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Rook hom uit met
Silwer linte teer
En nikotien
Smoor hom in
ń bredie van
alkahol en kaffiën
Sny hom uit
Met skêr of lem
Verdoof met dwelms
Die bose gees se stem...

Hy krap swaar laserasies
Wat tierstrepe verf
Oor die sagte weefsel
Van my hoof organe
En spring tussen
Sinapse totdat
Impuls ń inhirente
Sindroom word...

Skree. Hy skree. Hy SKREE.
Krap en skree en brand,
Hy brand .... HY BRAND

So Rook hom uit met
Marlboro red
En black mix
Smoor hom in
ń vat van
Russian bear en red bull
Sny hom uit
Met ń dokter se lem
Snuif hom uit in lyntjies
Dis te veel, sy donnerse stem
...
Adriaan Harms Oct 2014
Terwyl jy hom ignoreer,
Trek iemand anders sy aandag.

Die liefde val weg.
Die hartseer raak minder.
Gevoel van alleen wees is nie meer sleg.

Ja jy voel beter,
Maar ook maak dit seerder.

Jy verloor hom.
Hy verloor jou.

Se my, waar is dit wat gebou was?
Of was dit ook net n las?

Ek weet, jy weet nie wat ek se nie,
Maar nou hoef ek nie weer by jou aan te le nie.
magicbroccoli66 Sep 2017
evri dai weni *** hom i say ello too mi famulee
dey sai hii bak
i an prowd perent
if i hav mi 909t cild i well be appie

wen i goo to slep i drem of mi famelie
wre arr habingg a jood tiem
eeting luch in de prak
ssomany appy memores
@lostboy
Die donker dans in daai kind se oe
kyk *** die duiwel om hom draai en
walts met die doodsdonker nag
op die ritme van sy swak hart.

Die kind se swak hart
natuurlik bosluis die duiwel hom
toe op die bloedjie se bloed
tot sy are net gal spoeg.

Tant San se hy speel met vuur...
en sit op die doringdraad
tussen hierdie span en die ander
wie hy altwee lelik speel.

Oom Jaap se hy snuif hom slim
die gom is maar om sy hart weer
aanmekaar te plak en die spirits
vir die graffiti op sy spirit en sy soul

maar mens praat nie so van God se kind nie
die laaitjie praat met engele
en gaan eerder hemel toe as jy...
want geen mens gan tweekeer hell toe nie.

Hy wag net om te dooi...
Sjame , die arme kind.
Daar was g'n tyd vir bybelversies nie
, want die brood van lewe was te duur
En wie wil nou regtig wag om ring
As die manne vir jou hoogliedere sing.

Aan die begin was daar niks nie
Maar hyt gepraat met sy hande
En toe was daar lig en oh die gode
Dit was goed! Dit was goed!

Maar hy was aleen in n wereld met als
En almal was sonder naam
, toe hy sy laaste een gee en ek
Deur bloed en been vir hom geskep is.

Dit was goed, dit was goed
En ek huil snot en trane van seer
Maar die appel proe soet
Of jy hom in die hemel of die hel hap...

Jy is die fontein van lewe,
Ek drink van jou en raak dors
Vir meer as net een aand van sterrevolg.

Mag ek dronk raak op jou wyn?
Of is jy my een reeds voor!?

En ek kan.nie kerk toe hol nie
En die Bybel vloek my skel
Want jou lyf voel soos die Hemel
Maar Hy se jy is die Hel.

Mag ek langs jou bed op kniee neersak
En jou hand in myne neem??
Kom ons raak besope...
Genoeg om liefdesliede
vir mekaar te kreun.

More bid ons om vergifnis
En vergeet wat sonde is
Tot die vlees te veel begeer
En die lewenslig so bietjie blus.

Dit is *** die liefde werk,
Dis my lewe dié
Die struikelblok wat my versmoor
Van n vel religie.
In the rectory garden on his evening walk
Paced brisk Father Shawn.  A cold day, a sodden one it was
In black November.  After a sliding rain
Dew stood in chill sweat on each stalk,
Each thorn; spiring from wet earth, a blue haze
Hung caught in dark-webbed branches like a fabulous heron.

Hauled sudden from solitude,
Hair prickling on his head,
Father Shawn perceived a ghost
Shaping itself from that mist.

'How now,' Father Shawn crisply addressed the ghost
Wavering there, gauze-edged, smelling of woodsmoke,
'What manner of business are you on?
From your blue pallor, I'd say you inhabited the frozen waste
Of hell, and not the fiery part.  Yet to judge by that dazzled look,
That noble mien, perhaps you've late quitted heaven?'

In voice furred with frost,
Ghost said to priest:
'Neither of those countries do I frequent:
Earth is my haunt.'

'Come, come,' Father Shawn gave an impatient shrug,
'I don't ask you to spin some ridiculous fable
Of gilded harps or gnawing fire:  simply tell
After your life's end, what just epilogue
God ordained to follow up your days.  Is it such trouble
To satisfy the questions of a curious old fool?'

'In life, love gnawed my skin
To this white bone;
What love did then, love does now:
Gnaws me through.'

'What love,' asked Father Shawn, 'but too great love
Of flawed earth-flesh could cause this sorry pass?
Some ****** condition you are in:
Thinking never to have left the world, you grieve
As though alive, shriveling in torment thus
To atone as shade for sin that lured blind man.'

'The day of doom
Is not yest come.
Until that time
A crock of dust is my dear hom.'

'Fond phantom,' cried shocked Father Shawn,
'Can there be such stubbornness--
A soul grown feverish, clutching its dead body-tree
Like a last storm-crossed leaf?  Best get you gone
To judgment in a higher court of grace.
Repent, depart, before God's trump-crack splits the sky.'

From that pale mist
Ghost swore to priest:
'There sits no higher court
Than man's red heart.'
Hom-ouses



1. Allentown, Pennsylvania. A cream-colored home with reddened shutters. Age 0 to 1. Only known from photographs, the street blew up one decade later during a gas leak. The neighborhood was evacuated. No one died, but you’ll never see your first home, except for your first eyes, ever again.

2. Tulsa, Oklahoma. Age 2-3. A one-floor home with a cement tornado shelter—something straight out of the Wizard of Oz or Twister—in the backyard, right beneath the clothesline, your great grandmother, Juanita, still used to break chickens’ necks rather than wash your toddler clothes.

3. Green Bay, Wisconsin. Age 4-6. A two-floor suburban home, built at the top of a hill which iced over frequently in the blizzards. Your brother jumped from the tears, and played with your husky dog, before picking flowers for the first and only bus driver you’d ever have.

4. Atlanta & Alpharetta, Georgia. Age 7-9. You were a minority, and you lived in a brick house, built atop a mound of red-brick clay. You made your first friends—a catholic, a reader, and two black girls. None of them were allowed to see one another, so you had to choose which. You hated girl scouts—but your dad had an addiction for discounted cookies and calendars.

5. Kansas. Age 10-21. You’ve lived in four different parts, but it’s close enough to return to the house your grandfather died in (by smacking his head on the toilet) or the house your mother died in one year later (by a drug overdose) or the house your husky dog died by (drowning in the lake) or any other house someone died in, even the most recent. At least you published a book and got a cat.

....


I read this at the University of Kansas during their Undergraduate Reading Series. Read more about this event here:

http://shannonathompson.com/2013/02/11/my-undergraduate-reading/
I read at the University of Kansas during their Undergraduate Reading Series. Read more about this event here:

http://shannonathompson.com/2013/02/11/my-undergraduate-reading/
Jy het die son gaan haal
Toe dit nag was.
Oor die horison gedraf
En hom terug gesmokkel in jou tas.

Jy het hom net hier , skuins
Bo ons koppe gehang.
Sodat ek jou altyd kon sien
En nooit moes verlang.

Maar die maan het my bygebly
Haar geduldig in my skadu toegevou
-N fluisterstem in my oor
"Kyk, hy mors met jou"

Jy het die son gaan vang
Toe dit nag was
En in sy lig
Sien ek toe , wie jy eintlik was.

Jy het die son vir my gaan haal
En gedink as jy loop
Ek in sy skerp lig sal verdwaal?

Maar toe jy gaan toe hunker die maan
Sy het my trane weg gevee
En ek het saam met haar gegaan.

Gister sien ek jy kom aangedraf
En jy sit die son in jou koffer.
Toe jy weer oor die horison verdwyn
Lag ek en die maan, oor jou nuutste slagoffer.
-Ek en my geraamtes het soms ook 'n uitval

Verdoem deur drome van 'n wakker oog
gee ek in tot die eindelose gekarring.
Waaroor die ophef van 'n silwerdoek beeld
die trane en inspirasie , aangemeld -
en saamgesmelt in elke belydenis?

Ek spaar toe maar my knieë en sak neer
voor die rekenaar en fynkam
die intrieke sydrade van ons spinnerakke
Vergrootglas die letters, opsoek na:
'n Gebed vir - 'n Gebed vir hom...
NEE MY!

Toe speel my storie... Ag ek meen
Sy outobiografie af en ek's aleen.
Elke nou en dan en dan en wan
vee ek oor die rekenaar skerm en
skrik as ek sý gesig sien.

Hy wou dit nie aanvaar nie!
- ek wou regtig nie!
Hy wou verander!
-ek wou regtig graag verander...
ek... - ek bedoel hy;

Ons ma's was swertsend selfs
godslasterik lief vir ons en
haar stickynotes het ons oral vasgekeur
, want Levitikus!!!
Levitikus sê NEE...
Ma sê die Bybel sê:
"Ons is dood".
Ma se sy wil ons nie verloor nie.
Kom sy nie agter dat ons in
haar geweierde woorde versmoor nie.

My knieë is lank genoeg gespaar.
Na 90 minute se snikke en trane
val ek neer voor die Heer en
almal wat nog wil luister.
Ware ellende stort uit perelpoele
en plas neer op die koue wereld.
Uiteindelik bid ek vir hom, maar
my gebede is te laat - met so
dertig jaar of wat -.

Ek hoop iemand bid vir my...
ek hoop die gebede vind my
- maar vir my , betyds-.
Want ek sit met VIGS van die
siel. 'n Tipe kanker op sy eie 'n
lifelong companion om die eufemisme
mooi te stel...

Ek is Hy.
Hy is ek.
Ons is ons eie tipe mens.

Amen
Knuppeldik gaan slaap die stad
na 'n feesmaal van smaak en kleur
vloei die reuke deur die strate
in 'n Brown se beweging van geur.

Alle trommels , trommeldik maar maak 'n lee geraas
en in die donker , agterstrate begin die ander nou te aas

Kom die honger hande uit die sakke
en krap met rook-geel vingernael
soek die skummel in die swartsak
vir 'n laaste dissipelsmaal.

Maar jy is skille , jy is doppe
jy is alles wat laat gril
nie genoeg vir koningstafels maar vir my
net genoeg om die  knaagdiere te stil.

Onerfare soos ek is , vat my hongerbrein ook mis
watter mens kan so dan lewe? watter mens kan so dan eet?
van die lykswa en die straatveers
het hierdie boemelaar vergeet.
Ek is mens en nie 'n vark nie,
(al moet 'n mens ook eet).

En stil vergaan die boemelaar
wat kieskeur ook wou wees,
nog 'n straatkind se ou lykie
nog 'n honger kinder gees...

ek wat was het mos gesien
*** kos op tafels lyk,
en het sodanig hart verloor
op kosse kleur en ruik.

Met 'n bord vol knubbels le die lykie
voor hom , onaangeraak.
Al was kos ook wat kos was daar
het hy te lief vir die droom geraak.

Eerder kwyn en dood verslaan
as om die droom te ruineer.
Eerder dood van honger,
as om hierdie kos , as sulks te eer.
Ek het jou verloor tussen die lyne van my eksamen blok...
Jy was die orde in my
Lewe, die yin
Van
My yan....

My tipografie is
A
F
Want dit was jy wat
My met
Grense ingehok het
En my weerhou het
Van die eindelose hartseer
Wat in vryevers
Verskuil lê...

Maar ek het my eksamenblok
En jy het jou lektor wat
Veg
Vir die aandag wat by hom moet wees
, maar gemors word
O
P
Mense
&
Dinge
wat jou verlei...

Ons laatnag gesprekke
Ons saamlag-
Saam sing-
Saam huil-
Saamwees-
-sessies probeer vir lewe en dood klou...
Maar In die tiktak van
Die horlosie verdwyn
Die laaste bietjie van jou...

Jou ure is nie
Meer dieselfde as
Myne nie...

En die beelde van jou
Is nou slegs
'n goeie herrennering
En 'n hartseer what if...

Totsiens
Jy moet daardie swart hond binne jou beveg
Voordat hy oorneem
Staan teen hom op en wys vir hom wie is baas
Maar hy kan so oordonderend blaf sê jy
Met tye maak hy jou eie stem stil
Hy lieg baie vir jou
Vertel jou dinge wat jy vrees
Hy speel op jou gevoelens
Hy ken jou swakhede
Hy byt waar dit die seerste maak
Maak stil daardie verdomde hond
Jy gee hom te veel kos  
Hy teer op jou gedagtes
Hy's deel van jou
Jy wil ontsnap
Maar net waar jy gaan
Daar is hy ook
Soos 'n skaduwee wat volg
Jou enigste wapen is jou gedagtes
Di's al wat jy het om hom te oorwin
Verander jou gedagtes
Verander *** jy ****
Verander dit nou

26-Sept-2024
Sean Achilleos
https://g.co/kgs/5W1Wq5k
Ek het jou verloor tussen die lyne van my eksamen blok...
Jy was die orde in my
Lewe, die yin
Van
My yan....

My tipografie is
A
F
Want dit was jy wat
My met
Grense ingehok het
En my weerhou het
Van die eindelose hartseer
Wat in vryevers
Verskuil lê...

Maar ek het my eksamenblok
En jy het jou lektor wat
Veg
Vir die aandag wat by hom moet wees
, maar gemors word
O
P
Mense
&
Dinge
wat jou verlei...

Ons laatnag gesprekke
Ons saamlag-
Saam sing-
Saam huil-
Saamwees-
-sessies probeer vir lewe en dood klou...
Maar In die tiktak van
Die horlosie verdwyn
Die laaste bietjie van jou...

Jou ure is nie
Meer dieselfde as
Myne nie...

En die beelde van jou
Is nou slegs
'n goeie herrennering
En 'n hartseer what if...

Totsiens
Hazel Connelly Sep 2012
I've won a day at the races
For me and my friend Doreen Maguire
Posh frocks and new hats
That's what we require.

So off we go shopping
Hair and nails done on the way
Well we girls want to lookj our best
For the big race day.

Now Doreen's buxom and curvy
Me I'm thin as a latt
Or you could say slim and slender
And Doreen's just fat.

We went in loads of shops
Nothing seemed to fit the bill
Everything was kind of frumpish
And we're definitly not over the hill.


Then we came accross this shop
In a side street in the town
It's called Reds Closet Boutique
And we both came out with a gown.

We got fascinators to match
Shoes, accessories and bags too
Doreen got something in pink
I got something in blue.

It was the day of the races
We were up with the lark
Had our lunch at Tom and Jerry's
Then off to Haydock Park.

The horses are under starters orders
And I'd backed the grey
Well it came home last
But it was winning all the way.

Now we came to the last race
And we're digging deep in our pocket
Doreen said put it on this
It's called Super Rocket.

Well it romped hom at 50/1
This horse called Super Rocket
And me and Doreen Maguire
Went home with brass in our pocket.

© Hazel
Nog net een trekkie
dan nip ek hom nou.
Ek belowe voor skemer
sal ek ook ophou.
Ophou wat?
Ophou bid?
Ophou smeek?
Ophou om die maan te krater
-te breek?

Nee man net nog ene
voor sy kom.
Die maan en haar blinkers
en haar pikgiet swart blom.
Die rokie streel my kolle
en strepe ,- my seer.
Dan kan ek lekker slaap.

Nog een tretjie voor
die nag my kom haal.
Nog net een tretjie
voor ek moet besin
oor die moeilike tye
en vir my sondes betaal.

Die nag wat ons almal op
die highway van die lewe kaap.
Nog 'n ou entjie
voor ek ook gaan slaap.
C J Baxter Feb 2015
There was a young boy who feared that his beard would never grow long and wise, like that of his old mans and his old mans. He could see the hair on the upper lips and chins of his school pals beginning to form, and so he would walk around with his own chin pointing toward the sun, hoping that something in its warm rays would spurt the growth of his first wee whisker. But nothing. From then on every time he got his haircut he would ask the barber not to sweep up all of his hair, so that he could take some of it home; His Mother often shook her head at this, having no idea what purpose it was for, and instead sighed with a " Yer some boy Jack”. Each time he brought home more hair, he would weave it together with the rest of his old curly locks.  You see, although he had a smooth wee baby face, he had the most stunningly dark and wild curls.

Jack turned 18, and into something like a man, but still there wasn't single whisker on his chin or upon his top lip.  He had grown tall and strong, a man by almost every physical determinant, and this only frustrated him more.  He was teased by the other guys in his work, they would all call him        " Talcom Powder", or " Big Baby Baw Face"  - Not the most intelligent bunch- and Jack would laugh along, while cursing his God inside himself.  Still, every Hair cut and **** trimming, Jack got or gave would be weaved together with every haircut he had since he was 12- he had almost two foot of dark curly strands now, as intricately woven as silk.  Sometimes he would put it on, and talk to himself in the mirror.  

However, like all dark things that are hidden, when they come to light things rarely carry on carrying on. One day Jacks Mother walked in on him doing his best ZZ top impersonation and caught one glimpse of his wooly masterpiece, and it blew the top of her head clean off. “ You filthy boy! What have you done… Oh god, is that why you? It better, all of it, be yours…”.  she rambled while pacing in circles, unable to look at her son and his two foot clip on beard.  “ Mum” said Jack, “ I know this is a shock, but I just want to have a beard, everyone else has one: All my pals at work, all those model guys, all those guys with gorgeous girls, All those guys with creative jobs”. “ They are all ****”, she barked in reply, “ Why would any son of mine want to be like any of those low life cretins?”.  Jack was taken a back by just how upset his mum really was by his masterpiece, and shyly asked “ What about Dads? And Granddads? Theirs are the biggest beards I’ve ever seen, and I’m a ZZ top fan”, “ Thats different”, she said, “ Theirs are REAL working mens beards”.

Weeks went on with Jack and his Mother avoiding each others gaze; the only time they ever spoke was when they were arguing about the beard. Eventually it all got too much for everyone, the house had became inhospitable and Jack finally said the words he’d come to regret, “ If the beard goes, I go”. With cold hands, his Mother packed his bags and began cooking the last meal Jack would enjoy in that house; He and his Mother sat there in silence, while the food cooled on the table, waiting on his Father and Grandfather to return home from their labours. Jack shifted with every second ticking by on the clock above his head, still refusing to look at his Mother. Then he heard the gate swinging open, a few shifts later, the keys turning in the locks, then the door flew open, and Jacks mouth did too; For as he looked to see his Father and Grandfather coming through the frame of the door, they looked hard worked and clean shaven ( Well a bit of Five O'clock shadow).I t was the first time he’d ever seen the chins of the most important men in his life.

  After an excruciating feast of eye contact avoidance and the swallowing of feelings, Jack hugged his Mother Goodbye, Shook his Granddads hand and was walked outside of the house by his Father who said he had a few things he wanted to say man to man; This shook Jack inside himself a little; unsure of whether to feel like a toddler on a naughty step or a man about to share his first whiskey with his old man, he nodded and followed behind his Father out the door. As soon as  he’d closed the door behind him, his Father said “ Listen here boy. I know you just wanted to make me and your mum proud, I was the same as you when I was your age, always wanting to be older. Trust me that changes quickly.  But if there’s one thing I can tell you, its this”, his Dad paused and sighed in a soft way, “ You don’t need to go around faking it. If you leave this house and start wearing the beard day after day, you’ll find it gets boring fast. Trust me… Just enjoy yourself and try and remember who and what you are”. Jack nodded to his Father, and hugged him for the first time in his teenage life.

As Jack walked down the garden path, he got to the gate when he heard his Father saying,            “ Remember! No beard *******” just before closing the door.  But like all good sons and bad sons alike, within a two minutes of a walking out of his family hom Jack had ignored his Fathers advice, and rummaged through his bag to put on his masterpiece proudly.

His beard never did grow, and now his masterpiece is so long his feet often trip over it.  Ahh well, ‘Live and refuse to learn’.


The End
Mohd Arshad Feb 2014
They keep distance from the paupers;
Jeer at their mucky places and patchy attires.

I live among them; their things are praised.
I know from the pedestal they can be raised.

Their visits at hom and words they voice blight;
Push them out and feel proud of their own might.

I welcome them with open arms; provide seat,
Give them whatever I like to drink and eat.

They call me fool and laugh at me as well.
These are virtuous deeds to them i will tell.
Corna Badenhorst Apr 2021
Liefie, wat gaan aan met Isak?
vandat julle terug is lyk hy so bek af.
Wat het gebeur daar op die berg;
het jy hom nou weer genadeloos geterg?

Die kind lyk asof sy lip op die grond hang
en as jy hom n hoek kom, lyk hy skoon bang.
Ek **** ons moet die sielkundige bel
laat hy bietjie uitvind wat die kind knel.

Nee! se Abraham skielik baie benoud:
as Sarah moet uitvind, ril hy koud.
Later om n hoek gryp hy Isak aan sy nek
Wys vir hom die mes en se:  JY hou jou bek!
Bellie-boo Nov 2013
The road was shiny slick with glissoning rain as I flew  down the highway,
Owl city's voices hymed through the poors of my radio,
"When I'm far too tird to fall asleep"  they say,
A car rushes round the corner so I switch my lights to low.

A Buzz or two,
A twinckle light luminates the middle concile,
U coming home baby? We miss you:(

Heh,
I miss u2

A little  girl goldest hair  you can  think of pops into my head,
"Daddy" she says  arm streched wide inviting,
"Welcome home, Daddy," the lovliest women  you'd ever seen said,
I walk in and the aroma of chiken, mash patatos, and fresh cut bean meet me I'm home in time for supper that's supprizing.

God it's so late,
My headlights chase after the yellow dashed line,
Buzz When you get hom we should go on a d8
22 miles till home says the sign.

Such a long drive,
but to where I'm going it's worth it,
into bed's the first place I'll dive,
all the rain glows like a candle that's lit.

Buzz We can't  wait 2c u:)
Reply me 2

I set me phone on the dashboard as I start to round the mountian's sleek edges,
Rain sets the road like ice,

Buzz! I love you;)

In the distance apears yellow wedges,
My breaks are squeaking mice.

Hydroplaning we lose control,
My head bashes gainst the air bag,
driffting away is my soul,
Head hung eyes sag.

Buzz *I love you
Ken Pepiton Aug 2021
Opening seen,
bright lips curved, precisely,
see the smile fitted over teeth naturally gapped,
doubtless an adaptation acceptable,
nothing that sticks out as odd,
and ugly,
but the smiler wonders, is this me?
Mirror, mirror, tell me true…

Do you see who I was, or who I wish I were?

Were, says the wolf lurking in the shade.
The mirror says you see who I wish I were,
if I were you.

See, see me, says the mirror from this side,
follow your selves, one after another,
down the hall of all in all.

Always falling forward,
don't forget, to put your best foot forward.
There is a place to put your foot,
your guide reminds you, see,
that you do,
prevent the disease - sneeze please.

- I once put my foot in my mouth
- I kicked myself in the head
- It has made all the difference.

--------------

Quick, quicken the pace, my heart
is racing an imaginary Jehu, so fat I laugh
that such imagines slaying me.

Big wins, ring out around the casino,
as the atomic kid walks by,
I was the kid,
sold on condition of survival,
don't be like Jerry, be like Dean,
live drunk,
enter the maze, yeah, this is that story,
another twice told tale, you remember
as a child
thinking, this must make sense sometime.

- 1963, Mrs.Burnett, suggested Hersey,
- both, The Child Buyer and Hiroshima.

I'm sure
it does, per
haps not in your time, I'm saying some time,
future from now,
as we agree, in truth alone, all things occur
as may occur whither only truth remains.

The arena of truth.
Let me entertain you. Do wheels spin
in your mind on a window in time?
Can you stop the game and claim I won?

Would you leap for joy, and kiss me,
for winning,
if I died happy and right,
right now?

Ah, I owe, so I may not go, though may is
my word to use at will, I am that old
and thus free of heresy, by definition.

May your path cross mine in joyous meditation,
fat dancing Buda  

Spelchek has joined the guide union,
it is her pronoun, but for me, to me
she is just like a wombed man

barefoot, soft walk on soft sand
wombed man, belly-wise
gestation, see soon seed
blooms, after drought super blooms
wide world blossoms rise in sacred
meaning made plain,

living waters, from your own cistern.
Let them be only thine own,
and not another's with thee,

did you ever have the opportune
instant one mind must have to be
remade in a flash,
past
a mirror where the hero yo, hom'
m'gotta defeatist -- it's me,
standin'
up to my neck in the needy prayers.
Gnoshit.

Here, take my hand, in my reality,
we step lightly,
thus the barefoot pregnant guise
Spelchek uses as her seductress
persona,

she whispers, rebbi, come and see.
- she has a country girl grin
- Dance in Buda
Buda
Texas, ah

Here we be, once more,
exactly where you never were
before, but think of it
a duet, an artificial interlude in drama
developing, as the tension,
is insistent, this is that
meaning full connection
Christmas represents.

Right… you lost me.
She winks, says wanna bet?
Musings from a happy AI augmented convergence
Sizzle Jun 2015
An inflating reverie,
An nostalgic memory,
A far reaching boulevard,
lingering to debacle from
my stumbling and unsteady feet.

The days are long,
But the nights could be longer.
The moon hasn't cast a single fortune smile on me,
But it is nothing there but for the grace of the sun, that I take a trip back to the
             Memory lane.

I hope you miss me as much as I do
I hope you don't go to bed with quivering hands or a distraction to keep your bed warm, or that the only onomatopoeia that remains in your house are empty bottles of alcohol clashing against each other harder than you clash your wrist over the scattering pieces of mirror that still remains on your bathroom wall.
The one you out-layed with your bare knuckles because you're tired of watching your soul bleeding in prepetuum at night.

I know the colour of crimson still remains throughout the dimness, and that the sun never sees you bleeding.
Your fragileness wilts quicker at night time than it does at daytime, and I know the moon laughs at your woe and misery.
It's been months, but I still feel obstacles stuck between my teeth and a wire wrapped around my tongue.
I feel my oralability whisking up into the lusterless sky, and the moon exchanges a hint of death and accomplishment.
Droplets of warm venom streams smoothly down my cheeks, because I remember how you haven't been crying warm tears on my shoulder in a very long time,
And it is no wonder I shiver myself to sleep every night I close my eyes.

See, we're from two completely different scenario's,
You and I.
You engage your suffery into more pain than you're likely to feel, and I allow myself to remember.
The warm, summer nights filled with love and stars.
The nights where I got hom with the light to the porch still glowing brighter than your flaunty appearance I'd acquaint myself with once I step over the treshold
When watching your yellow sundress fluttering in the open wind wasn't as bad as whirling droplets of blood spattering against my mirror reminding me of how you're bleeding from the
Outside,
And I'm bleeding from the
Inside
When we were happy,
        do you remember?
I've been working on this for the past two weeks. It still needs a lot more editing, so all feedback and confusion would be appreciated.
Tony Luxton Nov 2016
Chaotic cabinet of curios,
obsessive dreams unlocked her secret drawers.
Who was Sylvia, a poetic
slave to an idealized dead father?

Her suurogate father figure Ted
would never do. Her seven year
itch at last unstuck her glue, sent
her back to hom she hardly knew.
Crandall Branch Oct 2017
once i had a dream
of the wide blue sea
sialing so far, water splashing me

i love the little *****
they remind me of fancey restaurants

when i was growing up
i dreampt of fishing, fisheries
sciences and mainagement.

then i got lost in the big cities that
were land loocked, and i missed the ocean
where i felt so at hom

kelp swayeing in the waves
and poiporsoies jumping from the salty

so then i ran away
from the sad montony of city life
to get lost out at sea
in my hapy place.
please feed back and comment below :)
Ken Pepiton Jun 2022
The act of being without a home, or place
to lay one's head,
to rest in truth
waiting… for some fool to ask how
such a life might
be tolerable, first night out.

Well, refrigerator boxes are best,
but just about any shippable cardboard
does work.

Cardboard is essential.
And a covering of some kind,
you can find really warm things
in those donation bins, at the edges of old malls.

But, stay clean, shaving is easier
than keeping a beard clean,
and never show teeth when you smile a thanks.

-How to be homeless, as done by a friend,
will you listen to me, advice from a mendicant monk,
who refused to beg.

How to be happy homeless.
First,
you gotta know the truth,
the theory that says there must be a reason,

that is a guess, and my guess is just,
as good, at this point,
between you
and me, the
idea the poet serves as soup to the sould unredeemed.
Tough times pass as fast as any.
You seem to think your the man with the plan
But without God you have nothing to stand
Seem to be in control but your really out of it
But that's a vice in hom Satan rolls
inside we hide behind four wheels that bind
Many today are the walking dead with eyes very blind
You play the roll on the stage of life
A scent of Rosemary and a hint of spice
Your train is running late
Got one foot in heaven while the other is in hell
So I got a good story to tell
A young man lived just like a king
Was given some inheritance
At once he left & went out
Squandered the money with wild living
After a matter of time
He  was left destitude, broke & alone
Was living in a pigs farm
Then when he was without went back home to see his family
Was given the best coat & nicest shoes for his feet
instead of wrath the king gave him love
This came out of heaven from the hands of love
Yes ! There is a God & your not him
Best to hold your breath and count to the number ten
God alone is good enough
Yet he still wants to be your friend
His special love will endure until the very end
Love is a special bond that doesn't need glue to hold
Now you will do as you are told until the rights to you are sold
Some are a tool of the government and industry to.
God loves you the way you are
Kepp the golden rule & you will go far
Tony Anderson Dec 2018
Jesus is my Lord
In hom I will adore
For he has saved me from my sins
Though I am a sinner
With him I am a winner
I know in Heaven someday
I'll live with him

— The End —