"tumb" poems - Hello Poetry

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i stare at a docile ocean waveless sun accosted dark and shadow edged tinned with men's brave history of misconception i 'Dragonne'. 'Colossuus'. 'Cetaecean'. - Leviathan ? As sure as hope setting sail - Past shoal, past shallow, So each chase begins. Lines parsing out, Expectations coyly Embroidered, Entwin-ned. - Leviathan ? Pray please this narrative be drawn : Truth for sake of safe harbour; Stillness without caution; Softly ripening dawn; Jupiter and Venus descendant, Celestial promise anon ? - Leviathan . Violence the casual violence of life the worst kind not casual really but whats violence anyway few knew why why ask why the few once the dice flipped get its a flying a mind a dunzo game gravity responds we hope hope together sake to gether we short the freaks short em' all them freakin freaks freaks i want you I want yours i want to take you over take control take over 29' run kontrol all night day long time end time everthing happens forfurfor fit ur once and done (nature) forfeiture reason or ur other or ur another or ur a altogether reason or simple GP drunkworld reason (nurture) surprise my ripest faither - less 5 rise 10 run huh up the down and dumb dumb ber right left left right thum ber number one number numb - ber one ones another come under the (tumb) . All Rights Reserved. James R. Morse, NYC 2013.

0

Nov 30, 2012

Nov 30, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC

jr-morse

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i stare at a docile ocean waveless sun accosted dark and shadow edged tinned with men's brave history of misconception i 'Dragonne'. 'Colossuus'. 'Cetaecean'. - Leviathan ? As sure as hope setting sail - Past shoal, past shallow, So each chase begins. Lines parsing out, Expectations coyly Embroidered, Entwin-ned. - Leviathan ? Pray please this narrative be drawn : Truth for sake of safe harbour; Stillness without caution; Softly ripening dawn; Jupiter and Venus descendant, Celestial promise anon ? - Leviathan . Violence the casual violence of life the worst kind not casual really but whats violence anyway few knew why why ask why the few once the dice flipped get its a flying a mind a dunzo game gravity responds we hope hope together sake to gether we short the freaks short em' all them freakin freaks freaks i want you I want yours i want to take you over take control take over 29' run kontrol all night day long time end time everthing happens forfurfor fit ur once and done (nature) forfeiture reason or ur other or ur another or ur a altogether reason or simple GP drunkworld reason (nurture) surprise my ripest faither - less 5 rise 10 run huh up the down and dumb dumb ber right left left right thum ber number one number numb - ber one ones another come under the (tumb) . All Rights Reserved. James R. Morse, NYC 2013.

62

Been off stubbing repeatedly, my toes, on the raggedy twisted sidewalks of a sinking city, not mine, where here, my own metaphor, is being hand delivered, to me, for me, by me too many cayenne creole paroles, none of them getting me any freer none, as of yet, making me a free parolee been off studying some of what I cannot yet do, parole in libertà, a language cosmopolitan of creation, via creative writing remolding all of the dix senses been drawn and french quartered, drilled down, found no unknown solace deep bedrock grown, so doing a redistricting of the map personal, exposing my gardens, my Doric columns, to any passerby with the audacity so sheer to look me in the face direct and say laissez le bon temps rouler! looking to liberate my words, looking for liberty in my words, in a different melting *** where here I am a semi-low semi-free person of color called Old Fashioned White, looking for a seasonal hurricane to move me along, push me to write in a new style, developing cayenne words smothered in jazz à la mode multi-flirting with multi-fluency, searching for Experimental mellifluous words stolenlen from, and built upon a thousand years of languages, river wide delivering its mountain deep cargo of silt, a city of words, upon it built, just like the great Mississippi, changing course every one thousand years my mouth, a river opening wide, catching both salty and fresh, god's love delivering, doing the best I can, writing real fracking poetry for poetry's sake, not text messages of asstags kissing nobody's ads of sad dead #hashtags, following nobody noticeably, but thrusting your good stuff into my orifices, most pleasurably deep but never parrying, I am a poet social only in this: my devotion to my crew stronger every day for and of that particular poetry, I can write better than anyone, so big, sooooooooo easy, and that's, Steve, Bala, y'all, how and what I'm doing and by the way, Putain Zang Tumb Tumb you could look it up

0

May 25, 2014

May 25, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Status Update: Been off

Been off stubbing repeatedly, my toes, on the raggedy twisted sidewalks of a sinking city, not mine, where here, my own metaphor, is being hand delivered, to me, for me, by me too many cayenne creole paroles, none of them getting me any freer none, as of yet, making me a free parolee been off studying some of what I cannot yet do, parole in libertà, a language cosmopolitan of creation, via creative writing remolding all of the dix senses been drawn and french quartered, drilled down, found no unknown solace deep bedrock grown, so doing a redistricting of the map personal, exposing my gardens, my Doric columns, to any passerby with the audacity so sheer to look me in the face direct and say laissez le bon temps rouler! looking to liberate my words, looking for liberty in my words, in a different melting *** where here I am a semi-low semi-free person of color called Old Fashioned White, looking for a seasonal hurricane to move me along, push me to write in a new style, developing cayenne words smothered in jazz à la mode multi-flirting with multi-fluency, searching for Experimental mellifluous words stolenlen from, and built upon a thousand years of languages, river wide delivering its mountain deep cargo of silt, a city of words, upon it built, just like the great Mississippi, changing course every one thousand years my mouth, a river opening wide, catching both salty and fresh, god's love delivering, doing the best I can, writing real fracking poetry for poetry's sake, not text messages of asstags kissing nobody's ads of sad dead #hashtags, following nobody noticeably, but thrusting your good stuff into my orifices, most pleasurably deep but never parrying, I am a poet social only in this: my devotion to my crew stronger every day for and of that particular poetry, I can write better than anyone, so big, sooooooooo easy, and that's, Steve, Bala, y'all, how and what I'm doing and by the way, Putain Zang Tumb Tumb you could look it up

71

Heart is the headmaster, Seems like there is an on coming disaster. Mind is an abuser, Can't see what's in the future. Soul is the professor There's a problem and an answer. Body is a tumb, Something that's just used. Clamity comes when you're sleeping in your bed, Thinking about all the love that you give. What you receive only passes in your dreams, Don't think too much, It's not always what it seems.

0

Jan 19, 2017

Jan 19, 2017 at 5:22 AM UTC

may-ela

What you can't find

Heart is the headmaster, Seems like there is an on coming disaster. Mind is an abuser, Can't see what's in the future. Soul is the professor There's a problem and an answer. Body is a tumb, Something that's just used. Clamity comes when you're sleeping in your bed, Thinking about all the love that you give. What you receive only passes in your dreams, Don't think too much, It's not always what it seems.

13