"stencilled" poems
Now I'm An UNTOUCHABLE... !!!
UNLIKE.... Cliff Huxtable... !!!
Or YES I Mean... " Bill "... !!!
I'm UNTOUCHABLY... ILL...
When It Comes To My Will... !!!
I Lyrically ****
Well I Hope... NOT **** !!!
But WILL- FULLY Build...
Verse That INSTILS...
UNTOUCHABLE Levels...
of Using Your MENTAL... !!!
Stencilled Pencilled...
... Mental Rhymes....
Kinda Like UNTOUCHABLE Guys...
When It Comes To The Mic... !!!
ME... Well INDEED...
Some Do Believe...
That I Flow My Rhymes Alright...
Now That's A Humble Line...
UNTOUCHABLY Designed...
To Let... YOU Decide...
If I Flow Like MIKE... ?!?
AIR JORDAN Like... !!!!!!
Well ONE THING I'll Claim... !!!
Is That My Wordplay...
Deserves A Place...
In Halls Where Fame...
ONLY HOLD What's GREAT... !!!!!
But Skill On A Mic' Is NOT A Claim...
I... Choose To MAKE... !!!
Because UNTOUCHABLE Names... !!!
DESERVE.... Such PRAISE...
In How They're Viewed...
And That's The TRUTH... !!!!!
I'm UNTOUCHABLE Yeah...
Just Like... " JERU' "... !!!
Because I've Walked Through...
Where... DARKNESS RULES... !!!
But Moved TOO COOL...
For UNTOUCHABLE Crews...
To... Want To PULL...
Their TOOLS And ABUSE...
Because They KNEW...
" Big Virge Is Cool !
AND UNTOUCHABLE Dude ! "
Because I Choose...
To Just... " Hang Loose "...
EVEN WHEN Violence Is Used...
Because of... Moods...
UNTOUCHABLY Crude... !!!
Where IGNORANCE Moves...
To... FEEDING FEUDS... !!!!!
I RISE......... ABOVE.......
So DO NOT Touch...
The... IGNORANT... !!!!!!
Because In TRUTH...
They're UNTOUCHABLE Too... !!!!
Because of How...
Their Energies Sound...
FAR TOO LOUD.... !!!!!!
For Me To Receive... !!!!!!!!
Because Like THIEVES...
They Feed DECEIT And ROBBERY... !!!
of Things I KEEP... UNTOUCHABLE... !!!
Like The Way My CHI...
DENIES These FIENDS...
A Chance of Getting...
TOO CLOSE To....... ME...
UNTOUCHABLE... IS...
The Theme of THIS Piece...
Because YES It's TRUE... !!!!
My Poetry Is UNTOUCHABLY....
A Way For Me To Offer YOU...
A Piece of..... ME.....
A Piece of My Heart...
And YES... My Soul... !!!
Now It Can Get DARK...
Like...... Al Capone...... !!!!!
But Shows MORE LOVE...
Than... GANGSTER Thugs... !!!!
It's More Like... " NESS "... !!!
When I EXPRESS... !!!!!!
NOT ELLIOT....
Or... Loch MONSTER Bred... !!!
I'm Just Blessed With A... NESS...
That Moulds And Blends In...
With......... " FINESSE ".......... !!!!!!!
That's ME... BIG VIRGE... !!!
So My Final Words...
In TRUTH... " ACCEPT "...
That When It Comes To...
... Government...
Their Court Systems...
And FEDERAL Friends...
They'll TRY Their Best... !!!
To Cause... PROBLEMS...
BUT NO Matter WHAT... !?!
They TRY TO.... PULL....
My SPIRIT Will Stay UNCRUSHABLE... !!!
So I'll... ETERNALLY Be...
...... " UNTOUCHABLE "..... !!!
Sep 23, 2020
Sep 23, 2020 at 1:03 AM UTC
In a rained-out world
painted in shadow
smeared by waters
and bus stop-
undeterred,
her red umbrella
burns crimson through
desolate darkness
like random library
selfies of beauty
buried in paper skin,
shielded by her
red umbrella
In an overcast world
stencilled in sorrow
her umbrella-
so red, so shiny-
reaches out to me,
taking all my woes
and weary waters away
when I hear her say-
"Hey, write me a poem
about a red umbrella"
In a sunny world
etched in joyance
dabbed in frappé-
my four-wheel red umbrella
drives us from
country to café,
where perfectly good
grand pianos meet
symphonic chaos,
amicably amplified as we mingle
under our red umbrella
~
NM
09/20/16
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
heritage of her long preamble **********
the quick note stencilled on sticky note
seemed not only incomplete but irrational
'plead not the day to the jury of night
its light deceives the dark into seeking
solace for its own death'
her heritage thought troubles the waves
sending its silent after effects spreading across the
waters to which we fled for safe harbour in evening's birth
we swim to shore
and explore nothing but sand on beachhead
and eachothers fumbling in near perfect dark
before dawn could streak the sky
with the golden lances of the sun
as day wrestles the sky from night
contending with eachother
revealing to our new born eyes
the fanfare that light gives the day
she stood on this stage
and did pronounce loudly
entreat the light to forsake the day
join the night
as she and i had
as lovers
then the golden lances of dawn
would be the stems of roses
from one lover to the other
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
We both traced the constellations
those that were unknown
the stars danced to a different tune last night
Those we called our own
The astronomers stencilled each complicated line
With our bare hands we scratched each curve
We may have not heard yet
We've built a universe of our own
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
She hides among the poppy seed
Sweet brown eyes growing yellow-red
Roots emerging sickly-soft
And ears remembering my rasp -
Rasp she wanted?
She spreads her petals for me
And I see all I wanted
Red coat shed on sunsets of
Pretty skin
So pretty.
She washes with the wind
Eating sunflakes
I don't look at
The black spot on the poppy
Because she's a bloom
Who had stains I never thought of asking for.
Who asks a stencilled crushberry sky
What it will want when it leaves?
When the moon comes up
I feel the old blissful cold
She won't warm me, but
Poppy's make poor blankets anyway
Freckles speckle nothing anymore
And red has fallen silent
I regard the stars she left me
And paint my canvas new.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 8:22 PM UTC
I have an unusual friend. A small man with charms of a gentle redneck. He holds court in his garage for his acquaintances, those free or at large. His demeanour is rustic, but his wisdom self-taught. His name is Byron ( I know, it's too good to be true), not lordly, but Byron likes the girls and light brew. Byron says, “I'll kick your *** every time we play golf. Not yet. His voice is chasmic and often influenced by distractions. And then on a cold, witch-tit, heathcliffe driving winter's day, with the wood stove well-fired, a rascally friend opens the door, and Byron yells, “Shut the door. Do you think wood grows on trees.” On leaving the same day he advises me, “Don't slip on the ice. It's frozen.” I didn't tell you Byron has one eye. Better yet, a patch on the other. He looks more like post Frodo ignoring the “Don't run with scissors" warning from Mother Baggins, than he does Lord B. I dropped my pipe once on his garage floor. A special pipe. It's my bowling pipe. I don't smoke tobacco. Byron thinks it clever to call me at work and tell my secretary he and I are bowling after school. Byron mixes metaphors. So, my pipe has dropped. Byron says, “ Let me help. Three eyes are better than two.” His cleverness can backfire. I tried to be sensitive, but there was neither an honourable or dishonourable way out. Byron hung an oak wood sign near his stove. He makes his own stain, and rubs it evenly in circles with his wife's old nylons. “It's great for the *********** he'll quip. The two ***** of the sign are joined with leather straps and stainless steel studded to the wood. The letters painted within the stencilled lines are a dark, rich mixture. The joke. “Lift flap in case of fire.” Normally one lifts the flap. “Not now stupit. In case of fire.” I discreetly pointed out the t.The sign quietly disappeared and was never mentioned again. He'll never kick my ***
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
so freeing,
yet so uncertain
will they look back,
will I look back
and judge
delivering the death sentence
condemning the past
how could you be so naive
so immature
so oblivious
the images
the scenes
stencilled, scratched into the surfaces
will they always be there
will they always make me
twist and squirm and turn
so dramatic
is this real (or is this just fantasy)
which perceptions are true
and which are just percieved
the time
it draws closer
the magic
will it stay?
how to contain the magic in a moment
the last receipt
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
Some scrawl the names of people present and past
Some drench theirs in pearlescent candied nacre
Shapes and hues exact, stencilled down to the last
Pretty copies of individuality
There are those who have it forced upon the face
Growing into it, it feels more natural
To don that dress, to hit the gym and say grace
Becoming the things they are needed to be
The flawless surface ever in flux stirs and returns to slumber.
Still others, indecisive, searchful, hover
From pile to pile, over fractalised discards
Picking out their newest favourite cover
For their brittle blandness blushed by exposure
Mine has grown inwards, claws entrenched beneath skin
Reverse quicksand; raking scars old and fresh
Valour marks in the battle I cannot win
My silence percolates. Outside it accretes
It glows in flickers of luciferous fluoroscence, firefly flashes.
Hope is but another addiction to break
Yet this air hangs heavy, toxic to inhale
A frigid gut burn with every breath I take
Soulful tremor smothered in despair's cocoon.
Fingers roam my jaw. Phantom edges they seek
Futility dawns. It has long disappeared
As have the haunting echoes of devil-speak
I have swallowed it all as it consumed me
It changes, chameleon-like, dissolving pixels on a screen.
Is it me, or am I it? It matters not
Its pulse fills my veins with something close to life
Yet I musn't bleed - the fluid does not clot
It leaks slowly like a punctured memory
Inside nestles the tangle of cobwebbed dreams
Silken sojourns unwittingly petrified
Quavering mutedly to my stifled screams:
You cannot, you shall not, you must not come in!
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
Hush hung from the morning’s time
A sleepy half awakened rhyme
Composing ever onward lines
Of oh so intricate designs,
Those whisper wafted perfumed things
The dawning day so often brings
Adrift upon awakening air
Silk stencilled dreams that they both share.
Wishes turned within their hearts
Of newborn days, of brand new starts,
And blue eyes squinted at the sun
That clambered golden sequin spun
Towards its throne above the sky
Where only larks and angels fly,
While smile touched smile as soul touched soul
For dawn dreams render all things whole.
Then hand in hand they meadow walked
As intertwined their voices talked
Of why and where and when and who
Of how dreams start two lives anew,
While cornflowers and poppies dance
In sweet reflections of romance,
Like singing geishas as they play
The music of that first born day.
Between the day’s unwinding hours
They walked on sands and bathed in showers
Of sanguine sun and rainbow shade
That flickered as their moments fade
Into that drawn out winding way
That signified the end of day,
Two shadow painted marionettes
Adrift upon their own sunsets…
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:59 AM UTC