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The phone sings into my life from
Its still place in the corner,
Fulfilling the role of messenger
Holding onto elation or devastation,
Chit chat or sales voice of persuasion.
A tracking device linking into our whereabouts,
Held on our person, in car or walking mode,
Connecting us with another soul.
At one time these sentences would wait,
Storing up conversation and expectancy,
Now, the turn off mode rarely used,
Its surface new alongside never ending
Chit chat from keys depressed at expert
Speed and dialogue, via shortcuts
To the english language,
Discouraging correct terminology, a dislike
To some, taught in the old school.
Shall we exercise our way back from here
I doubt we can...we never will

This never ending chit chat mode.
An unexpected kiss
four years ago today
after a late flight,
after a Greek salad (no onions),
after awkward chit-chat
and a win by the Colts
over the Patriots (35-34).

I miss that kiss,
that man, his touch,
those caring eyes,
that adorable smile
and handsome face.

I am excited to my core
when holding him,
hearing his voice,
touching his hair,
caressing his hand,
the feel of his tongue.

An unexpected kiss
four years ago today
changed my thoughts,
my heart and soul
...forever.
jeffrey robin Jul 2010
solitary....in all manifestations
all together...........manifesting

purest individual manifestations
of a potential
none can name

eccept to say..........."MAN"
and humbly

except to say.........."MAN"
and proudly

.....

for each person Must be seen
as the center

& as the farthest point of
the periphery

WE ONLY LIVE BY GIVING LIFE
THAT MUST RETURN & THUSLY

WE HAVE SOMEONE TO RECIEVE
WHICH GIVES US THE STRENGTH

TO GIVE AGAIN

AND THEY THE COURAGE TO RECIEVE

(this is satsanga)

......

only the "true and pure listener"
has the right or ability to speak

........

over and over
over and over again

the pulsating power

the speaking and listening
the speaker and listener

in constant exchange of places

un-mindful of position
un-mindful of names

only seeing
EVERYONE GROWING

INDIVIDUALLY

AND AS
COMMUNITY

INDIVIDUAL AND COMMUNITY
ONE AND THE SAME

YINNING AND YANGING

CONSTANTLY
............

jai sat chit anand!
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
Broken one* Wild face
Native Indian never staying put
Crystal dark sheer glass cut
Whats our destiny output

Her facepiece the center of it all
Smoking dust his peace pipe
Losing your charm says it all
your best stripes

You are stunned Oh! Yikes
Another target kinda
spiritual side
Taking another ride
Dabber that basketball
dribbler another hobby
Here it is the danger he hits
Someones face with his
Dagar dippy doo
His Hippy tattoo
[Mr. Arrow} so trippy
That Hellboy everything is
a race a ploy knocking
on heavens door
Bad demon arrow
heating up the red
****** floor
moods get to you snappy

The spies of the country
For the Love of God* the
world is crooked not a
straight line
Taking baby steps to reach
the heart bounty crime
You're left with half of a lemon
pie in your county

Feeling sultry eating leftover chicken
The pain deepens you got bones to pick
your bite and  his broken up website
The touch his words just had enough
Of his little arrow lie
Lemon for demons Cherry needs
her Godmother
What happens to her lover the
path of the arrow
Needed time the sign was done over
it says Get out your
not welcome
His broken up words in the cellphone

Chef knifes made of gold
But you face felt heart slit
You didn't exactly want to eat
Another time to hear his beat
Nothing was the perfect  fit

One mistake glass shattered
Wanting to chit chat
His arrow delivers the
dark sparrow scarred cat
Such imperfection goes too long
[Arrowsmith Dream on}
was not the time for his song

Like a heartbreak of glass
somehow
Love just never happens to glisten
All scarred from the past
nothing last
Heres your freedom pass
Like a Family with
steak knives 

Being choked up broken up
From a relationship you just got
I have been hurt words
on your coffee bold blend
Bad to be good beans cup
Those broken faces felt
the flood not very appetizing
Titanic ship, no sun rising
Not from a Hollywood wife
tightly Spider legs net  and her
high society every week he had to seek
Her wild side cheeks
Looks surprisingly well

It's her blood against yours
A plastic person, not a true
pledge surgeon Sweet Brandy

All broken glass always
a knife handy
The Boss just brush your teeth
More dental floss

The air became deadly the
gas chamber
Do you blame her your lover
had so many surgeries
House got broke into
Your face was so tight from injections
Where are the real people we
need more affection and more protection
Like a target throwing darts
Supermarkets old lady with her cane
This one is eating her sweet baby jane

A face not just any face video
games called *Face  Dark Arrow

you felt isolated more insane
Like a bird lost her wing flamed
Your voice was so broken up
you couldn't sing
game or having a revelation
Wanting more blood is this
the human race

Words broke up no face kind*
*Gardenly secret mirror behind
In centuries-worth
Man of the cloth
Shooting dark star arrows
In the highlands of the gallows
New birth mirror far apart
Arrowsmith pointed scarred heart
Were broken up with word or pieces scattered all around nowhere to be found
Does this good earth have our standing proud ground just wanting more blood like a blood brother what about your love for your Mother she know where to guide you she loves you but too many families are scarred all over
Yenson Aug 2018
But why do they do all this, I asked, shaking my head pitifully.
Its unimaginable  the amount of time and efforts they expend,
over nothing. Not to mention having the inclinations for such
absurdities!.

She leaned in closer and whispered conspiratorially as she puts
down her glass, while she waved at me to lean in closer too.

Her cute lips barely moved as she whispered theatrically,
" this is a secret, don't quote me."
I nodded.

" POST TRUTH" she uttered, " It's all post truth, they have put
all their people in a post truth world and they all live in post truth now"

"Do you know what Post truth means?" she asked, her eyes glaring inquiringly in a straight gaze at mine.

"Yes I do I replied, basically its, ‘relating to or denoting circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief’", I trotted out. Leaning back in my seat, I considered this, and what she had just shared.

My plight has been Orwellian, from the very start, but I honestly wouldn't have believed people would be so gullible in this day and age. But then who was it that said " No man ever went broke overestimating the ignorance of the public".

Internally I processed things again, Welfare spounging Crooks burgled me, I gave them a piece of my mind, crooks call on their Socialist mates, who then launched an unjustified campaign of
slander, vilification, harassment, hounding, intimidation, ruining
my marriage, career, reputation and my health. I, the victim of a fowl crime becomes the villain and the criminals gentrified working class heroes.

It all seem implausible in Modern Britain, this day and age, yet it's all true.

My silence prompted her, " I don't like it myself and you already know how I feel about them, but..... and she shrugged her slim
shoulders and the look of sadness and resignation in her eyes says
it all. I felt sorry for her, only God knows the leverage, inducement,
threats or dirt at play for her cooperation, given the nature of the ***** politicking that's been playing all these while
and the  results of former experiences. Poor thing, I mused,
knowing her private life was at stake now..

In Post truth terms, you are a rich arrogant privileged and greedy chauvinistic parasite who deserve all you're getting and more. 
Their propaganda machine is devious and slick. 

I couldn't help acknowledging the disingenuous politicking at
play here by our Red comrades, the nasty racial undertones of my
plight had been white-washed, the theft of my hard earned possessions is bye the bye, the bullying and intimidation by the
neighbouring criminals and their subsequent gangstalking covered up. now, what remains is hapless me, alone, unsupported and just the heinous distortions, the misinformation, exaggerations, slander and disinformation exists, and all these are falling into receptive ears by the bucketloads. The general public's moral compass has been twisted and befuddled if not totally obliterated.  

I sat in silence and for a short while, we both avoided eye contact,
finally we looked at each other. She knew I had got the picture and
for a second I saw sorrow in her eyes. Then it was gone, you could
almost glimpse this was a sentiment she wasn't allowed.

I had seen that look before from quite a number of others, nobody dares act against the wave, nobody wants to be considered a traitor
or a sympathiser.

I tried lifting the mood and changed the topic, we made chit-chat
and found laughter in some places, we finished our drinks and left.

On the street walking I once again felt sorry for her and made a
conscious decision not to see her again. I was a persona non gratia
now, and it's not healthy being my friend. Friends are compromised, debriefed and used as baits or informers. I have become a dangerous person to know and the truth has been murdered, cut into little pieces and then incinerated into ashes.

They had perhaps forgotten that TRUTH lives forever, the truth
is the TRUTH and remains the TRUTH, no matter what you do to it.

FOR NOW HOWEVER WE HAVE POST TRUTH, HOW LONG THAT WILL LIVE FOR?
Your guess is as good as mine!

Goodbye dear friend, I watched her walk away, there was an unusual slowness in her steps and she looked back at me just as I was turning away, I did not turn to look back at her again,

I knew I will not be seeing her again................
Post-truth politics (also called post-factual politics and post-reality politics) is a political culture in which debate is framed largely by appeals to emotion disconnected from the details of policy, and by the repeated assertion of talking points to which factual rebuttals are ignored.
‎History · ‎Summary of the truth is contained in the poem - WHERE IS JUSTICE on this site..·
John Jan 2013
Back when I was about ten or eleven, the only friend I had was the most beautiful girl I knew. Her name was Jessica and her and I did everything together. In school we were inseparable, always chit-chatting before, during and after classes. So much so that teachers bestowed upon us the annoying, yet endearing, encompassing nickname of "Jackica" - a combination of our names; Jack and Jessica.
     I was so thankful for her companionship, and thinking back it might have been a pretty uneven relationship, emotionally. I was an overweight and awkward Harry Potter fanboy and she was a cute little auburn-haired thing who could've won any Miss America Junior competition in the world, as far as I was concerned. She had the most piercing powder blue eyes. The kind that made my skin tingle and mouth curl up into a stupid smile at any given moment. I felt like she saw me, like she really saw ME. Not the blubbery flesh that coated my muscle and bones but what I was made of, the real me. And I loved her for that.
     Along with Jessica's physical blessings, she was also given an insatiable appetite for adventure. She loved to go to the park at night,  after the gates were locked and when everything was drenched in darkness. We'd hop the five foot chain-link fence and roam around the grounds. We'd go the water at the edge of the park and sit on the rocks, look up at the stars and take turns telling stories to each other with intent to scare the **** out of the other one.
     One humid night in mid-June, Jessica told a story that succeeded in making my skin-crawl. She always told decent scary stories, she was gifted in the art of fabricating tales of fright right on the spot, but this story really got to my core for some reason. I just felt uneasy as the words spilled from her mouth to my ears and with each sentence my muscles tightened and strained just from the mere tone of her voice as she told the story. She sounded serious, and she rarely did, even when telling these stories, but with this particular one it sounded like she really believed what she was saying was cold, hard truth.
     What she said was that she heard a story that her older brother's girlfriend had told her. It was about a house on the outskirts of town, placed just a few hundred yards from the mouth of the woods that lined our little suburban utopia. She went on to say that in the house was nothing all that scary. She said it was an old house, a very old house, as it was a log cabin that was built in the 1700s, when the town was first being settled. Supposedly, everything in the house was just as it was back then, little kerosene lamps sitting on home-mad oak tables. The maple-wood floors would moan and creak at the slightest hint of any weight being put on them. And then she said that no one had lived in the house since the man who built it died, around 1785.
     Needless to say, Jessica wrapped up the story by proclaiming that we had to find the house. And we had to go inside and see for ourselves what was so creepy about it. Being the scared, chubby little wimp that I was, I immediately rejected the idea. There was no way I was going to try to find a place that would only succeed in making me **** my pants in front of a girl, especially the one whom I'd placed the delusional label of "future girlfriend" on.  But, as I subconsciously expected, Jessica talked me into it with just a few graceful words: "I'll kiss you if you come with me."
    
     The very next Saturday night, Jessica and I put on some dark jeans and t-shirts and took the bus all the way to the last stop, the edge of town. We hopped off and right in front of the stop the woods were already waiting, I took a deep breath as Jessica's eyes lit up. She took my hand and pulled me as she ran, me clumsily waddling along behind her all the way to a little dirt pathway that paved the only marked entrance we could see. She asked me if I was ready and I shrugged, saying something like "I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be." And so we started down the path. As the tall trees swayed in the wind, I dragged my feet with  Jessica always about five feet ahead of me, as eager as ever. We walked for probably ten or twenty minutes before the foot of the cabin was before us.
     At first sight, it was a very old structure. I'd never seen anything like it outside of paintings in my history textbook and this Abe Lincoln documentary I saw on PBS. I never knew houses like that stood the test of time. But there it was before me, two stories high with wooden shutters clad in severely chipped paint and a big oak door that looked stronger than any door I'd ever seen. Jessica took my hand again, smiled enchantingly and rushed me forward.
     Once at the door, I was speechless. It didn't look as old as the rest of the house and whoever made it obviously meant for it to last a very long time, taking extreme care in carving it out impeccably and sanding it until it shined with a professional touch. Without a word, Jessica rapped on the door. Three hard times, and when no one answered after thirty seconds, she rapped again, and again. She shrugged and turned to me, asked if we should just go in. I said no and she frowned.
     "There's no way we came this far just to go back home with nothing," and then she wrapped her hand around the rusted doorknob and turned.
     The door opened with no hesitation as she pushed it all the way in. She stepped inside, and I followed. The first thing I noticed inside the cabin was the creaking floors. They creaked louder and longer with each step, affirming that part of the story, making my blood run cold. We looked around, going from room to room with wide eyes. We were amazed that we made it, that we got inside and now we were actually investigating a place that no one else supposedly had gone before. Truth be told, though, it was nothing special. There wasn't much at all to see, save for a few tables, the creaking floors and some very old paintings on the wall. We were just leaving when we noticed something on a table nearest the big oak door. It was a metal box with a small lock fastened to the front of it.
     "We have to open it," Jessica proclaimed after a second of curious inspection.
     "There's no way were going to find the key," I told her.
     "So we'll break the lock, Jack. Duh," she replied in her sassiest tone.
     I just shook my head as she grabbed the box and began to furiously slam it in the wooden table. The sound echoed through the house, exacerbating it and making me shiver from head to toe.
     "I don't know if you should keep-" but my sentence was cut off my the lock flying off the box and clinking onto the floor below.
Jessica smiled again, very pleased with herself and looked to me.
     "Wonder what's inside...," She said, lifting the top half of the box open.
     After an initial and cough-inducing puff of thick dust subsided, the contents of the box were revealed. It was a letter, written on old-school parchment in heavy ink. In neatly laid Victorian script, the likes of which I had never seen so simultaneously neat and scattered, like it was written in a hurry or during a time of distress, was a love letter. Well, a kind of love letter. It was addressed to a woman named Tania and it was signed by a William. It told the story of how William had loved Tania since they were children, and Tania was now to be married to a Pastor named Hensley. William told Tania how he couldn't bear the thought of her ever being with anyone else and that the fact that she could never truly be his was killing him. Literally. He ended the note by confessing his plan to **** himself.
     I took a step back, but Jessica just stood at the table with her eyes glued to the crumbling parchment in her hands.
     "I'm leaving," I said after a few moments, mulling over the sorrow that this poor man must've felt. I headed out the door, Jessica following. The walk back through the woods to the bus stop I couldn't get this feeling of dread from subsiding. It seemed like I felt what William felt, but not in a sympathetic sort of way. It felt like I was William and the pain he felt was actually my pain. And then I noticed that, rolled up tightly in her fist, Jessica had taken the letter with her.
     "Why'd you take that," I said, sounding thoroughly upset. "That's not yours to take, go bring it back!"
     "No way. There was no way I was going there and coming back with nothing to show for it," she said, gripping the letter tightly, her knuckles almost whitening.
     I knew how stubborn Jessica could be and I knew whatever I said probably wouldn't even phase her in the slightest so I did what I did best and just shrugged it off. I found myself wishing I could shrug off the terrible feeling the letter put deep inside me just as easily as I could Jessica's stubbornness.

     Over time, Jessica and I lost touch, as kids of that age often do. I grew up, lost weight and opened up, making more friends and acquaintances, no longer hanging onto the thought of Jessica being my only love. I didn't talk to Jessica all that much. Just once in a while we'd meet up and have a chat over some coffee or pizza. We had both changed and morphed into young adults with different agendas and dreams and I had no problem with that. But on one such meeting, Jessica began to worry me. She said that every now and then she'd open her desk drawer and take the piece of parchment out and read it. Over and over again. And lately, she had been opening the drawer more and more, she said that she felt drawn to it. Like something about it made her feel this deep-seated dread that no horror movie or scary story had ever made her feel. She said that she felt like the letter was beginning to take a toll on her. And, by the look of her, it didn't seem like she was lying or kidding around like she always used to love to do. She had dark circles underneath her once striking eyes, which were now darker and had taken on an odd and ominous color. I was scared for her. And I told her so but she hugged me and assured me she was alright. I wanted to believe her, and I tried to, hugging her back and telling her I'd talk to her soon. But when she turned her back I knew something was very wrong.

     I'm writing this now because a few weeks ago Jessica's mom gave me a call. When her number came up on my cell phone, I think I knew, deep down, e actor why I was getting this call but I pushed the thought away and said hello. Jessica's mother called to tell me that a few days before Jessica had gone missing. The only indication to her whereabouts was a note she left with the words "cabin at the edge of town", and below that, instructions on how to get there. Her mother said she took the note and hopped in her car immediately, and made it to the cabin. She said she was breathless by the time she got to the cabin but forged on and barged inside and looked around. She said she found nothing and was about to leave when she noticed a small door behind the big oak door she had swung open to get inside. She opened the little door to find a stairwell. She climbed it, calling Jessica's name all the way, sobbing and wiping tears from her eyes. At the top of the stairs was the attic. And she said she almost died herself when she saw Jessica. She was hanging from a wooden rafter on the ceiling. And next to her was a severely decayed skeleton, dangling from a rope only a few inches away.
It's definitely more of a short story but I felt obligated to post it here for some reason.
Why don’t you love your body, girl?
Did someone stupid make you feel insecure?
Everyone is trying to tell you how you should behave and how you should look
but ***** them, do what YOU want
you didn’t come here to please anybody
so go ahead and love your body
Skinny, fat, curvy or thin
what really matters is what’s under your skin
I know you think there might be something wrong
I’m here to remind you that you’re strong
so if someone comes around saying that you’re ugly and fat
don’t even think about it, that’s stupid chit-chat
skinny doesn’t mean healthy and fat unhealthy
have fun, live and eat what makes yourself happy
‘cause every body is beautiful
any other comment is not going to be useful.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2019
letter to elana

for the poet elana bell

~

in a different cafe,
on a Manhattan streetscape where once, years earlier,
violence was the purview of West Side Story gangs,
ruling their internecine non-intersectionality territorial blood lines supremely

nowadays, violence replaced by the frenetic
noises of Lincoln Center theater goers,
student dancers, actors, musicians and poets joining the throng
of those who sup and run,
all hearing their own frantic
curtain calling, saying, announcing,
music dance voices words require your obeisance,
needy for a mutual worshipping reassurance fiat that:

life can be made transcendent
if even for just 90 minutes or 120 pages,
or a 3 minute poem reading


this city of millions requires billions of poems that spoon stirred  
and yet, almost always fail, to squeeze, all of the human essence that is in its ultimate source, clarifying nyc tap water,
containing the storied remnants of a hackable continuous,
single human stanza cell osmosis - a blockchain like no other

two poets sit side by side each in their own lapsed dreams,
she, a published poet of prize and rank, ^
he, a rank amateur whose only prize is his unpublished anonymity,
poetry, is his just a nightly soul cleansing,
an imported remnant of his Marrano piyyutim ancestry

one turns to the other,
in the inexplicable daily crazy miracle
of city fashionistas

in a city where stealing a parking spot, or the
forced squeezing creation of a subway seat space
where physics proves none exists,
are oft the roots of slashing and stabbings faithfully reported
on the 11 o’clock news,  
and trust and/or other encouraging words
are seldom heard and even less demonstrated,
the make-no-eye-contact of Camus’s L’Etranger anomie is the
normative, paranormal, paralysis cloak of we city separatists

“Can you watch over my electronics and stuff?”

Sure says the grayed and grizzled,
an all life long veteran of nyc,
judged to be trustworthy
based on a few seconds of being upsized and downsized,
a car wash (exterior only) perusal
despite a
“no direction home, like a compete unknown, a rolling stone,”  
this signage, yellow star permanently chest-affixed,
conveniently ignored, as it seems impossible
thieves don’t look like me,
don’t likely in their possess,
a distinguished head of gray hair (yeah, sure)

a thank you reward of (or did I imagine it) a lean-in,
a momentary head on a shoulder,
the chit chat now grows earned and earnest,
she confesses her cardinal poetry profession,
eliciting an ‘Oh Boy’ utterance from the poet
of a thousand names
and a thousand textual emendations

a fastidious nyc boundary is brief crossed for one short meal,
till the end when time sensitized IMRL intrudes and
the showtime calls out,
if not now, when? if not me, then who?

I read her poetry later in the praying supine first position of
three AM, and laugh with delight, at the contrast and no compare,
the styles clash and tho the stories told
are both writ in the aleph bet script,
there ends the Ven diagram overlap and
into the night’s coming of a Elvisian blue suede coverlet,
we both disappear, and if not for this recording,
history says, you old man confused, never happened,
just an imaginary poetry ink blot dream breaching...

~

postface:
another poetry book is no longer homeless,
comes to shelter upon my shelf, close to Angelou, far from Whitman,
now all the book’s nooks eyes collectively
reassessing the new old-owner, parsing his syntax,
undecided if his readership is worthy of them,
concluding that all these books are the
man’s owned roughened stones,
to be placed by human hands on the
serpentine curvature of his literary tombstone,
and until all stones fully read,
they all agree,
will they and he
be fully freed,
smoothing his legacy’s edges
Feb. 21 -March 5, 2019
NYC
another true story

^ https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elana_Bell
Marian Sep 2014
I sat down with you
In the coolness of the night air
Watching you sip Dr. Pepper
After a long day's work
I listened to the sounds of summer
Watched a few stars twinkling
In the jet colored sky
We were happily chit-chatting
About this and that
We were all together
Just us three
Oh, those summer evenings
Gone forever
Only shadows remain
Touching my heart

**~Marian~
For my dad & mom, Timothy & Hilda!!! ~~~~~<3
I wish I could be a better daughter to you...
I am sure that there're over a million ways
I could be much better than I am!!! ~~~~<3
Hope you enjoy this poem!!! :) ~~~~~<3
K Balachandran Feb 2014
Inebriated blue cloud,
I know you well enough
libertine ways you have
make you a lover of
deep thunder and meek rainbow
and also a chit of a lark
that loses itself in a song
be it is in grief or mirth.

Strange is the ways of my heart,
how much I long to fall in love with you
and proclaim this to the world scheming
to disrupt the pleasures one seeks
without any reason at all
"Look! love has no limits, no reason even
the lovely cloud, softness personified
caresses my foliage with sensuous abandon
kisses me with her wispy lips of moisture"

I know you understand, though unmindful of
my unbridled passion
making breaches in the limits,
I have no illusion about our improbable union.
True, how can we live
happily ever after?
I envy your gift of wings
though you have none visible,
you borrow it from the wayward wind,
too willing to carry your sweet load around.

I stood on the hill top,
wistfully thinking
that you will come and
take me within your soft folds
though I am a tree with deep running roots
that has become a restraining thing.

Freedom without any limit
gets you inebriated every minute,
your love for love,  makes you desirable
you live in the present, suspend thoughts on time to come
as it is hypothetical, you say.
You are in a hurry to roam
wherever lovers lead you one after the other
do you have an urge to dissolve and pour-
as water, without any remorse?

Do you know my  penitence for your love
on this hilltop is a true sacrifice?
My love for you doesn't bring anything
except my wilting hour after hour.
Let me be on your blue breast for moments
when my boiling love will seek
your shining center that melts, melts
we'd freeze as one, how long my darling?
Time would simply stand still
to a distance, i'd be transported,
where tree or cloud means nothing
we are an incessant rain lasting for ever.
(05:32 a.m.)
Hey Jekk! Can you be my best friend?
A friend who wants to go at the very end
Let us play ash, fire, blood and stone
Promise me! You'll never leave me alone

(07:51 a.m.)
Are you excited to go to your tedious school?
Throw a sticky mud to your History teacher's face!
Wow! That's the best idea! Isn't that cool?
Or maybe toss around the Principal's attache case!

(09:03 a.m.)
Jekk! How can you be so stupid? Com'on
The time is running! Just look at nerdy Simon!
with his precious Algebra examination paper
Whoopee! Get his answer at the first number!

(12:00 noon)
**** Gary! Look at his spiteful smile to Amber!
I am sure! He badly wanted to *** with her
Put the mashed potato on his monstrous face
and see what he has got inside these terrible mess

(02:16 p.m.)
You really deserve the hell's applause! Boom!
How can you sneak at the girls' shower room?
Did you like the feeling? The fire is igniting!
Next time, let us do more action! Extreme burning!

(04:45 p.m.)
HIIIIIIDDDEEEE!! Your strange Christian friend!
NEVER ever hang with him or you'll be dead!
Boring to talk about that silly book..sounds like "Bubble"
Com'on! It is more fun to taste worldly life and gamble!

(06:51 p.m.)
Jekk! You don't need to pray before you eat!
Just look all the foods you wanted and feed!
Don't set aside foods for your Dad from work
Remember? He scolded you because you broke his Torque

(08:24 p.m.)
Hahaha! I really had fun my coolest best friend!
I hope we can still be buddies until the very end!
Tomorrow, we will burn the city and run! Com'on!
**Oh I almost forgot! My name is Demon! :)
Ephesians 6: 10-17
Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.
Hasan Maruf Apr 2017
The last kiss from you
Lasted like a huddle in
The snow blitz
Rocking my anatomy
In the frosty glitz

The last words from you
That barged in my eardrum
You were in a hurry
To smell a new leaf
Draped in a diamond dew

The last gifts from you
Was an instrument
Which still I use
To recognize people
Or to refuse!

The last time
You said I love you
I remember I was laughing
Hysterically as if I was watching
Jared Leto’s jaded mimicry of Joker in YouTube

Intriguingly, when the last time I saw you ****
It felt like pretty Ivanka’s embarrassment
Noticing her dad is a lewd

The last time I was chatting
With you on Facebook
I was wondering why
I shouldn't hack your account?
To check your inbox

Yea, it was filled with the message of *******
F- Bombs, **** shaming and tagging you as harlot
All they were asking was your service of escort
Either in full discount or in hefty cash drops!

The last time I wrote
A letter of love to you
I discovered my Keyboard
Began to blurt out
No more, No more, No more…

The last time I had a chit-chat
With you in the Burger King or Pizza Hut
I listened to your hissing clack-clack
That someone else has become your puppy cat…

The last time I became sick
When I was with you
I heard you threw a party
Where you were whispering
To your besties, how
I become your double whammy!

The last time I was
With you in the bed
I felt like I was indentured
To **** a dummy toy
Sans spirit and flesh!

Loving you was like
Santa Claus gifted me
With a Pandora’s Box
As soon as I opened it
You decided to release
Our *** tape of your having ******
In pornhub’s forum of interracial!

The last time I heard of you
Is that you were giving an interview
To The Cosmopolitan’s board of review

Facing the barrage of inquisitions
You calmly joked, the series
Of latest uproar about you
In the social media or Internet
Is because certain people always
Love to rave about Women’s body
Shoving in and out of their pigeonhole
With their one night stand queen trophy
To flavor your form in their fantasmic mouth

You also smirked in a raspy voice
Defiantly declaring “we (women)
Have been locked indoors
With no air, no food, no water”
My last boyfriend is also no exception
He certainly thinks I came this far
Through ******* and deception
Slightly anti feminist but a poem representing contemporaneity in our life in a balanced manner of looking into male female relationship.
Lady Bird Apr 2015
hummingbirds that flutter in my chest
can't see the broken pieces of my heart
each and every piece  did shatter
with the hummingbird's chit-chatter
my poor heart it just fell apart
Ayeshah Mar 2010
(Readers I been going crazy to write  like this for a long time so if it suxs  too bad lol please read its a bit long also 4 those who do ty for reading & commenting)
________________­_______________
She seen his stares since earlier in the ball room & during most of their acquaintance's growing up also when he'd visited her family at her home in Hampshire... She bluntly ignored his many advances while
at the Queen's Ball and she also publicly shunned him in front of  many aristocrats, He asked her even then to be his wife, She flat out said NO! with out going through the proper channels it  "*******" just wasn't done,  Her chaperon Lady Gideon was no where to be found so she did what she thought was best and walked away from him as fast as her small frame would allow.  

She did indeed find Lady Gideon in the kitchens with  the cook in the "Blimey!" broom closet. NOW on this night she'd truly become his and pay for her misdeeds & mistreatment's of him at The Queen's Ball...Duke Lincoln Pierre held his new bride Virgina Abagael Pierre  
tightly as he assaulted her mouth thrusting his tongue in her mouth- parting her lips in a seductive dance, as his hands moved lavishly up & down her buttocks, betwixt her bodice caressing her breast.

Lincoln tried hard to control his need for his new bride,  He was supposed  to be with his "mates" for another hour or so whilst his-  " well now" his wife's maids readied her for their marriage bed.
Lincoln couldn't wait & as he rushed his guest out the door not even
waiting for Jefferey his Butler to do so, He ran taking the steps two at a time, His need for Virgina was more then lust.  He wanted her ever since she shunned him at the Queens ball & as he visited her home--  watching her bloom into womanhood, Tonight she'd pay for his humiliations of that night at the Ball. He burst open the door and bellowed  for the maids to Get OUT!

At once they went running like rats. All except Beatrix stood her
ground and told him in not to kind-of words that  "She" had to prepare Virgina properly and He was acting reckless.
Beatrix  was his nanny & nursery maid, she was  also there when he first open his sparkling  hazel round eyes, God rest "Duckies" soul, His mum, she died in this same bed whilst she gave her last breath for this handsome devil.  His Da,  poor man was getting on in age and this was a wish he left in his will to be fulfilled before he died. "Lin" as she'd called him must fulfill but without scaring the poor chit off.

She unfasten Virgina's stays & hooks as fast as her old hands would allow, before she could help her out of her bodice  "Lin" ushered her out....Well she'd said her peace and exit Lincoln's rooms praying as she left.....
Lincoln kept  up his assault  while Virgina had a look of fear & misunderstanding in her mahogany sapphire eyes, Her small frame was shaking to her very core,  Poor chit but it couldn't be helped he was in a rush to be done with virgins and their silly concepts of love ex specially this "his" new prudent bride,  Yet he wanted to make her come alive, bring out the "bleed'in devil" of lust he knew was trapped deep within Virgina's un tapped core.
Lincoln teased and licked as he removed her clothing, ripping a bit of fabric in is haste, she kissed him back! Shocking his own sense of sensibility.

He picked her up splayed her on the bed and stared at her dark luscious Honey chocolate  creamy coco skin, it shined like a lovely indigo ocean on a summers night.
With carious longing and dread,
it was still an interesting moment Virgina didn't know what to do and as he capture her waist she felt  even more unsure, sensing a thrilling sensation wash over her,  Her new husband Duke Lincoln Pierre kissed her with un-abandon lust Virgina instinctively crawled up to the head board on the bed, as she did so her new husband reached for her in a blink of an eye she was caught in his steel grip, she cried out not for pain but because she had no ideal what he meant to do with her,

Lincoln laughed and made a tsk tsk sound as he pulled himself atop of Virgina.  "My Lady I beseech you please leave off I mean you no harm''
Lincoln proclaimed yet his meek smile said he was lying,
Virgina only stared with her mouth gaped in a perfect lush O shape.  
Her husband undone he own clothes  in a heated rush.  
Once done he stalked towards her kneeling on the bed.  
With Virgina's gaze fixed tranquilly on his stiff shaft, she looked at it apprehensively  she wanted to move away yet her limbs wouldn't allow her to and with banned tears threatening to over flow
she ****** in her breath as her capture Duke Pierre her husband climb a top of her.  

Little did her husband know she'd wanted  him all her life she longed to become his bride but she had no ideal it entailed this rough treatment of her person to gain access.
She'd sit with her own nanny "Liv" short for Olivia  
at Hyde Park watching as his carriage made it's rounds.  She dreamed even then to marry him, his eyes always laughing and He was forever teasing her when He'd visited  her "now" deceased parents lord Duke&Duchess; Harrisburg. She'd dream he were always saving her from dragons and evil villains.

But tonight he seemed the Villain.
As he touched creatively over her she felt flushed, his hands trailed down to her hairline where her tulip was hidden as he proceeded to caress her he felt for her budded rosebud playing teasing  rubbing his fingers with gentleness over her.
He continued until Virgina's head was thrashing wildly left & right on the pillow she was scared and shocked not knowing what was coming over her,  she wanted something--   this need that was growing  building within her, she didn't understand and it made her feel weak with a longing she couldn't comprehend, as he removed his finger & hand a light yet cool breeze cam through the cracked window causing the sensation to slowly subside Lincoln moved down trailing kisses as he went his mouth hovered mere inches above her tight yearning rosebud he bet down and tasted honey as he licked in an out of his new bride, sliding his index finger within her tight silt wile wrapping his mouth around her budding rose, he ******, gently  causing Virgina automatically to lift her legs wrapping her hands in his golden brown hair.

He felt her throbbing shaking and he wanted to laugh because of him she now new what it meant to be pleasured,  Virgina began trembling with a urgency not knowing what her body wanted just that she liked this feeling that washed over her from her toes up to her Honey dark coco head.  Her long brown auburn hair fell in waves of curls around her as she melted to her husbands ministrations.

Lincoln could barely contain his want and in his eyes His new bride was a wanton ready for plucking like a ripe strawberry, His little filly was bucking beneath his demonstration's.
He'd played with the God's wile tempting the devil & now there was Hell to pay...  Sadly for his new ****** bride he could no longer hold back, he wanted to consume her, his control was failing, wreaking havoc on his now intoxicating senses.  

Virgina bucked up towards his mouth letting out a seductive cry breaking Lincoln's last restraints  
He spread her wide held her fast
both his hand on either side of her hips as he lead his shaft within her lustrous wet inviting opening, moving in her swiftly as to not cause any more unnecessary pain,
He felt her maiden-head give way but it was to late t pause, he try not to move slow,
which with half in sympathy he wanted to stop his penetrating ****** yet his need for release in his new ****** brides velvet tight silt kept him urging forward deeper&deeper; within her tight walls.

Virgina let out a piercing scream as she also called out Lincoln's name twas an interesting moment when a fierce jolt consumed both occupants of this lovers den, she cried out as he ******'ed deeper still within his new bride....

No longer did he want to  punish her he felt something chip away at his heart releasing a need to want more then her body as they coiled becoming meshed together in legs & limbs traveling on waves of ******* bliss.
Duke & Duchess Pierre

Always Me Ayeshah
Copyright ©
Ayeshah K.C.L.N 1977-Present YEAR(s)
All right reserved
Amara Nov 2012
Why meander around the subject?
All the roads lead to the same outcome
All the chit chat & the cut-up laughter
Isn't really necessary
When I know that in your eye
I'm just a desirable target
Aim
Fire
Miss
© Amara Pendergraft 2012
Indian Phoenix Oct 2012
I hated Dawkins a little less when his words came from your mouth.

Your unabashed sincerity endeared me to you from the moment you showed me your vintage Atari. I don't recall if that was before or after you bragged about your Star Trek DVDs. Not that it matters, but I hope you've found a place to store all of those wires protruding out of your gadgets like Medusa's head of snakes.

My family liked you, especially my mother. It was probably your staunch advocacy of 4th amendment rights.

Remember those nights we sat in bed and traded secrets on small scraps of paper? We were lovers  for... five weeks by then? It struck me by the third slip that it didn't matter what it would say--I knew I'd still love you anyway. But I knew that from the moment you removed my knee-high boots and kissed my feet when I rode up on my Harley. You unstrapped my helmet and poured me wine. Though we promised to never tell anyone, I just wanted to say: I still smile when I think of your 15-year-old self trying to pick up a ******* on a desolate dusty road. Do you still have those hastily-written pieces of paper? They're yours to keep; I hope they're safe.

Nothing of my new world reminds me of you. There's no Jeopardy to watch, no NPR to hear in your white Saturn, and no desert mountains to hike. Not in India. Maybe it's because nothing is similar that my memories of us stay so firmly imprinted in my mind. Similarities would only erode my recollections. Maybe that's why I almost forgot about the chai tea I'd serve you in bed, coupled with almonds and apricots on the saucer.

But you, you're a walking encyclopedia of my home town. You knew every cactus-lined freeway, the name of the state attorney general, and the best place to grab a Four Peaks beer. Because of this, I could never extricate my love of home and my love for you. To me, you'll always be home.

For better or for worse, I remember it all. Including the soft piano rift of the chess game we'd play on your XBox. I'm guessing you'd beat me, should we play again today. I still have the wooden chess set I got you for your birthday... but we both know I can't give it to you. I'm sorry.

I never believed in saving people before I met you. Before, damaged was a weakness; now I think you just needed a polish. I never told you, but I read your psych evaluation--I found it when I was cleaning your room (with your permission, I add). The therapist was right: you're not aloof, just too smart for the room. I thank God that you never bought that container of nitric oxide.

I know we said we'd marry if I ever came back home. A no-frills city hall marriage suited us just fine. I have no doubt we would have had a simple, sweet life. You would've relented to letting me get a dog to keep your arrogant cat company. Our biggest fight would be over which castle door the RPG character should open, and you would've helped me improve my golf swing on the inexpensive dilapidated course near my old junior high school.

But likewise... our biggest adventure would've been only a roadtrip to the neighboring county. And I wanted to explore. I needed to explore. You, who never wanted to stray outside of a 100-mile radius could never satiate that curiosity. But I know we could have made it work. I know we would've been happy.

Sometimes I wish we could be the best of friends. I know we can't; not when I started dating my now-husband so close after we ended things in tear-stained emails when I went overseas. He swore off her; I swore off you. That's the way things go, I guess, when you get older.

I know it might seem like I've moved on and forgotten you.

Moved on, yes. Forgotten? Never.

It probably wouldn't be the same if we met again. I have too much love for you that could never be conveyed. My love for you has changed; it's not romantic. But it's still this throbbing appreciation for everything you are. I couldn't bear guarded chit chat. Not with you.

And I hope you are happy. Have you realized your worth yet, or are you still wasting your time with broken high school grads who listen to Ke$ha? I can't tell you who to love... but I hope she's an astrophysicist, someone who loves Carl Sagan even half as much as you. I want her to read Noam Chomsky to you late at night, and wake you in the mornings with a glass of milk and cookies. She'll prefer simple mashed potatoes to dim sum, and have a weakness for microbreweries. She'd be gorgeous in that bookish sort of way. Yes. That's the girl for you.

....I'm sorry it's not me, my dear atheist.
Nazmi Mahamood Nov 2010
They say facebook is a crime
For people who a have lot of time
But I’ll say I don’t have lot of time
Does that mean for me it is not crime?

You can’t learn to cook,
If you got facebook.
But if you cook
You share it on facebook

Fun wall,
Super wall,
You write everything that happened in the shopping mall
But why can’t you just say it ,by giving me a call

Chit, chat, chit, chat
You talk about what happen to that little brat
In the end, they can do nothing
All you can do, is keep on chatting

Uploading photos
Thinking maybe  should add a few more logos
You post, they comment
Still you won’t be content

Update your status
Will not make famous
Sometimes you will feel hapless
Forget it,but just don’t be careless

So much notification
But it’s not the place to find real motivation
It’s the mentors’ with great education
So it’s not too late to reach a better destination
© T. N.Minhaj Mahamood

this is my best for now.So please dont palgarise this. thanks

I have something within me that I cannot
Bear the burden of of its insinuation.
In the sport-ability of chit-chat I have
Often tried to conquer these thoughts
And with infinite pain I have hazarded
A thousand things hidden within myself.

“Excuse me,’’ I said upon seeing his face
Coming toward me while walking in Central Park.
“Are you who I think you are?’’ I asked.
“I suppose that depends on who you think I am,” he replied.
Not wanting to be made out a fool I asked
“OK, are you best known as JFK?”
“Well not exactly, he was my father,” he said with a smile.

I stuck out my hand like an idiot – but -
He offered his hand and shook mine like a man.
“I can’t believe it,” I said, “You really can
Bump into anyone in the big apple.”
He said that he had to be going, had to finish
His walk and get back to the office.

I asked him if I could tag along, just walk with him.
He said, “Sure.”
He kept a brisk pace, it was a cool day but comfortable.
The leaves were turned, mostly all fallen and
Then I realized that it was November 22nd.
“I’m real sorry about your dad,” I said,

“It broke my heart when I was a child.”
He nodded his head and sort of slowed his pace.
“How old were you?” he asked.
“I was 9”.
“I was 3”, he said looking at the ground.
“Yeah I know,” I said, “Everybody knew.”

He stopped and turned toward me,
Tilted his head to the left and point blank said,
“You know the story about my dad’s assassination
Is all BS don’t you?”
He caught me completely off guard but before I
Could say anything he turned back around and starting

Walking away from me like I had the plague.
I stood in my tracks but after he had gotten about 10 paces
He stopped and turned, “Well, do you want to walk or not?”
I half jogged to catch up with him and when I did
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Look I don’t know you and you don’t know me, “ he said
In a rough almost angry voice.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked.
Still half jogging to keep up with him I answered,
“Sounds like you need someone to talk to.”

He slowed a bit, “I just got confirmation on who killed my dad.”
OK, about this time I’m like you saying a few choice curse words
In my mind – like holy sh…. You know..
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Hell I don’t know,” he said, “It’s all circumstantial.”
Coming to a complete stop, “There’s got to be a way that I
Can tell people, let the whole world know that I know who did it.”

He turned to me, “What would you do if you knew who took your dad
Away from you when you were just a baby but if you told anyone about these
Murdering, slime ***** they would most likely **** you too?” he asked.
“I don’t know sir,” I said shrugging my shoulders.
“If I had your money I’d figure out a way though,” I continued.
With a questioning look he asked, “OK, if you had my money what would you do?”

“I don’t know, man,” I said - “Maybe name a building after them or a street
Or something that everyone knew you named.
You know, like a hint or a clue or something.”
His eyes got big, “That’s it,” he said, “By God that’s it.”
He shook my hand again and asked me my name.
And a few short years later he was gone too.

But the name – the name he named his business – there’s your clue

They say that time heals all wounds.  That isn’t always true. Sometimes what is needed to heal some wounds is justice. I hope that someday this particular American wound gets its fully deserved justice. One thing for sure, there can never be any justice,in this instance or any other, without Truth. What is it about JFK Jr. that whispers to me that he is not really gone?
Aditi Sharma May 2013
However, we chat.
High we were.
But talks were on every topic,
every article, detailed.
In endless fundas,
these luchas,
****** up concepts,
made up basics,
domestic things are tough for them,
ha! I see
being a girl has its natural instincts,
miss allen'ahoy!
listening to bolly-jazz,
beautiful sultry sounds,
laughter and peels of it,
spread all around,
mister. grungy shorts!
licking his whiskers,
meow! grr!
moew!grr!
Mr.dannish charmboy!
His orange T-shirt,
he is happy,
nice hair-cut,boy!
serves my fantasies well.
Tonight is going to be a night huh!

Kisses
<3
Regal Pinion Sep 2013
Think I'm strange? Why do you ponder?
My wit's so quick it leaves behind thunder
It got me arrested the other day
They said 'sir, please put that knife away'
But it was sharp enough to slice right by
Subtle enough to slip and hide
Imagery so visual there's spotlight and stage
Bow to the audience and present the Word Play

Abstract, deep, or maybe pretentious
If that's weak then save me sweetness
Or just be bitter all the time
I think we need more flavors in our lives
But some phrases are too sour
Some spicy hot
Combine them in a daily diet
Eat up the lot

Synesthesia hides in these words
Taste the color of what you just heard
Compare the senses that I stirred
As each sentence takes the third
Stanza

Oh Santa what have you got this time?
Were you there to spare a fair
But lazily placed rhyme?

Yeah right twas the night
Before crisscross applesauce
When all through my head
Concepts, points, tangential joints
Changed all of the topics instead

Now say 'bye'
To your mind's eye
As it all becomes so real
And paint a picture
So dreamlike
As it all becomes surreal

How do you feel? Not with your heart
Now let's leave that enclosed
I refer to the hands. Understand?
Palms tapping and exposed

Oh no. Here you go:
A pun and paradox
How do I land my desert boat
By these dark white pair of docks?

"No. Look see, *****,
It's an oxymoron"
Well isn't that just great
Zip the chit chat
Have a Kit-Kat
While I take a...

No wait! Don't break copyright infringement
Clichéd rhymes should have signed I'm going off the hinges
Some were so slant that even Emily Dickinson
Would refuse to go and ski on them and she'd rather stay hidden

Was that reference too obscure or was that understood too fast?
Now that I asked that question I look like an ***

I'd break the ice but I can't skate
I'd break the glass but it'll lacerate
I'd break the tension but at this rate
I'd break my spirits when it's too late
Too late for what? Explain you say
Okay:
No.
Poems can be made to be vague
Flow so sick it causes a plague

Well let's just say my home anyway
Runs off a never ending source from me each day
The energy:
Power
Of Wordplay
When Prog-Hip Hop and Boredom get together, they get a bit too friendly and have a child.  
This poem is that child. And the metaphor used to describe was entirely necessary.
Lixian Ng Apr 2014
I talked to a girl,
Who was texting,
On a white iPhone.
A quiet person,
forces herself in,
A conversation
with someone who isn’t interested.
Small talk.
Empty fluff.
Electronic letters,
Whet her appetite.
Chit chat is nothing.
Nothing more,
Than a pointless lesson,
On how to deal with odd people.
A Mareship Sep 2014
Daniel, Peter, George and I sat in various stages of drunkenness.  Dee was sober and on the water. It was our annual dinner, the great catch-up, and most of us were drinking champagne. A great bouquet of peach roses sat in the middle of the table dropping petals by the hour.
“She’s got ginger hair.” Peter laughed.
“It’s more auburn.” George defended, pouring himself another drink.
“No.” Said Peter. “She’s ******* ginger.”
Daniel leant back in his chair with his arms behind his head, wearing his face of perpetual amusement.
“Dan. Come on, now. What colour is Melanie’s hair?”
“Oh…I don’t know.” Dan smiled. “A sort of strawberry blonde.”
Peter punched George on the shoulder."See! She’s ******* ginger!”
Boys will always jostle to be top dog. Daniel was the alpha and Peter resented it, but Daniel was everything that Peter would never be: good-natured, strong, calm, in control. Peter was loud and insulting, a bit of a bully but sort of sad with it, prone to fits of melancholy and drunkenness. We all had our role to play. George was fey and funny and got offended easily. I was the madman who did the things they didn’t dare.  The dynamic worked, most of the time.
Dee was quiet and an ‘outsider’, so he didn’t count. He sat with his glass of tonic water which was packed with slowly cracking ice, and he stuck to his usual routine : no food, no alcohol, no cigarettes, no smiling, no chit chat. Any time I laughed or told a joke, his silence would shame me. He reminded me of how desperate I was to fit in, to be one of the boys. He always shamed me just by sitting there, by not joining in, by being so ******* above it all, by being so himself.
“So, what exactly are you doing these days, Art?” Peter asked.
“Teaching. You know that.”
“Yeah but…why? Do they even allow mental patients around kids?”
Daniel leaned forwards in his chair and glanced at me, checking for discomfort.
“God.” I sighed. “******* Peter.”
“And what do you do?” Peter asked, looking at Dee. Dee took a long while to answer, focusing his eyes and adjusting his posture.
“PhD. Physics.”
“Sounds boring.”
“He’s mathematically gifted.” I said proudly.
Peter smiled with one side of his mouth.
“If someone gave me the gift of maths I’d return it and buy a calculator.”
Everyone laughed, including me. Dee started to fold his napkin, and then he unfolded it. Then he folded it again.
“Do you love maths, then?” George asked.
Dee pushed the napkin into his lap and shrugged.
“There’s something wrong with you if you love maths.” George said. “Maths is *******.”
“Do you want another tonic?” I asked Dee, putting my hand on his knee. He pushed it off with force.
“No. In fact - I think I want to go home.”
“Don’t go home!” Daniel said. “Please Dee, stay a while.”
“No, I really think I ought to go home now.”
“Hey.” I grabbed his knee again. “Come on.”
“No.” he stood up, the candlelight winking wildly in the silk wrinkles of his shirt. “I really want to leave.”
“The evening’s just getting started.” Peter said.
“The evening is not the problem.” Dee said quietly. “The problem is you.” He closed his eyes. “The problem is you.”
I felt my skin shrink. Dee stood up to his full height and exhaled.
“In fact, the problem is all of you. You’re all awful human beings. All of you. Awful, awful, awful.” His eyes sparkled as he warmed to his theme. “And you’re all so ******* boring!
Peter and George were speechless. Daniel leant back and laughed beneath praying hands.
“Yes, you’re bores! You’re such ******* bores! Even the waiter is bored! Even the flowers are bored!”
“Dee, love.” I stood up and grabbed his shoulder. I was quite drunk.
“No Arthur, I’m going home, I’m tired. I’ll get a cab, you stay here with your awful, awful, awful, awful bores.”
He stomped off and Daniel blinked at me, his eyes wrinkled and drunk.
“Go on Art, go home. It’s ok.”
“God, Arthur.” Peter said. “What a lunatic. There’s something seriously wrong with him.”
“Oh *******, Pete.” I snapped, for the second time that night.
“Take this.” Dan said, thrusting his bottle of champagne at me. “I don’t want it. Go on, run and catch him. Go and get drunk with him.”
“No use. He doesn’t drink, remember?” I said, putting on my coat.
“Drink some water with him then. Tell him…” Dan grabbed my head and whispered into my ear, “…tell him that he’s right, that we are ******* bores.” He burst out laughing and sank down into his seat, watching me do up my buttons. “Oh my God!” he laughed, grabbing my hand like he was about to kiss it. “We’re so boring! We’re so ******* boring! Look at us! Even I’m bored!”
Daniel winked at me, still laughing. Daniel was one of Dee’s greatest defenders, and he admired Dee because Dee was honest, because he could not fail to be honest, and because Daniel loved the people that I loved, and I loved Dee most of all.
I grabbed the roses from their vase, just in case I needed them. They were wet, and dying, and they had no smell.
I caught up with Dee outside Angel In The Fields. He complained that he had a headache and told me he wanted to go home. He told me that he couldn’t have stayed one second longer.
He took the flowers from me, and buried his face in them until I hailed a cab.
Flowers were a running theme with us. Flowers in buttonholes, wisteria in gardens. Roses in his face. Buttercups in the grass. So terrible, when I think about it now. Perhaps someone was trying to tell me:
Arthur -  this story will start and end with flowers.

Dee had a habit of ruining social occasions. Perhaps the stress got to him, the terror of communicating, the fear of conversation. He became easily overtired and quickly over stimulated, if a conversation was getting too personal or staying at chit-chat level, he would begin to stress and flounder. If someone annoyed him he could not pretend to like them – he had to let them know that they were ****** or boring or dumb. He didn’t fully comprehend how offensive he could be. He didn’t understand that in order to maintain peace, you must suppress yourself a little bit, tailor yourself to fit the rest. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in suppressing himself, it’s that he simply couldn’t do it.
Most of all, he hated people taking up my attention, whether they were talking to me, amusing me, or even hurting me – he made it very obvious that he did not like to share.
Once, he emptied an entire bottle of red wine into a young woman’s handbag because she had been talking to me all night. He placed broken bottles in front of his mother’s car tires. He sent anonymous emails to my father, threatening disembowelment.  He beheaded ivory chess pieces, snipped the heads off anniversary roses, kicked people's shins under tables.
And he had the worst temper I had ever known.
When people didn’t understand where he was coming from, when he felt isolated and flustered by his own emotional poverty, he would begin to fragment. He would rock back and forth and moan. His voice would change, his face would change, and his anger would be frightening in its desperation, he would tear at his own clothes and hurl himself into walls. A few times I had to physically restrain him, pulling his sweater or shirt over his head to trap his arms, sitting on him, trying to calm him down.
But I could always deal with it, the crazy stuff – it didn’t bother me at all. The rage, the disconnect, the alienation. I knew what it was like to lose control. I knew what it was like to feel different. I used to say to him, “I was with Dee today and I seen hell in his face, Guv’nor. It was all red and blotchy looking.” And then, sometimes, he’d smile.
It was the eating thing that devastated me. It was the eating thing that made me feel useless. That was the one thing that I didn’t understand.

We took a cab from Angel In The Fields and went back to no.23. He went straight upstairs to get undressed, and took a pair of new cashmere socks out of their little beribboned box.
“It’s too warm for cashmere.” I said. He didn’t listen, and put them on anyway.
Dee had never had much of a *** drive, so I knew I was pushing my luck by kissing him – we had made love the night before. He kept his mouth closed and pushed me away.
“No, I don’t want to."
He picked the fluff from his black velvet computer chair.
“I’m not cross.” I said.
“Cross?”
“About…tonight. With the boys.”
“Oh. Ok.”
I went to kiss him again. God, I loved it when he bent his head back and his tongue met mine, his arms relaxing at the elbows, his limpet legs clamping around my own. But his mouth pursed up at me. No entry tonight, sorry.
“Goodnight, then.” I said. “I’m going to bed.”
Something cruel took over me as I opened the door to leave.
“Y’know, Dee – sometimes I think you really hate me.”
He looked at the wall behind me, scrunching his face up, wound up and stuck.
“Forget it.” I said. “Just ******* forget it.”
As I closed the door I heard an animal noise, a miserable animal noise.

Dee was the only thing that had ever made any sense to me. I had no real connection to my parents, I loved my mother but she was silent and neurotic, full of nervous energy that set me on edge. I never felt like I could fully confide in her. I hated my father because he had never loved me, and he had told me so. The only people I loved, my grandparents and my sister, were far away and mostly busy, unavailable, and I caught up with them through letters and telephone calls and occasional rushed visits - holidays, weekends away from school, time away from parents and *******.
I once walked to my grandparent’s house after running away from school, and I fought through a cage of conifers just to ring their bell, turning up at their door wild-eyed and full of pine needles.
I always fought to be with the people that I loved. I fought and fought and fought.
I loved Dee because he was mine and he was never too busy for me. He was as quiet as my mother, as vengeful as my father, but he was mine and I loved him, and he loved me back.
Perhaps that sounds very naïve. But it wasn’t naïve. My love was grown up, full of sacrifice and sleepless nights and heavy talks that left me exhausted. I searched for him when he wasn’t there, I talked to his mother about his health, I took his blood pressure, I poured his fortisip, I calmed him down, I made him laugh and I loved him, ******* hell I loved him, and I watched him like a God and reached out for him in the morning because he reminded me that I was alive, because he made my realness real, because he was my cold fire and he burned by the side of me, coldly, to balance out the crazed orange bonfire of me.

He followed me to bed soon afterwards, brushing his teeth and taking off his clothes, sitting down next to me.
“I hung up my blue.” He said. “Could you fetch it for me?”
His ‘blue’ was an oversized shirt that he slept in sometimes. He put it over his head and it fell around him.
“You know.” He said, “Sometimes I think that you hate me.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He got in next to me.
“I don’t hate you, not now, not ever.”
“I’m not one of your friends, though. If you had to choose a friend, you wouldn’t choose me.”
I didn’t reply, because I didn’t understand what he meant.
“Daniel is your best friend, isn’t he? But you’re my best friend. What happens when I have to talk about something, something that I can’t talk to you about? I don’t have any friends because I don't like anyone else. So who am I supposed to talk to?”
“Me! You can talk to me! I tell you everything.”
“Well, what if I wanted to do something, but I knew that you would try to stop me from doing it?”
“I wouldn’t stop you from doing anything you wanted to do. Not ever.”
“Forget it. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Please Dee, you can’t just start a conversation and then abandon it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore, I’m tired and I want to go to sleep.”
“What is it? Come on, please. What is it?”
He turned away and curled up.  I stayed with my head against the headboard, looking down at him.
‘I love you.” He said, without moving. “I thought I should tell you. I thought you should know.”
“I love you, too.”
And then he went to sleep, leaving me to the house sounds, the clanging inside the walls, the discordant duet of two sets of breathing and the occasional cough.

When I woke up, he was in the shower. His socks were bunched up at the edge of the bed, shrugged off in the night.
Like I said. It was too ******* hot for cashmere.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2017
west field
on its outstretched finger
crow chats to scarecrow
Big Virge Oct 2014
BILLS BILLS BILLS !!!!
  
Soooo Many ... **** Bills ... !!!
I don't like Destiny's Child ... !!!
This ain't a Dance Drill ... !!!
  
I’m writing this poem
cos i'm ... TIRED ... of ... " BILLS " ... !!!!!
  
BILLS ... for the Electric ... !!!
BILLS ... for the Gas  …!!!
Soon … they'll be Billing ...
For taking a .... "SLASH" .... !!!?!!!
  
BILLS ... for ... The NET …
BILLS ... for your Texts ...
BILLS ... for those ... HOTLINES ...
For .... Telephone *** .... !!!
  
What will they bill next .... !?!
They're Billing .... Soooo Much ....
They don't even want ... Cheques ... !?!
  
Just Tap In ... Your PIN …
that's how they'll begin ...
to steal ... ALL Your Money ...
  
Why don't people see …. !?!
are they REALLY .... "THAT DIM" … ???
just look ... In Your Bank ...
  
"The Beast" .... Lies Within ....
  
Cashpoint machines .... “FAILING” ....
The service is .... “SICKENING” .... !!!
  
Meantime ..... YES ...... Your Bank
is … “HAPPILY” … Billing ....
  
Now ... I really would CHILL ....
if I ..... Never Again .....
SAW  .... A **** .... Dollar Bill !!!!
  
cos ... AMERICA’S ... used them
for Killing ... at Will ...
  
kinda gets me to ... Thinking .......
that ... even .... " Bill Clinton " ....
just bombed without ... Blinking ... !?!
  
Sudanese People .... DIED ...
as the U.S. .... just .... LIED ....
  
While meantime .... Bill Tried ... !!!
to STOP .... his **** .... SHRinKing ... !!!!!!
  
Lewinski .... for sure ....
Was NOT .... "FINGER LICKING" …. !!!!!
  
But doing ... Her Thing ...
while thinking ........... Ch-Ching ... !!!!!!!
  
Meantime .... Bill's career ....
was about to start .... SINKing ....
  
" TITANIC " ..... Indeed ..... !!!
  
Bill ... fulfilled ... His Need .... !!!
  
but then came ... The Press ... !
Monica's … "All DISTRESSED ... !!!"
  
but Bill ... Tried his Best ... !!!
once again .... to .... “DECEIVE” ….
  
but ... All of A SUDDEN ... !!!
BILL made ... "A NEW SOUND" ...
  
“Okay, Yes I did it … !!!”
  
The TRUTH ... did ... come out ... !!!!!!
  
So, how many Bills ... ?
are feeding us ... LIES ... !?!
from BILLS ... that we pay for ... ?
To … “UNIFORM GUYS” …. ???
  
Oh Yes ... The ... “OLD BILL” …
over here ... NEED TO ... chill … !!!!
They're beating on ... BLACKS ...
"RACISM" ….. “INSTILLED” …. !!!!!
  
Blacks Dying in ... Cells ...
All Show ... but ... No Tell ... !?!
of how this ... CHIT ... happens ....
  
“THE YOUNG MAN JUST FELL !!!!”
  
See, that's the ... Hard Sell ….
that's what ... Blacks Deserve ... !!!!!!!!
Ask .... Warren Mitchell .... !!!
  
Alf Garnett …. I MEAN ... !!!!!
  
See …. On TV screens ...
for years ... they've been showing ...
Blacks being .... "DEMEANED" ...
Drug Dealing .... or .... VIOLENT …
  
Then they want to ... BILL ME ...
for a **** ... TV Licence ... !!?!!
  
They may well be ... "Jokes" ...
to … “OLD SCHOOL” … White folks …
  
But .... Listen up ... CLOSE ... !!!!!
  
A Joke is a Joke .... !!!
but some ... "OLD BILL" ... these days ...
are those ... “*******” ... blokes ... !!!
  
So ... who in the end ...
will have faces of ... YOLK ...
  
Well .... NOT .... Rodney King !!!
Try this for a name ....
PC .... Julian Glyn ....
  
A .... Leicester .... Policeman …
caught .... " CHILD MOLESTING "… !!!
  
See i'm SICK of ... these Bills !!!!

We're paying .... "TAXATION" ...
for these ignorant ... " SICKO’S " ... !!!!!!!!!
to get their ... "CHEAP THRILLS" ... !?!
or to use ... Dollar Bills
to get people .... KILLED .... !!?!!
  
So ….

There are a FEW Reasons ...
why ... Bills ... get to me ...
amounting to ... TREASON ...
  
Haven't YOU ... had your fill ... !?!
  
Well ... maybe you ... Have … ?
Or ... maybe you ... Haven't … ?
  
I just want to ... RELAX ...
and be able to ... " CHILL " ...
and not have to ... Worry ...
about these ... " ****** " ….
  
BILLS … BILLS … BILLS … !!!!
They just keep on with them .....
Kewayne Wadley Aug 2018
My love for you isn't just a feeling.
It's a civilization.
It's a group formed in unorganized noise.
A commotion of expression purposely existing
the sole purpose of you.
Living & breathing.
A jumbled language overheard.
Stenciled with each patter of foot.
Every horn honked.
Each lane clogged with the thought of you.
A foundation built from the ground up
in means to explore.
A stone age modernized.
Misinterpreted by the desire of fire.
Protected.
Built upon.
Built into the tallest building, which I call your name.
My love for you is like the plane that flies overhead.
Roaring loud in repetition.
Tedious nooks & crannies.
Places to shop, things to see.
All the things I see when I look into your eyes.
My love for you a province of sorts.
The smell seared in a pan. Best served on a plate for two.
A mix of different pastas, vegetables.
Fried in upbeat cafe, different aromas.
The chit chat different versions of me.
Complimenting the very essence of you.
A new building erected with cranes and steel beams.
Plastered dry wall.
Soon opened for your arrival
JJ Hutton May 2011
"C'mon. I haven't had *** in three months and I feel like I'm going to explode."

"That's not good."

"You're telling me. Wish there was someone who'd take care of it for me."

"I'll be over in a bit."

I drove in calculated trance.
I'd made the trek hundreds of times.
I was looking forward to showing her
new tricks I'd learned,
but I feared the segue.

The desperation call from an ex--
always easy to bed, I have yet to feel regret,
but finding the energy to strike up chit-chat
before the undress--
always the hardest part.

I couldn't remember the code to her neighborhood's gate,
so I lied in wait, until some sappy black SUV
strolled in first.

I pulled into her parking spot.
Rubbed my eyes.
Sprayed on a dash of cologne.
Dragged a comb across my hair.
Looked at the clock on my dash--2:00 a.m.
I aged much too far for these
fires,
but I inhaled deeply,
slammed the car door,
marched to the door,
rang the bell--
a bark,
a scramble of paws,
then bare feet patting wooden floors.
She opened the door,
gauging my face to see if she was allowed to smile.
I put my right arm
on the low-side of her back,
peered over her shoulder.
The house was littered with dusty textbooks,
dog food, bras,
cut out magazine articles,
and half-empty cups.

"You smell good," she said easing into a grin.

"Thanks. You too."

"Want to watch some Disney Channel?"

"You're still doing that?"

"Makes me feel innocent. C'mon." She grabbed my hand.
Led me to her bedroom in the back.
Cartoons laughed
as I pulled off my shoes.
She desperately fought for conversation,
"So it's been awhile."

"Yep."

"How are classes?"

"Good," I sighed, looked at her brows, "yours?"

"They are pretty good. I am finally getting to student teach."

"Awesome."

"Yeah, it is. I really love my kids."

"They lucked out."

"I wouldn't say that."

Her ******* looked bigger.
Maybe it was the shirt.
She was in tiny khaki shorts,
her toes chipped--painted red.
She let her hair down.
Sat on the bed next to me.

"How are the fellas?"

"Nonexistent. How's the girlfriend?"

"We're on a break."

"Sorry to hear that."

"For the best."

She kept curling her toes
under her ***,
her hands tugged at her shirt
anxiously,
the cartoons went to commercial break,
she started to open her mouth again,

"Sooo--"

I snagged her hands,
pinned her to the bed,
licked the exposed portion of her chest,
unbuttoned her shorts.
Pink ******* with white roses on them,
I pulled them off quickly,
threw them as far away as possible.
I gnawed on her thighs,
while sneaking my hands under her shirt,
her ******* were exceptionally vocal--
more so than any other woman's I have seen.
I tore at her shirt and bra until both were gone.
She stared at me wildly, trying to understand
where the old man she once knew had gone.
I ******,
I fingered,
I spat,
until her body ached,
she ran her fingertips along my waistband,
and undressed me.
Trying to inspire an *******.
She slurped
and rubbed at my *****,
I started to grab a ******,
but she said she was on "beastly" birth control.
I turned her around,
pumped from behind,
not wanting to look at her eyes
or gaping mouth,
I sent my mind off to fantasizing about
other mouths, *******, and *****
in an attempt to stay hard,
after half-an-hour or so,
her body convulsions became so grotesque,
I pulled out without finishing.

While she shook on the bed,
I pulled on my pants,
"Well, I should probably go."

"I was hoping you'd sleep over."

"We aren't like that."

"We used to be."

"Relationships change."

"So you think we still have a relationship?"

"Sure."

"So do you still love me?"

"No. It's more of a pornographic relationship."

I left her room,
while a tween sitcom mocked me with a laugh track,
I glanced at her family portraits outside her room.
Went into the night.
Went home.
Slept without taking a shower.
Woke to find myself unchanged.
Weary.
Meaningless.
Thirsty for love, sorrow, remorse--anything.
Meg B Dec 2014
I guess you could call me
a people addict;
I live for the exchanges,
momentary or prolonged,
the satisfaction of smiles substituted for
verbalized salutations;
the how-you-do's and hello's,
the pleasantries of chit chat,
talk of my oh my, I am not ready for this snow
and how was your holiday?;
catching a supposed-to-be-sneaked glance from that tasty
stranger,
allowing your eyes to meet for longer than
you meant to;
a compliment that drips off the lips so sweet,
its nectar invading the taste buds for hours
on end;
individualized or multiplied,
I relish in the conjugated haze,
in the gazes and the giggles,
in the potential formulation of inside jokes,
in a have a good day to a grin I will never see again,
the whirlwind of vowels and consonants,
of coincidences and sarcasm,
of the impressions we may leave of which
we will never be aware;
I crave the mundane,
I get high off the monotony,
I am swallowed by the simplicity;
Yeah,
I guess you could call me a
people addict,
and I'm cool with that.
WHY SHULD I LERN TO SPELL?
HELL,
NO ONE REEDS WHAT I SAY
ANYWAY!!! :(

Sing for the cool night,
whispers of constellations.
Sing for the supple grass,
the tall grass, gently whispering.
Sing of infinities, multitudes,
of all that lies beyond us now,
whispers begetting whispers.
And i am glad to also whisper . . .

I WUS HURT IN LUV I’M DYIN’
FER TH’ TEARS I BEEN A-CRYIN’!!!

i abide beyond serenities
and realms of grace,
above love’s misdirected earth,
i lift my face.
i am beyond finding now . . .

I WAS IN, LOVE, AND HE ******* ME!!!
THE ****!!! TOTALLY!!!

i loved her once, before, when i
was mortal too, and sometimes i
would listen and distinctly hear
her laughter from the juniper,
but did not go . . .

I JUST DON’T GET POETRY, SOMETIMES.
IT’S OKAY, I GUESS.
I REALLY DON’T READ THAT MUCH AT ALL,
I MUST CONFESS!!! ;-)

Travail, inherent to all flesh,
i do not know, nor how to feel,
although i sing them nighttimes still:
the bitter woes, that do not heal . . .

POETRY IS BORING!!!
SEE, IT *****!!! I’M SNORING!!! ZZZZZZZ!!!

The words like breath, i find them here,
among the fragrant juniper,
and conifers amid the snow,
old loves imagined long ago . . .

WHY DON’T YOU LIKE MY PERFICKT WORDS
YOU USELESS UN-AMERIC’N TURDS?!!!

What use is love, to me, or Thou?
O Words, my awe, to fly so smooth
above the anguished hearts of men
to heights unknown, Thy bare remove . . .

Keywords/Tags: Poetry, writing, chit, chat room, forum, website, social media, workshop, mortal, mortality, grass, multitudes, Walt Whitman, love, awe, serenity, serenities, grace, heights, Parnassus, art, spelling, grammar
Amee Oct 2014
I look to the left, I look to the right
A smell pulls me to a cafe inside
Aware that I'm tired 'cause day's been long
There's nothing more for today to go wrong
I pull a chair to sit with pride

I look to the left, I look to the right
I want, I want, I want something sweet this night
People sitting, chit chatting amidst a loud song
Where else would I rather tonight belong
Waiter brings the menu, I start to read and recite

I look to the left, I look to the right
Brain wants the taste of appealing yellow bright
Yummy for my tummy, baked with crumbles
Run through the gourmet wondering where I'd stumble
Has to be creamy, textured, a heavy slice of delight

I look to the left, I look to the right
He sat by me, "Cheesecake!", he cried
It's shiny, it's delicious, it's lemon, it's moist
Cheesecake it is! There's no question of diet
Why did I not choose this first, right?

He looks to the left, I look to the right
Slides his friendly arm around, I stared back all surprised
Waiter "Here's Lemon cheesecake with crumbles white"
Put a seal of approval? Yes, we might!

We could stare at each other forever alright,
But we'd rather prefer cheesecake; to infinite
For bigger and bigger bite we fight,
As we realise this is our bestest night,
Indulged in smoothness, to heaven we confide
Graff1980 Oct 2018
It’s all a lie. I work the words, speaking spastically in humorous verbs, and **** jokes. Strangers smile, and tender sweet laughter, which I love. So, I keep pushing the boundaries, working weird thoughts. They laugh more, which is what I work for.

Later when they are not looking, I look at them. I try to keep it less creepy than the other stalker type men, but I am studying them; Learning the limits of my understanding, sussing out the rhythms in which they speak and think. I try to devour their truths but hope they don’t see me struggling to see them.

I observe the hallway world. There is a man a foot shorter than me with a very wide waist, slightly longer white hair that gently curls at each end with small bald spot in the back, and the face of a cherub. Hands in his pocket he barely looks up but gives me a slight grin when I acknowledge him. Then his eyes return to the ground three steps ahead. He speaks softly and walks slowly. I know he is hiding something deep, but I do not try to see too far behind the surface, to the grander mind because people don’t appreciate that kind of trespassing. I wonder if his shyness is a product of years of rejection, abuse, or merely a reflection of a truly introverted disposition.

I am in a hurry, dropping off books at an out of town library, and picking up some poetry to devour later. She must be new, because she moves slowly. Then attempts to engage me in social pleasantries. I am trying not to pay any attention, and she is not super desperate, but she wants to speak and be heard. So, I really look at her.
Lengthy strands of brown thinning hair fall down her long skinny face, slightly obscuring a small growth under the left side of her cheek. Thin rim glasses look at me, as she talks about what she likes to read. Then shifts the discussion to the walking dead. She is passionate and despite my previous urge to escape, I am now sincerely engaged.
The gym is loud with ****** music and clinking equipment. She is stunning; Long wavy hair released after a hard workout. She is tanned, and thin but muscular, with a soft and generous voice. I ask her about her boys, and old man. She always appreciates that. We keep the chit chat short, so we can workout and get on with the day.

I stare back at a familiar but silent face, there is a building rage ready erupt, something deep and dark that is waiting to self-destruct. I do not like this person much. Dark hazel eyes pressure me, to seek something deep, short dark brown hair recedes but at a barely perceptibly rate. Teeth seem to be shrinking extremely slowly, except for the lost and already rotting ones. His body is losing fat. He is improving, but **** that. He should work harder.
I have little patience and compassion for this dumb doppelganger, but I still observe seeking something deeper, the darker unheard truths. I stare at him and snarl.

      “I like them much more then you.”
John May 2013
Back when I was about ten or eleven, the only friend I had was the most beautiful girl I knew. Her name was Jessica and her and I did everything together. In school we were inseparable, always chit-chatting before, during and after classes. So much so that teachers bestowed upon us the annoying, yet endearing, encompassing nickname of "Jackica" - a combination of our names; Jack and Jessica. I was so thankful for her companionship, and thinking back it might have been a pretty uneven relationship, emotionally. I was an overweight and awkward Harry Potter fanboy and she was a cute little auburn-haired thing who could've won any Miss America Junior competition in the world, as far as I was concerned. She had the most piercing powder blue eyes. The kind that made my skin tingle and mouth curl up into a stupid smile at any given moment. I felt like she saw me, like she really saw ME. Not the blubbery flesh that coated my muscle and bones but what I was made of, the real me. And I loved her for that. Along with Jessica's physical blessings, she was also given an insatiable appetite for adventure. She loved to go to the park at night, after the gates were locked and when everything was drenched in darkness. We'd hop the five foot chain-link fence and roam around the grounds. We'd go the water at the edge of the park and sit on the rocks, look up at the stars and take turns telling stories to each other with intent to scare the **** out of the other one. One humid night in mid-June, Jessica told a story that succeeded in making my skin-crawl. She always told decent scary stories, she was gifted in the art of fabricating tales of fright right on the spot, but this story really got to my core for some reason. I just felt uneasy as the words spilled from her mouth to my ears and with each sentence my muscles tightened and strained just from the mere tone of her voice as she told the story. She sounded serious, and she rarely did, even when telling these stories, but with this particular one it sounded like she really believed what she was saying was cold, hard truth. What she said was that she heard a story that her older brother's girlfriend had told her. It was about a house on the outskirts of town, placed just a few hundred yards from the mouth of the woods that lined our little suburban utopia. She went on to say that in the house was nothing all that scary. She said it was an old house, a very old house, as it was a log cabin that was built in the 1700s, when the town was first being settled. Supposedly, everything in the house was just as it was back then, little kerosene lamps sitting on home-mad oak tables. The maple-wood floors would moan and creak at the slightest hint of any weight being put on them. And then she said that no one had lived in the house since the man who built it died, around 1785. Needless to say, Jessica wrapped up the story by proclaiming that we had to find the house. And we had to go inside and see for ourselves what was so creepy about it. Being the scared, chubby little wimp that I was, I immediately rejected the idea. There was no way I was going to try to find a place that would only succeed in making me **** my pants in front of a girl, especially the one whom I'd placed the delusional label of "future girlfriend" on. But, as I subconsciously expected, Jessica talked me into it with just a few graceful words: "I'll kiss you if you come with me." The very next Saturday night, Jessica and I put on some dark jeans and t-shirts and took the bus all the way to the last stop, the edge of town. We hopped off and right in front of the stop the woods were already waiting, I took a deep breath as Jessica's eyes lit up. She took my hand and pulled me as she ran, me clumsily waddling along behind her all the way to a little dirt pathway that paved the only marked entrance we could see. She asked me if I was ready and I shrugged, saying something like "I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be." And so we started down the path. As the tall trees swayed in the wind, I dragged my feet with Jessica always about five feet ahead of me, as eager as ever. We walked for probably ten or twenty minutes before the foot of the cabin was before us. At first sight, it was a very old structure. I'd never seen anything like it outside of paintings in my history textbook and this Abe Lincoln documentary I saw on PBS. I never knew houses like that stood the test of time. But there it was before me, two stories high with wooden shutters clad in severely chipped paint and a big oak door that looked stronger than any door I'd ever seen. Jessica took my hand again, smiled enchantingly and rushed me forward. Once at the door, I was speechless. It didn't look as old as the rest of the house and whoever made it obviously meant for it to last a very long time, taking extreme care in carving it out impeccably and sanding it until it shined with a professional touch. Without a word, Jessica rapped on the door. Three hard times, and when no one answered after thirty seconds, she rapped again, and again. She shrugged and turned to me, asked if we should just go in. I said no and she frowned. "There's no way we came this far just to go back home with nothing," and then she wrapped her hand around the rusted doorknob and turned. The door opened with no hesitation as she pushed it all the way in. She stepped inside, and I followed. The first thing I noticed inside the cabin was the creaking floors. They creaked louder and longer with each step, affirming that part of the story, making my blood run cold. We looked around, going from room to room with wide eyes. We were amazed that we made it, that we got inside and now we were actually investigating a place that no one else supposedly had gone before. Truth be told, though, it was nothing special. There wasn't much at all to see, save for a few tables, the creaking floors and some very old paintings on the wall. We were just leaving when we noticed something on a table nearest the big oak door. It was a metal box with a small lock fastened to the front of it. "We have to open it," Jessica proclaimed after a second of curious inspection. "There's no way were going to find the key," I told her. "So we'll break the lock, Jack. Duh," she replied in her sassiest tone. I just shook my head as she grabbed the box and began to furiously slam it in the wooden table. The sound echoed through the house, exacerbating it and making me shiver from head to toe. "I don't know if you should keep-" but my sentence was cut off my the lock flying off the box and clinking onto the floor below. Jessica smiled again, very pleased with herself and looked to me. "Wonder what's inside...," She said, lifting the top half of the box open. After an initial and cough-inducing puff of thick dust subsided, the contents of the box were revealed. It was a letter, written on old-school parchment in heavy ink. In neatly laid Victorian script, the likes of which I had never seen so simultaneously neat and scattered, like it was written in a hurry or during a time of distress, was a love letter. Well, a kind of love letter. It was addressed to a woman named Tania and it was signed by a William. It told the story of how William had loved Tania since they were children, and Tania was now to be married to a Pastor named Hensley. William told Tania how he couldn't bear the thought of her ever being with anyone else and that the fact that she could never truly be his was killing him. Literally. He ended the note by confessing his plan to **** himself. I took a step back, but Jessica just stood at the table with her eyes glued to the crumbling parchment in her hands. "I'm leaving," I said after a few moments, mulling over the sorrow that this poor man must've felt. I headed out the door, Jessica following. The walk back through the woods to the bus stop I couldn't get this feeling of dread from subsiding. It seemed like I felt what William felt, but not in a sympathetic sort of way. It felt like I was William and the pain he felt was actually my pain. And then I noticed that, rolled up tightly in her fist, Jessica had taken the letter with her. "Why'd you take that," I said, sounding thoroughly upset. "That's not yours to take, go bring it back!" "No way. There was no way I was going there and coming back with nothing to show for it," she said, gripping the letter tightly, her knuckles almost whitening. I knew how stubborn Jessica could be and I knew whatever I said probably wouldn't even phase her in the slightest so I did what I did best and just shrugged it off. I found myself wishing I could shrug off the terrible feeling the letter put deep inside me just as easily as I could Jessica's stubbornness. Over time, Jessica and I lost touch, as kids of that age often do. I grew up, lost weight and opened up, making more friends and acquaintances, no longer hanging onto the thought of Jessica being my only love. I didn't talk to Jessica all that much. Just once in a while we'd meet up and have a chat over some coffee or pizza. We had both changed and morphed into young adults with different agendas and dreams and I had no problem with that. But on one such meeting, Jessica began to worry me. She said that every now and then she'd open her desk drawer and take the piece of parchment out and read it. Over and over again. And lately, she had been opening the drawer more and more, she said that she felt drawn to it. Like something about it made her feel this deep-seated dread that no horror movie or scary story had ever made her feel. She said that she felt like the letter was beginning to take a toll on her. And, by the look of her, it didn't seem like she was lying or kidding around like she always used to love to do. She had dark circles underneath her once striking eyes, which were now darker and had taken on an odd and ominous color. I was scared for her. And I told her so but she hugged me and assured me she was alright. I wanted to believe her, and I tried to, hugging her back and telling her I'd talk to her soon. But when she turned her back I knew something was very wrong. I'm writing this now because a few weeks ago Jessica's mom gave me a call. When her number came up on my cell phone, I think I knew, deep down, e actor why I was getting this call but I pushed the thought away and said hello. Jessica's mother called to tell me that a few days before Jessica had gone missing. The only indication to her whereabouts was a note she left with the words "cabin at the edge of town", and below that, instructions on how to get there. Her mother said she took the note and hopped in her car immediately, and made it to the cabin. She said she was breathless by the time she got to the cabin but forged on and barged inside and looked around. She said she found nothing and was about to leave when she noticed a small door behind the big oak door she had swung open to get inside. She opened the little door to find a stairwell. She climbed it, calling Jessica's name all the way, sobbing and wiping tears from her eyes. At the top of the stairs was the attic. And she said she almost died herself when she saw Jessica. She was hanging from a wooden rafter on the ceiling. And next to her was a severely decayed skeleton, dangling from a rope only a few inches away.u
Originally wrote this as a reddit.com/nosleep thread. Hope you all enjoy it nonetheless.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
i have three books of poetry in front of me, and i'm asking the preliminary questions that needs to be answered before i add my own little scribble - as always saturated with the cross-Atlantic soul-searching audio, this grand world and this tsunami from across the Atlantic, all ravaging my ancient soul spanning from Iceland to the wheat basin of Ukraine and the Caucus in general (kałczatka), Finnish, Estonian and Hungarian anomalies, sounds exotic i guess, what with Minnesota english, Californian english, Maine english, Texan english - it can almost feel a little sad with so much biodiversity outside the realm of spoken tongue occupying such a vastness - always mesmerising: americans in Europe - ever the few across my path - anyway... the three books, three writers, jack spicer, miroslav holub (czech for pigeon) and j. s. harry - the question? who would i like to imitate, or at least write as? answer? none of them.

like today, cool night, open skies and constellations,
a police helicopter making its ridiculous
coleslaw of sound - chit chit chat chat (my best
approximate, even if that, not really - chop variations
will be better excused for reasons why the words
were include) - change of tactic, uncoupled
the starter of beer before the main course of whiskey
with wine - god, haven't drank it in such a long time,
i forgot how well wine compliments cigarettes,
even if it's drank via the Basque desecration of
the Nazareth covenant, i.e. with coca-cola -
yep, kalimotxo - 2/3 to 1/3 coca-cola - once i gave
it to someone and they went spaghetti knees -
it's a right-odd cherry - shame i drink a bottle of
wine like i drink a bottle of beer - the whole joke
of Nick Harper (turning wine into water) -
2008's most watched sitcom - Chiswick, London -
middle-class family (for whoever is class-conscious) -
my family* - but what i really wanted to mention
was the Babylonian unravelling, it's no big deal,
i didn't exactly want to remember the encoding that much,
but i realised that even though the English do not
use diacritical marks, the French do, but they are worse
at profanities of writing letters but sort of veering off
from using them - Rimbaud in America is apparently
said: 'Rambo' - not Rim-Baud(elaire) - eclair -
dotty d d - surds or cloth softeners? i don't know anymore.
like in the already mentioned example of desecration:
kalimotxo - kali-mo-t'cho'h - a bit like mojito -
mo'he'to'h - surely with the world getting global there
should be a standard, universally speaking -
sure the borders are down, but the phonetics are still
in distinction - like in Czech-mate when asking:
š works with č - sh and ch respectively - or sz and sz
depending if you're germanic with the former and
slavic with the latter encoding - but ě and ň? the alternatives
are ę (a sound that resembles something like an e
          and swallowing your tongue)
                                                                ­and ń (a higher-pitch
of a syllable from knee, a bit like née, but more like
Anaïs Nin) - never mind, wine really compliments cigarettes,
thus the compass:
                                                å     ­         

                   àá                         æ                        ä, ą

                                               ã, â


all roads lead to Rome, you'd never imagine the unravelling
of this ancient γραφεμη would yield so many additions
to the respective letters contained within it,
just look at Adam and the baggage that came with it,
Eve isn't exactly free from the excess baggage either,
if you don't believe me, see the diacritical additions she's
carrying - but who the hell is Oswald? oh right, it's
the 21st century, it might be Ophelia or Olga;
and yes, i'm bypassing the linguistic alphabet - shoving
it into the dark, working from scratch.
Vince Paige Jun 2010
i have a feeling and whenever i get this feeling
the ceiling the floor and back to the ceiling
the voices are chit chit chattering
telling me telling me, bit bit battering
forgive me for the thoughts that come as the may
forgive me for the words that i can't help but say

i can't stop the voices, i can't stop the feeling
the ceiling the floor and back to the ceiling
the feeling is bad and i deserve it most true
the feeling is deserved, so i do what i must do
forgive me for the thoughts that come as the may
forgive me for the words that i can't help but say

pain is my middle, my first and last name
the more whish whish whispers tell me the same
i can't help but feel the way that i do
the pain is something i must share with you
forgive me for the thoughts that come as the may
forgive me for the words that i can't help but say

the words, the thoughts, the senses are failing
the voices are truth-stakes my heart impaling
i know not to whom to turn when i am confused
the voices are pain-death-smell infused
forgive me for the thoughts that come as the may
forgive me for the words that i can't help but say
12:42 AM 2/6/05
A Four day concert, created by Roberts, Rosenman,  Kornfeld, and Lang
Was originally supposed be a three-day  music festival, and up it sprang

But the citizens of citizens of Wallkill, N.Y. did not want their nice quiet town filled
With drugged up hippies that would overrun, and with this idea they were not thrilled

With many battles and protests, Wallkill passed a law on July 2, 1969 banning
The would be concert from going forward leaving the town quite less enchanting

Almost not getting off the ground, hippies all over demanding refunds for their tickets
Stepping forward, Max Yasgur offered his 600-acre dairy farm so no one would picket

The new location for the Woodstock Festival would be Bethel, New York
No one from the other town would not have complaints or come uncorked

Despite the many problems of people threatening to quit
Woodstock got off the ground despite things still being chit

This concert was poorly planned with two major setbacks, as news spread that it was free
There were congestion of cars that policeman had to turn away, for as far as one could see

Organizers lost huge amounts of money while hippies walked through gates without paying
But it was estimated that 500,000 people made it to the concert and they came in swaying

The music seemed to play non-stop as people sat and listened and some would play
It was very muddy from all the rain of what it did from much of the concert everyday

Listening to greats such as Creedence Clearwater Revival, Santana, Jimi Hendrix, Sweetwater
Can’t forget, Grateful Dead, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Jefferson Airplane and Ten Years After

The concert ended and picking up the pieces began, that wasn't just the trash that was left behind
It was the lawsuits that many filed against the organizers since beginning to end put many in a bind

The greatest music festival in history later put to a movie that is divine
Something that will forever be talked about from the summer of 1969

Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
st64 Jul 2013
round and round
they go

counting, counting
so long....


1.
hardly time to eat
let alone a coffee-on-the-go
yet always make an effort
for two or three daily suspended-
cafés
a poor soul will pop in later

no time, no time...


2.
emails by assignment
work-related crap
for this assiduous pair
very* far apart
alive and available
yet caught in
formulae and science
holding sway above chit-chat

no time for play
just punch in digits
and calculate
always counting
without accounting any real loss

computing life-time
for
success


3.
then, one day
by sheer chance
he sent her an Einstein quote:
"Not everything that counts can be counted,
and not everything that can be counted counts."

in her tiny office cubicle
she suddenly saw flowers
of all colours
blossom before her
erstwhile
unseeing eyes

she didn't understand....


4.
for one full year
they swopped more than equations:
         deep reminders of life
         such gems of worth
         paradoxical beauts
all encapsulated in
the vessel of silent words

he loved sending her quotes
      to uplift her quiet spirit
she repaid his efforts
     in heart's core poems

PC keyboard playing postman
while
heartbeats monitor
new algorithms

then, they saw it ....
they finally understood.


5.
work progressed
and presentation due
project done

although never met nor seen
       they felt growing synchrony
       and developing emotions
they battled to chase it off
as they both were
born of discreet essence

they agreed to meet in a year
at the fountain near
the oldest tree in Paris
at the
Square René-Viviani
in the fifth arrondissement

oh, so very long to wait...


6.
many weeks were spent
in daydreams
of delicious crêpes-suzettes and strawberries
with maple syrupy strips
and super-strong espresso
at bistros on
cobbled-****** squares

and munching baguette
with Emmenthal and salade
         walking in parks together
         lancing wish-pennies
         and getting portraits near the Seine
blue skies in dream-eyes
with birds in elm trees

deeply into each other


7.
then....
some shock was revealed
which would spin
e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g
so wildly out of orbit
for her

fate was playing games...
and laughing so wickedly
awarding such onerous toll

she understood....


8.
the time ticked by
mails became sporadic
he wondered why

the rendezvous time was close
to meet springtime love
and it took him
enormous trouble to get there

she didn't show


9.
he sat
waited
had a decaf
alone
despair settling upon him
like an overgrown and heavy wintercloak

but the sweet footfall he wanted
did not approach

that's when he assumed some ...truth
she didn't love him
she couldn't
not after this stand-up

he didn't understand....


10.
she had really tried to tell him
but ran so ungently
out
of time....


he understood
but only
some weeks after that day....
when postman delivered
to his door:
algorithmic package


11.
now, in her inbox
lies a Mother Teresa quote
which remains eternally
suspended:

“Yesterday is gone.
Tomorrow has not yet come.
We have only today.
Let us begin.”  


little counts now
so long
....



S T, 2 July 2013
saddened by news of p.brosnan's daughter....lost the battle - ovarian C.
may all be blessed, her 2 kids and all her family...and her.


"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed."
~ Einstein






sub-entry: 'math in the mix'

1.
yes, sir
we understand
we get it, ok!

2.
now, what could the theorem of Pythagoras
possibly teach today
with souls a-flounder?

3.
actually, a lot
think of that triangle....

a right-angled one!

(maybe :)
(20 minute poetry)

Beat around the bush
no rush
you'll get there
in the end and
eventually
to the mortuary.

Meanwhile we smoke them,
the good and the bad men
it makes no difference to me
to be
the pariah in society.

What use is poetry
to a loser or a man
like me?

They sicken me
pick on me
soon we'll see them
dancing to a different tune
it
can't come soon
enough,

In the meanwhile where the
smile persists
evil exists.

I balance the books
bigots or crooks they're
all the same to me
pariahs in and of
society.

Put your cure or your curse
on the worst of them
they're all men
heading to the mortuary.
After a tiny nap I woke up,
And gave the curtain drapes a push-up,
Just to witness how they were torn-up.

I had no clue on who did it,
I doubted my brother cutting it a bit
Thinking it is a chit!

Then I had to spare him,
Because he was at the gym.
And then I saw my window open to view,
And suspected the squirrel anew.

Thus came the huge conspirator,
The squrriel, the top operator
Who tore my curtain drapes
Thinking they were edibles!

And now, I here my mother call,
Who is going to enter my room, so tall,
I don't know how I am going to tell her all,
For the squirrel tore my curtain; though small
Now I need to manage the brawl.
Jay Jimenez Jul 2012
sittin in the diner
watching people talk and chat
eves dropping on the **** they care about
sittin in the diner
faces laughing
Silverwear ringing
Chit chat
Sitting in the diner
waiting for the food
just like waiting for a love
to chit chat
while we sit in the diner
Perig3e Dec 2010
The old sod house,
The west wind
chit, chit, chatters the hinges,
The door creaks to 'n fro,
Vermin music to the denizen within.
The old sod house on the hill,
The windows were broken long ago
Like old folks who've lost their 20/20.
And the memories too have leaked
Through that busted fenestration.
Where most the year the wind is weir
And long ago caught the laughter
That onetime surely resided here.
Hard to know who did lived there.
There's only one that surely knows,
I'll ask the wind.

*This poem is a collaboration with joann alabsy who inspired its creation an contributed generously.  Any and all short comings reside at my door.
All rights reserved by the author

— The End —