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I've lit you up,
And you've lit me up!
It's simple, innit?
 Aug 2018 Ahmad Cox
Raise your hands now that the king is dead
Bring the poor out the streets the meek are fed
Bring sugar, milk, wine, and bread
Please lower your hands for the king is dead

May the ****** please come and feast with us
No need to starve like rats on crumbs and crust
We can show you peace, love, and trust
Oh please, the ******, come and feast with us

May the women who roam the night please come forth
We admire you because we all come from your birth
All humans, no lesser, from all east and north
May the dear woman from the night please come forth

Now that we have gathered I want to tell you all
What love and triumph serves to call
How we all rise with sun and sleep at fall
Please love yourself I’ve gathered tell you all
 Aug 2018 Ahmad Cox
Nat Lipstadt
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...

that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows the when and why of differing
cuddling styles...

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows when to leave a man alone
alone in his man-mourning time,
distance needed,
letting his ex-rage dissipate or
watching his red and blue football
redefine ignominy...

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when the man low whistles, eyes adrift,
she heartily agrees and is
reciprocity rewarded regularly
with hunk alerts of

that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
a tigress in the bedroom
she asking, try this, I'll love it,
served with a desert demo of awkward afterward,
his less-than-perfect cuddling abilities

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who doesn't abhor partner silences,
comforting they are, in their own ways,
lying side by side, interrupted only by peccadillo body noises unexpected and
sheepish apologies and loving arm stroking

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who lets the man roar, top of voice,
when imprisoned in car,  
his voice, un enfant terrible,
performs with Creedence Clearwater
a sing-a-long in traffic, asking
"Have you ever seen the rain"
while amidst Israel-leaving-Egypt
Sunday beach traffic on the L.I.E.

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
when it's pheromones  alternative mode day,
he celebrates Carole King day,
she demonstrates her cuddling abilities,
par excellence, with kisses and tissues

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...

a woman, plain confident in her abilities
no matter the situational status,
when confronted by
she smiling says "why not,"
when he proposes,
a movie and dinner in a fav haunt?
"plenty excellent enough" her answer,
spoke in a rising voice
full of unfeigned delight

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
accepting the unexpected airport embrace
on a moving sidewalk, unexpected delays
with the aplomb of a well lived life's
long term sustainability perspective

when he kisses her hand for no reason,
while driving 75 miles per hour,
she only winces internally,
the other hand vise-grasping
the other door's handle,
who brushes hair wisps in a dark movie,
celebrating her Bathsheba Everdeen's
duality of strength and tenderness

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when on second date he proposes
a non-exclusive relationship,
confident enough to high-five respond,
and laugh about it,
seven years on

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when she reads it,
analyzing the oeuvre as
"too **** personal and
as usual
too **** long"

that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her
cuddling abilities
in everything...
even a little occasional criticism
Entirely fictional, of course.

L.I.E. is the Lomg Island Expressway, a/k/a, the longest parking lot in the world.
Red and blue football team, the NY Giants.
Bathsheba Everdeen from Hardy's "Far From the Madding Crowd."
Alternate song choice, the Eagkes "Take It Easy."

Inspired by this:;=style&action;=click&module;=NextInCollection®ion;=Footer&pgtype;=article
 Aug 2018 Ahmad Cox
Survival isn't necessarily poetic,
Like the words of this poem,
it can be exhilarating,
and yet not be poetic.
It can have rhyme schemes,
lazy hymns,
light beams,
internal screams,
like the ones entwined in this poem,
and yet not be poetic.
Survival doesn't need battle scars,
history of wars,
a trigger,
anything bigger.
All it needs is a flash of trust,
a burst of hope,
and a bunch of acceptance
to get past all that-
the state of denial,
the snake around your neck,
and the bags under your eyes.
Your very own battle cries.
So take this poetry
as your beam of light,
as an escape from the bland
wordings of survival,
and climb up and up
and out of sight
of the rock bottom
that you're planning to hit,
before you start healing.
Start breathing
Before you can't anymore.
..but this Poem is my Survival
 Aug 2018 Ahmad Cox
I grew up in a religious home,
they implemented this dream
that one day ill be come a priest
And it was the only way to make them happy.

I lived this silly dream up until the end of 5th grade when i realized,
There is no god.

Fore how can a man of such holy stature commit all these heinous crimes against his own "children".
I was 10 years old when i realized i had enough, that my voice needed to be heard.

They dont talk about little boys getting molested, almost intentionally looking away as if it never happens.

Us boys are taught a long list of rules from a young age to never cry, never show fear, never back down, just a whole lot of nevers.

But I was never taught to deal with a grown man inside me.

Believe me it hurt, it hurt more than any pain i have felt to this day.
What made it worse was the one inside me, my father.

At first it started off innocent enough, he was drunk and didnt know what he was doing.
But it soon progressed into a side business he ran under the table
"20 dollars, 20 mins"

At 8 years old, brandy became my best friend. She was the only thing that numbed my pain, although forced down my throat so I wont fight back, I learned to enjoy the burn.

A year later i went to my first party.
Months of getting beat down and broke all was ment for this day.

23 guys; one boy.
I still feel your touch, and it burns.
I hate myself for looking exactly like you father.
High on the O2:
Red Rossopomodoro, Wagamama,
and on the bus shelter, Marc Jacobs,
and again higher,
then Metroline moves past.
It's the 113
to Oxford Circus,
and the 13 to Victoria:
Thrilla Lives On,
shouts the slogan,
while National Express has
All Set For Take-Off.

They're gone...
It calms
nothing much
just the red lidless eyes
of cars
two, three, four dozen pairs
over the asphalt road.

where am I?
Ahhh, yeah,
in the Oriental Star,
the road seen from a table and stool,
for food.
Where have I hailed from?
My lover's womb.  
No, no
The North Star, yes:
A pub on the Finchley Road,
Where Tottenham beat Liverpool 4-1
A pyrrhic victory!
Over a couple of beers.

Warm years, and tears.
A sense of place,
a home, a nest,
Receding in the traffic
Of a busy road,
Waiting on noodles.
Alright Mr. Quickie...I give up
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