I am gonna moult
Says Paradigm
What is right rhyme
To paradigm
The prime
The crime
The dime
The time
The paradigm
I am moulting logic anytime
Says paradigm
Beware and prepare
Loosing the specifics
And if being fair
These aren't the real friends of yours
As time on platforms you do spare
Posterity
Descendant generation
This my Intelligence the Station
Is written for inquiring minds
But not adaptive
Contrary to nature
These are not the peeling
There are rinds
There is something really wrong
In human mechanisms
Of the submitting to the given
Thus those who responsible for this
In fact, in truth, can never be forgiven
Thus, fix the tolerance of yours
As real Judgment
Leaves no the reminder
To remorse
Time has flown away without the glimpse of your smile,A day of tons is like a day of Nothing Without that glaze from you.It feels like my dress has been torn and cannot be mended even if you were to prick a lot of threads around it your worries are moulting I can't stand your pain,your complaints drains me knowing fully that have wronged you.
What a wonderful human being you're,not been able to know you well uptil now is burning the air out of me,you've subsided away from me.
Have been casted away from my clan ,who am I not to bow down to you king sovereign.You gave me this position which many have tried to posses yet failed,dive into the waters and don't let me drown.
To you I ought to belong,give her highness the chance to shine.Her love will continue to rain on you,your love is her name and your approval is her happiness.
Be Great
I thought my little mate the blackbird
was being bullied by his flock
maybe pressured to renounce our friendship
his little yellow nose looked painfully pecked
his tail short and dishevelled as his feathers
I might have been wrong
his beak looks healthy and strong
of shiny long black coat and tail
worthy of any self-respecting bird gangster,
groomed and pedicured to the nines.
I brush for fifteen minutes my kitty,
as she growls, wiggles and struggles and swats;
all I want to do is make her pretty,
I just need to get rid of a few knots.
Oh, all that shedding, moulting and hairballs,
she is very angry with me for hours;
I kiss her but no way- away she crawls,
I give her treats so she will not be sour.
But in time she forgives and she forgets,
we snuggle on the sofa together;
sweet joy, I got a knot out- no regrets,
except she bit me hard, oh whatever.
Kitty is silky and soft - an angel,
I love her although it can be painful.
_____________________________
August 27, 2016 (edit)
Poetry/Sonnet/Silky Kitty
Copyright Protected, ID 16- 1084-4010-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
I brush for fifteen minutes my kitty,
as she growls, wiggles and struggles and swats;
all I want to do is make her pretty,
I just need to get rid of a few knots.
Oh, all that shedding, moulting and hairballs,
she is very angry with me for hours;
I kiss her but no way- away she crawls,
I give her treats so she will not be sour.
But in time she forgives and she forgets,
we snuggle on the sofa together;
sweet joy, I got a knot out- no regrets,
except she bit me hard, oh whatever.
Kitty is silky and soft - an angel,
I love her although it can be painful.
_____________________________
August 27, 2016
Poetry/Sonnet/"Soft and Silky"
Copyright Protected, ID 16-823-550-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, English Sonnet
First Place
earth
I connect the earth to the painting,
Footprints in the mud,
Marble dust scratched,
The soil is drawn up, vertically
It can not be accessed any longer,
And blocks the horizon.
A thick varnish protected, precariously,
The guts, from the burning of napalm.
Moulting human skin, curls here.
The only escape, perhaps,
To sink into the earth,
Connected to the original matrix.
To seek his reincarnation.
Such as green regrowth do,
On charred stumps.
-
nov 2014
The Shedding of Skin.
Parched lullabies seem jarring,
gentle persuasion an assault,
quiet understanding reeking of decay,
fatigued under this skin in which I must stay.
Dreams of moulting,
shedding the hubris of crafty words,
flushing away all famished rhymes,
ripping the fibres of an ink-stained past.
Knowing.
Always knowing,
that honey-soaked kisses, seem destined,
breathlessly,
never to last.
When Tonight Arrives.
When tonight arrives,
yet another whiskey-soaked, hazy search for absolution commences,
in nameless seedy dives,
where loneliness offers solace,
and self-pity thrives.
Staring at the bottle,
knowing it offers relief,
from the numbing pangs of grief,
while stripping down the edifices,
of trust and belief.
When tonight arrives,
with a million hearts exploding,
casting away loss,
and the comforting sense of foreboding,
I wait my turn at the guillotine,
bereft of peace,
moulting my skin,
as it strips away my clothing.
When tonight arrives,
without ceremony,
all innocence is lost,
my soul bearing the cost,
of tomorrow's pain,
cocooning my heart,
in a shroud of silence,
beneath mountains of frost.
The Transparency of Selves.
Transparently unseen,
lonely souls walking on,
slipping between raindrops,
curling between folds of reality,
twisting in dreary, worn-out skins.
Moulting, peeling off, discarding,
worn-down corpses edging towards,
whistling crowds of leering stares,
wasted on insipid momentary sighs,
where collective consciences lay mute.
Opaque words flounder, seeking, begging,
wooden excuses swept up in dusty screams,
bellowing unspoken profanities in solitude,
sweltering amongst boneless patriarchs,
where impotence teeters on the brink of reason.
Rivers of unreason roll on, ceaselessly,
watering the sordid thoughts and empty voices,
filtering out warmth and empathy, drilling,
deeper into a callousness that embraces,
coddles, nourishing nothing but putrid decay.
Home
Squirming through my skin,
moulting once again.
Roots flailing like rotting driftwood,
bashed upon the merciless shore.
Home awaits the weary traveller,
to comfort and offer solace.
No home awaits me,
mere bricks and scattered memories.
Lost in the folds of memory,
a withered identity beyond recall.
Home.
Long misplaced by the wayside,
forever gone, vanished in time.
Home.
As skin moults with dreary repetition.
No home, no place of solace.
For I left myself in a half-forgotten alley,
While I forever trawl for the way home.
the next is like the first
equally shedding more skin
you do that again and again
and I known each time
you look at me
we are transformed
and so we take each step
each page is torn away
a day, a week, a month
eternity in our eyes
this time with you
like a wave that never breaks
a swell in the heart of the ocean
where the two race, play, swim
we are
the ones we see
in the next moment the sun rolls by
you lighten up the room
again a mirror
to the little pools of mystery
spilling out around you
giving up the secret
moulting in the broad day light
Unheeded in the spread of his name, quaking
Through the knit brow cuddling the sombre eye
Twice buckled into the couch of his yearning
The mouldy cast of unsculptured hands, moulting
In the surging sweaty cries' unexpected sigh
Sooner lost than won with unrenewed longing
Every day, every night in chastened haste, calling
That one face, one hand trembling on bosomy thigh
Through all the twigs of his knotty brooding
Mighty log in the dismembered chips, raking
In uneasy orgasms of a protracted lie
The woman clasped in the memory revolting
Fleshy hair to press, hovering nostrils, drinking
In the incensing vapours, and that face a wry
Screaming in the rubbing spasm, a bloody cursing
All, all and more, and the biting shame, clawing
Now at the name, silently growing, that shy
Child of old hopefully shared and lingered moaning
© T. Wignesan, 1960, first pub. in "Forum Academicum", University of Heidelberg, 1957 (from the collection: Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
Last night I saw an angel, he was sitting on my bed
He had two golden wings, and a halo round his head
Suddenly his shining light began to grow quite dim
It seemed a bit unusual and so I says to him
“I see your light is fading, is the reason for it that
You have a bad connection, are the batteries going flat?”
He said “this never happens, it is very very odd
It’s my communicator and it links me straight to God”
Cut off from his guv’ner he was free from prying eyes
He smiled a little smile and then, much to my surprise
Reached into the fridge and poured himself an ice cold drink
Then he lit a cigarette, and he removed the holy link
His wings had started moulting shedding feathers on the floor
Slowly getting smaller till at last they were no more
All at once it dawned on me, I quickly realised
No more was he an angel, he had just been mortalised
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