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Nat Lipstadt Mar 2019
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy

~~~

the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none

~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”

“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”

“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word  wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life

“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
                                                         ­­ of the vaguest of dearly departed

skin is not the only mot shed,
                                                sloughing of woeful words

“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
excerpts from a few old poems, after reading an interview with Bernard-Henri Lévy
https://www.newyorker.com/news/q-and-a/bernard-henri-levy-on-the-rights-of-women-and-of-the-accused
March 27, 2019 4:48 am
Leon Labastide Aug 2013
iHonor the history of my ancestors
And their ***** love songs: Nyabinghi
Crossing the Atlantic  with their creative minds
Rooted into their backbones was creative; Black men and women of today
A generation of;  
Bobo Shanti!
Baganda
Niger Congo
Sierra Leone
Bushmen
Kings and Queens of Africa

iHonor my history
But, my history is in Him
The King of Kings

Dreams hanging on a tree!
Kings and Queens hanging form a  rope nailed to a tree!
They were auctioned off a d sold in corner stores like Bodegas!
Please don’t forget about your ancestors when you speak about History!
He was rejected in the time of earthly kings and Queens
He was rejected in the time of Exodus
He was rejected in the time of redemption songs/ Babylon!

He was rejected at birth
He was rejected for calling Himself
"I am thee I am"
His purpose killed Him
He was rejected, but his purpose lives.

iHonor the King of Kings for being the sacrificial lamb of all Mortars
iHonor Him

Some kings rule their kingdoms surrounded by luxury
this king held a Bible in his hand
stood tall before Nations
with a single dream!
No luxuries!

This king was rejected!
He was shot!
Here comes the dream killers
A voice of a black Panther cried
“what their; guns, bats & smoke bums”
Have mothers clenching their young's
Running down to avenues unknown
To street that are paved with hopeless dreams and  goals

Because of  Dr. Martin Luther King and His Dream
Mothers were crying, digging graves with their finger nails.
Bering their dreams and aspiration into graves!
grave yards became over populated
With creative minds and dreams!

iHonor  Dr Martin Luther King Jr, for dreaming & believing
That whites & blacks will  become  one Nation under the King of Kings
iHonor Him

To my generation and to generation to come,
Where is creativity today!
Creativity was lost, unable to find!
So different things start to shape the mind
Creativity is something we watch on TV
Creativity has become an illusion
what a poor substitution

The mind is a beautiful thing to waste!
Creativity is in the wave pool of our minds
Mothers read to your young  from the womb
Bring creativity and dreams back to life

Doctor Seuss was creating a world of creativity in the minds of our  generation!
I think I can, I think I can was another book that brought creativity to life!

If a Cat can wear a hat
A fox can wear  socks
A boy by the name of Sam I Am, love green eggs and ham!
He can eat it in a box, with a fox!
In a house with a mouse!
With a goat on a boat!
So, who are you to tell me I'm not a "who"
Doctor Seuss created the Who's and the Who Ville!
Therefore I am a Who!
Who are you!

iHonor black mothers and fathers for being
present and never absent/ for being super heroes of monsters in closets.

iHonor my black people for uniting together from the 1960's to 2013
iHonor Mrs. King
iHonor Dr. Martin Luther King
iHonor the King of kings
iHonor all those individuals that made it possible for us to vote today
iHonor you all!
iHonor!
madison curran Aug 2021
when I say last year I hit an all time low,
I mean that I spent two hundred and eighty nine days without sunlight,
I’ve never known a rose to grow immersed in eternal night -
auctioned off my heart for the gift of sight,
I wonder how long I’ve lived my life blinded by the rose tinted glass?
false love will have you struggling to distinguish between gold and brass.
I draw out the sequence.
your palms met her flesh,
my reflection in the mirror is reduced to ash.
I feel my heart hit the floor,
blood stains in the carpet - proof that love does not live here anymore
next time just wrap them around my neck,
I get the same hand of cards
out of every single deck.
from love,
suffocating, choking,
that is the only sensation I have come to expect,
you know that better than me,
extinguished every fire set to your trees,
don’t you remember?
she left everything around you to burn,
choked on all the smoke,
still you fixated on all the ember,
if this body was ever not hollow,
I wouldn’t remember.
two hundred and eighty nine days,
I spent treading in the shallow,
moulded my existence out of clay just to fill another persons shadow.
don’t cheat, walk away. </3
He wakes up at her hips
And will reject her lips
Before she is long gone
Because with her he’s done
He paid the wretched queen
And to her he was keen
Fair enough! She is off
To some masculine doll
His lust her skimpy scroll
In the night of the void
Her body ovoid
Circle seized disposed off
To the fancy of those
Who once gave her a rose
Made of a dollar bill
She is of love, ill, ill
Wondering she may not
About her condition
She will insert the coin
Into a random slot
Her marked lone ****
Bearing alienation
Her own ammunition
Longing for salvation
No lover at auction!



December, 3, 2015
Lyon 2 University, France.
West of a mutilated day, wormwood salts are scattered for some wild-chinned Controllers on a high pinnacle with viva vox in the Mandrake, Vernarth's house of Orion:

Saint John the Apostle says the proverbial Psalm: “In the lofty Cage, Gregorian sylphs, with skillful gestures and mania for cheering, are graced for coming to the Way of the cheap and venerable souls that are made up of the bodies of the evil-born on their railing. , in quagmire of swallowing spittle where the cold winter is banished, to jump from the cold oriental, having to walk with the elbows, and with the daring screams of the Sylphs that shake themselves among the foggy and fleshy tangle with rags and fur cloths flying smoothly through the tops of the oak trees in smoke to purge for Vernarth! Gospel, gospel in the barn of the delicate humus was felt, and that it was refracted in the refined forest with philosophical sacred love. Lord, all of us who are because we are, are you Lord ..., all in my exercises of loving gaze, are channeled by the indexes of my thumb to the little finger at the bottom of the sea, and float again from the little finger to the bottom of the surface. Waving in the transience of the world and holding back, Father God thunder, this with laryngitis when he outlines himself with the vast earthly sight, he covers with his right hand, the phlegm of ***** that made him drive an empty tremor, in my lack of security he testified by singing thousands and millions of choirs at this auction. The first ring of the profile will be carried by Jesus light, rubbing his back with some eyelashes of a drunk beetle, while the beetle will collect water between its extensions that will wail real needs of every morning albi - rosaceous that will travel in a circle towards the auditory of the Last auctioned saying: "As I have not to be where I was and was ..., if at night my beloved morning row impulsively and goes against it so as not to stumble into the night ...". Each cut piece of the dermis will have to be auctioned, I had Faith and the screenplay, encapsulated and embedded in each hope of the ramshackle flock, the impiety-weary ogre needed to stow his empty viscera with the cloth of the celestial kingdom, which at auction was beginning to squeeze and vanish when regurgitating smoothies and disintegrated spaces of belonging of the devotees of Vernarth. The writing is signed with lupus, this Lucia emanated from the morning resentment of skin envy, and from the massif drenched in anarchy and city archeology, lying hesitantly ..., as if the forest gave it some indication of rebirth, under the shadow of twinkling doubt, from the high front where they were nuanced over the engendered banners of truth, elucidating the forbidden and true matrix.

Adelimpia, Vernarth's grandmother, was squatting cutting the drool from the dwarf tree that lost a forage, at around 6:30 p.m. on the 39.9th day of a supposed 14th month of another dimension, almost winding up in a tangled series of productive hesitations and rituals, taking her victorious chariot in Lent where the teacher without felt traction, weave sprinkles of forgiveness on her distributor, starting her shaft and not her running engine, she already knew herself as a commoner with the wake of a ship without knowing where to go. Those who did not see themselves more backward intrigued to be part of the central bar of the rocker of the nymphs in their stadium, with a yawning lip where no one was invited. Mega-watt snitches go to the sacristan, breaking speeds of intangible entities that abide by her law, as a sage vilified in her secular realm, even in nowhere, the atmospheric larynx hissed widening through the flakes of the auctioned field, Joshua leaping with her. Cranky black horse Equus, with his anthropomorphic hooves, accelerated with action that put him among the lost belongings of the plateau, whose east limited him to two half-quarters of each other, and two-thirds slowing the sunset from ruby to ruby, brightening in the shades of green and green. Vernarth  Bernardolipo's father swallowed crops, from whose movements were born out of place gestures of residence, parturient fairies appeared emerging at once, or perhaps not emerging, the afternoon crushes the unplayable sun, Hugh and Anne covered their supra orbital eye areas, more towards a hillside where thousands of repertoires were being knocked down, and copious tableware with caked sugar, which seemed to reduce the acoustics from the beginning in what seemed solidly to fade to postulate in new shades of the weary rubbed rainbow, like thousands of shades doing the times of zascandil  in a curled comb, re-sprouting certain storm deities in the natural bow of the wind entangled in each stratus, sprinkling on the hectares of Possessions, standard deeds, sales orders, mutual funds, bonds ... the coffers and the earthly decomposed. Before each onslaught, a highly dense fog arose, highly ignored, anti-critical, and more disparaging of amassing a high scarcity with a local, in his quintals of his last bread for the flock. Lashes that exceed the grammage, foliage from leaf to leaf, from today until tomorrow, in a traveling satyr of dry leaves, "The Sphincter of the World will need Purgative ...".

Marathon of poisonings,… Lord, you have looked me in the eye; with your boat I will follow you, to your privileged perspiring cinnamon dock with various vociferous songs. What fared more than seven zeros, now they will be eaten by rodents, Lord attend my prayers, the pink mast has been sailing at several knots from the north, and it is rapidly losing its polar location, between verbs never traveled or driven, I dared to show off that the path of the gospel in small distant fragments will abound in infinite space, only the one that predominates will glide over my forehead with an accumulation of everything seen and that today in this sale; where everyone you own and care for, like a baby in front of a dissimilar kinship of good adventure and progeny that will leave your hands. "  

Etréstles says: "Soft and mellifluous presumptions ..., where do I have to look if nothing is heard? What is proposed and permeates the law of possessing and not, perhaps the strap reaches an infinite house, where the sun breaks down ..., the spout of my minimal rebirth slowly turned it into my reoriented defined cell. My grandfather Joshua fertilizes the new sales every day with his hooves bandaged with hemp, the sebum stones since they were so are already spirited circles, the hand of the maker is being compared with his tactile sense, Kaitelka's lungs, full of phosphate residues and sulphated, for the first time they milk in medium drops on their udders, although saying and what they prefer to assert of a worthy Down! If it were not, for his regal model of cetacean ostentation, he would not be in the Horcondising taking from today, towards the end of the curtain in the regular blushes, to create the great detachment, so necessary for the pulsating plain and purge his master Vernarth . The night covers it with sulfur oceanic satin, with the spauto of its jet and a magical moving game. Everyone was distracted when she circled over the routines of well-magnetized charms. More than two subjects were deprived of their well-placed jaw, when the overtime ran not crossing in the entire field in which she lived. It was time to unmask the interveners, the boatswain of the alfalfa field had been eating almonds with oil from the sole of a Joshua bototo shoe, she folded her wings at halftime to take a modest breath, to resume weak paths, deprived of confidence and not. To know who they would obey and to whom they would yield the fruit of their old and stock market work in the garden. Chaos for them, light of Lights, for those affiliated with the ruler who is Joshua, who will live behind a makeshift Patagua tree, erecting  aquisus tents and the dogmas of tomorrow. The magnificent concessions in the Horcondising massif continued to fall precipitously; some rummaged through their accounting almanacs, distanced and squandered their exquisite profits. The stagecoach is moving away, and the barrels of water were scarce, the aroma and tastes of roasted beef comes out over the bushes, the stores sway in a naive wind of blooming daisies, the sales were coming against the owners themselves, the taste of the laughter degraded their own present absence, the paraphernalia of the little birds on the carpet of the mountain plateau were, they began to do mercy of the tip in the exposed beams, the hundred feet with calluses came down from the semi-incinerated poles. Nothing smelled of pride anymore, just the last shadow of Joshua's Chief Sheriff; Vinicius, who thinned out the spotlights of the semi-strongmen still trying to collect his heavy wealth, now that among clouds of heavy cargo they went to give him only one habit to try to fit his body, just to wear his outfit. They looked, looked and kept looking at his octogenarian tearful sapro- genito dream, where the first dream ends, and his exile begins. Vinicius, locks the door, and starts drinking mate tea; while screams of those bad jackals were heard fighting for their inherited evils, in manners of not conquering those who lose a dream of their patriarchal courting-love, under the shadow of the most powerful bush for the rest of their lives in groves. Crumbs come off the beards of Joshua, his galvanized knife cuts multiform slices, to feed everyone equally and continue the purge of Vernarth "

The most desolate deity came; he walked in full sun, shelled and unattached, full of elongated bridles and with haste in his eyes. But not in its strides, thousands of years passed, and it brushed with my lost zeal in the quarrels of the Argolica, in the salinized and rotten feces of Eurymedousa, with its snowy and tricolor feet, hooded with its goods! , therefore, unable to sustain its own air from its nasal socket, dropping it likes brave foam that fell in the fired distance. Bad cooked fruit, with the flavor of a sleeping cinnamon stick, mitigating in its kind balsam, frayed wind yielding 360 and so many more suns, before the last one that I carry on my limbs ends. The end of the End began, in the seven ends adorning my steps. The obscene deities came, with their rebuilding geo music, breaking endometriums of goddess’s mobs and their almost massacred Pillan Mapu, among thousands that were, thousands of nowhere they are ..., in a today already anesthetized. He lies in the stench of the corrugated floor, in the wooden handles and rods stacked on the floor gesturing; the god Pillan Mapuche, under a generic vault of sleep falls into lethargy on the faces, leaving his unintelligible hollow free; and its unbalanced environment, crossing the basaltic moraine that circulated one day from the placenta of the fatigued cemetery. Dreams in kilos everywhere of pressed ducks, with dense covering and grasses on the hooves of bucephalos, crucible, living trident and extraordinary flowers ***** in floating skirmish, with dosing globules, thirst that is born from the whiteness of the first day in confessional liberation, cell of white with a looted look, shields of osculation, like icy air that transpires his ninth life and that is born from his ninth death, splinted in the face of death that mutilates his fingers when crossing his genes of perfidious and monkish plot of a life bypass. I sing or I do not sing, I lack my throne from where I observe the glances with time and impudence, possessing everything behind the back of the macabre time in counter-steps of tender golden plague, in foreign skin growing on my right blanket, from so much passing lights with cracked night outings, walking towards me, between roads and between Monday nights with faces of long and sinuous unctuous branches, with great step and size. Now I have to draw the curtain, on light lying in the shadow of an opening scattered in warm beets. With sincerity ..., and mistake there is no will to germinate in them, I will be born without being with them, to be meaningless without them ..., and that it is above other absences, with great eloquent and numerical weight on absent.

They are still plastered, washed out and with the frizzy pigments of a parnassus Paradise, where it has been intervening over its bloodless headers. Joshua walks thousands of steps on with his Equus skull, like a meridian slipping off certain rods of decay. Thus they all floated in the cephalous porous airs, with great airs of Cain collapsing on Abel recomposed in reserves of a millennium that fell twisted and stunned, captivated by an ominous word. Sendal covered themselves in bandurrias that covered the melodious icebergs of exulting individuals and swollen with passion, with their rummaging and thunderous noises going along with their flowers to the sea dissipated. My paternal grandmother was delimited; she paraded from the openings with cough-covered mounds of the frozen volcano, growing reflective slits of dense gradation in the nervousness of the overhang and angry sighing heat, in all the vertiginous and venerable spirits numbed by the darkness of so many sorrows on their bluish heads. Eurymedousa, already ill-fated to continue in Rhodes, appeared on stilts and with agonizing lights and yielding to the crossbows of the centaurs gagged by the Beauties; they consisted of their seesaws before the agreement with the Master, who gave us her Hellenic manifestos, and no less to others. My uncle King Arthur carried news of the locked consonants of his string and with a riding crop for his steed, tangled in rows that tore his face into small abscesses on his face, which were superimposed on those capillaries of the sweat of Heaven. Blessed Lord, the knee had grafts of golden steel, the horns of the radio sol brego that were broken in its metaphysical pregnancy, and its food collector that had solid gold baths towards a tabernacle fussing through its mucous orifices of alfalfa with the a flavours of irradiated cattle . He paraded with his loving mount flying down his track and kept clueless, at times he ran so swiftly that he crossed evil omens with Joshua, he was seen as weak and white in insulting slanders, Tamayo; his friend, who was a Talamite native, followed him on horseback, his son rode the sheep every summer, passing wool of pure holy insignia of a healthy man.
Along the banks of the reeds, he came riding on a donkey, Edward my paternal uncle, the third of Adelimpia, came three steps before his donkey, and he counted three times before riding him with provisions for good waters, wrapped in an energetic fire of Saturday tobacco in his mouth in mourning, who lovingly watching over himself, looking at today towards a peak for his sheep, looking at them for a manger of borders and tiny hunching phrases of black song about legends of the offender, which tempted to show off invading their fields. He is to the right of his mother Adelimpia, and under the rib of his father Bernardolipo overflowing, giving sugar to the colt Dolly in the sunsets, bequeathing affection with syrup, and a thousand compliments in December of 9,900 AD, Joshua, I remained in shreds of pageantry and endless lives, I always said, my lady, here I bring you a peasant's soup in flower of primed twisted canvas, in this three-year period I must call them to dinner in past lands with sweet potatoes to eat and candlesticks of flying seeds, with eager candies of a crack and their thirsty mouths. Gentlemen, I am Edward, their son, I want to sleep in your arms, after escaping from my worst perfidious toothless bite that still hurts inside. After eating great cholesterols from all over the world, amidst the tools of my children I am, always putting a tobacco leaf caught in the scrawled pieces and in great coinciding strokes, in circles dancing to throw away the bad and broken places badly thought and done. When I get to the end I will cling to the Joshua habit and shout not to leave me alone in the middle of this world, without toasted flour, cheese and tobacco. I am not a malignant man, I am only like those of us who are far below, feeling footprints on my spine, and I do not tell my wife Molly, so that she does not lack chickpea flour for our children wrapped in regrets and ***** with hunger and light blue in goodness, like saints and media, but in the end with clear blue water in my glasses. I invite everyone to my table to dine on oceans and worlds of clear celestial light, because with this hand I break this piece; I am the Son of Adelimpia and the supplier. They brought me in anemone branches when the Lord's headache invaded him, when he felt nails in his hands, to the east of Eden, without steps or turgid edges and a rough runaway palfrey”

The Horcondising massif turned into a great mountain, Edward was in the limestone of some potters and followers of Joshua molding him, they began to bait the rope that merges the mountain range, with the valley at the foot of all the mapus, mud flowing from the monastic floods , here they polisonated in the stony atonement of each lamentable trunk. They say;… faramalla  demonion, would be with a Silfife facing the mass of the vital obstacle, with faded coffee fiber, smeared in wine and bread, with eternal vintage vine. Luccica, Vernarth's mother, tackles familiar corners, with anointed frames of fiction in irrational ergonomics…; in numerous steps that will reach your distinguished heart. An ocean of doubts has fallen due to the inheritance that has precarious injuries, of battered egos and scrubbed by undue ignorance. Mountain delusions and manias, which run through the fibrillated vigils of some soft ropes and their abundant bristles like the choppy of an echidna escaping as it tingles by my twisted temples ”. The Horcondising  tam tam modulates through its crater and its pale face of a perpetual cell. Towards the forgiveness of the primordial ones and the commiseration of the orb burying itself in creation, this sacred and over the pale Sudpichian region will rest, in the roots growling in capillaries of the carbonated earths and in its badly wounded footprints. Horcondising is in quarantine, the elevation of the constellations are hyperillusionible, they migrate Along with Albalalhue and Carnivorous, the succeeded nymph that extracts exudation from a flushed match in the palm of some ideas on rollers, higher up and on angular from other right angles. Toiling with her hands, and rubbing possessions with her mazote and her patronage full of rakes.

Etréstles says: “Beyond all metal of hatred of every god not heard, beyond all evil of timid hatred I have not heard. I hold the playful phrasing of Edenic song, which calls us in voices full of long journeys, especially on this day fading. Through the hollow, belts and picket rings breaking the timid lights of the last sunset.  Cardinals in envelopes of fragile strengths, mountains with borders and deposits in the last voluminous plagues on the mason's eye.  Binding themselves in a pile, with saffron nails in their ears, with moths that run through the unforgivable morphologies. Do not lose life, abandon all noisy fight in coalition with the uninhabited *** of coins, there are forty days left to say goodbye to the god Faramalla, who lies with closed tec, limps to his lost pupils, and the sky swirls over his day when nothing not fit for any drinkable air with light bulb. Horcodising loses millimeters within minutes and rising, towards harvests to harvests, they lose merged schedule of a time without a past, reviling themselves from a present of consanguineous evil with an abstinent future. Luccica; Vernarth's mother, she is a sylph dragged by the tempest moraines, being detached to a contemplation and intake of life. The membranes of the accordion burst, and between brittle passageways crying without union, succumb to the teachings of foolish fate, Luccica as a portion owes its origin to the sea, taking its physiognomic bark from a seal specimen of aqueous flattery, to frize it on a similar surface umlauts on the "u", with phosphorescent and indeclinable forges, making it a beautiful maternal nymph, like the beautiful female picking up a moon in her arms, clinging to a new hallucinatory satellite to engender. "Live and talk with your peer, her dazzling sneaks in and laughs at this prominent queen, to exhale on those who observe her."

End Ellipsis Chapter XXXI
Horcondising  Castle Reign - Sudpichian
Transversal Valley  the Ferments - Parapsychological Regression
Mandrake, the Wild Auction
Kari May 2013
Sell yourself, everyday.
A little more, everyday.
Numbers, lists, and names
I've lost count
What's one more?
Eventually I'll be gone
all gone, every piece
auctioned, sold to
numbers, lists, and names
of men whose strange faces
I don't know and can't remember.
Crippled crowned crowds crawling for a crate
Craving to cry in crystalized cradles

Formed of fires in a fidgeting frame,
Favor the finest flavor for your fate!



Bedtime in a bleak baby-like babble
Blessed on his bustier blasting the blames

Gently gathering her gorgeous gauntlet
Glad to be glazed in the glass of his gin!

Soothed by his sights for this serene sin
Secretly seduced by this spoiled piglet

Whooshing wooden wildness withering
On the willing winding ***** whispering!

December, 3, 2015
Lyon 2 University, France
Jordon Feb 2011
Thinning orchid hair
Velvet bruised lips
moving, glassy eyed
an auctioned body.

Dancing on the wind
Today's terrible twilight
Idol eyes on the world...
lingering,looking.


Angel kissing tracks
falling is falling
spinning rooms
twirling on stilts
Mehul Sihra Apr 2014
A woman rests like a bud with poise
Smiling at the echoes of the posh world's voice
She is the cloud that carries the rain
Giving life to man's soul parched from anxieties and pain
Her value is more than all the world's treasures,
Not just the sum of scale's unit measures

To teach her the kiss of fame
And help her bloom in society like a flower
Few steps far to rule the science of space
Some working hard to make it swirl in daze
Some writing books down in the meadows
While some dance like divas casting beautiful shadows

And some are tender enough to tend to sick people
With supreme motherly love and the wisdom of peepal
Some express the feelings by the magic of their paint brush,
Which is auctioned pretty high to empty others purse
In the midst of these successful women
There does exist a fearsome creature we call men

When will the sun rise in the sky
And bring those hidden buds talents to life
To conquer the world with their passions
And make the world shiver in awe by their fashion
To come up in life with a mission
Possessing colorful profession

And one should understand that

A woman is the pillar of a temple foundation
Where a man comes and goes with renewed inspirations
A woman is the flesh that holds the seed
The miracle of birth fullfilling human need
A woman is the mother of a new generation
And only we can be the direction of that aspiration
The straw that broke the camel's back
Was auctioned off on Ebay
And bought by an amnesiac
Who liked collecting hay.

If possession is nine-tenths of the law
All I need to do now
Is buy the final straw

And then he was sectioned
And taken away.
Amanda Stoddard Jul 2015
One. I was Seven years old when the pain started
it came like an apology note I didn't ask for
like a bullies mom making him say sorry because he had to.
You were my sad excuse for an apology
you wrote your sorry on my skin
etched it in sin
and stole the security of my seven year old self.
Months after the days got cold
and my body was looking for some sort of warmth
found inside my sexuality-
I broke down.
Too many '4am picking mommy off the ground's
and '7am dragging myself out of bed's
too many fist fights with walls I never won against,
too many knives hiding underneath pillows-
and I wonder why I have attachment issues.
A swinging belt from my ceiling fan
that wasn't strong enough to hold my frail 7 year old body
I didn't break anything except for my spirits
the pleather wasn't secure enough-
I have been afraid of commitment ever since.
2. The day I saw your face withering away-
cancer etched inside your skin like sand
and the daylight never seemed like daylight to me
because it reminded me how the next day
was just 24 more hours closer to darkness.
As the days passed, your strength diminished
and as I saw you break-
I started to remember the things my 7 year old self went through.
I kissed a boy for the first time and remembered how it felt
the musty basement smell and the hands around my waist-
in that moment I was in a time machine
reverted back to my childhood and reminded myself
why exactly I was so scared of commitment.
My grandmother's face transformed into a stranger
and as I looked into the mirror so did I.
I would lie to everyone and say that I was fine
took some pills down the hatch to make it all better
until one time it was too much.
My stomach didn't know the words
my lips were trying to sing
they couldn't handle the music inside of me.
So I regurgitated a chorus of falsification
and threw up a string quartet of lonely-
I've never really been good at reading sheet music.
3. My doctor painted a picture of me
she put a dark cloud over my head
and drew me into what she wanted
she titled me "depressed"
all I wanted was for her to fix my stomach pain
but instead she fed me pills-
levels in your brain can be fixed
but she wasn't altering the right chemicals
I took a nosedive.
Saw what she drew for me when I looked into the mirror-
it was nothing but 15 more pounds
of what already brought me down
so I wanted to be auctioned off to the highest bidder
heaven had in store for me.
So I painted my own picture across my wrists
but the paint brush wasn't thick enough
and the red didn't spill the way I needed it to-
I've found I'm not much of an artist.

1. I met you around the same time
I found myself-
around the same time
swing sets were more home than my own
and soccer fields were my safe haven.
Middle school love triangle-
you cheated on me with my best friend
I thought I loved you then.
You drew me a picture of us together
and stitched together a weird stuffed animal
I found you weren't much of an artist.
2. The bottle and you fell in love
and I was blinded by lonely-
the affirmation was my drug
and the Jack Daniel's was yours
I was accustomed to the chaos
and the inconsistency.
You brought back the bad memories
and they sung me to sleep that night after
as the chorus of your hands on my hips
led me into an abyss of heavy metal
which led to the silence of my cell phone the next day-
I was never really good at reading your sheet music.
3. Timid was the way we connected-
felt a sense of insanity from the start
and anxious like I never had before
you changed the way I saw things
molded me into yourself
and took the grips of my reality
and let them fit inside your box.
Every instance of socialization
would turn into an argument
then I would succumb to the solitude
All because I cared for you.
You're a lot like my father-
I never realized it until I left you there
almost in tears standing in your driveway
you watched me walk away.
As I see you now with clear eyes and a not so heavy heart
I realize you're a lot like the belt I used-
not strong enough to hold me up
but still you contributed to my downfall.
I laid on that ground for some time
saw as you confirmed my suspicions
of old feelings for exes and your girl friends,
morning texts to my cell phone on how you miss me
how you ****** up losing me
texts back from me agreeing with you
kicking you off the high horse you once rode upon-
realizing you never appreciated me as a person
not until this love slipped through your fingers
and you were forced to realize it was you
defense mechanisms became your fortitude
and you tried to act like this knife I returned
didn't stab you in your heart like it did to me-
I've been afraid of commitment ever since..

1. Memories do not control me-
they kept me inside a cage
and watched as I outgrew it
prying the bars away from my hands
the memory can't touch me anymore
2. Two of these people don't belong on this list-
because they only showed me what love really
isn't.
3. Don't even think about falling in love with me, or hurting me-
unless you realize you will become poetry.
3. I've been afraid of commitment ever since
I realized you weren't a very good artist
so I've been racking my brain trying to read this sheet music
but I realize now who the **** needs sheet music
when you don't play any instruments.
3. Im tired of being around people I cannot read
seeing things that remind me of my seven year old sin-
take away the bad and remind me things can be good again.
3. Now I am invincible-
because the list of love will grow
while the other will be just a list to me.
Listen to me...
don't fall in love with someone who writes poetry
they will make beauty out of your tragedy
and sonnets out of your personality.
3. Personally, that's the only beauty I'll ever need.
The one that comes from me
shoots through my fingers quicker than
1, 2, 3-
I can count all the times I've tried to **** myself on one hand
1, 2, 3-
I can count all the men I've ever loved on the other
1, 2, 3-
but what I can't count?
All this poetry that became of me
because of those 1, 2, 3s.
And that's the best **** part about tragedy
you turn it into your own masterpiece.
this is hectic and messy, i may edit it but I kind of like how it gets chaotic at the end.
mariadt Nov 2018
The exploration of womanhood,
viewed by a child, who had failed to birth an heir
and was auctioned amidst a war,
to lay beside the man who Lyrnessus heard before it saw,
and felt, before they felt nothing at all.

Plucked from childhood to motherhood,
failed motherhood, into obedience and slavery,
despised by her husband's mother for the absence of life she yearned to grow.
Then veiled in a soft pearlescent,
that blurred, but did not hide, the reason she survived,
and her brothers and husband did not.

Her barren belly proved a blessing when the girls in tents sprouted kleos from their swollen stomachs,
to carry the son of foreigners, bloodthirsty for their native home.
These girls, they are just girls, brainwashed by glory and trauma,
carry children that will slaughter their brothers of blood,
in the name of a woman seen only as a measurement of egotistic revenge.

And what of Briseis?
Aristos Achaion, they cried.
To them, he will always be: the best of the Greeks,
even after Apollo favours the hand of Paris and forges fate to impale the accidental hamartia.
What is her legacy?

Aristos Achaion, they cry.
As the boy who carries his blood rises from the fire and carries forward after his father's body hit the ground.
In response to Homer's Iliad, inspired by Pat Barker's Silence of the Girls
Pagan Paul Jun 2017
.
Today I went

to Hell,

to sell my soul

to the Devil.



I don't know how

it happened,

but I wound up

buying his.



Now I own

the tortured spirit

of an angel

fallen and disgraced.



He wants it back

so it can't pass

auctioned into the

wrong hands.



The dilemma

beckons an answer

from eternities

waiting hordes.



A decision so large

the universe

holds its breath

in chaotic silence.



I don't know how

it happened

but I've ended up

becoming the Devil.



© Pagan Paul (2016)
.
The store had been closed for a month or more,
The Receivers opened the door,
To auction off all the fittings there,
Whatever stood on the floor,
There were counters, mirrors, plenty of stock,
The tills and the ******* bins,
It was all going under the hammer,
Even a line of mannequins.

When John McRogers happened to pass
He heard the clamour inside,
He peered on in through the window glass
And he watched the human tide,
The bids were coming from everywhere
From phones, and spread through the store,
So he wandered into the human mass
And made his way from the door.

He wandered along the vacant aisles
Saw everything piled in heaps,
There wasn’t much of a bidding war
So everything went quite cheap,
He wondered if he should make a bid
Was there anything there for him?
His eyes then came to rest on a girl,
A fabulous mannequin.

She stood in a line of eight or nine
But caught his eye from the start,
He thought that she had the bluest eyes
Of all, and she stood apart!
She must have been all of six foot six
With a tapering line to the waist,
And ******* of promise and silken legs
A woman of style and taste.

He put in a nervous bid when she
Was auctioned along the line,
But nobody put in a counter bid,
And he thought to himself, ‘She’s mine!’
He had a courier pick her up
And take her straight to his home,
Then stood her up in his office, where
He could savour her there, alone.

She hadn’t a scrap of clothing on
They’d taken it off when she went,
He tried to avert his eyes, she showed
No sign of embarrassment,
Her hands hung limply down at her side
No effort to cover up,
But her eyes had followed him round the room,
Whenever he’d start, or stop.

‘I’m going to call you Jennifer,’
He said to himself, out loud,
Then sensed she shuddered and straightened up
In a movement that seemed quite proud,
His wife had left him the year before
For a keeper, down at the zoo,
So now he said, and in fact he swore,
‘I only have eyes for you!’

‘I only have eyes for you, my dear,
My Jennifer from Le Trée,
I’ll always cherish you near me here
When I work out here, all day,
We’ll spend our evenings here in the warm
With a single desk-top light,
And in the gloom of this little room
You might even come to life!’

He left her naked, stood by his desk,
She had an ****** air,
The wig she wore flowed over her back
Brunette, but the lights were fair,
He worked each night at his desk in gloom
Lit only by one small stand,
And every now and again he’d rouse,
Reach over and touch her hand.

The hand was cold, plastic and hard
And it couldn’t return a thing,
Until one night, he opened a box
And slipped on a wedding ring,
He worked away for an hour or so
Til he’d filled out a batch of forms,
Then reached unconsciously out for her hand
To find it was soft and warm.

He looked up into her shining face
And noticed, to his surprise,
Her cheeks had softened, her lips were red
And a lovelight shone from her eyes,
He stood and reached for her willing form
And she did what he wanted to,
But an urgent message tugged at his brain,
‘I only have eyes for you!’

‘I only have eyes for you,’ she thought
And beamed that into his head,
He never would leave that office again,
His friends soon thought he was dead.
They came in force, broke into his house
And found that he’d really gone,
‘There’s only a couple of mannequins here,
But one of them looks like John!’

David Lewis Paget
RAJ NANDY Mar 2016
Friends, Part Two will get posted after a break. I have added short notes at the end, for appreciation of all Jazz lovers. To know how the word 'Jass' became 'Jazz', - kindly read the Foot Notes below. Best wishes, - Raj, New Delhi.

    THE STORY OF JAZZ MUSIC IN VERSE:
                         PART- ONE

                      INTRODUCTION
Before writing about this true Jazz Story,
I had delved into its long checkered history!
I had plowed through many articles and
books,
Making personal notes to make Jazz better
understood.
My love for this music flows in my veins,
From writing this true story myself I could
hardly restrain !

THE ATLANTIC SLAVE TRADE
The story begins some four hundred years
ago in History,
Drenched in the blood and sweat of the black
slaves which was no mystery,
Painting a sorrowful background to our Jazz
Story !
It was a time when the English , Spanish , French ,
Portuguese and the Dutch became frantic , -
To gain control of the slave trade across the vast
Atlantic !
Slave trade those days was a very profitable
business proposition;
The funds generated had also financed Britain’s
Industrial Revolution!

In 1619  a Dutch sailing ship had carried the first
lot of fifty slaves from West Africa, -
To work in the cotton, tobacco, and sugarcane
plantations of English Colony of Virginia !
Only twenty slaves had survived that hazardous
Atlantic journey;
And here my friends lies the roots of my Jazz
Story !
While it is true that in New Orleans Jazz got
cradled and also nourished;
But it had taken birth in the regions of Western
Africa where slave traders had once flourished!
Later, many more slaves were transported across
to work in the plantations of the Southern States
of America,*  (see notes below)
And in their hearts one could hear the tom–tom
and drum beats of native Africa ! * (notes below)

HOLLERS AND WORK SONGS
Those slaves took no musical instruments with
them,
And worked under the whip lash of their white
Overseers bound in chains !
But they had cherished their ancient music which
fed their hope and the will to survive;
And from the depth of their sorrow and suffering, -
sprung the rhythm and beat of their life !
While at work they were forbidden to talk to each
other,
So they sang in a rich sing-song voice and called
out to one another;
Which was not understood by their whip-wielding
Overseers.
They also called out and communicated to other
working gangs in the distant fields,
Who also replied back in a similar fashion to
make their communication network complete.
The ‘hollers’ and ‘work songs’ also did help,
To lighten the burden of their treacherous fate.
This ‘call and response’ later formed one of Jazz
Music’s basic elements,
As ‘improvised music’ got composed with Jazz
providing a proper vent.
From their tormented soul they sang to wipe away
their blues,
Giving birth to ‘blue notes’ later , for WC Handy
to pay his many handsome tributes !
The slaves longed for freedom and emancipation,
Singing their ‘spirituals’ with faith and devotion !
While singing they often got into a trance,
And felt like the Israelites in ******* in Egypt,
ordained by fate and chance !
The Mississippi was like the River Jordan across
which they hoped to see, -
A band of Angels coming in their chariots to set
them free,  @
From their suffering, drudgery, and captivity !
Thus ‘improvisation’ becomes a vital ingredient of
Jazz Music;  $
For ‘freedom of expression’ is its distinguishing  
feature, which Jazz music forever seeks.

CONCLUDING  MY PART ONE
‘Jazz’ had come to America in chains, buried
deep inside the black man’s soul.
With a longing for freedom from torture and pain,
Which was then beyond their control!
The tom-tom beats, work songs, Spirituals and the
Blues, -
Were all precursor to Jazz, and here I pause to
pay my homage and heart-felt dues,
To those valiant predecessors who had come in
chains ,
Giving a painful birth to ‘jass’, - from which Jazz
gets its name ! # (notes below)

FOOT NOTES:-
Slaves were sold at 15 dollars per head. Early 1700s saw 75,000 slaves auctioned! By1800s there were one million slaves in US alone! Slaves came from Senegal, Ashantis, Gold Coast, Niger Delta, Dahomey, & the Congo; with a variety of beats and music buried in their minds and hearts !
** The Drums were an essential form of communication in Africa. They believed their Gods communicated through their beats . Those drums provided the basic beats of Jazz Music.
+ 'Blue Music' = became a part of cultural landscape of Southern US by early 1900s, but had remained unnoticed till W.C.Handy published his song –‘Memphis Blues’ in1914.
@ I refer here to the famous ***** Spiritual song -‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ ! I use to sing this song in my Missionary School in Calcutta in the 50s !  Slaves had sung them in plantation ‘Praise Houses’ during their weekly prayer meetings.
# "JASS" = originally an Africa-American slang meaning ‘***’! Born in the brothels of Storyville (New Orleans)  & the Jasmine perfumes used by the girls there; one visiting them was  said to be 'jassed-up' ! Mischievous boys rubbed out the letter ‘J’ from posters outside announcing -"Live Jass Shows'', making it to read as ‘'Live *** Shows'’! So finally ‘ss’ of ‘jass’ got replaced by 'zz' of JAZZ !
$ “Improvisation” = is the process of spontaneously creation of fresh melodies over the continuously repeating cycle of chord changes of a tune, which distinguishes Jazz from all other musical forms - raising it to its own great Individualistic Heights !
….ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY RAJ NANDY OF NEW DELHI---
E-Mail : rajnandy21@yahoo.in
Being a lover of Classical & Smooth Jazz, I had composed the True Story of Jazz Music in Two Parts. Will be posting Part Two after a break for appreciation of true Jazz Lovers on this Site! - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
Ryan Clark Jan 2013
Tick tock
rapping of the clock.
A cold dead sham
of another mans cog.
So lay it down
on the hangman's block.
To sick to see
how it shepherds its flock.

It holds no rime
masquerades as reason.
A facade of truth
Yet I call it treason.
It puts up the walls
to the common man's prison.
A tool to be used
for a stronger man's mission.

Time
a device of unity.
Implementing science
bordering necessity.  
Auctioned off
by the leaders of  economy.
You always work hard
but are left no time to dream.

Dreaming costs
who ever owns your time.
They look down at you
and threaten your life.
So you numb yourself  
just to make a dime.
Soon you grow cold
lost in the grind.

In youth
there is imagination.
Unhindered
not subject to discrimination.
As they grow
so to do their nations.
Furthering thoughts
yet short lived contemplation.
For as you grow old
you give your time to corporations.

The more things change
the more they stay the same.
from the dawn of man
to the information age.
More time spent
till your in your grave.
Yet time well spent
promises better days.

So dont sacrifice
your life for time.
It all stands short
in perspective eyes.
A relative thought
not a device that binds.
Spend it happily
for every day of your life.
I thought I'd try something out side of what I usually write. Inspired by Taru M http://hellopoetry.com/-taru-m/ and Zack http://hellopoetry.com/-zack/
PLEASE FEEL FREE TO LET ME KNOW THIS IS NOT MY FORTE. I'm just trying new things here and openly invite criticism so I can get better and broaden my writing abilities.

May turn into a song ACGD chorus AEA
Pr nandni Jul 2023
She searched for PERFECTION, so she's ALONE
Expected beautiful stories, so the pages are BLANK
LOVED the fluttering stars, sold her sleep
PROCURED trust but auctioned her FREEDOM...
Night Owl Nov 2011
Know-it-all revelation celebration deflated with a
"no you ******* don't"
Cartesian cliche quotation.
So imagine mom's elation when she finally shut the **** up and moved up in conformist ranks
set trends and bred friends.
Thanks!
Thanks friends. Without you I'm just some pearly whites,
a sundress and a skewed perception of what is wrong and what is right
Future bright, like some little paper lantern glowing
but if  the flame kisses pulp than than just gulp and take up sewing.
Because you're growing with the notion you're just some fish up in the ocean attracting fish nets with fishnets floatinghopingchoking
Choking on your words over 3 syllables it's a drag
I'm feeling bad
for the fact that I'm a man
******* dad.
A slight ephebophillic fascination for the fairy folk
Till she spoke, and ruined the illusion I was going for
Little girls turned shiny objects
auctioned off to flyest bidder
Quit her after several children, physical evidence you did her
Hit her too, I feel the burden bared by my sister,
hung on the bottom rung just because her organs are within her.
teenaged girls are wasted on the their Y possessed cohorts
***** and ****** so guess what? your mother was a ***** too
Our system's banging "**** *******" "get money" funny we weren't singing that song getting tucked in by our mommys
unfinished-ish. This will be a song eventually
Julian Sep 2020
DISCLAIMER: READ THE WHOLE THING IT IS MUCH MORE GENIUS TOWARDS THE END



Bypass the circumlocutions of elementary rhetoric and the obvious bulges into the ethereal realm of supersolid supercalendar emigrations of the wednongues of vogue emigrating into a new frontier of boundless awakening that blisters the sore solid metaphors of a crumbled bricolage of articulate history becoming a reiterative gabble of entropy that curdles the blood-boiling hatred of those envious of those that capitalize on the true girth rather than the flaccid otiose etymology of differential physics becoming a denatured figment of prideful imagination on a frolic with desuetude in the normalization of the wernaggles of ewnastique that defile the ridicule of even the most astute aspirations of those that despise history rather than reveling in its subtle ironies that swelter in connotation rather than suborn the cadged bridewells of those that are estranged by the Dousk Remix rather than the Voulez-Vouz Danser populism of true urbacity expanded upon a national stage as an anthem not for profligate saturnalia but rather an ode to the odium of the reckless titanism of titanic intellects clashing with the dudgeons of intermittent eye-rolling irreverence double-dealing a stacked deck of pleckigger on an intellectual stagecraft for bandwagon apostasy that leads to solidarity among tentative allegiance. We barnstorm for a grift in the grimace of an alpenglow winter to lead to the salvation of all people united under the banner of neat nexility rather than long-winded elocution reserved only for notched caliber against the nativist diatribe that serves the subservience of the engineer of the white chattel indoctrinated into turnstiles of professed irreverence for demarches of solidarity that is gainsay for gain rather than pittances for pitfall. Rhetoric should be duly curtailed against the overcomplication of hypertrophy and trimmed into the sweet success not of saccharine fads of foofaraw but engineered resistance that galvanizes albatross intellectualism into a revved engine without purpose that mobilizes because of estranged impotence in the revelry of the subtle rather than the cordial tethers of emergent entelechy of the esemplastic orthobiosis that we should all strive for not just as pioneers of the socially engineered harbingers of a remedial society but also for the trendsetters that communicate with the canvass and the celluloid rather than spelunking dormitage of drifted anomaly perceptible to everyone but heralded as prominent by the rigged ambeer of a toxicity of a plumage of city over state and country over planet. We need to provide the verdure of the verdant forest that survives the conflagrations of rage indoctrinated by systematic attempts at stilted ignorance that is engendered more by Leftism than Right-Wing thinkers because in general when observed in organic settings we notice that the Right-Wing escapes the sloganeered jaundice of limited bounds for otherwise boundless thought and provides more seminal pathways that reconcile normative virtues with entrenched inveterate harbingers of economic success. The faulty deadstocks that propel the retinoise of the anomaly among Leftism to disregard the girouettism of a world that is so piebald with dishonesty that it elects a patronage that seethes with passion but aimless in its curiosity for deeper embedded candor because the popular might count themselves among the aristocratic Left but the truly Promethean belong to a centrist tribe that borrows the ingenuity of spurned but never spurious interpretations of a sputtered history that remarks with revelry  rather than disdains with #CancelCulture irreverence that seeks to deracinate all context for insipid utopianism that is a shared prerogative of the delusional Left against their complaints of Sebastomania among right-wing zealots that are equally invalidated by the frogmarch of a dilettante history curbed in storms of a pure tempest rather than a banal reiteration of novelty phrased with participant intonation rather than blathers of whispered arbitrage ennobled by hypocrisy immune to criticism among those that crusade for economic justice without understanding formal flombricks of the true gnomic riddles of alchemy fundamental to global panoramic pleonasms becoming the aleatory vagary of admonished warning that spars against spartanism. Instead of pilfering from the exorbitant defalcation of immunized partisan bromides against the ratcheted warranty upon defective obsolescence we must coalesce around the imperious ****** of divinity bequeathing the living water of a fully-lived life that qualifies its felicity not by junctures but by an overall harmony that conforms to the finicky demands of an overly polarized complexion of dimpled conformity founded on girouettism that earns more traction than the deasil sundial emergence of brimstone rejection for alabaster limelight we must urge others to ditch the conformist utilitarian usucaption of the usufruct of manipulative sports for domineering talents suborned into inclement straits because of unwitting albatross that replicates into a fission of uniformity encapsulated in the half-assed witticisms of attempted belletrist succeeding only in alienating the noxious fumes of alveolate diminutive reduction rather than expansive detritus that scrapes the wreckage of a turmoil to build masterworks out of broken sculptures themselves indemnified from a categorical judgment by the panoramic oversight of proctored civilized ambition. We need to exhort self-education that hinges upon not a listless acquiescence to a second-exit impulsive barnacle to the urchins of brimstone because of an insipid blather of flapdoons of brittle banality because the hackencrude is an outmoded entity to the vast resources of the sizable capital of the growing power of the intelligentsia over the weakened grasp and wrangle of terminus meeting consuetude weakly enough with pleasantry to appease but ultimately a complete witwanton persiflage of sizzled destruction rather than the savory contemplation of the cotqueans of majesty derided but never derailed by terminal revivals because the generativity of the titanic original might not be a popular indoctrination but the liberated thought of the untethered is ultimately more decisive in world affairs than the synergistic hive of bees building an imperious defense against dynasty built only upon provincial hatred of hidebound illiteracy combustible into the brazen bravado of a reckless intrepid effrontery against civilized chains into the ******* of complicit interconnection rather than dissolved dissolutions that solve global problems more fundamentally rather than driving through avenues of wide pressures gilded with expansive growth but ultimately bereaved by the ultimate succor of the youthful exuberance of captive audiences rather than the wily connivance of genius unbounded. God is obviously a benevolent provider of all bounties and despite the conspiracies that predicate heterodoxy the uniform mannequin of a mascot Democracy ultimately becomes a fickle bandwagon allegiance to relationship rather than a true witness to authentic ******* to a subservient relationship to a creative God synergized with energies that should exceed all galloped windlass into demarche and expose rather than rundles of ridicule interminable because of the permanence of kitsch memorial rather than living sculpture that breathes a swiveled light that beckons preened self-accountable responsibility to a dutiful matriotic duty of optimism rather than a contrarian futility of those that despise the unequal suave crackjaw dementia of the temulentia of derangement among crowds that provide fewer bounties and more deprivations calculated to indenture need rather than motivate want. We must motivate want by fueling ambition rather than quelling dissent in defensive posture because that strategy of antinomian discord is a dead-end street against an inveterate enmity that can never be fully deposed but only opposed with nominal futility raging with violence rather than seething with the motivation to reform because reform is an efficacy mobilized. Novelty of wednongue propriety grown through the heirs of drastic impertinence gilded from the siphon of lavadero hypogeiody blasphemous in bletonism that guards a piebald scrivelo because the sought dementia of an overwrought alacrity is a purpose without a terminus but an ambition soaring through scraped ice cream stratosphere that marvels at the minutiae of the civilized anthill that becomes a beehive of industry when the rationale of moral reform becomes insuperable rather than suborned into effete recursive cycles of pittances of pitfalls obsessively pondered but never solved because the fustilugianation of a forever tampered travesty is the esemplastic rejection of a categorical aim that leans of windlasses of elegance that surpass the levy of hatred and achieve sizable filagersion to squirm above the squawk upon populace rather than the consternation of an urbane but cloistered metropolitan arrogance contravened by the historical emergence of happenstance locales fostering the most well-guarded treasures of bohemian pedigree rather than dimpled resolve faffling on ergasia in bromidrosis rather than cavorting with a skeptical indoctrination by default evaded by those that equate an improbable scenario with a definitive solution to acatalepsy quandary because by reckoning with indeterminacy we grow in historical lineaments and solve global detritus by recycling the rattled brevity of promontory preens of plumage into a recursive ostentation defalcating heavily from sturdy macroeconomic proofs of the trendsetter rather than the trend and therefore grapple with profound personalized disdain rather than cordial harmony. Essentially by the logical positivism of proof we remind ourselves that obviously a chattering blather swims in tentative irony as long as it is a penultimate relativity because the lack of capstone ensures that the relevant treads beneath the mountain of rapprochement in benign endeavors to survive and thrive in definitive conclusion rather than intermediary conclusions of amnesia in jaundice. By the gnomic apothegms that guard the fortress of the demassified we have quantulated that the preposition of continuance is in fact a guarantee of the fickle supremacy of the recent and even more preponderantly the supremacy of expectancy of latent junctures that never manifest becoming a dictatorial rule of driven alacrity of wastrels that should fast from conclusive opinion and rather favor the primordial fabric of the inveterate truths rounded by the conversion of alchemy solidified by calculated canon converging with esoteric apartheid against the simultagnosia of the simpleton drivel of primordial myths bowdlerized from history neither lewd nor depraved but moribund because of the conclusive ****** of a peremptory intermediary certainty predicating a more precise foresight. The lackluster luster of numinous foghorn subliminal graft is a nativist confusion of legionnaire mettle swaddled by the cosseted grasp of interminable boundaries that demarcate linear time even when supersolid filigrees of elemental confusion erratically swerve into oblivion that becomes a forestalled happenstance so hapless that the connivance of alveolate synergies necessarily precludes event from becoming indelible because the tentative judgment wallops the tributary incontinence of the warble of axiolative jaundice materialized by crystalline fabrication neutered by soundbyte sclerotic calculus inveterate in summations of conclusion only because of peremptory weights upon geometric certainties rather than logarithmic dampers of attenuation that spar against spartan priggish epithets upon the flamboyant grit of grisly specter of speculative sepulchral venal vanity. The timberlask cineaste irony of the partisan usucaption of sapwood is a pirated timber of startled alarm becoming a useful or useless cacophony of barnstorm for the deadstock of past cadasters of rigmarole in the docimasy of pretense in impartial circumstance in specialized oratory bounded by a hemmed bailiwick of verdure denatured by the flombricks of subtle persuasion that ignores minority fringes of opinion that occupy that majority that cowcatchers brush aside rather with cruel contemptuous unkempt slippery agenda for drivel that spawns ingeminated redoubled explosions in participle bias rather than conglomerate arraignment of arrayed brooked swamps turgid not with the pettier travesty but the charade of a brokered ceremonial calculation against the wrikpond spurious by degeneration into corruptible complicity that thrives in obscurantism but never obscurity when the omnified owns a capitalized swiftboat of never a temulentia but always an optimism in the curvature of lineaments into the self-educated shepherd of the ultimate autarky rather than insubordination in the scrappy schlep of demographic ripples of swift enrichment at great personal flops in the floppy disk of a Democratic enrichment rather than a parched rectiserial hidebound tome. A quirky time stanched by tomes of patricide against family ingratiated by parrots to anthem but lacking the lettered verve of ignoble but parsed parsecs of finite light captivated into prismatic conscience we launch the demerited ploys of foible into the heralded controversy rather than the unheralded mercenary hands behind dogmatic ripostes livid because of the suave prestidigitation of the sublime mastery of the syncopated irony of mismatch attuned to radical rhythm we become bloated slaves to a rich lineage decried widely in attempts of covert coup raxes of a largesse of continual primipara perversions of courted cotqueans of uxorious justice that by defalcating from tributary orthobiosis in specious conjecture esteemed by rattled martexts aspiring for fraternal solidarity with the ****** esteem masquerading as the auctioned flivver that the merchandise of fluminous optimism cannot be an effusive blanch of blarney bolstered by bumptious bromides of brunt blackmail but rather the artform of subterfuge needs the insidious and invidious traction of creepy Thriller subtlety to garner the vapid traction of immobilized discontent foster to malcontent rarely abridged by even the most polite courtesy of diplomacy because of inherently insatiable demand that it skulks in undetected quarters flexing in the shadowy penumbra of transparent crackjaw enigma becoming an obvious blister or a gabble of raw jaundice sweltering into thermolysis by the eventual convergence rather than the improbable divergence of fissile time beckoning its own flashy revolution while denaturing the very presence of delusion as a herald more of the authenticity of animadversion rather than the sclerotic carapace of ragged asphyxiation in the aplomb whisper entombed forever by milquetoast inefficacy in hypersensitivity rather than a flourished malfeasance of a predatory grip upon seizure among catatonic graves of incontinence braving tribulation for crucibles of the most prosodemic surgeries of the furtive froward recalcitrance of deliberation in ignominy that enables that transmogrified skyscraper of Titanic lies to become a sunken vessel of harbored prestige lost on penultimate dice rather than winning pokerish villiany. Essentially the jeer of Morel Under a Disco is a winning brandished authority to chug the capers of inscrutable difference in blandishment imposture to cavort with an elegant plot twist that enthralls abiding decay to revert into a primordial confidence of livelihood to deter the frogmarch of time into the despairing quagmires of a livid balkanization of a simultagnosia of ageotropic monoideism fomented on fervor that leads to the paralysis of privacy and the expedited furor of moribund depraved proclivity so that the offset of morale and rationale can outfit civilization to brave the tempests of cordial divisions cemented by courtesy in order to safeguard against the yeggs of paranoia seeking ultimately the craven caper of disillusioned subconsciously felt retraction of indelible deeds into evaporated constructs that vanish too quickly to spawn the vigor of a cadged and utilitarian expanse of reiterative generativity that sustains the spanned sapience of primordial alacrity to ensure that brevity in outlook becomes longevity in subsistence because without a logical positivism grounded in unshakable tenets of God the demoralization of the vast majority is ensured and entombed in aimless squalor that leads to sheepish temerity compounded by wistful latency in regretful regression rather than a spandex bluster of a bravado of obesity to weather the persnickety wednongues of perdurable badges of instinctual shame slandered into prima facie denatured transmogrified cultures seeking cosmogony out of ordinary bricolage because the eventful triage of the nimble eludes parochial sight while the vastly capable outfox and outpace with such frenetic verve that they fasten against accident and transcend against heterochrony in ridicule that the unseasonable but seminal sauce flavors better the partially indentured optimism of a curated matriotism better than it serves the obviously interminable cycle of listless demiurges of malcontent that fuel conflagration rather than reformation to their own remorseful peril. Thereby, it is obviously concluded that to micromanage a society you must exert the capacity of a selective magnetism obviously predicated on demassified capacities for oaths of gratitude to endear and endure in the humane heart for the majority that sway few but encounter many that they find proper scruple grounded on axiomatic God to sustain not a lifeless priggish inclination but a bounded felicity that is not a carapace of an indigenous and insidious decadence to the extent pursuits of happiness swelter among the marginalized majority bereaved in powerless squalor slave to temptation not to derelict fascination but to provide aim to aimlessness and predicate their worldviews not on Racial Identity Theory which postulates too many counterintuitive pessimisms that are essentially neutered fustilug predicates of a world that requires such drastic seismic reforms in societal dynamics that the earthquake capable of such a realignment would exceed a 10.5 on the Richter scale which is 32x more powerful than the biggest earthquake in recorded history that would be so catastrophic in its implicit implication of the pretense that the consummation of the theory achieves the traction necessary to jostle every crowd into alignment that the collateral damage would endanger the very integrity and vitality of the Republic itself while exerting a tremendous existential dread of radical permutation that enables many travesties that abnegate the prerogatives of a privileged society in search of a facetiously engineered impossible utopia that could only be achieved by a dictatorial authoritarianism working in concert with benumbed sloganeering to engineer pessimism and malcontent rather than nurture the fair-natured optimism of a society that flourishes because it assumes naturally that the universe conspires in the favor of prosperity. If any hint of casuistry is evident in these postulates I wouldn’t be surprised but for rhetorical sanctity it is necessary for a nation bereaved of national icons not to despise the captive imagination of tyrannical transparency but grow from the liberating and partially liberal parable of a life maximized in limber for romantic enthralled growth that heralds with due consideration the paragons of time with reverence rather than soundbyte enslavement of parochial interminable twinges of a newborn and widely shared collective guilt of a decisively antinomian and pessimistic view on the evolution of human societies beyond catchy kitsch verve nexilities of bravado mutilating thirsts for inclusive mandates that are Boa Constrictors prowling with serpentine vitriol to vastly over-represent extreme fringes to dissuade nuclear families in an overt ploy of depopulation because the truer pathway to liberation is one that feeds the hot hand in the casino and bets that the winners will always win by deregulating their ability to bet large sums because of a transcendent supersolid mastery of time that the march and demarche of a boundless prosperity gouged by the fair demands of egalitarianism enables the card counter to achieve such a decisive advantage that his indentured socially coerced eleemosynary inclination to feed the flock endures throughout all epochs because of the necessary and incumbent scruples of God-fearing men to distribute their winnings won by cheating time to conquer time itself.


I am waiting for that touch
I am waiting for that embrace
I am waiting for that glance
I am waiting for that smile

Where human dignity of LOVE
Will not be measured by
The value of education, prestige
Position, power or money

I am waiting for the moment when
Lover's self-respect won't be auctioned

I am waiting for the moment when
LOVER's emotions won't be suppressed

I am waiting for the moment when
LOVER's humility won't be challenged

I am waiting for the moment when
All masks will be discarded

I am waiting for the moment when
Each person is presented as a LOVER

I am waiting for the moment when
We won't see those
Lost tearful eyes of a LOVER

I am waiting for the moment when
We won't see the
LOVERS grow old waiting for a hug
And hold each other's hand

I am waiting for the moment when
We won't see each human
Choosing the path of work-life over LOVE

I am waiting for the moment when
We wont'see anyone
Doing any oppressive wrong to LOVERz

Let us pledge to bring
A morning like that

LET us show the world
What real TRUE LOVE is...

That is the day
Peace, Equality, Rights, Harmony
Will be born

A new wonderful world of LOVE


Walid Abdallah Jul 2018
Inside their tombs, our martyrs are whispering,
Oh God, we are coming back.

On land they are lifting their hands,
and their voices grow in the silence of the grave:
Oh God, we are coming back.

Stones fall, ashes rise, and their eyes beam,
Oh God, we are coming back.

Our martyrs stepped out of their coffins,
lined up and raised the shout:
Shame on you cowards.
Our home is sold, our nation
a herd of sheep, and you sleep.

Our martyrs travel to Al Aqsa Mosque,
they pray in the churches of Lebanon,
they wander the streets of Jerusalem,
they break into prisons in every land.

They rise from the ashes of the captive home
and preach on every corner of a beaten nation.

They call in the midst of massacres,
God is greater than this man-made world,
God is greater than this man-made world,
God is greater than this man-made world.

Our martyrs are approaching, their shouts echoing
on the walls of Beirut. They gather in the streets
to fight in darkness despite the pale light.

In homes bound by humiliation and madness, they call,
Oh God we are coming back.
One day our coffins will light all of Jerusalem.

They are coming back to break into the castle.



On every corner, they ask the cowards,
Why did you tolerate the wolf, sleeping
amidst sheep, a home as whole as the universe
auctioned off, overrun with rats?

Cowards who sold out our broken home,
our living ancestors, there you are
on the screen, drunk in the fuss,
walking Death, hypocrisy, and control,
we will rid our holy dead of you,
and of the irony of the age.

Oh God we are coming back.

Don’t believe that people killed
in a battle for God are dead,
they are still alive in God.

*


Our martyrs, roaring on every corner of the land,
streams of them asking,
Oh living, what are you doing?

Every day you’re double-crossed and slain
like sheep, surrendering your rights,
running like rats to the wolves,
leaving your people weeping

while you are prostrate before America’s
dollars and the images on screen.

Rats in all sorts of compromising ways.

And in the mad laughter of calamity,
a nation is sold into collapse.

Two images collapse into one:

while kneeling,
your heads under their shoes,
and our Arab Jerusalem,
given to wolves by the drunken.



With Lebanon adrift in blood, and tyranny
on the prowl, our martyrs shout
from every corner, Does honor
have a place? Where have the rebels
disappeared? Why have the sellouts fled?

The silent, the forgetful, and the two-tongued
all keep their mouths shut.
If you ask, they give you official nonsense.
If you ask, you get a bullet in the eye.

*


When you march in the parade of commerce
you wind up sold. History shows traitors
no mercy. The flood washes
over all of you chasing death
with the ad-man chasing you
to sell you tomorrow in the slave market.

Our priests are oblivious in their seats,
drunk on the power of reign and rule.

Our people in prison-darkness. All of them asleep.

When do the sleeping awaken?
When the sleeping wake.
Translated from Arabic by Fogle and I.
K Balachandran Jun 2014
I was sold to pain
in a slave market
that  didn't  look like one,
auctioned by a civilized crowd
of people just like you and me
in everyday life,
posing as my comrades, acolytes or lovers.
I stood firm on my ground
unrelenting even in pain's intimidation
and said, what  Valmiki
                 the first poet found,
        "Grief gushes out in verse"
                                 and I sing
                                        alone.
Poet Valmiki, according to Indian tradition, wrote the first epic poem "Ramayana" in Sanskrit  millenniums ago,  known as Adi Kavya(first poem) .Adi Kavi(First poet) Valmiki,  uttered his first verse in anguish without even realizing it as a new form of expression.He saw a cruel hunter killing the male among a pair of doves making love, oblivious of the world."Hunter, don't.." gushed out the anguish in the form of verse..the first ever. The theme extended in to the story of King Rama's life and the grief he embraces to remain a ruler true to his subjects.
Jerry Jan 2018
I have collected Postal Stamps
Some of those were ancient
Some fresh prints

I have collected Postal Stamps
Some of those traveled
Some never worth-ed

I have kept Coins
Some of those were Gold
Some Rusty but precious

I have kept Coins
Some of those melted & lost
Some tempered & gone

I have claimed Automobiles
Some of those were Hot Rods
Some fragile Classics

I have owned Automobiles
Some of those were auctioned
Some been Junked
Except my one & only miNi cooper...
Wild Stallion Jul 2013
War
All the pain I've seen
Hidden in my eyes
People cruel and mean
Forcing out their cries

With whips and lashes
Shields and spears
Demonic clashes
As were filled with fear

Blood spraying across the field
Soldiers praying behind their shield
Arrows come down like the rain
Messengers delivering pain

Comes the demons of the past,
The devils legions screaming, this breaths your last,
As the blood sprays across my face
I tend to Embrace this demonic craze

Swords piercing hearts
"Beaten to death"
Tearing them apart
"Gasp your last Breath"

Their mothers cry
As their fathers die
Children orphaned
Lives are auctioned

Hatred in my eyes,curses the divine
They told us all lies
Took your life and mine
My soul as pure,as blood in me
******* by birth why cant u see,
What i am worth

Arrows soaring taking lives
Soldiers proving by their knives
Spears flying through the air
Killing people unjust and fair

Blood spraying across the field
Soldiers praying behind their shields
Comes the arrows delivering death
A single arrow and a last breath
Fred Kinard Feb 2013
The money means nothing/
when the bankers control the cash.
In debt and receipts in pockets/
no value just expensive trash.
Study
    Watch
         Learn
             Money talks

Living check to check is lost misfortune.
Tell friends, "No" when the ask for dough.
Plentiful items you don't need can be auctioned.
You'll never understand which way money flow.
Add
   Subtract
       Multiply
             Divide
Naomi Sa'Rai Mar 2012
What is love
Simple kiss
Funky souls
Enjoying laughs
Reminisce
Vibrant shades
**** black
Brown
What is love
Thoughtful words
Vivacious sounds
Beautiful amber
Remember
What is love
Apathetic tongue
Lackadaisical licks
Sensual moments
Bliss
Whats is love
Man without owner
Claimed my heart
Long road
Cruising start
What is love
Created
Made
Shipped
Sold
Came
Stayed
Yes alluring tints
Pigmented perfection
This is love
Questions to the all knowing
Praised night
Answers
left lips
Sacrificed your name
This is us
You and i
I and you
Sat by myself
Getting close to you
No screen play
Lines be rehearsed
This is love
Sailed on sea
Ship to ship
They auctioned me
I stand proud
Turned my back to you
Turned my life around
This is love
Sent a dove to the sky
Flew beside me when you weren't by
This is love
It dwells between heaven you and I

Murray
Thuto Undefined Oct 2013
CAUTION : Piece includes words that might create graphic pictures in your imagination so reader discretion is advised. Enjoy..*

A story about a little girl who got robbed of her pride..*

The truth she holds.. Makes her feel so cold as she unfolds..
The story she never told
The story that awakens the pits of hell
The story about a little girl

She was pinned against the wall
Being 15, she was a little small
Slapped and beaten to the point were she couldn't even crawl
Their ***** against the cookie..You know.. The *****?
Tongue against her chest, between her *******
You can imagine the rest!

The constant touching and feelings
Her eyes? Glued to the cieling
Screaming, pleading..
Praying and begging the merciless men
To stop their merciless act..
All night long ******* her brains out..
I can see the agony in her eyes
Saying "Help me" but the words sentenced to life, refusing to get out!
The freight kissing.. The cookie licking
Forced to do the ******* and of course
The constant *******.. The *******. The *******!
Crying.. Weeping.. Till the point were
There were no more tears to shed,,
no more words to say..

It was like she got auctioned with these demon to bid, But she was just a kid!
Sold to the devil and his accomplice in the chair..
Pulled off the good life by the strands of her hair
She was like a puppet to them.. Dangling from limb to limb
"No one cares" they said..
Cutting her and ******* her, wishing she was dead..
She thought they were right you see..
"Cause all that time no one gave a **** about me"

But I do.. And you know why? Because she is little girl.. Just like me... Do You? <3
Kyle Kulseth Aug 2013
Signals get mixed up
                    we're broadcasting *******
I'll shout 'til my mouth's dry
                    you'll spit like a dragon
                the summers all static, now--
              I'll wait for the season
                to switch over channels
               for less interference.
                        On mute.

Bracing our brains
                               for primetime quakes
**** off a day
                              trapped in escapes

The fate of the union,
                        the sake of my habits,
Estate of illusions
                     auctioned off from your pulpit
                   I'll shovel the static 'til
                   the street's within reaching.
                   Now follow new channels
                   with buzzing devotion
                           switched off.
Sacrelicious May 2012
You are what you think.
You're a diamond in the rough.
But what you don't know
is that you're worth
more than all the shiny rocks
are
combined.
Then multiplied by
10.

$$$
can't buy you.
If people could be auctioned off,
just know.
You would be the
one that
was so valuable,
no body could even
afford
ti bid on.
Bex Feb 2014
the audacity of him, to think he created you.

they take the credit for billions of women, and we let them.


observe, the kind of girl who puts perfume on the backs of her knees-

she’ll be down on them soon, might as well decorate

the debauched air with lavender, coriander, her disgraced musk-

she is the model for a woman’s paradox.

“cross your legs at the ankles, say please and thank you, remember your place-

*****.”

see? how ladylike, that gorgeous face. a photo-finish face.

try to finish on her face.

a photo-finish face, take a photo when you finish on her face.

take a photo while she tries to blink you out of her eyes.

admire how tightly her lips are pressed together, she will not speak until spoken to.

unzip her teeth, open her mouth-

she will remain silent. all you were doing was opening another hole.


these girls are foldable, flexible, fuckable

they are stored inside suit pockets of

businessmen in the business of selling madonnas and Magdalenes

trading our innocence like stock options

each curve and soft voice, dumbed-down giggles and blank eyes as selling points

put together each little girl, she will be a new share in his corporation.


why do you let yourself believe that you should smile pretty

when auctioned off,

why should you be sold?

we allow men to rent us, borrow,

they shower us with trinkets,

things that are not truly ours. they feed us glitter until we become

as insubstantial as sparkles,

they tell you we are beautiful when we are owned.


stop having *** only in the dark

because you are worried that, like him,

the light will not touch you with love,

and you avoid fluorescent bulbs- do not risk cheapening the look of your skin.

chemical glows can be unflattering, you will wash out, the lines of your body will be harsh

you are reminded that your skin is full of chemicals too,

you worry that you will taste like acid and that he will spit you out.

you worry that he will see your naked body glow, and that he will not love you for it

so you close curtains. stack blankets. hide from scrutiny.

pull up your skirt-

“do what you came for and leave, please.”

apologize as soon as you say it.


it is out of line for you to make requests.

knowing that, step out of line.

refract, be prismatic

allow yourself to be illuminated,

reflect, do not feel guilty if you bleach his sight

if you are too much for him, do not reduce your brilliance

reflect.


what makes you think that you could possibly be

deflowered? who put this vicious vocabulary around your virginity?

boys are not lawnmowers, boys are not shears

you’re floral with or without them.

you do not have to grow in someone else’s garden

you can stretch your roots through miles of earth

you do not have to offer up your entirety to his touch.

you do not have to twist toward his artificial sunlight to flourish

you do not have to sit alone and anxiously polish your petals

you do not have to cry because your stem is blotched

remember your power- the ones who do not handle with care

are not your concern anymore- allow them

to be speared and suspended on your thorns.

display them like trophies

like they tried to display you

remember the venus flytrap is named for the goddess of love

and it eats its victims alive.
Land is disappearing
ok, farms to be exact
swallowed up by cities
they're gone, and that's a fact
developers are buying
what the farmers now will sell
for the subdivision builders
who are waiting at the well

standing in a parking lot
of what used to be a farm
I remember corn and animals
and I remember a red barn
now, it is a big box store
selling food from somewhere else
grown in little laboratories
from little dishes on a shelf

there used to be a farm right here
a place that grew our food
we knew what we were buying
now we don't and we are *******
the big box stores keep coming
and they're starting to intrude
we once had farms and churches
now we don't and we are *******

I remember driving out of town
twenty minutes at the most
you'd pass by at least four farms
now the farmland is the host
to development and wind farms
No parks, just urban sprawl
no fields of cows and horses
just another **** strip mall

There used to be a farm here
it was sold to pay the tax
it was auctioned off in silence
behind the farmers backs
no more farms or farmers
no more barns with painted names
just big houses with no back yards
where you don't know your neighbors names

there used to be a farm right here
a place that grew our food
we knew what we were buying
now we don't and we are *******
the big box stores keep coming
and they're starting to intrude
we once had farms and churches
now we don't and we are *******
Katlyn Orthman Oct 2014
Little one
A few years old
Arms bound, soul chained
Auctioned off and sold

A picture on the news
This girls been gone four days
Death is almost certain
The murderer escapes

A man with a cross
Settled proudly on his chest
Victimized for evil deeds
A rusted blade tugging against his flesh

Young girl
She walks alone
***** and beaten
On her way home

Poor child
Holes in his shoes
His stomach growls
It's nothing new

Tears mean nothing
If you turn a blind eye
Every minute we're silent
Someone else will die

We lost hope in humanity
Brought down by brutality
This worlds reached insanity
Our hate is our own fatality
I turned on the news tonight, the world has gone to ****.
Larry B Feb 2011
There was an old man, a collector of sorts
Who made his living off of the dead
Through the obituary page he'd earn his wage
Buying things that others had shed

Though some said his job was just morbid
Preying off of the people who died
It wasn't a natural death that took their last breath
But those committing suicide

He bought the things that nobody wanted
For most were scared of a haunting or curse
But he didn't care he would always be there
The same day that they emptied the hearse

He was the only buyer at the auction
For everyone else was afraid
He just couldn't wait to steal their estate
And count all the money he made

'Til late one night while sleeping
Awakened by a bump in the night
At the foot of his bed stood a multitude of dead
As his heart stopped beating from fright

Death had returned to collect his debt
For the reaper would surely be paid
He auctioned his soul for the things that he stole
Until the highest bid was made

The old man had turned up missing
They found claw marks deep in his floor
The people couldn't wait to pilage his estate
For karma had knocked on his door
It ain't no Sunshine
Cuz I got closed blinds in my mind
I reconcile all my problems
Tragedy seems to follow me
Since I was a kid put in my bids
I was already auctioned off
Look wat I did
See me trying bring the world to peace
But peace equals war more decease
Bodies rot can't trust the cops
And why not?
cuz everybody getting shot
Brothers especially the color of fudge
System ****** by the crooked *** judged
Paid under the table by the elite
Souls in fear destined for a repeat
I used see the world different
When I was young
But now I'm grown I feel much hung
On the *******
Spinning out wombs from cradle to tomb
Ill still be sweeping pain up like a broom and soon
My misery will be gone
Cuz ain't no sunshine. When ya in a funeral home

Lights camera actions
Gets happy people satisfaction
Nobody pays attention any more
Honor dead peeps that try to peep us about war
Spiritually I try to waken your conscious sick of the nonsense
Every time I turn on the news
Sad stories filled with blues
Destined for hell
Fight for rights though it will never prevail
They preach freedom but all I see slaves that pave
Away day by day
Leaning on the delusion of God
Which is orchestrated by man
U understand we playing with fire in our hands
Gettin the burn stuck in predicament
Waiting for turns
Turns to get a piece of the pie
Open ya eyes it's no surprise
Things ain't what it used to be
Reparations for the black fams
Naw they say we pass slavery
But what about my ancestry
Died for free working on the chattel fields
Bleeding hands have you ever seen a starving
Giving us crumbs off the table
Then have a nerve to give us different labels
First ***** to boy
To ***** to ***** to black
I never got joy
I was more than slave more like a lost king
And I know by the spirits that sing
No sunshine


Since I followed the light
It seems everything is tight
Loosing friends who pretend
To be down like brandy
Can't stand thee
Rain against window pane
Going insane circling the drain
There's no humanity left
I could even open the ears of the deaf
What's worse than worse
See a dead body being transported in a hearse
Taken to the grave
But soul ain't saved
Who can I COUNT on when my tears is gone
Pain is temporary weakness
But I say it's permanent
Cuz everyday is a new struggle from hustle to hustle
I gotta make means to get green
To maintain a luxurious dream
And I know I'm just venting
Breaking pass your mental jurisdiction
Wake you before it's too late
They poisoning food cigs and water
Prepare for slaughter
They want us die young never old
So folks stand bold
*** it's more of us than them
STAY dunkin with funk like Tim
Inhale the smok from v slim
The choice is yours
Take back your existence
Or die lika punk
**** it raise hell to this blunt
Ashes to ashes dust to dust
One time for ya mind
Darkness casted over the sun no sunshine
On this day
it rained but was sunny

A small pawn shop closed in york
A man dropped his lunchbox from an unfinished skyscraper
Tennessee Williams took a walk ( a long walk)

The Aztecs struck oil and Cicero dropped his quill
People declared peace and the world ate its fill

On this day they shut down the earth
Swept up the stars and exiled the moon
and auctioned them off for all their worth

On this day we sold every star
except one
One of my earlier poems -2010 i believe

— The End —