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Peter Sep 2019
No one's there—at the dark
          skimpy place.
          No one could notice how they
          please as a mare.
          Seeing her to death, and will act
          with no predictable malice.

          Perfectly cooking every organs—
          a daze.
          Laughing out loud like it's just
          a dare.
          Laughter and tears—they give
          a gaze.

          Echoing their voice—as you run—
          you'll still be chased.
          Don't walk in this mortala castle—
          sombre.
          For you're the next—to die—
          to embrace.

          In this recondite abstruse space—
          Body's heat—lust—will be gaudier,
          They'll protude lasciviousness. Die
          or taste.

          They'll interrupt your halcyon life—
          your only ace—
          When their attention was caught—
          by you—they'll flare.
          All you can do; run and haze.

          As they're creating lethal discursive
          piece—
          Slitting you as a carcass in there.
          Curtailing your journey as you pace.
          You speak, you'll die—don't
          be the ness.
this is about society. if you speak, you'll die.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2019
SHOE BOX

Curiously
no shoes

only a dance card
from 1932

totally filled in
by only 2 beau

who Tango'd &
Pas a Doble'd her

alternately
all night

waiting for her
to choose

one or the other
(both brothers) .

She choose the fair-haired one
(for his sense of fun)    

the red-haired one
(always so moody)    

never forgave her or
his brother

became a missionary
in Trinidad & Tobago
.

A lock of baby's hair
(still so perfect)    

bound tightly in pink ribbon

lost after only a week
of which they would never speak

as the dried up tears
like shrivelled mummified spiders

resting now
among a trove of birthday cards

that declare the passing time
gaudier year by year.

Old love letters
written in intense violet

on almost see-through
onion thin yellow paper.

The shoes she remembers
were a violent red

chosen for the same shade
red as her lipstick.

A neat ticket
for a Venetian vaporetto

unused from
1962

with a telephone number
scribbled in scrawl

hurriedly across it.

A beautiful button
(a work of art in itself)    

from a favourite cloak
left behind in a favourite pub

as England win
the World Cup

made her look
like Little Red Riding Hood

or as her hubby put it:
'A fairy tale...*** on legs! '

A ginger tom
(with one eye missing)  
sleeps on top

of all
this

as if it were his
own private berth

in this ship of foolish
things

her box of things
unaware

that Virginia
is dead.
This racket rewards hospitals for gross incompetence & criminal neglect.

Michael F. Jackson recorded 37 explicitly/overtly graphic homosensual rap songs from May of 1991 through the autumn of '99. All were banned from radio. It's the same story on ***** channels with wives dying; dogs dying; babies dying; tires spinning as the swollen ***** of the violated, via kin via kith, immix the tragedies & the catastrophes that illuminate the happy digs of unemployed scabs who pull the centuries 20 & 20 + 1 into a Darwinian realm of unsubstantiated everything: large toilets will make you feel at home in Daytona Beach's new McDonald's! The seats are warm and expansive. Forget a fast trip 6 miles away to the dump! Forget a nagging suspicion. Forget that we ever met! [Groucho F. Marx eternally rests upon Felice Bassman (Nov. 1935-May 1975)]
   Popular damage = bigger pay-out; longer interims prove strategic; gaudier displays reflect no discipline in music inappropriately designated JAZZ as things what rotate left bespeak the Coriolis fluctuation; trials & tribulations bequeath rubble; the day unfolds as do the legs of newborn giraffes.

— The End —