New (horrid slightly spaced out) poetry from Nepal

(Untitled, The Storm):

Tenebrous times,
The motors stop,
Flocking from the drag,

Balmy skies,
The buying stops,
The world is illuminated,

Plumbing down,
The people stop,
The deluge has come.


(Untitled):

You've taken the best of me,
the worst of me,
used me up I spit you out,

On the quiet dead nights,
with sparkling lights,
I've professed my love to you,

You've always been there,
close in hand,
a 20 bill away,

nippy or sultry (cold hot),
spiced to sweet,
willing to dress as I desire,

The lads such good company,
the lasses with sweet embrace,
a party for every mood,

I happily take them in,
and over time,
my pallet distinguishes them as 1 taste,

Jack, Johnny, Glen,
Fran, Amme, Bailey,
I'd have them all atop Puerto Valarta,

The life of a bummler wannabe socialite,
I'm too soused to remember,
either the worst or best of me.

((Ah the life of a (sundownder, bummler stiff, swaggle, bummer, no-good nik, bummler,) (poser, apper, wannabe) socialite,
as I'm too hammered to remember,
either the worst or best of me.))


(Untitled, Douchebag):

Look at you, converse, tight jeans, plaid shirt, gold chain gold loops, frosted hair.

You sit with a white woman, your smile hides anger and contempt, you're cleanly filthy, beady stoned eyes, filthy yellow teeth.

We know your kind, you're no trickster, a ghoul, a ghost, vampier, many ways to describe the deadness behind your eyes.

Pathetic, you play them like ponies, touch their hair, brush their cheek, eyes fixated on the prize, you milk the cow slowly.

And when she leaves you behind, in your broken playground, even for an instant, you rage, stalk manipulate and fight.

Such a piece of work, the monster society has created in your subconscious, as an outsider looking in, I have no choice, but to feel sad for you.


 (Untitled, What a Night):

Stary stary night,
neon lights,
it ain't Vegas,
just a land of far far away.

Golden calves,
steeped in filth,
parallel to,
where we care.

Different cloths,
different dress,
the food oddly,
continues to impress.

Studying a culture,
close to home,
they shun it,
although it eats even bone.

A culture,
so wild,
whacky,
and free.

Yet every day,
it neglects,
the basic,
necessities.

Why am I here Nepal,
what will you show,
I can only dream of,
a tumultuous row.

Your houses remain,
ever unfinished,
your lights,
never the same.

Your politicians,
crooked and quick,
as a feather,
in the wind.

You steep,
yourself,
in the filth,
of millions.

And surround,
yourself,
with mountains greater,
than China's wall.

Foreigners rape,
pillage,
destroy,
your resources.

Aside from,
some sick individuals,
your countenance,
remains simply brilliant.

Like they said,
a land so far away,
neon lights,
starry starry night.