Please pardon the profanity, but the words are inspired by reality, which requires accuracy.
I'd appreciate critiquing comments, both good and bad. Thanks.

1. Betrayal

You will not make me Goliath,
For you are no David.

Lay down your chasten upper hand!
Lose me. Banish me from your idealized realm.
Perish what once was, as it never begun, and
Arianrhod shall not exist. Not for you, not by me.

The obvious or the design, designated for me.
Only child’s play in your distorted game.
To play or not to play, I will not answer.
Only sustain. To fade away until the flame ceases.

Breathe deep for a war of attrition you claim.
Step carefully, trod slowly, look down.
Spirit beaten. Go ahead, and believe if you will.
If it helps, if it heals, and it hastens the mission.

You will not make me Goliath,
For you are no David.

Was Peter Rabbit ever beautiful to you,
With shiny red boots and a world to conquer.
What happened? I dare say, it could not have
Never been? But the untamed, it’s not for you.

Twenty years past, the same green sign,
The same road, back and forth to the past.
This will be your compensation, your participation
Prize. I am not Jill, not for clumsy Jack.

I am no Goliath nor am I David.
Ill-equipped! As tall tales do not inspire.
And you, you are no David. Too small for Goliath.
To be or not to be, you shall not answer.

2. Plasticity

The fallen angels fist fuck the air.
Hard swaying like eagles preying;
Frigid pupils widen in a deadpan stare.
Oh! Asses braying and no one’s saying.
It’s Jilt and Jolt with Tilt and Bolt.
Rebuilt! Rebuilt to Revolt.
Holed up against that dirty wall,
Little titans made and hookers paid
Yet filth lobbies for a working stall.
‘tis a numb trade for that lucid fade.
Blodeuwedd watches those wonders:
For esteem hurls out shattered pearls
In a continual blunt beat of blunders
While sickness swirls those robotic girls.
It’s John and Jane with Con and Vain.
Brawn! Brawn less Brain.
Lights of strobe color each stroke
Illuminating lies before tired eyes.
A community of the beat and broke
In a generation that vies for apple pies.
Media saturated disciples of fame
And causeless rebels bleat in trebles
Upon our ladies’ plastic canvas of shame.
All worn pebbles - a pelt of pebbles.
Oh c’mon, Jilt. C’mon, Jolt.
And John and Jane, too.
We wilt in an eon of argon stained in the domain of the urbane.
Like asses braying, oh how I’m saying,
In a mighty one-liner dare:
The fallen angels fist fuck the air.

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Tags: Poetry


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Comment by Gina Smith on November 16, 2009 at 9:33am
Thanks, Menique. I appreciate the feedback.
Comment by Menique Aviles on November 15, 2009 at 5:50pm
Very cool. The use of profanity in the second didnt bother me at because it created a pretty specific image. I think you did a very good job.

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