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The bows glided down, and the coast
Blackened with birds took a last look
At his thrashing hair and whale-blue eye;
The trodden town rang its cobbles for luck.

Then good-bye to the fishermanned
Boat with its anchor free and fast
As a bird hooking over the sea,
High and dry by the top of the mast,

Whispered the affectionate sand
And the bulwarks of the dazzled quay.
For my sake sail, and never look back,
Said the looking land.

Sails drank the wind, and white as milk
He sped into the drinking dark;
The sun shipwrecked west on a pearl
And the moon swam out of its hulk.

Funnels and masts went by in a whirl.
Good-bye to the man on the sea-legged deck
To the gold gut that sings on his reel
To the bait that stalked out of the sack,

For we saw him throw to the swift flood
A girl alive with his hooks through her lips;
All the fishes were rayed in blood,
Said the dwindling ships.

Good-bye to chimneys and funnels,
Old wives that spin in the smoke,
He was blind to the eyes of candles
In the praying windows of waves

But heard his bait buck in the wake
And tussle in a shoal of loves.
Now cast down your rod, for the whole
Of the sea is hilly with whales,

She longs among horses and angels,
The rainbow-fish bend in her joys,
Floated the lost cathedral
Chimes of the rocked buoys.

Where the anchor rode like a gull
Miles over the moonstruck boat
A squall of birds bellowed and fell,
A cloud blew the rain from its throat;

He saw the storm smoke out to ****
With fuming bows and ram of ice,
Fire on starlight, rake Jesu's stream;
And nothing shone on the water's face

But the oil and bubble of the moon,
Plunging and piercing in his course
The lured fish under the foam
Witnessed with a kiss.

Whales in the wake like capes and Alps
Quaked the sick sea and snouted deep,
Deep the great bushed bait with raining lips
Slipped the fins of those humpbacked tons

And fled their love in a weaving dip.
Oh, Jericho was falling in their lungs!
She nipped and dived in the nick of love,
Spun on a spout like a long-legged ball

Till every beast blared down in a swerve
Till every turtle crushed from his shell
Till every bone in the rushing grave
Rose and crowed and fell!

Good luck to the hand on the rod,
There is thunder under its thumbs;
Gold gut is a lightning thread,
His fiery reel sings off its flames,

The whirled boat in the burn of his blood
Is crying from nets to knives,
Oh the shearwater birds and their boatsized brood
Oh the bulls of Biscay and their calves

Are making under the green, laid veil
The long-legged beautiful bait their wives.
Break the black news and paint on a sail
Huge weddings in the waves,

Over the wakeward-flashing spray
Over the gardens of the floor
Clash out the mounting dolphin's day,
My mast is a bell-spire,

Strike and smoothe, for my decks are drums,
Sing through the water-spoken prow
The octopus walking into her limbs
The polar eagle with his tread of snow.

From salt-lipped beak to the kick of the stern
Sing how the seal has kissed her dead!
The long, laid minute's bride drifts on
Old in her cruel bed.

Over the graveyard in the water
Mountains and galleries beneath
Nightingale and hyena
Rejoicing for that drifting death

Sing and howl through sand and anemone
Valley and sahara in a shell,
Oh all the wanting flesh his enemy
Thrown to the sea in the shell of a girl

Is old as water and plain as an eel;
Always good-bye to the long-legged bread
Scattered in the paths of his heels
For the salty birds fluttered and fed

And the tall grains foamed in their bills;
Always good-bye to the fires of the face,
For the crab-backed dead on the sea-bed rose
And scuttled over her eyes,

The blind, clawed stare is cold as sleet.
The tempter under the eyelid
Who shows to the selves asleep
Mast-high moon-white women naked

Walking in wishes and lovely for shame
Is dumb and gone with his flame of brides.
Susannah's drowned in the bearded stream
And no-one stirs at Sheba's side

But the hungry kings of the tides;
Sin who had a woman's shape
Sleeps till Silence blows on a cloud
And all the lifted waters walk and leap.

Lucifer that bird's dropping
Out of the sides of the north
Has melted away and is lost
Is always lost in her vaulted breath,

Venus lies star-struck in her wound
And the sensual ruins make
Seasons over the liquid world,
White springs in the dark.

Always good-bye, cried the voices through the shell,
Good-bye always, for the flesh is cast
And the fisherman winds his reel
With no more desire than a ghost.

Always good luck, praised the finned in the feather
Bird after dark and the laughing fish
As the sails drank up the hail of thunder
And the long-tailed lightning lit his catch.

The boat swims into the six-year weather,
A wind throws a shadow and it freezes fast.
See what the gold gut drags from under
Mountains and galleries to the crest!

See what clings to hair and skull
As the boat skims on with drinking wings!
The statues of great rain stand still,
And the flakes fall like hills.

Sing and strike his heavy haul
Toppling up the boatside in a snow of light!
His decks are drenched with miracles.
Oh miracle of fishes! The long dead bite!

Out of the urn a size of a man
Out of the room the weight of his trouble
Out of the house that holds a town
In the continent of a fossil

One by one in dust and shawl,
Dry as echoes and insect-faced,
His fathers cling to the hand of the girl
And the dead hand leads the past,

Leads them as children and as air
On to the blindly tossing tops;
The centuries throw back their hair
And the old men sing from newborn lips:

Time is bearing another son.
**** Time! She turns in her pain!
The oak is felled in the acorn
And the hawk in the egg kills the wren.

He who blew the great fire in
And died on a hiss of flames
Or walked the earth in the evening
Counting the denials of the grains

Clings to her drifting hair, and climbs;
And he who taught their lips to sing
Weeps like the risen sun among
The liquid choirs of his tribes.

The rod bends low, divining land,
And through the sundered water crawls
A garden holding to her hand
With birds and animals

With men and women and waterfalls
Trees cool and dry in the whirlpool of ships
And stunned and still on the green, laid veil
Sand with legends in its ****** laps

And prophets loud on the burned dunes;
Insects and valleys hold her thighs hard,
Times and places grip her breast bone,
She is breaking with seasons and clouds;

Round her trailed wrist fresh water weaves,
with moving fish and rounded stones
Up and down the greater waves
A separate river breathes and runs;

Strike and sing his catch of fields
For the surge is sown with barley,
The cattle graze on the covered foam,
The hills have footed the waves away,

With wild sea fillies and soaking bridles
With salty colts and gales in their limbs
All the horses of his haul of miracles
Gallop through the arched, green farms,

Trot and gallop with gulls upon them
And thunderbolts in their manes.
O Rome and ***** To-morrow and London
The country tide is cobbled with towns

And steeples pierce the cloud on her shoulder
And the streets that the fisherman combed
When his long-legged flesh was a wind on fire
And his **** was a hunting flame

Coil from the thoroughfares of her hair
And terribly lead him home alive
Lead her prodigal home to his terror,
The furious ox-killing house of love.

Down, down, down, under the ground,
Under the floating villages,
Turns the moon-chained and water-wound
Metropolis of fishes,

There is nothing left of the sea but its sound,
Under the earth the loud sea walks,
In deathbeds of orchards the boat dies down
And the bait is drowned among hayricks,

Land, land, land, nothing remains
Of the pacing, famous sea but its speech,
And into its talkative seven tombs
The anchor dives through the floors of a church.

Good-bye, good luck, struck the sun and the moon,
To the fisherman lost on the land.
He stands alone in the door of his home,
With his long-legged heart in his hand.
he fancies himself
as a rodeo rider
of fillies and mares
yet he hasn't the prerequisite
riding gear
to stay mounted
in these saddles fair
the fillies and mares
prefer a rider
that is a real bronco
one who can remain aboard
their conveyances
all night
not a rodeo rider
who can only muster
an eight second flight
st64 Dec 2013
the farewell of the magical-masque
           the dance of the whirlwind
           the twist in valediction
a pantomime of comedy dripping in life’s heat, its tragedy blooms forlorn
silently the mountain-ranges stare
the sky-face won’t relent and contemplates the open-disease in homes*


1.
disguised as simple relief – rescue lies cooing in the palm
     crumbling in blue-ash beside your grinding-palate
     you reach for pen and paper to appease an entity unknown
shrouded in grey, no scavenger can touch the head of one
who carries blessings in the scabbard – the present worthy of now

stairs are slippery, fish are mouthing, anger grows
     symbols hop along outrageous, so stylised and signs come in decisive
     all at once, almost
there is some purchase in the widening-valley
when climbing-feet need to rest on your narrow angular-will
and wait.. (before them chips rain down)
until the merry-turnstile comes in view


2.
the worm-wheel goes blank a while
and out tunes a dastard-and-devilish prank, courtesy of blunted-fate
sacred-fillies get hacked at by small silver things and they lie slaughtered on stark-plains
and the orb dips in reverse this time
a sooty-traveller from the western-flank
               glances out at massive-figures at supine-rest
               gets startled by the rude ***-fire
eyes slit and pates distort in hostile-fever
at the starling-ingénue in mock-fatigues and fake-epaulettes
but cheering up with wry-humour makes your feet
           a touch too slow to react in time
           and the halberd comes crashing down
well, the last thought you hold before your next one
is how utterly beautiful she looked at the station
long, black hair – silky-shining in your eyes and gay-dancing in the wind
when she passed you all her sweet-love from eyes so wet and smile so quiet
and selected dried-fruit in redolent-parcel
                                   a sealed pelt-skin of unmixed-whiskey
along with fresh-baked raisin-bread in cotton-cloth
                    coarse-sliced and buttered so generous
and
a semi-rusted dry-tin rattling its bounty of macaroons through that smudgy, ***** window
what sweet-victuals to keep alive . . .



man, that journey is a long one!


                             (I’M STANDING HERE        oh, you just know I am here

AND YES -- I’M WATCHING YOU                        
                                                                ­               and no use looking round now..
      YOU CANNOT SEE NOR HEAR ME  
                                                                ­               or begging a purty-release
                                                                 ­                                             
                                  oh easy, boy.. EASY!!)                                                          ­                            
                                                                ­                                             
                   ­                                          


3.
once more, the worm wriggles in microbial-distaste
and the season’s wheel comes dangerously close to being undone
IT DOES
and seconds later, cogs fly hard in every fool’s direction
and luckily.. you catch some in your face.. mouth agape
        crushing your tongue
        splintering all your dental-treasure
        smashing half your reason
no time for moaning.. or eroded-regret.. or even to feel your lips in ribbons
for, when they turn their backs, you will know
what to do..


because you’ve picked some pearls the hard-way..
that atonement could well appear in spells
of any shape
or size




not so?





S T, 30 dec 2013
beautiful in the mountains.. Jupiter enjoys the odd (but needed) breeze along with sweetness of Nature’s sounds  :)



sub-entry: ten times

you get ten times to refract your pain
mind your head now
the ceiling’s low
the parchment’s dry
and then some..

wait a little while.. it all comes round :)
John F McCullagh Jun 2013
A cowboy in love with his horse
was convinced they should marry, of course.
They’d spent quality time roping cattle
And he was happiest when in the saddle.
“Love is Love, the high court has opined,
So why should folks deny me mine!”
The neighborhood blondes he found silly,
So he went for long rides with the fillies.
While he flirted with Pintos and Roans,
the Palomino he loved as his own.
Such idylls they spend in the bower
That he threw her a nice bridle shower.
He rented a barn as the hall
and invited his friends one and all.
While Mendelssohn is favored by most
He chose the “Call to the Post”
For their first dance he hoped they could play
“The Run for the Roses” that day.
All his plans came to naught, sad to say
When the love of his life answered” Neigh”
If an animal is your “one and only”
Better make it a sheep, not a pony!
Sad, I hear this bride ran off with some Polo Pony.
topaz oreilly Dec 2012
When we had left the Seamans mission
lugging our suitcases,
Beeston seemed the best place to go
4.6 A.B.V  felt like pushing the boat,
but the fillies were feisty enough
to flog off our descendants
into the zeitgeist.
Psychic spies from Manhattan
Try to steal your mind's elation
Little fillies from Appleloosa
Dream of silver screen quotations
And if you want these kind of dreams
It's Aliicornication

It's the edge of the world
And all of Equestrian civilization
The sun may rise in the East
At least it settles in a final location
It's understood that Canterlot
sells Aliicornication.

Pay your Princess very well
To break the spell of aging
Celestia skin is this your wings
Or is that war your waging

Chorus:
First born unicorn
******* than sorin'
Dream of Aliicornication
Dream of Aliicornication

Marry me Mare be my Alicorn to the world
Be my very own constellation
A teenage liaison with a baby dragon
Getting high on information
And buy me a star on the boulevard
It's Aliicornication

Alicorns may be the final frontier
But it's made in a Canterlot basement
Twilight can you hear the spheres
Singing songs off history to history
And Starswirl's not far away
It's Aliicornication

Born and raised by those who praise
Control of suns rotation everypony's been there before
And I don't mean on vacation

Chorus

Magic leads to a very rough road
But it also breeds creation
And an alicorn from a unicorn
It's just another good coronation
And tidal waves couldn't save the world
From Aliicornication

Pay your princess very well
To break the spell of aging
Smarter than the rest
There is no test
But wings is what you're craving.
I wrote this song in honer of Twilycorn. it's obviously a rewrite of an existing song. who cares; eat it. :p
Marshal Gebbie May 2011
A line of trees in massive form
Encroach along a ridge of stone,
Gnarled, bent and weather worn
Their clinging roots call granite home.
This ancient wood has weathered time
Felt the freezing gales of snow,
Has witnessed birth and death by day
Through life's kaleidoscopic show.

Oh the stories they can tell
When sunshine in the heavens ,warm,
When rivers run in merry tune
And safflower honey bees do swarm.
Oh the stories they can tell
When fillies kicked their heels in grass,
When whippoorwills did sing their song
And rampant stallions vied for class.

Oh the stories they can tell
When ancient armies trod this way
When clashing steel rang loud and clear
And good blood flowed in battle fray.
Oh the stories they can tell
When faceless horsemen galloped by,
The stench of putrid fear's lament
When populations bled to die.

Oh the stories they can tell
Of mountain peaks succumbed to fire,
Where ash removed the very sun
And panicked people fled the dire.
Oh the stories they can tell
Of black and white and good and bad
....But immaterial, perhaps, to trees
Who root in rock and seem so sad.


Marshalg
Taranaki dreamin'
26 May 2011
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2010
Dante’s dance of death arrives
Sparrows take to air
And massive nimbo-cumulous
Soar to lightnings vivid flare.
The final page is almost read
Incredulous am I
That Lady Luck has touched my soul
Allowing me to cry.

To watch a scarlet sunset sink
Into a sea of green
And feel the chill of evening stroke
My mortal fascade’s sheen.
Cavorting fillies canter
In blue nightfall’s velvet pall
Whilst the crystal tones of crispness
Peal from distant blackbird's call.

The magnificence of feeling
Permeates my very soul
And the factored life impermanence
Magnifies the spirit’s hold.
A sensate wave of gladness
Washes over all I see
And the brilliant joy of being
Lifts the fear of death from me.

Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
21 August 2010
Trey Logan Oct 2013
A couple hold each other at throat
Blood running, dripping from all over
Breathing heavily into one anothers face

The filly loosens her grip
Leans close to the guys neck
And licks the blood up to his lips

The guy looks at her and gives a sadistic smile
He rubs her neck and then
presses the razor of a knife
to her stomach

The fillies gasps sharply
as she feels the knife
being pressed hard against her


(unfinished)
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
my father wasn't a bit of a gambler,
                       fifty pence per bet....
   that's all it took...
      gambling was innocent fun,
      or as some might have it:
                   a play on prophetic told you so.
           e.g. lexington grace at nottingham
                           2.10 fillies' novice stakes
              then there was maiden stakes with
                 the prediction first-runner
                      lord commaner.
handicap: the winner? thaqafa.
fillies' once more... a handicap...
                                      la casa tarifa.
etc.
                        i was never too much
into... munch into gambling...
       don't know, maybe i thought:
there's much more to money than
this?
                but i guess that's how it goes,
     the poor get gambling,
the rich get philanthropy - you do
the μαθ.
                    all i have is:

9 6 7 3 5 4 2 8 1
2 1 5 6 9 8 7 4 3
4 8 3 7 1 2 5 6 9
   3 7 2 4 8 6 1 9 5
   5 4 8 1 7 9 6 3 2
   6 9 1 2 3 5 4 7 8
      7 3 4 9 2 1 8 5 6
      1 5 9 8 6 7 3 2 4
      8 2 6 5 4 3 9 1 7

oh **** me i was dry and out, and probably
  will be with the next few days to come...
                       my last interest / concern?                  
            what people like.
my first interest / concern?
          what people could frankly do, withtout.
Butch Decatoria Jun 2016
Two Southern gentlemen,
plantation and slave owners,
bought and trained men to be the best money can buy

Now as the gulf of Mexico burns in the setting sun's fire,
they sit on one or the other's porch,
drinking hard lemonade, the night's stars
darkening ire

talking business of live stock
and the business of men's flocks
the possessions taking hold of manifest
and the destiny of days
here, where the bayou houses the cold blooded

crocodile swamps
mangroves of varied prey

the two masters drawl over thus gifts
plentiful bounties
the run of the land his forefathers conquered
the import of luxuries
goods and good with their hands

such machinations lead to displeasure
when the threat stems from
ebony treasures,
the stallion studs and fillies
like objects owned

not within the eyes will a predator recognize
that the hunger for the prey
is the same game  that masters and slaves
have played...
(better recognize)

''''''''
*"When did mine Negroes begin to behave so...so..."

"Niggaredly?"

"No such word exists to define their confounded hate-filled hearts..."

"Something called 'slang'--a intermingling of words to make a new one, with its own trademark definition!"

"What does one call someone with such irrational and erratic behavior?--such ****** in the eyes!"

"A ******..."
please take no offense...
Old Gary Blue made lady's shoes,
from flats and pumps to stilettos.
In every size and many hues,
with lots of closed and open-toes.

He fell for Debra Derby, true,
the smith's daughter, with crimson hair.
He wooed her til she loved him, too,
and wed her in a Spring affair.

Her father, old  and stubborn soul,
had been a smith most of his life.
He had some  issues with control,
just ask his daughter and his wife.

For Debra Derby's dowry,
He had conditions to be met.
Gary's work was too flow'ry
for his daughter.  He was upset.

"Fire up the bellows, Gary Blue!
Now you'll forge a diff'rent course!
You'll never make another shoe,
unless it fits upon a horse!"

Poor Gary was despondent, now,
though love was bound to find a way.
He had to  pull this off somehow,
with his love and his art to stay.

Then GENIUS!  Inspiration struck!
and Gary knew just what to do.
Got paint and felt off his old truck,
and set off, every horse to shoe.

Now flats and pumps, stilettos too,
in pinks and violets, clad in felt,
donned every hoof that Gary knew.
Left many fillies looking svelte!
wordvango Sep 2017
When I moved away down to Billups creek
a tributary flowing into the Mississippi
and saw unmown wild fields of golden grass
tall trees everywhere
and  the dawn on a horizon
for the first time
saw country girls as
wild fillies,
oats and hay as fun
blue jeans
and got my first buzz with a knot
of 'bacco
I came along real quick
got the slang down tight in seventh grade
and my four-wheel drive pickup
at seventeen
got used to no rock stations
on the radio
just
adapted
to
ridin' country roads
and BBQ
and sassy lasses
and extended family's
and time spent
outside
and golden
fields of nature's
bounty

the sun is
brighter
down south
for a ****
Yankee
My upstairs spiraled to her looking glass
in those hand-me-down shoes alight
and would incline on the way down to the street
so this diadem could never faint
yet had swallowed ancient rouses
why he didn't die in a field of clover
with a herd of deer then
as they both arrive just to expose this simplex  
that may fold their wonder many times
but her entirely backless suit met consecutively
with spring base was tapestry in a town of such nomad
as fillies were finally exonerated by his demeanor.
a native Philadelphian could be in a park like Fairmont
Joe Fogg Jan 2023
His are the seas that surround
The isles of the free
Their lakes, hills and valleys
And country estates
The Rangers that rove
The orchard and grove
Hunting for pheasants
And keeping out peasants
In the meadows and fields
His fillies can yield
There's hay for the horses
And cake for the poor
The homes of the homeless
Are never rent-free
Palaces and Castles
Are expensive to keep
Taxing his taxman
Is collecting more fees
Gold on the throne
A jewel in the crown
Patron of patrons
Charity not chaste
Begins in his home
The kids in his class
Bless their loyal subjects
And their conscious neglect
To reject their repression
As the nation expects
To comply with contrition
The pauper's condition
To obey and concur
With the dame and the sir
Loyal, respectful, proud to declare
Patriotic, hypnotic
Flags waving, hanging unfurled
Soldiers go marching
With trumpets and drums
In the land of the free
There's a price to be paid
By the new age wage slaves
Democracy's hypocrisy
When rulers don't rule
But own all they survey
For King and for country
Lets us all pray
God save the King
The Challenge - A Satirical Poem
Although using Monarchy as the central theme, it applies to the corporate empires that now decide and influence our futures rather than elected governments. In the UK we see the result of an elite school of business men who have taken control of government and acting on behalf of their peers.
Yenson Jun 2020
Rain fell backwards
in clouded sun inlands
frosty winds whistle Dixie
flaccid ***** of cotton monies
cat calls in the heat of the night
bamboo canes in the straight tracks
in drips fears are real on winters night
finding the sad way home on hock and gin
the beast have been and ably widened the road
where trunks call instill dreads in gaps and arches
top-loader weave in rhyming dispatches and silk roads
the sons of Cain are heirs to the tongue and busted flush
such is the so raging minds that makes the limps go limping
so whistle me Dixie bring in bullwhips for the lazy men's game
gonna lock up the fillies and padlock the minds for dreads of stallions
Tom Salter Sep 2020
Wait for me there,
By the crescent tree
Oh, nature’s stair, built
From bark and root,
Grown from fallen fruit.

Wait for me there,
Where the ivy clothes
Swirl into white skin
And where the fawns
Go to moot and sing.

Wait for me there,
By the shallow pond,
Lie down at the bank,
Tangle in the lilies, and
Wait for the thirsty fillies.

Wait for me there,
Down by the thin ridge,
Where rabbits sit
And chew the earth,
Bit by bit.

Wait for me there,
Between the rock
And chiseled stump
Where moss never grows,
And dirt begins to lump.  

Wait for me there,
Where the promise is kept
And my time is unspent,
Wait for me there, darling
Show me how you care.

— The End —