Category: Poetry-Thing Thursday

Anything rhythmically or structurally varied from general fiction.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Kingdom of the Animal Song

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Pass out from too much cruisin’.
White waves that I love usin’.
Been around but not abusin’.
Forget it, I don’t need excusin’,
I’ll just be on my way.

Pity the fool who’s not foolin’.
Write it up in the daily news ‘n,
see him come all unglued in,
the lair of the rich and proven.
He’ll just waste away each day.

No one is right, no one is wrong,
in the Kingdom of the Animal-Song.
I have heard it all along,
in the Kingdom of the Animal-Song.

She’s just a little bit stressed.
She’s just a little undressed.
In my back yard she’s feelin’ blissed,
while her body’s caressed,
beneath my lips.

It’s a little bit sound.
It’s a merry-go round.
Going pound for pound,
down to the ground.
I play it for the tips

There is no fight, there is no gong,
in the Kingdom of the Animal-Song.
Bounce around like Neil Armstrong
in the Kingdom of the Animal-Song.

Close your eyes and meet me there.
I despise more than is fair.
But close your eyes and meet me there.
Tell me lies as if you care.

Ready set dead,
from a shot to the head,
a curious way to be led,
from the comfort of your warm bed,
to a mystery’s need.

I’ve had enough of you.
You’ve had enough to do,
everything I said ’til I was blue.
You are but one of few,
chosen for this deed.

I’ll just be on my way
just to waste away every day.
Underneath my lips
you play it for tips.
Don’t settle for this.
Don’t settle for less.

Cause there is no sight, won’t you come along
to the kingdom of the animal-song.
Tamp it down and hit the bong,
in the Kingdom of the Animal-Song.
We get it on all-day long,
in the Kingdom of the Animal-Song.
I feel inside your thong,
in the Kingdom of the Animal-Song.

In the Kingdom of the Animal-Song,
you always belong.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Heart of Wits

~ S.M. Nolan ~ 1 Comment

On second street, an avenue
I never thought I’d be with you,
and now the years have left us both estranged.

I wasn’t sure that I was blue,
having met so many few,
I needed them then but now I’ve changed.

And if I am not looking back,
I’ll never feel the need to crack,
I’ve gotta keep my head on straight.

Books and papers in a stack,
atop them all your face is black,
I guess I’ve begun to feel the weight.

But life is short and love is long,
and you’re in need of another song,
So why don’t I just pack my bags and leave.

But every time I think to do,
What we both know we want me to,
I have to stop a while and believe.

When the rain falls hard I’ll call it quits
as something in your voice admits,
that we’re better off apart you and me.

But I just can’t handle this, it’s
a deadly game your heart of wits,
And so I think I’ll just wait and see.

Goodbye to love is never right,
I wish that we had known we might,
break apart like warming ice.

Then I’d have had the great foresight,
not to guide myself with your light,
and instead braced for snake-eyed dice.

I guess it’s just this waiting heart,
that buries itself beneath the art,
of making love and missing the point.

But I’d do it again, know that it’s,
just to play your heart of wits
and in its warmth, myself anoint.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: To Endure

~ S.M. Nolan ~ 4 Comments

In the streets the dead walk.
Around them, survivors scamper and scour.
Rats.
There are no dreams;
save death coming on swift wings,
rather than a long un-life.

Those alive wish they weren’t.
Wish they’d perished when it all set in–
or during the unrestful aftermath.
Now, somehow, they carry on.
Survival is more instinct than intention.

Rotting corpses shamble through shadows.
Their bowels drag. Leave trails.
Rot. Filth. Decay.
Groans fill darkness.

Gnarled and mottled feet,
tramp across a ruined civilization.
That which nature,
with her indifferent persistence,
intends to reclaim–
through her devouring,
swallowing more and more each day.
Forever.

But even through the despair,
the stink of hope is palpable.
but the dead find sustenance with it.
Seek those weakest to it.
Even still it remains;
a spark of life, infinity.

For among the mottled flesh,
the rotted bone,
there is an ever-present ticking clock.
An invisible pen,
which scrawls in time,
the tales of one species’ dwindling existence,
and of another’s wounded limping–
for even total war may be lost,
to attrition of a sterile species.

And to that,
it is said,
if there is one thing,
Humanity is known for,
it is its undeniable ability,
to endure.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Our Rise

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

One day Mars
will be as inhabited
as the earth,
from upon which
we gaze up at the stars.

There we’ll look up,
into a new sky.
Imagine that.
What will we have seen,
when we say good-bye?

And when the universe itself,
fades to black,
what will all of our existence,
have measured to, having begun,
as but a dust-mote on a shelf.

Though it may be,
billions of years
perhaps billions more than that,
will we last?
Or succumb to our fears?

Perhaps we’ll have seen,
or at least dreamed,
of our greatness being sown,
and our species’ rise,
from the blue and green.

This marble unto which,
we once were born:
shall it have been forever our prison?
Or will the cage have we flown,
looking to the stars we adorn?