"sulks" poems
Was dit my sonde
om te droom, te wens?
Was dit wreed om te
verwag dat jy my
iewers in jou soet
woorde sou vind?
Kyk ek dalk na jou
met die oorhoofse
afwagting van 'n kind?
Sal jy met sjarme
my kan vermaak of
is teaterkuns
'n masker vir jou haat?
Ek smag na jou taal,
jou moedertong in
my uitgehongerde mond.
Oh die beeld-
wat ons
met sulks silwer stem
kan skep!
*** sal jou brief my vind?
Sal daar 'n tuin ontstaan
as ek jou antwoord naslaan?
Se jy sal bly, net vir my!
Se my brandewyn asem
het jou inner kind bevry!
Se net jy is lief vir my-
en ons sal saam
die tonnel-oog wereld
met soet liefde en
dronkmans woorde verlei.
Skryf saam met my in
hierdie silwertong,
en kyk *** die wereld
in afwagting verstar.
Die liefde wil blom
wanneer twee skrywers
bymekaarkom.
Die wereld raak nat,
met die geuiter,
van ons silwer tong.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
she’s the girl who sets a room on fire with laughs or real flame,
and she stands in that same flame; ranting about herself
with blissful intention:
aries.
she’s the girl who mows the lawn all day to throw a memorable party
on perfectly pitched grass; but then spends the entire party
with that one guy on that one roof, just the two of them:
taurus.
she’s the girl who ***** you fiercest only to then display sudden and
crippling bouts of madness; she’s one of a kind, or two of a kind,
and she means some kind of love:
gemini.
she’s the girl who you fall for so easily, and she falls for you so easily,
and everything is a dream; but a dream transforms, seasons transform,
and the peopled cities with them:
cancer.
she’s the girl who steals the show every time, and she leans on you
when she’s tired and lonely; she reads science fiction books
and tells you all the endings, strange planets fixtured in her dreams:
leo.
she’s the girl who thinks too much, drinks too much, and weighs you for all
your words; but words are her demise as she digs her arms deeper
into the dirt to catch that feeling:
virgo.
she’s the girl who piles a shrine of shiny occult objects and spools through
men like shiny other objects; she has a beautiful heart, holy or not,
but without a doubt, entirely stylish:
libra.
she’s the girl who doesn't believe a ******* thing you say but kisses you
harder when you say it; she takes you up the hill to her folks
and they sacrifice you for blood mana:
scorpio.
she’s the girl who knows you best and knows even better she’s far beyond
the depths of your league; she has deafening dreams, with or without
you in them; for ruins she will climb or create:
sagittarius.
she’s the girl who buys the popcorn and eats the popcorn and sulks on
the couch while tonguing kernels out of her teeth; she will never
truly love you, just the idea of you:
capricorn.
she’s the girl who saves your life with a tracheotomy when you nearly die
on that plum street seed; she will leave you for a another man, a man
with a good rifle and a warm little tent:
aquarius.
she’s the girl who sees synchronicity in all things, all life, all dreams
and emanations; she will love you until the smell of mexico drags her
away upon a neverending weekend:
pisces.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC
Gloomy morning attempts,
lazily an abstract,
on the damp canvas
eastern sky extends,
halfheartedly smearing,
dark monsoon clouds
along with some white and grey patches,
then slowly, warms up to a red mood;
as if by a second thought
adds full of flight of birds,
for an effect.
Avian splay, what a display!
The sun visibly gets pale,
upset being just a part of the picture,
unable to dominate, as his usual practice.
Not at all pleased at the emerging picture,
he sulks at the prospect,
of more dull, vain clouds rushing in,
spoiling the composition with their-
chance megalomaniacal dominance.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater zest for me,
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I’m off to the Yards afresh.
I never was very refined, you see,
(And it weighs on my brother’s mind, you see)
But there’s no reproach among swine, d’you see,
For being a bit of a swine.
So I’m off with wallet and staff to eat
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat,
But glory be!—there’s a laugh to it,
Which isn’t the case when we dine.
My father glooms and advises me,
My brother sulks and despises me,
And Mother catechises me
Till I want to go out and swear.
And, in spite of the butler’s gravity,
I know that the servants have it I
Am a monster of moral depravity,
And I’m ****** if I think it’s fair!
I wasted my substance, I know I did,
On riotous living, so I did,
But there’s nothing on record to show I did
Worse than my betters have done.
