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Lurid pressure in perfect hiding,

Heat rises amidst quiet timing.

Covers conceal fingers,
And skin conceals-


Only from the blinded.

Flitting breath from lungs to neck,

Begging tongue,
And baiting breast.

Tentative flesh,
Upon tentative flesh,

What comes next?

Anything I want,

If this is,

Don't judge my #'s
Carina Sep 2018
Trapped in a cage with golden bars of light
Of ancient habit and direful duties;
Below the water crashed into the bight,
The whispering waves baiting with beauties.

But her shadow lurked around the coast,
Dashing her to the beach like drifting wood.
Preventing her from what she wanted the most
To reach new shores from where she stood.

She wanted to travel and sail the open sea
Beyond the shingle, seaweed and shells
Closer to the horizon where the birds flew free
Or to the arenaceous ground in diving bells.

And coming back to where she started
She found her seaside changed since she has parted.
Or did the widening horizon change her perceiving?
For returning was not the same as never leaving.
Dedicated to all those wandering souls who like to seek new horizons, who love travelling and experiencing the world with all its wonderful facets.
Xan Abyss Nov 2014
No Justice, No Peace
If we can't get it from the Court
then we'll take it from the Streets
No Justice, No Peace
**** the Police
and what you believe!

Whatever happened to Revolution
Being the American way?
When your voice remains unheard
For which you suffer every day,
Your life is constantly stepped on,
Your rights keep getting taken away,
And in spite of the lies they spin to protect your oppressors,
You still keep the rage at bay
Because you are not
Above the Law
and neither is anyone else.
So taking matters into your own hands
Isn't going to help.
You entrust the justice system
to do what it's supposed to
Even though you know it never has
and is probably never going to.
But if you haven't done anything wrong and the Law doesn't serve you,
and only seems to defend the people who've already hurt you,
then honestly I think it's insane and completely absurd to
not only expect the People not to react,
but to honor a *curfew

Do you hear us yet?
Oh, it's inappropriate?
You don't wanna talk about it?
You don't wanna think about it?
You don't wanna deal with it?
Well guess what?
Nobody ******* does, nobody ******* would, nobody ever ******* could.
But for the people who don't look like you -
Aryan Beauty Standards
Hair of Gold, Eyes of Blue
Fair-skinned, light-skinned
European skeleton,
It was never a choice they had.

Oppression doesn't pick you
Based on qualifications
Any more than Privilege does,
If you think this case
Is not about race
You better check your Privilege, cuz.

I love my home, America
But I hate what it's become
Land of the greedy, home of the afraid
Kingdom of the Loud and Dumb
****-shaming, victim-blaming, race-hating, race-baiting
Sensationalization of the worst crimes in the nation
Religious intolerance, homophobic misogyny, blatant racial discrimination
Can't get with it, can't hang
At least not in the lynch mob sense
I am blown the **** away
at the grievous absence of common sense.

So when they lit those flags on fire
in the center of the town
I understand, and I can't blame them
the flag is truer up in flames now
And if they so decide to burn
the city to the ground,
I understand, and I can't blame them
I would wanna burn it down

*No Justice, No Peace
If we can't get it from the Court
then we'll take it from the Streets
No Justice, No Peace
**** the Police
and **** your Beliefs!
This is about what you think.
Logan Robertson Aug 2018
those **** trolls fish for gloom
baiting your roses and bloom
behind their mask and costume
a guise filled with malice loom
there spans from the beasts womb
a monster preying your doom
they take your light to dark displume
like fishes facing the jaws of gloom
eliot watches schools get entomb
like a stepping stone to their fume
it takes no rocket scientist's broom
to sweep the trolls from the classroom
nears the hour of our death, trolls resume

Logan Robertson

I wrote this poem very impromptu, almost with a giggle like motivation. I was smitten with the attention it's receiving however how I wished it was divided, and a poem like, A Workplace Rendezvous (which I like more than this poem), received a peak (wordplay!)_
Bob B Jul 2019
(This poem can be sung to the tune of Gilbert and Sullivan's song "I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General.")

He is a prime example of a modern racist president.
What a shame he has to be the current White House resident.
He lacks so much in what it takes to truly be an honest man.
What is so amazing is how anyone can be a fan.
He knows how to maximize racial hatred. What a shame!
He wonders why he's criticized; he only has himself to blame.
Watch his motivations in the policies he puts in place.
To him race-baiting is the way to strongly galvanize his base.

To him race-baiting is the way to strongly galvanize his base.
To him race-baiting is the way to strongly galvanize his base.
To him race-baiting is the way to strongly galvanize his base, his base!

He knows how to stir the ***, for racists all give him a nod.
He has many people fooled to think that he's a man of God.
What a shame he has to be the current White House resident,
For he's a prime example of a modern racist president.

What a shame he has to be the current White House resident,
For he's a prime example of a modern racist president.

For many years he said Barack Obama wasn't born here. No!
His many racist words and actions date way back to long ago.
Now he's telling Congresswomen in a tweet and with a sneer
That they should go back home but it so happens that their home is here.
He never wants to criticize supporters' hateful, racist views.
Sadly, white supremacists are those from whom he gets his cues.
He doesn't think that putting kids in cages is insanity,
Or realize his policies are crimes against humanity.

Or realize his policies are crimes against humanity.
Or realize his policies are crimes against humanity.
Or realize his policies are crimes against human-humanity.

He knows to win elections all you have to do is lie and cheat.
He lashes out at other folks because he cannot take the heat.
What a shame he has to be the current White House resident,
For he's a prime example of a modern racist president.

What a shame he has to be the current White House resident,
For he's a prime example of a modern racist president.

-by Bob B (7-16-19)
Tyler G Dec 2012
I am the shattered glass on your speckled floor. I am your blatant disregard; I am your car’s speedometer: the needle is well into the triple digits. I am the fresh rain on the old asphalt, the slick, frictionless surface between rubber and wet asphalt.
I am disease, destruction.
I am the spirit that breaks up families; I am a home wrecker. I am six years of marriage, a strong bond, destroyed. I am seventeen years, two houses, two marriages, two divorces. I destroy, I break, I mistreat, I use. I disobey.
I am apathy; “Who cares?” I am natural disasters, I plague your towns and ruin your ecosystems. I am global warming, holes in the Ozone; holes in your brain. I am ecstasy, euphoria, nostalgia; I am illicit substances. I am good, I am bad, right, wrong. I am “three lefts make a right”.
I am your daily struggle; your endeavors to abscond from conformity, from similarity, one-mindedness. Social destruction internally, from the people within. We eat away at our own regime, scouring for anyone different to spite them while we chew away and succumb to our own insanities while the nonconformists, the infidels, the rebels, the heretics, they stand by and watch you. We are different, but join together as one physically, and watch you, you mentally attached beings, destroy yourselves with your pretty clothes, expensive makeup and two door cars.
I resist, I defy, I am a renegade from the mental oneness. I have my personal oneness, and that’s what I am. I am one being, one soul, one complete set of organs, bones, tissues and veins, one sentient form. I am the laughter in your ears, the heckles from your classmates. You are your insecurity, I am your apathy.
This is my harangue, my lecture to society, my discourse of great unconcern. You all, you all one mental being whom cannot think for themselves until conjoined with someone as the same likeness. You cannot understand these words I repress your likeness mindfuck with. My apathy is wasted on the ignorant, the solitary conformation, the greedy mind ***** of this world; you longing to be like someone else. You want to fit in, and henceforth, my words have been squandered, left here on this domain to take up space, this viable invention carrying one more nonsensical harassment of the conformers. I am the freckles on your face, I am the birthmarks on your skin. I am the dandruff in your hair, the pimples on your face, the purity of your skin sans daily application of makeup to hide the imperfections that everyone has, that everyone knows about, the imperfections that you don’t want people to think you have. You wish to be a divine being, one without mistakes, from birth to death, your celestial life will be filled with lies that the conformers are force fed. They crave that. You all crave ***** lies, filthy gossip.
I am a loaded gun; I am the second amendment of this worthless country’s constitution. I am the Hemp paper it’s written on; the implausibilities of this country, this state of oneness, conforming. I am the embarrassment you seek to shun from your life. “Oh my God, dad, stop embarrassing me!” You are your phone bills, you are lethargy with regards to other humans’ emotions.
You lead the conformers; they aspire to be you. You shoot down the differences of the nonconformists. You dash individuality and support pop culture, a culture of mental oneness. You are your disgust and I am rewarded. You hate me because I’m not you, we are not connected through the same telepathic, social, daily mindfuck. We love that; I want you to hate me, because I am winning. I am winning your war against yourself. By being different, I have, unbeknownst to you, pitted that piece of your brain that has been unaffected by your grand scheme of oneness against yourself.
You are bemused, destroyed from within, yet you fight it, because you are connected with millions of others through one enormous mindfuck, like aliens. You all dress the same and have the same values. I am different. I am fine with walking alone, I know how to handle myself alone and I am not afraid to be alone. Point your pristine fingers at me, cover your mouths and giggle when I walk passed; those pristine fingertips will only seek to find the comfort of a cellphone or a keyboard - a reliable second option to your oneness. So go ahead, be the same children, live a robotic life of ignorance and wealth, go, live like kings and queens.
I am happy for who I am and where I’ve gotten because I am different, and you have yet to realize each time you ridicule me, shun me, disregard my absurd practices, you are defeating yourself; it makes me better. I am detached from you, from your continental mindfuck, your baiting fear of singularity, uniqueness. I am unique, different, single; I am also joined together of my own oneness, a oneness of will, of physical bonds between different people. I learn to adapt, to accept; you will botch the young, restless years of your life becoming one with everyone through mental bonds of instability, ignorance, of togetherness.
I am the strength which you lack and cannot learn. I am what I want and there is no feasible way for me to lose faith, my individuality. Point your fingers at me; you are defeating yourself.
I. The Door

Out of it steps our future, through this door
Enigmas, executioners and rules,
Her Majesty in a bad temper or
A red-nosed Fool who makes a fool of fools.

Great persons eye it in the twilight for
A past it might so carelessly let in,
A widow with a missionary grin,
The foaming inundation at a roar.

We pile our all against it when afraid,
And beat upon its panels when we die:
By happening to be open once, it made

Enormous Alice see a wonderland
That waited for her in the sunshine and,
Simply by being tiny, made her cry.

II. The Preparations

All had been ordered weeks before the start
From the best firms at such work: instruments
To take the measure of all queer events,
And drugs to move the bowels or the heart.

A watch, of course, to watch impatience fly,
Lamps for the dark and shades against the sun;
Foreboding, too, insisted on a gun,
And coloured beads to soothe a savage eye.

In theory they were sound on Expectation,
Had there been situations to be in;
Unluckily they were their situation:

One should not give a poisoner medicine,
A conjurer fine apparatus, nor
A rifle to a melancholic bore.

III. The Crossroads

Two friends who met here and embraced are gone,
Each to his own mistake; one flashes on
To fame and ruin in a rowdy lie,
A village torpor holds the other one,
Some local wrong where it takes time to die:
This empty junction glitters in the sun.

So at all quays and crossroads: who can tell
These places of decision and farewell
To what dishonour all adventure leads,
What parting gift could give that friend protection,
So orientated his vocation needs
The Bad Lands and the sinister direction?

All landscapes and all weathers freeze with fear,
But none have ever thought, the legends say,
The time allowed made it impossible;
For even the most pessimistic set
The limit of their errors at a year.
What friends could there be left then to betray,
What joy take longer to atone for; yet
Who could complete without the extra day
The journey that should take no time at all?

IV. The Traveler

No window in his suburb lights that bedroom where
A little fever heard large afternoons at play:
His meadows multiply; that mill, though, is not there
Which went on grinding at the back of love all day.

Nor all his weeping ways through weary wastes have found
The castle where his Greater Hallows are interned;
For broken bridges halt him, and dark thickets round
Some ruin where an evil heritage was burned.

Could he forget a child's ambition to be old
And institutions where it learned to wash and lie,
He'd tell the truth for which he thinks himself too young,

That everywhere on his horizon, all the sky,
Is now, as always, only waiting to be told
To be his father's house and speak his mother tongue.

V. The City

In villages from which their childhoods came
Seeking Necessity, they had been taught
Necessity by nature is the same
No matter how or by whom it be sought.

The city, though, assumed no such belief,
But welcomed each as if he came alone,
The nature of Necessity like grief
Exactly corresponding to his own.

And offered them so many, every one
Found some temptation fit to govern him,
And settled down to master the whole craft

Of being nobody; sat in the sun
During the lunch-hour round the fountain rim,
And watched the country kids arrive, and laughed.

VI. The First Temptation

Ashamed to be the darling of his grief,
He joined a gang of rowdy stories where
His gift for magic quickly made him chief
Of all these boyish powers of the air;

Who turned his hungers into Roman food,
The town's asymmetry into a park;
All hours took taxis; any solitude
Became his flattered duchess in the dark.

But, if he wished for anything less grand,
The nights came padding after him like wild
Beasts that meant harm, and all the doors cried Thief;

And when Truth had met him and put out her hand,
He clung in panic to his tall belief
And shrank away like an ill-treated child.

VII. The Second Temptation

His library annoyed him with its look
Of calm belief in being really there;
He threw away a rival's boring book,
And clattered panting up the spiral stair.

Swaying upon the parapet he cried:
"O Uncreated Nothing, set me free,
Now let Thy perfect be identified,
Unending passion of the Night, with Thee."

And his long-suffering flesh, that all the time
Had felt the simple cravings of the stone
And hoped to be rewarded for her climb,

Took it to be a promise when he spoke
That now at last she would be left alone,
And plunged into the college quad, and broke.

VIII. The Third Temptation

He watched with all his organs of concern
How princes walk, what wives and children say,
Re-opened old graves in his heart to learn
What laws the dead had died to disobey,

And came reluctantly to his conclusion:
"All the arm-chair philosophies are false;
To love another adds to the confusion;
The song of mercy is the Devil's Waltz."

All that he put his hand to prospered so
That soon he was the very King of creatures,
Yet, in an autumn nightmare trembled, for,

Approaching down a ruined corridor,
Strode someone with his own distorted features
Who wept, and grew enormous, and cried Woe.

IX. The Tower

This is an architecture for the old;
Thus heaven was attacked by the afraid,
So once, unconsciously, a ****** made
Her maidenhead conspicuous to a god.

Here on dark nights while worlds of triumph sleep
Lost Love in abstract speculation burns,
And exiled Will to politics returns
In epic verse that makes its traitors weep.

Yet many come to wish their tower a well;
For those who dread to drown, of thirst may die,
Those who see all become invisible:

Here great magicians, caught in their own spell,
Long for a natural climate as they sigh
"Beware of Magic" to the passer-by.

X. The Presumptuous

They noticed that virginity was needed
To trap the unicorn in every case,
But not that, of those virgins who succeeded,
A high percentage had an ugly face.

The hero was as daring as they thought him,
But his peculiar boyhood missed them all;
The angel of a broken leg had taught him
The right precautions to avoid a fall.

So in presumption they set forth alone
On what, for them, was not compulsory,
And stuck half-way to settle in some cave
With desert lions to domesticity,

Or turned aside to be absurdly brave,
And met the ogre and were turned to stone.

XI. The Average

His peasant parents killed themselves with toil
To let their darling leave a stingy soil
For any of those fine professions which
Encourage shallow breathing, and grow rich.

The pressure of their fond ambition made
Their shy and country-loving child afraid
No sensible career was good enough,
Only a hero could deserve such love.

So here he was without maps or supplies,
A hundred miles from any decent town;
The desert glared into his blood-shot eyes,
The silence roared displeasure:
looking down,
He saw the shadow of an Average Man
Attempting the exceptional, and ran.

XII. Vocation

Incredulous, he stared at the amused
Official writing down his name among
Those whose request to suffer was refused.

The pen ceased scratching: though he came too late
To join the martyrs, there was still a place
Among the tempters for a caustic tongue

To test the resolution of the young
With tales of the small failings of the great,
And shame the eager with ironic praise.

Though mirrors might be hateful for a while,
Women and books would teach his middle age
The fencing wit of an informal style,
To keep the silences at bay and cage
His pacing manias in a worldly smile.

XIII. The Useful

The over-logical fell for the witch
Whose argument converted him to stone,
Thieves rapidly absorbed the over-rich,
The over-popular went mad alone,
And kisses brutalised the over-male.

As agents their importance quickly ceased;
Yet, in proportion as they seemed to fail,
Their instrumental value was increased
For one predestined to attain their wish.

By standing stones the blind can feel their way,
Wild dogs compel the cowardly to fight,
Beggars assist the slow to travel light,
And even madmen manage to convey
Unwelcome truths in lonely gibberish.

XIV. The Way

Fresh addenda are published every day
To the encyclopedia of the Way,

Linguistic notes and scientific explanations,
And texts for schools with modernised spelling and illustrations.

Now everyone knows the hero must choose the old horse,
Abstain from liquor and ****** *******,

And look out for a stranded fish to be kind to:
Now everyone thinks he could find, had he a mind to,

The way through the waste to the chapel in the rock
For a vision of the Triple Rainbow or the Astral Clock,

Forgetting his information comes mostly from married men
Who liked fishing and a flutter on the horses now and then.

And how reliable can any truth be that is got
By observing oneself and then just inserting a Not?

XV. The Lucky

Suppose he'd listened to the erudite committee,
He would have only found where not to look;
Suppose his terrier when he whistled had obeyed,
It would not have unearthed the buried city;
Suppose he had dismissed the careless maid,
The cryptogram would not have fluttered from the book.

"It was not I," he cried as, healthy and astounded,
He stepped across a predecessor's skull;
"A nonsense jingle simply came into my head
And left the intellectual Sphinx dumbfounded;
I won the Queen because my hair was red;
The terrible adventure is a little dull."

Hence Failure's torment: "Was I doomed in any case,
Or would I not have failed had I believed in Grace?"

XVI. The Hero

He parried every question that they hurled:
"What did the Emperor tell you?" "Not to push."
"What is the greatest wonder of the world?"
"The bare man Nothing in the Beggar's Bush."

Some muttered: "He is cagey for effect.
A hero owes a duty to his fame.
He looks too like a grocer for respect."
Soon they slipped back into his Christian name.

The only difference that could be seen
From those who'd never risked their lives at all
Was his delight in details and routine:

For he was always glad to mow the grass,
Pour liquids from large bottles into small,
Or look at clouds through bits of coloured glass.

XVII. Adventure

Others had found it prudent to withdraw
Before official pressure was applied,
Embittered robbers outlawed by the Law,
Lepers in terror of the terrified.

But no one else accused these of a crime;
They did not look ill: old friends, overcome,
Stared as they rolled away from talk and time
Like marbles out into the blank and dumb.

The crowd clung all the closer to convention,
Sunshine and horses, for the sane know why
The even numbers should ignore the odd:

The Nameless is what no free people mention;
Successful men know better than to try
To see the face of their Absconded God.

XVIII. The Adventurers

Spinning upon their central thirst like tops,
They went the Negative Way towards the Dry;
By empty caves beneath an empty sky
They emptied out their memories like slops,

Which made a foul marsh as they dried to death,
Where monsters bred who forced them to forget
The lovelies their consent avoided; yet,
Still praising the Absurd with their last breath,

They seeded out into their miracles:
The images of each grotesque temptation
Became some painter's happiest inspiration,

And barren wives and burning virgins came
To drink the pure cold water of their wells,
And wish for beaux and children in their name.

XIX. The Waters

Poet, oracle, and wit
Like unsuccessful anglers by
The ponds of apperception sit,
Baiting with the wrong request
The vectors of their interest,
At nightfall tell the angler's lie.

With time in tempest everywhere,
To rafts of frail assumption cling
The saintly and the insincere;
Enraged phenomena bear down
In overwhelming waves to drown
Both sufferer and suffering.

The waters long to hear our question put
Which would release their longed-for answer, but.

**. The Garden

Within these gates all opening begins:
White shouts and flickers through its green and red,
Where children play at seven earnest sins
And dogs believe their tall conditions dead.

Here adolescence into number breaks
The perfect circle time can draw on stone,
And flesh forgives division as it makes
Another's moment of consent its own.

All journeys die here: wish and weight are lifted:
Where often round some old maid's desolation
Roses have flung their glory like a cloak,

The gaunt and great, the famed for conversation
Blushed in the stare of evening as they spoke
And felt their centre of volition shifted.
Theholycrow Mar 2017
And if I make it til tomorrow, I'll let you knock me down to size. I'll stop this ugly petty show. I won't ask you to empathize.

And if tomorrow comes for me, I won't be so self absorbed, I'll do more for you and them, I won't leave you so ignored.

And if I make it til tomorrow, I'll tell my Dad it's not his fault. I'll take the blame for my side of things, I'll be more grateful for what he brought.

And if tomorrow comes for me, I'll fight the urge to rediscover what that needle's all about, I'll leave that up to another.

(and I won't have to write that note apologizing to my mother.)

And if I make it til tomorrow, I'll take the time to treat you right. I'll back off when you are tired, I'll back you up in the fight.

But today is no good, there's nothing left, I'm all alone. I burned each bridge back to life, I've blocked the route to hope and love. So, so long, goodbye tomorrow, I wont be there if you come. Tonight, I'm here, freeing you, as I become a setting sun. Just like that stupid song that was sang by Neil Young.
aar505n Dec 2014
Sunrise at Newgrange
Sunset at Stonehenge.

Value those precious
hours of light
before it is devoured
by the devious night.

The dense darkness
can sense your fears
and hear your tears

Soon to devour
your sour flesh
Leaving a fresh
carcass in the darkness

And where is my
Great Dark Hope?
Gone to get the rope
hiding in the shadows
baiting her time
Until we are at our weakest

The last thing we will see
are the Darkest Eyes
then hope no more
As our door is closed
and locked

This is the Winter Solstice
This bitter hiss
Death's long and last kiss
Onoma Nov 2013
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space...
(attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...
A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and
whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed...
for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs.
Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled--
fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook.
...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed
absentia...holy and bovine.
Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore--
eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers
and sisters.
As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease
of amorousness.
Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady...
live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling.
Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots
enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary
correspondence of authored and Author.
...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push.
Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth.
NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
Bobby Ray Bagley Jul 2015
Mona Lisa 7 days in,
Beaten lost confused terrified
Recovery gangstA in the hood,
Pushpush, pulloull,bimbam,
Coach hollering at her,
Sarge growling at her...

He hates her, she can't do this,
It just don't work.
But she ain't using
She starts back eating,
And this ******* starts cleaning her house,
Fixing her bathroom,
Pruning her yard,
But he hates her...

Minute by minute,
Hour by hour,
The Spirit grows
Mona getting stronger
Listening, taking,working
Following the suggestions
Maybe, just maybe,
There is a Wizard of OZ,
.   BUT he hates her...
Josh Hall Dec 2013
ADP and ATP,
DNA calamity.
RNA provides ridicule and cruelty.
Death note delivery.

Blood laughs and screams as it pours from slit veins.
It doesn't care about the souls its owner has stained!
What have you feigned?
What selflessness remains?
None to be sure as parasitic reality you frame.

What are we then?
Surely not worth baiting.
An existential lion's den.
But does it matter if we're waiting?
The most important question is "When?"

We exist to cause our problems,
to eliminate the heretic race.
It's a race that know one wins when,
They always have their problems to chase.

So enlighten us with,
Your sacred soul's bliss,
Or grow up from this tantrum of toil and ****.

Science of religion,
An oxymoron to say the least.
It is one thing to take the message.
Another to let your mind waste.

Savor what you have to the nucleus of your soul.
Know what makes you righteous.
Know it well and full.
Know what you live life for.
We're abiotic to assume that we "know" things we won't search for.
Chris Saitta Sep 2019
She walked out of the watercolor storm of a fresco
Like a cowl-bound form in a light drizzle of rain,
Her mosaic tiles of ancient lovers’ eyes, ceramic-borne,
Just as her hips held the curves of the urn, kiln-fired,
The coiled heat of Greece still stinging through her flesh.

For her, the treetops had been the summoners of storm,
In kind, she poured down the wet grove of her hair, electral,
Pantheress of humid breath and fanged flair of lightning,
Tamed once in the cloudy cage of Pentelic marble of the Parthenon.

But the world piled dust before her, baiting with its groveled roads,
For her black mullings, much-tasted rain, and heaven’s leaves to fall.
If only the Michelango-to-come had carved the clouds of her
For the light to remain, shining its centuries,
Then maybe the thunder would have been left undone.
Samridhi Kumar Oct 2010
Once upon a time in a land far far away,
Lived a beautiful girl who slogged night and day.
She washed the clothes and scrubbed the pots,
Wishing one day she’d be picked from the lots.
With no father to her name, she was a pawn in her stepmom’s game.
While her two ugly step sisters sat, munching away like a big fat rat.
For this is the story of the  maid Cinderella, the fairest maiden, a beautiful bella.
Who sat around waiting for her Prince charming, who was busy fighting trolls and all harming.
But he was to return soon and hold a ball, sizing up each young lady like a doll.
The invites rolled out, the floor was set
And Cinderella was sure her fate was now met.
She begged and pleaded and cried and prayed,
“To be allowed to the biggest ball.” She said.
Alas! It fell on stoic deaf ears and she braced to face her stepsisters’ leers.
The night of the ball dawned clear and bright
Whilst Cinderella sat in a corner all tight.
Her uglies powdered and primped while she sat with a custard she’d whipped.
It was a night of the starry light; Cinderella sat in her garden light,
Wishing she had a life anew, blowing away the wintery dew.
When “POP” burst a bubble and rang a beagle.
For in front of her sat a lady in red,
Chomping away on a grape in her bed.
She picked her wand and gave it a twirl and Cinderella was clasped in a dress of blue swirl.
“Fairy Godmother” she said she was
And Cinderella, she said “was a big lost cause.”
She turned the pumpkin into an orange carriage.
To charter her to her Prince for marriage.
The three white mice became a noble steed, so Cinderella had to go indeed.
She daintily lifted her feet to the clippers
And lo! They were covered in pale glass slippers.
“Enjoy the dance child, have a fun night.
But return fast when the clock strikes midnight.
For it is a charm that will not last, bringing back drudgeries from your past.”
Said her fairy godmother so fair as she sat braiding her thick long hair.
The dance was in full swing but he sat waiting;
The couples danced amongst the lights and all baiting.
And then she descended as if from heaven and he let go of his suitors, all seven.
Their eyes met and things were said hitherto unknown, he now her led.
They danced under the moon so bright as the fairy godmother observed from a height.
He bent down to steal from her a kiss, but the clock struck twelve and she gave him a miss.
She ran ahead with him in tow as the footmen looked up from their bow.
Cinderella ran down the steps, jumping into the carriage she was soon swept.
The Prince looked up all morose and sad; for it was the best dance he’d ever had.
An object glistened and caught his eye; A glass slipper sat ever so sly.
And he had a scheme, a wish and a plan.
To find his princess like no other man.
Soon life at the house was all she had, for Cinderella it was a dream too sad.
A knight sounded at her door and the uglies ran out seeking for more.
The Prince had come, the knight proclaimed.
To find his princess was the aim.
He held out a pretty tiny glass shoe; to find the maiden, it belonged to who.
The uglies stepped in, right with their foot, but the shoe didn’t bulge and the crowd gave a hoot.
“Is this all there is?” the Prince asked and the stepmom nodded keeping Cinderella masked.
But the knight spotted a foot sticking out from a dress,
Calling out to the prince, he asked him to address,
The maiden who clutched a spoon to her heart and in that instant he knew she was his art.
He pushed past the onlookers to the waiting girl and slipped the shoe in to her as his heart gave a twirl.
For it was the best match, a perfect fit.
The kingdom cried with joy and Cinderella was a hit.
A princess was she now and this is the story of it how.
For she was Cinderella;
The fairest maid, the beautiful bella.
Sorrow Nov 2012
One day I felt that sleep would do me good, and that one day just never stopped.
Falling without feeling,
without thinking,
even knowing.
This steadiness sees nothing end.
A constant,
a stagnant,
there's no such thing as propulsion;
no say or do of any kind.
Just this bleak, empty void, that fogs up my mind.
Begingings must come for an end.
I'd stay there, just not here.
Next time I might know when.
You stood across, the corner's gaslight.
Watching, baiting, biding your time waiting,
tell me what you mean by those words.
But I can't ask.
I forget, I'm asleep.
That night is so long ago.
I'd wish it back here, replay the scene, in the doorway.
Change my words,
just this once.
One last time.
Instead, I'm asleep.
Stare into the white.
Stretch to see,
understand what you mean,
there is no possibility.
L E Dow Aug 2010
You bait me, feed me words to break, so I might break you. I won’t, I can’t. Not because it will hurt you or because I don’t notice, but because I’m afraid the petty words are true. Five thousand instances to back them running through my head.
“Just like the others,” you say and look straight ahead at the apartments we’re parked in front of. It’s hot, stuffy, you’ve got the car shut off and you’re pushing buttons hoping one will work.
Marriage. Months ago you said “I look forward to seeing you all in white,” Or “I can’t wait to marry you.”
Is this what happened with the others? Am I anything special? Probably not, you’ve spilled the same speech about illusions to them as well. How many girls have you promised marriage? Forever? Being different?
Maybe I’m the only one, maybe I’m one of fifty. I’ll never know; I’ll keep loving you, and ignore your bait. I’m not hungry.
Copyright 2010 by Lauren E. Dow
Nathan Pival Mar 2015
Sometimes I'm not sure
The battle between
Right and wrong,
What is best
It's confusing
And kills time


Go with your heart
When there is ***** involved
Explain yourself

Life isn't fair
Those are the rules
Jamie Lee Mar 2015
Whether it's winter and skiing,
or it's spring site-seeing,
Either summer and biking,
or even late fall hiking;
Whistler has it all.

From snowshoeing to canoeing,
even as far as golf to frolf,
Whistler is the place to be,
with so much for you to see.

There's zip-lining to fine dining,
or ice skating and fish baiting,
including a tour of bears,
you choose your story to share.

Many come from far away,
just to live the Whistler day,
as we bring people together,
while they make memories forever,
because Whistler has it all.
Written on 2015-03-21 // Copyright ©2015 Jamie Johnson.
David R Oct 2018
Veiled in lies, the snake lies waiting,
Venom'd fangs, jaws dilating,
Salivating, watching, baiting,
Sure to pounce, mutilating.

With forked tongue, she paints my heart black,
Drips her poison into my kidneys,
Sinks her talons into my bare back,
Cuts raw innocence to jagged pieces.

My name is silence, my job to suffer,
Make no sound, nor word utter,
Though the dragon spits forth fire,
George shall guard himself from ire.
PAST arthritic decrepit elderly female wearing traditional black southern Mediterranean clothing long silver hair braid sits in stiff wooden chair

PRESENT handsome athletic 21-year-old male soldier in tan uniform stands at ease

FUTURE eye-catching 32-year-old female wearing spaghetti-strap dark slate gray slinky cocktail dress 3” black Italian calf heals long loose brown red hair red fingernails lipstick

act 1 scene 1

PAST (clasped hands) you’re ruining everything

PRESENT get out of the way old woman you don’t belong here anymore

PAST (hands gesture) you think you’re making things better look around the earth is a toilet of human errors accidents self-destruction violence greed corruption horrible secrets

PRESENT be quiet old woman silence hear me shut the **** up (short pause) what? you think your former oppressive hierarchies were better

FUTURE talk ***** to me

PAST shush up girl

PRESENT let the pretty lady speak

FUTURE (coquette stride across stage) i have a vision a world where everyone is equal living in harmony shared respect appreciation for each other we’re entering a critical crossroads extraordinary passage in time

PRESENT you hear what the pretty lady said

PAST she’s baiting you hook line and sinker

PRESENT (male bravado stance) you wrinkled bitter blind old woman can’t you see feel this critical crossroads extraordinary passage in time

PAST i know a black widow when i see one

FUTURE who you calling black widow you old witch

PAST i remember when food was good natural cows chickens lived happy neighbors were neighborly you could walk home at night without looking over your shoulder or stick out your thumb hitch a ride or if you drove up to a stop sign no one was in front of you people greeted each other as they passed it wasn’t that far back just 50 years ago

PRESENT ***** you old woman i don’t know what time that was what were you some privileged person

FUTURE let’s order pizza

PAST who can eat at a time like this

PRESENT pepperoni and mushroom

FUTURE mushroom tomato basil no meat


PAST you’re escaping into comfort food immediate gratification

FUTURE why must you judge everything

PRESENT i’m with pretty lady pass away old witch let the future and me figure this out

PAST don’t say i didn’t warn you all this banter has exhausted me i need a little nap (she tilts head closes eyes slumps in chair)

act 1 scene 2

PRESENT (swaggers up to eye-catching female) perfect now you pretty lady and i can get more familiar with each other know what i mean

FUTURE what do you have in mind

PRESENT pardon my straightforwardness i’m shooting for 69 you know what that is

FUTURE hmmm uhh yes i know what that is

PRESENT you mind spreading open those long lovely legs of yours and let me see what you got hidden there

FUTURE you think you’re man enough to see what i’ve got hidden here

PRESENT oh yes ma’am

FUTURE lie down on your back on the floor

PRESENT anyway you want it i’m glad to oblige you ma’am

FUTURE (lifts dress to waist and stands over his head) like what you see

PRESENT oohhh you are a beauty my mouth is watering please let me have a taste

FUTURE (bends knees squats above his head sinks pelvic area into his face) give me your best shot soldier boy

PRESENT mmmmmmm (long pause)

FUTURE ease up (pause) it’s a delicate flower slow gently treat it like an intricate story plot construct it carefully strong foundation listen to my breathing heartbeat feel my muscles flex follow mounting rhythm by rhythm building to crescendo

PRESENT (long pause) how am i doing

FUTURE terrible (stands ***** drops dress walks away) you’re all over the place no skill discipline direction you need to be more precise more anticipatory more presence of mind less messy rashness

PRESENT no girl ever told me that before

FUTURE probably because she was so grateful to see your face down there she would not think to ask for more but i’m the future and my needs are more demanding

PRESENT you sure do smell and taste good ma’am may i please have another shot

FUTURE listen up soldier boy i know understand you you’re a man with needs that torment you i think you have been going through this long before i knew you i see through your tough veneer i have an idea what haunts you

PRESENT what do you mean what haunts me

FUTURE maybe you didn’t get enough love from mom dad was never around none of your teachers at school knew how to get through to you now look at yourself soldier boy you’re fighting a war inside and out trying to save something that can’t be saved the world is changing faster than you can keep up do you honestly think your life and labors will have any effect on me

PRESENT i don’t understand

FUTURE i’m on the horizon you desperately need me (pause) and i don’t need you

act 1 scene 3

PAST shut up i can’t get any rest around here can’t stand hearing all this drama gibberish

PRESENT you’ve been listening (pause) you heard everything

PAST i’ve heard enough to make my stomach turn sour i don’t need to hear any more of this crap

FUTURE (flexed posture eyes glare at elderly female) don’t give me reason to trash you

PAST you think i’m afraid of you

FUTURE i mean it old witch i’ll annihilate you

PRESENT what’s happening here i don’t understand let’s all just chill

FUTURE stay out of this soldier boy it’s between the old witch and me

PAST (stands from chair raises arms revealing long black shawl) you think i am a feeble old woman or witch as you like to call me but my power goes beyond your imaginings wherever you go i will follow track you down haunt you infect you with your errors accidents self-destruction violence greed corruption horrible secrets

FUTURE shut up shut up you’re ruining everything (frantically rushes to edge of stage looks out searching audience paces back and forth hands cover ears)

PRESENT i’m lost who do i believe listen to

PAST (spreads arms out like wings) you want to know about the future i’ll tell you i can see right through her lies it’s a world devoid of fish in the seas or creatures in the forest instead industrial farming complexes producing genetically altered strains of cattle pig chicken flavorless fruits vegetables grains toxic black oceans toxic black skies stifling temperatures coastal cities swamped swarms of vermin parasites oh lest i forget trillions upon trillions of humans and robots robots!

FUTURE (abducts arms) but what about my beautiful vision a world where everyone is equal living in harmony shared respect appreciation for each other

PAST you’re in love with your own deceptions foolish woman you can’t possibly believe the sins of the past will ever let go of you

FUTURE that’s it you ***** you die (attacks old woman’s throat strangling)

PRESENT (intervenes pulling enraged female off elderly female) please stop this fighting stop your hostility

PAST (coughing choking trouble speaking) it’s up to you now soldier boy what will you do

PRESENT i need fresh air i have to go get away from here goodbye to both of you

FUTURE not so fast

PAST in a way we’re all joined at the hip understand soldier boy now lie down on your back on the floor there’s something i’ve got hidden if you’re man enough to see (lifts skirt hem)

FUTURE i want in on this

PRESENT oh god
Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s Life.

As the clock strikes
midnight in a perfect world,
they only want to know one thing:
What does your soul look like?

In the beginning, three sat together
in darkness, sweating and chewing miraa,
talking of unlikely things and dreams
while ******* down Tusker.
It was refreshing to be nobody,
soft baiting the line
and wasting time
gambling shilingi.

The sun outside set sooner than expected,
dipping well below the low buildings,
so they ventured out into the cobalt
blue evening, not thinking too much
about who might be listening,
speaking bravely as their words
and jokes slowed down beside
shadows beyond the city lights.

Laughing more, the three hopped on
a matatu at Kimkambala, smelling
the final wisps of dinner in each
passing village, watching as a purse
got pulled just paces from the road,
until they got off by Fort Jesus.

Further and further, they treaded home,
walking alongside the Indian Ocean -
Through the thick, green night, almost
fog-like, tip-toeing by an old man and
his flashlight; he slept soundly on
the steps of that corner storefront.

The three whispered their goodbyes,
and headed separate ways.

The youngest of them slid easily between the
narrow alleyways, and finally through braided
black bars. With the turn of a treasure-chest key,
he was back in the courtyard, walking past the
stripped bones of yesterday’s catch, where he
decided to make his permanent address, today.

He had dwelled where dreams are born,
but only for a day, and searched to find
sunset in the tip of a cup – when the
sunset was enough. He knew
that it was too much as he asked
a stranger to fill him up to the brim,
and told him not to worry, he would
say “when.” He had worked hard to
lay down his guilt on the altar, and not
return to gin, making this decision:

He decided that being
born to homeless winds
doesn’t mean that you
have to be homeless, and
as he climbed the broom-swept
maroon steps, up to the roof, he
breathed deeply. How pleasant
it was to look out onto the sea,
reflecting the pearly moon,
so beautifully.
Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009
Wade Redfearn Feb 2010
Adam and Eve were born of flesh,
and woke from sleep, when God addressed
them both.
"Here is the world - unsoiled, unstained
(The sheet of the sea hides her breast and her veins.)
The time is uncertain; the end is ordained
and when it is finished, begin it again."

They saw God, saw
Lucifer, saw the tree:
felt oppressed. The world
was young but the book had
been opened. All stories conclude
in words and in gestures, wild and crude.
(They left heaven, fled to
the ambergris ocean, the
silk hills.)

Mad, they went to Egypt, built
Cairo in the delta where
her legs met, Thebes where
her eyes beat on the cataract
made cities on
her body on
credit, faith, and lust.
Until the groaning hungry ibis
and the famine drove them out.

From Egypt to Rome,
Adam to Caesar,
In Pliny's manuscript, Adam said:
"Here is Rome
a senate in your sympathy
an orphanage in your heart.
Come to his flat avenue, can't you
feel how far I've walked, on every flagstone?
Witness beaten sandals, frayed thongs;
feel your posture sag? I want to rest,
and I want you to help. I sat on the banks
of the Tiber; has Rome washed into my lap?
The streets are the furrows of my skin.

She said:
"I like a fire at my fingertips, not
bellowed to me under the floor."
Rome fell to that barbarian.

God reminded them again.
Adam said:
"The knowledge is good, but it isn't a cure
for an Eden that seems so unlike the brochure."
He pulled back the skin of earth, and found,
a beating heart beneath the ground.
He knew, for once, the world would die.

They went to ***** London, unhappy with
the lot of Rome. Amid the stench of a filthy Thames,
his blood ran with offal, with hate,
leached from the baiting pit, and she
did, too, in the ugly city,
from Knightsbridge to the sea.
They fought like monsters, fought a curse
that God foresaw, and they rehearsed.
An ugly city, from Knightsbridge to the sea,
and full of bitter folk.

Such is the end, a world
embalmed in salt and sand,
the leaves burned away; no cities
only orphaned tenderness under
ruined arches and aquaducts, wishing ill
but wanting that world returned,
and crying, yes, but knowing still,
their end was near; for all they yearned.

We have read this story cover to cover;
let Eve close the book, and pray in her sleep while
Adam dusts his hands,
and God begins anew.
Just ask me.
Anna Jordan Mar 2010
The God of War sat upon his throne
In a wing of the Olympus palace
Under the sun his bloodied-eyes shone
Setting atremble his servants, Discord and Malice.

The wars below, as he viewed
Were hard fought and stalemates, it seemed
He sighed and spat, quite bemused
Why could no winner be deemed?

His bed of flesh from enemies gone
He rested within its dermal folds
The howl of the dying, singing its song
As Apollo’s chariot grew far and cold.

The roaring clamor of vicious scandal
Woke him from a bloodlight dream
And he looked below at victim and vandal
Appalled at the disastrous scene.

And Now, with Eos rise to morn
As the dew mixed with blood and sweat
Discord arrived to comfort her lord
Her company he did not regret.

“You have seen my battles
Look now below and explain
Mankind has become brainless as cattle
Look how they are, vile and maimed,”

“Milord, I see,” she spoke with grace
And her eyes did glint with fire
“Perhaps if you showed another face
The battle would be what you desire.”

And though her words were softly spoken
The answer they did present
And Great God Mars felt, at once, heartbroken
A message had to be sent.

Mercury, the winged messenger
With winged sandals and helmet
Arrived to be the harbinger
And was told to fly beyond the sunset.

“Beyond the sun and stars
There is a palace where a woman sits
Tell her that our Lord, God Mars
Invites her here, if she permits.”

Discord and Malice saw him off
And sweet Hermes, how he did fly
For the sound of war was not far-off
And nightly he heard people die.

The palace beyond the heavenly sky
Was one of silky web and silver
And within its courtyards did lie
A splendid woman that made him quiver.

This woman was Lady Nike
The very Goddess of Victory
Sister to Strength, Force and Rivalry
Who had fought the Titans in day old Glory.

The fair-ankled Nike heard the message
And smiled a fair, rosey smile
“Tell your lord that if he has the courage
to come and woo me here in my exile.”

When Ares heard this, he maddened with rage
and tore through Olympus with sword
and threw rocks down on the world stage
and sent hiding the servants, Malice and Discord.

Soon after saw Mars chariot race
Flying twice the pace of the sun
passing Mycenae and Athens face
to where the wooing would be done.

Aphrodite flew at his side
“God of War you’ll need  Beauty to aid
in wooing the Victory that hides away.”
The God of War grew weary and sore
and by the time he arrived at Nike’s door
his mood had taken a turn for the worse
and he muttered colorful curse.

Lady Nike was patiently waiting
For Victory is always calm
Her soft white dress billowing, baiting
An almond blossom in her palm.

At first Ares was rough and coarse
And Aphrodite grew red in the face
Seizing the reins, she stole his horse
While Nike kept him engaged.

The Goddess of Victory never made answer
Her voice quietly humming to the bloom
And though Ares voice cut like a cleaver
She paid it no heed, fearing no doom.

Ares grew tired and finally rested
Beneath her feet as she sat on the wall
Victory obviously had him bested
This had been a fruitless call.

Finally, Nike climbed down to join him
Her dark hair loosed from its plates
And in the dawns coming, the darkness dimmed
And she motioned beyond her gates.

The battle below was louder still here
And Nike gave him a glance and frowned
“Every night I listen and shed my tears
for no victory can be achieved on this ground.”

At hearing her voice and seeing some hope
Ares let a rough smile play on his lips
Finally she was going to put things in scope
But rather, she moved and gave him a kiss.

“Lie with me and perhaps...”and silence then
Ares agreed and the two made a retreat
And there, in her palace, deep within
Blazed a terrible and passionate heat.

When Ares awoke in the middle of the next day
He found Nike gone from her home
Cold and angry he rose, intent to be on his way
but Goddess Aphrodite had left him stranded, alone.

But then he heard the softest sigh
the sound of a babies voice
and stealing to the sea, there Nike lie
holding the prize of his choice.

Within her arms was the smallest of creations
A child so pale, so weak it might barely survive
But there was Nike, crowning it with starry carnations
Sure, it seemed, that the babe would stay alive.

“This is my daughter and yours”
said Nike of this newborn miracle
And slowly stepped forward the God Mars
And took the child, his rough hands careful.

“Her name is Ireni, Goddess of Peace
she will bring calm to the wars below
and be the most coveted in all of Greece
hair dark eyes brilliant, skin as snow.”

Nike smiled her wise smile and stood
Holding Ireni as gentle and kind as the child
A silence spread under evenings hood
the ****** scene turned serene and mild.

And though Victory was not claimed
The battles ended for the stress and fear
And from nights cloak, Ireni’s tears rained
wiping the blood and sweat and violence clear.

And peace remained upon the land
Until the great War of Troy
When Aphrodite and Zeus would play their hand
With fair Helen their devious ploy....
Epic Poem
Michael Marchese Nov 2018
Try as I might
To ignore the insufferable
Clamorous racking my brain
All too audible
Are these despicable
Sickening shrill
Voices wicked, malicious,
Insipid kids still
Instigating and baiting
Me closer to spill
My contempt vitriol
Seething passion to ****
Every little last filth-frothing
Mouth to feed dead
Bottom-fed in this
Stress-induce cesspool are bred
In an **** of virulent,
Ignorant stench
Still entrenching my senses
In sieges of tension
And drenching my clenching jaws
In reprehension
Spat out in the face
Of this whole human race
But mostly just this
Poor excuse of its waste
This is not a rhyme
this is not a poem
there is no hidden messages between ambiguous word
or conveyed through complex metaphors
this is the tears of my heart
fuelling me
so that I can find the courage to speak
to speak the words of my soul
the words I've been dying to say
... no
to scream!!!
The words I've been dying to shout out
as a proclamation to the whole world...

I DON'T because I don't know what love is
but I do know you make me wonder
you make me philosophize about it
about what it feels like
I DON'T know what love is...
but you make me feel
something that must be close to it
if not better

I think about you ALL the time...
there is not a moment that passes where I don't think of you...
not a single message from you at which I don't smile
not a single night where I hate the dawn of sleep, because it means goodbye

last night when you were here...
in the three seconds that we kissed
in those mere blinks of an eye
when our lips softly brushed
... I was paralysed
... It was the first time in my life where my mind was COMPLETELY quiet
the first time I didn't instruct myself through a kiss
and just let go...

now your scent is stuck to me...
I smell it all the time
the smell is intoxicating
and I think of you with every breath I take
unwillingly falling further and further into your arms...

and so I call you...
just to hear your voice...
just to hear you laugh at what I say...
because hearing your voice makes my day...
the sound of your laughter...
it's a toe curling
but never nail baiting...
because I know you hate that
... sort of sound.

and I envy the guy who is lucky enough to have you
I envy him with all my heart.
I have a bitterness towards him compared by only few...
and a sadness towards you compared to no other greatness...

why can't you see
that his love for you is not...
nor will it ever be...
the same as my NOT-LOVE for you

can't you see he doesn't give you the romance and the happiness you deserve
the laughter and the acceptance and the complete free will...

can't you see that I adore you
... so much so that I have turned into this monster who envies...
one who feels bitter towards someone he has never met!!!

I am lost without you...
I want you...
I need you...
I want to need you...
I Better-than-love you
I xoxo you and mwa you
forever and continuous
(not-)love (- but better)
JoJo Nguyen Feb 2013
There's a Tale of hare
named Bugs, wisecracking
Brooklyn speedster
who raced against
a Tortoise green.

Mercedes grey speeding
along, distancing
a schlepping spect,
a North Face jacket
on fruitcake's trek.

4000 fast
and sleek.
8 slow
and green.

Neither racers strangely
notice that child
born on dented stripes,
warning bumps
by side road way.

Is life a sacred race?
Marriage sacrament
a finishing face?
Dying memories trace
a cove and net
lacing U and who?

What's up Doc?
Eating healthy,
eating carrots?
I hear your voice
who's love does bare.

False Saffron leiter  
extort and retorts weiter!
Komisch verwaltung
Schwartz holzteer
baiting babies to finish fear.

A cartoon film
skipping and tear
telling a child's tale
reel ending here.
xyloolyx Dec 2014
yet another year zero
reinventing the squeaky wheel
constrained writing just for kicks
reviving a tragic hero
tabula rasa and leaky spiel
trained for fighting prickly ******
hollowing future and reticulating splines
swallowing nature then duplicating rhymes
only a blank drawing
at a bank withdrawing
funds splashing down like acid rain
workers trashing town with great disdain
fluxing bureaucracy
with ad hoc hypocrisy
go country for old zen
and then
shot glass shopping sprees
statues with haunting verdigris
from target to target
the stupid (never forget)
airport shuttles and toxic puddles
epic riddles while popping bottles
thrusting bodies and a fruity box
alternating current and topic drift
trusting hotties with shuttlecocks
baiting adherent with basic *****
eating that dog in a bar by the ditch
bar all rowdy with many shots taken
beer hall drowsy as closing time looms
far too loudly with identity mistaken
the band had us frankly and amply forsaken
awakening in a ditch as the a-bomb booms
a thousand soldiers ready for battle
at town's end with less depleted morals
worried about the deleted portals
we buried hell well without the cattle
no more long weeks of slicing ****** meat
origins about which they should not care
oh to sell knockoffs to the rich elite
hear their yells and use an odd nom de guerre
the profit and the revenue forecast
**** on the new road
the prophet and the parvenue act fast
pill for the wet load
he had dropped the load leaving pungent smells
in the dark it glowed and lit the deep wells
launching a rocket every four hours
we encounter yet more perplexing times
measuring success with fewer metrics
punching the clocks in tall black towers
changing the locks and the warning signs
altering quarters with newer ethics
cannibals watched while we profusely bled
fine forget it forget it forget it
ingest the capsule to induce the sweat
just relieve don't botch
figure figure figure
don't bereave think scotch
ticker ticker ticker
sounded like it came from someone shady
getting beat to end with some other blend
year to date murders now about eighty
yet today's statistics lie and pretend
fudging the digits to fake the assent
so what happened last week stays in last week
all of those painful jarring sights and sounds
making it all seem to look rather bleak
kept sly with pennies and kept shrewd with pounds
on alibaba we will not delete
separated heads from dark desert towns
metropolis with millions of dark souls
lighting up papers for a rapid trip
necropolis with brilliant harkening trolls
fighting the power in order to strip
their medals that they never earned at all
writing this line here and ******* the fall
straightforward message from a plain green rod
a photographer in obscure disguise
throw him into the main canal and nod
the coffee shop looks banal with just guys
losing interest quick and wanting to dip
touching that shiny pink wide-open clip
unknown underground studded with diamonds
mind-blowing trap sounds burst from the caliph
volume gets higher and heads start to ring
they came in sequence and then came silence
waking up confused in a condo lift
taking refuge in an ugly building
just invited myself into your home timeline
somewhat sublime reciting trifling rhymes
alter rhyming scheme to eschew couplets
now fully mobile and automatic
pentameter schemes and android tablets
tents and suburbs that look quite nomadic
recruited minions for the rebellions
human microphones sans inhibitions
quicken resistance to the man's big plan
invoking the crowd to buck traditions
spell that with an accent with great élan
broken mobile phone texting hexagram
a rapid drop in communication
a postal service mailing vexing spam
token for transit lost at the station
we can no longer go back to the farm
here in the city living these last days
sounding the airhorn and the fire alarm
seahorses as fish and whales as mammals
hard to keep track here of various things
went to the desert and smoked some camels
patient zero died sounding the alert
some will paint dark scenes with exigent themes
paintings so dire that your eyes avert
inverse distance decay in the network
old flags questing through the flood and tumult
of course these rhymes make them go **** berserk
losing sight of sites that house the occult
refusing to eat and wanting to drink
these words resonate with all those who think
utopia fell soon after completion
never understood humanity well
rationality ends with deletion
all the fine stuff just goes to *******
humans emitting alienating vibes
they form foul cliques like pups from putrid tribes
three ships all wrecked up in some unknown land
divulging harsh things and eating raw food
far too many times getting shunned and booed
had all my writings fully blocked and banned
still no dumb luck yet after x decades
recalled old friendships that have long decayed
more constrained writing that will make them groan
some will even see the trail left behind
writing all of this mostly in e-prime
punctuation-free zone made just for fun
lighting dark alleys with a mobile phone
some get all the love while others get none
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
ditch ditch ditch ditch ditch ditch ditch ditch ditch ditch
glitch glitch glitch glitch glitch glitch glitch glitch glitch glitch
kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch
stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch
twitch twitch twitch twitch twitch twitch twitch twitch twitch twitch
yesterday's blunt stunt went to the gutter
no regrets no threats no whatever man
just like autechre and that song flutter
forget the police just rave on til dawn
**** how darkness has lasted this **** long
ominous songs here still pumping along
exponential sneers and the obscene scene
existential fears lit up with benzine
socially-accepted narcissism
honest thoughts here treated with cynicism
forget all -isms / go back to the scheme
spending days like these sniffing naphthalene
won't dwank to the masses or kiss *****
temperamental peers can go live that myth
experimental stage done and over with
* *

✝ gone to a higher place ✝
Debra A Baugh Jun 2012
lips upon swell of breast,
caresses like a dance in
bated breath; a cry of
hunger unclothed to
nakedness; mouth travels
south, seeking to quench
libidinous drought; tongue
glides, nibbling kisses;
silently I sigh, each taste
he gets thicker as I become
wickedly *****

scents of honeysuckle
permeates the air as
tongue teases hardened
strobe; I glow within his
nature and he whispers in
elated breaths; I arch against
masculinity in sultry
poses, smiling in blushed
tints, fore, he knows me

and tells of his wants
to satiate my needs like
a rose opens its petals to
a bee's need; to suckle its
sepal of sweet nectar's
honey, sipped in little nips
inebriating his wanton
longing, he breaches
my honeycomb in gentle

he whispers against nape
of neck as hands control
movement of hip, tongue
glides against silken thigh;
in foolery baiting to entrap
me within his desirous
taunts of beggary...I sigh
Written by: Goddess of Sensuality aka NVMeeks
Daan Vandelay Dec 2014
Another morning up too soon
for the alarm clock to go off.
Another day to turn out rough.

Fishermen with new methods of baiting
tell me, teach me what it is to wait,
to patiently create
a small chance of catching
the right fish for tonights meal.

Any sound can obtain a meaning.
Any message can be leaning
towards another point.
I sit and watch
the season pass --
the swallows
have flown south.
Sparrows huddle
in the trees,
waiting to be fed.
The leaves have
     begun to turn --
acorns litter the ground.
All the colors:
the yellow willow,
the orange maple,
     verging pink.
The browns and
surround me now.
The mighty elm,
Autumn's last sentinel,
stands tall, baiting
Winter with its chill.
Soon bare branches,
     skeleton trees,
will haunt the skyline
and pine-cones will fall
with any sudden
Soon I'll bundle
against the cold,
trudging through the
waiting for daffodils
and Spring's delights.
Arianna Darshani Sep 2015
Has not enough been said
About Cecil, the Lion?

This has brought me to tears.

For those who don't know
Cecil lived in a Wild Life park
In Zimbabwe.
There was no hunting allowed

So, some sick *******
Who is a big game hunter
Dragged a antelope carcass
So that Cecil would
Come out of the park.

He, then, shot Cecil
With an arrow
And Cecil was tortured
Over forty hours.

Cecil was tracked down,
He was shot with a gun,
He was decapitated,
He was skinned.

How is it that
What is so magnificent
As a Lion
Is seen as nothing
But a head and skin
To decorate your living room?

I've been to Kenya
And Tanzania.
They are glorious creatures
In the wild.
Why not just take a photo?
Or just enjoy their magnificence
And then leave
With your enhanced soul?

They say psychopaths
Practice on animals first

This sick pathology
Has to end, not only for
Animals but humans well.
This man had a felony conviction
For baiting black bears.
He belongs in prison
Although many think
He should be decapitated
As well.
People are angry.

And Cecil's Cubs?
I used to watch a show
"Big Cat Diaries"
And their fate is sealed
As well.

Lions practice infanticide
And when a new male
Comes to Cecil's pride
He will **** all of Cecil's offspring
To make their mothers
Go into estrus
So they can breed.

One cub has been killed
And not much hope for
The other eight.

Our neighbors bait
Black bears, **** them,
Skin them, stuff them
And put them in their house.

They seem to just enjoy
Killing things for no reason
They find great joy
In killing things.

They seem like
Nice enough people
But when you have
So little respect for Life
Can't it haunt
Your human ties?

I honestly feel
Like someone
Has shot my dog.

And it makes me weep,
Though the story
Is now old.

This man should
Go to prison,
And in Zimbabwe.
Send the world
A huge message
That we are not Neanderthals
We don't have to
To **** things
Out of sheer joy.

We should not reduce
Living things to
Heads and hides.
PJ Poesy Dec 2015
She is like no other, always in her necktie.
I knew her before the necktie, before many
the body manipulations, but not all. I'd stare,
engrossingly, at elongated lobes, the wardrobe.
I, now, her technophobe, longing to digital
age do her. "It's complicated," we call it.

How I long to stand next to her at the bus stop,
like we used to do. Waiting, staring, baiting,
glaring, like we used to do, at Fillmore and Haight,
while we'd wait. Didn't care if my bus came and
left, sometimes I'd just wait for hers, to follow
her aboard. I think she liked the way I stalked her.

Me in my blah corporate attire and necktie,
her in her outlandishly wonderful. Going to work  
those days were keen broad bean, where we'd  
convene, sometimes out on the scene, or where
folks ought not be seen. And we'd just look,
for long periods. If we spoke, it was  egg white polite.

But that was then and this is now and now we
chat all naughty fun. I call her my baby, my honey-bun,
my long distance impassioned one. Virtual realities
do often please, something I like about the tease.
If ever again together, I'll be on my knees. She's
my fiancée and we plan to tie the knot.

Guess I'll be tattooing a matching necktie.
I popped the question, online. She said, "Yas!"
theo holland Oct 2011
Men are ******* each other over with no waiting,
Yet we still can pass proposition eight, the hating
Inspires new generations of children by baiting
Them with lies, telling them that it’s not too late
To save themselves from the others, standing on soap crates
Preaching God and the morals while the kid decorates
His pages with blood and his sorrows, writing straight
But thinking he thinks sideways, and the pressure’s too great
To overcome because the hate won’t let him live at a normal rate,
His heart beats on a different beat, not rap or country, but he creates
Music of the soul that transcends the forced ideals he ate
Directly from the mouth of the pressures, the hate,
And does not give up even in the most dire of straights
Not giving in to what some old man describes as a fate
Not of his own choosing, telling him who to date, don’t gyrate
Those hips it could be ****, so he grows up under an ******
Of false appearances and flawed beliefs, never feeling he can escape
From the hate, isn’t it great, this world we so decorate
And doesn’t it frustrate that no one can relate
That he’s on a never ending track on a train full of freight
In order to power an engine of hate, sating
His thirst for individuality by the fires that proclamate
His burned identity and when given the chance to extricate
Himself from the chaos of the tracks, it just exacerbates
Everything around him, all the hate reanimated
To the point where eighteen is the same as eighty
All he needs is a bullet, a gun, and some potassium nitrate
To stop the violence and state as his own mandate
That he is free from the belated strangers berating
Him for eating off another man’s plate
****** over by the hate, but wait,
It’s too late.
ConnectHook Apr 2016
Race-baiting covers for agit-prop agents
splitting white hairs in their dark distress;
with name-calling, bullying, lunch money payments
and shifting the blame for their people’s mess.

Reparations are due for your boring screed
that you scrawled at the helm of the Black Star Liner.
You owe it to those who were forced to read
your obtuse agitations (you Afro-whiner).

Poisonous shout-outs to fallen comrades:
holy Saint Michael in reaper’s hood—
endless blathering racial tirades
poor comrade—your dreams are misunderstood.

You’re obsessed with injustice. That’s nothing new.
You’re a David anointed to overthrow Saul—
(as long as he’s white and less rabid than you,
oh prophet and scribe of the activist call…)

Stay mad at the system. Revile all your foes
with raving, with preaching, with bitter bad words.
Insult all your enemies; list all your woes
as you document stink on your turds.
a poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016
Brandon Aug 2013
The wind howled outside of the lean to and Brian knew that it was only a matter of time before the chill settled in and the last breath of life would leave his body. He thought about his family back in the city and he could not bring to mind any bad times tho he knew that there were many. He thought of his marriage and how beautiful his wife had looked on her wedding day walking down the aisle escorted by her grandfather who had a tear in his eye. He remembered the way her dress and her hair flowed behind her as if there were some slight breeze that had hit her at just the right angle to make it possible. He remembered trying not to cry and to only smile the closer she got to him and how he nearly lost his composure when her grandfather handed her off to him. Brian thought of their first born who he called Maggie but  was named Magnolia by both parents and his wife still used that name. She would be turning sixteen this year and he had not been around as much lately as he had liked but he felt that she knew he would always be there. A tear rolled down the wind bitten cheeks of Brian and began to slow once it got close to his chin, partially leaving a frozen trail from eye to tears end. He thought about Maggie as a little girl, perhaps around the age of five, and the fishing trips that they would take out on the lakes of Minnesota. He remembered the first time that she had baited the fishhook herself and how proud both she and he were when she had caught a ten pound walleye with that same hook. Brian wanted desperately to hold onto that moment for the rest of his life and swore he would never forget and all thruout the years of his life it was one memory that we went back to anytime he felt low and out of place with everyone and everything around him. Brian thought of his two sons, Jameson and Benjamin, twins that could not have been more different. Jameson was great at sports and thrived on competition where Ben was more artistic and would often be found doing volunteer work. Tho they had many differences, they were brothers thru and thru and never had a bad moment together. Brian and Ruth Ann had raised there children right; he knew that much was true and felt the pang of sadness pierce his heart as he felt the anguish of his wife when she heard the news that he was dead and she would have to finish raising them alone. He knew she would do just fine and he wanted to tell her so, to comfort her somehow even tho he wouldn't be around but he had no way of doing so and instead shivered beneath the lean to and continued thinking of his family to keep his mind active. After a short while tho he felt his brain slow and the memories became distant like dreams do after a few moments of being awake. Brian closed his eyes tightly and forced himself to think and focus. He thought about the last family photo that they took and how grown up everyone was becoming and how much love was still in his wife's eyes and he lied down on the cold ground with that image in his head and he slipped into a sleep from which he knew he would not wake up from but still he smiled at his memories and hoped that even without him his children would continue being happy and would grow further and start their own families which would have their own families and so forth. He hoped his wife would be strong and keep on and if she should find someone else he hoped she would not let Brian be the thing that kept her from living. Before Brian exhaled his last breath, he saw Maggie baiting the fish hook and smiling the way a child does. Brian smiled too and slipped into death.
Jack May 2014
Lurking, in the shadows of what you believe…....
broken twigs give away your hiding place…….....
where tree bark withers of acrid breath……….....
frowning upon dead leaves…the trail…………....
you set out for the unsuspecting………………....
baiting foot steps in disguise…………………......
red eyes peer of darkness……..……………….......
glowing hideous light……………………………...
attracting seekers………………………………......
totally unaware…………………………………......
of the hatred……………………………………......
you hold………………………………………….....
for all…………………………………………….......
It has been brought to my attention we have a troll lurking about the site.  You can not hide...
Ma Cherie Oct 2016
& me







& in

a friend


& me
a groove
fight it
ignite it
I can


say maybe
I got you baby. ❤

Cherie Nolan©2016
❤ ....hmmmm...just thinking. ; )

— The End —