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"gazelles" poems
My family is a bunch of animals. My mother is a lioness, strong, brave, and full of pride, with claws sharp as knives, for anyone that harms her cub she will strike. my father is a hyena, foolish, never serious, and a lazy scavenger, that doesn't do anything but eat the crap that he creates. My grand parents are elephants, big and strong during the day, blind and helpless during the night. My aunts and uncles are the herd of gazelles, they graze when they can, but when the lioness comes they silence and run away with fear. My dogs are the shade that comforts me from the burning sun of life. The day has come when the lioness shall not roam the tall grasses of the Serengeti. Without the lioness the gazelles are persistently grazing, depleting the grass, grazing and depleting until there was no grass left for me to hide in, they rammed and bucked at me like I had no right to grieve. I was a helpless cub on that day and I still am, wondering when the lioness will show up to be my heroine again. But as the gazelles buck and ram, a kangaroo and a zebra rush in, embrace me, and take me in, I now have a second family with: a savage tiger, Italian chipmunks, boxing kangaroos, kick-ass monkeys, elderly turtles, burly bears, religious zebras, and untimely rabbits. My second family is diverse, but they never do the worst just as my first. This is a story that I usually don't tell, but this my past life so I must tell, tell, tell... This is what God raised me to be, This for me and only me. One day the light will show for me, and me and the lioness will forever again be free, to roam the plains in the skies above, just like a dove.
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Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
Family Doesn't Always Mean Blood
My family is a bunch of animals. My mother is a lioness, strong, brave, and full of pride, with claws sharp as knives, for anyone that harms her cub she will strike. my father is a hyena, foolish, never serious, and a lazy scavenger, that doesn't do anything but eat the crap that he creates. My grand parents are elephants, big and strong during the day, blind and helpless during the night. My aunts and uncles are the herd of gazelles, they graze when they can, but when the lioness comes they silence and run away with fear. My dogs are the shade that comforts me from the burning sun of life. The day has come when the lioness shall not roam the tall grasses of the Serengeti. Without the lioness the gazelles are persistently grazing, depleting the grass, grazing and depleting until there was no grass left for me to hide in, they rammed and bucked at me like I had no right to grieve. I was a helpless cub on that day and I still am, wondering when the lioness will show up to be my heroine again. But as the gazelles buck and ram, a kangaroo and a zebra rush in, embrace me, and take me in, I now have a second family with: a savage tiger, Italian chipmunks, boxing kangaroos, kick-ass monkeys, elderly turtles, burly bears, religious zebras, and untimely rabbits. My second family is diverse, but they never do the worst just as my first. This is a story that I usually don't tell, but this my past life so I must tell, tell, tell... This is what God raised me to be, This for me and only me. One day the light will show for me, and me and the lioness will forever again be free, to roam the plains in the skies above, just like a dove.
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45
walking down park amsterdam or columbus do you ever stop to think what it looked like before it was an avenue did you ever stop to think what you walked before you rode subways to the stock exchange (we can’t be on the stock exchange we are the stock exchanged) did you ever maybe wonder what grass was like before they rolled it into a ball and called it central park where syphilitic dogs and their two-legged tubercular masters fertilize the corners and side-walks ever want to know what would happen if your life could be fertilized by a love thought from a loved one who loves you ever look south on a clear day and not see time’s squares but see tall Birch trees with sycamores touching hands and see gazelles running playfully after the lions ever hear the antelope bark from the third floor apartment ever, did you ever, sit down and wonder about what freedom’s freedom would bring it’s so easy to be free you start by loving yourself then those who look like you all else will come naturally ever wonder why so much asphalt was laid in so little space probably so we would forget the Iroquois, Algonquin and Mohicans who could caress the earth ever think what Harlem would be like if our herbs and roots and elephant ears grew sending a cacophony of sound to us the parrot parroting black is beautiful black is beautiful owls sending out whooooo’s making love ... and me and you just sitting in the sun trying to find a way to get a banana tree from one of the monkeys koala bears in the trees laughing at our listlessness ever think its possible for us to be happy Nikki Giovanni, “Walking Down Park” from The Selected Poems of Nikki Giovanni. Copyright © 1996 by Nikki Giovanni.