They talk of the money I spent out there—
They hint at the pace that I went out there—
But they all forget I was sent out there
Alone as a rich man’s son.
So I was a mark for plunder at once,
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once,
But I didn’t give up and knock under at once,
I worked in the Yards, for a spell,
Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs.
And shared their milk and maize with hogs,
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs
And—I have that knowledge to sell!
So back I go to my job again,
Not so easy to rob again,
Or quite so ready to sob again
On any neck that’s around.
I’m leaving, Pater. Good-bye to you!
God bless you, Mater! I’ll write to you!
I wouldn’t be impolite to you,
But, Brother, you are a hound!
3.8k
+
A bed-sits high and dry,marooned on a sandbank of night.
As radio 4-casts its nets to isolated ships like me that rudderless drift on into the light.
Still dark outside,no sounds,save the distant echoing bark of a hungry fox ----streets away.
Another dawn ripped blackbin bag of a day creeps and ouzes in
Heavy unfocused lids fogged in the steamy smokeyness of tea and a first fag
plenty of time plenty of time.
Time before the world wakes to the morning pips and its flushing, brushing, rushing sounds
A greyness gathers just beyound my pained curtains, as with a silent sigh a roosted blackbird clears its fasted throat.
Then as if by magic I 'm carried, scimming high above and beyound this mooring set in a silvered sea,on a welcomed mantra known to all.
As if a calling pray at day break,following each word in a moment subline
Un angle vole un angle vole.
Rockall - Malin - Hebrides
Humber - Fisher - German bight
Thames - Dover - Wight.
Each single secert understood and noted only by a few as I glide over in paced, pausey surf rolling words
North northeast - 994 - Falling slowly - Low pressure moving away - Gales 8 very poor - Backing 3-4 later - Mainly good - Becoming variable - Syclonic later - Increasing 6-7 mainly west - Swally showers for a time - Fair - Good.
Oh so good, each pure English comforting sounds heard over lapping waves of air.
The bushy wet nosed fox sulks and cowers away from the breaking sun, as the blackbird draws a dewdropped breath though golden nib and tapping gently, call a hidden choir into song just for me.
Reminding me of the things I'd for gotten I care about.
Sharp timed unwelcomed pips flood the ears to prise open sticky eyes from promised dreams and spoon-cuddles warm
As I set forth on wetted pavements, ready to decline into my charted day.
Yet smiling as if blessed and no longer alone
But filled with early morning salty thoughts of strangers
I
have
yet
to
meet
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 7:47 AM UTC
let me paint my morning for you
I'm alone, in my room
it's a stormy summer morning
And we are sitting around talking
today we're wondering what to do.
Depression sulks deep into the sheets
"why get up! you don't have plans"
and the alarm begins to buzz
Optimist whimpers "its still early, I can get up and get rolling" but no one is moving
Hopeless Romantic dreams "maybe the mail man will come through and ask me how I'm doing"
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC
Fountain of youth runs in his veins,
The man who lives in Sycamore Keep.
His circadian clock had come to a halt,
Rather than rejoice, he sullenly weeps.
You would think that immortality is
The pinnacle of human existence,
All the time in the world and not a
Single malady to be of any resistance.
Yet there he sulks, the ageless man,
Cauterized by the turn of each century,
As loved ones breathe their last and
Become a parcel of his fractured memory.
But that is just the shell of his woes,
For even with all knowledge amassed,
He’s utterly aghast with the state of the
World unwilling to learn from the past.
Every crook and cranny explored,
Every experience well savored,
Now monotony for millennia to come,
His longing to live has ebbed and wavered.
I was told by the man of Sycamore Keep
That immortality is a curse so alluring.
Indeed, a hundred cultivated years is
Much better than hollow eons securing.
But sir, think of all the riches you’ve accrued
And mastery of all science and philosophies.
Who wouldn’t want to have the time to mark
The world and purge it from all its atrocities.
Say no more, interrupted the ageless man,
I applaud your idealism and optimistic delusion,
But you’re missing one essential element --
Even as immortals, we’d still be only human.
And to be human, is to be fallible. Let’s just say
That immortal fallibility will engender no good.
It'd be best to truncate our lifespan for the
Sake of our survival, yes truncate we should.
And that’s all I heard from the man of Sycamore Keep,
Who went on his way to his millennial weep.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
fed the birds
my monday. held out my hand,
and fed them mirth
from a lifeline pun.
blackbirds.
early morning
connoisseurs
i fed them
my monday.
all gone pecked. now, first suspect -
in a ****** of crows. i rose
from the damp. surveyed
the scene of the crime
and bled. no contest
nor are there ribbons given
even if you don't
want one. you'll find
another monday
with a stray
dog star... a crown
for a chipped
tooth.
it will always say " You shoulda' seen The Day Before...." then promptly -
plop on your stoop... and vaguely,
as if seen from three paces
behind stained glass...
Sunday sulks into view
like Dostoyevsky
belching "Hey Jude" backwards,
just strolling down
East, Main street
with an egg-cream
and a fist of
kettle corn.
soggy in his meaty paw
an earlier downpour
you slept through.
or maybe, this just happens to me ?
now then. birds fed,
i wandered off. biting my
upper lip to keep
Christmas in
my Edelweiss
grip.
left the birds a book called " How To Fly "
and they still flew
away.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 10:41 AM UTC
Knuppeldik gaan slaap die stad
na 'n feesmaal van smaak en kleur
vloei die reuke deur die strate
in 'n Brown se beweging van geur.
Alle trommels , trommeldik maar maak 'n lee geraas
en in die donker , agterstrate begin die ander nou te aas
Kom die honger hande uit die sakke
en krap met rook-geel vingernael
soek die skummel in die swartsak
vir 'n laaste dissipelsmaal.
Maar jy is skille , jy is doppe
jy is alles wat laat gril
nie genoeg vir koningstafels maar vir my
net genoeg om die knaagdiere te stil.
Onerfare soos ek is , vat my hongerbrein ook mis
watter mens kan so dan lewe? watter mens kan so dan eet?
van die lykswa en die straatveers
het hierdie boemelaar vergeet.
Ek is mens en nie 'n vark nie,
(al moet 'n mens ook eet).
En stil vergaan die boemelaar
wat kieskeur ook wou wees,
nog 'n straatkind se ou lykie
nog 'n honger kinder gees...
ek wat was het mos gesien
*** kos op tafels lyk,
en het sodanig hart verloor
op kosse kleur en ruik.
Met 'n bord vol knubbels le die lykie
voor hom , onaangeraak.
Al was kos ook wat kos was daar
het hy te lief vir die droom geraak.
Eerder kwyn en dood verslaan
as om die droom te ruineer.
Eerder dood van honger,
as om hierdie kos , as sulks te eer.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC
In this place
The air is so dry that water sulks.
The sky is a viscous brown mosaic.
The sulfurous fumes of old suffering linger.
A woman stares as if trying to unsee creation.
Words on a man’s tongue sound
like rhythmic coughing.
At the only stoplight
the crosswalk sign flashes “Don’t waltz.”
Strangers recoil from me
as if from an embarrassing stain.
People stream to the town square
for some indecipherable ritual.
Probably a funeral for the sun
or a snake oil sale.
Welcome to humankind’s true garden.
Not paradise but a place of desolation,
and what comes after is not exile but striving
and getting the hell out.
So long, mom and dad.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 10:37 PM UTC
Our America sulks in the gutters,
in the rotten alleyways of those living in the shadows.
As corporations, as greed, as self-obsession
damages our life web.
Our America loves the lonely dying child,
as suburban 'mother's **** the illegal pool boy.
Our America peers through holey, worn fabrics
as bare-fleshed youth slaughter for
sweatshop brands.
Our America becomes the past
becomes unknown
becomes a dead fad
as mysterious men lure the idea of a future.
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 4:58 AM UTC
He has never been like other little boys
That play so happily with their toys
He is different is young Raymond Bliss
He wants to grow up to be....a mad scientist
While others play with toy soldiers and cars
Or pretend to be astronauts in the stars
Little Raymond is chasing his pet cat instead
Determined he will catch him and cut off his head
He tried getting the dog who put up a fight
Poor Raymond gave up when he got a nasty bite
So he dug up his hamster, who passed away when overfed
He tied the body to a car battery to try and raise the dead
Unfortunately the dead hamster fizzled and went pop
It made Raymond jump in fright, it made him hop
So he decided to dig up the goldfish as well
Then he decided against it, because of the smell
Now there are plans drawn up, to be unfurled
His evil scheme now hatched to take over the world
Raymond wants to set vampire robot bunnies on man kind
It is just a shame because his pocket money he can not find
His mother says "time for bed" so he sulks up to his room
This his prison from whence he plots doom and gloom
He is a very strange boy is little Raymond Bliss
Determined to be the most evil mad scientist
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 1:37 AM UTC
High above the ultra-white plateau
a vultures wheels in an amino helix
above a dead horse. Branded upon its left flank is the word
“Mulatto”.
In the forest far below
an ilex rattles for the dead.
The river, pregnant with shrapnel
sulks and stagnates, her belly full of lead.
The plains are cratered as the Moon
the purple heather soothes the raw stone wound
and whispers that the fighting will be over
very soon, and all the scars will heal.
Their fires have turned our bones to meal.
The mountain gods are sighing now
and dying now, the endless sky their tomb.
Rainclouds loom, seething with disdain
and seek to quench the hungry yellow grass.
Rain lashes through the mountain pass.
Rainwater sifts into the soil
and we do not forget.
Blood chapel-sacred, black as oil
and we do not forget.
Shrapnel is sown like seeds into the spoil
and we do not forget.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
Raindrops glisten as they slide down her soaked profile
And slowly make their way down to assault her blouse and the floor
The crumpled up letter from the military sulks in the corner
Sneering at the ex-fiancee's plight
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
Your Crystal like body,
Shinning with cracks.
malicious sparkles.
Sharp facets.
Every chip, every drop,
That should have crystallized,
And then dropped off.
Has not.
Gorge on pain,
Revel in confusion,
Misery isn’t hereditary Like your back.
You can be happy.
Not seek out pain.
Is this what you want?
The girl I loved,
Is gone and missed.
Replaced by a miser of woes,
An unhappy beast.
That spits and sulks
Gone are the purrs.
The felicity.
The light.
I dated a wannabe corpse,
Not something I like,
Revel in your pain,
You can do it without me.
Everything brings you down,
Especially me,
That seems how you like it to be.
The girl I loved,
Is gone and dead,
As are we,
Stop ******* with my head.
Love me.
Hate me.
Do both,
I don’t care.
Do whatever you want,
I’m not there
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 6:31 AM UTC
The Siren's song swimming into my ears,
sweetly against the harsh instrumental.
The angelic vocals flood all who hear;
a love of a melody so gentle.
Hair long and dark as the lyrics she sings,
eyes a bold green and skin a soft, pale tone.
A Goddess of elegance beauty brings,
whose talent does her no justice alone.
But nurture does as it will always do:
A son born from such grandeur; a Lion.
The immaculate voice is all but through;
A respite of lull sulks from the scion.
The achievements of song left in her wake;
I'll wait evermore, as long as it takes.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
Fingerpress folds of pain
Along the spine,
And a flare of agony
As she activates pituitary.
Ovaries are dull-achy
A pleasant, grit-teethy pain.
Keep on with your caterpillar walk, pretty lady,
Making me wince, but in a really good way.
Big toe bruisy feel,
Crunchy in the heel,
Colon is swollen,
Adrenals, as always,
Chronically inflamed.
The right foot
is happier than the left,
Why is that?
I don't discriminate
But leftie sulks, for some reason,
Hurtier than sprightly right.
Afterwards, drink lots of water,
Have a good cry, and go to bed.
Renew yourself, through sleep,
Just like she said.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
Shock firstly
followed by awe
a crow's mocking
caw
as the blouse comes off &
then the bra
tossed now
nonchalantly aside
the flighty flirty skirt
yanked down
and of course the knickers
...follows.
Blouse and skir
leaping over the wall
bra being worn
by an apple tree
the knickers being led up
the garden path.
"Ok..!" I say "...oK!"
"Enough is ENOUGH!"
The wind is in a silly mood.
I chase it chasing me
I trying to catch
the scattered clothes.
The line looking
almost naked.
** ** shouts the wind
enjoying itself immensely.
All that remains toeing the line
are a blue boxers and yellow socks
who have manfully withstood
the wind's assaults.
The wind chanting:
"Get them off..get them off!"
like a drunk punter
at a striptease show.
The wind drops and
drops the stolen items.
The line smiling
with all of its skewed pegs
looking shameful and
gormless
at the wind's
misdemeanour.
"I was only trying it on!"
sulks the wind.
"Trying to get in touch with
my feminine side!"
Knickers in hand
I slam the door
in its protesting
face.
"A cross dressing wind...
....that's all I need!"
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
Jy het die reg tot lewe
Oh grondwet, die dood lag jou uit!
Die sardoniese blik
van 'n gesteelde besluit,
**** jy nie die klop-klop van vier perde hoef
wyle die openbaring in
jou blaaie kom poef.
Skaam jy jou nie
vir sulks blatante leuen,
of het jy jou ore aan Satan verleen
toe jy jou hoop soos saad versprei
om naief- die jeug, in die versoekingte lei.
Ons eet karkas-krummels
as 'n daaglikse brood
Terwyl jy ons verseker
dat jy die waarheid ontbloot
soos die arme tiener meisie,
geryp; en nou - dood.
Jou bedoelings was goed,
maar jou kakpraat te groot.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC
I never sleep upon the night I hunt upon
The solitude of this time where the darkness
Sulks upon shadows and I am an obstruction
Of all that wishes to bleed upon nights tide.
Ever keeping those that bled innocence on
The earth, always do they fear the presence
Never sensing the reverend of death. I am
There sentence to that eternal damnation.
The Cimmerian shade where all that is ceaseless
Creeps upon clinging earths grave, whispered
Death emanates but is buried upon earths breath
A final moment the oblivions eternal gaze.
I am the imperishable true that haunts those
Who penetrate the innocence that seeks solitude
In the places that never wish to see there truth.
We all hide something in the shadows grave.
All that thrives in the twilight of mans insecurities,
Where hidden things hide, know that their are things
That even the onyx fears for all that is blinded from
Lights gaze fears our continued eternal gaze.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
Nine years later
Would I rather not have met you?
Seven years later
Would I rather not have fallen in love?
Six years later
Are second chances worth giving?
One year later
Fool me three times and I am a joke
I am not the ghost I thought I was
You are the ghost instead
Ghost that runs in my veins
Ghost that still inhabits my dreams
Ghost I often think about
I need to lay your ghost to rest
Because now you are happy
Now you are whole
I am the one who sulks in darkness and hates their own reflection
I am he who writes about time that passes and love that fades
I am the deathly cliché of a boy who once loved a girl and now is nothing more than a phantom
What difference is there between the phantom I have become and the ghost you are to me?
Can I exorcise these spirits?
Can my conscious return to solid form?
What chains do I rattle except for those I forged with my own bad timing my own poor choices and my own disillusion?
I must lay your ghost to rest before it kills me
But I can't bring myself to do it
In quiet moments I bridge our past failures to future hopes and my present becomes limbo
I can barely look people in the eye anymore
I avoid it so they can't see that I am never truly there
I made you this ghost in my mind
You and I made me a phantom
You won't forgive me and that's ok
I can't forget you
And I will have to learn
How to make it work
Ghosts are only as real as your willingness to let them into your mind
The door has long been open
And you are always welcome in
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 12:47 AM UTC
Flawed eventless, the muck to the mire
To the river crimson with lustful haze.
Supressed desire flows like light, rapture to the gaze.
Feverd, clamy, tossing, turning
Lying wrestless on the floor.
Sarrow slips, through the cracks,
to come smashing through the door.
Famin parched, the scream to the cry,
to the path trampled in fits of rage.
Unrelenting fire, burns like ice, denile in a cage.
Calm, relaxed, watching, breathing,
Standing idle at the sash.
Anguish waits at beck and call
to come crashing through the glass.
Hidden in a seamless world of delight and joy and glee
A fractured cloud of misery waits
to have its cake and thee,
to reval as it sulks with company.
Ever growing spawned by fear, deathly silent in its' plea
Eating away at the sinews of faith,
dispair awaits its' time to flea.
Akin to death, friend to evil, slient screaming in its' vain
Dissolving with trust the passion of the lust
Envy plies to its bain.
Passion and fire, burning desire, these monsters are not the same.
All too familiar, confusing just the same, betrayed by flesh.
What is there cannot be had, for surely this is no game.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
ARTIST AT WORK
I trace
with trembling fingertip
the naked calligraphy
of your body
my hands
creating you
out of this darkness
so that dawn
finds you
drawn with such
exquisite passion
that it tells
the sun
to look:
‘Look!‘
And the sun
reaching in the window
can not help but touch
to see if you are real.
‘Hands off!‘
I warn.
‘She’s mine!‘
And the sun
sulks
as I cover you up
my masterpiece
and finally exhausted I
... fall asleep.
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
A flasher opens
his trench coat,
the ladies laugh
out loud,
HOW SMALL IS THAT
Is it that COLD
the ladies are
heard shouting
out, the flasher
embarrassed sulks
away, with his belittled
ego and his tiny
mushroom under
his rain coat, never
was he seen again.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC