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"hangings" poems
Lays of Mystery, Imagination, and Humor Number 1 I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, And each damp thing that creeps and crawls Went wobble-wobble on the walls. Faint odours of departed cheese, Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze, Awoke the never ending sneeze. Strange pictures decked the arras drear, Strange characters of woe and fear, The humbugs of the social sphere. One showed a vain and noisy **** That shouted empty words and big At him that nodded in a wig. And one, a dotard grim and gray, Who wasteth childhood's happy day In work more profitless than play. Whose icy breast no pity warms, Whose little victims sit in swarms, And slowly sob on lower forms. And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank, Where flowers are growing wild and rank, Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank. All birds of evil omen there Flood with rich Notes the tainted air, The witless wanderer to snare. The fatal Notes neglected fall, No creature heeds the treacherous call, For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall. The wandering phantom broke and fled, Straightway I saw within my head A vision of a ghostly bed, Where lay two worn decrepit men, The fictions of a lawyer's pen, Who never more might breathe again. The serving-man of Richard Roe Wept, inarticulate with woe: She wept, that waiting on John Doe. "Oh rouse", I urged, "the waning sense With tales of tangled evidence, Of suit, demurrer, and defence." "Vain", she replied, "such mockeries: For morbid fancies, such as these, No suits can suit, no plea can please." And bending o'er that man of straw, She cried in grief and sudden awe, Not inappropriately, "Law!" The well-remembered voice he knew, He smiled, he faintly muttered "Sue!" (Her very name was legal too.) The night was fled, the dawn was nigh: A hurricane went raving by, And swept the Vision from mine eye. Vanished that dim and ghostly bed, (The hangings, tape; the tape was red happy 'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead! Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls, What time it shudderingly recalls That horrid dream of marble halls!
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The Palace of Humbug
Lays of Mystery, Imagination, and Humor Number 1 I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, And each damp thing that creeps and crawls Went wobble-wobble on the walls. Faint odours of departed cheese, Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze, Awoke the never ending sneeze. Strange pictures decked the arras drear, Strange characters of woe and fear, The humbugs of the social sphere. One showed a vain and noisy **** That shouted empty words and big At him that nodded in a wig. And one, a dotard grim and gray, Who wasteth childhood's happy day In work more profitless than play. Whose icy breast no pity warms, Whose little victims sit in swarms, And slowly sob on lower forms. And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank, Where flowers are growing wild and rank, Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank. All birds of evil omen there Flood with rich Notes the tainted air, The witless wanderer to snare. The fatal Notes neglected fall, No creature heeds the treacherous call, For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall. The wandering phantom broke and fled, Straightway I saw within my head A vision of a ghostly bed, Where lay two worn decrepit men, The fictions of a lawyer's pen, Who never more might breathe again. The serving-man of Richard Roe Wept, inarticulate with woe: She wept, that waiting on John Doe. "Oh rouse", I urged, "the waning sense With tales of tangled evidence, Of suit, demurrer, and defence." "Vain", she replied, "such mockeries: For morbid fancies, such as these, No suits can suit, no plea can please." And bending o'er that man of straw, She cried in grief and sudden awe, Not inappropriately, "Law!" The well-remembered voice he knew, He smiled, he faintly muttered "Sue!" (Her very name was legal too.) The night was fled, the dawn was nigh: A hurricane went raving by, And swept the Vision from mine eye. Vanished that dim and ghostly bed, (The hangings, tape; the tape was red happy 'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead! Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls, What time it shudderingly recalls That horrid dream of marble halls!
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60
It must feel good To strike at royalty To ****** a blade with gold To avenge the unjust hangings and deaths To send the 'rulers of the world' to oblivion To make them cry instead of hundreds of people It must feel good To slay royalty
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Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
Royalty Slayer
she hovers over the handwritten letter with maniacal grin gripping her face as she devours his texted words with weeping eyes and she sings in unnatural tones a child's lullaby in some forgotten french dialect delightful reflections in song of the garden gate leaning broken onto the rough hewn path where the soulless cherubs cherish their seed in haphazard rows cherub faces sling silent tears and labour at the desires never felt and the dark soils never fertile seeking redemptions in the rebirth of the harvest moon which decorates the far wall of the tomb the cherubs brief delighted laughters soon sputter and fail as in the dying light of day reveals that they must labour yet another day to no useful end she lives in this place a cottage of straw with dark windows and a wood stained door she sits on its porch with knitting in hand weaving futures for her beloved cherubs weaving pasts for her own she devoured him like she did his words and came home to roost like her innocent faced dragoons she will someday march forth with this army of doom but today she is content to be contrite knitting porridge and whey wall hangings from the tables of the steampunk princess
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Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 6:27 AM UTC
porridge and whey
In the twilight of immeasurable hope I run, I pace, I stagger. A moon of sorts tucks its hefty beams Behind the gauzy, twisted zephyr, As if teasing that its crisp, round, clarity is merely an echo of a distant, convoluted story: a myth. One moment I am carrying out my quotidian realities Unfiltered, unbridled, lucid, Running my fingers through laughing waves of golden, auburn richness, Letting my wavering, billowing hair slowly melt into the quavering, trembling wind… When suddenly- I am caught in the labyrinth of veils. I, with my hair and my warmth, I am auriferous. And these sheets, oh these hangings! They float like century-worn cobwebs And they ensnare me so. This is where the tangled messages And mangled mixed signals All wriggle themselves into form And make their zombie graveyard. And yet there are sparks, Little voices trapped in burning baubles Shining like the ever-loving soul of the universe, Which whisper the stories of the moon-thing Beyond the borders of this haze-land. Sometimes I attempt to fashion these ethereal sparklings into my hair. They suggest insanity, so close to my ears, And I can’t fill my soul with enough… I cling to the faith that they will lead me out Into the amaranthine beyond. I come back here often, Always hoping that today will be the day That the beams from above Will reach to seek me. For that, I will love the mists, And carnally sip away At the nebulous, crepuscular, Pools of Fantasy. But in retrospect, I should never have told you That your name means “Purple” to me.
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Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC
Purple
In the twilight of immeasurable hope I run, I pace, I stagger. A moon of sorts tucks its hefty beams Behind the gauzy, twisted zephyr, As if teasing that its crisp, round, clarity is merely an echo of a distant, convoluted story: a myth. One moment I am carrying out my quotidian realities Unfiltered, unbridled, lucid, Running my fingers through laughing waves of golden, auburn richness, Letting my wavering, billowing hair slowly melt into the quavering, trembling wind… When suddenly- I am caught in the labyrinth of veils. I, with my hair and my warmth, I am auriferous. And these sheets, oh these hangings! They float like century-worn cobwebs And they ensnare me so. This is where the tangled messages And mangled mixed signals All wriggle themselves into form And make their zombie graveyard. And yet there are sparks, Little voices trapped in burning baubles Shining like the ever-loving soul of the universe, Which whisper the stories of the moon-thing Beyond the borders of this haze-land. Sometimes I attempt to fashion these ethereal sparklings into my hair. They suggest insanity, so close to my ears, And I can’t fill my soul with enough… I cling to the faith that they will lead me out Into the amaranthine beyond. I come back here often, Always hoping that today will be the day That the beams from above Will reach to seek me. For that, I will love the mists, And carnally sip away At the nebulous, crepuscular, Pools of Fantasy. But in retrospect, I should never have told you That your name means “Purple” to me.
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46
My foggy mouth tries to hide behind rain-smacked glass. She says goodbye with complacent stares and with the sudden flash of an umbrella. The red of her dress doesn't belong in my life. Each of her strides carry my resentment and weariness, alongside the melting grey of the Seattle skyline. So, I don't yell for her or imagine our lives, as the windshield wipers sweep her image, out of sight, but not out of my head. I return home, the half I was for decades. The tread of my shoe mashing bluegrass, digging up seeds and insect carcass, with every step. Storm-soaked magazine subscriptions lay on the porch, and her name is tattooed on every one. The dog lays on the carpet, ears and eyes perking up at me. And he knows he's truly alone, because I'll depend on him. Eggshell kitchen cabinets are jammed with her: Vermilion, saffron, and burgundy glasses hold half-empty hangings of golden flat draft, keeping her day-old, dried saliva smothered on the edges, like transparent ocean waves dying on a glass coast and buried in the bottom of the sun-pierced vortex. What I couldn't realize is that the cup was me: marked in so many ways, letting decaying memories burrow and stay.
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Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
The Melting Grey of the Seattle Skyline
Well Annie now you've done it through your gyrations,  characterizations imitations a spot of light of spirit flipped out into the ether like some kind of spiritual dandruff all crystal prisms twinkling stars shook off of you and floated through my eyes and ears and penetrated and infused my pumping heart through my circulatory system snapping synaptic changes, touching those places of dreams and trances. Well Annie now you've done it all night long with images of Olive Oil and no Popeye I have become a sailor man unmoored from the safety of the slip dragging the anchor until the tether breaks and find myself floating on some Jungian sea of the unconscious far away from the shore. Well Annie now you've really done it - How will this all play out when walking down the faux marble hallways as I roll up one wave of imitation and down another in clients/secretaries/billing clerks deranged psychiatrists stories and all of this reality grabbing trying ranting riffing how is this all going to play out when strange guerilla theatre erupts on backwards in administrators offices and leadership committee meetings when I spread my  legs as my grand opening in carrot top hangings and turn to clients offer them too this spirit spark of courage. Well you've really done it this time Annie when my door is locked and pagers are begging for my attention but I will be in the room at that desk throwing rules, regulations and my professional reputation to the current winds of unwinding truths and soulful stories. When they turn to me and ask for my forgiveness in their true confession or when I shift shapes to the big onion when everyone who wanders near weeps when they ask me for that magic sentence to make it all okay or write a treatment plan or just a hand on the shoulder; as they begin to talk like rooms of old echoes- I will tell them that will cost them extra. You've done it now Annie forever in my minute little world rocked the boat that spirit like the butterfly wings causing the hurricane of courage. You've done it now Olive Oil Annie I have found my spinach and freedom cannot be far behind...
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Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Well Annie Now You've Done It
Well Annie now you've done it through your gyrations,  characterizations imitations a spot of light of spirit flipped out into the ether like some kind of spiritual dandruff all crystal prisms twinkling stars shook off of you and floated through my eyes and ears and penetrated and infused my pumping heart through my circulatory system snapping synaptic changes, touching those places of dreams and trances. Well Annie now you've done it all night long with images of Olive Oil and no Popeye I have become a sailor man unmoored from the safety of the slip dragging the anchor until the tether breaks and find myself floating on some Jungian sea of the unconscious far away from the shore. Well Annie now you've really done it - How will this all play out when walking down the faux marble hallways as I roll up one wave of imitation and down another in clients/secretaries/billing clerks deranged psychiatrists stories and all of this reality grabbing trying ranting riffing how is this all going to play out when strange guerilla theatre erupts on backwards in administrators offices and leadership committee meetings when I spread my  legs as my grand opening in carrot top hangings and turn to clients offer them too this spirit spark of courage. Well you've really done it this time Annie when my door is locked and pagers are begging for my attention but I will be in the room at that desk throwing rules, regulations and my professional reputation to the current winds of unwinding truths and soulful stories. When they turn to me and ask for my forgiveness in their true confession or when I shift shapes to the big onion when everyone who wanders near weeps when they ask me for that magic sentence to make it all okay or write a treatment plan or just a hand on the shoulder; as they begin to talk like rooms of old echoes- I will tell them that will cost them extra. You've done it now Annie forever in my minute little world rocked the boat that spirit like the butterfly wings causing the hurricane of courage. You've done it now Olive Oil Annie I have found my spinach and freedom cannot be far behind...
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80
Apprehended in the moonlit night, Of the silhouette of a mystery, The clenched fist hesitated to show might, Stared at the wall hangings of tapestry. Curiosity crept in and courage whispered to his ears, "Go Leonard, go." His feet trembled, but bravery ruled his heart. He reached for the lamp, as the fear, he forgo, He walked, to find the cause of disconcert. He stood, astonished, at the sight of a black cat. It meowed, as slowly, it vanished behind the trees. he heaved a sigh of relief, and laughed, at ease. What was he so afraid of?- The answer lay in the breeze.
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Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
Dread
Where I live alone and never feel lonely where I wake up with Jimmy Page pointing his guitar at me have breakfast with  black and white Floyd watching over me with musical eyes where a sketched Calvin looks into infinity and inspires me to find meaning the lexicalized walls remind me of the love I once had written with the feelings of love I imagine ever having again that burnt paper hanging under the nails with Frost engraved reminding me every night of the miles that await my footsteps before I sleep the shadows of the pink and blue hangings intimately romancing where the folding walls trap the secret lunacy from times when a laughing smoke and imagination once fought for existence, and again and again I seize from them the mere immortal existence of the silent memories these walls holler at me when gone I will be, unveil them with the wind and the ashes will reach wherever I am
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Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
Claustrophobic memories
Watch out as we struggle to maintain the withering roots with a dose of intolerance Blasted through the decade aged monitor that We can't afford to replace because these suits and briefcases are tattered together to call substantial and the white building you cruise to each day ain't that blinding anymore For all the 'accidental' 'unknown' and 'uncaptured' hangings you dated And the collar around your necks Got no creases in them Like those on the hand of his sister as she sits by the coffin
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Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
Sunrise
Where the artists breathe paint the blue pig too fat to stop them Blue lives can **** my blue **** swinging money ***** They want to **** my **** and somehow profit from it Blue killing color from the jails and school halls We gotta stop dad **** the patriarchy Spreading ******** miracle whip from the white supreme party Ignorance it blocks me taunts me my privilege shows Standing up for the fight of love we fight for our humanity Fight for every minority because it’s a dog ******** in America’s White House these days They’re sending out prayers and our media sends praise Tired of the gunnings and the hangings Tired of the negative nancies dancing on graves of ancestors shooting up death with no awareness of how they **** others too Boo hoo **** you and your trump too.
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Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
**** trump
Do you remember the first piece? Did it wrap around wrists, a Twist or Curb hug fingers or hang round your neck holding on  for silver or gold? Maybe it was gunshot through ear lobes  hot blood rush, diamond studs sit in until  body heals and holes held open stay open for hoops and dangles  Is it worth your face in gold? Does he bling too, that black boyfriend? Is he Bead or Box or Byzantine chain blazing bronze or phat platinum Did you two star gaze for long at rocks and stones and coins stunned and dazed in all that tomfoolery? Did you ever put his glitter on and how long did that ice last before melting down to a memory? What would it mean to leave the house naked no sequinned cloak covering  no shiny ear lobed shimmering's  no solid gold hood hangings wearing just your skin to hold yourself in? Cloth does not count, it is matterless–  would you be worth your face without gold?
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Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 4:42 AM UTC
Smart in Glitter
Let's start a business today! We'll call it Complimentary Mirror.  Here's how it works. First thing in the morning you look into the mirror and say, "mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all"?        And the Complimentary Mirror answers back - you are, your the fairest of them all.  Then it tells you one of hundreds of reasons why your magnificent, which it keeps stored in its data base.      The mirror would give compliments why someone is so terrifically wonderful. Compliments such as: Your wonderful because you don't take **** from no one. Your awesome because you practice revenge on your enemies. Your the fairest of them all because you extort favors from your inferiors and blackmail your superiors.   You rise above all others because you don't tolerate stupid people and publically humiliate them. Your terrifically wonderful because you discipline with spanking other people's children. And you get raises at work by threatening your boss. And want public hangings brought back. And loathe loud talkers to the point of wanting them dead.            And other complimentary mirror things. A mirror that compliments you each morning to help you get a positive start on your pathetically wretched day. Let's start a business today!   (Trademark pending).
