"trouncing" poems
Thou art so conniving
You conspire to purge me of my sense of reasoning
Leaving me bare to suffer the perils of an incongruous world
Belittled by all and sundry
Or how else do you explain a scenario where
The words I am sorry are too heavy a spittle
To be spoken to a loved one to whom I’ve wronged
Severing a lifelong relation in the process
Could be am being too hard on you
And that you are so patronisingly benevolent
Condescendingly overseeing my rise up the social ladder
Trouncing and prancing on the shrewd and their kind
Either way I salute your ingenuity
Indeed keep up the uncanny spectacle.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:01 AM UTC
and the sweat lingers with a
thin film of dust, dirt, mold --
whichever what have you.
what little hydration left of
this soft fleshy vessel seeps
through this veil. creating
rivers of mud that flood the
eyes and blind. though hue
of general existence if silh-
outted. and we follow the sou-
nds hoped spoke on the proper
path. shambling the brush,
ankles caught tight in the
thorns of the undergrowth.
never a first in leaving a
blooded footpath home. and
false words call us upon a
path in Life long returned to
Nature from man. and with blin-
ded eyes and gnarled sense,
trouncing the threshold of door
long closed, fearing only the
chance of having all ended.
the Ocean's desert is nothing
but the sweat of Man's ages'
turned to dust. ended of a
vessel when purpose has seen
fulfillment. to nurture, and
bring forth perpetuation of the
curious disappeared mysteries
resting unburdened, with ponde-
ring left nulled. and recreation,
re-mythologizing aeons not long
past. only a couple thousand
since the last hoarfrost blast.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
summer of sweating, again
on felted couch from curb
side. no longer living from,
but now found (seen in)
comfort and time to brake.
running is stature set, now
for-to no longer from-to.
reticence in lingering good-
ness of lustless vessel. lust-
ful psyche. lustful soul, and
all know that exists of the
brain. epicenter, and natal
first-formed. far from first
sitting in some whispering
abyss. in absence of a whole-
some feeling, in preparation
of returning unity thru dis-
tanced words. questioning,
ever questioning the thoughts
wayfaring through the soul
in vehemence. teachers with
a breath never in speech, but
ages' ink pressed in repetition,
trouncing some threshold.
breaking imagined barriers, and
Harry Morgan's creator might
scoff at this ink of lacking age.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
We had stopped at Bennys I got him some fries
A nice day for a drive not a cloud in the sky
We got in the truck I checked his seat twice
I’m forever greatful for my wifes advice
The diesel engine purred as I shifted gears
To my grandmas house no thoughts of fear
I hear a bang and in a flash
We rolled and rolled crash and bash
I count the hits one two three
windows exploding around me
I swing out the door hung from my belt
We hit dirt and highway the hardest ive felt
Time seemed to pause or maybe just slow
With the earths every trouncing blow
Upside-down truck upon my head
How the **** am I not dead
Around my ribs i feel the steels bite
The crash is over but now is the fight
My son is alive I can hear him cry
He is to young to remember goodbye
I must get to him i must pull him out
Steel digging deeper as i struggle about
My breath is laborious I’m struggling for air
The pain is hellish too atrocious to bear
Then she laid on the road infront of me
A woman who was scared but strong for me
I coughed up blood and gasped for air
She squeezed my hand and said a prayer
Blood flowed and filled my eyes and ears
The world turned red as blood met tears
Slowly a silance began to loom
Another sign of an ominous doom
She screamed the trucks are coming they are on their way
Oh lord oh lord don’t take this man away
You stay with me you stay with your son
You can’t leave now his lifes just begun
My body shudders as it gasps a wheeze
I feel a cold chill i hoped was a breeze
It has been too long since I’ve taken a breath
What lays ahead life after death.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
arbitrary
beyond
conception
development
eruditely
functional
governing
honing
instilling
justifications
kaleidoscopic
laelia
manifestations
negating
oafish
palpebrations
queries
reflect
summations
trouncing
ubiquitous
vagrancies
within
xenophobic
yoked
zeitgeists.
Feb 25, 2010
Feb 25, 2010 at 4:53 PM UTC
Mourning dove, set on black wires above
The cool, garden lawn, looks down on cat,
Who is burning blithe birds in greenest eyes,
He tastes them as he chirps in trouncing trance
Fixating upon fixing them, his pious patience
Is job like, steadfast, gracious as lifted wings.
