"werther" poems
Enjoy until Death
It’s determined in how much time left
The Place was the Thomas Werther’s Mansion
He was a Rich Toy Maker in his day
But he died, but his spirit still stays
Nestled outside London in the suburb of Londonberry
The Mansion stands alone among the hills and mountains with acres of land for miles
The Werther’s Mansion housed toys from Ancient to Present time
But Mr. Werther’s spirit grows weary and is established in all the toys
They will all be for ****** in decoys
Adults and kids would come for miles in getting a glimpse of all the toys they saw
The Mansion would often have open house visits
But was it open house for ******
Unexpected beyond anyone’s wildest imagination, toys that seemed still would often move and stalk
Some would even talk
No one would suspect toys to commit ******
Yet toys had a clause
Visits would sometimes unknowingly find themselves in a trance on pause
Toys took control of visitor’s minds
Darkness within like closed blinds
One by one, toys of all kinds moved within a mission to ****
It was their free will
The Pirate Doll made his appearance and killed one of the visitor’s with a sword
The army of dolls tormented the Guest
It was the toys request
Fire Engines instead of squirting water, it was fire to burn up human life
Christmas season of toys
Too the children of all ages, its oh boy
But will the toys cause terror?
Beware
The toys are coming for you
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 3:32 PM UTC
I heard the great tumult of noise,
Ranging from the hills of Troy,
I head Amnon’s earnest whispering,
At the banquet of the king.
I saw the stark white midnight sun,
Blind Edward John Smith on his run,
I saw John Franklin not think twice,
Before he too was claimed by ice.
I was there the fateful day,
That earth and fire claimed Pompeii,
I was there as horizons shook,
And the sand Valdivia took.
I felt Isolde’s deep pain forlorn,
As Tristan from her side was torn
I felt Young Werther try in vain,
With love in heart but lead in brain.
Yet knowing grand calamity,
I sought naught but serenity.
Longing for love, as life depends.
My suit is cold, as so my end.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 4:14 PM UTC
Élégie VI.
Nuit et jour, malgré moi, lorsque je suis **** d'elle,
A ma pensée ardente un souvenir fidèle
La ramène ; - il me semble ouïr sa douce voix
Comme le chant lointain d'un oiseau ; je la vois
Avec son collier d'or, avec sa robe blanche,
Et sa ceinture bleue, et la fraîche pervenche
De son chapeau de paille, et le sourire lin
Qui découvre ses dents de perle, - telle enfin
Que je la vis un soir dans ce bois de vieux ormes
Qui couvrent le chemin de leurs ombres difformes ;
Et je l'aime d'amour profond : car ce n'est pas
Une femme au teint pâle, et mesurant ses pas
Au regard nuagé de langueur, une Anglaise
Morne comme le ciel de Londres, qui se plaise
La tête sur sa main à rêver longuement,
A lire Grandisson et Werther, non vraiment ;
Mais une belle enfant inconstante et frivole,
Qui ne rêve jamais ; une brune créole
Aux grands sourcils arqués; aux longs yeux de velours
Dont les regards furtifs vous poursuivent toujours ;
A la taille élancée, à la gorge divine,
Que sous les plis du lin la volupté devine.
1.1k
Over and over again
the ongoing psychosis named reality
throws at us the vile complications of existence
like a rigged tax funded snowball war in which you are forced to enroll
when you are born among proletarians
and concrete orphans more twisted than Oliver Twist
like ghetto kids with knives and narcotic nights
men that walk the same sidewalk as you
the same asphalt dreams and latent ambitions
trapped in the same staircase of materia
causing the universe to circle reason
and stomp the ant man with work boots of international negligence
like something out of an Ingmar Bergman film
as the saints will prevail like the flickering candle in an artic snow lantern
battling it’s ice ceiling like flying intifada rocks in glass houses
while the chess game of psychoanalysis continues
like the sorrows of young Werther
in the blood of your martyred nightmares
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 5:37 AM UTC
found in Styron's darkness visible... he survived auschwitz... but said adieu to life: by throwing himself down a flight of stairs.
millennial, generation y, huh?!
also called the:
bearable heaviness of non-being...
say: survivors of auschwitz,
and apart from Kundera,
i'm fudged into this stealth-culprit
hangover...
and when i speak the native tongue
i use double emphasis...
everything suddenly becomes italic...
gówno... or **** teutonic: gavron, ja,
ich habbe schtabbe ga ga, magpie on
a licky-sticky schtaisse:
vroom bog-tie boom boom...
everntually language is just that:
magnifique sounds, mein herr,
be that a cello i hear?
nada... mindlessly i too
feigned a farting brigadier, farting into
a brass horn: worth a gingerbread /
pumpernickle marching rhythm.
yes, double emphasis in the native...
kosz (koš)... bin...
trza błagać... błagać!
o śmierć... beg for death...
but hetman cossak said smerc... and it
sounded altogether better.
a household argument,
after prawn-pasta was cooked throughout
an afternoon of general bewilderment:
a heap of pebbles makes more sense
than the Orion constelation...
given the mathematical approach
to the situation, and subsequent mapping...
because they really did drop a bomb on
Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
and that's why 21st creativity
is trapped in a hamster's routine...
karaoke is standard...
this insissting plagiaristic zeitgeist!
so i said: you really think you conquered
yapan? jesus, je suis, zeus, yesus, jamaican
jah jah *** buck...
rasta root mon, rasta root.
battered and bruised...
someohow this whole dating scene
passed me by...
and what happened to me aged
21... is strangely becoming the norm
of giving the circumstance:
i can't remember being of any age, particular.
the quicker argument would coincide with:
give me a machinegun, and march me into
a Latvian forest...
because, right now, it's
a scenario of being coerced into donning a leash
or more like a leech,
and an afternoon spent
pulverised by a pneumatic tsunami
of adverts... calling it a job done,
with a siberian brew: cow juice in
tea...
liquid werther's original.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 7:32 PM UTC
about 250 years ago
young Johann Wolfgang Goethe’s tale of Werther’s
passionate unfulfilled love and ensuing suicide
triggered a wave of suicides across all Europe
the author was more than embarrassed
it is reported he was actually quite shocked
by this effect of his romantic writ
from then on he avoided the portrayal
of hypersensitive romantic youths
with their emotional entanglements
and often fatal ends
and preferred dramas of the simpler sort
like the eternal fight of good and evil
the striving for almightiness and universal knowledge
dilemmas of obedience and command
et cetera
today, like then, young people
go through the stifling pains of unrequited love
and feel they hover at the brink of the abyss
ready to jump
then, as today, young Werther’s suicide
is nothing but a waste of youthful life
that could have brought him many happy moments
had he allowed himself to stay alive
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 3:22 PM UTC
They drove off in the car
and you gave me a smile
and a wink. I had free reign
over the sweetie drawer.
We were infinitely happy
eating Werther’s Originals
and watching Countdown
on your pink velour sofa.
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
I recently went back to AJ’s
and bought two Charleston Chews,
a bottle of Moxie,
and a pack of Werther’s Originals.
You and I used to split our money
to buy that stuff, every time, the same thing.
Now, I’m sitting in the cemetery
by myself, in front of the faded
plastic flowers that we left for the
dead baby.
Miss Mary Mack echoes in my head, and
I take another sip of Moxie.
The wet copy of Charlotte’s Web is still stuck
to the floor of our clubhouse.
Nobody has been inside for five years.
All the sweat from that summer
drowned at the bottom of the mill pond,
along with our fish hooks.
Leeches stuck to our feet.
We hid in your crumbling house,
barely standing, we wrote our names
on the walls and read each other
Goosebumps.
I grew up with art and literacy.
You grew up with tubes in your stomach,
unstable families, the inability to shake off
the sadness.
A backup supply in your pocket,
in case of emergencies.
In and out, back and forth,
Sleeping bags and clammy
hospital sheets.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
A grown man in knee-pants and a cartoon tee
Flip-flopping along in his shower shoes
His hands up in surrender as he runs
A MePhone in his left, water bottle in his right
Nasaling “OmyGod! OmyGod! OmyGod!”
It’s his all-purpose whining upspeak chant
Wailed out for any grade less than an A
Or for a kitty-cute MeTube video
And now for a campus shooting: “Why me!?”
I just didn’t think it would happen here!”
(cf. Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther)
May 3, 2019
May 3, 2019 at 4:06 PM UTC
Werther had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,
And, for all the wealth of Indies,
Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.
Dec 11, 2019
Dec 11, 2019 at 6:39 PM UTC