In Spanish, VIVIR means To Live, the proper conjugation of which to when you say something as improper as “I live” would simply be translated to “Yo Vivo”.
I live, as a Colombian-American.
I live, as “You don’t look Hispanic”
I live, “Woah! You and your brother look nothing alike. You’re so… white.”
I live, “My mom came home once and talked about a man who simply replied with a horribly pronounced “Me gusta” when my mom said she was Hispanic.”
I live, “My dad condones abusive behavior because he thinks Latina aggression is ‘****’”
I live, my mom asking me “Would you rather celebrate the Sweet Sixteen or have a quinceanera party?”
I live, as the white boy sitting across the room in Spanish class asking “When will I need this in real life?”
I live, as the “Yes I DO have a friend with a skin complexion similar to mine, and yes, he is Hispanic.”
I live, most of my friends are beautiful people of color.
I live, when will you open up the tab in Google and search some Hispanic History to fill your mind instead of “Latina ****”?
I live, the messages on the Internet saying “You’re Hispanic? I bet you’re great in bed.”
I live, there are NO gender neutral nouns in Spanish
I live, yes I DO love coffee
I live, no it did NOT stunt my growth
I live, one kiss per cheek at family meet-ups
I live, “Eskimo” nose rubs
I live, "if you’re hispanic, why aren’t your ears pierced?"
I live, being expected to remember Spanish just because it was my first language, but growing up with an American dad made me whiter than fresh bed-sheets sold in America, made in South America, Hecha en Peru.
I live, my mom breaking into tears as she is so proud that I can sing in Spanish
I live, my mom used to be so embarrassed, when I replied “un poco” to her friends asking “Tu Hablas Espanol?”
I live, "if you’re Hispanic, is your mom an Alien?"
I live, "But your dad looks so white!"
I live, being subject to racism hidden in a joke, hidden in a remark about how pale I am, hidden behind a judgmental look, hidden behind a scoff, a laugh, a pity shrug, a fetishized assumption.
I live the bulletproof clothing and horrible crimes I am warned about when I say I wanna go to Colombia I wanna go to my mom’s home.
I live, as a Colombian-American.
I live.
Yo vivo.

Just because I'm an atheist,
doesn't mean I lack morality.
In fact, my morality
is what I pride myself on.
I have this strong urgency
to love everyone
because I refuse to listen to
the God of discrimination.
I certainly don't need a book
that condones ****, slavery,
misogyny, and genocide
to teach me right from wrong.

Just because I'm an atheist,
doesn't mean my life has no meaning
It just means I have
the freedom to choose my own.
I have value
because I know how
to be a giving person
without having to be tempted
with eternal bliss.
If you're only being helpful
to others due to a promised reward,
does it not cease to
be a good deed?

Just because I'm an atheist,
doesn't mean I have no one
to look up to.
God doesn't create us,
women do.
And why the hell
can't I praise a goddess?
We are creating misogyny
young, claiming that
little girls are always to
put a him first,
instead of themselves.

Just because I'm an atheist,
doesn't mean I hate God.
It's impossible that which
you do not believe exists.
And I desperately don't want
him to exist, because if he does,
then that means he doesn't care,
that he's okay with
watching me suffer.
I don't need any more
people letting me down.

Just because I'm an atheist,
doesn't mean I worship the devil.
It's impossible to worship
that which you do not
believe exists.
But if he did exist,
then I would embrace him
at hells entrance -
tell him I too know what it's like
to be turned into something evil.
Thank him for taking all
the rejected souls that God
turned away without a second glance
Remind him that losing
something good can win you
something great.

Just because I'm an atheist,
doesn't mean I think
Billy Graham is a *******.
No, I actually do
think Billy Graham is a *******.
Anyone who has the audacity
to claim God wanted
marriage to be between
a man and a woman,
when marriage was constructed
long before Christianity was,
doesn't deserve to be
preaching to our children.
This is indoctrination
of the worst kind.

Just because I'm an atheist,
doesn't mean I hate religious people,
only what they preach.
I'm tired of people blanketing
their bigotry with
"religious freedom"
and getting away with it.
If you build a fire
to warm yourself,
and end up burning down
someone's home,
your warmth doesn't bring
their house back.
And it doesn't let you off
the hook for accountability....
Unless you're a Christian
because America was founded
on Christian morals, right?
***** John Adams who says
"The Government of the
United States of America
is not in any sense founded on
the Christian religion."
Or Thomas Jefferson
who encourages you to
"Question with boldness
even the existence of a god."
Or James Madison who once said
"Christianity's fruits are
superstition, bigotry,
and persecution."
But what do the
founding fathers know anyway?
This nation was created only
for those deemed worthy,
those who never realize
they have the right to
think for themselves.

Just because I'm an atheist,
doesn't mean I have all the answers.
But neither do you.

Evidence becomes the coin
determining worth on the scales
already rigged from the start
with no measure to dissuade

when morality is the judge
of a world they’d like to purge
all will fall beneath their gaze
when the virtue is misplaced

evil witnessed outside a book
or experience of the self
both are seen as paradigm
to the ones that are assured

madness lays down those paths
even while hearts are pure
identifying outside the lines
the normative is put aside

deviants by their choice
that’s when nature is most pure
without deceit verbalized
even though the masses cry

normative becomes the chant
damning all that are unique
now proof condones everything
or lack thereof to place the hate.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181001.

bonetender night, polaric.
windswept crown atones
weeping wanderer.
rigid matriarch condones
tantrum medication. vast
control shapes diminished conscience,
actuating frustration;
migrane pulse doctorate.
sad shell housing beaten wails,
a closed eye, ear to brains.
steady now, absorb sultry stance.
dim lamp set on autonomic fade.

Her colors I start to blend, painting a woman's masterpiece
Her heart pumps honesty, while her soul condones peace.
A couple more paint strokes to form her ambitious eyes
To create her sincere integrity, to mold her intelligent mind
Sculpting her genuine smile,
adding detail to an aura so kind.

Women, are a beautiful master piece
That can't be rushed, it must be worked on over time.
*& when I get one... I will paint her forever. I will never stop helping her create her design, I will mix her love with my passion...I will make this precious masterpiece truly mine.

By: Cedric McClester

Depending upon
What the case is
Terror has many faces
In the Middle East
And  other disparate places
No matter who
A drone chases
Or the people it erases

Another mother moans
As she retrieves
The flesh and bones
Of dead loved ones
Killed by drones
Now she must choose
Their headstones
For a policy no one condones

Families wiped out
By the dozens
Mothers fathers
Sisters brothers
Cos we view them
As those others
A will to ****
Is our druthers

Another mother moans
As she retrieves
The flesh and bones
Of dead loved ones
Killed by drones
Now she must choose
Their headstones
For a policy no one condones

From the sky
They watch ‘em fall
So who is it that
Makes that call
Do we want to
**** them all
Or simply bring ‘em
To a crawl

I know we have to
Hit ‘em hard
But who on earth
Declared us God
Even thinking that
Is flawed
Don't believe me
Ask the Lord

Another mother moans
As she retrieves
The flesh and bones
Of dead loved ones
Killed by drones
Now she must choose
Their headstones
For a policy no one condones

Depending upon
What the case is
Terror has many faces
In the Middle East
And in other places
No matter who
A drone chases
Or the people it erases


Copyright (c) 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.

Hate filled minds
Living life in rewind
Drunk on the future so they wine
Crying about a past that had them powerful
Praying on hate and killing others less superior
Hating themselves for being more infrior
Hiding behind religion, saying it's God they serving,
what God you know condones killing, hating, and oppression

They serve a God with no vision
Wearing capes to hide their ambiguous faces
Yelling that they hate all races
These are the same co-workers who say they love all races
But behind closed doors
Pray to burning torches

Bonjour
buon giorno
guten morgen
despabílate amor y toma nota:
sólo en el tercer mundo mueren cuarenta mil niños por día
en el plácido cielo despejado flotan los bombarderos y losbuitres
cuatro millones tienen sida
la codicia depila la amazonia
buenos días good morning
despabílate
en los ordenadores de la abuela onu no caben más cadáveres de ruandalos fundamentalistas degüellan aextranjeros
predica el papa contra los condones
havelange estrangula a maradona
bonjour monsieur le maire
forza italia buon giorno
guten morgen ernst junger
opus dei buenos días good morning hiroshima
despabílate amor que el horror amanece

I disrespect religion because of
That newborn girl that died
Straight out of her mothers womb.
Shouldn't god have saved her?

If he has such great plans
Then why is there war?
People go hungry
And people are scared,
But god does nothing.

If god is so great
Then why does he let people burn
In misery for eternity
Simply for not believing in him?

He condones violence and hate,
He let his son die,
Because he felt like it.
Maybe he had a hair appointment that day.

If god is so forgiving
Then why doesn't he let people into heaven
That don't believe in him?
Frankly he's holding a grudge.

Equality is what god likes,
But if you're gay,
He doesn't want anything to do with you,
It's a sin supposedly.

God lies,
God does nothing,
God is not real
And the bible is a group of people's
Favourite fiction book.

Alcohol condones such sweet behavior
The way it lets you teach me something new
Lets your lips dance on my skin
Sends my body into ecstasy
The sound of your breathing
Resonates through the air
And seeps into the cracks of the walls
The way it collides with my skin
And buries through the flesh
Whisper passions in my ear
Like waves whispering on the shores of her children
Trail your fingers down my back
Engulf me in sin
No boundaries are drawn in liquor fantasy
The moment between each breath
Carving sweet drunken memories on my neck
Succumbing to your every desire
I know I should stand on my will
But you asked me so nicely
Turning one way and then the other
Falling inward towards the center of this spiral
Leading to such peaceful sleep
The way your snoring claws at the silence
Your burnt out taste has never felt so divine
Leaving numbness on my tongue
With the constant, reoccurring thought
I never want to leave this bed

I Can't Breathe
Suffocating
In a country
That could give
A good *******
About me.
Drowning in a society
That doesn't see the signs.
That doesn't believe
That the darker brother
Has the right to justice.
That simply condones
The mistreatment
Of an entire group of
Human beings.
I tried to walk away.
I tried to surrender.
It didn't  matter
Because now
I really can't breathe.

My lids peel back slow to let another
weary day tackle me to the floor.
I push aside overbearing blankets
and shuffle down an empty hallway
into another more bare than afore.
Dragging my feet seems to require
more power than I had thought before.

Nothing but dark rooms ahead await
dully lit by open ‘fridgerators
that make monster shadows of purple,
frightening paintings that taunt Fate.
The shifting faces mock chance of late.

My reveries halt to disturbance that
a noise from somewhere below brings out.
I breathe deeply in as hope fills me-
a hope of the promise of a frozen mouth.

I think in that breath it is you I hear
rumbling and padding ‘round down the stairs
and I tell myself I am right, for it has to be you;
if it is not, no one else seemingly cares.
Morning breaks open the torment of day
like a ripped wound exposed to salty air.

I swallow back like every day the tears;
wrap myself up in old, cold sit-coms
and warm blankets to banish my fears.
Force myself to endure the hefty bombs
showered at my skull like a falsified norm.

The house lies vacant, in wait of you,
haunted by memories etched on paling skin.
Pacing remains the only thing I can do
to strain against the barrage of pins.

As always, I grin and I jump and I wave
so everyone can see just how brave
I am.
         I am.

But I can’t be anymore
and the salt-water behind my eyes
screams to exit the pores.
I can’t hold them in much longer
and I’m all out of supplies
that keep me stronger
                                      than I am.

I’ve run out of the fog
that my brain runs on, and
my heart condones.

       I have painted on a clown-smile
       and I'm quelled inside, flat.
All that is left in me now
is a crushed can of cola
shoving hard at my ribcage.

I am waiting still and know for sure
all will be as it was in times of yore.

You will love
And it will hurt sometimes
Your frijoles will burn sometimes
And sometimes you’ll put too much salt or not enough
An insult or two
But mijo don’t ever let him hit you
And leave before you hit him back

You will love
And it will **** sometimes
Cocine en olla de barro
Persígnese en la mañana
Use condones y lubricante
Y guarde un cuchillo debajo de la cama

You will love
And it will feel good sometimes
No le eche tanta sal a la carne
Póngale un vaso de agua a sus muertos
Take lots of pictures
And in times of trial, don’t forget about the good memories
Invoke them, que esas lo van a sacar de dudas

You will love
And it will get intense sometimes
Límpiese con un ramo de flores blancas
Hágase un baño de agua florida con cascarilla
Get tested at least twice a year,
Y coma bien, no se malpase

You will love
And it will be sad sometimes
Use grape seed oil instead of mazola
Chia seeds on your water, pa’ la diabetis
Honey instead of refined sugars
******* once a day o las veces que quiera
And never let your ****** desire depend on a man
For all men despite their beauty can be damaged

You will love
And you will be on top of the world sometimes
Don’t eat so many tortillas,
Soda is not good for your kidneys, drink water or brew your own ice tea o hagase su juguito natural
Sea humilde y buena gente
No need to be mean and creido
Crease de su identidad y su lenguage
Ya lo material va y viene
Pero eso sí, que no se lo hagan pendejo que por ahí hay mucho cabron abusivo

You will love
And you will break up sometimes
Don’t overdo it with the drinking
Write a lot of poetry
Listen to a lot of Jenni Rivera
Go out and enjoy your singlehood
Que es bien bonito no rendirle cuentas a nadie

You will love
Pero no se olvide de uste’ mismo
Love yourself
Quiérase musho
Pa’ que ningún cabrón le vea la cara de pendejo
Pero antes de que llore por cualquier wey
Acuérdese de su ama
De su guelita
Y de su familia
Y piense que un hombre por más rico que coja no es todo en la vida

Acuérdese que venimos de una raza de gente fuerte y hermosa
Pero que eso no nos quita lo hijos de la chingada
Y de eso también hay que estar orgullosos
Porque lo hijos de la chingada es lo que nos ayuda a sobrevivir
Nomas no hay que ser hijos de la chingada con la gente que como nosotros sufre y lucha
Sea hijo de la chingada con la gente que nos quiere chingar

You will love,
And love is the only thing that will bring you happiness
Beauty and health
Love pues y cuando le digan que no puede amar a otro hombre
Mándelos a la chingada y dígales con palabras de profeta: YOU WILL LOVE.

That constant drone,
With flickering lights and humming tones,
At every corner, one more whirring transformer
And blinking LED, just to let you know.

This constant drone,
With pulsing waves that fill the bones;
With boundless range, it's hardly strange
That one might start to call it home.

What constant drone,
Those ceaseless doldrums one condones
As flitting drops and Cupid's darts
Will often guilty pleasures be.

Oh, constant drone,
That permeates this astral dome,
There is no mask for dismal facts:
That constant drone is me.

You wouldn't understand
what I feel every time
whenever I look at you
I paint you in my mind

I become speechless
I become motionless
whenever you're here
I become somebody else

I try to reach for words
but all I hear is your voice
I try to meet your gaze
but all my efforts go in vain

I convince myself
not today
the petty condones
I make day by day

and you're here oblivious of
how much you've invaded my mind
because losing myself is so easy these days
whenever I see you from the corner of my eye

Some day I'll muster all the courage
and have a dance with you
Some day We'll sit beside each other
and have an ice scream scoop
Some day I'll smile with you
while we laugh at our weird peccadillos
Some day I'll leave behind my doubts
and you'll know what my world is without you

It's a travesty to tolerate
The ugly mores of men,
When everyone's allowance
Condones release for them.
Where everywhere provision
Is made for man to shove,
And woe betide the meek
Who don the feathers of a dove


The world applauds the forceful,
Rewards are rich for he
Who tramples over daisies
And holds aloft the key.
Who forces his attentions
And speculates the win,
Despite the devastation wrought
In winning it for him.


It's a travesty to tolerate
This bovine charge of man
When all can be achieved
With an accommodating plan,
When compromise and levity
See consideration's way
Where success can be attained
With out bloodletting on the day.


I hear the snort of your derision,
Feel the snigger in your smile,
See the curl of lip descending
With your slit eyes of defile.
For this portraiture is global
The fighting man is King
And he who deviates
Is left bereft and vanquishing.


Sadness is the matador
Who casts his scarlet cloth,
To be shredded and impaled
By a maddened bullock's wrath.
To be tossed aside, asunder
Like a lifeless ragged doll,
Like mankind's brute tomorrow
When the final drums do roll.


Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
29 November 2009

Smouldering pain of ancient harboured, in the heart inflamed
of a passion, amassed whole of suffering earth nestled in your breast,
came alive in her who mastered the seven realms, whose
aspiration ardent brought down in that simpleton, grace that
poured forth like a pitcher upturned on this world enamoured of death.

Ah, that simpleton who never could fathom caprice that condones
commerce in the very heart of the temple of justice, the virtue and sin
the learned uphold that cannot see in the neighbour's fall,
ones own, or how if the father that birthed the world is divine,
his children be brutes or kin of daemons that deserve stoning to death?

O Magdala, Magdala, your daughter weeps today!

A drop of blood dries the sands today, heavens weep in the tears
silent of she who stands by the cross today, even abandoned by those
for whom he gave so much; In the still dark night grace walked
the stormy water; and Lazarus returns from wherefore who knows;
A husbandsman reads and answers doubts in minds of learned pharisees.

For every whiplash cast was cast on the earth wide. Every insult
taunted the winds draping your arms. That girdle of thorns, mother,
was placed indeed on your mourning heart. When the cross
ascended slicing the firmament, heavens were mute to your pain,
lama sabachtani, sabachtani, grieves the earth unto the empty, parted skies.

O Magdala, Magdala, your daughter weeps today!

By Arcassin Burnham


Two crossed lovers with one common goal,
To find their way to each other and bind their souls in gold,
I was told , to find a woman with a peaceful heart,
Must've told myself that , cause nobody would enroll,
The facts of life to be a man and understand all of the urges,
Now stuck in a time where I gotta give myself more courage,
My family always had a hand in all of my contingencies,
I hope these ignorant complacent people stop trying me,
When I have a child of my own, he or she will have the advantage to
Learn things on their own , he or she will know the meaning of respect when
It condones,
He or she will know there won't be any favorites on this throne,
They don't have to know about their grandmother,
Does it bother me in any way to never let my kids see the woman
That should've gave me more love,
Or the woman that locked me away when I needed someone to
Go to , but I had no one,
Thats why I'm leaving everyone,
Bye.

they say the road to hell
is paved with golden intentions
and they are not mistaken i
see it's latent
hidden within psychosocial declarations
of everlasting love from a narcissistic god
i don’t give much credence to
the insistent proclamations of eternal
damnation in a metaphysical realm
of torment and brimstone but

don’t get me wrong
i’ve seen hell in the
wolfish grins of pilfering preachers
in the glassy eyes of opiated masses
i was careful when i stared
into that dark abyss
knowing it glared right back at me
emphatically declaring that i
was the lost sheep
a fallen brother separated
from the good shepherd’s flock
a prodigal son isolated in
alienating atheism but

i’ve come to love my
outcast status i’d rather
rot in the dirt after
raising hell on Earth
than suffer rebirth in ethereal bliss
espousing endless reiterations
of worship for a
fictitious megalomaniac

god is dead we killed him
deicide stains these hands
in shades of scarlet and crimson
the triumph of humanity will not
fade once again to the putrid
obeisance and ridiculous reverence
or religious references to divinity

salvation lies within

two decades of dedication
to the Christian ideal
left me dejected rejecting the
shallow lies and overt
misconceptions of religion
chose to begin again in the
reclamation of self-determination
i found a dignity independent from
a deity perpetuating guilt and regret
and though i will never forget the
progressive lessons of a radical rabbi
offering a message of hope and forgiveness
i’ve found that those same tenants
are seriously lacking in the
contemporary Christian church

if your god is
omnipotent and not
merely impotent
than tell me why he
needs you to
defend him

come on coward
if you’re real
show yourself
here’s the chance to
prove me wrong
sling lightning from the skies
and take my life i’m
not afraid i’m ready to die
and part from the suffering
that inundates this existence

strike me down and remove
all doubt of your majestic malevolence
a malfeascent adolescent prone
to fits of jealous rage and
temporal temper tantrums

that’s what i thought

i only hear the sounds of
a theological clown show
self-styled scholars enumerating  
passages of mercy and compassion
in the same holy text that condones
**** and slavery and child abuse
which would be ironic if it
hadn't been slapped together over
centuries of violence and bloodshed
and used to justify two millennia's worth of
repressive oppression a
putrescent obsession with control

it's true what Sartre said
hell is other people
and we have No Exit
from the depravity that
obfuscates critical inquiry
in the immortal words of
Shakespeare the nether-realms
are emptied all the devils are here

your god maybe a figment of
fantastic imagination but so
much horror has been wrought
with his name as the justification

so forgive me if i seem hyperbolic
but it is no exaggeration  
when i declare that religion itself
is a hell from which we're still
trying desperately to wake up

what they call a heart, my every anchor chained
what the pages make my story, every loss explained
like words in letters, as if they retain it, like they make it better
as if the knowing of it loosed or broke these fetters
eight ways the shapes of my only alphabet spells s-u-r-v-i-v-o-r
infinitely too short a word and leaving me to wander again if I'm alive in her
they think it breeds strength to outlive the beatings
they think it makes a great chase never retreating in the pursuit of what's fleeting
just once couldn't I rest and feel safe like it could all get clearer?
in the haze of aging when I'm sure it isn't my real smile in any mirror
in the crowded, faceless streets of having to stand on my own two feet alone
with all the hurtful, hateful, squalls this living condones
everyone thinking they know me because they know my name
know the face that's a mask over what's hollowed out by the aches I don't explain
and someone asks me to come near, to be dear, to love again
and they give like gifts and they mend the rifts and they care and then
the cycle of costs begins again, the loss of the friends again breathes
and makes every swallowed wine taste less like escape and reminds that it never relieves
and every candle on a cake burns another year I waited to start over
and every green field yields beauty unnoticed in my frantic search for a lucky clover
the pages pile with words wasted on hoping for better
and my few days waste away with so much time lost in trying to understand "forever"
so if you think that you know what made me then you haven't been listening to the words I didn't say
and if you've ask me for love then you've never felt what I already gave away

so put the times you've felt greatness on one side and see if they outweigh the hurt
or if the scales tip in favor of the ways you've failed and it still hurts
and trudge the horrible roads to the edges of the maps and see if you outrun the hurt
and see if any hand held or risk taken or affection given dispels the way you hurt

all the slivered glass pieces of my heart just cut me to blood as I try to pick them up
and all that my view of what could have been does, is lend tears as I watch those doors shut
and all another line will explain
is how it will never be the last line if I'm trying to write out the pains

I can never explain the hurt

I can’t even remember how long it’s been now,

But a really long time ago

I asked God for a safe place to pray

And I’ve been down every alley

Walked through every broken back door leading into

Houses I knew I should have never entered

Had me turnin’ up psalms

Paced to the rhythm of footsteps and rain

I found this:

My church

Will never ask you to give up anything

In exchange for your soul

Keep it

It’s probably ***** anyway

My church

Sounds like the ocean on Sunday

Keeps the wine flowing whenever you need to numb the pain

My church

Will set itself on fire on the days you just can’t get up in the morning

It’ll burn until you’re ready to come back

My church

Is in a tree house

It’s the wrong tree though

You know

The one you are always barking up

My church

Will never make you feel guilty

For anything

You do that well enough yourself

Now

I can’t promise eternal happiness


And I can’t promise virgins

I can’t promise anything other than

In my church

You’ll never feel ugly

You’ll never have to wonder what my church is thinking about you

I promise it will answer every question honestly

And hold you when you sleep at night

My church highly condones cuddling

Also

There’s a good chance that Mel Gibson wants to **** me and my church

Here I write poems to the rhythm of thunder

And sing praise to all your beauty and wonder

My church will never purposely make you hurt

Here it’s just me

With a few words

You can come when you want to

You can leave whenever

Leave forever

If you want

But I promise

My church

Will always be right here

Watched bonded souls disappear
Brothers in arms drenched in blood
Getting harmed , getting hurt.
Being forgotten , being thrown.
Yet over & over again , he picked himself up & braved the sheets on the red line.
Promises built on hope,
She's running constantly in my mind
Only to found out there's a third bind

Lost in battles of love
My love for her was bulletproof
But she shot me right through the heart
In the dark now I reside
Where lives condones to what I've believed
Where fragments puzzled in cubes of despair
Where there's no air to breathe
Only living for the sake of living

Lonely and dying
A soldier lost in a battlefield.

Society speaks.
Oh, so loudly and annoyingly,
Their words enter my ears.

A man who likes to sleep around is a hero.
He's so manly and tough,
I mean obviously
Because it takes such skill to procreate,
Which is designed by instinct.

A woman who sleeps around?
Oh, she's a ****.
Instinct does not affect her the same way,
Because she is supposed to be a lady.
She is not supposed to have desires,
She is supposed to be classy.

Well, if that's what classiness is,
I want no part in its double standards.

Does anyone even know that she is standing next to them?
Do they give a **** that she is a human being?
She has needs, wants, and she should be allowed to express them.
But she cannot, out of fear that she will be judged.

He thinks he can do whatever he wants.
He makes himself known, and does not take no for an answer.
Society condones this.
"Boys will be boys" they say.
And he is a boy if I've ever seen one.

This is the difference between men and women.

the choice must be made, early on
to break from ****** caste
resign or conform to the herd
imitators en masse

to differ from this path of sheep
avoid more traveled by
for without curiosity
feebly disqualify

in these shallows, lie shallow words
with hint of substance found
remarks of minute, shielded songs
trivial, temporal sounds

lone whispered tales who dared into
dangerous distant seas
souls and hearts tapped by the allure
of what’s beyond the reef

meaning resides in deeper seas
where there is more at stake
and to ignore is praised by most
lacking courage to take

ideas are worth discussing
for those toward meaning go
first color sunrise worth noting
for takers of breaths slow

ignorance is not kiss of bliss
interest charts a new course
sanctioned preceded expansion
infinity’s deep heart

diatribes of desperation
too wonderful for Job
standing on shoulders of giants
visibility ‘n hope

from a shaded view use reason
capacities collide
intelligence, intuition
clear out views of this side

confidence is not inflection
the deep hold a bit more
eyes would rather dart through rooms than
admit what’s in the drawer

follow ideas all the way
carry them to the brink
devote it all to the open
where air is clean to think

the song’s sustenance can increase
beyond a passage bend
if the spark looms advantageous
then chase it to the end

provide occasions to evoke
the theories tracked in snow
uncertain lies the pendulum
of which direction goes

the first foggy ports of entry
where these journeys commence
encompass only distant lights
and often awful tests

allow the stronger light to blind
and bounce it off the halls
sounding boards of experience
ancient or modern calls –

calls leviathan, nebula
noble time unwasted
mysteries must be lost to gain
temporary o’ sacred

a dim reflection skips a beat
complete with foreign tune
matter not wholly familiar
where voice and image loom

inside - or outside - looking in
peering at copy dark
impressing shadow silhouettes
awake only in part

potentials are adorned within
the self-inflicted chains
honest laughs never lean
where unseen depths remain

elude the rank and file marching
van gogh’s for a dollar
valued only after its lost,
tapped or gandered through fire

compassion is never compare
one loves and one condones
one can conjure beings and tribes
the other's shoes, always their own

but fires do not completely fade
for those who stand in awe
love and shadows sincerely make
partial beauty withdraws

beauty comes suddenly, cleanly
when the thing comes at all
for unpursued and dimly lit
zipping boundless or small

evasive through the chattel herd
beyond the unexplored
echoing all senses at once
recognized or ignored

its grandeur through stories to heirs
that echo manifests
its rhythm, bearing, and function
wise to youth, wise near death

beauty's power, intangible
a high altitude veil
unspoken in its reflection
unseen with notice fail

intend on custom prison break
drop union from revel
no suffering o' comparison
the truth now the level

so pass shallows for deeper seas
with curious woken heads
and cast off cares of aversion
for soul’s empathy instead

Brandy *** Pig, Slough Companion you'll make
To prize your Aura for his Demands cope
Though Breathe you not; Life does succumb your Shape
Still ignite his Prayers for some Soft Hope
With such Stale Breath his Mind condones still
His Method-of-Tribbles well he can bundle
Such Pampered Master does rub your fur until
The Silver-Saned Eye calls for his Handle
And like his Child the Monkey witnessed made
Hung by his Closet for his Devotions barred
To lift your snout and wiggle his Escapade
Realise his Youth just Subscribed too Hard.
Perhaps your Counsel, plaster Fines therein
Need no Forced Receipts; Or Boosters wherein.

You
Being eaten
By cabbages
I know I know
Cabbages
They don't eat folk
You crazy person
But you see
That is the fun of it
If cabbages ate you alive
That would be a sign
That God condones
My hate for you
And it would make
For a great photo
To put on my wall
A beautiful mix
Of emerald and scarlet.

He stands in his house that is young than he does
His room is miserable like protégé of a teenager,
In contrast to his septuagenarian age ring,
He hates his house with juvenile energy
Not knowing what to do with such hate of loss,
In blurred memory of his estranged wife,
Not able to discern the current age of his daughter,
That had accompanied the distaff on the day of separation,
He lulls his nerves to slumber, away from such menace of a thought,
By walking slowly to the den of wine, like Mermeldov in hands of Fydor,
He sinks down in a chair, plants himself deep into a tumbler of Whisky,
The only fortress into which the poor prodigals take refuge,
Running away from duty of ethics that spans across life of man,
As he wants not memory of his erstwhile risky *** with a punch of ******,
From which he condones his exposure to deadly malady,
He wants not his memory of overdrawing his account,
In faithful service to master wine, against the sub-current
Of wisdom that the carouser labours but labours for the brewer,
He wants not memory that his moral duty got punctured,
And hence self-exile in to slavish duty to wine
The only hostage to the whole rounded prodigal.

compassion is never compare
one loves and one condones
one can conjure beings and tribes
the other's shoes, always their own

Me olvidé que me amaste
después de que te fuiste.
Una maleta cogiste
y sin pensar me desarmaste.
Primero mi boca agarraste
y la metiste en la maleta,
y como ella no te respeta
te dijo “perra sin corazón
que me metes a un cajón
donde guardas los condones
que te llenan de placeres
de un hombre que no te quiere;
y a mí que me aguanto esto
y que a donde vas te sigo
me quieres enterrar vivo
sin siquiera haberme muerto.”

it always makes sense: to make your own
blueberry ice-cream...
or raspberry ice-cream...
  come to think of it: having watched a lot
of Australia Master-Chef...
hmm... beetroot ice-cream...
basil ice-cream...
                it makes sense because it's
a quintessential happiness...
altogether something different from...
making your own wine...
but this has to be the most pristine base recipe:
2 cups of double cream
half a cup of sugar: perhaps even less...
one quarter to half a cup of sugar...
5 egg yolks...
obvious beaten and when the cream sugar milk
mixture comes up to 165 Fahrenheit...
the ideal temp. for roast chicken: mind you...
i remember those Sundays when
both my mother and grandmother
turned chicken ******* into chalk...
all the men in the house would be gagging for
the dark meat: near the bones...
since that couldn't be overcooked... over-baked...
obviously if i were to compare:
taking out my little culinary chemistry set
when making a curry...
is one thing...
but there's something: i don't have either
noun or adjective to suit this adventure...
it's: ******* blueberry ice-cream...
you could almost reinvent the thrill of riding
a bicycle heavy-traffic when
making ice-cream...
i'm more of a savoury cook...
when it comes to sweet: baking irritates me...
ice-cream i can stand: under...
but cooking sweet is so less alchemical
than cooking savoury...
whiskey ice-cream: it's doable...
double up: coffee-whiskey-caramel ice-cream...
oh... wait... that's tripling up
    on the effort...
sure... some cheap vanilla extract to boot...
but since blueberries are blueberries...
and not raspberries: there was a sly squeeze
of a lemon...
i'm hoping for a good harvest
of grapes this year...
i'm assuring myself to be able to...
squeeze out a dozen bottles of row-zay...
looks ugly: phonetically... no?
i'm not going to introduce an acute on the E
to morph a rose into a: hue...
7am tomorrow... a romance with the bicycle...
and all that's Loon'don...
running through advertisement in the river
of thought of all that's: subliminal...
after all: journalism no journalism no...
they still get that itch from time to time
to replicate the glory days of Woodward & Bernstein...
for me... it was a one off...
these days journalism comes too late:
or too early...
too pawn-brokered...
   i still read the newspapers: mostly like a solipsist...
not that i'm somehow immune
to the everyday: greyish horrors of...
average people: i guess i'm one of them...
because wouldn't i want to think
somehow more of myself:
i can hardly scold... demean the prostitutes
i visit from time to time...
it would leave me supposing an ownership
of a pair of two left hands...
drinking a bottle of 70cl like it might be
a bottle of milk:
thank god i didn't have the "bright" idea
of mixing it up with a shy... 35cl of beer...
sure... it might work in an ice-cream:
coffee... whiskey... caramel...
    this ugly necessity of being agitated: prompted for
no great purpose other:
perhaps... i'd rather not talk...
fixing some shelves in the wardrobe...
making the ice-cream...
hence my demand of propping the advertisers above
the "journalists"...
it's good that i don't have the sort of money
they're gagging me to spend...
insurmountable joy arrives from
the clarity of: not having the sort of money
needed to be spent given the effort
of advertisers to make you: want to spend it...
you don't need to advertise whiskey...
or beer...
Franziskaner Weissbier:
                           but Carlsberg needs the slogan:
probably... it isn't... probably or otherwise:
****-juice at 3.5% at the keg...
the monk's brew i'll buy:
with or without an advertisement campaign...
it's most probably a niche product:
only niche consumers buy it...
i don't suppose the art: is it still called that?
of poetry: ugh... rhyming cripples...
caged rhymers...
    it would be more fun to play a game of:
slap a ball against a brick wall...
to reiterate: i don't Horace ever had a care
for rhyme...

deus inmortalis haberi dum cupit Empedocles,
ardentem frigidus Aetnam insiluit.
Sit ius liceatque perire poetis:
invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti.
nec semel hoc fecit nec, si restractus erit,
iam fiet **** et ponet fanisae mortis amorem.
nec satis adparet, cur versus factitet, utrum,
minxerit in patrios cineres an triste bidental
moverit incestus: ceste furit ac velut ursus,
obiectos caveae valuit si frangere clatros,
indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus;
quem vero arripuit tenet occiditque legendo,
non missura cutem nisi plena cruoris hirudo...

Empedocles: wanting to become a god...
chilled by old age: was supposed to jump...
into the burning mouth of Etna.
if they want (it), let the poets
have the law unto their death.
who: whom against their will saves,
the suicide double condones (finishes off).
not for the first time:
not so easily said: i am human.
he wants to glorify himself with death.
i write poems. why?
     maybe i ****** on my father's grave,
maybe the place has been struck
with a thunderbolt: spread and is now impure.
like a bear in a fury, breaking the bars (of the cage)
scares the wise & the fools:
thus a wordsmith interloper...
      whoever he will catch... with recitations
puts down... not even with a leech from
the skin will not fall off:
                                           until satiated with blood.

he who (against their will)
               saves: the suicide double condones...
knuckle-head stunts...
not for the first time.
it's not so easily said: it's not easily said...
i am: human.
he wants to gain fame through his death.
i write, poems.

the book fell from my hands... onto the floor...
the floor breathed...
i spoke: no more...
like some ghostly wind...
if i don't translate it proper...
there was some wording about:
******* on one's father's grave...
turning the pages quickly like:
a pigeon might be flapping its wings...
328.... 329...
pages...330 & 331...
a book fell... like...
a woodland pigeons might flap its wings
while i turns the pages... "haphazardly"...
i'm no poet caged to rhyme...
i'm... Horace's horse: prosaic...
i turned the pages like...
the sound and image...
of a pigeon... flustered... wing-clapping-the-wind...
                                               might... just might...

i wash my eyes with cold water...
ensuring the rest of my face is:
welcoming a tiredness of day...
if i done things proper...
i'd throw my naked body into
a bulge of nettles
for: some... adequate... revision of...
what's to be felt...

why?
    maybe i ****** on my father's grave...
maybe the place: thunderstruck... spread...
and he became: impure.
how a bear in a fury...
breaking out from in between
the cages's barricade of bars:
shuns the wise and the idiots....
such wordsmith: poetry minding: ambition...
agitation... whoever it befalls...
with recitation doubles down on:
second-hammering...
a leech will not fall off the skin:
until it is satiated with blood.

one might start calling it an:
agitated wardrobe?!
                the dead leave us pardons:
so many that the living will ever allow:
i don't want to be among the living:
i want to be among the dead...
i want to juice up as many prunes
as there are grapes
and still... leverage what half harvest i might
have from the ..
i forget at what point i'm to care about
being an investment prospect...

i would never say that translating Latin was...
somehow: fun...
wordsmith interloper?!

What's more important?

A concrete footpath by the river,
where dogs can foul the walkway.

An area around the castle where
choirs serenade us annually.

A roundabout at The **** Bar
by The ****** Mary.

A Factory with a logo saying
" Golden Valleys, Growing Naturally ".

Fed from the polluted streams full of
******* that Cork Council Condones.

a girl who reads her bible is a *****. a ******. a snitch. a snob. a religious freak. she will follow you around and exorcise and speak of heaven and hell until you lift your bottle and drink to that lunatic. you claim spirituality instead of religion and say you're buddhist and you meditate and do yoga and save the trees and marine life. you make up your own rules so that you can have fun and feel moral at the same time. then you slip up and change your rules and when people ask you simply say you are searching. you don't know what you are but you know what everyone else is. and those people who have it all figured out with their books and doctrines and churches and institutions and traditions. they are the ones who are fake. they follow a patten that has been meaningless since the fourth century of its practice. the repetition renders its worshippers numb and everyone just sulks through the service to save their soul.

but you. you are wrong.

let me paint you a picture.

a woman has been accused her whole life of being too religious. too stiff. she falls down a dark path that nobody, even the immoral, condones. she is lost and she stumbles and falls and wakes up not knowing what happened the night before. but under the painted and gilded ceilings of a cathedral she finds peace. she finds comfort. she feels the arms of God around her and he is the only one who has ever loved her enough to embrace her. he, who everyone considers the elitist, has accepted this girl who is globally considered the **** of the earth. to him she is a diamond. a story. a soul. a set of memories and words and pictures and a lifetime's worth of emotions and pain and joy.

so next time you see that religious freak walking around holding her head up. you think again. examine the shoulders set back and unwavering gaze. she asks you to listen to what she says. not because she thinks she is right and you are a sinner. she is trying to share with you. her art. her salvation. the thing that has saved her and been beautiful and gave her hope again. it is her child, her garden, her masterpiece. it is her religion. and she does not treasure it simply to convert you.

Have you ever become so enraged by your own thoughts?

Your mind replays situations that you feel you lost.

Making you wish you could go back in time and handle things accordingly.

Gain the power that was necessary for you to have the victory.

Is this how we become our own worst enemy?

Fixated on our past hurts and pains.

Wanting vengeance on those who were the cause of it all.

Wishing for their downfall.  

It's madness when you live inside your mind.

Forever thinking about how you were wronged in life.

All while time continues to tick.

And your abusers continue to live their lives without feeling convictions for their sins.

When does it end?

How can you forgive when no apology was given?

Why must your mind be consumed with the rage?

Why can't the causers take your place?

Go through a mental genocide as a repercussion for the hell they raised.  

But life doesn't work that way.

And God no longer condones "an eye for an eye" like in the Old Testament days.

So I'll just have to get on my knees and pray.

For God to free my mind of the ******* and pain that plagues it everyday.

bathe in the blood of your own savior
find someone who condones your actions
and just like you've done before
tear into their chest

talk to their organs
watching smoke curl in the desert early morning air

I'm sorry
Well let me start with an apology
I do not mean to offend
Because the truth
I want everyone to love me

Well, I'm sorry
But I have to say this now
But Islam is not religion
It is offense to god
It condones proselytization

if you want to find god
                    You will
If someone has to show you
Then it's meaningless

Still sorry to say
And I'm not some Christian apologist
And I know people are sensative
And I know I'm misunderstood
And I know I may be wrong

But I have to say
Because it covers all religion
Not just the evil I have cited
In America children love MTV
Because they cannot see what's good yet

and if you want to find god
                   You will
It means nothing
When you convince child

And I'm sorry
Because there are Christian terrorist too
They bombed in Oklahoma
And they're in westboro baptist church

Still I'm sorry
But I remember September eleventh
I remember jihad
And I know as much
Killing in the name of god is blasphemy

*if you want to find God
                You will
It means nothing
If fear is involved

Los adjetivos que me sobran
van como siempre al cubo de desechos
más tarde llegarán
a la galaxia de los basurales

allí se encontrarán con un pueblo de cosas
cáscaras de naranja / de huevo / de discursos
mechones de peluca y huesitos de pollo
condones de prudentes sementales
promesas de almanaque / telegramas
de mal y bienvenidas / invitaciones rotas
nimios perforadores de la capa de ozono
boletas estrujadas con inquina
caspas uñas verrugas papilomas
fetos de mucamitas y señoras de pro
cucarachas resecas y sin deudos
paños higiénicos hollejos puchos
postales de un prehistórico año nuevo
mirko te quiero silvia
citaciones vencidas arrugadas
recibos de la luz / facturas de apagones
propuestas de asco siempre renovadas
un taco sin zapato y sin chapita
un decímetro / resto de algún metro amarillo
chau viejita esta noche no me esperes
un pescado podrido con bigotes de gato
un pie de inconsolable maniquí
un afiche político sin vergüenza y sin rostro

desde su infierno / desde la inmundicia
mis adjetivos sufren como verbos
no merecían semejante oprobio
juro no echarlos más a la basura
cuando me sobre alguno en buen estado
lo entregaré a las damas de la beneficencia

Sometimes, it is easy to think “It’s just me;”
We all sometimes, feel lonely.
You can want something so badly,
Deep within your bones; Sometimes,
Reality condones that it is best left alone.
Thought I felt you throughout the day,
Couldn’t stop smiling at the thought of your words.
Created something from your insights; felt alive,
Inside.

Someone else wanted me, but not in a loving way.
Once wore his locket around my neck;
Was just false hope that it was real,
It wasn’t;
Was just a broken wheel
That kept rolling along; wobbling.
Until one day,
It stopped.