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Song one
This is a song about tarzanic love
That subsisted some years ago,
As a love duel between an English girl and an African ogre,
There was an English girl hailing along the banks of river Thames
She had stubbornly refused all offers for marriage,
From all the local English boys, both rich and poor
tall and short, weak or strong, ugly and comely in the eye,
the girl had refused and sternly refused the treats for love,
She was disciplined to her callous pursuit of her dream
to marry a mysterious,fantastic,lively,original and extra-ordinary man,
That no other woman in history of human marriage ever married,
She came from London, near the banks of river Thames,
Her name was Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill, daughter of a peasant,
She came from a humble English family, which hustled often
For food, clothing, and other calls that make one an ordinary British,
She grew up without a local boy friend, anywhere in the English world,
She is the first English girl to knock the age of forty five while a ******,
She never got deflowered in her teens as other English girls usually do
She preserved her purse with maximal carefulness in her wait for a black man,
Her father, of course a peasant, his trade was human barber and horse shearer,
Often asked her what she wants in life before her marriage, which man she really wanted,
Her specification was an open eyesore to her father; no blinkers could stave the father’s pale
For she wanted a black tall man, strong and ruggedly dark in the skin, must own a kingdom,
Fables taken to her from Africa were that such an African man was only one but none else,
His glorious name was Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
When the English girl heard the chimerical name of her potential husband,
She felt a super bliss in her spine; she yearned for the day of her rendezvous,
She crashed into desperate burning for true English love
With a man with a wonderful name like Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya.


Song two

Rumours of this English despair and dilemma for love reached Africa, in the wrong ears,
Not the human ears, but unfortunately the ears of the ogres, seasoned in the evil art,
It was received and treated as classified information among the African ogress,
They prevented this news to leak to African humans at all at all
Lest humans enjoy their human status and enjoy most
The love in the offing from the English girl,
They thus swiftly plotted and ployed
To lure and win the ******
From royal land;
England.




Song three

Firstly, the African ogres recruited one of their own
The most handsome middle aged male ogre, more handsome than all in humanity,
And of course African ogres are beautiful and handsome than African humans, no match,
The ogres are more gifted in stature, physique, eugenics and general overtures
They always outplay African humans on matters of intelligence, they are shrewder,
Ogres are aggressive and swashbuckling in manners; fear is none of their domain
Craft and slyness is their breakfast, super is the result; success, whether pyrrhic or Byronic,
Is their sweetest dish, they then schemed to get the English girl at whatever cost,
They made a move to name one of their fellow ogres the name of dream man;
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
Which an English girl wanted,
By viciously naming one of their handsome middle-aged man this name.

Song four

Then they set off 0n foot, from Congo moving to the north towards Europe abode England,
Where the beautiful girl of the times, Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill hail,
They were three of them, walking funnily in cyclopic steps of African ogres,
Keeping themselves humorously high by feigning how they will dupe the girl,
How they will slyly decoy the English village pumpkin of the girl in to their trap,
And effortlessly make her walk on foot from England to Africa, in pursuit of love
On this muse and sweet wistfulness they broke out into loud gewgaws of laughter,
In such emotional bliss they now jump up wildly forgetting about their tails
Which they initially stuffed inside white long trousers, tails now wag and flag crazily,
Feats of such wild emotions gave the ogres superhuman synergy to walk cyclopically,
A couple of their strides made them to cross Uganda, Kenya, Somali, Ethiopia and Egypt
Just but in few days, as sometimes they ran in violent stampedes
Singing in a cryptic language the funny ogres songs;

Dada wu ndolelee!
Dada wu ndolelee!
Kuyuni kwa mnja
Sa kwingile khundilila !

Ehe kuyuni Mulie!
Ehe kuyuni mulie!
Omukhana oyo
Kaloba khuja lilia !
They then laughed loudly, farted cacophonously and jumped wildly, as if possessed,
They used happiness and raucous joy as a strategy to walk miles and miles
Which you cover when moving on foot from Congo to England,
They finally crossed Morocco and walked into Europe,
They by-passed Italy and Spain walking piecemeal
into England, native land of the beautiful girl.

Song  five

When the three ogres reached England, they were all surprised
Every woman and man was white; people of England walked slowly and gently
They made minimum noise, no shouting publicly on the street,
a stark contrast to human behaviour and ogre culture in Africa, very rambunctious,
Before they acclimatized to disorderly life in England, an over-sighted upset befell them
Piling and piling menace of pressure to ****,
Gripped all the three ogre brothers the same time,
None of them had knowledge of municipal utilities,
They all wanted to micturated openly
Had it not been beautiful English girls
Ceaselessly thronging the streets.



Song six

They persevered and moved on in expectation of coming to the end,
Out-skirt of the strange English town so that they can get a woodlot,
From where they could hide behind to do open defecation
All was in vain; they never came to any end of the English town,
Neither did they come by a tumbled-down house
No cul de sac was in sight, only endless highway,
Sandwiched between tall skyscraping buildings,
One of the ogres came up with an idea, to drip the ****
Drop by drop in their *******, as they walk to their destiny,
They all laughed but not loudly, in controlled giggles
And executed the idea minus haste.

Song seven

They finally came down to the banks of river Thames,
Identified the home of Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill
The home had neither main gate nor metallic doors,
They entered the home walking in humble majesty,
Typical of racketeering ogre, in a swindling act,
The home was silent, no one in sight to talk to
The ogres nudged one another, repressing the mirth,
Hunchbacked English lass surfaced, suddenly materialized
Looking with a sparkle in the eye, talking pristine English,
Like that one written by Geoffrey Chaucer, her words were as piffling
As speech of a mad woman at the fish market, ogres looked at her in askance.

Song eight

An ogre with name Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya opened to talk,
Asked the girl where could be the latrine pits, for micturation only,
The hunchbacked lass gave them a direction to the toilets inside the house,
She did it in a full dint of English elegance and gentility,
But all the ogres were discombobulated to their peak
about the English latrine pit inside the house,
they all went into the toilet at the same time,
to the chagrin of the hunchbacked lass
she had never seen such in England
she struggled a lot
to repress her mirth
as the English
never get amused
at folly.




Song nine

It is a tradition among the ogres to ****,
Whenever they are ******* in the African bush,
But now the ogres are in a fix, a beautiful fix of their life
If at all they ****, the flatulent cacophony will be heard outside
By the curious eavesdroppers under the eaves of the house,
They murmured among themselves to tighten their **** muscles
So that they can micturated without usual African accomplice; the tweeee!
All succeeded to manage , other than Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Who urinated but with a low tziiiiiiii sound from his ***, they didn’t laugh
Ogres walked out of privities relaxed like a catholic faithful swallowing a sacrament,
The hunchback girl ushered them to where they were to sit, in the common room
They all sat with air of calm on their face, Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
led the conversation, by announcing to the girl that he is Victoria’s visitor from Africa,
To which the girl responded with caution that Victoria is at the barbershop,
Giving hand to her father in shearing the horses, and thus she is busy,
No one is allowed to meet her, at that particular hour of the day
But he pleaded to the hunchback girl only to pass tidings to Victoria,
That Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya from Africa
Has arrived and he is yearning to meet her today and now,
The girl went bananas on hearing the name
The hunch on her back visibly shook,
Is like she had heard the name often,
She then became prudent in her senses,
And asked the visitor not to make anything—
Near a cat’s paw out of her person,
She implored the visitor to confirm
if at all he was what he was saying
to which he confirmed in affirmation,
then she went out swiftly
like a tail of the snake,
to pass tidings
to her sister
Victoria.


Song ten
She went out shouting her sister’s name,
A rare case to happen in England,
One to make noise in the broad day light,
With no permission from the local leadership,
She called and ululated Victoria’ name for Victoria to hear
From wherever she was, of which she heard and responded;
What is the matter my dear little sister? What ails you?
Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya is around!
She responded back in voice disturbed by emotional uproar,
What! My sister why do you cheat me in such a day time?
Am not cheating you my sister, he is around sited in our father’s house,
Is he? Have you given him a drink, a sweet European brandy?
My sister I have not, I feared that I may mess up your visitors
With my hunched shoulders, I feared sister forbid,
Ok, I am coming, running there, tell him to be patient,
Let me tell him sister just right now,
And make sure you come before his patience is stretched.





Song eleven

Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill almost went berserk
On getting this good tidings about the watershed presence,
Of the long awaited suitor, her face exploded into vivacity,
Her heart palpitating on imagination of finally getting the husband,
She went out of the barber shop running and ululating,
Leaving her father behind, confounded and agape,
She came running towards her father’s main house
Where the suitor is sited, with the chaperons,
She came kicking her father’s animals to death,
Harvesting each and every fruit, for the suitor,
She did marvel before she reached where the suitor was;
Harvested ten bananas, mangoes and avocadoes,
Plums, pepper, watermelons, lemons and oranges,
She kicked dead five chicken, five goats, rams,
Swine, rabbits, rats, pigeons and hornbills,
When she reached the house, she inquired to know,
Who among them could be the one; Akhatembete Khobwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya, But her English vocals were not guttural enough,
She instead asked, who among you is a key tempter go weevil car no lawyer?
The decoy ogre promptly responded; here I am the queen of my heart. He stood up,
Victoria took the ogre into her arms, whining; babie! Babie, babie, come!
Victoria carried the ogre swiftly in her arms, to her tidy bed room,
She placed the ogre on her bed, kissed one another at a rate of hundred,
Or more kisses per a minute, the kissing sent both of them crazy, but spiritual craft,
That gave the ogre a boon to maintain some sobriety, but libido of virginity held Victoria
In boonless state of ****** feat, defenseless and impaired in judgment
It extremely beclouded her judgment; she removed and pulled of their clothes,
Libidinous feat blurring her sight from seeing the scarlet tail projecting
From between the buttocks of the ogre, vestige of *******,
She forcefully took the ogre into her arms, putting the ogre between her legs,
The ogre’s uncircumcised ***** effectively penetrated Victoria’s ****** purse,
The ogre broke virginity of Victoria, making her to feel maximum warmth of pleasure
As it released its germinal seed into her body, ecstasy gripped her until she fainted,
The ogre erected more on its first *******; its ***** became more stiff and sharp,
It never pulled out its ***** from the purse of Victoria, instead it introduced further
Deeper and deeper into Victoria’s ******, reaching the ****** depth inside her with gusto,
Victoria screamed, wailed, farted, scratched, threw her neck, kissed crazily and ******,
On the rhythms of the ogre’s waist gyrations, it was maximum pleasure to Victoria,
She reached her second ****** before the ogre; it took further one hour before releasing,
Victoria was beaten; she thought she was not in England in her father’s house
She thought she was in Timbuktu riding on a mosquito to Eldorado,
Where she could not be found by her father whatsoever,
The ogre pulled Victoria up, helped her to dress up,
She begged that they go back to the common room,
Lest her father finds them here, he would quarrel,
They went back to the common room,
Found her father talking to other two ogres,
She shouted to her father before anyone else,
That ‘father I have been showing him around our house,’
‘He has fallen in love with our house; he is passionate about it,’
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya was shy,
He greeted the father and resumed his chair, with wryly dignity.


Song twelve
An impromptu festival took place,
Fully funded by the father of Victoria,
There was meat of all type from pork to chicken,
Greens were also there in plenty, pepper and watermelons,
Victoria’s mother remembered to prepare tripe of a goat
For the key visitant who was the suitor; Akhatembete,
Food was laid before the ogres to enjoy themselves,
As all others went to the other house for a brainstorming session,
But the hunched backed girl hid herself behind the door,
To admire the food which visitors were devouring,
As she also spied on the table manners of the visitors, for stories to be shared,
Perhaps between herself and her mother, when visitors are gone,
Some sub-human manners unfolded to her as she spied,
One of the ogres swallowed a spoon and a table fork,
And Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Uncontrollably unstuffed his scarlet tail from the trouser,
The chill crawled up the spine of hunchbacked girl,
She almost shouted from her hideout, but she restrained herself,
She swore to herself to tell her father that the visitors are not humans
They are superhuman, Tarzans or mermaids or the werewolves,
The ogre who swallowed the spoon remorsefully tried to puke it back,
Lest the hosts discover the missing spoon and cause brouhaha,
It was difficult to puke out the spoon; it had already flowed into the stomach,
Victoria, her father, her mother and her friend Anastasia,
Anastasia; another English girl from the neighborhood,
Whom Victoria had fished, to work for her as a best maid, as a chaperon,
Went back to the house where the ogres had already finished eating,
They found ogres sitting idle squirming and flitting in their chairs
As if no food had ever been presented to them in a short while ago,
One ogre even shamelessly yawned, blinking his eyes like a snake,
They all forgot to say thanks for the food, no thanks for lunch,
But instead Akhatembete announced on behalf of other ogres,
That they should be allowed to go as they are late for something,
A behaviour so sub-human, given they were suitors to an English family,
Victoria’s father was uneasy, was irritated but he had no otherwise,
For he was desperate to have her daughter Victoria get married,
He had nothing to say but only to ask his daughter, Victoria,
If she was going right-away with her suitor or not,
To which she violently answered yes I am going with him,
Victoria’s mother kept mum, she only shot miserable glances
From one corner of the house to another, to the ogres also,
She totally said nothing, as Victoria was predictably violent
To any gainsayer in relation to her occasion of the moment,
Victoria’s father wished them all well in their life,
And permitted Victoria to go and have good life,
With Akhatembete, her suitor she had yearned for with equanimity,
Victoria was so confused with joy; her day of marriage is beholden,
She hurriedly packed up as if being chased by a monster,
Alexander K OPICHO
(ELDORET, KENYA;aopicho@yahoo.com)

Okot the son of Acholi, hailers of Ladwong
The Husband of Auma the daughter of Acholi
The son of Gulu, fountain of African songs of freedom
I know your laughter is true toast of poetry
You only laugh because your teeth is white
Neither mirth nor joy is the pedestal of your laughter,

Okot I know how your mother, taller than her husband
was ever cooking by use of her legs, where the legs took her
Is where she ate, leaving you with anger of hunger
as you herded animals; Animals of the Acholi tribe
That has long horns which cannot give any gain
Okot you only laughed to show the whiteness of your teeth
Okot, you herded the animals in faith that you will pay dowry
That one time your kinsman will have you pay dowry with  the animals
The animals that scrofulously herded with a lugubrious look
that you may use in paying flesh eating dowry
For the Acholi girls which was a whooping one thousand shilling
and its kind worth is one hundred cows, or two hundred Lang’o cows
Okot how Nampy Pampy were you that
The long necks of acholi girls
The slender hips of the acholi girls
The sharp pointed *******
On their narrow busts
Made you accept
And goof foolishly
To pay such dear dowry?

They all made you desert your home when callow
Mostly unseasoned in your brains
Moving away from the beautiful
Land of Gulu going far to the land of money
In such of dowry for the Acholi girl
As you emotionally failed to disconnect
Yourself from the beautiful terrains of Gulu
To which you sang a poem of birth-place attachment
That; Hills of our home land, when shall I see you again?
Gulu, my home town, when shall I return to you?
Friends when shall we dance together again?
Mother, when shall I see you again?
Sister, my future wealth
When shall I again give you
a brotherly piece of advice?
Cecilia my beloved one when shall i
See  you and the beautiful kere gap in your
Upper teeth row again?
Or is only a dream
That I am leaving Gulu land behind myself?
Okot son of Bitek you remorsefully sang this song
As you moved away on foot in regular hitchhike
To Kampala the land of wonders
Beyond your bush civilization
You misfortunate son of Zinjathropus
The civilization you were bound to drop before the Nile
To leave behind the Nile before you could sing
The beautiful songs of the Nile; that wonderful ode
The ode that you sang in praise of Nile;  
Gently, gently, flow gently, River Nile
Move on, travel gently Victoria waters
Go and give life to the people of Egypt
As the birds at atura flew high beautifully
Diving into waters
To emerge with fish dangling on their peaks
And the birds sweetly sing that;
For us we have no worries
It is you travellers who are worried
We are in full contentment here
There are plenty of fish here
We have no use for money
Nile waters at atura are boundaries
For glory and suffering
For you the ones crossing it to Bugandaland
Be aware there is a lot of suffering
It is only the harsh world waiting for you there
Poor Okot son of Bitek peace to you among our ancestors;
For when you crossed the Nile into the land of banana
In the kingdom of Toro, Buganda and Bunyore
In their mighty city of Kampala at Namirembe
The poetic fountain in Makerere University
The germ of African burgeosie lumpenization.
When the young feudal land of Buganda
To crash a son of singh in the stampede of epilepsy
To Sent you  into a  poetic feat and berserk to bananasly sing,
Sing the nostalgic ballads of an estranged pumpkin
The true Acholi village pumpkin of Gulu,
Sing; sing your peasant ballads you Okot son of Bitek;
Bugandaland is the land of happiness
The land of great extremes
Sorrow; land of much wealth and dire poverty
Land of laughter and tears;
Land of good health and diseases
A land full of piety and stark evil;
A land of full loyalists and beautiful rebels
Full of witty ones and appalling nitwitted;
The land of the rich and the sgualorly beggars.

The hard hearted beggars
And that they only laugh the crying Laughter
The oxymoronic one of Okot the son Bitek
That they not only laughed because of mirthful laughter
But he did laugh to prove the whiteness of his teeth.
So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's table, man by man,
Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord,
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On one side lay the ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

      Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,--
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more--but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the ***** of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword--and how I row'd across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word."

      To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word."

      So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.

      There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind,
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd
There in the many-knotted water-flags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

      Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard?"

      And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
And the wild water lapping on the crag."

      To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand,
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word."

      Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,
Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud,

      "And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost forever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable, against himself?
The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake;
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.'
So might some old man speak in the aftertime
To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honour and much fame were lost."

      So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

      Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
"What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard?"

      And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds."

      To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands."

      Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword,
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the northern sea.
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.

      Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?"

      And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
But when I look'd again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere."

      And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
"My end draws nigh; 't is time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."

      So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words,
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.

      But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die."
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels--
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.

      Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream--by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold--and from them rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.

      Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge,"
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls--
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the dais-throne--were parch'd with dust;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter'd column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

      Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world;
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds."

      And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest--if indeed I go--
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

      So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.
BILLYtheKidster Jul 2010
I often wondered what thoughts were running through his head
as he stared out the window chained to the floor by his bed
watching the gallows being built that would soon seal his fate.
Was he planning at that very moment his last great escape?
Did he know then that his hanging would never come to be?  
Did he know then that before nightfall once again he'd be free?
What ever his thoughts he was interrupted rudely
by Deputy Bob Ollinger, one of his guards while in custody.
"Word has it you said that if we ever met again you'd **** me on the spot.
Well here I am Kid. Now's your chance. Show me what you've got.
It's a shame that you'll hang in another week or two,
because I'd love to be the one who gets to **** you.
I've got 16 silver dimes in each barrel of my shotgun.
I'd love to try them out on you, but I can't unless you run.
If I free you from those chains will you run for the door?
Oh by the way Kid, your Ma was one sweet ******* *****.
I'll **** you before you hang Kid. That's a sure bet."
"Be careful Bob," said the Kid, "I'm not hung yet."
" Bob thrusted his shotgun hard into Billy's gut.
The Kid looked up at him in pain and said, "Now what?"
"Don't do it Bob," Bell said angrily, "or you'll be the one who'll hang for sure
for killing a man in cold blood who was chained helplessly to the floor.
It's time for the other prisoners to be escorted across the street to be fed.
The Kid's not going anywhere. He's chained to the floor by his bed.
Anyway, I took the prisoners last so now it's your turn.
Go and have yourself a beer and I'll stay here and guard the Kid until you return.
Bob Ollinger placed his shotgun into the gun rack.
Before he left he said to Billy, "I'll see you when I get back."
No one can say for sure if the above dialog ever truly took place.
One thing's for sure. Ollinger tormented Billy at a merciless endless pace.
They were arch enemies who fought against each other during the Lincoln County War.
Ollinger was in the posse that killed John Tunstall, Billy's employer, friend and mentor.
"I have to use the privy Bell," Billy said to the deputy.
Bell kept his rifle trained on Billy as he tossed him the key.
Billy unlocked the chains that kept him bound to the floor.
Still in handcuffs and leg irons, Bell escorted Billy out the door.
Billy entered the outhouse closing the door behind him.
"Let's not take too long in there Kid," Bell said with a humorous grin.
While in the outhouse Billy managed to slip one of his hands out of his handcuff.
"You fall in there Kid," Bell laughed, "You've been in there long enough."
"I'm coming out now Bell," Billy said opening the door.
"Sorry I took so long Bell. I must have ate something bad for sure."
Deputy Bell then escorted Billy back to the jail cell.
Once inside, Billy spun around and smacked hard Deputy James Bell.
Bell lost his balance, dropped his rifle and was momentarily stunned.
"Hands Up Bell!," the Kid yelled. In his hand was a gun.
"Please don't do it Bell," Billy pleaded, but Bell tried to run.
The Kid had no choice but to do what had to be done.
He shot and killed Bell, then went for Ollinger's shotgun.
The Kid never found pleasure in killing, but Ollinger was indeed the exception.
Knowing that Ollinger heard the gunfire, Billy stood by the window
and waited for Ollinger to appear in the street down below.
One senior named Godfrey saw Bell fall dead down the stairs.
The moment probably gave Godfrey a few more grey hairs.
Ollinger ran out into the street as Godfrey screamed, "The Kid's killed Bell!"
Ollinger looked up into both barrels of his own shotgun and whispered,
"Now he's killed me as well."
"Hello Bob!," Billy called out with a song in his heart just prior to blowing Bob Ollinger apart.
He blasted both barrels into Ollinger's chest and face.
Pieces of old Bob lay scattered all over the place.
Billy smashed his shotgun in two, threw it at him but missed.
"You'll never rifle me again," he screamed, "you *******!"
On the balcony he addressed the crowd whose jaws hung agape.
"I don't want to hurt anyone, but I'll **** anybody who tries to prevent my escape."
In the office he found a sledge hammer and smashed the chains of his leg irons free.
He told Godfrey to fetch him a fast horse immediately.
As he walked down the stairs, he came upon Bell's lifeless body
and many eye witnesses admit
that The Kid looked upon him and said most remorsefully,
"I'm sorry I killed you Bell, but couldn't help it."
As Billy mounted the horse the chains of his leg irons startled the beast.
The horse reared up and threw Billy down onto the street.
He was at this point his most vulnerable laying down on the ground.
The crowd could have overtaken him easily, but none made a move or a sound.
Once again Billy mounted the horse and fled with the sound of his leg iron chains ringing.
Many say that as he rode out of Lincoln County that they heard the Kid singing.
Billy had escaped danger so many other times in his past,
but this was his greatest escape ever. It would also be his last.
Feel Oct 2012
Blunt,
your words and knives.
Rounded, as
you carve out my heart
with your painful prose.
While you enter my soul
through your impiety,
I greet you remorsefully.
I greet you impossibly.
Regretfully.
Painfully.
At the gates of my humdrum heart.
Tahirih Manoo Mar 2015
Thou wander'st desperately
Carrying thy frozen heart
in shaking, worrisome hands

Lack of love breaks thee
A beg of good fate- remains an unheard plea
Thy life an endless winter
without even a measly 'camp fire'

Thou art cold, unwillingly, remorsefully  cold
Craving warmth for thy forsaken *****
An ***** that has never been played
A thing thou carriest
An instrument called thy heart.
An ***** that has never played- the music of love.  


9:28 am- Tuesday, 3rd, March, 2015

Doubt anyone would get this..
sleeplessnxghts Nov 2013
I stare into the picture frame of life one year ago and I cannot see any truth in what once was, and what now is. The contents of the frame perpetually baffle me as I sense his frozen eyes seeping into my skin and devouring my soul. The naivety I once possessed is long gone along with the nightly tears and daily concerns. All I can think about is my last words to him, "Good. Get some sleep." Is that what people call closure? His heart no longer lingers inside mine, but it does haunt me every now and then. My scarce amount of trust was dumped into his intangible arms without a second thought. Many would find discontent in my scuffling around the past when all is already said and done, but I cannot help my mind from wandering off to the promises he made, the pain I endured, and the lessons I never learned. Trust, became distrust with him. Yet I always made excuses for his inexcusable behavior, and the words he daggered me with. I'm slowly recollecting all of the mistakes I made in falling in love with an disembodied, pain-stricken young man who could only be there in spirit. It was almost as if I loved a ghost. And what exactly brings me to recount every lost promise and every fallen out wish? His ubiquitous presence in my thoughts, the anger he provokes in my emotions. He's still hurting me and he isn't even here to see it, or care. He's moved on to his next victim, most likely telling her everything he told me and the girl before me. He does not tend to vary in his confessions of love. He'll stay on the phone with her all night and tell her that she's the most beautiful, amazing, best girlfriend ever. He will tell her that he cannot live without her, for she is the star in his black sky (yes he told me that). When will they learn that distance is the greatest weakness, not strength? When will he learn to leave the girls alone and be alone as he deserves to be? So stubborn he was. I am not sure what exactly I am searching for with this. Maybe I can't accept the "closure" I thought I had. I do not care what he is doing now, though I feel most of it is out of spite for me leaving him. One million questions lay beside me at night, cramming my brain with endless possibilities, but no concrete answers to ever satisfy my seemingly fixated mind. I am not bitter, nor am I jealous. I do not miss him and I do not miss us. As I stare into the picture frame of one year ago, I'm remorsefully regretted by the decisions I made with him. I will never obtain the answers I desire, but as the tears envelop my cheeks, I wish for all of the memories to flake off of the scrapbook and into oblivion, as if they never existed.
Mary Ann Osgood Sep 2010
It never made a difference what I did or didn’t say to you.
You didn’t listen to me either way.
I could have told you the truth all along and maybe
then it would have made a difference. But I’m too lazy,
and I’m too tired, and it’s about time I gave up for once.
You gave up on me straight away and I thought I could pull you back up.
I guess I’m not always right.
I guess I’m only trapped in what boundaries you give me.

You make me so angry, but its worthless pounding on the door of a sound-proof room. I did anyway, and it only made my knuckles raw.
You hurt me. Does that mean anything to you?

      I found myself screaming.
      I found myself losing it.
      I found myself in the middle of nowhere, with no one, and nothing to say,
      wordlessly livid.
      Every thought inside if me no longer made sense.
      It felt like I’d lost control of my own life,
      all because I lost control of you.

      I was simply a flea on a tick on a dog on a hill on an island in the ocean of the world, which is barely a speck in the universe.
      I was a moment that no one heard—especially not you—
      a tree that fell silently in an empty forest,
      a lie that was told to a dreaming deaf mute,
      a ransom held for 12:03 P.M. that no one can pay, that no one even understands.
      I was a thought removed from a frontal lobe
      (“Pass the scalpel,” whispered remorsefully from behind a doctor’s mask).
      I was trapped in a memory you’d forgotten,
      and it was all I can do not to be completely erased.

Remember me! I wanted to shout, for waiting was no longer hoping. In my own sharp memory, I was surrounded by ice. It was fierce, yet completely withdrawn into the open window of your soul. All I could see was debris and packed boxes, stacked upon each other in the clotted, fatal shape of a skyscraper. The darkness of your fond shape wrapped me within myself, when I thought I was wrapped into you. You led me down a path that you knew I would be lost on, and you left me there without a word.

       I’m still stuck in this desolate world that we created,
       and as soon as you think of me, as soon as you return, I will greet you:
       “Welcome to every second in despair, every moment lost, every
       minute growing angrier; welcome to the storm is coming, to running
       from the monsters that aren’t even there, to burning fevers; welcome
       to dead but alive, to quivering and empty, to uncomfortably full,” I
       will say.

“Welcome to loneliness.”
Sometimes I talk to you the best when you're nowhere around. Like there are things I can't address with an audible sound or an eloquent progression of adjectives and nouns when I feel the weight of eyes running across my face.
It's just the space in which I reside, communication commits suicide and I'll slide out something sly or a bad joke and try my best to let it go, because I know you don't hold it against me.
It's not that you make me nervous, I just render myself wordless. My vocal chords are worthless when the sensations are so heavy. Concepts seem obscure and on the tip of my tongue, but too scared to take the plunge. They turn back and run and my silence seems dumb, distant or despondent.
Sometimes I have too much to say, so I'll stutter to articulate a notion that would take me all day to actually feel like what I wanted to convey was done justice, or worse, I'll reflectively reiterate and ramble redundancies, rearranging rhetorical rumblings, remorsefully reaching to recite a redeeming rendering, like an OCD patient switching her light on and off endlessly because it didn't "feel" the way it should have in her mind the first time, the tenth time, the hundredth...
Though when I'm alone, it's a completely different scenario. Someday I hope you hear me speaking through the speakers of your stereo, and my words will flow and show concise precision of a vision with intention and you'll know, I sat there for hours to bring you that message.
I'm either speechless or I bleed an abstract sequence, the in-between is when I sing to apparitions or rewrite things I've written just to interpret my own cognition. There are no translators or subtitles for my kind, whose vanquished language is transmuted into music, tunes, or incoherently scribbled lines. Though I guess I should confess, sometimes I feel like you decode me nonetheless. I'm blessed to have a friend that knows the truth about my essence, beyond flesh, beyond silence, beyond expression. It's not like my thoughts are oh-so-profound or some ground-shaking revelation too complex to pronounce. But it's something about myself that I've found. I speak to people best when they're nowhere around.
K Balachandran Sep 2012
My reclusive muse,  realized her fault,
seeing me unkempt and miserable, remorsefully, she melts:
" kept you desolate, my love, it hurts my heart,
you have been sincere, it's my fault"
*she kisses with pizzazz, filling me with blazing fire.
Quentin Briscoe Sep 2013
Time

Through the memories of space lies time...time that we never had....but that time never stopped.... nor attempted to freeze in with the winter cold...just continued...moved along without us...and us with out it grew old...Forgetting that each other we were meant hold... So the hour glass ran out...and we grab on to somebody else...Speeding up the progress...of this collapse...That fragile moment we shared...that felt like years...that passed us by...and continued to fly..away..goes the hand of youth..as we move into maturity...and time never stops for you and me...more distance...as we remorsefully grip the arm of the innocent...and use them to blockade that space...that should be filled each others face..those lines on our faces aren't wrinkles..but a time line of every thought we had..of one another...of every thought we had that we wished time stopped... So we could find a way to share another second...but it never did so we're left with these scars of time..Security behind the heart of the wrong thing...and Freedom in the eyes of that which wont wait...Time slow down..like you did once before..in the perfect moment when we had time to adore...each other..but now we just hide..not wanting to be caught by the innocent.. for if time never stopped the reaction...of our licentious actions..it would harm the hearts we hide behind.... and then they to would have to would be forced to blame time...
ishaan khandpur May 2015
She whispered the hymn,
In chorus,
As she's supposed to,
As she's told to.

The writing's on the wall,
The holy wall.
The only wall.

The new world didn't believe in boundaries,
In division.
The world was one, but the people two.
The educated and the broods.

She belonged to the unquestionables,
The holy few.
The god among men,
Who kept the world true.

She read the words again,
Silently. Remorsefully.
She didn't quite get the meaning.
She wasn't supposed to.

But to the world,
The holy world,
The brave new world,
She knew it all.
That's what they told her.

The ****** girl,
The daughter to love.
Meant only for him,
The god, the King.

For that's what it's said,
On the Holy wall,
That's what they told her,
She guessed she read it wrong.

"The game was over,
And they never met.
The friend and the lover,
A match never meant."
Nathan Young May 2014
In the Valley of Death, I roam
Infinite Sins I must atone.
Battle-scarred and heaving,
Shadows behind me, creeping

For all is lost, but not forgotten.
A humanity that was once begotten.
Sadly, empty now; a mere shell.
A war rages inside that reeks of Hell.

Remorsefully, I cull the meek
to find that which I do so seek.
A kiss from those ruby rose lips.
pupils brighten, bearing an eclipse.

Confidently, I shall reclaim my throne
as I feel my heart becoming sewn,
but I must last through the night.
Hope conceived amongst stars shine bright.

Impossible which I once thought,
I have found what I have sought.
Content with my endeavors,
Shall we step into our forever?
jonathan valonis Aug 2010
Before I rest my eyes,
Slipping into those dreams,
I yearn to hear those screams,
Of pain and discomfort,
In every magnitude,
Not practical but quite crude,
This rudimentary knowledge,
Will cease to help,
As I remorsefully yelp,
Crying from the pain,
The tortured soul,
That lacks control,
In this self claimed reality,
Merely a lost mind,
If only life were kind,
Filled words and hugs,
Most just delinquent,
Like past and future statement,
Relinquishing that hold,
Before everyone grabs on,
Then weighing a ton,
The weight shouldn't be,
Place upon anyone,
This burden upon none,
Its why there's dreams,
I can never complete,
My smile will suffer defeat,
After my eyes have rest,
Awakening to see,
I still don't like me,
For who I want to be,
A person in love
In a water filled room, there float air filled white balloons,
Highlighted by the stars and the illumination of the moon.
Calmly they move about, carrying other men’s delights;
Suspended in motion but animate with spoken history.
Do they belong to me? It’s hard to say,
Though with a breeze of force I can call them all back to me
Flipping through them like the reminiscent pages of old memories
Some dear, others unclear, but surely they taught me how to tranquilly be here.

The sentinel that is the ‘All Seeing Eye’ strolls lazily with a golden scepter in hand;
A magical Lotus ring serves at his command.
Claimed they are, trapped not in balloons and sealed jars.
Alerted by sudden ripples in the room, he hurries to the sound of an imminent gloom.
A well out of nowhere blooms, sprouting endless vines and thorns; dancing to haunting melodies and tunes.
A from in front of him appears, commanding and with a face that sneers
Hypnotized by the sound of the beautiful sadness, he feels himself surrender his scepter and Lotus.
Though remorsefully he weeps, for letting the fear seeps, and letting go of precious keeps.
Where to start, to retrieve what is lost?
Perhaps back to the beginning, towards white balloons that keeps spinning afloat,
Only then…maybe only then will I give in to the sweet surrender.
I wrote this few years ago. Reading through it again, I realize it doesn't make much of sense. So, it must have been the rambling of an imaginative mind. If I'm to interpret it myself, it is about letting go of painful memories and surrendering the fight that is too scared to let it go.
Sometimes, we find comfort in pain, especially if we lived with it for far too long. I think it's because it's familiar and thus gives a sense of false safety.
At the time, I must have decided to let go and start anew.
Shaded Lamp Dec 2015
In the darkest hours of the night
The old house was filled with hush
Heavy rain splashed in moonlight
and a fox sheltered under a bush

Thunder clouds stalked overhead
Crashes and flashes of lightning
The old man sat upright in his bed
Each of his senses heightening

The wind groaned with mournful unrest
Thunder boomed like a kettle drum
Shadows loomed over the man so stressed
His eyes darting, his body numb

The brass door knocker rapped slowly
KNOCK ... KNOCK ... KNOCK
Fear suddenly gripped the old man wholly
Then rang the twelve chimes of the clock

As he began to chant "please leave me alone"
The door knocker rapped three more times
Electric shocks ran the length of his back bone
There was no escape from the clocks chimes

The portraits on the wall made their demand
He could not look into any of their eyes
Remorsefully he obeyed their command
Getting dressed to avoid his demise
A fist clenched around the pulsating pains.
Alone in my mind, no wins, no gains.
Too much time in my cold but sweating hands.
Wonder when the misery ends.
"Won't you come and save me"
I scream constantly in my head while the presence of others pass by.
But they flee.
No time, no cares, no worries.
That's what selfishness brings. Greed is always in hurries.
So I put glass to my lips and **** in the healing thoughts.
Hoping the research isn't true and I don't smoke until my brain rots.
She seems to be my only friend.
When I seem to be stuck at a dead end.
I can pick her up and she'll love me even if it's forcefully.
But sometimes I put her down remorsefully.
The clenching fist starts breaking my wrist.
Holding me down.
So I drown in my lonely depiction of my life.
QueenShakur3 Jul 2018
Strength ...
Strength is pain
Strength is fears
Strength gives you the courage to wipe those tears
Because even when life seems at the rear
And your **** near at the end
You have ah friend

Strength
See strength is like ah snake
It looks weak but **** dat ***** is strong
It holds on and grips so tight
Because strength is the intuition for you to fight
When you feel like youve done nothing right
I pick up the pencil n write
I lay these painful words down
Find a way to smile n be jolly like ah clown
But I decided  that ah frown is my favorite
Im not Gon front like I'm not hurt
I wear it proudly I wear it remorsefully
But see that's strength
Because even wit pain comes pleasure
You have to look deep with in to find that gold treasure
Whether you believe it or not
You made me this way
You made ah monster
And now you can't lay
But see that's strength because I never questioned myself
Ihade to trust
That I am strength n the strength is me .
listless clouds clash
remorsefully bright
in contrast to the darkness
of the sky behind them
poised to invade

when the darkness has won,
evil stars
strike up in flames
overtaking our dreams
through which we witness

furrows creep and widen
across the solid earth
ingesting clusters of ****** souls,
their cadaverous shades perfumed
by the misery of hell

and undermining tall cathedrals
which plunge with torrents of masonry
into the abyss,
their unfastened bells clamoring
out of sync and out of key

through the acrid dusts of hell
trudge trolls who,
bored and longing for meaning,
pilfer the cathedrals' rugged remnants
lying in slanted piles

we come to realize
we are the ministers of dead nations
for which any hope of renewal
has finally been extinguished,
masterfully deceived and depleted
by an anarchic emperor
who caresses the strings
of a dismelodious lyre

his lyre invites
the clouds to return,
this time energized and organized
into desolate vortices
that twist without purpose,
where even infinity dies,
the same multitudes of nothingness
in which we're finally overtaken

as befoulment is woven between us
and we are choked into sleep,
vainly we ask,
"why?"
So, what's the answer?
ryn Sep 2021
A swing slung low with weathered ropes
Worn, sun-beaten wood told tales of abuse
Once swung high - a vessel for the her hopes
Never once judged, even everyday a new bruise

It’d take her, accommodating her heart’s fancy
It’d carry her and cradle her fragility gentle
She’d forget her tears as she flew almost freely
Winds would whisper of a place far and simple

It’d scoop her up - made light of what seemed heavy
It’d drink up her laughter, release her captive innocence
It’d hold her aloft as it promised her safety
Together they’d immerse, in an intimate dalliance

Went on forever, as days turned into weeks
A girl and her swing, lost in their very own world
Alas the swing couldn’t offer the salvation she seeks
None could tell, what evil twist had brutally unfurled

                                     •••

A swing hung limp, silent as it woefully wept
Its worn wood sang only songs of stifled cries
For once it knew a girl, whose painful secrets it kept
Now judges itself remorsefully, as she fades and dies
Samara May 2020
There it lays,
my tear soaked
pillow case.

In clouds unseen
where they visit me
every night since thirteen

What am I to do
with no avenue to pursue
when they deny my inhibitions
and tell them they're forgiven?

I see what I can't change and
I can't change what I see

I want to want their vision
of tender, loving, harmony
but it feels like swallowing poison
treating my actions remorsefully.

I take each day
one at a time
unyielding to divulge
what comes to me as I lay
every night
on my tear soaked pillow case.
fire in her eyes Sep 2016
The day is cyclical
In subconscious routine
I bite my nails
Nails to nubs
And cry
About moments past
Out of reach, translucent
Like silvery ghosts
Frigid, festering, frosting
The blood running thin and contaminated
Through my veins

Lips stained
Recklessly, remorsefully, red
With the wine that impelled me
To allow you there again
Lips stained
Burgundy, begging, beckoning to you
"Come closer,"
They whispered, not I

The day is cyclical
In subconscious routine
I grind my teeth
Teeth to gums
And cry
About moments past
Fleeting, evanescent
Like fireflies at twilight
Flickering, flashing, flitting
Through my mind
I cringe at the thought of
Touching one
Jocelyn Aguilar Mar 2014
Engulfed in flames
I burned to ash
Then flew away into the blustery wind.
I am nothing.
Nothing but a speck of dust suspended by just the will of others.
I live because others want me to.
And it's ridiculous how I still feel the urge to please and fill the lives of others with joy,
Yet I feel numb.
The tears flow every night
And perhaps it's my own fault.
Funny, though.
Whenever I'm around you
All those thoughts of dropping dead
Or killing myself
Just vanish.
Even though you're the reason why I've gone suicidal,
I'm still deeply, truly, unconditionally in love with you.
It's toxicity courses through my veins.
I always thought I would die for you.
Now I'm remorsefully accepting that I will die,
Because of you.
****.
Why do I keep loving you?
ATL Aug 2019
a lone showman amidst a crowd
stands raised on a pedestal;
he wears a hat,
its brim is lined with bells,
and on the top rests a newly bursting lily-fibrous stalks of nescient life
intertwining with felt and chime alike.  

raising high his flowered cap
he remorsefully disclaims
“you once ate the sun!”
but these words are ignored.
the crude ringing of the chimes
is the only sound that brings applause.
The motions of your lips as they wrap around the words you say. Respectively disrespecting every piece of fact as fiction that no one knows what to live in anxiety is like.
What it's like?
What is anger but the misguided targeting system of a fathers hand to his sons face.
What is denial but a sweet cherry with a pit you chew on remorsefully. The sadness you feel is a bitter memory of every memory you had standing next to me.
like confectioner sugar
like snow in the worst of storms.
You covered us up like a scandal for double homicide when in actuality you left wounded
I lay on the ground gripping my skull hoping it would end.
What was the point of all the sweet words you spoke,
when you left with a wet cheek and raw throat
carminayasmin Apr 2018
Before me you sat framed
infused hypnotic eyes
with your liquor of sorrows parched at your left.

Tracing your fingers as they clenched each card continuously -
as if your mind was programmed by your own demon.
As each one failed, you were stripped of your dignity
your worth. You would then seep further into that chair.

Still I would watch, incase you drowned.
Then again the cards would pile upon the dusted table
and you threw them so feebly, so hastily.
And I held your time in my hands
remorsefully as it poured out my own creases
like sand.

You told me you were hurting,
the sight of this ripping paper, shredded by your eyes
only reminded me of how you once tried me.
I didn’t lose it for you, nor did you win with me.
5 April 21:06
It was one after the other with you
I always hear this word,
But they use it blindly,
As they project themselves downward,
In aspiral of chaos and confusion,
Leaving nothing but a meaningful weight,
That sends them to the feet of their hosts,
Like parasites that only know how to feed,
Sadly it is not in their capacity to realize,
That no harm and disgust is reflected onto their spirit,
But they continue to rot their own soul,
Excreting an immaterial gas,
Filled with toxins and emotions,
Feelings that make the insides of your stomach tumble,
Up and down then around the bounds,
Boundaries that they could never cross,
Because they are too young, maybe,
Too ignorant, slightly, remorsefully,
Going to schools and institutions,
Just to forget to ask, yourself that is,
And blissfully believing the facts that are handed down, like a vitamin pill,
A placebo that makes you smarter as it seems,
Beneath the soft exterior of a false personality,
Not fake, but inadequately you,
Not enough to be the own individual,
Living a lie handing down whatever the time dictates,
Never asking, why, because it is easy,
It is easy to fall away,
It is easy to hand out words,
That indefinitely hold meaning,
It is just a game of chance and luck,
In a head that refuses to ask,
It is so easy to make labels,
To project the self onto another who does not know,
To another that is seemingly ignorant,
But who is well aware,
But maybe decides to not give a care,
Never ceasing to wonder, why?
They are thousands of four letter words in the hundreds of languages,
And yet they choose to represent themselves in a word that they avert their ego.
Good ears, not eavesdropping, just loud whispers, and a paranoid mindset, given unending patterns, and stale overused personas
charles Jan 2019
i hover above,
the grave I have dug,
remorsefully of,
a pain so undone.
too afraid of myself,
just a cry without love.
and the family I loved,
my mind carefully shunned.
while i lie on the ground,
they all cry for a son.

— The End —