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Marina Feb 2020
There is nothing wrong with your body,

this is an example

this would be a perfect example

no one taught them not to grab

tell him to keep it in his pants

now we go feeling unsure of our bodies

I led my life to fighting the distractions

so did they

nothing is wrong with you or your body
it was never your fault
sadgirl Sep 2017
i like to think i don't write for
publicity, i write for myself

but what artist could say that?
who doesn't want

their moment in the
Martin Narrod Aug 2017
Anything All of the Everything

Events of Summer quickly ensue, it takes hold of you quickly, while the police drive thru. You cannot find it half-way into the night, you could hold up on a park bench or lay your blanket on the slough. Perhaps when your dreams kick, your asterisks will come, build a map of your defense and then head for the sun. Some foe outwit the wounds of life, furry blister-like faces, when they take up the star dust diamonds, the trail guides take after hurrying up paces.

The festivities of fear are living oaths inside of marbled starve rocks, they harvest shoots and ladders, and keep tabs on wild beasts and livestock. There's no match throughout the campgrounds. There's no matchbook light to find us. If you're quick enough with your 70s, then perhaps you'll follow the nightness that's arrived us.

In aide of her lift-gate, shredding pensive miens and speeding mimes, taking ward of one thousand fathomed depths, assumes courageous anti-hate isms. She can come quickly with a syzygy, her van packed with fresh woes of Sunday, then around Monday humbly hides her stuff in the small hems of her bed linens. You can't outwit the governess who preys on handicapped children's thrift finds. She makes clothes and keeps her hands to bed. She bares new graves for time's new roman epithets and moving pictures. She  unplugs her bleeding tongues under some new sone for her monarchic archetypical audiophile party.

While the umberphiles sleep, nyctophiliacs stalk grizzlies. Mosquitos quaff at human blood, while their offspring keep drinking. The idle bugs throes, misanthropic and useless, teach electric lusters' mouths to grow into fiery hoops with which to slip past all the clueless.  The arachnids might dance, the haunting verbs they might fray. The Egyptians at first glance, try to hide their heroine pyramids away.

So hush little violet dormant flowers, fake your fertility and keep your skeptic drink. Keep each one you might meet, within one hundred feet of where you sleep. Keep your arms length's supine, your supplies out of reach, practice wrapping yourself up inside boxes where the souls can sleep.

If you only once catch a fool, avoid the plague-speak certain lips might tell. Each uttered word commanded with too much ******* across the bandwidth. Mortal courses can't be taught, human voices can't keep the draught, ferocious abstract engineered humanity has escaped this truant absence and immorality. You, you catch a fool, she could preach hurts and djinns, it could dot the I's of when, and unfurl the sighs of men. Berthed earthlings that the **** ascribes, hurts the worthless and sours true purpose widths of curfews and its curses, all these biomes perfervidly reserve the fury for their furtive perversity, elements to obscure the telemetry that has coddled such a dark conflagration of immensity, it's the cluelessness of these transgressors that forces the abhorrence towards all-white-everything professors.
While sitting in Grand Teton National Park at the entrance to Spalding Bay.
Brent Kincaid Mar 2017
I understand your feeling;
That nothing ever works,
That all of those who run
Are just a bunch of jerks
That nothing ever gets fixed.
It’s all a money game,
The rich keep getting richer
And no one take the blame.

So, people get elected
And promises are made
Then the other side starts whining
And throwing lots of shade.
Then the media gets in there,
They only care about the ratings.
They focus on who is famous
And who someone is dating.

The issues are complicated
So much is at stake.
It’s not just a simple matter
Of who is on the take.
It’s more like ****** if I do
And cursed if I do not.
What’s the use of voting
When look what we have got?

So, you let them all go on
And you just wait and see.
After all, it’s just a game.
So how bad can it be?
Maybe an outsider now
Who doesn’t follow rules.
Maybe they can get inside
And make them look like fools.

One side says the numbers lie
The other calls them cheats.
One side says trust me folks.
The other lists defeats.
Either way, after ward they
Both will sing he blues.
Should you look at successes
Or vote the evening news?

The best advice is to watch
Who walks their own talk,
And who wants all the money
All the marbles and the chalk.
Who cares to improve the fate
Of those who really need?
And who is driven just by lust
And barefaced naked greed?
Danielle L Cook Feb 2017
There are so many people who do
and say controversial **** only in order
to gain the public's eye.
Not only on YouTube, take a look at that woman
who goes on Twitter and starts beef
with popular celebrities just so her name is in the news.
Tila Tequila is always posting the most
inappropriate crap, and I'm not talking about **** and *****,
I'm taking about praising ****** and mass genocide with passion.
Look at basically every successful politician
with the power of swaying the masses with
only a few words - I'm pointing at you Donald Trump.
It's ******* disgusting the lengths people can go
to get publicity, because as they say,
any publicity is good publicity, right? Wrong.
It only works because we
highlight it and glorify it,
people take sides and
the only thing left is a divide.
The only way to really stop this kind of
hate-spreading, fear mongering, classlessness
is to stop talking about them.
To completely shut them out.

But I know that's impossible, because
ridiculous as it sounds, there are going to be
people who agree with them, who will
glorify them and put them on pedestals
for being true to their cause.
So then what can we do?? I guess we continue
talking about it... and the loop goes on.  

Humanity isn't lost, it was never there to begin with.
This is the way of humans, there's always been
the ones like Polandbananas and Tila Tequila and Donald Trump,
and there always will be. But I want to believe
that the number of people with the capacity
to love and begin the change
is greater than the number of people
who are too set in their ways
to be persuade.
I felt like this could work as a spoken word after I finished writing it,
What do you think though?
Milk for meat
Hype for hope
Lies for love
Ashes for beauty
And yet we all said "amen"
Puppet master
Thy humble puppets, enthralled
...and we have anointed you;
To tell us ...
  What we want to hear
  What we want to read
   What we want to watch

You have execute thy duties;
Tickling our ears to perfection,
With feathers, dipped in ******
Our souls; numbed  
our hearts; tangled in lies.

The parade
The confetti
The Loyalist
An ovation;
To he who sits
lonely, on his throne;
Feeding our emotions,
In your own emptiness.
Roller coaster ride...
We are dead, like the last generation.
In a world of high speed species,  we hardly pause for reflections and choosing wisely. We amen anything that has societal aura and illusions,  to the neglect of reality
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
I trace my finger around. With red lipstick on I wear the skin of the pets I had, looking like a marigold shot through the head, my bare skin is barbed in the back. Such trouble and quiet with the wrap-around, the cross-walk, and floral shop as I browse. The white elephant in the upstairs bedroom, is making it hard for every one of us to sleep. With this Africa becomes a disease, that I unwrap from a cotton white sheet. When I breathe life is going good, under the spells of wicked and word. I like to call out in the night, so with no response I can plead for the courage to think; all the suburban philistines try to help me, but I can't tell a joke because I cannot read. Every thing amounts to being fat. Or liquidated in the most pathetic singles party for Karl Lagerfeld.

Numb fingers slur the words as I type telephone numbers that end in threes. I see a notice to be called upon, but it's hard to remember what day it is when your job only pays you in financial advice, "Don't do as I do, but please just do what I say." And I can smell that. The approach that a hunter brews in his midnight solemn cup of tea. Where a voice chimes in while a mouse runs out, dragging the corners of my eyes in a lagging meme, it doesn't do well to even be yourself sometimes, once while traveling I couldn't see. Come that morning I had left my hotel pass inside my favorite pants, black denim toting paint from a ******* shot, a picture that explains my disease.

The fifty inch fan hums an anonymous tune that when I turn quickly towards it becomes this feral baboon. And is it hardly based on fact or is it the illusions and the myths that Christopher Robins struck inside of me. With his griseous hands made of soot and of gouache, that worshipped animals that wear clothes outside. And even sometimes there are z's that transform into other creatures that hum real fast and talk out loud in nursery rhymes, a Whatsit and a Woozel are totally, too much for me. I turn the fan off and lay back down, and fight the world off with hands from another guy, much braver than I who doesn't even have tattoos but he's the top wordsmith from Buckingham. What a beautiful treat and such a magnificent surprise that the elephant lays down to die. Of course that's when my mouth dries up with smoke and my voice turns into the vanilla flavoring that everyone hates, and then too I felt like laying down to die. But I'm not 97 like I had thought I'm quite sure that I'm still alive. The white moon shines into my bedroom window at night and I pretend that I direct for the sky.

— The End —