"warbles" poems
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come darkness, moonrise, every thing
That is so silent, sweet, and pale:
Come, so ye wake the nightingale.
Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon,
Make haste to wake the nightingale:
Let silence set the world in tune
To hearken to that wordless tale
Which warbles from the nightingale
O herald skylark, stay thy flight
One moment, for a nightingale
Floods us with sorrow and delight.
To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail;
Leave us to-night the nightingale.
11.8k
THERE is a wolf in me ... fangs pointed for tearing gashes ... a red tongue for raw meat ... and the hot lapping of blood-I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.
There is a fox in me ... a silver-gray fox ... I sniff and guess ... I pick things out of the wind and air ... I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers ... I circle and loop and double-cross.
There is a hog in me ... a snout and a belly ... a machinery for eating and grunting ... a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun-I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.
There is a fish in me ... I know I came from saltblue water-gates ... I scurried with shoals of herring ... I blew waterspouts with porpoises ... before land was ... before the water went down ... before Noah ... before the first chapter of Genesis.
There is a baboon in me ... clambering-clawed ... dog-faced ... yawping a galoot's hunger ... hairy under the armpits ... here are the hawk-eyed hankering men ... here are the blond and blue-eyed women ... here they hide curled asleep waiting ... ready to snarl and **** ... ready to sing and give milk ... waiting-I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.
There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird ... and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want ... and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes-And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.
O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart-and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where-For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and **** and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.
7k
EVERY LITTLE FISH CAN SWIM
1893
saw the beginning of me.
I was born
in a railway carriage
between somewhere
and somewhere else
in an Europe that
would change with the map
the lines redrawn
by War
some unpronouncable
European nowhere.
A barrel *****
was playing a tune that
would soon be forgotten
on the station platform
when Mamma and I
arrived
at our final destination
the train breathing like a dragon.
Its whistle
cutting through time.
Later I would remember
a little wooden acorn
at the end of a string on the blind
tapping against the window
as if it were admonishing
the dawn demanding
entrance to
the room when I was three and
pulling the blind up and then
pulling the blind down.
"Shadow people"
thrown against the wall
would not survive
a morning.
All night they chattered
amongst themselves
prowling the room
that was holding me.
Debating whether to
eat me now or later.
"Beings" merely made from
the edge of a wardrobe or
a chest of drawers
the brass **** at the end of
my bed where clothes
thrown over a chair
made them come alive
I believe
in them until
I was nearly seven.
Too scared to ***
in the porcelain ***
wetting the bed
to the anger of Mama.
And now 1963
will more than likely see
the end of me
as I am
and the mind
that created who I was
offers me these
fragments of insignificance
that amount
to being a life.
I laugh as Noël
Coward warbles
in his shellac'd world
forever singing
"But I can't do anything at all
but just love you!"
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 5:57 AM UTC
NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Bling Shop
Afro Brothers
proprietorship
buyin and sellin
filthy lucre
of down hard
Gat packin
Gangstas
on the down low
throwin down
fallin hook
line and stinker
just a bunch
of lil fishies
wigglin at the end
of golden chains
its all about
the bling baby
all about the bling
"I pity the fool"
saith Mr. T
the potentate of
soul and gold
who ain't
down with
the cool jewels
of righteous
B Teamers
arrested by
the silk rope
of glitzy discos
bribing bouncers
with an
earnest Jackson
to *** rush
the vanity faire
of bumping
A Listers
Or was it
Def Jam
Buddhas
minting
coin on
MTV?
exploiting
misogyny
and ghost
face killas
NWAs
slugging cases
of Kristol
blowing
fat spliff
smoke
up the *** of
Phat Farm
kids in
the hood
shooting
silver
bullets at
the man
takin baths
in tubs
of fifties
lighting up
with crisp
C Notes
rollin
through
life
in black
Escalades
its silver
spinners
twisting fast
round
corners
where
being cool
went blind
and
Coolie High
homies
still tip
a sip
for the
brothers
who ain't
there
Today
its all about
the raised fist
of power to
the P Diddy
fighting
the power
of the people
as leggy
Beyonce
warbles
songs
for the
posse
of a
Libyan
Dictator
whose
blood
money
pays
a cool
mil
cover
for a
New Years
Eve
tune
Its all about
the bling
baby
All about
the bling
baby, all
about the
bling.
NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Best Prices in
Trenton Since
1997
You Tube Video:
Gil Scott Heron
Ain't No Such Thing As Superman
Trenton
2/25/11
jbm
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 9:19 AM UTC
First,
Thank you for this poetry, precious intellect.
For employing each muse, under no objection--
Working hard so that the words in my head can sing their celebrations
As if without effort,
And take their leave in abstract
Unity.
Second,
Thank you for my pain, you lying ************
Every time I fall under the spell of night silence,
Unencumbered by those solemn realities,
Somehow, still, I long to be bound in the ribbons of mental garrulousness.
Because ****
It'd sure be hard to write without any words--
Without the consequences of this troubled mind.
So, it looks like you’ve found a convincing way to pitch the worth of suffering.
And Darlin’, I suppose that
I'll be the buyer of your generic brand of heartache--
Never cared for that top-shelf quick n’ done despair anyway.
I must just have a pallet for lingering bitterness.
Third,
Thank you for this herb, mother nature.
For the improvisational song that it sings in my veins,
Tuning out prosaicism’s drone.
For the rocking motion of my psyche
That starts when the rapid and the slow converge,
And the configuration of the fourth dimension warbles me to sleep
In a chorus of veins—
Conveying each of life’s cadences,
All in vain
Of what I myself
Ordain.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
An evening in the garden
Sun slowly dipping below rooftops,
Shedding an orange glow,
Caught by the ice
In the glass on a rustic table
A background chorus of warbles
Marking out dusk territory
A faint smell of lavender
Mixed with mown grass
Brings a summer day to a close
All the remarks of wet winter weather
Plaguing our dull, dreary lives forgotten
Replaced by bare sleeves, smiles
And a biblical invasion of midgies
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
She wooes the tardy Spring:
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o’er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance
The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the skylark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy;
And, lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.
Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow
No yesterday nor morrow know;
’Tis Man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.
Smiles on past Misfortune’s brow
Soft Reflection’s hand can trace,
And o’er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While Hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy Pleasure leads
See a kindred Grief pursue;
Behind the steps that Misery treads
Approaching Comfort view:
The hues of bliss more brightly glow
Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.
See the wretch that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe and walk again:
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.
3.2k
Bathed in the shade of
a rubbery rhododendron,
I sway imperceptibly,
Lulled by nature's rhythms,
A silent, sleepy visitor
splayed on a ropey nest,
Serenaded by an aerial orchestra,
Chirps and trills
and throaty warbles
spiral downward,
Atomized in the languid breeze
like a Roman candle,
A staccato riff,
Jack-hammered into a dying birch,
Urges me back from the edge,
Where dream and dreamer part,
A gauzy memory of a melody lost,
Performed for the oblivious,
and a dozing, grateful
audience of one.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Have I not received my fill of this?
Emotions, which I wish to bid farewell
Turning me into quite the mirror
Retrospective and always looking back
Is there something I can do to break out?
Randomly landing on different memories
Places and people
Faces I no longer see
Emotion at the momentum of sound
Stars keep going out
A violin warbles as the memory echoes out
Like a mountain path winding away
All that is the matter
But a chemical in my head
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
A continent's scout
That once touched Pacific sands,
Has on the Natchez Trace
Taken his life at Grinder's Stand.
Such the news the Chickasaw
Agent bore
Telling President Jefferson
The great scout Meriwether Lewis
Is no more.
Five years prior, you were commissioned
To a quest,
Mr. Jefferson sending you forth
To explore the core of a new nation's
Enigmatic west.
The Mandan's song still warbles
In your ears,
While the mighty Missouri's current
Still rushes through your tears.
And now, on a porch of a tavern
In west Tennessee,
You look back in that direction
That has ever seduced thee--
You cannot seem to shake him--
That black dog of lassitude--
That murderous hell-hound what has
Shadowed you across majestic
American longitudes.
His image is there, in the polish
Of your piece
With every throb of your head
His moan ebbs at your peace.
During the journey, Clark was always
There to help stay the hound...
Knew how to handle him,
Knew how to keep him bound.
Perhaps that is why you are looking west
This time around.
Not for something new,
That, you have found.
No, you are simply looking yonder for
Someone to **** this **** hound.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 11:28 PM UTC
Thy bower is finished, fairest!
Fit bower for hunter's bride--
Where old woods overshadow
The green savanna's side.
I've wandered long, and wandered far,
And never have I met,
In all this lovely western land,
A spot so lovely yet.
But I shall think it fairer,
When thou art come to bless,
With thy sweet smile and silver voice,
Its silent loveliness.
For thee the wild grape glistens,
On sunny knoll and tree,
The slim papaya ripens
Its yellow fruit for thee.
For thee the duck, on glassy stream,
The prairie-fowl shall die,
My rifle for thy feast shall bring
The wild swan from the sky.
The forest's leaping panther,
Fierce, beautiful, and fleet,
Shall yield his spotted hide to be
A carpet for thy feet.
I know, for thou hast told me,
Thy maiden love of flowers;
Ah, those that deck thy gardens
Are pale compared with ours.
When our wide woods and mighty lawns
Bloom to the April skies,
The earth has no more gorgeous sight
To show to human eyes.
In meadows red with blossoms,
All summer long, the bee
Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs,
For thee, my love, and me.
Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens
Of ages long ago--
Our old oaks stream with mosses,
And sprout with mistletoe;
And mighty vines, like serpents, climb
The giant sycamore;
And trunks, o'erthrown for centuries,
Cumber the forest floor;
And in the great savanna,
The solitary mound,
Built by the elder world, o'erlooks
The loneliness around.
Come, thou hast not forgotten
Thy pledge and promise quite,
With many blushes murmured,
Beneath the evening light.
Come, the young violets crowd my door,
Thy earliest look to win,
And at my silent window-sill
The jessamine peeps in.
All day the red-bird warbles,
Upon the mulberry near,
And the night-sparrow trills her song,
All night, with none to hear.
2k
*Blow, winds, blow
He wanders in and out of dream scapes,
Seeking refuge from the nameless ache,
The burn of a thousand cloudless days.
The tumbleweed of his joy blows in the dunes of neglect,
Vaguely rooted in the sands of discontent.
Blow, winds, blow!
Shift the sand beneath his feet,
Tumble him to the river of rejoice,
Where his seeds can bury deep
In the fertile soil of complete.*
Walk on, Lonely Pilgrim
Would that you would go a spell further,
Fight a round harder, walk a mile longer,
Perhaps you will see the clear waters,
The soaring vistas, the spring flowers.
Sandstorms blind your eyes and sting your throat,
Your music lost into the wind.
Walk on, lonely pilgrim,
Walk on, and meet me
In the green valley,
It's just 'round the bend.
I've a song to play for you!
Welcome Song for the Weary Traveler
With unsure steps, tread the ground,
Gaze out with open eyes.
Cast away all fear and doubt.
Let the music sing your soul!
This river will wash your bedrock,
Polish the rough stones of your longing,
Flow away your worried mind.
When this love-seed settles in the soil of your heart,
Your rose will bloom, in fertile field,
Where nightingale warbles its melodious tune.
Lay down your head upon alfalfa pillow,
Let the music take you high,
Where daffodil dreams and mystic streams
Sing you sweetest lullaby.
Now close your eyes and feel the pull
This song, the lodestone to your heart,
Drawing out your own sweet tune.
Hear gentle clouds that roll on by,
Smell sweet the scented breeze in sky,
Feel the love,
Let go,
Now fly
Lonely Pilgrim Dreams
The lonely pilgrim fell asleep on his pillow of dreams,
As minstrel sung songs that floated on air.
He struggled to wake from his trance like state,
As he found himself deep in the quagmire of regret,
Wondering how he had found himself
Wandering in green valleys,
How he had been so easily lulled to sleep.
He wondered, too, if dreams are ever real,
And what he would see at morning's light.
Minstrel sang on, into the night,
Singing all good things into his heart,
Breathing love into his pillow,
Playing for light,
Playing the tune of her heart strings that night.
She was not sure what song she sang anymore,
But wanted to sing,
And sing some more.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.
Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.
Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.
All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.
Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.
Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.
My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.
My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.
Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
bird in darkness, sings at night
a testament. a sigh.
she warbles for the coming light
but never wants to fly
for she fears a tre'chorus flight
in darkness as it lies
cruel, its haunches pull in tight
it homes in on her cries
yet she evades its clutch's might,
so no matter how it tries
God has given second sight
*and darkness
always
DIES*
SøułSurvivør
(C) 4/29/2017
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 3:40 AM UTC
Mike Arms--1 day ago
write a few lines, I'll match em. Can you do it ?
david badgerow--14 hours ago
banjo strings frayed by broken fingernails
fistful of downers to sleep this night away
i open my eyelids out of dream, singing ladies'
eyes downcast thru fear & tobacco smoke
wake up, roll joint, get this day started.
Mike Arms--10 hours ago
being pure ether ain't no ****** picnic
this september looks right at ***** smearing
its pale arms reaching clearly into murderers
lungs groping mute celibate
if you beheld her whole form means silence
david badgerow--10 hours ago
lying back on the car seat, her eyelids heavy
she breathes diamonds and pure electricity
in an endless velvet desert, radio warbles over a hill
"oh, if i were young again, legs spread leaning against a table."
hard labor, aluminum tubes between
continental divide
echo chamber vibrations plunging
their tiny lamps in and out of her eyeball
Mike Arms--8 hours ago
Hard Luck Man
crossing floods
inanimate intelligence
is assassinated
they cross themselves
a world deaf
*** revolution
worst gamble
you remain
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
Won't you sing for me,
Sweet singing bird
It's been so long
Since I thrilled to the trills and warbles
Of your living song
This confused and bruised winter
Has defied nature's logic
So, set the world to rights
And sing for me
To remind me
That I'm part of something
That still remains wild
And vivid
By Phil Roberts
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
In the placid summer midnight,
Under the drowsy sky,
I seem to hear in the stillness
The moths go glimmering by.
One by one from the windows
The lights have all been sped.
Never a blind looks conscious--
The street is asleep in bed!
But I come where a living casement
Laughs luminous and wide;
I hear the song of a piano
Break in a sparkling tide;
And I feel, in the waltz that frolics
And warbles swift and clear,
A sudden sense of shelter
And friendliness and cheer . . .
A sense of tinkling glasses,
Of love and laughter and light--
The piano stops, and the window
Stares blank out into the night.
The blind goes out, and I wander
To the old, unfriendly sea,
The lonelier for the memory
That walks like a ghost with me.
1.5k
Where contemplation finds her sacred spring,
Where heav’nly music makes the arches ring,
Where virtue reigns unsully’d and divine,
Where wisdom thron’d, and all the graces shine,
There sits thy spouse amidst the radiant throng,
While praise eternal warbles from her tongue;
There choirs angelic shout her welcome round,
With perfect bliss, and peerless glory crown’d.
While thy dear mate, to flesh no more confin’d,
Exults a blest, an heav n-ascended mind,
Say in thy breast shall floods of sorrow rise?
Say shall its torrents overwhelm thine eyes?
Amid the seats of heav’n a place is free,
And angels open their bright ranks for thee;
For thee they wait, and with expectant eye
Thy spouse leans downward from th’ empyreal sky:
“O come away,” her longing spirit cries,
“And share with me the raptures of the skies.
“Our bliss divine to mortals is unknown;
“Immortal life and glory are our own.
“There too may the dear pledges of our love
“Arrive, and taste with us the joys above;
“Attune the harp to more than mortal lays,
“And join with us the tribute of their praise
“To him, who dy’d stern justice to stone,
“And make eternal glory all our own.
“He in his death slew ours, and, as he rose,
“He crush’d the dire dominion of our foes;
“Vain were their hopes to put the God to flight,
“Chain us to hell, and bar the gates of light.”
She spoke, and turn’d from mortal scenes her eyes,
Which beam’d celestial radiance o’er the skies.
Then thou dear man, no more with grief retire,
Let grief no longer damp devotion’s fire,
But rise sublime, to equal bliss aspire,
Thy sighs no more be wafted by the wind,
No more complain, but be to heav’n resign’d
’Twas thine t’ unfold the oracles divine,
To sooth our woes the task was also thine;
Now sorrow is incumbent on thy heart,
Permit the muse a cordial to impart;
Who can to thee their tend’rest aid refuse?
To dry thy tears how longs the heav’nly muse!
1.5k
with unsure steps, tread the ground
gaze out with open eyes
cast away all fear and doubt
let the music sing your soul
this river will wash your bedrock
polish the rough stones of your longing
flow away your worried mind
when this love-seed settles in the soil of your heart
your rose will bloom, in fertile field
where nightingale warbles its melodious tune
lay down your head upon alfalfa pillow
let the music take you high
where daffodil dreams and mystic streams
sing you sweetest lullaby
now close your eyes and feel the pull
this song the lodestone to your heart
drawing out your own sweet tune
hear gentle clouds that roll on by
smell sweet the scented breeze in sky
feel the love,
let go,
now fly
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 9:03 AM UTC
This slight bird
so oft alone except
in spring when pairs
will flightingly court
in blue-belled woods.
Passerine bird
erithacus rubecula
a thrush-like fly-catcher
diurnal except on
moon-lit nights.
Mr McGregor’s friend
and never to be harmed.
He in winter sings,
she in summer warbles;
both fiercely territorial.
Legend says its breast
was scorchéd red
when fetching water
for those poor souls
dead - in Purgatory.
When the Eternal Christ
was dying on the tree
a robin to his side flew down
and boldly sang to ease
our sweet Saviour’s pain.
And evermore retained
the mark of blood
upon its once-brown breast.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC
Her eyes, posts
of bare hazel clique,
survey me in this chair.
Her hair gathers in rude
thunderheads by the ear,
black about the field.
Her engraved mouth
is crowded with oblivion
and serendipity, beckons
a foreshortened hand
that warbles with filaments
of anticipation.
The aspect of her neck
brims with motion -
a swan on flat water
chases the smeared
crumbs of evening.
The beach of her *******
her cheek, her blush bough brow,
Her knee, in repose,
sustains a milk leg -
Her face, gathered
to watercolor thought -
And behind it all, a mind
rejoicing in the sun-
O portrait, be glad
you have no memories -
with every new pair of eyes
you have a new lover,
a new lover, a new lover.
Feb 2, 2021
Feb 2, 2021 at 12:58 AM UTC
The guise of a false hope warily cloaks
an unkempt soul bereft of fortitude -
stolid in the belligerent face of unnamed evil,
an aura of past opulence adulterates naive purity,
the stigma augmented by an insidious breach
of internal asylum. The vulnerability of
a soldier against oneself takes precedence
in the chasmal crusade yet to come; omniscient
intimation gives way to dour prophecies,
ambidextrous in their intricate verbosity.
Molten in the inferno of cross-interrogation,
pliable in the hands of a mortared veteran,
reiteration serves only as a gibe, a grievance
only the most foolish jester would make
before a corroding monarch. The demons
have rallied for annihilation; the starling
warbles an aria of capitulation, its notes
reverberating through the tentative sunset,
a sky of gray and orange mingling with the song
to convey an unequivocal defeat. But after every
dusk comes a period of resurrection, and from the haze
emerges a heroine unrecognizable if not for eyes
ablaze with scarred determination. She strides
with the strength of ten thousand legions, a leviathan's
courage uncovered in her still-beating heart.
The devil flees, uncomfortable in the blinding presence
of mortal accompanied by heavenly body. This -
this is redemption for armor lost, the answer
to her yearning prayers that had been barely audible over the
convulsing sobs that had swallowed her for so long.
Finally vanquished of the toxic beast that had claimed her,
she rises victorious, proclaiming amidst glory a single word -
“Checkmate.”
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
then from the grimy floor
of the lavender fields' portaloo swells
an endless summer, and it creeps
up the blood orange walls;
each time i take a breath,
the plastic warbles like an underwater thing
we make little whooshes together
it swells up and leaks out yellow
like i fear the girl's head will,
across the road,
all shaved and shiny like a soft boiled egg
fit to crack if the wrong car swerves
the wrong way...
anyway,
cancer?
at such a young age?
or the bees outside
springing up cushions,
decorative soaps, honey,
chocolate even out there from the earth
and i can't kick back and laugh
at how much they must be worth
because my god-
i'm scared of bees-
especially with the lavender
mingling with the sweat
in the soft part behind my knees
because what if they chose to stick there
and build empires from my flesh instead?
i'd be like that little girl;
as good as
anyway
sometimes my thighs conduct
like they're made of brass
and there's hail marys in the dust
tiny earthquakes caused by trucks
the tip of an ice cream cone
that isn't soggy
that's good enough
i stayed a little longer
than the trickle did
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 2:20 PM UTC
Won't you sing for me,
Please?
It's been so long
Since I thrilled to the trills and warbles
Of your living song
This confused and bruised winter
Has defied nature's logic
So, set the world to rights
And sing for me
To remind me
That I'm part of something
That still remains wild
And vivid
By Phil Roberts
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 7:02 AM UTC
I wish I was the kind of person that liked Bjork.
Alas, I am not.
The Pixies are cool, and
I like every band Glen Danzig has ever been in,
but that isn't fashionable.
I really did turn into a Martian though.
Lately, its been all Vic Chesnutt with his 2 good fingers and
delicate warble.
**** I miss that guy.
Remember delicate warbles? Neither does Bjork.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC