"centipede" poems - Hello Poetry

"centipede" poems

there was a little centipede a disabled chap was he one leg it was missing just below the knee he made a little crutch from a twig he found so he wouldnt fall as he walked around. he looked very funny with his little stump everytime he walked you could hear a thump now he has a false leg he threw his crutch away he still roams around to this very day.

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Oct 24, 2014

Oct 24, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC

william-worthless-1

disabled centipede

there was a little centipede a disabled chap was he one leg it was missing just below the knee he made a little crutch from a twig he found so he wouldnt fall as he walked around. he looked very funny with his little stump everytime he walked you could hear a thump now he has a false leg he threw his crutch away he still roams around to this very day.

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70 “Arcturus” is his other name— I’d rather call him “Star.” It’s very mean of Science To go and interfere! I slew a worm the other day— A “Savant” passing by Murmured “Resurgam”—”Centipede”! “Oh Lord—how frail are we”! I pull a flower from the woods— A monster with a glass Computes the stamens in a breath— And has her in a “class”! Whereas I took the Butterfly Aforetime in my hat— He sits ***** in “Cabinets”— The Clover bells forgot. What once was “Heaven” Is “Zenith” now— Where I proposed to go When Time’s brief masquerade was done Is mapped and charted too. What if the poles should frisk about And stand upon their heads! I hope I’m ready for “the worst”— Whatever prank betides! Perhaps the “Kingdom of Heaven’s” changed— I hope the “Children” there Won’t be “new fashioned” when I come— And laugh at me—and stare— I hope the Father in the skies Will lift his little girl— Old fashioned—naught—everything— Over the stile of “Pearl.”

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4.8k

Emily Dickinson

Arcturus is his other name

70 “Arcturus” is his other name— I’d rather call him “Star.” It’s very mean of Science To go and interfere! I slew a worm the other day— A “Savant” passing by Murmured “Resurgam”—”Centipede”! “Oh Lord—how frail are we”! I pull a flower from the woods— A monster with a glass Computes the stamens in a breath— And has her in a “class”! Whereas I took the Butterfly Aforetime in my hat— He sits ***** in “Cabinets”— The Clover bells forgot. What once was “Heaven” Is “Zenith” now— Where I proposed to go When Time’s brief masquerade was done Is mapped and charted too. What if the poles should frisk about And stand upon their heads! I hope I’m ready for “the worst”— Whatever prank betides! Perhaps the “Kingdom of Heaven’s” changed— I hope the “Children” there Won’t be “new fashioned” when I come— And laugh at me—and stare— I hope the Father in the skies Will lift his little girl— Old fashioned—naught—everything— Over the stile of “Pearl.”

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Eggs, eggs, toss them high in the air Catch em, and gargle, and mash them, and swear Eat them with shells, eat them with sauce Eat them with bags, eat them with moss Eggs, eggs, between sandwich bread That's what the wise elderly miller had said Before came the bomb and he had dropped dead Before being poisoned by a surplus of lead And then came a centipede, long and sanguine And bit a small child, so recently weaned Off the protein derived from his mother's fine eggs So he had to start munching on his mother's fine legs "Be warned" said the Miller, his hair all askew While dousing his wounds with mountains of glue A tapeworm emerged, and looked toward the sky Feeling envy toward all the birds that could fly But the Miller was quicker, even in old age He smacked the worm soundly, in a manner enraged Bruised from the damage, and covered in glue The worm turned away from the sky that was blue Never with pelicans would he fly with delight Never with owls would he soar through the night For all Darwin's cruelty, an injustice rings Tapeworms simply have no need for wings So he bit the old Miller, and laid ten thousand eggs They hatched and devoured his liver and legs And as the man writhed, waiting to die He vomited upward, up toward the sky The tapeworm went flying, up toward the clouds The air felt exhilarating, the rushing wind loud For once in his life, he soared with the birds Then in came a swallow, and bit off a third His body, segmented, fell in parts to the ground Tears seeped from his eyes, his face in a frown From the ground he gazed up into the ominous fog Before being lapped up by an unlucky dog The End

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Jan 19, 2013

Jan 19, 2013 at 1:20 AM UTC

A Pleasant Surprise

Eggs, eggs, toss them high in the air Catch em, and gargle, and mash them, and swear Eat them with shells, eat them with sauce Eat them with bags, eat them with moss Eggs, eggs, between sandwich bread That's what the wise elderly miller had said Before came the bomb and he had dropped dead Before being poisoned by a surplus of lead And then came a centipede, long and sanguine And bit a small child, so recently weaned Off the protein derived from his mother's fine eggs So he had to start munching on his mother's fine legs "Be warned" said the Miller, his hair all askew While dousing his wounds with mountains of glue A tapeworm emerged, and looked toward the sky Feeling envy toward all the birds that could fly But the Miller was quicker, even in old age He smacked the worm soundly, in a manner enraged Bruised from the damage, and covered in glue The worm turned away from the sky that was blue Never with pelicans would he fly with delight Never with owls would he soar through the night For all Darwin's cruelty, an injustice rings Tapeworms simply have no need for wings So he bit the old Miller, and laid ten thousand eggs They hatched and devoured his liver and legs And as the man writhed, waiting to die He vomited upward, up toward the sky The tapeworm went flying, up toward the clouds The air felt exhilarating, the rushing wind loud For once in his life, he soared with the birds Then in came a swallow, and bit off a third His body, segmented, fell in parts to the ground Tears seeped from his eyes, his face in a frown From the ground he gazed up into the ominous fog Before being lapped up by an unlucky dog The End

