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"finito" poems
The Eid is bustling with joy come let’s give it a try f     l     y      away! To the deathless groovy paradise floating high on the elixir flow: The triumphant joyous wave streamed up from the secret bottom line!   Up above the lapis lazuli sky. A pair of butterfly basks in the sunlight quietly indulges in style. It goes on in slow motion illuminating the night a firefly perches on a slice of the Moon flanked by the moonlight. But you and me we will rhyme and chant in our lovely mother tongue. In the same original lingua like ‘Adam speaks up and all angels listen in paradise’. Come let’s give it a try f   l     y      away! On the wings of the moonlight we will s   a     i       l        away! Ambling by the Moon we'll **** through the starry nooks. Eyes open and gently perched atop a star for a moment or two. We will see miles of galaxies over the moonlit lakes of the blue playing cool ravishing lutes! The spring night is in bloom and the cute sleeping beauty wakes up playing the flute! Musical half lights filling the sky. Come let’s give it a try f   l     y      away! We’ll drink sharaban tahura the holy wine of paradise and once for all we will k i   s     s the death goodbye! Our story will fill the divine soil the heaven's flora and fauna each and everyone will shine on our page no houri will ever say finito singing our tale! As Adam did it first stunned the angels telling the nature of all things in paradise. We will do that once more without a smirk this time we will see the loving Creator!
0
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC
Eid Mubarak - Lets Fly Paradise
The Eid is bustling with joy come let’s give it a try f     l     y      away! To the deathless groovy paradise floating high on the elixir flow: The triumphant joyous wave streamed up from the secret bottom line!   Up above the lapis lazuli sky. A pair of butterfly basks in the sunlight quietly indulges in style. It goes on in slow motion illuminating the night a firefly perches on a slice of the Moon flanked by the moonlight. But you and me we will rhyme and chant in our lovely mother tongue. In the same original lingua like ‘Adam speaks up and all angels listen in paradise’. Come let’s give it a try f   l     y      away! On the wings of the moonlight we will s   a     i       l        away! Ambling by the Moon we'll **** through the starry nooks. Eyes open and gently perched atop a star for a moment or two. We will see miles of galaxies over the moonlit lakes of the blue playing cool ravishing lutes! The spring night is in bloom and the cute sleeping beauty wakes up playing the flute! Musical half lights filling the sky. Come let’s give it a try f   l     y      away! We’ll drink sharaban tahura the holy wine of paradise and once for all we will k i   s     s the death goodbye! Our story will fill the divine soil the heaven's flora and fauna each and everyone will shine on our page no houri will ever say finito singing our tale! As Adam did it first stunned the angels telling the nature of all things in paradise. We will do that once more without a smirk this time we will see the loving Creator!
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67
Leave my Nan out in the rain, it'll be right. She's having veg later with some meat, on a bone but meat. No gravy, she's too lazy. She will not thread it. So what do you think? Shall we fold it the other way? Do it tonight, it won't be today and not quite black but definitely not grey. If it smells like cheese, just wear one and keep one eye open! Then, we may even finish third. Remember, listen for the sound. It's crucial, like a twenty pence piece. Dust! Always dust. Grams and ounces of the dustiest dust. Never before six and never after six. Just continuous with no bends, bubbles or any of that material you really like. Because when he'd finished speaking (The Italian) I didn't understand a ******* word of it! "Sorry, I don't speak Italian", shrugged my shoulders, did that thing you do with your bottom lip and ****** off. THE END (FINITO)
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May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
The Italian.
Hace falta papel, hace falta tinta, las letras brotan solas, hacen falta horas. Alma salvaje y nocturna, merodeadora impaciente, que niega entregarse a un Morfeo ausente. Tristeza que evoca al dolor, que evoca al sufrimiento, donde el osado se regodea al leer las palabras impresas, no con tinta negra, sino con lágrimas de un simple ser. No será la primera vez que el osado se desvela, un dolor igual al pago de su sacrificio, por entrever los sentimientos del que también fue osado. La noche nuestra musa, misteriosa y atractiva, como canto de sirena, belleza de los mares. Por siempre devota mi alma a tu luna, antaña luz a tu filosofía oscura. Profeta milenaria de adorno espectral, poema interminable con descanso finito.     Canción y plegaria,     llanto escrito,     llévate mi corazón     y deja mi alma     triste hasta el alba.
0
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
Desvelo
Six Straight The old cowboys of  TV fame, Were straight shooters, Who carried six shooters, Sometimes two. When I grow up, I want be a  six straight cowboy too, Six straight hours of sleep, Or dem bad poems all dressed in black, they're a gonna shoot me, holy dead. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The youniverse is getting smaller The you-in-verse is getting smaller, My poems, shorter, Hemingwayesque, see! Why use two words, Whenonewilldo. Warmer, too, Somehow tho global heat Ain't reached my woman's Hands or feet. When you touch my GPS, It stands ready, at attention, Always opens up with a prayer, Directions to Home, Like I said, The you-in-verse is getting smaller. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lend Me a Tune Wish I knew how to Compose some love lyrics, But can't carry a tune, It seems that the music Must always comes first. So with conceit and disbelief, Wrote words and shot 'em into space, Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies, Maybe a comet tail, Find a Songster who will strum them Into perfect, into complete. I ain't unhappy that all I got Was the lesser gift of Humming words to myself, Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they Could be ratified, by the music Of a voice reading them to me Or fingers tapping, happening them Upon the ivories upon my chest, The chest that needs exploration. So let's make some music Finish these lyrics jointly, When all finito, pointedly Take our co-sing-song, Dance to it with our bodies Sing words the whole night long, And please baby, Don't tell me to shut up so you can sleep....
0
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
3 Quickies in the Mid of Night
Six Straight The old cowboys of  TV fame, Were straight shooters, Who carried six shooters, Sometimes two. When I grow up, I want be a  six straight cowboy too, Six straight hours of sleep, Or dem bad poems all dressed in black, they're a gonna shoot me, holy dead. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The youniverse is getting smaller The you-in-verse is getting smaller, My poems, shorter, Hemingwayesque, see! Why use two words, Whenonewilldo. Warmer, too, Somehow tho global heat Ain't reached my woman's Hands or feet. When you touch my GPS, It stands ready, at attention, Always opens up with a prayer, Directions to Home, Like I said, The you-in-verse is getting smaller. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lend Me a Tune Wish I knew how to Compose some love lyrics, But can't carry a tune, It seems that the music Must always comes first. So with conceit and disbelief, Wrote words and shot 'em into space, Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies, Maybe a comet tail, Find a Songster who will strum them Into perfect, into complete. I ain't unhappy that all I got Was the lesser gift of Humming words to myself, Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they Could be ratified, by the music Of a voice reading them to me Or fingers tapping, happening them Upon the ivories upon my chest, The chest that needs exploration. So let's make some music Finish these lyrics jointly, When all finito, pointedly Take our co-sing-song, Dance to it with our bodies Sing words the whole night long, And please baby, Don't tell me to shut up so you can sleep....
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57
Lend me a tune *(For Robert C Howard, One of the lucky ones)* "But I'll know my song well before I start singing". Bob Dylan Some of us poets, some of us musicians, and a few, A very blessed few Songwriters and lyricists, Poets in sound and words, Both. Wish I knew how to Compose some love song music notes, But can't carry a tune, Seems to me, Comes first the music, Must music comes first So with conceit and disbelief, Wrote words and shot 'em into space, Hoping they'd pass thru galaxies, Maybe a comet tail, Find a Songster who will strum them Into perfect, into complete I ain't unhappy that all I got Was the lesser gift of Humming words to myself, Ain't dissatisfied, but wish they Could be ratified, by the music Of a voice singing them to me Or fingers tapping, happening them Played upon the ivories upon my chest, Where the lyrics are aborning, The chest that needs Music to be whole, and word-completing Wish I knew how to Compose some love notes But can't carry a tune, Seems to me Music, Must come first So let's make some music **** right, together, Finish these lyrics jointly, When all finito, pointedly Needed your music, my darling, Music to make them soar, Take our co-sing-song, Dance to it with our bodies Sing words the whole night long
0
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
Lend me a tune
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. You ponder, on where’s he’s at, who he’s with, and what’s he’s doing? He could be ******** you over, and now he’s the player you’re the game. The lying game, something so easy and so cunning. Running from this story to that, just so you can save your *** Because you want to have you’re cake and eat it too. “Dear Joan, I’m sending you this letter because I’m not the man you thought I was. I’m the heartless snake that only cares for my own feelings. I wish there was a better way to tell you but this will have to do. Remember last year, you know Jessica the secretary that I introduced you to? Yeah, days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months. There’s no better way to say this but, it’s over. Me and you, were finished, finito’, done. Don’t call me, don’t text me, because it will be a waste of your time. Now I didn’t commit a crime, but adultery. A sin, something I’m not proud of but, I’ll carry to my grave because I fell in love with another woman You may hate me now, but I hope you understand later, that I didn’t want to be the father of your son or your daughter.” Sincerely, you’re *******
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Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
The Lying Game
Drinking oil from mothers breast ****** Death- open 24/7 It's 3am I can't get out of bed and the women outside are tapping on my windowsill Tapping on the back of my spine “doctor doctor” rummaging for tongue hieroglyphics give me pills I'm standing saluting the dead like an Air Force Team Deceased Finito Gone Finished Bye forever in the sea by the sea for the sea Time is a busted lip on a Youth Caught ************ in the Garden of Youth Eden Eden Adam Adam Romeo Juliet Writing symphonies on toilet seats with ***** Lipstick hued blue she must match her thong and bra and hair and soul and painted toe nails and the mood of the night Is always Blue Like a blind man washed away at sea only to believe he was a boy again in the Womb And there is a taste of Salt a taste of blood in the water Coffee grains shark Teeth February love stories tied together to makeshift plastic hollywood driftwood explorer boats I am Nobody I have nothing I have Poems I have Books And I lay in the desert catching flies with my metallic tongue and Iron casted lips as my Libido curves like a Rose in Winter I am ******* the Devil I kissed Father Time's Wife And sometimes at night I sneak away Climbing out of my Children Book Fairy Tale locked Bedroom Door locked by a fools gold bolt And I walk to the Fountain of Youth, the Garden of Eden. Untieing my shoes like a woman does with her hair
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Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
for now i am winter
to finito my infinito; a pile of unwrit scripts, titles, single para, all mine un~completed children awaiting to be ejected and rejected by you dears, with spit+blood+sea salted tears, they not understanding why it has taken so long to exit the twisty. serpentine birth canal thru which they were conceived, then, deceived! by a promise sworn to be given initiating exposure to our atmosphere once upon a time there only forty six imps and seedlings, now *** the poem~notions come so fast that there are more than 76 loonie~loosies, poetic scraps and scrapes & scrips, waiting for a match, a ******* in of the air that requires stating: **Blessed is the Lird, who inserted crazy potions within in my eyes to save my downtrodden soul. And projectile re-iease them To your dangerous selves,** Aman.
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Jul 12, 2025
Jul 12, 2025 at 1:53 PM UTC
A Doula’s Code: Such is life!
If I should ever say I might commit suicide Then take me to a shrink Straight away. For I will have done a mental U-turn, A complete reversal Of my current mind-set Which I’ve always had. It is highly likely that when we die There is nothing Zilch Finito. World’s End for us. I hope I’m wrong As I’ve said before. That’s there’s Heaven Or Reincarnation Or Something. Immortality sells well. Most religions offer An Afterlife. So Life is Precious And all too short For me. Not to be sniffed at For sure. To be made the most of And extended For as long as possible. Suicide bombers are the worst Of course – Killing others too In a fit of Madness. No, instead of suicide I yearn for golden dawns and sunsets, For trees on mountains, Endless seas, In our Eternal, Infinite Multiverse, Blue sky or stars above, Bathed by the radiant sun Or cool Moon. If you think of suicide, Talk to us instead. Paul Butters © PB 25\9\2015.
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Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Suicide
Si lo so, tutto è finito non parlar, non dirmi niente già da un pezzo l'ho capito che il finale era imminente. Si lo so, tutto è finito sei d'un altro innamorata già da un pezzo l'ho capito questa scena l'ho aspettata. La commedia dell'amore è finita finalmente hai spezzato questo cuore non parlar, non dirmi niente.
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838
Tutto è finito
what's with these juicy bits? got talking to a cashier at a supermarket because i wanted cash-back rather than using the automated till, she was part of a book club, her grandchildren, something something, oh yeah, into tudor english, prope'h east ender but more into o romeo o romeo why art thou bits of slicing the butcher's expression, tudor english... 'so what do you do? finish work early? work in a slaughterhouse of mammon and his slot machines?' 'i've only just begun, i'm an adolf ****** of poets according to w.h. auden, i mean, wait wait, i can make a calypso's worth of sound with rhyme, and look ironically intelligent too! i have ~40 adamant readers elsewhere, yes,  had to look for a publisher on the continent.' you know, all that jazz & bass talk, when you're buying whiskey laconically day to day, and we both agreed: it's nice to leave an imprint on someone, somewhere else, far far away, rather than just an echoing footprint of a pacified stranger passing en route on a shopping spree; so don't up your game thinking writing is a mind game of ups and ups... it's a task like anyone else's, although it doesn't pay out bundles of Ferraris or ****** there ain't not glamour in it... you only get recognition in terms of the numbers doing it after you're dead... because it looks easy, because it looks like a granny in an armchair... what's that, 30 poems in and finito -              carpe diem hasta la vista baby? strap me rigid on that train, i'll pay with all my teeth being punched out to see where this is going; juicy bits my ***
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Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
talking to a supermarket cashier, she’s 60!
what's with these juicy bits? got talking to a cashier at a supermarket because i wanted cash-back rather than using the automated till, she was part of a book club, her grandchildren, something something, oh yeah, into tudor english, prope'h east ender but more into o romeo o romeo why art thou bits of slicing the butcher's expression, tudor english... 'so what do you do? finish work early? work in a slaughterhouse of mammon and his slot machines?' 'i've only just begun, i'm an adolf ****** of poets according to w.h. auden, i mean, wait wait, i can make a calypso's worth of sound with rhyme, and look ironically intelligent too! i have ~40 adamant readers elsewhere, yes,  had to look for a publisher on the continent.' you know, all that jazz & bass talk, when you're buying whiskey laconically day to day, and we both agreed: it's nice to leave an imprint on someone, somewhere else, far far away, rather than just an echoing footprint of a pacified stranger passing en route on a shopping spree; so don't up your game thinking writing is a mind game of ups and ups... it's a task like anyone else's, although it doesn't pay out bundles of Ferraris or ****** there ain't not glamour in it... you only get recognition in terms of the numbers doing it after you're dead... because it looks easy, because it looks like a granny in an armchair... what's that, 30 poems in and finito -              carpe diem hasta la vista baby? strap me rigid on that train, i'll pay with all my teeth being punched out to see where this is going; juicy bits my ***
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40
Para sempre meu ser em náusea abundante & o clarão do ontem navega falsas virtudes Próprio ser finito pós – sentidos (sente calma Alma expulsa?) Para sempre estarei longe percebendo o real & as figuras bacantes em inefáveis folguedos invisíveis Musicando deslizes performáticos Resultados impossíveis do possibilitado Para sempre a prisão alheia expulsa em mim & as vertentes nas velhas ruínas Partícula obscena de peles espessas Filme novo de existências imortais Para sempre estarei mudo conversando com o cordeiro & as visões memoráveis calarão o estático mundo Promessa revolta mensagem do paraíso A deusa dança nos confins do firmamento Em repúdio ao palpitar existente Fora o mágico silêncio em noites sem fim Fora o distúrbio em mim ( sente medo Alma fugidia? )
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Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Untitled
"He's beautiful. " Wrapped in a sick sense of despair, did I ever have the courage to ever to fully care? I walk through freezing lakes and storms outside to trek the across the dirt and rivers and find Did I ever love a person besides? I touchdown on the moon, on the stars on the castles built on dreams in my mind, the shattered heart, the tortured soul bemoans jealousy and a cowardice untold I am here, sitting in the plum blossom of winter's breast, and something about the way the cold wind tugs so hard so strong against my chest leaves me without no doubts that love isn't quite done with me yet.
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Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
finito.
Vine aquí como escribo estas líneas, sin idea fija: una mezquita azul y verde, seis minaretes truncos, dos o tres tumbas, memorias de un poeta santo, los nombres de Timur y su linaje.Encontré al viento de los cien días. Todas las noches las cubrió de arena, acosó mi frente, me quemó los párpados. La madrugada:                             dispersión de pájaros y ese rumor de agua entre piedras que son los pasos campesinos. (Pero el agua sabía a polvo). Murmullos en el llano, apariciones                       desapariciones, ocres torbellinos insubstanciales como mis pensamientos. Vueltas y vueltas en un cuarto de hotel o en las colinas: la tierra un cementerio de camellos y en mis cavilaciones siempre los mismos rostros que se desmoronan. ¿El viento, el señor de las ruinas, es mi único maestro? Erosiones: el menos crece más y más.En la tumba del santo, hondo en el árbol seco, clavé un clavo,                             no, como los otros, contra el mal de ojo: contra mí mismo.                                   (Algo dije: palabras que se lleva el viento).Una tarde pactaron las alturas. Sin cambiar de lugar                                       caminaron los chopos. Sol en los azulejos                                   súbitas primaveras. En el Jardín de las Señoras subí a la cúpula turquesa. Minaretes tatuados de signos: la escritura cúfica, más allá de la letra, se volvió transparente. No tuve la visión sin imágenes, no vi girar las formas hasta desvanecerse en claridad inmóvil, el ser ya sin substancia del sufí. No bebí plenitud en el vacío ni vi las treinta y dos señales del Bodisatva cuerpo de diamante. Vi un cielo azul y todos los azules, del blanco al verde todo el abanico de los álamos y sobre el pino, más aire que pájaro, el mirlo blanquinegro. Vi al mundo reposar en sí mismo. Vi las apariencias. Y llame a esa media hora: Perfección de lo Finito.
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809
Felicidad en herat
Vine aquí como escribo estas líneas, sin idea fija: una mezquita azul y verde, seis minaretes truncos, dos o tres tumbas, memorias de un poeta santo, los nombres de Timur y su linaje.Encontré al viento de los cien días. Todas las noches las cubrió de arena, acosó mi frente, me quemó los párpados. La madrugada:                             dispersión de pájaros y ese rumor de agua entre piedras que son los pasos campesinos. (Pero el agua sabía a polvo). Murmullos en el llano, apariciones                       desapariciones, ocres torbellinos insubstanciales como mis pensamientos. Vueltas y vueltas en un cuarto de hotel o en las colinas: la tierra un cementerio de camellos y en mis cavilaciones siempre los mismos rostros que se desmoronan. ¿El viento, el señor de las ruinas, es mi único maestro? Erosiones: el menos crece más y más.En la tumba del santo, hondo en el árbol seco, clavé un clavo,                             no, como los otros, contra el mal de ojo: contra mí mismo.                                   (Algo dije: palabras que se lleva el viento).Una tarde pactaron las alturas. Sin cambiar de lugar                                       caminaron los chopos. Sol en los azulejos                                   súbitas primaveras. En el Jardín de las Señoras subí a la cúpula turquesa. Minaretes tatuados de signos: la escritura cúfica, más allá de la letra, se volvió transparente. No tuve la visión sin imágenes, no vi girar las formas hasta desvanecerse en claridad inmóvil, el ser ya sin substancia del sufí. No bebí plenitud en el vacío ni vi las treinta y dos señales del Bodisatva cuerpo de diamante. Vi un cielo azul y todos los azules, del blanco al verde todo el abanico de los álamos y sobre el pino, más aire que pájaro, el mirlo blanquinegro. Vi al mundo reposar en sí mismo. Vi las apariencias. Y llame a esa media hora: Perfección de lo Finito.
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61
Partículas minúsculas de uma história no espaço-tempo Não há registros de sua década ali ela está, aglomerada levada pelo vento. Um pensamento ou um fato Um cheiro ou um tato Sensação perante a multidão Inigualável pela escuridão. Baú protetor de todos os momentos Infinito finito da madeira acobreada Inexistente aos olhos que buscam a razão Inexplicável pela língua falada.
0
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
Passado do passado
There are so many feelings running through my mind And I want to let them out but I have no time. I've just been sitting here, staring at this screen all day Hoping that sitting here would make me feel okay But it's done squat, nada, niente, nothing. I just sat here when I could have done something. I wasted my whole day, a free day for me. I was so excited for this day, it made me so happy. But I've done nothing to make it memorable. It's confirmed that we are inseparable. Am I happy about that? No, heck no. I feel confined, like I don't have a mind of my own. I just want my freedom, I need some space. Thinking about this problem makes my heart race. It's done, finito, I can't handle this. Why'd you have to be such a little b*tch. When I thought I was set free You just pulled back on my leash. I wasted so much time, so much **** time on you. Well I'm happy to say that we are through. If only I could travel back in time and start again. Take back all that time that I wasted. Time is so precious, it can go by like that. If only I had known that a couple years back.
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Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC
Next Time
Y ante la bondad del mal, nos encontraremos. Y ante la maldad del bien, cabalgaremos. Y de la piel de nuestros caballos muertos saldrán mudas hormigas, que centellearán al anochecer entre los destellos de mi cuerpo que se pudre. Y ante la bondad del mal, moriremos. Unidos para siempre en un abrazo finito como finas son las hojas sobre las que escribo. Y ante la bondad del mal nos encontraremos. Preparados para morir, si no ya muertos. Y sólo entonces nos comprenderemos. Y sólo entonces centellearán nuestras bocas como las hormigas que salen de la piel de nuestros caballos muertos And before the goodness of evil, we'll find each other. And before the evilness of good, We'll ride. And from the skin of our dead horses mute ants will come out, which will glisten at sunset among the flashes of my body that rottens. And before the goodness of evil, we'll die. Forever joined in a finite hug, like fine are the sheets on which I write. And before the goodness of evil we'll find each other, ready to die, if not dead already. And only then we'll understand each other. And only then will our mouths glisten, like the ants that come out from the skin of our dead horses.
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Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
Ante la bondad del mal/Before the goodness of evil
Tyres and trash climbing to four long stories high burning the dynamo of governments made from variegated beliefs in sharing seats unspent people divided by calculated fear and farm implements from backyard fences to break the back of steel helmets and rubber truncheon policies. Piled high on the side-walks of history they gather in tight knots yet untangled before water canons and formations of advancing barricades of brutal regimes seated around, round glossy tables of disagreement. Nothing works right if a lone spanner finds its way into the giant machinery that rolls over people down a roadway of dissent. Freedom is not plugged into any powered source if unaccepted in the lone man's spark of will. Soon the doorways of flight will open and haste will chase the suited gentry of harsh cross-hair policies into pockets of safety within other brutal regimes. Fly now while you can the plugs will be pulled shortly and the day will descend into darkness Hellfire will close in around you if you wait to cling to power that is not yours. Run now. Run. Fly. Disappear. Kaput. Finito. Author Notes We go West now. Just coming from deep South. © Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
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Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Power Cut
Sorry seems a word of dishonour. Not one you'll hear from me. Stubborn, very stubborn. So here I guess this mess. Has led to stalemate I'm sure you will agree' At least I know my failings. But stalking was not one. I nod my head in acknowledgment of that. That those highly strung wires may have tangled. The joy we shared became totally mangled. The messages got mixed up between the two of us. But I cannot be dissed for that. I will not open the mystery of our past history. We are a closed book, what we had was special. We loved, we had, we lost. Such is life. I did nothing wrong, Certainly nothing with intention. Except to play along. With the well renowned king of the flirts. In darkness, a neck bruised and tongue removed. Left a line of chalk. Maybe the rain will wash the line away. Darling, This wouldn't have happened if you talked the talk me! You write words so eloquent. But in spoken words let us down. That's why we both sport a God awful frown Runs between sweet love and hate. I will discuss this crap no further. Have really had enough. To go from mate to hate is far more than tough! Never deserved to lose a friend. Neither of us did!
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Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
Finito! Le Fin! The end, Perhaps we can both speak the same language now! Common Sense!
Ojos apagados de brillos efímeros De labios carmesí entre el delirio más ínfimo, De brillos angelicales; ropajes monárquicos Besos cardinales, de encuentros íntimos. Hija del rey, diosa de diosas; linaje élfico Cantares de coloquios, en runas remotas De lenguas perdidas, de zares absurdos Mi madrigal por nombre, lleva el suyo. En la ciénaga hueca, de las laderas altas Bajo la falda de las montañas, dónde la luz es baja. Sobre rocas, sobre ruina, sobre ti Cantan en tierras lejanas, de la reina y sobre mí. Oh, sin el rey que canto ama. Porque acá sólo hay delito, ¡Ay! ¡Sin ese rey, que tanto aclaman! Porque este amor es finito. Un errante peregrino; ambulante de compañía Señor de nada que se e haya perdido, Pero de extraña joyería La reina cabellos de oro, y un mercader vendido.
0
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 4:13 AM UTC
Cantares.
Tonight I took the last vestiges of my faltering morality by the sweating hands and led him out back to be shot.
0
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
Et Finito
I heard a plaintive heave before the cleaving of the air, then of the flesh – a forceful splitting of a young citrus, then of the splintering – a crunch that froze the scorch of that afternoon. Finito! the sound of the fragile spine breaking into hundreds... or is it thousands? of pieces. And the debris, of the marrow and the dangling arteries – of chunks of the hypothalamus, a part of the left hemisphere – the tangential stains of blood on modern Golgotha – a cemented clearing deep within the woods parched and dried by the anger of that afternoon - which resembles a festive night: festooned with firecrackers, with showers of embers and fountains of fire, glow sticks of horror, And the lower part, the detachment: loose and limp placid and peaceful. A fresh sculpture of soft clay in red   plaid polo and punturong – both saved by the stain of gore, but not with the stain of nature on the flipside the habiliments are covered in dust – modern dust brought by cement and its slow deterioration of how friction demolishes it era by era tick by tock of the giant slothful clock - and as this same cement seeps all the fireworks vegetation thrives – and the fruit of man, and law, and capital teeth and eye dangles through thick sinewy vines. The land devour the sculpture carved by a single stroke. And then another heave is heard then the cleaving of the air, the almost splitting of the neck meat, the forceful pulling of a penchant edge then the cleaving of the air the splitting of a young tangerine, then the splintering of a spine, the spray of sainthood in scarlet, then the limping, the rolling, the creation of a mask. It was a masterpiece of music, visual aesthetics and natural arts. As the mark of each face was left in the humid winds of that afternoon.
0
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 6:42 AM UTC
Humanities
I heard a plaintive heave before the cleaving of the air, then of the flesh – a forceful splitting of a young citrus, then of the splintering – a crunch that froze the scorch of that afternoon. Finito! the sound of the fragile spine breaking into hundreds... or is it thousands? of pieces. And the debris, of the marrow and the dangling arteries – of chunks of the hypothalamus, a part of the left hemisphere – the tangential stains of blood on modern Golgotha – a cemented clearing deep within the woods parched and dried by the anger of that afternoon - which resembles a festive night: festooned with firecrackers, with showers of embers and fountains of fire, glow sticks of horror, And the lower part, the detachment: loose and limp placid and peaceful. A fresh sculpture of soft clay in red   plaid polo and punturong – both saved by the stain of gore, but not with the stain of nature on the flipside the habiliments are covered in dust – modern dust brought by cement and its slow deterioration of how friction demolishes it era by era tick by tock of the giant slothful clock - and as this same cement seeps all the fireworks vegetation thrives – and the fruit of man, and law, and capital teeth and eye dangles through thick sinewy vines. The land devour the sculpture carved by a single stroke. And then another heave is heard then the cleaving of the air, the almost splitting of the neck meat, the forceful pulling of a penchant edge then the cleaving of the air the splitting of a young tangerine, then the splintering of a spine, the spray of sainthood in scarlet, then the limping, the rolling, the creation of a mask. It was a masterpiece of music, visual aesthetics and natural arts. As the mark of each face was left in the humid winds of that afternoon.
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52
Aspettavo la ricomposizione dei miei sensi disgiunti, ma un Dio non sospettato ha disciolte le rime del mio amore... Credevo commutare questi pilastri d'ossa con sorgenti di finissimo cielo, e in cambio n'ebbi basi di pantano. Sono finito più che nel dolore... Ma non è questo il punto saturo di mia fede: il mio Dio sta immerso di là d'un palmo, e ** le dita monche per raggiungerlo in pieno!
0
432
Lamento di un morto