"benedict" poems
Birthed by altruism or selfishness,
Motivated by personal gain
Or the forfeiting of a nation;
It's the betrayal of friends,
Country, cause and trust.
Cassius,
Judas,
Benedict Arnold,
The traitor has many personas.
Traitors are hated by those they prefer. (Tacitus)
*I forgive those who ****** and steal,
but a traitor, never.* (Zapata)
*A nation cannot survive treason from within...
He rots the soul of a nation...
No wise man ever thought a traitor should be trusted.* (Cicero)
Softness to traitors will destroy us all. (Robespierre)
An open enemy, however criminal, is no traitor. (Spooner)
To have a traitor as an ally is to have an enemy in waiting. (Carey)
*It is the just decree of heaven that a traitor never sees
his danger till his ruin is at hand.* (Metastasia)
There are but two parties now... traitors and patriots. (U.S. Grant)
*If I had one bullet and I was faced by both enemy and traitor,
I would let the traitor have it.* (Codreanue)
There is a special place in hell reserved for traitors. (J. Trudeau)
*Every man must be for the U.S. or against it.
There can be no neutrals... only patriots or traitors.* (S. Douglas)
Et tu, POTUS. (F. Lynch)
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
I knocked the black
door knocker
on Janice's nan's door
and her nan answered
and said
o hello Benedict
Janice can't come out
she let the canary out
and we had
a hell of a job
getting it back
in the cage again
so I'm keeping her in
I was going
to tan her backside
but I thought
keeping her in
was more
of a punishment
on a day like this
o right
I said
looking at Nan's eyes
and her greying hair
and unsmiling face
but you can come in
and see her
for a few minutes
shame that you
have to be
without her though
so she walked
back up the passage
and into the sitting room
where Janice
was sitting on a settee
looking disgruntled
it's Benedict
come to see you
he is only staying
for a few minutes
so don't think
you can go out
because you can't
Janice nodded
and looked tearful
and her nan walked off
into the kitchen
I didn't mean
to let the bird out
I just opened
the cage door
to get it to stand
on my finger
but it flew out
and it to ages
to catch it again
and Nan was so angry
that she was
on the border
of giving a smacking
but then she thought
keeping me in
was more
of a punishment
so here I am
on a lovely warm day
sorry about that
I said
where are you going?
she asked
I was going to Jail Park
on the swings and slide
I said
I see
she said
looking at me sadly
what have you got
in the bag?
I opened the bag
it's that Robin Hood book
I bought it
in that junk shop
on the New Kent Road
she held it
and opened it up
and looked
at the words
and pictures
maybe next time
I can be
your Maid Marian
to your Robin Hood
she said
yes
I said
looking
at the canary
in its cage
that'd be good.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 3:16 AM UTC
N. N is for neurologist.
What does the neurologist say?
“Nothing seems to be wrong.
Your net recall seems normal.
You seem to remember most nouns and the news.
Nothing serious,
No need to worry.”
I don’t quite remember driving here.
This is Bethesda, right?
And your name is…?
P. P is for psychologist.
The P. is silent.
So is the psychologist.
I talk and talk.
My energy level is high today,
even though I got no sleep last night.
I want to write a poem and run a partial marathon.
I love people.
People are so beautiful.
“Only connect,” said E.M. Forster.
Am I talking too much?
How does that make me feel?
Just great! Not like yesterday,
when I wanted to jump into the Potomac
from Key Bridge.
P is also for Potomac.
The psychologist speaks.
I need a new pill.
E. E is for endocrinologist.
What does the endocrinologist say?
“Eat. You’re an enigma.
You are losing weight.
We don’t know why.
We’ve checked everything
and can’t find evidence
of enemies in your endocrine system.
Enjoy some eclairs, eggplant, eggs benedict.
Life is short, endulge!
Hopefully not too short.
O. O is for oncologist.
Oh.
Oh oh.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 11:22 AM UTC
Benedict Arnold
We see them. Lying in the terrorist trap known as
The Uncomformers. What happened to them?
Did they say enough is enough? Stab their
Old buddies in their already turned backs? Well,
I guess some people just don’t understand….
Look at them!
They’re laughing!
How preposterous! They’re supposed to be lamenting or even just
Giving hushed whispers to someone about everyone else.
I can’t fathom—
How absurd!
The Good Girls
Ohhhhhh My Gosh! Can you like,
See how lame they are?
They just, like, don’t do anything.
I mean, I have never seen any of them at, like, any party!
Crazy! I know. They just keep to themselves,
I guess. But, I mean, come on? No parties!
Do they even know what fun is!?
Last night there was this really awesome one where,
I was dancing…..and drinking….and then I threw up in my boyfriend’s car!
Oh yeah,
Were exes now.
Anyway, I just, like, IDK.
I mean, who wouldn’t want to have the ultimate makeup and beauty?
It’s mind-blowing!
I swear their worlds are all, aerobics and songbirds.
But, whatever, you know?
Peacemaker
Talk about irritating. I hate people
Who stop fights before the crescendo finishes!
Bor-ring! Drama is what I live for.
Just let people ruin their lives already!
I’m dying for some action over here.
Hel-lo! Your “sensible justice” is causing me to have serious
Gossip underload. Stop getting in the
Way of everything! If you would just come in
One second after you usually do, there would be so
Much more to say.
It would be beyond belief if you just,
Go where you belong and stop
Interrupting before some of the most spectacular
Moments in people’s lives.
Iron King
This person is not so simple.
Loners that shield themselves from the world
Freaks that don’t want to experience reality
Maybe he’s evil
Attempting to hide a dark inheritance
Living in his mind, the Devil’s oasis
Visions of wonder and agony expressed throughout
Sending out blind waves of hatred to all who will not follow him into Hell.
Super creep.
I hope he leaves me alone.
I haven’t done anything to him…
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 12:07 PM UTC
Saturday afternoon
cycling up a 1in 6 hill
then along the road
toward the farmhouse
you dismounted
and laid your bike
against the fence
and waited
to get your breath back
the farmhouse door opened
and Mrs Putt came out
and said
Jim and Pete are out I’m afraid
her daughter Monica
appeared by her side
they’ve gone out
with their older brother
Monica said
ok
you said
tell them I called
sure I will
Mrs Putt said
I can go on a bike ride
with you if you like
Monica said
Benedict won’t want to have you
to drag along with him
Mrs Putt said
Monica pulled a face
and pouted her lips
I don’t mind
you said
better than riding alone
well if you don’t mind
Mrs Putt said
mind you behave
yourself young lady
she said
and went indoors
and closed the door
just get my bike
Monica said
and went back behind
the farmhouse
you looked around
the farmhouse
and the surrounding fields
and trees and waited
after a few moments
she was back
riding her bike toward you
where we going?
she asked
lets go see the peacocks
along Sedge lane
you said
and so you got on your bike
and off you both rode
she beside you
in her summery dress
and sandals with her
brown hair tied
in bunches
you in jeans
and open neck
white shirt
the sun bright
and hot above you
the birds flying
and calling
the clouds puffy
and white
I’ve always wanted to go
bike riding with you
Monica said
but the boys don’t let me
but I am now
you nodded and smiled
wondering Jim and Pete
would say if they knew
she’d got to go
bike riding with you
she chatted on about Elvis
and the film in town
and how she’d like to go
but no one would take her
and how her brothers
teased her
and her mother
nagged her
after a while
you came to the peacocks
in a wire cage
by a large house
just off the lane
aren’t they beautiful?
she said
peering through the wire
her fingers holding on to
the cage
standing beside you
yes they are
you said
but of course
the **** bird
has the beauty
the hen
is just dull
and ordinary
odd that
she said
wonder why?
don’t know
you said
I’m not dull
and ordinary am I?
she asked
looking at you
sideways on
no
you said
you have
your own beauty
do I?
yes you do
and she blushed
and looked away
and the peacock
called out
and moved off
opening its colourfulness
and Monica did a twirl
making the patterns
move
on her twirling dress.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
…These men are worth your tears:
You are not worth their merriment.
-Wilfred Owen, “Apologia Pro Poemate Meo”
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean? Paradise Lost? Probably not
Nor Saint Paul speaking on the Field of Mars
The Kalevala, Hagia Sophia
With its pendentives lifting up our prayers
Horatius fighting to defend his bridge
And Wilfred Owen dying bravely on his
Lord Tennyson and Idylls of the King
Chapultepec, Henry V, Becket
The paratroops at Arnhem, Saint Thomas More,
His King’s loyal servant, but God’s first
The Stray Dog poets of Saint Petersburg
The brave last stand of Roland at Roncesvalles
Lewis and Tolkien and glasses of beer
Montcalm and Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham
Hildegard von Bingen, Siegfried and the Rhine
Magna Carta, HMS Hood, the Thames
The Grove of Daphne, “The Old Rugged Cross”
Beatrix Potter and her little pet rabbit
El Cid, Anne Frank, John Keats, Saint Benedict
“I Have a Dream,” Dostoyevsky, and Greene
Viktor Frankl, Dag Hammarkskjold, and Proust
Good Chaucer’s naughty pilgrims telling tales
The Gettysburg Address, Willie and Joe
Stern Saint Augustine of North Africa
Wodehouse writing a jolly bit of fun
Saint Corbinian and Bavaria
The ancient glories of Byzantium
Pius XII contra the bombs and lies
The 602nd TD Battalion
Saint Joan, the Prado, and Robert Frost
And far, far more.
When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean?
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
clinton rebukes israel over east jerusalem homes obama nasa plans catastrophic say moon astronauts alaska wolves **** woman's teacher out jogging ireland frees 3 cartoonist plot suspects sarkozy and brown attack u.s. over protectionism pope benedict's former diocese rehoused abuser priest chile puts quake damage at $30bn winnie denies interview criticizing nelson mandela climate change makes birds shrink in north america dr rowan williams is honored for work on russia weymouth ridgeway skeletons scandinavian vikings live bangladesh v england michael schumacher pledges to raise game in bahrain can the u.s. vice-president broker middle east peace? sarkozy's party faces socialist drubbing remote indian state set for development new york dust victims split on 9/11 deal german tells of childhood abuse by catholic priest a step closer to the american dream? lehman: how $50bn was buried in london ba strike union announces dates in march china's oil demand increase astonishing says iea china warns google to comply with censorship laws net clash for web police projects hsbc admits huge swiss bank data theft phil spector ****** conviction appealed sir david jason to voice cbbc animation climate change 'makes birds shrink' in north america thalidomide effect mystery solved blood pressure fluctuations warning sign for stroke winnie denies interview criticizing nelson mandela mogadishu residents told to leave somali capital same-sex couples marry in mexico city by mistake i clicked on wrong button and lost everything
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 6:59 PM UTC
I wish I wrote the way I thought
Obsessively
Incessantly
With maddening hunger
I’d write to the point of suffocation
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing
And I’d write about you
a lot more
than I should
-benedict smith
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 10:35 PM UTC
Sophia sorts through
her parents' room;
they're out for the day,
some Polish old comrades
meeting of her father's,
old war pals. She opens up
the old wardrobe, sorts
through things, takes out
her mother's old dresses
and some new ones, puts
them on the bed. She likes
a red one, old but well kept.
She ponders, she decides
to try it on. She undresses
from her own jeans and top
and puts on the old red dress
and looks at herself in the
wardrobe mirror. Her mother
must have been her size back
then, it fits like it was made
for her. She does a twirl, looks
back at her *** her thighs,
turns to the front and stares
at her ******* She doesn't
remember her mother wearing
the dress, not a dress she recalls
her mother wearing at all. She
looks down, it comes just below
the knees, although she's taller
than her mother, so it would
come lower on her mother.
She embraces herself as if
Benedict were there behind her
putting his arms around her
and breathing on her neck.
She stares at herself in the mirror;
stares at her full length. She
smells the material. It smells
of stale perfume, but not horrible
or clammy. She walks around
the room in it; looks at herself
in the mirror across the room.
She'd ask her mother if she could
borrow it, but then she'd have to
say she'd been in her mother's wardrobe
and that would cause hell with her
father and she didn't want that. She
take off the dress and stands there
in her bra and ******* and puts the
dress back on the hanger, and puts
it back with the other dresses where
she found it the wardrobe, in the right
place, and pushes the clothes back as
far as shes can recall in the order they
were, and closes the wardrobe door.
She dresses back in her jeans and top.
She pauses by the bed. The crucifix over
the bed. The Crucified staring down
pityingly. She touches the bed with her
fingers. She'd like to bring Benedict here;
make love here. But not after last time
in her room and her parents came back
after and that was too close. And some
neighbour had split on her and said
they'd seen young man and her come
here while her parents were out and her
father gave her the third degree over it.
Her father said she can only bring the
boy when they were home. Couldn't bring
Benedict back for *** while they were
downstairs sitting watching TV and
drinking their wine and such, and not
in her parent's bed, not beneath the
Crucified, except in her blonde haired head.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 2:49 AM UTC
Miss Cleves
(she dropped
the Mrs. when
her husband left)
stood by the doorframe
of the lounge,
dressed
in a flowery kimono,
which revealed more
than it concealed.
***** wants some milk,
she said.
Benedict looked around
at her from the sofa.
Percy will oblige
after his drink is drunk,
he said. Chopin’s
concerto no 2 oozed
from the hifi. He drained
his drink and followed her
into her bedroom.
Once Percy had obliged
and ***** been fed,
they lay abed.
She criticizing
his Marxism,
he her Scottish
conservatism;
she talked
of her husband’s betrayal
and ***
with air hostess
trollops,
Benedict half-listened
taking in
the ending
of the Chopin.
She talked of the poor
and the slums saying:
you can take
the poor out
of the slums,
but you can’t always take
the slums out
of the poor.
He raved
about the rich,
she scorned
the poor;
he talked revolution,
he pointed out Stalin
and Mao and the altars
of blood they brought.
Another drink? she asked.
He said yes
and she went off
to pour. He lay naked
on her bed wondering
what the priest would think
of him lying there
**** naked. He heard
the Chopin begin again;
she had thought of that.
Time to prepare, he thought,
once more to feed the cat.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
That Spring afternoon of my Upper-Middler year at Andover, I had just spoken with G. G. Benedict, the man who controlled, in effect, at which college you would matriculate. Columbia and Yale were at the top of my list. "Fine, fine, Tod. You've done very well here," he said. That evening, every student found a place to sit in George Washington Hall auditorium. Oppenheimer was to speak. I sat in the balcony, but I could see the man well. He looked as though he might have been around plutonium too long. Gaunt, pale, he began speaking. I cannot remember a single word he said that evening, but I will never forget the portentous feeling that came over me: DREAD (or should I say "dead"?) Over half a century after Oppenheimer's speech, humanity sits precariously on the cusp of extinction. A hydrogen bomb is 1,000 times more powerful than the atomic bombs we dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and there are thousand of hydrogen bombs we know about on Earth presently, not just the two atomic bombs Oppenheimer had. If only one hydrogen bomb accidentally explodes, scientists say that explosion will be enough to cause "Nuclear Winter." The sky around Earth will grow so dark that sunlight will not be able to penetrate it; thus, nothing will be able to grow and we will all starve to death. Every living creation on Earth will die. I think Oppenheimer, as smart as he was, knew, at least subconsciously, he had lit the fuse to inevitable annihilation of all living things.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 27, 2023
Apr 27, 2023 at 4:03 AM UTC
Searching in the gutters
of Meadow Row
and up along by the back
of the coal wharf
Benedict picked out
and up
dog ends
or cigarette butts
as his old man
called them
and picking them up
he tore open the paper
and tipped the tobacco
into a white paper
sweet bag
how can you do that?
Ingrid said
all those people’s
spit and dribble
on them
she pulled a face
he smiled
she looked serious
germs on them
she said
she wiped her hands
on her stained
green dress
he bent down
and picked out
another cigarette ****
and opened it up
between fingers
and thumbs
and emptied it
into the bag
you’re too young
to smoke
she said
if my dad saw me smoking
he’d smack me silly
she said
he does anyway
he said
she bit her lip
and looked away
sorry
he said
didn’t mean
to be like that
he touched her hand
she stared at him
through wire
framed glasses
she liked it when
his hand touched hers
no one else
touched her tenderly
she looked
at his cowboy hat
placed to the back
of his head
the six shooter gun
stuffed in the belt
of his jeans
the borrowed blue waistcoat
(his grandfather’s given
a month or so back)
she put her other hand
on top of his
he took his hand out slowly
in case other boys
from school may see
and walked to the shelter
of a wall
of a bombed out house
and they both sat down
he took out a packet
of cigarette papers
( liberated from
his old man)
and pulled out
a paper and shoved
the packet of papers
back in the pocket
of his jeans
and taking a pinch
of tobacco from the bag
he fingered it
in a straight line
into the cigarette paper
then rolled it
as he’d seen
his old man do
then licked the end
to form a thin cigarette
Ingrid watched in silence
as his fingers moved
and his tongue licked
you’re not going to
smoke it are you?
she asked
he put the cigarette
between his lips
sure am
he said John Wayne like
but you’re only 9
she said
you’re only 9
and you’re watching
he replied
he took out a box
of Swan Vesta
(borrowed from
the cupboard at home)
and lit the cigarette
and puffed slowly
she waved a hand
as smoke came near
her face
my dad will smell that
on me
she said
and think it was me
smoking and tell me off
she said
beat you black and blue
Benedict thought
not said
he coughed and spluttered
and took out
the cigarette
and blew smoke
from his mouth
and spat out phlegm
brownish yellow
if your old man hits you again
I’ll shoot him
full of cap smoke
he said
she laughed
and hit his arm
he flicked the cigarette
onto the bombsite
with a finger
and watched
as the smoke
he’d blown out
like a pale ghost
seemed to linger.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
Milka touched
Benedict
on the arm
her fingers
running down
to his hand
Benedict
touched Milka
on her thigh
his fingers
running up
to her ***
their lips met
hot kisses
wet tonguing
both eyes closed
his fingers
making play
her fingers
tickling
his open palm
she thinking
dream like things
wedding bells
wedding rings
he thinking
fingers warm
entering
opened her
like flower
in spring time
her beauty
undone him
****** him dry
she asked him
her questions
like girls do
he answered
one word why?
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
The monk stands
in the shadow
of the cloisters,
said Benedict,
his arms folded
beneath his black habit,
his features unsmiling,
his stare out at the garth
and the clock tower
over the way.
I watch him,
feeling the sun's warmth
where the shadows aren't;
the flowers in the flower beds
are in full bloom,
the afternoon air
throws birds into the sky
to set free and fly.
Other monks
gather in the garth
after the office of None;
Patrick wheels out the trolley
with tea, coffee and cake;
we stand and talk
in the brief recreational break;
white clouds drift by,
birds take wing above
in the afternoon sky.
One talks to me of his book
on the abbey, the history
from its origins in France
until exiled here.
There is the bell
for the end of the break
and on we go
to our occupations
in our rooms or church;
I attend the Latin class
with George and Gareth,
our novice master aids us
in our studies, we learn
the holy sounds
of the Latin phrase and chants.
I love the office of Compline:
the chanting in the half-dark,
the evening light
through high windows,
the utter separation
from the outer world
and our communion with God
in prayer and chant and song,
and our hymn to Sancta Maria,
and the final bell,
and the prayers on wing and air,
and I stand momentarily
silent there.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 6:13 AM UTC
The peacocks were behind wire
the sun warm
cloudless sky
and Monica had ridden
beside you on her bike
knowing her brothers
were out with the older brother
you not knowing had gone
to the farm house
to meet them
o they’re out
their mother said
didn’t they tell you?
no they‘d not
you walked to your bike
and got on
where you going?
Monica asked
don’t know now
you replied
I can ride with you
wherever you decide
she said
her mother
hands on hips said
don’t go bothering Benedict
he doesn’t want no girl
hanging on his tails
he don’t mind
Monica said
looking at you
her big eyes pleading
don’t mind if she comes
you said
giving the mother
a smile
if you’re sure
she said
and walked back
toward the farmhouse
her backside moving
side to side
in her flowery dress
and you watched
until she had gone
sure you don’t mind
me coming?
no I don’t mind
you said
where we going then?
the peacocks again
o I like them
she said
climbing her bike
foot on the pedal
ready for the push off
her sandals open toed
bare feet
the off white skirt
contrasted
with the mauve top
her hair dragged
into a bow
at the back
ready?
sure am
and you rode off
along the track
from the farmhouse
into the lane
between trees
and hedgerows
she followed at your side
keeping up
her eyes seeming
on fire
her hands gripping
the handlebar
white and pink
and the small fingers
holding on for dear life
her legs up and down
pedalling
you felt the wind
in your hair
through the open neck
of your white shirt
pushing down
the jean covered legs
up and down
the lane narrowed
then widened
there they are
she called
the peacocks
she dismounted
and laid her bike
against a tree
and ran to the wire fence
and peered through
you put your bike
by the hedge
and walked over
to where she stood peering
her eyes bright
and fiery
how comes the *****
are bright and colourful
but the hens are so dull?
she asked
that’s how it is
in the bird world
you said
hens are just dull
I’m not dull
she said
holding the wire
with her fingers
making noises
at the birds
am I?
she said
looking at you
beside her
no you’re not
you said
nothing dull
about you at all
I’m like a peacock
she said
bright and beautiful
aren’t I?
sure you are
you said
you peered
at the strutting peacock
nearest the wire
out of the corner
of your eye
you saw Monica
nose inches
from the wire
call to the bird
her lips pursed
and opening
and closing
her arms soft
and reaching up
I’m a peacock bird
she said
her arms in motion
like wings
her hands flopping
above her head
her feet in dance
stepping
and dancing in turn
you watched her dance
and twirl
Jim and Pete’s sister
the peacock girl.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
On this hillside where the homeless rest
The Song Sparrow bursts into psalm,
Reciting beautiful exclamations to the heavens above
For the forgotten souls that are concealed below.
In this place called Potters Field lay one million souls
Unknowns from 200 years ago....more & more arriving everyday.
Nestled thickets of wild trees hold these memories past and
Shadow the headstones with prayers inscribed.
How could one small place hold so many forgotten souls?
How could we have forgotten those less fortunate than us?
Saint Benedict's tear filled eyes scan the field
As he try's to to make sense of what has happened.
Lift up your eyes New York and make your voices heard.
Don't let their memory fade away.
God holds a special place for these children because....
In the Kingdom of God....
The last shall be first.
K.E Carman 2016
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 1:45 AM UTC
Miss Maitland went
to the fancy dress party
dressed as a nun
Benedict went clothed
as a priest(Church
of England kind)
which made her
even more inaccessible
than before he thought
seeing her enter the hall
in her black and white habit
and that face
which echoed purity
her small slim fingers
raised as if to bless
those present
which included the host
dressed as the Devil in red
Miss Maitland walked
to the bar and ordered
a lemonade and gin
is that wise?
said the barman with a grin
she laughed
and he poured anyway
Benedict nodded
and she smiled
then talked to another
clothed as a monk
and laughed
and Benedict's hopes
(whatever they
may have been)
were he concluded
sunk
he sipped his beer
and walked and sat down
gazing at her
standing there
all her best bits
covered up
her tight ****
and delightful behind
gone from sight
now the Devil
was chatting her up
his tail hanging
from behind
his fingers holding
a red wine
Benedict sipped more
of his beer
saw her wander off
to talk with some girl
dressed
as a gangster's moll
right down to the 1920s
cloth of dress
and cut of hat
Benedict didn't fancy her
and that was that
he just wanted
Miss Maitland
sans her habit
of black and white
he liked her in her
tight jeans and top
with her fair hair
flowing free
or held back
in a pony tail
walking up and down
the aisle of the shop
serving customers
wiggling her behind
as she went talking
in her middle class prose
giving Benedict
a studious stare
and he studying her
thinking of his bed
at home
with him and her
lying there.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 3:09 AM UTC
Mother listens
while I play Schubert
on the piano,
said Yochana,
my fingers travel
the keyboard
from memory.
Not so fast, she says,
it slows at this passage.
I slow down,
and think of Benedict,
that time he kissed me
on the cheek
on the playing field,
and the time
he watched me play
the piano in the classroom,
his breath on my neck,
his hands on my waist.
Softer here,
my mother says;
I press the keys softer;
I sense her eyes on me
as she sits
in the armchair
as I play.
And the weekend
he stayed here
in our guestroom,
and I crept along
to the room
and climbed
into the bed with him.
My mother
never knew
nor suspected.
I come to the end
and lift my hands away
and cease to play.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 2:41 AM UTC
you'll think of me later
when you got to turn on Netflix
and type in 'Sherlock'.
you'll laugh at Benedict's badass
attitude in the show, and
i'll be lurking in the back
of your mind.
rach rach rach rach rach
you'll be thanking me for
showing you this great
show and you'll be
smiling because of
all of the good times
we've had.
but, then your fiancé will come by
and kiss you on the lips,
you'll hold her close and
you'll probably put your hand
on her waist to keep her steady.
you'll take the time to pause the
show and i'll be gone from your
mind because now the only thing
on your mind is her.
lyse lyse lyse lyse lyse
that's all you'll be thinking of.
not me, not the show,
but making love with her.
and to be brutally honest here,
it hurts. but then again,
i never really was an option,
now was I?
I'm just a daughter to you,
while you are my hero,
my savior,
my glorious passion.
you are the fire burning inside of me,
the sweet smell of lust after love
leaves.
you were and are and forever
will be my
love.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
If Stephen King was black
Obama would not be president
Segregation would exist all over again
OJ would have gotten guilty without a trial
Except the black part would be technologically advanced
cars that navigate themselves
Sonic energy distribution
portable wings
the Rockateer would also therefore be black
Disney Land would be scary and real
Darwin would have been black
Go go Gadget’s engineer would be black
Malcolm X would have been mixed race
Carl Sagan ran the blackest gang in Oakland
If Stephen King was black
Therefore
Stephen Hawkings is black too
Einstein invented Compton in ten minutes
On a coffee break
The bees Einstein was referring to are the African Killa bees
And Einstein was the father of Wu tang
Stephen Hawkings hangs out with Mike Tyson and Alicia Keys
The Black Panthers like every other morning in the blackest house Washington DC
Made me eggs benedict with fresh eggs and ham
Dr Seuss is therefore black by association
Aunt Jemima would run the FDA and tap maples trees in the Berkshires
But she is white now
America would turn a blind eye and play more volley ball
and in us
God would trust
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
Miryam walks along the beach
in her swimming attire, some red
and flowered design, Benedict
notes, walking just behind, having
left the two Moroccan guys behind
with the camel, with whom she'd
posed while he took camera shot.
Bet they don't do that everyday, she
says, swaying her delicious backside
side to side. No, guess not, least
not by the look on their faces,
Benedict says. She laughs, does
a Monroe kind of walk and wiggle.
We came down here last night, she
says, it was quite romantic what
with the moon, stars and warm air.
She stops and turns to look at him.
Was it about here? she asks. He
gazes about him, at the sand and
tufts of grass, the sky blue and the
odd white clouds, could be, hard
to say, it being dark and all. You
found your way around all right,
she says, smiling. Well, a guy gets
to know his way around after a while,
bit like a ****** gets to know the sea,
the rough times and the smooth,
the high tides and the low, when
its best to set out and when to stay
in port. She frowns. Is that what it's
like for you guys? Just like that? No,
he says, just being philosophical, in
fact, it was a good evening, a fine
**** he says softly. Is that all? she
asks. She stands there her hands
on hips, her head to one side. No,
of course not, it's just us guys hate
to get all soft about these things,
he says. She pouts. Soft? These
things? she says. Can't you just
say it was romantic? She says, is
it hard to say that? A fine ****
Is that easier to say? It's just one
syllable instead of three, he says.
She turns and walks on through
the sand. He follows, taking in
her figure, her side to side ***
the tight red hair. OK, he says, it
was a romantic night, I loved the
whole set up, the stars, the moon,
you and me, the sand, the soft tufts
of grass, the *** the kisses, the holds.
She stops and turns and gazes at him.
It has to mean something, she says,
otherwise we waste our lives in such
pointlessness. He nods, zooms in on
her small **** her eyes, her whole features.
Sure we do, he says, you're right, it
was one fine romantic never to be
forgotten night. She smiles and walks
to him and kisses him and holds him.
He holds her, feels her, senses her lips
on his, and out of the corner of his eye,
he sees the two Moroccan guys and
camel walk away up the beach, they'll
never know this, he thinks, feeling smug,
far beyond their lives or random reach.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
Miryam unzipped
the tent flap
and looked out
pretty dead out here
she said
Benedict looked at her ****
hiding behind
the blue jeans
come back in then
no point
in going out yet
she zipped it
back up
and crawled back
beside him
and lay down
looking up
at the blue tent canvas
what do you think
Morocco's like?
she asked
Morocco
he replied
she laughed
I know that
but to experience it
apart from what
was in the booklet
they sent
with the other stuff
she said
have to see
when we get there
he replied
are you sure
that ex-army bloke
won't be back?
she asked
not for a few hours
he's gone to see sights
in Malaga
lucky us
she said
make the most of
he said
she gazed at him
is there no
satisfying you?
pretty much not
he said
she smiled
I’m sure people
heard us earlier
she said
your fault
if they did
he said
all that noise
and giggling
and oh oh oh
more more
I didn't
she said
you're making it up
pretty much so
he said
she kissed his cheek
to think I thought you
were the quiet one
she said
I am quiet
as a mouse
he replied
what if he comes back early
and we're making out?
she said
he won't
he's off to see
where
Picasso was born
and other
arty things
Benedict said
people might talk
if they see me
in here too much
she said
they can't see you
in here
he said
they might hear me
then be silent
he said smiling
trying to unbuttoned
her jeans
she watched him
biting her lower lip
seductively
and turning her head
at an angle
who said you could?
shall I stop?
he said
no don't you dare
she breathed out
she held his fingers
and helped unbutton
until it was
all done
there now you
she said
and unzipped his jeans
with one motion
why would he want
to see
where Picasso was born?
she said
taking off
?her jeans
and what other arty things?
Benedict undressed
listening
watching
takin
her tight ****
in the blue bra
museums
art shops
galleries
that kind of thing
boring ****
she said
putting her jeans
and underwear
to one side
yes guess so
Benedict said
what if
he changes his mind
and comes back?
she said
laying down
next to him well he'll get
a free lesson
in biology
won't he
Benedict said
she smiled
and kissed his neck
and said
utterly ****
what the hell
what the heck.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
As she plays
the Schubert
piano piece
Yochana thinks
on Benedict
even as her mother
stands behind her
listening to her
every note
Benedict's image
fills her mind
the kiss still
feels damp
upon her lips
and cheek
and as she fingers
the Schubert
she senses her fingers
wanting to finger him
her mother says
you missed a note
you are not focusing
Yochana pauses
her fingers
over the keyboard
of black and white
senses her mother's breath
upon her neck
her mother's fingers
tapping her shoulder
and even as
she begins
to play again
it's Benedict whom
she thinks on
and his eyes she sees
in the reflection
of the piano wood
it must flow
her mother says
let Schubert speak
but Benedict's fingers
on her back
as he held her close
are all she feels
as she moves
to the music's pulse
on the piano stool
and as her mother's breath
floats upon her neck
it's his breath
she imagines
is there
and she and he
not there at the piano
but closer elsewhere.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
Benedict went out
with Steinbeck’s wife
and Steinbeck (no not
that Steinbeck, some
other, less know, not
a writer, but a driver)
didn’t know, or if he
did he didn’t show as
if he did. The small hotel
with the hot water tap
running cold, the cold
running hot, the gas
fire blazing like some
dragon in a Disney
cartoon. Steinbeck’s
wife lay on the bed,
her arms outstretched,
her small ***** like
abandoned babes.
Aren’t you coming in
bed? She asked. Sure
I am, Benedict said, just
washing my hands,
about to brush my teeth.
The mirror in the narrow
bathroom was steamed
up, except where his hand
had made a clearing.
He stared at his face,
showed his teeth. Job
done. He spat out wasted
paste. Come on in Honey,
she said, as he climbed into
bed **** naked, his pecker
flopping like a dead goose’s
neck. She killed the lights.
The room flashed on and off
with neon lights from across
the way. Her features shone
up and then went out like
some ancient ghost. She
handled his pecker, her grip
about the base. He put his
hands on her **** felt flesh,
moved fingers crablike to
where the buttocks met,
the thin crack. She quickly
manhandled the pecker
into life, stiffened its resolve,
moved into place. That’s nice,
she said, placing fingers on
his back, moving him down.
Benedict seeing her features
flash up and out, thought of
Steinbeck driving his truck,
while he the apprentice was
having his wife, getting the ****
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC