Hip Service
By Julian Malek

The zeal of cobblestone tolerance arrayed in fashionable hues masquerading as crimson secrecy, elevates the tide of man but some boats leak in their foundations. Therefore a cork to every exuberance and a triumphant torch for every sorrow lives onward in collective time. Larks that abound because prescience and PUGET sound, that brown has become the new orange which in turn prowls as a concealed swarthy black. To antagonize the willful and frenetic pace, a prodrome of lasting but memorialized disgrace. Should I move to a state by first or last name, or is the final appellation worthy of much more lasting fame. I scurry down the aisles, bemused by shimmering tiles and the beguiled audiences who see much in my limitation but doubt little about my debited elation. Ringmaster Barnum, how much horticulture is needed for assured superstardom, how many cloisters must we evacuate from the incendiary plumes of a metaphorical Harlem..  But know that no virtual reality can supplant the reality that does truly exist, or at least our time is too infernal and purblind to resist. Carrey the tops of mountains in the humor of wellsprings and fountains, we engage a menagerie of egos lilting of an etiolated pragmatic concern. Evicted from paradise, littered with say-cheese demise ensnaring three blind mice eaten alive by snake-eyed vice. To feel good without incorporated tyranny, we must see blue and red as alternatives to the same destiny. A world that reckons with the futilitarianism of pacified malcontent and astroturf monikers that lead the impressionable into a slaughter shed. Established or not, any enchantment under the sea must include fishes once a pastiche of me, but to them I avoid their courtesy flush and never even faintly blush as my egalitarian statements are lavish thrush.

Five TO Won baby one in 99, everyone here aboard the titanic stays alive, you got your boat baby and I got mine, gonna make it with babies numbered in surreal primes. Halt the slots game the nines, a stitch in time is going to turn out to be Mine. Flanger goals, girded piles, liminal like an aborted Harry Styles, we climb mountains we issue tithes, and the turmoil is etched into 45-notched bludgeons and two-tucked knives. Excuse you, where have you been all day, have you been sauntering in a gentle rain or a genteel pain, have you wallowed beyond the mires of doubt and ranked above David Blaine. I hope you tell me of your magic tricks, rather than your other flicks endeared I stand to fight an ineradicable itch. But if not, you placid pond dented by so many rocks and so many ripples give your heart over to me, before I clinch the special Olympics *******, we ran, we span the homespun garments of your left and right hand, but death is a specter that ghoulishly carouses along the carousel terminal disease we call life. I beseech your deepest affection and want to console you for your deepest struggle, to be there every time wed with time rather than a throttled scuttle. Moons make you guarded but maroons leave me desiccated, don’t ever let that wilted flower die, always water it with a rich but gentle ties and widened deck for all to at once marvel and pry.  Monsters of Mars Attacks once flanked my bed, as though the **** brain scared every gooseflesh and restrained every frisson of mystery. I lampoon myself for those cold Dark Knights and the protection ended by the plight of the poor mattering nothing to the deliberately internecine rich. I struck gold in a valley somewhere, an oxymoron of paradox that now you have the privilege to dock, to stay aboard to be a vessel of peace less widely deplored. Even if we don’t sprout wings, we garner the exactitude of measured things and our glass elevator though easily shattered by the glower of enslavement is actually our vista to heaven or listening to brethren tingles for rich mans trinkets and other things. For humanity deserves a legend and a princess, a regimented desuetude and a flanged lust but in our mistakes wildly flouted in momentary moments we become purified by the temptations of an alabaster palace.

***** the left-field wisdom of a pragmatic paragon ellipsis in prison, slip between the cracks and let my suburban muse become your urban ruse. To enchant a caged world beyond a reality delicately and deliberately unfurled. Squirming toads on highways enchanted but dead, are graves for the blue becoming purple in every dignified red. Gainsay assaults me with platitude, a repeated hitter quit on the first bunted ball into foul-line territory. Those gripes are swiped right in all circumstance no matter the plight. The pronged hearing of a trident sensitive to ambient collection, and suddenly we are all in the mad house even though the house of profaned pain is much worse. Glimpses of gambits that gambol for nickels in transit as occult grenades and known dice waddle through without artifice or device, and the laughter and slaughter that trains collegiate minds, differs no more than the tropes of a glamorous violence articled in sordid rhymes. This surfing movie means so much more than Surf Wax America pristine in limited but sacrilege nirvana. Teen spirits smell muskier than 90s pop dreams, the grasp and grunge of gouged eyes becomes a mummified staid, a scarecrow to those who disobey. Childhood flashes with blinding light, and new sight illuminates darkening blight, A blight eradicated only by two magazines and including one that houses the bullets that ***** themselves between death and comatose dreams both within astral sight. Littoral harbor on a seaside town, a shanty with a brackish gown that glides the gourmand to the cosmopolitan eatery on the outskirts of lost & found. But forever lost in embonpoint and forever gained in chavish that exonerates the gaunt, the etiolated prince in heart becomes irrefutable marrow in minded souls.

If I am a spy you are an ESPY, and if I cry than you are a baby,but since neither are the case my wiseacres will cultivate lava lamp dreams for a new generation and suddenly Boston bets on Harvard, but who knows of this piped blather squirming for relevance rather than voguish but temporary chatter. My regatta knows how to swim, my life now knows how to cringe and yet still win and in stilted plays of bungled sincerity the God of peace reminds us of our transcendent personalities. That we in sincerity top the barnacles of invention a novelty but a rarity. But the guillotine quill of emboldened unscripted parvenus ruthless in their eager dues, outdate and outlive the sued swayed blues that indemnify Clinton and make the atomic dog an amazing Winston hill a church often in sheltered disuse. Imps and urchins sting the sentiment, cloy the alimony of repentant betterment, but neither touches the gilded skies of pleonasm striving for raspy disguise as to dissuade further diatribe investigation. Lurking in those scared days of youth, the gore of unalloyed horror scourged me with a limp, that compassion itself could ever become a gimp. Now years later athletics better and scoring goals making the mildew sweat and the years wetter, not a global warming that can be alarmed by global mourning. Take peace at heart if distanced spears of separation make Idiocracy as a pastiche look exceedingly smart. And spar only with the true antagonists bridging malevolence with expedience. Killjoys sure, will joy even more sure, but still boys fluttered heart stopping dead at a stop-watched alarm the worst tragedy of our sordid sort. Give an African Child a real home rather than a spatial roam, a palatial desiccation of momentary Jonas Brothers snapping back at captives with sexualized foam.

Narrative blinds shuttered in an Island among mountains hardly ever wiser to sanitize the sanitarium among the wasps of stung power. Police crumple their uniforms as they prowl down the avenues, looking for misfits and widened platitudes. Somehow that the vigilance of those corrupted by their very career choice, look even worse when megalomania of private is the limelight of public, to their defense few turrets I can muster but castles in the sky will be the apartheid judge. Those that cling to virtue to eradicate Porsche-driven faked or real deaths at the most breakneck speed, that Fast & Furious operation if disclosed completely would turn the Shire of the ring into the hatred curtailed by a song in Sing-Sing. Immunity must not Yoda implore, that livery Liverpool marooned on islands can also to deplore the R.E.D. and still whet the sharpened stead and the fly-by-night Manchester United alights like militant peer pressure for wranglers in tights. But beating the Beatles at a game of Walruses and egg-shelled eyeful towers likely impedes rinkside hockey from anything over bellicose ballyhoo…it exists as a transient fixated glower. But who knows about soccer speculation when love is the transcendent temptation, when nest-egg hens rather than neglecting rig Bens of clockwork and clocked words designed arise better for their token ken. Do I must repeat the subtext of submarines, yellowed as though ugly unused as though unseen, as though the quixotic earthquakes of tintinnabulations Avatar dreams. Wafted souls console the disheartened thoughts of a dashed dream that Berlin hates more than a Furor’s unbridled and useless scream.
Demotic clips slinging from the bedridden silence of a token moon and its token friends, swimming in a shore of ambiguity whether history mellows or whether its furor melts away momentary doubts. I want to avoid the sting rays exorcised by due providence and become the amalgamated talents gentry and of course the upstart swagger of Jack Dawson. But with the psy-op going on, the people manipulated on all sides of a gray picket fence will the relationship bloom without muttered dissent or pretended smiles. Will we take upon the shuffled shuttle and dig with shovels deep-rooted Christmas trees and toast our lives to Dos Equis. We may never go out of style, but the treacle of illuminated imagery when divorced from sentiment bristle shows a swagger that prioritizes rather than amalgamates all love. I love being brash and brazen and honest because when she finally ditches the grandstand of delayed frenemies fandoms of other tinsel decorations without any substance beyond meretricious thrill. You want a roller coaster on some days, but most often you want the nutcracker to elope to secret hiding places. Swim with adventure not just in love, not just in affection with the starlight now matter how luminous, sixpence all the richer is no centuries any poorer and we could be that gilded couple of star and screen and if we ever have to scream, let our screams unite us in passion, rather than a milquetoast deference to pedestaled beauty. but of course the end times don’t laugh at your crumpled wizened relapse. Not out of convenience wed by a discriminating genetic harvest moon but a deeper engagement that flatters when stylish and bristles when romantic but never defiled, never riled of specious pretense. Promise me that you will always remember me in my flaws and my faults, in my scause factory destructions and the penults of PEN-ULTIMATE wisdom that comes before the grace of God in the annihilation of passion for eroded omission. If your goal is to be remembered, check that out…but the most admirable goal is as the propinquities of souls dusted in the wind returning to a spring equinox of passion and if you find in yourselves reservations do not depart from sacred land, and never jilt me because of a boisterous and menacing friend. You are everything to me right now, and I Hope this persists despite the vicissitudes of star-favored afflictions mixed with utter benediction without the pontification of stilted Benedictines  or rather the hyped ludic effrontery of termagants being made of younger and younger women. Leave it at this ,32 leaves the royal secret in royal hands and the Knights Templar and us we altogether hold hands, if only a prelude for a masquerade ball. But the stilted embarrassment of crestfallen time, let that be relegated and emphatically lets embrace what is like to not ever need a real white horse to get back into your favor, because we never go out of style we can brandish the best elements and reject the sentiments of the too newfangled and the too stodgy. We in our crenellated pleonasm can eager ride the lightning to another tomorrow and another yesterday and if even not that, we virtually make an indelible impression of embroidered love not too distant in ivory towers and not to vulgary( catering to popular sentiments) to become a trash glam movement. We soar, others deplore but let their purblind doubts render them blind to our burgeoning love.

Forget the brisk trees dangled in the wind on winding paths through haunted forest or remember them because of ghoulish fortress but with our apotropaic lamp we can avert most evil and call the rest fun and gains and shun but fames never profaned, never inalterable a destiny to magical to be some whimpered catcall. Or we could linger beneath lambent street lights disguised as though wilted garb, attrition of circumstance waiting patiently for the matinee and the vintner to escort us beyond the garb of pretense in a city so abundant with it that it deserves castigation. But I digress, a beachside cliff overlooking tepid waters tumultuous in their power but august in their noises, the cadence of love will sing a half-moon bay on full-moon nights and we will frisk each other like grasping at straws of permanent tracks trammeled of the elite and a sidetracked basque bet. Trim those antlers and instead grow metaphorical wings, to us we all sing but few can match your elegance and everyone would be crazy not to see your ennobled age and together thrilling songs to emulate thriller in sales we will collaboratively sing.
Haughty sneers from lifeless lycanthropy straggling furtively along the pastiched sidewalks of grime, livid because they can’t share the lingering limelight, with as many guarded perks of privacy clambering like a hive of snarky sharks. Lets ditch the big town dreams in terms of posh and stature if only for a caressed moment beneath the unadulterated stars and if you find spars **** to the extent they are amiable than I say guess what my name is Lars! Or wait a second, paused in the big city spotlight our stenciled hearts will guide whatever progeny is yours or mine or ours together we will sing the most comforting lullaby, and caves no longer must we abide. Yearn and earn every inch, as I gripe with my delicate saddened pinch but I think the innuendo speaks . Ripen with our trips to Napa, long afternoon sunsets swim in our hearts as we taste the vanguard’s toast on elegant wine.I console with entreaty to disavow the omen of that San Franciscan church October 2008, the doom implied by Einstein, the raillery of a world grinding down the endless decadence of a railed future inalterable in destiny or partialy amenable to widespread coquetry.

Forget those rumbles in your past that made you feel partial to insecurity and learning the ropes you transcended all and live in all eternity. Thimble and brook, tolerant of all those tokes I took your rebellious side flattens the yeast of Exodus raspy in its begrudged clapping. But the Pharaoh of the modern world sheltered me under his prickly thorns, shielded me from the sickly things that life adorns. We have the numbers on our side, the weight of destiny on our shoulders, dedicate yourself to yourself and I will preen the most vibrant wisdom and love will leap like Apollo across all borders not for camel-****** hoarders. We are culminated destiny in the wings of the best daydream

A Poem for Three Voices

Setting:  A Maternity Ward and round about

FIRST VOICE:
I am slow as the world.  I am very patient,
Turning through my time, the suns and stars
Regarding me with attention.
The moon's concern is more personal:
She passes and repasses, luminous as a nurse.
Is she sorry for what will happen?  I do not think so.
She is simply astonished at fertility.

When I walk out, I am a great event.
I do not have to think, or even rehearse.
What happens in me will happen without attention.
The pheasant stands on the hill;
He is arranging his brown feathers.
I cannot help smiling at what it is I know.
Leaves and petals attend me.  I am ready.

SECOND VOICE:
When I first saw it, the small red seep, I did not believe it.
I watched the men walk about me in the office.  They were so flat!
There was something about them like cardboard, and now I had caught it,
That flat, flat, flatness from which ideas, destructions,
Bulldozers, guillotines, white chambers of shrieks proceed,
Endlessly proceed--and the cold angels, the abstractions.
I sat at my desk in my stockings, my high heels,

And the man I work for laughed:  'Have you seen something awful?
You are so white, suddenly.'  And I said nothing.
I saw death in the bare trees, a deprivation.
I could not believe it.  Is it so difficult
For the spirit to conceive a face, a mouth?
The letters proceed from these black keys, and these black keys proceed
From my alphabetical fingers, ordering parts,

Parts, bits, cogs, the shining multiples.
I am dying as I sit.  I lose a dimension.
Trains roar in my ears, departures, departures!
The silver track of time empties into the distance,
The white sky empties of its promise, like a cup.
These are my feet, these mechanical echoes.
Tap, tap, tap, steel pegs.  I am found wanting.

This is a disease I carry home, this is a death.
Again, this is a death.  Is it the air,
The particles of destruction I **** up?  Am I a pulse
That wanes and wanes, facing the cold angel?
Is this my lover then?  This death, this death?
As a child I loved a lichen-bitten name.
Is this the one sin then, this old dead love of death?

THIRD VOICE:
I remember the minute when I knew for sure.
The willows were chilling,
The face in the pool was beautiful, but not mine--
It had a consequential look, like everything else,
And all I could see was dangers:  doves and words,
Stars and showers of gold--conceptions, conceptions!
I remember a white, cold wing

And the great swan, with its terrible look,
Coming at me, like a castle, from the top of the river.
There is a snake in swans.
He glided by; his eye had a black meaning.
I saw the world in it--small, mean and black,
Every little word hooked to every little word, and act to act.
A hot blue day had budded into something.

I wasn't ready.  The white clouds rearing
Aside were dragging me in four directions.
I wasn't ready.
I had no reverence.
I thought I could deny the consequence--
But it was too late for that.  It was too late, and the face
Went on shaping itself with love, as if I was ready.

SECOND VOICE:
It is a world of snow now.  I am not at home.
How white these sheets are.  The faces have no features.
They are bald and impossible, like the faces of my children,
Those little sick ones that elude my arms.
Other children do not touch me:  they are terrible.
They have too many colors, too much life.  They are not quiet,
Quiet, like the little emptinesses I carry.

I have had my chances.  I have tried and tried.
I have stitched life into me like a rare *****,
And walked carefully, precariously, like something rare.
I have tried not to think too hard.  I have tried to be natural.
I have tried to be blind in love, like other women,
Blind in my bed, with my dear blind sweet one,
Not looking, through the thick dark, for the face of another.

I did not look.  But still the face was there,
The face of the unborn one that loved its perfections,
The face of the dead one that could only be perfect
In its easy peace, could only keep holy so.
And then there were other faces.  The faces of nations,
Governments, parliaments, societies,
The faceless faces of important men.

It is these men I mind:
They are so jealous of anything that is not flat!  They are jealous gods
That would have the whole world flat because they are.
I see the Father conversing with the Son.
Such flatness cannot but be holy.
'Let us make a heaven,' they say.
'Let us flatten and launder the grossness from these souls.'

FIRST VOICE:
I am calm.  I am calm.  It is the calm before something awful:
The yellow minute before the wind walks, when the leaves
Turn up their hands, their pallors.  It is so quiet here.
The sheets, the faces, are white and stopped, like clocks.
Voices stand back and flatten.  Their visible hieroglyphs
Flatten to parchment screens to keep the wind off.
They paint such secrets in Arabic, Chinese!

I am dumb and brown.  I am a seed about to break.
The brownness is my dead self, and it is sullen:
It does not wish to be more, or different.
Dusk hoods me in blue now, like a Mary.
O color of distance and forgetfulness!--
When will it be, the second when Time breaks
And eternity engulfs it, and I drown utterly?

I talk to myself, myself only, set apart--
Swabbed and lurid with disinfectants, sacrificial.
Waiting lies heavy on my lids.  It lies like sleep,
Like a big sea.  Far off, far off, I feel the first wave tug
Its cargo of agony toward me, inescapable, tidal.
And I, a shell, echoing on this white beach
Face the voices that overwhelm, the terrible element.

THIRD VOICE:
I am a mountain now, among mountainy women.
The doctors move among us as if our bigness
Frightened the mind.  They smile like fools.
They are to blame for what I am, and they know it.
They hug their flatness like a kind of health.
And what if they found themselves surprised, as I did?
They would go mad with it.

And what if two lives leaked between my thighs?
I have seen the white clean chamber with its instruments.
It is a place of shrieks.  It is not happy.
'This is where you will come when you are ready.'
The night lights are flat red moons.  They are dull with blood.
I am not ready for anything to happen.
I should have murdered this, that murders me.

FIRST VOICE:
There is no miracle more cruel than this.
I am dragged by the horses, the iron hooves.
I last.  I last it out.  I accomplish a work.
Dark tunnel, through which hurtle the visitations,
The visitations, the manifestations, the startled faces.
I am the center of an atrocity.
What pains, what sorrows must I be mothering?

Can such innocence **** and ****?  It milks my life.
The trees wither in the street.  The rain is corrosive.
I taste it on my tongue, and the workable horrors,
The horrors that stand and idle, the slighted godmothers
With their hearts that tick and tick, with their satchels of instruments.
I shall be a wall and a roof, protecting.
I shall be a sky and a hill of good:  O let me be!

A power is growing on me, an old tenacity.
I am breaking apart like the world.  There is this blackness,
This ram of blackness.  I fold my hands on a mountain.
The air is thick.  It is thick with this working.
I am used.  I am drummed into use.
My eyes are squeezed by this blackness.
I see nothing.

SECOND VOICE:
I am accused.  I dream of massacres.
I am a garden of black and red agonies.  I drink them,
Hating myself, hating and fearing.  And now the world conceives
Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
It is a love of death that sickens everything.
A dead sun stains the newsprint.  It is red.
I lose life after life.  The dark earth drinks them.

She is the vampire of us all.  So she supports us,
Fattens us, is kind.  Her mouth is red.
I know her.  I know her intimately--
Old winter-face, old barren one, old time bomb.
Men have used her meanly.  She will eat them.
Eat them, eat them, eat them in the end.
The sun is down.  I die.  I make a death.

FIRST VOICE:
Who is he, this blue, furious boy,
Shiny and strange, as if he had hurtled from a star?
He is looking so angrily!
He flew into the room, a shriek at his heel.
The blue color pales.  He is human after all.
A red lotus opens in its bowl of blood;
They are stitching me up with silk, as if I were a material.

What did my fingers do before they held him?
What did my heart do, with its love?
I have never seen a thing so clear.
His lids are like the lilac-flower
And soft as a moth, his breath.
I shall not let go.
There is no guile or warp in him.  May he keep so.

SECOND VOICE:
There is the moon in the high window.  It is over.
How winter fills my soul!  And that chalk light
Laying its scales on the windows, the windows of empty offices,
Empty schoolrooms, empty churches.  O so much emptiness!
There is this cessation.  This terrible cessation of everything.
These bodies mounded around me now, these polar sleepers--
What blue, moony ray ices their dreams?

I feel it enter me, cold, alien, like an instrument.
And that mad, hard face at the end of it, that O-mouth
Open in its gape of perpetual grieving.
It is she that drags the blood-black sea around
Month after month, with its voices of failure.
I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string.
I am restless.  Restless and useless.  I, too, create corpses.

I shall move north.  I shall move into a long blackness.
I see myself as a shadow, neither man nor woman,
Neither a woman, happy to be like a man, nor a man
Blunt and flat enough to feel no lack.  I feel a lack.
I hold my fingers up, ten white pickets.
See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks.
I cannot contain it.  I cannot contain my life.

I shall be a heroine of the peripheral.
I shall not be accused by isolate buttons,
Holes in the heels of socks, the white mute faces
Of unanswered letters, coffined in a letter case.
I shall not be accused, I shall not be accused.
The clock shall not find me wanting, nor these stars
That rivet in place abyss after abyss.

THIRD VOICE:
I see her in my sleep, my red, terrible girl.
She is crying through the glass that separates us.
She is crying, and she is furious.
Her cries are hooks that catch and grate like cats.
It is by these hooks she climbs to my notice.
She is crying at the dark, or at the stars
That at such a distance from us shine and whirl.

I think her little head is carved in wood,
A red, hard wood, eyes shut and mouth wide open.
And from the open mouth issue sharp cries
Scratching at my sleep like arrows,
Scratching at my sleep, and entering my side.
My daughter has no teeth.  Her mouth is wide.
It utters such dark sounds it cannot be good.

FIRST VOICE:
What is it that flings these innocent souls at us?
Look, they are so exhausted, they are all flat out
In their canvas-sided cots, names tied to their wrists,
The little silver trophies they've come so far for.
There are some with thick black hair, there are some bald.
Their skin tints are pink or sallow, brown or red;
They are beginning to remember their differences.

I think they are made of water; they have no expression.
Their features are sleeping, like light on quiet water.
They are the real monks and nuns in their identical garments.
I see them showering like stars on to the world--
On India, Africa, America, these miraculous ones,
These pure, small images.  They smell of milk.
Their footsoles are untouched.  They are walkers of air.

Can nothingness be so prodigal?
Here is my son.
His wide eye is that general, flat blue.
He is turning to me like a little, blind, bright plant.
One cry.  It is the hook I hang on.
And I am a river of milk.
I am a warm hill.

SECOND VOICE:
I am not ugly.  I am even beautiful.
The mirror gives back a woman without deformity.
The nurses give back my clothes, and an identity.
It is usual, they say, for such a thing to happen.
It is usual in my life, and the lives of others.
I am one in five, something like that.  I am not hopeless.
I am beautiful as a statistic.  Here is my lipstick.

I draw on the old mouth.
The red mouth I put by with my identity
A day ago, two days, three days ago.  It was a Friday.
I do not even need a holiday; I can go to work today.
I can love my husband, who will understand.
Who will love me through the blur of my deformity
As if I had lost an eye, a leg, a tongue.

And so I stand, a little sightless.  So I walk
Away on wheels, instead of legs, they serve as well.
And learn to speak with fingers, not a tongue.
The body is resourceful.
The body of a starfish can grow back its arms
And newts are prodigal in legs.  And may I be
As prodigal in what lacks me.

THIRD VOICE:
She is a small island, asleep and peaceful,
And I am a white ship hooting:  Goodbye, goodbye.
The day is blazing.  It is very mournful.
The flowers in this room are red and tropical.
They have lived behind glass all their lives, they have been cared for
        tenderly.
Now they face a winter of white sheets, white faces.
There is very little to go into my suitcase.

There are the clothes of a fat woman I do not know.
There is my comb and brush.  There is an emptiness.
I am so vulnerable suddenly.
I am a wound walking out of hospital.
I am a wound that they are letting go.
I leave my health behind.  I leave someone
Who would adhere to me:  I undo her fingers like bandages:  I go.

SECOND VOICE:
I am myself again.  There are no loose ends.
I am bled white as wax, I have no attachments.
I am flat and virginal, which means nothing has happened,
Nothing that cannot be erased, ripped up and scrapped, begun again.
There little black twigs do not think to bud,
Nor do these dry, dry gutters dream of rain.
This woman who meets me in windows--she is neat.

So neat she is transparent, like a spirit.
how shyly she superimposes her neat self
On the inferno of African oranges, the heel-hung pigs.
She is deferring to reality.
It is I.  It is I--
Tasting the bitterness between my teeth.
The incalculable malice of the everyday.

FIRST VOICE:
How long can I be a wall, keeping the wind off?
How long can I be
Gentling the sun with the shade of my hand,
Intercepting the blue bolts of a cold moon?
The voices of loneliness, the voices of sorrow
Lap at my back ineluctably.
How shall it soften them, this little lullaby?

How long can I be a wall around my green property?
How long can my hands
Be a bandage to his hurt, and my words
Bright birds in the sky, consoling, consoling?
It is a terrible thing
To be so open:  it is as if my heart
Put on a face and walked into the world.

THIRD VOICE:
Today the colleges are drunk with spring.
My black gown is a little funeral:
It shows I am serious.
The books I carry wedge into my side.
I had an old wound once, but it is healing.
I had a dream of an island, red with cries.
It was a dream, and did not mean a thing.

FIRST VOICE:
Dawn flowers in the great elm outside the house.
The swifts are back.  They are shrieking like paper rockets.
I hear the sound of the hours
Widen and die in the hedgerows.  I hear the moo of cows.
The colors replenish themselves, and the wet
Thatch smokes in the sun.
The narcissi open white faces in the orchard.

I am reassured.  I am reassured.
These are the clear bright colors of the nursery,
The talking ducks, the happy lambs.
I am simple again.  I believe in miracles.
I do not believe in those terrible children
Who injure my sleep with their white eyes, their fingerless hands.
They are not mine.  They do not belong to me.

I shall meditate upon normality.
I shall meditate upon my little son.
He does not walk. &n

VI. I, Ophelia
___________________

­{The Drowning}

It was her--
Flower Child.
Weeping Woman.
Crazed Ophelia--
who taught me that the
drowning is in the letting go
and not in the doing.

Ophelia did not flee to the riverside
with the intention of
drowning herself, no--
it was merely a promise of bouquets--
daisies, violet, rosemary,  rue--
of wild, velveteen petals nestled softly
against tear-stained cheekbones;
pine needles--
ticklish--
beneath raw feet
(do you recall how The Little Mermaid
danced upon knives
in the name of true love?);
and the train of her nightgown
a focal point for dewy leaves
and frayed bird feathers.

For it was flying she thought of
as she climbed the scarred willow
and cradled herself atop its highest bough,
severed blossoms in hand,
legs dangling precariously over
blustering currents.

But
when the bough
b r o k e ,
the cradle did   f
                              a
                               ­   l
                                      l,
and down came
mad girl
cradle and all.

But you must understand--
the dismemberment of the
willow's flailing limbs
was not her doing;
when the rapids dragged her down
to the belly of the murky river bed,
she merely gave no struggle
as death lapped at her ribs--
she merely submitted,
allowed the snivelling maw of the river
to swallow her whole.

Now,
I think it suiting
that I ponder the demise of the
Flower Child
(wilted in her ruin);
Weeping Woman
(tears reunited
with the eye of
the water lily);
Crazed Ophelia
(forgotten)
and all she has taught me
of drowning
as I let myself
fall asleep in the bathtub
at three o clock in the morning,
all the while a little drunk
and so very sad.
(You'd might have even thought
I wanted to drown myself. )
__________________
{Th­e Resurrection}

Doused in the pallid wash
of blue stage light,
and the clamour
of imaginary tides
growling in my ears,
I metamorphosize into
Hamlet's Ophelia
and all the other Ophelias
who came before me--
mad.
broken.
lost.
women.

Women who were never
capable of quieting
the sea trembling
in their veins;
the barbaric deluge festering
within their souls;
the siren songs
musing to the cavernous twists
of their hearts,
piercing through artery
with stalagmite precision.

These women succumbed,  
not to the water,
but to the burden of their own
desire.
love.
heartbreak.

None of them survived.

Except for me,
of course.

And, I must admit,
it took my
writing this poem
to finally understand
why that is--
why--
how--
I have managed
to stay alive,
despite dreaming of that
same siren song
that lured my foremothers
to their destructions.

See,
alone,
Ophelia could not weather  
the tempest seething over her.

But I different--
I am not alone.

Because I carry with me the spirits
of all the Ophelias
who came before me,
the fragments of their beings
melding together to create
a brilliant gossamer of hope.

And that is why,
together,
we can breathe underwater.
____________________
{­Blackout}

Ophelia Bows,
her performance immortalized
through the remembrance
of a standing ovation.

I hate Science
I hate Technology

Neither Am I Orthodox
Nor I am Fool

I am not a *****
But still I choose to hate

Science and Technology
Both gave us many things

I remember, there was a time
I worshipped both of them

They produced machines for us
They produced robots for us

Machines started building
Homes, Bridges and Flyovers

Machines helped us in
Food and Cloth Production

Milk and Silk Production
And Blah Blah Blah Blah

They made our life easier
They made our life safer

They provided better security
They provided better tools

They made our life longer
They made our life smarter

They gave us rays of hope
They promised much more

They promised more Freedom
They Promised Leisure Time

They promised better Environment
They promised clean Air, Water, Soil

They Promised Harmony and Peace
They Promised Equality for All

Both Science and Technology
Progressed exponentially day by day

But something went wrong
Someone captured them

Hijacked them and misused
By applying their ***** minds

We still have Machines and Robots
We still have Logic and Skills

But where is Freedom and Peace?
Where is the clean Environment?

Where is clean Water, Air and Soil?
Where is the promised Leisure Time?

Now we also have Nuclear Bombs
We have weapons of mass ******

We have smart tools for our Extinction
We have weapons of mass Destructions

Robots are being transformed
From Robots to Human Beings

Humans are being transformed
From Human Beings to Machines

Yes Slavery is back in the Game
Machines have enslaved Humans

Robots have been granted
Citizenship and Civil Rights

Machines have been made ready
Ready to wage war against humans

The question is who is the culprit?
Is it Science and Technology?

No. Not at all. I know this very well
But I still hate Science and Technology

The real culprits are the hungry Capitalists
Who captured, hijacked and misused

Science and the Technology for their greed
Though they have all the things they need

Science and the Technology easily surrendered
and allowed themselves to be used for their greed

This is why I Hate Science and Technology
I also hate Capitalism and Capitalists too

But I have a big question for Myself. I still doubt -
"Can I really live without Science and Technology"

A standstill!!!!

The planet's spinning out of control!!!

Mistaken identities are non friendly!!!

A false temple shalt be erected
The saviors ressurected
For didn't thou heareth?

No more sadness
No more tears
To famish a costly spirit!!!

Open murderer's
Wilt **** with a smile
The land of the old
And persecution's trials

Wilt shake!!!!!

Trembled cake!!!

No layers of good taste!!!

A volcanic comeback
For all to see,
As the fish and the trees
Come to their boil!!!!!

She rises and falls like a reposed breath
before an entire world's visage
in her encircled arms.
The incandescent glow of the stage
has an intoxicating quality to it,
the music being
something liquid, viscous.

As notes thrum in tender and soothing caresses,
her legs supple, twirl like petals
cascading under the weight of raindrops,
giving way to a lush surrender
steeped in a language of love and need.
Her very fire
and impassioned soulfulness
lifts her up above the crowd itself,
burning for all to see.

In this moment now
her timelessness enraptures me.
Another part of myself awakens to her grace
and renders me
gratefully whole.
A sense of euphoria slow dances its way
from her being to mine,
consuming every piece of my body
in a fiery bloom—
charging me with
a crackling, electrifying force
unlike my mere own.

I can see now
that this is what she was born to do—
to be on pointe, seeing everything.
Any instances of worldly fear
is left to the dying.
The rhythms of her old pains,
tribulations of past destructions,
are now buried beneath her feet.
And her radiant smile while she dances
still speaks to me gently—
that to be free
is to be wonderfully lost
in her waltz with destiny.

© BT

....................terrorism......................
I Opened my window and peeped through.
Heard the loud panicked voice of screams.
Just I saw the world of dreams.
People were shouting'crying'runing here and there.
Destructions and dreadful scenes seemed everywhere.
Streets were covered with huge blood.
Just like I lost in terrific flood.
Dark smoke raised over the sky.
War jets and gaints were so high.
When i glanced all the round.
And didn't believe what I found.
Street lights were broken and dim.
Everywhere laid down the corpses of muslim.
Muslim children and muslim babies.
Their white shrouds turned into red.
War jets bombed,killed,left crippled & then briskly fled.
Only innocent people were on their list.
People were wraping them and taking away by cist.
My eyes burst into tears.
By the thought of terrorism whom everybody fears.
The thousands of people are now lifeless.
And remained so helpless.
Taken away the poor children's future brightness.
with War,conflicts,disputes and violent fray.
Unjustly killed so many people also by slaughter and slay.
Everything for them is just like a game to play.
By the war demons everywhere,everybody is sad & depressed.
Why Only innocent people are being harassed & oppressed?
Violences and wars only left miseries and sorrow.
Nobody can imagin what will happen tomarrow.
that's such a big shame.
blaming only muslims and giving them terrorist name.
Why the Muslims are only labeled of terrorism and extremism?
Come and recognise the real face of terrorism.
In the name of religion why people usually fight?
open their eyes and turn them from darkness to light .
Terrorism has no place in Islamic religion.
It teaches the supreme wisdom with real vision.
I pray when will come in this world that day.
One person will unite the world and bring peace oneday..
.............
((((By shaffu))))
Alhamdulillah I am a muslim but not a terrorist.

In the face of war
Loudly our fears drum.

The lioness ready for a feast
I heard Lucifer is angry against God
Battling to get Him to His kneels.

Blood is reigning
The blood sucker awaken
In pieces the sky has fallen
The moon now a commoner  
And the sun a drunk wanderer.

Where are the innocence
The black cloud acquires,
Vultures need the flesh of the angels
Their bone the dogs also desire.

The dragon has been unleashed to flood the world,
This time, no one is right enough not to be wrong,
Yes, No saints, No Noah,
No ark to sail to a new world.
Death our creditor, we the borrower
The covenant can't be erased not even a word.
See what we have done to ourselves fighting our creator
See how we successfully drive ourselves to our destructions.

If God finally conquer the Armageddon
In the recreation of a new kingdom
I will want to be the Adam without eve
Dying to see what difference that will make indeed
Because this world is such a complicated trip
The returnees will hate to repeat.

The place where the atmosphere consists of main outbreaks,
Whether the dishes weren't done or the floors weren't mopped correctly,
Something so small can effect the gross unification of "family".
Feeling like you can't necessarily express yourself,
Leaves you to feel drowned out by the many emotions that flood your mind at the worst of times,
It allows your feelings to grow more and more profoundly erratic; anxious.
Allow me to go into full elaboration as to how I constantly maintain my well-respected position of a so called "good person" or complain about the many people who are just as careless as the majority of people nowadays who simply do not ask how I've been.
I've let days slip by,
Suddenly, I feel no difference in what occurred yesterday or really, no contrast in the feelings I'll most likely encounter tomorrow.
At home, mass mental destructions happens,
It's where I get pulled into a place where I'm just trapped in my own self, similar to the way I feel in school.
I don't know, it could possibly be causing my continuous feelings of nervousness whenever I'm surrounded by people,
Or it could merely be the fact of which, I haven't yet chosen a path or seen quite a way to go through and feel a protective environment around me.
These winter days are gradually approaching,
It's only a matter of time until my mind goes away like the sun at night,
These seconds, minutes, hours can patrol for what feels like perennial timings, but anticipation is what's really foreshadowing my shallow whole of a "home".

Such a shame to let loose
That I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing
But pretending seems to work so well;
You all claw at plasticine symbols
The letters deplored with a swish of the ink well.

Calligraphic self destructions mean something to somebody
Over an ocean with eyes so slight as to shine in the darkness,
Glinting in robes of black on the rooftops of rich dynastics
And the rhymes of yesterday creeping to the forefront,
Reminding me just of how hopeless hopelessness is--
The assonance of a retreating boxcar
Is steaming into the backdrops of consciousness.

Is it time to rewind somewhere?
The visages of paintings only mean so much
To the blind bats on cave walls in cavernous reaches
Of static television snow drifts.

It seems that you and I have come to the biggest of filamentous rifts:
Sifting between now and then we have mind-skips
Of epic proportion, a sickened distortion
Of all of the children left in their contortions
It's all leprosy in my eyes
Since the skies are burning down as we pinpoint abortion.

And we release that defeat, and try to find meaning in it all:

A lie of great size
Told from my lips yet it was--
You who believed me.

Together we made a chimera
A deception even worse than anything I've ever known
I said that some god had told me all the things that
that
that--

I can't begin to begin an apology
My mouth mummified by request next to Jeremy Bentham
I only wanted what's best for you--
But look at what you've done!
Oh, Crusades! Oh, Crusades!

Children don't lie with your eyes on the sunset
For Nietzsche is the ultimate navigator!

And you finally catch sight of the top of an alligator
floating in the oil, staring at you
slanted eyes smiling cruel.

It all makes sense now, what half believed lies
That explain how the darkness will come to rise
But the opposite side of our crystalline marble
Has known all along, they knew all along!

Facing the east, wasn't He?
Then even he knew
Perhaps what I said was not all untrue
And in fact
the fault lies with Him
Not me,
Not you.

Sincerely,
The Bible.

Self-promotion arena supplying for
social gatherings and family space,
at times useful mirror and judge onto the lives
of the untrue, the corrupted, the vicious,
at most theatre for public sacrifice by the rule of the thumb
with mercy at the hands of the pleb.

Samnites, secutores and retiarii fighting to the death,
noxii and damnati hacked in the man-made
monument built for entertainment,
barbarian combats in the name of munus,
lethal games on the tilt of a double-edged sword
serving political agendas and commercial must,
their successes encouraging others.

Youths sold, batches addicted
to the screen of civilization
erected to conceal and divert the eye,
to the glittering murderous show
permeating the four cardinal directions while
confusing children's moral compass,
morphed into unactive witnesses,
blood-thirsty enablers, wishful executioners,
as loved ones helplessly watch
the self-destructions, the stabbing cuts,
and hear the roars of beasts feeding,
the shouts of be-headings acclaimed.

All the things you can't control
Should never destroy your hopes and dreams
Which seems to be constantly happening
Falling from skyscrapers finding something new to latch onto
Attached by these distractions causing destructions
We could have avoided this but you kept going on a quest for honesty
Honestly I told the truth
But you wouldn't believe me
Anything I say isn't plain true to you
I think I'm through with you!
All the things you can't control
Should never destroy your hopes and dreams
Which seems to be constantly happening
Falling from skyscrapers finding something new to latch onto
Attached by these distractions causing destructions

I have heard in far of places, where evil men do dwell
That in this place, there is no light in shadows spell
They are filled with hate and ordained, to walk the path alone
Their tears are dry, they cannot cry and hearts are made of stone

The heart of a man is stonier than where love refuses to grow
Where time is a word of fate, exchanging tears for blood to flow
Carnage in destructions belly, monsters of burden take to air
With gnashing teeth and jagged claws, you cry out in despair

To be trapped within a web of lies, hope that depletes your soul
They grin with fangs of blood and gore and discern no self control
Your children’s smiles feed the gluttony, of love’s casual distain
Wicked unimagined pain; brief satisfaction is what they gain
So out to hunt again, their belly’s worn from gravel and slither
They drain the world of faith, while the sun commences to wither
Angels grounded devoid of flight; heats of hell seared their wings
The birds of night taken flight, from darkness abyss as banshee sings
People are blinded by phantoms smoke, cursed as walking dead
They walk with sin right next to them, on streets all paved in red
Bones of victims piled in heaps; while hunting vultures circle round
Ghosts of martyred blameless souls concealed within the ground
The earth struggles to purge itself of human infestation
Quakes, storms and inferno’s flames since dawn of mans creation
The devil strides, with jokers grin and gloats sincere admiration
Knowing the ****** hearts in evil men is beyond all restoration
The world is sick, no cure in sight we breed like pox and boils
Contamination of humanity rinks the fleshy earth rots and spoils
The ocean leaps and bounds trying to soothingly lick the sores
This far off place where evil men dwell finally washed up on our shores

No this isn’t a katy perry song
But lets figure out what went wrong
From the mistakes
Just for our sakes
When I wanted to die
You’ll make me want to shine
When I want to hide
You’ll take me for a ride
When i feel hate
You’ll show me im great
But why are you gone?
You weren’t next to me at the break of dawn
In another life?
Would we make it right?
Or would you be there on the other side?
Waiting for me to be your bride?
But you left
With the rest
I can’t be here alone
I can’t even call you on the phone
You haven’t left me instructions
And so far its been self destructions.
I see you leaving
And im just here grieving
But before was I naïve
Did you have a plan up your sleeve?
Before all the plans we made
Did our love just fade.
I don’t want you to leave just stay
Don’t be the one that got away.

The way our blazing passions collided was beautiful
Our sparks were caught in an eternal ballad
Each mimicking the ecstatic bursts of the other

But our dance
Turned into a fight

It was a perfect storm
Two scorching typhoons of emotions
Plowing through the paths we once ventured together
Ripping through -and burning -the fields where our souls first touched
Erasing our memories from our hearts

Our fury burned bright
But our ballad remained beautiful
The music of our universes being torn apart whaled
As we both animated our destructions

But somewhere in our scattered souls
Deep inside the ashes of our love
A flame still shine

I've given into temptation
allowed you to curl your fingers
around my throat, tormenting
me with serpent eyes, born from
lust, demons and all things hellish
I inhale poisonous smoke from
your scent, slender frames that entice
the soul into destructions doorway

The mirror was cut,
Wrists were shattered,
This heart is sobbing,
These tears must be broken.

This town sits quiet,
As the destructions falls silent,
Where these stories were once spoken,

Stories that have long past
Still seem so real,
They’ll never stop happening,
Darkness will never let him be.

Everyone’s telling him what to do,
He doesn’t remember how to feel,
It’s all very fragile,
His thoughts are vast as the sea.

Flowing thoughts,
Crashing waves,
How will I ever escape,
Will I never be free?

They tell you no,
You’re trapped forever,
But I say no,
I say run away with me.

Let’s run,
Leave this place,
Leave these feelings,
I’ve got you and nothing else.

You’re wrong,
We have the world,
Right in the palm of our hand.

We don’t need the world,
All we need is us,
Say goodbye,
It’s time to leave this land.

Whispering farewell
To the memories
We’re leaving behind,
Good and bad times,
Old adventures,
Thinking of new ones
As we leave this reality.

Your lips, so bittersweet,
The last thing I’ll ever taste,
Kiss the world goodnight,
As I kiss you one last time.

I’m afraid of letting go,
But I know if I’m with you,
This dreamland won’t be so scary,
It’ll be just one last tree to climb,
As we stand at this height,
I contemplate our lives,
From when we were kids,
To today, on this bridge.

Let’s run,
Leave this place,
Leave these feelings,
I’ve got you and nothing else.

The Path up and down is one and the same.
~Heraclitus~*

Through dusty books,
pages as brittle as peanut candy,
I search for wisdom
among the Greeks;
question the meaning of life.

On distant shelves,
among cobwebs and boewevils,
fiery sagas shadow
the lives of lustful Gods,
tribulations of mortals
and destructions of nations
once as powerful as the Gods
they worshiped.

I diligently catalogue:
fill page after page
with lore and legend,
trace paths of ancient ones ~
their bones telling tales~
until I realize nothing has changed.

I too spin tales,
yarn of sagas rich as the Greeks,
worship Gods and muses,
like my own broken-spirited muse,
a Simberg angel.

Someday, I will join weavers of old,
and searchers of knowledge
will dust away webs of my tales
and realize that I am but one,
and yet, the same.

Antrorse are these two stretched hands! Parched unto the atmosphere, colorful stratosphere dimmed, yet not darkened yet!
Burgonet feelings are quite openly. Outspokingly disgraceful. Some wear marvels, others turned disgraceful.. How distasteful!!!
Burlap past times and I'm still knitted in, wherein memories are the remembrance of a past who maketh thou to be thou. Buskin druid....
Flustering is soo highly overtaken, for thine innards goes outdated, as prayers are daily struggles. Mixed and ruffled, as the freckles to ones current displace..
Foxfire flame can be seen in hidden oaks, wherein thou art clogged by forest smoke, yet/ made by thine own destructions... Rich haveth luncheons, as schooltime sells cheap embargo's!!!renew tomorrow!!!!
Icterus slumbering dots have taken the whole!!!while t.v rots thy soul, the news comes day in day out!!! All the same but worse!!!!battle dispersed!!!
Indign I am to past the pearly gates! For to early or to late, its better to make it in than not!!!!

.
In overcrowd of family
I was orphan.  No legacy
Of leftover dream, in shut
Into indifference and colds
Unfounded, of cacophonies,
Egg of unreal yolks cracked,
Where even a heart is mute
Without ear, without touch,
When a soul is overlooked,
Like a shadow in high sun,
With parents, who seethe,
Breaking their own bonds,
In a room free of warmth,
Unbeknownst, harmony,
Let loose from civilities,
Open to rot and curses,
Hollow as any prideful
Automatons bent out
Selfless unknowings
True destructions,
Negating orphan.

a day
                                                             ­                   a night
                                                           ­                     along the light
                                                           ­                    I saw my self go slight


tremendously down
like wayfarer missing their hometown
and the sickness **** them by their own


                                                         the dog bark
                                                         the duck quack
                                                         the frog croack
                                                      
   but i'm still freezing under the oak
   and i'm not finally fine nor OK

Some say that God created the Universe,
But others say it was all an Accident.
Yet either way
Accident or God
Must have Existed
In some Realm or Place.

Think about it.
No accident without cars, ships, trains or planes.
No God without Somewhere to reign.

Oh yes, of course, it’s all beyond our mortal comprehension.
Outside of space and time.
But here’s the rub,
The Bard would say:
The miracle is that we Think,
That we Know we exist
Somehow.

Sentient Consciousness:
The most wonderful thing,
All lodged in the Brain.

Matter is easy
Compared with the maze
Of DNA.
Billions of years
Of Evolution
Punctuated
By mass destructions
That darkened the Earth
For many long years.

So now we can watch a golden sunrise
Or russet sunset.
We can marvel at the Milky Way above us:
Countless snowflakes swirling
Over the endless plain.

Paul Butters

He was born in a log cabin
Faces lots of hardship from his childhood
He works in the farm after school to help his parent
He was a man of truth and honesty
He became a man of honour
A man full of reputation and dignity
A man who wage many wars which would have prolonged slavery
A man who propagated the end of slavery today
He tells the truth and yet people never wanted the truth
He cares and love the masses yet they loose faith in him
As a great Man he never stop his good deeds
He was hated by many because he was against slavery
As a great man he keeps pushing against slavery
He won
Free the slaves
And also free the union
A man who spoke powerful words
"With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds."
He became the best president ever known
He hated war and destructions
Yet faced the worse crisis any president would ever seen
He later took war as the only means to free the union
Yet was murdered by people he cares about
Great men lives on
His legacy lives forever
His achievement speaks great of him
Farewell!!! Abraham Lincoln

calling IV

calling all truck drivers
calling all car dealers
            all scuba divers
            all potato peelers
            all mothers
            all sons
            all brothers
calling all who’ve won
            all losers, users, and just
            all perusers of rusty lust
calling all criminals
            all those who’ve tussled and cussed

calling all mechanics
and all whom, in them, trust
calling all politicians
for i must

beg of ye to see this infinity in we

calling all ministers of high finance
            all fragile tendencies toward your dance
            with your blossoming children
            and their salty breezes
            their blown into kerchiefs
            and their seizing sneezes
            seeing you as you carry them toward
            our unifying dust
            i hold no ill will toward that soil you till
            i’ve passed around your notes, your bonds,
            and your bills
            i’d thought i’d be one of you ‘til i met a few untils
            love your children, and love yourself,
            for they shall carry your ashes
            into a box upon a shelf
            that dust behind all wealth

calling all foxes, dogs, cats, chickens, and beetles
            all sages, rosemary, spikes, and needles
            all wages, incendiaries, wallops, and weebles
            all pages, all poets
            all police, all panthers
            all those battling fires
            without and within
            all those atop towers
            all whom are twins
calling all wheels
                  upon all surfaces
                  all of those mired
                  in a sense of worthlessness
calling all kings
calling all nations
calling all jordan’s, americas, and native stations
                  we’re writing too much blood
                  into not enough ground
                  we’ve survived our flood
                  and are forever bound

calling brother abel and brother cain
            father abraham and mother pain
            you’ve traumatized me
            from all this blood you’ve lain
            i see peace in all your eyes
            blown to pieces in terrorizing replies

calling all consumers, producers, unionizers, and managers
                  corporations, and not for profit planners
                  all doctors, nurses, clients, and programmers
                  advertisers, marketers, bloggers, and spammers
                  all engineers of damns, bridges, and destructions
                  those who fell they’re ****** due to their suctions
                  i’ve sensed a fragile beauty in your moistened orbs
                  you all carry
                  i beg of you all to come from love
                  lay down your swords
                  i beg you not tarry
                  come women laying into asphalt
                  come scientists predicting san andreas’ fault
                  come widows, charlatans, and poets of trite
                                                                 all ye poets weeping into ye hands
                                                                 all ye poets of darkness and light
                                                                 perfect light and darkness are myths upon this earth
                                                                 just as perfect black and white
                                                                 are myths spun from history’s dearth

Still, the Roman Catholic Imperial Church hasn't done all it can to atone for
persecuting humanity with their last inquisition, the global mass-**** of mostly
boys, that while more and more supposed christian al-queda do terrorist acts,
still, serial murderers masquerading as cops genocide mostly men of color,
still, newborns are ****** to death in the crib by the remocrat conspiracy's
psychic terrorism, 'the ****', and are also neutered by them, who have said
"they'll turn out to be dems or non-rems", still infancy, toddlerhood, childhood,
teenage and young adulthood years are filled with mass serial: rapings, ******
assaults, anatomical destructions, assaults, attempted maimings, muggings, beatings,
persecution, discrimination, institutional abuses, etc..  Still, 9 months after
hurricane maria tore through Puerto Rico, etc., they don't have restored electric,
adequate food and water distribution, their death toll, according to a Harvard
study, is over 4600, almost 3 times that of Katrina, and the next hurricane
season's upon us.  Still, women's reproductive rights are under constant attack,
assaults on women's health centers have escalated, as has religiously biggoted
attacks on Muslims, etc., while funding for the people's gov't'l safety net has
been drastically cut across the board, still these draconian legislations, outright
eugenics programs, aren't prosecuted by the U.N. as State Agression against people,
as indicated by the Nuremburg Accords, necessitated by ****** having done the same.  
Still, the intelligence, military, police, prison industrial complexes haven't dealt
with mass-****, inequity in prison sentencing, urgently needed prison reform, severe
lack of education of, and availability of lawyers, funds for prisoner's defenses,
the necessary prosecution of the going on two trillion dollar per year intelligence
community for purposefully not preventing the hacking of the elections of 2016, and
thereby being a part of the invisible coup that installed Trumpler, with dinos,
sinos, ginos, ainos, linos, Bernie or bust bots, Assange, wikileaks, global hackers,
Putin's puppets all.  Still Trumpler regularly attacks, denigrates American people,
institutions, the world, continually tears kids from their parents as a supposed
"disincentive", while that's human atrocity, as he continues to mock, be unfettered
by the continuing revelations, indictments, investigations of him, his campaign and
the executive branch he has installed, E.P.A.'s Pruitt, while he illegally weeds out
dempublicans, all who aren't criminal, even firing remocrats who aren't SS enough.  
His latest, his 'fixer' Cohen, getting over a million from navaritus pharma (of
course Trumpler got his cut), because The Facilitator-In-Chief is following pages
from king george (bush **** heavily invested in pharma) and his ****, cheney's
aborted by the people plan's playbook to diagnose, prescribe to most, especially
those mentally less advantaged teens who've been chosen, trained, triggered by the
remocrat conspiracy's psychic terrorism (with a disparaging wink, nod from dinos,
dempublicans), 'the ****', to do terrorist acts in schools, being on the hot seat
instead of Trumpler, and another example of State extreme hypocrisy as well as the
imploding domestic war against everything, especially nature, next generations
(the corp. structure's convoluion's devoluionarey direction vs. the evolution),
as they, merx for more through to mercs for unending unnecessary worldwide war,
cannibalize the future to replicate their past supposed profits, evermore and in
ever more cyclical, centralizing patterns. Is this also how they're assassinating
the future non-rem leaders before they even become adults?  "...We(e),..." need
everyone to speak out, stand, everyday, if not now, then when, if not here, where?

people who feel like to extend their pinky fingers
when the others have been recently offered
in assistance to greedy children, antagonistic husbands,
selfish friends.

they would never see people that way though

because if they did, and on the few days that they do,
when humanity is tire slashing puppy decapitation,

the people who feel crumble into a *** of sappy person,
resorting to gulping sobs and furious scribbles in
a journal no one will read.

people who feel like to assume they are alone,
that if God wanted to, they might all have been
rounded up, dumped on an island, and left
to offer conciliatory remarks, hugs, and shared
assumptions of responsibility and ethical treatment.

people who feel like to believe people are good,
as good as cotton wrapped tightly
around a small, slender, white stick:
dutiful, essential, uniquely purposeful.

but those people who feel woefully forget

the Ones who Feel

and feel to such a degree
that they create destructions and downfalls,
messily, angrily
like a toddler desperately trying
to make the blue crayon look black.

they are dangerous.
powerfully effective at harnessing the attention
of those who digest and regurgitate what
Society has in mind about the condition of people,

that there are troublemakers and peacemakers,
but the bad apples are more capable of wiping out
the apples who never had a chance,
and merely were in line of fire because they were
apples of the same kind at the same place
with the same name.

people, plain regular people, like to remember this
silly notion from childhood,
the devil and the angel entertaining either shoulder
of people, all, everyone people.

but what I think, me, who feels and feels and feels
until the feeling goes far away
until I beg for it to return,

everyone feels. some listen too keenly. some explode. some are deaf.

others mute.

Él,
Que se lo cruza, que se lo llama,
del mar que viene pero él
que se queda,
y forma todas las playas
de verdades, turbulencias,
¡que sólo los barcos de dignidad
alcáncenlo, ellas!

Yes, surely I am deplored by
the beauty of destructions’ marking, holding dear
what’s longingly perverted
through the lost.
Ravens’ repulsing cries
are the needed on the shores,
not just on the autumn,
the rotting of the sea tales
their voices hold,
the selection of exquisite
that my preference twisted wants.
And so much else I daze over,
that overlay of the Emerald Land’s
waves and beats that
my distant to the south shore pleads,
that jade,
that shock,
that valiancy of the Scots
which in our sands
and crashing skies
should be,
lusts
to be.

The awaiting
for that dripping glory
in a mellowed casing of a wrecking ship,
it’s in a waiting room
made from a lone standing rock
that carries myths and ventures
to fulfill,
the Young Verter’s
everlasting,
tinting
moment.

Show up on our silver days
at the bays,
El Acantilado,
del Norte, caro,
The Cliff, The Cliff,
Ese Acantilado!

By : Nabs

I was running away looking for a solace
When we collided
As though two meteors, out of their orbit
Crashes together creating a loud bang

Creating galaxies in our wake

You lit me up like a spark
Like I was firecrackers
And it would be to your delight
To see me explode in the night

We often clash and crash
As often as the wave crashes to the shore
But somehow i do not mind
You always soothe me at the end, after all

"An anchor", you confessed to me one day
To the silent question hovering between us
About what we are to each other
I almost replied that you were mine too

We are an anchor to each other
So this bruised ship of ours
Can still land on the shore
To be able to come back, even if only to each other

To not be lost they said
But I found that we are still lost
Lost in each other orbit
In each other oceans

I found, sometimes that i do not mind

We have faith in different things
A set of beliefs
But then again
Our foundation are made from the meshing off our jagged ends

A beautiful mosaics of broken pieces of two souls trying to balance each other

We are sowing seeds
While people slapping labels
Foolish and wrong
As if what we had is something for their consumption

It is supposed to be a glorious thing
Growing something
To see it bloom into something marvelous
Maybe thinking that the pest will always be pest is what doomed us after all

We tried to nurture it
To care for it
To prune it
But at the end it still withers in our hand

But not because of the lack of trying
Never because the lack of trying
You and me
we were cursed

With head as hard as rocks
Walls as high as the mountains
Heart broken in so many place
Trying to keep our heads high in this sinking ship of ours

It was a wonder we managed to collide in the first place

We bound ourself to each other
Maybe that was
What made us broke apart in the end
We never like to be tied down

But even though all things have to end
I am foolish enough to admit
That I, in my deepest heart
Wish for this to last

But alas, a wish is called a wish
Because it is something not to be true

I would like for us to keep colliding
To keep crashing through each other orbit
As if we are made to clash with each other
To keep pulling and pushing

Pulling and pushing

We're collateral damage
You and I
We know it deep into our bones
A myriad of explosions waiting to make another galaxies, another constallations

But fear always make the heart goes weary

I do not want it, this feeling
It came in sneaking
Like it knows it should not have been able to be in
But there is cracks in this fortress of mine

You tried to helped me
You tried so hard to help me
But there is pride in my soul
And my contempt grew out of the adoration that is slowly being corrupted away

I adore you
But I never could say it
There is always tension clogging between us
Maybe that is why we always bring knives

You know me
You know me better than I know my self
I know the taste of fear
It is a bitter pill that I keep swallowing everyday

The pill taste a bit sweeter around you

You made me fond of you
I never expected that
You become my solace
And yet i am too used to running

Maybe my save haven could only be found if i keep running

I keep building my walls up
There is a knocking sound
Persistent
But nothing can not be wore down by time

Even asteroids become corroded by time

Even stars will be killed by time

You and me?
We're a fool if we think we could have fought against time

There was one time when you told me
That I made you feel alive

You make me feel alive too,

So alive that i feel like every single nerve inside of me will burst just by looking at you

We were a two matches
Lighting each other up
Just to see it burns out
With all that was left were only ashes

How do one stop building walls?
How do one stop from falling?
How do you stop the barrage of feelings?

How do you stop from dying?

There is always a knife between us
Where we are tied with red strings
Perhaps it is red because it is a warning
A warning made by blood

Perhaps

Maybe

I woke up with bloods on my hand
We passed each other today
There's a different sort of magnetic field resonating around us
More chaotic yet more distant, more repelling
I swallow another bitter pill, keeping my heads up

Is this what love feels like?

Maybe
It is better like this
With bitter pills in my hands
To keep me from remembering

How you and I were made for destructions

i would have agreed to ernest hemingway when he said that one should never go on trips with anyone one does not love, but i said otherwise starting that moment i met you. if you do not love me at the time that we've decided to go on a trip together, then lay on your back, watch me drive and drive you crazy. i'd be your chauffeur, since i am a professional driver i'd keep in mind how safe you should be with me, through the longest ride of your life i'd try hard enough to bring you delight as i fold down the roof of our cabriolet. the cold breezy wind would hit your smooth face, thus windy it would make your hair sway along with it. i'll let you feel macrocosm and hope that you'd know that my love for you is nature-like, we'd grow, then find peace with each other and if destructions hit us, we will heal afterwards we'd find our way back to each other's arm.

i am the one to maneuver the ship we'll use on our sojourn in this fantasy, with high hopes that someday we'd have our longest voyage but we are together evermore. i'd like to be your high-grade licensed mariner until our ship ends sail; but as we embark on this new journey, pardon me for i will wish upon all the heavenly bodies above us. i'd whisper to them if that's what i have to do just to make you love me. i am not certain if you'd swing your body along with the wave of the open sea, so i as your captain, i'd move you back and forth, to oscillate you like a pendulum enjoying the moment. and so, i'll dance with you until my sea-like love for you, be reciprocated with your ocean-like one.

but if us will never happen, tell me. on our way, i am fully aware that we will encounter an iceberg that may cause our ship to sink, or a limestone rock that would cause us to trip–make us stumble and fall on our knees. when our trip ends, that is the time we can say if you love me or you still don't. for a moment, i'll kiss you passionately if you would let me. and i'll drive you back home, so you could finally rest after our tiresome travel. maybe, it came too foolish to travel with someone you don't love, but isn't it where all of it starts? isn't there this need to explore just to find out? if you change your mind, call me. when you find out that you already love me, hit me up. we'll fuel this love, until our end and until the day all the machines be disconnected from our bodies. because my love for you is endless, and my heart hopes that this journey of lifetime would make you love me as well.

Oh, give thanks to the Lord, for He is good!
For His mercy endures forever.
Let the redeemed of the Lord say so,
Whom He has redeemed from the hand of the enemy,
And gathered out of the lands,
From the east and from the west,
From the north and from the south.
They wandered in the wilderness in a desolate way;
They found no city to dwell in.
Hungry and thirsty,
Their soul fainted in them.
Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble,
And He delivered them out of their distresses.
And He led them forth by the right way,
That they might go to a city for a dwelling place.
Oh, that men would give thanks to the Lord for His goodness,
And for His wonderful works to the children of men!
For He satisfies the longing soul,
And fills the hungry soul with goodness.
Those who sat in darkness and in the shadow of death,
Bound in affliction and irons—
Because they rebelled against the words of God,
And despised the counsel of the Most High,
Therefore He brought down their heart with labor;
They fell down, and there was none to help.
Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble,
And He saved them out of their distresses.
He brought them out of darkness and the shadow of death,
And broke their chains in pieces.
Oh, that men would give thanks to the Lord for His goodness,
And for His wonderful works to the children of men!
For He has broken the gates of bronze,
And cut the bars of iron in two.
Fools, because of their transgression,
And because of their iniquities, were afflicted.
Their soul abhorred all manner of food,
And they drew near to the gates of death.
Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble,
And He saved them out of their distresses.
He sent His word and healed them,
And delivered them from their destructions.
Oh, that men would give thanks to the Lord for His goodness,
And for His wonderful works to the children of men!
Let them sacrifice the sacrifices of thanksgiving,
And declare His works with rejoicing.
Those who go down to the sea in ships,
Who do business on great waters,
They see the works of the Lord,
And His wonders in the deep.
For He commands and raises the stormy wind,
Which lifts up the waves of the sea.
They mount up to the heavens,
They go down again to the depths;
Their soul melts because of trouble.
They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man,
And are at their wits’ end.
Then they cry out to the Lord in their trouble,
And He brings them out of their distresses.
He calms the storm,
So that its waves are still.
Then they are glad because they are quiet;
So He guides them to their desired haven.
Oh, that men would give thanks to the Lord for His goodness,
And for His wonderful works to the children of men!
Let them exalt Him also in the assembly of the people,
And praise Him in the company of the elders.
He turns rivers into a wilderness,
And the watersprings into dry ground;
A fruitful land into barrenness,
For the wickedness of those who dwell in it.
He turns a wilderness into pools of water,
And dry land into watersprings.
There He makes the hungry dwell,
That they may establish a city for a dwelling place,
And sow fields and plant vineyards,
That they may yield a fruitful harvest.
He also blesses them, and they multiply greatly;
And He does not let their cattle decrease.
When they are diminished and brought low
Through oppression, affliction, and sorrow,
He pours contempt on princes,
And causes them to wander in the wilderness where there is no way;
Yet He sets the poor on high, far from affliction,
And makes their families like a flock.
The righteous see it and rejoice,
And all iniquity stops its mouth.
Whoever is wise will observe these things,
And they will understand the lovingkindness of the Lord.

Northern Lives Matter

Note the fine flowing plain lands
One where peace and order reigns
Residence to historic cultural affluence
That chaos admired from afar with pains
Homing the abiding partisan patriots
Entrenched in now ravenous blood hovers
Rustlers, insurgents effected their domains
Notorious bandits we once heard in fables.

Lives lost cruelly to obdurated elements
Imprinting images of guns and deaths
Voices raised; are our leaders ritualists?
Establishing innocent crime-made orphans
Spreading evils, afflictions and destructions.

Many a religious shrines turned death traps
And markets, farms; ransacking poor villages
That barely know governance and her benefits
Turned into flowing river of blood and tears
Emptying plangent hearts to quixotic elites
Rich in thoughts; gliding us to precipice.

It eats at me, this singular question. It repeats in my head, over and over—how can I desire what I already possess? I look at the books on my shelf and the coffee table, and I want to love them completely. I want to never buy another book. I look at the TV, a moderately sized HD set already obsolete, but what a fantastic machine it is, and though I've owned it for years, can I desire it? Or do I want something larger, something 4K? I'm trying to desire the objects I own, so when the day comes, when my singularity comes to an end, and I'm waiting for Her to come home, I will be lovesick, anxious, feverish, pure in my desire.

I've been in relationships and fantasized about one-off affairs. I've had one-off affairs and fantasized about something whole, something reliable.

This TV is watchable and this book is readable.

I think a woman is inherently better at desiring what's in her possession. She gives life, she creates, she's given to infrastructure, and future-building. A man destroys. A man conquers. A man stands in the corner of a room with a drink in his hand and recounts his destructions and conquests. You're a woman. Can you tell me how it's done?

Antrorse are these two stretched hands! Parched unto the atmosphere, colorful stratosphere dimmed, yet not darkened yet!
Burgonet feelings are quite openly. Outspokingly disgraceful. Some wear marvels, others turned disgraceful.. How distasteful!!!
Burlap past times and I'm still knitted in, wherein memories are the remembrance of a past who maketh thou to be thou. Buskin druid....
Flustering is soo highly overtaken, for thine innards goes outdated, as prayers are daily struggles. Mixed and ruffled, as the freckles to ones current displace..
Foxfire flame can be seen in hidden oaks, wherein thou art clogged by forest smoke, yet/ made by thine own destructions... Rich haveth luncheons, as schooltime sells cheap embargo's!!!renew tomorrow!!!!
Icterus slumbering dots have taken the whole!!!while t.v rots thy soul, the news comes day in day out!!! All the same but worse!!!!battle dispersed!!!
Indign I am to past the pearly gates! For to early or to late, its better to make it in than not!!!!!