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May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
Walking Down Park
walking down park amsterdam or columbus do you ever stop to think what it looked like before it was an avenue did you ever stop to think what you walked before you rode subways to the stock exchange (we can’t be on the stock exchange we are the stock exchanged) did you ever maybe wonder what grass was like before they rolled it into a ball and called it central park where syphilitic dogs and their two-legged tubercular masters fertilize the corners and side-walks ever want to know what would happen if your life could be fertilized by a love thought from a loved one who loves you ever look south on a clear day and not see time’s squares but see tall Birch trees with sycamores touching hands and see gazelles running playfully after the lions ever hear the antelope bark from the third floor apartment ever, did you ever, sit down and wonder about what freedom’s freedom would bring it’s so easy to be free you start by loving yourself then those who look like you all else will come naturally ever wonder why so much asphalt was laid in so little space probably so we would forget the Iroquois, Algonquin and Mohicans who could caress the earth ever think what Harlem would be like if our herbs and roots and elephant ears grew sending a cacophony of sound to us the parrot parroting black is beautiful black is beautiful owls sending out whooooo’s making love ... and me and you just sitting in the sun trying to find a way to get a banana tree from one of the monkeys koala bears in the trees laughing at our listlessness ever think its possible for us to be happy Nikki Giovanni, “Walking Down Park” from The Selected Poems of Nikki Giovanni. Copyright © 1996 by Nikki Giovanni.
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64
Once there was a jungle Every creature great & small Was given special gifts there God, he gave them ALL. He gave monkeys humor He gave gazelles grace But the peacock was quite special He gave HIM the fairest face! Now, as with all great blessings This one had a curse The peacock... quite spectacular! But he had an ugly VOICE! Peacock screeched displeasure! He spread his tail... and then... He saw his greatest curse of all His VERY plain PEAHEN!!
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Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 6:16 AM UTC
Peacock Tales
"Sorgente' " (Spring Waters) I never knew tears could be so rough Scratching my chest as if trying To climb in, next to my heart. Perhaps they would be more comfortable together, able to fathom what my mind won’t. I see the pain clawing on his face- Engraved like the tombstone we picked out for him a couple of days ago. All it was missing was a date… Date the waters, watch how time will freeze them over. Frozen in time, their memory awaits our remembrance. It was only yesterday that we took a traditional dive In the glistening, silkened Waters-kissed the base of that cold, slippery precipice. But we were gazelles that early spring. The Impalelies and Witbietou flowers Met rowdy cheeks and our seasoned grace. We were Eagles, soaring to gather our prey. Plop! To the crust of the water’s earth, we dived uncharacteristically. Characteristically- I, resurfaced. You touched the Sun and the Moon that morning. You called on God and His Son, Jesus Christ. You said a prayer to Buddha and Indian goddess Indrani. You kissed the fragrant air of the Jacaranda tree, and consumed the fate of the Great Julius Caesar. Makeda and Zulu King Catewayo, cried in Imhotep’s arms that morning, Tears beat upon the Djembe drum Performing Indonesian Gamelan We chanted the words- spero Here I sit, there, next to you wondering when our eyes will meet again. Wondering how long you will play this game of “who can hold their breath the longest.” You are winning…I am crying. My face is stained with your name, your absent spirit, envelopes this hospital room but your soul- your soul will run, jump into the air, And up there, This time- I will catch you.
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May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 10:20 PM UTC
"Sorgente' " Spring Waters
"Sorgente' " (Spring Waters) I never knew tears could be so rough Scratching my chest as if trying To climb in, next to my heart. Perhaps they would be more comfortable together, able to fathom what my mind won’t. I see the pain clawing on his face- Engraved like the tombstone we picked out for him a couple of days ago. All it was missing was a date… Date the waters, watch how time will freeze them over. Frozen in time, their memory awaits our remembrance. It was only yesterday that we took a traditional dive In the glistening, silkened Waters-kissed the base of that cold, slippery precipice. But we were gazelles that early spring. The Impalelies and Witbietou flowers Met rowdy cheeks and our seasoned grace. We were Eagles, soaring to gather our prey. Plop! To the crust of the water’s earth, we dived uncharacteristically. Characteristically- I, resurfaced. You touched the Sun and the Moon that morning. You called on God and His Son, Jesus Christ. You said a prayer to Buddha and Indian goddess Indrani. You kissed the fragrant air of the Jacaranda tree, and consumed the fate of the Great Julius Caesar. Makeda and Zulu King Catewayo, cried in Imhotep’s arms that morning, Tears beat upon the Djembe drum Performing Indonesian Gamelan We chanted the words- spero Here I sit, there, next to you wondering when our eyes will meet again. Wondering how long you will play this game of “who can hold their breath the longest.” You are winning…I am crying. My face is stained with your name, your absent spirit, envelopes this hospital room but your soul- your soul will run, jump into the air, And up there, This time- I will catch you.
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in Tanzania where migrating herds of wildebeests, gazelles, zebras and buffalos stampeding across the vast Serengeti Plains ignite the world then write their names in gold ignite the skyline of earth create a painted watercolor sunset
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Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
A Painted Watercolor Sunset
Let’s revolutionize the ethereal butchered up remaining bits of intergalactic attack. Gazelles! Zebras! Both victims to the same tyrant. Incessant and volatile death, those who never were didactic masters for themselves turn to speak; no words remain.
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Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 1:57 PM UTC
Don't Pass me by
At the tip of your tongue, o' love, so much I can taste-       the taste of your love. My dry lips that call,   those licks of words. You come to my mouth, as it's theme song! _For as you are my darling companion,_     _shall I find myself in you,_     _as I rest under his strong embrace._ _My lover of his brightest eyes,_ _are like sun kisses to my face._ As gentle as the gazelles, and all their delicate deer,    my love for you shall arise. I will embrace the touch of      both our wettest skins. Stuck close to the grips      of your sweetened lips. Close to feel the gnashing of         perfect teeth. _Come away from me-_      _my mightiest lover._ _Your touch for me is much._      _You are the glee to my heart,_ _held down by your love-_   _on this scented bed spread._ _By suchlike a touch so rough._ Your beautiful eyes of their worship, as with a strong voice of prayer. I shall plant within you,   of what more words show. And shall we together, be of one flesh, and        bone of bone. To our spirits to connect               of their souls.
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Dec 21, 2021
Dec 21, 2021 at 11:54 AM UTC
Voluptuous
I'm not a poet I'm a self proclaimed genius with a pen with thoughts running through my head like gazelles in the plains of Africa and I'm just waiting for a lion to come swallow them up and finally give me a good idea a good idea that rests on your mouth like a Listerine patch and comes out in a cool minty breath a good idea that is so easily shared amongst the masses and is of the ability to make them cry laugh smile think but how can I make them think when I can't even think of a good idea besides, who is this 'them' that I'm trying to please? and how can I please 'them'? with a notebook full of scribbled out sentences and torn out pages both results of my rage and yes, I write a lot about writers block because writers block is so evident to me and I see a whole lot of words like butterflies in a field and I'm without a net to catch them and I just stand there staring wishing I could piece them all together but, if I write about writers block often then is writers block something to write about therefore I don't have writers block? I don't know I'm not a poet I'm just a teenagers with writers block just trying to catch butterflies -Slang
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Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
untitled poem #4
Don't blame the lion for the pride Don't let yourself whisper those insults Don't see the bad and push away the good Realize there's more to the pride than that Because even though the Alpha Male May not be who you'd choose It's not up to you Or me Or he It's up to the fittest And his mighty roar may petrify the gazelles Who ignorantly graze on the pride's land Who sheepishly bolt away from danger But the pride should have no fear The pride should rally around the fearsome roar Not be scattered around like gazelles And when one member Leaves the pride He steps off the captain's seat And begins to eat the grass
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Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Lion's Pride
Un vieux renard cassé, goutteux, apoplectique, Mais instruit, éloquent, disert, Et sachant très bien sa logique, Se mit à prêcher au désert. Son style était fleuri, sa morale excellente. Il prouvait en trois points que la simplicité, Les bonnes moeurs, la probité, Donnent à peu de frais cette félicité Qu'un monde imposteur nous présente Et nous fait payer cher sans la donner jamais. Notre prédicateur n'avait aucun succès ; Personne ne venait, hors cinq ou six marmottes, Ou bien quelques biches dévotes Qui vivaient **** du bruit, sans entour, sans faveur, Et ne pouvaient pas mettre en crédit l'orateur. Il prit le bon parti de changer de matière, Prêcha contre les ours, les tigres, les lions, Contre leurs appétits gloutons, Leur soif, leur rage sanguinaire. Tout le monde accourut alors à ses sermons : Cerfs, gazelles, chevreuils, y trouvaient mille charmes ; L'auditoire sortait toujours baigné de larmes ; Et le nom du renard devint bientôt fameux. Un **** roi de la contrée, Bon homme au demeurant, et vieillard fort pieux, De l'entendre fut curieux. Le renard fut charmé de faire son entrée A la cour : il arrive, il prêche, et, cette fois, Se surpassant lui-même, il tonne, il épouvante Les féroces tyrans des bois, Peint la faible innocence à leur aspect tremblante, Implorant chaque jour la justice trop lente Du maître et du juge des rois. Les courtisans, surpris de tant de hardiesse, Se regardaient sans dire rien ; Car le roi trouvait cela bien. La nouveauté parfois fait aimer la rudesse. Au sortir du sermon, le monarque enchanté Fit venir le renard : vous avez su me plaire, Lui dit-il, vous m'avez montré la vérité ; Je vous dois un juste salaire : Que me demandez-vous pour prix de vos leçons ? Le renard répondit : sire, quelques dindons.
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2.6k
Le renard qui prêche
Un vieux renard cassé, goutteux, apoplectique, Mais instruit, éloquent, disert, Et sachant très bien sa logique, Se mit à prêcher au désert. Son style était fleuri, sa morale excellente. Il prouvait en trois points que la simplicité, Les bonnes moeurs, la probité, Donnent à peu de frais cette félicité Qu'un monde imposteur nous présente Et nous fait payer cher sans la donner jamais. Notre prédicateur n'avait aucun succès ; Personne ne venait, hors cinq ou six marmottes, Ou bien quelques biches dévotes Qui vivaient **** du bruit, sans entour, sans faveur, Et ne pouvaient pas mettre en crédit l'orateur. Il prit le bon parti de changer de matière, Prêcha contre les ours, les tigres, les lions, Contre leurs appétits gloutons, Leur soif, leur rage sanguinaire. Tout le monde accourut alors à ses sermons : Cerfs, gazelles, chevreuils, y trouvaient mille charmes ; L'auditoire sortait toujours baigné de larmes ; Et le nom du renard devint bientôt fameux. Un **** roi de la contrée, Bon homme au demeurant, et vieillard fort pieux, De l'entendre fut curieux. Le renard fut charmé de faire son entrée A la cour : il arrive, il prêche, et, cette fois, Se surpassant lui-même, il tonne, il épouvante Les féroces tyrans des bois, Peint la faible innocence à leur aspect tremblante, Implorant chaque jour la justice trop lente Du maître et du juge des rois. Les courtisans, surpris de tant de hardiesse, Se regardaient sans dire rien ; Car le roi trouvait cela bien. La nouveauté parfois fait aimer la rudesse. Au sortir du sermon, le monarque enchanté Fit venir le renard : vous avez su me plaire, Lui dit-il, vous m'avez montré la vérité ; Je vous dois un juste salaire : Que me demandez-vous pour prix de vos leçons ? Le renard répondit : sire, quelques dindons.
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43
**** Damakta, Zulf Ghaneri* Rangin Lab, Ankhein Jadu Body aflame and curling of locks so thick Colourful lips and eyes so charming Sang-e-Marmar, Uda Badal Surḳh Shafaq, Hairan Aahu Ivory stone altering so royal-mauve Evening twilight so red and dazzled gazelles Raatein Mahki, Sansein Dahki Nazrein Bahki, Rut Lahki Fragrant nights and sighs kindling Glances intoxicating, season so blooming Prem Khilauna, Sapn Salona Phul Bichhauna, Vo Pahlu Game of love, stunning dreams Flowers spreading, O’ that view Tum Se Duri, Ye Majburi Zaḳhm-e-Kari, Bedari Away from you, so helpless Penetrating wound and no vigilance Tanha Raatein, Sapne Katein Khud Se Batien, Meri Khu Lonely nights and biting dreams Talking to self, my habit so new ✒ Translated by ℐamil Hussain , Sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
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Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 12:10 PM UTC
B O D Y Aflame
Mon aux deux tiers divine, Toute laine et marjolaine De douceur et délicatesse, Courrais-tu, bufflesse, les steppes Avec ton ombre d'argile A la recherche du plant de jouvence Semé aux Treize Cyclones Qui hantent les îles-fleurs du bout du monde ? A chaque cyclone aux ailes brisées Qu'offrirais-tu, Gilgamesh, mon ombre immortelle Dans le nigredo causal et a-causal où se fond l 'abîme ? ? Au Cyclone-gel, la baguette et le cerceau ? Au Cyclone-mauvais, le taureau céleste ? Au Cyclone-tempête, la Forêt de Cèdres ? Au Cyclone-rafales, le corps de la Joyeuse ? Au Cyclone-tourbillons, les hommes-scorpions ? Au Cyclone-du Nord, les cyprès ? Au Cyclone-poussières, les gazelles ? Au Cyclone-du Sud, les Enfers ? Au Cyclone-de l'Est, le Déluge ? Au Cyclone-de l 'Ouest, la nuit d'étoiles ? Au Cyclone-tornade, le sourire des hyènes ? Au Cyclone-mortifère, le feu éphémère ? Au Cyclone-souffleur, le feu éternel ?
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Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 2:44 AM UTC
Mon ombre immortelle
Animal House Sweeping dust storm, Gazelles leap. Careening reach, dizzy heights Shy Giraffes necking in undergrowth. Creeping tide menageries mystic sloths limb and oath. Sea mist breaking wave Sun prancing Dolphins embraceable moonbeams. Lizards shedding skins. Trine children, Pan animals. Golden gleaming processions growling purrs Carnivores give Herbivores last rites confessions. We are the animal house the  hourglass menageries. bleating hearts imminent deaths, fleeting breaths, unimaginable love.
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Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
Animal House
He is a man in fact , a factual man in fact But in fact more than man, and more natural He is a predator, sometimes ****** endeavourer Jumping as a feather stead upon my weathered bed Lead at the head but it's heavier A best of a beast, in his chest at least A lion's heart beats, and with mine at his feet He is deadlier Mane across his back, mainly manly, manly knack And a pride to admire any crazy track Mired by those paws or clawed back Lion's share of the hair and a siren's glare Its enough to ensnare any to come back To lie in the den and unpack A purr that can stir  dwelling spell in gazelles A roar that could ensure his reign is obtained on every plain If called for His face is made heeding, and bleeding the sun His legs win a race never needed to be run Already won Prowl and it's done If he who rides the tiger finds it difficult to dismount Than he who rides the lion will feel him sure surmount No doubt, for nobility is paramount Alpha is better beyond count, couched in whim And he reigns as King of the jungle I grew for him King of all that's funnelled through to him King of all that humbles me and truly sings And so Clearly success best rests in Being a lioness, not left guessing lionless A carnivorous, blitherous, tyrant's guest In fact I am a woman, a natural woman in fact And factually I am a woman intact Yet in fact a woman distracted on a lion obsessed tract Where a leonine mess is lacked And a lion-like chests interact
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Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
The Lion In My Bedroom
Le Whippet de  mon ami Bernard Tu es entre chien et coursier Avec ton museau effilé Tes oreilles se dressent hauts Comme le Dieu-Chien égyptien Anubis Ton pelage ras fait penser A un Kangourou tigré Ou à un Léopard satiné. Tes pattes de coureur de fond Te donnent un air d'Antilope Prêt à disputer une course. Tu es de la race des lévriers Si prisée par les princes Arabes Et aussi les Lords anglais. Ces lévriers qui fendent l’air Comme les gazelles d’Afrique. Tout en toi est fait pour la course Ton corps est sculpté pour courir Ton museau est comme un drakkar Qui fend l’air pour gagner la course Dans les prairies et les déserts. Tu es un des chiens bienveillants Si gentil avec les enfants Qui prend des airs de Patricien Quand sur le sofa il se tient. Mais tu sais aussi rester sage Veillant sur la paix de tes maîtres Et apportant à la maison «Inédit» est ton nom d’année Un «grand cru» pour les Lévriers. Paul d’Aubin (Paul Arrighi)
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Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 9:22 AM UTC
Le Whippet de mon ami Bernard
I have never been in this situation before trying to decide which of the two girls to go after I am a lion with two gazelles in his cross hairs Both looking graceful and delicately desirable But I can't have both I would like the one who whispers into people's ears about how she feels like an unfinished automobile helplessly being carried on the assembly line, moving centimeter by centimeter, towards me. But whenever the two of us are together, she would pretend to be miles away Then again, I would like the other one whose subtle glances, though transient, are like the worms you put at the end of a fish hook or the aromatic meat left in an animal trap that makes you brush off caution from the end of your sleeves or put on the helmet and jump It's going to be one way or the other I tell myself as I lay all alone in the room, one foot already over the threshold of sleep, strange faces beginning to appear in the air and very soon I would be pulled below the surface, sinking slowly, towards the dark bottom of the other world Before then there's a decision to make: I can either go left or right but I can't have both. Especially when they're room mates
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Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
Dilemma
After one bite Of grimy Teeth sinking into Mottle red (and green and brown) And yellow skin and crisp White flesh An explosion of giraffes Full of shrapnel Chaos All the colors Gazelles jumping Into and out of and through and around Flaming hoops and elephants And zebras and hurricanes with names Names she never knew existed And existence like a bolt Of lightning struck the very heart of her Churning her insides chaos Theory and all the colors Hyenas laughter And painted ponies leaping out at her Grinning as her insides Cooked like thunder and she Found herself Screaming like a panther Hiding under dappled leaves and strung out rain-flecked hair Crying like a baby over An apple core
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Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
Eve
I watched my very own Charles Bukowski eat a tangerine outside of   the arthouse   where we were reading. His name is not really Bukowski, but he has told tales in the same   vein as the Laureate of Drunkards for longer than I have been alive. I have listened to that same back alley patois, and barroom wisdom for long enough that I feel a certain level   of comfort in calling the old gizzard   this municipality's own   Charles Bukowski. The grizzled old poet   is telling wanton tales   of love and honeydew. He goes on and on, recounting the times   that he's drunk   strong potato liquor with Bengal tigers   in the backseats   of roaring taxis on his way to parties   hosted by zebras and   gazelles. We each light a cigarette, pausing to smoke for a while. Seeking to continue   the conversation with   my salty comrade,   yet knowing my own   stories cannot compete, I surge onward nonetheless. His interruptions jam my   traffic before I can even make   it onto the onramp of his   particular, peculiar highway. His mouth is already working, though his tangerine consumed. He's chewing his next story into digestible, deliverable bits. And, now he's chewing the rind. His mouth, his words, his life, and my own for all of it, is full of   zest. *** -JBClaywell ©P&ZPublications 2017
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Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
Chewing The Rind
*Tilting at butterfly windmills in Parisian blown breezes As gazelles seductively sway to the melting light of night Feeling her nocturnal whispers puppy's secrets in child's ear While white petals gently escape eternal maternal bouquets Pondering morphed realities from verdant citrus cocoons Long after jazz laden teardrops muddled cinco de mayo*
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May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
Les Fleurs de Ráday
Vibrant eyes watching prey The unexpected victim turns away For the gazelles long horns aren't enough for defence the cunning lion pounces into the air with suspense The startled gazelle takes a leap But by then she's already been swept of her feet The poor gazelle gets ripped to shreds And she lay there frozen , killed ,dead ! * * *
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Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Bourne to ****
Fatigue is setting in giving my affect a kind of relaxed hereness, because there is very little energy for anything else Tomorrow remains a mystery, but there will be a battle, I know the forces will arrive, armed with ipads or paper or their phones and their judgemental brains of varying sizes and capacities I am tired, and I need to avoid the unecessary confrontation and most especially desist from worrying about anything that isn't happening in the moment the battery is low, I have no grenades only a small shield and that's not really enough to battle with, and really, I've always been out armed and totally outnumbered and overpowered and yet somehow I'm still here through sheer cleverness. But I make mistakes and there is so little power left now at the end that I must be shrewd and watch them like a lioness watching a herd of gazelles
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Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
To Battle Again Tomorrow
The collateral coaxes of God on Man, Bring forth the froth of Goth on sand. When existence means meaningless breathings, Why do we try and see the reasoning’s of dreams. Because the faces inside of these traces; Memories of the outcast on the plains of the membrane. Taking to the stars in a ship of bars, Withholding the pain from exploding, while somewhere my mother is tokin’ And it goes faster and faster than fast, and these lines take on the attack, Of a thousand gazelles in flight to tomorrow’s past fright. There is no truth just perspective and respectively speaking I’m speaking about respect. Abhor me as you adore me; please me as you use me, take me as you break me. I am the ocean as I am the sky, blue crashing on white, trying to live my life, But I’m failing at every turn and it burns and there is no learn only do and do not. This life is a series of failures entwined in a not so heavenly knot, And its okay as long as I’m dead, I say sir let’s travel to the bay, and maybe by the end of the day… I’ll find my one true love in a tub of emotional regret and without worry or fret, I’ll take her in my hands and kiss her with my face, just givin’ her a taste… Of a man wondering if painkillers can take away the heartache.
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Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 10:14 PM UTC
Autobiography
I heard you cry dear brother. I heard you cry and wanted to drink your tears and let the pain into my body. I wanted your anguish to rush through my veins like the French mob never letting the wealthy sleep well, like lions around the prancing gazelles I just wish I could never get a good night's sleep because dreams don't belong where brothers are unwell I don't ask for much brother, - just a smile and  your tears in a jar. This is untrue my friend. I do wish for much. I want the whole world at my fingertips the Great Wall of China under my feet starched collars and Coach neckties I want everything I can squeeze out of Mother Nature before she collapses into a cloud of pink bubbles with nothing inside. But you dear brother, you do not want the Great Wall beneath you but merely not around you. You just want to be able to keep your door open without fearing someone might see you wipe your cheekbones clean. And I, I apologize for not being there every time it closes to burst through with all my wishes compiled into one but I'm not that strong. I'm not man enough to understand that wishes for gold mean nothing that no matter if I piled them together would they make one for your health         -    I can't even see that I love my good night's sleep more than I love your smile Forgive me. This is why I write to you brother. I might not be strong enough to sip your pain away, but I want you to keep a jar in case I come to my senses before you find me hanging from my neckties. If I do I'll drink them with a funny face. Maybe then I could hear you laugh.
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Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
Jar of Pain
I heard you cry dear brother. I heard you cry and wanted to drink your tears and let the pain into my body. I wanted your anguish to rush through my veins like the French mob never letting the wealthy sleep well, like lions around the prancing gazelles I just wish I could never get a good night's sleep because dreams don't belong where brothers are unwell I don't ask for much brother, - just a smile and  your tears in a jar. This is untrue my friend. I do wish for much. I want the whole world at my fingertips the Great Wall of China under my feet starched collars and Coach neckties I want everything I can squeeze out of Mother Nature before she collapses into a cloud of pink bubbles with nothing inside. But you dear brother, you do not want the Great Wall beneath you but merely not around you. You just want to be able to keep your door open without fearing someone might see you wipe your cheekbones clean. And I, I apologize for not being there every time it closes to burst through with all my wishes compiled into one but I'm not that strong. I'm not man enough to understand that wishes for gold mean nothing that no matter if I piled them together would they make one for your health         -    I can't even see that I love my good night's sleep more than I love your smile Forgive me. This is why I write to you brother. I might not be strong enough to sip your pain away, but I want you to keep a jar in case I come to my senses before you find me hanging from my neckties. If I do I'll drink them with a funny face. Maybe then I could hear you laugh.
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The Women's Temperance League tried to abolish themselves but like always they failed so they learned instead to crash neighborhood parties with the grace of gazelles on Ritalin now they have colorful plastic bowls and cups with fancy closing tops matching barcode tattoos on their wrists that say "priceless" and some assurance that their vulvas are "normal" after gazing at them with compact mirror in one hand shot of ***** in the other
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Feb 3, 2020
Feb 3, 2020 at 11:21 AM UTC
Tupperware Ladies
*concerning anti-kantian lexicon completion to understand the notion of a priori (it's a niche interest... c. bukowski explains it better in the book tales of ordinary madness in the chapter titled **** and kant and a happy home... well, not really, if he knew german i’d say that he was truly defining a priori, learning a language rather than unconsciously acquiring one from the first word mama or whatever toddlers say first when they mastered the bladder and **** muscles, which are oddly designed to be consciously / forcefully trained because they're crafted as slacked... weird), let’s say that’s about as much relevant to me as is this scenario:* an actress about to perform the monologue script of not i, prior to performance and at the stage of memorisation asks samuel (beckett): ‘what does this mean? this one line? it’s bothersome for my conscience, my sense of meaning and direction, what does it mean?’ then ol’ samuel tells her: ‘back up, bets and back up, it’s the most self-conscious eventuality of all vague attempts to stand outside of oneself within the scaffold of using language - this dismemberment beginning with extracting thought for the senses to see hear and feel, writing... this morphing of the substance we consider thought without ethos, ethics, choices, looking at the zeitgeist... but honestly? i haven’t got the foggiest idea... i wrote it because i wrote it, the desired intentions are reserved for those desiring to read it and leave it.’ like the famous p.s. of human history written by moses on sinai, the melting of ice enveloping britain and elsewhere up north, formerly known as the ice age causing flooding elsewhere... and that metaphor of: lions gazelles... two-by-two, two-by-two being a metaphor for monogamy... whereas the harems of other animals like walruses was obviously avoided and gave us islamic polygamy (added to the fact that people refer to themselves via the zodiac... taurus... scorpio... capricorn... or the chinese calendar... dragons tigers pigs rats and monkeys etc.); otherwise known as hermeneutics - extraction of meaning from very concise texts... very very concise texts which, if taken literally... leave you as quickly as they came, and make you specialise in geology or biology instead.
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Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
the famous p.s. written by moses / on noah
*concerning anti-kantian lexicon completion to understand the notion of a priori (it's a niche interest... c. bukowski explains it better in the book tales of ordinary madness in the chapter titled **** and kant and a happy home... well, not really, if he knew german i’d say that he was truly defining a priori, learning a language rather than unconsciously acquiring one from the first word mama or whatever toddlers say first when they mastered the bladder and **** muscles, which are oddly designed to be consciously / forcefully trained because they're crafted as slacked... weird), let’s say that’s about as much relevant to me as is this scenario:* an actress about to perform the monologue script of not i, prior to performance and at the stage of memorisation asks samuel (beckett): ‘what does this mean? this one line? it’s bothersome for my conscience, my sense of meaning and direction, what does it mean?’ then ol’ samuel tells her: ‘back up, bets and back up, it’s the most self-conscious eventuality of all vague attempts to stand outside of oneself within the scaffold of using language - this dismemberment beginning with extracting thought for the senses to see hear and feel, writing... this morphing of the substance we consider thought without ethos, ethics, choices, looking at the zeitgeist... but honestly? i haven’t got the foggiest idea... i wrote it because i wrote it, the desired intentions are reserved for those desiring to read it and leave it.’ like the famous p.s. of human history written by moses on sinai, the melting of ice enveloping britain and elsewhere up north, formerly known as the ice age causing flooding elsewhere... and that metaphor of: lions gazelles... two-by-two, two-by-two being a metaphor for monogamy... whereas the harems of other animals like walruses was obviously avoided and gave us islamic polygamy (added to the fact that people refer to themselves via the zodiac... taurus... scorpio... capricorn... or the chinese calendar... dragons tigers pigs rats and monkeys etc.); otherwise known as hermeneutics - extraction of meaning from very concise texts... very very concise texts which, if taken literally... leave you as quickly as they came, and make you specialise in geology or biology instead.
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