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Who was the person in  Colonel Muammar Gaddafi
Was he a deadly Libyan tyrant as the west put
and dictator as the Western media and press
oftenly portrayed him  , here and there
as power voracios bent on assuming the leadership
of the Arab world and super sahara socialite
in the stamapede  of Gamal Abdul Nasser?
That Gaddafi was a driven and desperate man,
what a cruxificative tribe  of  question,

he gloriusly deposed King Idris
from the then rotting  Libyan throne,
President Habib Bourguiba of Tunisia
omenously  warned him that he had to stretch
  miles and whatever to go before he could claim,
to be un fettered  successor to Nasser's sceptre,


Gaddafi was a wildly and spotlessly  popular
among the Libyan masses,the earth's wretched,  
and even those in the rest of the revolutionary  world,
till the eyesore of his brutal ******,
  the tragics and haunting episodes,
of his life points clearly to the   truth of  truth:
  Gaddafi was a reasonless  hunted man
they way bin Laden was labbelled to be hunted,
for so he was a hunted man.

Gaddafi never had the time or the leisure
to do anything but run, but run and run
as an escape to hell, a clear testament
in his classical poetic, quilled properly
behind the dunes of the sahara desert,
His parting shots were true essence
of his compassion and generosity  to humanity,
a humongous  gift of a soccer stadium to Pakistan,
a plan to gift thousands of computers and laptops
to schoolchildren in  idyllic poor African countries,
and dollops of oil aid to poor Arab countries.

were these not totally dispassionate acts
For the Colonel was trying to build a support ,
and network throughout the  revolutionary world
because he was actively tracked and pursued
by the English and French dogs of ******,
tacitly supported by the United States.

The Western powers were committed to teeth,
to removing Gaddafi from his genuine power
lest he prove troublesome to currents of avarice
in furthering their interests in the oil imperialism,
for his daring rhetoric and outlandish capers
were sharp pedagogies to the oppressed.

western powers moaned and yelled doggishily,
for cheap Libyan oil well and item markets,
for  construction and drilling projects,
English and French origin companies
as well as American multinationals,
moaned daily  like female hyenas
when they  stood to lose  monetary gain,
if  Gaddafi remained entrenched in holy life
and  in power as the arbiter of Libya's destiny.

but that indeed was the holy  mandate
he had from the Libyan masses of peasants
even though it was imperially  questioned
by those of his cowardly enemies
moving in tandem  with cosmetics
of capitalism and burgeosie  development.

Gaddafi ****** the French presence in Chad,
as he did roundly criticize the United States
over its foreign policy of Bullish syndrome,
as he gloriously  shielded  the two Libyans
who were  accused without forgiveness
of plotting  and carrying out vietnam like bombing
of an American passenger jet over Lockerbie
in Scotland that led to Kissinger like  killings,
of hundreds of innocent civilians like in Vietnam.

History is yet to absolve Gaddaffi,
to glorify the dreamer with poetry in his eyes
who composed escape to hell in a desertly week,
exculpating him off false accussations,
of committing a crime of such magnitude,
good consicence must question the role of Jews.

It was only the status and stature
of Nelson Mandela as  a fellow comrade,
that managed to implore  the Colonel
to hand over the two accused Libyans
to the International Court of Justice
to face trial or even forgiveness,
The whole sordid drama of the Lockerbie bombing
is an enigma wrapped in mystery, jewish tricks center stage,
Sooner or later, posterity will  absolve out
with the truth and  save Gaddafi's name
and honor as leader of  the voiceless.

President Ronald Reagan did not even wait a little
before he launched those deadly missile strikes
against Libya,  against Gaddafi's private quarters,
to **** Gaddaffi's beggotten  daughter.

Was this not a base and cowardly
act unworthy of America and its great traditions,
Gaddafi, like Saddam, was a victim of labbelling
by  Western media who had painted his character
with satanic evil and malice , as if evil is alien to them,
even when there was no genuine evidence
to justify such a heinous depiction
  Gaddafi was seen to act irrationally,
was supposed to have mental delusions
why not  being mentally unstable!

Gaddafi's antics inspired acts of conscience
and a genuine and fitting response to a life
lived under mortal fear and terror  of terror
the fear of being tracked and hunted down
by Western agents who were out to eliminate him
with full backing from their governments.

Gaddafi, like Saddam  was not a criminal
although all sorts of demonic tendencies
were attributed to both leaders by the Western press,
All sorts of media scoops were ceaslessly  hatched
and all kinds of media blitzes  were  mercilesly launched
to create Muslim helots who overthrew Gaddafi,
and pursued him in armored cars and trucks
to his hometown Sirte deep in the Libyan Desert,
That he was killed with such horrible cruelty
with bayonets and gunshots,
pumped into his royal  head
such  is evidence that his assailants,
were  not  true Muslims whatsoever !

These enemies were petty paid murderers
and butchers who after the dastardly act,
proudly displayed Gaddafi's body
in a meat shop kept open for public viewing,
By committing these very desecrations
Gaddafi's foes had unwittingly revealed
their true un-Islamic and butcherous natures .

And what were Gaddafi's last pearlish words
to his assailants when he lay writhing in pain of death
on the ground unable to move because of the mayhems
of his injuries and wounds: WHAT DID I DO TO YOU?
Gaddafi had died like a Muslim Christ
on the American  cross with no words of abuse
or blame for his enemies, as they knew not
whatever the folly the were executing.

History will have to wait for generations
before another soldier and such a  leader
of Qaddafi's ilk and human  mettle surfaces
again  in the poor man's  world
to bravely  taunt the West
for its imperial perfidy and cowardice.
Quinn Feb 2018
i was drawn up on a piece of
paper and tossed in the breeze

surrounding lives resound
voiceless breaths of
the windpipe of a lover

i have never met.

why else would people
stare straight through
me, gloomy glances
from my paper pupils
into angels eye sockets,

and they think that i'm human
and they think that i'm like them
and they think beautiful
thoughts on rainy days
while i'm stuck.

eyes manifest imagination into
each person's planet

but not me, what i see
reflects back and all i
can do is be what i believe
i see.

in
san
i
ty

is

ta
king

its

toll

on

me

and

i

don't know how much longer it's gonna be before
i gotta gasp for breath.

people worry when i rant,

but they don't get it
people fall in love with
people

how could anyone love me
if i don't see a person

when i look in the mirror.

shadow-whispers sing to me
and cloak me in black
cloth and when they took the
cloth off.

i hate linear equations and
computations and
numbers
because
people love numbers.

linear thought blitzes
right through me
because
I
am
a
contradiction.

chaotic enough
to be a hurricane
stuck in the body of
a person.
SG Holter May 2015
Headlining monsters smiling at
News cameras; lacks of
Regret framed with
Blitzes and the
Disgusted attention
Of normal people.

Parents making each other's
Tears their own in
Disbelief, as children in
Hidden rooms
Search for the soft comfort of
Their inner

Teddy bears while pointing at
Dolls in the hands of
Patient professionals.
There? OK. And...
There?
Caring strokes on
Innocent hair.

You're doing fine,
Darling.
A wounded
Feather finally rested in a
Nest lap. *You're
Doing just
Fine.
Prince of Spring Oct 2016
He’s the space man, and he’s out of this world
Planets **** about his waist, fingertips warm.
On Sunday he blitzes the Milky Way
like a silver bullet, its the crazy guy holding the gun. Not me. For he's
like a star just born. His fingertips warm
treading lightly through the maze
of light and creation.

A keen look in his curling smile, he
leaps to catch the morning's first flight
on the climbing glimmers of a shooting star,
that so shimmers against the warm Spring nights.

The sunken sun, resting below
his feet, his body stands alone.
Wrapped in a pink and yellow glow,
he sets out on the voyage home
to the furthest reaches, the universe edge
where vast forests creep in the dust and smoke,
he waits,
in silence
he waits,
for Monday
when he's reborn. His fingertips warm.
Some people are to big for their skin. Their presence touches me deeply.
Cracking back of leaves with every
Step.
Wet from brooding puddles

The sun is high but your mood is low.
You feel just off twelve.
Not knowing how to adjust
Or should you just accept?

You sent her chrysanthemums
But now you're not sure.
She mentioned them once in passing.
The receipt feels heavy in your pocket.

Have you misread the glances?
A dog barks in the distance.
Maybe she always laughs like that.

But oh, how she laughs.
The deep raspyiness, not beautiful
But enjoyable.
A jogger huffs by.
Maybe tulips would have been safer?

You'll find out soon.
You spent so long ensuring every digit Was correct for her.
Is a purple flower a weird choice?

The phone buzzes. You desperately Throttle through the maze of receipts And cinema stubs.
Glowing in triumph, it emerges.

"Hi Dave. I just wanted to say..."
You fumble over the dog leash that Blitzes through.
A crack, the screen splits, resting on a Bed of crooked leaves.
Just next to a row of chrysanthemums.
MsTruth Jul 2019
Grey thick blankets of clouds up high
Keep the sun rays from piercing the sky
It crackles and blitzes, loud and bright
Nature is imposing its power and might.

My fears blanket over my desire
To rekindle the sleeping fire
Afraid of sighs, false hopes and tears
Tired of longings and wishes nobody hears.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
an afterlife would imply,
democratically a death,
only if we all "simultaneously",
trans-historically,
took to abusing a hammock,
wriggling like maggots
safely extinguished
to no more than the helpless
limbless...
if I really did believe
in an afterlife, and not in
death 2.0 of recycling...
desecrating a memory of Milton,
with grave no more,
and not a lending hand akin
to Virgil...
           no wonder the Buddhist
teaching is so averted to
Hindu Catholic dogma...
where the Raj and his self
blitzes the tsunami of people
with a one resurgent self...
none other than a
charlatan guru-vishnu...
   with so many nouns in play...
bewilering that some
Ishmael noun should be
deemed rigid in being, at least
being prone to the
theological question-ridicule:
all? ah!
        if only, that was a question,
followed by a sigh of relief.

— The End —