The human body may be a marvel,
yet the aesthete prefers his were marble
or gold or some other precious metal
with a life approaching to eternal!
For flesh and blood fail miserably
as a hope suitable for longevity,
requiring daily sustenance
for hopeful future permanence.
Then, too. human flesh isn’t practical,
it offers life that’s neither long nor natural;
and who wants a life abbreviated
when there’s much to be appreciated?
While others rely on pharmaceuticals
for medications made of mostly chemicals?
None of which a body made of marble
needs unless fools ignore a warning label!
While others take up a livelihood
that benefits others care for their good,
bringing them a measure of fame and wealth
yet cannot guarantee their own sound health.
Accept therefore what aesthetes recommend
accept life just as it has always been.
For neither diligence nor luck nor miracle
has yet forestalled the inevitable.
Categories:
aesthetes, wisdom,
Form: Light Verse
The stench of puerile self-aggrandizement wafts through the air, a noxious cloud of platitudes and pomp, as the pusillanimous pustules of pseudo-intellectualism congregate to lavish accolades upon one another. How... amusing. The notion that these self-absorbed aesthetes, ye armchair sybarites, consider themselves arbiters of taste and talent, is nothing short of grotesque. And yet, here it persists, leeches on the cadavers of real artistry, perpetuating a vicious cycle of backslapping mediocrity, as they vomit forth oozing saccharine, cliche-ridden tripe, and elevate it to the status of holy scripture. Quaint indeed. The stench of their ignominy is almost... palpable.
How does it feel to know that playing by the rules was your downfall, I said I would be the last poetess standing because I can do: abattoir hymns of crimson vortices shredding the children to rain sanguinary as viscera chunks hail from above. Sorry ai can’t touch me, it would freak out to even read that. I may not have won many contests, but oops. Hehe.
Categories:
aesthetes, dark,
Form: Free verse
The astrolabe – how it depresses me!
The thing’s too perfect, no room left to grow.
Repeat, refine, reduce – a legacy
from which no vital spring can ever flow.
The thing’s too perfect! No room left to grow,
no seas to sail. The time is out of joint.
We made it our religion just to know,
but failed to think we’d reached this nadir-point.
No seas to sail. The time is out of joint!
We once sought distant moons and unknown suns,
but failed. To think – we’ve reached this nadir-point!
The Sultan’s poet plays around with puns.
We once sought distant moons and unknown suns,
while shallowness possessed us, unawares.
The Sultan’s poet plays around with puns,
as modern aesthetes shape the harem stairs.
While shallowness possessed us, unawares,
Venetian warships anchored off the coast.
As modern aesthetes shape the harem stairs,
the fortune-tellers fail to spot, engrossed,
the palace guards, abandoning their post.
Repeat, refine, reduce – a legacy
that stultified a people. Yet we boast
the astrolabe. How it depresses me!
Categories:
aesthetes, society,
Form: Pantoum