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Nat Lipstadt Feb 2019
being a poet is not planned

~for Gabriella Garcia~

~~

a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots

what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking

was he thinking?

that it was an ejection
that it was an *******
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?

that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?

try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem  flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too

who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?

knowing well and full
now

the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas


~~

upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
____
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned
sadgirl Jul 2017
am i too much for you?
is it that fact i have a loose *****, or two, or three
did i really need to see you through for every day you
touched me, looked me in the eye, said the fire will never die
but it did

and that hoodie fills a space between two legs,
square pegs into round holes, binge eating until you
hurt your throat
but you still devote yourself to being
skinny

and that word has plagued me for so long, like a song, like a call, and now i need to know, before i fall, am i skinny enough to be loved? is my collarbone every going to be a wishing well, will i burn in hell for the simple sin of being fat?

but in reality, the only real causality was myself
i force fed myself discipline, hoped someone
would listen, but they never did

even the shrinks said i was crazy
and that i was lazy for not going out, excising until
my skin split and a beautiful butterfly emerged
then i'd surge into battle like a goddess

but when your thighs are thick and you aren't modest,
and when you wear lipstick too thick like a woman
with double Ds and an ache between her knees
you know that if you were skinny, you'd never have
these problems, and if you did
you'd know how to solve them
to be skinny
is to be graceful

even in suicidal rages
that flip through pages and pages of stories before they rip my own
from existence
need to be kept under control and kept at a distance like
a tiger that has the taste for human flesh

but now i know i'm the best, because i have a good ****,
long legs and a pretty face
but i'm too hard to replace in this overpriced world
where girls are told to starve themselves

to a neutral, non-pear shape
until their ******* are the tip of an hourglass
their waists are too thin to last
and their eyes are longing for even the tiniest indulgence
avoiding food and any substance
that would jeopardize
skinny

but then i realized
if skinny was so important
then why did all those who were it
probably also were just a little bit away from going insane
and we were in the same boat, staying afloat together
on the ocean of
skinny

so i wrote this poem
for every single girl or woman
who needed a book or a booking
to make them feel beautiful, and by beautiful i mean
skinny

but beautiful can be skinny,
but it can also be thighs like tree trunks,
arms like rivers
and a body that delivers nothing but happiness to that of it's owner

and my body is not some loaner car you
can trash and get away with
there will be fines,
for i am fine,

but in those times, where
nothing was ever promised to me
i started to see

beautiful could mean
staying up to take care of your kids,
single-mothering and being glad your husband
got rid of himself before you could, because
you can do a much better job without the chain-smoke
and you stay woke
forever
because skinny is a construct

or it could mean
studying in waters of student loans,
feeling alone as the only ******* campus
but working hard to become a lawyer or a doctor,
she will always be her mother's daughter

i'd say words stronger than this,
but there are children here,
but ***** skinny!
i am beautiful,
you are beautiful
and by beautiful
i mean anything you want it to mean.
This is not my story, but it could've been. This is the story for every girl who gained a few extra pounds, looked at herself in the mirror and said "I need to fix this". But there's nothing you need to fix. You are beautiful.
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Qui Transtulit Sustinet

There sat CONNECTICUT, a twit
blue nanny-state, and doomed to sit
on welfare-warrens of the ******
her social service on demand.
She withers on NEW ENGLAND‘s vine
a bygone has-been, and a sign
of democratic overkill
where her once-dear and verdant rill
now stagnant flows: polluted stream
a moribund New England dream.
The richest state with poorest heart:
the Northeast’s saddest story. Part
of history’s renowned revival,
now irrelevant. Survival
chains her children in dependence
keeping back the state’s ascendance.
Apostate Puritan, grown old—
for LIBERTY, no longer bold;
a slave to Man, where once God’s WORD
awakened greatness. Souls were stirred
in ENFIELD (of all strange places),
Christ beheld in radiant faces . . .
Edwards held their spellbound souls
like spiders over flaming coals,
in gratitude for Gospel grace
renewing thus both town and race.
But I digress. Connecticut
is what I came to speak about:
forgotten dull colonial matron
yoked in failure, plebe as patron
nostalgic for her Charter Oak
whose deadwood limbs went up in smoke
along with dark tobacco wrap
while the plantation took a nap.
Her social programs overgrowth
pose forest fire-risk. Under oath
her public servants signal virtue;
sign which really should alert you
to the democrat-machine’s
impending failure (ways and means).
Nutmeg-addled Tax-and-spenders,
dollar drunks on welfare benders
widen economic rifts;
force single moms toward double shifts
while Latin Kings hold court in prison
waiting out their royal season:
fiscally unsustainable—
yet totally explainable
(nutmeg is a drug for witches
spendthrift warlocks, bankrupt *******).
Oh HARTFORD, city of the dead
which dies at five, then home to bed,
insurance once assured your rise;
but now your ghosts haunt sadder skies.
Your life displaced, outsourced, out-dated;
so, it seems, your fall was fated.
Meanwhile, close to New York City,
fairer fields are growing pretty
long on corporate commutes.
Data-driven growth computes
as data-drivers flood the roads
and enter by Manhattan-loads
from golden coasts’ Atlantic shores
and posh patrician golden doors
to bite the apple of our time:
a number-cruncher built on crime.
New England’s puritannic granny
(data-driven tyrant ******)
seeks to harbor tropic isles
with blandly bureaucratic smiles.
Your poor dear heart cannot afford
to welcome every island lord
who looks to better his estate
and so decides to emigrate.
Displaced Jamaicans outta yard
compel the soft verse to get hard.
Boricua separatists, dispersed
show nationalities reversed
and dwell between two foreign lands
in Spanglish no one understands.
Such nutmeg gets the covens high
to soar the stormy Liberal sky.
It’s Yankee hubris: condescension
taxing plebes for such dissension.
Though you connect, there I would cut,
excising from New England’s gut
metastasizing social tumors:
clueless and obese consumers,
teenage moms, pajama-clad
whose nenes wait in vain for dad.
QUI TRANSTULIT SUSTINET—truth . . .
but that was was in our nation’s youth.
She’s gotten worse with passing years
confirming citizens’ worst fears;
showing her colors every vote
her monotone, a droning note
on which the blue-bloods hang their hue
when hope and change are overdue.
Her atheist zeal meets Yankee pride:
a most progressive broomstick ride;
oblivious to her Christian past,
an enemy of God at last.
Senryu and Haikai:
Basho-san, can you get me
another beer, please?
Nicholas C Feb 2014
There’s too much light
deluge of photons
an affront to Night’s ambiance

Harsh sulfur streetlight glow:
trickery. illuminating
arteries of Artificial

making the Night
dull dark distant
confined to human construct

robbing Mystery
masking subtlety  
devouring nature

the Immensity
the Antiquity
the Beauty of Stars: gone

Lost
blotted out
by buzzing wasp’s nest

Denizens’ sting
to eyes & minds
inflaming consciousness

no longer can you Feel
small and lost
under the grandeur of nocturnal sky

all is set
before you
here to there

Elsewhere to home
Home?
Sleep in Darkness?

listening & thinking
‘til sleep succumbs
No, now rather

befalling Sickly
pallor of computer glow
we stare with blinders

all else fading
save the screen
before us

******* us in
trapping us
excising thoughts

keeping us
from ourselves
that is why we fill the night

Out of fear. To hide
but not from monsters
nor from ghosts goblins gremlins ghouls

not from lurking eldritch terror of yore
but from ourselves
from Feeling and Being

for fear of perceiving
tactile intuition in the air
of what lies ahead rather than seeing

for fear of walking by ourselves
just ourselves with unencumbered thoughts
and seeing through the facade
the facade of daytime ascribed meanings
the facade of of who we are
the facade of light

The facade that Darkness
is what is lacking
that light is normality

That light is beauty
light is hope
light is life

but it’s just that
a Facade
we plastered ourselves: an Illusion

But there’s truth
at Night and under stars
truth in the sensation of dusky hours

Artistry in ink
the allure of “unknown”
feeling small and lost

Under soft Milky Way
floating over dew laden grass
caressed by cool currents  

There’s Truth
& Beauty
in the Night
LD Goodwin Oct 2017
Do I escape here
To my cave
My therapist
My priest
An ear
Does anyone hear
Listen
Care

Is it just minutia
words that get moved around the page
like dust bunnies swirling in the noonday sun
why do I want you to know what goes on in here
inside this cerebral mass
why do I want you to witness the excising of my existence
the vomiting
purging
lancing of these boils
the expressing of **** glands
emptying the dark places
only to fill them up again

I have always wanted to write down my feelings
what I see......emphasis on “I”
I always have felt that I see it differently than you
Not egotistically speaking,
but that I see it the way this mass of cells called Larry sees it

Hello
It is me in here
The one speaking to you now
And if you are reading this
Thank you for listening
I arose early......this is what you get.
Anais Vionet Jan 2022
I’m going to each of my suitemates' rooms. One at a time, methodically. I pause, for dramatic purpose, until I have their full attention. Once I have it, I rushingly, excitedly, breathlessly say, “I’M getting pizza later, for the GAME!” Like a seven year old child.

Now, my roommates KNOW we're ordering pizzas later. They’re all “on board,” everyone’s submitted their order and venmo’d their money to Sunny who will actually place the order for delivery at 5:30 pm. But I’m excited. I LOVE pizza (and American, NFL football) and I love being childish.

My roommates, like my brother, sister and parents before them, know this and love my manic, overactive way of excising tedium. Besides, I won’t do this more than once or twice - ok, maybe three times today before the pizza comes.

Since you’ve read this far - allow me to opine, for a moment, about “self restraint.”

Have you read about how they’re using familial DNA to solve old cold-case murders? I think they should use familial DNA to track down whomever it was that invented self restraint.

It was probably some old Protestant. I mean, Catholics only have sin - it’s yes or no - binary. So without researching it (at all), I think we’re dealing with someone born after the protestant reformation of 1555 - but I’m flexible.

Anyway, they should track that person down, dig them up, beat them with a stick, and then rebury them, in unhallowed ground.

I hate self restraint. It’s so.. restraining.

#restraintsux
BLT word of the day challenge: opine - to expound on some subject
* I say my roommates “love” my mania but I’ve conducted no research
Maxime Apr 2017
If all appears to be harmony and coexistence in this garden enclosure,

All that means is terrible truths have not yet suffered proper
exposure,

Might you wait a little bit and watch it completely lose its
composure?

Intruding into this once peaceful garden,
digging down in the soft tissue of the mud, is absolutely
the most maniacal bug.  There he goes, he jumps he dashes, he sets devastating fires, but not the kind that leaves behind ashes.

Note that this heinous invader is white and black,
spots of red pepper this raider’s back.
Small with spiny legs ending in sharp claws,
his eager jaws ooze venom that chews and gnaws,
as he ravenously feeds on the garden’s flaws.

Faking harmlessness, you haven’t seen what lies beneath,
like a longsword hidden under its sheath.
This insect is a minion of discontent,
the harbinger of torment.

Every day he lurks there among the tangled grass,
sinking his teeth in unsuspecting plants,
to make them into his loyal sycophants,
He corrupts them farther and farther,
to the point where they even despise being watered,
because his new instruction gives them a thirst for
mutually-assured destruction.

Can you see the garden deteriorate fast, the green turns
brown and the fibers that hold everything together
cease to last?

Toxicity courses through the vegetation,
and now, plants with no evil inclination
are being swallowed up by fear, hate, and indignation.
This once beautiful botanical cultivation
has become a ******* abomination.

Every vine and leaf slowly becoming decayed and grisly.
Has excising the infestation become far too risky
because the plague has manifested and spread,
and the first wave of his victims are already dead?

Definitely people will wonder, even though he’s turned your garden over and under, how could such a little insect make you go completely insane? Well because there is no garden, he lives in my ******* brain.
JP Goss Jan 2015
Their eyes did the judicious scan down to our shoes,
Muddied silence gave us away,
Cartographers of the naughty ditch we huddled in for warmth
Alight go the zip-lock bags are knuckles giggled in
Pulling the drug like creativity,
Often enough to it portraiture;
Spacily, we followed their eyes, lay flaccid fixéd
To there, they stay, when precautions cross and made
Punitive pleasures of the proxies, and all.

Rest assured, we did not care.

Blush for the dervishes, aslant, a chin
Ravaging to the eye, a glance, a smile,
Hoping a spin, awry a touch is enough to motion the room
Sheepish, onto the other,
From there at poles and solemn way: yearning.
Sticky lips, servile mementos
Wishing to be the real thing, palms
Inexorable ones, warmly tie loose ends of the world
Together, sharing as some do the spectator’s space
So twain between him and the moon: mind, body, soul
A coupling of felicitous breadth
And her come-hither stare, clung to lusting silence
Dim, in throes of mere taboo, they stay
Safely, that personal place, the jeers of teenaged love
They buried under blankets to escape.

Rest assured, they did not care.

“Replay, diligently, the last song and keep,” she said,
“Your sarcasms to yourself. I lived it before
Before, oh, it fell all into place; the fiction of photos
Will not keep food in my mouth,
Turned down in nostalgia—to be birthed
Is first in the long thread of loses,
Doled out in tips, the ringed coffee, holding each other together
While I move between tables too eagerly,
Unwelcomed contentment
Wears the dancer’s shoes mockingly
A still-life, still life just gets it, the sad times
Are written, my still life has bills to pay
Arranged like puerile bursts, blossomed hearts
Wanting to pull you through the hole in the earth
And show you the center/poetry buried in still
Lifeless end-times we gave up for access
To green roads of experience and all their contradiction;
The rest was all just small talk.”

Rest assured, she did not care.

Her and I wept away from the palpable, at feelings
Knowledge of solutions to pathos, Love begs itself
Remediation, wrong at every turn, swiftly
Excising its possessions:
Do you love me, or is it ought?
Do I love you or merely the thought?
Long, is it, to have or be—
An aspect of a thousand chattering sounds
Plentitude of voices harken answers we
Bear not to hear, but form in the absence
Bliss, enscribed on parchment, out lovely whole
Complementing our moon,
Bringer of the yeasts of child, of its own siege
Full of what we’ve only given room.
I say, recourse for our maddened state, what we promise
In rhinestones, bands us together, in too small a space,
Too short a time, is that of theft and thing—
Undo, undone the marks the sane voices’ command
We, thus, are to be lectured, tongue-in-cheek
The portmanteaus of proper affection, bed-pleasures: individuality,
Its arithmetic and the modals virile, my destiny divisible
Or walk divided, infinitely one,
Autoerotically in praise of my bottled ***, given to all,
Shared with none, taughtfull-wellknown
A love may never love but itself
If it has choice between—it chooses self,
Indulge, indulge the unlovely ecstasies sure
All lessons lead to conclusion, different in their by-ways
Restlessly falling short of dreams, for the fallen fruits
And sour with despair.

Rest assured, we did not care.
Onoma Oct 2014
Isn't it fun excising polarities
just to watch them wiggle back
toward one another?
Their vortical tumble intellectually
hybridized so a "school of thought"
can advertise perverse stimulation.
Imagine if Yin were told when to
kiss Yang, and how deeply...
with no Unifying eye contact to
consummate their vision.
Thought...Now...is dead...not God--
as the parts of their Sum have been
called Home in regard to misidentification.
Tom Waiting Jun 2020
<>

reversed a verse from “Like a Rolling Stone;
~complements to Mr. B. Dylan, a Nobel man~

you, me, hear what you’re hearing, feeling it,
you, me, hear what you’re thinking, feeling that,
regenerating, excising, pinching a single word of Bobby’s
lyricizing, knowing, you’ve just handbag-snatched a poem full.

the rolling stone sings of next meal scrounging,
he’s talking to you, knowing you, you customizing
his lyrics modifying-jiggering, for your purposeful brain,
emotional crazed notions, your monsanto seed of needs and strains.

nah, I’m fibbing, polite-ly lying,
like clover waves springing up
overnight after a night’s soaking,
raining, picking up hints, misdirections, clues,
***, poem titles dripping from my glassy eyes!

des idées for the next poem, the one, in the garden hereafter,
now called thereafter, all arriving in tranches, backyard bunches,
just to write down the titles fast enough, sometimes, trouble,
oft easy, sometimes rough, but always a fast rush jiggling job.


yeah, I’m liking that word, scrounging,
got character, internal noises aclashing,

so I’m scrounging
while lounging , it’s so ******* easy,

it’s getting borrowed till you! steal
it out from under me,
like an ill reputed
good poet should...


P.S. don’t keep me waiting!
let the scrounging commencin’

tw36
Jason Dec 2015
It is easy to forget
what the heart can’t bear to remember,
and every time I slip into bed
with someone new
I hope she unpicks the uneven stitching
of thread of unfulfilled promises that
“Time will heal all wounds”
(it does not).

But you are no surgeon,
your hands are not deft
but as steady as my fluttering pulse.
Old wounds gape open;
I am all bones and deteriorated sinew
old and slow
so very cold
the spaces between failing organs bleed
congealing dreams going stale.

Still you try,
with each fresh incision
slicing away diseased tissue
excising decaying matter,
believing this patient will recover.

Time might heal all wounds,
yet still,
let’s keep the defibrillator close.
Zane Nov 2021
the labyrinth unwinds itself
and i am afforded air to breathe
what once were raging storms
now give way to peaceful seas

as i gaze at this beauty
polite air of peaceful closure
i wonder to myself
about your own composure

resilience, compassion
these words that defined you
do you still exhale them?
do they still ring true?

for i have spent these months
excising my hurts
remaining thusly for me
is this i feverishly wish to see

now returned from my quest;
your firm stance at my side
we grow strong foundations
not lovesick abominations

a hand reaches out
i look you deep in the eyes
will you take it? i ask
or bade me goodbye

that i might be cursed
forever now bereft
forced to throw pennies
into a wishing well
help me if you can, cuz salutary
     hans solo impossible missions
     fall short asper this mwm to break free,
     thus Siam game for heroic measures to wrest
sill loose, gnome hatter
     remaining time on Earth
     strong arm gull lancing tactics

     aye need to vest
from perverted imps stranglehold
     upon healthy existence
     will resort to extreme thine body electric
     (serves as kool aid base sic acid) test
hosting ocd (analogous to a
     suckling leech happy fiend)

     disallowing this mwm
   (similar to Sir Issac Newton) begs to take a rest
nurses nourishment feeding off host
     (thyself) linkedin, sans sybaritic symbiotic,
     excising unhealthy sycophantic relationship
     long term ultimate quest
shucking loose obsessive pest

     compulsive disorder moocher
     drilled deep into psyche tub billed a nest
which bred a hardy crop that messed
up with my enjoying life tooth ha max,
     viz parasitic, opportunistic,
     narcissistic fealty must stop lest
asphyxiation undermines ability to jest
as if deadly poison
     this chap (as a kid) accidentally did ingest

hence this attempt at plaintive pleading
     for mental health professional
     took hum at my be hest
a much more welcome guest
versus nemesis grounded rivaling mount Everest
that tis all i write unloading off my chest
an agile, fertile, and nimble sprite
     who already out best
this scrivener,  now  completed poem
    confiding bugaboo aye attest.
Jay earnest Jun 2017
I'm gonna start excising just because I want to look like a viking warrior, something that hearkens back to absolute masculinity and
where men were praised for being fierce rather
for being nice.

where an ugly face was a sign of strength.

just an illusion that seems ideal.

buff yet ugly,

hideous yet
indestructible,


contemptible but
proud.

****** but not necessarily angry-

more like wise
hhhhhhhhh
Antony Glaser Nov 2021
The indigenous Alcantara explodes across
the garden floor, unwanted and unloved.
Rosehips are nipped
to give extra nourishment to the rose bush.
The blossoming pink Tree Mallows will last to January,
until then they are left alone.
Brambles are cut at their base
excising their climber roots,
nor forgetting the unheralded demoisturising Ivy.
My Cleparata Eremurus tubers
are gently put into the ground.
Jonathan Foreman, Daily Mail (London), August 18, 2013
The 16-year-old girl’s once-beautiful face was grotesque.
She had been disfigured beyond all recognition in the 18 months she had been held captive by the Comanche Indians.
Now, she was being offered back to the Texan authorities by Indian chiefs as part of a peace negotiation.
To gasps of horror from the watching crowds, the Indians presented her at the Council House in the ranching town of San Antonio in 1840, the year Queen Victoria married Prince Albert.
‘Her head, arms and face were full of bruises and sores,’ wrote one witness, Mary Maverick. ‘And her nose was actually burnt off to the bone. Both nostrils were wide open and denuded of flesh.’
Once handed over, Matilda Lockhart broke down as she described the horrors she had endured—the ****, the relentless ****** humiliation and the way Comanche squaws had tortured her with fire. It wasn’t just her nose, her thin body was hideously scarred all over with burns.
When she mentioned she thought there were 15 other white captives at the Indians’ camp, all of them being subjected to a similar fate, the Texan lawmakers and officials said they were detaining the Comanche chiefs while they rescued the others.
It was a decision that prompted one of the most brutal slaughters in the history of the Wild West—and showed just how bloodthirsty the Comanche could be in revenge.
S C Gwynne, author of Empire Of The Summer Moon about the rise and fall of the Comanche, says simply: ‘No tribe in the history of the Spanish, French, Mexican, Texan, and American occupations of this land had ever caused so much havoc and death. None was even a close second.’
He refers to the ‘demonic immorality’ of Comanche attacks on white settlers, the way in which torture, killings and gang-rapes were routine. ‘The logic of Comanche raids was straightforward,’ he explains.
‘All the men were killed, and any men who were captured alive were tortured; the captive women were gang *****. Babies were invariably killed.’
Not that you would know this from the new Lone Ranger movie, starring Johnny Depp as the Indian Tonto.
For reasons best know to themselves, the film-makers have changed Tonto’s tribe to Comanche—in the original TV version, he was a member of the comparatively peace-loving Potowatomi tribe.
And yet he and his fellow native Americans are presented in the film as saintly victims of a Old West where it is the white settlers—the men who built America—who represent nothing but exploitation, brutality, environmental destruction and genocide.
Depp has said he wanted to play Tonto in order to portray Native Americans in a more sympathetic light. But the Comanche never showed sympathy themselves.
When that Indian delegation to San Antonio realised they were to be detained, they tried to fight their way out with bows and arrows and knives—killing any Texan they could get at. In turn, Texan soldiers opened fire, slaughtering 35 Comanche, injuring many more and taking 29 prisoner.
But the Comanche tribe’s furious response knew no bounds. When the Texans suggested they swap the Comanche prisoners for their captives, the Indians tortured every one of those captives to death instead.
‘One by one, the children and young women were pegged out naked beside the camp fire,’ according to a contemporary account. ‘They were skinned, sliced, and horribly mutilated, and finally burned alive by vengeful women determined to wring the last shriek and convulsion from their agonised bodies. Matilda Lockhart’s six-year-old sister was among these unfortunates who died screaming under the high plains moon.’
Not only were the Comanche specialists in torture, they were also the most ferocious and successful warriors—indeed, they become known as ‘Lords of the Plains’.
They were as imperialist and genocidal as the white settlers who eventually vanquished them.
When they first migrated to the great plains of the American South in the late 18th century from the Rocky Mountains, not only did they achieve dominance over the tribes there, they almost exterminated the Apaches, among the greatest horse warriors in the world.
The key to the Comanche’s brutal success was that they adapted to the horse even more skilfully than the Apaches.
There were no horses at all in the Americas until the Spanish conquerors brought them. And the Comanche were a small, relatively primitive tribe roaming the area that is now Wyoming and Montana, until around 1700, when a migration southwards introduced them to escaped Spanish mustangs from Mexico.
The first Indians to take up the horse, they had an aptitude for horsemanship akin to that of Genghis Khan’s Mongols. Combined with their remarkable ferocity, this enabled them to dominate more territory than any other Indian tribe: what the Spanish called Comancheria spread over at least 250,000 miles.
They terrorised Mexico and brought the expansion of Spanish colonisation of America to a halt. They stole horses to ride and cattle to sell, often in return for firearms.
Other livestock they slaughtered along with babies and the elderly (older women were usually ***** before being killed), leaving what one Mexican called ‘a thousand deserts’. When their warriors were killed they felt honour-bound to exact a revenge that involved torture and death.
Settlers in Texas were utterly terrified of the Comanche, who would travel almost a thousand miles to slaughter a single white family.
The historian T R Fehrenbach, author of Comanche: The History Of A People, tells of a raid on an early settler family called the Parkers, who with other families had set up a stockade known as Fort Parker. In 1836, 100 mounted Comanche warriors appeared outside the fort’s walls, one of them waving a white flag to trick the Parkers.
‘Benjamin Parker went outside the gate to parley with the Comanche,’ he says. ‘The people inside the fort saw the riders suddenly surround him and drive their lances into him. Then with loud whoops, mounted warriors dashed for the gate. Silas Parker was cut down before he could bar their entry; horsemen poured inside the walls.’
Survivors described the slaughter: ‘The two Frosts, father and son, died in front of the women; Elder John Parker, his wife ‘Granny’ and others tried to flee. The warriors scattered and rode them down.
‘John Parker was pinned to the ground, he was scalped and his genitals ripped off. Then he was killed. Granny Parker was stripped and fixed to the earth with a lance driven through her flesh. Several warriors ***** her while she screamed.
‘Silas Parker’s wife Lucy fled through the gate with her four small children. But the Comanche overtook them near the river. They threw her and the four children over their horses to take them as captives.’
So intimidating was Comanche cruelty, almost all raids by Indians were blamed on them. Texans, Mexicans and other Indians living in the region all developed a particular dread of the full moon—still known as a ‘Comanche Moon’ in Texas—because that was when the Comanche came for cattle, horses and captives.
They were infamous for their inventive tortures, and women were usually in charge of the torture process.
The Comanche roasted captive American and Mexican soldiers to death over open fires. Others were castrated and scalped while alive. The most agonising Comanche tortures included burying captives up to the chin and cutting off their eyelids so their eyes were seared by the burning sun before they starved to death.
Contemporary accounts also describe them staking out male captives spread-eagled and naked over a red-ant bed. Sometimes this was done after excising the victim’s private parts, putting them in his mouth and then sewing his lips together.
One band sewed up captives in untanned leather and left them out in the sun. The green rawhide would slowly shrink and squeeze the prisoner to death.
T R Fehrenbach quotes a Spanish account that has Comanche torturing Tonkawa Indian captives by burning their hands and feet until the nerves in them were destroyed, then amputating these extremities and starting the fire treatment again on the fresh wounds. Scalped alive, the Tonkawas had their tongues torn out to stop the screaming.
The Comanche always fought to the death, because they expected to be treated like their captives. Babies were almost invariably killed in raids, though it should be said that soldiers and settlers were likely to ****** Comanche women and children if they came upon them.
Comanche boys—including captives—were raised to be warriors and had to endure ****** rites of passage. Women often fought alongside the men.
It’s possible the viciousness of the Comanche was in part a by-product of their violent encounters with notoriously cruel Spanish colonists and then with Mexican bandits and soldiers.
But a more persuasive theory is that the Comanche’s lack of central leadership prompted much of their cruelty. The Comanche bands were loose associations of warrior-raiders, like a confederation of small street gangs.
In every society, teenage and twenty-something youths are the most violent, and even if they had wanted to, Comanche tribal chiefs had no way of stopping their young men from raiding.
But the Comanche found their match with the Texas Rangers. Brilliantly portrayed in the Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove books, the Rangers began to be recruited in 1823, specifically to fight the Comanche and their allies. They were a tough guerilla force, as merciless as their Comanche opponents.
They also respected them. As one of McMurtry’s Ranger characters wryly tells a man who claims to have seen a thousand-strong band of Comanche: ‘If there’d ever been a thousand Comanche in a band they’d have taken Washington DC.”
The Texas Rangers often fared badly against their enemy until they learned how to fight like them, and until they were given the new Colt revolver.
During the Civil War, when the Rangers left to fight for the Confederacy, the Comanche rolled back the American frontier and white settlements by 100 miles.
Even after the Rangers came back and the U.S. Army joined the campaigns against Comanche raiders, Texas lost an average of 200 settlers a year until the Red River War of 1874, where the full might of the Army—and the destruction of great buffalo herds on which they depended—ended Commanche depredations.
Interestingly the Comanche, though hostile to all competing tribes and people they came across, had no sense of race. They supplemented their numbers with young American or Mexican captives, who could become full-fledged members of the tribe if they had warrior potential and could survive initiation rites.
Weaker captives might be sold to Mexican traders as slaves, but more often were slaughtered. But despite the cruelty, some of the young captives who were subsequently ransomed found themselves unable to adapt to settled ‘civilised life and ran away to rejoin their brothers.
One of the great chiefs, Quanah, was the son of the white captive Cynthia Ann Parker. His father was killed in a raid by Texas Rangers that resulted in her being rescued from the tribe. She never adjusted to life back in civilisation and starved herself to death.
Quanah surrendered to the Army in 1874. He adapted well to life in a reservation, and indeed the Comanche, rather amazingly, become one of the most economically successful and best assimilated tribes.
As a result, the main Comanche reservation was closed in 1901, and Comanche soldiers served in the U.S. Army with distinction in the World Wars. Even today they are among the most prosperous native Americans, with a reputation for education.
By casting the cruelest, most aggressive tribe of Indians as mere saps and victims of oppression, Johnny Depp’s Lone Ranger perpetuates the patronising and ignorant cartoon of the ‘noble savage’.
Not only is it a travesty of the truth, it does no favours to the Indians Depp is so keen to support.
The Fire Burns Oct 2016
Crazy is just a flavor of the mind
it brings joy to some
puts others in a bind
what have I become

Binding a simple task
straitjackets come in every size
not so my Lector mask
crazy in my eyes

Thoughts of brains and beans
served with chianti wine
in my soul, hear the screams
so for now I pay the fine

Clarise, Clarise,
you never understood
ridding the world of fools,
doing all I could

Wearing others skin
to escape who I am
my sanity worn thin
channeling son of sam

It's not a crime, in my mind
thinning of the pool
excising the unworthy
a scalpel, as my tool

Genetic options thinned
much like culling the herd
their meat has been tinned
inner voices have me spurred

So for now, I have escaped
I am loose and on the run
eating who I choose
being chased by dudes with guns

In the end
when all is said and done
Crazy, just a word
another one, for fun
A Collab with Sidd Gray
We purchased 2020 Hyundai Elantra
at Enterprise Car Rental
1207 West Ridge Pike
Conshohocken, Pennsylvania 19428
April thirteenth two thousand twenty three
witnessed greatest amount of money
I spent at one time.

The following day April 14th, 2023
(after my automotive troubles
seemed so far away),
when important business concluded at:
Pennsylvania Department of Transportation -
Photo License Center,
1700 Markley Street,
Norristown, Pennsylvania 19401.

Before somnolent vestige
completely vanished, and vanquished
post retentive grogginess dissipated
ipso facto after awakening
from dream state come true
and opening eyelids
Delilah gifted with melanin
swiftly tailored uber vestil ******
hit with hair brained scheme
to generate goldenlocks

worth gobs of green
freshly minted legal tender
despite fallout being upbraided
bald brazenness occurred
to emasculate Johnny comb lately
he experienced brush with immortality
until he almost got scalped
saved by skin of his teeth
unbeknownst to lass (see) how keen

her intended prey nicknamed Samson
worthwhile fitness expense
disciplined, coaxed, and buffed physique
to chisel, mold sculpt, et cetera
his body to become lean
said kingly chess mate pledged troth
to ebony queen,
she wedded near likeness of the boss
(doppelganger) Bruce Springsteen.

Additionally while slumbering,
I experienced close encounters
of the third kind
manifested as following visitation
linkedin and included chance encounter
with a rock-ribbed mountain of a man
(whose shaved noggin glistened)
simply known as thee ebullient B.T.,
one strapping muscular dynamic
colorful preacher

of health and positive welfare,
who strongly encouraged me
(combination aging long haired
pencil necked geek, harried styled
white tarnished knight,
teenage mutant ninja turtle,
and wunderkind wily wordsmith)
to pay him a visit
at the following LA Fitness site
2961 Swede Road,
East Norriton, Pennsylvania 19401.

Aforementioned stranger in a strange land
athletic built endowed fellow
with smooth glistening ebony skin
talked (courtesy booming inspirational voice)
an evangelical blue streak regarding
the merits of communication
heavily peppered with brotherly/sisterly love
with powerful salted spiritual undertones.

Impossible mission during wakeful state
to recreate, rehabilitate, rejuvenate,
rekindle, and resuscitate a likeness
courtesy figment of my imagination
said boisterous, gregarious, illustrious,
and rambunctious well sculpted
specimen of **** sapiens
as hinted at above.

Though no Hercules
(in fact just the antonym),
mine alter ego exaggerated,
intimated, and outlined,
a mollified Genie could blithely wave
magic wand abracadabra
spellbinding mine fate, aye
would rejoice beholding,
an African Queen to quash
celibacy, cuz declaration of consummation

stemming premature *******
more precious then
fine spun gold (for Josephine) to buy
time against tortured Golgotha kepi
mein kampf wracking fate, thence pave
ving a stairway to heaven
after this ivory pawn doth die
cleansing, exorcising, and flushing
infidelity kindling lover,
which prurient waywardness

found me to misbehave
ah bon Jove vee errant fellow
(wanted dead or alive),  
I das scribe many blue moons ago,
when verboten fruit
yours truly didst deaf fie
temptation no amount
renouncing, repenting, rerouting
travesty, mockery, and effrontery
regarding egregious transgression
excising emotional affliction

spent kneeling on wounded knee,
this besotted knave
scrutinizing indelible engravure
etched with blessed
"Jesus, bare naked Amazon Mary
and Joseph" motif guy
interweaved by pointed
finger of Goddess Sheba almighty
beckoned deft fiat halting joist
lowered nondescript plain rigid casket

swallowed by grave
temporally ushered whirled wide
webbed rebirth where I
received life anew breathless composure
dousing errant fellow
guilt honestly iterated, jackanapes
kneaded licentious maligned narcissistic
opprobrious philandering questing re: deprave
transgressions, whereat
this gentile Jew did lie
unclothed satisfying prurient flava flave

vitiating marital covenant, now my
soul asylum anointed,
via misdirected, misguided, and misjudged
sedulous, poisonous, opprobrious,
nevertheless glorious, and fabulous
Nubian enchantress deign nigh
ying celibacy decreeing
expurgating ****** crave
ving, hence thy status as Zen eternal
****** (corny punster) mocker

as acceptable punishment bequeathed
by said deliquescent, iridescent,
and opalescent dreamt up
"FAKE" pitch black
kickstarting Negroid hallucination
from over active imagination
me didst truly ply
avariciousness as Holden Caulfield
protagonist catcher in the rye.
LaFayette Dec 2020
Welcome to our session dear reader
Your participation makes you my therapist
I will regale you with the tale of a silly man
Who fell in love and now can’t get out

Why have I chosen you to unleash this?
Because everyone else is sick of hearing it
I’ve exhausted all personal means
Of excising burdensome love unrequited

Your credentials are the least of my worries
The love of my life proves challenging
She is an amazing, beautiful, intelligent
Aggravating, over-analyzing, angel of a liar

You are right, those are not all positive attributes
But I learned a thing about loving someone
You focus on the positives and hold on
While accepting the flaws that make her, her

Why am I bothering you if I am so in love?
You see, I am hers but she is not mine
My only claim is making her smile
Which I know were both real and rare

Your professional opinion is to walk away
Alas, that is not remotely possible
I have basked in her glow too long
That I can’t even leave her shadow

What do I want from you and your time?
Just a friendly ear to bend now and again
With this sad story of woe and love
Same time next week will do just fine
Great ones—trying to raise others higher,
Lovingly, by kindling the goodness of their pyre;
Inundating the evils that in perpétuité be;
Machining flares to seek those out lost at sea—
Manifeste lights in the darkness towards sécurité.
Excising the shadows of suffering that lie in wait,
Reminding alle to give … more than we take,
Introspectif upon the wickedness of yesterday,
Nudging others, too—paisiblement, far, and gently away—
Goodness is charged to … nourish and firmly, enfin stay!
Copyright 2024 Christian Anderson. All Rights Reserved.

— The End —