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Big Virge Mar 2017
I ... REALLY LOVE ... *** ...
ESPECIALLY with ... My New girlfriend ... !!!

I Love ... women ...
but really can't be doing ....
with ... Arguments ... !!!

That's why ... My ... " Pen " ...
is my ... New girlfriend ...

We make ... " Love " ...
and Love the touch ...
of pen to page ....

When we ... Engage ...
It feels just like ...
A ... ****** High ...

NO ... NOT That Way ... !!!
You've got a ... SICK BRAIN ... !!!!!

There's Nothing ... quite like
**** ... Feminine Thighs ... !!!
but ... after *** ...
and ... Cigarettes ...

Some girls give ... STRESS ...
to their ... boyfriends ... !!! ...

That's why I like ...
to ... sit and write ...

Because ........

I Don't get stressed ...
by my ... New Girlfriend ...

Her name ... is ... " Pen " ...

NOT ... Penny ...
or ... Penelope ... !!!

Should I ...
say it again ... ?

My ... " Pen " ... is now
My New ... girlfriend ...
and YES ... we have ...
INCREDIBLE ... *** ... !!!!!!

The kind of ***
WITHOUT ... the stress ...
of ...... *** ......
or other types of ... STD's ... !!!!!

*** like this ...
is ... TRULY ... Bliss ... !!!

NO Condoms ...
and NO ... Colons ... !!!!!!!!!

Except ... for those ...
that fit in ... Prose ...

So ... NO ******* ...
and NO ... Mistakes ... !!!

Helping us to ... avoid ...
Long Term ... Headaches ... !!!

But ... EVEN If ...
by chance ... they do ...

Trust in this ... !!!

They're just ... " Removed " ...
Without ... tissues ... !!!

Or ... with trips ...
to ... " THOSE " ... Clinics ... !!!!!

If ... During ...
or ... because of ... *** ...
We make a ... Mistake ...

NO ... Pregnancy tests ... !!!
or ... Arguments ...

Our friend ... " Tipp-Ex " ...
is our ... " Best Mate " ...
Just like ... THAT ...
Mistake ... ERASED ... !!!!!!!!!!

I'm telling you ... Straight ...
Our *** is ... GREAT ... !!! ...

I think that ... Pen's ...
My New ... " Soulmate " ... !!!!!

She's ... " Tall and slim " ...
and at a ... " Whim " ...
Can change the colour ...
of her ... Skin ...

And ............... If I think ...
She's a bit .... " TOO BIG " ... !!!

She Doesn't ... fume ...
if she gets ... Ditched ...
for ... Another Pen ...
I choose to ... " Pick " ...

This simply is ...
The way of things ...
in our ... *** Relationship ...

" IT'S ... ONLY *** ! "

is what she says .........

but makes sure that ...
it's NEVER ... Bad ...
when she's attached ...
to my ... " Notepad " ... !!!!!!

She's ... QUALITY ... man ... !!!!!
and i'm ... SO GLAD ...
that she ... " Found Me " ...
Through ... " Poetry " ...

She told me ....

" Virge, I love your rap ... !!! "

but then ... Of course ...
I answered back ...

"Come on now Pen,
It's not just rap !
Don't get it confused
like certain crews !
This is something
Beautiful !
What we do,
leaves people moved,
just like you,
whenever you choose,
to *** it up,
in my front room !!!"

She simply said,

"Big Virge that's true !
How about this view ?
Your way with words
makes our love work !"

I'm ... Telling You ...... !!!

She's a ... SPECIAL ... girl ...
who makes me feel ...
On ... TOP OF THE WORLD ... !!!!!

She loves me with ...
Her heart ... FREELY ... !!!!!

and chooses to ....
Just .... let me be ........

Until it's time ...
to just ... recline ...
and let our souls ...
Make Love ... through scrolls ...

It's MORE THAN ... *** ...
when this .... Unfolds ......................

NO GIRL ... provides ...
Such ... " Loving " ... vibes ...
WITHOUT ... " Conditions " ...

That's ... THE CRIME ... !!!!!

Whenever I write ...
It's a ... JOYOUS ... Ride ... !!!

Even when ...
My Anger ... finds ...
A place within ....

" Poetic " ... lines ...

But ... EVEN ... then ...
" My Pen " ... Still Shines ... !!!!!

and let's me know ...

" Hey Virge it's fine
I'll Love You til',
the day you die !"

She is ..."  My LIGHT " ...
and my ... SUNSHINE ... !!!!!
and is ... " The Love " ...
that ... FILLS ... My Life ... !!!!!!

When I just .......... sit ...........
and HOLD ........ " My Pen " .......

She ALWAYS sends ...
My brain ... these scripts ...
that ... in the end ...
are ... Celestial Gifts ... !!!!!!!!!!

Negative ... or ... Positive
The balance reached ....

REJECTS ... needless
........... Vanity .........

but Welcomes ... MORE ...
.......... Humility ..........

That;s why ... The *** ...
is ... SO **** GOOD ... !!!!!

because ... My Pen ....
will NOT BE .... " Pulled " ...
Away from ... ME ...
for Cars ... Babies ...
or .... BIG MONEY .... !!!

She just ... " LOVES ME " ...
Through ... " Poetry " ...

Like My Mother ...
did ... DAILY ...

From ... UP ABOVE ...
These days ... My Mum's ...
STILL LOVING ... Me ...
Through ... " My Pen " ...

UNCONDITIONALLY ... !!!!!!

So ... NO WOMEN ...
NO ... Arguments ...

Just .....

Me and ... " My Pen " ...
as .... " ****** Friends " ...

Until ... I FIND ...
within ... " This World " ...

A Truly ... **** ...
SPECIAL Girl ...

Who ... in the end ...
when we're in ... Bed ...

Makes me ... " Feel " ...
just like ... " My Pen " ...

and makes these words ...
run through ... " My Head " ...

Because of her ... WOW ...

I Really ... Love *** ... !!!!!!!!!
As far from *** as you could imagine, but my love for this art is expressed in this piece
Tim Eichhorn Jun 2016
The rusted belt is tight
in our hometown city.
Black smoke masks the lights
In one gaseous setting;
the permenant fitting
Of our hometown city

Trees exchange steel
In our hometown city.
You’ve never seen the wheels
churn and the deals burnt
In the factories that take pity
On the nitty-gritty of our
Own hometown city.

The last laughs with us
In our hometown city
We don’t’ ride the Cali bus,
But yea, I'd say we are witty,
cause al'the prettiest girls
Live in our hometown city.

The river’s been burnt
In our hometown city.
Yea we’ve learned a lot
From our own ad(e)missions;
And now, clinics fill prescriptions
in ourown hometown city

In my own hometown city
We’re slicker than you,
Even though our York’s isn’t new…
Why? Watch my city revive in
Front of your eyes- then ask me;
Why is this your hometown city?
CLEVELAND
Pearson Bolt Sep 2015
i see the words floating on
message boards or perched
upon the lips of jocular hypocrites
double-standards that demand
sensual chastity and virginal sexuality
in endless iterations of irony

the concussive
monosyllabic words
slung like stones
cast like arrows

****
*****
*****

all labels for
women possessed of
the courage to pursue
their own passion

once upon a time a
Nazarene insisted a ******* had
more integrity than a rich
statesman throwing self-serving parties
so tell me why so
many Christian politicians
propagate patriarchal notions of depravity
in blanket attempts to regulate
the bodies of women

if being anti-choice was really
about preventing abortions
why do rich right-wing conservative
Republicans spend all their time
and money picketing free clinics
when the solution lies in comprehensive
****** education universal healthcare
complimentary birth control
and comprehensive child support

don't dare use the reprehensible
rhetoric of pro-life unless you're
at once anti-war
and anti-death penalty

riddle me this
what pray tell is the
difference between a jealous
religious misogynist
and a secular sexist

it's rather simple actually
while the former bases his
****-shaming on the edicts of
a two thousand year old letter to
the Corinthians inconspicuously
sandwiched between a celebration of
love and a section on speaking in tongues
the latter’s learned behavior is
birthed by a hyper-masculine culture
grounded in dominance

either way we await the day
when wild women raze
these ideologies  
with torches before
rising like phoenixes
from the ashes of
decimated passages
dismissed by intellectuals
as archaic and outmoded
deaf blind and dumb to
the vestiges of modernity
that sap unscientific
philosophies of their potency
and render them utterly obsolete

in their wake
these proud women
erase the hate
from words like

****
*****
*****

and reclaim equality
with a far more
comprehensive term

feminist
Michael Pick Feb 2013
As I sit down to think
I slowly close my eyes
To feel it flow openly
It's been a little while
But it hasn't been easy
I'm going out of my mind
It was so good for my body
To let the air ******* blood
So why count the days since
I can't use angry thoughts
They can't help me abstain
From making dark red blots

Pills and drinks don't mix
Knives are just a problem
Doctors want a quick fix
But life's already awful
Self help clinics
With aggravating offers
But I don't see a fault line
So I don't have a problem

To me this is normal
So what's with all the drama
Can't you let me do this
Stop forcing help like cough drops
Medicine's no answer
It's simply not a sickness
Scars will just scab over
Are your glasses so tinted
Let me deal with myself
And you go do your own stuff
Stop playing with my health
I mean, I'm still alive

Pills and drinks don't mix
Knives are just a problem
Doctors want a quick fix
But life's already awful
Self help clinics
With aggravating offers
But I don't see a fault line
So I don't have a problem

Not a mental condition
It's not what you're thinking
No mental remission
Just a lack of a feeling
I simply don't care
For friends that are leaving
I don't even need them
Just less reason for me to bleed
A global indifference
That's not new to me
It causes no problems
But I can't seem to dream

Pills and drinks don't mix
Knives are just a problem
Doctors want a quick fix
But life's already awful
Self help clinics
With aggravating offers
But I don't see a fault line
So I don't have a problem
yuck
ConnectHook Sep 2015
A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto
as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology
smashing to fragments: demonic astrology
(more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true though).
Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance
Concupiscent consequence: lust’s bitter fruit –
ah the thought… changing Sin into mere inconvenience.

Margaret sang her seductive refrain
about weeding the garden and progress and light.
Her sisters should view her with scornful disdain
but instead have adopted her murderous rite.
With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics
(as if she had never herself been a fetus),
condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics
while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us.

Suppressing the lives that she flushed down the drain
she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain.
As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side)
Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy
singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide
calling the shots for the coming sick century.
Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races
her zeal was empowered by murderous graces.
She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction:
“dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy”
“viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction”
Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy;
words that turn Life into mere reproduction.

She enters the realms of the ****** and the motherless
roundly condemned by her feminine otherness.
Man’s first protection: the God-given womb
which no infant should have to regard as their tomb.

Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her
as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her.
Long may she burn with the medical cynics
this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics.
Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen
and the profits swell big with each nubile teen…
yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen.

I send her this song as a funeral wreath
and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there:
“To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death
from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth.
May your torment increase with the children you bear.”
http://tinyurl.com/ortqfvp

Wk kortas Mar 2017
Well, why not me, I reasoned
(No surprise to friends and loved ones,
As I have always considered my time
On this spinning patch of rock
As something of a monument to the value of pragmatism)
But there were still the normal sine-wave vacillation
Between tenuous optimism and odds-driven grim reality,
Fanciful discussions of Chinese herbs and Mexican clinics
And, later still, of time frames and stock transfers,
All the while various folks attired in suits and clinic coats
Debating matters pertaining to the coda of my personal symphony
(Doing so as if yours truly wasn’t even in the room)
Until, deciding my input might be somewhat pertinent, I said
If it’s all the same to you, I would like to go home.

It was, in a sense, like getting back on an old Schwinn
(Fender dented, rubbing on the front tire just the least little bit,
The chain needing oil, grudgingly giving in
To the demands of the crank)
Sitting, unused but inordinately patient, next to the barn,
The whole notion of settling back into a pace you’d forgotten,
Like dialing back a metronome from allegro to andante
Without missing a beat or flubbing a note.
What’s more, there were the sensations you’d never made time for
While under the thumb of daily deadlines and train schedules,
Greeting you like friends you hadn’t seen for twenty years
But started gabbing with as easy as slipping on old jeans:
The scent of the lilacs, overpowering but borderline mystical,
The informal yet precise ballet of the cattails and jewelweed,
The fields of cows that, even though you know it can’t be the case,
Are populated by the same Bessie and Bossie
You taunted and pelted with watermelon as a child
(I have made it a point to proffer my apologies),
The dark, pine-choked hills,
Formidable but accessible, even comforting.
Sometimes, when I am not paying attention,
I catch myself all but tearing up,
And I say to myself, ever so softly,
As not to disturb the squirrels and the wrens,
I had almost forgotten.  Christ forgive me,
I had almost forgotten.