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Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC
Complimentary Mirror
White collars meet soil Holy hangings, righteous men shake their heads Throw your glory before the swine And hold still your parasols, ladies Hold high your chins Keep bound any doubt in the depths of your dejection Lest ye be like Adam Y bounden Betraying That which is written most outright is the stone That only the condemnèd break *Change is a sin So take your pills and see to your woman, son And silence that serpent that seeks That seeks to remove the crown you wear That seeks to find peace in those arms* *The warm and thick arms of the ****** Collars of white Books of blue Robes of red Two thousand years of turmoil and discipline Brought you this? By the power of my hand--in pain you’ll repent By the power of their cloaks and their words My boy* Love is patient; love is kind *So do not insist in your own way To blacken your robe with pagan ways Is a disrespect to the starry crown Gather your pearls For myrrh is no longer abundant Turn to the sun, bow, and Tighten their chains* Give them their aid with the strength Papa taught you Slack is cowardice, doubt Rows chained up behind On my knees I pray for their salvation ?* I will pray salvation, truly From hypocrites From legislature From the smoke and the mirrors and the smiting “Justice” In the arms of your forbidden Light your candles and share your vows I’ll pretend while I can But don’t you keep your hearts To yourselves
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Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
As it is Written
On wings of expelled  vapour did they venture beyond the hangings of gravity and they ascended to heights that blended with thoughts of fulfilment. Wisps were expelled till exhalation was exhausted, and slowly what arose descended to it eventual beginnings. But declining was harder than was imagined. Pain elevated as the friction of reality swept over, and where the vapour once filled there interior now only emptiness did eviscerate the stable mentality and wished only to ascend again. "Beauty of a dream, that is a nightmare of reality,
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Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
Crack Pipe Dreams...
It's become nothing but words Hollowed hangings dangling from my teeth Hurt and hateful Confused and fateful For the light from my computer isn't enough to see the room I am alive only by the heartbeat of another And I only believe through fear anymore. That's how we were raised. It can only love if you only fear And I'm afraid we were mislead Instead I hope to see light Flashing fanatically and frantically to tell me to follow Because the light from my computer is just enough to blind me from the world And I need something. Anything.
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Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC
Sundays
The clock clapped his hands and told the time to go **** itself, while the walls stood wobbling, scared of the confrontation. The telly turned herself off, for fear of adding to the noise while the lights flickered as they thought of something to say. But still, time marched on. The clock made two fists and waved them with fervour as the walls tried to hide behind their hangings and features. They telly, still silent, cowered quietly in the corner, and the light bulbs no longer had any bright ideas to voice. Time marched on, uncaring.
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Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 6:43 AM UTC
Time Marches on
this was it, the sideways glace with criminal intent tax dodger, millionaire with make-up slyly fleecing sheep off poor citizens backs living within wind and rage on a mountain top retreat glass chandeliers, wool carpets, ivory wall hangings smoking cubans, smirking has-beens 'who are they but grovelers in the grime of social disgrace'. The lord. no, i'm not i countered, shrinking in my walrus skin, of shades of brown and chameleon i didn't do it. I was just there buying groceries for a weekend soup. take him away, he is a liar, his face says so his words are smooth as ***** glass inserted in a conscious effort to fool us..... five years will teach him temperance make him see routine, file his taxes, place him in a cell with accountants,( the cells are full of "em) lock him up in tax forms place him in a poverty trap let him learn not to get rich by his wits wits are for whites only. skin colour is everything now. ha ha. case closed. throw away the key. © Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 19 days ago - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11670069-Your-honor......-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.TB0bh83H.dpuf
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Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Your honor......
sticky cold sweat coats hairy back skin as the garage sale fan blows – droplets of water continuously collect in the corner of agonizing eyes while the relentless ticking of the wall clock beats rhythmically – press board paneling bows under duress from years of nail pounding and decorative wall hangings – flickering fluorescents hidden behind translucent ridged plastic sends mutated shadows dancing across dust-covered paperwork – squeaking roller chair with one stuck wheel scoots every inch of the five feet linoleum flooring, off-white marble as I desperately search for form 35-wr121 –
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Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
snapshot of working prison education
I buried your bones, I buried your skin, buried your hooks that hung my mind akin... I emptied your closet, I emptied the walls, I've emptied the garden of roses and thorns... I broke the vases, I've broken the dishes, I've broken myself into submission... I've pulled the blinds, I've pulled the bedsheets, I've pulled the nerve to reckon your touches... And as much as I'm hiding, as much as I'm blaming, as much as I'm crying in vain over paining... I rattle the hangings, I battle my god, I scatter belongings that don't matter at all... It's begining to occur the way back is hard, to places we made in oceans and stars... You're a part of the air now, I'm breathing dense it's heavy, maybe I can try and walk out of the mess, but the drag's too much to resist... The warmth of the floor still persists on the floorboards where you stood, so cold and lonely you were, I kept ignoring the truth... What hurts the most is that I knew yet I kept it low, I slept every night beside you, and let the spaces grow, I can hear the curtains screaming, cursing with every sip of the wind, to reveal these hands I denied her and let her scream within, There's words to speak, I say to these walls where we sneaked, To kiss to breathe each other, Where we laughed at every situation Just like lovers....We were I wish I'd said it then, I fathom you still bound to the wall, Eyes looking at their reflection in mine, Like knowing that we lovers would fall...
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Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
We'd fall
hate sings a love song, blithe, pretty, little tune in honor of its heritage. hate sings sweetly, a song of marches and hangings, of ghettos and slavery it hums admiration for its people. it sings of this land. the majestic peaks and playful meadows. it sings, with love, of blood-drenched cotton and trenches adorned with crooked bodies. it sings of its forefathers- the conquistadors and pioneers. saintly butchers and child rapists. hate paints it’s history holier than the Sistine Chapel, singing blindly like a hymn. hate sings a love song, possessive and vicious. it scrawls the lyrics on subway walls and sycamore trees. it sings in symbols and metaphors, accompanied by the beat of temple gunshots and kicks to the ribcage. hate sings through the pulpit and the pew, clipping it’s verses from a holy book, it sways to the rhythm of “Amens” and “Hallelujahs” hate breathes down my neck and yours, knocking door to door, bearing music with a message, it weeds out the undesirables one by one. for the greater good, hate tortures children therapeutically, and executes those presumed guilty. it erases generations in concrete rooms and in the bellies of ships. it explodes homes, smashes panes of glass, and burns every convenient symbolism. hate roves and rages and spits and howls, singing the song of a beautiful future.
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Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 3:29 PM UTC
anthem
A building of darkness Fitted with opaque doors ***** curtains hangings All lights are out No place for light I am one who was left alone In this dangerous and fearful of mind play I only have one light My wisdom which was Covered with stupidity Like a dim cloudy day
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Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
849. Buildings in mind
Yes today is the day Getting the flowers in a little later then wanted. Today is the day, mulch, decorative stones, an old sculpted frog to match the soil Below. Springtime grow! Water to be a vital giver to the coming little bugs, creepy crawlies and the fly buzzer above. Down south, the trees down here have a little more history, they've seen hangings, not done by me, by men who only saw by eyes, not Spiritually. Some were lost in the decades of tradition, then through all the bloodshed, "still appearing", even now there's yet to be fruition. But now in my kitchen peeping the kitchen backside window, I can see the squirrel's eat the hickory as they get fat and full they see the world as a bunch of fools , planting seeds of disgust! Shiftshaping waters and Meadows. No more good ol days where the boys were good fellows. Now everything and one is to it and themself. Creating new high tech gear, while society's hooked on beer and whatever else. We lost the meaning to this life, our family kids friends, husband wife, tommorrow could end. That's why I make my garden to be in the pristine condition it is, untouched. Undefiled, others walk by and see the sphere they once knew and miss.
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Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
The sphere they once knew and miss
There will be lakes and rivers and broken dreams There will be happiness and sunshine and fallen down trees There will be smoke and ashes and bright burning coals There will be holes and patches and unworn clothes There will be peace and sorrow and a great big war There will be killings and hangings and meadows of green There will be love and blood and half open caskets There will be beauty and torture and pain among masses There will be strength and heart and paper unfolding There will be stories and pleasure and and and
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Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
There will be...
His eyes rolled upward straining so hard he blew a vessel crying blood. I rubbed each streak from his eyes, ******* the spatter of blood from my thumb. “When I’m finished with you you’ll be dead.” I told him frankly before I began to stroke him. The impulse came on so roughly that I couldn’t control myself. He came and I was left with his discharge in my hands. Copying what I had seen him do to a street ***** I feed him his own watching him cough and spew out. I closed my hand against his lips and forced him to swallow before I began to laugh. The hysterical sound filled the room, the vibrations shaking the hangings from my walls. I couldn’t help myself. As if a power beyond me gripped me I laughed a throaty laugh before returning to my victim. I stroked him till in his pain he became hard. “You like to **** and I am **** I laughed. His cry of pain made me stroke him, clenching strokes which made him arch and each time he came I gathered his discharge into my hands, cupping it as if it were water, lifting the fluids to his lips forcing him to drink. “I live for your pain you feed me and in turn I feed you.” Again I pulled strip of skin from his inside thigh. Ah, the close-lipped scream was music to me. “Sing to me.” I crooned before I peeled another strip slowly letting the skin tear away from muscle watching tendons rip giving forth blood that slid down pooling on the table, then another and another till he lost consciousness from the pain. “But you cannot hide within the confines of you mind. We must finish.”
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Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
The Torture of A Murderer Part III
His eyes rolled upward straining so hard he blew a vessel crying blood. I rubbed each streak from his eyes, ******* the spatter of blood from my thumb. “When I’m finished with you you’ll be dead.” I told him frankly before I began to stroke him. The impulse came on so roughly that I couldn’t control myself. He came and I was left with his discharge in my hands. Copying what I had seen him do to a street ***** I feed him his own watching him cough and spew out. I closed my hand against his lips and forced him to swallow before I began to laugh. The hysterical sound filled the room, the vibrations shaking the hangings from my walls. I couldn’t help myself. As if a power beyond me gripped me I laughed a throaty laugh before returning to my victim. I stroked him till in his pain he became hard. “You like to **** and I am **** I laughed. His cry of pain made me stroke him, clenching strokes which made him arch and each time he came I gathered his discharge into my hands, cupping it as if it were water, lifting the fluids to his lips forcing him to drink. “I live for your pain you feed me and in turn I feed you.” Again I pulled strip of skin from his inside thigh. Ah, the close-lipped scream was music to me. “Sing to me.” I crooned before I peeled another strip slowly letting the skin tear away from muscle watching tendons rip giving forth blood that slid down pooling on the table, then another and another till he lost consciousness from the pain. “But you cannot hide within the confines of you mind. We must finish.”
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43
Remember. remember, The fifth of November, Gunpowder, treason and plot. But forget we will, For worse days still, Overshadow the whole ****** lot. In these modern days, Though we're miles away, From those old times we almost forgot. Still hangings and lashings, Democracies crashing, And freedom just left there to rot.
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Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
Remember, remember...