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CK Baker Mar 2017
there’s a barnacle scar
deeply ingrained
on the basalt stack
at mark thirty two
whispering summer winds
scented oil
cotton and roe
drift
as waves brush
and shape
the sandstone shore

the briny air
and lost erratic
set a tone to this
pollyanna portrait
it's andrews undulations
and gifted benches
its concessions
and traces of the barry burn
its sculpted driftwood
and sanko lines
make this picture
almost perfect

children play
as venom spews
from the caterwaul pair
those odd looking mates
casting smiles
with arrested despair
settling shots
swiping bugs
dipping and darting
as photo men
and muscles
and long neck seabirds
make their turn

the hunched hoody
and his sorted sidekick
get their fill
(of moss and rubble ~ chubby and kelp)
nice to meet your acquaintance
the pho man would say
an odd drop
and ironic turn
from those horrific corners
of timeless desperation
down by cannon bridge

harbor seals
and carriage horse
are fronted by
raven shade
jolly tides pause
in quiet bays
(with curious looters
and *** pickers)
sand merchants
and field totems
all streamed by the light

cirrus strands
blanket the
outer edge
hovering craft
and shimmering willows
bolt the evening frame
blood orange
and tethered
with a filtered glare
bottle-nose dolphins
and seabirds
(and shifting tides)
are all settling in
for the long night stay
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
psychonalyse what's mechanised, don't mechanise what's worth psychonalasysis, not mechanised by uniformity to prove a theory true: avoid mechanisation via the analogue theory that encompasses both freudian and jungian starting-points... psychoanalyse ex machina... don't psychoanalyse ex ego / ex deus... you'll only get machina ex placebo... theory and patent drugs to craft the perfect zombie.*

some might reflect on the title and say... ‘amateur’ psychiatry...
it’s good by defenition... what i do with my cat...
he’s still has the enthusiasm of a skier / skater,
imitating a marathon with his paws against the glass:
it’s going nowhere.
so do the nearest thing he can understand
that’s a noun, and adjective, a pronoun a verb...
his meow... his senses are orchestrated, unlike ours...
he is in equilibrium with the outside world,
there’s no inside world to speak of,
the door handle has a thumb attached to it...
he can’t differentiate like we can...
standing on the hind legs he’s almost half a meter tall...
he can’t understand the world through the onomatopoeia
i’ll write to feed a sense of sight...
we’re less able, being confiscated by the letterings
to grow blind and deaf...
he tries to enter the kitchen via the living room,
i re-assure him doing a re- tactic
of imitation crouch...
if he sees this like a repeated sunrise he will be fed by calm...
so again the optical parallelism counter intuitive in the algebraic x...
one eye and the upside down...
two eyes working together and the perceptive cross-eyed missed...
then coming along the cross-eyed perception drunk and blurry...
and we have a problem understanding synchronisation...
when eyes synchronise they synchronise from the realm of the sea,
underwater eyesight i guess...
a bit like the dreamworld fable of wanting birds’ wings
but lost in terms of eyesight where
the highly evolved have their eyes front-lobed...
staring right at you...
conquering the birds’ beak with soft cartilage, avoiding
horse-blinders and cranium architecture to aim sideways...
cats eye fronted, dogs eyes fronted... man’s eyes fronted
to allow the actor his stage and the audience its rotten cabbage.
i can psychoanalyse the cat
keeping him comfortable by repeating a mundane action
of crouching and standing straight till it becomes sunrise for him...
but i can’t theorise an impersonal unit of each man known as ego / scalpel
to testify a use of the impersonal scalpel on the personal unit that each man is
his own as worthwhile;
i can cut the whiskers of the cat if that helps - and tell you about it.
judy smith Apr 2015
Fashion show finales follow a familiar rhythm: after the models march along the catwalk for a last hurrah, the designer comes out to take a bow. Their demeanour is often telling, an indicator of their attitude to the collection they've shown – are they a bag of nerves, or grinning from ear to ear?

Also noteworthy is the look they choose to take their bow in. Are they even wearing their own work? One of the most celebrated designers of our time never wears his own designs. Karl Lagerfeld may create the occasional menswear look at Chanel and he designs a whole men's collection for his eponymous label but he has long been a customer elsewhere: Dior Homme.

Lagerfeld started wearing Dior Homme when he was in his late 60s, shedding 41 kilograms to fit into the skinny styles of the label's then designer, Hedi Slimane. Lagerfeld has stayed loyal to the brand ever since, even after Slimane, now creative director of Saint Laurent, quit in 2006. And although the label is known for its emphasis on youth, Lagerfeld, now in his 80s, remains one of Dior Homme's most visible clients.

Raf Simons, meanwhile, Dior's creative director of womenswear, is partial to Prada: his presence in the documentary film Dior & I (2014) is most clearly announced via his distinctive studded Prada sneakers and he often takes his catwalk bow in a head-to-toe Prada look. For his first Christian Dior ready-to-wear show he wore a vintage denim jacket with red stripes by Austrian designer Helmut Lang.

And yet many designers do wear their own work, especially if the brand carries their surname. Editors scan the wardrobe of Miuccia Prada for clues to her latest collection: is she feeling utilitarian, elegant or purposefully off-kilter? When Donatella Versace takes her bow, she often wears a look from the collection she's just shown – for autumn/winter 2015, it was a pinstriped, flared pantsuit. And even Simons has worn pieces from his own label collaboration with Sterling Ruby.

So if the name is on the label, does it mean the clothes will always be on the designer's back? Not necessarily. "I've never been into wearing clothing with my own brand name inside," says Jonathan Anderson, designer behind JW Anderson and now creative director of Loewe. "I find it odd and arrogant."

UNIFORM DRESSING

Anderson's own wardrobe is a familiar uniform: crewneck sweater, faded blue jeans, Nike sneakers. It's entirely opposite to the menswear looks he creates for his own label's catwalk presentations, which have included bandeau tops and frilled shorts. He seems to favour a clean-palette approach: keeping himself neutral so as to not deflect from his experimentation elsewhere.

This kind of wardrobe is common among fashion designers. Jack McCollough and Lazaro Hernandez of Proenza Schouler appear to have no desire to create menswear for themselves or others, dressing instead in a similar style to Anderson: crewnecks, polo shirts or button-downs, usually with jeans and sneakers.

Mary Katrantzou, meanwhile, recent winner of the 2015 BFC/Vogue Designer Fashion Fund, may have built her business on print and embellishment but she is usually found in a black knit dress by Azzedine Alaïa. Alaïa himself has perhaps the ultimate clean-palette wardrobe: for decades he has worn black cotton Chinese pyjamas, fastened by simple floral buttoning.

Each of these designers has a successful business with its own clear signature. So maybe it doesn't matter if they don't wear their own clothes. And yet when designers do, it can be so seductive. Men buy Tom Ford because they want to be like Tom Ford. Women buy Céline because they want to look like Phoebe Philo. Stefano Pilati, creative director of Ermenegildo Zegna Couture, is often said to be his own best model; Rick Owens, in his long draped vests and baggy shorts, is the perfect ambassador for his own alternate universe of otherness.

The style of Roksanda Ilincic is synonymous with her own brand. "I create pieces that embrace the female form," she says of her bold colour palette and silhouette. "Being a woman means I'm able to feel and test those things on a personal level … I tend to favour long hemlines and nipped-in waists, with interesting shades and textures, pared down with simple basics and outerwear." Does she ever wear anyone else? "Of course! Black polo necks from Wolford are an absolute staple and in winter I am rarely without my favourite black cashmere coat by Prada, which is on permanent loan from my husband."

It seems like an industry divided between designers who wear their own work and those who don't. But sometimes things change. Backstage at Loewe earlier this season, Anderson said: "With Loewe, I have a detachment. I wear a lot of it. Now I'm more, 'Does this work?' I've got a bit of a love back for fashion."

Two months on, his interest in wearing his own designs has grown still further. He is the cover star of the new issue of menswear biannual magazine Fantastic Man, posing in a slash-fronted sweater and leather tie trousers. The pieces are both his work from current season Loewe. Womenswear. In for a penny, in for a pound.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015 | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses
It has now gone an epical song
like the fables of Homer and Ramayana,
or else a national anthem like the poem of Tagore,
in India and lesbian song of Brenda Fasie in south Africa,
that six million Jews were killed in the  world war II ,
that they were killed at Dachau,that it was holocaust,
That the Jewish Holocaust  was  protege of ******.

As if  the war was between the Jews and the world,
as if the Jews alone died in the war,but none else,
as if Africans' death  is not death,but ethics of war,
as if more than six million Africans who died are not news,
as if humongous compensation with state of Israeli to the Jews,
means nothing  until what we know not must happen.

African deaths in the second world war  lacks statistics,
given the sub-human conditions of the Africans  by then,
before thrones of colonial psychology of white civilization,
they were more than six million black men  and women,
conscripted by white man's force in kings African Rivals,
They were fronted  without training to shoot and take cover,
they were placed as front guard,white soldiers the rear guard,
then they became shield and human barricade to ward-off,
volley of bullets lest the white soldiers get wounded.

Black men  and women rarely came back alive,
once taken into war that was death as a must
those who survived the war in Panama or wherever,
were never taken back home, they were left there,
to walk on foot thousands of miles back home ,
without food ,clothes,arms or  map to guide,
some were even shot by the their own  fellow white soldiers
on the grounds of the race, because the war was over,
Black men as such died of hunger,thirst,exhaustion and Malaria,
they were eaten by wild animals in the bush,their cadaver went to dogs,
Millions of black men  never got home for ceremonial burial
and this was not Black holocaust, only the Jews had a holocaust.

Black men had no stake in the second world war whatsoever,
they had no interest , they were not in any colonial scramble
they were not in any  arms race nor imperialism of any sort,
Jews had what they wanted; land or money whatever it was,
but where can you get land and money without the cost ?
loss of lives or personal heritage can be the cost,Pyrrhic or Byronic,
Jews are obviously truth bound to accept this virtues of history,
to accept their lot as a swallowed misfortune
from the universal holocaust but not Jewish holocaust.

The Japanese in Nagasaki and Hiroshima will say what,
was not the atomic bombing of their land
occasioning mass death of the Shintos
and sons of Japan the owners of the Sun
immense enough to be a Japanese Holocaust ?
Nagasaki and Hiroshima is not an anthem in Japan,
but  blurred number of Jewish death in Dachau
is a universal anthem as the Six Million Jewish Holocaust,
what a selfish motivation to commit collective lies?

Jews who died were not six million,
Germany by  then was not such populated,
Germany had less than ten million people,
Kwani, were the Jews more than the native Germans ?
if then war is the game of numbers ,
couldn't the Jews  defend themselves from less Aryans?
Jews died, yes like any other race and community,
like the French,Britons,Germans,Russians and Indians,
Just like more than six million black  Africans who died,
But Africans have forgotten and forgiven their  conscriptors
they have never made the Black Holocaust  their epical anthem,

Black men were compensated nothing for their wounds in war,
Ask Richard Wright the Native son of America in the realm of ancestors,
he has a story in the black boy , he will tell you ,We black men ,
We swallowed  the most  bitter bill of  global history,
were toyed between the extremities of cruel historicities;
from slavery to  colonial terror to world war back to colonial terror,
The Jews were given Israel as a compensation for their wounds,
The  UNO wanted to Give the  country of Uganda to the Jews,
As  saucer compensation in addition to state of  Israel,
imagine brutality that Black man harvests ,
from his relation with the white  world.

How  many Arabs have the Israelis killed since 1948,
the year when Jews had Palestine's Atlas get shrugged
in the American  efforts to pamper the Zionist  Israelis,
are they not  more than six million Arabs , or they are less,
Arabs are not ****** who told the Jews to take a shower,
A lethal shower of ammonium gas at Dachau chambers,
Arabs are not Joseph Goebbels who ployed death of  the Jews,
But Jews have amassed all type of menacing weapons,
they have killed men,women and children of Arab nation,
in the past six decades, Jews have killed violently and brutally,
more than six million Arabs, is this  not an Arab Holocaust,
or no a Palestine Holocaust or no the Gentiles' Holocaust ?

the events of second world war were universal in dint
they never befall a single race,community or faith,
every community lost its people through death,
But Africa had the worst experience of all the cases,
absence of statics cannot make this sham claim,
Jews must stop lies and make genuine claims,
Jewish Holocaust is a misnomer for war event,
we all suffered and agonized in equal measure
why again formulate lies to justify avarice.
they've been involving themselves
in all sorts of corrupt deals
and the ICAC
is calling them in
to give accounts
of their underhanded deals
many Labor politicians
have fronted to tell their tales
so have ****** figures
who've left not so tidy trails
the head of the commission
is apprising himself
with the corruption stealth
the shady deals
the money exchanges
those fine upstanding
legislators
caught in the net
rife these practices
have been...
and in time
they've been seen to be
not so clean
dossiers on those
who've had their hands
in the defrauding game
shall have them
well cuffed
and they'll only
have themselves to blame
EgoFeeder May 2013
To prolong such an absence of vexatious jove
Denying the will of instinct to arouse elation
Self-inflicted desolation in which we all strove
To create an empty shell like a fronted castration
All the while being comforted by a depressing superiority
As the uniqueness of our struggle blends in with conformity

Yearning for our relations to meet with a tragic end
Anticipating the consequence of a self-appointed woe
Glorifying our character as we passionately pretend
To endure an exclusive emotion that we all undergo
This proclamation of individuality through insipid gloom
Conveys nothing but the relative depiction of what I assume
Terry Collett Sep 2013
There were raised voices. Ingrid heard them. Her father's booming voice over her mother's screech. She stirred in her small bed. Pulled the blankets over her shoulder. Sheltered by the thick ex army coat of her father's on top of the blankets she snuggled down trying to shut out the sounds. It was Saturday, no school. She hated school, hated the tormenting kids, the lessons, the teacher bellowing at her. Only Benedict talked kindly to her, only he made her laugh, took her on adventures round and about, the bomb sites, the cinema, the swimming pool in Bedlam Park. The voices got louder, there was a sound of glass smashing. Silence followed, her mother's screeching began again, her father's booming voices trying to drown her out. Ingrid pulled the blankets tighter around her. She daren't go out along the passage until it was over. Even though she needed to ***, she held it in, thought of other things. Her wire framed glasses lay on the bedside cabinet her mother had bought at a junk shop. The thick lens were smeary, the wire frame slightly bent where her father's hand had clipped them when he slapped her about the head for talking out of turn. There was a small cut on her nose where the glasses had caught. A radio began to play, the voices had stopped. A door slammed. Her father had gone out. She poked her head out of the blankets. Music filtered through into her room from the radio. She got out of bed and stood on the wooden floor boards. Her clothes: dress, cardigan, underwear and socks were laid neatly on a chair where she'd folded them the night before. She opened the door of her bedroom and ventured down the passage to the toilet and shut the door and put the bolt across and sat down. The music played on. Her mother began to sing. She had weak voice, kind of like a child's. Ingrid played with her fingers. Pretended to knit, as her mother had unsuccessfully tried to show her, with imagined knitting needles. As she sat she felt the bruise on her left buttock. Her father's beating of a day or so ago. She knitted faster, fingers racing. She stopped dropped a stitch as her mother called it. She left the toilet and went to wash in the kitchen sink. She wished they had a bathroom like her cousin did. Her parent's bath was in the kitchen with a table that was let down when not in use. She washed in the cold water, her hands and face and neck. Dried on the towel behind the door. Her mother came in carrying a cup and saucer. She set it down on the draining board and looked at Ingrid. Get yourself some breakfast and then get dressed, if your father catches you in that state, he won't half have a go, her mother said. Ingrid went into the living room and got a bowl from the glass fronted cupboard and a spoon from the drawer and poured herself some cereals and added milk from a jug on the table and sat to eat. Her mother brought in a mug of tea for her and put it on the table and went off to the bedroom to make the bed. The music from the radio played on from the living room window she could see the streets below, the grass area beneath with the two bomb shelters left over from the War where she and other sat or climbed or played around. Over the street was the coal wharf where coal lorries and horse drawn wagons loaded up with sacks of coal. She ate her cereals. A train went across the railway bridge over the way;puffs of smoke rose in the air. Below boys played on the grass. One of the boys had offered her 6d to see her underwear, but she had refused. He shrugged his shoulders and said your loss and wandered off. 6d would have bought her sweets, a drink of pop, but she had her pride. She finished her breakfast and sipped her tea. Warm and sweet. She let her tongue swim in the tea. Benedict said he would buy her some chips after the morning film matinée at the cinema. Her mother said she would give her 9d for the cinema, but not to tell her father. As if she would, she mused, watching a horse drawn wagon leave the coal wharf. She drank the tea and took mug, spoon and bowl into the kitchen  and washed them up and left them on the draining board. She went to her bedroom and took off her nightdress. The mirror on the old dressing table showed a thin pale looking nine year old girl with short cut brown hair and squinting brown eyes. She only saw a blur. She put on her glasses and peered at herself. No wonder the boys laughed at her and the girls avoided her. Only Benedict was friendly to her. He said she was pretty. She couldn't see it, the prettiness. She turned. Over her thin shoulder she saw the bruises on her buttocks. Fading. Bluey greeny yellowish. She walked to get her clothes off the chair and began to dress. She wished she had a cleaner dress, she'd worn that one for nearly a week. The cardigan had holes and there were buttons missing. She did up what buttons there were and brushed her hair with the hairbrush her gran had given her. It had stiff bristles and a large wooden handle. She stood in front of the mirror and peered at herself. She put the 9d her mother had given her in her pocket. Ready or not Benedict would be there soon. He knocked his own special knock. Once her father answered and glared at Benedict and asked what he wanted. Benedict said, to see the prettiest girl in the world. Her father glared harder, Benedict simply smiled. How did he do that? How did he do that to her father? There was a tensive wait, her father glaring and Benedict looking passive. Then her father called her to the door and said, this here boy asked for the prettiest girl in the world; he must have got the wrong address. Ingrid went red and looked at Benedict. No, right address and girl, Benedict said,looking by her father's brawny arm at her. How she managed not to wet herself she didn't know. Her father just walked back indoors and left them to talk on the balcony without any more words and she never got a beating afterwards, either. Now she waited for that special knock. That rat-rat and rat-rat. She smiled at her reflection. Prettiest girl. Ugliest more like. Rat-rat and rat-rat. He was there. He'd come. She could hear his voice. She took one last look at herself in the mirror, wet fingered she dabbed at her hair. Time to go, time to get out of there. Her knight in jeans and jumper had come on a white horse to take her away; imaginary of course.
Some may term this as a short story, others may term it as a prose poem.
Montana Sep 2012
I trace my fingertips across the car door
making designs in the dirt.
You yell at me,
but I can't hear you.

All I can hear is the
pounding of my heart.
The blood pumping through my body
echoes in my ears,
and your voice sounds distant.
What I imagine it sounds like after a bomb goes off to those
who were standing too close.

I stare at the the ground, the setting sun,
the neat circles of dirt on the tips of my fingers,
anywhere but at you.
Even though your looks are
bouncing off me like rubber bands,
even though your words sound
like they're going through a filter,
I can tell you are begging me to look at you.

Ears ringing, eyes stinging,
I slowly meet your gaze.
Now, I'm no lip reader,
but I could see the venom dripping
off your lips as you spoke.
There's no mistaking that foul, fricative-fronted phrase.

But I deserve it, I know.

You look as if you are about to say something else,
but you stop yourself with just a nanosecond to spare.
The words left your brain but
never made it to your tongue.

Instead, the thought manifested itself in silent tears
that dripped down your face.
Tracing my mistakes
across the the cheeks I used to caress,
down the neck I used to kiss,
toward the heart I didn't mean to break.
jpl Apr 2013
All of the shacks and houses and double
fronted mansions
lie in the vicinity
of a town no-one’s really
heard of which in turn lies
there because of the shacks and houses
and double fronted mansions.
Neither would exist without the other
and nothing would happen without them,
the people are insignificant... there’s no politician
no diplomat or embassy worker here,
there’s no world leading bio-chemist or
any line of royalty behind the slats of wood
or the red brick and bay window fronts.
.

Z - A

Zonked Yanks eXport Weird Views Underpinning Terrorist Suspects, Risking Quiet Proliferation Of Nuclear Missiles, Leaving Killer Jihads In Hostile Groups. Forgetting Europe, Death Claims Babylon: America.

Zero Yields X’s Without Value. Useless Technical Solutions Regarding Quanta, Plainly Outside Newtonian Mathematics. Logic Keeps Jokers In Hearty Guffaws  Forever.  Eternity Derides Computation By Algebra.

Zap! Your X-ray Was Very Useful Tool. Sarcomas’ Revealed, Quality Prognosis On Masse. Later Knowledge Jibes; Increased Hidden Growths Frequently Entailing Death Couldn’t Be Anticipated.



A – Z

Away Bright Cinder, Drift Eternally, Fly! Glow! Heat Incandescent! Jeweled Key, Luminous Molten Nuclei, Ornate Precious Quotient, Radiant Shining Teardrop. Unknowable Volcanic Whisper, eXact, Yield: Zero.

Awful Blues, Crazy Dreams, Every Fleeting Ghastly Horrible Idea Jars, Killing Love. Murderous Omens, Portending Quiescence, Reduce Sleep To Uniform Vacant Wastelands, eXiled Yearning Zenith.

Acting Behind Closed Doors, Every Famous General Has Insight: Jabbering Khaki Liveried Majors Narrate Orders, Pursuing Quarries, Retelling Strategic Theories. Up Valiant Warriors, Cross Your Zone!

A Bitter Child Denies Every Friendship Going. Hate Instills Jealousies Knife. Lies Mean Nothing. Other People Question Reality. Sic Transit Umbra, Vile World. eXcise Your Zest.

Albert Ball’s Camel Dived Effortlessly, Flaming Guns Hammered Into Junkers. Keeping Level Meant Not One Pilot Questioned Richthofens’ Stall Turn, Underpinning Victory With X-elerating Yawing Zoom…

Although Boy’s Charm Doesn’t Explicitly Frighten Girls, Her Instincts Jostle, Knowing Laughter Masks Nights Ordained Paths. Quiet! Reason Sleeps Tonight, Unmasked Votive Wanderings eXpose Y-Fronted Zygotes!



r10.6.1
One of my earliest 'concept' poems that actually worked out. Boy was I smug when I started pulling these bad-boys out of the ether; they’re so utterly…automatic: an allusion to my pretensions in writing Systems Poetry. There are loads of these that simply don’t work, and the 'X's' are a problem, but at their best they have an impact and effect quite different to poetry using a similar but undirected structure! This concept led directly to another poem: ‘Ab Imo Pectore’, which uses the same technique, but on lines rather than words, and in Latin, rather than English… told you I was a smug so-and-so!
James Ellis Sep 2012
On this day, 16 years ago, you passed away.
I understand what you mean when you say,

"Life Goes On!"

So even when I'm fed up,
I'll remember,

"Keep ya head up."

I'll keep going,
because I know,
in my mind,

"Heaven Ain't
Hard 2 Find."


Something up above,
is blessing us with,

"Unconditional Love"

I've fronted for
too many years,
for I too have shed

"So Many Tears"

You taught humanity
about humility,
and mankind,
to be kind...

"How Long Will They Mourn Me?"

Well I don't know,
but I'm certain
we will celebrate
you forever!

R.I.P.
There's a little playlist for ya,
but his entire collection is excellent!
Eric Martin Dec 2016
There is not much people fear But I you will tell you here
That every one in this mortal world
Are all scared of dying without their loved ones near
Or simply just getting old
But I tell you here there is nothing to fear
Because Death isn't that cold

Now my story starts with what I hold close to my heart, See there is nothing more important then my loved ones to me
But I am a broke slob without a job and can't even feed my family
My wife would ***** while I snored and we would never let are children see
But finally one day I got fronted pay to set sail on the sea

It was long days for not much pay to hunt something under the waters hid
The men would tell tales that it was a monsteress whale but others said it was a giant squid
The one thing every one did know is this wasn't a trip for rich to go because there wasn't a single night
That we all didn't miss our wife's or fear for our lives that we weren't going to make it back alright

On one cold night under the stale moon light the monster every one did see
But I was last to know because for my last shift I didn't show and no body awoke me
As I snored inside water poured and in my dream I thought a giant was taking a ***
But as I awoke I knew this was no joke so I began to flea

I climbed up rail and felt the hard rocks hail as I saw the most grizzly sight
The ship was red, every one was mutilated and dead; I couldn't help but go white
All that was left was me but in the water a shadow I did see and in my soul there was still lots of fight
I set set sail threw a harpoon in the monsters tail as I promised the crew I would make things right

Before I knew what to do the horrid creator had turned around
As he hit our load our ship did explode but I wasn't going to drowned
I pulled out my knife, fought within and inch of my life and stabbed it in the heart
As it sank my mind went blank but I knew going after this monster wasn't smart

On top of the waters sea there was a man walking toward me as I took my last breath
I was in a trance and ****** my pants as I saw it was Death
He pulled me out as I began to shout begaing him for one last chance
Life is tough but I haven't had enough, at least let my give my family one last glance

Behind his cloak I saw a smile that made me choke and caused me lost of stress
He said "buddy this is my job I am just a working slob and that monster caused quite allot of distress
You don't have to cry I wont make you die because I still have to clean up this mess
Even though I will let you go I still have to reap the rest

Heres a life boat, oar and that way leads to shore but just know there is nothing special about being alive
One day you will see, you will be doing this job like me; working your 9 to 5
You shouldn't care because eventually your family will also be there and your life again will be stable
You can still have fun even if there is always a job to be done but at least you will be able to put food on the table"

There is not much people fear But I you will tell you here
That every one in this mortal world
Are all scared of dying without their loved ones near
Or simply just getting old
But I tell you here there is nothing to fear
Because Death isn't that cold
Wow this is starting to climb up their fast as one of my more popular poems. If people see this can you comment Y OR N if you Finished It Or  NOT
Rob Sandman Mar 2016
First Contact
"How did I get here,I can't remember,
my brains burning out like a dwindling ember,
are those tears in my eyes?-no its pourin' rain,
I'm lying on my back in the bottom of a stormdrain,
hunted like an animal,but still I'm deadly,
like a wounded lion,you better bet ye,
will lose more men than I've already taken(taken sample),
the hunter hunted? I think you're mistaken,
I'm a one man army,armed or not,
you didn't bring enough manpower,have you forgot?,
that the sandman(badman,phantoms in the dark)
has more in his bite than you do in your bark,
it's getting dark now,tables turning,

tyger,tyger,my eyes are burning,

better keep your guard up,I've been confronted...
but how can you tell who's hunter or hunted? 16.

Riposte

Better count your sentries,I think ones missin,
when you see his blood glistenin your pants your ****** in,
should have been listenin,I gave you a chance,
now its time for the Sandman to do his dance,
like a praying Mantis I move so swiftly,
bullet's fly like locusts,but each one missed me,
the Locus and Focus of my 3rd eyes movin,
got your sentries rifle,but I won't even use it,
taunt you haunt you,flaunt skills I honed,
from a broken home,to the streets to battlezones,
catch you alone,smash your skull with a hanbo,
appear behind you from the mud like Rambo,
bodies placed like hannibal,a deadly scene,
you're a ****** housecat and I'm wolverine,
told your boss you could get me now you know you fronted,
cat and mouse reversed-YOU'RE the one who's hunted.

Denoument*

Now I know who you are,and I know where you live,
and in this line of work I can't forget or forgive.

We were partners once now you've betrayed my trust,
taught you everything you know,now it's ashes and dust
your bodyguards are good,but they know I'll get ya,
more ghost than man,a modern day ninja,
leave you injured,begging for mercy,
but you know the concept is alien to me,
grabbed the bull by the horns,my hand you forced,
you're a moveable object,I'm unstoppable force,
force feed your limbs til you beg for death,
line your family up and slowly take their heads,
then I'm in the wind,gone like keyser sozey,
the word is spread,don't try to **** me,
you were my friend,but you crossed the line,
try to hunt the Sandman,"you're all ****** dyin"
For everyone else who loves a "ripping yarn" in a poem/Song. :)
Hunted is based on personal experience in the Security Sector.
to hear Hunted as a song with my Band Eclectic Collective Eire (or just E.C.) go here-
https://soundcloud.com/eclectic-collective-eire/hunted-try-to-hunt-the-sandmansee-what-happens
Anthony Duvalle Aug 2011
I’m getting lost on this trail of my thoughts now I’m surrounded
Repressed how the shooter was dressed and how he sounded
Detectives saying recall’s selective, I’m not clouded
But it’s all boiled down to he’s dead and I’ve allowed it

The gun shots rang out, his whole chest caved in
Body hit the ground, the older folk began their praying
Shooters car peeling as soon as he finished spraying
My mind’s still saying there’s ways that I could have saved him
But
The concrete seemed to stick to my feet
I kept screaming, “You’re not dead, wake up, you’re just asleep!”
A horror scene homie always sees in his dreams
When nightmares control so much more than they seem
To
Checked the vitals, no trace of a pulse
Lost his life to some men who just shoot, **** and bolt
Men who rep to the death their colors, strapped with heat
But all colors bleed red when you’re lying dead in the street
So
I’m selling out my soul, my demons unleashed
Closing all my doors, punctuating the length of my reach
Giving up on school, teacher says she doesn’t speak slang
I retreat into my native land and run with the gang

I guess I wigged out, probably cause the pain was too much
Always kept in heart my homie, how his death was unjust
We used to smoke blunts, get down with the OPP
Now I’m busting shots, ducking from the C-O-P’s

After years of wilding out a gangsta starts to get ruthless
I could **** a man or worse, leave him tortured and toothless
Disrespect or debt mean death when you mess with my set
We’re coming quicker than a jet if the deadline aint met

I’m setting sights on stacks, a crazy train that ran off the tracks
I got a loco motive, loco mind, you boys best wear flaks
And my fury’s aimed at any lame that slows up my gain
Selling pure *******, it’s all about the cream up for claim

Controlling corners, got the junkies begging on knees
I got soldiers and I like your car so give me the keys
You got a bounty if you leave without paying your cheese
I got a Browning just in case police bust in yelling “FREEZE!”

Now I’m posted down the street a youngin holding his heat
Smoking joints of ****, waiting for the hit, breathing deep
His name is Johnny, at 5 on 10th walk el y amigo
But he owes me mons so homie’s got problemas conmigo
We tailed him two blocks, parked cause we’re starting suspicion
And police patrol this highway, sirens slow up your mission

Some stupid homies think they’re Tonys, I just sit back and listen
You gotta stand up with your heat if you gon’ come in this kitchen
But play my money, nothing funny, dummy thinks that he’s safe
Just cause he’s got himself a heat, and he’s been selling it straight

Who fronted you that coca kid? Who got you all that profit?
You got moved to the first class and thought you flew cockpit
I told you watch it, cheat me once won’t live to regret it
Cheated twice, so **** your second chance you’ve run out your credit

So yeah that’s me rolling up slow and smooth on you and your boy
I’ve got an *** automatic, fates been sealed, get destroyed
Lean out the window, load the clip, bandana as camo
Slow my roll, collect this soul, your time hits null with this ammo

R.I.P.

I’ve gotten lost on this trail of my thoughts now they’ve surrounded
I’m dressed as the shooter, the blessed stay far from round it
Detective’s saying my main objective was not found yet
But the killer crashed his car after killing and that’s what counted

My gun shots rang out, his whole chest caved in
Body hit the ground, I told you folk I wasn’t playing
I peeled off quickly as soon as I’d done the slaying
And now I’m rigid laying, a pool of my blood to bathe in
But
I couldn’t quit, I saw myself in this kid
Screaming, kneeling, not truly grasping what the killer just did
Eyes staring back, body avoiding doing a bid
Going too fast, a turn caused my Scion to skid
So
They’ve checked my vitals, no trace of a pulse
Led my life as a parasite, just basked in my faults
I guess I repped to the death my colors, but can’t you see?
My colors bled red, I join the dead in the street
Revised and full version of "Horrify, not Glorify"
Ray Savill Dec 2014
An Old Loner...

Let anger replace the yoke of an egg,
Chicks born in turmoil, soon left, to beg;
Shell is damaged with just one evil peck,
The Cuckoo landed,on different deck.

She placed evil eye on this christmas bird,
Made sure it kept him, away from the hurd.
He's the loner, emotional recluse,
The outward bounder, who discovered the truth.

Floundered on falsification and lies
All he needed was truth to devise,
A cup full of natural happy stings
That gifts the hope that church bells still ring.

Bay fronted windows, a mirror on life
Remembers that smile, the last from his wife.
Olga Valerevna Feb 2013
Oh the duality
There's no neutrality
Only reality
Stored in your mind.

What of this atrophy
Discount integrity
Chase after perjury
Hoarding the lie.

And to this enmity
What is the remedy
From this extremity
Where can I hide?

Notice the brevity
End of the melody
It's your identity
Searching inside.

Find you calamity
Soak in the density
Plundered is empathy
Fronted by pride.

With all intensity
Bring on indemnity
Forfeit amenity
Bow and you die.
jeffrey conyers Jul 2012
We read about the latest victm upon the news.
And the criminal thinking it was cool to assault you.
What man is this?

We read about the latest home invasion in the news.
And the criminals that created the pain.
What man is this?

When fronted to pay for their crimes by being hunted.
Don't they always seems to run.
And when fronted by the law authorities with their guns.
Don't many come across as only punks.
So what man is this?

We notice even those locked up in jail or prison.
Only seems to twist the reason they their.
Criminals running around with one another talking about their fairy tales.
What man is this?

Rehabilitation is strictly their goal.
Except its up to a real man to meet that goal.
Many still create havoc between cell doors.
So, what man is this?

Strange when criminal must pay for their time.
They break down like weak boys with tears in their eyes.
Sure they might deserve a second chance.
But many time the women that loves them.
Knew of their consequences.

A man that don't work.
Doesn't deserve that title of man.
Especially when they state hard labor might make them tired.

Ask yourself?
What man is this?
jeffrey conyers Feb 2014
Why do crime exist?
It's the community.
Who seem to accept it?

Afraid to report it.
Love to complain about it.
Even blaming law enforcement.

Who need every law abiding citizen assistance?

We aware that nobody's perfect.
Except we can't let criminals install fear within us.

Even if it's your son, daughter, friend , or cousin.

Oh, it affect all of us.
Especially the repeat offenders.
Who seem to love being held?
Or having their name linked to bail.

There's nothing great about being linked to a number.
Which you will be assigned within the correctional walls of prison.
Where you're not guarantee to receive any visitors?

Why do crime exist?
Simply because a few idiots seem to tolerate it.
Then complain to the politicians.

Who address the issues?
Then becomes linked to the problem.
When they personally commit a crime.
Then complain, they shouldn't have to serve time.
In other words.
When it's them, we should turn a blind eye.

Who made you become a ******, robber , murderer or embellezzer?
Or a ******* besides bad decision.

The world could be so much better.
If we decide to fight crime.
Don't complain about those legally with guns.
They mostly for defense to keep from being fronted with harm.

But don't cry foul.
When your child meets death from a gun trying to rob someone.

It is, what it is?
And this have nothing to deal with the second amendment.
JJ Hutton Sep 2010
when you pulled my trigger,
did you smile, lioness?

ricochet, ricochet.

did i want you?
for security i suppose.

when you kiss him,
will you think of me?
i doubt it.

feed my self-loathing machine.
it's hungry.

all the nights
are all mine.

all the girls,
they got no time.

all the nights
will find you in his arms.

all the girls
will conspire against me, alright?

manufacture fine ******* feelings,
smile quazi-sincere,
i never, you never, i never meant anything.

i fell for you fast, lioness.

that is always a turn-off.
i should have been an *******.
that's your type.
*******.

i kissed you.
but it didn't matter.
your breath went heavy,
but it doesn't matter.
i ended a relationship for you,
but it doesn't matter.

it's a fashionable game,
i fronted as a washed up bukowski-type,
and when you found out i was nice
you disowned me,
understandable move.

copingstrategies.copingstrategies.copingstrategies.

bring­ on the vultures.
i'll make them songs,
coffee,
and friendly emotions.

pick me apart,
promise i can watch.

pick me apart,
promise i can watch.

let the beautiful boy tame you, lioness.
your hundreds of miles away, anyhow.

let me turn to vapor.
don't talk to me.
don't ask around about me.
answers will frighten.
answers will anger.

i am barely alive.
you were selfish.
i am barely alive.
you were selfish.

you never paid me a compliment
only talked of all the other lovers.
you never cared what i had to say
only talked of your own experience each day.

i thought you were different in your own way.
your different in the same way.
turn to grey.
**** him and your pain away.

i ended everything to begin again.
i ended everything and nothing started.
i ended and found myself in the abyss.

hellhole, hope you aren't happy.
i'm malaise.
i'm the wasp nest.
if you ask to rekindle.
i'll douse myself,
and set myself to flame before
you ever get near.

don't anybody touch the remnants of me.
i want to die this way.
i want to die everyday.
i miss the comfort of everything.

i don't have the energy to start again,
nor do i have the self-esteem to move my feet,
i was wrong,
no dancing at my end times,
just knives,
fevers, and cobwebs.

i laughed out of irony.
i laughed out of spite for me.
goodnight everything.
Copyright Sept. 11, 2010 by J.J. Hutton
judy smith Aug 2016
Andrew Gn

Probably the most prolific Singaporean designer, Gn graduated from the renowned Saint Martins School of Art and Design in London and the Domus Academy in Milan before joining Emanuel Ungaro in 1992. He launched his namesake label in 1996, establishing a fan base among the Parisian high society and A-list celebrities such as Jessica de Rothschild and Sarah Jessica Parker for his luxurious fabrics and exquisite embellishments. Gn was awarded the President’s Design Award in 2007 and is stocked in all the major continents, with his atelier based in the Le Marais district in Paris.

Ashley Isham

The other Singaporean high fashion designer to hit big time in the international circuit, Isham established his namesake label in London in 2000, and is a show fixture at London Fashion Week. The label is known for its sharp, contemporary tailoring and high-octane glamour, and is a hit among film, TV and music stars as well as British royalty.

Aijek

Self-taught designer Danelle Woo creates easy-breezy, ultra-feminine pieces in sustainable fabrics. Aijek is stocked at multi-label boutiques in China, Hong Kong, Malaysia, Indonesia, Latin America, the Middle East and the United States.

Depression

The neo-Gothic ready-to-wear label’s stark, minimalist designs are stocked in Hong Kong, Belgium, Japan and the U.S., and counts celebrities like Adam Lambert and The Black-Eyed Peas as fans.

Sabrina Goh

The feted Singaporean designer stocks her easy-to-wear pieces from her namesake label at multi-label boutiques in the United States, the Fred Segal store in Japan and a London-based online store Not Just A Label.

Max Tan

The avant-garde label features experimental silhouettes and a contemporary artistic flair, and is stocked in Europe, the Middle East, San Francisco and Taiwan.

Benjamin Barker

This stylish menswear brand founded by designer Nelson Yap in 2009 now has two stores in Melbourne and offers custom tailoring as well. It also offers shipping to Australia and New Zealand via its website BenjaminBarker.co. .

In Good Company

The well-loved minimalist label with unusual silhouettes fronted by designers Sven Tan and Kane Tan is stocked in Hong Kong at Kapok, at various departmental stores in Jakarta, Indonesia, including Sogo, Seibu and Galleries Lafayette Jakarta and in New York’s Saks Fifth Avenue.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane
‘You’ve come to the end, it’s sad, my friend
But there’s nothing more we can do,
Your kidneys have malfunctioned, and
You’re at the end of the queue.
You’d best be making your Will out now
Or you may run out of time,
There’s just a question of fifteen thou’
You owe for our work, just sign!’

‘I’ll not be signing my life away
Just now, though it’s almost done,
I may be taking a walk someday
But not ‘til I’ve had some fun.
You say I’ve only a week or two
To spend, and that’s at the best,
I’ll cram the rest of my living in
With the help of a Prescient Vest.’

The Prescient Vest, the brainchild of
A Silicone Valley clone,
It calculated the path of life
From the life already known,
It fed its images through a brain
That would never live to see
The normal span of the life of man
Through some abnormality.

So Kevin fronted the Institute
And was strapped into a chair,
Fitted with Vest and Headpiece
And was virtually aware,
It drained the memories of his life
That flashed on past his sight,
And stored them into a tiny file
Just less than a Gigabyte.

And then it started to calculate
Beginning with his wife,
It showed her having a sweet affair
With the boarder, Stanley Smythe,
They both attended his funeral
And she leant upon his arm,
And held the wake with a Currant cake
At Stanley’s father’s farm.

Then Kevin struggled within his bonds
And tried to say, ‘Not true!’
But then his favourite daughter came
Quite suddenly into view,
She stole the funeral money he’d
Been keeping in a jar,
Then jumped on into his Thunderbird
And drove off with his car.

She let her idiot boyfriend in
To sit behind the wheel,
But all he could see were dollar signs
And a car he’d like to steal,
He dropped her off at a candy shop
Drove off and left his Pam,
While only a half a mile away
He ended under a tram.

Kevin suffered a minor fit
At the wreck of his pride and joy,
But didn’t suffer a single qualm
At the death of the stupid boy,
His job had gone to a minor clerk,
Dumped records in the bin,
The careful working of twenty years
That he’d spent compiling them.

Then Stanley got at his savings and
He frittered them away,
His wife was clueless, she let him sell
The house he’d slaved to pay,
The future, once he had gone was not
The thing he’d visualised,
He strained and screamed at the Techs,
‘Just get this thing from off my eyes!’

He staggered home in a mood and took
Some gas from out the car,
Splashed it around the house, and took
The cash from the funeral jar,
He threw a match and it all went up
Though he didn’t know or care,
That his wife and Stan were up above
When the flames went up the stair.

He jumped on into the Thunderbird
And went for a long, last ride,
Along the Beachside Boulevard,
And once he had stopped, he died!
They’ve banned the use of the Prescient Vest
With a raft of bills and laws,
‘The future needs to be locked,’ they said,
‘For the damage it might cause!’

David Lewis Paget
EgoFeeder May 2013
I can't stand this fragile state of mind
A blinding vision of how life is supposed to be
Seeing nothing but what's between the lines
Stuttering twitches from a peripheral fantasy
Rising every morning with a new friend to find
Death exists in sleep and dwells in lifes' design

We're walking in our own shoes with someone elses eyes
Mirrors gaze back with a hysterical laugh from reailty
A weakening sight that the proud could never realize
Or the smirking girls who get off on their honesty
We're all hung up on something that helps us play this game
An overwhleming emotion that paints our visions frame

Tainting the meaning of individuality through a fronted scene
Re-shaped compositions built from our iconic halucinations
Living behind a hollow imagery with a profound fixation
Of a subjective self portrait on an illuminated petistel
A last hope for some sort of unconditional comfort refill
These words live in place of who I once had been
there stood the queen
in her dressing gown
upon her face she wore
a very long frown

for she had lost
her diamond and ruby crown
she hoped it would be found
before sundown

she called Scotland Yard
to search every locale
as without her crown
she'd be an unadorned gal

inspector Jones arrived
in his ex-army jeep
telling the queen
that he'd catch the thieving creep

he thoroughly combed
every inch of England
he even looked under
the white Dover sands

a lady in central Manchester
gave him an address
saying that a felon in Soho
had the crown of queen Bess

high and low in the streets
of Soho he did look
to find this most
cunning and stealthiest of crooks

by a measure of luck
he found him sitting on a park bench
he was talking to
a criminal associate named Roger Dench

the inspector seized the felon
and cuffed his hands
saying pilfering won't be tolerated
in any part of England

at Scotland he grilled
him for information
about the queen's crown
which he pinch without hesitation

some three days later
he fronted an Old Bailey judge
who sentenced him
to sixteen years of jail drudge

overjoyed was the queen
to have her crown back
she could now wear it
to The Ascot Race Track

the inspector was knighted
by good queen Bess
as he was a fine man
at the detection profess
a small
millennium house
much younger than it looks

a worn brick frame
skirted by a quaint, welcoming
red mulch garden

lace and fine gilt bone china
tucked away in
innumerable glass-fronted
cherry cabinets
bathed in the peachy florida light
streaming in through
clustered windows
framed by luscious,
flowing cloth drapery

pears soap,
soft, satin water,
and ceramic figurines
of angels and saints,
hares and doves

biblical verse, hung on the walls
and photos of relatives
i’ve never met

cushy, paisley-patterned sofas,
always something on the stove

flower arrangements on the mantle
aside a baldwin upright

no, this is not home.
but regardless, i know that here,
i will
always be welcome
a quick bus-ride write... not my best but i still think it’s something ;)
Sam Temple Jul 2015
Defunct steam punk
on the top bunk
smelled skunk and shrunk
into a trunk.
Funky crunk juice
with floating chunks
of dunked *****
shot from a Monk’s junk.
Spelunker, a drunkard,
bucks ****** up truck drivers
hiding behind tree trunks…
the schmuck.
Clunky blunt, fronted
musky, and held by a hunk
flunked the test
and was debunked
in Timbuctoo.
Barton D Smock Jul 2012
her age not so much mattering she talked on the twins she was about to have.  I held the hands of my mothers and each fronted their stomachs with full baskets.  my own stomach was in its prime and not yet the space beneath my *******.  I wondered at that point had I heard, ever, a man speak.  a song came to me but it was tucked as in a church.  my mothers on either side of me were not meant for this genre of grocery.  the low singing, the bulk rice.  we would the three of us go home that night to our videocassette of Witness.  it falls today under thriller and or drama but we knew it as horror.  mr. ford bends the boy’s finger in the police station but not backward, instead forward, instead very maternal.
judy smith May 2016
“Tiffany are so proud to now be not just in Rome but on this actual street, Via Condotti,” said Florence Rollet, group vice president of Tiffany Europe, last week.

The shop is housed in a 16th Century, arch-fronted building a gemstone’s throw from the nearby holy trinity of Italian high fashion; Gucci, Fendi and Prada. The interior is light and cool, a calm contrast to the bustling street outside. Silvery grey walls, white marble floors and subtle Japanese touches such as a painted mirrored screen recessed in the store’s high ceilinged fashion room provide the decor. Stately ariel photographs of the Empire State and Chrysler buildings by Jeffrey Milstein are on the walls, as essential to New York’s skyline as St Peter’s dome and the Coliseum are to Rome.

The fit between New York’s 179-year-old luxury jewellers and Rome is neat like a signature 6 pronged, platinum ‘Tiffany’ setting holding a brilliant-cut diamond. “Our diamonds pop from the other side of the room like nobody else’s,” said Melvyn Kirtley, Tiffany & Co.’s chief gemologist, here to support the launch. “This year we’re also celebrating 130 years of the Tiffany setting. It was invented by Charles Tiffany in 1886,” he explains. “Tiffany cleverly floated a diamond with this setting above the finger. This lets in more light which helps diamonds to dazzle. Before his innovation, all diamonds were set very low on the finger,” he said, frowning at the thought.

The linking figure between New York and Rome is Audrey Hepburn of course. In Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Roman Holiday Ms. Hepburn’s wide-eyed, elfin face bridges these two cities at a unique time of glamour and post-war optimism, the 1950s. This was also a period of economic confidence for both cities. So it was a coup for Tiffany & Co. to have model, artist and New York resident, Emma Ferrer, Hepburn’s beautiful 21-year-old grand-daughter to help with their launch celebrations. Rome-based British acting star Katy Saunders was also on hand to dazzle. Celebrations climaxed with an al fresco dinner and dancing to New York’s spin master, DJ Cassidy at Villa Aurelia, a 17th Century pile. The house and gardens overlook the ancient city from the Janiculum Hill, one of Rome’s famed seven hills.

If any of Tiffany’s new Roman customers needed reminding of the company’s glamorous heritage, on the ground floor of the shop is an area dedicated to archive pieces by Tiffany’s most feted jewellery designer, Jean Schlumberger. Displaying such unique and beautiful objects as Diana Vreeland’s Trophee de Vaillance pin which the legendary Vogue fashion editor commissioned from ‘Johnny’ Schlumgerger in the 1940s. Beside it is Liz Taylor’s Fleur de Mer brooch given to her by husband, Richard Burton. Tiffany bought it back from the Taylor estate at the auction of her jewellery in 2011. Ms. Taylor herself is forever connected to Rome her starring role in the film Cleopatra. It was made at Rome’s Cinecitta studios in 1963 and co-starred her future husband as Marc Anthony.

At the back of the shop a double-height square room features the Tiffany ’T’ collection as well as watches and younger, trend-setting pieces by Francesca Amfitheatrof, Tiffany’s current, and first woman, design director. “It took us a long time to find the right location,” said Ms. Rollet. “And now I’m thrilled. This place is perfect for us!”Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-canberra
Jamesb Aug 2020
Sometimes words are weapons
Add an s or a certain order and
They will cut to the bone,
Eviscerate a  bowel,
Destroy a dream,
End a life,
Break a lovelorn heart

Other times sans s fronted
They caress a weary cheek,
Lift up a tired soul
And reassure a faltered
Dream that its time
Too will come to
Faultless fruition

We speak thousands of words
Every day of our lives
Without thought,
And spoken they come
With added edges and jagged spurs
Of intonation, tone,
Expression

Or with balm for healing,
Warmth for the cold
Respite for the bewildered
Mind and soul
Lifting up repairing all
And making good
On harm

But beware the poem
Most of all! for it
Is a fearsome trap
For the unready author
Who writhes upon the created flow
Struck from their own verse
Read well by another,

For poems tell our truth
Warts and all,
And like singing lay us bare
To critic judge and common herd,
Who hear, absorb
And find us whole and
Nowhere left to hide,

We are forced to face
Reaction,
Reaction to our souls and hearts
Captured upon a pen's point,
Pinned to a board or a page
And read aloud
Where all can see

And what do you hear?
What do you see?
My God you see
The real and naked,,
The one and only,
Me.....
Reflecting a shared moment (which lasted an age) with  another poet here when I sent more than I realised and they heard their own read with passion and truth.

Not so much bruising as a unique exposure to someone who knows me  and I them, rather better than we either may have intended. I wonder if this resonates with anyone else here?
Ryan Bates Mar 2014
One amazing hanger holds my tuxedo.
One clever little 5 ounce piece of plastic and metal conformed into the shape of a bony set of shoulders carries the slim weight of my most formal outfit. It hangs proudly draped in shiny black, pretending to be me when I myself don't don the suit.

Once my affair is over I replace the material to its home. Dressing the hanger as I did myself. Pants first, folded width wise over the pleated front then length wise over the bar that so nicely holds them. Then the shirt fronted with a dozen or more ruffles goes upon the plastic-ly skeletal shoulders. Around the shepherds hook goes the cummerbund and bowtie, both relaxed as if ready to take some time off. Finally the form fitted jacket falls delicately into place, like a foot into a sock. It knows where it belongs, always the exterior, protecting the snow white shirt it envelops. Now the entirety of the contents of the hanger slip inside the black plastic body bag intended to hold such articles. Then as if a corpse, it hangs in my closet until next time.
Julie Butler May 2015
I lay my lighter on the title written Fire
I crawl inside a bedded box
relieve my body of attire
I tend to sleep on the right half
(the left half needs sweeping)
I need to quit seeing you lying there
I need to quit this all-night-drinking

Now who's thinking for me while I think about you ?
certainly not the same brain
that's been trained
to think things t h r o u g h


what do I do now
wanting to do you
do I
sit sit in this room  
& bang myself blue ?
do I do myself stupid
or ask again what to do ?


I am through with it
i'm through
I know just what to do
busting through lust's must
I get fronted by the view
*this front of you
away
Jonathan Moya Nov 2019
The stars on the flag started falling off
when Private Walker returned home
to Tennessee after six months of being
in country in Afghanistan.

At Camp Leatherneck on the treadmill
he folded five points to pentagrams,
imagined fireworks nova his welcome back.

The flag rarely flapped in the arid silence
of base camp.  Was MIA everywhere else.

He landed unmet in
Chattanooga on Veterans Day
in time to catch the parade highlights,
which happened two days earlier,
being ignored on the airport monitors  
in the hustle of terminal traffic.

No flags decorated Broad street shops,
no watchers waived the red, white and blue.
Police motorcycles fronted the parade
and patrolled the back in sunglass alert.

Two Vietnam vets shouldering hunting rifles
marched grimly in parade formation followed
by alternating school bands and ROTC cadets.

All two thousand stars dripped down,
faded blue in the rush to show the next ad.
Every which way he looked
the rushing crowd turned his back to him.

He remembered Anousheh, the girl
whose name meant everlasting/immortal.

The child who hugged him,
kissed his forehead when he gave
her a Hershey bar from
his mom’s care package
while patrolling the base perimeter road.

The friend, the daughter, the grandchild
who died in a Taliban wedding bombing,
one week after her seventh birthday,
three days after their embrace.

His heart, his tears, his breath,
his every word was Anousheh.
All was and will be forever Anousheh.

And when he prayed
he prayed like Anousheh,
and on his knees at the airport
he faced her outbound heart
and prayed for a mutilated world.
Zack Turner Aug 2012
Freedom isn't freedom when you think about it really
When there is no other way to live
Trapped by societal pressures and stressors to be something greater or lesser
But it's not really who you are

Enriched with your own self-esteem
Nothing from pill, powder, or green
Controlled of the station viewed

But that's not how they want it
All the companies have fronted
Thousands of dollars for their revenue

It's freedom from the free
That's what we're looking for

Freedom from the free
For ever and ever more

Freedom from the free
What's playing on channel four

Freedom from the free
Television stations do not exist anymore
another song idea in the works
Olivia Kent Nov 2015
Make her love you with a whisper
Entrap her with a kiss.
Pick flowers for her,
Selected for their qualities.
Wrap them up and tie them tight.
For true love is exciting when visible before her eyes.
Sir,
Be wise before you prise her fingers out from your hands.
Love lasts forever.
It makes no demands
Think before retreating of the love you shared before.
Angels danced on flighty feet believing that your love were true.
From topaz blue horizons her ring she'll give to you.
You will answer her calling upon bended knees.
Begging of her, her sweet hand in marriage.
Carried forever in a glass fronted carriage.
Love will be forever and forever hangs upon a sunny day.
(c)LIVVI
alexis hill May 2016
I was happy with that life
time being
but you changed up

started chillen on a different block
you were differently treated with
different clothes
new chain and slang talk

cigarettes lips to fit in//
carcinogen lungs
to impress them with the tar black esophagus compressed in your chest cough

now you walking different too
and them kids got you locked
and even tighter than a *****
I just knew it
when you fronted them up on that block

but if you got shot up
you know they wouldn't have your
back unless it was to steal your coat keys
and wallet leave you ****** dead or not

and hey I'm just saying
you started changing
and I can see this kind of ****
happening when everything around

YOU started changing...
look I don't want you to be suffering
but I try and warn you
about the world we're in

love isn't anger
love is black and blue
come stranger times like
love isn't "who can take the first blow"
love isn't hands around a throat

love isn't here
so don't come back no more.

— The End —