Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Poetic T Feb 2017
She was a dainty little one, that's what her mother
used to say, but now she wasn't so young.
Time was a tide that had flowed over her hair once
blonde and flowing down her back now a shimmering grey.

But she had noticed a decline in the world of those of
mature age, clothes were drab ugly and grey.
So much unattractive clothing made by the mother of
modern age dullness. Trying to sweeten the *** by calling
each a different name

The Ashen Collection:  It fell from the clouds and landed on you.
The Pearly Collection:  Even beauty doesn't need colour

Were they not color blind? Ok maybe a few were, but
this was just horrible, it was like wearing cement.
Just as stiff and ghastly to even wear. This just made
people look frightful in dismal clothing not suited to be
seen in the light of any day they walked out in it.

So I had to make a stand, I had to keep this dismal color
from tainting the eyes of a younger soon to be older
generation. I had wrote to the fashion designer by
Email, what just because I'm old doesn't mean I haven't
got skills. Her name is Miss Grey Bottom....

Dear Miss Grey Bottom,

As I am one of less years than more, it would be appreciated that
these years are filled with friends amusement and children's laughter.
I see though that your clothes line has been hitting the scene,
Yes I'm hip with the lingo..

I ask that you add a little color to this line of mature wear
due to the numbing effect it has on those wearing it?
There is no color in there face, no smiles just blank eyes.

At This time were most alive, we need the vibrant feel of life
in our daily lives. Not the mundane clothes that numb the senses.

Yours Sincerely,


I waited and waited, well ok I waited two weeks, ya don't
know how long you have left, it was like waiting for paint
to dry under the ocean. But I waited I even shrank an inch
in the time I wasted. So I thought I would do something about it,
as more and more were just walking around in dismal
clothing draining what little youth they had left. So I got a
few of my crew, and we got our design on. Front loop,
garter stitch, knit left loop, there so many weavings that we could
tell you about but now the first piece was finished.

"Try it on, it was an mixture of all our creativity, so we got
Mr. Robin he was 65 years old and had such cute rosy checks..
He looked puzzled?? "What's a matter Mr. Robin? Half his head
was sticking through the top of the jumper, not worried about
messing his hair or lack of...
He then preceded to tell us that it looked like a unicorn had
thrown up a rainbow on it.. "Oh, Colourful metaphor,
and then he proceeded to dance, I think he was break dancing??
He had good moves for his age.

"Ladies it itches so very badly, “I wasn't dancing,
"It feels like I have ants in my pants, crawling around
this jumper that I must take off now...

Sighing and regaining his composure,

"I never knew I had those kind of moves still in me,

Giggling slightly, he then folded the jumper.

He politely put it on the table, saying that if each did a
singular design, their own creation that it would be an art piece,
each a creation of their colourful imagining.
But please, please not in wool, try other fabrics.
And with this ladies of knowledge weaved there ideas together.
Two months later and quite a few pennies spent they produced
their own line of vibrant colours fulfilling the gap where drab,
grey clothing had drowned the feelings of an older generation
needing colour in this moment of their lives.

It now felt like what once was missed entered their lives through
the creations of these vibrant grannies.  But as there designs were embraced by the [silver mains] people of older graces.. The dullness was fading, and a certain lady didn't approve of such sunlight in
those that once wore her garments now being used as wash clothes.. Miss Grey Bottom was sullen for her plans to make the word
feel as she did, sombre in thoughts that weaved into her designs.
But she wasn't giving in  without a fight, she brought out new collections that had a hint of silver grey a hue not colour but
not as bland... but this was a start, its was called the;

Cloud collection:  Everyone has a silver lining..

Fashion Granny smiled, as she knew that seeing those of
Mrs Grey bottoms age infused had slightly changed her,
and with that they made more clothing to invigorate those
of climbing years..
Reviews were steadfast from those wearing there line:

Mr Whitehall:  I love the colouring of your clothing, it was
like it was made for my personality.

                                        Thanks F.G

Miss Waterson:  I feel like a millions pounds, this line enriches
my life every day I wear it.

                                        Thanks F.G

These were but a few of the thousands of reviews they were
scoring at 4.9 out of 5 stars in the reviews and the grannies smiled,
glad that they brought some reflection into their collection of clothing.
There was a knock at the door, and to all there surprise none other
than Miss Grey Bottom.

"Hi grey, about time you answered my email,  
Said her sister. Yes Miss Grey was fashion Grannies sister,
older by 10 years 2 months and 3 days.

"Why wouldn't you answer my calls and emails??
" I was really worried about you and those clothes so
gloomy yet I could tell the beauty was trying to come out
with those beautiful lines,

She just stared at her sister in silence and then, noticing
a tear she wiped it with her thumb tenderly holding her sisters
face. Miss Grey burst into tears and Fashion Grannie held on
to her sister, they hugged for what seemed like forever before
Miss Grey composed herself. "I have missed you so much,
Fashion granny smiled,
"Me to, you silly sausage, 
She introduced her sister to all those who helped her with
the colouring and design of their brand F.G, then they sat;

"Your my sister I didn't want to burden you with my

Fashion granny lent over and kissed her sister forehead

"You silly sausage, that's what family are for,

With those words a smile eclipsed Miss G B's face,
a smile rose across her sisters remember that beauty
that she once knew returning to her sisters face.

"Well you have me and my crew as friends now..

"Your crew, giggling aloud Miss G.B couldn't
even frown for she was for the first time in a long
time smiling, laughing.. Even though tears were
falling they were of happiness, not sadness as before.

Three Months Later,

The world had become a brighter place as sisters
and friends created art woven from cloth and not
only for those of silver locks, but these were hip
grannies they were weaving for the younger crowd.
The first show was about to start and they looked
out to see if many had come to see the new line,

A unicorn had thrown up a rainbow collection:
         So much colour you'll see rainbows in your sleep

It was an international hit, and the grannies were so proud
of what they had done not a singular person, but as close
friends. They carried on with this until they retired which
was not as far away as you'd think. But they had made new
friends and two sisters had once again found each other again
both thinking of how proud there mother would be now.
Wrote for my daughter, she is awesome 1359 words I know little long but worth it for her
Julie Grenness Feb 2017
For grannies, there is a school,
With a variety of teaching tools,
Grannies can get up to lots of tricks,
Spoiling grandkids is their own magic,
They have a common enemy, you see,
Grannies, renowned in history,
They learn heaps in grannies' school,
With a variety of teaching tools!
Feedback welcome.
Prathipa Nair May 2016
Kerala, with its blessed beauty of nature, long and silver-haired with colorful clips of fishes and a black mountain cap, standing in a green curly dress full of colorful butterflies and glowing flowers on it, mesmerizing eyes with calm and peaceful nature gifts us a pleasant world.

             In 1975, a new creation of God, his loving child came to this world. I cried as every child does but at the next moment I laughed because I have been born into God’s own country, The Paradise. Thanks to the Almighty for bringing me to this wonderful heaven. Oops! I forgot one special person. Slowly I turn towards that smiling face, the one who is holding me in her hands, my sweet Mother.

            Hi, I am Neha, the blessed child born into a loving and caring family. Our house too was not less than a paradise in a beautiful village which was full of greenery. It was a joint family with grandfather, grandmother, great grandmother, uncles, and aunts and especially with a dozen of cousins! After three years, being blessed with a younger sister.

          I was a shy and reserved character for strangers in the outer world but I was open with my family just because of the serenity they made me feel by giving the freedom to express my feelings and wishes. My childhood days gave me the most memorable and golden moments in my life. It was such great fun! In those days we used to play a lot of outdoor games, going for movies with our granny, fighting with brothers, walking on walls, sitting near the pond and chatting till our granny came running with a bamboo stick, competing with the cuckoo and making it angry and making fun of boys! My cousins and I never missed the regional movies on Doordharshan. I was passionate about listening to music on AIR, writing it down, memorizing it and singing along with the singer. When my mother finds me missing, she comes searching for me without a second thought to catch me red-handed with a radio.

         Then came the tape recorder which made it easier for me to listen to my favorite songs when I wish and record my own sweet voice... (giggling) Actually I love doing intoxicating things and have fun which I shouldn’t being doing! Isn’t it funny? But my grannies were too strict that I had to control all my mischievous behavior and be a very good girl. Got confused? Ha! Ha! There were about four grannies. There was always a unity in our family. I never had the feeling of being without a brother of my own as my cousins who were brothers always made me feel more like their own sister.

        One more thing about me friends, I am a great devotee of Lord Krishna, whom I believe is always with me as a friend, lover and well-wisher. Oh my God! I revealed the secret about my love and lover! Imagining Him as a lover, playing with Him, dancing with Him, enjoying happiness to the fullest with Him was my great dream. Please don’t shake with laughter but I really wish that to happen, a blessing to see the original form with His flute, the sky-blue colored Krishna and experience the love and lust transforming myself to Radha, making it a spiritual affair.

My father, who was a great artist, used to draw Krishna’s pictures especially for me, knowing my crazy love for Him.

            I did my schooling well as a normal child and scored average marks happily!

I felt that I was the luckiest person in this world. (smiling)

            Mmmm. Now it’s time for college. I got admission for BA English Literature, my favorite subject, my passion and one of my dreams.

            One of my cousins (sister) and I joined the college. We were in great excitement and were sure about having great fun because when we both were together, there was no doubt of pleasure and entertainment. Even though I was not so modern I was stylish and became a queen in everyone’s eyes!  We had a great time in college with our friends. There were boyfriends too.

One of our friends, a best friend, Nikhil was so special, caring and loving, always doing something exciting to make me fall hard into laughter.

         Hey! One more secret: I used to feel that I am playing with Krishna as a friend (Remember my wish?  ...LOL)

         Nikhil and I used to fight a lot on different topics but when it’s all over and we got tired, we were back together with more affection and fondness for each other. He was a very comfortable friend with whom I could share any of my feelings and viewpoints straight from the heart.

I was moving forward to the fourth month of my college, September, when the buds of beautiful flower forget-me-not blossom smiled at us.

       In this beautiful month, comes Onam, the day that welcomes the great King, Mahabali to Kerala. It was a month of celebration for me. A pookkalam would be drawn, decorated with different colorful flowers in front of each house till the day of Onam for ten days, which I really enjoyed during the festival.

       Knowing my wish to do this, permitting me to make pookkalam for those ten days.

      I got up early in the morning wandering everywhere to collect flowers from our house and of course our neighbor’s house (giggling).

       After making my art with flowers and admiring myself, I gave a pat on my back mentally as if I have won the first prize for pookkalam. The most interesting thing is, my cute great Grandmother joined me with a no tooth smile (imagine)

I enjoyed my holidays with my family in new clothes and Onam sadhya with my favorite Ada pradhaman ( payasam) ….yummy !!

       During those days there were only landline and it was strictly prohibited for us. Permitted to make only important calls if necessary and only girls could ring us, not boys (how sad, isn’t it?)

                        No mails! No Facebook! No Whatsapp!

      Still it was a great time because we were able to feel moment of celebrations, relationships and perceive the worth of feelings of our dear and near ones. Almost everyone was free of mental and emotional strain in our time. The only reason was many of them were able to solve the complications and pressure of their lives through direct communication, a joint family, a joint society. There was always a lot of helping hands.

         Children enjoyed each others company as they met daily by playing outdoor games, going to school by cycles, walking together and sharing their daily class sessions, their mischievous acts and how were they punished together by their teachers. They even shared their family issues and there was no need of counseling for children at that time.

         I was back to college after the Onam holidays and celebrations. You might be thinking why I didn’t mention about missing my friends and college.

Actually they were in my thoughts but I am the kind of person whose policy is to “Live in the Present” and not spoil the present happiness of oneself and others.

       I am sharing one more secret! I missed a special person among them. Guess who?

You were right! It’s none other than Nikhil, my Krishna.

       Reached college in my caravan, BSA SLR (my cycle) with my cousin sister. All our friends came running towards us and we contributed our love and affection for each other.

I lost my father when I was in college but my uncle never gave me a chance to mourn the loss and stood with me as a pillar filling absence of my father. I always believed that Krishna was with me in all my ups and downs in different forms to support me.

After my father’s death, I decided to take life in a methodical way with my credence in Krishna to overcome the trammels coming on my way.

I accomplished my graduation and joined for post-graduation. You might be wondering why I am not mentioning anything about Nikhil….hmmm….I read your mind….

The truth was that I was totally lost after the death of my father and my full concentration was to complete my graduation well.

        Hey! But his full support made me more ardent and to gain more will-power to face all ups and downs.

        Nikhil completed his and then joined to do CA. As his father got transferred his family relocated to another state. That was a big shock for me but I consoled my mind and heart, requesting them not to make me weak.

Accomplished my post-graduation, did my Teachers Training and I am an English teacher now! Surprised? But happy for me, right?

       One thing friends, till now I have faith and belief in my Krishna.

I know what is going on in your mind. Did Nikhil and I communicate with each other after his father’s transfer? Did we meet again?

After leaving the city, we were in touch for few months till he flew to America.

Slowly I too stopped communicating with him and engaged myself in daily matters and family duties and took care of my mother and sister.

      All my cousins, one by one completed their academics, some got married and settled in their family life. But there was always a get together once in a month. Now my mother wanted me to get married and settled.

      Many alliances came and I was ready to shake my head like a goat to the one which my elders chose for me.

Ha! Ha! Just kidding…. They know what is good and bad for me. Actually that is what I believe.

Hmmm…. Anyway I made one promise to myself that if I give birth to a baby boy, I would surely name him “Nikhil”.

Now I am a wife and a mother of a one and a half-year old boy.

Excuse me, did you ask me something?

Oh! My son’s name?

One second please …. My baby is crying…


Please change the baby's diaper !
A short story of a girl who lived in Kerala in 80s and 90s.  Hope you all will enjoy it :-) Sorry, if it's too long.. Please take time and have patience to read it.. Read when you are completely free and mood off :-)
Christmas is traditions
some last and others die
some leave you feeling fuzzy
others leave you asking "Why?"
There's rules that must be followed
And most of them we know
About gifts and cards and Christmas trees
and then there's mistletoe....

We all know the tradition
We all know what it is
You meet under the berries
And then you both must kiss
But, there's etiquette surrounding
The dreaded mistletoe
And there are things you aren't aware of
And I thought you all should know....

Always kiss your Aunties
Do it quick and on the cheek
Their lips are full of slobber
and sometimes they just reek

Grandmas, get a quick kiss
And ignore the sounds they make
Don't hug Grannies too tightly
They are brittle and might break

Avoid the pervert Uncles
With hands and eyes that roam
They act one way at Christmas
And another way at home

The little kids, won't kiss you
So, it's fun to give them chase
Make sure there's lots of slobber
So, they can wipe it off their face

Make sure kissing Grandad
That he has got his teeth
That they're not somewhere  in a glass
or worse, smiling from a wreath

Always kiss your Mum though
Beware, Mums will always cry
and they will get you going too
No matter how hard you try

Kiss the one you came with
Let them know just how you feel
That your love for them's eternal
And your love for them is real

Kissing is tradition
and at Christmas can be great
But, don't kiss all the women
And forget about your date

The most important rule of all
If you don't want your bell rung
When kissing 'neath the mistletoe
Whiskurz Sep 2012
Here's a story about a gang of grannies
Who knocked over a ***** hose store
They were nothing without their support hose
And they just couldn't take it anymore

Late one night at an old folks home
A few grannies were hatching a plan
Their varicose veins were getting in their way
Of catching themselves a man

So they decided enough was enough
And they'd reclaim their feminine wiles
And there happened to be a ***** hose store
Down the road just a couple of miles

Now if they got caught what would it matter?
'Cause it was a very small price to pay
And even if they gave them life in prison
Well that was probably just one more day

Now the leader of the gang was ninety years old
'Cause she had done this once before
She'd served a little time in granny prison
For robbing a false teeth store

Now their purses were their weapon of choice
Cause that's something they knew how to use
And if you've ever been hit by a granny purse
Then you know it can leave a bruise

Anyway, off they went to claim their prize
For it was much too late to turn back
Dressed in only their housecoats and slippers
Their purses and a burlap sack

To make a long story short they pulled it off
Just in time for the old folks dance
And you better believe those grannies looked sharp
In support hose and pink hot pants
st64 Aug 2013
astonishment at perception
a third-world child making it
up that totem-pole
amidst paltry conditions
beyond the half-way mark

a standing man
in silent message

and the woman in red
with thin-sling shoulder-bag
holding lipstick, weekly-ticket and purse
oh, how she frightens honchos out their skull
draped round her sister's head
shroud eternal

grannies recount lively *griot
where hope is never barren
young boys play in swamped dirt-trails
drawing absent father-figures in the sand
the wind has carried them off to mines
deep in the crust of earth's ire
adolescent future sits on labour-farms
where keen spirit is dulled with worthless hops
keeps the sly farmer happy
and he tells them the fruit is free
yet they've already paid for it

when she reaches twenty
she will have at least two kids
whose lives lie in the granny's luxury

while she runs off to the golden city-lites
to jump through higher hoops
for ****** spoils
all cheapened by long-term neglect

there lies hope
in every girl-child
who goes to school
who finds encouragement
from words kindly given
if but from a stranger

no hand-me-outs
no forlorn begging

the empowered mother of boys
help them to grow
into young men
of such sensibility
as to keep their hands
to deeds of honour

who, in turn
become fine fathers to daughters
they love and cherish
raise to be

each step up
from that totem-pole
such a steep climb
strengthens invisible wings
and unworldly rewards

and when final rung is reached


untainted take-offffffff

S T,  27 aug
much ado about what really matters.
let's clamour for education  . . .  for all :)

sub-exit: good-key

the good key lies in the hands
of the soul
who holds
that key :)

I remember helping bake
With my Granny....Elisie Boone
She always said
Whoever makes the mess
Gets to lick the spoon

I always liked to help her
I'd go see her every week
I liked that saying more than
Turn the other cheek

Granny always turned a phrase
And whistled a sweet tune
And whenever I helped make a mess
I got to lick the spoon

Time passed and my Grannies gone
But one thing still has clicked
whoever makes the mess still has
To make sure the spoon gets licked

Whether in the kitchen
making cookies or a cake
or ******* up with something else
I don't care what it may take

If you're the one who made the mess
you get what you deserve
It's your **** job to lick the spoon
No matter what gets served

Good advice, it don't come cheap
But good advice stays
And lick the spoon is good advice
From back in grannies days

It doesn't matter what happened
I don't care how it tastes
You made the mess, now lick the spoon
Good advice don't go to waste

I still think of my granny
When I whistle that sweet tune
Remember, made the mess've got to lick the spoon!
kirk Feb 2016
Id love a big fat ****
Or a wrinkled up *******
An ugly looking hag
Who wants a ******* ****

If I had a big fat *****, with a big fat bucket
I'd lay between her fleshy thighs, and definitely **** it
My thrusting **** inside her ****, is where I'd like to tuck it
Spunking up would be sublime, when I lick and **** it

When your about to **** the fat, it takes a certain knack
Stuffed up fishy **** *****, or **** ******* round the back
A nice piece of chunky ****, with a big long sweaty crack
Fatty *** holes make you hard ,my **** would not be slack

I would ride a big large Gal, just like a waterbed
Bathroom ******* would be fun, as well as in the shed
Spunking up between her legs, cream cheese would then be spread
When both holes are full of ***, she can **** my **** instead

And after I have finished, with all of those fat *******
Something different I would want, maybe some old wrinkled witches
All wearing apple gatherers, and big large ******* britches
Older ***** long overdue, scratching long lost itches

A lot of fun I could have, in an old folks place
Disrobed willing grannies *****, stuffed right in my face
At least eight bits of gristle ******, a display of my disgrace
With each granny ****** in turn, if they can stand the pace

As I lift their skirts up their knickers I would sniff
I'm hoping that old fannies good, and they don't smell or whiff
The smell of old used granny ****, is probably just a myth
But I won't let it bother me, as long as I get stiff

I wouldn't even care, if they wore crap NHS glasses
As long as I could **** and ***, inside there wrinkled arses
I would **** them old ****** , all from different classes
Some of them in wheelchairs and some with heart bypasses.

It's irrelevant how fat you are, I really do not mind
As long as you are willing, and your *****'s wet and kind
And if you like it up the ****, then I'm that way inclined
******* ***** is quite fine, so is ******* from behind

So come on girls fat or old, all slags are a possibility
Your sexuality can flood out, there's no need for negativity
I'm willing to **** who comes along, to the best of my ability
Just make sure that I stay stiff, and maintain my agility
JJ Hutton Dec 2012
Spending the last day with Maegan Finn,*
who, turns out, prefers to be called Mae

11:35 p.m.

I burn the popcorn. Just the pieces against the bag's underbelly.
Like a nightclub bouncer, I decide which pieces to let inside
a white, ancient bowl. One, on which, a former roommate scrawled
"THIS MACHINE KILLS MUNCHIES" upon its side in red, permanent ink.
I never said the night would be

perfect. But when I walk into my bedroom carrying the snack fiasco,
I know Ms. Maegan Finn doesn't mind. Something between her vine-framed,
honey irises and my gaze, some mischievous energy, causes her to lower
her head. She allows a smile. She's sitting on my twin-sized bed. Her back to a pillow
to the

wall. An empty pillow beside her waits for me. With one hand she moves her hot chocolate
to the side, with the other she lifts my calico comforter for me to climb under. I never
said the night would be

perfect. But I know Ms. Maegan Finn doesn't mind. Because when I say, "I'm sorry. I didn't really plan for this," nervous laugh, "this is the worst final meal of all-time. You can leave if you want.
You don't have to go down with the ship."

She responds, "I don't mind," raises an eyebrow as she reads the bowl. Dismisses it. And grabs a handful of popcorn. On the television, a white-haired man with heavy jowls and tree bark wrinkles begins to talk.

...planet Earth will be recycled. The universe recycled.

"So, when does this guy think the world will end?" I ask.


"Chris said two."

"Two p.m.? Like today? Like already past?"


Maegan shakes her head,"Stupid *******."

11:40 p.m.

"So, if I hadn't botched dinner, what would you have chosen for your last meal?"

"Well, Joshy-poo, I'd have to say popcorn and hot chocolate."


"It's salty. It's sweet. The temperatures compliment each other.
It shouldn't work, but it does. If the world wasn't ending,
I'd suggest you open a restaurant."

"C'mon. What would your last meal be?"

...with friends. Cling to your loved ones as the final minutes pass by.
The world becomes perfect. The calendar pages turn no...

"Do you remember Waffle Crisp?" she breaks gently.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Hold on."

"Any meal on the planet. Anything! And you choose-"

"Waffle Crisp."

"Oh, that terrible commercial with the grannies in disguise."

"Grannies and all," staring at the reflective surface of the hot chocolate,
she begins talking in distant pieces like reading off a teleprompter,
"Waffle            Crisp            reminds

me           of           my


"I see."

A commercial is on for ******. I never said the night would be


...picking the right moment is easy with...

"Why do you think of your dad?"

Maegan releases a deep exhale/tension-laugh.

"I don't know. I mean, I

guess it's because every morning -- well, before my parents got divorced --
he'd come down the stairs, mess up my hair -- God, I'd get so mad --, and
he'd say,
'Mae, may the world learn from your perfection today.'
He'd kiss my forehead. I'd eat Waffle Crisp. I remember the smell -- the shapes."

11:51 p.m.

...less than ten minutes. Go outside with your families
look to the


"How's the world supposed to end? Has he said?" Maegan asks.

