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Remember
Back in the day
When those parties
In Venice
That say would have 25 people or so
Walking through?

Now they were
Too big
Over-packed with
50-200?
With frat boy vibes?

Dana Rick and I
Arrived at one
And I thought a
At the sliding glass door
Oh God
And quickly escaped to the kitchen
Cutting through the living room
Where there was the make shift bar
Nothing much in the
Fridge

Anyway
I made my drinks
And turned around
To cross back
And somehow Dana was there
In front of me

She raised her hands
And wiggled through the bodies

While I
Said
NO
I will dance
When I feel like it
I choose

So I began to follow
And every elbow knees hip and arm
Reached out to touch me
Knocking all the contents out of
my little plastic cups

And though
I got to the other side
Contemplatively
Looking back
Empty

The three of us
Went to stand on the side of the house
Safe
By the water meter
And I laid down my cups
Laughing

So the moral of this story
Although I think it’s obvious
Is to
Go
With
The
Flow
Venice parties
You know those
200 in a space made for 50?
A monster that
You had to
Protect yourself from?

Three of us
In the living room and I got
To the Kitchen. For safety.

Serving adequate, and me
on my way back
Drinks in each hand
Bodies through Dana leading
Her arms above her head
bouncing she won’t spill a drop
The other hands follow
again, me with
stubborn arms
refusing
thus liquid contents emptied and
Sticky
the floor underfoot
Splashed

Outside
The water meter stood laughing
told us about the flow and to go with it
Resist
to the one who builds a small house
and says: well I am here.
Resist the one who came home again
and says: Glory be to God.
Resist
on the Persian carpet of apartment buildings
to the short man in the office
in the company import - export
in public education
in the tax
to me still telling you.

Resist
to the one who greets from the podium for hours
endless parades
to this barren lady who shares
forms of saints Lebanon and myrrh
to me still telling you.

Resist all those who are called great again
to the President of the Court of Appeal resist
in music the drums and percussion
at all the talking conferences
counselors drink coffee
to all who write speeches about the time
next to the winter heater
in flattery the wishes in so many bows
from scribes and cowards for their wise leader.

Resist the services of foreigners
and passports
in the terrible flags of the states and diplomacy
in ammunition factories
to those who say nice words lyricism
in thurias
in sweet songs with lamentations
to the spectators
in the wind
to all the indifferent and the wise
to others who make your friend
as well as to me, to me still telling you
resist.
Then we can confidently move on to
Freedom.
Resistance to the stereotypes of poetry
M Vogel Feb 28
D Vanlandingham

..turn on,
and faucets.. they turn off
but the fear of the lord
remains forever.

  The reality-shifts within
your ever-controlling  need
to define,  change nothing

  or maybe it does--

  "Hot, into cold;
and now white, into black
what was once good, now
becomes  'bad'" --

   Life..  into that,  of  (non.)
Your need for me to now be
those things,  has caused

      that very end,  indeed.



.. and now I am become, death
the destroyer of worlds--

       yours.

https://youtu.be/dus_M4sn0_I
have a nice day xo
How am i supposed to say
what i want is not attention
it's reassurance

what i want is not sympathy
it's support

how am i supposed to say
i am battling..
with myself.
How am i supposed to find the right words and not sound wrong
kevin wright Feb 8
An arc of embodiment
Decadent perfumed petticoats swirled to order
Power ****** from the sweat of the land
Stone hewn from its very foundations
A spider's web encloses the flowering art

Phoenician helmeted raiders
Roman taxing invaders
Trespassing Gaulish voices
Thumbed rosary transcenders
The dawn of a walled resistance

A Religious pandemic
Storming Carcistes
Razats rebel
Friends denounce their own
A castle evokes revolutionary fever

Ghosts reverberate running the embattlements
Proletarians open the walls
Guardians red and blue
White clergy take the souls
Swords discarded, a tricolore soars

Slaves to the chisel
Open pits for Vulcan to dip his toes
Gothic Cavernous quarried vaults
     in search of Sade’s demons
Stone to shape Provencal style

Dereliction a Maquis delight
Refuging resistance and the persecuted
Destruction and collapse
Artisans and folk revive
Paint brushes to the fore
Transientents page the streets with blood red gold

A coat of arms rings its bell
Lowly hovels now adored
Gaping holes swallow the light
Sleepers enrichen the ground
Too long a museum

Stirring string notes
Cherups embrace their calling
Voices rouse the deities
Banners furl in mistral breaths
Spirits hightail Lacoste’s new allies

Iced sun rises over Luberons range
Warmth caresses the blood of day
School children playing, wake the sleepy
Warm stews vie with Pistou
Hallowed vines are groomed

Long walks with herbs to find
Boars try and outwit their hunters
Dogs smell the truffles afar
Ventoux snows cool the view
Cyclists roar through in celebration

Village a transforming microcosm
Artists absorb, evolving a creation
Animate habitants living and the vogue
A hearty cocooned culture emerging out into
     longer days luring the coming spring
The second of  a four seasons  poetic series. A village stripped bare to its origins  during winter.
Orakhal Oct 2020
Be the feeling
of an answer

not
the urgency
of a question
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