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Brandon Webb Nov 2012
1
she taps he hand, twice.
across the room,
he stares, thinking
into empty air.
others, scattered
tap pencils or fingers
on desktops, booktops
and phone keyboards

the balding man
with black hair:
combed backward
and to differing angles
so that his head is split
vertically-
stands, above the room
his back turned

his words,
meant for the crowd
reverberate only
along classes fringe
but still take precedence
over nothing
even to them-
academics, outcasts


2
back of the room
reveals everything
to the observer
trying to see

blue-eyed brunette
glares vengefully
at no one,
just to glare

he looks up once
to watch
as another
pulls up
drooping jeans.
she laughs
at conversation
unmeant for,
and inaudible
to her


3
today, she smiles
and lets her lip fall
begging, like a puppy
But when they
lose eye contact,
she glares, again

he leaves footprints
on parallel desk
from lounging
then fires himself
to his feet
using stored energy,
and sugar from gum

words bounce along
the walls in the back,
and isolated eyes peer
towards the screen
but hide the fact
that they care


4
two week vacation
has left their minds
full of everything
except math,
so they listen
to him, while he speaks

but travel backward
in time, with
those closest them
while he creeps,
silent, around the room

she concentrates hard,
on her work
glaring at the page.
he sits a desk forward
feet on floor
neighboring desk full
today, but only physically

blue hat rests
on sketchbook,
its border
barely covering
closed eyes

blond head
implants itself
jokingly, into
smooth shining
white wall
with enough force
to collapse
accidental target

a hand raises
attracting gazes,
awestruck,
at her interest
in forgotten
material
of future tests


5
only a few eyes wander
from blue lined notebooks
though the left flank
still chatters, embodying
either a secretive chipmunk
or the breeze which starts the storm

storm clouds appear slowly
in sketchbook, blue hat bobbing
rhythmically in response to active pen

perched above the flock
reminiscent, split headed
papa bird scans the masks
of his shockingly silent chicks

random lecture breaks the silence.
Her eyes aren’t the only ones
Fixed into a steel laden glare
But the chipmunk wind ceases


6
his questioning glance lands
on uninhabited space,
exhibiting a yawn
which traverses through,
and twists, the faces of
those otherwise engaged

lecture ends with a question,
the scent of nuts blows through
mentally empty classroom
turning desks to predetermined
positions and swiftly inhabiting
three-quarters of the physical class

his steel glare has replaced hers
the latter’s eyes now soft as an infants

within five minutes, his voice
undergoes  a brutal, complete cycle
pleading, congratulating, yelling
and as always, lecturing


7
pre-test:

preparations for misery-
mundane chipmunk chattering,
jokes and laughs from random
oddities appearing everywhere

blue hat rests in intervals.
Blue coat rearranges
essay for another class

The girl in the sunny plaid
Rolls an orange along her hand

He points at nothing and asks
Nobody something without answer

The left flank, as always
Is turned away, conversing

A sigh rings outward loudly
Everyone glares, nervously,
Everywhere, reward of concentration


After my test:

First paper in, he scans lightly
Sets it down with a scowl
and yawns, twice, breaking the
silent shroud of heavy fog
which is hanging overhead

wandering free eyes witness
down-turned heads concentrating
as much on tests  as on moving
their hands wildly, excitedly
trying to communicate non-vocally

others have yet to detach themselves
from their seats and stride upward,
hopefully more triumphantly
than their sole predecessor

one shuffles now, slowly toward him
his hand shaking as he releases
that  paper, he turns away as it flutters
onto the desk- he replants himself in his

twelve others walk forward
smiling, shrinking, sometimes speaking
and always he glares, triumphant
knowing his success at our failure


later:

his near-sleeping form            
finds distraction, in waking
dreams, jumping back suddenly
breaking from his plank-like state
without speaking. excitement
for approaching weekend is
communicated in the left flank

two girls break the silence
running in from outside            
he glares at them, but laughs

everyone breaks into groups
after the conversation about
mysteriously nutty discarded sock

he runs to the forefront
forehead folded, finger on mouth
no-one notices, but still he glares

8
he smiles and glares at the floor
his legs swinging back and forth            
tan slacks rustling softly

exaggerated scores bubble in ears            
as they search for their destroyer

in front of forgotten faces falls
the page of a forgotten tome

several yawn, hoping, understandably
that their stretched lips
will pull themselves far enough
to barricade ears from his droning

he kills himself, twice, bumbling
into half-thought chastisements
of the  flittingly flirtatious students
intermingling hoping behind him
causing waves of whispers, laughter
and slightly strengthened chatter

he re-aligns his thoughts quickly
and rambles on again, always

9
he speaks to her softly
from across a sea of desks
she looks up, panicking calmly
distracted from distraction

in silence, blank eyes turn
surprised at the non-withering
state of her barely living corpse

he asks a question, looking up
a single answer is given
unemotional and short, buy ending
heavy hanging awkward silence

how talented the teacher
who gives his lecture while
still addressing unrelated
student self lectures

the still silence given
in his questioning lull
hangs so loudly the whispers
traversing the classroom appear
silent as finger wiggle
and pencils trace zeros

his extrication, caused by
distractingly thunderous voice
is met with a comment
causing a wave of laughter
starting at his mouth
and extending to inhabit everything

10
half the time gives
twice the attention
as they concentrate
on keeping him on
the undying topic
of the work we
have already done

they admit defeat
as dusty tome opens
spreading a nutty cloud
causing heads to turn
and words to leap.

from opens lips,
mischievous gremlins
sprout, dancing on
tables and chuckling
away from the sigh
of his down-turned, split
shining, globular mind

he scratches pink ear
with bone pale finger
reading unrelated words

in the center of the room
both mentally and physically
he sits, momentarily quiet
as dark eyes glare past
rumpled pink nose,
concentrating

blue hat rests on open palms
above dust covered open page
he slips into sleeping state
but picks himself up
and stares though thin borderline
toward shiny rambling forehead

a shutter cord flies forward
the hand at the end pulling hard
but with no affect to the shutters
neither lowering the physical
or raising the mental

the color of non-color pencils
interrupts the class momentarily
as she strides forward to compare
and then criticizes his care

he just sits, smiles and stares

11
eleven desks lie empty
of one form more than usual
amplifying the arm movements
of the ever ticking seconds

his obscured mouth flings seeds
which sprout into words
before even meeting the worn
blood-colored carpet below

in the main room, sixteen
sit silent, sketching, sleeping
or siphoning the last minute

12
those left awake, and alive
have come to understand
the numbers on the screen
this being their specialty
in a nutty shell, of course
splitting, as we are, large
crowds of numbers, and us
being teenagers, isn’t that
how we think, in numbers
and ratings of everything
and, sitting in the central
crowd are the talented
crowd-splitters
flattery-spitters

13
the silence of half absence
is pierced, as always by vocal
anomaly, centered around
rows of shining wood
bookrests, but only one
set of hollow, dark-rimmed
vacant eyeballs watches
well-welcomed interruption

he lets us work, standing.
Someone somewhere opens
A large container of nuts
Entire class starts stuffing
Handfuls into puffy cheeks
Absorbing sensations into
Eternally ravenous minds

The apocalyptic mix of noises
Is split again by central
Nutcracker, and those in corners
Glare, smiling, rubbing shadowed
Acne scarred faces
with raw-bitten nails

14
balding papa bird speaks loudly
transforming his voice, becoming
vocally legendary cartoon duck

the wave of resulting laughter
ends in un-given nut-break
spreading, without speech
the understanding that his
comedic digression will not
meet a quick extinction

we greet the weekend
by rising early
our excuse: competition
to devour the worm

15
three heads are downturned
peering into textbooks
as the tsunami breaks

the days end starts
and beady eyes peer
in the direction of his
moving head, colored
gothic gargoyle in the
dim cloudlight streaming
through dust coated
slit windows

the room transforms
becoming triumphantly,
grumpily, repeatedly
conversational

artificial silence
spreads like a wave
from right back corner
to left front corner
leaving behind
the half of the room
hidden behind the wall
of troublemakers
who will eventually
cause the wall to topple
with the sheer force
of assorted nuts

16
blue hat is scrunched
under the of a fist
pounding on his head,
result of the decibels
consumed, and produced
by the embodiment
of the thoughts around him
which fall from stuffed
cheeks. Bounce off tables
and spread a sickening aroma
as their shells split
exposing, revealing
nothing

17
red face glances upward
as harsh words split
the widening sea of snickers
his words stop, first time today
as whispers spread wildly
of his speed in delivering answers
seconds later, room is silent
as statement ends and lecturer
turns back to him, offering
as always, another wave
of deep felt, anger hardened
quietly whispered, criticisms

thunderous-rush-voice leads
out of habit and necessity
the minutes following
his behavioral digression
each word stabbing split-headed
pointy-nosed papa bird, their
form a walnut-wood spear
crafted from drifted thoughts
of those sitting nearest him

18
on his back lies a pile of nuts
professor’s earthquake
shoulder shaking causes
eyes to open, back to rise
and with a tremendous roar
both physical and meta-physical,
it topples to worn carpet
and the laugh-track plays on

19
silence- pierced into being
by shrill, violent, mountainous
rise, and fall, of thunderous decibels-
hangs, heavier, louder than
the quick gone loudness replaced
or, in all actuality, displaced
mere seconds before being scrawled
into eternal memory
of those whose noses
sniff, daily, nutty clusters
of letters, which exclude
always, the ever-present x
the destructive π
and that y, which of course
flies as high as forgetful
nut-bearers




©Brandon Webb
2012
This is a series of observations, and. collectively, is the longest thing i've ever written, at 8847 words
Desperado Dan
Is a man with a plan
To cash in a bit of Kensington
On some high grade *****
Cos right now he's got a couple of scores
But not a great deal more to loose

You see, our Dan is a master of the modern day quill
He works an open office, clocking in and out at will
But after reading all the greats from his and every bygone age
He lives in a time where the mp3 subverts the written page

So night and day he hums away
Searching for that hit chorus
And he knows you can't cut corners
When it comes to tanking up on creative juices

A Desperado is larger beer spiked with tequila
Some say it's for scoundrels to make charming girls easier
But our Dan's quest is noble.
He has a dream we'd all like to believe in
He simply wants to do his whole life’s work in just one evening
And a Desperado seems to conjure all six hats within one head
So if two minds are better than one...well, nuff said

He dilutes them at first, pulling the wool over his own eyes
Until, catching reflections on the glass, he sees through the disguise.
And before long you'll find him chugging straight from the bottle
Then, in a blur of paper and pen, Dan writes like there's no tomorrow.

He writes and writes and writes some more
a couplet, a bridge, an underscore
Ploughing verses like trenches through the ****** white paper
Dropping napalms just to see what pops it's head above the wreckage.

Then, surveying the new landscape, he quarries in every direction…

Linearly; because it's most straightforward like that
Circularly; because they used to think the world was flat

Logically; because... Well duh!
Laterally; which gives the brain a stir

Diagonally; some kinda a + b = c rap from back in the day
In reverse; because sometimes we unknowingly face the wrong way

Unapologetically
Down dead ends
Just to see the view

He picks up clichés and looks under them for clues

Desperado Dan
Calls for desperate measures
As the evening wears on
He indulges all his earthly pleasures

And down they go with a Yo ** **
What a ***** desperado!
***** I say! Now he's mixing with ***
Still his pencil flies with a blistered thumb

'E starts to drop 'is H's
And forgets to cross his l's...sorry t's
He paces back and forwards
An he talks like mushy peas

Rummaging frantically through chaotic pockets
Conjunctives falling to the floor
He can't find the word he's after, but who cares? There’s plenty more!
He begins to vengefully split infinitives in two
And hurl metaphors across the kitchen
Sending mountains of ******* up ***** of paper flying
Like snowballs after the thaw
Which slowly melt into puddles of lonely vowels and consonants.
Long after he has gone.

----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------

But all that was before the "Doodley Dee"
And his dream came true with a change of key
The song which people can't help to hum
From OAPs to the I-generation
And people hummed it all over
And in all sorts of weather
Until someone decided we should hum it forever.
And they paid Desperado Dan for every hum
Not bad work for a blistered thumb

So now our Dan seems a lot less desperate.
From time to time he evens finds an hour or two to rest a bit
Sitting on the veranda of his studio in the south of France.
Applying the finishing touches to another comedy romance.
Sipping a very fine Sauvignon, no Desperado in sight.

They're all safely packed away in the cellar

Just in case he gets the urge

Late at night.
Isoindoline Oct 2012
Elli had never thought that the walls were strange.  Really, she didn’t think of them as walls precisely; they simply marked where her world ended.  After all, they had always been there, looming grayishly about one hundred feet from her back door.  Occasionally, strange shapes would appear at the top of the wall, silhouetted by bright lights so that she could never say what they looked like.  The sky was a perfect circle of blue or gray, depending on the weather, and it hung rather flatly overhead.  Elli’s house had pristine white walls with a red tile roof, exactly like the other four houses in her little slice of existence.  There was one other child besides Elli, but he was a baby who barely spoke.  

Not that anyone else said much either.  The adults seemed happy enough she supposed and treated her with kindness, but they all looked at each other knowingly, with resignation.  

Elli couldn’t understand why that was so; they had everything they needed here: food, water, clothing, each other.  The weather was even cooperative for the most part, raining just often enough to keep the trees and flowers alive, and never getting cold enough to warrant anything heavier than a long-sleeved shirt.

She had to admit, though, it did get a little boring occasionally.  But, just as soon as she thought she would cry with boredom, a new toy would appear, or a new type of flower for her to discover.  When she asked her mother where these things came from, she would go tight-lipped, then relax, and say gently that they were gifts from Above.

What ‘Above’ was, precisely, no one could (or would) tell her.  So she made it up.
Elli thought that Above was quite mysterious, but it must be benevolent because it gave her so many gifts.  She would talk to Above sometimes, but it never answered; it only came with more presents when she had tired of the old.  Often, Above’s presents to Elli were in the form new discoveries, and very occasionally in the form of an actual toy.

One day, Above gave Elli a mysterious gift: a sketchbook and three pencils.  She was unsure what to do with them at first, but after some experimentation she discovered that one end of the pencil made a mark, and the other end could make the mark disappear.  That discovery alone delighted her, and for a while, she busied herself simply with the process of marking and erasing.

Next, Elli started to put the marks together in ways that pleased her, and eventually filled the entire sketchbook with abstract drawings.  She thought she would erase them all and start over the next day, but when she woke up that morning, another sketchbook and three new pencils were stacked on top of the old.  She squealed with glee.

Elli took the sketchbook out to her favorite tree that day, and as she sat in its shade, it occurred to her that she might be able to replicate what she saw around her on her paper.  
Elli began to draw.  

She explored everywhere for things to draw, and as she followed the curve of the concrete wall late that afternoon, she saw a strange object on the ground, half hidden by a large bush.

Bending down to take a closer look, she noticed that whatever the object was, it was flush with the ground and seemed to have space below it.  Elli thought that was odd; she had always assumed the ground was utterly solid, and to find that there was a seemingly endless hole underneath was disconcerting.  She set her sketchbook and pencils down and reached out for the object.

It was covered in a reddish dust that came off on her fingers.  She grabbed the grate and pulled a bit.  It rattled invitingly.  Acting on impulse, Elli grabbed the cover with both hands and heaved; it was heavy, but not unmanageable, and she soon had it off and found herself staring down a dark tube.  She knelt down, stuck her head in, and shouted.  The echo of her shout leapt away down the tunnel.

Elli backed away from the hole and sat down, contemplating her discovery.  One thing was certain: her little world was not as little as she had thought.

Eventually, Elli decided that the peculiar hole would have to wait.  She was getting hungry, and the thought of her mother’s cooking enticed her.  So, with some effort, Elli pulled the cover back over the hole and dusted her hands.  It would be waiting for her to explore tomorrow.

The next morning, Elli raced out to the hole and dragged the off the cover.  Again, she shouted and listened to the echo of her voice leave her behind.  

She wondered where the echo went.

Finally, curiosity got the better of her, and dragging her sketchbook and pencils with her, she lowered herself into the darkness.  

As her feet touched the bottom, she noticed that the hole had become tall enough for her to stand in.  Looking up, she realized that she would not be able to go back that way. She shook off that thought, and turned her face to the darkness.

The tunnel was damp, so Elli slid her sketchbook protectively under the front of her shirt.  The further she got from her entry point, the darker it became, until she could no longer see anything.  

For the first time in her life, Ellie knew fear.  

She thought of her friend, Above.

I don’t like this; I really don’t like this, Elli said to Above in the darkness.  Can you hear me, Above?  I’d like a gift to help me get out of here.  Please?

No answer came, but Elli knew that that was what would happen.  Above never spoke to her.  She felt wetness well up in her eyes, felt it trail down her face, and touched it with her fingertips.  Her fear abated a little as she stood in the darkness and nothing extraordinary happened.  Elli sniffed.

Picking up her courage, she continued forward in the darkness, feeling her way along the damp walls of the tunnel.  Suddenly, she heard a loud scraping noise overhead.  She jumped back, stumbled over her feet, and dropped her sketchbook in a puddle.  A sliver of light appeared in the ceiling, widening as the scraping noise continued.  Elli looked up, frozen, fear returning vengefully.  Light filled her section of tunnel.  She looked up, blinking at its brightness.  

A strangely elongated hand appeared, silhouetted against the light, reaching out for her.  Elli gasped.  It’s all right, the hand said, I will help you.  I am here to get you out of the tunnel.  Elli didn’t move.  Another strange hand appeared, and together, they reached for her, grasped her, and hauled her out of the darkness.  

Elli looked at the owner of the hands, into a face entirely unlike any she had seen before; the eyes were much too large, and the irises were an iridescent purple.  It didn’t have a nose, and its mouth was decidedly small.  It looked upon her with what she could only fathom was worry and concern.  There were others, standing, watching.

Who are you? Elli asked.
We are Above, it said.
And Elli knew nothing at all.
Prose, not poetry, I know.  And several years old at that.  Wrote this after reading Vonnegut's "Slaughterhouse Five."
with the cost of petrol being so dear
one is forced to drive in low gear
the engine cannot be at full throttle
as it will use more than a seven pint bottle

replenishing the petrol tank is a scourge
and from our wallets it does vengefully purge
it is quite frightening receiving those petrol dockets
for they leave a humongous hole in our pockets

soon everyone will be walking or riding a bike
they'll not be able to take the petrol price hikes
each week we're at the mercy of the oil giants
they are making a lot of dough from their clients

they've got us over a barrel pardon the pun
and we're running scared of their pistol packing petrol gun
public transport is the best option for us to take
at least that will not of our dollars forsake

petrol prices are of the most dire concern
and I can foresee our hard earned pennies set to burn
brooke Jan 2014
I use to hope that you'd keep that
photo of me tacked by your bedside
but you took it down, (vengefully)
I know this because you tore out the portraits
of me from your sketchbook the first time around

so I hope you find bobby pins still within your clothes
catch whiffs of my old perfume on the streets and feel your
spine cinch softly, I hope a single earring rolls forward in the
desk drawer, but I really cannot hope these things anymore.

so i hope the earring stays lodged in the crack, that all stray bobby
pins find their way back and that my perfume is never worn, never worn
never worn. I hope that my perfume is never worn
around
you.
(c) Brooke Otto 2014



a spin-off. A poem on no longer being angry.
Justin G May 2015
No rest
for a lost boy
he knows no bounds

A journey he embarks
What he seeks
is yet found

A premature hatred
Like ******
He pukes
pain
from stomach

For weeks
he is weak
For days
he is dazed

Eyes vengefully blazed
bullets flew
grenades blew
Such beautiful lies

Unhappiest
of times
No disguising it
This child has lost

A dreadful crime
He executed
right along with his
mind
Another series of 10w stanzas
D.T. Lethe Jun 2010
maturely premature thoughts preexist inside
waiting to explode and marvel
at the symmetry of our meetings,
asymmetrical
incongruities.
unthought veils bearing everything
mysterious. magic rarely happens
when eyes open slowly for the
first time. life hatefully
spiteful, vengefully
insipid, unknowing
uncaring,
who cares, time
lost,
repent,
recant,
re-imagined revisions,
systems breaking human
conditions, connections. see
past the humanity,
inanity and insanity are deliberate
malfunctions- there is beauty
inside every action, movement, and
word.
torrents of half thought forms cascade
over fickle answers,
responses to help your quest. yet
in the same ******’ breath you say
‘you’ve thought too much;
imagined
enough-
excuses are all
you need’ while
i cry to you in silence,
you’re missing the beat, the
form, the aspect and motivation
of the intellect that you
so silently yearn
for in your verbal
abuses.
this will only get you so far before
you see as i see
or not at all
J Golem Feb 2014
Ten minutes after I had barfed nine nuances of green
and eight hues of pathetic in a pretty steady stream
I found a girl whimpering in the shades of a column
My drunken self coughed and adjusted to being solemn
'cause I knew her long ago and offered her comfort
and perceived it went well but what did it not distort?

dry cheeks and thank you's
I continued whatever
and she played her game

for a boy who gave her the blues
should be the victim of her clever
bedside revenge in vain

he cared two shitbricks 'bout her roundabout
her self-inflicted humiliation was complete
he hunts the insecure to hear his boyz applaud
now she had vengefully given herself to Pete

I realized her dignity was a blood stain on a sheet
and all that was just a laughing matter to Pete
it disappeared with the rumbling of his washing machine
but to my eyes; that spot will never appear clean

I did not have the authority to put that ******-casanova behind bars
but Ink-Eye gave him the prison treatment, in an alley, under the stars
.....
pause. (WHO'S INK-EYE?)
Before I morphed into the niagara falls of puke, this man with a tattooed teardrop was handed my money by my intoxicated hands in order to set things straight the old way. All I dug up from my wallet was three dimes and some pastilles. Minty.
"It'll do".



Last night I sat at the highway diner. All chairs were stacked but mine. On my plate lied a charlatan's tooth wrapped in white tissue paper, as if I had pickpocketted it from his gums. The lousy transistor radio scrambled Tom Waits' "Midnight Lullaby" as the waitress did dishes in the ***** kitchen, and I saw my lone silhouette in the panorama 'show' window illuminated by the worn out neon signs on the diner's facade. I needed to go home.
Mara W Kayh Jun 2015
nothing can express well enough
the hatred stewing in my blood
for the anger
that pours out of your
poisonous eyes.

that ugly clenched jaw and
pathetic clenched fist
which threaten me face to face
every time you hear me talk back.

apparently, speaking and
defending myself is considered
"interrupting"
and deserves your unholy wrath.

acid
entering my veins,
your violent being
slithers inside my pours..
Like an invisible snake

which will,
one day,
turn on you
vengefully
with its
very real,
venomous
tongue.
K Balachandran Mar 2013
Stealthily she moves, like a ghost,
               None seems to notice her dark presence,
"Here I am near his bride" vengefully she hisses,
                  Then remembers, "Already I am a ghost"
K Balachandran May 2016
There isn't any half time mark
in a true blue love game, my darling
Neither prior fixed schedules or dates
nor strict rules, regulations, contracts
in a game of love, lovers avidly play it
themselves, in the way they truly wish
whether callow or highly seasoned,
mindful, heartless or calloused inside out!

The players decide where it has to be
played out, how long and  when the
curtain should fall and what would
be the after math of this; what results!

In course of the moves of this game
the thing important is particularly this:
They decide what to do with the dear life of each,
some times out of sheer impulse, even  eyes shut.
The ones that keep sanity and good sense
and hold the head above the water, swim together
would live to tell the tale sipping a glass of wine
but the rest, mostly become tales different
rarely told with a smile,most of those are written
in the black ink of grief and sung at taverns after
the hours dark falls  and ghosts vengefully roam.

Some, fall by the wayside in sacrifice, and perish
many disappear in dark pits invisible that lay
in wait to eat them head and all, without a trace.

But the ones I sing about are these pairs, resilient
they hold hands, steadily climb the path,
winding and narrow leading to the view point,
on the top of the green hill, from there
the view is breath taking, an ample reward!
Coventry once I left behind and thee too;
But look: I wouldst sail the seas with thee alone!
Thee alone, Immortal, t'at other souls shall feel mocked;
Mine is the night ship and thine the dawn voyage;
Ah, t'at the blind earth knoweth our hearts are its enterprise;
T'at shall be empty not, even th' sun disappears and moonlig't dies.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do;
To thee for whom t'is heart beats, and shall take revenge;
To thee for whom my soul was blown, and by whom I'th grown alone;
Ah, thee, bewildering me too much by thy passionate desire.
Ah, Immortal, talk me no love talk, but take my life-all of it;
As though all men's streams are but fused in thee, thee alone!
Ah, Immortal, t'at fierce scent of thy red summer skin,
Too is just one of tonight's rampage of flurry wind!

And t'ese lines of love hath thou laid onto me, within
The breath and warmth of so many pleasant places;
Immortal, Immortal, Immortal--and like the beauty of Sofia;
I believeth in thy loveliness, in thy kind and timeless fatamorgana.
Immortal, my mountain, my earth, my everything;
Immortal, the very birth yon icy oceans hath to sing!
Immortal, hath thou seen the decree of fate;
T'at love is still t'ere for us, for 'tis never late?

Thy eyes are like heavens' broad fields beneath, and ever rejoicing;
Ah, darling, for I canst but see all gold and silver--plain and honest in 'em;
A drama like a song, a stage play like a vanished poem;
But one t'at turns again brave and crimson;
Toward' th' very end of the dark season.
I'd love to see thee pry love into my hungry heart again;
To watch thee brutally scorn and defy peace t'at hath existed
Piercing such through thy lonesome heart; raised, but now denied.

Ah, Immortal, I blame th' sun for its gladness;
And raise my contempt toward' the unknowing skies;
Like blood flowers, my heart too is emptied with madness;
T'at one wonders why it exists still and cannot die.
I wanteth to take thee again through the city's old brakes;
And introduceth thee to the idle flames of my song;
As beautifully and vengefully as misty poetry by th' lake;
T'at none is to see--nor to steal from me, as t'ey may fly or pass along.
Jennifer Lynn Feb 2013
Embrace my warmth
Inhale my love
Capture my heart
Leave me cold
Destroy my soul
Break my heart
Kiss me softly
Touch me gently
Take me passionately
Conquer me completely
Torture me sweetly
Ignore me vengefully
Disregard me easily
Break me down with a smile
Haunt me no more
Olivia Kent Dec 2014
The  sky hung full of ******, above the execution bell.
The crow circles overhead irreverently, dressed in his Sunday best.
In the bar the dead men fought.
From the counter outside they flew.
Spilled into the street in front of a few.
Two cowboys, guns in both of their hands, wrathful and vengefully meeting demands.
The young lady with the mess of blonde hair, was heard to squeal,
"Oh Jimmy, fight not over me, let him go, let him go free".

The lady in the emerald hat cried "Jimmy and Jason, please stop that."
I hate it when you play with guns.
One of the problems when you have stroppy twin sons.
Their weapons discarded into the bin.
After the gunfight that no brother won.
(C) Livvi
In the current situation of war I liked this idea .
Sam Temple Nov 2015
icy winter on the afternoon breeze
gives pause so the sun can lie
and encourage children out of doors
only to kick up vengefully
chapping lips and watering eyes
while simultaneously giving cheeks
a rosy glow –
frosted lawn greets the day
altered dew rests glisteningly
subdued bird song breaks the silence
and my own breathe distorts the image
exhaling clouds
liquid vapors instantly freeze
and fall to the cold ground below –
slapping mitted hands together
and piling up six pieces of fir and elm
I return to the safely of my enclave
arrange the sticks in a 1956 potbelly
and light the match
which will combat
the change in seasons –
Saint Audrey Nov 2017
I am a product of god's ignorance
I've been built from marred clay
Blame me, for sanity's sake
But the potters hands faltered
Irregardless of what some might say

I ingest every ounce of ink
I can manage to get a hold of
Until it permiates
And percolates again and again
Filtering through matter once gray
Leaving it saturated

Invoking imagery
Evoking change
And aptitude long since vacant

Because we bet on friends, but count on ourselves
With a fickle mistrust
Hardly justified, but well enough adapted
Laughable, really, when its thought about

Its only been recent that I've had so little time to place bets
And so little time to gamble
Like a trick of the vagrant wind
Ageless as it flows between a million meetings  of the minds
All great and inspired
Lying on so many final wills
And parting testaments

Grave, where is your sting...

Assumed to be bitter, it would seem
But bonds long since sutured to flesh
Make for an easy stretch of time
From now
Until forever ends

Each and every one

Each of my bones was broken and
Then set into themselves
Folding over backwards
Misshapen and deformed
Heaven blessed my torments many
Bitter running brooks that flow
Over every broken bone
Making each one whole

Restitution, but at a price
Vengefully demanded sacrafice
Only half a moment wasted lost in thought
Standing on the brink of a crossroad

Goddess, take a hold on me
Spirits, rend my soul free of these
Would be chains

A fall like lightning can illuminate
A dark night

The symbol of an age ending
And another fire burning
****
I dreamt a dream that some demons must have sent,
Feeling all the pains I underwent;
No pictures, no hues, just the feeling,
All my bruises and cuts without healing.


I dreamt a dream that was set as sent by Death,
But it did fit no reasoning, nor math;
No relief, nor aftermath, just the moaning,
Like a self-pity-full, endless night and morning.


I dreamt a dream that was meant to be my end,
A fearful damnation, not mend;
All the pain and immense sadness,
Making every deathwish sickeningly reckless.


I was sent a senseless dream with Death being mad,
Vengefully meaning me dead;
I felt blueishly cold and in dreadful purple,
Hiding in my last reckless prayers as a turtle.


I was meant to dream a dream that was chance or warning,
Putting up the black phone calling;
With every evidence Death's hands hang,
I wished not dreaming that dream while it just rang, rang, rang...
19.02.2019
With So many enemies
To see
It's like destined
For my prophecy
But it only
Made me
A stronger man
Especially  
When I learned
To keep a clip in hand
I got more beef than Pakistan
If you innerstand
Would you understand ?
My words chosen
Carefully
And viciously
Some say I spit
It like makaveli
I'm just speaking
From my mind tryna shine
Like the Sun beamin'
Off my millimeter nine
Prisoner to time
Made for the crime
Perfect rhyme
While y'all pinchin' pennies
I'm throwin dimes
Stack money
And **** a *****
Friends to foes
Only stick around for ya dough so
I had to reform my circle
**** em I don't  care
If they die
My enemies get the fry gotta stay high
As I curse my enemies from these rhymes
That don't lie
Huh
Don't make enemies withe me

My words are mostly wise
Rise
Heat like a passion
Between a chick thighs
You know ya
Mesmorized
Cuz my 9 baptized minds
Hidden under an eternal guise
Used to be an Angel
But my enemies tried
To corner me
In different angles
Broke the jingle
And made me a new tune soon
Foolls gone come
Out the wood works
But to me they been dead
In the dirt
For what it's worth
I'd rather be dead
Than alive hard to survive
N This game of life
Addicted to strife
Made sorrow my wife
Since I made a pledge
To the allegiance
Of rebels upped my levels
Now I'm feelin'
Untouchable with resources
Step outta line
Be a fresh frozen corpse
Mind warped
Enter the twilight zone
At the speed of light
No longer sufferin blight
Give it all my might
Til the day that
I die. I'll still
Put up a fight
To crumbles my enemies vengefully
Speakin' out  against me so

Si don't make enemies with me
Autumnal Gloom

                      Sorrowful October, rain hangs in the air to mean to fall
a murky joker without a sense of humour, I don't care whether it rains or not,
it is just the persistent greyness makes my beard white,
my hand's thin so many rivers look like Bangladesh overrun by the stateless.
People born in October tend to be mournful, with the sudden outburst of ire.
Intemperate, I blame the weather, vengefully jealous of others success,
it is not the October's child's fault; it had two choices winter or summer,
but was pushed into late autumn, forsaken by god and man.
The rain didn't fall, blew westerly and the afternoon sun was helpful.
Mary Kate Aug 2018
i can still hear the plane taking off.
i can still hear the busy people rushing around the airport.
i can still hear the doors to the shuttle closing.
i can still hear the friendly receptionists at the hotel.

i can still feel the air sweeping past me while waiting for the metro.
i can still feel the wooden banisters at the library of congress.
i can still feel the cool october breeze.
i can still feel the awe of seeing the washington monument.

i can still see my smile while watching bobby flay's cooking show.
i can still see the intricate floral pattern on the hallway floor.
i can still see my smile fade when you approach me in the hallway.
i can still see your black eyes as you force your hand down my pants.

i can still smell your cologne on my pajamas.
i can still smell my chai tea latte and cake pop.
i can still smell the old air in ford's theatre.
i can still smell the mini burgers i ate that night.

i can still taste the cold concrete in the stairwell.
i can still ******* dinner coming up as you choked me.
i can still taste the salty tears dripping onto my tongue.
i can still taste the bitter mucus that i vengefully spat at you.

i hate you.
regarding previous literary endeavor
might shed insight about me.

Wick End Up Date, Snippet Sans...
...The Deadly Scourge  
...One Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder

(Never abating infiltrating
writing material e'en superceding
the death of John McCain, where
Munster monster rears gnashing
undermining marriage with ambivalence.
Anorexia nervosa absent bulimia
nadir of onset schizoid behavior,
which agonizingly slow suicide
self starvation maelstrom within

psyche of self prepubescent lad
(particularly devastating  
immediate family members)
emaciation pitted existential
ghastly revulsion unseen,
wuthering heights wrung death
knell annihilating fragile entity
christened Matthew Scott Harris

obvious preemtory imprimatur
yieldeing covalent bond to die starkly
horrified kith and kin helpless  
Zorro slashed signature profound
perilous depressive psychological gouge.
Now at about two plus score years
attaining centenarian rank perfect 20/20
hindsight supreme advantage swift under

currents alluded drowning, when das
scribe juiced started  to nibble puberty,
whence devastating emotional crisis
tripped, trilled, and tricked chronological
clock theorizing numerous educated
guesses within mindful middle progeny,
and sole son (of Boyce and late Harriet Harris),
why I willfully hurtled flesh at light speed

down abyss toward death. Literal and
physical lightness manifested within
nooks and crannies prior to full blown
symptoms to eliminate sustenance
drawing curtain on brief residence be
fore high noon of life. Metamorphosis
from boyhood into man found solace
attempting to keep at bay natural cycle,

which trans formation grieved me
pining nostalgic childhood’s end
(one fraught with romanticism)
vengefully interpreted attempt to halt
deadly tracks intervention of mother,
whose nursing experience helped fend  
passive attempt promulgated silent

killer (suicide) wrought living corpse
fruition, while she whipped various
nutritious concoctions in blender
to ensure minimal essentials to, I
readily admit) famished body in con
junction with applying vital supple
mints into bony gluteus maximus,
thru fuel injection which submissiveness

to acquiesce, and bare buttocks did
absolutely nothing to squelch death wish.
I inexorably overcame eating disorder
deadly hunger strike essentially constituted
declaration of independent control
despite horrendous craving for food
jabbed innards like a pike bifurcated
psychic division  loosed, ousted, and

routed coeval grim reaper grippe
permanent goal lyeth drink seize abated
gnome hatter reminiscence blissful child
hood over flooded self made ****
revised engendering propensity
to catapult into abysmal emotional hole

before invention of Facebook, I
mentally clicked Like sparring sword
fight mailer daemons mortally wounded
slain, viz healthy development stole.

Imprimatur indelibly etched decades
after bout with passive exit from life
crimps ******/social skills plus
stunted physical growth butcher knife

cuts affected mental health with panic
attacks and anxiety though existence
considerably less riddled debilitating
symptoms (such as vertigo, racing heart,
profuse sweating, nausea, irritable bowels)
courtesy prescription medications.
Thru emerging adulthood awareness awoke
within noggin of average baby boomer bloke
catastrophization toward risk taking I evoke
positive growth experiences throughout vast
number of orbitz around sun never kickstarted
nor linkedin with potential livingsocial folk.

Courtesy solitude yours truly
proffers poetic obscurantist blatherskite
discombobulated clishmaclaver will delight
expressing how me courage doth take fright
puncturing since boyhood head to toe height
housing crotchety, fidgety, impiety bent knight
impossible mission to summon bravado might
thus, I figuratively slink within analogous shell
avoiding testing comfortable autozone outright
trumpeting unconvincing lame excuse quite -
begetting, drafting, fielding, heralding, jump-
starting, loosing, notching another
psychological another mischievous sprite.

I submissively succumb opportunistically,
meekly, heroically, and dutifully attest
to surrender once plagued narcissistic self
to beastly merciless beck and call behest
all the while actualizing, envisioning,
and imagining outlook as if afflicted
with dissociative identity disorder,
whereby manifested spirit housed in my chest
spontaneously showing up as unwanted guest.

Twas deadly scourge
of one obsessive/compulsive disorder
anorexia nervosa absent bulimia - nadir
of onset sans quasi schizoid behavior,
which agonizingly slow suicide
by self starvation
mailer daemon maelstrom
within mine psyche
when yours truly prepubescent lad
(particularly devastating

to immediate family members)
as emaciation pitted existential revulsion
from unseen wuthering heights
nearly wrung death knell
annihilating me fragile entity
with peremptory imprimatur
yielding covalent bond to death
readily obvious to kith and kin
via zorro like signature per profound
perilous depressive psychological state.

Now - at about two score plus eighteen years
from attaining rank of centenarian
perfect 20/20 hindsight
offers supreme advantage
from said aforementioned psychological crisis
within mind of yours truly
middle aged progeny and sole sol
(of Boyce and Harriet Harris
mine father and mother respectively)
hypothesizing numerous educated guesses
why he willfully hurtled his flesh at light speed
down the abyss toward his demise.

Literal and physical lightness of being
manifested within nooks and crannies
prior to full blown symptoms
to eliminate sustenance
drawing the curtain on brief residence
way before high noon of life.
metamorphosis from boyhood into man
found solace in attempting to keep at bay

natural cycle which transformation grieved me
to pine for nostalgic childhood’s end,
(albeit one fraught with romanticism)
vengefully interpreted attempt
to halt dead in the tracks intervention of mother
whose nursing experience
helped fend off passive attempt
to promulgate passive silent plan to fruition.

She whipped various
nutritious concoctions in the blender
to ensure minimal essentials to this
(I readily admit) famished body
in conjunction with applying vital supplements into
one or the other bony gluteus maximus
thru fuel injection
which submissiveness to acquiesce
and bare my buttocks
did absolutely nothing to squelch death wish.

I inexorably overcame eating disorder
to cease going on deadly hunger strike,
which essentially constitutes
a declaration of independent control
despite horrendous deprivation
regarding voracious craving for food
stuffing innards like a pike
bifurcated psychic division to live
ousted coeval death wish sans goal
seize yore per reminiscence of blissful
childhood over-flooded self made ****
engendering propensity to catapult
over abysmal emotional hole
and way before the invention of facebook,
I mentally clicked like mental health
to fight the mailer daemons
that part of me healthy development stole.
Self destructive wickedness arrested, convicted, and gaoled...

with kidnapping little boy
ordered to suffer
life sentence without parole.

The deadly scourge of  
one obsessive/compulsive disorder
nearly left me starving to death.

Anorexia nervosa absent bulimia
nadir of onset
diagnoses schizoid personality disorder
severe social anxiety still legion I aire
behavior which agonizingly
elicited slow suicide
courtesy self starvation
maelstrom within psyche of self
as prepubescent lad
(particularly devastated  
immediate family members)
as emaciation pitted existential
revulsion from unseen

wuthering heights
betook courtesy yours truly
teased, hectored, and called “professor,”
when riding the school bus
nearly wrung death knell
annihilating fragile entity
christened Matthew Scott Harris
with peremptory imprimatur
yielding covalent bond to life
readily obvious to kith and kin
via zorro like signature per
profound perilous depressive
psychological state.

Now - at about
three decades plus six years
from attaining rank of centenarian
perfect 20/20 hindsight
offers supreme advantage from
swift current near drowning
alluded earlier when das scribe
juiced thwarted leapfrogging
from pollywog tad metamorphosed
to witness puberty,
whence devastating emotional
crisis tripped, trilled,

and tricked aborted
natural healthy development
chronological denouement demise
jump/kick started
theorizing  numerous educated guesses
within mind of
middle progeny and sole sol
(of the both late father and mother
Boyce and Harriet Harris) respectively
why he willfully hurtled his flesh
at light speed
down the abyss toward death.

Literal and physical lightness of being
manifested within nooks and crannies
prior to full blown symptoms
to eliminate sustenance
drawing the curtain on brief residence
way before high noon of life.
  
Metamorphosis from boyhood
kindled burning man
found solace in attempting
to keep at bay of pigs hijacked
natural cycle, which seminal
transformation grieved me
to pine for nostalgic childhood’s end
(albeit one fraught with romanticism)
vengefully interpreted attempt
to halt dead in the tracks
intervention of mother,
whose nursing experience helped
fend off passive attempt
to promulgate passive
silent plan to fruition.

She whipped various nutritious
concoctions in the blender
to ensure minimal essentials to this,
I readily admit) famished body
in conjunction with applying
vital supplements into
one or the other skeletal
gluteus maximus
thru fuel injection,
which submissiveness to acquiesce,
and bare bony buttocks

to receive iron injections
did absolutely nothing
to squelch death wish.
I inexorably did buzzfeed
hashtagged eating disorder
to go on a deadly hunger strike,
which essentially constituted
declaration of independent control
despite horrendous craving
for food jabbed innards like a pike
bifurcated psychic division

to live ousted coeval death wish goal
to seize yore reminiscent  
blissful, (albeit fictional) childhood
over flooded self made ****** ****
engaging, engendering, engineering
propensity to catapult yours truly
into abysmal emotional hole
and way before the invention
of Facebook, I mentally clicked like
to surrender mailer daemons all
of me healthy development stole.

Imprimatur indelibly etched decades
after bout with passive exit from life
crimp on ******/social skills plus
stunted physical growth cuts like a knife
affecting mental health with panic attacks
and anxiety although existence
considerably less riddled qua
debilitating symptoms
(such as vertigo, racing heart,
profuse sweating, nausea, irritable bowels)

relying on the following prescription medications:
BUSPIRONE HCL 15 MG TABLET
CLOMIPRAMINE 50 MG CAPSULE
CLONAZEPAM 0.5 MG TABLET
FLUOXETINE HCL 40 MG CAPSULE
GLYCOPYRROLATE 2 MG TABLET
PRAZOSIN 1 MG CAPSULE
PRAZOSIN 5 MG CAPSULE
RISPIRIDONE 1 MG TABLET
ROPINIROLE HCL 1 MG TABLET.

To add insult to injury
yours truly also gifted
courtesy split uvula
but did little to ameliorate
the writer of these words
suffering brickbats as scape goat,
whereby severe adenoidal vocalizations
allowed, enabled, and provided
an easy target viz black barbs
poised to strike, hurled,
and bullied me by peers.

Up until I entered six grade
(at Henry Kline elementary -
a one classroom per grade school)
classmates bullied, derided,
and feigned to hammer -
jabbing leering, nasty pimping ragout as a rule
which boyhood self of mine availed
a perfect bullseye target
with combination of diminutiveness,
being painfully quiet,

essentially remaining mum the entire day
except when called upon
to answer question
thence utterance emanating between lips
produced and emitted
a strong nasal sound to boot
grist for the mill
sans malice meted, mimicked,
and mocked mashup
of mine warped congestion
ah, twas only by a fluke conversation,

whence speech pathologist
informed my parents about
The Lancaster cleft palate clinic,
where oral an examination
revealed minor birth defect
identified as a submucous cleft palate,
which explained the severe pinched twang
somewhat mitigated by wearing
a removable prosthetic
fastened with clasps to upper teeth

whereby a makeshift miniature
plastic protuberance closed the gap
(at the expense of practically gagging me)
so air would be prevented
passing thru my button nose,
and thus gentle and soft as a shutterfly
shunted air out oral opening
though congenital defect disallowed
returning merchandise back to sender
nor could blame be affixed

at either father nor mother
who both harbored the genetic mutation
now such admissions
re: aforementioned impediment allows,
enables and provides boasting rights
if in a mood temper
any curiosity or satisfying a rumor
whispered down the alley
whence I said “ah”
left nagging nincompoops
as if pie hole filled with a gobstopper.
Thru emerging adulthood awareness awoke
within noggin of average baby boomer bloke
catastrophization toward risk taking I evoke
positive growth experiences throughout vast
number of orbitz around sun never kickstarted,
nor linkedin with potential livingsocial folk,
thus omniscient cosmic consciousness I invoke
diametrically contradicting atheism
haint no (Sikh, sick nor sic) joke,
where self important
fulsome mortals indistinguishable
among bobbing flotsam and jetsam
squarely sponging precious resources
off the pants courtesy Mother Earth
heartily rooted in narcissistic strength,
whenever necessary razing mighty oak
destroying other flora
unwittingly insidious effects
industrial revolutions triggered global warming
and abomination, brutalization, cannibalization
demolition, eradication, ruination...
on the upside twenty first century
environmental activism did provoke
circa 1979, a geography course
I enrolled in at Temple University
taught courtesy John Western,
whose exceptionally adroit calligraphy
attentiveness drawn towards
chicken scratch of mine woke.
Courtesy solitude yours truly
proffers poetic obscurantist blatherskite
discombobulated clishmaclaver will delight
expressing how me courage didst take fright
puncturing since boyhood head to toe height
housing crotchety, fidgety, impiety bent knight
impossible mission to summon bravado might
thus, I figuratively slunk within analogous shell
(think “Peter Peter
Pumpkin Eater nursery rhyme”)
avoiding testing comfortable autozone outright
trumpeting unconvincing lame duck excuse quite -
begetting, drafting, fielding, heralding, jump-
starting, loosing, notching another
psychological mischievous sprite.
I submissively succumbed opportunistically,
meekly, heroically, and dutifully attest
to surrender once plagued narcissistic self
to beastly merciless beck and call behest
all the while actualizing, envisioning,
and imagining outlook as if afflicted
with dissociative identity disorder,
whereby manifested spirit housed in my chest
spontaneously showing up as unwanted guest.
Twas deadly scourge
of one obsessive/compulsive disorder
anorexia nervosa absent bulimia - nadir
of onset sans quasi schizoid behavior,
which agonizingly slow suicide
by self starvation
mailer daemon maelstrom
within mine psyche,
when yours truly prepubescent lad
(particularly devastating
to immediate family members)
as emaciation pitted existential revulsion
from unseen wuthering heights
nearly wrung death knell
annihilating me fragile entity
with peremptory imprimatur
yielding covalent bond to death
readily obvious to kith and kin
via zorro like signature per profound
perilous depressive psychological state.
Now - at about one score
plus seventeen years
from attaining rank of centenarian
perfect 20/20 hindsight
offers supreme advantage
from said aforementioned psychological crisis
within mind of yours truly
middle aged progeny and sole sol
mine father and mother respectively
hypothesizing numerous educated guesses
why he willfully
hurtled his flesh at light speed
down the abyss toward his demise.
Literal and physical lightness of being
manifested within nooks and crannies
prior to full blown symptoms
to eliminate sustenance
drawing the curtain on brief residence
way before high noon of life
metamorphosis from boyhood into man
found solace in attempting
to keep derrière at half moon bay
natural cycle which transformation grieved me
to pine for nostalgic childhood’s end,
(albeit one fraught with romanticism)
vengefully interpreted attempt
to halt dead in the tracks
intervention of mother,
whose nursing experience
helped fend off passive attempt
to promulgate passive silent plan to fruition.
She whipped various
nutritious concoctions in the blender
to ensure minimal essentials to this
(I readily admit) famished body
in conjunction with applying
vital supplements into
one or the other bony gluteus maximus
thru fuel injection,
which submissiveness to acquiesce
and bare my buttocks
did absolute zero banishment
to squelch death wish.
I inexorably overcame eating disorder
to cease going on deadly hunger strike,
which essentially constituted
a declaration of independent control
despite horrendous deprivation
regarding voracious craving for food
stuffing innards like a pike
bifurcated psychic division to live
ousted coeval death wish sans goal
seize yore per reminiscence of blissful
childhood over-flooded self made ****
engendering propensity to catapult
over abysmal emotional hole
and way before the invention of facebook,
I mentally clicked like mental health
to fight the mailer daemons
that part of me healthy development stole.

— The End —