"expulsion" poems
Strange malaise,
One I can't place.
Struggling of late.
Discomforting state.
Persistent lethargy.
Sloth-like and heavy.
Burning internals.
Frequent intervals.
No temperature.
No warning lever.
Don't know what's wrong.
Been rather long.
Medicine trough
Can't rid me this cough.
Expulsion so violent,
Incessantly recurrent.
Over a fortnight
This ailment I fight.
Still hasn't eased.
Can't be appeased.
Development is seen.
Now spitting green.
Not just all
That joined this brawl.
It's just the coughing.
No injury I'm suffering,
I haven't bled...
But I see red...
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
The failed seduction
by drunken discussion
and skunk fueled
consumption, leads to
a compunction dysfunction
suspended in animation
the digital tides
of expulsion
catapult me into a
an eschewing propulsion
and the limitations
of re-imagination.
As far as I was aware
I was imprisoned
in nothing more
than the realms of
Skype and FourSquare
but for the Feng Shui
of trapped energies
and google-mapped memories
adorning the locations
of complacent hallucinations
amid the dark fibre
communications
with a female
of Nordic persuasion.
The compliments and comments
and poems I sent
were lost to the myriad
of random intent
I was attempting to be clever
and metaphysical
she on the other hand
was PHD level
and psychoanalytical
ergo my metrical composition
was utterly lost
in a conversation
on metaphorical reproduction
and the magic and mysteries
of osmosis
and the application
of modification
by transduction.
The moral of this tale
- if indeed there is one -
is if you are going to Skype
with a mentally superior type
do not before hand
have a blistering
smouldering
grass pipe
with a flagon of ale
lest you be a
gibbering earthling
destined to fail.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
these thoughts...
they are my own,
walled within the deepest recesses
of my
cerebral labyrinth.
sprouting out of vine covered walls,
are multicoloured blooms
brandishing thorned stems
and
thirsty stigmas,
dripping with
absinthe.
mind full of poison in
permissible amounts...
i am caught in a
web of restless stupor,
anguish...
and regression...
these thoughts...
rationed out sparingly,
for they're not for unready ears
blooms of thought meticulously
triaged before
necessary expulsion.
hairline cracks between
insanity
and peace...
i tread precariously
the fine,
meandering line.
still clutching my flowers
in a tight obstinate grasp...
not letting go
for these tainted blossoms
are
undoubtedly
mine.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
The birthday song is not a song it's not even a small ditty
As it is only four lines long it's really rather ******
There isn't a good chorus so isn't that a pity
A catchy tune it has not got and the lyrics are not witty
This song's lyrics are so short and there all the ****** same
Apart from the 3rd line down when you substitute a name
Okay you say "Dear" instead of "To", but its still a basic frame
So this is not a song at all so why has it got the fame
It's no wonder people alter the words with monkeys in the zoo
And looking like these critters and smelling like them too
Or changed to bread and butter in the gutter or squashed tomatoes and stew
Because the song is so boring so what else can you do
Who the hell wrote this song was it someone who's autistic
Come on now lets be frank and a bit more realistic
If I where to write this song producers would go ballistic
I'd get thrown out of the biz and become a lost statistic
Just because it's your birthday I'm not singing about happy
People are compelled to sing when really its just ******
It's not the best song in the world I don't want to sound so snappy
The birthday song is full of crap just like a soiled *****
It's like we are pre programmed even Marilyn Monroe
To sing the ****** birthday song just for ****** show
But honestly this song is crap and it can surely go
And we can stop with the pretence and cease going with the flow
When your birthday does arrive and your expecting a big day
The time will come when you know your ears are going to pay
Cos someone's bound to start it with or without your say
Why does it have to be sung does it have to be this way
Singing the birthday song should not be a life compulsion
Don't succumb to the trend and quash your minds impulsion
Stamp down on the process and enforce a song expulsion
Do away with this song and all of its revulsion
The birthday song is not a song when it's sixteen words long
Half of them are happy birthday that doesn't constitute a song
The wording is so ****** thin as thin as a snapped thong
And the musical arrangement isn't even strong
People should not sing this song not even a small bit
Why is it classed as a song we should stop singing it
Most of the words are the same and there is a lack of wit
So don't sing the birthday song cos it's not a song it's ****
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
I am the barbed thorn
the serrated reward
facing savage cruel winter;
sedition in transmission.
I am the only pawn
on your chequered board
facing a feisty queen;
of restricting submission.
I am the demonic exon
a heraldic discord
facing bleak futures;
an inherent disposition.
I am the stillborn reborn
the aberration restored
facing anomalies instability;
violation on a mission.
I am broken and worn
a fallen sword
facing a grim battle;
outnumbered by division.
I am the brass horn
the out of tune chord
facing orchestral expulsion;
a musician in remission.
I am history's forewarn
the contrite accord ignored
facing penitent absolution;
clemency in transition.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Brought forth from a darkness so secure, baby boy relentless in the pursuit of education gazed upon the egg shell walls and sterile environment.
Breathing as if it were natural.
A construction of steel and concrete was the new cocoon , the window was an eye to a neoteric world. Bright white lights shone from within and a dull foreboding cloud loomed beyond the glass for the child to appreciate.
Mother exhausted collapsed sighing. She is the antidote to all that is evil, she is the mother to the world. A usually stick-thin figure now distended but leisurely relaxing.
Nursing her son as if it were natural.
Swooning nurses swaddle infants, the original factory workers. Substantial days grafting, workhorses prancing throughout aseptic halls.
The heroines of our world.
A tribe appears from dust clouds, over the dunes, panting, half-alive. Heavenly Ethiope arriving in time for the world to begin. Tumescent in her ecclesiastic luminescence bearing a King destined to travel great distances primed for expulsion from the cimmerian safety of the womb.
The seas of the earth accumulate before the small band of tall-standing creatures of exquisite anthropomorphism. Creatures from across the great unexplored continent at the centre of our world gathered in frenzied crowds. The Elephants marched in earth shattering herds, the lions of the Savannah put aside their differences and sat amongst the wild dogs of Ethiopia and the grévy's zebra, the dibatag stood and eagerly waited. Shrews, mice, gazelle, otters, cheetahs and giraffes all surrounded the tribe. Taking a silent vow and allowing stewardship to be passed along to a new generation.
Every mother is the mother of the earth. Her earth, the personal concept of earth that only she may understand.
Both children are connected by the planet they learn to walk upon. Connected by a thousand generations but connected nonetheless. They are one and the same. Each bought into a world in which they have no knowledge, each merely a slate eager to be scrawled upon by the elders of this fine rock.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
_las mujeres nacen de la tierra en la gloria de la más alta_
dys·to·pi·an/disˈtōpēən/adjective: dystopian:
relating to or denoting an imagined place
or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad,
typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one;
_"the dystopian future of a society bereft of reason"_
noun: dystopian; plural noun: dystopians:
a person who advocates or describes
an imagined place or state in which
everything is unpleasant or bad;
"a lot of things those dystopians feared did not come true"
[A dystopia from the Greek δυσ- "bad" & τόπος "place";
alternatively, _cacotopia, kakotopia_],
or simply anti-utopia; a community or society
that is undesirable or frightening; It is translated
as "not-good place" & is an antonym of utopia,
a term coined by Sir Thomas More
par·a·dise/ˈperəˌdīs/noun
noun: paradise; plural noun: paradises
in some religions; heaven as the ultimate abode of the just,
heaven, the kingdom of heaven, the heavenly kingdom,
Elysium, the Elysian Fields, Valhalla, Avalon;
"the souls in paradise"
the abode of Adam and Eve before the Fall
in the biblical account of Creation;
the Garden of Eden/noun: Paradise, Eden
"Adam and Eve's expulsion from Paradise"
an ideal or idyllic place or State;
"the surrounding countryside is a streetwalker's paradise"
Utopia, Shangri-La, heaven, idyll, nirvana;
"a tropical paradise"
bliss, heaven, ecstasy, delight, joy,
happiness, nirvana, heaven on earth
_a ********** who seeks customers on the street_
"this is sheer paradise!"
Middle English: from Old French paradis,
via ecclesiastical Latin from Greek paradeisos
‘enclosed royal park,’ from Avestan pairidaēza ‘enclosure, park.’
_Superficies terræ puella_
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
~~~
for Matt
~~~
*"My suspect credibility upon the rockets of birds,
the soft parts of people,
the oceans’ inevitable, cyclical weeping,*
Who has time for poetry has more time than they deserve"
Breaking Spring by Matt Hart
~~~
your words warp me,
the woven texture of your composition,
Matt,
dumbfounding the sweeping, weeping, instant recognition in
the soft parts' of
Nat,
where credibility
long past being suspected,
simply arrested for statutory dark room
torrented questioning
deserve poetry deserve blessing deserve curse
You Jacob, wrestle with this angel witch curveball!
'tis better to give or receive
this poetry admonishment?
for who knows where the time goes,
when the fix is in,
the addiction itch,
commands and commends,
*feed the poetry *****
write or die*
one fix, one poem,
carousel leads to another,
yet,
with only time to live,
pay the bills
for renting the space you Earth occupy,
no time for illegal
compulsive word blending
the interrogator demands
deserve poetry deserve blessing deserve curse?
*who is your supplier?
who is your time stealer?*
by the ocean, weeping,
you plead innocence,
just ill drivel, needy for expulsion,
deserving of repulsion,
swear repeatedly,
never again, imbibe, scribe
*but the ***** coos in my ear,
reaching beneath
the vulnerable soft tissued skin and cells:
write or die
I thieve your time,
'tis nothing you deserve,
I am Poetry,
just your mistress,
better served*
deserve poetry
deserve blessing
deserve curse
~~~
June 25, 2016
written by the ocean, weeping
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
For love to flourish
Some ideas on life we need to punish
And for unity to feel unified
Some old philosophies should be denied
A universal charter of peace
One that imprisons any aggressor with no signs of an early release
Third world or new world, rich and poor
Eternally searching for so much more
At breaking point and primed for implosion
Standing at the towns gates and cheering totalitarianism on its arduous march into expulsion
As masses we move in uncertain terms
Living to absorb , to almost defend the disease, the genetic germs
The crowd ask questions, seek answers of clarity
Settling no more for the disgust of others impunity
Maybe the balance will tilt
And the toxic flowers of the current state of affairs begin to wilt
Global humanity free to exist and have an honest future of preservation
Not just confined to a future in some wildlife conservation
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
"I", said the apple, "am the body of temptation."
Blood red poison, source of expulsion!
"Oh", the strawberry cried,"And I, infatuation."
Bright ***** pink, I am compulsion.
And so every food clamored to make a claim.
All but the quiet brown staple stone.
The little potato wept in his bitter, cold shame.
"I am useless, unloved, quite alone..."
Ah, but fear not, although you are quite plain,
You are durability, crucial, the go-to.
You are esteemed, and rather good for the brain,
So don't worry, I love you, little potato.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
Regrets, they come in waves and break around his feet
And he begins to wonder who he might have been
Had roads diverged in different woods and fields
Not yellow or yet any colour still unseen
But clearer now by day than windless nights
Still nearer than the objects of his dreams
It'd rained late into the evening, and when the lights were shaded
Around the pool outside and with the windows shuttered
He'd thrown on loose clothes, flicked open an umbrella
While high outside the stars the lightning flashes muttered
Pulled open doors that led to the veranda
And moved outside once more with all his thoughts unuttered
The smoke, from fires on Java lies heavy on his senses
An omen of the time of year and of the past condition
He shrugs, ***** in the acidic nighttime odors
Reviving lives not lived but revealing his admission
That time beyond the present that mirrors every movement
Within, without, and yet again, the flicker of suspicion.
The pistol in his pocket, illegal not unloaded
A symbol of his state of mind and by his sole discretion
He kneels beside the water, deep-set and in the shadows
Lips forming wordlessly around the last confession
Images of where and what and who and why and whether
A portent of that final action, sensing and impression
The smoke from fires on Java lies heavy on the water
The reek of cordite mixing with the smell of burning grasses
Indignant birds protest the crack of one small set expulsion
The echo round the swimming pool reverberates and passes
Nothing more and nothing less and time and space and matter
Slick red upon the treacherous tiles, the shattered bloodied glasses.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 6:19 AM UTC
To Bailey
What up cousin? It’s been a while since we’ve spoken..
I’ve been tryin to keep my mind focused and stayin open..
tryin to figure out how to rebuild my heart again now that it’s broken..
hopin and prayin to some god that it’s all a dream an I’ll be awoken..
But I’m not an ignorant or irrational man, so it’s back to life as I know it..
now I sit here with pen in hand, talking to another lost loved one as a poet..
god **** every time it seems to get a little harder and harder to be stoic..
I do it for you, but my choice would have been to find a rock and hide far below it..
But I’ve held you down, an showed the world a face with a sculpted smile..
Meanwhile inside I strong armed my stomach to prevent the expulsion of bile..
mind racing, god ****** Just 29 years is nowhere near a long enough while!!
and to think, you barely even got to spend 3 of those with your child..
It makes me want to shout to the stars and curse our own existence..
I guess I learned I can’t box god due to something about my arms and the distance..
so I’ve given up being angry about it and stopped my resistance..
but the one thing it’s affected more than any other is my persistence..
From time to time I’m gonna ask someone “has anyone told you they loved you today?”
and if they say no, I’ll be the first person to show them a sincere display…
YOU taught me that bailey, and no matter what, I’ll never let it slip away…
I can’t thank you enough for your life, I wouldn’t even know how to repay!
It’s those small perfect lessons we can all take from your life…
I couldn’t even begin to tell them all in the course of one night…
you were an amazing person to anyone who met you, a true delight..
people called you a shiner, a catalyst, a loving father, and a white knight…
everyone had a story of how you had given them inspiration..
I can’t thank you enough on behalf of the world for your donations!
I’m glad I could finally write this letter to show my appreciation..
the words had been escaping me with some trepidation..
I love you Bailey, always have and always will!!
I can’t believe you’re gone but I carry on still…
I soldier up when I need to then settle down to chill…
I’ll see you when I see you, you know the drill…
Rest In Peace: Bailey Paul McKeon-Phillips
Aug 7, 2010
Aug 7, 2010 at 2:57 PM UTC
He got expelled this time.
He wasn't sent to
In-school suspension
Or lunch detention
Or the counselor's office.
He was expelled from
Fairfax County Public Schools.
And his friends all freaked.
They sat outside the school
Every morning
And wouldn't go in
To protest.
They signed a petition
That called him a
"Well rounded student"
And
"Well loved by the student body."
I didn't love Brian.
I hated Brian.
Brian was the kid
Who always
Made the class
Stay late.
He was the kid who
Went through the halls
Grabbing peoples butts.
He was the kid that
All the guys wanted to be
And all the girls wanted to have.
And instead of sending him off
To West Point
Where he would have to
Shave his Bieber hair and
Follow the rules for once,
The county revoked the expulsion.
And to me
It seems like
A celebrity murdered someone
And because a thousand fan letters were sent in
They got to go free.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
It's almost like her demons are in her blood
And the blade is their final expulsion
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC
check in at the library, my card scanned,
per the terms of my sentencing agreement
to the poetry shelves dispatched.
row after row, book after book,
all blank awaiting my affections,
all demanding my sensei sensations,
seeking a creme filling of honorations,
words of all shape, roots and origins,
the occasional new combination
some, never heard before, timelessly awaiting expulsion
from the birth-vocal canal where comes origination,
but for me, death by enforced creativity,
that’s what the judgers desired,
a punishment that fits the crime
*my misdeed record unsealed, intended for
world envisioning, the ego audacity to imagine
I could write a single good poem,
thus the punishment fits the crime*
may1 9:19am ‘19
May 1, 2019
May 1, 2019 at 11:47 AM UTC
I periodically Perpetuate
hurricanes all around me
manifesting my illusions
filled with anomalies
commonly I’m far from Common
as these evil forces
completely surround me
crashing down to rock-bottom
longing to no longer be lonesome
but my loneliness is caused
by my compulsions
such impulsive behavior
needs to get out of me, expulsion
creatively i creep
to seem casual and sane
To a world that’s corrupt
and crippled needing a cane
****** and staring
into the eyes of the truth
but with all this proof
we can’t find who is to blame
to some mentally
my mind it is unglued
broken into bits
from so much abuse
daily I’m terrified of torture
I feel like I’ve got nothing to lose
I’m black and blue
Just one giant bruise
Beaten and brought down to my knees
Reluctant to beg. I scream out please
No more
In my tears I’m drowning
A moment of silence as
You Playfully tease
But the kid with the magnifier
Doesn’t hear the ants screams
Only burns and burns
Until their is nothing left
But the shell of a man
Who’s life is a mess
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 2:08 PM UTC
I am grounded by my own ignorance, he thought, and here, by the sheer complexity of things. This pebble at my feet seems the very centre of a radius - of marks and pathways. Possibilities. It is a thing that connects itself with me. It is very early, before the sun has touched the horizon’s sky.
I recall a poem telling of the perfection of pebbles, their being equal to themselves, mindful of their limits, filled exactly with a pebbly meaning, with a scent which does not remind one of anything, does not frighten anything away, does not arouse desire, its ardour and coldness full of dignity.
I now remember another poem, portraying a pebble placed in a child’s hand, picked up on a pebble ridge. A pebble to place in the pocket where we finger it until it becomes warm. Its shape and certainty is firm and sure. It consoles us. And, as we change and decay, it remains lodged with us: a thing that contains nothing save the mystery of life.
And there is a long prose poem devoted to the pebble. It starts at the beginning of time itself with a condensed cosmogony, describing the formation of the first rock as an allegory of The Fall. It ventures through the expulsion of life, to cooling, to those large tectonic plates, and all the way down to the pebble itself, or, as the poet says, the "kind of stone that I can pick it up and turn it over in my hand". Time is everywhere in this poem: Stone as Time, where the great wheel of stone rolls ever on as plant life, animals, gases and liquids revolve quite rapidly in their cycles of dying. Take this as the poet’s view of humanity: to consider all things as unknown, and to begin again right from the beginning.
We need to take the side of things, he thought. Here, this pebble is time, and where this pebble lies, with its radii of marks, seems at the very centre of things. It was brought anonymously by the tide one stormy night to lie at our feet, and looks at us with a calm and very clear eye.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
Baron wastelands sound the trumpet in the midst of the ghetto, where sobriety gathers in connected ambivalence.
Acknowledge the animism within naturopathic spirituality. I urge you to have explicit *********** with unfamiliar prostitutions, whilst political prowess ingests her toxicities in the guise of oratory genius.
The expulsion of vanity is haunting in its reverence.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 2:52 PM UTC
Secure within the mother’s womb.
Sheltered from all storms of life.
Swimming,
Swiveling,
and
Sustained.
The countdown begun-
A wide world awaiting,
Eager faces looking,
Windows opening,
to
Colour,
Scent,
Sound,
Taste and Touch.
But,
Expectations shattered,
Exasperation heightened,
Execution begun,
Excruciation settled,
and
Expulsion confirmed!
Chopped to pieces,
Down to trash.
‘The most unkindest cut of all’!
Betrayal!
Horrid Betrayal!
Through eons,
History repeats.
‘Am I my brother’s keeper’?
The Son of Man –
sold out,
with a kiss.
Et tu, Brute!
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 5:57 AM UTC
~
dark early pre-dawn
body suspended between the-dark ochre earth tones of night,
and the teal pealing notes of warning of an impending morning,
signs aborning, me rising with urgency of the leaden half deaden,
torn from the bed casket to venture into a different kind of twi-lights,
nature demanding both intake and outtake, a restoration of balance
but first a bumbling wobbling, the body as carnival bumper car,
installing soon-to-be-bruising for later examination-exhumation,
lurching from handhold crevices in the walls like crazy cliff climbers,
my balance disturbed, eyes try tearing apart the sticky glue of night,
my sense of direction keeping me from free falling into green glass
edges of glass tables, barely, and not always, red cuts evidentiary
“my balance disturbed” words fresh formed, and a poem expulsion
required to balance the unjust scales of spirit soul and the body cage,
patch an negotiated agreement between warring cousins, just a
twenty four hour ceasefire to retrieve the wounded and the
corpses unfounded in the small copses of false shelter,
like my ancestors expelled from Spain, making escape to be
strangers in strange lands, or remain hidden in place neath disguises
of clothes of new poems, prayers for old and new gods
this new poem comes quick like a young man making first love,
for the poem has been written by thousands nights of practicing,
so ready for quick retrieving in a smattering of a few minutes,
expulsion expulsion
what a perfect verbiage to capture the night terrors, the differentials,
the procession path between what was and what will be,
when my balance restored and this poem’s completion installation
in the body of my work, as a nail disguised in the works of my body,
entering by command of the pitch black gods
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC
A Presidential pardon for all inmates and the expulsion of every American's arrest and incarceration record. Change the lives of forty million people and see the economy roar the Lion's head.
What could be more, Christian?
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
(be-tween and be-twixt)
———-
the most precious but precarious item
in our possess, value far above rubies,
this love overflows, but it drowns me
from within, for it has no home for
pleasured sharing and goes wasted, excreted
in tears and exhalations without destination
condition incurable, and the doctor advises,
projects, a life span rangebound from
***be-tween
and
be-twixt,***
imperative that this love be
disbursed, pressure relieved,
fluid and gases shared,
send it forth,
Doc behests,
nay,
begs,
you’re a decent human,
tell your tales,
follow your motto,
write those love poems,
always leave them laughing,
and give them love in smiles
all-the-whiles
bringing joyous relief to your clogged arteries,
all this the bare minimum,
for you must moreover grasp and clasp
your body to another, for this
the best transfer transfusion
of all your needed love needs
go be needed, be great, be lessened,
be all three
and never walk alone,
with just hope in your heart,
for the heart, automatically refills,
and this the best, medical opinion…
for all those with too many love poems
requiring expulsion and extrusion
Jul 22, 2023
Jul 22, 2023 at 9:14 AM UTC
Is there a difference between whispers and screams?
This bombastic expulsion of soul...
To ears who might listen, or eternal silence.
hearts and minds are far from control.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
I always wanted to compose symphonies,
But my hands and my head could never agree.
I got the blue curse, because I always feel beats,
But my fingers freeze up when I get to melo-DIEs.
Recede. I want to live the nihilist's dream,
Smoke packs a day to intensify screams.
Maybe if I stare into the middle distance,
After hours I would build up a tolerance to listen.
IN THIS town, there are only 2 kinds of people
Girls who pierce their NOSES and THOSE IN the steeple
Walking down So. Auburn in bare feet and short shorts
Catching the gleam from the street (of course),
With their dreadlocks all up in auburn buns
And their eyes shooting diamonds in the autumn sun.
Bullet-belt vests draped lazily over their shoulders,
With double-zero earrings and squirt-gun holsters.
And the police-dogs and the SWAT cars are all powered by indulgence,
The doctors are up to their elbows in cadavers by self-expulsion
The men are splitting at the seams from over-eating obsessive compulsion
And the shameful deception of upward inflection to change my direction and wind
UP and the inanimate DUCKling with a large crank between its shoulders
In the shape of a black key to the black energy that makes the cold rooms colder
Is a disguise to the spoken word hurricanes brewing inside me.
Set me to zero then make me the hero so physicists can derive me.
If the sum of all forces is equal to mass times acceleration,
Maybe the sum of world problems is equal to vanity times irritation.
Jeans cutting up my legs, purpling due to lack of circulation
Are developing holes, as well as the soles of my shoes, I'm growing impatient.
The production slows to a halt, pouring salt into lacerations,
And as boys grow into drunk daddies, women resort to migration.
This country isn't democracy, just a ghastly and pale imitation,
These people don't have representatives, only half-assed representations.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 7:08 PM UTC
A humbling profession is
Biblical archaeology,
where people are found prostrate -
Searching for glimpses of Man's history.
Forgotten souls and evidence have been
covered by layers of earthly dust,
as recent discoveries now include...
The decoding of Israel's "Exodus".
An eclectic collection of artifacts
of the "Hyksos Expulsion" have been laid bare
by Simcha, the "Naked Archaeologist",
on TV's "The History Channel" everywhere.
Proposed is a brilliant theory,
that spans a labyrinth of time,
while he employs computer graphics
to capture believers' hearts and minds.
An unending excavation
of God's Truth will forever last,
while we focus our attention
and gaze through... His prism to our past.
Author Notes:
Simcha J., the "Naked Archaeologist", released a two-hour video called "Decoding the Exodus".
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 8:56 AM UTC