Early next day, all that is left of fallen mourning
Dove, are a bed of feathers strewn on the lawn.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 2:59 PM UTC
last Friday night my footy team
got a good trouncing
the thirteen chaps all need
a measure of bouncing
penalty after penalty
they permitted the other side
it was a sure sign that my team
were well out of stride
one suspects the chaps
weren't on the same boat
none of their passes or tackling
was bound to keep them afloat
twas disappointing
to witness such awful play
for eighty long minutes it continued
with a lack luster display
there was so much ball
fumbled and lost by the chaps
which didn't much enhance
a win landing in their laps
at my sides next outing
on the footy ground
they'll be requiring a game
which is more sound
this passionate devotee
of rugby league
did sense in her team
some evidence of fatigue
the weeks ahead will be glumly
unless they improve
for their game has not been
in a successful groove
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
Mourning dove, set on black wires above
The cool, garden lawn, looks down on cat,
Who is burning blithe birds in greenest eyes,
He tastes them as he chirps in trouncing trance
Fixating upon fixing them, his pious patience
Is job like, steadfast, gracious as lifted wings.
Early next day, all that is left of fallen mourning
Dove, are a bed of feathers strewn on the lawn.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
Mourning dove, set on black wires above
The cool, garden lawn, looks down on cat,
Who is burning blithe birds in greenest eyes,
He tastes them as he chirps in trouncing trance
Fixating upon fixing them, his pious patience
Is job like, steadfast, gracious as lifted wings.
Early next day, all that is left of fallen mourning
Dove, are a bed of feathers strewn on the lawn.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
Mourning dove, set on black wires above
The cool, garden lawn, looks down on cat,
Who is burning blithe birds in greenest eyes,
He tastes them as he chirps in trouncing trance
Fixating upon fixing them, his pious patience
Is job like, steadfast, gracious as lifted wings.
Early next day, all that is left of fallen mourning
Dove, are a bed of feathers strewn on the lawn.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
Mourning dove, set on black wires above
The cool, garden lawn, looks down on cat,
Who is burning blithe birds in greenest eyes,
He tastes them as he chirps in trouncing trance
Fixating upon fixing them, his pious patience
Is job like, steadfast, gracious as lifted wings.
Early next day, all that is left of fallen mourning
Dove, are a bed of feathers strewn on the lawn.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
outward brain stem hummock
analogously, (asper bound
minuscule magnum opus)
figuratively paginated with drowned
atavistic animal instincts
roar back to life upon found
perceived or real threat adrenaline
splashes cerebral hemispheres
triggering body electric
to become alert as a blood hound
countless millenniums ago
the flight or fight reaction apropos
when savage beasts
threatened tribe with bro
whizzing primitive creatures some forced tweet crow
wing, thence railing, swooping,
trouncing dough
main housing small cluster of emo
ting primates (gabbling in primal
grunts and groans witnessing ruminants
scurrying to and fro
survival of the fittest danger field
thus by dint of inherent smarts didst grow
outwitting wily coyote, or other lion eyes, ***
ping automatic saving grace tactics recalled,
when looming predator doth woof
and warp emergency arises,
when debacle fore stalled
for time against getting mauled
whereby each subsequent ruse
out foxing fierce-some, hungry non a mew
zing potential breakfast, lunch,
or dinner as the sorry loo
sir aye sic newt ton, sans this non nonsense game of "Life",
which thru countless millenniums strategies grew
layered upon left and right cerebral hemispheres few
till hetty became diminished
as con tra bands of bipedal hominids drew
upon accumulated storied history
learned from Bubba Zayda's
many times over motley crew
squirreling modus operandi
wove (traversing eons)
corpus collosum hair
(more so nerve fiber weave
a microscopic whirled wide web linkedin
left and right fist size gray matter
coated with transparent integument
custom made swiftly tailored sleeve
ah...proving grounds,
when forebears of **** Sapiens
touch and go tagged on permanent leave
on par with imagining dragons easy to believe.
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 7:22 PM UTC
Mourning dove, set on black wires above
The cool, garden lawn, looks down on cat,
Who is burning blithe birds in greenest eyes,
He tastes them as he chirps in trouncing trance
Fixating upon fixing them, his pious patience
Is job like, steadfast, gracious as lifted wings.
Early next day, all that is left of fallen mourning
Dove, are a bed of feathers strewn on the lawn.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
Mourning dove, set on black wires above
The cool, garden lawn, looks down on cat,
Who is burning blithe birds in greenest eyes,
He tastes them as he chirps in trouncing trance
Fixating upon fixing them, his pious patience
Is job like, steadfast, gracious as lifted wings.
Early next day, all that is left of fallen mourning
Dove, are a bed of feathers strewn on the lawn.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
*this place
is a busy place
there are people everywhere, and lexuses and rolls royces jam
the interstates, with their intermittent honking and inconsistent blinker use.
the quiet you find here, is in the hills, on the shore of ice cold waters at sunset.
on the streets everyone looks
from their lined eyes,
curtained
behind glossy hair.
stunning, ornamental flesh bags trouncing down the boulevard.
they have similar design. long legs. rabid for fame.
pillow-y lips foaming at the corners.
i feel
regularly devoured / rarely enjoyed.*
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 3:27 PM UTC
My feet hit the pavement
One
Then the other
Kicking back
Leaving behind
I don't know what
With each step
I feel it
Resonating through me
Shaking me to the core
Pounding up my legs
Trouncing across my torso
Igniting my arms
Grasping desperately
Determined
It clings to the very edges of my mind
An hour
Just me
This road
And my thoughts
Dangerous
I know
But I like risks
Nothing thrills me more
I push on
Forward
But all of the sudden
I don't know where I am
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Vane glorious and absolutistic,
though I defiantly,
cavalierly, and blithely attest
Yukon bet your (laugh-in) sweet bippy
mine acidic breast
houses anarchic, anti-poetic ballistic,
barbaric, and bubonic
cannibalistic demons within thy
safely guarded Pandora chest
atomic cesium clock
timed to trigger avast
burst of anxiety, frenzy, and
(What me worry
Alfred E. Neuman) blast
ting mental quietude at most
inappropriate, inconvenient,
inopportune, out classed
adrenaline rush, nausea,
palpitating heart, vertigo
besieging, corrupting,
endeavoring fractured arrant
cleft daemonic gripping
hellishly psychic chant
rendering unto sieze ****
a choking vise grip extant
yule hiss sieze indomitable
banshee fully controlling grant
diabolic, dogmatic, and dynamic,
anguished corporeal ache
easily, egregiously, and emblematically,
exemplified historically
graphic fatalistic, and ecstatic coup,
(koo), when I caused furious frantic flight,
and/or fight betake
king angst causing just desserts
for Marie Antoinette,
who got her humble pie cake,
thence dispensing with formalities,
where a joshing drake
(named Gill O. Teen)
also known (solely known
to mine selfish source error ways)
alias i.e. as; the Lewis (loose)
lunatic, heady harvester,
and decapitation Deacon trumpeting,
trouncing, and triumphing tranquility
for fifty three Tuesdays,
thence sea king punishing psychotic
pre pound payment
basking in glory (re: gory us)
amidship crashing quays
music to mine ears hearing plaintive neighs
high pitched straining
vocal chord hamstrung keys
regaling oceanographic
lambent hagiographic essays
and keeping at bathos bays.
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 11:45 PM UTC
Tonight I'll open the window, just a smidgen,
I'll turn on my night light, and I'll take off my covers,
With any luck, the snow, in it's serene beauty, will cover me,
With any luck, the perfect unique snowflake will dance to my bed
Colder, like something from a memory I had,
A younger self in a northern place, trouncing in snow,
Fighting the accumulation like I was meant to do so,
Then falling down, sinking, and letting the snow protect me,
So I invite the snow, offer my condolences, and allow it in,
Let it lazily make it's way over my body,
Let it's touch envelope me, make me aware of it's presence,
Let it crystallize and solidify around my meager form,
And let the days pass, whilst I sleep,
Allow time to trod on, in my absence,
Force my absence, so that frozen water may heal my mind,
And let me come back at my own pace, on my own time,
Even Colder still, my mind flees from the scene,
My body is numb to the white fluff that detains me,
My memory etches a figure standing, staring, misunderstanding my intent,
My heart slows down
But no days pass, I cannot sleep,
Time does not quicken, as if it would matter anyways,
I am present, mostly, but deaf to a lot,
So I'll close my window and grab my blanket and try to sleep
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
I saw the writing on the wall, forever slow upon the draw
Its just the beginning- the beauty of infancy,
celebrating the baby’s first steps.
At times I need a minute just to catch my breath, at other times I feel so ever quick to cash in all my chips.
I question if you’ve felt the same.
My past is riddled with a longer list of what consists of shame- in terms of pennies on the dollar,
I’m the brokest of the lame.
