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Mukesh kataria Aug 2016
Meticulously dressed
in an
expensive, modish suit,
Swaggering opulence & lacerated talk,
Small-hearted, sagacious,
evil-minded and
having sinister design,
I am
pretty sure
He is
a zippy,
Zombie,
Educated and
Diplomatic URBANITE.

BETTER
to be a rustic, uneducated fool,
in whose heart always
Simplicity, naivety and magnanimity rule.

Mukesh Kataria
K Middleton Oct 2012
Them bastardized youths fell outside, dizzied by a reality unsolved.

Their maws scowled judgment and drooled Pabst down improbable bodies each of them lay in the stink of subtle conformity.  

Fiercely unique culture beasts starved away in suburbs; Wikidrifting, those drugged litterbugs scampered.

Dropout fish fast against the current of their time, tired from dancing through desperate crowded nights and disparate lonely dawns, dangling degrees and the specters of success burning incessant their pride.

They were the *******, made so over time contracted by blind parents to nine-to-blithes in which quiet desperation, credit nooses, and irony were the small print.

They were carpenters afraid of their hands.  With chisel to headstone, they lied on the hoods of used Japanese cars, panning the radio for a real connection and gazing up at vanishing constellations.  

They were their poison and they their elixir, but a cold cigarette was a much quicker fixer of Helplessness Blues and the back of a Bible where a brief intellectual wrote “I am suicidal.”

For how does the turn of the epigram read to those who care less with every new beat of a drummed-up society so high off its piety that seeing stars vanish is simply a shame?  

Those *******, dropouts tragically remiss, those Supertramps, Kerouacs, Cohens, and wits.

They were the alternative, urbanite fools that littered alleys with Greek fables and Tibetan tattoos.  

Criterion flash cards and the literary canon allowed them to flirt with god in verse and art clues until *******’s canvas did rip off their eyelids which left them to know only Socrates knew.

They danced and they writhed, then ****** to pass time, and kept on their passions till lost were their minds.  Then they all died, those blasphemous *******.

But at least they washed on the back of their crimes.

At least they danced.

At least they were.

And there may be something to movement in chaos.
aj heatherly Apr 2017
Birds Dont Sing and
i know you asked me why;
you said I never knew
the places that you do -

corner store with the
Corvette Cassette, or the
urbanite Chinatown,
Origins of your youth.

i may not know them but
i do know Lovely You and
Lovers Rock too, where we
spent an hour washing the

stone with tactile tips.
a Lilly of my day, as
at night, or, oh-no, Oh
Devil in disguise.

when i look with my eyes
i see So Many Details,
strings from Kites zigging
a bedroom span, zagging

back across, No Rules,
like the rivers or roots we grew by.
attempting to Think Feel
my way through the space -

no not forever, but yes
Everything Goes; like how
You Hear Colours while
i try to draw them out

of what i return to you.
like light, only of a kind
before the reflection, a reply,
now i'm Giving up that Feeling

i don't know how,
we broke something inside.
Francie Lynch Mar 2021
If you're an agricultural enthusiast,
Or gifted tower dwelling urbanite,
I know a priest who’ll bless your cockerel, favorite cow,
pig, sheep (with a predilection for lambs), tractor and
two-seater outhouse,
(I once saw a priest bless Farmer Paul’s load of manure).
He’ll lift a hand over
dog, cat, gerbil, cockatoo,
Foster children, adoptees, naturals and the unnatural.

They will bless people in love;
they will bless their love;
But not the union born from their love.

All love, he will say,
Is Divine.

God does not bless sin, said Papa.

Tsk, tsk... it's only a blessing, for Christ's sake.
Shame on the RC Church.
Though not exceptionally
famished, I took one bite
after another until tureen
licked clean to the delight
of zee missus, whose tasty

two stuffed peppers numbered finite
adequately apportioned appeased
served December 26th, 2020
supreme supper highlight,
hers whose non verbal expression
translated high as kite

beaming satisfaction at husband
well fed fueled might
dare attempt to craft following
reasonable rhyme posted
for many readers onsite
passable endeavor hoop fully

buzzfeeding fanciful kudos - quite
acceptable to critique
mediocre outcome,
maybe ye suburbanite
dweller or thee might
perchance be longtime urbanite.

Nevertheless (me) de facto
de jure guinea pig cannot abstain
availing self as willing subject and feign
to gag on culinary entree with cuisine plain
no spicy food to avoid aggravating reign

of terror within
lower gastrointestinal tract,
a worse fate than being slain
in battle and/or
drowning within gravy train.

Most meals prepared courtesy thy wife
I masticate without any
(loose) indentured (sink false teeth into) strife
both of us quarantined as our typical nightlife

Covid-19 jazzmatazz planted
well rooted herbalife
such tranquility emblematic
when I become gratefully dead and
consigned to mounted afterlife.

Thus hoop fully
ye accepted poetic side morsel
(mine) somewhat wry
wordsmith (me) rather bland,
yet not averse to satisfy
merchant of Venice

much (moosh pit) ado about nothing, well nigh
preferring a midsummer night's dream afore
all's well that ends well
as you like it (poetry soup)
mine sense and sensibility doth defy
ratiocination minus any helpful alibi.

Methinks what future savory dish
the spouse might cook up,
what with an abracadabra
prestidigitation (Nike) swish
right before these myopic eyes witness
whatever mine heart doth wish.
sandra wyllie Jun 2019
tried to beat the devil out of you. I tried
to love it out. You were born soiled. And you
died in your own soil. No one knew. But I do. I can’t
wash my hands clean of it. You tried to cover it

after ***, wipe it away with the washcloth on
the nightstand. Take me to the bar afterwards. We
conversed about heaven and hell, Adam and Eve while you
ate the salted olives in the ***** martinis. I went home

with a buzz to my handicap son. You drove off in your *******
black car to your townhouse, the urbanite monk that likes to park
his junk at 41 Seaverns Avenue. The devil made me. What -
buy this dress? No. Take it off, along with myself and my pride

and everything else honorable and respectable
and shuck it like an oyster to **** out the slimy middle. And then
drink it down with brine. How is it in the fire pit? You were
always smoking hot.

— The End —