swashbuckling kittens wallpaper -- cutlasses, eyepatches, royal blue bandanas --
lined the walls of the kitchen.

"you love it, don't you?" Mathilda asked. she poured me a glass of almond milk.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever. and ever. and ever.
fridge door open. it's sparse. a world weary McDonald's bag and a last chapter beer,
the only other tenants.

"it's neat," I said. don't care much for animals. don't hate them by any means,
but don't go out of my way for them. my analyst says it's Sparks, Oklahoma's fault.
see, when a boy, I had seven---no, eight kittens named Simba. the howl of the coyote
taught me about expiration dates. Had a hard time accepting total loss (e.g., eight Simbas).

"do you feel okay?" Mathilda asked. and I didn't. but I said,

"yeah, yeah. sorry about waking you up last night. just didn't think I could make it home."

"I noticed you slept perpendicular to the futon. with your sneakers on. interesting choice."

Mathilda can be funny. and the almond milk was good. and like I said, I could drink it with
her forever. the ceiling fan, though, rocked off-kilter. she had stray, sad balloons in orbit
around the fan. imagined the balloon with the red-lettered "BOO-YAH" entering the wake
of the wobbling blades. imagined the blades flying off one-by-one. imagined one striking
me in the head and freeing me of a hangover. imagined being in the back of the line outside
the gates of heaven, while St. Peter kept letting the hot, single girls cut in line.

"will you?" Mathilda repeated, I think.

"will I, what?"

"take a picture of me in front of the wallpaper."

"sure."

"sorry, I've taken like 30 selfies trying to get Grace to re-notice me.
starting to feel like a chronic masturbator."

"what do you mean?"

"well, you know, selfies are pathetic indulgences in narcissism. hell, they can be
necessary, as is the case this time, I assure you---but pathetic, nonetheless."

took the phone. Mathilda stood in front of the pirate kitten wallpaper.
she leaned forward. made a kissy face.

"do you have to do that?" I asked.

"don't bust my *****," she said, "just take the photo. I know what Grace likes."

the two broke up last week. Mathilda in her oh-yeah-wanna-run-off-with-ol-banana-***** fury
threw a ******* party with balloons (they were tethered to things at the time.
the dining chairs, cabinet doors, the wrists of guests, etc., etc.). I left early that night.
I'm straight and not very relevant. so, well, you get it.

"would you like some coffee too?" she didn't look up. with locust clicks she fingered
the screen of her phone, uploading the kissy face, pirate kitten wallpaper picture to
her Tumblr. I nodded.

at the party she bedded two skeletal, Sylvia Plath feminists. self-fulfilling prophecy.
she'd written about the then-fictitious scenario months ago on her blog.
Mathilda called me crying the following morning. between the
shame/guilt/self-pity wails, she advised, "don't ever be the third wheel in a threeway."
noted. she said the three had a silent, last breakfast before they left. and I said something
to the effect of, you didn't let them go near the oven did you?

the first droplets of coffee hissed as they struck the bottom of the ***.

"if only coffee were a woman," Mathilda said. "am I right?"

"if coffee were a woman, I'm afraid I'd still pour her into a fine porcelain cup and drink her."

"you're awful."

and I am. but she doesn't mind because I've been celibate for two years, and she's been
so successful it brings her down. off-setting penalties, the basis of our friendship. or maybe
it's the way we leave things where they fall or rise. natural resting places. Simbas. balloons.

when the brew idles I grab two cups. fill hers three-quarters full. she likes almond milk in it.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever, I swear. to the fridge. the ceiling fan
seems a bit louder. one-by-one the blades. and heaven. and St. Peter, the pervert.
gave the almond milk a shake.

"why you holding on to the McDonald's bag and the practically empty beer?
I think they're starting to smell."

she didn't answer. well, not right away, anyway. and I took that to mean they belonged
to Grace. natural resting places. so, I mix the almond milk into the coffee.

"I know I should throw it out. Grace doesn't even like McDonald's. Do you know what's
in that bag?"

"I don't."

"avocados."

"what?"

"yeah. one of her friends works there. just cut up some avocados for her."

what sacrilege. made me tired, you know? fast food avocados, selfies,
Sylvia Plath feminists, etc., etc. the ceiling fan sped up, for no reason, I think.
the balloons cast shadows over the dining table. and I could drink almond milk
with a lesbian forever. trust me. just not under those conditions. beeline for
the fridge. door open. snagged the bag of blacker-than-brown avocados
and the bottle of beer.

"stop. she could be back any day," Mathilda said.

and what I should of said was no. what I should have said was Grace,
for all intents and purposes, was dead. and what she was doing
was reusing a dead name. and reusing a dead name isn't a resurrection.
but what I said was, "okay." and I sat down under the ceiling fan.
my natural resting place. almond milk forever. and ever. and ever.

I'm not a writer trying to share a story,
I'm a survivor telling you a true story.
I'm not just a poet having fun and living,
I saw bad things when I was younger.
That was when things were harder.
when women and old people were helpless and young people were hopeless.
It was that time when good parents were powerless to protect their underage girls from **** and molestation at the hands of drugged-up child soldiers with bloodshot eyes.
I did something other boys were too scared to do,
I turned into a man
and took survival into my hands.
It was that time when men and women used the same place to bathe and go to the loo.

I saw many many hungry people
eating palm cabbage and wild grasses
malnourished children and dying people.
I saw hands chopped off with cutlasses.
I saw thousands of families separated
and fathers killed or incarcerated.
I saw silly young men pick up arms
and chopped off people's limbs
like hideous things were their aims.

I saw really bad things
and cried to God for wings
like an angel to fly away
because I saw no other way.
I saw people running to God
and getting murdered in his church.
I don't know, but he didn't say a word
It's like He just sat down and watch?

I saw bad things
I planned my escape from poverty,
from a war-torn country.
It was that time when your parents, who come from the same generation as I, were looking up to their mom's for breast milk.
It was that time when no one wore silk,
it was a time of fear,it was wartime.
It was that time when bullets determined eating time and bedtime.
It was that time when pretty boys had nothing in their wallets.
It was that time when PYJ ate dinner
and played gospel on his guitar like he was our savior and not a sinner.

© IvanBrooksPoetry
12/9/2018

Though I splish
Though I splash
*** I drink so fear my wrath

Behold my mate
Behold my captain
Cutlasses ring and we are laughing

Pity me not
Pity the foe
Sink him to the godless unknown

Plunder the hold
Plunder her chest
Strife we be so do not rest

Sink the English
Sink the Spanish
We rule here so we **** them

Free we are
Free we be
A lavish life is the one for me

If I am hanged
If I am dead
Fear not mate I swam to land

Cut your foes
Cut their friends
We rule this kingdom
    In the Queen Anne's Revenge!

You pick every word I say
With rapt attention.
So I tell you about tangerine skies
In Vermont, how I shape them.
I tell you my dad invented Cuban cigars
In Argentina.

You heard about the prawns,
The ***** and the lilies. A story only I could tell.
I could tell it in fluent Yoruba.
You watch me sleep like I don't have a care in this world
Snorting away while chasing dragonflies and seahorses
In my oblivion.


You watch me walk in the shadows
My gait like gridless frames of a restless gate
blown open by the wind.
(If I was the night, I would be bright.)

Finally you see my hands well adapted to cutlasses and owes,
Irrespective experienced with oriental oils
and manicures.
'One day I will be king', I thought I said.
But you heard it from my mind.
You heard it alone.

Yesterday we owed this to ourselves.
Tomorrow we will be lovers
Today let's be friends.

Fawaz   Poems  
Published 7   Drafts 3

DRAFT EDIT
Fawaz 3m
Untitled
Justice in the cage of injustice

I saw the justice being robbed and **** in the broad day light ,
I touched Justice in the Nature but in the societies I didn't really touch it,
where is the justice? there are no justice in this country but not in the world,
even if we see it the question is did the justice see us?no, They have covered it face.

they made some people rich and made some poor ,They say they saw
Then they go and lie ,
They put the innocent people in the prison,
for a crime they committed not,
They let the guilty get away
And make the innocent people rot aways
is this the justice we are clamoring for


they made injustice anywhere to threat justice everywhere ,they made law below some and made the same law above some ,Justice must be for all ,not just for the criminals
and the riches.

The justice is the only purest shape of the voice,
Justice with no partial is what we, the innocent people, long for,
justice is for all not for some
but if there still no change,
I think a time is coming when the children of injustice will not show how educated they are nor how tolerant  ,
they will come out with guns ,they will come out with cutlasses  and **** the justice by themselves and the atmosphere will never be control again , give us the justice not the Caprice.

The fragrance pen

The fragrance pen

Let’s not forget our childhoods
Like playing in the rain, getting drench, and loving it
The scene I remembered most, was i watching Peggy the small dog,
in the window across the street.
While, the neighbors keep up their lawns, and areas neatly pruned
With the dull chopping sound of the cutlasses, early in the morning:

I generally held a book close to my face, while reading
But somehow, on that day, I kept  staring at the house across the street
I don’t remember if I had done my chores or not,
before the lady in this photo came home that day for lunch.
For her, it was all about keeping up appearances,
Dinner at six, all school shoes must be polished before seven
and our Immaculate uniforms, must be hanging on the ironing board.

And no matter what,
all lights must be out before ten o’clock.
“Don’t forget to say your goodnight Prayers, she would have said”
Lately I've been thinking about childhood a lot

Suddenly, my thoughts turned to my first soap opera, Peyton Place,
Woody Allen, Mia farrow, and all my childhood memories came to a haul with…images of my friend Dolly Benskin and her daughter Paige:
Paige die at an early age: which haunted me for years..
why so young?

I use to love smoking candy cigarettes, but not between my toes
This morning of all mornings,
bonds with the carpet fibers is a piece of candy

On the Embarcadero, winds carry clubbers' words
to me: sound of a satyr's desperation:

maybe she'll look at me.
Maybe even with pleasure and not repulsion:

the silent plea of devil-may-cry men ---
all blood and lusts, more beasts than heart.

Some swing blunt cutlasses that never cleave,
sip hypnotic wine from offering hands, unknown beneath a coverlet.
Others dance into the lacuna of their lives:

decade(s) of searching, yearning,
yoked like juments, under the mortal whip:

sad boys in need of love;
                                    infatuation;
          ­                                        amity;
                  ­                                      acquaintance;
             ­                                                              lust;
                                                           ­                   pleasure;
                                    ­                                                      a look:
                                                                                                      anything.

Has he not been beared
From seas to streams
Marked with cutlasses and ashes
Forced to swallow cowries
Why would he not wear down his face?

Has he not been living
On his choiceless delicacy
Concoction of gmelina roots
And garlic sap
Why then would he smile?

Why would he dance?
The voilent drummers in his skull
Were pounding thier drums
Like groups of carpenters
Driving pieces of nails
Into a hardwood

Has he not been marched
Round the village on pant
Bearing a *** stained with dry hen's blood
And rotten bones and stenching earth
Why would he not dash out his wealth
To seek a neater heath?

I didn't have the wrist of Osundare
Nor the tongue that speaks Wole Soyinka
Yet, my anthology is not up to a Canto
Not until I make for you a Bible, ahead stretching Water

I lingered through the facets of beauty
A million turning a second up in my head
Nothing, no one soothes the burrow like the sky crying
No touch is so tender like the blow from Mama nature

Can you you feel the Lullaby she sings on the Roofs?
Tell me! Does your Mama placate so tender to lure you to sleep better?

A drop triggers a race,
Its menial calls for buckets
Her late stay claims furnitures of ages

A flow of bliss that built Eden here
In her pour makes Marmaids glitter
Puts the smile on Cutlasses and hoes
As more pockets surely would smile

With no paint,
Brightly, she paints the sky Grey
Your Ex-GF would wanna stay more Late
Make sure you didn't make it rain, else, you are in soup!

There are no Apaches
With flaming arrows and piebald ponies
There are no writhing jungles round here
There are no lost temples
Hiding untold treasures
There are no damsels to be rescued
By a knight on a white charger
There are no pirates on the high seas
No skull and crossbones flying
Above a deck bristling and glistening
With cutlasses and flintlocks ready
And hook hands and black eye-patches
In the sunlight of the Spanish Maine
There are no interplanetary wars
With hand-held laser guns
And weird creatures from strange worlds
They just do not exist
I learned this when
I was very very young
And I really wanted to be a pirate

                                    By Phil Roberts

There are no Apaches
With flaming arrows and piebald ponies
There are no writhing jungles round here
There are no lost temples
Hiding untold treasures
There are no damsels to be rescued
By a knight on a white charger
There are no pirates on the high seas
No skull and crossbones flying
Above a deck bristling and glistening
With cutlasses and flintlocks ready
And hook hands and black eye-patches
In the sunlight of the Spanish Maine
There are no interplanetary wars
With hand-held laser guns
And weird creatures from strange worlds
They just do not exist
I learned this when
I was very very young
And I really wanted to be a pirate

                                    By Phil Roberts

I pull open the cover,
a trap door to the deck.
“Weigh the anchor!”
and with a splash the adventure  begins.

”Trim your sails!”
and the curtain ***** behind me.
The bow of Old Salt splits the waves
and I wipe the spray from my glasses.

There’s mutiny aboard the ship.
With cutlasses drawn I hear them charge,
the “pok-pok” of a peg leg
is my dad at the door.

“It’s twelve gone”, he says
and I see them fall to the deck.
In the heat of the action
there’s no time to count the loss!

There’s a shout from the door,
“They’ve scuttled the ship!”
My feet get cold
as the hull fills up.

The water is rising
it dowsers my candle.
The crew is sprawled awkwardly on the still, red-dyed deck,
as the leather bound novel falls from my bed…

There are no Apaches
With flaming arrows and piebald ponies
There are no writhing jungles round here
There are no lost temples
Hiding untold treasures

There are no damsels to be rescued
By a knight on a white charger
There are no pirates on the high seas
No skull and crossbones flying
Above a deck bristling and glistening
With cutlasses and flintlocks ready
And hook hands and black eye-patches
In the sunlight of the Spanish Maine

There are no interplanetary wars
With hand-held laser guns
And weird creatures from strange worlds
They just do not exist
I learned this when
I was very very young
And I really wanted to be a pirate

                                    By Phil Roberts

There are no Apaches
With flaming arrows and piebald ponies
There are no writhing jungles round here
There are no lost temples
Hiding untold treasures
There are no damsels to be rescued
By a knight on a white charger

There are no pirates on the high seas
No skull and crossbones flying
Above a deck bristling and glistening
With cutlasses and flintlocks ready
And hook hands and black eye-patches
In the sunlight of the Spanish Maine

There are no interplanetary wars
With hand-held laser guns
And weird creatures from strange worlds
They just do not exist
I learned this when
I was very very young
And I really wanted to be a pirate

                                    By Phil Roberts

There are no Apaches
With flaming arrows and piebald ponies
There are no writhing jungles round here
There are no lost temples
Hiding untold treasures
There are no damsels to be rescued
By a knight on a white charger
There are no pirates on the high seas
No skull and crossbones flying
Above a deck bristling and glistening
With cutlasses and flintlocks ready
And hook hands and black eye-patches
In the sunlight of the Spanish Maine
There are no interplanetary wars
With hand-held laser guns
And weird creatures from strange worlds
They just do not exist
I learned this when
I was very very young
And I really wanted to be a pirate

                                    By Phil Roberts

the Chicago headlines
this morning read:
thirty-two wounded
and nine dead,
my thoughts moved
slowly sinking
into my dark coffee
so simple and reassuring
me and my cup there,
for now –
then back to the
violent banner
of pulling triggers
on irrational and
divided spots
that burn out existence
with deadly power
settling the look of the other
existing and struggling
for status and spurred turf
and resources
in a hastily forceful system,
where chambered rounds
are shot from
cracked windows
like ordinary memos
by windy city herds
that graze on concrete
and charge with their swords
held high in waxed cutlasses
while the mountain cloud
and blue sky turns
pale in response
rains ultimately come
to wash the chalk
and blood away
from the open pastures
the audience hesitating
with indifference
holding their
little crosses
waiting…waiting,
and nothing
to be done.

by: W. A. Marshall

You left me at the doorstep,
Packed all my **** and left,
You did me *****,
Again ,again and again

Ride or die,
I never was,
One and only,
Nope I never was,

You shoot your words like a flamethrower ,I barely finish my sentences,
You accept beating me,
Not once but twice,
With the sharp cutlasses ,

I don’t even care anymore because I love you,
But love should not hurt when I touch you...
I’m alone again.

Domestic abuse is never ok you should never feel alone :tel:08082000247

Parapsychological retrocession, Vernarth describes in the voice of the Apostle Saint John: “They were all coming from Capernaum, with the INRI inlaid shutters in each one's hands, in Alikantus in his frogs and“ V ”helmets and in Petrobus in his golden webbed fingers. They all walked unevenly, perhaps because from the Higher Consciousness he spoke of millions of years of his Demiourgy; Our Abba had leaned toward the south-central west, skewing the Planitis Gi by twelve degrees, causing him to change course to Nazareth. The miraculous thing was seeing how the Petrobus and Alikantus animals felt and saw sounds coming out of their mouths in octaves multiplied by eight; that is, sixty-four retrograde inverted notes. Averaging the notes that came backwards from being heard in his retro memo tune, perhaps diverting them to a hillside in Canaan. After such a miraculous phenomenon, the golden Gerakis alighted on the heads of the twelve Camels Gigas diverting them to Nazareth guiding them to an ancient stone where inscriptions in Hebrew-Aramaic "Scion-Branch" are sighted on the Betelgeuse sapphire in trillions of years anointing to Kafersesuh. They were all sweating on their Gigas camels like Nazarene princes, reigning from the soothing bifurcation like lithospheres even beyond the two-dimensional perception of mass-velocity in Nazareth, like a scion proclaiming the ominous prophetic of the Messiah proclaiming the Branch in sacred circulation, to have a Prooptikí 360 or 360 ° perspective, for the archaic worldview, in the cognitive perception of the ethical retentive to solve problems of eternity, predestined in a neurological, parapsychological-anthropological perspective and of Parallel Worlds, with the numerous mind that supplies all relief from the worst pain of not solving Everything for Everything, and perennially !, being housed a clone interpreter on the geodesy of Nazareth in its 14.14 square km, lying in the southern mountains of the lower Galilee, 10 km to the north of Mount Tabor and 23 km west of the Sea of Galilee. Miracles must be outlined between the extreme points of each indicative cross, the stature of the image between head and foot, the cosmogony of the link between Nazareth and Capernaum and vice versa, the mysteries of the silence of those who only see in the light and dark the repentance of the Cognoscere Mariano, would now be in front of everyone with the Gene of naivety. The Giga Camels tirelessly carried them with their wise plants from Capernaum. Here is the Miracle; They were in the fourteenth station in Jerusalem, then St. Ioannis, explained his autobiographies as a child with his family in Bethsaida. It was then from here that in some corner of their inspiration, that the valleys would turn towards another Katagogi or geological lineage of the peduncle of the Abbá, to present it on the table with renewed Bern olive oils, together with their parents, where they would leave directly and guided by the Royal Aetoi who had severed the claws of the Gerakis, to supplant them towards the stone of Nazareth in the unifloral of the flower bud or axon in the Virginal Cosmos.

Vernarth describes in the voice of Saint John: “The Archangel Uriel dictates him; Those who preach alone in the streets or on the corners preach the rejection of those who do not count how many times they approved or contested them, and at least the times more than in any extreme, had to be heard beyond the most distant nooks in the that they cannot be known to be recognized in the brambles of the Oetoí Eagles. " San Juan continues: “On this tacit diameter in the narrow part of the bergamot, towards the south, and opens through a narrow and sinuous gorge, towards the plain of Esdraelon. It would be indicated here as "the top of the mountain" where they wanted to knock Jesus down. " But the traditional place does not have a true ravine, as a story would seem to demand. Beyond only, towards spring in the town, is the so-called Fuente de la Virgen, in which María obtained the sacred water for her family there. "In this super diameter, Etréstles wanted to look for the childhood periods of the Messiah and thus be able to see him prosper in his evolution, but he knew that it could not be verified, perhaps the hidden mystery of the stem only grows in the discord of Nazareth, invaded by outsiders civilizations that did not allow them to stretch their limits beyond the entire concordant Universe. On Patmos I always had the precognition that above ..., above the doors of the unknown, there will be anti-material physiognomies that will move the outbreak that in twin earth would be housed in the peduncles of Judah. As we approached the perimeter of the city, we dared to cross, I thought that we would be greeted by a Gladius or a Caesar sentinel mastiff, who would ****** us from staying in the city of the Messiah's lineage, with fair prophecies uprooting themselves from anonymity, that they would go to incite him in the "Epigraph of Nazareth", the text of which contains the decree issued by another Roman emperor, not mentioned, which prohibits under penalty of death the robberies of graves, including those of relatives, or to change a body from one tomb to another. The date of registration is discussed. Someplace it at the beginning of the empire period; others in the 2nd century AD. It is highly unlikely that they have any direct bearing on the ignoble accusation made to us disciples that we had stolen the body of our Master and the curved stone of the aedicule. I keep rambling without exactitude of what I say, it is dozens of years without being here, I only know that I am attracted by the symmetry of the harmony of the pious cultivators of Nazareth. Just as I heard him when they were on the mound of a rosy vine near the house of Mary in Nazareth…, here Uriel describes them about Nicodemus:

Uriel says: (Meditation of Saint John the Apostle) “Nicodemus talks about the meaning of being born again and mentions the Kingdom of Heaven, very rare in the Johannine texts, Jesus was surprised, in synthesis to see that a teacher in Israel did not understand the discourse on rebirth in the spirit. Later, in the council of princes of the priests and Pharisees, Nicodemus defends Jesus by explaining to his companions that they must hear and investigate before making a final judgment. The question they ask may suggest that Nicodemus was a Galilean or it could be an irony of his companions. "

Isaías sings (bis): “The presence in a corresponding versed folio, relative to the prophecy of Immanuel born of a ******, who is associated with a similar Virgilian prophecy of Cumana, justifying its prophetic symbolism. Has the conflagration of the heart that resists death been unleashed and that agonizes several times in the...? The conditions wait for the apostates when they refuse the water that does not make them optimal, and makes the radius of obedience of the Vernarthian heart elliptical, full of granules of Physconia lumpy, whose frequency is embedded in treacherous bodies, reigns, and fungal lineages. The reign of the saints will judge plurality on the thrones with devastation in the fatuous beatifications in Pergamum, already admonished by Me. The well will dry up the frenzy of the walls in Nazareth with sweaty cutlasses that split the bergamot, in breviaries of the ashlar of the oak that fossilizes in the granules of the lumpy Physconia "

Shallow is my mind
shallow are my thoughts
so shallow are my speech and my sight
I'd never walked down dusty dried paths
carrying a slate and chalk to learn in village shack
never had a whack from mallam for not learning my lines
never played under the moonlight as the owls hoot and swoop
never ran away in fright as the hunters with charms and cutlasses
walk through barbs and thickets carrying bush games on shoulders
never seen dead bodies laying bloated by the streams when flooded
never had my belly hungry looking for nuts locusts as mama cries

Shallow is my mind
shallow are my thoughts and ways
I drink the freshest milk and eat hot or cold
my life is dandy as I am handy with all my comforts
so i can sit in bliss and think about love and making out
I can get on my computer and write nonsense all day long
with no depth to me my vacuous mind has time to trawl crazily
I have it all yet I cannot see anything for there are nothing in me
fakers are all around me even my friends come easy and go so easy
I know physical love for that is all I see as my Pa left and Ma is busy with number three
oh hate envy and jealousy lives in me its all my mind can deal with

Gun owners indiscriminately brandish
loaded firearms toward innocent victims,
and concomitantly excite
purported in accordance
with first amendment, relish
yet proliferation allowing
free ranging banshee dervish
sans weapons of mass destruction
(mainly innocent lives)
inures citizens to appear off fish
U.S., and self-important
becoming comfortably numb
at regular headlines detailing
some lone a bit mish
hug ha, an automatic killer
methodically unloading with a swish
multitudinous cartridges attempt
to evening the score, a wish
to take revenge viz a personal vendetta
amidst the madding crowds -
utter oy vay - tis Yiddish.

Such proliferation of
high-powered assault pistols
berserk arc with surging blip
bipedal hominid(s) grip
with a the hand a dirk in case the clip
doth miss the mark,
where siege mentality induces
nationwide sprint ting infamy to drip
metamorphosing into
malignant state with curled (Elvis) lip
mailer daemon hell bent
on besieging bait (unaware nip
*** nap noopy snapchatting beings)
bursting with deadly quip
with a barrage of bullets
malicious intent to spray
killing machines delivering rip
paying deathly howls
amidst pandemonium, thence funereal slip
epitaphs etched on tombstones proliferate
taking souls to Hades trip.

More often than not
such brutal and nasty team
(short lived) nefarious scheme
directed at humble lettered people
(like those comprising ream
member ring my hometown -
once evoked with pastoral meme
of Lake Woebegone) minding
their p's and q's, when in the extreme
and out of the blue like a nightmare
interrupting an idyllic dream
a sudden bitta bing bitta bang
rings terrorist catcall followed
by red tide and river of bloodying
bodied of hue men caskets
rendered veneer of dark wood
within lies corpse,
pistol whipped, where mortician
daub with creme.

soundcloud boom across
thus occurs yet another staccato sinister sonic
the pearl jam gray slate
of some formerly anonymous
name sake, which underline or boss
son or daughter of
***** blitzkrieg of shells cross
invisible trajectories shatter
(at shutterfly speed),
the democratic rubric - rendered as dross
disposable lives of society
with senseless slaughter,
whereat somber silence
echoes nostalgia for the Mill on the Floss
when life seemed so innocent
against the gun metal gloss
wails of agony at another human loss.

This epidemic re:
murderous love affair perfervid
with gruesome morbid
fixation allowing, enabling
and providing terrifying
trappings, whence went Pandora out the lid
anger loosed maniacally gun down
(in S-L-O-W mo) recorded by hid
madding crowd, each person
locked in crosshair grid
source (perhaps pathetic plan
premeditated) employing did
da ding from flying bullets,
a coterie upping the ante vis a vis bid
ding fare thee from odious
loading incendiary fiery clips.

Trigger happy homicidal maniacs slake thirst
to take aim in billeted soiree
with deadly precision, and spray
with pump posse city,
a congregated engaged groupon
of people), with egregious pay
shunt and methodically
mowing down, a slew - nay
re: doth unsuspecting
victim aware - delivering may
hem to this anonymous
American citizen as well
family and survivors, who lay
down their sorrows,
which bring revulsion and gray
obsolescence of faith in mankind to fray.

Death be not proud,
nor ought airtime allocated to these
heinous cavalier avengers
foe tee eight-hour special (proffers
twitchy finger itching to squeeze
especial easy access
to sophisticated high caliber compact
offspring doth please
manifesting those prize pride
killing machine owners never freeze
rapaciously with so much ease
lethal gimcrackery cutlasses
even a lil whippersnapper kite runner
unleashing whipping cords
lacerating more so than ropes will ever do  
necessitate strong control
to stem violence as disease.

Black flag(s) show up
on social media platforms
when potential homicidal maniac(s)
communicate(s) intent to strike
with ambush and ready
read - able, eager, and willing
to embark upon murderous rampage.

Prospective killer armed to the teeth
usually a young bucking male
between ages of eighteen and twenty five
wielding, targeting subjects then firing
high powered choice powered guns such as:
Bushmaster XM15-E2S rifle;
Glock 20SF handgun
.22LR Savage Mark II bolt-action rifle
or AR-15-style rifle,
a popular range of semiautomatic weapons.

After countless shooters on the loose
wreaking havoc vis a vis carnage
****** death and destruction
indelibly etched upon consciousness
regarding every surviving person,
who hears and especially
witnesses the terrible and horrible news
anesthetized, brutalized, traumatized, et cetera
for his/her remaining existence.

Violent deadly crime spree shoots upward;
gun owners indiscriminately brandish
loaded firearms toward innocent victims,
and concomitantly excite anguish
purported in accordance
with first amendment relish,
yet proliferation allowing
free ranging banshee dervish
sans weapons of mass destruction
(mainly innocent lives)

inures citizens to appear standoff fish
U.S., and self-important solitudinarian
becoming comfortably numb
at regular headlines detailing
some lone hooligan a bit mish
hug ha, an automatic killer
methodically unloading with a swish
multitudinous cartridges attempt
oddly to even the score, a wish
to take revenge viz a personal vendetta
amidst the madding crowds -
utter oy vey - tis Yiddish.

Such proliferation of
high-powered assault pistols
graph berserk arc with surging blip
bipedal hominid(s) deadly grip
handling barrel as dirk in case the clip
doth miss the mark,
where siege mentality induces
nationwide sprinting infamy to drip
metamorphosing into igneous
malignant state with curled (Elvis) lip
mailer daemon hell bent
on besieging bait (unaware nip

*** nap noopy snapchatting beings)
bursting with deadly quip
with a barrage of bullets
malicious intent to spray;
killing machines delivering rip
paying deathly howls
amidst pandemonium, thence funereal slip
epitaphs etched on tombstones proliferate
taking souls to Hades trip
loved ones next of kin tragic loss
analogously suffering courtesy
stinging invisible whip.

More often than not
such brutal and nasty team
(short lived) nefarious scheme
unleashing angry people to rage and scream
directed at humble lettered people
like those comprising ream
member ring my hometown -
once evoked with pastoral meme
of Lake Wobegon minding
their p's and q's, when in the extreme

and out of the blue like a nightmare
interrupting an idyllic dream
a sudden bitta bing bitta bang
rings terrorist catcall followed
by red tide and river of bloodying
bodied of hue men caskets
rendered veneer of dark wood
within lies mutilated corpse,
pistol whipped, where mortician
daub with creme.

Soundcloud(s) boom(s) across,
thus occurs yet another
staccato sinister sonic thunder
across the pearl jam gray slate
of some formerly anonymous
name sake, which underling of bossed
son or daughter blasting
bombardment blitzkrieg shells cross
invisible trajectories shatter
at uber twittering, shutterfly speed,

the democratic rubric - rendered as dross
disposable lives of society
with senseless slaughter,
whereat somber silence
echoes nostalgia for the Mill on the Floss
when life seemed so innocent
against the gun metal gloss
wails of agony at another human loss
elapsing years tombstone covered with moss.

This epidemic re:
murderous love affair perfervid
with gruesome morbid
fixation allowing, enabling
and providing terrifying
trappings, whence went Pandora out the lid
anger loosed maniacally gun down
(in S-L-O-W mo) recorded by hid
den madding crowd, each person
locked in crosshair grid
source (perhaps pathetic plan
premeditated) employing did
da ding from flying bullets,
a coterie upping the ante vis a vis bid
ding fare thee well from odious
loading incendiary fiery clips.

Trigger happy homicidal maniacs slake thirst
finding me being verbally bullied
seem oh so yesterday
to take aim in billeted soiree
with deadly precision, and spray
with pump posse city,
a congregated engaged groupon
of people), with egregious pay

shunt and methodically
mowing down, a slew - nay
re: doth unsuspecting
victim aware - delivering melee
layered mayhem to this anonymous
American citizen as well
family and survivors, who lay
down their sorrows,
which bring revulsion and gray
obsolescence of faith in mankind to fray.

Death be not proud,
nor ought airtime allocated to these
heinous cavalier avengers
foe tee eight-hour special (proffers
twitchy finger itching to squeeze
especial easy access
to sophisticated high caliber compact
offspring doth please
manifesting those prize pride

killing machine owners never freeze
rapaciously with so much ease
lethal gimcrackery cutlasses
even a lil whippersnapper kite runner
unleashing whipping cords
will serve you more
lacerating more so than ropes will ever do
necessitate strong control
to stem violence as disease.

Whatever is planted
or may be seeded
There is a ceilings in all,
since the alpha has a beta,
and all lives shall
taste the death, I think
there shouldn't be rush,
If you further given us
a modern cutlasses to
attack ourselves and
brethren I have no doubt,
oneday there shall be a great
paybacks on all, no matter
how much nucleared your
projections are,
no matter how much superpowers
you are, I know and I know
you can't beat that monkeys
living in that forest on that
trees

Off course it was destined to happen
when you have some do-gooder saps next door
they keep on borrowing money you don't pay back
you break their door down and they did nothing
you harass, you put **** on their dogs, you vandalized their car
they rose above it all, who the hell do they think they are
then you put the 'shake down on them and they laughed
com'on, what else to do, you go in for the ****

So it came to pass
cold January morning
went out for the  dailies, Mrs had left for work
barely 20 minutes gone, from the street could see our front door ajar
Oh, forgetful Mrs, probably forgot something, had dashed back
got nearer, no car in usual parking space, run upstairs
all the electronics gone, money left on cabinet gone
new triple-system video gone, we've been robbed
Never been burgled before, a very new experience to me
do people actually do things like this, wow, unbelievable
in early morning daylight as well, wow. oh dear, what the f--king hell
mobiles not yet small portables thing, landline ripped out
wow, wow, wow I went from room to room
then went out to the veranda outside
guess who's there smirking, Mama Capone herself
well people, I am cool, but this was now a step too far

I lost my rag and exploded
how dare you effing cheap common thieves burgle us
how could you be so base, ungrateful, gross and vile
look at you, you don't work, spend yours effing day drinking
and drugging while people like us go out to earn an honest living
you are a scrounger, a total waste of space, a total disgrace
how ****** dare you, you ungrateful amoral trash
and more
it was double barrel stuff, I saw red, I bent over backwards
to live and let live
I have given all I could, I had been generous and charitable
and this pounce think they can do this, no way
I told her her story and it wasn't a pleasant read

To say she was shocked was an understatement
they had only known this cool quiet fellow and his small dainty wife, who looked like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth
they expected a cowered man, softened up by their antics
They got a Mau-mau warrior in full pelt, a Tiger roaring thunder  
I was mad, I wasn't having this no more
( it has since gone down in folklore history, they all talk about his temper )
with me its easy, its don't trouble trouble or if you do, then
expect trouble to trouble you, right back

Mama Capone suddenly realized you can't judge a book by its cover,
She went ashen white you could see the shock in her eyes
she was shaking and trembling
but Mama Capone recovered enough to mutter something about
its Bobby,she stammered, I was still effing and blinding in her ugly face
I am going to have you evicted, I said, you and your family
have been nothing but trouble from the minute you arrived

You're the foreigner. Mama Capone replied, you are the one
that's going to be sent back to your jungle, the racist ***** replied
but it was days before Hate Crime Laws, it was not today
East London in those days had '**** Out' on all walls
Asian kids were harassed and beaten up regularly, Asian men
went out in pairs and never walked the street at night,
black men carried cutlasses and were mostly belligerent

I, carried a copy of the Guardian and never experienced Racism
I was everybody's friend, was colour blind, I was just that kind of guy
Until now...until now.....until now
More was to come, I had stood up and called out thieves and gangsters, now, I was told I was going to be taught a lesson
in the University of Life

Mama Capone had scuttled off into her hovel, shaking and trembling
In a red mist, I went to look for a Public phone to call the Police
and my wife
Now...the dye is cast....its war
but not my war!

Apalachee High School,
located in Winder, Georgia
witnessed an active shooter,
whereby the alleged lone gunman
(actually just a teenager of fourteen years)
killed four people and injured nine more
the latter hospitalized with injuries
after a shooting Wednesday
(June 4th, 2024) morning.

His (the lad who pulled the trigger
on the firearm – an AR platform-style gun)
father and mother must be held culpable,
and similar to the slain victims
surviving kith and kin
probably experience immense grief
(at least I would hope).

Yours truly (me),
a married sexagenarian and proud papa,
whose two grown daughters;
a twenty five old, lives in Bend, Oregon
and eldest - almost twenty six months
her kid sister's senior
resides within bucolic Ithaca, New York,
whereby he himself
dwells at Highland Manor Apartments
smack dab within the heart of
Perkiomen Valley, Pennsylvania
nestled here within suburban
southeastern Montgomery County
deeply affected by the tragedy
(as well as most previous occurring
violent, nasty, and brutish ****** crimes.

The Second Amendment of the United States Constitution protects the right of Americans to keep and bear arms. The original text of the Second Amendment is:

“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed”.

The Second Amendment was ratified on December 15, 1791. Its origins can be traced back to ancient Roman and Florentine times, and to the late 16th century in England when Queen Elizabeth I required all classes of people to take part in a national militia.

I (a slight baby boomer at approximately
seventy inches tall from stem to stern
targeted as "scapegoat" during boyhood),
no longer a ticking time bomb harboring
rage against the machine,
would never buy nor use a weapon
intended to fire rapidly
loosing countless bullets,
nevertheless writer of these words
empathizes, sympathizes and telepathizes
third-person singular simple present
indicative forms of empathize,
sympathize, and telepathize respectively
with the predictable cited suspect,
who frequently trends toward being
a quiet natured, nerdy lad
at the receiving end
of verbal and physical harassment.

Still back in the day mean kids
indiscriminately name called me
attendant with closed fists
mere inches from my face -
both boys and girls made a point
to assail introspective
severely shy Matthew Scott Harris
pleading with cruel, fiendish, imps -
of the pervert please don't hurt me
and repeated the following saying:
sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me
(or so the playground adage
wants us to believe).

Words do hurt and the shame
those words can instill in us
have a way of instigating and
perpetuating inferiority complex
in our minds and our bodies.

Easy access to high powered military grade sophisticated woud find blunderbuss quaint.

     More often than not such brutal and nasty (short lived) nefarious schemes directed at humble lettered people (like those comprising my home town of Lake Woebegone) minding their own p's and q's, when out of the blue a sudden bitta bing bitta bang rings the terrorist catcall followed by red tide and river of blood.

     Thus occurs yet another staccato sinister sonic soundcloud boom across the pearl gray slate of some formerly anonymous place-name. which blitzkrieg of shells shattering (at shutterfly speed) the democratic rubric of society with senseless slaughter, whereat somber silence echoes the wails of agony.

     This epidemic re: murderous love affair with gruesome morbid fixation allowing, enable and providing the terrifying trappings for angry person to maniacally gun down (in slo mo) a milling crowdsource (perhaps pathetic plan premeditated) employing coterie of odious loading incendiary fiery clips.

     Suicide bombardier seeks to slake thirst to take aim with deadly precision, and spray with pump posse city, a congregated engaged group of people), with egregious fulfillment to mow down slew unsuspecting victims, which bring revulsion to this American citizen.

     Death be not proud, nor ought airtime allocated to these heinous cavalier avengers.

     Foe tee eight hour special proffers especial easy access to sophisticated high caliber compact offspring of rapaciously lethal gimcrackery cutlasses.

     Sorrow soulful songs sung by the likes of death cab for cutie in tandem with foo fighting beastie boys pay homilies and homage to grateful dead.

     Fetishistic martyrs wannabe set sights of sister and brothers of their same simian species.

     Once target(s) locked and stocked per skull and cross bones, the ammunition barrels at greased lightning speed dead set upon unaware persons. the final minutes/seconds of various lives instantaneously cut short, when instagram cross hairs seal the fate upon avast group of happy go lucky men and women.

     Instantaneous re: within the blink and/or flickr of and eye, the gallivanting live capital one progressive pinterest-ting human hulu hooping unwittingly accompany the grim reaper as riders to final resting place.

     Ribald exhortations and allegiance gifted from he/she who ushered in bereavement, where grief experiences a field day, whence pandora gorges philabundance like, as incalculable forsaken emptiness doles bleakness upon a grim outlook brought about per spilt blood, sweat and tears tallying the cost.

     Mortal kombat rues unfathomable payless priceline, which induces adrenaline to course thru the melee, where survivors sprint non selfie ish lee to a safer outlook, where moments before the collective asylum seekers indulged in a joyus fancy feast per vanity fair, whence diehard fanatic (attired inconspicuously like some dishabille schlepper of an outlier) pulled the trigger releasing high powered voluminous ammunition loaded murderous mass homicidal instrument.

     Netzero escape for those unfairly killed in ceaseless undeclared warfare, whereby killer (ofttimes a pissant punk) cooly unleashes fearsome fusillade from out the barrel per his/her lethal methodological munitions.