I’ve had the aims of matchless flight,
I’ve fought the battles not to fight,
but on this night you’ve rattled cages,
and exposed just how shamelessly, what’s good is truly right.
Still I’m caught off guard when petrified beyond a breath.
Calm my trembling hand,
Please build a man who’s firm to stand,
I beg you’d loosen up my grip
Before I slip and fall on sinking sand.
I get shattered bones when struck by beauty;
Should I touch?
Is this forbidden fruit?
Is she the tree of Eden’s garden?
Has my fear become a crutch?
Can I be trusted
when there’s lust?
Am I disqualified from love?
Cause in this moment I’m completely incapacitated by this drug.
I flee from struggle, it’s a challenge.
Are there habits not to quit?
Yet there’s something different here,
It’s unique in how it shifts.
I watch these movements closely,
while I’m fearful of the critics eye.
Terrified that I’ve become, what I have known, who I despise.
Frustrated to the core when little foxes nip and pick,
At what I know is crafty workings of a gardener with gifts.
They come to feast the choicest fruits, they gnaw and nibble at the roots-
if I had any sense at all, I’d buy the biggest pair of boots;
three sizes bigger then what fits and tie them tighter than a noose;
go trouncing through that garden;
not thinking twice about the fact that “oh, those foxes seem so cute.”
I’d kick them hard and send them running- one by one, then two by two.
Exhausted in the end, but maybe then we’d have our chance to rest.
Not alone, but now together- we’d be closer non the less.
Catch the foxes for us father, cause even if I give my best.
My self sustaining effort will not help us past this test.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
Ahead with everyone else, you felt happy
Like the final lap of the race, feeling like you’re free
Then you thought to yourself Hey, I’m going to win!
Expected and believed that others will be left in bin
You slowed to run, thinking they couldn’t catch up
Then a moment passed, someone just nabbed the title to the top
It ***** but it’s your fault in the first place
Thinking high on the momentary feeling of trouncing their pace
Always remember that expectations give you a false perception
Overwhelmed by the thought of overcoming and anticipation
Thinking you’ll win, you’ve let your guard down
Ignoring the fact that it’s not yet over in vying for the crown
Even with hard work and being passionately determined won’t cut it
If your goal is to win whatever it takes as long as you see it fit
While you may scowl for second, the guy in third may even laugh
At the fact that he may not be the best, but he won and that’s enough
Mar 21, 2021
Mar 21, 2021 at 10:25 AM UTC
Pushing the ground away - with iron cutoff
The sough interlight of toller - outgoes
From islands - floating - in the choir
Collisions - of world state waves
Counteract - of contradictions
Forgot to remember - throughout from the depths
Eroded - fractures - cuirass of theirs - is moss
And shrouded - with sprouting - cold wrists
Dew trails - hands flooded -
To wash the soot of the blood from one's face -
Up to phalangeals - lacerated - spring of pyrexia
Mindbreak - helplessly curdled
Seeing - far-heading stabs to inhale
Trouncing to raise - the head up -
In the fratricide craving
Hum - and of body parts - ocean
Blind sea-gulls - skrike - and anthracites'
****** - is in embrace interlocked
Drogues - are not eaten to bone - and no brink-
Of - he-li-o-cen-tri-cly driven -
Mound - and weak swellings -
Nauseating headrush
Endowing to - entrails - of cascade
Dissonance - limbs - apart
Feb 21, 2025
Feb 21, 2025 at 6:36 AM UTC
Breakneck words, racing around,
trouncing across the wooded tops
of long dead, roughened boughs.
Tongue deadened, heavyweight champion
without leagues to move around: breath famine;
the time of a hare loping down the barren barrow.
Sought out lungs, captivating oxygen in a symphony of
sanctioned Guantanamo iron poles.
Tense, rippling knuckles, wound round,
round the starlight of Betelgeuse
six hundred and forty two point five light years
away.
“Away with you” patches the scabs and root bitten nails
of some lost keratin; peace—nought found.
Await the rush of overbearing insinuations
claiming now a dead solicitation.
Learning hath been done
and redone, a series of embittered eyes
collecting up images that retain singularity status.
One talk, one Breath,
It’s all bout
to change to—
something better than
the jacked up prices on petrol station boards and the lips will
no longer book it past the mind’s inconsistency, bereft of known speak.
A challenge for not the sake of self: saké drank: but for the
peace under the left breast.
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 11:10 AM UTC