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“but if you have to move your best friend’s body… …you’re on your own.” Your best friend dies Before your eyes Somehow stays alive Then what? ***** salt-licked hair Brittle and frayed by medicine World’s unfathomable weight Trembling beneath the Wisdom Tree Her whole being crumples (arrugar) But her life-force remains intact Body bone Running on spirit reserves Why is that? She stands and cries Staring into ether I sit Wringing my hands Her tears strike the ground In tree-gecko unison ''' Pacific parasite super-strains Blood coated throat The full range of abuse’s color on all fronts for decades Attempted assaults, **** Dengue Giant Centipede venom to the skull But worst of all Rootlessness and fear the monkey on her back had a monkey on its back and was smoking a cigarette ''' Have you ever seen someone Completely broken? Corpsic shell of a woman Gaunt, wan in the tropics “Don’t put your trust in walls… …walls will only crush you when they fall” Brick-bludgeoned body The shrapnel lay like Sun scorched Novice-woven baskets At her feet But now she can see And breath Real breath ''' Genocide’s a ***** yes. Africans seem fatalistic to Americans Baby boy body, Grandpa human- shield “They’re your babies” Short-lived, yes But now they have peace Witnesses still weave the jungle What do you do with a friend who’s Seen real atrocity? Evil? ''' I’m learning. Prayer is power Will transcends the concrete (Bunkle, too.) She serves realness only Her seeking hands unweave the sacred Time is of no luxury right now Serve people through love and Grace awaits discovery ''' I’ve never carried a bleeding body. I needn’t “fear the terror by night, Nor the arrow by day” But I saw someone perish And resurrect What a gift What a gift Gubaadagem, Tinmad.

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Mar 5, 2013

Mar 5, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC

Crocodile Tears

“but if you have to move your best friend’s body… …you’re on your own.” Your best friend dies Before your eyes Somehow stays alive Then what? ***** salt-licked hair Brittle and frayed by medicine World’s unfathomable weight Trembling beneath the Wisdom Tree Her whole being crumples (arrugar) But her life-force remains intact Body bone Running on spirit reserves Why is that? She stands and cries Staring into ether I sit Wringing my hands Her tears strike the ground In tree-gecko unison ''' Pacific parasite super-strains Blood coated throat The full range of abuse’s color on all fronts for decades Attempted assaults, **** Dengue Giant Centipede venom to the skull But worst of all Rootlessness and fear the monkey on her back had a monkey on its back and was smoking a cigarette ''' Have you ever seen someone Completely broken? Corpsic shell of a woman Gaunt, wan in the tropics “Don’t put your trust in walls… …walls will only crush you when they fall” Brick-bludgeoned body The shrapnel lay like Sun scorched Novice-woven baskets At her feet But now she can see And breath Real breath ''' Genocide’s a ***** yes. Africans seem fatalistic to Americans Baby boy body, Grandpa human- shield “They’re your babies” Short-lived, yes But now they have peace Witnesses still weave the jungle What do you do with a friend who’s Seen real atrocity? Evil? ''' I’m learning. Prayer is power Will transcends the concrete (Bunkle, too.) She serves realness only Her seeking hands unweave the sacred Time is of no luxury right now Serve people through love and Grace awaits discovery ''' I’ve never carried a bleeding body. I needn’t “fear the terror by night, Nor the arrow by day” But I saw someone perish And resurrect What a gift What a gift Gubaadagem, Tinmad.

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Tall round beams standing in salty water, connecting fishermen and star-fish gazers with a moon-shaped bay on the eastern Pacific. They stand on land and step into sea, as rolling barrels from Arctic grounds tickle their lower legs. A centipede of wood, this outward- jutting wharf. The fishermen sink expectant hooks; the surfers haul shiny glass banana-shaped boards of foam; the weekenders come posing baby strollers for picture shooting. Each passing wall of blue energy slows at reach of shallow sand, deciding whether to keep rolling or transform into a steep stack of snapping water. On big days the sea legs shake all the fishermen. They lock away their sacrificial bait in rusty boxes and collapse their fibered rods. On calm days I step out to a wooden bench and hang my face between the rails. Running people pass below, between the knotted hips and creosoted thighs. August buries this preserve in such drizzle. Gulls go bundling inside their sleek robes of white feather, leaning windward on worn bent knees.

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Apr 27, 2015

Apr 27, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC

Old Wharf on the Bay

Tall round beams standing in salty water, connecting fishermen and star-fish gazers with a moon-shaped bay on the eastern Pacific. They stand on land and step into sea, as rolling barrels from Arctic grounds tickle their lower legs. A centipede of wood, this outward- jutting wharf. The fishermen sink expectant hooks; the surfers haul shiny glass banana-shaped boards of foam; the weekenders come posing baby strollers for picture shooting. Each passing wall of blue energy slows at reach of shallow sand, deciding whether to keep rolling or transform into a steep stack of snapping water. On big days the sea legs shake all the fishermen. They lock away their sacrificial bait in rusty boxes and collapse their fibered rods. On calm days I step out to a wooden bench and hang my face between the rails. Running people pass below, between the knotted hips and creosoted thighs. August buries this preserve in such drizzle. Gulls go bundling inside their sleek robes of white feather, leaning windward on worn bent knees.

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your forest’s architecture verdant in spots, and then a stump did the dead leaves ever have a heart beat what made the ballad stop, was it sun? little larva squirming towards a moon and their mama maggots weep – to lose a child, to lose a child when death-creatures want to be an astronaut, the green canopies are bars prosper in the centipede teeth munch fertilizer for a final seed without vertebrae they climb over stars & leave your forest’s architecture crumbling for buzzards.

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Oct 27, 2012

Oct 27, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC

forest’s architecture

your forest’s architecture verdant in spots, and then a stump did the dead leaves ever have a heart beat what made the ballad stop, was it sun? little larva squirming towards a moon and their mama maggots weep – to lose a child, to lose a child when death-creatures want to be an astronaut, the green canopies are bars prosper in the centipede teeth munch fertilizer for a final seed without vertebrae they climb over stars & leave your forest’s architecture crumbling for buzzards.

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Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom Bumming your fat knobs and insert your helmet naked and unashamed Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom Kicking off kick-off, cyborgs brought face to face Tartan sunstroke and may Mumbo Jumbo's **** all lie among you Nine, eleven, seven, thirteen, six, quinquereme, ******** ********* Tweedledum and Tweedledee, unsocial person, erectoffensive! This is Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom You've really ****** the naval officer And the hatchet faces want to know whose blouses you abuse Now it's time to evacuate the ******* if you have a free hand This is Lance Corporal Tom to Masticated Ectoplasm I'm fancy dress dancing through the cat—flap And I'm groping inside a swollen grotesque sailor And the plums look gigantically unusual nowadays Ergo from Land's End to John o' Groats am I piddling in a crumpet slammer Telescopic hindward the lump Uranus Arsenic is scatological And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with With the proviso that I'm Ichabod celibate centipede sextillion heads I'm fondling vigorously paparazzo And I think my sputnik knows which direction to **** Tell my ballbreaker I ****** her vigorously for England, she bonks Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom Your menstrual cycle's kaput, there's oojakapivvygizmo spleen Can you smell me, Lance Corporal Tom? Can you get to the bottom of me, Lance Corporal Tom? Can you delve into me, Lance Corporal Tom? Can you... From Land's End to John o' Groats am I vibrating ring my crumpet criminal lunatic asylum Telescopic hindward the groupie Uranus Arsenic is scatological And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with

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Mar 27, 2010

Mar 27, 2010 at 4:22 PM UTC

******* Type Transvestite

Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom Bumming your fat knobs and insert your helmet naked and unashamed Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom Kicking off kick-off, cyborgs brought face to face Tartan sunstroke and may Mumbo Jumbo's **** all lie among you Nine, eleven, seven, thirteen, six, quinquereme, ******** ********* Tweedledum and Tweedledee, unsocial person, erectoffensive! This is Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom You've really ****** the naval officer And the hatchet faces want to know whose blouses you abuse Now it's time to evacuate the ******* if you have a free hand This is Lance Corporal Tom to Masticated Ectoplasm I'm fancy dress dancing through the cat—flap And I'm groping inside a swollen grotesque sailor And the plums look gigantically unusual nowadays Ergo from Land's End to John o' Groats am I piddling in a crumpet slammer Telescopic hindward the lump Uranus Arsenic is scatological And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with With the proviso that I'm Ichabod celibate centipede sextillion heads I'm fondling vigorously paparazzo And I think my sputnik knows which direction to **** Tell my ballbreaker I ****** her vigorously for England, she bonks Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom Your menstrual cycle's kaput, there's oojakapivvygizmo spleen Can you smell me, Lance Corporal Tom? Can you get to the bottom of me, Lance Corporal Tom? Can you delve into me, Lance Corporal Tom? Can you... From Land's End to John o' Groats am I vibrating ring my crumpet criminal lunatic asylum Telescopic hindward the groupie Uranus Arsenic is scatological And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** *********** with

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There are not enough poems about manatees If you are interested in human rights being kicked like a dog and justice being dragged through mud, you can find it If you are interested in love that aches with a “burning heart” or a “bleeding soul” you can find it If you are interested in death that holds out its hand to you like relief, or takes one too early, you can find it But where, I ask, do you find a badger in a turtleneck? Or a cup of coffee that doesn’t sound so self important? If you’re interested in the ocean or the sea or maybe a single “crushing wave of emotion,” you can find it If you’re interested in God dying to save you, or God abandoning you to the darkness you can find it If you’re interested in athletics— especially running towards dreams and horizons—and losing and winning, you can find it But where, I ask, do you find a good left-handed centipede? Or a wonderful, ice cold beer that doesn’t turn into alcoholism? If you want to find a poem about how the “gray rain spills from the clouds like the pain” you can find it If you don’t want to find a poem about rain you’ll still find it (cause those rain poems are everywhere) If you’re looking for a poem about regret and forgiveness and cruel mercy making false promises, you can find it But where, I ask, do you find a barbarian ballerina? Or a cigarette whose smoke doesn’t outline the shadows of a lost soul? Show me these things, show me a fat manatee, and I will finally take a deep breath and smile

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Apr 19, 2013

Apr 19, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC

Arrogant Coffee

There are not enough poems about manatees If you are interested in human rights being kicked like a dog and justice being dragged through mud, you can find it If you are interested in love that aches with a “burning heart” or a “bleeding soul” you can find it If you are interested in death that holds out its hand to you like relief, or takes one too early, you can find it But where, I ask, do you find a badger in a turtleneck? Or a cup of coffee that doesn’t sound so self important? If you’re interested in the ocean or the sea or maybe a single “crushing wave of emotion,” you can find it If you’re interested in God dying to save you, or God abandoning you to the darkness you can find it If you’re interested in athletics— especially running towards dreams and horizons—and losing and winning, you can find it But where, I ask, do you find a good left-handed centipede? Or a wonderful, ice cold beer that doesn’t turn into alcoholism? If you want to find a poem about how the “gray rain spills from the clouds like the pain” you can find it If you don’t want to find a poem about rain you’ll still find it (cause those rain poems are everywhere) If you’re looking for a poem about regret and forgiveness and cruel mercy making false promises, you can find it But where, I ask, do you find a barbarian ballerina? Or a cigarette whose smoke doesn’t outline the shadows of a lost soul? Show me these things, show me a fat manatee, and I will finally take a deep breath and smile

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¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ perched atop a muddy graze amongst the reefing centipede does lady jade a’ponder days from whence the eldest had decreed. *"what's this a'fuss upon the breeze that sings a song of fallen trees?" **a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn! a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..*** was broadening—a shiver, swift— bespoken of her crown to rest? what way whereby these spirits lift that hide should (of the head) contest? *"what, unbeknownst, should overwhelm this silv'ry shoat, what's felling elm?" **a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn! a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..*** amidst a cruel cacophony, the lady seed, she must concede the razing of her progeny beholden to appease a need. *"what's this in want of dire good that preys upon upholding wood?" **a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn! a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..*** on arbor brawn does ardor dine does earthen daughter march to meet as tireless as the vile design divesting mother's gen'rous teat. *"what subtleties uproot the heart as bodies from their souls depart?" **a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn! a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..***

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Aug 27, 2015

Aug 27, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC

the-sagest-assuager

Fauna's Mourning

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ perched atop a muddy graze amongst the reefing centipede does lady jade a’ponder days from whence the eldest had decreed. *"what's this a'fuss upon the breeze that sings a song of fallen trees?" **a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn! a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..*** was broadening—a shiver, swift— bespoken of her crown to rest? what way whereby these spirits lift that hide should (of the head) contest? *"what, unbeknownst, should overwhelm this silv'ry shoat, what's felling elm?" **a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn! a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..*** amidst a cruel cacophony, the lady seed, she must concede the razing of her progeny beholden to appease a need. *"what's this in want of dire good that preys upon upholding wood?" **a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn! a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..*** on arbor brawn does ardor dine does earthen daughter march to meet as tireless as the vile design divesting mother's gen'rous teat. *"what subtleties uproot the heart as bodies from their souls depart?" **a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn! a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..***

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I hate things that creep, crawl, slither, and sting. But of all these, I hate spiders the most. Why? Because they’re just all … they’re all YUCK! That’s why. Spiders are one of the worst kinds of insects (arachnids but whatever) because they are the only kind that purposely tries to **** with you. See, unlike ants, or caterpillars, or even nasty-old silverfish, spiders don’t care whether or not you know they’re there. These monsters don’t bother to hide from you. Nah, they’re all like, “I know you see me motha’ ***** and I know you ain’t gonna do nothin’ ‘bout it ‘cause you know I’ma just go **** and end up in yo shirt!” One of the most common things that people who aren’t afraid of spiders say is this: “Kevin, you shouldn’t **** spiders.” Me: “Why not?” Them: “Because they eat other bugs.” I think what people don’t realize is that … I don’t care! So what if spiders eat other bugs? I’d rather have the other bugs than have those god-awful things creeping around my house. Whenever someone reminds me that spiders eat other bugs, I honestly wish I had the power to communicate with insects, because as far as I’m concerned we have a common enemy. I would join forces with the flies and ants or whatever to **** every single spider in my house. Then I would betray my new friends and **** them too. Case solved. But, as I think about it, it’s not just spiders that people tell me not to **** because they “eat other bugs.” Now that I think about it, every single thing that “eats other bugs” is also ten times more ******* scary than the things they’re supposed to be killing. Have you guys ever seen a “house spider” sometimes called a “house centipede"? If not, google it right now. That’s the kinda’ thing people tell you not to **** because it eats the other bugs. But just looking at its picture I’m like “holy **** I’ll take a few mosquitoes over that **** any day!” See, what people don’t realize is that I don’t hate spiders just for the sake of hating them. I hate them because when I see one I want to burn my house down and have it rebuilt from scratch. If I fail to **** a spider and the thing runs off, I will not sleep until my target has been apprehended and killed. I will literally sit near the spot it disappeared to with a flashlight and a can of windex until it returns to face its crime of entering my room. O.o yep.

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Jul 2, 2013

Jul 2, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC

Rant of the Arachnophobic

I hate things that creep, crawl, slither, and sting. But of all these, I hate spiders the most. Why? Because they’re just all … they’re all YUCK! That’s why. Spiders are one of the worst kinds of insects (arachnids but whatever) because they are the only kind that purposely tries to **** with you. See, unlike ants, or caterpillars, or even nasty-old silverfish, spiders don’t care whether or not you know they’re there. These monsters don’t bother to hide from you. Nah, they’re all like, “I know you see me motha’ ***** and I know you ain’t gonna do nothin’ ‘bout it ‘cause you know I’ma just go **** and end up in yo shirt!” One of the most common things that people who aren’t afraid of spiders say is this: “Kevin, you shouldn’t **** spiders.” Me: “Why not?” Them: “Because they eat other bugs.” I think what people don’t realize is that … I don’t care! So what if spiders eat other bugs? I’d rather have the other bugs than have those god-awful things creeping around my house. Whenever someone reminds me that spiders eat other bugs, I honestly wish I had the power to communicate with insects, because as far as I’m concerned we have a common enemy. I would join forces with the flies and ants or whatever to **** every single spider in my house. Then I would betray my new friends and **** them too. Case solved. But, as I think about it, it’s not just spiders that people tell me not to **** because they “eat other bugs.” Now that I think about it, every single thing that “eats other bugs” is also ten times more ******* scary than the things they’re supposed to be killing. Have you guys ever seen a “house spider” sometimes called a “house centipede"? If not, google it right now. That’s the kinda’ thing people tell you not to **** because it eats the other bugs. But just looking at its picture I’m like “holy **** I’ll take a few mosquitoes over that **** any day!” See, what people don’t realize is that I don’t hate spiders just for the sake of hating them. I hate them because when I see one I want to burn my house down and have it rebuilt from scratch. If I fail to **** a spider and the thing runs off, I will not sleep until my target has been apprehended and killed. I will literally sit near the spot it disappeared to with a flashlight and a can of windex until it returns to face its crime of entering my room. O.o yep.

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The long spindly legs Of our Lord Centipede Are raw and weak from The way they’ve been dragged Through unforgiving ground It imprints them with sensitivity Till each limb is trained to dodge The earth that makes them weak The slick land of jealousy Or the unsuspecting pebbles of insecurity If a single appendage trips up On such emotional hardships Lord Centipede crashes Oh so brutally down

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Mar 6, 2012

Mar 6, 2012 at 6:39 PM UTC

molly-pendleton

The long spindly legs Of our Lord Centipede Are raw and weak from The way they’ve been dragged Through unforgiving ground It imprints them with sensitivity Till each limb is trained to dodge The earth that makes them weak The slick land of jealousy Or the unsuspecting pebbles of insecurity If a single appendage trips up On such emotional hardships Lord Centipede crashes Oh so brutally down

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I scrutinized the miserable wretch harnessed to the table Polished my knuckle with his murk, malice, and fable Placing a centipede on his stomach as it shuffled to his eye Languidly impending horror as he begged me to die I put pressure on his abdominal with the ball of my hand Took a breath to my diluted lungs as the boy’s jawline ran Tantalizing screams of dread, poor boy fastened on steel bed I protruded my hand deep and to his intestines, it fed My malignant clasp ripped and mangled as it went Like the centipede too, itched and mangled as it went And as his entrails to, like sizeable centipedes they went In a ****** stream of fluids crawling and sprawling as they went I bound up with glee as my poor wretch lay be, and I swung him head-toe to a pit Where billions of legs crawl, but human ones not at all, a realm where arthropods permit

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Feb 17, 2014

Feb 17, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC

The Centipede Pit

I scrutinized the miserable wretch harnessed to the table Polished my knuckle with his murk, malice, and fable Placing a centipede on his stomach as it shuffled to his eye Languidly impending horror as he begged me to die I put pressure on his abdominal with the ball of my hand Took a breath to my diluted lungs as the boy’s jawline ran Tantalizing screams of dread, poor boy fastened on steel bed I protruded my hand deep and to his intestines, it fed My malignant clasp ripped and mangled as it went Like the centipede too, itched and mangled as it went And as his entrails to, like sizeable centipedes they went In a ****** stream of fluids crawling and sprawling as they went I bound up with glee as my poor wretch lay be, and I swung him head-toe to a pit Where billions of legs crawl, but human ones not at all, a realm where arthropods permit

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Crushed in a slow time racing pattern continuously moving backwards We can only live while we lose Emotionally losing our minds as we portray many personas like actors In a lake bed who will forever chase the goose What sound does the centipede make while it crawls in your ear Try your best to stay alive With all these failing circuits Then realize it doesn't matter the situation You still won't be liked Like you use to be Beauty is skin deep And bones are lovely So sit and let it burrow deep My centipede Even enthusiasm can heal But not regenerate wounds by far They just turn into scars How deep the centipede seeps It won't make you weep

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Sep 8, 2014

Sep 8, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC

Crushed in a slow time racing pattern continuously moving backwards We can only live while we lose Emotionally losing our minds as we portray many personas like actors In a lake bed who will forever chase the goose What sound does the centipede make while it crawls in your ear Try your best to stay alive With all these failing circuits Then realize it doesn't matter the situation You still won't be liked Like you use to be Beauty is skin deep And bones are lovely So sit and let it burrow deep My centipede Even enthusiasm can heal But not regenerate wounds by far They just turn into scars How deep the centipede seeps It won't make you weep

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It’s haunting me. The thoughts that consistently Chasing my memories. This isn’t who I asked to be. But when I close my eyes a darkness consumes me. Surprisingly the pain and lies has been a part of life for centuries. Crawling in my skin like a centipede. It’s been impossible to stop this vicious insane lifestyle. Repeatedly falling into pain and misery to the point of exile. But now I find myself looking at life in the mirror and seeing the new start, a new beginning of love and spiritual smarts without the terror. Got to grab a hold of this new belief and clear my conscience and vision before I close my eyes, lay my head and sleep. At first these nightmares were haunting me for weeks. Sobriety has that look of shame, putting myself to blame at all time peek, but the intellectual teaching of the Toltec brought truth and love. Integrity of possibilities from above. No distress, distractions or to become oppressed by others reactions. Just pure love and that’s a sustainable fashion. Without a doubt. I love myself and myself in all, for all is yourself when looking at life through a mirror with kindness and passion and that’s the personal wealth that I’m putting into action.

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Aug 5, 2018

Aug 5, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC

paul-sheridan-sanchez

The mare of the knight/Night

It’s haunting me. The thoughts that consistently Chasing my memories. This isn’t who I asked to be. But when I close my eyes a darkness consumes me. Surprisingly the pain and lies has been a part of life for centuries. Crawling in my skin like a centipede. It’s been impossible to stop this vicious insane lifestyle. Repeatedly falling into pain and misery to the point of exile. But now I find myself looking at life in the mirror and seeing the new start, a new beginning of love and spiritual smarts without the terror. Got to grab a hold of this new belief and clear my conscience and vision before I close my eyes, lay my head and sleep. At first these nightmares were haunting me for weeks. Sobriety has that look of shame, putting myself to blame at all time peek, but the intellectual teaching of the Toltec brought truth and love. Integrity of possibilities from above. No distress, distractions or to become oppressed by others reactions. Just pure love and that’s a sustainable fashion. Without a doubt. I love myself and myself in all, for all is yourself when looking at life through a mirror with kindness and passion and that’s the personal wealth that I’m putting into action.

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The wandering hours Create pondering towers When instead of talking You are always walking Steadily ahead of me Like you're dead to me Like a small centipede Walking for centuries With the intent to be free Yet constantly ambulatory So we become slaves to your movement When settling would be an improvement You begin to freely flake As I start to starve You say let them eat cake And my heart you carve Into servings appropriate for your appetite While I know something isn't right But still forced to accept this plight Of being your minor distraction Chained by my love's infraction Of settling on you I shouldn't stay But I bet I do I wish I loved or hated you a little more So I'd know what to do As it stands I'm always looking out the door But I'm unable to move I want to stick around and see if you do something amazing Like love me back Instead of attack With your acidic apathy You mercilessly grapple me And never decide to let go Of love you never let show We've been driving down this road for a while And for the last million miserable miles You've presented me unpredictable trials With your nonchalant instinctual style You've let yourself become extremely impaired As I understandably grow more and more scared I feel the answer is in the love we seldom share But you're never lost when you're going nowhere And I cannot follow your wandering stare

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Nov 22, 2017

Nov 22, 2017 at 3:02 AM UTC

The wandering hours Create pondering towers When instead of talking You are always walking Steadily ahead of me Like you're dead to me Like a small centipede Walking for centuries With the intent to be free Yet constantly ambulatory So we become slaves to your movement When settling would be an improvement You begin to freely flake As I start to starve You say let them eat cake And my heart you carve Into servings appropriate for your appetite While I know something isn't right But still forced to accept this plight Of being your minor distraction Chained by my love's infraction Of settling on you I shouldn't stay But I bet I do I wish I loved or hated you a little more So I'd know what to do As it stands I'm always looking out the door But I'm unable to move I want to stick around and see if you do something amazing Like love me back Instead of attack With your acidic apathy You mercilessly grapple me And never decide to let go Of love you never let show We've been driving down this road for a while And for the last million miserable miles You've presented me unpredictable trials With your nonchalant instinctual style You've let yourself become extremely impaired As I understandably grow more and more scared I feel the answer is in the love we seldom share But you're never lost when you're going nowhere And I cannot follow your wandering stare

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.ah here comes england with its eccentricities, ah hier kommt polen mit seine christentum: where anyone can be a messiah, as stressed by the byzantines. my first love was the love of the english grey, (in honesty mentioned it was the double-decker first, since i fancied myself the great bus-driver of the no. 5 bus back home) earl grey came and said: ‘i can’t look at these skies without sunglasses!’ and so it was, mid-autumn with sunglasses at loss the sun-worshiper enter the moon idiot, looking for accents, looking for anything. in england they called him das deutsche - for reasons believable enough; the luftwaffe eagerly anticipating the tunnelling centipede that is the euro-star train-tunnel: the panzers are rolling in! the panzers are rolling in! strange he never minded the coal-miners as useful as minded by edvard gierek von silesia - to the dispute of silesians not ex-patriated to saxony (oh wait... texan boy doesn't sound as nationalistic as minnesota boy?). ooh pokey poo... writing about germany became so **** so recently, i forget that i started it: here’s to the english language’s chirality of s and z, actually being superimposable: from words in the socratic sense as encoded by plato i don't get a bunch of ideas... virtue does not make me ponder it with meaning or definition, i only see the kabbalistic sensibility of anti-alphabetical sequencing as v i r t u e... otherwise e i u r t v; almost sounds like s.t.d.

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Nov 7, 2015

Nov 7, 2015 at 6:33 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

Naked Orthography

.ah here comes england with its eccentricities, ah hier kommt polen mit seine christentum: where anyone can be a messiah, as stressed by the byzantines. my first love was the love of the english grey, (in honesty mentioned it was the double-decker first, since i fancied myself the great bus-driver of the no. 5 bus back home) earl grey came and said: ‘i can’t look at these skies without sunglasses!’ and so it was, mid-autumn with sunglasses at loss the sun-worshiper enter the moon idiot, looking for accents, looking for anything. in england they called him das deutsche - for reasons believable enough; the luftwaffe eagerly anticipating the tunnelling centipede that is the euro-star train-tunnel: the panzers are rolling in! the panzers are rolling in! strange he never minded the coal-miners as useful as minded by edvard gierek von silesia - to the dispute of silesians not ex-patriated to saxony (oh wait... texan boy doesn't sound as nationalistic as minnesota boy?). ooh pokey poo... writing about germany became so **** so recently, i forget that i started it: here’s to the english language’s chirality of s and z, actually being superimposable: from words in the socratic sense as encoded by plato i don't get a bunch of ideas... virtue does not make me ponder it with meaning or definition, i only see the kabbalistic sensibility of anti-alphabetical sequencing as v i r t u e... otherwise e i u r t v; almost sounds like s.t.d.

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By Arcassin Burnham Skirts and dresses, Men in suits, Shirts with palm trees, I love palm trees, Everywhere I go its filled with life, And its the life for me, But I don't want to just simply be another centipede, I mean the party line, I want something else in mind, I come here not just for the festivities, But a fracture of time, Not for the pretty Brazilian girls, Shaking their skirts around, Something about the beat and the drums, That get me so aroused, Man! Is this how it goes down at 12:30.

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Mar 20, 2015

Mar 20, 2015 at 3:16 AM UTC

arcassin-burnham

"12:30 in Brazil"

By Arcassin Burnham Skirts and dresses, Men in suits, Shirts with palm trees, I love palm trees, Everywhere I go its filled with life, And its the life for me, But I don't want to just simply be another centipede, I mean the party line, I want something else in mind, I come here not just for the festivities, But a fracture of time, Not for the pretty Brazilian girls, Shaking their skirts around, Something about the beat and the drums, That get me so aroused, Man! Is this how it goes down at 12:30.

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The heat of the tequila sunrise On the seashore of Cape Creus Melts flaccid pocket watches, Soft as overripe cheese; The dreamscape's permanence dissolves Before distant amber cliffs; On sweet, rotting flesh termites sup; A time fly lands. The monstrous fleshy mutation Across the seascape draped - Deformed, distorted, Disfigured with decay; Centipede shades lash alien flesh And sluggish tongue oozes From the snout of the surreal Self-spectre of Salvador's craft; Persistence of Memory.

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Jun 24, 2010

Jun 24, 2010 at 8:32 AM UTC

The heat of the tequila sunrise On the seashore of Cape Creus Melts flaccid pocket watches, Soft as overripe cheese; The dreamscape's permanence dissolves Before distant amber cliffs; On sweet, rotting flesh termites sup; A time fly lands. The monstrous fleshy mutation Across the seascape draped - Deformed, distorted, Disfigured with decay; Centipede shades lash alien flesh And sluggish tongue oozes From the snout of the surreal Self-spectre of Salvador's craft; Persistence of Memory.

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A huge centipede crawls across the floor He is black and his legs are orange. He is enormous 12 inches Maybe more And he rears back and attacks the feet of the passers-by And they smile and reach down and pat him. They smile. And he bites their hands. Their hands swell up around the two deep punctures, which are swollen up over, the only sign left being two tiny oozing wrinkles. The purple hands are polka dotted with yellow and dying veins. They admire the plethora of color that is now their hand. From the pain they lust for more and more pain and more and more pain. They rise from their overstuffed red sofas to the middle of the floor and trade blows. A girl of twenty with black curly locks falls to the ground with a wet thud and summons the centipede who bites her in the cheek, piercing the paper thin flesh. He gets a strong hold on her face and drags her across the floor. She giggles in delight! The centipede rips her limb from limb and She giggles in delight! Another wet thud. She had a puffy purple companion in a moment as the centipede drags to her a young man of twenty-one. Fate! Their lips meet and their saliva, thick and curdled mixes. They giggle in delight! As the centipede rips them limb from limb. You look like you're losing weight! The centipede is finding it. He eats all but their skulls, shining in a thin layer of blood, picked clean of flesh Locked in a sweet embrace of phantom lips Until a pugilist twitches his leg in an awkward defensive maneuver and sends the girl's skull spinning across the floor until it hits against a white wall with a crack and it splits. Party-goers begin to trip over the centipede. And with every wet thud on the floor another skull is left to be an obstacle for fluid movement. The centipede has to coil up to be able to fit in the room. And soon there is one pugilist left And he scratches the centipede's shiny black metallic and spackled red back with a mangled mass of knuckle and yellow poisoned veins. The centipede rears back But falls back on itself out of its own sheer weight and its back snaps, spraying the finalist with a mix of entrails of bug and human kind.

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Dec 28, 2009

Dec 28, 2009 at 9:45 PM UTC

One Hundred Feet

A huge centipede crawls across the floor He is black and his legs are orange. He is enormous 12 inches Maybe more And he rears back and attacks the feet of the passers-by And they smile and reach down and pat him. They smile. And he bites their hands. Their hands swell up around the two deep punctures, which are swollen up over, the only sign left being two tiny oozing wrinkles. The purple hands are polka dotted with yellow and dying veins. They admire the plethora of color that is now their hand. From the pain they lust for more and more pain and more and more pain. They rise from their overstuffed red sofas to the middle of the floor and trade blows. A girl of twenty with black curly locks falls to the ground with a wet thud and summons the centipede who bites her in the cheek, piercing the paper thin flesh. He gets a strong hold on her face and drags her across the floor. She giggles in delight! The centipede rips her limb from limb and She giggles in delight! Another wet thud. She had a puffy purple companion in a moment as the centipede drags to her a young man of twenty-one. Fate! Their lips meet and their saliva, thick and curdled mixes. They giggle in delight! As the centipede rips them limb from limb. You look like you're losing weight! The centipede is finding it. He eats all but their skulls, shining in a thin layer of blood, picked clean of flesh Locked in a sweet embrace of phantom lips Until a pugilist twitches his leg in an awkward defensive maneuver and sends the girl's skull spinning across the floor until it hits against a white wall with a crack and it splits. Party-goers begin to trip over the centipede. And with every wet thud on the floor another skull is left to be an obstacle for fluid movement. The centipede has to coil up to be able to fit in the room. And soon there is one pugilist left And he scratches the centipede's shiny black metallic and spackled red back with a mangled mass of knuckle and yellow poisoned veins. The centipede rears back But falls back on itself out of its own sheer weight and its back snaps, spraying the finalist with a mix of entrails of bug and human kind.

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Sadness is a burden Sadness is a weighted rope Sadness is a black hole Sadness is the absence of all joy and hope Sadness is a moth fluttering inside the darkness of a broken heart Sadness is a crawling centipede its seemingly endless creeping feet tearing your insides apart Sadness is a leaf left to rot upon the earth Sad ness is a fetus never given birth Sadness is the absence of softly shining light Sadness is the need to flee with never the chance to take flight Sadness is the rose with no perfume and no petals just a broken stem of thorns Sadness is the lonely bird that sings a plaintive song in the darkness of a thousand winter dawns

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Jun 11, 2021

Jun 11, 2021 at 12:21 PM UTC

Sadness is ....

Sadness is a burden Sadness is a weighted rope Sadness is a black hole Sadness is the absence of all joy and hope Sadness is a moth fluttering inside the darkness of a broken heart Sadness is a crawling centipede its seemingly endless creeping feet tearing your insides apart Sadness is a leaf left to rot upon the earth Sad ness is a fetus never given birth Sadness is the absence of softly shining light Sadness is the need to flee with never the chance to take flight Sadness is the rose with no perfume and no petals just a broken stem of thorns Sadness is the lonely bird that sings a plaintive song in the darkness of a thousand winter dawns

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I. centipede: - They come from both directions and it doesn't take long for me to realize that they've figured me out. My mind was fast, but not as swift as the hands of five-hundred outreaching hands; one angry crowd. Grabbing at limbs, low and high, they don't waste a second before tearing me in every direction; at least the cardinal four. My mind takes flight, leaves fancy, but not before I get in one last swear, and one last spittle in their faces. II. snake - Tail and head aren't in sync this morning, I tell ya. No rattle, no bite, just a lot of traffic and heat shimmers in the one place I don't need to be today. The people here act like they don't know me, but they still turn their noses up when I empty my mug. The waitress answers when spoken to, but just stares in the time in between wheezing breaths. I've got to get out of this county, this state. III. scorpion - Ronny hasn't been on a roof since a couple years after we got married. He wrapped his ankle in some gutters and took a spill; his thigh popped right out of it's socket and he just dangled like some kind of prize in one of those crane games. Doctor says he can still have kids, and I know he can still get it up from how he watches that ****** **** on t.v. But he wont touch me; hasn't in fifteen months, I've counted. He's in for a surprise once the settlement clears. IV. lizard - Wallflowers never get anywhere with their mouths sewn shut and I cut my stitches well before my teens; I got what I needed and I made sure of it. But there is something to be gained from basking in the naivety of youth and ignorance. Trouble doesn't set in as well, and boredom comes as some kind of waiting period, rather than the norm. These bars are a reminder of why they don't let me make the rules. V. toad - Invulnerable, incontestable, unphasable, archetype. I listen for the right words to drop the shields, but I'm only met with the silence that accompanies asphyxiation through means of wet wax paper. The touch of phantoms tingle along my skeleton's core telling me the time for lollygagging has long since passed. Stand up, giant, you're running hot and the moon keeps calling out, "follow the lit road home".

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Jan 19, 2015

Jan 19, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC

tyler-lynn-pulliam

Five Deadly Minutes

I. centipede: - They come from both directions and it doesn't take long for me to realize that they've figured me out. My mind was fast, but not as swift as the hands of five-hundred outreaching hands; one angry crowd. Grabbing at limbs, low and high, they don't waste a second before tearing me in every direction; at least the cardinal four. My mind takes flight, leaves fancy, but not before I get in one last swear, and one last spittle in their faces. II. snake - Tail and head aren't in sync this morning, I tell ya. No rattle, no bite, just a lot of traffic and heat shimmers in the one place I don't need to be today. The people here act like they don't know me, but they still turn their noses up when I empty my mug. The waitress answers when spoken to, but just stares in the time in between wheezing breaths. I've got to get out of this county, this state. III. scorpion - Ronny hasn't been on a roof since a couple years after we got married. He wrapped his ankle in some gutters and took a spill; his thigh popped right out of it's socket and he just dangled like some kind of prize in one of those crane games. Doctor says he can still have kids, and I know he can still get it up from how he watches that ****** **** on t.v. But he wont touch me; hasn't in fifteen months, I've counted. He's in for a surprise once the settlement clears. IV. lizard - Wallflowers never get anywhere with their mouths sewn shut and I cut my stitches well before my teens; I got what I needed and I made sure of it. But there is something to be gained from basking in the naivety of youth and ignorance. Trouble doesn't set in as well, and boredom comes as some kind of waiting period, rather than the norm. These bars are a reminder of why they don't let me make the rules. V. toad - Invulnerable, incontestable, unphasable, archetype. I listen for the right words to drop the shields, but I'm only met with the silence that accompanies asphyxiation through means of wet wax paper. The touch of phantoms tingle along my skeleton's core telling me the time for lollygagging has long since passed. Stand up, giant, you're running hot and the moon keeps calling out, "follow the lit road home".

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There's this feeling of irrepressible despair that I can no longer keep inside. I need to know where you are, and where you've been, why do you hide? I'm sitting here wondering why I told you to go. Why I pushed you away, why we said no. I see you through a screen full of lies and deception. Depression's setting in, like screams of infections. You were my protection, for the longest, the one I leaned on, but by the selection of my words, you broke away clean, gone. The pain I feel is surreal, I can't explain nor can I deal, You were something of a thrill, I needed you then, I need you still, You're the only thing in life that ever seemed real, but now I'm back to dreaming, killing my mind to conceal. Thoughts bleeding, mind breaching. Heavy breathing. Now all apart of my past, I trap it all in a mask I wear, my voice raspy, I tear the wrist, bombing my heart, Fear passed me. Blood and bone, ******** on my own. I found my home and another, who loves me more than my mother, I love you but I love her more and furthermore, she's glorious, I'm never bored, Notorious, but not a bore, losing her I can't afford, so sorry baby here's the door... Leave me be. Can't you see? Your memory is killing me. At ease, I am calm, Agreed I'm angry and I'm, not really stable, Turnt tables, Look at me now, Oh, you aren't able...

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Aug 4, 2013

Aug 4, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC

icarus-fragmenti

There's this feeling of irrepressible despair that I can no longer keep inside. I need to know where you are, and where you've been, why do you hide? I'm sitting here wondering why I told you to go. Why I pushed you away, why we said no. I see you through a screen full of lies and deception. Depression's setting in, like screams of infections. You were my protection, for the longest, the one I leaned on, but by the selection of my words, you broke away clean, gone. The pain I feel is surreal, I can't explain nor can I deal, You were something of a thrill, I needed you then, I need you still, You're the only thing in life that ever seemed real, but now I'm back to dreaming, killing my mind to conceal. Thoughts bleeding, mind breaching. Heavy breathing. Now all apart of my past, I trap it all in a mask I wear, my voice raspy, I tear the wrist, bombing my heart, Fear passed me. Blood and bone, ******** on my own. I found my home and another, who loves me more than my mother, I love you but I love her more and furthermore, she's glorious, I'm never bored, Notorious, but not a bore, losing her I can't afford, so sorry baby here's the door... Leave me be. Can't you see? Your memory is killing me. At ease, I am calm, Agreed I'm angry and I'm, not really stable, Turnt tables, Look at me now, Oh, you aren't able...

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On weekdays, privatised ******* trucks disguise our secret fascinations and shift the scraps of our failed dinners into piles of decomposing waste. Welcome to the city, there are buses on the hour. Better grab a seat before coffee stained tattoos covered by sweaty rags absorb up all the loneliness. Where do they all go to? Who eats all the bludgeoned bodies? Oh, book the saturated dinner table tonight. I feel like saturation. In the weekends, somatic mutations reveal themselves, for if I, speak, like, I can speak, then I am not speaking to anyone save for the flowers. Oh, so hurray, the garden blossoms again! But I mean, in the end, I maintain I am writhing like a centipede in a dryer, tumbling between hot air, screaming “Help me! Help me! Where has the humanity gone? I cannot even capitalise first names! You must forgive my lack of morals!” “Hello” “I am here!” “Hello?” “I am here!” “Hello!” “I am here!”

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Jan 26, 2013

Jan 26, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC

Weekday observations

On weekdays, privatised ******* trucks disguise our secret fascinations and shift the scraps of our failed dinners into piles of decomposing waste. Welcome to the city, there are buses on the hour. Better grab a seat before coffee stained tattoos covered by sweaty rags absorb up all the loneliness. Where do they all go to? Who eats all the bludgeoned bodies? Oh, book the saturated dinner table tonight. I feel like saturation. In the weekends, somatic mutations reveal themselves, for if I, speak, like, I can speak, then I am not speaking to anyone save for the flowers. Oh, so hurray, the garden blossoms again! But I mean, in the end, I maintain I am writhing like a centipede in a dryer, tumbling between hot air, screaming “Help me! Help me! Where has the humanity gone? I cannot even capitalise first names! You must forgive my lack of morals!” “Hello” “I am here!” “Hello?” “I am here!” “Hello!” “I am here!”

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Tamla Motown, my soccer team Tottenham for so many sweet memories, my old girlfriend Stella ... I know I should have Stella, I know, tigers, brown bears & the lowly centipede, Charlie Chaplin, that old ****** son of a gun, Laurel & Hardy, just because ... Tarkovsky movies ... Toshiro Mifune, anything with custard, apple pie, fresh bread, Indian folks for the way they shake their heads for yes, Indian folks for their god that charming Ganesh, books, Sci-fi movies ... lots of them anyway, children laughing, children playing, & thus playgrounds, serious folks who pay attention, Anarchists ... of course, my old grannie for her attentions, English food when it actually works, trees, birds, bees, old Chinese folks up at dawn to collect cans, & my Facebook friends, take care you all now.

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Mar 31, 2017

Mar 31, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC

Tamla Motown, my soccer team Tottenham for so many sweet memories, my old girlfriend Stella ... I know I should have Stella, I know, tigers, brown bears & the lowly centipede, Charlie Chaplin, that old ****** son of a gun, Laurel & Hardy, just because ... Tarkovsky movies ... Toshiro Mifune, anything with custard, apple pie, fresh bread, Indian folks for the way they shake their heads for yes, Indian folks for their god that charming Ganesh, books, Sci-fi movies ... lots of them anyway, children laughing, children playing, & thus playgrounds, serious folks who pay attention, Anarchists ... of course, my old grannie for her attentions, English food when it actually works, trees, birds, bees, old Chinese folks up at dawn to collect cans, & my Facebook friends, take care you all now.

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