"thoroughbred" poems
So he threw all his chips on red
Thought only of what was in his head
Which turned out to be shots of dread
For his seeds planted in young women's garden bed
Without nary water or breaking bread
Or nary knowing the breaches of his and her homestead
So he rushed down stranger's alley shed
On a runaway, wrongheaded cocky sled
Through her banks, he crashed her spread
Like a raging, raging thoroughbred
Nary was a thought of a rubber glove on his dragonhead
For the buried absence of love was in his heart of lead
There's his wife at home tucking their kids in their bunkbed
While he flirted with the forbidden apple instead
It was this night that lives in infamy for others to read this dread
For the news broke of a married man impregnating a young coed
Accosting such teen to what now proves to be his deathbed
Yet if he unwinds his c(l)ock and placed his chips on black he wouldn't have bled
Petering out the ills in his marriage he would have been freed
Now he shrivels in a shameful battle of what went through his head
Logan Robertson
10/05/2018
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
Oh there once was a swagman camped in the billabong,
Under the shade of a Coolabah tree;
And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Down came a jumbuck to drink at the waterhole,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee;
And he sang as he stowed him away in his tucker-bag,
"You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Down came the squatter a-riding his thoroughbred;
Down came policemen — one, two, and three.
"Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with we."
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the waterhole,
Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree;
And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the billabong
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me
5.2k
She's thoroughbred hunger
From her double shift mom to her deadbeat dad
She tiptoes through junkyard junglegyms
Collecting alleyway beach glass
She learned to swindle
Haggled survival with the big guy
Big sisters traded on corners
She was one
Karma mustve forgotten
While doing rounds
She's got an invincible soul
Stitched of disappointments
Wrapped in sorrow
Hope as a bow
He's thoroughbred gluttony
From mommas limelight jewels to daddy's sin-shined shoes
He learned to swindle
To thrive
Wall street walk on the 99%
Politician promises
To impermanent faces
Costly trips
To extravagant places
Mixing up "enough"
With "more"
Looking for happiness
In a store
Though it seems to me
Whats made of life
Is what makes life worth living for
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 4:34 AM UTC
If I had last words they would be…
Well… I mean… I see in those streams of invectives
I see especially people who drink, eat, sleep,
who make all human functions
Which are quite rather ******
And I shall say that they’re heavy
It never stopped being heavy
I noticed
I’ve read so many verses and particularly
verses from the 17th century
Verses, so-called courteous verses
I found 3 or 4 good ones in thousands of them
There’s little lightness in man
He’s heavy... isn’t he
And nowadays he’s extraordinary in heaviness
Since automobiles, alcohol, ambition, politics make him heavy
Even heavier
It’s mostly like that, he’s extremely heavy
Maybe one day shall we see a mind rebellion against the weight
But it isn’t for tomorrow
For now... we’re heavy
So I’d say indeed
If I had to die
I’d say
Man is heavy
That’s all
Oh! They were mean but...
Because they were heavy
They were heavy
They were heavy… jealous of a certain lightness
Jealous... jealous like a woman who wears a clothing burlap
instead of another who wears lace
Like someone who owns a workhorse
instead of a thoroughbred
Jealous...
Jealous of being heavy... that’s all
Crippled...
They weigh... they're crippled
Heaviness makes them *******
Therefore we can beware of them
They’re ready to do anything
Oh sure
They’re ready to do anything
And to activate heaviness
They drink, aren’t they
So when they drink, they turn into sledgehammers
It’s frightening, isn’t it
Sledgehammers without control
Yes, they’re especially like this
They activate... increase their weight
Instead of making themselves lighter
Oh! They’re not in Ariel’s side
They’re more like Caliban
More and more
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 1:49 AM UTC
"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss.
He only went to the Two-mile — he ought to be back by this.
He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way;
And, here, he's not back at sundown — and what will his mother say?
"He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;
And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.
But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away
He hasn't got strength to hold her — and what will his mother say?"
The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track,
And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;
And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:
"What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?"
Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,
The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;
For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,
And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.
And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,
Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;
And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey
Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.
And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,
"Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply;
And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,
God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!
Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;
For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by,
And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.
But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.
"I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said.
But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead.
And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
Was an angel smile of gladness — she had found the boy at last.
2.8k
#
*You make yourself easy to be seen..
by someone like me.
The only thing I would think you would find
as surprising
Is why it has taken this long
for a beautiful Thoroughbred in Spirit
such as you
to finally be seen
for exactly who it is that you are
Free from assessment or judgement,
I would venture so far to say
that the greater central part
of who it is that you are,
is (sadly so) tremendously lonely.
Again, not a judgement at all,
but an assessment of life in general.
A lover like me would be perfect,
but I am (as you could guess)
spiritually volatile in how deeply I push--
..Even within the normal give and take
of everyday things. Sometimes even
one well placed word can bring one
off-center and into (and towards)
an even deeper part of their own journey.
Most gorgeously-luscious
Thoroughbreds such as yourself
usually pick less 'challenging' partners
in order to have a somewhat more
'stable' home life..
..But sadly with that also, develops
a relationship where the deeper,
more exctasy-based and driven
parts of you
are left with no choice
but to become, dormant..
in order to protect the 'beautiful-luscious'
within you from slipping into despair
--Until one day,
what you have been avoiding
(longing for) most,
shows his ******* unorthodoxically-untethered,
brazen attitude (and perfectly clear eyesight)
and suddenly you become seen.
There is absolutely no way
with some one like me that you..
(within all of your Wondreous,
Deep-feeling Glory)
would not eventually be seen.
I urge you to take every single
part of it all, in..
(the very thing you were "built" to do)..
Even if in doing so, you were almost
continually brought right up to
(and so very often, "over") the edge
Gifted fingers, helping the body find
its own form of release,
when the pressings of Spirit, mixed
with the deeply-Penetrating View that
Love carries within every single part
of itself..
..Those gracious fingers are not 'up to no good'..
but instead..
(by the very Deeply-Understanding
nature of Love itself)..
both they.. and the whole
beautiful process of Release..
is deemed, Holy.
The physical human body becomes
pushed way too far within its limited
ability to contain, the Wholly
uncontainable Ectsatic Pulsings
of Love's true Agenda.
Perfection knows that and says
(so do I)..
"How could she not?"
Be gracious to yourself, girl.
You have wanted to live
within the Beautiful Realms,
worthy of your calling.*
Welcome Home ❤
#
Aug 17, 2023
Aug 17, 2023 at 12:59 PM UTC
Am I a man, or a liability
Visioning myself out of home
All my walls taller than me
And the unescaped feeling of being alone
I sit there like a garden gnome
Staring my fate right into its soul
Thinking I’ll start sipping that Styrofoam
Cos it’s home where I bear the insult
“It won’t work out, it never does”
So much for your encouragement
Wish I was with the clever ones
Running free like a thoroughbred
Preaching at me about having patience
Look at you, you’re full of it
What’s that word you’ve never experienced?
Another one comes to mind, cough cough ‘hypocrite’!
I can’t move on from your effluences
I’m reminded each time I try to forget
Back engaged within those experiences
Then you go and ask why I’m upset?
Wish you could see what I wish
That age doesn’t define anything
The opportunities that went with the mist
When all my friends had everything
Seems like my words make a stain
All I ever do is to be wanted
I have the strength of an aeroplane
That goes towards the wind and not with it
Tonight I’m lonely I can almost cry
In the wake of my very absence
But around you, I keep my cheeks dry
For the sake of your obedience
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
Wake up to reality
Seems like I’ve got an affinity
For playing with your center of gravity
Can I paint your mental walls red?
Hop on a plane just to find myself in your bed
Possible....
Some might even say probable
But only if you bow down
To worship my invisible crown
Misled, misread but still a thoroughbred
Undeniably ready to be ridden
There are no misgivings
You want vivd?
Tie me up in ribbons
Enjoy my only submission
© 2014 Peach
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
I
GRANDFATHER sang it under the gallows:
" Hear, gentlemen, ladies, and all mankind:
Money is good and a girl might be better.
But good strong blows are delights to the mind.'
There, standing on the catt,
He sang it from his heart.
Those fanatics all that we do would undo;
Down the fanatic, down the clown;
Down, down, hammer them down,
Down to the tune of O'Donnell Abu.
"A girl I had, but she followed another,
Money I had, and it went in the night,
Strong drink I had, and it brought me to sorrow,
But a good strong cause and blows are delight.'
All there caught up the tune:
"On, on, my darling man'.
Those fanatics all that we do would undo;
Down the fanatic, down the clown;
Down, down, hammer them down,
Down to the tune of O'Donnell Abu.
"Money is good and a girl might be better,
No matter what happens and who takes the fall,
But a good strong cause' -- the rope gave a **** there,
No more sang he, for his throat was too small;
But he kicked before he died,
He did it out of pride.
Those fanatics all that we do would undo;
Down the fanatic, down the clown;
Down, down, hammer them down,
Down to the tune of O'Donnell Abu.
II
Justify all those renowned generations;
They left their bodies to fatten the wolves,
They left their homesteads to fatten the foxes,
Fled to far countries, or sheltered themselves
In cavem, crevice, hole,
Defending Ireland's soul.
"Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman,
"They killed my goose and a cat.
Drown, drown in the water-but,
<1Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman.
Justify all those renowned generations,
Justify all that have sunk in their blood,
Justify all that have died on the scaffold,
Justify all that have fled, that have stood,
Stood or have marched the night long
Singing, singing a song.
"Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman.
"They killed my goose and a cat.
Drown, drown in the water-butt,
Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman.
Fail, and that history turns into *******
All that great past to a trouble of fools;
Those that come after shall mock at O'Donnell,
Mock at the memory of both O'Neills,
Mock Emmet, mock Parnell:
All the renown that fell.
"Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman,
"They killed my goose and a cat.
Drown, drown in the water-butt,
Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman.
III
The soldier takes pride in saluting his Captain,
The devotee proffers a knee to his Lord,
Some back a mare thrown from a thoroughbred,
Troy backed its Helen; Troy died and adored;
Great nations blossom above;
A slave bows down to a slave.
Who'd care to dig em,' said the old, old man,
"Those six feet marked in chalk?
Much I talk, more I walk;
Time I were buried,' said the old, old man.
When nations are empty up there at the top,
When order has weakened or faction is strong,
Time for us all to pick out a good tune,
Take to the roads and go marching along.
March, march -- How does it run? --
O any old words to a tune.
"Who'd care to dig 'em,' said the old, old man,
'Those six feet marked in chalk?
Much I talk, more I walk;
Time I were buried,' said the old, old man.
Soldiers take pride in saluting their Captain,
Where are the captains that govetn mankind?
What happens a tree that has nothing within it?
O marching wind, O a blast of the wind.
Marching, marching along.
March, march, lift up the song:
"Who'd care to dig 'em,' said the old, old man.
"Those six feet marked in chalk?
Much I talk, more I walk;
Time I were buried,' said the old, old man.
1.8k
filed in
the most deviant chambers
of my memory bank
is a
summer of bliss
in a
breezy city
of blue lakes,
buxom blondes
and *****
near the baltic sea
eva's skin-tight
****** white jeans
were the envy
of my roving eye
"hi"
she replied
to my
transparent thought
and I
bought her
a screwdriver
with a twist
of jive
we sat poolside
chatting about this
and that
and after the
5th *****
driver that is,
we both knew
'twas time for
some intercontinental
**********
she was curious
and excited
to sample the coffee
in my african skin
and her talented
slavic tongue
stirred me gently
from
gdansk
all the way down
to krakow
I took eva
for a long
wild ride over
the serengeti
on my faithful thoroughbred
johnson
together
we climbed
the rugged hills of lust
to passion's prurient peak,
a blissful journey
that left us
gasping
breathlessly
we embraced
under a fountain of rapture
as words
hung dry
in our throats
we would wear them later...
~ P
(7/21/2013)
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
REMEMBER all those renowned generations,
They left their bodies to fatten the wolves,
They left their homesteads to fatten the foxes,
Fled to far countries, or sheltered themselves
In cavern, crevice, or hole,
Defending Ireland's soul.
Be still, be still, what can be said?
My father sang that song,
But time amends old wrong,
All that is finished, let it fade.
Remember all those renowned generations,
Remember all that have sunk in their blood,
Remember all that have died on the scaffold,
Remember all that have fled, that have stood,
Stood, took death like a tune
On an old,tambourine.
Be still, be still, what can be said?
My father sang that song,
But time amends old wrong,
And all that's finished, let it fade.
Fail, and that history turns into *******
All that great past to a trouble of fools;
Those that come after shall mock at O'Donnell,
Mock at the memory of both O'Neills,
Mock Emmet, mock Parnell,
All the renown that fell.
Be still, be still, what can be said?
My father sang that song,
but time amends old wrong,
And all that's finished, let it fade.
The soldier takes pride in saluting his Captain,
The devotee proffers a knee to his Lord,
Some back a mare thrown from a thoroughbred,,
Troy backed its Helen; Troy died and adored;
Great nations blossom above;
A slave bows down to a slave.
What marches through the mountain pass?
No, no, my son, not yet;
That is an airy spot,
And no man knows what treads the grass.
We know what rascal might has defiled,
The lofty innocence that it has slain,
Were we not born in the peasant's cot
Where men forgive if the belly gain?
More dread the life that we live,
How can the mind forgive?
What marches down the mountain pass?
No, no, my son, not yet;
That is an airy spot,
And no man knows what treads the grass.
What if there's nothing up there at the top?
Where are the captains that govern mankind?
What tears down a tree that has nothing within it?
A blast of the wind, O a marching wind,
March wind, and any old tune.
March, march, and how does it run?
What marches down the mountain pass?
No, no, my son, not yet;
That is an airy spot,
And no man knows what treads the grass.
III
Grandfather sang it under the gallows:
"Hear, gentlemen, ladies, and all mankind:
Money is good and a girl might be better,
But good strong blows are delights to the mind.'
There, standing on the cart,
He sang it from his heart.
1
"A girl I had, but she followed another,
Money I had, and it went in the night,
Strong drink I had, and it brought me to sorrow,
But a good strong cause and blows are delight.'
All there caught up the tune:
"Oh, on, my darling man.'
1
Robbers had taken his old tambourine.
"Money is good and a girl might be better,
No matter what happens and who takes the fall,
But a good strong cause' -- the rope gave a **** there,
No more sang he, for his throat was too small;
But he kicked before he died,
He did it out of pride.
1
1.6k
With the ever increasing tempo
of time sprinting forward,
like a thoroughbred gone frantic down the course,
the years of yesterday
dress in both the most alluring colours
and the most heart-rending sorrows.
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 6:57 PM UTC
like a hot-wheel guided by
a holy hand above, he makes
impossible feats as if the car
creates the road, his free hand
is just as busy making
fanatic gestures to guide
scrambled linguistics
or it rests out the window
seeking a courtship
with the wind
clasping the door handle, wide-eyed
the passenger rides safely adjacent to Fear,
but at every turn Momentum carries Fear deep into the heart
where its is pumped via veins, icing the body
with awe inspiring visions.
Visions controlled by the last true
American Driver.
He drives like only a thief
can, poised by paranoia, pure thrill
achieved only through the drive, race or
getaway.
in a past life,
Neal was a great Outlaw
outrunning potbelly sheriffs
to plump on the saddle to rival
the great horsemen of their day
he’d chase trains down,
taming and taunting them
with speed and skill.
or
perhaps
he was a horse himself.
a terrific thoroughbred
bluegrass fed.
tritting
trotting
his way to a Triple Crown.
trainers fed him Benzedrine
to gage the beast. they feared
he would run through the finish line
and straight across the country
like a maniacal madman
looking for the last
true road
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
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Now, you may read the poem:
“Jack and Jill
went up the hill
and Jack came running back to mummy:
‘Mummy! Mummy!’
said Jack
‘Jill pulled my pants down
and poured ice-cold water
on either side
of my bottom!’”
When you finish reading
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Now, that you have read the poem
and pressed a few numbers like a thoroughbred idiot
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Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 5:35 AM UTC
Luscious red,
Breaks me into some sweat,
Oh, no, she's not a threat,
More than...she's a hot, **** thoroughbred.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
She rides a thoroughbred perfectly like a man does,
that in no way makes her look less than a lass,
how does the horse feel, being in this rough and tumble dance
see the reason for his pride, it's deeper than what one thinks,
she makes him feel loved, he obeys every word of command,
not a mistress and slave, two beings benign, in sync
right then, my heart dictates,"Make this lovely Cavalry woman
your own", as the crowning moment dawns,
I wave to Esther, from among the motley crowd.
Still in gallop her eyes caught my eyes from that far,
what makes her look at me straight, later I would ask,
"Being the first, near the finishing line, the crowd was just a haze,
to my watery eyes, colors seemed blurred, but you stood out
the crowed simply cheered, but you! you were in such an awe."
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 9:36 AM UTC
Some things come naturally,
like breathing or crying;
they are embedded into us.
Other traits we seem to
acquire over time --
like a carefully raised
Thoroughbred, being taught
to clear the steepest jumps.
Some things come naturally,
like sleeping or eating;
we're born with the urges.
But others will fall
into cyclical habits slowly --
like a filly taking
her first shaking step,
I place a pen to paper.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 1:56 PM UTC
I walked down for my daily meal,
probably spinach salad
and yesterdays pork in a soup
and flesh on the brain stopped me
dead in my pace
when I saw this striated sack of bones
a greyhound, kept thin as ribs
by the genes she was bred to express
collapsed on the end of chain, tail-tucked
dead weight where once was thoroughbred speed
built for speed, life on the fast-track
chasing a mechanical sheep
a lure she’ll never catch
kept hungry
for the good chance she’d run faster
winning some beer-belly’s bets
but at least she was given a wage—
a crate, and all the food she’d need
to stay thin. when genes turned her
speed to the slip and sag of age
one ******* was human enough
instead of a quick slug pulling out her brain
through a new hole and pinning it to the dirt
behind the trailers, Beer-bellied *******
let her retire to an old-dog’s crate
plastic walls and one gate
Isn’t she beautiful??
I raise my gaze from the hound’s caramel eye
and find the thing clutching the chain,
grinning like hooks pulling cheeks
far too wide, with too much skin on her thighs,
a squat pile of woman bred on fatty beef and pecan pies
We rescued her, she’s our mascot!
and she hands me a flyer:
EDUCATION INTERNSHIPS
PUT YOUR LIFE ON THE FAST-TRACK!!
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:41 AM UTC
A wind cold and bitter blows in from the west
and stirs up old storms in you. May we suggest
one cure for the lonely most highly regard -
a tour of the local relation-shipyard.
Our newer relation-ships being built daily
can catch the wind nicely, their sails snapping gaily.
But others we've built have met rougher sailing;
our flagship line shows up a few of our failings.
The first liner christened, the R.S. Obsession,
sank during a storm in the Sea of Depression.
The Intimate's hull you'll see later today
aground on the shoals of Old Fantasy Bay.
The pilot of Dreamboat just plain lost his sense;
ran full speed ahead through the Reef of Defense.
Only one came back whole, the relation-ship Reason;
she's in dry-dock now after only one season.
We're taking the trouble to change her design
and model her after our new Friendship line.
Our new Friendships are (if you'll pardon the gloating)
the match of any relation-ship floating.
We've shaken her down and worked her way up
to running through trials for the Real Lover's Cup.
Though she'll take on a gale yet be pushed by a breeze,
we're not really sure how she'll handle those seas.
Whatever the outcome, we'll learn even more
and strive to build better than ever before.
Cleaner, more streamlined, a true thoroughbred;
let form follow function, with no figurehead.
The storms are subsiding, the wind's dying down;
you're welcome whenever you're this side of town.
And what's more, you're welcome whenever you're ready
to work on this Friendship we've started already.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 6:29 AM UTC
#Don't you understand?
--The back-pasture fences, lay down
Opening up to more back-pasture, grasses
u n c o n t a in e d,
by fences, laid down..
only to be surrounded in the distance
by more, back-pasture grasses..
And yes.. my beautiful Beloved--
with its fences also, laid down
You are a Thoroughbred, love.
Within your gorgeous succulence
lies the open-field,
of beautifully-unending grasses,
succulent.
#
Feb 3, 2022
Feb 3, 2022 at 5:20 PM UTC
Your Levi's beat all I have seen
Your ancestors had some good genes
I love your good roots
Your fine attributes
From your head to your toes and between
It's all very clear to me
You're certified, high pedigree
It so plainly shows
There's some blue blood I know
I hope that you'll share it with me
LADY, IT'S ALL IN YOUR GENES
YOU MAKE MY RED CORPUSCLES DREAM
SINCE YOU CAME BY
OUR CHEMISTRY'S SO HIGH
LADY, IT'S ALL IN YOUR GENES
Your figure is full thoroughbred
You could raise up a man that was dead
I want to be part
Of your love from the start
I can't get you out of my head
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
He remembers his son's young eyes,
clear and brown as marbles,
And when laughter made the boy's face
light up with joy.
He remembers his step, like a
thoroughbred's, galloping
through the dust,
And his enormous kites soaring
into the unknown.
A boy in cowboy boots,
exploring the jungle.
A boy enchanted with frogs
and the graceful flight of birds.
***
His father tries to find him now
in this other jungle,
sinking into the quicksand
of another world,
And he still remembers those eyes -
still young, still clear
and brown as marbles.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
Corners, crystals. midnight delight. Will this flight get off tonight?
Turning corners on straight *** lines. **** its nice to be out of line.
Turn it up and lets see who blows. Its funny to watch the freak show.
As long as I'm not starring in the one horse show.
I think that's a thoroughbred her to be fed.
You know their the fucken craziest their fucken em bred.
Feed them the lion and they go for the head
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
Better duck the Stuka dive bombers
if you want to still paint like Rothko.
I can no more steal your last breath
than exhibit prostrate in your sky,
we all have our crosses to bear
but I am confidently on a fool's errant
searching another thoroughbred obligation
with my paraplastic factory vision,
currently stranded in Haifa
night goggles on!
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC
My motor skills are failing
The pen wobbles in my hand
and fights the flow
I'm making co2 deposits
and having oxygen withdrawals
Hazy thoughts like incense smoke
expand my skull and coat my brain in
a diaphanous fog
My heart is a thoroughbred
careering for it's life
Pleas tease my tongue
behind clenched teeth
as my eyes brew storms never to
cascade
Moisture develops in my shivering
palms
though my throat has become
a desolate desert scape
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC