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Michael W Noland Sep 2012
[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero
this is a work in progress
starling Jul 2014
i want to say something haunting and profound

about the twisting in my abdomen

and the red stain blooming between my legs—

but all I can think about is how far ******* gone I am

and how much it hurts to be a 19 year old girl

with a brain like a jagged seashell
Poet B Lee Apr 2010
This is past due like the rent paid on the thirteenth
Late better than never-- and I got this here forever
Flow like rain during any kinda weather
Keep this here close to my heart
And when the block comes, I don’t know where to start
Beat-beat Thump-thump
I'll just let the words flow from my heart
But you ain’t feelin me’-- You ain’t hearin’ Queen
So I got to bring you back to the forefront with my so⋅lil⋅o⋅quy
I remind you of all the things that had you fearin’ me
This Army of One, brighter than that star He created we call Sun
Under its blaze, us two can become one
(lets make our Son under His)
While I lay with fragmented words.... spoken
Promises I made to myself remain unbroken
And my gift is as natural as the slender ducts of my abdomen called fallopian
I am Woman
The prototype made perfect and pure
Whose prose is as tight as my kegels allow my femininity to be
Wrath your ******* may not be able to endure
Thought you knew a good Woman and tight ***** make you surrender on your knees
And dream dreams about your seed taking root in this royal vessel
I am Mother Earth
And this is my Gift—my Gyft
I am Myself and such a present I present to thee
For I AM Queen Poetree
So when I seem silent
When you think you hear nothing but your heart beat
Nothing but the cool air enraptured in the breeze
I am the Life that flows from you
I am the Wind rustling the trees leaves
I am the fragrance left in the air you interpret as another
I am the overwhelming sensation made between two lovers under duvet covers
I am the softness of lips and the sensation made by the flick of a passionate tongue
I am that empty space you try to fill with another one
So when you think you hear nothing
When you think you’re all alone
I am every word, every adlib of your favorite song
Every stroke every morning when you brush your hair
I am your deep breath because, baby, I am your air
I am everything pleasurable—every pleasure experienced since your creation
And it all stems from the balance of my concentration during this poetic intrapersonal conversation
I am everything virtuous
I am the eye of the storm
I am your hope, your future
I am the pages of your favorite novel whose cover is worn
I am air, I am sky
I am the clouds, and the Sun’s heat
But most importantly, to my core
I am Queen Poetess B…
Queen Poetess B Copyright © 2010 All Rights Reserved
Shashank Virkud Dec 2010
You were a different version of the religion,
you were a ****** of the region when we met.
I had the brownest eyes. You had the greenest eyes.
chin sits perfectly in shoulder,
hand fits in hand, molded.
I had hair like a little girl's. You had hair like a little boy's.
Both half ******, my arms were as thin as yours, and toned.
You didn't own a single curve, just edges and bone.
Only your lips were soft. Only my lips were soft.
The fading light bounced off the angles of my abdomen and visible ribcage,
made your mouth water. With a shy,
curling finger,
you called me over to you.
It drove me wilder.

We undressed each other under the covers.
You giggled and I crumbled when you saw
I needed help with the clasp of your bra.
I chuckled, returned the favor when you gave up on my belt buckle.
I had the body of a little girl. You had the body of a little  boy.
The sheets wound around and pressed us together,
You had the hardest hips. I had the hardest hips.
You compromised what was inside your mind;
I felt those first few moans rattle your
visible ribcage and escape through lips pursed
like a porcelain doll.
Took it all in, held on to your fragile frame
and from the moment we were free,
two children in the wilderness.
Ryan A Flournoy Apr 2015
10:35 p.m.

Again the man ate too much for his own good. He could barely sit long enough in his car ride home without an involuntary bowel movement threatening to ruin the interior leather of his new convertible car. The same convertible he happened to clean earlier that day, and for the second time that week. Barley able to transition out of his car he wobbled his way to his front door and into his house away from the fascist eyes of his affluent neighbors. He plopped to the living room floor assuming the only position his body was capable of. As he lay spreadeagle on his back uncomfortable and slightly anxious he ripped his shirt off in fear of suffocation. The spinning fan above brought waves of nausea if he starred at it for too long. Rubbing his naked protruding belly seemed to be a brief fix for the brewing pain in his stomach, but then the pain turned for the worse. He felt the sidings of his stomach stretched and the food nearly about to overflow back out of his mouth. A small burp came from his abdomen and he could taste the food as it rose and steamed in the back of his throat. He questioned himself In agony, "Why?". Why would he continue to spoil the treat of dining out at his favorite restaurant in town just to come home in disgust and pain? Is it an inability to stop himself from ordering the biggest plates of food and forcing every single grain of it into his mouth? Or are the pictures that show the plates of food just too enticing for his self control? Is it that the price seems right, therefore it only seems logical to order the full plate and its copious amount of sides to choose from? Perhaps it is just because his finances allow him to and his lack of appreciation for what sparse living feels like, or even worse famine. With no real acknowledgment of the nonrefundable resources he so easily exhaust, not to mention the physical harm done to his body, he was doomed for failure. He winced as he rolled to his side. No burp could subdue the agony of each turn in his stomach. He feared at any second his dinner would decorate his luxurious new rug that he took so much pride in. So much pride it was not uncommon he would insist his guest to bend down and feel the plushness of it every time they stepped on it. Still the war raged in his abdomen. Focused on his breathing, he shut his eyes in hopes of a get away. Struggling to remain still he reassured himself to breath.

11:07 p.m.

Suddenly, like a light switch found in a dark room a life changing truth was revealed to him. One so beautifully powerful it was to change him for good. The awareness of this truth would put an end to his pain and suffering, his lies and imperfections. There was now an answer to the constant void in his stomach, his unquenched hunger, the glass half empty. No longer was he a prisoner of deception. There was an overwhelming fleeting of demons and a mountain of weight lifted. His vision was as clear and vivid as it could ever be. The bliss was not ignorance, not anymore...it was unfeigned truth. For the first time ever he could see life for what it really was. It felt like a lifetime of emotions in one moment. Simplicity surrounded him in every direction. He felt the joy of complete freedom. The weightlessness of eternal peace. He was to tell the world of this untapped truth brought to him. A new and better way to live. An actual sustainable lifestyle free of judgement.

Then without his consent, he abruptly stood up. Dazed and in a state of confusion, he glanced at the clock.

11:11 p.m.

He then looked down and saw what his life cleansing truth was. He had simply soiled himself while asleep, ruining his new living room rug.
Man longs for fulfillment but looks for it in material objects, false ideologies, pleasure and desires. We will continue to take from this Earth until one day there will be nothing left.
Sharina Saad Oct 2014
Handsome is not your dancing eyes
when you smiles
Handsome is not your sunny face
or your well built muscle
I have never been wrong..
in defining handsome
handsome is not your flesh
not your looks
but a little bit lower than your abdomen
Look down...
Its your fat wallet
in your pocket...
Thats handsome...
Isabel Aghahowa Feb 2019
within the red is life unwoven
an unknown that rests undefined
before it knows it’s end
it leaves traces of its redundance in the shape of senseless tremors
and restless quivers
that leave me paralysed in time

the blood curse 
the ritual of unborn futures  
it leaves me thinking  of
slashing the bonds of my abdomen
for the bittersweet release
of this cascading trauma
will leave me unmade
and free from bloodfilled womanhood
bc moon raven Oct 2018
Growling and hissing, a storm formed along the road, portending the merging of the chaos that had been gripping our minds for months.  This day, this type of day, we could have dreamed up in the novel of our love affair.  The conversation along our drive into the country was as full and ***** as all other tête-à-têtes shared in our two months together.  We were never at a loss for words and his conversation had been more educated than the older men I had dated since the divorce.  I was forever astonished at him and with him.  

The first time I met him, I was sitting behind my desk and planning for another monotonous day of office politics and all the drama connected.  Lost in thought, I sipped coffee and read emails until, there was - him.  He opened my office door with such fervor and drama, I knew someone had just entered into my life that would leave me forever changed, and I welcomed it.  A mess of auburn hair, neither combed nor styled and yet quite fitting, haloed around his head and gave the visage of an angel.  He had a freckled nose and cheeks with blue eyes staring from behind all that wildness and they were the only calming feature about him.  I turned my head and grimaced a bit, “how dare someone charge into my office as if to own it”.  “How can I help you?” made its way from my lips with a bit of a sigh.  And he smiled, that smile which would make his face even younger and more deceptively angelic.  

“Hello” danced off his lips and in two syllables was able to sound singsong and my anger soon turned to anticipation.  He introduced himself as Parker and explained his new position as Junior Editor.  He went on to say someone instructed him to introduce himself to me since I was Senior Project Manager for the organization.  His fervent entrance into my office had sent a gush of wind that disheveled my tidy desk and his wide blue eyes looked around at the chaos he had rendered.  He seemed unable to offer apologies, and I soon learned this was his way.  His confident facade prevented admission of mistakes and the word “sorry” could not escape the tightness of his will to be correct.  This was my lover’s way and it was the structure built that only wrecking ***** could destroy.

As is expected of me, I extended my hand to welcome him, overmuch aware of my grip and strength in presenting my hand, I felt the need to dominate the grip.  I was a woman in a senior position inside the male dominated echelon of upper management.  I took his hand and with rehearsed quickness attempted to demonstrate my dominance, my superiority.   It was then, the first time I saw a devil behind his angelic face and I remember my expression churned up my secret thoughts.  He saw my eyes searching those thoughts and delight shone from his blue eyes like cold fire and I was burned.   Our hands soon contorted into a dance of dominance with fingers twisting as if in a finger shadow play.  No time for games or plays for control, I simply took the shake he offered and turned towards my coffee, my drama, my emails and without looking at him welcomed him again and gave a wave of dismissal.  He greeted my brush-off with a laugh and made his way to the chair in front of my desk.  He was tall and the light from behind silhouetted his broad shoulders and upright posture.  He was confident and sure.  His clothes were expensive, well-tailored and not at all the measure for his age.  He had a style about him and I believe it came as naturally to him as did the confidence in which he clothed himself.

I wanted to be angry at his overconfidence, his interruption, his disregard.  I was, instead, amused but annoyed.  He sensed he was beginning to irritate me and it seemed to delight him.  He would speak without taking a breath, eager to finish his thoughts, aware perhaps that time could steal the moment away and he would forever wonder.  He spoke with an accent I did not fully recognize and attempted to invite me to lunch or even coffee.  My lover was bold.  

I was succeeding in this corporate world, my world.  I was not ready to lose my focus for a moment alone with the delightful creature staring back at me, awaiting the “yes” he expected would be my answer.  He was a man who did not accept the “no’s”.    He would get what he wanted and would wait in predator mode until his prey was wounded, weak, ready.  He was not a predator in the malevolent sense, more in the need for survival mentality.  He would lift the wounded and weak above the limits of their afflictions and a “yes” would flow from their lips in fond gratitude.  Today I was not a “yes” and it did not feel like a final answer.  Somehow, I knew one day I would be naked with this man, my lover.  I knew I would take him inside me, and he would show me how to love in ways I had never known.  The “no’ and the explanations of the “no” exuded from my lips, and I could see him grow even more eager to know me.  He would learn the stories of my life from rumors and talk.  He would learn of my divorce, of the men I dated with expensive homes and cars.  He would hear about the occasional woman who would occupy my bed.   I had wished all of it to be true but only the divorce was correct.  I was not exceptional or exciting.  I was driven and focused.  

He stood there hearing my “no” with the sun behind him igniting the fire in his hair with his shoulders pinned back exposing his sculpted chest.  He stood there and allowed the silence after my rejection to hover the room, and there it was.  We locked eyes, and neither could emancipate from the other.  I wondered who he was and what he looked like naked in the morning with his disheveled hair, and we stared, locked in our gaze until my phone rang signaling the end of round one.  

Wrapped in my shawl, I moved between sipping coffee, as was my usual, and typing on my laptop.  He was behind me in the cabin.  I felt him approaching and knew he would quickly whisk me away from the overwhelming din of office emails and calls.  His presence behind me now was no longer disquieting but natural.  

The cabin had been his grandfathers and he had a noticeable pride about it when showing me through the door and gateway to his childhood memories.  He had a smile on his face I had never seen.  I delighted in how young it made his face appear, almost as if the childhood memories possessed him and he became the blithe youth here with his grandfather.  


It was fall at the cabin and the smell of musk and rotting leaves and ozone from the storm, filled the cabin and each deep breath was taking in a memory from my youth.   I was happy to be here with him and yet afraid.  Two months we flirted and touched over our shared lunches, eager to get inside each other physically, mentally.  The office was replete with stories of the happenings between the older woman executive and the younger up and coming man, how he must be using her to advance his career and how she was using him to heal the wounds of her recent divorce.  We heard these stories and watched them grow to the point we ended our touching, our flirting.  Soon the denial of our feelings and time apart turned to foreplay.  Soon there were stares across conference rooms, perceptive smiles as we crossed paths.  The total of it led us to this moment, to time alone together for the first time, this time.  

Fall in the country was the vangaurd to a glorious death.  The earth would explode with color announcing its final breath and moment upon the stage and we had arrived during the final bow and curtain call.  Trees draped in gold - and red - and orange heralded the fire to come and we too were ready to pour forth in glorious blaze and inferno.  During the entire ride into the country an ironical mist of dew and rain dotted the windshield as if nature attempted to douse the desires clawing to escape in each other’s arms.  There was a devil sitting next to me and I had to smile as his auburn hair blended so naturally with the landscape.  I was obviously lost in thought and he looked at me and asked if I was okay.  Him next to me, him crookedly smiling at me.  

“It’s nothing.  It’s just nice to see you in your element.”  My replay was short but my heart was beating so hard I was almost afraid he could see it bouncing behind my blouse, so I began to cover up but was met with his hand before I even reached the edge of my coat.  

“No.  I want to see you.”  His voice was soft but demanding and strong.  Often there were hints of a struggle for power between us.  His youth and position within the company prevented me from accepting his seriousness and his face would ***** into a grimace.  I never gave it much thought other than a bit of a nuisance.  His hand led mine to my lap, and I expected him to hold it, but he let go with a smile.  I enjoyed his show of power but refused to reveal a glint of it for fear I would lose the respect and control necessary over a subordinate.

Soon the cabin filled with the sounds of rain and thunder and as I stared out the window jealous of the drops of rain and their randomness, he touched my shoulder and looked down at me with his eyes bluer than wild lupine.  I smiled a painful smile and he knew I was overthinking the moment.  Taking my hand, he brought me to his chest and into his arms, arms that would embrace all of me and at times felt as if they could wrap around me twice.  I placed my head on his chest and began to reach for his belt.  The *** I had known was always routine.  This was expected, that was not allowed.  I fell into that routine naturally and was happy to oblige his needs in order to meet mine.  He kissed my forehead and still holding one hand, led me to the door of the cabin.  “What are we do…”  He stopped me with a single “shhh” from his lips.  I followed him and felt myself shiver.  I was not sure if I was shivering in fear or from the nip of fall air.  

“Don’t be afraid.  You have nothing to fear from me.  There’s no need to shiver my little poppet.”  He stepped back from me and stared as if I were a tiny bird in need of nestling back into its home.  “I’ve never seen you afraid.”  He touched my cheek and I felt so small and helpless, lost from home, and he was the only way back.  With a smile he took my hand and led me outside to the rain, lifting his face and savoring the drops bouncing off his cheeks.  

“W..w..what are you doing?”  I was trembling now and wondered if I had misjudged this man and he was in fact a lunatic ready to strangle me to my death.  My silk blouse, now drenched, clung to my ******* exposing an imprint of lace from my bra.  He reached for my shawl and pulled it off my shoulders.  He was looking at me so lovingly my body and mind calmed and I was once again in the moment.  Our moment.  This moment.  

His face, stern now, official, his mouth opening with such deliberateness that I was sure he had been in this situation before.  Once again my mind wanted to race to thoughts of not being good enough or that I was too old or too plain.  His voice pierced my thoughts and brought me to attention.  “There will be no talking unless I tell you to.  Nod if you understand”

My mind wanted to slap him with reminders of my superiority to him at work, how he was MY subordinate and how dare he.  My mouth would not open and my head began to nod in understanding.  My body and mind were bending to his will and acting upon his orders.  Shivering gave way to shaking now and I wanted to run to the warmth of the cabin and watch the fire burn the logs to a black crisp and wake up in his arms naked and giggling.  

Having seen my compliant nod, he began to speak.  “Undress.”  One word.  One word in response to the shaking mess of a woman standing in the rain, cold and afraid.  My hands were barely able to form the necessary movements to reach for the top button of my blouse.  I did not want to fail him or appear as if I were unfamiliar with tales of ***** men overpowering and having their way with a willing lover.  My fingers moved quickly now, wanting to end the scene and move on to the *******.  He stared.  He did not blink.  He did not nod or move.  He was enjoying every subtlety of me.  He was pleased.   I was a willing participant in his fantasy.  Nothing made me happier than to please him.  I began to feel hot and something inside me broke.  Was it my will, my pride, my fears?  I was not sure, but I felt alive.  Every thirsty pore of my skin opened up and lapped at the rain so very eager to feel it on my skin and the randomness of the drops was no longer something I envied but something in which I participated.  

My hands began to tug my blouse free from my skirt and the wet silk now draped over my hips like curtains, revealing the curves I was so painfully aware of hiding to keep anyone from noticing my *** and concentrate upon my words and actions.  I knew now I had one button remaining before I would, for the first time, display myself to him.  He did not flinch, rather, he maintained his stare and for a second I pleaded to him with my eyes not to expect me to do this.  He was resolute.  I spread open the soft, wet cloth and began to drape it off my shoulders.  I let it slide from my wrists, then fingertips, then to the ground blissfully unconcerned that my Hermes blouse was now draped over wet grass and mud.  

I looked down at my skin dripping and alive with goosebumps.  I had bought this bra in anticipation of this moment, in fear of this moment.  White lace bra and perfectly matched ******* were demonstrative of my control over even the small details.  My skirt was loose and heavy with the rain.  It was low on my waist and lay just below the navel leaving me the most exposed I had ever been with him.  I reached to touch the button on the back of my skirt.  Undone, I slipped my fingers along with the zipper feeling each click of the tiny teeth holding together the disguise of a powerful woman.  My hands traced the banded edge of the skirt pushing it over my hips allowing it to fall to the ground.  

His face looked stern but pleased, stoic and fixed.  I was in my bra, ******* and stilettos now.  I began to reach for the hinged part of my bra when he stopped me.  “No.  Stop.” He walked over to me.  He was close now and I was so cold I could feel heat from his body.  I wanted to kiss his lips, his full lips, but I did not move.  I knew now the rules and I would do only what was asked of me.  I stood rigid with no flinching.  I waited for any words that would pass from lips to ear.  He did not speak but leaned into me and reached over my right shoulder undoing the chignon in my hair.  He draped my shoulders with strands of liquid filament.  He took his time there, placing each strand in the exact order in which he was pleased.  With two steps back, he looked at my wet hair with the deliberate strands, as if he had created a masterpiece and for a moment I was unsure if the artwork he saw was me or his work.  

“Now be still.  Allow me to touch you, to admire you, my beautiful Moira.”  When he said my name even after these two months, he had the ability of saying it as if he were speaking it in serenade and for the first time.  He moved his hands to my back and unlinked my bra, one hook at a time with such dexterity I knew he must be a professional at *******.  He, who was to be my first professional lover.  He slid both straps off my shoulders, then taking my hands towards my abdomen, he slid the straps forward on my arms.  Lifting my hands, he demanded I keep them out and straight.  Me, the student to the professional, complied without question.  He bound my wrists with the lace bra, the bra I had bought just to please him, then lifted my arms above my head.  “You will keep your hands up until I tell you to move.”

I had become his toy.  I knew in this moment, I no longer existed for me, I was his, completely and entirely, and I abandoned myself to the rain, to the cold, to his gaze, realizing that surrendering to his urges strengthened me.  He turned and walked away.  He took a seat in an Adirondack chair and even it looked small in his presence.  “On your elbows and knees,” he spoke matter-of-factly.  Just five minutes ago, the struggle inside me to have the appearance of strength, would have denied me this happiness, this happiness to be free in his command.  “Now crawl to me, please.  Slowly.”

I did not care to be in the mud.  I wanted it.  I wanted to please him.  First to my knees, leaving an indention in the clay, then awkwardly at first, onto my elbows with my hands still tied at the wrist.  Crawling on my elbows, my back was arched with my waist higher than my head, giving him a view of the thong I had chosen only for this moment, my succeeding moment.  My position felt ungainly.  I looked to his face for approval.  “No.  You cannot look at me”, he commanded.  For a moment I felt I had lost his approval and self-doubt harried my brain.  My will to please was resolute.  I faced the ground, once again aware of the randomness of nature, the power of nature, how things in nature will do as they are told.  The reed is told to bend.  It does.  It does not question why but responds in its way.  Rivers do not question why they are shaped.  They just continue with powerful current.  I was the reed.  I was the river.  I did not question.

Face towards the ground, I could see the mud forming on my body, molding to my shape then rinsing with the rain.  It repeated.  Mud.  Rain.  Mud.  Rain.  This was the cadence to my crawl.  I arrived at his knees and waited there, a dog eager for a command from its master.  I was content to watch the rain beat ripples around his feet, splashing and shining his shoes with glossy drops.  “I cannot love you”, I thought to myself, “this is forbidden”.  “Being here in this moment, is forbidden.” We would have this moment.  Yes.  We could create this memory and think back on it in fondness and with both heaviness and happiness.  I would remember my young lover, my professional lover.  He would remember the obedient executive on her knees.  I would not regret our moment.  I would some day write it all down in my journal and press the pen deep into the paper.  It had to be etched, those words, my words, this memory.

His hand below my chin, lifted my gaze to his and he smiled, that smile, his smile, the smile that was like nature to my body, and I did not ask why.  I was a river being formed.  “You are so beautiful.  All of you.  Your skin so soft and pale.  Your eyes moving from fear to acceptance.  I see now you want to please me and I want you to know that I want to make you happy.  I want to be your lover.  I want to taste your lips kissed with rain and feel your shivering body pulled against me.  You are safe.  I will not hurt you.  Poppet.  I love you.  I have for awhile now, and I think you know it.  You, my wise, wise Moira.”  He lifted me up and for a moment pulled my body towards him burying his face in my abdomen.  He lingered there.  I felt how soft his red tufts of hair were and how soft his words were against my ears.  I loved him too.  Genuinely.  Profoundly.  I was afraid.

He inhaled deeply, there against my stomach, as if he were breathing in my essence.  I felt his breath turn from warm to cold against me as it mixed with rain.  He stretched his arms and moved my body backwards as he extended until I was a foot away from him.  “I would very much like to undress you, poppet.  I’ve been imagining it, aching for it.  I want to see all of you, naked and on display.”  He touched my abdomen with the tips of his fingers, as if afraid the pale china of my skin would disintegrate into a misty dream.  I relished it, the touch of him against parts of me he had not known.  I was always able to keep him at a distance, physically.  His hands traced the edge of my *******.  He moved slowly, and I knew he was wanting to etch this memory into his journal.  Nothing less than ink pressed hard to paper would release this memory to time.  His placed his hands on my hips and spun me around, my thong lining up with his gaze.  “Bend over.”  His voice from sweet to demanding again.

My hands were still bound, and I stumbled at first.  He seemed not to notice or to care, so I arched my back and pushed myself outward and into his view.  I felt his hands move from my thighs to my hips as gentle as summer winds that in their seductiveness turn our faces towards the impact.  I was in my forties and unsure how I would compare to the twenty-year-old’s he was known to date.  The gossip left nothing to imagination and everything to speculation.  My mind had conjured images of him, this professional lover, inside the firm thighs of a youthful companion.  Thoughts transformed to pleasure as the nature that was his hands took dominance over the thin lace that hid the only piece of me left unseen.  I became art in his hands, marble statue, exquisite with textures and curves wanting to be touched.  

The lace scraped my skin as he slid the *******, wet and splashed with earth, over the expanse of my hips and down to the ground at my ankles.  “Step out of them.”  He helped free my ankles, and I saw the delicate lace become one with the earth as the rain beat it into the mud.  This was freedom.  This was me with nature, me with my lover.  I was the reed and he was the wind.  

I was keenly aware of his eyes fixated on the valley of my mound, how my cheeks spread just enough to give hints of the pinkest of my flesh, now swollen and ripe.  “Turn around.”  I heard his voice and could tell the bombardment of rain was making it difficult to speak.  

I turned and began to ***** my body when I felt his hand on my back.  “No, poppet.  You must stay this way until I say stand.”  My body ached to be touched by him, by more than fingers and hands, but this, the anticipation, the wanting of it all, this was the skill of a professional lover.  I saw the earth drowned with a thick layer of rain now, and my shoes made splatters and ripples as I turned towards him.  I was cold now, too cold, unaware cold, numb in my cold.  I was happy to feel it.  I had for too long hid from rain, this glorious rain.  Now, I was one with the rain.  I was the river coursing its path as commanded by nature.  

He took my hands and untied them.  I watched the entire progression of it and I felt his presence now even more.  My hands were free, and I stared at my shoes and his shoes.  I was so small in his presence.  “Stand for me, poppet.”  His voice diffused through the rain and seemed softer now.  I stood there in my nakedness and he delighted in it.  My lover was not afraid and moved his head along with his eyes.  It was easy to know where upon my body his gaze had landed.  He seemed to linger the most on my face, and I thought how odd it was as most men concentrated on my ******* or mound.  My lover was different.  My lover was professional.

“Poppet, I want you to remove my shirt, but you will not toss it to the ground.  You will place it on the chair.  Nod if you understand me.”  He knew I understood but was confirming I was still in the moment and willing.  I obliged him with a nod and without looking at his face, began to unbutton each dot from its hole until he was shirtless before me.  His chest was firm and hairless and dotted with unobtrusive freckles as random as the rain.  I was delighted.  He was beautiful.  My lover was beautiful.

He placed one hand on my head, the other on my shoulder.  “On your knees for me, poppet.”  My knees once again bent for him, and I knelt in the rain, the thick rain and saw my knees again molded in the mud and earth.  I was unsure now.  Years had passed since I had taken a man inside my mouth.  I felt panic, like the river, run a course through me and I started to turn away.  But I was resolute.  “I will make him happy in all things this day” rang in my ears like a mantra.  I watched as he undid his belt and felt it as he wrapped it around my neck two times and pulled the loose end until it was taut but not constricted against my skin.  I was his.  I was the pet and he was the master.  It was official to me now in this symbol.  I was leashed and about to be tamed.  My lover was going to teach me his skill.  I was delighted.

I watched him free the one button on his pants and move to the patterned teeth of the zipper.  He rested his pants on his hips and pulled free the thing, that thing, the thing I was craving.  The thing I would take inside me, deep inside wherever my master wanted it.  I was the river.  

He was not large, not small, but thick, surprisingly thick, he was swollen and vascular.  I studied the curve of it.  The tip, the head.  I watched his hand grip it and move it towards my lips.  I opened my mouth and took him inside me.  He moved his hands to the sides of my head and began to direct me in the movement he needed from me.  I studied the thrusts and followed.  I moved my tongue, my eager tongue, in unison with the rain and percussion of the drops.  I slid him deep inside me devouring and savoring the taste of him.  The taste of my lover was satisfying, and I wanted to bring him to completion there in that moment.

We stayed in the rhythm, with the rain, both lost to the moment.  He stopped his ****** and lifted my chin.  “Moira.  My poppet.”  He led me to my feet and gave his crooked smile to me.  He gave me his smile in that moment, in that second, his smile was mine.  

“I love you”, I whispered, unsure he heard me.  He lifted me like a child and carried my nakedness to the bed.  He placed me there, like a doll.  He contemplated my skin in the light of the fire.  My lover the wind.  My lover the water.  

He was soon naked and drops of rain lit up on his body like little mirrors and I could see images of the room and myself reflected in them.  He removed the belt from my neck.  “We won’t need this.  In this moment, you know you are mine.  You know I am yours.”  We both wrapped our arms around the other, and I felt his skin on mine.  His body was hard and moved in perfect form with each muscle flinching the way it should, each squeeze and release in harmony with the other.  My pale, soft skin was beautiful contrast to his and was yin and yang.  He felt hard and long inside me, so engorged each vein touched the inside of me in a different fashion.  We each sealed our mouth on the other unable to drink as deeply as we wanted.  We were in our moment, this moment.  Alive in the seconds that passed to hours.  We were ready to etch ink on the pages telling of how I was the reed and he was the wind and on this day, I did not ask why, I only did as was I was told.
L B Aug 2018
He was large as frogs go
Fist-sized happy rotund dweller
of backyard pond
Garter snake large, too large
with his ominous yellow stripes
and jaws to take
a larger than average mouthful
Choked by abdomen's girth
Legs drooling from his glut
Before the victim's even hit his gut's
digestive juices

Kid with hockey stick makes him puck
for his sin
Frog makes  desperate
slim swim for rocks
Where he lies in recovery
from shock and
teeth marks on his belly
Underdog gets defense from phone call-- Eve
150 miles away
intercedes
Frog gets mercy of a transport
to another backwoods pond--
to find his life
forgetting trauma
Suns himself and swims
Eats the bugs
and ***** the froglettes
of another day
My daughter desperate on the phone-- she and her stepson have just been witness to this scene.  Now what!  Now what!  Call mommy! Quick!
I give the household, "hunter man" the job and duty of relocation.  He objects, "But it's the way of nature!"
"Not on my watch, good man!
Not on my watch!"
The underdog gets the hand.
V Oct 2018
we explored one another,
similar to that of how the seven sins
would explore their vices,
corrupting their virtues.

but that's what made the garden blossom,
grow with intense passion that radiated
with a melancholy glimmer, with a dipped
and ragged vine of sweat and sheen
arousal and desire.

  craving, begging, mewling, whining;

gluttony, craving for the excess
sloth, craving for moments of rest,
envy, craving for a bearing of arousal,
lust, craving for a touch, a sinful taste;
greed, craving the moans and swatches,
wrath, craving for sullen destruction,
pride, craving for the fall of a bereaved apology.


    our garden;
a place of virtues, a place of our vices.
you showed me the deepest things,
darkest epithets of what was to be explored,
blossoming a crimson rose of pure desire
in the pit of my abdomen, vines of thorns
wrapped firmly around my hips
and the soft ashen flesh of my wrists
soon to be accompanied around
the thin circumference of my ankles.
the shark divots soon finding their
way around the swells of my breast,
and the tremble of my inner thighs;
body arching, lips quivering,
ecstacy of your words,
your seed planted garden that
became a part of me.


I found the cardinal sins in
the dropping countenance
of your words, of your demands, and of your wishes,
and i bathed in it,
soaked myself up in the lavender of
your scent, the scratchiness of your thorns.

our garden was the place to cast our sins,
delve into them, and it ruined me,
but oh how I solely craved it.

our encounters, our actions, our experiences
putting even the seven deadly sins to same,
forcing them to turn when catching a glimpse
of us. The swells of their cheeks blossoming
with that of a rose tinted hue.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.  i really don't islam right now, as far as current archeological unearthing goes, circa mid 20th century, islam should look back onto its schism - and debate itself... whether or not Ali was, or wasn't given Muhammad's word as the just inheritor of the religion... since Muhammad broke, or rather, never kept his honor / promise to his son in law... mind you: the new testament could only have, and indeed did, only benefit the Byzantines (i love the variant of punctuation... bi-zan-tyne vs. bee-zan-teen)... and who do we know of, to be a respectable of both history, and the collective memory, from the Byzantine empire? not one... even by my standards: that's ******* harsh... the new testament was like a second Trojan war, against Virgil's aeneid... because why would the new testament even become beneficial to the western Empire? had it not disintegrated into protestantism, and subsequently secularism... the existence of the new testament has a time, and a space of supreme utility... the second counter of the Greeks against the Trojans... in the mythology of the Romans being the exiled Trojans... and, at its pinnacle, within the Byzantine empire... of course... but outside of it? like a **** inside a tornado... now if i were to rewrite the divine comedy... who would i take as accomplice? Horace? or Milton?

             if you ever read the footnotes...

  oh no, ******, you're not getting

away with this...

why is the mainstream media
concerned with the dead sea scrolls?

they're an extension of
the Hebrew tradition -
   they invite a debate concerning
the prophet Isaiah...

   the dead sea scrolls are an extension
of the old testament...

but the nag hammadi library -
which, "miraculously" emerged
within a coincidence of the
dead sea scrolls: simultaneously -
at the end of the second world...

right...
     the nag hammadi library is
no an extension of the new testament:
it's an... implosion...

     crucially: st. thomas' gospel...
which is contained in the library's oeuvre...
yet the mainstream media
thinks it's necessary to bother itself
commenting on the dead sea scrolls:
if you ain't a Hebrew,
the dead sea scrolls are,
seriously of no interest to you...

but the nag hammadi library?
    sure as **** it is...
              the whole investment in
myth, the Seth project -
              st. peter's apocrypha...
mainstream can go and **** itself
wondering why,
the dead sea scrolls were not
released for the public for 30 odd years...
mention the nag hammadi
library, and the ******* are twice
as clueless...

then you read the footnotes...
ah...
           the historical account
of josephus bin matthias -
   about the first jewish-roman war...
in the time of Nero...
      when the book of revelations
was written... as no precursor -
               by some obscure Greek...

as having inherited Christianity -
but not having moved in
the bureaucratic hierarchy -
   allowing myself
    the rite of confirmation:
baptism?
     oh yeah... ga ga goo doll
chant of a protesting toddler -

                there's this fine book,
by a german author,
concerning the gnostic cults...
can't remember the author's name...

evidently if i were hebrew -
i'd occupy myself with the dead sea scrolls...
but since i inherited some sort
of christianity:
                  i can tell you -
you need to look at the nag hammadi
library...
     concerning christianity -
the dead sea scroll fascination
   is probably on par with
the rejection of the old testament...
what the mainstream media
isn't telling you,
   is concerning the nag hammadi
library... unearthed in Egypt,
by some shepherd,
      incubated for, circa, 2000 years,
in some urns,
   in what appears
            to be Osama bin-Laden
                                  style caves...

what josephus bin matthias
wrote... and this archeological find?

thereupon felix -
               'a greater blow...
   was inflicted on the Jews by the Egyptian
false prophet. arriving in the country
this man, a fraud who posed as a seer,
collected about 30,000 dupes,
led them round from the desert (john
the baptist scenario) to the mount of olives
(the transfiguration scene),
and from there was ready to force an
entry into Jerusalem...
   the Egyptian fled with a handful of
men (the 12 disciples)'...

   because wasn't Jesus raised in
Egypt?
              and the archeological evidence...
where was the Christian apocrypha
found, in 1946 by a shepherd?
         Egypt.

dot dot dot...
      why would i even care about
the dead sea scrolls?
     the dead sea scrolls, last time i heard,
concern the wrongly executed prophet /
courtesan, Isaiah -
  who was cut at the abdomen
                        in an execution...

the crucifixion of Hey-Zeus is not
some cherry on top of the calamity that
befell Jude(a)...
            in its liquidation,
in what became the liquidation of
                    the Roman Empire...

but... i am curious about the nag hammadi
library -
            honestly:
   if the Vatican didn't have its head
rammed up the ******* cardinals' ***...
it could have escaped under hush-hush
closure...
   and the orthodox texts would be
left intact...
             but... given they have been
so ******* lazy about covering
this up?
    
    what happened to the Library of
Alexandria when Christianity
took the populist route?
                   em...
                         whatever "secrets"
are bound to the Vatican library...
   when a naked truth is staring you
in the face?
              does it really matter,
at this point?

                       not really...
     apart from retaining a catholic poetic
elasticity to the faith,
i.e. allowing metaphorical cannibalism -
i see... no point to be an Atlas
for the church...
   rather... a Samson -
            lodged between the pillars -
pulling it apart.
Maggie Emmett Jul 2014
You're only seventeen -
the light seems to shine
right through you,
peach-furred skin
dessicated
drawn in upon itself
- and old.

Your moisture-dewed youth
has evaporated.
It’s been emptied
****** clean
dried and drained.

You reach out
with snappable wrists
Your brittle bones
bulge and bow.

Your ribs vibrate
with every breath
air thrills and ripples
the whole chest cavity.

Your hands and feet
Minnie Mouse big
too big
for the fragile framed
tiny dancer.

Your hips have become
pelvic bone butterflies
that arch and flare out
from your sunken abdomen
concave
and strangely hung
with loose folds of skin.

Your eyes like oases
in the desert of you
cartoon-cute big
but sunken deep
into your head
as if drawing away
from the sight of you.

Just a few more Kilos
and you’ll be gone.

© M.L.Emmett
Michael Kariuki Feb 2018
Blow to my head, I realize that
It may be my destiny.

Smack on my face, I realize that
It may be my reality.

Punch to my chest, I realize that
It may be my entirety.

Strike to my abdomen, I realize that
It may be my infinity.

Whack on my legs, I realize that
It could be gone.

     It was actually She.

          She was actually He.

               He was actually I.

                    I was actually We.

                         We are Celestial Energy.
david badgerow Dec 2014
when you asked me about certainty
and if my mind was a tree
rooted in cement and truth
i was on my unaccustomed knees
blinking into a sunbeam's architecture when
the brilliant wind brought you to me
to cure me with the miracle touch
i was alone by a window dreaming through glass
you bent toward me in a mile wide sky
a butterfly with a skinny voice
or an adorable tomato in a retail uniform
before that i only knew the clouds
as bears wrapped in pastel baby-blankets
before i first kissed you in the street
i knew the sunset as a drop of fire
in a barrel of whiskey and
suddenly your eyes like a deep pool in a forest
seeking out my past with the molecular traces
of your fingers across my abdomen
mandalas blooming out of our palms
only touching at the fingers
as flames from mosquito torches filled
the round coral faces of my gauges
with apricot light
Victor D López Dec 2018
You were born five years before the Spanish Civil War that would see your father exiled.
Language came later to you than your little brother Manuel. And you stuttered for a time.
Unlike those who speak incessantly with nothing to say, you were quiet and reserved.
Your mother mistook shyness for dimness, a tragic mistake that scarred you for life.

When your brother Manuel died at the age of three from meningitis, you heard your mom
Exclaim: “God took my bright boy and left me the dull one.” You were four or five.
You never forgot those words. How could you? Yet you loved your mom with all your heart.
But you also withdrew further into a shell, solitude your companion and best friend.

You were, in fact, an exceptional child. Stuttering went away at five or so never to return,
And by the time you were in middle school, your teacher called your mom in for a rare
Conference and told her that yours was a gifted mind, and that you should be prepared
For university study in the sciences, particularly engineering.

She wrote your father exiled in Argentina to tell him the good news, that your teachers
Believed you would easily gain entrance to the (then and now) highly selective public university
Where seats were few, prized and very difficult to attain based on merit-based competitive
Exams. Your father’s response? “Buy him a couple of oxen and let him plow the fields.”

That reply from a highly respected man who was a big fish in a tiny pond in his native Oleiros
Of the time is beyond comprehension. He had apparently opted to preserve his own self-
Interest in having his son continue his family business and also work the family lands in his
Absence. That scar too was added to those that would never heal in your pure, huge heart.

Left with no support for living expenses for college (all it would have required), you moved on,
Disappointed and hurt, but not angry or bitter; you would simply find another way.
You took the competitive exams for the two local military training schools that would provide
An excellent vocational education and pay you a small salary in exchange for military service.

Of hundreds of applicants for the prized few seats in each of the two institutions, you
Scored first for the toughest of the two and thirteenth for the second. You had your pick.
You chose Fabrica de Armas, the lesser of the two, so that a classmate who had scored just
Below the cut-off at the better school could be admitted. That was you. Always and forever.

At the military school, you were finally in your element. You were to become a world-class
Machinist there—a profession that would have gotten you well paid work anywhere on earth
For as long as you wanted it. You were truly a mechanical genius who years later would add
Electronics, auto mechanics and specialized welding to his toolkit through formal training.

Given a well-stocked machine shop, you could reverse engineer every machine without
Blueprints and build a duplicate machine shop. You became a gifted master mechanic
And worked in line and supervisory positions at a handful of companies throughout your life in
Argentina and in the U.S., including Westinghouse, Warner-Lambert, and Pepsi Co.

You loved learning, especially in your fields (electronics, mechanics, welding) and expected
Perfection in everything you did. Every difficult job at work was given to you everywhere you
Worked. You would not sleep at night when a problem needed solving. You’d sketch
And calculate and re-sketch solutions and worked even in your dreams with singular passion.

You were more than a match for the academic and physical rigors of military school,
But life was difficult for you in the Franco era when some instructors would
Deprecatingly refer to you as “Roxo”—Galician for “red”-- reflecting your father’s
Support for the failed Republic. Eventually, the abuse was too much for you to bear.

Once while standing at attention in a corridor with the other cadets waiting for
Roll call, you were repeatedly poked in the back surreptitiously. Moving would cause
Demerits and demerits could cause loss of points on your final grade and arrest for
Successive weekends. You took it awhile, then lost your temper.

You turned to the cadet behind you and in a fluid motion grabbed him by his buttoned jacket
And one-handedly hung him up on a hook above a window where you were standing in line.
He thrashed about, hanging by the back of his jacket, until he was brought down by irate Military instructors.
You got weekend arrest for many weeks and a 10% final grade reduction.

A similar fate befell a co-worker a few years later in Buenos Aires who called you a
*******. You lifted him one handed by his throat and held him there until
Your co-workers intervened, forcibly persuading you to put him down.
That lesson was learned by all in no uncertain terms: Leave Felipe’s mom alone.

You were incredibly strong, especially in your youth—no doubt in part because of rigorous farm
Work, military school training and competitive sports. As a teenager, you once unwisely bent
Down to pick something up in view of a ram, presenting the animal an irresistible target.
It butted you and sent you flying into a haystack. It, too, quickly learned its lesson.

You dusted yourself off, charged the ram, grabbed it by the horns and twirled it around once,
Throwing it atop the same haystack as it had you. The animal was unhurt, but learned to
Give you a wide berth from that day forward. Overall, you were very slow to anger absent
Head-butting, repeated pokings, or disrespectful references to your mom by anyone.    

I seldom saw you angry and it was mom, not you, who was the disciplinarian, slipper in hand.
There were very few slaps from you for me. Mom would smack my behind with a slipper often
When I was little, mostly because I could be a real pain, wanting to know/try/do everything
Completely oblivious to the meaning of the word “no” or of my own limitations.

Mom would sometimes insist you give me a proper beating. On one such occasion for a
Forgotten transgression when I was nine, you  took me to your bedroom, took off your belt, sat
Me next to you and whipped your own arm and hand a few times, whispering to me “cry”,
Which I was happy to do unbidden. “Don’t tell mom.” I did not. No doubt she knew.

The prospect of serving in a military that considered you a traitor by blood became harder and
Harder to bear, and in the third year of school, one year prior to graduation, you left to join
Your exiled father in Argentina, to start a new life. You left behind a mother and two sisters you
Dearly loved to try your fortune in a new land. Your dog thereafter refused food, dying of grief.

You arrived in Buenos Aires to see a father you had not seen for ten years at the age of 17.
You were too young to work legally, but looked older than your years (a shared trait),
So you lied about your age and immediately found work as a Machinist/Mechanic first grade.
That was unheard of and brought you some jealousy and complaints in the union shop.

The union complained to the general manager about your top-salary and rank. He answered,
“I’ll give the same rank and salary to anyone in the company who can do what Felipe can do.”
No doubt the jealousy and grumblings continued by some for a time. But there were no takers.
And you soon won the group over, becoming their protected “baby-brother” mascot.

Your dad left for Spain within a year or so of your arrival when Franco issued a general pardon
To all dissidents who had not spilt blood (e.g., non combatants). He wanted you to return to
Help him reclaim the family business taken over by your mom in his absence with your help.
But you refused to give up the high salary, respect and independence denied you at home.

You were perhaps 18 and alone, living in a single room by a schoolhouse you had shared with Your dad.
But you had also found a new loving family in your uncle José, one of your father’s Brothers, and his family. José, and one of his daughters, Nieves and her
Husband, Emilio, and
Their children, Susana, Oscar (Ruben Gordé), and Osvaldo, became your new nuclear family.

You married mom in 1955 and had two failed business ventures in the quickly fading
Post-WW II Argentina of the late 1950s and early 1960s.The first, a machine shop, left
You with a small fortune in unpaid government contract work.  The second, a grocery store,
Also failed due to hyperinflation and credit extended too easily to needy customers.

Throughout this, you continued earning an exceptionally good salary. But in the mid 1960’s,
Nearly all of it went to pay back creditors of the failed grocery store. We had some really hard
Times. Someday I’ll write about that in some detail. Mom went to work as a maid, including for
Wealthy friends, and you left home at 4:00 a.m. to return long after dark to pay the bills.


The only luxury you and mom retained was my Catholic school tuition. There was no other
Extravagance. Not paying bills was never an option for you or mom. It never entered your
Minds. It was not a matter of law or pride, but a matter of honor. There were at least three very
Lean years where you and mom worked hard, earned well but we were truly poor.

You and mom took great pains to hide this from me—and suffered great privations to insulate
Me as best you could from the fallout of a shattered economy and your refusal to cut your loses
Had done to your life savings and to our once-comfortable middle-class life.
We came to the U.S. in the late 1960s after waiting for more than three years for visas—to a new land of hope.

Your sister and brother-in-law, Marisa and Manuel, made their own sacrifices to help bring us
Here. You had about $1,000 from the down payment on our tiny down-sized house, And
Mom’s pawned jewelry. (Hyperinflation and expenses ate up the remaining mortgage payments
Due). Other prized possessions were left in a trunk until you could reclaim them. You never did.

Even the airline tickets were paid for by Marisa and Manuel. You insisted upon arriving on
Written terms for repayment including interest. You were hired on the spot on your first
Interview as a mechanic, First Grade, despite not speaking a word of English. Two months later,
The debt was repaid, mom was working too and we moved into our first apartment.

You worked long hours, including Saturdays and daily overtime, to remake a nest egg.
Declining health forced you to retire at 63 and shortly thereafter you and mom moved out of
Queens into Orange County. You bought a townhouse two hours from my permanent residence
Upstate NY and for the next decade were happy, traveling with friends and visiting us often.

Then things started to change. Heart issues (two pacemakers), colon cancer, melanoma,
Liver and kidney disease caused by your many medications, high blood pressure, gout,
Gall bladder surgery, diabetes . . . . And still you moved forward, like the Energizer Bunny,
Patched up, battered, scarred, bruised but unstoppable and unflappable.

Then mom started to show signs of memory loss along with her other health issues. She was
Good at hiding her own ailments, and we noticed much later than we should have that there
Was a serious problem. Two years ago, her dementia worsening but still functional, she had
Gall bladder surgery with complications that required four separate surgeries in three months.

She never recovered and had to be placed in a nursing home. Several, in fact, as at first she
Refused food and you and I refused to simply let her waste away, which might have been
Kinder, but for the fact that “mientras hay vida, hay esperanza” as Spaniards say.
(While there is Life there is hope.) There is nothing beyond the power of God. Miracles do happen.

For two years you lived alone, refusing outside help, engendering numerous arguments about
Having someone go by a few times a week to help clean, cook, do chores. You were nothing if
Not stubborn (yet another shared trait). The last argument on the subject about two weeks ago
Ended in your crying. You’d accept no outside help until mom returned home. Period.

You were in great pain because of bulging discs in your spine and walked with one of those
Rolling seats with handlebars that mom and I picked out for you some years ago. You’d sit
As needed when the pain was too much, then continue with very little by way of complaints.
Ten days ago you finally agreed that you needed to get to the hospital to drain abdominal fluid.

Your failing liver produced it and it swelled your abdomen and lower extremities to the point
Where putting on shoes or clothing was very difficult, as was breathing. You called me from a
Local store crying that you could not find pants that would fit you. We talked, long distance,
And I calmed you down, as always, not allowing you to wallow in self pity but trying to help.

You went home and found a new pair of stretch pants Alice and I had bought you and you were
Happy. You had two changes of clothes that still fit to take to the hospital. No sweat, all was
Well. The procedure was not dangerous and you’d undergone it several times in recent years.
It would require a couple of days at the hospital and I’d see you again on the weekend.

I could not be with you on Monday, February 22 when you had to go to the hospital, as I nearly
Always had, because of work. You were supposed to be admitted the previous Friday, but
Doctors have days off too, and yours could not see you until Monday when I could not get off
Work. But you were not concerned; this was just routine. You’d be fine. I’d see you in just days.

We’d go see mom Friday, when you’d be much lighter and feel much better. Perhaps we’d go
Shopping for clothes if the procedure still left you too bloated for your usual clothes.
You drove to your doctor and then transported by ambulette. I was concerned, but not too Worried.
You called me sometime between five or six p.m. to tell me you were fine, resting.

“Don’t worry. I’m safe here and well cared for.” We talked for a little while about the usual
Things, with my assuring you I’d see you Friday or Saturday. You were tired and wanted to sleep
And I told you to call me if you woke up later that night or I’d speak to you the following day.
Around 10:00 p.m. I got a call from your cell and answered in the usual upbeat manner.

“Hey, Papi.” On the other side was a nurse telling me my dad had fallen. I assured her she was
Mistaken, as my dad was there for a routine procedure to drain abdominal fluid. “You don’t
Understand. He fell from his bed and struck his head on a nightstand or something
And his heart has stopped. We’re working on him for 20 minutes and it does not look good.”

“Can you get here?” I could not. I had had two or three glasses of wine shortly before the call
With dinner. I could not drive the three hours to Middletown. I cried. I prayed.
Fifteen minutes Later I got the call that you were gone. Lost in grief, not knowing what to do, I called my wife.
Shortly thereafter came a call from the coroner. An autopsy was required. I could not see you.

Four days later your body was finally released to the funeral director I had selected for his
Experience with the process of interment in Spain. I saw you for the last time to identify
Your body. I kissed my fingers and touched your mangled brow. I could not even have the
Comfort of an open casket viewing. You wanted cremation. You body awaits it as I write this.

You were alone, even in death alone. In the hospital as strangers worked on you. In the medical
Examiner’s office as you awaited the autopsy. In the autopsy table as they poked and prodded
And further rent your flesh looking for irrelevant clues that would change nothing and benefit
No one, least of all you. I could not be with you for days, and then only for a painful moment.

We will have a memorial service next Friday with your ashes and a mass on Saturday. I will
Never again see you in this life. Alice and I will take you home to your home town, to the
Cemetery in Oleiros, La Coruña, Spain this summer. There you will await the love of your life.
Who will join you in the fullness of time. She could not understand my tears or your passing.

There is one blessing to dementia. She asks for her mom, and says she is worried because she
Has not come to visit in some time. She is coming, she assures me whenever I see her.
You visited her every day except when health absolutely prevented it. You spent this February 10
Apart, your 61st wedding anniversary, too sick to visit her. Nor was I there. First time.

I hope you did not realize you were apart on the 10th but doubt it to be the case. I
Did not mention it, hoping you’d forgotten, and neither did you. You were my link to mom.
She cannot dial or answer a phone, so you would put your cell phone to her ear whenever I
Was not in class or meetings and could speak to her. She always recognized me by phone.

I am three hours from her. I could visit at most once or twice a month. Now even that phone
Lifeline is severed. Mom is completely alone, afraid, confused, and I cannot in the short term at
Least do much about that. You were not supposed to die first. It was my greatest fear, and
Yours, but as with so many things that we cannot change I put it in the back of my mind.

It kept me up many nights, but, like you, I still believed—and believe—in miracles.
I would speak every night with my you, often for an hour, on the way home from work late at
Night during my hour-long commute, or from home on days I worked from home as I cooked
Dinner. I mostly let you talk, trying to give you what comfort and social outlet I could.

You were lonely, sad, stuck in an endless cycle of emotional and physical pain.
Lately you were especially reticent to get off the phone. When mom was home and still
Relatively well, I’d call every day too but usually spoke to you only a few minutes and you’d
Transfer the phone to mom, with whom I usually chatted much longer.

For months, you’d had difficulty hanging up. I knew you did not want to go back to the couch,
To a meaningless TV program, or to writing more bills. You’d say good-bye, or “enough for
Today” and immediately begin a new thread, then repeat the cycle, sometimes five or six times.
You even told me, at least once crying recently, “Just hang up on me or I’ll just keep talking.”

I loved you, dad, with all my heart. We argued, and I’d often scream at you in frustration,
Knowing you would never take it to heart and would usually just ignore me and do as
You pleased. I knew how desperately you needed me, and I tried to be as patient as I could.
But there were days when I was just too tired, too frustrated, too full of other problems.

There were days when I got frustrated with you just staying on the phone for an hour when I
Needed to call Alice, to eat my cold dinner, or even to watch a favorite program. I felt guilty
And very seldom cut a conversation short, but I was frustrated nonetheless even knowing
How much you needed me and also how much I needed you, and how little you asked of me.  

How I would love to hear your voice again, even if you wanted to complain about the same old
Things or tell me in minutest detail some unimportant aspect of your day. I thought I would
Have you at least a little longer. A year? Two? God only knew, and I could hope. There would be
Time. I had so much more to share with you, so much more to learn when life eased up a bit.

You taught me to fish (it did not take) and to hunt (that took even less) and much of what I
Know about mechanics, and electronics. We worked on our cars together for years—from brake
Jobs, to mufflers, to real tune-ups in the days when points, condensers, and timing lights had Meaning, to rebuilding carburetors and fixing rust and dents, and power windows and more.

We were friends, good friends, who went on Sunday drives to favorite restaurants or shopping
For tools when I was single and lived at home. You taught me everything in life that I need to
Know about all the things that matter. The rest is meaningless paper and window dressing.
I knew all your few faults and your many colossal strengths and knew you to be the better man.

Not even close. I could never do what you did. I could never excel in my fields as you did in
Yours.  You were the real deal in every way, from every angle, throughout your life. I did not
Always treat you that way. But I loved you very deeply as anyone who knew us knows.
More importantly, you knew it. I told you often, unembarrassed in the telling. I love you, Dad.

The world was enriched by your journey. You do not leave behind wealth, or a body or work to
Outlive you. You never had your fifteen minutes in the sun. But you mattered. God knows your
Virtue, your absolute integrity, and the purity of your heart. I will never know a better man.
I will love you and miss you and carry you in my heart every day of my life. God bless you, dad.
blushing prince Oct 2018
morning dew drops on your collar
impressing me with the zealous way the seasons drastically measure the moment it takes me
to reach forwards and brush it off
liquid winter falling onto a ***** cement
the initials 'F T' written jaggedly into the cold stone of asphalt
i wait for it to disappear, for the flicker of everything gone to fade from my vision
but it passes too quickly
i look back up and there's no one around
the street is empty and the capricious wind has ceased
a sucker for patterns i walk into a fabric store and feel my hand linger on the erratic linens
fingers paused on the peach organza sprawled like a pink bubblegum sea
and i am swept into the manic fantasies of wearing the sheer tissue-like textile into
the abdomen of your sweaty palm and sinking like a sticky sweet stripe
until you put your hand in your pocket and i spend a year inside melting
into the every thread and curve of your jean until it is nothing but disgusting sugar
everything i could be when i am hidden from sight in the dark caverns of denim pants
who knew the tongue in cheek joke would be nothing but my tongue in your mouth
touching all the way up your gums  
find me sweltering beneath the uvula wondering if i could go back
to the time i found that girl with the mountain logo sweatshirt who whistled between her teeth and hummed all the reasons i should skin my knee and kiss the salty wound because there's no greater pleasure than knowing you don't have to wait for that morning dew drop to fall from their ******* collar
There are parts of you that make you who you are,
And parts that don’t.
Parts of you, that without them,
You don’t feel like you belong to the group you
Once associated with.
Having my ******* removed in order to enter remission
And beat breast cancer
Feels like my womanhood has been lost.
Flat chested takes on an entirely different meaning.
It’s crazy how I hear women
Wishing that their ******* weren’t so small
But they don’t know what it’s like
To have no ******* at all.
Or that they wish their hair was longer
When mine is the length of the guard
On an electric razor that my husband uses.
How does a man begin to love a woman
That has scars where her ******* should be?
The hair on my head has yet to grow back, even a little bit.
Reminding me only that I’m still a woman
Is the gift Mother Nature sends each month.
The cramps in my abdomen seem ten times less
Compared to heaving an empty stomach
Into a pan or toilet bowl next to me
After the chemicals have entered my system.
Throwing up from morning sickness
As my unborn child has just started to live
Told me that I was indeed a woman.
But now after she has grown and must
Watch her mother battle cancer,
Lose her hair, throw up nothing but emptiness,
And she still tells me that I’m the
Most beautiful woman on the planet.
How do I tell her that I feel like
An alien from Mars?
this is an extremely rough draft.
comments and suggestions are appreciated and encouraged.
I'm kind of unsure about the title as well.
let me know what you guys think so far.
Marshal Gebbie Jul 2012
Screaming rage, the old pachyderm charges hard
Scattering predators away from the ravaged corpse of her fallen friend

The carnivorous stork and vulture cloud simultaneously take startled flight & retreat raggedly to the nearest dead tree, there to turn and glare with accusing eyes and cawing clamour. The hyenas and jackals scatter from the stinking cavernous maw of abdomen and scramble for the cover of thorn bush perimeter. Their hideous cackle and yapping adding to the cocophany of the noisy horror in this small, dry and dusty African drama.

Wheeling about the old cow surveys the clearing and, satisfied she has seen the vile things off, turns back to her fallen friend, shuffling through the thick white dust, she stands close by protecting.

Unfurling her massive trunk, she gently wraps it's sensitive tip around the scarred tusk of her fallen companion...and standing there, In a long, long sentinel silence...she remembers.......

Standing flank to flank in waters
Cooling spray upon the hide,
Trunks entwined to rumbled chortle
Bull and cow and calf abide.
Striding through the Serengetti
Grasses tall and sweet and green,
Grazing in this luscious plenty
Happiness in joy unseen.


New born calf cavorts, unsteady
Laughing at her rubber legs,
Keep a watch for lion menace
Always lurking for the dregs.
Cow to cow companionship
Builds the basis of the herd,
One reliant on the other
Cuddly calf to bull absurd.


Sunset on the far horizon
Golden glow across the plain,
Trekking for the waterhole
Through acacia tree domain.
Zebra throng with wilderbeast,
Quail and guinea fowl
Run through grasses long and brown
But leopard on the prowl.


Fun time with marula berries
Dropping from the trees like rain,
Staggering drunk pachyderms
Fall about but feel no pain.
Violence in defensiveness
Circled by enormous rage
Calves protected safe within
Roaring lioness engaged.


Quiet of the evening air
A stillness in the herd
Affection of companionship
'Twixt leather hides doth gird.
Companions together
The wise and the sage,
Companions endureth
Through an elephant's old age.


Kilamanjaro crowned with snow
Though plains are cracked and dry,
Prolonged drought has taken toll
And many creatures die.
Trekking from dry waterhole
A million dusty miles
To find the next one caked with salt
Enough to make you cry.


And when the cloud of death descends
A pachyderm must cry
For the memory of companion
Will bring a sadness to the eye.
Remembering their sister ship
Remembering their pain
Remembering shared elephant-ness
Brings good recall again.


Reluctantly a parting made
And fond and distant memories burn,
The taste of Africa prevails
As  skulking, predators return.




Marshalg
22 July 2012

© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
When I die
I don't care what happens to my body
throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River
bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery
But l want a big funeral
St. Patrick's Cathedral, St. Mark's Church, the largest synagogue in
        Manhattan
First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother
        96, Aunt Honey from old Newark,
Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sister-
        in-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters
        their grandchildren,
companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan--
Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya's ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche,
        there Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting
        America, Satchitananda Swami
Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche,
        Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi's phantoms
Baker, Whalen, Daido Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau
        Roshis, Lama Tarchen --
Then, most important, lovers over half-century
Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich
young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each
        other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories
"He taught me to meditate, now I'm an old veteran of the thousand
        day retreat --"
"I played music on subway platforms, I'm straight but loved him he
        loved me"
"I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone"
"We'd lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly
        arms round each other"
"I'd always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my
        skivvies would be on the floor"
"Japanese, always wanted take it up my *** with a master"
"We'd talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then
        sleep in his captain's bed."
"He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy"
"I was lonely never in bed **** with anyone before, he was so gentle my
        stomach
shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen ****** to hips-- "
"All I did was lay back eyes closed, he'd bring me to come with mouth
        & fingers along my waist"
"He gave great head"
So there be gossip from loves of 1948, ghost of Neal Cassady commin-
        gling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997
and surprise -- "You too? But I thought you were straight!"
"I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me."
"I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender
        and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head,
my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly. on my *****,
        tickled with his tongue my behind"
"I loved the way he'd recite 'But at my back allways hear/ time's winged
        chariot hurrying near,' heads together, eye to eye, on a
        pillow --"
Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear
"I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his
        walk-up flat,
seduced me didn't want to, made me come, went home, never saw him
        again never wanted to... "
"He couldn't get it up but loved me," "A clean old man." "He made
        sure I came first"
This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor--
Then poets & musicians -- college boys' grunge bands -- age-old rock
        star Beatles, faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical con-
        ductors, unknown high Jazz music composers, funky trum-
        peters, bowed bass & french horn black geniuses, folksinger
        fiddlers with dobro tamborine harmonica mandolin auto-
        harp pennywhistles & kazoos
Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60's India,
        Late fauve Tuscan painter-poets, Classic draftsman *****-
        chusets surreal jackanapes with continental wives, poverty
        sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from American
        provinces
Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate biblio-
        philes, *** liberation troops nay armies, ladies of either ***
"I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved
        him anyway, true artist"
"Nervous breakdown after menopause, his poetry humor saved me
        from suicide hospitals"
"Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink, dishes my
        studio guest a week in Budapest"
Thousands of readers, "Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois"
"I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet-- "
"He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas
        City"
"Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City"
"Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston l982"
"I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized
        others like me out there"
Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures
Then Journalists, editors's secretaries, agents, portraitists & photo-
        graphy aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural
        historians come to witness the historic funeral
Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatnicks & Deadheads, autograph-
        hunters, distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers
Everyone knew they were part of 'History" except the deceased
who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive

                                                February 22, 1997
Sydney Victoria Dec 2012
The Most Exciting Part About The Night,
Was Watching The Milliliters Of The IV Bag,
Count Down From 1000,
Blood Staining My Right Arm,
A Glassy Stare Fogging My Own Vision,
The Bitter Taste Of ***** And Dissapointment,
Was Lodged In The Back Of My Throat,
Thirst Coating The Roof Of My Mouth,
My Body Weak,
The Rhythmic Clicking Of Machines Relaxing,
Almost--Peaceful,
Black Clawing At The Sides Of My Eyes,
Whispering A Lulling Language--Sleep My Friend,
Doctors Poking At My Abdomen,
Nurses Pushing Fluids Through My Veins,
Dyes, Potassium, Water, And Many Medicines,
X-Rays And CAT Scans Went By In A Blur,
As I Slowly Regained My Body
Well Had An Adventure Last Night At The Hospital.
anonymous Dec 2015
If I were a peacock,
I would blue-green iridescent burst beauty
pretty would not mean strange or weak
brightness would be bravery, screaming LOOKING THIS GOOD IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN SAFETY FROM PREDATORS
I would love my women drab, concealable, nearly invisible
... maybe some of us are already part peacock

If I were a leopard slug,
I would never worry if I was man enough
I would love all of my hermaphroditic glands equally
or, more realistically, I would be ashamed of all of them equally,
never sure if my gonopore was symmetric enough,
if my translucent blue-white ***** was beautiful enough to ever intertwine and bloom with another's
there would be no gay bars or marriage equality movements or swallowed-wink "no ****"s
no one would tap around your abdomen in search of the right organs before declaring your birthright aptitude in cooking or car repair
you and I, we would follow each other around all night, exchanging playful licks, before impregnating each other, circus-suspended from a tree branch
... I guess that part would be the same

If I were cricket or frog or songbird, my music would be my perfect gift to you.
I would learn guitar and start a band and
everyone would love me
(way more than the bass player)

But I am a man.
I don't know what that means yet.
second in the series; first was http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1496079/gender-studies-part-i/
ending needs work. feedback appreciated.
Shivani Lalan Mar 2015
And lights.

She looked a little pale
In the yellow light.
The spots had been
Changed to white.
And when the white
Couldn't hide her pallor,
She asked the makeup
To put on a brighter colour.
They didn't ask if she had eaten.
They tried once,
Came back browbeaten.
"Diet only for ma'am"
Her abdomen perfectly satisfied;
Her soul craving for more.

And camera.

The perfect shot
Ended with a sweeping glance
Across the set
At her hero all decked
In the knightly splendour.
She was a princess whom
He saved from a dragon.
Little did anyone know
That after a day's worth
Of angry cameras panning
Her face and scrutinising her life,
She needed saving
Mostly from herself.

And action.*

This time, a thriller.
She walks down the corridor set
- Director's thumbs-up,
To hunt down the culprit
Who snatched her family.
She gives the perfect action sequence,
Complete with blood trickles.
"An award winner, surely."
She is done with the shoot
And heads home, her van.
Someone is waiting.
He had been waiting since she left
Him that summer.
Waiting for an excuse, at first.
Then acceptance.
Then forgiveness.
She gave it her best performance,
But could not fake the relief
When he approached with an apology
And a gun.
In my series of pieces based on social problems, this is a poem about the life an actress battling something.... something that you can percieve in whichever manner you want to.
CR Sep 2014
it was the hooded-sweatshirt, sit-close-and-pretend-you’re-cold, bleacher-seat,
whiskey-and-coke homecoming that you never had when the leaves changed.
but the leaves changed anyway.

the damp grass smelling vaguely like your fireplace as the world got quieter,
your nose in your precalc and your foot tapping and how-many-years-left
of solo fridays, you counted the suburban stars but didn’t tell anybody
how ******* beautiful they were above your head, because they were yours.

when you wore your high school colors, you were cold for real. no pretense
in your shivering, no flutter in your abdomen because he wasn’t gonna talk to you,
and you didn’t really care, you shrugged. but the leaves changed anyway.

and you changed, slowly. grew taller and smarter and prettier and then the
remaining solo fridays shrank to none, and you left. big sweet snowdrifts turned to spring
and you shared whiskey-and-coke with the city, your stars dimmer but abdomen
finally fuller, and limbs warmer and no sweatshirt because you didn’t need one,
and hands all over to hold and feeling all three kinds of love at once.

and then the accidental homecoming, and the changing of the leaves
and the hooded-sweatshirt shivers and knowing you’re so much bigger now than the
suburban stars and the backward glances of the bleacher-seat kids, but the damp
grass still smells like your fireplace and suddenly you’re small again, just for a
second but god that second, you shiver and turn around again. you’re so much
bigger than this but homecoming, this whiskey-and-coke homecoming still isn't yours.
Mark Addison May 2016
After taking a gulp of water, M. opens a new Word document, inhaling deeply. He begins to write a sort of Introduction or Author’s Note:

‘This is to be my first real poem. No *******, cheesy rhyming or painfully forced verbiage. I am now only a seeker of truth…’

M., having just crushed two Focalin pressed pills, rolls a five-dollar bill and proceeds to insufflate, pausing momentarily when the line is halfway finished; he exhales before immediately finishing it off. His sinus burns fiercely. There is something masochistic about his preferred method of ingestion w/r/t pills. And but with a sudden albeit expected (in fact, M. was utterly beholden to it) rush of vitality, M. spends the next ten minutes finishing his half-page poetic manifesto [sic] (which term he actually wrote as a heading. “Poetic Manifesto”, that is), before beginning what he considers to be the first stanza. He likes that the location of the beginning of his poem is ambiguous. And so he begins thusly, consciously avoiding conventional rhyme scheme, instead opting for what he considers to be abstract.

‘My first poem, ostensibly an attempt at catharsis, was in fact a failed expression of my latent desire to be accepted. For today it’s a poem and last week a novel; tomorrow I’ll ferociously ******* some fashionably obscure, formidably pretentious prose [sic]. Consuming all but absorbing nothing…’

If he is to discover vicious truths [sic] in his writing, he cannot hold anything back. He thinks of a double-entendre using the word ‘blunt’, but decides not to employ it. Perhaps yesterday. Suddenly, M. begins to ruminate on his poem from the day before, which had earned him the opposite of acclaim from his peers. He must simply do the opposite of what he had done before! When he resumes writing, M. eventually begins to subconsciously fall back into the 12-syllable AABB rhyme scheme of his yesterday’s poem.

‘…Perhaps the following phase will stick for more than a wretched week.
Why have I wasted words on wan, vapid, wheezing lines
Of sickeningly phony, sophomoric, pseudo-sentimental ****?
Surely you see the salient theme,
That from which I hide,
Refusing to acknowledge life’s flaccid, tan **** as it floats in front of me,
Beckoning me forth,
A one-eyed, furiously fetid viper...’

M. chortles at his alliterative stanza’s ending. ‘This is how I write,’ he mutters to himself, maintaining a straight face. He writes without pause for nearly an hour. He is pleased.

‘…A generalist—that’s what I tell myself I am,
Because simply knowing a few facts,
Even for forty or fifty fields,
Is surely worthy of that
Respect which is given to those men and women
Who earn it by grinding away
At that which determine the sycophant vermin
Is worthy of lifting a lash…’

Hours pass. The poem approaches two thousand words in length. After taking a truncated cigarette break (the break, not the cigarette, was truncated), M. continues where he left off.*

‘…Believe you not for a second the frost-bitten-phallus,
That Freudian façade [sic],
The false faces I display to fake friends
Whose frequent fornication
Fills my mind with fossilized fleas,
******-spiritual formication [sic]
For which there’s no vaccine…

…Once I’ve come down from the mountainous apogee atop which I sit,
Calmly surveying the ever-receding landscape through the lens of fleeting euphoria
Which, fading faster always, gives way to—no, I will not say it—I refuse to legitimate her lies.
As I descend with increasing speed,
specters of judgment torment me into insanity…
    
B  r  e
a   t  h
     e  ;

...this feeling I simply cannot bear—
their sirens threaten to burst my eardrums.
Although it’s undoubtedly pathetic,
I can no longer lie to myself;
I desire the approval
of those specters
who haunt
m-
e
...’

M. begins to hyperventilate, panicking at his embarrassment at publishing such a bad poem the day before. He grasps his heart, which is beating out of his chest. The fear of cardiac arrest simply increases his anxiety. Laying down on the ****-carpeted floor, M. attempts to meditate, imagining this to be how it might feel to do TM on *******. Minutes then an hour pass.
Suddenly, a much-welcomed epiphany presents itself to M.; as if it fluttered through his window and hovered, eerily still in the way that only hummingbirds can be, just in front of his face. So obvious does it seem (the epiphany) that he begins to laugh maniacally in the pitch of a female voice either pre-pubescent or near-dead; a kind of


YEE!    

YEE!      

YEE!    

HEEEE!

HE!

HEE!                      

HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!


sound.
After minutes of uncontrollable mirth, M. holds his abdomen and makes the lugubrious [sic], delirious noises of tired suffering. After a few more YEE’s and HEEEE’s escape, he begins to regain control, trying not to focus on what he’d realized w/r/t futility as it relates to shame, but certainly ensuring that he won’t forget. M. sits in his chair with a old-man grunt, the sort of noise over which wives divorce their husbands.
He sips water.
M. opens a new document and begins to type:


For what do we write, we talentless wretches?
To publish some
gooey garbage
in hopes
that some fleet of demonic tween-age sociopaths
adopts our work as part of the canon of cuntiness?  

Not we, the veritable “un-poets”,
Our haphazardly-conceived writing stinks,
No, it reeks of fetid, smegmatic phalluses;
Of a ****** of maniacal madmen,
Blue-balled after an abysmal night/morning
Tossing crumpled ***** of money
At Patti’s plump-lipped, positively putrid-looking

&&&&               *****               &&&&

In an I-95 truck stop;
“Taste **** and *****
At Trucker Tom’s ***** Taphouse
                                        Where friends meet
                                            and literally throw money
                                              into syphilitic snatches.”

We write for the duty of identity,
We who might be found with a serious face on,
Writing rhyming, rhythmic,
quasi-**** lines of lead-heavy, snobbish lifeforce-larcen.
The sort of **** that keeps you from getting up in the morning.

But of course we are writers, as sure as the sea
Is blue, the day is long, who daresay that I am wrong?
And he who
doth [sic] dare,
I point to that long
******* I posted
ere the day began.
There lies his evidence though it belongs in the can.
Sometimes when you get drunk and write you're able to reach levels of truth and realness that are elusive to the sober mind. This was obviously not one of those times, but I think the result is sort of interesting. The poem sort of depended on a weird format which is not possible on HelloPoetry, but it was intended to have the same effect as the 'B  r   e
           a  t
           h  e   '
or whatever in the middle.
nja Jan 2019
She’s highness, deaf but not muted.
Still dignified, past perfect, but still pushing.
Withering tea addict,
laughs at her own sophisticated and immature jokes.
Farts.
How the highness gracefully descend.

Relaxed, reclined,
hands placed still on abdomen, yet they’re itching.
Noisy breaths lift her sinking body,
till she’s plastered to the bed,
not quite motionless.
Can’t decline.
Sits up. Peering, active, but stunted.
This one's about my grandmother. She used to be this royal lady and she still is but with deteriorating hearing.
Jo King Mar 2018
I have stomach aches
Caused from the hole deep within me
Where the butterflies ate away at the flesh that I was
You see butterflies are nasty little things
They like to come when you want…to come.
For that special someone
But I have butterflies for people that don’t know I do.
So I tried to fill the hole with honey
With vanilla
With anything that I could get my sticky fingers on.
The only thing my fingers got on was me
And then they got me off
Because I have this hole
This deep burning hole that gives me stomach aches
That I want to fill with peaches
With kiwi
With pomegranates
Sometimes the stomach aches come in the night
When I lay there in my peach colored sheets
Pulling at an old band tee shirt until it comes off
And I become a writhing mess in the witching hours
But sometimes my stomach aches for the boy that wears sweaters
It twist and turn and the hole will scream from my abdomen
“Give me”
I want to kiss his lips
I want to stain his sheets with my ***
But then the ache goes away
I’ll get an ache for the arrogant and snarky boy
When he sits there with long, admirable fingers
I want him to dig them into me
And sometimes my stomach aches for me
It aches for the day that I can completely satisfy myself
In every aspect a human ever could
Written on February 27, 2018
May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
I wish to retire till the party's over.
Since three o'clock I've done my best
To entertain each tiny guest. My conscience now I've left behind me,
And if they want me, let them find me.
I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats,
I kept them from each other's throats. I told them tales of magic lands,
I took them out to wash their hands.
I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces,
I wiped their noses and dried their faces. Of similarities there's lots
Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots.
I've earned repose to heal the ravages
Of these angelic-looking savages. Oh, progeny playing by itself
Is a lonely little elf,
But progeny in roistering batches
Would drive St. francis from here to Natchez. Shunned are the games a parent proposes,
They prefer to squirt each other with hoses,
Their playmates are their natural foemen
And they like to poke each other's abdomen. Their joy needs another woe's to cushion it,
Say a puddle, and someone littler to push in it.
They observe with glee the ballistic results
Of ice cream with spoons for catapults, And inform the assembly with tears and glares
That everyone's presents are better than theirs.
Oh, little women and little men,
Someday I hope to love you again, But not till after the party's over,
So give me the key to the doghouse, Rover
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
me? these days?
i have to bribe bonsai tigers
to fall asleep by giving them
excess treats,
drink myself to a limit
and then take insomnia tablets,
glance at the stars
and gag up a bolshevik black hole,
think about russian
newly-wed millionaires
spending so mcuh the taxes go up,
testifying: well when the full circus
with elephants and missing acrobats
comes... and there's no french revolution
versace... we're in bigger crap
we thought we were...
so i took to peddling, keeping heart
rate with feeling rather than
a heart-rate keeper on the wrist known
as apple / iWank...
you'll never believe the amount
of creativity that comes from Onan...
it's like that story of onan and samson
like it's that story of cain and abel...
you'd have to be a mozart to find a creative
continuum in women rather than
beethoven in the hive of being deaf...
say rich and thus say spend...
say poor and thus say like a primate
with two flint stones... what the hell is this?!
japanese crow reduced their beak for
nut crushing purposes into a car tire.
FIRE! FIRE! PROMETHEUS!
so came the world favouring thought
from prometheus' liver
when in diaper-shelter postman pat delivery
by a stork... but each of us that got the slit
of liver never claimed origins in the apple
adam ******* out when eve forgot
that satan's singularity was expressed in
a pluralism: eat this apple, depilate,
and you and adam will be like the gods...
but then the metrosexual emerged
with shaved legs and a shaved chest...
down the drain that dream went:
as long as you eat the apple and know
you have hairy legs... i'm sure whatever you
say he will be ordained with pleasure to perform...
eve - i need a hammer
adam - here babe
eve - i need a nail
adam - here babe
eve - i need five planks of wood, four legs one like an abdomen
adam - here babe
eve - mash it up
adam - hey babe, what's that?
eve - a ****** table, tapestry for porcelain!
adam - woah! that's great!
eve to god - this adam is a ****** robot!
satan to eve - well... get ready for ******.
A Valentine's Card dressed
With Steve Buscemi's face,
photoshopped onto a child,
disturbing and hilarious,
tattooed on the inside
with once-true truths.
Flammable.

A severed chunk of
35 mm film,
cut in a rhombus,
or trapeze or whatever,
highly flammable.

A piece of cloth
I brought with me,
And the part of
the belt I had to cut
off so it would fit
my skinny ***.
Flammable, slightly.

A dead and dried up leaf,
Impaled on the bulletin board,
From a tree I don't even know what,
That sometimes crinkles with the wind,
If she were alive still,
She would comment on the
Cold thumbtack spear
In her abdomen, and
Sniff regrets at the sweet,
Artificial Vanilla waves below.

I keep my wall of
flammable memories
Above a lit candle,
Every day, I wish the flames
Would reach a little higher, but
Every day, the wax sinks,
low, low, lower still.
Snootchie Bootchies
CJ M Sep 2015
Kiss after sensual kiss leads to what I would find as an inevitably ****** placement between us, that avenue of lust which we mutually entered once we were on the same level of thinking.
I lean into you, inhaling the intimacy second after second from your tasty lips, biting your lip and running my fingers through your hair as my hands ease slowly down to your neck, caressing you and easing down farther and farther until I'm caressing a breast.
Call me crazy, but I think I'm in love, or at least its unmistakably destructive premonition. Lifting your shirt and kissing on flesh, making your toes curl under overwhelming chills being sent from your abdomen.
Easing back up to you, I can see your eyes, I catch them and keep them in place, letting you know full well that I intend to enjoy you fully.
And you let me.
Easing down and absorbing your figure, kissing and tracing down your belly and easing into a certain heaven before coming back up and stripping you down gently, making you smile at the gentlemanly figure that you call yours.
Can I love you down? lying you down fully extended, can I get onto you as if we could share the same space against scientific belief?
I ease into you slowly, only speeding in a way as to show my own urgency isn't priority.
And we make one. easing into your form, our bodies become entwined, become one at last.
suppressing your pleasurous scream with my own warm kisses, I allow us to combine again and again, and become one once more as our nerves and hormones take over in this ritualistic connection.
Made love? we make emotion. Stripped bare and enjoying the ****** pleasures given us, ****** after ******, kiss after juicy kiss and scream after luscious, pleasured filled scream until we finally reach what I like to call climactic end and level up in our relationship. At last, though we are still levels away from the final intimacy, we are closer than we have been before, and the closer we get, the deeper and more sensual our encounters are.
This is my first ****** poem. Sure, I've made ****** stories before, but never a poem, and to me, this is pretty sloppily written, but it's the first I ever made, so bare with me lol. I just dared myself to make one, so here it is, but it's more softcore sounding than anything
Sally A Bayan Mar 2017
Dinner is done
everyone's settled
the evening.....like the moon.....is full...
the weight of the night has itself eased into mine,
my expected moment of slumber...now distraught...
the Heavens are purpled
twilight drapes have fallen,
winds of March...bellow
.........my pillows
..............are hollowed
.......................by my elbows
......as a distant rooster crows........
i lie on my abdomen...legs swing back and forth,
catching inspiration, a word, a daydream...a thought,
i grab a pen falling, i grasp a journal, a book,
...............everything is within reach
but, not...the....long..................stretch
of hours....of a sleepless night...whence
....spiced...spiked...and sugared memories...
..........accompany me...and sail with me
.......as i cruise along this lethargic sea
'neath a silent dark, where aches are loudest
.........domed, by an unworded loneliness,
i am wearied by a flow, that is endless,
.....this minute...imagination is ceaseless
........i reach for my mug....but, it's empty
.........................i hear no liquid seething
this moment,  a dark sea, should be brewing....
this hour, verses must be a river, overflowing,
...enfolding, this cool and starry, starry evening...
.......i am caffeinated....even without coffee....

Sally


Copyright March 23, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
(a nonsense poem, most of you might say
...... a new coffee poem...spun today...)
Shelby Apr 2019
death bursted into my room tonight
awakening a deep slumber
outstretching a cold boney hand
as if offering for me to go with him

I felt no fear or sadness
I have been waiting for death to greet me
I have admired him from afar
a lover who took no chance in courting me
Until he was ready to give me an embrace
That could be defined as loving and warm
but it was sinful and alluring

flickers of sparks in his eyes
ignited a fire in my soul
a passion that I had longed for
as my hand grabbed onto his
he pulled me close in the middle of the room

he began to dance to the tune
of our heartbeats synchronizing
a beautiful symphony rang love in our ears
craning his neck
he leaned in close
inhaling the shakiness of my breath
moonlight illuminated the poison dripping
from his puckering lips
as an offering to taste
what afterlife was

it held soft undertones of an earthy aftertaste
but an overpowering intoxicating sweetness left me hungry
for just one more dip
in his suicidal serenity

moving in one fluid motion
sweeping behind me
a boney hand placed on an unclothed forearm
slowly slid up my shoulder
as another arm was placed around both hips
he pressed himself tightly against me
icy breath grazed across my neck
making hairs stand up on my arms
as a moan escaped between closed lips
he whispered a seductive I love you
as he tucked hair behind my ear

the words I longed to hear
were met with a sharp knife
placed in open hands
and a crooked smile
spread across his face
it was at that moment
I came to the realization
to become his fully
my beautiful souls light
must burn out
to match his souls decayed state

no persuasion was needed
I longed for this moment
now the time was finally right
steady right hand raised
the elongated blade
"together forever..."
death breathlessly whispered
as a swift motion
punctured my abdomen
breath was taken out of my lungs
knees buckled
as death dropped me to the floor

tears of bliss flowed from my eyes
staining mascara streaks on flushed cheeks
I peer around the room to greet my lover
in another embrace with my final breaths
but im alone
left with a bloodied knife in hand
but this forbidden passion of a deaths dance
was only used to take ones soul
not give it the life it craved
laughing through the flood of tears
not even in death was I loved
Jay Bain Dec 2009
I'd see their faces
crimson, capillaries
rocketing tiny red cells
to their cheeks,
lips curling like paper
tossed atop embers;
nose at ten o'clock, three,
oscillating one side
of the pillow to the other;
some still as a morning lake
awaiting the first fish
to surface the flat water,
pop a dragonfly
into an oval mouth;
some daring ones
levitating their head-
a coiling scorpion
transfixed, peering down
their abdomen like I am prey.

There were two
types of eyes: shut, as they
dreamt off into their own
recesses shyly completed;
the other, eyes bounding
about both forms,
obliging fulfillment.

Now
You.
Blooming
olive eyes, lucent
and paling over, then
igniting to verdant green,
your chin fluttering,
baring teeth, whitecaps
bonded to a crested lip;
you tongue them free,
cheeks suffused in rose
as you sigh

pitch and yaw
eyes staring into mine
confessing
as no other.

-Jay Bain, 2009
Cyrus Gold Apr 2016
Victor stumbles into the room faster than
his mind has time to assess what had just occurred.
Sweat drips down his face as he pants heavily,
trying desperately to catch his breath.
It's vacant. Good.

He’s asking too much of his left hand
as it holds the Astra 600 semi-automatic pistol
given to him by his father,
but also attempts to stop the bleeding
from his lower abdomen.

His grip of the weapon loosens;
soaked with so much of his own blood
that he could taste the metal.
Never use it unless you’re dead, his father would always say.

Right palm open on his chest, he begs his spirit
for a sliver of peace, waiting for his
heart and mind to see eye to eye one last time.

He takes a moment to survey the room;
the wallpaper, once bright, symmetrical and gracious,
is now torn, revealing the ugly foundation underneath;
a frame-less door hangs on a corner of a wall,
ironically leading nowhere.

His eyes turn to the center of the room;
a chair, made with traces of oak
and other synthesized material,
sits at the center.

Victor's pistol slips from his hand,
and he uses the energy he has left
to drag his feet, each step harder than the last,
to take his seat.

The chair is positioned
to give the sitter the best view
through wrecked windows,
but the real show was about to begin.

“Sam. Sam I am”, Victor begins to mutter under his breath.
“I do not like… them. Sam, I am. I do not like… green eggs…”
He pauses.
“This is the beginning of the end”, he says.

His mind wanders, and then begins to project images
of a life, once colorful, beautiful and happy,
now unrecognizable, yet familiar.

The show starts;
he was knee high, playing with the neighbor’s Jack Russell Terrier
for days on end, only to be told he wouldn’t see the dog again.
He was sick, and had to be put down.
When he asked his father what that meant,

“He'll suffer if we do nothing, Victor.
Sometimes we have to be cruel to be kind."


Another scene plays;
A young adult, taking an English literature course,
decides to study The Importance of Being Earnest,
a tale where individuals use different personalities to
escape social obligations, thus wearing masks of sorts.

It's ironic that Oscar Wilde was hiding his true self
when he wrote that garbage
, Victor thought to himself,
now chuckling at the thought.
What was it he once said?
I can resist anything, but temptation.

And another scene;
the woman he spilled coffee on
the first time he met her
was now saying “I do”,
feeding him a slice of their wedding cake.
It tasted bittersweet.

Nothing lasts. Couples fight.
An unstoppable force opposes an immovable object.
I always lie is something
Victor would yell at her in a passive aggressive manner,
but was he being truthful?

"I do not like… them. Sam, I am. I do not like… green eggs, and… ham."

Green Eggs and Ham.
His daughter’s favorite book.

My daughter... my baby girl, Victor wept.
Her life was taken
the day after he read her Dr. Seuss,
unknowingly for the last time.

It took him three agonizing years
but he finally found the monster responsible
for taking her life;
until five minutes ago,
that man was living a floor below the apartment
that Victor is now dying in.

Seconds before the skirmish,
Victor vaguely remembers the murderer
shouting something to the effect of,
"Leave me alone! I'm nobody!"
He was neither right, nor wrong.

Victor's 9x19mm parabellum+ slugs
pierced the murderer’s chest and neck,
but that man fired first with his
long-range carbine rifle;

it was the ricochet
of his 5.56x45mm round
that ultimately did Victor in,
striking his abdomen from behind, with the bullet
traveling through and through
and the residual shrapnel
poisoning his blood.

Victor killed a murderer,
and narrowly escaped death, only to die.

He leaves this world believing
that life in and of itself is a contradiction
full of negations, deceit, and divisions by zero.

To honor life, he chose to ****;
revenge in the name of harmony.
Never use it unless you’re dead, his father would always say.

His father would be proud.
The bullets fired from Victor's pistol are known as parabellum rounds; para bellum is a Latin phrase derived from Si vis pacem, para bellum,
meaning if you want peace, prepare for war.
murari sinha Sep 2010
hereunder is served some poetry pouches full of love,
dear reader, stir them as you like,
if you wish you may crack them to pour into mouth,
you may smear them on your body
or you may sprinkle them on the ground
and then chant the name of god
with love and enjoyment

1.
the simplicity that rolls down
from the body of the sweet-meat
made by my mother

let it brings light
to our radish-red love-story

to hear or to notice
love
does not need
putting an ear on the wall
of the wall-street journal

the bottle could be filled
from the voice

when you go to fill the bottle
you would see that everywhere
the arrangement of picnic is ready

when i want to take part in that feast
my neighbours would drive me towards
the home  

although i’ve spent all my life
running behind the love

2.
who’s won the muddy-battle
was yesterday’s politics

my addiction is actually to cater
the pouch of love
to develop all vitamins
and all bathrooms

people say you don’t love
the claps of the rats

yet i’ll come down
from the branch of a guava-tree
as a wave-of-shopping-mall
to the lake of your love

now i’ll jump out
from this computer screen
to register a kiss
on your lips

don't miss to applaud
by clapping the hands


3.
the heart is half-sunk
in the window

to some extent
in the lipstick too

on the dinner-plate
there is the feelings of the lord

that means
i’ve to be burnt more
i do agree

i would become
the sculpture of khajuraho

this happenings may have been
the right search for love

on either-side of which  
a green is being worked out
by the nostalgic-cycle

whose colour-texture is very much harappa
which has too many geometric-memories

4.
an undertone is speaking
from within the solitude

now i’m in very much
distress

or i’m in love

i don’t know my love is what-for
may be that’s an arrangement only

so easily are those interactions
stitched with words

strenuous or effortless
in flight
initiated
with seclusion

but when in the sinking of the playfulness
i  write the games of the street-charmers


the birds again and again
pierce the archery

thus becoming ashes
through travelling

in time-gaps still
the audacity to compose poems
on you

5.
is it true love
or i do take it granted
that i’m in love

or i do love to think
that i’m loving

and there is
neither any welcome address
nor any opening song
in my love

my experience with heat of fire
and with burning pain
in the flames of water
is nothing less

6.
in course of burning
i look around

the chilly-plant  in the tob
planted in my won-hand
producing green-chillies

oh-** how sweet they are

it is no chilled-body
that has earned
my life or death

no remarkable mark
is endorsed
on the lotus-leaf

now easily some words
can be written
on you

i don’t know whether
those would be at all
some lines of a poem


7
someone falls in loves
someone makes love
love comes to some another

there is the far-off
whispering

at first she constructs me
then destroys rightly

i notice her
for the first time in six weeks  

the love
that writes
in the footnote of the tennis-ball
a desperate struggle for existence

within our skull
there is the love

or the midnight of the orion

the little squirrel asked now
are you in your seventies
or eighties

those houses with the coating of
the sky the air the light-and-shade
provide me with the presentation of
a wig and
a set of artificial teeth
8.
the love
that touches the hand
in drizzling

the love
that gets lost in the brandishing
grasses

would they want to inform
that the flowers don’t have any skyscraper

in the layers of the flesh and blood
of the detergents
as if  a whole human civilisation has been suffering
from suppressed pain

within it with the dry spell of
anger and cough
the time

had there been no feeding from the love
does the human civilisation stagger

9.
do you think those words
or it’s myself

whatever may you say now
i’ll travel within a great death
to die

rather after my demise i may tell
i’ve informed everyone …look

beneath the large evergreen flower tree
the game of light and shadow continues

beside those simple households
besides a high-head mobile-tower
what else would you like to be

is it a bath in the ganga-river is it a leaf
of the water-lily or it’s a king-cobra  
tell me

i would now make love
with that idea from you

10.
the  apparent golden *** that i thought
to be the underneath of a kadam-tree

in the dim light i can notice that
the stars in the sky are disappearing  

this session of poetry
is coming to an end

now where would i
go

to that little home

the home
a tiny word of 4 letters

within that home
the children are giggling
playing … and making funs

when i entered
with a tri-cycle in hand
for them

i have been perplexed
many old persons are waiting there
to shake hands with me

10.
almost most of my desires  
are very much hurt

to show it publicly
i wrap bandages
around all over my body

i keep on the stage-drama  

in our programme of reading poetry
tea is served twice
current has gone off for three times
for four times the mobiles ring

to pick up love  
some people think about returning back
from today’s dais to the ancient stage
of performing folk-drama

then they are also sympathetic
to my sufferings

12.
everyday
on my way to return home from the school
when my mom took hold of my hands

i could see in my body
the dancing of an unforgettable
aura

even now that mystical halo is walking
on the leaves of the trees
to fulfil my mornings

that wayfaring along the road
is ringing far and far-off

thus taking bath in every day’s  
dust smoke hue and cry

many such love
gradually gets aged

is it true
in the long run
i too
would be the ingredient
of a fairy-tale

just because i love
that paddy field

some time later
she will also become
human

13.
then she will make all of us  
join her walking

those inmost feeling
those memories meditations

the loneliness  and solitude…

sans the touch of the imagination of
a crater…
a creator…

this blunder…
this socially outcast white …

this type of uneven…
and irrelevance…

sume words
when peep in the mind
i surprise to see that
it’s ten to 2 at night

then in the balcony
my father is crying

he always notices some grave-yard men
in front of him

and sheds tears  

14.
after the dry leaves of the winter
fall in innumerable drops
the spring comes

the cover-face of spring means
a note-book of the rain-tree
letting float in the sun-water

and mr harry says that
this question of change
is a major pull

because all the unreal talks
you are delivering one by one

to keep pace with it
the ambulance comes at 10am
with a stale dead-body

in it’s shirt
is written the spelling of myself

i then sat on the grey volume
of the college-campus

in the front
a beggar from the war of waterloo
is passing by

over the dust of myself
with a faster pace
blowing is the thoughts of

ataraxia  
in the air… and air… and air…
    

15.

if your wishes colour silver
then do return back to the x-mass dancing
of the autumn

sound of whose far-off hoof-steps
digging so much soil of
story-weeds

i went into the nail-polish
with the proof of tea-cup
in my hand

there in the midst of lot of snow-flakes
and in the bed soft with the light of the candle
is now that honey-name more tarnished

now the atomic-howling
does not follow the rules of nature

so the rain-tree that seeks a-field-more-sky
with the hope to become king after the sun-rise

so that king is now waiting
in the grocer’s shop
at a stretch  for an hour

16.
does her well-wisher esse then thinks
to escape from the love-making whirl-wind

on the dry branches of the axis power
the new generation of the birds

rather stop a while there silently and listen
which song is hidden in the bronze-buddha

or in the school of the terracotta-horse

i’m now opening the coating
of the night-enamel to read this home

and behind the coo of dove
is smiling

the god of the penalty-kick

17.
sitting on an orange-coloured balcony
in an outsider lane
the green is writing poems
  
better than the face-powder

from this side all long the famine
i’m the priest of the
agro-based civilisation

still-then i think
why so much light of partiality
is on the body of the chrysanthemum

within the monsoon
in collusion with the  hair-band
now thousands of birds are born  

they can hear my
dry straws and twigs

whose hearing is the police
in so depth of the forest

don’t move the
dreadful resorts

one such photograph of the girls
who wakes up in the midnight

speechless…
unmindful …
destruction…

that is you now

i’m then in the spore
of the perfume-bounded body
of match-making

18.

who has lied in the box
made up of the temperature
of god

all on a sudden
there is a hue and cry
in the abdomen of the time
wearing a ***** pajama

actually that has been filtered up
from the voices of rock-songs

the roaming
of a fatigued traveller …

the lies
within their wishes
write my existence

and then run
to buy vegetables
from the station-market

so many lay-offs
come to the body of paper-weight

to listen to all those
is not improper

walking through the traffic-jam
gradually
this home becomes solely my home

one day the golden of
human

then it is i
who is you

and walking through the
monsoon

on either side of the field
it is all autumn

19.
when borrowing the religion of
the night-queen  
i fall in love

then is it real
that our mangos and jack-fruits  
can make the perfumed-soap
vigorously from the light of the
blood-line

i count the bells of the churches
ringing repeatedly

and piercing the image
of your prominent face

rounding through lots of old
the love becomes exhausted

and the love comes back
in the form of college-classes

there are you myself
and so many notes
of the body
Dear you, From me: In case we should ever meet.

        You have lived in my mind now for almost half my life. When we first met I hardly knew myself, but still through my thoughts you crept; filling up the empty crevices, at times pinching and tugging on nerves and synaptic connections till I fell to my knees and wept. You didn't know then, but you also helped me collect inspiration and hope. Never mind the loneliness you caused inside and the occasional neglect. You got to know me in ways that still don't make any sense. Like, how on earth could you ever know that the thought of ever losing you made my heart full of dread and tense.
        You moved me in ways that I will not soon forget. Like that time my thoughts grew dark and grim: when I thought all hope was lost, was lost in life without any sense of how to cope, and then there you were perched upon a patch of white warm sand, directions in hand: A beacon sword of diamond light parrying the vast darkness of the open seas. Still though, it was just a hand. Back then you seemed so far away and hidden above sight that even through my periscope I could not make out your face on land.
        I do admit, I was an ungrateful man. I never truly thanked you for what you had done, in fact, all I recall ever doing is scolding you for the tangle of webs I had spun: always questioning why things were so bad and what I had done to deserve it. You though, you never lost faith, you never once asked to see my face. You just were. You were there on sleepless nights to step out from the recesses of my mind to run your fingers through waves of my disconsolate curly hair. Thank you for that, thank you for teaching me about compassion and humility, about honor and commitment, for showing me how to give hope and find strength. Thank you for not taking it easy on me. I was mad at you then for the swells of tears that made my pillow colder at night, for that sense of falling, for that black-hole you put in the pit of my abdomen after telling me you'd be with someone else tonight. For taking control over my body and mind and willing it to do things I had never done before in my life.
        It's still strange for me to think of how someone I had never met could affect so much change in me. Truthfully, you may be responsible for every ounce of good in me, but I also credit you with being the cause for some of the bad as well. Now that I know you better than before, I am comfortable with being honest in telling you what and who you are to me, what you've meant all this time, what you've been. You are the double edged sword that protects and defends me: A will and testament of steel forged in fire and ice, hardened and tempered through the passage of time. With a razor's edge, hand in hand, both you and I conquer all enemies, but when either of us grow tired or weak it is our blood that is drawn out of fear or jealousy.
       I laugh now because even when you cut me deep you always find a way back inside, always know a remedy. You have a resolve no one can resist. I guess that is why it's always you that I miss, always your face I lose but then find in mirrors, in strangers, in grocery lines.  It must also be the reason for your commitment to infidelity, and why everyone who knows you must have you. It gives light to the nights you slip out from beneath my covers to lay with as many others as you can. Somehow though, you always find a way to make your seductive conquest be okay; it is okay and I don't mind it. All I ask is that you come to visit more often and stay a little longer. I'd be lying if I said that I'm okay without you, but you have taught me patience if anything and gratitude, and I cherish every moment we spend together and am becoming more understanding when I see you with someone else. All I ask is that you don't rub it in my face, and now since I've seen yours you seem to want to change it every time you come back. Can you stop that? Can you live by me with just one set of eyes? It would mean so much to me if from now on the pale rosy cheeks I kiss belong to the same visage. Whether you do or not though, you continue to be the first and last greatest thing that has ever happened to me. So, just in case we should never meet , or till that day we both patiently seek, for you I write this to read and to hold while I lie asleep.

Sincerely From Me To You,
My Sweet Mystique

— The End —