Month: November 2008

Mud Brown Eyes

They don’t shine, or glow
No one falls into them
They call them chestnut and
that’s very nice of you, thanks

Some have jewels as dreamerous as the ocean
Where sailors perish
In quests for the gift of the radiance
And just a moment alone
with Goddesses whose eyes pierce through souls

They are the lucky few

No, these are more like gloopy balls of dirt
Resting in hollowed, tired heads
Like everyone and so plain
ugly

She thinks these things and can’t see
That her eyes, her mud brown eyes
Have me vexed
I want to kiss her and show her my
eyes, like hers
But I am just her lover, after all
And not some stranger on the street

Mud Brown Eyes

They don’t shine, or glow
No one falls into them
They call them chestnut and
that’s very nice of you, thanks

Some have jewels as dreamerous as the ocean
Where sailors perish
In quests for the gift of the radiance
And just a moment alone
with Goddesses whose eyes pierce through souls

They are the lucky few

No, these are more like gloopy balls of dirt
Resting in hollowed, tired heads
Like everyone and so plain
ugly

She thinks these things and can’t see
That her eyes, her mud brown eyes
Have me vexed
I want to kiss her and show her my
eyes, like hers
But I am just her lover, after all
And not some stranger on the street

memory

Memory is a means by which humans are able to remember and recall events, situations, requirements, or tasks. However, memory does not always transcribe the billowy poet bog that the ancient lords bestowed upon the subjects of the Corinthian lands beyond the wretched sea. Is there a haven; a fallen godman wishes solace. Such strange things and graceful muses in this place. How they dance and glide about the place. Silken gloves and stretched leather of fine Parisian shoes. A hard month’s salary is such a tiny thing. Things… all of them things. Her hair, a stream of sea across a woeful face; me. It is late by the witching hour and early by the Maynard’s carriage strum. Little children made of cheese do squander their talents in wasted endeavors. Jeweled farmers? Pompous fools, there is not a means of obtaining such things. Things… I remember things, strewn about. They were left there by the jealous man inside. She did not pick them up, not Evaline. She just sat upon a throne of tears. How quaint… perhaps droll. The dross of deathly diamonds does dock at Demon Diocese. I believe the dowager decked the drop of delicate dales at Drunken Dromer’s old destiny doomed to dwell in delicious domes. They glided to the mine of mine and his old horse said, “No.” “No?” I asked of it, and “no” it said again.

Wait, this place. Have you seen it before? I believe I have. Meadows have witnessed villages spring from the roots of dormant people, never knowing, never remembering. I finally found a garden in which the gels say, “howdy punk,” only I don’t understand the context of memorial randomosity. It’s in the ocean. Jump in and swim and I promise the mermen will help you along. If the mermaids (maids of the mar, el mer mio tan amable y agradable; yo quiero nadar) find you, well, hell, you best run. I seen the bravest soldiers tell me they ain’t stickin’ to no broad abroad, but they’s just plain unthinkin’. They ain’t rememberin’ what it’s like, up there ‘round them trees. It’s like, a memory. A forgotten rememberance of a past, of a reason to. What, then, are we doing? Ah, yes, we are remembering. Remembering things, which aptly applied, apply to the subject of memories.

A memory… what is it? I forgot!

memory

Memory is a means by which humans are able to remember and recall events, situations, requirements, or tasks. However, memory does not always transcribe the billowy poet bog that the ancient lords bestowed upon the subjects of the Corinthian lands beyond the wretched sea. Is there a haven; a fallen godman wishes solace. Such strange things and graceful muses in this place. How they dance and glide about the place. Silken gloves and stretched leather of fine Parisian shoes. A hard month’s salary is such a tiny thing. Things… all of them things. Her hair, a stream of sea across a woeful face; me. It is late by the witching hour and early by the Maynard’s carriage strum. Little children made of cheese do squander their talents in wasted endeavors. Jeweled farmers? Pompous fools, there is not a means of obtaining such things. Things… I remember things, strewn about. They were left there by the jealous man inside. She did not pick them up, not Evaline. She just sat upon a throne of tears. How quaint… perhaps droll. The dross of deathly diamonds does dock at Demon Diocese. I believe the dowager decked the drop of delicate dales at Drunken Dromer’s old destiny doomed to dwell in delicious domes. They glided to the mine of mine and his old horse said, “No.” “No?” I asked of it, and “no” it said again.

Wait, this place. Have you seen it before? I believe I have. Meadows have witnessed villages spring from the roots of dormant people, never knowing, never remembering. I finally found a garden in which the gels say, “howdy punk,” only I don’t understand the context of memorial randomosity. It’s in the ocean. Jump in and swim and I promise the mermen will help you along. If the mermaids (maids of the mar, el mer mio tan amable y agradable; yo quiero nadar) find you, well, hell, you best run. I seen the bravest soldiers tell me they ain’t stickin’ to no broad abroad, but they’s just plain unthinkin’. They ain’t rememberin’ what it’s like, up there ‘round them trees. It’s like, a memory. A forgotten rememberance of a past, of a reason to. What, then, are we doing? Ah, yes, we are remembering. Remembering things, which aptly applied, apply to the subject of memories.

A memory… what is it? I forgot!

In waves of incense, godless gold

In waves of incense, godless gold:
Crosses beared by lovers’ hold.
A nail does trail along dewed skin;
Shiver now, ignore the sin.

As bodies tire–beg to sleep.
The mind, dogged, counts no sheep.
Dreamscapes sprawl ‘cross the blessed shrine;
Young ones meet for taunting rhyme:

“Hi boy!” she says, “you smell of fish!
Filthiness seems your sad wish.
You chase the others ’round the school;
Never will you touch me, ghoul!”

“Oh no?” says boy, “why, I’m the best!
I shall search the sandy crests!
Along the halls and on the slide,
The girl hunter comes to ride!”

They follow high, and hop on low
’til a recess whistle blows.
Giggles, snorts, and scuffing soles:
Children trained to seek their goals.

Remember, then, that stories aim
To teach lessons (or seek blame).
If man or woman wish to learn,
Find out when the plot did turn:

Bodies form, and mature to grow;
Love’s true form begins to show.
Alas, young minds seek but one thing;
A warm caress, and awkward fling.

The playing ends and fun begins.
Hair as silk and goosebump skin.
A day in the fields; night in lust.
Declarations of deep trust.

By and by, as the fates decree
(With logic none can appease),
The view of him or her does change.
Experience shows them the way:

“Remember how we used to be?
Wild, loving, full of glee?
We conquered nights, and danced much then.
Can we do those things again?”

“I am not free, can you not see?
Work and school; you leave me be!
I will find time just not right now.
Give me space and quiet down.”

The hardest lesson lies in wait
As star-crossed paths separate.
A tale as cyclic as old lore
Of night’s plutonian shore.

The raven startles; back to bed!
Thoughts and wonderings in the head.
The room returns, and memories fade.
Recalling where it is they laid…

A satin stocking strewn below–
The open window’s breeze does flow.
And when nights be remembered hence,
Spirit rises, not the flesh.

In waves of incense, godless gold

In waves of incense, godless gold:
Crosses beared by lovers’ hold.
A nail does trail along dewed skin;
Shiver now, ignore the sin.

As bodies tire–beg to sleep.
The mind, dogged, counts no sheep.
Dreamscapes sprawl ‘cross the blessed shrine;
Young ones meet for taunting rhyme:

“Hi boy!” she says, “you smell of fish!
Filthiness seems your sad wish.
You chase the others ’round the school;
Never will you touch me, ghoul!”

“Oh no?” says boy, “why, I’m the best!
I shall search the sandy crests!
Along the halls and on the slide,
The girl hunter comes to ride!”

They follow high, and hop on low
’til a recess whistle blows.
Giggles, snorts, and scuffing soles:
Children trained to seek their goals.

Remember, then, that stories aim
To teach lessons (or seek blame).
If man or woman wish to learn,
Find out when the plot did turn:

Bodies form, and mature to grow;
Love’s true form begins to show.
Alas, young minds seek but one thing;
A warm caress, and awkward fling.

The playing ends and fun begins.
Hair as silk and goosebump skin.
A day in the fields; night in lust.
Declarations of deep trust.

By and by, as the fates decree
(With logic none can appease),
The view of him or her does change.
Experience shows them the way:

“Remember how we used to be?
Wild, loving, full of glee?
We conquered nights, and danced much then.
Can we do those things again?”

“I am not free, can you not see?
Work and school; you leave me be!
I will find time just not right now.
Give me space and quiet down.”

The hardest lesson lies in wait
As star-crossed paths separate.
A tale as cyclic as old lore
Of night’s plutonian shore.

The raven startles; back to bed!
Thoughts and wonderings in the head.
The room returns, and memories fade.
Recalling where it is they laid…

A satin stocking strewn below–
The open window’s breeze does flow.
And when nights be remembered hence,
Spirit rises, not the flesh.