Long Coinage Poems
Long Coinage Poems. Below are the most popular long Coinage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Coinage poems by poem length and keyword.
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A whale in a pail is far more active in a gale or in copious amounts of hail. Putting money into sharks is a shifty act involving the shuffling of coats in cloakrooms. And clown costumes placed in the bowls of women's frames are reserved for the elite attire of lemmon lipped bowler heads whose acidic tongue holds the weaponry speeches of tomorrows gore. Pain is a painted potato placed with the pilots to place on a place numbered out and planned on maps arriving by facetious fax machines whose many layered buttons seek to halt a single growing grass level with a shard spoken key. Turning a keyboard to an angle one can visit the highest climate but coinage is best reserved for a large bull with a blue tie. Behind many layers. Many layers is not many lettuces it is merely many lanes. And lanes are lovely on a summer evening returning from the abbey to the house in eighteen fifty-three in long beautiful blue dress with fancy earrings and hair wound in a tight bun. Looking around it is unsurprising that history repeats in the timeless whorl akin to stirring an acre pan of stew or making sandwiches for two hundred people at a picnic. Societal swamps seek some swanky shuffle starting storms. And all the while the little pixies dance in the trees. The unicorns prance, the fairies fly round and round, and all other realmes folk sigh at the endless processions of humans making endless chain of woe. Cause no pattern to rise up from a paper print. For if you do your whole world and house will be prints causing visitors to arrive in many windows to create a karmic reaction and a reaction is a realism and a responsive reach but not a retch. Little frog hums in the kitchen cupboard. He is very bored today and would like to go visit the pond but the machinery placed there ensures it is not safe to hop and when hopping it often is the case that shots are fired from the artillery of the ant people in plastic helmets. They move akin to a swarm of kettledrums on a backlit of carbonised baking trays. Powder that then. Beetroot faced woman in that raspberry printed dress. And to encourage the wrath of a walnut is to embellish a multicolumn of static electricity. Wow. Mish mash mush then. Hahahaha the dancing in the bathroom door hahaha mixed-use mixers mingling mangy mincemeat. Xxxxxxx prese tart structure Paden tar xxxxxxx invertebrates z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z THAT;
Form:
I am the link to the god all mighty
The grand master of this world
Dollar marks and social security carts
I am the warrior of this waste
The revelator of the word made to taste
The most high, the conduit to creation
The grand motivator
I shake your money maker
The rejuvenator on high
Feel the coming of my fire
The revelator extraordinaire
I am all
I think
I am the word in flesh & desire
I'm here to destroy and redistribute, redesign
Hallelujah, I'm here to tell ya!
The revelation of the revelator
Extraordinaire!
So dig down deep and scrape that coinage
Off that chewing gum and chaw
And give, give the holy dollar in sacrilege
As I rise above the great fanged maw
I'm the holiest of holy all praise the
Orange God, meet the prince, el Presidente
the Anointed One, hallowed be thy name
its kingdom come
on his toilet of golden as it is done
his holy war will be fun...
I'm the revelation the way to his pockets and praise
I'm the evaluator
The motivator
The ecstasy of one
Hollow be thy name
His kingdom is undone
His crown is crashing down
Holy is thy name the grand revelator
NO! Not a sound...!
Your online's only motivator
I am the kink to the all mighty
The grand wizard of this world a' rage
I am the war layer of this waste
The revelator of his word
I do not make haste...
The most holies of high,
The conduit to destruction
The antithesis of one
The grand exploiter
I carry the golden gun
The rejuvenator on high,
The ejaculator between succulent thighs!
Feel the coming of my fire
The revelator extraordinaire
I am all I think I am the word in flesh n fire
I'm here to destroy, redistribute, n redesign
Hallelujah, I'm here to tell ya!
Dig deep and give, give, forgive
The price to heaven, the keys to the pearly gates...OH YESSS....
Between these revelators weather clad highs
I'm the revelation
The elevator
The revival of most high
The master of nigh
Revelations n ruination…
REVELATOR
Surprise!
Philosophers, down the ages,
Have strenuously tried
To figure out language:
Their numerous narratives polarize
Into two Grand narratives, a binary:
Language is referential / differential.
This binary has yielded numerous derivatives.
On the referential side, for instance,
There’s the view that language is an instrument,
As advanced notably by Aristotle, Bhamaha and Dandin.
On the differential side, we have
Saussure’s notion:
Language is a system of differences
(without any positive terms).
Derrida, for his part, widened it:
Language is infinitely differential,
As suggested by his coinage differance,
which implies: language is
slippery, radically unstable,
which, in turn, gave rise to
mind-boggling derivatives
in this postmodern world!
Some of them are: Derrida’s (own) freeplay
of the (autonomous) sign,
Bloom’s (willful) misreading,
And Lyotard’s (incommensurable) language games
(which we all play in this postmodern space willy-nilly)
All these differences have led
Often to acrimonious disputes,
Couched, of late, in a language
that abounds in ambiguity
and neatly underpinned by illogic!
The predicament of these philosophers (old or new) is:
What they and we all observe
is not language-in-itself,
but language as seen by us—
which is similar to what Heisenberg said about nature!
These disputes remind us
of the dispute among the six characters,
in the age-old parable,
which reportedly originated in the Indian Rigveda.
(but now found in several belief systems).
It’s the parable of the six men
(as narrated by John Godfrey Saxe)
Wherein the characters tried
To figure out an elephant,
which, unfortunately, none of them
Had the faculty to see:
So, one called it soft and mushy;
for another it was like a snake;
for the third, it was fan-like,
And so on.
Thus, they “disputed loud and long,
Though each was partly in the right
…and all were [rightly] in the wrong!"
***
Still, and again
“Ogongo” crept into my mouth
As I behold the two nocturnal creatures
We have waited endlessly
No longer in my Aunt’s place,
But we became unsolicited watchmen
At the streets gate entrance
It was an ungodly hour
Darkness had key to everywhere
Still, and again
I winked at my cousin
He nodded, and murmured
“They are on their way”
But when midnight started knocking
Out of the furfuled dusk
Appeared the two nocturnal “Ogongos”
One bringing back the memory of the famous Yokosuna
Of the Heavy weight with an heavy duty
To her chest,
Were a very big size-less eve’s apples?
Her mean look compliments her dark complexion
Her burnt lips. . . Reddish eyeballs speak of her as a chimney
My cousin I pity from within my heart
Her hyena-like laughter
Turned me back to the second “Ogongo”
Of a lesser weight to the former
Her Eve’s apples were almost not there
“Bad catch, worst choice”
I echoed to myself until I saw
Her roundly shaped protruding buttock
Speaking louder than a loud-speaker
It overshadows her duck-like ugly mouth
It was an undeniable asset
Indeed, the “Ogongos” are both endowed
With a Unique Selling Point (UPS)
With these, I had taught they can never
Run out of good prices in the market.
Lo and behold,
At the crucial product delivery point
I rushed out of my room
Only to see my cousin outside too
Looking worried and dejected
The “Ogongos” are over-used products
The expiry date lapsed long ago
The USP was a flash in the pan
We both slept in the parlour
Leaving the “Ogongos” in their different rooms
It was a bad deal in a bad day.
Alayande Stephen T
09.55am
20th June, 2007
NB-Ogongo is a coinage for Prostitutes.
In Iba, with Ayo and Yemi, expecting
An Izobo daughter and Tobi’s call.
As they leave
They leave with us nothing but an empty
Treasure to treasure which even Judas Iscariot
The disciple’s Treasure cannot measure
And treasure with pleasure.
As they leave,
They victimize and they seize with impunity
And dishonour students’ union leader’s certificates
Since 2000,for leading peaceful protest
Within and outside campus
As they leave,
They leave with stains of blood of 17 pensioners
And their other colleagues in their hands
While younger colleagues and students mere
Exist like living corpses
They vindictively sack staff who tell them
The naked truth and seize food from their families
As they leave,
They leave with our monetised vehicles and valuables
Monetisation another coinage for stealing people’s
Goods and properties
As they leave,
They relish and enjoy destroying people’s lives
And careers, giggling, later, dexterously smiling
And suddenly laughing hysterically like a naked
Beautifully handsome man dancing to no particular
Beat in Dugbe market
As they leave,
They leave with us fusion of confusion
Sensational exploitation and victimization
Intimidation and bastardization of the then
Glorious University of Ibadan culture and traditon
As they leave,
They leave thinking that their evil deeds will
Be buried and buried with them secretly
Alas!!…the wind has blown and the buttocks
Of the mother-hen is exposed.
Alayande Stephen. T
20th,September,2005
6.00am
Form:
the Priest sucked in his Four Star Brandy
hoping that a drunken release
would help him with his conflict
in an alcoholic sleep of peace
the alky swigged his cider
vintage cheap and strong
the crutch to his addiction
making existence crawl along
from separate drunken corners
each in his own private hell
they were taken by the police
to share the same dingy cell
one having achieved the sought
but only temporary relief
from the stress and the doubt
in the strength of his belief
the other just existing
in his world of sleeping rough
which achieved a sort of stability
if he could only drink enough
one was given a caution
for any man can once fall
the other was jailed
with no sympathy at all
one preached from his pulpit
about the dangers of a hell
as the other spent that Sunday
Morning slopping out his cell.
in this world of contradictions
preconceptions can hold sway
as the alky and the priest were each
assessed in society’s preconditioned way
and the Charity collector
stood and shook his tin
pleased by the growing weight
as the passers slid coinage in
a cheap way to ease a conscience
that really didn’t give a damn
about the stresses and strains suffered
in this strangely unequal world of Man
Good cheer, my love, as we venture forth
Over land and sea without recourse
Banished to rove us we three
No matter the tempest, remember me
As I was in our former life
In love promoting,you formed your wife
No trickery connived to gain my trust
In wooing me you contained your lust
To ensure my purity on wedding day
No act to spare me as together we lay
Now bitter tidings have blown us around
Emerging battle scarred with lopsided crown
In my aching heart I know it to be true
In constancy our lives shall arise anew
Exiled I must depart to foreign shore
For asylum aid I had to implore
No coinage purse to tie about
my velvet kirtle I can do without
Remember me and your luckless child
As he clings to me knowing you are defiled
My last note written in heart rung pain
Shall I ever find you well again
Confined as you are in London Tower
As friends gather to plot your salvation hour
Keep alive your love for goodness sake
A promised recompense I trust to make
The ship's last call to board has come
With heavy heart I see baggage heaved on
Keepsake I send thee, in this note I kiss
A beribboned silver piece I threaded this
Etched in memory to my only true one
Remember me when all deeds are done.
Another concrete bomb shelter emerges, taking the shape of a Starbuck coffee palace embedded with the captive lure of free internet service. Like a crouching tiger on the prowl, this behemoth hungrily eyes the empty grass lot as a sure sign of progress.
A Chipotle rises up next door. This nondescript storefront eatery imitates an assembly line method of serving up a slew of fresh ingredients in the shape of a taco salad, unlike anything ever seen in Mexico.
Square shaped albatross blocks begin to nest in the corners of the parcel of unused land as the canal in front is drained and the arteries of sewer pipes are laid, then covered up as if they don’t really exist. An engineering miracle done on time and within budget.
Black top is pounded down and cooled, white borders are formed to insure no one crosses over into someone else’s territory, artificial suns are hung to illuminate the night to help travelers find their way into this barren moonscape.
An oasis of concrete bunkers offers up colored nutrients and drink, to the never-ending march of devotees who willingly lay down their coinage and devour everything being offered; the sure sign of progress when there is no place left to go.
Spoke to a cloud today –
the usual conversation
about shape and size,
lows and highs...whether
my need to tote a handy, spring
loaded umbrella...or a better chance
to go without pants, dance
on the beach ~ showing off
thighs, widening sockets
of older generational eyes – he
told me of clouds who gather and
threaten, causing ships to leap into
salty lather, sailors beware!
take battened-down care! – schools
of fishes diving to ocean depths
they share, with ancient vessels (and sewage),
a seafloor covered with sandy
coinage – a diver's delight; when
stormed into sight –
more subjects of our chatter
and debates, were those of tides
and tectonic plates; also of bony-splatter:
living shrapnel, from a well aimed cannon-ball
against a wooden hull, or artillery shell,
man's modern perpetuation, of that never
settling, always heartening seafarer's knell –
I went on to ask, if in all his travels, had
he ever seen anything truly divine?
Like an angel passing...or a saucer
flying...perhaps some mythical dragon
soaring, trying to lasso down a tasty
moon ~ bring him brightly closer,
doing some dragon flips, salivating
for cheesie fondue lips....
Few days more my dreams need to come true,
In that heart me to kindle a candle
The conurbation of lovers’ to locate
And to renovate the ruins of past
And to patch up with a friend much annoy’d
Few days I need, few days more I need.
To heal the wound of love deep and down
To raise the pennon of pain so high
To make the wind pleasant and saccharine
To glide the kite of hope up in Blue
To make every troubl’d eye to gaze at it
Few days I need, few days more I need.
To cut a gate through that steel of hatr’d
Negligence, ignorance and the race
To let the air overtake the barb’d line
To make the earth a place universal
With no country, coinage and congress
Few days I need, few days more I need.
To make my beloved to touch the peaks
Of my platonic love so untaint’d
To make her heart soft, tranquil and calm
To discover listening the grief on beats
Battered down by nay but native sob
Few days I need, few days more I need.
To make a Brooke to sing not from book
But from the half dead voice of the poets
The verses they compose from broken beats
Nay with steel Nibs, but by the rib’s edge
To make the mass to pick up the ache
Few days I need, few days more I need.