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Lizzy Jan 2015
My couch is a wasteland,
Pulls me down, I cannot stand.
It scares me that I’m drawn to gore,
I see destruction, I want more.
I don’t know if its anger,
Or if it’s something stranger.
I want to shatter glass,
I need to make this feeling pass.
I want to throw things and scream,
I want to get out of this dream.
Running isn’t satisfying,
I feel like I need to break something.
Sebastian Macias Jul 2018
Funny some days
When things won't go your way
And you see them nice cars
People enjoying their ice cream
Idiots smiling, arms full of insecurities

And you're in a boxing ring
With one woman eating at your soul
The mother of your child,
Bending your legs into halves
The one who brought you,
Screaming in the corner,
Loser! Shmuck! Mistake!
Circling, are challenged hyenas from work
Poking into you
Like an animal in a cage

And as your ******* sweats
Walking towards your train
You think to yourself,
They won't even see it coming
When you gotta wake up one day,

Tear everything to ****.
Eat everything in your path.
mourning peace.
Mama pours a glass of mulled wine,
lights a scented candle
                               (- "cherries on snow" -)
and drinks to ol' Joan.

Passed down with the jewellery box,
somewhere in the will, the daughters
receive the annual chore of roasting
the turkey (delicious!) and the veggies
(good job!) and (could you pass the?) breadsauce
for their brothers and husbands huddled
            on a threadbare sofa -- and a younger girl,
            barely there, staring at a laptop screen.

Mama's not festive - always too tired -
barely celebrates, but orchestrates.
Years barely there 'cause she's needed in their kitchen
and someone's gotta cook can she please get a hand? and
one chivalrous male puffs out his chest, takes one for the team, gestures to the girl with no discernible attention span and
half-laughs an "ay, one day this'll be you!
Best get in there while you're young!"

                                                       ­   ((A baritone chorus of laughter.))

"You outdid yourself on the turkey."
"S'great, ain't it? Pass the potatoes."

Sometimes here, sometimes Spain.
We stay over. It's tradition: we're
scattered across the country,
maid duties are the least she can do.
Never our kitchen or living room.
Tiny. Messy. Unwelcoming.
Come Boxing Day, Mama gives
a bear hug goodbye and an
"it's good to see you";
Because it is, she thinks.
Thank you for inviting me
to carry out your labour.
I'm just grateful to be needed.

A month of red 'SALE' tapes
scouring the clearance shelves;
overtime for extra cash
scraped to afford the food she cooks you;
paying half for gifts she'd brainstormed
while Dad buys partial credit on the gift tag.
We leave your house.
happy holidays! if you rub your eyes, it semi-looks like a christmas tree.
Ladislav Josephs May 2015
Another sleepless night
Thinking of words to say gently good bye

We talked long hours last night
Result is - I won't be your shining armor knight

I am tired of hide and seek
I am strong, but in this game am weak

You will grant me lunch, meeting
Teach me Chinese while eating

Not good enough to satisfied
My desire to be with you, gratified

Instead of making love
You punched my face,
heart with boxing glove

On the WeChat you have send me
Flower with cat's pose
It turned out to be stem
Full of thorns, not rose

Go ahead roam Internet,
streets, bars searching for love

You won't find it
It just has flown away
Under wings of white dove

Despite of all I said, I love you still
Love you forever and always will

I do anything for you, I say
Love you until my dying day
Sometimes you have to part with your love, not matter how painful it is to say good bye.
Wk kortas Nov 2017
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.

Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location*.

You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
Celebration gone,

Wrapped packages jobs finished.

Spending overdone.

Pretty paper wrap,

So quickly removed prepares,

Pretty paper scrap.

UK Boxing day mode,

Present boxes packaging,

Collect and dispose.

Christmas perfected.

Feasts  consumed and gifts exchanged,

Nice times  collected.
(just after Christmas Haiku)
Yellow  Sun shone on a white frosty morning.
The path sparkled like diamonds fit for a king.
Mr Ketchup had  felt a bit under the weather lately
He was struggling to get out of his bed.
Everything was an effort for him.
Mr Ketchup felt so tired and weary
Nothing  cheered him up.
He just sunk deep into a old worn out chair and sighed again .
Poor old Mr Ketchup would he ever be the same again.

Christmas  wasn’t  even any better. On boxing day there was a loud knock on the door. There stood in the door way was  his distant cousin Mr Chips.
Mr Ketchup had a funny feeling that it wasn’t  the news he would enjoy.  
Sure enough it was..

“Do come in” said Mr Ketchup.
“ I am afraid your old auntie passed away  this morning.”
“ Mr Ketchup  looked away, bewildered.”
Mr Chips felt sorry  for him and wonderd if there was anything that he could do .  

“ Mr Ketchup,---- if there is anything that I can do.”
    No… nothing .
Mr Ketchup felt even worse than when he first got up .
He just felt shocked  and so sad  that his auntie from Wales had an terrible accident falling  down the stairs breaking both of her hips. and that she had died.   he just sat in his chair slowly staring into space.
Tabby the cat jumped onto his lap . Mr Ketchup  woke up startled with fright .
“Oh Tabby what am  I going to do now  stoking her  fur. Tears rolled down Mr Ketchup face.”

Mr Ketchup's loneliness isolated him from his family and friends.
He lay in his bed day after day,
With little hope that he could recover.
Slowly he sank into a deep lonely place.
Ignoring the loud knocks at the door.

Finally one bright sunny morning  he managed to drag himself out from underneath the moth eaten sheets. And muttered to himself enough is enough.
He phoned Haggis and  Neaps. They were overjoyed to hear his voice.
"Will you, bring some milk and cakes said Mr Ketchup it's been a rather a long time don't you think'?
Jayne E Aug 28
gratitude #2

an adjustment
of attitude
does not denote
or even servitude

doesn't mean

A little tolerance
is a lovely thing
A little kindness
over boxing in the ring

being human
regardless of numen
just us humans

m­e me me me
single minded
******* in ego
and so

we need reminded
to be gentle
not necessarily
just clement

A little tolerance
is a beautiful thing.

© J.C. 28/08/2019.
I am cursed because I have VRE

This little ****** lives on people’s skin and in their intestines.

Generally it is as happy as a pig in **** and won’t be a bother.

But get sick and produce the wrong type of **** and VRE will get so angry that it’s likely to go forth and multiply throughout your body.

And if you’re already too weak to fight back, it will **** you for sure.

Only one type of weapon will take out VRE and that’s Vancomycin.

But VRE is smart as all hell.
It has learned to duck and dive and almost avoids taking a punch from Vancomycin.

Occasionally VRE takes a knockout punch but we don’t want to give them anymore boxing training than humanly possible, do we?
Vancomycin-resistant enterococci (VRE): a type of bacteria called enterococci that have developed resistance to many antibiotics, particularly vancomycin. Enterococci bacteria are present normally in the intestines and on the skin, usually without causing problems.
Unkind to himself
to his glory
  a pugilist who
kind to his adversary
the boxing ring.
guy scutellaro Jul 2018
(precedes, Bob O'Malleys Wedding reception part one)

The 19 year old light heavy weight leans his muscular body forward to rest his hands on the top rope. He bows his head waiting to regain his breath as his lungs fight to force air deep into his chest. Bill Wain has just boxed four rounds with Red.

Harry, the trainer, gently pulls the untied gloves from Red's hands.
"Good fight, "he says, patting Red on the back as the fighter climbs through the ropes and heads across the gym to the showers. Harry hands the sweat soak gloves to Felix who puts one glove under his arm while he loosens the laces on the other 16 ounce glove. He makes the sleeve wider. "Do you want the head gear?" the old black man asks.

Jack Delleto shakes his head and pushes his taped hand deep into the glove.

The former welterweight champion of Nevada smiles. He glances at Harry and then at Jack. "Head gears unnatural and you can't use them in a pro- fight. It only gives the fighter a false sense of security, anyway."

"Like a condem," Harry says.

"What's a condem ? Are you talking about a fucken rubber?" Felix asks, a bit perturb. "What's a rubber got to do with anything?" Felix demands, not understanding Harry's joke.

"Well, " Harry drawls. "It's suppose to protect your head. It's not natural and just gives you a false sense of security.

"Are you fucken kidding me? Is that suppose to be a joke? Harry, I just don't understand your sense of humor."

Harry smiles and Jack is laughing.

Felix tries not to and then shakes his head laughing, too. "Man, that was the worst joke. How does that feel?" Felix asks Jack when he has finish tying the glove.

Holding up the glove, Jack rotates his wrist. "Feels fine."

The old man takes the other glove from under his arm, pulls the laces out, and holds it open. Without turning his head to look at him, Felix tells Harry, "Make sure Bill doesn't cool down, tell him to shadow box." Harry walks over to Bill and Bill starts shadow boxing. Jack pushes his hand into the glove. "Make a fist." Jack does. Felix pulls the laces tight and ties them into a bow.

Felix looks intently into Jack's eyes. "How does that feel?" He does not see any fear.

"About right."

"you look tired."

"I am a little."

"Are you sick or is it a woman." Felix asks somberly.

"I'm not sick."

A big smile spreads across the face of the former welterweight champion of Nevada. The face of the sixty-eight year old blackman is lined and cracked like the old boxing gloves that jack is wearing, but his tall body is youthful and athletic in appearance. Above Felix's eyebrows Jack sees the affects of twenty years as a professional fighter. He sees the thick scar tissue and the thin white lines where the old man's skin has been stitched and restitched many times. As he gives instructions to Jack, Felix's brown eyes seem to be staring at something distant and Jack wonders if Felix has chased around the ring one time too often his dream.

"I like your style, Jack. Get off first and don't stop punching until he goes down. You've got it kid, and not every fighter does."

Jack and Felix start walking over to the ring.

Jack wonders, "What is it I've got?" He asks.

Felix puts his foot on the fourth strand of the rings rope and with his hand pulls up the top strand. "You've got HEART."

Jack steps into his corner.

In the opposite corner Bill Wain waits while a concerned Harry talks quietly with Felix at the center of the ring apron.

"Will he be alright?" Harry asks.

"Bill's tired." Felix says, then he tries to explain. "It's not the money. I almost 70 and I want to go out a winner." He pauses, and then offers, "he can hit hard with either hand."

"yeah, but at best he's a small middleweight and he only moves in one direction, straight ahead."

"Harry, I love the guy." Felix puts his hand on Harry's shoulder. "He's like Tyson at the end of his career. He'd fight you to the death, but he wasn't fighting to win anymore, either."

Harry puts his hands in his pockets and stares at the floor. "Do you want me to tell'em to go easy." Harry looks up at Felix, waits for an answer.

"I'm tired of sweeping the dirt from behind the boxes of wax beans and tuna fish. I'm sick of waitin in the rain to collect shopping carts. A half way decent white heavyweight can make a lot of money. It's not good for a fighter to practice holding back. Bill's a winner. Jack"ll be alright."

Felix reaches into the pocket of his faded brown and grey checkered pants. He hands the pocket watch to Harry so he can time the rounds.

Felix nods to Bill Wain and the he looks over to Jack standing in the opposite corner. He winks at Jack Delleto and whispers, "The Jack of Hearts."

Bill comes out purposefully out of his corner, circling left.

Jack rushes straight ahead.
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