Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
howard brace Feb 2012
Inconspicuous, his presence noted only by the obscurity and the ever growing number of spent cigarette stubs that littered the ground.  It had been a long day and the rain, relentless in its tenacity had little intention of stopping, baleful clouds still  hung heavy, dominating the lateness of the afternoon sky, a rain laden skyline broken only by smoke filled chimney pots and the tangled snarl of corroded television aerials.

     The once busy street was fast emptying now, the lure of shop windows no longer enticed the casual browser as local traders closed their premises to the oncoming night, solitary lampposts curved hazily into the distance, casting little more than insipid pools mirrored in the gutter below, only the occasional stranger scurrying home on a bleak, rain swept afternoon, the hurried slap of wet leather soles on the pavement, the sightless umbrellas, the infrequent rumble of a half filled bus, hell-bent on its way to oblivion.

     In the near distance as the working day ended, a sudden emergence of factory workers told Beamish it was 5-o'clock, most would be hurrying home to a hot meal, while others, for a quick drink perhaps before making the same old sorry excuse... for Jack, the greasy spoon would be closing about now, denying him the comfort of a badly needed cuppa' and stale cheese sandwich.  A subtle legacy of lunchtime fish and chips still lingered in the air, Jack's stomach rumbled, there was little chance of a fish supper for Beamish tonight, it protested again... louder.

     From beneath the eaves of the building opposite several pigeons broke cover, startled by the rattle as a shopkeeper struggled to close the canvas awning above his shop window.  Narrowly missing Beamish they flew anxiously over the rooftops, memories of the blitz sprang to mind as Jack stepped smartly to one side, he stamped his feet... it dashed a little of the weather from his raincoat, just as the rain dashed a little of the pigeons' anxiety from the pavement... the day couldn't get much worse if it tried.  Shielding his face, Jack struck the Ronson one more time and cupped the freshly lit cigarette between his hands, it was the only source of heat to be had that day... and still it rained.

     'By Appointment to Certain Personages...' the letter heading rang out loudly... 'Jack Beamish ~ Private Investigator...' a throat choking mouthful by any stretch of the imagination, thought Jack and shot every vestige of credulity plummeting straight through the office window and amidst a fanfare of trumpet voluntary, nominate itself for a prodigious award in the New Year Honours list.   Having formally served in a professional capacity for a well known purveyor of pickled condiments, who  incidentally, brandished the same patronage emblazoned upon their extensive range of relish as the one Jack had more recently purloined from them... a paid commission no less, which by Jack's certain understanding had made him, albeit fleeting in nature, a professional consultant of said company... and consequently, if they could flaunt the auspicious emblem, then according to Jack's infallible logic, so could Jack.  

     The recently appropriated letterhead possessed certain distinction... in much the same way, Jack reasoned, that a blank piece of paper did not... and whereas correspondence bearing the heading 'By Appointment' may not exactly strike terror into the hearts of man... unlike a really strong pickled onion, it nevertheless made people think twice before playing him for the fool, which sadly, Jack had to concede, they still invariably did... and he would often catch them wagging an accusing finger or two in his direction with such platitudes as... "watch where you put your foot", they'd whisper, "that Jack's a right Shamus...", and when you'd misplaced your footing as many times as Jack had, then he reasoned, that by default the celebrated Shamus must have landed himself in more piles of indiscretion than he would readily care to admit, but that wouldn't be quite accurate either, in Jack's line of work it was the malefactor that actually dropped him in them more often than not.

     A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine, another quickly followed as a spurt of icy water from a broken rain spout spattered across the back of his neck, he grimaced... Jack's expression spoke volumes as he took one final pull from his half soaked cigarette and flicked it, amid an eruption of sparks against the adjacent brick wall.  Sinking further into the shadow he tipped his fedora against the oncoming rain, then, digging both hands deep within his pockets, he huddled behind the upturned collar of his gabardine... watching.

     It was times such as these when Jack's mind would slip back, in much the same way you might slip back on a discarded banana peel, when a matter of some consequence, or in particular this case the pavement, would suddenly leap up from behind and give the back of Jack's head a resoundingly good slapping and tell him to "stop loafing around in office hours... or else", then drag him, albeit kicking and screaming back into the 20th century.  This intellectual assault and battery re-focused Jack's mind wonderfully as he whiled away the long weary hours until his next cigarette; cup of tea, or the last bus home, his capacity to endure such mind boggling tedium called for nothing less than sheer ******-mindedness and very little else... Beamish had long suspected that he possessed all the necessary qualifications.  

     Jack had come a long way since the early days, it had been a long haul but he'd finally arrived there in the end... and managed to pick up quite a few ***** looks along the way.  Whilst he was with the Police Constabulary... and it was only fair to stress the word 'with', as opposed to the word 'in'... although the more Jack considered, he had been 'with' the arresting officer, held 'in' the local Bridewell... detained at Her Majesties pleasure while assisting the boys in blue with their enquiries over a minor infringement of some local by-law that currently had quite slipped his mind at that moment.  Throughout this enforced leisure period he'd managed to read the entire abridged editions of Kilroy and other expansive works of graffiti exhibited in what passed locally as the next best thing to the Tate Gallery, whereupon it hadn't taken Jack very long to realise that it was always a good place to start if you wanted free breakfast, in fact the weeks bill of fare was tastefully displayed in vivid, polychromatic colour on the wall opposite... you just had to be au-fait with braille.
                            
     No matter how industrious Beamish laboured to rake the dirt there always appeared to be a dire shortage of gullible clients for Jack to squeeze, what would roughly translate as an honest crust out of, and although his financial retainer was highly competitive he understood that potential clients found it bewildering when grappling with the unplumbed depths of his monthly expense account, which would tend to fluctuate with the same unpredictability as the British weather, the rest of Jack's agenda revolved around a little shady moonlighting... in fact he'd happily consider anything to offset the remotest possibility of financial delinquency... short of extortion... which by the strangest twist was the very word prospective clients would cry while Jack beavered around the office with dust-pan and brush sweeping any concerns they may have had frantically under the carpet regarding all culpability of his extra-curricular monthly stipend... and they should remain assured at all times... as they dug deep and fished for their cheque books, and simply look upon it as kneading dough, which eerily enough was exactly the thick wedge of buttered granary that Jack had every intention of carving.

     Were there ever the slightest possibility that a day could be so utterly wretched, then today was that day, Jack felt a certain empathy as he merged with his surroundings... at one with nature as it were.  The rain, a timpani on the metal dustbin lids, by the side of which Beamish had taken up vigil, also taking up vigil and in search of a morsel was the stray mongrel, this was the third time now that he'd returned, the same apprehensive wag, yet still the same hopeful look of expectation in his eyes, a brief but friendly companion who paid more attention to Jack's left trouser leg than anything that could be had from nosing around the dustbins that day... some days you're the dog, scowled Beamish as he shook his trouser leg... and some days the lamppost, Jack's foot swung out playfully, keeping his new friend's incontinence at a safe distance, feigning indignance  the scruffy mongrel shook himself defiantly from nose to tail, a distinct odour of wet dog filled the air as an abundance of spent rainwater flew in all directions.   Pricking one ear he looked accusingly at Jack before turning and snuffled off, his nose resolutely to the pavement and diligently, picking out the few diluted scents still remaining, the poor little stalwart renewed its search for scraps, or making his way perhaps to some dry seclusion known only to itself.
  
     Two hours later and... SPLOSH, a puddle poured itself through the front door of the nearest Public House... SPLOSH, the puddle squelched over to the payphone... SPLOSH, then, fumbling for small change dialled and pressed button 'A'..., then button 'B'... then started all over again amid a flurry of precipitation... SPLASH.  The puddle floundered to the bar and ordered itself a drink, then ebbed back to the payphone again... the local taxi company doggedly refused to answer... finally, wallowing over to the window the puddle drifted up against a warm radiator amidst a cloud of humidity and came to rest... flotsam, cast upon the shore of contentment, the puddle sighed contentedly... the Landlady watched this anomaly... suspiciously.

     The puddle's finely tuned perception soon got to grips with the unhurried banter and muffled gossip drifting along the bar, having little else to loose, other than what could still be wrung from his clothing... Beamish, working on the principle that a little eavesdropping was his stock-in-trade engaged instinct into overdrive and casually rippled in their general direction...  They were clearly regulars by the way one of them belched in a well rehearsed, taken-a-back sort of way as Jack took stock of the situation and was now at some pains to ingratiate himself into their exclusive midst and attempt several friendly, yet relevant questions pertinent to his enquiries... all of which were skillfully deflected with more than friendly, yet totally irrelevant answers pertinent to theirs'... and would Jack care for a game of dominoes', they enquired... if so, would he be good enough to pay the refundable deposit, as by common consent it just so happened to be his turn...  Jack graciously declined this generous offer, as the obliging Landlady, just as graciously, cancelled the one shilling returnable deposit from the cash register, such was the flow of light conversation that evening... they didn't call him Lucky Jack for nothing... discouraged, Beamish turned back to the bar and reached for his glass... to which one of his recent companions, and yet again just as graciously, had taken the trouble to drink for him... the Landlady gave Jack a knowing look, Beamish returned the heartfelt sentiment and ordered one more pint.

     From the licenced premises opposite, a myriad of jostling customers plied through the door, business was picking up... the sudden influx of punters rapidly persuaded Beamish to retire from the bar and find a vacant table.  Sitting, he removed several discarded crisp packets from the centre of the table only to discover a freshly vacated ashtray below... by sleight of hand Jack's Ronson appeared... as he lit the cigarette the fragile smoke curled blue as it rose... influenced by subtle caprice, it joined others and formed a horizontal curtain dividing the room, a delicate, undulating layer held between two conflicting forces.

     The possibility of a free drink soon attracted the attention of a local bar fly, who, hovering in the near vicinity promptly landed in Jack's beer, Beamish declined this generous offer as being far too nutritious and with the corner of yesterdays beer mat, flipped the offending organism from the top of his glass, carefully inspecting his drink for debris as he did so.

     A sudden draught and clip of stiletto heels as the side door opened caused Beamish to turn as a double shadow slipped discreetly into the friendly Snug... a little adulterous intimacy on an otherwise cheerless evening.  The faceless man, concealed beneath a fedora and the upturned collar of his overcoat, the surreptitious lady friend, decked out in damp cony, cheap perfume and a surfeit of bling proclaimed a not too infrequent assignation, he'd seen it all before... the over attentive manner and the band of white, Sun-starved skin recently hidden behind a now absent wedding token, ordinarily it was the sort of assignment Jack didn't much care for... the discreet tail, the candid snapshot through half drawn curtains... and the all too familiar steak tartare... for the all too familiar black eye.

     To the untrained eye, the prospect of Jack's long anticipated supper was rapidly dwindling, when it suddenly focused with renewed vigour upon the contents of a pickled egg jar he'd observed earlier that evening, lurking on the back counter, his enthusiasm swiftly diminished however as the belching customer procured the final two specimens from the jar and proceeded to demolish them.  Who, Jack reflected, after being stood out in the rain all day, had egg all over his face now... and who, he reflected deeper, still had an empty stomach.  Disillusioned, Jack tipped back his glass and considered a further sortie with the taxicab company.

     "FIVE-BOB"!!! Jack screamed... you could have shredded the air with a cheese grater... hurtling into the kerb like a fairground attraction came flying past the chequered flag at a record breaking 99 in Jack's top 100 most not wanted list of things to do that day... and that the cabby should think himself fortunate they weren't both stretched flat on a marble slab, "exploding tyres" Jack spluttered, dribbling down his chin, were enough to give anyone a coronary... further broadsides of neurotic ambiance filled the cab as the driver, miffed at the prospect of missing snooker night out with the lads, considered charging extra for the additional space Jack's profanity was taking...

     And what part of 'Drive-Carefully', fumed Beamish, did the cabby simply not understand, that pavements were there to be bypassed, 'Nay Circumvented', preferably on the left... and not veered into, wildly on the front axle... an eerie premonition of 'jemais-vu' perched and ready to strike like a disembodied Jiminy Cricket on Jack's left shoulder, looking to stick its own two-penny worth in at the 'Standing-Room-Only' arrangements in the overcrowded cab... and at what further point, Jack shrieked, eyes leaping from his head as he lurched forward, shaking his fist through the sliding glass partition, had the cabbie failed to grasp the importance of the word 'Steering-Wheel...' someone wanted horse whipping, and as far as Beamish was concerned the sole contender was the cab driver...

     In having a somewhat sedate and unruffled disposition it had fallen to Beamish... as befalls all great leaders in times of adversity, to single handedly take the bull by the horns, so to speak and at great personal cost, alert the unwary passing motorist...  Waving his arms about like a man possessed whilst performing acrobatic evolutions in the centre of the road as the cabby changed the wheel came whizzing around the corner at a back breaking 98 on Jack's ever growing list... and why, Jack puzzled, why had they all lowered their side windows and gestured back at him in semaphore..?  Rallying to its aid, Jack's head and shoulders now joined his shaking fist through the sliding glass partition and into the cabby's face, "Who" Beamish screeched with renewed vigour ,"Who Was The Man", Jack wanted to know... *"a
Sara Kellie Jul 2018
Lipstick kisses,
we're both wearing red.
I motion her over and onto our bed.
Blood red smeared across our lips.
I keep her enticed, I straddle her hips.
Seductively playing,
I'm touching my lips.
Long acrylic nails,
for us never fails.
I show her a ***** and
she gently wails.

She's waiting,
my sweetheart,
I lust her so much.
We ****, we're on fire
and I wonder,
which of us holds the power.
I, in all honesty is hoping it's her,
'cause then I'll continue this life
in her beautiful blur.

Poetry by Kaydee.
A girl in love with another girl.
Meena Menon Sep 2021
Flicker Shimmer Glow

The brightest star can shine even with thick black velvet draped over it.  
Quartz, lime and salt crystals formed a glass ball.
The dark womb held me, warm and soft.  
My mom called my cries when I was born the most sorrowful sound she had ever heard.  
She said she’d never heard a baby make a sound like that.    
I’d open my eyes in low light until the world’s light healed rather than hurt.  
The summer before eighth grade, July 1992,
I watched a shooting star burn by at 100,000 miles per hour as I stood on the balcony  
while my family celebrated my birthday inside.  
It made it into the earth’s atmosphere
but it didn’t look like it was coming down;
I know it didn’t hit the ground but it burned something in the time it was here.  
The glass ball of my life cracked inside.  
Light reflected off the salt crystal cracks.  
I saw the beauty of the light within.  
Nacre from my shell kept those cracks from getting worse,
a wild pearl as defense mechanism.  
In 2001, I quit my job after they melted and poured tar all over my life.  
All summer literature class bathtubs filled with rose hip oil cleaned the tar.  
That fall logic and epistemology classes spewed black ink all over my philosophy
written over ten years then.  
Tar turned to asphalt when I met someone from my old job for a drink in November
and it paved a road for my life that went to the hospital I was in that December
where it sealed the roof on my life
when I was almost murdered there
and in February after meeting her for another drink.  
They lit a fire at the top of the glacier and pushed the burning pile of black coal off the edge,
burnt red, looking like flames falling into the valley.  
While that blazed the side of the cliff something lit an incandescent light.  
The electricity from the metal lightbulb ***** went through wires and heated the filament between until it glowed.  
I began putting more work into emotional balance from things I learned at AA meetings.  
In Spring 2003, the damage that the doctors at the hospital in 2001 had done
made it harder for light to reflect from the cracks in the glass ball.
I’d been eating healthy and trying to get regular exercises since 1994
but in Spring 2003 I began swimming for an hour every morning .  
The water washed the pollution from the burning coals off
And then I escaped in July.  
I moved to London to study English Language and Linguistics.  
I would’ve studied English Language and Literature.  
I did well until Spring 2004 when I thought I was being stalked.  
I thought I was manic.  
I thought I was being stalked.  
I went home and didn’t go back for my exams after spring holiday.  
Because I felt traumatized and couldn’t write poetry anymore,
I used black ink to write my notes for my book on trauma and the Russian Revolution.
I started teaching myself German.  
I stayed healthy.  
In 2005, my parents went to visit my mom’s family in Malaysia for two weeks.
I thought I was being stalked.  
I knew I wasn’t manic.  
I thought I was being stalked.  
I told my parents when they came home.  
They thought I was manic.  
I showed them the shoe prints in the snow of different sizes from the woods to the windows.  
They thought I was manic.  
I was outside of my comfort zone.  
I moved to California. I found light.  
I made light,
the light reflected off the salt crystals I used to heal the violence inflicted on me from then on.  
The light turned the traffic lights to not just green from red
but amber and blue.  
The light turned the car signals left and right.  
The light reflected off of salt crystals, light emitting diodes,
electrical energy turned directly to light,
electroluminescence.  
The electrical currents flowed through,
illuminating.  
Alone in the world, I moved to California in July 2005
but in August  I called the person I escaped in 2003,
the sulfur and nitrogen that I hated.  
He didn’t think I was manic but I never said anything.
I never told him why I asked him to move out to California.  
When his coal seemed like only pollution,
I asked him to leave.  
He threatened me.  
I called the authorities.  
They left me there.
He laughed.  
Then the violence came.  
****:  stabbed and punched, my ****** bruised, purple and swollen.  
The light barely reflected from the glass ball wIth cracks through all the acid rain, smoke and haze.
It would take me half an hour to get my body to do what my mind told it to after.  
My dad told me my mom had her cancer removed.
The next day, the coal said if I wanted him to leave he’d leave.  
I booked his ticket.
I drove him to the airport.  
Black clouds gushed the night before for the first time in months,
the sky clear after the rain.  
He was gone and I was free,
melted glass, heated up and poured—
looked like fire,
looked like the Snow Moon in February
with Mercury in the morning sky.  
I worked through ****.  
I worked to overcome trauma.  
Electricity between touch and love caused acid rain, smoke, haze, and mercury
to light the discharge lamps, streetlights and parking lot lights.
Then I changed the direction of the light waves.  
Like lead glass breaks up the light,
lead from the coal, cleaned and replaced by potassium,
glass cut clearly, refracting the light,
electrolytes,
electrical signals lit through my body,
thick black velvet drapes gone.  





















Lava

I think that someone wrote into some palm leaf a manuscript, a gift, a contract.  
After my parents wedding, while they were still in India,
they found out that my dad’s father and my mom’s grandfather worked for kings administering temples and collecting money for their king from the farmers that worked the rice paddies each king owned.  They both left their homes before they left for college.  
My dad, a son of a brahmin’s son,
grew up in his grandmother’s house.  
His mother was not a Brahmin.  
My mother grew up in Malaysia where she saw the children from the rubber plantation
when she walked to school.  
She doesn’t say what caste she is.  
He went to his father’s house, then college.  
He worked, then went to England, then Canada.  
She went to India then Canada.  
They moved to the United States around Christmas 1978
with my brother while she was pregnant with me.  
My father signed a contract with my mother.  
My parents took ashes and formed rock,
the residue left in brass pots in India,
the rocks, so hot, they turned back to lava miles away before turning back to ash again,
then back to rock,
the lava from a super volcano,
the ash purple and red.  


















Circles on a Moss Covered Volcano

The eruption beatifies the magma.  
It becomes obsidian,
only breaks with a fracture,
smooth circles where it breaks.  

My mom was born on the grass
on a lawn
in a moss covered canyon at the top of a volcanic island.  
My grandfather lived in Malaysia before the Japanese occupied.  
When the volcano erupted,
the lava dried at the ocean into black sand.  
The British allied with the Communist Party of Malaysia—
after they organized.  
After the Americans defeated the Japanese at Pearl Harbor,
the British took over Malaysia again.  
They kept different groups apart claiming they were helping them.  
The black sand had smooth pebbles and sharp rocks.  
Ethnic Malay farmers lived in Kampongs, villages.  
Indians lived on plantations.  
The Chinese lived in towns and urban areas.  
Ethnic Malays wanted independence.
In 1946, after strikes, demonstrations, and boycotts
the British agreed to work with them.  
The predominantly Chinese Communist Party of Malaysia went underground,
guerrilla warfare against the British,
claiming their fight was for independence.  
For the British, that emergency required vast powers
of arrest, detention without trial and deportation to defeat terrorism.  
The Emergency became less unpopular as the terrorism became worse.  
The British were the iron that brought oxygen through my mom’s body.  
She loved riding on her father’s motorcycle with him
by the plantations,
through the Kampongs
and to the city, half an hour away.  
The British left Malaysia independent in 1957
with Malaysian nationalists holding most state and federal government offices.  
As the black sand stretches towards the ocean,
it becomes big stones of dried lava, flat and smooth.  

My mom thought her father and her uncle were subservient to the British.  
She thought all things, all people were equal.  
When her father died when she was 16, 1965,
they moved to India,
my mother,
a foreigner in India, though she’s Indian.  
She loved rock and roll and mini skirts
and didn’t speak the local language.  
On the dried black lava,
it can be hard to know the molten lava flickers underneath there.  
Before the Korean War,
though Britain and the United States wanted
an aggressive resolution
condemning North Korea,
they were happy
that India supported a draft resolution
condemning North Korea
for breach of the peace.  
During the Korean War,
India, supported by Third World and other Commonwealth nations,
opposed United States’ proposals.
They were able to change the U.S. resolution
to include the proposals they wanted
and helped end the war.  
China wanted the respect of Third World nations
and saw the United States as imperialist.  
China thought India was a threat to the Third World
by taking aid from the United States and the Soviets.  
Pakistan could help with that and a seat at the United Nations.  
China wanted Taiwan’s seat at the UN.
My mother went to live with her uncle,
a communist negotiator for a corporation,
in India.  
A poet,
he threw parties and invited other artists, musicians and writers.  
I have the same brown hyperpigmentation at my joints that he had.  
During the day, only the steam from the hot lava can be seen.  
In 1965, Pakistani forces went into Jammu and Kashmir with China’s support.  
China threatened India after India sent its troops in.  
Then they threatened again before sending their troops to the Indian border.  
The United States stopped aid to Pakistan and India.
Pakistan agreed to the UN ceasefire agreement.  
Pakistan helped China get a seat at the UN
and tried to keep the west from escalating in Vietnam.  
The smoldering sound of the lava sizzles underneath the dried lava.  
When West Pakistan refused to allow East Pakistan independence,
violence between Bengalis and Biharis developed into upheaval.  
Bengalis moved to India
and India went into East Pakistan.  
Pakistan surrendered in December 1971.  
East Pakistan became independent Bangladesh

The warm light of the melted lava radiates underneath but burns.  
In 1974, India tested the Smiling Buddha,
a nuclear bomb.  
After Indira Gandhi’s conviction for election fraud in 1973,
Marxist Professor Narayan called for total revolution
and students protested all over India.  
With food shortages, inflation and regional disputes
like Sikh separatists training in Pakistan for an independent Punjab,
peasants and laborers joined the protests.  
Railway strikes stopped the economy.  
In 1975, Indira Gandhi, the Iron Lady,
declared an Emergency,
imprisoning political opponents, restricting freedoms and restricting the press,
claiming threats to national security
because the war with Pakistan had just ended.  
The federal government took over Kerala’s communist dominated government and others.  

My mom could’ve been a dandelion, but she’s more like thistle.  
She has the center that dries and flutters in the wind,
beautiful and silky,
spiny and prickly,
but still fluffy, downy,
A daisy.
They say thistle saved Scotland from the Norse.  
Magma from the volcano explodes
and the streams of magma fly into the air.  
In the late 60s,
the civil rights movement rose
against the state in Northern Ireland
for depriving Catholics
of influence and opportunity.
The Northern Irish police,
Protestant and unionist, anti-catholic,
responded violently to the protests and it got worse.  
In 1969, the British placed Arthur Young,
who had worked at the Federation of Malaya
at the time of their Emergency
at the head of the British military in Northern Ireland.
The British military took control over the police,
a counter insurgency rather than a police force,
crowd control, house searches, interrogation, and street patrols,
use of force against suspects and uncooperative citizens.  
Political crimes were tolerated by Protestants but not Catholics.  
The lava burns the rock off the edge of the volcano.  

On January 30, 1972, ****** Sunday,  
British Army policing killed 13 unarmed protesters
fighting for their rights over their neighborhood,
protesting the internment of suspected nationalists.
That led to protests across Ireland.  
When banana leaves are warmed,
oil from the banana leaves flavors the food.  
My dad flew from Canada to India in February 1972.  
On February 4, my dad met my mom.  
On February 11, 1972,
my dad married my mom.  
They went to Canada,
a quartz singing bowl and a wooden mallet wrapped in suede.  
The rock goes down with the lava, breaking through the rocks as it goes down.  
In March 1972, the British government took over
because they considered the Royal Ulster Police and the Ulster Special Constabulary
to be causing most of the violence.  
The lava blocks and reroutes streams,
melts snow and ice,
flooding.  
Days later, there’s still smoke, red.  
My mom could wear the clothes she liked
without being judged
with my dad in Canada.  
She didn’t like asking my dad for money.
My dad, the copper helping my mother use that iron,
wanted her to go to college and finish her bachelors degree.
She got a job.  
In 1976, the police took over again in Northern Ireland
but they were a paramilitary force—
armored SUVs, bullet proof jackets, combat ready
with the largest computerized surveillance system in the UK,
high powered weapons,
trained in counter insurgency.  
Many people were murdered by the police
and few were held accountable.  
Most of the murdered people were not involved in violence or crime.  
People were arrested under special emergency powers
for interrogation and intelligence gathering.  
People tried were tried in non-jury courts.  
My mom learned Malayalam in India
but didn’t speak well until living with my dad.  
She also learned to cook after getting married.  
Her mother sent her recipes; my dad cooked for her—
turmeric, cumin, coriander, cayenne and green chiles.  
Having lived in different countries,
my mom’s food was exposed to many cultures,
Chinese and French.
Ground rock, minerals and glass
covered the ground
from the ash plume.  
She liked working.  

A volcano erupted for 192 years,
an ice age,
disordered ices, deformed under pressure
and ordered ice crystals, brittle in the ice core records.  
My mother liked working.  
Though Khomeini was in exile by the 1970s in Iran,
more people, working and poor,
turned to him and the ****-i-Ulama for help.
My mom didn’t want kids though my dad did.
She agreed and in 1978 my brother was born.
Iran modernized but agriculture and industry changed so quickly.  
In January 1978, students protested—
censorship, surveillance, harassment, illegal detention and torture.  
Young people and the unemployed joined.  
My parents moved to the United States in December 1978.  
The regime used a lot of violence against the protesters,
and in September 1978 declared martial law in Iran.  
Troops were shooting demonstrators.
In January 1979, the Shah and his family fled.  
On February 11, 1979, my parents’ anniversary,
the Iranian army declared neutrality.  
I was born in July 1979.
The chromium in emeralds and rubies colors them.
My brother was born in May and I was born in July.

Obsidian—
iron, copper and chromium—
isn’t a gas
but it isn’t a crystal;
it’s between the two,
the ordered crystal and the disordered gas.  
They made swords out of obsidian.  





Warm Light Shatters

The eruption beatifies the magma.  
It becomes obsidian,
only breaks with a fracture,
smooth circles where it breaks.  

My dad was born on a large flat rock on the edge of the top
of a hill,
Molasses, sweet and dark, the potent flavor dominates,
His father, the son of a Brahmin,
His mother from a lower caste.
His father’s family wouldn’t touch him,
He grew up in his mother’s mother’s house on a farm.  
I have the same brown hyperpigmentation spot on my right hand that he has.

In 1901, D’Arcy bought a 60 year concession for oil exploration In Iran.
The Iranian government extended it for another 32 years in 1933.
At that time oil was Iran’s “main source of income.”
In 1917’s Balfour Declaration, the British government proclaimed that they favored a national home for the Jews in Palestine and their “best endeavors to facilitate the achievement” of that.

The British police were in charge of policing in the mandate of Palestine.  A lot of the policemen they hired were people who had served in the British army before, during the Irish War for Independence.  
The army tried to stop how violent the police were, police used torture and brutality, some that had been used during the Irish War for Independence, like having prisoners tied to armored cars and locomotives and razing the homes of people in prison or people they thought were related to people thought to be rebels.
The police hired Arab police and Jewish police for lower level policing,
Making local people part of the management.
“Let Arab police beat up Arabs and Jewish police beat up Jews.”

The lava blocks and reroutes streams, melts snow and ice, flooding.
In 1922, there were 83,000 Jews, 71,000 Christians, and 589,000 Muslims.
The League If Nations endorsed the British Mandate.
During an emergency, in the 1930s, British regulations allowed collective punishment, punishing villages for incidents.
Local officers in riots often deserted and also shared intelligence with their own people.
The police often stole, destroyed property, tortured and killed people.  
Arab revolts sapped the police power over Palestinians by 1939.

My father’s mother was from a matrilineal family.
My dad remembers tall men lining up on pay day to respectfully wait for her, 5 feet tall.  
She married again after her husband died.
A manager from a tile factory,
He spoke English so he supervised finances and correspondence.
My dad, a sunflower, loved her: she scared all the workers but exuded warmth to the people she loved.

Obsidian shields people from negative energy.
David Cargill founded the Burmah Oil Co. in 1886.
If there were problems with oil exploration in Burma and Indian government licenses, Persian oil would protect the company.  
In July 1906, many European oil companies, BP, Royal Dutch Shell and others, allied to protect against the American oil company, Standard Oil.
D’Arcy needed money because “Persian oil took three times as long to come on stream as anticipated.”
Burmah Oil Co. began the Anglo-Persian Oil Co. as a subsidiary.
Ninety-seven percent of British Petroleum was owned by Burmah Oil Co.
By 1914, the British government owned 51% of the Anglo-Persian Oil Co.  
Anglo-Persian acquired independence from Burmah Oil and Royal Dutch Shell with two million pounds from the British government.

The lava burns the rock off the edge of the volcano.
In 1942, after the Japanese took Burma,
the British destroyed their refineries before leaving.
The United Nations had to find other sources of oil.
In 1943, Japan built the Burma-Thailand Railroad with forced labor from the Malay peninsula who were mostly from the rubber plantations.

The rock goes down with the lava, breaking through the rocks as it goes down.
In 1945. Japan destroyed their refineries before leaving Burma.
Cargill, Watson and Whigham were on the Burmah Oil Co. Board and then the Anglo Iranian Oil Co. Board.  

In 1936 Palestine, boycotts, work stoppages, and violence against British police officials and soldiers compelled the government to appoint an investigatory commission.  
Leaders of Egypt, Trans Jordan, Syria and Iraq helped end the work stoppages.
The British government had the Peel Commission read letters, memoranda, and petitions and speak with British officials, Jews and Arabs.  
The Commission didn’t believe that Arabs and Jews could live together in a single Jewish state.
Because of administrative and financial difficulties the Colonial Secretary stated that to split Palestine into Arab and Jewish states was impracticable.  
The Commission recommended transitioning 250,000 Arabs and 1500 Jews with British control over their oil pipeline, their naval base and Jerusalem.  
The League of Nations approved.
“It will not remove the grievance nor prevent the recurrence,” Lord Peel stated after.
The Arab uprising was much more militant after Peel.  Thousands of Arabs were wounded, ten thousand were detained.  
In Sykes-Picot and the Husain McMahon agreements, the British promised the Arabs an independent state but they did not keep that promise.  
Representatives from the Arab states rejected the Peel recommendations.
United Nations General Assembly Resolution181 partitioned Palestine into Arab and Jewish states with an international regime for the city of Jerusalem backed by the United States and the Soviet Union.  

The Israeli Yishuv had strong military and intelligence organization —-  
the British recognized that their interest was with the Arabs and abstained from the vote.  
In 1948, Israel declared the establishment of its state.  
Ground rock, minerals, and gas covered the ground from the ash plume.
The Palestinian police force was disbanded and the British gave officers the option of serving in Malaya.

Though Truman, Eisenhower and Kennedy supported snd tried to get Israel to offer the Arabs concessions, it wasn’t a major priority and didn’t always approve of Israel’s plans.
Arabs that had supported the British to end Turkish rule stopped supporting the West.  
Many Palestinians joined left wing groups and violent third world movements.  
Seventy-eight percent of the territory of former Palestine was under Israel’s control.  

My dad left for college in 1957 and lived in an apartment above the United States Information services office.
Because he graduated at the top of his class, he was given a job with the public works department of the government on the electricity board.  
“Once in, you’ll never leave.”
When he wanted a job where he could do real work, his father was upset.
He broke the chains with bells for vespers.
He got a job in Calcutta at Kusum Products and left the government, though it was prestigious to work there.
In the chemical engineering division, one of the projects he worked on was to design a *** distillery, bells controlled by hammers, hammers controlled by a keyboard.
His boss worked in the United Kingdom for. 20 years before the company he worked at, part of Power Gas Corporation, asked him to open a branch in Calcutta.
He opened the branch and convinced an Industrialist to open a company doing the same work with him.  The branch he opened closed after that.  
My dad applied for labor certification to work abroad and was selected.  
His boss wrote a reference letter for my him to the company he left in the UK.  My dad sent it telling the company when he was leaving for the UK.  
The day he left for London, he got the letter they sent in the mail telling him to take the train to Sheffield the next day and someone from the firm would meet him at the station.  
His dad didn’t know he left, he didn’t tell him.
He broke the chains with chimes for schisms.


Anglo-Persian Oil became Anglo-Iranian Oil in 1935.
The British government used oil and Anglo-Persian oil to fight communism, have a stronger relationship with the United States and make the United Kingdom more powerful.  
The National Secularists, the Tudeh, and the Communists wanted to nationalize Iran’s oil and mobilized the Iranian people.
The British feared nationalization in Iran would incite political parties like the Secular Nationalists all over the world.  
In 1947, the Iranian government passed the Single Article Law that “[increased] investment In welfare benefits, health, housing, education, and implementation of Iranianization through substitution of foreigners” at Anglo-Iranian Oil Co.
“Anglo-Iranian Oil Company made more profit in 1950 than it paid to the Iranian government in royalties over the previous half century.”
The Anglo-Iranian Oil Company tried to negotiate a new concession and claimed they’d hire more Iranian people into jobs held by British and people from other nationalities at the company.
Their hospitals had segregated wards.  
On May 1, 1951, the Iranian government passed a bill that nationalized Anglo- Iranian Oil Co.’s holdings.  
During the day, only the steam from the hot lava can be seen.
In August 1953, the Iranian people elected Mossadegh from the Secular Nationalist Party as prime minister.
The British government with the CIA overthrew Mossadegh using the Iranian military after inducing protests and violent demonstrations.  
Anglo-Iranian Oil changed its name to British Petroleum in 1954.
Iranians believe that America destroyed Iran’s “last chance for democracy” and blamed America for Iran’s autocracy, its human rights abuses, and secret police.

The smoldering sound of the lava sizzles underneath the dried lava.  
In 1946, Executive Yuan wanted control over 4 groups of Islands in the South China Sea to have a stronger presence there:  the Paracels, the Spratlys, Macclesfield Bank, and the Pratas.
The French forces in the South China Sea would have been stronger than the Chinese Navy then.
French Naval forces were in the Gulf of Tonkin, U.S. forces were in the Taiwan Strait, the British were in Hong Kong, and the Portuguese were in Macao.
In the 1950s, British snd U.S. oil companies thought there might be oil in the Spratlys.  
By 1957, French presence in the South China Sea was hardly there.  

When the volcano erupted, the lava dried at the ocean into black sand.
By 1954, the Tudeh Party’s communist movement and  intelligence organization had been destroyed.  
Because of the Shah and his government’s westernization policies and disrespectful treatment of the Ulama, Iranians began identifying with the Ulama and Khomeini rather than their government.  
Those people joined with secular movements to overthrow the Shah.  

In 1966, Ne Win seized power from U Nu in Burma.
“Soldiers ruled Burma as soldiers.”
Ne Win thought that western political
Institutions “encouraged divisions.”
Minority groups found foreign support for their separatist goals.
The Karens and the Mons supported U Nu in Bangkok.  


Rare copper, a heavy metal, no alloys,
a rock in groundwater,
conducts electricity and heat.
In 1965, my Dad’s cousin met him at Heathrow, gave him a coat and £10 and brought him to a bed and breakfast across from Charing Cross Station where he’d get the train to Sheffield the next morning.
He took the train and someone met him at the train station.  
At the interview they asked him to design a grandry girder, the main weight bearing steel girder as a test.
Iron in the inner and outer core of the earth,
He’d designed many of those.  
He was hired and lived at the YMCA for 2 1/2 years.  
He took his mother’s family name, Menon, instead of his father’s, Varma.
In 1967, he left for Canada and interviewed at Bechtel before getting hired at Seagrams.  
Iron enables blood to carry oxygen.
His boss recommended him for Dale Carnegie’s leadership training classes and my dad joined the National Instrument Society and became President.
He designed a still In Jamaica,
Ordered all the parts, nuts and bolts,
Had all the parts shipped to Jamaica and made sure they got there.
His boss supervised the construction, installation and commission in Jamaica.
Quartz, heat and fade resistant, though he was an engineer and did the work of an engineer, my dad only had the title, technician so my dad’s boss thought he wasn’t getting paid enough but couldn’t get his boss to offer more than an extra $100/week or the title of engineer; he told my dad he thought he should leave.
In 1969, he got a job at Celanese, which made rayon.
He quit Celanese to work at McGill University and they allowed him to take classes to earn his MBA while working.  

The United States and Israel’s alliance was strong by 1967.
United Nations Security Council Resolution 242 at the end of the Third Arab Israeli War didn’t mention the Palestinians but mentioned the refugee problem.
After 1967, the Palestinians weren’t often mentioned and when mentioned only as terrorists.  
Palestinians’ faith in the “American sponsored peace process” diminished, they felt the world community ignored and neglected them also.
Groups like MAN that stopped expecting anything from Arab regimes began hijacking airplanes.
By 1972, the Palestine Liberation Organization had enough international support to get by the United States’ veto in the United Nations Security Council and Arab League recognition as representative of the Palestinian people.
The Palestinians knew the United States stated its support, as the British had, but they weren’t able to accomplish anything.  
The force Israel exerted in Johnson’s United States policy delivered no equilibrium for the Palestinians.  

In 1969, all political parties submitted to the BSPP, Burma Socialist Programme Party.
Ne Win nationalized banks and oil and deprived minorities of opportunities.
Ne Win became U Nu Win, civilian leader of Burma in 1972 and stopped the active role that U Nu defined for Burma internationally
He put military people in power even when they didn’t have experience which triggered “maldistribution of goods and chronic shortages.”  
Resources were located in areas where separatist minorities had control.

The British presence in the South China Sea ended in 1968.  
The United States left Vietnam in 1974 and China went into the Western Paracels.
The U.S. didn’t intervene and Vietnam took the Spratlys.
China wanted to claim the continental shelf In the central part of the South China Sea and needed the Spratlys.
The United States mostly disregarded the Ulama In Iran and bewildered the Iranian people by not supporting their revolution.

Obsidian—
iron, copper and chromium—
isn’t a gas
but it isn’t a crystal;
it’s between the two,
the ordered crystal and the disordered gas.  
They made swords out of obsidian.


Edelweiss

I laid out in my backyard in my bikini.  
I love the feeling of my body in the sun.  
I’d be dark from the end of spring until winter.
The snow froze my bare feet through winter ,
my skin pale.
American towns in 1984,
Free, below glaciers the sunlight melted the snow,
a sea of green and the edelweiss on the edge of the  limestone,
frosted but still strong.    
When the spring warmed the grass,
the grass warmed my feet. 
The whole field looked cold and white from the glacier but in the meadow,
the bright yellow centers of those flowers float free in the center of the white petals.
The bright yellow center of those edelweiss scared the people my parents ran to America from India to get away from.  
On a sidewalk in Queens, New York in 1991, the men stared and yelled comments at me in short shorts and a fitted top in the summer.  
I grabbed my dad’s arm.

























The Bread and Coconut Butter of Aparigraha

Twelve year old flowerhead,
Marigold, yarrow and nettle,
I’d be all emotion
If not for all my work
From the time I was a teenager.
I got depressed a lot.
I related to people I read about
In my weather balloon,
Grasping, ignorant, and desperate,
But couldn’t relate to other twelve year olds.
After school I read Dali’s autobiography,
Young ****** Autosodomized by Her Own Chastity.
Fresh, green nettle with fresh and dried yarrow for purity.
Dead souls enticed to the altar by orange marigolds,
passion and creativity,
Coax sleep and rouse dreams.
Satellites measure indirectly with wave lengths of light.
My weather balloon measures the lower and middle levels of the atmosphere directly,
Fifty thousand feet high,
Metal rod thermometer,
Slide humidity sensor,
Canister for air pressure.

I enjoy rye bread and cold coconut butter in my weather balloon,
But I want Dali, and all the artists and writers.
Rye grows at high altitudes
But papyrus grows in soil and shallow water,
Strips of papyrus pith shucked from their stems.
When an anchor’s weighed, a ship sails,
But when grounded we sail.
Marigolds, yarrow and nettle,
Flowerhead,
I use the marigold for sleep,
The yarrow for endurance and intensity,
toiling for love and truth,
And the nettle for healing.
Strong rye bread needs equally strong flavors.
By the beginning of high school,
I read a lot of Beat literature
And found Buddhism.
I loved what I read
But I didn’t like some things.
I liked attachment.  
I got to the ground.
Mushrooms grow in dry soil.
Attachment to beauty is Buddha activity.
Not being attached to things I don’t find beautiful is Buddha activity.  
I fried mushrooms in a single layer in oil, fleshy.
I roasted mushrooms at high temperatures in the oven, crisp.
I simmered mushrooms in stock with kombu.
Rye bread with cold coconut butter and cremini mushrooms,
raw, soft and firm.  
Life continues, life changes,
Attachments, losses, mourning and suffering,
But change lures growth.
I find stream beds and wet soil.
I lay the strips of papyrus next to each other.
I cross papyrus strips over the first,
Then wet the crossed papyrus strips,
Press and cement them into a sheet.
I hammer it and dry it in the sun,
With no thought of achievement or self,
Flowerhead,
Hands filled with my past,
Head filled with the future,
Dali, artists poets,
Wishes and desires aligned with nature,
Abundance,
Cocoa, caraway, and molasses.

If I ever really like someone,
I’ll be wearing the dress he chooses,
Fresh green nettle and yarrow, the seeds take two years to grow strong,
Lasting love.
Marigolds steer dead souls from the altar to the afterlife,
Antiseptic, healing wounds,
Soothing sore throats and headaches.
Imperturbable, stable flowerhead,
I empty my mind.
When desires are aligned with nature, desire flows.
Papyrus makes paper and cloth.
Papyrus makes sails.
Charcoal from the ash of pulverized papyrus heals wounds.
Without attachment to the fruit of action
There is continuation of life,
Rye bread and melted coconut butter,
The coconut tree in the coconut butter,
The seed comes from the ground out of nothing,
Naturalness.
It has form.
As the seed grows the seed expresses the tree,
The seed expresses the coconut,
The seed expresses the coconut butter.
Rye bread, large open hollows, chambers,
Immersed in melted coconut butter,
Desire for expansion and creation,
No grasping, not desperate.
When the mind is compassion, the mind is boundless.
Every moment,
only that,
Every moment,
a scythe to the papyrus in the stream bed of the past.  

































Sound on Powdery Blue

Potter’s clay, nymph, plum unplumbed, 1993.
Dahlia, ice, powder, musk and rose,
my source of life emerged in darkness, blackness.
Seashell fragments in the sand,
The glass ball of my life cracked inside,
Light reflected off the salt crystal cracks,
Nacre kept those cracks from getting worse.
Young ****** Autosodomized By Her Own Chastity,
Nymph, I didn’t want to give my body,
Torn, *****, ballgown,
To people who wouldn’t understand me,
Piquant.

Outside on the salt flats,
Aphrodite, goddess of beauty, pleasure and fertility and
Asexual Artemis, goddess of animals, and the hunt,
Mistress of nymphs,
Punish with ruthless savagery.

In my bedroom, blue caribou moss covered rocks, pine, and yew trees,
The heartwood writhes as hurricane gales, twisters and whirlwinds
Contort their bark,
Roots strong in the soil.
Orris root dried in the sun, bulbs like wood.
Dahlia runs to baritone soundbath radio waves.
Light has frequencies,
Violet between blue and invisible ultraviolet,
Flame, slate and flint.
Every night is cold.

Torii gates, pain secured as sacred.
An assignation, frost hardy dahlia and a plangent resonant echo.
High frequency sound waves convert to electrical signals,
Breathe from someone I want,
Silt.
Beam, radiate, ensorcel.
I break the bark,
Sap flows and dries,
Resin seals over the tear.
I distill pine,
Resin and oil for turpentine, a solvent.
Quiver, bemired,
I lead sound into my darkness,
Orris butter resin, sweet and warm,
Hot jam drops on snow drops,
Orange ash on smoke,
Balm on lava,
The problem with cotton candy.

Electrical signals give off radiation or light waves,
The narrow frequency range where
The crest of a radio wave and the crest of a light wave overlap,
Infrared.
Glaciers flow, sunlight melts the upper layers of the snow when strong,
A wet snow avalanche,
A torrent, healing.
Brown sugar and whiskey,
Undulant, lavender.
Pine pitch, crystalline, sticky, rich and golden,
And dried pine rosin polishes glass smooth
Like the smell of powdery orris after years.
Softness, flush, worthy/not worthy,
Rich rays thunder,
Intensify my pulse,
Frenzied red,
Violet between blue and invisible ultraviolet.
Babylon—flutter, glow.
Unquenchable cathartic orris.  

















Pink Graphite

Camellias, winter shrubs,
Their shallow roots grow beneath the spongy caribou moss,
Robins egg blue.
After writing a play with my gifted students program in 1991,
I stopped spending all my free time writing short stories,
But the caribou moss was still soft.

In the cold Arctic of that town,
The evergreen protected the camellias from the afternoon sun and storms.
They branded hardy camellias with a brass molded embossing iron;
I had paper and graphite for my pencils.

After my ninth grade honors English teacher asked us to write poems in 1994,
It began raining.
We lived on an overhang.
A vertical rise to the top of the rock.
The rainstorm caused a metamorphic change in the snowpack,
A wet snow avalanche drifted slowly down the moss covered rock,
The snow already destabilized by exposure to the sunlight.

The avalanche formed lakes,
rock basins washed away with rainwater and melted snow,
Streams dammed by the rocks.  
My pencils washed away in the avalanche,
My clothes heavy and cold.
I wove one side of each warp fiber through the eye of the needle and one side through each slot,
Salves, ointments, serums and tinctures.
I was mining for graphite.
They were mining me,
The only winch, the sound through the water.

A steep staircase to the red Torii gates,
I broke the chains with bells for vespers
And chimes for schisms,
And wove the weft across at right angles to the warp.  

On a rocky ledge at the end of winter,
The pink moon, bitters and body butter,
They tried to get  me to want absinthe,
Wormwood for bitterness and regret.
Heat and pressure formed carbon for flakes of graphite.
Heat and pressure,
I made bitters,
Brandy, grapefruit, chocolate, mandarin rind, tamarind and sugar.
I grounded my feet in the pink moss,
paper dried in one hand,
and graphite for my pencils in the other.  



































Flakes

I don’t let people that put me down be part of my life.  
Gardens and trees,
My shadow sunk in the grass in my yard
As I ate bread, turmeric and lemon.
Carbon crystallizes into graphite flakes.
I write to see well,
Graphite on paper.  
A shadow on rock tiles with a shield, a diamond and a bell
Had me ***** to humiliate me.
Though I don’t let people that put me down near me,
A lot of people putting me down seemed like they were following me,
A platform to jump from
While she had her temple.  

There was a pink door to the platform.
I ate bread with caramelized crusts and
Drank turmeric lemonade
Before I opened that door,
Jumped and
Descended into blankets and feathers.
I found matches and rosin
For turpentine to clean,
Dried plums and licorice.  

In the temple,
In diamonds, leather, wool and silk,
She had her shield and bells,
Drugs and technology,
Thermovision 210 and Minox,
And an offering box where people believed
That if their coins went in
Their wishes would come true.

Hollyhock and smudging charcoal for work,  
Belled,
I ground grain in the mill for the bread I baked for breakfast.
The bells are now communal bells
With a watchtower and a prison,
Her shield, a blowtorch and flux,
Her ex rays, my makeshift records
Because Stalin didn’t like people dancing,
He liked them divebombing.
Impurities in the carbon prevent diamonds from forming,
Measured,
The most hard, the most expensive,
But graphite’s soft delocalized electrons move.  






































OCEAN BED

The loneliness of going to sleep by myself.  
I want a bed that’s high off the ground,
a mattress, an ocean.
I want a crush and that  person in my bed.  
Only that,
a crush in my bed,
an ocean in my bed.  
Just love.  
But I sleep with my thumbs sealed.  
I sleep with my hands, palms up.  
I sleep with my hands at my heart.  
They sear my compassion with their noise.  
They hold their iron over their fire and try to carve their noise into my love,
scored by the violence of voices, dark and lurid,  
but not burned.  
I want a man in my bed.  
When I wake up in an earthquake
I want to be held through the aftershocks.  
I like men,
the waves come in and go out
but the ocean was part of my every day.  
I don’t mind being fetishized in the ocean.  
I ran by the ocean every morning.  
I surfed in the ocean.  
I should’ve gone into the ocean that afternoon at Trestles,
holding my water jugs, kneeling at the edge.  














Morning

I want to fall asleep in the warm arms of a fireman.  
I want to wake up to the smell of coffee in my kitchen.  

Morning—the molten lava in the outer core of the earth embeds the iron from the inner core into the earth’s magnetic field.  
The magnetic field flips.  
The sun, so strong, where it gets through the trees it burns everything but the pine.  
The winds change direction.  
Storms cast lightening and rain.  
Iron conducts solar flares and the heavy wind.  
In that pine forest, I shudder every time I see a speck of light for fear of neon and fluorescents.  The eucalyptus cleanses congestion.  
And Kerouac’s stream ululates, crystal bowl sound baths.  
I follow the sound to the water.  
The stream ends at a bluff with a thin rocky beach below.  
The green water turns black not far from the shore.  
Before diving into the ocean, I eat globe mallow from the trees, stems and leaves, the viscous flesh, red, soft and nutty.  
I distill the pine from one of the tree’s bark and smudge the charcoal over my skin.  

Death, the palo santo’s lit, cleansing negative energy.  
It’s been so long since I’ve smelled a man, woodsmoke, citrus and tobacco.  
Jasmine, plum, lime and tuberose oil on the base of my neck comforts.  
Parabolic chambers heal, sound waves through water travel four times faster.  
The sound of the open sea recalibrates.  
I dissolve into the midnight blue of the ocean.  

I want to fall asleep in the warm arms of a fireman.  
I want to wake up to the smell of coffee in my kitchen.  
I want hot water with coconut oil when I get up.  
We’d lay out on the lawn, surrounded by high trees that block the wind.  
Embers flying through the air won’t land in my yard, on my grass, or near my trees.  





Blue Paper

Haze scatters blue light on a planet.  
Frought women, livid, made into peonies by Aphrodites that caught their men flirting and blamed the women, flushed red.
and blamed the women, flushed red.
Frought women, livid, chrysanthemums, dimmed until the end of the season, exchanged and retained like property.  
Blue women enter along the sides of her red Torii gates, belayed, branded and belled, a plangent sound.  
By candles, colored lights and dried flowers she’s sitting inside on a concrete floor, punctures and ruin burnished with paper, making burnt lime from lime mortar.  
Glass ***** on the ceiling, she moves the beads of a Palestinian glass bead bracelet she holds in her hands.  
She bends light to make shadows against  thin wooden slats curbed along the wall, and straight across the ceiling.
A metier, she makes tinctures, juniper berries and cotton *****.
Loamy soil in the center of the room,
A hawthorn tree stands alone,
A gateway for fairies.
large stones at the base protecting,
It’s branches a barrier.  
It’s leaves and shoots make bread and cheese.
It’s berries, red skin and yellow flesh, make jam.
Green bamboo stakes for the peonies when they whither from the weight of their petals.
And lime in the soil.  
She adds wood chips to the burnt lime in the kiln,
Unrolled paper, spools, and wire hanging.
Wood prayer beads connect her to the earth,
The tassels on the end of the beads connect her to spirit, to higher truth.
Minerals, marine mud and warm basins of seawater on a flower covered desk.  
She adds slaked lime to the burnt lime and wood chips.  
The lime converts to paper,
Trauma victims speak,
Light through butterfly wings.  
She’s plumeria with curved petals, thick, holding water
This is what I have written of my book.  I’ll be changing where the poems with the historical research go.  There are four more of those and nine of the other poems.
Alyssa Underwood Nov 2015
I saw a path and ran ahead
I nearly lost my way
Your mercy caught me by the arm
To Your side You bid me stay

I put my hope in my own plans
Which soon around me fell
You stopped me short upon that road
And said, "Rest and all will be well."

I'd surrendered all, but to my foe
Enticed into the briars
You turned his evil schemes instead
Into refining fires

I couldn't see my helplessness
Until my legs were broken
Till Shepherd's hands caressed my wounds
And healing words were spoken

You picked me up and carried me
And made me feel Your favorite
You held my head against Your chest
Until I grew to savor it

You tended me with gentlest touch
Then soothed all thought of fears
You sang forgiveness over me
And washed away my tears

There is no one like You, Lord
On whom I can rely
In loss, in danger or attack
You hear this poor sheep's cry

It's You Who keeps me from real harm
Who watches my coming and going
You shield me with Your strong right hand
From darts the enemy keeps throwing

You said to all who trust in You
You would give perfect peace
Enough for mind and heart to rest
To let all worrying cease

So, Lord, I trust You with my life
Your Shepherd's heart is pure
Your purpose for me's guarded well
And Your deliverance is sure

Please teach this sheep, Lord, how to wait
And strengthen me to stand
To put my hope in Your desires
And to love Your sovereign plan

You lead me into fields so green
Where streams of life are flowing
Where healing winds blow oft' and strong
And choicest fruits are growing

You set me free to hear Your voice
To follow at Your call
And even through the dark, cold nights
I'll know You've arranged it all

Yes, storms will come with battering rains
With hail and gusts and thunder
But these are meant to beckon me
To Your wings to pull me under

For it's in the darkness of the storm
My grip's most apt to tighten
And when my heart beats next to Yours
All earthly burdens lighten
Alyssa Underwood May 2017
I saw a path and ran ahead
I nearly lost my way
Your mercy caught me by the arm
To Your side You bid me stay

I put my hope in my own plans
Which soon around me fell
You stopped me short upon that road
And said, "Rest and all will be well."

I'd surrendered all, but to my foe
Enticed into the briars
You turned his evil schemes instead
Into refining fires

I couldn't see my helplessness
Until my legs were broken
Till Shepherd's hands caressed my wounds
And healing words were spoken

You picked me up and carried me
And made me feel Your favorite
You held my head against Your chest
Until I grew to savor it

You tended me with gentlest touch
Then soothed all thought of fears
You sang forgiveness over me
And washed away my tears

There is no one like You, Lord
On whom I can rely
In loss, in danger or attack
You hear this poor sheep's cry

It's You Who keeps me from real harm
Who watches my coming and going
You shield me with Your strong right hand
From darts the enemy keeps throwing

You said to all who trust in You
You would give perfect peace
Enough for mind and heart to rest
To let all worrying cease

So, Lord, I trust You with my life
Your Shepherd's heart is pure
Your purpose for me's guarded well
And Your deliverance is sure

Please teach this sheep, Lord, how to wait
And strengthen me to stand
To put my hope in Your desires
And to love Your sovereign plan

You lead me into fields so green
Where streams of life are flowing
Where healing winds blow oft' and strong
And choicest fruits are growing

You set me free to hear Your voice
To follow at Your call
And even through the dark, cold nights
I'll know You've arranged it all

Yes, storms will come with battering rains
With hail and gusts and thunder
But these are meant to beckon me
To Your wings to pull me under

For it's in the darkness of the storm
My grip's most apt to tighten
And when my heart beats next to Yours
All earthly burdens lighten
~~~
Styles May 2014
An urge too strong to resist.
Once enticed.
Can't resist.
Go ahead and try to;
I insist.
End up.
Face up.
Go ogling; *****, so you can read **** **** like this.
ryn Nov 2014
.    _ _
     /   /  
  /  /  
 ||
    
enticed by   \\  the alluring
promise of everlasting sweetness•i had
shed all trepidation to indulge in this lone
songstress•hanging on its own, just enough
within my arm's length•seemed so easy but
a formidable test of strength•i had reached
and plucked without in mind, the doubt of
myth•held it for an instant before sinking
in my teeth•it's the sole mouthful that
had brought about this perpetual
racking cough•it's the apple...
that i should've never taken
a big bite        out of...•
Pain or pleasure?
A poison picked,
A moment missed.

Ingested,
Until you're sick.

Every measure,
Enticed so quick.

Embraced,
Brick by brick.

Oh,
Hugs of concrete.
I'm drunk
K Balachandran Apr 2016
Was with  a salacious witch
      with amazing quick silver tongue,
Confidence personified
   she challenged me to chase her,
If I so wish, not in words.
 Her liquid eyes and gestures,
made me mad with pleasure
by the time we reached the peacock hill.
Peacocks, big  blue eyes painted on feathers,
   each, was in love with her, it seemed.
Danced vying with each other,
 to please her, while she winked at me.
As if to say"They'll **** each other
  to get my glad eye"wouldn't I feel jealous?


Helpless, I did surrender to her spell,
 like others in the line, in my front and back.
When just one touch of her index finger,
  would evoke magic, I'll get
Transformed to a young peacock
 of  exquisite beauty, with blue green plumes
none have ever seen before,to flaunt at
others of the ilk, on seeing it they'd back out.


Such a witch is one of a kind,my mind
    whispers, it's she who assures me this,
On the full moon night, due in a week
    we'll fly to the far away  hill where
She'll be with me helping to build a nest,
turning to a peafowl herself,
She'll lay a dozen eggs,
yes, in  to my ear, she says, this is only later,
h
When, she with index finger will
   gently touche me and proclaim, thus:
"This is the peacock I enticed and  
   with my witchcraft ,bound  for life"
In the middle ages overt sexuality of women sorcerers caused the fear that witches steal, penises from males and keep in boxes.as souvenirs.Such fear is rampant even in present day Africa.
What a chance trek with a mercurial witch who offered to be the  guide to a  peacock hill, would evoke?
Mihlali Stwayi Apr 2014
Coming from unknown shores, arrived these Western boats,
with disastrous as well as deceitful tactics they took our gold,
jump to the modern era, they are the ones' promoting ***,
they bare minimum death rates due to *** and Aids,
while African's lives in bitter ruins as the notion of "safe ***" seems perplex.
*** promotion misconstrued as our kids continue ****** the old,
Such consequences were never told,
when they sold us back our own gold.
Systematical control is now the definer of societies
Africans not taught of Qamatha but tested on Socrates,
African souls enticed into materialism by paper and cheese,
while Western supremacists economically ****** African Identities.
African child, fight back please!
This poem aims to tell the untold truth about the legacy of colonialism and imperialism as well as the effects of modern day capitalism on the African child.
Other men are enticed by her body
I'm enticed by the way she speaks and how she treats others
I support healthy bodies all day
But at the end of the day
The Heart counts the most
I just hope she'll count me in
295

Unto like Story—Trouble has enticed me—
How Kinsmen fell—
Brothers and Sister—who preferred the Glory—
And their young will
Bent to the Scaffold, or in Dungeons—chanted—
Till God’s full time—
When they let go the ignominy—smiling—
And Shame went still—

Unto guessed Crests, my moaning fancy, leads me,
Worn fair
By Heads rejected—in the lower country—
Of honors there—
Such spirit makes her perpetual mention,
That I—grown bold—
Step martial—at my Crucifixion—
As Trumpets—rolled—

Feet, small as mine—have marched in Revolution
Firm to the Drum—
Hands—not so stout—hoisted them—in witness—
When Speech went numb—
Let me not shame their sublime deportments—
Drilled bright—
Beckoning—Etruscan invitation—
Toward Light—
jane taylor May 2016
in the heart
of the night
a slice of moonlight
cascading
beckoned

i rouse
its mesmerizing lure
gently stirs
a hazy
remembrance

entranced
from shadows i emerge
hearkening its echo
you’re dreaming
awaken

its shimmering light
engulfed me
prying open my stubborn eyes
in the onyx
darkness

its silver glow
enticed me outside
i stood silent
whilst glistening dewdrops
danced on my toes

a sterling lunar crescent
enlightening midnight
softly
serenades
me

wake up
life’s a trance
you’re
hypnotized
mesmerized

in an ocean of emptiness
i heard
a celestial orb
calling
and ne’er slept again

©2016janetaylor
William A Poppen Nov 2012
She heard that he’s a poet
and wondered if he would write a poem
about her.

A wave of her
shoulder length strands of pleasure
should flag down nearly any man
with an ounce of testosterone.
She wondered if she had a poem in her hair.

She spoke a few soft words
layered with one of her smiles,
the kind most guys adore
because they don’t know if it means
to come closer or to leave her alone.
Perhaps a poem rested in her smile.

If she had cleavage like Jayne Mansfield
surely he would
form lines about her in his mind
and feel compelled to tell the world
how she captured his lust.
She wished for ******* with a poem in her cleavage.

She touched him.
He seemed open to her arm around his waist.
A poet felt like any other man.
She pressed closer;
perhaps he sensed a poem
in the warmth of her lean figure.

Later in bed,
he stayed close, their legs entangled
unlike anything she could remember.
She wondered if there had been a poem
in her *****.

She wished she smoked
and noticed that he didn’t.
Perhaps if they shared a cigarette
he would be enticed by the drift of the smoke from her lips.
Was there a poem in her sensual exhaling?

He seems so Hemingway,
mysterious, yet open to each moment.
Her mind played his movements
like a video tape recorder.
She wondered if she should write a poem about him?
Was there a poem in this experience?
the air was filled with scented candles,
giving the room a red glare
featuring the sweet aroma of her perfume and my shower gel;
we were surrounded by nothing but white walls and blood-like roses that were aesthetically spread on black satin sheets

a once silent atmosphere
quickly transitioned
into a room full of light moans and groans;

we stood in the midst of it all,
lip-locked and engulfed in each other's arms.
she slipped my shirt above my head
and i unzipped her fitted red dress,
watching it drop from her body, onto the ground
discovering nothing but  an alluring bare body underneath.
her upper frame was prepossessing
and it took me a while to regain my sense of awareness.
"this is mine, all mine."
i felt like her thoughts mimicked mine
since we both gave the same smirk at the exact time.

we ended up on the bed sheets,
scattering the roses in our wild venture.

light pecks
quickly turned into deep french kissing
featuring hip caressing
and as my ******* grew
her wetness seemed to become more immense.

light bites
turned into a twilight ****** season
and a trail of purple blooms
trickled from her neck
to between her *******
straight down to her navel.

foreplay was always essential
so i tantalizingly used my tongue
following the flowery trail.
somehow, i got sidetracked
and ended up caressing her left breast,
then the right
and my mouth and tongue seemed to
be enticed by the stiffness of her *******
as they pleasurably tortured them with flicks and twirls.

her moans became louder
but i was unsure if she was ready.
as my mouth and tongue continued their torture,
my hand took a trip to somewhere warm and wet;
i stared her deep in the eyes as my hand slowly explored her walls.
i watched every little moan,
but mid-moan
my lips found their way against hers
and my tongue found itself once again
dancing its sensual dance with hers.

i pitched a bit at the sound of my belt buckle dropping to the floor.
i was left vulnerable and my ******* sprung to life,
pulsing as her soft hands caressed it,
forcing me to succumb and lean back,
giving her the power to do as she pleased.

as i lied there with
my back on the sheet,
my head on the pillow,
and my eyes closed,
i felt her warmth hovering over me
and again, her hand tightly
but comfortably gripped around my *******.

she leaned over me,
whispering sweet serenades in my ear;
the warmth of her breath and the slight touch of her tongue
gave me goosebumps.
it was obvious she realized the effect she had on me
because she repeated it over and over,
ear to ear.
suddenly i felt her teeth sinking into my skin,
sending a mixture of painful
yet euphoric sensations
throughout my body.
she tantalized me with the same purple blooms
but she traveled past my navel
onto the head of my *******.

the twirling of her moist tongue
gave me the impression that i had died for a split second.
i was far from a submissive but i allowed her some play-time
as she continued her pleasurable torture of tongue swirls.

her time was up.

i parted her thick but soft hair and slipped between her soft lips
which she already had wet for my arrival.
with slow twirling hip movements,
i repeatedly made an entrance and exit between her lips,
sometimes greeted by the tantalizing feel of her tongue
sending me off the edge.

things got heated and she pushed herself back,
parting her thighs,
looking me in the eyes and biting her lips.
the view was one to make any grown man succumb.
i crawled over,
playfully nibbling at her toes
up to her inner thighs,
leaving yet more purple blooms;
with each one,
i witnessed an exorcism
as her eyes rolled back and her eyes became more lustful
and her body seemed to crave me more and more.

sweet sweet pink matter.

my tongue found itself trailing along the inner parts of her *****
then circling and flicking her **** tortuously.
i felt her feet and hands
wrapped around my neck
suffocating me in the sweetest taste and aroma
and as i struck my final flick,
i ****** up her ****,
sending her to her ******,
as she clung onto my head as her body
repeatedly ****** and became tense.

it was time.

i found myself against her ear,
"are you ready princess?"
she nodded and my lips locked with hers
while my hands made their way down to her *******.
my *******, now pulsing vigorously,
found itself between her legs,
with tip at her entrance;
she began to let out slight moans and screams but
my kisses served as a suppressor for that.
my tip and shaft both made it's full entrance and
not even my lips could deter her screams now.
"should i stop my love?"*
she nodded no and
i felt her hip movements starting to matching mine.
with each *******,
her grip became tighter and tighter.
i felt her grasping onto my ***,
bringing me in deeper and deeper.
i felt my ******* soon succumbing  to the
wetness and tightness of her grip
then she whispered she's ******
and i found myself lost between her legs
and lost in a world of euphoria and relief.

(d.b.d.)
I guess this is one of my many fantasies..at least one of my 'vanilla' fantasies ;)
Thandiwe Sep 2013
The rush of events has led to a gush of words, stapled with no worth.
Found heaven in the eyes of the humble, discovered calmness in minds highly beautiful.
Apart from dawns and sunsets, memories **** on dull days and leave no room for disappointments.
So many thoughts to understand, my soul has found refuge in far unlikely lands.
They buried my truth and bore statues with no value, regarded the perfect view.
We might not fit the clichés or pet names, yet still live and desire a love flame.
We might not seem ideal or even suitable to walk in public with...yet there is gold worth finding beneath the sins.
We might not be admired nor desired yet we don't carry nor wear any plastic enhancers that have gotten many enticed.
Though it seems, most eyes lust the bust, what happened to knowing the heart.
Forget the stereotype; instead find your best friend in their inner souls and deep eyes.
Can't we fall in love with the beauties of life, simple things that don't require violence or lies?
Allow us to cry from what a melody can do to our souls, exuding the warmth it cloths us with, crushing hate speech and moans.
Sometimes wish I'd be the air blown out of those shiny saxophones, forget the hurts and constant self battles that leave us alone.
Sometimes wish we spoke through music, but we have resorted to inhuman ways and the ultimate mind games, testing to see who will be more drastic.
I wish you'd fill my spirits with heavenly notes..."let me get your name so I can be more genuine" 9th Wonder say it best.
Speaking truth that lightens dark hearts and fresh regrets.
They seem to associate beauty with so many things, laughs! Jewellery and rings, money and kings, wohw!
What happens to those who embrace their truths...bringing out their inner glow.
You pants low, crazy what we find beautiful along with their flaws.
Let's escape and go were skies home our conversations, understanding each other's thoughts without disturbance.
Giving love in abundance, breathing in freshness and getting tingles from stolen glances.
How I wish...don't ever want to be selfish, your happiness will always come first.
I still admire you...mostly where your soul dwells, some things are a bit too good to be true.
Yet we still enticed, just waiting for when reality awakens and leaves our hopes sliced.
Thandi Xaba
Poetic T May 2015
blade enticed soft skin
coldness violate the warmth
crimson tears come forth
Liz Aug 2014
Your tall body has always enticed me
Your long arms have kept me safe
Your scruffy beard makes me smile
And your smile makes me melt
Your hands hold mine and make me feel loved
And wipe away the tears

Enough of these superficial reasons
Your love has comforted me
Your humor has made me laugh
(Until I snort)
Your words have made smile
And cry
But always out of love
Your generosity
Has never left me empty handed
No matter how much I beg you
To keep your money for yourself
Your caring heart reminds me
I'm not alone

Somehow you stopped the shaking trembling in my anxious thoughts
You brought me back to reality
You stopped me from dying
You stopped me from hurting myself
You stopped me from starving
From expelling the contents of my stomach
But most of all you gave me hope
A reason to carry on

A reason to fight my mind
To tell the mirror it's a liar
To throw my blades away
And eat whatever I want
A reason to keep living
And to love myself

I know you don't feel good enough
But look at all this evidence
Change the criteria in your head
The requirement of "good enough"
Should only contain one thing
You

All you have to be is you
To be good enough for me
Because I ******* love you
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

Once upon a time in the city of Omurate
In the southern part of Ethiopia
Omurate that is on Ethiopian boundary with Kenya
There were two prosperous animal families
Living side by side as good neighbours
in glory and pomp of riches
Each family was ostensibly rich
And rambunctious in social styles
They were the families of African rat family
And the Jewish cat family; the city belonged to them
They all enjoyed stocks of desert scorpions from Todanyang
From the savanna desert of Northern Kenya,
The two families also enjoyed to feed on desert locusts
On which they regularly fed without food squabbles
                               Locust themselves they flew from Lowarang to Omurate
From Lowarang a desert region in Kenya, to their city of Omurate
Sometimes the Jewish cat family enjoyed an extra dish
In form of puff adder flesh, especially the steak of the puff adder muscle
Puff adder were cheaply available in plenty at the lakeshore,
Lakeshores of Lake Turkana
At point which river Ormo enters into Lake Turkana
So the cat was happy and relaxed
Even it rarely mewed,  
Neighbours never often heard its mewing sound
The rat also enjoyed plenty of milk with no strain
Easily gotten from the rustled cattles
Cattle rustled by the Merilee; a warrior tribe in Omurate.

That day the cat had gulped milk since morning
Even its stomach was bulging
Like that of Kenyan state officer
The rat had milk all over the house
In the kitchen, milk allover
In the sitting room, milk in abundance
In the wash, room milk all through
On the bed, milk and stuffs of milk
The rat was bored with nothing to be enticed
Sometimes plenty of milk can become a bother
The rat mused to itself in foolish African empathy
That may be the cat is starving in pangs of hunger
With nothing to drink, or may be it has no milk
When the milk is rotting here in my house
It is un-African for food to rot in your house
When the neighbour’s belly is not full,
On these thoughts the rat washed its legs, and hands
Finished up with its face,
Put on its white short trouser and a green top
It stuffed its tail inside its white short trouser,
The rat poured milk into two pots,
each *** was full to the brim
It carried one in its left hand
And balanced another on its head
In its right hand was an African walking stick
For the elders known as Pakora
The rat took off to the home of the cat
In full feat of animal love and philanthropy
Whistling its favourite poem;
An Ode to a good neighbour,
Walking carefully lest it spills brimful milk,
It entered into the house of the cat without haste
Neither knocking nor waiting to be told come in
In that spectacular charisma of a good neighbour,
When the cat saw the rat it giggled two short giggles
And almost got choked by indecision
For it had been long since this happened,
Since the cat had dine on milk leave alone rat meat
The rat said to the Jewish cat that my brother
Have milk I have brought for you
Have it and sip here it is; the real milk,
In devilish calmness the cat told the rat;
Put it for me on the table, thank you,
But my friend Mr. rat don’t go away; there is more
More for you to help me in addition to milk,
Continue my brother Mr. Cat, how can I help you?
Don’t call me your brother; bursted the cat,
For it is long since I ate the rat meat
And you know rat meat is our stable food
In a frenetic feat of powerlessness the rat was confused
In attempt to save itself
it pleaded that my dear elder, I was
Only having plenty of milk in my house
And to us African rats, it is a taboo
To have a lot of food in your house
When the neighbour’s belly is not full
So I only brought you the present of Milk
Please have it and drink,
Without taciturnity the Cat retorted in persistence;
I know and I am thankful for your good manners
But remember with us Jewish cats it is heinous sin
Forget of a taboo, it is blasphemy against the living
God for one of us to leave the rat free from our house
For you rats are the only stable and kosher food God blessed for us
The Jewish rat family all over the world
So shut up your mandibles, I am to eat you first
Then I will take milk later as a relish.

With its herculean paw the cat crushed the rat
With mighty of the leopard culture
Throwing away the white trouser
And green top from the torso of the rat
The cat ate the rat with voracity of the devil
After which it punctuated its mid day appetite
With slow and relaxed sipping of milk
Slowly and slowly as it felt its internal greatness
And hence the African proverbial cry that;
Behold foolish angst kills the African rat!
Trevor Gates May 2013
I’ve been expecting you.
I’ve waited an eternity.
Please sit
Thank you
I will now tell you things

I will tell you things I will do
Things I will do to you

Are you curious to know what they are?
You should be.

As I am curious to know
What compelled you to come here?
Yes

Everything in your conscious told you to stay away.
Yet, you are here.
Your friends warned you
But, you are here
Your nagging doubts, your conflicting reasoning all point to something else
Alas, you are here

And I can’t seem to understand why.
You know what I am.
I am an unconventional socialite of the most diabolic kind

I feed off the likes of you.
The sweet, tangible nectarine of modern serenity
The soft, lavender of incorruptible virtues
The delicate outer skin of savory delectability

My mouth waters at the very thought of you
I salivate with the very presence of you
I can feel my blood rush
My hands shake with anticipation

Let my touch
Caress you
Warm you
You don’t deny it
Because you long for it
You long for me to trace your lips with my fingertips
To suckle the flesh drops of your ears
To familiarize my hands with your supple body
To show you the darker side of forbidden passion
To welcome you into the bounty of vicious coitus
And depraved, animistic *******
And deep recessive *******
And blood constricted battering
With lines and whips
Chains
Belts
Leather and
Nightmares
And masters
And tormentors
And wicked shadows lurking in the room
Watching us as we display the ungodly exhibition
Of your forbidden desires

For me to savor the swelling peach of your ***** fruit.

This is for you.

Even as you proclaim your goodness to others
You have a side of your personality that demands unsuppressed copulation.

And why do you need this?
Why do you need me?

I can see it in your eyes.

It was because people in another world told you to hide your womanhood
To despise you sexuality
For it will make you weak
And vulnerable

What was your story behind your frailty?

It could have been the close-minded parents of the old age, who never tried to think for themselves; only allowing others with higher knowledge to justify their old-fashioned morals.
Or
The life you saw through popular culture and mind-altering media.  The problem with pop cultivation is that is follows the wave lengths of susceptible hosts: the average, everyday citizens that “trust” the outside word; that “trust” what is said to them through dystopian and totalitarian subtleties.  
You didn’t know better.
But you could tell it wasn’t right
How is it that a young child can truly know what is right and what is wrong
More so than the misconceived adults?
Because simplicity is key to filtering the complex

Now what does this have to deal with you sexuality
Because unless you do what is only natural for you to do, others will tell you what you should do.

Now, you embrace your emerging fruition.
As my tongue slithers around your sensitive ****
My fingers stretch and penetrate your wanting *****
Now
Is your chance
Overpower the host before you
It is a test

Your daunting task ahead is to overthrow the embellishment of your submission

Are you up to it?

We shall see.

The shadows on the walls are the ones that maimed you
Scolded you
Accosted you
Abused you
Terrified you
Rectified you
Molested you
Suffocated you
Punished you
Insulted you
Silenced you
***** you

Why?

Because they are:
Afraid of you
Intimated of you
Worried of you
Scared of you
And
Enticed by you
Infuriated by you
Aroused by you
Alarmed by you
Entranced by you
And pleasured by you

Could you be all and none of what I said?
You tell me
Whisper it in my ear
Now bite it
Use your teeth and swear it
Tear it and devour it
My creature of the night
My child of ritual
My servant to flesh
My master to skin
My all to this and none to that
The embodiment of lust
The being of now

And the beginning of the end.
Thank you for coming here tonight my dear.  Send my regards to your fans and loved ones: Johnny Depp, Lucifer, Mammon, Hellraiser, Candyman, egg whites, Wool hats, Epson printers, Derek Riggs, Spider-man, Bruce Willis, Lampshade, Black Holes, Taxi drivers, Durex condoms, Hank Azaria, Simon Pegg, Colonel Sanders, Iron Man, Spike Jones, Spike Lee, Spike Speigel, Eva Green and of course his imperial majesty, David Bowie.

Maybe we’ll see each other again.
Francie Lynch Nov 2014
School days in winter
Were such fun
Without a care,
When we were young.

At recess we'd slide
On ice,
Build our forts,
Duck and fight.
The firemen
Beneath starlight,
Would flood our schoolyard,
Whet appetites
For hockey games
Between senior classes;
We'd skate and shoot,
Fall on our *****.
Such joy and fun,
And no one lost.

The bell would sound,
Then we'd toss
Our wet socks
On school room
Rads.
His and hers
Like banners waving,
Drying, hissing,
Choking, aging.

Impatiently we'd sit and wait,
Do our math
And conjugate;
The clock's hands,
Frozen,
Watched from
The wall,

At last the lunchtime
Bell would ring,
And we'd get bundled
Once again.

Before heading home
We're enticed
To slide once more
On hard, grey ice.
What do you want from me?
I ask my memories,
Wondering why they’ve come out to play,
Tap dancing across the wood floors of me mind,
Creating a cacophony that echoes off my skull.
What do you want from me?
I hear them when they respond, “We’re trying to make you safe.”
I know they’re attempting to prevent tumbling off the same rocks,
Trying to ensure I don’t crack bones on the same hard places.
They are telling me to avoid having pieces of me stolen again.
I couldn’t protect myself at thirteen or sixteen,
So I stumbled down the same dark alleys until I was 18
And paid a grander price in an even darker cave at 19.
I’m 22 now, and I’m still picking up the pieces out of the mouths of men,
Men who cut me down until I was a conglomerate of bite size, fuckable pieces.
I was taught not to scream when my pieces were being consumed.
Who needs to be a whole human anyway?
If tip money went into my pocket,
If he told me he loved me afterwards,
If I was alive to see the morning light,
Who was I to complain?  
And when I stopped wanting to see the sun rise,
They gazed upon my pieces
And berated me for the wreckage.
What do you want from me?
Is a question I only know how to ask myself.
I have never dared ask those who stole from me
Whether they came to me in good faith,
Never had the wisdom to lock up what was valuable.
I have never demanded of anyone what their intentions were,
So I ask again: What do you want from me?
What am I expected to provide?
Am I allowed to be a whole human here?
Or will you require I be bite size again?
I am desperate to be safe in the same flesh that once enticed those who hunted me.
What do you want from me?
I’ll tell you what I want.
I want to go home whole,
Knowing my skin is all mine.
RAJ NANDY Jun 2015
AN EXOTIC JOURNEY TO THE
               KHYBER PASS!
              By Raj Nandy

“When spring-time flushes the desert grass,
Our caravan wind through the Khyber Pass.
Lean are the camels but fat the frails,
Lighter the purses but heavy the bales!
As the snowbound trade of the North comes down,
To the market square of Peshawar town.”
- Rudyard Kipling (Dec1865- Jan 1936).

Those immortal lines of Kipling had enticed me,
To delve into famous Khyber’s exotic History ;
And today I narrate its wondrous story!

THE KHYBER PASS:
Steeped in adventure, bloodshed and mystery,
The Khyber remains the doorway of History!
Winston Churchill, then a young newspaper
correspondent in 18 97 had said, -
‘Each rock and hill along the pass had a story
to tell! ’
Cutting across the limestone cliffs more than
thousand feet high,
This narrow winding path of 45 km’s stretch,
Cuts through the Hindu Kush mountain range!
Forming a part of the ancient Silk Route between
Central and South Asia;
Linking Kabul with Peshawar town during those
early days of Pre-Independent India!
The area is inhabited by fierce Pashtun tribesmen,
who live by their ancient Honor Code;
They value their land and liberty, and their winding
mountain roads !
They can be the greatest of friends and deadliest
of foes;
And as the saying goes, for a friend a Pashtun
can even give up his life;
But he never forgets a wrong or when rubbed on
the wrong side !
He always avenges a wrong deed done, -
Even after decades, through his sons!
The indigenous tribes living along the pass,
Regard this area as their sole preserve!
They have levied a toll on all travelers from
the earliest days,
For their safe conduct and passage through the
Khyber, - as Historians say!

HISTORIC INVASIONS THROUGH KHYBER:
At its highest point the Khyber is 3500 ft in height,
But its strategic importance can never be denied!
Around 2000 BC came the Indo-Aryan tribes
from Central Asia,
Migrating to the rich fertile plains of Ancient India!
In 326 BC, the great Alexander came through,
By bribing the local tribes to gain their favour,
To defeat King Porus on the banks of Jhelum River;
And set up his short-lived Bactrian Empire!
In 1192 AD Afghan warlord Mohammad Ghori, -
Invaded India to set up The Sultanate at Delhi!
In 1220 Genghis Khan with his Mongol hordes
came through the Khyber;
With the help of local tribesmen to plunder the
ruling Arab Empire!
In 1380 through this pass came Timur Lane,
To wreck and destroy the Delhi Sultanate!
And finally from Kabul through the Khyber path,
Came Babur to establish the Mogul Empire with
his victory at Panipath!
From 1839 till 1919, here the British had fought,
- three ****** Anglo-Afghan Wars!
And before retreating, drew the famous Durand
Line to ally fears;
But this Line is now the cause of bickering and
tribal tears!

THE BRITISH KHYBER RAILWAY:
At Jamrud Cantonment town 17 km west of
Peshawar,
Lies the doorway to the historic Khyber!
The track passes through a breath-taking rugged
mountainous terrain, -
Through 34 tunnels, over 92 bridges, a 42 kilometer’s
of winding stretch!
A five hour’s journey at Laudi Kotal gets complete;
The line stands as a tribute to British Engineering
feat!
The legendary Khyber Rifles had guarded the
western flanks of the British Empire,
With garrisoned troops guarding this route entire! @
Since 1990 this train is run by a private enterprise, #
With local tribesmen always taking a free joy ride!
Recent Taliban attacks made Pakistan to close
the Khyber Pass,
An uneasy truce prevails, only God knows how
long it will last ?!
But with that Durand Line of 1893 demarcated,
Forty million Pashtuns today stand divided, -
Between Pakistan and Afghanistan!
With hopes, aspirations and dreams of becoming
United!
- Raj Nandy
New Delhi .

NOTES:-
Battle Of Panipath, April 1526, where Babur defeated numerically
superior forces of Ibrahim Lodhi; thereby establishing the Moghul
Empire in India!
On 04Nov1925, the British inaugurated the Khyber Railway to carry
troops up to Laudi Kotal on the other end, short of the Afghan border
to guard the western flanks of the British Empire!
@KHYBER RIFLES: - Raised in early1880s with HQs at Laudi Kotal,
& garrison troops manning the Forts at Ali Masjid near the
mid-way point of the Pass, and also at Fort Maud to the east of the
Khyber Pass.
KHYBER RAILWAYS: With 75 seats, a kitchenette, and two toilets;
pulled by two old Lancashire engines of 1920 vintage! It cuts across
Peshwar Airport under Air Traffic Control! It was stopped in 1982, as
economically not viable! Started again by a Private Enterprise
in 1990, in collaboration with the Pak Railway! After the Partition of
India in 1947, the Khyber is under the Federal Administered Tribal
Area of Pakistan! A difficult and a volatile region to govern! The
Khyber now remains closed due political reasons! Thanks for
reading.
* ALL COPYRIGHTS ARE WITH RAJ NANDY
In the great dephts of a collossal anthem
There were ray beams gathered, focused
Beautifully by a magic magnifying glass.

The true meaning of existence was living,
Breathing, focusing on step by steps little
Revelations; non-existing bouquets lit on
Misty meadows glowing in the morning
Dew drops budding on cherry blossoms.

He thought-nevertheless: he's falling into
The infinite abyss of his enticed farenheit
Hell, swirling his brilliant darkish mind to
The point of total absolute white, mingled
With blackness and sweet spectre of love
Profoundly smooched~wickedly nooked.
Imagined by
Impeccable Space
Poetic Lovebeam
sun stars moons Dec 2014
nothing quite like it
so crisp and pure
angelic, almost.

sent from the heavens
drifting every so slowly
white solitude.
TheLonely Sep 2015
Im not addicted
Im obsessed
And my drug of choice
Is one of the best

I owe you everything
And thats exactly what you took
The moment I met you
You enticed me with your look

I was dying to try you
Now im simply dying
Cause they took you away
And my insides are crying

You kept me safe
And always confidant
Now my friends are afraid
That I've lost my common sense

But if you got high
You'd put your morals aside
And if this brings me closer to death
I think im ready to die.
Her active pill habbit
James Jarrett Jan 2014
The scent of the pollen allured her, hanging in the still air of the morning. She would stop in her travel and visit each flower that she found. The precious nectar oozed from deep within the petals and she would thirstily drink at each one.   She would gently land in the scented shade of each blossom and coax the precious nourishment from it. She never gorged, but rather drank from each flower what it was willing to give. Some were full and over ripe and bursting with the honeyed juice. Others had a smaller treasure, but she would drink lovingly of their gift leaving them an offering of pollen as a thanks.     Her small, delicate tongue would gently lick and probe the recesses of the flower hunting the sweetness inside. The pollen on her coat would touch with the very deepest innards of the bloom and enter its very core. Her gift, as she suckled each part, was imparted into the scented womb of the softly petaled blossom.     Each flower awaited her coming and spread wide it’s scented opening for her to enter. Their swollen pistils would be gorged with the potential for life and their gently glistening stamens would tempt her to feed on their sticky juices. The soft buzzing of her wings caressed the delicate parts of the fragrant blooms with a gentle breeze as she drank her sustenance.                She sheltered in the colored shade of petals, hung round her like colored sheets, as she took what each one had to offer.      When she was done she would move on to the next, slowly and deliberately milking the juice of life from each one. Every flower needed her and each one did what it could to tempt her in. Some threw heavy fragrance into the air so she could catch their scent while others bared their large and swollen glands so she could see their abundance.        She traveled from bloom to bloom, sometimes enticed by the shaded shelter, and other times the sight of glistening pollen. But she fed on each one, large and small, and in each one she left her gift. The pollen that she carried would be imparted on each ***** stamen as she fed. The glistening end of the shaft was soft and sticky and waiting for the pollen that would carry on its life.      While she fed each day, there was a gardener who tended to her plants. He took gentle care of them, weeding and pruning and tending to their needs. The flowers that she fed on were his future sustenance and he tended her as well. He would follow her sometimes through his garden and watch as she gently buzzed from plant to plant.        She was used to his watchful eyes as he watched her drink from each bloom. He knew that his crop depended on her and he would peer into the bedding of petals as she caressed the sweetness from each one with her tongue. Her long tongue would probe deep into the recesses of the fragrant flower and find every drop of nectar.         The gardener watched as she carried on the cycle of life for him and would wait for days to see the swollen fruits of her labor burgeoning from his plants. When she left each flower satisfied with their delicious treat, she would fly off to the next, not knowing that a seed would be swelling in the gorged pistil that she just left.        And so it went as the bee buzzed her life away every day. The gardener would be there among his carefully tended crops, watching and waiting as she moved among the flowers. His gaze would follow her as she traveled through the foliage and landed amongst the blooms. Every day he would watch as she coaxed the sweet nectar from each one and left her gift in return.
Allania Berkey Mar 2016
The clock struck midnight
I was restless and thoughtful as could be
I noticed that I had been tossing and turning to a beat and rhythm that plunged above in the sky
It was a thunder-storm
bang, crash, thump
The sky illuminated in glory
Envy

The thunder roared and crashed in the middle of the night and the trees helplessly yearned for serenity
Ironic
It was calm earlier that day
Imagine
The breeze was right where it should have been and the sun was warmer than a hot skillet on a stove top
Peace
The sky was fostered in a pacific blue
And the clouds resembled dreams
Love
I remember it was 1:05 pm to be exact and I was feeling blissful
I decided to ride my bike through a quaint old town, two miles west of my house
Adventure
I stopped and stared at this little old man painting in the park
He was painting a tree, with pink, red, purple and gray
Odd
I couldn't help, but noticed how he was enticed by his surroundings
Interesting
I continued to bike away
It was now 2:45pm and I was feeling a bit famished
To the right of me stayed a cunning unforgettable coffee shop
I insisted to go in
Hesitation
Something about that coffee shop struck me that day, just like the little old man painting his introspection in the park
The room reeked in comfort and patience
Something I did not understand
Silence
Contemplatively, I bought a cup of coffee--black, I also companied that coffee with a blue berry scone--my favorite
I sat by the window to admire the sunlight and how the warmth cherished my skin
I sipped my coffee--startled
I noticed something peculiar about this coffee shop and this day
Instantly, I was left with an uneasy and unsettled feeling
Thoughtful
My black coffee was much more bitter than usual
It is as if the taste could not go down my throat
Something was wrong, I felt it
As I looked around the room everyone else was enjoying their cup of coffee
They also seemed to lack any hesitation
The tone in their voices create a harmonic rhythm in conversation
I noticed that every time they took a sip of their coffee they found it sweet, rather than bitter
I turned my head and looked out the window for a moment
Suddenly, I noticed that the sky was diminishing in its tints of blue
Wonder
I looked down at my watch
It was 3:35pm, I had to get home
I paid my bill and scurried onto my bike
Remember
The sky was calm throughout the entirety of the day
It was lovely and ideal--until it wasn't

No one expected a storm
No one expected disaster
But somehow, I did

I laid in bed that night waiting in anticipation
Waiting for my world to collide
Thunder and lighting seemed to have fought its way through the sky
Time
There wasn't enough
Concurrently, I felt bitter-- just like my cup of coffee in that cunning old shop
Ambiguity
I was left without answers
I was left without sugar and cream
creek, scratch, thump
The tree branch slid against the slide of my house
I noticed it all
It's starting
All the anticipation and anxiety I felt throughout the day was finally coming to its end or maybe to its start
The sky started to illuminate an illusion of sunlight
It was 11:30 pm and the day it almost to its end
I laid in bed thinking
I thought about my day and everything that it was missing
I notice it all
The little old man in the park painted a tree with a usual set of pigments, he defined ordinary, while sat alone comforted by the mere work of his creativity
The people in the coffee shop arrayed and encompassed patience, harmony and happiness
I was struck by discomfort because I unware of all those wonderful things
I knew all about the thunder and how it was provoked in the sky
I understood the lighting and its wish to shine
I thought of the beat and tempo that they would together make
Sometimes it was bitter, but sometimes it was sweet
I understood thunder and lighting
I understood why they danced viciously in the sky  
Finally, the clock struck midnight and it was now tomorrow
Fear
The storm was coming to its peak
The thunder fought its way with the lighting just as viciously written words floated on a piece of paper
The lighting struck back with ferocious and willful ambition
Relentless
The lighting held its ground, but didn't give up its hope
BANG
Memories
It was 1:05 am
The storm had reached its end
The thunder and lighting seemed to have parted their ways
Their fight was tortious
Nobody won, rather they both lost
It was 1:25 am
The rain had finally stopped
The trees have found their peace
It was 1:42 am
As I laid in bed, I thought about my day
I just want the storm to stop
Just like the the thunder and lightening, the little old man in the park and the people in that cunning old coffee shop, all have found their comfort and patience
The thunder and lightening have similarly found it in their bitter sweet good bye
It was wonderful
I noticed that as much as they fought throughout that darling midnight blue sky, they were attracted to their rhythm—A rhythm that was worth saving
The sweetness was found in their beat as they danced throughout the night
The thunder and lighting created a bittersweet combination
Just like the coffee I wish I would of had
A natural disaster that was intended to create a craze in the sky
The thunder wanted to be sweet, as did the lighting
Two peas in two different pods
Their negativity created the sweet appreciation of warm sunlight
I notice it all
The sun was the sweet
The day was calm
The thunder and lightening both knew it all too well
That night, the reminder of it anyways, I laid in bed and I knew that someday the storm would go away
It was 2:25 am and I finally shut my eyes
We stepped, unknowing, into the shadows
cast
by social media; postmodern realities emerged,
Crafted
from big data. We're caught in the world wide web,
Caught between
"the electron and the switch".
Cambridge Analytica,
Data Propira;
Technocracy,
Algocracy.

Enticed
by a promise
of what could be,
"Trust your technolust"
was the advice those hopefuls gave me.
Their optimism, innocent naivety, glitched history.
I can't sign out
of my social media account.
Anxiety's got me in her grip.

How do we fight the power,
Will privacy prevail?
Data rights
would promise us
a patch for this great hack,
But
there'll always be shadows
as long as there's light,
Those who declare
anonymity is
their right.
Cyberpunks, cypherpunks, crypto-anarchism
won't be enough.
As is, potentials' -liberalism and -libertarianism
duke it out.
The electron remains, but one wonders
as 'the switch' gives way
to something all the more quantum.
Recommended watching:
The Great Hack (2019)

Quotes:
Line Seven from The Hacker Manifesto by +++The Mentor+++ (January 8, 1986)
Line Fifteen seen in Hackers (1995)
Tom Spencer Jul 2015
Crumpled on a ***** door mat,
left by the cats -
the owl is just a loose bag
of feathers now - empty talons curled,
and one fierce eye turned
over its shoulder.

"What soft flesh enticed you to the ground?"

Lifting the mat, I remember
waking at night to the trilling call – a silvery vein
wrapped in the dark energy of hunger.

“All things die and too soon...” I say aloud,
my own eye sinking into that inky well. The
vacant perch leaning over my shoulder.

"What is to become of my flesh, my soul?"

"It's the waking that counts," I think, "and the meeting."
For a moment I wake again - grateful for the living.

Tom Spencer © 2017
with gratitude for Mary Oliver
PJ Poesy May 2016
}I{
“Sinuhe”

King Khety is blinking madly
Haruspex has left him ominous oracle
Sinuhe is on his return, fugitive no more
Sinuhe brings with him enemy’s daughter
Not prize, Nefru his wife and Libyan lore
Sinuhe from slavery came, poet she did adore

Egyptian tombs do tell in detail
Hieroglyphic tales, this juncture of peril
Khety not King, but Sinuhe’s noble brother
Knows true King come to claim throne
Sinuhe the nobler, knows a life of none other
Than slave sold by Odious, the step-mother

Yes Queen Odious, deep in den of asps
Collected poison venom to undue her marriage
To Sinuhe’s father Merikare, Pharaoh of Moon
Odious’ ghastly act nearly tore Egypt in two
Her derangement sent Sinuhe far across sand dune
Odious took crown, added gilded teeth of baboon

Made her son King, though he did implore
Khety saw insanity and for what, he was in store
Khety remembers his Great Father’s words
“The heart of someone who listens to his temper
Is doomed to follow the stink of camel herds
Better to let heart fly upon sky, as do birds”

Yet by years tormented, Khety became undone
More like his mother and even more sniveling
Than the Odious one, so he did as he was told
Incessant dribbling marked a life for him
He minded his words lest he knew he’d be sold
Mother’s high priest Abhorus was bitter and cold

Sinuhe’s struggles were unknown to King Khety
Years of near starvation and wearisome labor
Made Sinuhe the better man, as he did never forget
Assurances of his noblest Father, Pharaoh Merikare
Virtue ascribed, Sinuhe kept valor in each trial met
Furthermore, his noblest task still to come as of yet



}II{
“Numidian Queen”

Nefru, Numidian Queen to Land of Libya
Recalls young slave Sinuhe’s hostility to captivity
His intelligence overcoming, who once would be King
Of Egypt had not violent arm but ferocious mind
Using wit to overcome adversity and words he did sing
To free his self of internment and all oddity it did bring

Nefru looks upon loyal husband Sinuhe
It is an arduous journey this man has taken
Her commitment be bound now by ivory ring
Loyalty to this man before all forsaken
It is spring, and amongst abundant life come dead things
Fledgling birds first flight failed or so siblings did fling

Now swept into his pilgrimage, Nefru perceives
All adversity Sinuhe did overcome so nobly
To her, he is chukar, partridge of rare plumage
It is to the ground, which this bird be bound
Never reaching sky, low brush be its’ *******
Though its’ song give to her heart an anlage

Freedom from slavery, is Sinuhe’s triumph
Vindication of crown be the mark of new flight
He prays to Horus Behudety, Winged Sun God
Nefru knows of her husband’s will and might
She gifts to him her father’s pinioned golden rod
Scepter of enslaver Mehru, and his feathered shod

It was not of great agreement by Mehru
Should his daughter Nefru marry a slave?
Much less to son of Merikare, an arch enemy
Yet he be so brave, impressions of Sinuhe’s strength
Be made so to change, very nature Sinuhe’s destiny
So much so, Mehru did lament in Merikare’s elegy

So it came to be, a slave marries Queen
Sinuhe and Nefru’s love broke all patterns
Such a love to win hearts of, Gods and Goddess’ unseen
Who rule other worlds and all rings of Saturn
History had never known affection so purely clean
Gatherings from far off fields came to witness such glean



}III{
“Haruspex And Detritus”

Haruspex, soothsayer speaks in half-truths
King Khety believes only small contingent
Be on way to Byblos, presently approaching Qedem
Little does he know, armies of Elephant in tow
Masses of feathered and golden archer’s stem
Blessed by breath of Bat, Goddess and her phlegm

Detritus, Animal Man, hired scout to King Khety
Possesses claws and hair of lion, his home Serengeti
Animal Man’s mane is thrashed in thorns and rubble
Smells of cat ***** but has nose that knows much
Such why Detritus be tolerated, though be much trouble
Haruspex twists tale of tailed man, speaks of him double

Calls him lazy, shiftless, yet Haruspex be cryptic mess
Detritus be banal yes, but true to Khety none the less
Knew his father well, Merikare be his master
It was always Queen Odious, Detritus distrusted
Knowing her demonic betrayal and Egypt’s disaster
She kept him in gypsum cave, scratching alabaster

Kindness had left this Kingdom sometime ago
When Odious and Abhorus overthrew rule
Merikare Moon Pharaoh mummy cry from tomb
Sinuhe ripped from his side by Abhorus
His funeral a very mockery and Detritus’ doom
Haruspex made way from Libya, eyes mucous rheum

Planted by Mehru, Haruspex be sent through desert
King of Libya be wise, sent this oracle as disguise
Not soothsayer at all but spy of opposition
King Mehru knew upon Moon Pharaoh’s death
Peace upon land would not soon come to position
Quickly he sent Haruspex, strangest magician

Detritus knew by the first smell of him
Haruspex came from earth west, not with best
Intentions to natural order of land and sky
And this test of two egos be quite perplexed
With each other and another reason why
This brawny epic riled through years gone by



}IV{
“Ode ‘O’ Odious”

Motioning her battalions, priests and beasts
Evil Queen who overthrow, joins Abhorus’ feast
Beldams be this clergy, **** all about Odious
Snapping of rabbits heads in cacophony of blood
Plunking chalices of malice’s, sacrifices melodious
All in dark chamber halls in depth’s commodious

Stretching of intestine to fine tune harp
Butchers waylay innards with daggers sharp
Mawkish music be Odious’ fame
Concavity’s entrance a perilous scarp
Passers-by enticed by bergamot oil’s flame
Fall to their death to be eaten by dame

Ode ‘O’ Odious, Ode ‘O’ Odious
Drunken mayhap through day and nightcap
She rumpus muck, she ruckus all luck
Ode ‘O’ Odious, Ode ‘O’ Odious
Chambers fill with all matter of bile guck
Bites cobra tails, hooded heads protrude to ****

Death be her power to innocence’s pain
Queen Odious oblivious to her own danger
Seems unstoppable to submissive subjugates
Spinning her terror, cackle calls to maidens
Fem ferocious, how ‘O’ Odious undulates
Casualties collected in long hundredweights

Probity of her high priest be none
Abhorus puppets Odious and will be done
With her second rare blue water lilies run out
The Nile produces this flower of intoxication
Extinction of it is of all certainty, no doubt
Named after her, O Odious flora beguiles lout

Ode ‘O’ Odious, Ode ‘O’ Odious
It is Evil Sorceress and midnight blue flower
Power of it be all in her high flighty head
She misuses its’ tincture to her own final hour
Harvesting it foolishly, nearly till it is dead
And when it is, it will be to all worlds’ dread



}V{
“Oasis In Iaa”

Sinuhe receives word elephants parched
Water need be found, arduous trek campaigned
Nefru never witness such worry, Sinuhe’s face
Ox tail be split to drain nourishment from beasts
No water for miles, no sea birds upon sky to trace
Sinuhe prays, “Montu, God of War find oasis to race!”

Sekhmet, Archer Goddess visits Nefru
Great Lady is besieged by dessert’s spell
Hallucinations bring mirage to Nefru’s sight
Transfixed on dessert’s horizon her eyes
Contingents warriors, bands of archer’s fright
Paths set forth, only to journey by starlit night

At dawn Sinuhe strands his band
Takes his most devoted men of arms
Bhaktu, Parsi, Rhaktu, follow their Lord
Each having faith in man and his wisdom
Eastward they find Syrian tribe in horde
They are welcomed, none need draw sword

Master of Syrian tribe Abu Sefa
Understands who Sinuhe is and was
Orders falconers to find Nefru and throng
Apprises Sinuhe of oasis beyond hummocks
All are soon joined together in wine and song
Oasis found, Iaa, fruited land and lagoon long

Khety is warned of revelry in Iaa
Sends legions Egyptian arms, by order Odious
Anubis, jackal head God given zebra sacrifice
Detritus employed for battle with spears
Copper shields, mediocrity will not suffice
All swords be sharpened by order thrice

Lifeblood battle of Egypt ensues
Sinuhe taken off guard in Iaa,
Elephant screams to be heard for miles
Bhaktu cut down, Rhaktu not found
Parsi’s archers never saw such trials
From lagoons come seething crocodiles



}VI{
Twist Of Fate

Rensi was chosen by Abhorus to speak for Khety
As High Priest, Abhorus did most doling of employs
This proxy Rensi though, be mockery of King
His speech more stammered than Khety’s noise
Grossly disfigured as well, soundings as mice sing
Rensi aware of this, musters all dignity he may bring

Perigee moon at present, o howling now
Hyena laughing at dissertation of Khety’s proxy
Ill ease overcomes this Rensi, an impediment
Speech undone on terrestrial stairs to Memphis
Escalades flora, fauna; monsoons washing sediment
Tefnut, great rain goddess turns world to excrement

This not so illustrious disquisition muted
By torrent winds and torrential liquid compounds
Tefnut’s tears plunk upon all, turning mud blood
Looking out from his great house Khety embroiled
Bares soul to Sobek-Re, Crocodile God; Sun and Crud
Sobek-Re answers prayer, suspending flash flood

In Iaa, as gore of battle ensues, fate lose
As twist of tale find new bemuse and worlds infuse
Detritus sees his lost master Sinuhe encroaching peril
This recognition swells an emotion deep and confuse
Detritus bent in memories flash reacts nobly not feral
With a roar to be heard over all, clamor become sterile

Sounds of battle cease and gaze of majesty
Sinuhe seeing Detritus is overcome by sensibility
Two old beloved friends stare upon each other
Dragging swords behind each move to indemnity
Embrace of each other; secures allegiance another
Sinuhe kisses feet of Detritus; calls him “brother”

As witness to such, all weary legions unite
Moon turn blue, assured sign of Pharaoh Merikare
Mehru’s star battalions federate Moon Pharaoh’s armies
Together as one to Memphis they shall siege Khety
Overthrow Queen Odious and her sinister parties
This mainly being High Priest Abhorus’ autocracies



}VII{
Epitaph Of Detritus

Odious in lair drinks tinctures blue water lilies
Abhorus her advisor suggests only more intoxicants
Khety is shrilling at sight of this deceptive lure
Haruspex makes prophesy of Detritus’ betrayal
Khety sends hunters to trace Animal Man’s spoor
Abhorus finds more legions of archers to procure

Leaving Iaa and moving toward Memphis
Detritus is fitted by Nefru’s maidens new armor
Embroidered with gold, a striped khat is made to adorn
Detritus is humbled by Sinuhe and Nefru’s gifts
His body is perfumed and oiled; his mane then shorn
Beholden to the true King of Egypt, Detritus is sworn

Two men of different lands, both once slaves
Overcome their adversities and rise upon sun
Sinuhe and Detritus’ bond is legitimately noble
Wearing of these worlds bare them new providence
Seemingly this union appears fortuitous global
Keeping steadfast of Abhorus’s archers now mobile

In Sakkara, south of Memphis come tempest
Raining arrows as if raindrops, Sinuhe’s challenge
Detritus’ valor finds reckoning to his last will
Defending Sinuhe, Detritus falls to cumulating
By strength this virtue witnessed, Sinuhe rise still
Throwing down legions of archers, making his ****

Abhorus, Odious, and Khety with no troops left
Surrender to Sinuhe upon his return to Memphis
Odious drinks last vials blue lily tincture, expires
Abhorus struck dead by hand of Khety in resolve
Khety bows to Sinuhe and his Queen as requires
King Sinuhe , Queen Nefru read parchments and fliers

In honor of great Detritus and his noble deeds
Commissioned is greatest sculpture Animal Man
During its’ long construction, most joyful jinks
Song and dance to honor a great warrior true
Each artisan so proud to have heritage to links
Of Animal Man, Detritus, now known as Sphinx
This is my adaptation of The Tale Of Sinuhe. It is the oldest known work of Egyptian literature. This epic poem was written by me with the intent of creating a puppet opera. I hope to collaborate with other poets, musicians, artists and puppeteers to see this come to life. Between each chorus should be arias which embellish the plot and theme. If you may be interested in working on this piece, please let me know via private message. I hope to make it a collaborative work.
1573

To the bright east she flies,
Brothers of Paradise
Remit her home,
Without a change of wings,
Or Love’s convenient things,
Enticed to come.

Fashioning what she is,
Fathoming what she was,
We deem we dream—
And that dissolves the days
Through which existence strays
Homeless at home.
Anthony Williams Sep 2014
The flickering lamp in your hand
sways as if to swim in peace to me
the lily scenting a warm ponder
ripples from the apple of my eye
and bobs across to bid approach
blooming with a soft absorbing sigh
which enters an essence close to reach

Your touch colludes in a light lashed usher
enticed to where my heart will sing
of finding lithe spirit mute from flesh
I slide into choral waters with longing
for the wonder of a parting life wish

Drumming soft
as butterfly strokes
swishing in the night
so close
and so remote
she could vanish
into poppy fields
at any moment
but will never leave
my sight
fluttering
I swim onward..
I swim
out..
by Anthony Williams
Crimean War nurse Florence Nightingale spent her night rounds giving personal care to the wounded, establishing herself as "The Lady with the Lamp." She established a nursing school and her writings sparked worldwide healthcare reform.
amelia ware Dec 2014
I am torn in two.
My head pulls one way
My heart pulls the other.

I am torn in two.
I am drawn by the future I should want
And enticed by the one I actually do.

I am torn in two.
My mind follows the plan of the man who loves me
My eyes follow the man who never will.

I am torn in two.
One half is content with the way things will be.
The other half yearns for the lives I will never live.
September Oct 2011
I think in statistics,
and you in heartbeats.

I am. You are. I am. You are.
I am chemical-based, you are a meaningful scar.

You explore,
covet,
and hoard,
anything near you.

While I am
stuck,
looking at my addiction,
through a lens.

I am forever cursed:
to skim for importance,
to look only at the bigger picture,
to glance only with logic's borrowed eye,

but you are here beside me, and you take in every little detail.

To me, blood is but a fluid,
yet in your eyes,
it is the fuel for lovers and the ink for poetry.

You are feather pens, I am erasable chalk.

The insomniac that is so filled with dreamer-talk.
So enticed by the world, that you couldn’t close an eye.

My mind is logic, reasoning, and your complete opposite.
Every word has a different meaning in your perspective
and every syllable holds a secret—
     one you must find out.

I am textbooks and punctuality and schedules.
But you, you are the only person I can wait on.

This is a cycle with ragged edges, bizarre.
I am. You are. I am. You are.

We are combined; a marvelous oxymoron.
These are just spare thoughts that I thought I should write down.
Isoindoline Oct 2012
Elli had never thought that the walls were strange.  Really, she didn’t think of them as walls precisely; they simply marked where her world ended.  After all, they had always been there, looming grayishly about one hundred feet from her back door.  Occasionally, strange shapes would appear at the top of the wall, silhouetted by bright lights so that she could never say what they looked like.  The sky was a perfect circle of blue or gray, depending on the weather, and it hung rather flatly overhead.  Elli’s house had pristine white walls with a red tile roof, exactly like the other four houses in her little slice of existence.  There was one other child besides Elli, but he was a baby who barely spoke.  

Not that anyone else said much either.  The adults seemed happy enough she supposed and treated her with kindness, but they all looked at each other knowingly, with resignation.  

Elli couldn’t understand why that was so; they had everything they needed here: food, water, clothing, each other.  The weather was even cooperative for the most part, raining just often enough to keep the trees and flowers alive, and never getting cold enough to warrant anything heavier than a long-sleeved shirt.

She had to admit, though, it did get a little boring occasionally.  But, just as soon as she thought she would cry with boredom, a new toy would appear, or a new type of flower for her to discover.  When she asked her mother where these things came from, she would go tight-lipped, then relax, and say gently that they were gifts from Above.

What ‘Above’ was, precisely, no one could (or would) tell her.  So she made it up.
Elli thought that Above was quite mysterious, but it must be benevolent because it gave her so many gifts.  She would talk to Above sometimes, but it never answered; it only came with more presents when she had tired of the old.  Often, Above’s presents to Elli were in the form new discoveries, and very occasionally in the form of an actual toy.

One day, Above gave Elli a mysterious gift: a sketchbook and three pencils.  She was unsure what to do with them at first, but after some experimentation she discovered that one end of the pencil made a mark, and the other end could make the mark disappear.  That discovery alone delighted her, and for a while, she busied herself simply with the process of marking and erasing.

Next, Elli started to put the marks together in ways that pleased her, and eventually filled the entire sketchbook with abstract drawings.  She thought she would erase them all and start over the next day, but when she woke up that morning, another sketchbook and three new pencils were stacked on top of the old.  She squealed with glee.

Elli took the sketchbook out to her favorite tree that day, and as she sat in its shade, it occurred to her that she might be able to replicate what she saw around her on her paper.  
Elli began to draw.  

She explored everywhere for things to draw, and as she followed the curve of the concrete wall late that afternoon, she saw a strange object on the ground, half hidden by a large bush.

Bending down to take a closer look, she noticed that whatever the object was, it was flush with the ground and seemed to have space below it.  Elli thought that was odd; she had always assumed the ground was utterly solid, and to find that there was a seemingly endless hole underneath was disconcerting.  She set her sketchbook and pencils down and reached out for the object.

It was covered in a reddish dust that came off on her fingers.  She grabbed the grate and pulled a bit.  It rattled invitingly.  Acting on impulse, Elli grabbed the cover with both hands and heaved; it was heavy, but not unmanageable, and she soon had it off and found herself staring down a dark tube.  She knelt down, stuck her head in, and shouted.  The echo of her shout leapt away down the tunnel.

Elli backed away from the hole and sat down, contemplating her discovery.  One thing was certain: her little world was not as little as she had thought.

Eventually, Elli decided that the peculiar hole would have to wait.  She was getting hungry, and the thought of her mother’s cooking enticed her.  So, with some effort, Elli pulled the cover back over the hole and dusted her hands.  It would be waiting for her to explore tomorrow.

The next morning, Elli raced out to the hole and dragged the off the cover.  Again, she shouted and listened to the echo of her voice leave her behind.  

She wondered where the echo went.

Finally, curiosity got the better of her, and dragging her sketchbook and pencils with her, she lowered herself into the darkness.  

As her feet touched the bottom, she noticed that the hole had become tall enough for her to stand in.  Looking up, she realized that she would not be able to go back that way. She shook off that thought, and turned her face to the darkness.

The tunnel was damp, so Elli slid her sketchbook protectively under the front of her shirt.  The further she got from her entry point, the darker it became, until she could no longer see anything.  

For the first time in her life, Ellie knew fear.  

She thought of her friend, Above.

I don’t like this; I really don’t like this, Elli said to Above in the darkness.  Can you hear me, Above?  I’d like a gift to help me get out of here.  Please?

No answer came, but Elli knew that that was what would happen.  Above never spoke to her.  She felt wetness well up in her eyes, felt it trail down her face, and touched it with her fingertips.  Her fear abated a little as she stood in the darkness and nothing extraordinary happened.  Elli sniffed.

Picking up her courage, she continued forward in the darkness, feeling her way along the damp walls of the tunnel.  Suddenly, she heard a loud scraping noise overhead.  She jumped back, stumbled over her feet, and dropped her sketchbook in a puddle.  A sliver of light appeared in the ceiling, widening as the scraping noise continued.  Elli looked up, frozen, fear returning vengefully.  Light filled her section of tunnel.  She looked up, blinking at its brightness.  

A strangely elongated hand appeared, silhouetted against the light, reaching out for her.  Elli gasped.  It’s all right, the hand said, I will help you.  I am here to get you out of the tunnel.  Elli didn’t move.  Another strange hand appeared, and together, they reached for her, grasped her, and hauled her out of the darkness.  

Elli looked at the owner of the hands, into a face entirely unlike any she had seen before; the eyes were much too large, and the irises were an iridescent purple.  It didn’t have a nose, and its mouth was decidedly small.  It looked upon her with what she could only fathom was worry and concern.  There were others, standing, watching.

Who are you? Elli asked.
We are Above, it said.
And Elli knew nothing at all.
Prose, not poetry, I know.  And several years old at that.  Wrote this after reading Vonnegut's "Slaughterhouse Five."

— The End —