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Chalsey Wilder Sep 2014
Ladies and gentleman skinny and scout
I'll tell you a tale I know nothing about
The admission is free so pay at the door
Now pull out a chair and sit on the floor

On one bright day in the middle of the night
Two dead boys got up to fight
Back to back they faced each other
Drew their swords and shot each other

The blind man came to see fair play
The mute man came to shout hooray
The deaf policeman heard the noise
And came to stop those two dead boys

He lived on the corner in the middle of the block
In a two story house on a vacant lot
A man with no legs came walking by
And kicked the lawman in his thigh

He crashed through a wall without making a sound
Into a dry creek bed and suddenly drowned
A long black hearse came to cart him away
But he ran for his life and is still gone today

I watched from the corner of the table
The only eyewitness to facts of my fable
If you doubt my lies are true
Just ask the blind man, he saw it too
This is my favorite poem. It's by Tyler Rager and I honestly don't know why I love this poem. But ever since I heard it from the movie I just couldn't wait to find it online and read it. When I read it I fell in love with it. <3 Love this poem a lot.
John F McCullagh Nov 2013
John O’Sullivan was an electrical engineer for Consolidated Edison for Forty years. He drove himself and his staff hard, and took pride in the smooth operation of his substation on the lower East side of Manhattan.  When a man like John, who proudly self-identified as a type “A” personality, decides to take a break it so often proves to be a serious if not fatal mistake.

In the summer of 2007, my cousin John took his wife, Margaret, on a rare vacation out of the country to the sun swept beaches of Aruba.  While a beach vacation was perfect for Margaret, who loved nothing better than to lounge in the sun reading her book, it was a form of physical and mental torture for her husband.  He grew restless lying beside her in the hot midwinter sun as his pasty white skin turned a robust red despite his constant application of sunscreen.

I will never be sure what precipitated John’s near fatal stroke on that vacation trip. It may have been a combination of too much alcohol and too much sun. It is even possible that he had mixed up his daily medications.  All I know is that when my cousin was air lifted to a State side hospital, he was suffering the consequences of a severe brain damaging event.

When I saw John in the hospital, I could see that he had lost most of the use of the right side of his body and that he was going to be wheelchair bound for the rest of his life. While he certainly recognized me and tried to smile and communicate as best he could with gestures and a wave of his hand he had lost nearly all his power of speech.

My college educated, urbane sophisticated cousin’s vocabulary was very much diminished by the cerebral accident and now consisted of one word: “Bang”. He made the most of his one word personal dictionary. He could, by variation in tone and inflection, make his one word sound like a greeting, a farewell, a warning, a curse or a need for intention.

The word “bang” could express a terrible wellspring of frustration.  John had spent most of his life in a position of command, first as a Marine noncom,, then as the chief Engineer who ran the substation that powered the lower part of Manhattan. Words, to him, were as vital as eyes were to an artist, ears to an artist or taste buds to a gourmoo.

Locked inside my cousin was the person we had formerly known. He was not like an Alzheimer’s victim whose mind had staged a gradual retreat from his body. Rather, I am convinced, he was being held prisoner within the folds of his damaged Parietal lobe.

From the first, there has been no question that he would never set foot in his old offices on E 14th Street again.  There could be no grand retirement party, just a quiet filing of his papers and the first payments from his retirement plan.  These were sufficient, along with his other investments, to provide him and his wife with a modest, comfortable retirement.  If not for the crash that swept the stock market in 2008, his stocks would have been sufficient to permit a healthy cousin John and his wife to tour the world. Now, in the shadow of the great recession, his remaining capital paid for the home health aides and medications that maintained his precarious existence.

Margaret passed on late in 2011, a problem with her heart, the attending physician said. I saw Cousin John at her wake, the chief mourner unable to express his grief.  I took his good hand and expressed my fellow feeling for his loss. My poor words of condolence were inadequate but he gave my hand a gentle squeeze and whispered “bang” which told me he understood. It was a gentle voice from somewhere out on the edge of sadness.

With Margaret gone, the primary responsibility for John’s care was taken over by his daughter Megan and her husband.  The family sold off the big old house in Yorkville and John moved in with Megan’s family in Pelham.  There his pension and savings paid for 24/7 nursing care and a physical therapist. It must have been a source of humiliation for this proud man, a Marine veteran of  the 26th Marine Battalion  who had  fought at Khe Sanh, to be laid upon a table and have his limbs moved by others to maintain their muscle tone in vain attempts  to retrain his surviving brain.

I last saw my cousin at the Fourth of July family picnic.  He had good color and displayed a healthy appetite. He really enjoyed the fireworks display on the East River. He said “Bang” repeatedly, with all the enthusiasm of a young child.

I got the sad news about John the day after Hurricane Sandy struck the New York area.  My cousin Megan was understandably upset and was blaming herself for allowing her father to watch the news on T.V.  He had become visibly agitated when Eyewitness news showed the Con Edison plant of E14th Street exploding and the lower half of Manhattan plunging into darkness. Megan said that Dad screamed “BANG” in a tortured voice, then slumped back into his chair and was gone.

I never did get to the services for Cousin John.  My own house was without power and heat and the gas in my tank was too dangerously low to risk the trip in those days immediately following the storm. I still think of my late cousin often, and when I do I toss a bootless prayer for him into the winds of Eternity. The substation on E. 14th has been repaired; The damaged homes ripped down or rebuilt and the reminders of the storm grow fewer and fewer like the surface of the sea grown calm in the wake of the storm.
a fictionalized memoir of the aftermath of my Cousins stroke, disability and death.

A fast-track court in the capital city;
A Judiciary of a democratic Country;
Hearing the a gang-**** case,
reserved its order
on the quantum of
Punishment for the
four convicted in the
Gang-**** and ******
of a 23-year-old
innocent girl

A 237- page judgment,
Noting that that the
Crime was committed
in an extremely brutal manner.
“The major part of her intestine
was pulled out from the body,”
the Doctor  said.

The prosecution has sought
the death penalty for the
four convicts, while the
Defense lawyers for the
Convicted are pleading
for a lenient verdict.
The arguments in the
gruesome gang-**** case
are over and sentencing
will be announced
at 2.30 pm on Friday,
13th September, 2013

"The sentence which is
very appropriate is nothing
short of death,"
special public prosecutor
told the court.


“The common man
will lose faith in the judiciary
if the harshest punishment
is not given “
the Judge remarked;
Guilty of ******,
Gang ****,
Unnatural ***,
Criminal conspiracy,  
destruction of evidence,
Kidnapping and attempting to ****,
the  eyewitness  said

The fifth convict
Committed suicide
in Tihar Jail
in March this year

The sixth convict
was a juvenile at the time
of the incident and has been
given a three- year term
in a reformation home.

A fast-track court,
A Judiciary of a democratic
Country will order
Stop Crime against women !
“Hang them,
Not let them go free”
**
______________

BY
WILLI­AMSJI MAVELI
The Poem is written in view of  a support with a motto "Stop Crime against women !"
by WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
POSSIBLE Feb 2019
Sorry to...
Hit yo noes
like a brick of green
Like the grass that grow
nourished by the Celtic saints that know

Man tell a lie better make it true
if you don’t, then what do I make of you?

Now Wonder Woman
no wonder were human
bringing Brooklyn
some thunder hoodlum

My baited brown eyes look up and down you

Mile marker .66
and I’m still hitting this
crisp as a chrysalis
you may be the eyewitness
of my fist to this

more like the wittiness
of my pen tip dipped in ambergris
I get around you get the gist
healing hands I mend the cyst
with broken hands I gripped the rich

don't understand
don't worry
like Krishna I persist

zzzz Slept on like
The buzz of viciousness
**** the violence
turn the red to VIOLET
just look right through my eyes slit

Now and then
divine feminine deigned
to grace my face again
turned fake eyes to grin
false pride, double subs, and sin.

Complete appreciation, genuflected form reflected in

this fertile goddeSS
who puts the seeds in season
She see through SnakeS and reedS when
She based in wiSdom
reaSon

designed to take the basest race
from darkest depths to airs of divine space
till we’re flushed with grace
some are hushed by my ace in the whole

I'm a S33ker throwing axes
but YOU better only call me

an axehole

when
I
mis
s
.

***** simple as this.
I͕̩̞’̘̞̯m ̩͙̫͚̳̼͚s͇̞̞̯͕̳e͚ṱ̖̼̯̯̟͔t̘̞̹ͅi̼̠̺͇̪n̗̝̫g ͍̞th͈i̮s̮̟͕̫̫ ba̠̠̮̤r̠̙̼
͉̲I͖̱̫͈͖͈͖’͈̯̘̞̘m̞̠̠̯ͅ ͔̯̬̳̮s͚̘̝͎̮̣̩t̩̩̬̖e͉̖p̜̻p͕̼͎̗̣i̝̗̙̘n̰̫g ṱ̪̺͎͖̬̳h̰̝̘is̲͇̺ ̫f͍͉̠̹̣̯ͅa̟͉͓͖̦̗̩r͇̫̬͎̥
̹͉̱̫̟̩T͕̼̯̣̼͉r͍̘̘͎̝̤̟o̜͔̣̭͎͇n a̭͈̘̜̻ͅn̬̩̱̭̞̜͉d̺ ̠̖̯̠th̺̜e̦̯̫̙̤̠͉ ̫̟͉̗̠̤̦m͔̳a͔̝͉t̯̜ri̥͉x̦
̝̦̳͙̯b̭̤e ̯̰̖̤̯s͚̩̺̩ha͚͇̼͍͇p̭̜͖in ͕t̙̤h̟̳̣̯̬is ̠̼̹ͅc͓̼̝̣a̯̭r͓͔̙̮̠͎̠
͇̞̻̖̬
̱̟ș̝̞̫ome̯̜͎̙̤̜ͅ ͔͓͔̝͚̬s̗͍̹̟͖̼u̦b̙̜͚ͅs͖̯ ͈̦̣ ḅ̼̬̬̯ͅu̞̬̩̻͙̝m̜̭͔p͙̟̩̼̼̳ ̳̘͔͕͖͖͓s̜̺͕o̜me̖̱͓̺ ͈̣
̣͔͔̖̖b͈͖͖͈a̫̰͔̤̜̹r̤̭ͅs̻͉̼ ̗̯̪s̤͓̟o͈͕̞̞̜̯̭ ͖͙̮h̻a͙̞͇̟ṟḍ͕̻ ̖̯̘̝͕͙weͅ ̻ri̹̖̞̣͙̬s̻k̹͇̼̬ ͎̬̤̪̳̹̟mars̜͇̩͇
̹͕̖
V̺̙̞e̲͓̤͍i̹ṇ̥̰̮͍̜̟s̼ ͕s̘͍̮t̫͍͚͕͎a̙̹rṭ͖̭͕̟͙ ̺͕͎͎̖ͅp̼̮͔̭o̲̻p̙̞͕̯̫p̹͉̮͇̼̗ͅi̥̱n͚g͕̱ ̯̣̙̘̗̺̤
̤h̰̤e̺͓͓͕a̻͎rṭ̥͈̗̮̻̣s͖̠̠̤͚̼ ̗͉͓̫̱̫c͍̫̜͎͉ṛ͚̭y̘̰ ͉̗̙̻̩h̙̱͈a͔̮̟̥̞͕r͙̣̠͎d̟̬̰̫ ̰̻̭̖̻̜̬i̻n ̟͎̳̹͉ͅt͕̠̟̖̘̹h̻͓̗͉̭͖̦e̱̞͖͓̰̪ ̩ra̗͉̜̞̻ͅͅi͉͕̱̹̠n̩
̝͎̙m̜͔̱̮̻͔̜u͉̜r̮d̟̫̞̗̹e̺̭̟r̞̘̭̤ ̘an̞͔̬̫̥ͅd̺ ͙̭͔̖̤͎b̠ḷ͔̜̭̩̫͕o͕͙̬̦̝͇o͕̺̝͚̖̙ͅḓ̻̯̤̫̪̦
͇͓͚̪it̘͉̬̞’͇̞͖̺͓̲̱s̱͕̼̣ ͖̰̺̮̼̠̣n̥̝̥̼͉̙o͍͚̥͈̫t͍̜̰̞ ̼̻̗̮ha͖̭̺͙̟͖̭r̰̬͖̙̣̬̭d̲ ̻̝͙͙͔̤̘t͙͔͍̟̫͉̗o̬͓̟͙̘ ͖͈̥̬̠͎ͅe͙̮̱͓͉n̼̫̜͉̘t̪̠̹̼̲̝e̝̱̖͙͎rț̠͕̰ͅa̲͇i̥̜ṇ̙ͅ
Jonny Angel May 2014
I saw everything
from A to Z,
love,
hate,
honesty,
deception,
intelligence,
dreams,
reality,­
wantonness,
kindness,
sunshine,
smiles,
laughter,
angst,
calm,
a­nxiety,
piety,
my reflection,
unborn children
& a million other things
I tell you
I witnessed
in her pretty-eyes.
Maman Screams Apr 2014
If only life could be certain
With a drop of a poet's ink
A freedom of speech taints
As the piling papers sink
Nothing was written
No eyewitness sinned  
Seeing is believing
And so they preach
Puzzles made seems so easy
A minor once plea
How could they be so foolish
When they're set out to deal
With a thousand and one possibility
To this puzzle
That I'm currently in

@2014 Maman Screams
Daisy King Aug 2014
A pile of human teeth,
that which does not belong to itself but to the night and the moon
     and the lock and the hook, that which once did belong to itself,
     or to me,
a murmur and little more,
   something you shake in the hope that answers to the questions
     you want or some reasons you've yet to find
     will come falling out,
an inhabitant in a house that becomes a crime scene during their absence and they cannot be an eyewitness,
she who wanders along the beach by the sea,
    in search of shells,
   to listen in for the sound of old echoes,
         the unreal, suspended, irrelevant,
         the night-time fragments leftover after
            daylight gets its teeth in,
       a rule-****** in asymmetrical glasses,
       one of a family of confused clowns, juggling dreams
         that were once in trees, struggling
         and underestimating distance,
a cracked window in November that seems out of place,
    a Tuesday afternoon, and specifically not a Friday sunse
    or Sunday dawning,
a wishful **** belonging in the boneyard,
housing an ocean of unspeakables in
    attic mind,
    greenhouse heart,
    cavern mouth full of sea,
the container of many unspeakables,
    a cup, profoundly sad for being always a touch too empty,
        contained inside a small glass bottle,
         a paperweight.
This poem is comprised of the various things that I have compared myself to in metaphor in poems I have written in the past.
Jonny Angel Mar 2014
Stories abound
about such things,
strange sightings,
miracles &
traditional tales
tell about
the power of the lizard.

It's been noted
the earliest cave dwellers
handpainted pictures
of the creature.
But to date,
nobody has ever
lived to give
an eyewitness account,
they've all ended up dead.
Which leaves one to ask,
"Do you believe in Godzilla?"
And if they say, "No!",
you have to wonder
about their faith.
Kagey Sage Oct 2015
Tabloid, describes every speck of ****
that seeks a global audience
from your kid's kindergarten blog
to the Rockefeller save face
Yet, these big players are the worst tools
Richest person, never spending
except when it comes to public relations

Nowadays it's damage control before it even started
So just in case there's another Ludlow Massacre
26 men, women, and children, all dead
the people are trained to believe the trusted news sources
fake an eyewitness report using your wife
like the ambassador's daughter posing as a princess
to spark the Gulf War
There was no evidence of killing babies in a hospital
Just sensational

We've been molded for over a hundred years
to have global views
and distance keeps us from our like minded dissenters
We're dancing to the same undulating dissonance
We're losing our local centers and rhythms
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2013
If cowboy hats had ear muffs,
maybe they would talk more,
though they would hear less.,
caution tossed to the winds howling.

Not for them
the hairy skins of animals
on their bare hair, too much
respect for their sojourners.

Wooly caps are for sailors,
The ones with cutesy ears
hanging down to the shoulders,
popularized by geeks,
adopted by stylish teenage girls,
well, they would rather be frostbit.

Cowboys,
the silent type,
but never quiet, their thoughts are
their stories, eyewitness accounts,
never told under oath, of the truth
about life and death, in the
Great West.

So, no ***** for them
lest they not hear the
noisy silences, cries of the frigid
Great West.
Dedicated to Mr. Don Bouchard who writes below "I come from cowboy country (Montana), and I have seen this to be true, until the wind and cold drove us all to felt hats with earflaps and hooded sweatshirts. I have frostbite damaged ears and face to prove I know 40 below with wind and cows to feed."



Megan, get a cowgirl hat!
Martin Narrod Dec 2014
The inside's come out of the skin. Nothing is satirical. It's just not funny. Spiderwebs on the elbows and cancer coming into the ears. Hair is everywhere and all of a sudden. The writer risks blue and black blood for another second of this bliss cessation. But cleverly, sins and bedevilments come. They hide poorly or not at all. bump they go go go in the daytime while I am fastening sleep and heating up.
     The cadaver masterpiece is happening again. The same as it always was for has beens when their lucid dreaming raises the rage in their real lives.
     There isn't a safe-word, just a blanket. Two tee-shirts with signatures, and lingerie that lacks a heartbeat.
     Half a tooth brush missing the rest of its teeth, and a knit panda hat empty from above the bottom of its feet.
    To be sick of it does not make a difference. If broccoli was the word, Dana Carvey would have come to chop it up.

When it breathes my pores leak nostalgia from the predicaments; We pretended to grow up. This isn't the adventure season I hoped for. I could see the page crawling up the street beside every single cigarette I threw across the parkway. Now Michael styles the mercury, while those grown ups we knew cry themselves into a blur; Like a movie they just couldn't escape, or the way they met one half of chaste, there are just some things that shouldn't be erased.

Playing with a bazooka while emptying my ice box. I build on schemes of crazy the d oh d just wishes they could ignore. I drink lemonade, you drink lemonade. IPA after motherf*ing IPA. It is or it isn't but I'd thought you had enough trying typhoid drip one after another hysterical catastrophe. Dear I was poisoned from an ill-witted sickness, I messed around with your Blackjack and doubled-down into two black diamonds. Instead of learn'd weekly abuse.
                                                          Our island on a hundred dollar towel. An eroteme waiting to implode. Four periods every other week, I just waited for the mouse to roll.

gut rot
migraines.
painful exploding pressure of the skull
does not eat
hearing increase
eyesight improvement
proudly made in the u.s.a.
chipped nail polish comes off middle fingers
does not sleep
erupts verbally
bleeds from fingertips
hates. hurts.
Be is the short form of Is
She has eyes that tell her truths
That bruise youth
But do not amuse
Ferris Bueller's muse
Silver too. Haircut rivalries.
Privy eyewitness testimonies
For assassinations that haven't
Begun happening. But rapt
The veiling attachment,
Froth of words, the disaster
Never brings.
Lies upon lies upon lies
Until we both stood up.
Written to Doc's Song (End Credit Reprise) by Rostam Batmanglij - The East (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack) and "It's You" by Robert Schwartzman from Palo Alto (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)

Rice Krispie, you read the message wrong. You were supposed to avoid Logan Square.
g clair Oct 2013
De las Casas records in stark numbers the genocide that took place under Columbus and the Spaniards, writing that when he first came to Hispaniola in 1508, "there were 60,000 people living on this island, including the Indians; so that from 1494 to 1508, over three million people had perished from war, slavery, and the mines. Who in future generations will believe this? I myself writing it as a knowledgeable eyewitness can hardly believe it...."[80]

Columbus and his brothers lingered in jail for six weeks before busy King Ferdinand ordered their release. Not long after, the king and queen summoned the Columbus brothers to the Alhambra palace in Granada. There the royal couple heard the brothers' pleas; restored their freedom and wealth; and, after much persuasion, agreed to fund Columbus's fourth voyage. But the door was firmly shut on Columbus's role as governor. Henceforth Nicolás de Ovando y Cáceres was to be the new governor of the West Indies
I read that CC became more 'religious' following his time in the pen and so on...he later demanded a share of the profits from earlier interests..."True religion is to care for orphans and widows", quoting Jesus Christ.
Mysterious Aries Sep 2015
Hist please as speechless seas
For the wind sometimes touch you
But you're senseless

Can't you feel the warmth that one stranger want to share?
He wants to be your fellow
But your eyes seems don't care

The first time you glimpse at his soul
It seems you've seen an ugly beast
To whom you hated it as fatally snake

Can't you see the beauty that can't be seen by thine eyes?
He wants to be a friend
But your heart as cold as ice

To queen of night you promise that your judgement equal
Your prayers and words means a helping hand
Swear the world that your love profound

But can't you hear the pulse of his heart?
He wants justice
But you give lies that he was the doer of the crime

Here I stand in the midst of chaos
To my left, the wind, that eyewitness the crime
The wind care and its love genuine

The wind sheds tears so do I as we look up the sky
And I shouted "My Lord, give wind a tongue."
Then again, "My Lord, give wind a tongue."


written: Aug. 17, 2000

Mysterious Aries
fray narte Feb 2020
I. Persephone

Naive girls don't make good lovers
but I will sink into the comfort
of your clementine lips, grazing,
staking claim on my skin —
an offering to your kisses made of molten lead,
oh, how surely, how gently they trail,
like a river following its memory lane.

And yet, I have apologies etched on my skin;
I am a poem that bruises quickly
like petals on the soil.
So much for being the goddess of spring
when all I have are wildflowers
and moans scattered on the sheets of the dusk.

We know naive girls don't make good lovers
so cast me, Hecate, into firelight
where all your daughters burned.
Strip me of this sundress;
my chest was half of Demeter's softness
and half of the underworld's wrath.

And yet, I, too, am made of papercuts
forged to look like carmellia buds
lost and slow dancing in broad daylight,
your hands on my waist —
a quiet breath,
a delicate touch:

such curious ways of coming home.
Naive girls, they don't make good lovers
but I will pick you stray sunlights and goldenrods —
leave them by your bed;
these sheets know that
I belong to no throne.
I belong to no man.

And they say that naive girls don't make good lovers,
but only just;
darling, your walls are an eyewitness
to your gaze and my corruption.

So much for innocence
now neck-deep in mildew and anomalies.
So much for springtime,
its fields, now made
for us coming undone.
And so much for winter, darling —
so much for winter.

It may never come.
Looking at nightfall,
window framed
low hanging moon rises.
Behind hills and valleys
where I’ll meet my lover one more time before saying goodbye.
Before the sun comes up.



Shell ✨🐚
Dark n Beautiful May 2015
My narrative Reportage
They said that I made a better storywriter than a poet
However, poets get their ideas from stories,
But my creativity comes from a glass of Moet Chardon (:)
Yesterday, I saw a homeless man got on the train during rush hour
He passed right through the crowd and went on his way to the front car
and leaned against the moving  door

His sudden outburst of laughter made the passengers looked around
He was a sight for sore eyes this character,
but instead he became my instant story to tell
Or behold a Poet laureate mastered piece  
Dark soiled clothes he wore, his dingy T-shirt he use for a hanky:
With empty pocket hanging low, toothless he smile and kept on smiling
Slurred speech and some missing toes he became my focus point
What’s the use of having lot of money and not sharing?
Within those moments, I saw a decade of homelessness within his character
An ex-mariner, a husband, a degraded broken hearted soldier,
America a failing superpower country:
and most of all New York City a FAILING disaster
So I began my journey, either to compose a poetry piece or tell my eyewitness story into sections of poetry and fiction:
One of my favorites of Joseph Campbell quotes:
Life is without meaning. You bring the meaning to it. The meaning of life is whatever you ascribe it to be. Being alive is the meaning. ”
― Joseph Campbell
Aaron LaLux Feb 2020
So far gone,
leaving behind spent jet fuel & jeweled remnants of memories,
on a plane in the 3rd dimension sitting 1st class,
with a world class American Top Model chilling next to me,

gazing out the soft edged rectangular window to my left,
then over to the soft edged Coke bottle model to my right,
which is better I’m confused as to which view I should choose,
both views are cool highly prized self-realized & undefinable,

on a roll so after we change countries to change the weather,
we change clothes to match the country we’re adaptable,
not conditioned to air conditioners we prefer air that’s natural,
our connects are reliable, specs are viable, facts are verifiable,

always well equipped even though we pack light when traveling, must face facts ‘cause we’re verified & the truth’s undeniable,

so we choose to accept this life without a fight,
what film’s on the inflight entertainment tonight,
100s of options to select from hope I choose right,
I pick a good flick to watch with this chic as I wet my appetite,

dinner served soon what’s on the menu this time,
King Salmon arugula salad champagne & cloth napkins,
think we’ll eat & see a film starring one of my best friends,
he’s one of the leads in the film playing one of the X-Men,

my future has passed, been gone since way back when,
I went from hustling on pavements & cuddling in basements,
to my name on gracious invitations to amazing celebrations,
& obtaining the latest coveted creations of our generation,
placement upgraded I now lay in a place that is spacious,

on the top floor of a proper loft with views of the harbor,
not a golfer I don’t golf I find sports outrageous,
no jokes I’m sinking ***** in 3 strokes on Par-4s,
making cut shots not taking gut shots from Haters,

no mugshots the hate must stop success is an art form,
I work around the clock so I deserve this spacious hiatus,
hitting Top Flights with wise guys on Trump’s golf course,
hole in one I’m a Golden Son like Nick Cannon’s kid is,

terms of endearment rules of engagement **** with honor,
tears shed in statements still sad but thank God we made it,

out of the streets & into the seats of private choppers,

we’re done with the stress thanks to blessed chess moves,
we get offered so many options that it’s tough to choose,
flying through the friendly skies First Class,
as beautiful Goddesses like Venus & powerful Gods like Zeus,

we just hold on to sworn untolds & let everything else go,
until our wills give up our bodies fold & we’re cremated,
only thing that hasn’t changed since we’ve made it,
is the bond of our word so you’ll never hear convos restated,

we keep secrets that will never to be repeated ,
we run a tight ship no loose lips or leaks we keep our word,
just saying no statements just lots of amens & payments,
we’ll neither confirm nor deny those rumors that you heard,

most great men make no statements or engage slow agents,
they just make moves & arrangements in Asia like Statesmen,

we go off like the Mossad,
got those that **** caught off guard in a fictitious fog,
so lost they even begin to question our very existence,
no eyewitness our plots are so efficient they can’t see the ball,

suspicious citizens fishin’ for sufficient evidence,
dragging nets coming up empty they get nothing at all,
reporters on a mission to get headlines for the Sunday edition,
but I’ve seen things believe me they don’t want to get involved,

all star star crossed lovers,
all scars dressed in cross colors,
on Heaven’s Cloud 9 hovering in a helicopter,
surfing my brainwaves on a Rusty board as thoughts hover,

he’ll adopt her,
if she’s mean as the streets are still somehow nice & proper,
a marvelous heart stopper, with a solid heart beat bopper,
but if she acts up he won’t hesitate in a heart beat to drop her,
because the mean streets will always be his first lover,

so sick with the business he might need a doctor,
so far gone one what weighs him down isn’t worth the bother,
so far gone on a level so far beyond him that he’s honored,
with the type of resolve that gets all problems solved,
& a secret sauce along with a special recipe that conquers,

upwards & onwards,
a walking palindrome pantomime,
walking backwards I act out words,
& any friend of freedom is a friend of mine that’s a given,
I see the future live in the moment then kick back afterwards,

on a plane in the 3rd dimension sitting 1st class,
with a world class American Top Model chilling next to me,
rolling feeling high expressing these blessings in total bliss,
naturally high no cigarettes no alcohol no ******* no ecstasy,
finally “Free at last, free at last, Thank God almighty!”,

we are free at last celebrating like Martin Luther King,
Living the Dream in the fast lane spending Johnny Cash,
in the Fast Lane don’t plan to plane crash so I fly carefully,

Walking The Line,

I’m,
doing fine,
so far gone,

I’m,
a bottom of the 9th,
down by one runner on Home Run,

I’m,
outta here,
en route to a beach,
outta of range & outta reach,
a place where the photogs can’t peek,
not hiding just finding a place we can shine like diamonds,
an island with vibes like the water,
clean crystal clear & stylish,
where we can fully relax,
at ease without fear,
together,
here,

20/20 vision,
so my decisions like my vision are always crystal clear,
crystal clean missiles scream through the star lit night sky,
with a Starlet don’t startle us or confuse our caution as fear,

don’t mistake kindness for weakness & try to take advantage,
or it’ll be “Nice try nice guy, you lose dude maybe next time.”,
no good guys just bad boys living the Good Life,
bad boys with good hearts Tom cruising through Vanilla Sky,

in the air experiencing experiences on the fly,
only spent jet fuel & remnants of memories left behind,
have everything ahead of me, just had to get lost to find,
truth is everything I ever said, all good things in all good time,

see, I’m so far gone, my sweat smells like sweet success,
living my best life, an American Dream in the flesh,
School of Hard Knocks did all my homework took no recess,
now it’s all recess allow me the luxury to reminisce & digress,

if you know how to read between the lines,
then there’s no need for a Reader’s Digest,

if you really what to know I let wealth get to know me,
I don’t work for the money the money works for me,
money doesn’t make the man man makes the money,
if you really want to get things done gotta do it on your lonely,

& when you finally get an opportunity to taste The Good Life,
don’t waste it savor it gently & take it slowly,
enjoy it while you can when you get the chance,
before it’s gone like I am on to the next one & only,

close The Book chapter’s finished on to Destiny’s next story,
done with this dissertation on all The Good Life’s temptations,
where seduction done through Life’s luxuries was my specialty,
had my fun now it’s on to the next one, next destination,

leave this life behind & let my actions & words speak for me,
which is why I leave behind these words as my literary legacy,
see truthfully I’m already so far gone,
leaving behind spent jet fuel & jeweled remnants of memories,

on a plane in the 3rd dimension sitting 1st class,
with a world class American Top Model chilling next to me,
full throttle on time like Movado, all shine no bravado,
I swim in more waves than the Royal Navy,

“living la vida loca” no Ricky Martin, my life & my love’s crazy,
gazing lazily out the soft edged window to the left of me,

then over to the soft edged coke bottle model to my right,
if every man’s an island I’m an archipelago & the architect,
Living Artifact, Futuristic Apostle Fossil, Prophetic Autograph,
I collect art & checks such a crazy life I need my head checked,

fossil fuels burn on strong, along with my memories,
so long I’m gone have been for centuries, so far gone,
so when they mention the greats, guaranteed they mention me, remembered in words & songs so the lessons can carry on,

so gone leaving behind only jet fuel & remnants of memories,
because just like now when the end comes I’ll also be gone,
only came here in the first place because they sent for me,
so when I go I will wish you well with a “So long & carry on!”.

So far gone,

on a one way flight with no carry ons,
leaving behind spent jet fuel & jeweled remnants of memories,
on a plane in the 3rd dimension sitting 1st class,
with a world class American Top Model chilling next to me...

Δ LaLux Δ

IG: @adreamerinthematrix
From The HH Trilogy Volume 3: Dark Lights & Bright Shadows; by Aaron LaLux
Yours et cetera Apr 2014
An eyewitness once recited
His bone-chilling account
Of his tightrope walk to Death
How he managed to return
Was, and remains, impossible to say
But his frightening story resonates

"There I stood on my toes,
On an intermediate point teetering
Between the idyllic salvation
Of Heaven
And the macabre derangement
Hell promises

Lose your balance
And the wayfarer finds himself
Succumbing to the merciless
Pull of the underworld
Condemning him to eternal
Suffering

The scanty few who
Travel across the rope
Unscathed,
undaunted and unfazed
Indulge in the reward
Of the Holy Father's *deliverance


And so I stood on the rope,
Its rough frays tickling my soles, I,
Precariously perched on the border
Of Life, Death,
Of Salvation and Damnation
Too overcome with fear to advance forward

I whispered a few syllables,
The dulcet notes rollicked up to
A Saviour above
Omniscient one who knew
The best path for my wintering fate
In a haze of bewilderment I awoke"
So my wayward thoughts somehow detoured to the sensation of death
A medley
in dictum
as foreseen
anglicization collect
beat swimmingly
with intrigue
in literature
and euphemistically
tell realization
that further
eyewitness in
plurality with
fealty in
foreign affairs
here that
schlepp peace
with ferrety.
Prelude in peace
Norman Crane Aug 2020
Every poet is a fake
eyewitness, peddler of make-believe hearsay,
A conveyor of love he never knew
in a city he never saw in a way to make you
feel the passion as if it were true,
He is an air-brusher of reality,
Thus a proselytizer of the Absurd:
That you can paint pictures with words;
That you can travel by verbs;
That you can conjure nouns by saying them;
That you can lead several lives within your only one.

Every poet is a fake
taxidermist, seller of second-hand stuffings
of souls that were never alive

Every poet is a fake
imperialist, would be explorer-***-colonizer
of the terra incognita of your mind

Every poet is a fake
poet
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
so have you seen the middle-aged men coerced by pensioners
having to switch from bertolli butter (olive oil inc.)
to benecol (olive oil inc. also)? no? i have.
so i have this for those scheming pensioners:
i’m gonna crash and burn baby, yeah, crash and... insert
chicken clucking onomatopoeia (i will not mutilate
such a fine 26 diadem thing as the alphabet on childish
notation... or censor f f c u c n k t) - i intended
the chicken clucking for middle-aged men.
but perhaps you managed to spot that night dervish,
extending his hand to the ceiling, and spinning round and round
and round to a song with his ******* touching the ceiling
for the added balance? hmm... that’s a tough one...
i think i did... although the sole eyewitness was drunk,
so there might be a problem deciphering the account he gave:
‘i’m on a carousel! i’m on a carousel! i’m on a ******* carousel
with jeremy cricket and stephen hawking! ha ha!’
Mysterious Aries Oct 2015
POESY WHERE IMAGINATION RULES
HALLUCINATION, OCCURRED EVENTS THAT TRANSLATED IN WORDS
POET FOLLOWED HIS OWN WILL
AS FREE AS THE WIND BLOWS
AND ITS HAPPY TO HAVE LIBERTY

THERE HE CAN CLAIM DEMONS AS HEROES
FORM AN EXQUISITE LIFE
THINGS THAT EYEWITNESS BY ONLY ONE PERSON
AS WITH *******,  LOVE WITH THE AIR
BUT HIS VIEW ARE THOSE BEAUTIFUL NYMPH
MAKING LOVE WITH HIS MIND MADE CREATION

T'WAS HIDDEN IN THE DARK
BUT BY THE USED OF HIS PEN
REVEALED IN THE LIGHTS

HIS WORDS ARE POWERFUL AS GIANTS
ARE ALIVE AND KICKING
VICTIM ARE THOSE GUILTY PEOPLE
SOME AROUSE HATRED IN THEIR HEARTS

SOME POETS ATTACKS THOSE COY PEOPLE
THOSE PEOPLE WHOSE WORDS MEANS A HELPING HAND
THOSE PRETENDS TO HAVE A PIOUS LIFE
BUT THE TRUTH IS
HAVE AN ABYSSES OF ILL WILL IN THEIR HEARTS

HE CAN WRITE AGAINST THOSE HOLY PEOPLE
ON HOW PRIEST *******
SATAN DEFEATED HIS GREATEST FOE
AND HOW HE RULED THE WORLD PEACEFULLY

POET CAN DO THOSE THINGS AS QUICK AS POSSIBLE
SOMETIMES LAMENTATION INVADE HIM
BUT WITH OR WITHOUT OBSTACLE
HE'LL DO IT WITHOUT FEAR
AND THERE'S NO CONTRITION ON POETS HEART
SO AT THE END HE CREATED SOMETHING
...... HIS MASTERPIECE......


written: feb. 27, 2000 @ 1:00 pm

Mysterious Aries
One of my old stuff... Quite dark, but it deserve to be heard...
Alysia Michelle Mar 2014
once upon a fallen dream
i had forgotten how to scream
life is cold and infinitely mean
are things really as they seem?


trapped inside this empty cell
there is no way that i could tell
which way to go to escape this hell
what would happen if i fell?

tumbling out of control
my breath is taken from me, stole
where do i go to seize my soul
i need something to fill the hole

if I ever reach the light
will you even reveal my knight?
will my eyes ever regain their sight?
can i even win this fight?


such a cruel spiteful jailer
my stripes were sent to the tailor
wish this was just a movie trailer
face to face with my impaler

into the mirror i stare

my reflection i cannot bear

there’s someone with so much despair

and no one bothers to care

i lost the battle of life

bled out cause a kitchen knife

my mind was riddled with inner strife

my stiff body fell with lithe

cold and dead I lie

no one dares to cry

my soul is free to fly

and there’s not need to try

with such grace i was set free

it took dying for me to see

no longer trapped like a bumblebee

i have found the once lost key

the silence brings me comfort

i no longer have to suffer

your days on this foul earth are numbered

the truth will be uncovered

beauty once vain now is pure

happiness comes , this i ensure

for the plague of life, death is the cure

but to life you’ve become inure

you don’t have to sit through hell
NOBODY hears you when you yell
is there a reason for you to dwell
there is none that i can tell


peace will come if you give in
they say suicide is a sin
then you should proudly sin with a grin
go on, take those pills with gin


one after one i coach them
my pleasure is when they’re condemned
i tell them that death is their friend
but death isn’t even the end



such a clever one aren’t i?
wonder where you go when you die?
silly beings think that they shall fly
i enjoy watching them try


but he saves us from your reign

all of your efforts are in vain

because you have already been slain

Jesus Christ will always reign

Savior cradles me in his arms

i was once caged behind bars

but through him  i was set free

not bound by rules

i am safe with him for eternity

i was trapped with rules of verse

but my savior broke that curse

didn’t know what  i was worth

there was purpose for my birth

my sin through him was forgiven

now what is in store for me is unveiled

your instructions to get here are detailed

it’s simple just accept the gift

heal the hole, your God sized rift

ask him for his forgiveness

and he will rid you of your sickness

trust me, i’m an eyewitness.
If there was a chance that a sliver of hope in humanity
still looms within your hallow chest;
still waves a portion of your resplendent soul like how the Hunyak calls for innocence undeclared;
still looks at the moon embraced by calcium coated rods, wishing it to quench its thirst
Will you let it revel in its over-zealousness?

If not, can you explain to me why,
why have you disowned your responsibilities to mankind despite it, like velcro, wailed when you tore it from your skin?
On the matter of the justice deprived, what say you?
Does it serve a lesser purpose than frolicking on streets, crimson bathed?
Has Billy shown you the razzle-dazzle of murderer's row?

As Legends wreak havoc with twin brigands,
slander who took a page from libel and read out loud —with a projected voice echoing throughout the ages— erroneous eyewitness accounts
and rancor who is bisexual to atrocity and entropy and seemingly engulfs himself in them,
you sat pretentious on your wheelchair
Over looking war from a peephole in a filthy blue washroom

The bombs that we drop are no longer metaphors to modern ears
Neither do sacred extremes keep their insatiable thirst for ruptured streets a thing of faded memory
Attacks on clergymen are no longer a painting born from a misinterpreted dream...

And you, no longer can you regain your innocence for you have witnessed the dilation of dense war, pulling and ******* every ray of light from hope that it sees

Yet you did nothing.

If there is still a speck of humanity in the mind of a mechanical automaton like you,
Will you let it rip apart steel skin and touch the lives of those like you?
Will you let it carve a symbol on your forehead, to let people know you are to save the dying hope in humanity
Or will you let it bid farewell to fair weather forevermore?
Or even more so, will you let it brand you so that every time you hear its call for justice inside you, you cry an ocean of dissatisfaction?

In the matter of a dishevelled world, what say you?
Read more of my works on: brixartanart.tumblr.com
Farah Taskin Aug 2022
Rasputin, tsarevich Alexei
you can find them in a book of history

history is like a tireless eyewitness
history is nothing but
ancient
collections
of eternity
seek out
the causes
of French
and bolshevik revolutions

the grandson
of Genghis Khan
Vlad the Impaler
queen Isabella and
Ferdinand
Lawrence of Arabia
they vanished
long ago
you can find them in a book of history
WARM WINTER Jun 2015
"Love is just so nonexistent in my existence
So that’s why I was so persistent in that first quick instant that we laid eyes.
If young love for them is 16 then we must be infants, but this is so intense.
But I’m an eyewitness at love at first sight but this is just different than anything I’ve been in because it feels infinite"
more earworms
Pandora dO Nov 2011
Both are an eyewitness,
both are a crush,
not knowing one likes the other,
thus both wandering off.
© 2007
Jonny Angel Mar 2014
Pablo used to tell me
stories about people
disappearing
in the middle of the night,
being ***** & pillaged,
cut up for body-parts.

And I used to think
he was just
a crazy old Latin man,
'till I perused
the ******
eyewitness accounts
of the horrors
he must have endured.

They left me reflective,
sickened
& wondering why
we think
we have it so rough.
Jeremy Betts May 12
Recklessly I cruise a plateaued plane
One I call memory lane
Which in hindsight was kind of insane
I'm not sure what I was looking to gain
There's not much other than pain in the ones I retain
I know this, it's beyond first hand eyewitness obvious,
Even prior to being forced to meticulously explain
Becoming increasingly familiar with that ruthless domain
Thankfully some truly cherished living snapshots remain
However, most have broken free from their neglected, rusty chain
And I'm left cursing the bane of my existence,
While, in plain sight, the flashbacks that cause my eyes to drain
Swerve in and out of my lane
Joy ridin' my misery or being metaphysically driven to the torture of the mind and soul,
Instigated by a fraction of a fractured brain
That to this day isn't clear on what's it's actually sayin'
Can not seem to refrain from immersing myself in self inflicted pain
Forgotten or slain?
What's it matter if the outcome will be the same;
Me, laying motionless in front of a raging train,
Leaving only a crime scene stain
One that'll go as unnoticed as it did when it flowed through a main artery vein
'Till any and all evidence of my unspectacular,
Super localized reign
Washes away in the rain
And I become nothing more than a name

©2024

— The End —