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Clara O Aug 2017
grådigt kaster den sig over søvnen
der agerer flugt fra dens stramme greb om vitaliteten
den overskygger
underminerer den fred
som jeg først får lov til at smage på ved daggry
og når den har konsumeret søvnen
plyndrer den videre.
den stjæler
plyndrer de resterende levn af pigen
der engang var
! *** skal leve mens *** er ung!
men jeg lever ikke videre
kun i spinkle fantasier om en fremtid
eller i de magre håb,
der er lige så tynde
som mine håndled er blevet
eller som hofteskålene der stikker ud
og giver mig kvalme
og minder mig om det hele
eller snarere det halve.
for den har været på plyndringstogt,
og har konsumeret pigen
der engang var
zebra May 2016
i love Satins *****
she means a lot to a bard
i hope shes a switch
but life can be hard

a satanist has class
and has a lot a will
and i love your sweet ***
and i work in Satan's mill

I know about archetypes
there my best friends
ive seen all there lights
and ive lived in their dens

thank god for the devil
hes been a hella good friend
i love you to hurt me
on that you may depend

a blade up my ***
ill shimmy and shake
and give you no sass
hope you want what you take
False Poets Jan 2018
readily acknowledge our highest standard of luna loving madness

we treat our luna connection with equality -
great affection as well as sensible trepidation,
for its transgender nature, though well disguised,
is but surficial,  that we all ken, when compared to
***** bewitching covens who in the forest deepest dens,
exclaim their aroused allegiance over and over and over again

but so so many lunatics lurking in the poetic coven, who knew!

do not ask all the luna~ticced poets to step forward,
unless you wish to crash the internet's servers whom I'm told,
who too, are silent secret devotees

who  among us has not scribed truth and lies, when standing outside, greeting the divine presence
Onoma Mar 26
the scared tittering

of turtle doves forced

to flap thru a peach wind.

as lusts blare their fresh

greens, to sweeten the scents

pitting against dens of flesh.

the unanimity of rise and entry--

driven to full *******.
L B Dec 2016
“…Take your place on the Great Mandala as it moves through your brief moment of time…
Win or lose now
You must choose now
and if you lose, you’re only losing your life…”  Peter, Paul, and Mary

Stitching the hem of a prom dress to the
Chicago Convention on TV
Pink brocade, white gloves to the elbow

Night sticks snap skulls

“...and a time on a 27 will always shine a light”

Seven Day War
but neither of us dance

Whispered under weeping willows
“What will become of us?”

“The New Left” scrawled in my yearbook
under Danny’s name
I stared at him puzzled, half-attracted

The New Left came
from Harvard, Radcliffe, Mars?
to the grimy streets of Lowell
to teach us “worker kids”
‘bout our sorry selves

from our bad teeth, unplanned pregnancies
stuccoed bungalows
chrome kitchen sets circa ’53
So far beyond

by our worn out dens
with proud TV’s
the evening’s beer proclivity

They, weren’t “Right on!”
with the smell of furniture polish and
lifetimes of motor oil on overalls

We were okay to be organized though
before they left—

Because they knew what mattered!
…and “How could WE  know so little!
‘bout Lenin, Marx?
the exploits of profit and endless war?"

How could THEY know so little—
about the death down the street
‘bout the conflict caused by *in-house “Pigs”

Husbands in Canada
Brothers in Nam

Dying small-town, piece-work kids
Labor's legacy
Lost bourgeois

Freezing on street corners
Telephone’s tapped
Handing out leaflets

to talk of guns...

“Our people blew up the Bank of America!
You know”

To talk of guns…

While Black Panthers were dying
No ******' around

Hell’s Angels—  graphite ghosts
hover in ****** shadows of shared back yard
Revolutionary panic as
mafia muscle makes an appearance
comes-on to me
sped-up and pulls a pistol!…

Guts ran out the holes in my head

Lonely now
…and not so… ready?

Someone suggested “experience”
to explain for certain
the face on the clock
the of wince of Time
and all the reasons there were to die

Should ‘ave asked why— they called it “acid”

Connecting the dots of despair
I saw it all— for the first time

and lost— everything
*in-house pigs:   cops in the family

Definitely a GOOD LISTEN.
Another amazing song from Susan's dorm room: The Great Mandala--
Peter, Paul, and Mary-- probably their best and most important song!


This was the height of the American Civil Rights and Anti War
Movements of the late 1960s.
I was trying to capture something of the American despair and drive for change of that time. Not all of us were drugged hippie flower children. Some of us actually saw the extent of the loss around us, and in my case, anyway, thought I was witnessing the last possibility for change-- the last throes of conscience of a once hopeful people.
I was also really young, facing what I am sure now, was the truth and was really afraid of dying. Thought acid (LSD) would reveal meaning-- sort of a religious search.  Only did it once-- You know what they say about "What never happens the first time..."  Happened.
Stephanie Nov 2015
Quest along the beaten path -
Rite of Passage;
Cheerfully pay toll -
Your Fair Share of sacrifice.
In return,
Falsehoods, hollow&unholy;
Silhouettes of acceptance
Virtual applause
Manufactured smiles,
Which guide like tracks,
Revealing shortcuts to sunlight
Passing predators' dens
Lustful leeches
Latch on with thirst,
Flesh swells
Veins burst-
A familiar love
Still travelling
In figure 8s -
Hypnotic lemniscates,
An infinite conflict-
Self-reliant cannibal
Indulges in
Structured insanity.
Phil Riles Feb 2016
My spirit wants to do right, but the flesh is unwilling to comply. That's why it must die. Daily. Crucified. All the affections and lusts, crushed with the weight of his Spirit hear to comfort mine own until this mind disownes every thought that exalts itself against the one on the Throne. Adonai, El Shaddai, Elohim, thou most High, Prince of peace, never cease, to amaze, the Blood connected to the earth and awoke men out of graves/I refuse to be sinfully enslaved, hiding in dens and cavs like the ones his goodness tried to save...I understand you Paul, you did what you didn't want to and didn't do what you should have did, yet the Master forgives. I wanna live burden free, no hurt in me, I don't want to subconsciously hold on to the flair of dramatics, rejecting a life lived peacefully while repetitious requests prayed vainfully asking God to take the pain away yet rejecting his orders so the pain can stay. In a twisted way, some people depend on there own misery, no matter how much they complain about it. Because its either what they know best or all they know, and familiarity can be a mental, emotional and spiritual ******* that most...can't let go...well Lord im willing. I'm willing to let go of the past that you already have a long time ago. I'm willing to see myself through your eyes. I'm willing to allow you to turn this anger into joy, this easy irritability into long suffering, this pride into honor, false humility into the one we clothe willing to allow all the pain the sting of rejection gave me over the years, to place shamelessly in your healing hands, im willing to give you the violin, that I've used to play the songs for every pity party thrown within, Upon personal request, while partly oblivious, to the world around me is dying in sin. Lord, continue to help me locate the man I was always suppose to be. Reveal him to me. Describe him to me. Develop me into him. He's been waiting for my embrace for too long. And I'm put away Childish things..
You I hunger, you my sweet
You the outcast, my retreat
They put you outside with the dog
Then uttered your name in warnings when you left

There was no searching in the wood
For your footprints, almost-human
The town stays indoors
Their torches sit below their faces
They recount the horror of you

The children use your name now
To cast rings round playground-prey
Mothers fear they carry you
Unconditionally, every day

Though, funnily,
in a hundred years they'd ***** your statue
and feed themselves on trinkets of your image.

Warming their hands on the cruelty of their ancestors,
it's you who lives forever in the end.

But for what it's worth, I will come to you in sleep
Because I love you swollen, your sweet grey matter
And if a huntsman beats that head till it shatters
I'll pick up all the pieces and smoosh them back together.

For as long as I stand before you,
No prince will hang you on their wall
No white-coat will pickle you in a jar
There will be no plaque at your feet reducing you to a thousand flashes.

You will live with me in every other burned hand,
Cause there's rivers in what's left of those life-lines.

We'll build dens in the ashes and eat fruit from our gashes
And it will be a treat, my sweet, sweet Melonhead
Life have range of sense, 
But also have range of tense, 
Immortal role in life of pens, 
If see real life you need lens, 
Death is form of an other life, 
It may start with coming wife, 
Death's life is not real death, 
Such lead life may have wealth, 
Sense is life and life is sense, 
Death's life is very deep dens.

— The End —