“Fine, I’ll admit you have a great ass
You can’t always be this bitter & cruel
I’m going to need at least a smirk
Or I’ll be forced to challenge you to a duel” The fact that he wants to challenge her to a duel means a lot! It’s like fine man just wanna challenge to a duel so you don’t act mean and narcissistic. At least he thought her equal enough to offer the challenge. Damn, that’s pretty awesome 😀
Look at the beautiful shot. It’s like a tree growing inside me.
Tribute
To know the deaths of these people is so sad for me
Whenever a famous figure dies there is a race to pay tribute, as though we competed against each other for our mourning black. Though I must confess to donning a virtual black armband on Facebook from time-to-time, I don’t often do my funeral keening here. Over the past twenty-four hours two well-known authors have reminded me that we are all mortal. I don’t claim to have known either of them – I had a brush with one of their publishers recently, but let’s not go there again – but I do wish to note today that each of them had an influence on my writing.
At the time I started writing seriously, Harper Lee had published one single work of fiction. However, that was the book that would come first to mind if ever one was asked to name a 21c American novel. Chances are that To Kill A Mockingbird would spring to one’s lips…
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Putto There, Mr. Valentine
That fat little Cupid, floating on
a cloud overhead, is what’s known
as a Putto. It’s not a Cherub.
It’s a Putto.
It’s a cute little baby angle thing,
designed to appeal to the cuteness
gland in the brain going all the way back to
the 14th Century.
It makes you want to believe
that the person you love, was
somehow pre-ordained by some
all powerful God of Love to love you.
Through the use of a bow and arrows,
somehow. This person was placed in
your path to love you and be loved by
you. As long as the arrow hit the mark.
Cupid has had some pretty lousy aim
if you ask me. I think Cupid is usually
drunk. He is Post-Dionysian after all.
Or he’s just a baby that doesn’t know better.
Babies, shooting people with love arrows,
all willy-nilly, it’s a damn tragedy. How do
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Unsolicited Advice
I don’t know if I am allowed to relog poems so Mari and Pixie please forgive me if I did anything wrong. But I liked these particular lines in this poem 🙂
”
If the thing that makes you happyprovides no income, no food, no
shelter, no love, no place to sleep,
then the mystery man’s advice is
a trap and a path to ruin.”
The man said I should
do the thing that makes
me most happy and I’d
never work a day in my
life.
I didn’t know that man
and had no reason to trust
him. He was mysterious and
faceless, without form, airy.
A stranger.
What did he know anyway?
He was just going around giving
bizarre advice to strangers, as if it
were his calling, his work,
his job.
A mystery man doling out
motivations for happiness
like some mystic from the East,
a gypsy, a genie, a fortune cookie,
a liar.
I’ve no evidence what he said
is even remotely true, not for
the likes of me. Middle class,
damaged, mild, addictive,
stifled, bored.
If the thing that makes you happy
provides no income, no food, no
shelter, no love, no place to sleep,
then the mystery man’s advice is
a trap and a path to ruin.
There are…
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this map of mine
it is within my sacral limits to topple the hegemony that disobedience
portents to obedience; after all rebellion is mostly a calculated maneuver
to make you obey a system by being its polite dissident – that is why I stretch
by and beyond the labels. If I am an archetype, a sterotype, a weaker sex what is that I am so weak on – are you telling me you have written the map to strength?
My bones are the same of yours, count one more or less or maybe not this derivative – I am a coliseum of non-apartheid lust and alienness unifying with the native. the UFO is mankind; walking among a cosmic thread of black holes and intersteller meteorite-pilgrims; we are static but excel in momentum…
,,,I am a both a galaxy of sound and a big bang of whimpers
a hypernova will try to mimic me…
