Poetry Dump (again)
You Are A Character
Short shorts
Old Guy - No Milk
It’s Hardly Davison, he’s got his racers on,
Tight fit jogging shorts to hide the wrinkles of time
And that new electric peddle bicycle he rode in on..
And the warts. That old club jacket, with no sachet,
Faded colors and out left worn out threads. No.
No one knows where he belongs,
He’s a hero in his own words,
Pacing back and forth
Outside the door
Talking on his cellphone to
Some invisible ghost,
That could be his ex. ~psp
Mr. Cordial
Hello! How are you?
Good to see you, my friend!
I didn’t recognize you!
Good to see you again!
Chit-chat, small talk, this ’n that,
What not, who what where when
Why? So the story ends.
I’ll do all the talking
You just do the listen.
I’ll ask the questions
You just answer them.
I’m not willing to bend
I’m just trying to be friendly,
Because my mother abandoned me.
Before I was even three.
And I’ve never felt comfortable since then.
That’s why I need to command attention.
So I’m just lonely in the end.
Filled with self-importance.
And today’s your lucky day
Because I said hello, again! ~psp
Sikh and Ye Shall Find
Stand straight, old man with a turban,
Walk like an Indian, walk on guru.
Holy Krsna! Vishnu, walk on…
Hindus, Indus, industrious ~psp
Illuminating
Why does the sun illuminate the sky?
Why does the sun blind my eyes?
Why does the sun heat the ground?
Why does the sun melt the frost? ~psp
Hey, Dombrovsky!
In the cult of characters
Stalin was an asshole, Lenin
Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Solzhenitsyn,
Are none your equal, colloquial fool,
Gargantua and Pantagruel, eternal muse
Sacred and profane, proffer in their profanities
From their Grey Anatomies, exposing naked truths
Within Chaucerean necromancies, calling them by name
Ending up in all jalousies, of all the world’s Great Tragedies
If something can inflict pain, if something can go wrong, it will.
Despite our universal will, O, those experiences, I heard they were worn
Endless speculation… the truth lies buried in some chamber, filled with bones
They tell the tale of all. ~psp
Bogeymen
Zombie apocalypse, gold, silver, jewel, precious metals
Treasures in Africa, slave labour, blind workers of the pyramids
Skyscrapers, Babylon towers, hoards of treasures, banked in caves
Money changers, data clerks, mafioso, money trade. All is limited to coin.
Carolingian, Merovingian skies, wherein lies true currencies, measured by demise.
Wherein lies true currency? The measure of a man? Wherein are they known by
The fruits of their labors, their letters purloined to prove their existence,
There is no existence. There is no exit, there is no entrance.
Simply a maze of entanglement, a labyrinth.
A Goddam Gordian knot.
There in the dungeons of Satan the dragon, our prison planet
My grandmother warned me against them,
All of Baba Yaga’s children. ~psp
dr. π (pi)
.
Short shorts
Old Guy - No Milk
It’s Hardly Davison, he’s got his racers on,
Tight fit jogging shorts to hide the wrinkles of time
And that new electric peddle bicycle he rode in on..
And the warts. That old club jacket, with no sachet,
Faded colors and out left worn out threads. No.
No one knows where he belongs,
He’s a hero in his own words,
Pacing back and forth
Outside the door
Talking on his cellphone to
Some invisible ghost,
That could be his ex. ~psp
Mr. Cordial
Hello! How are you?
Good to see you, my friend!
I didn’t recognize you!
Good to see you again!
Chit-chat, small talk, this ’n that,
What not, who what where when
Why? So the story ends.
I’ll do all the talking
You just do the listen.
I’ll ask the questions
You just answer them.
I’m not willing to bend
I’m just trying to be friendly,
Because my mother abandoned me.
Before I was even three.
And I’ve never felt comfortable since then.
That’s why I need to command attention.
So I’m just lonely in the end.
Filled with self-importance.
And today’s your lucky day
Because I said hello, again! ~psp
Sikh and Ye Shall Find
Stand straight, old man with a turban,
Walk like an Indian, walk on guru.
Holy Krsna! Vishnu, walk on…
Hindus, Indus, industrious ~psp
Illuminating
Why does the sun illuminate the sky?
Why does the sun blind my eyes?
Why does the sun heat the ground?
Why does the sun melt the frost? ~psp
Hey, Dombrovsky!
In the cult of characters
Stalin was an asshole, Lenin
Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Solzhenitsyn,
Are none your equal, colloquial fool,
Gargantua and Pantagruel, eternal muse
Sacred and profane, proffer in their profanities
From their Grey Anatomies, exposing naked truths
Within Chaucerean necromancies, calling them by name
Ending up in all jalousies, of all the world’s Great Tragedies
If something can inflict pain, if something can go wrong, it will.
Despite our universal will, O, those experiences, I heard they were worn
Endless speculation… the truth lies buried in some chamber, filled with bones
They tell the tale of all. ~psp
Bogeymen
Zombie apocalypse, gold, silver, jewel, precious metals
Treasures in Africa, slave labour, blind workers of the pyramids
Skyscrapers, Babylon towers, hoards of treasures, banked in caves
Money changers, data clerks, mafioso, money trade. All is limited to coin.
Carolingian, Merovingian skies, wherein lies true currencies, measured by demise.
Wherein lies true currency? The measure of a man? Wherein are they known by
The fruits of their labors, their letters purloined to prove their existence,
There is no existence. There is no exit, there is no entrance.
Simply a maze of entanglement, a labyrinth.
A Goddam Gordian knot.
There in the dungeons of Satan the dragon, our prison planet
My grandmother warned me against them,
All of Baba Yaga’s children. ~psp
dr. π (pi)
.