"suggestions" poems
(thanx all for the great suggestions)
<!>
women who wink
drive men to drink
together, glasses clink
tattoos follow in ink
and that ain’t the only thing
~
the tiller tied & forgot,
the slip knot jinxed
the sailboat nearly sinks
~
he cries aloud “you minx!”
I’m all done in,
you’ve got me sminked,^
you winking whilst me sailing on the oceans brink
~
she smirked and laughed that slinky mink,
“clearly you are confused - I’m a lynx,
count to cinq, don’t overthink,
join me overboard into the ****
I’ll finish you off in the the kitchen sink
where drowning possibilities are next to nothink
promise, we’ll be quite in sync”
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
i'm biracial
no i'm not an oreo
no i ain't your zebra
i ain't the best of both your worlds
i ain't mulatto either
i am white
and
i am black
living my life with a sense of inequality
my race always seems to follow me
no matter where i'm at
white people have jokes
black people have questions
my hair appeals to some of you
while the rest of you have suggestions
who said i needed you to tell me who to be?
who said i needed to explain who i really am underneath?
striving to be normal and thriving to be equal
i just so happen to be a white girl
that knows what it's like to be black
and that bothers a lot of people
my race may not define me but it is apart of who i am
so yes i get offended when you refuse to understand
that i am what i am
black and white
white and black
light brown complexion
***** curls front to back
a strong black woman resides inside and it's she you see
a white woman is there but will never be
but i never deny my lines culturally
because they are me
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
It's a plan in itself,
Not an open invitation for suggestions
To go on long walks, or dancing,
Or paint-balling, or take a drive
Down to the beach.
It doesn't mean I am free
To do one of the hundreds of tasks
You decide are more important,
In an attempt to fill my day
With a different kind of meaning.
Today I am doing nothing,
Because I have become lost,
In a world where doing something, anything
Is so expected of ourselves and each other
That simply doing nothing is viewed
As a waste of time.
We so rarely have opportunity
To have the conversations in our heads
That determine who we really are,
As we watch the moments floating past,
Lying under the stars.
Today I am doing nothing,
Please understand that what I desire,
Is silent doorbells, unknocked doors
And that the phone doesn't ring
As I curl up by the fire.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 4:35 PM UTC
Her eyes are poetry and a blink of her eyes is a poem.
Her voice is poetry and each of her words is a poem.
Her thinking is poetry and each of her thoughts is a poem.
My love for her is poetry and each of my expressions for her is a poem.
My care for her is poetry and each of my suggestions for her is a poem.
My desire for her is poetry and each expression of my romance for her is a poem.
Our mutual attraction is poetry and each of our confessions to one another is a poem.
Our eternal relationship is poetry and each of our manifestations for one another is a poem.
Our way of talking to each other is poetry and each of our conversations with one another is a poem.
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 9:21 AM UTC
Goddess of virility suckles me
to ******
Her legs stiffen…
to acute angles.
Toes, ballerina firm
make her
body—
levitate from the bed.
A smile reveals…fangs
the tips of which
are barely…touching
my ear.
The lizard tongue hisses in ecstasy
revealing ancient—spiritual…bliss
mystics could only
speculate of.
Her anaconda legs
wrap—
around my back
as her fingernails
embed into
my spine.
When I yank
Her hair
Her eyes
Scream inside out.
Our bodies—
Swimming in
An ocean of ravenous
Liquids pulsating from our pores.
Sopping hair clings
to our foreheads
we suddenly realize—
A new shape is invented.
We make a sound so primal
inside each other’s mouth
as her jaws snap down
to my neck—
both bodies rigor-mortis stiffen
as the mountains collapse around us
and the sky is ripped open as a tsunami
billows down into a wave of exhaustion.
The wind cradles us,
Back to the earth
We split,
Admiring a new continent
We created.
Our limp bodies—
numb from the velocity and suggestions
resign to the crater
we call a bed.
We smile, simultaneously,
looking past
our brains,
realizing…
in this moment
we, are one.
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 23, 2011 at 7:18 AM UTC
They had played for too long.
The stretching shadows sang in minor
whilst tackling gusts
scratched the colour from his hands
and tugged wire through her clutches.
Their fettered aircrafts swooped
in plunging shifts:
seconds of clouded rhapsody
and cotton screams-
equalled in deflection
and discord.
Their colourful counterparts
climbed higher, twisting
in solar breezes.
They gaped upwards with
tense suggestions
neither knowing
how to sever
their tangled kite-strings.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
How many marbles can you fit into a bowl until you say you can't count them?
I do not want events layered upon events.
Birthdays toppling over birthdays:
a layer cake of responsibilities that aren't 'responsibilities'.
That do not count.
That cannot be measured or described as taxing or numerous.
I am outnumbered by numberless nonsense.
I am outweighed by weightless wafting pleasantries;
and opportunities;
and life-sustaining things;
that bowl me over.
My womb is a desert called Death Valley and you wish to comb it for antique glass bottles.
I care not.
I cannot partake in any more suggestions of what I might do with my 'free time'.
But you're not feeling the tingling sensation in your gut every time you wake up and the lights don't turn on.
The wheels don't work.
The mechanical arms don't move like they are supposed to.
Like the parts of you you're supposed to have on automatic have just given up the ghost and abandoned you.
You're alone and miserable and none of it rings any bells.
None of it gives out any signs.
None of it counts.
I'm crying because the milk spilled and there isn't any milk left anywhere in the world.
We're out.
We're just the land of Honey now.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 12:43 AM UTC
drunk on the idea that
2 a.m. phone calls give way
to true love,
and afternoon suggestions
would give you a reason
to see me soon.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
In my Thirty-Fifth Year I juiced this Remark
The Crisque-Plaque Hotel named after a Tree
Sturdy, of Signage enhance the Grade's Bark
Wishing all else their Best Service was Free
If not the Years to Good Degree advance:
Fruits, Pasta, Meat, Veggies and Japanese
Mix the fricasee to match that of France
And serve it on a Platter, if you please
Only if the Staff were shy; But informed
How noted the needs of their Clients were
One Gesture made, took the Meaning lost cause
Pour some polished Suggestions done on here.
Thirty-Five Candles blown, all without Flame
It was still my Best Day; All just the same.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
I know you are part of my destiny
So I haven't cried as much over our separation
True, I did cry an ocean of tears
But not so many to drown the grounds I stand upon
I said words of frustration
And whispered cries of surrender and desertion
But I am open to emotions and those words allowed release
-But- what I suggested in heated state of mind was just that
Suggestions, not proclamations nor plans
You know I tend to submerge myself in evil waters
In order to rise from them with strength even greater
Those shouts you may or may not have heard were the waters I was wading
And now, I am back to the heavens with a heart more unbreakable
Refreshed and replenished with the purity of home air
I remain sure of the decision I made that day
Don't worry, I am still certain of my true love for you
No- More certain of everything
I guess it took all those months to realise it
I needed to break down in strengthening
To lead the way to the point of exhaustion
Because now, it's your turn to stand ahead
As I deep down predicted, my words did not gain action
Although reactions were clearly achieved
Though words were controlled and questions avoided
Your eyes that trick you, are as always unable to deceive me
I guess what I am trying to express
Is my undying true love for you
My heart is unbroken, despite what I said
Still holding you within, still cradling our infants to come
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
Preface
**When the broad mind has opened, to gaze the stars that shinning in the unfathomable skies and the glittering Nature, its flowers’ fragrances given to taste the wealthy realms of her, as well as Earth's mysteries—that I ever think of to feel and by my thoughts that spread so deep to try to work with things that sounds of ‛creative’. Here I the ‛moody soul’ started his first journey, leaving his home a few years ago and his up-start was through Literature, Science and Arts and Fiction. Writings and paintings here I believed to be most powerful and that those more often need to convey by the Artist’s conscience and the intensity that gains moral knowledge and appreciation. Here the book has the pictorial paths of Quest and the wanderings, all by imagination’s boat, sails from the western Ideas and its enthusiastic flow. Some finds hope along and also hopelessness, God and Love vagabonding among these ink-stained pages.
Dreamt in the wandering world where no chains shall bind, from the dark veiled lands to the daring spark, no atoms that obscure the force calling light, to aim the glad precious moments of life, to embrace me with a silence and its whispering magic, where gate of hope’s always open to bliss, thundering words are always from roam, the nocturnal pleasure that I only know, and when all will run away as time—why I alone in the upward steps of solitude that caressing wild only wings?
