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What is it, Oh what is it that plagues my mind

Which rests its design in black melancholy

And perpetual lament

Producing desperate and unreasonable frustrations

And condemnations of grotesque obligations

Investing a relentless barbarism of lamentation

In that moment of the infinite pulse of inaccuracies

That raises from the grave of oblivion illicit ambitions

And by their presence embalms me with an ambiguous curse

That compels no rivalry or universal justification
I grow weary of crafting words that are spun together
feeling as if there is a beauty spurting from my pain
because the words are still marching from your wellspring
and they're saturated in your sticky intoxication
It forces me to taste the sour fact that
the fire you set to my life still burns
and decimates ties strewn out of feeble love attempts
No matter the count of the condemnations of our life
you still dwell inside of my every word
and all of my metaphors
My vocabulary is limited to you and
you drag me below the pool of new words waiting on the surface
So I rewrite the same sentiments that play between
self loathing
heartbreak
and love

Write where you want me.
They leave Jerusalem, with the acrobats from Shiraz. They were ghosts of poetry, wine, roses and fireflies; they were conjuring the path of the twelve camels to the intersection with the Cenotaph, where King David with the Cherubs of Kafersesuh will stay. They were Epi ghosts, basking in camelid footsteps. They went in all the intermittences of the bent nails and plants of the areas of the marquee of the other four ghosts that accompanied him. They were the jumpers with water wheels, wheel scales with tutelary cords, some with stilts of gold disgrace from the coins of Judas Iscariot and the last propelled by a caper that ruled all the others on the wings of the Fireflies. Withdrawn from the road that leads to the Kidron valley, 2,500 years of clay tablets from Persepolis fall on all of them, they were phonetized with the plaintive nightmare of Tirazis's one-eyed poem; which is currently Shiraz, in this way these ghosts escorted the Hexagonal Birthright, they were exiled from their ghostly cities for not paying the tribute of obedience to destroy and rebuild. As they began to be with them in the cove, the ghosts of the acrobats boiled with the eagerness to prevent everyone from being saddened by the departure from the orchard, which was falling further and further behind their footsteps, dancing with their pirouettes along the way, they told little stories. in the ears of travelers.

Hydro Saltimabanqui: “I come from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), an underground canal that carries spring water to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Shiraz. Here I have to mend the propellers and water ropes to do my acrobatics on the water, with greater songs in the poems of the Poet Hafiz. When we bite our tongues, we repair it with Hafiz's verses from the Koran; there are three hundred creeds, three hundred hectares to irrigate with my wheel the sadness of those who cannot have the gift of the rivalry of Montenegro and Monteblanco, to overestimate the liveliness of the caravan trembling with uncertain doubts on its way to Jaffa. "

Saltimbanqui of Bacule: "We are Epi ghosts, the reverie with tutelary ropes, to jump through the trapeze of the photometric units of the heavy Almería of the highest Mirror of the Sea. Here we look; from here we will board the barge that will take them from back to Limassol. Curiously, the same ship from Lepanto that sleeps in the swings of the sea and in the arms of Anaximander, in a new awakening from the lethargy of the super-string theorization, here is the intrinsic speculation of science, since this is not just to research purely empirical. "

Says Anaximander: “First…, we have no proof that string theory is not ultimately correct and in the future in any verifiable way. Second, we propose a project of the order of string theory, which is necessary for science and its importance, going even beyond the scientific to also project itself on the metaphysical and the religious, right here in this order of greater what to do together with the rope that leads me to Patmos.

Saltimabanqui of Bascule responds: “metaphysical and religious legitimacy, here we are tying knots in the rope that inaugurates a new masonry in the observable futuristic look. Here is the original fiction of continuing to raise the necks of the ants over our optics. We will jump on these ropes, but we will fall on intervals of placental physical dens, which were born from the new embryo in the twelve caves of Gethsemane, in a primitive late germinal process. The micro phonetic vibrations will lift us up from the hunger to follow and leave King David in his cenotaph, gored on his hips by the Cherubim, marking his holy antlers that become entangled in the blunting of the cuneiform scratches of his epigram.

In the middle of the magical theorists exotically as associativity of substance causally of the poetic and multiverse song, believing in the ghosts of Shiraz, as dreams injected to sublimate the Aeneids that they lamented on the bottom stones, even though they were independent of their material origin. Multi universes, multi paraphrase for who has to dress the word “Rosa in her noble long dress to the cliff of Ebdara when Vernarth acclaims his brother Etréstles, he comes with the Auriga from Messolonghi. Rested and determined to head to Tel Gomel, he comes with his horse Kanti to keep him company on this crusade. Kanti defied the Cliffs of Crete, he was servile to Markos Botsaris, 1821 (Royal Hero of the Liberation of Greece in the Turkish Invasion, Koumeterium Messolonghi - Palibrio USA), until in the afternoon he approached from a herd of beautiful places of steeds to him. This was heard by Etréstles and he seized His horse to have more than a Life from his company, more than a lost and lost aroma of his natural mother, to reach the one who would treasure it”.

The ghosts attribute quantitative passages from before leaving King David, and then continuing on the road to Jaffa and advancing on the ship back to Cyprus; Limassol. All were hyperkinetic bowls leveraged by the terrain that was on the **** of the acrobatic histrion foreshadowing the contours of the temporal filigree, which in each one made them smile at the carriage with oxidizing wheels, still being immaterial beings, but alive in its marvel gases, wading the serious bile that emerged from the glasses in his allegories. His footsteps and his undulating phonetic figures did not stop over the caravan, which had already passed Jerusalem. They were already undaunted by themselves and overshadowed by the foreboding modulation and encryption of the rehearsals they were doing, over the heavy atmosphere that seized and begged a small piece of the attention of those who did not celebrate their Shiraz pirouettes.
The areas, volumes, and lengths were fully encompassed by the Ghosts of Shiraz, the acrobats ran along the banks of Ramallah, it was already winter, the city received them with winds and rains from the southwest alternating with cold and dry winds from the northeast. The acrobats went like master geometricians to condone the fuss of the caravan, devising a dodexagesimal system. (Twelve centuries of ultra-nocturnal geometry and shipwrecks at the Alexandria lighthouse)

Positioning as a base the number 12, to measure times and angles that they needed to avoid the voluminous rains that hit the caravan.  Incredibly, the volumetric position of the plantar legs of the camels seemed like wheels that rotated without stopping in any anti circumferential radius, making some clouds a shutter that enclosed them like a trapezoid of God's flock in the high semicircle of the waters that tried to fall. , like axiomatic staves of Euclid's beard tempering his elemental construct.

The linear position of each one of those who were mounted was a perfect ergonometric based on the Muladhara pressing the four red petals on pressing the Achilles heel of Vernarth, which was dimensioning the Ramallah triangulation, with the fungi that were housed in its Xifos sword in the jet tip that carried the dodexagesimal cartography. In the same position, the Apostle Saint John seemed, he carried the rosary in his left hand in geometry that elongated his nose and feet in an adonis triangle, thirsty for one hundred and twenty degrees of the sextant that broadened its spectrum to align with this Birthright. Thus the stars and planets are positioned as celestial spheres with the gravitation of the Olivos Berna, revolutionizing curved and flat equations that intuited to go beyond the crossed pirouettes that the acrobats did all the way, even further than those of the withered path of oil, purposely of the axiomatic systems that the Ghosts of Shiraz intended to establish.

Shiraz  Ghosts

These Persian Epi ghosts, axiomatized abstract and ideal entities relating models of austerity and lyricism, which fluctuated in the lines and planes of movements of the clouds with the counterpoint of the legs of the Gigas, leaving marks in the sand like a point Morse, straight and flat, until the fifth step that tried to cross the lines of Ramallah, for the parallelism that the centuries that asked Vernarth to reorder the geometric geography of time and the positions that were added as a delay effect in the Garden, essentially of a hyperbolic vision, to appropriate the entities of the Ghosts that grasp with their little finger the strings of the times associated with Gaugamela in his palatial sovereignty with the footsteps of Vernarth and in the phylogeny of a world that is born behind the confines of religious micro- genetics , from whose space is born in another and would accommodate a circular bijective function, to attract the aerosisms of Ein Kerem in the new life signs of J Joshua in the reborn One-dimensional Beams.

Vernarth diluted his bones to sit near the tarsus and accommodate it at the end of the vertebra of the Muladhara (Chakra of 4 petals), making a sub-technical geometric function to preserve the figures of darkness that were also diluted, to arrive at night close to of Jaffa, in the surroundings the isometric fire existing in each one and in two dimensions…, but born of a common one. Raeder and Petrobus wore their floating eyelashes full of dusty and dense manias on their faces, with splinters gum that they had released from one of the pirouettes of one of the mountebanks when colliding with the basic postulates of the Ghosts of Shiraz, deducing undulating spaces like snakes within the isometric fire that dazzled them with the burning senses of humor of the last drops of the Shemesh codifying themselves in an absolute intuitive measure, beyond all dimensions, which is Consciousness destroying the planes and spaces that multiplied among themselves as members of another geometric conscious dimension.

Arriving at the Ben Shemen crossing, everyone undergoes collective hypnosis; the ghosts manage to embody each of the components of the Birthright but omitting a great factor. They relegated the Hexagonality of the genetics of this caravan, not raising the ghosts when calculating the area of once they were being intracorporeal within the members, thus having to abandon before the last ray of Shemesh threw them on their faces ashes of the Gehenna, for this supposed reason to leave them condemned to recycle the human species, for the purpose of reproducing sacred human beings, but being subservient to the cravings beyond the immortality of the miscalculation that led them to the citadel of Karim Khan, surprised with its stamp of thick stone walls and circular towers in the heart of Shiraz. This gave them a warrior aspect contrary to their fame and history: this was a city famous for two thousand years for its culture, with its gardens and its poets, now if in a conspiracy by this beautiful odalisque ruse that attracted the guide of the ecstatic ghosts, in a bad moment of extradition to a bad context of epi ghosts not yet defined in their pockets of apprentices boasting on the laurels of weak and doubtful ideas, which still swarmed within his white heart, trying to reach Vernarth's as former commander Hetairoi, now a servile mystic. In such a way, the complicated as ghosts like "Sufi", being, in reality, the genetic soul of the double ax that carries the double edge of today ..., of the sacrament of Medea in Abdera.

Pro says a ghost from Shiraz (embarrassed):

"The Universe is a sea that longs for dry shores,
without sea and without other wet longings ...,
no possible maiden could
Try to dry it with your star hands ...
Who calms the crying of the Universe ...
even so ..., simile remains floating as a verse between his dreams "

"How can I make my dreams another dimension of the universe?
if he is quiet and does not make me float in his sea ...
How can I make it possible for the tips of its stars
fill the spaces that have revealed it ...
and that have made circular shores without a sea in the mists "

"I walk alone and nobody sees me ...
so I don't wake up the candles that smile and accompany me ...
between days that turn into mornings on the shore
of the solitude of the universe, that nobody embraces him ... "

“Now the days tremble from almost falling on themselves,
They come out alive from their own loneliness of exhaustion and fullness ...of whoever appreciates them in the mists ...
being able to surrender their attention in Ben Shemen ”.
As the Ghost of Shiraz expires in Ben Shemen, he escapes all for nothing in the triad of hypnotizing conventions that still resided in the shameless air that engulfed him, all over the stationary enclosures of the entertainment spaces caused by the acrobats and epi ghosts. That seduced the indecisive beings that sailed over the limbs that made them doubt where to refrain from continuing, outside the radius of the caravan or beyond the skies that did not cease to be in good spirits, of the universe passing through the white hearts, six on the inside and six on the outside in their traveling artist folds.

The lands that are accommodated by the time of parapsychological hypnosis tremble again, as a separation from the physical magnitude of Gethsemane.  Creating a sequence that bends the heads of the ghosts, filling their translucent physiognomies between a cold past and a frozen future, from a classic mechanic, which from now on would depend on the dice thrown by the Third Phantasm of time. Here a relativism would be opened to those who want to see the past in the orchard in an unstable particulate present, leaving far from splitting both parts of the archetype of today, like a subdivided clash of several times that allowed integrating the remaining phantasmagorical spectra, taking over a story on a pluriaxial axis that prevailed in the time of a supposed numerical line from a vector, aligning itself towards the compass of the distance that shines between both northern hemispheres in the minutes that go to the right and the solid-gas seconds that burst almost in the walls of their own liberated beings. The four ghosts of Shiraz, had time differentials before this event with the caravan, verifying the simultaneous prop between the two pairs of ghosts between four dissimilar, but poetic ones that made them here at this point obviate and cancel between two relative nomenclatures of physical structure. The durability and classification of these micro-times of the phantom epi would make the database that St. John the Apostle and Vernarth will accumulate with their eyes closed, each one surpassing himself from the debatable areas, which concern to estimate in occupying the spaces physical in some of them at will so that one of them could embark to Limassol. This simultaneous and relativistic multi-active line, encloses events and squares of spaces in the cinematographic time of the parapsychological regression, as a link of physical images slowed down in the evolutionary and cognitive memory, passing from the conduit of expectation memorization events towards the set of absolute figures. not pigeonholed, but approaching the universe in grasping scales of those who value them. This elucidates even the very conception of conceiving oneself as a ghost, rather in what is called "Epi Ghosts", of absolute belonging of the identical ..., outside of oneself "Being with them and not, as a tacit phase of a dragged story with the seconds that were not lived ... "

This scaling conception will allow them to reside a few millimeters from the consciences of the caravan that was advancing automated along the tracks that already made time and distance in front of the absolute, in a jiffy, having in their faces Rizhon Lezion, who was made of images more than a marked and concrete story in a mechanics that kept the body as part of a large volume in all, to the rhythm of the plantar areas of the Camels Gigas, dividing as a stream of water that would flow fragmented between past, present and future, but as a starting pattern to the future as the only "today" for the time of the times. This unified three-dimensionality would mark the mathematical space of the attempts towards the future of the contiguous camelids of the ghosts of Shiraz, for the ownership of time between all with a single identity that cries out for the univocal will to rearm, even if the winds are very strong. Of the partition,  which separates the world from God and the believing observer into the future with a believer from a historical past in obscurantism, leaving and entering a new world whose notion is to spend connected and bound in a systematization dependent on the great causes, although the static feels isolated from the dynamics, inquiring probative to unite between the ghosts and others, even though they are inferior forces under the line of the generous gaze and the parallelism of the attentive spectator, which suggests more openness to receive and delegate the circumstances of all physical, emotional, spectral and mental-spiritual dimensions, flexing the emotional states hierarchical night and day. Everyone falls asleep hugging on cushions of lamb saddlebags, making it possible to get closer to them too, close to the Ghosts and sleep next to them hugging with the decanted strength of the frames that hang from their faces showing the emotion of being favorite children of the Mashiach, absorbed in the Kidron Valley.

The frontier of the future will be the pre-act of not traveling too much of the physical love to the touch that only awaits the love of the sleeping of a Cherub, this may occur when the sheep climb the hill of our consciences, and manage to be perceived as the simultaneous harness of satisfaction, who lack the vision that would speak to them of a past belonging immobile, to this ethereal topology that will have to biodegrade the molecules of the seconds that sleep in the sheep-man wool saddlebags, at a higher speed than it would last to go back near from the palisade, where it crosses the path to the immemorial arcades of the Mashiach, spinning around all creation at a speed that determines a verse in its soul around the orthogonal of Shemesh, quadrupled and cloistered in its self-consciousness scattered like iceberg down the back in the submissive thoughts that long to be tied to more precious time.

Our lord has us more tied to an absolutist past and future, looking at his calendar divided in such a way that it always fits the day that hurts the shadows of a sharp past, so that it always smiles in us, as the best luminous sign, of whom and with whom to repair the damage of various wounds that travel through the times of time, always wounded, to and from the borders of an anachronistic past. The ghosts, always fast tetra, marginalize themselves to the sound of greater diligence, they fled in Rizhon Lezion, to wake up a little further away from the rays of the stationary Sun, which from now on always surfaced in the degraded dark circles of the mountebank, prowling around the festivities of who knows how to wait, to make a toast under the pretext of faith and hope that exempts the cardinal turned into a flower in white attire.

Shvil from the Angels

The fast epi phantom tetra was emaciated, they lost their north and since they could not walk, they were not energized by the radiosities of the earth, which dominates those who lend divine graces if their feet rested on the tapestry of those who threw their footsteps in winter already near Jaffa. The Shvil Angels were angels that were on the route that cordoned off the pilgrimage of Vernarth and Saint John the Apostle, they were full of flowering Berne Olive Trees that made trunks of floral arches at the entrance of this ancient port. They were three when they walked, they were always distributed so fast that they seemed to be six, but they ended up averaging the quantum of three for each of the components of the Birthright, which from today would be the great circumcision event of the Universe, to make it part of those who one day will have to caulk the rhombuses of the fragmented light beams on the path of heaven so high, in the name of the phrases that never tire of looking at the incautious years that are of our father by the exogalaxies in the total company of the invisibility and relativity of cautious time.

This Semitic seashore beauty indicates and invites us to reach its salty Hebrew waters of Yofi, reinforcing the phonetics that runs madly through the border hills with its heart in hand, when foreigners appear in the name of plausive phylogeny. That brings him a piece of bearable land from the Universal Flood, this is why the ancient Canaanites have to receive them with the table set, to entertain them with winter flowers in Jaffa. The Hellenistic tradition relates the name to Iopeia, which is Cassiopeia herself, mother of Andromeda. After Pliny the Elder the name is connected with Joppa, who was the daughter of ******, god of the wind. Where Vernarth locked his Aspis Skolié shield so that it would shine in the bilges of the Eurydice, under the pentagon’s of the bronze layer of his shield, every time he approached the Dodecanese when the Auriga descended from Andromeda on the back of a punished rower by the storms taking him away from his mother galaxy.

Thousands of years BC Its merchants glorified themselves with their baskets full of belongings and merchandise, for its inhabitants, who today pretended to be pharaohs who paid tribute to the marine corners through the coast that today seemed to open up with more new waters that were reborn from the capering of the swells, founding thus the omens of embarking to attempt and submit to the omens of sovereignty between Judah and the Hellenic lands, to work with noble trees in their armories and utensils, of which they played an honorable part after the maintenance of the emblem of the last portion, of the shaft of the libertarian triumph of Alexander the Great over the Phoenicians in Tire. In the New Testament, it is related how Peter resurrected the believer Tabitha (Dorcas, in Greek, gazelle) in Joppa (Jaffa) and, later, how near this city he has a vision in which Yahweh told him that he should not distinguish between Jews and Gentiles while ordering the removal of ritual (kosher) food restrictions followed by Jews.

The Shvil of the angels distanced themselves from the desire of this station without reaching them and not making them drink salty water from Jaffa, therefore they resorted to Petrobus who a few meters before reaching the port, summoned a large number of Dodecanese Pelicans who were waiting in great celestial flocks, which hovered happily above the sky welcoming them. The pelicans levitate from a risky juggling act, over the caravan and headed to the high seas, collecting saltwater, then they went along the initiation path of Shvil and reconvert the saltwater into sweet with hazelnuts so that they would have holy water, to insolate it and pour it into the canteens of the temple guards of the Canaanites who were waiting for them, to distract them, making them believe they were other Syriac lands such as those of Ashera, which in this act, perhaps it would be good for them to sponsor the Hexagonal Birthright.

But the paths of the angels have confederated before the noisy crowds and Ptolemaic lemurs, who were incorporated into the empty spaces that remained. Faced with this gravesite, Vernarth shouted to the sky with the force of Falangist tradition to himself, and acclaimed heaven, for the sake of freeing them from their definitive income to Jaffa, summoning the Hypatists; elite warriors and spearmen, for them to gather at the portal of the ante entrance of Jaffa, for others who never came from nowhere and nowhere, only blocking it from its perfect plan of memorial and theological heritage conservation, upon return from the exit Judah, to embark with destiny through the sulphurous point that  will boil them in temporary waters, towards the Cyclades and then the Dodecanese, triumphing in inhabiting them wherever whoever was and whoever arrived with foreign promise.

As dusk falls in its first nubile shadows, the  Shvil presents itself to you with these three angels dressed in ivory white, each with a book in each hand and in the other a candelabrum, giving signs of ultra-interpretive catechesis, allying with silica. In combination, after the vision of the charms of the knowledge spread. Earth and sky in the second angel, washing the Semitic dew of anguished Jaffa, with teachings of sleeping well and awakening, to walk in the lands that want to seize the senses, of those who are called not to be oppressed, behind the bars of the Morbid and illiterate pan-vision of the angles of hasty entertainment of the angels when they were called by the Angel Regent, simply relaying information easy to carry to their hearts, in faint powers and poetic lessons, before falling into a thorny forest, burning their tongues in furrows of afflicted human positions, to later redeem them fervently with the judicious power of God.

Vernarth, is distressed by matters of seeing them so tender and so fragile, allowing them to crawl toward him gently. Finally, on these three rules of the Shvil, Hanael introduces herself; "Speaking of hindrances stuck in the literary cabal of grateful compliments for all".   Alluding to Vernarth, a subject desensitized and also distant from any Sub Yóguica disciplinary doctrine. This led him to stand behind San Juan, protecting himself and scared of everything around him, he was seeing in front of him, on the upper left side itself, that Zebedeo was, San Juan's own father calling him!

Saint John the Apostle says: “Justice, at this time, allows us to alleviate ignorance, if the riddles allow us only to look for the answer, God will not be here…, it will only be emotional catharsis, through a merely ideological  Shvil or passage, which moves our meaningless sentences, definitely leading us to the coffers that rearm one after one, after the mistake. We are faithfully interpreted by them, but we detest our regencies with the Escaton, when we all pretend to follow his light of thunderous density towards the sky, prophesying to follow him without losing ourselves in him ..., held on his shoulder glossary. On the claws that are released from the dazed angelic prey, correcting its wavering vision, unraveling the living presence of condemnations or salvation, in Eden with your bare feet or in hell with no departure time”

Inexplicably, some Praetorian soldiers of Domitian appear, who would be restricting the departure of the tretacontero to Limassol, curiously they were the same ghosts from Shiraz that continued to represent such a bad event, just as when he was expelled to Patmos by Domitian in 95 BC, in size was the scandal that the Shvil angels produced with their impractical ideologies, who opposed such spectral imagery, in such a way that they replaced their figure with that of another Hellenic man who wanted to embark for Patmos, the other members were fully incorporated to the ship, which frolicked on the pranks as it proudly carried them to a new ocean. Around the last drops that jumped in Jaffa on the coastal rocks, others appeared when the last divided and scattered drops were going to shine the navigation temples, thus it is possible to board in the same ship that brought the principle from Limassol to Judah that transited from Lepanto.

The chapel of ministers reappears offering a ceremony, which would return the messianic remora to the Angels of Shiraz, to return to their former positions within the paths of biblical characters, who tend to commit adultery in the game of loss of consciousness of the Escaton, probably requiring that everyone have to make pilgrimage routes for all humanity secluded and liberated by themselves. The Saltimbanqui finally manage to jump into the boat to sail to the Dodecanese, but the Shvil of the Angels stayed where other celebrities will require them to reroute the Shvil Escaton.
Chapter XXIX
Ghosts from Shiraz to Jaffa
Part VII - Mashiach of Judah Miracle VIII
Victor Thorn Jul 2012
Alyssa moves like she’s being watched
and watching me,
but the white-walled room, despite her husband’s presence
is empty.
Everything echoes.

Alyssa and I have serenaded the dead and dying weekly.
Today is no exception.
She performs, I just sing–
are my songs really any emptier than hers?
We and the dying clasp hands in a circle
and mimic a psychic raising of the dead.

Alyssa and I have sat through the same
cut-and-dry
hour-long condemnations
all our lives,
but she bought in and now moves
like she’s being watched,
at which I scoff.

Alyssa is not allowed into Business Meetings
because of sexist Paul,
and I make this known to a friend
I trust now more than Alyssa,
now happily chatting with the guy I was eying.

Alyssa’s father takes me aside
for inquisition.
I confess of my sin, but I do not repent.

Alyssa found out, and now my existence is *******.
2012 by Victor Thorn
Oscar Mann Oct 2015
Saturday nights fill the void
Of weekday frustrations
And work’s condemnations
It ends the longing for something else
Or someone else
Or just someone, really
So all the cool, lonely people
Go to the heartbreak hotel
And dance and drink
And hope to find the thing
That they don’t even know
They are looking for

So we see through the eyes
Of hazy drunk people
Falling in love with the world
And themselves
And everyone else
Everyone who seems interesting enough
People made beautiful
By dancing and drinking
Hoping to find something or someone they lost
In the arms of a stranger

And I don’t mind
That you’re thinking about him
I’m used to being late
To the party anyway
And it has become a second nature
To come second
To substitute long gone ghosts
Marinaded in the melancholy
Of expensive drinks
And music I can’t relate to

But I keep on longing
for the Saturday Night Live experience
Because being lost
In a lost crowd
Has become so familiar
As it replaces
The horror of weekday frustrations
Of work’s condemnations
Of longing for something else
Or someone else
Or just someone
Max Rutherford Dec 2010
I want to see the lion's den
I want to see that site
of immaculate salvation
And sit where Daniel sat
And breathe the putrid air of stone
and bone and moisture and blood
I want to see the ovens of Nebuchadnezzar
And, wrapping myself in an onion skin
shield of veiled promises and condemnations,
throw myself in
Take me to the killing fields
And, casting off my clothes,
let me wade through the blood of decent men
Slain to appease their Savior

But take me away from Allah's bomb tinkerers
Away from the hate groups
born from Christ's love
Away from the stone throwing rabbis
of the Old City
For I have seen these things
and know they exist
No, take me to the lion's den
Take me to the king's ovens
And lock the door
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
Once upon a time, on a site far far away, I would post and not a soul would comment, let alone read...

  
  
  
  
  
Minor poet,  
I am not even, but odd.  
  
A truth that slaps me unto tears.  
  
I seek your admiration,  
admonish your failure to
admonish me, fail me
unto tears.
  
Your academic hyper-pretensions
gods of overlording silence,
sentence condemnations of the
meagerness of mine deaf,
weary-worn entreaties.
  
Your ignorance and the  
vanity of my weaknesses,
pencil point punctuate my brain,  
holes filling up with the  
approbation of silence.

Tender unto me  
the Onomatopoeia of a concerto of boos,
barrels of bitter alliteratives
regretful rainwater,
send me curses of future inspiration.
immoderate me re my mediocrity!
  
Try try again, to charm thine eyes,  
populate your face with grimaced tears,
penetrate our mutuality  
with uncommon verse,
pricking the winter frosted windows
of a enmity and a common enemy.
  
Another day of self-persauding,
un-succeeding to accept that
successive minor failures,
are undeniably,
a success of sorts,
in a minor way.
  
A play on words,
as y'all play me.
  
Mr. Adminstrator, answer me!
Are we not all prisoners of Poetry?
Glenn Currier Aug 2018
I am amazed
        but I know not why (knowing me)
how hurt closes me off
sews me up
amputates my heart
from people I’ve loved.

It seems I cannot get by
the rage she vomited on me
what she called me
her shocking condemnations.

Rage cuts deep
wounds heal slow
if at all.

Then I find out how she felt hurt and betrayed
when I changed and detoured
        because someone betrayed me.

But I am glad for those detours
where I discovered other worlds
and became more than I was.

I am amazed
       but I know not why (knowing me)
how hurt can remake
and occasion my transformation,
how the bad can become the good
        If I am patient enough
        and work hard enough
        to find
        or make
        cracks in that wall.
As firm as a rock I would be set
Against the world and its lewd contentions
More steady proving clearest virtue, stressed
With brilliant facets of the light, resolving factions.
A hope amidst the strife, this worth bestows
To character, ruling every passions’ season
For perfect care, great purposes to show
In blooms of time or timeless, sacred reasons!
Converging and uniting, such care met
Life's waking might, more near in sight to shine
With pure intent, whose knowing best reflects
All states, here cast in figures of design.
O dawning vision, pierce the awful night
And horns of plenty pour, true love requite!

When I was young I thought humanity
To be my nurse, my comfort and sure strength;
An eager hope, in every hour to length
Fleet days of wonder, all of life to see.
I cherished kindness, lain upon the breast
Of upright admonitions and good will;
A care of grace, in love, a founding rest
And honor for my vision’s windowsill.
How yet, too soon, cruel condemnations frowned
On ways I blessed in youth, now grown insane
With outward forms, the worldly pride bestows
And falsehood, waking my dread infamy.
Alas, my wasting sorrow and the shame
That groans with silent tears of faith betrayed!

Long hours, cruel hours that vex my wearied soul
With thoughts of contradiction; fawning days
Of youth are closed, in stock of lies arraigned
For inquisition and condemning powers.
What tyrannous and brutal, ruthless ways
That slam this sanctioned slavery overhead;
While bravery endures an awful crime
In contemplate of shame, too stark with dread.
So mock, O State, the way of noble ends
More false, discharge your rotten judgments’ fate;
A greater cause, at last, where first you rend
The back and front of self... my selves berate!
Dare now upon life’s brow your six-thrice brand
And testify!  All stripes shall truth withstand.
Emmanuel Chikody Sep 2016
Can we please have a moment of silence? shhh! That is for shame
The consciousness of impropriety and dishonour, a soul eating emotion, an inner burning flame.
Disembarked and render anaemic by a queen dark and evil, for with her, shame is non-existence
Blame her not, her wicked soul is the caprice of affinity with being an outcast and unlove

For before her heart became embroiled with dark powers and all the ingenious gore that accompany an unrepentant soul,
She had the lassitude of the perfect woman, a languid ease, the obeisance, lovable heart and knew nothing foul

But deep inside her aching heart, all that she suffered silently, she could enlighten no one, from her devastated childhood,
the sheer indescribable horror of neglect, unreturned love, the treachery, the villainy, melancholy motherhood

And castigation made her seek power even into the maelstrom of the blackest tempest of the darkest part of hell.
Her hunger for power and macabre mode of it acquisition, renders the thought of her been shameful, lilliputian

As she journeyed towards the castle, her conscience wasn't pricked by volatile outbursts of her sins from the angry crowd
she knew what she wanted, she sold her soul for this, she knew this was what she has to go through to get it.

A rite of passage stolen by lucifer from the Saviour of the world
Let them strip, beat, and mock you.Let them make you walk through there crowd disgraced,
but be rest assured that when all is done, you'll be the ruler of all

For too many a time, the story has been told,
be you good or evil, fortune only favours the bold.

The castle was her own Golgotha, the throne was her own cross
beyond that castle wall lies all that she needs to rule and have dominion
for there in that castle live the old man and others waiting to make her there queen

I was swift to condemn her for all, but after a retrospective thinking, my judgement became ambivalent.
wasn't it judgements and condemnations that made her felt sequestered, separated, segregated and all other equivalent?

To be continued......
A metaphysical poetry of which not all will understand..Though i feel like its incomplete because i took out to many things
Tea Nov 2015
All my life I've been told
How to act and how to think
What to do and who to be

"Don't use those words"
"Don't stay out late"
"You should have fun!
Just not that way"
"Keep your grades up"
"Keep your laugh down"
"But whoever told you
you should frown?"

I've always been good
I did as I was told
I never misbehaved
But now I'm growing old
My youth is passing by me
And how have I spent it?
Obedient - I'm seeing it
Never the miscreant
But always the misfit

"Don't talk back"
"Don't disagree"
Can't you see
your words are hurting me?
"Honey, I always wanted the best for you"
Then why don't you let my real self
shine on through?


Never had any friends
and you ask me why?
How am I supposed to blend
when you never even let me try?
But that doesn't matter
it's not what I want
What I want is out there
and you keep me locked up
But it all ends now
though you still ask how -
how did this happen?
Why did I change?
Well now I'm here to tell you
I broke out from my cage
All these
Obligations
Frustrations
Condemnations
Aggravations
Your fixations
and my deprivations
They're done now cause can't you see?
From this day on
I'm doing me.
A note for my mother.
I know you had the best intentions;
They were just not the best for me.
rook Oct 2014
All I've ever had in my possession were bones.
The framework of a biological nuisance, something empty
on the inside, though full of what any of us may call life.
At the least, the semblance of which we can be convinced:
parading a corpse across the bridge, most talented thespian in space;
and medicine, the hobby you picked up so you could learn to ignore death.

You are too old, now, to foolishly believe you can outrun death,
the inevitable silence that haunts your dreams and soaks through your bones.
You breathe in too quickly, too aware of the emotional cavity, of the space
between your thoughts and your actions. Your words have always been empty,
a reminder of the very symbol of your own faith, though you aren't convinced
that you, yourself, can ever measure up to that vivacity that floods his life.

Repeat that in your mind, over and over; that the anomalies in this life
can be proven as effects of the reckless and the brave, that their death
is ultimately yours to cause or to save. So, of your own importance, you are convinced,
and you know you are the best, always have been -- always, Bones.
So don't waste your energy on the thought that all of his promises are empty
and trust, instead, that this lunatic, this love, will survive all of space.

There's nowhere for you to escape this bitterness; indeed, no space
for you to claim as your own, your sanctuary. No chance of a separate life
when you've had all you can stomach of this insanity, this empty
endless game you've boxed yourself up in, until you surrender yourself to death,
to the simple cessation of your repetitive motions -- but, no, Bones;
he will never stop. His life will continue, his body and soul immortal -- of this, you are convinced.

No, he'll keep on going, as perilously as before; of his invincibility, you are convinced,
but you, yourself are, as ever, determined to follow his failures through space,
to diligently spout your expletives and condemnations and advice; you are now, as then, his bones,
and you never forgot that. Just as he never forgot who takes credit for his life,
his bones, his common sense --- you alone have, time and time again, forced death
to hang its weary head and return and yet, his own promises are empty.

You've learned to scoff at his vows of safety; his idiocy, you could handle. Still, empty, too, were his promises of faith. His loyalty, he proved, but you stay thoroughly convinced
that alone would he remain, had you considered your logic. Somehow still, like death,
the logic was an inevitability, and you learned to detest one trait in all of space.
You can see his faith fading as it goes, as logic proves itself a thief of your life,
and you lament the truest fact of all -- no longer could you be his bones.

And so I've managed to pull my empty shell together, as he never could, for in space
nowhere can I hide from the death of my ethos; yes, in space alone I dedicate my life.
And I am, as he was convinced, an honest man. I end as I begin -- with all I've ever had: Bones.
space. the final frontier.
Trevor Gates Jan 2015
3am, the epitome of perpetual night.
        The hour of the wolf in sheep’s clothing
        Alabaster clocks, ebony needles for hands
        Walking to one-second beats on dripping wall paper,
         exposing the blood in the house and meat in the pipes.

I see shadows of the malevolent past:
        Rings of smoke and ***-stained magazines
        Lies woven into eyelashes, sealing them shut
        Bleak figures made of shattered glass
        Transparency, their only truth.

And dawn shows the new day
        A stage of light like sweet Arcadia
        The pages written for me to walk upon
        Every hour summarizes a year’s worth of turmoil,
        an abstract of vicious malcontent youth.

Standing against usurpers and cattle-branding parents
        I will not allow the false punishments to continue
        Nor the raging strangulation subjugate my woe
        Sweating fingers penetrate the holes
       All while pleasure and pain in endured.

As the sundial strikes noon, life meets the middle
        Leaves falling off trees while amidst the winter
        Hands tired and dry; legs crooked and frail
        I will wipe the dust of my friends away from me
        Like nothing and everything in between.

The tomorrow won’t come this time
        The prelude to eternity will be a last gasp of air
        And I’ll welcome the suffocation like a lost brother
        And abhor the condemnations like a pious father
        And I’ll think fondly of that fading mother
        As the light of day segues to a haze of fire
         I’ll take those reluctant steps that I must
         Ravel my life’s threads into a warm coat
And I will meet you at that cold and violent dusk.
Holy metaphors Batman!
Go ahead and tell me of my faults,
You who perfection from exalts,
I believe you not to have the broom
To come and my doorstep to groom,

Don’t come and claim the splinter
From my eye,
When a log of great timber,
Does so in your pupils lie,

I wish not to hear of the words
You believe to preach,
The words you do not of practice two thirds
But wish to teach,

Don’t come here with your empty
Accusations,
Don’t come here with your plenty
Condemnations,

For I know of all my that my heart
Has tinted black,
But I have the resentful part
That you in your words do lack,

My heart is not of ideal
Bled red,
But it knows the things I feel,
The things I’ve done and said,

There are like all
The things I do not preach with pride,
But even though to sin I have befallen,
I have redemption on my side,

So go ahead and tell me of my faults,
You who perfection from so exalts,
But my closet was cleaned long ago,
But of your skeletons you will owe.
"amen!" booms the stout man behind me
and it's joyful
except it's not.
because i know what he has never learned
and i see what he refuses to see.

you love to think you're right
well, that's universal.
bend the words all you want
to support what you're saying
and it doesn't make you right.

defend your hate with words of
"god"
divert the blame from your charcoal heart.
and it doesn't make you right.

"the atheists won't be so smug when
they're burning in hell,"
the sunday school teacher says.
i wonder what she heard growing up
to make her so scared to think
to consider
to decide what she thought about the world.

and the preacher shakes my hand
and his wife hugs me warmly
but i can't help but wonder
what these loving souls would do
if i told them.
if i stood up and said,
"i respect your views, but i don't believe
there's a god watching over me and you."
well i imagine they'd have a lot to say
but it wouldn't begin with
anything about
respect.

and i have learned, by now
the surest way to tell
that someone is wrong
is if they refuse to acknowledge
the possibility of it.

and as the children nod along
to the condemnations
i don't need to burn in hell
i don't need everlasting punishment
this is all the agony i need
and after listening to this,
burning
sounds
fine.
Yenson Jul 2019
That iridescent image I had known for years
seen it in various guises and learnt its form by heart
know its poetry from the classics under Grecian lights
and when it appeared this time I delve to find its mind

But it was for Papa that the birth of reason grew
in a missive unspoken and a call enveloped later unfurled
a whisper rose that urged, look after for me, I will soon be gone
a king had spoken perchance to a chosen knight now obliged to obey

the ode of times and fleeting sighing sights of the light-footed
in rays of play the child of our times skips boundarys and forts
maidens sing stories and the gallant forays in skirmishes abound
a ringing promise hangs as a willow in wisp claims legacy unknown

tempest swirls and sound in fury rules in chagrin and ardour
a gamekeeper sees a ***** traipsing the trails of Tigers and lions
the tipsy gypsy hears neither the troubadour nor the rites of Templars
a mind envisaged was the shrunken bulb of shrubs and alien foliage

Be it not a dirge or condemnations of seducing Westering gales
banquets laid for differing tastes and jesters jest for mirth and frolics
a wizened once reached out in wordless touch, a promise sailed forth
In deep blue sea a mindful dolphin far from home turns and swims away......
A fine gentleman,
noble in reasoning and formally dressed,
infinite in faculties and technology,
in form and moving how express and admirable,
in action like an angel,
in apprehension like God,
the beauty of the world,
the paragon of all animals,
However life is a tedious told tale,
vexing a dull ear of a drowsy man,
a man without Christ,
lost like a prodigal son.

They have sinned against him,
they fall short of the Glory of God,
they ignored and ran away from his law,
but still there is hope on the cross.

He came to redeem us from all the curses,
Saved by the son not by the slave,
he loved the world through his son,
even when our sins are red like cardinal,
as red as scarlet,
they shall be as white as snow.

Through the faith of our father Abraham,
we are saved.
Faith in Christ we are healed,
faith in Christ we are forgiven,
there is hope in Christ.

Rise from the past brother,
its holding you down.
This moment is that matters the future now,
with Christ Jesus life will be amazing,
you will be thrown in the sea of forgiveness,
whatever you have done,
the punishment was put on Christ.

Its never late for Christ,
his love is deeper than an ocean floor,
run into his arms like an open door,
You will never come under his condemnations,
Satan and his accusations,
This is the time,
that you make heirs while the sun shines,
because time and tide waits for no man .
Romans 10 vs 9 "If you declare with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved"
Cassandra Ler Jul 2014
When I was 15, my mother bought me a bottle of slimming pills.
It was supposed to work wonders, I will be skinny.
Skinny pretty skinny pretty.
Each time I swallow the tiny capsules
I chant to myself - lighter, funnier, happier, prettier.
Each time sorrow drowns me and darkness threatens to bring me away from all that I have - the selfish, obsessive, superficial and self-absorbed nature in me.
I was sad, ungrateful, unforgiving, and ugly.
Walking on eggshells, floating like a soulless corpse.
It was supposed to work! Screamed mama.
So put on your makeup for weekly visits to the doctor,
Buy exotic eyes and sell your kindness.
Roll your eyes against beauty and settle for pretty.
Pretty breeds confidence and erodes humanity.
Be skinny for you will be pretty and happy.
Isn't that what life’s supposed to be?

When I was 16, all the pent up emotions escaped me.
Mama, what about humanity, compassion and love?
What about friends who became cold and hungry and alone,
What about laughter, joy and the extraordinary gift god blessed us with to taste sweet, sour, bitter and spice?

Regardless of society’s condemnations, I chose to be myself.
All that I was worth,
Not lighter, but indeed funnier.
Not prettier, but no doubt happier.
Because once you find the people who truly appreciate you for who you are,
Nothing matters!
Despite your occasional selfish thoughts when you choose to believe in what strangers cast on you, and your self-absorbed connotations of how you should look, it’ll be visible and so glaringly obvious that the presence of your kind and hopeful nature overlooks the demons that tip-toes to your mind and resides for a little while, just for the repeated eradication you will apply.
Each time you do that, you prove to yourself how amazing you are and no matter the ways reality is set different from this poem,
You have the strength and the courage to stop,
And start to believe,
For a heart is stronger than it seems.
My thoughts - uncensored.


With inspiration by Savannah Brown.
preservationman Mar 2021
Fighting crime
Getting rid of the slime
Protecting the citizens of the world
Justice at every course
Yes it does take using force
Beating villains at their own game
Keeping peace in order that is the remain
Sometimes Super Heroes get in sticky situations
It’s the villains test to Super Heroes just to case condemnations
Yet Super Heroes prevail in their own recommendations
Sometimes it feels it is the end of Super Heroes
But strength of Character suddenly prevails without fail
Villains look out
Super Heroes are out to get you and they are moving about
Lawrence Hall Oct 2021
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                           The Poets of Rapallo, a Review

The Poets of Rapallo, Lauren Arrington, Oxford University Press is a brilliant first draft; one looks forward to reading the completed work.

As it is, Dr. Arrington has accomplished brilliant research on the poets -  Yeats, Bunting, Pound, Aldington, MacGreevy, Zukofsky - and their acquaintances who happened to be in the Italian resort town Rapallo (they were not a coterie) in the 1920s and 1930s. The notes alone run to 54 pages of too-small type, and the bibliography to 8.

Unhappily, the text appears to have been rushed, possibly by an impatient publisher, and along with numerous small mistakes there are some serious failures in stereotyping, hasty generalizations predicated on little evidence, and a few condemnations more redolent of Dostoyevsky’s Grand Inquisitor than a scholar.

One of the best things about The Poets of Rapallo is the exposition explaining why a great many intellectuals were attracted to Italian Fascism as it was idealistically presented through propaganda early on and not as the moral and ethical disaster it soon proved to be.

Mussolini cleverly promoted his program as primarily cultural, a reach-back to the artistic and architectural unities of an imagined ancient Rome restored and enhanced with modern science and technology. He promoted the arts for his own purposes, of course, but deceptively. In almost any context the construction of schools, libraries, museums, theatres, and cinema studios would be perceived as a good, and absent any close examination accepted by everyone. But in Mussolini’s scheme these cultural artifacts, like Lady Macbeth’s “innocent flower,” concealed the lurking serpent: wars of conquest, poison gas, bombings of undefended cities, death camps, institutionalized racism, mass murders, and other enormities.

The Fascist sympathies of W. B. Yeats and other influencers (as we would say now) in the Irish Republic, including Eamon de Valera, are certainly revelatory. That the new nation came close to goose-stepping through The Celtic Twilight might help explain Ireland’s curious neutrality during the Second World War.

Professor Arrington explains all this very well, and initially is professionally objective. Most of the Rapallo set were not long in learning what Fascism was really about and quickly distanced themselves from it in some embarrassment.  Some were later even more of an embarrassment in their denials and deflections; few seemed to have been able to admit that, yes, they were suckered, as we all have been from time to time

But with the exception of the unrepentant and odious Pound, who was himself a metaphorical serpent to his death, Professor Arrington seems to lose her objectivity with the others.

And why Pound?

As with Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, it is difficult to take seriously someone who considers Pound’s pretentious, pompous, show-off word-soup Cantos to be literature. Pound is now famous only for being famous, and while Arrington appears to forgive Pound for his adamant and malevolent anti-Semitism and his pathetic subservience to Mussolini, in the end she is ruthless toward anyone else who, under Pound’s influence, in his or her naivete even once told an inappropriate joke, appreciated Graeco-Roman architecture, or perhaps saw Mussolini at a distance. This is inexplicable in a text that is otherwise professional and compassionate in avoiding what C. S. Lewis identifies as chronological snobbery.

One also wishes the author had discussed Pound’s post-war appeal as a fashionable prisoner adored or at least pitied by a new generation (Elizabeth Bishop, how could you?).

The book ends abruptly, as if the author were interrupted by a demand by the printers for it now, and so, yes, one hopes for a complete work to follow.

The Poets of Rapallo is not served well by the Oxford University Press, who appear to have been more interested in cutting costs than in presenting a work of scholarship to the world. The print is far too small, the garish spine lettering is more suited to a sale-table ****** mystery, and the retro-1930s holiday cover would be fine for an Agatha Christie yarn but not for a book of literary scholarship.

A question outside the scope of this book but more important is this: why, in a free nation, do so many people feel the desperate need almost to worship a leader? Yes, of course we have presidents and chiefs of police (some of whom love sport shiny admiral’s stars on their collars, and what’s that about?) and bosses and so on, and we depend upon their wise leadership. But why do people wear pictures of some Dear Leader or other on their clothing and chant his name?

I think the president or the famous movie star should wear YOUR name on his shirt and pay YOU for the privilege.

                                                      -30-
The Poets of Rapallo
Shobhit Feb 2018
The table is ready
with boats of my delicacy
I apologize for the burnt,
for my blunt efficacy.  

it was not easy
to carve me-self inside-out,
serve you shame for starters
with deeply fried doubts.

You will find them fulfilling
coz of all the grease
but,save your appetite
for a lot more to come at ease.

I see your eyes wide open
and you drooling like a hound,
guessing what will come next,
will it be my roasted rebound?

or perhaps, maybe you are on a diet
and wanna have something light tonight
like Some salad of my malady,
or a cobbler filled with berries of my plight.

Yeah, I see the drops of apathy
as you feast on my saucy loss
Not even masticating with your conscience,
just Washing down with La’poor wine you brought.

With that last morsel,
I am out of all the sizzling regrets,  
all the smokey condemnations,
all the crunchy identity threats.

While you burp out your utter respect,
your voice is all freaked up,
you so excited in fact.    
coz what I just fed you,
you wanted it so bad,
now you got enough munchies
for your homies, your lads.

but you my boy, don’t you leave
without the souffle and the cake
one is stuffed with my imagination
and other have frostings of my self-respect
of which, you have got none,
for you were my guest.
For all the sadists in your life
Michael Marchese Oct 2021
Weary traveler
Tempered by
So many countless
Faces die
No more to roam
In search
The earth
Has ever been
My home
Since birth
But lately
It seems all too distant
Of some end times
Reminiscent
Nothing new begins
Nor blooms
The ardent activist
Entombed
Exhumed
In years to come
A relic
Of his trips
Through psychedelic
Delving into
Coalescence
With machine's
Planned obsolescence
My transcendence
Just pathetic
Condemnations
To hermetic
Mark Wanless Nov 2017
Sparrow


She takes the hunger of her *****
       to cheap bar room shadows
       the crimson burn is calling

Speaks to her in a forgotten language
       ever since three days after
       her thirteenth birthday

Awkward bony girl tasting the deep
       of yearning
       naturally lemon

When her mother finds her
       with the neighbor boy

Curious adolescent
       nothing more dangerous than a
       loaded *****
       attached to innocence

Beat on hard as the devil for a week
       by his covertly fantasizing father
       owner of days dreaming oral ***
       lips to nectar peach fuzz
       with Mayflower repercussions
       post ******* vision

She however suffers teens eternity
       with screeching soprano condemnations
       acid tongue burning
       undeniable seed to root to life

To the dark for merely knowing the truth
       of hardness inside her
       wanting it

As a sparrow wanting to fly
naturally
Michael Marchese Nov 2019
Unheeded the warning
To not take to leading
An empire fleeting
Succeeded in meeting
A global trade quota
In breeding consumers
Like coca and cola
Place orders for new world
Disorderlies
Bordering
Neighbors in anger
Like free-raiding slavers
The ones who engrave
Condemnations
On strangers
Enflaming the tensions
Like Union secessions
Reclaiming your pensions
Like dispossessed peasants
Then pleasantly selling you
Greater Depressions
Inflating the price
Of each stock
Market crashed
As they’re harkening back
To the Gilded Age past
Mistakes made
By the master class
Fascist gas mask
Clasping racist ace cards
In their draft-dodging grasp
And enrapturing masses
Like pastors on acid
As faster the natural disasters
Leave gasping
The aftermath zeros
To sift through the trash heap
As scraps keep providing them
Something to eat
And that “just so it” psyche
No shoes on their feet
To compete in a race
To the top
Of the bottom
To watch it all topple
Like Hillary Rodham
Back down to this limitless growth
Swinging rope
And a hope and change slogan
In some brighter future
Where data-brain-drainers
Collude with polluters
And looters
To root out the suitable
Next active shooter
As losers keep playing
To win
Movin’ in
To the city
Of opportune sin
Get some skin in the game
Make a name
For your lack of fame
Minimum wage
And escape from the cage
That was sub-standard living
Conditions before
The New World Bank
Salvation
Uplifted the poor
With more freedom to choose
Than a grocery store
How to rot the core
Of this for-prophet war
Against forces that still
“Have-not”
Settled the score
Dennis Willis Aug 2019
Can you hear your ego spin?
It's the sound of Whispers
Lifting you up oh so gently and firmly
Above

Those condemnations
Those recriminations
Those righteous feelings
You stealing your soul with lies

He writes righteously
Dennis Willis Aug 2021
As we all
find our way back
to humanity
and shed
mythology
and all its
twists
on us

Yes, you can exhale
and needn't worry
that these mf'ers
define you
as not
acceptable
here

They are not acceptable
here
and may take
their condemnations
over unruly
hardons
and blow

Yet, middle ages
still rule some tho
I think they recognize
their own demise
and are uglier
than even
their usual
Arlene Corwin Jan 2021
Self-Doubt II

I try to picture you-know-who
Sitting on the ‘john’ or ‘loo’
For really, he is one of us:
Doing what we humans do.
Wondering if he’s ever insecure,
Unsure about what comes to mind,
Understanding that the mind can find
The craziest of thoughts to think.
Myself, I waver,
Do not savour every blink.
And here we watch men of the hour,
Those with power
Giving out their unsound signals,
Posturing from face to fingers;
Accusations, condemnations…
Is there never doubt of thought,
When I, the lowly writing poet
Try to deepen virtues absent, missing parts
While always staying kind at heart,
Well-inclined, well-defined;
Self-understanding melts self-doubt.
To know the two Is good for you,
Of value to the time to come;
By definition, everyone’s.

loo, john; English slang for toilet.
Self-Doubt 10.2.2020/re-composed 1.27.2021 Our Times, Our Culture II; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin
We will take back our country 
From you unreligiously religious extremist 
The veil of blindness is slacken with see through holes 
We see your unbookish interpretaions.

We will take back our country
From you saints and sent  
Emissaries and missionaries of deceptions, 
Emitting venoms and vapor as charity

From you crooked agents and allies 
Unagents of corporations,  of cohabitions and CSO's
Infiltrating souls to condemnations 
We will take back our country 
Yes! We will!

We will take back our country 
From you poluticians and salesmen
Self serving,self fishing bigot
In the mucky waters of politics.From you
Despots,cronies and servants. Yes!We will.

From you tradesmen , tribesmen and heardsmen
Your stench stales the air 
politelyPolluting the polity
Violently voiding our unity.
We will take back our country 
Yes! we will! 

We will take back our country
From you facelessbook and Twitter mongers
Canversers of hatreds and mockers
Mediocre psych of lost spheres .
Instantly graving grams of unpictureable 
Images of gory and decapitations
DisWhatsapping occasions and languages of war, 
UnLinkedIn inseparable bias to languish.

Disnetworking observations and comments 
From juggled questions Google cannot answer
With attitudes of unlovable likes and dislikes.
We will take back our country
Yes! we will!
Note! Please some of the words are deliberate;
oluticians,disnetworking,
Etc! Kindly make input. I feel I need to add one more stanza .Still a work in progress.
Thanking you!

— The End —