"tered" poems
take some time to count, to verb
some syllables for some wrecked
page. a Lostman's book in ****
tered thought; nature, and death,
and sole body. then, when she talked
about her better years as those of
drug-induced past-life. younger than
yesterday kinda years. that which finds
metronome slowing, the Universe energy
vibrating weaker while growth found in
apathy, and solid death of purposeful
movement.
then a shot,
that moment to break from wretched self-
criticism -- that post-idyllic criticism --
that which hinders forward movement.
the shot,
which finds contentedness thru some
repetitious mentality . .
[lost it]
. . repetitious fallacy?
[got it]
let's leave some break for transmigration
in thought to prelude of forward movement.
understanding now is not enough; but
agreement in hast. but dissolution to that self-
efface hit rapid. brought back, her thought
of the younger than yesterday years; now,
now is the greatest point of any a count-
less past-life. from them, no matter a sweating
season, the Long Dark, or the cycle-seasons,
all is now. and never
did she or i talk of the past again.
our foci, [one second]
drawn to point of second and next second upon
following and on for another. now, shivery
wine-drunk, reminiscent of tiny furnace and
woolen blanket apartment. that now,
that was true striving of second successful ***** Den.
a great thought downfall; she's been long gone.
[next second now]
she complained of the wind. her eyes were freezing,
she said; her life has begun to bore her, she said.
we moved to playground and climbed in the
slide; a nice dampening. cold plastic barely felt for
her. this Long Dark, and in it, an always fleeting
warmth. [break
to **** for concision in thought]
now then, a diner, of course this face is known. they also
know a companion vacant. asked of, pleasant enough;
responded, well enough.
[disheartened, well enough]
and then, wholly intrinsic with a blasphemous self-
Oralee while passing time trying to think. unable,
if only for sole point of trying. and epochs worth,
thought and gone; now compulsive, now unres-
ponsive, now chewing lips because they're part gum.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:58 AM UTC
Can we talk?
She said "Sure, give me a minute"
Wait a few seconds, that minute turned to ten,
Now one hour later,
She was ready to begin?
"What do you want to talk about?"
she yelled from
across the room.
Silence, I was sleeping.
But just then, she was about to hear the boom
So.......
She came at me like a wartime poet,
dropping bombs on my head like
I didn't even know it,
Ripped holes in my shirt
and I couldn't even sew it.
She busted rhymes in my mind
even CeLo couldn't own it.
Words flying so fast,
I coulda swore they were stolen.
She moved one step closer
and boom, I was falling.
Each time my mouth opened
I couldn't even answer,
Each word that I stut t t tered was
like lyrical cancer.
I ran around the room like
a Soul Train dancer.
Side stepping her questions
like I was her little **** prancer.
**** you, *****
my words just got a little fancier.
Whoah!
"Who do you think you are,
are you done spitting it yet??"
You began this little battle,
but I'll be the one finishing it.
My words are louder than gunshots
Cuz, I'll be the one killing it.
I'll just turn my *** around
Cuz you'd be the
one kissing it.
This is only the beginning,
and I'm not finished dishing it
Shhhhit!!
She just broke in with a loud
"OH!! YOU DONE YOUR TIME"
So you can get on outta here with those wasted lyrics,
stupid rap, and busted rhymes.
This is my house, boy,
and you ain't living off this welfare dime.
Now, go cheat with some other hoes
and sip on their Boone's Farm strawberry wine.
Oh and one more thing, you might
want to call 9-1-1,
Cuz I am about to commit
****** on your *** and a misdemeanor crime.
See you were nothing to me
but my little, poor "boy toy"
and when I say "little" ..it wasn't
very much of joy joy.
The only time I got real excited and wet
was when you were walking out
my front door, door.
So, now carry your sorry ***
on over to your ex's house
cuz she was the real effin' ***** *****
Oh, that 65" flat screen is mine, so is that X-Box,
touch one more god **** thing in here or I'll
double tap your ***
with the pair of my triple chromed 9mm hollow point custom made Hello Kitty Glocks.
Your time is up,
so say good bye once and for all
count it 1, 2, 3 or I'll punch your ******* clock.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
come choked up bled up fed up folks
and drink my robust brew my sweet Catawba
no, my sauterene or rock and rye
brush that musty blue off your cog stained collar
and stay a while
pay a while
two beers later when your tongue seethes dry
try my salt savored fish, my baked bean surprise
tilt your nostrils and inhale my dried herring
my free lunched ties really please the eyes
I’ll saturate your wet drawn gobs
like sand slips through sieves
teasing you by my strategic arrayed feast
until dollars are quenched out
by watering tongues that then dry the eyes
so come stand social where men may be men
enter through my wood swinging shut
-tered realm
and slug down your ticking inhibitions
gobble up this wonderful enterprise
and leave with that coat savored
by the mixed smell of sawdust, alcohol and cigars
hell, there’s no manners here
and class only exists in tolerance
for it feeds a fine exchange for a parcel of wage
to forget that day you bonded your body to your lady’s gaze
to forget the rascals of tots that teeth at you feet
to forgot the boss that tills your knees
so lets play mirror medley choose your poison
and chose it quick
this may be the Poor Man’s Retreat
but pocket less men make me tick
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 3:02 PM UTC
she sat with her back to the brick column
holding up a vestibule, she found useful
as a public sorting place for the private
contents, of her camel coloured purse, remarkably ****
tered as her ****** life"*, her short term
fix, IT, took a carefully cared for, crack pipe.
Running late was I, and eye contact was made
and I quietly but firmly said to the seated glazed eyes look-
ing up at me, "might be best if you leave."
next day kilometres away, early morning bank
deposit, and a coffee run, me and the dog, out
for fun "car rides" bring her much delight, a voice
from behind said "mister, mister you gotta help me!,
I'm, not an addict, and last night I could not get home,
rode transit for free out to here from Kitsilano but,"
she breathed, "in the it cost me a ticket for one
hundred and seventy five dollars, when I got caught"
I looked at her, seeing her hair dishevelled and a face full
of what, despair...? "so what do you want from me?"
She
ran on with her mouth, playing with her top, the sentence was
run on and wouldn't stop. "*I made some bad choices, came here to meet my EX, found him with a girl having *** and I need ten or twenty,
bucks to get me home, the transit cop said he would not let me back on and would still be working until three A.M., stranding me, until this morning see?*!"
We
went back and forth, verbally,
"transit does not cost that
much, stop asking me for
money!", and she fired
back,
"my math is bad,
the money would be
nice and do your Karma
good, I am a big believer
in that", finally I left her
with a small handful of
small change and watched her walk
away, got in my car, got my coffee, got going home...
but as I drove by her, she was standing back to the hedge,
calm had returned as she waited, her hair was in place,
I saw something I failed to observe during our dialogue....
under her arm was
that camel coloured
purse...two women
suddenly became one
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
In the sandy dunes of words
And the sparkling foams of light
He riots as a snake would do
With his forked tongue - 'tween the Unlet-
Tered stones of a sunny graveyard.
© LazharBouazzi (14 October, 2017)
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
i
use my
sc a t te red
worDs
to collect
m y e v e n
MO r E
**** TEred
h e a r t
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 5:39 PM UTC
Heartbroken souls spinning
such beau -tiful webs
drawing in oth \|/ ers of a like nature
a zest for life even when all is crumbling
like the stat ues in the ancient cities
cracks in the thick exterior shell
pouring forth creati -vity as the heart
oozes out of the body for all to see
its light undulating
with a dying
life a shell
intact does
not let beauty
escape but from
the depths of the
decaying a new
life
bursts
forth
towards
perfection
glittering down to
rest on all it touches
the shat- tered
rising from the
ashes
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 2:44 AM UTC
It seems
All things
Begin and end
As daydream
Forms
A torn
Piece of a
Skirt left
one broken
Shard of
Colored glass
A folder
With only
One match
Left
The torn
And tat-
tered....
scattered
Bout as
Remnant frames
In
Scrapbooks
Loose
Granite forms
In memoriam
Fragile and mortal
When true
Love Is
No more
Jan 3, 2022
Jan 3, 2022 at 9:04 PM UTC