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"wily" poems
1 Backwater nymph, queen of serpentine black tresses flaunting its coconut oil gleam; envy of  leggy girls from the Western ghat mountains, and lissome  maidens from the plains, who can never eat as much fish, even if they wish. Wearing hibiscus flowers, on coiffure like hood of a king cobra, your coral lips  silently speak of hot peppery kisses, waiting for me at shaded corners. Your sultry body in me arouses desires, that could only be whispered in your ears. 2 On a coconut lagoon when we met, for the first time and spoke, non stop, as if we knew each other life long, I heard music in your words. Oh! in the tongue you spoke, I heard the cadence of a nightingale ecstatic, on its wings above the clouds, love had prompted us to fly above the storms. Your  gleaming coal black eyes, like silver hooks, tug at my heart strings, that makes music, only I can hear, you are a free flying lark, above Kerala's lush coconut coast, that extends from sea shore to the mountains. 3 **When we relished steaming brown rice, mixed with clarified butter, with spicy tuna curry, tasting so dainty, cooked in bubbling sweet coconut milk, my eyes like two crazy butterflies circled your face, a blossomed Champak*. Mashed cassava and roasted squid, melted on our tongues, in a perfect culinary language any one would understand without effort. 4 Your lips had cinnamon scent, spice land's boons, when we kissed we touched heaven of scents and spicy tastes. When our eyes fell on each other, near the ancient synagogue, the hay days of which is over, a long jasmine garland coiling your hair,     marked you different, from the  the ladies of your neighborhood,                                           surrounding you. How well you did pretend that you have never seen my face before! You have mastered love's cunning, and all the wily tricks to cheat the enemies of our fiery love my Freudian mind perfectly understood. Just imagine the brouhaha we would invite, when we elope, in the last boat, to Alappuzha, stealthily at midnight.*
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May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
A love song for my Cochin* girl
1 Backwater nymph, queen of serpentine black tresses flaunting its coconut oil gleam; envy of  leggy girls from the Western ghat mountains, and lissome  maidens from the plains, who can never eat as much fish, even if they wish. Wearing hibiscus flowers, on coiffure like hood of a king cobra, your coral lips  silently speak of hot peppery kisses, waiting for me at shaded corners. Your sultry body in me arouses desires, that could only be whispered in your ears. 2 On a coconut lagoon when we met, for the first time and spoke, non stop, as if we knew each other life long, I heard music in your words. Oh! in the tongue you spoke, I heard the cadence of a nightingale ecstatic, on its wings above the clouds, love had prompted us to fly above the storms. Your  gleaming coal black eyes, like silver hooks, tug at my heart strings, that makes music, only I can hear, you are a free flying lark, above Kerala's lush coconut coast, that extends from sea shore to the mountains. 3 **When we relished steaming brown rice, mixed with clarified butter, with spicy tuna curry, tasting so dainty, cooked in bubbling sweet coconut milk, my eyes like two crazy butterflies circled your face, a blossomed Champak*. Mashed cassava and roasted squid, melted on our tongues, in a perfect culinary language any one would understand without effort. 4 Your lips had cinnamon scent, spice land's boons, when we kissed we touched heaven of scents and spicy tastes. When our eyes fell on each other, near the ancient synagogue, the hay days of which is over, a long jasmine garland coiling your hair,     marked you different, from the  the ladies of your neighborhood,                                           surrounding you. How well you did pretend that you have never seen my face before! You have mastered love's cunning, and all the wily tricks to cheat the enemies of our fiery love my Freudian mind perfectly understood. Just imagine the brouhaha we would invite, when we elope, in the last boat, to Alappuzha, stealthily at midnight.*
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61
