When you sauntered through the pub
I knew my life had changed;
No longer concerned to save the world,
I needed to pull resources to save my heart.

The light through your auburn hair
The exact colour of magnificent conflagrations;
Those intense wildfires evermore common
Due to shifting climate patterns.
And, like a bushfire threatening lives and homes,
No man was untouched -
All were scorched by your radiant beauty.

Your pearly whites'
Whiter than the bleached bones
Of countless drought-stricken livestock;
Whiter, still, than bleached reefs,
Luminous in their death-throes.

And those intense green eyes -
More glowing than a radio-active
Atoll seen from space.

And your voice, when you asked to sit,
Had the harmonic cascade of a thousand extinct species,
Each singing their death song in salute to corporate success:
It made my knees tremble and my wallet itch!

Your ******* as well proportioned
As those majestic ****-heaps of open-cut mines.

The little paunch you wear so proud,
Is more cute and inviting of attention
Than all the distended stomachs of starving African children.

As I explored further into nether regions,
I was delighted to discover
You'd taken the Brazilian to heart -
Clear-felling all but a remnant;
A tuft in tribute to a once great forest -
A forest of mystery and exotic, ****** adventure,
Now open for tourism!

Your scent more intoxicating
Than a million factory flues
Spewing out toxic pollutants
To fix our corporate wants.

When you invaded my heart
It was as devastating as the "shock and awe" tactics
Of a military Superpower unleashing its might
On a hapless oil-rich and strategically significant,
But unco-operative, dissident regime.

Your plump, glossy, cherry-red lips
More succulent than a genetically-modified tomato
Grown on a corporate farm, maximising profits.

And even though you're more vacuous
Than a bovine skull after the hydraulic rod
Has rendered the animal fit for hamburgers and processed foods,
You've still captured my heart
Like a sentimental story broadcast
On a slow news day with advertiser's approval.

Gaia can look after Herself,
I'll not defend Her - I'm on the shelf;
Captured by a product of modern media,
I'm in Love with a global Arcadia!

White girls can get stuck too,
the same way that no money
sandwiches you between two
slices of dreams you cannot bite
into, because we cannot pay for that
school—stuck like peanut butter.

I want things, but mostly
I want to be able to stay at the
university and learn so, someday,
I can teach others too.

Teach them to love good and
truth and not care that they are
not the businessman or engineer
with a steady job.

All they—all we—have to do
is be willing to clean the bathrooms or
flip the greasy burgers if we have to.

Hands that are working and honest
are always good hands, no matter
what they do.

When I tell people I love English
and writing, the man or woman instructs me
to pick something more practical—be a
technical writer, a reporter, an advertiser.

But I love my poetry, and no one can
ask me to sell my happiness
and design for a nice house and a
maid who cleans because hubris
has rusted my joints.

I am not a hero or a martyr
for words, but I am a woman
who would humbly scrub toilets to
feed her children, write poems at
night, and be happy.

It was the night of Christmas Eve when I was on my own
You came round with Chantelle lowering the festive tone
It was okay until you left and I found that big baguette
Such a time of desperation one time I will not forget
A toilet tragedy I suffered when I discovered your Yule log
Why did you leave that monstrosity inside my ******* bog

I had a drink to calm my nerves but I didn't want to tackle
In the U bend that ******* **** was caught up in the shackle
Trying hard to get rid of that thing with hot water in a bucket
It didn't move with my attempts so I thought "well **** it"
Taking the plunge with pipe unscrewed it wasn't very nice
A gloveless hand you wouldn't want to handle that thing twice

With heavy heart I manhandled that large brown log myself
The size of it I'm petty sure was detrimental to my health
I know that Chocolate logs traditional to celebrate the Yule
Did you have to leave me one made from a combined stool
You blamed Chantelle but I'm not sure if it was her or you
But whichever way you look at it, its a nasty thing to do

So come on just admit it who dealt me that crap card
Getting rid of such a thing well its really rather hard
It really isn't all that much of a Christmas appetizer
Having to disguise it for bin using the local advertiser
Yule be so disgusted if you had crap Christmas news
A real low time of my life with Yule tide log abuse

Next time you decide to call round in the festive mood
Have a **** before you come not meaning to be rude
Don't pass solids in my bog to avoid a repeat performance
I have already reached my peak concerning **** endurance
Use my bog with courtesy without Christmas block activities
I don't want your crap on my hands ruining my festivities

I hope this is the voice of writers in general, however humble.

Every writer's intention is to share his thoughts.  He doesn't compel the reader to buy or read his book. It's natural of him to write/say this:
'here I am writing what I am thinking and about my experience....'.

But life is never short of philistines.  A few might even say:
' Don't advertise before me!'

That the person should articulate the above shows how low- down he/she is---it smacks of ill-will, ignorance, contempt and spite, immaturity and in the worst case--schadenfreude!

Confucius  the sage (600 BC) wrote about the chun-tze (the gentleman, the perfect person) who is kind, tolerant, encourages learning, practises humility, kindness, generosity, shows respect for all people, and delights in the success of others and never denigrates others as the xiao-ren (the 'small' or inferior person) does.

Confucianism has captured the imagination of the West which has openly declared that the founder was among the world's greatest philosophers.

Was the sage advertising himself? If he were so,  would he have survived for over 2,500 years?

Anyone who dares say that the writer is an advertiser must be among the most deplorable.  He or she should be pitied!

his sentence, it was beautiful
for everyone to see him
locked away for years and years
hanging photos on the wall.
he perfected the art in prison,
nailing photos to the cell
and hoping nails were hurting
even though they weren’t.
his stupidity, it was majestic
thinking things he sought offensive
were jokingly forgotten.
Creative, Enticing, ****.
a pity it would seem.

“Come in and sit down”
said the celluloid voice,
smooth as silk.
Cautiously I stepped
through the TV screen,
to take my place.


“I will show you a world”
it continued,
“That bears no relation
to what you consider as
REALITY.”


The air around electrified,
as the set was powered to life.


Beautiful bodies playing on a beach,
running into the foaming sea;
sun ripening skin, bleaching hair;
Then, from nowhere a can appears,
elixir of every surfer, sun worshipper.


Somewhere in the distance
a distinctive throaty roar,
the romantic throb of a Harley;
ridden by a pair of jeans
giving identity to,
some muscular male *****;
A dream of America
and freedom.


Slow moody blues solo
hangs in the air;
a guitar talking to a journeyman,
familiar but not remembered.
Every note sustained, holding breath,
then carried by a riff
from a bottle of bourbon.


Outside the set
beautiful bodies are burning up,
through a hole in the ozone.
(Too many limousines and Harleys)
The alcoholic looks on, wide eyed,
trying to see a way in,
really believing there is one.

April 11, 2016

Poetry USA and GLOBAL
Poetry Trail Plaza
Poetry Voice, Any State 72101

Dear Poetry Listener Business Leader:

I am a Poet offering you a word in opportunity maybe
My illustration for you to see
I offer your business sentences in word detail
Stick with me and follow the trail
My pitch I shall not fail
Instead of the usual writing business format, I am using Poetry to explain my approach being the point
Poetry being the voice of communication
The words offering persuasion
The sentences being my Marketing Campaign
Satisfaction is my aim
As a Poet, we are the best advertiser
Words that says it best, don’t take us for granted as we don’t settle for less
We can turn your company name in being the leader at top game
We are voices who know how to get involve
If there is a problem, we are like consultants and can solve
So look over the particular of words
As a Poet, you have now heard
Thank you in advance, and the opportunity being our chance

Simply yours,
POET FLOW
WE ARE THE ONE’S BEING IN THE KNOW

Contempt this freedom,
Need enslavery for security;
Feel apathy, regret, hopelessness;
Path of continuity - too easy, too often.

Provoke temptress's scorn
Mislead the misadventure
Furtive undermining conscious
Tripped out and over-bored
Neglectfully narcissistic, never satiated.
---------
I don't want to be a poet,
Intellectually engaged with conceptuality;
I want to be popular,
Adored for simplistic, concise axioms -
Connective understatements stated plainly.
On second thoughts...now I realise...
I don't want to be popular - I want to be an advertiser!
---------
Comrade, yours is the sweetest victory:
Ruled the collection, dispersed, then died.
Never to know the scorn foreshadowed;
Realising no fulfilment, save vengeance
Of victims truncated and tortured raw;
Hollowed abomination, human condemnation.
---------
What am I saying?
To whom?
Of whom?
Since when?
Why now?
For what?
How come?
Where from?
[Who's who, who knows whom!?]

Just because you think you know
My story from someone I used to trust,
Doesn't make you my 
Personal advertiser. 

You can't see through my bluff,
Although you pretend to, because
You're not the first to pull this on me.  
I've had practice, you won't win. 

I made a mistake once, and I 
Made it again. Shoot me. 
I promise you, I won't 
Tell anyone, ever again. 

You don't have to announce it 
For the gods to hear, I act like I don't care,
Don't care how everyone looks
At me different now. 

So you became my mother now, 
Did you? Go on. Be disappointed.
Do it and I'll treat you like my mother.
Like I don't give a ****.

So you turned me into 
A monster, didn't you? 
All while telling me:
"I understand, really"

Now I know.
It all comes down to trust.
Trust, trust, trust, trust, trust...
Trust is a *****. 

I hate you. As much as I hated 
The other person who did this to me. 
As much as I hate myself. 
I ******* Hate You.

Wow bet I can make mills off Gospel music
I'm just an instrument God is using
I don't need mainstream to do it
See the devils got everybody influenced
I ain't for the money stupid
I don't need no features
Get an million views just from spitting ether
Tongue of fires
Holy spirit my ghost writer
See I'm a amplifier
An advertiser
This just an appetizer
To satisfy Ya
My lab on fire
Cuz the scientist a chemist
Mixing chemicals an bringing new elements into existence

They say if you cannot beat them, join them
so here it goes
Male
well past any kind of useful sell by date
all and much more
any and all the negatives you can muster
dreams more than realities obvious to anyone else
no medicine or witchcraft up my sleeve
but my fellow advertiser
You know of whom I speak
swears they will share any and all profits
with me, you, and anyone in need.

Hey you are my,
Dear dear brother.
For whom I do a little bother.
I do have something
Something to recite further.

I suppose, I know you are amiable
Ah,
Staunch enough when you quibble.

You are,
Strong enough with your concept
Never withdrawing,
Even when offered a receipt.

I thought you are entirely polite
But nevertheless, you are
Of course possessing charm of your's is elite
And that is my delight.

You, a good advertiser
But a better reasoner
And the best advisor.

Dear, dear brother
I know not your second face
But do aware a hand full of few
So as you say

I take little strains to view you.

Signals are never red forever
Just waiting for a chance I dare
So take little strain
to count my absence hereafter
As memories are within for sure
My concepts are a little rare
But do please bare.

The real quest is
not the bliss of mine
But of all.

Dear dear brother
My recitation can never
be completed for sure.


Dated: 20.8.2013

That dear brother.
For whom I do a little bother.
To recite further.

I know he is amiable.
Ah,
He is staunch enough when he quibbles.

He is,
Confident in his content
And debates until he is content.
  

I thought he was downright polite.
But nevertheless, he is
That inquisitive charm of his is elite.


He, a good advertiser
But  a better reasoner
And the best advisor.

"Dear, dear brother
I know not your second face
But am aware of a hand full of few."

they are selling sunshine
on these ***** streets
offering escape
at bus stops
beyond the ride home
with hoarding speak
dreams, new worlds
new life, new you
away from this ****** existence
we all perceive
step into
the advertiser's dream

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↓ ↓ ↓ poetic license movement;?

The billionaires owned all the buildings we finally saw as the coffins they had been.
No money saved, no money spent, no one to let us in.
No one could afford the rent.

Tents clogged the streets. No one could afford to drive.
**** and **** like rivers thrived. No one left to deprive.
Skin pulled tight over ribs shining bright.
Hunger and madness, the daily delight.
And don't pretend you didn't know.
The children are always the first to go.

The other day made the sky cry rust.
Our God was money, and in God we trust.
Who fell to the earth, hands full of life. Waiting ourselves to die.
If it wasn't us, would the sky still be blue?
If we wait to understand. Who among us ever knew?

Over the hills, they pressed. Rifles clinched tight in hand. The things we thought we taught were things you cannot understand.
Charging in to the National Guard, the Marines,! Bullets blinking harmlessly off  the APC’s,
Delirious and suffering they raged against the only ones with food.

Mercy we gave ourselves.

Better than suffering until the end.
To be put down in the field of boarded over main street.   Our last stand brilliantly illuminated in the 500,000 Watt spillage of the sports ball stadium, still unpaid.
For that at least something mattered.
As the blood flew and clung. Righteousness splattered.
And so the shots rang out, the bodies fell... the piles built.
The orange Tacos Manatees could not conceive of  “GUILT”.

To sign into  law  our  Living hell.
The dead and dying all around. The lovely, rotting  and the crying, sound.
The Walmart shelves were empty.
Costco ran with blood.
Nowhere to charge the electric cars. The few that understood.
Concrete suffocated life, nowhere to dig the wells.  
And still the advertiser schemed  and automated corporations ... loaded shells.

All, he has abundantly

And, a political abacist

Zealousness, he speak

Advertiser of pure truth

Unboundedness to the masses

Ripping, to social living

And, He is a lover of all

This is a world of virtual communities
There are friends and lots of opportunities
At the same time we feel lonely
We become unskilled and started feeling lowly
The chaos in it , the hateful comments
We reply to fast in just a moment
We don't think about the concequence
And the bickering goes on without conconance
We become anti social, afraid to interact
Resulting- depression,fictional dystopia and we are trapped
It's necessary to check the comments share and like
After every hour of post ,in mind it strike
We become self obsessed, following influencers
After knowing the fact, they are money maker
We kills our time just scrolling on it
Sometimes advertiser make our time split
At the end of day we got nothing
Some true, some fake story and it keep buzzing
But I  don't understand the algorithm
We lost our societies mechanism
It's a place for voiceless people
But overuse , abuse, make it illegal
This is a world of social media
It is a black and white encyclopaedia

The first is the support
of the brothel,
and the original nature
of the advertiser's
ejection is stable
until a gap is created.

We are born to create polygons
in existing courses in an existing
classroom. The baptized person
being created will build six patterns;
prostitutes and death, for example,
to add something new, prostitutes
and at the same time without power:
their eternal speech. All these
changes will not be an exact copy
corresponding to them. Therefore,
Avatar's eternal copy was the seventh
after the Beyonders revival. First,
he was the pupil of the Lord, who,
before seeking this subject, was
inspired by the recording of the progenitor
of Eternity and his man. Mordor is to fight the enemy;
the prostitutes, and after finding his class,
there is no place to bring silence.

It is what destroys
the first cows to create
new prostitutes and
therefore, the universe,
the hundred active
universes of the new states.