I’d assumed (sometimes, I can be astounded
At the full extent of my own foolishness)
That she would merely take a leave of absence;
She has, after all, an alphabet full of advanced degrees,
A rainmaker’s reputation and the billable hours to match.
Columbia and Harvard Law, after all,
But she grew up down the road just a piece in Ebensburg,
So this is all part and parcel of her as well
Hard coded in the DNA for better or worse, she’ll say,
All the while shaking her head and laughing softly.
Surely you don’t want to stay here, I’ll say,
Boorishly rational in the face of everything
Which would argue to be otherwise,
You’ve read enough Forbes and Fortune;
Altoona is dead, Johnstown is dying,
And she allows that, for a time, coming back
Was the source of some misapprehension on her part,
Until it dawned on her that on those rare occasions
It had occurred to her to glance skyward in mid-town,
She had seen faceless tiles of windows
Sufficient to sheet a Great Pyramid,
An Armageddon’s worth of angels and gargoyles in the cornices,
But she had not, even once, ever seen the stars.
jeremy wyatt Jan 2011
So many lies from her to me
please don't tell him I'm pregnant
I was ***** she told the clinic
and me
the baby seems big for three months.....
but clinics get money for this
and charities give grants
they don't ask too many questions
6 hrs crying and screaming
till they chopped it up and ****** it through
a young doctor panicking
haven't destroyed one this big before have you you ****
took a long hooked thing to really mess the wee thing up
I saw it's dead eyes in the pan
her dead eyes
half-open and in a silent scream
where is the ******* dad? The nurse whispered..
somewhere ******, I said, I'm just her pal.
Dad didn't want a small thing in his life
my hands bled from her nails
and this felt right
my heart bled despair for her and the mess in the pan
took her home in a taxi suspicious eyes on us, huddled smelling of sweat and blood, no clean-up
she wanted to stay as soiled as she felt

Year later in another room
couldn't *** she wouldn't let me leave her
got a urinary infection holding on
longer this time
thirteen hours of pain and fright
no-one seemed to care again
on a trolly in the cold where is the magic
where is the ******* dad? A nurse whispered..
somewhere ******, I am just her pal.
twisting my hands
she bit my face wanting a kiss as she pushed so hard
the midwife dropped him halfway up her belly
I dragged him to her face
let go the doctor shouted
told him to shut up or *******
got yellow baby **** and blood in my mouth
wanted doctor blood too
tasted sweet somehow tasted of alive
took 83 sedatives that night  her sister found me in ICU
hard to die swap me for the wee dead one
I'm ****** she would have been special saw her face

She would have been 14 yrs old today
Summer Lee Dec 2014
If god was a real person ,
I'd sue .
For floppy ***** ,
And gaping eye sockets .
Misplaced fat pockets
Stretch marks and paranoid doobs.
For photoshopped pictures
And singles mixers
And never being able to properly chew
My words Before I spit them out
For men that don't ask before they mount
And for all the doubt .
For protesters in front of abortion
Clinics and mimics .
And being more creative without your adoration .
For false salvation .
Dark n Beautiful Jun 2019
Abortion for some is a stubborn memory,
Mistakes, a mishap, a brutal ****,
Shameful memories that wasn’t call for
Unwanted Fetus, no more abortion
Said the lawmakers

No more jobs, for the clinics
no more work for the undertakers:
no more daily entries to birth registry
Women, has the right to choose
Lawmakers has the power to brutally
Say we don’t care: closed all abortion clinics down

Let the fetus grows, and become a man
And brutally **** again,
Lawmakers had the power to choose
A ****** can continue to **** and impregnated again:

*Charles Dickens (1812–70)
QUOTATION:
If the law supposes that,” said Mr. Bumble,… “the law is a ***—a idiot. If that’s the eye of the law, the law is a bachelor; and the worst I wish the law is that his eye may be opened by experience—by experience
Emily Pancoast Oct 2012
In North Carolina I put on my mother’s wedding dress
passed down for four generations
my great-grandmother wore these pearls
now I walk down a petal-littered aisle
to wed the boy whose mother I call ‘Aunt’
Mother sheds only a joyful tear because he is a man and I am a woman

My university demolished a solid stadium
built a new concrete giant in its place
in the middle of a field where we used to lay and watch stars,
where we used to chase each other when it got warm outside
Meanwhile the arts buildings sink further into the ground, forgotten ruins

My grandmother wages war against ink on skin
and offensive words in books
we can’t burn them anymore
but we will lock them out of our libraries
so that the children cannot be corrupted

Old men picket outside free clinics,
demanding that wombs be held sacred
while the children they would save would starve in the streets
and then be sent to battlefields so we can call ourselves peacekeepers

Teachers and students alike label each other with permanent marker
all the while teaching tolerance
and having multi-cultural food day in elementary classrooms

The young run so fast toward the future
filled with shiny new iGadgets
equipped to tear apart the beliefs we thought we held dear
I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.

In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.

That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
It's hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
when so often they're put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.

What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
work at changing his destiny for their convenience?

It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I've devised just one more means
of praising Art with thehelp of irony.

There was a time when only wise books were read
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.

And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.

What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
Matt Feb 2015
The Afghan army insisted things
Were more secure in 2013

But they had to close down the schools
One man said the Taliban threatened to attack the schools

Now the men fight with Soviet era weapons
The American troop levels reduced

In one village
The people can farm and work freely
Because of patrols by the Afghan police and
The police took over the patrols after the Americans left
The police report what is going on to the military

The people want clinics and schools
To be built

The army leaves day to day security
In the hands of the National Police

The Police Chief says
They have gained the trust of the local people
And they discuss how to punish the warlords

May God be with the national army and police force
May they protect the people and keep them safe

Some Afghans
Living in Pakistan
Were forced to return to Afghanistan
After a school was attacked in Peshwar, Pakistan

The Afghans suspect
That local officials are taking advantage
Of the situation
To expel unwanted refugees

More than 33,000 undocumented Afghans returned from Afghanistan
In the first six weeks of 2015

Even some registered refugees
Have been driven out of Pakistan

Many returning Afghan families have nowhere to go
In Jalalabad, the closest big city
On the Afghan side of Torkham
Families pitched tents along a canal
Lacking any other resource

Their children pulled turnips from a nearby field
The most reliable source of food

One woman is worried
How her children will fare
They no nothing of the country
And what it is like

Their is great mineral wealth in that country
Perhaps that is the main reason why
The U.S. has plans to stay there
For an extended period

I doubt life for the Afghan will ever get better
Or be more secure
The Taliban are there to stay

33% of people live below the poverty line
I doubt that figure will ever improve either
Even if the country prospers from their mineral deposits
The common man won't benefit

Well, that's just how the cookie crumbles
In Afghanistan
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tlja_ZhNXdw
Nomkhumbulwa Aug 2018
He could have walked away,
For there were many a reason to do so;
But he never did;
He was there through the highs and lows.

I gave him many a reason
To walk away for good;
And yet he stayed beside me
While I was in his neighbourhood.

There were panic attacks, crying,
Semi madness, paranoia;
All the usual consequences of
Being assaulted a year earlier.

There were so many times
I expected him to be gone;
I warned him in fact that -
I’m not worthy – my people are gone!

There is no need to put up with me,
Its not good for your health;
I’m used to people disappearing,
I’ll deal with things myself.

For I am being punished,
It’s how its meant to be;
At least for those of us assaulted
....in the middle of the sea.

But of course he didnt understand,
He’s from a different culture;
He wasn’t afraid to hold my hand
And protect me from the torture.

He has probably never met anyone
As mad and unstable as me;
Coming to stay in Soweto
And feeling so totally free.

He saw my love of Soweto,
For the children, the people, and more;
He spent so much time exploring his home with me –
He’d learnt which combi to get door to door!

When I had to get to clinics,
Not just one, two, three, or four (!)
He spent two days right there with me
As we waited hours to reach the door.

He didnt have to do that,
He has work to do back home;
Yet even when I shouted at him –
He never left me alone.

Of course I apologised later,
Tried to help him understand;
That my brain does its own thing,
Yet he was still there to hold my hand.

He never once walked away,
And thats when it occurred to me;
What a complete cultural contrast
....to our “people of the sea”...

My “family” are now Sowetans,
Although i’ve known that for a while;
When the clinics registered me as an “African”
All I did was smile.

Of all the times I thought i’d given
A reason for him to abandon me,
There was one in particular –
Where he’d be fully justified to flee.

To protect yourself i’d understand,
You may need to walk away;
And yet he didnt – he put himself at risk
...to protect me, I have to say....

It’s not an easy place to live,
He could have walked away;
I’m forever grateful for his bravery
And that he didnt walk away.

For a place where for so long,
Segregation was the norm,
It has come such a very long way –
Since the day I was born.

My culture, mixed as it is
Has not suffered in this way;
Instead it shuns and alienates people
....if they “dont obey”....

Well done South Africa,
Though the problems you face are not gone;
You could teach a lot to “my people”..
..a culture that needs to be re- born.
Written on Mandela Day 2018; an account of the total contrast I found in a society so different to the one in which everyone I know...walked away.
Julianna Eisner Mar 2014
..
Mouth full of semi-raw fried potatoes and
dehydrated orange wheels, doesn't Mr. Appleseed come out of
nowhere
and plant a speck of a seed right smack dab in the centre of my
reptilian cortex, but I
pay no mind because Buddy has adored me for a whole five minutes until he rebounds
              harder
                        than an
                                    addict discharged
                                                    fr­om
                                                        forest-y­ methadone clinics
                                                        i­n downtown cores
                                                        pop­pin' Hilfiger blue collars
                                                        y­ackin' it on the phones to guys named D, or
                                                        D yackin' it to guys named Friendo, Jai, or
                                                        Little­ Tim,
                                                        buri­ed from ******* back too much hillbilly
                                                       ­ ******, while
                                                        col­lege girls sleep in their Sahara beds,
                                                        sav­ing up to buy bouncy trampolines with
                                                        boun­cy cheques,
                                                        ­listening to lullaby coos of pimps and ******
                                                        on­ the downstairs couch,
                                                        ga­zing fawn-eyed at cavediums next to
                                                        nobody cares muffins and syrup-y coffee
                                                        canyoudropmeoff?
                                             ­           outside of the seventh-story window of
                                                        million dollar saloons,
                                                        ­wearing blings and rings,
                                                        purchase­d by wealthy husbands and
                                                        travelin­g yuppies for their wives' veneer,
                                                        eating breakfast cereals that go
                                                        Snap! Crackle! Pop!
                                                        for three square meals,
                                                        re­furbishing plastic containers
                                                        on foot-stained broadloom,
                                                        with cage and cagey roommates,
                                                        throwing life rafts to bloated bodies in
                                                        Great Lakes
                                                        for the price of a debt,
                                                        recalling waffling road trips,
                                                        visiting one-man tents behind billowing
                                                        smokestacks;
                                                        I blew my brains out in an air duct,
                                                        lost my life lifting up heavy floor mattresses,
                                                        climbing out of basement windows,
                                                        while hitch hiking mothers sing karaoke
                                                        nursery rhymes by Janis Joplin,
                                                        20 notes off-key,
                                                        harboring skeletons in stairwells and rusted
                                                        out Grand Ams,
                                                        making friends in Tim Hortons after last call,
                                                        dressed in leprechaun fatigue,
                                                        driving like England at midnight,
                                                        I spoke to a faceless man,
                                                        whom I'll never get a chance to send a
                                                                ­               thank you
                                                       card...
                                                       as for me? I never touched the stuff

but I was too spent to care and was already floating on cheap Chardonnay and authentic vitamin D with my bindle stuffed to the brim so I thought I'd just American Beauty plastic bag my way through this one, cropped in floral, patio sunglasses, swirling and twirling on Ballet Boulevard until
An e.ch-o-y sound in my
left  ear
I turned my head,
slo-mo tracers flashed in warp speed,
        the testa bursts open.
..
judy smith Mar 2017
WHEN Jayson Brunsdon learnt he had to muster the strength to fight cancer as his fashion empire crumbled around him, he was at breaking point.

Luckily for him and husband Aaron, a saviour was on the way — in the form of a beautiful brown-eyed angel — their son, Roman.

In a heartfelt interview with Wentworth Courier ahead of the March 30 launch of their book, Designer Baby, the couple shared their tumultuous journey to bring Roman home to Australia after he was born to a surrogate in Thailand.

Watching their faces light up as the now two-year-old Roman gleefully dives under a mountain of pillows on the couch at their Elizabeth Bay apartment, it is easy to see why they describe him as “the light at the end of the tunnel” after what they have been through.

And the couple has held nothing back in telling their amazing story of survival, hope and determination in the face of unbelievable adversity.

Their world came crashing down in 2008 when the global financial crisis delivered a devastating blow to their Jayson Brunsdon label, a darling of the fashion world, worn by Crown Princess Mary of Denmark and Jennifer Hawkins.

“Most of our business was international, in America and England … and we lost all that business overnight,” said Jayson, 52.

“It was around the same time that I was diagnosed with (testicular) cancer.”

He faced a three-year battle, including four months of intense chemotherapy, after surgery had failed to stop the disease spreading.

“It’s very difficult to be creative when you can barely get out of bed and you’re deliriously ill and you feel like you’re dying,” he said.

“It was a really hard time and it went on for a long time so we had to downsize and we had to get rid of our stores.”

Aaron, 44, said the cancer made it impossible to keep the business afloat.

“Jayson was the creator of the brand but my time had to be devoted to his care as well and so … everything started to suffer and it kept going down and down until we reached rock-bottom,” he said.

“It was the GFC, it was the cancer, it was everything and one day we woke up and lost everything, we lost the entire business.”

Rather than give up, Jayson fought the cancer and won — a process which caused him to reflect on his life to the point where he questioned whether he even wanted to be part of the fashion world.

“Cancer was life-changing because after you’ve been through it, you just can’t deal with ******* and there’s so much of it in the fashion world, it kind of revolves around it and I thought; ‘I don’t know if I can do this any more’,” Jayson said.

“But what else was I going to do? We had the business and … when we downsized, I could kind of get away from it all.”

The couple has since rebuilt the business and the Jayson Brunsdon black label is in 40 Myer stores.

When Jayson went into remission, the couple of 18 years could finally pursue their dream of having a family together.

“We had wanted it for a long time but (the cancer) meant we had to put the whole thing on hold,” Jayson said.

“At that time we started to realise there was a lot more to life than working seven days a week and struggling every day,” Aaron said.

“We wanted something more and I think one of the most important things in our lives was having a family.”

After doing a mountain of research, the couple began eight months of preparation work with the All IVF Center in Bangkok and they were matched with their Thai surrogate ****.

They were over the moon when she fell pregnant with Roman, using Aaron’s cousin Rebecca’s egg, donated altruistically, and Jayson’s *****.

But their excitement turned to panic when the Thai Government announced it was going to outlaw surrogacy in the wake of the Baby Gammy scandal, when an Australian couple left their son with his surrogate mother because he had Down syndrome.

The couple was told the chances of bringing Roman home were “almost impossible”.

“At the time, it was the worst news any parent could face — we were five-and-a-half months pregnant and at that point we knew there was going to be a fight and we just didn’t know how long the fight was going to be,” Aaron said.

“It was one of the most tumultuous times in our lives because we had gone through so much to get to this point and we’d had so many challenges.

“When we finally got pregnant, we thought there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

“And then for the bombshell to drop on us to say that ‘you can’t bring him home’, that was the most frightening thing that had ever happened to us.”

In the wake of Gammy, the Thai Government ordered an audit into IVF clinics.

This led to the forced closure of the All IVF Center after authorities allegedly discovered links to the human trafficking of surrogate babies.

The fate of about 50 Australian couples — including the Brunsdons — was thrown into limbo.

After much political wrangling, Foreign Minister Julie Bishop arranged a pact with the Thai Government who agreed to grant a grace period for pregnancies already in progress.

Jayson finds it difficult to articulate the relief he felt.

“It was just sheer joy, it was like, ‘thank God’, it’s difficult to describe really because it’s about our child and if you can’t get him home, you don’t know what to do,” he said.

“When it was all clear, we were just ecstatic and we could get on with living again. We were just on hold, we were holding our breaths.”

But they were not out of the woods yet.

Despite being assured they would have not issues leaving Thailand after Roman was born on January 5, 2015, they were detained at the airport for human trafficking.

“Initially they said, ‘we are not going to let you go until we see the surrogate mother’ and they asked us all these questions and they were screaming at us,” said Aaron.

“It was awful, we were so terrified.”

Eventually they were allowed on the plane — Roman had an Australian passport and Jayson’s name was on the birth certificate.

Jayson has spoken out for the first time in response to accusations that he saw Roman as a commodity akin to a buying a fashion accessory.

“That’s kind of pathetic really. Who has a child so they can have them as an accessory that they can dress up?” Jayson said.

“I just think it’s just really bigoted, discriminatory, really ill-informed and it’s unacceptable.

“Some people are just really ignorant people and they don’t understand that when you’re gay, you’re born gay. It’s like being born black … you can’t help it.

“So if you want to have a child, why shouldn’t you have a child?

“If we got him as just an accessory, we would have been over him by now wouldn’t we?

“It’s part of the joy of being a new parent, to buy the cot and decorate the bedroom and all that kind of stuff.”

Jayson said Roman had “enriched” their lives.

“He makes us so much more responsible, patient, caring and loving and we are very lucky because he is just a gorgeous little angel,” he said.

“(Parenthood) is such a fantastic experience. It’s the hardest thing you ever do, but it’s the best thing you ever do.

“It’s the best thing we ever did, it’s better than showing in New York Fashion Week or anything, it’s a much more heart filling experience than anything you’ve ever done.”

Aaron said they would ensure Roman was not deprived of anything.

**** said she would do it all over again if they ever wanted a sibling for their son Roman.

“One day in the future if you want to have a sister or brother for Roman, if she can help and do again, she is happy to do,” said an interpreter responding to questions.

The mother, who had never been a surrogate before, said she discussed her decision with her husband and family, including her two children Jonus, 16, and Nicky, 6, “so everyone knew and agreed”.

Her motivation was to help the Australians, “fulfil a family that would be the most wonderful gift to them that they can never forget”.

“She also believed this is a very good thing she did, to give life,” the interpreter said.

“She look after someone’s baby for them. She want to make that couple also very happy.

“She loves and talk to baby and let her kids and family touch and talk to a little boy inside. “Because she believe her love and care will be the best vaccine for baby to grow well.”

When she met Aaron and Jayson, she understood how they felt.

“You two very good people. She knew you are super fathers who will raise a little boy surrounding with love, good education and all good things,” the interpreter said.

“Buddha teach her to be good people, to help other people and bring happiness to people.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Jack D Serna Sep 2015
Dear Mr. Television,

There are poor air quality in national parks.
Californians are painting their lawns green.
A ****** Galactic pilot survived failed space mission for billionaire.
Santa Cruz lost an 8 year old and found her dead in a recycle bin.
Berkeley police in riot gear hunted a man with silver teeth for robbing laundromat.
Jamestown archaeologists found first American settler remains.
LA mayor second guessed Olympic games.
SF sign said "hold it!" to keep urination off public domains.
LA police handed out "quality of life" citations to homeless people.
Opinions urged citation clinics for the "service resistant".
Others said it's all in vain without any housing.
Mexico made Presidential candidate Donald Trump into piñata,
      but the people have taken enough swing at him already.

Your pal,
Newspaper
Bob Dylan style, for emphasis.
JJ Hutton Nov 2010
rattle lips,
be the air conditioner's vent,
on the bent, the bent,
bet the insides of your sister's thighs
for this month's rent,
two-step, lip balm, and liquor,
turpentine, fashion gurus,
and abortion clinics,
everyone's afraid of fairy tales
and heart disease,
your mother's a nurse
for your fathers hedonistic purse,
i found the id,
follow me to the id,
i found the id,
it lies under sheet,
under sleeve,
under bleeding wrist,
and callused bride,
dig graves in the image of god,
die in the name of everlasting life?
vision trips amidst weary moons,
silver slivers
on past treasures sail on sinking ships,
and "i am the resurrection"
says the harlot,
and "i am the resurrection"
says the wind,
we ride 'em both and write home
of only the wind,
history books, history books,
paint me heroic,
history books, history books,
i've got hooks to sell,
children to condition,
and banners to wave,
god save america,
god save america,
god save the liar,
the creep,
my mother,
my *****,
and everyone of
my summer homes,
and each of my televisions,
and each crevice i can crawl into,
and each dream i can divide.
© Nov. 2010 by J.J. Hutton
Pauline Morris Mar 2016
A crime buried without justice is never laid to rest
Those that where responsible never addressed

The exploding bombs had chased them to the basments
They thought women and children would be safer in this containment

But these bombs that droped did not explode
It had a much deadlier payload

The gas it trun lose was Sarin by name
This nerve gas played no games

So much heavier than air, it's deadly fingers reached down
Right to where all the women and children could be found

Quit and deadly, they hadn't a prayer
They where all so caught unaware

Until their lungs wouldn't work
Then the muscles twitching and ****

Mothers agonizing screams filled the air
Me and my Children are dying they declared

Bombs delivered the gas
Now families and children twitch in deaths dance

No real hospital for miles
Poorly equipped clinics filled up, people laying in the aisles

Frothing at the mouth, pupils only pinpoints
Death came to many that day, it did not disappoint

The dead laid in rows in clinics, mosques, and streets
Over thirteen hundred the lord had to meet

And as the living took care of the dead, in their graves they lay
Still no one is punished for this crime upon them, not even to this day
Syria in 2013.
Sia Jane Jan 2014
She was always the other woman, flowers in her hair, cascading down her back
freckles covering, porcelain skin, cupids bow, painted dark red, hair strawberry blonde
vintage fashion of Henry a la Pensée, envelope chemise, peignoir, blue iris mink fur
shoulders forward, rain splintering, bare legs, André Perugia shoe, one lost amidst the cobbles
favourite novel in arm, to read, as she contemplates her choice, Gertrude Stein; Fernhurst
oh how can one author write ones heart so articulately she thought so pensively, the other women
spring blossom blown away as a puff of pink smoke, a thief in the night, racing past the library
the winding stair case, the oh so fabulous and opulent parties, laughter and cocktails
the tower in sight, a beating of an empty heart, lovers lost, a baby once nurtured
taken, those back street black market abortion clinics, she'd never recovered
she shivered, the time was now, black streaks of mascara, tragedy, loss, pain
the tower was in reach, she gazed upwards, it was near to midnight,
perfect, she thought, the exact time she lost her sister off this same tower,
both plunging to their deaths, love broken, hearts kidnapped nowhere in sight
the game was about to begin, her happiness quashed, every hour, the motions run
dreaming of the afterlife, sedated by drink, she waited it out, effortlessly thinking,
what now,
with a kick of the last shoe, a stumble to the edge, she fell, like a graced angel in flight
devoured by the night.

© Sia Jane
--

“I too am convinced that life is dark, and at the same time I love life.”
Simone de Beauvoir
I wanted inspiration, and so I flicked through a fashion magazine and I listed about twenty words. From those words, I formed this piece. I have never done this before.
PJ Poesy Aug 2016
Sun begins its rise, taking baton from setting moon
Freak closes curtain, sealing darkness within his room
Compulsive habits draw and push, metering this tune

Addict sees the devil, meandering wide labyrinth
Drunkard finds green fairy within precious Absinthe
Religious zeal is just a steal from place called Nazareth

Judging from the junkies, who line up on the street
Methadone clinics make perfect meet and greet
Cops are robbers, faking stats, keeping rule of their own beat

Faithful followers of god-pill-poppers do it just the same
All the people seeking steeples, much, much the same
When will devotee know a drug by any godly name?

It all goes round and in this town, martyrs everywhere
Adhering doom upon a tomb, getting closer there
What we don’t know is soon to show a resemblance of somewhere
tdf Dec 2013
My demons
From the shadows
Are a limitless power
That overtowers
Sanity in its weakest form
That I used to welcome
Until I left them

So listen here
Sinister and Fear
You don't own me
You can't ruin me

I won't let you take me back
I won't let you increase the lack
Of love that I am able to give
This is my life, that I will still live

So ******* and your prescriptions
Plus your clinics that once held me
I can make it through
This month or two
Before insanity
Overtakes me

I cannot  ignore you
I know you are there
Waiting in the shadows
Preparing your dark lair
You can torture my thoughts
And try and scrape through my skin
But you won't take the will I have left
This time I will win
Grace Jordan Dec 2013
One moment.

Her eyes were closed and the sparks danced behind them and down through her body, a beautiful, uncontrollable choreography. The smell of leather and summer intoxicated her, left her knees wobbling. One moment, one memory, lips parted and together, spinning her round and round until she fell down.

Blue eyes begged and fingers scraped noncommittally against every pore, but she was locked. The wood would not budge, and her silent tears collapsed as he danced from afar. A bittersweet tango as another woman reflected in his eyes, fingers dancing with his as hers once did.

Cheap motels and motor oil were all they had needed that summer. He had smiled and left kissing promises in the naked morning, waking her daily with their future, fantasy, and love. One moment, every stalling second was one moment, one moment before he could kiss her, one moment before he could touch her, one moment before he could love her.

She would wait moment, she would wait forever.

Together their hearts had melded into a rhythm unlike any she had known, music without sound that had them dancing from the moment they met until the moment she had to leave.

One moment. They said that moment would ruin his life. Every leaping dream and twirling hope would be crushed by her little mistake. His dance would end. Each hand hung onto a different love, and she had to choose.

Long moments, on one long night, she wished sorrowful goodbyes to her growing love. In the shadows she crawled to clinics cold and heartless. Her fingers dropped money in their pockets to tear her heart open, rip it to shreds, take it way and make her cold, clinical, incomplete. She could no longer dance, her fingers could no longer move with his as they once did. Yet their hearts stayed tied, and with each misstep her love took three. Clueless, he let her ****** his music, his rhythm, his dance with love.

They told her she was killing him. They insisted she was no good for him. They blamed her when he could no longer dance.

She listened.

One moment, arms clasped onto one another, water fell in a remorseful decrescendo, marking the end of a love. The cavity of her heart was filled with rainwater, flooded with the pain of their loss. He begged her not to go, but he was blind to the blood on her hands. She had to be strong to save him.

One final moment, lips crashed into the final dance, the beautiful memory that haunted her into her dreams, into her days, unto her end.

He smiled, she smiled, and his dance finally began again in the arms of his bride. All that was left for her was a silent solo, the walk away from the love she would never replace. They had locked her out. They had broken her heart.

But they had been right, and without her he would dance again.
The ravels in my sleeve of care
Grow longer every night-
Especially in the morning
When I struggle back to sleep
From waking up too early

Only to be bushwhacked
By brigades of unsolved problems,
Battalions of frustration
And whole Armies of defeatment
Marching out to meet me.

While you’re asleep your secret mind
Is solving all the puzzles
That unhinge the hours when you’re awake
And dodging slings and arrows.
That is the scholar’s promise.

That is what the con men say
In psychiatric clinics
Where they write the books
Explaining what it means to fly
And why we never land when falling.

Sleep refreshes and renews-
At least that is the theory.
It’s not supposed to wear you out
And beat you down while dreaming
Out the scripts you didn’t write.

When the raveling is complete
And both my sleeves have come undone
Will I dream of flowered fields
And happy times, successes and rewarding
Or will it end and I no longer dream at all.
                    ljm
I never win in my dreams, I'm always behind the eight-ball - "a day late and a dollar short" as the old saw says.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
write with the ambition: no one is going to write a book about me... i might as well write a book about myself - Hollywood vanity, the ones who can't write out the mundane with ferocious appetite to excite have hardly put a chunk of meat in their mouths, anaemic vegetarians, mantra chanters - well, anaemic vegans - the great debate about abortions, women's rights and the clinics condensed into an egg: is it a chicken? is it a chicken chow mein? no! it's a runny yum yoke boiled in 5 minutes! it's a completely different entity! what with the half-formed fetus that hasn't been ***** trained and hasn't developed **** or bladder muscles - is awake but is practically asleep - consciousness develops after the two precursor developments, it's not walking, it's still finding it easier to suggest onomatopoeia from words: it sounds like the great equation of putting an algorithmic-like interchange of vowels and consonants is creeping, but when it's there, there's nothing, a blank, no concepts stemming from the second other-worldly impregnation from the so called "imaginary" being, how long does a fully mature fetus spend time in the dark? 3 weeks? 2? the cut-off point from full maturity to: get me the **** out of here! i'm not an aquatic creature, i'm part amφiβiaν part cross-dressed monkey - or something like that.

i could be an entertainer after i stop being a monkish
poet, recluse and a father of the black wood
(since i don't have the desert like St. Augustine
the Penitent-Self-Reformist - a bit like Edward the Confessor, me),
the sober me doesn't like the idea of forgetting my
role as a poet-optometrist, still drilling out
the slightest differentiation into memory
between ν and υ - from now on - just so i don't stand
a 1950s style trial due to McCarthyism - i'll be
writing it as: θυκ - but wait... take the northern monkey's
perspective, a southern fairy picked it up with
upsilon - it's more like app Saigon - well, a salon -
so the alt. variation would be the northern θωκ -
but still the three letter aesthetic problem -
the missing c - **** you Byzantium! i haven't read enough
Greek to find an aesthetic pair where one acts as a surd
in pronunciation but not in the optics -
there's no equivalent kappa double to add - and i just
can't put in υω - but i guess i'll have to - what is
the de-digital format of contemplating such a feat?
handwriting - how easily could you write
microsoft equivalent typography of *mistral
θυωκ?
i guess quiet easily - much of "ancient" orthography
(20th century) has changed, letters (due to the digital
adventure) have come akin to numbers, we can write
large sums of them because of the lost art of handwriting,
it's lost, i mean you can still practice some sort of
fancy typography, but i guess you wouldn't write
a book with a style like mistral, more like Coca Cola
or: beware of the dog. what is this leading to?
i admire, oddly enough, writers like J. D. Salinger
and Harper Lee, i wouldn't exactly call them constipated
writers like Bukowski would, or A. Dumas,
i just don't get the idea about how they treated writing
without any addictive tendencies, i have two worlds:
one things, indian spices, televisions, sun, moon,
clouds (which i kinda find as beautiful as a pile of ****)
and a world of encryption - symbols - silence and symbols,
the roots of all thinking being spared a constant daily
narrative, a moment to take something back, much
akin to programming, although, given the status of language
as the earliest way of making children see and recollect
and respond on a gravity-prone-pivot of balance
(modus primo - anti-Cartesian res absorbuit, a sponge
like thing, not a fully mature res cogitans / thinking thing) -
with those authors, i can't see how they could write
a book like that, and not even tread a mediocre path
of writing, i can't spend a day without looking at these
symbols... oh, and by the way, if Arabic will not punctuate
in a digital format its users will not find peace, mandarin
and hebrew are already cut up - the Latin users already
did away with the "painful" act of cutting up letters and
losing handwriting, Arabic should do likewise,
otherwise all they'll post online are jihadi beheading videos
as proof of their so called Islamic civilisation -
and for that part of inventing numbers? look,
the only thing akin to punctuation comes with the dizzy
heights of 1,000,000 (that's a billion), otherwise you
have the spiral π - and i am being condescending and sarcastic,
given the Koranic ref. to Jews: children of Israel...
well... kindergarten of Saudi Arabia.
Gaffer May 2017
The day breaks and the morning comes alive
The down and outs leave their luxurious trappings
The shop doorways are hosed down
The rush hour rushes by
Shop girls display tomorrow's must haves
Perfume lingers over the first hit of coffee
Gossip travels at high speed
Numb minding work begins
Old lady fidgets with new generation card
The war was easier she sighs
Kids try to sell you tomorrows version of yesterday's wheel
No catch up it seems in the technological world
Only the race to the bottom
Traders popping uppers invent the ten day week
Live for today, dollar tomorrow
Gold and sharp suits can’t hide the body crumbling
Clinics battery charge the fading hopefuls
New lease of life, the temporary meltdown
One born every minute
Evening drinks ***** the day from hell
Home time sets tomorrow's doom alarm
The night people emerge
Shop doorway heaters blowing, provide luxury
Last weeks paper catches his eye
He immediately goes to stocks and shares
Things are looking great
Just as he predicted
The twenty four year old drifts off to sleep, smiling thoughts of yesteryear
Those were the days
Those were the days.
It's getting darker,
malice, resentment,
jealousy,
a fruit salad Of youth misfits
from hacker
to packer,
smuggler to rapper,
but what happen was after
Was The economy became a *******

with no fathers to guide it,
cause they already tried this
Now our kids like us could lose an earlier retirement

And I'm tired of it
causing a chain of half *** generation backlash,
so more get thier back thrashed
by their own family while a fat cat

Brings bad luck like a black cat
Filthy rich while some live out of a backpack
And this is me claiming my
two cents so u can tell
The government to tax that

Cuz they Always got us to laugh at
while they get their back scratched
But he gets a happy ending so it's
not just his back scratched

No wonder hes chaffing
and'll probably be chasing penicillin
Cuz itchy And scratchy has nothing to do with cartoons to this vilan

Now the employees the boss
And the boss like ur salads tossed
But we all have to bare a cross
Now my Stomachs all in knots

Cuz Everything's, rush rush
Kiss *** kiss *** blush blush
U wanna move on  up up?
Then find a **** And **** ****

While cancers at us like duck duck
And the goose is getting more then a goose egg
when their goose is cooked

and mother goose told us about 3 political parties not just one
she said
"Three blind mice see how they run"

So while George tells the idiot a story
about the rabbits
The greedy let money make them a savage
while We die slowly from our habits,

Why do we have it,
And To call us mankind is silly
Cuz what mans kind these days really? The one thinking with his wily

to free *****, feelin up a  womans manipulations and call it biology
By staying abreast psychologically
Which is a sociopaths  ideology

now im off of my own topic
Like i provided it just to rob it
Like I went to my bank and boosted the same cash I jus deposited

No wonder Im rich with annoyance
i must have won a lottery
thats how all these things bother me
my community missing comradery

Instead we steal with robbery
slaughterin wuts left of the economy
Like ur ****** coming back again
only this time for ******

Cuz things arnt the way dey outta be. Everything's about novelty
When we need less walk in clinics for addictions, and bad doctoring

Until narcotics flood the street
Someone tell those officering
dealers r those with Scripts 4 oxys
But nice that they're offering

Wut happen to philosophy
Where are all the neo saucrates?
Shooting for monopoly but that cant save u being a ******* obviously  

oh this horror is such comedy
Lately I think i need a lobotomy
good and evil battle within me opposed Im like a walking dichotomy

Now procreations odd to me
flawed To be a double standard like belief of having no right To play god and take life yet its ok to us to play god and make life

It's contradiction is guess
depends on position I guess
2balls to help my two cents express
so this is a requisition I guess

Far from living true freedom but its
Been gone so long who needs em
People say u cant find a trusting person these days..so Y dont u B one

But no, we always need some
Reward or valid reason,
When we already got the biggest...
sharing a home in all seasons

But lately were greatly
crazy, Like oh baby
maybe lately, we fried Our brains chasin the American Dream unsafely

No wonder I sadly dislike myself
And everyone else lately
this is how the world has made me
So u can love me or hate me

But from now, I refuse to allow
Another power to make or break me
I won't follow rules or lemming like fools, I will no longer live safely

Or by a risk management thought
Cause one day well all finally stop
And See that the only real thing
Given to us is each other and not

Valuing it Is like our words and being and heard, Feeling emotion to cry
But still were sick enuf to look in a lovers eye to say I love u as a lie

So don't let them , sell u a high
sell u a dream or sell u heaven
Cuz The ones selling treatment is
usually the same ones producing the weapons

And I tried to spare u this rant
But it just can't be kept in
Something smells badly and sadly
i think its the **** I just stepped in.....
Claire Bircher Dec 2010
Serve lush lies
on a delicate breath
wrapped in a station
holding flowers
and condoms in a blue case
two things essential,
one to say thank you
the other to spare the
piteous smiles of pristine nurses,
gum clinics, abortionists tables,
what would it matter?
Most of this would still be removed.

Flick eyes up
over fizzing cans
two straws roll on lips
and train track rhythm
as teeth bite down
(could his need for fellation be more obvious).

Arrive at the destination
and fidget under clothes
for keys and *******
against the wall
******* taut
and dampness under bra
as the door swings open,
"the bed has fresh sheets
just for you"

You're supposed to be happy.

Time to smile.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Learning disabled, hopelessly unemployed
Troy can't write the address for his next interview.
Warehouse stock, 331 Tiffany Street, in the Bronx.
His girlfriend, Trinity, also unemployed,
with one child by Troy. She's more resourceful
but doesn't realize it. For one month
she worked an evening cashier job until her mother
refused to babysit at night. Wants to go out, live
her life, too. Trinity made numerous appointments
yesterday, can write and find the addresses o.k.

Troy has nowhere to live, has been crashing
with a woman in the Bronx. She's on public assistance,
they share the bed. How Troy reconciles this woman
with Trinity doesn't matter. Survival precedes love.
Troy can't meet the rent although she gives him
subway fare. He dresses well enough in the youthful
style, dark shirt, thin dark tie. At least no sneakers
and saggy pants or skinny jeans. Smokes cigarettes
but so do a lot of people. Hedging bets on life.

Trinity is tolerant of Troy. Understands his
predicament. No stable home, no money. How
does she feel about her kid? At least she has
someone to love her now. Troy forgets
to record the names and phone numbers of companies
he applies at. Burned out on angel dust. Wants
a job that pays and offers benefits. Too old
and desperate for a work experience/basic education
program. Needs a living wage, not a stipend.
But can't read or write or even speak coherently.

Interestingly he's not desperate enough to work fast food
at age 22. So the woman on public assistance is
a surer source of income than we think. Good.
Security guard may be the way to go with Troy.
No police record, requires no writing skills, just
stand there and be big. A job with no security
for the guard. Troy's mother threw him out
four years ago, although she helps out now and then.
He dropped out of high school in the tenth grade
kicked around the house and streets two years
doing drugs and partying. Met Trinity, got her pregnant.

Does Trinity have a contraceptive in place?
We don't know. As employment counselors, is that
our business? Only if Trinity brings it up. On
the bulletin board there's plenty of information
about family planning clinics. When she lost that
cashier job, I was completely frustrated, but not Trinity.
Takes it all in stride. I gotta admire her cheerfulness,
but why shouldn't she be happy? She has friends, family,
a community such as Hell's Kitchen is, not the worst,
and a purpose for living and acting in her kid.
She feeds the baby, negotiates living space with her mother.

Troy and Trinity wake up, late August morning,
hot and humid New York City. They have interviews
planned as well as personal business and pleasures
today. They have responsibilities, society puts
survival on them, never mind their disadvantages.
It is tough and it is good. Trinity will land
another cashier position, maybe today. Troy
will go for security jobs, I figured it out, the
uniform will make him feel better, the check
too. The work boring, easy, slow, perhaps fulfilling.
www.ronnowpoetry.com

— The End —