"eyeing" poems
A fine mole down
the blue mountain sky
cannot be weighed out!
It's the cosmos's gold dust
the earthy depth triumphs.
Oh earth, our close clay-star
is far ahead of the day at noon.
Ahead of the moon
ahead of the Neptune!
With a million dash of curiosity
every new sunrise paints
upon her black box with the roaring fire.
Yet the ****** is a veiled wonder!
It has the plethora a room for everyone
and time for timeless times.
Guess, with her longhand
what an inside scoop did it pick out?
You too can be in the know
It's the feminine beauty all in all.
You may have by now
seen women million and one.
The earth is eyeing on only one!
Her closest admirer is the star
of the very luminary bunch
with open eyes in the hearts.
Her dead man is waking up
sniffing the daylight by her.
Yet to make the discovery
both are still wondering outside!
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 4:52 PM UTC
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
26k
Anger, is the steaming red on her face
refusal creates in an instance;
jealousy is foaming green
profusion of colors in motion
takes this dance for them to upward
and downward turns,
or a sudden dissolution---
an intense ****** in unison.
Even in darkness he can see the
spasmodic ebbing waves
sleep is the banana plantation
where night wears translucent green
"nobody would see us here"
she whispers in his ears,
as if they are thieving sex,eyeing
the yellow banana she likes, to play with
Purple is the psychedelic color
smeared on horizon when
dreams repeatedly fly down
like night bats and happen
the way mind designs
we don't want to leave the scene
of the dream even when we know well
that the show for us is now over
we just want to hang around
like the dog, in the place
it got a juicy bone.
Yellow is the banana song
that's heard as wave after wave,
by the blind bat squadron
that roams with raw aggression,
for raids above the plantations
Unripe bananas show green fingers
to say "NO! we aren't ripe"
like coy underage virgins.
Then, they ripen, go yellow
some even bright red, inviting
who is blue here is the sky
and those bats who got
the bananas still raw green
Night decents on the banana land
as the white umbrella of sun
is snatched by the dark maiden.
Black is the bat's wing extending
and folding like lust, umbrella and the like.
He finds her shivering fingers like a serpent,
on the banana trunk slithering down,
as he dreams bats, banana, blue sky
and she slithering over him.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
Every blue patch on the sky keeps an eye,
cherishing clouds dancing, hovering over.
The songs of deep blue ride the heady air,
only to be stunned, all of a sudden,
at the first sight—
sung down on a perfectly placed mural.
The Queen of Sheba tiptoes this way;
King Solomon leans to the ground,
only to find seas of silent blooms
musing, dipping in sun-kissed dews—
on gently tilted roses that will not fall,
not from this picture-perfect, navel-high!
Velvety, the rose rises from the ground;
the forever-green Earth hangs low,
in the dew on the rose that will not fall.
Blossoming, eyeing an acute high,
evermore hopeful to scale upward,
toward the faraway, awaiting heaven's pool.
There, the spotlight does not move—
neither north nor south, nor up nor down—
until Queen Fathima, the Queen of Heaven,
steps on the "as above, so below" slope.
There, the newly resurrected Earth will be primed,
its minted atoms vibrating beyond bounds,
rising, for the first time, atop the navel-high.
Perfectly wrapped, the atom's circle finally turns on—
the stepping stone that holds no pi-decimal hole.
Pure Scientia hangs on the door of Paradise,
awaiting the numerically perfect Queen Fathima to step.
God willing, she will work in beauty:
the most sought-after, perfect works of art—
the lost masterpiece, not in translation,
but hidden within the pi-decimal abyss of Earth's depth.
Lo, the gleaning Sleeping Beauty peeps,
trailing the role model Queen.
Fathima—the first woman to enter Paradise—
walks the walk: perfect, straight, numerically precise.
As if she always knew, back from the Earth,
of the murals ahead, hanging on Paradise’s wall,
mathematically exact!
Mirrors of imagination, new wonders on Heaven’s way,
etched in the murals at the golden section, navel-high.
She zooms past the ever-spinning atom’s perfect span,
cemented at the entrance of Paradise.
Yet leaves no footprint—
for she never did, even on the sublunary Earth.
A new wonder blooms in the classic old eyes:
oh, Pi, still irrational, still pondering,
at the measured, eternal navel-high!
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
It’s a coloured and shaded broad daylight.
Bring me my hourglass, my paintbrush.
Keeping a timepiece, how soon my brush
strokes become finer it is not the task.
Try once more, strike a fine chord in time,
ever ticking but doesn't make a sound!
Let’s read the small prints, the shadow lines
on the pitch of the slit sun shines!
A dark spot in the light, some dotted lines
on a blank paper, however witty you might
describe it, count on the tweeting birds
short and cute, singing in the open air.
Light and dark the two tallies, ins and outs.
The times come and go, flowing fine.
For now, let’s take a look inside.
Tint and shade nor tone them now.
Zoom in and out, just watch them as they are.
This cool sleek shade on the sunny slate
is it a shadow, or some quivering curly hairs
or are these reflections of flocking clouds,
diligent sea eyeing deep down on the ground?
Read the small prints, shadows in the daylight,
before the show is wrapped up.
And down the evening pool, the sun
parts away with the black swan.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
I remember that spring morning all too well
As much as I wish I could forget
It was the Monday after prom
I came into math class, the teacher was eyeing me sympathetically
Then the principle came in with tears in her eyes
What was going on?
She started balling, I could barely make out her words
Then I heard her loud and clear
You were dead
No. No. No.
Surely I misheard
Surely this was all a big misunderstanding and the boy in that car wasn't you
Surely you'd stroll into class 10 minutes late as usual
But it was you in that car
And you never strolled into class again
I remember when I told my best friend, the girl you loved and who loved you
As I told her you were dead I watched the life drain from her face quicker than an avalanche falling, and it has yet to return
And now her face is a reminder
And now your empty desk is a reminder
And now that bench where you used to sit all the time is a reminder
And that one less chair at our graduation is a reminder
And that picture of you in the hallway is a reminder
Everything is a reminder
No one really knows what happened to you that night
Do people really crash into brick buildings on accident?
Maybe you lost control of the car
Maybe you lost control of your life
All I know is seventeen is way too young to die
All I know is we should've been talking about prom that morning
Who kissed who, who wore what, who's after party was the best
But instead we were mourning the death of a classmate
That morning we lost you, and along with you, we lost our innocence too
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
I chose to hide,
Behind my veil.
In my safe home,
My existence frail.
My identity and my honour,
My own choice to preserve.
Hiding within my soul,
Modesty that i reserve.
Eyeing this dusty world,
Lost treasures of faith
seven virtues for world,
Veil for me is eighth.
Proud of my identity,
happy on my choice.
This is what i am,
Hijab is my voice.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
My body is a temple
And yes you may stare
But don't come up to me
like you have some kind
Of speech prepared
I'm not your baby
Or your honey bun
I'm simply delicious
And no you can't have some
You don't please my eye
Or give me the tingles
I'm pretty sure your one liners
Is a reason why you're single
I'm not you're sweet Thang
Or something you can eat
So stop eyeing me down
Like i'm a rare piece of meat
My body isn't your wonderland
for you to explore
I'm an exotic foreign country
Not a second class *****
I won't give you my number
Or snapchat name
I've heard this all before
You are all the same .
My eyes are up here
But you're looking at my chest
Last time i checked
That's not a sign of respect
You say that you're different
And not like the rest,
That you're number one
TO simply to put it
"The best"
I regret to inform
That you are highly mistaken
So you're going home tonight
To a bed that is vacant.
I won't regret this decision
And i wont keep you in mind
But If you like, take a number
Join the other guys in line
Who think I'm a *****
Or a stuck up chick
But darling pipe down
You're just another ****
I'm not that type of girl
Who randomly *****
If you like go down the street
They'll always ****
I know my worth
And what i deserve
I don't have time
For a creepy, ass-perve
I have a man who loves me
and treats me the right way
So why would i bother
And give you the time of day
Hes perfect and handsome
A real bread winner
So ill deny you again
You can't take me out to dinner
I'm just not that into you
Or however it goes
You're going to be leaving
As a one man show
You should probably go
Cause No means no
Sorry not sorry
I think you learned your lesson though.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
I was on my way to a party
Dressed in heels and a crop top
When I entered the corner store
To purchase some snacks
And on my way to the cashier
A man standing in an aisle
Browsing through peanuts
Glanced up and stopped mid-search
When I clicked past him
And proceeded to uncomfortably stare
I walked into the gas station
Wearing dark wash jeans and a v-neck
With my best friend at 2 AM
When two drunken men stumbled in
And began eyeing us up and smirking
My friend leaned in to me and whispered,
"I'm really scared."
Overhearing her, one man elbowed the other
And with a smile on his face taunted,
"Oh no, we're scaring them."
I was at the laundry mat one night
Wearing shorts and a baggy shirt
When a middle aged man across the room
Kept gawking at me from over the washers
Uneasy, I went outside to smoke
To which he stood at the window
And kept a close eye on me
I called a friend and stayed on the phone
Because I was afraid to go back
And get my clothes alone
I stepped out of my vehicle
In my sweatpants and flipflops
To grab some cigarettes quick
When a white bearded man
Was already at my heels
"Hey, how're you honey?"
I quickly replied, "fine".
And hurried into the store
Without looking back
It seems like every time I leave the house
It doesn't matter what I'm wearing
It could be "provocative" or a burlap sack
I always end up feeling threatened
Heartbeat in my ears
Cold sweat on my back
So don't blame it on my outfit
Don't blame it on my actions
Because I'm not asking for it
I just want to be left alone
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
Gentle evening wind, non existent till a moment before
lying low among the children playing with the flakes of golden sun
fallen on the silver white sand, quickly rises, unnoticed by any one
flirt with the comely coconut palms lined on the beach,that act coy,
blows towards the long, rolling blue wave, meeting it headlong,
a blast, white spray springs up spectacularly like a fountain,
then, easily lifts three kitesurfers, fling them high up stylishly
across the fortress of water, they look invincible, untouched
by the waves, that look foolish eyeing skywards, the milling crowd
howls in mirth, seeing the dramatic twist, it's all fun till sun down.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit-
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images,
I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of
your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam-
ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives
in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you,
Garcнa Lorca, what were you doing down by the
watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old
grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator
and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed
the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my
Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of
cans following you, and followed in my imagination
by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in
our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every
frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors
close in an hour. Which way does your beard point
tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets?
The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses,
we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent
cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-
teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit
poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank
and stood watching the boat disappear on the black
waters of Lethe?
Berkeley 1955
8.4k
Give him a skinhead, insignia, boots
Less scruples, a swagger-stick, crowds, money.
No black shirts visible. Just business suits,
and pride is restored: tragic but funny.
Proud like a skyscraper, godless as sin
Babylonian promises, towering lies
Reality shows when plutocrats win,
Their rhetoric raining from empty skies.
She-wolves, elected by uninformed sheep
behave predictably, eyeing the flock
Their wool (and the lamb-chops) are hers to keep
Grazing voter—this should come as no shock.
It’s a bitter pill (more like pilloried)
So shall we now be ******* or Hillary-ed?
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
Eyeing on the night - its out.
Mirroring the colour of the Moon
every star flocks in the sky!
Just spare an eye - maybe the
missing sun keeping an eye out!
For it only fancies the billowy
sea in the black night.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 1:08 AM UTC
The Ganga talk
eh eh eh
What does it say?
The Ganga talk
eh eh eh
She says light me up
Light me up
The Ganga Talk
Ay ay ay
She says daddy burn me up
Burn me up
The Ganga Sing
What does she sing?
She Singing
oh in harmony
As I put the flame to her, she seems
Soft
&
Vibrant
Honest
Eyeing me
OH
I cannot think
Burning
my baby
Oh
I cannot stop
Puffing my baby
till she's gone
Society
Has triggered this in me!
And All I can think about
Is the next time my
ganga talk,
my baby gonna sing.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
I was starving in
Pennsylvania.
One night, I had
enough.
Done with it all.
The poverty and
sickness.
The drunken mad
nights
and dog-fight days.
Brutality for breakfast.
Served sunny side up
runny yolks with
butterflies trapped in
the yellow sunshine.
Spiders built webs in
my soul.
I stood on the torn-up
couch in my living room and
yelled at the walls.
Listen, you devil.
You want me, you better be
ready for a fight.
I paced the floor like a
washed-up heavyweight champ,
eyeing the ceiling like a
drunken sparrow in a cat's mouth.
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 11:59 AM UTC
Busy bee eyeing the flowers
Seduced by the bright colors
Probing with the proboscis
Hairy body covered with pollens
Visiting the clovers and hollyhocks
Also in love with Dahlias and roses
Returning with the days fill
Honey sac full of nectar
Returning to the honeycomb
They are ‘Bee-ing’ happy
With all the sweetness
Just Bee Happy
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
You and I would stand in front of my bathroom mirror and
just hold each other, naked, acquainting ourselves
with the strange, biblical union of joints and hair
and skin and crevices and curves that we make
together...
Fingerpainting reverently on your chest,
I'd kiss your freckled shoulder, eyeing your reflection as it melted,
falling for me again-- and you'd
tell me in return
that my eyes are beautiful, and that they are green,
just like yours.
They are brown, I'd say, and
laugh and
leave
you to
confront only yourself
in my mirror.
Every day that I stand again
in front of my mirror alone--
a similar but emptier amalgamation of joints and curves--
I could swear that my eyes
look a little bit paler...
like if I
point my nose up to the high hat on my ceiling,
with the fluorescent light spilling into them
the color could certainly pass
as the same green in your eyes and
I wonder,
and I hope
that being wrong all this time
doesn't mean I was wrong about you, too.
Dec 22, 2021
Dec 22, 2021 at 11:19 PM UTC
I grew up watching romance anime,
I loved them even though most were cliché,
Shy girl meets popular guy,
Two people love each other but they're too shy,
I remember waiting all week to see if she gives him her homemade chocolates on Valentines Day,
Squeling when they finally say,
I love you
Then they kiss under the fireworks later,
They barely show anything beyond that but I assume it's happily ever after
Every single time, they have their first encounter under the cherry blossom tree,
I remember thinking hey, why can't that happen to me?
But there are no cherry blossoms here you see,
The boy you fall in love with at the first day of school,
Will not be yours by the last episode,
That the guy you always see at your bus stop,
Will not always save you a seat,
That when he holds out his hand,
No, it is not always your hands, he is reaching for
That the sparks you feel when your lips touch,
Are not always fireworks
But maybe just electricity; waiting to shock you
I've learned that "I love you" doesn't always mean "Happy Ending"
I realized that "I love you"
Doesnt always mean "take everything i have"
I found out that "I love you"
Doesnt always mean "I love you"
That "Forever"
Is about as real as you meeting the one under a ******* cherry blossom tree
Yes, his eyes may sparkle,
Yes, they don't see him the way you do
Yes, the words I love you
Feel like the sweater you finally bought after eyeing it for months,
Yes, this moment may feel so surreal,
That you can hear the background music and see the sparkles everywhere,
But you see,
this is not an anime or a movie,
This love is'nt gonna end up the way you planned it to,
Yes, you may be the author
But this, is not just your story.
-p.a.r
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
The day on a high
reaches the peak
over the pyramid.
Shrouded in twilight
now tucked in light
pushes the envelope.
The whole panache of stars
came out in the pitch dark.
The North Star is on the way
oh do me a favour
I will tell you why.
Veil the angle of dawn
in the black shades of the night.
There are dark caves
even inside the pyramid
scientists, trained eyes
yet to tread on that way.
Put on it only an instance of your kohl
the daylight is already a burnt mole.
Light in the wrap in the night
your muslin veiled silken moonlight
is enough to find the tuberose’s earth.
If the tucked away sun crops up
once again over the morning’s rose petals.
Again it will dive deep into the angle
after an angle in the black hole of the night.
A far cry from the glowing firefly
eyeing blindfolded behind the moon
perfectly beyond every looking star.
Until the master arts in silk black finds the true pencil
not in visualising but catching the views of the sunrise
through the lens of the rose pollens’ kohl-eyes.
Dec 19, 2021
Dec 19, 2021 at 1:48 AM UTC
Of serene eyes that follow gently
the illicit pill she could not let go
it was heavy as the waters pulling her inside
serenading her with an estranged voice
coming from within —
her minimizing the desire to let it out
as the sun quiets down
and the gibbous moon exhibiting itself at night,
resisting the waves occurring —
as if it loathed her whole being
of her justness and the absence of these causes
her grieving and the sirens waltzing,
talking through an absentminded eye
eyeing her soul
finding love that seizes it
but hers were two feet and one mouth to breathe in
even in all shades of blue,
she can get a glimpse of the dark hue
illuminating the downside of the ocean
pulling her, wrecking her soul.
Redemption does not lie —
humoring her with plainly just truth
craving for the applause of the moon
only observing the depth of the ocean
eating the once alive soul
of her saving her last breath,
chiming in with the conversation, she
once had with him.
It could have been nice the resistance
he once had — to throw himself out
to the beauty of his light that shed
her whole body
he once was able to have
and he stayed there, eyed her the whole time
being eaten on the lonesome of the night
for he himself, shading all the blueness
like a requiem for the dreams
she kept on having
like a composition giving life
to new generations, he was still on
a token and a curse, and he let her be —
in all shades of blue.
Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 5:21 AM UTC
I want to tell her
But i can't.
I watch the spring rain fall.
A gentle tapping,
Sort of rapping
On the window's pane.
I focus on the sound until it fades.
I close my eyes and remember the day,
The scene is painted in a greyscale haze.
There stands you
Across the room
Enveloped in blue.
Your favorite colour.
It's late on that late winter's night,
And we're with our group.
If I said I knew who was there
I would be lying
Because it was you I was eyeing.
I'll skip the cliches, like
Butterflies
Or, better yet,
"Love at first sight"
Be as they may,
They all came true that night.
A casual glance became
A gaze became
A smile.
Once,
Twice,
Thrice,
Then Five,
We held it for a while.
I take a drink and pause the haze.
Minutes become hours that drag on for miles
We found ourselves in that grassy field
Dotted with trees,
And rabbits,
And owls.
A hot summer day-
The south suffers waves.
Hand in hand we make our way
Through the trail.
We fall behind our friends,
There's something I have to tell.
I stumble and fumble
Through letters to string,
I can't think of what to say.
And you say it's okay.
I smile and hold you close,
A mixed sense of pleasure morose.
Your lips touch mine,
And my heart explodes.
I can't believe we let each other go
We became 'twixt,
Ivy to our bones.
Again
Time lapses
There I am standing
There you are
Hanging
On him.
My rage demanding
His end.
But you come between
Deny instead.
Say I'm not right in the head,
Well, baby,
Love killed me dead.
I turn to walk away
And in turn you turn to
Return to he
Who shook your leaves.
So we've parted ways
And all was well
Until recently.
When I examined
A mural
And saw I missed a shard.
A blue tile
The final part
To my stain-glassed heart.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
Harriet turned back off the intercom and stood in the office for a few seconds. What have we done? I can't believe I let my ten year old son be the vessel to that thing. I can't believe we were stupid enough to summon that thing thought Harriet. Harriet walked out of the office and back to the worship area where Evil was waiting.
"Why do you have a look of concern on your face Harriet? What did you think I would be like?" asked Evil. "I didn't know what to expect" said Harriet. As Harriet and Evil stood eyeing each other the members of Sinister walked in the worship area.
"I'm glad you all could make it. Now sit down" said Evil. A stocky middle aged man walked up to Evil looked down at him and said "I don't take orders from children." with a smile on his face Evil broke the man's leg in half by giving him a front kick to his knee cap. The stocky man hit the floor and screamed in agony. The members of Sinister watched in horror as Evil wrapped his arms around the man's head and broke his neck. He then proceeded to rip the man's head off and throw it out the door of the worship area.
"Now if everyone would please listen to me very carefully. The person you see is not Levi. I am Evil. Your priest summoned me and I answered his call. The vessel you see is Levi but I am Evil. All of you may address me as Levi" said Evil. The members of Sinister looked at each other but didn't say a word. "Sit down. You all thought the Book of Evil was something to play with and that I wasn't real. You put the cult Sinister together to pass time and have fun. I am very real" said Evil as the members of Sinister sat down. "Your High Priest use to run the show but from now on I'll be running the show. You may now return to your rooms until I call for you again" said Evil.
All of the members of Sinister stood to their feet and returned to their rooms. When all of the members of Sinister were gone Evil looked at Harriet and said "I need for you to update me on world events. I need to know what's going on around the world." "You need to watch the Visual View Screen. The Visual View Screen is a device that show us World News, entertainment shows, movies, and music. What you need to watch is world news. Follow behind me" said Harriet.
Harriet led Evil out of the worship area and to a room where there was a Visual View Screen. She turned on the Visual View Screen, turned the channel to the world news, and the two sat down and watched the world news.
"That's it right there. It's amazing how Scientist and Bio Engeiners come up with things" said Evil. "What's it?" asked Harriet. "Don't you just love war? Your species create genius ways to **** each other. They created a virus and a cure to for the virus. The building where the virus is kept is under quarantine. We are going to release the virus and live in the underground city designed to keep the Scientist and Bio Engeiners safe if the virus ever got loose. Once the virus **** everyone on planet the members of Sinister will reemerge from the underground city and I will create a new world" said Evil.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
I'm facing the horizon, reclining in the cool grass, staring deeply into the pink and purple sky.
It is an exemplary evening and I am enticed by its extravagance. I contemplate existence.
I contemplate all our lives:
The gnat licking sweat of my brow,
You,
Me,
That tree across the street,
Your dead friends, my ancestors, that hot Latina chick that works at Panara (not that I really eat at Panara).
The undercover cop that won't stop eyeing me.
I watch the pink fade into purple fade into nothing at all. The clouds disperse, becoming nothing more than disconnected particles of dirt and water suspended in midair, and the sun goes down.
I **** the gnat and go home.
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
we ate government cheese
that came in a dull brown box
we were too young
to understand what welfare
and food stamps meant,
our empty bellies never protested
at the salty orange blocks
in front of the bodega,
we saw a woman introduce a hammer
to a drunk tyrant’s skull
his blood pooling on the streets
was too red for new eyes
we watched hypodermic needles
bloom on stoops
cling to life on curbs
the graffiti on abandoned buildings
was our Louvre, our Salon de Paris
sweltering streets our baseball diamonds
prostitutes, black or brown or both
mothered us between shifts
we grew up in projects,
that sheltered drab lives
and senseless brutalities
gunfire, sharp and immutable
punctured lullabies
we were small boys
watching life unfold
the way one stares at an accident
detached and mildly curious
eyeing cooly the despair
and impossible hopelessness
of growing up poor
in Brooklyn
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC