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I do not see the hype
with High School Stereotype.
Why does it receive such attention?
It doesn't need the press's mention.

We all know of the smokers by the bike sheds,
Who have nothing but fluff in their heads.
Or the girls with skirts far too short
Who's think of *** as a  competitive sport.

The sport buffs, we've all seen,
Full of life and far too keen.
Always poised and ready to go,
Every muscle toned from head to toe.

Young student teachers are here,
Enthusiastic about Bill Shakespeare.
Attempting to teach thugs to spell,
Whilst shady Heads make their life hell.


But do not forget, those you call friend.
The ones who stay by you until the end.
Making you laugh, Keeping you sane
Through rough times they remain.
These companions fit no mould
Therefore their tale is never told.

For the greatest things in teen life
Do not need the media's strife
preservationman Aug 2020
Observe the dents and the bents
This barbell is sitting alone in the alley
How long has it been there you ask?
It has been years, but it is a forgotten story
The barbell was rusted and old
But doing its day, trainers knew how to take hold
The barbell was outside a once very active Gym
The owner’s first name happened to be Jim
The Gym’s name was called “Fitness Theory Gym”
The members were all Fitness Buffs and Bodybuilder’s that were massive and muscular
The gym was strictly *******
All about fitness being the core
Yet all the trained was centered around barbells with an uptown grade being called weights
Walking pass on any given day, you could hear the sounds of moans in lift
Catch my drift?
But a Financial Crisis at the gym slowed business down
Little by Little, the members could no longer be found
In fact, it was next to none
So the gym had no choice but to close down
But then again, gym after gym was no longer bound
The end of fitness and ******* not being the sound
So one loss barbell that was left in a forbidden alley
Rusted and no place to go to be lifted
The barbell stayed in the alley until sanitation arrived
A barbell being old and no longer in use
Also a barbell no one could see
A ******* past with what used to be
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
"The longest trains in the world run in the US, Australia and China, as well as in some mining regions in Africa. These trains can be several kilometers long. The longest train ever was an ore train in Australia with ~7.3km (~4.5mi),  consisting of 682 cars and 6 engines."*

What know these train buffs who measure length,
In mere miles, kilometers, numbers of cars,
These mechanical movers, impressive to the eye,

Yet,
I have witnessed, not just seen, believed,
In a train that overwhelms not just the eyes,
But the heart, surpasses the limits of the mind's eyes.
It breaks imagination and says it is conceived,
Announcing to anyone, all who board, your are now,
Our newest,
Strongest link.

This train knows no regulation, track nor load constraints,
For it travels on invisible tracks on the Internet,
If need be, the good people at HP will add
More server capability.

This train, intercontinental, more,
Global,
And I have on god authority,
There are participants from
Other
Planets.

But shhhhhh! That's on a need to know basis...

This train, never reaches a final destination,
Coursing thru the veins, our arteries,
It has a heart that forever beats, cannot, ever,
Die, it is unstoppable, once in motion,
Transferred to the next one, by kiss ethereal.

For it has an energy, a peculiar one, not capable
Of being explained on Google or Wikipedia.
Try it, you non-believer, there is no correct definition of
Poetry In Motion, as the longest train ever...

Each car a different color, a different song,
No two alike, no two in tune, yet all in concert, a choir,
I have no explanation, other than to describe this as
Miraculous.

There are some peculiarities re this train,
It sometimes labels a car behind you as a follower,
Now this is accurate perhaps with respect to GPS,
But I call them readers, fellow travelers,
As we exchange loads of words, and then leadership,
As I move on, another comes up to the forefront,
Baton passed.

This train of poems, one grasping the poem right behind,
While another poet grabs the first and sends him forward,
In motion, unceasing, powered not by wind or petroleum,
But an energy of spirit human which cannot be consumed,
For with every baby, a new poet and poem born.

So let me correct an error of mine,
This train is not just poetry in motion,
But perpetual poetry in perpetual motion.

Should I fall by the wayside, lose a step in my stride,
Whatever I have given, here remains, to be carried forward,
By you, by new carriers, by new poets, new countries,
That have yet to speak their words, say their
Peace.

So here
I close this loop, throw this on top of the
Coals already in place.
With words of another,
Who said it simpler, said it better,
Let it be.
This took awhile to write, so let us call it the last poem of the day.
Dominic Simpson Aug 2013
Hi . . . This is about the kinds of people who work in corporate big money office buildings . . . Imagine them at lunchtime, how they interact and picture the scene in any . . .

Busy little bistro

Sharp - sharks - circle - the - pack
Pinstripe finned and eager
Snapping their snacks back with ease
Points to prove with nothing to lose  
No cracks in their creases
They're keen to return to the fray.
These boys play with girls
Aren't yet uncles with nieces
Just unproven throwaway pieces . . .
In shiny  . eat ***** . suited up . Chelsea boots
Bidding for ***** with cute looks and loot
Touting with confident ***** . . .
As mobile as their smart devices
Loose

Next . . . ?
And fresh from a mornings abuse
And fifteen years of fear . .
Beleaguered older shirts sit . .
Flogged dogs with weak barks
Parked packed into packs.
Tongue tied ties tied together
Safety is numbers
Get each others backs
These partially satisfied cats
Know today is NOT their day . .
That was yesterday . . .
Obliging lives and mortgages
The reasons why they stay

Passing Cabs cruise . . .
Seen it all before.
Sat in the back a high class *****
Glazed eyes glancing away  
From her play-away payday
Nibbles in the boardroom . .
Napkins . . for the dribbles
A working lunch for this Girl
Her money-shot a wrap without applause
Was just a  . . . pause  . . . between paws . .

Then Dora on reception
John, who minds the door
Evie in the IT room
Or dave . . who buffs the Marble
Sparkles glinting in the floor . .
And the guards . . who guard . . what exactly . . ?

All of this . . ? Networking . . !!!
Everybody's selling something
It doesn't quite stink
But it definitely smells
A little high

As time whiles by
Seems this
Is the state of our nation
And in this state
Defines our aspirations
And yes . . this state's a splinter
Taunting my imagination . . .
Do I stake my place within this game
Or sit in observation
Commentating on a race
Where human nature fakes it's place
Where people sit as players
Yet no one wears their own face
IncadesentCat May 2014
Mountains hold amongst themselves,
in each of their valleys,
shared between their neighbors,
an air of majesty.

Sit upon the peaks, peering into unknown forest
as the wind buffs your face clean of all obligations;
carpeting your thighs with a buttery smooth gentleness
that caresses your mind into relaxation.

Regal pines strike back against
the enormous pressure at sea level,
raising up to thin the air
and to thin your worry.

Here you are lost
in the grandeur of something greater
than yourself,
but never greater than it really is.  

In the valleys shared between mountains,
on the windy peaks,
the mountains swallow you up,
absorb you.

And share with you, too
that majesty.
Brycical Jul 2011
Eyes          wide           smiling
never stop smiling
pale skin                 smiling
white  teeth   paper    c u t s

Lost…..e y e s
Time is but an itch
                The smiling                   stops

                                            once         he’s---gone

Graveyard lexicon
baffles today’s texters
--Orange peel breath
                  Despite            lethargic                   lips…


Your memory is merely paper;
he’s good with origami.



Hairlessssss
Heirlesssssssss
                       smiling.  

Harmless, but—
beware        o’ the      winter     m o n t h s
          For he is—
                         Cold…

Rigor mortis is afraid of smiling.
    He’s….
            An acid trip for the paranoid schizophrenic conspiracy moon landing grassy knoll 9/11 was an inside job the right/left control the media Dan Brown’s works have merit skull & bones society they put cancer in our foods men in black crypto zoologist buffs…

His smile; smiles.
His grin—grins.
Dresses             like a pine-tree **** … … S m i l i n g, smiling….
Alexis J Meighan Sep 2014
The dream

Remember- Martin Luther King-

"Let freedom ring"
He grace the world with a vision.
"Free at last"
He sang of the goal to the crowd

Remember -Agathe Uwilingiyimana -

The "content of our character"
Has come to judgment
But these character are just fools on a stage

Remember -Abraham Lincoln-

King's dream would come to a peak
But 2chainz, kim, minaj  TO and those unlike him
Would push it over and watch it crash on the buffs below

Remember -Medgar Evers-

Even Langston, wondered "what is a dream differed?"
Mahalia Jackson screamed for Martin to "tell em bout the dream"
But as Marvin proclaimed "we still don't know what's going"

Remember -John Fitzgerald Kennedy-

Obama made it in but the walls of the house he resides are far from the gleaming white it claims to be.
Blackened by the administration before him, the walls just too dingy to overlook

Remember -Fred Hampton-

He said "america gave us a bad check" and the march to washington would be how its cashed.
We all saw Barak at the teller endorsing but in the end the long fall of that tall horse was the goal of the fairest man.

He wanted every valley exalted.
Instead ******* God father pizza man makes a fool of the process, and a kid with a hoodie take the hit, just like Emmit Till, a school full of babies take the hit, Twin towers in new york takes the hit, theatre full of batman fans take the hit, but guess that's living the dream.

Remember- Harry and Hariette Moore-

Malcom says by any means
Even Jimi Hendrix sang for us to grab the machine guns
"Fight the power!" Be a public enemy. What ever happen to all that?
A fist in the air and a call for unity use to use to get us up in the morning
Now this ***** running around with a helmet and some horns telling these skanks he's the flavor of love.
Ya I'll pass on that
And go with the labor of love and survive with a better understanding of what life is.

Remember -Benazir Bhutto-

Mya Angelou was a ****, *******, stripper, and thief before she  new "why the cage bird sing"
Even today with all her enlightenment she ask where is Dr King's dream?

Humans have come so far so fast but judgment and common sense still elude our sophisticated lives. What once was a dream is indeed a reality to most but that's only because the play ignorance to the issues that still plague our nation and that dream we chase is littered with little nightmares.

Remember -Emmit Till-

Lincoln started the process J.F.K started the process, M.L.K. Preached the process, Medgar Evars tried to beat the process, Malcom X was betrayed for the process, Agathe Uwilingiyimana stood up for the process,Benazir Bhutto took a chance on the process,Fred Hampton died in the process,
Harry and Hariette Moore burned for the process,
Emmit Till was tortured in the process.
All believing the dream would see them survive.

-Remember the future-
-Xin-
Marshal Gebbie Mar 2020
Jottings from David Bagerow's "Quickie"

Shame on she, the selfless *****
Who caused your temperature to fire,
caressed your sandy, sweated brow
To rivers of desire,
Tho she fled at poignant time
To leave you in the lurch.
Best you weave your magic touch
And promise her, the church.
Then woo her and caress her
In your happy, carefree way
Then at that moment of exultance,
Laugh and run away.

David Lessar's "To an Unread Poet"

Dave, You are right ,of course, once committed you raise an expectation and once that expectation is released to the world you are obliged to maintain face...but that damnable thing called "Life" intervenes and totally stuffs up the programme. Take the current interlude of coronavirus...the whole world has been taken by the scruff of the neck and jammed, inconveniently and complaining, into seclusion, all systems ground to a halt, production lines vacated, malls and city centres deserted, blown newspaper cascading across the deserted pavement...a testament to mans ultimate frailty when his house of cards collapses, without a whimper.
So you see, as life intervenes...we are excused from maintaining face.
But fear not, like McArthur, we shall return.
Cheers mate M.

Fawn's "Happy Trails"

Were it not the touch profound
That doth caress my feathered ear
Would thou wish a thousandfold
That I should shed a tear?

A glistened tear suspended there
in iridescent light,
While you, my love, with parted lips
Await, the ruby night.

Victoria's "Wherefore Art Thou"

Strides, he does, through corridors of lust bound lessers,
through forests of small penised dwarfs, through canyons of would be's who could be.....just to countenance the promise within your words....Dear Vix!

Terry O'Leary's "Sweet Butterfly"

You enter the portals of entomology where bugs, flies,butterflies and moths are the true rulers of the planet.
A world vastly magnified by compound eyes, of lightening lifetimes and vivid, saturated colour. A world where life and death are synonomous with the culmination of a single ****** union and the reproduction of a batch of precious pearly eggs. Yea Brother thee hath entered the portal...rejoice!
M.

Fun with Terry O'Leary

"Buried in the Sand" by Terry O’Leary

A beggar clump adorns a dump, his pencil box in hand -
With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned.

He’s fallen down in Shantytown, his knees too weak to stand,
With no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.

The Bowery blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
And Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.

"A Rebuttal" by Marshalg

So Hood lied low, despite the show ensueing without help,
One would have thought a British sort would spring forth with a yelp!

Would spring ***** to help deflect contusions which occurred
When beggar Clump adorned the dump confusing all deferred.

Whilst sister Ant, attired in scant, ran forth on spindly legs
And brother Frog with shaggy dog said "****" and drank the dregs.

It all became too much, as such, a meelee did ensue,
So all called HALT and as one did BOLT...to the local for a brew!

Phew...that was FUN & hard work!
M.

Singing the Devil's Song*

There is no Makers formula
This life depends on chance,
The way you play your given cards
Depicts your daily dance.

Oh dogma flows in utterance
From pulpits far and wide
From those who claim to understand
Eternity's vast hide.
From those who hold damnation
As a weapon from on high,
From those who claim a judgement
As their finger points to sky.
The good, the bad are absolute,
The right bedevils wrong,
Redeemed shall live eternally
The bad shall singe for long.

Old men stand in pulpits
Across this Sunday's land
To threaten with damnation
If you should cross God's hand.
"Belief" is now their catchword
Abomination's wrong
Is to seek to proffer proof of claim
....to Sing the Devil's Song.

So gather all ye faithfull
Go listen to your man,
Sing the Gospel loud and long
And pay your tithe, as planned.
...But should you find you're dying
From cancer's frozen claw
And the the Godly fail to sweep you
To eternity's gold door?
Remember my clear message
Your life depends on chance,
You live within your own good sphere
....There is no Maker's Dance.

Marshalg
After an overdose of Pulpit hogwash.
10 March 2013

Singing the Song of Angels:
A Response to Marshal Gebbie's "Singing the Devil's Song"
By Luca Anselm
There’s a church in the city with pillars of stone
And windows like sea-glass, still and alone,
A fountain, and cloisters of ivy, away
From the noise of the street, and the hum of the day.
There my father would tell me of Christ, how he died
Surrounded by soldiers and thieves, crucified,
How he wept for the women, and fell in the sands,
And loved those who hammered the nails in his hands.  

Marshal, dear poet, you have heard the priests tell
Of a god who left heaven to walk into hell?
Of a god who wept softly for men he had known?
Of a god who dripped blood in a garden alone?
Of a god who sent men with book and with sword
With eyes bright as fire for love of their Lord,
With limbs dressed in black, on altars of stone
By windows of sea-glass, still and alone?

So they give up their lives for a lie, as we say,
And toiled for centuries, long as each day--
And our money built palaces, lofty and tall
With frescoes and candlesticks, gold on the wall--
They preach with words awful and deadly and free,
Of gorgons and hell-fire, worms and the sea,
Of the last day of judgment, and mankind amassed
By the wailing of angels and bright trumpet blasts…

But Marshal, they preach something sweeter and kind--
Of a mother’s soft love, of a father resigned,
Of a still, soft voice, that comes with a light,
And gives hope to the hopeless, and conquers the night.
Of charity, piety, sweetness and love
Like fiery ***-cakes, but soft as a dove,
Spicy as Christmas, solemn and grand--
(Like throne-rooms or magic or the roar of the strand)
Then you wake, and the house smells of peppermint-pine,
And a child is laid in the crèche, now a shrine.  

And all that I long for, dear Marshal, you see,
Are the gold-blooming gardens that soar by the sea,
The mountains and dragons, the prophets and kings
And Icarus falling with fire-fraught wings,
The grey-shifting sea-lanes, the flutter of sails,
Temples on mountaintops, graves in the vales,
And Dido who bleeds from her breast as she cries
For her Love, and stares helplessly into the skies.
But more than the shadows of worlds that might be
Of fairies or phantoms or rocks by the sea,
Dear Marshal, I long for who made me a man.
And would love and give glory as best as I can.

But these days oh! sad days, the loss and the shame
In which all of my loveliness falls into flame--
Where gardens have withered, and sails have been furled,
And kings plodded off in the dust of the world.
Our cities rise higher, and burn through the night
And rear into heaven with noise and with light,
The palisades echo with horns and sound
And the churches with voices and quarrels resound.
But the statues sit silent, and some say they cry
For the shame of the sins against children. Oh! My God, Why?

And those old men—well—they taught me the loveliest things
Of my gardens of gold, and the sunsets of things,
They told me of kindness, and honor, a way
That winds to the West, where the end of the day
Breaks bright like fresh bread, and crimson like wine,
And the sun sets to purple and green in the brine.

And still I remember their words and their songs
And the churches which taught me so well and so long--
Though I’ve turned my head, to the lands where the sun
Will rise again brighter when starlight is spun,
Somewhere fresher and pale, where the cold and the air
Spreads the dew like a lawn paved of crystal, and there,
In the meadows of silver, with light in my eyes,
I will honor my god in the dome of the skies.

Marshal Gebbie's poem "Singing the Devil's Song" inspired this. It's in anapestic tetrameter, for you metric buffs. If you haven't, you should absolutely check out Marshal's stuff--it's awesome and poetry-inspiring--seriously amazing. Thanks again, Marshal!

Sepia Sown

Sepia sown as best it can
Where you and I, as one, once ran
Across, beyond a savored sea
Where lust became reality.
Where spiraled lust, entwined, entrenched
Left you gasping, pale, en benched...
a figment of a thought, now lost
Forever..at what cost, what cost?
M.

Addenum to "obituary" by V

So no one notices, at all
When golden greys of aged fall?
Except perhaps, for those who stay
To blend with every ordinary day

Plus you and I as time flies by
And too, those starlings flocking high.
That old man loitering in street,
Who eyes the million passing feet.
And she too at corner store,
Toothless face and wrinkled maw,
Exchanging cigarettes for coin
(With surreptitious scratch of groin).
Mailman, fat, long, loop mustache
Complaining long and rather harsh,
That they, gone, without a word,
Should vanish into air...absurd!

Someone in their every day
Feels the absence in the way
Details don't fall into place
And warmth is absent from the face.
M.

The Kraken Arises

From blue tranquillity where turquoise waters wash white golden sand, where brilliant fish school in myriad colour and shape, where magnificent squadrons of sleek tarpon and barracuda dash in perfect formation, grazing schools of silver mackeral through diamond flecked deep green shallows, to plunge vertically down to the depths of the black abyss and security.

Calm tropical waters which shimmer like aqua blue glass in the mid day heat and turn to simmering,red fire at the setting of the enormous, ovate, orange sun.

Sea birds flock above wind blown waves, their sharp cries a symphony of the sea, to suddenly wheel and dive en mass, to dine amidst teeming schools of flashing, shiny minnows.

The idyllic picture of a calm blue infinity of ocean framed, in brilliant sunshine, by white sands and gracefully bowed coconut palms.....and suddenly, at the horizon, a thin black line appears, It approaches with steadily, mounting speed, the coastline surf recedes dramatically seaward leaving exposed coral, mountains of seaweed and frantic flapping, beached fish everywhere. A sudden, oppressive silence becomes a distant roar. The sea birds, as one, take panicked flight... and a massive wall of water rears up and rises like a giant beast, to rush headlong, raging, at the coastline.

What once was blue and serene is now a huge cascade of violent black death and destruction, gigantically it destroys the coast, snapping huge trees like twigs, surging ashore, a tsunami of unimaginable violence it obliterates, housing, streets, bridges, vehicles, shipping, aircraft and people, thousands of panicked, helpless, struggling people, killed in a titanic, black, swirling maelstrom of inexorable violence. The wave is followed by another...and another, extending right along the coastline and beyond. Each wave larger and more violent than the last...surging inland for miles  until defeated by the accident of gravity in rising land.

Those who have survived, on high land, on tall buildings, in treetops....cling to each other and look on in horror and utter helplessness. They can only wait, in fear, for the monster to retreat before venturing down to the devastation below to render help where ever they possibly can.

Twice in the space of the last forty thousand years the Kraken has awaken and risen from the depths of the Tasman Sea to the west of New Zealand. It has risen to gigantic proportions and driven right across the Auckland isthmus to the Pacific Ocean. It has twice flattened gigantic primeval Kauri forests laying them waste, all lying in one direction, each time beneath twenty feet of debris and black mud.

Born in innocence from a natural tectonic adjustment of the earth plates, the Kraken doth arise at any time, in any place to wreak it's dreadful work upon we, who reside in our comfortable, seemingly secure and beautiful coastal idylls.

Marshalg
Dedicated to all the coastal population exposed to the threat of inevitable tectonic induced tsunami.
JAPAN. WEST COAST, USA. WEST COAST, SOUTH AMERICA. ALL PACIFIC ISLANDS. NEW ZEALAND. INDONESIA. AUSTRALIA. SOUTH AFRICA. EAST COAST, CHINA. MALAYSIA.
KOREA. THAILAND. PAPUA NEW GUINEA, VIETNAM. PHILIPPINES. TAIWAN. BURMA.

Part of My Job (A love Poem) by Nat Lipstadt

A little embarrassed by all the attention but great to hear from you Sweetheart...all fine and dandy, here...except for being forbidden to go to the beach and the park..and anywhere else except in cases of dire need..(And on punishment of prison time if caught out!)...but hey, I'm not really complaining...All for he common good, aint that right?
M.

Bridges Burnt....

Bridges burnt in Winter rain
Holds a saddened felt refrain,
Holds a touch of muted horn
Blown in passion unadorned.
Blown away in errant winds
Where no truthlessness rescinds,
Where a lie begat the night
Interceding lost love's plight.

Bridges burnt in Winter rain
Sacraments of loss remain,
Sacraments fragmented drift
Redemption clad in bloodied shift,
Redemption worn as wrong slays right
Till wrongfulness blots out the night,
Till no return this path can be
Until they torch eternity.

M.
SE Reimer's words float before me in his impassioned poem "Bridges"
allowing me to wallow in this, my own dark tangential refrain.
M.

Perchance, in a Bus Shelter

Here I sit amidst the ruin of a white winters' day
Convulsive rain and harsh wind outside, contribute tumult.
And in here, in this small shelter, there is a tension in the air.

We two sit apart, uncommunicative, remote and quite detached.
Not for any reason other than the fact that we are strangers,
We have never met, nor are we ever likely to.
She has an elegance and a stylish angularity whilst I am bald, bearded, unfashionable and somewhat overweight.
She is singularly indifferent to my presence, whilst I am uncomfortable with the circumstance that placed us in this small proximity.
We would, in truth, rather both be elsewhere.

I break the ice in throwing her a small smile and complain about the weather,
Her eyes flick across my face and immediately resume their distant focus on the rain,
She adjusts her seating to face,ever so slightly, askance.
Her choice of course, to assume an air of indifference or superiority...or adopt a measure of defense..or perhaps a combination of a bit all three.  
Regardless... I wipe my backside in exactly the same manner as does she, I  am definitely no less a person for my dumpy demeanor and friendly overture
And I really feel that I don't have to share my space with coldness and impertinence,
Better, I think, to be wet and content with my own company
..So, donning my cap and jacket, I stride out into the deluge to leave the remote and uncommunicative young woman alone and dry with her thoughts.

And then....
Howling rain and shards of wind
Pelt me as I walk
Along the foreshore wild and white
As hovered seagulls squark.
When all at once she's by my side
Walking pace for pace,
Her linen suit a sodden mess
Hair plastered to her face.

"Thought I ought to make it right"
She told me with a smile
I threw my coat upon her back
And walked another mile.
We called into a coffee shop
And sat down by the fire
And sipped a steaming latte
As she told her story dire,

"The cancer's all but killed me
My husband's left the home,
The baby's gone to mother
And I'm facing death alone."
We quietly spoke for ages
I held her hand in mine
Then suddenly she stood to leave
And thanked me for my time.

I sat there in a stupor
Recalling how it played
And felt the guilt impact on me
For judgements I had made.
Those callow, shallow judgements
Made in ignorance, my friend,
Will haunt me as she girds herself
To boldly meet her end.

Marshalg
On a bleak and blustery cold winters day.
Titirangi
5th September 2010

The Old Café by Steve Yocum

It's my go to place,
has been for years,
The Wildwood Café,
an eclectic tiny place
with a mix of old dinette
tables and mismatched chairs.
the cutlery also unmatched
and well used, old photos
and signs adorn the walls
and there is usually a line
of people waiting patiently
on benches outside.

Best of all there is this pleasant
girl, always wearing a welcoming
smile, who seems to know us all.
She knows my order by heart,
Ham and eggs over medium,
a half ration of potatoes, home baked
slice of bread, well toasted, well buttered,
home made salsa on the side, a cup of
"hot" Black English Tea. Tall water no ice.

If I arrive between the busy times, she may
sit down at my table and we talk a while,
It's not a big thing, just chitchat, I'm old
enough to be her grandfather, it's the
dessert before my meal served with genuine
friendliness and unforced civility, not often
encountered in these strange days and times, it's a slice of small town America at it's purest best, she and folks like her help sustain my belief that basic human decency is far from dead.

The food is always good, but it's the comforting embrace of familiarity and
simple warm kindness that assures my frequent return.
It's the little things in life that make living
wonderful, small moments in time felt and
recorded, this is but one of those.
written by Steve Yocum

It's the little things in life that make living
wonderful, small moments in time felt and
recorded, this is but one of those

Marshal Gebbie
  That old world touch suits you Stevo,
When I come visit your beautiful state of Oregon, We shall partake this delightful repast in the company of your fair maid.... and we shall tip her well!
M.

Scoot the Streak
One must believe in something be he misanthrope or gambler
In tomorrows omniscience or the future proof of God
The penance in a drunk's decay sets self destruct's imposer
Wether speaker phone's on disconnect or cellphone's in the bog.

Conveyance of a threat to adherents of St Selfwise
Show atheist's are proof here, in belief of disbelief,
Haunted by the images painting painful retribution
Picture sympathetic **** star's allocated hand relief.

A moments allocation of a syllogist abstraction
Shows perspective of the caliber we now reserve for Saints
A paradox regarded as autistic fascination
In a one act play of living disregarding all restraints.

Deliberately indicative of fraternal heat's expression
Notebook at the ready and deep frowning at the brow,
Question definition's collage of confusion's contribution
Do we sit it out pretending or just catch the late bus now?

Marshalg
13 February 2014
© 2014 Marshal Gebbie
Marshal Gebbie
Written by

victoria  Intriguing work...so I search the comments for help... Ah
0
Feb 2014
Terry O'Leary  Marshal, I kinda like this (I read it several times since yesterday)... but I'm still not sure what it says... maybe I'll down a shot tonight and try again... ;-)) Terry
0

3 replies

Feb 2014
Marshal Gebbie
Marshal Gebbie   A confession Terrance.. I was half cut when I wrote it!
I have no idea what it means.
Feb 2014
Terry O'Leary   :-)) Great... I'll be back in a bit... T
Feb 2014
Terry O'Leary   Well, in the meantime I've had a few shots... now I think I know what it means... hic°°.... hope I remember in the morning... ;-)) Terry
Feb 2014

Pradip Chattopadhyay
Residues
By the night one long dark road
the houses are deep in slumber.

Lucky I'm alive and awake,
can see the stars
in their vast magnitude of silence
gentle and not drunk
have love to count upon
filled with a will to live
feeling I'm almost done.

Having a life is a great reward
and with the residues
gets more valuable.

I won't cry over the lost years
would rather think
have been blessed with enough.

The stars grow blurry dots
as I slip into dreams.

I had a once upon place
and I'm grateful.

With dewy eyes
I hurry to the warmest space
beside her.

You slip into your years well, Pradip.
Your woman must relish your peace, your contentment.
Cheers mate
M.


Tony Grannell
Autumn's Sonneteer
Behold, upon yon ivy bunch, my darling blackbird sings;
I know not why nor shall I try to understand such things.
For born this morning on a song, pray hark, her sweet refrain;
to chance a sigh, oh, dare not I, for this is God's domain.

Out of the night the art of song in tuning in the day;
unknowed afore or evermore such music on display.
'Tis love begad, a lover's song, a diva, I declare,
in soaring o'er both vale and moor, this morning's love affair.

In wonder's charm, this precious bird in song to comfort me.
Alone I stroll, no proffered soul to share my company.
Yet rare this morn, in splendours all, true love like none afore;
let passions roll, in song extol, in verse the morn's rapport.

Be succour in such music found for autumn ails me so,
when summer's run, the harvest done, to rest my scythe and ***.
Of idle lands and nowt ado, to wait without employ.
Yet, hail the sun, my kingdom won, when sings that bird of joy.

Behold her charm and charmed, I am while autumn leaves still fall.
'Tis life anew, a sweeter brew when hear the songstress call.
Though winter’s nigh, with strength and will, we’ll bear our pain and fear;
'tis all to do, good hearts and true, sings autumn's sonneteer.

Written by
Tony Grannell  62/M/Spain

Marshal Gebbie  I stood out at the rock wall and gazed at the splendour of Autumn in Taranaki, as I read, aloud, your sonnet.
...and my heart sang.
M.

Dr Peter Lim
When?
When is the when
of when?  
rampant still is the ravage
which will not relent-

the claustrophobic shut-in
hearts toward gloomy moods they bend
no happy voices of kids heard outdoors
the green fields do not comfort lend-

the downcast look, the sinking feeling
are the joys and delights of yesterday years all spent?
the spectre of pain brings bitterest tears
in the faces of every continent-

oh, when is the when
of when?
such a wash-down
we could never comprehend.

Marshal Gebbie:  But isn't that the way, Dr Pete? Mankind builds his castles in the air, thrusts out his chest and proclaims himself, King of all!
...to be decimated, in an instant, by a microbe of infinitesimal stature. Oh! the fragility of it all.
Life cometh, life goeth....but somewhere, down the track, life shall come again.
M.


Al Drood
The Merman of Orford Ness

So long ago in King Hal’s time, our nets we cast upon the wave;
and drawing in did stand a-feared at what we’d caught in Orford Bay.

Entangled ‘midst our dripping catch, with eyes that stared all hellish green,
enscaléd like some creature deep, a Merman writhed as one obscene.

All webbéd were his hands and feet, his body dripped with ocean bile;
upon his head the ****-wrack grew, green-bearded was this demon vile.

Fast to the shore with awful haste we sped before the wind and tide;
Lord Glanville for to summon forth, the Merman’s fate all to decide.

Upon the quay his Lordship stood with men at arms and shriven priest,
and all did cross themselves in fear before this strange unholy beast.

“Enchain it,” cried Lord Glanville loud, “then to God’s Kirk with all good speed!”
The shriven priest prayed long and hard as to the church we did proceed.

With Holy Water, cross of gold, with candle and with testament,
the priest then exorcised the beast, who knew not what was done nor meant.

To all’s dismay he would not bow before the Host on bended knee;
and so to dungeon was he dragged to dwell upon his blasphemy!

The silent Merman beaten was, and hung in chains in for seven weeks,
and fed was he on fish and shells, yet never did he sleep nor speak.

And so at length his Lordship said, “Across the harbour tie a net,
and we shall see how he shall swim, but by his ankles chainéd, yet!”

The net a-fixed, the village folk came down to see the Merman’s plight;
into the sea they threw him then, with foam and wavelet flashing white.

He vanished ‘neath the waters like some seabird in pursuit of prey,
then surfaced laughing, chain in hand, and to his Lordship he did say;

“You thought to make me such as you, who walk in blindness o’er the land!
You’d punish me for difference!  You thought to treat me like a Man!”

So long ago in King Hal’s time our nets we cast upon the wave;
and drawing in did stand a-feared at what we’d caught in Orford Bay.
Al Drood
Written by
Al Drood  M/North Yorkshire

Marshal Gebbie:  Tones here of the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner.
An original work in time honoured rhyme and metre.
I devoured every syllable..Bravo!
M.

G Alan Johnson
Kafka's Bug

When I shed the last skin
last year
there was left a hardened shell
protecting a patched up heart
and a petrified husk
of a soul.

You can throw your bombs
if you wish
and they will hurt inside
but I will just eat them
and **** them out
flushed and forgotten.

Sometimes my antennae
come out in a social setting
and people look at me
with an odd expression
or look off into space
a kind of awkward acceptance,
(the ones that know me).

My mandibles will at times
spit out a divine stupidity
a slacker kind of opinion
and no amount of saliva
can dissolve it
so it sits in the heavy air
stinking like a butterfly corpse.

It was an attempt
at transformation
that failed
(I'm too weak with ego),
and I'm glad that I tried
otherwise I would always wonder.

Vincent Price in a cheap suit
and a lost puppy daydream
a world full of flies, wasps and failed caterpillars
patient spiders and polished leeches...
and all I can do is write.
Written by
G Alan Johnson  65/M/USA

Response by Marshal Gebbie

Pelting rain adheres to soil
As spiders sprint and earthworms roil,
World in turmoil stinkbugs, stink
And Satan beetles disgorge ink
But thee, my budding, sodden flea,
Hath entertained quiescent....me.
M.

Nat Lipstadt
Pandemic Poems: Unclaimed bodies, There’s ain’t no anonymity in heaven.

There are more poems inside me, but I intuit it is longer fair to impose on you by sharing more.  The deep seeded infection of my spirit waxes and wanes, and there is no antidote, and unlike the virus itself, there never will be, a future cure, an inexpensive replacement cost for the spirit spent, the time and futures spirited away.

Perhaps you recall I was one mile away from Ground Zero on September 11th.  Rarely do I walk there.

The coronavirus poetry inserts itself unaided, never asking permission, a like minded, but a contra-cousin to the coronavirus.

I live in New York City, the epicenter where now, close to 800 die daily.

Normally, about 25 bodies a week are interred on Hart island, mostly for people whose families can't afford a funeral, or who go unclaimed by relatives.  In recent days, though, burial operations have increased from one day a week to five days a week, with around 24 burials each day.^^

Each dies with no last words, no Kaddish recited, Last Rites, too late, no Ṣalāt al-Janāzah or Om Namo Narayanaya.  Each one, a numbered pine coffin, and each one will have at the very least, a poem of their own, so help me god.

Buried side by side in large trench, room plenty for new arrivals,
I hear the banging, protesting, resisting, this is not the way, I was promised, my ears left pounding!  Hillel, the great scholar in this dream, reminds that “the time is short, and the work is great.”          

He paraphrases, though, “the bodies many, the poems too few.”

There ain’t no anonymity in heaven, but I’ll reconfirm that with you later.

Written by
Nat Lipstadt

Marshal Gebbie
God! It's harrowing to feel the raw spirit in a New York City man's soul.

You speak for the dead, the ailing and the fearful.

You speak for beggar in the street, the broker, quaking in his plenty, imprisoned on the 14th floor.

You speak for the cop, in face mask, on 24th and Vine, doing, as always what he must, with authority.

And you speak for the White Clad Angels who carry the dead to Hart Island and who forgive you, your fear and safer seclusion.

You speak also for we, who watch and sorrow from afar your agony, in our own fear and seclusion.
M.

Nat Lipstadt
raw is the word, oft need to lie down midday to escape the the viral infection of every outlet we use to pass these days. don’t know when i’ll go outside again, because the virus kills and wounds in horrible ways... thank u MG for the kind appreciation natty

Sally A Bayan
Conduits
In distance and in proximity...in despair
and joy...in existing and in dying...in the
bliss of love reciprocated, and in the pain
of love unrequitted...verses dance and call,
awaiting......

poetry has its own pulse, its own heartbeat,
it calls, taps the shoulders any moment,
awake, or adrift, it just can't be ignored...
even in a tangled, or weird circumstance,
it sparks like a bulb or a comet, curving
in a rainbow...riotous some days, teasing, fleeing,
then, turning up at unexpected times and places.

in every bit and breath of life, in every seed,
in every drop of dew, in every ember burning,
there is poetry birthing, growing...

deep within us flows green, purple, red,
glum gray, darkened inspirations...fleeting,
but, when time is ripe, they linger long,
giving us time to capture them all
.............................................
we sense them...we give space
we speak them, or we write them,
:::::::we are conduits:::::::


Sally

©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
February 11, 2020

Marshal Gebbie

  A touch, so light,
So sensitively slight
As to be caress,
In dead of night


Don Bouchard
And then
We become old men
And old women, and

We look back wistfully, and
We look forward hopefully, and

We wonder....


Written by
Don Bouchard  60/M/Minnesota

Marshal Gebbie
  Slipped betwixt the then and now
Methinks, with finger on the brow,
Thee needs a shot of earthy ***
And a wanton ****, to rub your tum.
Thee needs a cheery pick me up,
Some hairy mates to help you sup
Elixir from the joy of life
To salve tomorrows' threat of strife.
Cheers mate M.
0
Tommy Randell
From a young man's parlance, tripping from an old man's tongue; Right On, brother, Right On!
Sarina Oct 2012
I knew I was in the burning building with her –
and it was like Limburg,  maggoty
but obliged its fortress of a rowboat life.
Without its ice, I am in pine-high, to dull selves
which will later stiff upon these floors.

He was hell. He did this to us.
Not even a masked ******: shown needles
for his dog expression, and I am prodded
rather with teeth than a nose drill.

But she did dissolve before I could have,
must have had thin bones,
of maturity, an osteoporosis ache.

It saved her, perhaps, although she passed:
a kidney stone philosophy book,
these death-doctors will read numb.
I do wonder if it were their hips in fire,
why could they not sit in a mausoleum place.
Just how we did so many instances –
practicing a routine in the bathtub, like knowing.

Had the correct arrangement, too,
I pretended I was in a womb with you.
And mother’s was like that claw-tub so
we, fetus, sensed like castle buffs, carrying
the rings of gold and lockets of princess blood.

Then, she became papier-mâché statues
before a meadow of hell’s dust: I had to kiss
each curve because one ash was not enough.

I knew I was in the burning building with her
when I could not recognize her stumps.
She was an emblem of past upon fair carpet,
or the haze I inhale to shadow –
knowing that he sees our wallpaths and
catches the hum of infernos taking bodies,
then say that he is a monster even more than I.
Grace E Mar 2019
No matter how much she tries
Blushes and buffs
Dips and foams
Softens or scuffs
The resounding feedback is:
You’re just.. not good enough
the industry first create insecurity’s in us women, by showing us what a true woman should be like, the photoshopped essence of feminine beauty. Then, caters to our insecurities, by selling us all the creams, lotions, potions, goos, and spells we need to be good enough. It’s wack, but I guess that’s how it goes.
13 Feb 2015
Let’s cut away the ******* for once.
Honesty may not have it’s reward but it sure as hell feels good to the ears it falls on.
More often than not, we’re selfish for others.
And more so for ourselves.
It’s not as though we find the day when all cheery bright things would miraculously weave their way into our dull lives something to look forward to.
But paper cuts and medical buffs might take you there sooner.
We’re professional liars for our own companies.
We get paid with insolence and envy, which we spend on the ones we truly love.
Look, laugh and pity the fool who gripes and moans.
But let’s not forgive him for being wretched and miserable, and not completely insensitive.
Don’t ever realize how much mass ****** has helped you balance your daily routine or how easy your life has become since the fall of justice.
Cherish these moments of obstinacy and revel in the fall of man to mere beast, you might never know such disgrace, cloaked in pride, again.
The definitions given to our own villainous deeds are such elaborate deceptions that sometimes I wonder if the one they call God was just a man who thought to prank this world with a promise of salvation so that other men could **** each other over a system of faith that has no foundation.
I would bake a cake for that guy.
So, these long sentences putting you to sleep yet,
or am I too pig headed to get through to your blooming pride?
Maybe you find this funny, maybe you’re a terrible friend.
Maybe I don’t care about you and your perfect life.
There’s a chance none of that is true and you think we’re all good of heart inside.
Ahh, that mystical hidden power within everyone!
Makes me wish I was a non-gay looking He-Man.
Makes me wish for a lot of things that you would find offensive (so I’d hope) and enthralling (so I’d doubt it).
You collect high horses for prancing ponies and jewellery boxes full of ring fingers, alongside cushions and compliments so tight that not even gangsta-wrapped truth could split open.
Minds full of right wing liberalism and perks full of questions that exonerate reason, lead you to believe that ending friendship is a walk in the park.
Years of trust and respect lost in an instant, but that doesn’t affect you. It won’t now, nor ever.
This will all be forgotten like a really bad book that reminded you of your child abuse days.
Because, accepting hardship is a waste of time.
Acknowledging pain and moving past it is a bad decision.
Let’s keep one day apart from our indifferently vehement, opportunistically coherent and beautifully disconcerting lives to make all the bad decisions we love to.
At least on that day, no madman would feel alone.
Posted on May 11, 2014
Unpolished Ink Feb 2020
Maids see it all

But they  hardly ever tell

Well...

Occasionally one might sell

A juicy story

About you in naked glory

To add to your fame

And your shame

It's all part of the game

Who can blame

The person who buffs

And fluffs

Your stuff

On minimum wage

For making some cash

As you hit the front page!
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
drinking warm whiskey... isn't so bad...
it could be much worse:
it could be warm *****:
     not cold enough to reach a gomme syrop
consistency...
life's so tragic... sometimes...
       a warm ***** is like a warm beer...

what am i supposed to say?
i'm just tired of wanting to be in love...
i'm tired of hating...
   i'm tired of being angry...
i'm tired of being preditable and also:
slithering in pickling juices...
i am tired of love because...
               when it was "love"...
it wasn't dog eyes and a leash...
         or: never mind the solipsism of cats
when they still desire to mark your
forehead when sniffing it...
or come up and greet you:
with a "bodzio"... a head-****...

    so much of my cognitive capacity
became a wasteland from having
both woman and love on a peddlestool
of the ideal...
                   it's terrible waking up...
but that "terrible" sometimes becomes
as... exhilarating as taking a cold shower...
or watching a flock of sparrows chirp...

and the ***: cocoon ***... under bed-sheets...
all my one-night stands happened this way...
under the bed-sheets...
i'm happy to give a comparative literature of:
well... at least in the brothel we did it
under dimmed lights...
****-naked on the sheets...
having showered first
and downed a slacker of ms. amber:
oh you know it's bad...
that i have to call whiskey a very personal
investment narrative...
it's not whiskey... it's... ms. amber...

i should have been drinking long ago...
come shoulder to shoulder with
both my paternal and maternal grandfathers...
cocoon ***...
and if you don't think a man can be "*****"...
at the brothel?
  there's the concept of: creaming-up...
if the oyster isn't salivating enough...
yes... "****"... cocoon *** with a sawdust ****...
sanding paper **** more like...
oh the agony: but to my liking...
yeah bud: stick your lesser want of limbs
into a meat-grinder:
is that penetrating enough?
      who would forever suppose...
it's a kangaroo pouch of safety...
the nadir of lucifer's birth:
     free-falling: head first... but not through
a ****... not some floral pattern...

     cesarean... cesarean... are we going to give
births to kaisers or dull-eyed: deer...
i very much like to imagine a band
of mad-laughter hyenas...

               coal-burning black eyes...
      i am tired of giving up my thinking to any
and all ideals of love...
i could have invested my (th)ought i
into... conjuring up an electric bulb...
        a frankestein...
                i became so tired of love...
i had to come across a brothel:
to steal kisses from prostitutes
     and attempt a theft of the halo of st. augustine...
mummify letters in books...

which i have done...
        but love is such a never-dog...
                    one relationship that involved as cooking
together: beside the already necessary
prerequisite of *******-for-free...
her period, the ******, and cooing her
to do it in the bathtub with the water running...

or this: moment when enough ms. amber
is in me... and i turn to...
         the chants of the templars:
            crucem sanctem...
                   dum pater familias...
          da pacem domine...

that clarity of a transaction...
              the growling dog overwhise
teased with food already presented to him
in a bowl...
          count of fingers...
                    
     i'm tired of love... of all of my body...
this nail blunt head from being hammered
too often...
           it escapes me:
why should my libido be compensated
when it requires: exhaustion...
to find the most fanciful thought:
only when the libido is exhausted:
   and if i have to do it myself: so be it...

but of so many people worried:
i am indeed... "worried"... when will it...
subside... die off...
this quills': marquis de sade:
leverage of: to read books using only
one hand...
                        if the acne is so prolonged
to make me...
belzeebub's favourite ***** of:
what precedes ****** / anti-wrinkle creams...
one maggot 'ere... another...

it is simply exhausting to love:
as one is expected to love via fiction...
and it is too costly to love:
poetically... anything but language...
esp. acquired language:
a language learned... most certainly
not passed from a grandmother to a mother
to a son...
some could claim to call these words:
in vitro...
         and on that matter...
which part of me is experimentally "dead":
the mind... or the body?
i am not... a native of these parts...
a native...           a native...

this is the part of the year when
winter is crucified... and reborn as spring! no?
all ******* rose buds and sparrows chirping!
who can love... so... ideally...
idle though: to make the burdens
of the most... boorish matters needing:
stressed concerns for "detail"...

  am i one of the last ones that still
bought a *****-mag when
the free **** was available online...
                     twitch... i'm an old ****:
in a 34 year old body... because:
keeping up... became synonymous with
being distracted...
                  cam-girl... etc. etc.
            "soz": but there just isn't any bragging
to be minded...
or a:        h'american striptease... d'uh: tease...
the carnival of the wriggling maggot
came to invoke
kissing the eyelids... gently teasing
the tip of the nose with a bite...
                             this body... or that body...
an a sculptor...
   in the brothel i was only robbed... once:
well... "robbed"...
this coke-head distrated me with:
do you want to use this *****...
          the proprietors' henchman...
a little turk by the time: i presume to be:
Osman came up with a bundle of stolen cards
and asked me: which one is yours?

that's a pretty good effort...
        i must have been up to no good...
once we stopped ******* because: she started
seeing downton abbey in an epileptic flicker...
yes: and me ******* her wasn't,
exactly... a ******* chocolate fondant...
          
it seems so... pristine when...
two bodies are allowed to touch...
without all that extra baggage...
that is desired to... "beside" the otherwise...
readily available carnality of the act...

e-girl vidoes: teases...
                                    what can be the best
compliment... one could possibly give to...
byzantine culture / the "modern" greek?
   ah... Αγνή Παρθένε... the singing...
                          
   mulier... no... not a woman or wife...
             hardly a property right...
something to boast and concern oneself for
the rattling of feathers of peacocks...
     mulier... the french playright...
ugh... molière - yes, him!
            molière donning a mullet! yes...
and not one of those charles II wigs...
from one wig alone...
               you could have made...
oh... roughly... an orchestra's demand
for violin and cello bows...

              pissy-pant french of 14 year old
past: one direction fandom...
                            for every male fan of tool...
a declared ownership of a *****...
better still... a screwdriver...
    that would be something...

                                or when stand-up comedy
was communist enough to entertain:
a cabaret form... an **** oddity (bottom)...
can't enough not tire of
stand-up solipsism...
the stand-up solo project of...
back-and-forth with an audience of canned
laughter?
cabaret... doesn't have to be switz
ja herr doktor voltaire...
         but some sort of ping-pong...
a game of squash...
i do not know... of a single concept of
sport... where there's only one...
concept-riddle of engagement...
can comedy... or rather... should comedy
have "evolved" beyond the cabaret...
famously: in theatre-land...
stones in his pockets...
two bodies on stage...
  with a plethora of...
how the sequence went...
   BRONSON...
bronson "vs." or rather:
"nursie" vs. "mr. petersson"...

          two names: Conleth Hill and
             Sean Campion... oh look... capital! letters!
yes: of note... circa 2001...
and that's when...
   this... stand-up... hard-on "comedy"
of stand-ups...
no... no cabaret format...
internal-monologues extending into...
an octopus attempting cliff-skimming:
climbing... failing miserably...
   if it's such a "comedy"...
    where's heidegger's hammer?
last time i heard: even by ol' martin's standards:
you'd require two people to talk
about philosophy as a "side-project"
when hammering in nails...
how can one person tell a joke?
oh but they can...
on special occassion(s)...
         the joke is better translate via a dialogue...
rather than a monologue...
last time i heard...
  
comedy doesn't require these stand-up
geniuses...
imagine... ******* is actually...
a *** act...
taking a **** is actually a...
        get together meal for three...
and that's the loaf... equally spread...
for the devil's dozen...
   ******* will satisfy any champagne socialist
get-together...
      
   i have to become bored of love...
the sort of love that would never come with:
the impetus of darwinism's ideologues...
for: now that i have become a father...
           i'm less and less: a ***** satyr!
               wish me 70+ age and being freed
by dementia to curse like a cobbler
and a seafaring man...

              that overbearing: no room for impromptu:
when solo...
otherwise... no otherwise...
just that strict: regime of... an expectation
for and with: canned laughter...
all that's missing are two tin cans
and a placenta of stiched-up tongues...

... for all the movie buffs...
it's not enough to blunt your eyes on movies...
actors: and their subsequent roles
in 3D... why did up stand-up...
the grand mass-orchestrator of giggles be
allowed to cue the audience...
like any minor dictator might: from
argentina or romania?

                 back toward the ***...
yes... stealing kisses from prostitutes...
this was never going to be one about Wordsworth's
"celibacy"... which you would be expected
to partake in... just having bit into
the forbidden fruit of ****** with your sister...
or so... they might say...

daffodils and that "doris" of the...
will the word ****... somehow prevent
you from seeing ****** ****...
or ******* ****?
then at least there's the hope...
to make minors of ettiquete standards
of the: proper social contract approach:
with civility... or therefore: none...

i am finding a rare occassion for:
an as to why, i would ever do anything to begin
with... grow a beard (1)
grow a beard to stop myself shaving (2)
grow a beard to hide my double-chin (3)...
grow a beard because
growing my hair long became boring (4)...
grow a beard because i wanted
to scratch my ***** on my face rather than
scratch them on my "eden region" (5)...
the other reasons congregate under
the status of... rubric and tally...

(6) to grow a beard is better than growing
the hair long...
no chance of becoming bald...
long hair attracts too much female attention...
last time i heard a woman who grew a beard
became a circus-act...
a beard is the safest territory to mind...
when there's a woman that...
somehow needs to compensate!

         all of a sudden: i have forgotten *****
envy... when i came across
beard envy...
   i am... very much so...
envious of mel gibsons beard...
in general: but esp. so in the role...
of prof. murray... with him donning
a cravate and a top-hat to boot:
the epitome of what all men of the world
could have wished for:
the victorian gentlemen...
fiercer still: an autodidact...
a dog without a leash... eh?

     i pity the tattoo of ethnicity:
given that: i would be english...
an ukranian would be scottish...
or a lithuanian... the tattoo of ethnicty or a past...
that i would be the ******...
and there was this tide of cossacks...
i would be... the ******...
           and there would be some
ingenius pict equivalent...
            in my abode...
                      
    i am tired of love...
the most attired love of idealism...
as i am tired of hate:
and anger...
i am tired of both of these latter:
when there's no boxing match interlude
to match-up with...
i'm tired of love as i am tired
of retribution and of justice...
i am tired of gambling...
what right is there fore me:
to steal from the blind?
           i am tired from: expectations...
i am tired of ideals...
i am tired of hate because:
if i wasn't i'd still find it...
egregious to spot the minor offences
of citing the prefixing n-...
                                        as... nothing short
of an "oops" of b-               and -igger!

i'm tired of being: a civil monkey...
if i'm tired of love...
if i'm tired of hate...
i can never tire of language...
but if i become:
zoologically kept: inept...
                      ha ha! ha ha! ha! ha!
i: dodo: tire: and Tod:
of: ******: improm:     p'tooh!
         savvy or the sinking ship?!

                       RATZ!

better a concern for prostitutes:
seeing that... there's no...
jackie ol' myth to be cooked from my "affairs"...
i thought about:
how about... now was the best time...
to not **** prostitutes...
i stole kisses...
an exercise in making videos...
bring back blockbusters!
             bring back blockbusters!
**** the content creators of youtube!
give, me, back, my, *******, jukebox!
give, me, back, my... thesaurus algorithm!
give, me, back, my, *******, jukebox!
give, me, back, my... thesaurus algorithm!

           once upon a time: dubbed:
paupers... the homeless...
prostitutes... now... eh... one sly loss of calling
these... the... leeches of: welcome tomorrow!
so the price of... being...
astounded... that's it?!
                the magnified statement
of karma-phobia...
there has to be a concept akin to:
karma-phobia when islamophobia is already
too bogus to touch...
there has to be: karma-phobia...

a ******* a canvas:
i went down this alley because...
i just... wanted to show-off...
for myself...
the most better part of myself i could never
show with... a girlfriend...
and showing my best:
armed with merely a dog and a leash:
just wasn't enough:
or a fabergé egg: missing a matryoshka doll
"detail"...

like kicking a dog in the *****...
like... attempting to catch a mosquitos
by the ******* donning boxing gloves...
the lowest of the low:
of picking the "fruit"...
jackie ol' burrow: ripe-kipper...
and that merry-o-round of...

                give me enough upper-body volume
to rummage and ruminate...
to clearly identify the psychopaths
leisuring themselves over a thursday's
afternoon worth of sun-soaking
a metaphor of bath...
         and all those minor grizzly detials
of swathing a mosquito or two...
because we are inclined
to spare the flies...
because: we just, are... thus inclined...
i hear an argument: i will: without a doubt...
also hear a guillotine do us all a favor
of detailing the: "chopper"...

my my: that ripe keeper of a pulsating
neck's worth of a rhubarb...
salmon teriyaki...
                                       n'est ce-pas?!

in between: calling it learning to tie one's
shoelaces...
having no better synonym detail
of comparison other than...
             with depeche...
                                no song to be worth
any particular: sort of... originality...
and or in... detail...
                   there's only a hope for
giving a particular sort of wind:
associated with a month...
and with a month: a sorting-out of a year
within and beyond a decade...
a century...
                    
this had to be forever: and one...
enough for the worth of tonight...
and with it... no other, better, compensation
other than my own input;

ha ha!                          grace?!
amanda cooper Dec 2011
she got on her knees again [how many times this week?].
she whispers to herself, to a god, to anyone that'll listen.
she can't stop.
she's spinning circles around topics she can't avoid.
head-on collisions using nouns and verbs.
swallowing pride and trying doors,
searching for keys and answers.
she's on her knees, whispering again.
she's spitting into palms,
because it's better than holding nothing.
she's choking down drinks and god knows what else.
she can't stop.
she's writing equations in chalk
and diagramming sentences,
just trying to figure out how it's supposed to work.
it.
life, or love, or religion.
purpose.
she's dragging feet, leaving black scuffs behind.
trying to make some mark on the world
until someone buffs it away,
on their knees again.
never ending cycle of submission.
knees scarred and ***** from begging, from laughing,
from imbalance.
until we're flat on our faces,
flipped only to be dolled up in caskets
or kissed goodbye before we
kiss furnaces.

she can't stop.
12/6/11.
Vernon Waring Aug 2015
Could we have a moratorium
On nature poetry please
A resounding snoratorium
On meadows, lakes, and trees

A halt to poems about sunsets,
Full moons, snowfalls and such
These tickle the fancy of nature buffs
But for others - not so much

A cutback on odes to roses,
Summer's glory or butterflies
Fewer tributes to all things blooming
And birds that fill the skies

Let's take a break from winter scenes
And the beauty of an ancient sea
Try one about the human race
Think of the novelty
David Park Nov 2017
There are few moments when I believe in god.
Not necessarily because of moments of piety.
But right when I hear a remote jet sound of those
Big Ugly Fat *******, eight engines a piece
I realize god’s fury becomes a reality.

The BUFFs finally reach their prey
And I hear someone yell
“Boy today sure is the day!”
As we hide our heads in the bunkers
The ****** ground quivers and shivers

If I had looked up into the mighty blast
I would have seen the scorched red earth
Scarred deeply with the big ***** of fire
But the sounds and trembles are enough for me
Because what needed to be scarred was the ground, not me

The blasting jet thunder and the deadly steel rain
Should be enough to blow away Charlie
The concussions alone would waste them
So we’ve all thought
Only to be proven wrong the next day by the NVA

I sometimes dream of driving my Camaro back home
Because it reminds me of what’s left in my soul
So I tried to talk with my best buddy Jim McCole
But as I glance into his head with a ******* hole
I realize once again this is hell with no parole
This poem is about Operation Arc Light of the Vietnam War.
cheryl love Oct 2013
Oh what a high ceiling
And look how the paint’s peeling
I’ve got a wonderful feeling
That you’ll have to dig deep and pay.

Oh and the clothes want mending
Then its off to the washer I’m sending
And by the way thanks for lending
The money for me to do it today.

While you’re at it I will take a seat
While the nice lady buffs up my feet.
Then after my treat, I will eat
Chocolates upon a milky tray.
Haylin Apr 2018
I do not see the hype
with High School Stereotype.
Why does it receive such attention?
It doesn't need the press's mention.

We all know of the smokers by the bike sheds,
Who have nothing but fluff in their heads.
Or the girls with skirts far too short
Who's think of *** as a  competitive sport.

The sport buffs, we've all seen,
Full of life and far too keen.
Always poised and ready to go,
Every muscle toned from head to toe.

Young student teachers are here,
Enthusiastic about Bill Shakespeare.
Attempting to teach thugs to spell,
Whilst shady Heads make their life hell.


But do not forget, those you call friend.
The ones who stay by you until the end.
Making you laugh, Keeping you sane
Through rough times they remain.
These companions fit no mould
Therefore their tale is never told.

For the greatest things in teen life
Do not need the media's strife
Zachary Feb 2014
my thoughts always come back to you
a frizz-bee knew wouldn't ever be threw
like an hour glass my time is paused only when you run out
its crazy to think about how my time we've loaned out
like a bank with no credit debit or doubt
only a valley full of love that no one can live without
my time is only scarred if you find its devote
my vain only gracing the pain you've poured out
its like im struggling with the fact you are alive
a picture in a glass that fate did strive
paintings drawings and buffs, fingers grazing time is our love
its because i am what you need and you can feel it
i already know my taste that why my mouth must seal it
never gilt,
never have your two hands juggling whilst only one foots on the stilt
we will do this together,
because all of our memories can only get built

I love you
Mateuš Conrad May 2022
**** it... i'm going to the opera on my borthday!
i'm not working with these ceramic...
herd... erd... whatever the **** they are
with their beautiful hair... wrapped up in napkins:
they should be white!
no! nein! niet! nie!
                           ******* being camel jockeys!
or... like the Bangladeshi... slaves to the Qatari Royal
Family! *******! if you're willing to take it:
take it!

more camel pressure... the **** needs you to investigate
whether it really does... need to take a dump...
******* copper-necks... it actually sounds better
in English than in German... for once! for once!

because of the advent if Islam in Europe,
the northern Crusades are all: hush hush...
   hush: stille mein kind...
not near worth mention!

-------------------------------------------------------­---------

this has truly become a defeating project,
i bit off too much than i could chew...
    even i know this: i've turned into a quasi-novelist:
who will never write any proper dialogue
or for that matter respect the form of a paragraph...

once again, sitting with a whiskey sharpshooter watching
my female Maine **** hunt for little flies
peering into my wardrobe trying to squeeze in...
if it was the male Maine **** he would have had
already jumped into it and coseied himself
on my clothes... while i would curse some other day
that all my clothes have cat fur on them...
i groomed him today... what a sensible little creature...
tail waggling while i cut his nails
   and brushed his coat...

prior to: taking a **** in three turns...
    i don't know: irritable bowel syndrome or something?!
why can't i take one proper **** in a day,
my **** is nagging me...
watching ******* usually helps with
the constipation...
           like today... i've reached that point
in the month where i'm thinking about revisiting Khedra
in the brothel...
look at me... monogomous: even when it comes
to prostitutes... because she really is an amnesia ****:
she made me completely forget Ilona...
i thought i'd never find a **** this good...
     lucky for me... she's even better...

she makes those nymphomaniac sounds when
performing *******: it's a cross between a baby *******
on a *** and someone enjoying a bowl of pasta...
and it really dawned on me... 2nd take on the throne
of thrones i was watching this
video: bootyass girl (201K subscribers) -
the video itself has over 2 millions views... on xvideos.com,
sure... i ****** off... but like i already said:
i'm jerking off without the ******...
                  
   mein gott! what a beached whale!
                visually unappealing... well... up to a point...
3rd take on the throne of thrones and i knew it would
be the last... again: checking the "plumbing"...
but this time: sound on...
    O......                                   oh...
oh... now i get it...
                                she might look like a beached whale...
but turn the sound on... **** me...
men are these supposed visual creatures?!
Beethoven was too, wasn't he?
              no no... if a beached whale of a woman
makes sounds like that during ***...
i.e. she is a polypohny of onomatopoeias
    / an inverted Katakana... i.e. whereas the Samurai
can write MA... they can't write AM... ** but not OH...
  well... that was that... ******* at the thumb shoved
into her mouth while her partner is ******* a leather
couch: by the sound of the "echo" coming from her ****-cheeks...
shhhhhh it... ooze... just managed to squeeze it out...
FINALLY!
    again... no ******... get a hard-on... relax the ****...
don't ask me how i figured this one enigma out...
trial & error... to hell with laxatives...

                      i'm gearing up...

but my day was way more interesting than merely this...
i did wake up at 6am... stayed in bed until 8am
listening to music... because you sometimes have to...
errands...
         sort out a hire for a KANGO...
which is construction industry "slang" for...
    pneumatic drill... jackhammer...
at the hire shop a guy probably younger than me
knew what i was talking about...
     with a glee of approval... his father must have worked
in times when you used to say the word KANGO...
one of those proper ones...
two handed... posted the picture on facebook...
i mean: it's such a neat toy... felt chuffed wheeling it back
home and then on the bus...
   had these two concrete buffs irritation where once
two greenhouses stood... need to get rid of them...
set down drainage... 2 tonnes of soil and grass...
nothing but grass...

     KANGO: i didn't even know it before i checked it out...
the etymology: literally Chinese language...
カンゴ
                   but otherwise in the construction industry
a jackhammer, a pneumatic jackhammer...
what a lovely beast... the best *** i've seen in a while...
made me think of that quote from Full Metal Jacket:
anything by Gunnery Sgt. Hartman -
or that Combichrist song: this is my rifle...
seriously... i don't care what they say:
the Vietnam War had the best soundtrack...
   no other war in the history of man had such a goo...
******* amazing soundtrack...

who wouldn't be happy working a pneumatic drill hammer...
two handed... lifting rock... concrete...
i'm happy... i've already mentioned it:
work ennobles (physical work)...
    a lesson learned when it was taught by the Nazis
to the Polacks in Auschwitz...
what was once arbeit macht frei
has become... arbeit adelt!
                                  simple, no? to learn from once
former conquerors... and to redefine that... "silly"
ol' joke that's particular to German sensibilities...
moving bags of rock from point X to point Y
and then from point Y to point X...
       like they couldn't have turned concentration camps
into something useful... but... them being concentration camps...
seriously... they were lazy at mass ******...
if they were so ******* efficient in other areas of
warfare... they weren't particularly good at their
initial plans...

oh right: that's the ****** sense of humour...
laughing about the Nazis... i almost forget where i'm placed
in this world... all that need for theatre...
to ensure panic was kept under a lid...
     the Mongols were more effective at mass ******...
genocide... hell i bet the Ugandans had a better track
record...

finally! i'm coming the end of my note taking...
it only took me four days and five nights
to get enough drink in my to spew this crap out...

but i'm getting there...
   i don't fear Islam...
             i'm  huge fan of Rumi:
what remains after nothing?
    love is the flame which, when it blazes
consumes everything other than the Beloved.
the lover wields the sword of nothingness,
in order to dispatch all but God:
consider what remains after Nothing;
there remains but God: ll the rest is gone.
Praise to you, O mighty Love,
destroyer of all other "gods"...

    la illaha il Allah... there are not gods but God
(qu'ran 3:62)...
   i wrote that into the back of the book
by Bukowski when i first came across him in Glasgow...
all those years ago...
la illaha il Allah...
    funny side-story... the term God in Maltese?
it's actually Allah...
   i tend to write something akin to: all?! ah!
i'm not Islamophohic... but... i can understand where
arachnophobia comes from:
but Islam isn't a spider...
             i just don't understand the inverted logic
of Muslims bewildered that there is an Islamophobia...
why be surprised?
i'm pretty ******* sure that Russophobia existed
long before Islamophobia...

   but unlike all the other phobias on the list....
these two phobias are... calculated...
they're not irrational...
why? why aren't they irrational?
does a spider think? i'm pretty ******* sure
a Muslim or a Russian is capable of thought...
but does a spider think?
does an elevator think? a constrained space...
that claustrophobia... does a spider think?!
what's the problem?
arachnophobia is a reflexive-phobia...
Islamophobia is a reflective-phobia...
                          
but what's the difference between fearing Russians
and fearing Muslims?
the Russians already know they're the evil genuises
of this world...
it's nothing new...
         Muslims... the ones i'm working with?
are they seriously planning a takeover...
what... with these cabbage-heads?!
   these retards?! these, retards?!
                 yeah... good luck...
you might get a chance to wind the clocks back one
hour come the winter months...
but that's about it...
            half of which never read a verse of Rumi
or Omar Khayyam...
                      
the women look so petilent... dark clad...
you could at least attire them in linen and make the linen
grey... or white...
there was a time when Islam was superiror to Christianity...
those days are long gone... gone with the camel jockeys...
inbreeding is the currency and the joke...
i'll respect the Iranians...
  because... they were Persians prior to the camel jockey
invasion from Arabia...
and the Turks... because... we're sort of related...
Caucasian... or Mongol-esque...
ancient Turks had their runes... and Turks have very edible food...
while Turkish prostitutes **** like there's no
tomorrow...
i need a second Islamic schism: spearheaded by
the Turks...
leave these Arabs with their Pakistani pawns
to play into that caliphate Sunni game...
Islam needs to splinter... there needs to be a second schism...
spearheaded by the Turks...
the Turks teaed as far up as Vienna from what i know...
leave the Saudi princes and their fetishes alone:

god will judge them...
        princes of the pink ponies and blonde ******...
down the Spartan route...
i'm not Islamophobic... i'm like a tapeworm when it comes
to Islam... ooh... this fasting idea... i could use that...
not for religious reasons... like i once explained...
you know what fasting does for me?
increases my concentration...
                               i like fasting...
i like thinking about food... because?! personally?!
thinking about anything beside food is sort
of boring... i like to be closest to the wild animal...
and what does the wild animal ever "think" about
if not food?! or biting off its limps if
it were to be caught in a beaar trap?!

right... right? what about...
a Germpophil?
                        
heil dir im siegerkranz:
what a little unkept "secret"....

strange body: overgrowth of muscle having
muscle removed from the shoulder blade,
Armilius,
                           i miight as well have a crow
perched...
                 muscle movement from that lacking
in the shouder-blade... just above the collr  one...
once i stress its existence.

whiske! whiskey! more whiskey!
the sun illuminating the governance of spring
can't ever overshadow the moon,
come the same season

genügend ist genügend!
     das ist alles!
                    nachweisen-in-dem-pudding.
insync, especially with Amitiza delivered solid ecstasy

Without shadow of doubt
I feel much relief
though literally pooped out
attested courtesy following
(oft posted poem
written some years ago
in short self plagiarism),
where funhouse mirror

humorously distorts physique
disproportionately skinny or stout
as though plagued
with excess adipose tissue
in reality paunch throughout
abdominal area mine
self evident yours truly
generic guy does not work out.

As of early/mid afternoon
today - November 30th, 2021
I could not but barely move
mine whole body felt
analogous to sluggish mollusk
frequent constipation found me
doubled over in gastrointestinal agony
as if elephant or red (livid with rage)

I've re: created how bull
heaver in fiber ****** his tusk
into lower abdominal area dawn to dusk
ah...voila... hence subsequently
blessed natural laxative,
the magic of Daily Fiber
100% natural psyllium husk
also known as metamucil.

Upon sprinkling two doses powder pack,
which orange flavor sweetened
the missus mishmash pop slop
not aesthetically pleasing major drawback
heavy as a full coalsack
sometimes burned and scorched black
movement came swift, on par how fast
snaky Mister Plumber doth attack
obstructed ***** bowl.

Well now... monumental poetic challenge,
I now craftily abbreviate
(think clogged toilet synonymous with blockage) 
waste matter after days did accumulate
ready to apply corkerasp
regarding ****** blockage to alleviate.

Imagine impossible mission to defecate
which debilitating scenario mine accursed fate
frequently recurring more often as yours truly
i.e. latter day saint Matthew Scott got older
****** affliction compromised me
ordinary easy going demeanor
disallowing, disenabling, and not permitting
me - effecting, emulating, and exhaling
Tony the tiger's catchword grrrrrreat

if queried about my constitution
absolute ecstasy found me
expelling bowel movement
weighing approximately hundredweight
though relieved, nevertheless
the toilet bowl clogged,
correcting historical records
on two accounts despite
causing potential ruckus
disaster buffs may incriminate

nsync notion huge bowel movement
(mine) took down (analogous
voyage to bottom of sea) toto Lusitania
and actually additionally
caused separate incident
complex edifice (think Titanic)
both sturdy ships of state
former rendered
latter purportedly crashing
into iceberg me mate.

------------------------------------------------

Lemme explain the essence of a corkerasp

Whenever constipation a pain in the ***
just maneuver this lightweight
metal contrivance made of brass
no matter if anybody
considers this action crass

apply corkscrew motion up the
alimentary canal to remove waste
which most likely will be
thick like petrified paste
stuck deep inside bowels of the
sphincter muscles and solidly encased

causing severe cramps within
lower gastrointestinal tract
inducing one to wince nonstop
from being with ***** matter packed
and no amount of primal groaning
doth loose this hard fact

nor does imagery of freed ****
ease the **** plight
no laughing matter despite how absurd
squeezing does nothing even
applying all inner might

thus necessary to incorporate
unnatural intervention to unclog
****** blockage + uncomfortable bloating
swelling **** the size of a hog
disabling barely any ease to stand let alone jog
yet tis essential per extricating what
feels like one swallow a log
lest epitaph induce impossible eulogy
unless spoken the language of Prague.

Every ounce of effort
required to bend
over gingerly affixing
plunger end of device
to business rear end
best accompanied with close
companion or friend
since ***** deed done dirt
cheap trick will ideally rend
rock solid excrement to roll
and crashing sound send

upon the bathroom floor
possibly inducing seismic
waves less or more
whereby toilet bowl water will pour
over the sides akin to
white caps near sea shore
without doubt making
gluteus maximus extremely sore.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
THE LINE STEALER

Always being a bit
of an Imaginer.

Never read a book
Always enter it.

Become it
so to speak.

The same with Music - mutate into note followed by note.
The same with Art - transform into pigment and paint.
The same with Movies - flicker into celluloid.

Was a sucker for
the black and whites.

Film Noir was well
kinda moreish!

Would just walk into
IN A LONELY PLACE

The actors looking amazed.
Steal their lines before they

could say 'em
left them speechless.

Then back in real life
use them as if they were my own.

Worked all the time
'cept on movie buffs.

“I was born when I met you.
I lived while I loved you."

Just my luck it was
her favourite movie.

Slapped me across the face
she so Gloria Grahame-ish

despite giving it
my best Bogey.

"I died when you left me”. I said
to the slamming door.
a worse hellish fate than perdition really *****

As of early morning
today - September 8th, 2022,
I could not but barely move
mine whole body felt
analogous to sluggish mollusk
frequent constipation found me
doubled over in gastrointestinal agony
as if elephant stomping on tummy
or red livid with rage.

I've re: created how bull
heaver in fiber figuratively ****** his tusk
into lower abdominal area dawn to dusk
ah...voila... hence subsequently
blessed natural laxative,
the magic of Daily Fiber
100% natural psyllium husk
also known as metamucil.

Once again sphincter muscle(s)
spasmodically malfunctioned awry
whew suppository unnecessary
despite gastrointestinal stoppage
alimentary canal thwarted
porcelain goddess battlecry
at least seventy two hour time span
lapsed whereby big boy wanted to cry
explaining how yours truly
felt he would die
an undertaking malaise

found me experiencing
physical duress vis a vis,
a bowel movement,
wherein waste unable to expel
from the **** of this guy,
which bout with ****** obstruction
found me doubled over
with lower abdominal distress
whereby comfort found me unable to lie
down nor sit upright

(with back padded with pillows
against the cellar brick wall),
thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh
and managed on a previous occasion
to muster the means to bare
frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase
the Acme brand Metamucil,
which akin to Drano doth ply
thru the excretory tract
supposedly loosening the stools

which optimism (product
didst earn claim to fame)
generated a sigh
if that expressed intent
to cease LivingSocial would try
humph enjoining lxiii
year old married male
to cede victory to the grim reaper,
who would vie
as winner de jure

to this common fellow invoking libretto
ohm resistant understudy
waste not want not
allowing, enabling and providing relief,
without successful defecation
despite the oppressive urge
to bolster this Uriah
heep of balled up and tuckered out
five foot and ten inches of lovely bones,
thence mouthing retraction

of former thought to cease existing
though a non-bull lever
in any power broker qua mankind
relief at long last
provided posterior answered prayer
yet, this wordsmith
scrutinizes his recurring
pain in the *** jagged torture
and asks a rhetorical
one word question "WHY"?

Well now... monumental
poetic challenge recap,
I now craftily abbreviate
(think clogged toilet
synonymous with blockage)
waste matter after days did accumulate
regarding ****** blockage to alleviate
thus imagine impossible
airy mission to defecate
which debilitating scenario

(mine) frequent accursed fate
frequently recurring more often
as yours truly ages
i.e. latter day saint
Matthew Scott got older
****** affliction compromised me
ordinary easy going demeanor to boot
disallowing, disenabling, and not permitting
me - effecting, emulating, and exhaling
Tony the tiger's catchword grrrrrreat

if queried about my constitution
when alas... absolute ecstasy found me
expelling bowel movement with effort
weighing approximately 0.71428571 stone
though relieved, nevertheless
the toilet bowl clogged,
prompting me to correct historical records
on two accounts despite
causing potential ruckus
disaster buffs may incriminate
nsync notion huge bowel movement

(mine) took down (analogous
voyage to bottom of sea) toto Lusitania
and actually additionally
caused separate incident
complex edifice (think Titanic)
both sturdy ships of state
former rendered, lifted, foundered...
latter purportedly crashing
into iceberg invariably causing
rising sea levels courtesy
melting glacier (size of Florida) weight.
As of late - I could not but barely move
mine whole body felt
analogous to sluggish mollusk
frequent constipation found yours truly
doubled over in gastrointestinal agony

as if elephant or red (livid with rage)
bull ****** his tusk
into lower abdominal area dawn to dusk
ah...voila... hence subsequently I tout
blessed natural laxative the magic of Daily Fiber
100% natural psyllium husk.

Upon sprinkling two dose powder pack,
which orange flavor sweetened
upon missus mishmash pop slop,
not aesthetically pleasing major drawback

heavy as a full coalsack
sometimes burned and scorched black
movement came swift, on par how fast
snaky Mister liquid Plumber doth attack
obstructed ***** bowl.

Well now... monumental poetic challenge,
I now craftily abbreviate
(think clogged toilet synonymous with blockage)
waste matter after days did accumulate
ready to apply corkerasp
regarding ****** blockage to alleviate.

Imagine impossible mission to defecate
which debilitating scenario (mine) accursed fate
frequently recurring more often as yours truly ages
i.e. latter day saint Matthew Scott got older
****** affliction compromised me

ordinary easy going demeanor to boot    
disallowing, disenabling, and not permitting
me - effecting, emulating, and exhaling
Tony the tiger's catchword grrrrrreat
if queried about my constitution

when alas... absolute ecstasy found me
expelling bowel movement with effort
weighing approximately hundredweight
though relieved, nevertheless
the toilet bowl clogged,

prompting me to correct historical records
on two accounts despite
causing potential ruckus
disaster buffs may incriminate
nsync notion huge bowel movement

(mine) took down (analogous
voyage to bottom of sea) toto Lusitania
and actually additionally
caused separate incident
complex edifice (think Titanic)

both sturdy ships of state
former rendered foundered
latter purportedly crashing
into iceberg me mate.

------------------------------------------------

Lemme explain the essence of a corkerasp

Whenever constipation a pain in the ***
just maneuver this lightweight
metal contrivance made of brass
no matter if anybody
considers this action crass

apply corkscrew motion up the
alimentary canal to remove waste
which most likely will be
thick like petrified paste
stuck deep inside bowels of the
sphincter muscles and solidly encased

causing severe cramps within
lower gastrointestinal tract
inducing one to wince nonstop
from being with ***** matter packed
and no amount of primal groaning
didst loose this hard fact

nor does imagery of freed ****
ease the **** plight
no laughing matter despite how absurd
squeezing does nothing even
applying all inner might

thus necessary to incorporate
unnatural intervention to unclog
****** blockage + uncomfortable bloating
swelling **** the size of a hog

disabling barely any ease to stand let alone jog
yet tis essential per extricating what
feels like one swallowed a log
lest epitaph induce possible eulogy
possibly spoken the language of prague

every ounce of effort
required to bend
over gingerly affixing
plunger end of device
to business rear end

best accompanied with close
companion or friend
since ***** deed done dirt
cheap trick will ideally rend
rock solid excrement to roll
and release crashing sound sent

upon the bathroom floor
possibly inducing seismic
waves less or more
whereby toilet bowl water will pour
over the sides akin to
white caps near sea shore
without doubt all the while
gluteus maximus extremely sore.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2019
THE LINE STEALER

Always being a bit
of an Imaginer.

Never read a book
Always enter it.

Become it
so to speak.

The same with Music - mutate into note followed by note.
The same with Art - transform into pigment and paint.
The same with Movies - flicker into celluloid.

Was a sucker for
the black and whites.

Film Noir was well
kinda more-ish!

Would just walk into
IN A LONELY PLACE

The actors looking amazed.
Steal their lines before they

could say 'em
left them speechless.

Then back in real life
use them as if they were my own.

Worked all the time
'cept on movie buffs.

“I was born when I met you.
I lived while I loved you."

Just my luck it was
her favourite movie.

Slapped me across the face
she so Gloria Grahame-ish

despite giving it
my best Bogey.

"I died when you left me.” I said
- to the slamming door.
Where death of democracy writ large,
nevertheless psychological strength predominates
unlike earlier chapters of mein kampf.

Mine hardscrabble existential debacle
spelled losing game
swept me up in malevolent mindset
far adrift from harbored haven;
I floundered like a fish out of water
entangled within woebegone raid.

No matter figurative bar
to challenge yours truly
chiefly afflicted academic motives
set ridiculously low,
impossible mission presented
to kite, overcome, and transcend
mental, physical and social impasse
rather I remained
immobilized, paralyzed, unmoored
to hurtle myself across
horribly graded daunting challenges
with flying colors
and thus never established
storied track record.

Oft times (more so
during formative years
of boyhood and adolescence),
I experienced absolute zero ambition
wretchedness being alive
spurring wonderment whereby thoughts
of my demise didst drive
analogous to buzzfeeding bees
combing into their hive.

Giddiness nursed, prevailed, and thrived
when coronavirus (COVID-19)
warranted quarantine to diminish
transmitting pandemic virus thru the air
lifestyle change no major imposition,
cuz yours truly already familiarized
with self isolation
courtesy his social anxiety despair
schizoid personality disorder the diagnosis
nsync with loathsome
body morphology toward self
viz mental health impasse a legitimate malady
impossible mission possibly
since in utero didst impair
minimally abetted courtesy
Buffalo wing and a prayer
wishful thinking only death can relieve
some recently approaching year.

Indifference toward self sums up story
qua deadly mindset to whit
resignation to cash in chips
at a tender age, I did submit
evidenced courtesy abysmal grades
and exhibited resignation
where effort to succeed did quit
during stint as student
kindergarten and first grade the exception
earning appellation dummkopf or nitwit
showcased apathy to access ability and excel
stage door left, I wanted to exit
overshadowed courtesy powerfully pointed outlook
within his bedroom at 324 Level Road
sequestered long haired
pencil neck geek hermit
four familiar walls constituted ambit.

Refuge sought vis a vis
withdrawal viz yule eyes
starved body, mind and spirit
from webbed wide world
which as prepubescent
constituted narrowly circumscribed range,
whereby I denied,
juiced refused sustenance
(think anorexia nervosa,
thus these lovely bones withered away
thankfully dearest mother
(a licensed practical nurse)
of course intervened without delay

belated acknowledgement
regarding maternal love hip hip hooray
enrolling expertise psychiatrist
of Doctor Ted Goldberg
at Collegeville Community counseling
to ameliorate psychological internal melee
running rampant and roughshod
within me psyche
pushing self destruction
down into stairway
entering portals of hell
analogous to Earthen bowels
deep within Zimbabwe.

Whether the above sentence incidental
to feeble attempt at reasonable rhyme
so please geography buffs pardon moi
add dull less cent delinquent puns
he did cashier plus
any unintended faux paus as aspiring poet
artfully crafts elaborated gimcrackery,
albeit impious kooky mishmashed
outlandish quirky esse aitch eye tee.
KV Srikanth Apr 2021
Fans of Bruce Lee
Think they are he
Fascinated by the Speed
He is God in every deed

Fight sequences
In short frequencies
Fans in a frenzy
Cast in a spell and dizzy


Hand to hand combat
Gave action genre
A new format
Bruce in a battle
Fans minds still rattle


At his very sight
Fans go Ballistic
Nunchaku RPM
Devotees create mayhem


Talented actor for every genre
Childhood roles the cause of the honor
Full house laughing
At his incredible Comic timing

Dramatic scenes upto task
More of it audience ask
Delivery and histrionic ability
Showcased overall capability


Cat sounds during action
Fanatics made it a fashion
Vampire quality tasting blood
Every Movie house public flood


Writer Director Producer & Choreographer
Roles performed other than that of an Actor
Roles performed as an Actor
Charisma a major factor

Re released in any country
Regularly since last century
Berserk when seen on screen
Made his Stardom evergreen

There will never be
Another Bruce Lee
Inspiration for fans to see
Black market seller
His fortune not foretold
By any fortune teller

****** of his film
Like life's broken rhythm
Started after interval
For Movie buffs a carnival
Screen filled with fight fest
Kept up the fans zest

Box otffice record broken
So his art his expression
Another record for repeat audience
Since have not seen anyone

Mannerism a Euphemism
Stance like breaking
Into a dance
Shirtless fashion icon
Saratorial oxymoron

With Bruce a devotion
With total emotion
Every style copied
Even after 50 years fancied

Loosing him early
Cost us all dearly
Total of 5 films
Proof that there is no limit

Pioneer of anti bully
Captured imagination fully
Can do it in reality
Cause of enduring popularity

Akin to property
Passed along the family tree
Father to son to the next one
Enduring fame second to none

Theme about a bully
Backed by a philosophy
Earned on screen immortality
Name etched for eternity

Appeal to all
Impossible the odds
Cartoon to a kid
Action film when he is older
Philosophy to the philosopher
Universal message to every viewer

Undivided society dreamer
Caste creed or gender
Rich Poor or neither
Religion taste or further
Can be found in a theater
Playing a Bruce Lee picture
Oft times, I experience wretchedness being alive
spurring wonderment whereby thoughts
of my demise doth drive
analogous to buzzfeeding bumbling bees
combing into their hive.

Giddiness prevailed
when coronavirus (COVID-19)
warranted quarantine to diminish
transmitting pandemic virus thru the air
lifestyle change no major imposition,
cuz yours truly already familiarized
with self isolation
courtesy his social anxiety despair
schizoid personality disorder the diagnosis

nsync with loathsome
body morphology toward self
viz mental health impasse a legitimate malady
impossible mission possibly
since in utero didst impair
minimally abetted courtesy
Buffalo wing and a prayer
wishful thinking only death can relieve
some recently approaching year.

Indifference toward self sums up story
viz mindset to whit
resignation to cash in chips
at a tender age, I did submit
evidenced courtesy abysmal grades
during stint as student
kindergarten and first grade the exception
earning appellation dummkopf or nitwit
showcased apathy to access ability and excel
overshadowed courtesy powerfully pointed outlook
within his bedroom at 324 Level Road
sequestered long haired pencil neck geeky hermit
four familiar walls constituted ambit.

Refuge sought vis a vis withdrawal
from world wide web
refusing sustenance (think anorexia nervosa),
thus these lovely bones withered away
thankfully mother (a licensed practical nurse)
of course intervened without delay
belated acknowledgement
regarding maternal love hip hip hooray
enrolling expertise of Doctor Ted Goldberg
at Collegeville Community counseling
to ameliorate psychological internal melee
running rampant and roughshod within me psyche
pushing self destruction down into stairway
entering portals of hell
analogous to Earthen bowels
deep within Zimbabwe.

Whether the above sentence incidental
to feeble attempt at reasonable rhyme
so please geography buffs pardon moi
add dull less cent delinquent puns
he did cashier plus
any unintended faux paus as aspiring poet
artfully crafts elaborated gimcrackery,
albeit impious kooky mishmashed
outlandish quirky s*it.

— The End —