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Norman Crane Apr 26
reach out ye white antler antennae
up to the succulent sky
tree teach me how to always be
growing, spreading finger branches high
teach me roots
teach me the hidden why
of the fruit of not every leaving
is to die, tree
reach out ye white antler antennae
and blossom me into life
Trefild Apr 12
no matter how he's telly-sold
in connection with the country he's running
he's hella cold
like in that game with hiding and hunting
unbearable and bare of *****
he plays the calm
but there's a name he's all
afraid to call
it's that Navalny that bugs him
rocking the already unsteady boat
so much that he's gotten
put in–to a pen; a chain of events the whole
blue marble is watching
since that poisoning prior to the 2020 fall
bugged like the Kremlin halls
by a sterling mole
every luster, every wall
even where you pay a call
therefore, ***, beware of jaw–
–ing, it's not safe at all
[jaw in]
to ones getting Russian-TV-fed and those
not plugged in like a telephone
before the renovation hit
the doorstep of the Idokopas dwelling told
to belong to that ex-KGBist
[cagey/cage a beast]
the domicile was rather whelmed with gold
had a Las Vegas taste to it
by dint of a gambling zone
had a lounge with a stage equipped
with a metal pole
something's gonna get raised, a tip
like an extra dough
as a form of favor; get
some shots for a centerfold
if you fancy getting a prize (skrrt)
but with jesting aside
he must think he's exceptional
to him and his men that hold
their henchman roles
all those petty folks
are nothing but expendables
Trefild Apr 6
the way I approach time's rather simple
it's a Victorian broad, I'm Jack the Ripper
**** it like a crash-hot spitter
waste it like a massive twister
feel so, even though I bag some scrilla
(about time, blasted zero)
a bad side(s) wielder
hope that that's not till I/hope that's not until I
have an encounter with the
black-tect figure
[scythe; wither]
Brett Mar 30
Sticks and stones may break my bones
With words I form an army
Pages of emptied lead
Thought’s grenade
When I pull the pen

As letters cry between the battle lines;
“More ammo”
I peak my head
Out from the foxhole that is my mind
To see comrades crumpled
Neatly laid side by side
A mass grave
Where General Ideas go to die
Tommy Randell Jan 27
This poem is a film
About how I see myself
At an age when the body
Is no longer young -
A dormant face, hanging
And flapping like wet washing,
In a backyard which
Gets little wind
But plenty of attention
From the Pigeons.

Paint me as I am, warts and all,
Tall and visible against a wall.

This poem is an old tool box,
Neglected and cobwebbed,
Whose contents have blunted
Through inappropriate use -
Whose wood chisels
Have been chipped on stone,
Whose rusty wrenches
Have hammered home
A reluctant nail or two -
Metaphors for hate crimes almost.

Pose me in my glory days,
Show me you care, let me count the ways.

This poem is a painting
Abstract and vague -
With a blue Sun in a grey sky
Cloudy with ***** coloured stains,
Through a window without curtains
Against which a wire bed,
With no pillows or mattress,
Is a constant reminder
Of hurts that were done
And no one came to help.

Long ago I wrote with a stick in wet Sand -
See, now, how I weave gestures from my hand.

This poem is a dictionary -
An etymology
Of events linked by meaning,
In a chain of cruelties
Which make up the man,
The What & the When
Of who I am -
Of how the past can be used
As the perfect excuse, just as
Every Poet gets away with ******.

Judge me then for your judgement is justified -
I was born it seems with Guilty in my eyes.

This poem is a pool party
Held in some afterlife -
Where every bad joke
I've ever known is gathered
Together as bad taste punchlines,
With spite as the currency
Of casual conversation,
And bile is whispered
Over petit fours and Cocktailed Devils
Consumed, of course, without hesitation.

Life is a poem within a poem -
A shadow play, with no plot showing.

So, now, this poem becomes no more
Like the finished Me than my Crimes -
Over the years in lieu of flowers
I have offered humour
In difficult times -
Because that is my way,
Not to add up to much
In the scheme of things,
To present myself as a Ghost with a Pen,
A Man hobbled to his broken crutch.

Look, here, now as I press on this Page -
Are you something Better to hold my gaze?

Tommy Randell  --  1st January 2021
Ariel Wadyese Dec 2020
Lost inside my mind can’t you through the dark.
Black whole physics keeping light within my parts.
Watch events rise passed horizons when we start,
flood our minds full of thoughts think we really need an arch.
Think about the times we took drugs just stop it.
Think about the times we sold time just for profit.
Think about the times we did things without a conscience.


State of mind switching on the daily,
love beyond hate,
I mean look at all the babies.
Kind wonder why I’m distracted by fables, all projected on the tv screen.
Where everything is superficial
Plus it’s really lacking substance like the drugs that you are into.
Fear does not exist, it’s an illusion that is mental.
Fear does not exist, it’s an illusion that is mental.
M C Dec 2020
I want to retreat from the reality I created.
Hide in an old, faded memory.
Out of all the worn, stuffed animals that surround me
my truest friends are the ones that can found me.
Flatfielder Nov 2020
Influence me
So I may be good
Wordprompt on mirakee repeat
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