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wehttam Jul 2014
To treat a bruised parrot
on the shoulder of Sandalphon
a starlet.  Being
squired for aseen parrot
was naught something
next to me.  It screemed
constantly,... "Just let it in."
Do parrots think possibly
to much annoying.  
To teach a parrot
use oil, place it on every
feather every wing.
and then ask it to
write, like some thing
it can read.  If a parrot
reeds a child does it know
what to mean.  Does it add
surepititiously to the being,
any virtue, any thing.

Do doubt the parrot
if it can not sing!
Brent Kincaid Mar 2016
Mountebanks and madmen
And marvelous maidens
Populate and pollute politics
Which joss sticks cannot chase
Or alleviate the electorate
In its counter clockwise swirl
Down its own bathroom drain.
Only morals don’t ameliorate
It only exacerbates, enervates
Rather than eliminates the pain.

The pain is felt by franklins,
Never the nobles or magnates;
They go on and make play dates
With other multi-billionaires
In debonair pied-a-terre lofts
And scoff at the peasantry
While exchanging pleasantries
Over gold-laced desserts
Thinking nobody gets hurt
If they pilfer and pillage
Far off village and town
Tearing down and razing,
With life grazing scorched earth.

To the rich, nobody has worth;
Voices that implore are muted
And garbage-chuted in the press.
Nothing to confess, the smile;
A mile of porcelainized teeth
Made more intense by pretense
That importance is impotence
In the face of extreme wealth
When stealth cease efficacy
And delicacy isn’t required.
The moral judge is fired.
A new wife is squired
In hopes a son is sired
To take over the empire.
The other night you said
    You could never love like this again
    Your stare piercing each vessel
    As it squired uncomfortably
    Underneath my skin

    Everybody knows
    Just exactly what it is I did
    There’s no holds barred, now
    and I plan to go down with my sin

    She holds her breath
    Praying she doesn’t see her again
    It’s own sick form of torment
    To the transgressor and the transgressed
    Every time a car rolls by
    “Has she come to take you, is the time here yet?”
    For her it isn’t if, it’s when

    I gave away what was not mine to squander
    and You’ll call me a liar, worse yet
    but For every shred
    Of evidence I left
    I too left the key for your vengeance

    and I hope you’ll wield your weapon wisely
    For this shot,
    Its the last one I’ve got

    So I ram the rod down the shaft
    Compressing the powder
    Lick my fingers clean
    Of the filth I’ve wallowed in
    I’d shed a tear, but what’s left is a monster
    The girl I was, she won’t come back to haunt you
    She’s given up too much hope for that
multi sumus Sep 2019
knight in shining armor (a little rust from all the tears) as here i wait for You my Dear (its clear regardless of the years) for only You to which be squired (straights are dire until transpired) passions pyre set afire (in the moment You are near) if You will hear this voice a whisper (and to heart in which it speaks) again its You and You alone upon this quest that i do seek
Evan Stephens Oct 2019
She arrived
on a green wing.

She pressed the little curve
of her smile through a wide

wet heat that dropped
across the nestling city.

I squired her through shades,
worried about her sun-mood,

we drank coffee like mother's milk,
I worried about the green wing

that idled in the black field
of my mind, to carry her away.

It felt like a fairy tale.
Autumn arrived and wrestled

with the bright arm of summer.
The sun died in my pocket.

The moon cried behind gauze.
Corner stores kept selling

menthol one hundreds,
green wing echoes

that pressed on me.
We studied cakes and kings,

we looked at art the new way,
we traveled to the old cities

whose alleys twisted like veins,
branching with histories.

The customs man is obliging,
waives her future a few more weeks.

She has a firm date
with the rain city.

The green wing lolls in slow
circles through my thoughts.

When she takes those steps
toward the old castle,

toward the streets of beer
and whisky, toward friend

& half-friend, my heart
will turn to water in my chest

& the purple day's-end
will fade into a bruise-night

where I sit alone, choking on
possibilities, and wondering

why my hands now
feel so terribly heavy.

— The End —