"conscription" poems
[I accidentally deleted this, so now I'm reposting it]
This is not an attack, it is expression.
*This apparently isn't a very popular subject,
but then again, when has popularity changed anyone's mind..*
--
**** the 'Selective Service System'; the SSS.
It's neo-conscription.
FDR made us a deal we couldn't refuse
which included a stipulation
that about half of us still cannot refuse:
Selective Service
also known as
Peacetime Draft
But only for males. Only the males.
Not the females, though. Oh, no, not the females;
We need the Females
to bake the next batch of mindless soldiers/housewives/neoslaves.
We need the women to uphold the status-quo.
We need our women
to remain passive, docile, and beautiful ******* doormats
for our glorious and infallible western society.
We need our women
to be complaint, subservient, sex-starved, archaic-gender-role embodiments.
I see it as overtly 'cherry-picking' as well as misogyny both ways;
sexist, selfish, and prejudiced on both sides:
'Feminists' (read: Feminazis) claim to plea for true gender equality, but here is my plea:
If such is true, where then are their demands for mandatory selective service?
Why do they feel above reproach when it comes to the unsavory sides of society?
Why do they turn a blind eye to the ******* Draft if they ***** up such a storm about equality?
Why is it not a federal offense punishable by a $250,000 fine as well as up to 5 years in prison
for a female to not sign their life away to the military from when they turn 18 until at least 25?
How is that 'gender equality'?
Huh?
They, too, are cherry-picking.
-
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
Addicted to diction,
With conflicting
Prescriptions
From competing
Physicians,
I'm dying from sickness
In the wealthcare system.
Our nutrition
Is based on
Corn-laced fiction,
Advertisement
Superstitions,
And a pill for every
Devised affliction.
We're born into life
Under welfare
Conscription,
And destined to die
From dereliction.
Make sure to vote
For the best
Infection in the
Next election,
As they raise
A toast
To their own
Reflections.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
Black, Swiss cheese hulk on horizon
The James Longstreet
immobile old freighter of the bay
Towed to the ignominy
of its last commission
in the curled arm of The Cape
Tides flex their muscles against it
But The Longstreet is steadfast
in its dark purpose
Standing target for practice
A sortie if planes home in on its bulk
Honing their skills
on this “fish-in-a-barrel”
Thunderhead-etched pyrotechnics
Booming follows the miles over water
Against The Longstreet’s silhouette enduring
even God fixes sights
firing bolts across its bow
taking aim at our futures
Standing targets for practice
Vietnam? Cape Cod?
No difference to teens
before life’s ocean of conscription
Sand is cold beneath dunes
Beach grass rustles
to the pulsing surf
to the wind’s whispers
just below hearing
as if there’s a secret
that must be kept
We are targets for practice
We are meaningless din
Pulling our sweatshirts and blanket closer
The Supremes sing thinly
from transistor
“Stopped for a moment in the name of love—
Thinking it over”
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
They are silent and beautiful,
gorgeous in in the white halo,
cemented in a beautiful terrazzo,
baring the names of fallen soldiers,
the European soldiers that fell in Wars;
second and first and the heinous silent wars,
i hope this is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre,
only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian.
Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa,
in India , panama , Latin America and europe,
the active fronts in which the allies fought ******
they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas,
in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa,
in Matisi when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar,
They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved
on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires,
which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman
in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands,
he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard,
for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption.
I walk around the commonwealth graveyards,
in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire,
looking for the names of African soldiers ,
who died in thousands fighting for the queen
the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth,
Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with
the second duce Benito son of Mussolini,
fighting for Hitler,for Shintos in the European war,
i have seen no name of any African,
I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo,
who was conscripted into the first world war,
Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo,
Biket back after seven years in 1918,
carrying Wandabwa's Belt,
Wandabwa died in the field,
Where was he buried, he is nowhere
Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries,
I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo,
who was conscripted in 1940,
to fight against ******
he was conscripted on his nuptial evening,
even before he had had the first ***
with his new wife, he went away crying,
he never came back, his name is nowhere in the graves
the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen,
Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world.
you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt,
whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen,
you hear someone is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya,
or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya,
you meet a man that is of the circumcision age group,
Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini,
Keya is subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR
the African sound for KAR is Keya,
in reference to mass conscription of Africans
into the KAR, to fight ******
A child born during that time is Keya,
A man circumcised during the time
is in the age group of Keya,
A simple lesson in regard to our people,
taken away to fight the colonial power
and left to died and rot away in the bush
with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial,
that come along with the death of soldiers,
who passed away in the battle field.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
******* coma
Cool
Calm
Collective,
Constantly
Caught
Consistence,
Common
Cold
Conflicted,
Colossal
Conduct
Clinic,
Climate
Cold
Conscription,
Condemned
Coma
Victim.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 11:26 PM UTC
Dropped off in a desert.
Combat uniform tight against me.
Sweat gripping my skin in a desperate plea
For sanity to return, so I may escape.
Gunfire stutters its loud whispers of death against my eardrums.
Explosions drown out screams. My own?
I blink. The dust engulfs my body as I writhe on the ground;
Fetal position my permanent placement.
Longing for the ground to swallow me whole,
To the comfort of death's womb.
Cries of, "Get the hell up! What are you? This is a man's war!"
I get up.
The gun at my side like an old man's artificial hip;
Comfort and support in an unstable land.
I look at the chaos and depravity around me.
This is supposed to be Heaven to me,
Yet the combat boots feel too heavy.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
I never was occupied with the essence of patriotism
The altruism of the conscription of the young, to later express gratitude for their service, for their heroism
The sensationalism of singing of the anthems, and the so-called 'civil defence'
But really, it's all merely an excuse to justify unwarranted offence
It's a weapon wielded as a subterfuge for the ethical codes transgressed
For capital, people become national and subsequently irrational
Due to patriotism, all the decisions of the government are infallible
And anyone who opposes said verdicts is radical
To continue reading about patriotism, please subscribe it's only $120 per annum. Fees are taxable
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC
Consumer Culture makes me sick,
it burns like acid contained in
coffee cups the size of
your heart exploding.
Music that will **** your ears
for only a buck
because it is a song shaped by greed
alongside factories, with smoke stacks
acting as sploof tubes,
covering the smell of life
created just to be killed.
They have innocent eyes
an organism giving away its only truth
for convenience, for simplicity
**** your fast food,
**** your jellybean president.
Employment is conscription to join
on the losing side in the war on
your time and mind, The Double Bind.
You ought to love your country
but do you?
You ought to compete, go for the win
**** your friends, get to the top.
Do you know what the prize is?
One morning you wake up and find
that your game was a farce
and you aren't what you really are
but what you could of been.
Defend your limits.
For we are waterfalls, spinning wheels of imagination
shaping clay with organic inspirations
planting ideas in the fertile unconsciousness
Don't form beliefs, form a question.
Understand we are ice-9
collectively, we are the watering-system
We are the true god through experience mystic
disbanded stars that are the galaxies.
Properties of our composition suggests that,
you better let this water flow,
because if you don't
a world full of love
would love to strike you down
making you coo and swoon
over the symbols of a dream,
the beautiful sunflower riding a bike,
hitting a hacky sack perfectly
at the end of the day
a cup beckons inscribed with your name
are you just going to sit and stare at it?
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 7:47 AM UTC
I wake in this city
This city that didn't bear me
This city that didn't raise me
And yet it's this city that i seek to find something of me
Not in the pubs or the clubs or the karaoke bars
Where revelers conspire to dream and drink to the stars
Nor the cafes where poets and artists in a foreign language create.
Pass the market stalls where secondhand books and vinyls are stacked like freight
It is to the quietened streets of the old town I go
Where i long for the walls to speak once more
To reveal their hidden histories
To help fashion some sense of a man
One unknownst to me, my fathers father whose name I share
A fine skilled seamster, thus a tailor by trade
Not arriving to this city for work on fabrics of nylon and silk
But to stitch and sew the flesh of limbs in a paramedic corps
Another pawn of the Great War under King George's command
Driven only by economic necessity from a penal homeland
Not of conscription, politics or some moral conviction at play
For the price of neutrality is one that poverty simply refuses to pay
Returning home to an Ireland of hostility or silence at best
Medals now lying deep in pockets not proudly pinned to chests
Irish heroes don't fight in a British war for a King's crown
No such stories from father to son shall ever pass down
And now, a grainy photograph, three medals for a sons son to take
A dog tag that bears my name, a number and RC to depict a faith
From a man exiled in his home as a forgotten prisoner of war
To honour a legacy i find myself in this city afar
Asking the same questions of him as to me
Is this city the last place he truly felt free?
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
I’m sick and tired of people rabbiting on a load of ****
About their ******* duty and fighting for freedom
For the fat ugly patriotic selfish folks "back home"
And pathetic ****** neo-fascist ******** like that
And gabbling on a load of sentimental horsedung
About giving their all for their ******* useless country
When honestly they’d rather be at home in some ugly provincial hick town
Patting their nasty mongrel dogs and groping their neighbours’ wives' arses
And eating mumsy-wumsy’s over-cooked meat and stodgy apple pie
Whilst ensconced on the sofa watching sodding Celebrity Big Brother.
How can a soldier nowadays say he didn't want to be there?
Are people so ******* thick or blind or moronic not to realise
A person volunteers to be in the armed forces in most countries nowadays?
There’s no ****** press gangs or ****** conscription any more;
People become soldiers because they choose to do so
(exceptions include filthy ******* shit-holes like Israel
where the young men queue up to **** Palestinian babies for fun) .
Therefore soldiers DO want to fight, they DO want the chance to ****
And they willingly risk their own ugly unwashed redneck necks.
So they have no right to whine and bellyache when they get asked
To earn their daily state-paid bread and do a spot of killing
Instead of sitting on their overweight arses at MY expense.
Or course, they could show some real guts and resign instead,
But what the **** why pass up on a chance to do some
Legalised ****** and get paid handsomely at the same time.
Just in case you think I forgot, I am totally and fully aware
That 'he' includes 'she' in this context now that women
Have an equal chance to have their military buns blown off pointlessly.
So don't whinge or expect sympathy when your body parts come home in a bag.
Personally, I am of the belief that the only good soldier is a dead soldier,
And the more the merrier. RIP military thugs and up yours.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
Stripey, furry, pollen coated
Buzzing summer stillness into life,
Journey of fertility from stamen to
Stamen, pollination, by-product of travail.
Sweet honey stored in citadel honeycomb
Shaped perfectly, Fibonacci sequence,
Queen factory birthing, supplying an army
Compulsory conscription, signed up for life
Common mind, common goal, calculating
Journeys to fertile meadows, returning
Debriefing to communicate flight path,
Destination situation report, until
One day dispatch signals failure
The hive is silenced, the computer
Turned off.
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 7:30 AM UTC
Deception, purple paper hiding red flesh
Our fathers selling our souls to damnation
Tearing at our minds with greedy claws
Is this right to expect from kin?
Seers, red dust and speckled wounds
Sears, on supple flesh, oil spilling from sheets
Of metal, burning to the desolate sky
Carrying the lost dreams of infinity cloud-bound
A shield, bound around me, a barrier to hide
Dissolves to snakes, a silent hiss
Threats from bombs I cannot hear;
Bullets I cannot feel
yet
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
The Obscenity of Conscript (and PTSD)
He sits at the table nursing his beer,
Scruffy, unwashed, a bit smelly I fear,
When he thinks he's unseen he'll wipe off a tear.
Come closer I'll tell you his story.
A bank "johnny" married, his future a joy,
For a pretty young girl and a fine young boy.
But then you decided his "year" to deploy...
For a war you did not intend winning.
And so, after kissing goodby to his bride,
He stepped onto a bus full of vigour and pride,
To Kapooka was taken - a happy bus ride...
To a war you did not intend winning.
By training, his past wiped off that it might
Be replaced by the will for a jolly good fight
And that he be led by his team to the light...
Of a war you did not intend winning.
Well, he gave his time plus all that he saw,
The killing, the maiming, brute life in the raw,
With the drink that he took to escape from your war,
A war you did not intend winning.
And when it was finished and home he returned,
Two years his life missing, by God how that burned,
Then by erstwhile good friends he found himself spurned,
For fighting your war without winning.
Turned back from its door by the ****** RSL.
He was just looking to talk with some others as well
Who's life, just like his, had been turned into hell
For fighting a war without winning.
And the lovely young bride who'd looked on with such pride
As her husband departed their warm bedside
Has found she can't talk to nor get alongside,
Of the man she thought had been winning.
For he sits at their table hunched over his beer,
'Midst all of those things that he once held dear,
And refuses to tell her what she needs to hear,
Thus loosing what they'd both been winning.
Now she has gone to her mum and her dad,
And erstwhile "good friends" think he's gone to the bad
But you and I know he's just feeling so sad
And never thinks about winning.
He sits at the table nursing his beer,
Scruffy, unwashed, a bit smelly I fear.
When he thinks he's unseen he'll wipe off a tear
And now you know his story.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:16 PM UTC
both my grandfather and father
were army conscripts
without the benefit of a choice,
it was conscription...
Marshall Law was introduced,
hungary didn't feel like a satellite any more,
nor did Czechoslovakia in the 60s...
the poles were eager to keep the empire
intact like the Vietnamese, ironically
without as much violence,
just empty supermarket shelves...
i wasn't given such a benefit,
i had to learn a "woman's" trade,
being enlisted in the army would
have assuredly given me a
chance progression into a suitable life,
even a lifestyle! i'd be earning enough
to distract myself with theatre and opera!
alas! i'm not that well instructed
to enjoy a comfortable revenue and
the comfort of sadistic ballerinas
(what i mean is an education in taking orders
and not daydream, kept order, a clean
pair of shoes, a suit that's not creased)...
i know, modern pop and the 8 minute long
prog rock piece... let's test our attention
spans and care for distractions of
digression off the rhythm...
it's not necessarily rap worded,
nothing about the ghetto,
it's not exactly jam-rock Kingston town
aphrodisiac... i call it a shared salute,
a black panther with a shaved head.. well,
somewhere along the line we need a feeling
of being in it together.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 5:58 AM UTC
Light of light disclosed...open and upended--arch
shone, there you under it...come to pass.
The filaments of earthly wears burn gently away...
there the last of them--upright and out of mind a
steady waking.
Body once upon a time explained away and folded.
Waves of euphoria gust weightlessness, the
cast of First and Last Things rattle their blinding
moorings.
Footsteps are kissed away, submit their mountain of
weight to the Halls of Posterity.
Beauty's freshest presses lay depth and proportion
upon the entrant at hand.
As a river in continuous stride--profundity endows,
carries along the: I of being.
It is when it runs through the Elysian Fields pause
is taken.
Live lights kindle, break their pillared conscription...
as radiance knows no rigidity.
Light by All definition, giver and taker...everything
we swore was about to happen Has happened--
eternity is too large to recount.
This embrace awaits the body's duration, has storied
its exit timelessly...the Elysian Fields are our playground.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
Leave this haunted house
Leave this haunted heart
Take the light from my eyes
To guide you in the dark
Ease the words from my lips
And carve them into your bones
Interpolate into the blanks,
For these thoughts are useless alone
Carry me to the southern front
Where the crossfire raises hell
And let me lie with you on the ****** beach,
Among the silent shells
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 12:30 AM UTC
Catching semiotic holdings from a cow-licked brain ****
Matching periodic scoldings, from a plough of picked-plain art
Filled prescription left for digestive tracts dissolution
Milled conscription cleft as congestive cracks merge in illusion
Temporal reconstruction, as the Adderall seeps into place
Federal distribution, as the admiral heaps the case
Welled as the spineless listen to a cautionary thought
Held as a timeless vision of a stationary plot
Pillbox running on fumes, causing fresh hysteria to solidify
Paradox coming, dawn looms, pausing thresh, staging an area to demystify
Later, new levy forbids pawing fear, spoken rotten, a deloused baiting sound
Cater to heavy lids, drawing near the cotton housed waiting ground
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
These are odd times for us, whether we can perceive it or not
It may be that we know but knowing isn't quite as tangible an experience as we'd like
We live as overwhelmed individuals in a layered psychological and cellular construction
Or, be it better or worse, solitary insecurity clusters ignoring screen after screen
Electronics spreading root throughout our air, ground, and following us around
Reality a strange blur between the definite, clear sober now and the insistent, ageless imposition of imagery
Of pixels and posters and places we've never been
Of people that distort our perceptions, degrade our emotions, and misinform us with too many voices
Our entertainment often becoming an intellectual and perceptual tranquiliser
Or a place to inhabit and let go, when the pressures of economic stability and social conscription to labour need to be forgotten, if only for a while
I still hold onto the optimism though
I hold onto it because I have to, because I want to, because I believe in it
It is my abstract fuel, a state of mind that every now and then gives me the pick me up to plod on
The internal negativity clawing at shins reconstructed as a test of masculinity, negativity from the world a test of solidarity
I am not infallible, I move slower sometimes, get lost sometimes, can't quite make it tangible and structured sometimes
I am reminded that I'm not recession proof, that I'm still the system's ***** and sometimes my buttocks aren't raised quite high enough
But..
I keep going. Like we all do. I try to let it exemplify myself a bit more than most, but..
If I can make that girl thank me,
that guy give me a smirk,
that project go a little faster,
that day smell and feel nicer
and that anxious night seem a little more transparent
Through something as simple as trying to be optimistic and mindful of the self
I guess there's something to keeping your chin up
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
Diseases lapped up from a rotted spoon, consumed to drown as costs balloon.
Parasitic conscription,
Amortized affliction.
Resource held ownership of any and all depiction.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 3:08 AM UTC
With baffling reticence these limbs pour--
were they the scream of their creation...
space would about-face.
A clarion call issued them as stars to
constellate a soul.
Secure a God's temperament--and of the
mind given them, what to derive therefrom?
Their wound is not wide from their reticence,
the presentiment of their journey is a steady
creeping...the inching forth of termless conscription.
As pastoral confines bled out the lamb by the
Hand of necessity, these limbs have so
gathered to impart their sacrifice.
A single push of an unfathomable nature sees
them thus and thus.
What center they contrive's amiss...one
cannot take hold the Agony and Ecstasy
handed by One so great.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
*then you walk into the same forest,
and patiently sit,
until three owls congregate in
a trinity of call to a unison of a bell-ring
chime for the ear,
before the one-headed Cerberus appears
of the north of Gaelic folklore
chasing a rabbit into deeper shadow;
then you alone will challenge death's
sabbath each and every sabbath after
for years to come.*
but indeed we move with shadow
as body in the fathom of night,
in darkening of an opened eye
peering, to an illumination of
a closed eye darting...
but indeed we move as grey
between slacked dissection of white
into spectrum of rose, daffodil or sky...
we move as the grey
as the white equivalent in the dark:
the moonlit aluminium of faked ageing...
ascribe then a poem to an epic
of literature... care to dwarf origins? consent then,
and conscription to vox supra omni,
if not *vox *** ultra*;
the last time i heard of a psychiatrist
i spoke of drinking in Bower Wood...
at night... and spoke of reading Kierkegaard,
as speaking of a rebirth of Cnut...
there it ended, the modern inquisition
of desirable fact... in the lit safety of
unused scissors or syringes...
there was talk of drinking and the dark wood,
which drove away all hopes of exercising medication:
for the dark woods were the required medicament,
and the spawn of all congregating shadows
into a single headed Cerberus chasing a hare
from the many congregating, to parallel my nervy
silence of sight and such subsequent record.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 8:52 PM UTC
Belgrano
Can you hear the curses? I hear them still
dead in the air rolling on the grey high seas,
fluttering, stuttering, up in the cold stony clouds,
frozen like kites in the middle of nowhere.
I hear the silence too, of the boys, the young young boy's
pressed against the bulwarks and the dead eyed iron,
sense their gun metal faces hidden inside the masks
of home spun green wool - skittering eyes peeping
through knitted balaclavas worn as cold comforters
dripping in Atlantic spume.
I can hear the whispers, the trembling pampas whispers
of near men, close men, light shaven, cropped near-to skull men,
some with dark, bull herding eyes , hearts full of Spanish guitar
and pampas whistles and beside them the rich city blond men,
quiet and bookish, alone with their poets and pebble black rosaries
running like the southern tides through their cold chapped fingers.
All hugger-mugger equaled by forced conscription, circling in silence
within their sea shrouded fears - crammed like live fish quivering in their ancient tin of old victories.
Yes I hear them still, calling out for a distant mother's arms, ripping
loose their little boy screams that are clear as over head seagulls
yet eight thousand miles away. I can hear their raw primitive panic,
ancient as the whelps of beaten camp fire dogs echoing back
from the steely grey clouds; I see them tearing at the
sea born mist, slicing the strings of their pampas kite curses
with broken bones and shattered skulls, loosing curses that rise to run
above the waves to our shores carrying the lost, little boy simpers
of clamour and death that found roost in our forgetful hearts.
Yes I still hear the screams, the sea drowned, salt soaked screams,
a cold southern ocean full of drowning young Argentine boy dreams
(pronounced men before their time), those fire soaked screams and I remember how we the civilized danced on their sad lonely deaths in our distant dry victory soaked streets of triumphant,disregard and screamed ;
"Gotcha".
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
pi in the sky
numbers dwindle-
division, subtraction...
zero times anything equals a zero
BOOM BOOM BOOM!
with the rifle pointed skyward-
perfect the trifold
presented to the widow
peacetime pride, worn upon your chest...
("feel-good" print- she passed her final test)
banner waved, reduced to ash by flame
(pantywaist) intimidating fame
"Stolen Valor" shouted by young gun
sharpshooter saved your life again, my son
older, wiser, wartime conscription victim
against the volunteer, peacetime freeride
you, younger knowitall
who never faced it,
strutting like a cockerel full of pride
BOOM BOOM BOOM!
the fireworks you splay....
pride of your "sacrifice" on display
and your suckup ***** ***** your ego
blinded by distortion
bull's-eye bead drawn on the back...
did his death elevate your stance?
can you somberly raise your barrel skyward?
do you revel in your Victory Dance?
divide our numbers-
factor in subtraction.
bear witness to the emaciation of the faction
oh "King", did you come to find
the stolen glory within your midnight mind..?
or have the hearse's headlights left you blind?
DOOM DOOM DOOM
belief in you, abating....
the voices of those who bought it, fading...
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 1:05 AM UTC
Do you want me to be impressed with your lying?
Tell me about outlandish things
Plaster yourself against the Event Horizon
Lyricize your friction with now
**** the **** of please help me
Wishing
I am wishing
outbound
powering
pulsation
this is at attention
this is a momentary
daily trance
of lift
Sweep your hand
along the surface
is there sharpness
or wetness
I am wishing
in that direction
you can't hear
'thout crossing your legs
Wishing for hardness
bangingingly loud
conscription of
******* of
that *******
rain, an hour before dawn
your choosing not me
all the way home
its insightful your pique
it's precondition
my bad intent
your justified
and this is solid
all the way up
a wave off
of words
I am NOT going to tell you
Another ******* ending
They are all lies on the inside
of our tumble
of our lyrical stumble
to serialize pulling away
leaving to get
elsewhere familiar
Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 11:20 PM UTC