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Correctly he is John the Baptizer,
His birth was delayed up to late,
Late post menopausal age of his mother,
Elisabeth the wife of Zachariah the priest,
At the temple of the Jews in Palestine
During the regal time of Rome
As a world empire and a role model of tyranny,

Imagine conceiving after menopause,
During the nonagenarian ages
Of all the ages, in the nineties?
But she conceived John,
Was it true or mere sensationalism?
Or mere nerve chilling art style?
To hold the world audience a hostage?
I don’t know but  John was born
After his mother’s menopause,

He contrasts with Jesus
Born by a ****** Mary,
Imagine a Jewish ******
Without ****** *******
Became pregnant,
And gave birth to Jesus,
When Mary was pregnant
She socially visited Elisabeth
John’s fetus somersaulted,
Like a Chinese acrobat
Inside his mother’s tummy,
It was his baptism before birth,
But may be pregnancy of a ******
Has more strength than pregnancy
Of a post menopause octogenarian,

Hence the famous ode by Catholics;
In the name of Hail Mary
The mother of God
Most blessed above all women,

These post menopause pregnance
And ******‘s pregnancy without ***
Contrasts with Adam’s creation from clay
And Eve’s creation from Adam’s left rib,
Another super-sensational literature,
Or pataphorical art; Magical surrealism?

Let me not go dumb or mute
Like Zachariah when he believed not,
But no, I already believed ergo, my vocality,

Now why did John refuse to put on clothes?
Only to put on a skin of a goat,
Or was it a monkey Clobus,
The one which we in Africa
We are forced to ****
Before your father permits you
To face the circumcision knife,
John again refused to eat cooked foods,
He survived on raw honey and locusts,
Nuts, roots and raw fruits, dietician?

Or it was self denial or self immolation?
Like the one often displayed
by the Islamic statesmen aka terrorists
When committing suicide bombing?
No it began with the Japanese Kamikaze,
In preparation to bomb Pearl Habour,
I don’t know at all at all,

Now what of the howling in the wilderness,
Calling for people to baptism in water
At the riverbanks of polluted Jordan
And when he saw the Negroes
Among those who came for baptism
He called them the viper’s generation
Or were they Libyan Arabs?
And Jesus came, John went inferior,
He declined to baptize Jesus,
But Jesus pleaded for the service,
Then the dove opened the heaven
And came down to anoint Jesus,
Which heaven was opened?
Was the sky or the heaven?
This must be the writer’s Gnostics
Used to calling the sky as the heaven
Why the dove and why the heaven?

Then john again began doubting
Very genuine doubt I m telling you,
You see john began spying on privacy of the king
Was he also a night runner? Maybe,
He spied on Herodias the mother of Salome
She was a chic for the king; Herod Antipas,
This stuff threw John into  a calaboose,
Then John began day dreaming
Like any other prisoner
For his freedom and bush foods
He really missed honey and locusts
And also the fruits; Quavas and mustaberries,

He thought Jesus would come running,
Panting like a cheetah to pull him out,
Out of colonial prison, Jesus never came
Hence Johns doubts;
If Jesus is the Messiah really,
Can’t he come to redeem me?
From these colonial prison Herod,
Look; we are all Jews
In fact blood related Jews
And it is a year he has never come,
To pay me a visit when am in prison
Is he the Messiah really?
Or we still have to wait for a true messiah?

But Jesus was a rude messiah
Or Jesus was jealousy? Envious?
Of John’s spiritual competence,
I think he was wrong, totally wrong
He should have saved john the Baptizer
From the Roman colonial prison,
For there is no need nor spiritual logic
For Jesus to heal the lepers, and the blind
To resurrect Jairus’s daughter
And command the devils out of a madman,
But he could rescue his cousin brother
From a colonial prison, was it detention?
Remember Mary and Elisabeth were sisters,

John was a victim of circumstance
Like those who now languish in torture,
Torture chambers of the quatanamo bay prison,
Detained and tortured inhumanly
Without hope of trial nor justice
For no other reason but faith and race,
John was a harbinger of Sadam Hussein,
Osama Bin Laden, Mummar Gaddafi,
Nelson Mandella, Luther King, Dedan Kimathi,
Elijah Masinde, Arap Manyei and Mugo wa Gatheru,
They fought tyranny with firmness
They underwent torture for the sake of humanity,
They suffered for no reason but folly that goes with tyranny.

And finally, Salome the poet,
Living by performing the spoken word,
And Proceeds of her mother’s adultery
And vampirizing on the blood of the righteous
She came and danced in artful wickedness
by gyrating her ***** satanically
In the usual wicked style of a *****’s daughter
Sending the male audience nerveless with ego
Only for to suggest her prize;
As John’s head on the platter,
John was grisly mattered in the cells
Then his head was delivered on a platter
To Salome the poet the daughter of Herodias,
It all happened when Jesus was aware
Amid the full wind of his wonders
On the crest of his fame as the messiah
Isn’t saving the prisoner good as resurrecting
Young damsels and healing the lepers’?

But anyway, it is stark culture of Europe
To chop off the heads
Of those who oppose their tyranny,
It is not only John the Baptist that have suffered,
Suffered like this in the hands of Europeans tyranny,
The list of such-like victims is endless;
Mugo wa Gatheru was buried alive in Kenya
He was ordered at a gun point
By the British colonial police,
To dig his own grave using a mattock
Then the British clobbered and buried him a live,
On this brutal burial of Mugo wa Gatheru,
The Queen of England promoted these policemen
That buried Mugo wa Gatheru,
Kotalel Arap Samoia of the Nandi Militia in Kenya
Was shot twice in the head by the British spy;
The spy chopped off Koitalel’s head
He took it to the queen in heroic dint
And the queen glorified the spy,
Anglo-American power chopped of sadam’s head
Anglo-American power killed Mummar Gaddafi,
Anglo-American power Killed Osama bin Laden
They perpetrated all these without trial,
I am tired of all these………………
L B Sep 2017
My grandparent's house
ten-kid-large and sinking
on the corners of remembrance
Remodeled now, to
...tenements

Honeycomb
...the remnants

Irish immigrant and Scottish orphan's child
She sang on the ferry
He fell in love
"The rest is the history of us...."
Wide
as the Connecticut River, grieving--
in their sunset....
____

This-- chair
is his

I am afraid of it-- of his learning
of the shiny badge pinned to his coat
of his dying...
Golden leather of it
soothes
his memory--
of another continent
of the once warmth-- of a distant hearth
so darkened now--
where his head once rested
...his hands
and,
I fear--
his mind....

I will not sit in it
as if he will come back, to take his place
I am afraid of him--
with his chair--
all worshipful and empty
like a high place, abandoned
to the heart attack
not for grandchild play
Seat of Authority
still stamped
beside the standing cold--
brass ashtray
Pipe smoke imagines itself
against the ceiling in the words
of Yates and Milton
He read to them
and somehow--

Paradise is Lost....
_____

This house is cold now-- even in the summer-- cold
Worn as only large families wear
The War
of waiting shadows
--four brothers who were spared

Anna Mae, in charge, too young,
worries in abrupt dark
of dinning room
Her face, haunted--
an archway-- ever empty
by the large and ghostly table
covered by its web of lace--
a bridal veil
of Catholic impossibility...
Anna Mae, held hostage by her thoughts
of darling, Sean...

Aunt Lil's “breakdown”
with cigarette and thorazine  
quaking quiet in her corner

Aunt Nell,
as blind as smart-*** hell
ironing, darning
with threads that thatch
the wounded socks
Holds it all together, scolding--
Brought the welcomed jelly donuts
sneered as Yankees clobbered Boston
all-- while drinking yellow ale

Uncle Eddie-- laughing hoarsely
cracks nuts over a wooden bowl
Both of my grandparents died a year apart in the midst of The Great Depression, leaving four of their kids below the age of twelve.  The family struggled through it and WWII that followed.

My Grandfather was a police officer as were a number of his descendants.

The house enfolded them, sending their stories like flares across the generations.
AJ James Oct 2012
Everything I'm feeling inside
is about to capsize.
I can't wait for these thoughts to subside
or will they collide
with the terrible force of my mind?
I say, God help me before I am confined
and so naively purblind.

I'm trying to find my way
and this may sound totally cliche
but **** I'm so terribly lost
I feel like my plans have crisscrossed.
But I'm actually star-crossed
with my own thought
of how I've turned into such a crackpot.

I'm so gone,
I'm squandered.
Am I being absurd?
My visions are blurred
and like a blind man I'm clobbered
by all the words that I have misheard.

But watch me
as I achieve
all that I can be.
I'm not a fool
I just need to refuel.
Take a moment
to just breathe...

..........

And I'll be back in full force
straight back on this wild concourse.
I'm not here to enforce
or endorse, I don't care
what's wrong with your discourse.

You're on your own, I'm on mine.
And I'm finding out why
this life is not so divine.
But do not deny,
stop with your outcries
I'm just saying my goodbyes.

But I will be back
and with a smack
you'll never know what hit you
cause I'm gonna be so brand new.
Watch me achieve all I've dreamed
all that you have blasphemed.
Ron Gavalik Apr 2015
Laying in bed alone, again,
in gray boxers and a whiskey stained t-shirt,
half drunk at 3 AM.
The few rational thoughts still rattling around
are pushed aside by creeping madness,
clobbered by the disillusionment of worthlessness
and death.

Closing my eyes brings anxiety.
Fifty-foot brick walls erupt from the ground.
The walls tower over the bed.
The walls imprison me
from the beautiful, ignorantly blissful people.
THEY do not enjoy reminders of their racism,
their hatred, their greed.
When the inevitable arrives,
THEY will barely remember
the fat nobody, the over-read slob,
the abrasive writer, with no cash and
no woman.

In this sick fantasy,
two simple-minded jerks spew a few flippant lines
and that’ll be all she wrote.

‘Ever hear from Gavalik?’
‘Who?’
‘Big guy. Writer or something.’
‘I think he's dead.’
‘Really? These are some good mozzarella sticks.’
THEY really are.’
To be included in my next collection, **** River Sins.
Irwin Shishko Sep 2016
Ode to My Hero (Me)
           to be sung by Donald Trump
    with apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan's
                   H.M.S Pinafore

As a callow youth I served a term
as Senior VP  of  my Daddy's firm
His moxie and his money so suited me
that now I am the ruler of the Trump fam'ly

When asked a question,  my Golden Rule
is to bluster loud and flaunt my cool,    
And this evasion so well suits me
that I've become the master of chicanery.

With legal suits, I've made so free
that all my smitten lenders bow down to me
For I pay my lawyers so liberally
that I never lose a dollar on a bankruptcy.

If now and then my luck runs out
I've buckets of money from my TV route,
And since my ******* up name is Gold
the money keeps a 'comin from the young  and old.

For my great fame they pay and pay
and their paltry savings they fling away
on Trump U studies  they're sure to find, will empty their wallets, not fill their mind.

So listen and learn from my Trumpery
and join white men who hate Hillary
They holler hosannas for their hero DonT, though for Trump adulation they can't beat me!

My heads not troubled by policy woes
'cause I learn all I want at beauty shows
I've put up very well with my three wives,
my yachts & my mansions & my gambling dives.


I've exalted myself unsparingly
and tossed off little lies with impunity
Let fey foes fault me as vain & mean,
their rightful envy leaves me quite serene.

With my big mouth and red regal head
I've clobbered all my rivals until they bled
With frank contempt I dissed Jeb B
bashed Carson & Kasich and Ted's lady.

There's hardly a Republican left to fight
and,  in wimpy Dems,  I inspire fright
while fearful folks seek my mighty arm
to shield them all from ISIS  harm.

Now I've come to the end of this very fine Ode
to march with pride on the Presidential Road
For my boundless bluster's so elevated me
that now I am the ruler of the GOP.

If another Trump you aspire to be,
you must never, never fret about decency.
Just stiff the losers and brag like me,
and you may be the Grand Old Party's nominee.
jeffrey robin Jun 2013
Golf  club clobbered
The ball!
The ball!
HOLE IN ONE!

------
Hey girl !
Look! Look!
I am naked!
OH MY GOD
ADONIS
IS IT REALLY YOU?
----

My mind!
These words!
GREAT POEM ,EH?
__

Haiku?
From you?
NO WAY! NO WAY!
Kara Rose Trojan Dec 2011
A colleague told me how
“All poems are hate poems.”
And I battered this wondered
Clobbered up like mudpies flopping,
Topped, and tossing between
Palms. Qualms pulled apart,
Stretched, stringy like
Taffy, sticking tongue to teeth, why
We can barely spreak when
We touch upon love.

There is Love – and there is Hate – two sides of the same blade
That steams your blood –
Smoke signals to
Your loved ones that you – in one way or another –
Are still orange-warm.

In this forgiving House of Blue Light – singing of malefic effigies:
Christ Light. Water light.
Trickled dirt along the corridors, wood-swollen, too.

Grab the safety handles of Hate – embrace them, know them, love them.
Hate is the pause between heartbeats that exhales the light in your veins.
I really feel more than sad,
To know that thou art gone—Dad.
Dragged away by winds of time,
Far away to a very distant clime.
Leaving me upon shores of life alone
With a physiognomy but forlorn.
Such grievous news unto mine ear,
That nevermore to hold thee near.
Yes, thou art out of human sight—
But may thee dwell in eternal light.
And when my earthly life is over,
Searching thee I'll incessantly halt never,
But wend along the wildest river banks,
Clobbered by wild winds, nest upon trunks,
Journey myriads of galaxies on yonder
Just searching for thee from star to star,
Simply because till we ever meet again,
I'm doomed to languish in a vale of pain.


**REST IN PEACE DAD
My Dad passed away yesterday very early in the morning, honestly this is the saddest news ever to be poured into mine ear.
Oh Guardian of the Heavens, Earth and bitter Seas, may Thee please have mercy upon His piteous soul.
And on my knees, humbly I beg Thee to please enable my Mother recuperate as to live in blossom. She's all I have in this World.
Honestly, I really feel scared coz my Lovely Mom ain't in a good shape of form as well.
No words of a Bard can reel-
off how I truly feel.
I really need thy prayers, dear friends.
Julia Feb 2013
i.
He stands at 6'8" --
the tallest man I know.
With his deep green eyes,
large calloused hands,
and a gentle disposition,
he's seemingly harmless. . .
That's what I had always assumed,
until the other night.

ii.
I was playing guitar
in my own little world,
happy,
and was abruptly shaken out of it
when he screamed,
"I'm going to smack the crap out of you",
and went plodding downstairs.
Immediately, an image of my mother flashed into my head.
My mother
My 5'4" mother,
with her shiny hair,
fragile hands, and beautiful smile,
being clobbered by her husband.

iii.
Part of me knew that he
must have been yelling at the dog,
but that image was more than enough
to make me realize what he is capable of.
My subconscious must be displaying the
Faults
of my perception.
  

*How strange.
Mia Barrat Jun 2015
I only had one window in the world.

This window, like a scrawny kid, had been recently clobbered by the rain.

Just looking at the trickling rain made me all cold. That was when I pondered
all the things we
could have done
yesterday,
eyes closed,
lying above the sheets.

I thought about your breath close to my ear,
staccato, powerful,
like wind during a storm.
And I thought about our bodies: mine, cold; yours, burning - entwined, our bodies make a
Hurricane.
Then again, it is what it is. Your heart is cold to me; you think my heart is too feverish: you think it needs to be exiled, quarantined,
outside
underneath the rain.

ORIGINAL POEM (OR CHANCE TO ROCK OUT YOUR BEAUTEOUS FRENCH ACCENTS)

*Je n’avais qu’une fenêtre sur le monde.
Comme un gosse maigre, elle se faisait
tabasser par la pluie.
J’avais froid rien qu’en contemplant le
ruissellement. C’est alors que je pensé à toutes les choses qu’on
aurait pu faire
hier
au-dessus des draps
les yeux fermés.
J’ai pensé à ton souffle près de mon oreille,
puissant et saccadé
comme un vent de tempête.
Et j’ai pensé à nos corps: le mien froid, le tien
brûlant - entrelacés, nos corps font un
Ouragan.
Mais enfin, tant pis. Ton coeur m’est froid;
mon coeur t’est trop fiévreux: il le faut
exiler, il le faut mettre en quarantaine,
dehors,
au-dessous de la pluie.
Hey! If you'd like me to translate one of your pieces to Français, do ask! I love doing it and it's great practice for me.
Subhash Misra Jun 2016
I always say it: the eclipse is only about who occults whom
How does it become my opinion, a tonal bane, an as if
I could have stopped the collusion of the planets
Or I could colour the shadows green or crimson, if you wish,
But I do not control the cosmic moods; I don't even know when to say hello
I'm not clumsy, I have avoided death, and I have lived in the lap
Of uncontrolled waves, sometimes they die before I step forward
Sometimes after I try to spell her name in a language that I have learned
This was when my tongue curled as a poppy pod seeking drops of dew
When the moments for another journey arrived on the unwilling rickety bus
Early in the morning before the swaying bells lost their regularity
Before life could decide to sleep or fold the hands in a prayer
But that was only my imagination; the suggestions were
In the buzzing bees, or in the eyes that never let the moon out of sight
Shapes change in water, and also in the sky, depending on where
You look first. The dust on the solitary road to my village
Was deciding how we live our lives. It was a dictate, the only, opinion
That mattered. No matter how much importance I gave to my words.
Sometimes, I thought the strewn pearls were from a stanza of a poem
I hoped to write but got preoccupied by your eyes, living your dreams
I can't even tell you how beautiful they were because you may ask again
And I will be clobbered by my memories of what I may have said.
On an unintended day, you asked me the names of all the flowers I liked
I could tell you none because there were too many shades on your lips
I always got lost on straight roads, on the same bus that stopped only once
I forgot if this is where I wanted to be, where I wished to go remains buried
Too deep in the mind, lost its moorings because the way you had once looked at me
I remember you had once held my hand and said, there is nothing wrong in living
Blind, because we are all lost in our own ways, but having said that
You got distracted. I did not know that a cloud hold more than tears  
You let the evening lead you away, soothing it was. The wine was slow but sure
I watched the sunset without glimmers from any ghost, I had nothing to offer
My words sank into the sea, and swam like fishes over the reef
Before they too were orphans looking at the windmills on tranquilized waters  
I walked the shore clutching my thoughts like condiments from the east
Who possesses or profits by a long voyage through the inclement seasons?  
Spring could be one of them; as you smile away your absence
I clutch a bundle of hay, looking for some twigs, for the last winter day
The rain douses all fire fuelled by breathing meant only for life as I had
Sorrow is not about being sad, it is the infinity between us, a sedgy way
The lines are longer than the form here allows :) so kindly bear with me
to-day I had an acute attack
of the dreaded writer's block
whereby no writing would
surge into my pen's dock
this very event came as
a tremendous quaking shock
it clobbered me with some
power packing knock

in a few days my block
might duly subside
which will allow
a free flow to ride
but until then you'll
not see my penning side
that will be somewhere
on a becalmed tide

I've jotted down this verse
to tell of my brick wall
that is not answering with
an overly positive call
on getting my mojo back
into the ink well's stall
there will be a grand canyon
opening of my mall
Mia Barrat Sep 2015
Je suis née éblouie par la ville des lumières
and grew up in a city that once couldn't sleep,
dazed by the lights, my whole life I fled from
a heritage I wasn't told I could keep.

Je suis née des trottoirs, des rues noueuses et sales
and grew up on a block which remained much cleaner
than my conscience because I remember seeing
through blue eyes a black man being clobbered for a
misdemeanor.

Je suis née dans un pays où les fleures se fanent
and grew up in a place where the flowers were fake,
a house where anything that wasn't of plastic
was soon tossed in the sky, left to plummet and break.

Je suis née à Paris
J'ai grandis à New York
Je mourrai, ailleurs
Dada Olowo Eyo Mar 2019
Mounds of earth, mounds of earth,
Weighing down atrocities of terror,
Cut down in their prime,
Mowed down in their sleep;

One day, farmers,
Carved up, chopped up
The next day, cattle breeders,
Shot down, clobbered down;

A limb for a limb,
Toe for toe,
Mother for daughter,
Son for father,

Mass resting places,
Sit atop the plateau,
Home to many unknowns,
Poor victims of ignorance.
In Nigeria, Fulani cattle breeders and Middle belt farmers have been at war over generations and only more pronounced by political colorations, and the gort stories made prominent by globalisation. There's no genuine intention on the part of government all federal level to stop attacks and repraisals, some state governments appear to profit from the conflict while others are still a loss. But the numbers keep piling. SHAME.
JaxSpade Oct 2018
The race in my head
Leaves me bellowsed
And I can't catch up
To the thoroughbreds

The breath I once loved
Is lost in my lungs
Somewhere mulligrubed

Some would call me
Apeechequanee

Perhaps I'm
Upside down
Capsized
In realities
Taunting

Deep
In the roil waters
I sink in the thoughts
And miseries
Of the past slaughtered

I'm out of air
Short of breath
Winded
And clobbered

And as I inhale
Deep
Half the oxygen
Escapes my teeth
And I exhale
Exhaustion

I lost the race in my head
But I'm glad it's the end
Because I was never conditioned
To run
What it garnered
Stratus Jul 2021
You were always there at my side
Like a puppy
Wagging it's tail for my attention
But you only wanted more
You clobbered me  
Bit through my flesh
Then you'd lap up my gushing blood

I sent you back to the pound
But being put down
Wasn't what you deserved
Your ginger fur gleamed
Your eyes were so soft
Your heart was so bright
Your head was held up high

If only I didn't push you away
Then you wouldn't just be a memory
StrayRant Jan 2017
Eyes glaring the unbounded horizon,
Lying on the ground baffled with a hunch.
Asking myself what could be my purpose, the reason of my subsistence?
For decades I have scoured this Earth for answers.

Got lost in words, nerves cracking, knees shaking, teeth chattering.
In the calmness of the night, I lay on this cold hard ground.
Right before my eyes, vast of darkness swift into infinity.
Numbness grovelled into my anatomy, clobbered cold as death with this idiocrasy.

Trying to break the silence, to bail out from the fact of existence.
Depart secretly across dimensions, abscond all the recollections.
Turning back time can be option, yet puzzled who will do this notion?
Pieces aren't yet gathered and this voyage ain't over, I took a glimpse on the mirror and saw a stranger full of queries that needs answer.
Dennis Willis Jun 2019
Gluons abound in the eyes
with which you read this

Hanging on for dear life
clobbered by a photon
of verse

Wishing they were
phonons

Their grip is resolute
reinventive
of itself

Its wail a mostly wretched
song of I'm scared

of separation

The Island of Misfit
strings
entangles me

Grips are lost
time is misled
Thursday missing

Again

Inky bliss
surrounded me
drew out

the Elmer's

And I am unstuck
in time
and really
really
fine
My terrifyingly-terrifical reality warps under therapies psychiatrical
& psychedelical like no Atlantic tuna fisherman's scale pentatonical
upon oceanically-flat, perpendicularly-level sea planes capitalistical
while birds fly lower in an arid-zoned Arizona that's deterministical
& esoterical as men push thumbs up girly ***** for hikes strategical
after circle jerking to shows that're less proctological than athletical
but rarely & lamely ever, hungrily-raunchily-anorexically bulimical
I fork pitches into threshed alfalfa hay bales like I am pyromaniacal
and susceptibly prone to no ills local nor core diseases xenotropical
Hey largish woman, let us fish for warm regards at Cold *** Harbor before our freshest blue turds are totally stolen by a bold **** robber whose pushers are burned crack hoes with clap & an old **** jobber
fishing for the corpses of Frisco floaters with a *****-slotted bobber
off the Golden Gate where gag-happy girls have sold spit as slobber
while each ***** pukes peat & tosses penicillin as a mold-pit lobber
on leave from a Georgia chain-gang as a queer, unshod clod hopper twice demoted from flat-ball spotter to broken Hoboken hobnobber
who, like Hillary, survives on gray, vomited Hoboken squat cobbler
in gay museums & ***** ***** houses as a snot-clobbered shopper
resigned to tease, displease & nonviolently seize Herr Alvin Toffler
Pay more at Mary Tyler Moore's fish store on the floor of the shore,
with Al Gore on his global-warmin' tour to make wealthy men poor
Petra Jul 2022
These are our bodies.
Our bodies are whole.
Our bodies are queer.
Our bodies are disabled.
Our bodies are trans.
Our bodies are beautiful.
Our bodies are sacred and
Our bodies are so much more.
Our bodies are ours.

Now, our bodies are regulated.
Our bodies are controlled.
Our bodies are governed.
Our bodies are despised.
Our bodies are demonized and dismissed.
They are objectified.
Our bodies are not ours.

All the little children who will grow up thinking this is okay.
All the people who have been demonized by society,
Already clobbered over the head by oppression and
Stripped naked of their humanness, who were
Further stripped of their dignity and power this morning.
It’s dismembering the spirit.
Notepad Aug 2023
Our past can never be fixed
Amidst of a clobbered heart
Stitched each other's wings
Tangled up by strings
Bewitched in things
Till we both could sync
Our love never stops blooming
Even if hope was in doubt
But deep down
I know it
We were Happier
We don't feel the same anymore
But I wish you the happiest years forward than the time spent with me. I set you free even if my eyes were to tear. I'll be fine someday and one day will be free
Eshwara Prasad Jul 2022
The peace was shattered by cluttered minds.
Clobbered souls fled to caves of darkness.
Ordinarily, the weather
considered non trees
son us, a neutral subject on par
with non nose wrinkling odoriferous cheese
usually ranks as minor distraction,
without whether yours truly agrees

or not, except
during balmy temperatures,
an unavoidable tease,
whereat sub zero degrees,
whether Centigrade or Fahrenheit
demands human sacrifice

(me anima knocking knees),
no negotiating with Ole Man Winter,
he requests (lest
he continue deep freeze
maelstrom until the end of time),
nothing 'cept a healthy seas

sunned **** sapien to appease
his insatiable appetite
froze to the core,
when all body functions cease,
thus until onset of frostbite disease
transformed me into a human popsicle

obliging surrender of self,
no matter I always minded "p's"
and "q's", and adhered
to selfless decrees
not until that moment - this me's
lee sad excuse e'en for missing link,

said personal radar of this primate
suddenly went haywire madly wheeze
zing, as if giant hand (some
harried styled swiftly tailored
paw) did squeeze
traumatizing, suffocating, mangling

constricting, asphyxiating... sensation
(surprised muss elf, and all my enemies,
hence survived death as a breeze)
when similar to Socrates
ill fate found him downing hemlock,

necessitated, I reluctantly quaff antifreeze
as preservative, plus out of necessity to survive
being clobbered, buffeted,
assaulted...finally please
zing lee melting titanic iceberg
more bearable on par with a sneeze
than compared to frigidity of writer's block!
Nirvana protégé podcast/youtube
phenom quite mature
talented young lass promising future
media attention did capture
overnight starlet exhibits bravure
generates profuse nonstop
outstandingly positive conjecture

nine year old greeted in France bonjour
mademoiselle so innocent and pure
guaranteed future success
near anonymity one day
household name the next,
automatic fame secure,
whose beautiful swarthy
complexion compounds allure.

Courtesy technological tentacled
trappings everywhere
twenty first century raw
talent discovered anywhere
across world wide web
instant cash cow bajillionaire
clinched record deals guaranteed
linked immortal wealth crystal clear
financial woes never nightmare

flush electronic deposits buffer
sudden renown claim heir
reddit teary boosting
quantity kith and kin here
rilled predictable feigned
interest to care,
when yesterday no hoots given
toward young person's welfare.

Such simplification possibly doth err
grossly inaccurate, I aver,
rushed prediction unfair
nonetheless interesting how
forgotten friends and relatives spur
unexplainable long

atrophied well timed flair
to buttress crumbling complex edifice
long forgotten grudge doth disappear
tangentially madding crowd
metaphorical boatload relative
strangers ferried jostle appear
amazingly enough out thin air

human nature inexplicably fickle
another case in point here,
when yours truly did not roundly square,
among classmates nasty glare
but triangulated, threatened, teased...
convenient token (non smokin')
scapegoat bullies throve to scare

name calling, spitting, suckerpunching,
a curse this then skinny, puny, dorky...
boy never did dare
raise his non hazardous dukes fear
ring being clobbered, pureed, whipped...
perhaps thugs ******* my long hair
passively internalized deplorable angst.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2022
FUNNY THAT!

He was knocked out
by the Wagner.

It had fallen from
the first floor.

He had never liked
Wagner.

His body fell
in the shape

of a broken
*******.

Funny.
That.

Blood ebbed
into the snow

below his head
like a badly drawn

map of
Ceylon.

She had been throwing
her boyfriend's belongings

...out...out...out!

Clothes.
Wagner.
An etc. of her anger,

The Wagner was
barely scratched.

But the phonograph
was completely kaput.

There was more blood
than damage done.

The enraged young lady
went on to meet and marry

a postman who
adored Cesar Frank.

No one knows or cares
what happen to the chap who

owned
the discarded possessions.

The poor passer by in time
recovered and went on to

write poetry though
he had never written poetry before.

Funny.
That.

He never tired
of telling of

his great escape
when drunk.

Indeed he had been
very drunk that day.

Didn't know
what happened to him.

It never ceased
to annoy him when

he wasn't believed!
"Yeah yeah...sure sure!"

After that he never
liked music.

*

The phonograph missed by an inch otherwise he would have been dead but the Wagner record skimmed him just at the hairline so producing an inordinate amount of blood before settling on a bank of snow without even a scratch.


I had asked her how she had met her husband and she started telling me this tale and I thought she had married the guy she nearly clobbered but not a bit of it! She had got rid of
" 'orrible boyfriend" and all his things through the window and the passerby was just collateral damage. She disliked Wagner and "'orrible boyfriend" and the neighbour on the top floor came down to see if she was ok and that was that. Out with the old and ring on the finger for the new. She had heard him play Frank's Symphony in D minor in that long snowy month. So you could say she chucked Wagner for Frank.

The passerby boy was just unlucky is all and in time came to write a poem about it. Whenever he got drunk he would recall it all. They all knew it happened as there were actually eyewitnesses to the event but they would pretend to not believe him which drove him mad and to another drink.

Funny. That!
Mateuš Conrad May 2022
imitation Hebrew within the confines of
the English language:

how?
             apostrophes...

e.g. guns 'n' roses...
        but the same could be likewise
for another three lettered word...

    and 'n'...
             one and AND... you can clip those "wings"
from either of the words...

   but... obviously... it's not as popular...
to have to peer into a little bit of the niqqud...

let's face it... when properly digitalized
the apostrophe is almost indistinguishable
from the yodh...
                                   '               י

just write in Sans-Serif...
  or... hell... write in monospaced: י
    oh look... slight curvature of the Greek gamma...
being ****** by a chiral mirror:
   Γ...
  
      or how does this "clock" / "compass" work?
it's not Copernican...
the "lambda" off V: via: Λ...
   γλωμ (gloom)
                
             La La... La La...

in how many Greek letters is the iota the protagonist
of the key, keyhole and door?

i find three... ΞΘΦ...
no wait... i find four!
                            ΞΘΦ & Ψ

ΞΘΦΨ: that's the Greek equivalent take
on the Hebrew tetragrammaton...
will need to change that around a little...
to keep in line with the Hebrew ה... heh...

i.e.       ΨΘΦΞ...

the symbolism of this implies: either opening
the same door twice... or... opening two doors...
insert a key in: vertically: |...
turn it... to a horizontal position: ー

four ******* iotas by the end of it...
seriously...
if the Greeks wanted to have a new testament
conspiracy "theory" about an Egyptian
false prophet with the Hebrews
to undermine Rome...
sure... 2000 years "late"...

            but my antithesis is here...
and i'm not as sceptical as Emperor Nero
that the Hebrews relied on a "theory of fire"...
it's purely phonetic: perspective has taught me:

the disappearance of ancient Persian cuneiform...
of Egyptian hieroglyphics...
Chinese ideograms are no more ******* practical...
Japanese katakana is...
Korean Hangul is... there's no reason as to why
Chinese ideograms survived while
the other two writing formats didn't...

the god-eater that's the Hebrew deity became
******* with the people who used these phonetic encoding
methods... the Chinese never enslaved
the Hebrews...
but even the Hebrew deity must have been
a bit ******* with his people
when it came to undermining Latin...
it's... still here... and it's already entombed in
electric technology...

you can't undermine the Latin script...
not now...
you can't get rid of it...
           it would be a bit like coding using
either Hebrew or Arabic when doing
modern mathematics using the Latin
method of VI + IV = X!

isn't that amazing?! architecture constructed
from... no real demand for numbers...
for a mathematical language...
i've already mentioned it:
not even because of hindsight...
we don't owe the Arabs or the Hindus for
the invention of numbers...
we already had them:
simple example that the ancient people
used letters as numbers...

what's 1? I... iota...
what's 0? O... omicron...
what's 6? b: beta...
what's 3? epsilon E...
         what's 9? P... rho...
what's 4? loosely G or P again...
what's 5? S... sigma...
           what's 7? gamma or el L...
2? that's zeta: Z...
8? B... beta... hey presto!
                 letters morphed into numbers...
it was already here: within us!
maybe Arabic numerals helped...
or Hindu numerals...
              who cares is chess was invented in India:
football was invented in England...
as was rugby...
chess isn't a replacement for religious fervour...
it's not an EVENT sport...

i'm not going to be thankful for the Arabs
"inventing" numbers for us "ignorant" Europeans
since i see... letters that morphed into numbers...
precisely because the ancient Romans
used letters as being synonymous with numbers...
they could interchange a phonetic measure
to a spatial or temporal measure...

no ******* this time round...
i'm not having this deity-eater that i much admire:
regardless shove kippah ******* pancakes
under my bed pillow in some crucifix excuse
of "suffering"... nein!

tried with the Germans... fail...
well... the resurrection of Israel... so not much of a failure...
but i'm not going to get clobbered
in the head... get Islam shoved down my throat
because: Gaza is still not part of Israel...

and no! i'm not going to be thankful
for the Indians or the Arabs for the existence of
numbers...
we already had the letters that "sort of" represented
the numbers... we already knew that
letters could be used as both letters and as numbers:

ergo: VI + IV = X!
Though the necks
sighting of Ichabod Crane
humungous horror
helplessly harassing,
hellish hyena howling,
hideously hounding,
headless Halloween
hair raising happening,

regarding haunting
horseman spectre,
not due to arrive
(in gremlin, golem, and
goblin crawling theaters
everywhere in outer limits
of twilight zone),
come October thirty first

two thousand, and nineteen
divination trap
pings can never
be implemented overly
soon - to satiate subhuman
scary sightings,
sans mine ineluctable
supernatural drive

biz ease, this (gopher broke,
phantasmagoric over seer
grown wunderkind,
passionately rousing spooks,
where this droning
necromancer named
Matthew Scott Harris),
asper undertaking

luckless ghostly endeavors
also oft times finds
meat hoo experiencing
aborted, cancelled and retried
aim mush carriage
(i.e. thwarted, ejected,
and clobbered miscarriage)
off base when out fielding

paranormal activities,
qua catcher catch can
pseudo boxing
exaggerated shadows
striking mine attenuated,
elongated, and invoked
Hades monstrous silhouettes,
viz jugular vein bleeding

(heart liberal)
burnt umber umbra
pitching one dimensional
brokered, bricked,
and bracketed
wall size grotesqueries
detailing bloodless battles
silently creaking within republic
of my imagination.

— The End —