"telegram" poems
672
The Future—never spoke—
Nor will He—like the Dumb—
Reveal by sign—a syllable
Of His Profound To Come—
But when the News be ripe—
Presents it—in the Act—
Forestalling Preparation—
Escape—or Substitute—
Indifference to Him—
The Dower—as the Doom—
His Office—but to execute
Fate’s—Telegram—to Him—
36.9k
I saw a carving from Bethlehem that you had given my Nan,
She showed me a photograph of you, you were tall, with a golden tan.
The carving it was inscribed, 'with love from your brother Tom',
I knew my Nan had looked up to you, when all was said and done.
My Nan she was a little girl, when you were called away,
With her mother she waited eagerly for news, day, by day, by day.
In her eyes you were a hero who had gone off to the war,
Your smiling face, and uniform, were the last things that she saw.
She dreamt of the day that you would come back, striding through the gate,
she heard her mother pacing, though she didn't know your fate.
She heard her mother weeping but didn't want to know the reason why,
In her stomach she had a feeling that something was awry.
Then her mother sat her down and told her you were dead,
She told me she went dizzy, blood rushing to her head.
She told me she cried out your name, her heart it was pure broken,
The army sent a telegram, but it was really just a token.
You were just a boy of eighteen years when you were forced away,
I wonder how many mothers would cope if their sons left today.
They couldn't give you a grave, there was nothing left to bury,
You were blown to pieces in one hit, with bombs dropped in a flurry.
You only lasted for three months in your short, tough, army life,
My Nan died aged eighty-four, after a life of grief and strife,
She pined for you throughout those years and missed you everyday,
Her hero, her brother Tom, who left and went away.
She worried that when you fought, you longed for her and home
And worried that you were consumed with fear, and if that fear had grown.
She wondered if you had called out "Mum" and if your blood was swept by the tide,
how desperately she had wished, that she had been there, by your side.
The reason I know of you today, is that girl who became my Nan,
Who kept your memory alive as she always did back then,
I tell my sons about you Tom, I hope it's the right thing to do,
And I hope that they will love me as much, as my Nan had loved you.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
A person can speak a thousand words
And still fall short of grand or ill works,
Listen well if you will, these may in fact
Be my last statements,
Should I die tomorrow,
Next week,
Next month,
Next year or in decades,
I've written all you can withstand,
Expressed my feelings too soon.
Why should you need to care? I'll write letters of
Apology, sent via telegram from the moon.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
12/3/12 16:15pm
The painted lady waiting in the wings
Now parts her lips to sing her lover's name;
She enters, arms spread outwards as she sings
Like some fantastic orchid made of flame.
She scatters fragrant petals in the hall
And yet more petals round the master bed
Her sweet song echoes like a linnet's call
Her swirling silks are edged with golden thread.
Then comes a telegram from overseas
To say her love will not return again
The lady falls, still singing, to her knees;
Her heartbeat speeds, like wings beating in vain.
Such is the way of love made through a lie;
Like chloroform, to **** a butterfly.
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 12:15 PM UTC
He worked at the War Department,
in the Munitions Ministry,
for the Bureau of Cannon Fodder
on the Condolence Committee.
“On behalf of George, our king,
and the grieving British nation
We regret to have to share with you
the following information….”
Passchendaele was at its height,
he’d written letters by the score.
On the Altars of Incompetence,
what’s a hundred thousand more?
It was the sort of sinecure
in which he took a certain pride:
Informing British parents
that their darling boys had died.
His department heads approved
of his selfless dedication,
recording for posterity
each man’s final destination.
Thus it was they failed to notice
when he received a telegram.
That day he went back to his flat
a changed and broken man..
When next day, his chair was empty,
and they received a telegram,
they were grieved to be informed:
He’d died by his own hand.
“On behalf of George, our king,
and the grieving British nation
I regret to have to share with you
the following information….”
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 1:24 AM UTC
building purist æsthetic
proselytizing solar-powered heliolatry
commemorating historic concert
sensing dark forces
fokken lekker antwoord
pumping sensory overload
featuring high-tech dee-jay
admiring gelato micro-truck
laxing laying lazing
"doing something nasty"
continuing quality content
entering another cathedral
journeying without borders
"exactly one year
since visiting vatican"
appreciating full-time gigasphere
awaiting pyongyang performance
depicting unlikely crowdsurfer
foreseeing exponential improvements
furthering esoteric agenda
sensing profound incompatibility
data-mining people's infidelities
anticipating futuristic caffeine
perfecting invisible propaganda
researching mind-control techniques
polishing psycho-social weaponry
sensing social embargo
flourishing frantic fanfare
admiring longitudinal monument
parodying marketing slogans
cycling through österreich
eyeing dystopian disneyland
streaming crosswords extended-play
herding glass kittens
deleting idiosyncratic fragment
loremipsum-ing laconic loudmouth
receiving ultramodern telegram
eigo-ga wakarimasu ka?
guzzling duck-fat fries
encouraging panic selling
(juxtaposing past incarnations)
getting black-and-white privilege
renewing boutique account
relishing cinema poutine
re-entering hibernation mode
opening old windows
continuing zoo motif
absquatulating excessive excesses
nullifying originality claims
proliferating protean persona
disappearing sidewalk alphabet
shrugging opprobrious moments
enjoying vertical alignment
re-entering cyberpunk paradise
approaching island sun
soaring beyond monoliths
trivializing extraneous argy-bargy
decreasing character limits
dumping generic accounts
uglifying commit message
escaping into idiosyncracy
moonshining great lake
exuding idiosyncratic propaganda
living nineties' dreams
making occidental cuisine
envisioning idiocratic president
expropriating your time
ascending homely helix
singing fat lady
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
Trying to spread the word?
Reach as many as possible?
Get your point across?
The twentieth century
Has provided the means
With
Telecommunications
Telstar
Telegraph (really the 19thc)
Telegram
Telephone
Television
Telethons
And coming soon,
Teleporting.
And yet,
With all our tele-technology,
If you really want world-wide attention,
Tell-a-friend
A secret.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
One day
I want to write a poem
That captures your soul
In the adjectives
Describing the sky
One day
I want to write a sentence
That you will carry
In your memory
Scarred and stained
For an infinity
One day
I want to write a short story
Of a guy
A lot like you
And a girl
A lot like me
With no lies
Only honesty
And a forever that lasted
Just a while
One day
I want to write a paragraph
About the sea in you
And the sea in me
And how we fell in
Each other
And never needed to come up for air
One day
I want to write a dictionary
With all of our own definitions
Of everyone else's words
It will start from the letter Z
And end on A
Because it will be easier
That way
One day
I want to write an essay
On how the sunlight
Made patterns on your skin
Even after you lied
And shadowed the constellations
Screaming honesty
Into the dark
One day
I want to write a novel
About the way your voice
And his voice
Sounded
Just before
You both were about to cry
One day
I want to write lyrics
For the song
I meant to sing to you
About the moon
And the sun
And how they dance
Whenever all of our eyes are closed
Even if it's just for a second
(Light
Always travels faster
Than sound)
One day
I want to write you a telegram
With someone else's hand
To tell you
How much I miss you
And how my heart
Is not in my chest anymore
Really-
It's shattered across the sky
Just for you to see
One day
I want to write you a letter
To tell you
That you didn't know what love is
And neither did I
But
I still love you
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito
Oye como va...
the neighbors voices climbing out of windows left and right.
Is that you Tito?
Put down those pots and pans.
Make better use of those hands.
Don't you know those hands were made for working?
Follow your father to his factory grave shift,
Make razorblades to sell.
We'll always have hair on our faces.
Is that you Tito?
Knock off that racket.
Here I am trying to sleep
And you've got my feet to moving.
The night was made for dancing Tito,
And dancing was made for Harlem,
But that's bastante on a Wednesday mijo.
The young king packs up his studio,
Whistling dixie like she's never been whistled before.
Twirling the melody from royal lips,
Showing her how to use those God given hips.
Where did you find that groove you in your neck?
And do the words Puerto Rico still give you the chills?
You have walked on too many streets in New York City
And the Afro-beat is shacking up with the Cuban.
You can hear their children playing in the barrio allá,
And aquí they're blowing horns of imagination.
Make those wooden sticks tap your telegram, Tito.
Let the world know about this message brewing inside you.
They hate.
They yell.
They love to see you dancing,
But your ankles told you that wasn't right for you.
Your hands never have been able to keep still.
Maybe it's because they feel the future.
Do you realize where your bridge will lead?
You are the future Tito.
Do what you got to do to be where you got to be.
Play in Uncle Sam's band but don't you go to Normandy.
Follow your hands back to the big apple,
Take a bite out of this place they call Juliard.
When you sleep at night are they still screaming…
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go somewhere where the floor is on fire
With the fusion of jazz and samba.
Make it bigger Tito until it looks like it did in your dreams.
Pick up those sticks and mata los timbales.
Have the decency to wink when they name you king.
What is it that you mixed in that ***
Your alchemy giving birth to new species.
Have mercy Tito.
Your music is feasting on the ears of the public,
Your hands are drumming on the ecosystem.
They call it salsa, and you laugh
Because they can't taste the carne.
Shine those pots and pans.
Tip your hat to Spanish Harlem,
Where windows stay open to let the dreamers dream big
And the red brick walls are soaked with memories.
Babarabatiri Tito,
Teach the world how to dance.
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Go Tito, Go Tito
Mata los timbales
Go Tito
Oye como va...
a legend.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Surely I am dreaming
about heart left in the theater of your ardent idolizing.
Surely I am dreaming
about your strands enveloping my cheek.
Surely I am dreaming
about day in impetuous snowstorms spent in your arms.
Surely I am dreaming
about rush of events that take place only in movies.
Surely I am dreaming
about body panting into oblivion of worldly pleasures.
Surely I am dreaming
about face flushed from compliments of lover.
Surely I am dreaming
about hectic rush to your awaiting hands.
Surely I am dreaming
about red roses protruding from corners of your sensitive hands.
Surely I am dreaming
about heat of caresses in boiling blood.
Surely I am dreaming
about book of poems about our first love.
Surely I am dreaming
about you dancing in the withered leaves.
Surely I am dreaming
about sighs at beauty of carnality.
Surely I am dreaming
about sensitive whispers of desires of melancholy hearts into ear .
Surely I am dreaming
because I did not send a telegram entitled "Looking for love".
Surely I am dreaming
because loneliness can not disappear like stone in water.
Surely I am dreaming
because the best dreams come in the morning.
Surely I am dreaming
because it is so difficult to find warmth of someone else's hand.
Surely I am dreaming
because thoughts gallops as steeds in the forest of wilderness.
Surely I am dreaming
because dawns wake me up in supplication for more and more of you.
Surely I am dreaming
because kingdom of your eyes staring at me can not last forever.
Surely I am dreaming
because I am senseless from blizzard of evening events.
Surely I am dreaming
because you can not find love in a café or bar.
Surely I am dreaming
because I departed a long time ago from the distant land of fulfilled wishes.
Surely I am dreaming
because flowers are handed to uncommon women.
Surely I am dreaming
because hidden secrets are revealed only to beloved.
Surley I am dreaming
because I did not have eyes half-closed in pleasure before.
Surely I am dreaming.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 5:44 AM UTC
i.
unfiltered asiatic plaything seeks
hypoactive cradle technocrat
evicting meaningful poach,
mendacious transcripts of
past events found in his
memoryless playhouse.
poplar crowd scribbles observations
outbound punch of laughter
sighs to the scrambled, ethnic
postgrad nation.
microfiche telegram exploits
meaning to deeper courtesies
current surrendered upon
entry.
ii.
psychotropic sustenance
fizz thru ***** vein corridor
secret mission lifestyle
learning fast in enormous packs of
tiny lies.
spew logic chagrin mediated
bloodstain; cerebus twitching
outside of beingself.
iii.
heart ceases,
sacred whitepaint moans.
o infidel,
strike thrice; a chord
binding us- nasty, *****
beads bleeding rich.
cloaked bushes tasting,
hisses cured human oaks;
tapered horns that sob,
casting waved heels.
iv.
dawn fallen, only concrete
possible now. separated by
thousands of what is not,
shocks disintricate; undwindling
patriots mailing lessness,
laughter sounds fetching
offband pitch.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
I love you more than I love my Momma
And quite a lot more than Republicans love Obama
I love you more than Miley loves twerking
And probably as much as teenage boys love jerking.
I love you more than hipsters love instagram
and about the same as the turn of the century loved the telegram.
I love you more than Hans loved Anna
and just as much as monkeys love bananas
I love you more than the asdaf kid likes trains
and most likely more than Anastasia liked pain.
I love you more than pandas love extinction
and probably less than pansexuality needs distinction.
I love you more than John loved his best man
and I ship us more than any fandom can.
I love you more than beliebers love Justin
and definitely more than **** maids love dustin'
I love thee more than Shakespeare loved tragedy
and the same amount as Ann is raggedy.
I love you more than Peeta loves Katniss
and almost more than cats love catnip.
I love you more than teachers love cheaters
but probably not as much as Jesus loved Easter.
I love you to the moon and back
and there is nothing that you do lack.
<3
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
I SAW a telegram handed a two hundred pound man at a desk. And the little scrap of paper charged the air like a set of crystals in a chemist's tube to a whispering pinch of salt.
Cross my heart, the two hundred pound man had just cracked a joke about a new hat he got his wife, when the messenger boy slipped in and asked him to sign. He gave the boy a nickel, tore the envelope and read.
Then he yelled "Good God," jumped for his hat and raincoat, ran for the elevator and took a taxi to a railroad depot.
As I say, it was like a set of crystals in a chemist's tube and a whispering pinch of salt.
I wonder what Diogenes who lived in a tub in the sun would have commented on the affair.
I know a shoemaker who works in a cellar slamming half-soles onto shoes, and when I told him, he said: "I pay my bills, I love my wife, and I am not afraid of anybody."
2.2k
I wish I could warn my past,
I wish I could send a smoke signal
or a telegram.
or a letter.
Just to say,
BE CAREFUL
you may become,
so accidentally,
an ugly person
one day.
Love,
K
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
...
Dear Mr. P - [stop] -
...
I was your knife in the water, a credit card kept exclusively for killing - [stop] -
I was a gingersnap on your sugar train, a flower-filled glory box to swallow your whole wide world - [stop] -
I was night, night of the electric insects, praying mantis and ladybug — nervous animals, lotus eaters, enjoying a ceremonial after meal
- [stop] -
I was slivers of pseudoscience poisoned by man-made seasons — a new and beautiful and interesting disease - [stop] -
You and me, we are now the same — snapshots in sheared time, before the closedown of our impossibly ****** impulses - [stop] -
...
Best wishes, V
···
Feb 16, 2022
Feb 16, 2022 at 12:20 PM UTC
Humble beginnings
To the bitter ends
Frantic boot heels
Optical illusions
The **** of a joke
Last but not least
Whatsoever
Then again
Telegram a trigger word
Dangle from an umbilical chord
Eat the placenta
As the deadlines fluctuate
And the ambivalence
Is sealed in a canopic jar
It's experimental
Mental experiences
It's elemental
exemplary mentality
It's explicit
To solicit
The illicit
And go ballistic
-Tommy Johnson
They're so generous
To call me and my work sui generis
I'm just inter-being
To learn from ignorance
By my own volition
To achieve total consciousness
"Of all the nerve you sure got a lot of some of it"
Coming from oblivion
Ideas composing
The appreciation
Imagination turn into materialization
Expand and contract
The sensation of feeling
We crave and we cling
Becoming, we're born
A phase, we age
Sickness and death
Cessation, ratify or deny
Die gratified
These are the type of things we discussed in the Agora, all those times ago
-Tommy Johnson
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
Here we go
Here we don't
Admit defeat
In surrendering
Arms are useless
No reason in doing right things
Pointless fighting
Lashed out of friends and enemies
Have you seen me running?
No trust and
Not trustworthy
At second glance
Explicit content
Becomes Imaginary
Quickly lost my sweater
Lost my shirt
Summer rolls around
Sadly I can't help this.
We won't speak again
I'll make sure of it.
A stronger drink
In a bigger glass
I can't stand that
It's all going to break.
Needle still spins on
Without echo
Without tone
Without devotion
Laid side by side
Too intimidating
Dead branches of a tree
We still insist on using
Classical vibrations
Muted with a finger persuading
Soon we will be shipbuilding
In arid climate
Is it worth it?
Telegram obsessive
Rumor possessive
Thinking of excuses
For a second time.
Thinking of triplets
For snaking bass line.
Vagabond breath
I'm always losing.
Rip tide took me out
Walls of sand
Struggled then saved by a stranger
but
I thought you were my father.
Back to hotel rooms
Or Empty rooms
As if nothing ever happened.
I can see a stone
They put you under.
Eased our minds
That we could temporarily forget
Then find you again.
We made each other god
In worlds less than holy.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
everyday my eyes go fluttering,
here and there, everywhere,
*every hour seems like a year,
waiting for a person in despair,*
*not a person I would love,
but someone I long to see,
every minute of the day,
I may sound confusing,
but pay attention,
'cause I do.*
Attentively watch, await,long,
for that one envelope,*
inside which would be a page,
a white but unblank paper,
with words and exclaimations
About your explainations,
and your whereabout,
as I wait for that person
To bring me a letter from my beloved,
my dear love, my craving,
* my sole purpose of living,*
*I convince myself by saying,
the post man must be lost! *
*or perhaps just lazy and late,
for he never comes,*
and makes me wait in vain,
*Sometimes I loose hope,
the only thing I've got,
but recall your face,
and remake my mind,*
*saying, maybe times are rough,
reason why you can't write to me,
these days,
perhaps just the work*
*that keeps you busy all day,
but yes I do wish you could just take time out,
to write three words on a card,*
i love you.
send it to me,end my vacant wait..*
*It's been five years now,
you never wrote or even called,
ah! yes I received a telegram today,
Right now I opened it,
and as I opened it,*
tears kissed my cheeks,
of happines that you did care!*
but soon my tears of joy
turned into blood sobs,
when I read in the letter that you were gone,
*passed away five years ago,
while saving someone at war,*
sorrow could not leave my side
*knowing it was all I had,
and my heart wept,
my eyes went numb,*
*at the letters on that little note,
but at the end were the three words*
I had longed to hear,rather see,
"he loved you."
*Was all I could bear to see,
my brain stopped working,
my limbs went void,
now, I still don't know why,
I wait for you..*
I'm old now you know?
*I wish you could see me,
wrinkled and stupid,
for I still wait for that day,
when I would get to see you at last,
with a letter saying those three little words,*
"come with me"
*tonight and forever,
we would make up for lost time,
and spend once more our lives,*
but for now my longing is still not over,
for I still wait for the postman,
behind my window,*
and I need no doors or even locks,
as my gaze still remains fixed on my post box..
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
In the eye where I am
where there's peace,(so to speak)
I take out the album which I carry in a telegram and in those few stunted phrases,
my heart again blazes with desire,full of fire and of want.
This is punishment for me and I see retribution in these lines,
times though be far are near as I wear out my eyeglass making pass after pass at the words on the clipped sheet in my hand,
telegram and the full of memory man and the eye carries me on to the storm that levels all in its path,
I shall weep for this no more,bring the winds and let them bore through me and the rains to swallow my tears unshed.
I am led like the goat to the pipers of Pan.
I am the telegram becoming the man and the album's a plan to destroy me,though the Devil employs many vices it seems that nothing is fixed and there's a swirling of voices which melt into one,(am i to be that one?)
This saxophonic cacophony within which I am caught teaches me, what once before I was taught,
I'm a prisoner in the dock and the black cap is on and the 'beak' up ahead says,'you're going to swing John'
And the beggars and tramps and those bums that you meet on the islands of midnight where the ne'er do well greets you with,'lend me a dime' all make some time to come to the show where I swing to and fro and...look at my face all bloated and blue,
(it's only make up,but what can I do,poor ******* I am)
and the eye winks at me,winks at me as if I could see the joke in this,it is funny though, that one feels so tall as the trapdoor opens and you begin the fall
but then it's snap, crackle and pop
full stop
dead end.
telegram sent,
I'm going home.
stop.
end.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
21 hours ago
received the message below,
from a fellow poet, here,
now somewhat, more disappeared,
resting in the shady quietude of
Elliot's servers
a mere 21 hours ago,
a thunderbolt telegram
of virtual dots and dashes,
well received
she,
whose name
you have forgotten,
even if you knew it back when
and,
I shan't knowingly now reveal...
***perhaps if you were
one of the
multiyear variates,
still here, still seeking
solutions
to the
equations of the
human formulation,
one of the veterans of the
early word wars,
when the line between fellow poet
and human being was full of
invitational openings,
tween those dots and dashes,
we all eagerly entered those places,
crossing over into
those human openings,
making poets into friends,
yes,
if you webbed here back then,
you may have known her too...***
21 hours ago -
"there's a reason
I got to know you,
even though that might
sound silly.
In a way,
you saved me
two summers ago..."
~~~~~~
this message,
teaches me to remember
the power of words
supercharged,
be careful what you
write,
you just might save a
soul...
didn't not ken, well enough
the pressurized curve of her bend,
though read all her private journals,
her thesis academic,
her private ascetic analysis
and poems that milked & masked
the angst of a life
really real hard
today
reread,
tried anyway,
two years of messages
***could not feign
the pain
unintentionally recovered
while looking for
clues to myself,
this purported savior***
all I recall is
a woman near her ends
woman near no means
but knowing the meaning of
the power drink meaning of
"just going on"
that was dug deep in between,
and how we traded poems
for each other,
and I called her,
daughter
but from now on and within,
when I see a message
time stamped
21 hours ago
I'll be
better ready
for the
explosions of myself
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
I read between the lines
of black and white faces,
that stare, unblinking,
from the other side of a dream,
a child born free *******
on the fruits of a lost Empire.
The memories are slippery, sweet,
like the ripe flesh of a mango
squelched between eager fingers
stained by the heat of summer.
Shady like the flaming canopy
of a gul mohur tree,
dancing abandoned like a
rubber slipper, bobbing carefree
on a warm ocean wave that
carried my seed across the miles
on forgotten promises
into the arms of a dark night.
Searching for the colour,
I hear the cacophony of racing tongues,
uncommon wealthy mouths closed
to the stench of the natives rotting
like sardines packed into tin can shelters.
In the blackness they awaken me
like a telegram from a long lost relative
arriving on the next train from nowhere
laden elephant like, tin trunks filled
with the treasures still hidden somewhere
in the bottom drawer of my mind.
The technicolour *** bits wrapped
in faded fragments of my imagination,
tied with the string of longing that tugs
back to the creation of this child
ripping open a present from the past.
Unaware of the black and white gaze,
she runs wild, abandoned,
innocent, invisible
child of loves lost dream,
her playground a museum
of passion and pain.
Born free ******* on the fruits of a lost Empire.
May 31, 2011
May 31, 2011 at 1:36 PM UTC
A child found a book of war ,from hay where her mother and father lay dying .
From page to page she turned ,
each page of sage dripped in blood and gore .
Each page spoke of vengeance’s sharped sword ,
each page of sorrow and death ,
each page of sabered ****** hand .
Call of tyrants from mountains came to fight forever in Odin halls ..
The weavers witch spinned and cut the thread and cursed the land .
and goblets of blood of man slept till nevermore .
Spin spin tales of woe ,
Spin spin the weavers go and blood and goblits forever until
the curse is broken .
Gods poets spoke of love and peace to take the darkness that stalked
the land one bright light to guide them,
so even God in his mighty love might not judge them .
Spin the thread the tales of woe ,
Spin the weavers gold and blood ,
and goblits until the curse is broken .
And the fires burnt and furnise fired for shells of war,
that fed the cannon and muskit .
For King and country ,
For Cromwell’s army ,
to over throw the country .
Spin the thread the tales of woe ,
Spin the weavers gold and blood ,
and goblits ,
until the curse is broken .
Two lovers with beating hearts ,
one left for King and Country.
He looked
into her eyes ,
“;don’t be sad when I have gone for you’re sadness forever take you .
Then over the top to the four winds blown ,
over the top for King and country .
.” So weep beside the willow tree ,
for letters of love for me .
For where flowers grow our hearts will go ,
See the flowers they grow
beside you .
and though the trench in death you lay my heart will forever find you for a telegram man arrived today as i was picking flowers .
The girl closed the book and placed a flower in ,
then danced around a young willow tree for now the curse was broken .
Dance around the willow tree ,
plant a flower of love for me ,
for now the curse is broken.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
Puking on a vest made of argyle
Passing out on kitchen tile
A checker board mattress after
Chatting with a girl, whose *** is fantastic
She's hotter than struck matchsticks
Playing chess with her chest
Moves are nothing short of the best
You can pull on 3 leaf clovers
But you can't push your luck
King me, Crown me, Get royally ******
I've got the wood she's got the chuck
How much?
Bedside Manner is enough
But she'd rather talk about being stuck like cassettes
With a useless boyfriend
And a ton of financial debt
Had I mentioned this was turning into a drag
Minus the cigarette
The size of a rolled telegram and gazette
Has it become clear yet
*I'm not looking at you
I'm looking past you*
Transparent
Like a ghost
It's apparent
I'm into you like a foreign host
It's hard to tell
When the air is hazy
She's blind to the fact
Like her eye is lazy
Choked on words that she never learned to chew
Why don't you call Sherlock, boo
Get yourself a Clue
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
Bonjour, mon Cheri, mon petit Chou!
The doorbell rings with a solemn telegram:
- this just in -
I am exactly like most girls - in civilizations lost, or civilizations in other civilizations, Italy hiding in Toronto and a government hiding in a shameful self-promotion, and 20 seconds later I'm a poly-sci major (incorrigible!)
- 911! 911! 911! 911!
What's my emergency? What's YOUR emergency? But really, what is my emergency? And when it comes to that, What's in an emergency - an aristocracy in high-waisted shorts, an ice cream social (media) scream - lets back the car out and park and loop and inevitably end up in a straight line caterpillars away from
(The truth) - (but more of that later)
Cross-continental cigarette and now I'm running out of material to trade it for. I am lonely, can't you see? A fair trade, for a night with me-
**** me so hard I can't walk, **** me over so bad I can't detour a one-track mind)
I am not the one Hemingway prepared you for, I will not blow smoke rings in Spain or wander the streets of Paris, I will sit right here lounging in a plaid vinyl sinkhole and carry myself with delusions of grandeur
(Beyond novels unread - yet sadly written - by the unwashed and falsely educated masses)
Life as an existential film, life as woe is me in backwards bus terminals. Life as when you marry someone you hate and life as cold tempura on a booze-stained tablecloth. Pass the peas, please.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
PEELING APPLES SOMEWHERE IN 1914
the War not yet
a week old
already tears that will last years
she can still see
his pale hands
peeling apple after apple
the apples
looking startled
**** beside their skins
the naked apples
the flamenco swirl of their skins
his hands pale as death
now where the apples lay
that day
the telegram of his death
she can still see him
turning into the shadows
throwing her an apple with a smile
she is angry with him
for dying
her love not enough to protect him
under her apron
the baby kicks
it will have his smile
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC