"tribesman" poems
Please excuse my drivel of words as I ascertain my inexcusable lustless love life.
However,
humor me for a second…
But I’m looking for Miss Alabama Worley.
Mississippi Isabel,
**** it, Lady Macbeth would do.
That ***** knows crazy.
Where is the incomprehensible insufferable beast?
That will take my heart in one foul swipe and refuse
Me rest till I’ve given her lust the spearing of a hungry tribesman.
I want the lock and chain around my ***** because my naked vulnerability
Is hers for the taking.
Beat me,
Oh monstrosity of the bedroom
Let the blood drip as I lick your foot.
Indulge me with the endless sweat and tears of the night.
And **** me like a rock star
Till I taste the rubber.
Where is the whirlwind passion?
Love at first sight.
And not the giddy looks of something Michael Cera starred in.
I am talking tattoos on the first date,
Reckless marriage doomed by the 50 pound ring on her finger.
Put me in a ****** east end flat,
Let me starve because ******* is food for the brain,
And her ***** tastes delectable when I’m high.
**** my brother in our bed,
I never liked him anyway.
A best friend is a man who’s shared the same hole.
And trust me, we’re closer than ever.
You’ll be all I’ve got.
I’ll sleep on the couch and crawl back to you,
Because I'm wrong,
I am always wrong.
Laugh at the scars on my wrists
Pity isn’t there for the taking.
Leave me shaking in the corners of my mind,
Let lust grow like anger and revenge
Let anger and revenge grow
When I go soft on you,
Put those cigarettes out on my chest,
And choke me; asphyxiate me from the inside out.
I want to burn in the hellish rapture
Betwixt your thighs.
******* fire in half an hour,
God knows where you got it from.
But those who care share, right?
But then,
Perhaps I’ll just end up like my parents,
Settle down with a nice girl.
A nice normal girl,
Missionary position isn’t that bad I ‘spose.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
Found on the beach this morning
by New Floridian tribesman
were sea-softened pieces
of the torch
the stone lady held
ages ago
before we found out
that freedom was just as imaginary
as any other silly idea we've ever had.
They propped them up
against what was left of the old Mouse-Man monument
their edges touching in a way
so that they may together provide shade
to any passing child of the wasteland.
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 8:07 PM UTC
Because I don’t live in either my past or my future.
I’m interested only in the present.
If you can concentrate always on the present,
you’ll be a happy man.
You’ll see that there is life in the desert,
that there are stars in the heavens,
& that tribesman fight...
because they are part of the human race.
Life will be a party for you,
a grand festival,
because life is the moment we’re living right now
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
This is not the beginning of my story
Nor will it be the end,
Hasten or not, it must be told
In my undying grief I can no longer go on without His strength
I am Sir Thomas de Charney, of the Order of the Knights Templar
Born in the Year of Our Lord 1270, now a man, 20 years old
My Father is William de Charney, Grand Master of the Order
He is currently headquartered at Acre, I Master at Gaza
Our lineage dates back to 1119, with the nine original Knights
The Order and my Ancestors names will live on forever
Until I was 18 I was unaware of the outside world
That story is for another time
At present the Christians control most of the Holy Land
However, the Muslims, or Saracens, continued to wreak havoc
They pillaged and plundered the villages outside our fortifications
The infidels accomplished this madness using vagabonds or tribesman
This story is about my love, Dagung; ne’er was a woman as beautiful
I was Master of the City of Gaza the first time I laid eyes on her face
While our garrison remained strong, proximal towns were under attack
Rakish strikes by Muslim non-essential forces made them dangerous
This we knew was the first line of assault by the Saracens
At the moment they were just toying with our minds in ludic form
Bearing assault on our townspeople like poltroons I took umbrage
Therefore I dispatched my men accordingly to make well the trouble
On this particular engagement I decided to join my men.
___________________________________________________
To be continued
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 6:04 AM UTC
A crimson muddy ravine is marked on both sides by
massive cliffs towering over the precession below. A figure wrapped
in white muslin and rubbed with ash is propped up on a stone altar. Around the figure
tribesman and women dance hard, their eyes wild, their curled fingers wicked.
The figure is not touched by the dancers almost as if he is diseased. I realize
at this point that that is exactly what is going on. A plague has swept through this
tribe and killed many. They burn the bodies on these altars to appease the gods
and to beg mercy. The dripping fat and flesh pools in the mud below, making a small trickle of filth that led to near by water. Down river from this tribe is a whole different world. Here instead of being dark
skinned the people are very pale. All of their houses are remains from shipwrecks
put up into trees and connected by rope bridges, hammocks and twisting vines. Below the fields are
covered with water. Below the surface was their crops. Melons, lettuces, berries, peppers all kinds of
earth like flora but every species glowed softly with a pulsing beat. The pale tribe was very careful walking through the lines while harvesting. One rough handling could ruin the whole crop. A sense of fear was here all of the people smelled strongly of it. I could still hear the drum beat of the sick tribe. All work stopped and slowly everyone turned to look at me. Just then a loud crackling sound shot through the sky. A bolt of lightening struck close. Gasps could be heard all around. I looked quickly at my feet in the fields of water and didn't see the glow. The fields were black. The pale faces around me sunk in, gaunt and hungry. Their mouths worked but I could not hear them. My vision went blurry then black, fading away from their struggle.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 11:53 AM UTC
The Spanish navy strong enough,
maybe too strong for their worth.
Led with the cross and then the sword.
Never questioning their Lord.
The infantry, the Tudor reign,
grabbing at what's there to gain,
As history repeats itself,
living as a helpless serf.
The Tribesman who once conquered all,
dying with the lions roar.
As history repeats itself,
nothing ever making sense.
The Christians, Jews,
Muslims, all,
each one shall forever fall.
Upon their blades,
those raised in hate,
Each one to their own sweet faith.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
it is the beat of rain on rooftops
the squeal of tires on tired roads
echoing of a cough in a church
the slamming of book on floor
calls of birds, and bugs, and dogs
pencils tapping messages in code
the tv turning on to a commercial
the phone hanging on the receiver
change rattling in a hobo’s can
a woman’s gasp at a man’s proposal
the silence of the forest
the quiet of child’s sleep
the hush of new snow
the words staring back
the beat of a tribesman’s old drum
the horns of a million city’s sewers
the strings of the reeds and oceans
the vocals of a world without sleep
the sight of man in free-fall
the smell of a fresh, new day
the feel of looking out at the
world
these are the sounds of living,
the very song of life.
we hear it
and
we play it
and
we know the tune
but,
never,
amongst all this
cacophony and
symphony,
do we ever
realize:
we were never taught this song
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 3:55 PM UTC
Lives in the mouths of cannons
engineering themselves in laughter, smelling, changing, in the tip of a firefly-before it thinks or truly lives. Glowing, in the buzz-hum with a perfect way of rolling
over each other in geometric bliss-mating
like shadows flying from the hands of a tribesman, in the ceremony of his eyes – - explaining to his love
that she is the stealth of his blood, and that the camera watching has lungs too, like you or ‘I’. Stripped negatives from chests sing from a line of animals hung in a black room
the only thing to remind the city of its eternal face, wetness clinging to each peg – all augmenting themselves, transforming drains into ventricles and aorta’s-opening, the sighing pool-mass we see has a curve along its far corners – slight – returning its shape to us inside the battery, and eons of humbling war, and the vat contained molasses,
and the occasional faces of god
in flickers, of red saluting static, across the landscape.
Our time is linked as the day shifts, workers conducting the days lips
joining sculptures uniformed in nakedness
steam glides across the deepening pool,
rhythms of the earth belt free from knowledge and chaos,
no life vermin,
no energy separated from birth,
or the simpleness of walking beside you
Where we always are,
in the climbing paths of voiced and unvoiced back world flowers, which hope without thought,
and never begin
until they are named,
and known within cell,
microbes repeating their art.
A nightingale crossing paths with a worm,
all of the lampshades tensing at once,
holding the air up
completely still
transcending a tight fist until it bursts into a tree
placing its roots in the burning ground by melting its ice
illumined
traces near the opal shaped glass
where we purge our minds
of transport beyond our own
intricate company
settling into one
and hearing nothing
that is not here
belonging;
with us.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 8:02 AM UTC
An ancient tribesman
In the amazonian jungle
**** and raw, as a ghost.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
Yesterday, it seemed,
Freedom is the prize,
Today, I found,
Desire is the price.
A far off land,
Does beckon to us all,
To run into dreams,
Is to simply wake up with a fall.
Beauty I see all around,
Or just the little good is filtered,
Mingled with hope, served
When actually none is to be found.
Courage is gained,
Strength is lost,
Resolves are abound,
Will to carry on is not.
Braving my own,
Saving my own,
Heart from the mind,
A kid from the world.
What I have learnt,
Is what have I learnt??
Not knowing is a kind of knowing!!
Lost or searching, the map is burnt.
Dip them in a palette, of nature's hues,
And slowly run em' down my face,
Four fingers, four colors, four Seasons,
A tribesman, a warrior, withered, a lost race.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
when a person's
internet usage
is reduced to a genetic malfunction
and you begin to wonder
if x
S
x
actually means a
fear of words,
an oversized emoticon -
a selfie gone awry -
or an Amazonian tribesman
finally finding an outlet to
phonetically encode farting... mm hmm...
time to shine! bobbing buttocks ahoy!
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
Tis ironic yes?
These people with all the loot in their pockets
Spend thousands of dollars on new
Pearly white enamels....
Yet its the poor tribesman
In a faraway country
With no teeth....
That hast the most beautiful of smiles..
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC