"buyers" poems
“Being a farmer is like being a priest;
you take a vow of poverty
and make a pact with the Lord
that no typhoon will come
and destroy your crops.”
In the rise of sedentary human civilization,
The nation’s agriculture
Became the key expansion.
Its history dates back thousands of years,
With its development,
Has been driven and defined –
By different climates, cultures, and technologies.
The Filipino farmers:
Are they now a dying breed?
Numbers of small farms has dwindled,
With workers opting for city life.
But this trend could exacerbate food insecurity!
Yes, in an import-dependent country –
Already struggling to meet current food demand.
In the face of growing losses,
And from volatile weather,
To new-fangled farming tech,
Limited education makes them less receptive.
What took such toll on the agricultural sector?
Maybe the farmer themselves,
The investors, the buyers – maybe.
Now, it’s due to the government policies,
Our programs are good, yet so weak.
There’s excessive reliance on agricultural imports,
And corruption on the upper level.
Compounding the problem
Is a younger generation –
Largely, leaving rural areas nationwide,
And depleting the pool of potential agricultural workers.
They say it’s too late to do something;
But the mind-set of the younger generation
Still we can change
And make farming appealing once again.
(9/8/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
Rodin: My love, I am on my knees facing your beautiful body. My mouth is drinking your fire. I ***** us in stone. We are indissoluble.
Camille: I am heaven and hell. I am goddess and fire. You are my chauvinistic art-boy concubine.
Rodin: My dear Camille, can you not see my love for you is rooted in passion not stone or clay or bronze? Can you not feel my tongue lapping at your feet?
Camille: Foolish man. My feet are broken. I walk over you on stumps.
Camille leaves for England. Rodin follows.
Camille: You are boring.
Rodin: My love, can you not see that I am in a depressed mood. Can you not see that your capriciousness plagues me?
Camille: I love another.
Rodin: How can you say these things to me? I give you my heart. I give you my soul. I give you my artistic genius!
Camille: You’re right. You are a genius.
Rodin: Shall I write us up a contract?
Camille: As long as you don’t touch me.
Camille and Rodin return to Paris separately.
Rodin: It has been written. I will mentor you, write you in newspapers, place you in museums, and find you buyers.
Camille: You will not love another? You will spurn all but my art?
Rodin: I will. And you will marry me in return.
Camille: …
Rodin: Is there something wrong, my love?
Camille: Can you not see I am being facetious?
Rodin: My dear, you are my flora and gaiety. You are my chisel and stone. You are my breath and lungs.
Camille: Learn how to breathe without me.
Camille exits. Rodin crumples at the feet of Eternelle Idole.
Rodin: What have I done wrong?
Camille re-enters, her hands caked in clay.
Camille: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
Rodin: Shall I get the handcuffs?
Camille: No. The lion’s cage.
Strong tides and wet fuchsias. Camille enters the cage forever.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
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.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
**IMMEDIATELY PLEASE REMOVE ALL OF MY INFORMATION FROM YOUR DATA BASE FORTHWITH. ALSO,
ADVISE ANY AND ALL CONTRACTORS, SUB-CONTRACTORS, AGENTS, SUB-AGENTS, AFFILIATES, PARTNERS, COLLEAGUES, ASSOCIATES, CLIENTS, WEBMASTERS, WEB BASED LINKS, WINKS, TWINKS, COLONEL CLINCKS, BOSSES, CO-WORKERS, EMPLOYEES, VENDORS, SUPPLIERS, SALESMEN, ASCCOUNT REPS/EXCS, ACCOUNTANTS, BROKERS, CO-BROKERS, HACKERS, SLACKERS, WHACKERS, JERKS, PIMPS, HOES, HOBOS, BUMS, DERELICTS, DEGENERATES, DOPERS, DEALERS, TWEEKERS, GAMBLERS, RAMBLERS, SOLICITORS, SIDEKICKS, COHORTS, WINGMEN, WHEELMEN, LOOKOUTS, OUTLAWS, IN-LAWS, RELATIVES, FIANCES, GIRLFRIENDS, BOYFRIENDS, FAMILY, FRIENDS, ENEMIES, EVIL NEMISIS', CANVASSERS, INQUIRERS, QUEERS, QUEENS, COWBOYS, KINGS, **** DRAGS, HAGS, HETEROS, HOMOS, TONY ROMOS, FEMALE IMPERSONATORS, (PRE OR POST) MALE IMPERSONATORS, ***** ***** VAN ***** **** VAN **** LESBIANS, LIARS, BUYERS, CRYERS, CIGAR SMOKERS, CARPET MUNCHERS, RUG RATS, TODDLERS, TEENAGERS, YOUNGSTERS, SENIORS, SUCKERS, TRUCKERS, MOTHER shut yer mouth, LAW MAKERS, LAWYERS, ATTORNEYS, JUDGES, POLITICIANS, PECKERWOODS, LEADERS, FOLLOWERS, DISCIPLES, PROPHETS, EVANGELISTS, SAVIORS, SINNERS, SAINTS, SOOTHSAYERS, MEDICINE MEN, GYPSYS, TRAMPS, AND THIEVES, WITCHES, WARLOCKS, VAMPIRES, LYCANS, ZOMBIES, WAR MONGERS, PROTESTERS, SOLIDERS, GENERALS, GOVERNORS, PRESIDENTS, PATRIOTS, PACKERS, LIONS, BEARS, BROWNS, BLACKHAWKS, REDWINGS, RIGHT WING, LIBERALS, OR LAW BIDING CITIZENS, THEY ARE NOT TO CONTACT ME AND LOOSE MY NUMBER.
BUT IF YOU SEE MY MOM, TELL HER TO CALL ME.
........................................................................BA-ZING....................................................................**
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
Islamist Extremists. Boat Capsized.
Obama and Nelson Mandela. Celebrity Lies.
Plane Crash. Forest Fires.
Missing Girl. Handgun-buyers.
Amazon Lawsuit. ANT-MAN. Low Supplies!
Walmart Empty Shelves. Chinese Food Scandal.
Microsoft Layoffs. Heat and Gasoline. Oil.
Mad Max! Comic Book Convention Drama.
Breast Lumps and Swelling.
Television. Veteran's Hospitals.
Israel and Gaza Fight On.
Beachgoers Hit by Lightning.
Baseball Drinking Songs.
Sci-fi, Wi-fi, Ebola, and Libya.
Ukraine. Venezuela. Marriage. Liver failure.
Allen Webster. USA. RACE CARS.
Global Catastrophe Down to Warming of the Earth.
Dinosaurs Had Feathers. MH17. Profits.
Desert Bakery. Syria. We Must be Mad.
Philippines: 100 Million People on an Island.
Salmonella Lawsuit. Cheeseburger Diet.
Twinkies Never Going Bad.
Putin, Palin, and the Tour de France.
Fracking. Cats and Dogs.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
Observing these old men sitting at the stockyard cafe,
Suspendered bellies hanging above huge buckles
And button-crotched Levi's tucked tight over leather boots,
Legs grown bowed and thin, but carrying them to the sale, still,
To hear the auctioneer, talking fast to work the buying crowd,
And get their fill of cattle, shoved indoors,
Sold beneath the steady cracking whips,
A spectacle to burn its way into my minds's forever eye:
The skidding steers, the rolling eyes, the frantic scramble to find cover,
While buyers gave their quiet signs:
A tilted cap, a winking eye, a thumb or index finger up or at a side,
To purchase cow or bull or horse, in living flesh...
Then out again, through the other door,
And turn our heads to wait for more, and read the scrolling numbers:
How many head, how much per pound, perhaps a buyer's name,
And then the swinging sound of other cattle coming in to start again.
So, here these old boys sit again,
Slurping coffee through their yellowed teeth,
Remembering days of indoor cigarettes and harried waitresses,
The smell of cow manure and jingling spurs,
Though now the smokeless ring seems tame, more civilized,
I see the glory days reflecting in the old men's eyes.....
I was just a boy back in those good old days,
My memory is a little hazed, but I can recall
When smoking was allowed and sawdust covered the filthy floor,
A Coca-Cola cost a dime, and the cattle sale with Dad was the big time;
Quaking as we treaded light on the catwalks above the pens,
Looked for our calves, or cows Dad culled to bring to sale,
Then going down and in to see them sell.
Fondly now, I can recall the restaurant at the ring
Where I hoped for a slice of lemon pie from behind chill-fogged glass,
Saw cowmen wearing spurs and neckerchiefs and chaps...
Dreamed of growing up to be a cowboy.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
As I move on the streets of Mangalore city on the west seafront,
It is an afternoon and the sun is starkly overhead,
Burning, roasting in the hot-dry sky of May.
While en route the beach I passed from a really silent street,
Then I pass from the side of the Rosario Cathedral,
The only person I notice was a young vendor.
The vendor is a little girl who looked determined to empty her stock,
I peered into her basket and was pleased to see in it,
Even today I believe she sits there by the street.
Sitting in the rain or in the harsh, merciless sun she prays to the God,
Just back to her the church apparently has some priority line to Him,
She bribes Him a beautiful sea shell or two if He sends some buyers...
Though I do not need any sea shells, but I still go and spare a look,
I choose a pair of green sea shells and pay her for it,
Because she sells the sea shells by the street side.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
*Come, we have a story, said the Old Man. Come, sit and I shall tell you all a little tale of a donkey, a boy and his father…and of strangers too…and many a busybody…
And the children sat round the campfire and the Old Man began his tale…*
One day
(and this is many, many
uncountable days ago)
Father called Son
and he said:
‘Son
you are grown now
into a fine young lad
and you must learn
how to buy and sell
and make a profit
‘So, come let us go
you and I
to the market to see
what silver coins we can get
for this old donkey
in our shed’
2
And so Son and Dad
set out for the town market
across the sandy and rocky miles
and some way off
Dad grew tired and he said:
‘Ah, Son
this walk tires me and so
I shall ride the donkey
while you walk by the side;
so, come let us go
you and I
to the market to see
what silver coins we can get
for this old donkey
that I shall ride’
3
** **
What do we have here?’
came a voice
as the Dad sat riding the donkey
while the Son walked by the side
‘A cruel father you are,’
said the Family Standards Officer
‘Get down, you grown man
and let the child ride!’
And the Father was ashamed
and so he let the Son ride the donkey
and he walked beside
And the Family Standards Officer
was extremely pleased
and he filled up his forms
and he bade the Father and Son safe journey:
‘Ah, this is another
success story
of the Family Welfare Dept
where conscience has won the day
and the Son rides the donkey
and the Father walks beside’
4
And the Father and Son are gone but a mile, a mile - when another interruption came their way, heading straight their way….
‘What do we have here?’
came a scream
and the Mandarin of the
State Morals Education
stopped the trio
and the Mandarin glared disapprovingly
at the boy riding the donkey and he said:
‘Where is your filial piety?
Know you not the son must do his duty
by the father?
Get off the donkey -
you young donkey!
and allow your father to ride
while you walk with reverence
and duty beside!’
And so now we have the
Father on the donkey
and the Son walking beside
all three slowly on and on
Father and son
to the market to see
what silver coins
they might get
for this old donkey
that they have taken turns to ride
5
Then comes an old woman
and she mutters to herself as she passes by:
‘Ah, what’s come of life
that a father should ride and
allow the young to walk.’
And so the Father bids his Son
be a pillion rider with him on the donkey
and so they ride
merrily, merrily
on to the market
to see
what silver coins they can get
for this old donkey
that they both ride
5
But no sooner have they covered
but a mile, just a mile
with the respectable Father
and the filial Son
(both on the hapless donkey)
when a voice thunders out from the bush
and the Animal Rights Activist stands out
and he screams:
‘Oh, you cruel people
that you should ride a helpless donkey !
Shame on you!
Much better that you both
carried the creature!’
And of course
the Son and Father
so reasonable and
always with an open mind
they jump off the donkey
and they carry
the donkey all the way
all the way
just four more miles
just four more miles
and they soon come into the market
carrying the donkey
and shouting:
‘Donkey for sale!
Donkey for sale!’
6
And the buyers
at the markets
they see
this Father and Son
carrying the donkey
and screaming:
‘Donkey f or sale!
Donkey for sale!’
And the buyers they say:
‘But it appears, Sirs,
there are
three donkeys for sale
three donkeys for sale!
In declaring
“Donkey for Sale!”
when there are clearly three
are you offering three
for the price of one?’
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 7:04 PM UTC
A quaint little bazaar
In the heart of the town
Tells a story
Of a thousand moments
Dal Bazaar as they call it
Or "Curry Market" for others who don't know.
I have fragments of memorable memories
Deep within my mind
The smell
The intoxicating smell of spices
Blended with the quiescent yet cacophonous lives
Of Merchants and Beggars
Of Buyers and Sellers
Of Bullions and a single calloused rupia
In the hands of the old *****
The sunlight baking
Bags of turmeric.
Suspending the scent
In the minds of men.
Capering clouds of black and grey
And the sudden squall
Stirring the monotony
Of the customary.
The pirouette of rain
The one that excites the plainest of the plain
Painting the whitewash with shades of grey
The chalky walls
Dust
Moist corriander
And the relief of earth
Conciliating
So rewarding
For the ruins of the bare sun.
This flashback into my soul
Where all my senses seem to be so awake.
The feel of the wooden veranda
Scent so inexpressible
My eyes devouring the sunset
Tasting the heavens
Hearing it all.
Feeling it all.
Oh the plight of poets
The ritual to end a poem.
Painful.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
There are bloggers and selfie-takers,
Know the difference.
There are noisemakers and peacemakers,
I can show you the evidence.
There are admirers and haters.
Be especially mindful.
There are well-wishers and supporters.
Be very careful
The are naysayers and yeasayers
Always be aware.
There are brothers and brother's keeper,
Always ready to take care.
There are destroyers and fixers,
Separate them.
There are mixers and blenders,
We need them.
There are writers and publishers,
They need each other.
There are readers and proofreader.
Both read for different reasons.
There are bystanders and onlookers.
Both will be watching.
There are movers and shakers,
One of them has the edge.
There are dreams snatches and vision busters,
Be on the lookout.
There are ghost whisperers and Ghostbusters,
Both have connection to a ghost.
There are buyers and sellers,
Each one benefits.
There are singers and there are dancers.
Everyone provides some entertainment.
©IvanBrooksPoetry
21/8/2018
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
We ambled the streets of Harare
Meandering aimlessly
Fleeting past wide-eyes scanning us enviously
Hand in hand we walked into the restaurant
Leisurely on Second Street
Our hunger awakened
Our appetites heightened
At almost closing time
With no one in overtime mode
A signal that here we could only dine on another day
Joina City was our next stop
Up the lift right to the top
'Closed' it read at the coffee shop
Into the nearest chair I went flop!
Though hungry, we gabbed non-stop
By and by we regarded the clock
It chimed 8 o'clock
And sadly, it was time to go home
Busy and noisy
Were the streets of Harare
Jabbering crowds, kombis hooting
Hawkers, vendors or is it hustlers now -
Calling for buyers or just huddled to pass time
No chill in Harare
Picturesque like a dream
Surreal…
Hand in hand we dawdled
In despair for a hot meal
In the shimmering distance
Like a mirage in the desert
The neon lights read
'Creamy Inn'
Something to calm our rambling bellies
At last…
Nippy evening air hit our souls
'Ice-cream tastes better at night'
I said
'I can't believe I'm having ice-cream'
He said
We frolicked
Hand in hand we danced past faces painted with adoration
'What a handsome lover!'
They probably thought:
My delectable younger brother
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
Governors,
Mayors,
Policemen,
Night keepers,
Men folk and all of you
On the crest of powers that be
Don’t brutalize prostitutes,
Nor mishandle ******
Or terrorize harlots,
They were born natural
Innocent and callow
With plain white brains
Not tainted with any miss-morals,
Genuine in hearts
And humane in the genesis,
Until they grew up
Beyond father and mother
Clan and relatives,
Into the realm of money civilizations,
Where man and woman,
Must sell to survive,
Sell the wares of trade,
Commodities and tools of work,
Where men sell labour of their arms
To those crafty buyers,
And women sell smiles,
And the ******** of their *****
To serve vice of man
In the glory of warped thought,
Prostitutes have no tribe,
Neither class nor race,
They have no permanent foe
Nor permanent friend,
They have no permanent memory,
Their love is devoid of logic,
They love most but fickle,
Where they make no money
And love least but with nostalgia
where they make money,
So don’t brutalize them,
Only love them,
Pay them,
Kiss them fondly
And sing to them,
Lyrical songs of love,
Sent them to lull and slumber
With your sensuous ******
Of their ******** fountains,
Both male and female
****** of your rendezvous.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 6:46 AM UTC
I was gonna write about how I was writing standing up like Hemingway at some bar in Key West, but instead I ended up nearly lying down, like some Roman eating grapes, and I’m not scrawling with a pen. I’m typing.
Why the standing up, Ernest? Was it to gauge how difficult it was to keep good posture? Was it to better measure how drunk you were getting?
He would have boxed me for those asking those questions, or maybe he’d just slam a few shots.
All of us Northeasterners enjoy getting drunk somewhere tropical. I never have a choice in the matter. Whether it’s Florida, South Carolina, or the South Caribbean (I've never left the Western Hemisphere), all I really like down there is beaches and seawater. Everything else gives deep cringes. Those other tourists, so annoying just to look at. Flip flops, whole families, and the god awful shops they keep open. You go to a place good for a beach, green hills, seawater, and fruit, and you want to buy diamonds? C’mon. I wish you’d want these islands to be like national parks; nature over here and cities over there. But the tourists enjoy fake grass huts that try really hard to sell them junk.
So who’s to blame for the sellers perpetuating petty sales and mediocre values? Is it the islanders that make a profit, or the buyers that want the wares? Or is there a third party guaranteeing that the buyers and sellers alike are propagandized to expect the less than fine things in life? Are the salespeople actually working the shops, the ones really getting rich from the sale?
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
Imagine the outrage
If a band, all-male members,
Refuse to play tunes
for the opposite gender.
Imagine the uproar
The venue would face
For excluding a half
of their customer base.
“It’s rank discrimination!”
The ladies would moan.
If the males got to listen
while the girls stayed at home.
Yet the Bulletproof Stockings,
That band that wears wigs,
Exclude guys from their concerts
Not just chauvinist pigs.
“It’s a matter of Faith!”
The girl band members say;
No guys at their gigs!
No men hear them play.
Yet I’ve heard pious Pastry chefs
Don’t get to choose.
If gay brides want a cake
It’s a crime to refuse.
An Orthodox authoress
who published a tome
would be most put out
if male buyers stayed home.
So if girl musicians
seek public expression
They ought to think twice
about gender oppression.
Its great that they’re keeping
an orthodox home.
But enough of these concerts
For women alone.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
I want to be a criminal defence lawyer.
And I would be a ‘sincere’ criminal defence lawyer,
Breaking the norms.
Pretending to defend the criminal till the court date,
Just long enough to gather all of the evidence I get against him.
Give him just enough hope to stop the seed of suspicion to grow,
Then change my colour like a chameleon,
And sweep his sinful life into the darkness of prison.
But I will be rich right?
Because my uncle makes a fortune with this profession,
So yes, being a criminal defence lawyer would be a good idea.
I could also be a realtor.
And I would be an impatient realtor,
Yelling at the buyers when
They spend 6 months looking at houses and deciding not to buy it.
I would give them half of the information,
Leaving them wondering,
Like an individual looking for a drop of water in a desert.
And I would be able to live in a luxurious house,
With a huge chandelier at the entrance and a glass elevator, right?
Just like my cousin.
So yes, being a realtor is also not a bad idea.
Or I could be a writer.
And I would be an excellent writer,
Something that I wanted to be after the first book I read,
Reflecting upon what I know and,
Wondering about the unknown.
A grand chandelier I may not have but,
A wall decorated with my curious thoughts,
Lightning up the mind of the one who enters the small but cozy home.
I am not the water changing myself to fit the glass,
But I am the glass with unique design and space,
Allowing my dreams and imagination to fill the empty space.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
I am selling away these board games,
The Sorries, the Troubles, and the Twisters
On which I struggled competitively with you.
My yard sale stifles the lawn,
Pours over my patio and infiltrates my porch swing.
I am selling each game piece, each memory,
Each pair of dice and their two-sided arguments.
They are thrown from my mind once they are carried
Away by strangers who thought them a bargain.
I am selling our immature conflicts,
The jail in my Monopoly
And the alarm clock in Don’t Wake Daddy.
Even Candy Land for me is age appropriate no longer,
As you continue to barely meet its mental requirements –
“for ages 3 and up.”
So I am selling away these amusements
Stacked firmly upon cheap plastic tables,
Feeding my palms with the richness of your absence.
Perhaps your game of Life will entertain one of my buyers,
Taking your cardboard words of wisdom
With an appreciation that I no longer have.
I wish them luck with their future mind-Scrabble,
As their pursuits will be a Risk yet unknown.
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 11:37 PM UTC
The local convenience store dealers lean on glass windows with ****** pupils scanning the parking lot for any takers. I pump my gas on station four and spy from afar. Don’t make eye contact or that means you’re interested. No buyers yet. What do you suppose is on the menu for today? Judging from the amount of zombies I’ve seen pushing stolen shopping carts a block away from here, I’d say smack. Tar. Black. ****** Whatever they call it where you’re from. Welfare bodies withered down to just flesh hanging from bone, wandering around aimlessly for their next fix. I’ve only ever tried it once; I was curious and sad and it was there—in Violet’s hand and then in my lungs. Do you think my mother would cry out in those disgusting sobs of snot and heaves of not-being-able-to-breathe-tears if she knew? Do you think my sister would look at me with that glare of judgmental disapproval because yet again, here’s an example of why I’m the family ****** Do you think my father would smack me upside the head and call me a dumb *** Probably. And do you think my third and sixth grade teachers who told me I should one day do something with my writing would be gasping in disappointment? Definitely. The gas pump clicks off. A potential customer staggers across asphalt to meet his makers and I am no better than he is at this very moment.
Dec 1, 2020
Dec 1, 2020 at 3:17 AM UTC
Let us begin in the factoring of gin where the malefactors and blaggards try hard not to show us a grin.
and begin.
Factor out taste and factor in waste in the factory, in any case nobody cares,and the gin could be anything from nappies to ****** toys for the big boys and pearls for the girls,but we call it gin.
and begin.
They're all scammers,flim flamming their way from the start to the end of each day and we pay,through the nose,for **** knows what,(a touch of soylent green),get your brains on toast,shin for sunday roast and the marketeers,new age buccaneers blow us out of the water,someone should have taught me how cruel this life can be.
and we begin.
Back in the factory buying up gin with a passion,the fashionistas get ****** on the fumes and the poor people are shown only crap filled back rooms where the gnomes sit to **** out, tomorrow we'll sit out in the sun,spit out what's home spun and make money from telling funny jokes to the poker faced liars and the gin filled flash buyers who have bought up our Christmas and resold it to China,
'and it's another fine mess dear Laurel,please pass me the bottle of 'mist chloral'.
'Why certainly' said Stanley who seemed ever so manly in the valley when the dolls had gone home.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 5:31 AM UTC
Budding with excitement and seemingly pointless fear,
but I held a new life in my hands shown through a *** of all my savings.
My eyes dart wildly in awe of all the different cars,
big ones, small ones, new ones, and foreign ones.
Everyone smiled at us - the dealers and the other buyers who walked out with
shiny, new vessels as if it were nothing.
Nobody knew this was our fifth dealership, even we pretended to lose count
maybe this time we’ll leave with something.
I know they can see how badly I yearn for a car of my very own
that I can say is mine,
that I worked for it,
that I can watch age through the years.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC
More economic problems
On the way
As I read in this article today
Here it is
You can read it too
I'm no financial expert
But world economies
Seem *******
Lol
“I think it’s pretty obvious that the top is in,” the Reagan administration’s OMB director said Thursday on CNBC’s “Futures Now.” The S&P; 500 has traded in a historically narrow range for the better part of 2015, having moved just 1 percent higher year to date. “It’s just waiting for the knee-jerk bulls, robo traders and dip buyers to finally capitulate.”
Stockman, whose past claims have yet to come to fruition, still believes that the excessive monetary policy from central banks around the world has created a “debt supernova,” and all the signs point to “the end of the central bank enabled bubble,” which could cause a worldwide recession.
“The larger picture has nothing to do with the jobs report [Friday] or even the September decision by the Fed,” said Stockman. “It has to do with the the fact that the world economy, including the U.S., is heading into what is clearly going to be an epochal deflation to the likes of what we have never experienced in modern time.”
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
this past week the cattle sale went very well
all the vendors were keen and eager to sell
the buyers had loads of money for purchasing
they bought over six hundred cows for breeding
record sales such as this are rarely seen about here
the buyers always reckon the cattle prices appear to be dear
but the auctioneer was sweating for quite a while
he sold many pens of cattle with a beaming smile
all in all the sale day was a successful affair
everyone who attended were glad that they were there
this sale will go down in the history books for sure
cattle changed hands quite literally by the score
the next sale is scheduled for the seventh of May
and the district cattle breeders can't wait for the day
sellers will be hoping that the prices keep following an upward trend
and that there will be a goodly amount of cattle penned
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
Eli tossed the ****** novel aside; a radical tale
of painters in the far future when paint itself
would be illegal; arms dealers, drug traffickers,
*** workers gathering in dark interstellar holes
bored into passing comets & orbiting meteors
docking illegally at satellite ports & unloading
chemicals frozen into place by the artists
who can never let their identities be known;
all colors on earth are registered & trade marked
by the Beast's Corporation & so Space Art is
highly sought & lucrative but lethal as it can
made to explode w/ enough energy & radiation
to leave a small planet barren for millions of years;
the Beast is reasonably worried as Space Art, or
Action Painting [after the ancient school] is wildly
popular & traded openly for billions of dollars;
the Beast may be able to keep everyone stupid
& greedy but Art liberates them into heights of
ecstasy & kindled wisdom; freedom of thought
the last frontier no one suspected & so abrogated
their intelligence & imagination to fembots
who pump their heads full of colorful action sequences;
the illegal paintings too stiff, just stand or lean
& look back at one w/out blinking
& the female-computer-network unable to bear the silence,
initiates automatic shut-down of itself; femportals
abandoned on stations where the painted images
projected on microcells to the clandestine buyers,
spread as an unseen mist through the various
artificial environments;
the distant star paint miners
smoking up a storm & using steam-powered
fembots
to mine for their oil & charcoal;
Eli putting on the kettle for tea,
thinks about the fembots in the novel & calling a **********
demands she not speak; the girl arriving naked in stockings
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
How does the rancher learn to dance
The annual rhythms of the land?
When do we bring the cows, bawling,
From open summer to sheltered winter pastures?
When is it time to bring the stubborn bulls
To the empty, urgent cows,
Or to remove them from contented cows,
Grown placid in the heaviness of calves?
How do we know the time
To round up the sweltering herds,
Bringing the bellering calves to brand?
Or when do we cull the frightened heifers,
Lucky in their selection, but uncertain?
When should we pare the weanlings,
And when call we the buyers?
And, when is the time for hiking forty miles
Of rusting fence,
Replacing posts,
Mending broken wire
Before the changing of pastures?
And when is the time to come to ease,
To sense the satisfaction
In seeing grazing cattle,
Tails swishing away the black flies of June,
Moving through gray-green prairie grass
On their way to cool creek water?
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
All so called blood relations have gone to dogs
Either they are blood thirsty or weak like thread
Faces and hearts are filled with filth as prologues
Want to ****** away even last loaves of bread
Sell coffins of their dear ones to make them naked
They are constant buyers of contempt and hatred
They get their buds nurtured with loved ones blood
Their actions speak louder than their words avid
Let me take the case to all who suffer with malice
Wash intentions with the water of heaven to be fair
Be sincere and honest in your approach not jealous
Let us take pains of all to take care ,be ready to bear
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 8:08 AM UTC