"wastrels" poems
I am tired of writing love songs about you
Because they do not work
Because I cannot bring myself to summarise the hurt
When it's greater than just words
I traced your lips with my fingertips
As you held my neck and drowned me
I tried to keep the bubbles in my hands
For the day you'd come drown me again
Funny how a heart so small
Could wreck such treacherous trouble
Will you hold me closer?
When you say 'sing me a song'
And I think it's because you love it
But you were right all along
You were in love with my need
A need for something more than greed
And I could not play along
So the songs sounded the same
Because all we had was a blank page
Blander than a desert tongue
Will you hold me closer?
And still I begged
Because it is all I know to do
I crashed walls through
Just to get to you
A fool a fool a fool
I played for you
I turned tipsy as the world went spinning round and round in psychedelic swabs
Liquor after liquor
Anesthesia
Only brings out pain
I gave in
Because it is all I know to do
In a dark place full of wastrels waiting for love
Will you hold me closer?
I came here
Ready to regret
A little revelry to rock the bland away
Yet how far could I run with your clutches round my neck?
I tore up the pieces of paper
That I wasted all on you
Happier times
Haughtier lies
I tore up all the words I gave to you
No more poetry for the first time your lips touched mine
Or how you playfully pushed me by the seaside
The days before you showed your wicked side
No more circles with endless lines
Here I'm staring at the blank page right before my eyes
Ready to rewrite
What was life like
Before you?
Your eyes meet mine amd smile
One last time
Will you hold me closer?
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
The city's shrouded in smoke today
smoke coats my mouth, throat & eyes
& I know, I know.
I should be writing in form,
in rhyme - villanelles, sonnets, terza rima
some say there's too much free verse, some say, it's like
everyone's jumped on the bandwagon
yet the most of the magazines still all want rhyme
but sometimes this is just the tune
your heart sings, a broken smile
& the way the images build up
waiting to sail like ships in the harbor
& besides, should we really be writing in villanelles when we are the Mad & I see now, the best minds of our generation, the gifted,
the naked wastrels of the coming apocalypse,
talking to lamp posts, screaming of Ginsberg's Moloch
& the wrongs they did us, yet not destroyed even as we scream locked
behind whitewashed walls in razor-blade glint & halogenic
glow of ECT or walk the empty streets at guerilla dawn
& dusk, bearing the ample weight of our drugged-up minds
like those martyrs of the old Soviet Union & clinging
on to memoirs of our stolen, interrupted, spiritual awakening,
searching for the redemption of litter in this hobo life,
changing countries like some change bed sheets,
others rooted by the invisible chains of familiarity & home, still calling
for the road, oh Kerouac, the fallen angels of tomorrow strung out on sweet
childhood memories & jazz in starved sunsets,
picking themselves up to pick at their scab wounds,
spitting at corrupt governments, bitter with alcohol,
writing poems of unrequited love to poets
far better than us, while Elvis croons
in the background & a Baboushka spits sunflower seeds
in the Russian town of my ancestors
& an open air film plays in black & white
& this colorless summer is nearly over
& they still haven't lifted their sanctions
them with their stone gods of war & psychiatry,
always lining up the next undesirables :
you could be next, yes you with the rainbow eyes
you the believer, you the dreamer of visions
Oh pity them, the children of smoke,
blind to the vagabond, the poet, the lover
lost children always seeking out the same roads
the city is shrouded in smoke
& I wonder if it's not always been there
& if we're living amongst blind men
ones that never read poems
or else how could all this happen
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
It’s good to be hated! But I know my name…
hate, blackened, misshapen, ugly, unnatural,
yet
how it clarifies the mind, like a cupped hand
carrying clear, cold, brook water to dry mouth,
to shock, enliven, resets resets, all your priorities
with alacrity, a word I prefer cause it is an intuitive
combo of eagerness + alarm, suddenly much of the
trivial is no longer worthy of your ‘to do’ list,
you, without thinking, DNA filter your filters,
those screens that digest, then reject & reflect
the inputs ongoings around you, and you are now
reclassified! by the hate surrounding, it declassifies
the time wastrels, reinterpreting most everything
on a bipolar scale of 1 or 10, there are no shades,
the middle ground of gray be fully eliminated,
just like those who wish to
eliminate
me.
in a palette of black or white, your
e +e,
(essence and existence) cannot be ever
a gray area, yes, of course, the sunshine
is yellow bright, and the grass is spring
flushed green, the multicolored daffodils
newly define colors varietal, and the waves
of the Sound, roll relentlessly, but hate can be
coated, camouflaged and subtle disguised, but
we know, oh how we know, and how we wanted
to ***forget, our “sins”, our original liabilities of
our multi colored skins, our religion, our race & ethnicity,***
but NOT our names!
the Rabbis tell us that God nearly did not keep
his promise to Abraham, to rescue his progeny
from slavery in Egypt but saved them only because:
‘On account of four things Israel was redeemed
from Egypt: they did not change their names, they
did not change their language, they did not speak
slander and not even one of them was found to be
promiscuous.’^
I know my name; and though you cannot distinguish
me by dress, know not my moral life, but now you
know my name,
given to me by my parents, in the language of my ancestors:
Mordecai Netanel ben (son of) Eliyahu Chaim
Per my family lore, as told to me by my parents, our
family fled from Spain because of the Inquisition (1478),
settled in a small town in Germany on the banks
of the river Lippe; and from the shtetls of Poland,
and those who survived or avoided the Holocaust
ultimately left Europe, came here, to the land of
the free, the United States of America with names,
in their language, with memories intact.
I will not flee this country,
for I know my true name,
inscribed in my pores, in my
DNA
<>
(but should I have to…there is a sanctuary.)
May 2 2024
May 2, 2024
May 2, 2024 at 9:24 PM UTC
Youths, the sight of thy pants menacingly looming over the waistband of your ill fitting trousers doth not fill my heart with joy this fine afternoon.
Nor doth the stench of your rancid marijuana which oozes from your pores and combines with your ever present lynx masked body odour.
I see you stroll with all the grace of a strategically shaved ape,
as you migrate with your "Fam" to linger like wastrels outside the Spar in the hope of cheap cider, stolen smokes and easy girls...
And I wonder at the devoid nature of our future while it rests on your rounded, work shy, knuckle dragging shoulders.
I fear the brush thats tars us all.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
i
zowie doodles
maisie may
mali the bad
lily lu lu
and tommy tune..
ii
i recall thursday
in cold blowy bushes
hopeless
and late victorian
chairs..
a rather shoddy future
which got worse
helpless
victorian morals
and worse
and what then
a succession of
error
a word a curse!
woe to us!
silver platters..
but upon
my hairy shoulder
youth laughed
but a aways
harsh
wastrels!
and you think
and you think
timeless ways
and suddenly
i was 30..
jesus..
an elephant in
glass
unemployable ant
boats and stoats
and factory
malaise..
wish..
work in progress..
the seconds digress
like love and stars
not even a war
go fish!
a dance with a
great magical
door
called wishes..
and then 40..!
son,beware the
cat lady
beware
the graceful
smiles..and
whipped 20
by
or be
since..
and strange things
like comets
come and go
by
which
if character been
fate
is
typical..
of me..
as forecast by
teachers and towns
but unknown
music
grin down..
and by golly
close shaves
around corners
stuff and poetry..
some round..
lithe plain
and of course
why
not made a million
yet
but all
is
still
a sweet card..
a great winding
returning
empty while
of some
shiny circle..
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 4:54 AM UTC
I stepped out of my apartment
into the easy breezy morning heat
it was hot,
but not late enough for the sun
to have properly baked the earth
I lost three cigarettes
almost immediately
lost them on skid row:
*** alley
a small strip of city
which stretches from 5th to Jefferson
and from Broad to Franklin
something about that place,
maybe the empathy of the inhabitants
draws them closer
the homeless, hobos, bums, wastrels, ruffians, and scoundrels
sitting cross legged on the pavement
or idly kicking on the stoop of curbs
or in hidden alleys,
hiding from the wind
They live there
and for the most part
they're good people,
not hurting anybody
not proud enough
to not beg
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 9:57 AM UTC
My fusion-felt
Atmosphere,
Is heavy handed
But I'm just-
Pedestrian salt,
And licorice findings.
This symbiosis of--
Nylon webs tweak
Reactor cord,
Which I see--
Sewing segments to
My face.
I-as-stygian
Thatching; drown
Synthetic wastrels.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
Undulating by the beckoning of the wind,
Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins
Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets
Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak
Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms
Visceral is the movement of the procession,
Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill
Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is
Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero.
Warlike, the battle up the slope claims the lives of those already claimed
Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict,
Wanting nothing more than solace eternal.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC
I feel sad, oh, I feel sad,
Don’t shun me, for I'm mad, I'm mad.
Yes, I've had my share of strife,
That's why I carry this heavy life.
I lived by the red river's flow,
In a castle where darkness did grow.
Don't judge me for the past I had,
I dwelled with the wastrels, and it was sad.
I never thought the way they taught,
I was cast aside, battles fought.
But I wasn't wrong, hear my song,
Though my life didn't always belong.
I've sailed the river of life's vast pool,
Hiding my feelings, like a fool.
I've made mistakes, committed fouls,
But I won't let that darken my soul.
I may have been careless, lacking demand,
I admit, at times, I've been a little sappy lad.
Let's forget the past's deep bends,
And embrace a future that amends.
Sep 23, 2023
Sep 23, 2023 at 9:32 AM UTC
<>
“I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat,
gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the
day and night”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN
§§§
*Irony great, some say unto delicious, for my writing,
be a fusing of surroundings of silences, admixture of
inconsequential noises, atomic horn and geese honking,
sun rays speaking in tongues, my skin translating, both,
the sounds of the city, those of out of city, merged, both,
accessible, instant recall, stored for tongue tasing upon
these blank pages below, needy for wordy fulfillment,
copy and place these mishmash of cacophonous,
on a single page, simmer, blend and sauce, of course,
salt to taste, mine, author of this recipe being born,
born in the night, prepped by day, the lovely sounds,
kettle or pan, broiler, fryer, slow cooked on full flame
they are the melted butter sweetness crossing the span
between the body of the heartbeat, the ache of the brain,
shot out in rapidity, error’d and stain’d, their state natural,
for this mess of beans, collection of noises, stir my soul
where they contain’d, aromatic, fanatic, exotic, sticky hot,
only a singular harsh invades, the shrill of the voice human
this piece, this poem, a flavoring, a dish-not-to-be-repeated,
once consumed, spoiled milk, molded with Jello mold green,
back to hiding in place of unseen, of bravura masked as cowardice,
when crackle of easy wasted word cowards, daily spewed,
so precious these ingredients, these artful sounds, easy ruined,
chitchats of nothingness, parlous blasé wastrels, seize! cease!
take thy tongue, let it memorize all the oddities that fill your ears,
ecrivez! the cooing, smacking, the alliteration of snap, crackle, and
yes, pop! and if you can love the human voice, of that too, tho not me,
more beloved, the exterior symphony of kettle drum, soft cry of violin,
timpani tingling, guitar plucking, the voice of men, too oft abusing and abused by untruths, emboldened lies, they are the sounds
I love least, love to hate. a shrill disease, the TV liars...*
§§§§§
May
Manhattan Island
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 3:44 PM UTC
The Bees are gone and the butterflies are dying off.
Polar bears climb deadly cliffs to find birds eggs to eat.
Sea birds drown in coats of oil slick on the ocean.
And we sit watching on TV, munching on Doritos
While the news predicts the next tornado’s flash flood
And Canada plus the West Coast are in flames.
What the Hell is wrong with us- have we fried our brains
with TikTok memes and face Book.
Why aren’t we on charter busses aimed
At D.C. and state legislatures to demand
They think of us for once and not the gravy train
They ride collecting re-election funds.
Why do we mindlessly vote straight ticket
Instead of vetting each candidate for
What they’ve done to help the earth.
Then voting out the wastrels.
I know where to rent a bus
Will anybody ride with me.
ljm
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 12:05 PM UTC
I gave her my hand . . .
Our time spent on dirt roads,
. . . Empty souls riding.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
Self embracing, literally
The shattered skeleton of my intended joys
Wounded, no, un-alive
Clutching onto wastrels of hope
Drowning
Falling
Sinking
Down to the depths of my reality
Praying to wake up to blind filtered polluted sunshine
And impatient ***** of vehicle drivers.
Crows cawing
The sounds of construction.
Firmness beneath my body
My sight blocked by the smoky illusion of bed curtains.
What truly is home?
The physical manifestations of boredom and repetition
Familiar scents of musk, old paper and furniture
Alive furniture, living furniture
With a story; multiple histories to tell
Stuck here instead
Pale skin, dead eyes, cold souls
40 different kinds of bread, wasted
Harsh fluorescent lighting
People pretending to be happy with new haircuts and won ipads
A polaroid of a daisy
Whimsical, right?
Hardly. Overused, misinterpreted, cliched
Cliched realities mixed together in a Chinese take away box
Gold earrings and strappy heels
Mask true insecurity
I lay awake briefly
Dreaming of car-empty roads and solid buildings
Full families and the idea
The idea of being able to share
SHARE
Food, space, air
Thoughts.
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
It’s drizzling
But it doesn’t matter.
I am running,
Around the Jawaharlal Nehru stadium
At Kochi.
The ground is wet,
There are water patches around.
So, I take careful steps.
As I go around,
I see a young man,
In a hoodie,
And track pants.
He is talking,
On the mobile phone.
Standing beneath an awning.
Must be to his girlfriend,
Because he is smiling.
I think to myself,
‘What a wastrel. Do some exercise. Get fit’.
But he is oblivious.
During my next lap,
I see,
A friend has joined him.
‘Two wastrels’, I think,
As I start panting.
My middle-age lungs,
Are aching.
But I like the suffering,
Because it makes me feel good.
When I stop.
On my third round,
They are peeling off their track pants.
I run on..
The drizzle has eased up,
A cool breeze is blowing.
My perspiration-drenched forehead
Gets some relief.
Running triggers
Something primitive in me.
This is what man did,
For thousands of years.
Before the invention
Of the wheel.
I can hear the thud of feet
Hitting the ground
Behind me.
It sounds like heartbeats.
Then these two young men,
Whom I derided,
Whizzed past me
At high speed.
Smooth electrifying movements
Of hands and feet.
‘What?’ I exclaim silently in my head
My perception was
Oh so wrong.
They are athletes,
And they are swift.
And they splash,
Through the puddles.
Fearless.
So I had simply
Misunderstood them.
That’s what happens to all of us
We misunderstand
People.
Places.
Communities.
Religions.
Spouses.
Children.
Parents.
Relatives.
Is it any surprise,
Society is so fractured.
I feel like a fool
Message to me: don’t jump to conclusions,
Ever.
Aug 11, 2020
Aug 11, 2020 at 11:47 PM UTC
a thousand poems stronger,
write in freedom flowing,
rhyming, sashaying, gingers flying,
an exercise in 15 minute segments,
18 hours daily, easy peasy,
I’ll have my thousand in a mere
13.8888888888888 days, then
what the heck am I do with those now
superfluous 6 hours a weekly wastrels?
drink.
Nov 5, 2023
Nov 5, 2023 at 7:58 AM UTC
In fairness, the end could not have been easier.
A stillborn breath gutted out,
old lump of a deathly echo.
I am entombed here,
on this island fortified with a thousand winters.
Effortless to migrate and molt.
To voyage out alone and build hateful nest
of iron-ice and blackened blood-frost.
Easy to tie the corded wastrels
into empty fire pits and dream there,
like the corpses of gods
left scattered on the roadside.
Such cavities do not touch me,
nor do I haze about with vagaries concerning such things.
It’s your scars that cut into me now,
and my last prayer hangs about you
like a shroud of fog.
Let all else wheel by,
but you stay.
You stay,
and close those galaxy-eyes against me.
What blood is left in me
runs for you, my love,
and when all else is chalk-ice and tempest winds,
still my skin impersonates me.
Still you run through my memory cave
in the shape of an ox,
dressed in charcoal.
How I hate this charade.
What is easy about it?
Even the name of the smallest grain of sand
is a story too long to tell,
too long to remember.
Each end of it fades out and goes on,
maybe looping itself
and holding out in defiance
of the unidirectional flow of time.
I will go backwards next time and get simpler,
sloughing off forgotten icebergs
like burrs caught in my feathers.
Like a salmon returning to spawn,
growing young and warm again,
uncorrupted.
And one day,
sweetly anonymous in your eyes:
unknown, unnamed, and free.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 7:56 PM UTC