"booklet" poems
Do you know how many times my mother coughs so hard in an hour that it still surprises me she hasn’t lost a lung?
I wonder if all the money that she spends at the gas station on that tiny cardboard box was saved instead of spent, if she could manage to pay the bills before the late notice arrived in the mail.
How many times do you think she tries to quiet the change being pushed around the tabletop as she counts out the quarters, the dimes, the nickels, the pennies before she has enough to slide the coins across the counter at the station?
How many times is her anger thrown at me because nicotine is absent from the house?
I can only imagine the color inside her chest, protecting her lungs with a black tar after too many years of flicking a flame to a thin white candlestick stuck between her lips.
The house smells of smoke and the yellow filter lines the walls, around the frames that hang themselves by nails.
I clean the mirror and see the paper towel golden from the lingering tobacco. My clothes reek of a stench so strong no amount of perfume seems to be enough.
I’m paranoid that every time I’m in a room of people and someone mentions that it smells like smoke, if they know I harbor such a scent that I pour it off second handedly as if I inhale the drug too.
I open the mailbox and the temptation to “lose” the coupon booklet addressed to her grows stronger.
The business cards labeled with a barcode on the back subtracting a dollar off when you buy two packs strengthens the urge to scrabble up the silver coins or summons the question, “do you have five dollars? I’ll pay you back when I get paid on Friday.”
Friday never comes.
I often think about how much longer it will be until all the money spent on tiny cardboard boxes will be split between tobacco and medical bills.
How long can you smoke a pack a day and still be cancer-free?
And I wonder how it’s fair to watch your mother gamble with her life each time she places a thin cigarette between her lips.
Russian roulette with cancer is a game she’s become too good at.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Dear Ms. Di Prima,
I really,
Really,
Think that Alchemy—Alchemy--Al-Chem-EEEEE
Is a
Nifty
Topic.
But,
My mother has a ring
Of gold.
Standard Gold,
No lead. None.
Or had,
Until our house was
B-R-O / K-E / N
Into
By some lowlife scumbag with
Too much ability
And
Not enough intelligence.
With Alchemy
I could make a shitload
Of Gold (wasn't that the point?),
Provided I had the
Lead,
And not that
IMPOSTER
Crap in pencils (Graphite. My childhood was a shambles.).
But it's only valuable
Because
We're willing to pay so much.
Like with Diamonds.
Or Japanese Akita.
Or Wagyū.
It's not a lie.
Just a trick.
Making you think you want things that you don't need because it helps someone else who you've never met make more money than they'd ever be able to use in a legitimate way
(HOOKERS AND BLOW).
All of these things are synthetic.
With the exceptions of
Gold
And
Graphite.
So,
Maybe,
Alchemy did work out alright,
Just not in the anticipated way.
We can make all sorts of things.
But they become coveted only when they exist.
Just ask Swipey McStickyfingers.
It actually wasn't gold.
You just got a bunch of painted junk,
And passports.
No rubies.
We weren't international crooks,
Renowned and beloved
By jealous zealots.
It was purely sentimental.
But you can't understand.
You can't fondly look at the earrings as the last reminder of a deceased parent.
You can't flip through the identification booklet and be flooded with memories of your first trip out of the country.
You ****** You can't even cash the savings bonds that were bought to put someone through college.
No. He got a box of documents and some cheap jewelery.
But still. Probably called for celebration. A successful heist
Because his brain is still in his head.
We create people as well as objects.
Ms. Di Prima,
In the end,
Some people will always be
Clasping ********
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 6:38 PM UTC
Parsimony Antipathy or Prudent Hostility
Locked-up Cuspid Of the One Celled Organism
As the Augury tends to its Auspices oddities
One Weak Ordeal and your reward will be handsome
Ceteris paribus when Ockham’s blade gets dull
Get a loan from your Karma or come back as amoebae
Hearts won’t be practical until they’re unbreakable.
But if you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.
Sometime this week I’ll hang from the gallows
Every drip of the tallow brings closer the end
But I’ve got this imp secured in this bottle
And you can have him for a price less than a penny
Yeah, I’ve got a genie who’ll grant all your wishes
Just pay for this bottle and your family gets fed
But act fast, for soon I **** my last twitches
By this time tomorrow I could very well be dead
Salivating tadpoles for Hegemony crickets
All imprisoned here with this repressionist peasant
By a singular stroke into Jove’s black booklet
Lucidly errant, who hasn’t been flippant?
Clever Arachne, my love, oh thou immodest spider
All I ever wanted, she picked a fine time to leave us
My days squandered eavesdropping Apocalypse riders
But if you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.
Sometime this week I’ll hang from the gallows
Every drip of the tallow brings closer the end
But I’ve got this imp secured in this bottle
And you can have him for a price less than a penny
Yeah, I’ve got a genie who’ll grant all your wishes
Just pay for this bottle and your family gets fed
But act fast, for soon I **** my last twitches
By this time tomorrow I could very well be dead
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 11:29 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
Tears are water to the soul,
and yet I seem to overwater it.
I must have misread the info booklet
on how to keep it thriving,
and instead burnt it along
with the pictures of us.
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 7:56 PM UTC
I woke up with an aching heart
Pillow case damped from tears
Tried to sink in words from you
That day you left and gone away
I wandered lost without direction.
It felt like yesterday was an art
The way you smile to your ears
Like painted clouds on the sky so blue
Sillily I pretended like I was okay
Yet I silently longed for your attention.
Suddenly we heard of words that cut
Deep into our feelings that yearns
For a moment being in love so true
I desperately prayed you would stay
That the illness was just an imagination.
Little efforts we both had put
On this flower that bloomed for years
Ended with a silent goodbye from you
Petals fell like my teardrops I ran away
I wasn't ready to forget us and move on.
I shed tears flipping through our booklet
Contained the sweetest dreams of ours
As I began accepting and find closure
I promised to be strong come what may
Until some day we shall meet in heaven.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
Black and White Black and Yellow. The second keyboard and a small pinpoint. B İzimi'i. Now the warrior story and the very bad woman. AAPP 3 / Bailey Lionesses and Natte Naidi,
In the 40 years since the leader of the Abyssinian diocese, a female leader marches to Tacitus, and the BBC and BBC leaders have been assigned to soldiers of Saudi Arabia's Gala soldiers. The young man and his grandson have cited the Syrians,
Churches, Muslim Plans and a series of generations. Black and White smoke in the BBC, BBC News, BBC News, Laptops, Food Supply and Arabia, the mouth of the mouth, the Welsh Orders model, many free programs
in the Arab Emirates, Tinkengi candy brush, and Latina Natalie,
slim and slender.
Point out your song and song in the big throat!!
Africa, Australia, USA is part of the Geographic
Division of the United States, Europe and South America. George Griffin's words, livestock, martyrs Emperor Thomas, their friends and their families,
and the German light, the strong ideology and Christianity
that symbolized the Christian life, the bridges were gathered in Russia, England and the United States. In the morning fire and poetry, a brief booklet of the Uppsala, and a lawyer and former colleague respect the son of a dead man. In the second hour, the woman was a delusion, a god, a Roman god, in the same god, a Roman goddess of Rome. In the eye, the old trees are screams and high health benefits. The Mexican Mexican Mexican Museum, Vitamins and Minerals, filled with mountain chains, dense clouds and miraculous dreams. The beetles in my head were "in England, Guinea, the United Kingdom, the barracks, the raging, and the lives of marine life in the United Kingdom." Antiplical machines are the first payment for the first poem of the poem. It was posted on the special foot. Black and White Black and Yellow. The second keyboard and a small pinpoint.
B İzimi'i. Now the warrior story and the very bad woman.
AAPP 3 / Baily Lionan Nattenaidi In the 40 years since the leader of the Abyssinian diocese, a female leader marches to Tacitus,
and the BBC and BBC leaders have been assigned to soldiers of Saudi Arabia's Gala soldiers. The young man and his grandson have cited the Syrians, Churches, Muslim Plans and a series of generations.
Black and White smoke in the BBC, BBC News, BBC News, Laptops, Food Supply and Arabia, the mouth of the mouth, the Welsh Orders model, many free programs in the Arab Emirates, Tinkengi candy brush, and Latina Natalie, slim and slender.
Point out your song and song in the big, big throat!!
Africa, Australia, USA is part of the Geographic Division of the United States, Europe and South America.
George Griffin's words,
livestock, martyrs to Emperor Thomas,
their friends and their families, and the German light, the strong ideology and Christianity that symbolized the Christian life, the bridges were gathered in Russia,
England and the United States. In the morning fire and poetry, a brief booklet of the Uppsala, and a lawyer and former colleague respect the son of a dead man. In the second hour, the woman was a delusion, a god, a Roman god,
in the same god, a Roman goddess of Rome. In the eye, the old trees are screams and high health benefits. The Mexican Mexican Mexican Museum, Vitamins and Minerals,
filled with mountain chains, dense clouds and miraculous dreams.
The beetles in my head were "in England, Guinea, the United Kingdom, the barracks, the raging, and the lives of marine life in the United Kingdom." Antiplical machines are the first payment for the first poem of the poem.
It was posted on the special foot.Black and white Black and yellow.
The second keyboard and a small pinpoint. B İzimi'i. Now the story of the warrior and the very bad woman. AAPP 3 /
Bailey Lioness and Nattenaidi In the 40 years since the leader of the Abyssinian diocese,
a female leader marches towards Tacitus,
and the leaders of the BBC and the BBC
have been assigned to soldiers of the Saudi Arabian Gala.
The young man and his grandson have quoted the Syrians,
the churches, the Muslim plans
and a series of generations. Black and white smoke
on the BBC, BBC News, BBC News, Laptops,
Food Supply and Arabia, by word of mouth,
the Welsh Order models,
many free programs in the UAE, Tinkengi;
candy brush and Latina Natalie, slim and slender.
Point out your song and your song in the big throat!
Africa, Australia, USA UU;
It is part of the Geographic Division of the United States,
Europe and South America. The words of George Griffin,
the cattle, the martyrs, the Emperor Thomas,
his friends and their families, and the German light,
the strong ideology and Christianity
that symbolized the Christian life,
the bridges met in Russia,
England and the States United. In the morning,
fire and poetry, a brief leaflet from Uppsala
and a lawyer and former colleague respect the son of a dead man.
In the second hour, the woman was a deception,
a god, a Roman god, in the same god,
a Roman goddess of Rome. In the eye,
old trees are screams and high health benefits.
The Mexican Mexican Mexican Museum,
Vitamins and Minerals, full of mountain ranges, dense clouds
and miraculous dreams.
The beetles on my head were
"in England, Guinea, the United Kingdom,
the barracks, the rage and the lives
of marine life in the United Kingdom".
The machines antiplicas are the first payment
of the first poem of the poem. It was published in the special foot.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 8:45 PM UTC
i love new cds
the crinkle of sliding
plastic wrap off
how it feels to remove
the security label
in two tries or less
to see my eyes on
the backs of songs
crystal clear and
iridescent
*(too new to be vintage
too old to be cool)*
how smooth a brand
new jewel case feels
and a booklet before
fingerprints
but then again i love
finding them secondhand
a little smeared and
pages crinkled
how a brand new
album is a blank
slate for me to write
my memories on
and when the plastic
cracks and the music
plays on it all just proves
that together we lived
*(hoping and praying we didn't get
scratched to the point of no return)*
i was born in
the fall of a fleeting
shimmering silver age
the hybrid time
between analogue
for the common man
and digitization
of the masses
my childhood
when these things
were still fragile
expensive
slipping into
adulthood and
falling into
feeling obsolete
*(i am the last remaining
child of the compact disc)*
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 11:15 PM UTC
I. Intensity
I feel it. Every step. Every breath. It's there. I feel it. In the air. In the trees. In the sunshine. In the rain. It's everywhere. It's in my bones. It's in the world. I wasn't prepared for this and I don't know what to do now. My heart feels heavy like the weight of my own personal planet. Loss and grief, they're such big things but they come to you in waves and believe me, when they try to take you back to shore, it hurts like hell and you feel it everywhere. I tried to avoid this, tried to lodge it out of my mind but it simply isn't possible. I think I'm spiraling out of control but the only person who can help me is--myself.
II. Disbelief
Roses on a casket. Touching your hand for the last time. Tears, lots of them. Legs are shaking. Awkward hugs and handshakes. This isn't actually happening, is it? My world doesn't feel right without you and somehow I'm still expecting to come home to your smiling face. People ask me how I'm doing-- "Oh, I'm fine." I don't have the courage to be honest and tell them I'm actually a string from falling apart. If I don't want to deal with the weight of my own emotions, why would anyone else? Following the how I'm doing, I get the "What can I do for you?" "Oh I don't know...make my heart feel like less of a planet and make like a body part." I don't say that, of course. I thank them for their compassion and say I don't need a thing.
III. Numb
I put one foot in front of the other. I must find the strength to move forward. It's been two weeks now. After being consumed whole by the weight of my own emotions, I have reached the transition from "too much" to "almost nothing at all." At the start of this, I didn't know what to do...and I still don't know what to do. I wish there was some sort of instructional booklet for the grieving process. Emotions, conversations, embraces-- they all start to blend together even though they're all so different. I feel distant but not lost. I know where I am. I am still moving but somehow I feel like I'm stationary. How do I move closer? How do I not lose myself completely? Grieving, it takes different shapes. It's like a ghost that is always lingering but only makes its presence known in the worst of your moments.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 3:49 PM UTC
One, two.
Five minutes more. I got this.
Three, four.
I made sure to organize them.
Five, six.
I already practiced multiple times.
Seven, eight.
I'm pretty sure I memorized all of them correctly.
Nine, ten.
As I opened the booklet, and held my pen firmly,
I read what seems to be a joke to me.
Eleven...
All left is spilled ink.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 8:39 AM UTC
Memories of pain, you're screaming again, you're going insane.
Dark thoughts are sometimes called nightmares when your eyes are closed.
and eventually your eyes open and you remember memories
and you call them thoughts but they swarm and sting like a cloud of wasps
and you remember their eyes and you remember to forget before your eyes refuse to close again.
No sleep means dark thoughts become elaborate plots for white sheep
and bread trails become dead tales as you climb off the cross while muttering "me, me, me!"
So you shake the glass from your entrails
and lick the blood from your hang nails
and suddenly nothing ******* rhymes and you realize you don't care
and the little booklet that tells you how to play the game gets wet
and you can't even read it.
and finally you have nothing.
and nothing makes sense.
And now you can sleep, but the dark creeps close and fills your nose, breaks your bones, and milks your moans.
Memories of pain, you're screaming again, you're going insane.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:16 AM UTC
Soaked by the rains
and poked in the eye by the people
as I flow into the drains
and what do they gain
from the pleasure of seeing poor men feeling the pain?
In the laundromat where I dry off my pieces and start to think that
the World is unfair
and I'm afraid of drying my hair in the drying machine
because the temperature's hot
and I've only got a couple of quid
just enough for a bottle to get rid of the taste
that I taste in the waste and the water of streets.
It's a rinse and wash cycle and around I will go
into the jaws of depression where everything's so
down
and down on a template where nothing is rated and I don't even count
I am mounted on tape and put in a booklet and in case I forget
it's available on Amazon,
The story of John and the the things that went on
in the cul de sac where there was no hope of heading back
and the lack of direction which was locked in suspension
and extended detention.
I have a secret
do you want to know?
would you like to travel down avenues where the junkies use
daylight as a midnight binder
would you find in it something to make you think you'd bring the answer to a table
could you allow for the language that melts even plastic and the discarded cards of the die hards and addicts and if you picked up the lingo do you really think that you'd go into the den of the demons?
Do you want to follow through shallows and into the bellows of bellowing madmen who with not a thought of the where or the when just the now and the how and the eyes that would grace you then steal as you walked through?
In this soaked state I am in where the sin starts to dry and in quite equal measures to the amount that I cry
there is always a why and a solution to buy
but it's always too late
for the few who can't wait
and the rain keeps on coming while those people keep running
and I flow down the drains.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
Baron Saturday
The Moon God sees these are fitting beasts.
There's a snek in my Jim nest and i'm fully chinned, laughing at
me the walk twist the key's own menstrual pattern.
Wander out of it's not time's own belonging to my neighborhood.
As I (in jest) myselve's own existing
contrary to bird law's bound booklet handed from headless
man on the subway, so it will become.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
The day you was selected and not elected to be my love.
It wasn't cause of your political affilation.
That I could careless about.
It was because you have the power of both houses of Congress.
I said it.
I meant it.
You a representative stronger then anyone in the senate.
It a seal deal when you move on a proposal.
You have the power of the veto.
And you're not the president.
You understand, what Thomas Payne meant by his booklet common sense?
If we broken the word Congress down.
This what it means concerning you.
Courageous, in the mist of a fight.
On time, at the beginning of your shift.
Nice, when needs to be.
Grand, to the point that others listen to you.
Restless, to the point that you don't give up.
Estatic, that you able to accomplish a lot.
Satified, that once the deal is done you share the credit.
Sincere, to those that call upon you.
Only, if the politicians had the quality of you.
Then , the world we live in wouldn't be going through the things they are going through.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 8:52 AM UTC
my feet quickly began to meld into the
rubber grips on the stairs descending (into hell, I promise)
and wasn't I supposed to ask him something?
or wait, maybe I was supposed to ask yesterday.
what if I see someone I know?
ohnonono don't look at him
don't-
yeah, yeah, I'm perfectly fine but if you don't mind,
I need to get this test done (so I can go home, but I don't say that)
there's a sword fight going on in my spine,
and a boxing match in my head.
somehow my tears manage to stay
on the bridge of my lips,
staying off of the paper
that will judge me.
and then I wipe them with
ever graying hands, hands that shake
as I pass him the booklet,
and hands that turn the doorknob
releasing me and flushing out
all the panic.
r.c.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
*With my two hands I've been working,
Creating blisters and sore,
Contracting each muscle,
Down to each core.
The simple work that needs power and strength,
Where your psyche and physique are combined to extend.
With my two hands I've been reading,
Trying to grasp,
On each word in each booklet,
To the profundity it has.
Absorbing and digesting each paper till the end,
Creating a thick net of neurons,
So the mind can comprehend.
The fascination it holds, is with both tasks well spent,
Exhaustion but fulfillment can result in the end.
With my two hands I've been trying,
To align myself straighter,
To the urge in me to think,
And the urge in me to labour.
The combination it seems,
Is the way out.
The combination it seems,
Is what leaves me no doubt.*
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 5:25 PM UTC
It's relatively a slow process.
A thought builds upon anticipation.
Thanks to the nostalgia ingrained by Disney.
Musically the songs are different.
Granted the press of a thumb.
Spotify, Pandora.
An assortment of different streams all profoundly deep.
Separately, the adaptation is the same.
Boy meets girl.
Eyes go on vacation.
Suddenly we're dressed in leisure.
Beautiful sights ingested by the brochures of a hotel lobby.
Just yesterday none of this seemed possible.
Everything crowed into the bends of a folded booklet.
Lost in the sensation of influential taste.
This was my outlook.
A yesterday morning spent in the hotel lobby of my own interest.
I am in sense booking my own fear.
This slow process that begins it's advance.
A millennium that begins a couple seconds past twelve.
She was the art visually spread across the brochure.
With arms wide open I fell in.
Speeding up this process ever slightly.
I still a consumer at best.
Her being the best vacation I ever been.
I am in sense booking my own fear.
Her love.
Further more exploring the secret of her parenthesis
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 12:46 AM UTC
Could you be here?
the street sign, trees, puddles of wet snow
murmur Yesssssssss
father and daughter playing a card game
with the woman behind the counter
whisper You could, if you tried
the drawing and origami birds
folded up inside an exhibition booklet from Krakow
urge you
to be here.
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 6:24 AM UTC
To write is to be free
Free from the restrictions
Handed to me
In a booklet that reads
Life
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
Where does my pen go?
I can’t find it in the pocket of my cold-faded jeans.
I used to have it when I was in college mingling with the intellectuals that try to find a good post in society.
Where is it now?
I have something to write on my hand size booklet.
Where does it go?
On a bus, I feel I’m pressing toward the sunset all day since it’s cloudy.
Here come the raindrops.
It finally touches my glass window.
I have more time to think on since travel would take few hours.
Have I slept?
I think I let it that way.
Too many words to utter but kept inside.
Then I’ll need to write it down.
Where does my pen go?
Years have become stitches in my mouth.
Ten thousand words to consolidate in a phrase. Can’t write it down.
I think my right hands can no longer connect with my fast aggressive left mind.
Stiches, more stiches to zip the words in my pocket.
My window started to moist.
Rain, let it rain.
The fog enters on a small hole.
I guess it clogs out the burden.
It melts the spirit of selfishness and now I wanna wield my pen and dance with it.
Still don’t have it.
As my finger walks through my glass window, I know I can write it down.
There it says “VOW YMC”.
Voice Out What Your Mind Conveys.
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 12:32 AM UTC
God created us through our parents
We should be their greatest adherents
For we are their children, their hope & blessing
They also need our loving & caring
As our pro-creators, they are worth our honor
A great way to respect their source, our Creator
A great shame to be ungrateful towards them!
-11/30/2015
(Dumarao)
*21st Daily Reflection from Catechism Booklet
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 8:44 PM UTC
most of the internet seems like a wild west
in terms of copyright laws...
i only came across one website,
where you can't simply copy & paste
the content... which is a shame...
yes, it's a canadian website...
but let's stage a contra...
against the mp3 generation pirates,
beginning with napster...
ever fiddle with the album sleeve
of pearl jam's vitalogy?
i know the vinyl snobs are
out there, saying how much superior
they are...
but this c.d. sleeve?
it's like touching very well crafted leather...
so much for mp3...
oh, and the binaural booklet?
fuck me, that's a wonder too,
you just start getting itchy fingers,
like i remember getting, when i was a kid,
and other kids used to play with my toys,
esp. the NES (nintendo 8-bit)...
i'd just get these itchy fingers...
two major games?
obviously mario bros
but then there was this duck-shooting game,
where you'd cheat, and walk up to the television
screen and start shooting...
**** me, that's really getting touchy feely...
like i said, memory can be a great cinema.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC
We sit in waiting rooms
In leafy suburbs and council estates and amongst the urban hubbub
Of life continuing without us
Around us
On NHS waiting lists and in clinics
Waiting for a swab and a stick and a booklet with a few telephone numbers
For you to call and fix yourself, if you wish
Sitting
across from our familiar stranger this week because of the new news that is our
history, Herstory
painful reality
Fresh on our twitter feeds
Souls laid out bare for everyone to see
Our hurt. And still you'll never understand what it means.
This week
Thousands of women in their weekly meet
Our stories told and untold, forgotten and remembered,
memories always a feather's distance away. Whispered
And carried through the storm.
But still you won't hear how deep
The trauma sits
But what matters is
We survive
And we are together, now.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 11:19 AM UTC
Look around you, in the bushes,
up in the clouds, in the cubicle
next to you at the office.
There’s a (wo)man or maybe
a wo(man) ready to save your
life, put out a fire or kiss you.
(S)he is a mother or a father or
a sister or a nephew – and (s)he
is on a “don’t touch me” list.
The evil one has branded “IT”
as inhuman, ugly, ***** canine –
words that hurt deeply, sting.
You see, (s)he used to have a
***** but now does not – or (s)he
didn’t have a ***** but now does.
What makes the evil one sweat
about the pinkness or blueness
of a child’s toy animals?
Is it wearing pants instead of
skirts? Is it wearing lipstick
instead of a moustache?
In the court of the evil one –
modeled after Renaissance
art and sculpture – is a rule.
Only the descendants of Eve
properly equipped with a ***** –
and born with it – are human.
So, hark, you who believe in
equality, test your chosen ones –
be sure their equipment is valid.
What God has given cannot –
according to the laws of nature –
be changed into fake goods.
Fear not, though, you scaredy-cats,
the evil one now has a solution –
a birth certificate is not enough.
The new proof of citizenship – in
fact the only legal document – is
the ****** passport.
This 20-page, copyrighted, coded
booklet is impervious to forgery –
it explodes if attempted.
The bearer’s birth photo is on
page 1 – containing a ***** or
***** plus an inkblot thereof.
This is proof positive of the
real gender of the owner – *****
anyone with a contrary viewpoint.
The evil one is pleased with their
cunning enforcement of the true
rule of nature:
Only men – natural penises, of
course – may serve as adherents
of “MY” constitution.
© Lewis Bosworth, 8/2017
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC