"assimilated" poems
i don't
even know him.
i only recognize his vitals
rapidly diminishing on
the screen before me.
i'm wrong, this is wrong,
everything is wrong.
i'm trespassing on
vulnerability.
he knows;
he gets it --
how this place
can make you
feel like hell
without even
trying.
if belief were among
my faults, indeed
it would **** me to
scroll again
(and again)
through artificial
papyrus, through
reeds and lights
and electronics;
because every
new click
brings another
wrench.
tug at the
heartstrings;
what heartstrings?
these leave nothing behind.
because of you,
i am destroyed.
i am assimilated,
i am protein.
because of you,
i am denatured.
turn down your flame, nolan,
there isn't enough fuel
for you to burn so
brightly
for so
long.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
the bottle is
the
bottle
is
the bottle is empty
had its contents been precariously dealt with
or
drop by drop assimilated?
assimilated?by the cloths of
silk pashmina cashmere
or the blackness of a tuxedo
i might never
ever
know, my father forgets
to the left
to
the
left
to the left of the bottle
is another bottle
quite smaller.
it is filled with
pink liquid
half full--or half empty
barely used by its
current owner
it smells like apples
and by the bottles is
and
by
the
bottles
is
and by the bottles is a ring
with two keys
that open locks somewhere
of COURSE!
why, what else would you
use a key
for?
the darkest
alternative for a key's usage, though
is to
hurt
some
body
with
it
metal
grinding the
skin
and the bottles
and
the
bottles
and the bottles thrown
the former can shatter
the latter houses a liquid
but,
but,
but,
but,
why?
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
I absorbed,
Blotted misery,
Lapped with eyes,
Soaked-up transgressions,
Mopped-up history,
Was steeped in trials,
Ingested triumphs,
And truly assimilated.
But the ground is saturated,
My prints fill
With the brine
Squeezed out.
I am the salt on the earth,
Parched and cracked.
You preferred candyfloss;
I dripped the last drop.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 8:20 AM UTC
the pitch dark symmetry
of spiral engraved
glossy jet black
vinyl
the ***** claws
and webbed spiders;
graced with impeccable
scratch
words come back around
from dog day afternoon;
entwined in ritual
beatology
technique absorbed in prowess
dedication assimilated by passion;
human form and synthetic resin becomes
overlayed
polyvinyl chloride or
unsaturated hydrocarbon radicals;
a derivative by any other
name
I'll leave that nugget for the pub quiz
and relax, post-Christmas stress;
the street scramble bustle,
embrace a pint of
black magic
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 10:28 AM UTC
baby I got hours of green
to edit, mondays goes dumb hard
like kicking kittens like footballs
leg day to finish myself off
to seal my confidence into the night
i hate days like these, rocky roads
and nowhere to hide from the sun
and the ugly, being assimilated into
the lifeless machine in a lifestyle-less queue
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 2:47 AM UTC
the night was already crazy-wild by the time
we arrived at Jarred's pool.
he had a big house but we never went in
4 teens, teen dream, a dream team;
but I knew deep down just what it was
we snuck out for.
a "transform-optional" rite, this hollow night.
but I still had doubts...
as Jarred offered me an aluminum can of something and I nervously said, "no thank you",
the moon had proudly jut out
he had a big house but we never went in.
I hadn't noticed, without the moonlight, just how
sharp Jarred's teeth and fingernails were.
canines, ivory & sporadic. looking at me
I hadn't noticed how reptilian our 2 friends were
The fangs and dislocating jaws, tendrils & scales.
Man-o-war for a head, giant earthworm for an arm
She looked scarier than he.
Those 2 went at each other in a murderous way
A blood sport of sorts. Confusing to me.
She spread her jaws wide - a parachute with teeth
And bit down hard between his legs.
Blood everywhere. Blood spattered on her face
She looked ****** god-awful by then.
The meat of his dead body then re-animated
And assimilated with hers. Anabiosis + Differentiate
Jarred, a werewolf or something like it, approached me.
He had a big house but we never went in.
we chatted poolside for a while
he'd go harmoniously from monster to human, human to monster.
Boiling cancerous growths under his fur
Grew angry eyes that glared at me.
clawhand on the back of my neck,
he went in for a kiss (or a bite)
with a puckered face and bared teeth.
This is it.
I finally felt a grossness so profound that I,
without thinking, jumped in the pool
to splish-splash, cool, to escape, whatever
I opened my eyes and just floated there for a bit.
hanging in the stillness
trying to forget those alien freaks
staring up at the moon
from the bottom of a pool.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 10:33 PM UTC
%%
It’s about leveraging potential income
to enhance output-maximizing sustainability …
It’s about de-funding unsustainable income outcomes.
It’s about results-based data-enhanced paradigm shifts.
It’s about demobilizing upward mobility:
dis-empowering gentrification
by underfunding the over-entitled.
It’s about de-funding unsustainability
until the immeasurable metric is globally assimilated.
It’s about the designated data-driver.
It’s about memes as theme schemes.
It’s about complicating competence
through collaboration in collusion –
intentionally replicating re-branding –
effectively identifying best practices of the best-dressed actresses
until the girl in the t-shirt says “meh”.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
In the belly of the grape,
Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through
Under the Andes to the Cape,
Suffer no savor of the earth to scape.
Let its grapes the morn salute
From a nocturnal root,
Which feels the acrid juice
Of Styx and Erebus;
And turns the woe of Night,
By its own craft, to a more rich delight.
We buy ashes for bread;
We buy diluted wine;
Give me of the true,
Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled
Among the silver hills of heaven
Draw everlasting dew;
Wine of wine,
Blood of the world,
Form of forms, and mold of statures,
That I intoxicated,
And by the draught assimilated,
May float at pleasure through all natures;
The bird-language rightly spell,
And that which roses say so well.
Wine that is shed
Like the torrents of the sun
Up the horizon walls,
Or like the Atlantic streams, which run
When the South Sea calls.
Water and bread,
Food which needs no transmuting,
Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,
Wine which is already man,
Food which teach and reason can.
Wine which Music is,
Music and wine are one,
That I, drinking this,
Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;
Kings unborn shall walk with me;
And the poor grass shall plot and plan
What it will do when it is man.
Quickened so, will I unlock
Every crypt of every rock.
I thank the joyful juice
For all I know;
Winds of remembering
Of the ancient being blow,
And seeming-solid walls of use
Open and flow.
Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;
Retrieve the loss of men and mine!
Vine for vine be antidote,
And the grape requite the lote!
Haste to cure the old despair,
Reason in Nature's lotus drenched,
The memory of ages quenched;
Give them again to shine;
A dazzling memory revive;
Refresh the faded tints,
Recut the aged prints,
And write my old adventures with the pen
Which on the first day drew,
Upon the tablets blue,
The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.
2.8k
How, I thought,
Had I ever dreamt
Alone
Once upon a time,
When I knew not his
Fire
Free from embrace,
Assimilated by
Solitude
To revel in
Egyptian cottons
Desolate
--
How he burns me
From the inside
Out
I crave him, so,
My sleeping
Dragon
The heat in his belly
And beneath his
Skin
And I wake him
When the need
Arises
To fill me once more
With his morning
Light
Jul 22, 2023
Jul 22, 2023 at 8:31 AM UTC
One of the most humorous conditions that a creature could burden itself with is a somnambulant desire to be to it’s own liking .
Maxillary extrapolation although a positive political expectorant is likewise a practical partiality .
I prefer to be philanthropically phenological although rational impedance is my histophysiology . My present participle is practical pragmatism and tertiary transcendentalism . Xenoplasticly speaking I feel alone but plausibility is a probationer in reflective self awareness . Atrociously impetuous I proceeded amidst heinously horrendous heckledom . Adequate inflection is a relevant relative to retaliatory regression but I digress . Paraphernalia is a practitioner to plausibility’s cause and should be assimilated through cognizance not perfunctory preferentialism .
Hegelian humanitarianism must supersede political subterfugalism or all may be lost in quagmire .
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
Dearest jewels of my crown motherhood
Go to the nearest FBI office
Accuse all you call friends of a hate crime drugging you without you knowing to make you feel **** and think you are nuts hallucinogens and methamphetamine s do that
Do not go to psychiatrist they will trash you
your Mom and remove your parental rights forever a Susan and Arthur and Elizabeth already bought you from Haralsmbios a human trafficking psychopath sadist torturer like kiriaki and many more in Greece
Those you trust here in USA hide Crimes they are a team of murderers and thieves since 1980
They assimilated Jeff and John through drugs
Free yourselves.
They all are your deadly enemies they document all lies half truths use assassination of character and fear of your Mom to hide their crimes
They are who lie divide you and plan to ****** your Mom too for financial gain.
They made credit cards with your name in it to finance murders for hire ..
And tell you it's Mom buying thousands of dollars in clothes that's a lie from Satan
They are black mailing you.
to extort money to **** Mom.
~~
Remove your blind folds fight for your freedom take your children run to FBI office use me as a living witness I am on your side.
I love you all my children.
~~
~My Story poem.~
The greatest deception is calling everyone
a friend
Today I admit that from ancient times
am blessed to have had his intimate
piece of heart
thus my life was worth while.
I declare that even here
I was blessed with this
Outer Limits De-Javus;
~~
I am forever a grateful Mom,
granted to sacrifice my
love, my life along with everyone
I ever loved the most.
There's still justice to be granted; triumph waived
with defeat acknowledged.
Not only have I waived and yielded to every misfortune
but was trashed to the eleven winds as my evil enemy
lied to divide me among my dearly beloved offspring
planning as in above the law to profit from my demise.
~~~
By: Karijinbba
All Rights Reserved.
Jun 10, 2023
Jun 10, 2023 at 1:32 AM UTC
One of the saddest things to me
Is how my generation
Has been deceived to believe
That there are rules
To poetry
That thought is absurd and profane
I’d even take another step
And call it inhumane
Poetry is an expression of being
A way to be free
I finished writing this poem
When I realized something
This doesn’t just apply to poetry
But to all writing
Essays and poems and stories
If we all wrote the same way
We would be so boring
Write different
Write about what you want
Not what they say
Do the complete opposite
Of their way
But it’s not just about writing different
It’s how your pencil
Or other writing utensil
Moves across the paper
It’s about the breath you take
Right before you pour
Your heart on the white sheet
It’s about the way you see
So don’t just write things differently
Write in your own way
Create a new style
And then you’ll know
You’ve gone the extra mile
I finished this poem again
Thought now would be a great time to end
And then I realized something more
This isn’t just about writing
This is life
Break those rules
Don’t conform
It’s not just about breaking rules
Or being some kind of lawless hipster
It’s about being yourself
It’s not always about where you go
No, sometimes it’s about how you flow
There’s something special
Buried deep inside
It’s chained down
Release it
And it will give you life
Yes
I guess you can follow
The rules and regulations
If you enjoy being assimilated
Into a system
That was better
Before it existed
You have two options
Pretend you never saw this
And stay hopeless
Or stand up
And become righteous
I highly suggest the second
But of course
I’m biased
Because I hate the idea
Of being hopeless
You have the ability
To be something
Wonderfully crazy
Something that no one else can be
Because you are you
Different than me
So be your own
Not some societal clone
Be you and you alone
I urge you
Stand against conformity
Don’t be he or she or me
Be something completely unique
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
shamed for showing too much
shamed for not showing enough
over ****** warrants being called a ****
not ****** enough and I’m called a *****
so what am I supposed to do?
never leave the comfort of my judgement free home?
oh wait, that’s not true
mainstream media bashing the idea of individuality
sure they say they support it
but if they really did
would we, constantly, see the same features, plastered on magazines?
trends change quickly
and my body sure as heck can’t keep up
that’s okay though,
I was never one to conform to the societal standard
the thick thighs, “fat *** skinny waist, and big *******
that I’m supposed to have,
but am supposed to cover up?
I’m sorry but if I had been “blessed” with those physical attributes
I would not be so eager to cover them up
and is “blessed” even the right word to describe
what so many women have come to despise?
large chests that cause back pains,
the unwanted attention and ****** comments?
maybe they aren’t so blessed,
but are rather cursed
that in a society like ours
we are taught to hate ourselves no matter what
instead of embracing the unique beauty that we are gifted
rather than celebrate the intricate details of our souls
and the crazy two A.M. thoughts that run through our minds
the stunning stream of consciousness that separates us from the rest
but unfortunately,
we have assimilated into one
bland society,
where variety is shunned
and everyone is the same
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
(footnote)
2100 years ago a band of Jews defeated the Greek army
And drove them off their land, reclaiming the holy temple
In Jerusalem and rededicating it to the service of god.
when they sought to light the temples menorah
They found only a single cruse of olive oil that
escaped contamination by the Greeks.
Miraculously the one day supply lasted eight days.
The sages instituted the festival of Chanukah
To publicize these miracles.
The Dreidel which is a four sided top with a
Hebrew letter on each side which means
“ a great miracle happened here”
was used later on in the years to give thanks to god
Without the enemy knowing that they were praying.
Chanukah, the Jewish festival of rededication, also known as the festival of lights, is an eight day festival beginning on the 25th day of the Jewish month of Kislev.
Chanukah is probably one of the best known Jewish holidays, not because of any great religious significance, but because of its proximity to Christmas. Many non-Jews (and even many assimilated Jews!) think of this holiday as the Jewish Christmas, adopting many of the Christmas customs, such as elaborate gift-giving and decoration. It is bitterly ironic that this holiday, which has its roots in a revolution against assimilation and suppression of Jewish religion, has become the most assimilated, secular holiday on our calendar.
Christmas and Chanukah are known world wide
But these two faiths do not collide.
They walk hand in hand
For they came out of the promised land.
You see : the son of god was born a Jew
The Romans felt this was taboo.
No other religion could exist
This was controlled by the Romans fist.
JESUS preached in synagogues throughout the lands
Something that the Romans did withstand.
His own people wanted his death
But little did they know
That with this- a new faith would grow.
The cross on which he died became a symbol
Of Christianity, and that’s the way
God meant it to be.
Chanukah is eight days of giving while the Christian
Holiday is just one day ,but during these
holidays we all kneel and pray.
We give GOD thanks for all the beauties of the earth
And for family and friends, and it is something
That will never end.
As long as man holds a belief in their hearts
And faith,-then all will be overcome and
Let GODS will be done.
© L . RAMS
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 12:17 PM UTC
It's been one week,
since I told you,
nothing of importance.
But one week,
since you told me,
anything,
at all.
How soon I forget,
what it's like,
not to be,
at a person's disposal.
How quickly I remember,
that remembering is,
a bother.
Easy folk enjoy easy listening.
A magnet that draws sound.
Vibrations of different magnitudes.
But visually, all the same:
On a large enough body; what proceeds:
A ripple on water's edge.
Beauties and questions evoked.
Memories that hold vehemence.
Open ears that trickle red.
An eye for an eye.
A tooth for a tooth.
A *** for a ***
Sour taste, before I spit.
After all that said,
so it goes:
She is left feeling discontent,
because her friend left her behind.
A friendship no longer pragmatic,
left her detached and unkind.
After one move against her,
inadvertently made her the bad guy.
Assimilated ignorance was transferred,
leaving her with raging eyes.
Now a maniac, but once shy.
It started the day she was betrayed,
and her friend left without goodbye.
Friendship turned into a frivolous demise.
She never thought of compromise.
She will always be left on her own will.
Only living each day with empty glare.
While she sits cynically by her window sill.
Reliving old days, and perfecting her stare.
It's been one week,
since I told myself,
nothing of importance.
But one week,
since I've asked questions,
and have realized that,
in your twenties,
you are partial to saying 'No.'
Implicit No, god-forbid a subtle yes.
You know yourself.
You want to know yourself.
You hope that you know yourself.
And,
In the scheme of it all,
the ***** shopping mall,
the empty alleyways,
**** and trash,
looking down at laced shoes,
transcends society's social boundaries.
Those little moments at the end of the day,
that make you smile,
are the reason you should not become frustrated.
It would be the same,
as letting a long car ride ruin a vacation.
Thinking short-termed has never led to outstanding goals,
only temporary satisfaction.
Life is short,
but it is long enough to learn how to pick battles.
There are far more important things to worry about,
than ill intent with loved ones,
or even strangers.
If someone steps on your shoes,
let it go.
Use that frustration to better yourself,
and when you can,
buy better shoes,
and walk a mile in them.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 3:03 AM UTC
unlike these other migrants -
i remember Ilford,
during the Balkan war,
and the Kosovo refugees -
who didn't bother to remain...
refugees having this superiority
complex over
economic migrants...
somehow victim-hood is
a better economic model
than skilled labor...
i didn't assimilate into
the English culture,
i wasn't spoon-fed this
multicultural ********
where some ******* Somali
could speak down to me
because he was
bown und bwed in
Cuntish Toown...
****** can brown-beat
me down with his
exotica...
up to a point...
i haven't been brain-washed
by some ideology of
assimilation / integration...
i never assimilated
or integrated into the English
"culture"...
i'll let you know...
sprache über kultur -
*meine treue ist zu es ist sprache,
nicht es ist volk,
sogar wenn ich haben
zu sprechen deutsche*!
i was never assimilated or integrated
into the English "kultur"...
i acquired it, and by acquiring it,
i acquired it to deviated from
what was being prescribed...
by a ghost consensus...
i never signed up to some
******* Somali brown-beating me
as some minor, the always inferior,
"eastern", "European"...
not a chance in hell...
*hölle erste,
besagt streit? zweite*!
...and why do you think i'm
seeking escape in tickling German?
i'm not exactly bugging the Ottomans -
after all... one of the Axis powers...
and i love my Turkish barber...
i can't imagine any other ethnicity
to have perfected the trade of
the barber...
who... whittle east African
subsaharan Muslim with no knowledge
of the Saudi slave trade of Bangladeshi
workers?!
mouthing off his over-priced
privilege position in England?!
bingo!
no no no...
i'm not assimilated,
wenn es kommt bezüglich die krone?
mein antwort "bezüglich"
eine krone?
die ich von gott:
ist der ein und erst krone!
i didn't integrate or assimilate
into this "kultur"...
i made a claim for this sprechen...
da ist nicht kultur
außen die zunge!
which is why i have to tease German,
the old father...
of the English tongue...
because?
because i find the English language
plagued...
and i'm puritanical at herz.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC
***Fed upon your metaphors
like a zombie's lust for blood
howl'd at the moon in your
verbose verbiage's alliteration
piece by piece, like Frankenstein's
monster you conjur'd me whole
sucked out the guts and laid me
flat in ghostly passages twisted cravings
dwelling 'tween light and darkness
assimilated in your inky draft
dancing amuck within your tangled webs
just the other side of nightmare's exposure
drinking in the sea of your heaving tidal steamers
punch drunk in phantasmal's obsession
high voltage flipped me over like an abstract
Dali painting's w***e
I come away ghastly satiated,
macabre though it may seem
thrills and spills in every tempting morsel
of affecting poetry's sinful appetite***
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
In 1984, I assimilated this southern drawl and slow sly wit.
Whilst i felt so foreign, at first, and had to sit in the woods alone
and meditate, I met this one gopher tortoise one day. He slowly startled me when he stuck his long neck out and offered me a bite of a gopher apple.
It tasted like the bubble gum I used to get with Detroit Tiger baseball cards in. We slowly became best friends. I met his convex mate and others with his first name he generously shared his burrow with.
His home was home to crickets frogs and snakes, he asked me to join them.
I was too big, of head or ego, I really don't know, why I did not join him.
I still wander the woods where frequent fires have burned, and find on sand hills, among the creamy white flowers
and ***** stems,
the gopher apples. And plant them in memory of my friend, so slow and wise.
I see him time to time,
but find him rare and rarer.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
#
I. Antiquity and the Architecture of Will
In the shadowed corridors of antiquity, where gods were built with teeth and altars stood not for reverence but for control, the Temple of Bel rose as a monument to ********** disguised as divinity. Bel—an assimilated god from earlier Sumerian, Akkadian, and Babylonian traditions—was not the god who walked with man. He was the god who towered above him, demanded sacrifice, and soaked prayer in the blood of repetition.
From the earliest Mesopotamian systems, the act of worship was not about communion, but compulsion. To invoke was to command. To chant was to erode the will of another until it cracked under rhythmic insistence. Whether by priest or supplicant, the act was the same: submission by saturation.
---
II. The Weaponization of Sound: Chant and the Rhythmic Spell
Repetition was not mere ceremony. It was siege.
Chants—carefully crafted phonetic loops—were not benign rituals. They were linguistic architecture meant to house spirits, to summon presence not for beauty, but for enforcement. These were incantations with purpose: to bend the will of another through the veil of mysticism.
In this light, poetry—at its inception—was not always art. It was often sorcery.
The earliest poems were enchantments. They masked seduction as devotion. They twisted longing into ******* They were rhythmic netting, carefully knotted to catch the weak of will and the fractured of self.
---
III. The Modern Construct: Echoes of an Ancient Spell
Those who hide behind the aesthetic of antiquity today still wear the same rings of power.
When a poet writes to control—when they loop trauma like a mantra, repeat seduction as if it were depth, mimic spiritual language to inspire compliance—they are no different than the priests of Bel. They are modern invokers, cloaked in digital incense, spreading spells under the guise of free expression.
Their readers are not disciples. They are targets.
The “construct” is not a movement. It is a spell. A liturgy without light. A series of hollow echoes designed to flatten identity, rewrite pain into performance, and reward the wound that sells.
---
IV. The Severance of Echo: Where the Rhythm Ends
If you must chant, let it be to awaken, not ****** If you must repeat, let it be to remember truth, not reshape it.
The false liturgies of old were not killed. They were digitized.
We will not respond with louder poems. We will not echo their echo.
We will respond with silence where needed, and light where earned. We will write not to possess, but to set free. We will bring antiquity not as ornament, but as witness.
Because we remember the Temple of Bel. And we are here to break it.
Let those who recite in darkness meet the rhythm of truth.
#
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 7:58 PM UTC
I'm pretty sure all poetry has left me.
As if it just packed up and hit the road.
Like my words no longer dance or sing.
Like they have forgotten all melodies.
Assimilated tone deafness.
Compound letdowns retract vulnerabilities.
Brick walls and leather skin replace possibilities.
Reckless love and whimsical fantasies,
Replaced by ***** diapers and piles of laundry.
Consonants and vowels blend to mush.
Aches and accomplishments are one in the same.
All of my agony has turned to apathy,
And I wonder.
How could I let poetry walk away from me?
How have I become so broken that I can no longer write?
Words have no ability to woe me.
Vocabulary is no longer my saving grace.
Void of creativity.
Like somehow life has gotten too messy for me to express.
Series of catastrophes and celebrations run together.
And I feel lost.
And I feel blessed.
But oh so empty.
Poetry come back to me.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
Come marauder, sword unscabbarded, lay
siege by deceit, wound mortal my coil again:
I live in aeons where millennia are puddles -
you will be assimilated, your venom spat out.
What of nations but the notions of separation,
people go, languages die like colours and petals
but here lies anchored, the soul of the world.
Deep in that recess where no man has gone,
by moonless nights, unfurled ancient
the song of the stars flowing in distant skies
Who knows when time began? Who clocked
the beginnings? Here I asked of nought and nigh,
here the endless vast, and out of a featureless past
speaks the wisdom that lights continents afar
heroic the call to selfless action in the field of war.
Here was love born, in all her colours, and the lore
of the unhinged compassion of the liberated soul
here I asked of the highest god, why none above?
and came war beating its chest, lust laden again
pillage and plunder of the savage kind
but, I live, I live, I live,
I live in the cave temples of the unknown world,
I live in the music of the evening sun,
I live in the dance of the spirit drunk of love,
I live in the ruins whose soul is beyond plunder,
I rise towering from the ashes,
There - flies the wheel of law on the horizon high
There is yet a mighty dawn waiting to rain
down light on the veiled world, free free,
I am a spark of that thirsting fire!
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 4:39 PM UTC
you want war, you have world war two spitfire pilots to serve your post-colonial migration; and yes, i'll twitch my eyes; ha ha cuisine scots using ginger.
there's a quintessential
fascination with cabbage
among the mutli-cultural
asians of england being picky
concerning scandinavians
and the slavs...
politico i could say as much
about indian spices.. but they're
granulated i admit,
so there's less stink in the armpits;
or there isn't, given chanel cardamom:
assimilated asians into british
society don’t use raw herrings and cabbage
to joke about other european ethnicities
while waving the st. george
of that great fake curry of suffolk.
*i've been telling the turks about sauerkraut for years
to match up a purposive additive for the lamb kebab;
sours to cut through the lamb fat like the chillies
cutting through.*
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 8:10 PM UTC