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Sam Temple Oct 2015
new dynamic enters the stratus
something shifting
triangulated attitudinally
sitting on a chesterfield
brushing away lint from grey trousers
thinking about ending the lollygagging
and crushing despondency
with action akin to space flight
energetic tingles transform
particulates blend and restructure
transformer style
before unknown element
lose in society
beaconing children and religious
to eat of the space fruit
Orion’s apple
the pope wants us to be open to alien religion –
Silence! The voices stopped. The only sound I hear is the wind howling over the stones, the ancient building ruins, heaps ravaged by time punishes them as an invisible whip. Even the demons are silent now ...

I hear the most croaking frogs and even the sound of crickets filled the night with their songs. Rooster was. His voice was quiet for forty-two years. The only sound now is the voice synthesis of old hardware, metal head that red-eye placed on top of the old marble counter.

- Sir Water? - She asks - The radiation level is low today - finished. The same song sung once a week. The voices? They were silent. Demons are silent now.

Ahh! I wanted to hear the voice of the old rabbi, that white-bearded long peyos when he said to pay attention to the little voices, the voices of the humble, enlightened wanderers, sparks of mystical alphabet, warning humanity that the day would come when voices calariam.

There inside, the demons remain silent. Their voices were silenced by the voice of evil that planted residence in the left chamber of the heart of man the temple.

The ghetto is cold today. People gather around the fire lit inside the old barrel of oil, black blood, called him. It no longer exists. The veins are dry and the blood no longer runs more ...

The white spots covering skin. It should be a good sign, but it is not. Leprosy went devouring the souls of men, women and children. Neither the animals escaped. Contaminated are exiled. They send them to the valley of oblivion where the voice never will rise. They used maliciously. They slandered her. His calumnies were launched in the wind like the leaves of the old oak tree that stood in chaiim forest. He also stopped. The wind no longer howls more through its leafy branches.

Ahh! Where is the voice of the rabbi? He was dead by religious dogmatists. His bright sparks no longer crackle through the air. Even the demons no longer speak. They shut up inside.
Where are the voices of poems and poets? It is also silent. They were causing itching ears of humanity. They accused: - the mighty were the leaders of nations, with their palaces decorated with blood. Blood of the innocent. They made them shut. They caused itches to power the ears.

The gleam in his eyes blinded. It was in 2029 detonated the old Russian gun exchanged for a piece of bread to feed the starving children. All of them died with nuclear heat.

Silence! The voices stopped. The only sound I hear is the wind howling over the stones, the ancient building ruins, heaps ravaged by time punishes them as an invisible whip. Even the demons are silent now ...

Ah! Where is the voice of the old rabbi? I wanted to hear it now. She stopped. Even there inside there is silence now, even the demons whisper more ...*

By Deepak Sankara Veda (Misha'Ël Ha'Levi) Mystik Poet
Is poetry came from humanity's twilight dictated to me by a soul of the apocalyptic future of the world in february 2011.
Francie Lynch May 2023
Where do society's extremists abide?
Rallies and Racists go side by side.
BBQs offer up well-done bigots;
On Jordan's lap dance the zealots.
Dogmatists rant in wild front rows,
True believers don't put on such shows?
Sexists cower in coastal Compounds,
Sects marry often in Salt Lake towns.
Troglodytes tan beneath southern suns.
Sepratists hold their final stand
On this side of The Rio Grande;
Fanatics occupy far Left and Right,
Partisans Op Eds are meant to enlight.
Mysoginists grab till they have blisters,
Huns and louts date brothers and sisters.
Philistines take our private spaces,
And whistle-blowers can't show their faces.

Of all the ists I know and abhor,
The musicist is a bigoted boor;
A connoisseur I abjure,
Who chooses tunes he insists
Are superior than my interests,
And disses tunes I like best.

So now I'll lay my needle down,
I've turned the table that goes round,
And plead musicists won't hesitate
To enjoy the tunes... don't discriminate.
I needed to get this on paper. I have a friend who is a musicist. He drides Motown, blues, jazz, classical, country, hip hop, rap... you name it. All he listens to is folk and classic rock.
A A Feb 2018
I’m searching for an answer.
Surrounded by monogamists I crawl and weep,
Surrounded by dogmatists I hunger.
I’m searching for a key to unlock the doors of profanity.
I don’t want to hear something about the seasons,
Or anything about ethics.
No more flowers,
Away with the aesthetic of yore.
Give me the affairs, the filth, secret lives.
Give me the runaways, the elderly, the jokesters.
Give me the casanovas and cougars.
I search this rotten boulevard and t
All night, all night, even during the day..
I’m on the search..
I’m looking for a key to unlock the doors of profanity.

— The End —