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though avast percentage
     of Stone Temple Pilots, she push peep pulls
     viz vernacular speaking population
     to most pious take as gospel

     every word in religious tomes
     their collective soul asylum polestar,
     and doth decree important doctrines
     with especial accord

equal insignificance applied toward
    Judeo-Christian holidays across the board
thus easter tis no exception to the golden rule,
     where santa claus reached an a chord

follow auspicious signs alit in the night sky
     shaped like a drinking gourd
perhaps amassing plentiful harvests
     upon hamlets strewn

     across ******* populated Earth
     asper cornucopia exhibited secret hoard
sharing  plentiful Horn
     (and Hard art learned lesson)
     to stave off barren ness, ignored

going forward seeding nascent
     March Madness with help from Lord
     and Tailor as midwife hoot
     tended Ville Nova moored

by Wildcat fanatics, who unbelievably  
     espied heavens cleft asunder
     and golden rays poured
while collective spectators loudly screamed

     akin to the soundgarden
     of ferocious cats roared
witnessed history scored
earning players knighted
     with Excalibur sword
thence entire team handed
     Taj Mahal shaped award

which aforementioned *** hide lacks, cuz zit
     happens tubby April Fool's joke
thus above iterated verses somehow
     needs just a little bit of relevance to yoke

thine admitted ambivalent reaction to sports,
     yea aye pay figurative ****
hen to Rabbinic, generic fanatic primal
     tribal village people clan destine woke

and swinging focus of this poem
     back toward Religious perp ported berth
when (sans antiquity) trumpet signaled
     thus, any superstitions blew away dearth

when distant shofar heard
     in every home and hearth
anticipating arrival of the Easter Bunny,    
     who brings mirth

and hop poly distributes sweet treats,
     which children as grown adults,
     no matter necessity for teeth to be removed
     the sugary over indulgence wool worth
today thee American Dental Association chastises candy
     manufacturers bandying more weight
gaining deadly, debauched, and decadent, trait
then adultery verboten fruit to sate
hash-tagged reprobate.
James Gable Jun 2016
“Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, Ease after war,
death after life does greatly please.”
—Edmund Spense

Courtesy is informing
The gardener he shall not
Be needed next week
As sometime before then
You will fall suddenly dead

Like a blanket...
Yes, like a blanket
Or a shawl if you’ll have it—
A sheet that whispers a weight
Upon your shoulders that rise and fall
And rise and roll and once more rise
And collapse inevitable as relapse or vice,
We arrived as the sun is
Saying its final goodnights

Life spends some empty
Second inside your lungs
And continues on its way, moving on
Perhaps to resuscitate a
Fading gunshot victim
Or shake the hand of a minute

As time ticks furiously by,
A dog licks its teeth
A few sorry times, tastes a residual piece
Of something tasty he earned
In his attempts to learn fully
To roll over,
He rolls over now and then for fun,
In the disapproving face of the sun

But it’s a different thing to roll
Over at the command of your Master—
He who is looking disapprovingly at the world,
Disapproves of all of it
But through a very small window
He had not seen before
About the size of an envelope
It must have sneaked up on him

Most of all he is bored,
With packets of cigarettes,
Lighting themselves each night in
Spectacular repeats bright and brilliant
Pyrotechnics of white-hot potential,
You must shield your eyes, Master,
Heed the warnings of the doctor when he says
You are doing yourself no favours,
Tempting yourself by leaving them
Laying around in plain sight and then, just now, and
Just then he finished a whole one,
Packet of twenty, and his reflection,
Unshaven and puffy-faced in the
Deep ocean of the bathroom mirror,
Can’t look at him until morning,
And morning is a long time away

Meanwhile time is
Blackening the dog’s sorry gums,
It painted such dark spots on his Master's lungs                                              
That he now coughs impatiently,
The paint grips like superglue to
The walls and though a full exhale could
Betray their function for one,
Deform their shape for two,
Lungs so rarely tenderly embrace
And now his face goes blue,
And blue with many shades of blue,
And a touch of the colour of the just-rising moon

Nothing comes up...
His diaphragm, taut, it stalls,
Struck, retching,
Everything slows


— stretches of sounds
And moans echoing
The sinister intent of
Turpentine visions.
Each bloodless

You can see him doubled over
By the window, even from here,
And you’d think this bird will
Succeed in catching his worm,
Each slowed in turn, nothing changed,
Bird was swooping long before the slowness came,
Whatever happens, whatever happens...
The dog sleeps whilst his ticking legs kick,
But slower —  

A fly is caught between
The unaffected forefinger and
Opportunist thumb
Of a young girl who is well known,
(She once squeezed a cat
So tight that its insides
Got all twisted and burst),
She would not hurt a fly though
Especially not this one
It’s so lethargic, she thinks,

How she blinks at normal speed—
Immune somehow

Other kids are told to keep away from her
By their respective mothers
Who’ve no respect for others
you’ll see them goose-stepping down
streets in stop-motion synchronicity
These mums communicate by phone
Hogging the lines and spitting malicious
Rumours into the telephone wires,
Such poison is said to excite cables
Causing electrical fires and the
Firemen here have been called out
several times to find the same boy
Of about ten, crying *“Help! Pariah Dog!”

He’s shouting it now, calling the emergency
Services on a credit card phone
And his pennies won’t take
—So slow it’s hard to watch

The bow that fastens the little
Girl’s hair keeps falling down,
She kicks it down the sleepy evening streets,
Rumours cruelly spread of shadows
Calling her to where the street sweepers are known
Not ever to sweep

Everything is slow, as before but
Slightly more so,
The Master’s contractions
In such slow motion rhythm,
You couldn’t recognise patterns or
Repetitions with short-term memory
but they’re rhythms of threes and fours
but also nine over eight and
Four-four straight, the
Tempo is so slow it doesn’t register...
Listen closely for a while though:
Jazz is on the radio!

The dog’s legs still kick as it sleeps
As it dreams of jumping the garden gate,
Even slower now,
And life is longer now,
In ways
Of course we do not notice
But the little girl,
Returning home just before dark
How will this affect her future?
Time’s arrow
The tragedy of its trajectory
Leaves us in a state
That is not worse off,
But there is no help in this!
Positivity does not come
From the things which are simply
Not negative

And the worm
In a slow motion crawl,
Indignant, as the bird’s wings
Cast long finger-like shadows
That are shifting, flickering,
Twitching near crisis point,
Those last hundred-yards of the race
Where lactic-acid-spasms
Makes a mess of the atoms
And slow-twitch fibres made of
Matter once constituting
A percentage of the mass
Of a sabre-toothed tiger,
Cowering in the cold,
Feeling the pull of extinction
Weighted eyelids,
Mischievous hands tugging
On the ears
And polishing the fangs in museums
It was ashamed, the atoms told us this
But refused to declare a name for itself
Or the beast

Slinking and curling like a
Shoe sole that bunches up
The shoehorn is no good,
Not a help, but to borrow
Just one word of that line
And introduce the trumpet,
In its considerations of brass
And blues
It blows lipless fanfares for the
Invertebrate class

The worm, with frantic intent,
In search of his hole in the ground,
Profound effort,
See the slinky worm speeding
Across the lawn at the speed of a gravestone,
The bird getting closer,
In it’s time,
It’s a fizz of radio waves
With a fuzzy static outline,
Popping grains and throbbing like
Power surging through the telephone line,
Where voices can be heard warning of high pressure
With a fatalist sigh, and poor weather,
A voice with a regional accent
Sounding authoritative and wise
Intensity in the eyes somehow I imagine,
How we paint pictures of faces and people,
The voices are so telling at times,
You can hear whiskey-burns in the throat
Saying things of the colour
Of a nose, and sweet childlike lisps
Suggest dungarees and freckles,
And a gap between the front teeth,
Why these? What prejudices
Have slipped out weedily from
An imagination that is surely
Out-valued by its frame
Of gold with wooden panels

*“PARIAH DOG!”.....
Part Nine (1) of The Man Who Longed to be an Oyster
Michael Cassio Jul 2015
O’Silky smooth ballsac
Stuck to my leg
Ever-presence defines manhood
As tree defines fruit
And as fruit defines tree.

Ne'er such a sense
Overwhelmed my hot-spot
As this dangling (oval, skin and nerves of)
Oily pouch

I cream.

A line as destructive
As the San Andreas
Fault- O divine chafe
You reduce me
You erode me

As if we rented *******
Inspires by some none too pleasant chafage that I experienced on rental bikes in Berlin and Amsterdam.
Michael Cassio Jul 2015
As we glide
An incessant Kush
Softens the grind

Can I Sense your Soft Surface? Or
Is it merely a reflection through this
Quasi-chequered construction?

I long to see as you see me:
A dangling *******
Encompassed by a wide,
Gasping mouth

Gargling sac

I will see you
On the next train
Inspired by a recent experience on an unknown train at an undisclosed location

— The End —