With a finger raised, I finish chewing my popcorn.

"The planets are aligning right?"

"Yeah, I've heard that. I've heard the Mayans just
ended their calendars on the

date. But I don't know how either of those scenarios make the world end, though."

"Exploding sun?"

"Maybe an asteroid?"

"Could be," I say.

Ms. Maegan Finn rests her head on my shoulder. "You should ask another question."

"Um, okay."

...Security Systems. Are your children safe?

"I got one," I grab the remote and turn down the television. "What is something you haven't told

anyone? One secret that otherwise would die with you."

"I hate the name Maegan."


"It's a terrible name."

"Is not."

"It is too. First off, not only did my parents indulge the cruelty of switching the 'a' and 'e',


then they went ahead and gave me the most common girl's name on the planet.
I don't stand out until I say, 'Excuse me, you misspelled my name.' It's not funny.
Hell, even when I say that, their usual response is, 'No, I didn't misspell your name.'
Because they'd know."  Flustered, Maegan puts the white, ancient bowl of popcorn on the ground. "And get this away from me."

"What would you rather be called?"

"Mae. Just Mae. I always liked it."

"Alright, Ms. Mae."

...hoisted unto judgement. Some without absolution...

"What about you, Mr. Josh? What's your secret?"

I take a sip of hot chocolate. I look at the bare wall behind the television, and wish I had
decorated it, but I

never did. The paintings are even in my closet. They just need to be put up.

"I love you."


"I love you, Mae."

Mae smiles wide. Puts her hand on my shoulder, "Your'e joking right?"


"That's a bold secret to tell," she laughs.

"Not the reaction I was expecting."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's just -- what happens tomorrow? When I have to see you again."

"I'm betting on the exploding sun."

"Or the asteroid."

"Or the asteroid."

11:59 p.m.

...a matter of seconds until we are cast like dice into the blackness of...

Mae takes my hot chocolate. Places the porcelain cups on the carpeted floor. With a "c'mere" she peels me off the pillow, off the wall. Moves the pillow to the head of the bed. She guides my body until I'm lying down. Straddling me, she leans down. Traces my shoulder blades, then softly latches on to them. She leans further.

...9, 8, 7...*

A kiss.

A long kiss. The weight transfers from my body into her, then is carried toward the ceiling by some mischievous energy. At the end of the world, Ms. Mae Finn kisses me. Kisses me despite popcorn. Despite hot chocolate. Despite love confessed too soon. Just when I never want that minute to end, it


12:00 a.m.
               But a new minute begins.

"That was perfect," Mae says.
B M Coldwell Oct 2011
The flowers are exceptionally cold this season
The rain leaves much to be desired
Mr. & Mrs Sunflower are expecting seedlings.
Good old sounds of pitter-patter on the mud;
"Delve deep little ones - for the earth is rich and good".

Standing two meters tall
Where did I leave me shovel?
Grannies dead and buried,
Grandad he went to war.
Yes, in our house, like a bees -nest
There's honeydew; it feeds us

Gosh, I am so very tired
I need to take a rest
Lying here - just catch my breath
Let Mother Nature do the rest

R.I.P as they will say
One day upon my grave
Lest we pray; behold, my children laugh
And rise again shall I,
Through the wonders of an age old myth
Of time and evolution - life!

Now praise the Lord my soul to give
And keep me warm inside
A glow of peace in troubled times
My memories, a myth
God Bless You!

© all rights are reserved B M Coldwell
Harriet Cleve Sep 2016
Skinhead Showdown
Two skinheads rough, hand in hand, were walking down their lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, and both were swinging chains!
A toothless grin was flashed within the darkened lane  just then
As coming up the other side, two rough old wrinkled hens!

Two old grannies, hand in hand, were walking up that lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, and both were swinging canes!
Sparks flew then as chain met cane and a massive brawl ensued!
The skinheads knew they'd met their match, that this night would be rued!

You''re both going down! the skinheads roared as violent fists were thrown
But grannies  quick each threw a kick and the skinheads shrieked and moaned
*******! Get out of here! the skinheads roared just then
And a toothless grin flashed within from each old wrinkled hen!

Two skinheads rough, hand in hand, fled back down that lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, but both were minus chains!
Two old grannies, hand in hand, proudly held that lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, as each still held their
Both walked off, heads aloft!
Each was swinging a chain!

Old Skinhead
His Doc Martens stared back at him from an old tea chest marked East India Company
a wary apprehension settling from the burly skinhead gazing at his past buried amongst
his chain which showed some signs of corrosion even though it was folded in the deep
blue pockets of his denim jacket awaiting the return of an other era lost in the arms of
yesterdays battles in the dingy London backstreets where his blood flowed in rivulets
of anger soaking the concrete with the indifference of violent confrontations in a sacrifice
to his manhood and the enemies of his youth and he inhaled his memories as if they
were a gift from the war gods of ancient times beckoning him to don his armour and
engage in a final battle and he even thought it over as his seventy year old hand lifted
the chain from its resting place and carressed the steel weapon which had slain his enemies
leaving the bodies on the battlefields of his youth and instinctively a guttural cry roared
from his throat ' Gerrup ye *******! ' as he wielded the chain one final time before his
heart packed in leaving him slumped on the old tea chest as silence settled upon the scene
of his final resting place in the shadow of the East India Company

Skinhead Swansong
Cyril laced his Doc Martens
Prescribed for violent altercations
Ox blooded and ****** weapons
Battle scarred and battered
Essential kit for tours of duty
The last of the Skinheads dressed for battle

The intimidating black gum shield
Filled out his gaunted haunted face
Taking pride in his denims
He gripped his chain and took a swing
The old battle cry resonating from his arthrithic throat
'Ger up ye *******!

He worked up a frenzy and beat the crap
Out of his council bedsit
'Taste that steel!  What did ye bleedin' say?
'Are ye lookin' at  me ye toe rag!
He still knew his lines even at eighty one
It was time to  bow out
He needed some one to bow out on
Skinheads are funny like that
Involve other people for the crack

The Teddy boys were juking it up
Fifties nights for the decrepids
Ducks arses groomed and combed
Dry cleaned rockers in dry cleaned crombies
'That'll be the day when I die'
The old vinyl floor filler whippin' up the adrenalin
Defibrillators and oxygen on standby
Cyril burst in then

He took out two Teddys and worked his Docs hard
Hard men are still hard in old age
Once a hardo always a hardo they say
The chain was swinging now
Wrecking the jukebox and escalating the battle
'Come on ye *******! roared Cyril
Five teddies were downed now
Then the beer bottle came crashing down

Cyril staggered as his head burst open
His heart packed in and called it a day
A smile came to his face as he took one final look
His Doc Martens oxblooded and ******
The last of the Skinheads bowed out
His chain by his side
Skinheads are funny like that....
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
i love women, don't get me wrong, i finally succumbed
to watching the female world cup,
since the lionesses reached the semi-finals
against u.s.a., but the man in me just kept thinking:
yeah yeah, great footie, but those beauties...
where's martin keown, i need to look at
a mugshot of a brute, i can't concentrate
on the skill without a girl that looks like
martin keown... oh god... alex morgan...
              julie ertz... steph houghton...
   don't get me started on the swedish team...
    wimbledon has also started...
                    i do enjoy female tennis more than
the male variation of serve-**** tactic...
or the terminator that's serena williams...
     cori "coco" gauff... wow...
                i wish she would win the championship
and replicate martina hingis wimblendon 1996...
problem... she's under 16...
so she's only allowed to play 5 matches
in the tournament... and what if she wins
the 5th? that's the quarter-finals...
7 to win the tournament... the rules should be bent,
she should be able to continue...
end of an era... the dinosaurs are being chased
by the younglings...
prof. green (roger federer) still has it in him...
but... well he is a professor of tennis...
his style? his backhand? immaculate "conception"...
who played as well as he does?
roger sampras... the list is very short...
but i don't have a problem watching woman's
tennis, it's so much better than the brute strength
of the serve akin to the game played
by: ivanišević, rusedski, roddick, čilić (chy-lea-'c -
piquant, that acute c)...
   n'ah... in terms of tennis?
i think the males are over-rated,
                except for the prof. of grass court...
i do love women... apart from the nostalgia
for primary school playground banter with
the girls: when we still had an asexual
sense of it... before all the **** jokes,
before the greatest schism in ether of existence:
beyond the religious and in the biological realm...
o.k.: i tease... which is something a prepubescent
girl would understand:
   if i was also a prepubescent boy...
times, have, changed...
i'm with ms. amber and ginger ale,
cigarettes and a decent soundtrack...
               i still don't want to understand incels...
i listen to them, but then i reach a limit...
thank god i didn't lose my virginity to a *******...
but... if you have to?
         isabella of grenoble...
               a fine fine catch...
          mind you... have you ever been
to an 18 year old's birthday party,
   and it was not what you were used to,
i.e.: bal samców / cockfest?
   this 18 year old's birthday party?
  my friend ian tagged along for about an hour
or two... then he suddenly bailed on me...
i was the only male... among... um....
20 or so girls...
              why, the, ****, are, muslims,
blowing themselves, up,
for a reward of 72, virgins?! eh?! can anyone
please please tell me?!

no brainer question(s)
   (as dictated by h'american girls in venise):
the beatles or the rolling stones -
to be honest? neither.

   top three songs with the bass guitar
setting the rhytm:
   1. tool - forty six & two
  2. the offspring - bad habit
3. róże europy - kości czerwone, kości czarne...

roy orbison or elvis? m'hahaha... royo...

  a lot has happened since i attended that
18 year old's birthday party...
why are muslim men so eager to entertain
eternity with 72 virgins?
      will they be keeping them virgins
or what? that would be the best way
to not move past kissing and oral ***...
once 3rd base is entered: the third eye
of transgender shiva opens up...
              why did solomon give up his harem
for the monotheistic monogamy associated
with the queen of Sheba?
   beyond one, what good is a harem?
if you've never been around 25 or so virgins...
you really don't know what you're talking...
or getting yourself into...
look, i just changed the background to show
you i'm not lying:
  that evening i came home: ex-haus-ted...
did i spend the past few hours in
the company of teenage girls or was i being
ripped apart by a pack of wolves / hyennas...
and you know how drunk teenage girls
behave... you're shreds... they're competing
like it's both the 100m sprint and the marathon
cooked up into one!

i really could have chosen a different path:
***** ***** all year round...
   well, why didn't i, why did i become
voluntarily "celibate"?
            as much as might want the company
of the opposite ***: picking up a thai surprise
bisexual in the park one day...
******* her in the garden...
   walking her home while she drowned
in my jacket... she telling me i should stop
drinking... now... drinking...
i was taught to listen to rules under the arch
of pedagogy... now? i'll be as stubborn as
i am expected to be...
i don't like being told what to do,
thank you for telling me to do for the first
21 years of my life...
  now? welcome to the plateau!
even the best advice is the worst advice
after a certain period of time...
do i look like a ******* puppett that will
listen to such things: oh, but if you don't
do x, you'll become homeless...
   i've met some happy homeless people...
one even told me why he became homeless:
'my mother told me to never lie'...

i don't even think these jihadis know what
they're getting into,
wishing up 72 celestial virgins...
i'll take to the count of "72" valkyrie serving
me drinks than expecting me to **** them,
and the eternal library of text and music...
don't get me wrong...
receiving attention from women:
esp. those younger than you,
while they're intoxicated: it is fun...
but when it comes to the sort of
intimacy of a relationship with a women,
when she starts to read you the cosmopolitan
magazine's questionnaire as to whether
she's the perfect girlfriend /
you're the perfect boyfriend /
   you're a perfect couple?
i love women outside the realm of a molten
heart... i don't like finding myself

              am i missing out on something?
oh i know i am...
but it's like owning a car:
great! you own a car!
  but you also own car insurance...
the m.o.t. payments and spare parts...
and washing the car on the weekend...
oh i'm so jealous!

  what's that famous saying?
women... can't live with them,
  can't live without them...
       well... more like: can live without them,
but much harder to live without them
and stop wanting them...
whatever glimpses i've had of past
relationships: i sober up even if i'm drunk...
she didn't want to split the restaurant bill...
this "modern thing": feminism,
my "toxic masculinity"...
  whatever, whatever...
                   i guess i'll have to end
on a note superstitious of a teenage girl's whim...
i'm bored, the end.


