Long Bemoaning Poems
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I loathe shucking clothes,
(no matter eyes severely myopic)
in preparation for here goes
another warm shower quickly
relaxing this senescent
body ready to doze
soon after lathering
this blubbery body
most unwanted fat grows
on me, no matter healthy diet
of worms, or how I stand,
not so easy add a pose
zing losing battle – Mary Jo's
if and geeze us of bulge ill flattering
particularly quiverly, sans white
"WALL" tire tread fully goes
steely belted around lower
abdominal area like lava floes
siring unsightly expose
yore squishy Jew dish priestly
punchy,plasma paunchy, gristly...
pillow like marshmallows
fittingly, rotundly soundly
identical with other schlep
tin (tin tabulation) grungy hobos,
this lap pissed lard (lord) Who Lee
bemoaning, how ilk readily knows,
where unwanted bulky flab...
most detested - hence Corp Yule Lance
leaves noth thin to noblesse oblige,
know bull eats obese,
anorexia nervosa or chance
barking out orders reminiscent, when he
hapt tubby a caller at
weekly square and/or contra dance,
now requisitioned to insulate
and excessively enhance
body electric can be mushed
into likeness of fleshy France
or repurposed into expanse
resembling any country,
whose name Kants
be easily pronounced, and historical
events glommed together recognizable
as Ataturk with a lance
bequeathed to rule World advance
sing gluttony as his divine providence,
thus requires deep dish allegiance
(non - fiber - binding contract)
for eats and make decadent
every fleshpot gourmand
stretching cellular skein to capacitance
bestowing guaranteed deliverance
with their rolling
ballooning massive circumference
into orbit with Earthly moon officiant
eternal fondue irrelevance!
Pitifully, it seems my volcano has erupted—Somerset Mougham
Awaiting ink and feather to perform, my volcano has erupted
Gloomy den, I listen to crackling fire, nothing of worth to pen
Suffer to produce work that last forever, an unwritten rule inducted
Cupped in hand, a cobalt bottle, I rub it, and call on its Jinn
Last resort, I sort out the day’s events, journals I’ve constructed
Graced ideas and creativity dead-ended, no nativity, a blank page
The ink has dried, writings seen under scrutiny, in a fishbowl
Sorcery a bitter end, acquire a student, mentor, what I now wage
Appetite gone, blithe verses, Chicken Soup For The Soul; soulful
Poetry to please; plush oriental magnolia’s, birds of paradise, sage
Speechless, lost in words of little sense, strained thoughts, struck dumb
Poet's bemoaning what's penned in a year, should've taken a week
Muses ebbed, Coleridge, Dickenson, to writer’s block they'd succumb
Inspiration depleted, curtains drawn shut, I may never again peak
Gloomy den, a chilling season, I listen to the wind, comfortably numb
Dreaded heat wave (with slow-dancing heat haze)
Pronounces the guilt of aging Karma
And a climate so underrated rages in anger
Absolute reign of terror begins with the rising
Sun where the East is flung further North,
Unrecognisable
I tremble from the horrors of daylight,
Bemoaning the crusts of decaying barks,
Where nightmares, in broad daylight, dig into
The hallowed crevices of expired epiphanies
There’s ague on the sinciputs of infants,
Upon which a heath burns slowly with the
Severity of slow-passing time.
Summer has gone berserk.
Every breath is torture.
Kooks and ratbags —with their ragbags —antsy, but loud,
Picture scenes of cerebral disharmony
We sweat rivulets from the spines of charged forges —
Goos that trap gnats and flies atop mountains of
Fright.
Bars host drinking pilgrimages.
Oh, watering holes spring forth like onions
On the breath of running spring!
I assure you.
Longnecks perspire heavily with the chills of refrigerated
Glamour, beads of sweat raining down the frazzled
Gullets of glass and tipplers.
Barms puke profusely in the heated grace,
Bubbles rising and falling alongside temperatures
That freeze around their own fragile calendars.
The clocks tick slowly, like in an abandoned castle with wisteria,
Overgrown, burnt and ruined.
O to be a poet!
What must I do?
Need special rhymes
I pursue…
perhaps elegant forms
transcending more common,
like Midas touch
words golden~ a poet’s Mammon!
O when will an artist get honored
due – afford even a stove without a hand
operated flue; companion after companion
in wraps, out the door, shouting,
a chilling~ I love you...but I’m Through!
Unable to fill her stomach enough
with elegant phrases, with grand sketches
on pages, while her less
enamored friends render their prosperous
soulmates lavish praises: hooked up with
lawyers and doctors, learned researchers,
doing battle with nature’s debilitating curses --
politicians…? O Well, no one’s perfect
while everyone agreeing, the dedicated
artist, is such a well-intentioned, thoughtful bloke
the irate landlord shaking his head, again bemoaning
I know...late with the rent, still broke….
I wake up in the morning and have to decide which side of the bed I will get out of today – it
doesn’t really matter, because there is no one there to block my exit on either side.
I turn on the TV, not to see what’s on, but just to hear another voice in the kitchen other than
the one’s inside my head reminding me that I am having breakfast alone once again.
I once thought that working from home, through the internet, for myself and by myself,
would be a wonderful thing – but, that was when I used to change out of my pajamas at
some time during the day.
Now the keyboard sits there mocking me in my loneliness. The monitor acts more as a
mirror to remind me I haven’t shaved in weeks than it does to display words of a manuscript
that I should be working on.
How lonely am I? I actually called my mother the other day. Rock bottom.
I watch out my window for the approaching mailman so I can open the door as he is
depositing bills I can no longer pay into the mail slot on my door. He says he likes my
Spiderman pajamas the best.
If I had a reason to do so, I would probably take a shower. But then, I have become
accustomed to my own stench and there is nobody else around to offend, save for the
mailman, who I noticed doesn’t hang around to talk much any more. Could be related, I
suppose.
I don’t even please myself any more. My imagination is not sharp enough to fantasize about
things I haven’t experienced for real in such a long time.
There was a time when I would not answer my phone when an 800 number was displayed on
the handset. Today I do. Talking to someone bemoaning that I am late with another
payment, again, is, at least, talking to someone.
Stop mocking me Qwerty!
I have given names to the inanimate objects in my apartment. At times, they talk back to
me. I think today may be my birthday; the dishwasher was smiling at me. The dirty dishes
inside now have mold on them.
The mailman didn’t come today – perhaps it is Sunday. I wore my Spiderman pajamas for
no good reason.
I didn’t write anything again today. These words are just floating around in my head. I am
pretending you are a stranger reading them to make me feel a little less lonely. You
believing you are that stranger is just further validation that I am, indeed, crazy.
"cor meum"
Within the end of "IT" all
no matter gender, cause, colour, creed,
place in life, entitled or without title,
healthy or diseased, or
the choice of who we are,
who we lay in life with and
Love –
yet must never harm a child -
when that time comes,
water in the blood
blood in the water,
there will be great misspellings
of misread meanings
the talking in tongues
of minds in idle
treading water
with all
the lost and found
bemoaning
vaccuous ghostings
and small trolls time wasting
the Woolfish hours in small ponds
on great tidal waves of walls,
the message, poetically
is clearly spelt –
within the End
of IT all,
Love is Love is Love
perfectum imperfectum
immaculatum cor meum
in omnibus
arcanum penetrabile
gemma Christi
the decoded glistening read jewel
found in that dark place
embedded in every heart
Love is Love is Love
then, as One
cor meum
One has won
Candide Diderot. ‘25
...
I'll make you a cuppa coffee
whilst my heart remains
waiting to receive the
other stolen half
playing the melancholia tunes
on a piano in the ocean
with broken bemoaning keys
dreaming my dread will
float with the
curling reflecting waves
I'll make you a cuppa coffee
mixed with my eagerness
to be enough
and to become
a cumbersome pillow-covered boulder
willingly chained in place
for you to fall on
I'll make you a cuppa coffee
after the rain
hot n soul-comforting
sweet to the first sip
with instant anomie bitterness
swooned with the
sugar cubes in the
coffee creamed heart-stricken
shaped swirls
I'll make you a cuppa coffee
with a heart suffering
bearing heavy weights alone
desolate, only
tumbleweeds flowing
abrupt earthquakes
on the verge of
collapsing completely
awaiting the day
someone makes me mine
...
So once again, with grim countenance, the ship sailed on with all bemoaning their woes
Till calm seas prevailed, with balmy sun, sweet zephyr song, they came to Helios' shores.
Helios, calm god of the day, smiled upon the lads, gave of his land free rein, but with a caveat-
Helios pride was his golden herd, indolent and fat,"Do what you will, but don't touch that"
Well, as was their wont, like a terrible refrain, full-weathered from woes and want, but yet unwise,
The crew, overcome by gluttonous greed, slaughtered a heifer, for raucous feast, not sacrifice.
Wild was Helios at this blatant deceit, with terrible curse, banished them all, to wander once again.
So with Helios' curse (and Neptune's help), the ship was tossed and soon lost, all crew were slain.
It was Odysseus alone who was alive, afloat on flotsam, floating about, with fervent wish of death
But sweet surcease was not his lot, more plight was his fate - his tryst was due with Charybdis yet.
Perhaps Scylla was a better bet, in it's slavering jaws a definite death, I think he'd rather have it
But caught he was in Charybdis' thrall, a vortex which ate him whole, and threw him out as spit.
Past the maelstrom's outer whirl was our hero tossed clinging to life's last hope, verily a straw
Floated, the wasted carricature of a man, denied of food and water, no sustenance he could draw.
But perchance the Gods smiled on him, wearied of their devious, puerile games going too long
Odysseus fell on land once more, where restored were life and limb, bewitched by Calypso's song.
Now Odysseus, all said and done, was a man vulnerable to worldly women's wanton wiles
And Calypso was full besot with our hero's lusty frame, his wit, his deeds and charming smiles.
For seven years did he taste bliss, ensconced in Calypso's arms with thought of home amiss
But one day, after seven years, did Caypso, with heavy heart, let him go on pleas of our Hermes.
From Calypso's isle did Odysseus sail on raft, through storm, as was now his habit, and came to Sceria
Where Nausicca, on Athena's urge, gave succor, till he sailed with Phaecians who had trade with Sumeria
The Phaecian ships soon landed Odysseus on fair Ithacan shores where Penelope had travail,
But my dear laddies, I must hie hence, for the Dawn is nigh, of Penelope and Suitors, is another tale.
Concluded
Learning when/how to close seat then...
flush... the toilet with good frisson!
(alternately titled long windedly
using lower case letters:
no matter tidily bowled over based
upon real events, perhaps subject devoid
of literary merit and/or taste
no embarrassment, cuz
I got nothing to cover
despite precious time going to waste).
Analogous to constipation,
constitutes full term pregnancy,
perhaps umpteenth or first,
which former offal bodily function I durst
mention, said subject doth stink,
yet... exercising bowel
applicative, constrictive, effective,
exhaustive, gesticulative, instinctive,
massive, oppressive, qualitative,
quantitative, significative and unitive
(beg to differ if ye think me perverse)
both scenarios prone to stress and strain,
difficulties can arise evacuating bowels
gluteus maximus muscles severely pursed,
radiating sharp stabbing sensations
behind junk in trunk quarters felt
until bulging temple veins ready to burst,
where piles of hemorrhoids
foul rectum tortured and accursed
necessitating Judas Priest well versed
to issue last rites while
appropriate official dull livers worst
news to missus, whose
inconsolable sympathies nursed,
nevertheless bit torrent of sorrow
honor alone time with grateful dead
subsequently finds medical personnel disbursed,
privately newly minted widow mourning
tears for fears immersed
bemoaning sudden permanent absence
gone fore e'er foremost farter figure first
instance obliterated, when posterior
uproariously (actually not funny)
inflicted hemorrhage emergency,
die hard ludicrous poet (me) experienced
all expense chauffeured ride in hearst
aforementioned purportedly roughly comparable,
courtesy hearsay, when
hypothetical woman with child,
(here, I metaphorically paraphrase)
as maven ready to take aim giving birth
(nine months after satiating
hankering call of the wild
buzzfeeding miracle worker whipped thirst,
and temporarily appeased
inherent maternal yearning
to beget offspring, then... off to races
sprinting at greased lightning speed
amazingly enough slightly protruded womb,
(among other fledgling
and/or practiced moms avid runners
all touted as winners relay race crossing
finish line simultaneously
comprising distance measuring more'n verst.
I waited for the crosstown bus
Forever and a day.
That may be an exaggeration,
But it felt that way.
At least three dozen people
Were bemoaning what became
The perfect opportunity
To find someone to blame.
To make things worse, a bus was parked
Right near where we’d hop on,
Although the driver, maybe
On a break, was just plain gone.
At last a new bus showed and so,
All three doors had a crowd.
The driver opened none of them,
The grumbles getting loud.
When finally, he made a move,
The front door opened wide
And access to the other two
Was out and out denied.
More kvetching, but we inched our way
And finally could board.
I snagged a seat (not many left),
Which felt like a reward.
At least it wasn’t freezing and
I wasn’t running late,
Yet surely, it’s a well-known fact
That no one likes to wait.