If I met Life as a strange stage of different senses—and I only say you to enjoy the aggressive fruits of my invention. Here it is for all of you can read and evaluate.**
Nithin Purple
Acknowledgement
**This book is dedicated to my parents of Love and support,
from where I got the powers to be inspired—to write and prove.
Special Thanks to Parisian Author and poet Roman Payne of
‛cultural book’ for supporting me as a writer of varying tastes. Also Writer, Wilson B Sanchez of New York, who first gave suggestions
and his valuable sparkling comments of self-improvable topics, which I always bother. Belated friend, poet and writer, Curtis Plaskon from France for his valuable support. Also Poet Timothy & Hilda from Virginia, to them I had good writing memories. And for all the Indians, this book is an open heart to read.**
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
Fingers cut palms as hands turn to stone
And a catapult hurls the projectile home
Knuckles collapse from bone meeting bone
Down in the alleys where miscreants roam
Suggestions of violence fill gutters with blood
Fill heads with the sense of nefarious thrill
Their skin turns to ash and their brains into mud
Rage in the kingdom of eager to ****
The children are soldiers who train everyday
Cowboys and Indians, Robbers and Cops
****** is plot and the actors will play
Portraying the place life will come to a stop
Violence is cancer, and love is no more
Edge of our seats waiting for the next war
Dedicated to the deceased and forgotten, Love and Peace
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Airborne Muse #2: Once I wrote: (1)
if it cannot be said
in ten words, it cannot
(but now, older wiser, more intuitive)
I be~leave five is plentiful
and I'm still
working on
the three of:
thee and me
&
and one day,
I"ll get to maybe, and
reveal a bare skin
of brotherly love,
and speak of the
trinity of two;
but I'm open to your suggestions,
re that too:
note tho,
must be superior superlative than:
*above beyond
just merely
we two*
11/26/24
12:27pm
last updated
7:07am
9/28/25
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 10:33 AM UTC
A woman of shear beauty
Her attractiveness being at her duty
She gets any man she wants
Annabelle knows how to taunt
It is the way she walks and talks
Men feel her senses and respond in stalk
Annabelle dresses in expensive long gowns
Her hips are firm and are round
At parties, woman look Annabelle up and down
Yet they never utter any sound
It’s the way men grapple at Annabelle’s feet
Once they see Annabelle men don’t retreat
Annabelle moves every so carefully in her stance
Her good looks and attractiveness with every staring chance
This is how Annabelle’s suggestions advance
Annabelle’s methods in all systems go
Her hips in suggesting just follow my flow
Annabelle’s statement, “Hold on to your man”
I am in control and it’s within my own command
My masterpiece is what you see
It is Annabelle’s canvas that says she.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
They call me a ****
Tell me I’m a *****
That I’m fat
And that I’m ugly.
Yet they don’t know that when I go home
I hear it all again.
The students voices echo in my mind.
The long sleeves I wear to school
even in 90 degree weather
covers the scars.
I try to become invisible,
to walk by unnoticed,
but it never works.
They sense my presence and lash out at me,
Like a wolf on it’s prey.
I go home and cry myself to sleep.
Every night their words echo in my ears,
never going away.
Messages with the same words heard every day.
Suggestions of killing myself.
It wouldn’t make much difference
Just one less person crowding the halls.
One less person silently screaming inside.
One less person to believe I’m worthless.
Tears stream down my face as she ***** the gun.
The song that originally saved my life begins to play.
I close my eyes,
and with a deep breath he pulls the trigger.
The only thing left of me being the note that I wrote.
“I’m sorry...I can’t do this anymore”
with blood splattered across the pages.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:34 AM UTC
I bent down to her ear and said
Thank you for all you’ve done
Not just for
NY
But for the World
She looked at me expressionless from her chair
I don’t think that she understood nor cared
Then I handed her a little
Bag
Containing two lipsticks
And two pencils
I think she threw the pencils on the floor and
Wondered aloud
Why was everyone giving her pencils?
She did not notice that of the two that I gave her
one was stamped in gold
With the one word
Hustler
And on the other, two
Strictly
Business
I made no suggestions nor references
I didn’t smirk
I must have appeared a bit sweet
A treacly aberration
It doesn’t matter
I had selected two perfect reds in LA
One a bit more blue
and one
a classic vampish carmine
Blood red can be a challenge even against
pale
pale
Skin.
Standing in the lift
Fully attuned
she caught me
not merely looking into her eyes
But seeing what I saw
A death’s head?
I hate when I’m caught doing that
Under the fluorescent light
She was dog rough
Pasty with sad sunken eyes
I was thrown, but by what exactly
Her magpie distress?
Her etheric calamity?
Her puffy, aging face?
We sat and spoke for a while later that night
She did not recognize me at all and apologized
maybe it was the next day
that the three of us had lunch
Everyone in good spirits
The mandrake’s screams
Forgotten with smiles and a wink
Memory bamboozled and
Make-up duly applied
She took out the lipstick
And redrew the lines
She liked the shining black case
with the little black ribbon for a pull
She told our companion sitting on a stoop
smoking cigarettes
I like your friend and
I wondered does she realize
that we already know one another?
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
Someone once told me that love was blind.
Youth is wasted on the young,
We are all going to die.
After un-clutching scraps of what I'll never find,
This is all that I've brought.
I am all that is mine.
Don't ever, ever, little girl,
Listen to the old.
The world of those who
Raised them were as dark as
Devils compared to the
Funlit days we live.
To them, infatuation came
In work's way.
To them, romance was
Mind's comfort; the
Substance of fantasy.
In our world, your heart's
Every beat for another
Rings as true
To Love's ears as
Her own
To herself.
Yet the cloak hangs so heavily
Around all of these scenes.
Each notion a portrait,
Undistinguished and vague yet
Littered with details strewn in
Alarming
Array.
I take with rock salt
All that they've had to say.
For how does dim
Memory
To a feeling
Compare?
Let us forget to look back
And listen for
Wisdom.
Let us forget to ask
For opinions; vantage points.
All fingerprints blur
In time and fade forgotten
Into their surfaces; the
Grip they once formed
Long, long released.
Love, if only for a second.
Love, even if you know
That it's wrong.
No love ever was.
Love.
You'll have bigger
Regrets in time.
Only we know
What it means to be
Exactly this
Young
Today.
Only I
See through these keyholes
Carved upon my Face.
I am free from pre-conceived restraints.
I am a beacon
Of naïve wisdom,
A sponge for all feelings
Un-hardened by fate.
Suggestions
Directions
Instructions abound.
I am free from these shackles,
Boundless heartwaves
Resound
I see not your keyholes for the
Key in my eye. You are
Divine Feminine expressing Herself
Through yourself; as yourself.
Quill dipped in own wisdom.
Heart's blood and history.
Afloat in eternities of
Utter female
Warmth.
Someone once told you that love was blind.
That youth was wasted on the young.
I don't want to hear you
Sounding that old
Ever again. Notions.
Heartwaves. Manifestations.
Art saved. Inspirations.
Emotions.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
Tsk tsk tossed
go out
Your suggestions.
Whisk whisk washed
flow south
Your directions.
Hiss hiss sorry
no time for
sage reflections.
Songs you sang will not be sung
Nor any tales of strength believed.
The brain embodied in such young
Must think it he first to perceive.
Ask every man
Who first made sparks?
From rocks to barks?
Blinding night and fooling fear?
Wholly gone ghost
Our first bright creature
He harnessed fire
Then disappeared.
Realizations when thought anew
Seem to skip from us awry.
So no Salutes
nor an ovation
For those who fostered
Us will be spied.
Gods truth your lips bespoke to youth
Yet still it's not their time to hear.
For these ears are full of magic
And your end rolls
Crushing near.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Last weekend,
one of your friends called me your manic pixie dream girl.
So in the movie that is my life,
I'm not even the main character,
just the quirky sidekick to my male protagonist.
And it's probably my ego speaking,
but I don't think that's right.
And I don't think that I,
of all people,
should be the one showing you the beauty of a world
that I only see in kinetic blurs and swatches,
passing by me in my free fall from this life to the next.
Because I tried once to see the world without a filter,
but its stagnancy sent me in a downward spiral
and somehow I ****** you into it--
into me.
And I don't mean to be your whirlwind woman,
destined to spit you out--disoriented--
somewhere that you've never been before,
somewhere that no map ever cared to acknowledge,
somewhere stained with my essence,
my idiosyncrasies,
and your new found head trauma.
And you're a rational guy
and I'm an on again off again rational girl
who needs a little help stilling the edges of her narrative,
who longs for a tether or a buoy
to keep her from flying off or sinking down.
So maybe if you held my shoulders to stop me from spinning,
my vision would sober up,
and I'd focus solely on your curves and your angles
as they entered my retinas,
while the rest of the world behind you
faded into blurry suggestions
to be adhered to by someone who gave a **** about them
And after you wiped the puke from your shoes,
maybe you'd see me focused in your eyes
and maybe, just maybe...
...you'd just call me your dream girl.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
I know that some of us, well many of else have noticed the tiny hemorrhoid who has been festering around HP for a while now. He pops in, leaves his unkind marks on our skin, causing us to scratch and irritate the area. What I am wondering is how many have noticed his poems (for lack of a better term and in an attempt to be somewhat nice) trending with only 1 like? My friends, they trend because so many people view them…not like them. That is how it works here at times. Views vs. people following you. He has only a few following him (proof drugs are still running rampant) and it only takes a few views to cause his used toilet paper offerings to trend. This, in my opinion is his goal. He spends his time trying to discourage anyone he comes in contact with so that it will cause us to view his vomited works. (Ok, getting a little uglier). He slaps and then runs, waiting to see what we will do to feed his regurgitated ego, and we follow, accepting his bait.
My suggestion is to completely ignore this hemorrhoid, block him, no reading, no leaving ugly remarks on his work…just make him invisible to you and every one else. Let him write his little crayon projects and post them on his own fridge (because I’m sure his mom won’t even put them on hers). Will he eventually go away? Probably not, he is so full of himself; he could not live without himself. But, we can go away…not from the site, but from him.
There are people like this everywhere…people who get joy from hurting others, people who sit there with a pen in one hand and something else in the other. (use you imagination) Ignore this pain; don’t let it get you down. If we all do this then maybe, just maybe he will get the hint…probably not. But maybe the swelling will go down a little.
This is just my opinion and my suggestions.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
I'm speechless
That's my approach as you approach me
And usually I'm too focused on finding the perfect words
To penetrate the simple space I provide
So when beautiful girls intentionally invade my atmosphere
My need for speech is satisfied
Your beauty speaks sufficiently for two
So while I'm struggling for oxygen, I hope you recognize
Your presence is all I've ever needed to breathe easily
I'm stuck
Between unexpressed elegance
And helplessness
My mouth is screaming out
But frozen completely shut
I'm worried my compliments
May be complications
That my suggestions
Might suppress my objective here
We typically rely on our words
To settle the score
As if you and I are in overtime
Of a tie ballgame
Looking for phrases to frame the scoreboard
With an absolute victor
But I was hoping that you'd be willing to join forces
To break through the proverbial force field
That prohibits rivals from overthrowing obstacles
Because I've always believed the input overpowers the outcome
What if it were possible
To eliminate our speech
So our ears could erase the need to draw conclusions
We don't etch our words in pencil
Our words are enunciated in permanent marker
Brutally beating through our eardrums
Rhythmically reminding us
That silence can be more sweet sounding than any set of syllables
All I know is I'm hell-bent on remaining a straight shooter
My arrows will always be designed for the bulls-eye
But lately I've been questioning my targets
They haven't been painted red and white for all the world to see
They've been camouflaged by constricted communication
Secretly searching for statements that haven't met the airwaves yet
So I'd much rather absorb your definite thoughts
Than accept your remarks as absolute
The truth is
I'm not sure
What needs to be said.
The syllables I've learned to form
Don't apply to situations where
Words remain inherently absent.
And too often we force our hand
To make phrases appear
Where they don't belong.
But something about
Silent speeches is appealing to me.
Because the power in your eyes reduce
The need for any type of sound.
And the shock waves your steps make
As you inch closer to mine
Create the sweetest melodies.
So all I will tell you is this:
Let's leave words out of this.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 6:53 AM UTC
Somethin' about an empty room, depending on how the light asks to be let in on its edges.
An empty room don’t expect you to do nothin' whatever. And its floor responds in this kinda lilting relief when you tap-dance barefoot upon it.
If you sit in all its corners, with your eyeballs (try it!) you can trace the refractions and suggestions on the wall, 'specially the places where paint and odd plaster stick up like little men and cast shadows all their own.
You can spend hours doing this.
You, the impressionable film upon which the world's projected herself—you turn the world upside down and make sense of the image in this empty box.
You
Make art here.
Shout here! Run and kick and punch through the walls and
Love them as you do so, kid.
Something about emptiness itself, gets a lot of flack, you think,
cast as grave.
Hell!
Emptiness: potential,
Emptiness: casting being in sharp distinction.
Emptiness: sensual, like breath before the
action of the human magnetic.
You: the one alive in this your empty room and therefore acutely aware of
what you chose to project in such vibrant relief.
Today, it is newspapers and magazine clippings and a notebook and a blue pen and a book by Susan Sontag.
Today you lie on the woody floor, supine, eyes wide
and become part of it
your lungs breathe life into this ancient emptiness. And the air between its walls vibrates, and sighs, nascent, ‘thank you.’
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 3:01 PM UTC
Gilhooley had ordered a meeting
Everyone had to come round
St. Patricks day will be upon us
And a venue just has to be found
We have to find somewhere authentic
Our normal old pub just won't do
We can't celebrate with the punters
Where the beer isn't green, it's dyed blue
Gilhooley awaited suggestions
It had to be somewhere close by
There were all sorts of names on the table
So they decided to give them a try
It needed to be "somewhat old Irish"
with no dee jay, and a folky type band
they had to have red headed women
And a barman, with drinks poured and at hand
The first place they went was McKenna's
It seemed like a great place at first
but the service was slower than treacle
and a man would just die here of thirst
They found one that looked rather Irish
It was known as the new *** of gold
it had a rainbow outside on the awning
this should have been a warning fortold
the next one they tried was a classic
The green and gold tavern....a hit
but, it was booked on the day for a party
and this didn't please them one bit
they finally found one to their liking
full of guineess and pretty colleens
a punjabi bar by the name of ben doury's
where everything was curried and green
it was a party that no one remembered
that meant that it must have been good
nobody went to the jailhouse
even though three or four of them should
The beer and the curry were epic
the singing was like nothing we'd heard
a sitar and cymbal based trio
played so loud that nothing was heard
Gilhooley said next year we have to
come back here and do it again
It was the best St. Patty's ever
most of them passed out by ten
The next time you go out to party
call Ben Doury, the place is spot on
the food and the beer are one colour
with a Punjabi Mumbai Leprachaun
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
A volley of gunfire
A stream of offensive epithets.
An amazed girl
And an enraged boy.
After every volley of gunfire,
There was a respawning individual.
Steam could be seen emanating from his ears
Anger radiated off of him.
The girl watched carefully
Taking note of every action.
The sounds of battle could be heard
And the boy kept getting aggressive.
Innovative and anatomically impossible suggestions were made
Names were called and yelled out
And the game continued
“I effing stuck him” was repeatedly yelled.
Finally, after a long rant,
The boy jumped with ecstasy
In the heat of the final battle, he won.
Now he wouldn’t have to fling his controller
The girl applauded him, thankful for the blessed silence.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
Under alcohol umbrellas
We'll seek shelter from the snow
This street is icing over
Sliding sleet beneath our toes.
This place keeps getting colder,
They predicted our bad luck
But the globe is growing warmer
Choke me down, I'll get choked up.
It's like Wharton is your neighbor
And McCarthy shares her bed--
We've got plenty Pretty Horses
But no Room, here, for Old Men
Tickers spit out headlines
Half of us can't even read.
But the other half's no better,
We're cannibals eating dreams.
So you'll keep your smoke and mirrors.
And, reflecting, stifle coughs.
Operate under assumptions:
Overrated's good enough.
But I'm taking bets, suggestions,
And donations, West to East.
So, from minor indiscretions,
I might try to beg release.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 7:03 PM UTC