3 polished oak fans,
Swirling in robotic unison
High maintenance socialites,
Sipping on Merlot fallacies
Lemon yellow coated walls,
Like their smiles
Comparisons of dangling Porsche & Bentley keys
A glorified day care center,
The muted virtuosos speak softly in hymn dialects.
Courtesy laughter in snob’s octave
Their heads twitching side to side,
Left to right to left
An equilibrium facing assault charges against self
They slow dance to cello dreams
And E minor dividends
Two-step monotone, sway
Against platinum lacquer foundations
But, it was then.
These same socialites,
Made of recycled candle wax
And rubberized, hedge-fund confidence,
Began to stare longingly at the party host’s 70 inch plasma TV
Proudly imported from China
“Attention uptight snobs of Mecca!
The city zoo has imploded!
The monkeys revolted!
The zebras were tired of being racially profiled!
Run for your LIV…!”
And before the reporter’s frightened inner child could finish’s his clause,
An elephant crashes into the decadent room
Filled with Crisp linen scents of Febreze & judgmental fear
It stares at the socialites,
Laughing heartedly as it playfully stomps away into constellation’s onyx night
As tears waterfall from the snobs’ sobbing eye sockets
As if they just listened to another Celine Dion song
The real newsflash
Metaphors played hooky today
©Drake J. Eszes
My parents complain of a mythical pest,
Infesting our house since the 7th of July,
Devouring the snacks, desserts,
delicacies and everything hot, spicy or sweet,
Determined to find the beast,
Fattened with food meant for me.
with a magic wand and on a broom to hunt
set out may it be a lachupakabra or a lepricorn,
Scary or naughty and anything the creature might wield
ready with a device from my dad given to me with a grin
the device, the compass, the guide to the beast
was a mirror reflecting its scaled skin scarlet red
staring at me with cat like blue eye
fierce and mighty.
Not a pest but is a mythical beast
Omega and almighty! It was me
Perplexed, gave up the hunt.
now feasting on poisonously, maliciously, dangerously
in sugary syrup gulab jamuns soaking.
Tonight I sensed the arts' demise
and thought of your indecent writ
that could be used to kill the flies
that buzz above your perfumed feet.
To liberate what's kept inside
you must allow yourself to dart
where inspiration poisoned died
cause of your mindless abstract art.
But this is wrong! The muses went
(because your odored feet emit
condensed that deathly worn socks scent) ,
outside to breathe! Lickety split!
Your mind, surprisingly, expressed
what could be taken for a verse
tormented nostrils were suppressed
their agonized intake was terse.
Your fans, inhaling the extrait
(those well worn socks let loose with pride)
decided to command in verse
what should be buried cause it died.
They called it 'poem' but was known
that flies, somehow, became extinct,
bystanders run to wear cologne,
your Sockspeare theme, was thus succinct.
Those blackened socks you wore around
with plastic sneakers, bought on sale,
became the cause the fish have drowned
and deathly scents were to curtail.
Please tell us why thy feet perfumes
became the symbol of foot-prose?
Dug up feet-ology exhumes
what should be listed to dispose.
© 10-13-2013, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
An old herbal gard’ner turned bard
dedicated and well-versed
now works his pen from his backyard
in plants and poems immersed.
His choice nouns engender meaning
cleverly minted with scents.
Rare verbs gingerly gleaning
from time’s savory essence.
Somewhat focused on composing
but nettled by a drizzle;
causes his brain to fizzle.
Lo! His inspiration now gone
like the ink upon his page.
Mrs. Bard calls from the lawn
“I just watered the sage.”
Day in, and day out, from the ripe old age of five
I’ve take to sharp objects and whittled at their sides.
Plotting the precise angle with penetrating gaze,
the slant of slice, just so nice, as memory replays.
With curt tongue and tireless ire, I shred the sages
Burroughs, and Asimov, the Shakespeare past ages.
Butchering with rare delight, the language on the page
lancing every metaphor and simile upstaged.
and so I've arrived her in rhythm and in rhyme
killing the English language as other people dine.
*Nibbs are the pointed ends of fountain pens
as well as being an important or self-important person
A crowded table, all suspended in shock
The sound of the shot dimming to a ‘knock’
Only silence, except for the marching clock
The weapon still smoking; an anonymous glock
WHO KILLED THE EASTER BUNNY?
Loud cries arise from the elongated table,
Jack Frost is shocked, the Tooth Fairy unable
To speak whilst Santa is checking the stable
For clues on the erstwhile maidservant Mable
WHO KILLED THE EASTER BUNNY?
They searched for hours, called in C.S.I,
Panic set in, would the children all cry?
Sandman confirmed the bunny had died
Batman suspected somebody had lied
WHO KILLED THE EASTER BUNNY?
Guests were quizzed, interrogations began
The mystery unfolded when Santa Claus ran,
Grabbing the pies, he tried escaping in a van
But was stopped in his tracks by superman
SANTA KILLED THE EASTER BUNNY!
The Soul is the Beautiful Light of Love
Shining like the sun through the
As the reader, I’m going to have to cut you off there.
Here’s a metaphor for you…
Reading is ****ing.
And your words hit our auditory canals
Like a hotdog down a hallway.
As an experienced reader, I’m after
The virgin vernacular
The aphrodisiac aphorism
You know- the big… black words
You feel me?
Because a line is a flashlight, exposing the world’s nudity-
And we’ll never get anywhere shining it in the same spot.
So kiss me with classy couplets
Smack my assonance!
Bring me to the climax-
And we’ll share a smoke together,
Warm beside the fire of your Three Inch Clichés.
I AM INTELLIGENCE!
In world of mannequins, I step to the cause.
I see this woman fussing at her child about wanting to go to the park.
How formed is this.
Hello Lady and such a beautiful boy he is.
He wants to play in the park.
However, you do not have time for that.
Let me see if I can solve your problem.
I am Intelligence.
Intelligence is a superhero that forms very delightful scenes.
I am humorous as well.
With superhuman powers, I provide a child with a dream.
I give this one the dream of playing in the park.
The child stops crying and obeys his mother.
In another episode, I am sent, telepathically, an abusive scene.
I transform arriving there instantly.
Through superhuman powers, I find a nurse and instruct him via
mind to be compassionate.
Intelligence watched for several days.
The facility conformed their healthcare tactics to better ways.
A little girl has broken her leg.
Her mother neglects and flagellates her more when she does not feel well.
Intelligence has watched for a short while.
The scene was sent via the mother verbally abusing her child.
Then she would stop for quite some time.
However, the child broke her leg while riding her bike.
The mother sees the chance to abuse outright.
Intelligence deploys to her mind and the mother begins to praise the child.
Intelligence is a moralistic superhero.
No age or race barriers does this superhero has.
In the time of hostilities, I am there.
I was given my superhuman abilities to achieve peace unconditionally.
PENNED ON AUGUST 30, 2014!
I dreamt myself as poet-frog
And good Fancy` Fairy
Would stoop to pick my verse…
But she didn`t come.
Oh lonely Inevitable Bear,
Padding claws, death in white
Sorrow in recurring nightmare
Instinct’s test; fight or flight?
Camouflage against the fence,
A challenge; my subconscious fear
Ominous slowly moving silence,
“Let me in, there’s a bear out here!”
"Oodles of Joy"
In the morning of everyday i
I make a food that's really
Crunch'em, rip'em, and pour'em out
As saliva pools form in my
Put it in the mic for just about
Impatiently watching those
beautiful noodles waiting for
When the time Is up
I Pop it open and take them out
And start shoving "Oodle's of
Noodles" into my mouth.
Pop may be catchy
But not lyrically deep
Case in point: Chris Brown.
(N.B. Poem written after hearing "Don't Wake Me Up")
Enchanting is the beauty of your pic
I reckon if we tried the night to guile
you would become a pique nique exotique
anthology of verse to read worthwhile.
Shan't ever inspirations lead this flight
above the vastness of blue seas and you
Hors d'oeuvres' delicacy and choice of sight
a connoisseur of arts should taste fondue.
© G.V. 07-22-2013
Sometimes I can literally feel the burn of silence.
It’s somewhere within my bones,
a blank slate made of heavy metal poisoning.
Perhaps if I cut deep enough, I can retrieve it
and find the inspiration needed to purpose
the lonely canvas I’ve sheltered for so long.
And with a marrow’d ink I’ll scribe the secrets
I’ve forgotten over years of mirrored eye
rolling and self propelled pity #$%*s.
Finally, I’ll be free to pool the ashes,
and build my castle of upside down day dreams,
and brightly lit nightmares.
I’ll call it “The Globe”,
and dress like Shakespeare would if he grew up in the 90’s,
and all my friends can help perform my drunkenly scrawled
screenplays that lead, inevitably to the death of “The System”
that we all helped create,
just so we could have something to destroy.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
Is my life not tortured enough for you to see?
I am broken as can be.
My heart is torn.
My tears stain these perfect floors.
Why are singing with glee?
Why do you not care about my every plea?
I am trapped in your arms.
I am the hopeless moth.
How did you pick me?
What is it that you see?
A girl untouched by life?
A flower blooming in the desert?
I have said goodbye to my loving integrity.
You took that from me through R-A-P-E.
Fished all day not a red herring on the line but I got a basketful of kipper Hunted all day not a fox one with a red herring on the line a shark ate my sandwich today He got away with the halibut a shark ate him today for the halibut He did not get away
Leeroy von Nebulae y Pitter Patter Supernova
Upon the sparkling April field, where the bell-flowers blossomed,
two poets stood amid the blooms, two writers of their wisdom,
where singing aves exalted them, cause deep in verse have fathomed
and treated poetry like none, with loyalty and serfdom.
Meantime the birds were chirping in the leafage of the forest
the two composers synthesized the crop of thoughts that random
became their poetry's free verse, philosophy, thus, modest,
the scriptures called bankrupted talk and artlessness of flotsam.
The authors, thus, amid the trees, and vervains' purple colors,
narrated 'bout the pepper steaks and pizzas pepperoni,
the grayish donkeys and their bray, through softened words of candor
conducting hence this spectacle and joyous ceremony.
What was occurring round the two was godly sent, on purpose;
the softened breeze, the sunny morn, the singing of the birdies,
and furthermore their kindest verse that both believed was flawless,
- the soul's redemption stands upon the praising by the toadies.
Obtusely raising, slow but firm, their tilted thoughts euphoric
have driven both to fly above this natural assemblage,
hence joyful they enjoined the cause of logic anti-strophic,
amid the clouds envisioning a pizza-Heaven-cottage.
Leeroy von Nebulae y Pitter Patter Supernova
expressed their nothingness of verse, that donkeys then recited
and stood impassive 'mid the blooms, their thoughts a dull cadenza,
evaluated by the birds, that chirped their notes, astounded.
© 03-23-2014, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic decapentasyllabic verse)
Life is like a rollercoaster
Made up of many trains:
It has its ups
It has its downs,
And drives some folks insane.
(It also has a tendency
To liquefy the brains)
Life is like a rosebush
With many budding blossoms:
But please be warned,
This bush has thorns
That make the prize less awesome
(and if your buds get mangled
You've got to burn or toss 'em)
Life is like a hurricane
It brings rain but destroys:
Buildings boats and skyscrapers
And other human toys
(Along with human businesses
And greater human joys)
Life is like an apple
A treat down to the core:
But working for that shiny red
Is certainly a chore
(Especially for those folks
Who've never worked before)
Life is like a bowl of milk
When freshly poured, is sweet:
As it ages, it turns hard
To change to cheese to eat
(Though I wonder why some folks
Eat cheese that smell like feet)
His wife had made his favourite meal,
Braised vegetables with a roast of veal,
Her day was long and felt over done,
All joy was gone and so was fun.
She sat across from her poet man,
Gritted her teeth and devised a plan,
She filled his plate, oh so carefully,
He joined her, she asked deceptively,
“Taste this dish, but please do not complain,
Tell me what you think in language plain,
No metaphor or words too fussy,
Just talk to me, stop being mussy.”
He took a bite and puckered his lips,
Then quickly stood up, placed hands on hips,
“Oh Dearest Dear, maker of fine repasts,
I can’t compliment for I am aghast.”
“Oh, like life itself, filled with hurt and soul stealing strife,
As though thou had-ith stab-ith me with that kitchen knife,
Languish must I of soulful hunger, for I’ve found a fault,
Wretched longings wreathe and twist, may I suggest more salt?”
“Hark; my fair with kitchen flair, this glass holds only water,
Fie, oh fie, wine pleads for you and I to drink, think and loiter.
What-ist will-ist thou-est do-ist about this sad, sorry dinner?
Though you’ll starve not, my plump bum, you could be thinner.”
She smiled like a dog that had his bone,
Could not wait till she’d be all alone,
“Salt’s a great idea, but I ran out,
And some wine would give this supper clout.”
“So, be a dear, run out to the store,
I agree things have become a bore,
When you return, all will be fixed,
A little spice would add to the mix.”
He sighed, but out the door he went,
Resenting the money that would be spent,
He dawdled as he shopped, took his time,
Dreaming up long lines of perfect rhyme.
He returned to dinner on the stoop,
One thing added: fresh doggie poop.
Taped to the door there was a note,
Upon it this is what she wrote:
Go on, try, but your old key won’t work,
I have changed the lock, you blowhard jerk,
I’ve had enough of your endless pomp,
Your stuck up nose and the way you chomp.
I’m going to keep our little house,
All of its dust and its every mouse,
The car, our bar and the TV too,
Our cat, your chair, every nail and screw.
You can keep your dismal company,
Your tirade of dull arsed banality,
Take your pile of starched underpants,
And haul away your arrogance.
So here it is with no exclamation,
I can almost see your indignation,
But it’s all been said in plain English,
Ta ta, my ex, for we’re now finished!
I usually find the taste of coffee
Far too bitter for my taste
But this mocha is smooth
And so sweet
Warm on my lips
And rushing hot on my tongue
Flooding my body with heat
And making me want more
I feel more awake with every sip
But can never get enough
Since mocha coffee is addictive
And if the taste is slightly bitter too
I want it all the more
Author's Note: Do I really like coffee? No. Like the smell, like the ice cream, but tastes icky.
No, this poem is talking about a person. This was written to tease him.
It's funny because he's mocha colored :)
They speak like politicians
And hold a great ambition.
They think they are right
And same speech they recite.
They always gather for a bite
Deciding who should start the fight.
All have their own stations
To be the victims of cremation.
They gather their own crowd
Who cheer and clap to any sound.
They think they are right
Only here for a bite.
They speak like Aristo
And act like Montecristo!
They smoke big cigars
And all drive tinted cars.
They dress in glitter
And all have Twitter.
They act so polite
But hardly can write.
Always in action
Only during the election.
To make a collection
Or a connection.
O What a time you feel like
Committing a crime.
For a brief background about this poem, pls, read the poem (Beirut).
I do not know?
Illegitimi non carborundum ;-)
...Staggering, my vision cloudy,
I fall to the hard ground.
when life’s sharp left-jab leaves my face bloody,
and all that surrounds me, is the desolation of loss I feel all around.
I see myself slipping,
down the abyss to where nothingness exists,
still, I cling on, groping for a foothold,
for my will to stay persists.
I clamber up, I stand my ground, though battered and bruised I may be,
my curtain is not falling yet, I have some fight still left in me.
It is then, in the pit of despair, when all seems bleak and painful and dull,
I summon the strength from deep within,
I rise, slowly, to face the day,
I refuse to sink,
to wallow, to surrender, to throw in the towel,
for I am stronger now,
indeed I am, after all the years, and all the battles,
I stand, bruised and bloody,
I refuse, to sink, to drown,
for they can try, to punish me some more,
but I shall not allow them to grind me down…
I hopped out of the shower,
popped over to the lavatory counter,
flopped my most profound sexual characteristic
down and onto a misplaced curling iron,
burning the tender center of my-very-being.
Ms. Careless had left a glass of iced coke,
by her torturing implement.
I quickly and fully submerged my pain,
into the cooled, amber liquid.
I attended my first and last meeting
of the Brazoria County Poetry league.
I arrived at the BCPL president’s home
by invitation, to hear their guest speaker,
a young, professor of literature,
from Rice University.
He spoke at great length about metaphors.
What a metaphor was.
How poets used metaphors
to improve imagery in poetry.
He gave examples of metaphors,
and more examples,
explaining each one in detail.
It was raining damn metaphors.
I would have lapsed into a metaphoric coma,
if I had not discovered my bourbon glass
to be much too small, requiring me to rise,
and refill it several times.
When Dr. Metaphor finely finished I
strolled over to where he was smiling,
and announced that he was
full of rhetorical trope,
and didn’t know anything about real poetry,
and he had stepped on a metonymy
and it stank the room up.
And we poets from the sticks
didn’t need a hot-shot from Houston
telling us how to write poetry.
and the president of the BCPL
grabbed my arm,
and snatched my glass from my hand,
and it still had boozes in it.
And he promenaded me to the door,
and assured me that I was talent-less,
and that drinking myself to death
would be my one and only contribution to poetry.
He pushed me out of his home,
onto his front steps,
slammed the door in my face,
I never attend another meeting of the BCPL.
For a moment, I was stunned,
then bowing to his authority
I hurled on his “Welcome” mat.
And Friday morning
as I stood in the bathroom
cradling my tormented body element
with both hands,
the Queen of the Bastille entered,
demanded to know -What my problem was?
I informed her I had no problem,
and suggested she drink her damn coke…
before the ice melted.
Last week I was shopping for ideas on the corner of metaphor and allegory,
Rummaging through a pile of discount words to help me tell a story.
A shelf of very expensive words caught my eye because they were so flirty,
Then a drawer of words that must have fallen down because they were so dirty.
There were several words in a mark down bin and they were really cheap,
And even though they didn’t quite fit I decided that I would keep…. them.
I could bend them down and twist them around until the sentence was a maze,
With just a little bit of reworking I found that I could shape them into a phrase.
I’d have to wrestle with a word sometimes until my huffing face turned purple,
Then I‘d have to resort to telling lies like, an aglet is also called a nerple.
Remember when you’re shopping for words that orange creates angst,
And that a poem is never really done until the subject is properly thanksed.
The word store sent me a coupon in the mail showing the fifty percent off it gives,
It says that this is the greatest sale of all time so I went looking for superlatives.
But when I got there I found out that the sale had several misrepresentations.
It seems the promised discount was only good on words with abbreviations.
With Vocabular Extraordinar their words do
To know which meaning or their intent
would be nice.
The key to their intoxicating verbal
woo and slice.
is contained in this detailed
but sound advice.
With flick of tongue or scribble of pen
on this you can depend.
They can make you feel praised, loved,
scorned or diced.
So if you are smart, of tangling with the learned
you'll think twice.
If not schooled in vocabulary of the learned
do be wary.
What may seem a compliment may be quite
to the contrary.
When said to be ludicrously loquacious it
is anything but gracious.
They are just trying to be mean and oh so
For the meaning of this is a silly repetitive
When you have studied and you think you have
out foxed the fox,
and for a dictionary you seldom have to run.
Out of left field comes the elude, the
nuance, metaphor and pun.
Now once again holding their sides they have you
back on the run.
If you think this is enough and that you are
Oh no my friend this list has only just begun.
I have given you a start with what I know and
what I say is from the heart.
If with the learned a conversation you wish
Then in vocabulary you need to school and
had better get a fast start.
For to them this is not just an art.
IT"S A GAME !!!