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Song one
This is a song about tarzanic love
That subsisted some years ago,
As a love duel between an English girl and an African ogre,
There was an English girl hailing along the banks of river Thames
She had stubbornly refused all offers for marriage,
From all the local English boys, both rich and poor
tall and short, weak or strong, ugly and comely in the eye,
the girl had refused and sternly refused the treats for love,
She was disciplined to her callous pursuit of her dream
to marry a mysterious,fantastic,lively,original and extra-ordinary man,
That no other woman in history of human marriage ever married,
She came from London, near the banks of river Thames,
Her name was Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill, daughter of a peasant,
She came from a humble English family, which hustled often
For food, clothing, and other calls that make one an ordinary British,
She grew up without a local boy friend, anywhere in the English world,
She is the first English girl to knock the age of forty five while a ******,
She never got deflowered in her teens as other English girls usually do
She preserved her purse with maximal carefulness in her wait for a black man,
Her father, of course a peasant, his trade was human barber and horse shearer,
Often asked her what she wants in life before her marriage, which man she really wanted,
Her specification was an open eyesore to her father; no blinkers could stave the father’s pale
For she wanted a black tall man, strong and ruggedly dark in the skin, must own a kingdom,
Fables taken to her from Africa were that such an African man was only one but none else,
His glorious name was Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
When the English girl heard the chimerical name of her potential husband,
She felt a super bliss in her spine; she yearned for the day of her rendezvous,
She crashed into desperate burning for true English love
With a man with a wonderful name like Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya.


Song two

Rumours of this English despair and dilemma for love reached Africa, in the wrong ears,
Not the human ears, but unfortunately the ears of the ogres, seasoned in the evil art,
It was received and treated as classified information among the African ogress,
They prevented this news to leak to African humans at all at all
Lest humans enjoy their human status and enjoy most
The love in the offing from the English girl,
They thus swiftly plotted and ployed
To lure and win the ******
From royal land;
England.




Song three

Firstly, the African ogres recruited one of their own
The most handsome middle aged male ogre, more handsome than all in humanity,
And of course African ogres are beautiful and handsome than African humans, no match,
The ogres are more gifted in stature, physique, eugenics and general overtures
They always outplay African humans on matters of intelligence, they are shrewder,
Ogres are aggressive and swashbuckling in manners; fear is none of their domain
Craft and slyness is their breakfast, super is the result; success, whether pyrrhic or Byronic,
Is their sweetest dish, they then schemed to get the English girl at whatever cost,
They made a move to name one of their fellow ogres the name of dream man;
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
Which an English girl wanted,
By viciously naming one of their handsome middle-aged man this name.

Song four

Then they set off 0n foot, from Congo moving to the north towards Europe abode England,
Where the beautiful girl of the times, Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill hail,
They were three of them, walking funnily in cyclopic steps of African ogres,
Keeping themselves humorously high by feigning how they will dupe the girl,
How they will slyly decoy the English village pumpkin of the girl in to their trap,
And effortlessly make her walk on foot from England to Africa, in pursuit of love
On this muse and sweet wistfulness they broke out into loud gewgaws of laughter,
In such emotional bliss they now jump up wildly forgetting about their tails
Which they initially stuffed inside white long trousers, tails now wag and flag crazily,
Feats of such wild emotions gave the ogres superhuman synergy to walk cyclopically,
A couple of their strides made them to cross Uganda, Kenya, Somali, Ethiopia and Egypt
Just but in few days, as sometimes they ran in violent stampedes
Singing in a cryptic language the funny ogres songs;

Dada wu ndolelee!
Dada wu ndolelee!
Kuyuni kwa mnja
Sa kwingile khundilila !

Ehe kuyuni Mulie!
Ehe kuyuni mulie!
Omukhana oyo
Kaloba khuja lilia !
They then laughed loudly, farted cacophonously and jumped wildly, as if possessed,
They used happiness and raucous joy as a strategy to walk miles and miles
Which you cover when moving on foot from Congo to England,
They finally crossed Morocco and walked into Europe,
They by-passed Italy and Spain walking piecemeal
into England, native land of the beautiful girl.

Song  five

When the three ogres reached England, they were all surprised
Every woman and man was white; people of England walked slowly and gently
They made minimum noise, no shouting publicly on the street,
a stark contrast to human behaviour and ogre culture in Africa, very rambunctious,
Before they acclimatized to disorderly life in England, an over-sighted upset befell them
Piling and piling menace of pressure to ****,
Gripped all the three ogre brothers the same time,
None of them had knowledge of municipal utilities,
They all wanted to micturated openly
Had it not been beautiful English girls
Ceaselessly thronging the streets.



Song six

They persevered and moved on in expectation of coming to the end,
Out-skirt of the strange English town so that they can get a woodlot,
From where they could hide behind to do open defecation
All was in vain; they never came to any end of the English town,
Neither did they come by a tumbled-down house
No cul de sac was in sight, only endless highway,
Sandwiched between tall skyscraping buildings,
One of the ogres came up with an idea, to drip the ****
Drop by drop in their *******, as they walk to their destiny,
They all laughed but not loudly, in controlled giggles
And executed the idea minus haste.

Song seven

They finally came down to the banks of river Thames,
Identified the home of Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill
The home had neither main gate nor metallic doors,
They entered the home walking in humble majesty,
Typical of racketeering ogre, in a swindling act,
The home was silent, no one in sight to talk to
The ogres nudged one another, repressing the mirth,
Hunchbacked English lass surfaced, suddenly materialized
Looking with a sparkle in the eye, talking pristine English,
Like that one written by Geoffrey Chaucer, her words were as piffling
As speech of a mad woman at the fish market, ogres looked at her in askance.

Song eight

An ogre with name Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya opened to talk,
Asked the girl where could be the latrine pits, for micturation only,
The hunchbacked lass gave them a direction to the toilets inside the house,
She did it in a full dint of English elegance and gentility,
But all the ogres were discombobulated to their peak
about the English latrine pit inside the house,
they all went into the toilet at the same time,
to the chagrin of the hunchbacked lass
she had never seen such in England
she struggled a lot
to repress her mirth
as the English
never get amused
at folly.




Song nine

It is a tradition among the ogres to ****,
Whenever they are ******* in the African bush,
But now the ogres are in a fix, a beautiful fix of their life
If at all they ****, the flatulent cacophony will be heard outside
By the curious eavesdroppers under the eaves of the house,
They murmured among themselves to tighten their **** muscles
So that they can micturated without usual African accomplice; the tweeee!
All succeeded to manage , other than Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Who urinated but with a low tziiiiiiii sound from his ***, they didn’t laugh
Ogres walked out of privities relaxed like a catholic faithful swallowing a sacrament,
The hunchback girl ushered them to where they were to sit, in the common room
They all sat with air of calm on their face, Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
led the conversation, by announcing to the girl that he is Victoria’s visitor from Africa,
To which the girl responded with caution that Victoria is at the barbershop,
Giving hand to her father in shearing the horses, and thus she is busy,
No one is allowed to meet her, at that particular hour of the day
But he pleaded to the hunchback girl only to pass tidings to Victoria,
That Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya from Africa
Has arrived and he is yearning to meet her today and now,
The girl went bananas on hearing the name
The hunch on her back visibly shook,
Is like she had heard the name often,
She then became prudent in her senses,
And asked the visitor not to make anything—
Near a cat’s paw out of her person,
She implored the visitor to confirm
if at all he was what he was saying
to which he confirmed in affirmation,
then she went out swiftly
like a tail of the snake,
to pass tidings
to her sister
Victoria.


Song ten
She went out shouting her sister’s name,
A rare case to happen in England,
One to make noise in the broad day light,
With no permission from the local leadership,
She called and ululated Victoria’ name for Victoria to hear
From wherever she was, of which she heard and responded;
What is the matter my dear little sister? What ails you?
Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya is around!
She responded back in voice disturbed by emotional uproar,
What! My sister why do you cheat me in such a day time?
Am not cheating you my sister, he is around sited in our father’s house,
Is he? Have you given him a drink, a sweet European brandy?
My sister I have not, I feared that I may mess up your visitors
With my hunched shoulders, I feared sister forbid,
Ok, I am coming, running there, tell him to be patient,
Let me tell him sister just right now,
And make sure you come before his patience is stretched.





Song eleven

Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill almost went berserk
On getting this good tidings about the watershed presence,
Of the long awaited suitor, her face exploded into vivacity,
Her heart palpitating on imagination of finally getting the husband,
She went out of the barber shop running and ululating,
Leaving her father behind, confounded and agape,
She came running towards her father’s main house
Where the suitor is sited, with the chaperons,
She came kicking her father’s animals to death,
Harvesting each and every fruit, for the suitor,
She did marvel before she reached where the suitor was;
Harvested ten bananas, mangoes and avocadoes,
Plums, pepper, watermelons, lemons and oranges,
She kicked dead five chicken, five goats, rams,
Swine, rabbits, rats, pigeons and hornbills,
When she reached the house, she inquired to know,
Who among them could be the one; Akhatembete Khobwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya, But her English vocals were not guttural enough,
She instead asked, who among you is a key tempter go weevil car no lawyer?
The decoy ogre promptly responded; here I am the queen of my heart. He stood up,
Victoria took the ogre into her arms, whining; babie! Babie, babie, come!
Victoria carried the ogre swiftly in her arms, to her tidy bed room,
She placed the ogre on her bed, kissed one another at a rate of hundred,
Or more kisses per a minute, the kissing sent both of them crazy, but spiritual craft,
That gave the ogre a boon to maintain some sobriety, but libido of virginity held Victoria
In boonless state of ****** feat, defenseless and impaired in judgment
It extremely beclouded her judgment; she removed and pulled of their clothes,
Libidinous feat blurring her sight from seeing the scarlet tail projecting
From between the buttocks of the ogre, vestige of *******,
She forcefully took the ogre into her arms, putting the ogre between her legs,
The ogre’s uncircumcised ***** effectively penetrated Victoria’s ****** purse,
The ogre broke virginity of Victoria, making her to feel maximum warmth of pleasure
As it released its germinal seed into her body, ecstasy gripped her until she fainted,
The ogre erected more on its first *******; its ***** became more stiff and sharp,
It never pulled out its ***** from the purse of Victoria, instead it introduced further
Deeper and deeper into Victoria’s ******, reaching the ****** depth inside her with gusto,
Victoria screamed, wailed, farted, scratched, threw her neck, kissed crazily and ******,
On the rhythms of the ogre’s waist gyrations, it was maximum pleasure to Victoria,
She reached her second ****** before the ogre; it took further one hour before releasing,
Victoria was beaten; she thought she was not in England in her father’s house
She thought she was in Timbuktu riding on a mosquito to Eldorado,
Where she could not be found by her father whatsoever,
The ogre pulled Victoria up, helped her to dress up,
She begged that they go back to the common room,
Lest her father finds them here, he would quarrel,
They went back to the common room,
Found her father talking to other two ogres,
She shouted to her father before anyone else,
That ‘father I have been showing him around our house,’
‘He has fallen in love with our house; he is passionate about it,’
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya was shy,
He greeted the father and resumed his chair, with wryly dignity.


Song twelve
An impromptu festival took place,
Fully funded by the father of Victoria,
There was meat of all type from pork to chicken,
Greens were also there in plenty, pepper and watermelons,
Victoria’s mother remembered to prepare tripe of a goat
For the key visitant who was the suitor; Akhatembete,
Food was laid before the ogres to enjoy themselves,
As all others went to the other house for a brainstorming session,
But the hunched backed girl hid herself behind the door,
To admire the food which visitors were devouring,
As she also spied on the table manners of the visitors, for stories to be shared,
Perhaps between herself and her mother, when visitors are gone,
Some sub-human manners unfolded to her as she spied,
One of the ogres swallowed a spoon and a table fork,
And Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Uncontrollably unstuffed his scarlet tail from the trouser,
The chill crawled up the spine of hunchbacked girl,
She almost shouted from her hideout, but she restrained herself,
She swore to herself to tell her father that the visitors are not humans
They are superhuman, Tarzans or mermaids or the werewolves,
The ogre who swallowed the spoon remorsefully tried to puke it back,
Lest the hosts discover the missing spoon and cause brouhaha,
It was difficult to puke out the spoon; it had already flowed into the stomach,
Victoria, her father, her mother and her friend Anastasia,
Anastasia; another English girl from the neighborhood,
Whom Victoria had fished, to work for her as a best maid, as a chaperon,
Went back to the house where the ogres had already finished eating,
They found ogres sitting idle squirming and flitting in their chairs
As if no food had ever been presented to them in a short while ago,
One ogre even shamelessly yawned, blinking his eyes like a snake,
They all forgot to say thanks for the food, no thanks for lunch,
But instead Akhatembete announced on behalf of other ogres,
That they should be allowed to go as they are late for something,
A behaviour so sub-human, given they were suitors to an English family,
Victoria’s father was uneasy, was irritated but he had no otherwise,
For he was desperate to have her daughter Victoria get married,
He had nothing to say but only to ask his daughter, Victoria,
If she was going right-away with her suitor or not,
To which she violently answered yes I am going with him,
Victoria’s mother kept mum, she only shot miserable glances
From one corner of the house to another, to the ogres also,
She totally said nothing, as Victoria was predictably violent
To any gainsayer in relation to her occasion of the moment,
Victoria’s father wished them all well in their life,
And permitted Victoria to go and have good life,
With Akhatembete, her suitor she had yearned for with equanimity,
Victoria was so confused with joy; her day of marriage is beholden,
She hurriedly packed up as if being chased by a monster,
Aaron Kerman Jan 2010
We met in the Red Square at Midnight. Sitting on the austere steps of the Kremlin We drank Stolichnaya in silence; listened to St. Basil’s Bells stoic ringing until Our sun rose pale over Moscow  

Beauty is created when I press your mulatto skin to mine.
We shift. You move, and as you’re moved you move me.
Our motion akin to your mother’s in a gentle breeze or a dancer;
Some Elise pirouetting et fouetter and falling over graceful infinities.    

I am deliberate during this ballet. Subdominant.
Una corda e sostenuto, and as you request so do you respond; relaxed,
Sustaining single notes; soft into that ethereal Moonlight…
Blurred and blunted, your perfect meter dampened by my learned cadence.
    
As you sound off forte I rock slightly forward, coming into you harder.
We breathe sharp together; my fingertips caressing you legato;
My Ana Magdalena. Andantino; rolling into flurries of crescendos
presto allegro climaxing; Capitulating again before we rest…
Before lento diminuendo.                                                      ­                

We courted at the Konig Von Ungarn in Vienna. It was classical and   romantic. Baroque. We fell in love. At Figaro’s wedding we tasted sangria as the stars Set, pastel, over Seville. Our first kiss was the Holy Roman Empire fading; A footnote under bass cleft.

We were married in the Rhineland, a single Canon announcing our nuptial.
You a Riesling and I your lattice. I stood firm, resolute, as you grew in, around, and from me. But the lords, they taint you, they **** me of your fruits; oblivious, they invoke their subtle prima nocta.                            

From the rooftops and the gutters they hear you. A virtue is lost between us. We shift. They are unwelcome eavesdroppers’ playing ******.  
They come and gather round us and I grow nervous, stiff; sweat falling from my brow to your ebony and ivory.
They move provocative, but they do not care; they do not notice us.                            

I stop as they begin. They’re discourteous during this Can-can. Their  praise and kind words may arouse the pimps and ****** wandering Montmartre into Paris’s red-light,  “Hear,” they fall on deaf ears.
This is no Moulin Rouge. We are not meant to be exhibitionists and yet
we yield to their flat appeals.                                                         ­                           

I put my clothes back on, Rags is all they are, and you, you’ve become stark.
I project my discontent through your string and hammer heart;
I slap your toothy face and stomp your sterling feet without relent.
I-De-tach-My-self-From-You. Staccato. They call me Inventive and as they sip their whiskey, their bourbons and their Texas Tea they tell us that
we have Entertained.        

We build our home from the precious stones of foreign countries.
We traverse ages to reach the mines and the rock fields, finding rough Diamonds and sapphires. Naked, we wash them in ether; they luster.
The noblemen come. They smile and applaud as they peep through the Windows and knock at the doors, but We shall not  be moved.
Waverly Sep 2012
Bit down,
****** up tongue.

Little eavesdroppers
run from my windows;
pretentious *****
go vegan
as the world turns;
coffee ***,
cigarette ***,
love ***
all become one;
a lot to say
in the moment 'fore the big bang,
but daddy forgot to pull the trigger,
and
none of us are on the run;
nobody loves me;
nowhere to go,
no-one to be.
Take it.
Be ****** by it.
Love it.

Take that *** of despair,
bite down,
rip away the ******,
and **** up your tongue
on all that up-chuck
because if you don't
you're the one that's getting ****** up.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Heaven, Where all Poets Go

dedicated soully to Kripi Mehra
who unknowingly commissioned this piece
with her love and feeling for those who
dare to fare on just words, only to
sally
forth unafraid and unashamed

~~~~~~~

to the conclusion cut,
not knowing how we know what we know,
       knowing that of this cut,
this one,
as real as anything worth writing about,
not knowing how but demonstrating a modicum of erudition

yet,  
clarity this time no stranger,
no remonstrating, endless debating, easy
come, and even easier go,
all poets (and lost-to-early children) go to heaven,
even the bad ones

stop with the teasing give us the reasoning

nah nah nah always in a hurry to get to the
bottom, move on, write yet another,
restless young'uns, girls and fellows,
even you old, small ones, who still can't spell
your own name
or rhyme, those slow mo yokels, national symbols,
the ones that seem never to ever catch their star,
the mothers across all oceans, who need childlike tendering,
Indian girl chiefs, boat captain historians, word magi-bus-riding hallway eavesdroppers, **** British girls, nurses, wonderers and after-life lusters,
burnt baby healers

learn that this self seal-selected profession
is an endless deal, profession rhymes with heaven,
you need to luxuriate in the long journey,
pink patience before you raise you glass

but OK, just this once,
the secret you have may have already read!
pass it along, as it was given to me
by one of us, poet laureate far better than I ever could be

Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
     reach my hands and play with pebbles of destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs
     reading "Keep Off."
^

that is what poets do daily with each ecrive,
each line of metered musique mystique,
and with stanzas lighter than air,
a piece of you breaks off, floats upward,
and when the day is done,
the struggling striving breaking apart,
be now over,
all poets go to heaven to collect themselves,
their entire pieces of writings, called their collected works,
all the pieces reassembled,
you are at last, at last, at rest, whole, satisfied and undenied,
where poets, brave soldiers of all ages deserve to be,
heaven resting
Kripi Mehra: "A slogan- Always remain a fool
I wish I could write a poem on the title " Let's Convert Hello Poetry Into Heaven"..."
But you did, you did....

^  see http://hellopoetry.com/poem/600071/the-sounding-foam-of-primal-things/ where Mr. Sandburg is credited in full

"So raise your glass if you are wrong
In all the right ways, all my underdogs
We will never be, never be anything but loud
And nitty, gritty, *****, little freaks
Won't you come on and come on and
Raise your glass!
Just come on and come on and
Raise your glass!"
Lyrics by Pink, "Raise Your Glass"
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
Six Minutes

Created: Jun 18, 2011  2:27 PM

Finished: Jun 18, 2011 2:33 PM
-----------------------------------------------

In every breeze, in every blade waving to me,
I hear the poetry that encompasses;
the insects brushed off my tattered t shirt
are eavesdroppers, premature sightseers,
over-the-shoulder peekers,
wanting a preview of what has just been scored
and written up and how big a part they have.

shadows upon the lawn,
dancing a modest but frothy salsa,
my heart lips speak peace unto us all
and my eyes see my dear ones, beside me,
in my envelope of words, you are embraced:

to all, I say now you are bound to me
by thoughts of tenderness no lawyers can sunder,
that needs no caveated blessing from
city clerk or prepaid spiritual diviner.

my forked branch twitchs where wells,
nay, reservoirs of all cherished natural vitals
are awaiting for us to drill and drink,
raw, direct to the bloodstream,
which when warmed by a warmth
I have no words to describe other than
it is given and stored within for consumption
when sad moments arrive,
and when called upon, restores and soothes
when hugs and words cannot,  
but for now, for knowing, for keeping.

you though distant, grow closer,
and I will ride through the nite
with two lanterns to announce our reunification
after so long, what could be better
than to fall upon your neck, and lips parted,
whisper words of thanksgiving
Vernon Waring Jul 2015
We are assembled here
this May evening of 2006
to celebrate our own
Leading Lady of
American Letters.

The tall, slender author,
her classic looks
so reminiscent of
ladies in an elegant
Victorian era salon,
reads one of her
earlier short stories
at the Free Library
of Philadelphia.

She speaks with such
feeling and precision,
we close our eyes
and envision her
youthful heroine's
anxiety and naivete
in that familiar setting
of an upstate
New York town.

Later, in another room
of the library,
I will meet her
too briefly at a
book signing.
She stands to greet me,
smiling so pleasantly
and asks, "What do you do?"
in the friendliest way.
I reply "I'm a
proofreader," somewhat
embarrassed at my
flimsy Dickensian
credential.

This was my own
personal brush
with greatness
and I find myself
tongue-tied with
hero worship.
She is gracious
and fragile, exquisitely
feminine and warm and
I would learn I was
not the only groupie
in the library throng
that evening -
a multitude of fans
lined up to meet
the literary icon.

Joyce Carol Oates,
as her critics
rightly rhapsodize,
is a force of nature,
a uniquely powerful
writer whose brilliance
rests not just in the
singularly American
landscapes she paints,
not just in the
idiosyncratic
characters who people
her storytelling,
but in the creation
of rich personal
moments of intimacy,
of revelation and insight;
she makes us witnesses,
eavesdroppers, to her
characters' deepest
thoughts, longings,
her voice reaches out
to us from the pages,
a voice as poignant
as a mother's in the
gloom of night,
reading to her children
just before prayers
are murmured and
sleep tiptoes in.

The path of
literary greatness
leads us to her heroes...
James Joyce, Emily Bronte,
Thoreau, Faulkner,
Flaubert, Hemingway;
like each one of these
celebrated wordsmiths,
she is an iconoclast,
an original...
unique,
incomparable,
our own
quintessential
national treasure.
Chris Thomas May 2016
Gravity and all its symptoms
Cause my pretenses and expectations
To dangle like pomegranate

Salt, as I am, changes with the seasons
Light, as I'm not, dims in dark places
I bring famine to these fertile lands

I reach an outstretched hand beyond
The dank foliage shrouding my view
I am uncomposed, but unashamed

The eavesdroppers wait for my whisper
But I am far too loud for simple minds
And the echo dances along the horizon

I cry out, a plea to whoever listens
I beg you, leave me out of focus
Because the blur is where you'll find me
bellahina Feb 2016
A Writing Process in Delirium
In case they come looking, I will pretend I don't see glitter
in the sky, because I do,
a crossed eyed believer
screams for you. "I want to go home now"

twenty-four years grieving
the past
present      future, I still don't know
who I'm missing

I've gone psychotic once again-- don't dare
turn round, they're coming for you
with rot blood
and a poor children's army

so I was told
Lucy is full of magic,
under the
insane asylum,
in all delirium
she left her body within a hollow
                                              willow tree

to become a dream walker
pacing deadfall manor, yet,
someday
you will understand
why we cannot build ivory towers
to heaven

someday you will understand
why the deciding fates
left emerald tablets for
daria's eyes, why they burn-- I don't know

I cannot make a move
without DMT and a heartbreak--
the critical axis
of creatures
connected to contrasted scenes

here I was told to burn the money,
"birth stars, instead"
but if you catch the ash...

Hell is a poet. roll it. smoke it.
look at all the glitter in the sky?

each moment is a myth
handed to people who
can no longer remember where they came from

I have too many, they pile up
like tangled chrysanthemums
beating out each others
beauty in the pursuit of the virgins sun-- Edger Keela

Edger Keela said
moments matter-- in fact, 15 minutes from now
I will look up and mourn
another lost
trip
trip
trip trip

knowing that the only time I cry
is when clarity and alchemy forget one another,

true love
is a twisting light, I bow my head
when I speak, I lay down
and write with my tongue, my lips

but willow
can't sleep       why can't willow sleep?
on white sheets
of unwritten life lines

I've come to understand
nothing but secrete doors, as if
reality was hidden behind them;
words of pitch black can be found, here
the house is on fire...
we set ourselves on fire on fire on fire,we write.



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The Life and Times of Johnny Behave
This is because you wanted
to be a human God

of bodies. of degradation,
a violent flower
and witness to
humanity dying
                on the hard chest
                of a dirt ground

to be a God, give up your ways
and dare to tell me of love,
sacrifice compassion
anymore than a
whisper,

                        a vicious
                  pain that brings
      with it inhuman screams, sounds

so guttural
the onlookers
will cover
their ears
in an attempt
to lessen
the horror
of their own fright,  

      until a jaw is broken and incapable of audible speech patterns,  
leaving the only language left to be made
a gurgling unknown
tinged with a coper wetness,
listen,
          it tells a story of escapism from the lost crisscrossed
paths of unmapped crossroads, veins of *******--  

and who should judge the wise blood for wanting to flee from a broken home?

to find air that can no longer
survive a hostile environment;

the people will not.
the discolored flesh will not

because flesh alone
opened its own doors when
the beatings
bashed
so loud that
it became impossible
to ignore the violence
of hate
ringing in the half
blackness

half opened eyes, a
slow motion blur
that only leaves
faces
abnormally
abstracted,

haunted
when vision
turns unkind

        and shows
        small strokes of clarity into
the deep
hollows that are never fulfilled
by watchers in the distance,

watchers in the distance
loyal to silence,
and when
omnipresent silence
cannot
stomach imagery
created by hungry fear

they will become

loyal to slammed doors, thumps
behind walls
or volume buttons
on remote controls, high music

the mamas
and the papas - -

but

never the one
left to wonder why
some people are the victims,
and others keep smiling.

though,
there was a wildfire
somewhere
in a killers heart
    
        that is
when the distance
of light ignited--

a matchbook,

history had called them stars, though
they are too
        hypnotic. deviant
in their ways, broken
diamond eyes

tasked to
observe
the observer;

I think, what ******
eavesdroppers,

do not speak to me
of them,

they are just like us
and I cannot condone immortality
after death, with the lights off?

the birth of them
are foolish--

but really, you should
stand your ground

this is a threat,
threats threaded together

because I cannot surely say
anything of my shame? in a day,
in a human?
what saturated rays
should make me recoil

                    I can see
                  whine tinted
                blinded angels  

like it was a
Sunday sweet liquid filling,
of innocence pouring sins
and

Hina, Hina, Hina
exploding
grand
****** golden suns, I

had seen the future time
we would reminisce of existence,

reminisce of existence

like an echo of harpy lungs
buried yet still contracting beneath

small childhood streets
that remind me
I am more alive
than when Daisy
and God
broke my own rib
          on the bottom
          of a concrete
          hilltop
and made a wish, a dream
out of it

leaving me the lesser kind,
how does it feel to be the lesser?
    this isn't a question,
    you already know
I know
I know
I know
        I am like a man
cataract to the greatness
that succumbs surrender,
      the anti- truth
    the Johnny behave
          
the strength  
that cannot save us,
muscle and tissue
yes
yes
          
  you should
                stand your ground,
the fall is coming
and has something
to **** for.
john oconnell Aug 2010
Up there,
above the crowns
of darkened bare wintry trees
the rabbits delight
in all the joys of good conversation.

They are no more afraid
of eavesdroppers
or of the colour
of their coats.
clear conscience Jun 2020
the democratic convention under the deck
———————————————————


all kinds have registered their displeasure
with the arrival of the human menagerie,
their boisterous ways, jive not with the quietus
of the island paradise, and under the shady deck
where the convention conversations are held...

open to all but the factions forming, squirrels most
populous, demand the gavel and the chairmanships,
because they breed best, knowledges of the yard
terrain, par excellent, have climbed every tree,
show no fear, boldly jumping on the chaise lounge
occupant by the lady of the house, quizzing her with a
side-tilted glance of what are YOU doing here????

they like their acorns from the Oaks, their fav poem
Acorns in August, naturellement, naturellement,
leaving the beheaded remains of the acorns devoured,
everywhere, to obtain maximum annoyance from them
interlopers human, delighting in the foul mouthed exclamations,
when their ugly footed bottoms, unshod, meet the pointy part,
proving squirrels natural ability to govern the swap infected
by the two legged in-cursors, who have annoyed for forty years...

the rabbits, seek alliances, they live full time neath the deck,
making babies, so cute, getting bolder as they get older, hopping
unashamedly across the deck, eliciting oohs and has, of the children,
who blissfully unaware, all this creatures carry the ticks of Old Lyme.
Though unnumbered, the rabbits, fat, throw their heft around,
promising to drain the backyard of the invading hordes, with their
smelly sun tan lotions and outrageously ugly bathing towels...

called to order by the light of the flickering television, a fire signal
that the humans are in for the night, won’t notice the shouting and
shoving not so cute, tween the factions.  Animals behaving like
humans, what a lowly sad sight, deals and promises made, give
me a hundred Likes, ten repostings, and five 😊, say the hedgehog,
who rarely appears but boy is he big and has capital to lend to anybody
who will give him what he wants...

the field mice, have little-power, their diminutive constituency, not
so useful, as they no longer make the female humans, shriek, nah,
now they are cute, until they chew the wires in the basement, and
hide their tennis socks in spidery corners where they leave them to
yellow, corrode, unravel, unfit for human footage anymore;
and while these weakfish of the under-deck, their longevity of encroachment must be respected for they have been since time immemorial, which nobody remembers exactly how long that is exactly...

called to order, resolution on the floor, who shall lead the charge,
plan the plan to drain away the inhuman interference for once and
forevermore; but the conventional dialogue interruptus,  by an unfamiliar voice: a scouting party sent, like the spies of the Israelites, fails to return, another party formed and returns, with woeful news, of a white van truck,stenciled in black death,
                 The East End Pest Company (Exterminators)
has been invited in, and sadly nobody of the animal world has in their possess, a dictionary or vocabulary so large that the word, exterminate, strikes a note of danger!

the booing and brawling silenced, the political skullduggery is replaced
by the sad quietude, until the insect kingdom returns to reclaim the lands,
they were driven from many decades earlier, and they big human eavesdroppers, well, they know that word well and won’t make the same mistake twice! but then from above, between a crack, come a tumbling a business, white, from the deck o the below deck, in hand upon the back write these words:

See ya next week!
We leave your property

as clear as our conscience


p.s. for security reasons, conventions are held now every four years,
the location unrevealed, until, the very last minute
Torin Jul 2021
Im not even allowed to hold such thoughts....
S     E                       I scream in silence,
   C      A                   Fearful of lurking listeners,
       R      M              Eavesdroppers when dreams are not
                    S       allowed.
                                    Dreams are not allowed,
                                      I say a prayer out loud,
                                    Dreams are not allowed,
                                      I say a prayer out loud.
I see death even from many thousands of miles away,
I see it forming lines under a dragons eyes,
I see it loaded into trains by loaded guns
Just a commodity to be shipped off,
Forever away...
To a place that even the hopeful close their eyes,
Because to look is to see no hope,
Just starving dogs,
And swarms of flies.

There is a black hole at the center of the universe,
But im not allowed to say,
A finger pointed in the direction of the darkness,
The rotten corrupted evil,
The truth that is the hatred that can live in man's heart,
When life implies death,
And you only feel yourself as a stranger in the world...

I was never allowed to say,
Just shouted down and told to stay,
                                                           ­  in silence.
To even censor my fears,
As they grow in the east.
I've been called so many things I forgot my name,
I forgot my name,
Just a stranger in the world,
Who wants love when love is hate,
And good is evil,
And truth is fiction.
My fears grow in the east and grow in the land,
And in the streets,
And the sorrow is a flower dead on the vine.
we have always been at war with eurasia! What would you have done in the 1930s as bolsheviks killed millions of Cossacks? What would you have done in the 40s? What do you do now? Do you even know there are millions of people in a country that has proclaimed a future of global *******. Millions of people in camps being forced into slave labor. Millions of people who are not allowed to have children or are sterilized. Millions of people being ethnically cleansed. Did you know that if you speak up about it there are actually people who will defend that country and simply accuse you of racism? The tech companies censoring is one thing. Powerful billion dollar entities, oligarchs. of course its wrong for them to control our speech but we should expect that. Its always been the same people doing the same thing. But....when its gotten so bad that even political ideas you disagree with are shouted down by everyday people...

— The End —