"squats" poems
There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings un-hallowed and old.
There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sin's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule- altar fungous and white.
To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the sick boughs entwined
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.
52.3k
I.
the emperor
sleeps in a palace of porphyry
which was a million years building
he takes the air in a howdah
of jasper beneath saffron
umbrellas
upon an elephant
twelve foot high
behind whose ear
sits always a crowned
king twir-
ling an
ankus of
ebony
the fountains of the emperor’s
palace run sunlight and
moonlight and the emperor’s
elephant is a thousand years old
the harem of
the emperor
is carpeted with
gold cloth
from the
ceiling(one
diamond timid
with nesting incense)
fifty
marble
pillars
slipped from immeasurable
height,fall,fifty,silent
in the incense is tangled a cool moon
there are thrice-three-hundred
doors carven of chalcedony and
before every door a naked
****** watches
on their heads turbans of a hundred
colours
in their hands scimitars like windy torches
each
is
blacker than oblivion
the ladies
of the emperor’s
harem are queens
of all the earth and the rings
upon their hands are from mines
a mile deep
but the body of
the queen of queens is
more transparent
than water,she is softer than birds
2.
when the emperor is very
amorous he reclines upon
the couch of couches and
beckons with
the little
finger of his left
hand
then the
thrice-three-hundredth
door is opened by the tallest
****** and the queen
of queens comes
forth
ankles
musical with large pearls
kingdoms in her ears
at the feet of
the emperor a cithern-
player squats with
quiveringgold
body
behind
the emperor ten
elected warriors with
bodies of lazy jade
and twitching
eyelids
finger
their
unquiet
spears
the queen of queens is dancing
her subtle
body weaving
insinuating upon the gold cloth
incessantly creates patterns of sudden
lust
her
stealing body ex-
pending gathering pouring upon itself stiffenS
to a
white thorn
of desire
the taut neck of the citharede wags
in the dust the ghastly warriors
amber with lust breathe
together the emperor,exerting
himself among his pillows throws
jewels at the queen of queens and
white money upon her nakedness
he
nods
and all
depart through the bruised air aflutter with pearls
3.
they are
alone
he beckons,she rises she
stands
a moment
in the passion of the fifty
pillars
listening
while the queens of all the
earth writhe upon deep rugs
11.2k
There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of
feastings unhallowed and old.
There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sun's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance
round a Yule-altar fungous and white.
To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the thick boughs entwined
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark,
from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.
And mayst thou to such deeds
Be an abbot and priest,
Singing cannibal greeds
At each devil-wrought feast,
And to all the incredulous world
shewing dimly the sign of the beast.
7.9k
Hit the gym hard
Squats for legs strengthen those quads
Bench press for chest gets the pump
Hit it right make it tight
Isolations with dumbbells
Form is everything
More reps with less weight
Maxs out test of strength
Heavy weight less reps
Finish strong last set
Stretch to warm up
Stretch to cool down
Cardio for the heart rate
Gym time best time
Progress body change
Mind set ready for more
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:32 AM UTC
THE BABY moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, sails and sails in the Indian west.
A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, sit and sit around the Indian moon.
One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners, keep a line of watchers.
O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory, fire-white writing to-night of the Red Man's dreams.
Who squats, legs crossed and arms folded, matching its look against the moon-face, the star-faces, of the West?
Who are the Mississippi Valley ghosts, of copper foreheads, riding wiry ponies in the night?-no bridles, love-arms on the pony necks, riding in the night a long old trail?
Why do they always come back when the silver foxes sit around the early moon, a silver papoose, in the Indian west?
6.4k
Byron wants me to invite all my friends on HP to a pig roast. Rest assured, when Byron has a pig roast fun is surely to be expected. Here's his invitation.
You're invited to my pig roast.
I told him he'd have to do better, that he's talking to a collection of rhymers, wordsmiths, and gesticulating anthropomorphics. He had no idea what the **** I just said, but he did do an edit.
Here's his edit.
You're Invited to My Pig Roast
Your toad on the road
Only squats, never stands,
Or sits 'til he splits
Between the treads of your van.
Your mouse in the house,
If it isn't found out,
Drops pellets in pots,
'Til snap, then it stops.
Your bird on the wire
Sweetly sings then lets fire;
And a cat in a hat
Is cute, but that's that.
Your horse from the stable
Won't be served from your table;
And the deer by the brook,
Well, too much the Bambi to cook.
