"urbanite" poems
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 Pollock’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.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
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
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
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.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
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.
Mar 21, 2021
Mar 21, 2021 at 3:54 PM UTC