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vircapio gale Jul 2012
the perfect poem

would start by acknowledging its imperfection
and yet would bind the heart to listen
in any mood
any clime, any mind...

it would forgive contingent interruptions
in its contribution to evolution

and to grandly synthesize the facts,
it would pierce its central theme in one or so lines,
a one-stroke ******
embedded somewhere safe, an apex valley
of words and symbols to communicate
rather than excommunicate
or bemuse...

an accord of human
commonality,  invitation to wonder
or to leave off reading for later|

to wake or soothe to sleep,
it would be a poem you could wear into battle
or soft-intone to soothe a dying loved-one's breath.
the perfect poem would promise laughter
after every tear, catharsis guaranteed.
it would be godly and irreverent,
honest and veiled.
erudite, but conversational: a soul-mate in the etymons.
chalk-full of sultriness,
elementally seducing
with allure of verbal petrichor,
released from a long-awaited desert cloud,
dripping at the center aching...
and all wants fulfilled
(but for the other yearnings it instilled).

even a cursory perusing-over yields
a boundless sphere of cheer!
(you may not find it here, or anywhere)
an epic of haiku in casual/dress wear...
therapeutic, silent or aloud,
empathy in every line, attentive to the reader's work.
a collaborative lore
entwining evermore and more,
tolerant of others, wiser for their scorn --
it would shift its meaning, each read through:
twelve interpretations would do;
in fact it would take up residence in you,
it would help with shopping, too,
save the queen, start a culture all its own
a witness to atrocity and fame,
a judge of victors, the criminally insane,
an analgesic to the lame.
both densely, and loosely writ
it would be spontaneous, yet crafted by a practiced art.
it would rhyme, as if the muses commanded it to rhyme
contrived at the dawn of time
to be contrivance free...
for your particular ears, for your soul, right now
an ever-present origin of meaningfulness sent
like similes for your life only --
it would foster to create within itself
expression's manifold and measure,
in line with styles all in vogue
the global culture's wold,
hermeneutic gold.
it would be made of wood, and snow
of sun and space, the universe in tow.
it would spiral, dance and sing beneath its sounds
teach a novel lesson, for novel ears,
    each and every time
it would be memorized, and hung
glazed with caligraphic meditation
in a cloister boarding only **** monks,
it would bear no clumps.
it would smoothe out all the lumps,
it would offer more than i can say...
the perfect poem wouldn't even mind being thrown away;
it would come again some day.
in fact, on second thought, it may come a different way--
created in the fae-lines of the eyes,
the ears and mind: the double prance
of in and out and everywhere resize
the meaning-giving dance.
sinngebung: meaning giving
etymon: A word or morpheme from which compounds and derivatives are formed.
petrichor: the name for the smell of rain on dry ground
wold: a usually upland area of open country
hermeneutics: the study of the methodological principles of interpretation
Alyanne Cooper Jun 2014
If your muggy-grubby hands
Even rise to slap me again
I swear I'll chop them off with my axe.

If your fangly-boniony feet
Get within kicking distance of me,
I swear I'll tear your legs from your hips
And then admire my workmanship.

If your mangy-crazy mind
Tries to infiltrate mine
To deposit some lie
That would change the perception
Of me, myself, and i,
I swear I'll grab a spoon
And scrape, scrape, scrape
Out your brain.

If your hoity-toity attitude
Tries to usurp my solitude
To make me someone I'm not
I swear I'll be completely dispassionate
As I wipe your every iota from this
Particulate Universe.

If I so much as hear you breathe,
I swear I will squeeze
Every
Drop
Of
Air
Left in your lungs.

You think this is too violent even for me?
You'd better believe
I've been pushed to the edge
Of all logical reason
By your every act of treason
And I won't hesitate to
Incapacitate,
Excommunicate
Eradicate,
You from my life.

You'd better beware.
I'm angry and all this I'll do.
I swear.
Sleepy Sigh Sep 2010
I like my headphones for the
Insulation. Sometimes my ears
Take in too much stray noise,
Dredge up too much disorienting
Mud from the depths of a TV
Screen or an iPod. Then I can
Always snuggle into my headphones
And be silent - and silence is a
Dear dear commodity, to be sure,
When every other scene-
Stealing, pudgy-mouthed buffoon
Has to put his ten cents in. So
Much sound should be a sin;
Background music, ambient noise,
Music for airports, and pubescent
Boys screeching from tinny silver
Speakers near the wall. I don't
Want it, not every bit, not all
The hate and the slippery tongues
That speak and salivate and don't
Say anything human. I want to reprimand,
To excommunicate them from
This Holy rite of sound. (And really,
I would be content to never hear
Music if I could block out the roundabout
Fights and the sultry nightlife descriptions
Gushing from my screen, if I could
Use my headphones to keep
That liquid crystal from pouring in
My too needfully silent ears.)
Maybe I'll follow a painter's path:
All visuals and open dripping wet
Wrath with a noisy race. I can be a
Terrifying girl. Cut off my ears and
Be deaf to the world. Wrap me in
Canvas and chase me back into the
Woods on a starry starry night.
you know the drill

Meh.
Geno Cattouse Nov 2012
Ah here sits the stone on the ground
The shrub on the hill. A
Natural state of affairs if you will.
Retched Earth, abominable stone

Why the nerve of the rag tag tree
To perch ones self in stark relief
Blocking the skyline, space invader.
Thief.

Why the unmitigated gall.
Of the rain to fall on withered
Pate..

Tis the empty barrel that rumbles profusely.
The shallow stream that muddles  at the bottom.

Pyramid craniums, issues forth babble.
Slackjawd mouth-breather.
Knee ****, Buffoon.

Perched in perpetuity,howling
at the moon.

The my way or the Highwayman, astride a cocked horse.

The cant see the beauty of  the  Forrest for the treeman.

Bull headed, Ram goat Salty old ******.

Failure to Communicate.
Rush to excommunicate
Monolythic seer

Cotton eyed joe

Constipated thinker.

Oh the comfort and surety
of riding in the ruts.





.
Marielle indicates: “Your luminosity, Copernicus vibrating in Giordano Bruno, expresses hypotheses that they revive to Quentinnais from the third hour, from here now I am hospitalized and without light to line the end where I will put my feet evasive. Raymond Bragasse is here where I met him, and I saw him with his holy rosary on his necklace, and on Andrés Panguiette's claw. That you grumble, they excommunicate my sentences, which are that of the rooster that becomes gentle in a Corso, Sardinian or Roman Praetorian, in the leap I relegate to San Gabriel, with its magical art that excites the retentiveness of Saint George. Under what science do they moderate me by joining you, or what century will intuit us with its own splendor, whose obscurantism under his revolution mutes anyone in the darkness of the cave of Dionysius. The divinity postpones itself, to leave its daily chores where souls fly daily ..., they do not stop leaving with their spoils after the fairies that fly to purgatory. But many have passed over me, and I was wondering where to find you, I never thought that I should fly over a swarm of wasps to reach your divine lair, full of regulatory darkness for those who live against the light, and of an Elizabethan garment that dismisses my ring, where Its natural original magic is isolated from our semi-alive body, with brittle Egyptian suns that redoubled where I had to wait for you at the Pentecost bench. What retarding essence dries up who does not show any vital or symbolic avital sign, where the rough cyclicality does not allow me to chastise my hair in any vanity for you. Oh that Moral spellings referring to my commendation, if it is not apostasy! What else would I dare to speak, through the sky flying away from the lunar books of Vivencia, where it is sent from its orbit towards the cosmos free of all and of all with Wonthelimar free of me, confined of Marielle. I know that I am analogous **** of the Libri Dei Viventi, perhaps sackcloths or coats have to be spun in Parnassus, to gird myself to myself, and not Marielle cloistered in her solitude, who does not receive the Vivendi torpor of her paradisiac sacrilege when seducing a supposed daughter of Hecate, fortunately, I have to guess with a swarm, and stay in the nets of your cave. With the stanza that is invested in rhetorical values, I go crazy for love to which I am conjured, but from Marielle now or in hundreds of years that pester on my sackcloth, which will never be used for the liturgy with you, if I revive in the crisis of resurrection in the arms of Saint George in the stained glass window in Avignon, and in his forearm that passes through the worst emotional crypts of my author.

As I have to contest hostile votes that are netted in the puritanism of those who only wear sackcloth in the unstitched Mausoleums of Quentinnais, and in the strident leaves that move elected in his advent, where the subclavian of Luzbel stands. Unanimous I have to dare by asininity ...! Moderating threads of horror and silver light, which revives us in the beasts and in their perches, ad libitum in the lattices where it emerges from the conspiracy of our tragedy. Oh, what an impetuous incarnation of the anti-Christian verb has to express itself in your incarnations of light and restless shadow, in the apse of the discanted in Avignon, and in the acroteria shadow, suffering from cowardice by not wanting to see me angelic, universal predisposition, just to know fit and what to say with your soul lineage and twin life, who only knows how to love you. Our reincarnations are rescued, now that we go to Patmos intimidated, in the sound of shining the veiled Vernarth, reprimanded in his acquiescent morality under his own law and his glasses, born from his rib that ends in the exception of a foul dialogue. It is premature for me to say what I do not have to write, but the particles slowly fall through the beam of their adjective essences, reshaping exterminated historiographies that want to make green, in colloquia that draw the eyes of whoever wants to blind the profane cult, absorbed in sallow particles in four sciences and elements… What unresolved probe and mass can strike your heart poured into you Wonthelimar? You know when we get to Profitis I will go holding your hand in the morning, to adore you and kneel down, we will deal with why we lost ourselves, and why the sun has not stained me with so much fury, carrying me burned in tongues of its consumptive and guttural infinity. After taking the hand of dawn, I will sue the impossible quagmire and its Áullos Kósmos, weakened by theoretical openness, lacking unity, but not far from my vanistory, nor from the sessile fluff of my hair, waiting for you with your stormy return to hold me. Ayia Lavra will declare war on the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, with solidity and sanctity that frees my chains in a single trident, paling in the rust of it, methodological treatise, and where the determination of veracity is annihilated.

Because I have to go to heaven when I want to offer myself to you, without any century that has received me with fewer wounds than those I had yesterday in its indolent septicemia, with miracles and incense burners that burn in imprecate, and provide a pagan theology of human filth. , not portraying biblical when your plurality dressed as a secular thirteenth, by referrals or Greco-Gallic that arise from the love that has no end or beginning in the autonomy of an incorruptible being, and even less when you wear sweets in its lavender lex. Genius Loci, or amplified reality, rather your idea of sticking with me when I have not been, and of attracting me when the future in the portal is made in the perfect symmetry of him, or whoever looms excited in his cabal. The body is no longer inscrutable, overworking with poetry to constrict my torn voice, running at great speed to seize the cosmetic that paints our faces, Selene and her luster aggravate punctuality and the status of science in creation. I have read volume VIII, and I saw that tears flowed by where I never thought ... !, for exchanges that marginalize an established authority, nor with more childish will I undone the garments of his self-description. Mime or jester in front of me in my catalog of the tragic actress with the anemic volume of her, pointing out uprisings in new waves, on seas that did not have them ..., loaded in new skeptical allegorical clouds, on truths that were already understood in the jealous name. It is incumbent on us to navigate with lamps that have to guide us through dark Ptolemaic hexahedra or henbane crusts, which do not manage to go over the sentry boxes of a divine gesture. How to dare to a final gesture of inflaming with you in factions and premises beyond an apocalypse, or of a Penelope that is gestated in a god, or becomes unknowable of a prevailing divine plan.

Charged with our dissidence, we will go far from the unknown burdens, that scripts are annexed in the new birth of our fiefdom and in their great expectation. Now four elytra have been born on my back, who hope to reveal to you the categories of the deleterious vanquished, reduced to only two Ptolemic emetics ..., you and I in a final judgment, which we already know well about, about the seventh eras that await us in the Southern Sporades, and in his final judgment in the eighth. O Jerusalem, I deprive my oldest sin by conceiving, but rather by confessing it with you. What insurgent dualism will make me get rid of myself and be reborn indestructible in its dizzying relish where the multi-chained temptation of redemption runs towards you? Wonthelimar…, I'm here, in this thunder slip writing for you. I have distanced my head united to yours so that it is not destroyed, for all thoughts, where although you are my diluted kingdom, I will beg You to leave me in the growing vertical anticipated flight from my body, but later in my consciousness which is what which will pre-exist with his Roman staff intertwining with his lusters, and in the syntagmas of Vernarth, which come from the Sporades of Patmos. As I honor and glorify Him in the southern part of him, my dear sackcloth has warmed away from my myopic eyes, already feeling your face breath on me, I will be able to vindicate narrated stories after we part before God!
Marielle Sporades
When thou, poor excommunicate
  From all the joys of love, shalt see
The full reward and glorious fate
  Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
  Then curse thine own inconstancy.

A fairer hand than thine shall cure
  That heart which thy false oaths did wound;
And to my soul a soul more pure
  Than thine shall by Love’s hand be bound,
  And both with equal glory crowned.

Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain
  To Love, as I did once to thee;
When all thy tears shall be as vain
  As mine were then, for thou shalt be
  ****** for thy false apostasy.
Oh, let me not serve so, as those men serve
Whom honour’s smokes at once fatten and starve;
Poorly enrich’t with great men’s words or looks;
Nor so write my name in thy loving books
As those idolatrous flatterers, which still
Their Prince’s styles, with many realms fulfil
Whence they no tribute have, and where no sway.
Such services I offer as shall pay
Themselves, I hate dead names: Oh then let me
Favourite in Ordinary, or no favourite be.
When my soul was in her own body sheathed,
Nor yet by oaths betrothed, nor kisses breathed
Into my Purgatory, faithless thee,
Thy heart seemed wax, and steel thy constancy:
So, careless flowers strowed on the waters face
The curled whirlpools ****, smack, and embrace,
Yet drown them; so, the taper’s beamy eye
Amorously twinkling beckons the giddy fly,
Yet burns his wings; and such the devil is,
Scarce visiting them who are entirely his.
When I behold a stream which, from the spring,
Doth with doubtful melodious murmuring,
Or in a speechless slumber, calmly ride
Her wedded channels’ *****, and then chide
And bend her brows, and swell if any bough
Do but stoop down, or kiss her upmost brow:
Yet, if her often gnawing kisses win
The traiterous bank to gape, and let her in,
She rusheth violently, and doth divorce
Her from her native, and her long-kept course,
And roars, and braves it, and in gallant scorn,
In flattering eddies promising retorn,
She flouts the channel, who thenceforth is dry;
Then say I, That is she, and this am I.
Yet let not thy deep bitterness beget
Careless despair in me, for that will whet
My mind to scorn; and Oh, love dulled with pain
Was ne’er so wise, nor well armed as disdain.
Then with new eyes I shall survey thee, and spy
Death in thy cheeks, and darkness in thine eye.
Though hope bred faith and love: thus taught, I shall,
As nations do from Rome, from thy love fall.
My hate shall outgrow thine, and utterly
I will renounce thy dalliance: and when I
Am the recusant, in that resolute state,
What hurts it me to be excommunicate?
Paul Rousseau Dec 2013
Every now and again, I think about where my dad might be, and what he might be doing at the very moment in which I think of him. “No dignity, no duty,” I remember my Grandfather saying. We, meaning my mom and I, think that his current dwelling is south, somewhere in Arizona. Maybe alone, maybe with a recent girlfriend who hasn’t realized how two-faced he is yet. It went something like this: when I was the little old age of three, he decided to leave me, my mom, and my sister. He said we were an expense not worth retaining. Having us around couldn’t pay back the debt he owed from his failing business proposition, the invention of a hybrid eating utensil that combined a fork, spoon, and knife together to increase the amount of table room at restaurants and finer consumption establishments for large parities of impatient patrons. His “would-be” investors claimed they already had the “spork” and that hybrid eating utensils were a thing of the past. He cursed the world, anointing the words “*******, I'll make it... I'll make it big somewhere else," and simply was gone ever since.

“Your father is a very bad man,” My mother explained to my watering eye. “I hereby excommunicate him from this family. We are going to love each other in this house.”

“What’s ex-chum-oon-eh-cating mean?” I asked diligently, wiping a tear.

“It’s what the Christian Church does to people who have been naughty. You’ll learn all about those religious doctrines in school, when you’re older. We’ll talk about it then little Bugaboo.”

And I was off to bed.
The Church in its awesome majesty
Looked down, from over the hill,
From faith, to hope, to travesty
It stood, and is standing still,
So proud in its fine regalia
Its ritual, and never the least,
Its potent God who would wield his rod
Deter the jaws of the beast.

The Bishop of Saint Ignatius Church
Was a proud and holy man,
Who wouldn’t suffer the jibes of fools
From Rome to Afghanistan,
And certainly not those down the hill
In the new Masonic Lodge,
That beastly, secret doctrine that
He advised his flock to dodge.

He’d stand at the steps of his church and stare
Down at the barbarians,
He hated Lodges, he hated Mosques
And Rastafarians,
‘There shouldn’t be anyone else but me,
I hold the eternal God,
What gods they worship could never be,
For they’re all distinctly odd.’

While down at the Lodge of the Masons
They were cool with their golden rule,
They had to believe in a god as such,
But how, it was up to you.
For some would practice the Baptist faith,
And some Presbyterian,
While some enrolled in the Primitive state
Were a type of Wesleyan.

There was only a single Catholic
And he wore a glued on rug,
He wanted to still be young at heart,
Was known as the Grand HumBug,
The Antidiluvian Mason’s Guild
Was the name he’d chosen himself,
The others differed, but he was keen,
And he was the one with wealth.

Their God was known as the Architect,
They carried the masons tools,
The set square set them apart from all
The disbelievers and fools.
They worked on their secret rituals
And kept a goat at the back,
For leading a blindfold novice in
And guarding the Lodge from attack.

The Bishop heard that a Catholic
Was leading the Masons there,
He fumed, choked on his rhetoric, but
Was heard to firmly declare,
‘I will not shelter a wayward sheep
Who has taken to ways I hate,
The only fate for a traitor here
Is to excommunicate!’

He gathered a dozen priests to march
With candles, down to the Hall,
Surrounded the base heretic’s Lodge
And named HumBug in his call,
Sprinkled his holy water ‘til
It fizzed, and gave off a smell,
Doused his candle and closed his book,
Consigning the man to Hell!

But Humbug patted his glued on rug
Went out, untethered the goat,
He let it loose on the dozen Priests,
It butted the Bishop’s coat,
They ran in confusion up the street,
To the church, set up on the hill,
While the goat was hard at the Bishop’s heels
Like a demon released from Hell.

It butted the Bishop’s altar and
It charged, knocked over the font,
Scattered the pews for the devil’s dues
In a hellfire sacrament,
While HumBug muttered he might end up
In Hell, with his Mason’s sect,
But the Bishop’s God, had failed with his rod
In a clash with his Architect!

David Lewis Paget
I am to have Star Wars treatment,
placed in ******* in my space, 
laced and strapped and branded, 
ready for initiation fires
to permeate my skin, purge my sin, 

enter in to places undesired, 
exercise the halls that have inspired, 
pacify the devils now within, 
banish, excommunicate their whim,
starve them, beat them, flail them, shrivel them,
send them packing fast, 

save the rest a cavernous shell,
glean the remnants of my soul, 
change the negative into positive flow, 
a strange enlightenment method, 
so brutal, so brave, transformed, 
perhaps deformed and changed.
This was in 2010.
kali ma Apr 2010
My dear childhood friend,
we made it through!
You and I on the altar
suffering cuts way back when.

Daily humiliation fed to us as the body.
Drank our own tears like a wine.
Confessions you and I could only understand.
Memories in the back of my mind always like a hymn.

I thought we were both survivors,
but then you did it.

You began to baptize your very own children in this same way!
Somehow I had to excommunicate half of my soul
the day I had to let you go.
Some nights, as I wait for Sleep to come
Sorrow instead comes to visit.

Although I do not dwell upon the past,
it seems that it dwells within me.

As much as I'd like to banish them from my mind,
the scars of my history still indeed exist.
I cannot so effortlessly excommunicate myself from my past,
as it is the path which has led me to where I find myself today.

My sorrow is just as much my rudder as my joy.
Earl Jane Jul 2015
note: i heard somebody said this and i will just re-share to you of how karma repays,.... it just made me teary coz i always ask myself if karma does really exist, and this time, i believed it really does exist.....




in a conference, (it is not mentioned what place) there was a very loyal and very good person, who is the treasurer in that specific conference. he is so good, kind and nice to everyone... everybody likes him and he is so good in keeping the money and he is such a very trustworthy treasurer...




then, one day a woman approached the president (who happened to be a part of the family) , and told him to excommunicate him in being the treasurer and let the woman take his place instead but the president refuses 'cause that man is such a good and trustworthy person...


then the woman had a bright idea



she went to the office of the man ahead of him and hide... the man went in his office and the woman wait for her turn to show off her idea to take away the man in the position.. then, when the man went out, after a minute she went out and declared,


"****, ****! HE ***** ME! LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT WHAT HE HAD DONE TO ME, THAT STUPID MAN!!"


the people were all shock to what they witness, a woman, with stripped clothing went out and pronounce


  ****


and the man being accused stood there, frozen in fear and doubt, confused of what to do,



then suddenly he explained himself hardly,... but the woman is just so good in acting, people believed in her, and she was successful with her plan...




the man wife's was so angry, and crying, she can't believe what just happened, she question her husband a lot for what reason why'd he do that, the man explained a lot but nobody believed in him,,,"



the man's family suffered a lot... he don't have work anymore to support their children,... his children went school as a working student in college, they studied hard 'cause nobody will support for them anymore....


on the other hand, the woman, happy with her big amount of salary, she was able to send her children without anything to worry about,.... she can just send money, send money, and send money to her children...



AFTER 10 YEARS



The woman got guilty a lot and this time * SHE SUFFERED.  her children got addicted to drugs, was not able to finish their studies and other made a girl pregnant... she said she never knew how hurting it is to suffer like that, she maybe had money to support her children but they just wasted it for other stuff..



while the man being accused, his children all finish in their studies and was able to earn money and repay back to their parents...* (he still has a happy ending)
note: i am just sharing this and i am not stabbing anyone... i heard this 2nd week of july, i was just so touched and gives me a lot of realization...





i heard this storyfrom a teacher, . . . this is true and the place and name was kept secret...

by the time i heard about this, it punch me hard... i then believe karma does really exist.... karma is really painful especially when you did painful stuff to people too... i always wonder, would the person who hurt me last february be able to get his karma? but by the time i heard about that story, i realize karma don't exist when you want them to , it exist in the future where everyone already forget the incident..... and it happened, not necessarily the same as what they've done but something similar and it is not directly to them but sometimes it is to the children and to the people around them,,,,


i knew my time will come, he will be realizing it in the future that, "this is what i did to her before", the consequence to every act..

realization: just be like the man, being silent and just continue life... just let the problem passed


lesson: karma, the horrendous revenge
Kìùra Kabiri Mar 2017
The spire rises on high
To humbly hug heavens holy white sky
And from the sacred gothic cathedral
Bells ring with symphonic sanctimony-
The sweet angelic instrumental harmony  
And you feel the presence of descent God from your homes
You smell the inviolate incenses of the Saints from your louvers  
The frankincense fragrances of the Blessed from your windows beckon
And you aspire your children to serve in the church as your neighbours
Good examples they will always be to the civilized society

Time to time alone you send her and him to them
To selflessly serve Mother Church to earn endless blessings
And obediently ****** leaves as per commandments
“Obey your Parents for your days on earth to be multiplied;
Serve the Lord your God unreservedly-with all your all!”
In church the child spends her entire free time
In church ****** serves innocently-restlessly
In church the child does his-her all to avoid any blame or blemish
In church ****** endears all to avoid any bad reputation  
After all what ill can befall you if in the House of the Lord-the Psalm says:
‘Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life!’

Dear innocent child, with a heart harmlessly clean
Does it know the monster is the wolf in sheep’s skin?
The perpetrator, is the priest-the sheep’s sheer shepherd
It is he who feeds on the fattened flocks of his Master’s fields
Unsuspecting, unknowingly he gets closer with him,
The priest, the sacred of peoples modest mediator
It is an old age adage in faithful ways of thinking:
‘Whoever gets closer to a pastor earns firsthand priority
To touch and share in his consecrated ointments!’

O my child, to darker places he is-she is sent
To collect vestments, ointments and sacraments
And quickly without resistance or hesitance
****** splints, timely and servitude is an altar’s teaching
Behind, swift too, the sinister minister-monster fast follows
And in darkness shush! He touches him-he touches her holy places
In return he/she is hushed with gifts of craved church’s wines and wafers

Confused-is this pastor N… really, or am I dreaming
Before long the child goes into silent phobia and depression
To who does he tell of the dark tales behind altars, vestry and sacristy
The man behind the Eucharist, the revered man of the church!
The blessed bass behind the mic, deeply unleashing
The Holy Ghost: “Bwana asifiwe, pokea Roho!”
To the convinced convicts-faithful brethrens is a satan, a monster
Is he who really touched and touches her in the wrong places?
It is he who forced into his baby’s brittle red bottoms
It is him who stole, vilely robbed his-her virginity and virtues

Who will listen to his/her sad story?
And it is the mothers-parents blame-consumerism connive
They are liars to tarnish the church’s good name
And when he says and cries and refuses to attend the Sundays services
The mother scolds him with felines’ violence
‘I am not raising pagans in my house,
It is either you go or go to serve the church!
Am I clearly heard and understood?’
O poor child, silent suffers this sacred soul!

With rigid society ready to absolve the ****** priest
With the parish ready to excommunicate the fighting family
With the church-Christ’s body-willing to go any extra mile
To save its priest and salvage its worldly rotting name
The state eager to close one eye and let the church rule
After all it is they that say-‘the church will outlast everything!’
The church is always innocent it can never wrong its attendants and congregants

Quickly the ******* priest is shuffled and reshuffled in all earth’s parishes
And the innocence stolen child is left alone to find its answers-
To sad solve and resolve its mysteries-objections, rejections and excommunications:
‘Who is God-who really is He and who are His consecrated men
And where was He while we were being ***** and molested
By the saints we thought sacredly serves in his vast fields!?”  
O *****! O sodomized! Sacred sufferings!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/asia/catholic-priest-****-15-year-old-girl-kerala-india-mathew-vadakka­cheril-consumerism-temptations-***-a7613406.html?cmpid=facebook-p­ost
Molly Jun 2017
in the photograph from the wildlife camera
she appears at dusk, side-on
her full tail in the air: the big ginger cat
from the farm next door

she is one of those puzzles you find
in newsprint books at the tobacconists
— which one of these doesn’t belong? —
because before and after her on the camera
were a mountain lion and a red fox

Film ain’t dead yet.
We brought three
disposables to festival,
the ones that whirr up, do thirty
exposures and flash so bright they blind you.
Immortalize the medium, the moments
are secondary.

I remember Dad, toes in the sand,
shorts and his eczema legs, with the camera,
you were building castles –
the photos are somewhere. Shining
millennial baby then,
ringing me now, drunk, crying.


i thought of the two bobcats who came
to the picture window on St. Stephen’s Day
at three o’clock in the morning
looking intently in
and the man in Finland whose dog got out:
the wolves at the forest fringe
were calling it to come and play

there was no blood, he said
the dog just disappeared into their jaws

There was more blood, this time,
the third time, third time, that you had tried to
excommunicate
yourself from this life without consulting me.
You know, when I tried that nonsense
they dragged me
kicking and screaming to the clinic.


still she comes around:
again this morning on the deer trail
where she sat gazing up
the jays and the blackbirds with new hatchlings
diving, exploding into the air

and her
wearing their worry and disapproval
— even, you think
their appetites and their hatred
like a bright blessing
the urgent chatter of the birds an electric hum
almost to the horizon

*Here you are again.
This last time past you were probably on drugs,
you were
vomiting adoration down the phone. Reborn?
You’re seventeen,
the black dog keeps going for your throat
but lifts you by the scruff.

I’m watching you fly up in a spray of wings,
loose feathers, high heels and lamentation.
I’m no lioness –
I’m just a fat, cool cat you think is mighty.
I surrendered to the mice though, when I
was your age.
Really loving this now, although I found it tricky to write. Myself and Kat came at this from very different angles and it made for something very different. Although very interwoven, it can generally be said that anything in italics are my words, and Kat's are in regular font.
absinthe May 2017
incessant selflessness manifested is ignorance
opposite its notorious nemesis, selfish, insidious

let the latter mask the masses,
they are us and we, its masters

yes, i was them till i was casted
i will not master nor be mastered
for voicing inquisitiveness
similar to the kin of the sin
rumored to have killed the cat
let them castigate and excommunicate
my mask will decay in the casket

till, that is,

they let the former; its toxic gasses
end times nine lives like mine
shunned and inhabitants
who slumber under overpasses
and would unwaveringly pass
on being passive
on not going under
long before playing roles active
in a world so colorfully composed
of paint strokes dipped
in tin cans consisting
of the blood and innocence
of shunned masses,
the victims of ignorance
and its subsequent massacres.

asleep in peace
at rest with my dignity
my pride
and all the answers.

as are the circumstances
of those who will not master
nor be mastered.

disaster

- end
Thomas W Case May 2020
Our relationship is toxic, like a river of ****
or a mercury stained fish,
We argue all the time—we hit each other.
We bring up past indiscretions and affairs.
After we haven't seen each other for a while,
it all starts off well enough;
we're like dogs in heat.
We **** constantly, then the inevitable
moment comes when one of us will say, "…and
wouldn't a glass of wine be nice? "
"Yes, yes it would."
Then it turns into bottles of wine,
then *****, then you calling the cops
and getting me kicked out.
Next thing I know I'm under a bridge
in the middle of ******* winter.
You're in your nice warm apartment drinking
your Chardonnay, dancing with
your toothless neighbor and
driving around with your ex-boyfriend.
I can drink myself to death on my own;
I don't need some wack-job to help me.
At times your ****** might have
been my warped little god,
but it's time I excommunicate myself
from the church of your *******.
mike Oct 2016
I wanna **** myself.
its your birthday.
maybe then
i won't have to see you
watch me **** myself on mine.

i spread pictures
of your past
so you can watch.

there are none of my own.

they're kept in a vault
called excommunicate.

something that never was
will disintegrate there.

goodbye.
zumee May 2018
Despite what the priests
of philosophy say
it is possible
to hold communion with the answers
without having
to excommunicate the Questions.
Infamous one Jun 2023
T19
Life is a blessing with growth
Change your mindset new perspective
Leave old ideas behind open to new
Emotional bankrupt bad investments
Feelings burglarized by imposters
True colors shined through
Causing friendships to fade away
Failed relationship to shattered dreams
Hit rock bottom a steady foundation
Buried by family slanderous talk
Hurts the most still love them
Still living life to the fullest
Made up rules in their favor
Once you spoke up or disagreed
They tried to make others hate you
Trying excommunicate your existence
S R Feb 2020
Brand me a cynic with theash on my forehead,
For I’ve renounced my faith;
Scream out in shock it’s sacrilegious
But I’ve sympathized with the Devil’s kind

I’ve fallen to my knees at altar feet,
Two clasped hands bound and salvation cries,
Clad in white, chugging confessional wine
Yet sacraments restore no foundation.

So, you can claim blasphemous thoughts
Must be exorcised from my brain,
In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit,
Then please, excommunicate my weary soul, amen.

And to your capricious testaments,
For I’ve witnessed no miracles, evangelists
And now I am jaded by deity agape, bruised
So, apostasy is easier to preach.
Brandi the Brave Feb 2022
Socializing, talking and communicating.
Notifying the bosses about my gig in the art walk.
It felt like being in Home E.C. again the kitchen meeting.
Just as exhausting as Home E.C. too.
Church is tomorrow and I am not mentally prepared.
I think my church will want to excommunicate me after I give my poetry reading because I am not holding anything back.
I am already seen as insane and unholy because I had *** with Chelsie. I can express myself however I want as long as it doesn't hurt anyone. Critiquing isn't same as saying outright that hey this church need more queers.
Ryan O'Leary Oct 26
If God didn’t exist
He would have to
Be invented.

Humans need an
Acknowledgement to
Function

Atheism / agnosticism
Are merely antonyms
Of the religious synonym

When one says ‘ I don’t
Believe in God ‘ they are
Recognizing its existence

So long as we have flags
And anthems and borders
We will have God’s

The world is divided not by
Delineated lines on a map
But by segregated systems

If we say we don’t like Muslims
We are recognizing their deities
thus accepting there is a God

A passport need not be a 32
Page document it is colour it
Is accent it is our impression

We are all Gods, we create life
We destroy life we cause catastrophe
We create obstacles for lesser beings

Superior beings exist in minds of those who
Are governed and every time we full stop
Their sentence, we are the god we despise.

Religion is a rules based institution that we
Kick against we rebel we excommunicate
Ourselves, but we must not then dominate.

When a migrant a refugee or fugitive asks
For asylum , do we say, God got you into this
Predicament, denounce and you can enter.

Do we really want a totally homogeneous
Society, is that naturally occurring anywhere
In nature, does evolution even consider it?

God is just performing a role for those who
Are unable to act for themselves and the
Show is merely a rehearsal with encores.

— The End —