"gil" poems
TO PUT the art and talent of Mindanaoan fashion design into the spotlight, Kagay’anon fashion designers put their hands together to organize the 5th Mindanao Fashion Summit at the Limketkai Center Rotunda from August 4 to 6, every 4 p.m.
“Being a core event of the Higalaay festival, the opening salvo, the Mindanao Fashion Summit can really highlight fashion designers here in Cagayan de Oro and also in different points of Mindanao to let everyone see what they can do in the world of fashion design especially now that there are only so few opportunities for these designers to show off their works to the public. This is why we have the Mindanao fashion Summit because Kagay-anon designers believe that even if they join national fashion shows like the Philippine Fashion week, most of them still aren't getting the right encouragement as a fashion designer.” said Robbie Pamisa, the overall organizer of the event.
The Fashion Summit is a three-day event composed of seven sub-categories such as the Mindanaoan collection, the Menswear collection, and the Ororama orange collection for the first day, the Guest Designers’ collection, the Fashion Institute of the Philippines collection and the Loop Lifestyle Fashion Show for the second day, and the Holiday Grand collection for the third day which will serve as the culmination of the fashion event.
Mindanaoan Fashion designers from Cagayan de Oro as well as Davao, Butuan, Iligan, and Bukidnon have come to showcase their talents. Some of the fashion geniuses of the event include Alma Mae Roa, Angela Soriano, Ann Semblante, Benjie Manuel, Boogie Musni Rivera, Gil Macaibay III, John Mark Magellan’s, Joshua Guibone, Juniel Doring, Kiko Domo, Mark Christopher Yaranon, and Mavy Cooper de Leon.
One of the highlights of the event is the Oro Fashion Designers’ Guild and the Designers Assembly featuring a collection of clothes using Mindanao material such as the Mindanao silk. Sponsors such as Ororama and The Loop Towers will also be showcasing their products in the fashion event.
“Even student fashion designers from the Fashion Institute of the Philippines have been encouraged to participate so that they will be able to experience how a fashion show works. This is also a way for us to fulfill our mission to be another avenue for fashion designers to show what they have,” Paisa said.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
Gil-galad was an Elven-king,
Of him the harpers sadly sing:
The last whose realm was fair and free
Between the Mountains and the Sea.
His sword was long, his lance was keen,
His shining helm afar was seen;
The countless stars of heaven's field
Were mirrored in his silver shield.
But long ago he rode away,
And where he dwelleth none can say;
For into darkness fell his star
In Mordor where the shadows are.
4.9k
NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Bling Shop
Afro Brothers
proprietorship
buyin and sellin
filthy lucre
of down hard
Gat packin
Gangstas
on the down low
throwin down
fallin hook
line and stinker
just a bunch
of lil fishies
wigglin at the end
of golden chains
its all about
the bling baby
all about the bling
"I pity the fool"
saith Mr. T
the potentate of
soul and gold
who ain't
down with
the cool jewels
of righteous
B Teamers
arrested by
the silk rope
of glitzy discos
bribing bouncers
with an
earnest Jackson
to *** rush
the vanity faire
of bumping
A Listers
Or was it
Def Jam
Buddhas
minting
coin on
MTV?
exploiting
misogyny
and ghost
face killas
NWAs
slugging cases
of Kristol
blowing
fat spliff
smoke
up the *** of
Phat Farm
kids in
the hood
shooting
silver
bullets at
the man
takin baths
in tubs
of fifties
lighting up
with crisp
C Notes
rollin
through
life
in black
Escalades
its silver
spinners
twisting fast
round
corners
where
being cool
went blind
and
Coolie High
homies
still tip
a sip
for the
brothers
who ain't
there
Today
its all about
the raised fist
of power to
the P Diddy
fighting
the power
of the people
as leggy
Beyonce
warbles
songs
for the
posse
of a
Libyan
Dictator
whose
blood
money
pays
a cool
mil
cover
for a
New Years
Eve
tune
Its all about
the bling
baby
All about
the bling
baby, all
about the
bling.
NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Best Prices in
Trenton Since
1997
You Tube Video:
Gil Scott Heron
Ain't No Such Thing As Superman
Trenton
2/25/11
jbm
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 9:19 AM UTC
I went through the sidewalk on Pedro Gil and Taft
The blaring red and green traffic lights
Sort of obscured the view through my spectacles
In the early Manila evening
The smell of cancer in the air
Complimented the noise of the jeeps
That raced through the intersection
As the sun slowly sunk at the sight of the moon
I saw faces less and less
As the broken street lamps flickered
Some people were minding their own business
Others shouted and laughed in the street
I saw people gripping onto their bags
Like they gripped onto their lives, because the city is never safe
Especially at the dusk
Where all the thieves come out to play
The noise may reach above heaven
And the air may be as ***** as the sewers
But there is no other place
That I would consider home
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC
I once was told
In Broooklyn New York
I had a lackadaisical attitude.
It was the first time I was hearing
That whimsical adjective !
So lackadaisical I was !
Looked like an illness
The way they said it
It seemed I could contaminate.
So I stopped a few seconds to think and dissect the word
Lackadaisical
I lacked a daisy somewhere !
Sounded like I lacked a fuse in my brain !
Next thing I know I was checking the word
In my reminiscences of the Oxford English Dictionary
Or may be it was Webster's
And it said in black and white ferns I lacked purpose
I wasn't properly lazy, I just lacked directions
I lacked enthusiasm, stamina
I was devoid of zest
I was blasé
Insouciant
Careless.
Translated into more French I was nonchalant and better said
Jemenfoutiste.
It was during an encounter group
And they threw that lackadaisical attitude ******** to my face
And guess what i did ?!
I just kept on smiling
Jemenfoutiste to the extreme.
And they kept saying
See what I mean, you 're so ******* lackadaisical , man !
You're so pathetic ! You're so apathetic !
It was Winter in America like Gil Scott-Heron would say
And it felt so good, so warm,
As far as I could see,
To be called lackadaisical
And not laconical.
I not only lacked a daisy
I lacked a bunch of tropical flowers indeed !
Like bouganvillea, orchid or hibiscus
Anthurium, jasmine or bromeliad
I lacked sun and sea
Strange as it was
Even though I was near Atlantic Avenue, Coney Island
So I was lackaseacal and lackasuncal
But what I didn't lack was ants in my pants
And until today they make me dance
My forever lackadaisical dance.
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 12:59 AM UTC
Obama jetted
back to Africa
soaring aloft on
gulf stream swank
a posse of
oil company execs
in tow, intent on liberating
Dark Continent
fossil fuels from unjust
underground prisons
American
entrepreneurs
angling to get the
upper hand in the
high stakes global
resource poker game
pulled a big time race card
to trump China’s
full house
On Goree Island,
political paparazzi
popped and clicked
a perfect image
of the neocolonial
white clad President
framed in a doorway filled
with dark shadows and
heinous memory of the
unspeakable horrors
of global trade
leering from
the portal at the
Gate of No Return
Obama welled with
meditative epiphanies
of personal seachange,
and the vicissitudes of life,
pondering his meteoric rise
from a Land of Lincoln
State Senator to
American President
in the span of
one golden
9/11 decade
At a
South African University
Town Hall Summit,
the fist bumpin,
mike droppin Prez
telepromted the
star struck folks with
solemn universal civil rights
pronouncements,
wrapped in the riddle of
the pursuit of peace,
hidden in the enigma of
the reverence for
human dignity
Later in the day
Mr. Obama sat at the
feet of a comatose Mandela;
whispering into his ear
why an Afghan peace
eludes him, why his
drone strikes rain
death upon innocents
and why his democratic
republic defiles
the civil liberties of its
citizens to ransom
a daily diet of fear
But Madiba does not hear
Mr. Obama’s feverish
confessions; his
ears are closed,
he dreams only
of the paradise of
liberation he earned
for his life's hard wages
Music Selection:
Gil Scott Heron
Western Sunrise
Oakland
070213
jbm
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
I perceive
the shadow
of your
imprisoned
face
watching
eyes
peering
through
iron rods
that
cannot
contain
your
visions
of freedom
the force
of your
righteous
halo
frames
a
presence
of light
you are
a blazing
apparition
melting
the steel
cages
releasing
the world's
hostages
of justice
You Tube Music Video:
Gil Scott Heron
Third World Revolution
2/17/11
Oakland
jbm
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
[Justin Vernon - Bon Iver: Sample From "Woods"]
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time
I‘m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time
[Hook 1 x2]
I’m lost in the world, I’m down on my mind
I’m new in the city, and I’m down for the night
Down for the night
Said she’s down for the night
[Kanye West - Verse 1]
You're my devil, you're my angel
You're my heaven, you're my hell
You're my now, you're my forever
You're my freedom, you're my jail
You're my lies, you're my truth
You're my war, you're my truce
You're my questions, you're my proof
You're my stress and you're my masseuse
Mamasaymamasamamakusa
Lost in this plastic life
Let's break out of this fake *** party
Turn this in to a classic night
If we die in each others arms we still get laid in our afterlife
If we die in each others arms we still get laid, yeah
[Hook 2]
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
(Run from the lights, run from the night)
I’m building a still to slow down the time
(Run for your life, Down for the night...)
I’m lost in the world, I’m down on my mind
I’m new in the city, and I’m down for the night
Down for the night
Said she’s down for the night
(Run from the lights, run from the night)
[Bridge]
Who will survive in America
Who will survive in America
Who will survive in America
[Hook]
[Gil-Scott Heron]
Us living as we do upside down. And the new word to have is revolution
People don’t even want to hear the preacher spill or spiel
Because God’s whole card has been thoroughly piqued
And America is now blood and tears Instead of milk and honey
The youngsters who were programmed To continue ******* up
Woke up one night digging Paul Revere and Nat Turner as the good guys
America stripped for bed and we had not all yet closed our eyes
The signs of Truth were tattooed across our often entered ******
We learned to our amazement untold tale of scandal. Two long centuries buried In the musty vault, hosed down daily with a gagging perfume
America was a ******* the illegitimate daughter of the mother country
Whose legs were then spread around the world and a ****** known as freedom, free doom. Democracy, liberty, and justice
Were revolutionary code names that preceded the bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling in the mother country’s crotch
What does Webster say about soul?
All I want is a good home and a wife
And a children and some food to feed them every night
After all is said and done build a new route to China if they’ll have you
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Sabi mo, walang magbabago
Pero ngayon, halos hindi na kita makilala
Hindi mo lang ako basta isinabay sa iba
Ipinagpalit mo pa ako
Hanggang sa tuluyan mo na akong kinalimutan
Sabi mo, walang magbabago
Pero ngayon, ibang-iba ka na
Minsan, tinatanong ko ang sarili ko
Katulad ng pagtanong ni Liza Soberano kay Enrique Gil
“Pangit ba ako?”
“Kapalit-palit ba ako?”
“Am I not enough?”
Dati, halos walang makapaghiwalay sa ating dalawa
Ang sabi mo pa, “Ikaw lang at wala nang iba pa”
Ako mismo ang naging kaagapay mo sa pagkilala mo sa kanila
Pero bakit ako mismo ngayon ang nawalan ng halaga?
Bakit ako mismo ngayon ang hindi mo na binibigyang pansin?
Nagpaka-layo-layo ka’t ibinaon ako sa limot
Ibinaon mo ako sa kahapon
Kung saan kasama ko ang mga iba mo pang itinapon
Pero tama na
Tama na ang pagiging Liza Soberano
Hindi na kita kukulitin at magtatanong ng isang milyong bakit
Hindi rin ako magiging si Piolo Pascual
Na hihingi ng explanation at acceptable reason
At lalong hindi rin ako magiging si Bea Alonzo
Na hihilingin na “sana ako na lang ulit”
Dahil tanggap ko na
Hindi ko na hihingin pang ako lang ang piliin mo
Magpaparaya ako’t papayag na isabay mo sa iba
Isa lang ang hihilingin ko
Na sana ‘wag mo akong tuluyang kalimutan
Na sana ‘wag mo hayaang tuluyan akong mawala sa buhay mo
Dahil gaano man kahabang panahon ang lumipas
At gaano man karami ang nagbago sa pagitan nating dalawa
Ako pa rin ang tunay na laging andito para sa’yo
Ako pa rin ang Wikang Filipino na kahit nagbago man, ay nandito pa rin at nananatili para sa’yo
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
Die waarheid
In die nag se doodse donker
is selfs die krieke stil
, maar saam met honde huil
-Bloedstollend- weerklink haar gil
Die waarheid breek die stilte
die buurt slaap onversteurd
sy knaag weg aan my siel
... los my stukkend en verskeurd
Teen haar aanval is ek magteloos
, met net die wapens van die gees,
mens kan haar nie oorwin nie
want waar jy nog moet beskerm -
was sy alreeds gewees
Sy laat haar droewe spore
in die kamers van jou hart
en met vlymskerp, rooi vingernaels
los sy letsels van die smart
Teenstander. Díe is sy nie-
retireer vir geen swaard, nóg gebede
haar verwoesting : jou eie toedoen
slegs spoke van jou verlede...
Tog , selfs in waarheid lê daar leuens
-versprei in dit wat sy voorspel
, want die einde van jou storie
is joune om te vertel
ja...
*** droewig okal haar verhaal
bly dit jóúne om te bepaal
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
Night bus
And the pug nosed guy in the suit over there
Staring me down
Is a thousand broken dreams
And the young girl down there
Who looks weird
But my kind of weird
Is a thousand unexplored
And the ***** with the cap trying to finish off his crossword
Is Gil Scott-Heron
And no one sits next to me as I spill my poison through the keypad into a cracked screen
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
It started with the Sumerians
well before Christ
Sumerians passed the joy plant on to Assyrians
Assyrians in turn to Egyptians
Where the Sphinx sat
in the desert
watching the way to sea decked in poppies
the symbol of sleep and death
feeding Cleopatra's ****** fantasies
Some say she died by the kiss of *****
not a snake
The power of ***** led it on
down the Silk Road to China where it went to war
***** dens spread near and far
Poppies lift poor Afghan farmers out of poverty's embrace
fields of color
fields of blood
In Flanders field remembrance was born
fields of blood red poppies
embrace the bodies of the fallen
The only thing standing between death
and remembering
the symbol of piece
a white poppy
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
Mr Dodd paid a visit
to the man in the tree;
he asked the man to tell
of the sights he could see.
The squat little man—
who spent his life behind leaves—
shook a bough by Mr Dodd and said
“You would never believe.”
“But why would you live alone in that tree?”
asked old Dodd, and he began to climb a branch.
But the man in the tree lazily
warned Dodd to stand
Where he stood—
from a high-up limb, the man’s voice
wandered down to Dodd’s ears.
“There is a road that slices
Through miles of fields,
herds of cows and small houses,
and leads to a hulking metal city
where lines of gloomy people trickle out.”
Back in his cottage, Mr Dodd dreamt
of the road and the fields and the cows;
but the city unsettled his sleep,
and he woke at last knowing how
Little he knew.
Then Dodd made breakfast for the millionth time:
a buttery bun and some cornflower tea—
he couldn’t smile at the noise of the kids in the town.
He went through the day in his usual way:
he tapped on his xylophone,
he painted his thousandth self-portrait,
he read from his book in a slow monotone.
After lunch he liked to sit in his garden
and smoke from his chestnut pipe
with the eight-inch hickory handle
and the green green herbs inside.
The sunlight pressed the smoky stink
into the weave of Dodd’s vest
When Gilbert—Dodd’s groundskeep—appeared,
seeming so distressed.
“Your sunflowers’ stems have all broke!” breathed Gil;
“I hit them with the mower—”
Mr Dodd saw the sunless stems
and nervous Gilbert cowered.
But Dodd looked Gil straight in the eye
and asked him a question instead:
“Have you ever seen the city, old Gil?”
“I only heard tell,” the relieved Gil said,
“But what I’ve heard is that they that go
can’t come back alive.”
Dodd sent Gil home, who leaving said:
“I also mowed over a gopher; I think he might have died.”
The next day, Dodd went back
to the man in the tree.
“Hello again, Dodd” drawled the voice from the leaves.
“I’m leaving today for the city,”
Spoke Dodd towards the voice.
“But how much nicer it might be to stay
with me in my tree; you could see everything—
all here for you on display.”
No, Mr Dodd thought better of it—
he threw his pack over his shoulder,
nervous of what's new and unknown
and the thought that his life here was over.
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 12:20 PM UTC
i jumped. i dived into that lonesome pool my tears created. finally after it all, I'm emerging and all i wanted was to drown, that way i would know it meant everything to me. but i survived, i swam and struggled and even though i made it, it means next to nothing now. it transformed me into a broken piece of person. a semi functional human. one that only lives in the past tense, obsessed with sorrow. looking eternally backward, hoping for a glimpse of my love. (commence saxophone solo)
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 9:02 PM UTC
In die nag se doodse donker
is selfs die krieke stil
, maar saam met honde huil
-Bloedstollend- weerklink haar gil
Die waarheid breek die stilte
die buurt slaap onversteurd
sy knaag weg aan my siel
... los my stukkend en verskeurd
Teen haar aanval is ek magteloos
, met net die wapens van die gees,
mens kan haar nie oorwin nie
want waar jy nog moet beskerm -
was sy alreeds gewees
Sy laat haar droewe spore
in die kamers van jou hart
en met vlymskerp, rooi vingernaels
los sy letsels van die smart
Teenstander. Díe is sy nie-
retireer vir geen swaard, nóg gebede
haar verwoesting : jou eie toedoen
slegs spoke van jou verlede...
Tog , selfs in waarheid lê daar leuens
-versprei in dit wat sy voorspel
, want die einde van jou storie
is joune om te vertel
ja...
*** droewig okal haar verhaal
bly dit jóúne om te bepaal
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
Turn on the radio
Abstract Jazz
I like the notes
I feel the mood move
Plenty of space between these sounds
My mind shifts to scenes
Put it in second and turn on 145th
People slowly striding blighted streets
Seems a natural rhythm
A cadence of life
Some are beautiful
A piano plays sweet blues chops
Take me to that place!
A noticeable cymbal…… tssssss
Oh Mule, drone you agonies of pleasurable life
Focus it finely
Sax takes back with rage and logical statement
No more sax, too definitive a declaration
Clap Clap it was live
No cigarettes
I love this song
Her voice grooves me.
“But it’s not what you want.”
Offer me you
Please
Sax liberates
green light
jbm
Harlem, NYC
9/2/86
Music Selection:
Gil Scott Heron-Brian Jackson Midnight Band
New York City
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC
De qué sirve, quisiera yo saber, cambiar de piso,
dejar atrás un sótano más *****
que mi reputación -y ya es decir-,
poner visillos blancos
y tomar criada,
renunciar a la vida de bohemio,
si vienes luego tú, pelmazo,
embarazoso huésped, memo vestido con mis trajes,
zángano de colemena, inútil, cacaseno,
con tus manos lavadas,
a comer en mi plato y a ensuciar la casa?
Te acompañan las barras de los bares
últimos de la noche, los chulos, las floristas,
las calles muertas de la madrugada
y los ascensores de luz amarilla
cuando llegas, borracho,
y te paras a verte en el espejo
la cara destruida,
con ojos todavía violentos
que no quieres cerrar. Y si te increpo,
te ríes, me recuerdas el pasado
y dices que envejezco.
Podría recordarte que ya no tienes gracia.
Que tu estilo casual y que tu desenfado
resultan truculentos
cuando se tienen más de treinta años,
y que tu encantadora
sonrisa de muchacho soñoliento
-seguro de gustar- es un resto penoso,
un intento patético.
Mientras que tú me miras con tus ojos
de verdadero huérfano, y me lloras
y me prometes ya no hacerlo.
Si no fueses tan puta!
Y si yo supiese, hace ya tiempo,
que tú eres fuerte cuando yo soy débil
y que eres débil cuando me enfurezco...
De tus regresos guardo una impresión confusa
de pánico, de pena y descontento,
y la desesperanza
y la impaciencia y el resentimiento
de volver a sufrir, otra vez más,
la humillación imperdonable
de la excesiva intimidad.
A duras penas te llevaré a la cama,
como quien va al infierno
para dormir contigo.
Muriendo a cada paso de impotencia,
tropezando con muebles
a tientas, cruzaremos el piso
torpemente abrazados, vacilando
de alcohol y de sollozos reprimidos.
Oh innoble servidumbre de amar seres humanos,
y la más innoble
que es amarse a sí mismo!
909
Pasea con el luto de viuda de sí misma,
payasa, miliciana,
entre los arces plateados de New Jersey
(o tal vez sean pinos, encinas, jaras y retamas
de Chozas de Sierra... Yo ya no sé).
La navaja del río corta pan y tomate
de la tarde que se evapora.
Don Gil, Jilguero de las calzas verdes,
asado con madera del cajón de la portería,
miraba compasivo
cómo acunan tus brazos esqueléticos,
mientras dan de mamar a la guerra de nunca,
teta arrugada, guerra guerreada,
y todo lo demás.
Y todo blanco y ***** Y desvaído.
Un hombre levantaba su cabeza de ortiga
en el menesteroso anochecer.
Mendigos con fusiles (que yo los vi pasar
porque tú los mirabas).
Y niños muertos que esquivabas para no pisarlos
en la calle de Atocha
(nunca los vi ni quise verlos),
y aquel puente estrechísimo que no es el más con
más
de Nueva York, sino de nieve y de cellisca,
(yo lo he visto, y lo veo, y seguiré viéndolo,
con las mujeres de ébano y marfil arrugado,
porque era entonces todo blanco y *****
Y ahora vuelve sin Filis, cabalgando su cáncer,
¡hasta mañana, Filis!
Más tarde, en tu memoria cristalizaban sombras,
entre los rascacielos de acero y miel:
sombras de mondas de patatas
que has olvidadoo, pues no quieres morir,
no queremos morir,
y fachadas de catedrales bordadas de palomas,
y que mañana no será otro día,
y otra sombra resbalando sobre una lágrima,
enhebrando una aguja, zurciendo una bufanda
a la sombra de una lenteja.
819
(with apologies to Gil Scott-Heron)
You will have to stay home, sister.
You will charge up, tune in, drop out of all activities.
You will scroll through memes, trawl the news,
Skip the tea, you're running low.
The epidemic will be endlessly televised.
The epidemic will be brought to you in a trillion parts,
With declining commercial interruption.
The epidemic will show you pictures of Trump and Boris blithering,
Dreaming of fried chicken at the end of televisation,
"Oka-a-ay...".
"You are a terrible reporter!"
NHS-badged Hancock will look the part,
But cannot answer the question
Should I look after my sick self-isolated seventyish neighbour?
Fauci facepalms
And is gone.
Watch out, guys.
The epidemic will be televised.
The Epidemic (starring Tom Hanks) will not be brought to you on the big screen.
There will be no big screen.
The Epidemic will not play Glasto
Lit by 300,000 Androids.
The epidemic will be brought to you by friends and strangers.
The epidemic will be televised.
The epidemic will not inject fat into your posterior.
You will not need to shave or deodorise.
As it turns out, you are not worth that expensive holiday.
The epidemic will make you a bedroom star
Vlogging your incarceration to ten followers.
The epidemic will be televised.
There will be pictures of coughing queues at supermarkets
Toilet roll riots, thermometer wars.
There will be pictures of you and your best mate
Pushing that cart down the block,
Packed with Branston Pickle baked beans
Though you posted fifty times online about hoarding.
You will not have dressed for the occasion.
You will not care who wins Love Island.
You will not care who wins The Great British Bake Off.
Eastenders will be cancelled
After 35 years of continuous drama.
You will dodge the police for a quiet walk
On a brighter day.
The epidemic will be televised.
Reporters will cough.
Ministers will be replaced
Suddenly
Parliament will be suspended.
Politics will cease to be televised.
The epidemic will be right back, after a message.
You will have to worry about a germ in your bathroom,
Your food supply, the tiger in your tank, your loved ones,
Whether, if you cease to breathe, there will be a ventilator.
You will consider getting in the driver's seat.
Where to go?
Would you like to see your mother?
Would you like to cross a border?
The Caravan Park is occupied
By the Military.
Slowly, slowly
The screens will darken.
The epidemic will no longer be televised.
The Epidemic is not a game. You cannot return to a previous Save.
The epidemic is live.
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 3:38 PM UTC
Dear Brothers & Sisters ............
••
••
(Even you
DAMN!)
•
Even he
--
Even she
****
••
THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE TELEVISED
--(Gil Scott Heron)
The revolution is not just words
//
If there is NOT revolution
WHAT will there be?
••
••
[.....(dear brothers and sisters)....]
••
Do I love you? WELL I GUESS!!
•
Ere this night is over
•
Under the one sky moon and stars
•
Holding the one babe in your arms
•
Up into the HEART CHAKRA let us proceed
••
Where YIN meets YANG
&
Man and god meet
••
[-----(We are gathered here.........)-----]
••
WE!
(remember)
••
WE
•
We are the Human
****
Dear Brothers & Sisters
(That means US!)
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
A Gil in the docks
As always the flock
Becomes a stampede of mindless
Youthism
Like old newspapers
I think of words
Like unequivocal
Or enterprise
And find the omission
Of interest
Constant and timid
Like paper bins
Or rootball images of day and night
Someday the seances of youth will fade away
Like films full of hatred and lives full of war
Or seething castes of poor old folk
Wishing deaths hymn sing aghast them and benign
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 4:39 PM UTC
(Song title from Michael Jacksons’ catalogue, by Michael Jackson, T. Riley, Gil Cang, J. Quay and G. Williams)
When I die early,
Or get caught out,
When the walls collapse,
Or crush my soul,
Whatever happens,
Know I love you,
Whatever happens,
Know I’m sorry.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 11:29 AM UTC
For two weeks since he's been home
He lost most of his conversation
In asking me or himself what needs
Done in the house or around it.
He watches the news alone at midnight
In the dark looking for war updates,
Always up before me to avoid any
Kind of pillow talk or otherwise.
26 years old and tireless
Back from four years of God knows
Because he won't say a word to me,
But I've never seen him more alone.
Last night I tried to make love to him,
He winced at me like he didn't
Know how to he with a woman any
More, which I found at first kind
Of nice, but really depressed me
Later on thinking about it.
Everyday during lunch, Gil breaks
Out his hand gun and rifle,
He breaks them down with such
A delicate touch, sometimes I get
Jealous of the way he handle them.
Still at the very least I like to think
That he knows how to touch a woman,
And he just misplaced his passion,
That one day he will put the energies
Back where they need to be.
We talk everyday, but the ts like
A mechanical response,
J just let him be.
We had a laugh when we shared
A movie together, the first one we saw
When we dated as teens,
He smiled at me like he did before
He left for the war,
He even gave me a kiss that lasted
More than the usual pecks.
In our bed I stare at this man
That I couldn't breathe without,
I try to understand that maybe he
Will come home some day,
Maybe he will remember himself,
Maybe is my best hope.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 11:12 AM UTC
jy is volbring
‘n groeiende
lewende
polsende
ding
swem uit
duik in
spartel los
en spring
gil of sing
dit wat jy kry
is dit wat jy bring
Jan 12, 2022
Jan 12, 2022 at 10:52 AM UTC