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Justin S Wampler Mar 2015
Welcome to my home, oh won't you come in?
Allow me to show you around, would you care for a drink?
Tell me your poison, maybe a highball of gin?
I keep it in the kitchen with the coffeepot by the sink,

or maybe you'd prefer a tumbler of crown?
Whiskey is right in the foyer by the doorstop,
there's nothing like a nip right before I bounce.
And if it's wine you crave, it's in the living room atop

the tube television beside the VCR in it's place.
But if you've a tongue for peach schnapps
then make your way to the crawl space.

Whilst your up there I say, would you do me a fave?
Look in the attic for the bourbon, it's beside my baby pictures,
and bring it down for me. I'm sure that I saved
some from the last time I was up there alone with self-stricture.

Oh you don't care for bourbon, then maybe some brandy?
The cognac is somewhere down the basement,
but ignore the rope and the candies.

You're unsettled you say? Then ***'s how to spend
drinking the night away with me in the den.
OH! Just send a beer your way?! you should've just said!
A six-pack's in the bathroom, right next to the head.
The glass clinks
A stack of highballs lean like the drunk next to me
Red faced, nose as hard as the oak bar he’s been drinking at his whole life
He sinks into a bourbon, gurgling
"God must be a woman, because life is a *****"
Well, **** Tennyson. I'd rather never loved at all.
Nicholas Rew Apr 2012
Considering belief, dispositions dutifully mixed
******* of skepticism, with ample deviation
Followed by a pony of existentialism riding in

Mad man's drink is bitter but,
At this point all he can accept
Chin deep in the highball glass

Sinking amongst the buoyant
Gulping down helplessness
Yearning for the forgotten island

Where belief was once believed
Paul Sands Mar 2015
friends of friends and an **** of mutuality
every one ripe for the ******* until we greedily
eat our own tails

I find myself running low on chemistry

with so little reaction left inside of me
the water around the plug hole no longer spins,
it only falls

architectural wounds
cannot heal beneath this razor’s murderous haste
while the cognisant weak and a capella apes deform
the silent comedy of a shared space

once straight tempers and scorpion kindness highball
an unhappy taste, leaving who to speak
for the ordinary host?

the functionaries’ short practice
infects the martyr’s hurried hair
between the principal route and the settling irons
Bes



It's high midnight and I'm up to my old tricks again.
Bes came by my apartment last night, ostensibly to see why I've stopped answering everyone's calls but harboring more ulterior motives than a presidential charity event. I let her in, mumbling some vague, ******* excuse about how I'd simply been busy. She stood in my living room, her hands demurely folded in front of her as her eyes swept the scene, a quick appraising glance that took in the leaning towers of paper and rows of empty bottles, the rings under my eyes and the cheeks grizzled with god knows how many days of growth, and when at last they met mine they seemed to ask what exactly it was that I had been busy doing. Her lips said no such thing though, held in check either by innate tact or single-minded purpose. Instead she smiled, that old, slanting smile that was more a twitching of her cheeks than an actual moving of her lips, and asked if I liked her dress. It was the first time that I'd seen her dressed in anything but jeans, and the change was as unexpected as it was becoming. The dress was short, black, simple and elegant in its simplicity. In the expected places it clung to her curves and invited you to do the same, but elsewhere it hung in loose folds, folds so deep that she seemed almost lost in them, and when you did catch a glimpse of her body -the delicate line of her collarbone, the thin ridge of a rib- the force of the contrast struck home with calculated, bewildering power. She looked incredibly fragile yet fraught with danger, like broken glass swaddled in a black flag. I gave her an exaggerated once-over, then said, "Do you really need me to answer that?" She laughed, her voice high and breathy, and dropped me a theatrical curtsy. "What's the occasion?" Her eyes narrowed, and the ghost of a smile twitched its way back onto her face.
"We're going out tonight."
"We are? And why are we doing that?"
"It's ladies' night at Stoa, and that means free drinks."
"Free drinks for you, kiddo. I doubt that I could pass as a lady, even in that ****-hole."
"For me, yes. But if I were to get those free drinks and then decide that I didn't want them, well, what would happen to them? It would be wrong just to waste them, after all. I suppose I should have to give them away, perhaps to a good friend?"
"If you should change your mind." I said flatly.
"Of course. Woman's prerogative, you know."
"Are you trying to bribe me with free liquor?"
"Well, if that isn't enough I could always throw in a 'please'. Limited time offer, though, non-negotiable and nontransferable."
"Unlike the drinks, you mean."
"Rules are like bodies; they aren't meant to be be broken, but sometimes it's fun to see just how far you can stretch them."
"Far be it from me to tell a pretty girl no when she says please."
"Pleeaazzee?" She batted her eyelashes at me, lower lip stuck out in a burlesque pout.
"Okay."
"Put on a fresh shirt and grab your coat, I'll get a cab."
"Yes'm," I said, snapping off a quick salute before about-facing toward my bedroom. She laughed again as she left, the soft chuckles punctuated by the click of her heels on the concrete steps outside. I dressed quickly, taking roughly three minutes to apply fresh deodorant, sniff-test and shrug my way into a shirt with marginally less wrinkles than your average nursing home and grab my keys. I walked out the front door to find Bes ready and waiting for me, having snared a cab with the same brisk efficiency with which she had beguiled me into escorting her. She stood at the curb, toe of one black pump tapping impatiently as the taxi idled next to her, engine panting like some exotic animal brought to heel. The ride there was silent. The cabbie was one of those garrulous specimens of his trade who seem always to have something to offer his customers in addition to the transportation for which they had paid; some tidbit of folksy wisdom, or a sage prediction of the weather, no doubt buttressed with countless examples from the days of yore. He brought out several of these chestnuts for us, but after a few failed gambits even he lapsed into what for him must have passed for a taciturn state, contenting himself with humming along to the radio, albeit loudly. He had sloughed tunelessly through several songs and a commercial break by the time we arrived, and had begun to sing under his breath, apparently unaware that he was doing so. This unwitting serenade had been steadily growing in volume, and he was working himself into a rather heartfelt rendition of Black Velvet as we disembarked.
It was just past eleven, relatively early for a nightclub, but the line was already stretched ten yards from the door. It wound around the side of the building, surprising me in spite of myself. I really hadn't been out in a while, and had forgotten all about waiting outside, that desultory purgatorial period where people shifted restlessly from foot to foot and chain-smoked, anxious for admittance, though in all likelihood less concerned with being able to dance or mingle (which they could have probably done just as well out here) than they were with losing the buzz they had brought with them. Some of the people had clustered into loose groups and those who had looked more sanguine, almost serene, and no doubt there were a few water bottles filled with ***** stashed in their purses and jacket pockets. I started toward the corner, intending to join the rest of the sad-sacks at the back of the line, but Bes grabbed my arm, giving me a slight shake of her head. She walked directly toward the entrance, deftly sidestepping the little pockets of people and putting on a smile of almost predatory brilliance. She sauntered up to the bouncer posted at the door, one of any number of interchangeable drones whose charge is to prevent just such flouting of protocol as she undoubtedly had in mind. She said something to him and he shook his head. She spoke again, raising up on tip-toe and looking directly into his eyes, and when she spread her hands in a comely now-do-you-see gesture he looked around furtively then nodded. She waved a hand at me and he nodded again, though more apprehensively than at first, and the hand pointed in my direction now wiggled its fingers in a come-hither gesture. I walked up and looked a question at her but she merely shook her head again, though this one was accompanied by a slight smile that said nothing and hinted at everything. She took my hand, dragging me forward like a she-wolf dragging a rabbit into her den, and as we passed into the club she favored the sentry with another smile, so warm that I could have sworn I saw him blush.
The interior was dark, cavernous and redolent of a thousand mingled perfumes, a heady, dizzying blend spiced here and there with the dank odor of marijuana. As soon as we were past the bouncer, Bes stopped and pivoted on her toes like a ballerina, spinning so quickly that I almost stumbled into her. She said something to me then, but despite the sudden and shocking proximity of her body to my own her voice was lost in the car crash of voices from the dance floorahead. I cupped a hand to my ear in the commonly understood signal for deafness, and she responded by cocking her head at a questioning angle and forming an elongated y with her thumb and pinky finger, tilting them toward her lips in the universal gesture for drinks. I nodded my assent and she took my hand again, pressing it gently as she threaded her way through the tumult of writhing flesh on the dance floor. We found seats in the corner of the bar, the one place where you could actually sit with your back to the wall instead of the rest of the club, a place that I privately thought of as Paranoiac's Cove. I dug out my pack of Lucky's and set to work on trying to find my lighter as she flitted away, returning moments later with a pair of highball glasses, each filled to the brim with a curiously green concoction that was so bright that it seemed almost as though the glass was filled with liquid neon. She handed me one, her fingers momentarily brushing mine as I accepted it, visions of the cauldron from Macbeth flashing briefly through my mind. That smile twisted its way onto her face again as she offered a silent toast, raising her glass toward me with an oddly solemn gesture. I raised mine in return, noticing the way her eyes sparkled in the shadows, green and impossibly bright, almost lambent, bright like the drink though her eyes were a deeper, truer green, closer to jade than to the grassy color we held in our hands. We touched their rims together, the clink almost inaudible in the howling bedlam of the club. She threw her drink back at a single draught, surprising me into a laugh and I followed suit, barely tasting the liquor as it ran down my throat. What I did taste was a rather poor attempt at artificial apple, cloying and somehow thick, like melted jolly ranchers. It was saccharine sweet yet bitter, a harsh undertone that matched the crisp tang of a real granny smith about as well as the sweetness did, which is to say not at all. Not that this bothered me; alcohol and bitterness have always gone well together for me.
She leaned over to me, fingertips resting lightly on my shoulder, breath tickling confidentially in my ear as she asked, "Dance with me?"
I demurred, not bothering to waste words but simply waiting until she pulled back to look at me and then shaking my head. She didn't lean in again, catching my eyes instead and mouthing the word with an exaggerated care that was almost comical. "Okay." She hesitated momentarily before adding, "Maybe later." She didn't wait for a response, instead sliding off her stool with easy, doe-like grace and disappeared into the throng. I stayed at the bar for some time, an hour perhaps, drinking steadily and watching the growing chagrin of the woman behind it as she realized that I had not intention of tipping her no matter how drunk I got. Bes reappeared periodically, staying long enough to grab each of us a free shot and steal one of my cigarettes before vanishing again. I whiled away the time by counting the necklaces that came bobbing and heaving up to the bar. The vast majority were crucifixes, their forms and sizes as varied as those of their bearers, but there was a smattering of other ikons as well; Celtic knots and stars of david, pentacles and hammers, and once, nestled incongruously in the ample and expertly showcased cleavage of its wearer, a crescent moon and star. The owner of that particular pendant also happened to clutch a drink in one hand, and while it may have been a shirly temple or club soda, the glassy eyes above it and the boneless, disjointed movements that arm described in the air spoke to a more potent brew. I wondered what they meant to the people who wear them, those chains of devotion donned voluntarily. A symbol of their faith, they would probably say, though it's a faith betrayed by virtually every action that they take, and if there's one thing that I've learned about people it's that their vows and promises may be lies, but their betrayals never are. Even a virtuous act, an act of unequivocal good in the face of overwhelming temptation, even that can be a lie. It is concealment, a denial of the temptation, of its reality, of the fact that the desire for what tempts us exists. But in betrayal, in succumbing to temptation, people reveal themselves, for they are true to their desire and desire is the most accurate mirror, the truest reflection of who we are. Most people wear masks to cloud that mirror, false faces that sometimes fool everyone and sometimes fool no-one. But truth always asserts itself and so most people betray; others, causes, even themselves. But even the betrayal of self is also an act of honesty, the final acknowledgement of who we really are.
There was a time, of course, when these signs and symbols of faith were a business of deadly seriousness, when their betrayal would have begotten swift and sure punishment, when the mere display of one's allegiance was both a pledge and a challenge, but no longer. Now they are carried as casually as their wearers carry the name of some obscure fashion designer on their underwear, and given the reverent attention paid to the latter and their blasé hypocrisy regarding the former, one has to wonder which is really more important to them. Yet the symbols persist even when the meaning has been forgotten, and the majority still carry signs of fealty formed from counterfeit gold and beaten nickel, sigils that flash quicksilver in the strobing lights, leading the way like the wooden maidens which adorn the prows of ships. I used to have one of them, you know, a rough loop of rawhide the carried three little trinkets, a bunny a book and a small golden heart. It's gone now, of course, and fittingly so, the heart having fallen after the bunny down the rabbit-hole, and the book remaining unwritten, though I suppose if your reading this, that if these disjointed ramblings ever manage to make it onto the printed page, refugees finally transplanted from the wilted notebooks or the cocktail napkins that I even now sit scribbling madly on, it has been written after all and you're reading it. You poor *******.
I realized my thoughts were drifting, meandering on their own down paths that I have expressly forbidden them to tread, rambling like unsupervised children in an amusement park at sundown. I gathered them up, scolding them, trying to exert some authority in my own mind, telling myself to just take a deep breath and shake it off. I can't though, and for once it's not because I can't quiet the thoughts but because I can't seem to take a breath that is deep enough. I realized that I was panting, well nigh hyperventilating, my breath coming in quick, shallow gasps that seem to crystallize in my longs like spun glass. I take stock of myself, trying to assure myself that I'm not going to have a heart attack or a ******* stroke, noting with some alarm that my hands are shaking and my vision has narrowed into a twisting, undulating tunnel. I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing, the darkness behind my eyelids streaked with purple and red, and gradually I became aware that those explosions of color are rhythmic, recurrent. They happened not with the pounding of my heart, as I would have expected, but in time with the music, sunbursts of color appearing each time the bass kicked. The panic diminished, replaced by curiosity, and I realized that without the shrill yammering of panic in my ear and the terror of impending death in my mind, the combined sensations are not only pleasant, but oddly familiar. It's then that I realized what happened, belatedly doing the mental arithmetic and realizing that unexpected invitation, the free drinks and the first's oddly bitter taste, the secretive smile with which it was delivered, that it all added up to a single thing. She drugged me, of course, spiked my drink with something and I didn't even notice, naive as a sorority pledge at a keg party, and oh **** was I high. I stayed at the bar, knowing from hard experience that there was no sense in fighting it, and so giving in to it. If you can't put out the fire you might as well feed it, feed it all that you can, because the sooner the fuel runs out the sooner the fire dies. So I stayed there, focusing on my breathing and letting my thoughts spiral out, catching the waves in my head as they rose and fell, finally learning to float on their crests, in some semblance of control. Calmer now, I pulled out my cigarettes and lit one, the process taking an eternity, empires rising and falling in the time between the moment when the spark caught and the flame exploded into life and the one when it reached my lucky. I breathed out a plume of smoke, a pillar of cloud that also seemed to go on forever, and as it cleared there was Bes, materializing out of the smoke like a Cheshire cat.
"Ready to dance?"
I looked at her, unable to speak for a moment, not the drug this time but something entirely, a thing that came surging up from some unsounded depth within me and caught in my throat, because when I looked in her eyes, wide and wet with excitement, her pupils telescoped into pinpricks that told me she was in the grip of the same I saw myself. Because she was looking at me the way I looked
Tragedy
Blake Bourland Nov 2013
need  
street  
just  
like  
gin  
time  
vermouth  
****  
blue  
beer  
man  
glass  
drink  
liquid  
shattered  
away  
bar  
notice  
feel  
soul  
right  
set  
main  
shadow  
white  
*****  
haiku  
perfect  
match  
shot  
big  
mornings  
past  
saw  
light  
join  
edge  
black  
candy  
make  
words  
elephants  
*******  
olive  
eyes  
poetic  
sound  
way  
long  
passed  
die  
motion  
page  
drain  
dallas  
yesterday  
martini  
brine  
passage  
window  
brand  
highway  
blank  
icy  
hills  
night  
sitting  
cheap  
carpet  
holding  
filled  
gulped  
condensation  
women  
pint  
quick  
imagine  
dive  
gripped  
professors  
stem  
point  
false  
self  
peace  
hardwood  
epiphany  
highball  
unspecified  
downed  
crystal  
means  
sting  
cinema  
percent  
mixing  
forget  
bukowski  
sifted  
fingers
a collection of all the things important in my writing according to hello poetry
A B Perales Feb 2014
Slumped over again,
bad posture.
Running a fingertip around
the edge of a
highball glass.
Lost track of how
many times life has led
to this.

Drinking but far
from drunk.
Using and still
not high.
Alone and still
crowded by the
memories.

Took in all
of the empty through
bloodshot eyes
that hadn't been a
healthy white in
far too long.

Thinking,
lost so much.
Tried everything to
**** it all away.

Stabbed myself and
missed again.
Look forward to
the next fix,
need something.

No Longer worried
about the could
have beens.
Dance along like
a dollar girl
with all that has
been given.

Alone,better this
way.
Listen to the sound
of the refrigerator hum.
Call this music,
Frusciante.

Just me and the sound
of the ceiling fan whipping.

Passed out and
called it sleep.
I don't dream anymore,
the dreams gave
up on me
long ago.

Tossed and turned,
reached out and felt
no one there.
Laughed it off
then paced the room.
Went to the window
and peeked out at
the sacred night.

Back to the bottle and
filled the empty glass.
I began all of this alone.

The crowds demand
conversation.
The stammer robs
me of that.

Sat and drank,
sat and used.

I dont need the crowds.
I got Demons to keep
me company.
Will Storck Aug 2011
I watched a girl knock over a drunken man’s glass
Off a fence post
The highball glass didn’t wobble off
There was no instance of dull fear at the
Inability of prevention
Simply it just was on the concrete
With its shards reflecting the headlights as they passed
The tattooed drunk did not get angry
As some men are disposed to become under a similar circumstance
He muttered in a dead pan voice
-*My long island
Blake Bourland Oct 2013
And I drank a beer for the
Poet,
         lyrically gripped on
                                             to the
stem of peace and understanding

I downed a shot for
                                   the
Women clutching their highball
                 of shattered self importance

I gulped wine from a goblet
for the professors, the teachers
holding their stein filled w/ false prophecy
              and cheap hopes.

And I shattered my glass on
                  the floor
                                                   Just to prove
                                                           ­     a point.
Pat Broadbent Sep 2018
Rings on rosewood linger
from a cold glass of ice
that warmed but soon after,
whose contents evaporated away.
My chaser became the room,
matching it twice
in form and temperature,
Would never have stayed.

So I roll the glass
with a retrograde tilt,
but keep it in place,
but keep it at hilt
such that knurls on the crystal,
jagged knuckles on the base,
make it thump in a path
and it steps and it stilts
in its own kind of track
while connection with the ground
through multiple laps
stipples neatly on a plane—
infinite curve by singular tack.
And this motion is contained
to the confines of the round
of a bullseye-mark stain
where a highball was put down.

Reminds the afternoon patina,
the hunching over my piano,
the warmth of its shade of cocoa.
And the mug I placed on its bench,
where subsequently the lacquer
gave way to warmer matter
and a matte “O” was forever etched in print.

Reminds of sap-stuck fingers
that ailed us backwoods explorers,
that neither the soap nor the hottest water
could manage to separate.

Reminds of the smell of the road
that gashed through wild mint
with its tire-milled dirt pounded thin,
and the hazel dust that arose
and managed to stay ever close
when the little Sahara was traversed again.
Those clouds would form and move and clove,
and the dry would pinch in your nose;
yet it seemed the only stretch of land
to never see any rain.
And now it strikes as strange,
and I’d love to explain, but can’t—
the green was never killed,
while cleaved, and beaten, and grilled;
it managed to weather the dust
and ride on the cusp
of the electric months after May.

These things don’t peel away.

Reminds how none of this strays
too far from the path,
or too far out of mind,
and the nature of present and past,
how inseparably they bind.
Like the light to the glass,
one moves through the next,
and all the moments hug tight,
each forebears another's context.
Evan Stephens Aug 2019
The tower climbs
in periodic orange,
lung-like patterns
above the slate run,
casting evening in
long frequencies as
I run the face of
century rows.
A hilted moon cuts
swaths through
clouds of interior
peach, piercing a
gin-muted sky.

Blocks of night
advance across
the blue golf course
& empty highball
glasses clink like
bells in the porch
dark. Broad curves
of street rise in
the humid trees,
then sweep and
glitter toward
the hospital.

Four and a half
miles bring me
to the train station,
under the black
water circuitry.
You arrive in your
night-soaked dress,
walking me home.
The streetlamps
are aching yellow.
Rain never comes.
As a we drift home
I feel so lucky that
all my runs carry
me home to you.
I draw a shower,
& a charcoal horizon
tilts, tilts, tilts.
Another highball before I fall of this chair
one more drink to down do I dare?

There is nothing in the stars
the cards
the tea leaves
and who believes all that
mumbo jumbo anyway?

Cold hard facts stack up
like building blocks.

Am I there yet?
but where is there?
one more highball and
I won't really care.

A lifetime is a long time
but paradoxically
no time at all
and still
I choose
I chose
to fall
and who knows how
it would have gone on
if I'd gone down a different road?
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
Remember the wine that was stirred
with cherry red words
in a highball glass that looked back at us lazily
with one eye winking seduction?

Remember Paris and London
where the pages turned slowly and the tourist
buses zipped past the Champs D Elysee
and London Tower and Soho
framed in  a window of opportunity
never undressed before?

Remember the postcards with glossy
pigeons and castles and 'nights' in shining amour
that balanced long lances and ladies
and charged on steeds of grey metal four poster beds
that creaked and groaned under the weight
of  many escapades?

Remember that we are poets who play with words
rousing and rustic, that embark on the imagination
and course through the heart searching
for ventricles and valleys that glisten and glow
with newly discovered meanings
each time we lift the skirt of its greater
idiom and chuckle with laughter
at being caught out?

Author Notes

Just another poem for DML who makes the nicest comments and meets me on a level playing field - all the time.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ag
Yenson May 2019
Oh..boy, O'Malley hit that ball right outta the park
the crowd hollered and wooped, my bet has made good
I've got lolly in my pocket and jolly on my mind, I scrammed
moseyed down to Fat Albert, had a whiskey and sour, things dandy
so as the sun set I walked down the block and hit Green-a-gogo
the jazz notes were jumping, those cats sure know howta swing
at the bar I called in a tall dry Martini on the rocks, lit a cheroot

Ah, this is a breeze, ain't I just got the freeze with them lollies cooling
She came out of nowhere, looks like Rita Hayworth, sashayed like her
red lips pouting, hips rolling and legs she borrowed from Marilyn
that's Monroe, if you needa ask, she smelt like heaven in springtime
Howdy handsome, she purred, have you been waiting for me
Nope I said,  just landed five minutes ago, what's your poison, honey
make it a highball, easy on the rye, ain't got my guard with me now

this babe was a looker, she's already got me in a choker, my oh my
what brings you down this way, she purred as she took a slug
to find you, I said, cool as a cucumber from Lebowitz Deli downtown
well you're in luck, she said, I am found, she said again
I inhaled slowly and blew cheroot smog away from ole brown eyes
I have two thousand bucks burning a hole in my pocket
I still had my senses too

Hey babe, I said smiling, this ain't no shakedown is it, honey
she smiled and shook those dark tresses, do I look like a moll, she ask
I tell you this honey,.............I’m a dark chocolate lover,
Never had the buzz with the white stuff
so don’t be offended or think me mean, when I say,
I have no interest in the white chocolate,
I prefer them to have no jacket on too
if don’t have a jacket you will know exactly what i’m referring to  

I smiled and winked at her, lets put it this way, I said
I am black as you can see, but a Rabbi visited when I was born
so the Rabbi took your jacket away, she offered, did you a favor
we both laughed, danced, chatted and as we left. I asked
Do you just waltz into bars and pick up men, just like this
She stopped, looked me in the eyes  and said
You're from Royal Spokane Avenue in Philly, aren't you
I nodded, surprised
You're a lawyer, you're divorced and you're a **** gentle man
my friend told me all about you, now lets go swimming with dolphins..............
A B Perales Aug 2015
She told me
everything powerful
always remains hidden.

I remained silent when
she reached across the
candle lit counter and exposed
her arm past the wrist as
she topped off her glass.

I showed no emotion as
she unintentionally exposed
the flesh beneath
the sleeve of her knitted
second hand sweater.

She told me how the
pills and the ***** had
replaced the priest and
the sacrificial wine.

I kept my eyes on her
drink as the ***** quivered
from the surface tension
along the rim of the smokey
highball glass.

She told me she was too fast
for love but too afraid to be alone.

I took my time with my own bitter
drink as she continued on.

She said she wanted more
sedation and less acceleration.

She wanted ice cubes for her drinks
that didn't melt so fast.

She wanted Winehouse back
and for the butterflies to come to
her.

She wanted to light up the
darkness like Goya did.

But most of all she wanted
everything she wrote down
to leave her forever.

All I wanted was to help get
her through the night.

I started by tucking my fighting
knife away and by really listening
while ignoring the marks on
her arm.

Those hurtful jagged scars
of a Cutter.
They paint red
She is happy
She is a great artist
She draws a pattern
She thinks it is the finest

Gaza's streets are filled with red

It may be surrealist
You must blind your heart
And say as the world  told
Thanks thank God
As you created like that
Israel killed these animals
As they do not deserve to be lived
You must solid your mind
And dance, dance very fast
And drink barrels of highball
To see the world's talk
To see how it is so having tale
that Israel is doing well

it may paint of realistic
it reflects a view of fact
telling Israel is the master
Arabs must bow and worship her more

It may be line
And see how Arabs are awful
They don't deserve a1ot to be wonderful
**** , **** with your powerful
To destroy Arabs at all

It may be a cartoon
they tell Arabs doing as Tom
Who looks stupid and will fall
Doom to undeveloped persons
****** over that world
Which encourages the unjust
And she will **** ****
As the baby does with his doll
the killing occured aty Gaza and world encorages the killing

— The End —