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 Oct 2011 Day
Lain Ender
These are the children of love.
They burn like a swarming inferno,
Tending flowers of passion, of loss.
Born just to fade.
They are beautiful as spun glass,
Clockwork concoctions.
In an instant they’ll be here,
In the next they’ll be shattered.
They are all just children of love,
Living in the Kinderfield.
They wait to be picked up,
Knowing it’s often for not.
 Oct 2011 Day
K Balachandran
In a preternatural stupor
a dream seduced me to believe
that out of sheer
cosmic boredom
infinity generates,
this ever expanding universe
all by itself, decided
to turn inside out.

Why not, I thought
a great time indeed for us,
at last, to see God play dice!

Stars and planets came unstuck,
dangling like ripe globular fruits
or fancy lamps,
hung from a ceiling, if you like
while sky, the blue outer skin,
that helped us to make some sense
of the whole business of universe
went completely missing,
from our eye shot.
Days and nights,
what a happy anarchy!
have no order with
lot of colors thrown in
between varying hours.
 Oct 2011 Day
Hank Roberts
You're stuck in this old soul,
not sure which
road to venture down.
Although some are
clear and safe.
The road with
thunder and lighting is often
the way to go.
It's all your eggs in
one basket;
but you're left  
with just the one.
You think yourself
a martyr but all in all you're
just killing yourself.
You're not ahead
of your time one bit,
You're long
passed it.
 Oct 2011 Day
SBohl
If your eyes can hear the words
If you ride phrases to another place
If your heart exhausts itself in submersion

The poem breathes success.

If the words claw at your eyes
If phrases keep you at a distance
If emotion is imbedded between each mark

The poem drowns.

Ring out the tears
and immediate reactions,
Hang out their sources to dry.
Inspiration reflects truer
after a strong wind of patience.
 Oct 2011 Day
Brandon
We loaded our boats
And raised our sails
As we set our course
We hoped the world is flat


Going off the map
Going off the map
Going off the map
Going off the map
Going off the map
Going off the map
Going off the map
Going off the map
Going off the map
Going off the map
Going off the map
Going off the map
Going off the map
Going off the map
Going off the map




Oh ****,
the world is round
not flat
looks like we're stuck
here
maybe i'll be an
astronaut
and go to outer space
but i heard it's hard to
breathe
up there
real hard to breathe
 Oct 2011 Day
Brandon
Chase the emerald fairy
Around the Eiffel Tower of France

Shadows swagger an acid dance
Of Hollywood trances and diamond glances

We’ll spout poetry beneath a glamoured moon amour
Drink whiskey and absinthe by the gallons
And wash it down with the finest wine
Grown from sultry ***** countryside

A poet’s star will drive jealousy mad
In famous graveyards of prostitutes and prose
Our night will be spent in gothic debauchery

Eyes once spoke the tale of flesh and lust
Pouting over torrentially voracious desires
Decadence deceived promises
Bewitched with voluptuous tongue

The playwright types at his typewriter
Typing funeral dirges of sitar and violin duels

The contravention of dawn’s chorus
Erupts behind curtains of pantomimes
Charms lost in the end of magnificent performances

Your whispers in my ear are the last I hope to hear
The last beautiful gasp of breath I hope to hear
Will be your whispers in my ear

(Death sits before his typewriter
pounding keys in a ravenous lunatic frenzy
electing the end to our story
we have no contribution
only dealt the parts we act upon
and our scripts to speak
)
Suivez la fée émeraude fastly
Autour de la Tour Eiffel de la France

Ombres à pied une danse d'acide
Des transes d'Hollywood et des regards de diamants

Nous allons la poésie sous un bec de glamour moon Amour
Buvez de whisky et l'absinthe par l'gallons
Et le laver avec le meilleur vin
Cultivé à partir de la campagne sensuelle *****

Star Un poète conduira jalousie folle
Dans les cimetières célèbres de prostituées et de la prose
Notre nuit sera passée dans la débauche gothique

Yeux fois parlé de l'histoire de la chair et la convoitise
boude plus voraces désirs torrentielle
Décadence trompés promesses
amoureux de la langue voluptueuse

Le dramaturge écrit à sa machine à écrire
Chants funèbres typage des duels de sitar et au violon

La violation de choeur aurore
Éclate derrière des rideaux de pantomimes
Charms perdu dans la fin des spectacles magnifiques

Votre murmure à mon oreille sont les derniers J'espère entendre
Le dernier souffle de souffle belle J'espère entendre
Sera votre murmure à mon oreille

(* Mort est assis devant sa machine à écrire
martelant les touches dans une frénésie folle voraces
élire à la fin de notre histoire
nous avons rien à dire
ne portait que sur les pièces que nous agir sur
et de nos scripts de parler *)
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