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ConnectHook Oct 12
Que suenen las trompetas
un don para el presidente:
La salsa lo hará grande
y elevará su mente.

Escuchen el tumbao:
compártanlo libremente—
y que él gane en noviembre
sin tumulto ni incidente.
Within his paw
smeared blood red
by a deliberately mocking thorn
sat a
blanched ripple-y
strip of cloth confined narrowly
between the love and the life lines

what remained of her
what remained of the underthings beneath

fluffing rows of silk
the heavy skirt had been raised
above the ankles
the creases no longer hidden in shadow,
one leg hoisted over the back,
the reigns held expertly.

Hey Beauty!
As it happens, the number Eight is
Strength (also Lust)

She had surely fled
She has surely flown
through the trees and away
Not on foot at-all
while the three saw her pass.
great speed.
The two sisters
with that prince vulgaris looking on
Three daemon goblins watching from a distance
a disturbance
a smallish crashing
and afterwards
a scrap, sleepy and unfurled, relaxed
within the leaves that shudder
and give up the delicacy, slyly
into stubby fingers

The Woods are Laughing!
Did you notice any scent?
Did it linger between
the thumb and the ring?
the remnant of her flowers,
Petals flouncing, swirling
in odorous potentiality.
a scrap, yes
a deep seated souvenir
Can we re-fabricate the whole from this little thing, you think?
we want her.
there are things that we want to do with her.
They lean in close, nostrils flaring slightly
searching for the ambergris or the jasmine
settling instead to gaze upon
the still clutched
still a little springy
sprightly, o! the remnants of her liveliness
and *****

3: at least let us show you the stage that we’ve built
with a clean sheet,
paper cut-outs
and some sticks.
it’s called acting.
the wine and the wafer.
we’ve hidden in the trees’ darkening
what you would call
‘the mattress’ and
the leaves will crumple underfoot
as we ravish the ghost.

meanwhile, he’s petulant:
- why, if you’d just get off of that high horse!
- how long are you going to resist?
- are you STILL angry?
- why won’t you let me stick it in you?

she telegraphs her response, cough:
you do know that in this
particular scenario
(fingers pointing downward and across
as if to suggest that
the scenario
had a specific location)
You are the wolf, right?
The wolf...

I, the girl, am in the forest
with my basket and
have got a
cute little
blood red
crushed velvet
swing coat
With matching hood and a single task
And YOU (with those other two *******) have decided
to bore me with this ****.
Daresay slow me the **** down.
Of course I will get rid of you.
Who am I talking to?

Let me also add that
there never has been any high-stepping
on my part,
no ankle twirling,
no mandate to impress
a stale balcony,
no sign of gaslit illuminated
pink bows
that lay down flat perfectly upon the straps
that snap perfectly at the thigh,
NOT to be slid off a pert buttock (mine)
crumpled into a ball, ripped and torn
and yet I know that
the determined creature
more faithful than Argos
is prepared
to wait a lazy eight
at grannie’s cozy house
in a sickly corner
over eager and overwrought with
pandered fantasies
and explosions of once sort or another,
irrelevant to me.

What I will admit to is
the touch of those grubby fingers
transubstantiated at my waist
from behind as usual
impatient impractical,
again too quick to make himself a beast
to rid himself of being a man.
nick armbrister Nov 2019
By Craig J. Burt /Jimmy Boom Semtex
Are you ok?
Your brain's rattling like crazy
You're dancing like a ballerina
Twerkin around these crazy hot streets
You say why be a bore?
Life is a chore
Refuse to fade
Like a shadow of a doubt
Silver star filled skies
Shining proudly
Living freely & deep in love
We're no longer
Strangers tonight now
Sensational romantics
Loving devoutly

And the clatter of heels echoes
Upon concrete downtown Havana
Never had it so good or free
The Castros’ grip and communism fade
While we dance chest to chest
Thigh to thigh Lambada-esque
Los Lobos couldn’t be this cool
Nor move so ****** like you and me
For freedom for Cuba for us
This goes on and on
Like a whistling wind
Calling your name
Stop stop and listen
Do you hear it?
I held two flags
Both  red white and blue
You said I could only choose one
annh Jan 2019
Cuban motorists
expect the odd puff of wind
‘nother day, ‘nother Zephyr
Wrote this completely oblivious to Sunday’s tornado in Havana. An untimely post - kia kaha! :(
Mustapha Olokun Nov 2018
the chevy hard knock.
varied origins of afro youth,
in the tint of dark,
in the Havana rock.

rich rock in the palm,
pummels in the trunk,
and the narrow cracks
of La Habana funk.

rugged daughters,
draw the physical art,
sons form the
majestic canvas.

trumpet songs,
echo her soul tonight,
and she wails at hints
of the mornings right.

driven on the uneven black,
is hope of excitement.
curiosity risen from the street,
of opportunities coveted.

what more, in Cuba,
to live and die,
to love and feel,
to suffer and sweat.

It is all beautiful,
and it is all classic.

eyes beholding
futbol on corners,
tough children, play much
on rough dust.

a Cubana, with skin
as buttered chocolates,
crossing from shade to sun,
****, and gracious.

tonight is loading,
buffering the cigar smokes,
the groovy 76 being shoved
with memory and revelry.

Here, in Havana.
sound is telling
a living story,
an active pleasure.

.. and it is all classic.
All classic.
In Havana.
For imagery of an upcoming musical piece.
Could you contain my sighs of solitude
by harboring the anxiety in this fragile sea?
On your streets lies the tenderness, aging,
incandescent wind shelters and recalls
them in the distance
the flame anchored in your colors.

Lucid, shadowed reminiscent garden
in an infinite insomnia
harnessing the dawn.
Throbbing uniquely,
uniquely understanding,
following the beat, freshness,
watercolor eyes of the city.
Giraldilla, proclamation, mystery,
chaste voice in a calm urge.
I consecrate your vitreaux,
sensing your baroque capitals,
Dusty, unraveled.
I'd like to talk:
Game, rainbow, love,
People, noise, cars;
Essays on flavors.
A captivated rumor,
your arbor dances a naked certainty:
A park, a cloud, summer, God.
The boundary hurts the clef,
the litany resorts to music,
when the stars nurse your elusive chant.

Far… blood calls for your passion,
Languishing, nobody edifies it,
in the absent dwelling of your sun, your moon.
The corner dwellers come to my mind,
the adjacent towns, trembling bedrooms.
I seek within you, dear city,
that home, The Cathedral,
that childhood, concrete flesh,
mother's kiss fading goodbye:
upholds my venerated memories.

Translated by Vanessa Cresevich
Book:  Under the Light of my Blood
Hjalmar Ekström Oct 2017
This is the end of the beginning.

I woke up in the dark.
A leap but no fall to remember.
The panic but no will to vanish.
Waiting in a corridor.
Driven mad by sirens.
A fragile memory.

Surrounded by friends and strangers.
Growing thirstier with every case of stairs.
Inventing. Connecting. Accelerating. Speeding forward.
A spark of the unexplainable.

Speaking with a new voice, I found myself in a dangerous way.
Laughter is the bane of control.
Be happy and kind.

No one to trust, everything to gain.
Focus on what is important.
When met with faces and words at high temperatures.
Miles from home and hours later.

This is the beginning of the end.
A trip to learn spanish a decade ago that went wrong.
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