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Wuji Jul 2012
Unwanted living,
Can't stay for long.
All dies out,
Everything drowns.
Did your own dad,
Come to the final act?
Or was he not proud,
Of his son's wrath?

Who goes to killers' funerals?
And if they do,
Do they cry?
Who goes to killers' funerals?
Do they pretend,
They are in a happier time?

Killers were like you and me,
You and me were once babies,
Babies come from us,
We create killers.
We make funerals,
Killing innocents,
And blaming them,
We are at fault!

Who goes to killers' funerals?
And if they do,
Do they cry?
Who goes to killers' funerals?
Do they pretend,
They are in a happier time?

He was once a child,
Now he is dead.
The time in between,
Messed up his head.
Poor merciless killers.
Luna Grey Jul 2011
Today I went to a hundred funerals
Today I wept a thousand times
I saw a million faces
All ready with their lines

Today I waited through
Ten thousand people
Claiming
To have known you

Today I lit a hundred candles
I wished a hundred wishes
I thought a thousand times if
Only I were the one
Sleeping with the fishes

Today I wore a hundred dresses
Some with lace
Or ribbons on the back
But I never noticed the design
'Cause all of them were black

Today I followed a hundred processions
Leading steady past a thousand graves
And a thousand grieving faces
Looked up to meet my eyes
As if to say “I know you”
And I know the pain that you have faced




Today I walked for miles and miles
In a procession that sometimes
Had horses and sometimes
Had shiny cars
And I walked in front to lead them on
Or I walked in back so nobody could see too closely
The decisions racing through my head
Should I stand?
Should I leave
Should I wail in agony into the sky
Or just burst out into hysterical laughter

And today
A hundred times
I finally rose to speak
As I always knew I would
At a hundred different podiums
In a hundred different dresses
In two hundred different shoes
To a thousand different people
Sometimes a small intimate gathering
Sometimes a haunted silent crowd reaching as far
As the eye can see
Past headstones
And tombstones
And flowers with their grieving faces
I looked out across this a hundred times
And yet I never knew just what to say
I burst into to tears
Or fits of fury
I stood silently hoping
That I’d never need to know what to say
Except maybe one day
But far in the future
After our dreams are reached
And our goals are achieved
And we are proud of who we are

Not sitting and waiting
For the test results to come back
As in my head strolls a party
All dressed in black

Today I went to a hundred funerals
I sang a hundred songs, true
Today I went to a hundred funerals
Every one of them for you
Jessy Dec 2017
Today, my friends were sitting at our lunch table
My four friends sitting around me
We were talking about death and funerals
My one friend said,
“I’m dying first.
I’m dying before all of you.
So that I don’t have to go to any of your funerals.”

And I thought to myself
Isn’t that funny?
How she stated, as a-matter-of-factly
That she is going to die first

It’s funny because I almost died before her
When I tried to **** myself
Lucky for her, I guess, I failed
Em MacKenzie Jul 2018
Happy belated birthday Mom,
I'm sorry it's two days late,
but I've been a bad daughter
and an even worse person.
You always told me not to go to your grave or put flowers on your headstone;
"I won't be under that ground," you'd say,
"and don't waste your money on flowers, I'll have no use for them where I'm going."
I still visit sometimes, and I do still bring flowers, but not nearly enough.
I know if I had been the one buried, you'd wear the grass down with your feet and then have the courtesy to plant some seeds.

Almost eight years later I still think about you everyday
and not a minute goes by where I don't miss you terribly.
What a cruel thing it is, to live a life where you're always missing someone.
To have so many things to say and receive no reply.

You would've been fifty seven this year.
I wonder how you would look as you got older, and sometimes, rarely, I forget what you looked and sounded like when you were here.
That's probably the worst part of it.

The first time I visited your grave was about a month or so after you had been buried,
the graveyard drowning in so much snow I actually visited the wrong headstone.
I'm sure Mr.Brown enjoyed the talk, though.
It was only after digging my bare hands through ten inches of snow and ice that I realized I was four spots down.
I then recognized your grave from the moonlight reflecting off the glass vases of yellow roses we had placed there during your funeral,
wedged in place with the snow hugging them tightly;
the roses frozen in time,
it was both beautiful and aggravating.
Good things funerals cost so much,
they should be able to have someone clean up the plot after the service.
I threw the roses out and gently tried to remove the vases:
the one with "wife" shattered in my hands and my frostbitten fingers picked each shard out from the snow.
I still carry a scar from that vase.
The one with "mother" on it remained in tact, I was just as gentle with it but it did not shatter.
You told me near the end that nothing in this world, nothing was powerful enough to ever have you taken away from me.
That vase sits on my dining room table to this day, nursing a reluctantly dying plant just as you'd want.
I don't think I'll ever have the green thumb like you did.

But I have everything else from you,
you always told me Kate was raised by your sister and that she was too much when you were so young,
"But you, Emily, you're MY daughter."
You said I was a godsend of a baby, never crying, content just to sleep,
and that I carried an old soul.
You laughed at how I always excelled at being alone as a child,
and you were so intrigued by my sense of imagination and creativity.
You always said you were the same when you were a kid.

So tell me, now that I'm older and I feel so alone all the time,
am I still you?
Were you this isolated and alien at my age now?
Did you carry the empathy to cry at little things you saw on the street or in a commercial,
so much so that you believe this world to be lost?
That you saw life as one big slap in the face?

I still try my best everyday to make you proud,
It breaks my heart constantly to think I didn't when you were here.
But life is cruel like that, and I was young and stupid and arrogant.
I know if you see my daily life,
you know I'm not 100% better,
and I know I probably never will be.
But I work hard, and I always say my "please" and "thank you"'s,
and I live by your example of always trying to help anyone in need.
It might not make up for the demons that I struggle with,
but atleast I still fight them, right?
I lost some years there where I should've died, and sometimes I wish I had,
but I didn't. I'm still here. I'm still trying.
And to be honest, it's not for me, or for my family, for love or sunsets, or dogs or any of the things that bring me up to a solid "content."

It's for you, because you taught me that's what you do in life.
You fight. You fight until your last breath.

I've thought this a million times in my head, but I'll say it now,
you were always right about everything.
As teenage girls, we challenge our mothers at every turn and decision,
convinced we are mature and capable of making decisions,
and then we say hurtful things when we don't get our way.
So you deserve to hear it, you were always right.

I wish I could tell you face to face.
I would tell you how much I miss you, more than either of us could've ever predicted.
I would tell you how blessed I feel to have had such an amazing mother.
I would apologize for judging you for the drinking,
I would tell you it took me forever to realize, but eventually I accepted my mother was human just like everyone else,
and just like everyone else, myself included, you made mistakes.
Above all else, I would tell you that I love you more than you'll ever know.

I'll be turning twenty-nine next month,
which means I have one year left of smoking.
I didn't forget my promise to you, I'll quit on my thirtieth birthday.
I'll continue looking out for my sister to the best of my abilities,
even though she can be impulsive and brash on occasion.
I'll continue to show empathy and kindness to as many people as possible, just like you would've wanted.
And finally, one day I hope to keep the promise I made to you so many years ago:
I promise to try and be happy.
Extremely personal write, but needed to get it out. If you're lucky enough to still have a mother, tell her you love her today and thank her for existing.
in the hospitals and jails
it's the worst
in madhouses
it's the worst
in penthouses
it's the worst
in skid row flophouses
it's the worst
at poetry readings
at rock concerts
at benefits for the disabled
it's the worst
at funerals
at weddings
it's the worst
at parades
at skating rinks
at ****** ******
it's the worst
at midnight
at 3 a.m.
at 5:45 p.m.
it's the worst
falling through the sky
firing squads
that's the best
thinking of India
looking at popcorn stands
watching the bull get the matador
that's the best
boxed lightbulbs
an old dog scratching
peanuts in a celluloid bag
that's the best
spraying roaches
a clean pair of stockings
natural guts defeating natural talent
that's the best
in front of firing squads
throwing crusts to seagulls
slicing tomatoes
that's the best
rugs with cigarette burns
cracks in sidewalks
waitresses still sane
that's the best

my hands dead
my heart dead
silence
adagio of rocks
the world ablaze
that's the best
for me.
Joe Workman Aug 2014
The radio alarm is a bit too strong
for his afternoon hangover taste.
He goes downstairs, sets the coffee to brewing,
rubs his hands through the hair on his face.
As he sits and he smokes, he can't quite think of the joke
she once told him about wooden eyes.

The coffee is ready, his hands are unsteady
as he pours his first cup of cure.
He tries to be happy he woke up today,
but whether being awake's good, he's not sure.
Outside it's raining, but he's gallantly straining
to keep his head and his spirits held high.

As soft as the flower bending out in its shower,
fiercer than hornets defending their hives,
the memories of sharing her secrets and sheets
run him through like sharp rusty knives.
He decides that his cup isn't quite strong enough,
takes the ***** from the shelf, gives a sigh.

He goes to the porch to put words to the torch
he still carries and knows whiskey just fuels.
Thunder puts a voice to his hammering heart.
Through ink, his knotted mind unspools,
writing of butterflies and of how his love lies
cocooned under unreachable skies.

From teardrops to streams to winter moonbeams
to a peach, firm and sweet, in the spring,
he writes of pilgrims and language and soft dew-damp grass
and how he sees her in everything.
He rambles and grieves, and he just can't believe
how much he has bottled inside.

He writes how the leaves, when they whisper in the breeze,
bring to mind her warm breath in his mouth,
how when walking through woods he loves the birdsong
when they fly back in the summer from the south
because she would sing too and he always knew
he wanted that sound in his ears when he died.

He writes even the streetlights, fluorescent and bright,
make him miss the diamond chips in her eyes,
how the fountain in the park plays watersongs in the dark
when he goes to make wishes on pennies
and while he's there he gets hoping
there will be some spare wishes
but so far there haven't been any.

He writes that the cold makes him think of the old
hotel where they spent most of a week,
lazing and gazing quite lovingly,
and how he brushed an eyelash off her cheek.
The crickets and frogs and all of the dogs
sound as mournful as he feels each night.

He writes about chocolate and fun in arcades,
he writes about stairwells and butchers' blades,
and closed-casket funerals, and Christmas parades,
then sad flightless birds and tiny brigades
of ants taking crumbs from the toast he had made,
and political goons with their soulless tirades,
old-timey duels and terrible grades,
strangers on  buses, harp music, maids,
the weird afterimages when all the light fades,
the pleasure of dinnertime serenades,
sidewalk chalk, wine, and hand grenades.

He writes of how much fun it would be to fly,
and saltwater taffy and ferryboat rides,

sitting on couches, scratched CD's,
pets gone too soon and overdraft fees,

the beach, the lake, the mountains, the fog,
David Bowie's funny, ill-smelling bog,

jewelry, perfume, sushi, and swans,
the smell of the pavement when the rain's come and gone,

and shots and opera, and Oprah and ***,
and tiny bikinis with yellow dots,

stained glass lamps, and gum and stamps,
her dancing shoes on wheelchair ramps,
that overstrange feeling of déjà vu,
filet mignon and cordon bleu,

bad haircuts at county fairs,
honey and clover, stockmarket shares,
the comfort of nestling in overstuffed chairs,
and her poking fun at the clothes that he wears,
and giraffes and hippos and polar bears,
cumbersome car consoles, monsters' lairs,
singing in public and ignoring the stares,
botching it badly while making éclairs,
misspelled tattoos, socks not in pairs,
people who take something that isn't theirs,
the future of man, and man's future cares,

why people so frequently lie
and bury themselves so deep in the mire
of monetary profits when money won't buy
a single next second because time's not for hire,
and that he sees her in everything.

Then unexpectedly, unbidden from where it was hidden
comes the punchline to the joke she had told him.
He laughs -- it's too much and his heart finally tears
as a blackness rolls in to enfold him.
The last thing he hears is birdsong in his ears --
the sound brings hope and is sweet as he dies.
gmg Jul 2014
There's a garden full of flowers that no one gives a second look too. The only reason no one stops to gaze at the beauty of them or take a picture to share with friends is because the garden is full of dead flowers. No one notes the beauty of the wilted petals of them or how they're still partially standing even though they've long lost their color. No matter how much love and care these flowers get they will never be the same again because they already died and you can't change something like that. In this garden there's still some living flowers, but they're one step away from dying, and no one would care anyway. The garden is overrun with weeds taking any life still showing in the flowers destroying them even more. But these dead flowers are still beautiful through the death they have gone through. Dead flowers make me sad, they remind me of funerals, and the way we mark our favorite bible verses, our favorite pages, with a certain type, they remind me of sadness, like they no longer want to bow down to the sun, they just want to die off and be forgotten, kind of like me. You see, you weren't so much a green thumb, you made everything wilt, instead of strong and tall. You know how dead flowers are weak and brittle?¿ well, you made my body decompose while I was still much alive, it's like you liked to feel my body break. I hoped for rescue, I hope you'd take my hands out of my pockets, and tell me I wouldn't be stuck in this **** town forever, and we'd run away together. Definition of safe was sitting still, but how was I supposed to when this silence was destroying me?¿ you left me, and I became an abandoned hospital, wanting to help others from feeling the way I do, like a vacant amusement park, but how was I supposed to help them when I couldn't even help myself?¿ flowers must feel the same way after you teased them for so long, telling them they'd end up on some pretty girls doorstep, but they eventually got tired of waiting, tired of your *******, tired of your unfulfilled promises. I walk into this garden of dead flowers, maybe because I just want somewhere I can fit in because god knows I don't belong anywhere. I take some flowers with me, to remind me of myself, but mostly to remind me of you. The garden is now behind me because I can't bear to look at this death and pain anymore. I drop the flowers at your door, maybe you'll think of me when you see the way they're wilted and broken. Maybe you'll put them in a vase to try and keep them alive even though they're long past their expiration date and nothing you can do will bring them back to life. Just like the way you killed me and tried to fix your mistakes with some flowers that were soon to die like everything you touch does. I guess most things I find are already dead too so we must not be that different, you **** things and everything I know is being killed. I guess I should stop thinking about dead things and you because that does nothing but make me sad. My flowers are now in a glass cup, but with no water because no amount of care can make them survive, but I guess I couldn't leave them there because I can never leave dead things alone no matter what I do, even dead things need to be loved by someone. I hope when these dead flowers see the light, they go to heaven, and I know they're just flowers, but how come I'm doing the "polite" thing and pulling them out one by one, kissing them and laying them out to sundry?¿ if god won't accept them, well I'll just have to give him my hands, it won't be enough, but he can have them anyway. This is who I'm supposed to be, I'm supposed to be the bigger person here... I'm going to bury our memories and see what re-grows, and if rusty nails with pointy heads pop up, pointy enough to cut my index finger on and cause me to get a tetanus shot, well I know we weren't worth it, but we tried, we tried...
writing collab with twitter user @xlachrymose
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.

In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand

And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand

In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four foot box, a foot for every year.
Audrey Aug 2014
I am Christian. I believe in the
Trinity of the Holy God, The Son, and The Spirit,
I believe that Jesus is the Son of God and the savior of mankind
I own more than three Bibles
I teach Sunday School every week and
I pray every night.
I am Christian,
And as such I
Hate queer....

Phobia. I can not stand intolerance
And I cry at hatred,
Blood running in the streets,
Fear running in veins,
Running away from the truth.
I am Christian, yet
There are bloodstains in my Bible
And the prayers on my lips
Are for forgiveness for who I am.
The entire story of ***** is
Crossed out, blacked out angrily
In the dead of night
In all 4 versions,
Leviticus is blurred,
Wrinkled with my tears,
Soaked with my pain.
I am Christian
And I am not homophobic.
I know my church won't recognize
Non cis-het marriages,
Leaving entire worlds of rainbows in the dark
The higher-ups insist
Weddings are white, shiny, husband-and-wife, happily-ever-after affairs
That shove me and my friends, my  family, my lovers,
Into closets of heavenly wrath and
Fire and brimstone sermons,
Locked into personal hells of shame
And confusion.
I am Christian
And I am not straight.
My God doesn't hate me for who I love,
He loves me because I try not to hate.
So to the homophobic Christians, I ask:
Who is your God?
Who is your God that supposedly condemns people He has created in his own image?
Your rainbow picket signs are nothing but a cruel mockery of a covenant
Not truly shared by you.
Your tongues are no better than the viper's who called Adam and Eve to sin,
You are the vipers of my world.
Do you think you avoid judgement
When trans teens are killed
By the bullets you spit with your words?
Who is your God,
That tells you to picket the funerals
Of those you hate?
Who is your God,
That refuses to let you open your heart to differentness?
I am Christian,
And I don't need your permission to
Love my God.
Take my scars and tear-stained Bibles,
Listen to my fervent prayers,
Watch my lips tremble when
I listen to my pastor.
I don't need your permission
To love who I want,
In fact I don't want it.
Take my midnight screaming and fear of coming out,
Listen to my frantic pleading for a hand to hold,
Watch my eyes linger on her chest.
I am Christian.
My God doesn't hate me for who I love,
He hates you who refuse to love
While you carry His name, if
Not his blessing.
So I ask again
Who is your God?
Because mine loves all of me,
All 5'6" of queer pride.
Who is your God?
Dark n Beautiful Jan 2018
Funerals for him is killing loneliness
He sets the alarm clocks in time for the announcements:
If familiarize with the names of the dearly departed:
he lights up like the light on Broadway:

The dearly departed is at rest: his struggles with reality,
of how the world runs: is unsettling:

the funerals arrangements is always the same:
The tone of the announcers : slow and gloomy,

Black and white would always be the traditional attires,
and the hymn ash to ashes will echo in ones ears,
so long as the tears flow slowly throughout the services:

As they lower the leveler into the ground,
they are gone but not forgotten:  R.I.P

Poet and death titles,
Death shall have no hold on me,
Death shall not make me sad,
I refused to mourn death: and that's the truth about me

Drinking and eating after the services: Is it a good gesture?
From soak tissues to soggy appetizers: the crowd pleasers
From the wet cemetery: to the living rooms floors

Poets feel and see the irony:
As they sat in their black and white attire, eating and drinking
Mount Gay or cold Banks beers:

The colorful graveyard welcomes another tenant:
Funeral for him is killing loneliness
He set the alarm in time for the announcements.
Fear man, not the dead: we two are so incompatible

**Regardless of whom you are or where you’ve been
You can be what you want to be. W. cement
krm Dec 2017
There's so much wisdom in an oak,
with its' dying breath,
of that tree-
I admired the courage it took to change.
Baring a naked soul after shedding layers,
Reds, golds, and oranges-
Cascading down the streets.
In my moments of mourning
I realized-
We don't hold funerals for trees.

—V.H.
#life #grief #sadness
LOCKER DOORS

Woke this morning, I argued with my mother
Hating the snow days, stay under the covers

Gathered up my backpack, headed to the car
Did not do my homework, schools not too far

Dreading the normal bullies, homeroom fights
Walking in a hallway, standing in the lunch line

Friends text behind your back, liars of all types
Money is stolen, cheerleaders get more hyped

Ordinary day, ******* waste of my **** time
Pencils sharpening, I'm out of my **** mind!

I watch these girls, sick of stupid *** fashion!
Wish something new or exciting would happen!

Sitting in first period, Having my first period
Feeling like Carrie, blood stains get very wet

Listening to the teacher talk about due things
While hiding the fact that my ****** is puking

Then all of a sudden, a loud bang was heard
Followed by a females scream, kinda absurd

Who is now screaming and for what reason?
Is this a joke? Is someone out there teasing?

But then this loud bang is heard again closer
Students start running toward the commotion

The metal door slams open, a figure appears
He's holding a shotgun, he looks like a queer

His eyes hold fire of intense pain and anguish
Hands grip the gun, this is some insane ****

Nobody is moving as he breathes in and out
Then he unloads the gun into a friends mouth

Then as if in slow motion, her face erupted
I had to get out of this classroom, **** this!

The gun goes off again with disgusting results
Another female student lies dead with a hole

Make a run for a door, while his back's turned
The gun is so loud, every one here has heard

Students running every which way in the hall
Tripping over two dead kids, first two to fall

I run over to see if I recognize the deceased
Yes! I know one well! Her nickname was Beast

She was a goth kid, known for being so silent
She kept to herself, now killed due to violence

No time for sorrow, as I go through her purse
The students are screaming as they disperse

Lip stick and the works! This ***** was a fake
Toss the **** aside, hope all her stuff breaks!

I look in the hall, a gunman's coming this way
Now running down the hall, death in his wake

I get back up trying to make sense of this ****
Two gun shots ring out, another student is hit

My eyes make contact with the killer at large
Cold stares meets mine, he remains in charge

I look away, back up the hall towards safety
The teachers board room will still open daily

Maybe I could hide under a table or chair?
It would pass but would he know I was there?

He doesn't know me! Right? I'm too scared
As ***** flows freely down my legs, now bare

Kids panicking as the blood stains the doors
Dead bodies now litter this once clean floor

I take to these stairs and I continue up flights
Should I go down to the garage for the night?

That couldn’t be right! I need to get to the top
But my name's is called, I turn back and stop

The man with the gun is standing behind me
Wants me to lay down, I don’t plan on fighting

I am humbly abiding by his every command
He simply asks me this single question then

He proceeds to ask if I believe in God or not
Most likely, no matter what, I'n gonna be shot

This is the last chance I’ve got to be someone
Go out with a bang, a literal one from his gun

I hear students cry, I watch the carnage unfold
Tears of the ungrateful, the sad rotting of souls

Flesh falls from the mold, the world has failed
Me in the moment, a stupid girl once labeled

Known for lack of faith and love of blasphemy
Now face to face, asked one more task of me

Should I deny a God I hated to acknowledge?
Or continue strong to the end? End of all this

Never going to college never felt so disgusting
I didn't know this kid! Did he know something?

Just then he turns the gun, shooting kids dead
Turns back to me, he is so serious, he says

I look to see a kids head now blown to pieces
God forgive this sad *******, help him Jesus!

I scream out so that the world can hear me!
The Lord is my savior! He is forever near me!

That's my last moment as the trigger is pulled
As my hopes and dreams are fully annulled

Just an ordinary day in a quiet Colorado town
Death won as the gunman took himself down

Just an ordinary day for the parents of teens
Just ordinary funerals and ordinary screams

Common place or out of place? Who knows
From schools to movie theaters, gun control?

Hug children, keep them happy and laughing
Never know when “ordinary days” will happen

Adam Koss/ January 5, 2014
A powerful reminder that school shootings are very real.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
England played today, what a ****-up grandiose style, glass bottle like hail flew down on Marseilles, water-canons, all kinds of crowd dispersers, true grit on the former great, now belittled, nation-state in d' hood reduced to a pitch with 20 idiots running around kicking about Charles' 1st head, and too fidgety skeletons tagged to A.S.B.O.S. tags playing puppets in a rectangle... i stopped watching the match for a cigarette break, the free-kick went in, Saturay, Tesco closing at 10pm, i took to wearing an Australian Open t-shirt, i've never seen so many funerals drinking a beer on my way home - prior it it was all gorilla chanting and Tarzan... i only learned of Tsar Putin dipping his ***** in the **** of Crimea a few minutes later.

your typical Saturday night, next door  neighbour's
trying out an alt. Y.M.C.A. with disco funk,
i guess it spreads easily this day, feel the grooves
or lined Rodin - ape-**** up my *** -
music so loud coming from my neighbour's canopy
i should be asking for canapés - after all Euro 2016
kicked off, scarf-hooligans of Moscow made
Marseilles home-turf , two Brits at the draw
in hospital, faces kicked-in, real bulldogs,
asthmatics at the end of it - conversation turned into a tour
of the Cairngorms or the western outlets...
a lot of Scottish impromptu with **** **** freckles!
gee ginger! aye fucky ***** ****!
Anglo users love interchanging the vowels for emphasis
to differentiate geographic regions -
but this one book review got me -
entitled ***** state
by a feminist -
the ugly child abusing father is a punter -
listen, if it were't for prostitutes i'd be a priest
7 years in, acne on my Richie, one ****** in,
kiss on the mouth several times, hell, the guilt trip,
poor boy poor girl, skin cream lubrication,
talk of doctor's appointments, ******* a *****,
i'd get the Scandinavia model if the girls weren't fickle,
the hand is hardly a plastic surgeon of the female
genitalia ***** - bony M... you must be talking
about ******* - ***** M...
Jesus no more the son of god than the patron saint
of prostitutes... the poor guy feels the aches of touch
while the rich boys sushi off a stripper in Billions...
i don't have strong dialectical encouraging to dispute
or discuss - i too am too blame, ask my dermatologist...
so my neighbours threw a party,
on the set-list?
Cheryl Lynn - Got to Be Real; Oliver Cheatham,
Get Down Saturday Night; Edwin Starr - Contact;
and then the one off from One Direction - History -
the DJ suddenly experiences the jitters neurotically
changing songs before they finish - midwestern horror,
Ohio or Iowa hammer masscare, excerpt from
Pink Floyd's anti-fascist anti-educationalist march,
dangly on the Cenotaph -
persona qui umbra-grata (person agreeably welcome
as a shadow) - yep, me and the ex_machina routine...
i know the feminist argument smocking pipe handy
clean for more pages, but ever hear a ******* ******
or laugh with you? if i didn't use up the profession
i'd be the buying type abusive father forever,
who the **** needs **** trips when the moment can please
twos? i'd be up against a Cosmopolitan Magazine Quizzes...
the "perfect boyfriend" types, later coverage in
psychological advice columns... but wait...
all that ******* advice about something being indestructible
in us, about us, beginning with this keen appeal to
atheism already defaults a logic behind the essential
characteristic of the existence pertaining to a psyche -
by destroying god we also resolved to more easily disqualify
the in-destructibility of the soul,
constrained, a study of noumenons, with logic application,
as if with the omni- prefix to the non-essentials of god -
logic destroyed the compatible qualification of soul
ownership, reduced, it gave us the advent of prayer
and the necessity of a god, rather than our selves,
via souls - something without deductive parameters to
cursor and pre- of the experience quickened to
argument with dis- and later -qualificatio;
the кaцaпс fought with Mongols... you think there's
a fair bet for your hooliganism in Marseilles?
well... it all boils down to two identifiers of nationalism:
parade with the royal family near St. James' park
or gut a pig in the south of France...
Wales will not bow this time, given that they're
not getting paid for their national pride dribble,
they'll ******* up... make more adverts with your superstars...
strange that, well, America has idiosyncratic sports,
i never understood the cheese-ball of oval either to the throw -
yes, baseballs makes more sense than cricket,
but you have to understand rugby before you
start crowdsurfing your *** in nappies -
the high expression of nationalism is so Joker-faced
with the Windsor ******, nationalism and a king never match
up to how Mao or ****** would have it...
and the alternative is football hooliganism...
i walked for my whiskey and beer just after the 75th minute,
along the way i met so many funerals, donning my
Australian Open T-Shirt... well, you, know,
a different type of spectator sport - i heard the rabbis
of the oval where deemed cricket tourists when kicking
a penalty through the H architecture -
cricketers are tourists, oval jerker-offs are Wallabies...
Australia in the Eurovision song-contest... oh yeah,
i'm mad... mad about Abba.. Matt in Memphis,
an Eve Cassidy moment, Sia's chandelier cover-up,
the truest form of plagiarism - the cover is better
without all the computing morphings...
oh sure, i could play the dating game...
9 years in and i had two authentic ***** in my day...
one was a black single mum who took me back
to her flat in Stratford, dragged her baby girl from the bed
to the floor, and her baby son, didn't want me to
penetrate her, tucked my **** in between her thighs,
i stopped, was woken by her son in the middle of the night,
took him and laid him on my chest and we fell asleep...
so yeah, prostitution is ALL BAD... coming from a theorist
who hasn't experienced the drudgery of lives "unexpected"
via eventualities akin to Chernobyl... given that the most
paranoid nation scared and scaring others concerning
a nuclear holocaust is the only one to set two off... two!
Pearl Harbour was an army attack on an army base...
what the Americans did was just a very quick Holocaust.
Samuel Hoffmann Jul 2018
I’ve seen good men die
And bad men cry
And everything far in-between.

I’ve seen hate born of love
And a black feathered dove,
You have no clue what I’ve seen.

But you say things like:
“I feel you brother,”
“trust me, things will be okay.”

But you have no clue what it like,
Behind my brown spherical eyes.
Please stop the stupid things you say.

I’ve seen people given hope,
necks tied with rope.
My world is crazier than it seems.

I’ve had family members lay dead,
Funerals without one word said.
The world just ***** for me.

But you say it’ll all be okay,
As if you’re clairvoyant.

But you’re not.

You say prayer and hope,
Falling off a cliff? You don't need a rope.
“trust me, things will be okay.”

But it isn’t.

It never is,
Never will be.

You have no clue what I’ve seen.
Here's a good one. Enjoy if you want, hate if you want, don't read if you don't want. Just do whatever makes you happy, thats all which matters.
-sam
Mohd Arshad Jun 2014
The people attend funerals.
They visit the mausoleums.
They frequently go there
With flowers in their strong hands.

Who hears the cry of the beleagured?
Who wipe tears from the soft cheeks?
Who look into the broken lives?
Who prepare the path for walking?

There has been a routine,
A habit with black gowns since long.
Who will erase the word War
From the walls of their minds?

We are the might.
We must take arms against injustice.
We must ride courage and bravery
And **** the devils of thoughts.
Dearest Julie,

You always told me that funerals were depressing, the town seemingly cloaked with ebony silk and that lingering stench of roses that trailed behind you that only came to cease three days later.
Even back when we were young, we always knew someone had died from that notorious smell and the rattling hearse kicking up dirt, passing our house to the highway to the cemetery.
It never affected me, those sickly roses and dusty roads. Not until now.
It's been five days since you've left us. The funeral was two days ago. I'll try and describe it to you, because I made sure everything was to go as planned. I recall late at night with you in my basement, our legs touching at the ankles while we scribbled plans on my large roll of paper, including our prom, with you as my date, and every last little detail until death.
It's a shame we never made it to prom. I was looking forward to finally dancing with you, kissing you without fear.
You were dressed in the pastel violet summer dress that we bought on our class trip to Chicago, the one with Navy Pier sewn into the edge. Your ***** blonde hair was untangled for once, shiny and clean. They hid your scars, your freckles, with thick pastes and ointments. You looked so unreal, so perfect, and I hated that.
I was so used to Julie, with her hair in a knotted ponytail, covered in bruises and scrapes from adventures. Julie, with a crooked smile that braces held together. Julie, always singing in an off-tune song.
I wasn't used to Julie, lips pursed, green eyes closed, not moving. I was waiting for you to wake up, to giggle at your newest major prank. But that never happened, because you weren't Julie anymore.
The service was held at the church you and I were baptized in, with the same priest who looked unwell and broken, just like me. Your coffin was light green, like your eyes but diluted more. Everyone was sniffling, trying to smile because that's what you would've wanted, but we were all hanging by a thread, and if one of our threads broke, we'd all go down together.
They took you to the cemetery your grandparents were buried at, just west of my house and yours. The cemetery that we spent the night in at age thirteen on Halloween, cameras focused and ready to leap at any slight rustle of the leaves.
They laid you down gently, and it was as the first mound of dirt was scooped onto you that my thread broke. I screamed, my entire body collapsing. I couldn't see, couldn't breathe. Just writing this letter makes me hurt, Julie.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Not this soon. We were going to grow old together. *******, they haven't found the guy yet, but they have to. He can't hide forever.
So that's how your funeral went in a nutshell. You, too pretty for realism. Me, ugly-crying in the rain.
I miss you, Julie. They'll find who did this to you. He may have sped away, but they'll find him.
The smell of roses is starting to fade.

Love,
Adam
Martin Narrod Feb 2015
Part I


the plateau. the truest of them all. coast line. night spells and even controlled by the dream of meeting again. the ribbon of darker than light in your crown. No region overlooked. Third picnic table to the drive at Half Moon Bay, meet me there, decant my speech there. the table by the restroom block. While the tide is in show me your oyster garden, 3:00p.m. at half-light here in the evilest torments that have been shed.---------------door locked.  The moors. Cow herds and lymph nodes, rancorous afternoon West light and bending roads, the cliffs, a sister, the need to jump. There is nothing as serious as this. There is nothing nor no one that could ever, or would ever on this side come between. Who needs sleep or jokes or snow or rivers or bombs or to turn or be a rat or a fly or ceiling fan or a gurney or a cadaver or piece of cloth or a bed spread or a couch or a game or the flint of a lighter or the bell of a dress; the bell of your dress, yes, perhaps. Having been crushed like orange cigarette light in a pool of Spanish tongues. I feel the heave, the pull; not a yawn but a wired, thread-like twist about my core. Up around the neck it makes the first cut, through the eyes out and into the nostrils down over the left arm, on the inside of the bicep, contorting my length, feigning sleep, and then cutting over my stomach, around and around multiples of times- pulled at the hips and under the groin, across each leg and in-between each nerve, capillary, artery, hair, dot, dimple, muscle, to the toes and in-between them. Wiry dream-like and nervous nightmarish, hellacious plateaus of leapers. Penguin heads and more penguin heads. Startling torment. The evilest of the vile mind. The dance of despair: if feet contorted and bound could move. The beach off Belmont. The hills and the reasons I stared. Caveat after caveat at the heads of letters, on the heads of crowns, and the wrists, and on the palms. Being pulled and signed, and moved away so greatly and so heavily at once in a moment, that even if it were a year or a set of many months it would always be a moment too taking away to be considered an expanse, and it would be too hellacious to be presumptuous. It could only be a shadow over my right shoulder as I write the letters over and again. One after another. Internally I ask if I would even grant a convo with Keats or Yeats or Plath or Hughes? Does mine come close? Does it matter the bellies reddish and cerise giving of pain? Does it have to have many names?


"This is the only Earth," I would say with the bouquet of lilies spread out on the table. Are lilies only for funerals, I would never make or risk or wish this metaphor, even play it like the drawn out notes of a melody unwritten and un-played: my black box and latched, corner of the room saxophone. Top-floor, end of the hall two-room never-ending story, I'm the left side of the bed Chicago and I see pink walls, bathrooms, the two masonite paintings, the Chanel books, the bookshelves, the white desk, the white dresser, you on the left side of the bed in such sentimental woe, **** carpet and tilted blinds, and still the moors and the whispering in the driver's seat in afternoon pasture. Sunset, sunrise, nighttime and bike room writing in other places, apartments, rooms where I inked out fingertips, blights, and moods; nothing ever being so bleak, so eerily woe-like or stoic. Nothing has ever made me so serious.

Put it on the rib, in a t-shirt. Make it a hand and guide it up a set of two skinny legs under a short-sheeted bed in small room and literary Belmont, address included. Trash cans set out morning and night, deck-readied cigarette smoking. Sliding glass door and kitchen fright. Low-lit living room white couch, kaleidoscope, and zoetrope. Spin me right round baby right round. I am my own revenge of toxic night. Attack the skin, the soul, the eyes, the mind, and the lids. The finger lids and their tips. Rot it out. Blearing wild and deafening blow after blow: left side of the bed the both of us, whilst stirs the intrepid hate and ousts each ******* tongue I can bellow and blow.

Last resort lake note in snow bank and my river speak and forest walk. Wrapped in blocks and boxes, Christmas packaging and giant over-sized red ribbons and bows. Shall I mention the bassinet, the stroller, the yard, several rings of gold and silver, several necklaces of black and thread? I draw dagger from box, jagged ended and paper-wrapped in white and amber: lit in candle light and black room shadow-kept and sleeping partisan unforgettable forever. Do I mention Hawaii, my mother dying, invisible ligatures and the unveiling of the sweat and horror? Villainous and frightening, the breath as a bleat or heart-beat and matchstick stirring slightly every friends' woe and tantrum of their spirit.

Lobster-legged, waiting, sifting through the sea shore at the sea line, the bright tyrannosaurs in mahogany, in maple, and in twine over throw rose meadow over-looks, honey-brimming and warehouse built terrariums in the underbelly of the ravine, twist and turn: road bending, hollowing, in and out and in and out, forever, the everlasting and too fastidious driving towards; and it's but what .2 miles? I sign my name but I'll never get out. I am mocked and musing at tortoise speed. Headless while improvising. Purring at any example of continue or extremity or coolness of mind, meddling, or temptation. I rock, bellowing. Talk, sending shivers up my spine. I'm cramped, and one thousand fore-words and after words that split like a million large chunks of spit, grime, and *****; **** and more ****. I might even be standing now. I could be a candle, in England, a kingdom, in Palo Alto, a rook in St. Petersburg. Mottled by giants or sleepless nights, I could be the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty, a heated marble flower or the figure dying to be carved out. I'm veering off highways, I'm belittling myself: this heathen of the unforgettable, the bog man and bow-tied vagrant of dross falsification and dross despair. I am at the sea shore, tide-righted and tongue-tide, bilingual, and multi-inhibited by sweat, spit, quaffs of sea salt, lake water, and the like. Rotten wergild ridden- stitched of a poor man's ringworm and his tattered top hat and knee-holed trousers. I'm at the sea shore, with the cucumbers dying, the rain coming in sideways, the drifts and the sandbars twisting and turning. I'm at the sea shore with the light house bruise-bending the sweet ships of victory out backwards into the backwaters of a mislead moonlight; guitars playing, beeps disappearing, pianos swept like black coffees on green walled night clubs, arenose and eroding, grainy and distraught, bleeding and well, just bleeding.






I'm at the sea shore, the coastline calling. I've got rocks in my pockets, ******* and two lines left in the letter. I’m at the sea shore, my mouth is a ghost. I've seen nothing but darkness. I'm at the seashore, second picnic table, bench facing the squat and gobble, the tin roof and riled weir near the roadside. .2 and I'm still here with my bouquet wading and waiting. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. My inches are growing shorter by the second, cold, whet by the sunset, its moon men, their heavy claws and bi-laws overthrowing and throwing me out. The thorns stick. The tyrannosaurs scream. I'm at the sea shore, plateau, left bedside to write three more letters. Sign my name and there's nobody here.

I'm at the sea shore: here are my lips, my palms (both of them facing up), here are my legs (twine and all), my torso, and my head shooting sideways. I'm at the seashore and this is my grave, this is my purposeful calotype, my hide and go seek, my show and tell, my forever. .2 and forever and never ending. I was just one dream away come and keep me. I'm at the sea shore come and see me and seam me. I'm without nothing, the sky has drifted, the sea is leaving, my seat is a matchbox and I'm all wound up. The snow settling, the ice box and its glory taken for granted. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. The room with its white sets of furniture, the lilies, the Chanel, the masonite paintings, the bed, your ribbon of darker on light, the throw rug **** carpet, pink walled sister's room, and the couch at the top of the stairs. I'm at the sea shore, my windows opened wide, my skin thrown with threat, rhinoceri, reddish bruises bent of cerise staled sunsets. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. I'm at the plateau and there isn't a single ship. There are the rocks below and I'm counting. My caveats all implored and my goodbyes written. I'm in my bed and the sleep never set in. I'm name dropping God and there's nobody there. I'm in a chair with my hands on a keyboard, listening to Danish throb-rock, horse-riding into candle light on a wicked wedding of wild words and teary-eyed gazes and gazers. Bent by the rocking and the torment, the wild and the weird, the horror and everything horrifying. There is this shadow looking over my shoulder. I'm all alone but I feel like you're here.



Part II




I wake up in Panama. The axe there. Sleeping on the floors in the guest bedroom, the floor of the garden shed, the choir closet, the rut of dirt at the end of the flower bed; just a towel, grayish-blue, alone, lawnmower at my side, and sky blue setting all around. I was a family man. No I just taste bits of dirt watching a quiet and contrary feeling of cool limestone wrap over and about my arms and my legs. Lungs battered by snapping tongues, and ancient conversations; I think it was the Malaysian Express. Mom quieted. Sister quieted. Father wept. And is still weeping. Never have I heard such horrifying and un-kindly words.-----------------------It's going to take giant steel cavernous explorations of the nose, brain cell after brain cell quartered, giant ******* quaffs of alcohol, harboring false lanterns and even worse chemicals. Inhalations and more inhalations. I'm going to need to leap, flight, drop into bodies of waters from air planes and swallow capsules of psychotropics, sedatives beyond recalcitrance. I'm requiring shock treatments and shock values. Periodic elements and galvanized steel drums. Malevolence and more malevolence. Forest walks, and why am I still in Panama. I don't want to talk, to sleep, to dream, to play stale-mating games of chess, checkers, Monopoly, or anything Risk involving. I can't sleep, eat, treaty or retreat. I'm wickeded by temptations of grandeur and threats of anomaly, widening only in proverb and swept only by opposing endeavors. Horrified, enveloped, pictured and persuaded by the evilest of haunts, spirits, and match head weeping women. I can't even open my mouth without hearing voices anymore. The colors are beginning to be enormous and I still can't swim. I couldn't drown with my ears open if I kept my nose dry and my mouth full of a plane ticket and first class beanstalk to elysian fields. It's pervasive and I'm purveyed. It's unquantifiable. It's the epitomizing and the epitome. I have my epaulets set for turbulent battles though I still can't fend off night. Speak and I might remember. Hear and it's second rite. Sea attacks, oceans roaring, lakes swallowing me whole. Grand bodies of waters and faces and arms appendages, crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and I'm still shaking, and I'm still just a button. And I still can't sleep. And I'm still waiting.

It is night. The moon ripening, peeling back his face. Writhing. Seamed by the beauty of the nocturne, his ways made by sun, sky, and stars. Rolled and rampant. Moved across the plateau of the air, and its even and coolly majestic wanton shades of twilight. It heads off mountains, is swept as the plains of beauty, their faces in wild and feral growths. Bent and bolded, indelible and facing off Roman Empires too gladly well in inked and whet tips of bolder hands to soothe them forth.-----------Here in their grand and grandiose furnaces of the heart, whipped tails and tall fables fettered and tarnished in gold’s and lime. Here with their mothers' doting. Here with their Jimi Hendrix and poor poetry and stand-up downtrodden wergild and retardation. I don't give a ****. I could weep for the ***** if they even had hair half as fine as my own. I am real now. Limited by nothing. Served by no worship or warship. My flotilla serves tostadas at full-price. So now we have a game going.-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------  My cowlick is not Sinatra's and it certainly doesn't beat women. As a matter of factotum and of writ and bylaw. I'm running down words more quickly than the stanza's of Longfellow. I'm moving subtexts like Eliot. I'm rampant and gaining speed. Methamphetamine and five star meats. Alfalfa and pea tendrils. Loves and the lovers I fall over and apart on. Heroes and my fortune over told and ever telling. Moving in arc light and keeping a warm glow.

the fish line caves. the shimmy and the shake. Bluegrass music and big wafting bell tones. snakes and the river, hands on the heads, through the hair; I look straight at the Pacific. I hate plastic flowers, those inanimate stems and machine-processed flesh tones. Waltzing the state divide. I am hooked on the intrepid doom of startling ego. I let it rake into my spine. It's hooves are heavy and singe and bind like manacles all over me. My first, my last, my favorite lover. I'm stalemating in the bathtub. Harnessing Crystal Lite and making rose gardens out of CD inserts and leaf covers. I'm fascinated by magic and gods. Guns and hunters. Thieving and mold, and laundry, and stereotypes, and great stereos, and boom-boxes, and the hi-fi nightlife of Chicago, roasting on a pith and meaty flame, built like a horror story five feet tall and laced with ruggedness and small needles. My skin is a chromium orchid and the grizzly subtext of a Nick Cave tune. I've allowed myself to be over-amplified, to mistake in falsetto and vice versa. To writhe on the heavy metallic reverberations of an altercated palpitation. The heart is the lonely hunted. First the waterproof matchsticks, then the water, the bowie knife, crass grasses and hard-necked pitch-hitters and phony friends; for doing lunch in the park on a frozen pond, I play like I invented blonde and really none of my **** even smells like gold.--------------------- There are the tales of false worship. I heard a street vendor sell a story about Ovid that was worse than local politics. As far as intermittent and esoteric histories go I'm the king of the present, second stage act in the shadow of the sideshow. Tonight I'm greeting the characters with Vaseline. For their love of music and their love of philosophy. For their twilight choirs and their skinny women who wear black antler masks and PVC and polyurethane body suits standing in inner-city gardens chanting. For their chanting. The pacific. For the fish line caves. For the buzzing and the kazoos. For the alfalfa and the three fathers of blue, red, and yellow. For the state of the nation. But still mostly working for the state of equality, more than a room for one’s own.-------------------------------------------------------------­------"Rice milk for all of you." " Kensington and whittled spirits."
(Doppelganger enters stage left)MAN: Prism state, flash of the golden arc. Beastly flowers and teeming woodlands. Heir to the throes and heir to the throng.----------------------------------------------------------­--------------- The sheep meadow press in the house of affection. The terns on my hem or the hide in my beak; all across the steel girder and whipping ******* the windows facing out. The mystery gaze that seers the diplopic eye. Still its opening shunned. I put a cage over it and carry it like a child through Haight-Ashbury. At times I hint that I'm bored, but there is no letting of blood or rattle of hope. When you live with a risk you begin at times to identify with the routes. Above the regional converse, the two on two or the two on four. At times for reasons of sadness but usually its just exhaustion. At times before the come and go gets to you, but usually that is wrong and they get to you first. Lathering up in a small cerulean piece of sky at the end turnabout of a dirt road
Molly Nov 2014
Your car is a pressure cooker for sibling combustibility and
you sound pretentious when you call me pretentious so
I turn to look out the window and not at
your smug face but I know that
soon I will turn back and you will not be there.
In your mind
anything that isn't inherently evil
deserves a high five
and it always leaves my palm
stinging,
so I leave you there
with your hand raised
and know that
soon I will raise mine but you will not be there.
You say "I love you" every day
and it always sounds like a joke,
sounds like you're teasing me with the fact that
I have to love you back but even so,
on the days when I refuse to say it to you I know that
soon I will tell you I love you and you will not be there.

I have watched you changed
shoe sizes and
heights and
dreams and
hair cuts and
best friends and
priorities, and
You have been by me through
moving days and
funerals and
breakups and
marriages and
sobbing nights and
cheerful mornings, and
I know that
you are a part of me,
and I know that
soon I will look for that part but you will not be there.
Preemptive sadness about my brother leaving
RAJ NANDY Mar 2016
Dear Poet Friends, and all true lovers of Jazz!  Being a lover of Classical and Smooth Jazz, I had composed first two parts in Verse on the History and Evolution of Jazz Music. Seeing the poor response of the Readers to my Part One here, I was hesitant to post my Second Part. I would request the Readers to kindly read Part One of this True Story also for complete information. Please do read the Foot Notes. With best wishes, - from Raj Nandy of New Delhi.


THE STORY OF JAZZ MUSIC : PART-II
               BY RAJ NANDY

        NEW ORLEANS : THE CRADLE OF JAZZ
BACKGROUND :
Straddling the mighty bend of the River Mississippi,
Which nicknames it as the ‘Crescent City’;
(Founded in 1718 as a part of French Louisiana
Colony),  -
Stands the city of New Orleans.
New Orleans* gets its name from Phillippe II,
Duc d’ Orleans , the Regent of France ;
A city well known for its music, and fondness
for dance.
The city remained as a French Colony until 1763,
When it got transferred to Spain as a Spanish
Colony.
But in the year 1800, the Spanish through a
secret pact, -
To France had once again ceded the Colony back!
Finally in 1803 the historic ‘Louisiana Purchase’
took place ,
When Napoleon the First sold New Orleans and  
the entire Louisiana State, -
To President Thomas Jefferson of the United
States!     * (See notes below)

THE CONGO SQUARE :
The French New Orleans was a rather liberal
place,
Where slaves were permitted to congregate,
For worship and trading in a market place,
But only on Sabbath Days, - their day of rest!
They had chosen a grassy place at the edge of
the old city,
Where they danced and sang to tom-tom beats,
Located north of the French Quarters across the
Rampart Street,
Which came to be known as the Congo Square,
Where one could hear clapping of hands and
stomping of feet!
There through folk songs, music, and varying
dance forms,
The slaves maintained their native African musical
traditions all along!
African music which remained suppressed in the
Protestant Colonies of the British,
Had found a freedom of expression in the Congo
Square by the natives; -
Through their Bamboula , Calanda, and Congo dance!
The Wolof and Bambara people from Senegal River
area of West Africa,
With their melodious singing and stringed instruments,
Became the forerunners of ‘Blues’ and the Banjo.
And during the Spanish Era, slaves from the Central
African Forest Culture of Congo,
Who with their hand-drummed polyrhythmic beats ,
Made people from Havana to Harlem  to rise and
dance on their feet!      
(see notes below)

CULTURAL MIX :
After the Louisiana Purchase , English-speaking
Anglo and African-Americans flooded that State.
Due to cultural friction with the Creoles, the new-
comers settled ‘uptown’,
Creating an American Sector, separate from older
Creole ‘down-town’ !
This black American influx in the uptown had
ushered in,
The elements of the Blues, Spirituals, and rural
dances into New Orleans’ musical scene.
Now these African cultural expressions gradually
diversified, -
Into Mardi Indian traditions, and the Second Line.^^
And eventually into New Orleans’ Jazz and Blues;
As New Orleans became a cauldron of a rich
cultural milieu!

THE CREOLES :
The Creoles were not immigrants but were home-
bred;
They were the bi-racial children of their French
Masters and their African women slaves!
Creole subculture was centred in New Orleans.
But after the Louisiana Purchase of 1803,  -
The Creoles rose to the highest rung of Society! @
They lived on the east of Canal Street in the
French Sector of the city.
Many Creole musicians were formally trained in
Paris,
Had played in Opera Houses there, and later led
Brass Bands in New Orleans.
Jelly Roll Morton, Kid Oliver, and Sidney Bechet
were all famous Creoles;
About whom I now write as this true Jazz Story
gradually unfolds.
In sharp contrast on the west of Canal Street lived
the ***** musicians,
Who lacked the economic advantages the Creoles
possessed and had!
The Negroes were schooled in the Blues, Work Songs ,
and Gospel Music;
And played by the ear with improvisation as their
unique characteristic !
But in 1894 when Jim Crow’s racial segregation
laws came into force,     # (see notes below)
The Creoles were forced to move West of Canal
Street to live with the Negroes.
This mingling lighted a ‘musical spark’ creating
a lightening musical flash;
Igniting the flames of a ‘new music’ which was
later called ‘Jazz’ !

INFLUENCE OF THE EARLY BRASS BANDS:
Those Brass Bands of the Civil War which played the
‘marching tunes’ ,
Became the precursors of New Orleans’ Brass Bands,
which later played at funeral marches, dance halls,
and saloons !
After the end of the Civil War those string and wind
instruments and drums, -
Were available in the second-hand stores and pawn
shops within reach of the poor, for a small tidy sum!
Many small bands mushroomed, and each town had
its own band stand and gazebos;
Entertained the town folks putting up a grand show!
Early roots of Jazz can be traced to these Bands and
their leaders like Buddy Bolden, King Oliver, Bunk
Johnson, and Kid Orley;
Not forgetting Jack 'Pappa' Laine’s Brass Band
leading the way of our Jazz Story !
The Original Dixieland Band of the cornet player
'Nick' La Rocca,
Was the first ever Jazz Band to entertain US Service
Men in World War-I and also to play in European
theatre, came later.     (In 1916)
I plan to mention the Harlem Renaissance in my
Part Three,
Till then dear Readers kindly bear with me!

CONTRIBUTION OF STORYVILLE :
In the waning years of the 19th Century,
When Las Vegas was just a farming community,
The actual ‘sin city’ lay 1700 miles East, in the
heart of New Orleans!
By Alderman Story’s Ordinance of 1897,
A 20-block area got legalized and confined,  
To the French Quarters on the North Eastern side
called ‘Storyville’, a name acquired after him!
This 'red light' area resounded with a new
seductive music ‘jassing up’ one and all;
Which played in its Bordello, Saloons, and the
Dance Halls !         (refer  my Part One)
Now the best of Bordellos hired a House Pianist,
who also greeted guests, and was a musical
organizer;
Whom the girls addressed respectfully as -
‘The Professor’!
Jelly Roll Morton, Tony Jackson author of
‘Pretty Baby’, and Frank ‘Dude’ Amacher, -
Were all well-known Storyville’s ‘Professors’.
Early jazz men who played in Storyville’s Orchestra
and Bands are now all musical legends;
Like ‘King’ Oliver, Buddy Bolden, Kid Orley, Bunk
Johnson, and Sydney Bechet.      ++ (see notes below)
Louis Armstrong who was born in New Orleans,
As a boy had supplied coal to the ‘cribs’ of
Storyville !          ^ (see notes below)
Louis had also played in the bar for $1.25 a night;
Surely the contribution of Storyville to Jazz Music
can never be denied!
But when America joined the First World War in
1917,
A Naval Order was issued to close down Storyville;
Since waging war was more important than making
love the Order had said !
And from the port of New Orleans US Warships
had subsequently set sail.
Here I now pause my friends to take a break.
Part Three of this story is yet to be composed,
Will depend on my Reader’s response !
Please do read below the handy Foot Notes.
Thanks from Raj Nandy of New Delhi.

FOOT NOTES:-
New Orleans one of the oldest of cosmopolitan city of Louisiana, also the 18th State of US, & a major port.
Louisiana was sold by France for $15 Million, & was later realized to be a great achievement of Thomas Jefferson!
Many African Strands of Folk Music & Dance forms had merged at the Congo Square.
^^ ’Second Line Music’= Bands playing during funerals & marches, evoked voluntary crowd participation, with songs and dances as appropriate forming a ''Second Line'' from behind.
@ Those liberal French Masters offered the Creoles the best of Education with access to their White Society!
# ’Jim Crow'= Between 1892 & 1895, 'Blacks' gained political prominence in Southern States. In 1896 land-rich whites disenfranchised the Blacks completely! A 25 year's long hatred
& racial segregation began. Tennessee led by passing the ‘Jim Crow’ Law ! In 1896, Supreme Court upheld this Law with -  ‘’Separate But Equal’’ status for the Blacks. Thus segregation became a National Institution! This segregation divided the Black & White Musicians too!
+ Birth of Jazz was a slow and an evolving process, with Blues and Ragtime as its precursor!    “Jazz Is Quintessence of  Afro-American Music born on European Instruments.”
++ Jelly ‘Roll’ Morton (1885-1941) at 17 years played piano in the brothels, – applying swinging syncopation to a variety of music; a great 'transitional figure' between Ragtime & Jazz Piano-style.
++ BUDDY BOLDEN (1877-1931) = his cornet improvised by adding ‘Blues’ to Ragtime in Orleans  during 1900-1907, which later became Jazz! BUNK JOHNSON (1879-1849 ) = was a pioneering jazz trumpeter who inspired Louis Armstrong.  KID OLIVER (1885-1938) =Cornet player and & a Band-leader, mentor & teacher of Louis Armstrong; pioneered use of ‘mute’ in music! ‘Mute’ is a device fitted to instruments to alter the timber or tonal quality, reducing the sound, or both.
KID ORLEY (1886-1973) : a pioneering Trombonist, developed the '‘tailgate style’' playing rhythmic lines underneath the trumpet & cornet, propagating Early Jazz.  SYDNEY BECHET (1897-1959) = pioneered the use of Saxophone; a composer & a soloist, inspired Armstrong. His pioneering style got his name in the ‘Down Beat Jazz Hall of Fame’! LOUIS ARMSTRONG (1890-1971) = Trumpeter, singer, & great improviser. First international soloist, who took New Orleans Jazz Music to the World!  
% = After America joined WW-I in 1917, a Naval Order was issued to shut-down  Storyville, to check the spread of VD amongst sailors!
^^ ”Cribs”= cheap residential buildings where prostitutes rented rooms. Louis Armstrong as a boy supplied coal in those ‘Cribs’.
During the 1940 s  Storyville was raised to the ground to make way for Iberville Federal Housing Project.
ALL COPYRIGHTS RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR : RAJ NANDY **
E-Mail : rajnandy21@yahoo.in
My love for Jazz Music made me to dig-up its past History and share it with few interested Readers of this Site! Thanks, -Raj
Ashli Jun 2014
i don't mean to offend;
but i dislike funerals
people want to say a few nice words
so they aren't plagued with guilt and they can confess to a corpse
a corpse that can't smile, appreciate or be filled with profound joy
cowards
all of them
to spare the truth when the person can't feel the pain
to speak of love
when the person cant share the same
not even in death we are granted the truth
some people at funerals should just stay mute,
kaye Dec 2014
it was tuesday
when our physics teacher told us
you weren't coming back anymore.
"what?", i said.
i didn't hear him right,
i convinced myself.

they went on talking about the dates
and funerals
and wakes
but i didn't hear a word.

all i heard was the violent beating of my heart
and the rhythmic pounding of my head
and how i never, ever wanted to feel this way again.

and i wondered, if they knew,
that they'd have to bury me soon, too.
wait for me i'm almost there
At funerals eve we lift a glass or two. Ref 015
—————————————————
At funerals eve we lift a glass
To drink to life of our dearest Barbara.

For fighting for life leaves nought to chance
Under such a threat they let you go
Not minding that you were my finest jewel
Engaging through how sweet the nectar flows
Rarely stopping in pursuit of the Wizards too
And fearless did you act and it goes to show
Lesser women fade but not Barbara Browne
She had enough she had enough yes enough

Eventually the strongest boughs will break.
Virtual reality comes to the fore mind  n body
Earth to earth ,ashes to ashes , dust to dust.

Woman of a very extra special beauty note
Even if your face n body are beyond compare

Little hints and wrinkles become so apparent
I could only see the most beautiful of women
Fortune favoured me when I met my Barbara
Twinkling eyes ,a noble hint of sophistication

And an arrogant methodology scary but true

Glasses we would raise upon a nightly phase
Limited as one is to just a long iced cordial
And me ? Well me she poured a *** or scotch
So at funerals eve we lift a glass or two
Summers ,winters,year on year to Barbara.

——————————————————-
Rest In Peace my darling girl. Be not afraid
The tornadoes now released will fade in time

Written by Philip 26/9/2018.
Barbara was a SRN and Midwife, a lifelong supporter of AA. Rescue of those addicted by alcohol and drugs.
She will be well received in heaven.She was my Woman Brave.
RAJ NANDY May 2017
Dear Poet Friends, I had posted Part One of the Story of Jazz Music in Verse few months back on this Site. Today I am posting Part Two of this Story in continuation. Even if you had not read part one of this true story, this one will still be an interesting portion to read especially for all lovers of music, and for knowing about America's rich cultural heritage. I love smooth & cool jazz mainly, not the hard & acid kind! Kindly do read the ‘Foot Notes’ at the end to know how the word ‘Jass’ became ‘Jazz’ way back in History. Hope to bring out a book later with photographs. Thanks, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.


STORY OF JAZZ MUSIC  IN VERSE PART – II

    NEW ORLEANS : THE CRADLE OF JAZZ
BACKGROUND:
Straddling the mighty bend of the River Mississippi,
Which nicknames it as the ‘Crescent City’;
Founded in the year 1718, as a part of French Louisiana
colony.
New Orleans* gets its name from Phillippe II, Duc d’ Orleans,
the Regent of France;
A city well known for its music, and fondness for dance!
The city remained as a French Colony until 1763,
When it got transferred to Spain as a Spanish Colony.
But in 1800, those Spanish through a secret pact,
To France had once again ceded the colony back!
Finally in the year 1803, the historic ‘Louisiana Purchase’
had taken place, -
When Napoleon First of France sold New Orleans and the
entire Louisiana State,
To President Thomas Jefferson of the United States!
(See Notes below)

THE CONGO SQUARE:
The French New Orleans was a rather liberal place,
Where slaves were permitted to congregate,
To worship and for trading in a market place, on
Sabbath Days, their day of rest.
They had chosen a grassy place at the edge of the
old city ,
Where they danced and sang to tom-tom beats,
Located north of the French Quarters across the
Rampart Street;
Which came to be known as the Congo Square,
Where you could hear clapping of hands and
stomping of feet!
There through folk songs, music, and varying dance
forms, -
The slaves maintained their native African musical
traditions all along!
African music which remained suppressed in the
Protestant colonies of the British,
Had found a freedom of expression in the Congo Square
by the natives, -
Through their Bamboula, Calanda, and Congo dance forms
to the drum beats of their native music.
The Wolof and Bambara people from Senegal River of West
Africa, -
With their melodious singing and stringed instruments,
Became the forerunners of ‘Blues’ and the string banjo.
And during the Spanish Era slaves from the Central African
forest culture of Congo, -
Who with their hand-drummed poly-rhythmic beats,  
Made people from Havana to Harlem to rise up and dance
on their feet!   * (see notes below)

CULTURAL MIX:
After the Louisiana Purchase, English-speaking Anglo and
African-Americans flooded that State.
Due to cultural friction with the Creoles, the new-comers
settled ‘Uptown’,
Creating an American sector separate from older Creole
‘Downtown’.
This black American influx ‘Uptown’ brought in the elements
of the blues, spirituals, and rural dances into New Orleans’
musical scene.
These African cultural expressions had gradually diversified,
into Mardi Gras tradition and the ‘Second Line’. ^^ (notes below)
And finally blossomed into New Orleans’ jazz and blues;
As New Orleans became a cauldron of a rich cultural milieu!

THE CREOLES:
The Creoles were not immigrants but were home-bred.
They were the bi-racial children of their French masters
and their African women slaves!
Creole subculture was centred in New Orleans after the
Louisiana Purchase of 1803,
When the Creoles rose to the highest rung of society!
They lived on the east of Canal Street in the French
Sector of the city.   @ (see notes below)
Many Creole musicians were formally trained in Paris.
Played in opera houses there, and later led Brass Bands
in New Orleans.
Jelly Roll Morton, Kid Oliver, and Sidney Bechet were
famous Creoles,
About whom I shall write as this Story unfolds.
In sharp contrast on the west of Canal Street lived the
***** musicians;
But they lacked the economic advantages the Creoles
already had!
They were schooled in the Blues, Work songs, and Gospel
music .
And played by the ear with improvisation as their unique
characteristic,
As most of them were uneducated and could not read.
Now in 1894, when Jim Crow’s racial segregation laws
came into force,       # (see notes below)
The Creoles were forced to move west of Canal Street to
live with the Negroes!
This racial mingling lighted a ‘musical spark’ creating a
lightening flash, -
Igniting the flames of a ‘new music’ which was later came
to be known as JAZZ !

CONTRIBUTION OF STORYVILLE :
In the waning years of the 19th Century, when Las Vegas
was just a farming community,
The actual ‘sin city’ lay 1,700 miles East, in the heart of
New Orleans!
By Alderman Story’s Ordinance of 1897,  a 20-block area
had got legalised and confined, -
To the French Quarters on the North Eastern side called
‘Storyville’,   - a name which was acquired after him.
This red light area resounded with a new seductive music
‘jassing up’ one and all;
Which played in its bordellos, saloons, and dance halls!
The best of bordellos hired a House Pianist who greeted
guests and was also a musical organizer;
Whom the girls addressed respectfully as ‘The Professor’!
Jelly Roll Morton++, Tony Jackson author of  ‘Pretty Baby’,
and Frank ‘Dude’ Amacher, -
Were all well known Storyville’s  ‘Professors’!
Early jazz men who played in Storyville’s Orchestras and Bands
now form a part of Jazz Legend;
Like ‘King’ Oliver, Buddy Bolden, Kid Orley, Bunk Johnson,
and Sydney Bechet.    ++ (see notes below)
Louis Armstrong who was born in New Orleans, as a boy had
supplied coal to the ‘cribs’ of Storyville!   ^ (see notes)
He had also played in the bar for $1.25 a night,
Surely the contribution of Storyville to Jazz cannot be denied!
But when America joined the First World War in 1917,
A Naval Order was issued to close down Storyville!   % (notes)
Since waging war was more important than making love,
this Order had said;
And from the port of New Orleans the US Warships had
set sail!
Here I pause my friends to take a break, will continue
the Story of Jazz in part three, at a later date.
                                               -Raj Nandy, New Delhi
FOOT NOTES :-
NEW ORLEANS one of the oldest cosmopolitan city of Louisiana,
the 18th State of US , & a  major port city.
LOUISIANA was sold by France for $15 million, which was later
realised to be a great achievement of President Jefferson.
*Many African strands of Folk music and dance had merged at the
Congo Square!
^^ ‘SECOND LINE MUSIC’ = Bands playing during Funerals & Marches evoked voluntary crowd participation, with songs & dances as appropriate forming a ‘Second Line’ from behind.
@ =THOSE LIBERAL FRENCH MASTERS OFFERED THE CREOLES THE BEST OF EDUCATION WITH ACCESS TO WHITE SOCIETY!
#’JIM CROW’= between 1892&1895, blacks gained political prominence in Southern States. In 1896 LAND-RICH WHITES DISENFRANCHISED THE BLACK COMPLETELY! A 25 YRS LONG HATRED &RACIAL SEGREGATION BEGAN. TENNESSEE LED BY PASSING ‘JIM CROW LAW’. IN 1896, THE SUPREME COURT UPHELD THIS LAW WITH ITS ‘’SEPARATE BUT EQUAL’’ STATUS FOR THE BLACKS ! THUS SEGREGATION BECAME A NATIONAL INSTITUTION. THIS SEGREGATION DIVIDED THE BLACK & WHITE MUSICIANS ALSO.
+ BIRTH OF JAZZ WAS A SLOW AND EVOLVING PROCESS, WITH BLUES AND RAGTIME AS ITS PRECURSORS . “JAZZ WAS QUINTESSENCE OF AFRO-AMERICAN MUSIC BORN ON EUROPEAN INSTRUMENTS.”  See my ‘Part One’ for definitions.
++ JELLY ‘Roll’ Morton (1885-1941): At 17 yrs played piano in the brothels, applying swinging syncopation to a variety of music; a great Transitional Figure- between Ragtime & Jazz Piano-style.  ++ BUDDY BOLDEN (1877-1931): His cornet improvised by adding ‘Blues’ to Ragtime in Orleans; which between the years 1900 & 1907 transformed into  Jazz! BUNK JOHNSON (1879-1849): pioneering jazz trumpeter, inspired Louis Armstrong; lost all teeth & played with his dentures! KING OLIVER(1885-1938): Cornet player & bandleader, mentor& teacher of Louis Armstrong; pioneered use of ‘mute’ in music. KID ORY(1886-1973): a pioneering Trombonist, he developed the ‘tailgate style’ playing rhythmic lines underneath the trumpet & the cornet, propagating early Jazz !
SYDNEY BECHET (1897-1959): pioneered the use of SAX; a composer & a soloist, he inspired Louis Armstrong. His pioneering style got his name in the Down Beat Jazz Hall of Fame!
Louis Armstrong(1890-1971): was a trumpeter, singer and a great
improviser. Also as the First International Soloist took New Orleans music to the World!
% = After  America joined WW-I in 1917,  a Naval Order was issued to shutdown Storyville in order to check the spread of VD amongst sailors.
^ ’cribs”= cheap residential buildings where prostitutes rented rooms.
# "JASS" = originally an Africa-American slang meaning ‘***’ ! Born in the brothels of Storyville (New Orleans)  & the Jasmine perfumes used by the girls there; one visiting them was  said to be 'jassed-up' . Mischievous boys rubbed out the letter ‘J’ from posters outside announcing  "Live Jass Shows'', making it to read as ‘'Live *** Shows'’! So finally ‘ss’ of ‘jass’ got replaced by 'zz' of JAZZ .
DURING THE 1940s  STORYVILLE  WAS RAISED TO THE GROUND TO MAKE WAY FOR ‘IBERVILLE FEDERAL HOUSING PROJECT’ .
  *
ALL COPYRIGHTS RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR : RAJ NANDY
Francie Lynch Apr 2015
I've been at hundreds of funerals
Standing beside Fathers
Soon to be posted to Peru
Or to missions for black African babies.
They'd sprinkle caskets like Spring rains,
Burn incense to smudge the dead
With rising smoke signals.
Sounding the advance.
I witnessed pain in the front pews,
The kneelers with thin cushioning.
I prayed fervently for a whosh of wind
To sweep behind me,
Billow my soutane,
  And lift the lid;
Prayed for the candle flame to flare,
For the body to rise
As Rathgar did.
He was a faker.
Not like what I saw.
Up close.
On Friday mornings.
Rathgar Lothbrok: See final episode of this season's "Vikings."
vanessa ann Apr 2020
what they don’t tell you about funerals is that nothing ever feels real in that too-cold room. not the flowers. not the food. not the rooms in the back your uncles stayed in to keep watch. not the ill-fitting white t-shirt your father made you purchase yesterday. not the sad smile on your grandmother’s face instead of her usual bright ones. and certainly not the dead body of your grandfather in the epicenter, still as the corpse he is and none like the grandparent you grew up with.

there was no such thing as an open casket in your family, which was good, you suppose. it’d be too much to see his face without his usual frown. the smell was off. like tea and incense and flower petals—the ones you used to bathe the buddhist statues at the vihara every new year.

the catered pork ribs taste like sandpaper. you keep waiting for the buttery taste of your grandfather’s recipe to hit your tongue but you are met with msg. it was one of the many disappointments you encountered in those three days, three absences from school. none of your friends checked up on you further than to offer their “deepest condolences”. your crush has not texted you back. you drink bottled mineral water as your mother fights with your father, whose father had just died, again.

by the time the ceremony comes you are confronted with the gold of the casket up close. you wonder if it was real gold. a few hours ago your little cousins, yet to understand the concept of death, tugged at your sleeves and asked when grandpa would be home. you sealed your lips shut and let your younger cousin handle them like she always does. because you’re not ready to admit that you don’t understand death either; not in second grade when the dragonfly your classmates cruelly stomped on no longer flew, not even less than a month later, when your other grandfather passes.

you whisper words of prayer in the mother tongue you no longer remember. your cousin sheds a tear in front of you and you wonder if it’d be appropriate to console her now. you think about how much your kneecaps hurt from kneeling for a long time. your aunt’s cries perfectly masked the buzzing phone you sneaked into your pocket. later that night, your third uncle told everyone that he saw his father-in-law welcomed by guan yin herself; you wonder if it was true, or merely another lie adults tell kids and themselves to feel better about the nonsensical nature of mortality.

what they don’t tell you about funerals is how much like a fever dream they are. when the proceedings are over you drive straight home. home smells like home and your maid made your bed like usual. the stuffed bear on your pillow has not moved since the morning. it is 11 pm, and your mother yells at you to sleep soon because your grandfather may be a jar of ashes stored in vihara but you have school tomorrow. it is time to go to bed.
—when life goes on but a loved one's had come to a standstill
Connor Jul 2016
And it's difficult to remember something as the very name of Eisenhower
Or flowerbaskets
And tired movies made of silicone and
Aftersex
Or sixteen candles echoing out of an imaginary suite with cigarettes at every table
And green lawns
Barbershop conversation
The reflection of the sun in special trees
Or my best friend Jesus Christ
Or the smell of the theater that one day with the cynics who just got back from a tennis match and barbwire still laced delicately around their thoughts and
Nihilism
And automotives
And priestess Jane or Henry's gloomy doppelganger who reads alternative magazines and loves the aesthetics behind broken glass
And fine tuned musical instruments

It's difficult to remember
Lonesome Fridays smoking on a park bench trying to finish the puzzle
Or synagogues you've never been in
Or insurance
Or newspaper articles detailing the misadventures of Mr. City
(Of course of course! Take your shoes off at the door and make yourself at home)
We're tossing all our sewage into the ocean
that's far from clean as it
LOOKS anymore these days
That's anything
And everything except for the glowing mountains seen faded and wintry behind Apartments and the
"Glorious Mexican House of Spices"
Never been in there either

It's difficult to remember
Times of Mr Twin Sister
Or Joan Jett in the hallway
In a highschool who's psychology classrooms have become a time capsule in the ground/
Or the gentle skinny ******
Wearing Broadway makeup and
Kafka tattooed on his shoulder
I like his hat
He looks at me suspiciously
Or the guy who is yelling his order at the counter when it's quiet here anyways
Or the mariner who has a hobby of the saxophone
Or 1970s *******
Or the sheepskin bikeseat fad that's yet to come but I'm predicting it now!
Or two dollars and twentyseven cents at the beginning of Allen Ginsberg's America
"I've given you all and now I'm nothing"

It's difficult to remember
The Oriental
Sacramento flies
Midnight Moon
Quarter to four
"The Immortalization Commission"
Remodelled hotels downtown
Where mandalas on the floor became a
Tiger lily luminous
And the kimono is yesterday's painting/
Dearest Darling
When I was feeling down!
A staircase in reverse (??)
The sound a kiss makes
It's difficult to remember
Colleen's earrings
Or Washington State
Or air conditioners in Bali
The Indian ocean's daybreak hymn
To Seminyak
Or whatever happened to Steve from the Airplane out of Taiwan
On 3 days awake
Hello Kitty nursing stations
****** (Kubrick's version)
Cardboard taking up half my bedroom
It's difficult to remember until I jot it down and then its a sudden forever
Sunshine Superman in a cafe spontaneous
drawings with someone I just met who has some ******* attitude/
Who hops fences and has feral ideas
People! En Masse! Te Amo!
You're all in wolven liberty
And vague postulators
And holy prostitutes for the dollar
Sad eyed intellectuals
With undergarments made of breakfast cereal/
Seaferry poetry is different from
Trestle in August poetry
Or henna handshakes
Or the Napoleonic era
Sweet Cherry Pie
The tulip's tongue
Garabajal
Cloudy first day of July
Was hotter yesterday
But not too hot

It's difficult to remember
Antiquity
The pale horse Studebaker outside the clinic
With a glossy red trim and **** I wish that was my ride
Andy Warhol's exploding plastic inevitable
Nearsightedness
Angels and their ability to shower with a a snap of their fingers
Distant harp music
Better him than me
Bananas almost ripe
Green aquatic
Reclusive junkies
Palomo's appliances
Questions for the next time
How much I like what you like and how I like that you like what I like
Ahh that's not my bus
I'm trying to get to the city!
That one quote Socrates is known for about knowing nothing as true wisdom
Supermarkets being built on top of liquor stores burned down a while back
Monopolies
Tragedies
"No Love Lost"
THE HOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL
Your guess is as good as mine
Never tried to eat Asian food in Asia
It was all pasta and good cider that tasted like pineapple
Rain hitting the window and I'm
Drowsy again
God Save The Trees!
Curly hair looks good on boys
Torn up blinds
Queer as a three dollar bill
If Bill costs 3 dollars I'm sure he's caught something better safe than sorry
Sage advice
I'm the very model of a modern major general
Golden yen and international currency
Incense in the bedroom and how good it smells
There's my bus! Applying for a better job than the one I got now
But that's how it always is right?
Chasing satisfaction
1007 apt
Porch ornaments
Unique names
Unique style le style
The extra charge on foreign ATMs
Cordoroy polo shirts
Flooding in New York!
When someone's face screams *******
"Slippery when wet"
Dine N Dash
Grass gone yellow
Confidence in dyed hair and capes as long as wedding gowns
But less expensive
Doors that always seem to be locked and I'm wondering 20 year later what's behind them?
Albino animals
White thoughts as clouds or
Abstractions
Weathers nicer in Florida but who cares
Festivities this early in the day
Automatopeia
Do sad orphanages still exist?
Just like the movies
Midnight in mirrors
That sick puppet at the shoe shop used
To know how to really hammer it down
And now he's weak and forgotten
Never heard the words of a true prophet only Oceania
Or the private temple near Apollo Bay
Like Japanese gardens behind that gate
Will I ever see it
Make a proud example outta ya misbehavior
Form without function
Exhausted spiritualism
*** Kettle Black
negative photographs of dark rooms
And there's laughing coming from SOMEWHERE
Essays on kleptomania
Had a bad dream I became a cliche
Surrounded by other freaks and there was a lovely ***** I fell in love with her
We married in Oregon by the sea her name was rosy
***** rosy
Check your mailbox for nails
And what you don't wanna hear/
If you were a vegetable you'd be organic!
Empire
Satirical bubble gum
Satori
Linda Lovelace and her special party trick
That's someone's fantasy
Diamond in the rough
Mister guy with two black eyes frequents the adult playhouse
Hes fully stocked on fishnet leggings
He's too proud to put them on himself but
Has nobody else around
Boo hoo
Swigs back the whiskey and trips down the stairs getting a third black eye in the process
Marion came by with her dog the other day
Wanted her box of clothes back but he loved to sniff them to remember her
But she wouldn't have it

"Honey I'm going to call the police!"

"Ah they don't give a **** they have bigger things to worry about"

"Yeah you got that right shrimp **** enjoy my unwashed *******"

And she never came back again
He started losing the vertebrae in his spine 1 by 1 and you know where this is going
I won't say he was a poor man because he had it all coming to him the *******
But he coulda had a better start if you ask me.

It's difficult to remember
And even more difficult to forget
After the fact

Seagull opera
Giganticism
Portrait of the artist as a young man
Losing one's pencil when the best idea of your life drops down from heaven and into your sorry head
Signs graffitied to have funnier meanings
Cruelty
Impassive
The Loyal Lioness
And Bangladesh has too many kitchens
And not enough dishes
When I was young I used to say Island as "is-land"  
Which is true it is land
But the Europeans probably stole it from somebody else anyways/
I left my future behind
And objects in the mirror are closer than they appear
Im no illusionist
I'm terrified of the cracken
Father feels the same way about
Hotels
Why bother/
This has been going on and on for a while are you tired yet
Is your patience being tested
Mine isn't because this wasn't an all-at-once kind of rambling
It's extremely important to laugh at least
Once a day
Otherwise you'll find yourself a politician
In no time at all
Rockefeller
(         ) Quaint home to die in
I think
Trains create great music
Float on
Sink into yourself
Roses in a crooked alley
That's people
Busy busy busy busy
Let's describe a situationist
I'm not a fan of bright colors on clothes
Your best shade is blue
Bricklayers transcription of Don Quixote to a skyscraper
Rocket thyme
& Garden
Erratic children's
Insomnia
The doorbell repeatedly
Vancouver riots/ I saw that live on the news!
Pictionary with the surrealists
N Dada TV set MC Escher
Antenna
You're in the Twilight Zone now
Dear Ramona
I'm trying to make it up to you
With a brightness only seen when you're ready to see it so please for the love of God don't blame me when it's not appearing
The tapestry hidden
Keep your blankets clean
And avoid hospitals unless you're fine with fishbowls & the halogen
The water gestapo
Storage lockers full of unacted plays and
Antique microwaves
Emitting the nostalgia of the cold war era
And what a waste of time that was /
Walter Wanderleys presence in Autumn universities
The opening of Vivre sa Vie
Salvador Dali's pluvial taxi
Lightbulb epiphanies
Aquariums and their protestors
Zebras in the shade
Two wrongs dont make a right
Elizabethan theater
Saloon shootouts in a fever dream
I lost and bled out all over the rustic wooden floor
A maiden reached out for me and El Paso did play I woke up and pretended nothing happened/
Funerals for bad People who did bad things
My first memory of a cat beneath the mattress
Hello Dolly!
Auditory learning
Psychotherapy
Lillian the landlady lost her ladle and labeled little Lyle as a lair
The Black panther movement
Reading symposium some years ago and
Making note that Phaedo was still my favorite dialogue/
Zen Buddhism
Xoxo xoxo
The day Gypsies were replaced with
Surface ****** appetite
And not the real thing
Newspaper clippings
Hypnotism when all other options are out
Mystical visions of sidewalks
And the love of your life stepping through a door you've never seen
Maybe Yes No I Don't Know
Creature comforts
Che Guevara's problem is that his beard made him too easy to recognize
(Also that little hat!)
Chinese cough medicine didn't work
For long I still wheeze sometimes
Domestic violence thru the wall
Ceiling fan probably doesn't even work!
Dimpled laughter
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
In skytrains to Commercial
Bermuda in her mind
And courtesy in her voice
I'm no Arthur Rimbaud
But you already knew that
Alcazar of Seville
Filling up the shipbottle
Here's your paradise
Now relinquish it as it is
False!
Hare Krishna
Nowhere Fast
El Diablo and the
Portofino loaf left rotting on the countertop
Latin children speak of the sacred viper
You'll hear of it after this but we'll never see what the ******* meant
Heads alternating round the social current
Of my lively city
There's a dog soaking up the rain
And songs are made in honor of
Recent catastrophes
Trials are dealt
Cards cast to the gutter
New York quiets down for the news of another war
You scratch my back I'll scratch yours
Skeleton key
Ballad of the last wailing zoo
THE ATRIUM
Complexity in simplicity
That's how Brainard got me!
Elderly overcoats
Hiding purest LSD
Is a fan of Hawaiian T shirts
And a communist
What if I was a Freemason
Or owned a tanning salon
Faint crimson
What did Marv look like again?
"You're surrounded by people who love you"
Coffee when one needs it
GOODBYE BLUE MONDAY
Tattoos on the wandering man
Oriental chimes and the people who own them
Bus stop regulars
Vines overtaking power lines
The hypnogogic state
Strawberry light softening
The mind
Sister Ray LOUDLY PROCLAIMING
doitdoitdoitdoit
Passing the graffiti n Pluto neon
Halal wide awake another Saturday
Where's the Karaoke
Flashing by here
Those who find comfort in a bridal scavenger hunt
Or expensive beer
And here comes the hooded clown
Clamoring about his favorite
Loudspeaker
Telling me my time is soon and the noise
Drowns out the drowsy bliss
After hour spirits the perfect time for
Writing and trying to read distant Chinese
Indecision on the tip of the tongue
"NOW WHO IS THAT KNOCKING
ON THE CHAMBER DOOR?
COULD IT BE THE POLICE?"

I'm completely off the topic
And into Apartment lobby photosets
Low battery phone calls
Confessions
Nauseated reverb
Trying to see the attachment people got with bingo halls
And moving companies
Ah no luck again
Eve is at it with her showtunes
Halfway methodology
Triage
Paisley headbands left
Distraught on the quivering
Heater
Dwindling sunsets
We're truly disciples of the moon spirit which grants us more energy
(This is according to a drunk I met one night)
Or ***** old men
When the horizon is engulfed with
A winking cinder
Suitcase at the door
Last time
First time
Magician never reveals his fetishes
(They all have to do with bags under your eyes)
Employment office dramas of my friend the one who blinded a social worker
And the one who blamed Islam
And the one whos philosophy entirely consisted of Spooky Action at a
                                            DISTANCE
Parisian riots
Queer youth
Didn't make the team! Jester
'cross the hall who's beard suggests
Ishmeal n car battery n expired vegetables n rain which crosses the line n
***** cranberry n
Poorly fitted suits n
Harsh pigment n incense shops n
Bocca     secret towns
With churches more beautiful than any you'd find in your own city
n the cultural market
Xylophone ear to ear
Soul cleansing starting at only
$89 (with a 6 month guarantee)
Sophie's birthday and her picnic at Victory Park
The nearby bums trying to sell tea mugs and
Loose wires beside gated convenience stores
I'm an Island away attempting a poem
And never bought a scratch n win
Or heard the same song more than seven times in a row or been in a column
Or escaped the washhouse
Invested in a birdcage for next year
Been to a palm reading
Visited Oasis
Smoked salmon
Told anyone else about Montana
Screamed the things I'd like to scream
** Word of the day
Or kissed a lunatic or swallowed the corpse of yesterday
I keep her on my neck until
I'm too anxious to let go
Counting streetlights
Jeans worn in and faded to be sent off to
A lonely caffeine addict
Christmas Eve I'll be reading a postcard from San Francisco
Asking the same questions
My imagination is made of a different material than last week
Now it's the same color as your hair
HEY that's a good pickup line to use in the heart of the Canadian Embassy
Drinking discarded music resembling a sweater you may have said YES to if it wasn't so unsure of itself
And now Mr. Acker Bilk ascends thru the window of an August home
Like a lazy hornet
I'm still lost without identification
Or a nice belt
As happens when one uses a quality item too casually
How did uphill suddenly seem so downhill?
I'll claim a waterfall
For SALE that inevitable Indonesia
Greyhound O another greyhound O another greyhound
I'm fretting too much about not enough
Delayed the Airport and the yellow question

????

II

What if I knew how to read the curb?
Or translate drunken droll
What if I was never tired again and could
REALLY do anything I set my mind to?
What if I was the first cigarette that cured cancer instead of caused it?
What if I could end superstition
And walk underneath any ladder I wanted?
What if I could make it with a young Audrey Hepburn!?
What if I stopped pretending to be a microphone and got on with "it"
What if the grocery store closed later
And I opened earlier?
What if parking lots werent so sad
All the time?
What if gravity simply had enough of exotic birds and specifics?
What if we stopped trying to recreate what is truly lost?
What if foreign children embraced
Wasting time instead of
Midnight starry bicycles
And the antics of a monk
Disguised as a romantic?

There are those that worship God
And those who worship the Sun
And those who worship nothing at all
But I suppose on the last bus
We're all the same exhausted
Voice who can't wait for next pay day
What is an empty bank?
Or authenticity
What is there to prove anymore?
I hope I don't die tonight and regret
Being impulsive for once
You're a smart shadow
And a dull character
Pushing the last of the daisies
Get the lamp to turn on again
Give the pavement something to look forward to with your walk
Be consistent in being inconsistent
If there's a word there's a ***** and a poem for it!
We all oughta worship
Nothing at all except
Clarity
Compassion with ones neighbor who either forgot the pay the electricity bill or couldn't afford to
We're a swimmin
Written between late June to July 13th.
Chris Slade May 2019
The Avro Vulcan, a majestic big old iron bird, sublime,
was to do a flyby for just one memorable last time.
Maybe with a jet fighter or a Spitfire on each wing, who knew?…
Unthinkable to miss it… almost a crime.
Thousands turned up every year, always a great day out -
but this year would be special, there'd be no doubt.
The last flight of such a legendary plane made it essential…
So, after the flyers’ break for lunch, the crowd filled out.

The entry fee to occupy the field was heinous. 25 quid!
That was for adults - and a fiver for each kid.
So, many more than those that paid, sat happily outside pubs.
Others found shelter in the perimeter’s trees and... kinda hid.
Now, to see a Vulcan fly anytime, anywhere, was magic…
She was a Leviathan of the Cold War,
that held players in the planet’s power games in awe.
And this would be her last time doing the rounds on the air show circuit -
Seeing this locally was hard to ignore.

Mark (a nephew) was a window cleaner by trade.
A regular, down to earth, happy go lucky guy.
…Saturday comes and the kids all voted "McDonalds"…
“A Happy Meal!” they’d cry.
He said that was fine - they’d all go after he’d nipped over
to the airshow to watch the Vulcan fly.
No idea whatsoever, of course, that just by going to Shoreham
just 5 miles away, for half an hour or so… that he might die.

He told his fiancé he’d only be an hour or so…
be back in time to take the kids for a burger and, "NO!"...
He wouldn’t stay. He was the only one in the family
who was bothered anyway…so he wouldn’t ****** up their day.
So, in haste, because apparently Chicken Nuggets & Fries
was much better for the kids than a load of old planes,
he cranked the best out of his bike along the 27 and,
once at the lights by the Sussex Pad,
he pulled over to the kerb to watch from the bushes.
Good view? Well not bad!

Andy Hill was a flyer of many years. His weekday job,
flying for BA.Taking holiday makers, business folk, transatlantic in Seven Four Sevens...
A flight deck maestro, soaring up, just under the heavens.
He’d done Shoreham loads of times… it was exciting, exhilarating... almost sport, his game!
He was off the hook,  became an ace. It gave him that 15 minutes of fame!
Free to thrill - a hero! Standing out from the crowd with every daring step. His aim!

He wasn’t just a petrol head… this bloke had aviation fuel in his blood.
Adrenalin on tick-over. Nought to 60 in 2.7 seconds with 22,000 Horsepower under the hood.
He left Epping full of fuel, just 90 miles away, so in two ticks he was with us, fully loaded and, the weather? It was good.
First up after lunch at half past one… he streaked across the crowded field.
Over and out and up, up, up… Little did the spectators know that Andy had forgotten he was flying a Hunter…
He thought it was last year’s aborted routine in a Jet Provost… The one they'd stopped part way through being, too risky.

"He’s not gonna make it… I can’t look!" There was a hush… a nanosecond’s silence and then the rush,
the whoomph that said it all… that hush! The ground shook!
And the eleven - plus others injured - went up in Andy Hill’s very own fireball!
No, of course, Mark wasn’t the only one to die that day.
Ten other ‘innocents’ left us in pretty much the same way…
Maurice, Dylan, Tony, Matthew, Matt, Graham, Mark R, Daniele, Richard & Jacob.
Mark T, our Mark, had the distinction of having two funerals, not just the one…
More remains were discovered, analysed and found to be his!
Even after he’d…already well... ‘gone’.

The injustice that eleven spectators or just passers by should die
when the survivor, the off target driver, who sped too low from the sky, should, after a suitable pause in this ghoulish game, be exonerated and not take any blame.
Well it’s all sort of things… It's ridiculous, pathetic, obtuse, a joke… who do they think we are?

But the great and the good deliberated, scratched their heads and worked hard to make everything look ’right’…
Tolerance for the bereaved to grieve, platitudes, condescending attitudes, a memorial service.
Thanks - genuinely - to the emergency services… Not just a little buck-passing… But the public often judged them. Arsing about - to cover their corporate backside.
They can’t insult me (or us)… intelligent people have tried…

Andy Hill was judged to be not guilty of 11 counts of manslaughter by gross negligence.
But he claimed he blacked out in the air, having experienced ‘cognitive impairment’ brought on by hypoxia … possibly due to the effects of G-force…. Of course!
The 11 were either hit by the plane or roasted in a fireball caused when the jet flew too low and too slow. But if it wasn’t Andy’s fault then whose was it?

Surely this can’t be the end of this travesty of justice!!

BUT, there IS a new memorial to the dead. And, trust this...it’s a good one too…  The best that money can buy - and that anyone can do.

But there's is also a very bitter taste, still today…
that somehow... just won’t go away!
This is a bit of a saga... But I think it's worth it...On August 22nd 2015 there was a disaster at Shoreham Air Show, West Sussex... on the south coast of England and eleven people died. A loop the loop, too low and too slow. The pilot lived and recovered from his injuries and was found not guilty of eleven counts of manslaughter by gross negligence.
cody metcalfe Jan 2010
The beginning of the beginning stage.

In the patterns that my lack of wisdom supports itself with.
Inside of course of my social blinds; and excuse depraved mind.
Yes locked or latched with what you could picture a key,
which has encrypted in its’ gold textures; certainly not pure gold the words, “Good Luck Son.”
Yes a story of unimaginable setbacks, woes, blows, deception so thick that it doesn’t dwindle to meagerness, but yet modifies like a brain being corrected by an assault on the body.
Yes, in the darkness of these patterns a trust in heroes runs rampant enough to muster conquest, and loss, and redemption soured by lust, and open warfare, and crime in it’s purity, in it’s raw form.
Yes, in these patterns created by lack of youthful imagination crucified if you will out of my conscience behavior tracking skills. A light breaks upon my sins,
and yields itself to a pattering method,
and then there is the plot of guts, blood, spit, tears, sweat, beads of dirt from a worked land,
that seems itself to be more ill-tempered than the folks that share its majestic worth.
These patterns only call out to the insane, and to the loathed, and the forsook, and the poor.
I haven’t caught the demons floundering down the dirt road in East Texas with their tails wagging stirring hot dust particles into the sun light atmosphere.
Now when the description techniques take effect in these patterns; the developed story, yes utterly developed in its’ entirety always in content,
and smiling boisterous to the meek,
and ragged dressed in search for their Sunday school Classroom.
End of the beginning stage
Here we are again in this surreal manner seeing first hand a triumph understood and fabled about in the Southern Grotesque shadows that are still apparent at noon,
at noon my good; well, carry on the well, carry on.

The Beginning of the middle.

The young ****** girl we call her a ***** now a days,
  
cause we had the Scopes Monkey Trial once or twice up in Tennessee I think.

She leaps and bounds and then abides to Christ for an instant, like my speech under oath.

She wrinkles her sections of her lips and blow a kiss to the huge white man lurking in the truck a block back.

The white man loves cigarettes towards abatement and then to City Hall.

The young ****** gal,

fell to a seat like it was grace that fixed the radio in the truck or some last twist or turn or **** from her little decreased hand.

The voice of the white man calling back to her,

singled out her emotional distress,

she always seems as if she has be ***** by this white fellow.

Now well I might have lost some folks by this point,

Now well I got to get to the ****** boy,

Yes well let’s see he carries a cursed burden so bad that every acquaintance felt afterward that this boy had picked a fight…

he moped oblivious to the sowed seeds he made desecrated in all truth. No one every pointed out that there is the place where you are supposed to bleed,

No one said, sonny boy right there is the place where you can be saved,

Nothing was delivered to him at Christmas, and it all went to his ***** sister. So therefore

He came upon the scene with this summer rain gesturing fun, and misery all under this sun.

Now well a thunderous voice came out of the church side windows, which were down,

Actually dismissing the pulpit, now well the bigot thundered, “ I want the fire, I want the praise. Stand up,

I want the fire, I want the praise!” The predicament that willowed the **** in the mouth of the skipping

****** boy, in all his glee and grandeur, caused him to straddled the wired fence on the other side of the truck.

Some would call this a grievance to accolades of vengeances long over due, and over due,

The dogs run free in these parts,

that’s just the simple truth.

But this is the beginning of the middle,

The cotton patch circles the road like a rubber tire on its rim,

And trust was never interracial enough to bide the will of saints on the cusp

Of revenge.

The ****** roared, “Get behind thee satan, or some ****, and some **** it was,

The kiddo trip over himself and tangled his way to the feet of the white man,

Who kindly picked him up, and said,

“not only can your sister **** a good ****, she can fix transistor radios’.”

The church service let out in one small horde to the capture the tensions of one of the old American lime lights befuddling Uncle Sam.

Uncle Sam is no pun, he’s a gentlemen to both the North, and the South.

Sos’ with one huge crack the white man fractured the ****** boy’s jaw,

“Good ole boy, get on back to the picking!”

The next stage of the middle

The folklore of shame added to disgrace is looming,
What can one man do when beaten, left for this effect,
“Bubba can’t walk no either,” said a white eyed spectator,
Angels have no trace here,
no trepidation here,
in my lack luster,
Thoughts,
edges of justice tampered torn by impatience at God,
At the Good Lord.
Let’s see I am the son of a clerk,
A nerd to salvation, and more so a nerd in general.
I called for nerves,
In the nerves that were yet,
to be nerves,
and for that fire on the water,
“where’s the,
Hearkening cries that shudder the barns with frantic frolicking of fire men,
and police men,
The, law say psst, where’s the ******* laws!” I laughed to myself I wasn’t in cahoots with the ******,
or the ***** girl who had began to come back for her brother,
but I wasn’t asking a soul to come in and take my place,
if ya, if ya, if ya get my drift hood wink!
Whoa ay,
my indignant monologues must have jived and then shook,
I was to cool for this,
I was to ready to step up in the world,
lo,
behold,
a pale rider,
“The sheriff, from the south, beware Isaac,” I told myself, “beware.”
The girl slithered like snakes to her bother;
her souls bearings were now plastic, and latched under the arms of the fallen boy.
The rain hastened,
then came stronger,
and then the congregation split as the Sheriff took ground.
I scurried like the rodents, and joined the congregation.
The white man, pulled his gun, and shot the sheriff in the stomach.
“It will heal,” the sheriff hands ******.
The truck was gone,
both ******* and all.

The Middle Stage of the Middle.


The river winds and brings enriches through the earth first,
and second in humanly attributes,
Frankness took to front face of the town,
and the outskirts wailed like someone had burned their property,
Dogs still ran free,
cause that is what happens around here,
and I played a harmonica,
and steel guitar,
Serenity which found facets to seep regardless of where the kidnapped traveled,
and the kidnappers force,
spelled a gearing up for a manhunt,
and even possibly a trial.
The mother of the two kiddos that were gobbled out of the town,
worked for a shyster,
and crook keeping his sanctuary wooden like,
and contemporary.
She had the knack that clings to most maidens middle aged and nudged by bouts of,
Grace.
Like a parasite,
which is the whistling you hear,
some hymn,
hymns,
from passed down relics,
called family.
The crime that spindled like the pap she knew setting down to slumber without meaning to,
Was a embezzlement crisis,
piped from the corner store,
to a small methamphetamine lab,
harboring the man Ms. Clawdy worked for,
until the cops were scarce it was hard to grasp for the town,
and anyway the sweet anyway of my sigh as my mother,
and the preacher were in my bedroom making love when I came in from the lake.
It sounded like she was faking it,
I am pretty sure,
but I am so badly endowed that its hard to believe that,
well,
I hadn’t my father say,
“alright.”
I hadn’t heard the word alright,
in ages!
It was poignant,
and disgruntling in the same instant.
By the way,
my mother was having a seizure,
worse than the tiny ones the ****** girl has.
My father a bank manager is his past life,
and a decent accountant,
shut the door on them.
I haven’t whimsical atrophy or empathy at what happens in jail,
what happens to criminals,
what happens to evil persons once exposed pretty well by children of the Lord.
I am old enough to know better,
I let the dog in,
and lead him into the room,
and shot the dog.
My hopes were,
That my ma would snap out of it,
the drugs spilled to the floor,
and I ran out to the tractor,
And got back to work.
I rhetorically thought to myself,
I wonder why I ever attempt to date a girl,
From these here parts of East Texas.
My parts were to be made ***** quite yet….


The later middle stage of the middle.

The Texas Rangers came in cars,
and the blood hounds met and mingled with the townspeople,
This part in the story is delicate,
and stubborn in its youth,
mainly for the dramatic irony I try to forge.
The character of the father of the two kiddos who were kidnapped and battered takes to drinking,
and lays down like that dog in my room.
The sweet corner store elderly sold him a round of beers in a few quarts,
and he says,
“we sure appreciate, you heard.”
“Now Leroy that was a good boy,
and that Vivian was a sweet child.”
“Still is, you’ll see!”
“Our prayers to the saints our with Mr. Clawdy.”
“Yeah ok,
thank you much,
have a good one!”
The Texas Rangers weren’t as captivated by the alcoholic rampage.
They infiltrated my house right off there beaten path….
The fire and praise replaced the preacher and the Texas Rangers ****** him up,
and **** like the chalk coming off the hands.
Ya mean, ya mean!
They spun a tale that half the gang searching for the ******* as they put it,
well two got snake bitten,
and once they thought they had him cornered a tornado mustered up,
Then it was nothing.
How is it nothing?
I wanted to say,
I saw,
how is it nothing,
my mother straightened up,
and wiped her nose,
and put on some make up,
and the preacher or my father didn’t rat her out, for the drugs.
That is when I guess the prejudice, or injustice, or just the wanting,
the yearning to be grown,
or the despair and weird hormones towards women….
I let it out in front of God, and country,
“Tell it like it is ma, ******* it, tell it like it is, that dog will haunt you, in a heart beat,
more than he is going to haunt me,
God dang, tell it like it is, you high, and skipping, cheating, lying, I hate you!
I hate you!”
“Now son,
we are handling this,
seems this little fella needs some restraint from his parents.”
A quid pro quo was in the midst, I knew I wasn’t speaking in vain.
I knew my father was madder than any of them Texas Rangers.
Yes Texas Rangers eww,
I cried,
and search for something more in me,
but there wasn’t anymore to come,
just another day,
and of course the little man in me pretending to be a sheriff like the one a saw get shot,
that I came to know as a piece a fraction of manhood coming of age.
The men later,
sat my mother down,
and she lied time and time again,
and they went to the other streets,
and to the corner store,
and eventually to the ****** side of town.
I came into contact with a passenger of a greyhound,
who was blind,
and his cane tattled,
and ratted,
towards me like the end of time.
“Protect your name, yes, protect your name, and then some!”
“Bless you.”
“Whose that?”
“Yellow belly.”
“Yellow haired.”
“Ah Good man.”
“Two got bitten, you the new sheriff?”
“Sheriff, think again guy, I am the Preacher.”
The crossing cars slowed and crept in splendor and curiosity,
where and who penetrated the ideology of the passers.
“Two steps, and curb, and the name’s Isaac.”
“How do you do. Preacher ***.”
The deception that I spoke about,
and the turmoil that I so to speak promised echoes in the neighborhoods nearby.
I realized he smelled of pickles, and relish like stenches,
but repellant of mosquitoes came out of his jacket,
and immersed us both in a whirlwind of effort.
Gamblers,
ramblers,
antlers,
all part of the commerce spared themselves the grief,
spared themselves the haphazard and soon what was left was lovers,
and bad men.
And Texas Rangers.
The Texas Rangers flooded the countryside,
and snapped me back at the dinner table,
“take us to the house where the drugs are, or draw us a map!”
“A map, gees you guys don’t need no map,
heck,
take a right on Granger,
a left on Tempest,
and it’s the fourth house on the left.
Say the mans name is Jim.
If ya, if ya, if ya catch my drift! Hood wink!


The End of the Middle Stage.

With the Texas Rangers half crazy,
like the people I know,
and the inner thoughts that have came to become an awareness more or less,
the thought that I will never reproduce,
and the thought that I was fallen,
by the actions that broke my wings,
sank beneath my garnered wretched existence,
the lawmen arrested as the heroes,
and the villains came without a fight,
including my mother,
and Mr. Jim.
And Mr. and Ms. Clawdy got into the station with delight,
and exercising emotions about the missing persons,
by the way of a white man.
I don’t ever get dialogue out of this station sequence but I imagine somewhere,
the words we have a lead into finding the whereabouts of your children.
The drug house was linked to other drug house in this jurisdiction and they didn’t stutter in my dialect. Repentance is unlike amending past fights, and arguments.
The harvest was futuristically here,
and danger was trampled by the lawmen,
and peace and order was restored nicely now.
The shyster was quarreled,
and the commercial trucks picked up the slack,
and the Sunday school classes proceeded.
Ms. Clawdy sat one night about a week after the event involving her children,
and she realized that no one could help her, I
n the place where she needed help the most,
and no one would pardon her anger in the night with her husband drinking so heavily.
I went to their place,
and I took the preacher with me,
and I finally felt what it was like to be in cahoots,
or what a partnership is truly like,
short sided to say the least.
I knocked the flap,
and pounded my feet,
and pounded my feet,
like the fire man told me,
once,
“beat feet bub,”
well I did,
and finally Ms. Clawdy answered the door.
“What’s y’all going to do about getting your kids back?”
“We leaving tonight!”
“In the dark?”
“That’s right!”
“I know where they might be kid.”
“Good deal.”
“That’s right.”
“Is he going with you?”
“Yup, yup, now come on let’s go!”
“***** I ain’t going with you any place.
***** I am drinking my sorrows away!”
“Not going huh.”
She was gone into the night like usual circumstances take people away from their homes in the midst of great trusts wedged between wisdom and fault, and to the great beyond murmured as truth.
“He ain’t going with her.”
“Maybe we should leave Isaac.”
But I was already wound,
the good luck key had already been turned in my spine,
and twisted in my blood,
and I watched Mr. Clawdy throw another quart against the wall crashing down in pieces.

The Beginning of the End stage.

Cliché is a muse in the common man,
or if it isn’t well my mind is to thwarted by degradation,
and much to much pride and jealousy to see love work in the most excellent ways,
so excellent it even would make a mother fly out towards danger,
and attempt to rescue her young.
I read about the Scopes evolution trial,
in the tribune,
and bugles sounded at the death of William Jennings Bryan,
and I thought of him disparagingly…
I gulped and supped,
and wanted to bolt in the dark living room,
and tear a piece out of the ole Clawdy for what he really was,
the blind man cause that what he was now,
stopped me,
pulled me back,
“you want a turn,
you want a turn at this mess,
all day,
this whole time you been wanted a turn.
I know,
now I know for the good, so as to end it.
It isn’t anybody place here now!”
And that was it,
we retreated back to the tractor we road in on,
Failure I blamed my mother for,
retribution was only heard by the croaking frogs,
and crickets.
I had seen enough weddings,
and funerals,
and signed enough books,
I was ready to shoot another dog at least.
But we waited.
My father never peered his or reared his head once,
and the morning came the fields were tilled,
and re tilled,
before noon,
and soon the blind man said,
I need to ***.
Yes,
and so we went into the pasture,
and urinated.
When we came back we were confronted
Charlie Apr 2015
I've drank until my stomach hurt, bought flowers for funerals, slept in hospital beds, kissed sad girls happy.
I've filled my lungs to brim with smoke and decay, fallen for ugly hearts, walked home barefoot with heels in my hand, had so many loves.
He has something unlike any other, with his ***** hands and bright brown eyes and dark blonde hair. Like a flower in the midst of a rainstorm or a suit or the kind of boy you would adore in movies and go to bed dreaming about and be sad that you couldn't find him anywhere around here.
He's the only one that's made me feel secure with one person.
Hey, kids! It's the part where Caroline becomes monogamous!!! It's like Austin Powers!!! Woo-hoo.
MNdiamond Oct 2010
I've grown weary of funerals
yet I'm just 25
But I think none is as tired as my uncle

In a span of nearly three decades
He buried
His parents, a sister,
two sons, two brothers
and one granddchild

And yet he managed a smile
held my hands in his
whispered I love you
when it was my turn to bury my father.
preservationman Dec 2015
Bringing spiritual togetherness
Congregation being the witness
Heaven’s call to soul’s come home
A place of rejoicing of an everlasting roam
The congregation giving a reflection journey
Deacons conducting the services as true ambassadors of the church
The ministry from the internal heart to being external in a rising mark
The home going of one’s life
Days on Earth being Heaven’s advice
Songs of redemption
Words of encouragement from God’s resurrection
A stainless glass church shade
These are the things reminding us Heaven has made
Deacons who keep the flow moving around the church
A finale established for while
A royalty send off being glorious style
The human soul all spread out
The praise surrounding is what Christianity is all about
A moment in the soul coming home
Deacons who are ministry in spreading the word alone
Flesh back to dust and the soul lifted up being a must”.
Amanda Oct 2016
I used to know things about people, it was all too easy for me to figure them out.

I used to dread the day when I had found out I've failed, when I couldn't save someone. Strange or depressing as it may seem, I'm glad I haven't had to attend all the funerals I tried to prepare myself for.

I used to know if someone had ever been touched wrongly. Unwillingly. How far past their "no's" were gotten. I can't do that anymore, I don't know how to help anymore.

I used to cry at all the pain, I used to sob myself to sleep. These days I try anything just to feel a single tear on my cheek.

I used to hear things without finding or ever questioning the source. I used to sing out my struggles to the sounds I heard while crying on my backyard's swing set. I still hear it sometimes, but maybe that's just my imagination.

My mom told me I used to see angels.  All I can remember was being scared of the footprints on my ceiling. Maybe they were angels, maybe they were demons. Maybe they were just early signs of schizophrenia.

Was all of that just preparation?
Was it all just a coincidence?
Is this real? Is it God's work? Is it fate?
Do I believe in any of that anymore???

Who knew that a conversation over cigarettes with you would leave me so confused.

Is our craziness compatible, like taking a drug together and having the same trip?
Or maybe we're gifted with seeing things for how they really are.

Or maybe its just you.
Maybe I'm lost forever.

I need to walk your path.

I heard sounds in the woods with you
But was it the same music?
Do we share the same insanity?

Tell me if its a blessing or a curse.
Tell me if its worth all the pain.
Tell me if I can handle it... if I won't **** myself first.
Does the light in everything outweigh the darkness?  
Tell me what you think about souls now.
Does everything live forever?
Can you still see their light if they're dead?
Tell me what you feel.
Tell me what you know now.
I want your truths.

This has to be real.

My world has been flipped and turned inside out.

But finally, for once, I think everything makes sense.
Vicki Kilgore Aug 2018
Blood is thicker than water as youth we were told,
But families are divided and their veins run so cold.

Funerals seem to be the only time they gather or talk,
Hard times are the only time on your door they knock.

From birth was taught family values and love implanted,
Feeling alone, unappreciated, and so taken for granted.

Could it possibly be they are feeling the same as me,
A visit, phone call, or text message could be the key.

They say I love you and to please call if ever in need,
Love from family is what my heart desires indeed.

Oh, how I miss my grandma cooking in the kitchen,
Always a blessing to gather and see everyone pitch in.

We shamefully have not carried on the traditions,
Of our loved ones gone before us full of ambitions.

Pride was instilled to honor thy father and mother,
To stand behind and support your sister and brother.

Neighbors and strangers did our family they make part,
Love not based on material things but from a true heart.

So get off your high horse and get over your ego trip,
It is time to pull together and bring back the kinship.

Love to you all and may you pick up the phone,
Don’t wait, they can not answer once ashes and bone.

VLK

— The End —