What do you people want?

Your feeble constitutions,

The wrong illusions,

The motherfucking morals of prostitution,

A caustic fusion

Of Huguenot persecution,

(I'm losing the will to even put my fucking shoes on)

The ruse of the institution,

The views with the usual convolutions,

Ablutions in blood seems a good solution

Diffusing the uncouth truth of your self-delusion,

I'm usin' up words and I'm running out of verbs to serve as a rhyming locution,

I'm losing', it's time to wind down, find restitution,

Abuse yourself well with God's pollution.
Just a bit of fun. I was bored.
I legit never knew the beauty black roses possess.
I stared at one day after day.
She looked like she didn't want to be bothered.
Still she'd look and stare.
She grew differently than the red ones.
Prepackaged, given to others in mass quantity.
She'd sit alone and read amongst herself.
With arched eyebrows and shapely dress.
Most were afraid of her thorns. Despite all the beauty she possessed inside.
They only saw her outside.
Reason her thorns were so sharp.
The misconception that she was to be feared.
When in reality they protected her.
They made her to think that she was ugly.
The red roses that surrounded.
They'd bunch around her in fear of their own self conscious.
Attempting to stop her smile.
The more they tried, the more she stood out.
Grounded in her faith she grew out of her insecurity.
Being the regal beauty that she was.
Realizing the heroine she searched was inside her the whole time.
Her petals testimony to her root.
When I spoke she cheerfully replied with a smile.
I walked by day after day
you want poetry?

you say show it me, throw it me, bitch,

enrich my fucking intellect,

introspective interconnectives,

the brevity, the nouns and adjectives,

eclectic, electrical metrical

extra-theatrical sensually sexual,

Guys.....

I've said it like a thousand times,

good rhymes are defined by the underlined ideologies,

the knowledge is the solid authority

and make no apology to follow the impossible route

and shoot-the-moon with your cards,

(writing from your Hearts)

here's a starter for ten,

part-man, part-beast

released from the cabalist caravan

stands in the sands of a clandestine land,

banned from the band of gold

and damned by the fold as the holder of the red right-hand,

branded with a Jesuit cross,

a lost sheep bleats its cry from Highland moors,

the silence broken and violence awoken

from opiate sleep to greet the dawn,

a yawn and and a howl

as the tawny-owl shouts out 'wolf',

(hush, lullaby)

catcher in the rye hides his reason for saving the children,

to kill them and eat them,

to feed them first with a verse

from Saint Paul and convince them they're safe

as they gracefully fall,

(small wonder, understatement)

understanding syllables is critical

to fitting up you lyrical vehicle,

see it all in real-time, feel rhymes floating along

like the notes of a song,

(that's cadence)

the way that the melody moves, subsonic

with a phonic embodiment,

a modecum of softly-done grooves,

(smooth talker)

so orchestrate great things and make things better

and set a world straight with the weight of a letter.
Somebody on another site wanted an explanation of poetry. This is it, I guess, a combination of rhyme and free-verse.
Consider the 'if',

Live in fear, I'll just smoke my spliff,

Sum it all up with the 'fucks' I actually give,

Shiver at the 'when',

Make the sign of the cross again,

Grown-men bleating like the sheep in a fucking pen,

Mention the 'why',

Get high on the spiritual heroin,

Witness the death of a seraphim,

Kneel to your bondage like Severin,

Leather in strips whippin' everything raw,

(as sore as it's ever been)

Head to the floor

And a crown of thorns is your 'how',

Perform for the crowds, snap horns from the holy cows,

Drink down scorn, conform to the holy vows,

Conscience stained like the walls of a charnel-house,

Need a fucking 'who',

Then your God will do,

To rinse it through,

(the inhumanity)

And turn your sanity sideways,

Find ways to ionise your mental polarity,

(carry me home, Lord)

Ignoring the 'what',

And the blissful distillation of 'or' into 'not',

Leaving 'and' to fucking rot,

(compost down the non-compus-mentis)

And send the blood-clot artifice straight to the heart of this counterfeit Camelot.
Okay, there are lots of metaphor items here and references to things such as Venus in Furs and the logic principles of  electrical conduct in AND OR NOT.

Religious dogma is, by virtue infallible and must be logical. It is regulated by the principles of reward and punishment, in that we must first die to gain our reward.

Much like Severin, we crave the breakdown of our bodies so that we might find satisfaction and pleasure. Good luck with that one, theists.

Drop me an email, let me know how Paradise is these days...
Alva Cardona Feb 13
Today, I went looking for the city
I once lost in a game of poker
and a drunken stupor

I gambled away
the dreams of the peaceful-looking
homeless people sleeping on the sidewalks

I gambled away
the excitement I felt when
listening to the train tracks creak for the first time
under the weight of interconnected wagons
going forward at full-speed, full
of folks that commute
from all over

I gambled away
the shadows under the
bridges, the grey dwellings somewhere between
some place and nowhere, where somber people
sought cover from passerby's eyes
and streetlamps

I gambled away
the songs of the sax men,
the guitar strings of subway soloists,
the moves of B-boy crews,
the graffiti of street artists

I gambled away
the corner bookstores,
the quirky organic coffee shops
and urban farms ran by
millennial hipsters

I gambled away
an entire museum,
lost every work of art inside,
painting by painting

I gambled away
the beautiful, anonymous
faces that made the tapestry
of the colorful and loud
9 to 5 crowd

I gambled away
the winds that made the
summers bearable

I gambled away
all my loose change in an eternal game
of Three-card Monte, fell for the "short con"
(couldn't call home 'cause
I couldn't use payphones)

I gambled away
and lost a decade in a day, when
I was young and stupid
and careless

Tried to retrace the steps
I took down the road less traveled
and the path not taken

Hunting for the sun after dark,
drinking sidewalks with my feet,
walking in the smoker’s breath,
dancing to the midnight beat

I regret,
I repent

I bemoan,
I atone

But I have yet to hold
a winning hand

a Full House,
or a Straight Flush

A card,
any card;
any thing
that helps me
remember

The City
where I left my heart
and forgot my soul.
James Khan Feb 6
British born and made,
The spawn of the poor brigade,
A thorn in the paw of the overpaid,

(grade-A reprobates)

Weighed by social stasis, the basis is racist complacency,

Children we train to be famous are satyrs and sadists embracing the haters and rapists A-list agency,

Aimlessly,

Faithfully follow the glitz and swallow the jizz of the showbiz 'it' - kids,

The shit that they gave to us, rabid and dangerous,

So raise your spades and parade for us,
Gravediggers, slave niggers, grey figures sick of the self-made wealth charade,

The self-help health-club masquerade,

Played like a motherfucking trumpet,
Some cunt fronts a hoop and you jump it,
Don't like it but lump it

But you're unfit, ill-equipped shit on the feet of elitist conceit,
Complete with the reek of defeat,

Don't speak, you motherfucker just look at the way that we treat one another,
How we suffer in a sulphurous sin,
Thrown into a pressure-cooker, stuck around the rim,
Lucky fuckers that we're told how to swim,  

Keep thin, drink gin, think gym, ink skin,
Doesn't matter if you're cumming on Kanye and Kim,

You still fit in by virtue of nurturing that which will hurt you, pervert you,

Convert you to Vanity's church,

Search for satisfaction, find your actions impacted by manufactured factions,

These fucking distractions,  

(gotta catch 'em all!)

Cannonball fashion-whore gnashing your jaws to irrational haute couture,

A cannibal caricature force-fed the horse-shit,
The lead-shot headshot celebrity dead-rot of moral abortion,

Rigamortis of the fucking mind,
Bigger forces than yours or mine combine to write guidelines,

Prime-time,  headline,  on-line,  sex-crimes,
Mesmerised by wet thighs and breast size,

Fed lies, fed vice, led by the dead Christ to red-light Paradise,

Sugar and smoking Spice.

Joking aside, this class divide is broken so wide,
Need to handglide from height to reach the good side,

The good side? The upside?

You kidding, you must mean the mudslide,
The hive of connivance and violence,
The island where diamonds and silence hide where the blood dried,

Like Lidocaine band-aids on Caine who kills 'cos he's able,
Disable the blood-ties and say all your goodbyes,
The ubermensch stench invading your drugged lives,

(unstable just ain't the fucking word, I've decided)

The Midas effect inside us will guide us,
Invite us to covet, to love it,
To put it above our own pride as a kind of delight as we can't get enough of the right stuff,

The eat, fuck and fight stuff and maybe a line of the white stuff,

(your God won't mind, love)  

It's fine, just try and refine your design,
Keep your chin rough, your chest buff and dress to molest, bruv,

I've said enough,
Fuck this luckless succubus small world prison,
Fucks you like a call girl,
Ridden by the rhythm of the human condition,

Missionary position,

Go watch your Hell-evision,
Listen to the halfwit artists thinking they're Marxists,
Barking out asses with rationales black as molasses,
Fucking fascists and cash is their only ambition,

Transmission ends.
Sam Feb 6
Silk fabrics, spin words like a black widow.
Observing shapes on the crest through a cracked window. 
Faded kinfolk percolate a vicious cycle.
Concede the title, passed from an image spiteful.
Hooded silhouettes cast a shadow in dystopia,
cityscape a gallow the skies hold a rope for ya.
Urban paradigm, tantamount to euthanasia.
Soured fruits bear the hallmarks of human nature.
Twisted labyrinth, apertures soak mundane fragments
innate patterns, ways learned through a stained malice.
Same chalice bequeathed, from a father deceased,
drowned in his sleep under smeared linen sheets.
In the belly of the beast, waves echoed familiar,
another soul torn in this concrete perimeter.
James Khan Feb 4
This abattoir, this carcinoma,
Hung with meat and brushed with tar,
This social housing haematoma
Leaves a scar,
This abattoir,

A place resigned to lifeless living,
Weak foundations undermined
Where paupers, drowned in their misgivings
Call the mind
A place resigned,

Like Dante's poem, the circles taper,
Rounds of Hell we call our home,
Transparent people drift like vapour,
Spirits roam
Like Dante's poem
Form 27a created by James Khan.

3 stanza minimum, quintets. Beginning each stanza with iambic meter for lines 1, 3 and 5: trochaic meter for lines 2 and 4. This ensures a rolling consistency of meter from the first syllable until the end of the poem.

Syllable count is 9-7-9-3-4.

Rhyme scheme is ABABb where 'b' is a refrain of the first four syllables of line one. Therefore, the first four syllables of each stanza must also rhyme with lines two and four.

Rather than a consistency of rhyme scheme, each stanza is compacted into an internally rhyming vignette and the subsequent verses need not rhyme with each preceding stanza.

With an odd syllable count and iambic meter, some lines end on a feminine (unstressed) foot which is usually a two-syllable word and force the next line to begin with trochaic meter. Needless to say, rhyming two-syllable words is twice as difficult so this form can be devilishly challenging.

Feel free to try it out. Not for amateurs, I would advise studying form and meter prior to undertaking.

The poem itself is about the poverty stricken housing estate I live in. Dante's poem is, of course the Inferno chapter of The Divine Comedy. The nine circles of Hell are reserved for different types of sinner: our housing estate is probably the outer circle of Limbo.
She was a mystery.
She gave me her heart to understand the type of music she listened to.
Her playlist was filled with trap beats before it became fashionable.
The rattling of empty trunks.
The rattling of sticker covered tags.
This is how I saw myself before she gave me a pair of headphones. I asked her for more.
Not liking the way track six ended.
Track 7 and 8 captivated my heart.
Keeping it all to myself.
She fooled me.
Her playlist composed of the same beat over and over.
9 tracks with something added.
Another taken away.
Overtime it would become all that I listened to.
Her influence over two rocks shaken in a can.
My heart.
Beginning to nod my head and cut the volume to the max.
I played it at work. I listened to it in the car.
A natural disaster to those that I passed.
The rattling of my trunk almost non-existent.
A more crisp sound coming from the speakers.
It was Summer.
Before I heard her playlist in the hands of someone else.
She placed her heart inside of the music knowing I'd stumble across it first.
Unsure if I'd ever find her love.
To participate in the aggression of her love.
The originality of all that she was.
I listened in silence with the headphones she gave.
To be surrounded by everything I love all at once
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