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Ash Oct 2020
The fox
runs alongside the astronaut,
who looks at a picture frame.
Around the fox’s neck, a white bandana.
There, on the spooky
moon, his only company is the fox colored aluminum.

The aluminum
fur of the fox
blends into the moonscape. The ship is empty aside from them and the spooky
remanence of the rest of the crew. As the lone astronaut
works to return home, his only comfort being the bandana
and the picture frame.

The frame
that holds a photo of a woman, standing before the ship of aluminum.
Tied around her hair, the bandana
which has since been given to the fox.
The memories it brings ever haunting the astronaut
making the moon ever more spooky.

The spooky
feeling is not eased by the frame
as the remains of passed astronauts
are trapped in this aluminum
ship, the lone survivors being the man and the fox.
He keeps his thoughts on the bandana.

Her bandana,
given to him on a dark and spooky
day, which he then gave to the fox
so he may pretend the woman in the frame
isn’t millions of miles away from them. A fox of aluminum
and a lonely astronaut.

The astronaut
chooses to focus on returning to the woman without her bandana.
He works tirelessly to get the aluminum
rocket ship off the spooky
and desolate moon, and back to earth, to see the woman in the frame.
By his side on this barren rock, looking up at him, stands the fox.

The astronaut refuses to let the spooky
atmosphere deter him from his goal of returning the bandana to the woman in the frame,
ever thankful for the company of the aluminum fox.
A sestina made with words randomly given to me by a friend.
OriginalMade Nov 2016
Its been what seems forever,
since the beginning of the Red Bandana.
A noble blessing,
Passed down from generation to generation.
A solid promise.
A knowledge that his family and mine will stay protected.
A great significance which brings guidance,
And supplies each carrier with the confidence,
To stand up for his brothers and strike righteously.

Red Bandana,
Make me Strong.
Guide me through,
These Deadly walks.
Red Bandana,
Provide me Courage.
Help me walk the strongest currents.

From the beginning you have guided,
Proved each rival what I fight with.
Each step taken,
Forged from your making.
A warrior in the streets awakened,
To live long and prosper well,
With my Red Bandana always hanging.

Red Bandana,
Treat me with Honor.
Take care of Mi Familia,
I trust you will never Blind me.
#NotJustTheBeginning #RedBandana
SøułSurvivør Sep 2014
In the annals of New York City
An amazing hero is acclaimed,
Known as "The man in the red bandana"
Welles Remy Crowther was his name.

Born in Nineteen seventy seven,
This New Yorker, born and bred,
Could have escaped death's destruction,
But chose to rescue folks instead.

All his life he cared for people,
Loved his family, kept them dear,
But on that day of 9/11
His higher purpose became clear.

An Honor Student, Lacrosse player,
Former fire fighter, too,
When explosions rocked the building,
Welles knew what he must do.

Rescuing with calm authority,
Directing people toward the doors,
He found a woman so disabled
He carried her to the 61st floor.

In the end, before death took him,
Twelve people were brought out, saved.
No one knows where Welles is buried
In his 9/11 grave.

Later, when his mother told
Of the red bandana Welles had,
The survivors saw his picture,
And knew Welles was the brave lad.

Only 26 years old,
Welles Crowther manned up in strife,
That young man is New York's hero...

... for twelve gave HIS VERY LIFE.


Soul Survivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 11, 2014
13th anniversary of 9/11
Welles Remy Crowther
1977 - 2001
R.I.P.
Paul Marfil Jul 2015
Today, I bought a bandana
She's beautiful
She's protecting my head from the rain
She's keeping me warm
Well, maybe just a little
She's also kind to me
Especially to my wallet
Oh, I love my bandana

Are you my bandana?
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
i return to these words that are barely
an architectural promise of a house as a mere:
rummaging squatter,
that this will eventually become
scrutinised by eyes beside my own...
well it's not like i rhyme-on-the-cheap...
i've been trying to watch some penny
dreadful episodes:
what would woman do without
the devil; i suppose man tangled with
god is nothing but an obnoxious brat...
the devil of emotions
and their plethora; this belittling god
fiddling with stones and creases
in york oak stand-alones...
                          then it came like
an itch: poached-taming-(of a)-toe...
just a tatty... a humble:
i am pretty sure i saw the letters
prefix a toad somewhere: po-ta-to(e):
ah... there! poached tame toad...
a sputniks for a brainz...
in penny dreadful: john claire
the name of victor frankenstein's monster:
oh dear old god: this continued
exasperation with poetry:
one must live a most unsatisfying life
to cross the rubricon of
old testament anemia:
            i think i admired wordsworth too... -

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...
i will not heed to market emphasis...
(Ꝛ if you might ask:
there's no leg to stand on...
the "R" falls into a turddle -
a tumble: a trill)...

ꝛ - a missing hammer: it would seem...
a sickle my dreading of apparents...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

clamour for the subjective experince...
none of this: hammer to a nail
sort of "magic" that leaves
one... sensibly "ostententious":

a semi-decent poem contra:
a good night's sleep...
always the latter...
   but unlike today:
6am wake... giving blood for
scrutiny - subsequently...
a broad need for 4 hours in...
a makeshift wilderness...
from Hainault Forest
to Havering County Park...

                        i would clearly have
to start all over again...
should i mind reading back into Tironian
notes and what i had expected to find...
it will suffice to mind...
the characters of empress wu...

         國 (guo)

beginning: coming back to bite some back
from a beijing pork belly:
where you'd first have to make caramel
from the sugar dissolved in oil:
before all the wine would care to glisten...

             𤯔 (ren)...

                              in reverse:
ren-guo - people (of) nation...
                      walking past this field:
impromptu: please keep off of field...
that's what i read...
      this was exclusive -
there was not need to denote further...

and this funny oddity:
saying good-morning or a hello
in an environment that's beside...
walking down the street with a stable
hound of anonymity surrounding
crisp grey blockage of: the amass!
yet people are so expecting
a common courtesy to brief you
on a morning: good...
is it? incessantly so! apparently!
switch them to the torment of the cements
and the back-to-basics apathetic crew
is on the counter...
ghost faces...
  but push them far enough to be alone
and into nature:
they pass a stranger and apparently
demand a prompt: hello!

i go into a depth of nature like
i have *** with prostitutes in a brothel:
i want to have as little to do with talking
that i'd loan: smothering someone
to shut up...
i came for the crows the knee-high-hallubaloos
of nonsense that...
i will extract myself to break
fasting to give blood by foraging
some blackberries...

i still prefer the lesser democratic voices...
it's not that robert duncan was going
to be a stand-alone show akin
to gibsberg...
but... my house is currently in disarray...
i'm playing chess by having
a makeshift kitchen in my living room...
i don't even know where the spices
are! but i'll manage
to bake a **** fine moroccan kobhz!

- this little but current focus for a genetic
"protection": half of me,
then a quarter, an eight, a sixteenth,
a 32-and-a-third... jump toward
64... 128... and... from all these fractions:
half and half:
beauty is no longer viable:
i imagine love as being a prized
bull kept for nothing except
for ******* the gene pool silly...

that's "love" from a darwin from
a materialism: breeding racing horses
or... both the submissive
and the contentious workers -
pay up! but i am not looking
for the generic beauty of
the plateau of the women
employed as surrogates
in this darwinistic harem...
            
isn't it obvious? it would have been
better have be allowed ourselves
to be dead: aborted...
but then: critter load: make-up...
i actually offend my own existence
by affording these dorian gray
parades to take hope in puruing
norms...
i like the scaps i like the wounds
i even like nibbling on the shellfish!

****-****** literature is my achilles
heel...
better a heel than trodding along
with faking a ******* knee...
robert duncan... jack spicer...
i like reading eyes by (metaphorically)
licking up the ****...
and it's not like i might give good head...
i employ a growth of
***** hair to convert my chin
to a niqab like i might: perhaps blink...

then again: face-masks and fashion?
is... this... somehow...
a "thing"?
            well it must be new:
it's nothing from the sort
of the elders i might care to remember...
i walked the scenic route...
blackberries and horseshit...
everything is baking in a procrastination
of: tickle the rats' nibbling...
scrutiny of the lesser of the food
hierarchy: omnivore that i am...

yes... that i like petting criters
that find themselves adamant in their
superiority...
but who have yet to see me:
teasing myself with
a: what if...
                 hours match-up to
not keeping count: there's a fog of them
that goes way back to...
out of the womb... then abandoned
by the scholastic detail that
allows them to float: limbless...
and then return to earth: degenerate...
and less than amiable...

        douglas murray is probably
a hot topic... i too sometimes bewilder myself:
it would have been best to have
allowed the pendulum to swing both ways...
but he (ol' doug) speaks very well:
his writing is... beside the generic...
salt of grain: akin to my own...
for a cubic's worth of water...

    i don't want this tongue to be somewhow
exasperated with concerns for this / an "art"...
or that it can belittle a scientific bone...
thrown to the politics and red herring marches...
spins the doctor: no plates...
forever the new lies
kept in the same old... rhetorical: quirk-and-quickness
of the quilled-tongue...
a knock-knock stone cold: generic...
must: mediocre...
tired of living tongue of poetry
that has to become tired:
truth has to tire so easily...
so that politics: and the freshness
of lies and the no-niche-audience-allowance
can cast their:
"vote"... their... archaic... illiterate "X"..

i will not poetry for rhymes for
exasperations - fooled i: to you: to pursue
that paragraph of fiction - either...
but as freely as this will not:
become an exercise in myopic-claustrophobia...
so it will not rhyme:
perhaps: to advent a coming of my
prescribed punctuation:
but more: your own, your "post-nationalistic"
canadian:
something the people of India or
China will not share with you...
because:
they are still of the mindset: China...
India... hell! Russian is towing suitor!
individualism collapses nations...
whether with a homogeneity of ethnicity
or the heterogeneity of liberalism...

           a wonderful collage of stories...
from the 20th century:
agony aunt israel bewildering
to either confront or defend...
            2000 years have somehow passed
and: europe is no new: "anew"...
it's the same old bland palette
of readily ethno-primed availability
of spices...
hurrah for thyme! and rosemary! mint!

from some mythical above
to this drudge of the pressurised castor -
there was something about robert duncan
that might always have:
made me... diverge from...
it could have been expected...
stash a tonne of bricks by day...
weave in an escapism posit of cinema
come sabbath...
now... escapism into... where?!
critical reignition of marxism:
that sort of marxism my parents escaped
from from under the old soviet
yolk of the satellite state
of poland: thank **** i too am an
immigrant:
but i see no repatriation politics
either...
               go back to a state of
the littlest of all bald envy necropolis
Impoleons?

            no among my native people:
among the natives of these isles...
a thespian: knee deep in ****...
           faking best predicts a survival
rate of this uncoiling...
it's a nation full of: self-
pre-determina...
                  automated prefixation that
can never allow itself to:
make sensible coagulations
of the odd sociable pint...

this atom world this atom's worth
of man...
best life lived as designated
to a harem...
  my and my leftover "blues"...
this world of god and the adventures
of...
no longer available...
thus this one "reality" presented:
playing by man's rules
for the purpose of man's eventual:
transcendence...
a dwarf riding a hunchback
        toward a goal that's a talking donkey!

what's otherwise best?
this has to be an: exercise in futility -
that it had to come from somewhere like:
borrowed prior -
that it could only be borrowed prior:
this tongue had to be inherited:
it could never be acquired -
that a native speaker is...
of a higher status to a bilingual -
because the earth breathes rights...

i forget: i am not equipped
with the desirable physiognomy -
problem being:
when i might find black males
attractive like i might lions: distinct...
i have this ****** on my brain
that says to me...
  well... well...
     i'm not gay.. but i'm certainly
not heterosexual:
even if Flaubert might ask the question:
blondes, brunetters - afro-beauties:
ivory envy?
  what can i do? fest on a hard-on
chemical "oops" / short-cut?
i can't possibly have... a beijing fetish?
a mongol fetish?
i can't? there's only one variation
of interracial mixing...
i guess... so...

     it would be so much easier
to just be gay and leave this world
with a ******* massive **** salvo
of: not coming back!
               to **** a black girl:
not enough...
to not **** a black girl: doubly knot...
******* a lemon while
staring at the sun:
the sado-masochism of
all the post-colonial empires...
and me: whittle ol' resurrected
******... or searching:
the elder prus - the new estonians...
some little european *******...
i imagine...
going to Kenya and running
for parliament:
to concern myself for the voices
of the: minority!

it's... fiddling with the already
prescribed narrative:
trying to make a lee evans jokes
out of it... but...
it's not ******* happening woe-o'-sunshine...
is it?!
it's not like i'm strapped
to a northern monkey
reservation... while still retaining
my: immigrant southern fairy:
commuter hell "debate":
this is not devonshire...
this is not bristol: i'd love to scoop
up a life of a decade's worth
up in Bangor... but it's not even that...
pay by way to:
a collective identity crisis of:
zee vest...
            
if it's anger: perhaps...
it's more a seance in glorifying confusion:
it was once perhaps a little
bit... naive...
but then... who's naive enough
to repeat two-folds of yesterday
within the confines of a day:
to- / to- are not future even
if subjected to incremental changes...
fx/dx changes that might
spawn alternate realities...

        the breaking of a donkey's dollars
worth: i do fishing in the indian sea...
with some... somali pirates...
it's not like i'll ever wake up from
this guilt... the guilt that might
riddle a people that inherited...
i inherited exile from my fathers...
i inherited: no...
the ****** aristocracy didn't tend
to their garden... there was no Eton...
no rugby no football...
there was only a partitioning...
to look toward the past is
an agony that i wish to only hide
in the english countryside...
after all, i thought: who would't want...
make a feast of conquest of this land...
but in a way that was norman:
that the anglo-saxon debauchery could
be... delianted
and brought to a celtic-esque heel...
with a dash of neo-paganism:
a york-up sort o' pie...

without disturbing this dilligent
people of: a most fervent... attention to detail...
it's an island... it's devoid
of any continental squabble...
no mongol ever... no ottoman ever...
it break my heart...
it reminds me: although it shouldn't
remind me...
the aristocratic class (they deem themselves
as much, so why deny them?)
of this country are like the ******
aristocracy
of the three partition "era"...
as napoleon was celebrated "elsewhere"...
with the resurrection
of the duchy of warsaw...
and... england made a beef from
a wellington...
and how the confederacy of germans
repaid the english during the first:
thirst for war...

                   a shogun's pride:
no one would invade japan:
given the persistence of pressure
from a civility of: glamour creases...
it's still the ******* canon rolling
the pawns and pins...

i have but this little interlude in time
to entertain: a history i have learned...
beside citing the obvious apple
hanging on a tree...
who? the burning vietnamese monk?
that's who i am going to... erase...
2000 (circa) years of history with?
this is how i play: conquistador-catch-up?!
this is my whittle muhammad
stage-fright?!

these new surgical masks are
not imitations of the niqab...
the arabs are not drying up their dinosaur
marrow reserves and are not
scouting for willing sodomite freshers
to their gargantuan wealth-soiling
of "morals"?
no? this is all... a pauper's conspiracy
theory... god!
i try to imagine the conspiracy
theory of kings!
it must invite a realisation of
a god or gods...
and at least a quarter of an abstaining
pademomium!

the poets and the sceptics
living under: the... gates are open...
a republic under "scrutiny"...
the philosophers and the
geocentrists - have allowed
for nothing more... than this...
thespian "bureucracy" of
shadow "fiddling"... tail with now:
tail best quite...

attention spanning the glorifications
of non-replica, generic
Solomon comes to the furore
front: then a mismatch
when the brain: swiss cheese project:
is treated at the Avignon
pontiff...
the harem and debauchery shifts
focus...
there's that "we're" and...
dumb-lasso-dumber than you'd
pay the libido of a camel with: for...

i have to always imagine myself
petting cats... or dogs...
to have to dissociate myself from having
perfect: the needs for either halal or
kosher demands of leather...
i best prefer the pipsqueak of
a meow to... an actual oink
in the litany of cogs and perhaps:
clogging up the machinery of
"jurisprudence"... as some Jain might...

borrow from... export very little to...
come the omnivorse of the east
and all succumb to:
boy-scout avenues of:
yes ss'ir...
most loathsome ss'ir...
                     i have to interrogate
the dead man as i am:
the best example of a cul de sac
of dreams: the...
pedestrian could mind not thinking:
imagine: imagine the corpus deity
of: unimaginable thought...
or one which has
an alias: unthinkable imagiation...

memory freelance architect prior
to noon...
is somewhat justified with...
a boredom of a cat come
5pm... but by then...
no cat is ever really bored...
and i have no need to concern
myself with dogs... or leashes...
or desires to: address a
workability of legs...
          to: give scrutiny when all
other examples are wheelchair bound...

he held a piece of paper:
between his hands... like my shadow might:
hold a butterfly...
exasperation:
that philosophers of ancient greece
said: poets begone!
no wonder this...
currency... of wanting to imitate
a petting of animals...
and... this thespian autocracy
that no elders could abide by...
it can still be excused:
the role of actors:
the role of shadow-thieves...

it can still be salvaged...
some of us are still the same rummaging:
in ruinous...
wordsmiths or... best...
plumbers... not some aspirtation
beckons for youth...
it must rhyme:
it must come down to: 2 + 2 = 4
sort of: flimsy poetics...

i'd must prefer to be a
homosexual plumber these days
that my very own mediocre leftover...
thank god i do not encompass
a courtship of a woman:
then imagine!
what did i do with my time:
that i do so much!
having made... so little money!
ghosts can't spend: ****!
i did with my time that
would not allow woman
to turn time into money!
thus i turned money into monkey's
play on elephant and
called tha pennies: p'p'eh-nuts!

  the old man dies:
the youth of man was never
supposed to be born;

god... this was supposed
to be profound?
with this idiosyncratic lost...
spontaneity of punctuation...
i take this reading as
a leverage for making
image: of an anchor dropped:
that would sink the ship.
r Jan 2016
I miss the holy ghost of her smile.
The silhouette of her head in the night
on my pillow. Her beauty alight.
  
She was rain on my fever. Rain
through my window. An innuendo
of heavenly morning light. Heart heavy
as the moon on its way to Montana
  wearing my blue bandana.
Martin Narrod May 2015
Martin Narrod  just now
I started working on a comment in response to "Filling A Bottle With A Tundish"

Sadly I must admit, that even for an American with a college degree, who is a self-proclaimed non-Philistine that grew up in a suburb of Chicago, IL. Where I'm from I've been told is much like some parts of Sussex(I believe it's Sussex), my friend Lili Wilde described it to me on an occasion.

So I must say martin, that for having a voracious appetite for language, language of all sorts, from **** to sin, to cinephile to cynosure, pulchritude to tup, exsuphlocate to masticate, irate, irk, perfervid, wan ewes thwapping their tails, nearly stridulating like the cricket in the thistle. The advanced undulate troche of domesticated shadows, and the sesquipedelien dulciloquent surreptitious diction and other floccinaucinihilipilification and tomfoolery about.

martin, please do tell me what a 'Tundish" is? If you haven't yet, there is a phenomenally interesting reverse dictionary, entitled onelook.com/reversedictionary , and quite contrary as it may seem, and for all the Virginia & Leonard Woolf I enjoy reading, especially his somewhat innocuously underrated novella he wrote, I also read with extraordinary gratitude Ted Hughes's The Birthday Letters, Take of a Bride Groom, The Complete Works, Sylvia Plath's Unabridged Journals, Ariel, Johnny Panic, Ariel, and other poems by writer Richard Matthews. I am still unfamiliar with this word, Tundish. Online dictionaries don't give the best explanation.

As I was mentioning earlier. The OneLook Dictionary-Reverse, will let you for example, search: beach sand. And in response it will give you up to thousands and thousands of word which relate to those two words, together, seperately, and opposing each other. Such as: water, swell, wave, arenose, peat, dirt, seagull, Pacific Ocean, suntan, bikini, The Beach Boys, vitrify. It's very fun indeed. From one Martin to another, I hope you'll stay in touch. I'm excited about your work!

Best Regards

Martin

P.S. The text below is the original message I typed before learning that my presumptions of you being Anglican were correct. Have a great day!

Another Martin, YES! How exquisite, I've never met another one. I have so many questions I barely know where to start. I love marigolds, nose-bags with oats, and as I started feeling the essences if equus and what lurking prurient pedagogy for the didactic zoology that took me and the mind of me to wonder perhaps if though I am quite certain(though not 100%) that your native tongue is English, but using that ridiculous skill-set of immense benality I seem to someone have, am I wrong for asking dear Martin, are you from Scotland or Wales, or maybe even from a country where you learnt English as a native tongue but it's your secondary language?

As aforementioned, there are a plethora of questions that this runnel of sludge and dross that've now arisen in the turpidity of your antiquary of delightful speech. To whomever invited me to play along in the debauchery, and dance merrily with merriment, mine younger docile succubus's slendering beside me, puking up their tissue paper and vegetable soup, so that my pretty girls can fit into Size 2 TuTu's, and learnedly imprison themselves into the tatterdemalion of portentously lurid self-****** and abuse. , and the opprobrious trollop-gossip the gaggle of my skinny victim women eschewing food groups, in order to appeal to my conservative eyes, thrice the child's wild idling to absorb the rancor of their stoic and noisome sedentary lifestyle in the polluted sudatorium that I myself don't use, but that these nonparticular Philistines would serve as Surf & Turf with glazed Christmas Hams for the Hebrews to eat, and another sad storm surge on another deserted quay of sea sands, and our vessel and our deserters, worshipping the Virunga, sacrificing the ghost skeletons of the million year old ape. So I ask you. If even you're capable of expressing yourself under the maddening yet advesperating evening listening to Miles Kane and The Arctic Monkeys, followed by listening to Black Sabbath play Fairies Wear Boots while we drink our childhoods free of the rod and **** the war out of our teenage girlfriends. And in the morning when awoken by the sound of Sopwith Camels arriving on the early, frost-strewn milky, azure-banded stripes of moonlit ecstasy that make for this unquantifiable gesture of succinct believers driving in Summer get stopped for blowing a rice-white swiveling consortium of dishonest affair rivaling ****** addicts, with hummus, plastic bags, and forks in their sphincters, while they autoerotically asphyxiate themselves in a plastic knockoff Mickey Mouse hat, and a Pirates of the Carribbean bandana wrapped around the ***** eyed nightmare of having unsuccessfully sedated a 400-lb crabby, Lowland living-room Silverback Gorilla. More than a primate and a prostate exam. It's like posthumously straining to push tingling 119° Vaseline through the grey and white coffee stirrers which spilled all over the floor while I was saying goodbye to our daughter, while also explaining to you why it's so important to me you love me back enough so that everyone has enough of a grasping glint at understanding yourself, that in managing to reason the arithmetic of such a conundrum and confusing calamity, a phone call free of dial tone happens to be surrendered to an independent Christian organization of the state while myself and my wife's two sons, our sons, Thomas and James, have enough free time from complaining to hire an attorney to disclose the arraignment reiterated by both legal council, city council, and the Screenwriters Guild of counsellors struggling from methamphetamine addiction.

Peace Be With You.

Martin Narrod
martin.narrod@gmail.com
Response to Filling A Bottle With A Tundish by Martin
Realeboga M Mar 2016
"Insecurities are the worst demons to live with", she stands at the podium.
"Can anyone tell me what insecurities are?", she stares in front, looking at the ten students who were presumed to be messed up by the school board.

A boy with a blue hoodie raises his hand.
"Insecurities are our fears of our fears coming true, it's the absence of feeling safe or secure. Which leads to an emotional turmoil of trying to fix them. To ignore them but ultimately they end up taking us", he speaks confidently as his head is bowed.

"Have you had your fair share of insecurities? ", the girl walks up to him and crouches. She notices the exhaustion in his demeanour, the pain, hidden secrets. And death in his green eyes.
He stares at her brown eyes, filled with sincerity and concern along with a dose of hope. She finally found them.

"Haven't we all?", a girl with grey blonde hair speaks up.
Heads turn and look into her direction.
She plays with the hem of her shirt,
"We started off carefree. Young and willing to explore, we meet people who change our lives who make worthwhile but then others. I don't know about them but they take parts of us and play with them, they toy around with them and then drop us. Like old unwanted toys. We begin to wonder, question our hearts, search our minds trying to figure out where we went wrong and that hurts. We then build unnecessary yet necessary theories as they begin to make sense.  That's when they lurk in. That's how we get them", her voice shakes

The boy with the hoodie sighs, "And to think that's only the first part of them", he looks at the lady and croaks his head, "Studies show that we can get rid of these insecurities but I don't know. I've tried all these measures all the ways of getting rid of them but they don't ever leave. They stay, they don't even lurk in. Shucks depression is nicer than being insecure. Depression leaves for a while. But this", he shakes his head and massages his temples.

The lady walks up to the podium and sighs, "Being insecure is a painful thing to experience because with insecurities comes more demons willing to take advantages of you, willing to destroy you trust me I know"

A girl with glasses begins to laugh, "Everyone here knows that Miss, we're all insecure, this could be in terms of our grades, our love lives, our family, our lifestyle, our sexuality, we are all insecure. But the question here is how do we get rid of them? How do we feel normal? How do we get rid of this insane feeling, the hostility we feel from our own selves. How!?" She pushes her glasses.

The lady sighs once again, staring at the girl. She closes her eyes, "I don't know. I believe there's no way out with insecurities. They manifest inside us, they evolve and they become stronger. All I do is face them head first. I stopped thinking and accepted them. I am insecure and I am learning to accept that I am not perfect"

"Do you think that's the answer Miss", the boy with a red bandana scratched his head.
"Acceptance?" His voice heavy with a British accent.

"You said you learned to accept your imperfections and here you are now. Talking to us about our issues. Does this mean you're no longer insecure?" He furrowed his eyebrows.
"Does this mean there's hope for us?" He smiled exposing his pearly whites.

The lady sighed, pondering on how to answer that.
" I don't think that's what she meant", the boy with the hoodie speaks up.
"What she means is that once we learn to accept them like she did. We can learn to move on. To live with them. And truth is they won't hurt us as much as they do now. I mean we know we're not perfect and its okay. It's about acceptance and appreciation of our scars"
Rj Sep 2014
Putting on the rainbow bandana  
A sense of pride surged through me
But only for a minute,
Then I walked through the halls,
Wondering who knew the real reason
I was wearing those colors
Dustin Holbrook Aug 2012
++every now and then i’ll look again
out an opposite window to see
the same things, in the same light
i asked for peace
and to fill my head with perspective
i’d look you in the eyes
but this recurring scenery
sets me back face down
where my eyes pierce the air
to the gouged and grave ground
the colorful bracelet i wear
doesn’t mean as much as i wish
you would
i’ll hang you so high
i’ll hang you from a street light
if it meant you’d be there
but we don’t have many of those around here
i guess the silo
would fit your ego
and the tractor will knock it down
to be collected and fed to the world
...
if i ever got the chance
to make my way to the moon
the only place
where you haven’t been found
i’d write your name in the dust
like atop the mountain
where we made love
but the wind was hot that day
and the woods blocked the sound
of the fault giving way
to our blanket and our bodies
so we dove deep down
where i’ve stayed until today
i’ve lived and breathed
all the air beneath the seas
in an open field where i cut my knees
the grass breaks to wheat
i was either born again or realized home was dead
and the high school i attended
tried to coat the walls in my tongue too
put a pump jack to my lips
tried to surface the words i said
but i’ll say it again, i’m mine until i’m dead
don’t make me say it again, i’m mine until i’m dead

++in italy, where all the roads are made of dirt
the pebbles make a sound
and whisper the rest of what we know
to the gouged and gravel ground
your fingers touch the stones
where your mind seems to seep
down into the earth
and back up through your teeth
your hair is cut so short
compared to what it was
your arm is torn to tethers
that keep your body bound
leather like the face of love
so beaten like the wooden screen
...
through and through, and threw
your scarf
into the wind
into the snow
bright beaming colors wrap around your lips
and into the drain
around the brick
i’d wish for the patterns i sleep with
to be everything they could
in the sense that light won’t ever slow
so pace yourself against the wind
the gears will turn as you type them in
the hammers have been built
and the hand shakes have been firm
coordination isn’t key
but opens the door to the fighting alone
but i’ll say it again, i can make it on my own
don’t make me say it again, i can make it on my own

++i want a movie inside my mind
like the arms of her dress
burying books in the sand
on a black, flat stage
on every morbid wednesday
(the beach blonde scars
on every bleach blonde head)
your face looks squished
from the weight of your brain
juggles ignorance
i’ve done things i regret
but wouldn’t take back
that’s called sorry
it’s all called something sorry
...
like blue synthesis capsules
full floating, flying
lick the side to make sure tiles flow
automatic black glass
opaque lights
glowing blue lines keep the glue on tight
hospital bracelets keep your archetypes
fatherly fatherly fatherly hugs
inside the apartment
kicking the front steps
porches absent on our heads
your green t-shirt
taken off quickly
and faded blue jeans
with no belt to lock them
ready and not waiting for no one to jump in
off the dock in new jersey
at the palisades cliffs
i felt the back of your neck just before your lips
the scars from your dad melted away
they morphed into something pretty
and i remember you gripped
on the wood where we sat
and all my dead cells begged to be brought back
as we both looked into the other
a blue blanket and a pillow too white to be confused
with anything other than something owned by you
apart so quickly, laid content and prepared
to wake up and die
like any sane person would do
(for us the tiny grains of sand meet the hanging paper lamps
lines next to curves next to lines
is a way to write what we said)
but i’ll say it again, i’ll never give in
don’t make me say it again, i’ll never give in

++clear plastic ridges
painted a lovesick sky
(cut the sun with the branches
your eyes, your eyes, your eyes)
timidly timidly timidly
you said look at the moon
but i’d rather see you
your face looks better sideways
like the way you walk
outside when the moons orbit the halo
you never folded up
or tried to conceal inside
like the treaty you signed
around the insulation
that dampers your thought process
that dictates your walking steps
(love and LSD
blood and rusted trees)
on top of the world
falling through the streets
the scents are the same
and remind me of safety
that i applied to the dimension of the squared and faulty
lines
buy i’ll say it again, i hate that you’ve absorbed others’ dreams
don’t make me say it again, i hate that you’ve absorbed others’ dreams

++(i would like to smell a pool)
i think we lost it all
but it happened while we lost ourselves
or we’re knitted together perfectly
so we’ll never understand the whole scheme of things
i wish you’d tell me everything
you’ve become a mold that all your friends will fit into
the opposite of trees
we will **** it down through our feet
(not through our teeth)
I will wear my bandana once again
blue stained gold
even your hair has lost most of the effect
that it had on my soul
colorado was a place to remember
where i remember you most
even though we never went there alone
should i be glad i no longer feel the pain
or sad it’s not there?
because what that entails is me  not caring
and forgetting that you even forgot
you’re forgetting how it felt
you remind me of my dad
how every thing’s connected
and you stay away from the earth
and touching the ground
and we know i’m intuitive
so it means something when i say things
it means i’m right on some phase
or some plane of things
don’t tell me you’re not falling because i’ve seen it too many times
to mistake it for anything other
than what the passed over people do
it’s hard to look forward
and tougher to take a step
part of finding what you want is saying it’s there
but catch up into the trailer
fibres into the helium we wear
the generations have not been remembered
...
(the murals on the walls fade to intersectional colors)
...
primary walks into a green room
and says we’ve never made a thing
to make our lives better
and he talks about what’s underground
he talks about the padding on the seats
how that’s where we should’ve stopped
we’ve been backwards since the beginning
we’ve been backwards from the start
but i’ll say it again, i’m alive, i’m falling apart
don’t make me say it again, i’m alive and i’m falling parts
Wraithlike shadows swiftly crawled toward a miami public chess table, dark green ivy growing along the fading checkered table top. the shadows slithered onto one of the benches, swirling upwards until they formed the shape of a dark toned young man, dressed in a long black punk-style trench coat. he wore leather gloves adorned with old runes, as was his black shirt and bandana he wore to keep his white hair back. there were a few chrome necklaces around his neck, the largest being a pentagram on a heavy chain. he sighed and waved his right hand over the table, demonic chess peices appearing beneath his touch, each one crawling with miniature demons on a blackened spire. he closed his eyes impatiently and let his dark aura spread over the surrounding area. the ivy on the table withered and died instantly along with the flora and fauna within a half mile of him. his eyes glowed a deep red
and his teeth, all of them incisors, extended into fangs. he was startled by a light voice behind
Him, "Leon. this is not the time." leon turned his head swiftly and growled, his features softening as he saw that it was the man he wanted to see. "Luminae... on time as usual. hows life in the Upper?" luminae wore a bright white suit, resembling human armani. he sat down adjacent to leon and waved his own chess peices into existence, each an angelic being weilding swords. they turned to be too bright for leon's eyes and he donned his red-tinted, coffin shaped shades. as the plant life began to regrow, luminae replied, "same as usual... holy war everywhere. i'm only allowed to see you now under supervision of three others." as he said that, three more men stepped out along the paths, clothed much like Luminae. leon half grinned, half scowled at luminae. "the boss had similar orders." leon snnapped his fingers and a trio of demons appeared next to the white clad angels. swords appeared
in the angels hands, ready to potentially cut down their enemies, but luminae waved away their
Suspicions. leon also commanded his overseers to remain shadowed. "you start, luminae."
luminae waved a simple angelic pawn forward, saying, "shame you can't join me in the upper, brother. how's the Foothills?"
leon countered by moving his knight, a grim reaper on horseback, dripping blood on the board, "dark... fiery... what else do you expect from hell?" he wore a deep scowl on his face as he said It, emphasizing the last word. "not a bit of sustenance as far as the eye can see.." luminae had seen through the disguise already, seeing that leon was little more than a charred, demonic skeleton, the fake-flesh creating what used to be the leon that they had known in their earlier lives.
as the chess pieces fell, they either burned or were saved by the opposing side. it came down to their final peices being kings and a single bishop on each side. luminae paused a moment, "you've gotten better at chess."
leon looked away, "its not chess... its a warning.. we are the bishops, luminae."
Luminae looked at leon, eyes narrowed to slits. "what do you mean, leon?"
leon sighed and waved a hand over the board, the peices disintigrating and forming a black scroll with bright red lettering. luminae dared not touch it, but read it, a look of shocked horror creeping across his face.
leon continued, "brother, boss wants me to **** you. you know what happens if we die again.." luminae nodded and waved the peices back into existance, seeing the Holy one as his king, and the ****** one as leon's. he looked at the bishops and saw in detail both of them, superimposed onto the peices.
"how long do i have to prepare, brother?" luminae gripped the hilt of his sword.
leon stood, "its already begun..." out of nowhere, tendrils of darkness wrapped around leon's arm and formed a jagged sword. the fake-flesh had begun burning away, leaving leon's true form, sinister and horrifying, shining black before luminae. empty eye sockets gazed at luminae and a hollow moaning shook the new-grown trees.
"goodbye, luminae." leon began to sink into the ground, falling into the Foothills. luminae watched as leon's guardians transformed into cackling ghouls and were released to wreak havoc on the world. luminae snapped his fingers at his own guardians, who followed the ghouls and destroyed them. "goodbye, brother..." luminae looked back at the four chess peices remaining on the board. he walked over and picked up the demon bishop, now safe to touch, depositing it in his pocket after clutching it tightly against his chest. as he touched it, he felt leon's sorrow, regret and anger. he felt little pity on him, though they had been like brothers in their pre-life, they were sworn enemies in the After. these chess games had been their only way to meet and relive a moment of their old life, granted by the High one and The ****** once every ten years under a neutral pact.
luminae also picked up his bishop and gave it a blessing, replacing it on the table for leon to retreive.
luminae sighed and
walked to the guardians. they all took a prayong stance and uttered a line of scripture, and then they were gone, leaving the park as it had been.
* *
Nero felt the intense flames licking at him from below as he descended. as he plunged deeper, the flames receded but the heat remained. when he finally touched the ground, he walked a winding path, past the ****** souls, each in their own private hell. nero scowled at them as he passed and stepped to a long sloping wall. he shook the gloves off his claws and drew a perfect pentagram into the side, opening a hidden tunnel system. he stepped forward and waved the door closed, then continued walking down the passage, the walls depicting numerous sins, ****, ******, deception, lust, and other such evils, all of which Nero had committed. he walked faster, to satan's chambers. the devil sat boredly on his seat, watching the same smokey images of his minions at work. "nero. welcome back to the foothills." the devils guardians set about beating nero until he could barely move. "you didnt ****
the angel, scaly *******. why?"
nero grunted and attempted to stand, "i wanted more of a challenge,
Thus i let him prepare."
the guardians let him stand. "interesting. but when you face him, you better have enough power to defeat him. i shall bestow upon you the power of ten thousand of my highest demons, do not come back empty handed, or each of their ****** souls will burn in your cursed chest."
the guardian closest to him and punched him in the spine, sending him to the floor. "un-understood... sir..."
a pentagram glowed on the floor around him, and he was bound to the spot. he felt a deep cold in him and then an intense burning as he was given the powers.
all according to plan...
*
luminae turned a corner on the golden street, the massive mansions towering over him. there was only one that he sought though, The Holy Ones' mansion, and his throne. he walked tentatively up the steps to the open gates, and stopped when he heard a commotion. he stopped and turned his head, seeing an angel, covered in runes, obviously a warrior as he had a fighter's vest and a sword in a
Scabbard. the angel had just jumped through a window and into a crowd of people, chased by a few Enforcer class angels. they locked eyes for a moment and luminae raised his hand, flashing first one finger then four. the one winged angel looked confused for a second and stood there in thought. luminae gestured towards the main gates, seeing the enforcers locate the one winged angel. the angel fled and luminae continued up the steps, hands in his pockets. *recruit number one...

* *
Ma Cherie Aug 2016
My Father: I Never Promised You a Rose Garden!
My Mother: Well I Never expected a thorn bush either!

I always thought it was quite funny
I remember this on sunny days
when my parents were driving my Father would ask my Mother if anything was coming from the other direction and he'd say:
"Is it okay George?
And my mother would say:
"Okay, Hit it Henry!!!"...I still have no real idea why...I remember and I sigh...
as a twinge of sadness comes sneaking in.

There were certain people that my Father did not care for and he would say they were snobs ..."****** intellectuals"... as a child I got confused by that but now it makes perfect sense....it was said without pretense.
I had to figure it out.

Without a doubt...
I have many fond memories of my family...especially my Dad, who really sacrificed more than anyone I've ever known
who sowed every seed he'd ever sewn
Raised 4 kids till they were grown
all the fading memories that I blindly used to perceive as bad...
have now melted into the Beautiful
They are now the things that endear me to them... as I remember...they make me smile for a little while.

My Father has passed now some five years... was born a simple man of simple means...
times for him or more than just a little lean
Shoes three sizes way to big
stuffed toes with old newspapers
a dresser drawer....fashioned Sisters crib
He was a Phoenix rising from those ashes
And he was never out of fashion...
a Master Carpenter... a builder of my dreams...
raising beams
dressed in denim bib overalls and a white T-shirt...a red, white and black bandana in his pocket to wipe his sweating brow

And now....ever since the day he died
I have tried...but my Mother and I now have this distant love
so I know he's still guiding me, and us from far above
I never would have made it this far
way too many scars...
It's a strange feeling to feel so very alone
feel like I have no real home
in the world...
I am a caretaker of an apartment....

I feel he would have done
anything for me  
he would never let me see...
such awful things
and be
down in such lonesome places
with strangers, such unfamilar faces
Or so I used to think

I've been at the very brink
Now I understand he wanted me to know
to struggle for my life and so I would grow
as even a thornbush would...
It taught me to be humble even when I couldn't walk
to listen and not to talk
even though I have my children, my progeny...
If sometimes I still can feel so very alone...
so no matter where my Gypsy heart roams
I carry those memories with me they are my church in the day...and in the night
I remember his final words
and I know.... it'll be alright
He taught me how to fight
and I am fighting beside him now...

I am carrying out his final wishes
I cook them in my famous dishes
My Father absolutely enjoyed the sharing of food...
Always was in the mood for something delicious...
So I sprinkle
them with his way
the things he'd often say
with his stoic compassion,
an understanding heart, so kind
I try to share his brilliant mind...
I am thankful that he wanted me and made certain I was here
His memory to me so dear...
with him I have no fear
Thank you Father
Thank you Daddy...
Love you Ma Cherie....

Cherie Nolan © 2016
I remember this banter between my parents and thought it was funny. Then I started reading this and it made me feel sad but it's all good it's all part of the process. :)
brooke Mar 2014
I have a hundred diary entries
that start with your name and a
hundred endings asking for help
a hundred theories on why your
response was so crass, a hundred
scenarios where I only say I'm sorry
I'm so, so sorry a repeated thought
where I despair over never being able
to talk cordially with you again, I don't
know why I care, why that photo struck
a lofty chord, why your beard bugs me so
much, see: June 2013.
(c) Brooke Otto 2014.
mother died today or maybe yesterday i can’t be sure  the telegram from the home says your mother passed away funeral tomorrow deep sympathy which leaves the matter doubtful it could have been yesterday - “the Stranger” Albert Camus

a misguided partiality exists inside me i feel safer around women maybe i’m fooling myself and women are equally capable of the brutal cruelties i associate with men i don’t know i guess i believe women hold themselves to a higher behavioral standard gentler more nurturing there’s another aspect to my belief women floor me i am totally vulnerable to a pretty woman but it must be stated my tastes run quite peculiar i prefer alternative looks and am put off by classic American glamour i guess the real deal is i’m a guy most comfortable among men watching World Series Sunday Monday Night Football despite the fact that if i were with a woman would be my greatest craving who cares what i think i apologize for opening my mouth

we are stranded by the side of road from out of nowhere a beat up gray truck pulls along side in a cloud of dust we cannot see driver from passenger side stubbly shaven mustached man wearing red bandana under tattered western hat in accented hoarse voice hollers out how much for the girl with terrified expression in her face her hand reaches for my arm i peer coldly into man’s eyes then glance away answering

a. what exactly do you have in mind

b. how much cash do you got on you

c. she’s not for sale

d. we need a ride

e. we’re lost do you have a cell phone

f. please leave us alone

g. all of the above

an extraordinarily attractive member of opposite *** runs into you on street in familiar tone of voice greets you speaking your name it’s been ages you look terrific i was just thinking about you the other day it’s such a wonderful surprise to see you do you have time to stop chat over coffee or drink i live quite near here please come over to my place let’s catch up i’d really love that this person then looks at you in a flirtatious seductive way yet you cannot place or remember where you know them or if you’ve ever known them you answer

a. yes

b. this is embarrassing i’ve forgotten your name

c. how do you know my name where do we know each other from

d. is it possible you’re confusing me with someone else

e. i have no idea who you are or what you want from me

f. all of the above

these are dark times every one acknowledges post-modernism post-911 is bleak jobless homeless callous frightful kali yuga no one nothing nowhere  is safe wars gruesome atrocities piracy blood diamonds **** mutilation theft deceit betrayal school yard bullying assassinations cyber espionage anti-depression drugs vicious video games why aren’t people making positive video games referencing cooperation affection happiness instead of Grand Theft Auto Vice City Call of Duty World at War Mortal Kombat what kind of world are we creating for future generations why does violence sell more than *** why is *** so unkind what kind of people are we better off dead they shoot horses don’t they what happened what’s happening why are we making this hell why aren’t we making better wiser more loving choices i don’t understand

in the late 1960’s early 70’s parents didn’t have money to buy their kids high school graduation gifts or perhaps the notion was not invented yet nobody had cars maybe a few guys i knew owned cars they bought with their own hard earned money everybody i knew who lived off campus and too far to bicycle hitch-hiked to school then hitch-hiked home every day for 4 or more years that’s how we all did it in Hartford i remember sitting in different adult’s cars indebted grateful looking thinking wondering will i grow up to be like him or her projecting connections

when i grew up it was a different time turn on tune in drop out in a way hippies were reactionary to all the modern progress atomic age we winged it by inexact methods that time is gone it is crucial at present to be coherent sober accurate mindful wakeful vigilant wary prepared 24/7 this history being written how will it be told i’ve been around long enough to know how these deceptions work we are all using feeding ripping off each other we give in to whoever wants us become whoever seeks to destroy us we disgust ourselves i’m astonished dumbfounded talk with me who are we please explain i beg you

who if i cried who would hear me among the angels even if one of them pressed me against heart i would be consumed in overwhelming existence for beauty is nothing but beginning of terror we are still just able to bear we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us every angel is terrifying – “2nd Elegy” Rainer Maria Rilke
Jonny Angel Feb 2014
All the good times I've had
happened when
I was wearing a red bandana.
It didn't matter where I was at,
sleepy towns,
ice cream shops,
near rivers or
on even mountaintops,
if I had my handkerchief on,
things were gonna be a-okay.

Love is a beautiful thing,
it's more beautiful
when your sigother
wears her own red bandana,
all through the night,
you can dance on paisley-stars.
Joshua Soesanto Jun 2014
menelan secercah jejak, jarak.
ku banting kembali kepala
terlihat senyum..
bergeludak

kopi brewing cerita blues
harmoni harmonica pecahkan riak malam
rasa cafe pinggiran kemang
hanya berpandangan, memungut senyum yang terbuang

hentakan arus 3/4
pikiran berbicara pada otak
rangkaian sajak mulut berteriak..
kata-kata pembuka, ledakan!

setelan 60'an, rokok ditangan
seruput pelan-pelan, hey fancy! kenapa sendirian?
bandana rock n rollan, Otis Spann berkumandang
hisap rokok asap dibuang, mata terkadang melihat keluar

halusinasi kafein kalimantan
sejenak melihat lesung tipis
menunggu sendirian
sesosok yang tak kunjung datang.
K Balachandran Jun 2012
Her greatest fear was
going color blind,
invoking domino effect,
she embraced rainbow colors-
whenever a chance she found.
Now, she walks at the front
as if she is the official bearer of colors
in our frenzied blueberry hunt,
up in the high ranges of Western Ghat's
tropical rain forests.
Our nostrils are special,
"colors we see, make us madly sing"
chants rend the air when-
fragrance of ***** blooms wafted in the air.
"Just like the smell when python opens mouth"
said a voice, to the uninitiated,

"Quit white, paint everything coal black,
or is it the other way round?"
"This place is magical can't make a choice"
"Look! I found a serious irregular lake down there"
"I didn't realize I was walking  in rounds, around a closed mall"
"White light is a cheat, pixie laid us  is in the village green"
"Y'll fall down"
"Green was what i asked for
got thick,red, gooey mud"
"Why panic?"
"Hey meet Mr.Yellow smile,
kiss him a pretty, magenta
***** thought, good night"
"I've a deep blue psyche,
in nightmares I see ***** whales"
"Wounded bleeding heart,
she was nursed back to health
it beats me,
she limped back to her old green monster"
"Hear that distant drums?
brick red monster of the woods
mating with a black cat"
"A ritual of the tribes?
is it meant as a crude joke?"
Sitting under a tree shade,
I hear for the first time in my life,
a white ant's dark wintry song,
lilting,  it spoke about the life
as the queen ant's *** slave.

"Hey love this ***** magical feat,
anything is possible,
how reality takes a beat"
"**** it, three times over,
on the bank  of the river,  then in water.."

"Blue grass, blue grass
sing all the way up to the mountain pass,
where ***** plants grow thick like ***** thoughts,
a nightingale in funky dress
singing  ***** songs and regale all"
"That lush lass, her hair tied with a red bandana
is a smart ***, **** her"
Someone screams in delight,
evening spreads a magical light,
more laughter, catcalls,
the sassy chick just LOL
Pass..pass

A big headstrong hornbill, surveying the scene,
gives a mating call
the hillside reverberates with its sound.

(C) K.Balachandran
balaprimus@gmail.com
Blueberry (medicinal marijuana strain) is abundant in Western ghat mountain range,Kerala, Southern India
dania Apr 2016
taking forever to open up and even
longer than that to close
it scares me how much she knows
here the truth comes here the truth goes
     here i am sought for sad
doubly ***** prose
can you tell me again how much she knows
    
as she watches onward i float off ****** propriety
      i am a ghost coming through the drift of society

does she wish
she could chain me here
does she wish she could change me here
i am a ghost stepping through
a different body

to myself i cannot be recognized.
  through things i love i remember myself
i see trees i see a breeze i feel
and conclude that
i am a person of ease

then i see spurting
silver
smoke
      and remember another part
of me and hope
to God it's not from another thing that I broke

she looks at me and I already feel what she knows
you are a breeze and fire as it blows
                 through a different body
       and it steps on my toes
tough chalk take it easy with all those throws
tough chalk take it easy on the hose
      why was she the one you chose
// // here she confesses to be a concept to expose
// //   here i confess to already know
// //  here she deviates from
internalized dialogue rendition
lending me renewal in my own special edition
          here the deviation is turn that suffices
                        to scare all existential devices
kiss the existential murmur away
here she faces me to colors parts i used to call my favorite of the day
    till she comments on the fact that i didn't notice they were gray
here she fills here she pours here i am floating on her insistence on coloring with elemental cores
here is a gas that makes me feel more lighter than higher
        here she gifts me brighter day
better ray. does more than she will ever say
not to be pathetic but i'm definitely hoping that all this coloring could forever stay
though i love her enough to send her away
     but  beautiful fire don't put yourself out don't
put yourself out. don't show me what's brighter
then gift me a lighter
then put yourself out.
 here i feel the reach here i feel
a gentle tug and it's
good for me, i can tell.

here I am laying in a light painted on for me
      and I am so happy to be living off a dream

performing live in this city here I am performing
live in a town
old lady don't tell me to come down
here I am learning names of
a crowd

I'll die before I lay ties to it and I'll live before I lie
to it

this is when survival feels tempting

but I shouldn't let a dream take me off another
if it was my dream to never be a bother
if it was my dream to lay low and live wild
Sophie Herzing Mar 2014
Remember how I'd smoke after school
outside your classroom window
watching you pack up your briefcase,
pulling your arms through your blazer sleeves?
Four cigarettes in a ring
between my thumb and fingertips,

an "okay" sign.
You preferred jean dresses with the hips cut out,
knee-high fishnet socks,
my hair wrapped curiously in bandana red
with my eyes outlined in black.

I stole condoms and Twinkies,
brought them to your apartment
after you'd call to unwrap me

like penny candy
on the mattress in the middle of your floor,
each tear in synch with the teeth
of your zipper releasing.

A green wrapper
and an empty trash can
next to my book bag.
You licked your fingers
after the last bite.
To my 11th grade math teacher
and all who came after me.
i saw a gypsy traveller in a caravan
bandana and some earrings a funny looking man
he said he would read my fortune
if i stepped inside read into my future and what it had to hide
he looked in to my palm to see what it might hold
then began to read this is what he told
told me i  would meet someone that i never knew
that i would find a loved one then one heart would be two
said i would settle down with a family
happiness and love there would always be
then i met a stranger while walking home that night
who i fell in love with the gypsy he was right
we settled down together and raised a family
the gypsy knew my future and told it all to me
Margo Lackritz May 2012
This is a Bleeping Bopping Boo.
Bleeping Bopping Boo lives on the biggest bandana in Boston.
Bleeping Bopping Boo eats ******* butterflies, blankets, blue bananas and bears.
Bleeping Bopping Boo likes beating up babies, belly dancing, bouncing on buffalo's back and abducting bananas.
Bleeping Bopping Boo breaks into buffalo bodies, blame babies for bad stuff, and blabber all day.
Bleeping Bopping Boo banged my back against a box. Oy the Bleeping Bopping Boo./Users/mlackritz/Desktop/Screen shot 2012-05-22 at 3.22.47 PM.png
Julie Grenness Oct 2015
On love and astral travelling,
Through the stars we're wandering,
On the universe we're pondering,
My eternal love, Napoleon,
Intangible man, but  full of fun,
Our jewelled cloak of stars,
We've journeyed from afar,
Shape shifting, glittering,
On love and astral travelling,
I'm no Carlos Santana,
I have no scarlet bandana,
I am the oestrogen,
Old Josephine,
Where haven't we been?
I have no testosterone,
You're my "Yes, master!" Napoleon---
On love and astral travelling,
Sentimentally wandering,
Are you Angelus or Incubus?
Reminiscing, reflecting,
Comical groupies for loving,
On love and astral travelling......
A whimsy inspired by music, the Albatross.
sapthepoet Mar 2013
Some people see the potential in you
And some don't
Many who see it are jealous
And want to destroy it or steal it for themselves
Even though they can't have it
Because it's not meant for them

Some people have nothing financial or
Little material things to give you
But they got your back for real no matter what
They put their time, energy, respect and faith in you
Because they love you and see the greatness in you
Before you even knew you had self-worth
Or while you were at rock bottom

And some are just faking the funk
Pretending like they like/love you
They’ve been acting like something that they’re not for so long
That they no longer care about knowing who they really are
That fake smile never changes like the joker from Batman
Just leave those people alone and let that stuff be about them
      


I don't believe in a having a big homie
I Trust in a God, or a mentor
And I don’t care about proving
How black I am, how hood I am, or how tough I am
By sagging my pants, wearing a red or blue bandana on my head, hands, or in my back pocket
I don’t want to carry a gun, knife or
Talk trash when I know I can’t back up what I say, to protect myself
I know what it’s like to run away from your pain, guilt and loneliness
By covering it up with hate, ***, relationships, ****, hanging out gangbangers and having a bad attitude
That’s in my past and I hated that person
Now I’m about appreciating life and staying true to myself

A professor once said in my philosophy class
I don’t care if people think I am a good or bad person
Because people are always
Changing their opinions
Based on how they feel or what they’re going through

I once saw this quote in a movie
A Bronx Tale “There is nothing worse than wasted talent”
   Don’t waste your time on things that aren’t important to your life.

By Shannon Pollard
© Fall 2013
r May 2014
No trains in this town
Not the passenger kind, anyhow
Unless you are a hobo
Riding the rail
Singing clickety-clack, clickety-clack
Dreaming of a girl
A pint of Beam
A lost dog named Woof
wearing a red bandana
Warm nights
Sunshine
Sweet Georgia.

r ~ 5/25/14
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
Inside,
you sleep on the floor.
Empty beer bottles
stain the edges of a
wooden coffee table.
Parking tickets
sit on the ironing board
that blocks the door.

Outside,
you smoke a cig,
tie a flag into a bandana
and snapchat yourself
tripping on route 66
because L.A.
swallowed you at Sunset;
white text quotes
Hunter S. Thompson.
You're so ironic,
but you'll never be him.
So desert your phone
and take a real trip.
The only way to be the person we want to be is to confront the person we are today.
Sam May 2018
You looked so beautiful
In your pink bandana
With your earbuds in
Listening to k-pop
And eating starbursts

But you seem to not notice me at all.
r Aug 2014
Out my window
the same world
different day, day after day

I want to grab my bolt bag
tie a red bandana
around my sweet mutt's neck
hop a train, act sane
for a change

Georgia's down the tracks a spell
and Birmingham's half-way to hell
New Orleans in September
sounds pretty good

Woof and me
living free
no cares to carry on our backs
singing clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

r ~ 8/13/14
\¥/\
  |.     Clickery-clack
/ \
Jon Tobias Jun 2013
I feel like a comic strip hobo
With no money for deposit

And still I step from slapstick to cement
and hope court jester is enough here

I have come out of the rain
and into your home
Drawn to you
Though there is no pie in your window
No ghostly fingers of your sweet smell
beckoning me in

You make me feel
Like a ghost in a graveyard
Praying for a new harmonica inhale
and exhale
So that this music can sound more like a dance for two
A panic waltz for feet trying to match your grace

And today
Darlin'
There is honey between my teeth
A sweet sound

Our love is backwards
Blacklisted
An elbow torqued and knuckle gutted dry heave halleluja

Arthur Miller would have written a satire about our love

I remember our early conversations
You said you didn't believe in god
I said that he was a fantastic literary device
You said though you didn't believe in god
that people themselves could be godly
I suddenly wondered what you would look like with a jerry curl
"Let's not call it godly," I said
"What then," you said
I don't know

I just know that
Your eyes are like second winds
like Breathcatch memories
of highway carjackings
where you were the one left on the side of the road

The warm summer pillow of your stomach
And the peel of my face away from it
Is sticky like candy
Your stomach is like candy in that way
So is my face
I can be sweet too

Your smile is speechless
like the speakers are speechless
And the music has stopped
and our bodies are still
save for your smile
That quivers like fire

And I am a comic strip hobo
With a bandana backpack
and not much to offer

But I am drawn to you

You make me feel like harmonica breath
You make my mouth feel like honey
Anthony Duvalle Aug 2011
I’m getting lost on this trail of my thoughts now I’m surrounded
Repressed how the shooter was dressed and how he sounded
Detectives saying recall’s selective, I’m not clouded
But it’s all boiled down to he’s dead and I’ve allowed it

The gun shots rang out, his whole chest caved in
Body hit the ground, the older folk began their praying
Shooters car peeling as soon as he finished spraying
My mind’s still saying there’s ways that I could have saved him
But
The concrete seemed to stick to my feet
I kept screaming, “You’re not dead, wake up, you’re just asleep!”
A horror scene homie always sees in his dreams
When nightmares control so much more than they seem
To
Checked the vitals, no trace of a pulse
Lost his life to some men who just shoot, **** and bolt
Men who rep to the death their colors, strapped with heat
But all colors bleed red when you’re lying dead in the street
So
I’m selling out my soul, my demons unleashed
Closing all my doors, punctuating the length of my reach
Giving up on school, teacher says she doesn’t speak slang
I retreat into my native land and run with the gang

I guess I wigged out, probably cause the pain was too much
Always kept in heart my homie, how his death was unjust
We used to smoke blunts, get down with the OPP
Now I’m busting shots, ducking from the C-O-P’s

After years of wilding out a gangsta starts to get ruthless
I could **** a man or worse, leave him tortured and toothless
Disrespect or debt mean death when you mess with my set
We’re coming quicker than a jet if the deadline aint met

I’m setting sights on stacks, a crazy train that ran off the tracks
I got a loco motive, loco mind, you boys best wear flaks
And my fury’s aimed at any lame that slows up my gain
Selling pure *******, it’s all about the cream up for claim

Controlling corners, got the junkies begging on knees
I got soldiers and I like your car so give me the keys
You got a bounty if you leave without paying your cheese
I got a Browning just in case police bust in yelling “FREEZE!”

Now I’m posted down the street a youngin holding his heat
Smoking joints of ****, waiting for the hit, breathing deep
His name is Johnny, at 5 on 10th walk el y amigo
But he owes me mons so homie’s got problemas conmigo
We tailed him two blocks, parked cause we’re starting suspicion
And police patrol this highway, sirens slow up your mission

Some stupid homies think they’re Tonys, I just sit back and listen
You gotta stand up with your heat if you gon’ come in this kitchen
But play my money, nothing funny, dummy thinks that he’s safe
Just cause he’s got himself a heat, and he’s been selling it straight

Who fronted you that coca kid? Who got you all that profit?
You got moved to the first class and thought you flew cockpit
I told you watch it, cheat me once won’t live to regret it
Cheated twice, so **** your second chance you’ve run out your credit

So yeah that’s me rolling up slow and smooth on you and your boy
I’ve got an *** automatic, fates been sealed, get destroyed
Lean out the window, load the clip, bandana as camo
Slow my roll, collect this soul, your time hits null with this ammo

R.I.P.

I’ve gotten lost on this trail of my thoughts now they’ve surrounded
I’m dressed as the shooter, the blessed stay far from round it
Detective’s saying my main objective was not found yet
But the killer crashed his car after killing and that’s what counted

My gun shots rang out, his whole chest caved in
Body hit the ground, I told you folk I wasn’t playing
I peeled off quickly as soon as I’d done the slaying
And now I’m rigid laying, a pool of my blood to bathe in
But
I couldn’t quit, I saw myself in this kid
Screaming, kneeling, not truly grasping what the killer just did
Eyes staring back, body avoiding doing a bid
Going too fast, a turn caused my Scion to skid
So
They’ve checked my vitals, no trace of a pulse
Led my life as a parasite, just basked in my faults
I guess I repped to the death my colors, but can’t you see?
My colors bled red, I join the dead in the street
Revised and full version of "Horrify, not Glorify"
Joe Stabile Aug 2014
Get that stupid *** grin off your face and kiss me!” And so I did. I leaned in until I was inches from her rosy lips, waiting for her to come the last little distance. She did so readily, with a warmth and a salt taste that I knew I could never forget. Her hand found my knee as I reached around to gently caress the back of her neck, my heart pounding in my chest like waves on the shore.
          We stayed that way for a while, exploring each other, while the sun beat down. I could feel it burning my shoulders and back but I didn’t care in the least. It was a passionate kiss, not wild, but it had the depth and quality that so few do, the feeling that only comes with connection. The waves gently rocked us, occasionally lapping over the side of the surfboard. Our legs hung over the side as we straddled the board for stability, the salty water keeping us cool. It was complete serenity; one of those rare times when there are no mental distractions and a person can completely lose themselves in a single moment. Despite the perfection of the moment, I couldn’t help myself and the thought of pushing her off the board again made me grin trough the kiss.
          “What’s so funny?” she asked with feigned innocence. I could see the twinkle in those incredibly dark eyes, the little spark that always drew me in and fascinated me. The countless little freckles on her nose were newly accented by her sun kissed cheeks, holding a slight rosy glow that was very becoming. My hand had fallen from her neck and I used it to playfully splash a little water on her leg.
          “Oh, nothing,” I said with a sly grin, “I was just, uh, thinking about how beautiful you look right now.” But she knew me too well, easily seeing through my fib. She had always told me that she could read secrets in my eyes, big or small. Apparently I just couldn’t hide the way I felt from her, but that was okay with me. I had never needed to hide anything from her.
          “Is that so?” she had a devious look in her eyes. God I loved that look. She bit her lower lip just slightly and played with a loose tendril of hair that had escaped her ponytail. Then she leaned back on the board with her other hand, watching me. She had done this so many times before, I knew exactly where this was going. But she also knew I loved it.
          “Well, actually I was thinking about pushing you in the water again. But then I remembered we were being nice to each other today.” I said the last bit with a bit of a wink. She had always said she loved it when I winked, so I purposefully used it sparingly. A guy has to have a few tricks of his own, right? She always seemed to have the upper hand on me, no matter what we were doing. She seemed to have me figured out as nobody before ever had. It was nice, to say the least, to have someone whom I had to work to surprise or impress. It kept me interested, kept me challenged, which is exactly what I needed to make me happy. She was a challenge. A beautiful challenge, and I loved it. It was exasperating at times, frustrating to work with, but I knew that in the end I would never have had it any other way. She was perfect as she was.
         A beautiful, dangerous, **** challenge is what was going through my brain as I sat there watching her. She had tanned this summer, her skin taking on a golden tone that made it irresistible to the touch. Today she wore my favorite bikini top. It was red and hung down in a small triangle in front of her chest, patterned like a bandana. Small drops of water still clung to her forehead and chin from the last time we fell off the board. She was, in my mind, a scene of perfection, and she knew exactly what I thought.
          “Well. Maybe I’m not in the mood for you to be nice to me right now,” her voice trailed off as she pulled her feet out of the water and placed them just inside where my knees were, just to where her toes barely rubbed the inside of my thighs. The movement brought a tingling sensation where we touched and brought my heart to a pounding beat again. She was still leaning back just slightly on one hand, playing with her hair in the other. Her back was arched inward, so that the triangle of bandana was extremely prominent. I knew what she was doing, but so did she. Her eyes traced up the board from her toes, up my chest, to my eyes. She stopped bighting her lip as the devious grin once again took its throne upon her face. **** that grin.
          “Actually, I know I’m not in the mood for you to be nice to me right now.” This time her voice was laced with seduction, barely audible above the waves meeting the shore 100 yards away. She slid her body along the board towards me, her legs sliding underneath my knees, my calves and feet still in the water. My heart was pounding out of my chest at this point, and my breathing was a little heavy. I partially hated that she could do this to me so easily, but she knew that above all I loved it.
          We were very close now, her thighs slid just under mine, her toes touching the middle of my back. I lightly rested my hands on her legs, the golden skin feeling like heaven beneath my fingertips. She still had her back arched and she knew ****** well how good she looked as she slid her hands up the outside of my arms, across my flexed triceps and up to my shoulders. She moved those rosy lips towards me once again. ******* she was beautiful. She stopped when her lips were touching my ear, I knew she could feel how tense I was, how fast my heart beat, how electrified I was by her. Then she whispered.
          “Sucker.” And with that she threw her entire weight over the side of the board, her hands and legs dragging me over with her. The salt water rushed up my nose and into my eyes, burning. I surfaced spluttering and trying to see again to the sound of her laughter. I stood up, the water only four feet deep out here on the sand bar.
          “**** you **** you **** you!” I did my best to sound angry, but I couldn’t keep myself from smiling through it all. She was still laughing, loving her own joke. I splashed water in her face, still dripping wet.
          “I hate you.” She knew that every time I said it, that I meant the exact opposite.
          “The look on your face as you went over. Oh my god. You totally thought you were going to get some on a surfboard. Oh my, pffft that was funny.” She was still laughing, standing a few feet away, having not defended herself from my frustrated splashes. The look on my face was a mixture of amusement and frustration. I knew she loved that look, it gave her some sort of satisfaction in having gotten the best of me. I watched her walk through the warm water over to where I stood, arms crossed in front of me. She wrapped herself around me, giggling, and reached up to kiss me again.
          She was always a challenge, this girl. Always a beautiful challenge.
N Schlegel Oct 2015
That American bandana in my closet?
I stole that.
Her mom liked me and let me borrow it for our fourth of July party,
and when we were giving our stuff back I forgot it was in my room.
Then I saw it and decided, this is mine now
I don’t think I’ve worn it since.
In the eyes of the law we call this an “adverse possession”
the intent to own and keep something that isn’t yours.
I know she’d roll her eyes if she saw me putting our relationship into legalese.

That stormtrooper nutcracker?  
That was a gift,
a Birthday gift,
an April Birthday gift.
Who the hell gives a Christmas present as a birthday gift?
She did.
I kept it.
And with gifts there is no “consideration”
which to lawyers means a bargain or exchange of promises,
a gift is a “I love you and want you to have this
because I like to make you happy.
But also, if we end I want you to look at this for the rest of your life
and wonder what would have happened
if we could have survived that last fight?”
You don’t get to bargain for that, you get the gift and the grief.
and she gets to know that you’re going to miss her every day.
Sometimes I wonder who the lawyer really is.

— The End —