I licked you cautiously with precision
Licked until your sharp edges were round and soft
Indulged in that millisecond, I let my mind wander off to the imagination of licking and actually swallowing you
Sweet imaginary drops of melted sticky sugary matter were dripping down my esophagus
You were dancing in my throat like a delicate ballerina
Tiptoeing, Floating.

Then reality hit in again and my tongue drawed back like it just touched a hot range
My esophagus felt clogged. Your pungent taste was burning holes into my throat-
So I used my fingers like a plunger to suck you out again.

I purged dark matter all over the white bathroom tiles
Tried to extinguish salty burning tears with stomach acid
You smelled sweet and savory at the same time.

I’m sorry for drowning the rest of you in the toilet.
But they say “nothing good ever lasts long enough” for a reason.
You see, love is a battlefield and I’m Napoleon.
I never knew until now,
Dear Dad, though
I listened to the stories you told,
Of War that re-ignited after the one supposed,
To end all wars, or so it was proclaimed.

You went abroad, your Varsity
Stalled, dreams put aside,
Long before I was born,
Before you met my mother or I was named.

Instead, you wanted to fly,
High above the Bay of Bengal
And the Andaman Sea,
Above the carnage, or so you said.
And that must have seemed a way to save
That sanity
You needed to take you through,
To come back and marry a beloved girl.

I watch the newsreels now,
They are old, with time and victory ingrained.

I can see you flying that high,
Himalayan peaks shining in your eyes,
Cold death above and horror below.
You told me stories, I recall,
Too young for me to imagine.
Now too old for me to hear them all.

You never piloted again
Except in your nightmares.
On a road between moon and sun
In your own history you flew
The infamous, undying path
Of The Burma Run.
My father, an Army Air Force Captain, put off college and piloted cargo planes over "The Hump", on the Burma Run from India to China. He wasn't prone to tell stories, yet sometimes he would talk about his flights, the wonder and danger of them, being fired at, watching his friends' planes crash into mountains and land in a war zone. He was proud of his service, yet damaged by it, as is so often the case.
Bring it on
shoot me down
use your words and prose

A bigger fool
coming round
I'll be the one to close

Lets battle it out
in fives and tens
who would win, suppose?

Your foul mouth
and vile words
looking down, your nose

Nothing wrong
opinion wise
to voice what you may feel

But know this
twits and fools
there won't be an appeal
I don't care if you agree, disagree, or just are a perverse useless idiot.
You know who you are.
Bring it on, my words talk for me, and I think, I'm pretty good at it :D~
or better yet, better at it, than you!
How distant my Swabian* youth seems now.
I made a glider which really flew, you know.*
Not far, but yes, it carried me! I soared!
Some accused me of being a showboat,
of tooting my own horn. . . . I learned early
that the laurels don't go to the meek or the bashful.
Yes, I was a Nazi. Those aristocrats
on the General Staff* belittled the Fuhrer--
but where had they gotten us?
I liked his enthusiasm and optimism.
We were in a hole; he led us out,
got the economy going again,
restored the Sudetenland and Danzig.
(Danzig where Lucie and I had been married!)
I thought Poland would be the end
but when we attacked in the West
I didn't shrink away.
My troops and I were the very spearhead:
strike quickly; do the unexpected.
Who was I to deny
Germany's world-wide destiny?
The African war agreed with me.
The open space gave a latitude to my strategy
lacking in hilly, forested Europe.

The victory at Tobruk is often cited
as the height of genius, military.  
I, myself, prefer what preceded it:
the retreat into Tripolitania--
salvaging men and tanks, shortening supply lines,
lulling the British into complacency;
turning and stinging at Agedabia.

El Alamein: the Fuhrer and I part company.
"Victory or Death", he cabled me.
I disagreed: my men would not die senselessly.

We were desperate for gasoline.
Ship after ship was sunk trying to deliver it.
(Lax Italian security, no doubt.)
We were outnumbered five to one.
I favored withdrawing immediately,
consolidating troops in Europe.
The Fuhrer wouldn't hear of it.
I flew to East Prussia to confront him.
He'd grown pudgier, more strident--
wouldn't give an inch.
I sensed that not just Africa
but the war as a whole would be lost.
The weight of the forces against us was crushing.
The only question'd been their willingness to fight.
That had been answered at Stalingrad.
I fought on in Italy and in France,
hoping to convince the enemy
that the price of taking Europe--
especially Germany--
would be too high.

I really thought we had a chance
to stop them on the beaches.
But now that we've failed, our destruction's inevitable.
I've tried to make the Fuhrer see reason:
surrender to the British and Americans;
don't let our country be overrun by Russia.
He condoned murder--
ordered me to kill the French Jewish soldiers
who'd surrendered at Bir Hacheim,* for instance,
(I didn't) -- and much more. . . . And yet,
and yet, I couldn't quite bring myself to wish him dead--
and certainly never took part in that plot--
though, yes, I knew of it . . . after a fashion. . . .
Defending myself to that group would be hopeless. . . .
Lucie and Manfred must be spared
the humiliation of hearing me declared a traitor.

I bestrode the plains of Africa--
Rommel, the invincible--
always with the troops where the battle was most critical.
I was crafty and brave,
dared to act when others shied away.
I was the apple of the Fuhrer's eye;
idol of the German people;
scourge of the British military.
All the world applauded me. I lost--
but only when outnumbered overwhelmingly.
Now I sit in the back of this Opel*--
an outcast, a criminal--
waiting to take a cyanide pill.

We failed to assess properly
the will of other nations to honor treaties
and preserve their freedom.
And, more basically:
Were we right to force our rule on other people?

Icarus-like, we flew too high.

We were bold and strong
but it seems, in the end,
in the end, not supermen.
Swabia: A region of southwestern Germany (around Stuttgart) which had been a dukedom in the 10th to 13th centuries.
glider: In 1906 Rommel, age 14, and a friend built a full-size, box-type glider.
General Staff: High-level officers with formal military education. Rommel, having come up through the ranks, lacked such training.
no doubt: Rommel was correct in thinking that the British knew the exact destinations and sailing times of Italian supply ships, but was wrong as to the source of their information: it was coming from German ("Enigma") radio transmissions which the British had learned to decode.
beaches: Rommel was in charge of the defense of the coast against British/American invasion.
Bir Hacheim: A fort at the southern end of the "Gazala Line" (in Libya) which Rommel outflanked in his attack upon Tobruk in 1942.
hopeless: The army's Court of Honor (Field Marshal Keitel, Generals Guderian and Kirchheim) had been presented with evidence of Rommel's involvement in the plot on Hitler's life (false) and his attempts to arrange an armistice with the British (true). With Hitler's approval they had given Rommel a choice of committing suicide (and having his treason hushed up) or of going before the court (and, no doubt, being hung in public).
Manfred: Rommel's son.

Opel: The car which the officers who presented Rommel with his choices had driven from Berlin.

Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: humanist-art.org/audio/SoF_02_rommel.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
Flag on the hilltop
Waving in the breeze majestically equal to the mountain it is built on
Soldier in the war
Standing heavy and direful, facing evil with brothers and valour
Heart in the chest
Lead the way, fight the war
Be open and keep the sword at the readiest
It takes a backbone and a strong heart singing a firm tone
On September 11, 2018,
President Donald Trump had a peculiar epiphany.
While driving in the Presidential Limousine
Past a Mosque in the suburbs of Canton, Ohio,
President Trump suddenly decided
That Islam was the only True Religion
And that
"There is no god but God and the Prophet Mohammed (PBUH) is his Messenger."
Trump then changed his name to Abdul-Hassan Benihana.
The Central Intelligence Agency
Identified Militant Anarchists in AUSTRALIA,
Under the Leadership of Dela Lenca,
As the most serious National Security Threat to the United States.
The U.S. Department of Defense  decided to drop
A 21,600 Pound "Moab" Bomb
On the Compound of Dela Lenca.
Dela Lenca and 13 of his supporters were killed.
In retaliation,
The Militant Australian Anarchists
Gunned down Daniel Moskowitz,
In front of TeaAura      
In Denver's Cherry Creek Mall.
President Abdul-Hassan Benihana
(Formerly known as Trump)
"How could those Militant Australian Anarchists"
"Gun down my boy,"
"Daniel Moskowitz,"
Who was  been one of his strongest supporters
"During my  Presidential Campaign
"Against Hillary Rodham  Clinton?!"
He retaliated by Dropping  B53 9 megaton Nuclear Bombs,
On Australia's two largest cities:
Sydney and Melbourne.
40 million people died instantly
From this devastating  attack by the United States
And both Pacific and Indian Ocean
Became completely radioactive.
An Emergency Session was called  at the United Nations.
However,  President Abdul-Hassan Benihana,
(Formerly known as Trump),
Decided to LEVEL  United Nations,
And That was the End of the Story.
I know you're thinking!
You think that I am a Racist,
Israeli, "Sex-Freak".
After all,
What the Hell am I doing here in Pattaya,
The "Sex Capitol of Asia"?
But you don't REALLY  Understand
My Life,
And all the Crap I deal with
From day to day!
You think I come from
"The Promised Land",
And that I am one of the
"Chosen People",
But this so-called "Promised Land" you speak of
Is really a Goddamn Hellhole!
The only Type of
I got into in Israel
Were Vodka and Whiskey.
At least,
Here in Thailand,
My Health is being Restored.
Does God  not dwell
Within the Human Body?
So I PURCHASED  the Sexual Services
Of a Young Lady here for a week.
If you want to get all Moralistic and Preachy with me,
Go ahead!
I don't give a damn!
THIS young Lady,
Is a lot SWEETER
Than any Woman I ever met in Israel!
I wish I could take her Home with me,
But, then
I would be subjecting her
To Life
In that  Holy Hell-Hole of a place!
When Singalong asked me,
"What Nation you from?"
I told her.
"I'm a Jew!"
She said,
"Oh, Jew must be very nice Country!"
That's it.
That's all she said.
No Intellectual Analysis.
No Left Wing/Right Wing Talking Heads
No Dissertations
No debates and dialogue
On the Mother Fu#$ing ,
Crazy Middle East.
For one week,
We did  EVERYTHING together.
We ate together.
I LOVE Thai Cuisine,
Because it's not as bland
As the shit I eat in Israel.
We walked  together
We talked together.
We prayed together.
And,  of course,
We Made Love
With a fervor I had never felt
While praying in any Synagogue.
What could be more Sacred  than That?!
Fighting some Stupid War
With a bunch of  People
Who are enraged
Because we keep forcing them  out of their homes?
I'd be enraged too!
Why should I care
What skin color the Palestinians have
Or  what their religion is.
These superficial characteristic  mean Nothing to me.
This sweet Thai Girl.
Singalong,  told me.
"You a good man, Moshe."
"You helping my Family."
Imagine That!
A Prostitute
Than I ever got  from my own  Family!
They just view me
As  a useless jerk.
It brought Tears to my eyes.
I told her,
"You are the Sweetest Girl I've ever met in my Entire Life!"
"I wish I could just move here to Pattaya,"
"But the Israeli Army won't let me go."
"They just allowed me to come here"
"To unwind for awhile"
She told me,
"That  okay, Moshe."
"You pray  to Buddha,"
"And Buddha give you Peace."
I had my Shabbos in Pattaya.
Shabbos from the Horrors of War.
Shabbos from the Torment
Of Liquor and Hard Drugs.
I never even drank a beer in Pattaya.
Just sips of Cool,
Thai Tea.
I didn't want to imbibe anything
That would ruin my sexual performance
During my long nights of passion
With  my dear,
You can never run or hide from your greed
Twisted by your tainted hands of sins
For you are not afraid to rise your sword aimlessly

And mercy never crossed your pitiful mind
As you drown the innocent with their own anguish and blood

You have become someone your hateful soul molded
As you rise from the ashes of your once beautiful life
And destroyed the peace of the world

You have caused sufferings amongst the humankind
The world of people you once loved

Living like a demon
So much darkness
And so much numbness

You have lead your own blood lust world
I love Fantasy ♥♥ ^.^
you can smell it
the war
it crawls up your spine
and your heart
it beats
or bursts
as the fire surrounds you
and as you clutch her hand
look into her eyes
you can see it
the war
and you hold on
as she nods
will you die with me?
on the spot
Eleni Aug 9
Many nights I was cold.
Many, many nights lies remain untold.

If had the strength of a lion
And the uncertain heart of The Zion-

Then maybe I would crush-
The endless incineration of the rush-

One does take in self-destruct.
When thy rose has been plucked-

I cannot give it vital growth again.
Nor can life be regrown through distrain.

Then look to thine scars, unhealed.
I am no Jezebel, fate to be sealed-

And to be preyed upon by Serpentines
And then be hated by Byzantines.

So, hence, I will not speak the truth
For they know not of the lies of youth.

Let me cry like do the lost ones;
That never escape the sound of the blazing guns.
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