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There is a certain art in relinquishing your spirit to emotions quelling from the breast
Stumbling haphazardly through the hallways of an academy surreptitiously pristine
Encountering locked doors, painted walls, lowered eyes and agony
The menial labor of a janitor picking up after the crowd has released every last yelp
And the pain
Of a boy stooped in an empty corner
Old enough to be a man
Helpless as an infant
Too poor to enter, too meek to escape
Trapped in the corridor between sunny landscapes and dimmed memories
Struggling to hoist his frame up from its stupor
Afraid it may just as well falter once restored
And hoping someone may notice
There is a certain art in relinquishing your spirit to emotions quelling from the breast
Sincerity and compassion need not be amongst them
But, just as breath escapes, so do tears
Splashing from the drowning pool in which the soul thrashes
Bending, grabbing and tossing
Discard,
Discard
Stoop
Obtain
Discard
Each day a variation of the past
Unique in subtle differences imperceivable to visitors
You’ve seen the man, the child, the infant
Tear down the fourth wall
Walk in his corridor
I implore you to bend, grab and discard
Your thoughts of superiority
Take your mud stains and apathetic steps
Carry your able body to a place more receptive
More deserving
Less reflective
And gleaming
Remember the path I made for you in my corridor
It mirrors your face, ambivalent
MMX
Scars, like yours, mine, and ours
The ones that bled, now you can never discard

Scars, time to relive the past
It just happened to be,
Within in my grasp

Scars, a reminder of will
Remembering a loss,
A void to be filled

Scars, I’ll never forget
A map of the journey
No pain filled regrets

Scars, a feeling contrived
A time in my past  
Grateful; alive

Our creator, a leader of men
Scars are a reminder  
That symbolizes the dead

Scars, one last debate
How am I supposed to feel
When we can’t relate?
I don’t want to hear it
I don’t want to know
Don’t keep me waiting
With no dial tone

Scars, like yours, mine, and ours
The ones that bled, now you can never discard

It’s a badge of honor
I survived death!
A merit of completion
Having been put to the test
Got me in a fight for land
Where men now lay dead
Bloodied and red
These scars on my body
The voice in my head
Telling me you are the enemy
No longer my friend

Scars, like yours, mine, and ours
The ones that bled now you can never discard
Scars, yours, mine, and ours
Scars on your leg, on your chest, on your head

Scars, when you decided on ink
Instead of lead
Taking a bullet, they pronounced you as dead.
Scars
Mokomboso Aug 2014
Dear Emma and the rest of the Sumatran orangutans of Chester zoo

To you, today was just routine. To you, in your bubble of a world, just another friendly face came to talk to you again. To me, this visit was bittersweet, in fact I would say 80% bitter. In seeing you, in meeting your gaze the guilt and shame ripped through me like like a tiger's claws. Ah yes, the tiger, 7 years have past since they had disappeared. People have all but forgotten already, there were plenty of tigers safely locked away right?
You probably don't know this and I doubt that you can read this, but I write this letter to you anyway, do what you want with the letter. Look at the photograph I have included of your Asian relatives that I took during my travels nearly 20 years ago. Or you could discard it, tear it, eat it I don't care as long as you receive this. For nearly 2 centuries your people have been captured and killed and we destroy everything you know. Our growing population pressurised us, we strove for urbanisation, painting a thin venire of chrome. Our colour of comfort, but we made it worse for ourselves as our most important livelihoods were replaced by dust villages and starvation. You were not immune to our pillage I'm afraid, from that first time Charles Darwin met Jenny our blessing became your curse. 3 weeks ago the last of your Asian brethren died. We saw your demise coming, some of us tried our hardest to halt or postpone it, setting up rescue stations and reserves. But the mindless machine wirred on, it wasn't until the last 90 miles of forest remained that the Indonesian bigwigs realised what they had done. In a blind panic they planted new tree seedlings, maybe somehow in the hopes that more bears, frogs, birds and orangutans would materialise from the roots? It was already too late but perseverance drove them to try everything. Everything. Nyaru Menteng offloaded their remaining 8 charges to Western facilities where artificial habitats had been created. The rest of them watched over and monitored the remaining native population, sending out vets and human doctors to keep them alive at all costs. I watched every second of it, followed the blogs and the news. It hurt so much I didn't think I could follow anymore, grief stricken with each "progression" but I was compelled to carry on. And finally, there was one.
A male, Gregory. He never grew his cheek flanges because he had no competition. No drive to find a mate. He knew as much as we did that he was alone. No one knew why they kept him there, all knowledge of reproductive biology was forgotten and replaced with superstitious magic. We kept him there, stayed by his side, fed him and doctored him until finally at the age of 39 he died of a heart attack. The news was like a punch in the guts for all of us. It was announced as breaking news all over the world, pongo pygmeus and pongo abeli officially extinct in the wild. A minority mentioned that many captive orangs still remained in zoos and sanctuaries and that we should not be so sad. But they were quickly shushed like an outspoken attendee of a funeral. Those remaining would not last forever either once inbreeding became too rife, plus, their artificial living arrangements meant these fat, shut in orangutans would live a second rate life, plagued by the same mental ailments that the rest of us urbanites suffer. They would never know the joy, fulfilment, danger, even, of the wild. And these zoo populations were like ghosts or holograms of what used to remain. 
I was afraid for the last 3 months to visit you again, incase you knew and you would turn your head away from me in disapproval. Your disgusted expression would render me speechless. But logic told me this would not happen and I had finally plucked up the courage to see you again. As always you brachiated towards the window and pressed your face against it while I talked to you and pretended to stroke your hair. You were oblivious and ignorant, I envied you. I cried and you wondered why, other humans understood and some looked forlorn themselves. I could see you and your granddaughter looking in concern at our apparent sadness. I tried to look brave for you, I played with your granddaughter as normal. 
Though I had no direct influence over your demise I feel just as remorseful as the loggers did, I was careless in my choices. Living such a sheltered city life and not realising until my second decade the true dangers facing you. I chose too late to be mindful of my grocery shopping, avoided palm oil, never watched films with trained animals in. My few actions made no difference, until very recent years I was still the minority. Don't mistake me for someone self pitying, I don't want you to think I was thinking only of my own feelings and being a martyr. If anything self loathing, I've always been a misanthropist but as of late I've abandoned my species altogether. Apart from my immediate family of course. You were not the only ones that went, Asian elephants too disappeared around the same time. Mackaws of South America have almost completely been depleted. The once hopeful 200,000 chimpanzees whittled down to the last 5000. Bonobos gone already from the wild since the last 100 were taken to sanctuaries and zoos to "rebuild the population" but there were very little captive bonobos to begin in. Gorillas: 1000 (only mountain gorillas are left, ironic isn't it? We focused so much on that one race we neglected the rest). African elephants: 4. Giraffes: 100. The list goes on. And we too, **** sapiens, the most numerous of large mammals are feeling the pinch. It started with Japan over 20 years ago, people retreated more and more into the office, no longer caring to build families and the population declined. The rest followed suite, bursting at the seems we could no longer steal more land for ourselves, more destruction meant less air to breath, less food. People have started to fight their reproductive urges, like the Japanese, retreating into a single life in a cubicle. Sitting by the screen. We are committing a species wide, slow suicide. I consider this a blessing, the rest of nature can finally get even. Some are scared and upset, others relieved. The divide is equal.
I have come to visit you every 3 weeks since I was 21, I am 40 now and in that seemingly short space of time I have seen the world change dramatically while you sit and climb and think your own isolated thoughts in your little bubble. 
Please accept my sincerest apologies. No matter if you read this or not. I am so so so sorry. On behalf of myself, on behalf of my species. Please forgive us.
Yours Sincerely,
Sophie
You know how I said I wasn't doing any more primate ones? I lied.
Not a poem but... this a hypothetical future (19 years from now) and the orangutans have become extinct in the wild.
Hidden by old age awhile
In masker's cloak and hood,
Each hating what the other loved,
Face to face we stood:
'That I have met with such,' said he,
'Bodes me little good.'

'Let others boast their fill,' said I,
'But never dare to boast
That such as I had such a man
For lover in the past;
Say that of living men I hate
Such a man the most.'

'A loony'd boast of such a love,'
He in his rage declared:
But such as he for such as me--
Could we both discard
This beggarly habiliment--
Had found a sweeter word.
Umi Mar 2018
Time is moving
In a stream of wonderous murderous intending, sacrificing sadness,
My ****** devotion, ought to shed blood in a distorted dark was but an perishable spring dream, looping without an end through nights,
On sleepless nights, the ghosts of the past gets stuck within a river of pure thoughts, a lake birthing memories in secret, subsconsciously,
Discard your common sense, sacrifice your sanity for just this second,
When the moon stands high in the sky, a bonfire seals the nights start
To its creeping shadows, they do not crackor sparkle under the twinkling stars of this celestial ceiling of pure majesty for nyctophiles,
Even our natural satelite agrees, dying itself into a lunatic scarlet red,
Darkness upon darkness, with layers of shadows overlapping one another as the light begins to dim, thanks to the disappearing moon,
An imaginated landscape, created from only pure rage and fury,
But whereabouts of the heart, are likely to be lost to the thought of love I carry within a broken chest of treasury, losing all emotions,
Even if my scarlet eyes were to be losing their ability yet to see,
I would be able to count on you to guide me, through the everlasting,
The dream I awoken from, was a moonlit night turning crimson, losing its radiance through the soft eclipse of the moon, gently, slowly
But you were there, within the far away landscape drawn in my heart

~ Umi
Francisco DH Jul 2014
Growing up they says
“What matters is on the inside”
But they go ‘head n’ criticize
Them feelings they’s never felt.
They try to discard them cards ya was dealt
But ya truck on.

I’s has a dream
And that dream comes in colors
Dyed in oils of hope.
Until that dream’s achieved  I’s gonna cope
And truck on.

The inside
The dream
We Truck on
(shrugs) I just went with it
J. W. May 2013
Ishmael Run; So begins the Journey.

Thoughts lead thusly; there is no death, only the fulfilment of purpose. We live relatively long and for that period of being and becoming  we mostly find a petty meaning for ourselves but in this we stand wrongly. This is a sick joke we are involved in, there is a dark underlying purpose that eventually swallows us all into the ground to become a part of something monumental; the compilation of events known as history.

I am no cynic, and neither am I depressed, ashamed or even slightly darkened by this thought, on the contrary it is this knowledge that allows me to live. Without such inspiration life would be empty, totally and utterly discredited. Because there is enlightenment, to know the meaning to life as it is to end it, there may be ease within the world and no pitfalls of delusion or false hopes to fall into. I need not to push beyond myself or anyone else, I have no reason to attend to anything, is this a freedom?

Although, do not listen or take heed too much of what i have to say, we are afterall only the blind leading the blind

The knack of evolution has been lost in a flurry of Televisions, computers, fast food, consumer complexes, all devices to steal the process of thought and create an illusion of contentment.

this is no revolution.

But who am i? Who am I to comment so boldly on the degradation of man and lay out the pathway to salvation? Well, in truth I am no one. No one particularly adverse in anything at all, I simply exist. Like the underground man, I was spiritually sick and that sickness drove my spirit to death, and now  I am free!  I am enlightened and my burden is lighter for it, but if the truth is to be told there is nothing special about me. It is the conclusion of a lifetime that anyone could come to, before my eyes were opened, I knew nothing. Now, I know I knew nothing and I now know I still know nothing since it is simple; there really is nothing to know. Since everything you know you only think you know, why think of it? And this is the trouble with our current state of existence; we are duped into believing there is something to know and something to gain through the advancement of knowledge when really, it is to no gain to gain knowledge. They say knowledge is power but, the trick my friends, is that knowledge is a pack of wolves dressed in snowy coats. People who are in the know are so sure of themselves that nothing else could be right, people in the know believe their words are powerful, how wrong they are. You may say knowledge is power because those who have the knowledge to build bombs are powerful, they are powerful ideas and powerful Ideas are stolen by nations for their own purpose and gain. It is not knowledge, but resource. However if all these intellectualls are wrong, how even more wrong we are for elevating them on pedestals! Those who know believe their vast knowledge amounts to something but in truth brothers, it leads to nothing since we all share the same inevitable fate. Some may talk about how those who are wise or those who know, live a life that matters, a life with substance, but unless they abandon their meaning of, and the importance they place on knowledge they will never live a life of substance. If the world is based upon paradox, then it is in nothing that the substance of true life is. That is half the point in life, right? To find meaning and truth and all that guru fulfilment crap we have shouted at us from every corner, but I speak logical sense brothers when I say that the world is corrupt, and due to its self inflicted corruption you can trust nothing that comes from it. Because of the nature of truth, truth is something that can be portrayed through lies and so continues the pattern of the paradox, in that way a misanthrope does more for humanity than the praised philanthropist.

Something we must all look into at one stage or another on this terminal walk called life is who are these fellow pilgrims? The drunks, the smackheads, the dropouts, the insane, the depressed, the clinical, the lost and beyond, the type of people who colour life with variety. Just where are they? Those who have overcome life and succeeded its brutal shapes, forms and sizes. It is something everyone ought to ask and they are a people whom everyone ought to seek out.

indulge me and let me tell you a story of something I knew once.

An untimely death**

I met with something remarkable today, an experience I have not to this moment known, I fear it has crashed like a meteor into my brain and will leave its weighty crater for some time to come. I witnessed the death of a young man; an untimely death. The fulfilment of his journey caused by his own actions and now, where is he? He exists in memories, he exists in my memory. He has handed his existence over to me and I must choose what to do with it; whether to discard it and have him lost in the shadows or whether to create something of significance to him and he will rest in the illuminated paths of history? If I discard him he will continue in another memory, in a number of other memories I’m sure but to me, he will be dead and no one will see or know him ever again, what anyone else might think of him, is by definition, meaningless to me.

My memory of him is this; as a blur of colour and heightened emotion he rain past me on the platform at Waterloo underground, I barely caught his face except for a piercing glimpse of his eyes. Dressed in bohemian colours he was there and like the most eloquent dancer he jumped with glory, his legs bent back and up, his arms raised to praise his fate and then he was gone. Replaced with a loud crashing thunderous echo and flashes of red and white, red and white and then, everything was gone, all was calm on Waterloo underground. Everyone seemed amazed, people around me covered their faces in their hands, or hid their eyes, I could not stop gazing at the spot from which he made his final leap into a state of conclusion. That was it though, he was concluded and everything he may have ever worked for, lived through or experienced was concluded in those final moments; the most magnificent and pulchritudinous thing i, or anyone of us could ever only watch, performed by the greatest actor of our lives.

You see my comrades, the truth is the greatest theatrical shows are those that make an impression, the ones that take a lifetime to forget, and witnessing a death so splendidly done is something no memory, no matter how much amount of intoxication or denial would ever erase. To attempt to destroy that memory is to dishonour the greatest person one never met, or possibly did. Those of us who understand the meaning in life also understand that those who conclude life on their own terms and by their own means are martyrs, the martyrs of life who are usually all too readily forgotten. You will find plaques and statues commemorating those who died to save the ungrateful masses, or died to save their motherland; a more noble, albeit pointless cause. To those who die for the cause that life has become unbearable because society has pushed them to the edges of high cliffs and gently, tenderly, lovingly lowered them down to be smashed against the rocks by the rising tide; well, where is their remembrance? We will engrave the names of those who we sent to be murdered into the pages of history, but when it comes to those we ****** ourselves? Well I think those are the ones who we would rather sooner forget out of guilt because they are the evidence of our failures.
Ceida Uilyc Jul 2015
I could tell you,
But you’d laugh at me.
Because it is bare, raw and pure.
You gloat on the preservatives.
You discard the genuine.
Listen to me, my friend, there is a part of the world, where even a bulb is never, ever, witnessed in real, but reel of the sanskrit Cartoon slots. The peppy  and ‘lone B-grade Cartoons .
Filled with Flesh.
The stories of tantric mantras, with a sliver of diminishing hearth,
on the
Dimensions and depth of the Yoni in the resin of shellac
on the Immaculate ceremony,
In a woodpecker hole just underneath the sealed power of the Yakshini who truly screws it up if you have taste of her once.
the one who harbingers drunk loners of Kavadiyattom alley after 3:20 am.
She takes them to the crown chakra of palm trees.
Shows them the world.
she pushes them off the crown and the falcon falls in endless spirals of a inhuman push that pushes the concrete innards to a danlgling mass of amoebic copulation.
Breath comes back.
It is a big nauseating gag of Kumbhakarnan's long sadya that lasted for half a decade.
Of the soma saras that made the entire India go, ga-ga and believe they've seen the god.
But not one nor any saw the same face, colour, shape or even vibe of the god they had seen alone.
They agreed in unison that all their hallucinations of beautiful humans in Flower UFO s and high-tech cloning, were a vital hair in the nostril of the cosmos.
They made, each a god out of their genuine mix of memories.
Or in the, priest's ways,
Hence, the 2.3 Billion populous of the country had the same, well, odd Spiritual benefactors.

Keeping it all aside, lemme be honest, I'd follow many a fairy god-mother but give my milkey teeny tooth to the special one.
Hinduism tells you God is omnipresent.
Hinduism tells you God is within you.
It also says, there is no God.
The clipper to snap off the confusion of this, lies in the same cheap stained-yellow cliche of love. It entails everything. You, me, animals, plants, cosmos, vibes, thoughts, dreams and the universe.
It tells you to live with your body mind and soul.
From Kamasutras that teaches sense.
The excitement, control and breakthrough of it.
Like tao did under his exposed roof without the sacred dung of from Hindu Land.
This is the secret of a rumoured Mohini,
Of her 1000 per hour ******* during the her/ his/ its 352 incarnations.
which was the reason for Big bang.  
Amidst the sultry scant of the voluptuous *******,
Their skin,
a vernacular reflection of a dusk on the Japanese gold beaches, And the mounts,
firm and glowing with the rusty shade of pharaoh’s Gold anklet.
The gooey glaze of yesterday’s glamour in the wink of a gay galore.
Paulo Ceolho’s Holy Communion with God,
Or like the Japanese Tengaman says,
Or rather screams,
That all it it takes is a little *******.
So, yes.
That precise art of attaining a consciousness, from where your mind was
Afloat
Wild
Free
Satiated
By yourself
You’ve just consumed the essence of you
Your Ojhas
And the tiny matter that teaches the universe
Of a Shunya.
That, momentary sense of lapse of your body mass,
Or the breakthrough into your eye of the crown.
Only to join the mundane bustle of the 10,00 speakers on all four
JBLs, Boses and Pioneers live looping the zillions of sanskrit mantras under one roof.
In your Ear drum.
A synechdoche of the Gods and their jacuzzi of amphetamine bubbles.
Splashed from a white Elephant's bejewelled Snout, which has the
crowned ring in your pineals.
Secret lies under
the rotten bone chip of Hussain Sagar
deep under the ***** green lake,  
drowning the rainbow Buddha in the city of slimy immortal maggots on ham.
Open your eyes.
For the Gods will
Else
Cut your eyelids off
to show you that
the city's shardminds await you.
roaring
Playing close to the fire demons of Redland
A nail close to your wide open lid-less
White flowing eye.
Hear the city scream.
The deafening chaos,
In unison,
Intoxicating their venomous fruits
of the delirious worlds
Or simply put, divine prayer and offering
for
the Omnipotent,
Omniscient
And the
Om.
Shunya.
Or the cyclic abyss of meaninglessness.
But,
Like, the wilted azures
that seduced those flies,
From a far far away,
To come the praise the combs of their bellies,
Filled with the red from the omnipotent, dead, weak and evil
In one little fly belly.
They came from the
land called Lullaby.
To go there
from here,
But, first,
bear the Weasleys' infamous extendable ears and heed me now, for I say twice and See him Come.
The snake, the tangy smell of goated black rub and blueness.
Siva shouldn't come?
Not yet. A little DMT more in the brain and perhaps the spark will happen.
Better than the potions of those gigantic forest priests.
No, Heed me, now.

3 Dodos Walk-afar,
And, take the lone left-laden log
the one that is,
limitless Long
loyal and  let alone
By those
languors which
Killed
Lord Leopard Loot'.
While,
Lord's Lass
Lays lolled lambs,
Lolled ‘long le ******,
Leech on the laiden log,
leading to Lord Lava,
Yes.
The bridge of Casilii Po.

Of the Lord.
Guarded
By these bubbling bellies with a drop of the world's make.
Assassins.
the Fly, flies.

retain the scarification of theolden curse,
Older than the rocks underneath this gurgling lava,
On which reincarnation steams.

As destiny should have it,
the astrologers had seen,
3 centuries back
That at a Sphinx’s Wedding,
a war of Vision,
will break.
It will
Bring the Stars
Out of those melting blue nightsky of Neruda's wails;
And the diabolic estrangement inflicting Eagle,
From Meena’s vibes,
that rubbed of a distinct scent of Malabar embedding a little of everybody in the village,
on its Kasavu lines posing
at the focus
of Sahib's Ferguson or Baker.

The gold turned white.
A liquid white, like that of the sap,
For that,
***** on a parrot green rubber plant
And work your fun with the white gluey milk,
fragrant than the sap
Like the  Ylang Ylang buds freshly kissed by the drooly dew,
sealed away
elegantly in a crystal Indigo bottle by the pen stand.

One that glitters if you look at its surface, but smells of naphthalene ***** in the sink
in
that
creepy trailer in
mid salem night of the tut.
Colourful.
This is colorblind.

White is motile.
White is wriggling.
White is life.
With a **** of Eve’s fabric-less
Skin.
White is divinity
feeding you excess of everything,
With an tenfold over dosage injected intravenous, by a silver-haired-glow-in-the-dark-dodo-cupid;

She is divine.
**** Her.
**** her on a Pyre.
**** her innards on a fire.
inflame the bubble
of her her oily effluent you found on the toilet seat
Instil in her, the seed of your sodomic occult,
Not by compassion, but through a hiss and sting
of the
flawless venom of the diabolic.  
Then. Disinfect your fruit that you flicked off the paradise.
And bellow to the blowing gurgling below.  
A reign of ****  nihilism,
moaning the mood-swings-of-a-98-year-old-menopausing-Bhairavi of the Indian Aghora Tales;
And Shelly, fueled in his undiminished hearth with the help of his impetous West Wind,
dreaming lucid,
on a flight in the sky for one week,
with Lucy’s sewing  sequined buttocks,
Stinging their luminescent, lactating, lustrous skin,
Like a tatto machine, lifting rays into the epidermis
So that it roasts, burns a soot and neonifies the only colour
A shade of
The rave, rainbow-red karmas of human existence,
Its little greedy quantas waltzing around the matter
And of its unleashed illuminations
That fuel the same vessel in the universe,
infamously known as,
the
black hole.
Uggh!!
All characters and plots are fictitious.
Your nightmares are yours, not Caesar's.
This is truly the fruit of my insomnia. I have been awake 52 hours now. Had to rant the wakefulness out.
It is unedited. All those offended, I didn't mean it, you did.
Emanuel Martinez Dec 2010
I am blind
And I ain't blind
To the different social classes
And their faces
I try and try to be impartial
But my fears and preconceptions
Give way to prejudice of thought

Love and unity fill my mind
Yet when its time
To effect some change
My feet quiver
And words can't formulate

I want to tell my brethren
you are special to me
and I love you just the same
As anybody else
But I'm scared of what he will respond
Will he reject me as we are not the same
Will he embrace me and bring forth a seed of change

I am blind
And I ain't blind
To the disdain classes afford one another
Man threatens to discard the fact we're all the same

So I wonder
Can we look beyond facades
Strip it all down to our core

Don't we all want to feel the same
Maybe we can toughen up and take down the ranks
That impede us from becoming one-another's friend
2010
t5 Feb 2010
I’v had enough
Despite your love
I had to get a bit tough.

You were breaking my heart
Breaking my heart apart
All the while I thought it was art
But you were only getting ready to part
To discard

Money in my pocket
Hole in my soul
Was that ever the goal?

That was never the goal

My fathers face in mine
A chill down the spine

I miss someone who does not miss me
Can you see?

The jealous type
The callous type
now ain’t that an irony?
Danny Valdez Apr 2012
My Mom needed something from the store
So I told her I’d walk up there for her and get it.
We were barely getting by
The two of us.
She was living on a disability check
And I was in between jobs
Again
So these little walks to the store were all I had.
I got her some Epsom salts and was walking back
Had just walked past the hardware store
When a small, sleek, black, BMW pulled up next to me.
To my surprise it was a chick
A big titted redhead with pink sunglasses.
There was something in her eyes
When she peeked below the sunglasses
I saw something in them
that frightened me
A voice inside was screaming at me
Just keep walking
Just keep walking
But like a fool
I ignored it
And bent over the passenger seat
In the convertible that smelled new.
“How big is your ****?”
The lady asked
Her chest just heaving and jiggling
With every breath she took
And every word she spoke.
“What?”
“I said….how big is your ****?”
“Ha ha!”
I took a look around
Expecting to see a hidden camera
Or a film crew in a van across the street.
There was no one
No witnesses.
I leaned back down
“7 inches? Maybe 8? I don’t know lady, I haven’t measured my **** since the 11th grade!”
The redhead took off the sunglasses completely and looked me up and down
Those bright green eyes scanning me
From my worn out Converse to my greasy pompadour on my head.
It seemed like an eternity
I got uncomfortable.
Just standing there
Squirming
While the redheaded fox
Kept inspecting me.
“Okay. Get in. Hurry up.”
I wasn’t even thinking
Just reacting to it all.
I’d always dreamed of this
When I was walking down that
Same old ******* street
The only street that I ever saw
Dreaming of
A beautiful woman in a sports car.
And now here she was.
Here we were
Driving down the street
The breeze blowing in our hair
She made an immediate right turn
Onto a suburban side street.
She parked in front of a house that was up for sale.
Again she took off the sunglasses.
“Let me see it.”
She said, staring at my crotch.
“Whoa, whoa, lady. What’s this all about?”
“My husband and I…..we have certain…..tastes. Things we like, things we enjoy. He’s an older guy, so he likes to watch young guys **** me. I mean, just really give it to me good, make me scream. And of course after your services have been….rendered….you’ll be paid two-thousand dollars. Now do you think you can do that?”
“Uh……I—I think so.”
“Well, I need you to know so. And if you were bullshitting me, if that **** isn’t at least 7 inches, you can get out of the car right ******* now.”
“No it is, it is.”
“Well...”
“Well...you gotta start my engine first—“
Before I could finish my cheesy line
She was in the passenger seat
Climbing on top of me.
“Rip it open” She said looking down.
I did as I was told
And ripped the front of her blouse open
The buttons flying in all directions
Bouncing off the windows and rolling on the dashboard.
Her two, round, fake, **** sprang out of the top
Hitting me in the face
As she rubbed them up and down
And all around.
She kissed me sloppily
And then started in with that biting *******.
She met my lip so hard
It drew blood
acting purely on reflex
I grabbed her by the arms very hard
And pulled her back from me
Staring at her with those crazy, intense, eyes
That I sometimes got when startled.
“Oh…..” She said looking down, at the ******* in my Levi’s.
“Alright. You wanna see the house?” She asked.
I let go of her arms and she rolled off of me,
hopping into the driver’s seat and starting the car up.

She drove all the way to the edge of the city
Where the Red Mountains in the east
Meets the long winding road out of town
And into the desert.
It was a large ranch style mansion
Decorated with cowboy themed ****.
The redhead parked the sports car in
A massive garage
Filled with dozen of rare and expensive automobiles .
She told me to leave my plastic grocery bag of Epsom salts
In the car
She said I could get it later, when we were done.
I followed her to an elevator at the back of the garage.
We took it all the way down to the very bottom.
Stepping out of the elevator
I found myself in a large expansive grey room.
The floors were concrete
But they were shiny and slick
Reminded me of the floor in the meat department
At the job I had just lost.
The room had a few beds in it
Some custom built sets were erected all over the room
An office, a jail cell, a medieval dungeon, a medical examination room,
There were a lot these little sets built all over
In the back of the room
The corners
Were pitch black and covered in darkness.
I wondered what they had over there.
“So what do we do?” I asked, fidgeting in my pants
thumbing my switchblade stiletto in my right front pocket.
“We have to wait for my husband to come down. I just texted him.”
“Oh okay.”
“You should take your clothes off and put this on.”
The redhead said, taking a hospital gown from a hanger
Next to the medical examination set.
“….put that on and I’m gonna go get into character.”
She said, walking behind a white privacy screen
The old kind, like they used to have in doctor’s offices.
I undressed myself and got into the hospital gown.
I can’t say what it was exactly
But I still had that real nervous feeling
I couldn’t ignore it
So for some reason
I hid my switchblade on me.
Put it in the waistband of my underwear.
And that made me feel a little bit safer
This whole thing was beyond belief
I was never this lucky
Something was rotten in Denmark
I could feel it in my bones.
But there was no backing out now
I was riding this all the way
No choice.
I took a seat on the medical examination table
The thin paper crunching loudly beneath my ***
They had it down to the finest detail.
Even the little slots with the Highlights magazines.
I watched the black & white clock on the wall
And it took them 28 minutes to finally come out
The two of them together.
The tall, beautiful, redhead and the rich old man.
But they matched in an odd way
His face was nearly the same color as her hair.
A red faced, big nosed, drinker,
I’ve seen that face a thousand times
Ain’t no mistakin’ it.
He had white hair all spiked up
Like how young people have it
And he wore nothing but gold
All over himself.
Gold necklace, full fists of rings, bracelets,
I couldn’t ******* believe it
I tried my best not to laugh
I was snorting to myself
The ******* had a Mercedes medallion around his neck
Like Flavor Flav or something, it was that flamboyant.
But the guy was like 70 years old
None of it made any ******* sense.
The florescent lighting above
it did this thing where
his eyes were so sunken in
that it created these two black shadows
where his eyes should’ve been
just pitch black
endlessly hollow and empty
with a red face.
Satan himself, covered in gold and diamonds.

“What’s up?” He said, extending his well tanned, leathery claw.
“Hey.”
“Alright, so let’s not waste any time. Let’s get down to business? Huh?”
“Yeah, sure.” I said.
“**** yeah! Let’s ****! You wanna **** him baby?”
”Why do you think I got him? Hell, I almost ****** him on the way home.”
“Did you now?” He said, looking over at me with this look
I couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or rage.
“Alright, alright then.”
The chick started to walk up the three little steps
Of the examination table
Her feet were pale as snow and her toes
Shiny and red like a the paint job on a brand new Cadillac in 1956
I remember that.
She climbed on top of me
Started kissing me and
Rubbing my ****
Under the examination gown.
From the corner of my eye
I saw the husband moving over to the camera
Which was setup a few feet away
Looked to be hi-def ****.
She bit my lip again
Really ******* hard
Pulled a big chunk of skin off
“*******!” I yelled.
“What?” The husband shouted back.
“He hates it when I bite him!” The redhead shouted with a smile
blood on her lips, from mine.
“Well, don’t take any **** son! If she does that again, you just give her a good smack!”
“What?”
“Yeah, don’t be timid boy! This ain’t ******’ Sunday school! We’re ******’, here!”
She did it again
And I wasn’t even thinking of what that old coot was yelling about
I just hit her on principle.
A good open handed smack across the cheek.
“There ya ******’ go! That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
The old man threw his hands in the air
And started doing this little dance it was the weirdest ****
I had ever seen.
The redhead grabbed my face with her hands
Taking my eyes off the old man
Who was now singing some song
And shuffling around the floor.
She looked right into my eyes
Those mint colored eyes
She whispered to me
But I read her lips
“I’m sorry.”
And she pulled me in and kissed me
Put my hands to her *******
And proceeded to kiss me
Like a long lost love
Not some guy off the street.
And that’s the last thing I remember.
Besides the ***** of the needle in my neck.
Just her red hair hanging in my face
The florescent light shining through.
When I came to
I was standing upright
But I was strapped to a table
My arms
My legs
My head
Every part of me strapped down
Tight.
I wasn’t going anywhere
This was that bad feeling I got when she looked at me.
This was where it ended. Right now.
They were both standing there
Staring at me
Smiling with drinks in their hands
The cameras rolling
They had multiple cameras setup
Some 80’s techno playing from an iPod dock.
“What? What are you gonna do?” I slurred, it was hard to talk.
“I know, I’m sorry. Okay, look. We both agree that you probably are owed an explanation, I mean….these being your last moments and all…”
The redhead interrupted, looking at me, like she had before
There was love in her eyes
“Honey…remember what I said? About how there are things that we like and things that we enjoy? I’m sorry, but this is what we like.”
“*****?” I managed to choke out,
just the sound of the words chilled my ******* blood.
“Yeah. Hey…son, let me tell ya…we’re actually saving you a whole lot of heartache and disappointment. You weren’t gonna go anywhere, you weren’t going to accomplish anything. You’d work the same **** jobs, bouncing from one to the other, until you finally died of either ***** or drugs.”
“It’s for the best, sweetie.” The redhead said.
And I’d love to tell you that
They left the room for a few minutes
And I was able to free my hand
Taking the switchblade
From my underwear
Cutting myself free
Killing them both
And cleaning out their safe’s cash and diamonds.
But this was no movie.
Well not the kind with a happy ending anyway.
That’s when she walked over to the table
And grabbed the knife.
The song on the iPod changed
And I instantly recognized it.
It was the song.
I never could explain why
But as a boy
This song would come on the radio
This 80’s electro song
And it always scared the **** out of me
Turned my stomach
I never knew why
But now it all made sense.
That song would be the last thing I ever heard.
With the cameras rolling
The redhead gave me one more kiss.
I closed my eyes and pretended.
I pretended that she was a girl that loved me
That she was kissing me goodnight
Sending me off with a smile.
I just kept my eyes closed
Squeezing them tight
And I didn’t even feel the knife
When she slit my throat right there
In that slick, shiny, grey basement.
It didn’t hurt
I didn’t feel any pain.
Just warmth.
The blood flowing down the front of my neck and chest
pure warmth sliding down me
And I started to get light headed
Everything getting dark
Very quickly.
I could hear my heartbeat
In sync with a high-pitched ringing in my ears.
The last thing I saw
Was the redhead standing there
Luckily the husband had his head behind the camera
So I didn’t have his scary face as the last thing I ever saw.
No
It was the redhead
And those mint green eyes.
They never found my body.
The couple put me through a wood chipper
And fed my scraps to their dogs
After slicing off my biceps for dinner that night.
They went on doing this for years
Picking up guys and girls from the streets
who were down on their luck
And wouldn’t be high profile missing persons.
They acquired hundreds of DVD’s
Selling these ***** films
To their elite and powerful
Friends in high places.
But they justified it all.
Surely I wouldn’t be missed.
I didn’t have a mother
Like they had a mother
I didn’t laugh and love
Like they did
I was expendable
Disposable
Use once and discard.
The rich eating the poor
Blood meal for their insatiable & gruesome appetites.
It’s okay though.
I’m not mad or anything now.
It’s just blackness
A dreamless sleep
I don’t even know how I’m telling you this
But the worst part
The thing I still think about the most
Is my mother.
And what she must of thought
When her only son
Went to the store for her
Epsom salts
And just never came back.
Aizzur Festejo May 2014
Oh! Smart Bro. How convenient of you
Cool, fast, smooth, everything is in you
So much that even gadgets love you
And the reason for us choosing you.

The reason why my assignments made it through
The reason why I can watch movies and new
The reason for my techie life's blue
Is because of me relying to you.

Too bad, it didn't last a year or two
Being quick and smooth stopped too
Now, I had enough of you
Shall we buy another and discard you?
Random ones from January 29, 2012
Hannah thomas Apr 2016
We are evenly matched
Or so I thought
So I let down my guard
Thinking I'm alright.

But I placed my bishop
Diagonal three spaces
Perfect position to
put you in check

Realizing that
I've made a mistake
You move your knight
Two spaces forward,

one to the right
Halting my advances
Leaving only my queen
To defend the pride of her king

I defend from your every move
Until you capture her.
Leaving my king exposed
And defenseless

You marvel at it but
Are quick to place her
with the others you have
Captured and controlled

My king scurries
Space by space
Anxious to avoid
The inevitable capture

I am exhausted
Avoidance of you
is utterly impossible
So I give in

I tip over my king
in total surrender
How quick you are
to ****** it into your hands

You revel in your victory
Clinging to my king
My last piece
My last hope

But how quick you are
to discard it
How quickly you let it
tumble down onto the pile

But I forgot..

To you

This is just a game of chess
Francie Lynch Aug 2015
Warning: Use dis list in context.*

You decide on which side you fall.

disappear
disregard
disaster
displace
disqualify
disrepair­
disturb
dissipate
disability
dispose
dismal
distribute
distrust
­disturb
discriminate
discuss
disdain
disguise
dishearten
disinher­it
disown
disparage
disagree
disgruntle
disclose
discolour
disput­e
disarm
discover
disassemble
disadvantage
disallow
dispossess
di­scontent
discontinue
disrespect
disincline
discomfort
disrepute
d­ishonest
disillusion
dishonor
dismiss
disobey
disjoin
disappoint
­discipline
discord
discern
discrete
disfigure
disconnect
disappro­ve
discharge
disbar
disease
discord
disfavor
disengage
disassocia­te
discipline
discount
disembody
displace
dissaray
disembowel
dis­combobulate
discredit
discourse
disentangle
disenfranchise
disemb­ark
discard
disburse
disbelief
discover
disable
disagree
disinteg­rate
dismay
dispense
dislodge
disclaimer
disapprove
dissatisfy
di­srupt
dispel
dislike
dismantle
disloyal
disbatch
disrobe
disperse­
display
disaprove
disciple
disavow
disconcert
disinfect
disorder­
dismal
dismember
displease
dissemble
disunity
dislocate
distort
­distrust
distress
dissolute
disassociate
distill
discect (?)
distemper
distain
distasteful
distraught
dissolve
dissonant
d­issuade

And dis isn't de end.
Maia Vasconez Apr 2016
I turn people into gods,
I'm upset when they have flaws.
Brandon Mar 2012
I'll see her soul floating in thin space surrounded by adoring faces
of grotesque amusement. And I'll be there for her, through
the nova to super. A sparkle in the stars of a
goddess that sees all
and accepts the fate that she has chosen, beaming in the orange
afterglow of knowing that you'll continue onward with her through
her journey

An intertwining entanglement twisting spiral of
emotion spoken verse through shreds
of hair overlapping ears enveloped in the mind
of a poet the paper queen and razor king
the light plays a soulful time stretched across harpsichords
of ****** bone she stands amidst the destruction. A beauty of
*******
tainted blood running in rivulets down her thighs. Looking at her vile
nameplate in the mirror. The object of her hatred her own soul.
Betrayed easily by a lovers hand

A lovers love convulsing putrid green from behind her eyes
a demon that's been awakened a last call for a feeling long since
forgotten but longed for breathlessly
yearning to feed on her hardened heart. Cold and barren
from years of other diversions besides blowing her
calming storm over it. A festering wound from whence came
her own destruction.

The bracelets left by a lovers palms greased for enjoyment
a monkeys paw make a wish but be careful
wishing is for lighthearted fools. Only time can
save her now. Stitching together her spine
with rusty wire and dull needles. Hinges that are necessary to
open up the door to the fates that twist her insides. Cotton
truly makes her tick.

Made of straw old and rotten hanging on a cross
a symbol forgotten. Watch the stitches unravel
and conspire into snakes swimming the oceans miles
drowning the last visage of hope. The soft white underbelly of a
faith long ago dubbed "unreliable" who will
save them now?

A circle with Cs on either end a faith an idea the doll
deserted in the corner of a child's room that never came home
with a broken arm and a cracked porcelain face waiting for
someone to wipe off the dust, make her feel wanted again. Shell
wait until the air caves in her delicate mouth. Blowing
holes through a time faded dress. Caressing decaying eyelashes
about to fall away

Caressing the downfall outstretched hands that reach
so far the decay sets in as ****** claw regression
into obsession
yet can never make it to the other side where acceptance
rules the heart and blonde hair fades after so long leaving
the ravished ones old and worn

A tower on a hill, the hair flowing still birth into
the warm womb of a bees nest built for a porcelain doll
long since face has faded to Raggedy Ann china *****
spreading her 1950's Compton pantaloons to the masses
wondering why none of them will invite her into their hybrid
plantations of rioting smiles and half lit eyes that never seem
to stop tearing

Ripping the seems of societies blunders the under stitching that
hides the batteries of a thing not present red hair fade to gray
as times progresses the  lines fade
into a remote inkling of remembrance. The hands that covered
her existence pushing her gently yet leaving painted bruises.
An art exhibit in the making. Pay me for pleasure
I bring but leave my soul to peace

Leave my peace to suffering
This is exhibit A. witness testify to a false maker
of false hopes a dreamers dream disappearing on the lids of
a waking being. So is the theme spoken in rainbow
brilliance the soul is trapped in a toys body break me discard me
no use for this
this is exhibit B. a lifeless rendition of a restless warrior begging
to be freed from his crime in watching his own hands  children
and a pregnant woman willing to sell her soul for redemption.
Break him, discard him but never let him forget

Time elapses travel to the future, Raggedy Andy and the soul
a machine cold and calculating everyone wants one for Christmas
unwrap the gift and sell it tomorrow
wont get much out of it. Devoid of extraneous packaging
it's lost it's worth and the scars are blessed tracing them with my tongue
a willing conspirator in your lie that you live day to day. Praying to whatever
that tomorrow you won't wake up and the pain will stop. Should have never
bequeathed my soul then because now I'll never let you go

The welcomed touch of another to soothe the decay build a house of
legos galore a horror left untold but whispered in empty space someday
it will reach the ears all will be out of place the blessing of scars and the blessing
of tides. Wash the dreams into reality
yet with your eyes squeezed shut you cannot see the smiles
I flash you from across the room. Another cold winter with plastic walls,
the floor rough beneath my paper thin feet. I am getting older and your passion
still falls to ripping me open and seeing what color I am today. Your
dream is my hell. A reality we all want but some never have a blessing
of the tides for you but not the patchwork of needle veins left on my
heart

A ragdoll sows well after unthreading unraveled secrets that are being
spoken a hidden meaning in things known so well and held
so dear the addict is addicted the silver polish of another exit
and a feared exit (exist)
picking away at the surface he is relieved to see his own
reflection on fates tinderbox. Matches with his name on them and other
wealth's of knowledge he cannot comprehend. I take in his
apathy and replace him whole.

Existence is superficial floating ecstasy through a ravers midnight
meltdown the drugs that soothed soon are smoothed out of the system
a gentle touch the softest if skin paper thin paper thin
licking the edges and listening fast, a deep puff, euphorium. Wanting to
play tonight the caterpillar sees, puffing his own blue smoke fast.
bloodshot eyes hide the daylight from your stolen afternoon. The headboard begs
for some grease, let's at today, my love, let's break me again

The twins of wonderland and the cat disappearing a story
forever after faintly breathing from the lips of the souls
sought wondering
sharing a shotgun with a confidant the after taste sour and strained. Not
enough we all see into your twisted head. Plucking on my heart strings
too rough. Wanting to see me bleed. Not this time the queen of hearts will
soon beat you with a flamingo and send you flapping
through the hourglass a king of king and clams

A nursery rhyme for all children to sleep a child's toy finally
dies leaving behind soiled memories
a VERY OLD poem written long ago with Brook Ilges (Italicized.) this was a night long poetry rant. it falls into the "good for what it is" kinda category. It has no structure, no reason, no rhyme. Just hyped up teens spitting words to each other.
Skaidrum Sep 2015
"    Legend has it,
      he could talk the sun
          into setting.    "

    He's a tragedy the zodiacs still gossip about,
               metal wounds glower by the fire,
    flames sneering at druid flesh,
                  crystal bones are decaying,
    wrapping willow branches along my neck~

             Love isn't a prophecy.

Telling time to ghosts who cannot read,
      these shadows ache in the pupils of sunlight~
Lupus showers us in dire blessing;
         so start lighting the torches of war from Osiris,
he's illiterate in your dead language of poetry,

      I can't help but notice you don't pick fights with death anymore.

There's no sunlight on this side of history,
       spider webs become cave paintings to gods~
look north for the tails of dragons and hurricanes,
   cast your doubts to frigid chambers and feverish graves;
A prayer for the day we have no names to mourn,

           His loyalty falters as autumn grows sicker.

You've melted golden eyes upon heavens in ink,
        and he's crippling under silver lightning again;
masquerading demonic skin plastered in snow,
        is a game you like to play to injure gods,
an incredible contradiction between love and lies...

     Pick your poison wisely, wolf girl.

So there's been a few contracts with the dead,
          I swapped my soul with Lupus,
bargained my sins with Sirius,
          traded these miracles with Artemis,
as eight sapphire flames bleed this heart dry from it's curse;

     Don't **** your hopes for the greater good.

Illusions are born when nightmares grow lonesome,
         if the book of the moon spells traitor and betrayal,
then these sinister rouges cannot quell what's been written.
        Our love song was a dark sonata drenched in lead;
discard the sounds that tremble in pianissimo~

    An omen of war divided Yin from Yang.

I'm forcing fangs to ripen by first light,
       while tricking secrets into fusing with fairy tales.
Auburn daggers whine to slither deeper,
      into the spines of star crossed lovers;
beating on drums of moonlight to call me to this world;

    Grief and mosaics relapse in my palms tonight.


"     The birth of a lapis sword
               plunged in the stone
                           of her wolven
                                         heart.      "

"Sometimes love makes puppets of darkness out of all of us.*"
The crow ain't worth much.

<><><>    © Copywrite Skaidrum     <><><>
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
one - i don't understand why saying "it's the 21st century" is somehow seen as a compensation for 20 centuries of our inhumanity, or a case of: only improvements reside in us - seems just as false to say - men can overcome angels, as stated by the first Christians... yeah, we can do miracles with technology and ultra-secular communication dynamics - discarding the existence of such beings resulted in hen parties with plastic wings and halos... what a great method to discard such being, and subsequently appropriate their features, if ever needed, but altogether unnecessary... two - that disrespecting heterosexuality aligned with the power of science has made it altogether a pointless endeavour in re-enacting the monogamous nature of swans: if we can breed the many perversions, ahem, deviations, we surely require en equal share of respect, before science undermines any deviations into an economic format of breeding pure heterosexual contingencies... three: who the hell said i was throwing anyone off a roof? i was just curious about the slack pressurising the alias big brother / grey matter dictator into teaching us language, then to later make us into a Koranic cyclops or having to sway one side, but not the other, teaching us vocabulary in school, but robbing us of a fluidity of language beyond school, in society... any rational man would say: just teach me the knuckle, the stone and the stick to express my manners... because, to be frank, i'm not into faking being civilised, just teach me to be a barbarian from the start, don't dangle the magic carrot in front of my eyes when it's a fake... teach me the barbarism you want to suppress later on in life: i'm not into being Dolly 2.3419, and an attache to a sheepdog for herding purposes to take it up the **** and shut up: because a member of Parliament did it to me aged 14; for example.

subjectivity is doubled attacked, it's not the merely rationalist
approach of an objective side of things,
i could understand tiresome efforts
Chinese politics while walking
the tourist plot on the great wall -
in a society that's seismically acknowledging
social or whatever coherence,
i find it a bit of limbo of paraphrasing
trans - or trans-physics, or the active
way to usurp metaphysics, by deviating
from thought as an activity, and more
how words are sense datum co-ordinates
that are like dictators: because it just, feels,
funny, and, offensive. ***** vocabulary,
that's what i call it... after a while you concentrate
on what ****** you off, first the educational
autocracy teaches you a vocabulary,
then come the St. Thomas' terrorists with:
you need to revise your vocabulary...
like **** that'll happen, you don't own
language, i don't own language, you're
little fascist agenda to censor such awoke
the boy that was supposed to wake Barbarossa
from his slumber with the cry: crows! crows!
a cloud of crows! funny how the eagle is a
failed emblem for empires, and the crow isn't...
mind you, the English succeeded with
an empire half-and-half: a lion and a unicorn...
i'd guess as much with a monkey and
a centaur, or at least a Cerberus - something
mythical - well, sure, the Poles are attacked
in Britain... but ever hear about the Scot
being attacked in an English village?
a Scot was attacked just the other day,
because kilts were deemed offensive...
so trans-gender is good, meta-gender is:
had a wee t'ink 'bout it...
   robots start with the pronoun use: one...
royalty start with the pronoun use: we...
                 and in between we have paranoid
they and we... and insecure you and i -
or as e. e. cummings would have it:
    *i say no world
                 can hold a you
   shall see the not
             because
  and why but
                          (who
        -
true, but as much of not is entanglement
              with knots - or ought to tries -
  to not or to knot and be -
                              Shakespeare also said:
  funny how i was born neo-liberal,
millennial tattooed - and fake-left...
   i hear the right is a tsunami of focus these days,
all the generation Z are buying into
obstructing gay-marriage, and are adamant
   on not abusing pronouns - hence the current
revival in grammar school education in England -
they don't drink, i.e.: taking psychopathic gambles,
they're prone to social-media overdoses
rather than succumbing to excess ecstasy and palpitation:
i had 190 "friends"... let's just call them vantage points...
   sheered that social media sheep: only 13 left...
but at least objectivity outright says:
       subjectivity is subhuman, science taught us
that subjectivity is the fire between two flint stones,
all in all necessary - but objectivity said:
             two flints! two flints! no fire!
what attacks subjectivity is not objectivity,
it's satire... to humanise everything: good or bad,
with a standard of humour... well... telling a sad
joke to later tell the same sad joke by satirising it...
punch in a face; because there are only so number of
things that are funny in life... the English language
doesn't seem to understand that even the odd chance
of black humour, will not lift the spirits of those,
who, quiet frankly, don't want to be humoured...
the only humour left is not to provision the public
with barbaric satire, sometimes empathy will do,
because it's emphatic humour,
   it's Godot's roundabout humour: the shared experience.
laughing for the sake of laughing is
             a cry from apathy's lost interest in
being pardonably dasein - laughing at all the truthful
autobiographic desecrate is apathy's last
chance to impress: but how foul it all sounds by then...
   the western version of buddhism suddenly feels like
  a taste of pears in november: not sour, not bitter...
just maggoty foul - yucky goo
                  of a plum-shaded rouse of the skin
tinged hue after contact with knuckle and knee.
  but they attacked a ******* Scot in an English village,
because of a kilt...
                                   he knows the strand of ganging up
in hyena numbers and then the celebratory drink
of compensating conscience - they'll sooner accept
     a trans-gender dunno'h than a hot-blooded
heap of tartan - ever ask the homosexuals what
they think of St. Thomas' gospel?
              i think: too much, too early, too innocently.
and if they tell you: speak differently!
they will, i'm ****** sure they will want to
control your grammar without any specialisation -
you'll wonder: summer in Syria?
                     because as racism goes,
they attack the difference, and the difference is only
skin deep, like they did with the Afros of Kentucky,
the Kentucky Afros will spring right back,
    because the abuse was only skin deep,
therefore their soul was enlarged, and they'll
play the blues, and the jazz, and rap, and break-dance...
but if the abuse goes to the depth of soul...
in that it's soul-deep...
                                and because it's white v. white...
it will ferment, and nothing positive will come from it...
no jazz, no blues... nothing of cultural importance...
   it will be haggled in the political market
to the point where both sides will find it utterly
unbearable: and then start to sheer their skins...
        you won't get anything from this soul-deep
attack... if the holocaust is what it felt like,
            then this is a minor post-holocaust episode,
a reminder...
                          and by god, i thank god
for the fact that the Picts are involved -
                                                            whe­re to now?
O Imperium Gladstone paraphrase?
                            it will be hard to beat the unicorn -
all empires donning the eagle duly fail -
centaur and a frog? maybe next time.
Nikki Giovanni May 2013
poetry is motion graceful
as a fawn
gentle as a teardrop
strong like the eye
finding peace in a crowded room
we poets tend to think
our words are golden
though emotion speaks too
loudly to be defined
by silence
sometimes after midnight or just before
the dawn
we sit typewriter in hand
pulling loneliness around us
forgetting our lovers or children
who are sleeping
ignoring the weary wariness
of our own logic
to compose a poem
no one understands it
it never says "love me" for poets are
beyond love
it never says "accept me" for poems seek not
acceptance but controversy
it only says "i am" and therefore
i concede that you are too

a poem is pure energy
horizontally contained
between the mind
of the poet and the ear of the reader
if it does not sing discard the ear
for poetry is song
if it does not delight discard
the heart for poetry is joy
if it does not inform then close
off the brain for it is dead
if it cannot heed the insistent message
that life is precious


which is all we poets
wrapped in our loneliness
are trying to say
Oh banana peel,
your colors vibrant and fluctuating.
The 3-D spots of speckled brown,
deep and pure,
yellow and sun sprayed,
swaying in the trees,
lackadaisical in manner.

Oh banana peel,
protect you from our bile.

If i could have a peel of my own,
a comfy womb;
yellow and sweet.
I too would sway in the trees
lackadaisical in manner.
The Sunday, sun spray sprawled across,
my green to yellow to brown,
my sour to sweet,
to soft and cream

Oh banana peel,
others discard you hastily
in the banana peel sunset.
But to me,
you are beautiful.
beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so why judge?
Continuing to live - that is, repeat
A habit formed to get necessaries -
Is nearly always losing, or going without.
It varies.

This loss of interest, hair, and enterprise -
Ah, if the game were poker, yes,
You might discard them, draw a full house!
But it's chess.

And once you have walked the length of your mind, what
You command is clear as a lading-list.
Anything else must not, for you, be thought
To exist.

And what's the profit? Only that, in time,
We half-identify the blind impress
All our behavings bear, may trace it home.
But to confess,

On that green evening when our death begins,
Just what it was, is hardly satisfying,
Since it applied only to one man once,
And that one dying.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2017
once upon a wrote


here and there, in fables and tales,
some in no guile and others
in chancier disguises,
some sine-known and some sign-unknown,
some dead in stillbirth,
some penned these words,
some a few decades old,
some of but a moment ago eyelash distant,
making me think that
someday I will scribe,
cobble some truths and
some falsehoods into one
leaping heaping melting scoop,
letting you decide,
which for better,
which for worse...


<•>

"No matter that plain words
are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say,
about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?"

<•>

the reason we say so oft,
in whispers emboldened,

I love you

to our children
is not the utility of
its summarizing brevity

no, no.
it is because
the eloquence of simplicity
supersedes any other poem
any of us could ever write...

<•>

is this craft that chose you,
not defined by machine millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye-pleasing,
they demonstrate no tolerance
for tolerance of the ordinary?

the skill of words, too, cut so fine,
find the  extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused,
discard the instant recognition,
unusable

<•>

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the
whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away
what soully belongs to you,
do your own sums,
admit your own truths,
query not the lives of others,
approach the mirror...

<•>

The Truth Burden
is the accursed need obligatory,
the sacred sanctity requisitioned,
when the whenever,
chooses to drop in and upflag the mailbox,
an uninvited invitation,
announcing with precise bluntness,
that precisely now,
is the tool crafted moment
and you fool,
the selected tool

you must render unto Ceaser,
by your own hand,
render your own rendering,
do your own undoing,
go forth and in haste,
will thyself into the cauldron of the
Great Mystery of Creation

you cannot lie in poetry

<•>

come, sit for awhile, in poet's nook,
soft pillows for our hard Adirondack chairs,
situe hard by the bay, if too hot, we'll slow
drift to the sun room of
lace curtains and suicide poems,
still we'll observe the water, the rabbits, the cacophony low,
listening to all the noisier, nosier
creatures asking themselves,
and the trees and leaves,
where did all those poets come from?

<•>

to the interior delve,
via brush or limb,
pen or music,
the exposition, the exploration,
the reconstruction of composing
one's self, creation and destruction
of your own myths

movement of arms and legs,
sparseness of simplicity,
subsidiaries of centricity,
tributaries of complexity

<•>

how cold are the carpenter's hands,
the weather, but an added obstacle,
this heat, makes dying different difficult,
the wood bearing cross requires additional nails
and flesh, for the extra load he's bearing,
when it snows blood in Jerusalem

the whole world can transition
when one man dies and another is risen,
where oh where lies then, the juxtaposition?

there is none, for man is man,
his divine spark, embedded,
to his maker's mark, welded and wedded,
neither snow or sun,
can ever extinguish


<•>

now I ken better distance 'tween
artist and art,
I, a workingman's
daily dallying in simplistic machine craft,
my works deservedly lost in
the water-falling
of the endless also rans

non-nebulous distances.between skies of
Oregon country blue and
the worldy worn asphalt grayed words of
a graying man aging,
then let clarity speak, in plainest harmony,
know my deference’s soars to the high above,
one of us at birth, god gifted,
was not I,
it ain't me babe, but
one of us, his tongue,
like Moses-stung
with a hot coal
of language's divinity


<•>
Ek Aug 2018
I heard a man today claim
that life is like bubbles caught in the rain
any day now ours will fade
and leave behind whatever remains

It rained in Toronto today
rained on pavement and on road
rained on garbage and on stone
rained on children and of old

Umbrella's of yellow and green
shelter the schools from hurricanes obscene
a little tear from sharpened sleeve
will open up a wound to heal

Stacked on boxes of holes inside holes
an echo chamber with no place to go
cast away boat alone on the shore
will open up all new kinds of pores

And when it rains, it rains hard
all the umbrella's been scared by a shard
the boxes are all now to discard
if only there were a bubble like heart
The rain has plenty of mercy
it washes mud away from the cold

The rain has plenty of mercy
it reveals the garbage painted in gold
Michael Humbert Nov 2014
What if I ran when you told me to?
What if I hadn’t said no?
What if I had left you the way you left me?

And what if you weren’t the first girl?
Would I have loved you the same?
Would I still be bound and chained by this addiction?

I grew closer to you than anyone,
I sang to you on the phone before your surgery,
I straightened your hair when you couldn’t lift your shoulder

How do you reconcile this?
How do you rationalize it?
Or discard it?

I couldn’t always be there for you,
But I always tried,
Despite the distance,
I always tried
There are sketches on the walls of men and women and ducks,
and outside a large green bus swerves through traffic like
insanity sprung from a waving line; Turgenev, Turgenev,
says the radio, and Jane Austin, Jane Austin, too.
"I am going to do her portrait on the 28th, while you are
at work."
He is just this edge of fat and he walks constantly, he
fritters; they have him; they are eating him hollow like
a webbed fly, and his eyes are red-suckled with anger-fear.
He feels hatred and discard of the world, sharper than
his razor, and his gut-feel hangs like a wet polyp; and he
self-decisions himself defeated trying to shake his
hung beard from razor in water (like life), not warm enough.
Daumier. Rue Transonian, le 15 Avril, 1843. (lithograph.)
Paris, Bibliotheque Nationale.
"She has a face unlike that of any woman I have ever known."
"What is it? A love affair?"
"Silly. I can't love a woman. Besides, she's pregnant."
I can paint- a flower eaten by a snake; that sunlight is a
lie; and that markets smell of shoes and naked boys clothed,
and that under everything some river, some beat, some twist that
clambers along the edge of my temple and bites nip-dizzy. . .
men drive cars and paint their houses,
but they are mad; men sit in barber chairs; buy hats.
Corot. Recollection of Mortefontaine.
Paris, Louvre.
"I must write Kaiser, though I think he's a homosexual."
"Are you still reading Freud?"
"Page 299."
She made a little hat and he fastened two snaps under one
arm, reaching up from the bed like a long feeler from the
snail, and she went to church, and he thought now I h've
time and the dog.
About church: the trouble with a mask is it
never changes.
So rude the flowers that grow and do not grow beautiful.
So magic the chair on the patio that does not hold legs
and belly and arm and neck and mouth that bites into the
wind like the ned of a tunnel.
He turned in bed and thought: I am searching for some
segment in the air. It floats about the peoples heads.
When it rains on the trees it sits between the branches
warmer and more blood-real than the dove.
Orozco. Christ Destroying the Cross.
Hanover, Dartmouth College, Baker Library.
He burned away in his sleep.
Lilah Gran May 2015
Bitterness isn't just a state of mind.
Bitterness is another word for revenge.
One day, bitterness will consume me, and take over my world.

All the things I didn't do.
All the things that made me unhappy.
All the things that caged me, wrapped me, stopped me.
All the things that bounded me, forbidden me, limited me.

All the things that I should have done.
All the things that I should have taken.
All the things that I should have said.
All the things that I wanted.
All the things that made me happy.

Everything will come to me.
In bitterness.
At the end of time.
At the end of all things.

But before I die, I will take revenge.
I will take every little thing that consumed me, all that bitterness inside, pile them together, and burn it down to ashes.

And then I'll watch you watch me.
The fire reflected in your eyes, and I'll hear your thoughts before me.
Maybe I'll even let you join me.

I will set a bonfire.
And it will be the mark of my happiness.
It will be my revenge.

I'll take what's mine.
And discard this life I borrowed.
http://lilahgran.blogspot.com/2015/04/i-will-set-bonfire-it-will-be-my-revenge.html
Brady D Friedkin Apr 2016
Oh Lord, faithful unto Your people in all ages and worlds
Faithful even unto those that forget Your faithfulness and discard You
And once more, here I am remembering not Your faithfulness
Your body has been desecrated and all but defeated and destroyed
For Your people use words as weapons for ****** and spite for means of destruction

Oh Lord, Your body has torn itself to shreds, and someone is going to die
That someone is going to be the Body of Christ
Disagreements and differences need not to lead to hatred and malice
We have been saved and united unto You by Your great love
Can we not be united to one another as to You through Your love?

When children become involved in immature entanglements, adults laugh and ignore
But when grown adults fight in the streets, the fight must be stopped
And now Your body is pulling punches and weapons
There is bitter hatred over language and style, awful things to cause blood
Oh Lord, might this soon come to an end?

Oh Lord why do You allow for Your people to tear one another down?
Day by day, year by year, generation by generation, Your Body falls deeper into dismay
Your people, oh Lord, war against one another over small issues and differences
How long must we persevere through bitter hate and rejection from brothers and sisters?
Oh Lord might we have unity and love as you have always called for us to come to?

Oh Lord, our knees are bruised from years of kneeling
Our minds are wounded from generations of dealing
Our necks are sore from all our lives spent looking heavenward
Our eyes are reddened and swollen from lives spent crying for our beaten and murdered brothers
And our souls are decomposing from being cast out by the powerful in Your Body

Oh Lord, heal our bruises, mend our wounds, take away our sores
Lord, take away our tears, and resurrect our souls into Your great love
Lord, defeat our adversaries and bring us all back into unity with each other and You
Bring us back into Your love and remember us who have been cast out and forgotten
Oh Lord, deliver us from our adversaries, our very brothers in Christ

But for those who show love to our brothers, and have unity in Your love
For those who call all sealed by the blood of Jesus Christ ‘brothers and sisters’
As for us, we bring forth unity in a fractured and all but defeated body
We call upon those who bring forth dissonance, and plead that they show Christian love
And though many do not listen, still we call in Your name

Still we commune in the Sacrament of Your Body and Blood with them
Still we refer as brothers and sisters, our very body
Even through pain, and hate, and torment, through tears, and blood, still we love on
Still we worship beside them, pray with them, and partake in the ministry of the Word with them
Still we participate in and out of liturgy in the work of the Church, for they are our brothers

So we cup our hands as if waiting for bread, we set our gaze toward the heavens
We pray for Your blessings to fall into our open palms daily
And here come I, on my knees begging that You deliver us from this hell
That You might intervene and put this broken body back together
That You might breathe new life into this seeming dying body

Your Son was murdered, broken, and crucified for our transgressions
His broken body lay in the ground for three days before He rose again into new life
So too might this body, the Body of Jesus Christ, resurrect into new life
And we read that Lazarus’ came back into life after passing unto death
So this body, which has yet not passed unto death, might be mended and healed

You, who have come to make all things new
Who have come to make all sad things come untrue
You can mend these wounds that seem unhealable
And we know that You will, for You are faithful unto Your children
Faith, which we so often lack, we will not lose

You have mercy upon us, forgiving us all our sins, through Your Son
You strengthen us in all goodness by the power of Your Holy Spirit keeping us in eternal life
So we lift our hearts to You, giving You thanks and praise always and everywhere
We sing songs to You and give our whole hearts to You
From the first breath we breathe in new life, to the last breath on earth, be our praise with You

This is the prayer from the oppressed in Your body
The prayer for those who have dwelt beneath the foot of the body
Have mercy upon us, have mercy upon our enemies
Give us Your grace, and bring the body back into unity, oh Lord
And more of all, grant us Your peace

Oh Lord, You accept the fervent prayers of your people
With Your many mercies, look with compassion upon us
Hear our prayers, oh Lord to whom we turn for great help
You are most gracious, you lover of souls
Hear, accept, and intervene on our behalf by Your Son, Jesus Christ.
Amen.
A lament written for a class at school. This is a lament for the body of Christ which so often tears down other members and murders with words and actions
Wanderer Mar 2012
This is exhibit A. witness testify to a false maker
of false hopes a dreamers dream disappearing on the lids of
a waking being. So is the theme spoken in rainbow
brilliance the soul is trapped in a toys body break me discard me
no use for this
this is exhibit B. a lifeless rendition of a restless warrior begging
to be freed from his crime in watching his own hands  children
and a pregnant woman willing to sell her soul for redemption.
Break him, discard him but never let him forget

Time elapses travel to the future, Raggedy Andy and the soul
a machine cold and calculating everyone wants one for Christmas
unwrap the gift and sell it tomorrow
wont get much out of it. Devoid of extraneous packaging
it's lost it's worth and the scars are blessed tracing them with my tongue
a willing conspirator in your lie that you live day to day. Praying to whatever
that tomorrow you won't wake up and the pain will stop. Should have never
beqeuthed my soul then because now I'll never let you go

The welcomed touch of another to soothe the decay build a house of
legos galore a horror left untold but whispered in empty space someday
it will reach the ears all will be out of place the blessing of scars and the blessing
of tides. Wash the dreams into reality
yet with your eyes squeezed shut you cannot see the smiles
I flash you from across the room. Another cold winter with plastic walls,
the floor rough beneath my paper thin feet. I am getting older and your passion
still falls to ripping me open and seeing what color I am today. Your
dream is my hell. A reality we all want but some never have a blessing
of the tides for you but not the patchwork of needle veins left on my
heart

A ragdoll sows well after unthreading unraveled secrets that are being
spoken a hidden meaning in things known so well and held
so dear the addict is addicted the silver polish of another exit
and a feared exit (exist)
picking away at the surface he is relieved to see his own
reflection on fates tinderbox. Matches with his name on them and other
wealth's of knowledge he cannot comprehend. I take in his
apathy and replace him whole.

Existence is superficial floating ecstacy through a ravers midnight
meltdown the drugs that soothed soon are smoothed out of the system
a gentle touch the softest if skin paper thin paper thin
licking the edges and listening fast, a deep puff, euphorium. Wanting to
play tonight the caterpillar sees, puffing his own blue smoke fast.
bloodshot eyes hide the daylight from your stolen afternoon. The headboard begs
for some grease, let's at today, my love, let's break me again

The twins of wonderland and the cat disappearing a story
forever after faintly breathing from the lips of the souls
sought wondering
sharing a shotgun with a confidant the after taste sour and strained. Not
enough we all see into your twisted head. Plucking on my heart strings
too rough. Wanting to see me bleed. Not this time the queen of hearts will
soon beat you with a flamingo and send you flapping
through the hourglass a king of king and clams

A nursery rhyme for all children to sleep a child's toy finally
dies leaving behind soiled

1,187 words
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Prose is unpretentious, that's its attraction. Avoids bombast of line breaks but forgoes -- what -- perfect rest. Anyway today, a November day in February, no chance getting rest with the poor clay I'm made from.

With my mother this weekend, her dementia proceeding according to what plan. Saturday the kind of day I never have. Actually read three stories by Updike. One extraordinary -- Tomorrow and Tomorrow and So Forth -- which I chose from his Complete through 1975 for the reference to Macbeth and in it he so humanely, sympathetically explains through the high school English teacher's thoughts Shakespeare's mid-life bitterness or disappointment realizing few men achieve their potential in the face of history, society and their personal flaws. Making for tragedy. Hard to be humorous about that although Updike finds in Shakespeare's late plays, especially The Tempest, a resolution amounting to wisdom that there can be contentment with imperfection and partial achievement. Updike took some of the starch out of my contention that all Shakespeare's plays are comedies, impossible to take Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth and Othello seriously. Certainly not Romeo and Juliet. It is a consolation that Updike's and even Shakespeare's achievements are imperfect although it would be wringing blood from a rock for me to achieve as much. The other two stories by Updike assured me that prose story-telling is as hit or miss as poetry. Bulgarian Poetess and How to Love America and Leave It At the Same Time made me think how fortunate I had been to find Tomorrow on the first try.

Not so much luck. I was attracted like a bee to a blossom to Shakespeare's lines in my personal anthology. No anthology and the poetry dependency it has created and I might have passed over the story. But now there is this conversation between me and all other writers. The anthology helps me know what I like but now I am tempted to try to articulate why I like what I like. Like the calendar, time and all else man lays his mind to it is a matter of bringing order from chaos by naming things according to our observations.

First, I like to understand what's going on in the poem. Not paraphrase it but describe the action. In Yeats' Lapis Lazuli, in the first paragraph, strophe or stanza, he talks about a community, a city or country, in which people, the women especially, high-toned maybe?, are upset about a political or wartime situation and are too hysterical for art or grace. Then he talks about actors playing Hamlet and Lear holding it together even though their characters die at the end of the play. No shouting, no crying. Then a paragraph or stanza about how whole civilizations are transitory too. Finally, in a reference to one of our oldest civilizations, two old Chinamen and their retainer are in the mountains. From their perspective, calm acceptance and longevity, perhaps some sadness, they look on all of history and non-history with something like gladness.

From there we can appreciate the artistry -- in Yeats' case the interesting rhymes and variable line lengths -- recognizing, however, that the artistry is not so much a demonstration of skill or a performance as the particular vehicle or discipline by which this artist discovered the content of his mind. It little matters whether verse is free, rhymed, blank, or formed as long as it is understandable and meaningful. Understandable to anyone, meaningful to someone.

The oldest formulation I have is Pound's -- the great themes of literature can be written on the back of a postage stamp. Until recently, I thought you could do it but you'd have to write very small. Now I know you can do it in your normal handwriting. I think they are Love (how we come into the world), Death (how we leave the world) and Governance (how we live in the world together). It may be possible to group Love and Death together, coming into and going out of life being similarly unknowable mysteries. The ways of talking about this one same mystery are apparently endless and endlessly fascinating. We cannot leave it alone. Almost all the greatest poems are about this mystery. Life is but a dream.

Then there is Governance -- how we live in the world together -- about which there are far fewer great poems. And usually they are about how our failure to live together leads back into the unknowable mystery through premature and sometimes mass death. Siamanto's The Dance comes to mind. I think the best poems of this type are written by so-called oppressed people.

Many poems treat both themes. But on the question of content, Pound is where I begin. My anthology -- Whole Wide World -- has a section which I'll call Double & Triple Features: Poems to Read Together, which pairs and groups poems according to my feeling that they share something -- theme, voice, structure -- in common. Subject matter is, I think, the commonest sharing. If I tried to name each pairing or grouping I might then have a hundred or more themes. Naming them adequately would be difficult to impossible. But why? And why not try? It would be a necessary start to talking about the poems: I read these poems together because....

Prose doesn't have to be beautiful, sometimes it's best when it's flat as Hemingway conclusively proved and one of its attractions is you can run on and on as long as the mind goes on following a thought without a stop sign for a whole page of books like Proust or Faulkner or Joyce.

Auden's is the second useful formulation that comes to mind (besides his chummy reverence for Shakespeare in naming him Top Bard). He classifies poems five ways:

            1. A good poem that's meaningful to him;
            2. A good poem that's not meaningful to him;
            3. A good poem that may someday become meaningful to him;
            4. A bad poem that's meaningful to him;
            5. A bad poem that's not meaningful to him.

I find I do about the same. But I discard all poems, good and bad, that are not meaningful to me. I have little taste for artistry for art's sake. The poem must speak to me or awaken me. Dickinson's formulation -- takes the top of your head off -- is the same as We can't define ******* but we know it when we see it.

A short aside: it feels inappropriate to answer the question What do you do? by saying I'm a poet. It would be like saying I'm a leader or I'm a prophet. You cannot anoint yourself a poet, a leader or a prophet -- others must do it for you. I wonder if I would be more comfortable if I had a larger audience (following) like Billy Collins for example. I think not. It would be like being a rock star, not a composer.

It's much more acceptable to say I'm a writer. Then when you answer the question Oh, what do you write? with Poetry, you are not self-aggrandizing, merely irrelevant, effete. Being a poet is viewed as being a flasher or nudist, exposing parts of yourself others would rather not see, at least not up close and personal, providing more information than others need or want to have. Maybe that's a good definition of a bad poet. Self-revelation dressed in verbal prowess is acceptable but naked, abject confession is unpardonable, tedious.

Although content is requisite for a poem to be meaningful, a poem is not really a communication like fiction or essay. It is more like an object, like a painting or sculpture, and perhaps like a musical score, sheet music. Yet I would still instruct students of poetry to first read each poem by the sentence, not the line, to derive its meaning, understand its argument, visualize its action. Then one might ask how and why is it sculpted, structured, with line breaks and strophes. Ultimately, the form of the poem is nothing more or less than the method by which the poet discovered his meaning. Although it is arbitrary -- it could have been said another way -- it is the only way it could be said by this person in this time and place. I have always liked the idea of a sculptor carving away stone or wood to reveal the form inside the block.

The poem lives on as an object, recognized by many or few or none. Like art or furniture, most are briefly useful then are moved to the attic or shed where they gather dust and mouse turds then break, dry and decay and find their way to the dump, the dust heap of history, only not even human history, just your personal history.

The anthology has made me an antiquarian -- one who cares as much for objects made by others as if I had made them myself.

So how can one talk about poems? The argument that any attempt to discuss or describe a poem is better served by simply reading the poem, perhaps memorizing it, has merit. Except in one respect -- the process can take you to undiscovered and half-discovered country within yourself. Always, first, you must understand the action otherwise we are just re-reading ourselves in our own tried and untrue ways. We must not mistake an old dog dying for a puppy being born. Misunderstanding the words is like constructing a science experiment with a flawed methodology and then using the results to shape or live in the world. It can be dangerous. Therefore reading poetry is a mental discipline worthy as the scientific method itself. It takes you out of yourself.

The fun of criticism comes in examining why and how the poem made you feel or think as you did. You can read closely for the chosen words, rhythms, lines and stanzas. You may admire the skill or wit of the poet. And you can refer to your own experience to understand your reaction. You can even disagree with the poet's thought or perception, or reject the sentiment. You can say that's him, not me.

Then there are Bloom's formulations of which I am wary, he being a critic not a poet. Yet here they are. Three sources of healthy complexity or difficulty in poems: 1) Sustained allusiveness -- cultural references that require the reader to be educated beyond the poem's content, for which he cites Milton as an example and could have Dante; 2) Cognitive originality -- leaps of perception and depths of understanding that startle, enlighten and take off the top of your head, for which he cites Shakespeare and Dickinson as examples and to which I would add much of what is memorable in modern poetry; and 3) Personal mythmaking -- whereby the poet constructs over time a system of images and personal (more than cultural) references that with familiarity become understandable and meaningful, citing Yeats and Blake as examples. How to make this formulation useful.

A second formulation by Bloom discusses poetic figures or the indirect means by which poetry uncovers truth, dancing with and romancing language rather than wrestling and pinning it down like philosophy tries. There are four: 1) Irony or saying one thing and meaning another, usually the opposite; 2) Symbol (synecdoche) or making one thing stand for another; 3) Contiguity (metonymy) or using an aspect or quality of something to represent the whole; and 4) Metaphor or transferring the qualities or associations of one thing to another.

Meanwhile, here's my **** poetica:

1) Poetry is an acquired taste, like golf or wine, with no obligation to appreciate it.

2) Poetry is divination; prose explains what we think we know but poetry discovers what we didn't know we thought.

3) Poetry is one of many man-made systems, like baseball or the scientific method, for producing knowledge, meaning and pleasure. Or are they all natural as ***?

4) Of all the other arts, poetry is most like sculpture; the word "poem" comes from the Indo- European root meaning "to make, to build."

5) It is impossible to write exactly what you mean or be accurately understood; poetry uses this to its advantage.

6) Line length -- enjambment -- is the single most important feature of poetry.

7) Poems are made from ideas; poetry is philosophy but where philosophy wrestles language down, poetry romances language.

8) Meaning is the most important product of poetry but it's completely personal; poems almost always say one thing and mean another but the poet often doesn't know what he meant.

9) It is almost impossible not to rhyme or write rhythmically in English or any other language.

10) The forms poets use are how the poet gets to his truth and are basically arbitrary choices.

11) Poems may be difficult and complex and irrational but they must be comprehensible.

12) Just describing the action of the poem will take you where you need to go.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
The Unknown Desert
This area has some secrets some are unaware of here is a list first material items black sand apples that contained milk and the same grasses that grows along the coastal highway in California and sea gulls and chipmunks just like those found across the Golden Gate in San Francisco in The great conservationist John Muir’s stand of Redwoods. Then a black desert a jungle a secret pass a tunnel under the railroad right next to the place where it snowed all year round and Miss America undiscovered though.

We will start in order with the black sand this was the purist black crystal regular sand not so much
Ocean beach sand has a lot of powder content this you could scoop up hands full let it do that small
Wonder usually reserved for hour glasses gently cascade out soothing as it escapes whatever had it
Bound not being involved with the Spring Side mine in a professional sense I can only guess but like the
Mighty mountain of slack that stood as a giant discard pile to the mine operation this sand now it comes
To mind it had to be a pulverized cast off type of coal dust. They had a show one time that delved into
The byproducts of coal defiantly not as tasty or wonderus as the finds produced by George Washington Carver
From what he referred to as the lowly Peanut this will lead us into the Black Desert mentioned this was
The far end of the Spring Side mine to the east along the rail road right of way Why an artist never
Painted this I guess as spoken it was unknown Donna even missed it with her camera but it truly was a
Miniature desert with the same vistas but all contained within a quarter mile the long open stretch
Comparable to a large pond bordered at the edges by dunes with these grasses found along the coast I
wonder did someone while traveling harvest some then bring them and transplant them whatever they
Thrived and had the same pleasant effect not only on the eye but the soul it was always filled with the
Quietest hush our smallest land of enchantment Georgia O Keefe would have found it matched the
Dream shapes of New Mexico only thing missing were the flowers and sculls everything else was right
Here in your very own back yard it also was a bird sanctuary and the chipmunks still scurry about on this
Now lost dream land gone just like the native tribes the I lone the Sack, Pawnee, Potawatomie’s and the
Greatest tribe the Kickapoo bet you didn’t know this used to be Black Hawk hunting ground.
The milk apples not too big of a thrill unless your six and you look across the small pasture just out in
Front of homer’s Barn was their house Miss America undiscovered lived there I know beauty she didn’t
Walk around and she wasn’t at black desert but she shimmered just like a desert princess she could have
Been covered in coal dust it wouldn’t have mattered it would have looked liked gold dust if she had an
Native American name it would have been trance maker when she came outside the rest of the world
Stopped all activity except the part of paying her homage she was so humble she killed me if they had
Those portable oxen units back then I most likely would have been dragging one around in one of those
famous little red wagons she left me breathless then like a great devastating storm the news crossed the
Yard and ally she was getting married well what should you do probably not this but this is for everyone
Who has loved a living dream then fate oh blackest fate thy name was Richard comes and steals the
Most precious living one away I just went to say goodbye outside her bedroom window that wasn’t
What the girls that were to make up her wedding party heard a mix between a Irish Banshee and a small
Calf tangled in barb wire in a terrible storm would come close as you can expect someone finally said
What is that the answer the little neighbor boy did she close the window no she sealed my feelings for ever by her action of mercy, I don’t care I passed into the far
Reaches of agonies domain but I looked up from the ground where I was laying soaked in tears there she
Was kneeling beside me these fifty six years I have never laid down this torch that almost consumed
Me that night new tears now join those of long ago she touched my convulsing body and spoke I think
From that carving so deep in my heart when death to innocence was complete the poet in me was born
She even has spoken where does the depth come from don’t you know you looked into the cavernous
Abyss that lost love created I spoke of her in three lost loves and endless rails I told her someday I will
Make her famous I’m still working on that promise the apple with milk was an old green knobby hedge
Apple good descriptor for my heart after leaving her presence that night her earthly name is Eileen I call
Her summer’s night angel.

The pass was the space between the sugar creek creamery and Longwells Pana hotel sorry it was cool to
Cut through there and we lost another young prince when Pat Longwell died he was one of the first to
Color his hair he had the air of a beet nick he just didn’t do the lingo you instantly loved him he was a
True friend he owned the name cool the snow that snowed all year wasn’t cool but it snowed those
White feathers all the way to Wadley’s chicken processing at the end of commercial alley past the
Monument company how apropos for all the chicks that said there final Farwell the tunnel was there too
Under the railroad you walked down through it on stones that kept you out of the small amount of water
That trickled through go in and then pop out on the other side or get the thrill of the train rumbling over
Head. Thats your trip through this unknown hope you enjoyed the trip my only wish is that I could type faster.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
between poems,
an old curmudgeon,
am me-he,
thorny gray stubbled face
available for
knife sharpening and
tongue lashing

cranky and cantankerous,
bad tempered,
ill mannered, me-he,
until they slip me a
paper aspirin

place before me a clean sheet
Presto Chango,
the ole man displaced,
(the boy who remembers to forget,)
in his heart~place, installed,
though the
briar and the thorn
never from his visage depart,
just briefly, Red Sea parted

kiss me surprised,
stumbling about in the
wee of the rambunctious hours,
stubbing me eyes upon
a poetess, a kindred soul
who claims my pointy moniker that
earned I,
only after years
of indentured servitude,
Briar Thornly,
so unnaturally misnamed,
yet she of but,
few and the tenderest years
rights me up
with young words

her poems sweet treats, sweet eats,
departing me delightfully unfairly from
my grumpy good graces,
look below if you dare risking,
a hazardous glancing upon her works,
if you like to, grrrrr, smile

Déjà vu
Oh to write or not to write.
My mind says I don't have a choice.
Love has made a home in my heart.
I suffer not being able to
open the door to my inspiration.
I toss a paper ball into the trash.
Chapters of my life turn into dust.
I bury those words in my mind.
Words that I used to think
were wrapped up in true meaning.
A break could **** my block but
my pencil spins out of control.
I'll conquer all of those lost attempts.
Piano's and violins phase in and out.
Wheels of creativity turning in caution.
The clock sounds gong,gong,gone.
Inspiration died at the start of a vacation.
On the page there was the suicide of passion.
The ghost of my muse will soon reappear.
My emotions need to break free from
the shelter of my imagination.
I"ll write till the dawn of poetry.^



read her poetry till dawn
or face my thorny faced
muse,
and perhaps now you understand,
at last comprehend,

**a rose by any other name
would smell as sweet as a
thorn
Read her.  Please.  
http://hellopoetry.com/briar-thornly/

One of many done, and plenty yet to come, in my "read the young poets" series.  The list is long....

^ http://hellopoetry.com/poem/612091/deja-vu/
Sarah Spang Nov 2014
Harbinger of light, I curled away
From chaste, un-daunting rays.
And cursed the sphere high in the sky
For showcasing my pain

You brought me terms and phrases
That withered on deaf ears
I longed to wrench them from my head
When ballads provoked tears

Your touch? It singed like acid
I yearned to shed this skin
Discard this haggard carapace;
Exhume the girl within.

Your gaze took me to pieces
And plucked a shattered shard
To hold before my wretched face;
Remind me what we are.



I’m stained with shadows where you’re light
And loud where you are soft.
I’m rough, disheveled and clumsy
My company’s high in cost.

I twist and draw away from you
I flee and weep and hide
Everything that makes you up,
Is who I am inside.
The Elitist Aug 2010
A time comes in your life when you finally get it. When in the midst of all your fears and insanity you stop dead in your tracks and somewhere the voice inside your head cries out ENOUGH!  Enough fighting and crying or struggling to hold on and, like a child quieting down after a blind tantrum, your sobs begin to subside, you shudder once or twice, you blink back your tears and through a mantle of wet lashes you begin to look at the world through new eyes.  


This is your awakening.  You realize that its time to stop hoping and waiting for something to change, or for happiness, safety and security to come galloping over the next horizon.  You come to terms with the fact the he is not Prince Charming and you are not Cinderella and that in the real world there arent always fairy tale endings (or beginnings for that matter).  And that any guarantee of happily ever after must begin with you, and in the process a sense of serenity is born of acceptance.


You awaken to the fact that you are not perfect, and that not everyone will always love, appreciate or approve of who or what you are and its OK.  (They are entitled to their own views and opinions.)  And you learn the importance of loving and championing yourself, and in the process a sense of newly found confidence is born of self-approval.


You stop whining and blaming other people for the things they did to you (or didnt do for you) and you realize the only thing you can count on is the unexpected.  You learn that not everyone will always be there for you, and that its not always about you.  So, you learn to take care of yourself and in the process a sense of safety and security is born of self-reliance.  


You stop judging and pointing fingers, and you begin to accept people as they are, and to over look their shortcomings and human frailties and in the process a sense of peace and contentment is born of forgiveness.


You realize that much of the way you view yourself, and the world around you, is a result of all the messages and opinions that have been ingrained into your psyche.  And you begin to sift through all the junk youve been fed about how you should behave, how you should look, how much you shouldnt weigh, what you should wear, where you should shop, what you should drive, how and where you should live, what you should do for a living, who you should sleep with, who you should marry, what you should expect of a marriage, the importance of having and raising children, or what you owe your parents.


You learn to open up to new worlds and different points of view.  And you begin reassessing and redefining who you are and what you really stand for.  


You learn the difference between wanting and needing, and you begin to discard the doctrines and values youve outgrown, or should never have bought into to begin with, and in the process you learn to go with your instincts.  You learn to distinguish between guilt and responsibility, and the importance of setting boundaries and learning to say NO.  You learn the only cross to bear is the one you choose to carry, and that martyrs get burned at the stake.


Then you learn about love.  Romantic love and familial love.  How to love, how much to give in love, when to stop giving, and when to walk away.  You learn not to project your needs or your feelings onto a relationship.  You learn that you will not be more beautiful, more intelligent, more lovable, or important because of the man on your arm or the child that bears your name.  


You learn to look at relationships as they really are and not as you would have them be.  You stop trying to control people, situations, and outcomes.  You learn that just as people grow and change, so it is with love.  And you learn that you dont have the right to demand love on your terms just to make you happy.  And, you learn that ALONE does not mean lonely.


And you look in the mirror and come to terms with the fact that you will never be a size 5 or a perfect 10 and you stop trying to compete with the image inside your head and agonizing over how you stack up.  You also stop working so hard at putting feelings aside, smoothing things over, and ignoring your needs.


You learn that feelings of entitlement are perfectly OK . . . and that it is your right to want things that you want.  And that sometimes it is necessary to make demands.  You come to the realization that you deserve to be treated with love, kindness, sensitivity, and respect and you will not settle for less.  And you allow only the hands of a lover who cherishes you, to glorify you with his touch.  And in the process you internalize the meaning of self-respect.  


And you learn that your body really is your temple.  And you begin eating a balanced diet, drinking more water, and taking more time to exercise.  You learn that fatigue diminishes the spirit and can create doubt and fear, so you take more time to rest.  And, just as food fuels the body, laughter fuels our soul, so you take more time to laugh and to play.


You learn that, for the most part, in life you get what you believe you deserve.  And that much of life is a self-fulfilling prophecy.  You learn that anything worth achieving is worth working for, and that wishing for something to happen is different from working toward making it happen.  More importantly, you learn that in order to achieve success, you need direction, discipline, and perseverance.


You also learn that no one can do it all alone and its OK to risk asking for help.  You learn that the only thing you must truly fear is the great robber baron of all time:  FEAR itself.  You learn to step right into and through your fears, because you know that whatever happens you can handle it, and to give into fear is to give away the right to live life on your terms.


You learn to fight for your life and not to squander it living under a cloud of impending doom.  You learn that life isnt always fair, you dont always get what you think you deserve, and that sometimes bad things happen to unsuspecting, good people.  On these occasions you learn not to personalize things.  You learn that God isnt punishing you or failing to answer your prayers.  Its just life happening.  And you learn to deal with evil in its most primal state the ego.


You learn that negative feelings such as anger, envy, and resentment must be understood and redirected, or they will suffocate the life out of you and poison the universe that surrounds you.


You learn to admit when you are wrong and to build bridges instead of walls.  You learn to be thankful and to take comfort in many of the simple things we take for granted, things that millions of people upon the earth can only dream about a full refrigerator, clean running water, a soft warm bed, a long hot shower.  Slowly, you begin to take responsibility for yourself, by yourself, and you try to make yourself a promise to never betray yourself and to never ever settle for less than your hearts desire.  And you hang a wind chime outside your window so you can listen to the wind.  And you make it a point to keep smiling, to keep trusting, and to stay open to every wonderful possibility.


Finally, with courage in your heart and with God by your side, you take a stand, you take a deep breath, and you begin to design the life you want to live as best as you can
Kimberly Jan 2018
You love my light, but can you embrace my darkness?
My madness, my neurosis, my insecurities?
You love my laugh, but can you love my tears and my scars and my pain as deeply as you love my joy?
You're willing to bask in my glistening iridescent infinite divine red aura splattered in gold tones...but will you be there when I'm unable to lift myself from the abyss of my ever churning, ever condemning, overthinking mind?
You want to celebrate my successes, but are you willing not to be overly critical of my failed attempts?
Are you willing to encourage me and believe in me when I can't do it for myself?
I'm simultaneously
happy and sad,
hot and cold,
unfettered and bound,
knowing and ignorant,
open and closed,
sure and unsure,
deep and shallow,
obsessed and unconcerned
...can you handle that?
Can you handle me?
Is it too dizzying of a realization that every part of me has a deep opposing counterpart?
Will you stay?
Will you leave? If so- I've just given you permission to do whatever you feel that you need...

You can't have my light without my darkness. You can't have my joy and discard my pain. You can't have my sanity without my insanity. You can't gather the things that you like and discard the ugly parts, further fragmenting my already fragmented soul...

Every part of me longs to feel the warmth of the sun
Every part of me longs to shown off like a most prized possession
Every part of me longs to be nurtured and cared for and protected and validated
Not by everyone- but by YOU
I don't need them. I just need you
Every part of me longs to be seen by you
felt by
loved by
You.

Every. Part.

See my heart, ******* thoughts, feel the colors of my memories

Into me see

Intimacy

~KiCo!
Vicki Cheek Feb 2015
They will bombard you with love and tell you what you want to hear.
They will tell you that they are your soulmate and that you have nothing to fear.

They will do or say anything to get what they desire.
They become quite adept at being a smooth liar.

Keep in mind that if it sounds too good to be true,
Listen to your gut instinct – it’s trying to protect you.

They will torture you with triangulation and convince you that you are the crazy one.
Then they will devalue and discard you when they have used you up and they are done.

They count on the fact that you will keep giving them the benefit of the doubt.
They are actually reeling you in but you are so confused you haven’t quite figured it out.

They are pure evil - do not fall for their lies.
Sooner or later their mask will slip and you will see through their disguise.

They will make you miserable – you will tell yourself this is not how you behave when you love someone,
But you will never make them see it that way because to them it’s just a way of having fun.

You will start to realize when their true self begins to show,
But keep your guard up because you never know how far they will go.

They call it emotional **** and that is exactly how you will feel.
You will soon understand the love you thought you had wasn’t ever real.

Then they will move on to the next victim and leave you alone.
Don’t beat yourself up – just hope they stay gone.

They have no conscience, no remorse and you are just a pawn in their sick little game.
Once you have been the target of a psychopath, you will never be the same.

A psychopath’s bond is a hard thing to break,
But you have to be strong for your own sake.

Everyone has come into contact with a psychopath at some point in their life.
It could easily have been your mother, your father, your husband or your wife.

We have all probably been victims of a psychopath but some of us just never knew,
Until you start reading the information about them then you will know it’s true.

Being fooled and falling in love with a psychopath is very easy for me to see.
I know firsthand the horror of it all because, yes, it happened to me.

V. Cheek
9/04/2014

— The End —