"twang" poems
‘There is not much that I can do,
For I’ve no money that’s quite my own!’
Spoke up the pitying child—
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in,—
‘But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one ’tis, and good in tone!’
The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled too,
As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang
With grimful glee:
‘This life so free
Is the thing for me!’
And the constable smiled, and said no word,
As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in—
The convict, and boy with the violin.
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/*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.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.
And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
"It were a sin," she said, "to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
"This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
"The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
"I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell."
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.
5.9k
Friend Rockstar,
Listen, yield to a robust think-tank,
earlobes skidding against wheat and grain.
Terrible story, yes, what happened to that little girl.
Sterile teddy nightgowns weeping in the squad car windows.
Teacher – Teacher, do you harken my yodels for grace?
I’ve never been maternal.
Put the game on. Abortion.
That’s what I’m about.
Grab a bra. Sling some weight.
That’s what I’m about.
Some housefly wings on a weathered corn cob.
Some downhome, homegrown twang for those fancy, fussy britches.
Muddy workboots. Sweat-soaked collars.
That’s what I’m about.
Him done made me read, sir.
What sacraments did we write today?
I can still remember my first broken bone.
I can still remember my first broken *****
That could be what this is all about.
Mary, Mary, you can be contrite,
so knife – so critter – so laze – so stalked.
Who fertilized your seeds? Who reared your sprouts?
Cockle shells and silver bells, honey,
can’t grow up
to be pretty little maids all in a row.
Sterile teddy nightgowns – green bells in gaseous gardens.
Friend Rockstar, you may have to sleep.
This restless harbor is a shivering anecdote spilled from a belly,
a vast, deep cavern with love notes written in milk.
Your fried, stern smile was a flaking fingernail adjacent to the crack in the flowerpot.
Some garden, I say.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Oh how the twang of man’s harp
Disrupts my precious sleep.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
It’s never put at rest,
“Control yourself,” I thought.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
My rage grew deep,
I could hear them laugh at me, already an outcast in this young world.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Somehow, almost as if I were possessed,
I began to **** them one by one.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Night by night the casualties grew,
I couldn’t control myself, it’s a demon’s curse.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
I kept killing them,
Until the final night.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
The young hero pulled out my arm
And raised it up in a bitter-sweet victory.
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Away I ran into my lair
What have I done?
TWANG TWANG TWANG
Was this the pain I inflicted on man?
The pain was throbbing and strong, like no pain I had ever felt.
Finally the world went black.
The twang was gone.
At peace I will lay forever.
I hope mother won’t make the same mistake.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
Some time ago in the furnace below
Grew restless the ruler of sin;
He dug through His closet
Composed a composite
Consisting of a violin.
The underworld rang with
Delectable twang
As Lucifer plucked on His strings;
E'en angels flew down
Allured by the sound
Til Cerberus plucked off their wings.
Eventually Satan grew bored of this, too;
That thrill-seeking ******* must capture the new;
So up to the land of the living He flew;
Disguised as a figure whom everyone knew.
First on the agenda of any pretender:
Extinguish the genuine soul;
He arrived in Genoa
Disguised as a boa
And silently swallowed him whole.
With Europe His playground
The Devil, He made sound
That no one alive had yet heard;
He fiddled and plucked,
Gambled and ******
Until inside Him syphilis stirred.
His physical shell He now had to retire;
Back to the depths of the black and the fire;
Forever above will the humans admire;
The legend of strings; the king; the sire.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.
At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.
There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same **** space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.
And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.
On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
The hiss of wet road meeting tread,
Wisps of fog reaching up to mother cloud,
Pin ****** of rain on windshield,
Twang of guitar joining with singer in song,
Morning grey surrounds me.
Pale yellow headlights meet me,
Whining as they pass,
Restaurants beckoning me,
Promising warmth food company,
Wipers warning me away,
Morning grey surrounds me.
Destination is known,
Sleep wants what it's owed,
Obligation is to be honored instead,
Fatigue is my companion,
Soon I will start to repay them,
Morning grey surrounds me.
Morning grey surrounds me...
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
every profile of the body
drapes of a fallen dress
the flowers twang
the bassoons
the wooden harps
the human body is a temple
with the purpose of changing
into new forms
ephemeral
beauty
or love
or passion
or life
the metamorphosis of another
the brother
the kiss
the flowers of evil
the death of a maiden
Ovid
hear me
Ovid
love is simply a measure of
bumps and holes
Ovid
love grows out of soft marble
Ovid
we are one
the mythology of
passion ensues
the act encased in
fire
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
Let me imply
that if I'm to die,
it will be on my own terms.
I insist,
need be even with my fist,
that I tie the noose myself.
My foot
will give its input
to the bucket.
And for a single moment
I will be buoyant
among atoms of air.
In the next I will fall,
with my shadow against the wall.
My feet will never again touch the floor.
The rope whispers one last twang
as I hang.
Eyes loose luster.
My life has burnt like Magnesium.
Fast and bright,
like the speed of light.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
You asked me once why I felt safe with you
The answer is simple, really;
you speak to me sweeter
than the southern twang
of lightly painted china cups
twinkling with an old tonic
your great grandmother grew up with -
Peach tea,
more sugar than ice
and the chime of silver spoons
stirring away low hanging sky
in a lazy afternoon haze.
You speak to me with the comfort
of a tea cup
cradled by the saucer
lips meeting gently against each other
so as not to scrape a scar against the fragile cheek
of either companion
Sometimes you even whisper
with the rattles of old age
chiming away at the edges
of sweet forgotten bliss -
You, darling, speak to me sweeter
than any grain of sugar
that rubbed me raw.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
I live my life on the phone, listening to the never ending ringing and a prerecorded voicemail asking me to leave a message.
it's not even your voice, which is all I've been longing for
the twang in it, the way you say your name, the way you say mine, I miss you, I love you.
my body craves your touch but my soul craves your sound and the way it makes me feel.
five years ago it started and since then I've spent it waiting, always waiting,
waiting for you to love me like I have always loved you.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
Divest me in lowest twang possible
You're a virus ov benevolence
Clod dockets and nightly shrivels
You're Ideology's ravaged havoc
All slates ov mind embellish at one time
Scandalmonger, a repetitive meddler
I am, you are, a beast like endeavor
Two noddy's going rabid
To divulge and disclose; we're savaged
Trek of dearth and surly in combined minds
Withered, wizened, burnished, refined.
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 4:27 PM UTC
In a tearing hurry, came the clouds
bellies fat, moods dark
They swallowed the moon
They chewed the stars
each one
one by one
Whole night the show was on
boom bang – fury & twang
When they were done,
I surveyed my ground:
dripping trees
shivering leaves
wet petals
twinkle eyes
an azure sky, and
One angry sun.
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 4:46 PM UTC
fueled by alcohol
swollen emotions,
the age of consent
and mistakenly stuck doors
the mutual understanding that comes with a singular passion
singular desire
just one time
but when the clock chimes
1:45
and curfewed kisses are few
you take my hands and sing
"i want to know you"
my fingers weave along my glowing screen
praying your given digits will be well received
and when my phone buzzes
i sigh
for i had tried to not let doubt cloud my mind
but i did not know you yet
and it rarely happens like this
when the clock chimes
6:00 Am
my rosy cheeks wait in the cold mist
a note on the table excusing my absence
a pale faced taxi driver goes through the required motions
to take me to your warm lips
with two hours of sleep
your makeshift bed is the port in a storm
and your slight frame is the sort that initially misleads
but it is powerful and exceeds expectations
the sweet sharing of bad puns
disney songs
and the unexpected "i love you"
the "you have beautiful eyes"
and the mess that is my hair do
i wake you with a warm hand to the hip
and a quick kiss on the lip
reassures me it was the right thing to do
the twang of ukulele
and its warm wood brush over my breast
its hard form against my warm chest
you sing for me
and the poetry that traverses your lips is magic
though slight
you have no trouble maneuvering through my wide rivers
and hidden valleys
my small forests
you flip me with ease
a playful tease
tracing racing and running
soon warm water runs over our shadowy forms
because though forever may be spent in bed
the real world obligates us to move
to shower
in our travels we find ourselves caught in drizzly public transportation
making our way to the place of your occupation
though we are eating for two
you order three breakfasts
making up for the meal missed
replaced with loving
surrounded by kissing
you drink coffee
a quick pick-me-up
i drink a london fog
to remind me of the sleepy morning
and a quick peck to the lips reminds me of the rest
a test of my willpower
my power to resist taking you then and there
though that may have resulted in your termination
so i resist my considered temptation
i take a slight deviation
for every story must end
every sentence
no matter how much love
we must wait for blood
because every hook up,
every sentence
must end with a period.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC
sometimes i am emotionally unavailable on purpose.
i put my phone under my pillow so i can't hear it beep and buzz and twang
i turn off my facebook chat and ignore your messages.
i don't even do it because i can't handle it
i can handle anything
i was born with an innate sense of determination
and morality
but sometimes i feel the need to be an unattached *******
just to see what it's like
i'll go on youtube and watch ****** videos
i'll even laugh
when i know that somewhere you're feeling like i do all the time
i won't give a single ****
not even a tiny pang will reach my carefully wired heart
right now it's plugged into too many other things that are ******* the energy out of it
to take note
i hope you feel ******* terrible
i'm not even bothered
i will be later
but not now
message away...
la,
la
can't hear you,
can't hear you.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 9:19 PM UTC
Hello martin, how's the back?
Lie down here, left side, crack!
Relax the shoulders now, don't hunch
On your tummy then, and ... crunch
Breathe out, breathe in, and let it go
Click clack twang, you should feel better so
Turn around, just one more tweek
To keep you going, not perfection's what we seek
Full movement in your neck you lack
I see the problem, one more snap
My eyes they water through my smile
That's me sorted for a while
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 2:39 PM UTC
As I told you already that I was Graeme Thorne in the 1950s and apart from the fact I was him for just 8 years, I had a best friend named bobby Francis who was a very ***** fellow, well back then so was I
Bobby had a teenage crush on dody Stephens who sang pink shoe laces which was bobby's fave song and I, as Graeme Thorne thought yeah she is cute and bobby bought her album over to my house and you could hear his voice twanging with the words pink shoelaces and then in 1959 bobby bought pink shoelaces which caused a bit of shock for teachers at old scots college and Greame Thorne who was me said it looks weird that my mate is wearing pink shoe laces
But bobby couldn't give a flying **** about what people were saying about him
Just listen or try and get the memory of him singing
Tan shoes and pink shoelaces
A polka dot vest hey man oh man tan shoes with pink shoelaces and a big panamol
With a purple hat band and my friend bobby sang that with the same twang as dodi Stephens
Which could be the reason why
Bobby is having a tween crush on an older 13 year old singer
I as Graeme Thorne also had a crush on dodi and both me and bobby were dodi's dory but bobby's mum got really cranky with bobby for his voice because it could be a **** voice but bobby used bad language to tell his mum to get ****** and every time we went to the local shops in Bondi beach we bought our ice creams and sat on the beach singing the dodi Stephens hit
And then two gorgeous 12 year old girls sat near us and I said
How about a bit of sugar and bobby said for you maybe but I want dodi's pink shoelaces
And I told bobby to live in the realistic years and bobby said you can talk to these girls but I like dodi ok and bobby was ************ over dodi Stephens **** body while I as Graeme Thorne went over to the 12 year old girls and started to massage their backs and thighs saying to bobby these girls are a nice *** of sugar
For my spoon and as the girls left they kissed me as greame Thorne on the lips and left thinking my friend was a bit of a **** and when we got back to bobby's house bobby played pink shoe laces very loud as well as ************ thinking dodi is a 50s fox and I toild him that those girls on the beach were **** too and bobby said yeah I agree but I plan to finish school and marry dodi and then said he was Dooley and dodi is trying to keep me safe well in 1960 I was kidnapped and killed and bobby well I will never ever know if he got it together with dodi, probably not but in my current life at the age of 22 I heard bobby's twang singing pink shoe laces as I heard it on the radio and now I listen to pink shoe laces on YouTube
She is hot
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 2:47 AM UTC
The sweet hum of a beautiful melody.
The deep aroma of morning exhaust fumes.
The excited chatter in a foreign tone.
Clip clopping of high heeled shoes speeding up to catch a bus.
The homeless man wrapped in a rotten sleeping bag as close to rigormortis as a live man gets with his palm open but his eyes closed.
The twang of perfume mixed with cigarette smoke floating effortlessly up to the blue sky above.
Marvellous architectural wonders rising from the ground, their dominating shadows line the streets to serve as a reminder that our forefathers laid down the road we still walk today.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:58 AM UTC
I look at You
and I succumb,
I surrender:
all that I am
to all that is You
Sleep-walking, dream-gawking --
The daemons of centuries
sprawl out the hairs on their legs,
crawl into our skulls
through ears that hear
and bob their lobes
to the twang of sinew
threading together
the tongues of banshees
howling at the moon:
Leeches and ticks
crawl up our spine
when night mares gallop
through the swamp of maggots
crawling in the rye.
Eight and eight
still make one
when the knots are untied
and the gut is done:
All the unknowns,
the variable gales,
the possible parallels
and the impossible
imposters, two:
Fuel to the face of these fears
I look at You
and I succumb.
I surrender
to the daemons of centuries,
let them wash over in hues . . .
And I hold on,
because letting go,
this time,
is far more dangerous
than loving You
Is it not the death of eye
meeting death to eye
that ushers
Sacred offspring
out of the light
into the glowing arms of the womb?
Sleep-walking, dream-gawking --
I look at You
and I succumb.
I surrender:
all that I am
to all that is You
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
One of the ways you lied was quite hard to describe
A riddle of ridicule laced with flaring shoe laces
***** nudist desires smelt of pure hash bury mayo
Feeling as if the end of the dawn would just be the beginning
To pleasure the thought of you was something I once liked to do
Now no longer
For the song bird can only sing for so long
Before their feathers molt to hear a call to move on
Move on blonde lady long legs
We are always meeting and moving on
Towards a sky which crashes silently
Quenching the thirst of many
So on a black rimmed earth a universe folds and folds and folds
Where men travel far not knowing where they go
Explore the neck of your lover to see that she has another
Each bell in the row rings as if it were the first time
Crack yourself up to hear the laughter that you hide away in your room
At first you may be surprised but the twang will not die unless
You
Will it
Night whistles through me
For I am not here
I am soon to be gone
But not to no grave
Each note guides itself upon a road that man must draw to understand
They take pride in cracking magic that laughs at our attempts
And our
Experiments
The word seemed to mean something once
People used to mean something also
Nowadays
All I see
Are comma break decimals
And funeral homes
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 11:53 PM UTC
His Key Unlocked Her Door
As the piano man plays her song
The ivories of his eyes dance along
He plays on her keys
The sweetest melodies
Rising onto his pitch her heart twang
Logan Robertson
6/07/17
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 10:00 AM UTC
How it feels
When each strands that held us together
Starts breaking.
One by one
With every twang, another strand looses
Its bonding with the rest of us
One by one
Each one breaks away
From the memories
The touch
And the belongingness
Like some one plucking
Petal by petal
Loves me, Loves me not
While the flower, in the process
Dies a slow death.
Wish you were here
Holding unto my arms
A promise of loved future
and a dying breath
How it feels to lie down slowly
In the loneliness
Of timeless
Fading depths.
Sands of times run out, grain by grain
From our clasped fingers and shaking hands.
It feels so lonely - The softness of dying breath.
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 12:06 AM UTC
lost in a maze of gazes;
lured
to the pool by the sound; Sondheim
sung badly in a nasal twang;
cught in her lace negligee one more time;
we give the old women the benefit
of the doubtful proposition; if granny
wants to get tied
to on the bedpost - yet again;
the gallant refrain from that old song
is remade the kpop way & tuned in to
the drag subculture; everyone u know;
the prostitution used to be better; maybe
there were once better prostitutes, what
I can see is unpleasantly stink eyed; hos
used to have class before they could
switch genders back & forth; that's some
millennial **** the first celebrity I ever
became aware of was Christine Jorgensen, from the newspaper story about a man who had surgery to turn himself into a woman; a patently impossible task; in the picture in the newspaper he had on a bouffant wig & big sequin ***** working as a showgirl in Vegas in its heyday, so she was already well-known; I always thought that bit of trivial information would come in handy one day: never did
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 7:22 PM UTC
"granday"
its not a *******
twang,
like a rubber band loosened up,
you're like a white sheet
with absolutely no
wrinkles no
lint no
culture.
its not a droop of letters,
like the syllables are carrying old bathwater
on hunched spines;
you sound like dusty paper
left on the shelf too long.
its
"grande"
poner un verano en tus palabras.
put some summer into your words.
fill your mouth with mid-august sweat
and belt it out like a pistol,
bullets ripping the fabric of blue
sky.
you are a flame in snow,
your tongue is supposed to be dancing on the top of your mouth
when you say it,
"grande"
roll your 'r's like you would to tamales in
corn flour,
like you would your body in mud
carpeting every inch of your soul in dark, crusted
veneer,
stuck between your toes.
your tongue is supposed to be ***
exotic chocolate,
french rain.
your tongue is supposed to be like a wild motorboat upon
the raging ocean,
hitting the 'r's with savage animosity
"g-rrrrrrrr-ande"
none of these
"grandays"
words like plummeting wrinkles
under tired eyes, your lips like dead fish floating
shallow and flaccid
in lukewarm
soup.
like rotting fruit left out too long,
squashed, useless, a waste.
do not fill your mouth with
mierda,
****
poner un verano en tus palabras.
put some summer into your words.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC