|A ripped off, poorly written character with no involvement in the plot. Tends to act like the protagonist of any given Lovecraft story. Still, read his work. Someone has to.|
PeachSimple, slovenly, lazy-quickPeach by TheLastIconoclast
And clean, a dress of print-peach,
cut with regiments of pineapples
And gold-coronet clad hair, oh what hair!
That tumble-trails down fair and fallow shoulders.
Skin as crisp as crumpled art sheets, dappled
Red and green with paint and looking away-
Hands that lazy-lie on hips draped in beauty
And a leg tilted -just so-, sneering mouth
Of promises never to be kept, a void amidst
That frame, a triangle, batsnub face o' freckles
And a heaven-pointed nose, arising from among
The eyes of shark-skin grey and blue.
Yon StrangerLittle flower petal, alone and ignoredYon Stranger by TheLastIconoclast
Lo! Sharp winds seize it, high hand it-
Drive in circle-swirls among the rain!
The gust of air shakes the bough
And brings many dew-droplets down.
And who is far stranger? He amongst seas
Of ocean-sand, the green-clad man?
Some gawk, call mad but most chatter
In quiet clans, spread the morsel-lies
Amongst themselves and truths
Even worse than the foetid falsehoods.
See far people put up with him,
Give up on him, cast him abroad
In wild tempests of betrayal.
Hypocrites in gilded arrogance
Scoff their views and cast his down.
For what? A little breeze among the ghillies?
In these days, titans must bow to mice
And the sharks bear lashes from minnows.
While women-wailing boys are hushed
And told that all is well, rocks agin' the sea
Are brought down with thunderous blows.
Oh far stranger, now abed amongst the grass
In silent dreaming, how pitiful you are,
How weak you were, brought down by lice
An eagle crying at commands of crows!
Wellspring O' WorthGrease-slick iron, hand-smooth steelWellspring O' Worth by TheLastIconoclast
Form the bones of the great workhouse
And lo! The trundle of paper reel
And whistles, the very dead to rouse.
Come to devote one's honest toil
To workhouse howl and workhouse sound
The creak of gears deprived of oil
Rags and tools adorn the ground.
The palls of smoke and paper dust
Hang about the cogs and walls
The smoke which paints a dismal grey
Over worker's skin and dining halls
The barrels fallen through with rust
And the sky that hangs o'er the working day.
The ring of steel and groan of wood
The tramp of feet and squelch of grime
I see and stand where they saw and stood
Grafting on the production line.
Oi! Boy! Bring that hammer down
Bring me the wrench, bring me the bar
Wipe off the dirt and off the frown
You workshy lout! Bring the tar!
In woollen cap and boiler suit
The honest man is called uncouth
And yet society rests on this root
Held aloft by the working youth
When agitator comes around
And sells his poison for a cure
No supporters wil
My Hourglass FigureUnsure and stuttering
you ask me
ask for everything
ask for too much
I refuse to take your pleas
to look at those desperate eyes
overflowing with pent up emotion
Leave me be
watch your reflection bounce back at you from cold glass
I have no time left to give
that's what you want, isn't it?
time, time, time
The sand in my hollow body has just about run out
leaving me empty
with false hopes that I might be turned over
giving me a few more hours on the clock
I used to be a work of art
now only cracked glass
wishing less life was wasted clinging to falling sand
I can give you other chances
if you help me
Fill my cracks with sincerity
repaint my chipped edges with bright smiles
I have yet to be fixed but I know it's possible
only then can I give you the time you seek