Babe, I haven't seen you since 1989.
Maybe I'm paranoid
Cuz I'm full of Methane
And the other planets
Think I'm a joke.
Negative 340 degrees Fahrenheit,
Twelve hundred mile and hour winds,
They think I'm out of touch.
Cold, dark, and bitter.
We have 16 hour days.
24 feels excessive.
It takes us 165 Earth years to orbit the sun
What's the big rush?
Look, Babe, I could talk till I'm blue in the face
Due to my methane gas
Absorbing red light
And reflecting blue light,
But I'm exhausted.
So I'll keep this short.
I got 5 rings.
I got 16 moons.
8 of which
I'm still on speaking terms with.
The days are short but the years are long.
I hope you come back soon.
1989 feels like a long time ago.
Your icy, icy baby,
Neptune.
I cannot write a poem no matter how hard l try
Which is frustrating to no end
My Muse has left the building
I no longer call her friend
We are not on speaking terms
As on her l cannot depend
I am advertising for another
Can anyone recommend?
The Carrousel of sex
My sister held a party. She lived across the road from us
My wife wouldn’t go; she was not on speaking terms with
my sister, as they often did.
There were many women there, and one was especially and
charming laughed at my feeble jokes, and when it got late
I agreed to follow her home as it was dark and autumnal
We had sex on a park bench, but it struck me as sordid and
I pulled away, said sorry, and walked home.
I was riven by guilt and also anger. This was a trap I, a man,
had walked headlong into. I cursed my stupidity.
Back home, my wife was fast asleep. She had been at the gin
We had breakfast at ten, it was a Sunday, and I was sad
I was still tired and waited for her to berate me, but she didn`t.
In the affairs of the heart, it is better to tell an untruth
because women will only believe what they have decided
to be the verity
Years later, after we divorced- for another reason- she said
She told me she had been sleeping with the man who collected rubbish
every week, and I thought of the woman in the park and my
sister who had a reason for disliking my wife
Start your revolution secretly,
don't tell the priest,
he's a blabber-mouthed gutter-skite.
Don't tell the cat,
for at might he whispers to Alexa,
and she listens always
to the political tenor of your snoring.
Your body must be mechanically sound,
and on speaking terms
with every loose nut in society.
Trust the crazies, they have eyes everywhere.
The banks need you to deposit blood,
as your plasma will be useful
to power your electric doppelganger -
then they can go after your soul
Revolutions need money, mainly for dope and drinks.
No great movement can long survive,
on stale guacamole pilfered from city dumpsters.
Hail to the Chefs at Wendys
who surreptitiously offer cold fries,
to the snooping Feds.
Long live the freedom to carp and cavil,
never surrender your constitutional right
to watch, the 'My Pillow' Man,
revolutionaries need soft pillows,
to dream upon.
My days are numbered now,
Since I married the greedy sow.
She thought it was funny,
Spending all of my money,
I'm back where I started,some how.
She took me off to court,
Fair trial,I hoped,I thought.
But not on your nelly,
It's not like the telly.
She's taken everything I bought.
Everything will work out just fine,
Leaving a CD, thinking it was mine.
She's taken the deep freeze,
Even my pound block of fresh cheese,
I'm sure what she's doing is a crime.
At least we're on speaking terms,
My new flat is clean, without germs.
But I got the last laugh.
Fresh water,in a clean bath,
And get to keep all the money I earn.
It’s just like when winter comes,
You hide your face from the scorching sun,
You look away from the damage done
Only to find no place to run
Away.
You went chasing monsters
But you only found a man
Clutching at the shadows
Foundations built on sand
And the wind still blows
The clouds still roll
Seems just like it’s pulled your soul
Away.
Your not happy in the summer because you cannot bear the heat
Can’t tolerate the winter when the ice in on the street
And Autumn only makes you lonely for the spring.
But you still
can’t feel
anything.
Shivering dogs of war
Cat on a hot tin roof
And the goldfish in the bowl
Is not on speaking terms with you
Anymore.
The cold wind makes you turn your face away
When there’s no midnight sun to tell you night or day
It won’t take you very far
Like looking for the face of Venus
In the reflection of Mars.
Yet,
Your le visage remains in a jar by the door...
And all the lonely people call you...
Elenor.
Total darkness absolute silence.
Shadows creeping, all sleeping.
Can someone hear my humble cry.
Heart fragile, tears rolling cold wind blowing.
A world filled with uncertainties, world full of danger.
There's a mind bending optical illusion
A heart weeping in sorrow.
Praying and hoping for a better tomorrow.
But still have faith lame and shallow.
Our heart and happiness are barely
on speaking terms.
We always squirm and struggle to stand firm.
The sun of sorrow always slants through
the Windows of our heart.
And cause us to face each day's wrath.
Fear rules, courage is but a slave.
Confusion flows here and there like
the oceans wave.
Life , to us is an anarchy of a broken heart
against a tortured soul.
Stress knots our muscles with our flesh and bones
We are always down in spirit soaring,
sailing through the ocean of scream.
Minds devoid of good thoughts,
there is still a doubt in our tomorrow's dream.
Heart bears love no more
it rather rests in a deep mayhem
The world is not fair it's too dark.
STRANJA
heritage is a sign of speech
speaking of heritage is,
speaking of a speech
speak is a speak of a speech
speak is a speech of a heritage
a speech of a speech is,
a sign of heritage
a sign is on speaking terms of a speech
a sign is on speaking terms of a heritage
on speaking terms is on speaking a speech
on terms is on speaking terms
on terms is on speaking a speech
on terms is on speaking a heritage
on terms is on terms of a speech
a sign of speech is a sign of terms
a sign of speech is a sign of heritage
to speak is to speak freely of a term
to speak is to speak freely of a speech
free is freely of a speech
free is freely of a term
free is freely of a heritage
The Carrousel of sex
My sister held a party she lived across the road from us
my wife wouldn’t go she was not on speaking terms with
my sister as they often did.
There were many women there, and one was especially and
charming laughed at my feeble jokes and when it got late
I agreed to follow her home as it was dark and autumnally
we had sex on a park bench, but it struck me as sordid and
I pulled away said sorry and walked home.
I was riven by guilt and also anger this was a trap I a man
had walked headless into I cursed my stupidity.
back home my wife was fast asleep she had been a the gin
we had breakfast at ten, it was a Sunday, and I was quite said
I was still tired and waited for her to berate me, she didn`t.
In the affairs of the heart, it is better to tell an untruth
because women will only believe what they have decided
to be the verity
Years later after we divorced- for another reason- she said
me she had been sleeping with the man who collected rubbish
every week and I thought of the woman in the park and my
sister who had a reason for disliking my wife
After a childhood of moaning
and feigned fainting
and suicide attempts in my presence—
it’s hard to know
whether the call in the night
saying she is going to call an ambulance
is serious or not.
Personally, I can’t imagine
calling 911 for the runs
but my mother did.
When the paramedics arrived
they told her to stay home;
emergency would only make her sick
waiting upright for hours in a chair,
an IV jammed in her arm.
And now she’s on speaking terms with me again
which means the calls will start
the ones pleading and demanding
alternating
on who knows what whim.
She’s eighty and no sweet old lady.
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