"technicalities" poems
Consisting of grown, persisting as shown and unknown. Insisting entities, rivalries and sworn enemies! Deformed, forewarned, formed, informed, mourned, performed, reformed and scorned. Dates of great storms! Family tree of hate, horns and thorns. My family tree of gore, horror, more, poor and sore. Perhaps of mishaps galore. Briefly sit
back! I’ll roughly take you back… Heck! Back to a time of attack,
blacks, slacks and whacks. My family tree of practical, tactical, methodical Aztec. Some beckon and reckon in seconds. A family tree of crime, grime and rhyme. A nation of communication, dedication,
dissemination, motivation and procrastination. The splendor of sin
of my corruptive, disruptive kin. They rely more on the color of one’s
skin. My family tree of abuse and misuse that misuses and seduces! Family tree of warfare and welfare legalities, moralities and family-prodigies. Picture this scriptural twist! Some assist on a kiss. I insist
some are idealities in social technicalities. Alcoholics, diabetics,
****** exotic, fantastic, Catholics, eccentric, horrific and poetic. I persist… some gnomes, some roam, some in poems, some with no homes. My family tree of adventuresome, awesome, handsome and troublesome. My family tree of beautiful and bountiful! Some are a
handful some handicap some locally and vocally-rap. Some slap,
gift-wrap and yap! Some are snuggly, pretty, witty or ugly. In my family tree, some crippled, some with pimples, some with freckles
and some that heckle. Some belittle and little, some wrinkled and old. Some are bold and pray to the lord! Some are Frio, meaning cold we
were told. Some I say, are poor with no Amor. Some are here no more, in my family tree of Amor.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
There’s no grace for a sinner here.
In this little white room,
with the little white girls
and the good little boys.
They all cast the stones, cracking
my fragile bones,
and making my dress quite black.
There’s no place for a sinner here.
Where they all look the same,
all out to tame us,
damning us all to hell.
Technicalities steal pride, and
Legality’s crushing tide
forces our dignity to fall.
There’s no room for a sinner here.
You’ll do as you’re told.
Dare ask why and you’re bold;
never to make much in life.
Backsliders are peered on
over pretty noses apparently smeared on,
by simplicity and a bit of wine.
There’s no peace for a sinner here.
Perfect footprints are left over,
those lively blueprints we pored over
through many a midnight candle.
Both innocence and experience
leave them incensed and indignant.
keeping our consciences guilted.
There’s no rest for a sinner here.
Enjoyment is frivolous,
laughter is selfish,
and love must be evil incarnate.
If this is what perfect,
must look like, then I’m perfect-
ly happy with the mess that I’ve made.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
Don't sleep
Don't sleep
I begin to
Like you
A little bit more
I shift and sigh
Say your name
Fatigue rolls
Somewhere by
But, alert I
Imagine
So many paintings
To make for you
You mumble
Childishly
Your laughter
Is glittery
I wish
For so little
I wish too
Intensely
Dont wipe me
With a stiffened cloth
Soaked
In turpentine
And a hundred hues
Dont stir me
I might be disturbed
Out of skill
Out of thought
Onto a burlap scene
Grotesque
Picturesque
And so, so true
Don't move
Or I might too
I might too
Become a facet
Among the facets
Of your horrors
I might
Become art
Might become
Beautiful
In that strange
Black way
Of art
Dont sleep
Talk to me
Speak to me
Let us be
Normalities
Let us
Hold
Technicalities
Forget
Sentimentality
In the silly blue painting
Of an eyeless pretty
Smooth and porcelain
Perfectly closed
No night
To mourn into
Dissolve into
To stumble,
To tremble into
Don't sleep
I become too much alone
Shrivel, burnt sienna
I cannot move alone
I become the paintings
That I fear to paint
I become the sombre
Debris of your laughter
Cold, blue
Featureless
A moonlit night
Nothing but red
You don't know
That I like you
In my head
Come back
Come back
Apr 30, 2023
Apr 30, 2023 at 6:10 PM UTC
What makes a poem
- a poem?
Does it express your
emotional life and
the selfish deeds
it contains
.... then you shamelessly
Share it...
Does it really matter
someone might
read it or not?
Someone might
understand you or
not, does that really
matter?
In the world
we live in
many hearts
have died
for they don't
know how our
pen works.
How it does
- what it does.
When a poem
does all the
technicalities,
it may seeks
the power of
fame and fortune
but does it really
matter?
I may not understand
fully what makes a poem
- a poem. But behind all
of it, I'm just here
trying to write a poem
whom my heart
spoke out loud
like he never could.
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 9:34 PM UTC
satan was his favorite angel
and he still let him fall
don't wanna assume the worst for you
but something about this feels wrong
why wouldn't you hurt me is a question
i hate to ask but i hear in the back of my mind
everytime you linger just a bit longer
and try to stare into my eyes
so what if you want more
if you don't want it all
don't wanna invest the last of my trust
if you're gonna just drop the ball
this is a lot for me and a lot to me
sorting through emotions
definitions and technicalities
seem like such commotion
why can't we just try to give the other
what they ask without thinking too much
but expecting you to be as thoughtful as me
is asking too much
i just wanna make you feel good
what are you trying to do to me
Nov 15, 2021
Nov 15, 2021 at 5:12 AM UTC
Trapped 'tween
adjectives' objections
succumbed to
long-windedness,
snared 'neath an
expanse of circumlocution,
paraphrasing periphrases
buried under layers
of technicalities,
all in a day's multiformity
working midst the madness
of poetry's sublimity
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
going crazy for you
was never planned.
with your smooth words
and exquisite body,
i fell into your trap.
never thought
i'd be thinking about someone
exactly like this.
do you have me
wrapped around your finger?
because it sure feels like it.
i've never been one
to admit my feelings to anyone
but you're just different.
with all these terms
and technicalities,
i'm confused.
what am i to you?
just a lover
or a partner?
i'm tired of these complications
when all i want to do
is hold your hand
and kiss you good morning.
all while knowing
that you're mine
and i'm yours.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
How would I like to be loved?
It is a very difficult question
Because, though I appear, at first glance
To be "The Guy Next Door"
The reality, I assure you, is entirely different
Firstly, every individual is different
Secondly, I am autistic
And finally
There is so much about me
That you will get to know
Only if you are a good friend of mine
How would I like to be loved?
Well, let me tell you
Love is not all about candlelight dinners
Nor is it about *** in the bedroom
It is about being there for each other
No matter what
If I truly love someone
I would be ready to go to jail for her
Of course, not if it is for something ethically wrong
But you get the idea
How would I like to be loved?
If you have seen the Tamil movie "Thiruchitrambalam"
Then you would understand
If I were to say
That I want someone to love me
The way Nithya Menen loved Dhanush
In that amazing movie
How would I like to be loved?
If you've seen me at my worst
One of those days
When I am in one of my rages
And keep shouting and breaking things
Or I lose my focus at work
Due to all my insecurities
Rearing their ugly heads
Or I simply drown myself in my thoughts
Refusing to come out of my bed
Or I cry like a child
Drowning myself in a tidal wave of self-pity
And you still love me the same
As you did when I was at my best
Then it is indeed true love
Enough said
How would I like to be loved?
When I hear one of Harris Jayaraj's romantic melodies
And can instantly relate to it
I know that I am in love
And that love is real, not reel
How would I like to be loved?
If you ask me how was my day
And I go on and on
Droning about the technicalities of my work
Or cribbing about various issues
Such as candidates, clients or my boss
And you never tire of listening to me
Then I know you are truly in love
Also, if I keep asking you how was your day
Every single day after work
And you never once tire of answering such a mundane question
If that is not true love
I don't know what is!
And on that note
It's time to wrap up this little monologue
And return to hard reality
Dec 25, 2022
Dec 25, 2022 at 11:59 PM UTC
prying my eyes open with some god forsaken force unknown to me
i blindly shove another sour patch kid in my mouth
choking down the harsh artificial sugars
choking back thoughts of you
rolling my eyes back into my head as i think
everything happens in good time
right?
neglected body hair and dry heat begin to scratch at my legs
it's an ungodly hour of the night.../morning
technicalities
a bead of sweat rolls down my forehead and i think
you'll come around
as i lay awake dreaming of the last subject of my writings
and pretend the excruciating ending
is a mystery to me
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
Etymology,
Spanish.
First appeared
on a gravestone
in Warwickshire, England.
Means:
'loveable,'
'have to be loved,'
'deserving of love.'
All technicalities aside,
I'm not with you for your
name. That'd be like saying,
'I'm here for the free cheesecake,
but make sure it calls itself a cheesecake,
because I trust cheesecake, but not the
moon when it questions my insanity.
Frightens me with the prospect of a
normal life.'
I haven't found the answer yet.
I haven't been looking. I've been
too busy loving you, until one day
I woke up and realized 'its always
in the last place you look.' I'd been
nuzzled in your chest for hours
before I noticed I'd found the
most important meaning
in life.
Amanda.
Etymology,
Spanish.
First appeared on a gravestone
in Warwickshire, England.
Means:
'loveable,'
'have to be loved,'
'deserving of love.'
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 6:19 AM UTC
Footsteps that were past tense echoing
upon me like thunder, then the lightning
fell upon my vision and it went murky
in sight. I was within an eclipse of darkness.
Hands clapping on my thoughts urging
me to arise from this ill-gotten slumber.
I was tied as if to be burnt on the stake
of old, raised on feet I gazed in confusion.
A rope levitated my throat to upper reaches
just enough for breath but I gazed on a
room of discord. All was as if anger had taken
form and expelled itself on the surroundings.
With muttered echoes I spoke, "is anyone there,
But my words fell like dead leafs from autumns
cold voice. I waited upon the mirrors reflection
bouncing back at me of incoherent thoughts.
"Hello Peter, how are we today,
Confusion was my playmate as I considered my
reaction to this voice of my solitude. I recounted
the many repetitions of who I had angered in
my life. And on me I struggled under there weight.
"There was a little called Alice her hair like sand,
"She was the apple in the eyes sweet and beautiful,
"And you took that all away, away from all she loved,
Karma had stewed for so long I could smell it on my
conscience, and I knew that my end was but echoes
of memories away. "I know who you are, technicalities
were my weapon of choosing to those ill fated in meeting.
She was one such one, and there were a few before her.
But I retired from that form of endorphin rush. I became
placid like the lonely tormented sheep around me.
"I'm was a good little boy, no need to take this further,
But like a sphere once you take that first step you'll
end up at the beginning once again. I saw myself in
this dilemma, not as in this scene but others playing out.
And within those few thoughts I felt what was karma.
As I felt so warm at peace with this action, but then the
reality swept those lingering dreams away. I was dying,
A replay of what perspired in past memories but not her
me in that place. "Karma always finds you,
They were his last words, I don't know which father
brother friend they were. But now they had felt the
lingering sensation of expelling life. Would they
keep it secluded or would they become lik.............................
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
We ran from the tears.
But the strength of our cries inside our nightmares became something deceiving.
You heard it in the other room, when I was dreaming.
Blind and convinced that waves of illusions would flash me by, I psyched myself out.
I traveled outside in different electrons and what not.
Asleep and floating on the music note of my heartbeat's base.
Some kind of radiance appeared in the back of my head, like it did after every story.
Happily ever after you said once or twice before.
I imagined things nicer because you lied to me.
But that was love, or some kind of protection.
Shadows and presents cover up the technicalities
The footprints on the ground had painted colors into our adventures with owls and dragons...
It was the two of us lost in our tales in dreamland.
The stream of make believe we created glued the words to the page, and I followed my instinct.
I knew where to find you.
It was cold. But we were too far ahead to call it off now.
Closing our eyes to escape form the monsters of reality became habitual and
The white picket fence separates our two worlds from colliding.
Like the words do, that describe peace and war.
Hiding in treasure chest are the skeletons of what we wanted to be when we grew up.
That's just unrealistic anymore.
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 2:03 AM UTC
This poem confirms it.
I am a great poet.
And not because I rhyme,
Because I don’t.
Or because I use metaphors,
Because I won’t
Just like the sky,
I am for everyone.
My words are meant to be sad,
But to overall cause a thought.
To relate my pain to your pain.
To transfer an idea,
The only one which matters.
We are all the same,
Just living our lives differently.
When I am heartbroken,
You are heartbroken.
Because we are all heartbroken.
And so I am a great poet.
Because I can share,
This simple fact.
And make you think,
About that one time a guy or girl,
Broke your heart,
Or brought it back,
And so you’ll say I’m right or wrong,
You’ll criticize the technicalities or,
Over joy over the story I preach,
But in the end we all agree.
I am a great poet.
And this poem confirms it.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 9:04 PM UTC
I pray this pupil’s prayer,
penitent for desiring
an end to this madness
of clearing away snow,
only to find more, compact,
beneath the loose surface
No two snowflakes alike
each snowflake falls with grace
absorbed by tuition fees,
books, books, books!
O the books pour down
clusters of refurbished
cognitive technicalities
Each unique in its crystal formation
drench my shoes to full with repositories
of Professor gods’ wounded knees and sore egos
do I leggo my Eggo
to feast on academia’s wine
glut on the ambrosia of fine whine?
What privilege to live in Snowflakia
the snowbanks are too high, Sir!
-still I climb, seeking purchase-
It takes too much time!
-yet I wade through the drifts-
of alabastards’ Judas kiss
A Snowflake ingrate nation
in turn taken for madness
I cannot find a flick
to fling away wet sopping masses
of absence from classes
brain drain juices taste like molasses
I revile the texture of their pasty *****
You haven’t a chance in Hell-
-Ye Gods! Mea Culpa!
I am sorry, O Ponderous Purveyors,
for my blasphemous prayers
I will see the glass is
full of wine not molasses,
I will be a good snowflake and fall
into my pre-planned place
Your liquid body will purify the well
I want to fall with grace
so I may rise without disgrace.
~
NM
02/04/19
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 10:45 PM UTC
Chorus
Real Eyes,Realize,Real Lies!
Seein right thru your disguise,my eyez minimize in size!
Real Eyes,Realize,Real Lies!
Denial will try n’ dignify, but truth will magnify!
Real Eyes,Realize,Real Lies!
I will only simplify,what you try to mystify!
Verse 1:
Look out, my words bout’ to hit you, like some lyrical ninjitsu! Come on I’m bout’ to get you! I’ma Pegasus n’ your just a shitzu! It’s thru! What the **** you gonna do? All the ******** you runnin thru? Runnin from! Young dumb, Where the **** you comin’ from? Livin a life of denial, hidin behind a fake smile! Actin hard like a crocodile! But you’re a predator like a ********* So delusional you turned senial! Made ya slower than Gomer Pile! While I… learned the truth from a Higher Power! To me you’re just a coward… Chewin on you like green leafs n’ little collards… Holler! Your face looks like it’s getting’ sour! Cuz your ******** lies are getting devoured! Pridin’ yourself on how much you make an hour! ***** ***** the world was already ours!
Chorus
Real Eyes,Realize,Real Lies!
Seein right thru your disguise,my eyez minimize in size!
Real Eyes,Realize,Real Lies!
Denial will try n’ dignify, but truth will magnify!
Real Eyes,Realize,Real Lies!
I will only simplify,what you try to mystify!
Verse 2:
Flippin’ the script, Bout’ to kick flip the **** outcha lips with the way I double dip my tips! Bout ta be a hurricane of thunder n’ rain! Chaos n’ pain! Truth n’ disdain! So much to gain! What you thought was real, was the way you were programmed to feel! It’s like you were electronic, turnin’ you demonic! But the truth rings harmonic! You wanna hear it? I’ll get right on it! You started out with Love,innocence n’ bliss, Though you’re ignorant to this! Like I said denial gave you a fake smile!Seek & you’ll find, the truth is not in your mind, it will only blind! **** & confine! Look deep within your Spirit! Even if you don’t want to hear it! Don’t fear it,clear it! You might shake & shiver, I promise the truth will deliver! And the lies will start to quiver! You’ll become lost in reality, one big large fatality! You’re heart & soul will come to a mutuality! No longer living on technicalities!
Chorus
Real Eyes,Realize,Real Lies!
Seein right thru your disguise,my eyez minimize in size!
Real Eyes,Realize,Real Lies!
Denial will try n’ dignify, but truth will magnify!
Real Eyes,Realize,Real Lies!
I will only simplify,what you try to mystify!
By: Ken Manuel aka <3 <3 <3 3ye Kvndy <3 <3 <3
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
"Every story ever told really happened. Stories are where memories go when they’re forgotten." - the 12th Doctor, Doctor Who
There is no such thing as fiction.
