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"texan" poems
/*h'americans can call it a striptease, but in amsterdam, with legal self-employed prostitutes? we call it a cocktease: because you'd really visit amsterdam for the **** these days?* isabella: the french psychology exchange student -     hung up on her ex-boyfriend - really in anime movies -       and that american i competed with on an edinburgh pub-crawl for freshers - and lost my virginity to -                   probably the only time i had the ontological parameters of your atypical man -   "hunting", competing -    oh so, so, enthralling....     (spot the irony mingling with ridicule, when people "know" how the modern man behaves, with his caveman predecessors: dragging a woman by the hair type of cartoonish depiction) - the other fun time i've had encounters with h'americans was in Soho - two colts, texan tourists asking for directions, or where this or that place was... it almost warmed my heart hearing that twang                        of the tongue... perhaps someone from arizona? that has that - "mid" western twang of the tongue                  added to the bite... snub the Boston high-mind eloquence, like:     you really really want                to sound european... never mind...    people say that water is tasteless... hmm...     so last night i was heating up one arm of scissors...                  and sniffing it... then licked the other arm of the scissor... what's in water again?    minerals... a subtle presence... magnesium, potassium, iron... you name it...    so yeah... water is... "tasteless"... eisenzahn that i am.
0
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
water is, "tasteless" (eisenzahn)
/*h'americans can call it a striptease, but in amsterdam, with legal self-employed prostitutes? we call it a cocktease: because you'd really visit amsterdam for the **** these days?* isabella: the french psychology exchange student -     hung up on her ex-boyfriend - really in anime movies -       and that american i competed with on an edinburgh pub-crawl for freshers - and lost my virginity to -                   probably the only time i had the ontological parameters of your atypical man -   "hunting", competing -    oh so, so, enthralling....     (spot the irony mingling with ridicule, when people "know" how the modern man behaves, with his caveman predecessors: dragging a woman by the hair type of cartoonish depiction) - the other fun time i've had encounters with h'americans was in Soho - two colts, texan tourists asking for directions, or where this or that place was... it almost warmed my heart hearing that twang                        of the tongue... perhaps someone from arizona? that has that - "mid" western twang of the tongue                  added to the bite... snub the Boston high-mind eloquence, like:     you really really want                to sound european... never mind...    people say that water is tasteless... hmm...     so last night i was heating up one arm of scissors...                  and sniffing it... then licked the other arm of the scissor... what's in water again?    minerals... a subtle presence... magnesium, potassium, iron... you name it...    so yeah... water is... "tasteless"... eisenzahn that i am.
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51
Abigail slides the glass door shut. As beads of water percolate off her body and land on the faux stone tile, the smell of chlorine from her swim and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend. My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me. "Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend. The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment, then back by my uncle and mother. "Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says. "Is she eating?" my mother asks. "I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says. I want to bash the smoking cup into her face. My uncle says she's been training for a marathon. My neurons get tidy and taper off. So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room to park my *** on an empty piano bench. I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down on black keys. I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels. I gaze over my shoulder. Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh. In her left hand, red fuck-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind; in her right hand, black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss. "You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision, like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim. Abigail has long brunette hair, and it's sticking to her neck. Deep permanent dimples frame her lips. She's a nurse in Waco. Each time I see her, I think about Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan". It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity, and trembling sick. "I forgot my trunks." "That's no excuse." I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg. In the living room. While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend. Her right leg crosses her left, an overpass and an interstate. My forehead overheats in a flash, and I feel like she's staring back at me. When my leering eyes shift from her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon: "All roads lead to me."
0
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
jj-hutton
**** the **** cousins
Abigail slides the glass door shut. As beads of water percolate off her body and land on the faux stone tile, the smell of chlorine from her swim and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend. My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me. "Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend. The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment, then back by my uncle and mother. "Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says. "Is she eating?" my mother asks. "I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says. I want to bash the smoking cup into her face. My uncle says she's been training for a marathon. My neurons get tidy and taper off. So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room to park my *** on an empty piano bench. I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down on black keys. I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels. I gaze over my shoulder. Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh. In her left hand, red fuck-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind; in her right hand, black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss. "You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision, like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim. Abigail has long brunette hair, and it's sticking to her neck. Deep permanent dimples frame her lips. She's a nurse in Waco. Each time I see her, I think about Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan". It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity, and trembling sick. "I forgot my trunks." "That's no excuse." I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg. In the living room. While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend. Her right leg crosses her left, an overpass and an interstate. My forehead overheats in a flash, and I feel like she's staring back at me. When my leering eyes shift from her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon: "All roads lead to me."
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50
Through the white, beating Texan heat, water towers cry out titles high above the flat land where kids from the roadside houses run around in stained tank tops, dreaming of their own names up there. The long and burnt grass cuts their ankles and the dry cement scrapes their feet. The midday ritual begins in a racing circle raising dust over the roofs and into the shy afternoon. Around 5, the roadside families reunite in front of their houses to watch the daily traffic jam and observe the variety of faces through the glass windows, which after a short while do not seem to vary at all. But today, something else had their full attention. The sky was never seen this low and the clouds ​turned a shade of black so dark as to be almost green, so the eldest women on that single row of houses declared bad omen. The next early morning, the closest water tower laid gravely against the ground. Already, a small boy had climbed on top of the tank, soles bleeding, and waving ​his shirt into the wide clear sky. ©2018 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net
0
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 12:54 PM UTC
alex-bex
All along
Through the white, beating Texan heat, water towers cry out titles high above the flat land where kids from the roadside houses run around in stained tank tops, dreaming of their own names up there. The long and burnt grass cuts their ankles and the dry cement scrapes their feet. The midday ritual begins in a racing circle raising dust over the roofs and into the shy afternoon. Around 5, the roadside families reunite in front of their houses to watch the daily traffic jam and observe the variety of faces through the glass windows, which after a short while do not seem to vary at all. But today, something else had their full attention. The sky was never seen this low and the clouds ​turned a shade of black so dark as to be almost green, so the eldest women on that single row of houses declared bad omen. The next early morning, the closest water tower laid gravely against the ground. Already, a small boy had climbed on top of the tank, soles bleeding, and waving ​his shirt into the wide clear sky. ©2018 Alex Bex - www.alexbex.net
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25
I thought Van Gogh had it figured out he fell in love and cut off his ear he died july 29 1890 from a self inflicted gun shot wound He painted He painted the sky He painted men women bedrooms flowers shoes street corners chairs boats and fields I thought Basquiat had it figured out ****** NYC He painted memories in the present August 12 1988 NYC apartment ****** overdose I thought Picasso I thought Warhol I thought Stalin ****** Buddha Had it figured out but sand fills our shoes in dry texan sun and the dog howls howls for its mother howls for its brother howls for its sister I thought the dog had it figured out eating insects smelling my hands eating the ham on the floor I thought Hemingway had it figured out Late at night reading Old Man and The Sea Suicide July 2 1961 12-gauge English shotgun I thought Fitzgerald had it figured out I thought Ginsberg I thought Kerouac did too drinking across the neck and back bone and gutter lips of America and back I thought Bukowski had it figured out the cigarettes the wine the women the type writer the sad nights accompanied by cockroaches and a city that is indigestible I thought Phillip Glass had it figured out Beethoven going Def Mozart lost in his grave writing symphonies for Death and his cruel tripled eyed angels I thought The drunkards were lost The Junkies were ankle-less The Mothers were done for The Fathers had given in The Young True The Elderly gazing  through the bifocals of heaven and hell The Prisoners cemented in Time I thought the Dead were the ones who published our Dreams I thought the painter had it figured out So I painted I thought the pianist had it figured out So I played the Piano and listened to the bilingual codes of the keys I thought the Ballet dancer had it figured out So I watched her I studied the movements and the bruised toes looking for a design of an answer I thought the Poet had it figured out So I wrote a poem and I saw the world.
0
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
savio
Synecdoche
I thought Van Gogh had it figured out he fell in love and cut off his ear he died july 29 1890 from a self inflicted gun shot wound He painted He painted the sky He painted men women bedrooms flowers shoes street corners chairs boats and fields I thought Basquiat had it figured out ****** NYC He painted memories in the present August 12 1988 NYC apartment ****** overdose I thought Picasso I thought Warhol I thought Stalin ****** Buddha Had it figured out but sand fills our shoes in dry texan sun and the dog howls howls for its mother howls for its brother howls for its sister I thought the dog had it figured out eating insects smelling my hands eating the ham on the floor I thought Hemingway had it figured out Late at night reading Old Man and The Sea Suicide July 2 1961 12-gauge English shotgun I thought Fitzgerald had it figured out I thought Ginsberg I thought Kerouac did too drinking across the neck and back bone and gutter lips of America and back I thought Bukowski had it figured out the cigarettes the wine the women the type writer the sad nights accompanied by cockroaches and a city that is indigestible I thought Phillip Glass had it figured out Beethoven going Def Mozart lost in his grave writing symphonies for Death and his cruel tripled eyed angels I thought The drunkards were lost The Junkies were ankle-less The Mothers were done for The Fathers had given in The Young True The Elderly gazing  through the bifocals of heaven and hell The Prisoners cemented in Time I thought the Dead were the ones who published our Dreams I thought the painter had it figured out So I painted I thought the pianist had it figured out So I played the Piano and listened to the bilingual codes of the keys I thought the Ballet dancer had it figured out So I watched her I studied the movements and the bruised toes looking for a design of an answer I thought the Poet had it figured out So I wrote a poem and I saw the world.
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77
I am the mutt mix ****** soul'd ***** tongue'd, Animal boy, Feverish *** green like February Tree moss eyes, Siren song blink of a kiss, ***** yellow dress, around her knees, king, Queen, Peasant, peasant, going def like grandfather Navy Time, like Beethoven's 7th dream, wine induced inspirational serene beauty, with a sharp stale touch, of old leather, boiling like Texan Hot weather, ****** orange lipstick, No food, only the bacterial salt, left on the pistachio shell, That some, Hispanic goddess, For an hour, 200, dollars, left as she, got dressed, and fluttered away like, smoke, like, memory.
0
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
savio
Miracle, Mystery and Authority
I am the mutt mix ****** soul'd ***** tongue'd, Animal boy, Feverish *** green like February Tree moss eyes, Siren song blink of a kiss, ***** yellow dress, around her knees, king, Queen, Peasant, peasant, going def like grandfather Navy Time, like Beethoven's 7th dream, wine induced inspirational serene beauty, with a sharp stale touch, of old leather, boiling like Texan Hot weather, ****** orange lipstick, No food, only the bacterial salt, left on the pistachio shell, That some, Hispanic goddess, For an hour, 200, dollars, left as she, got dressed, and fluttered away like, smoke, like, memory.
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31
.ah here comes england with its eccentricities, ah hier kommt polen mit seine christentum: where anyone can be a messiah, as stressed by the byzantines. my first love was the love of the english grey, (in honesty mentioned it was the double-decker first, since i fancied myself the great bus-driver of the no. 5 bus back home) earl grey came and said: ‘i can’t look at these skies without sunglasses!’ and so it was, mid-autumn with sunglasses at loss the sun-worshiper enter the moon idiot, looking for accents, looking for anything. in england they called him das deutsche - for reasons believable enough; the luftwaffe eagerly anticipating the tunnelling centipede that is the euro-star train-tunnel: the panzers are rolling in! the panzers are rolling in! strange he never minded the coal-miners as useful as minded by edvard gierek von silesia - to the dispute of silesians not ex-patriated to saxony (oh wait... texan boy doesn't sound as nationalistic as minnesota boy?). ooh pokey poo... writing about germany became so **** so recently, i forget that i started it: here’s to the english language’s chirality of s and z, actually being superimposable: from words in the socratic sense as encoded by plato i don't get a bunch of ideas... virtue does not make me ponder it with meaning or definition, i only see the kabbalistic sensibility of anti-alphabetical sequencing as v i                   r               t               u          e... otherwise              e      i    u             r         t         v; almost sounds like s.t.d.
0
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 6:33 AM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
Naked Orthography
.ah here comes england with its eccentricities, ah hier kommt polen mit seine christentum: where anyone can be a messiah, as stressed by the byzantines. my first love was the love of the english grey, (in honesty mentioned it was the double-decker first, since i fancied myself the great bus-driver of the no. 5 bus back home) earl grey came and said: ‘i can’t look at these skies without sunglasses!’ and so it was, mid-autumn with sunglasses at loss the sun-worshiper enter the moon idiot, looking for accents, looking for anything. in england they called him das deutsche - for reasons believable enough; the luftwaffe eagerly anticipating the tunnelling centipede that is the euro-star train-tunnel: the panzers are rolling in! the panzers are rolling in! strange he never minded the coal-miners as useful as minded by edvard gierek von silesia - to the dispute of silesians not ex-patriated to saxony (oh wait... texan boy doesn't sound as nationalistic as minnesota boy?). ooh pokey poo... writing about germany became so **** so recently, i forget that i started it: here’s to the english language’s chirality of s and z, actually being superimposable: from words in the socratic sense as encoded by plato i don't get a bunch of ideas... virtue does not make me ponder it with meaning or definition, i only see the kabbalistic sensibility of anti-alphabetical sequencing as v i                   r               t               u          e... otherwise              e      i    u             r         t         v; almost sounds like s.t.d.
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35
Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine, Air, space, land and sea; Sailor, Corpman, Airman, Soldier, Pilot, Ranger, Medic, SEAL, or Merchant Mariner; Barbary, 1812, American Revolution, Civil, Spanish, Texan and Mexican, WWI, WWII,  Korea, Vietnam,  Gulf, Iraq and Afghanistan. Khaki, green, white and blue, Ship, tank, plane... all boots. Knife, pistol, bomb or rifle,  Weapon, bandage, or Bible instead, Each one’s veins filled with red. Hostage rescue, protect and shield, Capture, conquer, overcome, never yield; Freedom, heartbreak, loss and grief, Foreign, home, border, sky, Ocean, desert, mountain, plain, Water side, hillside, bedside, grave. Parent, child, father, mother, Auntie, uncle, niece or nephew, Sister, brother, spouse and lover. May your sweat on furtive brow, Rouse our tribute, take knee and bow. Buried, missing... wounded all, Respect, endure, honor, release, Forever may you rest in peace. *To each of you Who’s paid a price, With years, with limb,  With blood, with life, For each of these,  Oh, warrior ferocious, Wrapped around  A heart that’s precious; My voice it sings, Let freedom ring; My heart, it bleeds,  My eyes, they weep; My hand, it rises in salute; And my soul is filled  This day for you With pride that swells, With love that beats, A song of deepest,  Heartfelt  Gratitude!* Oh Warrior, you this day I salute!!!
0
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
se-reimer
Tribute
Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine, Air, space, land and sea; Sailor, Corpman, Airman, Soldier, Pilot, Ranger, Medic, SEAL, or Merchant Mariner; Barbary, 1812, American Revolution, Civil, Spanish, Texan and Mexican, WWI, WWII,  Korea, Vietnam,  Gulf, Iraq and Afghanistan. Khaki, green, white and blue, Ship, tank, plane... all boots. Knife, pistol, bomb or rifle,  Weapon, bandage, or Bible instead, Each one’s veins filled with red. Hostage rescue, protect and shield, Capture, conquer, overcome, never yield; Freedom, heartbreak, loss and grief, Foreign, home, border, sky, Ocean, desert, mountain, plain, Water side, hillside, bedside, grave. Parent, child, father, mother, Auntie, uncle, niece or nephew, Sister, brother, spouse and lover. May your sweat on furtive brow, Rouse our tribute, take knee and bow. Buried, missing... wounded all, Respect, endure, honor, release, Forever may you rest in peace. *To each of you Who’s paid a price, With years, with limb,  With blood, with life, For each of these,  Oh, warrior ferocious, Wrapped around  A heart that’s precious; My voice it sings, Let freedom ring; My heart, it bleeds,  My eyes, they weep; My hand, it rises in salute; And my soul is filled  This day for you With pride that swells, With love that beats, A song of deepest,  Heartfelt  Gratitude!* Oh Warrior, you this day I salute!!!
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50
When clouds conquer the sky The disposed Texan sun shines through in shades of grey The air turns thick before the heavens explode Pedestrian cars disappear from roads Winged animals huddle in shelter As the clouds weep sheets of warm happy tears They make rivers of abandoned streets Then come the children in bare feet Blinded by heavy rain Laughing, drinking, cheering, dancing Lost in joy, absorbed by natural wonder The clouds applaud in lighting and thunder Driving the dancers indoors for warm towels And Doritos chips, burgers, and video games
0
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
noor
Swim the Neighborhood
When clouds conquer the sky The disposed Texan sun shines through in shades of grey The air turns thick before the heavens explode Pedestrian cars disappear from roads Winged animals huddle in shelter As the clouds weep sheets of warm happy tears They make rivers of abandoned streets Then come the children in bare feet Blinded by heavy rain Laughing, drinking, cheering, dancing Lost in joy, absorbed by natural wonder The clouds applaud in lighting and thunder Driving the dancers indoors for warm towels And Doritos chips, burgers, and video games
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14
Near the Houston hotel sitting on the bench, looking at the warring sun,   I see it's thoughts fill the amber sky.    I feel. The heat - Pouring on the the pillars of the blue and purple shoreline.      Her. As the sunset runs in The stars twinkle like a dying headlight, a deer passes by the ocean. And immediately the rain falls, my blue jeans are soaked, and the crash of clouds and thunder with enormous rain fill the night air.            I race and reach for the memories. Running through the ocean blue, Searching for her silver eyes, The sky stands black along the naked coastline. Still running, crushing, subduing the ***** lobsters, and rocks underneath the open earth. I'm running to find her eyes again. Where home felt so new, against her wit and lovely sarcasm, and her untimely ways, my life never felt so real, I stand on mountains looking for a place to kneel before her silver eyes.   In the distance, I hold the warmth of her hands, For in the secrets of her dress, her name reverberates like blue Texan rivers. Her smile hangs like the moon over water, and I breathe my dreams out for her, my sweet surrender.
0
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
aaron-combs
Her Silver Eyes
Near the Houston hotel sitting on the bench, looking at the warring sun,   I see it's thoughts fill the amber sky.    I feel. The heat - Pouring on the the pillars of the blue and purple shoreline.      Her. As the sunset runs in The stars twinkle like a dying headlight, a deer passes by the ocean. And immediately the rain falls, my blue jeans are soaked, and the crash of clouds and thunder with enormous rain fill the night air.            I race and reach for the memories. Running through the ocean blue, Searching for her silver eyes, The sky stands black along the naked coastline. Still running, crushing, subduing the ***** lobsters, and rocks underneath the open earth. I'm running to find her eyes again. Where home felt so new, against her wit and lovely sarcasm, and her untimely ways, my life never felt so real, I stand on mountains looking for a place to kneel before her silver eyes.   In the distance, I hold the warmth of her hands, For in the secrets of her dress, her name reverberates like blue Texan rivers. Her smile hangs like the moon over water, and I breathe my dreams out for her, my sweet surrender.
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29
We are free to use our blinkers Or maybe not, to switch lanes We're free to lose, of course to gain Most give less than they share But we all have freedom to wish, and that of despair I need some ******* space here, people I don't care about the extremists in that Texan steeple I need to think, I need to know Because apparently we're all given a chance to succeed Chances to grow But that's some **** I'll tell you, and the nation Where there are chains, no one finds your liberation You must fight for yourself Unlike those ignorant to an outside situation I live life as well as I can conceive I come, and I'll go as I please I have struggled, **** and some things done with ease But it's hard to accept things Stop from beginning to plead With life, dreaming of a non-failure tattoo on my chest Freedom of denial and maybe of access But dreams can be illusions, rather than reality But it's on the individual to make dreams an actuality I've seen so many live, and I've seen too many die But I've found the freedom to laugh loud And I've let myself cry But sometimes it's easy to hear, And harder to listen For me especially To act after having made decision If I hold a gun in the war of revolution There will be freedom in war, and freedom in peace I guess we all have things to learn Like when to start When to cease I wish we could all be free some disease Chronically in perfect health But that's a fantasy, unlike poverty And manipulated, mishandled wealth. An honest politician is an idea I can't conceive If I'm ever that powerful Well, it'll have to start with me, I believe Americans will find freedom from greed And maybe jealousy, we can keep some pride But me, just me, I don't have anything to hide. I'll never be free from space, but maybe from time But there's things that will happen around me: Hunger, and crime If I can find freedom from my body and mind Then I'll have found what I've been trying to find To see true colors, looking ahead, forget what's behind Maybe there's rebirth, being of the spiritual kind Universal freedom might be nothing left to lose, But fighting for my freedom is the path I look to choose The rich old white guys keep driving their Benz's While I look at my world, my freedom Through my $20 lenses v.xi.xi
0
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:15 AM UTC
revolute-jay
My Freedom
We are free to use our blinkers Or maybe not, to switch lanes We're free to lose, of course to gain Most give less than they share But we all have freedom to wish, and that of despair I need some ******* space here, people I don't care about the extremists in that Texan steeple I need to think, I need to know Because apparently we're all given a chance to succeed Chances to grow But that's some **** I'll tell you, and the nation Where there are chains, no one finds your liberation You must fight for yourself Unlike those ignorant to an outside situation I live life as well as I can conceive I come, and I'll go as I please I have struggled, **** and some things done with ease But it's hard to accept things Stop from beginning to plead With life, dreaming of a non-failure tattoo on my chest Freedom of denial and maybe of access But dreams can be illusions, rather than reality But it's on the individual to make dreams an actuality I've seen so many live, and I've seen too many die But I've found the freedom to laugh loud And I've let myself cry But sometimes it's easy to hear, And harder to listen For me especially To act after having made decision If I hold a gun in the war of revolution There will be freedom in war, and freedom in peace I guess we all have things to learn Like when to start When to cease I wish we could all be free some disease Chronically in perfect health But that's a fantasy, unlike poverty And manipulated, mishandled wealth. An honest politician is an idea I can't conceive If I'm ever that powerful Well, it'll have to start with me, I believe Americans will find freedom from greed And maybe jealousy, we can keep some pride But me, just me, I don't have anything to hide. I'll never be free from space, but maybe from time But there's things that will happen around me: Hunger, and crime If I can find freedom from my body and mind Then I'll have found what I've been trying to find To see true colors, looking ahead, forget what's behind Maybe there's rebirth, being of the spiritual kind Universal freedom might be nothing left to lose, But fighting for my freedom is the path I look to choose The rich old white guys keep driving their Benz's While I look at my world, my freedom Through my $20 lenses v.xi.xi
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58
Dear Poet Friends, the 4th of July is celebrated as American Independence Day. But for me it is a day of special significance since it is my contemporary & Texan poet friend Jon Stevens’ BIRTHDAY! We were both born in the same year 1943! Kindly join up to wish John ‘A Very Happy Birth Day’ with me! Today I dedicate an old poem of mine to John, titled - ‘’Time the Master Craftsman’’ composed way back in 2007 and posted on ‘Poenhunter.com’. Hope John and my Readers will like it! Thanks, - Raj, New Delhi.       TIME THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN! TIME the master craftsman first lets you grow. For you are his ‘marble slab’ on which his work will show! He silently chips away, his chisel makes no noise. For he is a master of stealth, and woks with elegant poise. We all take him for granted as time passes by. Spring gives way to Summer, as Autumn draws nigh. Then suddenly one day the mirror shows a face. The wrinkles are etched all over, and spread across your face. With deep furrows on your forehead, even a shiny baldness shows. The sculptor has done his work both steady and slow! Your eyes get set deeper, with blotches on your skin. Your face begins to shrink, with a toothless child-like grin. Time the master craftsman has now perfected his art. He remains surrounded by other slabs for his chipping work to start! -By Raj Nandy 04 July 2016 A VERY HAPPY BIRTH DAY TO JOHN STEVENS OF TEXAS &                   WISHING HIM BEST OF HEALTH.
0
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
RAJNANDY
TIME THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN! (Dedicated to John Stevens on his Birthday on the 4th of July)
Dear Poet Friends, the 4th of July is celebrated as American Independence Day. But for me it is a day of special significance since it is my contemporary & Texan poet friend Jon Stevens’ BIRTHDAY! We were both born in the same year 1943! Kindly join up to wish John ‘A Very Happy Birth Day’ with me! Today I dedicate an old poem of mine to John, titled - ‘’Time the Master Craftsman’’ composed way back in 2007 and posted on ‘Poenhunter.com’. Hope John and my Readers will like it! Thanks, - Raj, New Delhi.       TIME THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN! TIME the master craftsman first lets you grow. For you are his ‘marble slab’ on which his work will show! He silently chips away, his chisel makes no noise. For he is a master of stealth, and woks with elegant poise. We all take him for granted as time passes by. Spring gives way to Summer, as Autumn draws nigh. Then suddenly one day the mirror shows a face. The wrinkles are etched all over, and spread across your face. With deep furrows on your forehead, even a shiny baldness shows. The sculptor has done his work both steady and slow! Your eyes get set deeper, with blotches on your skin. Your face begins to shrink, with a toothless child-like grin. Time the master craftsman has now perfected his art. He remains surrounded by other slabs for his chipping work to start! -By Raj Nandy 04 July 2016 A VERY HAPPY BIRTH DAY TO JOHN STEVENS OF TEXAS &                   WISHING HIM BEST OF HEALTH.
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24
It's a night in paradise, while I contemplate sleep knowing it would be wise, but like an alcoholic with nothing else on his mind, every thought ends up being you I find, a day would be suffice, a night would be greater than nice, I want to tell you I need you in the worst way, and I do when you wake up everyday, but the miles seem to get just that much longer with every moment, and there maybe nothing I can do aboot it, like the years that separate yet fit, so I will sit in paradise and think of your little texan town, and realize with a smile with shades of a frown, that maybe a couch and a sleepy smile maybe tough, to make me realize it will always be enough, so smile.
0
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 4:34 AM UTC
the-masked-sleepyz
I'll be the Godzilla that destroys your world, you be my mothra that shows me butterflies cant get any bigger
It's a night in paradise, while I contemplate sleep knowing it would be wise, but like an alcoholic with nothing else on his mind, every thought ends up being you I find, a day would be suffice, a night would be greater than nice, I want to tell you I need you in the worst way, and I do when you wake up everyday, but the miles seem to get just that much longer with every moment, and there maybe nothing I can do aboot it, like the years that separate yet fit, so I will sit in paradise and think of your little texan town, and realize with a smile with shades of a frown, that maybe a couch and a sleepy smile maybe tough, to make me realize it will always be enough, so smile.
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16
If I had the hands of the sky, the colors of Monet's secret insight, a pigment of an Ocean, unsailed, by human kind, what color would I paint you? How man days can I Starve, to stay alive, If I had a canvas, as large, as white, as the moon, how would I describe you, snow crunches, beneath my feet, I light a cigarette, breath thick, honey, molasses, dog fat, If I were to build you, could I use the tombstone of Beethoven, grandmother's woolen blanket, the missing piano key, a harp string, moth's wing, winter's bulimia, night's insomnia, a dream's last breath, novel's, Last line, Neruda's breath, Shiva's golden temple, a goddess' breast, the highway's Texan accent, a humming bird's, silent flight, the pollen of a sunflowers, the ****** user's, high, Indian's leather, a mother's palm, sad song, Michigan's final night, If I were to kiss you, how again, would you taste, too many nights, have separated my memory.
0
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 3:23 AM UTC
savio
infra 6
If I had the hands of the sky, the colors of Monet's secret insight, a pigment of an Ocean, unsailed, by human kind, what color would I paint you? How man days can I Starve, to stay alive, If I had a canvas, as large, as white, as the moon, how would I describe you, snow crunches, beneath my feet, I light a cigarette, breath thick, honey, molasses, dog fat, If I were to build you, could I use the tombstone of Beethoven, grandmother's woolen blanket, the missing piano key, a harp string, moth's wing, winter's bulimia, night's insomnia, a dream's last breath, novel's, Last line, Neruda's breath, Shiva's golden temple, a goddess' breast, the highway's Texan accent, a humming bird's, silent flight, the pollen of a sunflowers, the ****** user's, high, Indian's leather, a mother's palm, sad song, Michigan's final night, If I were to kiss you, how again, would you taste, too many nights, have separated my memory.
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49
Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa I remember morning Peeping through the curtains' awning As I just lay there With my gal just begging for it bare. Every Texan city Where I've dropped my pants Ain't so ******* pretty Without love and romance. I'll ne'er forget Amarillo Every night I'd grease her ***** I dream dreams of Amarillo And the girl who ****** me there. Is this the way to Amarillo? Where I kissed an armadillo Crying over her huge ***** And sweet Edna's ***** hair. Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa And the girl who ****** me there. There's a church bell ringing Welcoming the KY-gel I'm bringing Though I may be poor I'm the guy who's coming to do her. Just beyond the highway There's an open door And I can't stop running To **** that little ***** I can't forget Amarillo And Edna's mighty ***** I dream dreams of Amarillo And the girl who ****** me there. Which is the way to Amarillo? I've been weeping on my pillow Clutching to her huge great ***** And sweet Edna's public hair. Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa And sweet Edna's ***** hair Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa Lovely Edna's ***** hair
0
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
edna-sweetlove
Memories of Amarillo
Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa I remember morning Peeping through the curtains' awning As I just lay there With my gal just begging for it bare. Every Texan city Where I've dropped my pants Ain't so ******* pretty Without love and romance. I'll ne'er forget Amarillo Every night I'd grease her ***** I dream dreams of Amarillo And the girl who ****** me there. Is this the way to Amarillo? Where I kissed an armadillo Crying over her huge ***** And sweet Edna's ***** hair. Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa And the girl who ****** me there. There's a church bell ringing Welcoming the KY-gel I'm bringing Though I may be poor I'm the guy who's coming to do her. Just beyond the highway There's an open door And I can't stop running To **** that little ***** I can't forget Amarillo And Edna's mighty ***** I dream dreams of Amarillo And the girl who ****** me there. Which is the way to Amarillo? I've been weeping on my pillow Clutching to her huge great ***** And sweet Edna's public hair. Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa And sweet Edna's ***** hair Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa Wah wa wa wa wa wa Lovely Edna's ***** hair
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47
Looking through pictures, And hating every minute of it. I hate the memories you have, The people you're with, Even the way your hair looks. But the photographic timeline fasts forward. Your hair grows longer And I become happier. Aside from a subtle hole of depression Opening up in my stomach. Finally I reach The memories we have together. Pictures on the archery range And the dining hall porch. The subtle hole fades. Flipping through pictures of your work this past year, And I wonder, Does Molly still hate me? Have you spoken to Jon the Texan since he left? Do you miss them? Because I miss you. I'll be home soon enough, But I miss you. And I will try my best Not to let you miss me Anymore.
0
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
hannah-sobel
Looking Through Pictures
Looking through pictures, And hating every minute of it. I hate the memories you have, The people you're with, Even the way your hair looks. But the photographic timeline fasts forward. Your hair grows longer And I become happier. Aside from a subtle hole of depression Opening up in my stomach. Finally I reach The memories we have together. Pictures on the archery range And the dining hall porch. The subtle hole fades. Flipping through pictures of your work this past year, And I wonder, Does Molly still hate me? Have you spoken to Jon the Texan since he left? Do you miss them? Because I miss you. I'll be home soon enough, But I miss you. And I will try my best Not to let you miss me Anymore.
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26
I went for a run today to test out my lungs, my back, my once-strong core Here, miles from home the streets offer no reference point So I run not knowing what to expect Every foot-strike echoes back the memory of several falls--each, with their own, signature pain One year One year Nestled deep in these muscles, these bones I dig in, hug my spine and keep running I continue through a cemetery trail It's quiet, pretty There is nothing to know of the lives beneath the stones I pass But they are my markers-- Increment by increment At the centre of the cemetery A path, lined with Texan flags slopes up towards the exit Above it stands a great Lone Star I fix on it, As the billowing, spectator-flags wave me out I wave back and leave the graveyard
0
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
jenniforia
Austin
I went for a run today to test out my lungs, my back, my once-strong core Here, miles from home the streets offer no reference point So I run not knowing what to expect Every foot-strike echoes back the memory of several falls--each, with their own, signature pain One year One year Nestled deep in these muscles, these bones I dig in, hug my spine and keep running I continue through a cemetery trail It's quiet, pretty There is nothing to know of the lives beneath the stones I pass But they are my markers-- Increment by increment At the centre of the cemetery A path, lined with Texan flags slopes up towards the exit Above it stands a great Lone Star I fix on it, As the billowing, spectator-flags wave me out I wave back and leave the graveyard
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34
Let Death be spontaneous as will I Shakespeare I am a little boy drawing the midnight wings of a moth that I saw in my dreams on the damp window of a nomadic van crossing the sea of a limbo AM highway 1993 Mother mystery night crossing Texan dirt roads high grass I am laying with my black lab Death is a wild animal birthed in the sands of a desert that I traveled **** holding the Bible holding Hemingway holding a sternum of poems to keep me weighted from the sky In a vision In a vision As a boy Crossing the life span of a symphony Crossing the life span of a musical note of a man growing old under a highway neck drinking my whiskey from my Camel Wise palm I am grace I am Evil I am the Devil's brother scribbling war paint on the bathroom walls of Latin American 24/7 Neon Churches Blessed with a passion Blessed with a vision Blessed with the Night on my back that slants like the sunrise that slants like the eyes of a widow'd mother of a widow'd goddess of a widow'd song of a widow'd night of a widow'd Boy stretched out on the Lawn of a rich man Who sleeps with silk and hope And I I am a child Exploring the tiny beauties of things that do not happen I open the swede coffin of imagination of foot steps of Beethoven's finger tips I climb the roof of Death's condo of Death's shack of Death's Widow'd cat LifeX70 if you are lucky Emma girl with black hair hair like sleep On a Violin On a Piano's back On a Dog's color blind eyeball Let Death be spontaneous I will wait for him in my stained sweater holding a bottle of wine for the two of us I know he won't say much like the pavement I will offer him a glass Where does the poet go when he dies Does Death favor him Does he let him become a bird or a crooked lamp post that shimmers that shines Like Youth once did Highway child Nomadic boy falling in love listening to the shapes listening to the wrinkling skin listening to the story for ****** in a symphony Aging night leaning on my window I would offer you a cigarette I would offer you inside But I know your tricks I know that the moon is awake When does the poem stop When the poet stops writing or when the truth is lost There is a Cicada following me like rain on her long hair as she walks to a river There are too many books poetry too many lamps that wont let me sleep too many poems I have stained too many nights I have lived Like a Moth or a wandering bull through a cities lights I ask April to stop the rain I can hear scraps from the storm falling into the flower *** where nothing grows Let Death be spontaneous and I will study the rain
0
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
savio
Let Death be spontaneous
Let Death be spontaneous as will I Shakespeare I am a little boy drawing the midnight wings of a moth that I saw in my dreams on the damp window of a nomadic van crossing the sea of a limbo AM highway 1993 Mother mystery night crossing Texan dirt roads high grass I am laying with my black lab Death is a wild animal birthed in the sands of a desert that I traveled **** holding the Bible holding Hemingway holding a sternum of poems to keep me weighted from the sky In a vision In a vision As a boy Crossing the life span of a symphony Crossing the life span of a musical note of a man growing old under a highway neck drinking my whiskey from my Camel Wise palm I am grace I am Evil I am the Devil's brother scribbling war paint on the bathroom walls of Latin American 24/7 Neon Churches Blessed with a passion Blessed with a vision Blessed with the Night on my back that slants like the sunrise that slants like the eyes of a widow'd mother of a widow'd goddess of a widow'd song of a widow'd night of a widow'd Boy stretched out on the Lawn of a rich man Who sleeps with silk and hope And I I am a child Exploring the tiny beauties of things that do not happen I open the swede coffin of imagination of foot steps of Beethoven's finger tips I climb the roof of Death's condo of Death's shack of Death's Widow'd cat LifeX70 if you are lucky Emma girl with black hair hair like sleep On a Violin On a Piano's back On a Dog's color blind eyeball Let Death be spontaneous I will wait for him in my stained sweater holding a bottle of wine for the two of us I know he won't say much like the pavement I will offer him a glass Where does the poet go when he dies Does Death favor him Does he let him become a bird or a crooked lamp post that shimmers that shines Like Youth once did Highway child Nomadic boy falling in love listening to the shapes listening to the wrinkling skin listening to the story for ****** in a symphony Aging night leaning on my window I would offer you a cigarette I would offer you inside But I know your tricks I know that the moon is awake When does the poem stop When the poet stops writing or when the truth is lost There is a Cicada following me like rain on her long hair as she walks to a river There are too many books poetry too many lamps that wont let me sleep too many poems I have stained too many nights I have lived Like a Moth or a wandering bull through a cities lights I ask April to stop the rain I can hear scraps from the storm falling into the flower *** where nothing grows Let Death be spontaneous and I will study the rain
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126
As a Sports Illustrated model it's no secret that she has the ability to turn heads. So as Hannah Ferguson marked day 30 of LOVE magazine's video advent she did so in smouldering fashion to ensure her debut was not easily forgotten. Showing off her moves to the sound of Drake's Hotline Bling, the 23-year-old owned the shoot as she cavorted in a slashed corset dress. Whipping her hair back and forth, Ferguson appeared to forego underwear beneath the daring form fitted number. Becoming the definition of sensual, a pair of sheer stockings and Giuseppe Zanotti black patent leather lace-up stilettos completed the cover girl's look. With her hair worn in its natural state, the beautiful blonde's striking blue eyes are lined with kohl liner while her pout is coated in a shade of **** lipstick. Preened to perfection, the two minute clip is formatted in slow motion as the Texan beauty, who resides in the Big Apple, seductively gyrated on the floor. In the film Hannah also displays her comical side as she flashed her pearly white while attempting to do the 'Stanky Leg' dance. Ferguson's debut sees her join the likes of Kendall Jenner, Cara Delevingne, Rita Ora and Adriana Lima who all featured in the 2015 edition of the online countdown to the new year. The LOVE magazine advent calendar, now in its fifth year, has seen an influx of 8.2 million views since launching on December 1. read more:http://www.marieaustralia.com www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
0
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
judy-smith
Sports Illustrated model Hannah Ferguson smoulders in slashed corset dress
As a Sports Illustrated model it's no secret that she has the ability to turn heads. So as Hannah Ferguson marked day 30 of LOVE magazine's video advent she did so in smouldering fashion to ensure her debut was not easily forgotten. Showing off her moves to the sound of Drake's Hotline Bling, the 23-year-old owned the shoot as she cavorted in a slashed corset dress. Whipping her hair back and forth, Ferguson appeared to forego underwear beneath the daring form fitted number. Becoming the definition of sensual, a pair of sheer stockings and Giuseppe Zanotti black patent leather lace-up stilettos completed the cover girl's look. With her hair worn in its natural state, the beautiful blonde's striking blue eyes are lined with kohl liner while her pout is coated in a shade of **** lipstick. Preened to perfection, the two minute clip is formatted in slow motion as the Texan beauty, who resides in the Big Apple, seductively gyrated on the floor. In the film Hannah also displays her comical side as she flashed her pearly white while attempting to do the 'Stanky Leg' dance. Ferguson's debut sees her join the likes of Kendall Jenner, Cara Delevingne, Rita Ora and Adriana Lima who all featured in the 2015 edition of the online countdown to the new year. The LOVE magazine advent calendar, now in its fifth year, has seen an influx of 8.2 million views since launching on December 1. read more:http://www.marieaustralia.com www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
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12
Tales of the Texas Rangers: The Legend of Tom Brady’s Shirt Texas is rich with tales of old Heroes, villains, San Saba’s gold Once Aztecs ruled our shores and bays And Tejas roamed the forest ways Here in this sunburnt arid land Comanches bold made their last stand Karankawas, Apaches too - All sorts of tales, and mostly true Nueva Espana, then Mexico Rebellion and the Alamo But the strangest tale, we now assert Is the mystery of Tom Brady’s shirt Missing it is, after the game Who is the thief? Who is to blame? Dan Patrick, the lieutenant-guv He swore by all the stars above And most of all by that one Star That’s flown in every saloon and bar He’d catch that creep, and make him hurt Whoever pinched Tom Brady’s shirt So in this time of ******* danger He called upon each Texas Ranger His voice was low, but cold as steel: “Y’all brang that mangy cur to heel; Load your weapons, and saddle up!” Each Ranger answered with a “Yup.” All Rangers, now, be on alert: Somebody rustled Tom Brady’s shirt Every Texan expects your best (Tom Brady is our honored guest) He can’t go home in just his jeans So find his jersey, by any means Remember - not a blouse or skirt; You’re looking for the poor man’s shirt That’s why you Rangers are paid so much - Search every ****** and hovel and hutch Somewhere under the Texas skies An outlaw hides, and probably cries He shamed his state and he shamed his mama And the only end to all this drama Will come upon him like wind and dust And a voice will command (with great disgust) “Stand and deliver, you ugly varmint! Hold up your hands, and drop that garment!” “Oh, Texas Ranger, tell me true: How did you find me? I feel so blue!” And the Ranger will sing softly: “The shirt of a stranger is upon you…”1 y colorín, colorado y este cuento se ha acabado, y’all 1Apologies to Chuck Norris
0
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 9:01 PM UTC
lawrence-hall
Tales of the Texas Rangers: The Legend of Tom Brady's Shirt
Tales of the Texas Rangers: The Legend of Tom Brady’s Shirt Texas is rich with tales of old Heroes, villains, San Saba’s gold Once Aztecs ruled our shores and bays And Tejas roamed the forest ways Here in this sunburnt arid land Comanches bold made their last stand Karankawas, Apaches too - All sorts of tales, and mostly true Nueva Espana, then Mexico Rebellion and the Alamo But the strangest tale, we now assert Is the mystery of Tom Brady’s shirt Missing it is, after the game Who is the thief? Who is to blame? Dan Patrick, the lieutenant-guv He swore by all the stars above And most of all by that one Star That’s flown in every saloon and bar He’d catch that creep, and make him hurt Whoever pinched Tom Brady’s shirt So in this time of ******* danger He called upon each Texas Ranger His voice was low, but cold as steel: “Y’all brang that mangy cur to heel; Load your weapons, and saddle up!” Each Ranger answered with a “Yup.” All Rangers, now, be on alert: Somebody rustled Tom Brady’s shirt Every Texan expects your best (Tom Brady is our honored guest) He can’t go home in just his jeans So find his jersey, by any means Remember - not a blouse or skirt; You’re looking for the poor man’s shirt That’s why you Rangers are paid so much - Search every ****** and hovel and hutch Somewhere under the Texas skies An outlaw hides, and probably cries He shamed his state and he shamed his mama And the only end to all this drama Will come upon him like wind and dust And a voice will command (with great disgust) “Stand and deliver, you ugly varmint! Hold up your hands, and drop that garment!” “Oh, Texas Ranger, tell me true: How did you find me? I feel so blue!” And the Ranger will sing softly: “The shirt of a stranger is upon you…”1 y colorín, colorado y este cuento se ha acabado, y’all 1Apologies to Chuck Norris
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52
O Sweet Edna, how can I forget thee! So beautifully named after the daughter of Count Telfener, Promoter of the Macaroni railroad, Home of the monumental Edna Theater (SEE NOTE # BELOW). I recall a chilly Christmas spent there: Unfortunately Edna was closed for the day But I met a nice girl in the one bar that was open And for only twenty five bucks she went all the way. By purest chance her name was Edna too, And she gave me a real Christmas treat; I could so easily have fallen for her bigtime Had it not been for the smell of her size twelve feet. O how your architectural marvels will live in my memory Dear principal "city" of Jackson County, O Edna divine! Home to six thousand Texan souls Of whom only one in five lives below the poverty line. NOTE:- (#) Actually a cinema and disused anyway. Paste this link for a photo: http://media1.picsearch.com/is?hWN6taRELewhHHMx-FMVpQOXSK4aNdmtABXGB-ZxEyA&height;=257 (if it doesn't work, don't blame me).
0
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
edna-sweetlove
Memories of the "City" of Edna in Texas
O Sweet Edna, how can I forget thee! So beautifully named after the daughter of Count Telfener, Promoter of the Macaroni railroad, Home of the monumental Edna Theater (SEE NOTE # BELOW). I recall a chilly Christmas spent there: Unfortunately Edna was closed for the day But I met a nice girl in the one bar that was open And for only twenty five bucks she went all the way. By purest chance her name was Edna too, And she gave me a real Christmas treat; I could so easily have fallen for her bigtime Had it not been for the smell of her size twelve feet. O how your architectural marvels will live in my memory Dear principal "city" of Jackson County, O Edna divine! Home to six thousand Texan souls Of whom only one in five lives below the poverty line. NOTE:- (#) Actually a cinema and disused anyway. Paste this link for a photo: http://media1.picsearch.com/is?hWN6taRELewhHHMx-FMVpQOXSK4aNdmtABXGB-ZxEyA&height;=257 (if it doesn't work, don't blame me).
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18
Uno, dos, tres, here we ****** go again. Mexican blood running through a Texan accent, yet playing the same old game. All credit for our first kiss goes to ***** but the second, now that was fate. You happen to pick up the phone, when I called that night, quite late. Weeks later bumping into you at Morrisons, and on the way back in the bus? I don't spend my time looking into crystal ***** but, coincidence much? Cuatro, cinco, seis, where on earth did you learn to Sext... (text)? Mr. Polite to Mr. Passionate, leaving me on the edge not knowing what to expect next. The hearty deep laugh followed by shockingly ****** expertise, and I'm hypnotized by that shower gel, which makes your body smell like rich Earl Grey tea. With eyes glued to those macho tattoos, and *** flowing through my brain, straddling you was ecstatic, wearing not a lot more than a gold chain. Siete, ocho, nueve, when it ended why did you stay? You held me, and was still there the next day. You hugged me, in that warm, tight, protective kind of way, and kept messaging back, even after you went away. Now all this has left me confused, frankly I'm utterly bemused. How ****** up am I to suspect 'being treated well' as a twisted ruse? Diez, hope this isn't the beginning of an end. 'Cause if you hadn't noticed, I'm already a bit of a mess.
0
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
harsh
¡Yoú make a gírl want to speak Spañish!
Uno, dos, tres, here we ****** go again. Mexican blood running through a Texan accent, yet playing the same old game. All credit for our first kiss goes to ***** but the second, now that was fate. You happen to pick up the phone, when I called that night, quite late. Weeks later bumping into you at Morrisons, and on the way back in the bus? I don't spend my time looking into crystal ***** but, coincidence much? Cuatro, cinco, seis, where on earth did you learn to Sext... (text)? Mr. Polite to Mr. Passionate, leaving me on the edge not knowing what to expect next. The hearty deep laugh followed by shockingly ****** expertise, and I'm hypnotized by that shower gel, which makes your body smell like rich Earl Grey tea. With eyes glued to those macho tattoos, and *** flowing through my brain, straddling you was ecstatic, wearing not a lot more than a gold chain. Siete, ocho, nueve, when it ended why did you stay? You held me, and was still there the next day. You hugged me, in that warm, tight, protective kind of way, and kept messaging back, even after you went away. Now all this has left me confused, frankly I'm utterly bemused. How ****** up am I to suspect 'being treated well' as a twisted ruse? Diez, hope this isn't the beginning of an end. 'Cause if you hadn't noticed, I'm already a bit of a mess.
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40
Rock’n’roll radio died Between gasoline riffs I love Texan poker She smiled with classic liquors Realise that I want your lips Gamble success where strangers bleed Roadside taboo Lay bare, please, I want to give you one hot date
0
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 10:56 PM UTC
bibliomancie
Texas Rockabilly
Rock’n’roll radio died Between gasoline riffs I love Texan poker She smiled with classic liquors Realise that I want your lips Gamble success where strangers bleed Roadside taboo Lay bare, please, I want to give you one hot date
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9
They dance in absence of light These patterns of shadows Hinting at the shapes of leaves and of stems Movement, wind, of which we cannot glimpse And of birds so slight of limb who take to flight I watch the waltz, so slow and regal Accompanied by whispering fronds Listen to wind In slithery sounds slips through the upper reaches Of the tallest Texan denizens From my shallow swing I gaze Upon the dancing radiant pattern And wonder in awe, in song, in rapture How ever born was such a beauty So simple and sweet, ever so placid The games air and light play The constant, subtle testimony of at work, a master.
0
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 3:42 PM UTC
levi-kitchen
The Radiant Pattern
They dance in absence of light These patterns of shadows Hinting at the shapes of leaves and of stems Movement, wind, of which we cannot glimpse And of birds so slight of limb who take to flight I watch the waltz, so slow and regal Accompanied by whispering fronds Listen to wind In slithery sounds slips through the upper reaches Of the tallest Texan denizens From my shallow swing I gaze Upon the dancing radiant pattern And wonder in awe, in song, in rapture How ever born was such a beauty So simple and sweet, ever so placid The games air and light play The constant, subtle testimony of at work, a master.
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17
There’s an old saying that Texas just might swallow the whole ****** world someday. Well it’s an old saying of mine but I can hardly believe the world ending without Texas swallowing a great deal of it considering these canyons, mountain-eaters, big enough to hide every cowboy snake and buzzard that don’t know any better. The thing about Texas is you can’t see the end of things here and people call it big. The thing about Texas is everybody calls it something big when it’s really something stretched. Texas took a turn for the worse, warred with Mexicans in 1836 and never recovered. All that revolution, rusted muskets, wormwood, spilled into and on golden-brown cattle land, turned it dry-blood red. All that red, and Texas, she blushes. Texas, shy, ravaged, stretched. 1836 and she’s reaching for the Gulf and the East and West coasts and Montana and if we don’t fix it someday Texas just might swallow the whole ****** world. One Spring I myself kicked around a little dry-blood dirt. By Summer I had my fill. There’s an old saying the only way to leave Texas is dry-throated and drenched, brokenhearted and better if you swing it the right way . 4 O’Clock Texan Suns scream thirsty yet we leave the place drowning if we make it at all. That’s the thing about Texas, though, it sneaks up, an axe and a smile and you can’t trust anything about it and you fall in love too easily and the thing is the axe doesn’t bite so much as knowing the handle came from the same forest you never questioned, where step 1 is breathing and you actually did it; the thing about axes though is that breath might still be inside the handle and it’s just sitting in there dead dead dead and heavy Pine. Austin at night becomes a family of burning eyes in the desert. Sun and trees, and it’s green. I do not think these trees grew naturally. I think these trees were put there.
0
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 10:09 PM UTC
--5279
Texas, Part 1
There’s an old saying that Texas just might swallow the whole ****** world someday. Well it’s an old saying of mine but I can hardly believe the world ending without Texas swallowing a great deal of it considering these canyons, mountain-eaters, big enough to hide every cowboy snake and buzzard that don’t know any better. The thing about Texas is you can’t see the end of things here and people call it big. The thing about Texas is everybody calls it something big when it’s really something stretched. Texas took a turn for the worse, warred with Mexicans in 1836 and never recovered. All that revolution, rusted muskets, wormwood, spilled into and on golden-brown cattle land, turned it dry-blood red. All that red, and Texas, she blushes. Texas, shy, ravaged, stretched. 1836 and she’s reaching for the Gulf and the East and West coasts and Montana and if we don’t fix it someday Texas just might swallow the whole ****** world. One Spring I myself kicked around a little dry-blood dirt. By Summer I had my fill. There’s an old saying the only way to leave Texas is dry-throated and drenched, brokenhearted and better if you swing it the right way . 4 O’Clock Texan Suns scream thirsty yet we leave the place drowning if we make it at all. That’s the thing about Texas, though, it sneaks up, an axe and a smile and you can’t trust anything about it and you fall in love too easily and the thing is the axe doesn’t bite so much as knowing the handle came from the same forest you never questioned, where step 1 is breathing and you actually did it; the thing about axes though is that breath might still be inside the handle and it’s just sitting in there dead dead dead and heavy Pine. Austin at night becomes a family of burning eyes in the desert. Sun and trees, and it’s green. I do not think these trees grew naturally. I think these trees were put there.
Continue reading...
7