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Bardo Aug 8
O! I went to the loo to do a number
    two
Only one cubicle was vacant, the rest
    they were all taken
"Looks like a full house today" I
     thought to myself
Man! I was bustin' to go
As I sat there on my throne in my
    cockpit all alone
There came this funny rumbling
    sound from down below
And then, this fearsome volley.... a  
    fantastic farting
And then, a great release
As finally I dropped my bombs with
    studious aplomb
O! what a relief !

"Man! ", I said to myself, " I must
      lay off that Aloe Vera juice
That stuff it goes right through you "
But then, something strange, from the
    cubicle right next to me
Came this other big thunderous ****
    explosion
A big fat blubbery balloony one
It sounded like a tuba gone wrong
And then! And then, another one! this
    one further down the line
This time a big bubble and squeaky
    one
And then! yet another! a funny little
    flute-ey one
Like it just squirreled out in the nick
    of  time
And then finally, another!!! a big Big
    Bellow like from some wonky
        trumpet
A real rasper, he must have thought he
    was doin' the solo
Man! It was so funny, one right after
    the other, you had to laugh
It was.... well, it was Gas !!!
Lucky no one struck a match
Or else it might have been... yea!
    Jumpin' Jack Flash !!!

It was like listening to a whole scale of
    *** notes
Such a strange symphony, these
    wondrous excursions in Sound
For a moment there, it reminded me a
     bit of Beethoven,
It was no celestial choir that's for sure
It was something altogether more dire,
Like something you'd hear in a
    farmyard byre
The animals all gathered at the trough
It was like all the bottoms were
    conversing with one another,
        having a chat
Plotting a rebellion even, an uprising,
    a coup d'etat
Against that other much more
    celebrated Opening
That much vaunted Hole in the Face,
    the Mouth!
That puffed up preening Prima Donna
    with his preposterous outpourings
His Monstrous, pompous inflated Self-
   importance
Sitting up there stuffing himself and
    forever spouting nonsense
"Sure, we do all the work down here",
  the Bottoms were saying, " and we
    talk a lot more sense as well"
They posed the question "Can a Bottom speak more Truth than a
    Mouth ?"
These defiant derrieres, these proud
    posteriors
With their proud exultations
Sticking a firm ******* up at that so-called world of respectability up
     there
That world of petrified good manners
Suffocating! Oppressing! with its
    stifling mores and traditions
Yea!....for sure, the rebel Masses, they
    were just a bunch of Bad *****.

O! the air it was blue just like Pepe Le
    Pew
I could have sworn I seen a big blue
    gaseous cloud ascending
Heading up toward the ceiling
Like a great Cloud of Unknowing
    except with a bit more foreboding
Reminded me of William Wordsworth
    & his lonely cloud a-wandering
But then I thought, did Wordsworth,
    Shelley or Keats ever write
An Ode to His **** ?
Was it too dark a side to show, too
    dark a place to go
The Dark Side of the Back Side
The Dark Side... of the Moon.

Pepe! Pepe Le Pew, that old Don Juan,
    Casanova of the old cartoons
It was then, my Love, it was then I
    thought of you
I smiled and said to myself"I know
    what I'll do
I'll blow out another sweet blue
    raspberry one just for you....
Oh yea!....that one was lovely, that one
    was true
I think that one had your name
    written on it
O!  I do".

And now as Pepe might say " Adieu! adieu!.....Sweet, sweet Adieu! ".

                       Ende
This is really lowering the tone. 'Bout time I wrote a real stinker, this one stonks to high heavens, it probably won't go into the stratosphere but it'll certainly go into the Ozone layer By the way the "Moon' bit, to moon someone as a verb means to show your bottom to them. Also Apologies to Beethoven, man was a genius apparently.  - By the way, Does my *** look big in this???
Tonight's the night
We fight or die
And you can bet
It will be violent
But the aggression
That we have to bring
Is the only chance we have
To make a change.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
This battlefield still stands,
white smoke swirling as silent whispers of
dying men's shrills still fill the air.
Yet a steady snare beats for us.
We sing our silly rebel songs,
still seared upon our savage tongues.
Shrieks and shouts of all of your wrongs,
songs of sinners, we will sing on.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
Nikita Dec 2018
a rebellion is my love for you

forsaken and opposed by many

still somehow i feel its lost

my heart says one thing and my brain another

this constant rebellion may go on forever

and stop mabey never

at the end of the day its for us to decide

whether to give in or to turn out to be a rebel

and fight till the last breath

it may prove destructive for us

but all is fair in love and war

and love has no boundaries

not now not ever

i feel that you are the one for me

it may be opposed by my family

and many more

but my love is mine forever

my breath is the promise

and my soul the witness

it may not be the same for you

yet it is a rebellion

a rebellion against the world

you and me are the rebels

the odd ones out

we can either choose to stick together

or give in and fail....
You smell of moonlight,
Gentle words
And the type of rebellion I have yet to taste.
Grey Jul 2018
A small town with a oil painted face
Boungiorno! Coffee on every other 2nd Thursday
Rare occasion for the matinee, only for imagination and relaxation
The diner with an authentic blast from the past
There waits a booth for the young souls, trading their stories and tales
Adventures to come and jobs to be done
Hours pass while I roam the local park, once chased by the fearless duck!
One dollar and twenty five a game, billiard tables have found their small town fame
Summer in full swing with memories to be made
Cigarettes and caffeine, filled with adrenaline
Road trip, Round trip
A new chapter waiting to be written
Harry Kelly Jun 2018
Certain people in life leave strong impressions on us,
By their sayings we agree with or positions we abhor.
When these people are no longer around,
their marks make themselves known  in various ways.

You are in my thoughts often.
You were quite the square peg.
I think back to the odd ways you did things.
A True Rebel.
But not a rebel just for the sake of it
Nor in order to receive the attention society pays to such people
A rebel because you make up your own mind on things.

"Never be afraid to change your mind," you used to say.
That stuck with me.
So although you are not here with me,
You are never truly gone.

For a while you said I was the one for you.
                       But You Took Your Own Advice
                       And Changed Your Mind
And in the now, I am ok with that.
Brent Kincaid Apr 2018
We’re the rebels they call rabble
They want us all to be quiet
They bluster and they babble
Then they publicly deny it.

Representatives, an easy question:
Who do you represent, which faction?
You seem to have a lot of nerve
To insist that you protect and serve!
You want our money to campaign
Then leave us standing in the rain.
You grant yourselves a frequent raise
And pat your own backs with praise.

We could ask who you think you’ll fool
But, this is a nation of brain-dead tools.
At least half the country does not vote
Which leaves our case with a sour note.
But that leaves half who do believe!
It’s for the Constitution we grieve.
Your oath of office had you swear
To work for us, represent and care.

We’re the rebels they call rabble
They want us all to be quiet
They bluster and they babble
Then they publicly deny it.

So, it remains to us to care and feel;
To be the infamous squeaky wheel
And call to the public’s lazy attention
Crimes you commit and fail to mention.
We point it out when you lie and steal
That the promises you made aren’t real.
We remind our brothers, the working slob,
That all you do in office is keep your job.

Getting into office, your number one priority
For that you must ignore all the minorities
Only mentioning them in campaign speeches.
Then continue on being high-paid leeches.
Nobody in your party will call you out
Just collect your money from the touts
And when you retire just leave the rubble
And demand the populace call you “Honorable”.

We’re the rebels they call rabble
They want us all to be quiet
They bluster and they babble
Then they publicly deny it.
Brianna Oct 2017
We wasted our youth on numbing the pain with alcohol and cigarettes.
We were young and naive.
You were charming, I was a mess, and we jumped into the flames together.

We wasted our twenties on screaming into almost full answering machines and bars with mindless conversations.
We were wild and free.
You were a mess, I was  fed up, so we danced down dark alleys together singing rage filled songs to the moon.

We were best friends; we were trying to fight the same battle with scars across our wrists and blacked out livers as mementos from this war.
We were family;  we were just filling up boxes with old pictures of smiling and happy birthday cards from a mother who was never around.
We were lovers; trying to scream ourselves back into each others arms in hope that we could be the heroes we always wanted.

We were the kids your parents warned you about.
The ones with the broken past and the empty futures they said.
The ones with the alcohol addictions and the drugs habits we refused to kick they said.
The ones who lived in the night, who danced in the shadows but dreamed of the next morning they would have to make it through.

Cheers to numbing the pain at the expense of our livers and wasting our youth on impossible dreams.
electra Jul 2017
You're a mystery Heath.
What's that love you hide underneath?
It seems that you're chasing love again,
Spilling it like brand new champagne.
You watch her dance in lavender spectrums.
You must of fell hard for Electra,
Cause now, you roam the desert,
Killing for nothing but treasure.

A never-ending love ride,
It's almost like you can feel the high tides.
Oh, how she's such a bliss,
Such a babe to share a kiss.

Can you feel your heart on fire?
Every inch of her is your desire.
Pour that love into the drain,
Before the blood begins to stain.
She now cries in red colored spectrums,
And you're somewhere faraway from Electra.
Run, here comes the boys in blue,
Sacrifice yourself before they get her too.

A never-ending love ride,
It's almost like you can feel the high tides.
Oh, how she's such a bliss,
Such a babe to share a kiss.

The desert is miles away,
And you've been locked in jail for days.
Yet, there's no sign of Electra,
Could she be distracted by the spectrums?
What has this become?
Is there still more to overcome?

A never-ending love ride,
It's almost like you can feel the high tides.
Oh, how she's such a bliss,
Such a babe to share a kiss.
This is the third series to Electric. To have a deeper understanding of this poem you can read my poem Electric, which is published on here, and then you can check out the second one called Electra.
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