What we have deemed fictional are simply
stories that have bleed through time and space
from parallel universes and the past, present, and future.
Authors are visionaries who see through the cracks in time
and **** through the technicalities and details
in order to entertain the mundane
thoughts inside our conditioned heads.
There is no such thing as fiction.
Stories allow us to go places without moving an inch,
be people we could never be,
do things we could never do
in this world
in this body
in this life.
There is no such thing as fiction.
Because how is it possible for people to write about fictional
people
places
things
and describe them better than anything real that I could describe.
How could these people bring me to tears and make me want to throw books across rooms
if nothing happened?
How could they do that unless they were there
and these people are real
and these places are real
and these situations are real?
I don't believe it.
I can't believe it.
There is no such thing as fiction.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
A fish led to land.
A man led to sea.
Both have lungs,
Both cannot breathe.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 3:57 PM UTC
homosexuality was classified
a mental illness, until all the
homosexuals protested; likewise
an impulse to commit ****
was considered a mental illness,
until all the rapists protested
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
You can try to light up the shadows
But then all you're left with
Is a blurry space that used to separate light and dark
Now everything that used to make you smile
Makes you sad
And being sad
Spreads a reverse frown across your cheeks
So you try to shine a new light on your shadows
But it will blur out the boundaries
And end up casting even more shadows
Speckled across other aspects of your life
The act of trying to light up the most places in our lives
While leaving the smallest shadows
Is simple human nature
You can keep adding light
Add the sun and the stars
But there will always be a place that looks darker than the rest
Because simply taking part in our own lives
Means that our lives will never be free of shadows
It's the reason why eulogies seem so nice
Because the dead have left their own lives for us to see
And their deaths have taken those nasty shadows with them
And all that are left
Are the small overlooked shadows
Technicalities of how the light falls
So even if the deceased have suffered through darkness
Their entire lives
Looking back with their eulogies
Compares their lives to blissful sunshine
For the way the light falls around us
Is not our decision
But if there is one thing for certain
It is that we are the biggest shadows
Our light-basked lives will ever meet.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
Stop over thinking it.
Stop analyzing each
and every doubt
that crosses your mind.
Forget about the
hesitations that linger
with every word.
They are nothings.
They are irrelevant -
minor technicalities;
balanced by society
but can they be
dismissed by love?
I know I am a failure.
As I cannot, for one second,
forget these minor technicalities
theses irrelevant maybes.
They weigh down every kiss
every look and every smirk
Nestled in the back of my mind,
I cannot stop,
I cannot forget.
I cannot overlook society.
I can merely hope that you will have the
courage to do so enough for the both of us
to be happy.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
Life after limb loss
‘I want to walk again’ they say
‘I haven’t walked in 40 days’
And this is the goal I’ll help them achieve
But it’s not as easy as they might believe
They’re in grieving
Numb - denial - and bargaining
‘It’ll all be okay
on the day
I walk again’
They’ve lost so much
Butchered
Now first I teach them to touch
To clutch
To poke and ****
I know it feels odd
Got to desensitise
It’s sensitive but try
Press into the scar line
Scar tissue can’t be allowed to entwine
Keep it subtle
It’s brutal
‘What’ll happen if I don’t?’
‘I can’t cope’
‘It doesn’t feel very nice’
Inside i’m thinking
Please heed my advice
In time
They’ll need to cope with pressure like a vice
I hope
we make it that far
‘Bla bla bla’
‘How can I drive my car
with only one leg’
‘I just want to walk and drive’ they beg.
We start at the start
Long way to go before we get that far.
I have such admiration
For the shear determination
they show
Can’t imagine even loosing a toe
Whether to trauma, cancer or disease
Limb loss below or above the knee
Come to me
It’s my profession
But my confession
Is I really care
I really will be there for them
Any way I know how
We’ll plough through the technicalities
Gait training
Draining their energy
Learning to use a prosthesis
But there’s more to this
I want to teach you more
Than how to get up off the floor
There’s life after limb loss
Only they know the cost
I’ll be there for you
I swear to you
I’ll truly care for you.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 9:59 AM UTC
the technicalities of technique
find cracks where there is no fault
in cracked faces etched with smiles
and written so it is
that syntax is but confused hindsight
that youth is but confused ____________
...well just confused
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
Wave your solemn goodbyes,
And sink deep into
This murky clot of my
Broken memories
And messy past,
For you've chosen that as your
Dwelling place.
