"bestial" poems
between the *******
of *******
Marj lie large
men who praise
Marj’s cleancornered strokable
body these men’s
fingers toss trunks
shuffle sacks spin kegs they
curl
loving
around
beers
the world has
these men’s hands but their
bodies big and boozing
belong to
Marj
the greenslim purse of whose
face opens
on a fatgold
grin
hooray
hoorah for the large
men who lie
between the *******
of ******* Marj
for the strong men
who
sleep between the legs of Lil
40.1k
A normal kind of guy
Just the guy
No cosmologist
Sans Christian
********* the droplet suns
Distant in the blackened sky
Gotta 'and'er some
The bristled gristle
The cryogenic iris
Steel teeth gnashing
Right-toe left
Ardent in an autobiography
Good man
Soft man
Locomoted his GMC
to the Sea
Thought maybe
With precise aim he
could undertow away
paradise.
No pick-me-ups
In copper-channels
That Ionized the pick-up-truck
With archaea iron
that ugly duck
Reminiscent of the man
In all but--
A castaway
Stowaway
The man who never hesitates
Bop upon the interstate
Lost within
concritical maze
Shoring up
Going home
Giving up
Turned to stone
Marble chin
Solumn grin
Chlidren sing
Seeking wings
How'd he know
Where to go
Will he see
What it means?
He's the guy
The one with the lollipop lap
Licking the syrup off the lip
Of a sweet polished sapphire
Gin
And the kids
My god
They think he
ODYSSEUS
And his dog not yet
Dead but depressive in the gloom
Howling into the midnight grass
And the creatures that stalk
With their ******* youth
Soon their weight will hit the deck
And like a noose,
Break the joints
The planks of which would stress
And bend his eyes upon his head.
God willing
Should he be exhumed
His energies excape to the river
And float,
Penultimate,
into the sea.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
the urban ecosystem
breeds the urban beast;
the two-legged feral brute
they board their clockwork motorcages
the young ones in predatious packs
the old, too weathered to care
animal autonomy
born from sweatshop routines
i imagine myself
as a metropolitan jane goodall
observing and assimilating
taking note of the cacophony of
hoots and and hollers
the city-born mating calls
the high-topped courtship dances
******* civility born from enslaved mindsets
a young, dark-skinned boy
let's rhyme flow freeformed
to the rhythm of a young girls dancing feet
stomps and claps excite the celebration
of abandoned social etiquette
and of my foreign presence
i resemble some exotic missing link
a mix of this, that and the other
my skin, a rare quilt
and this draws more attention
than a gold-dusted african queen
i place myself in the back
peering through the windows of this transit jungle
feeling my heart skip beats
boom...boom...shhhh...
i must've left my rhythm in my other heritage
because i can't catch the ancient flow
but my neck leads my head in bobs
my brain rattles with old soul memories
and i see these young folks on the train
held back by centuries of black struggle
but forever rejoicing in african pulse
forever embodying our ancestoral pride
and i think, how peculiar
on the outside looking in like a fishbowl
exiled from my own brown-skinned tribe
with my oppression fitted like a glove
my blackness a mere disguise
my blackness camouflage
my blackness
not quite
black
enough
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
This place was once God’s pious station.
Humanity is the song we sing to him.
The leaves praise him with peaceful African breeze, the breeze of our God.
The children of our mother earth were not left out of the feeling that planted oneness in the minds of the ******* Stone, that was what their minds were known for.
Life was then a simple sphere but now complicated and shapeless.
Life was then soft like unwithered breast but now a
granite. Then hearts was glaring but now, Africa and their black hearts.
See them,
They are crucifying humanity in the house of our God.
They are crucifying humanity in the court of law.
They are crucifying humanity on the matrimonial beds.
They are crucifying humanity on the aisle of power.
They are crucifying humanity for legal tenders.
They are crucifying humanity to be a god.
They are crucifying humanity in the struggle of religion.
They are crucifying humanity to calm the raging stomach.
They are crucifying humanity for thrones.
They are crucifying humanity in front of humanity.
They are crucifying humanity everywhere.
Now humanity is on the verge of death.
See them as they are whipping him.
See his skin as it swell to burst.
They are punching him, they want to punch him to
death.
Can you see those barbarian as they merry with the melody of crucifixion. Humanity is their scape goat.
Humanity is dead in theirs
but it is still alive in your heart,
It is still alive in your words.
Humanity must be alive in our home.
Let humanity live in Africa as free citizen.
If you are guilty of his death what do you gain?
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 4:37 PM UTC
The Serpent squeezes the mundane egg, for a moment in time,
…to begin the ages, turn the wheel, and so begin the rhyme,
The circus has commenced, a dancing, swirling motion,
…a pit of ghastly horrors, seen as a vast deep ocean,
…or celestial or cosmic, as some would have the notion.
Some of them were large, although some were also small,
…and grotesquely figured or disfigured, a scary monster’s ball,
…and trudging, stampeding, stomping or slithering down the hall.
There they danced, sang or prattled, where giants fought and where they battled, …thunder unto heroes rattled, with awful screams so frightening, and terrifying lightning!
Scaly, hairy or feathered, wet and fiery or weathered,
…conjoined, twisted or tethered, slithery writhing together,
Kingu and his wife, some say it was t’was his mother,
…his plan was war and strife, pitting brother against brother,
A ******* existence and so morally depraved,
…a state of sickly persistence, they found themselves enslaved.
Then abounding voice of heaven, that divided night by day,
…brought forth a princely king of Luke; the warrior Marduk.
Fourteen engaged in combat, the one against thirteen,
…and thus aligned with the ecliptic, at night they can be seen,
Sloshing in the Apsu, beaten with the club,
…slain and torn to pieces, cutting channels of their blood,
A north wind sent them to their places, fixed on Tiamat’s wheel,
…and the starry constellations, did Marduk bring to heel.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
Evening was in the wood, louring with storm.
A time of drought had ****** the weedy pool
And baked the channels; birds had done with song.
Thirst was a dream of fountains in the moon,
Or willow-music blown across the water
Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill.
Uneasy was the man who wandered, brooding,
His face a little whiter than the dusk.
A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head.
The end of sunset burning thro' the boughs
Died in a smear of red; exhausted hours
Cumber'd, and ugly sorrows hemmed him in.
He thought: 'Somewhere there's thunder,' as he strove
To shake off dread; he dared not look behind him,
But stood, the sweat of horror on his face.
He blunder'd down a path, trampling on thistles,
In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees.
And: 'Soon I'll be in open fields,' he thought,
And half remembered starlight on the meadows,
Scent of mown grass and voices of tired men,
Fading along the field-paths; home and sleep
And cool-swept upland spaces, whispering leaves,
And far off the long churring night-jar's note.
But something in the wood, trying to daunt him,
Led him confused in circles through the thicket.
He was forgetting his old wretched folly,
And freedom was his need; his throat was choking.
Barbed brambles gripped and clawed him round his legs,
And he floundered over snags and hidden stumps.
Mumbling: 'I will get out! I must get out!'
Butting and thrusting up the baffling gloom,
Pausing to listen in a space 'twixt thorns,
He peers around with peering, frantic eyes.
An evil creature in the twilight looping,
Flapped blindly in his face. Beating it off,
He screeched in terror, and straightway something clambered
Heavily from an oak, and dropped, bent double,
To shamble at him zigzag, squat and *******
Headlong he charges down the wood, and falls
With roaring brain--agony--the snap't spark--
And blots of green and purple in his eyes.
Then the slow fingers groping on his neck,
And at his heart the strangling clasp of death.
3.6k
the politics
of mirrors
lies out of sight
while the frogs in the pond
fashionably late
sing the swan song
of separation
no-mind-all-one
the ******* tree fruits teeth
and eats itself on impact
leaving behind no trace
of heart beat
or throbbing veins
but instead remembers itself
on the earth as a skeleton
bones made of the
finest silver set of dining wares
for to feast
on the slack remaining
weightless brain of a thing
that spins the circles is sails
like a tailor
in a fire
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 6:00 AM UTC
leisure up my friend !
weaken open your shellfish hinge
and wet your beak
it’s a marked holiday break
unmarred by family obligation
there’s freedom
to make the most criminal crown of mistakes
in the name
of some frown of liberal investigation
on the town
an eager squad of collaborators are on board
they have your back
desperate, sick and starving gulls
broadened to explore the deplorable
on and on to the next and the next
death defining task
a meandering stagger of a bar crawl
perpetually powering through
as the day spans a revulsion
the heat stays as the day sinks beneath
in place of the suns rays
the heat radiates
from the baked city concrete
stepping out from the shelter of the bar
the night swelter respires fiercely
not done with our steam of annihilation
what establishment would take our kind ?
city has already bowed over it's plumage
to our ******* pilgrimage
bark melts and peels in strips off the trees
(meat shaved off the strip pole)
our heels spark the pavement
vermin and jackals follow our movement
from shimmering dark spots
and our vision constricts
our aim has become clotted...
...what was it that we reached for ?
oblivions fruit seemed a doable pursuit
it's the usual downhill shambles from here
familiar yet barely remembered
a rambling guff of bad ***** comedy
there is no plucky legend
just an embarrassment
Jun 10, 2023
Jun 10, 2023 at 9:47 PM UTC
She is raving and unfaithful,
judged to die of insomnia
but
I love her.
She dances four tangos
with demons in her mind
but the fifth dance is mine tonight.
Instead of singing her love songs
I scream in agony
"Baby, your blood tastes like Tequila",
but she pours me a cold Jager
hissing.
She was never a person of tender touch,
rolled up her sleeves and showed her scars
and bruises
like a warrior.
She is ******* and restless,
a street cat fearing strangers
yet chasing cars
and
I love her.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
Sharpeville, 21 March 1960
"The native mentality does not allow them
to gather for a peaceful demonstration.
For them to gather means violence."
- Lieutenant Colonel Pienaar
1.
We went with wrists ready
For metal shackles
To clench
Their cold grip
Onto fire hot skin
Boiling with white rage;
The appropriate rage.
This situation has justification
In the predications they hold true
Where to some
Human is synonymous with
******* nature,
Dangerous and hungry for
Light white blood we
Must be caged
To prevent the massacre
We could create.
2.
A child’s body is not a hurdle.
But when fleeing,
Feet pounding on dirt paths,
Black with dark blood, leaking
From shafts of taunting revolvers
And throats of the permanently
Silenced,
What do you do but run?
5,000 bodies bound together,
Melding flesh with flesh,
Fusing unhinged bones to bones
Still cradled in their skin,
Line the street where
Puddles are forming next to
Concaved skulls emptied
By misinformed bullets.
Last thoughts and worries
Are forever splattered on faces,
Tracing red lines
On skin
Sooty black,
As dark as nights will be.
3.
Sixty-nine lay dead.
A rock they said.
When interrogations
Took place
A rock they said.
Empty hands laid
Palm in palm
But a rock they said,
This, they said, sparked
The worry
That made it right for them
To make bullets fall
Onto us like metal raindrops
From an angry heaven
Hungry for black skin
And black blood.
Hands digging into earth
For retaliation,
For blood they said,
But everyone else said,
The rock that flew
Was in hands white as light
As bright as the day was
They say.
If the rocks they said that,
Spurned uniformed egos,
Flew from ground,
To air,
To gunned men like they said,
Does it justify the dead?
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 6:07 PM UTC
This isn't what you wished
Upon that small baby
This isn't what you wished
This isn't the head you kissed
The head of that baby
This isn't what you kissed
This isn't what you held
The weight of that baby
This isn't what you held
This isn't what you smelled
The scent of that baby
This isn't what you smelled
This isn't what you felt
Felt for that baby
This isn't what you felt.
This isn't how it was supposed to be
This isn't what you imagined
This isn't what you meant me to see
The isn't what you'd bargained
This isn't the life you choose to live
This isn't the trust you chose to give
This isn't the love you once entrusted
This isn't the marriage to which you'd come in
This isn't the daughter you once knew
This isn't the love you walked into
This isn't the hope you'd had before
This isn't the love in fairytale's lore
This isn't at all what you expected
This isn't at all what you should have collected
This isn't the right end for an angel
This isn't, as it seems, quite so fatal
But this is me
Imperfect glory
Oh, this is me
With a sad, sad story
This is me
Timeless and dying
This is me
The blood I'm crying
This is me
The failure's jive
This is me
The end of a life
This is me
On sanity's cliff
This is me
Ready to drift
This is me
Desperate and wanting
This is me
Pretending and flaunting
Yes, this is me
Your youngest daughter
And it's not at all what you wanted
My dearest mother
This is me
The smoke, the pain
This is me
For loss, for gain
This is me
This is that baby
This is me
Now a young lady
This is me
Looking for love
This is me
Small and starstruck
This is me
On the wrong path
This is me
Treading on broken glass
This is me
Begging for help
This is me
****** to hell
This is me
Waiting to be saved
This is me
Turning away
This is me
Nearing Death's door
This is me
Saying I can take no more
This is me
With smoke in my lungs
This is me
Absorbing the sun
This is me
With knife in hand
This is me
Enjoying the land
This is me
Pleasing those men
This is me
Washing my hands
And this isn't what you wanted
And this is why you cry
And this isn't what I expected
And this is why I wish to die
Oh, this is why my mind is unclean
This is why you weep
This is why we couldn't foresee
And this is why I can't sleep
This is why the night is frightening
This is the absence of hope
Yet this is why we live
And this is why we cope
And this isn't life
This is unidentified
And this isn't strife
This is why we live and die
Maybe this is a maybe
Maybe this is uncertainty
Maybe this is a per say
Maybe this is you, is me
Yes, maybe this is human
Though this is inhumane
Maybe this is *******
And cannot be contained
Maybe maybe is uncertainty
Maybe maybe is insanity
Maybe maybe is a waste of hope
Maybe maybe is the knife at our throats
This is me
With a ring on my finger
This is me
With a kiss on my lips
This is me
With a love that lingers
This is me
With a sway to my hips
This is my reflection
So pretty, so ugly
This is my reflection
So imperfect, so me
This is life
Tiring and refreshing
This is time
A burden unrelenting
These are my friends
My children, my life
These are my friends
So perfect, so right
And this is pain
And this is gain
And this is love
And this is hate
And this is trust
And this is my place
But first
Foremost
This is me.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
How does the competent optimist endure the positives opposite?
The prerogative to remain positive is the only option for an optimist.
Every day is a happy belated celebration of its creation.
Exposing pearly white incisors to express a bipolar condition.
A giant grin with lips spread open.
A face with a giggle in the face of sin to face demons.
The monster with in becomes, a polite ******* delight, a young baby boy eating joy, the excitement emitting the submission to a feeling of complete air under the soles of feet.
The feat of sky walking never lukewarm, a feeling newborn.
Yesterday was the best day ever you could have sworn.
However, today will be so much better the endeavor to find pleasure in everything and whatever.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
Rumors are swirling
about what that little shepherd boy
is doing with those sheep
on the other side of the hill.
He has been watching that flock
for far too long
and no one has seen Old Jed
for quite some time.
He said he would come back
for his sheep,
but I have a sneaking suspicion
Old Jed is dead
and that little ******* shepherd
keeps all the wool
for himself.
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 9:44 PM UTC
We talk about equality, honesty and candor,
dream of unity between *** and gender,
Though men can be ******* uncouth and crude.
It’s not just men that express lude desires,
Women too light their own fires.
A world full of wankers!
all love making goo.
I shouldn’t say it! Why?
It’s still a social taboo!
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
I walk into a hospital and the hospital is a graveyard. A doctor stands with his back to me, performing a ballet autopsy on a bluish barbarian. A single salty droplet falls from the bluish barbarian's head and there is a tremor in his hand. "He is alive" I whisper. "Stop doctor, stop," I say but the doctor doesn't listen. I keep shouting louder and louder until I am making a huge racket. A skeleton nurse shushes me. I scream and the doctor jerks, his graceful movements broken. He turns to me and his glacial eyes take over my mind, stripping away my layers until I am barren, exposed. He speaks but his voice is a wolf's voice. A wolf's voice isn't like a human voice, it is ******* harsh. "Look what you've done" he growls. "Now it's impure. It's weak." I watch as the bluish barbarian becomes dozens of tiny screaming beetles. Then he is dust and the graveyard is an urban labyrinth. "You stupid thing," says the doctor but the doctor is now an ant. I laugh and walk into the labyrinth but the doctor-ant follows me. "Shut up" I say and I laugh and I cough and I walk into the phlebotomy lab and break my skull on a glove. "I told you" says the ant and it walks away and I cry.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC
Looking deep one may see into the looking glass.
In their rough, ragged cloth, the pale old Magi.
Appear high in the trees of the hills.
With hard faces like rain-beaten stone,
And all their helms of silver from the depths of the Dwarven mines,
And all their eyes focused on the valley ahead,
Thick pipe smoke spiraling into the sky
The unnameable mystery of a ******* score.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
bernie the cheese
collapsed at the side
of the road
his measured response depleted
he watches as she folds up
her neat and meticulously spelled words
plied on silver tongue into her rucksack
and through such ******* ********** of kings english
she entices him ever onward where
faint lines can be sought
and yet to be found
that echo the face of true madness
its laughing sweating continence
painted with watercolours and
can only be seen in the reflection of
a mirror reflecting another mirrors image
her face slowly releases its dire grip
and her eye looses it screaming aspect
as she finds herself alone on the ***** alleys cobblestones
the battered dumpsters spilling treasures for the divers to find
she begins to hum a beatles tune from '63
and fingers the lace shawl hiding her deformed mind
trying once more to capture that vast lost feeling from
girlhood that dances a
dubious little jig on her headstone of the heart
singing 'lookie here....look at whats buried here'
she remembers his face but not his name
he drove a silver buick with a skull painted on the hood
his blond features engraved in the notions
his words mixed with foul smelling chicken soup
he was a soup of the day in her salad years
bernie the cheese
chews on the charbroiled taste of his
blowup doll lover's lips and tries to say
the three magic words
'made in china'??
his own words spent he casts about
in terror for a phrase or two to quote from
the masters of deception
who gather round in long grey coats
sinister eyes on the fruits of his labour
their wooden faces warped by rain
their mouths only a dim perceived line of
mumbles written in childlike scrawl
on the backs of closet doors
we hide here because we cannot see
therefore we cannot be seen
you cant touch me because i cannot feel
they gift him at price unnamed some loose parable
naught more that glib reprise of his own perilous straights
his is the beast that labours in their stead
he is their human face
she is but the road they walk today
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
winter walks with him
death smiled at him
the king of ruins
masquerading like Satan
he speaks acrid language
intense and vile
jolts wildness with each step
runs on hatred boulevard
he feeds on venom
a cold blooded serpent
heinous as hell
a heart of stone
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 1:43 AM UTC
“Adam Kieslowski, I want to punch your face in, with all due respect.”
“Dan! Don’t do it! Don’t go there!”
“I’m gonna, do it Megan.”
“Don’t! You’ll **** him!”
I was at the point of snapping
No man scared me
The blood was pumping
Through my fists.
Mike Tyson could have
Walked through the door,
******* Gargantua
I would have got froggy for
Megan.
Silly cow could never even love me
Back, but alas, tis the work
Of lust and ******* desire.
I am by no means a good fighter
But a ***** one,
A tactician,
Teeth an’ claws are no bounds for me
******* Oedipus him if you have to
I had a bellyful of beer-shits
And I was ticking over
Idling
Thinking, teasing
Working the jaw.
The door opened and I pounced
Throwing him to the floor
I could feel Megan pawing at
My back
But it was futile
When a man is pumped, even
The God’s can’t stop him.
I threw him back against
The floor
Gritting my teeth
His lip swelled like a melon
And tears filled his
Watery eyes
“Oh my...”
“What the **** did you say, buddy?”
“Dan please...”
“What the **** you messing Megan around for?”
He mumbled, blood oozed from
Every orifice and his mouth
“Answer me!”
With that, he did something
No man expects,
He burst into tears!
Floods of tears, not just a trickle
A ****** fountain.
We nearly had to call in Moses
To do his party trick with the
Red Sea.
I let him up, as Megan’s eyes
Burned my head.
With that he ran out of door
And drove off.
Puff.
Safe to say, I now had to get
Out the room
Without Megan killing me
Multiple ways.
I didn’t return for several days
Like one doesn’t return to
And aeroplane crash site.
I saw her one day, and she
Said nothing
She came up and
Kissed me on the cheek
And walked on.
I guess Adam never
Bothered her again.
I returned home
And continued to write
And drink beer.
I didn’t think
That situation was
Too bad for my
Soul.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 10:23 AM UTC
Motto: „ they are all elsewhere/ examining things/ in new bedrooms/” – Charles Bukowski – Praying for rainy days
**** Bukowski
thinks that’s a supraestimated fake
for townsends of years
„ harder than The Riots of Watts”
and it’s not about *****
it’s too precoius and delicate
and it’s not about women
'couse the women *** with roses
or with the spine-birds
and still gets payed on the job
it’s all about poetry
it’s about that funny slaughterhouse
in wich we kick eachothers stupide ***
like some real lovers
and then we rearange our underwear
or what’s left of it
it’s all about a load of **** good to be throwned at the garbage
'couse – don't mention it – there is nothing heroical
and every ****** thing is a makeup
there is just a mouse shiverring in a corner
two ugly frogs are hugging all what is left of the sun
and above all
the monkey is trying hard to improvise a tired smile
**** Bukowski
I don't know a living soul with such a perseveration
to ****** his poems
like his money on horse-races
like his fat’n’ugly mexican ******
and still somehow to become his own hero
insane like this
born into this
and becouse he had lived to much like a dog
alone with the whole world
with it’s ******* **** beauty
in wich actualy nobudy finds his mate
in wich everything it’s just a canibalistic clown
and a childish cry
almoust painfully dead
from his own laughter
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 11:06 PM UTC
Mi alma no puedo estirarse
alrededor el mundo y continúa igual.
Las olas del mar son como bestias
y están atacándome con el espíritu del pasado.
Del espíritu pesado, con dudas.
Regresa el alma a mi cuerpo,
en el mitad de la tierra linda,
Pero lejos del mar, en el viento nuevo,
la única ola es el césped fértil.
La tierra canta de una promesa desconocida.
Pero su forma de ser no me toca.
No caigo la canción, no tiene sentido la tierra: negra y oscura, será congelada pronto.
Sin claridad del hielo
ni cielo.
No quiero tener dudas.
No quiero buscar mi juventud en los árboles,
En el año de mi niñez.
Nunca jamás encuentro a mi mismo en las ramas marrones, sino en tus ojos morenos.
Mi cuerpo me duele para tí
Como los árboles esperan el viento otoñal.
Los días me pasan como hojas del árbol otoñal,
Se fueron. Se fueron.
Me voy. Me fui.
¿Cómo es posible que las dudas me dejen?
Que mi alma anciana vieja en el mar *******
Hasta me da cuento que mi corazón ya haya estado cerca
en las manos tuyos,
como un regalo
en dos hojas otoñales.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
NOW as at all times I can see in the mind's eye,
In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones
Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky
With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,
And all their helms of Silver hovering side by side,
And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,
Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied,
The uncontrollable mystery on the ******* floor.
1.4k
I created a ray to save the world.
We had come too far,
had lost ourselves, it seemed to me
and we were taking the Earth along with us
into the abyss.
Too much knowledge: too much thought.
We needed to go back.
And so I created the Great Devolver Ray
and stood, trembling, by the trigger.
This would return us
to our basest animal selves.
Would tune us perfectly into Nature,
re-thread us into the fabric of Creation
destroy the wall between Natural and Unnatural.
Pure uncorrupted survival: nothing more.
And so I stood, on the brink,
unsure as all great revolutionaries must be,
put my hand in place,
and pushed.
And the ray burst forth
and we were transformed
into the pure ******* creatures that Life demanded.
And absolutely nothing changed
at all.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
Should I ever come to the end of my road,
when I meet the doorman of death,
I shall hope that he care just enough to heed my last request.
I would not pray for hope, nor life, nor freedom.
I should ask him, "Dear Death,
might you listen to me now?
I beg to find my final breath
upon Earth's broken brow;
the crashing waves, day or night,
the pum'ling seaside cloud,
the falling rocks, their endless plight,
and distant ******* growls,
the fading sun, the rising moon;
I even feel their gaze.
Dear Death, I shall not wait the more,
please take me where I lay."
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 8:27 PM UTC