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MY FROG MASTERS

How thoughtful were the rainfalls
To water our gardens and flowers
The flowers spread wide garments
To celebrate their terminal beauty

The joyful frogs occupied my pond
To orchestrate their vocal prowess
They taught me to take blind leaps
Like lightning bouncing in the skies

Squatted, stretched, beeped down
I was a millstone on the pond floor
My slippery pond mates wondered
How soft I was in the maritime arts

Mortally rescued in a muddy mood
The clouds sent in rescuing showers
To confirm my firm loss to the frogs
Like a grain of salt cast into the seas


673. MONEY BAGS IN THEIR BODY BAGS

The money bags shopping for their body bags
Waggled through the makeshift supermarkets

Their ancestral homes they plotted modernity
Like the general gathering fine forces together

To the villages they made to return with pride
Like pregnant elephants caught up in the mud

Their desolate villages are deep and sickening
Glowing flamingly in the crucibles of local gins

The dusty and gravy pathways are like furnace
Burning the leather off from their frozen souls

Traditional birth attendants cut off their cords
And zipped the money bags in their body bags

674. A GLORIOUS DAY

The new day spoke powerfully
Like a war making superpower
And his voice roared forcefully
Like the skies forced to shower

The sunrays came dynamically
Like love responding to silence
Beauty crawled in submissively
Like the mixed arts and science

One eagle soared energetically
Like lions feuding in the colony
Far clouds relocated peacefully
Like souls betrayed to harmony

The breeze sighed thoughtfully
Like horses galloping on the lea
Inspiration unfolded thankfully
Crowns monuments with a pea

675.  THE FOG BANK

The sun had gone to pay our bill in the fog bank
The world foggily crawled into the strong rooms
Darkness demonstrated her strong mindfulness
Provided for the strong gale with lurking shrieks

The black paint billers snowballed to our dreams
With the bill of exchange for wild sunny excesses
Ghostly bats emerged with the bill of indictment
In demonstration of our acrophobic dispositions

We packaged the sunrays for our folk memories
To reassure the day of our eternal followerships
We cherish our follow-throughs in our dark beat
To usher the sunlight out of the hollow fog bank

676. THE PROTRACTED INTERNECINE FEUD

These things had happened before we were born
Like sulphur deep into our fresh hearts they burn
Now we stumble on the bumpy terrains in horror
Like one frightened by ghosts in a standing mirror

The internecine feud has razed our men of valour
With their carcasses dumped in their cold parlour
Our community cattle graze in the barren pasture
Like the unrepentant sinners awaiting the rapture

For our plight the once glorious sky is grown pale
Like the ***** fetching territorial waters with pail
The storms have rolled off the catalogues for rain
All our efforts to mop up the mess end up in vain



677. THE AREA LEADERS

They cracked coconuts on the heads for the crown
And embraced our days with their castaway pollen
Sadness and sorrow have dyed our garment brown
With the strongest song sung when night has fallen

These are the blinding dusts from our barn’s grains
They breed cunning serpents in the soft pasturages
They are failed cargoes on our broad societal trains
They dedicate our common committee to outrages

Now our days seek deliverance from their tentacles
Like the colourful fields immersed in gloomy beauty
They play our eyeballs with the stenciled spectacles
With our consciences to sight and found us off duty

To rescue us the colossal clouds were born gadarene
Our communal life was willed to pageants of gaieties
Then moonlight stories held us for a larger gathering
Now all the objects we sight dress up like cold deities

678. THE LAST DESCENDANTS

The rapacious thunderstorms ***** the skies for their tears
The hot embers were born to glow mourning the late forest
The moon crawled out of the blue like a great grandmother
Cuddling her descendants wrapped up in her ancient shawls

The wild waves were weird weavers weaving withering wails
The captioned wigs gyrated on stunning shoes upon auctions
The little creatures crouched in primeval baskets of the night
To gnaw at the generational tubers in the creative farmlands

The dazzling specimens of dentitions relaxed in water basins
Like bright red artistic architectures on potent ocean boards
Golden hearts glow in the threatening prisms of the furnace
As beautiful sunset defines her beauties in her nightly corset

It had been a sweet pill for the past descendants to swallow
Depending on the colonial masters for loaves, lore and lures
Our creativity had been packaged in their mortal depravities
Like the tranquil days resting sorrowfully upon the dark oars

The centenarian thunders downgraded our minute whispers
We had been kept upon our toes by the eternally sworn foes
At last our worthy artworks have worn their wormy catwalks
The refreshed dawns greet our easting days in their greenery



679. VICTIMS IN THE VALLEY

The victims in the dark rally
Caged, dried and browning
Therein their meanings tally
With waves born drowning

In the depth of a cold valley
Horrible nobles are cultures
Like pilgrims in the dark alley
Willed to ravenous vultures

The victims all robed in tears
With hearts like potter’s clay
For pains they have no fears
Only mimed games they play

For victory awaits the victims
Alien to a blind mimed game
Glorious are eternal rhythms
For death Christ died to tame

680. THE GIANT SCARS

These are our giant threatening scars
Engraved on our demonstrative heads
Our sympathies crawled on superstars
Weeping for us on their moonlit beds

They threatened us with nasal sounds
Like thunderclouds seasoned to burst
For us their galleries are out of bounds
Behind the iron bars plagued with rust

Our patience passed their wildest tests
Like the lions roaring in the thick jungle
On the heart of the Lord our faith rests
Like numbers posted on the right angle

681.  A LADY

In a lady’s handbag
Is her hidden hunchback
Stuffed with her heart ache
For the pains relieving groom

In a lady’s tender smile
Is hidden miles of similitude
Marked with the zebra crossings
For the ever winning marathoner

In a tender lady’s heart
Is hidden her cowboy’s hat
Soaring within the white clouds
To soothe the earth with the latter rains

682. BRING BACK OUR GIRLS

Bring back our homesick girls
Their vacant cradles are bleeding
Bring back our innocent girls
On the chariots of fire descending

Bring back our suckling girls
Their feeding bottles are weeping
Bring back our infant girls
Their mothers’ ******* are heavy

Bring back our harmless girls
The united universe is thundering
Bring back our dewy girls
In the sharp sun rising in the skies

Bring back our beautiful girls
Like light plucked from darkness
Bring back our glorious girls
Aboard the shore-bound waves

Bring back our worthy girls
On their fresh faces our lights seek to glow
Bring back our living girls
Our fountains of joy are bubbling to burst

For our returned girls the skies shall bear
Roaring rivers, singing seas, chiming clouds
With gongs and songs, pianos and praises
Dulcet dulcimers and documentable dances
With healthy hymns and eloquent embraces
All nations shall into a common cathedral flow

683. ****** GENEOLOGIES

They electrify their demonic high tables with old fears
Only their ****** genealogies are bookmarked to reign
The sight of their portables whetted our eyes to tears
We are reinforced by the clouds born to the later rain

Our skins have renovated the sickening cattle wagons
With our dreams flying upon huge smokes in the skies
Beneath their tables we abridge their creaking jargons
Upon their floors with our generational landmark tiles

The dew drops dropped like old crops upon our brows
To soften the veils falling to the flaming edged swords
The flaming hearted sword of the penetrating sunrays
Born to pluck us alive from our hotly bandaged bruises

684. LET US SPEAK UP

The light is climbing downstairs
And danger is sprouting abroad
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is melted on the glades
And terror grazing our eyelashes
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is late and lately buried
The mourners are on danger list
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light has divorced the grave
Her grave clothes are dew dyed
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

Silence is a forgotten tombstone
Lost in the din of cold morticians
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

685.  THE SUN

The sun smiles on all prescriptively
Like the waves spreading on shores
The green grass glows descriptively
Like the full moon upon dark sores

The sun is a tailor fixing the buttons
Preparing the sky for incoming stars
Like the weaverbird weaving cottons
To conceal the day’s damnable scars

The sun is a marker on diurnal pages
Tall grace he bestows on the flowers
The sun retains his graces for all ages
Bees and butterflies are his followers

Our common laughter is endangered
When sun bows down in big setbacks
All mortals have the starlets fingered
When the night comes on drawbacks

686. UNTIL HERE

(For Lou Lenart and his team)

Their floods came seeking Jewish bloods
Like streams they roared for our dreams
They emerged as columns of soldier ants
Like whirlwinds they zoomed towards us

Until here we were crumbs for the reptiles
Until here we were like airborne cloudlets
But here the sudden change unveiled to us
From here the elusive victory embraced us

With skeletal jets we fought like bold lions
Soared like eagles and spoke like thunders
We conquered columns of invading armies
The bleeding armies turned back and blank

From here we turned from victims to victors
From here enemies’ defeat our greatest feat
Upon this memorable bridge it all happened
Victories leapt upon our pool like joyful frogs

687.  JOY UNLIMITED

The fledging sun offers its rays
And the rays offer golden trays
For our joy a platform to spray
Rowdy paratroops like thunder
To scoop roses from pure oasis

Our joy is ripe upon celebrations
Our celebrations with decorations
Decorations with documentations
Documentations for all generations
Generations in our joyful habitations

688. ANOTER RAINING DAY

The dark clouds are wandering river basins
Spiral bounded by breakable outer casings
The rivers and the seas display empty cups
For the swift blessings descending the tops

The rains come as defense troops’ missiles
And the drowning lands look like imbeciles
Now we are groaning in the watered claws
With the liberated scales marking our flaws

The retreating clouds crawl away in a belch
Dumping the missing cargoes on the beach
The winds bow in a state of shock in a cord
Praying and fasting for a visit from the Lord

689. GRANDMOTHER

Grandmother, please wake and get up
The sky is quarreling with her husband
Soon they will spill their freezing sweat
On our bodies for us to catch dead cold

Grandmother, please sneeze not louder
The sky and her husband are quarreling
Soon they will send old floods like gales
To sweep mankind away from the world

Grandmother, you are everything I have
My moon, my sun and my morning stars
Provoke not the couples with your cough
Lest they refill their greasily wraths again

Grandmother, the big reptiles have come
With their lethal grandchildren following
They are laced with secret burial shrouds
With sympathetic tears tearing their eyes

Grandmother, I kiss you a shaky goodbye
With broken pains roaring within my soul
Grandmother, where are your groundnuts
To conduct my solo heart as you sing away

690.  A NIGHT WALK THROUGH THE FOREST

Lured away on an alluring dream by fables
I trudged along the grassy paths with fears
Upon my steps spilling the prevailing dews
The shadows bowed their heads in silence
Like the soul issued with a death sentence

The night crawlers emerged above boards
Throwing light upon contrary communities
In their hearts and eyes were painful tears
Crawling down their exaggerated eye *****
Like a handbag filled with rotten cosmetics

The shadows were bold animators’ shelves
Stage managing the horror motion pictures
In the ghostly commodities I met wild hosts
Lifeworks evaporated from my fresh breath
Like foreign tragedies in common comedies

The sorrowful shadows cast away their veils
Like the candles letting go of the weird wax
Sadly I sat in the sack for conflicting fetuses
Another sun appeared like a serial divorcee
Counting the testicles of another naked day

691.  SUBJECTIVE SUBJECTS

The sad sun descended upon her haunting melodies
Reeling from mysterious layers for electoral riggings
To harden the flowerbed for flower girls born tender
Disenfranchised voters came weeping in barren polls
Dressing the blank nest for the fat electoral parodies
With the mourners the faulty bells they came ringing
Like the angry water castigating a ****** port fender
And the smokes climbed upon their wide aerial poles
Arching over the emptied shelves with liberal singing
They subjected their subjective subjects to all objects
Liam May 2013
personal journal musings from last week...*

Stopped in at my neighborhood pub last night
  a couple of pints, some word exchange
Colorful place on a perfect Spring evening
  people on tap, constantly spilling in and out

The place is bustling and packed
  loud and dynamic
Sound flowing on open air
  drifting in from sidewalk patio and out to beer garden

Luckily nab a lonely stool near the entrance
  girl sitting kitty-corner around curving end of bar
Casually we cover topics from her mac 'n cheese
  to wind chill generated by ceiling fans

Conversation is suddenly confiding
  prior night's end-all fight with her live-in boyfriend
Obvious need to talk to someone neutral
  bartenders are busy, so it's me and we do

She's come seeking emotional sanctuary
  awaiting his departure to some event
Unhappy with her role in the argument
  unhappy with the person she has become with him

They'd intended to go ring shopping
  as recently as last week
She now looks forward only to the comfort of
  quiet, pajamas, ice cream, dreamless sleep

Upon leaving, she twice asks that I promise
  to be here if she finds no solitude and must return
This is no request...more of an appeal
  alone in privacy is one thing...alone in festivity another

I promise twice - I'll be here
  she doesn't return
I sincerely hope that she's well on her way to
  an ice cream induced pj slumber

              Less than an hour later...same bar stool

Pleasingly boisterous bachelorette party arrives
  staking claim to a nearby parcel of floor
Numerous "excuse me" squeeze-throughs  for drink orders
  rendering me a semi-familiar bar obstacle

One reveless wedges in, questions me
  what color underpants do I have on...don't recall
Insists that we check...dark bluish-grey
  too bad...she was hoping for purple to match her own

Impishly waiting long enough for my mind to stew
  she finally reveals the query as part of a formal interactive checklist
I apologize for not being more daring in spectrum
  we laugh, nevertheless...strike one

Eventually exchanging pleasantries with another
  a more subtle approach, but the inquisition repeats
Here we go again...Batter up!...Red?...very sorry...strike two
  I'm feeling of no value to this effort

Red offers me a redeeming pitch from the list
  someone must serenade the bride-to-be
I accept and get to meet the veiled celebrity
  she wears an engaging and jubilant aura

Gauging the atmosphere, I decide against romantic
  opting for a song that playfully questions the sanity of her choice
From my heart, I sing the chorus to Matchbox Twenty's "Unwell"
  It goes over very well and I avoid strike three

She and I hit it off, we discuss her wedding plans
  discover our roots are in the same part of the city
I'm rewarded for my musical contribution
  allowed to buy her a shot of Patrón...the checklist dwindles

Now partaking in the excitement of their celebration  
  an honorary addition to the large but exclusive group
My joyous new acquaintance has us take a picture together
  a snapshot of this special occasion to which I've somehow been privileged

A train of waves, goodbyes, thanks, and good lucks
  trails the party as I watch it crawl to the next establishment
In the hushed cacophony, I return to my thoughts
  a fantastic diversity of emotional experience within two short hours

My elbows on the bar in sober contemplation
  counting crows ...one...two...juxtaposed
A contrast of simultaneous realities
  somberly lamenting vs vibrantly anticipating

Reflecting on the beauty in such contrasts
  that serve to define the images of our lives
I finally come to the inevitable conclusion
  it's time for another pint...of ice cream
Andrew Hartnett Nov 2015
I want something other than ****
with the short shorts showing
everything
the low-cut crop top
exploring eyes wander over
on countless evenings
my imagination having nothing
left

I want smokey flannel
a two-day-old pony tail
boots stained by the dirt and grass
a hole in your jeans
that wasn't there when you found them

I want hungover-fastfood-drive-throughs
with my shorts and your tank top
wrinkled from your floor
your hair still wet from the morning shower

I want leggings, a t-shirt
and a backwards ball cap
while we sing loudly out the open window
tapping the dashboard off-beat
hand raised fingers pointing at the moon
laughing at the man that sits watching us drive
unwritten Jul 2016
i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that if the phrase “adding insult to injury” had a feeling,
that would be it.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it sounds like “hands up, don’t shoot,” like “i can’t breathe,”
like blood hitting a pavement that seems as though it was built
to catch those droplets.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it tastes like skittles and arizona tea,
four years old but still carrying the fresh sting of a wound just opened.
i imagine that it tastes 
like history repeating itself,
like seeing your son or daughter recycled each week
on every news report, on every tv station.
each time it is a different body, 
but it is always the same hand pulling the trigger,
the same black blood being spilled,
the same cries left unheard;
we shout “black lives matter”
and yet, still,
they cut them too short.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but i imagine that it looks like a web of lies too thick to cut through — 
every strand another weapon that he did or did not have,
another order that he did or did not follow,
another sin that he did or did not commit;
the only black they care about
is the color of the ink they use
to draw your angel-headed boy
a set of horns.
i imagine that it looks like evidence hidden,
like sparknotes-type skim-throughs labeled “thorough investigations,”
like another unindicted officer walking freely atop the cries of those 
who charged into a battle they knew they would, but hoped they would not, lose.
a battle they have fought too many times before.
i imagine that it looks
like an empty chair at the dinner table,
like cold-blooded ****** disguised as justice
with the help of a blue hat and a badge.

i will never know the black mother’s ache,
but if you listen closely enough,
you can hear it
in every cautious goodbye she says to her children whenever they leave the house,
or in the silence that those goodbyes used to fill.

can you hear it?
you will have to push past the shouts
of the big bold letters that they want you to believe.

somewhere,
somewhere in there,
a black mother’s heart is crying.
it is a gentle, hushed cry 
that the world does not want to hear.

but the tears are still just as wet.

(a.m.)
#BLACKLIVESMATTER.
written 7.6.16 in honor of alton sterling, philando castile, and all the other black men and women who have lost their lives to similar injustice. this is no longer acceptable. we can not allow the people who are paid to protect us to continue getting away with ******. something needs to change.
Tim Knight Apr 2013
If we leave the litter behind,
and run until our legs become a burden and our heads start to swell and come loose like a white-cloth-Arabian-silk turban,
we can make it home before 5.

Past the market that only makes sense in the sun,
along the terraces slipping from their foundations,
skip on-top of walls before falling back into our run
behind the street of seared spice smells, conjured up by different nations.

We’ve left the litter behind.

We’d run further than these cities and their boundaries,
take transport to the tops of heavenly high hills,
cause havoc amongst the machinery of the foundries
and make it home for five if we run through those mills.

We’ve left the litter behind.

Holding hands we’ll remember the brush of the grass on our thighs,
farmer’s fields and the dark brown cut-throughs we took,
our pockets full of receipts and chewing gum supplies
and the look of your pale blue eyes amongst your fresh air haircut.

I hope the litter don’t mind.
facebook.com/timknightpoetry
he sat with me,
I told him my story
huge smiles and drinking juice in high glasses,
refreshing our souls.
we ran, we laugh in places like fairytales,
he told me stories and promissed to never leave me,
he promissed me to always support me,
even when I went down.
but her, with her pale face and dry lips cried, eyes full of tears,
but he would always be there,
even when I hide my feelings in that dark and lonely room.
I always felt weak and not worth it,
And I would lie to myself,
Because those feelings and broken smiles wouldnt change a thing,
and would only make me more confuse.
this would be the last time that,
everything would be the same.
I left everything in the bathroom,
and I avenged everything I felt in bed,
Because only he knew,
and he never judged me and always saved me from quit,
frail, lost, broken in two with feelings.
I didnt knew,
and I everyday survived,
the storm and fell asleep,
all anxiety would return the next day,
but he would always be there to take care of my broken pieces.
I lied to myself,
hurt feelings but he was always
there to me.
and he always took care of mine tiny pieces,
wipe the tears of my pale and frail face,
while telling me that he would love me,
even if everything was over,
because all the feelings would disappear in a hot bath
where the water would take my anger and sadness,
and would make me feel better, again, or even feel nothing at all,
but I had him always telling me "baby, everything will be alright".
-d.a
After twenty years, as cursed as I may be
for having learned computerese,
I continue to examine bits, bytes and words
and insure that I'm one of those computer nerds.

Program design, source code and compile
followed by walk-throughs that place me on trial.
There's lots of testing - a means to an end
in hopes of avoiding future production abends.

There are micros, minis and mainframe hardware
which are made to work with in-house and vendor software.
Provided are many platforms for everyone to use
and assure misinformation in data's abuse.



Author Note:

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
Lendon Partain Mar 2013
Let Christ give his final sacrament to us through the holy Eucharist of his jizzum.
He shall raise the skirts of all boys and decimate the trousers of all who fear him.
I was a kid once and i know this.
Don't worry he ***** me too.
Feels good if you know him in the flesh in fruity underwear tighty see throughs.

Death plague.
He brings to us.
Through the work of his *****,
Whacking off each head to ***.

Come one come all,
to the shitshow circus called religion,
**** morals owned by slavery and god,
All fallacy is see through like his ******* nightgown

God is the **** of *******,
Get a ******* from your violence absolvance.
**** one another destroy.
Empathy is for *******.

God is dead.
Shot with led, fed to the Nazis, in their death holes for the unclean,
God is a ***.
The **** of earth isn’t me or you
It's the constructs of dogma,
That they abused us with as children.

Come on now we all aren’t bad guys.
It's the ***** in power.

****, ****,
Follow, follow,
into a pit like the communist.

I had *** with Stalin and created democracy.
Chairmen Mao is necrophagist.
****** was was the savior of the Semites.
The Popes are the largest mass murderers in history.
This is about the atrocities of government and religion. Not for the faint of heart.
john walker Feb 2013
Total departure to our needs is the reckless stupidity of how we are becoming our own executioners.When looking down on mother earth from father sky they wonder as to what their siblings are dreaming of as they hurt and maim their own mother.
When will people who justify their greed ,instead of need realise that their greed will not even give them their very  basic requirements for being here!
Humanity,through some strange concept,has set itself up,knowingly,as the controller and destroyer of all that gives them their basic needs,"their mother and father".
Man in his greed has even tainted the rays of light which give us our birthright,LIFE,for without it we would not exist.
By an infinite membrame,or so greed presumes,lying between good and bad,we live or die,but greed has stretched and widened that belief to horrific depths in the name of need.How long before it SNAPS?!
The coolerof our mother and bearer of us is poisened and wasted every moment. The ever overexploiting ****-sapiens will not letgreed stop them,even in their mothers death cries.A huge propergater of everything,mother gries in pain as she starves and with her ,her siblings.
The sun now burns her soft skin and moisture does not stay to cool her as she sweats.How long must or can she endure this torture?
Would we do it to our human mothers?
A family tree of pain is her reward for nurturing us.Her womb dries as the moisture is ****** from her veins and poured on to her belly as she screams.The sun rips it from her no longer cool and loving but hard and fierce like a furnace.
Onwards greed trespasses into herpumping heart,her skin is poisened and erupting like puberty,but still man is unmoving in his attitude to himself.
She speaks to them everyday but they do not hear or sense in any way her agony.Oblivious to everthing greed rumbles on deaf to its very basic needs and requirements.
As she criesfor help,her breath encompases all as she resusitates all with her sibilation.Can you smell you mothers breath?Will this last vain hope of hers go unoticed as greed races against its now foul wind?
"YES" because greed has stunned even your basic senses.Yo do not see,you do not hear,you do not feel,you do not taste ,you do not smell,even your most common sense of all is wasted "SURVIVAL!"

Between the three elements lies another.Without any one of the three the other is non-existant.
Running headlong,greed does not even notice its own reflection,blinded by its own need!Our mother is wek,her milk is drying,her skin is wrinkling,her touch is burning,her sight is blined,her taste is foul,her breath is stifling and her hearing is fading,she is DYING.
Her umbilical cord is strangled as it dries up with the assassination of her soul.  Will her soul be heard after we have  vanished or will we awke from our sleep of arrogance and greed and realise that EVERYTHING is not worth NOTHING.

For when she dies her death throughs will mame and slaughter us even as we count-?

                                                                        

                                                                                  "OUR MONEY"
Randy Vera Nov 2013
"BUG"

I saw a Bug Battle,
in the cracks of the street Blood and Struggle
Their plastic screams and cellophane curses were almost like yours and mine.
Until a brave one crawled to my ear,
and he told me of his trial in the street crack theater,
I grinned as if I cared, he smiled like he had the time
He said "in whose camp does your banner fly, and can I have you on my side?"
He loaded a Pistol while I replied:
I said: I'm anti-pro no shout catechist, so keep your pamphlets political activist,
You take your cause for lack of a purpose in life,
pursuit of happiness, "eudemonia"  good spiritedness
you're living proof that ignorance aint bliss
Pray "Libira nos a malo!" and Free Tibet!
But you never prayed for the souls with affixed Bayonets;
so I wave like the man being shot from the cannon;
born on this chunk of warm rock hurling through nothing;
who only on the front of spirit can fight;
Storm the Bastille of desperate life;
and dance in the street every night till the day I die.
The Bug Replied:
Know All, Know all, in the dialog to win,
two grants are a Franklyn one Lincoln's just a fin?
Posit value for this bug since you're so well balanced,
gaining perspective from the outermost valence;
you never killed what you eat and confuse "labor with action,"
  but you think you're to evolved to fight for my faction;
We're currency baby as we live and breed,
BASTILLE for you ATTICA for me!
better get in the frae my anti anti teacher
before it ***** you along with every other fighting creature;
I'm going back to me cell where I breathe a little freer;
but let me give a final though like I'm Jerry Springer:
If happiness is purpose than you can call my purpose love,
to survive I fight the Battle and to me you're the bug.
Thunderstruck, I sat on the curb,
realizing I could be a "social surd;"
then I saw my small confessor get killed in a raid;
I would have stomped out his assassin if I wasn't so afraid;
instead I rose to my feet, and walked straight home,
locked myself in, and wrote out this song,
I think of the bug while I'm dancing in the street,
every time my neighbor throughs a sneaker at me;
I feel his wrestles spirit longing to fight,
while I'm drinking and singing in the middle of the night,
than it hits me:
The bug was right
zebra Jan 2019
the worm burps crasanthyums
like hypnic ****
matter becomes metaphor

thats how the beast works with in us
we are a book of masks
and i'm up to my neck in
mirrors of the marvelous

midnight music beguiles like a blizzard of whispers
flaming candles heat like ovens
burning finger by finger
i melt flabbergasted in dark linoleum clouds

blood gluttonous
tender bites
lips like red rain and trussed thighs
she grins
a face of needles and mice

i think she wants me

this old man, soggy eyed mop
linen wrapped
before aortic aneurysms
i'm a living tarot card
the falling tower and the lovers
break downs and break throughs

my groin a slobbering clot
dreaming ******* drenched
straight jacketed on her knees
***** willow shadows
drooling exacerbations
a caffeinated candy
licked thickly
twitching blinks; rem ejaculations

her face; a tattooed ****
**** mouth smiles
brown one eyed gnome
**** the stinking cyclops
*** talk lubricates
a raspberry crumble
looking for god

omniscient
even in *****

the white swans utterance
incoherence's
dressed in a ****** negligee
her belly a thousand ******* mouths
and i press into her thunder
shattering dawns gravity
a pinhole of empty cups
Jeremy Betts Oct 2019
(political)

I can almost guarantee the powers that be own a most coveted secret
A key to our mortality, a complete rid of social duality, a newly constructed exit on the set of this twisted skit
Can you imagine it? That'd be one heck of an achievement, almost a magic trick, especially for this government
But a magician never tells! They keep it so far under wraps you can't even peep it like some area 51 type sht
Like buried treasure at the bottom of a filled sand pit, no map, no opportunity to find it
You're not even allowed to know about it's existence much less that the stories of it are legit
It's right there, in the small print on the bottom of every voter pamphlet
I don't know if that part is true but I wouldn't put it past them or doubt it for a minute
They never speak it out loud, never leak it nor tweet it #youdontknowshitaboutsh
t
You feed on your feed, the algorithm arithmetic, all the mind numbing bull sht
You forget the outrage over something like Charlotte too quick, makes me physicaly sick
I'll point out that it's largely due to strategic fluff stories from the puppet at you're local news outlet
The same bigot that's probably got an audio booklet cassette on deck
Explaining in detail how to be completely wrong and still politically correct
I get more credible info on current events from the cashiers down at the corner market
The talking box force feeds you this toxic banquet, I've seen it prepared so I'd steer clear of the brisket
They flood the market to keep you off target, to stop you from forming any kind of argument
To stop you from asking yourself if they are the solution to the problem or a part of it
Truth and lies on both sides inviting me to sit but I run the gauntlet
A tactical gambit, there is no quit like a bad habit, I've kicked the social media vise, you haven't
Fear is a typical sidekick but that's what got us in this predicament, permanently visibly upset
Messing up the placement of priorities, becoming complacent with corrupt authorities and it's evident
We offer up our thoughts and prayers then get distracted by an ice bucket?
Subconsciously saying f
ck it I guess as they hurd you off topic with the rest of the simple minded public

Here's a challenge to get behind, why don't you try to expand your mind?
"But I have guy, I'm color blind" a preprogrammed "progressive" response strategically timed
But you'll find that those mindless sayings quickly become the shackles that bind
And cause a divide by the combined efforts of trying to confuse and misguide
And trying to cover up the line they should have never crossed but you can't be kind and rewind
Any and all opposing views or educated ideas get disregarded like a watermelon rine
You look at this dysfunctional timeline and say it's fine? Are you out of your dang mind?
This problem defines the word problem but our county lying in a chalk outline is too real of a news headline
Fear is again what's driving mankind as credibility starts a fast decline, like a Boeing Max airline
It's more like a drop off, a Saturday morning cartoon kind with a cliff edge right before the finish line
Stuck in first gear as we redline through the confines of what they try and say is benign
Can't enjoy the ride while blind cause that's when you'll get blindsided, now paralysed with a broken spine
I saw the sign but you're oblivious every time, tweeting comfortablely from table nine
Soaking in a brine of lying swine, greedy bovine, salt from the grape vine but no thoughts you can claim as "mine"
It's a sad history we say we've left behind but we're still riding it with the thrill of a first Valentine
We redesign the facade after every indecent like Columbine and think that'll do fine but that thought in its self is asinine

An empty statement with good intention deserves no attention, not even a mention
But that's what is given over and over again and some don't even see we're headin' in the wrong direction
Directly to gettin' skull ******, takin' ***** to the chin and we've given permission
Here, just for you, let me paint my vision, my interpretation of every villain within those white walls of sin
Yup, that's right, turns out it's modeled after the famous painting of the last din-din
That's to say it's a portrait of every Democrat and Republican, from now to back then
Back from the moment this little experiment began, way back when
They welcome your frustration hoping that by the end you'll abandon your mission of self preservation
By throwing in the towel with the sink from the kitchen
Yoda esq sage advice can't be given if, for one, no one seems to listen and two it's all gone missin'
Ahhhh, that's cute, your all insistin' you had a hand in each and every decision
But you're just siftin' through fake news, wishin' for break throughs, this isn't livin', this is survival and the lines thin
And hand on the bible I can't promise or pretend we'll win cause once we get that tail spin a goin' it's out of our control again
Got you btchin' about it the entire time but never taking action
A worthless, regurgitated post now brings a job well done type of satisfaction
So while the world burns around you you're convinced you've done your part and mastered the equation
You've gone and put your 100th phrase in, time to sit back relaxin', waitin' for your empty praise to come in
Self worth and entitlement bought for a bargain, actually, you glide in and take it when no one is lookin'
It doesn't belong to you but of course you deserve it more than him, am I right? Sure I am
A moral compass no longer a good life's linchpin, good and evil lookin' like twins in the same discount bin
But when you start conversatin' about how bad you've got it, I hear the worlds smallest violin start playin'

THIS SH
T IS NOT GOING AWAY ON ITS OWN FOLKS
As our world coughs and chokes and everyone pokes and breaks the rotten yolks
Sitting in a rancid environment, we take tragedy and twist it into jokes
Then back peddle saying everyone copes differently with the hopes that the real you stays out of public scopes
It's crazy that facts seem to be what provokes outrage from one side as the other side claims it's a hoax
An abundance of fake news cloaks the real issues and gets us to turn on our kinfolks
We see them toss the stick into our bike spokes but still believe when they say "it was definitely those other blokes"
How is it we know it's smoke and mirrors but everyone still takes it in with deep tokes
What we witness everyday should be what invokes change but we can't change anything with empty keystokes
It's good to stand for something but now we need to move forward before we're clear cut like old growth oaks
And it won't just be one side or the other that croaks, no, this divide stokes our collective demise as our head bloats
It somehow strokes our ego as we think we traverse the high road but can't steer, flying with no yokes
We pray that we can at least stay above water but nothing so poorly put together floats
Take notes cause if history repeats itself we're on a crash course with diminishing hopes
Which will leave only a shell of what we use to be as a country, nothing inside like empty envelopes

©2019
jan assen Mar 2011
thinking on the mind
walking back and forth
can't put a finger on it
anger of crazy starts
then stope and think
thinking on the time
walking on the line
can't stop throughs run though the mind
waiting on the time
waiting is all you can do
waiting you know
waiting
Seize the moment
they say
live in the moment
to seize is to take
to take is to steal
I begin pickpocketing
moments for myself
and no one else

getting advice from what can
only be a moment thief

Articles with click-throughs
said I could love myself
three easy steps
ten easy steps
arbitrary quantities
erroneous
because it has taken
thousands of difficult steps
to begin loving myself
and only with the help
of moments from
strangers and tourists
in my town

The moment thief tells me
not to be scared of being scared

It tells me to be proud
of myself
never ashamed
of how I came to find out
the moment thief
does not know
what I do not know
why I like to make
generalizations
about humanity
as a whole
after being hurt by
only one person

The snatcher says to me
living is as easy as not dying

There is no use shoplifting
the only good lives
are in the street
and in the homes
be a cat burglar
ahead of the pack
reconciling the little things that leave
Mitchell Jun 2015
It's
A framed picture
Of
Something
You never wished
Another to
See

There she stands:
Stoic in that millimeter
Moonlight;
Vanishing from your eye
As soon as a memory
From July.

That's her.
She's me.
I am her
When

I want me
To be.

I'm a naked leaf
Upon a
Crippled tree of
Invisibility.

Thank God
For
Fiction so, so, for what?

So we can make sense
Of
All this
Non-

Sense!

It's a screen of smoke
You and I.

We wait for you and
You wait for I -

And there we sit:

Sitting, Standing, Saluting,
A desolate dawn without a name;
The only reason to be because Nature
Made it be so

And will continue

To do so.

I'm awake
As
I sleep.

I think of the glaze
As I stare
Out of myself.

I hear
The harp.
It plays for itself as I

Let it

Play through

Me.
Auroleus Nov 2012
As I sip on my Coffee
Which is ever so Thin,
I'm reminded why I Buy
From the privately Owned
Local joint which has Been
In town for Decades.

It's appropriately Named
Coffee Heaven;
And I remain a loyal Customer,
Save for when I'm feeling Like
A fat ******* who Doesn't
Feel like getting out of the Car.

Drive-throughs are the Killers
Of Small Business.
grab a book,
sit in the rain,
and write what you feel.
can be ****** throughs,
but in the end,
is pretty good feel,
the cold rain,
in your face.
-d.a
emily Oct 2022
What should I write today?
I have too many throughs,
Too many emotions I wish to share.
I am a broken pieces of moments that i long to relive
I have created myself from all the dreams I have yet to become.
In this room I try to write anything other than my heartbreak
But all I can think about is how my memories have been tainted by your disappearance.
I am a graveyard filled with the loss of people I once loved.
I am an unfinished sentence because I refuse to give up on other people that have already left.
My plees echo in the valley of my soul never to be answered.
I hunger for words that express my need for release.
I crave to finish the unfinished sentence of my life.
I demand to piece myself back together so I may become complete.
Maggie Feb 2018
Something has gone awry inside me
Like the taste of milk right before it goes off
Still works but not quite right and not for long
I dream of drinking till stupor
A blur
Of swaying rhythmically in a crowd- lost in a lonely wave of other lifeless souls
Pretending to be living life
Perhaps that is life
But all we seem to be doing is escaping
Because escaping is easy
What is hard is routine
Of roots
Of follow throughs
Not falling out
Of learning instead of leaning
Of moving forward
Moving on from those whove dragged us down
Even if down is where it's easy to hide
To complain
That life isn't right
When we are doing nothing to solve the wrong
What's wrong with wallowing in self pity?
It's no self disservice if sorrow is the end goal
But if you get to pick which way to point your pointless life
Why pair yourself with sadness when you can chose an other wife
nadine shane Aug 2018
i am tired
of waking up
in the middle of the night
at the sound of
my skin tearing itself apart,
i can no longer remove
the stamp of
your lips and hands
off me;
my sides splitting open
so my scars ensconced
deep beneath the surface
can tell the story
of how i fell for you.

i am tired
of staying up
with nothing but
the company of the moon,
awaiting for its eclipse,
blinking away
fragments of what we had —
filled to the brim
with adoration —
although fleeting.

memories of
how you held me —
only distant.

again,
the clock chimed
unforgivingly,
reminding me
of late night drive throughs
around the crevices
of my wreckage of thoughts —
spilled and separated;
full of you,
only you.
(until now)

milky boy!
Hot on the tail of that wily, elusive beast
named ‘inspiration’, I travelled north.

North, where colours mute
and transformative shadow
bends in darklight,
revealing the world as it really is,
as it once was.

Hundreds of years pass,
rolling back time, boiling clouds
rushing over peaks in reverse,
a tiny tornado ***** in on itself,
and hundreds become thousands.

Rain blackens the babies of volcanoes,
engorges forces with greater purpose
and cleanses every shred of vision
from my grasping, desperate mind.

Thousands become millions
And I am stripped of incentive to try.
There is no ruination, here.
No furious nor frantic need
to imagine past lives
in this manicured, managed place.

High-vis’d toilers scuttle on mountainsides
carefully placing and re-placing rocks,
funnelling feet and discovery
on a prescribed and sensible path.

Only the rain
wreathing a secretive misted ribbon,
creeping in glacial cut-throughs,
is possessed of fanciful virtue.

Nothing shatters but the slate
and the landscape does not turn inward
to eat itself
in gnawing, atavistic need.

It says more about me,
than it does of the Lake District
that I would wrench out and offer
my super-heated heart
to see the mountains fall.
I know the Lake District attracts millions of visitors every year who gasp of how beautiful it is, but beauty is subjective, after all, and I simply found it too clean and almost Disney-fied in its smug majesty.

I need desolation, an unsettling sense of melancholia, and to see the broken bones of a place, jutting sadly through the earth, before I proclaim it 'beautiful'.
Dreams of Sepia Jun 2015
be
it a Texan star-beam
or Route 66
           broken umbrellas
                 or sarsaparilla
sugarcane
or Korbel champagne
nylon stockings
& neon signs
driving you insane
drive-throughs
& diners
motels
&
Hell's Angels
on motorcycles
Lousiana swamps
San Francisco lights
Mississippi River
jazz men
cowboys
& hobos
Fred Astaire moments
Oh my America
I lost you forever out of sight
wings clipped
drugged-up
losing my voice
shouting for freedom
losing my love
yet America, I still sing of you
& your sidewalks
& Wizard of Oz
hurricanes
all that I've read of
in books
since when do you
not want
Mad dreamers
reconsider
give me back
my dreams
don't let them wither
please
let me breathe
in your freedom
please
let me in
I'm a Believer
A poem based on true personal experiences of what it's like to forever lose visa rights to the place of your dreams following being detained against your will in hospital under Section3 of the Mental Health act.
we will pay for everything
in the future
we will pray for nothing
     I had dreamt a silver, shining  dream
once, but now that dream
is a mocking commercial
broadcast from dingy screens
beneath ozone depleting
lies
     we will pay
for living our lies
     we will pay increasingly growing prices
for increasingly decreasing substance
     I had dreamt a green leaf, blue sky
lie once, but now
that dream
is just chemicals in the water
     now trees are just a dream
now deer, now birds
now fish, and now
now there are no more words
no sounds of life, no thoughts
no lips to tremble
and nothing new for "God's" blundering
sons, nor for Her daughters
     now there are no forests, now no cities
     now there are no oceans, no airports
no drive-throughs, no "losers" to date
no lovers, , no families
no malls, bridges, or buildings
     now there are no could-bes
no factories, or flowers
     now there are no smiles, or tears
     now there are no old folks, or youngsters
     now there are no cars, no buses
no night clubs, parties, nor restaurants
classes, passes, nor tickets
no pillows, no blankets
no warm beds for sleep
     now there is no now whatsoever
nor is there a future
because all that remains
is a past that has passed
and some once weres
that cannot be remembered
     yes
we will pay for everything in the future
and then we will pray
for nothing
Previously published in the Long Shot Art & Literary Magazine, Vol. 27, the Beat Bush issue, 2004
jan assen Feb 2011
writing is writing about nothing
nothing is writhing
so just started with nothing
and write it
like a sea of flames ******* to my mindless thoughs
life is nothing more then hell on ice
Love is something we all don't always need
nothing is the way we live our lives without knowing it
flames burn up in my heart will eat up my heart
writing just moves my throughs
the unknow lines of the pagar befor me
I can't stop, writing is my life, my life is writing
I will never stop
Sam Temple May 2014
grotesque characters smash themselves against Plexiglass windows
the sheer mass bowing and distorting the transparent protector
squeezing into the darkened faux-cave for a glimpse
of the last starfish in the Pacific –
droopy fingers cling desperately to transplanted basalt
slow death from radiation poisoning
the future picture for all of mankind
little Cindy sheds a tear as discolored water flows, unfiltered
saline ratio destroyed by the introduction or pesticides
and straight petroleum
reflective properties shifting the absorption rate
oceanic temperature altered
the tree so memorizing
no one notices the inferno on the ridgeline –
facilitating the fall, politicians look to tax carbon emissions
pretending to understand
while Jupiter develops another eye
and the storms on Venus have gained intensity at a steady rate for 25 years
blaming the diesel SUV, sun worshipers get skin cancer
and ulcers –
unrepentant hordes of sheeple march through drive-throughs
signing up for the slaughter
the gods of old are coming home
and blood sacrifice is all they accept –
SassyJ Feb 2018
Imperative perception
It was all far fetched, a time when I searched myself in others
No one can ever give me the moment of clarity and serenity
An eternity of peace within oneself, an embody of higher self
This place of ultimate truth and surreal objectification
A reflection of timeless lapses, the laps of completeness
The storms were a taboo, the recurrent flying unquietness
The un-resolving trips and flares of unpolarised magnetic currents
The escape to pristine moments, prestige throughs and peaks
A vision from the drowning sea, me sinking in the whirlpool
I mirrored my own reflection to yours, my 'I' to "you", your 'I" to "me"

Melodious Creeks
The moment called now is my only lullaby I can hear
A whisper so harmonised and crystallised deep in the seabed
A candle light of moment of truth in a rotating crystal ball
The chaos in the jungle have escaped to the peaks of the mountain
Uninformed lands with uniformed pebbles, the shattered glasses
Demons that stood ***** as they pierced and taunted a being

Why did it take so long?**
Lets go the springs and streams of pain, the unending past
It's not a feeling, or logic, its a way of human existence
An entwinement of anthems embellished with peace

Presentiment
***** the barred barricades for me to see your pastures
I can feel the darkness that embodies your soul and mind
A thunder in the unending jungle, jiggling in kingdoms
Reject my sharp vision, I cry your tears as you do mine
I stare at your blur as you submerge in the deep waters
The blackening tunnels with no escape reject my eyes
The icy layers squeezing to escape in your sorrows
The narrowed aisles have become the only island you cruise
The trajectory of our blood realigned in our future sins

Found self?
Listen to the strings adjoining in the basements of the cliffs
The line balancing on the centrifugal pump as it impels to shrouds

Of choices?
Predetermination and judgment of other as I lost a piece of my time
In this territory, I stand at the borderline of my devotion in battle
Holding my rifle and connecting to life and all; me a solider of love
Parading in the landscapes of inhibitions and thought processes
A soul I hold is my only liberation to live fully and autonomously
Eyes wide open, mouth wide ajar as we rise and survive doing our best!
Jade Lima Dec 2013
You long to know what i'm hiding inside, forcing me to run and hide.
Isolating the problem, fearing what you'll think.
You're only in luck if you can read what i scribble in ink.
Will what i have to say really intrigue you?
I don't want to be one of your walk throughs.
I struggle to find myself in all of this haze.
My thoughts are beginning to turn into a maze.
Shofi Ahmed Feb 2019
When time folding life goes by,
For a while did I ask for.

When the day folding sight goes by,
And its other face being unveiled
Fluxless moon glaring into the edge of night;
Being gazed upon by millions of stars
For a view did I ask for.

When the moon dance leads the starry night,
And takes the deep based mine,
The ocean dancing along;
For a space did I ask for.

When the red blossoms,
Where the tender zephyr's aroma blows,
****** green of the Earth break-throughs,
For a smell did I ask for.

Heaven wreathed the sun,
With garlands of myriad planets,
When the depth of the night is found,
And millions of lives awaken,
Over the violet Earth,
Singing nightingales upon the rose!
For hearing did I ask for.

Where the spring flourishes,
Into the meadows midst,
Spring from the secrets within!
Beneath the shadowy bower
Wherein the sun shines
Into the eternal shadow!
For a drink did I ask for.

When to reach end, the blooming flowers
The spring flourishes, utilize to the end,
For a touch did I ask for.

When rises the angelic dawn,
With the whole world anew,
And breaks through once more!
For a return did I ask for.

For your world brimful,
When I am no longer in,
But in nobody, an empty brim!
To fill them all I ask for!
RADACACH Aug 2014
She sits in the corner admiring her own artwork
Slowly sipping on her tea while a cigarette lingers between her fingers unlit

She sits alone because she scared to share her self with anyone because she afriad that they will judge her for her mistakes and scars

She smokes because she wants to be skinny...it's working but she's killing her self in the process

And when you see this girl in the hallway you advert your eyes because the littlest contact could infect you with her imperfections and you hold your breath because she wears to much of her moms Perfume because it's the only thing she has left of her

She goes through school with make up smeared and smudged around her eyes
She looks like a zombie
teachers and kids don't interact with because she's different because they all feel bad that they used to bully her in middle school so no one even smiles at her

So when she goes home she decides today is the day I'm finally going to be free...she slowly gets in that tub and grabs that razor from the hiding place behind the soap and begins to cut

Crying with every cut but not tears of pain or death but tears of happiness because her alcoholic dad will finally notice her and kids at school will finally talk about her

When her dad finally stumbles in to take a drunk night **** he's sees her smiling for the first time in a while and then he notices the pool of blood

And he finally realizes all the signs of her depression...the kids at school next day chatter throughs text and Facebook but soon there just memories and distant rumors of why she did it  ranging from that she was crazy and evil to dumb and pregnant

But the truth is all she needed was a smile a simple hi how are you today...and she would have made it...she would still be here...she wouldn't be a sad distant memory but a happy alive little girl like she used to be before her dad began drinking because of her mothers death
cheryl love Oct 2017
In places where dreams dare to meet
thoughts are scattered on the floor
ideas just waiting patiently on the street
and major break throughs hang on the door.
Under the biggest bridge you come across
Over the toughest hill anyone could climb
Meeting for the first time the strictest boss
and earning money to keep and say "that's mine".
Situations come and go like the wind and rain
Heart aches and headaches show their face
but then out comes the sunshine and kills pain
and whatever situation, it becomes a nicer place.
Meadow Mar 2018
If there’s one thing I’ve learned
Its that things have a funny way of working out
No matter how bad things get
You end up ok in the end

It may not be what you planned
Or even remotely close to it
But it will be good

It will be a battle
You will face intense challenge
In whatever form life decides you need
But it shapes you
And ultimately brings you
To your endgame

And the endgame will be beautiful
Because the world knows exactly what it’s doing
When it throughs you those curve *****
And gives you the life deserve
Based on how you react

And ultimately, you will be happy
As long as you allow yourself to be
Traveler Apr 2021
Clumsy and a little off balance
Describes my love in motion  
Still my sacred lover archetype
Thrives in respectful devotion

In magical flowing throughs
The power of love
Is free of cost
Words cast spells that last
Love can be a fragile task

As the archetype unwinds
My love is refined
The unconditional begins to grow
Like a flower in the sun
Life has only just begun
True love is loving our roll!
Traveler 🧳 Tim
amorous and introspective
when we eventually pull the knots
broken and drunken
drive-throughs and bowling alleys
round as the sky and concave like the ocean
shields of steel and furnaces blazing
i gripped the toilet bowl
the day of learning has departed
in selective algorithms
it ruins all i know

— The End —