.now i have a fox, without a leash, that i tend to feed everyday... keep feeding him, or her, lamb fat, cat food synthetics, and once in a while a frankfurter... and the Polacks you minded so much? only attacked ****** night0club owners... made plums and figs out of their faces... bulging and caress worthy... same ****, different cover, with the easy girls of Liverpool and Newcastle... back down in London? the story goes: she's an exchange student from New Hampshire... riddled by the madonna-***** complex... and i'm not really adamant adamant on stealing the cherry... if you've ever ****** aa ******? one, is enough...  i'd sooner become ****** up by a ******* tornado... and giggle... dying with a half breath... before plummeting face down onto the hearth; watching daisies, growing, roots up!

i've had one irish migrant educate me:
you know...
there are plenty of neo-nazis
in Poland...  
       and? am i one of them?
   liked him, a high school friend...
i'm sorry the friendship ended...
so i am?
   **** me... better i brush up on
reading some Heidegger!
         oh look 'ere i go...
        can't stop me now...
unless befriending Pakistanis
who have kept a null of Urdu...
              because you know...
   if there's a culture that's integrating,
and doesn't,
   have the honor, capacity,
to keep in line its origins?
no problem...  not worth it...
           people who do not retain their
skeleton -
their basics -
  their language -
   they, "magically" lose it...
half-castes... half-people...
   no pride in an origin,
   not upkeep with a language?
might as well call your mother a,
*******, *****!
      ****** by an antiques dealer!
      no pride in origin,
  no subsequent pride in a "return"
on foreign soil...
   plethora of antagonizing Islam...
good look...
    i have mine,
but i hide it...
      ex-girlfriend -
almost took a ride on one of those
buses in the 7/7 bombings...
               guess what...
i'm an ex-pat...
  i know that you wouldn't call
your similar genetics of
a "family" an ex-pat
and neither a migrant or an immigrant...
   (economics comes later,
doesn't it?) -
  but i'm sure the english
are loved up with Hindu grannies
and their grandchildren
taking them to the doctors to
translate symptoms...
   fine by me... you do the math...
   apparently i'm not speaking
English, but? ******* Urdu!
         no problem...
thank god i never allowed myself
a pledge of allegiance to the people,
rather, the language they spoke...
the language is all i pledge my
allegiance to... and for...
the queen... and her people?
        **** it... shooting albatrosses
off the shoreline of Cornwall...
attempting to spot
  porky Siamese twins...
        one does the eating,
the other does the oral ***...
             i have not pledged any allegiance
to the english people...
  they love their **** curry
and their Afghan foot-soldiers...
   i'm doing the Pontius Pilate
washing of hands...
   which is a secondary theater of
a baptism...
no allegiance to the people....
but the language?
   i'd give my life for it...
           the people are not exactly
the main ingredient in terms
of existential coordinates -
but the language is...
    on a per se basis mingling with
the appropriate focus.
Alexander   k   Opicho

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;

Contents                                                                                                                Page
Amilcar Cabral: Beacon of revolutionary literature and social democracy 127
How the State of Israel is brutally dealing with African refugees 131
Historical glimpses of language dilemma in Afro-Arabic literature 146

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
American president is reading Moby ****
Ja-kogello is reading Moby ****
Ja-siaya is reading Moby ****
Ja-merica is reading Moby ****
Jadello is reading Moby ****
Ja-buonji is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his father
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took his mother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death to his brother
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because untimely death took the grannies
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman  
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Baba Michelle is reading Moby ****
Baba Sasha is reading Moby ****
Baba Malia is reading Moby ****
Baba nya-dhin is reading Moby ****
Sarah’s sire is reading Moby ****
Ja-sharia is reading Moby ****
The ****** is reading Moby ****
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes audacity of hope
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes dreams of fathers
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes yes we can
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because here ekes American dream
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you readings?

Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because American president is like whale hunting
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Obama is a money making animal
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Osama is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because hunting Gaddaffi is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because coming to Kenya is whale riding
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Guantanamo prison is a bay of whales
Barrack Obama is reading Moby ****
Because Snowden is a Russian whale
Because launching drones is whale riding
His lovely Oeuvre of Melville Herman
And what are you reading, Moby ****?


I am writing this article from Kenya on this day of 23 September 2013 when the Al shabab, an Arabo-Islamic arm of the global terrorist group the Al gaeda have lynched siege on the shopping mall in Nairobi known as the West Gate where an average of forty people have been killed and a hundreds are held hostage. The media is full of horrendous and terrifying images. They have made me to hate this day. I hate terrorism, I hate American foreign policy on Arabs, I hate philosophy behind formation of the state of Israel and I equally hate religious fundamentalism. Also on this date, all the media and public talks in Kenya are full of intellectual and literary tearing of one Kenyan by another plus a retort in the equal measure as a result of the ripples in the African literature pool whose epicenter is the Professor Taban Lo Liyong .He is an epicenter because he had initially decried literary mediocrity among the African scholars and University professors, Wherein under the same juncture he also quipped that Kenya’s doyen of literature Ngugi wa Thiong’o never deserved a Nobel prize. Liyong’s stand has provoked intellectual reasons and offalities to fly like fireworks in the East African literary atmosphere among which the most glittering is Chris Wanjala’s contrasting position that; who made Liyong the prefect and ombudsman of African literature? This calls for answers. Both good answers and controversial responses. Digging deeper into the flesh of literature as often displayed by Lo Liyong.
Liyong is not a fresher in the realm of literary witticism. He is a seasoned hand .Especially when contributions of Liyong to east African literary journal during his student days in the fifties of the last century during which he declared east Africa a literary desert. In addition to his fantastic titles; Another ****** Dead and The Un-even Rips of Frantz Fanon, Professor Taban Lo Liyong also humorously called Amos Tutuola the son of Zinjathropus, what a farcical literary joke? I also want to appreciate this Liyong’s artfulness of language in this capacity and identify him in a literary sense as Taban Matiyong Lo   Liyong the son of Eshu. He is an ideological and literature descended of the great West African Eshu. Eshu the god of trouble which was dramatized by Obutunde Ijimere in the imprisonment of Obadala and also recounted by Achebe in the classical essays; Morning Yet of Creation Day. I call him Eshu because of his intellectual and literary ability to trigger the East and West Africans into active altercation of literary, cultural and political exchanges every other time he visits these regions. Whether in Lagos, Accra or Nairobi.
Now, in relation to Ngugi and intellectual quality of Kenyan University literature professors was Liyong right or wrong?  Does Liyong’s stand-point on Ngugi’s incompetence for Nobel recognition and mediocrity in literary scholarship among Kenyan Universities hold water. Are Liyong’s accusations of East Africa in these perspectives factually watertight and devoid of a fallacy of self-aggrandizement to African literary prefecture as Professor Chris Wanjala laments. Active literary involvement by anyone would obviously uncover that ;It is not Liyong Alone who has this intellectual bent towards East Africa, any literary common sense can easily ask a question that; Does Ngugi’s literary work really deserve or merit for Nobel recognition or not ? The answers are both yes and no. There are very many of those in Kenya who will readily cow from the debate to say yes. Like especially the community of alumni of the University of Nairobi who were Ngugi’s students in the department of English in which Ngugi was a Faculty during the mid of the last century. Also the general Kenyan masses who have been conditioned by warped political culture which always and obviously confine the Kenyan poor into a cocoonery of chauvinistic thought that Ngugi should or must win because he is one of us or Obama must win because he is one of us or Kemboi must win because he is the son of the Kenyan soil. These must also be the emotional tid-bits upon which the Kenyan Media has been based to be catapulted into Publicity feat that Ngugi will win the Nobel Prize without reporting to the same Kenyan populace the actual truths about other likely winners in the quarters from the overseas. I am in that Kenyan school thought comprising of those who genuinely argue that Ngugi’s literary work does not befit, nor merit, nor deserve recognition of Nobel Prize for literature. This position is eked on global status of the Nobel Prize in relation to Ngugi’s Kikuyu literary and writing philosophy. It is a universal truth that any and all prizes are awarded on the basis of Particular efforts displayed with peculiarity. Nobel Prize for literature is similarly awarded in recognition of unique literary effort displayed by the winner. It is not an exception when it comes to the question of formidability in a particular effort. However, the most basic literary virtue to be displayed as an overture of the writer is conversion of theory into practice. This was called by Karl Marx, Hegel, Antonio Gramsci and Paulo Freire, especially in Freire’s  pedagogy of the oppressed as praxis.History of literature and politics in their respective homogenous and comparative capacities has it that ;There has been eminent level of praxis by previous Nobelites.Right away from Rabitranathe Tagore to Wole Soyinka, From Dorriss Lessing to Wangari Mathai.Similar to JM Coatze ,Gao Tziaping,Alexander Vasleyvitch Solzhenystisn and Baraka Obama.This ideological stand of praxis is the one that made Alfred Nobel himself to to stick to his gun of intellectual  values and deny Leo Tolstoy the prize in 1907 because there was no clear connection between rudimentary Tolstoy in the nihilism and Feasible Tolstoy in the possible manner  of the times .In a similar stretch Ngugi wa Thiongo’s literary works and his ideological choices are full of ideological theory but devoid of ideological praxis. Evidence for justification in relation to this position is found back in the 70’s and 80’s of the last century, When Ngugi was an active communist theoretician of Kenya. His stature as a Kenyan communist ideologue could only get a parallel in the likes of Leon Trotsky and Gramsci. This ideological stature was displayed in Ngugi’s adoration of the North Korean communism under the auspice of the Korean leader Kim Yun Sung. This is so bare when you read Ngugi’s writers in politics, a communist pamphlet he published with the African red family. By that time this pamphlet was treated equally as Mao tse Tung’s collected works by the Kenya government which means that they were both illegal publications and if in any case you were found with them you would obviously serve nine months in prison. And of course when the late Brigadier Augustine Odongo was found with them he was jailed for nine months at Kodhiak maximum prison in Kisumu ,Kenya .O.K, the story of Odongo is preserved for another day. But remember that, this was Ngugi only at his rudimentary stage. But when Ngugi got an opportunity to get an ideological asylum, he did not go to Russia, nor East Germany, Nor Tanzania, nor China but instead he went to the USA , a country whose ideological civilization is in sharp contradiction with communism; a religion which Ngugi proffessess.In relation to this choices of Ngugi one can easily share with me these reflections; is one intellectually  honest if he argues that he is a socialist revolutionary when his or her employer is an American institution like the university of California in Irvine ?
Ngugi was not the only endangered communist ideologue of the time. There were also several others. Both in Kenya and without Kenya. They were the likes of; Raila Odinga, George Moset Anyona, ***** Mutunga and very many others from Kenya. But in Africa some to be mentioned were Walter Rodney, Yoweri Museven,Isa Shivji,Jacob Tzuma ,Robert Mugabe and others. The difference between Ngugi and all of these socialist contemporaries of him is that; Ngugi went to America and began accumulating private property just like any other capitalist. But these others remained in Africa both in freedom and detention to ensure that powers of political darkness which had bedeviled Africa during the last century must go. And indeed the powers somehow went. Raila has  been in Kenya most of the times,Anyona died in Kenya while in the struggle for second liberation of Kenyan people from the devilish fangs of Moi’s dark reign of terror and tyrany.Walter Rodney worked in Tanzania at Dare salaam University where he wrote his land mark book; How Europe underdeveloped Africa. Later on he went back to his country of birth in Africa, Guyana where he was assassinated while in the revolutionary struggle for political good of the Guyanese people. Yoweri Museven practically implemented socialism by fighting politics of sham and nonsense out of Uganda of which as per today Uganda is somehow admirable. Isa Shivji has ever remained in Dare salaam University, inspite of poverty. He is now the chair of Mwalimu Julius Nyerere school of Pan African studies. Jacob Tsuma and Robert Mugabe they are current presidents of South Africa and Zimbabwe respectively. The gist of this reference to African socialist revolutionaries as contemporaries to Ngugi wa Thiong’o is that a socialist revolutionary must and should not run away from the oppressor in to a zone of comfort. But instead must remain and relentlessly fight, just like in the words of Fidel Castro; fight and die in the battle field as long as it is a struggle against the enemy of the revolution. This view by Castro is pertinent as it’s a Revolutionary praxis which actually is redolent of practice of an ideology that has to be held for ever above ideological cosmentics.Ngugi scores badly on this. So if the Nobel academy looks at Ngugi in terms of defending human rights then it must be reminded that Ngugi have no marks on the same because he only ran away from the practical struggle. Anyway, Politics and ideology has its own fate. But let us now come back to literature. Ngugi and his books. As at  this time of writing this essay  Ngugi has published the following works; Weep not Child, The River Between, A Grain of Wheat, Black Hermit, Petals of Blood, Devils on the Cross,Matigari,Homecoming,Decolonizing the Mind, Writers in Politics, Ngugi Detained, Pen Points and Gun Points, Wizard of the Crow,Globalectics,Remeembering Africa, Dreams in Times of War and I Will Marry When I Want as well as the Trial of Dedan Kimathi which he wrote along with Micere Githae Mugo.Out of this list the only works with literary depth that call for intellectualized attention are ;A Grain of wheat, Wizard of the crow and Globalectics. The Grain of wheat is simply a post colonial reflection of Kenyan politics. Its themes, plot, lessons and entire synechedoche is also found in Wole Soyinka’s Season of Anomie as well as Achebe’s Anthills of the savannah. My argument dove-tails with those of Liyong’s stand that rewarding Ngugi’s Grain of wheat and forgetting Achebe’s Anthills of the Savannah and A man of the people would be a literary ceremony devoid of literary justice. Wizard of the Crow is indeed a magnum opus. I am ready to call it Ngugi’s oeuv
S R Mats Mar 2015
We loved your ample bosoms,
Dear Grandmothers,
So soft and pillow-like;
The perfect place to lay sleepy heads.

We loved your voluminous laps,
Dear Grannies,
Wrapped in yards of cotton;
The perfect place to rest teary faces.

We loved your full long dresses,
Dear mothers of our parents,
In lengths well past your knees;
The perfect place to hide a shy child.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i still think the oceans are insulators of tectonic plate movements, constant and endless vibrations represented by waves, these vibrations, when translated on dry land, movements of crumbling buildings, rigidity as testimony to the insulating fluidity of water; it's like those nuclear power plants, you use water to cool things down, or as in the case of oceans and tectonic plates, insulate volatility... well, radioactivity in the opposite scenario of nuclear power plants... oh look, a rhyming couplet - now that's how you understand things, if not reveal them, find complimentary rhymes on a grander scale than the casual technique in poetry, so over-used and overrated.*

i guess so, monsters bedded, big and small,
an old granny without a family member
to accompany her, harrowed by
charity groups who ask for money
more for the bureaucracy of its workers than
aiding actual victims - someone has to
look pretty, writing solemn letters and
filing in the spreadsheets -
by the way, how's that advent of the grand
timings working, find the hyphen,
the comma, the colon and semi-colon on the clock?
well, there ain't a full stop on there, i'm sure,
hard to decide on encoding time of a 100m
sprint, or a formula 1 thousandth of a second.
so this angel of euthanasia comes along,
a cruel case they say, while years later
a man suffering motor neurone disease
pleads for a change of law, according to switzerland,
he wants it bad, real real bad, he's no longer
even stoic about death, the disease didn't
rob him of expressing tears, and he's pleading
for it, a death sequence, he too knows
a drop in an ocean has no ripple effect,
humanity is the ocean, waves and waves of it,
always dynamic, never still like a lake or mirror,
either the ocean, or the river;
so this angel of euthanasia is there, kills
about 100 grannies, and guess what,
he hangs himself in prison, so that his widow
can receive his pension salary of £100,000,
odd, isn't it? i mean, why would a supposed
"serial killer" wait in prison, hang himself
just after he was eligible for a general practitioner's
pension, just so his wife could have it?
all those old grannies probably lived
on the state pension of one hundred
and twenty quid, not one hundred thousand, i'm sure.
well the guy suffering from motor neuron disease,
oh crap, i wish i could remember that philosopher's
name, parmenides? zeno? can't remember,
yeah, forced himself to suffocate,
without water and without a pillow; yep,
just sat there and held his breath.
John Kuriakose Nov 2013
Peace! God’s Peace upon you all! The Bishop blessed
The dyed-young congregation: dyed fathers ‘n mothers,
Grandpas ‘n grannies, great-grandpas and great-grannies.
The demons of decadence--Hair dye, ****** and Spirits –
Chuckled and giggled, crouching well under the pulpit.

Dyed gurus ‘n financiers, dyed lawyers, doctors n’ nurses,
****** entrepreneurs and ****** entertainers, dyed judges
Dyed ‘n spirited evangelists, priests and vergers on ******
Peace be upon thee all! Blessed the Bishop from the pulpit.
Now, the demons in the hiding iterated and reiterated it.

A Sunday spirited chat—all smiles! -- in the church portico:
The ******-dyed banker in later life smiled a dyed smile
At the elderly dyed mother of three; and she said: they say,
In spite of my age, you know, I look so young and pretty!
And the thick flanks under her chin jiggled in approbation.

The ****** great-grandpa said to the dyed Justice of spirits:
Milord, they say: “The stuff brings cancer;” Fools! Idiots!
“The gloves—the ******-like device—that’s our safety!”
“Milord! This trinity wizard, they bring a million crores
To the exchequer of this famished democracy, milord!”

“Milord! The nature lovers say, we wash billions of bottles
Of these magic stuffs into their rivers and the seas, milord!”
“They say we all-- dyed ****** men-- are sissies and doofuses!”
“Milord! Our tubby women dye young, lest they’d be labelled
Mammy, Granny, Grandma, Old Granny, the decrepit ‘n that!

Now, the dyed media reported: father mated with his daughter,
Mother with a teenager, grandpa with an infant; and Ministers,
MLAs, MPs—all spirits-******-dyed-- are in a ******* spree!
Now the Dark Trinity cried “Wow! In this world of ******,
The Kingdom, the Power and the Glory--all are ours! Amen!
In the subways you go through and
the tubes you go into
the rush hour
awaits you.
Certainly overtly in plain view they watch you
and wait for the moment to strike
It's a battle we fight every morning and night
with no end in sight
and no one seems to care but
avoid paying your fare and
you'll be whisked out of there like
a bat out of hell
straight down the 'nick' and
banged up in a cell
then up before the 'beak'
who gives you bail for a week
while reports are prepared,
as if anyone cared why you don't have the fare
why you needed to go and
be ambushed below,and
the ambushers,
the pill popping pen pushers,grannies and
trannies and babies with grannies all smile and nod as
if they gave a sod about you.
When it's over and done with and the judge gives you
a week to pay a fortune in fines
when the lines on the track talk electrically back
and once more down below when they are on the attack,
you have to consider that a cycle would rid you of
this terrible trial,
and the ambushers smile,the pill poppers growl the trannies
and grannies and the babies all howl
with delight.
Morning and night and morning and night
I might get a bike
I really might.
Ben Jones Apr 2013
Now I'd like to tell you of a liquid
And a beverage clearly divine
It matches the holiest spirit
And most blessed communion wine
But it's not to be found at the altar
Of the temple, the mosque or the church
You'll see it in glasses lined up on the bar
Wherever the pensioners perch

Oh Gin, Gin, fabulous Gin
Finest concoction there ever has bin
A knee to the crotch and a kick in the shin
To him that speaks ill of that heavenly Gin

I had a great aunty called Floris
Each morning she'd sternly arise
With a fire in the pit of her stomach
And a merciless scowl in her eyes
But thanks to a magical fluid
By the end she was quite the reverse
And her face was serene and so tranquil
As they bundled her into the hearse

Oh Gin, Gin, glorious Gin
Remover of troubles and varnish and skin
There's many a baby that wouldn't have bin If not for a bottle of beautiful Gin

Edith was crippled with cramp of the back
And terrible gout of the thighs
Her walk was askew and her bottom had swelled
To a rather astonishing size
But with Gin in the morning, the noon and night
She was right as proverbial rain
She still couldn't walk but now couldn't talk
So no one could hear her complain

Oh Gin, Gin, medicinal Gin
Bracing your face with a permanent grin
Cleans up the silver but tarnishes tin
Joyous the juice of the juniper, Gin

Tis a regular modern elixir
And a kick in the liver to boot
It's companion for many a mixer
To the tonic or blending of fruit
Instilling a mighty contentment
And removing all traces of rage
Though it's mainly imbibed by ladies
Those of a particular age...

Oh Gin, Gin, magnificent Gin
Clean as a whistle and sharp as a pin
Puts hairs on the ears, the chest and chin
Of nannies and grannies all guzzling Gin
kelvin mungai Sep 2015
[[ ****]]
blood pooling around her
there she lay sprawled
eyes glazed,motionless with no stir
she is another victim to succumb
to this heinous inhuman act
the mission is accomplished
the criminal thinks
freely he walks
head and shoulder held high
among mortals he laugh
life goes on ,another life gone
my sister,mum and aunt
the daughters of eve are endangered
my brother,dad and i
the all sons of adam
are the perpetrators
fear exists among our female species
they fear to be stripped off their
they live in a nightmare of being
stripped off their dignity
unwillingly be disrobed and be
they fear being deflowered and
out of her will she was forced
naked and spreadeagled
vitruvian man style she lay
her case was a repetition of a biblical
dinah and the sons of shechem
blood freely trickled between her
open pelvic
life seeped out of her misused shell
did she really deserve this???
who will end this atrocity?
who will fight for the girl child?
toddlers and grannies
shamelessly chauvinist male defiles
its against the word
its against the unwritten codes
it's unafrican
it's evil
my anger is frothing
like a volcano the lava is heating up
my pen is crying for the female child
i will shout this from rooftops
on the skyline i will write it
this battle is ours and we have to
protection we've to offer
[[the chronicles of the dumb speaker]]
Waverly Mar 2012
the older generation
thinks we're all ****-heads,
ritalin-riddled serial killers,
serious ingesters
of buckets-of-blood thrillers,
they look at me funny
when I sag my pants
look at me funny
when I've got my girl in my arms
and her hands on my zipper
moving slowly
to the biggest dipper, too loud,
they say,
too loud,
too much cursing,
too much blood and gore,
too many games about getting money
and running over grannies to get more;
Ren and Stimpy,
Bert and Ernie,
two homos
that need to burn
for their sin,
the world is going
to hell in a handbasket.
grabbing her by throat hair he holds gun barrel to right eye with free hand she edges fingers into boot pulls dagger plunges it into his heart

i didn’t mean to do that i meant to do this

i’m trying to figure out how other people deal with disappointment of old age i guess they arrive at some settlement some settlement that eludes me

very few figure out meaning of their lives until it’s too late then become detectives trying to figure out whys if you wake up tomorrow you’ve got a shot at new day no one in this world knows what might happen

i believe people can do change maybe not their nature but spiritually emotionally intellectually psychologically i recognize change within myself i did could now never commit acts different from who i was more scared sensitive hopeful pure honest longing for love probably i sound corny all i want is mutual love adoration in way it was easier when i was thoughtless i got ***** i don’t know

poet must face every conceivable fear terror no matter how despairing risk walking away from table without chips

there are good people and bad people sometimes good people make bad mistakes sometimes bad people make smart choices

for decades he lived knowing no one valued him except his family collecting his paintings reading his works praising his efforts his entire career an inside job

her graying disheveled hair muddy smudged apron raw arthritic fingers she cooks meal washes dishes a million trillion dishes thankless life mom what’s for dinner

some people see it all coming plan invest i never saw any of it coming i never imagined

the sickly smell of grandpa’s farts lingers in room nauseating family

he held shivering abandoned puppy in arms she whimpered repeatedly he swore in that moment to protect her stood by his promise until he buried her

wild wolf chases him growling snapping nipping at ankles tearing jeans biting drawing blood he runs

pitiable old men everyone knows old men are impotent jokes with no pack to punch just harmless peevish impediments what good are they what purpose do they serve get the ******-freaking out of the road old man

riotous advancing mob overcome military police

sharing yoga class old man attending his skin thin as parchment bled i cleaned his blood from mat every class until he died

after puncturing her maidenhood reaching ****** he strokes head of 8 year old daughter good girl good girl daddy is so proud

skin him alive skin him alive little girl asks what’s different about poetry from standard writing grandpa answers i have no answers

not possible yet happening gradually suddenly amidst bribes bargaining lies government collapses citizenry unleash in anarchy yearning for change

Mom’s fogginess i sense it beginning in myself possibly inherited will i become like Mom there’s no one looking out for me Mom i’m looking out for you

after 30 or 40 years life is over don’t believe what they tell you

when i’m dead what will they unearth in my personal effects writings paintings letters emails bookmarks internet visitations or gossip accusations from those still alive probably allege another selfish decadent fool squandered resources missed opportunities misses the mark

maybe in 5 years i will live in New York City London Paris Tokyo Tahiti  with beautiful wife who will spread her buns want me to **** her grab my ***** at least once a day

there is a star in north sky that shines i understand you looking away when pain gets too great please look into my eyes when throbbing subsides

don’t make it any harder than it has to be please find it in your heart to forgive me i am so sorry

yup i’ve got cash guns friends in Canada Mexico Netherlands France first let’s make a run for the border  then later think about a boat

oh yeah one last remark ******* haters bigots greedy ******* all you big city fat cats small town big fish fearful suburban housewives over-cautious grannies gangsters politicians real-estate lawyers moneylenders fraudulent priests ******* all you movie actor phony smile celebrities cliché skinny jean cowboy boot rock stars all you left-wing right-wing tea-party outer-space inner-space freaks ******* i can’t don’t know how to explain myself ******* all
Lyn Senz Nov 2013
'What happens to bad poets when they die?'
'Aye, tis a good question,' says the sotted
brute wavin his hand whilst spittle flyin
with most syllables.
'I yam told bad poets stew in alphabet soup,
and get eaten by old grannies for all eternity.'
'I eard that one, but seems a waste of good soup.'
'Aye, and why de grannies get involved, it's a
misog, misog, a ting against women I'll bet.'
'Well then, what might you think?' says the innkeeper
to the quiet sod at the end of the bar.
'Eh..I should think they go with the good ones,
cuz I'd be ****** if I can tell the difference.'
'Aye,' says all, 'aye.'

©2012 Lyn
katrinawillrich Apr 2015
"Mid space waterfalls
Made dem rings round dem
Dere planits’”
What happens to icebergs
Without gravity, momma?
Hey you, tell me a story........
Dougie Simps Mar 2019
It’s been a while but wanted to write to you on better terms
Last time we spoke my life was taking a hard turn
Grew up a lot, learned sometimes its best to just let it burn
Nourish those who need the good in me their souls are starving ferns
I keep your memories because a good feeling is for good healing
Raise my hands up only to no longer just feel the ceiling
My vision changed and simplicity is way more appealing
Don’t need jump on people’s throats, take a breath and think about your core feeling.
I’ve made peace with your son - look what I’ve become
I face the things that challenge me,  no longer look to turn around a run
Life has its ups and downs but you see me through my struggles
Trying lead my team but can’t always remember the plays in the huddle
My imperfections have sorta been corrected
Still need to be burn by the fire in order to learn my lesson
I found a new love, which is beyond a blessing
But I don’t feel I deserve it and that’s my own misconception
Gave up on being aggressive and showing off for the attention
I thank you everyday for your strength by the way...
That’s just something I needed to mention
You taught me I’m a product of what I go through
And even if they wrong don’t hurt them back just to help you

I gave up the drugs to numb my pain
I look up now but for the clear skies and not the rain
I don’t think I need to pull the trigger to help defuse my explosive brain
For the first time in my life I actually feel sane
The family good and seem more connected than ever
Feel we follow you and grannies policy of always keeping the family together
I’ve learned that I don’t need to escape nor think I don’t belong
Come around a bit more because my family needs me so we can collectively be strong
My past still haunts me and the demons remain strong
I’m working on letting that all go though and not trying to hold on.
That dark thought will sneak in and at times I’ll still ask for death
But I’m learning my purpose now and cherishing every single breath.
You’re the greatest man I’ve ever known and I miss you being around
The only man in my life I can truly say who’s never let me down
I thank you for your guidance
Protecting me from my internal violence
Learning to listen a bit more
You get the most out of others through your inner silence
That little boy opens his eyes now and is no longer hiding.
Finally appreciating my life, which is way more exciting.
Inspiration has come back, that’s why I got the chance to write you this song
Feels good to let go of everything I’ve done wrong.
You taught me to remember when I get set backs
Been through the worst times to get the best back
Wish sometimes I could go back in time and give the low me a jet pack.
You was right about it all, Im finally learning for myself
I hope this is someway a thank you for all your spiritual help.
Promise to keep spreading your word and only improving myself
Hope the angels take care of you until I see you myself.
Letter to my opa few years later I hope you’re proud of me.
Mirror, mirror on the wall
Who's the fairest of them all?

Is it me or is it you?
But you are me and I am you.

"Magic mirror in my hand, who is the fairest in the land?"

It's not you, you're too bland, like the bear's porridge,
lumpy, thick and grey. I think you were unplanned.

"Mirror mirror please understand, I need to know who's fairest in the land"

Oh, please take your pleas and understand this, if I were flesh and bone I'd give you a miss.

"Mirror mirror tell me true, do I look good to you?"

I'll tell you this you needy miss, I have no potion to cure your ails,
and wails and needy questions,
your face and body cannot be endured,
(not even by the big bad wolf, and he likes wrinkly grannies)
If I were you I wouldn't hesitate to put my head into the oven
I'll get Gretel to shove you in.
"You ungodly witch to be burned to ashes"

Mirror mirror on the wall why are you cracked?
03:22 BST
We doh cur fer fancy werters
Bring us bangers in mashed terters
Gie us pork-pie caressed wi mustard
Rhubarb crumble topped wi custard
If yo’ve got a full day werkin
Black-pudding, eggs, beans and bercon
Un doh keep saying, ‘it’ll do ya no gud!’
We wont loads o’ graerty pud
If yo’me hungry jus the job
A great big hondfull of suetey gob
Grannies rice-puddin wi a gob o’ jam
Branston pickle on hunied-ham
Fish-un-chips wrapped in old newsperper
Ma’s bread puddin, nah that’s the cerper
Un if yo’ve got a babby-sitta
Wash it daen wi Bonks’s bitta
Black-Country fowk doh wont fancy starters
We wont bercon wie grey farters!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
it's almost beautiful, we created the thing called
money, in order to turn tribalism
into a myth of Eden (alone, stark naked) -
          it's almost as if we deviated from
creating it and asking for family values,
            but never got them,
       i'm trying to imagine a Russia where
Rasputin wrote a book
that might have resounded with Nietzsche's
ubermensch - but thankfully precipitated into
world war i & ii... fancy the interlude:
a cold war i, now the cold war ii...
you should be happy, to be honest, it's the best
status quo you'll ever get...
but **** me, 1970s disco craze: even i'm
like Mozart-who?
               a little notebook, and my getting
drunk thoughts in it, funny how drink intellect
knows all too well about the: diminished responsibility
white flag -
              as with the **** chokes come the
drunk-and-writing-a-poem jokes,
                                i'd say blame Al Capone!
you know how many diacritical distinctions i could
insert into that surname? diacritical marks
are ulterior forces at-be when all punctuation goes
*******, not sentences, but words -
Cá       ponè - cockney slang Capone on the phone:
        we had fun: because you really don't say
Cáponé like you might say a torero's olé, do you?!
me? i find it grand to paint syllables with
diacritical marks, i mean: it's not even a blank canvas,
shame the semi-colon isn't minded in distinction,
but still, i already know that poets are scared of
punctuation, hence breaking the lines and not
engaging in a paragraph... tying shoelaces seems about
fine when it comes to modern poets,
talk about knitting jumpers, or scarfs by grannies -
sold as doing that same activity on shredded wheat cereal:
- = a hanging pause (suspense);
       , = necessary pause (or the expected
in a rhythmic cyclone);
   then i say to all my would be assassins:
you'll be doing me a massive favour, to be honest.
at times it really is the age of trusting entertainers
and not the media and certainly not the politicians -
it's almost stating the obvious.
i was in St. Petersburg for a month, and every time
i wanted to go to a danceclub to dance she refused me....
me and my naiveness in thinking that people could
actually be seduced by good...
      i don't mean being exposed to a tsunami
among the other elemental congregations of Shiva
there goes my belief in people being good to each other...
shoom! gone... bye bi!
(origins of dyslexia? maybe).
                                 she took me to the opera and
she started her snarling condescending approach to
the new-rich girls in the next booth...
     **** me, relationships leave me so ill-equipped
i actually find it staggering that i had any...
                 i must have been really naive in believing
that people could do good that i ended up
   a hermetic pessimist or misanthrope -
i never expected to be one, or share the juices of such
a calibration of humankind:
but it's funny how a movement overstates the cartesian
sum and never the cogito,
and when you by chance encounter the actual cogito
organising a movement, you represent nothing
representative of the movement's sum,
because the cogito is actually so staggeringly
divergent from being affiliated to the (e.g.)
         French revolution's guillotine locomotive.
when utilising only one hand in writing?
a black notebooks is written into at a rhombic degree,
yep, slant.
        i have two or three decent points to make,
but, obviously, i have to utilise verbiage to state them,
let's compare that to building a thousand homes
before the leaning tower of Pisa comes along
and people say: wow! in the immediate sense i
will require compensating that exception with
enough social housing for the tower to actually be erected:
that's natural: regurgitating maxims from no experience
would be an equivalence to an exoskeleton:
no experience, no harm... and where's the fun in that?

(interlude no. 1)

almost 15 minutes in an opera house, long enough
for the march from your seat into the street and a smoke,
  i still can't understand while people adopted money
for the demand of talking to each other via pebbles,
we are in our billions and made it so demanding to
only appeal to the few for company... i mean, should
i be sad? we made our company so unbearable because
of engaging in the concept of money that we later had
adapt to books as the conversations we need to have
among people we can't even talk about the weather to.
people always think that talking about money is
shallow... as if it's some really necessary version of
the crucifix (which to my mind sounds like a name for
a charity and the need to be thankful for it being there),
then again: something so geometrically pure
hanging over us and then comes Rodin's the kiss:
that really is a miracle - walking on water can hide itself,
turning water into wine (40 days & nights in the desert would
do that to you, every time you rehydrated, any liquid
would be intoxicating).
             oh hell, i have the notebook narrative,
i need to take a break after having written the unexpected
intro, and subsequent interlude.

it seems to me that language can never be sampled,
sampling language
is anti-scientific,
because it breaches an objectification of things,
which sad,
    are the Balkan states Slavic, Christian or Turkish?
i'm asking because a Greek said
it's Byzantine, and then lapping allah illha Allah
turkish took to Istambul...
*how best to defame a god with ensnarled capitals,
each, levelled,
                                only Islam will reign under the
praise of my name, which alone, will sing my praise.

   to move mountains, one must move throngs.
          to move people you expect them to become
mountains: or sun-tanned noon
  having been charcoaled into obliteration.
     one thought: an ottoman janissary: and vlad
the lesser crucifier and the adamant
impaler, who said that homosexuality shouldn't matter....
   imagine the comparative pain...
i can't: therefore i won't.
                     thus the black scripts of notation...
better than uttering original maxims,
          as in... better to engage in transcendentalº
     ºin ref. to Nietzsche: the masses do not hold
an opinion on sanity: hence my concordance
with "him" - and insanity in individuals (self-dividing
                      duos in calamity of one):
insane individuals are rare: but conglomerates are
the norm - thus an agreement of shared truths
that has no debate to support it, because it has been
   the transcendental aspect is the lack of dialectics
(replaced with diacritics),
     and also the historical novelty of shared observation
with a disparity of a century's worth of history:
governing still the caveman and the modern man,
            as if the two were mutually compatible.
that one could rewrite the other, and so too true in
   i find it harsh having to relinquish the authority
of language, as my own it used,
but only when school-friends suggest it, those
with ******* family members do i foremostly
experience it as my own: well... thanks to you
i'm not a plumber because your father detonated
the atom bomb and never bothered checking what
the gorilla did next with the grand censor of fertility
to protect an aesthetic...
           but then again: you were always Irish.
oo! well: sodomite that oops... it'll be worth something
in 30 years' time. strange how it must read...
Holocaust deniers also have the same lysergic trip.
             insanity in individuals is rare,
among groups it's the norm, within a framework
of Nietzsche: thus an agreement of shared truths,
that has no debate to support it,
because it has been "plagiarised" (necessarily experienced
more than once),
   ºthe transcendental aspect is the actual lack of
dialectics, and also the historical shared novelty of sharing
of observation (the tsunami cult, the earthquake cult)
with a disparity of range toward the century-range...
   philosophy infamously aks purposively
unsolvable questions: or questions that require many
more questions... or what is known as a transcript
of Aristotelian awe: of those who commit to error
with that science of pure wording, to spur people on;
philosophers are the adventurers in error:
only because this engages them in providing a "gravity"
locus... for others to hone onto and correct...
(oh how i'd believe had there been a Koranic surah
on the mindful hoplites)...
         purposively erroring: philosophy;
philosophers are pioneers: birches... scientists
are all but oak: auburn well established.
       but what of transcendental dialectic that expands
into shared truths (as experience) within the dual-disparity
of nearing death and the dawn of the 20th century
   and never-nearing a life at the dawn of the 21st century?
excluding dialectics and diacritics has given us
such a society, where everything is nearly snowflake
lucratively dissolvable and gentle...
                   few people utter truths,
even fewer utter truths than need to be debated...
             for the over-lord truth is mono, or glue...
        but still the tactic of avoiding certain truths
for the necessity of sitting in an armchair rather than
on a cold pavement... for in their pluralism
they express as many universal traits of non-experience,
as they subsequently express enough
    particular traits of experience
(translate rhyming into philosophy and you get this...
going cross-eyed in allocating an understanding,
summarised by the word zez).
hence the unwinding: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -):
    of time, and how to encourage abstracting
worded coordination into an advanced literacy rate,
that'll fail, because literacy is power that requires
labouring anyway.
  because you did say "encapsulating a zoo"
readied to perpetrate a staging of a freak-show.
examples: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -)        are zeniths in
the narrative compensation to nothing -
        in literature a surprise turn of the plot,
a summarisation, as such stand-out moments,
or quotes: here is a version of encoding verbal
"mathematical" synonymity -
         i too would wish to create a language
that doesn't abide by the language of miles,
but that of metres, but then there's the thesaurus
distinction between metres in deviations of
centimetres and nano in close-proximity
          ruby, crimson, burgundy, bled throughout the week
until pale grey and with an epitaph.
      language never brings us together,
it never did, we all wished to be cats and have said
meow... but we rarely and will never say...
that's nearing toward shame...
  i absolve humanity of the original sin...
                    if sinning was so original i would suggest
other forms of compensating it rather than prayer:
i'm thinking of the original shame...
it's that story of a serial killer who believed he
had no universal traits concerning him,
he had no systematisation of conscience,
he denied having a sense of guilt...
          it's hard to believe such things,
given the ceiling is the universe...
        it's hard to become a rat in a solipsistic maze...
that's ****** had to believe...
                   to deny having universal a priori
is also to deny particular a posteriori...
                           even though nothing really happened
apart from god laughing and man yawning
and the devil crying. it's very hard to believe people
these days, even though they deserve it,
                    it's hard to summate oneself in being
able to;
  thank god philosophers didn't complicate simple words
with remnants of Latin like psychologists did,
there's the prior (a priori) and there's the after (a posteriori),
or the two within a-: without a prior (to) / priority -
                  or without an after / an imitable vogue / trend /
          can you write something like someone disclosing the fudge
of what's technically an arithmetic summary?          
no intelligence is being undermined here,
         what's being undermined is what's critically an optical
   java transitory period.                                                    

(int­erlude no. 2)

the laziest philosophers always write about the word
philosophy without actually philosophising,
you can say as much when saying: i'm thinking about thought.
of all the professions, philosophers don't know theirs...
it's true, if you do it, you do it not-knowing / unconsciously.
modernity does in fact overprescribe the word genius
because it doesn't give practitioners of philosophy any
credit in the slightest of actually being recipients of
life... every time a thought spawns from nothing
the limitation of expressing it is: you don't exist;
soon enough you hang up having any competence in language
and say to people you thought you knew: adios amigos,
good luck: then you wonder why they're so
prematurely depressed, and then you forget about them
and think of a million Chinese carpenters:
simply because it's less depressingly so.
     do you ever write encapsulating a rhombus on a page
with your literary / wanking hand? i know i do,
write in a notebook askew - or that's what's called the
future of absurdity: i'm thinking about thought -
some later claim morality, and some later claim god -
        that should sound more simply as: ought i?
    but it doesn't... hey, here's to self-projecting ****** -
it's not even that good people invented god,
  it's that evil people did...
                  which is always a bit ****** having that
microchip in my abstract mind (the brain) i sometimes
try to get rid off while acting as an atheist for pop super!
       does that sound highly idealistic?
it probably does... have i an influential counter to it?
n'ah. thinking about thought without the either or of
ought leaves me asking outside the box / transcendental
questions about what self is ingested by that
Pontius Pilate... talk of the "true" self and talk of
the "false" self: who the **** is the narrator then?
are we all bleaching our handshakes these days to
give a handshake?!
    some men would claim to be the husbands of that
insatiable "woman" that's Sophia,
         who, after all, is better equipped to satiate 3
men, than a man to satiated 3 women:
the trinity of ****, vaginal: oral - funny that,
how perfectly that plays against all those years of
practising to a demand of the churches': kneel!
i'll just watch you **** him off while Mary Magdalene
spread the schematic that resulted in the Islamic
******* analing the "respected".

(interlude no. 3)

just can't be bothered mate...
  never did so much charity work pour into
      herr Herrman's charity chest of
the never thought of set of poems.

- and a day later, just a blank,
what a formidable evening,
why do i queue for even a trombone, violin,
       a viola, trumpet or a sax to add to my voice?
but in musicological terms: that's exactly what i'm doing.
it's hard to not see this as a cure:
with 16,713 views matta's echo babylon is
truly the antithesis of Prokofiev, or any other,
as might call it: windy character.
        classical music was bound to tornados and
zephyrs - modern music is the epitome of rhythmic
sampling, drum eroded violins,
           and other things happened, too.
rhombus within the framework of the hand-written prior,
on tiny scraps of rectangular paper,
because it's easier to write like that: slanting
and therefore for the imagery of cascading -
and as the pronoun revolution dies down,
                    and the voices go unheard,
   people will start to think about thought
and later thought per se for transcendental purposes...
     because choice will be ejected from
having competent access to it: namely?
   i can't see those **** the ***** protests seriously
if people can't take to shooting guns,
          i mean real rebellion... obviously i'm egging
on the situation and spraying gasoline on it
(obviously), but if the French give you the statue of
liberty as a present, you get to look at the appendix,
and start thinking: where are the guns, so
it looks like a genuine protest? i thought the idea of
being able to own guns (by the people), was to suggest
that if the government was electorally undesired,
people could start shooting... the tongue isn't
Alex Fountain Aug 2014
Baby Boomers: 25% of America’s population, all born in the years between 1946 and 1964 who continue to live off Social Security.
     All right, but what is Social Security and from where does it come? Taxes. Taxes that come out of your (yes, YOUR) hard earned paycheck. About 14% of your paycheck, actually. You, my fellow working Americans, are paying for little Miss Norma from down the road to migrate to Florida during these treacherous cold, winter months, along with the flock of 47 million other Baby Boomers who live in America. As well as paying for their food and shelter and ever-growing medical bills and for them to continue living. We are paying retirees to take our money.
     In 2012, 21% of America’s budget went to the Baby Boomers, or Social Security--that is 773 billion dollars. In 2013, however, the retirees gained grounds and are now being paid 860 billion dollars a year for the next two years.
     Why are we paying little Miss Norma and her 47 million retired friends to have a vacation, time off, a break, whatever you wish to call “running away from responsibilities”, when they are neither contributing to nor bettering society? What responsibilities are they running away from?  Why do we continue to slave away every day to earn a paycheck that funds the lives of people who are of no benefit to the country? Because this is the United States of America and it is the duty of us young folks to cater to the needs of the geriatric community!
     Well America, it is time for a change.
The retirement age in America is about 61 years of age, and with retirement comes Social Security benefits. BUT, I propose, instead of receiving the benefits of Social Security, the retirees are given something else.
     That something else? A pill.
     A euthanization pill.
     Baby Boomers are ******* America dry, and it is time to eliminate them.
     It is logical, really. Why spend excessive amounts of money on people who are too frail and too weak to work or enrich our country? Seriously, why?
     Living a life unable to work, unable to do once-favorite activities that arthritis now prohibits, unable to visit with long deceased friends and family cannot, I imagine, be fulfilling. By euthanizing them we are doing them (and ourselves) a favor: we are ending their misery (and also saving ourselves from paying them 860 billion dollars for the next two years).
     Think of the country! Think of the possibilities! Think of the debt!
     Being no longer threatened by the looming responsibility of needing to fork over more than 20% of money to Baby Boomers that the country doesn’t actually have to give, we are enabling ourselves to use that very same money to pay off the ever-increasing debt!
     The national debt as of February 2014 is well over 17 trillion dollars, and thanks to Social Security and the people living off it, the amount does not stop growing. We, as Americans, must say good-bye to our dear old grannies, and say hello to a debt free life.
nissa Jun 2014
Roses aren't always metaphors, you know.
For the ghosts in the walls that write poems about how you sleep.
For the shadows in empty closets that you fear will creep.
For the rivers you've travelled that leave burns on your arms.
For the faces pressed against windows that slip colours into the wind.
For deserted bus stops made of crushed beer tins.
For the bars filled with grannies and trannies and the best kind of sins.
Sometimes they're analogies.
And boy, are they lovely.
received  a tumblr prompt (-::::
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
if you gonna jog, jog on mush, jog on grass, you wouldn't possibly believe me what i heard from a nurse, about joints, and middle aged people who developed an addiction to jogging... she smiled and almost applauded when i told her: i walk. how much? sometimes i get into a stride and do 5 miles in an evening.*

  you're making
with hip-replacement
operations blush...
talk to your knees
and other joints
in about ten years...
**** me,
isn't the quiet
life, so much akin
to the everyday
english concerns...
you start being
fed this sarcastic
sense of humour,
like any decent englishman
would love
          to entertain;
and i would be luckiest
man alive,
if a pigeon dropped
a runny **** on
my attire,
   in the middle
of trafalgar square.
Yenson Nov 2018
The black women laugh sometimes even with other white *******
it's the joke they all know, a funny problem they all share
when together the stories are told in droves galore
much mirth, side splitting laughter ringing out
Weii, what do you say, those wigga dudes are something else

I can't stand them the chorus goes, bless their poor hearts
No, don't get me wrong, in the bedroom I mean
OK for a few dates, just let them pay for meals and drinks
One thing though, they are fine for fetching and carrying
but in bed, *** don't waste your time and try not to laugh
pale and patchy, gangly legs flat *****, hairy as ****

Who in throes, fancies a thimble or a two minutes frolick
They reveal their mini ugly chipolatas hidden in wiry brambles
Flaccid and limp, quite a bother to get it to rigid attention
Put it in and it's like soggy mash in an underfilled ******
***, give it some welly, show some passion, stoke my fire
No tight fit, no friction and no va va vroom, few jerks 'n over
Seconds, you must be joking, light is out, the droop is here

Ok, Ok..they can do the licky licky till tomorrow and next
slurping away like their lives depends on it, all spit and fumbling
But take me with fired passion, slam me down with rhythm
Burn that garden, mash me down and ride the waves
Get that hard poker stoking and hot, no! that ain't their forte they hate those tooled brothers with iron magnums
Those MEN Amazonians who enter hard and dance for the gods
Give me that lover with the slow hands and easy touch
Lynnie says, you are amazing, the best ever without a doubt
Hear, hear says all the others, that brother sure has the moves
and a hard big glorious tool fit for the job

Pale face hate simmers like roast, smarting with condensed anger
If they could, they would castrate all the brothers no exception
Ban them, block them, poison them and lock 'em up for ever
Biggest threat ever is that ****, charming intelligent brother
Just too cocksure, too cocky and silky smooth - the *******!
Make sure you lock yer mums, sisters, daughter and grannies up

As one black sister puts it, "they are *****, talk **** and lick **** from my fine behind, eighty-five percent of them would always
hate the brothers, because they don't measure up"  
The ***** will do anything, anything to destroy a brother's lovelife
Why should them **** ebony stallions have fun,
They are horses not humans, so rope them down and let us
go save for that enlargement job!
a fun poem written when I was in nursery school...hahaha
Sylvene Taylor Jan 2014
theres a story,
that runs through her veins, that feeds through her heart, that reads through her eyes.
theres a beginning to the start the journey- a middle to crush her dreams- an an ending that she never reads out loud. for its not what she looks like; her pigmentation who identifies her no-
nor the length of the locks that are apparent from the scalp of her head no, its nor the coarsness of it or the silkyness.

its not her tiny waist or her abnormally chicken shaped legs no- it is the story- the stories which run through her veins, feed through her heart, and reads through her eyes.
these are her limbs, her bones and structure. these are what her character and compassion are made of, these are her creators.

the stories run so deep digging a deeper hole within her soul. the more she remembers and replays like reruns of friends the more her soul seems to loose a bit of itself. a bit of the joy and the warmth that they used to bring.
remembering the giving up of them is something that will follow her in the shadows for years to come

she doesn't miss her family, she's not homesick: when she says she wants to go home she wants to go back-
back the those times when they were all right here.
she wants to smell the sweet loaves of bread and mixes of aromas coming from grannies kitchen. she wants to hear her voice again scolding pop-pop as he took a bite of the chicken. she wants to go home. home to the weird smell of mothballs and the cluttered home that existed way before hoarders. she wants to go back to the light that shined in the living room hitting the cherry red coffee table just enough to have it warm at touch.

she wants to go back to the trips to the super market with uncle carl who could never say no. she wants to go back to that room- where the chocolate plastic barbie stood so tall 3 ft to be exact. she wants to go back to the christmas'-

the one with three christmas trees and one especially decorated by gail- with so many cartoons and lights you just knew it was that time.
she wants to go back to the family gatherings where there were fights but just ooh so much love and everyone held it together for the queen of this family.
when she says she wants to go home she isnt home sick no-

shes memory fond and hurting of the past for the future seems to constantly ****** away the ones who make the most strong of memories and impact on her life.
she wants to go back-bring them back for one last meal one last hug one last sound from their voice one last goodbye

but she knows the only goodbye lies between her and the tombstone which marks the footprint in the sand, and the watering of the soil from her eyes that will be ever lasting every time their footprint reoccurs, she knows goodbyes with people most loved doest seem to happen but the real reason why isnt because they are suddenly snatched away-
its because-
we will never be ready
to say
i cried like a baby writing this
Paul Cochrane Feb 2017
The green handbag,
Clutched close,
Constant companion,
Matching clothes?
Not always.
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Loose change,

And pension book.
Made up?
Take a look!

Where did you go today?

The green handbag,
Memory sac of
Nooks and crannies,
Papa, Grandkids,

Aunts and Grannies.
Where did you go today?

The green handbag,
Held to heart,

Perched on knees,

A medicine chest,

With pain to ease.
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Where did you go today?
Pointless question, Usual answer.

As ever ­ ‘Up the Toon!’

Too soon,
Not today.

The green handbag,

Not clutched,

Nor held,

But at the foot of your bed,
A reminder of hope,
Where did you go?

The Green Handbag,
Sits at my Dad’s feet.
A monument to love,
In fading verdigris.
The green handbag was my mother's constant companion in the last years of her life.
Debby Pierre Jan 2019
my wonderful nanny
is not actually a nanny.
she likes to be called Annie
and doesn't carry a *****.

she writes poems about us and day drinks.
she likes to cuss and never makes a fuss.
she even gets her hair done regularly, unlike other grannies.

her makeup is always perfect, her red lipstick signature.
her sunglasses are just divine and delicious.

she is a glam-ma
Nanny Annie is the best.
kate crash Sep 2010
i walk out the door and it's a living anti drug ad---- grannies in pink with scars up and down their legs, youth with ******* glasses chewin' out their teeth chumpin' for my change to score, leathered out n' shot up tracked all all over ***** men swaying with grins beating their heads against walls calling for MORE MORE MORE...  just one more score... skeletal grave home... street sleeping slums of lonliness
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018

The wolf sat on the ground.

Little Red Riding Hood
sat at his feet.

"Well, well, well, so
here we are again!"

said Mr. Woolf in a faux
English accent

he had picked up from watching
Peter O'Toole be Lawrence of Arabia.

"Some apple juice my dear
have some apple crumble do!"

enquired Mr. Woolf of his
fairy story cohort.

"I baked it myself you know
molasses instead of sugar

gives it that dark flavour
oh and a little touch of ginger!"

Little Red Riding Hood
wolfed down the apple crumble.

noisily through a bendy straw

annoying the silence that
gathered itself around her.

There was a piece of apple
crumble on her nose.

For a little girl she
had a big appetite.

The wolf ate nothing.

"We can't go on like this
any minute now a child

somewhere in another

will start our story
by opening a book.

I will be called upon
to eat you and Granny up.

I don't even like
grannies for gawd's sake!"

Mr. Woolf had tears that
refused to fall.

to somehow stop!"

Little Red Riding Hood burped.

So, when the child I used to be
opened the story once

upon a time it was
simply not there.

There was nothing there.
Nothing but a great big ****** blank.

Somewhere in another somewhere
Little Red Riding Hood

swung on a swing
Mr. Woolf pushing her

higher and
higher into

a summer blue
Sara L Russell Dec 2014
Sara L Russell

A songwriter sat down to write
and tried and tried with all this might
to make the inspiration come
until the bowels of his soul were numb
until he almost screeched in pain
and forced an idea in his brain.
He strained, then like a thunderclap,
out came a song - and it was crap.

Established DJ's tapped their feet,
they thought it sounded rather sweet;
it had nothing unsafe to say
and so they played it night and day
and so they played it day and night
ad nauseam, as if in spite.
It should have been hurled down the nearest drain
but was played again and again and again

And so it got to Number One
and bored the **** off everyone
and so eventually went gold
as down the river the world was sold
as grannies bought it in their droves
(as if grannyhood behoves
the buying of such awful things)
And thus the turkey spread it's wings.

One day, a man with a broken heart
whose business venture fell apart
whose grandmother was very ill
stood high upon a window sill
and wondered, should he jump, or no?
And was six floors high enough to go?
As his aching heart began to thump,
He heard the song - and decided to jump.
*Written a fewyears ago and revised tonight; this poem was inspired by the song "Achy Beeaky Heart" by Billy Ray Cyrus, which I have always hated with a passionate, red-eyed, fire-spitting hate. I also dedicate it to every Christmas record that ever made me gag.*
jeffrey conyers Aug 2012
Oh, I'm sure she wouldn't mind being called Nana.
But she preferred, Granny.
She accepted that honor.

She isn't afraid of the tag.
And many grand kids cherish her.
Sure, she has her limits of toleration.
But like your parents.
She assist in raising you.

Some granny runs from the name.
They still trying to hold on to their youthful stage.
Accept many grannies accepts their age.

Yes, she go along with the Nana.
But its granny she loves.
And from her children to her grand children.
She totally loved.

More then parents.
In most cases.
They dangerous when it comes to protecting us.
Don't mess with G.R.A.N.N.Y
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2018
A HUGE discovery (on an overheated wet snow stinky stuffy bus

no one

not the grannies, the discolored, the over bundled,
or even the seven and eight year old noisy brats,
(towing blonde nineteen year old au-pairs from Sweden)

doesn’t have their face planted on a screen

most messaging
when the light shines in and the illustration is illuminated
through the stink of overheated humans on a bus-poet

i can tell everything about you from the way
you tap on the screen

you nice you mean
you possess a southern drawl, a handwriting less ‘n a scrawl,
you are a passionate lover slow and languid,
you’re a bath splasher, a snowball thrower,
believer anything wet, well, should be a shared liquid

your think all lives matter especially mine

who plods thru life slow and safe one key tap at time,
making love in the same way and never in the afternoon

whose mother loved them swell well and made them
crazy people who smile at everyone
sharing their terra chips, body parts and
sweet spicy spit
with loving tenderness

the ones who write beneath colored decorated fingernails
so careful not carefree using the finger pads to message and
never break a nail or own a heart making a mess worthy of
cleaning up with a repairman

who lies ‘n cheats on their taxes and their lovers with
reckless impunity because you are so important
then what the heck you doing on this bus with us plebeians?

and the one next to me generationally born to use two thumbs,
but pauses to reflect on the way humans speak to one another before desensitizing blurting any old thing

And the one to whom I show this poem and insists I miss my stop so she can text me her digits and kiss that thumb
a year  later in front of a smoke perfumed fire and she whispers
smarty pants, mr smoke scribe,
who writes only love poetry
watch, what does the smoke say?

but it says nothing that cannot be best expressed by
letting my thumbs do all the talking by tapping
all over her body
1120am est  over Utah
and she laughs and pinches punches me saying
u thot Utah a purry cat!
Julie Grenness Dec 2015
Appeared to be a normal day,
At our University of the Third Age,
Grannies and grandads writing epic lit.,
Forgot our hearing aids and blankets...
We walked away from the class,
Drank our coffees on the grass....
One old moll began this thing,
We cast off inhibitions and wedding rings,
Decided to have a greys' love-in,
One last winter's love fling,
Before hearses the morticians bring,
We were all senile, obese and ga-ga,
Our grey scrawny ***** made us ha-ha,
We gave those grandpas some thrills,
We all forgot our cardiac pills,
The old boys were gasping for breath,
Moribundi, close to death....
So, appeared to be a normal day,
On the grass, after class, at U3A,
Love-in amongst the greys,
It was grey liberation day!!!!
A light hearted look at love in old age. Feedback welcome.

— The End —