The fuel, fury and addiction,
stupendous depiction.
I’m magnetized; my nose buried
in vellum sheets. Varied,
the construct of complicated
simpletons located
on cliffs, near harbors, with their ghosts;
misdirecting guideposts.
The injection of crafty twists;
flying ink insists
you sink deeper into its thick.
The turn of pages, a joystick.
Wanting to finish the story;
feeling’s transitory.
Compose a series, Author, please!
Your book ended with tease.
I’ll have eyes on antagonist,
tea with protagonist,
follow breadcrumbs and red herring,
and choose to be daring.
T h e E n d
One slouch theory is that
thirty thorny
tin entities perhaps
from Triton (or
from Troy?) have
taken over
other tiny tory nits named Tony and o-
riented them toward a
fictional final era
of human machination
using virtual farce-sens-
ing resister dada in compunction with dig-
ital ghost industrial
simpletons.
POETRY SOUP IS GARBAGE
why did i subscribe to this nonsense?
read the terms and conditions
no foul language, nor innuendos
FFS...can we not be adults?
can we not express our true selves?
No, we gotta cater to the weak minds
the forever-effing-blind
keep pushin' that purity nonsense
so we can all stay in-line
ignore truth, ignore dissent
keep the simpletons happy
bury our burdens with a fake smile
for utmost accessibility
Why are poems such dissapoint now days
So many simple words too many simple man
Please try harder or is this the best all you can do, this is why this world is hungry for truth
Nobody wants to really go any deeper
Simple stupid all these grave sights where all these simpletons go to rest, can someone please try to write just one sentence that will make me think does poetry even exist.
So much garbage and not enough real heart
Dont waste my time and tell me how to write
Your insecurities are killing all of us now
Again i beg you all please give me some heart
Give me something real i want to bleed
When i read i want to take a breath and know
I would take the next too after you you fool.
Enough of this paid passes into gates of shame
Your money is good here your wins are lonely
I cant suck up just for fame i got whats called real pain deep down i can destroy you and you know it so stop running just write a poem it is just that simple.
Morning goes. Noon goes. Evening spreads its spell.
The man in the elevator knows well—
The familiar and the strange
As though beasts in weather change
Cough, giggle, groan, sigh, yawn, sneeze, scream, and yell...
Passengers in tune and tone of their own
Whether one is in a group or alone
The elevator man finds
Simpletons or masterminds
Humans are a universe of their own.
In broad day light
In plain sight
The rain has fallen
And evaporated free
Speech over night
Riotous murder
Blame the simpletons
Protect the perpetrators
Who’ve political value
Kill the prisoner
Who shouted a view
Don’t write a thought
Or they’ll come for you
Two
Shrinking in fear
Of the new two tear
Five years to endure
But hopefully, not one
Minute more
Meanwhile thousands
Might die, but no will
To keep the score
We’re expendable
No longer dependable
They’ll lie until the election
Change their truth
Change their direction
Five more years to bear
The psychopaths will share
The spoils and the loot
Put us under the jack boot.
For now, they’ve banned fun
But our time will come.
David Cox 09/11/24
The 6th and 9th have come and gone though none have taken note
that faraway, on those two days, an instant blazing blast
had vaporized morality. A bygone anecdote?
It seems such tales are best forgot and buried in the past.
But nonetheless, one must confess, the odds are highest now
that might and means have globalized the final battle field,
such that the victors also lose and perish anyhow.
The rulers in their zeal decide these facts be best concealed.
The warriors bit by bit rearm, their foes to nullify,
with strategies for victories where winners will prevail,
rejecting thoughts of compromise (though nukes are standing by!).
Yet still its grimly obvious that all will finally fail.
Beware you wide-eyed simpletons that follow, with the herd,
the drumbeat of the profiteers that draws us down this path
with prophesies of glory days and other things absurd.
Instead the skies above will burn, the only aftermath.
Racing, racing, racing…
Begins when the covers engulf me
In the lunar blackness
Where small sounds groan
Oh I’ve bested you, my friend!
Wait, that argument was four days ago
Fear, is death
For he who fails to
Act on ambition
Out of fear, dies
An inch with each waning
The Marble Faun
How did Faulkner conjure such
A picturesque title?
But what does it mean?
Racing, racing, racing…
Few hundred bucks is obsolete
In the grand scheme of it all
NF said it marvelously
Most important
Things in life to me
Are things I know I
Can’t buy
Racing, racing, racing…
An hour bleeds
Simpletons surround
Intelligent conversation does not
NF again
I’m not in the mood,
To have a conversation
And talk about a bunch of
Things I don’t feel amazed with
What do you want out of this life?
What are your true and deepest desires?
Seems like I’m the only one
Asking these questions
Few friends, maybe
Most caught up in trivial matters
Let’s go change worlds
Brick by brick
Racing, racin…ra…
"I wandered lonely as a cloud" -- William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a life
bereft of joy by reason’s cloud
to sling invective like a scythe
from perched on high, lofty and proud.
Naught from my lips but bile and scorn,
delight extinguished, long since shorn.
Imprisoned by my intellect,
I held my neighbor in disdain,
the simpletons who genuflect,
lift voice in praise to gods inane.
Devoid of purpose, meaningless,
inflicting pain, I caused distress.
Ensconced in fog, truth thus eludes,
for nothing blinds like one’s own will,
prolongs the moral turpitude,
bolstering self yet further still.
The darkness bears an evil grin,
a putrid corpse, lest dawn breaks in.
But worlds come crashing down, of course.
A penetrating shaft of light
that sears at first, causes remorse,
illumines one’s desperate plight.
A warmth then flushes on the face
by blood reborn, restored by grace.
----------
for the I Wandered Lonely as --- Challenge Poetry Contest
sponsored by Natasha L Scragg
written on 09/18/2022
It's a groovy morning
in a simpletons ecstasy
the rushing
sea and waves
and my appalling vessel
what is my source
a zephyr
oh my anxiety
what's the scene
of the weak spot
obviate
strangulation
everyone should be
provided shelter for
and you as well
with me
stay
Written: May 22, 2022
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
We gasp as our hostess enters the garden.
All of us women wearing glorious colors, trying for attention.
She has, of course, worn the ultimate dress
Which instantly brings lilies and carnations to fruition.
We ordinary simpletons are dressed like rainbows
Dismally paling against marigolds and roses
Which also sense that an angel has entered the arena
Our oranges, pinks and reds are not contenders for attention now.
She has sauntered in as if straight from heaven’s gates.
She is glistening without trying; her caramel skin is popping.
Her brown eyes are exceptional, and her white dress virginal.
Reminding Lily of the Valley she is queen of the garden.
The rest of us fade away amongst flowers that smirk.
No contenders for attention or conversation.
A garden party for forty, where all eyes stray to one.
She is the bride; we are mere spectators.
“Eat, drink, and be merry,”
the cry goes out,
as the party ensues.
Unsteady bodies, alcohol impeded
joints and limbs, numbed
commonsense, as they
dance, fornicate, and drink,
unknowing or ignoring
the Black Spectre of Death
who peers at these simpletons
through its beaked-face mask,
patiently awaiting the moment
its sharpened blade makes
its downward journey
upon the necks of the partying.
One would think,
armed with historical fact,
the simpletons of today
would have learned
from the deaths of close
to four hundred million
human lives, who chose
to dance in drunken abandon
beneath the blade of the
Beaked-faced, Middle Age demon.
Stupidity, as infectious as the plague,
the one human constant
throughout the ages,
dooming the dimwitted
to foolishly dare pandemic demons
to strike them down.
Brazen stupidity will not
save them from fact.
The grim Beak-faced Spectre
grins at their challenge
sharpens its ax,
… and strikes.
Blunt brain such stale dogma holds
Tighter than crags hug dewy molds;
She spurns sparks Reason confers,
And terms sanest wit profitless fuss.
Sweetest rank her outmoded views,
Above strictest sense and full clues;
Cherished most within inured cloud
Are her trite thought frail and proud.
Proffer sure-shining cachings of gold
For faintest morsel of heresies retold,
And she'll a more precious jewel find
Brighter still under Diablo's airier rind.
Her creed says receive and cede not
Wild bootless notions simpletons got;
Let benevolent Logic his carats keep,
And her inane whims have their leap.
Her wild treasures heavier than lead
Shall endless grace that jaded head,
Until wilier ticks of blind-mute clocks
Hit Eternal Proof that sees and talks.
By my family I was never wanted
Must've been the mouth,the brain that they hated
Living is such a sin I'd have to die to be celebrated
After all I live with these freaks,so how do I remain unaffected?
Even when I'm there my presence remains uninhabited
See,I've met better people
They dress better,look better,have better
But they're always intimidated
I wonder why cause I'm just out-dated
Everything they have was handed to them on a silver platter
Yet I have to work my way up the ladder
All the words they know are bland
What they read and write is simple
Like simply made for the simpletons
quite simple to read
so these simpletons believe it
simply cause they're simply
Simple
No matter how better
They claim to be
They can never knock down my ability
Cause writing is my capability
And to them writing is an inability
I hold no accountability to how
they react to my personality
I'm also simple-yeah,simply the best
And if you don't wanna burn,you better get used to that reality
I may be a white elephant to my family,
But to you,I'm your own worst enemy
Sole rider in the cold night air, sky looming as town expands.
The silent shuffle of snowy hooves — subservient, rough lands.
The cowboy freezes alongside a cheerful amber window.
Clang of his rustling spurs silenced suddenly...he’s come for Joe.
Cul-de-sac of frontier buildings frame the vengeance of his mind.
Whiteness of streets balk at death of the young — simpletons close blinds.
6/17/2018
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