Yes a bear in the wood
Indeed craps where it should;
He's best left alone
While your meat's on your bone.
Then there is the PIG.
A ruddy pink porker,
Intelligent and clean,
An innocuous oinker.
It does nothing that's heinous,
And yes, it should shame us,
As it lies silently smiling
With a spit up its ****
Please bring your own lawnchair, ***** and women.
The pig's on me.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
On A Diet
The country is on a diet,
drinking coke with no sugar,
eating burgers with no bun,
running on the treadmill;
it's powdered protein for lunch.
It's straight tequila in the evening,
a light head and guilty fries at night.
The country is on a diet,
doing yoga over yoghurt pots,
training their minds with sudoku and solitaire,
rubbing salt and condition into their hair.
It's 6 a.m. gym sessions,
it's squats on the living room floor,
the country is on a diet, my friends,
and so we have no time for truth, or war.
The country is on a diet,
avocado in the breadcrumb,
aspirin in the salt-shaker,
food numb on the tongue
and those slim-shakes always failed to deliver.
Thigh gaps and mind-the-gaps,
all these signposts for a cleaner living,
no dust on the shelf,
no bags 'neath your eyes to hide
the lack of sleep
and your ailing mental health.
The country is on a diet,
drinking tea with no milk,
eating carrot sticks with best-value dip,
running on the treadmill,
we never get too far.
It's straight tequila in the evening,
it's "anything goes" in the dark.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
West reality made so
that people forced to consume
whatever material or unmaterial goods
here any protest is legalised
in form of demo
which is necessary surround by police
northeless there are people exist who are illegal
beside of refugees from east lands
there also socalled insane people
who are locked in closed loony bin
or hunted like amok
untill they really get insane
if you take separately each after other
their fate and observe it precise
you will find there all the evil of
patriarchal repression
what is the consequence of capitalism
patriarchal repression
which is so masterfully comuflaged in west
but since the victims, the renegades live on rand of society
no one ever take their lifes and deaths under lenses
just example:
feminists dont fight for the rights of the debased woman
in their neigbourhood
but just speculate about arbitrageness in Iran
not ever able to change something in afar lands
they simply ignore evil which happens beside them
every day, every night
there is pseudo-publicity in capitalism
since those who rebel against
become mostly so oppressed
that they never ever get any chance to
speak out loud
and revenge!
While those anarchists and punks
who squats in city and towns
will never give political asylum
to the one who's life circumtances
penetrate to be betrayed by friends
living on the streets and parks
and hunted by psychiatry
during anarchists and punks are not
real activists of underground
but just kind of subculture
which live quite comfortably in capitalism
it just funky to be anarchist or punk
and nobody knows how they will act
in critical situation
I lost my believe on socalled leftists
in fact they are same equal part of society
like bankers or yuppies
with a difference that they
pretend they still had some ideals!
known to many
believed by the few as
the truth
Accordingly my individual struggle their claim
is nothing as fallacy
whom believe? Whom with resist in action?
Where hides real iconoclasts?
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 6:04 AM UTC
The devil resides on a fence post,
covered in honeysuckle and black berry vines
Across the dirt road in front of my house
He squats there,
atop that post
With his beautiful grin and blue eyes
He has demples when he smiles,
and hair the colour of hay
His voice,
is that of silken sin
Offering up a drunkenness that the finest of whiskys can't give
He drowns me in satin,
posing promises never kept
He bruises peaches,
and feeds on flames
Beckoning my flesh,
with the sharpest of silver blades~A
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
14th Feb 2014
They are all around us,
within, without, above, behind and before us;
Fanning the flames of the famous, the wealthy and fortunate
with secret agendas and infamous fame of their own.
I throw a stone
send it crashing through houses of glass; I see their
comings and goings in the Grove of Bohemia;
drinkers and liars; role-playing fraternity fools.
There are rules.
It takes more than just peeing at trees to be properly manly;
secrecy more than life is at stake when the fodder is human,
throw off your cares to the punitive furnace of hate.
Such ill-fate
that begets our world leaders, hatched out of a tangible darkness;
parasitic, calamitous, venomous world-gobbling evil
Mammon, devourer of souls, will preside at the feast.
And the Beast,
Fourth Beast of Daniel, squats at the head of the table,
fabled for pitiless torture of souls in transgression,
slavers and gloats over innocence lost and despoiled.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
LOQUITUR: En Bertans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer up of strife.
Eccovi!
Judge ye!
Have I dug him up again?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. “Papiols” is his jongleur.
“The Leopard,” the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.
I
**** it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let’s to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
II
In hot summer I have great rejoicing
When the tempests **** the earth’s foul peace,
And the lightning from black heav’n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God’s swords clash.
III
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breat opposing!
Better one hour’s stour than a year’s peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there’s no wine like the blood’s crimson!
IV
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His long might ‘gainst all darkness opposing.
V
The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth’s won and the swords clash
For the death of such ***** I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.
VI
Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There’s no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle’s rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges ‘gainst “The Leopard’s” rush clash.
May God **** for ever all who cry “Peace!”
VII
And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought “Peace!”
2.6k
Sweetheart you need to be have a flatter stomach
Put down that soda pop
Or one day it will make you pop
Put down those puff pastries
Or one day they will make you the Pillsbury Dough-girl.
Take up crunches and sit-ups
And just ignore when your body screams for food
Take up ******* in and waist trainers
And just ignore that ******* in all day weakens your muscles pushing you further from your ideal
Hey good lookin’ you’d be prettier if you had smaller thighs
Stop eatin’ them donuts
They turnin’ you too dough
Stop ordering your pizzas in larges
They turnin’ you large
Start doing some squats
Just ignore your back screaming in pain
Start running sum more
Just ignore that bigger thighs mean a lower risk of heart disease and premature death
And a simple request from everyone else: make sure your hair always looks like a girl from a movie, that your skin is flawless, you dress perfectly, are always happy, smiling constantly, have an aesthetically pleasing Instagram, be in an adorable relationship, know all the newest music and shows
You know what
just be perfect
but
not to perfect
-love society
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
I talk white they say
Dress white
Act white they say
That's why all the black boys want me
Why the white boys wanna try and **** me
Even though colored girls aren't they're cup of tea
My light skin is a kink
The way i enunciate makes me a fetish
The last black women my daddy shared a bed with was my mother
So why my daddy gotta ask about the companions of my slumber.
I act white they say but ask me
Is my *** phat?
Do i twerk.
I dress white
But they think it's okay to ask me
If they can touch my hair
A white boy once said it reminded him im a ****** even though my skin is fair.
How many white boys gotta stick they're fingers in my roots
To find the truth.
When you say I act white
What you mean is I'm not a stereotype.
You're pretty for a black girl
Talk good
For a black girl
Snap snap hey hey girl
Let me slide in
Thick thighs girl.
You're mixed right?
No way a sister could sound
So bright.
Tell me about your origins miss thang.
Let me put them other boys to shame,
I can buy you top shelf,
Get your rent paid
Better than the boy you wifed up to.
Lil shawty you should smile more,
It's a compliment ****
Stuck up *****
Do i act too white
Cause I'll never start a fight
Is it white to get a degree
And make my own money.
Touch my hair if you forgot
White is not synonymous with superior
Cause amanda does squats to get an *** like ruwanda.
Remember i got a college dregree
Before you say some ignorant **** to me
Act White?
How dare you
Assume my character
Is defined by a color.
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC
The rolls and harrows lie at rest beside
The battered road; and spreading far and wide
Above the russet clods, the corn is seen
Sprouting its spiry points of tender green,
Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake,
Like some brown clod the harrows failed to break.
Opening their golden caskets to the sun,
The buttercups make schoolboys eager run,
To see who shall be first to pluck the prize—
Up from their hurry, see, the skylark flies,
And o’er her half-formed nest, with happy wings
Winnows the air, till in the cloud she sings,
Then hangs a dust-spot in the sunny skies,
And drops, and drops, till in her nest she lies,
Which they unheeded passed—not dreaming then
That birds which flew so high would drop agen
To nests upon the ground, which anything
May come at to destroy. Had they the wing
Like such a bird, themselves would be too proud,
And build on nothing but a passing cloud!
As free from danger as the heavens are free
From pain and toil, there would they build and be,
And sail about the world to scenes unheard
Of and unseen—Oh, were they but a bird!
So think they, while they listen to its song,
And smile and fancy and so pass along;
While its low nest, moist with the dews of morn,
Lies safely, with the leveret, in the corn.
2k
Sunbeams crack through the tall trees
Birds chirping along the window seals
Wind chimes tunes fills the quiet room
Nag champa wafts in the air
Mat laid flat
Squats and stretches
Eyes closed
In-hale
Ex-hale
Mind in the body
Heavenly flow
Frequency modulated
Easeness
Awareness
Serenity
Bliss
Peace
Silence
Power
© Sonia Ettyang
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 4:37 AM UTC
She sits atop a hill,
the brown stone Goddess
Bleeding.
She squats and part her legs,
the yoni splattered with red,
Bleeding.
No cloth, no pad, no shame
a wild wild woman untamed,
Bleeding.
Her vermilion melts, and drops and paints,
her forehead to her yoni,
Bleeding.
The blood feeds earth
melting the hearth,
Bleeding.
The red of life,
preserved in a menstrual cup
Bleeding.
From the kumkum to bindi to choori to saree,
she a woman deliquescing in red,
Bleeding.
Sep 8, 2020
Sep 8, 2020 at 10:32 AM UTC
I was honing my voice
he was building his muscles
to impress our common interest.
Whenever she was at the roof
he was seen doing squats and push-ups
I was heard singing love songs
taking the notes to that high scale
where my voice invariably cracked
and his bones creaked with exercises.
The three roofs became one battlefield
where two warriors would rather die fighting
than give up the princess to the other.
One day she would smile at me
when I would extend the limit of my voice
the repertory of my vocal talent
but for reasons best known to her
the very next day she would feign
I wasn't existing on the roof
and it was all muscles her eyes got stuck into.
Then she stopped coming to the roof.
The two warriors had only each other as company
the days were never the same
for she was married off to have new interest
and having lost the race for common interest
he started singing mournful songs
and I decided it was time
to give voice to my muscles.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC
Pantywaist,
This shows no taste.
Light in the loafers,
Maybe for gofers.
Squats to ***
Who? Not me!
Limp-wristed,
It it’s twisted, maybe.
***** and sissified,
Maybe somebody lied.
*** and ******
You’re a bigot.
Bigass Fruit,
Zoot and all root.
Tuttifruity,
Call to gay duty.
Half a man,
Sometimes better than.
Tinkerbell,
Go to hell.
Airy-fairy,
You’re just scary.
******** bandit,
I can’t stand it.
***********
Bigass *******
Silly queen,
Quit being mean.
Flutter-by,
Can’t pronounce butterfly?
*****
Don’t get handsy, mate!
Nancy boy.
Political ploy.
Just some of the words
We gays have all heard
With each imprecation
The implication
Is that we are sick,
Definitely twisted,
And the end result
Is that each insult
Pushes the speaker
Further away, and weakens
The hold on a reality
That homosexuality
Is just another normality.
In short, reality.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
Shimmers molten road
Still air squats, beads, on my brow
Summer road trip woes.
Seat turns to quick sand
Thighs stuck fast can move no more
Summer road trip woes.
Each breath sighs, heavy
Vapoured water chokes the air
Summer road trip woes.
No soul seen for miles
Gauge collapses on empty
Woeful road trip end.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 7:35 AM UTC
Tin cup
Simple pleasure common treasure it has its worth by it connection not everyone but many found this by an
On old pump by itself or next to a bucket you could drink or use it to prime the pump it lends itself to
Western lore found around the chuck wagon on a cattle drive one of the men on the trail drive squats
Before the fire with gnarled hands he holds the cup with hands that are callused from handling his lariat
Day in and day out on the cattle now he holds it filled with coffee strong river coffee drawn from the
Brazos shaded by mesquite cottonwood and juniper finest example of Texas this old cup ties you into
time and place a past that is loved and loved ones that shared campsites that now have passed on in the
Heat of the summer day you drank hardly from its contents it banged around in all kinds of
Circumstances invariably most of them pleasurable ones and who handled the cup mother or a favorite
Grandmother you see her hands lovingly holding the cup they go together like flowers and rain you strain
To hold the thought you don’t want to let go of that special connected memory or maybe they used it to
Measure flour by closing your eyes you can almost smell the bread or biscuits the flour produced it takes
You across many thresholds that are steeped in precious memories that can never be again you are
Taken back to childhood by something so simple but so useful it creates a lost time of joy and
Happiness long remembered and never to be forgotten a symbol or a symbolic trusted identification
With place or person you feel its coolness in your hand you move it around for a few quick moments
You return to yesterday not bad for a piece of tin they give so much credit to other metals for other
Reasons of course the value they possess and what you could exchange them for but that is talking
About a certain amount were dealing with priceless things of the heart that no amount of money can
Buy just think next time there are many items that are in themselves of little value but they are
Touchstones a gateway to a broken past riches that aren’t for sale or they are not to be bartered away
They are never put in a safe but they so readily take you to a safe place tender joy is felt in the heart
A calling can be felt and heard jewels of inestimable value lay hidden they easily come into view when
You touch insignificance without expecting anything the world lets you know you are richer than you
know
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
There’s a dragon lying coiled
At the base of my brain
In a dank dark crypt
At the top of my spine.
It is a foul and feral beast
Degenerate
Self centred as a dinosaur
No iridescent shining scales
No filmy farstretching wings
No soaring spiraling flights
Over legendary landscapes
For this one.
No it just squats there
Peering out at the world
Malevolent eyes slitted
Watching
If it sniffs
The faintest whiff
Of a threat to its survival
It rushes out
Roaring
Breathing fire
Reptilian talons scything,
Slashing
If you are quick
You may see them flashing
In my eyes
Before I slam the portal
Send my protector back
To seethe silently
Keeping watch
Over me
From the dungeon
Trish Lambert
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
You see a few years ago
I was part of define fitness yeah
And I thought it was weird the way
They treated me
They wanted me to be a rich ****
They wanted me to sell my art
Basically on the road at trash and treasure
They pushed me around like I was a piece of meat mate
They didn’t care about my safety
They just wanted me to just
Enjoy being slim
Maybe I do but in my own way
Not drinking salty water or beef stock no way
Just eating the food I like you know oh yeah
You see it is hard to be like them
If they treat you like a rich ****
You know taking you out wiping
The poor man out of you
You see I had it made
Before I joined define fitness
I enjoyed doing things
And having fun yeah
Making me lift weights
Heavier than my own weight
Define fitness is an organisation
Full of rich ******
You see I had it best
Before I had them
I had to do two squats after one pull of vacuum
Eating everything with 10 shakes of salt on
Putting salt in my water
Like I am drinking out of the sea
I had it best
Before I had them
I could’ve broken my back
You see I was slack
I won an award but if I wasn’t good
The next session
He would say I will take your medals away
Which I think they are a bunch of rich ******
Sure it is good to exercise but mate
Were pushers
I hated them they made me feel like a ****
You you you
I had it best
Before I had before I had before I had them
Time after time I wanted to leave them
And go back to solo exhibitions in
The art hall
And not sell them at trash and treasure
Like a loser does
I had it best I really had it best
Before I ever had define fitness
Treating me like a rich ***** of an adult
And not just a nice adult I want to be
**** YOU DEFINE FITNESS
Jul 31, 2021
Jul 31, 2021 at 6:29 AM UTC
The old peasant Lady
Of cheeks gullied deep
‘N dreams sultry-tanned
Sawn into the furrows
Of hardest times, which
The stylistic constraints
Of the post-impressionist
Van Gogh hid behind
His vibrant bush strokes,
But seeped as oil of toil
In to the lap of the Earth
And squats as the Deity
Of all our moral codes.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 5:39 AM UTC
Along I strolled a country path
spread with leaves of happy shade,
sunspots sprinkled on the turf,
insects humming in the glade.
Towering gumtrees soar aloft
running mauve to whitish tan,
strips of bark hang limply downward
richly capped with leafy crown.
The great bowl squats, it’s fan of
massive roots inumerable.
The leaves are wet
and silver sunlight sparks from sheen to sheen,
dazzling those who care to notice
moss so green,
and lacelike in it’s tiny brittle intricacy
Sunlight stirs the breeze to eddy
swirls of leaves in turn do bring
the brown eyed blackbird out to sing
his lilting challenge;
blue crisp air.
Delightful is the word I choose
to announce my sentiments,
nature in late summer gown,
drab winter in disgust
relents another day with thunderous frown.
Marshalg
Ferntree Gully
26th March 1969
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 12:52 PM UTC
red dress in the closet
shots, shots, shots
best friends
shots, shots, shots,
attractions
tension
shut down
shut down
shut down
boys cry?
failure
used till emotionally exhausted
kissing against the closet
life planned out on notebook paper
pressure
shots, shots, shots
tears
squats and drops and swim and swim and swim
silent screams
pack up & move
disqualification
I told you I was trying my hardest
imprisoned in my own body
25 extra lbs.
gasping
rushing
only silence when everyone sleeps
5.8% my ***
failure
failure
fat ***
business minor
screams
breathes in nothing but fear
disappointment kicks into gear
holidays come
two weeks
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC