"unserious" poems
yours is the music for no instrument
yours the preposterous colour unbeheld
—mine the unbought contemptuous intent
till this our felsh merely shall be excelled
by speaking flower
(if I have made songs
it does not greatly matter to the sun,
nor will rain care
cautiously who prolongs
unserious twilight)Shadows have begun
the hair’s worm huge,ecstatic,rathe….
yours are the poems i do not write.
In this at least we have got a bulge on death,
silence,and the keenly musical light
of sudden nothing….la bocca mia “he
kissed wholly trembling”
or so thought the lady.
31.4k
How long will our bewildered heirs
marooned in possessions not theirs
puzzle at disposing of these three
cunning feignings of hard candy in glass-
the striped little pillowlike mock-sweets,
the flared end-twists as of transparent paper?
No clue will be attached, no trace
of the sunny day of their purchase,
at a glittering shop a few doors
up from Harry's Bar, a disappointing place
for all its testaments from Hemingway.
The Grand Canal was also aglitter
while the lesser canals lay in the shade
like snakes, flicking wet tongues
and gliding to green rendezvous.
The immaculate salesgirl, in her aloof
Italian succulence, sized us up,
a middle-aged American couple,
as unserious shoppers who,
still half jet-lagged, would cling to their lire
in the face of any enchanted vase
or ethereal wineglass that might shatter
in the luggage going home.
Yet we wanted something, something small ....
This? No ... How much is ten thousand? Dizzy,
at last we decided. She wrapped
the three glass candies, the cheapest
items in the shop, with a showy care
worthy of crown jewels-tissue,
tape, and tissue again sprang up
beneath her blood-red fingernails,
plus a jack-in-the-box-shaped paper bag
adorned with harlequin lozenges, sad
though she surely was, on her feet waiting
all day for a wild rich Arab, a compulsive Japanese.
Grazie, signor ... grazie, signora ... ciao.
Nor will our thing-weary heirs decipher
the little repair, the reattached triangle
of glass from the paper-imitating end-twist,
its mending a labor of love in the cellar,
by winter light, by the man of the house,
mixing transparent epoxy and rigging
a clever small clamp as if to keep
intact the time that we, alive,
had spent in the feathery bed
at the Europa e Regina.
4.5k
drowned the Earth suddenly.
underneath honest light,
all
submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
midnight, the Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
displaced
where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —
until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,
modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
hands scouring muddied
obscure, atremble,
shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
to arrive again so we could feast
in silver fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
now atrill in new fragile woodworks
lurching and
ameliorating as we all
stutter and sing
haunts dabbing open
lips of small wounds that
wish to shut quietly, almost
every threat of gray or pummel of
wind startles the flyblown ornate,
hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
very few hang
swayed by verdure
of the gradual throne of sea
curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
where everything quite begins
again to enthrall with a melodic
leitmotif of the most tender of
instances loose
in mouths
and in endless recall
breathless—
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
I,ve unclosed
(and
i
will speak
slowly
trees
steeply uncrooked breathing 'gainst
the racing moon over the valley bending
swiftly thoughts of ungiant sprigs puckish
in the frailing summers wings
a wig of tender incandescent drops cavort
in silent wetness on petals the)
a cadence of caving murdered light
seamless fluid winsome dusting upon
the unserious lips of night flexing effortlessly
by their touch, and flaccid, upon mine
i am drugged
of lilywhite tubes; crumbs of hushed love
a draught of limpid steam. i
laced and foamy the jaw distends
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 11:23 AM UTC
were it as rippling as the techno static shoveled obdurately
in the volume of this writhing pit i'd sonic cavalierly with the
fairy dusting eyelids fluttering. stripping accurately the moisture
of my minute organs churning salty crystal obliqueness at the
stunning lounge seriously unserious fractals micturiting. hey it's
youth. what else?
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
I have the same name,
The same last name,
Same eyes, same blood type.
but I have never had the same self-confidence.
I was never sure of anything except my uncertainty.
All your life you have been doing what you wanted.
Now all my life, I continue doing what you want.
Your gaze, when you ask "so what do you want to be?"
And I answer “I don’t know”
Makes me think that all I want is to be frivolous and unserious.
In fact, I always knew.
Was just afraid of your disapproval and condemnation.
My poor mother.
All you do is brilliant.
except the family.
Your healing hands are able to cure everything but boredom,
Everything but apathy.
My gorgeous mom,
you would always believe in me more than I did.
In your eyes the picture of me was always more colorful and perfect.
I'm anxious for disappointing you.
That’s why I don’t tell anything about myself.
That’s why I keep my interests in a separate apartment.
You are so sick and tired of carrying your life, of carrying my life and dozens of other people.
When I was little I looked at you and never understood.
I didn’t want to be like you, but I never knew.
Now I am about to grown up.
Now I see much clearly.
I admire you.
But still I don’t want to be like you.
Because I have only your eyes, your name, your blood type
But any hint of your strength and certainty.
All I want is to be frivolous and unserious
And try to make you think that I have become all you wanted me to become.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
Never have I seen the moon turn off its light at night,
Never has it leaped into my room to chat with me or for a moment of unserious trite.
Always faithful to shine,
As similar to that of a slick wine.
Running down a stranger's throat,
Swilling as he sips and slurps - those eyes of his like that of a sneaky goat.
Never have I seen the moon turn off its light at night.
Jahmenmuze..
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
girl necks feel like real smooth
under fingers a gentle spindle
a cool pillar of lust when you
creep up them into those tiniest
beginning hairs(at the starting
scalp a little bit courser than the
tousled ocean of finer silken rills
which pour fiercely from)and
you eat the completely small
and unserious round nub of the
back of their head and you pull
the whole teeming perfect sad
sphere into yours
and an entire
garden of
kissing erupts
!
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
(The Greater Prairie Chicken: a grouse of open grassland, is known for its mating dance. Males display together in a communal lek, where they raise ear-like feathers above their heads, inflate orange sacs on the sides of their throats, and stutter-step around while making a deep hooting moan.)
So how you gonna keep ‘em
Down on the farm after they’d seen Paree?
After “displaying together” in
Their own private lek--
Communal though it was.
It’s May in Hemetucky.
I just got back from my
Twilight constitutional,
As Truman called it.
Harry—since I was born in 1949—
Tribute for my first Commander-in-Chief.
The moon was misted,
More than half full,
Myself half in the bag,
As they say.
As you know by know,
I live in one of those gated,
Golf-coursed, over-55
Lunatic Asylums,
A communal lek, as they say.
I’m stutter schlepping around the block
In my pajamas remembering that big sign,
So full of promise--ACTIVE SENIORS—
A veritable sexually promiscuous
Welcome Mat.
I made an assumption, you see,
That children of the 60s grown old
Would relish a life of legal **** in a
Gated sanctuary with hours upon hours of
“Let’s Hide the Pepperoni.”
I knew I missed those years,
That era of bra-burning &
Birth Control.
“Girls Gone Wild,”
Wonton ******* & *******
A bowl of Won-Ton carnality:
Wild abandon, mature ladies,
Their ******* in a ***
At the bottom of their purse,
(Thank you, Joan Osborne)
Joan Osborne - Right Hand Man Lyrics | MetroLyrics
http://www.metrolyrics.com/right-hand-man-lyrics-joan-osborne.htmlLyrics to 'Right Hand Man' by Joan Osborne. Let me use your toothbrush / Have you got a clean shirt? / My ******* in a *** /at the bottom of my purse / I walk. (www.advertise/right-in-the-middle-of-fucking-poem.com)
Yet, I languish here
Here in the now,
Having shown my cards too often.
After 10 years here no woman
Takes me seriously,
Given my unserious reputation,
Not to be taken seriously.
Which explains why I spend
So much of my time in Italy
Lately.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC
I always tell myself,
when emotions seem to run..
to **** it up, and close my heart,
don't look forward to fun.
I want my mind to lead,
Have a stone-cold inner seed.
One that won't betray me,
and let in foolish need
You see you have to want in life,
take things, with strong strife.
What i always muse about,
is: focoused brain,
heart of ice.
© J-d S. J
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
I don't fear trusting people, i fear ignorance. I fear disturbing others with my dramas because all people have something that cause them to worry. I know these can be just thoughts, but I hate it. I even remember the pain i felt when my classmate lied to me just not to share her paper, when my friend in third grade choses to sit next to my another classmate. You know? I fear that anyone may not be interested hearing me. I fear that they will not even say something towards me. I fear they will just still be disracted of other things rather than paying attention to what I said. I fear being misunderstood. I fear being judged as to why am I like this. It may be unserious to you, but its killing me. I know I still remember this two or three weeks from now. I can't just easily forget. I always say everything is fine. I can always fake a smile. Yes I always forgive. But the pain I felt every frustration just gets lethal. Its like I have a wound that never gets healed. I don't want this either. I always want to set myself free. Amputate envy. Stop every negativity cause I know I don't easily forget. Every pain reminds of another. One pain, then it all flashbacks like a kaleidoscope. Screaming to me.
Wish I could tell everything without crying. But no friends, I am fine. I'll justify this. Don't worry about me. Worry about every little thing in your lives. These were just thoughts.
I want to stop holding grudges. Help me I'm barely breathing.
Feb 29 2016 11:47
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
To isolate is to be angry, alone,
But to be angry is too close to violence,
So why not be alone?
Alone is scary,
Alone is losing yourself,
Alone is impossible, but the feeling still there.
Alone and depression are interlinked,
A big word often misused as a funny joke,
That hurts me.
That a state so serious and personal is made into something so unserious.
Depression is a problem that feels impossible to fix,
you know its there,
It pops up from time to time, more often than not.
It eats away at your brain.
Feeding.
You don't know how to fix it,
or if you even can.
The help you need seems obsolete.
It seems impossible to actually follow through.
As in a state of loneliness it is easy to lose yourself.
That's what I found myself doing,
Losing myself.
I've been gone six months now.
I'm still lost.
I'm still looking.
But that feeling keeps on coming back.
More often now,
It's eating away at all of me.
I feel as though it will soon be finished.
But the monster is still there,
Looming, waiting for the next time to strike.
And I will be left,
All alone
Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 2:29 PM UTC