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- I’m reading “The People We Hate at the Wedding” by Grant Ginder … AND ITS A COLOSSAL WASTE OF TIME #booksImreading September 2, 2017
- I’m reading August 29, 2017
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I’m reading “The People We Hate at the Wedding” by Grant Ginder … AND ITS A COLOSSAL WASTE OF TIME #booksImreading
#ThePeopleWeHateattheWedding by #GrantGinder #booksImreading …try proofing for typos next time 😳
With joy, she blushed.
A waist she waited for with baited breath
Awaiting a bouquet trimmed with baby’s breath,
to bring forth a baby from this tiny nest.
Vive la jeunesse!
A waist defined between
Him & Her
Them & Us
Rich & Poor
(They aren’t us, believe it must)
Wasting away to make a waist
A waist that’s worthy
With worthy haste
And in good taste
To trod the pale ribbon to the sea.
(Let’s walk the plank, bay-bee!)
Jack and Jill
Buck n Doe
His and Hears
Queers and Steers
I hart you…
A wasted space
Between thrill and taste
Why bother, darlings
When imperfectly we trace,
We love a waste!
Toward we raced this new world order.
Pas de la tristesse!
A waist as corporeal nirvana,
A wasted amandala.
A symbolic waist of spiteful taste.
-An original #instapoem inspired by the wedding of Nell and Ted Wasserman in 2014 at Cap d’Antibes.
The Queen regards the whole known world and never considers it ‘discovered’;
Her Majesty unfolds as silent as the dawn, blistering at the corners.
The Queen acknowledges your deepest truth. And does not press it to you.
Her Majesty contains a quiet wisdom and a wild patience.
The Queen is still as gravestones. A nuclear winter gone to seed.
Her Majesty is wisdom, Ask at Delphi what you need.
The Queen abhors the flashy things. Her example is a diamond.
It blends and shapes within your eye. Her Majesty draws the honest lineman.
The Queen takes joy in her own royal Person, though Her flesh barely covers.
Heart afire, Burning bone. Her Majesty is not a toy!
The Queen is strong like seasoned oak, the fresh cold wind does not bend her.
Hear her whistle through the trees, Her Majesty is behind it.
The Queen is Spring reborn, Arising from the foam.
Under the downy covers, Her Majesty is feral.
The Queen conjugates the future hard; your trifles are such empty things.
She trusts her own raw judgements. Her Majesty is Kings.