"studious" poems
her rigorous objections
are herded slowly down the sheep trail
by studious pencil thin men with stylish mustache's
who have deep pocket pickers for friends
they gather round the weak willed and the willing alike
looking for cheap thrills and spare change
everybody needs a new road
when the old one seems to never end
but she with eyes cast down
mumbles her unappeased desires
as she shuffles a little closer to the truth as she sees it
she has it all written out in secret languages
she has books filled with life's coded thoughts as she see's them
barn burners and dare devils grace the cover of her latest creation
self titled to her own romantic name
she is stylized in her own way
so she adores the pencil thin men
with their dashing devil may care good looks
i wrote her a letter yesterday
full of stories from the great highway
full of chipper go getters and the glum go gotten
she is a forever stone on a necklace
she is a moonstone on a bracelet
she is graceful when it counts and
thats more than enough for me
the pencil thin moustache men
come to conquer the all night diners
in the small shoreline towns
but slink away in dawns first light
with stolen smiles and borrowed kisses
that they promise profusely to return tomorrow
but never do
such is the romantic night by her side
such is the wonder-wheel days of our
journey on the great highway
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
If rightly tuneful bards decide,
If it be fix’d in Love’s decrees,
That Beauty ought not to be tried
But by its native power to please,
Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell—
What fair can Amoret excel?
Behold that bright unsullied smile,
And wisdom speaking in her mien:
Yet—she so artless all the while,
So little studious to be seen—
We naught but instant gladness know,
Nor think to whom the gift we owe.
But neither music, nor the powers
Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer,
Add half the sunshine to the hours,
Or make life’s prospect half so clear,
As memory brings it to the eye
From scenes where Amoret was by.
This, sure, is Beauty’s happiest part;
This gives the most unbounded sway;
This shall enchant the subject heart
When rose and lily fade away;
And she be still, in spite of Time,
Sweet Amoret in all her prime.
7.6k
capable but unmotivated,
love being different, hate being misunderstood,
impulsive long term planner.
strange mix of super private and open book.
rational yet unrealistic.
great at giving advice, bad at following it.
arrogant, but painfully aware of my flaws
sure of myself, yet unassuming
introverted extrovert,
rigorous yet care-free,
perpetual loner with tons of friends.
energetic but lazy,
sensitive, yet cold hearted
gregarious yet studious,
intelligent but spacey,
personal, yet detached.
unhealthy, yet understanding therapist,
competitive mediator.
The optimist who just wants to see the world burn.
Where do I fit in?
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 7:24 AM UTC
Retail-hunter gatherers pick
clean processed bones, digging graves
with their shiny teeth, studious in
their reveries as they drone
past worlds dumped in the thresher;
the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped
gore splayed lustily before the managers
wound tight in Machiavellian design.
A shepherd herds his flock of
wreathed iron back to its pen, its
skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by
swords flung from lambent eyes of
pre-dawn’s shunting chariots
Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats
chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes
of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting
colours to float through archipelagos of
paper towel and chocolate blocks past
the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic
wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of
perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen
ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while
Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like
nightshade—slutty and serene—coating
shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the
shelves reach their arms out for more.
The check out chick hatches
a sense of déjà vu as carrots
and biscuits drone towards her
mind berEFT of any twitching
sense of POSsibility that wised
up and flew this leering coop and
deep in her catalogue of grey folds
something stillborn and waxen is
perched on gleaming steel, reeling
out her guts like cassette tape with jerky
nightmare arms and laughing like a
banker watching ***** films, mornings
dull cerise an invocation through
auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble
with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
Sunday's newspapers
come on Saturday,
coupons spill out
torrentially.
weekend manna
from
publisher's hell.
makes my breathing heavy,
from studious inspection,
so many needs unmet.
I fall to pieces
every weekend,
securely knowing,
I'm lacking in
so many things,
feeling my
insecure neediness
keenly.
my Target is
feverishly simple,
solution oriented.
no can find any discounts for
new rhythms,
new rhymes,
life high fivers
to satisfy,
adhere,
and revere,
that would be my
Best Buy.
but I'm clipped,
the coupons, not.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
I am lovely, O mortals! Like a dream carved in stone,
And my breast where poets are bruised to the bone
Formed to inspire each in their quintessence
A love as eternal and silent as essence.
I unite Ledaean pallor with a frozen heart,
I scorn movement for it displaces my art,
A riddling sphinx, on a throne in the sky;
Never do I laugh and never do I cry.
Poets, at the feet of my imperial pose,
Which I seem to adopt from statues grandiose,
Will consume their lives in studious indulgence;
For I have, to enthrall those docile paramours
Pure mirrors to enhance all beauties evermore:
My eyes, my large, wide eyes of eternal effulgence!
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Today, I saw a person in front of me, their eyes on something else
and I took a moment to inspect them,
and then I realised it was myself.
There they were, wearing the clothes I had put on in the morning,
wearing the face I recognise in pictures
and standing exactly where I was standing.
But, they were not me – in that moment, they were not.
How could I be that girl, that women standing there in that shop?
The body inside is not that one I saw in the mirror,
the one who was looking a different way.
Inside, I’m more, I’m smaller, I’m darker, I’m paler and
I dress for them each morning, choosing from the clothes
not bought for them exactly,
but forced to match them, to meet halfway.
I knew it then, with a glance at the mirror person, nothing pretty would be bought today.
And it wasn’t.
Some days, it’s dungarees.
Other days, it’s dresses.
Some days, it’s shorts and leggings.
It all depends on who I’m playing as and
I’m sure that’s all okay, but then they say describe yourself in three words.
How can I describe myself, this person I do not know?
So I go for the easy option and choose them from a list:
Quiet
Creative
Studious
And I suppose, that’s one way of putting myself into three words;
one way of putting myself into an easy to understand formula.
But it doesn’t cover it.
Three words don’t cover it.
Because really, I think I’m just an observer inside my own imagination,
an observer inside my own life and all these other lives inside my head.
I’m just the implied narrator of this person in the mirror
and all these others, who come and go in different places.
But then the girl in the mirror reminds me that tomorrow is my birthday,
a day to celebrate the fact I exist outside of my head
and then she touches a shirt, made of itchy fabric
and there’s life outside the overwhelming inside,
a life where I need to describe myself in three words
and fit into those three words and into that one person,
looking at something else, not in the mirror.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
I am staying studious until the death of me
Death before dishonesty
I follow something slight of that code that was once called chivalry
Its all about the mind set heart breaks then reset
I tend to rush to my past and then I ponder regrets
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 2:31 AM UTC
Two old Bachelors were living in one house;
One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse.
Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse,--
'This happens just in time! For we've nothing in the house,
'Save a tiny slice of lemon nd a teaspoonful of honey,
'And what to do for dinner--since we haven't any money?
'And what can we expect if we haven't any dinner,
'But to loose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?'
Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin,--
'We might cook this little Mouse, if we had only some Stuffin'!
'If we had but Sage andOnion we could do extremely well,
'But how to get that Stuffin' it is difficult to tell'--
Those two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town
And asked for Sage and Onions as they wandered up and down;
They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found
In the Shops, or in the Market, or in all the Gardens round.
But some one said,--'A hill there is, a little to the north,
'And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth;--
'And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,--
'An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page.
'Climb up, and seize him by the toes!--all studious as he sits,--
'And pull him down,--and chop him into endless little bits!
'Then mix him with your Onion, (cut up likewise into Scraps,)--
'When your Stuffin' will be ready--and very good: perhaps.'
Those two old Bachelors without loss of time
The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb;
And at the top, among the rocks, all seated in a nook,
They saw that Sage, a reading of a most enormous book.
'You earnest Sage!' aloud they cried, 'your book you've read enough in!--
'We wish to chop you into bits to mix you into Stuffin'!'--
But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book,
At those two Bachelors' bald heads a certain aim he took;--
and over crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,--
At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town,--
And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of Stuffin',)
The Mouse had fled;--and, previously, had eaten up the Muffin.
They left their home in silence by the once convivial door.
And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more.
3k
Stuck to an icy
history of thought,
the habitual web caught
the Fly in its enticing
display of verbs
that match the pattern:
language is the matter,
betraying ourselves with words.
A tongue to its Work tied
might make the spider
think twice before biting;
those venomous lies
we tell our Selves about
helplessness and somedays
victimization and blame,
empowering our self-doubt;
∴
Devouring our might as writers,
we have nothing if not pride;
We take flight to the deepest parts
of the universe of literature.
Neither nihilistic nor cynical,
our linguistic is made of visuals.
Verily we write with studious care,
veracity a common trait we share:
We are an orchestra,
a symphony of synchronised melody.
Epiphanies emphasize tragedies
that consume us repeatedly --
We seek to
link our verses
and feel deep connections
when engulfed by depression
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
Life was amazing. Boats will fly causing mass transportation. Sometimes I think exclusively until I erupt through word Bothered, enlightened, and hungry watching gay cinema eating bananas but not ripe until next time I hate myself for liking weird cinema, Striking matches without touching myself when hearing groans from my basement which come apart from the throat. Knocks, bangs, and poottitangs among our findings in timely minute fashion. The weather will forever be surpising under a burnt out hookers muffintop. Mashed feces under but over kinfolk of a studious wellbeing transcendence, stupendous sacred.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
I , Frank Wilson , would be lawyer , represent myself in this attack upon my honor ! For I am a studious , God fearing man ! I bow before no Judge , Lawyer or Constable ! Your court dwells beneath moral turpitude , a jury of my peers will soon know the truth !
I do not recognize that woman and child , I'll not pay the stipend your foreman has read out loud ! Your verdict means little in my hardened eyes , one that I refuse to recognize !
Bailiff ! Send for the State Patrol , summon the officer before this Court ! Take this man directly to jail ! I want him in Reidsville by five p.m. !
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
,,,"---"",,"",,---,,,"""
palpable piquant
pastel scream
surrounded by
portentous
dream
seafoam and symmetry
loquacious land
shuddering snow
and
sibilant sand
caustic, cocaphonous
calypso clouds
awed by the
eloquent
elongated
shrouds
burnt to mere
nothingness
negated, naught
turbulent
truculent
trickling
thought
dense and dowdy
docile and dubious
rousing and rowdy
quiet and studious
grating, gallumphing
gruesome
ground
supine and succulent
*asymmetrical
sound*
soulsurvivor
(C) 6/22/2015
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
Am I a vicious reader,
or do I simply love to look
studious, a scholar amidst animals
out of tune to written words?
Do I wish to taste of the stuff of stars
to know their substance
or to show to others
I have their colors on my tongue?
I fear I sit among volumes,
filmed in dirt just like their authors,
calling for them to read me their works
only to tell others I’ve spoken with a ghost.
Were I alone among these stacks,
desolate from life for good,
would I become a scholar,
or eat the books for food?
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 1:42 PM UTC
The dweeb lived in the dwellings of a dwindling tribe of dwarves
Who anchored little kayaks at the moorings in the wharves.
He organised this transport so that they might go at night
Deep into the dark dense woods to visit their Snow White.
But the dwarves were very old and weren’t getting any younger
And although they really wanted too it couldn’t last much longer.
Meanwhile the dweeb would study every minute of the day
So studious and serious with little time for play.
The daddy of the dwarfs known as Doctor Joe
Said to him, “Look dweeb, there’s little left to know.”
But still he studied on writing loads of lengthy notes,
Which sometimes he would use to make tedious little quotes.
Until eventually the dwarves found him annoying and real boring
Besides he woke them up at night with his constant snoring.
So Doctor Joe hatched a plan with his little tribe
It was devious and genius and this I will describe.
They knew Snow White was lonely and longing for a man
So this is what they had in mind for this dweeb known as Stan.
Snow White would lie there in a dwam pretending to be dead
And somehow they would lure Stan along to her deathbed.
So they told her that he was a Prince, the great love of her heart
She of course was up for it, and couldn’t wait to start.
Doctor Joe then told the dweeb, that Snow White was no more.
He said that he might save her and showed him to the door.
On their little kayak they paddled up the river
But the dweeb then said to Doctor Joe, “I don’t know what to give her.”
The Doctor reassured him that it would be real bliss
If only one time in her life she had a loving human kiss.
The dweeb replied, “This just won’t work.” So he quoted healing potions.
When Doctor Joe rejected these he suggested soothing lotions.
None of these the Doctor said were right for their Snow White
Only a kiss from a real-man could help her end this plight.
So eventually there beside Snow White all the party stood,
Outside of the stone cottage deep within the wood.
The dwarves should have looked distressed but they were full of glee
And so they had to hide their smiles in case the dweeb should see.
At long last they’d be rid of him, this boring little nerd
Some of them expressed this and they hoped he hadn’t heard.
But the dweeb was now distracted by the beauty of this girl
He didn’t know if this would work but he’d give it a whirl.
He puckered up his lips and planted one before he spoke
Then gob-smacked he stood there as Snow White soon awoke.
Immediately when their eyes met he knew that it was right
Likewise she felt this too, it was real love at first sight.
So you see that all of this now ended happy ever after.
Doctor Joe and all the dwarves left in bursts of laughter.
Dec 7, 2009
Dec 7, 2009 at 11:16 AM UTC
*dive.. dive..
dive*
1.
I am eating fog on this pre-dawn bridge
an overcoat of no particular mood
keeping intact considered-sincerity of warmth
inhaling air tight with thin droplets
the c-cold of someone's click-clack in the distance
only an echo of studious-oblivion
glancing over the rail as the water swirls, dense
the silent hum of a slow-passing vehicle
windows darkly stare
I wonder who'd possibly be passing by here
and would they be connecting with that swirl, too
2.
there must be a walrus under there
(shrinking-violet, that it is)
its projections long and probably needing plumbs
the departing fingers of night gnaw
attempt to steal what little shelters here
consent delayed by vertical-curses in bloom
and I'm thinking of a cat I used to have
who certainly didn't favour water
protests become latent-airborne, take off
as screeching squawks swoop by
hungry heartbeats gurgle, drip valiant
station within view.. phew, made it!
*an accordion starts to play..
an elegy fit
for a dive.*
st64, 3 April 2014
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
Miss Maitland went
to the fancy dress party
dressed as a nun
Benedict went clothed
as a priest(Church
of England kind)
which made her
even more inaccessible
than before he thought
seeing her enter the hall
in her black and white habit
and that face
which echoed purity
her small slim fingers
raised as if to bless
those present
which included the host
dressed as the Devil in red
Miss Maitland walked
to the bar and ordered
a lemonade and gin
is that wise?
said the barman with a grin
she laughed
and he poured anyway
Benedict nodded
and she smiled
then talked to another
clothed as a monk
and laughed
and Benedict's hopes
(whatever they
may have been)
were he concluded
sunk
he sipped his beer
and walked and sat down
gazing at her
standing there
all her best bits
covered up
her tight ****
and delightful behind
gone from sight
now the Devil
was chatting her up
his tail hanging
from behind
his fingers holding
a red wine
Benedict sipped more
of his beer
saw her wander off
to talk with some girl
dressed
as a gangster's moll
right down to the 1920s
cloth of dress
and cut of hat
Benedict didn't fancy her
and that was that
he just wanted
Miss Maitland
sans her habit
of black and white
he liked her in her
tight jeans and top
with her fair hair
flowing free
or held back
in a pony tail
walking up and down
the aisle of the shop
serving customers
wiggling her behind
as she went talking
in her middle class prose
giving Benedict
a studious stare
and he studying her
thinking of his bed
at home
with him and her
lying there.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 3:09 AM UTC
*a museum casted shadow
variegated in hues of history
envelops the hour of the dog
a street paved with memory
adorned in May nuptials
whispers a toast to continuity
a cafe table ripe with potential
lost in studious consideration
brews eternity from lavender latte*
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
There is a work of art in the proportions of your body; a song in the rhythms of your movements. You can't see it, I know you don't believe me, but you are the most extraordinary creature I have ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with. If I were able, I would show you the beauty in your shoulder length auburn hair, and how it flows over your shoulders like a waterfall of silk. I would show you the steely grace in the strong chords of your neck as they slope downwards into your perfect breast, and laugh when you protest that it might be compared to that of a twelve-year-old boy. I would show you the delicate loveliness of the lines creased deep in your palms, like a map of all that you have touched or felt in the years leading up to this moment; lines that I would follow to the ends of eternity, if only you would allow it. If I were able, I would study you. I would take notes with my fingertips on the tender skin of your spine and pay a kiss to each vertebra, like a tariff to a toll booth on the road of your body. If you would let me learn you, I would be the most studious attentive student there ever was; keen and detailed when practicing my new-found knowledge. Yet somehow, you are blind to this. But oh how I long to show it to you. Oh how I long to show you all the ways in which I want you. All the ways in which I wish you were mine. You cannot see your own perfection, listening more to the voices of doubt and insecurity more than to those of love and self-confidence, but oh how I wish you could see yourself in all the ways I do. And someday, I will make you see it. This, I promise.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
When you are slightly drunk
Things are so close, so friendly.
The road asks to be walked upon,
The road rewards you for walking
With firm upward contact answering your downward contact
Like the pressure of a hand in yours.
You think - this studious balancing
Of right leg while left leg advances, of left while right,
How splendid
Like somebody-or-other-on-a-peak-in-Darien!
How cleverly that seat shapes the body of the girl who sits there.
How well, how skilfully that man there walks towards you,
Arms hanging, swinging, waiting.
You move the muscles of your cheeks,
How cunningly a smile responds.
And now you are actually speaking
Round sounding words
Magnificent
As that lady's hat!
1.8k
Sirious ********
Study is ********
Will you let me be.
There'll be other days
to write more poetry.
Smirking, missed you too.
She's studying with language barrier,
under repression.
Taking years to slowly do
what we can accomplish in a day.
I see, but what are we to accomplish?
Blow it up? rip it down? to rebuild?
or embroider?
Like repairing a tapestry.
Fill the in gaps,
complete her story with hard data
and prettier pictures.
Half on one hand, six in the other.
Make do and mend.
Change the world for a second
Which of us drew the short straw again?
Zzzzxxx
Tripping over myself and our humongous marriage of minds.
Apologies.
Apogee.
Nadir
©Atalanta Undigested, 2013. All Rights Reserved.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
so naturally I would do anything
when she invited me to her room
bolted the door
sat on the bed with legs crossed, chin on fist
a studious frown
told me to strip
but don’t remove your eyeglasses
those ugly black frames so perfect, so typical
stand against the wall
no, sideways, in profile
yes, like that
Your **** is so big
like two pumpkins squashed together
odd on such a skinny guy
Is your **** always crooked
or just when it’s soft
You should paint it red, that would be cool
No, better paint stripes to emphasize the curve
Your little potbelly gives balance to the ***
but you should work out, develop your chest
Okay, put your clothes on
For this evaluation, no charge
but please, more basketball
less poetry and maybe someday
somebody will love you
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
Spent the evening walking nowhere streets
dodging horns and sirens of hungry motorbike taxis.
It was a parade of street-food vendors,
security guards half asleep by bottles of whiskey.
Every woman I passed was beautiful,
laid their *** on the numbered tables
as off-hand as their mobile phone, their purse;
their bored men. Each one had their toenails painted,
wore short skirts and vest tops in the stifling heat.
The best of them wore tight dresses of black or red
and ate their food in the same studious manner
I imagined they would take to the zip of my jeans.
Could feel the sweat roll down my back
kicking gravel out my sandals every ten strides.
The playboys rev their motorbikes
as if it were a talent they had been working on,
a kind of siren song to tempt the free women.
Each one is on the lookout for a bargain.
Each one streaks past to some indiscernible point
where they will bury themselves amongst
the massage parlours, karaoke bars, and short-stay hotels;
Each one a straight-up brothel once you make it through the doors.
I feel too awkward in this ******* town to order a sandwich
let alone try out my second language to ask for a cheap *******
Every foreigner here had some kind of breakdown.
Some kind of complex that drew them like a moth to flame
to some place where white skin is enough to feign riches,
stimulate desire and place you amongst better men.
We steal a living for a year or two of forever blue skies.
We eat good food and toast ourselves every evening
with cold lager and palm leaf cigarettes.
We cannot read a word in these humid streets
where every single building holds a portrait of the King.
Spent the evening with my shadow, both alive in the night
beneath the heady aroma of cooking oil and street-food spice,
both hurting to become, both slipping out of sight.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
Years ago When I Was A Child, a fragrance of
summer was on the hot air and winters white,
frosty and snowy hid the toes of your boots when you slid.
I was studious and sedate, except at play
when I became a wild,
part of a dog pile,
of other wild kids at play.
Limbs tangled and the weight of friendship,
was worth more than the ore and gold pulled
from the mine, then purified by smelting.
We could run, explore and hide
on our favourite mountainside,
change alliances,
pick teams,
fun was the factor
winning was the dream,
with some rivalry,
we did not need to
worry,
or hurry, it wasn't
about
car bombs in our markets, temples and churches,
we did not need to look alone through the rubble
that was once our humble home,
we needed to watch out
for poison ivy, poison oak and rusty nails
we did not need to look out
for mines that no one mapped,
in a war which neither side
cared for those
whose future they have changed irrevocably.
And not for the better.
At night a train might disturb my sleep,
not a poorly dropped bomb intended for
the enemy camp, not on the edge of a village,
where the hole swallowed dreams and futures and spit out death,
we played kick the can, hide and go seek
where running, not hopping on one foot,
was the deal,
where seeing, was important with both
eyes, in the dark.
We did not blow out our ankle, unless we tripped
on a curb, unlike some children, blow off a lower
limb at the knee, because they tripped a wire, which
tripped a switch, of a metal canister in the dirt
which once was a playground, before became
a forgotten battlefield. And a playground once again,
after it was for a time a cemetery.
A mass grave.
This was supposed to be about play,
Play, what if every child who could play
stopped until all children were able.
You can pray for peace,
you can play for peace,
but can you play to stop wars.
Adults play at making peace,
as long as their interests (cha-ching)
are met, again and again,
then maybe the children's children's
children can play, if they remember how,
thank God
children
are resilient
and play is a
natural consequence of fun.
So run along children and
play
stay safe
and away from where your brothers... play no more.
©DWE102013
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC