Showing posts with label confidence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label confidence. Show all posts

Sunday, June 9, 2013

Can't Break Me Down


You can’t break what’s already broken
You can’t take what’s already been stolen
You can’t
You can’t break
You can’t break me
You can’t break me
You can’t break me down

You never could.

When the head hangs lowly
And when comfort’s gone astray
Just remember, it could not have wandered far from here…
And when you need it,
When you need what’s inside
The heart will find,
The heart will find it there
And then, all things
All those dark clouds and shaded smiles,
Will become those shapes, the epitomes of clear

You always knew, exactly what to say

Sunday, June 24, 2012

The Secret Life of The Gomorrean Teenager

Over at D'Verse, Anna hosted Poetics last evening.  Unfortunately I couldn't make it to the party last night, but I couldn't miss out on such a worditious affair.  Stop on over, read the wonderful pieces linked up, and while you're there, join on in the fun.



Being a teenage boy,
is difficult in and of itself—
         Yet
being a bit on the
mawkish side, certainly
didn’t help matters much
         and so…enter
those cruel, terribly cruel
children, that would incessantly
stir upon his sentimentality, urging him,
into what they determined, all
by themselves that is, that

tears
were and still are, the mark of an effeminate
Ellen, and regardless of what could
be said, nothing would be convincing,
short of the quite exhaustive manage
a octuor, performed upon the forty-five
yardline, in front of a capacity crowd,
just moments before the homecoming
would commence —

With the ripeness of fireworks
still emancipating the testosteronic air-
waves of hungry adolescents, only
seeking for any sign, that
the apocalypse is assuredly
close at hand—
and even then, not everyone
would be convinced

                                    Coming from a very traditional Reich of a family, particularly among the male members of the lineage, any break
from how things are, have been, is inexcusable, motive or reasoning aside, for they simply don’t matter much, as in their eyes, all such derivations from tradition, are nothing more than that of a stain, one that will forever taint the forward progression of kindred history…yet

Something must be changed, an alteration of some sorts needed to occur, and despite being the latest descendant in a long and storied line of dicks, it just made sense to have a go at simply being rich

Not that this would help much, but it
was a beginning, and it was either that
or giving in to all the social perceptions
upon his person, regardless how incorrect
they were…
And so, the next day,
after the one that just concluded,
not including the weekend crammed in-between,
he walked to school, head held-up, and those steps,
concrete under feet, brimming
with newfound confidence and self-referential charm

And this time, he felt the gasp of power, pulsing, throbbing
through his engorged veins, straining but only momentarily,
and ass those old wooden doors were swinging wide, his nemesis no longer had control, and the widest grin, glowed an aura he’d never known, as each his rubbered sole, placed their footholds
up on into the warmth within

People would treat him differently now, this he knew and understood
better than anything he ever knew before…

Mawkish comes from the Norse
word Mathkr, which conveniently
translates to maggot in the
English tongue—
which, of course, his knowledge of such
trivia, probably does’nt entirely advance the
matters much; to which, perhaps, just probably,
perhaps, the cockiness exuding through him then
and there, was all a little bit premature 

Thursday, April 19, 2012

A Song for Immature Savants


Draconian devils in a pristine shell
amenable shills in a damning hell
predators and parasites
vagabonds to guttersnipes
adulators; sycophants
prime movers and those who can’t

Dressed up, candor in a scarf divine
red sails stir, cloaking past
the silicone and fiberglass
timing’s early, hours late,
pursing fourth’s, contracting fate
                                                      words sung with a torrid force
You want a story
open your eyes
you want drama
fight; survive
you want a hero
that I can’t provide

Mosaics and masquerades
promenades and palisades
chardonnay smiles and bourgeois tears
contemptible intentions reflecting fear
nesting cretin’s scar the pleat
(dilettantes (poor Faberge)) eggless and incomplete

Dressed down, guile to spine, slick corset veiling lines
black-toed, shin to heel, flaming skirt, striking fast
high slit thigh, low draped neck, a fire-flash
breaking down, broken in,
the radio’s deafening, silent din
                                             and we begin again

You want a story
open your eyes
you want drama
fight; survive
you want a hero
that I can’t provide

no, that is something
only you can breathe,
that is, if in yourself,
you choose to believe
  

Friday, September 23, 2011

The Shy Spider


Shy spider slowly starts
A wearied web it must weave

An armada of ants approach
A cascade of colonized clones

As hornets hang high above
A flash of flies swarms to scent

The newt and its jealousy of change
Ashamed of its afflicted shade-

Resolved to a hue of one

Cotton fields, boll beneath
As the weevil works wickedly

Shy spider sated in soiled sentiment
Waits to weave its web at night

Where, under the light of moon,
The arachnid’s artistry’s aura glows
Until the morn, when man taints it all.