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Satan is love and love is Satan
You are one and the same,
In texture, scent and beauty,
You all blend into one
Commanding three quarters
Of heaven’s loyalty
Ninety percent of human allegiance,
The church and the mosque are your marionette
All the temples are your domain,
African Shrines are your beautiful turf
As synagogues thrive from your love.

Satan, this sonnet is for you
My lyrical dedication to your glory,
An Ode of all odes to you Satan
As for you will reign
In the natural systems
As the sole queen of my heart
Your regal time in my love-sphere
Will infinitely pullulate in times to come,

Of your nature I know not
Of your abode I know not
Whether you are in ethereal
Or in the realms of hell
I know not but to your glory,
Of your race I know not
Notwithstanding your black label,
But your glory and mighty I know
You reign the earth and the heaven
With unmatched stature, unprecedented
Your foes forlornly left minus option
But only to desperate wistfulness,

Your works are a tor among mountains
In seas, oceans, landmasses and heavenly systems,
You designed colonialism at Berlin conference
You inspired slavery in the powers that be
You inspired heart of apartheid among Israelis
Against the foolish Palestinians,
You masterminded forceful occupation
Of the oil wells and Lands of Palestine by Israelis,
You designed Apartheid in South Africa
And nascent racial hatred in America
That saw death in Ferguson and the poor lad
A ****** Treyvvon who is better dead!
And it all went all without simple fetter
My dear sweet heart, the one and only one,
Satan the dearest Lucifer Alias Ibilis,

Your accolades are unique
And true Spectacle of spectacles,
They stand garlanded out of the rest
To sure glory of my dear little dove,
The flower of my heart,
Was the gift of nuclear power
to the stoogish Einstein your protégé?
Was the gift of *** to the Irish Scientists
Your efforts and sweat of your brow?
Is Ebola your latest tool in depopulation move?
Will you spare the black souls my dear love?

My heart misses you dear little love,
Where and when can we meet?
For us to have our light moment
To have a heart to heart chat
In the fullness of flowery flora
And monkey Fauna of Africa,
Can we meet on the **** shores
Of warm and elegant Lake Turkana?
The beacon of natural beauty
On which human sorrow melts
Into the mellifluous warmth
Of your love and delicacy of you romance,
I look forward dear for this day,
On which I will be swallowed
Into your softly touch and caresses
As your warm kisses land on my lips
I will softly moan to the warmth in you love.

Can I come along with my friends, dear sweetie?
For they are unhappy and proscribed to a legal corner
In this dark abyss of African political culture
They are Lesbians and gays, drug dealers,
Polygamists and polyandrous ones,
The laws of the day have pigeonholed them,
Let them come to your table for a treat
On buckers and Nyama Choma of he goats,
For truly they are your current brainchildren
Forlornly isolated by black primitivity.


I will sing to you all lyrics my dear
As your works are marvelous and wonderful
They crystallize into a power of powers
I will sing to you; ‘the poem to Satan’ of dear Marx,
And ‘evil’s idol’ in the glory of your love,
Will sing for you ‘the night in the forest’
And ‘Ode to my mother’ of Adolf ******
As I shower your reign with classical lyrics,
In praise of your power on human heart,
None else calls the tune of human piety
As you powerfully do my dear lollipop.

I am now tired
And the lamp of my house now faintly goes
As my heart yearns for sleep
Into which I will dream
The blissful dreams
Propelled by the sweet scent
The sole outfit of your lovely reign.
Katrina Maria Aug 2012
It's been used on the street.
Used outside of the medical
profession.
Y'know, it's an altogether
new thing.

It can be even more important
than reading the bible.
Children as young as nine
are enlighted with ritual
consumption.
Student priests. Brainchildren.

A moshing chapel, a bouncing
church.
Holy orders have volunteered.
Five groups of four. Four groups of men.

With his eyes, he asked for
water, as deep as wells.
Brain unrooted, profound psyche.

What matters now? Dawns on me.
An experiment, an experiment.

What comes back? What expands?
Everyone that you meet.
The man, the man, the man.
Your duty is not over.

The surprise is:
the cross is the drug.

Sitar sounds and biting.
Chewing and *******.
Swiss lips and big trips.
Explosions and headlines.

Brighter colours, paisley skies.
Giggling teens and sighs.
Spare ribs unite, yellow sweets.

All to do with round.
Monochromatic world turns to
dreaming and doing it all.
Everything, I can do it.

But It's all too much.
So many ties and looking to
your eyes.
Love shines and trombone slides.
Social liberations, my friend.

Feminism, it's for the doers.
Taxes, real worlds, living on it.
Escape is far worse.
Easy actions and breaking
through windows.

Use it proactively not as
recreation.
Same effect as a man getting it.
He feels it going.
Terribly uncomfortable, alone.

Escape is suicide. Lies, lies,
Exagerration, laws, again lies.
Too many idiots, not enough cooks,
Too many chefs, not enough books.

News is what has given particular
concerns with the true risks.

Mr. Illicit tells us the risks.
Accidents and Supermen and flies.
Don't believe in the invisible
trains and cars.

Mental Breakdowns are wonderful
only when it's dependant
upon the setting. Too much again.

Vortex of fear, darker sides.
Rolling and sadness.
Initially the experience was
as advertised. Ancient fossils live.

A new green, a new blue
New sunlight. A new shape.
Terrifying proportions if you
camp in the wrong field.

Lethargic pigs sliced and green.
Cartoon kinda monsters.
Hahahahahahahha, we've GOT YOU!
Negative, feelings, never again.

Secrets of the mind, they chase.
It's the mis-use. It's the bad.
It's the guilt, it's the right way
Only without respect.

The larger group,
it ruins everything for
everyone responsible. Why?
Why cant't you just ******* make
drinks illegal?
Why not cancer sticks? Sickening.

Leave love alone.
Afraid that there is more to
our doors, that haven't been opened.
Out of control? You are out of control.
virgil deckard Oct 2012
I remember a time when my brain was flexible, elastic;
like a good rubber band.

we would unwind all of the messy, pulsing coils and stretch them out until they became
one long grey intestine.

we jumped rope with it, and swung through the trees, laughing until our voices surrendered

yet as all intestines will do,
it has become sluggish, bloated with ****
and is wound tighter than a corporate watch

now every conversation is the devils Rubik's cube
and brainchildren don't come from a barren womb


so I've taken to adoption
and thrown em all in the backroom
where they lie cramped in bed
with little to eat, and less to do
Lucky Queue Jan 2013
Progeny of grey sloppy sponge
And hard, dense cranial matter
Sons of electrical pulses and impulses
Daughters of ideas and concepts, half formed
The words and phrases spat out onto pages
The pictures and doodles creeping out
From behind your eyes
The mess behind your all-and-nothing
Viewing optical orbs
Art and trash, poems and junk
These are your brainchildren
SøułSurvivør Jan 2017
Sometimes poets make mistakes
On these quite public sites
It causes great dissension
Brings on many fights
This is especially tragic
When the poet is a light
They are then maligned a lot
Their character a blight
What should have been a shining beam
Becomes as dark as night.

I am one such person.
I made a public show.
Partially due to ignorance
Of how internet stuff goes
Yes. I had my lapses.
But now I let the flow
Bless my faithful readers
I wish to bestow
Grace to other poets
Some of whom you know.
But some folk still malign me...
They do so on the low.

This has NOT been gracious.
Actually unfair.
Would YOU like your every deed
And ***** laundry aired?
I don't pretend to love folks here...
I actually care!
But some became a pitfall.
They'd rather be a snare.
Can you take my moccasins
And place your foot in there?

I have NOT been hiding.
Put pride on the shelf.
I have confessed many times
I TOLD ON MYSELF.

But there ARE those unforgiving.
They go around and "warn".
Their modus operandi
Is to cause a hornet's swarm
They don't care who they may hurt
They do a lot of HARM.

If someone is repentant
And has a humble heart
Comes only offering
To love and be a part
Wouldn't it be prudent?
Wouldn't it be smart?
To forget the past transgressions
And get on with our ART?

This does not apply to PLAGIARISTS
Those who do not SERVE
They ****** our brainchildren.
RUN DOWN, AND DO NOT SWERVE
If they are unrepentant
THEY GET WHAT THEY DESERVE.

That's it for my sermon.
That's all I have to say.
Let's start writing poetry

AND GET ON WITH OUR DAY.



♡ Catherine
click klack click klack click klack click klack
klippity clop klippity clop klippity clop
slap slip slap slip slap slip.
 
hello and welcome to the machine age
where pink floyd your tour guide
where human beings the laughing stock
on the supposed creature comforts
but in truth dependent on those big and little gadgets
designed by the brainchildren of past and present.
 
civilization at the mercy of those trappings
envisioned by wunderkinds
that propelled the masses from labor
yet now shackled to technology
far removed from simple existence of yore
when people used horse power

as their chief form of locomotion in the bustling towns
that inexorably spawned metropolises
that birthed towering skyscrapers
leading to potential fiascos by making civilization incumbent on
factories generating gewgaws in tandem with industrial waste.
 
survival of numerous species
(including that of man/womankind) hangs in the balance
as population explodes beyond
the capacity of planet earth to support
such a burgeoning billions fold burst of **** sapiens
filling every nook and cranny on this third rock from the sun
foisting an inconvenient gory truth
that catastrophe looms ever closer
perching all living organisms ever closer to the brink
of disaster and eventual extinction
unless dramatic measures taken to manage reproduction.

— The End —