Rock Accountant

Category: Poetry

Love Spotted in Dim Light

Men fight wars, watch sports and pursue a wildly adjustable standard of beauty that is grounded entirely on availability and their inherent sympathy for homely, unattractive women whose desperation can be spotted in dim light.Women sob about male insensitivity while carping pointlessly about the injustices biology has placed upon them.Men are keenly aware of this but do not care.

What good is the marvelous?

Every death
comes with its particular novelty.

While birth plods into life
with a ill deserved and sloppy exaggeration.

Tumbling incoherently through
the thick, sticky afterbirth
of the womb.

Each one shackled to incomprehension.

Still, we guess birth to be miraculous
while it’s endgame, death,

is reviewed as a misfortune,
conducted by a chorus of “if only’s.”
and the tardy howls of losing.

Of what good is the marvelous,
if you can’t, watch?

The Extra part of God

The extra part of God I brought back with me from pretty much dying in the hospital this weekend is sitting in the corner of my yard arguing with my dog.

The Walking Dead: My Stuff, God's Stuff — First Baptist Church

The Twitter Poet of Avon


When the Poet of Avon, Mr. William Shakespeare, awoke this very morning, he stumbled headfirst into brevity. Twitter.
In doing so, he doomed all other English playwrights, a primarily sterile ladle of plagiarizing snakes, to drone on while in morbid awe of him for all eternity.
The notion of premièring himself on this afternoon, as the writer of fewest words, flung him into malicious merriment. “I am now and forever will be a port-wine reduction sauce of succinctness.
“My genius is the tabernacle of the truncated,” he boasted,” I will leave the breadth of things to the freshmen.”
“Verily,” he bragged (too loudly, for his mother, now overhears him while hiding behind his bedroom door), “and forever, my works will be posted with nails onto trees in twenty-six words and less and will be known to the audience as “tweets.”
Hearing this vow, his mother, the severely verbalized Mary Arden Shakespeare, dismays.
Mary was a woman who could trace her long-windedness as linearly as an erection, back to the most crucial exercise of unnecessary human print, “The Doomsday Book.” She feared her son was maneuvering into a near-criminal puddle of abbreviated verbal sulkiness.
She slumped, legs splayed into bunches of skirts, muttering miserably to herself (wholly in Old English, to her credit), “I will not allow him an eternity of pithiness of verse.”
But Bill speeds by her, determined to stop his life’s drudgery of taxing inventiveness before she can interfere.
“Romeo and Juliet” was already rewriting itself in his mind as a love story that lasts only as long as a stick of sassafras chewing gum.
“Romeo has the scheme, parents will be sorry; R. fucks everything up, big mess, J. is an idiot The End,” was all it needed to be.
Shakespeare sprints to Stratford’s Speaker’s Corner to announce the new course for England’s scholarly conversation.
“Forever on,” Bill bellows to a gathering crowd of the muddy, toothless, and lice-infested, “My tragedies and comedies will come to you now nailed on trees. To be read as “Twits.”
“Be it known that if it must be said, I will say it from inside the prison of twenty-six letterings or less. And all will carry a dollop of gruel for authenticity. Henceforth to be understood as my “gruel tag.”
“My histories, poems, and essays will remain on my Facebook page.”

William Shakespeare.

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Words that Hate Poetry

Poetry is the last thing
That would occur to letters
that were mulling around
hunting for something to say.

Words, if pressed, would testify
that gathering to rhyme is
only for holidays.

Proud writers feel awkward
leaving only verse,
daggling statements that are
unsure of their periods.

But I prefer the short shit,
it pleasantly matches
the number of readers I have.

Roses Are Red (or Something): Bad Poetry Competition Hits WT This Thursday  | HPPR

Satchels of Silence

Men carry silence

in satchels

filled with oaths,

weaved loosely

from malice

All we are certain o

is that we have forgotten

why.

No photo description available.

Child’s Day

My life has been a child’s day

and I will be slow to fall asleep.

For many are the dreams that come,

and no cause to hurry.

A Child's Day - storytimeplanners

If You Can’t Watch

Every death,

comes with its particular

novelty.

While birth

plods into life

with sloppy

inaccuracy,

tumbling incoherently

through thick,

sticky afterbirth,

shackled to incomprehension.

Still,

we guess birth

to be miraculous

while it’s endgame,

death

is reviewed as a misfortune

accompanied by a chorus

of “if only’s.”

and the tardy

howls of loss.

But of what good is the marvelous

if you can’t watch?

No photo description available.

Neptune does not echo

We are forever

guessing

if we are a song.

Nothing is soundless.

We suspect but are never sure

that our noises carry.

My whistling

may reach Neptune.

But Neptune, like God,

does not echo.

Birds don’t care so much

for their own songs.

They care about eggs

and nests

and the size of baby new wings.

Cicadas lullaby summer evenings.

But the night doesn’t pick up

their theme

and begin to dance.

Flies whizz

their little ditties

by our ears.

And we brush them away,

like eavesdropped insults.

The flowers

exhale their perfumes

​into the winds

blinding the dazzled slave bees.

Nothing disturbs the evenhanded blizzard

that is being alive or the drama​

of surprising death,

and the odd collisions with love.

She sits among her

snowflake suitors.

All sincere,

Each different,

Each the same

all waiting.

Until she finds

the one

that echoes her song.

Pin by Katie Bell on LOVE :) | Kissing in the rain, Love rain, Cute  photography

Waiting for you

Do memories

cast loose

by your life’s end,

wait bewildered

for you

to come back home,

Like pets at windows?

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