Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
David Ehrgott Dec 2015
The comm-u-ter
It go choo-choo
Down the track
  
The comm-u-ter
It go choo-choo
Down the track
  
And if you knew
That comm-u-too
Then you'd yoo-hoo
Yeah, you'd yoo-hoo
  
Left the station
For vacation
Five O' Eight
  
Left the station
For vacation
Five O' Eight
  
On a friday
With no rain date
Ain't that great
Now ain't that great
  
Got the voo-doo
In the boom room
Friday night
  
Got the voo-doo
In the boom room
Friday night
  
If you'd seen her
Then you'd greet her
"What a sight"
Now, ain't that nice?
  
On the new train
The Northern Blue train
It's all right
  
On the new train
That Northern Blue train
It's all right
  
You can catch it
'cept on Sunday
You got that right?
Now, ain't that nice?
  
The comm-u-ter
It go choo-choo
Down the track
  
The comm-u-ter
It go choo-choo
Down the track
  
And if you knew
That comm-u-too
Then you'd yoo-hoo
Yeah, you'd yoo-hoo
Robert Scherer Jan 2010
'mma comm'ner!
'mma comm'ner!
Whild it
Port 'rhet above,
'im down
F'rsaken.

Afore'd!
Allay'd!

De' the round,
De' the Bayck

Brent of stick
Wally a'bock
Rayne
A'doon, a'tunya, Mekker'un

A 'block, a moon.
The Rhine, 'ya dance 'ya
In the Maine
Yal 'amo
Tor'red ett'on
Fer tha'dance 'ya
Fer tha'roon

Allek 'un daree'ya
Mag'k ung Garee 'ya.
MARK RIORDAN Apr 2018
COMM GAMES ARE HERE
LET'S CHUG DOWN A BEER
THE WORLD WILL BE WATCHING
LET'S GIVE OUT A CHEER



THE WELCOME MAT IS OUT
THE OPENING CEREMONY IS GREAT
WELCOME TO AUSTRALIA
GDAY MY NEW MATE



COMM GAMES ARE HERE
PRINCE CHARLES A ROYAL SALUTE
21 GUNS GO OFF
A RIGHT ROYAL TRIBUTE



THE QUEEN IS IN THE BATON
PRINCE CHARLES IS ON THE GROUND
21 GUNS GO OFF
WHAT A BEAUTIFUL SOUND



THE COMM GAMES ARE HERE
SHOWING EQUALITY FOR ALL
FOR OUR WOMEN ATHLETES ARE STRONG
THEY STAND 10 FEET TALL
COMMONWEALTH GAMES ARE ON THE GOLD COAST QUEENSLAND AUSTRALIA. A FEW DITTIES TO HELP YOU ENJOY THE GAMES.
JPaiva Jan 2012
So let’s take a look at this story and I’ll tell you my theory.
In Another Country by Ernest Hemingway
You know, that dude you might of heard about back in the day.
Now, I’m not here to give you a plot summary
The purpose is to work your minds with an introductory.

Take a moment, and put yourself in the narrator’s shoes
Going to war and unable to refuse
You’re getting defeated, wounded in the knee
and taken to the hospital in a room full of machines.

He was able to make friends during his stay,
Three officers and a soldier with a handkerchief I must say
A kinship formed between him and the three officers,
So changed from the men they once were,
Sticking together was glorious when sharing the same experience
Especially when the outside world taunt and despises you
Saying quotes in their language once you pass through.
“Down with the officers!” that’s what they would chant.
What would you do, or perhaps grant?
A mock could only reveal a fight, but no you mustn’t, you can’t.
You’re trying to cure yourself mentally and physically
For the war has scarred you, and tortured you, literally.
You know there was always going to be war,
but you don’t want to go to it anymore.

Now, let’s move on to that discussion with the major,
formally known as a stager.
He asked one simple question to the narrator
"What will you do when the war is over, if it is over?"
Ha, never thought one would form a debater.
“I will go to the States,” the narrator straights.
Alarming the major that there must be someone he awaits.
“Are you married?” he replied, hoping for an answer he would side.
A reply that didn’t have the major agree
“No, but I hope to be.”
Now, I’m sure this is the part where you think the man has no heart
When he shouts that one’s a fool to want to marry
A man should never lose the one he marries.
But you see, he was speaking for himself
Trying to cope with his lost and tryna' fix the problem the narrator crossed.
The major’s wife has died from pneumonia,
A death that lasted from only a few days of being sick
The major was torn a part not wanted to look at another chick.
Thereafter, each time he returned to the hospital to use the machines,
he would just stare out the window,
rather than pay any attention to his treatments with all means

Now, I’m not one to know how that would feel
To go back to that scene, only a time machine can reveal.
But, one feels for the narrator instantly
when he uses the form of repetition blissfully.
Or when he feels distant from the officers,
like the first time meeting your long lost brothers.
They were presented with medals for acts of bravery
although he received his as an act of vagary.
For instance, playing a video game, noticing you’re just a newbie
While getting cheap achievements in halo or call of duty
He was injured before he could prove his courage
and lectured through the concept of marriage.

But I’m not here to give you the in depth
Let’s bring it over to Ashley, she has the breadth of the knowledge.
That will help you understand the reason for this course at this college.
Seranaea Jones Oct 2020
-

Just basically an accounting of
language as it is conveyed
between media types

namely,

Air, Silicone and Mail ;

in Air,
you have to
basically be ready to
respond within a reasonable
period, say about three or four seconds

upon Silicone, you could "afk" and then
mix a drink- rinse out the mixing
utensils and type a response
with some degree of
forethinking

in Air,
you could breath
in the real-time vibes that
trigger automatic subject sensitivity,
like, (something too disturbing for me to detail here)

upon Silicone, you would be able to digitally
sort and discard these disturbing elements
and then lie to yourself about the
true weight of the
conversation


in Air,
a comedian can
deliver a punchline in
order to impulse a laugh out of you,
even to the point of spitting out your wine

upon Silicone, latency can cause punchlines
to be misinterpreted as an offense, which
will likely sully those carefully
established digital
relationships



You
could encode
the Air in the fashion
that Native Americans did
with campfires and blankets,

but i would never suggest that
you try and breath Silicone__ !

nor pattern the "the ins and outs"
of breathing within the basic scope
of a vacuum in order to encode
it upon a microchip that
can only be read by
a machine—

either way, in case you
may not have noticed,

Personal Letters are —at this moment—
asphyxiating into blue screen
oblivion,
deep inside the
Lost Mailbags of Redundancy...




"Comm_Check"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved


.
"You've got Mail !!"—some electronic dood from AOL..

.
allow me to celebrate the ant
summer miscre-ant in my kitchen
picking up pieces of pieces "to go":
a crumb of Meow Mix, a crushed Cheerio;

applied the usual eco-safe spray
detecting this way too feint for they
amassed to quest their innate objective
exploring and toting the prime directive;

hymenoptera tents with doors
four on the floor: cafes of poison
for caulking the cracks in the walls hadn't solved
the stay-past-your-welcome guests involved;

soon numbers diminished but still a few
creeping through unrepent-ant
I swept thrice per day to starve them out
yet brooms are too thick all crannies to rout;

surrendered and wondered, perhaps they are teachers
attempting to bypass my brainy block
too thick to buzz with what the ants know?
I squat as a toddler to take-in their show;

for hours observing them (off and on)
until an implosion of comm-ants sense
challenged my globalized conception
exposing my mind to ant redemption;

the ant is now my writing totem
trouble though they'll be next June
within this mantra is what they knew:
one moment one crumb to carry and chew;

insight's relative I realize
ants have their own frustrations with size
but ponder the ant when writing time's little:
at peace with a piece of ant-agonist vittle.
Yup, true story.

Copyright 2004 JB Marshall
'A femmena è na bella criatura
e quase sempe è ddoce comm' 'o mmele;
ma è vvote chistu mmele pe sventura,
perde 'a ducezza e addeventa fele.
Emma Brigham Feb 2016
His *****-white sneakers tied in double knots
three strides down the sidewalk and he knows they are too small
He didn’t know that your feet could get fatter too but
oh that’s right
Emily’s feet had grown with each pregnancy
People tell him that’s a lot of kids
Four - no ****
He was on the track team in high school but he’s the wrong size now
Right size?
It’s women on billboards
oiled like seals
lips puckered to meet the side of a ***** bottle
in this city and every city in America
Emily had managed to stay fit and what a miracle that was
She is one of those women
who looks good - healthy
in her element even
with a runny-nosed child on her hip
and three hours of sleep
and no makeup
and snot smeared on the shoulder of her black tshirt
Flower of a woman
People ask him how does she do it?
By his male friends he’s told how lucky he is
but that wasn’t the word he was thinking of

He is working up a sweat now
He feels each foot land on the pavement with his whole body
He watches small dogs lift their legs, demurely
They relieve themselves on statues on the Comm Ave Mall
He feels like the figment of someone else’s imagination
He sees trees he could identify when he was a botany major
before he traded his VW for a minivan
Sweetgum, green ash, maple, linden, zelkova, Japanese pagoda
that one’s an elm
even his six-year-old knows what an elm is
New synapses formed
Genus and species replaced by numbers, meaningless
They only mean something if his client is getting paid
One day a paycheck, a bottle of champagne
Another
stress, Netflix for entertainment
He’s left his iphone on the kitchen counter
No missed calls or new text messages
No music on this run
Unfiltered thoughts where Led Zeppelin should be
He remembers next week is Lulu’s birthday
Peaches and cream little girl
who is never seen without bruises on her knobby bird’s legs
Kat, older, malleable, chose ballet
Lulu insists on football
She wants to get ***** and tackle boys
The first day of practice he was mildly horrified
when he realized she is the only female in the league
He loves watching the other teams’ faces when they learn they just played a girl
because it is impossible to tell under all the padding
until Lulu pulls off her helmet at the end of the game
slow motion
as she walks off the field
shaking out honey-colored hair
throwing a wink at her rivals
Players use last names only by some unspoken rule
But not her
she is still his Lulu
her closet filled with princess dresses and football jerseys
I go back and forth between liking this and thinking it reads terribly... anyway I was going for a stream of consciousness type of thing
Teneva diciott'anne Sarchiapone,
era stato cavallo ammartenato,
ma... ogne bella scarpa nu scarpone
addeventa c' 'o tiempo e cu ll'età.
Giuvinotto pareva n'inglesino,
uno 'e chilli cavalle arritrattate
ca portano a cavallo p' 'o ciardino
na signorina della nobiltà.

Pronto p'asc'i sbatteva 'e ccianfe 'nterra,
frieva, asceva 'o fummo 'a dint' 'o naso,
faville 'a sotto 'e piere, 'o ffuoco! 'A guerra!
S'arrevutava tutt' 'a Sanità.

Ma... ogni bella scarpa nu scarpone
c' 'o tiempo addeventammo tutte quante;
venette pure 'o turno 'e Sarchiapone.
Chesta è la vita! Nun ce sta che ffà.

Trista vicchiaja. Che brutto destino!
Tutt' 'a jurnata sotto a na carretta
a carrià lignammo, prete, vino.
"Cammina, Sarchiapò! Cammina, aah!".

'O carrettiere, 'nfamo e disgraziato,
cu 'a peroccola 'nmano, e 'a part' 'o gruosso,
cu tutt' 'e fforze 'e ddà sotto 'o custato
'nfaccia 'a sagliuta p' 'o fà cammenà.

A stalla ll'aspettava Ludovico,
nu ciucciariello viecchio comm' a isso:
pe Sarchiapone chisto era n'amico,
cumpagne sotto 'a stessa 'nfamità.

Vicino tutt' 'e ddute: ciuccio e cavallo
se facevano 'o lagno d' 'a jurnata.
Diceva 'o ciuccio: "I' nce aggio fatto 'o callo,
mio caro Sarchiapone. Che bbuò fà?

lo te capisco, tu te si abbeluto.
Sò tutte na maniata 'e carrettiere,
e, specialmente, 'o nuosto,è 'o cchiù cornuto
ca maie nce puteva capità.

Sienteme bbuono e vide che te dico:
la bestia umana è un animale ingrato.
Mm' he a credere... parola 'e Ludovico,
ca mm' è venuto 'o schifo d' 'o ccampà.

Nuie simmo meglio 'e lloro, t' 'o ddico io:
tenimmo core 'mpietto e sentimento.
Chello ca fanno lloro? Ah, no, pe ddio!
Nisciuno 'e nuie s' 'o ssonna maie d' 'o ffà.

E quanta vote 'e dicere aggio 'ntiso:
"'A tale ha parturito int' 'a nuttata
na criatura viva e po' ll'ha accisa.
Chesto na mamma ciuccia nun 'o ffà!".

"Tu che mme dice Ludovico bello?!
Overo 'o munno è accussi malamente?".
"E che nne vuo sapè, caro fratello,
nun t'aggio ditto tutta 'a verità.

Tu si cavallo, nobile animale,
e cierti ccose nun 'e concepisce.
I' so plebbeo e saccio tutt' 'o mmale
ca te cumbina chesta umanità".

A sti parole 'o ricco Sarchiapone
dicette: "Ludovì, io nun ce credo!
I' mo nce vò, tenevo nu padrone
ch'era na dama, n'angelo 'e buntà.

Mm'accarezzava comm'a nu guaglione,
mme deva 'a preta 'e zucchero a quadrette;
spisse se cunzigliava c' 'o garzone
(s'io stevo poco bbuono) ch' eva fà".

"Embè! - dicette 'o ciuccio - Mme faie pena.
Ma comme, tu nun l'he capito ancora?
Si, ll'ommo fa vedè ca te vò bbene
è pe nu scopo... na fatalità.

Chi pe na mano, chi pe n'ata mano,
ognuno tira ll'acqua al suo mulino.
So chiste tutte 'e sentimente umane:
'a mmiria, ll'egoismo, 'a falsità.

'A prova è chesta, caro Sarchiapone:
appena si trasuto int' 'a vicchiaia,
pe poche sorde, comme a nu scarpone,
t'hanno vennuto e si caduto ccà.

Pe sotto a chillu stesso carruzzino
'o patruncino tuio n'atu cavallo
se ll' è accattato proprio stammatina
pe ghi currenno 'e pprete d' 'a città".

'O nobbile animale nun durmette
tutt' 'a nuttata, triste e ll'uocchie 'nfuse,
e quanno avette ascì sott' 'a carretta
lle mancavano 'e fforze pe tirà.

"Gesù, che delusione ch'aggio avuto!"-
penzava Sarchiapone cu amarezza.
"Sai che ti dico? Ll'aggia fa fernuta,
mmiezo a sta gente che nce campo a ffà?"

E camminanno a ttaglio e nu burrone,
nchiurette ll'uocchie e se menaie abbascio.
Vulette 'nzerrà 'o libbro Sarchiapone,
e se ne jette a 'o munno 'a verità.
Adrian Rae Brown Dec 2014
Die it black, DIE it black, DIE IT BLACK
they say...
Because if you die it white the blood WILL stain
Besides it's not that inhumane, they're disposable anyway.
Like a black trash bag consumed with garbage
One purpose, one dark excuse to attack.
They're murderers, thugs and robbers
and if we just disregard them they'll never stop in their tracks.
So in order to maintain #AllLivesMatter
we'll destroy each and everyone of these hoodlums
until this violently painted black comm(UNITY) shatters.
And as each broken piece falls to the ground
we'll fall to our knees in awe of the gleaming white crown

So dust it off and D.I.E. THEM BLACK
for everything that you thought you stood for
is falling though the cracks.

For this one toned American hell hole can't get any worse if we D.I.E it BLACK
...and put humanity first.
Natasha Sep 2014
Your still drowning in my mind,
           you do this on purpose.

                                                Calamity on the surface,

waves of comm
                             uni
                                      cation dead

Floating in the ocean of my head

                                        Among the graveyard of ships,
       and all left for dead.
                                                                   Lies all of the things

that we left
                                    unsaid.
I am the ocean, I am the sea, there is world inside of me.
Terry Hoffman Dec 2015
‘TWAS THE TREK BEFORE CHRISTMAS
                      (with apologies to Clement C. Moore)
                                        December 2013


‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the ship,
Not a tribble was stirring, not even a blip.

The crew was all nestled so snug in their bunks,
All sleeping alone, including the hunks.

The comm came alive, whistles, sirens and all.
The captain sprang up to answer the call.

When what to his wondering eyes should appear
But a small shuttle craft that was drawing quite near.

The little old pilot, so lively and quick.
Kirk knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

To the rear docking bay, it made a bee line
And made a great landing, a-flourish and fine.

Kirk raised up his head, when he heard the tube door,
And stared at the stranger, when he saw what he wore.

Ignoring the captain, the stranger began
To fill all the post seats, not missing a man.

Then turning around, not missing a stride,
He entered the turbo and returned to his ride.

As the shuttle departed, Kirk heard on the comms,
“Merry Christmas to all, yes, even the Roms!”
I never know what crazy things will come into my head.
Teneva diciott'anne Sarchiapone,
era stato cavallo ammartenato,
ma... ogne bella scarpa nu scarpone
addeventa c' 'o tiempo e cu ll'età.
Giuvinotto pareva n'inglesino,
uno 'e chilli cavalle arritrattate
ca portano a cavallo p' 'o ciardino
na signorina della nobiltà.

Pronto p'asc'i sbatteva 'e ccianfe 'nterra,
frieva, asceva 'o fummo 'a dint' 'o naso,
faville 'a sotto 'e piere, 'o ffuoco! 'A guerra!
S'arrevutava tutt' 'a Sanità.

Ma... ogni bella scarpa nu scarpone
c' 'o tiempo addeventammo tutte quante;
venette pure 'o turno 'e Sarchiapone.
Chesta è la vita! Nun ce sta che ffà.

Trista vicchiaja. Che brutto destino!
Tutt' 'a jurnata sotto a na carretta
a carrià lignammo, prete, vino.
"Cammina, Sarchiapò! Cammina, aah!".

'O carrettiere, 'nfamo e disgraziato,
cu 'a peroccola 'nmano, e 'a part' 'o gruosso,
cu tutt' 'e fforze 'e ddà sotto 'o custato
'nfaccia 'a sagliuta p' 'o fà cammenà.

A stalla ll'aspettava Ludovico,
nu ciucciariello viecchio comm' a isso:
pe Sarchiapone chisto era n'amico,
cumpagne sotto 'a stessa 'nfamità.

Vicino tutt' 'e ddute: ciuccio e cavallo
se facevano 'o lagno d' 'a jurnata.
Diceva 'o ciuccio: "I' nce aggio fatto 'o callo,
mio caro Sarchiapone. Che bbuò fà?

lo te capisco, tu te si abbeluto.
Sò tutte na maniata 'e carrettiere,
e, specialmente, 'o nuosto,è 'o cchiù cornuto
ca maie nce puteva capità.

Sienteme bbuono e vide che te dico:
la bestia umana è un animale ingrato.
Mm' he a credere... parola 'e Ludovico,
ca mm' è venuto 'o schifo d' 'o ccampà.

Nuie simmo meglio 'e lloro, t' 'o ddico io:
tenimmo core 'mpietto e sentimento.
Chello ca fanno lloro? Ah, no, pe ddio!
Nisciuno 'e nuie s' 'o ssonna maie d' 'o ffà.

E quanta vote 'e dicere aggio 'ntiso:
"'A tale ha parturito int' 'a nuttata
na criatura viva e po' ll'ha accisa.
Chesto na mamma ciuccia nun 'o ffà!".

"Tu che mme dice Ludovico bello?!
Overo 'o munno è accussi malamente?".
"E che nne vuo sapè, caro fratello,
nun t'aggio ditto tutta 'a verità.

Tu si cavallo, nobile animale,
e cierti ccose nun 'e concepisce.
I' so plebbeo e saccio tutt' 'o mmale
ca te cumbina chesta umanità".

A sti parole 'o ricco Sarchiapone
dicette: "Ludovì, io nun ce credo!
I' mo nce vò, tenevo nu padrone
ch'era na dama, n'angelo 'e buntà.

Mm'accarezzava comm'a nu guaglione,
mme deva 'a preta 'e zucchero a quadrette;
spisse se cunzigliava c' 'o garzone
(s'io stevo poco bbuono) ch' eva fà".

"Embè! - dicette 'o ciuccio - Mme faie pena.
Ma comme, tu nun l'he capito ancora?
Si, ll'ommo fa vedè ca te vò bbene
è pe nu scopo... na fatalità.

Chi pe na mano, chi pe n'ata mano,
ognuno tira ll'acqua al suo mulino.
So chiste tutte 'e sentimente umane:
'a mmiria, ll'egoismo, 'a falsità.

'A prova è chesta, caro Sarchiapone:
appena si trasuto int' 'a vicchiaia,
pe poche sorde, comme a nu scarpone,
t'hanno vennuto e si caduto ccà.

Pe sotto a chillu stesso carruzzino
'o patruncino tuio n'atu cavallo
se ll' è accattato proprio stammatina
pe ghi currenno 'e pprete d' 'a città".

'O nobbile animale nun durmette
tutt' 'a nuttata, triste e ll'uocchie 'nfuse,
e quanno avette ascì sott' 'a carretta
lle mancavano 'e fforze pe tirà.

"Gesù, che delusione ch'aggio avuto!"-
penzava Sarchiapone cu amarezza.
"Sai che ti dico? Ll'aggia fa fernuta,
mmiezo a sta gente che nce campo a ffà?"

E camminanno a ttaglio e nu burrone,
nchiurette ll'uocchie e se menaie abbascio.
Vulette 'nzerrà 'o libbro Sarchiapone,
e se ne jette a 'o munno 'a verità.
Ken Pepiton Jul 2023
Vu. { as long as any story's told wrong}

- suffer not a novice to teach

No bet. Nothing wagered, no pledge to be paid,
no bet was made between the unspeakable name,

core processing access id-entity… we'll call Truth.
And time, if there were a wager, Truth be against Time.

- thus we develop a worth for attention.

The way life works super resiliently, bouncing back
after starry chaos leaves a constant possibility
for truths beyond our scale of instant relativity
to manifest as seems with none the wiser,

the sun could flick us from existance, and be
acting as naturally as all such suns act
after a while, maybe

seven minutes ago.
---
listening to me bellyache and moan,
woe is me I am good for nothing.

Hmmm. I could just die, but then, there
would be just cause to believe me selfish,
and selfish is something I try not to be, in fact.

Information flow, twists awry through held truths,
never taken apart to reset the spring.

Nietsche was wrong about a lot of things.
Knowing he had a voice he could
convince himself was otherwise,
he had a real raw idea of God.
That's good.
Not useless, mostly used up. Flame.

That's what the real old *** in me said.
Fretting naught,
letting go all wishery wasery,
growing old effortlessly,
be causing, as wishes are supposed,
sup-post,
same as prayers properly aimed, to
be collected to be
be answered, as information related
to pain in the brain or heart, or core
mental effort processing part, which
detects and destroys the infecting barb.
Just in time.
Release relief, unbelievable lies,
pile into icy dams, late spring
in truth
past all thorny issues,
life is not intentionally difficult,
ants - the super colony kind
run vast ecology balancing systems,
on auto pilot, pure intuitive duty drives.
On a global scale, spreading without war.

We can see we can be better rich than poor.
We can see we live on a wet ball spun
along a spiral in a spiral in a spiral, and so, on
and on and on, looping the grand loop, a little
farther along than last time,

our eyes have seen the glory, our children
can imagine thought speed, information passing

as time carries matters to gravitationally bound
points past which nothing is ever the same,

because you, cause me, to cause you to imagine
we share a plane conscious level,
as we stare across the heavens from JWST,

just adjusting reasonable focus, is it asking
too much? Asking to effect the healing
with truth that cannot be denied, and be truth
indeed…

Whatsoever, whensover, so today is fine,

infinitely fine, as a whole time bit, with us in it.

Who arranged the world's laws of nations,
?
not men in my general class, retired disabled
boys used in immoral warfare, and paid glory

and allowed to march in war winner parades,
even though, Wounded Knee and My Lai,

fester under America's Exceptional Blessing.

Agricultural superfluity, aided by machines,
and the modern incarnation of king control,
usurious
war debt, cost of plunder,
always need latest enemy detection tech.
- Confidential is above us all down here.

Who you gonna call to collect on reneged
deals, see the big picture, be visionary,
wars are lost for want of a nail, a nail
that woulda been seen missing, if the smith's
bills had been paid in time for precharge inspection.

Who allows evil to prosper,
who prospers from peace never made?

imagine you're the powerful and magnificent
leader of North Korea, or a Metro-mega Church.

You quote Lincoln, and agree with the great
promoters of idle time boredom prevention,
knowing you can fool some of the people,
all of the time. And some of the people
a predictable percentage of the time,

and all the people, after a while.  

Oakridge radiant Gospel,
"you listen too long
  you do eventually die."

- and thus it came to pass
- none found fusion, pfft.
Deep mindtimespace silence

Nonsense to any, therapy to me,
the effectual fervent prayer,

which is really
closer to need announcing, auto
awareness, missing pieces, up
ethos more or
pathos, up path of logos,
as winds winding times
recurrency circuits
up right
is not.
Down is not. Here is midway,
midterm… middle distance
**** sapien augmentedus
in the net spread
in the sight of radio beacons.
submicrowave accuracy,
acutron concept of counting
seconds worth of your attention

Practically stretched
past tensile strand strength

stretching to a C-note,
harmonica

calling all my musing friends,
come hang with me,
in my tree.

In the forest of humanity,
the ant intuitive interconnecting -umph
-- last stack, let patience prove possession --
---- Pa-airing Suckacessfull…
Yeah, blue tooth vestibular augments.
-- I can hear birds now.
Who is on war's side, if this were after
I made my case and closed it,
this is the future when we have
global access to once secret libraries.
5g- ****… radio directly individuated,
as once first accounts were coded, so
now, we are our comm device's user,
we filter using truths we used
and proved just so, we lived

asking truth to show itself in ways
a mortal who labored fifty years,
could be led to expect, jubilee,
boom,
I am free, and I am not uncomfortable,
U may read my mind and find news,
formed from used theories untwisted,

and stretched to the extent of one man's
heart fire, expanded with knowledge,
edified with activated agape, lief be,

take a second, what's such a bit of being
left alone, at second glance, become,

some kinda curious thing, clap trap.

****, all wishery is yours, it's time again,

to review the prayer/wish fullfillment section.

Did you, dear, oh, dear, what, what makes
dear the lessons life teaches for your attention,

no price, a quote, a song
"Come, all you who are thirsty,
come to the waters;
and you without money,
come, buy, and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without cost!"

Isaiah 55, thriving on hope deferred,

refer again to the references,

decide yourself if you believe James I of England
was at any point a person you could work for?

My task is not to teach, unless my life proves
worth my continuing continuance, thinking

plinking, *** shots, clang… in the olden days,

when a family could live by a prentice knack,  
for taking things  apart, to play new roles,

as whole days that may be shared with wary
few, readers readied by experience, to become

as ware, soft, observant, paying eyeservice,
alert for entertaining clap traps when we all laugh.

Okeh, in a dark bijou-kiva, place where aspirations
are presented to the gathered together
to be entertained, de-brained, turned off, and

let be so, the picture show, as it were,
in the so esoterical initial induction, holiness exposed.

It is all in what you did not know, that makes
what you know now, worth living
through.

Yep. Fishing for a whole reality blessing
as living water
does occur to us as time,
we live in the flow, but we row,

because war rules the world we were born in,
and all the churches of messages etched in spirit,
written in light, of course, as on the silvered screen,
live to preach divine rights as old as lobsters's
stacking urges…
tapping scratching

And fire and memories paradiddling
cloudy smoky misty
shapes and shades noise uselessness knowing inspiring
zingers written on the door post, for good luck.

I read a coloring book, once, at a mall, in La Jolla.
"Grandma keeps a Kosher Kitchen" had a scene
to color yourself into, as a curious child noticing,
the little thing Grandma touched as she came in
from the garden of herbs and flowers for bees,

"what is that for?"
In the uncolored coloring book, it was so nonchalant,
"Good luck."
Grandma's grasp the lucid concept.
- food you know not of, love… luck
Thanks given. Praised be.

Long stories, should only be told as true,
if you, personally… lived to tell it, with no sugar on it.

Bitte, Schön. And so it goes. Kosher us, unclean other.

And what am I? Wild child left between the pillar
and the post of an aspiring great man, whose hopes

were dashed, when he crossed a line, in other peoples
ways of sealing soul stealing redemption agreements,

with a shotgun one potential solution…

by the grace of good luck from any source such
luck appears to have kept me breathing, aimlessly

as I imagine a spirit might decide, in truth, one breath
let go , allows a sense to follow, as glowing cardboard ash,
as the teller zones across old causes fought for and won,

which winning needs another singing, which cheek
this time? Which last laugh is led upto, now,

as I acknowledge the precious readers who form
the recognostic think thank thing,
deja deja
This has a sunset with it on Facebook and kenpepiton.com
Teneva diciott'anne Sarchiapone,
era stato cavallo ammartenato,
ma... ogne bella scarpa nu scarpone
addeventa c' 'o tiempo e cu ll'età.
Giuvinotto pareva n'inglesino,
uno 'e chilli cavalle arritrattate
ca portano a cavallo p' 'o ciardino
na signorina della nobiltà.

Pronto p'asc'i sbatteva 'e ccianfe 'nterra,
frieva, asceva 'o fummo 'a dint' 'o naso,
faville 'a sotto 'e piere, 'o ffuoco! 'A guerra!
S'arrevutava tutt' 'a Sanità.

Ma... ogni bella scarpa nu scarpone
c' 'o tiempo addeventammo tutte quante;
venette pure 'o turno 'e Sarchiapone.
Chesta è la vita! Nun ce sta che ffà.

Trista vicchiaja. Che brutto destino!
Tutt' 'a jurnata sotto a na carretta
a carrià lignammo, prete, vino.
"Cammina, Sarchiapò! Cammina, aah!".

'O carrettiere, 'nfamo e disgraziato,
cu 'a peroccola 'nmano, e 'a part' 'o gruosso,
cu tutt' 'e fforze 'e ddà sotto 'o custato
'nfaccia 'a sagliuta p' 'o fà cammenà.

A stalla ll'aspettava Ludovico,
nu ciucciariello viecchio comm' a isso:
pe Sarchiapone chisto era n'amico,
cumpagne sotto 'a stessa 'nfamità.

Vicino tutt' 'e ddute: ciuccio e cavallo
se facevano 'o lagno d' 'a jurnata.
Diceva 'o ciuccio: "I' nce aggio fatto 'o callo,
mio caro Sarchiapone. Che bbuò fà?

lo te capisco, tu te si abbeluto.
Sò tutte na maniata 'e carrettiere,
e, specialmente, 'o nuosto,è 'o cchiù cornuto
ca maie nce puteva capità.

Sienteme bbuono e vide che te dico:
la bestia umana è un animale ingrato.
Mm' he a credere... parola 'e Ludovico,
ca mm' è venuto 'o schifo d' 'o ccampà.

Nuie simmo meglio 'e lloro, t' 'o ddico io:
tenimmo core 'mpietto e sentimento.
Chello ca fanno lloro? Ah, no, pe ddio!
Nisciuno 'e nuie s' 'o ssonna maie d' 'o ffà.

E quanta vote 'e dicere aggio 'ntiso:
"'A tale ha parturito int' 'a nuttata
na criatura viva e po' ll'ha accisa.
Chesto na mamma ciuccia nun 'o ffà!".

"Tu che mme dice Ludovico bello?!
Overo 'o munno è accussi malamente?".
"E che nne vuo sapè, caro fratello,
nun t'aggio ditto tutta 'a verità.

Tu si cavallo, nobile animale,
e cierti ccose nun 'e concepisce.
I' so plebbeo e saccio tutt' 'o mmale
ca te cumbina chesta umanità".

A sti parole 'o ricco Sarchiapone
dicette: "Ludovì, io nun ce credo!
I' mo nce vò, tenevo nu padrone
ch'era na dama, n'angelo 'e buntà.

Mm'accarezzava comm'a nu guaglione,
mme deva 'a preta 'e zucchero a quadrette;
spisse se cunzigliava c' 'o garzone
(s'io stevo poco bbuono) ch' eva fà".

"Embè! - dicette 'o ciuccio - Mme faie pena.
Ma comme, tu nun l'he capito ancora?
Si, ll'ommo fa vedè ca te vò bbene
è pe nu scopo... na fatalità.

Chi pe na mano, chi pe n'ata mano,
ognuno tira ll'acqua al suo mulino.
So chiste tutte 'e sentimente umane:
'a mmiria, ll'egoismo, 'a falsità.

'A prova è chesta, caro Sarchiapone:
appena si trasuto int' 'a vicchiaia,
pe poche sorde, comme a nu scarpone,
t'hanno vennuto e si caduto ccà.

Pe sotto a chillu stesso carruzzino
'o patruncino tuio n'atu cavallo
se ll' è accattato proprio stammatina
pe ghi currenno 'e pprete d' 'a città".

'O nobbile animale nun durmette
tutt' 'a nuttata, triste e ll'uocchie 'nfuse,
e quanno avette ascì sott' 'a carretta
lle mancavano 'e fforze pe tirà.

"Gesù, che delusione ch'aggio avuto!"-
penzava Sarchiapone cu amarezza.
"Sai che ti dico? Ll'aggia fa fernuta,
mmiezo a sta gente che nce campo a ffà?"

E camminanno a ttaglio e nu burrone,
nchiurette ll'uocchie e se menaie abbascio.
Vulette 'nzerrà 'o libbro Sarchiapone,
e se ne jette a 'o munno 'a verità.
Filmore Townsend Sep 2015
rehashing, redacting words in breath-
less thought. back into, place of
belonging; back for, a time of concep-
tion. then, and always, exhaling tone
of muscles vibrating. spoken, reverbed
of this hollowed body. eye-to-eye, view-
ing a soul outside this vessel; speak
to the eyes to be heard ofa  soul. and
of last breath -- words spoke, never
meant heard of interred. of last breath,
to be out sole compansion of lamplight;
to sprade paper scraps where images of
life were found writ from mumbled
hand. words, those left withered th-
oughts scrapped when weened of
connectiong. eyelids flutter, lack comm-
itment of the soul wandering through
broken roof and heaveward on and
beyond an impossible sky gliterring.
out into some million mile expanse --
some insurmountable spanse not even
Katahdin might hope sought. simple
lamp light, casting shadows, in never
furnished room. they stroboscope with
the fluttering -- an attempt to disavow
final alone breath. a first kiss of sweetheart
named death, but not that from mouth of stereo-
typed sickle-carrier. death with lips full and unpainted;
lips not of harlot whose eyes were long ago shut away.
were long ago gone, beyond this spansed memory. death,
sweetheart of childhood, wavering in the dim light; death,
patient waiting found only from one love lost to the million
mile spanse. sweetheart, with face to ease and supplement of
spirit; out wandering awaiting spirit-loose companion in abidement
of union outside the restraint of physicality. her -- death -- finding
manifestation in shadows thrown through empty space.
cast of oil-soaked lamp's wick turned low; vespers of shadows
ever morphing. ever cooing. waiting to accompany part
and leave pense upon ever-veiled soul of him whom
sought an emanation's first and final kiss of unpainted lips.
orig: 030814
Tu s a cchiù bella 'e tutt' 'e principesse,
'e tutt' 'e principesse si 'a riggina.
Pe tutt' 'a vita addenucchiato io stesse
a cuntemplà sta grazia accussì fina.
Tu femmena nun sì, tu sì na fata
impastata 'e latte, porcellana e rrose,
sta pella è d'alabbastro avvellutata...
(Perdoname si dico chesti ccose).

'Ncopp' a sta vocca fatta cu 'e ccerase,
e 'ncopp' a chesta ***** 'e seta nera
ca tiene pe capille, quanta vase
io nce vulesse dà... matina e sera.

Chist'uocchie tuoie chin' 'e malincunia
ca tiene 'nfronte songo comm' a ll'esca,
songh'uocchie ca me fanno asci 'mpazzia.

St'anema mia s'addorme 'a notte e sonna
sunnanno 'e te, nun te chiamma Francesca;
ma saie comme te chiamma a tte? Madonna!
"Ninì Santoro, il fine dicitore,
maestro di eleganza e di maniere,
il re del music-hall, il gran signore,
debutta questa sera al Trianon".
Guardanno 'o manifesto, chi liggeva
penzava: certo chisto è n'artistone.
Tenevemo st'attore? E chi 'o ssapeva!
Stasera stessa mm' 'o vaco a ssentì.

C' 'o tubbo, 'a caramella e nu bucchino
d'avorio giallo, luongo miezo metro;
un fazzoletto bianco nel taschino,
ncuollo nu frack 'e seta blummarè

Tutt' 'o teatro illuminato a giorno,
na marcia trionfale comm' "Aida",
Santoro ascette e cu na faccia 'e corne
pareva ca diceva: "Eccomi qua!

Mo v'aggia fa vedè chi è Santoro,
il fine dicitore, il fantasista
ca quanno arape 'a vocca caccia ll'oro,
oro colato 'e primma qualità".

'O pubblico ansioso s'aspettava:
chi sa mo ch'esce 'a vocca a stu Santoro.
Ma ch'era ascì... Santoro 'ncacagliava,
faceva smorfie, zumpe e niente cchiù.

Nun fernette nemmeno 'o riturnello
d' 'o primmo raccuntino d'avventure,
quann'uno arreto a me: "Santò, si bello!"
('Ndranghete!) E allazza nu pernacchio 'e nuvità.

Fuie cumm'a nu signale 'e na battaglia,
mancava poco e nce scappava 'o muorto:
'e sische mme parevano mitraglia.
Santoro nun putette continuà.

"Ll'artista" se facette 'a mappatella:
'o frack, 'o tubbo, 'o fazzuletto bianco,
s'annascunnette pure 'a caramella.
Dicette: "Aggio sbagliato,.. Ch'aggia fà?".

Trent'anne so passate 'a chella sera
che il fine dicitore fantasista
pe fforza avette chiudere 'a carriera
a beneficio dell'umanità.

Aiere steva scritto into 'o giurnale che:
"dopo varii e lunghi appostamenti
è stato assicurato un criminale
alla Giustizia delle Autorità".

E chi era, neh, stu disgraziato?
Santoro... il dicitore fantasista,
ca, pe magnà, al furto s'era dato
o pover'ommo pe putè campà.

Io penso che fu l'epoca sbagliata;
trent'anne fa tutto era n'ata cosa.
Oggi che il nostro gusto s'è cambiato
Santoro fosse na celebrità.
Ogni matina scengo a Margellina,
me guardo 'o mare, 'e vvarche e na figliola
ca stà dint'a nu chiosco: è n'acquaiola.
Se chiamma Teresina,
si e no tene vint'anne,
capille curte nire nire e riccie,
na dentatura janca comm' 'a neve,
ncuollo tene 'a salute 'e na nutriccia
e na guardata d'uocchie
ca songo ddoje saette,
sò fulmine, sò lampe, songo tuone!
E i' giuro e ce scummetto
ca si resuscitasse Pappagone,
muresse cu n' 'nfarto
guardanno sta guagliona.
Essa ha capito ca i' sò nu cliente
ca 'e ll'acqua nun me ne 'mporta proprio niente
e me l'ha ditto cu bella maniera:
"Signò, cagnate strada... cu mme sta poco 'a fà
se chiamma Geretiello... è piscatore.
Fatica dint' 'a paranza 'e don Aniello".
Ma i' niente, tuosto corro ogni matína,
me vevo ll'acqua...
e me 'mbriaco comme fosse vino.
Tengo 'nu cane ch'è fenomenale,
se chiama "****", 'o voglio bene assaie.
Si perdere l'avesse? Nun sia maie!
Per me sarebbe un lutto nazionale.
Ll 'aggio crisciuto comm'a 'nu guaglione,
cu zucchero, biscotte e papparelle;
ll'aggio tirato su cu 'e mmullechelle
e ll'aggio dato buona educazione.

Gnorsì, mo è gruosso. È quase giuvinotto.
Capisce tutto... Ile manca 'a parola.
È cane 'e razza, tene bbona scola,
è lupo alsaziano, è polizziotto.

Chello ca mo ve conto è molto bello.
In casa ha stabilito 'a gerarchia.
Vò bene ' a mamma ch'è 'a signora mia,
e a figliemo isso 'o tratta da fratello.

'E me se penza ca lle songo 'o pate:
si 'o guardo dinto a ll'uocchiemme capisce,
appizza 'e rrecchie, corre, m'ubbidisce,
e pè fà 'e pressa torna senza fiato.

Ogn'anno, 'int'a ll'estate, va in amore,
s'appecundrisce e mette 'o musso sotto.
St'anno s'è 'nnammurato 'e na basotta
ca nun ne vò sapè: nun è in calore.

Povero ****, soffre 'e che manera!
Porta pur'isso mpietto stu dulore:
è cane, si... ma tene pure 'o core
e 'o sango dinto 'e vvene... vo 'a mugliera...
Jerry Howarth Jan 2018
THIS WORLD SYSTEM
        John 17:1-6; 11-18

Subj. -The world

Prop: The Bible speaks much about this world in which we live /and usually not in a good way.

Object: From this message I hope to illuminate our understanding about
why God warns us about the dangers
of getting chummy with this world…..
1. The World Defined
2. The world’s Design
3. The World’s Danger

I. The world defined -IJohn 2:16; 5:19
   A. Gk. Xprts: “world” is a system that operates
on the foundation of “The lust of the flesh, lust of the eyes and
        pride of life.”

C. Worldliness is pursing the activities of   life, with no regard or thought of God’s will… no consideration of whether God is pleased with our activities.
   1. Even innocent activity pursued apart from God can be classified                                                       ­             
       as worldly, not so much the activity itself, but the attitude of the        
       the activity.
  2. For example, I knew a man who was   so taken up with dirt track
     racing, that he neglected his wife and children. His wife divorced
     him and his kids ended up in prison.
       a. There is nothing sinful about racing in itself, but his attitude
           towards it made it worldly.  

II.  The World’s Design

Ephe. 2:2 explains to us that Satan god of this world system is the prince of the power of the air and the spirit that now worketh in the children of (mankind) of disobedience

A.  Who are these children of disobedience?
Anyone who has not believed in Christ a personal Savior.

B. Anyone who pursues this world’s
    Godless system based on the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye
and pride of life.”

  
C. It doesn’t have to be something immoral such as adultery, ******* or some form of ****** transgression; it could be:
         * Self-centeredness
         * Selfishness
         * Lying/cheating
    * Arrogance
         * Unforgiveness
         * Jealousy
   *Just plain ol’ meanness
       IOW anything that breaks the bottom half of 10 comm. “Thou
      shalt love thy neighbor as thy self.”
      b. Nor does the lust of eyes have to be limited to viewing  
         immoral things, or Pride of life limited to bragging or acting
        superior to others.
    a. If truth was admitted, the underlying motive for most        of our words are pride.
     b. One of the marks of the last days according to 2Tim.3;2
        is pride - “For men shall be lovers of their own selves,
        boasters, proud and & high minded.”
      c. These words describes the world system of which Apostle Jn,
          warned against the believer in Christ of getting caught up in it.

III. The danger of the world.
A. It is a danger to family unity.
     B. It is a danger to living apart from
         God and dying apart from God and
         suffering in agony forever in Hellfire.
    C. For the Believer in Christ as personal Savior, danger of the         world is personal indifference towards Bible study, prayer,
       church attendance and soul winning.            

Conclusion
Sadly, many have been snared into his world system like a fly in a spider web, to  their own spiritual detriment.

Falling into the sin of worldliness is like a slow leak in car tire; It start with a little compromise here and a little there, until before we realize it, our spiritual tires have all gone flat and the ride of life has lost its joy.

So let me ask you this. How’s your tires of life. ? How’s your fellowship with the Lord? Are you filled  with the joy and peace of the Holy Spirit? Do you have concern for the unsaved?

Your answer to these questions will reveal to you, your relationship to God.
                                                            ­                 By G.E. Parson
nivek Nov 2018
infused sweetness
pervades body and soul

touched by love
mind in wonder, and awe.
nivek Jun 2020
zoom love blood oceans red
heart afire
mind set free
(By Jesus)
James Floss Apr 2019
“I am right here,”
He said, in a Spock-like voice,
Trying to defuse the situation

“Even as you endeavor
To agitate me
By being unpleasant;

I am sorry that you are feeling unwell—
If you need me to assist you in any way,
Please, use your Comm."
'A femmena è na bella criatura
e quase sempe è ddoce comm' 'o mmele;
ma è vvote chistu mmele pe sventura,
perde 'a ducezza e addeventa fele.
"Ninì Santoro, il fine dicitore,
maestro di eleganza e di maniere,
il re del music-hall, il gran signore,
debutta questa sera al Trianon".
Guardanno 'o manifesto, chi liggeva
penzava: certo chisto è n'artistone.
Tenevemo st'attore? E chi 'o ssapeva!
Stasera stessa mm' 'o vaco a ssentì.

C' 'o tubbo, 'a caramella e nu bucchino
d'avorio giallo, luongo miezo metro;
un fazzoletto bianco nel taschino,
ncuollo nu frack 'e seta blummarè

Tutt' 'o teatro illuminato a giorno,
na marcia trionfale comm' "Aida",
Santoro ascette e cu na faccia 'e corne
pareva ca diceva: "Eccomi qua!

Mo v'aggia fa vedè chi è Santoro,
il fine dicitore, il fantasista
ca quanno arape 'a vocca caccia ll'oro,
oro colato 'e primma qualità".

'O pubblico ansioso s'aspettava:
chi sa mo ch'esce 'a vocca a stu Santoro.
Ma ch'era ascì... Santoro 'ncacagliava,
faceva smorfie, zumpe e niente cchiù.

Nun fernette nemmeno 'o riturnello
d' 'o primmo raccuntino d'avventure,
quann'uno arreto a me: "Santò, si bello!"
('Ndranghete!) E allazza nu pernacchio 'e nuvità.

Fuie cumm'a nu signale 'e na battaglia,
mancava poco e nce scappava 'o muorto:
'e sische mme parevano mitraglia.
Santoro nun putette continuà.

"Ll'artista" se facette 'a mappatella:
'o frack, 'o tubbo, 'o fazzuletto bianco,
s'annascunnette pure 'a caramella.
Dicette: "Aggio sbagliato,.. Ch'aggia fà?".

Trent'anne so passate 'a chella sera
che il fine dicitore fantasista
pe fforza avette chiudere 'a carriera
a beneficio dell'umanità.

Aiere steva scritto into 'o giurnale che:
"dopo varii e lunghi appostamenti
è stato assicurato un criminale
alla Giustizia delle Autorità".

E chi era, neh, stu disgraziato?
Santoro... il dicitore fantasista,
ca, pe magnà, al furto s'era dato
o pover'ommo pe putè campà.

Io penso che fu l'epoca sbagliata;
trent'anne fa tutto era n'ata cosa.
Oggi che il nostro gusto s'è cambiato
Santoro fosse na celebrità.
Tu s a cchiù bella 'e tutt' 'e principesse,
'e tutt' 'e principesse si 'a riggina.
Pe tutt' 'a vita addenucchiato io stesse
a cuntemplà sta grazia accussì fina.
Tu femmena nun sì, tu sì na fata
impastata 'e latte, porcellana e rrose,
sta pella è d'alabbastro avvellutata...
(Perdoname si dico chesti ccose).

'Ncopp' a sta vocca fatta cu 'e ccerase,
e 'ncopp' a chesta ***** 'e seta nera
ca tiene pe capille, quanta vase
io nce vulesse dà... matina e sera.

Chist'uocchie tuoie chin' 'e malincunia
ca tiene 'nfronte songo comm' a ll'esca,
songh'uocchie ca me fanno asci 'mpazzia.

St'anema mia s'addorme 'a notte e sonna
sunnanno 'e te, nun te chiamma Francesca;
ma saie comme te chiamma a tte? Madonna!
"Ninì Santoro, il fine dicitore,
maestro di eleganza e di maniere,
il re del music-hall, il gran signore,
debutta questa sera al Trianon".
Guardanno 'o manifesto, chi liggeva
penzava: certo chisto è n'artistone.
Tenevemo st'attore? E chi 'o ssapeva!
Stasera stessa mm' 'o vaco a ssentì.

C' 'o tubbo, 'a caramella e nu bucchino
d'avorio giallo, luongo miezo metro;
un fazzoletto bianco nel taschino,
ncuollo nu frack 'e seta blummarè

Tutt' 'o teatro illuminato a giorno,
na marcia trionfale comm' "Aida",
Santoro ascette e cu na faccia 'e corne
pareva ca diceva: "Eccomi qua!

Mo v'aggia fa vedè chi è Santoro,
il fine dicitore, il fantasista
ca quanno arape 'a vocca caccia ll'oro,
oro colato 'e primma qualità".

'O pubblico ansioso s'aspettava:
chi sa mo ch'esce 'a vocca a stu Santoro.
Ma ch'era ascì... Santoro 'ncacagliava,
faceva smorfie, zumpe e niente cchiù.

Nun fernette nemmeno 'o riturnello
d' 'o primmo raccuntino d'avventure,
quann'uno arreto a me: "Santò, si bello!"
('Ndranghete!) E allazza nu pernacchio 'e nuvità.

Fuie cumm'a nu signale 'e na battaglia,
mancava poco e nce scappava 'o muorto:
'e sische mme parevano mitraglia.
Santoro nun putette continuà.

"Ll'artista" se facette 'a mappatella:
'o frack, 'o tubbo, 'o fazzuletto bianco,
s'annascunnette pure 'a caramella.
Dicette: "Aggio sbagliato,.. Ch'aggia fà?".

Trent'anne so passate 'a chella sera
che il fine dicitore fantasista
pe fforza avette chiudere 'a carriera
a beneficio dell'umanità.

Aiere steva scritto into 'o giurnale che:
"dopo varii e lunghi appostamenti
è stato assicurato un criminale
alla Giustizia delle Autorità".

E chi era, neh, stu disgraziato?
Santoro... il dicitore fantasista,
ca, pe magnà, al furto s'era dato
o pover'ommo pe putè campà.

Io penso che fu l'epoca sbagliata;
trent'anne fa tutto era n'ata cosa.
Oggi che il nostro gusto s'è cambiato
Santoro fosse na celebrità.
Ogni matina scengo a Margellina,
me guardo 'o mare, 'e vvarche e na figliola
ca stà dint'a nu chiosco: è n'acquaiola.
Se chiamma Teresina,
si e no tene vint'anne,
capille curte nire nire e riccie,
na dentatura janca comm' 'a neve,
ncuollo tene 'a salute 'e na nutriccia
e na guardata d'uocchie
ca songo ddoje saette,
sò fulmine, sò lampe, songo tuone!
E i' giuro e ce scummetto
ca si resuscitasse Pappagone,
muresse cu n' 'nfarto
guardanno sta guagliona.
Essa ha capito ca i' sò nu cliente
ca 'e ll'acqua nun me ne 'mporta proprio niente
e me l'ha ditto cu bella maniera:
"Signò, cagnate strada... cu mme sta poco 'a fà
se chiamma Geretiello... è piscatore.
Fatica dint' 'a paranza 'e don Aniello".
Ma i' niente, tuosto corro ogni matína,
me vevo ll'acqua...
e me 'mbriaco comme fosse vino.
Tengo 'nu cane ch'è fenomenale,
se chiama "****", 'o voglio bene assaie.
Si perdere l'avesse? Nun sia maie!
Per me sarebbe un lutto nazionale.
Ll 'aggio crisciuto comm'a 'nu guaglione,
cu zucchero, biscotte e papparelle;
ll'aggio tirato su cu 'e mmullechelle
e ll'aggio dato buona educazione.

Gnorsì, mo è gruosso. È quase giuvinotto.
Capisce tutto... Ile manca 'a parola.
È cane 'e razza, tene bbona scola,
è lupo alsaziano, è polizziotto.

Chello ca mo ve conto è molto bello.
In casa ha stabilito 'a gerarchia.
Vò bene ' a mamma ch'è 'a signora mia,
e a figliemo isso 'o tratta da fratello.

'E me se penza ca lle songo 'o pate:
si 'o guardo dinto a ll'uocchiemme capisce,
appizza 'e rrecchie, corre, m'ubbidisce,
e pè fà 'e pressa torna senza fiato.

Ogn'anno, 'int'a ll'estate, va in amore,
s'appecundrisce e mette 'o musso sotto.
St'anno s'è 'nnammurato 'e na basotta
ca nun ne vò sapè: nun è in calore.

Povero ****, soffre 'e che manera!
Porta pur'isso mpietto stu dulore:
è cane, si... ma tene pure 'o core
e 'o sango dinto 'e vvene... vo 'a mugliera...
Tu s a cchiù bella 'e tutt' 'e principesse,
'e tutt' 'e principesse si 'a riggina.
Pe tutt' 'a vita addenucchiato io stesse
a cuntemplà sta grazia accussì fina.
Tu femmena nun sì, tu sì na fata
impastata 'e latte, porcellana e rrose,
sta pella è d'alabbastro avvellutata...
(Perdoname si dico chesti ccose).

'Ncopp' a sta vocca fatta cu 'e ccerase,
e 'ncopp' a chesta ***** 'e seta nera
ca tiene pe capille, quanta vase
io nce vulesse dà... matina e sera.

Chist'uocchie tuoie chin' 'e malincunia
ca tiene 'nfronte songo comm' a ll'esca,
songh'uocchie ca me fanno asci 'mpazzia.

St'anema mia s'addorme 'a notte e sonna
sunnanno 'e te, nun te chiamma Francesca;
ma saie comme te chiamma a tte? Madonna!
Ogni matina scengo a Margellina,
me guardo 'o mare, 'e vvarche e na figliola
ca stà dint'a nu chiosco: è n'acquaiola.
Se chiamma Teresina,
si e no tene vint'anne,
capille curte nire nire e riccie,
na dentatura janca comm' 'a neve,
ncuollo tene 'a salute 'e na nutriccia
e na guardata d'uocchie
ca songo ddoje saette,
sò fulmine, sò lampe, songo tuone!
E i' giuro e ce scummetto
ca si resuscitasse Pappagone,
muresse cu n' 'nfarto
guardanno sta guagliona.
Essa ha capito ca i' sò nu cliente
ca 'e ll'acqua nun me ne 'mporta proprio niente
e me l'ha ditto cu bella maniera:
"Signò, cagnate strada... cu mme sta poco 'a fà
se chiamma Geretiello... è piscatore.
Fatica dint' 'a paranza 'e don Aniello".
Ma i' niente, tuosto corro ogni matína,
me vevo ll'acqua...
e me 'mbriaco comme fosse vino.
Tengo 'nu cane ch'è fenomenale,
se chiama "****", 'o voglio bene assaie.
Si perdere l'avesse? Nun sia maie!
Per me sarebbe un lutto nazionale.
Ll 'aggio crisciuto comm'a 'nu guaglione,
cu zucchero, biscotte e papparelle;
ll'aggio tirato su cu 'e mmullechelle
e ll'aggio dato buona educazione.

Gnorsì, mo è gruosso. È quase giuvinotto.
Capisce tutto... Ile manca 'a parola.
È cane 'e razza, tene bbona scola,
è lupo alsaziano, è polizziotto.

Chello ca mo ve conto è molto bello.
In casa ha stabilito 'a gerarchia.
Vò bene ' a mamma ch'è 'a signora mia,
e a figliemo isso 'o tratta da fratello.

'E me se penza ca lle songo 'o pate:
si 'o guardo dinto a ll'uocchiemme capisce,
appizza 'e rrecchie, corre, m'ubbidisce,
e pè fà 'e pressa torna senza fiato.

Ogn'anno, 'int'a ll'estate, va in amore,
s'appecundrisce e mette 'o musso sotto.
St'anno s'è 'nnammurato 'e na basotta
ca nun ne vò sapè: nun è in calore.

Povero ****, soffre 'e che manera!
Porta pur'isso mpietto stu dulore:
è cane, si... ma tene pure 'o core
e 'o sango dinto 'e vvene... vo 'a mugliera...
'A femmena è na bella criatura
e quase sempe è ddoce comm' 'o mmele;
ma è vvote chistu mmele pe sventura,
perde 'a ducezza e addeventa fele.

— The End —