"tahiti" poems
motorbike motorbikes on the waves
it’s fun to ride motorbikes on the waves
riding can be fun, and riding is so cool
motorbikes motorbikes on the waves
you see he is like evil kanieval
he is like dale buggins
he is like any cool dude, who has walked on the earth
motorbike motorbike on the waves
what a cool motorbike on the waves
riding motorbikes on the waves can be cool
yeah mate yeah he breaks alkl the rules, and that is cool
you see robbie maddison rides on top of an ocean in tahiti yeah
yeah, and i was there in the end with my nice old beer
motorbike motorbike, on the waves, in tahiti, what a rave
motorbike motorbike, on the waves, it’s time to not have a shave
carn the motorbikes, bring on fun
give conserves a boot up the ***
motorbikes motorbikes, yeah we’ll have fun
yeah, up with surfers, having some fun
motorbikes motorbikes, having a lot of fun, ooh yeah
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
i'm just bored of having to feel what other people
feel, limiting the realism of things,
a woman with a child's severed head in moscow is
sensationalism to them, but when they get a mild
reality, Kashmir chilly on the palette, they make
cheap Monty Python jokes to scare the facts away...
the so-called satire that requires canned laughter;
was given a library of 25 philosophy books,
not one of them by an englishman,
went as far back as the greeks,
i guess the version of english egalitarian
was not worth a communism,
somehow the two synonyms became
antonyms... 25 volumes of philosophy,
not one english philosopher...
the english intellectualise: i.e.:
regurgitate facts....
the english do not philosophise,
i.e. instead they cite facts... they're intellectuals by rite
of citation, the citation of facts,
they can't philosophise i.e. not cite (facts)...
they intellectualise, they cite and recite
facts with a dogmatism that fears a demolition
and no rekindling of interest...
to philosophise is to avoid citation:
to work from nothing,
the english cannot philosophise because
they intellectualise and by intellectualism
they cite and recite facts like an ave maria
pi = 3.14... Galileo's spectacles...
etc. the english cannot philosophise, they're
just intellectuals, they cite and recite facts,
they cannot engage from non-citation or non-recitation
of a fact, like a greek might ignore a stone
and fool himself claiming it's nothing,
the english cannot allow a confiscation of
a subject and treat it as nothing,
it would not make sense as to why charles i
was the precursor of the french aristocratic en masse
meeting with the guillotine if darwinism wasn't
discovered on the islands of Galapagos...
although i beg to differ with a thought on Gauguin
and the islands of Tahiti: make a turtle yawn
and you'll jinx yourself a blessing to live to be one hundred years old.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
I ride on her coat tails,he sails at odd angles and angels come calling,
stalling for time,pretending, I mime I can't talk and walk to the bowsprit to spit in the ocean.
In that slow motion of epiphany I see what will and can never be and it all becomes clear to me,I spit again in the sea,cross my fingers for luck,tell the angels to f.....
No,
I don't swear out loud,I want the good Lord's protection,in signs,more mimes,they get what I'm meaning.
The moonbeams gleam off deck boards as the pendulum swings,things are taking shape and the ship sings through the waters,but later in the doldrums where the dolphins knit sweaters and the daughters of sirens play canasta with mermaids while braiding dreams with the seaweed,
I need to take a fix on the noon day sun, a hand on my gun lest the latitude betray me,I lay in a course for the Island of Tahiti where the girls sway and greet me,the old dog from the sea.
It's easy to be a madman on the sea when the salt is your spice and I've never thought twice about the angels sent packing,just went on stacking up bookmarks to feed the circling sharks,stark and unfriendly would the sea ever lend me a bed to lay down in?would this ship that I sail in ever founder,I flounder and flail but I sail into the moonlight,on a bright night you'll see me until the sunsets will free me to the tidal eternity of the sea deep within me.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
Flawless
We like to think
our minds and their creations
can only be described as such, can
only be compared to perfection, machine-
made fabric and glass and hugs and love all
wrapped in cellophane and shipped (free of charge)
to Tahiti and Cozumel and other exotic places well-known
for their supposed perfection with brightly-lit, carpeted floors
But our tendencies
Mislead us
It is our flaws that define beauty when true heart is lost among neon
advertisements promising change and retribution only to deliver
the last things you'd expect, the last things anyone would
want: a remote-controlled vacuum, a light-up fish, a
sock that chills your foot rather than warm it in
the night. What a joke, what a sad turn in the
progression of our society. Flaws are and will
always be prominent parts of our lives with
good sound reason backing up this fact
It all comes down to whether you can
come to terms with the reality of
your situation and the little
scratches in your self-
image or whether
you will remain
content to fall
endlessly
into a
lie
Oct 1, 2011
Oct 1, 2011 at 9:35 PM UTC
he rises with words in his unwashed mouth,
mouth, is unwashed, tongue tastes dregs, bits
of morsels of his past, some good, some bad,
some tastes of places, of women he has loved,
sweetness of sorrow, dregs of regret, and all a
jumbled, tumbled, intertwined, clinging combo
of nations, his~stories …a mashup of a mashup’s
smashup
he tries to separate them, this admixture, to better
recall, but the sacrificial fire lit, the ember-members
are too burnt, indistinguishable and can’t find the
vive entre les differences…
South of france, tahiti, the one he loved in cities,
Toronto, L.A., and Portland, and the communes
in Asia, but tries harder but it’s no longer possible
to separate the essences and the similarities same,
and a great sadness is what he recovers when runs
his tongue across the roof of his mouth, the roof of
his memory, the roots of his…being…his unbecoming
he rises to a glorious day, where he is can’t be sure,
who he is with, certainly not, the why, but he recovers
some pants and the idea of a fresh start seeps creepy in,
but by the time both legs dressed, his mind’s eye wanders
to a new sunrise and old template of temptations. . .
Jul 28, 2024
Jul 28, 2024 at 7:30 AM UTC
*Someone said sugar sweet words of love
from a Stranger was sweet as honey
and felt like summer
Maybe one was mislead or bumped their head
words of pure love from family and friends
are the sweetest words one can ever hear
These words of love are like sun bathing
In the **** on a beach in Tahiti or Wakiki
anytime of year, January through December!*
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 2:00 AM UTC
Someday I’d like to visit Georgia
Or maybe Florida
Or maybe the Bahamas or Tahiti or Hawaii
Just someplace that’s warm.
Someday I’d like to visit Alabama
Or Louisiana
Or Arkansas or Georgia or Carolina
Someplace where the boys speak with accents
And the girls wear boots and plaid
And farmland is everywhere
Just someplace where people are kind.
Someday I’d like to visit Texas
Or Nevada
Or Wyoming or Oklahoma or Kansas
Someplace where the sun beats down hot
And the men ride horses
And the desert stretches for miles
Just someplace where people aren’t.
Someday I’d like to visit Austin
Or Atlanta
Or Hollywood or New Orleans or Nashville
Someplace where men serenade the moon
And women hum babies to sleep
And fame resides everywhere
Just someplace where music fills the air.
Someday I’d like to visit Heaven
Or maybe stay
Yes, stay, forever and ever
Someplace where families reunite
And children get enough to eat
And no one speaks an unkind word
Just someplace where souls come together.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
Green Eggs and Hamlet. i will eat that.
what planet are you from ? at this angle, it seems apostrophes
and blue mint mist... none of those
false gods
you came in here
with.
and a stone plum.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 11:06 AM UTC
El Niño scooped the sand
clearing every scrap of driftwood,
every construction playful of a summer’s dayful
the slapped-together forts, dinosaurs, castles
now launched to Mexico, to Tahiti, who knows?
replaced by fresh fragments of forest
twisted logs, battered beams
shed by Oregon, by Vancouver Island and Alaska
bobbed by current
to this windswept cove.
Beneath swirls of sunset
as Van Gogh might render
among scattered scallops, kelp,
sandpipers by the hundred,
one joyful dog
dances the landscape
expressing with his grin
this vast chaos
of delight.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 9:46 PM UTC
krytyka na żyda to ta sama na krytyke polaka, skoro krytyk na żyda to też krytyk na polaka - skoro żyd bez ziemi to też polak pod włóknem niemca czy russa czy też bezwdzięcznego austrjaka! odsiecz wiednia!
https://goo.gl/2wVUsz, from minute to an hour:
radio-kacap - lost the c somewhere,
had to innovate -
ra - d - yo -
радя -
(я to possess it, a punctuation
mark on the letter to stop
the omicron from rotating a fullness)
КАЧП - or simply ç (s) -
ketchup apparently,
the slaughter of Zagreb -
Croat piled on Croat
for a Mexican roll via Tahiti -
kark capa - kark kacapa
(stary kozioł to zwany cap
bronz spermy i zapach tzn. cap'a -
capie ten ogier Poznania w szambie południa
na gry czołem z bliska
w tenis z innym capem) -
stary ogier na tle mgły
i kozioł kopiący kszięrzyc w orbite
i w równie starannej rubryki: sto razy jeszcze raz
to samo, bo to dla wieku
dwa dwa: die tventy secoond centaur /
die nächster tausendfüßler, year on - year in.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
they're human, they talk
backwards, d'uh d'uh, um yummy
dub dub d'uh?!
i'll get an idiot to fro-and-back a lick
of what you were supposed to say:
middle aged content with wife and children,
blessed: on the chill... oh wee Yom Kippur:
no wait, here's me with an english scalpel
and here's me, bare nuggets are ******** freely dangling
Wyoming is like neo-Syria,
much ado about squares and triangles and straight lines:
testimony Texas / Mexico / Tahiti / dude! mind the surf!
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
Traveling here
Traveling there
I will travel anywhere
To be with you
To be by your side
I’m way over here
And you’re way over there
But together to be
Could be anywhere
Where do you want to go
Hawaii, Cuba, the Caribbean or Fiji
Or perhaps elsewhere
Alaska, Rome, Mexico or Tahiti
Still there are others
Different places to travel
With you by my side
The adventures will unravel
You by my side
I can hardly wait
What trouble we’ll cause
Oh the times will be great
Patience is a virtue
They all say eagerly
If only they knew
How I’ll hold you so dearly
The time will come
Though none soon enough
The guitars we will strum
Distance no longer tough
The songs we will sing
Filling the air with joy
On your finger a ring
Mine forever to annoy
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
undated
Autumnal leaf air,
with the historical cut of princetonian guile
I walk toward the dull exonerated street
she looks heavenward; asks for a cigarillo
tahiti bean
we never questioned our being,
we just floated and
the capsicum katana slicing our
corneas into julienne,
I tell her I can't, I quit,
never knowing quite what to do
smoking in june outside a wedding with the boys
she cuts me off, fast it's back to
thinking of melting flower pots and broiled
confectioner's sugar in my tiptoe mind-
my toes are flat on the ground I walk with a gait,
lifting my heels as if i myself seemed an aristocratic soul
I look up
she has walked away
toward the
candy store
to buy licorice
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
Polar caps are high and dry.
Rip van Wrinkle took a no doze.
Forrest Gump smoked a bowl a ses.
My first X wife wants to hook up.
My.second X wife is having second thoughts..
That's a first.
Working on a sub 2 minute mile.
Gonna.cruise to Tahiti in style Then go check my forty acres on the dark side of the moon and oh,my first X wife wants to bump and grind.
Jeasus. She Has lost her mind.
One step.forward...three steps behind.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
you were the diamond on the truck-stop floor. the hiss of sparked ignitions wafted through your mind, sandy and confused-- meaningless, like cake crumbs. cake crumbs you swept up and all, for what?
the little green man inside your hypocrisy (disguised as paradox) hid away.. feeling deeper and deeper into the recesses of flesh you once called home.
there had been a time. of course, we all know time is linear, and all that is linear must soon and completely find halt within eternity.. as if the dribble of a drain makes a marble of the ocean.. as if a handful of ocean ice water will diminish the intensity of the seven seas at their largest... as if a sky full of rain and a raindrop full of see and be seen is really much more than you're looking at.
I took my own hand this time, skipping down the trail. it was overcast and foggy. Melancholy rested in the air and on the dew of the leaves, I was thirsty and pooled it to the middle of a particular green, drinking like a bowl from the Jungle Book. All I could taste was white wine and dandelion bitters. All I could smell was that metallic springtime rainfall smell, the night sauteed in the heat of the morning. The sun now at it's zenith above Honolulu, perhaps.. above Midway, or the Solomon Islands. In my minds eye, I could taste the thirsty coconut milk of Tahiti.
What I saw in the mist, dear Reader, was nothing short of breath. My breath. My breath. My breath. Condensation a frothy steam from teapot of mouth, steeping syntax and semantics into novels of thought all expressed in the limelight of sudden conversation and fitful, rightful, frightening intrigue.
You can never really love enough, can you? You can never truly **** the thought without the thought first taking you.. asking you.. begging you..
thinking and thinking and thinking.....
.. . . .. . . .. . .. . . .... . . why?
Lawrence,
why?
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Last December we saw that Santa
Had a FOR SALE sign on his "land."
Reporters went to find out whether
His property had been in demand.
"Well," said Santa, "I've had offers
From large fishing enterprises
Who want to move in and take advantage
As the ice melts and the sea rises."
The companies applied great pressure
To make Santa cave; instead he
Declined their offers, for overfishing
Had been a problem there already.
"Oil companies also want
My property in order to drill.
I told them, 'Over my dead body!'
Holy crap, if looks could ****
"Once I thought that I could make
This work, but that was wishful thinking.
How could I survive up here
With animals dying and my land shrinking?
"Where there's tundra melting, methane
Gas is escaping into the air.
Rats from ships have entered the area;
You can find them everywhere.
"Sea currents and air currents
Both are bringing ugly pollution.
When are world leaders going to
Come up with a lasting solution?
"We are far away from large
Human populations, and yet
Our whole Arctic ecosystem
Is dangerously under threat."
Reporters noticed a weary look
Of sadness in Santa's face, which proved
That things were really affecting the man.
Where would he go if he moved?
"I thought that maybe in Switzerland
A nice, cold glacier would do.
But then again, maybe not,
For glaciers there are melting, too.
"Maybe Hawaii; maybe Tahiti.
That would be a change of scene.
I'll trade the slushy, melting ice
For somewhere colorful, warm, and green."
With that, Santa looked at his watch,
Said good-bye, and went back to work,
Trying hard to keep his thoughts
Away from places where phantoms lurk.
-by Bob B (12-9-17)
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
My sister’s a mister. She cares for her plants,
Her orchids from Cuba, Tahiti, or France.
She grows lovely children entirely from scratch
In homemade production runs, two to the batch.
She teaches the women of her little town
To belly, to yoga, to boogie on down.
She’s always found living alone such a bore;
A harvest of husbands – she’s on number four.
She drives a Miata with careless aplomb,
The very ideal of a hot soccer mom.
But me, I was thinking of how to invent
A Booker prize novel to cover my rent,
Or lysergic rhapsodies for the guitar
Or finally learning to drive in a car.
The hours spurted onward in skips and in bounds,
Years twirling away down a hole in the ground;
How gently appalling my ultimate fate,
To grow wispy white whiskers, and sit on a gate.
She spins on the dance floor like wind on the wing,
To Western and Latin and Manhattan Swing;
Her elegant limbs grace the South Jersey beaches,
And people go mad for her raspberry quiches.
Her daughter (my niece) with her blue eyes so dear
Sets the upper crust of Baltimore on its ear,
While her brother my nephew is cutting a swath, (um)
Through the au courant circles of fashionable Gotham.
That’s my sister, triumphing wherever she goes,
And she never had anything done to her nose.
But me, I was dreaming up world-shifting rubrics,
Or imagining screenplays to shame all the Kubricks;
My ****** could make you explode in your jammies,
And my song lyrics won theoretical Grammys.
Of invisible kingdoms I was the past master,
I walked with Elijah, I lunched Zoroaster.
Yet somehow I find myself at this late date
With my brain in the clouds, and my *** on a gate.
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 1:37 PM UTC
Two months ago my grandma's spirit
Started leaving her body
She hadn't passed yet but
She had no use for this realm anymore
I wondered where spirits go
And who would tell me I'm wonderful
And beautiful and perfect
Once she was gone
Two months ago my mother and I
Planted morning glories
On our old rusted lightpost
"They never grow for me," she said
"Every year I try and they just never latch on, never grow how they're supposed to"
She glanced at me as if she wasn't talking about flowers anymore
"If they bloom I will kiss you with joy"
Nearly always, I do not feel wonderful
Or beautiful or perfect
But as time passed and I questioned
Why we all try
Just to suffer and die
In your home, in your hell
After twenty, thirty, or eighty years
I realized that the vines had taken over the post, had overgrown the broken lightbulb
The twisted vines full of buds
Had reached over 7 feet
My grandma's hands could grow any flower on this planet
But she was not a flower
She was not delicate
She did not need to be coddled
She is the weeds that you yank out every weekend just to grow back
She is a mighty cactus in Arizona
She is the morning glories in my front lawn,
Living by the earth instead of it's seasons
She could have been a redwood
Or a rare plant, remotely in Tahiti
Protected, strong, beautiful
She is the morning glories on my front lawn to remind me
"So can you"
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 3:09 PM UTC
By: D. Clare
As I hop aboard the east bound rails, scurring past graffiti
Sojourned to many islands but never once to Tahiti...
Derailed and bivouacked in Bangkok, a ***** house of mirrors
No, I don't drink beers...
Cloak and smoking dagger
Partied with fools to **** Jagger
Run over in the streets to yet again, cheating the odds
Never odd or even, it all depends on what you believe in!
Trains, boats and planes cannot find your way home
My thought now is... to be alone!
(C) in perpetuity all rights reserved by the author
(P) FilmNoirWorks
--
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
It's a good day drawn on
The sunny canvas a bit
Fluffy cloud meandering
Away where cotton ball
Clouds go on a calm day
When the rain gods and thunder
Goddesses go off to
Fort Lauderdale
Or Tahiti to occasion the tropics
With storms but
Here was pleasantly warm
Enjoyable
No one needed antiperspirants
Or sweaters
And it got painted by Monet
This day did
A hundred times
All differently
A slight change of
The suns angles
The differences
In the shadows laying left or right
And how brightly stark
The sun shone early
Changed midday to
Blindingly overhead
Then reached to the edge
Of your right eye
Evening a long cast
A glimmer almost gone
Like days past.
Memories of childhood
Youth all once again.
The sun has shone
Me things
Shined for millions ages anon
Be it my
Everglow now.
Now I take her to heart.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC