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THE GOINGS ON OF THE GREAT BARNEY BROMWICH RANCH




  IN THE YEAR OF 1645, A 33 YEAR OLD MAN NAMED BARNEY BROMWICH

DECIDED HE NEEDED TO CREATE A GREAT HOLIDAY RESORT, WHERE THERE IS

A PADDOCK OF HORSES, SO THEY CAN RIDE ALL THROUGH THE COUNTRYSIDE

YOU SEE BARNEY WANTED THIS TO BE PERFECT, AND HE FIGURED THE ONLY WAY

TO MAKE IT PERFECT, BRING IT INTO AN AREA WHICH HAS A LOT OF GREAT WALKING

AND RIDING TRAILS, AND THERE IS A WONDERFUL RIVER, RUNNING, YEAH THIS IS A GREAT ESCAPE

YOU SEE THEY HAD AS LOT OF ROOMS AND RIGHT NEAR THE ENTRANCE, ON ONE SIDE THERE

IS THE LOUNGE AREA, WHERE PEOPLE SAT AND TALKED ABOUT THEIR DAY, AND ALSO

ON THE OTHER SIDE IS THE KITCHEN AND THE DINING ROOM, WHERE PEOPLE SAT TO EAT

AND EACH MEAL TIME, THERE WERE A LOT OF CHINS WAGGING  IN THAT ROOM

MIND YOU IN THE FIRST 10 YEARS, THERE WERE 45 DEATHS, AND BARNEY WAS ASTONISHED,

BECAUSE, PEOPLE RAN OFF ON BARNEY’S HORSES, AND NEVER CAME BACK, SOME WERE

FOUND DEAD WHILST OTHERS WERE JUST MISSING, BECAUSE THEY WERE LOST CAUSE THE

HORSE, TOOK THEM TOO FAR, BARNEY HAD A HARD TIME WITH THE SHERRIFF, SAYING, THAT

THIS MIGHT NOT BE A GREAT IDEA AFTER ALL, BARNEY DISAGREED AND SHOWED THE SHERRIFF

TO THE FRONT DOOR AND WENT TO HIS LOUNGE, WHERE HIS DEN IS IN THE FIRST DOOR AS HE ENTERS

THE LOUNGE, HE KNOWS IT’S BUDDHAS WILL MAKING PEOPLE DIE, TO END SUFFERING, FROM THESE HARD TIMNES

THERE IS NO MAIN REASON WHY PEOPLE DIE ON ADVENTURES THEY WANTED TO GO ON, NOBODY CAN

ANSWER THAT, NOT EVEN BARNEY, 30 OF THOSE 45 DEATHS, WERE LATER FOUND IN THE DREADED RIVER

WASHED UP ON SHORE, NO TECHNOLOGY TO SAVE THEM, BARNEY WANTED TO DRAIN THE RIVER, CAUSE TOO MANY

PEOPLE DIE FROM IT, BUT THE SHERRIFF AND THE MAYOR AND THE KING SAID, NOBODY IS TAKING THE WATER FROM MY LAKE

AND BARNEY WAS THROWN INTO THE LAKE, HE SURVIVED THAT, BUT HE STILL, FOUND IT HARD AS HIS CLOTHES, WERE

STOLEN, AND IN 1669, CONVICTS FROM ENGLAND CAME TO THIS ISLAND, AND WENT TO THE BARNEY BROMWICH RANCH

TO THREATEN TO BLOW UP THE RANCH, IF THEIR DEMANDS AREN’T MET, THESE CONVICTS ARE REALLY NASTY, THEY WILL

DO ANYTHING TO GET THEIR HANDS ON BARNEY’S LOOT.

SO THE CONVICTS, DECIDED TO LEAVE WITH BARNEY AS A HOSTAGE, AND 5 YEARS LATER, THEY BURNT BARNEY, AND HIS ASHES

WERE SCATTERED IN THE SEA, WHICH EXPLAINS MY FASCINATION FOR RUNNING RIVER WATER, THROUGH THE RAPIDS, BARNEY’

WAS REINCARNATED AS EDWARD TEACH, WHO IS BLACKBEARD THE PIRATE, AND WHEN EDWARD TEACH TURNED 14, AFTER HIS

FATHER THROUGH HIM OUT OF THE HOUSE, FOR BEING ABUSIVE, AND EDWARD STOLE A BOAT, IN THE NEARBY OCEAN, SO HE CAN

BE GUIDED BY THE TERRIBLE DEMONS TO DESTROY EARTH, EVEN THE BARNEY BROMWICH RANCH, HIS PREVIOUS LIFE PLACE

AND HE KIDNAPPED 13 CHILDREN, WHERE HE WILL MAKE THEM STAY IN THE RANCH READY TO BE BLOWN UP, THE KIDS GOT IN THE MIDDLE

SECTION OF THE RANCH, WHERE THE BOMB WILL BE, SO EDWARD AND THE KIDS TRAVELLED THROUGH RIVER TO RIVER TILL THEY FOUND

THE RIVER NEAR THE BARNEY BROMWICH RANCH, YOU SEE, EDWARD TEACH SAID HE WAS GOING ON A SPIRITUAL JOURNEY, YEAH HE WAS

HE WAS BLOWING UP THE BUILDING HIS PREVIOUS LIFE STARTED, YA KNOW IT COULD BE BECAUSE IT CAUSED TOO MANY DEATHS

YA KNOW HE IS CRONUS, AFTER ALL,, WHEN HE ARRIVED THERE, HE TIED EACH KID UP IN HIS BED, AND TWO KIDS WERE, HUCKLEBERRY FINN

AND TOM SAWYER, WHO WERE ROUGH AND TOUGH, AND HUCLEBERRY FINN AND TOM SAWYER, ESCAPED TO BE LOST FOREVER, SO THE

NEXT MORNING EDWARD TEACH SAID, TIED EVERYONE UP, AND SAID, I AM GOING TO BLOW THIS BUILDING UP TODAY, AND THEY HAD 5 HOURS,

AND IN THAT FIVE HOURS, PEOPLE WERE PANNICKING AND HUCKLEBERRY FINN AND TOM SAWYER CAME BACK AND BASHED EDWARD TEACH

AND STARTED UNTYING ALL THE PEOPLE, BUT, THE BUILDING WAS BLOWN UP, HUCKLEBERRY FINN AND TOM SWAYER, WERE BLOWN RIGHT OUT OF

THE RANCH AND INTO THE RIVER, ABOUT 23 DEATHS CAME FROM THAT, BUT HUCXLEBERRY FINN AND TOM SAWYER, AND ALSO, EDWARD TEACH, HEARD

BUDDHA’S VOICE SAYING, YOU MUST REINCARNATE, YOU MUST LEARN YOU ARE DESTROYING OUR FUTURE, OF MOTHER EARTH, AND EDWARD TEACH WENT INTO THE

STORE TO BUY A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY TO DROWN OUT BUDDHA’S VOICE, AND EDWARD TEACH SAYS, I WILL NEVER BELIEVE THIS STUPID RANCH IS MINE

AND THAT MADE BUDDHA AND ATHENA VERY MAD, SINCE THEN EDWARD TEACH CARRIED ON TAKING KIDS AND ADULTS FROM ALL CORNERS OF THE GLOBE

AND FOR THE FIRST 6 YEARS, EDWARD TEACH WAS TRYING TO **** HUCKLEBERRY FINN AND TOM SAWYER, BY CHASING THEM, TYING THEM UP

AND THESE 6 YEARS WERE TOUGH, BUT EDWARD MOVED ON, AS HE AT THE AGE OF 22, WAS KIDNAPPED AND BROUGHT ON BOARD A PIRATE SHIP,

WHERE HE GOT THE NAME BLACKBEARD THE PIRATE, AND TERRORISING PEOPLE ON THE CARRIBEAN COASTLINE, AND HUCKLEBERRY FINN AND TOM SAWYER

WERE FIGHTING TO STAY ON THE LAND

THE END
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.
Lady Francis Jan 2014
One in the chamber

Two in the clip

Only a split second

Before your sanity slips

Street Dreams

Road Warriors

Lost causes rebel

Rob,steal,****,****...

They will

Trying to prove they are strong

Just to belong

That's not gangsta!

Your pants hangin off you

Make *****,burly convicts

Wanna rub up against you

Hydrofried and twisted

A walking statistic

Confident and content with failure

Same path passed on

You'll leave your fatherless children to cry

When your dead and gone

New sneakers,fresh cut, crisp clothes

But inside you **** like a black hole!
I feel decompressed and lethargic,
as I continue scrolling through my online soul only to see a kind-hearted person now nostalgic.

Why can't we all feel the same?

Why does the world seem to be aflame?

It's because we all try to accomplish being perfect,
and when we spot "convicts" we don't even detect we inflict neglect.

The thought of unity is fading away as is the hippie way,
a late anniversary bouquet whittling away,
a smoking cigarette left around the ashtray, dying this midsummers day.

Why is this thought so crazy anyway?

The change starts internally,
and can only be finished by an honest community,
one where we can all live with our acquired mental immunity.

Finally, peace sets within our unity.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
well, mind you the curvature of the spine,
furry all round,
now glacier smooth with forehead
as naked as a baboon *** -
i'll keep you minding that image -
now, enlighten me,
why are we sending super-expensive
equipment to the celestial sahara
that's mars?
                       why are we gravitating
our inquiry there?
once philosophy was born from awe per se,
now it's born from mindlessness -
and i know it's harsh -
but given the scales, and timing,
i succumb to the physics' time-scale
rather than biology's -
before earth was to be inhabited,
before it was habitable -
the earth was smaller and hotter,
hence the volcanic volatility -
indeed there was life on Mars,
but that life migrated -
it had a different ecosystem -
less obstructive and more inclusive -
when the sun was a higher tier cauldron -
when earth was inhabitable -
when the sun was warmer -
              an earth inhabitable,
life thrived on Mars, once -
but then life on Mars begot migration;
i esteem earth as Australia with all
the convicts dumped on the forgotten
bridges of tectonic continents -
i've been here before, but not in a gorilla suit
readied for a party -
standing outside all of space & time
includes a necessary evil of abstracting either -
and by abstracting creating a different
non-collective narrative -
and so it was:
when the lifespan of the sun at the genesis
point was at its richest,
it soon passed to be excluding,
hence the nadir, the exodus of the sun's lifespan,
when earth became habitable - and was -
prior to the asteroid belt of the celestial
umbilical chord of safety -
still earth resembles the colony that australia
became administering the empire's convicts
among the Aboriginals -
but why probe a dead planet when you
have a dying star to mind?
of course the third planet in question is
Mercury, since Venus is as gaseous
as Jupiter and Saturn -
the world where the red dwarf will become
a spectacular insomnia of the girth,
the equator - but why probe a dead planet?
it's inhabitants never had the same
ecosystem akin to ours - why probe it?
all this work for a ******* ice cube?!
you have to be ******* me!
time-scales, remember, i'm as absurd mentioning
this as society is measuring the Olympic
100 metre sprint akin to formula 1 decimals of
care... i don't care... one finished 1st, the
other 2nd... all it takes is the dipping of
the *** in the sand to begin measuring
the long jump rather than the extended feet mark...
of course there was life on Mars, there was life
on Mars... but the dynamic of the sun changed,
it cooled down... so the next profitable planet
could express itself in evolution
from volcanic eczema... there was once life on Mars,
but there's no longer a case to argue for proof....
globalisation gave us unity among once
warring ethnicities... but that will hardly
accumulate in a trans-global orientation...
i've spotted a u.f.o. once, by god i did...
it was fluorescent like a bug phosphorescent
in the dark with a disco ball *** to shine...
listen... this time-scale is long enough to craft
a future history according to what the Martians
did - and this is my idea of god...
happy? no. sad? no. anything at all? mm...
now we're talking - earth was once
non-habitable, too hot, hence the cold  blooded
lizards akin to birch trees, the scouts of forestry -
then the mammals all confused turning
against each other when the predatory aesthetics
were forgotten at kin and Gemini to lions -
life was once apparent on Mars, but Mars is
a dead planet, i wish it was an antique shop
that the n.a.s.a. hopeful geniuses wish it was...
but it's not... just imagine that train of thought
surrounding the sun like you do with the march
of progress... but with the sun imagine
a rotation of progress...
              hey! i wouldn't be looking for
liquid nitrogen bacteria mummified on Mars...
i'd be wondering how the circle
evolved from O, to 0, to ∞ (8)
given the squish - the opposite of two black holes
colliding; honestly, you can find more meaning
in things while you take the big to be small;
i know i'm not famous among nouns -
i can hardly equal the fame of casual noun usage,
no one can, and i know that the fame i sought
is actually an anonymity in verbs (actions),
i forever the shadow - mind yourself to be content
with such a fate as i have found myself content in
progressing to expressing such a chequered flag -
chequered flag, the irony, the invitation of the many
participants for a game that takes two -
the irony of the chequered flag as the death of chess -
anyway - Mars was once a home to those who
came prior, prior to when earth was not habitable -
bypass Venus and you enter the history of Mercury,
the last rock to be minded -
and no one will prove me wrong, to have lived that
long... it is, i must add, rather dangerous
to posit yourself outside all space and all time -
it's dangerous, there's no saturday night awaiting you,
there's no casual talk over a coffee for mortal
problems taking fold and shape...
once you breach the barriers of sane conclusions
that the river explains you will become a cursor
in the only dimension waiting for you -
a vibrating stasis, imagining geographies for
clearer conclusions of movement -
and since man's technological advances have provided
the entire mapping of the earth,
you will be cleanly placed to usurp any other
imaginings other than those prescribed to
the reduction of yourself as x
moving between             point A                and
                                       point B -
                    now try that without geography
and with knowledge, as the greeks famously answered,
             a coordinating cursor x between
point α                    and                                     ω.
I pray to the great spirit
guide me through this pain
this world conflicts
show me a world that holds no lies
that treats us like convicts
abandoned by society
in a world we once walked so free

Show me a setting sun
where blood never flows
like rivers turned red
where another one dies
underneath these blood red skies

Guide me through this land so dead
where visions stay in my head
teach me things nobody knows
when this day is gone
and all has come undone

Give me the strength I need
to make this a better place
when my people bleed
from this world falling from grace
Spiritwind ©1998
Relatives of dead convicts
with debauched faces
and curly headed sailors
sing morose melodies
to the wail of saxophones
screaming strings
clashing cymbals
and the rattle of kettle drums.
Andrew Rueter Sep 2017
My mind is foggy
Though I'm not groggy
A mist emerges
My peace it purges
I see contradictions
And feel convictions
That inflict conflict
And indict convicts
So I accumulate cumulus clouds accordingly
To fog my marshy mind more horribly
My brain becomes a banshee
And screams from my mist
She shrieks an awful list
Of everything wrong
And everyone gone
Her voice blasts through my cerebral stratus clouds
And her voice echoes within the silent static crowd
The clouds I gathered to block her wailing
Are completely empty and always failing
They look so absolutely grand and solid in the sky
They're just water vapor that form droplets in my eyes
Joshua Vincens Sep 2012
As I sit and ponder, My mind begins to wander, here are my thoughts:

Mainly at night, as I look at life, "What is it?"

Is destiny just everything between life and death, or are we put in the positions of predicaments for a purpose:

Are poor single mothers and fathers given such a path so they may teach their children to live a lonely life; or,
to show them how to get out of that life?

Convicts, are they truly meant to receive life in prison; or, learn the essence of change, and share that wisdom?

Gangsters and thugs, call them what you will, are they only to have a short life consisting of death and sorrow; or, come out of the grind so they may one day return to help change the places and people of which they came?

Are those with clinical depression meant to remain on a medication for the remainder of their days; or, are they to learn that the deepest of pain allows one to truly appreciate joy?

These are just a few of the things I contemplate as my mind wanders, while I sit and ponder.
Even now he sneaks away,
Leaving his family behind.
No longer caring what they say,
He can't stand to be inside.

On the roof, above the twelfth floor,
Looking out to the distant moon.
A quarter million miles more,
He hopes to be there soon.

Now his feet, they dangle free,
On the edge of life.
He knows there is so much more to be,
But has always considered this night.

He hums a tune softly to himself,
Space Bound by Eminem.
He dares not sing it to anyone else,
They wouldn't care enough to listen.

It defies, yet describes himself,
The impossible journey so far.
Wondering if he should call for help,
He examines again the stars.

He's on the edge, a moment profound,
Between two types of infinity.
One the universe that so surrounds,
And two, the end of all he could be.

Both so huge, so permanent,
They both could swallow him whole.
He can't tell where he would be sent,
When they put him in a hole.

He thought he had done so well,
Believing himself worthy.
But as his promises all fell,
His soul now feels *****.

He snaps back to the moment,
And the horror of it all.
But realizing his cares are spent,
He somehow doesn't fear the fall.

This is the only place he feels alive,
When he's walking that fine line.
Trying to recall when he felt the drive,
To stay and live and shine.

He remembers all the lively vigor,
That flooded through his veins.
He recalls what it was like to be a lover,
And let her take the reigns.

It screams through him,
A passion he cannot contain.
Forcing its way through him,
The shocking, driving main.

The phantom tears fall,
Not really there but real.
Time has slowed to a crawl,
As he remembers what it is to feel.

Once again he snaps back,
Reality greets him with a gust.
Struggling to control this attack,
He tries to find his trust.

But he's off his high,
The adrenaline has gone.
Still so fascinated by the sky,
He forces himself to go on.

Climbing down, he sighs aloud,
Nothing remains the same.
The moon is coveted by clouds,
And he hasn't gone insane.

He examines himself, his solid being,
Curious about his existence.
All of what he is seeing,
Seems as from a distance.

He pulls out his keyboard,
The journal of his sins.
The only thing in his world,
That when he calls, seems to listen.

He writes about a tragic man,
And rhymes all of his conflicts.
He locks it inside, as was his plan,
Twenty six little convicts.

Wondering within, in his head,
He scours for the truth.
He fears that it is all but dead,
The honesty of youth.

How can one man feel so alone?
Solemn tears of such despair,
Sitting atop his gilded throne,
His soul begins to tear.

He is so loved, but alas,
Fast love is not his cure.
He wishes for something that might last,
A peace that might endure.

He spends his nights,
In dying hatred of himself.
His many, many internal fights,
Have left him little else.

He denies, but knows it true:
He has finally come to fear.
His trust has finally fallen through,
He can't allow anyone so near.

Betrayed too often, taken and used,
His spirit taken for granted.
Now accustomed to being abused,
All his dreams have slanted.

He now believes that is his role,
The savior and the help.
Each case has taken its toll,
And nobody knows how it felt.

Now he lets a few come close,
But he dares not admit his flaws.
Beaten but unbroken,
Still dodging sharpened claws.

He put his faith in God,
And forces himself to believe.
He often wonders if the book is flawed,
But sees all he has received.

He lives life by logical decisions,
And this, mostly is true.
His heart has never found direction,
When he doesn't know what to do.

Now he no longer trusts his heart,
And so relies on luck.
He's waiting for a girl set apart,
One who loves poetry and trucks.

He drowns within his regrets,
Hating the things he has done.
Remembering the cruelest bets,
And all of those he has won.

Counting the hearts he burned,
Leading them on and on.
Recalling how each finally turned,
After he told them to move on.

He listens to the songs,
The lyrics describing love.
Now he thinks they might be wrong,
As he doubts what is above.

He sees in himself many gifts,
But he wonders if they are imagined.
Is he the one creating rifts?
Is there nothing good within him?

Does nothing really set him apart,
Is he truly just the same?
The numbers say that he is smart,
But he has outgrown his fame.

All his life he has been told,
That he is different, special.
But now as compliments grow old,
He again begins to wrestle.

In his heart he thinks they lied,
Inflating his confidence.
But now that his ego has died,
He dares not reminisce.

He climbed and climbed on great wings,
A beacon of joy and smiles.
But now they hate whenever he sings,
And his jokes don't make them smile.

He rarely screams or loses control,
But he can't comprehend what they say.
An extinguished spark within his soul,
Wonders why they pushed him away.

And so he goes, on and on,
He has not yet found his end.
All that was right is now wrong,
And so he constantly pretends.

Writing words as though they matter,
Laughing as if he cares.
His trust fades as it scatters,
And he keeps stitching his tears.
.
.
.
.
.
I slowly arise from my seat,
Glad that man is not me.
The clouds hide the moon from sight,
And it is far too late at night.

I'm refreshed and even smile.
I haven't had peace in a while.
The phantom tears nearly fall,
As I admire the beauty of it all.

The sky is so wide, so infinite,
I could lose myself within it.
Happy memories fill my mind,
Of all those I hold inside.

Folding chair my comfy throne,
Though tonight I am alone.
But I know that I am so loved,
A better life I can't think of.

From the floor below I hear a sound,
Eminem's Space Bound.
I hum along to the beat,
Wishing my own words so fleet.

One more glance into the sky,
I dream of soaring, flying high.
Smiling broadly, loving life,
I bid the beautiful world goodnight.
Matt Morgan Nov 2013
I'm slow to the boil and takes a lot to **** me off.

WARNING: Stop reading if you dislike vents.

A truth we all know but WONT discuss IS race relations in America *****!!
How did it come to all this open bigotry and so many stupid racist comments?
****** shame that my race still don't get that ALL people are created equal.
Maybe other regions get it but not my area with it's tons of racists.
In my area people believe all blacks lie, steal, cheat, live in ghettos,
black is the wrong race and white is always right and superior. BULL!!!
I will never be ignorant and speak ignorance like I hear in my area
"Ship them back to Africa their homeland!"  
Wake up! Africa is everybody's motherland!!!  
My dander is up because stupid racist bogus flagged a video of a friend.
Not bad enough they call venues so the lady can't get a local gig or they
posted bogus mugshots of convicts on Craigslist faking it was her.....
ATTENTION people from Northern Michigan: YOU PEOPLE NEED TO
RETHINK WHAT YOU THINK AND SAY ABOUT MINORITIES!!!
****** she's proving she doesn't need Northern Michigan to get her music heard?
Calling venue to get her fired and lose jobs didn't stop her from singing.
You can't flag this and to remove like you did on Craigslist.
I stopped posting on Craigslist after all the **** talk about my friend.
She got targeted by ignorant racist assuming ALL black women are like the
Kerry Washington's character on Scandal. Betty's not a bed hopper and
she doesn't ***** around with married men. I can't speak for Kerry Washington.
Betty doesn't speak ghetto talk as my area calls it and she's not like the stereotypes
racist paint all blacks to be. Blew their minds that Betty's a hell of a lot smarter than
them and she's not lazy, ignorant or the N word they love calling blacks.
Fed up with the racism in my area, Northern Michigan and the nation.
****** because anonymous ignorant went to Youtube and flagged my friend
Betty Ponder's new G-rated video for inappropriate content and got it removed.
Inappropriate content my ***!
YOU GOTTA HAVE A BEER ON AUSTRALIA DAY, MATEY



HI DUDES, IT’S JANUARY 26TH, AND WE MUST CELEBRATE

THE DAY WE WERE INVADED BY CONVICTS, YA SEE MATE

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

AND BECAUSE OF THAT IT’S IN OUR CULTURE TO DRINK

JUST LIKE I DID, I HEAR MATES SAYING, YOU GOTTA HAVE A BEER FOR AUSTRALIA DAY, WHY

WHAT IS WRONG WITH COKE, COKE IS FROM AUSTRALIA

AND THE MEN SAID, WE MUST DRINK BEER, WE MUST DRINK BEER

WE ARE DESCENDANT FROM CONVICTS, AND IT’S IN OUR CULTURE TO DRINK

WE LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY

OH YEAH, BOW BOW, WE DRINK EVERY BEER UNDER THE TABLE, AND GET BLIND

YEAHH GET WASTED, MAN, WASTED, MAN

AND THEN COOK A BEAUTIFUL LAMB CHOP ON THE BBQ, DUDES

YEAH IT SOUNDS RADICAL, SO RADICAL, LIVING IN AUSTRALIA, WITH A CAN OF BEER AND A NICE LAMB

EXCUSE ME EXCUSE ME, THERE ARE 2 LAMBS HERE

YEAH, IF THEY ARE BOTHERING YA, WE’LL HAVE ‘EM REMOVED

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY

THE ONLY REASON I LIKE AUSTRALIA DAY IF, IS THE NICE AUSTRALIA DAY BBQ BREAKFAST AT COMMONWEALTH PARK, IT SOUNDS SO RAD

AUSTRALIANS DRINK THEIR BEER, AND PROUD TO DRINK THEIR BEER

GET BLIND AND END UP IN THE DITCH, I LIKE HOW AUSTRALIANS PARTY ON AUSTRALIA DAY, IT’S COOL

BUT THEN THEY STILL THINK IT’S COOL TO DRIVE HOME DRUNK, NO IT’S NOT COOL TO DRIVE HOME DRUNK

BUDDHA DOESN’T APPROVE OF DRINKING LOUTS, EITHER DOES CRONUS, WHO IS ME

NO, I BELIEVE IN A GOOD CLEAN PARTY, A PARTY, WHERE EVERYONE, I MEAN EVERYONE RICH OR POOR ARE SAFE

I AM THE COOL PEOPLE’S LITTLE SKATEGOAT, AND I AM A BIT OF A SILLY GOAT

CAUSE, I KNOW MY STORIES ARE HELPING A LOT OF PEOPLE

WE DO LIVE HERE IN AUSTRALIA, MATE, WHERE WE LIVE IN A CULTURE OF REAL COOL PARTY GOERS

AND THE PROBLEM IS, THEY TAKE THE PARTY ON TO BEING KILLED OR KILLING SOME INNOCENT FAMILY

AND CRONUS, WHO IS ME DOESN’T ALOOW THIS, I AM NO OLD FOGIE I JUST CARE FOR THE WELLBEING OF MY FELLOW, MAN

I LIKE THE IDEA, OF PEOPLE LEAVINGT EACH OTHER ALONE, IF I DON’T WANT TO DRINK WITH YOU, I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO

CARE FOR YA FELLOW MAN, THAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN MY PHILOSOPHY

I RESPECT YOU AS LONG AS YOU FOLLOW THE PARTY CODE, LIKE ME

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

IT’S IN AUSTRALIA’S CULTURE TO HAVE A FEW BEERS, YEAH MATE YEAH YEAH I’M RAD

AND THEN MR FRED HAMILTON, WHO IS A FIRM BELIEVER IN POOR RIGHTS

SAW SOME DRUNKS PICKING ON A HOMELESS MAN, SAYING, YOU ARE NOT A REGULAR AUSTRALIAN, YOU HAVEN’T GOT A BEER

AND FRED CAME UP AND SAID, YOU LEAVE HIM ALONE YOU BUNCH OF CRAZY DRUNKS

HE IS HOMELESS, HE CAN’T AFFORD BEER, HE CAN’T AFRORD WINE, LEAVE HIM ALONE AND FRED GAVE THE HOMELESS MAN $50 TO SPEND HOW HE SEES FIT

FRED SANG WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

IT’S IN OUR CULTURE IN AUSTRALIA TO DRINK AND TREAT THE HOMELESS PEOPLE LIKE DIRT, THE HOMELESS ARE JUST TRYING TO FIT IN

AND THEY BECAUSE OF TONY ABBOTT, THEY ARE FORCED TO EAT THEIR ******* FROM A BIN

THEY ARE TRYING TO FIT IN, TO SOCIETY, WHEN NOBODY GIVES A WINK

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

IT’S IN AUSTRALIA’S CULTURE TO DRINK ON AUSTRALIA DAY, HAVE A BEER, AND GET INTO A FIGHT, MAKES YOU A REAL AUSTRALIAN, I DON’T BELIEVE IN VIOLENCE IN THAT WAY

ENJOY DRINKING AND GETTING ******, BUT I SAY, NO VIOLENCE, I SAY NO VIOLENCE

WHY DO YOU WANT VIOLENCE ANY WAY, PEOPLE JUST END UP GETTING HURT, IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE

IF YA WANNA FIGHT, TAKE UP BOXING, WHERE THE OTHER PERSON WANTS TO FIGHT ALSO

TOO MANY PEOPLE GET KILLED FROM ILLEGAL FIGHTING, TOO MANY PEOPLE GET KILLED FROM ILLEGAL FIGHTING TOO MANY PEOPLE GET KILLED FROM ILLEGAL FIGHTING

THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH CELEBRATING AUSTRALIA DAY, MATE, BUT KEEP THE VIOLENCE OFF THE STREET, UMMMMMMM ME WHO IS CRONUS HAS SPOKEN AND SPOKEN I SHALL

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

IT’S AUSTRALIA DAY MATE, BY ALL MEANS PARTY, HAVE A BBQ, ENJOY THE FESTIVITIIES, JUST LIKE ME

BUT BE GOOD PEOPLE, YOU ****** WELL SEE

AND THEN I WALKED IN THE ROOM, CRACKED OPEN A COKE CAN AND SAY HAPPY AUSTRALIA DAY EVERYONE, AND BE GOOD

A fast-track court in the capital city;
A Judiciary of a democratic Country;
Hearing the a gang-**** case,
reserved its order
on the quantum of
Punishment for the
four convicted in the
Gang-**** and ******
of a 23-year-old
innocent girl

A 237- page judgment,
Noting that that the
Crime was committed
in an extremely brutal manner.
“The major part of her intestine
was pulled out from the body,”
the Doctor  said.

The prosecution has sought
the death penalty for the
four convicts, while the
Defense lawyers for the
Convicted are pleading
for a lenient verdict.
The arguments in the
gruesome gang-**** case
are over and sentencing
will be announced
at 2.30 pm on Friday,
13th September, 2013

"The sentence which is
very appropriate is nothing
short of death,"
special public prosecutor
told the court.


“The common man
will lose faith in the judiciary
if the harshest punishment
is not given “
the Judge remarked;
Guilty of ******,
Gang ****,
Unnatural ***,
Criminal conspiracy,  
destruction of evidence,
Kidnapping and attempting to ****,
the  eyewitness  said

The fifth convict
Committed suicide
in Tihar Jail
in March this year

The sixth convict
was a juvenile at the time
of the incident and has been
given a three- year term
in a reformation home.

A fast-track court,
A Judiciary of a democratic
Country will order
Stop Crime against women !
“Hang them,
Not let them go free”
**
______________

BY
WILLI­AMSJI MAVELI
The Poem is written in view of  a support with a motto "Stop Crime against women !"
by WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Ottar Oct 2013
relentless, incremental,
running away,
play ...,
grains of sand measure
both the stars in the universe,
and the stars in the universe
measure descendants and...
all of this is weighed against, what?

some where today a man flew home,
some where today a woman will open this,
with intention to read, with soft eyes and
a warm heart, and more savvy than that word
knows it has, by definition.
some where  a man puts his hand in a river
and comes out with words, not water

there will be many babies
                              maybe born in zones of conflict,
than my country has people behind bars as convicts,
which some people would take as   a    good   thing,
                                                          ­                bring
peace to the conflict zone,
as for the convicts they are on their own, what current
wisdom would and just as quickly ask, but who is gonna pay,
for all this insanity;
no wars,
no jails,
next you'll tell us there is no shortage of whales,
                                                         ­                 but what of their song
why has a choir turned into three whale voices singing a quartet piece?
why do we measure space and dig into the earth, you know the Earth,
no I am not going to do the obvious thing and rhyme it with a birth,
settle lightly like falling leaves when you sleep,
don't keep your fingers texting to go deep,
into the technological pool of this age,
mock whale noises,
news cast without real news, what a blast,
stand real still and sense where the wind blows
stepping outside, your castle walls and open the windows,
is more productive than hitting the refresh button,
oh don't worry, I am no hurry to start a conspiracy with this,
I'm not in the know what is for show, a closet conspiracy theorist,
anything goes,
anything goes,
I can converse on any topic as long as you say the words, I'll move my lips,
and you make the sounds, it will be the result of a well oiled machine,
trying to save the planet from the very pinnacle of creation
that caused the fall
man...kind.

You say to me, it has to be this way,
" Cause you say it best when you say nothing at all"


©DWE102013
sure I call it hip-hop because that is how I move at my age, some mornings.
Ronan keating for final line from "When you say nothing at all"
Allison Krause has sung it too.  Other artists as well but written by Paul Overstreet & Don Schlitz
Air Supply did "Making Love out of Nothing at all"
Carmelo Antone Apr 2013
Yellow bellies cry,
A decree to defy,
A life to satisfy,

When the days become the moments to excavate your existence,
Elevate from your unsealed coffin,
Instead of having to scratch at earth after it smothers you,

It’s a cliché in so many ways,
A roller coaster of yells, thrills, and shrills,

Bringing us to a rise like the sun being timed,
The warmth of light, ascending towards the clearest of skies,
Strapped in like the others, with the same state of mind,
Smiling because of the rails they gave us, our guides,  

Daring till we descend into darkness,
Blindness of a foggy night,
Strapped in because this ride will pass others by,
But that doesn’t mean we can’t survive,
A life that will remember those who think twice,  

Victimized because we speak against authoritarian audacity,
They're testing our humanly elasticity,
Forgetting other minds,
Their worse enemies,

No matter if he’s a priest,
No matter if somehow he was allowed to teach,
The people are here to preach.
Francie Lynch Apr 2014
The sun sits heavy on our lake.
There's much less to anticipate;
So much to communicate.
So let's reflect on our spectrum,
Our sapient human curriculum.

I

The sentient clod in Book One,
Sat up, cleaned up, pulled out his thumb.
With leafless Eve and fruitful tree
(made fertile with Theology)
Gave rise to Sociology.
Of all the ologies to appear,
Without this one we're not here.

Buy in, ward of tribal wrath.
Empathy's good for a sociopath.

II

To help our clans grow brave and strong,
Our gestures turned into whale song.
Those gutturals uttered shared found fire,
Pulled our heads from **** mire.
Did more for us than temple choirs.
Soon we make our first speech acts,
Labelling things, voicing contracts.
Our language was invented once
With radiance, with brilliance.
Its acquisition global,
Like math and music, universal.
Not to be learned, but inherent,
Foreboding dark and translucent.
With many voices we now relate,
And in conclusion end debate.
It really does sound quite absurd
To be seen and not heard.
So form good thoughts, speak good words.

Though our languages grew and spread,
By 2100 half are dead.

III

From our mud jambs and our stone,
We peaked, then said we're not alone.
Assumed a greater good than we
Placed us here and made us free.
Co-joined with divines we wait,
To resurrect... reincarnate...
(It's just too weird to transmigrate)
The ones who really take the cake
Are those that transubstantiate.
Beliefs now sculpted religious states
(The unknown makes one hesitate).
Thank goodness in our good will,
If caught we punish
(And still sadly ****).
Fear and guilt are base and column
Supporting deities we relied on.

We surely had ourselves in mind,
To create such gods we find unkind.

IV

We sought solutions to reality.
We love to hear our name.
To think within about oneself,
To think one can prove oneself
With statements of truth and belief.
We plied knowledge, values and existence,
To come to terms with our essence.
If you think, doubt and speak,
Know when to enter and delete;
Then rest assured you're not doomed;

dubito ergo cognito, ergo sum

V

The hub of sciences and controls
Mines our minds to open portals.
A discipline that aims to heal
Delusions of reality.
It delves deeply into our dreams,
Interpreting recurring themes.
Parsing perceptions and relations,
Our cognition and emotions.
Claiming reactions of fight or flight
Is our basest primate notion.
If you're seeking therapy
For life's complex journey,
Then heal thyself, and heal me.

Couch us in Psychology.

VI

In King James we're told history
Bound in ancient mystery.
The collected works of humanity
Were printed for our legacy.
One needs only read The Prodigal Son,
To know the course our literature's run.
Here read romance, greed and crime,
Erotica, adventure, The Divine.
Its cup spills with poetry,
Breaching the lip with poesy.
The best an author could produce.

The exception being Mother Goose.

VII

Our human/physical Geography
Unlocks our global complexity;
Unravels human comaraderie.

To really get it leave your hovel,
Pack your bags, make plans to travel.

VIII

Laws are made for governance,
With no excuse for ignorance.
Economy, society and politics,
Are codified by social ethics.
Crowding cells with amoral convicts.
Rules curb narcissistic needs
With civil and criminal equality.

To understand our civic censure,
Spot a cop in your rear view mirror.

IX

We've searched long, trying to explain,
Using Science, naming names.
Administering tests of redundancy
To master predictability.
Everything now seems Something-Science:
As if the hyphen empowers sapience.
But science isn't all that stable,
Its theories ever changing.
Strings now loop through everything.
The latest theories can't be grasped,
With ten dimensions moving fast,
Or moving slowly, shrinking, growing.

It seems we're really in the know!
Before Big Bang what ran the show?

X

From cave paintings to modernity,
Art projects humanity.
It's very good at teasing us
With abstracts feigning mimesis.
Does the artist need an audience
For his art to make some sense.
For art's sake accept the creed:

Ars Gratia Artis.
Are we agreed?

Afterward

What I learned from
Rock 'n Roll
Has helped divine
What I call soul

(As for *** and drugs?
Best left untold).

I'm just the boy that ran track,
Studied Shakespeare,
Read the stacks.
Did stand-up routines
In my class.

Those I love I endow
With all my love.
They know by now.

Don't get me wrong,
I'm aging great,
But there's so much to communicate.
So much to anticipate.
This may be an ongoing piece. There's so much to communicate.
Dada Olowo Eyo Feb 2013
Because you’re not in the orange overalls,
Does not make you a saint,
Don’t smear me with red paint,
Because you walk the hallowed halls.
Pen robbers that call gun robbers thieves.
Saul Makabim Aug 2012
Spurred on by scarecrow's
chemical coercions
convicts and sick souls
spill out into the streets
To slice dice
cook and eat
An orange jumpsuit army,
a crushing orange wave consumes
The neighborhoods and avenues
Chaos is constant
Carnage is complete
No single hero can quell a wave of madmen
well acquainted with violence
Like an avalanche of razors, and ambulance sirens
Wielding improvised blood letters
And bone snappers
Citizens scream and flee
Consumed by the visions
Contained in the cloud of fear
It is clear
it is going to be a wild time
in old Gotham tonight.
From Batman Begins...
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
talk of empire can be a tedium to say the least,
the Maharajahs of India never felt more
at home with european literature and
culture overall, but class system doubly
emphasised - or as the television series proved -
hardly an affair for the pithy concerns of
pitiable folk - first season i never bothered to
sense a tightening -
you see, looking at colonialism is not looking
at racism - racism has a dynamic to it,
colonialism has a hierarchy - the two differ,
second season in i sense colonialism as the
intelligent form of racism, presuppositions too many,
racism for the poor and the idiotic and
colonialism for the rich and cultured and
Gentlemanly - pork buttocks for the fork to my care,
i said once i'm not into these post-colonial
dynamics in England - the only winners are
Australians, former convicts who care much about
preservation of the populace of crocodiles -
this 2nd season is really piling it in to differentiate
between barbaric discrimination and civilised
discrimination - i guess a prior history of instilled
hierarchy made the Maharajahs akin to the Brits
(the caste system, untouchables in Bengali),
the "great rulers" didn't mind, they were actually
trying to be kept in the commonwealth -
such aristocracy easily scared and even more easily
scarred - the aristocrats of communism came from
the intelligentsia - bookworms and hardly the
pompous old farts ready to hunt tigers replacing
goats with little children tied to wooden poles -
that's what capitalism fears, a coerced class of
intelligent people, coerced into a class, they fear this,
it's hard to control such people, collective ignorance
is too easily dissected and denied, via doubt -
hardly a reason to be a recipient of existence (out of
every instance per se, hence the sigma unfathomable) -
and to only be rewarded with entertainment?
these far-left intellectuals breed on thought to be
the sole existential reward, and subsequently entertainment;
i too find thinking a pleasure, when you assume that
there's no reward for it, or a reliability to it
being a kindred of an ***** phallus -
never mind - you see, this talk of empires has given
me an ideal conclusive remark:
landlocked empires, or, should i say,
empires that thrive on spreading via land alone,
ref. e.g. to the Mongol or the Alexandrian empire...
they're short lived, they increase landmass exponentially
and very successfully - their motto:
strike the iron while it's hot -
they depend on constant success - they require
a bacterial like membrane of being seemingly
invincible - these land locked empires come and go
very quickly -
unlike the second type of empire building,
those which also require more than horse hoofs
at a gallop, the ones that treat the power of the seas
as its arteries, and land as their veins -
the British empire, the Roman empire -
once an empire is dependent on sea and subsequently
trade, it will be convincingly successful and will
outlast all those brutal empires that spread via land alone -
russia is indeed an anomaly - but then again hardly
an anomaly given the harsh terrain it encompasses -
no one wants to live there, who in their right state
of mind would, anyway?
the russian pride has a weakness - siberia -
oh **** looks great, a 12" protruding **** of geography,
but it's Siberia, -40°C... the way i see it, Russia
is the size of from its borders with Ukraine
Belarus and the Baltic states and the Ural mountains...
the rest is Mongolia - the peoples are steppe Eskimos.
so to summarise - ambitions of empire building that
do not utilise the power of the sea are indeed
the largest but also of the shortest lifespan -
like that old fable of an old farmer dividing his land
among his sons - sooner or later it ends up
a complex intricacy akin to the Holy Roman Empire -
or as the Romans said: dub the germans holy
and you're going straight to hell! little princes that became
major beggars and leeches - the louse jealousy took over...
breadcrumb like land ownership:
20 kilograms of potatoes a year for each son,
enough to feed a pig for a month...
and yes, doubly conclusive, i don't know why
Christianity is blamed for the desecration of greek
culture, the so called "robbing of the greek culture" -
i can't imagine any singled out people
to be infused with ****** and keep it up -
Nietzsche blamed Socrates, the modern intellectuals
blamed Jesus of Nazareth... you know who i blame?
Alexander the great, a Macedonian after all,
and Aristotle (partially) -
that's the greeks though - the Mongols had nothing
prior and nothing after of note on the blank page
or care for a library, and perhaps that's all the better,
you hardly hear news from Mongolia in our
present age... they had the wind to write their history
in that great Genghis Khan Stampede;
i did tell you that the communist experiment took
place in Mongolia, didn't i? before it was accepted
as counter-Tsar pyramidal and later in the satellite states
it was first tested in Mongolia...
if you don't believe me, believe the guy who
sat in the UCL history library and was writing up
essay notes roughly 9 years ago.
A man built a
stone wall in
a place which
was not his to                              
reside. It was
torn down ‘til
he killed the
other person,

  Therefore a council, the ‘Council of the Commons,’ was called to order. It was from this foundation that early man found truth in matters through debate. It was a way of reckoning with problems and resolving disputes and contained three members; a king, a judge and their god -who came before the shrill cries and lamentations that day to hear the case of the stonemason. It was gathered at the temple of the god.

Lugal; “In what is good and what is just, I imagine a verdict that treats the people as wholesome; is just.”

Dekōōd; “For you believe, as all rulers do, that justice leaves are but for the few, the man who acts can never do, a thing unjust for his reward is due, but in this you err, unlike in battle, for people humanely; cannot be treated as cattle.”

Dinĝir; “And what of me? What my concern? What offering more, than blood-on-earth; in turn?”

Lugal; “We are not here in glory nor in battle but save for the prayers of these people; our chattel.”

Dekōōd; “I am not here for you, nor here for thus, nor daimones due, I am the judge, and adjudicate, I must! No matter solemn, or ill or gravely hearted, to sufferers who mourn, a dearly departed. If laws were broken, so have I been called, as one of three who judges, judges all, and so be it, until a time, that such a thing as rule, has ceased to rhyme, and man has ended, for all time!”

Dinĝir; “Very well, very well indeed, their incense is pleasing, their temple cleaned, their prayers heard, devices expected and meat and porridge and genuflective, these subjects are a thrill to me, go forward council, you two of three. I shall not make my move as much, until you humans, consider such, but once you pass a judgment on, this humble man of stone and brawn, just say the verdict and I will act, as Dekōōd has judged him, for his attack.”

Lugal; “Quiet now! Hush all, be quiet, lest I consider, your shrills, a riot, and put you down, for I decree, over all that you know, and all that you see, a final arbiter, of the law, I am your King; the king of all!”

Dekōōd; “And I your judge, your voice of reason, who discerns the meanings, the acts and treasons and takes the place of him that died and points thy finger and convicts those that lied!”

Dinĝir; “Mmmpfh, crunch, gargle, ummped, mmmpfh…pig! …and it’s roasted well…mmmpfh, smack.”

Dekōōd; “Come before me, bring that stonemason, and the family come forward, come quickly, quickly hasten, and the accusers tell, your tale of woe, and I’ll assign his character, if it is low.”


“I am wife, was wife to he, the man a farmer, and husband to me,
These here, his children, all eight of thee, and that land there, was given to us, you see,


By that great king, Oh Lugal, it is I, and he was a lieutenant, in the wars of honor, on your side,

Which beget you your kingdom, thus you granted these lands to him, whom did, his duty,

And that monster, the mason, his wall upon them doth rent away, -their beauty,

After our reproach, he did slay my hus-band, his blood now spilt, and washed upon, our land.”

Dekōōd; “Come before me now stonemason, show me your face, over there, yes, that’s your place, stand at that podium and tell us now, give us your case, but remember how well you plead, shall determine, your fates."

“I may have built my wall as such, plans offset by hills that roll but I did nothing wrong except to error,

I did not commit this claimed terror, her husband attacked me before we could reason and that was it.”

Dekōōd; “You call that eloquence? Well then, eye for an eye, tear this man apart, until he has died, and as he lie dying, Diĝir, it’s your turn, devour your portion, for the rest, we shall burn!”

Lugal; “For I am Basileos!”
Dekōōd; “For I am Basilicas!”
Dinĝir; “For I am Basiliskus!”

“The king, a judge, your god; the three,

…and this, as such, is our, decree!”
Sumerian; Lugal means King, Dekood means Judge, Digir means God.
burned up Mar 2015
I am a gladiator in the Roman Colosseum
when the lions are let loose
and I've been given a sword that's too small
to defend myself with
The people in the stands are laughing at me
Not one of them reaches down to pull me out
Because they put me here
They sent these lions to hunt me down
for the crimes I committed
They clap and cheer
Because to them it's a sport
watching me get torn apart
And I never thought I would be down in this pit
Because I once sat where they did
Jeering and clapping for convicts to pay their dues
But look where I am now
I am the gladiator in the Roman Colosseum
when the lions are let loose
Third Eye Candy May 2013
in the pure drizzle of an afternoon, we loved each other.
how beautiful.

how miraculous the lush and the whimsy wrinkles of our smile.
the blunt yes of submission
to a Master and
the Long Yes.

with no hell.
chloe fleming Nov 2015
why is it these days that all the good die young?
when there's prisoners and felons waiting to be hung.
see it's only the innocent that get hit by blind eyes
when the bad ones they rot, in an eternity of lies
rapists and killers get visitors daily,
while my sisters lucky if anyone thought about her lately.
my good friends are being mowed down like spring grass
and the convicts are playing checkers and sharing loud laughs
the man who killed my sister is sitting in a cell,
while my sister is lying, 6 feet in the ground
how sad is that my friends are fading
while empty jail cells sit anticipating?
What did your childhood sound like?


Did it sound like  a crowd cheering when you scored the winning point?  Or, the sound of your friend teaching you to roll a joint. The sound of sirens.  And it feels so right to be doing things wrong. The sound of the engine revving.  Or, the sound of a car radio blasting a new rap song about violence. Or, coming home to the sound of silence, because nobody's there. Or, the sound of the raspy voices in your head when you think nobody cares. Or, the sound of gunshots at nighttime that are to close for comfort. So you text all your friends to make sure no one is hurt.  Or, the sound of the school bell, The sound your feet make when you run out of the building like you're running from Hell, thinking who am I kidding i'll never be good enough.  Or, the sound of an envelope tearing open with your grade card inside. watching all of the color drain from your Dad's face including his pride. Or, the sound of him yelling, telling you that you're weak when he sees that first tear drop roll down your cheek. Or, the sound of your conscience calling you fat. Yeah, there's that. The sound of your stomach growling with hunger when you refuse to eat. " Jeez, you're so FAT you can't even see your feet ."

What did your childhood sound like?

Did it sound  like sticks held by police destroying your families poppy field? The sound of  your mom trying to silence your brother and sister when they squealed. All you want is to end all this pandemonium. What's even so wrong with *****? your whole family is addicted. But everyone was. There's nothing really to be convicted of. even the snakes and mice are addicts. does that mean the animals are also convicts? not to mention, where your from it's used as medicine. The sound of a Marine holding a gun as big as a machine saying it's just routine as he scans your fathers eye so he's easier to identify. He's just an ordinary Afghan. I'ts not like he's a Mad Man, You think. then you feel your heart start to sink to the pit of your stomach. As all of a sudden,  You hear the sound of you family crying. and you're watching your Father dying in front of you. killed, by Insurgents. An obvious divergence of opinions. As you wonder how they could even make that decision to take your Fathers life, right in front of his children and Wife. the sound of your stomach growling with hunger. any found food goes to your siblings because they're younger. the Poppies were your only income. You never cared about money, now you'd do anything to earn some. The sound of Marines teaching you to grow wheat instead. It's not the same but it's something to eat so you don't wind up dead.

No matter what your childhood sounded like, you're more then the things you've heard. no matter where you are in the world, you're not stuck there you're as free as a bird. No matter what you've been through, You're a survivor. Never give up, you were born a fighter. So, before you make judgmental misconceptions, remember there are no exceptions. It doesn't really matter what for, everyone you know is battling their own war.
© copyrighted *Nicole Ann Osborn
betterdays Dec 2014
silence
sadness
regret
remorse
fortitude
and defiance
permeate
the
bricks
made
by
convicts
for this
old church
so far far
away
from
english
shores
and on
the pews
so narrowly
wrought
they
listened
to the
chaplain
say
heaven
was the
place to
seek
repentence
was the
key....
and on
the cobbled
floor
they
scratched
their marks
before
they
made
their way
back to
the convict
barracks
the hell
of each
and every
day....
a church, built by convivcts
from floor to ceiling
the convicts were penned
in pew boxes the pews themselves...less than six inches wide....
the convicts etched there unitials or marks into the brick cobblestones...while "praying"....
these marks are different to
the brickmaker marks inset
into the clay bricks made to build walls etc...these marks
were made to help tally the
number of bricks made by
each convict....
we stopped at this church
as we make our way home from the mountains....it history gives it a sad and austere feel...
Sethnicity Jun 2015
V
I don't know where to start... I feel pain
infinite points traced around my brain.
Many ticks ***** injustice migraines
Now I wanna vent on hot air blimps
self proclaimed pimps
till my tongue twists limp
or turn a loaded gun on immature mutual funds
my grain is rough
and I've grown bitter an tough
my mind metal is scuffed
I Dizzied my Gills be cheeks blowin up guts
what happened to the wonderful world
musta been the Tea.. now I'm Ralphing up Chucks
high society
in memory
it used to be
where I wanted to be
Visa Via
English living was the life for me
guess I'd traded up for some Hot **** reaL-It-Tea
I think I've had enough
guess I stuffed and over fluffed
had too much empty v (MTV)
sipping on that 4 twin Tea
Now I gotta V!

IV
I vibrate so viciously
I violate all variations of conform Ahh!, Tea
Been too long slipping on and spilt ma Qi

I'm tired of
The warnings the warming the tide turning the swarming
Killer bees  Wu is me
for I've been sipping on Boo Blue Tea

III
I lost my voice yet still voting
while Hippy flippies are still steady chat hosting
I'm Roasting poli-sci-fi-ers who can't find a town square
but got bags of opinions on world politics here and there
face-booking without a book in their face
fighting freedom by being dumb ignoring the truth such a disgrace
soldiers fighting harder at home to make it a home
feeling lost and alone their kids barely even grown
ready to start living
thought he was done with the killing
till he saw a villain on his throne life lost all appealing
come to find out that his wife had done gone
so settled on hanging strange fruit to shadow shalom
While
I'm so far out of the zone
that I get these messages on my cellular phone
Reality Strike terror Domes unsafe at home Wu is me
I'm miles away sipping on Too Long Tea

II
Yet homeless happy people without thrive ability
party pushers posting pictures with such jive hostility
acting out with rational it's like sporting politically
Obama's on my starting team with poll pushing agility
I Got two Clintons on my backup fantasy league
don't watch local games or who's selling off senate seats
not all are frozen but most have chosen illiterately
on the block taking tokens steady smokin and broke and  
no matter for realities that are steadily approaching
call me young in notion but I can't stand for lack of motion
late nights to early mornings I'm writing in search of potion
like Juliet rests in pieces I see the gauntlets broken
YOU can't save the planet **** IT so Janet pass on posting
Nothin new under sun we **** for fun and Whales **** in the ocean
as if Ape won't **** Ape Mother Earth will keep her motion
Wu is Me now I see I've been
Sipping on Too Wrongs Lefty

I
I hope you know I care
but start by loving your neighbor there and their and they're
reciprocate the truth and stand aloof of those who dare
put money before truth
visage before root
facsimile before proof
save the sympathy for devils
or get the **** out my booth

Check the numbers
Global hunger
riches blundered
voice down under
jobless convicts
bodies ditch in
Wars we pitched in

I'm talking about true world vision

social image
tweeting pigeons
Madolf mongrels
hate crime heroes
Welfare wealthy
advertising gimmicks
famous like ***** limericks
IMF, what a concept
acceptable debit?
nuclear threats
hating one another for what we choose to worship!?
It's already on our doorstep...
... yet we get hung up on the stu pet
"Ooh! Ahh!" "Green" Part Tea Bullshat!
Clinging to our jobs not because we like what we do
but we feel we have too!
Some parts of the world unite for things
other than Death and Dollars Popularity and Power!
... now look at US!
I'm just A fish on a diet of Super fishy all lit Tea

0
What do rants and arguments with myself and the world lead to?
Long silent sips of tea.. and this.
673

The Love a Life can show Below
Is but a filament, I know,
Of that diviner thing
That faints upon the face of Noon—
And smites the Tinder in the Sun—
And hinders Gabriel’s Wing—

’Tis this—in Music—hints and sways—
And far abroad on Summer days—
Distils uncertain pain—
’Tis this enamors in the East—
And tints the Transit in the West
With harrowing Iodine—

’Tis this—invites—appalls—endows—
Flits—glimmers—proves—dissolves—
Ret­urns—suggests—convicts—enchants—
Then—flings in Paradise—
Reine Monroe Jun 2016
Don't speak of love to me , when you spew out actions of hate, selfishness, unloyalty & disrespect.

You say you love me,
Love child do you know what love is?
Love isn't a temporary feeling,
Love child,
My love & this love & God's love is forever...

You say you like the physical appearances of beauty my body is molded into?
What about the structure and the sacred mind of my mental?
My box isnt in need of fixing from a man or woman's genitals.
My heart & soul is not meant to be fixed by another beings hands,
Because 9 times out of 10,
That same being is willing to break them,
And those who are captive by man...

Dust is what you came from and dust is what you'll leave with....
I live by the Bible,
He knows all of my secrets...
Love child or better yet,
Sir or Miss...
Do not try to get into something you know you will **** up and not fix...
Do not try to get into my cellar of love, you will be lost,
Because Sir or Miss,
My love is a sacred love ,
A SACRED LOVE....is the best love,
I don't share my love with others,
Who can't find their own demons,
I don't share my puzzles with others,
Who aren't willing to gather their pieces,
I will not be defined by another being who turns their backs to angels that are here to protect them,

My love isn't an ordinary love,
My love is an extraordinary love,*
I won't give you, what society thinks my love should be about nor what the convicts think I should die for,

My love oh my precious love,
You'll feel it before the human race hits the floors....
*my love is my love, not someone else's love, but what God teaches me , because God is my 1st love*

SOURCE :reinemonroe
written in collaboration
with Glass Slipper Girl



Is it ecstasy or agony
How you make me feel
What you do to me
Bliss when I am with you
When you're gone, I'm incomplete

My mind you have infected
Gave you my heart
Which you gladly keep
With just one taste, I was addicted
You fulfilled my every need

Yet, I fear that everything's twisted
It's too late though;
I'm in too deep
I've been robbed; only you I suspected
My mind convicts while my heart sets you free

If common sense is a train
then I missed it
Took a chance, circumstance was defeat
All my plans, with one dance
You dismissed them
Still, these actions I'll always repeat

-----------------                 -----------------

Is it fantasy or reality
fleeting feelings defying gravity
what you do to my sanity
bona fide madness
sensuality off the charts
our own poetic sensual Rhapsody

Dizzy dazed lost in your Oasis
chasing your sweet enthralling embraces
**** salacious temptations
seductions of ***** flirtatious
stunning me senseless
leaving this Texas girl breathless

A harden criminal
for “the love” you had become
detained and handcuffed
you had to know I was gonna run
trapping a thief of hearts
just can't be done
escaping your enticing assaults
this prison cell sweetheart
made her jailbreak, the Great Escape
before you knew it
I was already gone

Yet, sometimes
every now and again
with my “Get out of Jail” free card
this fugitive still takes a look back
wishing I hadn't gone so far
jumping that railroad car
running away from those
Train Tracks of Love


I would like to personally thank Glass Slipper Girl for her amazing talent and contribution to this piece. Not only are you a truly amazing person who is filled with love and compassion, you are a gifted poet with the ability to bend words to your will. You are truly a star among stars!
Maya Oct 2018
Wake up with a jump and a start.
This isn't just prose,
this is an art.
To weave your stories, through and
through, with
broken pen and missing shoe.
With mixed conviction,
perfect diction,
convicts swoon at your traditions.

As long as you believe
the lines make sense, they'll breathe
your soul and lack pretense.
Self-defense from knives to words and songs to birds,
soaring
o'er the roar and o'er the dives,
through the skyscraper's windows, break a floor and seek to strive.

Words are not just words,
I've heard many a stern voice
attacking a sturdy herd of
wavering wordsmiths who have
forgetten that they have a choice.
Alliteration counts as craftful creation
and the tale of poets shows it: these
sentences are paintings of a nation.
Decorating time and space
and all its stations of making a
stand.

You're a poet,
perfectly pathological,
hurting through rose- colored
opticals and bleeding for something
beautifuly better, just getting lost calls
but keep searching for the right letters; don't let the sands of time make you hate your written desert.
It's worth your weary hands.
silly rhyming poem for myself and all the others out there.
jeffrey conyers Dec 2014
If those that was wrong was convicted.
Then many wouldn't protest the verdict.
Or have to say police lives matter.

All lives matters, in terms of human respect.

Too many times crooked cop exist because the good cops refuses to report them.
So they go on scheming money from the drug dealers.
Many with their own stories to tell themselves.
Yes, a shake down many citizens knows so well.

Yes, police lives matters.
Simply cause of the danger of the job.
But you have a few shaky ones quick to pull the trigger.

Who don't know the excuse used constantly?
Which is "I felt threaten for my life".
Even if shot forty feet away.
And the object in hand requires them to be inches closer to harm them.

Most juries are sympathy cases to law enforcers.
Especially when the evidence convicts them.
And you hear a not guilty verdict.

For every innocent victim abused , killed by mistakes.
Their life was just as important too.
And we hardly hear them crying "their lives matter".

Yes, police lives matters.
Not because of the job.
But because some went the distance to severe and protect.
And was wise on when to use their assigned weapon.
The flesh  desires,
the soul/spirit  convicts,
and the mind  decides.
It's a God thing.
Lawrence Hall Feb 2018
“See all those workers digging through that hill?”
The carter asked, there pointing with his whip
While two mismatched old horses lumbered on
Jerking carter and prisoners along the ruts.

An empty church, its now skeletal dome
Open to the dusk, lay somewhat in the way
Of where the rails would lay, just there among
Stray stalks of wheat, from lost and windblown seeds.

One prisoner yawning through his sorrows said
“I wonder why the Czar didn’t send me there
To carve with pick and shovel and barrow and hod
His new technology across the steppes.”

“Too close to Petersburg, and Moscow too,
My lad.  The Czar wants you to labor far,
Far off.  No mischief from you and your books,
Your poems, your nasty little magazines.”

“Oh, carter, is Pushkin unknown to you?
Turgenev, Gogol, Dostoyevsky too?
What stories do you tell your children, then?
Do you teach them to love their Russian letters?”

The carter laughed; he lit his pipe and said
“You intellectuals!  Living in the past!
Education for the 19th century -
That’s what our children need, not your old books.”

“Someday,” the carter mused, “railways everywhere,
And steel will take you where you will be sent.
Electric light will make midday of night
And Russia’s soul will be great big machines!”

“Machines, and louder guns, and better clocks -
All these will make for better men, you’ll see.
You young fellows will live to see it; I won’t,
But what a happy land your Russia will be!”

And the cart rattled on, the horses tired,
Longing for the day’s end, and hay, and rest;
The prisoners made old jokes in laughing rhymes,
Begged ‘baccy from the carter, and wondered.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
something beautiful happened to me,
more beautiful than a Mona Lisa,
a Staffordshire terrier (funny how you
say b'ah b'ah sheer, or you do say shire - shy ire,
but the former is a gluttonous tongue
expression) ran up to me barking
and tail waggling from ~200 metres away,
i asked the breed but not the petting
i just called him a nice fella the owner called
him a dragging-of-the-leg ******...
what a bulging scull, firm throughout,
strong limbs, hidden ribs, a proper meat-head
of a dog, quick to please,
i turned into a butcher in an instant,
that's what i mean, a moment like that,
you go walk in the Essex fields and you
meet strangers with welcoming dogs,
former convicts judging by the tattoos...
when a dog forgets its owner and rushes up to a stranger
instant magic,  barking, tail waggling, head readied
for a patting... moments like these are better than
a striptease; i was a bit furry in feeling throughout,
come to mind - it's funny, isn't it?
how a man will readily magnetise his feelings
into animals when he's experienced unsatisfactory femininity,
that sexualised belittling "motherhood",
some men can take it, others can't,
to be frank mothers are less relentless in what a man
should be... women bully men into
acting as tools for provisions, who the **** thought
of excavating harems from lions or sea-lions
was a genius... imagine exporting the 11-year itch
to Iraq... i mean, the only success story of western
society is ******* everyone over, given
that ~50% of marriages in the western world fail
after 11 years... the curse of individuation,
morphed into a pet chihuahua in a purse of some
glamour model, the Chinese are laughing, believe me,
even in their factories, numbering over a billion,
and in the west? the success of science, prolonged
old-age... and the care homes... hip hip hooray!
******* marvellous, sleeping in my own ****...
Jimi Hendrix got lucky, god loved him...
is old-age really a success story? i mean, does it really,
*******, matter? what sort of achievement is it?
a life a century a hoopla of the next brigade
of hip replacement surgery? i guess only turtles get to
live over the century mark, trying to sabotage this
ontological fact is suicide or, well... sadism...
i rather live to my necessary expectancy
than outlive it in one;
but what a beautiful scene, he spotted me from
~200 metres away, and i got to pet him while
he barked joyfully, that thick-skull head of his,
a fine fella that staffy - i never knew that a dog
could give you more pleasure than a woman;
well i do now, having petted those autistic animals
known as cats.
Maya Oct 2018
Been itchin' to step on the toes
of some politicians, ditchin'
the sneakers and hitchin'
the anger, an armor of agression,
clothes of choler, cursing the
contempt-ridden regressions of the system.

Edgy kids turn into violent adults,
You have the right to remain violent, folks, 'long as you're getting something done and not lounging lazily,
waiting for things to change by
themselves, putting your drive on a shelf, hazily remembering what you actually believed - go **** right off and leave.

Stick to your guns.
I'm so sick of saints and nuns advocating for peace. Peace is a piece of giving up belief. "Friendly Negotiations" to talk you out of your convinction, turn convicts into martyrs and we'll see which side you really trust.
How can you believe that peace will will solve problems when it just causes feelings to be pent up?
People are competitive, wanting all that opulence in the posthumous, and peace is a puzzling problem, not a solution.
Peace would be basic if human nature wasn't so acidic, mixed with the tension of a complex society, your peace is about to burn a hole in the walls of government.
The only peace for me is death.
Ideals are nothing without people fighting for them with every last breath.
Go out and scream as long as you're making noise.
Rip limits to shreds, and raise your ******* voice.
just a person being angry in a cafe at six in the morning. yes, this is edgy, i am aware but I wrote it for myself, not you.
Tina Fish Sep 2013
come in multitudes
come in boots, pulled up, strapped
come with hairnets, bowlers, beers
come with husbands and mothers

the starlets come, the celebrities
the politicians and adversaries
bring your conflicts
bring your problems
stoners, bring your insights
bring philosophies and religions
bring visions, or lack thereof
bring weekdays and weeknights
bring the sofa
bring reality shows or documentaries
bring the series
and bring the cat

but come
with quirks and queers,
with stubbornness with anger
with broken glasses and fists
with fits of rage, with opinions
statements, facts, figures, conspiracies
bring every one of these, but come

with your broken hearts and talents
or genius, or with yesterday’s news
with the crosswords and comics
or the convicts or the cartoons  

- hell, we’ve got more than enough room
Tryst Feb 2017
TASMANIA, The Apple Isle,
rooted in conquest, convicts
and cannibalism.

Into this desolate paradise,
suffering, starving Englishmen,
dreaming of home, planted
row upon row of small neat
cottages, graciously adorned
by native English roses.

Convicted felons, shunned
from polite English society,
became her upstanding citizens,
and like her fuel-laden forests,
she smouldered, a daughter of
mother England, steeped in
her heritage like a lauded
*** of Earl Grey.

For two centuries, England
grew, a wild sunflower,
with London's sprawling
population sprouting from
1m seedlings, to over 8m
at the peak of her growth.

And somehow, somewhere,
something broke inside.

Today, proud Englishmen
mourn a loss of the spirit
and freedom of their forebears,
still proud, yet yearning
for the simple, honest
existence of a yesteryear
long lost, and not forgotten.

In Tasmania, time drifted
lazily, as outposts sprawled
into small towns, small towns
into small cities, like miniatures
mimicking the motherland
her pioneers had left behind.

But unlike her proud parent,
Tasmania remained true to
the spirit that raised her
from the ashes of convict
settlements, and a fledgling
society intent on defending
the spirit that put England
at the heart of an empire
flourished.

I am an Englishman, proud
to be born and raised in
her heartlands, and prouder
still, to have found that most
distant corner of our once
great empire that embodies still
the spirit of hard work,
fair play and decency that
is found within the beating heart
of every true Englishman.
Mitchell Oct 2012
To accept knowing
Is not knowing
But still knowing some
Is enough

To know life and
Not know life
Seeing the creases
Of the newspaper
The *** rests his weary
Head on
Is enough

To see breath enter
Escape the broken body
Of a young boy
Ignorant to the facts of the world
That surround him
Is enough
At the time

The worried
Worry

The anxious
Toil over things
Within themselves
Outside of themselves
Out of
Their full
Control

The bigots
Picket a cause
They know nothing
About, embracing
Their unity in Hate
But the spellings wrong

The forward thinkers
Caved in with
Paperwork and
Hopes and dreams
Billowing plumes of twisted
Curled, cigarette smoke
Ashen intellectuals caught up
In the overflowing ash trays
Of the overzealous socialite

This is our chance
To Be Someone

The realist
Staring blankly at an
Empty salt shaker sitting
Next to a full
Pepper shaker

The veteran
Wishing there
Was no such thing
As bullets

The president
On a pedestal
Showing how fragile
Man can be

We people enter
Through these doors

Escaped convicts of the eternal
Holding a key of
Impossibilities

There are so many roads
That are open to us

Who sways us to take the
One we tread upon now?

Who has enticed us to the
The path we now walk upon?

I see a glimmer of the horizon

The lights show a blinding
Ancient yellow, the color of my mother's
***** blonde hair;

The clouds
Her laughter
As she squints, hiding
Her joy, keeping it for herself

"Safe keeping"," she always said

For soon
She knew

I would be
An echo

Remembrance of Sound
Sethnicity Nov 2016
V
I don't know where to start... I feel pain
infinite points traced around my brain.
Many ticks ***** injustice migraines
Now I wanna vent on hot air blimps
self proclaimed pimps
till my tongue twists limp
or turn a loaded gun on immature mutual funds
my grain is rough
and I've grown bitter an tough
my mind metal is scuffed
I Dizzied my Gills be cheeks blowin up guts
what happened to the wonderful world
musta been the Tea.. now I'm Ralphing up Chucks
high society
in memory
it used to be
where I wanted to be
Visa Via
English living was the life for me
guess I'd traded up for some Hot **** reaL-It-Tea
I think I've had enough
guess I stuffed and over fluffed
had too much empty v (MTV)
sipping on that 4 twin Tea
Now I gotta V!

IV
I vibrate so viciously
I violate all variations of conform Ahh!, Tea
Been too long slipping on and spilt ma Qi

I'm tired of
The warnings the warming the tide turning the swarming
Killer bees  Wu is me
for I've been sipping on Boo Blue Tea

III
I lost my voice yet still voting
while Hippy flippies are still steady chat hosting
I'm Roasting poli-sci-fi-ers who can't find a town square
but got bags of opinions on world politics here and there
face-booking without a book in their face
fighting freedom by being dumb ignoring the truth such a disgrace
soldiers fighting harder at home to make it a home
feeling lost and alone their kids barely even grown
ready to start living
thought he was done with the killing
till he saw a villain on his throne life lost all appealing
come to find out that his wife had done gone
so settled on hanging strange fruit to shadow shalom
While
I'm so far out of the zone
that I get these messages on my cellular phone
Reality Strike terror Domes unsafe at home Wu is me
I'm miles away sipping on Too Long Tea

II
Yet homeless happy people without thrive ability
party pushers posting pictures with such jive hostility
acting out with rational it's like sporting politically
Obama's on my starting team with poll pushing agility
I Got two Clintons on my backup fantasy league
don't watch local games or who's selling off senate seats
not all are frozen but most have chosen illiterately
on the block taking tokens steady smokin and broke and  
no matter for realities that are steadily approaching
call me young in notion but I can't stand for lack of motion
late nights to early mornings I'm writing in search of potion
like Juliet rests in pieces I see the gauntlets broken
YOU can't save the planet **** IT so Janet pass on posting
Nothin new under sun we **** for fun and Whales **** in the ocean
as if Ape won't **** Ape Mother Earth will keep her motion
Wu is Me now I see I've been
Sipping on Too Wrongs Lefty

I
I hope you know I care
but start by loving your neighbor there and their and they're
reciprocate the truth and stand aloof of those who dare
put money before truth
visage before root
facsimile before proof
save the sympathy for devils
or get the **** out my booth

Check the numbers
Global hunger
riches blundered
voice down under
jobless convicts
bodies ditch in
Wars we pitched in

I'm talking about true world vision

social image
tweeting pigeons
Madolf mongrels
hate crime heroes
Welfare wealthy
advertising gimmicks
famous like ***** limericks
IMF, what a concept
acceptable debit?
nuclear threats
hating one another for what we choose to worship!?
It's already on our doorstep...
... yet we get hung up on the stu pet
"Ooh! Ahh!" "Green" Part Tea Bullshat!
Clinging to our jobs not because we like what we do
but we feel we have too!
Some parts of the world unite for things
other than Death and Dollars Popularity and Power!
... now look at US!
I'm just A fish on a diet of Super fishy all lit Tea

0
Ultimately if you voted Thank you for joining the Conversation; if not, Thanks a Lot! I hope your shadow enjoys watching this implosion slowly consume everything and everyone around you while you hold up the wall where your eternal shadow will remind future generations that, ("You gotta have an opinion" - Vincent Vega).
Jake Danby May 2015
Ask
It is winter, icy night outside the ancient terraced house, crisp
and creeping-cold, the road fleeting and the boisterous,
rejoicing revelers invading my room unseen but well heard,
silky-blacked, silk-backed, slick-backed, on the loudbusybarstriken front street.
The houses are sleeping like the dead (though the dead shan’t wake the morrow, in the deep, frosted earth) or sleeping like snoring Grandma
Passed the creaking stairs, behind the thick wooden door.
The chimneys enjoy a smoke, and the street watching in lazy light.
And the people of the long and aging road are lying, dormant, on hold now.

Be still, the birds are in wait, the office-workers, the budget-blunderers, the dole-wallers and money-splashers, equestrians, assistants, cricketers and coppers, the seller and the sold to, convicts, clergy, scrap-men, soldiers, the wary eyed whistleblowers and bleak spinsters. The elderly lie alone, cold and widowed, falling in love in dreams of those long passed, gramophones serenading them with swinging sounds since forgotten. The bachelors lie not alone but feel it, aside women they met but a moment prior. And the sloothing silhouettes of foxes stalk in the brush, and the fallen leaves clump prickled by the spiking spines of a slumbering hedgehog, and the hens in the clucking coops; and the mice creep across grassy planes playing hide and go seek, darting and ducking, amidst the quiet nightly warzone.

You can hear the frost amassing, and the old homes groaning.
Only your eyes are alive to see the bellowing chimney pots washing the black sky with grey, consuming and spreading, smoke. And you stand alone in hearing the working dogs retort with the sky, the primal yowl, where Jack Russell’s, Bull Terriers, Whippets and Grey Hounds, Fox hounds, Patterdales, Lakelands and Border Terriers take wolven shape and warrant the moon and stars to adjourn.

Heed. It is much too late, or early, the day-break behemoth’s begin to crawl blind through dawn, slumped uniform and jangling key and toast crumbed stubble, golden tie pin and tracksuit top, parted as the red sea, racing rats, inhaling bus fare; openmouthed in Citrone’s, rattled morning news; in Pickwick’s cafe shutters exhale the bleak dark and swallow first light. It is genesis in Chester-Le-Street, coagulating evermore, with breakfast offers stuffed down its throat, passed my frosted window pane, sleet and rain, headphones, lit cigarette, black brew two sugars, lichened grave stones and flashing blue lights. It is break of day amongst the pushers of pencils.

Watch. It is discontent, dragging, alone coursing through a bacon stottie; clinging to a dead end rock, aside the cockles and mussels, to be exhumed by an uncomfortable chair and the computer on the blink.

Is this it. Ask. Is this it.

— The End —