"eire" poems
I’m a Polyglot Polymath, Microphone’s a Polygraph,
Manners of a Sociopath-Rhymin’ keeps me on the path,
Else I’d be hackin you up like a cannibal,
Pullin the Chianti out-serve you up like Hannibal,
Words heavier than Elephants invading cross the alps,
Under Armour over Body Armour-waistline fulla scalps,
From the Belt o’ the Celt o’ the Schizophrenic Sandman,
You’re triple teamed by -EC- Raps new Xmen.
I broke me chains,some say I went insane,
But it’s simple,all I went and did was grow a brain.
be the Bane of your life,while Mal plays Dark Knight,
A rhyme Super Villain with a verse of Dark Light,
The searchlights on-watch the cockroach scatter,
We speak Dark Matter while your brain gets battered,
batten down the screws-worldviews get skewed,
Mal and Sandman's Positively Mental Attitude.
It’s the original Irish OG rough rugged and ready,
Battling me is futile keep your hands steady,
I’m no pacifist,and if you take the ****
I’ll clap you with a fist like an obelisk,
That’s a grave warning,-global warming,
The Dragon of Eire ,skies look stormy…
Since cassettes and disks I’ve been spittin ****
That makes wannabee’s wanna slit their wrists,
The Sandman’s calling,come in and take a mauling,
Rappin since clappin one two and yes y’allin,
from New Aulins to saint Pauls my kin,
Are gathering for the quickenin,pulse races,air thickenin'
Highlander in a land cruiser,take your teeth out like a dentist
E.C’s BRUISER.
batten down the screws-worldviews get skewed,
by Mal and Sandmans Positively Mental Attitude.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
OUT-WORN heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
Your mother Eire is aways young,
Dew ever shining and twilight grey;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.
Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work out their will;
And God stands winding His lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the grey twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.
4.6k
SELECTED FROM THE IRISH NOVELISTS
THERE was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.
Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;
Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man: gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.
2.6k
His wife, George, was present with flowers.
Anne and Michael,his children, were there.
A headstone had been carved at the Quarry,
now all waited on Yeats to appear.
Soft and damp was that day in the graveyard
with the scent of turned earth in the air.
Beyond rose the bulk of Ben Bulben,
As the Lorry, with the poet, drew near.
Ten years he had slept in his coffin,
while the great nation states played at war.
Now Sean MacBride, the son of his rival,
brought him home, where he'd not been before.
At his birth, Yeats was a British subject.
By his death, a Dominion was here.
Now they laid him to rest in the free state;
the newly minted Republic of Eire.
A bhean chéile, George, a bhí i láthair le bláthanna.
Anne agus Michael, a pháistí, bhí ann.
Bhí A cloch chinn snoite ar an Cairéal,
gach fhan anois ar Yeats le feiceáil.
Bhí bog agus tais an lá sin sa reilig
leis an boladh de domhain iompú san aer.
Beyond ardaigh an chuid is mó de Ben Bulben,
Mar an Leoraí, leis an bhfile, tharraing aice.
Deich mbliana bhí chodail sé ina cónra,
agus an stáit náisiúin mór a bhí ag an chogaidh.
Anois Seán MacBride, mac a rival,
thabhairt dó sa bhaile, i gcás nach mhaith a bhí sé riamh.
Ag a rugadh é, go raibh Yeats ábhar na Breataine.
De réir a bhás, bhí Dominion anseo.
Anois atá leagtha siad dó a gcuid eile sa stát saor in aisce;
an bualadh nua-Phoblacht na Eire.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
There was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.
Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;
Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man: gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.
2.2k
Starting way up north from
from fair head in Antrim to
mizen head in Cork there is
not a Border Collie in the 32
counties wishing for a return
to The Troubles before the
Good Friday agreement when
meat was forbidden by the
Catholic Church because fish
is for felines and it was seen
by many canines as a blatant
act of segregation, racism and
even discrimination for which
the animal kingdom of Eire
(In the absence of a Monarch)
has been audibly vocal in all
of the four provinces, many of
the nations kennel clubs and
at last years Crufts Show in
Earls Court London, a Kerry
Blue refused to stand on the
winners podium with a Poodle
who shared first place, because
she was a vegetarian and not
at all sympathetic or supportive
to a universal diet for all breeds
on the island of Ireland.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
There was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.
Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;
Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man: gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.
1.9k
I cannot give what I do not have.
I had it once.
I was created/born with it (I think).
I lost it, first time diagnosed,
Most recent when insane,
Do NOT lose trust in your own mind,
I cannot give what I do not have.....
My own mind.........
Doubt asks multiple questions,
I have zero percent answers now,
I know once it gets to less than zero
The negative space will have won.....
And I will have changed.......
But without your current positive space
Within negative space I cannot
Continue with you.
......here we are and I am friends
With
Doubt.......
I face everyone everyday.......
(lots of dots - no negative signs except for this break previously)
Face with Doubt - acceptance, reluctance, no choice - ance :-)
I Learn to question every thought and re-question the motivation behind,
Behind (no mistake) the thought (but my mind slows, I know)
If motivation is OK/acceptable (i.e. non harming - i injured/destroyed insects on the steps to my current housing - I tried avoidance but without guarantee - drink helps ease this guilt also)
Then if the thought will not result in negative spacial harm ( I have no way of quantify-ing this until after the fact but it helps future decision making - (when I can remember :-( )
but again i lack future projection skills - anyone who reads this with whom I have never physically interacted with - how am I (i) supposed to know the difference/change - too many ****ing strange coincedences in my life have helped my current world environment view - but I digress - maybe i should end this :-) - night night (in Eire) and no more beer :-) listening to 'nice' (personal intrepretation) music now - stop typin....... )
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:
Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;
The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,
Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;
And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old
In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea,
Sing in their high and lonely melody.
Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering on her way.
Come near, come near, come near-Ah, leave me still
A little space for the rose-breath to fill!
Lest I no more hear common things that crave;
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,
The field-mouse running by me in the grass,
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;
But seek alone to hear the strange things said
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead,
And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know.
Come near; I would, before my time to go,
Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.
1.6k
An open Rosary,
Sprawled on the table
Has the shape of Eire.
Towns joined like beads
On winding, rope roads.
At the end of the main street
In Shercock, Lough Egish,
Or a thousand other towns,
Looms the church spire,
God's rod.
The square still bustles on Wednesdays.
The smithy's forge
Now lights up a Paddy Power;
The Euro Store sells needles and thread
Where once a seamstress sat;
Shish Kabobs on flat bread sell
Where the butcher's counter displayed the day's cut.
But scrape away the paint
And attend to the devotion and mystery
Of small town Erin;
Where only the pubs maintain names
Decade after decade.
There, on the wall, see the rebels
Enjoying a football match,
And the crowd, laughing,
Has their backs.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC
His wrinkles went somehow deeper
than those of a national will do.
And his eyes were somehow darker -
not without a brightness in them -
intelligence behind a film, foreign repose.
I saw from the hood on his red coat
that he was passing through the land
not that the coat was novel or strange
his hood was tighter, more practically donned.
His whiskers were somehow thicker
scratching the surface of the Great Land
a beard from three days’ unshaven growth
the stubble, wisdom of an Englishman.
Far different than I, not better, but old
emotions just a hair deeper hidden
than mine were: shivering in the cold.
I knew from his voice, his language:
mine was his, mine the younger.
A shaman with a home on the Eire
though not from that verdant spot
souls are all equal, nation matters not.
An infusion of Alastair’s yarrow root
diluted in cold, sprayed sea water
coaxed home to the waves the sunlight
our trust and a handshake.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 10:21 PM UTC
Feel my breath blowing like a gale , the gael without fail,
I inhale and exhale the flames of hell,
Born hellbent-repent!
you’re scurrying in gullies while I seek your Scent...
SNIFFFF-grrrrrrrr! -that’s the sound of doom,
You’re better off digging in a pharoh’s tomb,
No room to escape the breath that melts cold steel
You’re a rabbit in my headlights fear my moulten hot claws of steel,
I breathe oxygen and nitrogen to exhale the red hot blast to seal your fate,
Best debate, best berate, get your estate in order one blast of rhyme its all over.
You’re a scorchmark against a granite wall,
Been burnt to a crisp by the firestorm from hell,
Well welcome to hell do you feel the heat?
Sandman slim-dragon never fears defeat,
20 years here spittin’ in the underground,
Now its time to take place in the sound that’s found,
In an Irish no go area, the gates of Mordor,
The Irish Dragon - draggin you to a state of ******
grrrr!-claws like claymore’s rake across your face
as I prepare to ignite,take flight,seal your fate...
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
A well lit path is not part of my journey
Mine's through a dark ally
The thoughts that emerge from the shadows come in a hurry
A savage flurry of the eire
Physically consumed with how badly this could turn out for me
©2024
Jun 29, 2024
Jun 29, 2024 at 3:30 PM UTC
.no, i believe in a god, because i also believe that man, cannot delve into proper jurisprudence... i believe in god because i can't believe that man can settle the argument for justice, outside the realm of the godly ultimatum of the democracy of, death.
so psychiatrists are basically
psychologists queen-armed
with pharmaceuticals...
i'm dead too...
and i'll bedead much more,
core, years later...
but like you'd ******* care...
psychiatry
is merely psychology for the masses,
with the sodden
pharmacological-blues
of the bourgeoisie-typo
of panic...
no ****** no...
i was the sort of person
that was necessarily
inconvenient....
i was diagnosed schizoid...
because if i wasn't,
i'd be deemed a
terrible, "idea"...
hell...
you can't forget me,
i'm loving the drugs,
esp. when i take them
while drinking!
so?
**** you!
bilingualism and reading
Heidegger,
could only be considered a mental
health issue,
in the ****** place, akin
to England...
thank god!
i'm ready for the Eire people
to cite their ******* Bible!
like some crooked excuse
in juxtaposing a vague
attire to satire.
- and what are the chances of
me being paid social consolidation
payments?
virtually, and really: nil...
but some ****
is just waiting for a housing benefit,
while expecting his fifth child?
so i'm mad...
come to think of it...
i tend to forget that god is evil...
i try to remember that man is: unjust...
god might be evil,
but i keep remembering that man is unjust...
i prefer an evil god
to a good god...
because, just because...
i know that man will never be just,
however much he glories a sense
of justice...
because i'm pretty sure
the devil covered that
instance of a paradox...
there is no "good" god...
when there's a notion
of man's injustice premeditated,
or, rather...
there is no "good" god...
when the justice of man,
supposed, "justice"...
is anything but a courtship with
a halved deliverance of
purpose...
an evil god is a god with only
the good bound to men...
and if men ploy their affair
of goodness on a faking...
ergo: quid est deus?
then a genuine diagnosis...
so...
why do people find it strange,
being diagnosed with cancer,
and their supporters, running
the career mile of a charity
shop organization...
ha ha! ha ha ha ha ha ha!
ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
a stick owns two ends...
you laugh at me...
i? i laugh at you.
you were diagnosed with cancer?!
ha ha ha ha ha!
ha! ******
like how the the reversal of
the stick feels?
now watch me give a ****
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC
The Mirror Reflected By Rob Sandman
type = Subconscious type = Conscious/Defiant
x2 Late last night,I got such a scare,
looked in the mirror,my reflection wasn't there,
there was someone else starin back at me,
mirror mirror on the wall who can this stranger be
**This stranger starin' from my reflection,
spins my mind in every direction,
mid life crisis hits my mid section,
madness,sadness,fear and perplexion**
*this can't be me man I'm not that old,
everybody used to say that I'd sold my soul
to old nick for my youthful looks,
where'd this old man come from man what the ****
**Yesterday my plans were rock steady,
now they've all collapsed like a levee
schemes and dreams turn out to be heavy,
when you're hand's no longer as steady,
on the wheel of time steady turning,
and the fuel,the fool is you burning,
friends and lovers gone not returning,
for days of yesteryear you're still yearning-cause**
x1 Late last night,I got such a scare,
looked in the mirror,my reflection wasn't there,
there was someone else starin' back at me,
mirror mirror on the wall who can this stranger be ?
*I'm still the same man,with the same drives.
and honestly I've never FELT more alive,
but this strange reflection's a traitor,
trying to tell my dreams "see ya later",
its past time now to settle right down,
stop playing to the gallery,send back the clowns,
crows feet,sore feet unpaid overtime,
you haven't got the time anymore to rhyme,
so drop the pen join the rat race,
I'm looking at a stranger wearing my face!,
old man **** you,I'm still who I am,
I'll never stop spitting to the grave from the pram,
we all grow older,each one of us,
but that doesn't mean to give your dreams up,
not to me man,fuck the grey hairs*
but out of the mirror the stranger stares...(and says)
x2 Late last night,I got such a scare,
looked in the mirror,my reflection wasn't there,
there was someone else starin' back at me,
mirror mirror on the wall who can this stranger be?
Copyright Rob Sandman of Eclectic Collective Eire.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
All this...
O, this shall be his.
He who in well-leaned doorways
And oft-learned corners
Hath resigned any byways
To dream: “A tall order
To rove in the mud
And muck up one's soles”
Says he who would trod
Upon painless goals.
Him safe in his womb,
His wont wooden beams.
Neglect to his comb and
Plume and dusty seeds.
“Who would fret in the rain?”
He asks. “And why suffer venture?”
“I've a cubby! Where's the shame
In my hearth and decanter?”
“I tell you all!” he says
One night, in a fit. “Them's fools!
They that count on the coldness and chance
Of a bleak, backwards world
In despotic hands. Come time,
Come the end- You'll see what I have!”
O, the mites and the mice
And the crumbs and the cracks
And the creaks in the night
And the stock-still plants
And the angles all learned
And the steps all a measure
And every walking turn
And every processed pleasure
And the patterns and ease
With his paper and naps
What is good on the knees
And light on the back
And the age and the greys
And the frustrating lust
And the well-worn ways
And the old codger's fuss
And the twilight come
And the shadows of scythes
And a final look back
Through wondering eyes
And the what-if's and why's
Of the best girl in Eire
And the laughter of kids
In a moistening eye...
And the plain wooden box
And the standard rites
And the empty expanse
Of the graveyard night.
And no crowd and no cries
Just a man and *****
And pile of dirt
Where ol' whats-his-name lays
All this-
O, This shall be his.
-c. c. Condry
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 8:32 PM UTC
sam i yam not,
nor will this 'lo bot go away
cuz, every coordinate in cyber space allows,
enables and provides
an opportunity to bray,
and thence get access
to each excel lent power full point
one among the beguiling bajillion,
thus this ming boggling concept proffers
(even the generic mom and pop hacker
tubby in her/his element field gloating
as if they won
the Irish Sweepstakes that day
despite neither could claim
direct lineage, sans Emerald Eire
analogous to Celtic temptress,
whose grand geography
beckons toward entranceway,
where sensory, levity,
and ecstasy punctuate foray
boot that diverges one hundred
and eighty degrees asper gateway
onrush of spam enters electronic hatchway
spilling forth like
offal horrific bilge interlay
sloshing violently, revoltingly,
and nauseatingly, witnessing a jay
bird donning mask (yule hating)
beak coming contrivance fashioned keyway.
force full brainstorm to firewall
to place on indefinite layaway
inundation of spam midway
between now and eternity,
essentially noway
no more, and if necessary
hermetically seal myself
stationing a pal in drone willingly overpay!
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
I know a land of salt
and pepper stalks and moss,
whose jagged, hazy coast
a thousand flowers bears —
of Ireland I boast.
Even now my heart is sick
for a home I never had.
If I were there,
what I would do,
I'll tell to you....
I'd show my love the mountain's nooks,
I'd pounce the foeman's daring rooks,
and plunder every dusty book,
and sleep in emerald vales.
We'd clamber up to a secret cave
and there we'd dwell,
away from the pell-mell,
and fast away in purple robes,
pretending we were noble-born
(for Ireland, we ought to be),
we'd in defiance hunger stave.
See now, her cloud legions marching in step
like flares emerging from the wood.
While horses roam her sunlit plains
and flowers shudder in her breeze;
while puddles form in shallow pools,
my watered mind accustoms trees
of bleak and twisted nature,
on the wild icicle river,
coldly biting my knees.
But here afar away,
there's treasure under every
glistening leaf,
'twixt frond and fern,
bristle and bramble,
and bounding stream.
By daylight,
Eire counts every rock;
at starlight,
assesses her stock.
I know a land
whose greenery bursts
in the morning dew,
and gives hopeful cause
to a hundred generations
of stoic sword-brethren
flashing down the coast,
singing their jolly tune,
as the oak decks are mounted
with freedom's guns
emboldening battle new.
Her amber-gilded name spears through
clouded sea and Cambrian cliff:
if every isle were touched as this!
by saintly light from Atlas' air.
She is the jewel of the isles,
the song of countless souls.
As men march down her
summer roads to meet their
tender-hearted lovers at home in
comfort from callous kings, the
breeze will bring news of another
christening or crossing... for then
each girl will spy him coming, and
make haste to alert the town,
and they will all turn out with joy
to welcome home their darling boy;
to herald the ending of famine and war,
and so they will shout for centuries more!
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 1:54 PM UTC
"It’s time for more scorchmarks on the page,
As the Dragon of Eire takes to the stage,
Hear the page rip,under my claws,
Bending reality,shaping the laws,
Time and space switch place at my hest,
Best come clean kid,make a clean breast of it,
Skitz-rips opponents to bits-torn asunder,
Lightning flashes from my claws-Steal thunder
Is heard as I trumpet my triumph to the skies,
Your Nemesis approaches-close your eyes,
Now a hush falls over the crowd like a shroud,
You’re crestfallen-Sandman stands proud…
Roam your dreams,as the judgment shapes,
eyes agog while your heads agape
Draped and soiled,more lambs to the slaughter,
Hear that laughter,lock up your daughters-
From the harbors of Dubh Linn I set sail,
Grim forecasts of the howling Gael,
Are passed to your shipmates word of mouth,
Eyes sealed up-tongues torn out.
Drift down to the seabed more lost souls
Mourn and wail as I lose control,
Of the beast that that prowls from stern to prow,
Some try to repel but soon stand cowed,
As the captain begs for his wretched breath,
Claws pierce his hide with the stroke of death,
10,000 lashes take a grisly toll,
As the ferryman casts his net behold!-
Grim spectres gold scepters lost chapters,
Fever dreams trapped in dreamcatchers-
All behold the lucid waves break,
as The Nemesis sails and leaves a crimson wake…"
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
Moi Saint Paddy Fake Trump Petted Family Irish vignette
At the tender age of fifteen years old, Aaron O’Harris boarded the Dublin gangplank and made a mental note to drop the “O” as this paternal grandson faintly recalls such anecdote told to me when just a wee itty bitty teensy weensy whipper snapper of a lad.
His decisive gait echoed across the wooden walkway.
Straight away (on that blustery march dawn – circa late twentieth century), he briskly boarded the ship that would shortly depart from the Emerald Isle and take him to America.
My paternal grandfather quickly wiped away stray tears at the prospect of severing ties with a large brood of siblings.
An abusive alcoholic father and passive mother would hardly notice the absence one son among a dozen plus offspring.
Matter of fact, a voluntary choice to become an immigrant in the Matzoh land of milk and honey would translate as one less mouth to feed.
The journey across the cold waters of the Atlantic began in earnest once the captain and crew pulled up anchor and instinctively oriented sights toward an invisible point thousands of miles distant.
While on board the long journey, he (known in traditional Gaelic as Sainmhíniú) kept the tedium at bay and kept himself occupied with divers pursuits.
An accidental trait eventually discerned in him from others to be a natural born leader by other passengers.
A good many of these other fellow countrymen and women (many with small children in tow) shared the common goal of starting life anew in the United States, and discovered him to be adroit at not only playing such games as checkers, chess, cribbage, but adept with singing (in traditional Brogue), and performing fancy foot work.
Improvisational songs (based on tunes from the home of Eire) evoked sadness at leaving the motherland (steeped in a rich history steeped in legend and lore), yet also excitement about beginning an adventure with countless opportunities to witness potential fortune or fame.
Visions of streets paved with plenty of golden wealth brimmed and danced supposedly available and within easy reach for those who possessed pluck.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
*and he said: there are plenty of neo-Nazis in Poland... and i said: i won't even cite what's pop in England; comparing Poles to rats i guess i have to give you a sieg heil salute to keep it chequers cheap and ask William how he felt anally ******* Harold's merry men.*
it would be so good to include the good people
in the whole affair...
never mind the ******** was always
the punk pop hit for *** pistols...
when the self-titled rock metal album wasn't...
call it subterfuge, i just call it subhuman...
but that's what defined radio 1
when Iron Maiden hit it with:
bring your daughter to the slaughter...
chappies gaffed and choked at their no. 1...
the latter rejected, glorified Rousseau
and later ****** gassed at Ypres
stiff from Mustard... later justified at Auschwitz...
here comes a beginning,
former colonial powers sticking to being
the vocabulary powers of interests, not to be done...
god those English colonialists are
fake nervous, with the Irish glorification
anti Northern Eire... i look at it as it is:
****** was gassed... what's the horror
of Auschwitz? Himmler or the Third *****
tango? the man was gassed in the trenches...
why is it that you can't craft a Dracula from him?
oh wait... now i know...
because he experienced the same as his victims...
and as the Jewish poet Tuwim explained:
he too, was human....
it's funny how nothing mythological will come
from ****** i too count myself human...
your idiotic far-left vocabulary will only
assert a following of so-many hungers readied to
engage in protest -
i don't know why far-left politics is always eager
to make people revise their vocabulary,
while the far-right politics is always eager to make
people revise their actions...
well... as the vermin of England said...
you're never too sure whether you're drinking
a pint of Guinness on a friendly footing
with the Irish, or whether the ales are out
for separatist conversation with the Scots.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 10:40 PM UTC
(alter knit lee titled: vita in oculis nudato)
goo goo gaga I wanna yell
cuz, synonymous
with other wordsmiths,
or...well
whatever will eire'n burr,
a sought after creative
passionate pursuit aye tell
ye a boot me own aha...eureka insightful
revelation explaining
ma quotidian writing spell,
and phalanges skitter
across qwerty keyboard
at light in an attempt to quell
onslaught tidal wave crashing
upon me conscious state pell mell
which tsunami flood spongy
heady gray matter with hell
over high tide heals assailing,
bruiting, clobbering this fell
low inducing (me) to play
Handel's Semantic Water Music
on the smallish piccolo cello
which Sirens of Tighten,
(who just appeared out of thin aire -
cuz scriveners can resort
to prestidigitation to make appear
any necessary entity
without rhyme or reason),
anyway, this sylph sea Oceanids nymph
i.e. mermaids didst dee clear
particularly via
barely audible verbal communication
sotto voce en dear
ring gently beckoning
affinity this modest heir
to secret himself within secluded lair
whence, an automatic
erectile flickr, kickstarted,
levitated, and manifested
an instantaneous jubilant kik
lobbed me near
this seductive, sedulous, and sedum
scented sir experienced hypnotic stare
charming froto into trance scandent state
as if by magic the tubular
testicular proboscis didst inflate
aptly serving as modus operandi flagellate
thus proving a "happy ending" against being celibate.
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 8:04 PM UTC