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Day tripper. (An Acrostic)
Day tripper.
An Angel of the streets
Yes  looked good in the dark with light behind

Though her behind sagged She were a tripper
Ripping through every penny that she made.
I knew her when she was young n beautiful
Pimps ran her life now and oh how she’d aged
Persecuted by the cops with the tricks to play
Eventually she became the tripper every day.
Rita was the meter maid of Liverpool they Say

Written by Philip.
She had a ticket to ride
But she don’t care.
November 4th 2018.
A nodding tribute to the Beatles.
Aletifer Nov 1
Of language, they say it's partitioned us all
That Babel’s been lost to our dreams
Yet speech was never what mortared its walls—
The Tower is not as it seems

Throughout every culture, a placid expression
Means freedom from panic and fear
A well-­furrowed brow signals excess of passion
And usually follows a tear

Serenity voices our reason and truth
Disgust is our language of hate
Hyperbole, the diction of boyhood and youth
Surprise, that of chance, and of fate

“The language of man has been broken,” they say,
Splintered by region, religion and race
Yet some may speak Kali, while others Malay
But all can interpret a face.
Any comments or feedback most welcome. Thanks very much for reading.
Dancing with Her
     Shimmering ballroom light
Holding Her hand
     Hoping She thinks She might
Frankenstein’s Bride
     Hauntingly lilting sway
Eyes loving eyes
     Dancing the night away

Quick cold Her lips
     Pressing upon my own
Somewhere my love
     Years of my life have flown
Tomorrow’s song
     Echoing from the past
Dear life so long
     Living it to the last

Tomorrow’s song
     Resting in peace my love
Dancing no more
     Dreaming the undreamed of
Somewhere my love
     Into that long good night
Tomorrow’s song        
      . . .
James Khan Oct 6

To life, that old preponderance of pain
Where moments lost are never found again
And memories like cemetery tombs
Lay hidden deep in time's sepulchral ****,

What life is this, forever looking back,  
Lamenting colours fading grey to black?
A somber song, a sigh on every breath,  
Beseeching *** to grant the prize of death,

But what of poignant pictures, highs and lows,
Of each embittered thorn and fragrant rose
The mind has sensed and stored in snapshot frames?
Nostalgia fades but still the bulb remains,

To life! -  and all the chronicles of thought
That haunt so often now that time draws short,


To death, the slippered larcenist of life,
The harvestman with silver scales and scythe
To flail the soul and weigh the deeds of Man,  
I fear your touch as only sinners can,

A scar upon my spirit speaks of pride
Where love or something clawed before it died,
Repentance gave no suture to the wound
That love or something like it left, impugned,

The names of faith are lost inside a glass,
I praise for morning, noon and midnight Mass
And so, the stark indifference of days
Becomes a blurred and misanthropic haze,  

To death! -  I say, please take my tortured soul
For **** can be no worse an empty hole.
Shakespearean Sonnet form.
James Khan Oct 1
Defame my name and spit a string of salt,
Dislodge my jaw and tell me it's my fault,
Reduce my days to apprehensive fear
With cries of ******, animal and *****,

Invoke the edicts sponsored by a priest,
The ones that make a man into a beast,
Express the views like curdled moral milk
And dress each sinner, swathed in Satan's silk,

A mockery of tolerance withstands
As sympathy still seeks to wash its hands
Yet stood embracing, two companions hold
The warmth within that counteracts the cold,

For what we have, this bond of loyal love
Must truly mirror ***'s domain, above.
Bored again lol. I write sonnets when I'm bored.
James Khan Aug 29
Understanding meter and syllables is the key to successfully writing rhyme. This ongoing blog summarises the classical poetry meters used in rhyming form and gives examples as well as a breakdown of how they are structured:

Two melted cubes and a sugar spot
                                leather cusp to arm...

From clear enclosure I **** it down
                                tasty, not my charm.
James Khan Aug 22
If I knew then what I know now
Would life have been a broken vow
Of self-respect in tattered strips
And torn-up terms of memberships?

Would dignity remain intact
If strained foundations had not cracked?
Had chance and choice not intervened
Would life itself be more esteemed?

But opportunities I've missed
Ensured my children now exist
And nothing on my beaten track
Cound ever warrant going back,

Necessity of pain, it seems
Was payment due to earn my dreams.
The snow is piling higher now
on the garden that was young
when pretty boys they gave me flowers
that I planted, one by one;

But the years flew by like summer birds
bound elsewhere, like the youth I knew -
now there's a pretty flower there
for every pretty boy I knew

when I was young. It doesn't matter now
that all the memories are buried
and none of them remember how
to save me from the one I married.

Winter scratches at the door with frosty fingers.
All the pretty boys are gone - but the snow it lingers.
Cupping candles on the open landscape,
marching to the heartbeat of the earth,
head hung low I hold the empty plate
that carries my last meal, the vanished mirth

I knew before the terrible black promise
of days that have been too long in the night.
I know I will not see the fabled summit.
A phosphorous reminder of the light,

Solemn-eyed the moon proclaims my doom,
my quiet song on this unhappy moor,
as I who move from chaos into gloom
light candles and bring darkness to the world.

If I could find within this grave omission
the fortitude of strength to stay the hand
that trembles with an urge to amputation
on the backdoor of tomorrow where I stand

How I would walk then as the need arises
and before the looming mountain make my plea
as far away the sun it blithely rises,
but I do not think that it will rise for me.

I do not think that it will rise for me.
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