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howard brace Feb 2012
Inconspicuous, his presence noted only by the obscurity and the ever growing number of spent cigarette stubs that littered the ground.  It had been a long day and the rain, relentless in its tenacity had little intention of stopping, baleful clouds still  hung heavy, dominating the lateness of the afternoon sky, a rain laden skyline broken only by smoke filled chimney pots and the tangled snarl of corroded television aerials.

     The once busy street was fast emptying now, the lure of shop windows no longer enticed the casual browser as local traders closed their premises to the oncoming night, solitary lampposts curved hazily into the distance, casting little more than insipid pools mirrored in the gutter below, only the occasional stranger scurrying home on a bleak, rain swept afternoon, the hurried slap of wet leather soles on the pavement, the sightless umbrellas, the infrequent rumble of a half filled bus, hell-bent on its way to oblivion.

     In the near distance as the working day ended, a sudden emergence of factory workers told Beamish it was 5-o'clock, most would be hurrying home to a hot meal, while others, for a quick drink perhaps before making the same old sorry excuse... for Jack, the greasy spoon would be closing about now, denying him the comfort of a badly needed cuppa' and stale cheese sandwich.  A subtle legacy of lunchtime fish and chips still lingered in the air, Jack's stomach rumbled, there was little chance of a fish supper for Beamish tonight, it protested again... louder.

     From beneath the eaves of the building opposite several pigeons broke cover, startled by the rattle as a shopkeeper struggled to close the canvas awning above his shop window.  Narrowly missing Beamish they flew anxiously over the rooftops, memories of the blitz sprang to mind as Jack stepped smartly to one side, he stamped his feet... it dashed a little of the weather from his raincoat, just as the rain dashed a little of the pigeons' anxiety from the pavement... the day couldn't get much worse if it tried.  Shielding his face, Jack struck the Ronson one more time and cupped the freshly lit cigarette between his hands, it was the only source of heat to be had that day... and still it rained.

     'By Appointment to Certain Personages...' the letter heading rang out loudly... 'Jack Beamish ~ Private Investigator...' a throat choking mouthful by any stretch of the imagination, thought Jack and shot every vestige of credulity plummeting straight through the office window and amidst a fanfare of trumpet voluntary, nominate itself for a prodigious award in the New Year Honours list.   Having formally served in a professional capacity for a well known purveyor of pickled condiments, who  incidentally, brandished the same patronage emblazoned upon their extensive range of relish as the one Jack had more recently purloined from them... a paid commission no less, which by Jack's certain understanding had made him, albeit fleeting in nature, a professional consultant of said company... and consequently, if they could flaunt the auspicious emblem, then according to Jack's infallible logic, so could Jack.  

     The recently appropriated letterhead possessed certain distinction... in much the same way, Jack reasoned, that a blank piece of paper did not... and whereas correspondence bearing the heading 'By Appointment' may not exactly strike terror into the hearts of man... unlike a really strong pickled onion, it nevertheless made people think twice before playing him for the fool, which sadly, Jack had to concede, they still invariably did... and he would often catch them wagging an accusing finger or two in his direction with such platitudes as... "watch where you put your foot", they'd whisper, "that Jack's a right Shamus...", and when you'd misplaced your footing as many times as Jack had, then he reasoned, that by default the celebrated Shamus must have landed himself in more piles of indiscretion than he would readily care to admit, but that wouldn't be quite accurate either, in Jack's line of work it was the malefactor that actually dropped him in them more often than not.

     A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine, another quickly followed as a spurt of icy water from a broken rain spout spattered across the back of his neck, he grimaced... Jack's expression spoke volumes as he took one final pull from his half soaked cigarette and flicked it, amid an eruption of sparks against the adjacent brick wall.  Sinking further into the shadow he tipped his fedora against the oncoming rain, then, digging both hands deep within his pockets, he huddled behind the upturned collar of his gabardine... watching.

     It was times such as these when Jack's mind would slip back, in much the same way you might slip back on a discarded banana peel, when a matter of some consequence, or in particular this case the pavement, would suddenly leap up from behind and give the back of Jack's head a resoundingly good slapping and tell him to "stop loafing around in office hours... or else", then drag him, albeit kicking and screaming back into the 20th century.  This intellectual assault and battery re-focused Jack's mind wonderfully as he whiled away the long weary hours until his next cigarette; cup of tea, or the last bus home, his capacity to endure such mind boggling tedium called for nothing less than sheer ******-mindedness and very little else... Beamish had long suspected that he possessed all the necessary qualifications.  

     Jack had come a long way since the early days, it had been a long haul but he'd finally arrived there in the end... and managed to pick up quite a few ***** looks along the way.  Whilst he was with the Police Constabulary... and it was only fair to stress the word 'with', as opposed to the word 'in'... although the more Jack considered, he had been 'with' the arresting officer, held 'in' the local Bridewell... detained at Her Majesties pleasure while assisting the boys in blue with their enquiries over a minor infringement of some local by-law that currently had quite slipped his mind at that moment.  Throughout this enforced leisure period he'd managed to read the entire abridged editions of Kilroy and other expansive works of graffiti exhibited in what passed locally as the next best thing to the Tate Gallery, whereupon it hadn't taken Jack very long to realise that it was always a good place to start if you wanted free breakfast, in fact the weeks bill of fare was tastefully displayed in vivid, polychromatic colour on the wall opposite... you just had to be au-fait with braille.
     No matter how industrious Beamish laboured to rake the dirt there always appeared to be a dire shortage of gullible clients for Jack to squeeze, what would roughly translate as an honest crust out of, and although his financial retainer was highly competitive he understood that potential clients found it bewildering when grappling with the unplumbed depths of his monthly expense account, which would tend to fluctuate with the same unpredictability as the British weather, the rest of Jack's agenda revolved around a little shady moonlighting... in fact he'd happily consider anything to offset the remotest possibility of financial delinquency... short of extortion... which by the strangest twist was the very word prospective clients would cry while Jack beavered around the office with dust-pan and brush sweeping any concerns they may have had frantically under the carpet regarding all culpability of his extra-curricular monthly stipend... and they should remain assured at all times... as they dug deep and fished for their cheque books, and simply look upon it as kneading dough, which eerily enough was exactly the thick wedge of buttered granary that Jack had every intention of carving.

     Were there ever the slightest possibility that a day could be so utterly wretched, then today was that day, Jack felt a certain empathy as he merged with his surroundings... at one with nature as it were.  The rain, a timpani on the metal dustbin lids, by the side of which Beamish had taken up vigil, also taking up vigil and in search of a morsel was the stray mongrel, this was the third time now that he'd returned, the same apprehensive wag, yet still the same hopeful look of expectation in his eyes, a brief but friendly companion who paid more attention to Jack's left trouser leg than anything that could be had from nosing around the dustbins that day... some days you're the dog, scowled Beamish as he shook his trouser leg... and some days the lamppost, Jack's foot swung out playfully, keeping his new friend's incontinence at a safe distance, feigning indignance  the scruffy mongrel shook himself defiantly from nose to tail, a distinct odour of wet dog filled the air as an abundance of spent rainwater flew in all directions.   Pricking one ear he looked accusingly at Jack before turning and snuffled off, his nose resolutely to the pavement and diligently, picking out the few diluted scents still remaining, the poor little stalwart renewed its search for scraps, or making his way perhaps to some dry seclusion known only to itself.
     Two hours later and... SPLOSH, a puddle poured itself through the front door of the nearest Public House... SPLOSH, the puddle squelched over to the payphone... SPLOSH, then, fumbling for small change dialled and pressed button 'A'..., then button 'B'... then started all over again amid a flurry of precipitation... SPLASH.  The puddle floundered to the bar and ordered itself a drink, then ebbed back to the payphone again... the local taxi company doggedly refused to answer... finally, wallowing over to the window the puddle drifted up against a warm radiator amidst a cloud of humidity and came to rest... flotsam, cast upon the shore of contentment, the puddle sighed contentedly... the Landlady watched this anomaly... suspiciously.

     The puddle's finely tuned perception soon got to grips with the unhurried banter and muffled gossip drifting along the bar, having little else to loose, other than what could still be wrung from his clothing... Beamish, working on the principle that a little eavesdropping was his stock-in-trade engaged instinct into overdrive and casually rippled in their general direction...  They were clearly regulars by the way one of them belched in a well rehearsed, taken-a-back sort of way as Jack took stock of the situation and was now at some pains to ingratiate himself into their exclusive midst and attempt several friendly, yet relevant questions pertinent to his enquiries... all of which were skillfully deflected with more than friendly, yet totally irrelevant answers pertinent to theirs'... and would Jack care for a game of dominoes', they enquired... if so, would he be good enough to pay the refundable deposit, as by common consent it just so happened to be his turn...  Jack graciously declined this generous offer, as the obliging Landlady, just as graciously, cancelled the one shilling returnable deposit from the cash register, such was the flow of light conversation that evening... they didn't call him Lucky Jack for nothing... discouraged, Beamish turned back to the bar and reached for his glass... to which one of his recent companions, and yet again just as graciously, had taken the trouble to drink for him... the Landlady gave Jack a knowing look, Beamish returned the heartfelt sentiment and ordered one more pint.

     From the licenced premises opposite, a myriad of jostling customers plied through the door, business was picking up... the sudden influx of punters rapidly persuaded Beamish to retire from the bar and find a vacant table.  Sitting, he removed several discarded crisp packets from the centre of the table only to discover a freshly vacated ashtray below... by sleight of hand Jack's Ronson appeared... as he lit the cigarette the fragile smoke curled blue as it rose... influenced by subtle caprice, it joined others and formed a horizontal curtain dividing the room, a delicate, undulating layer held between two conflicting forces.

     The possibility of a free drink soon attracted the attention of a local bar fly, who, hovering in the near vicinity promptly landed in Jack's beer, Beamish declined this generous offer as being far too nutritious and with the corner of yesterdays beer mat, flipped the offending organism from the top of his glass, carefully inspecting his drink for debris as he did so.

     A sudden draught and clip of stiletto heels as the side door opened caused Beamish to turn as a double shadow slipped discreetly into the friendly Snug... a little adulterous intimacy on an otherwise cheerless evening.  The faceless man, concealed beneath a fedora and the upturned collar of his overcoat, the surreptitious lady friend, decked out in damp cony, cheap perfume and a surfeit of bling proclaimed a not too infrequent assignation, he'd seen it all before... the over attentive manner and the band of white, Sun-starved skin recently hidden behind a now absent wedding token, ordinarily it was the sort of assignment Jack didn't much care for... the discreet tail, the candid snapshot through half drawn curtains... and the all too familiar steak tartare... for the all too familiar black eye.

     To the untrained eye, the prospect of Jack's long anticipated supper was rapidly dwindling, when it suddenly focused with renewed vigour upon the contents of a pickled egg jar he'd observed earlier that evening, lurking on the back counter, his enthusiasm swiftly diminished however as the belching customer procured the final two specimens from the jar and proceeded to demolish them.  Who, Jack reflected, after being stood out in the rain all day, had egg all over his face now... and who, he reflected deeper, still had an empty stomach.  Disillusioned, Jack tipped back his glass and considered a further sortie with the taxicab company.

     "FIVE-BOB"!!! Jack screamed... you could have shredded the air with a cheese grater... hurtling into the kerb like a fairground attraction came flying past the chequered flag at a record breaking 99 in Jack's top 100 most not wanted list of things to do that day... and that the cabby should think himself fortunate they weren't both stretched flat on a marble slab, "exploding tyres" Jack spluttered, dribbling down his chin, were enough to give anyone a coronary... further broadsides of neurotic ambiance filled the cab as the driver, miffed at the prospect of missing snooker night out with the lads, considered charging extra for the additional space Jack's profanity was taking...

     And what part of 'Drive-Carefully', fumed Beamish, did the cabby simply not understand, that pavements were there to be bypassed, 'Nay Circumvented', preferably on the left... and not veered into, wildly on the front axle... an eerie premonition of 'jemais-vu' perched and ready to strike like a disembodied Jiminy Cricket on Jack's left shoulder, looking to stick its own two-penny worth in at the 'Standing-Room-Only' arrangements in the overcrowded cab... and at what further point, Jack shrieked, eyes leaping from his head as he lurched forward, shaking his fist through the sliding glass partition, had the cabbie failed to grasp the importance of the word 'Steering-Wheel...' someone wanted horse whipping, and as far as Beamish was concerned the sole contender was the cab driver...

     In having a somewhat sedate and unruffled disposition it had fallen to Beamish... as befalls all great leaders in times of adversity, to single handedly take the bull by the horns, so to speak and at great personal cost, alert the unwary passing motorist...  Waving his arms about like a man possessed whilst performing acrobatic evolutions in the centre of the road as the cabby changed the wheel came whizzing around the corner at a back breaking 98 on Jack's ever growing list... and why, Jack puzzled, why had they all lowered their side windows and gestured back at him in semaphore..?  Rallying to its aid, Jack's head and shoulders now joined his shaking fist through the sliding glass partition and into the cabby's face, "Who" Beamish screeched with renewed vigour ,"Who Was The Man", Jack wanted to know... *"a
Jamie May 2016
I have no right to feel like this,
But how dare you cancel on me again,
I know we aren't together,
But it hurts when you do.
Ottar Aug 2013
I am sorry to announce that due to intermittent
thick cloud cover,
(I am so a lover
of meteor showers) our viewing is cancelled,
no wait is that
a clearing in the sky the deep blue colour and
are those stars
not near but afar, nope, just some plane, making
for Bellingham or Blaine, might
as well be Spain.

Shower me with flowers. (no thorns please)
Shower me with (dark)chocolate.
Shower me with meteors.
                                           No not me personally.
What lights their tales
What makes their beards warm my heart
I know the physics, astro-too
Does it affect me, like it affects you
Just one hour of a meteor shower
I'll be good for another year of power,
like one super hero (or ONE with a super lot of zeroes, after)
We can hold an after meteor party at my place and
your all invited and I will put your names on the
guest list, now we can't now we won't there is no
shower here this night
clouds shield my sight
they are like a blight
on the fruit
that I toiled
for a year,
readied my
sleep cycle,
pruned back
tree tops to
see the horizon,
set up lines
of sight to
track their
paths this night
across the heavens
but now I will
go to bed,
if you show
up to a dark
house, I am
sorry in advance
as I said sadly at
the start the
show is cancelled
and for my part
I will try again
tomorrow night!
Jack Gladstone Aug 2014
2 hour trip to a concert.

One of my favorite artists.

Eventually one of yours too.

She even made what ended up being our song

It was for my birthday.

It was cancelled, the concert not my birthday.

We're taking the trip anyway.

The real present was your presence.
The End....
of course,
your'e in
دema May 2014
Isn't it weird how one bad comment can overcome several good comments?
Isn't it weird that it's easier to feel bad about yourself than feeling good about yourself?
Isn't it weird how evil can be acomplished faster than the good?
Isnt it weird that we live in such an intricate world, where the negativity always outcomes the positivity, because no good is left, when the bad often lets you down.

Alike charges repel, opposite charges attract. This was our philosophy  in dealing with the atoms in our world. But what about our world? How come all the positivity and the negativity in the world in all of their different forms,  , as they cancel each other, get the world cancelled along?
Timothy Essex May 2010
I like slandering your makeshift forceps.
I hammer you down with watery *** and then spill

the remainder on the couch. Yarg! A diamond’s
worth at least a small intestine, and you

are worth whatever’s left over after night
has upended itself, poured sideways out of its

shellacked crawlspace, and turned the basement sour.
There are remnants of you in the park,

some red stain by the baseball field where,
if you’ll remember, you watched little leaguers

build teamwork, and faint splotches on tree bark
from your lactations which, if you’ll remember, happened

every morning. I whisper your godforsaken name
and am slapped in the head. The children cry

when I smile. I cry when the children smile. Good
heavens. I forbid you from not entering my corridor,

even as I set up a barricade. I like my water scalding,
my passion chilled, and I like you in easy-to-

swallow doses. I like you in my eggs.
Ditto the faucet, keyboard, the occasional lily,

but do not mess with my pearls. I mumble of apodictic
meadows while I sleep. What can I say?

I do not mumble of unclogging your bathtub,
which has a certain foul repute, and has grown

heavy and ugly with your hair, which is everywhere,
just as you are everywhere, and wherever, and so

******* hidden it’s not funny anymore, we stopped
looking some millennia ago, after scouring the drainpipes,

kicking down your doors, dissecting your mattress,
speculating about your burial site, etcetera, and even so

we have not been really looking all this time, have we,
just blaring your name through the speakers,

putting wrong numbers on our calling cards, leaving
uncooked meat out on the back porch as if you were

a raccoon, oh, or a lion, which you are not, or not
quite, though, as the books say, you have honey

in your stomach, and if you could but be
ripped open we would taste and see.
Nicole Dawn Sep 2015
Life is like a math problem--

Some people are cancelled out
So that you can find the answer

Some people are like asymptotes
It seems like they should be there
But they're just a hole in your graph

Some people are like parallel lines
Always in sight
Never in reach

Life is like a math problem
And sometimes
*There's no solution
There is more to this, but it seemed really long
Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot
The armless ambidextrian was lighting
A match between his great and second toe,
And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting
The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb—
Quite unexpectedly the top blew off:

And there, there overhead, there, there hung over
Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
There in the starless dark the poise, the hover,
There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,
There in the sudden blackness the black pall
Of nothing, nothing, nothing—nothing at all.
DaSH the Hopeful Feb 2016
I used to flip through my pages
There were some interesting points
  Some high, some low, some kind of just sitting in-between after the good and the bad cancelled each other out, but mostly I
       Skimmed by,

         Until I met you,

                 You can't be summed up, there's too much to you, you're too rich, too deep
Too interesting to be confined to a few measly paragraphs and sped-read through

     You deserve attention, you deserve time,

       And the more I've gotten to know you, the more I realize you're the entire book, the entire story in beautiful, vivid detail.

                *I'm going to take my time getting to the end of you, and I dog-eared the page where you entered my heart, so that if I ever forget how it feels to fall for you, I can go back to the start
nivek Oct 2015
All ferries are cancelled making way for the storm
tied to their piers, rocking back and forth, back and forth
ropes pulled tight, taut, no mail today, no fresh supplies
this is Robinson Crusoe life lived alive in the 21st century
a time set aside, cut off, forgotten by the rest of the World.
Maggie Emmett Jul 2015
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.


Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.


Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi
This poem is part of a longer poem called Seasons of Terror. This poem was performed at the University of Adelaide, Bonython Hall as a community event. The poem was read by local poets, broadcasters, personalities and politicians from the South Australia Parliament and a Federal MP & Senator. The State Premier was represented by the Hon. Michael Atkinson, who spoke about the role of the Emergency services in our society. The Chiefs of Police, Fire and Ambulence; all religious and community organisations' senior reprasentatives; the First Secretary of the British High Commission and the general public were present. It was recorded by Radio Adelaide and broadcast live as well as coverage from Channel 7 TV News. The Queen,Tony Blair, Australian Governor General and many other public dignitaries sent messages of support for the work being read. A string quartet and a solo flautist also played at this event.
Olivia Kent Jan 2015
Sat in bed and feeling bored.
Work was cancelled ,"Oh my word".
The lantern of the idiot tickles my mundane brain.
Hence writing yet again.
The dragon in the garden shed is sitting there, waiting to be fed.
It's not a dragon really, just a silly little dog.
She's not in the shed, she's sat on my bed.
She just clambered under the covers with me.
Guess tomorrow's gonna be a great day.
Pen Lux Oct 2012
I'd rather not do anything today.
leave my plans to figure themselves out
let them forget about me, no more missing.
I'd like to excuse myself from today's torturous repetition.

It's all my fault, admittance of solitude!
what happened to the practice of things I care about?
my cares have shifted, hearts been lifted, yet there's something
still missing: Motivation.

ahhhh, no more worries.
ahh, why should I?
Ugo Jan 2016
Rubicon on broadway 
young and beautiful 
in white Cadillacs and Buicks
audio pop gods transmit 
preludes for the night 
through hair waves 
and satellite finger tips

Buried souls are only resurrected
among friends
at Shakespearian rags
at 10
in mind
with wine, no whine 
oh mine, oh mine 
no more golden toads in Costa Rica—
the planet is a metaphor for the body—

old spice and white gum

our everyday gospel
No one listens
Friends seldom seen
'I'm all right'
Cancelled conversations
Happiness on demand
Courses in tautology
Reverent respectability
Chimes lost to time
Disconsolate coverlets
Scenes from lonely places
Litter on the streets
You're on your own.
A poetry to my dearest friend
who love sunflowers and hate cancelled plan.

This might not be as aesthetic as you
but I know your favourite color is blue

We used to fight over a boy
now it all turn into soil.

And you left the hostel when we're thirteen
but now we stop hating.

I miss your mother's pulut ayam
bet that your life better than I am.

How is you sister?
sorry for not being a good influencer.

I hope that your father always well
and anything that rhythm with sell.

If you feel misfit and don't belong call me
share with me even if it just a cup of tea.
Thinking of You Sep 2015
So easy to say.
So hard to get past.
I've always had a little bit of it reflected inwardly because I've never been able to attain the appearance I wanted. I've never been quite thin enough. My hair has never been quite long enough. My skin never quite clear enough. And because of this its caused me to doubt other areas. If I can't get in peak physical shape, what makes me think I can become financially independent?  Get a good job?  Start my own business? If I can't control something as simple as a complexion, hair follicle or calorie, how do I think I can take on the outside world?

It's the doubt that eats you.
It's the doubt that tucks you into your grave with the could haves because you cancelled yourself out.
You're problem is not in your thighs or uneven eyebrows. Your problem is you think they're your problem.

Stop taking yourself out.
You are worthy.
You are so. worth. loving.

There is a flower that Bees prefer—
And Butterflies—desire—
To gain the Purple Democrat
The Humming Bird—aspire—

And Whatsoever Insect pass—
A Honey bear away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her—capacity—

Her face be rounder than the Moon
And ruddier than the Gown
Or Orchis in the Pasture—
Or Rhododendron—worn—

She doth not wait for June—
Before the World be Green—
Her sturdy little Countenance
Against the Wind—be seen—

Contending with the Grass—
Near Kinsman to Herself—
For Privilege of Sod and Sun—
Sweet Litigants for Life—

And when the Hills be full—
And newer fashions blow—
Doth not retract a single spice
For pang of jealousy—

Her Public—be the Noon—
Her Providence—the Sun—
Her Progress—by the Bee—proclaimed—
In sovereign—Swerveless Tune—

The Bravest—of the Host—
Surrendering—the last—
Nor even of Defeat—aware—
What cancelled by the Frost—
Sally A Bayan Jul 2018
The sight of rain,
of wet clothes, wet plants,
wet doorsteps, wet hopes and dreams,
and, that known scent of sadness and grief
all these...create soggy, sluggish minds

we just lost two dogs to the virus
the glum of monsoon rains affects the moods
the "yays" from cancelled classes
have all passed...
sun is shining, not too bright, though,
peeps like a tease, but,
enough to dry the ground...

i see vacant lots...almost naked now
motor's droning hum is a lullaby
that lulls the mind
a strong smell stirs the nostrils and
defines a welcome pleasance...
i sniff....and chase away sadness,
with this intriguing scent
.....of freshly cut grass....


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    July 25, 2018
MarkCurious Jul 2015
Tilt past the uncertain
I replied with the molten
form of my disillusion
that I want to leave a precaution
for a manner speaking,
I work like there's no beginning
nor end to what I offer
and the rest of my co-worker.
We'd trudge to get home
and the wanting to go alone.
Will the drizzle ever stop
or will the week gets tough?
Mollee Nelson Jul 2016
Dear Daddy,
you found out mommy was pregnant. you told her how happy you was and how you would always be there. you said that you was excited and loved us both, you said you couldn’t wait until you finally got to meet me.
i can’t wait to meet you either Daddy!

Dear Daddy,
i heard mommy crying and really upset.
she said something about another women.
she said she hated you.
but don’t worry I’m still here
i can’t wait to meet you Daddy!

Dear Daddy,
i was just born, you gave my soul a look that said you would always be there
you helped mommy give me a name!
Mollee Ann Langemkamp
wow today was great.
I finally got to meet you Daddy!

Dear daddy,
im a day old and you already are mad at mommy infront of me.
i can’t see you but i can hear your anger.. i can feel your anger
Mommy gave me a have a new name
Mollee Ann Nelson
I guess we will have to meet again Daddy!

Dear Daddy,
i can remember you and mommy fighting over me.
you dragged her down the driveway while she was in the car.
my brother drove after us.
he wanted to **** you
your lucky i looked over my shoulder to stop him.
Because if i didn't.. then Bubby said you would have met god...

Dear Daddy,
its christmas and boy am i excited.
I’m five and begged Mommy for this new dress.
i hope you come this time.
this time i have a good feeling.
maybe ill get to see you and meet your new girlfriend!

Dear Daddy,
its christmas again.
I’m six.
you called.
but you didn’t show.

Dear Dad,
you have been missing a lot of visits
i don’t know why
i cry a lot over you
why aren’t you here..
Did i do something dad..

dear dad,
im 10.
you called mommy asking why she was trying to put you in jail.
you got mad so you ended the call
you called back
i think it was the first time i heard your voice in almost a year.
the first words you said to me were “hey brat how old are you now?”
brat.. rung in my ears..

Dear Chris,
i haven’t heard from in you in two years.
im 12
you fought to get custody of me
the judge didn’t allow it but he let you visit
five hours max
i cancelled a lot
so did you

Dear Chris,
its been four years
i can barely remember what you sound like

dear ***** donor,
you contacted me the morning of my 18th birthday
i went off
you tried to make me feel bad
i didn’t give a ****

I was given someone who decided they would no longer care. They would bail out before i could correctly form words into sentences. I was given a father who as barely even a stranger in my life.
But i was also given a brother who made my life much different..

dear Bubby,
You found out mom was pregnant.
Boy was that a shocker huh, 20 years apart from you will be fun!!!!
I can't wait to meet you!

Dear Bubby,
You was there to help mom when she was crying about Daddy and a woman.
Wow i can tell your going to be a great brother!
I can't wait to meet you!

Dear Bubby,
You was there when i was born.
you were so excited to meet me.
You told mom she was making a mistake by letting me take my fathers last name.
You and him meet with a lady to fix the problem.

Dear Bubby,
Mollee Ann Nelson
Our last name
Wow Bubby i think its so cool you helped mom
Its like meeting a whole new me

Dear Bubby,
Mom fell out of the car when Daddy was backing out of the drive way.
You were really mad.
You told Daddy he was going to meet god.

Dear Bubby,
I know you want me to spend christmas with our family but Its Daddys turn to have me.
Boy am i excited
Im five and i begged mommy for that new velvet dress you like so much.
I have a good feeling Daddy will come this time.
Im supposed to meet his girlfriend but you seem unamused.

Dear Bubby,
Its christmas again.
Im six and you cuddle me while i sob because daddy didn't show...again
You called saying i would have a new sister to meet.. Thats a good gift i guess..

Dear Bubby,
Every visit he missed you were there..
You held me close and told me it wasn't my fault..
You knew he was braking my heart
You knew you would meet a different person.

Dear Bubby,
Do you remember how angry i was when he hung up.
When i questioned why he didn't want to talk to me?
But don't worry he called me back.
He didn't even remember how old i was..
Its like we were meeting at a reunion..

Dear Bubby,
We were both confused when he tried to get custody of me back.
We laughed and the judge must have too.
He was allowed five hours max
I cancelled on you because i was in power to do so.
Your meets will have to wait

Dear Bubby,
I don't remember what he even sounds like..
Do you?

Dear Bubby,
I remember how happy you were for me when i was finally able to tell my ***** donor how i felt about him.
To bad it had to wait until i was 18 huh!
Sorry this is so long <3
Ben McDermott Sep 2015
Today is cancelled,
woke up to storm,
inside my head,
and a pain,
in my heart.
The reconstruction,
of my mind,
is backed up,
and the energy,
went out again.
So I'll go back to sleep,
with a hat over my eyes,
and start again tomorrow
Cassie King Jul 2011
Look at you
You disgusting little girl
Your hair’s a mess
Greasy; pimply; ugly
Teeth not white enough
Eyebrows too thin
Makeup done wrong
Just give up already
Walk to the mirror, tubby
Your thighs too large
Your arms flabby
They say your skinny
Who believes them?
You don’t eat some days
You say you’re not hungry
Plus, it’s too “mainstream”
You love food
That’s your problem
Think back on today *****
You yell at them
You think your life is so hard
You make theirs miserable
Ruin what little happiness they have
Worst sister ever
Why should they ever love you?
You don’t even know what love is!
You think you do
You don’t

You ruined another friendship
You thought you were in love. Ha!
You ruin everything
You’ve ruined yourself
Arms out
Wrists up
Examine the scars
Anger and hurt
Permanently displayed
Scars; burns; signs
The world can see
Just another ******* statistic
You like that, hipster?
Didn’t think so

Oh the labels
Do you want to be classified?
Hipster; depressed; hippie; cutter
How do those even go together?
You confuse people
You don’t even know what you are
What you want
What you want to be
You wear your heart on your sleeve
You dress like a freak
Outrageous clothes
Stupid hair
Trying to make an impression?
Make people remember you?
It’s working
And not in a good way

Are you crying?
Wipe the tears from your eyes, you baby
You cry over everything
The last 48 hours
And yet you smile
You disgust me
You hide it
All too well
Are you faking the tears for attention?
Or are you just plain manipulative?
Manipulative of yourself
Your thoughts; feelings

Oh, stop crying over him!
It’s your fault
You broke his heart
Like a twig
The day you broke up with him
You gave up
You quitter
You were scared of his love
Scared of your feelings
They weren’t perfect
So you ran
You’re so messed up
You ruin the good things
The ONLY good things you have
Do you think he’ll want you back?

Then another
He was a great friend
You were scared of him
Of the things that made him him
You cancelled
Lies and blames followed
Mad at each other
You said good bye
And because you’re a stubborn ***
Don’t apologize
Erase him from your memories
Cry over what you had
And lost
You ******* baby

Go “escape”
You dreamer
Escape your reality
Dream big
Then give up
You can’t make it
Isn’t that what you always do?
Blame him; I see
It’s not his fault
You just can’t remember
You have no motivation
No goals
You quit too early
I can’t stand to look at you
You disgust me completely
You’re the leftovers
The flaws no one had room for
ALL wrapped up in you instead
You want to be too many things
Everything you’re not
Can’t just be happy, can you?
You want to be the good girl
Want approval
You want to be the bad girl
You want to be crazy
Not a care in the world
You want acceptance
You don’t even know
You’re greedy
You clown
Stop embarrassing yourself
Don’t be proud
It’s not nearly good enough
Stop trying
Maybe one day you’ll get it
We hate you
We all secretly hate
But we hide it because we’re good people
There you go
Just go cry sweetie
Act like everything’s ok
You fake
You poser
You loathful creature
I’d hate to be you
Oh, wait
I am...
It was long ago,
When the competition wasn't tough,
Whenever he went in the field to show the people who's buff.
Then came the down fall,
He shot on goal,
Yet he missed the target,
Seemed like what moved was the pole.

Heart broken he went on to find other recreations,
Hoping at least that would last,
Unlike his non glorious past,
It was like he became a knew caste,
Yet destruction came in the way as an exam he didn't pass,
So he had to attend another class that would cut down his mass,
And take him to the pitch a last.

He finally got in the team,
Life was great,
Or that was what it was like to  seem,
Guess sadness is written in his fate.
The competition was cancelled,
Heart broken getting over it would take a while,
That's when he shed his last tear and his last smile.

Then came a time when he could've cheered up,
His wounds would've healed,
As usual he ran out of luck,
It was a scar and not a wound that his heart yield.
He didn't get the captaincy he deserved,
It was the hardest blow he got,
There's was nothing more he could've suffered,
Then he began to not care a lot.

Living a careless live he opened social media to looks at some good ol' memes,
Not knowing that over here he would find the girl of his dreams.
He didn't try really hard to get her,
But there was nothing that could make him forget her.
Then a shadow came as usual to steal his dream,
She was the best girl he said without being biased,
She stole his heart like an unplanned heist.
But somewhere down the line,
When everything's gonna be fine,
He should know with the perfect girl he's gonna dine,
With the perfect goal he's gonna shine,
Because he should know one thing for sure,
God isn't gonna be quiet no more.
Every person in this world has a friend who means a lot to him but has terrible luck. You gotta support him what soever happens in his life. Never leave a good friend in misery!
Lyra Brown Dec 2012
sometimes i just get so sick
of how fake everyone is to each other like
"Hey, how are you?! You look fantastic!"
i struggle everyday to stay alive and i am running on eight shots of espresso and no sleep
"I'm doing really well, thanks! Yeah, you look great too. I love your shoes where did you get them?"
"Oh thanks, I found them at a thrift store for ten dollars. But I love your lipstick! Where did you get it?"
You don't actually love my lipstick, you just need to return the compliment because you're probably at as much of a loss for words right now as I am
"Oh, thanks, um, some convenience store probably. I don't remember."
Moment of silence
"So how are things at home? How's school? I haven't seen you in a while... Well there was that time we had plans but you cancelled because you had to work or something. It's nice to finally see you."
Yeah I cancelled on purpose and lied about having to work because we have nothing to talk about anymore and you are somehow still so attached to this friendship that has disintegrated that you refuse to acknowledge
"Home is good, school is fine, and yeah sorry about that one time, you know how it is. Work can be pretty unpredictable sometimes! How are you though? How is your boyfriend and all that jazz?"
"Oh my gosh, so great. We're moving in a house together right now, his parents are helping out which is great because I cannot afford a mortgage right now! Hahahaha."
Right, because you're 21 and you have your **** together and I don't but I can't tell you that because you'd never understand and we don't relate on that level of realness wow what do we have in common i can't remember i'm trying to remember but i can't
"Wow, good for you! That's a big step. Well I hope that works out for you. I have to go catch my bus now, but I'm glad we got to catch up, love."
forced hug
"Yeah me too, you are so beautiful and wonderful and I really really miss you. Don't be such a stranger, okay?"
but we are strangers why can't you just admit it to yourself so we can move on
"Yeah! Sorry I just get so busy. Nice to see you too and I miss you lots too. Talk soon?"
Danny Mar 2013

Your mum picked you up in daddy’s BMW,
we had to wait an hour while they scrubbed the brains of another son off the roof of the 125

(Why they built a multi storey car park on top of the bus station is a mystery to me.)

You carefully colour coordinated your files and scrutinized your revision schedules,
we watched nicked CCTV footage of two blokes smoking crack and burning down the bowling pavilion next door

(the old boys never did raise enough to repair it.)

You snubbed each other because of different tastes in jumpers,
we watched acid casualties talk politics with football hooligans

(a hastily rolled joint bridged the obvious gap.)

You lounged in the common room in your study periods,
our lesson got cancelled because John had been smashed in the face with a fire extinguisher

(and our tutor used to be a lifeguard.)

You worried about fashion and discussed the injustice of last night’s X Factor result,
we watched Neil’s head crash into his keyboard after he’d scoffed all his methadone in one go

Arthropod King Nov 2011
I tried, believe me, I did.

If only you could have been there to watch it.

I ran inside myself.

I drowned within my spirit.

I swam in a sea of blackness, filled with my essence.

I felt my warmth.

I cocooned myself inside this body, and cancelled any outside resonations.

I turned inward and made my concience backwards.

I ducked, the ever-flowing world passing me atop my head.

I curled into nothingness.

I became dissolved.

I felt my spirit.

And just like he told me,

I merged with myself.

And nothing changed.
I cancelled my bank overdraft
Cut my cards up in a small pile
Actually, it was quite large you know
And this act made me smile

Just deal with cash from here on out
Never buy more than I need
It released a weight off of my shoulders
And deep down I felt freed

fiscally conservative
financially responsible
My nation cannot do it
Without me as an example
No more fees for paying late
If I need it I pay cash
Budgets I will follow
And spending...that I'll slash

Can you imagine if a nation
Took this simple thought to mind
Just pay with what we make from tax
And leave what we can't afford behind

No missiles, and no foreign debt
We're just beholding to ourselves
It's politically reprehensible
But, we owe it to ourselves

fiscally conservative
financially responsible
My nation cannot do it
Without me as an example
No more fees for paying late
If I need it I pay cash
Budgets I will follow
And spending...that I'll slash

No government agendas
To trade for that we can't afford
It would ***** the nations bankers
And make the economists quite bored

To be responsible for our actions
We are taught right from the start
don't spend the money you don't have
Well, to me...that's really smart

fiscally conservative
financially responsible
My nation cannot do it
Without me as an example
No more fees for paying late
Spending I will slash
My budget I will follow
And from now on pay just cash
I was challenged by Dark Artisan to write something on fiscal conservatism. Here is my answer to that challenge, I hope you like it.
Amanda Goodness Jun 2013
You were cruel.
Your hands were cold,
Tearing open my legs.
You liked it when I screamed.
You liked it when  I cried.
Your laughter cut like diamonds.
You made me feel like trash.
You cancelled all my doubts,
With even worse doubts,
With nightmares come true.
You broke me.
You cut me.
You scarred me.
You scared me.
You ruined me.
You liked it when I plead.
You liked it when I begged.
Your laughter cut like diamonds.
A diamond in the rough way you treated me.
You broke me.
You smashed me.
You liked it when you destroyed me.
Ryan Farina Mar 2015
I saw you the other day for the first time in a while alive and well,
You were happy and had plans for your future
But when I saw you today,
You weren't so well.
All your happiness and plans have been permanently cancelled.
Now you're gone
this isn't a goodbye. But instead is a see you later. So see you later old friend

Departed—to the Judgment—
A Mighty Afternoon—
Great Clouds—like Ushers—learning—
Creation—looking on—

The Flesh—Surrendered—Cancelled—
The Bodiless—begun—
Two Worlds—like Audiences—disperse—
And leave the Soul—alone—
Nothing Personal Aug 2012
We forgot to make love last night,
yet again like many other nights
we remained distant islands separated by
Bermuda's of bed sheet and air.
The body wasn't very happy
Those thousands of red cells inside you
divided and redivided in anger
Ached and oozed and broke free
from your restless

When I woke up this morning,
I found you lying in a pool of blood.
You decided to go to work
After all it was a Friday and
the long weekend was a week away.

You take too many iron supplements
I fear, one day your body will be so full of folic acid
that it will cry.

We have the Smokies lined up for October
and the Cayman Islands in Christmas
Thinking of planned vacations makes me go to work
every day
Even though I ****
so bad
that I'd rather open a book store
and read all day
and sell a book or two.

My life is still all about you
After all these years
I still couldn't kiss that woman who
asked me on a coffee date at 10 pm by the lake.
or the one who found me cute on our album by the dressing table
You would say "Go ahead , we are not married yet".
I would laugh when I am alone,
thinking of the all the things you say
these days.

You say all the good things in life needs planning
marriage, kids,
buying house on mortgage
convertible sport coupes
vacations in South Pacific.
I find it ironic that I met you on a book store
when I cancelled a TGIF party and had this sudden urge
to buy Alice Munro's short stories.

We were sweet, back then.
Now you lie,
about being anemic on your weekly routine checkup
your biopsy report soon afterwards;
lie again,
on the reason of your sudden cancellation of the planned vacations for the year end
saying it's work.

Then you disappear, terrify me
Only to come back strands of hair gone from your head
still say nothing,
yet finally disappear saying nothing before I could buy us
the last vacation together.
I regret how much we could have done
if we made love more often
my body healing yours
resting, soothing,
purging all the enemies.

On the day when we supposed to be married
I visit the Caymans
laughing alone in a crowded beach
thinking about all the things you used to say these days
having Alice Munro's short stories for company.
Connor Jan 2017
Star spangledgraciousness
An empty vessel
Yet not without its redwine
Red wine
& sourness of past inhabitants
The fog of Manhattan
Cries the whale of night
In a street of slurred bodies
& electrical heads &the; train is late &excusemepleasesorrythankyou;
& directionless/compliancy is for the agents who don't know rhythm i can speak the tongue of a sweatfaced
Painterman or
The kindly blind
Who haven't the time for soreness

Its all soupNmute screamin!!!g

"Ur dryer has been faulty /
The showerhead makes cruel sounds!"

My Beltbuckle healthier than
Leather!of my shoe (a horn from up the block)

Rosesmile lovely faces
Being uplifted by balloons &
Kissing hymns

(RedwineRED wine)

Impolite barter
Or 75 cents in Metro
Paused for Rodenticide

(green neon coffin)
Coughing neon green


HERE is a wailingCannonBall
Creating a space of drums
And dancing or microphoneAAA

Golden cloud & dripping halo
Words cannot hurt these saintly scenes
of a
Light caught in the rain
As mist rises u p
From my fleecy walk
& protest sirens orchestrate
/X and O/
               Do not mind the slipping
               Or poorly-tended meadows coming up thru
      Grains to cigarette ash
      Rolling daintly upon the marblefloor
      I have seen scholarly tearjerkers
      Preach about the elevator
      Blinking the signal of the soul
      And potplant lids
      Fantasizing of Mothers
      To shoeshine their world
      A (         eniwder

Note of
Myself put into the hardwood of

The blunder
Of thought itself

For a fool beneath a bridge to find
& smoke with aching feetNplastic
Speaking plastic musings to

The plastic of the falsely opposed
And unable to prove why this country hates them so much

(which begs the question)
Candles keep to the museum of headaches & irony

I keep to this narrow night under the
Attic of West 3rd

Wishing for a place to rest easy
Except these foreigners slam their

Quiet fists to the map of New York City instead

This sort of passion for
The stone and it's
Bulbous radiant
While simultaneously
Brushing them away with nervous laughter
Can only be caused by

Spending too much time at the beach
Reading playwrights.
for E.E Cummings

New York, 2017

— The End —