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Harriet Cleve Jan 2019
"The exploits of Sir Harry Flashman VC as he tries to outwit Michael Collins, assist the notorious Cairo gang, avoid ****** Sunday,charm the Irish ladies, and escape with his skin intact.

A nod to George M Fraser!



Old Harry Flashman stood in Dublin Castle as a monocled spiv eyed him cautiously.' You'll do your duty, sir, by God you will ! or you'll be handed to Collins and his murderous crew of ignorant paddies. His Majesties Government will disown you and abandon you to your fate, if you betray your colours and turn Turk. It will be the gallows for you, as it was for Casement, if a treacherous bone in your miserable hide breaks bread with the enemy. I can reveal to you that one of our agents, Jameson, has just met his maker in Glasnevin Cemetry. Too close to Collins, **** it!, he must have dropped his guard. That won't happen you though, Flashman! You are going undercover, and you'll have an excellent cover story too. Lloyd George wants that despised Irish Organisation infiltrated and destroyed. You will be watched closely by my dear friend Hoppy Hardy. A finer fellow you won't meet. He has kicked some green arses I can tell you, and would we had more of his kind! ****** fine fellow indeed.

I could only stand there, blanching, and my guts turning sour listening to that drivel. I was no spy and those ****** potato eaters were on the warpath! Give them the ****** Country, I thought to myself. Old Harry couldn't give a **** if they flew a Green Flag over Buckingham palace or paraded their colours in Winsor Castle! The Irish had their Irish up and had the Country in a state of terror, and Flashy was to be a go between for King and Country?
I wanted to retch and felt nauseous at the thought. Even as I stood there nodding as my cover was being presented and my arrangement to meet Michael Collins outlined, I could only think of that poor deluded fool Jameson.Lying in the damp soil of Glasnevin Cemetry, of all places!
A bullet in his head and chest for his troubles. Flashman, my boy thinks I, you will shake hands with the Devil and won't be leaving Ireland in a wooden overcoat. Even as that idiotic spiv spoke from his safe leather chair, I was working out my departure plans and Collins could go to Hell. As usual though, it never goes to plan for Old Flashy. I stepped out into a cold November chilled night air as Christ Church cathedral rang its bells. A gun was cocked and an Irish brogue said' Into the side street, nice and easy friend and we'll have a little chat, won't we? My innards churned and I looked for an out but I could see I was well accompanied.

Now Gentlemen, what will we talk about? said I as my mind raced to collect my thoughts. I felt I could brazen it out and was ready to blow my cover if I could save my skin. 'We'll do the talking, friend!' were the last words I heard before I was violently coshed on the head and relieved of my wallet.

***********
When I awoke Hoppy Hardy stood over me and I was safely quartered in the Royal Barracks. My head pulsed with pain and Hardy was rabbiting on. 'Well done Flashman, you held your nerve old son. We had our eye on you all the time old boy! I wanted a taste of your mettle although i didn't expect a blatant attempt on you so soon.Our sources tell me you enjoy a violent engagement with the enemy. Good news for you, the paddy who coshed you is in the next room.'

'We know he's an agent for Collins and you missed all the fun of the shootout when you were unconscious. Come on and have a look at how we run things here'.

As we entered the isolation room, I saw they had given the prisoner a good dose of the discipline stick and the blood trickled from a severe head ****. At least the ******* had a headache to match my own I thought. He was in a bad way and Hoppy gave him an unmerciful boot to the nether regions and let out a scream, which put the fear of God in me immediately. 'Once again you Irish *******! What were you doing breaking curfew with an unauthorised weapon! Who gave you that weapon? This was followed by a stinging slap to the prisoners face. This was pointless in my view as the fellow was clearly incapable of response after the boot he received. It made me think I was in for the same treatment if the Irish boys adopt the same tactics.it was all I could do not to flinch as Hardy unleashed a flurry of blows on the unconscious rebel.

**********

Charlie Dalton was in a rage as he spoke to his brother Emmet. ' One of our lads, Frank Fagan, was taken last night! We were following an English lad, and his bearing was suspicious. A right cocky one parading the streets like a Lord of the manor. We had just coshed him and were about to take him to Crow street when Hoppy Hardy and his thugs made an appearance. We had to shoot it out but Fagan was captured.
Emmet listened and stunned Charlie with his response. 'Fagan's a traitor and has served his purpose for Hardy. Wouldn't surprise me if Hardy kills him with his own hand and dumps him in the Park.
' What are you talking about? Emmet! Would you listen to yourself! How the hell do you make that out ?
' Because I told him ' said a voice and in walked the Big Fellow himself with the bearing of a bull and the shock black hair combed to the side. Michael Collins stood in front of the brothers.
' The Brits are playing silly buggers again and a new agent is in town! I want all our boys to keep a close eye on him and no one harms a hair on his head till we find out more about him. Let's play along with the ruse. I understand his real name is Flashman. The pride of the British Empire. A British Lion is it? We'll make that boy roar when we know more.

******************
Fla­shman was handed a Brandy and Hardy toasted ' Your good health old Boy! and broke into a big guffaw of laughter. Flashman didn't like the black humour and swallowed hard and racked his brains for his next move.

************
The Cairo cafe on Grafton Street was my meeting place with Captain Gunnery who was instructed to walk me around Dublin and introduce me to the City. I could see his nerves were shot and he had the fear of the demented in his eyes.'Welcome to Ireland, sir, he whispered. Watch your back at all cost, trust no one, and treat every approach from any of the natives as a potential threat to your life. 'The Irish are a shrewd lot,as dangerous as a cornered rat.They are also experts at holding a grudge. The mood is treacherous since that failed insurgency in '16.We made a ***** of it executing the ring leaders.The massacre on North King Street is still sour in their mouths.
Cozying up to the Germans after all we did for'em. What did they expect?

I could only nod and wonder if I wasn't already marked for a ticket to the next world. '

'Anyway, we're going hunting now, Gunnery said then, and you and me will be dressing up for the party.'That's right, he whispered with a haunted look in his eyes. 'We're donning the Black and Tan gear and raiding the Mansion House tonight.'

' Are you having a laugh? I blurted and looking every bit as startled as a nun inadvertently walking into the gents. 'We'll be well numbered, said he, and give those green ******* a taste of hardship. I gave him my best manly look ' Do me a favour old boy, walk me to this building, on Dawson Street you say, and let me have a look at the battlefield beforehand eh?

I needn't tell you, dear reader, that I wanted to examine the terrain and take a mental note of my escape routes while I still had my faculties.
Just as we were leaving, a good looking middle aged woman, who I thought was giving me the glad eye, bumped into Gunnery and pulled a gun on him.
No words were uttered as a loud bang floored him immediately and he was on the ground with a gaping hole in his chest. She gave me a look and pointed the gun at my manhood then suddenly redirected it to Gunnery's head and blew it to kingdom come! As cool as you like, out she walked.
I made a run for it and the stupid ***** thought I was trying to get a hold of her. I could se she pulled the gun again and aimed to take a shot at me. ' Sweet Jesus ! I cried and as I made a dive for it, I felt a God Almighty sting in my ****.' You ****** *****! I passed out, as you can imagine with a bullet in your rear flank and still I knew I would be seeing that little ***** again.

***************
A passing patrol of Auxillaries marched down Harcourt Street on their way towards St. Stephens Green. Looking down, from number 6, Michael Collins observed them closely. He knew two of them by sight and smiled to himself.
' Go back to Blighty lads, while ye still can'. Across from him were three members of the Squad; his chosen gunmen for assassinations. Three of his twelve disciples, although he had many more in reserve. **** McKee, looking every bit the revolutionary, with his long leather coat, heavy moustache and proud bearing stood facing the men. He was a Finglas man from North Dublin and Commander of the Dublin Brigade.

' Well ****, said Collins, who took out Gunnery? Who put a gun in that lady's hand?, God bless her! There's not a man here with the nerve to pull off a stunt like that. Find out who the officer was who chased after her and got a bullet in the **** for his troubles.We believe it was Flashman'. A burst of laughter broke out among the men.' Well we may laugh lads, but I believe that gun-woman is an agent for the Brits.Gunnery was a becoming a loose cannon.He couldn't keep his mouth shut.' Didn't we know a raid was imminent on the Mansion House because of him!' 'His own mouth sealed his fate. Let that be a lesson to ye! '

'Now, he said to Liam Tobin, get cracking and find out who that woman is. We could do a girl like that ourselves and if she's still in the Country then I want to meet her.' Yes ****, we'll get the background. I am off to Crow Street now to check our intelligence.

'Intelligence is it ? said **** What about that officer Flashman? Who the hell is he? Why was he with Gunnery. The word is he's no weasel. He took after that Gun-woman quick enough. Flashman, what kind of a name is that? 'The Brits must think we're right gobshites altogether naming an officer Flashman. Let's keep our eye on him closely! He's in the infirmary in Kilmainham. Maybe we can pay him a kindly visit and see he's settling in. Another laugh broke out amongst them.

Right **** said Collins. ' Let me see the list of names we need to eliminate and take out that picture of the Cairo gang. 'Take a good look at lads, we'll be sorting those boys out soon enough. If Lyoyd George wants Ireland that bad then let him see the price he's going to pay! Ireland's not for sale and we won't be tenants in our own ****** Country!

**********

' I was lying comfortable, all things considered, in my hospital bed with the nurses swooning over me. Incredibly that ***** did me a favour. Witnesses reported how I gallantly chased after the assassin without a thought for my safety. Even Hoppy Hardy had called to my bedside and said as much!
'Well done, old chap! Another feather in your cap eh! A pity about the location of the wound though. Don't fret, the official report says wounded while pursuing the enemy.This means you will have to lie low for a month at least. Did Gunnery, the poor *******, mention the Black & Tan uniform to you? He did eh! Jolly Good!

Now Flashman, you are going on vacation to the Rebel County Cork! I knew a chap like you would dive on an opportunity like that. The Irish have formed ' flying columns' and are taking the fight to us in that treacherous City. We'll teach them about ambushes, by Christ, and you Flashman will be right in the thick of it.

I smiled faintly and looked at Hardy with an anguished expression.
'If you don't mind Sir, I'm feeling a bit drained and your news is most welcome. Do you mind If I close my eyes and rest a bit?
' Forgive me Flashman, I've been inconsiderate old chap! You take a rest and have a speedy recovery. You'll need your energy for the Cork campaign!

' **** it already! I thought to myself.I don't need this reckless boys own mentality and nuts like Hardy putting me in the front line. For God's sake, I've never even been to Cork! What did Hardy say? Rebel County!
I felt sick to my stomach and turned over in my bed. I litteraly had a pain in my ****.

Down in Kilmichael, Co. Cork, a young man named Tom Barry was putting his men through their paces.
A nod to George McDonald Fraser creator of the wonderful Flashman books.
Cameron Boyd May 2016
How quiet it must have been
for you, Michael Collins...
How calm it must have seemed
for you, Michael Collins...
How tranquil you must have felt
up there alone
with no one on the radio,
except for you, Michael Collins...

Doing something no one had done
with no one around to see
because you were in a place no one had been
with no way to share what you saw
because even radios fail that far away from home.
But not you, Michael Collins...

How dark was it in there
with not even the sun to guide your way?
How still was the air
with not even the wind to make a sound?

How many times did you ask yourself,
Michael Collins,
if you would ever see home again?
How many times did you think to yourself,
Michael Collins,
that you might not ever again
see the faces you remember?

On that clearest night,
did the stars not seem brighter than before?
Upon coming into the sun again,
did you,
Michael Collins,
not feel lighter than before?

It must have been strangely startling
to have been startled by that strange crackle
coming from the radio.
For another human voice to sound so foreign
yours must have been a lie.

How did it feel leaving that void,
Michael Collins,
and crashing back into existence?
How soon did it feel,
to you, Michael Collins,
that your feet were back on the ground?

I imagine you must miss that silence.
...
I imagine you must
from time to time
walk far far away
and look at the stars.

I would ask you one question if I could,
Michael Collin,
on the clearest night
when you look up into that darkness
have the stars ever been brighter than before?
Bob B May 2017
Bowie State University
Student, Richard Collins III,
Commissioned as a second lieutenant,
Will not graduate. Have you heard?

On the path to serving his nation
In many more ways than one,
Collins' life was quickly ended.
Another mother lost her son.

Standing with friends, minding his business,
Collins--as witnesses will attest--
Was stabbed by a homegrown, racist terrorist--
Stabbed directly in the chest.

Who was the killer? Sean Urbanski,
A current student at UMD,
Also a member of Alt-*****: Nation,
A truth of a painful reality.

Emboldened by white supremacists
Working in the White House, no less,
Racist groups are on the rise,
Spreading their loathsome hatefulness.

They say that Collins was brutally murdered
Because of the color of his skin.
He was murdered because of hatred,
For hatred is racism's twin.

Resist the scourge of discrimination.
Mobilize--it's never too late--
To extirpate ALL forms
Of ugly, white-supremacist hate.

-by Bob B (5-23-17)
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
in a dinosaur park of vinyl and quicksilver, talking:
music is the one area of gratification i can't be
pretentious about... if i have a critique of a music,
my critique rests upon the words:
i just don't listen to it.

i how people hate phil collins -
i love their dogmatic abhorrance
of him -
oh believe, i'm not a major fan:
i'm a major fan of people who
are pretentious enough
to despise decent pop music -
and given it's pop: well, its either
cotton candy - or *******
in terms of having no anti-bodies
to combat the viral infection of
immediate likeability -
it just comes with the music...
     no, i'm not a major phil collins
fan, i'm a major fan of the people
who despise him out of "principle"
that leads them to the music
circus of obscurity and indie-wingy;
but i dare say...
       what did peter gabriel after leaving
genesis?
          exactly what phil collins did
to *genesis
: he made it accessible...
and when did jazz mingle with
prog rock? well... miles davis' *******
brew
...
     never mind...
   fair enough, hate phil collins...
          i love it!
            but the album
                     no jacket required
is a stunner, as an album,
not for any particular song...
but lets face it...
   all the people who hate this take
on pop... can you imagine them
reading the most difficult (that's being
nice, it's actually just ****** tedious)
book ever written, i.e. thomas mann's
doctor faustus?
   i don't think so...
         that **** is harder to read than
kant!
             and i'm giving you a bet
with that: if you can finish
      that **** thing
you'll rescue von kleist from
the suicide pact he made
   with a terminally
ill woman and the despair of reading
kant's critique: that's a bet!
     no, whenever i hear the monkish
critique of phil collins...
  i think of listening
to early genesis, notably the album
foxtrot...
                    now i'd love to see these
critics listen to that album,
from beginning to the end...
                      by current standards
(namely albums, roughly going beyond
the threshold of sales, i.e.
                    the 30 minute mark)
one song off foxtrot could be a
classified as a e.p. in its own right -
      supper's ready -
        2 seconds short of 23minutes;
in all honesty, they don't have the *****
to listen to that track...
   i'd love to seem them try...
the minute they listen to it...
phil collins will seem like an ice-cream,
a quickie of receiving selfish oral ***...
trust me...
                 oh no, i'm not a major
phil collins fan, just came across his
out of nostalgia...
           but peter gabriel wasn't
exactly an angel when it came to his solo
career...
                 then again:
that song selling england by the pound:
now that's ******* prophetic these days...
who owns all the newly constructed
flats in london?
  foreign investors:
   chinese, arab, nigerian; you name it!
Steve Collins Aug 2010
If I travelled, across the landscape of my mind,
And, I chose to take you with me – guess what you might find?

I’d talk you into many things,
I’d make you see the sea.

We would buy some wood
Pay by cheque, which you would check
And build an arc upon an ark.
And you’d, set sail with me!

Whether we had the weather or not
We’d sail a week, and you’d feel so weak
You’ll beg me for dry land!

And so, we’d end the feat on our two feet
And, tow; toe-to toe.
Until ashore, we land.

We’d shout aloud, if that’s allowed?
To see if we’re alone?
We’d find we are and start to panic
But get woken by the phone.



Steve Collins.
24/8/10
Homophones are words that sound the same but are not spelt the same.
Thought I'd try something, it was not easy.
Tori Jurdanus May 2012
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.


- Billy Collins
I clearly did not write this, but it is one of my all time favourites and I couldn't find it in many other places.
:)
Random Beauty Mar 2014
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
Billy Collins is a former Poet Laureate of the United States and author of this poem. "Aimless Love" is also the title of his recently released book, a collection of new and selected poems.
glass can Aug 2013
In a brutish manner
I raise a glass to Billy Collins
my lips stained purple,

from

seven ninety-nine ($)
dark Chilean wine

that is infused with strawberries, cherries,
and do I detect the taste of…alcohol?

My packaged delights, basics from Safeway.
Green, red, white vegetables with origins unknown
had clattered, frozen, out of a bag, not fifteen minutes ago

I snap the bag with a satisfying thwack,
the chicken is ready from a microwaved attack.

But the noodles, oh, so sweet.
Plump little bags of cheese and oh--brie!
Sweet no matter what sauce, I drown and I savor

Wrapping the package with greens and with flavor.

I curl up in repose, stuffed to the brim
swirling my glass, getting seconds again.
Aniseed Apr 2016
Echoes of memories ricochet in
These old haunts of mine
Where the poison hasn't touched
And the only name I know here
Is Tom Collins.

Did we consume too much?
Did we stay too long?
Did the haze of the high
**** us dry?

It must have stolen
All the marrow in my bones
Because now, I am empty,
Listening to these ghosts for acoustics
While the seat beside me stays wanting.
I had a drink alone in a place we used to frequent for open mics.
Bittersweet.
Brandon Aug 2013
Spent my day out sitting beneath the sun
Drinking gin and tonics and Tom Collins
Reading a novel I wish would never end
But want to end
So that I may move onto and into another book waiting patiently on my shelf

Thinking about the past and the future
But living in the present with only the cold drink and book on my mind

Listening to the neighborhood kids
Grow up faster than we did
But never reach the age of maturity
They play in the streets
Dribble their basketballs
And rob houses when they need some cash

Listening to the insects make their noises
And if you listen closely
You can hear the spiders lying in wait
Setting their traps
Hoping to catch their next meal

The clouds roll across the sky
The sun hides and comes out again
I squint my eyes in the light and relax them in the shade
A slow strobe light of natures intent

The wind blows and howls periodically
Freezing the sweat on my chest
And cools me down on the parts my drink doesn't touch

There's work tomorrow but that is a decade away
And even further from my mind

Today I sit out in the sun
Drinking gin and tonics and Tom Collins
Reading a novel
That never ends
Bunhead17 Nov 2013
[Intro]
Ain't this what they've been waiting for? You ready?

[Verse 1]
I used to pray for times like this, to rhyme like this
So I had to grind like that to shine like this
In a matter of time I spent on some locked up ****
In the back of the paddy wagon, cuffs locked on wrists
See my dreams unfold, nightmares come true
It was time to marry the game and I said, "Yeah, I do"
If you want it you gotta see it with a clear-eyed view
Got a shorty, she try'na bless me like I said, "Achoo"
Like a ***** sneezed, ***** please before them triggers squeeze
I'm gettin' cream, never let them hoes get in between
Of what we started, lil' ***** but I'm lionhearted
They love me when I was stuck and hated when I departed
I go and get it regardless, draw it like I'm an artist
No crawling, went straight to walkin' with foreigns in my garage
Got foreign ******* menaging, ******', suckin', and swallowin'
Anything for a dollar, they tell me get 'em, I got 'em
I did it without an album
I did **** with Mariah
Lil' ***** I'm on fire
Icy as a hockey rink, Philly ***** I'm fly-er
When I bought the Rolls Royce they thought it was leased
Then I bought that new Ferrari, hater rest in peace
Hater rest in peace, rest in peace to the parking lot
Phantom so big, it can't even fit in the parking spot
You ain't talkin' bout my ****** then what you talkin' bout?
Gangstas move in silence, ***** and I don't talk a lot
I don't say a word, I don't say a word
Was on my grind and now I got what I deserve **** *****
Hold up wait a minute, y'all thought I was finished?
When I bought that Aston Martin y'all thought it was rented?
Flexin' on these ******, I'm like Popeye on his spinach
Double M, yeah that's my team, Rozay the captain, I'm the lieutenant
I’m the type to count a million cash then grind like I’m broke
That Lambo, my new *****, she'll ride like my Ghost
I'm ridin' around my city with my hand strapped on my toast
Cause these ****** want me dead and I gotta make it back home
Cause my momma need that bill money and my son need some milk
These ****** tryna take my life, they **** around get killed
You **** around, you **** around, you **** around, get smoked
Cause these Philly ****** I brought with me don't **** around, no joke
All I know is ******, when it comes to me
I got young ****** that's rollin' I got ****** throwin' b's
I done did the DOAs I done did the KODs
Every time I'm in that ***** I get to throwin' 30 G's
Now I'm hanging out that drop head, I'm riding down on Collins
They like, my ***** back home that young ***** be wildin'
We young ****** and we mobbin' like Batman and we're Robin
This 2-door Maybach, with my seat all reclinin'
I'm that real ***** what up, real ***** what up
If you ain't about that ****** game then ***** ***** shut up
If you diss me in yo' raps, I'll get your ***** *** stuck up
When you touchdown in my hood, no that tour life ain't good
Catch me down in MIA, at that Heat game on wood
With that Puma life on my feet, like that little engine I could
Boy I slide down on your block, bike on twelve o'clock
And they be throwing dueces on the same ***** they watch
And I'm the king of my city cause I'm still calling them shots
And these lames talking that ******* the same ****** that flopped
I'm the same ***** from Berks Street with them ***** braids that lock
The same ***** that came up and I had to wait for my spot
And these ****** hating on me, hoes waiting on me
Still on that hood ****, my Rolls Royce on E
They gon' remember me, I say remember me
So much money have ya friends turn into enemies
And when there’s beef I turn my enemies to memories
With them bricks they go from 40 ain't no 10 a key, hold up
Broke ***** turn rich, love the game like Mitch
And if I leave you think them pretty hoes gon' still **** my ****?
It was something 'bout that Rollie when it first touched my wrist
Had me feeling like that dope boy when he first touched that brick
I'm gone
I love this song its so beautiful. "Dreams and Nightmares" by Meek Mills ****. The Beat Bully
#young kings
John Bartholomew Jun 2018
First day on the job, an apprentice with no clue
Put with some old boy, Norman Collins his name
been plumbing everywhere, from Watford to Timbuktu

Picked me up in his Vauxhall Belmont, a fading sun caught red
telling me tales of his dinner, roadkill on the hob
His wife cooked him these meals, I think he must be mad

Driving out in the sticks, a job for a pal, over near the village of Sarrett
A blob in the road, dead pigeon or badger, well he's not eating that
would have been different if it were something else he said, as he actually fancied a bit of rabbit

I didn't realise what a good bloke he was until a few days with this old codger
My main boss was a grumpy sod, never paid me till he had some
Looking back now, I miss that man, who told me tales of old times and tomfoolery

I used to be a wrestler young John, back in the days of the local funfair
Took on any Herbert who thought he was keen, and showed them the tent exit
From **** McManus to Jackie Pallo, bring them on son, I didn't really care

He locked me in a toilet one day, inside somebody’s house
Let me out I cried, for a good 4 hours, he ignored my every shout
For he couldn’t care less and that’s what I miss, a soul who just larked about

For they seem dead in this day and age where everything is done by the book
Don’t upset the man over there, do you know who he is, he’s the King and you’re just a Rook
As they don’t seem to exist anymore, these men who walk on Gods seven sins
Have a laugh, have joke, as life’s too short
I miss old Norman Collins

JJB
The critical reviews are in.  It looks as though Socialist Heroes will not become a Broadway play.  The following comments concerning the desirability of socialism were gleaned from the Facebook page of the National Liberty Federation.  Group members indicate a resounding thumbs down on the idea of socialism.  

Popular comments from the Facebook group include:
Kool aid drinking
Semper Fi
Following Gunny to Hell and Back
Lots of Good Gunnys out there
Obama’s socialism must be stopped
I’d rather die than live under communism
Join the Infidel Brotherhood
Ted Cruz, just love that guy
Stock Up on Guns and Bullets
Greece invented democracy and they haven't used it for years
Jesus is coming to destroy the Anti-Christ
there are a lot of ******* out there posing as americans

The passionate posts and learned comments from the Facebook group members of the The National Liberty Federation follow in all its grammatical and misspelled glory.  All comments from the public group are posted verbatim….

(Editorial Note: The link to the Infidel Brotherhood was redacted.  The Editor wants no role in promoting neo-fascist vitriol. )

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National Liberty Federation
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4,560 people like this.
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Eddie *******Where's MY koolaid!
Like · Reply · 9 hours ago

Charles Noftsker Semper Fi!!!!!!!!!
Like · Reply · 175 · 11 hours ago via mobile

Justin P. Emery Semper Fi, my Brother
Like · 13 · 11 hours ago

National Liberty Federation Semper Fi!!! 0311 here
Like · 9 · 11 hours ago

Justin P. Emery 3521 listed... but did whatever the hell my Gunny told me to do lol
Like · 5 · 10 hours ago

National Liberty Federation there are a lot of good gunny's out there.
Like · 2 · 10 hours ago

Justin P. Emery Yeah... Gunny's you'll follow through Hell and back
Like · 2 · 10 hours ago

Kathy Stephens Grant We have our future generations to think about!
Like · Reply · 172 · 11 hours ago
7 Replies · about an hour ago

Clint ****** I am on the right side which is I am an American and I do not want obamas socialism
Like · Reply · 11 · 11 hours ago

Joyce Tidwell Burns Backing Americans into a corner is never a good idea. Bad thing is both sides are ready and if this crap starts its gonna be very very bad...
Like · Reply · 9 · 11 hours ago via mobile

Jim Blackwell I may be getting to old to fight but I still shoot straight. Just set me on a bucket behind a bush on a hill and I will just pick them off one at a time until I get all of them or they get me. I would rather die free than to live under communism.
Like · Reply · 14 · 10 hours ago

William Slingo I"m with ya Jim. I'm too old and crippled to be a soldier but I never planned on dying alone if ya know what I mean........
Like · 1 · 8 hours ago

Susannah Fedders I'm 60yr.old female with 4 Grand Son's I'm ready to do what is necessary to take our country back,for my Grandchildren.
Like · Reply · 10 · 11 hours ago

Robert Haller To coin a phrase, I regret I only have one life to give to my country. I will give all that I have and until my last breath to defend this country. Semper Fi.
Like · Reply · 4 · 10 hours ago · Edited

Michael Knorr even some civilians will fight that!
Like · Reply · 3 · 11 hours ago

Adam Capi This generation of young voters and first time voters Proves americans are Plain Stupid
Like · Reply · 4 · 11 hours ago

Andrea Gardner Ahhhhhh....Social Security? How about we get past the labels and just do what's right for the people instead of the rich Plutocrats who have managed to take over our Government. Our Politicians are nothing more than prostitutes sold to the highest bidder.
Like · Reply · 7 · 5 hours ago via mobile

Alice Shinn I may be old, 67 years young. I am disgusted with our country. I know that I am not alone. My friends and family cannot believe what our congress has let laws pass, that are not equal under the law..
Like · Reply · 2 · 9 hours ago

Savi Braun Then get it back!!!
Like · Reply · 2 · 11 hours ago

Leslee C. Carles you can help too!
Like · 10 hours ago

Diana McGowan Nelson I totally cannot understand how many people don't see what this man in doing. By the time they open their eyes, it will probably be too late.
Like · Reply · 2 · 7 hours ago

Brian Chaline Please help us reach 900 likes.
(link to Infidel Brotherhood redacted)
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The Infidel Brotherhood
The Infidel Brotherhood is a group established to promote education,warning andunderstanding of the danger involved in the spread of Islam. The twisted Sharia Laws and Ideologies that Muslims are using against Non-Muslims, women and childern.
Community: 921 like this
Like · Reply · 3 · 9 hours ago via mobile

Dale Rumley I am gonna fight till death for it. I with Jim Blackwell. The longer the shot the better!!!!
Like · Reply · 3 · 10 hours ago via mobile

Bettie Stanley Amen
Like · Reply · 2 · 10 hours ago

Nancy Jacobson I am with you .
Like · Reply · 2 · 11 hours ago

Marino Fernandez I wish this was true, pray that America wakes up to reality, and the mistakes it has made in the last two elections.
Like · Reply · 1 · 50 minutes ago

Jule Spohn Semper Fi!!! Jule Spohn - Sgt- USMC - 1960/66
Like · Reply · 1 · 9 hours ago

Savi Braun Everyone needs to help get our country back
Like · Reply · 1 · 10 hours ago via mobile

La Fern Landtroop Praying that God helps America !
Like · Reply · 1 · 3 hours ago via mobile

Terri Britt Smith Read Senator Ted Cruz last post.... gotta love that guy!!
Like · Reply · 1 · 5 hours ago

FJay Harrell Yes it will. The Boomers will not give up their party.
Like · Reply · 2 · 8 hours ago

Vanessa Mason Be careful in Obama Care they come after your children because of your military training, read up on it, it starts with home visits. I salute all military, and Thank you too.
Like · Reply · 1 · 10 hours ago

Lois F. Neway Semper Fi ......We have our future generations to think about!
Like · Reply · 1 · 10 hours ago

Joe Riggio Nor will mine....Semper Fi!!!
Like · Reply · 1 · 11 hours ago

Michael Coulter oorah!!!
Like · Reply · 2 · 11 hours ago

Joyce Ballard I pray this is right.
Like · Reply · 2 · 11 hours ago

Billy Wells I pray that you are right!!
Like · Reply · 10 hours ago

Carmita Depasquale Semper Fi, indeed and thank you for ALL that you do..God bless and God speed!
Like · Reply · about an hour ago

Rose M D'Amico I pray not....the young ones must be strong & we seniors will help when we can!
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago

Nathan Gartee I stand beside my fellow americans to FIGHT for FREEDOM !!!
Like · Reply · 10 hours ago

Thomas P Zambelli oh hell no!
Like · Reply · 3 hours ago

Marvin Moe Mosley Let's hope they stand up and be counted
Like · Reply · 3 hours ago

Bill Yeater gonna be a near thing
Like · Reply · 11 minutes ago

Dante Antiporda Obama's socialism will never happen in the US, if only its citizen will use their PEOPLE POWER a mass action together without FEAR and gun fired and NO BULLET hurt anyone.
Like · Reply · 34 minutes ago

Diane Stevens Abernathy Too late.
Like · Reply · 44 minutes ago

Chuck N Marv Pelfrey AMEN!! AGREE!!
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago

Jane Garrett Amen
Like · Reply · 3 hours ago

Sandy Thorne You got that right.
Like · Reply · 5 hours ago

Jane Hanson GOOD FOR YOU.
Like · Reply · 10 hours ago

Buck Wheat **** near already there
Like · Reply · 3 · 11 hours ago

Carol Lowell Already happening,
Like · Reply · 14 minutes ago

Ellen Aaron I surely hope not, but it's not looking good, right now...
Like · Reply · 16 minutes ago

Timothy Tremblay It would be a cold day in hell
Like · Reply · 18 minutes ago

Peter Krause Not without a major fight...
Like · Reply · 25 minutes ago

Mike Beakley You are a stupid person.
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago via mobile

Anibal Gonzalez Jr. I hope. And trust.
Like · Reply · 1 · 2 hours ago

George P Palmer Well son you better get off your *** cause I am one of last of the grate generation..
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago

Steven Canzonetta I don't think you people know what socialism is, take a civics class. Not mention democracy has been around for thousands of years, and the country that invented it (Greece) hasn't used it in century's. Shouldn't that tell you something?!
Like · Reply · 1 · 3 hours ago via mobile

Kenneth Chartrand we sure hope but there are a lot of ******* out there posing as americans
Like · Reply · 3 hours ago

Ann Morse unfortunately, we already have...
Like · Reply · 3 hours ago

Robert Dixon Aim High and I agree with you

Steven Canzonetta I don't think you people know what socialism is, take a civics class. Not mention democracy has been around for thousands of years, and the country that invented it (Greece) hasn't used it in century's. Shouldn't that tell you something?!
Like · Reply · 1 · 3 hours ago via mobile

Kenneth Chartrand we sure hope but there are a lot of ******* out there posing as americans
Like · Reply · 3 hours ago

Ann Morse unfortunately, we already have...
Like · Reply · 3 hours ago

Robert Dixon Aim High and I agree with you
Like · Reply · 3 hours ago

Deb Siener I wish but think it is already too late to take our country back
Like · Reply · 4 hours ago

Code Jah Capitalism, socialism, fascism and all the other ism's have all failed. They're all corrupt and unequal. No sense using any of that crap anymore, its a round world with unlimited potential. Why not start something new that works well for everyone not just a handful of industrialist pigs?
Like · Reply · 1 · 7 hours ago

Marco Moore are future
Like · Reply · 7 hours ago

Lydia Perez-Cruz If we don't want this, Everyone better Wake Up and put a Stop to it!!!!
Like · Reply · 9 hours ago

Terry Maeker Thank you!!
Like · Reply · 9 hours ago via mobile

Gayle Wright I AGREE
Like · Reply · 9 hours ago

Glen Dauphin Too late! All we can do is take it back now.
Like · Reply · 1 · 11 hours ago via mobile

Ruth E. Brown It's never too late. We stood by and allowed this to happen, so it's up to us to fix it.
Like · Reply · 1 · 5 hours ago via mobile

Michael Therrien Socialism? Really you folks need a dictionary. Socialism is not the same as Communism. Socialism is not the same as Fascism. Most democracies in the world operate under the banner of socialism. So stop getting your patriotism mixed up with fighting socialism. It has NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. And you gunners yeah... Your JOB IS DEFEND THE PRESIDENT not the politics. How is that going?
Like · Reply · 1 · 5 hours ago · Edited

Kathy Williams What are you going to do to keep obama from turning this country into SOCIALISM ?? We and congress just sit on our hands and expect God to do the work ????
Like · Reply · 1 · 53 minutes ago

Nancy Anderson Makes me glad I don't have kids.
Like · Reply · 1 · 11 hours ago · Edited

RoyLee Clouse Jr. AMEN!
Like · Reply · 4 minutes ago

Cherrie Fields Collins United we stand!
Like · Reply · 5 minutes ago

Pamela Lowry we need to fight
Like · Reply · 15 minutes ago

Jorge Alvarado I challenge you all to write your representatives, and demand change. Make a promise, if you see no change to vote out those representatives. When you are finished writing, go out to the corner of your street and hold up signs, advising others to do the same. Change starts while on your feet!!!
Like · Reply · 44 minutes ago via mobile

Humberto Gonzalez never
Like · Reply · 45 minutes ago

Robert Wilkins You elected a Socialist loser as president, twice! So yes, you are the generation whose stupidity and intellectual sloth let America fall to a bunch of two-bit dictators. Hope you're all proud of yourselves.
Like · Reply · about an hour ago

ColleenLee Johnson Sure hope this is the case - we have two years or less....
Like · Reply · about an hour ago via mobile

Darlene Nelson Stand up America if you love this country.
Like · Reply · about an hour ago

Jole Workman too late!
Like · Reply · about an hour ago

Pete Johnson Our grandfather's generation already did it when they elected Woodrow Wilson.
Like · Reply · about an hour ago

G Cindy Albe u are RIGHT about that!!!
Like · Reply · about an hour ago

Lynn Stacey Amen
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago via mobile

Mary Labonte If we must go down it will be one hell of a fight!!!
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago

Emma Joyce Wolfe THANK YOU
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago

Charles Twentier Someone please tell our country is under attack from inside and we need them to do what thier signs before it is too lat for us and them .
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago

Patsy McMillian Hartley Hope so.
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago

Ron Hendrix Keep Communist Cuban Guerillas out of the Senate and the spotlight.
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago

Matthew Keenan We already did!http://www.foxnews.com/.../
Why ObamaCare is a fantastic success
www.foxnews.com
There are 2 major political parties in America.
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago

Maryann Del Giorno Avella amen
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago

Selena Ervin i think we are almost there
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago

Rhoda Dietz we better all do smthing to stop it
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago

Todd Mcdonald What about Fascism
Like · Reply · 3 hours ago via mobile

Steven Canzonetta Richard A Haines, I see you posted the Mayflower compact. I believe the constitution trumps the compact, especially seperation of church and state. Also " one nation under god" was added to the pledge in the '50s as an anti communism campaign after WW2. Its not an American value, because we are suposed to respect all religeon, and keep it out of social policy. Maby your not an American, since you cant keep your dogma out of our government.
Like · Reply · 3 hours ago via mobile

Harry Mundy Socialism is a rolling snowball gaining size and momentum as it rolls downhill! Let's hope it can be stopped or impeded, but as it is rolling, more and more people jump aboard to benefit from the free ride!!!!
Like · Reply · 3 hours ago

Gary Carte With you all the way.
Like · Reply · 3 hours ago

Isaac Tedford Pookey! Let's bring this mother down!
Like · Reply · 4 hours ago

Else Mccomb God bless you all...
Like · Reply · 4 hours ago

John MacDonald IN GOD WE TRUST
Like · Reply · 4 hours ago

Byron Lee you better hurry then ---the ******* are gainigng on us!!!!!
Like · Reply · 4 hours ago

Justin Klimas HOOAH!!!!!!!!!!
Like · Reply · 6 hours ago

Joseph Ball Hell yeah
Like · Reply · 7 hours ago via mobile
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David Patton Arm yourselfs now and buy plenty of ammo, you will need it one day.
Like · Reply · 8 hours ago

Lucretia Landrum Amen !
Like · Reply · 8 hours ago

Lucretia Landrum Amen
Like · Reply · 8 hours ago

John Payne that right!!
Like · Reply · 8 hours ago

Little Eagle ****** McGowan No you too busy falling TO STUPIDITY.
Like · Reply · 8 hours ago via mobile

Carol Pinard Ummmm what obama is doing to our country in not socialism..... it is awful and shameful but it is not socialism. Do research on what socialism is supposed to be and not just what it became in the hands of evil people.
Like · Reply · 9 hours ago via mobile

Tim Veach Too late.
Like · Reply · 10 hours ago

Pam McBride Don't want it to be.
Like · Reply · 10 hours ago

Kathryn Seelmeyer RIGHT!
Like · Reply · 10 hours ago

Kim Janics my mom would love you but we are slowly have been going toward that direction since the beginning of governments.....yes even america
Like · Reply · 10 hours ago · Edited

DeAnna Stone already happening
Like · Reply · 11 hours ago

Irene Lopez Nice
Like · Reply · 11 hours ago via mobile

Scott Puttkamer A lil late I think! Obama has already done it!!!!!!!!
Like · Reply · 11 hours ago

Jimmy Oakes 2nd that!
Like · Reply · 11 hours ago

Diane Kelham OORAH....
Like · Reply · 2 hours ago

Tami Stanley Perkins Amen to that!!!!!! From one vet to millions of others, we shall rise to the occasion and fight here on our own land to remove a dictator!!!!!
Like · Reply · 3 hours ago

Fran Gordon Benz Not if I can help it! I see people reaching a boiling point!! Something is going to happen! I'm sensing the anger and frustration!
Like · Reply · 9 hours ago via mobile

Bob D. Beach Right!
Like · Reply · 4 minutes ago

Annie Graham Which generation would that be.....the one that 'allowed' SS, medicare, Medicaid, fire, police, parks, roads, education etc...?
Like · Reply · 35 minutes ago

Kassandra Craig then we need to get rid of obama
Like · Reply · about an hour ago

Tony Horton By Ballots or bull
Elena Ramos Apr 2015
Elena Ramos


Aquí todo en mi mente da vueltas, nada es estable, no hay un objeto al cual pueda ver directo y guiarme para no caer. Para mí no sirve el simple hecho de tenerlo todo para ser feliz, ni el dinero, ni una familia reconocida en todo Miami y el resto del país. Me llamo Gimena Rodríguez, mis papas son de Honduras pero emigraron a los Estados Unidos cuando mi hermano mayor Roberto tenía apenas diez años en ese entonces yo tenía ocho horribles y apestosos años, era muy fea, mi mama siempre me ponía dos ganchitos en la frente para quitarme el pelo de la cara; bote todas las fotos que dejaban evidencia de ese abuso hacia el estilo y la dignidad de una niña pequeña.  

He buscado en la internet el significado de mi nombre, porque ni yo sé que soy. Hay unos sitios bien raros que dicen que soy de las que necesita ser apoyada por los demás, algo que no es cierto, pero he topado con un sitio que dice que soy de pensamiento firme, ágil y con capacidad analítica. Y por cierto mi número de la suerte dice ser el número cuatro, puede tener algo de sentido ya que el 4 de noviembre es mi cumpleaños, o que casualmente mis papas estén de aniversario el mismo día. Suelo ser de esas chicas que todo el mundo conoce o dice saber conocerme, por el simple hecho de tener una familia la cual, toda América conoce. Mi papa heredo el negocio de mi abuelo, (por lo general el abuelo o como yo lo llamaba Yeyo, era el único que me entendía hasta llegue a prometerle que seguiría los pasos de la familia y seguir el negocio) una empresa que distribuye muebles, ya sean sofás como camas y cosas así. La compañía se llama DecoArte, había empezado en 1934 con mi bisabuelo Arturo, que luego paso a ser mi mi Yeyo y ahora de mi padre (solo espero que Roberto pelee por su lugar en la compañía y decida quedarse todo para él, así no tendría que seguir en este negocio, porque realmente no me gusta). He decidido que quiero ir a Los Angeles y estudiar Fashion Management & Marketing, en la Universidad de Argosy. He aplicado a varias universidades y aun espero respuesta, seria decepcionante no ser aceptada en ninguna y entonces tendría que trabajar en DecoArte toda mi vida. Todos los días son decepcionantes, siempre es lo mismo, mi casa parece un lugar solitario. Roberto tiene su propio apartamento, todos los días sube fotos a su cuenta de Instagram haciendo fiestas, las cuales son mencionadas como las mejores. Fraternidades de muchas universidades terminan ahí, los vagabundos igual, y así todo Miami. Sería bueno si por lo menos me invitara a una de sus “reuniones”, como el las suele llamar cuando estamos frente a nuestros padres. No me veo pequeña, tengo diez y siete años y el próximo año me graduare de Miami Beach High School. Muchos me preguntan si realmente tengo la edad que les digo tener, nadie me cree, muchos dicen que me veo mucho mayor, algo que para mí no está mal. En mi cuenta de twitter me he fijado que Roberto dará una fiesta, tal vez pueda decir que voy a ver una película y me voy un rato a su casa, solo espero que mi propio hermano no me eche de la casa. En mi tiempo libre, después de clases, suelo agarra mi computadora portátil y abrir Word, y escribir todo el día. Hace poco subí gratis un libro de poemas de dicados a la gente que no sabe qué hacer con su vida. He tenido buenas respuestas, inclusive en mi blog recibo visitas y buenos comentarios a montones. Existen dos mundos parami, la realidad y el mundo que creo con los libros y la escritura. Cada libro que leo me envuelve en un sentimiento que hace que imagine estar en el libro. Al escribir siento que mis ideas fluyen y que soy yo honestamente, sin censura, sin miedo a expresarme. En este momento estoy escribiendo una historia ficticia de esta joven que desea encontrar el amor, ya que casi lo encontraba pero el murió. Por su falta de confianza no es capaz de hablar con ningún muchacho. Esta es la introducción del libro:
               Para amar hay un tiempo límite, o por lo menos para mí sí. Si tienes una enfermedad terminal, es muy probable que ese amor nunca llegue. Desearía tener por lo menos un romance que dure poco o hasta cuando yo siga viva. Mi vida se complica cada vez más, el único hombre que veo seguido es mi médico el doctor Collins, está casado y tiene una hermosa hija. En el hospital veo morir a diario personas de las cuales me hice amiga. Aun no olvido su rostro, su pálida cara, que me reía aun a pesar de tener peores condiciones de vida que yo. Se llamaba Mark, tenía doce años cuando lo conocí, y diez y siete cuando lo vi por última vez. Cada año lo volvía diferente, siempre había un problema más o algo en su cuerpo había cambiado por  completo. Lo conocí cuando yo tenía once años, llegue a emergencias esa noche, mi mente giraba, era más verde como la pared que trigueña. Gracias a dios detectaron mi cáncer con tiempo. Pero esa noche ahí estaba el, sentado en una camilla, me pareció muy guapo desde el primer instante en que nuestros ojos se cruzaron. Mientras mi mama hablaba con la enfermera afuera, yo estuve acostada, mirándolo y luego mirando el techo. No sabía que sucedía conmigo, solo sabía que  me sentía a morir. No llore porque él estaba ahí, a dos camillas de la mía. Sabía que me observaba aunque lo disimulaba muy bien. Entraron mi mama y varias enfermeras y un doctor,  después de un rato sacaron mi camilla y me llevaban a otro lugar. Deje a ese muchacho solo en ese espantoso cuarto, solo, y seguramente con dolor en alguna parte. Desperté el día siguiente en un cuarto, había dos camas más  pero al parecer solo yo ocupaba y llenaba aquella gran habitación. Me di cuenta que mi mama y mi papa estaban dormidos, me sorprendió ver a papa faltar al trabajo. No estoy muy segura, pero anoche tuve uno de los mejores sueños más reales que he tenido en mi vida. Soñé con el muchacho de la sala de emergencia. Vi su hermoso pelo, dorado que caía sobre sus orejas, sus perfectos ojos, que no se distinguían si eran grises o verdes. Tenía una camiseta roja, parecía el tipo de adolescente que se intoxica con algo y termina aquí. Definitivamente desearía poder volverlo a ver por lo menos un instante, para poder recordar mejor esa mirada y su hermosa sonrisa.  No hice ruido y me levante buscando un baño, estaba bien, solo algo cansada, y molesta por esa horrenda bata que llevaba puesta, ya que no tenía nada abajo. Hice ruido al levantarme ya que presione uno de los botones que levanta la camilla. Mi padre Augusto, se levantó en un abrir y cerrar de ojos del sofá donde dormía para ir en mi auxilio. –Papa estoy bien-,-No te creo, a dónde vas?-,-solo busco un baño, necesito ir ahorita-. La cara de papa estaba muy diferente, hoy no tenía esa mirada de las mañanas que me decían que todo estaba bien, que la economía estaba por las nubes, o que sasha mi perrita no le causaba alergia cuando todos sabíamos que sí. Me detuve a observarlo, sabía que algo le ocurría,  tal vez fue despedido, o tuvo una seria pelea con mi madre, algo que creo lógico, ya que Paty se pone muy insolente cuando tiene discusiones con papa. –qué ocurre?- le pregunte, tocándole la cara muy delicadamente, tratando de leer su mente o entenderlo-cariño, hay cosas de las cuales tenemos que hablar- al decir esto mi padre, supe que no era nada bueno, porque en ese mismo instante se puso a llorar, por un motivo yo hice lo mismo con él. Mi madre se despertó por el ruido.-Mary, el cáncer no te va a matar, te juro que te van a curar, te lo prometo hija pero por favor no llores-. Mi padre la observo fijamente a los ojos. Fue un golpe muy duro el que recibí, darme cuenta que tenía cáncer y de esta manera. Simplemente, busque la puerta y Salí corriendo, lo más rápido posible, segundos después me di la vuelta y vi que ya no sabía en qué parte del hospital me encontraba. –Mary!-se escuchaba en el fondo. Era mi mama que locamente me buscaba. Me imagino lo mal que se ha de sentir en este momento, pero no lo puedo creer aun, pero tengo cáncer…logre salir de esa situación, ya no estaba corriendo por los pasillos, estaba en un cuarto. –Hola- me di la vuelta y lo vi a él, creí no volver a ver esos ojos, pero si.-hola-creo que nunca estuve tan nerviosa en mi vida. Busque la forma en que la camilla cubriera mi bata, estaba descalza y muy despeinada, pero aun ocupaba ir a un baño. Al fondo vi una puerta, había un baño,-Perdón, pero me puedes prestar tu baño-, él se rio enseguida-si no hay problema, además no es mío es del hospital-. Fui caminando muy rápido, y me encerré, luego, me lave las manos, me enjuague la boca, lave mi cara, y Salí.-me llamo Mary- extendí mi mano hacia la suya.-un gusto Mary, soy Gabriel-. Nombre perfecto para un ángel, el cual él se parecía mucho. Sentía mi corazón palpitando mucho, en un instante sentía que me desmayaba y era enserio, no era por las mariposas ni nada por el estilo, realmente me sentía mal. Gabriel tomo mi mano, me ayudo a sentarme y enseguida llamo a una enfermera. Al rato todos estaban en la habitación, incluso mis papas. –Mary!!—mama estoy bien-.la enfermera me acostó en la camilla de Gabriel, y me tomo la presión, al segundo llego otra enfermera a sacarme sangre. Papa me tomo de la cintura, y me guiaban para ir a mi habitación. Estoy en este momento entrando en un túnel donde sentía que nunca llegaría a casa, pensaba en todas las cosas que hice antes por diversión, pero ahora vivo una pesadilla, que espero que sea simplemente eso, y despertar termine con ella. No pude decirle adiós a Gabriel, pero ya sabia que su numero era treinta y seis, y la mia era la sesenta y dos. Había un brillo que trataba de iluminar mi vida, mi cerebro, había tanta oscuridad, tanta tristeza oculta, cuando la gente que yo amo se de cuente de lo que tengo y en lo que me convertiré tendre miedo de su miedo. He visto tantas películas de esas en las que alguien tiene cáncer o una enfermedad terminal, tengo miedo de no querer luchar por mi vida, miedo a no querer salir de esa comodidad en mi mente y querer rendirme. Tengo solo pocos momentos en mi vida, que valen la pena ser contados. Qué tal si no lleguen mas momentos asi y muera sin haber vivido mi vida. He viajado mucho para que termine asi. Mi mente viaja por lugares muy profundos de mi alma, siento eterna la llegada  a mi habitación. Solo escucho bulla de afuera, tanta que no se en cual enfocarme. Mis papas respetan mi silencio, saben que quiero aclarar mejor las cosas pero que tal si no quiero saberlo y seguir así, viajando por la vida solo por viajar sin rumbo, porque la verdad asi me siento. –mary quieres desayunar, el doctor dice que no tienes dieta-. –Si mam, -dije para romper el silencio de aquella blanca habitación. Tengo una terraza, con hermosas flores, no tengo nada que perder ni ganar ahora, solo disfrutar de su belleza y el canto de los pájaros, es hermosa; la única que no me altera, la única que no se siente como bulla. –pero, creo que todos necesitamos una ducha—si, papa, pero no tengo ropa-.Mama ira a la casa y yo a comprar el desayuno, y tu te quedaras aqui con la enfermera mientra te terminan de revisar-. No  soportaba la idea de que tuvieran que sacarme sangre o que alguien estuviera tan cerca de mi, como esta enfermera. Mis papas salieron de la habitacion, y tuve el descaro de preguntarle en el oído a una de las enfermeras, de quien era Gabriel.-te gusta verdad?-,-no!, simplemente tengo curiosidad-.y ahí empezó la historia mas fasinante e interesante que había escuchacho antes.- Se llama Gabriel Cole y tiene doce años, su mama, no sabemos nada de ella. Vino hace seis meses y desde entonces vive aquí, su papa es Señor Cole,no pudo soportar verlo enfermo entonces pago para que viviera aquí, y se fue. Viene a visitarlo una vez a la semana pero tiene dos semanas sin venir.es un buen muchacho, no le vendría mal una amiga, ahora que no tiene a nadie-.no  puedo creer que su familia lo haya abandonado. No me imagino vivir sin mi mama o sin mi papa, seria horrible.-Bueno he terminado contigo, el doctor Collins vendrá en un rato, descansa-. Salieron por la puerta dejándome sola.
Courier Pigeon Mar 2012
My days are filled
With Quadratic functions
And Hydrocarbons.
I've had little time for
Billy Collins.
Or sleep, for that matter.

I'm thankful for the little
Moments like this.
When the professor can't find
His power-point.
Or a lunch hour where
I eat something besides text books.

I need time to reflect.
Find myself under all this stress
Take a breath and
Play a quick game of
"Where's Waldo"
With my soul.

Scribble some words
Or a picture.
Or maybe,
Just stare out the window
Contemplating the willow tree
And how her limbs struggle to
Kiss the ground.
Poemasabi Jul 2012
The trouble with poetry is
that sometimes, often
it likes to hear itself talk too much
with words no one understands
with metaphors about beaches and rockets
and how they relate to love and loss
just to make the poet
feel superior
to the reader
and the reader
to hate poetry
I wrote the poem, realized I had heard the title somewhere before, realized it was Billy Collins, listened to him read it on YouTube and got to the part where he talks about breaking in to everyone else's poetry with flashlights and ski masks and knew it was ok.
Elvis okumu Dec 2011
The whole thought of it makes me think,
That I’m falling down something.
Something worse than my leg aches.
Or the headaches I get from the aspirin I take.
A kind of sickness of the spirit,
A crack or the mind,
Or a disfiguring leprosy of the soul.
You tell me I should think and remember back.
But that is because you can't imagine.
The perfect agony of being seven.
The horrible complexity introduced by eight .
But I can sit here and remember every painful digit.
At nine I was the unwanted orphan,
I wished I could turn invisible.
When my head was dunked in a certain way.
At ten a prisoner, at eleven a wretch.
But now I am mostly at my cars window .
Watching the early mourning light.
Back then it never rose so beautifully.
Against the side of my car door.
back then it never seemed to illuminate the world so gloriously.
And my for head never leaned against the window.
As it does now.

As I play my harmonica all the dark blue sadness draining out through it.
The melodies giving me peace in a conflicted mind
The notes freeing me from the bonds of oppression that weighed me down.
This is the beginning of freedom I say to my self.
As I walk through the world in my small boots.
I try to be the man I was destined to be.
The man who I should be.
It seems only a short while ago I used to believe.

There was nothing worth while under my skin,
If you cut me no one would care as I would bleed
But now my worth is not determined by others but by me.
Phil was drums
Today not even voice

Gênesis sim
Apocalipse não?

Antes progressivo
Agora, nem regressivo

Restam os rastos
Rest in peace Mr. Collins.
r Feb 2014
Back in my rebel days (yester)
I sported a spelunking bumper sticker
On my 1972  VW pop-up camper van
That read Free Floyd Collins
Totally apolitical well intentioned humor
Concerning one of my pasttimes that surprisingly
Never maimed or killed me
Whilst reporting for an official call for jury duty
The uptight and obviously a **** (did I just say that?)
Prosecutor enquired during jury selection
As to whether any of us prospectives
Had bumper stickers and if so
What they might say
The NRA sticker guy next to me
And the I'd Rather Be Fishin'  and NASCAR
Sticker guy next to him
Passed with smugly flying colors
(red needless to say)
While the 72 year old nun
With the Amnesty International sticker
Didn't fair so well
And was promptly burned at the stake
(I kid you)
Needless to say
The long-haired Harvard educated
Native American
With the Doctors Without Borders
And the Remember Wounded Knee
With a not so discreet AIM sticker thrown in to boot
Also got the boot
Pondering the merits of the court stenographer's
Shapely fingers while judiciously confidently awaiting my turn
It never ocurred to me that Mr. Collins might be
So wrongly accused as to have me
Rejected and summarily ejected
From jury duty
A travesty of justice
I say
If for no other reason than I was so looking forward to
Sticking it to the Man
You can imagine my surprise and disappointment
As I wandered down to the Shamrock
To catch Terry O'Leary do a slam
And raise a glass to
Bobby Sands

r~ 22Feb14
Floyd Collins: 1887-1925. Pioneering cave exploer from Kentucky. Mr. Collins died as a result of exposure and dehydration after being trapped in Mammoth Cave despite many attempted rescues. RIP, Floyd. True that my Free Floyd Collins bumper sticker resulted in my not getting selected for jury duty. I kid you not.
Steve Collins Aug 2010
I used to have a light
That shone so bright.

Now it's just a flicker
Of a candlelight.

I wish the wind
Would come my way.

And take my flickering
Candlelight away.



Steve Collins. 2008
jeffrey conyers Feb 2013
Etta James, oh the lady could sing.
Sarah Vaughn,when I hear Anita Baker in away it's Sarah.
If you never knew one of the two.
You would swear they was one.

Billy Eckstein, during his time.
Mister B, was smoother then Billy Dee Williams.
And he had away of mastering a song.

Which we saw when David Ruffin came along.
Who was a rival to Sam Cooke?
A master of the coolest romantic hooks.

He might have been a little different.
Except Chuck Berry can't be deny his dues.
Johnny B Goode, is nationally known.

The color country boy in his song could play.
Yes, he had to change the word to suit the segregation days.
But Johnny B was African American in everyway.

Who doesn't believe that when you see Morris Day?
That he owe his style to Cab Calloway.

The role of an African American diva could be trace to Lena Horne.
Or maybe actress Freddi Washington.
Or opera star Marion Anderson.
Who sometimes don't get recognition like they should.
Almost like Dorothy Dandridge doesn't.

Still they played on like Josephine Baker.
Who like George Washington Carver faces hostility and problems?

We still trying to educate people about Charles Drew.
Who fame is traced to the blood floating within you?

Against the greatest of odds.
They adapted and blazed a trail.
Through the roughest of times.
They was determine to be.

Who doesn't know Little Richard?
Who borrowed heavily off of gospel singer Billy Wright?
And soon was creating truth within his lyrics.
Until others came along and water them down.

We know truth still is avoided by them.
Except for the man that sung about a hound.
Which wasn't at all about a dog.
But about a cheating man.
Sung beautifully by Big Mama Thorton.

But then no man plays the guitar better.
Then Marva Collins or Rosetta Throphe.
Yes, these women could play.

Some people will never understand Malcolm X contribution.
Except, he left many that's seen today.
Just notice the way he never revisted the prison in any negative way.

We marched.
We protested.
And some of the best controversial stars comes from the musical side.

For no other side of music can touch the blues with truth.
Well, I guess country do.
But the blues takes many forms.

Could be about leaving.
Could be about loving.
Or that stuff you do in the dark with your love.

It could be the howlin'.
It might be the scoffin'.
It could be the chasin'.
But like many styles of music.
Some knows they was creating babies.

Which leads us to Marvin Gaye and Teddy Pendergrass.
Where the Love TKO and Let's Get It On still is the songs.

It's an African American tradition of the past.
That affects the future too.
For stars of yesterdays.
Are seen in stars of today.

A Legacy.
And we know legacies doesn't fade.
JJ Hutton Oct 2013
Eve's on Highway 70.
Been on it for some four hours.
After dialing the ten digits on
the cracked cell screen,
she turns it on speakerphone.
It rings once.
To the side of the road, a sign reads,
World's Tallest Prairie Dog.
It rings twice.
She wonders how long the wind
has been red; how long until
the red sun gives up.
It rings three times.
There are birds flying up ahead.
She wants to call them by name.
But what good would it do?
It rings four times.
He picks up.
Her lips are chapped.

I'm fine, Jay. Thanks.
Just calling to tell you
that I'm in the state.

What state?

Your state?

What do you mean?

I'm in Colorado.

What? What are you doing here?

Am I not welcome?

No, no. It's not that. Why didn't you tell me?

I wanted it to be a surprise.

I hate surprises.

Nobody hates surprises.

I do.

She's silent for a beat.
The birds are still ahead;
she races toward them but never gains.

Why didn't you tell me? he asks.

I just told you.

I think something's wrong with my phone.
I can hear an echo.

I have you on speaker.

Why?

My internal mic is broken.

Internal mic? What does that mean?

I don't know.

Where are you going?

Fort Collins. I have family out there, I guess.
Some cousins. Are you on the way?

Am I on the way to Fort Collins?

Yes.

No.

That's not what I want you to say.

What do you want me to say?

Just try again.

Eve, I don't think this is a good idea.

Try again.

What?

Try again.

I can hardly hear you. There's wind or something.

With her index finger she nudges the volume ****
to no effect. She puts her knee on the steering wheel.
She rolls up her window.

Say what I want you to say, she says.

I'm on the way, Jay says, if you take the long way.

I'll be there by six. What should we do?

You could start by apologizing.

So could you, Jay. What should we do?

Say that one more time--the phone.

What should we do when I get there?

We'll figure something out.

I hope, she says.
Caio Consoli Mar 2018
She is Dark
Just like Night
Left a Mark
In my Heart
~
She is Art
As a Dove
Took a Part
From Above
~
She is Love
With no Hate
It will Shove
In my Fate
~
She is Great
She’s not Flawed
Through the Gate
I will Laud
~
Is she God?
That's not Fair
I'm not Odd
There's a Flare!

~

With Black Hair
I shall Loath
She won't Care
If i Growth
~
With Black Clothe
Guess who'll Lose
I'll Quoth
''Red and Blues''
~
With Black Shoes
She's my Goal
Her I Choose
For my Poll
~
With Black Soul
She'll get Crazy
In a Whole
Gets me Flimsy
~
When I'm Drowsy
We'll Freakout
And in Frenzy
Gives me Blackout.
My lover
Jessica Viscount Oct 2012
When you think of love
you think of butterflies and flowers
Prince Charming and towers
happiness in abundance.
You think of kisses and hugs
Aladdin and rugs
a sort of sixth sense.

You think of daydreaming, hearts sinking
no, not sinking, skipping.
Red crayons and smiles
Long stares into each others eyes
Carnival rides
You think of it being written in the sky
and a sweet apple pie

We see it as sea side picnics
Holding hands
Watching cheesy chick flicks all night long.
Guys riding on lawn mowers
holding up a boombox, blaring phil collins.
We see walks on the beach
shoreline just reaching our feet.

When I think of love
I think of awkward moments.
I think of my father as he left my mother
See, I want someone more than just a lover.

When I think of love
I think of a stomachache
my last heartbreak
and band-aids to hide the pain.
I think of his hands in mine
our thoughts intertwined
I see the hurt in your eyes
as I told you goodbye
Our last kiss in the summer rain.

I think of love
as a societal excuse
A word said too much, too often
Just a word
Nothing more than caution.

When I think of love
I see a dog’s loyalty to his owner
and the owner showing him affection.
A sunset, a beautiful sky
The way the ocean shows its reflection

When I think of love
I think of the heart’s sight.
Love is light.
Love is Agape-
God’s grace and mercy poured on top of me
the day Jesus died on the cross.
I think of no hope lost.

When I think of love
I think of Him
I think of how.
Love is here
Love is now.
Hazel Connelly Aug 2012
I was fit and feisty at fifty
It was no big deal,
Because that's how half a century
Is supposed to feel.

In my sixties I'll take stock
Start making great plans,
Ignoring all the "you cant's"
And embracing all the "I cans".

Can I be **** at sixty?
And try all the fashions and fads,
Wear stockings and suspenders
And Joan Collins shoulder pads.

I can deal with **** at sixty
And wear Vivienne Westwood clothes,
Dress up and go out on the town
Wearing all my buttons and bows.

I'mgoing to be **** at sixty
I'll wear Gok Wan lingerie
Find myself a Toy Boy
Then maybe lead him astray.

Swift and **** at sixty
When I get my Jimmy Choos,
Dancing the night away
To the sound of rhythm and blues.

Oh! I want to be **** at sixty
'cause age is a state of mind,
I'm preparing my body at keep fit
So as not to be left behind.

But, first I have to deal with
Old Skin, Bad Teeth and Grey Hair,
Then remove the unwanted growths
From just about everywhere.

Then I'll definitely be **** at sixty
And undoubtedly done it all,
The only problem is that most
of it I simply won't recall...

© Hazel
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.jordan peterson is right, it's unrealistic to watch *******, and even begin to "think" that i might **** these women... correct... absolutely... i get the ones who drink beer, are Thai bisexual, which i find on park benches, invite home, play some Miles Davies, and later **** in the garden... it's unrealistic, for sure... but then... watching modern *******? so... these women are exhibitionist, masochists and nymphomaniacs, bound into one?! no wonder Italian ******* from the 1970s seems more tasteful, compared to all the gagging *******, and impromptu ****... jordan peterson is right, i'll never **** these women... but... there's not obvious reason why i'd want to, either. once upon a time, when ***, was like fine art... and you weren't forced to choke via *******... and **** wasn't exactly an option; but more like a hand-job.

you know that moment when a song,
   that turns you into a human
body drum kit of tapping
along to the beat...
when there's actually a bass guitar
signature reference...
and at some point in
the subtle intermission...
you stop grooving...
slap your thigh...
   grunt out: oomph!
puff! blah la la. oomph!
get your moccasins on...
and... look at the up-side of things...
you won't be *******
with your socks-on during
the one-night stand...
  or for that matter: cocooned
under the bedsheets...
there's nothing worse
than ******* with your socks on...
well... there's *******
under the bed-sheets...
        - p.s. why do people think
the 1980s were a ****** decade
for music?!
     the 1970s were *******...
with all their disco...
                  plus you had the counter
with all the e.m.o. ******* of
Joy Division and the Cure
and what became grunge...
    Phil Collins?! go bro!
w'ooh w'ooh!
            wallaby!
you want bad music?
listen to some krzysztof penderecki...
because i know what these people
are doing... pop music is,
supposed to be infectious...
you can pass on some jazz...
sure... but pop music:
why beat yourself over liking
something you can't exactly control...
no jacket required?
seminal album... no song in particular...
let's face...
genesis is... what genesis is:
not exactly pink floyd of king crimson...
the solo artifacts
of P. Gabriel (Solsbury Hill)...
         P. Collins (take your pick)...
sure... selling England by the pound...
of the women i loved,
i loved to what could best
describe itself as an antithesis
of cinematic romance...
and... for it's worth:
      i returned to myself satisfied...
subsequently,
between Ms. Amber and Mother Death...
the women around me
went around minding their own
business...
     and i went around minding
my own...
                and the sun glowed,
rose in the morning,
and set itself beneath the sea
come the evening...
          and the moon played
peekaboo...
                    and all of what was required
was ingested...
with all the excesses
scattered for others to pick up
and make additions to their lots
of the mortal whole,
otherwise called life,
otherwise called breath and soul...
            mutter tod:
                i am on my way;
fear not, i have no Sylvia Plath tugging
along...
       i never dared to live the kind
of life associated with Ted Hughes...
   just prostitutes, prostitutes, prostitutes
to the best of my accomplished
fathom that constituted memory...
    a love by an hourly rate...
                   and we laughed,
and we cried...
  and we kissed for said hour,
after having forgotten to trim my *****
hair to allow *******.
JJ Hutton Jun 2013
Just below the ridge line, east of Tinnamon's Creek, that's where we found Lily's dachshund.
The brown, island patch of fur beneath its snout was caked with blood -- throat turn, chewed.
No coat remained on its front legs. Framework mostly. Some dangling, loose tissue.
White fibers I didn't recognize dotted the shriveled body. How many days had it been?
Three? Four?

"What'd you expect to find?" Harvey said, lifting the tag. "Brannagh. 5321 Starlite Drive."

"I know, I know. Lily's still going to break. Doesn't matter what I expected."

Harvey ran his palm along the dog's belly. Whispered something I didn't catch. The sun began to sink behind the mountains -- everything turned a variance of purple. And the wind came in, unannounced, as wind tends to do. What's the protocol on a dead dog? Bury at the scene of the crime? A pile of rocks left behind for hikers on the passing by to say, "I wonder what happened there." Or did we bag the unfortunate beast? Ring the doorbell. Ask Lily if she's got a shovel. Our fathers made no mention of times like that.

"I've never understood why people have pets," Harvey said. "Do you just want to be miserable? Your cat Socks, Millie, whatever, is gonna die. Your turtle Larry is gonna die. The charismatic hamster in the classroom, running the wheel, knows every step with its stupid paws could be its last. 22 fourth graders taught expiration dates. Teachers sign up for that. Brannagh was gonna die. Lily knew she'd outlive the dog."

Four deer looked on down by the creek. Still, yet comfortable in their stillness. I could have touched them if I wanted to. I hated that. Deer in Colorado made me feel powerless. They assumed, automatically, that I carried no firearm, only a camera and a bit of Chex Mix. Pallid threads continued to float down from the sky.

"What is this stuff?" I asked.

"What stuff?"

"Falling. In her fur, right there. On your shirt. In your hair. The white stuff."

After a quick scan of his chest, Harvey pinched one of the white fibers between his index finger and thumb. Hardly gave it a thought before giving it a flick.

"They're just coming off the cottonwoods. Happens toward the end of spring," Harvey said, reaching in his back pocket and pulling out a garbage bag.

"Is that what we are going to do?"

"I'm not burying the dog out here. Lily needs closure. If she 'breaks,' she breaks."

Harvey opened the black bag. Stepped on the bottom of it. So it would hold against the wind.

"Put the dog in here," he said.

"I'm not doing that."

"Well, you have to."

"Why?"

"I'm holding the trash bag."

The dog's eyes weren't there. Whatever mysterious factor that leads people to buy dachshunds, whether concentrated dose of cuteness or unmerited friendliness, it had bled out. I walked around to the other side of the dog. Stuck my hands under its spine -- cleanest spot. Stiff from rigor mortis, sure, but stiffer than rigor mortis alone. I knew the stiffness of death from my childhood collection of unfortunate pets. The sun had baked him, made the matted tufts sharp. I dropped Brannagh in the bag. Harvey lifted up quickly, as to not let the corpse hit the ground.

With the deer still watching, we began to climb up the rockface, taking us back to the trail. My eyes fixated on my feet to avoid a misstep. Harvey took the lead, looking only forward. When he began to speak, he did not turn around.

"You know what's funny about the cottonwoods? I hadn't thought about this in a long time -- both my mom and dad had a theory about what you so eloquently called 'white stuff.' Mom, sticking by her poverty- and church-induced eternal optimism, said that the white strands falling from the sky, came off the clouds. 'Heaven's confetti,' she said. It was God reminding us that his grace reaches all of us."

"What did your dad think?"

"Well, Dad worked hard for what money we had, and going to church wasn't exactly his idea. Believed God owed him a little more. He didn't even sit with us. Back pew kinda guy. Mom would lead prayers focused solely on him moving up a few benches. Anyway, I say all that to say, being poor and going to church created optimism's opposite in my father. It wasn't long after I graduated high school, before I moved to Fort Collins, that Dad gave me his theory."

Harvey reached the top of the ridge. Gave me a hand. Dog's corpse slung over his shoulder. He looked at me.

"My dad said that the white strands from heaven weren't signs of encouragement. He said they were tears of those who'd gone before. People looking down, weeping at -- not only what violence brother does to brother -- but also at how we **** away every breath. 'Trading dreams for dollars.' "

"Which do you think is true."

Turning away from me, Harvey switched the garbage bag from his right shoulder to his left.

"Neither is an option. And to remind you, neither is the correct option. For the sake of humoring you?"

"Yes, for the sake of humoring me."

"I think my mother's would be more accurate."

"Why is that?"

"The cottonwoods shed one time a year. Seems to me that white stuff would be falling all the time if it was the disappointment and sorrow of those who've passed. One time a year. I can see God giving us a little something one time a year."
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.you can never really write any poetry by not covering the "heartbreak" the loss of your own "printed" words: how much different is the internet, from "real" life? just asking... since: internet banking & internet shopping... to lose a poem / pre-scriptum is not exactly the same as losing a person to mind: father's day... i cooked the dinner, i took out the trash, i wrote an invoice... i guess that's much better than leaving a card of greetings... and, come to think of it? why are we the sort of people subjugated to nostalgia, with but also "without" a history? aren't we subjugated to nostalgia and a history as a "fiction"? the beginning of the 21st century, the end of the 20th century... the 19th century germans associated themselves with a nostalgia for ancient greece, we're the only people who have an inbuilt nostalgia "safety-mechanism"... the only people in time who are nostalgic about the life surrounding their own existence slot, which doesn't have a trans-temporal dynamic... i remember times when we would be teenagers... spitting on people from car-parks on imaginary tonsures, buying *****-magazines from indian cornershops, or belgian freebies of non-insinuations, white lightning cider while sleeping over at youth centers playing snooker throughout the night... even at school: attending a catholic school with the irish east enders... uniforms, sure... a chequered shirt: blue, red, white... tag? made in canada... and if only capitalism worked as it once did, made in canada? lifetime of a shirt? 20 years... now? made in china... not exactly real cotton, is it? 2 years... before ironing the shirt *****... once upon in gants hill, st. valentine's park, and the pub, recently closed, decent karaoke... in the park? golf, basketball, rowing boats in the large ponds... when the jews were there... gants hill roundabout... the hanukkah torches... jews scuttling wearing trainers come rosh hashanah: jews can't wear leather on rosh hashanah (judgement day)... shy like rats... when the jews were there (gants hill, ilford)... the park looked great... tennis courts... now, when neo-Bangladesh moved in? ****** place. what else do i remember from my original pre-scriptum that i lost? oh, that once time in gants hill... walking into a kosher bakery with ****** knuckles, having tested them on a canvas of a brick wall, buying some dough-fused-sweets? with the girl selling the sweets bewildered by fear? i like the look of fear in people when tested by uncertainty, and bleeding knuckles? later? climbing over the park fence, taking a **** while squatting in the darkened palace of the park, walking into a brothel, having my wallet stolen, not reacting in what would have been justified... high school... we wore uniforms... so no high school h'american culture trap / culture... school uniforms are the best idea, there's no chance to "shine" in telling apart the rich kids from the poor kids... there's only the standard... walking to a supermarket, past a thai surprise... sports bra, short hair... walking back... she's still there pretending to talk on her mobile to someone... you take her home with a few beers... play her some jazz... take her into the garden, the moon is a beauty... you **** her... hand in her underwear and you're still gambling... before the emergence of the nag hammadi library and the whole androgynous vogue, the thai were already readied with the lady-boys... when i reached in and found nothing but oyster... would i have stopped finding a wink-wink slouching worm? slap a trans in the face? no, not really... a thai surprise is, a thai surprise... i would have considered doing my first ****... "lucky" for me she was a she... a girl... ****** her in the garden under the moonlight... gave her my hoodie, which she drowned in... finally... the level of interaction where the female is not a mantis, i.e. a female larger than the male... she drowned into my hoodie as i walked her home... i like the familiarity with the mammalian, not resorting to insect superiority of females... these days... i find that males are strictly mammalian... while females? they are borrowing insect-esque ontologies... well, darwinism allowed the time-frame... males are mammals... females are insects, behaviour-wise... two time frame i do not appreciate the english for... darwinism is prime.... cultural-marxism my ***... what about cultural-darwinism?! no?! that doesn't exist?! cultural-darwinism is as real as cultural-marxism, and, in the former sense? it really does belong to the conservative right-wing politico spectrum! might i add? isn't psychology merely pop philosophy? i find psychology riddled with rubric cohesion, it's all oh so "self"-evident! i abhor psychologists... these gypsy philosophers... medicine-men with no pharmacological shadow of power... to prescribe drugs... arguments, persuasions, but no dialectics... psychology will forever be, for me, a philosophy primer, short-cut... pop philosophy... psychologists can treat people who have never read a philosophy book... r. d. laing... i remember this one instace... me and a fwend of mine travelled into central london, went into a bookshop shy of trafalgar sq., i spotted an edition of: the scarlet and the black by stendhal... i told him: i will trade you linkin park's debut album, if you buy me this... the transaction was made... the one book i read after seeing a film adaptation starring rachel (rakhel) weisz and ewan mcgregor... ra-kh-el: not ray-chel... we used to be humans once... at high school getting bullied back... putting pins on chairs once we got up, sitting on them... playing bulldog in primary school, slap-ball, tag, playing cards at lunchtime... 16 fatty boy... one summer in poland, comes back aged 17... the irish girls take an interest while eating a pomegranate... what was the success of your diet? don't go to the gym... excess skin, an aesthetic surgeon is not what you need... there are only two ways to lose weight... either via swimming or by cycling... cycling is the best... lose weight by also toning your body... gym is a bad idea... by going to the gym you are straining exclusive parts of your body, either the torso, your hands, etc., jogging? unless on soft ground, bad idea on concrete, arthritis... cycling or swimming... lose weight... tone at the same time, the skin is allowed the required time to adapt to shrink, and forget what propped it up in plump form with all that excess flab... ugh... i hated being attractive to the opposite ***, i never used it to my advantage! imagine... an irish lad comes up to me, on behalf of some girl while i'm donning a french braid: you look just like johnny depp in blow, impersonating george jung... 14 year old girls walk up to you asking what shampoo you're using... herbal essences... i never used my looks... *******... now i'm a heavy drinker... so much for looks... first girlfriend? a fwend had to call me telling me she called him that she felt butterflies when i dropped her at the train platform after a day's worth of dating: tate modern, edward hopper exhibitions, cinema: troy, starring rose byrne (briseis) - honestly, a man can go crazy over curly hair... and then a restaurant date... that **** just flew over my head... i wouldn't have noticed... honestly though... i missed the whole h'american cultural excavation genesis in high school... catholic... uniforms... jesuit army-esque formation... now, i'm ageing... i'm starting to find the company of cats to be: clingy... my shadow included... i once thought that dogs were needy... i'm starting to think that cats are worse, esp. the maine **** breed... "lonely" or "loneliness" doesn't really resonate with me, esp. when thinking something "feels" like a variation of claustrophobia: hence i write... without a dialectic in place, ever since plato wrote his dialogues... what is philosophy, primarily? isn't it an off-shoot of "claustrophobia"? we write because we are seeking escape from congested thinking, a variation of "claustrophobia"... now imagine a schizoid character... having to focus on an imaginary dialectic, actually... having dialectics enforced on him, with no clarifying exodus to posit a gensis with! now, a clingy dog i could understand, given the overpowering status of the leash... but a clingy cat, when there's no leash involved?! shoom! right over my head... gone, somewhere into the distance!

what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions hype...
and didn't?
and instead took to patience?
it's free...
   where once,
a game would cost you 20 quid,
and a month's worth
of narrative,
back then, when games
resembled books,
when the gaming industry
was heavily influenced
by literature...
and now?
   the game's free...
sure...
it's "unfair", it's biased...
when you don't engage
in imported gambling
of succumbing to what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions...
       and didn't have the chance...
microtransactions are like
the old school cheat hacks...
but not quiet, but somehow quasi-,
       a modern microtransactions,
would be a cheat magazine
thorough-through
a game like final fantasy VII...
you have homework,
but you still want to complete the game...
modern games...
modern games...
there's an "end gole"?
  what modern game is worth
"completing"?
    
   again: tron, ready player one,
back to the future...
star wars just became dead
to me...
   sick people will plague hard-working
people, with a quasi-gambling
addiction,
needing to make microtransactions...
and they will,
my father was plagued by
an impostor, claiming to be a
tax office official:
and what if, that person had
an authentic position at the tax office?!

when gaming was for gamers,
the games were bought...
there was a narrative...
but now... now games don't have a narrative...
why would they?!
   who the hell plays games for
the narrative these days?
i know that on the crapper,
i need a game that allows me
to experience live-stream
interaction with non-bots...

       and these old gamers,
who still invest their money
in literature-esque-games?
so i was the sad one,
investing in vinyl?
   aren't the classic ******* gamers
just as bad,
investing in prepackaged
narrative gaming
experiences?
             a game with a narrative...
yeah... me buying vinyl
is: b'ah b'ah bad...
       what sort of game is alive and well...
when there isn't a crowd pushback
for the currency of microtransaction?

the narrative is time,
   the longer you endure the inadequacy...
the more you realise:
you're basically playing
the same game,
but in your scenario:
it's free...
   in some other ******'s scenario:
it cost him 70 hundred quid...

personally?
   i love this microtransaction dynamic...
concerning the people who
do not engage with it...
it's the perfect antithesis
   of what ruined the music industry
with genesis: napster...

you really are, playing the ultimate
game,
time...
         the one sort of commodity
that games,
without a clear narrative construct,
"forgot" to mention in terms
of them being exploited...
to their full capacity
of the one "commodity"
they "forgot", or rather,
couldn't "sell"...

              a tenchu PS1 game could
have lasted me a month...
now? a free game,
like war robots...
with absolutely no NPC?
hell... i'll be 90 and still be playing it;

what else? applause!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/                                america, july 18th:
  and the utter media shambles -
like ****** and steroids
for the uninitiated -
     tongues without the rattlesnake
trill of an ᚨᚱ:
   numbed w'ah w'ah peddling
of woe to row the sinking boat:
maniac adult funfair
attempting a nostalgia
for the playground game
of bulldog...

                russia, 25th march:
the kemerovo fire (siberia) -
          children frying, screaming,
perhaps even hoping -
  a shying herod, the example
of: as moloch descended...
          prayers in the fire
                  by the innocents...

england, july 19th -
   alternative to rehydrating
using water...
    a generous 5 hour sleep -
******* on the remains
of last night's lemon
     used to infuse the subtle
smoky of bell's whiskey,
playlist:

- the jon spencer blues
  explosion (bellbottoms)
- britney spears (criminal)
- twenty one pilots (heathens)
- calvin harris (this is what you came for)
- camila cabello (habana)
- rihanna (disturbia)
- birdbrain (youth of america)
- ghost (ritual)
- focus (hocus pocus)
- edwyn collins (a girl like you)
- the guess who (american woman)
- the knack (my sharona)
- cronica (herr mannelig)

and then onto buckling in
4 beers and thinking
about black holes as the pin-head
of antimatter -
a dead sun...
     dead, but not dead...

   and the first, crude graphic
tomb raider game...

   rather than having completed
it...
     since only owning
a demo...

                 investigating
the possibility of 2D objects in
3D space...
       well: the universe isn't even
exactly 3D: it's hyper-3D...
    but in the tomb raider game
you could walk up to a minor
detail in the game, a fern,
and observe two-dimensionality
in a "three dimensional space"...

   namely: the ferns were all 2D,
and rotated within a "hyperbole"
of the eye -
   however you observed the "object"
it rotated round and round,
never allowing you to see
    its demoniac otherside -

i can only expect dead suns to
behave in such a manner -
   two dimensional objects in a three
dimensional subject matter -
almost paradoxical -

     rotating at immense speed...
invigorating a near but not quiet
a postportem of a death...

       and you really can see UV light
surface
staring at a glaring hot sun with
a naked eye -
   and see the same hyper-rotation -
it's almost like looking at
molten silver, but with a hint
of violet - i.e. akin phosphorescence:
but in the daytime...

and who said you need to
ingest hallucinogenics -
    and enter the labyrinth of a short,
short, history,
    of the chipmunk caveman?

i'm just drunk, you're probably
sober...
    but those guys doing
a timothy leary sermon?
   they're...
     gone.......................... gone -
     they hit the tangens curve.
Took a trip on the Belafonte,
Bound with Cuba to forgotten Sanz.
Dinning on tin canned Del Monte,
A glass of Suntory always in hands.

Lloyd Faversham gifted salacious devices by John Cleese.
Used as props in Mike’s next gin stained showpiece.

The drum-line seemed irksome to J. Jonah.
He’d heard Zach Hill before.
Given limited time, despite the persona.
Interstellar fault found in a **** metaphor.

A swift change to an even more marketable sound.
Sparks didn’t fly when trying to appear profound.

Tiny teen dreams tending to tiny skirts.
Fidgeting with the hem-line.
Their just unintelligible flirts.
Stripping to avoid the breadline.

Dystopian fiction led to dissolution of fact
Can’t seem to see their world isn’t intact.

Atwood to Collins, Collins to a stupid ******* maze.
Alternate choice being a criminal thrill.
Simplistic fantasy whose only benefit is praise.
Popular opinion seems to be well over the hill.

— The End —