"schools, business, multi media"
Daniel Magner

No sense for the senseless
Brains for the brain eaters
schools, business, multi media
Mosquitoes with cyber eyes
spreading dull life and exciting lies

Broken records misdefined,
CD’s, USB, mp3
all wasted on nothing real

Color splash, purposeful mismatch
Pop a quad stack down the hatch
quick sex, quick cash
no point to living
live life fast


© Daniel Magner 2012
"Schools that steal children's thoughts."
AJ James

I'm from apple pies
and endless blue skies.
A world that's plastered
with sweets and smiles that are backwards.

I'm from stagnant desks
that smell grotesque.
Schools that steal children's thoughts.
A place where all your free will rots.

I'm from a house seemingly warm
but inside lays a giant storm.
Yells and cries fill the walls
while the skeleton of hope fills the halls.

I'm from a place
that hates every "F" I obtain.
But with an "A" what would I gain?
Just some fake encouragement to make me vain.

I'm from "Hallelujah"
to crucify ya.
"Worship me or to hell you go"
But how would they even know?

I'm from backyard playing under the sun
until my friends deemed it no longer fun.
Canceled plans; left alone
have turned my gooey heart into stone.

I'm from broken mirrors
to cover up my fears;
to hide my reflection
and hope that I won't see my new direction.

I'm from the ending
but I'm not from the beginning
I'm just a finish to this puzzle.

I am the end.

"They work in local schools,"

A pair of English teachers.
They work in local schools,
Both sticklers for grammar,
They're strict about its rules.

But when the day is over,
And marking has been done,
They behave a different way,
And start to have some fun.

He says things that he shouldn't,
A big turn on for her,
He shouts out double negatives,
Says "was" instead of "were".

He splits all his infinitives,
His pronouns are not right,
He knows that he'll be punished,
They do this every night.

She beckons him to come to her,
He bends across her lap,
She tells him he's been naughty,
And gives his arse a slap.

"now he does talks at catholic high schools."
ryan pemberton

dick stitch mitch
had six stitches in his dick.
he tried to choke the carrot
but it tore his dick to shreds.
he tried to stitch it up
but the dog got to it,
and buried his dick in the yard
with all the other bones.

dick stitch mitch
kicked his dog to death
and then he drove to the hospital.

now he does talks at catholic high schools.
preaching the danger
of monkey spanking,
chain yanking,
meat beating.

"Knowledge never learned of schools,"

Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy, -
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art, - the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye, -
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild-flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy, -
Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O'er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs' orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

~John Greenleaf Whittier 1807—1892~

"g through the armada of coral reefs and schools of fish,"
Christina Zouras

This siren’s song is waiting, wading;
sifting through the armada of coral reefs and schools of fish,
against the fiery black pits; so long so lonesome.

"And outcasts from the secondary schools,"
Subconscious on Parade

On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.

Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.

At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.

There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same damn space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.

And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.

On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.


Written for The Black Dog, Theatre Black Dog, and Isadora's, which are all really the same place under time's sneaky aliases.
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