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 Dec 2020
S Smoothie
Hold up

Enough of this bird drip

Wipe your nose and look up

Pathetic blind mice play 2 wise sheep

The artificial heart beeps

While yours bleeds

Your blood is coin

A fools folly of *****

Your child sacrificed

Cut to pieces and torn

Yet for the afflictedbstrangers you mourn

For animals you weep

Some to **** some to keep

Scientific lies poison your mind

Call the message fear

Call the message hate

Call the message division

God does not exist

Re-call the message

Re-call the message

Re-call the message

Fall asleep zombie

Fall asleep sheep

The lion sleeps tonight

The red dragon stalks

Green eyed monster

Gives birth to the invisible beast

A burden

Gray matter feeding artificial martyrs

You can do it yourself only you can't

You can be free only youre not

Poked with incessant panic

Prodded with incessant fear

Switch off

Recall the message

Recall the message

Recall the message

We are not saved in this world but the next

For the wise
Not the intelligent.
 Oct 2020
Francie Lynch
Two ebon crows got drunk last night,
Pecked their way into a fight;
Feathers flew as they clawed and cawed,
Till the losing crow pulled a gun in spite.
The other bird flew off in fright,.
Returning with a murderous flock,
And circled the gunner, a fierce gamecock.
They fluttered and feathered in a spree,
Then flipped before two crows winged off.

They returned with hair from a dead man's chest,
And proposed the two should build their nest.

They fashioned tools from human fingers,
Framed the nest with human femurs;
Used two green eyes to glaze windows;
Make a two car garage from the nose.
Are these not two of the smartest crows.

Next they laid out the toes
As hinges to swing their doors closed.
Each crow brought back an ear,
To hang on hinges, front and rear.
They peeled off lips, once used to talk,
And paved a route as their sidewalk.
They  yanked out teeth like skilled SS,
To tile bathroom and kitchenette.
Lastly, they peeled back the skin,
And wallpapered their nest,
And lived within.

See what's achieved by two drunk crows,
Who settled their scores
After crow blows.
 May 2020
I wondered today if anyone was recording in high definition this World in caution? kisses banned, so’s holding hands, but wash your hands a lot or you might miss to ‘Out that ****’d spot’.

How apt, a spot, a circle, a corona, isn’t that a beer? Let’s all now cheer for key workers, clap for nurses the NHS, let’s forget what started this mess, was it China? A pangolin? A Mandarin?

Conspiracy theories abound, they’re all doing the rounds, oh look it snuck back in, abound, around, they’re all circular sounds, circle back to the start, wash your hands.....’Out that ****’d spot’.
20:41 BST
Another dark night
Won't things ever be the same.
The complete alienation of socialism.
Going jobless
Even bust.
Empty cupboards .
Cruel stares.
Sirens deafing most ears .
Smell of death  is around
You feel it
Dread it
Everyday  is a bonus to survive
But what are we doing
Just existing.
We've stopped living
Because  we are afraid .
Of  dying
We will all die one day.
So why are we dwelling on it .
The panic
The need to separate.
Because of some virvus
We all dying of other things
Why the fuss
Well power comes to mind .
That and politics
It says it all 😱
Relationships should be a two way thing.
Time .
Time .
We shouldn't have to live on our own.
What's happened to family.
Our world
Do we care .
Living alone
Is the worst possible thing
No visitors
Friends .
 Jan 2020
Carlo C Gomez
"I'm restless, I think I'll go for a walk."

And so, you visited Ephesus,
on the ancient coast of Ionia,
browsing books in the Library of Celsus.

You wandered through
large ionic columns in Jerash,
the chariot marks of
the Oval Forum and Cardo
visible at your feet.

You then climbed Mount Alban
to the rise of its 2,200 terraces,
“Grand Plaza” shadowed from the sun,
where the ritualistic games
often meant death.

"How was your walk?"
I asked upon your return.

"Substantial," you said
falling back into bed.
"But not as tangible
as my life with you."
Some people are never satisfied
Give an inch
They take a mile
 Dec 2018
Ally Ann
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
The pain is subtle at first
A still whisper of solitary words
Stitched together with pulling scars
and stained pages.

We weave the night,her mysterious follies
take shape against our reflection
keeping score for the needy
while damning the meek.

Bravery reigns as sword touches flesh
etching fears to woven rhyme
blood let in letter form
a release to all who know death.
I'm in a really dark place at the moment and finding it really hard to write. Please be kind! x
 May 2018
Mrs Ashley Somebody
All those books they made us read,
The smelly yellow-pagers
That weighed as heavy as the guilt
We felt as "zombie teenagers";

Do we remember anything?
The names of the main characters,
Or maybe, who died in the end--
Or the ones who were in pictures?

It wasn't that we hated books--
We didn't understand them;
Before the teacher's spiritless voice
Made us slowly condemn them.

"Memorize the vocab words,
And don't forget the spelling!"
Was that the point of literature?
But definitions aren't compelling.

So all those hours in English Lit,
The days spent reading Steinbeck,
Were soured by the grouchy face
Always looming over my desk.

I always wished someone would say,
"This isn't boring, here's why:"
But I was told to shut up and read
When sometimes I wanted to cry:

"I hate this story! Nobody's happy!
And everyone's messed up!
It doesn't make sense to force it on us
When we're already stressed out."

But we had to read it, because they had to read it
When they were young in school.
This book had an impact in history:
So now, reading it is a rule.

So if it's a must, that's fine, then.
But...why don't we make it fun?
Or talk about the psychology
And learn something when we're done?

A book can't be everyone's favorite.
We're all different people inside.
But please try to make us all interested
With wisdom only you can provide.
Steinbeck, Dickens, Orwell, Bronte, Fitzgerald, all those depressing writers that we were forced to read. I only liked Edgar Allen Poe, and that's saying something!
The depth of  one's  soul arises  with the early birds song
Sweetness of  contentment
Within me stirs up a longing of
Things to come
Satisfaction of knowing God.
Talking with him
Being in his presence.
Being  surrounded by his protection.
Brings security
A hope
That never fails.
It is well it is well with my soul
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