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Keith J Collard Jan 2013
Resident Facebook by Keith Collard

{remnants of a blood and ice coffee stained diary}


23april1996,

Been working at this mansion for at least four months now. Fellow co-workers are friendly enough. The pharmeceutical researchers are very pompous with their exact demands. Im in charge of the food storage and refridgeration for the mansion. It is the only modernly powered facet of this mansion. Besides the labs in the basement(from which I only heard).


26april1996,

This mansion is too creepy, the architect designed the living quarter and main facade of the mansion in a 1920 neo gothic fashion--with gas lamps and gothic paintings. Every device, even the typewriters in the mansion are old fashioned mechanical. A top researcher told me in casual conversation that these doors and clocks are more durable than current electronic means, built in the same fashion as the pyramids and stonehenge--he was pointing out all the clocks and engraved doors in the dining hall as he was speaking,while I was putting out the food. He's the usual eccentric for as these researchers go, he told me the company president paid him to design classical mantraps along the mansion and guardhouse to keep workers from straying, encrypted with runes and riddles as keys(some odd ducks).


2may1996,

Mansion workers were given each a laptop today by the head researcher Albert Wesker. This guy is like the James Bond of scientists, dashing and suave with a 9mm berreta at his side(wish we were allowed guns). He wears sunglasses--even at night. He said they experimented with a comunications app the scientists have been using to communicate expeiremental data. The only app available on there is something called Facebook, which the scientists call "fbproto."


5may1996,

The f.bproto is neat, we can watch movies , talk to eachother, and to workers at the pharmaceutical's sister facilities. Everything is monitored by the companies security admins Ive heard. The company will be holding raffles via f.bproto for staffers who could win a chance to participate in "beneficial lab trials" from ***** extension treatment to magnetic wave reducing therapy. Sounds unappealing to me...I put my name down on the site just in case.


6 may1996,Been talking to girl who works in sanitation department underneath the guardhouse, her name is Ada, she said there was an important goverment official flying in to the helipad today. She is pretty cute, and one bright light in this shadowy mansion. message from company, we should join democratic party on fbproto. whatever they say,they're the scientists.


10may1996,

Been stayin up too late posting on f.bproto,the company is posting alot of links, of visual images and sentences I don't quite understand. Ben from mansion cleanin services keeps hitting on Ada,I want to defriend him but want to know what he's doing. I put my cat in fbproto company pic contest,with everyone else who was given lab pets by the scientists, I put little gloves on her paws--Im sure to win.


11may1996,

Karl sent me a message on fbproto that he saw a researcher go into his room, and never saw him leave, and when he went to clean his room the researcher was not in there. This mansion is creepy, I mean a statue of a woman cutting her own throat with the inscription "only death shall set you free,"is that a little gloomy or what. fan of smiley faces on fbproto.;)


12 may 1996

man, the doors are like eight inches thick, solid wood, I locked myself out of my room and tried to shoulder the door in. Well, the door with its inlaid wood carving just laughed at me, it resembles a dragon or snake or someshit with two fern looking wings, red and blue. Spooooky stuff. I had to go get the security admin for the mansion staff living quarters. He unlocked the door, and told me that all the doors are solid oak. I asked him what the words at the bottom of serpent meant, he said it says in latin “ the two wings of the beast are red and blue.” I asked him what the hell that means, he says he didn’t know, but that it has to do with the research the scientists are doing.

I stayed up almost all night on fbproto, at first because my shoulder was killing me, but then it went away, and I kept finding myslelf with a ciqerette in my fingers all the way burnt down and my skin charred, geez, fbproto really takes your mind off things, especially this mansion which reminds me of a sepulcre. That Dan thinks he’s hot stuff, posting himself in his living quarters in the guard house, which is better than the mansion staffs. He get’s to go to the guardhouse recreation room, his profile pic is a bottle of Johnny Walker Red in it’s high end package that looks like a coffin, that him and the guards won at dart’s. It’s not hard to win that when Albert Wesker is on your team, that guy sunk three darts WilliamTell style into the bull’s eye. He tagged me in the picture of the Johnny Walker, *******.


13 may 1996

Locked myself in the walk in freezer today by accident, forgot the code….a researcher let me out finally, and asked if I was alright, I said I was fine, he just looked at me curiously. I was in there to clean out these blue vines, that kept on growing into the ducts and stuff, kept on turning the temperature down. But I won’t lie, I had my laptop with me to pass time, but after a while I couldn’t scroll down because my fingers stopped working , so I pressed the keyboard with my tongue. Ada’s pictures kept me warm, oh how I love her…..I want her so bad.


13may1996

Had a dream about the helicopter ride in and how the dense forest resembled a corpse’s face as we flew past it fast overhead. We touched down on the helipad, and there were dead bodies in the razor wire, they were shaking as if they were in a laughing frenzy from the rotor wash of the helicopter. Then as I entered the main façade (my footstep's echos on the tile seemed to walk away and disapear into the mansion)and stepped on the black and white checkered hall floor, Albert Wesker was there, and he was nicely dressed as a bartender or sumthin, and he asked if " I wanted a ****** mary," and he was squeezing a heart into the glass, then I looked down and there was a hole in my chest where my heart was supposed to be. Then there was a giant ice coffee and dancing with a mirror to moonlight sonata….****** stuff, this mansion is getting to me.


14may1996

dan is such a ****, keeps posting pics of himself shirtless, he was given some experimental hormone from a researcher and is relleshing in it It was some form of energy drink called Red Bull.

Him and Ada are talking more. Message from company to like republican party page(whatever)Daves three eyed frog won fbproto pic contest,grrrr.


15may1996,

there's been more accidents in the mansion and in the labs below. Fred from the kitchen staff cut off his fingers today,and Ive heard through Chris' post that someone fell into the live feed area where they feed animals to their experiments. Bob put his fbproto password(instead of mansioncode) into the mechanical lock at the observatory springing a trap of spikes that spiked his hand to his head and his head to the wall, the featherduster was still in his hand(or face).;(


16may1996,

the scientist with the always grave look has disapeared, the guards said he transferred,but a fellow researcher said he was fired, shame, I liked him.

There is a plant living in my radiator, keeps growing vine-like tendrils, and is turning up the heat...230 friends on f.bproto,woot woot.


17may1996,

the company is handing out promotional ice coffee that they created in the labs to staffers via f.bproto,I wasn't picked, dang,its said to give you "10x human energy and vitality".I became a fan of Backstreet Boys on f.bproto.


18may1996,

karl found a memo from the missing researcher under his bed when he was cleaning out his room, sent me a message via f.bproto,it read that the researcher concluded that the f.b proto had negative effects on living tissue, decreased brain function,increased tendencies for violence,and not worth the sublimal control contract with the goverment, and that both pre-cambrian ferns pose to much liability for a biohazard and show signs of sentience.........hmm,im up to 300 friends now.


19 may 1996,

more accidents in mansion, Albert Wesker sent message to staffers that he was just promoted to Head of Security,and that if anybody is caught leaving the premises they will be shot. I wouldn't even dare to go out in the surrounding forest, I hear the wild dogs howlin all night amid those dense woods.just became a fan of Ace of base, they are awesome.


20may 1996,

my roomate looks like a hot messs, his skin looks pale with black blotches and he has pitch black circles underneath eyes, he's been taking the labs new painkillers, man he should change his profile pic. I poked Ada.


21 may 1996

message from f.bproto, "outside guards replaced by Hunters.".....man, def would not go out there now, I fed one of those ape reptile thingy's live feed the other day( Phil went missing, I had to do his job, always doing other peoples work), and the feed for that day was a cow, and this thing just poked the cow to death with its razor claws.

Everyone of those brute raptor things have a skeleton key has their middle razor claw, a researcher said they can hear every door open and shut in the mansion, " If you see one, turn around and go out the door you came, if you enter a door your not supposed to, well....." he didn't finish what he was saying, only walked off muttering "what have I done....".....I friend requested him on fbproto, his last post was "god forgive me." His profile pic was his mansion room, with replicas of insects and a fishtank(that is rumoured to be a model of a giant one in the basement). He disapeared soon after and his fbproto was deactivated.

Joined Labville on fbproto.;)


22may1996,

message from company, the labs are combining expieramental ice coffee,painkillers,and steroids,anyone on f.bproto can partake, and we should document how we feel and what we do on fbproto multiple times a day. Took a pic of myself shirtless, can see spine coming thru skin, and I keep catching the red plant from the radiator posing in the background, or giving me bunny ears......grrrrrrrr.;(


23may1996

went to smoke a spleef on the stone balcony, near the greeen house over looking the forest the other night, they grow all kinds of red and blue marjiauna there.....but there was one of those reptile hunter things, standing guard there, blocking the path, it screamed and almost blew my eardrums out, " okey dokie" I said, and slowly backed away and left......friggin nazis these pharmaceutical people are.

I got rid of the Labville app on fbproto, that game is too hard, I keep running out of butlers to feed my experiments, and my humans keep escaping into the woods. But mostly, Im sick of seeing

Albert Wesker's name with the highest score everytime I play......



25may1996,

Ben said he saw a handfull of scientists and guards on the helipad taking a chopper out. There is more plants decorating the halls, no one knows who put them there, some rooms are blazing hot, others are ice cold. Ben said to not go to the library, everyone who went upstairs to that room has not returned, that the blue ones have took over the cobblestone path to the courtyard where the armory is. Said he saw Kevin in the tangles running up the stone wall on the side, he had a vine going in his mouth and coming out his eye; and he said that the researchers call the red ones "evaginates," for how they trap and slowly eat you(sounds ******). Im not on Ada's top friends list anymore, angry.


26may1996,

the mansion is awash in accidents and fighting, roomate looks like zombie, others look like reptilian muscled gorillaz, others just a blur they move so fast.eyes hurt from staring at f.b proto. Moaning alot. everyone is playing "I Saw the sign" from Ace of Base. Vines keep stealing my hat, and eating people.


25...,

no food, ate cat,mittens and both hearts,gas lights out, dark,everyone walking around with laptops to see,blue fbproto reflections on walls.fml.


2aprol

took chris' ice cofee and killed ben before he took steroids,lol,ate steroids,no one cooking food, getting hungry,guards came,ate em.....bullet hole in my chest......chaaange f.bproto profile pic to facee....my quote is mooohaha... just. saying


23...,

feel strong, fast,gruntin alot, hungry, no food, ate carl, ate red plant, carved him with my skeleton clah....I hate mondays was post on f.bproto,yum ice cofee.


43

oooohhhh, lol,lol, top ada friend list, ,ate benny...b.esisde armpits....he stink.....roarrrrr......oohhh....bullel wond in cheeek....see benny in thar......moving quick......hunman bones everyware....stain carpits....helicupter....mur guards......no.....pulice.....wesker is wit em....ace of base now.....bed of blud..I wit...fur em.....fbproto sez **** starssss ......


2..........rooooooahhhhh,yum, ohhhhhhh,lol,raohh.fml............[rest of transcript unintelligible]
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”
There's A Wocket In My Pocket by Dr. Seuss
betterdays May 2014
'free butlers for everybody'**

yippee!! hooray!! huzzah!!

i would so love,
somebody to follow me
around all day.
doing the mudane and
boring things,
all that daily guff.
to be at my beck and call,
for just about anything at all.

but then,
if there are 'free butlers for all'

would my, butler,
not have a bulter, of his own
to order about from,
his butler throne
and so on and so forth
and if we all had butlers.
would anything, ever,
really get done?

OR, would we all be,
passing ***** laundry
about in a neverending,  
linen chain.
drinking tepid tea from each others ***** tea cups.
polishing silver for some one other than us ...
would i end up,
being a bulter to you.

my god!  

this, idea of

'free butlers for every one.'  

is spiralling,  out of control

this  factotumnal conudrum,
is going to  drive me insane.

JEEVES ! please, please be so good
as, to bring me a calming tisane.
this, was inspired by an advertising blitz campaign for a cruise company... one of the main selling points...
was "free butlers for everybody"
got the noodle thinking and this doodle the product.
Come, let us pity those who are better off than we are.
Come, my friend, and remember
        that the rich have butlers and no friends,
And we have friends and no butlers.
Come, let us pity the married and the unmarried.

Dawn enters with little feet
        like a gilded Pavlova
And I am near my desire.
Nor has life in it aught better
Than this hour of clear coolness
        the hour of waking together.
Jack Jun 2014
~

Step into the parlor
The fires spent, still burn
Painted in the faded tint
Nightmare shades to turn

Broken slabs of conscience
Rotted to the core
Splintered in a thousand words
Never heard before

Gears abide the grinding
Slapping to the beat
Shards of incandescent lights
Flavoring the meat

Slicing as you swallow
Whispering refrains
Caught like someone else's fate
Filtered through the shame

Dressed along the hallway
Mirrors shout their fear
There among the carpet stains
Distant as is near

Gasp for all you bother
Feast that final breath
Blood shall ring the butlers call
Long beyond your death
Steve D'Beard Jun 2014
We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:

babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.

That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.

We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:

butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.

We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.
I CALL on those that call me son,
Grandson, or great-grandson,
On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,
To judge what I have done.
Have I, that put it into words,
Spoilt what old ***** have sent?
Eyes spiritualised by death can judge,
I cannot, but I am not content.
He that in Sligo at Drumcliff
Set up the old stone Cross,
That red-headed rector in County Down,
A good man on a horse,
Sandymount Corbets, that notable man
Old William pollexfen,
The smuggler Middleton, Butlers far back,
Half legendary men.
Infirm and aged I might stay
In some good company,
I who have always hated work,
Smiling at the sea,
Or demonstrate in my own life
What Robert Browning meant
By an old hunter talking with Gods;
But I am not content.
Martin Narrod Mar 2014
I used to think that all of them were just bodies. She-figures, they came and went, facilitating infinite happiness and following with hellacious heartbreak, aorta explosions galore. They pass. I stay. She goes. I remain. We all take a trip, but she falls asleep while I follow the road, I sing the song, make the lyrics up as the 101 heads West, and I careen against the Pacific. I see silvery-white plumes of whale breaths spouting, they break the rocks of my rock and roll. When the levee breaks, we'll have no place to go- I'm going back to Chicago.

California. Line 5. Verse 1. She is born in Arkansas, in Denver, in New York City, in the back of a taxi cab, her parents waiting for a table at Earth Cafe, 1989. There are concerts, balconies, elevator shafts, and on benches. The gain rises, the volume up and up and up, I offer her a cigarette, I ask her if she likes my dress, I show up with two palms full of a flame, and I say hello. Browsing in high-definition, the water is warm, my feet are planted and I have everywhere to go. Classical emporium of light fill me with ease, greatness, and belief. She asks me if I'm gay. Every great confusion can be proven to be fortuitous with enough time on hand. I kiss in cars, in bathrooms, and barrooms, in hallways, on staircases, on beds, church steps, and legs. I touched a leg, ran my fingers through her hair, my thumbs curved to the height of two ears alongside a size B head. I love art *****. i burn candles, and I swirl the wax around until the walls wear masks of white. I check-in to a hotel. I stop to buy wild flowers on the side of the road, or to climb down a ravine, we open a page into an enormous patch of strawberries, wind-surfers, and the golden Palo Alto beaches. I am in Bronzeville, on my way to Bridgeport, I am riding the train, browsing magazines, and singing new songs in my head. My lips are wet with excitement and the musings of the Modern Art Museum and the gift of a first kiss; behind the statue on Balcony 2, near the drinking fountain, the Eames couch, and two lips meeting anew. Bravery in twos.

Chapter 1, Verse 2. The chorus is large and exciting. New plastic shining coats. Smocks patterned with the Random House children's stories that we played with as children. We didn't wear gloves, or hats, or pants, or our hearts on our sleeves. I was up to my knees in hormones and very persuasive. My fifth birthday was at the Nature Center, you chased me into the boys' bathroom and kissed me with your wet and four year old lips in the second stall from the door. I eased up maybe 2% since then. The speakers are a little bit fuzzy, it's like listening to the spit of someone's tongue cascade the roof of their mouth while they pronounce the British consonants of the 90s. Said and done and saving space.

I am saving up for Grace. A crush in the mid 2000s, black hair, long legs, and the only brunette for a decade before or after. We played doctor, with the electric scalpel we turned our noses red with Christmas time South American powders. A safe word for an enemy, the sun for an enemy too. You bolted out and took my early Jimi Hendrix Best Of compact disc case too. While we're at it, you took my Michael Jackson cassettes as well. I go mid-range, think Kiri Te Kanawa in the whispers of E.T.'s Elliot. Stuffed-animal closet party for seven minutes in heaven. Your family came with butlers while mine came with over-educated storage. A blue borage sky in the intestines of life, a splinter in the shanty-town of invincible daily struggles- both of us were born again in O'Hare Airport's Parking Level D. Too many nonsensical arguments in two-tone grayscale ripping open the packaging of a course about trysting in your twenties.

Your stomach's history is overpowering. It is temperamental, mettled by spirits and sleepless nights, borborygmus, wambles, and shades of nervousness you were never comfortable speaking openly about. The history of your ****** was privatized, in options and unedited films shot over and over candidly by a mini DV desk camera, nine months to read you wrong to weep in strong wintry walks back and forth from The Buckingham to the Dwight Lofts, Room 408 without a view. All of your secrets in a little miniature of a notebook, bright cerise red. You captured teardrops in medicinal jars meant for syringes. You tied strings to your fingers, named your field mouse Ginger, and introduced your mother as Lady Darling. Captain with stingray skin, the hide of Ferris Bueller with the coattails of James Bond, dusted with daisy pollen, and clearly weakness. You ate me like bitter herbs on Thursdays, and like every other woman I've ever met, on Tuesdays you always kept me waiting.

I have wings for everything. Yellow wings for a woman in a yellow dress, Red, White, and Green wings for Bernice from Mexico City, Purple wings for  Mrs. Doolittle the doctor who worked at Taco Bell, the Jamaican priestess who was traveling through Venice Italy- we smoked hash with the grandchild of James Joyce on the Northern pier against the aurulent statues of Apollo and Zeus, Cupids' collection of malevolent tricks, SleepingB Beauty's rebuttal in fending off GHB attackers, my two dear friends who were kidnapped in clothes, abandoned in the ****, and only remember eating chocolate donuts with sprinkles and the bruises and dirt on the insides of their thighs. Nothing clever. Nothing extraordinary. Everything sentimental, built to withstand soot, sourness, and early female bravado.

You know how to play the piano so you've said, but i only have the CD you gave me to prove it. I do have evidence of your addiction to men and *******. I have your collection of dresses with tags still on them (but every woman has some of those), there is the post office box in Kauai, the Halloween card from last November and the two videos I have stored on an external drive in a nightstand adjacent to the foot of my bed. You sleep atrociously, talk too quickly, and **** like your father abandoned you when you were five. Your talent for taking photographs is like your skill-set for playing the piano, but I don't have the CD to prove it. You don't believe in social media, social consistency, friendships, or hephalumps and woozels- with the exception of the classes we shared together in college, I've never seen you outside of the most glamorous of fashion. You hate flats, hats, and white wine, and for as sad as you can seem to be at times, I've only had you cry on me once. While we were on the phone, three days after your mother hung herself. That's when I last left California, and I haven't been back yet.

I love a Kristine, but once a Britni, a Brandi, a Joni, a Tina, Kristina, Kirsten, Kristen, and a Katherine and Kathryn too. I know rock stars who are my dearest friends, enemies who I share excellent taste in music with, and parents who've always had my back but show it in lashings of the tongue and of the belt. It's been two years and three states since I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I've never considered the possibility that I was the main character and not the supporting actor, but due to recent developments in antipathy and aesthete, reevaluation, and retrospective nostalgia. All of this is about to change.

I am me still evolving without my usually stolid and grim ****** features. i bare brevity to situations existing that would **** most or in the least paralyze a great many. There is one for every hour of every day, and one for every minute in every hour, second in every minute, and more than the minutes in every day. No one has a second chance, shares a different time, or works off a different clock. I have been called the master of the analog, king of the codependent, and rook to queenside knight. I share a parabola for every encounter, experience, and endeavor. I am three minutes from being a cadaver, one drink away from a drunk, and one thought away from being completely alone. I think upright, i sleep horizontally, and I love infinitely. I am the only finite constant i have ever known. I am the main character, the script, satire, sarcasm, and soundtrack are mine.

"I don’t care if you believe it. That’s the kind of house I live in. And I hope we never leave it.”
*There's A Wocket In My Pocket by Dr. Seuss
Just beyond the black iron fence
a haze settles on a parking lot
lit with the ghastly orange glow
of the old street lamps that
tower like rusted butlers.

I crack my window
and billow a gray cloud
that swirls amongst a
***** mist.

The butlers’ bulbs buzz mechanically.
The fog grows thicker.
Amidst it the parking meters
take shape of  metal tombstones,
pale in the darkness
beyond the glow.

I wonder how they died—
they beneath the tombstones.
This place—this city, have you—
boils to the brim with people,
with so many recipes for tragedy;
it’s no wonder they put tombstones
in parking lots.
Madelin Mar 2013
First, if I am comatose for a while pre-death, don't let them call me a fighter.
I'm probably not fighting it.
It's probably the first time I've been able to relax in a decade.

Second, keep my death off the internet.
Tell my friends of my demise with handwritten notes delivered by white-gloved butlers with somber expressions.
Tell my enemies by sitting on their chests and poking them in the forehead repeatedly until they guess how it happened. It shouldn't take long.

Third, my friends from high school will immediately try to design stickers for their car windows with my name on them and a graphic of dance shoes or track shoes or my college mascot.
You are not to allow this.
A sticker denoting the death of a loved one will not keep fellow motorists from noticing that my friends from high school **** at driving.

Not permitted at the funeral:
Gerber daisies
poetry
blue jeans
any ex-boyfriend I refer to by something other than their name (i.e. "the fat hipster I used to hang out with.")

Encouraged at the funeral:
Hugs - everyone must hug
lots of appropriately sad, yet tasteful songs sung by my musically-minded loved ones (may I suggest "In Light of Time" by Phillip E. Silvey?)
And make sure they bury me in the blue dress.

Last, for every story they tell about me where I was kind or selfless or funny or caring,
make sure someone also tells the story where I got too drunk at a frat house and made out with a kid from upstate New York and then spent four hours passed out and/or puking on the floor of the communal bathroom in Ashley's building,
or the one where I punched Savannah in third grade,
or the one where I rolled a car for no particular reason.

Remember me as I was.
We are taught that we inhibit a sphere
Earth is a triangle, that is a point I would like to clear
Triple 6s attached with zeros govern the prism's corners
Infiltrating the angles we base our views on, they program us
Masters to butlers, the barcodes on our foreheads put a price on us
Never the less, Try an angle

I bet they'll confess, we are equal
Amongst other 'triangle' stories, I'd like to tell my own
Of a man's soul with a triangle embedded,chiseled like statue stone
I see that soul within us all
Culminating to reach apex by parallel lines that can let you slip and fall
And with every fall the try angle's base stretches and widens

I remember looking at a perspective drawing titled 'Life is a journey'
Shaped like a triangle was the everyday boulevard traveled by many
At the start of life, objects were big, bright and colourful
Far into life, objects become small, dull but meaningful
Never the less, a triangle has 3 sides to it
Listen! My stanzas confess and guarantee to it.
Sedraya Fletcher May 2015
I have spent many years sheltered by love
Shielded from the world’s villainous beings
Beyond blessed to live a life undreamt-of
Your hands guided mine through ev’ry teaching
Unknown that greed and hatred lingered near
and that money took a devilish form.
All I knew was to put the silver spoon here,
to rise with the sun, butlers by the swarm
You told lies- hid me from reality
The sight of such a place scorches my heart
The devil struts the streets safe from chivalry
Children go unnoticed- lost in the dark
What happened to God? Where are the Angels?
All you told me has put me in danger
Thomas Newlove Mar 2017
As dreamers we are oft to make-believe,
Escaping the banality of time,
Stories of noble royals that we weave
Into the fabric of this very rhyme:

For we three do descend from kings of old
And queens who conquered all of their domain
And live our royal lives burdened with gold
And bound to royal living we remain.

Royal maidens of Portugal and France
With butlers who they keep in line with whips.
While one insists they entertain with dance
The other one decrees "Let them eat chips!"

I just observe, dream, and write what cannot be
Who says Punto's can't belong to royalty?
11/01/2017
aurora kastanias Oct 2017
I was born in a city and time where and when
things were described by their name in the name
of realism and truth, uncoloured nouns of honesty
depicting society as it was fearing nothing
while no one took offence, as none was intended

in the atmosphere of autocriticism and self-
deprecating humour. In the countryside village
peasants called my father the Greek, as there were
no aliens other than us and the English man
who lived down the valley. Black skins

only existed on TV, and Africa was far more distant
than maps ever suggested. Our Ghanaian origins
were a mesmerising fable to the curious ears
of those willing to imagine exotic airs, indefinite
populations they had never seen. Italians

were used to migrate abroad in search of dreams,
though no one came to dream in Rome until, they did.
First strange faces appeared for myths to become
realities integrating slowly fast-forwarding thirty years
to see, Filipinos housekeepers, cheaper butlers,

Rumanians and Moldavians caregivers to our elders,
Chinese empires beginning with restaurants and shops,
Selling almost anything one could ever think of affordable
to all, now expanding to own bars creating jobs,
employers of impoverished locals and new arrivals.

Bangladeshis taking over once-was Italian grocery cash
and carries working hard, a 24/7 policy just for some.
Those who don’t are found selling umbrellas on the road
a minute before the storm, or taking polaroid pictures
of tourists at night when the gypsies come out

of nomad camps to sell, unscented roses to lovers
unnaturally blue for the day is reserved, to picking
pockets on public transports everybody knows,
signs are put up for those who don’t. Lebanese
hairdressers hiring young Italian girls, eat in Turkish

kebab fast-foods buying halal ingredients in Iraqi stores.
Only blacks in Rome own nothing but their shoes
and reputation. Those from North African countries often deal
on sidewalks for drug addicts playing instruments
sitting next to dogs on Tiber bridges as they beg

for one more dose. Though Egyptians mainly deal
with chefs, closed in restaurant kitchens learning
pizza-making skills, while Pakistanis make excellent
dishwashers. Turning back to blacks Nigerians,
Senegalese, Malians and many more improvise

themselves as clandestine street vendors
of jewels and fake bags, the latter secretly supplied
by Italian mafia-like wannabes. Often spotted running
away from police, packing goods in white sheets, held
on their backs as they flee, leaving fallen merchandise

behind them. Finally some remain unseen, straight
from heart of darkness and surroundings they stay
strictly on TV, passing from satiric sketches of the past
to NGO adverts crying out, for help against famine,
poverty and sickness, calling for action two euros a day

via sms to keep, consciousness clean, as we close
our eyes not to see, pretend we do not know, hiding
behind words we call, politically correct not to face, take
distance from reality and truth, disguise inconvenience
and uncomfort with ridiculously embellished, jargon.

Some exceptions obviously exist, as many manage
to live outside the box, though alas and do not blame me
for speaking the truth, they remain to date exceptions
dear to my heart, as are all the characters of this portrait,
scattered pieces of humanity, pieces of me.
On political correctness
Hal Loyd Denton Oct 2012
The mystery of you flows in white did I draw you from chilly waters and you were
Reborn to me if the colors speak that are showing you in finest light are true the perfect blending of
Flowers in profusion that contour to your essential frame do you not form the center of a spraying sprig
Of unequal quality as in life woman divides herself between wife mother and daughter I choose to
Further divide her into honor for a brief moment speak of dishonor men can at their low point can do
This with ease and apparent arrogance I’m not an old fashioned relic of the past others speak these same
Words you shouldn’t use fowl language in the presence of a lady not all of us are accustomed to
Chauffeurs and butlers but you still can be a gentleman you can esteem the greatest gift God ever
Created man is sadly knot headed it takes a woman with deftness and grace to loosen the knots on with
Her honor the great place for this discovery is in an ancient temple a woman is a rare individual sadly
Bought and sold way too cheaply by both sexes one under fire and constantly having to defend her
Worth and at times they succumb to the lie that they are not as good as men well look in on this scene
Deep in the jungle heavy with undergrowth indicative of life you stumble on this rare find as can be
Imagined it leaves a lot to be desired time has broken outer walls the outer court lies in disarray and
Then the inner sanctum built to hold off the ravages of time some things remain as they always have
Others for one reason or another have suffered and show wear but near the altar over to the side one
Last help is giving for you to condition your mind to give up the occupying thoughts that would bar you
From your true blessing that all this was created to provide first you hear the gentle cascading of a water
Fall for long periods of time the sun strikes squarely in the middle and to add eloquence and boldness
The water receives this assistance the ancients were greatly versed in paints of extraordinary
Pigmentation and of lasting durability they coated the solid rock with a green that was sheer and
Imitated the glory of sun in the waves of the sea they sought to have it breathtaking and they succeeded
And as the center piece they had a statue of a woman of striking qualities was she a goddess or a high
Priestess she was adorned in white her dramatic pose flowed out to the end of her gown there is a
Depicted statement captured here she holds a pitcher it is full and the tint of blue shows this and the
Idea is she just drew it from the pool and is offering it to all of the strangers that come and are thirsty
In this solitary fact women are observed so acutely as stated sometimes women pressed and crowded
Feels the need to be showy or go overboard to please that is the farthest she can go in error her beauty
And privilege is derived from the tenderness she possesses just small acts that denote mercy carry more
Weight than ever can be found in outer attempts to be **** or alluring that is for private times that
Understanding and love combine to give a flourishing it goes the distance to bring the final completion
You wear a garland a crowning a defining moment that only women can know celebrate who you are
PJ Poesy Apr 2016
Dragona Radic hated her name for as long as she could remember. So obviously different than the Mary Butlers, and Ginny Gormans she grew up with in Flavor Town. Even Myrtle Feinstein seemed to be given a more applicable name to live in Flavor Town to Dragona’s mindset. Life was hard for Dragona in Flavor Town. Especially, when at twelve she began to grow a moustache. Living in Flavor Town wasn’t easy for anyone really, but to Dragona it was shear torture. Susie Choo became her best friend for more reasons of default than likeability. Being the only other girl with as much a non-conformable name as Dragona, Susie Choo’s distaste for her was equal. Still, Dragona Radic and Susie Choo formed an alliance, for what else were they to do living in Flavor Town. Flavor Town was a brand of the most delightful 56 flavors of ice-cream ever made, as well as the name of their hometown. You would think in Flavor Town diversity would be celebrated as much as variety. This sadly was not so. In America, you can find all 56 flavors of Flavor Town’s delectable frozen concoctions at any Buck Shops Here grocery outlets. Yet, little may you know of the atrocities occurring in Flavor Town, and what Dragona Radic and Susie Choo were about to do about it?
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Who You Are

The mystery of you flows in white did I draw you from chilly waters and you were
Reborn to me if the colors speak that are showing you in finest light are true the perfect blending of
Flowers in profusion that contour to your essential frame do you not form the center of a spraying sprig
Of unequal quality as in life woman divides herself between wife mother and daughter I choose to
Further divide her into honor for a brief moment speak of dishonor men can at their low point can do
This with ease and apparent arrogance I’m not an old fashioned relic of the past others speak these same
Words you shouldn’t use fowl language in the presence of a lady not all of us are accustomed to
Chauffeurs and butlers but you still can be a gentleman you can esteem the greatest gift God ever
Created man is sadly knot headed it takes a woman with deftness and grace to loosen the knots on with
Her honor the great place for this discovery is in an ancient temple a woman is a rare individual sadly
Bought and sold way too cheaply by both sexes one under fire and constantly having to defend her
Worth and at times they succumb to the lie that they are not as good as men well look in on this scene
Deep in the jungle heavy with undergrowth indicative of life you stumble on this rare find as can be
Imagined it leaves a lot to be desired time has broken outer walls the outer court lies in disarray and
Then the inner sanctum built to hold off the ravages of time some things remain as they always have
Others for one reason or another have suffered and show wear but near the altar over to the side one
Last help is giving for you to condition your mind to give up the occupying thoughts that would bar you
From your true blessing that all this was created to provide first you hear the gentle cascading of a water
Fall for long periods of time the sun strikes squarely in the middle and to add eloquence and boldness
The water receives this assistance the ancients were greatly versed in paints of extraordinary
Pigmentation and of lasting durability they coated the solid rock with a green that was sheer and
Imitated the glory of sun in the waves of the sea they sought to have it breathtaking and they succeeded
And as the center piece they had a statue of a woman of striking qualities was she a goddess or a high
Priestess she was adorned in white her dramatic pose flowed out to the end of her gown there is a
Depicted statement captured here she holds a pitcher it is full and the tint of blue shows this and the
Idea is she just drew it from the pool and is offering it to all of the strangers that come and are thirsty
In this solitary fact women are observed so acutely as stated sometimes women pressed and crowded
Feels the need to be showy or go overboard to please that is the farthest she can go in error her beauty
And privilege is derived from the tenderness she possesses just small acts that denote mercy carry more
Weight than ever can be found in outer attempts to be **** or alluring that is for private times that
Understanding and love combine to give a flourishing it goes the distance to bring the final completion
You wear a garland a crowing a defining moment that only women can know celebrate who you are
Hal Loyd Denton Dec 2012
The mystery of you flows in white did I draw you from chilly waters and you were
Reborn to me if the colors speak that are showing you in finest light are true the perfect blending of
Flowers in profusion that contour to your essential frame do you not form the center of a spraying sprig
Of unequal quality as in life woman divides herself between wife mother and daughter I choose to
Further divide her into honor for a brief moment speak of dishonor men can at their low point can do
This with ease and apparent arrogance I’m not an old fashioned relic of the past others speak these same
Words you shouldn’t use fowl language in the presence of a lady not all of us are accustomed to
Chauffeurs and butlers but you still can be a gentleman you can esteem the greatest gift God ever
Created man is sadly knot headed it takes a woman with deftness and grace to loosen the knots on with
Her honor the great place for this discovery is in an ancient temple a woman is a rare individual sadly
Bought and sold way too cheaply by both sexes one under fire and constantly having to defend her
Worth and at times they succumb to the lie that they are not as good as men well look in on this scene
Deep in the jungle heavy with undergrowth indicative of life you stumble on this rare find as can be
Imagined it leaves a lot to be desired time has broken outer walls the outer court lies in disarray and
Then the inner sanctum built to hold off the ravages of time some things remain as they always have
Others for one reason or another have suffered and show wear but near the altar over to the side one
Last help is giving for you to condition your mind to give up the occupying thoughts that would bar you
From your true blessing that all this was created to provide first you hear the gentle cascading of a water
Fall for long periods of time the sun strikes squarely in the middle and to add eloquence and boldness
The water receives this assistance the ancients were greatly versed in paints of extraordinary
Pigmentation and of lasting durability they coated the solid rock with a green that was sheer and
Imitated the glory of sun in the waves of the sea they sought to have it breathtaking and they succeeded
And as the center piece they had a statue of a woman of striking qualities was she a goddess or a high
Priestess she was adorned in white her dramatic pose flowed out to the end of her gown there is a
Depicted statement captured here she holds a pitcher it is full and the tint of blue shows this and the
Idea is she just drew it from the pool and is offering it to all of the strangers that come and are thirsty
In this solitary fact women are observed so acutely as stated sometimes women pressed and crowded
Feels the need to be showy or go overboard to please that is the farthest she can go in error her beauty
And privilege is derived from the tenderness she possesses just small acts that denote mercy carry more
Weight than ever can be found in outer attempts to be **** or alluring that is for private times that
Understanding and love combine to give a flourishing it goes the distance to bring the final completion
You wear a garland a crowning a defining moment that only women can know celebrate who you are
Mike Hauser Jun 2015
Old McDonald had a farm
I visited one fine day
Coerced the animals into my van
Then quickly drove away

Drove them all back to my house
To be Butlers and Maids
Now doesn't that sound much better
Than domesticated animal slaves

Feeling so good about myself
I should have done this years ago
Not realizing you can take the animal out of the farm
And that I was about to eat some crow

Cause the Cows broke more dishes than they cleaned
The Pigs were nothing but a mess
I asked the Sheep to sweep but all they did was bleat
Never understanding a single word I said

The Chickens grits were always lumpy
And they wouldn't dare fry an egg
No matter how hard it is I tried
I couldn't get breakfast through their heads

The Horse's dusting job was a disaster
Tails sweeping everything on the floor
From picture frames to books and lamp shades
Knowing I couldn't handle this anymore

I packed them all back into the van
But not to set them run wild loose
There was a certain giggling madness to my plan
As I pulled up late night to the Zoo

Let's call it a little midnight finagle  
A semi slight of hand
It wasn't like I was stealing
More like a trade or a transplant

I left behind all those worthless farm animals
Since no one was considerate enough to warn me
I'm sure the Zoo keepers will be mighty surprised
When they arrive in the morning

And find roaming in all the cages
Old McDonald's farm animals, no thank you very much
While I'm at home with the Lions mowing the lawn
And the Penguins gladly making me lunch

The Giraffes out back trimming the tall shrubs that I have
With the Rhinos washing both the cars
It's only been a day but believe me when I say
This is much better by far

I think here a valuable lesson was learned
Far be it for me to do name dropping
But if your ever out and about needing help at the house
Do yourself a favor and start off with Zoo shopping
kylie formella Mar 2016
woman found
stabbed in the neck on butlers lane
but she wasn't a woman
she only breathed 18 years
of breath
and she only got to have 18 years
worth of smiles
laughs, tears,
aches, pains,
her future was stolen by envy
Mike Hauser Jun 2015
At St John's church in the year of 1843
The priest Father O'Day couldn't rise off of his knees
The congregation did attempt to stand the man upright
Yet he'd not be relieved of this his stuck plight

Some in the congregation checked out in the back
Hoping against all hope that it wasn't that
But the sacramental wine was filled up to the brim
Which had them wonder further as to what was wrong with him

Like the sculpture of Mary Magdalene his position was set
Of the rigid state he'd never ever forget
All the alter boys offered prayers for a solution
Being quite disturbed by O'Day's poor kneeling elocution

Was this a trance or was he deep in prayer
Given over to the circumstance did it really matter
They called up Mother Superior to ask of her advice
As it was fish Friday, she said some other time

From out of the fathers prayer book a letter it did drop
The contents in it was not news that he could readily cop
A decrease in his annual stipend had on this day been proposed
On reading about it his knees quickly became indisposed

As he wondered how he would pay for his chalet in France
Or the expensive clothes he liked to wear to the local dance
Along with his butlers and half a dozen maids
In all of his high living never once did he think to save

A litany of poor monetary decisions had brought O'Day to his knees
No divine intervention would undo his futile freeze
Coveting the high-life on a paltry priestly wage
Would awaken him to a lesson of that more like a sage

Instead of falling into all man's sinful desires
He should have first consulted with his Higher Power
We all see it so plainly there's not much you can say
Except another valuable lesson learned from Father O'day
Another fun time to be had with Elizabeth! Thank you my dear for including me in on so many of your literary adventures!
jeffrey conyers Dec 2013
We've been maids.
We've been butlers.
We've been porters.
We also been called some of the very best lovers.
That's us.

We've been called this.
We've been called that.
We've been called many things.
That's us.

Until you tag us with the wrong slogan of words.

We've been preacher.
We've been teacher.
We've been part of legislatures.
That's us.

We have partake in various military wars.
Without credit sometimes been afforded to us.
We've been judged.
We've been slaves.
We've been taught several trades.
And fought many struggles along the way.
That's us.

To us , there's so much more.
Somethings, we never thought was possible.
Filomena May 2022
A tasty pastry baked by pain
Is made with bakers' stolen grain
But maids and butlers go insane
To take the tasty, not the plain
Thomas Newlove Mar 2022
The bombs fall over Kiev.
Silence! Snow ashes.
Uncomfortable muzzle as it
Settles on Moscow.

The bombs fall over Kiev.

Clanking, chewing the fat.
Bumbling Boris huffs and puffs
As he fingers his ear and fumbles
His pants out of his mouth crack.

The bombs fall over Kiev.

Babies cry, smothered by fear.
Old Joe struggles to forsake his afternoon nap,
While old “Mac” Donald continues to quack and be a quack.
Fittingly synonymous with a sharp burst of wind.

The bombs fall over Kiev.

And yet the skies are silent.
The West whip out their dic-Boom-Boom-tionaries
And stumble and grumble over the worth of human life.
They danced this dance quite recently,
But there’s always room for cha-cha-cha
And grinding out a lower price.
The clock ticks louder – BOOM, BOOM BOOM,
But only for the powerless.

And the bombs fall over Kiev.

Pow! Bang! Bang! That small, old man
In his big red house plays with his toy soldiers,
And his toy towns,
And doesn’t half throw it all out of the pram.
Butlers and maids scramble
To make sense of the nonsense
And the egg on their faces just for you.
Incoherent ramblings of a paltry rich fool.
And yet that’s the sound of the world flying by,
The sound of the world’s greatest tool:
The grasping hands of paltry rich fools.

And the bombs fall over Kiev.
And Palestine. And Yemen.
And the dinosaurs still make a mean cocktail.
And it’s all so ****** predictable.

Exasperated gasps…
The rest of us just look goggle-eyed,
And hashtag flags, and thoughts and prayers,
And throw our paltry money wondering when
It all became so helpless, and why
We still pay for the merry-go-round
When it’s so completely broken.
We scramble to put back our fallen teeth
And kick our brothers to the curb for shelter
Under a wet, cardboard box –
(If you fold it over it provides more cover from the rain,
But the benefit of boxes, of course,
Is that they can completely fit over your head.
The noise is easier to drown out in the dark.)

And the bombs still fall over Kiev.
In broken hospitals and apartment blocks
And schools and churches
Hearts thunder,
And brave Ukrainians hear the noise
And the silence.
There's a face in the clouds
and it is poking
its tongue out at me,
cheeky blighter,
I ought to write a
poem about that.

Saturday and the butler
has the day off
which is a bit off
if you ask me,

I expect butlers go
to church on Sunday
and they'll be wanting that off too,
well, they can naff off,
I can't do all the work around here.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
i could swear these protesters are moving in the wrong direct, there is no freeing of the body, there is only the freeing of the mind... and the freedom of the mind doesn't reside with politicians, they're already slaves to lies... can i say: d'uh? can i? can i? politicians are slaves: and let me tell you, if you think keeping tax return is hard... try keeping a lie(s): unless your tsar poker faced judo kgb something or other... he gets blessings from a 90 year old pensioner, in some wooden village in siberia, for having raised her pension interest... **** me... a saint! o.k., so you're trying to get to these people, what are you against? police, tear gas, etc. - i said! you're moving in the wrong direction! but no it's like: you wouldn't hit a wimpy kid, or a guy with glasses, would you?*

truth be told, i don't despise
the wealth of rich people,
nope, i'll have none of it,
careful planning,
and hard work went into
their endeavours - anyway:
who'd want to 20 toilets
in a house with its own
home cinema and a pool table...
when was the last time
they people actually went
into a bar?
              or met anyone
outside their butlers?
friends for money -
              i never understood
it, but fair enough...
    just imagine me:
green t-shirt, brown shorts,
no underwear,
     sandals...
    backpack...
   a monkish belt -
            a hobgoblin ruby
beer (what a beu!)
    in one hand, and a cigarette
in the other:
twelve year old girls
with cherry bums:
  god, when will the pear drop...
walking in pyjamas from
pizza-hut to their house
and then back again...
  after all, friday nights
               are for sleep-overs...
but
what i really do despise?
        middle-class opinions,
esp. opinions by the established
class of pompous journalists;
  i revile them more than
politicians...
   and what's stopping you
trashing the strongholds?
     ah, but then it wouldn't be
anarchy... no en masse
against the corporate mass...
obviously some poor *******
will have to fix a new window
in the shop...
    the people who these protesters
are "supposedly" defending
can't seem to see the always
obvious enemy: the middle-men,
in terms of politics?
   in england i can name them...
they write opinion articles
   after the actual news
  is given the hush...
   take the restaurant critic, for example...
  or the wine critic,
  or the critic of books, or music
albums?
           who's protecting them?
  you see riot police standing outside
their houses? no!
    are these the days when he can be honest
about the maxim: the pen is mightier
than the sword?
                    not when the pen is a limp ****'s
worth of opinion you can share
in private with someone you love...
    as we once used to do...
            a pen's a pen, a sword's a sword...
storming the bastille days are other,
as are the days of trashing the palace of
versailles...
         the whole christian movement
began 2000 years ago is making a *******
u-turn...
                what's next is the burning of
                      the alexandrian library...
and petty journalism has brought us here.
kirk Aug 2017
the farmer always smells
he's always drinking bells
hi ** the derelict
the farmer always smells

the farmer ****** his wife
it was the **** of his life
hi ** the ***** ****
the farmer ****** his wife

the wife ****** the help
she made the butler yelp
hi ** it must be good
the wife ****** the help

the butler shagged the nurse
it was the butlers curse
hi ** the nurse was old
the butler ****** the nurse

the nurse shagged the horse
he had a big **** of course
hi ** her **** was wide
the nurse shagged the horse

the horse it had the cow
I'm not quite sure how
hi ** nice udders
the horse had a cow

the cow it had the dog
it was a real hard slog
hi ** the stupid cow
the cow had the dog

the dog ******* the cat
it had a tiny ****
hi ** the ***** was nice
the dog ******* the cat

the cat ******* the mouse
it ran inside the house
hi ** the mouse was ******
the cat ******* the mouse

the mouse was covered in cheese
out of the cat it was a squeeze
hi ** all ****** on
the mouse was covered in cheese

the cheese was on their *****
that stuff really sticks
hi ** everyone was spunked
the cheese was on their *****
jeffrey conyers Jun 2018
We feel for the migrant Latinos families placed in Trump's visionary camp.
But for many African Americans that know their true history.

We have always been the least people in society.

It wasn't lost on the facts that racism played a part.

Hollywood, holds some responsibility for perpetrating it too.
And it been done by whites and yes, some Jews over the year.
Plus, some African-Americans too.

We know the back door entrance.
We know the discriminative water fountain.
We have been the maids, the butlers, and hosts of more.

Seen some of the greatest musicians cheated by scoundrel that became millionaires.
While many blacks suffered being broke.

But through all the "crap" we have faced as a race.
We the proudest example to this day.

No hiding behind mommy and daddy when trouble comes.
Told face your punishment which some can't handle honesty.

Well, the least respected people can confirm with "truth".
We are not going nowhere!
They'll tell you that you don't have a clue,
but you know what they're doing and what
they're doing to you,
who do they think that they are?

Posh toffs or ***** twots?
dripfed by nannies,
seldom leaving their cots,
getting dressed by their butlers
who then butter their toast,
coasting through life as if they're
the most in this life that anyone could be,

but they're not fooling me,
don't let them fool you into
thinking it's you that doesn't
have a clue

Or it'll be
Eton or Harrow
never
Toxteth or Jarrow
that gets the icing on
the cake.
The pupils
contract or dilate
and that depends on what
kind of a state you're in,

we become eyes
pinned,
locked into
to look back through
and we do
depending on who we are.

Other pupils sit in geometry,
geography or chemistry and
laugh at me for being weird.

At Eton
pupils are Masters
to Butlers
even weirder.
jeffrey conyers Aug 2022
Happy, without.
Well, I might not be where I want to be.
But eventually, we get there.

Those that have.
Seem so much sad.
That wealth didn't make them happy.

But without much.
We appear to be happier.


No rich cars outside the house.
No maids or butlers to keep up the house.
But when we look around?
We can say we are so blessed.
Bob B Aug 2023
A wealthy merchant lived in a house,
No, in a mansion on many acres.
He had scores of servants to help him,
Along with drivers, butlers, and bakers.

The mansion itself wasn't the safest
Place in which to live, for it
Had dangers lurking about, and many
Would say that to live in, it was unfit.

The building had only ONE entrance,
Which meant that people could be in a scrape
In case an emergency arose
And all the occupants had to escape.

One day indeed a fire broke out.
The wealthy merchant was petrified.
Although his staff all left the building,
His children continued to play inside.

"Children, run out quickly!" he yelled.
"You'll die if you don't listen to me."
Ignoring him, his children kept playing,
What would it take for them to flee?

Then the father had an idea,
Even though it wasn't true.
"Children, leave the house right now.
I have some carts that are waiting for you.

"Some are pulled by goats, while some
Are pulled by deer or oxen," he said.
"Stop playing inside. Come out
And play with these gorgeous carts instead."

The children, excited, pushed their way
Out of the house, escaping the fire.
Outside, the promised carts were not
To be seen. So, was the father a liar?

In the meantime, the father was having
The most incredible carts created
Ever seen by anyone.
The eager kids stood by and waited.

Beautiful beyond belief,
The carts were covered with gems and flowers.
Pure white oxen pulled them around.
The kids delighted in them for hours.

If the father hadn't thought fast,
The fate of his children could have been grim.
The gift he gave them exceeded his promise.
Their safety was what was important to him.

Our great house is burning, too.
If benefits of leaving seem small,
By heeding the words of the experts, we'll find
A greater gift awaiting us all.

-by Bob B (8-16-23)

°From THE LOTUS SUTRA
sandra wyllie Aug 2019
Celebrity
Star on the walk
Talk of the town
Spread in the magazines
Money Galore
Parties
Traveling
Mansions
Maids & Butlers
Glory
Paparazzi
Tabloids
Stalkers
Bodyguards
High walls
Electric fences
Small talk
Drugs & Alcohol
Loneliness
Nonentity

— The End —