#napowrimo2020
#*But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild,
Else of our *** why feigned they those nine
And poesy made Calliope’s own child*? Anne Bradstreet
Huntress, fill my pleading glass !
Let this marksman’s blood be merry.
Whether we shoot hind or ***
Hail our wet preliminary.
Having brought to birth such brave quadruplets,
Let us toast the midwife with our couplets.
Sweet Diana pours her rounds:
Tawny Port and Shooting Sherry.
Hares now flee the baying hounds
For their country sanctuary.
Thine the night, oh bright and savage huntress;
Lead us to the quarry, chaste Artemis.
Conejito, hide yourself
From the charging adversary
Who would change your pelt for pelf;
(All close shaves are cautionary).
Forgive our clanging gong and sounding brass;
They serve to drive the quarry from the grass.
Healing balm: such sporting frolic,
Dares us to stay sedentary;
Banishing our melancholic
State, her bright apothecary!
Wild huntress, let us know you as the Greeks
And quiver as our heart your arrow seeks.
Toast we now the careless hunt;
Spoonerists wax luminary.
Visions of the hairless ****
Make my lay discretionary.
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 10:19 AM UTC
My cat WOKE:
Petra Electra Perpetua.
I’m telling y’all, she massive woke;
lit, like wicked wick holy smoke.
She outsmart Christopher ******* dreamin’
teach a dog where a BONE at,
discern every demon,
(not to mention advanced forensics.)
She rise, she yawn, she stretch, she flex
then start cashin’ every other pet paychecks.
She charge per minute just to LOOK at her fur
while she sharpen her nails. My Petra purr . . .
Dogs be all: WOOF
She don’t even answer.
Scribe rhymed Arabic lyrics
while she beat a belly dancer
with her TAIL, pfffffft. . .
My girl don’t tag, she SPRAY.
Mark every wall, y’all . . .
Seen all over the hood, gnome sain?
Offer her Sheba, she like:
Won’t touch it. Give me that Meow Mix.
My girl teach Afrikan lioness about *****
*** on a paean, droppin’ lyrics like mice
other feline get fussy
my kitty get NICE.
TikTok your Instagram feed
right into her bowl.
My girl so woke,
save her own fanged soul.
Slip out the house—she gone.
Workin’ secret route to EGYPT.
Roast every priestess in Bastet city;
My kitty taught CLEOPATRA (u feel me?)
about *****
She scratch Catwoman, pounce on Robin
Batman wet his weak-ass mask, sobbin’.
My girl woke;
so woke she don’t nap, she sleep—
profoundly. Soundly. DEEP.
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 8:15 AM UTC
pre-Genesis,
she adumbrates in artifice
as you orate, then hesitate
before the portal of unnamed being
reconnoitering.
You gather your forces
to exploit her resources
aroma of Soma:
illimitable subliminal bliss
limned in liquescent lucidity. . .
Tantric hat-trick:
pull a white dove out of the universal yoni
when her lingam penetrates your third eye
your chakras align and you hit her cosmic jackpot:
all sevens in unknown Proto-Indo-European tongues.
The apsaras invite all the devis over
for Christmas in Jerusalem
Pangea cracks, spreads apart in differentiation;
incontinent continents drift
then recombine
in individuation . . .
Your anima gets an enema
as the Beast melts down
and the heavens descend.
Then clean it all up
and look for a beer in the cosmic fridge.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 2:12 PM UTC
#*Mammonite pretender, see the Khazar:
Out of place in the Biblical bazaar;
Fattening his financial calf of gold
Maintaining clueless goyim bought and sold*.
Abram the nomad mixed milk with his meat
Walked the Fertile Crescent on his own feet;
Summoned from the Chaldees, uncircumcised
Long before that temple was realized.
From Babylon to Egypt, passing through,
Jerusalem came briefly into view.
He lived. He walked right out of the Archaic
To shatter every legalist’s mosaic.
Beholding now God’s current Middle East,
(Collective funeral more than wedding feast)
The Bedouin seem to model more the way:
hospitable intents at close of day.
Four hundred years would pass before they saw
That wilderness of Sinai and the Law;
Commandments Moses knew could never save.
We judge them by accounts their Torah gave:
Twelve generations later . . . what a joke.
The righteousness consumed in holy smoke
As Israel descended, worse than Cain,
to civil wars on Sodom’s fruitless plain.
In Judges we behold the steep descent
Read well the signs. Be warned—and then repent.
A scene for every Judaistic dream:
Depravity is worse than it may seem.
Your concubine, dismembered at your door,
May light the shortened fuse of civil war.
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 4:07 PM UTC
Sociopath usurpers rise to the top
Floating above mere human resources:
Doubtful cream of a churned and churning crop
Soulless spawn of data-driven forces.
I long to see them finally confounded;
I’ll laugh as they leap from towering losses
Their assets seized, liquefied, impounded . . .
May God repay our sociopath bosses!
Apr 22, 2020
Apr 22, 2020 at 11:34 AM UTC
Para recoger las horas perdidas
hay que coger las zorras perdidas . . .
Apr 21, 2020
Apr 21, 2020 at 9:56 PM UTC
Eternal salvation’s a gift
From a righteous young maid in a shift
Who had never been laid;
By God’s Spirit: hand-made
was her baby, our burdens to lift.
Apr 20, 2020
Apr 20, 2020 at 8:06 PM UTC
#§§§
You speak eloquently
calmly, liltingly,
With West Indian precision.
Your island inflection
Is so lovely. Talk to me
About anything . . .
I could listen all day.
Let us resume the conversation
In Heaven.
Unto eternity . . .
Where we shall be perfected.
I can’t forget your voice.
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 1:21 PM UTC
His face in my view
Brings butterflies fluttering
Then—one steps forward
His wits, prominent
Opening it as he speaks
"Drown me too," I beg
His voice so raspy
Floating on blue ocean deep
Waves all come in threes
His hands, warm and safe
Clasp mine like a safe haven
Hold me in all fours
His smell addicting
My perfume to keep me sane
Five spritz on my wrists
His neck welcoming
A feast for this hungry beast
My dinner at six
His obsidian eyes
Hold the universe in them
Seven light years close
His mouth on my own
Tastes just like **** fine liquor
Burns as hand strikes eight
His comfort's embrace
Brings this cold corpse back to life
Nine lives' revival
His own sacred prayer
Is his name incarnated
On my knees at ten
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 12:41 PM UTC
I came to hate the cold
When I noticed that I couldn't get a hold
Of my freezing hands when they were naked and bold
In an air-conditioned bus, as one of my friends told
And I would always seek out the heat
Of his palms on my fingers when they meet
At least they keep these delicate limbs, so petite
From numbing when the chill kiss them oh so sweet
I also came to like the warmness
Of people when they hug me in genuine love and kindness
And I would keep seeking that kind of fondness
As frost surrounds me with little to no softness
Oh, how I remember the warmth of cuddling
During wet and shivery downpour in the evening
Hugging and fondling under the thick, weighted bedding
How comfortable, unlike sleep to the freezing
But then, maybe the coldness I feel
From my hand to my feet's heel
Is a reflection of the atrociousness I conceal
Just to go with this ludicrous ordeal
My soul is just too bitter, just like how I hate
The unfortunate temperature of my fate
Yet fervor is the wish of this vicious slate
Before the chessboard declares its losing checkmate
Unfortunately, things must come to an end
There's no point to try to make this encounter bend
Because it will all just be like play-pretend
Of not acknowledging the conclusion of this descend
I came to hate the cold
And when judgment day comes, with my sins uncontrolled
I'd rather burn in the pits of hell in tenfold
Than to freeze in Dante's 9th circle's stranglehold.
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 12:40 PM UTC
You and I; we are both formidable
But then, like the thin line between its two definitions
We both live in each other's opposition
You.
You always had this grace—this delicateness and feebleness
That kind that would make anyone protect you with their lives
Not to mention the talent you were blessed at birth
The way notes would dance in accord with your fingers—how formidable
I.
My sight would always give people chills down their spines
That kind that would make you either fight or flight
With the cold demeanor I was cursed upon birth
Like how I would twist the words from my mouth.
You.
You were everything the world wanted—only more, nothing less
Can you see how their eyes would spark upon your descant?
You were a living, walking goddess upon mortals
And you were the kind of formidable one would stare in awe.
I.
I was nothing the world wanted—nothing more, only less
In how I would see the hatred in their lids at the mention of my name
I was the epitome of Lucifer incarnate, disrupting serendipity
And I was the kind of formidable everyone would want to be gone.
Us.
Yes, we are both formidable
You elegantly, I grotesquely
And the thought of us, meeting even just once
Will only be this pitiful mind's apparition.
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 12:35 PM UTC
Patricians have our best interests in mind.
Administration is impartial, kind.
Keeps us laughin’, keeps us singin’—
And I’m Hildegard of Bingen.
She gets it like she gets the working class;
My head is nodding, up my Marxist ***
White woke wedding bells are ringin’
Happy Hildegard of Bingen.
Government will gladly redistribute.
As our paychecks sing eternal tribute.
Gangsta-leanin, frontin’, blingin:
Chill with Hildegard of Bingen.
Icecaps, like medieval saints, are HOT.
Climate is in crisis when it’s not . . .
Global warning: winter’s springin’
Heating Hildegard of Bingen.
Intersectionality has meaning.
Hormones lie, biology’s demeaning .
Genderfluid queens are kingin’
Checkmate, Hildegard of Bingen.
Transnationals are cleaning up the mess;
Their CEO’s have little to confess.
Silver in the till, ka-chingin’
Profits Hildegard of Bingen.
Hildegard, the Moorish maiden, lauded.
Wokeness smiled. Diversity applauded.
Flames ascend and seraphim are wingin’
To the throne of Hildegard of Bingen.
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 10:08 AM UTC
#*Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess
Boy, you’ve been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down*...
John Lennon
A carnal muse and fallen sprite
I’ll paint for you, in flattering light.
My model’s sensuality
Shall trump all dull reality;
Inspired by Womankind’s raw truth,
Life-drawing class heats up, uncouth.
Still, I am sure some stiff-necked *****
Shall smear my heartfelt lay as lewd.
Edenic exile sought by men,
Receive this tribute from my pen
And keyboard, played inexpertly
By one who knows you rapturously
As a muse of Aztec/Latin race
Prodigious in your works and grace:
Born Ruth Ayon, in God-Knows-Where,
She overwhelms in underwear—
And shedding that, turns good men bad,
Makes angels fall and gods go mad.
Los Angeles (and that’s the joke)
Is where this cherub went for broke
Cashing in her soul for action,
Soreness, ***** and tumefaction.
Laurie Vargas, mouth full of ***
Spread for us now your Aztec ***
Your sultry contours hypnotize;
The laughter in your ******* eyes
Brings music from Tenochtitlán
And opens windows to Aztlán
You smile, unlike those other *****
Who merely grimace. Gringa butts
Are less audacious than your own . . .
Their charms are better left unknown.
Your cheeks in tan proportion shine
Embodying some rare truth divine.
(Through Poetry, I’ll make them mine.)
I must speak forth of what I found—
Though standing on unholy ground,
Here I behold your lively art . . .
Your unpierced flesh has lanced my heart.
Whereas most stars are tattooed, jaded
Your bright aspect shines, unfaded.
Clad in campesina thread
While moaning on your torrid bed,
Adorned in homespun broidered blouse
In some vaquero‘s rancho-house
Or naked as Mexica dawn,
Bespattered like a dewdropped lawn,
Spurting with some panting plumber
In an endless porno-summer,
You glow, like honey dipped in light
And undulating Latin night.
Your burning bush, much-trafficked place,
Recalls the Red Sea’s parted space
No less than your beatific face.
An unrepentant Magdalene,
You plunge into each graphic scene.
Madonna of the varied act
You swell, engorge, dilate, contract
And play the part with crazy wit
Suckling madly at your own ***
The way you can accommodate
What barely seems to satiate
With pure abandon, leaves us awed,
As mesmerized, your name we laud,
(With one hand—harder to applaud !)
Will you survive to have regrets
When raw desire no longer gets
Your body hot with inner flame?
When *** has ceased to call your name?
I wonder if you’ve found such paths
Of flesh and pimping sociopaths
A route to riches, gain, and pleasure
Or mere sacking of your treasure.
At the end of your sweaty day,
Is there more than a harlot’s pay?
I wish you well—and hope in time,
When life has left you less sublime,
You’ll find your way to God through Christ
And learn of what was sacrificed
To free you from your sordid fame
Where sinners hail your glorious shame.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 2:59 PM UTC
It’s Easter in Coronaland;
The empty malls hold silent air.
There’s paranoia on demand
For Easter in Coronaland.
The baby chickens make their stand;
And pastel rabbit eggs declare:
It’s Easter in Coronaland
In empty malls of silent air.
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 8:57 AM UTC
> < > < > < > < > < > < > <
A White Rose said to an African Violet:
Purple darkness makes my day.
The Violet, showing forth her petals, spoke:
Let’s share some sun, okay?
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 10:50 AM UTC
I remember the creases of your lips and tongue back then
So I write this love song with my paper and pen
(And now I'm back at it again)
During one hazy road trip, that one night way past ten
Even though I don't remember where or when
I remember the creases of your lips and tongue back then
When I close my eyes, I see you walking ahead
With your open hands inviting mine as you led
So I write this love song with my paper and pen
Your presence felt like that of a thousand men
When I feel safe in your arms when my tears have been shed
(And now I’m back at it again)
Even when you leave the words "I love you" unsaid
I feel it when you **** me thoroughly in bed
I remember the creases of your lips and tongue back then
You kiss your fist before it meets my cheek in counts of ten
Where flowers would bloom in violet blue and red
So I write this love song with my paper and pen
There were nights I'd pray to god as I said
"Please, let him be the last one, amen"
(And now I’m back at it again)
I close my eyes; I see you walking away as you fled
Mouthing me words that made my world drop dead
I remember the creases of your lips and tongue back then
I open my eyes; I cried and teared and pled
But you didn't look back even with my legs spread
So I write this love song with my paper and pen
Tried forgetting you but I loved you more instead
I thought I'm already done making you stay inside my head
—(And now I’m back at it again)
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 10:27 AM UTC
Poetry is the message, not the way it gets conveyed (SNIFF)
Do NOT make it your own (SNORT)
It’s not about saying it in a new way (HICCUP)
It’s all about a message delivered lyrically (BURP/BELCH)
Poetry is NOT about emotions recollected in tranquility ****
Poetry is not about pushing the boundaries of language (YAWN)
Nor is it spasmodic unburdening (AHH—CHOO!)
Poetry has no militant agenda (GRUNT)
and Poetry is not about your prosaic observations (SIGH)
LET’S GET THAT STRAIGHT !
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 11:00 AM UTC
Oh Kushite muses, open wide my lips
Regardless whether blood or honey drips,
To speak against the backwardness of those
Who progress, light, and liberty oppose.
To clarify a theme of clannish wrong
While nomads move the camel-herds along.
Animal husbandry takes on new meaning:
Their brides sewn shut; their pasturelands are greening;
Sheba’s daughters cheated of their pleasure,
Despoiled through painful plunder of their treasure.
Filthy blade in hand, the crone bears witness.
The girl in terror, clueless, cut, then clitless.
As if this weren’t enough, infibulation
Ensures the bridegroom’s ****** **********
The honeymoon brings every husband joy:
Reopening the wrapping on his toy.
Where knife or horse-whip place their gentle kiss,
there Kushite swains deliver nights of bliss.
And nine moons later, motherhood, grown mild,
is opened yet again by blade for child.
From Kush to Punt, on Afric’s burning horn,
Sadistic ways cause modern minds to mourn.
We wonder how this barbary was born . . .
Many Bantus, and Ishmaelites as well
consign their birth-machines to living hell.
Explain to me how Satan sold this rite
to those who dwell in bio-sexual night?
Veiled in flesh, her godhead cast aside
Subjected to some herdsman’s wounded pride . . .
Let Kush and Punt, their glory days recall;
Their daughters drink the wormwood and the gall.
Old scars, reopened, threaten to infect
What multi-culti feminists protect.
(*But no one ought to talk about such things
because of all the prejudice it brings*.)
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 5:23 PM UTC
Secrets of Wysteria flow in the vessels of my brain
And so I do not hear, nor comprehend the calling of my thought’s train
Vowing to never be held again in constrain
Eradicating the rotten fingers pointing to my disdain
Muses of bruises, callouses, and roses
Excuses the clueless, hung in ruin’s nooses
Flagitious tongue sharpens itself with sprawling centipedes
Rusted teeth from perilous mandibles bleed as it feeds
On the oozing, ****** veins of the wicked ****** as it pleads
Maybe these are too much for one’s avaricious needs?
Mindful, careful, piercing the syringe of refrain on plump flesh
Yeuking as the substance flows on blood so raw and fresh
Amid all, the past and future gather in Sheol’s pavilion
But missing is the presence of present in emblazing vermillion
Yet fleetly missed as the siren descanted her composition
Somber statues of ivory pretense witness with volition
Saints and snakes tear each other’s throats in a languish cotillion.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 8:15 AM UTC
The nuanced global metrosexuality
of the NYT,
the progressive patrician narcissism
of New Yorker,
The dark democratic dying
of the Washington Post,
the salty smugness
of Atlantic,
the effete unstrung irrelevance
of Harpers . . .
Newsweek, Time,
even Life itself:
These are passing away.
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 10:02 PM UTC
In the garden of earthly delights
A disturbing assortment of sights;
From sublime… to more ominous,
Holy Hieronymous
Painted abysses and heights.
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 9:45 AM UTC
Within the promise land of calm and sound
Pearls found harbor on coarse, finite-like sand
Now whitened by the faces of the drowned
****** by the berserk billows as they stand
Willows frown upon the unjust waters
Whose surface's frozen in a dreamlike blur
Cradling ghostly hollows like coy daughters
In tender whispers as always, they were
And the world bowed down its head in silence
As Lilith raised the rose of thorns in hand
"My children hearsed in tombs of violence;
my children to be salvaged!" she demand
But nevermind the promised neverland
—No one ripens from their so-called homeland
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 6:14 AM UTC
Embracing the symphonies of midnight
Carefully sewn in between silence's guise
As salvation from this perilous plight
Shallow breaths as they clasp their bent knees tight
Crass caprices brim their minds in surmise
Embracing the symphonies of midnight
Ardent baton flicks to get them just right
Quietude, serenity—ode in reprise
As salvation from this perilous plight
Tinkering bells escorted by dim light
Yet shrill shrieking with menacing disguise
Embracing the symphonies of midnight
Soft, steady beats aloud, to hear I might
Lone martyr forgives in between my thighs
As salvation from this perilous plight
In low weeps, choruses of tears recite
Here I stand, dawning upon raven skies
Embracing the symphonies of midnight
As salvation from this perilous plight
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 6:10 AM UTC
The chicken coop unmanned, adrift at sea
Rolls aimlessly upon hormonal swells.
Her crew, well-versed in gynecology
Repaint in pink dull feminism's hells.
Such lunacy as ovulates their womb
Impels them now to celebrate our doom.
First freed from God, then finally, from men,
The silly sailors, decked like women's parts
Scold gender's greater half, like hens, and then
Cluck on, devoid of biologic arts;
Useless fowl, squawking fit to neuter us
Who dare exist without a ******
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 2:46 PM UTC
Crisp summer breeze tickle wreaths of May blooms
Yellow flats traipse blocks where blue ocean looms
Serene waves greet shore's walls in fervent kiss
Moon's afterglow brush the scene in pure bliss
Fine sand witness time like dateless heirlooms
Brine's musk basks nightfall in coastal perfumes
Woven foams' calm poise in fond reminisce
With each cycle's ending, they go amiss
Red heels graze concrete in sultry whispers
As the salt-rimmed glass plays in my fingers
Gotcha!—my hapless victim for tonight
Caught my breath, it only faintly lingers
In front I stand, a door with four ciphers
"Aphrodite, save me" begins the plight
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 12:04 PM UTC