought
Discussion and open ears sit down at my table
Rather than me waiting for the hostess to (never) call my name
Left to hear only the sound of eyes rolling in your well-oiled sockets
and a chorus of
“There she goes again”
Why do you refuse to come with me?
You are invited
And if ever there is a Bitterman, party of one
It is I, trying to discuss the concept of originality
(As in does it exist among influence)
While you chat of liking songs only for the good beat
(It's got something, I don't know what it is)
I do try.
That is to listen to incessant conversations about spats and fights
In truth they bore me so!
All with the same ending
Emotions stuck on the same unmoving clock hand
Of never change
You may have an excuse
Perhaps you find an analysis of Harold Bloom exhausting
Or write it off as too like school
Well I do like school
And thinking
And questioning
And wondering
And so I wonder
if you aren't exploring such prospects
What on earth are you doing?
It seems so mundane to act otherwise
We all seek to fight against boredom
Or so we claim
Perhaps we are in different arenas
Maybe the simplest of messages is the most clear
To face branding or to avoid:
I wish people were smarter
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
“Love: an emotion, one that, so low as to bar
From fair desire—self-righteous and self-serving
Excuse, a pretense, lyric, will not inspire.”
I detest to hear him speak—
Adulterer, why, pray tell, do you prey upon the weak?
“Simple in answer, as simple in method. No heart
Rich needs to beat for “that” emotion obsoletes.
Adults, mature, do not even think the distinction
That is kid’s table morality, what mommy
Only says after a few drinks, winking, your father
In his eyes—just where you have come, in fact—
You needn’t think mommy and daddy stayed together
After long spats, strife, and frustration for their waves
Struck the same height or the moon hits mom just right.
It is not the eternal enthrallment of Eros that keeps them in motion
Dear, friend—it is “that” emotion. In bed, hearts
Are inverted and split down the middle
The negative just drowns away in chemicals.
But how bad we’d feel, (no?) if that, the long and short?
Machinate the “thing” justify “that” feeling
Ennobling, beatifying, kindling for sonnets and odes
Fashioning morality and aesthetics onto sweating
Thrusting beasts, one on one in their dance of love.
A harlequin of truth, my friend! When it is found
In contraception, safeguarding our natural predilection.
Ha! Oh, fools! Why trouble with the rituals
When, really, ****** collocations concern capricious
Chronologies and covetous craving for **** and ****
How ****** How crude! But, oh, but oh how true; think:
Admit the urge has primacy, the “L” emerges and
Lies emitted: of connection, intelligence, intersubjectivity.
Given its stage of farce and face, our sieves are at
Ageful capacity and then needs a bargain, more;
The office of “thing” goes unoccupied, its twin
Will gladly keep it clean and orderly, act
As it did: gentle and cordially.”
Blast it! Such ways in truth and walk, for
Repetition in faith of life
Pegs my myths with all their strife,
Strife and succor irony.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
Super holds this breath of fire,
It laden out this mythical spire.
On trenches far from silent here,
Lay body mud under green hill moor.
As history allows us to play,
Forgotten spats not here to stay.
In all qualms said and done,
The preacher man recites his only son.
Promises are my main concern,
I will be there yet may not return.
O'Reily01032013
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
Here I am, like Oz, a neutral land,
To some people, a helping hand,
But then there's drama mama acts,'
I don't know why they act like that,
I aim to be neutral to their spats,
Don't like drama mamas, that's that!
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC