Birthdays.
What a dubious way to celebrate the imminent proximity of an epilogue.
A concept I have found myself familiar with, as I wait for its darkness to breathe my flesh into an eternity of condemn.
It’s so monotonously profound, rousing my revulsion into a cavern of numbing ecstasy.
The hallucination of confetti blinds me in a disdain of joyous vibrancy I beseech for a defrauding.
A joyous vibrancy I elude in a hope of inevitable invasion.
A joyous vibrancy I hunt until the trail of its scorn boils with the distraught of my blood.
The mascara pours down my face; a river of infamy, coercing the heft of my obscenity.
The lipstick smears down my chin; a sadistic endeavour to ravage the dereliction of my leeches.
The highlighter gleams; a grotesque jubilation of a fibbing mockery.
And the fundamental rigour of my perished rot derides in a soul prompting conjecture;
I hope this is my last birthday.
My matriarchal genetic line
of narrative
not quite sublime
resonantly erupts
regeneratively abrupt
Loves repeating
robustly carnal wisdom's long
drawn out song
Continuously unabated
with unconditional
transgenerational regard
something emerging more positively
than simply not not hated
Unlike our discontinuous patriarchal lines
drawn win/lose competitively
dominating lies
across sandy soils, now quaking
under shaking stubborn feet
awaking.
Where Mom will wake
each morn to greet
this life feels glad
to peacefully repeat
While Dad will scowl,
invoke defeat
his love was lost
in-dust-trials
of empty sad
manufactured repeat.
Monotonously monotheistic
monopolizing maniacal statistics
monoculturally atheistic
monochromatically dominating
anthro-supremely
down with EarthRights
hedonistic.
WAITING FOR SUCCESS TOMORROW
An Elegy for the Lisless
He laughs at morning time, cries after the sun sets
but his life is still the same, always monotonously the same
he checks his watch to see if his ship has come in
if it hasn’t he drinks a beer and waits, watches some more TV
Drinking beer feels good when he’s waiting for his success ship
some men die waiting for their ship to come in
but his ship is on the horizon, he knows it; watch out when it docks
he’ll have it made and be on easy street then
Working is not in his nature
he’s not a slave so he schemes away from work; he is not made to labor,
he was made to enjoy life; his sights are on better dreams
like guys on TV on windy islands with beautiful girls cavorting around him
In the meantime he’ll enjoy his beer and watching TV
waiting on his couch dreaming of triumphs and the good life
and how much money he’ll have tomorrow
when his success ship comes in.
MEDITATIVE ALLITERATIONS ON MY SLEEP REALITY
From the bed of many meditations
To the stare of a starry eyes,
Into the comforting realm of sound sleep.
Suddenly, I'm hanging out with frosh friend,
Miss Moyin mowing my morning memories.
Now tell me monotonously,
Is it deep dream voyage
Or awaken amusement into reality?
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © December, 2020.
#OnTheSpotPoetry #PoetKing #PoetSkills #ImpromptuPoem #Alliterations #WordsSmith #vickmanuelpoetry #VMP
I’m passing through a bad part of Richmond,
a long trip almost over. Night rain drizzles
wipers creak monotonously,
the blacktop no longer flying
but crawling over my eyes.
On the edge of the city
there’s a liquor store, maybe the last
before the dark interior of Ohio.
I park under its low neon shadows.
Two belligerent drunks
are fighting, both missing each other
in slow motion.
Inside the store
more unsteady men argue,
there arms gesticulating
like broken windmills,
plus one sleazy feme yelling silently
but I can lipread most swear words.
The nightshift counter-clerk is a kid
and he looks like he’s ready to bolt.
Maybe I could slip in there unnoticed
past all the sweaty mayhem.
Maybe make do with a cold beer,
throw some dollars down
make off into the night unscathed
by lashing tongues or flailing fists
More imagined nocturnal scenarios
scatter in my head like dandelion seeds
dispersing on a dry wind.
I still need a drink.
Every raindrop shouts, drumming on the roof
Its violent rhythm embraces the heavy air
Strumming monotonously on a pale glass window,
I'm lying in bed, his smile still plays on my head
Indulging myself in sentiment, I reminisce how he stared...
so sweet as freshly baked gooey butter cake.
'Twas yesterday when I glimpsed his face through the door.
My heart beat too fast, what a dumb coward I was.
I've just felt lifeless for he stole my soul
Please unchain my heart, completely trapped.
Despite the noise of rain, it's still a melody with no tone.
I should say "it's enough" in a flood of tears,
unrescued and drowned to the sound of silence.
I see someone wants to trade
eight hundred year old trees
for timber.
Clearly,
not someone who knows how to listen
to WiseElders.
When these trees were mere seedlings,
they were already exploring how deep and rich
is Earth's flowering flow
of nurturing rivers.
Most people in that ancient time
were monotonously sure
Earth is simply,
fundamentally,
even evangelistically,
flat.
And
eight hundred years later
still clueless
how deep and rich
is Earth's flowering flow
of multiculturing sacred time.
hearing the news
suddenly
taken aback
feelings mix
mingle
a groggy mess
inside
a confused
mind
shocked
surprised
frightened
upset
nervous
anxious
monotonously
quickly
as though
simply
a robot
packing my bags
clothes
pile
stack
go
up
up
up
seem
neverending
saying goodbye
tears streaming
down frowning cheeks
loading up
suitcases in
boxes in
everything in
key turned
motor going
backing up
crying
sobbing
looking back
for just
one
last
goodbye
gravel crackling
beneath
worn tires
worn souls
paved road
passing under
quickly
coming
then suddenly
going
going
and then
it's gone
there is simply
nothing
nothing but the lonely beat of a hurting heart.
Tic Toc Tic Toc
The clock goes on
Like a sirens song
Calling me into a long sleep
The clock goes on
Until you hear twelve gongs
In this game of time it plays for keeps
Tic Toc Tic Toc
Around and Around this clock with its sound
Like the crier of the town
Trying to tell the news
But nothing’s done, is what we’ve found
Whether it’s humans or hounds
And now it’s time for a snooze
Tic Toc Tic Toc
Am I like the clock, in the endless loop?
Monotonously working until my eyes droop
Waiting for the time when I finally count sheep?
A baller always sitting, never getting the hoop
just following orders like a troop
Or am I a leader, one a little neater, like little bo beep?
Tic Toc Tic Toc
Time goes on
It’s time to move on
But nothing ever got done
The sun moves on
Nearing the dawn
Now it’s time for fun
Tic Toc Tic Toc
Now that it’s night
It’s time to take flight
Leaving my other life behind
Of that plight
I’m starting to lose sight
And happiness is what I find
Tic Tic Toc Tic Tic Toc
Poet Voices
I asked him to read my poem
"aloud"
to hear my words from somewhere
other than in my own head
I always say...."No........not like that!"
to "say it like you mean it"
"put some motion in your voice"
and he read on...
monotonously
making me irritated....
I have to say..."ok, pause right there"
"there is a pause"!
frustration to my words
I wrote with feeling
that do not come out someone else's mouth
and thinking.....
I'm writing with color and emotion
hills and valleys
tears and laughter
and it is not in his voice
I am tempted to ball it up and throw it out
Damn.
but I read it again.........place it in my journal
draw grass and flowers around my words
stars and suns........clouds and rain.
It is my world in there.
And I'll tell it like it is.
Professor Gorey
always had a story
filled wit guts and grim
til most folks around these parts
those with their full share of smarts
asked her where she grows her monolithic glory.
Grim Reaper
is not my heart's keeper
and I thank you so for asking
just what I see as our life tasking,
to face our fears as monotheistic sleepers.
Professor Gorey
how could your story
of climatic strangulations
and cataclysmic slaughter of multiple reiterations
do other than make us monotonously snorey?
Earth's story can wake you up
if you drink Her with half-full inducting cup
rather than gulping with competition
while choking for want of cooperation
between what's contracting down
why's polytheistic up.
What is this mystery
we cannot see?
of breathing ego down while eco-up,
soothing prickly cats by playing gooey pups,
confusing what might become communion
with how we choose to competitively be?
You've asked me well
so I must tell,
my deep gory fertile mystery
of permaculture ecosystemic history
is what makes our regenerating health
co-evolve so cooperatively swell,
overcoming LeftBrain v RightBraun
disassociated hell.
Christians, fundamentalist and evangelical,
Have their own music, which is loud and clear,
But although it’s repeated monotonously every week,
It always excites them so, when they draw near.
Their music stimulates them unfailingly,
I mean, the preaching concepts and doctrine;
They even embrace and trophy dogma as helpful,
To it they are faithful, absolutely fine.
I used to think that strange and unacceptable,
To admit to a dogmatic conceptual model,
And now I consider it extremely weird,
To normal standardised frameworks toggle.
It’s unhealthy to resign the many to hell,
To want to gel with a king who's dead,
To only ever have one conversation aim,
And to desire a book you've already read.
For every such Christian I meet and interact with,
I just remember that they listen to their own music,
And even though they may each be hearing it themselves,
I'm sure that for such twaddle there’s a linguistic.
30/9/2015
The leaves fall and wither
Pages turn monotonously
The calendar falls off the wall
I am the witness, stranger
There are no random bursts
There is only consistent loss
The eyes become stones
I have felt it, stranger
The skin peels off slowly
Virility is a dying flame
The mind is a rusted nail
I mourn you, stranger
Grey is your house now
The paint is thus extinct
The creepers are free
I reside there, stranger
A calm fire is burning
Smoke hiding the tear
Devouring that armchair
I know of it, stranger
Memories without colour
And an indefinite abyss
Inevitable and unacceptable
Not your fault, stranger
Incessant hands of the clock
The wind pays no heed
Blowing away the dust
You understand, stranger
Light up your eyes
The wheels stop therefore
Sunlight in the room
You may smile, stranger
Every drop of time
Precious bead in a necklace
Silent message is conveyed
I am a mime, stranger
Immediacy of the moment doth youthful heart beckon
With trite passions that seem to standardize each deviation
Intemperate fodder with which sprouting limbs must reckon
Growing pains producing physical appetites beyond satiation
Carefree days frought with moments of indecision
Sheltered from responsibility; a meaningless depreciation
Time monotonously calibrated; habituated minion
Brokered existence reducing life to borderline depression
A guiding light flickering in the distant future makes a slight
impression
But wired circuits overloaded with transitory cares leads to
confusion
Producing electrical impulses that stimulate internal combustion
Sparking trip wire in mind that produces periods of oscillation
Seeking conformity, a bridge from isolated station
Tring to establish self esteem through peer group ingratiation
To the passing trends, fleeting fads making a necessary oblation
Conversely, using concrete value judgements to qualify each,
pretentious action
He hardly heard a distant tune
But he was deaf
And his heart hindered him
Beating in his chest
Monotonously
He said to it
Please be quiet
Stop
Because I’m not able
To distinguish the notes
And the one that was disobedient its whole life
Obeyed
And stopped
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