"castrated" poems
Municipal Gum was written by Oodjeroo Noonecaal. Municipal Gum is about the changes in society and the tendency of people to want to control everything. Oodjeroo uses various techniques to convey this idea.
At the beginning of the poem Oodjeroo is addressing the tree. This immediately creates empathy for both the tree and her people. By the last line she has emphasised this with the pronoun “us” to show that they suffer a similar fate.
This poem expresses how life in Australia has changes especially for Aboriginal people. In the first half of the poem Oodjeroo is talking about how life was for her and others. It explores the changes in society and the displacement of the Aboriginal people from their land.
“Whose head hung…Its hopelessness”, the author uses this as further re-iteration of the immorality of the situation and by the use of analogy comparing the tree to her people to further emphasise the shame and lack control of that the Europeans have inflicted upon her and the environment.
Oodjeroo uses extended metaphor technique in the very first line of the poem ‘Hard bitumen around your feet’. This means that the gumtree has been placed in the city scape where it is suppressed and not allowed to spread out and be unique in its own way. This is clear and immanently direct link to the pain and suffering endured by the Aborigines post European settlement.
Oodjeroo uses vivid language to present these ideas. For example the use of the word castrated is very effective. The connotation of the word is very demeaning. With castration often comes a sense of a loss of pride and power. The word castration is symbolic of how Oodjeroo feels the European have treated Aboriginal people and the environment. Castration also refers to the fact that what is done is done. Nothing can undo what they did and the damaged they have caused.
Other symbolism includes the title “Municipal Gum”, municipal meaning community, implies that the gumtree belongs to the community. One of the vast differences between European and Aboriginal law is that Aboriginal people did not believe in the ownership of land or of animals and plants. Municipal Gum is a reference to the Europeans assumptions that everything is theirs to own and control.
The rhetorical question, “O fellow citizen, What have they done to us?” is the conclusion of the implications that have been made throughout the poem. Oodjeroo, is advocating for her people and all things wronged by the controlling behaviour of the Europeans. Rhetorical questions are used to provoke thought and to stimulate a pre-determined response. “What have they done to us?” They have “castrated, broken… strapped and buckled” and ultimately changed things to a point that they cannot be fixed.
In conclusion, Municipal Gum is a poem about the constrictions and change that the European invaders forced upon the Aboriginal community and the environment she believes that the Europeans have deemed themselves ever powerful and practice their power in a manner that is immoral.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
Original French
Dictes moy ou, n'en quel pays,
Est Flora la belle Rommaine,
Archipiades ne Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine,
Echo parlant quant bruyt on maine
Dessus riviere ou sus estan,
Qui beaulté ot trop plus q'humaine.
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
Ou est la tres sage Helloïs,
Pour qui chastré fut et puis moyne
Pierre Esbaillart a Saint Denis?
Pour son amour ot ceste essoyne.
Semblablement, ou est la royne
Qui commanda que Buridan
Fust geté en ung sac en Saine?
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
La royne Blanche comme lis
Qui chantoit a voix de seraine,
Berte au grand pié, Beatris, Alis,
Haremburgis qui tint le Maine,
Et Jehanne la bonne Lorraine
Qu'Englois brulerent a Rouan;
Ou sont ilz, ou, Vierge souvraine?
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
Prince, n'enquerez de sepmaine
Ou elles sont, ne de cest an,
Qu'a ce reffrain ne vous remaine:
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
English Translation
Ballad Of The Ladies Of Yore
Tell me where, in what country,
Is Flora the beautiful Roman,
Archipiada or Thais
Who was first cousin to her once,
Echo who speaks when there's a sound
On a pond or a river
Whose beauty was more than human?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
Where is the leamed Heloise
For whom they castrated Pierre Abelard
And made him a monk at Saint-Denis,
For his love he took this pain,
Likewise where is the queen
Who commanded that Buridan
Be thrown in a sack into the Seine?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
The queen white as a lily
Who sang with a siren's voice,
Big-footed Bertha, Beatrice, Alice,
Haremburgis who held Maine
And Jeanne the good maid of Lorraine
Whom the English bumt at Rouen, where,
Where are they, sovereign ******
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
Prince, don't ask me in a week
or in a year what place they are;
I can only give you this refrain:
Where are the snows of yesteryear?
9.4k
Paul Johnson was a mad psychopath.
He had killed hundreds of women in his life all by himself.
He never used any tools to **** He barehandedly killed those women.
His ex-girlfriend was the reason why he killed.
She had ran away with his brother leaving him hurt so bad like crazy.
His ex-girlfriend was a beautiful blonde.
He chased them for years.
When he found them he brutally killed them.
He mutilated the poor girl into little slices.
He beheaded and castrated his brother.
Then he cast their remains into fire.
Ever since then he had never stopped killing.
His victims were always women aged between 25 and 30.
They're always blonde and blue-eyed.
He strangled them all with his hands before he buried them in his basement.
One day he mistakenly killed a brunette who was wearing a blonde wig and .
He was so startled that he stopped killing and soon after hanged himself
His mother was a beautiful brunette.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 8:09 AM UTC
when i want inspiration to write poetry
i watch a heaving tempest of kisses
they have a better flavor
than cooking shows
what's prettier than pretty pretty
in pigtails
shaking her delicious
derriere whipped Soufflé?
i'm kissing butter princess
witchy ****
spread lickity splits
eating her
with a big wide **** eating grin
like an open face dagwood
whats more poetic than that hopeful glaring
of
Adonis's plumper in paradise
filling Cleopatra's slathered meringue?
ga-ga-ga-gag me, daddy
merciless, pa-leazze
fluttered big wet talking eyes
like pools of blue honey
getting it zigged zagged
hard against a redraw mouth
throttling fluted gullet
while eager throat gasps
a symphonic music of the spheres
in relentless staccato chokes
lovin her big devil **** splashing
all gym built wonder-boy
a litter of ****** and tongues
licking pig greedy
rapturous milkshake waterfalls
whimpering
mmmmmm
oooh big daddy
oh my ****** god
pillar of colossus
you Tunisian donut you
pierce me like a spoon
through summer guava
who screams like that eating lunch
but a half ate apricot?
better than a football game
I'd rather take her greek
more fun than math or small talk
preferable to a pat on the back at work
or a ridged procession at a funeral
oh beautiful dark fig
squatting crotch candy
bubbling tapioca ***
queen of
spun sugar ****
all pyrotechnics
and fluttering sinews
if you asked most
do they watch ****
they'd grow smug like a senator
or punch you in the mouth
outwardly high-minded
refusing the blessing of a
video **** parade
of pirouetting vaginas
and glistening areolas
for the glory
of the secret ************ ceremony
the *** moralists
only good for a secret ******
living their lives
with passions submerged
and nothing to confess
except for guilty offerings
as they wander through dreamland shopping malls
wanting to know
Victorias ***** little secret
seduced
but not caressed
by
a mouthpiece for castrated dreams
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
What’s more depressing than darkness,
More shameful than a golden fool,
As hopeless as a castrated bull,
As frustrating, as a stalemate, in chess?
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
I am a lovesick puppy.
Wanting so badly,
to let my nose rest on someone's ***
and stick my tongue
in their stinker.
Aren't we all lovesick puppies?
don't all our fingers
smell like the unloading dock
where we were first castrated?
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 9:32 PM UTC
Teasing the beast
Looking for a feast
Hounds barking at our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse
Compartmentalizing symptom after symptom
To hide the great systematic sickness
Labeling the suffering, outcome from desire
We, wholeheartedly accepting being
Appropriated, labeled, discarded
As construing our own oppression and sadness
Enduring the **** of our minds
Being castrated of our consciousness
Before we reap the products
Of its bold liberation and grandness
Its the belly of the beast
And its hungry
Insatiable, amoral entrails
Hoping to salvage a feast
From the casualties of d(e)moc(ratic) wars
Hoping we feed our monstrous fear
Thirsting for the greed
Dripping off of accumulating wealths
Impatiently waiting, we keep parceling out grudges
Disfiguring our minds, our souls, and our bodies
Its misanthropic nature lashes out without conscience
Knowing we'll never realize we are masses
Disappearing the individuals who realize their suffering
Ensuring there's no collective opposition or action
Trying to reassure we are weak
Knowing at some point or another
We all act mute, deaf, and blind when anyone experiences:
Oppression
Pain
Silencing
****
Hunger
Fear
Violence
Repression
Retaliation
Discrimination
Torture
Negation
Alienation
All forms of mental, psychological, physical, and spiritual mutilation
Fearing death more than fighting for necessary abolishment
Preferring to live out our veiled miseries
Endorsing their continuance
Instead of risking our lives for everyone's liberation
Always ensuring the feast of the beast
By its very efforts trying to decree our very human nature
Ingraining greed, fear, animosity, and weakness as if inherent of us
All parts of its most damaging weapon: the seed of discord
Its implantation, a socialized deep desire for self-preservation
Sheep bleating painfully toward our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse
Signifying the impending recapturing
Of our true transformative desires
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
If only I could write you a poem
From a music perspective
I'd scream all day that
I hate that I love you.
I'd smoke ****
get really high
Numb my days with morphine
and totally blackout
If only I could write you a poem
From a death perspective
I'd remind you of dreams
Strive for what you believe in
give a ****
and for as long as you are alive
never say I wish i knew
If I write you a poem
From a poet perspective
I won't tell you that my heart is broken
I'd say Its been wrenched
Castrated,
It's an empty weight
It has been ruthlessly devoured
If only I could write you a poem
From a love perspective
I'd argue that it's only a feeling
that needs more analysis
It's the only acceptable
form of insanity globally
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 1:32 PM UTC
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was...
list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch,
dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston,
fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield,
haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson,
jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey,
lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand,
neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel -
i'll be an albino in Gujarat
if your play the sitar in a sari;
but your name sounds a bit migrant
revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus'
you seem to stand on -
you want the Mongolians resurrected?
i swear we were being ousted in line
of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon:
'olive skinned throughout the geography
and the unwelcome green men on
sponged-knickers creaming for an ******
a french dessert...'
yes pretty prior, you found home on a
continent when half of the european nations
didn't practice colonial antics -
i guess it's easier to pick on them.
but with a Patel surname you sound british
already, the great experiment worked
the anaesthetic of former colonialism
numbed via recreational Ketamine use
really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles -
i hate, i hate being conscripted into
post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed"
what a waste of the urban hubs of
Manchester or Liverpool -
where once artistic expression thrived -
i hate these post-colonial societies,
it's as if they were castrated en masse,
and they're wondering why no one has a permanent
suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet -
cinnamon up your *** magician's trick with
space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick
but then the cough that blinds you sweetly -
i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to
listen to non-colonial nationalism -
a former migrant like pretty plated smell
olive skinned exploited inversion of angers
but dunked a footstep into a trip-up
with non-colonial nations -
a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel
is a name least likely associated with migration;
you teasing the beast out?
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
I heard my song
on the twisted radio.
It sent me on a path
that I didn't want to go.
It rang up my past
of hate and deceit.
Sad song of yesterday
gone down in defeat.
It ***** through the straw
of castrated demands.
The beat of the drum
plays in the band.
Put in my place
from every note played.
It's the last song I hear,
I don't want to stay.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
Forty days and Forty nights
Kachina dolls danced
pounding deer skin drums
rattling snake gourds
whistling circles of
flustered chicken feathers and totem poles
around the drooping firmament
here and there wisps of
sunken chested, shrunken breasted
castrated clouds dragging their empty
rain barrels could be seen straggling
across heat infested waves
at times I swear I could hear the wind
cussing through dry crackling branches
Pine wearing wide brimmed straw hats
squabbling with over bleached blond Palms
How we languished and thirsted for the
dulcet, pure, pellucid taste of Your crystal kisses
lavender squeaky clean smell of rain-bells
oh! to feel those torrents gushing down our
upturned faces, slicked back hair,
engulfing our flowering *****
drenching us to the bone
then this morning we heard an unfamiliar sound
fairy feet tap-dancing on rooftops
excited I ran outside
crowing the Gayatri mantra
flapping prema pink wings
waddling like a duck in slap happy puddles
Yes, Dear God
a grateful, thankful swan,
gossamer reflection
glistening fervently up at You
from diaphanous depths
inexhaustible wellspring
diamond spa of Your Love
Hari Om
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Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
Scars will be scars,
the ones left untouched,
the ones left unharmed.
The wound has healed,
the time has sealed,
yet the remnants remain still.
The broken past:
fraction, fragment, fabricated;
solemn, dark, barren.
captured, cultivated, castrated.
emotionally torn,
physically torn,
psychologically sworn.
(When will the bird fly,
up to the sky,
freedom beneath the size
of the azure limitless dye).
We find comfort in sorrow,
fulfillment in hollow,
but emptiness continues and follow.
When will the shadows ever stop linger,
slipping and interweaving between my finger.
(One day maybe good news will come from a harbinger).
Light is what I need,
smile is what I seek.
Happiness is what I have to lead,
even with this little heart which is meek.
(One day) I will fly,
the cages will stop stifling me by,
although it is hard to try,
(One day) I will survive.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 11:20 AM UTC
Nightfall, through the door,
Bedsprawl, a ritualistic bore. Movements, they're oppressive. Actions, they're aggressive but his eyes, they're depressive.
Our synthetic connection and self-hatred is created with projection and misplaced indignation. There is no love in our heads, no lust in our beds. The fear of emasculation and eternal damnation hides all self-loathing with boasting and congruent clothing.
My Y was castrated. I'm a ****** from the womb. I'm Female, for unsated gloom my X is berated. I'm named a disgusting mutation as he projects his deveation onto the population.
When his shameful "pride" has diminished, I know our joyless formality has finished. He doesn't sit in the pew, yet he stands in the aisle, locked in a prison of denial. Tough and brisant, trying to be what he isn't. He walks out like a ragdoll, his steps aneurysmal with alcohol.
Beside myself, salty tears act as an anaesthetic, the antonym of emotion. An apathetic ocean.
I clutch my centre, the daunting tormentor. Impregnation is a STD, an infection, an infestation. Glue for our miseries to undo our joys. Merriment induced torment, fidelity induced gaiety
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
Unmanned, like a bull bereft of all;
a flaccid decoration without use;
at least if thee had what I have
thou could be a woman; ******
hiding your treasure for marriage
and hypocrisy. And leave me
with empty decoration; rings
without sense, dresses without purpose.
Go about your business thou say
I want nothing to do with thee now;
yet not a month ago it was all Peggy this,
Peggy that; such are the changes
of the seasons. I do not want to give birth
to an empty ache; wet nurse it; teach it
its father's worth; I cannot tell the ache
how we loved, how we met, how we joyed.
I cannot sit round this mughouse days
and months I must out into the world
roll in the smell of Man again
with a jug of ale in one hand
and earning a stony crust
from some wight with a jangling purse.
And forget the bull that was castrated.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC
To the other guy
I only have five things to say to you.
1. The ring on her left hand doesn't mean she was playing hard to get. You thought you were winning her heart yet you're just a champion of second place. You gave your whole heart to a woman who only finds you good enough to give you half of hers.
2. If her love was a diet, you would be nothing but the cheat meal. You're like the slice of chocolate cake in the fridge; she has to sneak around at midnight to indulge, but wouldn't dare eat it in broad daylight.
3. Her daughter now looks at her with the same teeth-gritting, gut wrenching disgusted look that a Muslim has towards a pig. You came in like a wrecking ball and wrecked the first home she was proud of building. And you weren't even there to help pick up the pieces. A man like that should be castrated, but you'd need to grow a pair first.
4. If something is broken, you fix it. You don't destroy it.
5. I'm talking to you, because I wanted you to realize all that you destroyed without even thinking twice. I wanted you, the man in the mirror, to see what your selfishness selfishly took.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
All those little trinkets,
bracelets, rings and even a boombox,
that he had others bring to me,
They were all stolen goods that vexed people would come and claim back time after time.
I never had the heart to tell him to stop.
He reminded me too much of a stray cat who’d finally found a temporary home,
where he would bring tributes to
his mistress feet.
When I asked him what he was doing sleeping outside
my front door.
He blushed and mumbled,
that he would protect me from bad guys who could break in
and steal me away.
How crazy and scary of a notion was that?
And yet....
He made me think of a dancing bear who finally could scent freedom without chains.
The day
when they came to take him away.
...
I tried to tell them that he would never hurt me.
That he merely collected broken shards of scattered treasures
that deep inside him spoke about who he really was,
before the drugs castrated his future self.
Later...
When going through the rubble he left behind,
I found the glimmer of a hauberk
forged for an Avalonian knight.
Jun 26, 2022
Jun 26, 2022 at 10:56 AM UTC
I sit here
Desperately soaking up
Whatever information I can find
I can dig up
I know that I am not meant
To be doing this right here, right now
Yet I continue
I hope that I can take in all of this
That I can find whatever
Little bit
That will help to stop the slight shake
*Take away the coldness
Of my fingers*
In desperation, I look up similar incidents
That have occurred and I try
To figure out
If there is any end to this sheer insanity
A reason for which
This cursed world doesn't deserve
To end tomorrow
I search, I search, I surf
Trying to find some information
That tells me this world
Is not as cursed as it appears to be
*My fingers are still cold
They're still shaking a bit*
I am still shocked
I might just be panicking a bit
All I want right now
Is some solution
Some answer
To these rapes that have occurred
I want to be blind again
I don't want to know
That these dumbfoolishdisgusting
men (creatures) felt that that woman deserved it
I need to know that this isn't some god-complex
I need to know that deep inside no one wants to protect them
I want to see them castrated, locked up, executed
I need them to be done away
Because they need to be made an example of
Women cannot step out of their houses
Without being terrified
I am tired of controlling my fist
When someone suggests it was the clothes they wore
That that is what attracted them
I can't stop the shaking
That is attributed more towards anger
Than anything else
I need something done
Our pity won't bring her shattered sanity back
It won't make her ready to trust
Any man ever again
Our pity marches
With candles and tears in our (her) eyes
Will not make her feel anything but
disgust (hatred)
Towards herself
**A shattered mind,
An injured body,
A broken trust**
She has lost these things
And they
They just seem bent
On blaming it
On scraps of cloth
*(are you ******* kidding me?)*
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC
Whenever people see that dog,
they think of drooling,
hunger
and
boredom,
that dog
bit a few people
so they castrated him,
and he lays in the corner
all day,
licking at fur,
nuzzling out his pink ****
with his tongue,
and he's bored of being a dog,
he's just bored
of being alive.
That dog
comes to his bowl
like a ward of the state,
like he has to
and doesn't want to.
That dog
plops down at the back door
staring at himself in the glass
and the world outside
all day,
and sometimes they
rub his head,
most times
they just let him lie.
That dog
won't bark
for anything,
even when
he sees that *****
across the street,
he doesn't have it any more.
That dog
wants something now
more than anything else.
That dog
with his ability
to make you think
of ropes of saliva,
belly's bloated with malnutrition,
and watching tv all day;
that dog
wants to love something
the way he used to love
everything.
What'll happen
when they finally give that dog
a bone?
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
I want to be a dog's growl:
as rough as bark.
As I ruff and I bark
until my throat bleeds,
down my tongue,
and clots, choking me.
Strangling my anger.
I want to bite God's hand
and taste the scars and lines.
I want to run alongside
the downfall of man
like I'm chasing cars.
Waiting to be run over.
I want to be castrated,
neutered,
so I can fall in line,
so I can conform,
so I can be me in a sea
of nobody else.
I want to be beaten
with a chain
attached to my neck.
I want to be on t-v.
I want to be saved.
I want to betray trust.
Generic. Generic.
I want to be like this poem:
generic, you martyr.
You genocidal ****
You deadbeat.
You racist.
You sexist.
You intolerant ****
I want to chew off
my trapped leg.
I want to be a dog's growl.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
Through the centuries, ecclesiastical types have called poets deviants and inferred we would burn in Hell for our heresy. I've often wondered what the rhymes of a condemned poet might look like...
#1
The serpent got
a ***** wrap
as well as did
the Jews
And if you read
between the lines
you won't believe
The news
#2
As I'm not
a Christian
I think it
quite odd
That I should
be punished
by a biblical
God
#3
God the father
and his boy
appear to find
the greatest joy
deciding who
will sing or fry
in pits of Hell
or Heaven’s sky
Me thinks I’d
rather burn in Hell
for truth be told
I don't sing well
Besides in Heaven’s
realm I hear they’ve
put a ban on wine
and beer
#4
Scribbled notes
on wrinkled pages
offer up my
rants and rages
To the gods
both big
and small
who really
don't exist
at all
#5
Going to Hell
is not my intention
For Hell I believe
is your little
invention
Ingeniously
Crafted for
scaring the
masses
By threatening
Flame if they
don't kiss your
*****
#6
Such a simple
happenstance
No books to
study true
No condemning
sermons from
the everlasting
Jew
And since
His love
is only for
the chosen
and the few
I think I'll pass
on Sunday Mass
I've better things
to do
#7
Galileo’s castrated
brilliance shackled
to an empty cross
as demonic paramours
burn in the city square
#8
Rest assured
the herd will
follow the absurd
proclamations’
and the institution's
philosophical solution
to the daily grind
that binds us all
to this stalled
morality we
have mistaken
for God
#9
'Peace on earth
and love thy neighbor'
Cried the man with
cross and saber
Even as he slaughtered
millions for the crime
of pagan birth
#10
Cups and saucers
filled with gold
but not a cent
may we behold
for we are not
among the few
selected by the
ancient Jew
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
White Man! White Man!
You dare come and conquer this country?
This corner of the continent
Construct your castles with crystal windows
Looking out on a foaming sea
Model your marble walls, polished and pristine
On your porcelain teeth: terrible and tough
Paint clouds on the ceiling with paper fingers
Papyrus skin crumpling with age
Your knights galloped in on young geldings
Castrated to keep them clean
Like the sterile white cloths draped across their clavicles
You’d scar this landscape
With a squat whitewashed town
Matt and peeling
Dishevelled and overgrown
Black Man! Black Man!
You dare come and claim this country?
My corner of the continent
Behind boulders and barren hills
Coalfires choke the burned sky
I’m breathing in your smoke but at night
Your bullet-holes in the firmament glint
As stars glimpse the belching flame
Of your volcanic pride
Your bearded bishops bludgeoning
The bloodied populace of pockets of resistance
Scorched brown eyes smouldering
From here to the horizon
Of mournful ashen mountains, blunt and black
You’d build your walls of black onyx
Cold, hard and brutal
So let the battle-lines be drawn
Let us duel to the death until we mix
Into that emotional grey area between man and man:
Peace
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Political policies; panhandled; purchased
Options? Opinions? Opted out
Like lemming lightly leaping
Instead interested in intre$t
Taken totally to the top
Individuals internally interrupted
Casually castrated, cautiously captured
Some sad sadistic soul
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 8:43 PM UTC
in the Land of Zanzibar
are the Black souls
with bruises and scars
chopped heads
and
castrated bodies
buried beneath
the planted magnolia trees
are the severed heads and
bodies of African slaves
who dared to look
at the Arab Women
are the
planted magnolia seeds
for we weep
what we sow
in the
Land of Zanzibar
that
we still know
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
Everything I heard amazed me,
The treasure fleet's sixty two ships,
commanded by a powerful ******
Gone, he was captured,
he was castrated,
three jewels, from a dying Prince.
The Cheng ** had sailed from Malaku Island;
sight of flags, sound of bells,
guided them to Calicut.
Deny the social scientist,
cultural baggage prevails,
abstract freedom, kindling of change.
Moaning monsoon winds linger,
the allure of sparkling moons wax,
and dormant black seas swell.
The noble adventure of death begins,
where the legacy of leadership ends,
and stars trust him with their thoughts.
© christhamF 2011
Jul 3, 2011
Jul 3, 2011 at 11:22 AM UTC