"uncouthly" poems
*I still remember the sound of that stillness
Gentle, careful like a lullaby
caressing the dust rising and falling on my skin
The warm sky sang her broken songs
blew her ***** May winds through the village
ever so passionately
The sun shone dark by the dying river
he wept silently his purple evening tears
into the narrow streams underneath
The fragrance of that temple, hard to forget,
Hard to leave behind anything but pondering footsteps..
Yet I walked
into the womb of that scent
forgetting my age old fears
of facing the friction of time,
of dreams, of hope,
of separation.
I collapsed onto the bare earth before I entered
and stared at the air uncouthly
like a barbarian
Moaning, singing, breathing in ecstasy
that old familiar temple fragrance*
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:23 AM UTC
barely it was swaying terrifically in cotton wind of sharp niggling wafers that flummox specially the growling infant sea, this lake, where i am by and satting with my soft particular femme who's metal slithers from her very roundest nostrils glinting rather unobtrusive and stubbornly silver. and jousting by in meager dollops college children blatantly. a basic scent of nonsense huddles on the 2's and 3's (or mayhaps more) they slant upon the dappled lazy soil reticent and uncouthly tread upon with flats little souls. their heads are fat with gullible churning knowledge. they farted from the dusted books. that stately chord of mugging music. that lays in bricks and mortared sighs. on the hillest of tops over looking the cordial bay.
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 12:33 PM UTC
Uncouthly, the freeze of late-february did start to wane,
and from the canals that run through the city of Manchester
mists slowly arose, along with degrading auras of heavy disdain.
As pubs and nightclubs alike
shuttered up and locked down upon the cusp of early morn,
slimy creatures slowly ascended, treading the shadows of the streets for easy prey to ****** before the oncoming dawn,
stray felines and dogs, the most common of their foods,
thy amphibious monstrosities leaving behind nothing but bones -
and upon the second night after, their hunger sought more,
so they snuck into unknowing buildings and stole children from their homes.
Now what happened on that morning after was most queer;
these children were not found dead nor reduced to corpses, but in the strangest of places -
standing upon the edge of the canal's miasmic bank,
untouched 'xcept for the stretch of skin that now covers their faces.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 4:12 AM UTC
**“Would’ve I ever seen such fraudulent impasse?
I cringe; and question thee, herein.”**
Maybe in another world,
And time or perhaps when suns be cold;
When we’d again strum a chord
at once; twice probably if you would?
When we’d stay and tread so close
along; with the ever present glimpses,
In between and I’d wish;
And I wish that it rains,
that it blows,
that it seeks,
And I wish the stars fall too;
Glazing upon dawn’s garnish,
Th’path ere one fine morrow:
The sunset passé sky where they belong;
Ages of flattery in words along,
Praises upon chansonettes,
Grace woven; as spoken in clique,
sly humming veils’n smooth seething silk!
Soft, slithery, (sappily) feverishly-
uncouthly adamant; yet so verily
unruly in manners: timely swerves;
Quizzically feasible; unrightly cryptic,
Always; an ineffable coherence.
At what sight;
And I asked, “what might?”
Fearing when it opens.
(I fear what’s behind when it’s closed.)
The constant rippling of consciousness,
Of brandless catharsis:
**“An ever conflagrant condescension
upon one’s thought, insistent.”**
And indulge me so; kindly,
To where it would stop:
Unto what such flattery
would entail?
**“And never would I have ever thought,
that you’d enjoy such silent company.”**
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 7:47 AM UTC
Wit woven and intermittent on paper
Hours owning a prickling pen in hand
Revision, re-take, rewrite - time wasted on how to shape "her"
The missing masterpiece, the babbling baby, the dark demand.
Hours owning a prickling pen in hand
Unreal voices vexing me - understand?
The missing masterpiece, the babbling baby, the dark demand
Threatens to overthrow my complacently creative mentally limp land.
Unreal voices vexing me - understand
Driving and dribbling me ballsy 'cross court; pressure and pain - insane
Threatens to overthrow my complacently creative mentally limp land
Uncouthly killing my deep desire to do what I love because I can.
I push past pressure and pain.
Wit woven and intermittent on paper
My wife, The Pen, I go now to **** her
Revision, re-take, rewrite - time wasted on how to shape her.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC