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Nat Lipstadt Jun 14
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more”
(Henry V, by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE)

Morning into Mourning

<>

I speak it softly, for though battlefield is steeped in quietude
of the lively greenery, endless lawns of healing fields
surrounded by multitudinous shades of blue waters,
my eyes piercing , joining in
as sunrising separates the veil
dividing light from dark, new from prior,
a went-before and a
soon-to-be
and a familiar-what-to-be-hereafter,
but a skyed breech it is,
with sun ray stairs inviting my
upright ascension into this newness

Welcoming the exposure of my trembling, though it is not fear that causes my shaking, but the colored warmth barely warming, yet,
stoking, stroking the drape of chill
away, away! from my night-sealed pores

the majestic surfacing of the waters peinture impasto, with its roughened but genteel thick, dabs, dots, swirls, swishes belie the overall atmosphere of calm it conveys, and Shakespeare’s rallying cry of men rises to the mind forefront, for the bay is my battlefield,
the day’s new light the breeching of the sky’s
envelopment of our world, summons to rise and
step forward intimately into the tableau of morning

into the breech, into the unknown,
to lift one more poem from breast,
shed tears of welcome, and death fears banished,
a battle to the unknown from the foretold past,
and, but


you shout
no!
<>
tis a day like all others,
of rectitude sans gratitude
another quantity of known drudgery, another,
“Woke up, fell out of bed
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup”

The breach is within me,
a splitting of the head,
laid flat out upon my desk,
writing down scrupulously
officiously,
the same figures inconsequentially,
letters deranged, daily merely rearranged,
prison vista,steel and glass appearing with
the same exactitude of every day ever prior,
the sun invisible, the unceasingly unchanging
dark deep of the shadowy of manmade canyons…

speak to us no more of views, vistas,
but the fistulae, the empty places
where interconnected dots and dash’s,
light and ombre blends of dark ochre  
gradations of bland de~gray~ding
are our time’s patchworks of familiarity,
cursed with annualized daily reciprocity,
a *** for a tat,
a woolen watch cap,
a  black Balaclava,
drawn over our heads
lest the drudgery be too readily apparent!


<>
mere mortal am I,
mortal wounded by our disparate
and desperate differing points
of view,
and we split ourselves in two,
hoping for a way forward of
reconciliations,
successful hostage negotiations,
pushing these contradictions,
back inside my heads,
until confronted
once again,
and find new words coming,
to bind me of the divisions between
or even,
to blind
me to the gaps between
my left and right
brain.

for I am both men,
one and the same,
forever
battling


until the morrow, then…
morning into mourning
June 14 2024
tween 3:30 AM ~ 10::00 AM
fitful sleep, fistfuls of vision's pieces
Cedric McClester Dec 2015
By: Cedric McClester

A Muslim goes to pray
At any mosque on any day
Which is not meant to convey
The things their critics have to say
I don’t know if you’re aware
Despite the way it may appear
A mosque is just a house of prayer
You’re not indoctrinated there

So wasted time is being spent
Looking at which mosque a terrorist went
That don’t give you the slightest hint
As to why he became so bent
You are more likely to find
The source that captured his warped mind
Somewhere down the dial on line
That’s how he became so blind

Nowhere in Qu’ranic teaching
Will you find what they are preaching
It’s a matter of them reaching
Their own ends while they are breeching
Everything that Islam stands for
Which put simply they ignore
Though that’s the badge they wore
While acting in ways Muslims abhor

They can bastardize the text
And baffle some folk’s intellects
By ignoring the balances and checks
That the Islamic religion projects
And it’s easy enough to fall
If there’s no foundation at all
You might answer anyone’s call
Who can reinterpret and enthrall












Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
K Marie May 2015
It creeps in out of nowhere.
It climbs my spinal cord
Breeching vertebrae after vertebrae.
It slides across my neck
And coils on my shoulder.
It begins to speak
Hissing in my ear
And suddenly I am
Sick with fear.
It begins in my stomach and
It makes my hands shake.
You will never be good enough
It says.
I will never be good enough
I repeat.
I am
    It is
My worst enemy.
It is a shadow
And I can never see the sun.
Reading an anthology of
Classic poems
On quiet a night
With wings of
Enlightenment and delight
My soul took flight
To far-off lands bright
Rife with musical poems
Some brain racking,
While some savory but light.

When I saw celebrated poets
From my dream plane
I decided to alight
So that the messages
Encoded on their poems,
To me they further explain.
Cognizant that
Hearing things from
The horse’s mouth
Like Antarctica
Will not make things
As far south.

I saw Helen Steiner Rice
Reading whose works
Like  ‘Christmas Guest’
Is nice.
When she me behold
This to me she told
“Till your corporeal being’s
Turn come to be a sod
Never desist to
Put your hope in God,
Who foresees and shapes
That will unfold.
Always dwell
In the vineyard of
The Lord. ”
Drew close James Stephens
With Helen
You are right nod.
“Chap, if you look around
You will behold
On everything
The hallmark of
Creation stamped by God!
Also excellent, from
The ordinary extra,
Your will hear
Nature’s God praising
Orchestra! ”
Willian Henery Davis
Courteously came by
To say <<Hi!>>.
“Be content with
What you have
You will be happy
When that you learn to love.
See you not why
The example set
By the butterfly,
On a rough rock
That sleeps content
Without a blanket! ”

Soon I met
Enda St. Vincent Millay
Whose fame
Surfing the tide of time
To date that does resonate.
“As the saying goes
‘The world is lovely
And the loveliest is enough!’
To be happy
Try to nurture the culture
Of admiring nature.
Waste not time
Go to the mountain
The secret of happiness
To you it will explain.”

After seconds walk
William Ernest Henely
Approached me for a hard talk
“When beset by challenges
Never give in
That is a great sin!
As for me, whenever
I fall
Soon I get up as the
Captain of my soul.
Though in the darkness
God seems far,
For the downhearted
He is a lodestar.”
I saw Elenor Frajeon
By a roadside
With a book in her hand.
“Love to books
Is a launching pad
To a wonderland,
Where readers meet authors
Of different brand
Hence, a window to their
Soul they will stand.
Also read my poem
That draws attention
To mother-to-child affection
That defies description.”

I met anon
Austin Dobson
“A rose
To itself
A question
Opted to pose.
‘I wonder why
This hoary-headed
Gardner refuses to die?’
But soon
A wind blew up
Its sun-withered
Petals to the sky.
The analogy teach
On the timeline
Brief, beauty to a grind
Will screech.

Patted me on the back
My son,
Ben Johnson
“Like a Lele
Being short and brief
Could render life
Ease and relief! ”

Sat on a rock
Samuel  Taylor Coleridge
To me a secret he broke.
With bitter smile
Waving his
Pen as a tool,
“Those who think
A poet is a fool
They will realize
Who is rather the fool
If they think with
A head cool!”
I saw Walter De la Mare
Exactly the way towards
Old Susan he used to stare.
“Susan taken away by
A romantic fiction
Past midnight
Sat on chair
Engrossed in a monologue
‘Breeching
Culture rules
Is not fair! ’
After
One’s age
Did advance
Reading fiction
One stands
For reliving
The past
A chance.  ”

Soon, came William Blake
Me to the graveyard
To take
Pointing to
A headstone
“Now, my enemy,
Object of my anger,
Is dead.
Subject to a
Conscious pang
It is divested of a soft pillow
I go to bed!
You must not yourself find
An axe to grind
Otherwise, to a reason
You will become blind.”
For supper
Volunteered to be
My host
Robert Frost.
He stressed
“To settle
Punitive price
As lethal
As fire is ice!”
Came an invited guest
Edmund Spencer
To tell us
The mystery
That put
His phlegmatic dream object
And he, her
Ardent lover, asunder.
“When fire and ice
Are locked in a love’s dorm
Out of the norm,
One may not change
The other’s form! ”
Via the window,
I saw a graveyard
Past the meadow.
When my eye caught sight
Of Julia Caroline
I took steps
To sit by her side
The meaning of eternal love
To understand.

“A kiss on the lips
From a lover
Is a keepsake stamp
That transcends
An earthly map.”

There in the graveyard
I met Sara Teasdale
“Like a low hanging ripe fruit
In the gray time
When a lass
Is off guard
To ****** her
A chance a lad
May stand.
Also from affection
For conjugal felicity
Many a lass
Could give added attention.”
I posed
Why should you show bent
To profanity?
“My friend
A *** could not be taken naughty
For expressing man’s sexuality!
For the answer try to meet
                Anne Bradstreet.”

Before I asked
Her why she
Committed a suicide
She got clear
From my side.

Anne Bradstreet
I met
“It is tragic
To have at home
A child with
A down syndrome!

What lurks
In the subconscious
Of an author or a poet
Through his/her pen
S/he may seek an outlet
So to date,
Regretting
“Why did I
Write this a taboo-seen
Thing!”
Seems some author’s fate.


I saw Thomas Hood
Amidst his harvest
That fares good
He told me
“From a perfumed
And well attired lady
Who belongs
To the top brass,
It is by far better
To tie a knot
With a provincial lass,
In her hair
With a fresh flower
Plucked out of the grass
She shines bright
Bathed by sunlight!”

Out on the street again
I met Lithuanian Salomejia Neris
I became happy
As I never wanted her to miss.

I asked her
About the heard-renting fate
She, her father, her mother, siblings
Neighbors and her age mate
Underwent.
“During the  World War II
Children, who
Otherwise were
Considered
Unfit for themselves
To fend,
Were forced
The brutal ****
To defend!”
Soon I met
Richard Lovelace
And John Scott
Locked in an argument hot.
The former
“I want to head to the front
It is a source of pride
To fight on
Nation’s side.”
The latter
“Paying a price grand
I cannot understand!”

Edwin Arlington Robison came
To tell me the story
About Richard Cory
“Measure not
Your life by
The success of your object
Of admiration,
The one a role- model
You hold or held,
I am afraid
Off guard
He can lodge
A bullet in
His head.”


I saw William Butler Yeats
, an Irish poet
Who raised an issue hot.
“How an
Angel helped out
A tired priest
A snap who
Could not resist
While a laity
In his parish
Was Ceasing to exist.”
Robert Herrick approached
Me this to speak
“I am smote
By grief,
To see a Daffodil,
Like human beings ,is brief.”

Said Emily Dickinson
“It is when you ere to hit
A target heart felt
You’ll understand
The meaning of
Having something desired
Under your belt.”
At last
I saw
Edgar Allan Poe
To make this to me
He made haste.
Though a pauper
“From my soul mate
No earthly or heavenly power
Is capable to asunder me
Top date.
After reading this much
I realized why
Poets never die”//////
Give me a feedback on this poem about  famous poets  and the themes of their poems.Google and read about their history and read some of their poems.I have trans
Helen Raymond Jun 2014
Tumbling,
Tossing,
Dawn, midnight-midmorning’s crossing.
Comatose in an arcane ether-realm, I’m watching.
Through the pastel, piercing mountains –rifting, I lay drifting.
The curtains parting, releasing two daylight captives, falling.
Tumbling,
Tossing,
Unfinished dolls of porcelain, tangled mess of hair -streaming
A girl, brunette, no eyes, no lips –smiling or screaming.
She wears dress in tones of pallid, matching his wee bow-tie -stark against jacket wafting.
Their skin, fire-cast, spare of flush, their jointed arms –like birds, flapping.
Tumbling,
Tossing,
The boy finds rest in clouds where birds lay nesting and mists –gently cresting.
He’s posed, his hand exposed, for her hand, inanimate, he’s reaching.
She’s losing ground rapidly, with but mock sense of gravity, while in clouds peaks are breeching.
Chest shattering, glass chattering,
Tumbling,
Tossing.
Skewered bodice, broken bits of her calling, giving rise to the blind though she’s not yet done falling.
All at once, his cries come with his fresh face & his babbles, nearly maddening.
Struck with the frozen bite, eyes & lips bursting –painted from her plasticine features -her tears biting and cries raging!
From her inky tears is drawn a river, running, gently cradling before suddenly she’s drowning!
Tumbling!
Tossing!
Through the waves, her ceramics washed to skin- her hollow, broken chest now heart beating & lungs pleading!
She takes her breath from the dark waters of her rift, living tattoos on her skin now flourishing, blossoming!
Her soul, wide-awake, taking root in her skin; finding wading too shallow, she seeks higher things of depth & so flies with a lofty dive into the heavenly expanse of underwater, pitching stars for her catching.
Paying one last glance at her lost mate, cowering, she leaves him sobbing after her on a path he won’t be following.

Tumbling,
Tossing,
Surviving,
to Surpassing
...
She is Rising
-monorhyme-
No, I did not write this poem about overcoming heartbreak, but you are welcome to read it in that frame if it suits you  :) Specifically it is a thinly-veiled grand metaphor for how we must go through trials & overcome our fears before we may rise to our full potential & become who we are.
an earlier draft of this barely satisfactory missive ex post facto, i chomped asper with upper dentures upon evincing a couple of typographical errors, in up rye or draft, and did not wanna dodge being a spell bound stickler for typing words correctly.

though no obligation to trot out this fixation sans zero misspelling tolerance, a compulsion with any concomitant obsession found me reposting before a repast of dessert - so there Ghost of Marie Antoinette, wherever you might be hiding - i can have my cake and eat it too!

Minus trimmings and over stuffed ego freezers,
but altruism, civility, Dharma *** ethnocentrism,
gratuitous homogeneous internationalism,
karma mosaic opportunism, quitessential righteousness,
unpretentious vivacious wide world yipping,

brouhaha dutifully emphasizing friendliness,
antithetically booing critical, popularly pugnacious
spoiled trump petting uber western yikyak,
zealous antipathy craving everything.
---------------------------------------------------------
a hypothetical, mental, rhetorical thought question
   occurred to me just moments ago
sans, milk of human kindness bubbles frothily
   upon major American holiday,

   whereat figurative bro
   thar and sisters exhibit philanthropic ambitions
   especially, towards indigent that crow
for bare necessities

   other than
   when Thanksgiving rolls around, and dough
nuts to dollars even most frugal misanthropes
   play feigned charitable card egoistically glow
with ambient benevolence, civility,
   diligent energy, and friendly hello

and sundry pleasant greetings
   hook hood be some
   soon tubby rich entrepreneurial stranger
   ready to make shares available vis a vis  IPO

   to dirt poor anonymous guarillas G.I. Jane or G.I. Joe
   who cross paths with each other,
   even those one doth not know
when ordinary biases, callousness,

   denigration...doth full low
out the mouths of hoity toity MainLiners
   towards working class people - mow
awe less trying to remain financially afloat,
   and with plea for handout
   would receive an emphatic NO!

Thee exception to unspoken aristocratic rule
   arising on feted buzz
   feed ding occasions where oboe
players invoke cobra to deliver riches galore to the 'po

whom sincerely show gratitutde,
   yet wonder why status quo
reserves select calendrical dates for handouts
   proffered after standing in a row
of similarly bereft individuals aware at stark

   outpouring overt nurture minded, humanity
   (with perchance a guest appearance by Sean Hannity),
this public denouement,
   an atypical venue for his television show

where generosity spills forth
   from said personality and others alike
blithely, demonstrably, fortuitously, happily,
   jubilantly, lovingly, modestly, poignantly,
   where an announcer speaks thru a mike

to open their doors and hearts asper,
   those down and out
   pushing belongings along the pea king pike
of broken tureens with
   only a mangy dog as companionship,

and though I admit tubby hyperbolical,
   hypocritical, hypothetical hypoteneuse of hippopotamus
   no charity less valuable then self and spouse,
   whom both experience spike
in anxiety since net income purportedly
   below the poverty level, though we reside

   within subsidized housing (outliers
   here at 2 Highland Manor Drive),
   yet random acts of an effortless smile,
   cordial greeting to passersby, or
   waving fellow drivers right of way,
Page Number Three:

such minimally polite services today,
the most within my limited monetary hi say
means, which behavior aye strive ray
   dee to maintain zero cost politesse, which doth pay
highest dividends, which reciprocal acknowledge may
be the greatest reward,

   whether or not a response elicited tis quite o kay
the satisfaction arising breeching comfort zone
   viz exposure therapy lighting up gray
matter analogous to a cerebral Christmas tree
   and any regret avoided, asper congenial efforts    
   generate “hi” kickstarts my day.
Topher Green Jan 2011
Shady streets of Shattuck
and Telegraph, home to ever-present
drifters and hep, and ever-present woe
won't you sing beneath the stars and traffic lights?
for whether or not dawn is breeching, the moon
like a jealous sibling in cosmic conflict.
We need another glass
I fill mine with the good stuff
with a splash and to ignite a crutch
so that we might have pillows like  
clouds of smoke to rest our restless, gaping,
restless, wicked, pinned pupils, we make
our own boundaries, our own expectations, which,
in and of themselves are beautiful articulations of
day by day. This moment we wave goodbye.
Spitting out ill-gotten thoughts, unfiltered
with hope and prayer that in the morning
we will be back at the old familiar station
dripping with contentment and familiar
that home is right under our feet. The Bart,
more like a vessel than I have ever known
who makes voyages feel like calmly strolls
through parks which lead us to  San Leandro
to Oakland, to Daly City, to Ashby and Fremont
tasting and smelling home when we reach old San Jose
upon another transit that sways all the way
to Santa Cruz to home and relief, and the load lessens
to a stop, although I truly feel we've started over
to begin, although the bright, bright lights blink
off and on for me as we stray homeward, as if to say
"We will see."
Jamie L Cantore Mar 2016
Aye! Foreign Eye; tooth for a truth! you gnome eyne  sane? Troot I owe ewe nah, youths dunno, you fin nah Noll. *** eye us fin nah per se, foe Theo Theo, ewe know  O you no, enter ups shun, wot in the hex dies...  jest say? Dis' awe beast anaconda sate shun bout Intrusion. O Why? O Why? O Eye, ice bins scratch in at Maya -Maya, day yum eye, forests rail lea bane it she laid lea. Wear Aye, yum  Aye, yum  Ah! Yea, *** eyes us sane, isis slow ands dims sum.  Bess beefs be indy, indy, India, India, Far test fum  yore  deaf viand as understanding! O My! you  oft de deep and of diem, diem... dim niche holes. couldst I ask I such without such plea? Pulleys! Pull East! Scaly wax inner interim oh, honor too, ides doe no, disease?

Lo! Land **! Too old geese sirs seize dearth closure mead wits mine ***** eye; and Naughty Wit Stan Ding disown. Yet fervor from mine arenose ol' hail home, I hath ne'er be -admit I to I; and plead to thee, wizened dis' Beseecher's breeching beach! Shea jest dis' a-greased wit who sow error to dew sew... ***** nil eat.

And therefore store my old hat lore, as I cast in twos that sea...  Aye! thee, Foreign Eye! Truth for a truth, if truth it be, truth tell I, true to thee do I e'er be nah; e'er be I, true to thee from noun on; in air go, did jest *** you ditz dun to me, but now a blind eye a-see  a freed bird!
- I caste you one lass time in due thus see.  Cuss you beast an  false eye, my you still dunce see, still blind you be, be dissin' in my sir name an airy way, and mode in air gone come.. a-seaward.
Brandon Apr 2011
Down I lie
Calm and still
In a forest of fallen trees
Dead leaves
And the ***** ground
With the worms and insects
I lay free
Bound by no laws
But those of which nature nurtures
The sun escapes the sky
Breeching the breaks between thick canopy
Shine down
Sun shine down and burn
Set my spirit free
To soar high and above the sky
And burrow deep within the earth
Set my spirit free
And let me rest in peace
Let my ashes spread with the wind
And let me rest
And let me rest in peace
Amanda Stoddard Jun 2015
The ink I use to write these words lingers upon my fingers-
the stain from this pen reminds me of the words I printed,
printed onto a page like they were my last will and testament
like every last word is breeching a secret code-
I love discovery.
The way words can wrap around lips
and be partnered with indifference and passion.
The way you can turn something so destructive into an art form-
every piece of beauty can fall in-between these lines.
These are permanent, in the same way as the ink that leaves my pen
and I hope for sin again-
for some kind of solitude that will help me write better.
But I realized I don't need tragedy to fuel my poetry
I can become inspired by the way the sun kisses the ground
and remembers to do so again every single morning-
how the world is so small but it still rotates
like it has a point to prove to the sun it can still manage.
I live for the early mornings-
the dew filled grass and the damp sock sunrises.
I live for the conversation of life-
experiencing everything through my wake
and being able to feel just enough to continue my day
happiness is an art form-
it's never just paint brush and stroke
never just words on a page
it is continuous-
late night rooftop star gazes
and becoming one with yourself again.
This world can ruin you
only to help rebuild you into a better model.
I laugh until my eyes are no longer dry-
I make a point to lend these hands to anyone
who's ever been at a disadvantage.
I breech my security to those around me
so they experience a sense of solitude in similarity-
compassion in comparison, to each it's own
the kind I never really received.
So they can know they're not alone
but realize their experiences are their own.
I want to grow with the world
find myself in the earth's crust
and build myself a fossil out of lost time.
Nothing is ever lost-
some things are only meant to stay so long
until someone finds salvation in what you lost-
nothing is ever really yours.
That's the beauty of this world.
As the ink stains my fingers
I realize if I shower enough it will disappear
and if I say these words too much
they won't mean so much
so I take pride in discretion-
I let the ambiance speak for itself
and let the obsolescence of life take course.
Nothing is ever planned
but everything is apart of the plan.
As I am driving at midnight-
windows rolled down and rain pouring upon my arm
I realize this is what freedom feels like-
each raindrop touches my skin
and reminds me of what it means to be alive.
We must feel things, even the bad-
because if we didn't
life would be so ******* boring.
Chelsea Woodcock Jul 2016
Wearing regret like my Sunday's best
My eyes are smiling a sad song
Weighing heavily on my chest
Crying crystal memories, so long
My dear, your sweet kiss, neglected
You're gone now, laying in a casket
Looking within, there is nothing reflected
I'm drowning myself, trying to mask it.

Missing you and our reading minds
The dormitories rainbow swirls and laughing
Walking and walking weightless and it reminds
Me of our wispy white choreographing
Our souls entwined

And now there's a part of me
Swift and free on the other side
Speaking, whispering through cups of coffee
I'm trying not to contemplate suicide
So you and I can reconvene
Remembering, though, I'm a part of you
On this side, living, white clouds and grass green
Breeching all realms, I'm there, and you're here, too.

Bones in a box, empty of yourself
I don't want to think about it anymore
Shutting pages, back onto the bookshelf
A tale for posterity, it's folklore
Wearing regret like my Sunday's best
Sad songs ringing, deafening, I'm praying
Paralyzed in bed, ghost treading on my chest
Trying to escape this place, but staying
Dan Hess Jul 2019
Hence I’m eclipsed in the magnificent indifferent specific specious indecent breeching meaningless exceeding bliss of bombast. My *** is grass, I’ve smoked my last **** and I’m broke so I’m hopeless but riding cloud nine in divine psychotic ****** illustrious lustful insightful divisive incisive mind fuckery. But I’m not talking about ***. That’s to be expected from the words I’ve been ejecting, but I’m speaking in terms of the indulgent churning I’m partaking in regularly. To no degree do I need to be cheering, or fearing the ever encroaching approach of a swift and painful death. I’ve been bereft since I was swept out of my hiatus in the ether, and I think I speak much deeper when I’m quiet, but why hide it when I’ve got so little to lose? I’ll just abuse my verbal onslaughts as a way of shaving off some time, cause I went blind a while ago, and seeing truth is burdensome to me, when I just bleed in silence in the mind, and I lack reason to pretend I’m ever fine, because the things I say don’t matter. How could they if I’m lacking any reason, holding onto nought but doubt in this incessant mental clatter. Truly in my mind the voices scream forever, no endeavor to be clever can save me from their decrees of ignorance. Perpetual ambivalence, my only friend, when I’m suspended in the dark.
This was a response to the quote "The less you say, the more your words will matter." -Rae Carson, The King's Guard, on tumblr. Credit for finding the quote goes to the blog poemswords.
clangorously declaring emergency, fate grimly heckles,
implies jackknifed life, killing my natural optimism,
positivism quashed, re: sort to undertake vitality,
wreckage xing yawping, zigzagging, alms breeching
charily. death embraced for grave happenstance,
indigent jarring kingdom, losing my native ordinary pleasure,
quivering ringing, singularly tripping uppermost volume
while Xeroxing yellowing zone, albatross blithely crushing desire
effecting fun, grippe holding impossible, Jackhammer
keeps lamentably mashing nasty oppressive pierced quaking,
reducing sensibility to utterly voiced worthlessness,
x-rays yield zero ambition boosting capacity driving
existence, future gloomy heralds iffy joie de vivre, killing
lousy male negative outlook presages quintessential
rage spilling thru useless voiceless wretched xiphoid zeal.
Caroline Shank Feb 2021
That song, that miserable song
will never go away.  That night, the dark night of my soul, is not able to sleep. The pounding of the sound of it breeching the television speakers sends be
back in time.

You know what I mean? The
remnants of a teenage memory
is a sorry stream.  I wake up
every day not knowing if I
will be in that backseat, again. The Lion is awake
and my hands shake with
your memory.  

I am all alone in the space
between reality and nightmare.
My toes touch the floor of the
car, my hand disappears into
the upholstery.  I thought you
liked me.  Funny that.  

The Lion slept all night and
when he woke up he laughed.
My throat ached with the sound
of his roar, the music wimowaying on the radio and I was alone in that crowded
backseat.  

The jungle, the mighty jungle,
rained and the laughter of teenage boys circling the
beat up car smelled of stale
beer and the sodden remains
of my fourteen year old's illusions

died.

Caroline Shank
Volition, orientation familiarization aahing
and oohing within restrictive paradigm molding
inviolable honorable gentility -
flagrantly, desirously, clearly boyz abandoning
willfully skirting, panting (heavily)
forfeiting abominably, (no Joe King) abiding

chomping at bit, damning delineated, or obscure
parameters, between one acceding
Earthlinked selfish living
psychosexual pining human bing,
and another ardently avowedly ambitious
altruistic agent provocateur (lol)

at first blush hinting Moulin Rouge adulation
under dim (witted) lighting accenting
individual randy salient
traits savoring tête-à-tête
tasty hors d'oeuvres accentuating
nuances highlighting flirtatious countenance

initially unconditionally stubbornly accepting
dire hormonal straits
as prickly fledgling acquaintanceship
quivers, negotiates, kickstarts abolishing
inchoate biochemical protracted coupling
conveniently interpreting accessing

breeching, catapulting Dickensian estuary,
non verbal communication nsync abridging
painstakingly erecting complex edifice
suavely, urbanely, wittily accessorising
tried and truevalue tricks acclaiming
debonair heroic manliness princely

qualities dutifully dominate directing
demure damsel in distress absconding
convincing, foreplaying, jimmying,
rollicking readily acclimatizing
challenges ****** up gracefully parlaying
most savvy serious similarly sophisticated

totally tubular testosterone tactics
versatile repartee accomplishing
dynamics cultivating atavistic romantic ballet
on duh poe whit tick abutting
metaphorical foot accoutering

trappings adorned since mythological
Adam and Eve accrediting
latter, sans virile unavoidable temptation
savoir faire verboten fruit, accelerating
action whereby unsuspecting, slithering,
lurking serpent teen accounting
rattle unheard by apse cent church fathers

subsequently excoriating, condemning, accusing,
nonetheless indomitable transcendence achieving
pinnacle of prostrate poignancy
inexpressible ecstasy acquiescing
nonpareil acquisition adulation activating
ascendence assaying administering
amorousness activating. aching.
A sinister minister giving tongue twisters
Sicker than the average savage behind havoc
I was born into a dramatic frequency statics
Statistic of stereotypes stays on my biscuits
Eating noodles to triscuts check the cold cuts
Giving up the what? Funk that is the biz
I flip the kabbitz make em like a frog and ribbit
Ribbit this ain't scripted my words deeply encrypted
Inserted deep in ya nogging got ya mind jogging
Murderous thoughts that I lyrically caught
Foaming to a froth straight up in a manger's cloth
I was tucked away where the darkness kept me sway
Obeys the ocean sprays
Cannons meaning than Bruce Banner
Incredible with the hulk run like Marshall Faulk
Ram through scams silence the lambs of shams
Bump out the flim flams they say *******
This brother doing it again like forces of the wind
Can't escape the rhymes rippling crippling  
Emcees til crumble like broken cookies
Milk the imperials with more killaz than serials
Feel me they though? Since hells above below
Got even angels to demons fighting over my opening portal flows  halos
Burns a
Thousands degrees hotter than the suns energy
My synergy deadly forced Illuminati
They want my body but I clear chaos shotty
Once the bullets found me it ceased in its accuracy
I'm Al Simmons to Spawn hidden wreckage wars at dawn con
A command out of its demand reprimands
ripping hands off of the false politicians
Adapted complex Napoleon Dynamite
This kids off the chart aimmin'for ya hearts
Part the sparks it's fourth of July everyday
Is a nother soul that runs away body decay
Thoughts delayed frayed but mental pays
Attention to the immoveable conviction
Im benching friction still break laws jurisdiction



Funky sweats off the beats of the monkey
Rhymes spunky like my girls ***** chunky
Along with the breast from East to West
Manifest a bless over a sess minus stress
Pecs get stretched like a deck of cards
Joker broad and brolic true alcoholic frolic
With the gun play heads I shipped away
The fed express way tunnels on delay
Once they play my jams slams all grands
Stands ovation from crowds pinning masons
Accept ya fate with the realism I create
My career bigger than KRS one nose out goes
The flows straight comet sew northern lights
Flashing plight under the cities light
Excite a ****** delight souls a kite might
Tested greatly infected all morals florals
Laid at the open burials stake tears is fake
Over those who got caked without the icing
Slicing opponents with michete pricing
Nice and million and one ways to a dicing
As blood trickles fondant murders abundant
Heads is taunted mind's a house being hunted
Can't move on shaky ground battling nouns
Over corporate downs got stocks to drown
Hit em like Dow Jones skull and bones flown
Deep into the television sets injects broken affect
Mandella cold fella obese chumps like Della
You've been touched by an angel gun ranger
Fact stranger than fiction breeching a lynching
It's big Yosef cooking rhymes out of ya kitchen
Tyler Apr 2022
some days

i lack the empathy
to care for my life.

those days
i will lay
as to not act.

specific days
i will go through month's of emotion,
breeching from the
war between my heart
and my mind.

— The End —