Is there such a thing as a beginning?
I refuse to believe it is so;
There are only endings.
Even this poem,
A safe outlet for the tension
In my mind to come forth into a
Half-sleeping existence,
Did not begin.
Before I wrote this line,
There were more, and before the
Very first of them,
Before I even put my pen to the paper,
There was a thought.
Even before that thought came to be,
It was a memory:
A memory of an event
And the events before then, spanning
History from its first breath
To its culminating heartbeat.
Shall we neglect the technicalities
And philosophical musings for a
Brief moment
And return to the single drop of water
Not quite yet, I rather enjoy confusing
My own mind.
Do you ever wonder why I
Tend to cleave to you now?
Because when one has nothing and
Gains even the most trivial of things,
It becomes infinity.
Everything in one's world becomes
Filled with the
Essence of what was once so scarce.
Give me a grain of sand
And my world becomes a desert.
Give me a pebble
And my universe becomes a mountain.
Give me a raindrop
And my eyes behold a waterfall.
Give me a seed
And my feet take root in a forest.
Give me nothing
And I shall remain in darkness,
As I was from the start,
But never from the beginning.
You dare give me your affection?
You're dealing drugs to the addict.
My empty life becomes a
Panorama of your love, and what more
Does humanity exist for
Than to be loved as passionately
As they do.
Lines blur as if
The world has inconveniently
Placed itself behind a foggy window.
My horizon becomes the sky,
My sea becomes the shore,
My feet become the grass,
And everything--
Everything there is--becomes you.
My heart becomes yours,
My mind becomes yours,
My soul becomes yours,
My skin becomes yours,
My lips become yours,
And my breath becomes yours...
Oh especially that , I am sure
Because you stole it right from my
Sensitive lungs.
All my senses can detect is you
And there is nothing better,
Nothing more I could want for.
I will be whatever I wish to
Because I refuse to sit still and
Settle into the
Preset mold prepared for me,
Yet now that I see you
I loose my identity in your
Fine dark eyes.
I wish to be noting more of less
Than what you choose to make me.
Who am I? All I can process
Is what thoughts sweep across your
Beautiful mind.
You finally realize what I
Questioned all along: how can
You love someone who is no one?
I am the grain of sand
And you are the desert.
I am the pebble,
And you are the mountain.
I am the raindrop,
and you are the waterfall.
I am the seed
And you are the forest.
I am nothing
And you are everything
To me.
Hastily recoil and retreat with all
You bestowed upon me
If that is what pleases you.
I will still be nothing
And my world will also be nothing,
And you will be nothing but a face
That tugs at my nothingness of a heart,
Sinking deep into
This murky clot of my
Broken memories
And messy past.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
Friday Night K-nulcking Under III
<•>
it is a (my) three day weekend
it is now
Saturday late morning
Friday night we went to Joe’s Pub,
you could look it up,
to hear marvelous stories and marvelous singing
then
full stop
homeward bound (apologies Paul),
we swap Lulus for p.j.’s,
and alliterative alternatives
after having bathed and showered
alternatively alternatingly debatingly
the meritocratic merits of bathing methodologies
and our respective but not respectable
technological techniques and sundry technicalities
are peaceable declared tied
we have not left the confines
of public globalist bedding since thenning,
and no plans for departeeing
not even for meals
or anythinging
(ok, barbecue chicken not cool to eat in bed)
multitasking multiplayering
music, poetry, Sunday NY Times,
action movies non-stop,
even napping,
anything
i want,
as I am the only worker bee
celebrating a workless Mondayee
periodically and often, I kiss the
knuckles on either of her hands
and we laugh at my joking insistence
for she vociferously denies,
most badly connives,
that she is
(with a pronounced hard K)
K-nulcking under
to my every demand
as she is equally guiltily
and capable of excellent excessive
leadership in the art of slumbering parteeying,
ergo all good
we still have Monday to resolve an unraging debating,
this unurgent knuckle biting questioning
who is the K-nulcker
and
who is the K-nulckee
~~~
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Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC