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Cyril Blythe Apr 2013
“El Rabio”

Saturday 6-4
Hello again white pages. I’m writing this on Sunday for Saturday because I came seven hours away from dying yesterday, I was a little busy. I know I need to write this now or I’ll start to forget certain details so, here we go.

I woke up at 5:30 for my 6:00 breakfast. The air in Lima is always wet and sharp in the morning; it is incomparable to any type of Alabama morning mist. The morning mist in Lima is tainted from the 8 billion people who live here and curse it with their waking breath, it curses them back with sharp gray stings of water on their, our, faces as we leave the shelter of the tin roofs and adobe walls. As I walked into the kitchen, Madre Tula scolded me, again, “¡Estás tan flaco como un frijole mi amor! Ven. Ven aqui. ¡Comé!” Which, if you forget your Spanish years from now when you are reading this basically means she thinks I’m too skinny and need more meat on my bones. Madre accomplishes this by feeding me, every single morning, a piece of torta, a bowl of cualquier con fruta, and a ham and quail egg sandwich. It’s always delicious and yesterday was no exception. The NesCafe coffee yesterday burnt my tongue. I gulped it down in a heated hurry because of how tired I was. I gave Madre un besito and left to walk down the street to get the girl interns, Dylan and Lindsay, from their house so we could catch a combi (bus) to Salamanca to work the yard sale for our church with our missionary leaders, Mike and Lauren Ferry.

We made it to the yard sale safe and got straight to work. There was already a huge line of locals waiting to be the first ones in the gates to buy what the American missionaries were selling. After setting up tables and moving hundreds of boxes for about an hour Lauren came sprinting up to me and said, “You got bit by a dog?” I tried to laugh and make a joke about it being just my luck but she interrupted, “This is really serious, Cyril. This is a dang big deal.” I was instantly immersed into a stage of cold adrenaline as she continued, “Cyril, you need to go to the hospital. NOW. People die from this. We’ve had to send interns home for the rest of the summer for scratches from dogs in Salamanca.” She continued to tell me that I needed to catch a combi and find the nearest hospital immediately. The sides of my vision were clouding black and I sat down, I was suddenly very cold.

I think I was in shock and my brain was trying to refuse what it was being forced to process. Rabies. Rabies? Really? That **** dog. It was foaming and all the locals ran from it. I don’t know why I thought if I just stood still it would run past me. I remember the locals screaming Spanish, Quechua, or Aymaraat at me that I was helpless to translate with my two semester of Spanish at Auburn. That **** dog was brown and its lips were foaming. After I kicked it off me and climbed up on a wall of someone’s house I remember wiping the foam off my bloodied legs. Why the hell did I not think, “Oh, that’s probably a bad thing, right?” No. I was just too embarrassed by having made a ****** spectacle of myself in front of the locals to even think about the inherent dangers of rabies.

“Cyril?” I remember looking up from my racing thoughts. Somehow I had ended up sitting on the ground with my head in my hands. I was shaking as I looked up and saw Mike, Lauren’s husband, offering me a hand. He asked me to try and remember exactly what time I got to Salamanca yesterday and when I was attacked. I thought about it and remembered I was running late so I kept checking my watch. It was around 3pm. “****,” Mike said. When you hear a missionary cuss is when you know you’re totally ******. “Stand up, come on.” He helped me to my feet. “Cyril, listen. If you don’t get the first booster shot within 24 hours you die. There is nothing anyone can do. You have about seven hours left. You need to hurry, don’t be scared.” When he said that I remember laughing. Mike gave me a concerned eyebrow furrow as he led me, by the arm, over to one of the other missionaries working the yard sale, Mrs. Sarah. He explained the situation to her and I watched the Peruanos spilling in the gates and milling through the rows of tables and missionaries selling old books and trinkets. One lady that walked in had a monkey with yellow ears on her shoulders. I remember worrying it could be rabid too.

“Cyril?” Mrs. Sarah smiled at me, “You’re going to be okay honey. Lets go.” We left the yard sale. I remember anxiously watching the monkey sitting on the ladies shoulder and as we walked past it, it **** all over her and started to rub it in her hair. I swear it was smiling at me. Mrs. Sarah hailed a combi and we headed for Clinica Anglo-Americana. The taxi driver asked if we were okay and Mrs. Sarah told him about my situation. He fingered the rosary hanging from his rear view mirror and said over and over again, “Dios mio…pobre, pobrecito.” I understood that much Spanish. Even my taxi driver thought I was going to die.

We pulled up to the hospital and told the guard with the AK-47 why we were there and he waved us in past the spiked metal gates. Inside the hospital looked more like a bed and breakfast than the place where I would be given a second chance at life after rabies. The walls were whitewashed and the Untied States, Peruvian, and British flags draped down from three golden flagpoles by the front door. There were beautiful pink and yellow flowers everywhere that scared away the painful Peruvian morning fog that permeated my memory of the rest of that morning. We paid the taxi driver; he patted my hand and drove off.

Inside, I was encouraged to explain why I was there—in Spanish of course— to the friendly nurse waiting in the entrance. I was furious. Time was wasting; it was not the time for me to practice subjuntivo or pluscuamperfecto. I mangled out a few awkward sentences and the nurse’s jaw dropped. Mrs. Sarah erupted into belly bursting alto laughter. The rest of the waiting room was empty. I was so confused, terrified, and angry I didn’t know what else to do except sit. So, I sat on the closest wooden bench and felt a tear peer over one of my eyelids. Mrs. Sarah and the nurse were twittering in rapid Spanish and I kept thinking, “Six hours. I have six hours left to live by now.” Mrs. Sarah walked over, put her arms around me and explained that I had told the nurse the reason I was in the hospital was because I killed a dog in the streets yesterday. I smiled.

“Señor Blythe?” A doctor appeared and frantically motioned for us to come into his room. I walked in and it looked just like any other doctors office except the tray of scalpels, huge needles, tweezers, and vials of purple medicine beside the bed that he motioned for me to lay down on, “Acostarse.” Mrs. Sarah told me to relax. Humorous. The doctor and his two nurses wiped down the bite marks on each of my legs with three pungent and strangely colored gels in quick succession. I swear I hear a sizzling noise. The doctor picked up the scissors and I winced, but he only used them to open up a white packet from which he pulled out a huge thick roll of rough, wet gauze, which he used to wipe my legs clean. It numbed my legs. Then, of course, he grabbed the biggest needle on the table and used it to stab both legs; directly into the bite marks. If he hadn’t already scrubbed them so hard they were scab-less the needle would have cracked the crusted scabs back to flowing red. Rabies vaccines are not fun.

After a few more vials of life were shot into me the doctor wrapped up my legs in weird smelling gauze I was told not to shower and that I had to return to the US within 3 days to receive a “monohemoglobin shot” that they didn’t have in the hospitals in Lima at the time. I sat up on the bed and asked Mrs. Sarah, “So, am I going to live?” She smiled and nodded her head and the nurse answered, *“Si, mi amor, por supuesto.”
I don’t remember the first mushroom I had.
I can’t remember the last time rainbow stars weren’t falling
from the sky, why I’m addicted to jumping on flagpoles,
or why I shoot fireballs after eating flowers.
I’m addicted, but it’s not a problem.
I think.

I can see flying turtles with wings.
They keep throwing hammers at me.
I punch bricks
hoping coins come out of them,
because I somehow got the idea
that if I got a hundred gold coins
I could buy myself a new life.

I want a life with a steamy
red hot princess
in a flowing pink dress
living in a bourgeois castle
where the smell of peaches
breathes life into every fiber
of my mustachioed being.

Sometimes I think my brother is green
with envy, when all he really does is pick daisies.
Why should he be jealous?
He’s taller, slimmer,
and he doesn’t have to work as tirelessly as I do.
But, I’ve always jumped higher,
reached further, and punched harder.
It’s not my fault he chooses to stay in my shadow.
That little *****.

I sometimes ride on a green dinosaur's back.
I’m a baby floating away in a bubble,
and that dinosaur saved my life
far too many times to count.
He’s my best friend.

Sometimes I like to put on my blue hat
and pretend that I’m invisible.
Sometimes I put on my green hat
and pretend I’m as hardened as a mafia gangster.
I am Italian after all. It’s in my blood.

I want to quit, but I can’t. I don’t need to.
I’m doing fine with these mushrooms.
I feel larger than life with the red ones,
and the green ones
resurrect me.
JWolfeB Nov 2014
May you remember to stand up straight
May your spines be flagpoles
Sailing your heart at full mast
The caps in your knees full of steel
Unstoppable in your travels of Alaskan tundra

Let your mind grow roots in your culture
May your hunger for knowledge
Be that of a (amaguq) wolf
Never give up on yourselves
For I will never give up on you
Teaching in a classroom full of Inupaiq eskimo children. You can never understand a culture until you are immersed into it. These kids are teaching me each and every day.
Mark Motherland Nov 2018
The *** Gardeners there were twelve in all. Hurrah! Hurrah!
everyone a Hero and answered the call. Hurrah! Celagh!
they were going out to war to fight the ***
soon be back as Heroes when the work is done
so get the Cheer Leaders ready...
the *** Gardeners are coming home

poison gas threatened from afar. Hurrah! Hurrah!
Soon be back as Heroes and first at the bar. Hurrah! Celagh!
they climbed over the top of the fields of fire
and complex networks of barbed wire
so get the fireworks ready
the *** Gardeners are coming home

deadlocked enemies on the Western line. Hurrah! Hurrah!
their bodies were earth their hands were slime. Hurrah! Celagh!
they didn't have time to take a breath
out of duty to the King they laughed at death
so get the flagpoles ready
the *** Gardeners are coming home

specialist bombers of an infantry platoon. Hurrah! Hurrah!
our Heroes longed to be home so soon. Hurrah! Celagh!
overhead shellfire scared them out their wits
dropped in their trench and blew them all to bits
so get the coffins ready...
the *** Gardeners are coming home.
The *** Gardeners were twelve young men who were masters of their craft. They transformed the gardens of Kinloch Castle, on the Isle of *** (Scotland) into a veritable paradise. There were Palm trees, a Japanese walled garden, an array of tropical plants, crops of peaches, nectarines, figs and grapes as well as acres of glass houses with free flying hummingbirds. Out of the 12+ young men that went to war, only two returned.4
Mitchell Apr 2011
Blue stricken moon hanging like I still do
In time breathing out loud
But hearing inside
Not a thing
Torrents of the ringing roar
Heard eternally through time
Another list of souls lost
In the fray of the unknown
Listen to the stream outside of thine window
Remember the miracles of life
And be not distracted by the highlights of seemingly obvious lights
There were memories I tried to forget
Through every minute spent with the other
Until late
I am not here
I've been gone
But where...but where?
In another place where lights illuminate in uncanny cliches
A magic unbeknownst to the physical eye
Awake and moving like a ghost through the thick thicket
Mirroring the masters, everything that they've done
I hope to not be forgotten in this time
It is so easy though
Oh' so easy
To forget where one came from first
Adventures of lore with dragon, typhoons and high mountains
Force my mind to forget myself once again
And through the trails lined with blinding yellows
Orange flares that take away all despair
Red that bleeds onto my feet, up my body
Beating me into a submission of pure paralysis
Tonight there are colors that never have been seen by any man
Any child
Any woman
Any land
Tonight, in the deep gloom of the world in blink
I see things that, at first, I never would have believed
To keep these things inside of me
Is like caging the Phoenix and all of its ancient majesty
Passing me on the street
You'd never guess to think
That there is a brick wall bout' to break
Right on the pushing brink
For I am in every passerby, every stranger, every numerical remainder
I lay in the forest surrounded by angels, nymphs and majesty
And lo' I am too naive to believe in God
The uncreating creator
The uncreating un-creator
Creatures of the habit that pass time by working through time
Rippling rips through my skin, passes through my hair
I hear the whisper of a mare, faint yet still fare
Walking through the trees I believe
That there is another way in dignity to be
Not in front of these flashing bulbs
Or fuming with the unimagined, false unknown
Touching a dark spot on a lover's top
Seeing she's there but soon will not be
Already gone away from me, in the eyes and all her beauty
The rats that nibble away at pride, at honor, owning their dishonor
Allows me to run faster
Then any winged' bee
Because there is no second to be wasted
In a world that believes there is
Change is upon our place of reckoning
And God is nowhere to be found
Yet I speak of him often
I find it hard to truly see
Because when the children pass, small and young
I see faces that were once in mine
But the minions of stories unknown but inside
Will soon wash up on every single one's tide
A beach of wishing with sea shells shining
The pressing lake front and all of its lapping grunts
Today I see the faces
Tomorrow perhaps I won't
Today there were the races
Tomorrow I grip my laces
For the day outside of me still rests inside somewhere
As if a received sickness unwanted but still bared
Where guidance is nothing but a trick of the leaders wishes
Electronic flagpoles but nothing more
Then the eyes of the blind mole
Burrowing deeper and deeper into the minds of man
Listening to their holy absolutist plan
And the secret will die when the hands of the master
Grips the throat of all who let them
Yes the secret of the mystery will soon perish with information
Science may reign, like a heavy acid rain, all upon this land
Where to be but cast out to sea?
Among the place that still holds infinite miles of cankerous depths
Where fishes still know how to pray with their fins and their gills
Among the monsters of the deep, they play in pure naturality
Cause' the cause is so strong when it touches bone
Chips away at the guilt which seems to weigh a million pounds
Where the whiskey doesn't taste as good anymore
And age perches itself upon all the young one's shoulders
Like a volcano on the verge of catastrophic smolder
And the heaviness of the heaving hipsters
Grabs wings of music that blast from every corner
Lifting them for moments which feel like forever
But still inside the soul is seething and wheezing
At last the forth coming night has shielded me from the storm
I am feeling what it is called to live in form
But soon
I know
I will get restless and bored
And search for a new
Room and board
Julianna Eisner Mar 2014
Unfurl origami entries dated
March 8, June 2, countless undated of an
amygdala hijacked
that pitted Moira against Peirce,
rejecting my name of Kismet,
to watch Forer take his effect
(who now has spread his contagion),
babysitting Little Albert while
Watson scribbled notes in the lecture hall;
witness sagacity smeared all over skull walls,
spackled on cranial ceilings
as I stuck my head out onto subway platforms and
displayed out onto train tracks in my
mind's eye in favour of recalling
Christmas festivities with sisters dolled up in
grandeur hospital ball gowns as
subjects were consoled in camps and
I slept in fields
screaming anything audible to
no one,
listening to track 2 on a
continuous loop,
sitting on flagpoles and lamp posts
as vandals smashed and grabbed,
cackles echoing in alleyways...

now before I vanish right before
your very eyes
tell me,
why
am
I
here
*?
OnlyEggy Dec 2011
Violets are red
Roses are blue
Gloves are for feet
Hands go in shoes
Pants hang on flagpoles
Flags hang out of pants
Water is for mopping
Save it on fake plants
Hungry people eat
Starving people starve
Recycled paper saved the forest
Just another product to be carved
Park benches are for bums
Parking lots are for the homeless
Raise taxes to give to the needy
Makes more people jobless
Live flowers to the die-ing
Dead flowers to the sewer
Ghosts are imaginary
Walk around the grave to be sure
Bomb at home injures just one
Mass riots ensues
Bomb at the neighbors kills hundreds
Lets review the latest shampoos
Rap is black
Country is red
The old live longer
But the schools are dead
Think outside the box
Draw inside the lines
I'll make my own indecisions
And let my own colors shine
(AIP)
Harry J Baxter Oct 2013
Get loud for Christ's sake
shake the walls
vibrate
black out red
we killed twelve Pakistani innocents with unmanned drones
and this silence is getting under my skin
there's a disturbing lack of politicians hanging from flagpoles across the country
no I didn't hear the new Q94 top tracks
and say yoloswag one more time,
I dare you,
you can find your teeth in the back of your throat
burn polo and nike to the ground
turn the CEO's over to the sweatshop workers
this quiet will **** us
but until it does
I'm off hunting
so don't find yourself on the wrong side of my iron sights
thin the herd until we near extinction
righteous fire is cleansing
and we will rebuild from the mountain of corrupted ashes
impotent rage is a trait of the youth
and I'm young enough to pop
if these airwaves stay dead for much longer
a little angry this morning. Blame the coffee or something. Happy Halloween kids
We are all talking much louder
Than your shoulders can translate
There are escaped sovereigns hiding from
Modern anthems of star spangled spasms
Underneath our hearts there are cars and cartridges
Condoms and consoles coiled around our flagpoles
We are through being told what not to do
So whenever we fool around with tiny tyrants
Please know that we are talking about you
And I am supplying your mind with ecstatic silence
In order to finance these fading fitness regimes
And measure your symbols in systematic struggles
We are all insignificant bundles of nerve fibers
Hoping to one day be born again
As an alchemical magus fluent in many languages
Jacob Sykes Feb 2013
There is a noise coming from the heater at night
a bunch of bangs and clicks
hisses and dings and
it just won't go away
almost sounds like a robot fist fight
in an arena filled with cheering machines
shouting for brutality
almost sounds like a rock
falling from one thousand stories hitting hundreds of flagpoles on it's way down
sounds like a mechanic
that loves his craft
working lovingly on his vintage car
fixing and washing and polishing
kind of sounds like
something that keeps me up at night
undesxred Nov 2015
yellow cars
bumble bees
and flag poles

longboards
a chain-linked fence
and tadpoles

you are
the nacelle on an airplane
that is, a separate engine that has been attached for support
to keep me going

yellow cars
bumble bees
and flag poles

longboards
a chain-linked fence
and tadpoles

navigating me out of the forest fire
saving me from my death
should I thank you or resent you
should I attempt or resign

yellow cars
bumble bees
and flagpoles

longboards
a chain-linked fence
and tadpoles

time with you is time well spent
although leaving you stings worse than a bee
you support me no matter what

we cruise along wherever things take us
locked together with the same mindset
yet we’re growing in different directions
It was humanity that was the mixed bag of jelly beans at summer camp that spilled out into the scorching sun restless for *** and sun-tans.
All before they melted away into Kandinsky paintings pretending that happiness was something of a virtue.
And while the paintings ignited into a righteous firestorm of white men in white robes with hope and faith, flying out the church doors and taking to the sky, morphing into airplanes to destroy the great peace in the form of two obelisks pointing to Allah.
To the american hypocrisy that we drink like cough syrup to cure nothing.
While pretending everything was alright.
While  dead men are worshiped more than a word of the past that is the future.
Let us forget about innovation.
Let us look back onto the great circles of cycles that we overturn on the great history
of the 4th of July flagpoles that I grasp, feeling the pulse of the blood-filled stripes.
Let us look to the cold-blooded blue square that we plant ourselves on as stars, making our marks in this smooth and creamy void.
Let us walk into the white absences were color is uninhabitable to the Negroes or the Latinos who used all of their angry fixes in activism and cigarettes that burn holes through eternity.
To the Chinese who were thrown out of our stars like mutts in order for our stars to shine the plastic glow that stays illuminated in the lights of Chick-fil-A that sells homosexuals with a side of Leviticus.
Taking, taking, taking to the past and somehow justifying death to natives, then scalping the land as some sort of victory of great imperialism that still hangs to our hearts like a collective tumor.
But I have been kind, I have been free.
To the breath of foreigners breaking the normality that is conformity.
Let me scare you with your greatest fear which is locked away in gravestones and darkness.
Locked away in Kerouac, Whitman and Ginsberg
For that which is change.
I speak directly to the inner gashes that are your soul.
Change before the fireworks turn into mutually assured destruction.
And you won’t.
Change before the feminists shoot me with their trigger warnings.
And you won’t.
Change before the immigrants last breath murmurs “**** dreams”.
And you won’t.

I am America and my flag is paper, white paper.
I wish I could at least ******* indent **** on here.
It drove the leaves of spring to dance
tossed the tree tops hither thither

made the puddles shudder dither
oscillated the telegraph wires

threw sporadic raindrops
onto surfaces that strummed

like drums

knocked the gates staccato locks
disturbed the willows by the brook

spun the weathercock quite wildly
north and south got lost

turned the paper ******* over
summersaulting on

to thwack against the pillar box
the flagpoles wimple flapping

the strings against the pole repeated knocks
copied the currents in the river

though unseen
save for the waving of the crops

Margaret Ann Waddicor 29th May 2016
Aerien Nov 2020
I have resigned myself to this;
time stretching onwards a pale weak grey like that of a dove, promising peace
-- sod your peace, after all, heaven is a place where nothing ever happens --
-- heaven is Las Vegas -- everything and nothing all at once,
and around the corner of my hesitation
comes a voice as lifeless and mutilated as the rest of me:
"shut up and live."

I have walked unshoon through dust-choked wastelands
where they strung belief and imagination up
from the flagpoles, by their throats
and burned all our dreams to light up
a night grittier than a mouthful of gravel in a desert.
tracing my tracks and trails by the bloodprints
left by bare soles lacerated by shattered dreams underfoot.
"just shut up and live."

I have dreams, curiosities, wondering too deeply
what the last moment on Earth would be like,
what it would take to breathe through the end
and run face-first into oblivion or whatever's beyond it.
I sicken, and weaken, and wake up gagging on my own sweat
and the echoes of a voice made harsh by dysagapi:
"shut up and live".
Ethan S Jan 2020
Teasing danger
Playing god with snow globes
I’ll shake up your world
But I’ll never let go

In-between flag poles
Stubbornly un-sovereign
From the nation whose working class chose
To vote for an elitist dictatorship unopposed

Scraping by stitching smiles on lampposts
Plastering hope on a news feed
Raising our lighters to false hopes
To again see in the press our democratic right the **** of the joke

Keep in your lane
Stay in your estates
Someone else is always to blame
For the last 10 years of mistakes

Governed by Snakes in suits
Bowing to rats in boots
Saluted by prats in robes
Voted in by tw*ts who chose
That they’re who knows what’s best for normal humans.
Sarah Flynn Nov 2020
my mother left,
and my father didn't want
the burden of replacing her.

and the man I met
when I was much younger
had those big brown eyes
and a Ted Bundy soul,
the perfect subject of
a true crime novel.

the pores on his skin held
flagpoles with red flags
masked beneath white fabric.

he was evil hidden behind
picket fences painted white.

he had pearly white teeth
and unsuspecting white skin
and a fancy white car
parked in the driveway
of his nice suburban house
with white shutters.

he was a clean, pure man
with no scuff marks visible
on his polished reputation.

he was so white
that no one could believe
there was such darkness
inside of him.

he replaced my father,
but not in the same way.



and my dyed hair and
tattooed skin and
teenage recklessness

****** piercings
and fishnet stockings
and dark makeup and
choker necklaces

masochistic tendencies
and nights spent in
small towns and strange beds

bottles of cheap *****
that were probably stolen
and the scent of marijuana
and all of that self-hatred

took the empty seat of
the girl I once was.



daddy issues replaced
my childhood innocence

and vibrators and little bags
of happiness in powder form
moved into the drawer
that my Polly Pocket dolls
once inhabited.

mascara-stained cheeks
and eyes red from crying
or cigarette smoke or drugs
or maybe all of the above
shoved their way into
the bathroom mirror,
replacing my reflection.

pessimism stood where
my hope should be.

panic attacks and **** kits
gave birth to trauma,
and trauma settled down
inside of my head.

guilt wedged its way
between my ribs

and the air in my lungs
was still there but
it didn't want to be

and something I still
haven't identified
closed my mouth
and taped it shut.

silence sank into the house
where the noise of laughter
and Spongebob episodes
had vanished long ago.



and somewhere between
my mother's disappearance
and my father's anger and

meeting a hollow body
of a man filled with
shame and secrets

and that first cut on my skin,
now raised and scarred,

and the phone call
that told me my
best friend had died

and another man
entering my body
without my permission,

I was hit with the
realization that my life
was stolen from me.



somewhere along the way,
I lost myself

and I don't like the
person who replaced me.
Julia Ruth Jun 2017
My face sprayed by the cool salty droplets of the sea
A sea that has touched everyone, shared every drip of its own
Lofty flagpoles standing strong
Undulating as the wind caresses every inch
Sailboats letting faith carry them to a place no one knows
No control
Looking upon life - flaws, peaks, dark times
Under the waves, where every sailor fears
Is an entrance to below, a place where any being survives,
But the fittest thrive
Art of a poet I know it see me show it blow it
Weeds snowed it with my sisters and brothers
Undercover lovers to single mothers no others
Lay pipe strong as the black iron dolemite
Mean but polite with the flows standing like flagpoles
Southern victory similiar to Ol' hickory
Miss the assassination against me
Can't catch me im the real Makaveli
No seven day theory hear me fear me
Vigorous Napoleon cap more than donna
Love womens with the legs of Jane Fonda way under
The seas breeze my mind catches a tease sneeze
Make the whole world freeze welcome to emerald City
Wizardry Dr Suess rudimentary
No elementary bars allowed starcloud
Catch the dust i trust inhale exhale compel
Ya thoughts unspoken choking locin'
Like Tony Soprano rap mafiaso make Fiasco's
My brothers pimpin easily far from skimpy
Chillin' wheres the hustlers be Killin' bees
Laying in honey like Doug but far from funny
Patti had a fatti punnani beat it smoothly
I made the **** of the year have no fear
Words sharp as an African spear adhere
To the rhymes ya cluing gluing shewing
Haters back in the line you aint divine
Pens a quill to a porcupine damagin' spines
Made ya spike one the goal line as I incline
Game is mine clutch time feel these enzymes
Busta rhymes dangerous as notorious gorgeous
With flows ugly face but who cares those
Naw **** that keep the gat tucked in the back
Blast a cat see them nine lives ya won't get back
Eight zeros standing behind ones a falling son
Similar to lucifer's kingdom broke the ransom
Raised up the sword high, the mighty guy, standing with the third eyes,
Soldiers bleeding the skies, most can't see past the innocence of lies,
Posed up, I used to be held up, by griefs ambition, switched positions,
Once I gathered from gods listens, anointed to a christening, pitching,
Sweet nothings, no longer a glutton, to evilness, posed as happiness,
Y'all ain't feeling this, I know why, it's because the diamonds in the sky,
Held high, don't stare into the light, iight, I came with vegeance, and might,
Despite, what others write, banged on the medias hype, lay out my pipe,
Count the veins on site, seated like lightening, hitting the trees,
Split the ground, now witness these, meteor man godlike, tendencies,
More tunes for ya to jam, than Quincy, turn your big dreams, into Peebles,
Linked with the Rebel, feel like I'm on another level, gods vs devils,
Angels to demons, scheming from reality, to enter your dreaming, beaming,
A shaft of light, hovering over ya body, like a kite, go to bed in fresh whites,
Never sign over your rights, keep up ya fist fights, mean but polite,
Only to the flows,that ripples like flagpoles, twitch the earlobes, around the globe,
Yo, let's keep it popping, champagne bottles, from 20 dollar lottos, spot crows,
Once the murders is sewed, dodge the hate, activate, my inner God gates wait,  
For flood on the scene, to intervene, dialect native tongue, of the King and Queen,
Alien human being, lost my starship, once I crashed into Earth's residence,
The longer the distance, the longer the hesitance, pose Babe Ruth stance,
Looking at the moons, caught a light years zoomed, ahead slice the heads,
Everybody, looking at me dead, once I said, I ain't breaking no more bread,
Tapped phones from the feds, I keep a dummy in my bed instead,
I think twenty five years ahead, saw myself by myself, linked with wifey,
Upping my health, private stocks with wealth, country living in stealth,




Break out the chapstick, before I kiss, the second pair, of my girls lips,
Freaky is I, caress slowly then **** on her inner thighs, yeah I'm sly guy,
Why lie, let's keep it real for the lyrical ties, I keep ya eyes, baked to a fry,
I get a love jones, in my bones, reigning back on top of, hip hops throne,
Mack more than Jerome, lets get it on, til I see a crack in the horizon,
Moonshine glares, cold heart from these bears, witnesses Genesis,
Turned into exodus, folks still scented off the bloods mist, hard to digest,
Only stay true to the realist, true lyricist, 27 snipers taking shots, and they all miss,
The Fire Burns Aug 2017
Tattered flags fly as flagpoles bend,
in the ever present New Mexican wind,
tumbleweeds roll and stack up high,
as all of the birds struggle to fly.

The dust blows dark and blocks out the view,
hide and take cover, here comes the haboob,
Walmart sacks and leaves scurry, crossing across the ground,
all that is heard is the winds roaring sound.

18 wheelers rolled over and into the ditch,
window whistles, but there's no tuning the pitch
the needle grass army marches, to the wind chiming beat,
there is no way to fight, just sound the retreat.
No ships bringing ***** slaves to the United States of America flew the confederate flag. Ships bringing ***** slaves to the United States of America flew a version of the current U.S. flag that flies over the White House. The flags of the Southern Confederacy did not occupy the flagpoles of Manila, Quezon City and Cebu Island in 1898 but curiously a version of the stars & stripes (the flag that currently flies over the Executive Mansion & atop the rotunda of the U.S. capitol building) flew over the conquered archipelago nation known as the Philippines when U.S. forces slaughtered one in four citizens (including mothers & their children) in the course of routing Filipino insurgents, "terrorists" & partisans during the Spanish-American War of 1898; the war that necessitated The Philippine Archipelago Doctrine that allowed the U.S. to buy the Philippines from Spain for 20 million dollars. [The British savagely enslaved India for centuries yet no one demands that Brits abandon their union jack flag.]
Ships bringing ***** slaves to the United States of America flew a version of the current U.S. flag that flies over the White House. The flags of the Southern Confederacy did not occupy the flagpoles of Manila, Quezon City and Cebu Island in 1898 but curiously a version of the stars & stripes (the flag that currently flies over the Executive Mansion & atop the rotunda of the U.S. capitol building) flew over the conquered archipelago nation known as the Philippines when U.S. forces slaughtered one in four citizens (including mothers & their children) in the course of routing Filipino insurgents, "terrorists" & partisans during the Spanish-American War of 1898; the war that necessitated The Philippine Archipelago Doctrine that allowed the U.S. to buy the Philippines from Spain for 20 million dollars. [The British savagely enslaved India for centuries yet no one demands that Brits abandon their union jack flag.]
Ryan O'Leary Feb 2020
The French helped the
English with a six nation
exit at Wembley Stadium.

Union Jacks at quarter
mast are being used as
handkerchiefs and wipes.

Mairead McGuinness
acquired one for a door
mat at her Dublin home.

She said that flagpoles
can also be re used at
The House of Lords.

— The End —