Shouting for longevity, Slamming at the counterers… - upon your dignified respite! Would-be detractors without brevity, Before the wine-dark Sea at night… A pleading to philosophy of commonly renowned, Beating sand and posturing, uncouth before a crown; “Priam please!” Sun and Moon, two sons shall plead, nay, -beg in tandem with the man; “He serves the seas, trust him please, our father; this priest of Trojan-land!” Laocoon “Fear the Greeks, of mind I speak, approval by a van-i-ty; it surely is a death you seek! An asp this horse, gift no more and tragedy in due remorse, I beg of you my call to heed, wooden-burnt this crispy steed, …alight in flame, glorified name; Poseidon shall endorse!” Priests of Apollo “Ridiculous! Worship we must, now bring it to the City thus!” Laocoon “The actions of accursed Kore, Need I remind you all Paris caused this war? For he mocked this god, the abyss it knows, with terror comes a deadly tide, **** that fool and his fiddling pride!* Burn this beast we must with haste for Greeks they have a certain taste, Their acts meant always to confound, wily, since they were unbound. What harm may do, to rest at shore? Consult the stars of yester-yore. Assign no chore, one heaven’s night, plus a day, to sit upon our princely shore?” Setting (read/spoken at the fastest pace the reader can go) A horrid hiss above the wave as two doth slither from out the cave…   The creatures from the darkest days, ancient spectacle for the knaves, bear witness to the punishment, commanded by a great trident, hearing screams of bannermen, for King and council a shocking twist, serpents ****** from out the mists, encircling priest and his kin, the howling they had done no sin, never be forgot-ten, as Typhon cried out merrily, serpents and the tragic sea; swallowed up all the three. Priam “Farewell dear Laocoon and two sons with thee!” *
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Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 4:13 PM UTC
Knowledge of the Peoples
Shouting for longevity, Slamming at the counterers… - upon your dignified respite! Would-be detractors without brevity, Before the wine-dark Sea at night… A pleading to philosophy of commonly renowned, Beating sand and posturing, uncouth before a crown; “Priam please!” Sun and Moon, two sons shall plead, nay, -beg in tandem with the man; “He serves the seas, trust him please, our father; this priest of Trojan-land!” Laocoon “Fear the Greeks, of mind I speak, approval by a van-i-ty; it surely is a death you seek! An asp this horse, gift no more and tragedy in due remorse, I beg of you my call to heed, wooden-burnt this crispy steed, …alight in flame, glorified name; Poseidon shall endorse!” Priests of Apollo “Ridiculous! Worship we must, now bring it to the City thus!” Laocoon “The actions of accursed Kore, Need I remind you all Paris caused this war? For he mocked this god, the abyss it knows, with terror comes a deadly tide, **** that fool and his fiddling pride!* Burn this beast we must with haste for Greeks they have a certain taste, Their acts meant always to confound, wily, since they were unbound. What harm may do, to rest at shore? Consult the stars of yester-yore. Assign no chore, one heaven’s night, plus a day, to sit upon our princely shore?” Setting (read/spoken at the fastest pace the reader can go) A horrid hiss above the wave as two doth slither from out the cave…   The creatures from the darkest days, ancient spectacle for the knaves, bear witness to the punishment, commanded by a great trident, hearing screams of bannermen, for King and council a shocking twist, serpents ****** from out the mists, encircling priest and his kin, the howling they had done no sin, never be forgot-ten, as Typhon cried out merrily, serpents and the tragic sea; swallowed up all the three. Priam “Farewell dear Laocoon and two sons with thee!” *
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Have you met the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man? He scammed fig leafs in the garden, And **** cloth in Ottoman.      outside-in, inside-out; upside-down, right-side up The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can cuss. He offers snake oil, spins a tale, So you feel smart, healthy and hale.      from top to bottom, bottom to top The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can't stop. He swrawls with a Sharpie pen.      right is left, left is wrong That's the Who-Gee Boo-Gee song. Consultation for now is free, No hidden added extra fees: You buy two, you get three.      north to south, east to west The Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man won't rest. I've heard his feet are cloven; The eyes are yellow, lips look swollen; He has two fingers, wears silk- woven. He sweats like water to the lowest level; He's quicker than the slyest devil, Selling hell, but we hear heaven; Doing so twenty-four seven. He photo-shops secret desires, Twists truth-tellers into liars; Artful, wily, scheming, subtle, The Who-Gee Boo-Gee's a hungry jackal.      *today is the day, yesterday's late,      tomorrow's a place that just won't wait* I met up with the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man, Peddling apples from my jardain.
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Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
The Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man
Portia and Bassanio Brave Portia's lot was cast Inside a mocking case of lead, Morrocco came and passed, Then Arragorn, arrived and left, forlorn. A list of louts came, failed, and went Before Bassanio played his turn... Poor rich Portia's patience spent, Nerissa's lady solace yearned Antonio, Bassanio, a troubled pair A wily shark a loan arranged, Whose bite, though small, Beyond compare aimed deepest To the matters of the heart. Antonio, about to lose his fortune, Bemoaned the losing of a friend, The foiling of a fortune, sunk. Shylock, certain of his pound of flesh, Summarily dismissed by gentile gender-bending, Played as a fool by a woman posing as a man, Who drove a lawyer's visage in a Portia. All ended well, at least for "Christian" men... Life sweetened by the turning of a Jew, No matter his conversion at duress... Straight away Portia and Nerissa turned back A ******* borrower who had landed on his feet, And sprang their traps to tame their husbands' heat.
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Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
Portia and Bassanio (Merchant of Venice)
Confined to eternal asphyxiation They live a suffocated existence No hope to regain what they took for granted They showed no regard for earth, air, or water This polluted wasteland, their planet They cannot love each other anymore Their punishment is solitude and xenophobia What privileges they had, once upon a time Affection and love, and interpersonal immersion Now doomed, forever, to be alone In this world destroyed by greed, desire, and lust For power, the human beings atone, They do not deserve to be alive, let alone To walk aware of their wrongdoings They should have been erased I would have loved to be the executioner Of billions sinful, lying, cursed, wretched, Vile, incessant, promiscuous, vicious, insidious, Slimy, wily, evil creatures humans are Instead I have become their saviour I feel no pity or sympathy for the Devils They became in exchange of their materialism I see them walk in masses of melancholy, loneliness As I once did for which they showed no regard for me And heartless, I ignore their silent cries for help You are sentenced to life in prison, one like no other Free to live in a society which shows more confinement Than any man-made cell or coffin Elements you took for granted shall be stripped away Your sinful quest for immortality has led you accordingly It is forbidden to breathe the air you polluted, Drink the water you tainted, eat the fruits of the earth you destroyed Your senses will be nullified and your spirits Crushed as this planet was insufficient For your corrupted existence .
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Dec 3, 2009
Dec 3, 2009 at 11:38 AM UTC
Oxygen Erase
Confined to eternal asphyxiation They live a suffocated existence No hope to regain what they took for granted They showed no regard for earth, air, or water This polluted wasteland, their planet They cannot love each other anymore Their punishment is solitude and xenophobia What privileges they had, once upon a time Affection and love, and interpersonal immersion Now doomed, forever, to be alone In this world destroyed by greed, desire, and lust For power, the human beings atone, They do not deserve to be alive, let alone To walk aware of their wrongdoings They should have been erased I would have loved to be the executioner Of billions sinful, lying, cursed, wretched, Vile, incessant, promiscuous, vicious, insidious, Slimy, wily, evil creatures humans are Instead I have become their saviour I feel no pity or sympathy for the Devils They became in exchange of their materialism I see them walk in masses of melancholy, loneliness As I once did for which they showed no regard for me And heartless, I ignore their silent cries for help You are sentenced to life in prison, one like no other Free to live in a society which shows more confinement Than any man-made cell or coffin Elements you took for granted shall be stripped away Your sinful quest for immortality has led you accordingly It is forbidden to breathe the air you polluted, Drink the water you tainted, eat the fruits of the earth you destroyed Your senses will be nullified and your spirits Crushed as this planet was insufficient For your corrupted existence .
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Sighting the preening peacock Slithered into the bush Wily snake
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Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 9:10 PM UTC
Be wise as serpents...
As I walked the hills I heard the horns The stamp of steeds and cry of a hound I ran towards that iconic call The hunt was on, I knew the sound As I watched the fox run and hide A magnificent creature sleek and fine The thought intruded upon me And created an image in my mind What greater event could I encounter Of the pursuit of love that I here had The pursuit of something beautiful called forth with trumpets and fanfare Chased by all and caught by few Tracked and then lost, joy and despair The chase of the fox Woman, seductive and coy Pursued by gross beasts Determined man and boy For love like that fox is wily and sly Catch only a glimpse before it flies by Sleek and slender a thing of great worth Pursued by all to bring home to the hearth For love outside your possession has no value Home it must reside to bring satisfaction to you
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Jul 27, 2022
Jul 27, 2022 at 3:47 PM UTC
The Fox Hunt
OUR POVERTY HAS COLOUR Alexander K Opicho (Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected]) Most illusive and elusive Like the devils of Congo forest Is the impish poverty Permeating all seals with vicious wily Into the midst of callous humanity Biting country men and country women With carnivorous dentalities so ruthless Putting man to a forlorn shame As the wife looks in desperate flaggerbastation Putting matriarchal womenfolk to humiliation As the expectant sire wallow in the askance of looks Condemning communities to status ad absurdum initio Thinning man from man, culling woman from woman Eating flesh by flesh social koprpers of man Eating the native flesh in the farms of Brazil Tearing the ***** steak into ghetto lacerations of Chicago Whizzling sombre morning tunes to the Zulus in the black tundra Cementing pale casted clusters for the Patels of India Commanding suave drills to poor (wo) menfolk; left! Left! Left! –abouuuuturn! With its accomplice Mr. Hunger son of starvation, they both command drills For black factory workers, Maids and gravediggers to dance Watchmen, thieves and prostitutes to match In the hinterland of Africa all the riff-raff in deep despair Dance in a tandem to the irritating drills of the duo; You come on! Left! Right! Left! Right!—fowaaard match! Backward match! Left! Right! Left! Right! Sharpp uuuuuuuturn! The duo communiqué; Go home and wait for your pay announcement. Surely; what colour is our poverty?
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Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
our poverty has colour
Are you that Stone-Edged as to penetrate Which even Donkey's Ears refuse to sound? And on that Bed, that White Sheet's Cry debate Useless Tears as your Ring boasts your Account Which of these Ways, Sir, must you Stark-Rebel And addle yourself carelessly to Sin? Your Canaan - burnt - to Red District's Level Selling yourself in Circles for a Fin Unthinkable, your Role upturned thereof Though many Blinded Eyes considered Cool All to solicit Pink Ducklings whereof Plucking Wily Snails their Poison to Fool. No-One has asked you for this Flipped Request Save to drink this Tonic and do your Best.
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Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
SONNET TRIBUTE SUNDRY - SEVENTY-SIX - TOM DALEY
I've always pictured Lust as a woman A seductive and voluptuous goddess with golden curls and a sensual smirk Her eyes would be the reflection of diamonds or stars in an eerie, romantic night sky A perfection of human kind An angel fallen from heaven But oh would she be cruel She might be beautiful and appear innocent but she is a trickster, a wily temptress. A consumer of hearts A demon in disguise She'd lure her helpless, naïve victims with pleading eyes and hypnotizing sways They'd follow, attracted to illusion of vulnerability That's when she'd strike, lunging for the **** in a snap Another bleeding artless heart... stolen, stomped on, kicked around, cut up, spit on, and set on fire. Another pathetic man blinded by Lust. Poor *******
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Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
Lust
I came upon a parade of Zinnias today..lined along the pave-way, wild and wily. An infinite variety of colorful heads popping up and out, like eyes of wary prairie dogs, on the lookout for action. Thought of you...the flower heads you gave me, filled with seeds aplenty to plant in the spring. Knew just where they would go. Imagined my hands in the welcoming earth, sowing them at just the right depth. They would grow, reaching with their long thin frames. Vigorously tall and full of summers brightness. Symmetrical flowers filled with attitude towards the sun. Flourishing in cracks along   sidewalks and driveways. Finding comfort and feeling free in the most limited of spaces. Yet...I did not plant them. Aware that I am not able, just now, to make such a commitment. To water and **** Ensuring that they would reach their full potential. A simple promise of one season. To nourish a delicate, perfect Zinnia. ~Christi Michaels~July 2015~ Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels. All Rights Reserved.
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Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 2:43 AM UTC
Zinnias
JACOB’S LADDER (Written by Susan J. Hunt 09-29-09) I’ve been told I have no coping skills More than a few times. It’s the same old line. Then what the hell am I doing here? I’ve survived up to this time. A big fat zero, the test spits out. Yep, that’s me no coping skills, probably ready to **** I have nothing to help me become my best. Honesty is an asset, but doesn’t appear so from the tests So sometimes, I have to lie. I don’t like to, but I must. Otherwise they’ll t to run at me with a restraining jacket Before I jump out a two-story building and land in the brush. I’m very quick and wily. That’s got to count for something. I break no bones and run away. All are amazed at my escape. That’s what I’ve learned as coping skills. I drink and do other sins, but I would never **** Even to my detriment, I just don’t have that will I’m not crazy. I’m not insane. I just see things differently. I’m not Sybil or Ted Bundy, I just have issues within me The fact is, I see more harm, I carry it inside of me I’m working on my coping skills and my social skills as well. I’m working on them the best I can. So far, it’s gone not so well You couldn’t tell how sick I am as we cross the street and pass. Not that I would harm you, I would offer you my flask. My sensitive nature is on overload I see every misdeed Not that it matters much, I’m too involved with me. There must be a way to crawl out of this pit I need a Jacob’s ladder. May I become more alive and aware Of how I can sincerely, matter.
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Oct 15, 2009
Oct 15, 2009 at 11:22 AM UTC
JACOB’S LADDER
JACOB’S LADDER (Written by Susan J. Hunt 09-29-09) I’ve been told I have no coping skills More than a few times. It’s the same old line. Then what the hell am I doing here? I’ve survived up to this time. A big fat zero, the test spits out. Yep, that’s me no coping skills, probably ready to **** I have nothing to help me become my best. Honesty is an asset, but doesn’t appear so from the tests So sometimes, I have to lie. I don’t like to, but I must. Otherwise they’ll t to run at me with a restraining jacket Before I jump out a two-story building and land in the brush. I’m very quick and wily. That’s got to count for something. I break no bones and run away. All are amazed at my escape. That’s what I’ve learned as coping skills. I drink and do other sins, but I would never **** Even to my detriment, I just don’t have that will I’m not crazy. I’m not insane. I just see things differently. I’m not Sybil or Ted Bundy, I just have issues within me The fact is, I see more harm, I carry it inside of me I’m working on my coping skills and my social skills as well. I’m working on them the best I can. So far, it’s gone not so well You couldn’t tell how sick I am as we cross the street and pass. Not that I would harm you, I would offer you my flask. My sensitive nature is on overload I see every misdeed Not that it matters much, I’m too involved with me. There must be a way to crawl out of this pit I need a Jacob’s ladder. May I become more alive and aware Of how I can sincerely, matter.
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Embedded in ancient myths, each moment of life one lives is out and out mysterious . In the firmament at night, every star that is winking at you is a memory refracted to interstellar depths by laden layers of light years. Swimming in this lake of kaleidoscopic dreams I encounter fish with every countenance, imaginable; wishes all, from lives past, far and near, some even aberrations from future Sometimes during such underwater explorations, I see myself flying above numerous planets, dressed in transparent dark nights or moonbeams spun from wishful dreams. In one of those trips to the present,defying laws, I see you, sitting there frozen in time, like a work chiseled in  alabaster all smiles,among your deer friends all lovely does! In a flash, magic carpet of time flies back I remember you, our encounter unforgettable! The wily tiger, in the guise of a lover, you were getting closer to the deer, pure at heart so naive to the guiles of the forest. As you were about to spring at her Your eyes, met her steady tranquil gaze, that spoke of love and compassion, infinite. Remember,you froze, as if by a spell, struck by the force of  nonviolence. You are still there, even after avalanches of million dense memories, a tiger, all killer instincts frozen, still trusted among the deer, your dear ones. Now I can see your eyes zooming around for the mystery to be revealed; meeting that ancient deer again, for final resolution.
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Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 1:34 PM UTC
You and I are part of a mysterious whole!
Melancholic misadventures and misanthropic moments make meeting men more and more meaningless, Meaning less and less to those who undress to convene in the act of adulterated *** Flex: Point! Sit down, Smoke a joint, Go to sleep, Work, Eat, Wash (sometimes, not too often) Feign attraction and smile with your eyes as you die on the inside Darkness outside Whilst wintery winds whistle, the worldly-wise whittle on and on in their wordy way of the other-worldly wonders they have witnessed. We can but wish that their wily whispers will soon diminish with the melting snow Or else go, Turn your back on all that you lack before you step on a crack, break that back and see it refract through the prism of the microcosm of your mind Colour-blind Lost Trying to find Be found My heart beats yet I hear no sound As plasma pumps passionately through my pallid passages and I ponder partially perceptible pursuits that preside in my past Digging deep down into the depths of my ***** deeds discloses a discerning dichotomous divulgence of doctrine and dogma Two mothers Three brothers One sister And a whole load of Misters!
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Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
A Litter Raid Shun!
In the circular lily pond-- desolate, surrounded by lush growth of tall, entangled ***** pine plants spewing amorous scent in to the humid tropical air from musky flowers, golden yellow. hunted by swarms of bees,                                         --  you step in. Peeling off  your clothes to the last bit, with a jubilance freedom bestows you spring down, delve deep to take bathe, knowing, I the owl that has an eye on you always keep watching you from the other end in a stunned surprise to see you **** for the first time, after long last! In a fix you are now about my presence when  celebrating the freedom of a village belle, that comes rarely on such occasions, away from all eyes that pry- You swim a few laps, my water nymph on your back you glide, setting the water aflame now, you pretend to see me all of a sudden, then, swim towards me as if your secret plan, did succeed, I am caught in your net of love, but your ploy is different, plead not to look at you as you swim naked, a wily love cat, you are,  that knows her alley well. If only, I were a water lily,I'd pretend to be your waist band made of the stem, supple soft; the petals would jealously conceal the secrets of your lotus, while circling the slender waist  tenderly.
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Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
If I were Your Waist Band
How much i love it, she knows well, eyes curiously down- at me eating squid; the eight armed cephalopod, soft and dainty to eat, in more ways than one, now spread eagled in my front, "I could eat you too if you wish" I banter, she looks at me mischievously as if it's more than a joke, and shakes head. "Would I be as dainty as such a fish?" she asks, as if she is serious to get an answer, flashing those expressive eyelashes, clearly in a way I can see what it means! "Yes, bilateral symmetry I have, but not eight arms, is it okey?" She knows all about my tastes, (who would, if she doesn't?) squids, octopus and the like and clams...ooh, i love them, so much bit sticky stuff, yes I like to mess up a bit, that way, isn't it exciting? I relish, squid and cuttle fish, till I am fully satisfied. Was she a fish in my waters? To tell you the secret: she wasn't. she was an octopus! wily? yes, but lovable. who strung me with, her soft, supple tentacles! Imposing her sweet wishes on my senses, eventually her wishes become my commands, to the end, till she asks, no more.      )O(
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Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 8:46 AM UTC
Eating squid in her company
All summer we play tennis with friends On sunny days that we hope have no ends At the LTC in the heart of the park Where many players like you have left their mark Its not the score nor the one who swore That encourages us to play more , until our muscles are sore So Lets play tennis As we won’t cause a menace We'll play all day Starting in May We will focus on returns So we don’t get the burns As for the serve It will take some nerve Remember most swing in a hurry So it’s the volleys that should worry And lets have no lobs unless we're old Or too young to be told As for the seniors, we won’t play at night As we can’t see to fight We'll play at noon And create a big boon Throughout the season where we love it all Just for the chance to whack that wily yellow ball
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Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
Tennis at the LTC:
Let me apologize to begin with For the way I have to say this to you Instant and digital with the flawless 12 point form in a unison moment All these words flow like lies from a child And flawed, a 1984 Brave New World Jacked in and online, I swear to God Microsoft is a virus in my veins and the Side-effects leave me nauseated and yet Comforted with the connection I feel With everyone under this epidemic And Mac is a twisted strain of my particular Insanity. Glossy and chic in my pocket, on the go, Steve Jobs is the ancestor of Doctor Wily Making *** some bandwagon that needs jumping Like SkyNet will make me safer, I’ve heard it before I wish this paper was yellow and crackling With the orange firelight it was written under On a sofa, pipe in hand, with the Raven tapping Melodramatic to the point of genius Rather then the cliché that emotion has somehow become And abbreviations become acronyms and symbols Who has killed the fair maiden of language? Beautifully laid and strung, pearls upon my page Folded into my pockets and on the margins of reality Like a child unwilling to wait to show his parents The words escape and flee and I panic, pen trembling Mind to tongue to hand and nerves in the ink Like meter and scheme trying to restrain this infinite Strand of DNA that is the flawless combinations of letters And letters! Curved like a woman tempting and pleasing To round my pen and finding sanity in the corners and points Or the cursive dribble of calligraphic art practiced endlessly By the scholars, monks, orphans, or even the X of a slave Bearing his mark, leaving himself branded on the page But I most apologize, I will get carried away And that is not the way Times New Romans likes it
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Mar 15, 2011
Mar 15, 2011 at 7:23 PM UTC
Microsoft Word Took my Voice
Let me apologize to begin with For the way I have to say this to you Instant and digital with the flawless 12 point form in a unison moment All these words flow like lies from a child And flawed, a 1984 Brave New World Jacked in and online, I swear to God Microsoft is a virus in my veins and the Side-effects leave me nauseated and yet Comforted with the connection I feel With everyone under this epidemic And Mac is a twisted strain of my particular Insanity. Glossy and chic in my pocket, on the go, Steve Jobs is the ancestor of Doctor Wily Making *** some bandwagon that needs jumping Like SkyNet will make me safer, I’ve heard it before I wish this paper was yellow and crackling With the orange firelight it was written under On a sofa, pipe in hand, with the Raven tapping Melodramatic to the point of genius Rather then the cliché that emotion has somehow become And abbreviations become acronyms and symbols Who has killed the fair maiden of language? Beautifully laid and strung, pearls upon my page Folded into my pockets and on the margins of reality Like a child unwilling to wait to show his parents The words escape and flee and I panic, pen trembling Mind to tongue to hand and nerves in the ink Like meter and scheme trying to restrain this infinite Strand of DNA that is the flawless combinations of letters And letters! Curved like a woman tempting and pleasing To round my pen and finding sanity in the corners and points Or the cursive dribble of calligraphic art practiced endlessly By the scholars, monks, orphans, or even the X of a slave Bearing his mark, leaving himself branded on the page But I most apologize, I will get carried away And that is not the way Times New Romans likes it
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A midnight poet, she calls herself. Because the cascading words, come to her wrapped up in shiny moonlight, served on blankets of darkness, stars dusted lightly on top. Her inspiration rides the midnight breeze swiftly and gently to her window, waiting patiently for her to lift the glass up and greet them warmly. So there she sits, next to the open window waiting for the perfect moment to say hello. To invite her loyal inspiration in for some midnight tea, and although she says she’s not fond of midnight snacks She pours herself a steaming mug of metaphors and serves couplets with the drink. After a comfortable chat, Inspiration takes its leave out the window on the breeze in which it came. And so the girl is left lonely once more, but not truly alone. She has her words, her rhymes, her metaphors, and her couplets to keep her company as she forms it all into beautiful verses that capture the heart. As she sits by her window, the midnight poet notices how soft the sky looks, dark and freckled with stars. The sweet sky comforts her as she mourns her bitter loneliness into verses, or envelops her in maddening, exciting emptiness as she writes or simply sleeps by her window. The midnight poet sighs gently catching the wily night’s attention And draws poetry from its calming, yet sly, grin. The girl catches falling stars made of verses from her pretty window seat. She finds lines tucked behind faraway planets, makes metaphors from the moonlight, comfortable in the darkness’s embrace. The midnight poet coaxes poetry from the freckled night sky And tucks it into her pocket For safekeeping. To keep as an ever loyal companion. A reminder of her home. A poem of the night.
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Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 7:42 AM UTC
The Midnight Poet
A midnight poet, she calls herself. Because the cascading words, come to her wrapped up in shiny moonlight, served on blankets of darkness, stars dusted lightly on top. Her inspiration rides the midnight breeze swiftly and gently to her window, waiting patiently for her to lift the glass up and greet them warmly. So there she sits, next to the open window waiting for the perfect moment to say hello. To invite her loyal inspiration in for some midnight tea, and although she says she’s not fond of midnight snacks She pours herself a steaming mug of metaphors and serves couplets with the drink. After a comfortable chat, Inspiration takes its leave out the window on the breeze in which it came. And so the girl is left lonely once more, but not truly alone. She has her words, her rhymes, her metaphors, and her couplets to keep her company as she forms it all into beautiful verses that capture the heart. As she sits by her window, the midnight poet notices how soft the sky looks, dark and freckled with stars. The sweet sky comforts her as she mourns her bitter loneliness into verses, or envelops her in maddening, exciting emptiness as she writes or simply sleeps by her window. The midnight poet sighs gently catching the wily night’s attention And draws poetry from its calming, yet sly, grin. The girl catches falling stars made of verses from her pretty window seat. She finds lines tucked behind faraway planets, makes metaphors from the moonlight, comfortable in the darkness’s embrace. The midnight poet coaxes poetry from the freckled night sky And tucks it into her pocket For safekeeping. To keep as an ever loyal companion. A reminder of her home. A poem of the night.
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There is something about her that's not good for letting go, so I say this here on a muggy winter night as she lays on crags in the wind, pulling me closer to those lovely halcyon stars but a valkyrie of gin. so I must say goodbye, to this war machine of love, I must lay my heart back in it's proper place against those soft cheeks of hers where my lips were boarders and my heart became wily. I hate this letting go, it'd be easier for us to hug, searching lips buzzing for the growing rose of the tongue, I would rather have things be easy, and never have to not see you go, but whatever we had, let its skeleton of love grow old in the murk, let its bones be recast into something of worth, let my heart reside easily in the oilyness of iniquity, someday soon I'll meet another and start this war machine with its grandiose sacrifices, and subliminal pains, all over again. So maybe this was your plan all along, the great general pushing the arteries around like so many toy soldiers, until the whole thing was gone, and there was nothing to remember, I really don't think so, but maybe I'm wrong. I hope you meet him somewhere nice, where you are warm and flakes of yourself fall into him like glaciers, I hope he can become the beast of love to break you down again and make you love him insanely with only the best kinds of sin; the kind that make you burn warmly and feel young and wily again.
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Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 7:40 AM UTC
Saw the Saw Doctors last night; So decided to write a song. (I only wish you well-title.)
**your demeanor    is highly suspect, attempting to disguise malfeasance neath a heart     of fortified wrought iron, Machiavellian by nature   still, you have your wily ways    like that of the allure of roses        within prickling thorns,   twisted of laughable          frivolous superficiality       and reckoning's  bereavement**
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Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
Machiavellian by nature
O the mustangs stung like mosquitoes, fast as lightning & thunderbolts, liberators & fortresses, hurricanes & tornadoes, hell cats & bears, invaders & dragons, good grief Lord, those mighty Gordons! O wily foxes & quick lancers, avengers & vindicators, swordfish, barracuda, some tuna, albacore. Gladiators in the gauntlet, zig-zagging & spitting fire, spewing molten hot-lead, bright-tracers in the night, forever fighting with their all their might, bombing their daylights out and into submission, la morte, stone dead. O they sank the Rising Sun, 'cause they had that ***** battling against all wrong & protecting only what was right!
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Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
Plain Truth (About War Planes)
1458 Time’s wily Chargers will not wait At any Gate but Woe’s— But there—so gloat to hesitate They will not stir for blows—
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Time’s wily Chargers will not wait
1406 No Passenger was known to flee— That lodged a night in memory— That wily—subterranean Inn Contrives that none go out again—
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No Passenger was known to flee—