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Sacrelicious Jun 2012
Buried alive, beneath the rhetorical lies.
Of a thousand broken-prayer beads.

Surrounded by all of my....
False hopes.
Fake friends.
&
Some, hornet priests
who are exorcising their own demons.
On a ******* fueled ****** of sadism in it's own right.

On the dark side of the confession booth. This is nothing.

But a divine
waste of my time.
I'll see you all, in Hell.
The Green Hornet and Kato are infiltrating a criminal gang and I'll tell you why;
That gang has stolen an antiviral medication called remdesivir and that's no lie.

Remdesivir can cure the coronavirus, as you can see;
Two members of the gang are suffering from the coronavirus and I'm speaking honestly.

The two heroes battle the criminal gang with their weapons and fighting techniques;
The Green Hornet and Kato have beaten the evil freaks.

The Green Hornet calls the police, which is smart;
Kato is a master of the martial arts.

When the police arrive to arrest the gang, the Green Hornet and Kato go away;
The police return remdesivir to the hospital and that's all I have to say.
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
He was blown>>>>
>>>> away_--- from
my lace-up
Is She his blue
Mood tie set any bet
to walk the talk

At your own pace
The lustful wake up she
got the face

The edge of his rim sneaker
So prim who is proper
On the brim of ecstasy
He puts sugar on my tongue

Rumors like the "Talking Heads"
All in the bedding sneaker
Jane of the jungle wild tongue
She races Tarzan swinging sneakers
You and I tripped over dreams the sneaker?
Lip to lip disaster

The "Cyberwar" stepped on melting
Gold *** of tar
The loud blaster she moves the
Starwars so far

He could eat her up
his checkered black and white flag
Like a lobster claw his last draw

The racer mouth sponsor

She was born 2-B that way
sneakers love 3 some run
It's not unusual to have fun
with anyone
Her hands were far gone but
solid as a rock
Rollicking flying his rocket
Racing by her own clock Ms. Hornet


His sneaker loud love feud one
the detail on her sneaker
the wild bird of a bud

He shook me all night long
don't do an
A-C-D-C  on me
The sneaker he got the
Crazy eights
 No prank calls
Her hot buns and
Speaker- Frank-flirters
take me out to the
ball game demonized

The Anti Christ be born again
My sneaker group what a tank full
The Antitank no thanks
You cant always get what you want
and if you try sometimes
Charge all plastic but
sneakers like rubber soul

Visa hot runner Lisa no control
The American Express abdominal press
Shop until she drop's gum-drops
Your head was like a
Rolling Stone Jagger
Bigfoot sneaker Friday 13 size
That girl sweet pea Lea surprise
In the Hell, kitchen she snapped
That purr nightcap like Cleopatra

He's the Mantra so passionate fruit loopier
She's the Mona Lisa unfriendly sneaker
Your happy socks are quick
On his bell-hop feet
The sneaker riddle beat


That long meeting so *******
For time baby blue eyes Frank
on the mic
Like the jitterbug tight-knit
as sneaker print rug
Citron sharp eyes 5 Karat
Spicy hot Chili pepper
poem sonnet

The singer swung
Jazzy sneaker band
Dr. Who wears sneakers drinking
Dr. Pepper

The "Red Apple McIntosh" computer
Such a loud mouth hacker Josh
Jeweled Judy cultured pearls sneaker smash

Or her Stairmaster her
sneaker hotties ruffles have ridges
The juicy burgers dill pickles

Desperately sneaking Susan
sneakers to her affair finish line 
What a Lady Madonna
baby sneakers
at her breast rebel of hearts
I wonder how she manages to
sneaker speed the rest

Her best to out twin any talk
bullseye power walk
Buying the triplex sneaker
The loud talker 4 for 4 fame Wendy
Run like a fugitive your alias
name
Go International quite run
for your money I suppose
His sneakers up on her recliner
It wasn't her better rose
She's the high boot lady ever finer

On E-Bay selling your favorite sneakers
Those Australian Huskies biting sneakers
Such a Paws up against doggone heartbreaker

The in-crowd Flynn or another runner Lynn
Everybody is not a star or wedding crasher
Or even the right sneaker lover

Lady that lives in her homeless shoes
Are we all inside a video game
all commercials

Needing bifocals video begins
 Wynn at Sneaker Con
Joy to the world of the joystick
The sneaker of the Torah prayers of
the Temple
All dots and specs out of sneakers
More zits and pimples
I just want one-half cream
The changing Moon 1/2 Wolf
My man (Mr. Drakar) Howling toenail

French onion soup say cheese
her sneaker what a
no-brainer lightheaded breeze
You come so far sneaker trainer
And a grave site plot famous
brand sneaker
name

A million odds to one name in the
cemetery
****** Mary she flies in her
sneaker like Mary Poppins
Going under the influence
Heres looking at you kid umbrella

Hot Hollywood Taurus Bulldog
runner
We really don't have a name

We are writers and ****
good fighters single to mingle sneaker
Not the homewrecker more like the homemakers
Even sneaker has a voice and walks like singers
Shoeiverse sneaker race
became her living curse
The grin of the Grinch green sneakers
On his sled ride the lucky shamrock

I'm the happy heel
The tigress furry feel skip to my Lou
he ordered the
kids happy meal

Getting a ticket for reckless walking
Lights on or eyes wide shut
Are sneakers running for their life?

More fuel- time we get no alone time
Let's go shopping for the
new sneaker called
(Valentine only) sold one
day the sale
Singing her sneaker song a chip
device to talk back hot male
The 'Calvin Klein" dockers her ball of the foot
tennis sneakers It's her loud Owl ******-hoot

The farm girl Ralph Lauren corral
To rope her in lasso-like with morals
racing horse of different color fashion
I cannot hear you I have a hell
of a tinnitus reaction

  She-Devil bickering.>>> No heart like a sneaker
I am a snake too short to run the mile

I was too busy looking
at her long legs
On the Jet
** Plane
The most popular lady
in her sneakers 

Viper car and strings attachments
Ms. Love lace the shoelaces
with hearts
She is tied to his ankles
like condiments
Like Sweet cherries what a
bomb kicker sneaker
The Southern Belle runner
Be the stunner the trucker roadrunner

Hail to Mary the sneaker
Queen of Sheba
Turn on the radio Country singer Reba
What a sneaker rating ratio

When she bent down the crisscross
Watch out cross my heart trainer

Cross my heart and hope to die
To get slimmer
I am the happy sneaker
all the moods hot goods
(Hey Robin Hood)
stealing a rich man and poor women
which is the witch

One string said pull me the
other one said you feel like a
Chrome lead sleepy feet go to bed

Like Beer and pretzels
What an insane sneaker hazard
Hospital beepers sneaker virus
stepped on the most expensive
Venus, I beg you to run
lips we travel bullets and stars
We just want some fun

Marathon key just one clicker
That strawberry shortcake
Versus the "Cherry Bomb"
The Prince and the Pauper
what a toad kisser
That army tanker hurry up
lunch or brunch
What a Patriot Brady bunch

My shoelaces became like a
firecracker candy bar crunch

Who is the loser lover
or the winner
The long trip almost at the end
of the race
What a rivalry those shot glasses
at random
The sneaker fandom

Smile to me if you're not
wearing anything
but sneakers
My wings the wifi cute feet just
say Hi

No, I saw a man 600 pounds
of Reebok gold way too
much belly roll fat
The Dr. Seuss cat in the hat

Nike in the air Robin
bird skydivers
Dark matter gold diggers
Movie (It) Stephen King
skateboard

Penny feet relaxer
The Wise clown got her
The sneakers comedians
Seinfeld stand up sneaker
To be dead or wed Kleinfeld
Exotic sneakers and
cars he made a home run
Hot hell ring my bell
You made me happy
I got to first base

And you all sync into
one of a kind sneaker
Mom Robin the singer
No, I saw a man-eating
out of his sneaker
His head up in the Nike air
Oh! all hell breaks footloose
computer looking
up the sneaker sales

All I am doing is clicking
with a mouse
Where is my lover
sneaker twin, my spouse
This is about a trip not on an airplane flight more down to earth long walk star gazers or runners and clickers but its a comedy around all names and hot runner shes the firecracker don't  eat her at her game
Robin Carretti May 2018
Maybe I could write a book all

Stares of people creamy tons
Eating dark bonbons
Find your nitch and call
The silk milk  switch
The"Cat Eye"
People come and go
But the sunset stays
The play up or play
down the love of life
An eternity of hearts
of your wife
The family

The boy ship ahoy
(Patch-eye Pirate)
Robin Almond Joy
And she just loves
them Tomboys
all lacey eyes

Masquerading
"Almond Eye's
flavor of soy
Lactose tolerant

Paintbrush deviant
He is so creamed for her
Dark sunset stimulant
Come on drink it all

Inside of my mind do
you dare to wink
and call

Take a look?
Are we losing
our scruples
Coconut milk
Smiles and dimples

A mystery of
illusions  more darkness
of confusion
The plain ordinary people

So on and then on?
Met our confusion of people

Right on # target
_


Are we still creamy
stir it on

Darkest sunset
way beyond
Soothing so distant and just
like that
gone
___

We cannot click on
anything creme
De La Creme
The computer magnet
like a crazy clone,
all lost being alone

Staying obedient trying to
find the way
(No God) what

No Man?
The cream in your cafe
The Prince
She's the angel dust
hair rinse
((Garnet))

Creamified sonnet

Dark sunset Jade Hornet
on so on her lips so on etc
They met the sunset
head on right time
She's on
All Laced
He's on
What a kisser
Is right time on?
Did he miss her?

My heart was on
the line

Robin birds of throbs

Losing so much time

being robbed deplorable

Like an abysmal

Disgraceable hum
Shady money sum
Banging drum yum
Dark sunset color gum

The dark silhouette
asylum

The sin or the sunset

Being straight jacket
Suzette

Minds breakdown
Heart Silk Crown

"Pennywise clown'

*** in the Cat milk
movies

Remembering the
The seventies

Peace signs and
Groovies

My sunset dreams
depleted

Was this the book
I needed to
be completed

How I armed myself
Finger lake creamy

Fate and time stood out
Dreammmmy_


My brain was fried
scrambler

But sunny side was up?

At midnight rambler

The Brooklyn Bridge
sunset heart dividers

Cosmic globe riders
Dark spell mentors
Spilled the creamy
Goddess of darkness
robe

This ancient Roman sunset
The lover of Darkness
Lace me the darkness hour

The tower high rise sunset
bad spirits gave us
wits to live it

We have it made what
we see
Sometimes Illusions
Creamy silk hands and
The rock bands
How her Darker?Cream
Saw the sunset in between
lips met

Face to face they land
Her place lacy demands
Her spell eyes of a bet
Her lipstick on his collar
She was ready to set
He see's the specks of colors
Through her headset
He yearns for her to
holler
__

The peek reddish
Sushi-pink
The darkest of sunsets
"Freshly Raw' she sipped his
Sunset drink

When our light will come
will be
protected
Forevermore patiently

The darkness became us
the goodness

Of a better time of rising
The darker the sunset the sweeter place love was perfectly set
Timothy Oct 2012
Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy, -
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art, - the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye, -
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild-flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy, -
Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his *****;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O'er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs' orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

**~John Greenleaf Whittier 1807—1892~
A red-hot needle
hangs out of him, he steers by it
as if it were a rudder, he
would get in the house any way he could
and then he would bounce from window
to ceiling, buzzing and looking for you.
Do not sleep for he is there wrapped in the curtain.
Do not sleep for he is there under the shelf.
Do not sleep for he wants to sew up your skin,
he want to leap into your body like a hammer
with a nail, do not sleep he wants to get into
your nose and make a transplant, he wants do not
sleep he wants to bury your fur and make
a nest of knives, he wants to slide under your
fingernail and push in a splinter, do not sleep
he wants to climb out of the toilet when you sit on it
and make a home in the embarrassed hair do not sleep
he wants you to walk into him as into a dark fire.
Brandon Barnett Apr 2012
prepared for any kind of fight; rifle, helmet, knife, even glaring teeth
she comes at me like I'm a hive of bees
but who can blame her, after all, who's really adequately prepared to handle me

she only cuts shallow and jabs, never stabs for the heart
unlike me, she won't ****, unsuited to play that part
she's a survivor, she heals, I'm a comet in it's one bright radiance before breaking apart

anxiety makes you shudder like a dump truck coming down a bumpy street
depression dictates who you call, when you work, what you eat
if you're not bipolar then i'm afraid the three of us will probably never meet

punching clinched fists through doors is a cheap circus trick
but taking out the anger is dangerous without something to hit
because it pours it up, tries to drink itself down, and drowns everything around it

my remorse stiffens me in bed next to her sleepless I wear the darkness, rigamortis and black suit
I feel my poison wilt her, bend her stems, dull her colors, shrink her roots
i have burned all the wood in her pile just getting started a fire the size of my selfish pursuits

carrying sandbags roped onto me one parent and sibling at a time
dragging the chains of days barely survived still hooked into my skin like the other memories of their kind
I stall her pace, hold her back, make her trudge uphill, I make her climb
but her undaunting patience somehow persists in her, in me: still, calm waters sublime

She comes at me like I'm a hive of bees prepared for any king of fight
only wanting to save me, to heal me, to give sleep back to my nights
bread for it, I show teeth and cut for blood and she continues to be the definition of grace in my life
Shaded Lamp May 2014
May I present a challenge?
Imagine if you will
You have created a flying explosive device
And it needs a name that will thrill.

A name, a good name, which name?
Well, none of those below.
Some twisted suits have already used them.
****, EVEN Tacit Rainbow.

What really goes through their minds?
As they sit and discuss the name
Of their creation that's destined to ****
Butcher, destroy and maim.

Just try if you can
To read the whole of this edited list
Imagine how many have exploded of each
With out angrily clenching your fist

Little John
Honest John
Hellfire
Matador
HARM
Terrier
Nike-Ajax
Corporal
Sea Sparrow
Redstone
Bullpup
Mace
Nike-Hercules
Regulus II
Atlas
Thor
Lacrosse
Jupiter
Quail
Hawk
Tartar
Falcon
Polaris
H­ound Dog
Pershing
Entac
Firebee
Shelduck
Jayhawk
Cardinal
Firefly
Petr­el
Redhead/Roadrunner
Redeye
Mauler
Skybolt
Nike Zeus/Spartan
Condor
Phoenix
Typhon MR
Falconer
Overseer
Taurus
Kingfisher
Cardinal
Walleye
Hornet
Ma­verick
Big Q
Minuteman
Blue Eye
Viper
Firebolt
Bulldog
Harpoon
Focus
Perseus
Firefly
Stinger
­Compass Dwell
B-Gull
Agile
Seekbat
Delta Dagger
Thunderbolt[7]
Patriot
Aquila
Teleplane
Streaker
Tomahawk
­Firebrand
Roland
Peacekeeper
Penguin
Pave Tiger/Seek Spinner
Sidearm
Skipper
Wasp
Sea Lance
Ripper[7]
Trident II
Midgetman
Tacit Rainbow
Pave Cricket
Have Nap
Peregrine
Exdrone
Javelin
Pointer
Hunter
Coyote
Skeeter
Outlaw

­Wow, you're still reading
And you've managed not to throw up.
Just wondering how many innocent victims
Of a tax funded device called Bullpup.
Katelyn Arnold Dec 2013
"silence is worse; all truths that are kept silent become poisonous.”* ― friedrich nietzsche

like poking the hornet's nest with a stick, you are a rose with stems and thorns so thick,
your skin is protection from oppression, keeping the world out of your private channels
like i'm AM and you're FM all of which are static with distorted voices only science can pry through your enigmatic cacophony on a molecular level, and any evidence of who you are, i couldn't find with years of knowledge, a indestructible ship could speak more evidence about
why it was annihilated, obliterated, disintegrated under the ocean for months at a time without
any current survivors, and the last person i could be described as would be Sherlock Holmes
every detail washes over my head like a flood of details that can't enter because a force field
surround my head like it's a crown being so clueless, but it feels like i'm wearing a dunce hat
and maybe i do realize that there will be a position where you will be put out into light
there is no way out of your mind, like a schizophrenic, if kryptonite killed superman,
can it **** the infectious virus spreading like wildfire through these veins, can you stop
worrying about when you will finally break down and open up to someone?
****

- kra
Aaron LaLux Jul 2016
America’s Got Presidents


Lights camera action,
who’s up next,
politician,
or dumbsh!t pundit?

Oh I see,
everybody’s an expert,
man these candidates have switched sides so many times,
watching them flip-flop this much makes my neck hurt!

Candidate’s wearing make-up,
if you ask me it’s all a cover-up,
blemishes on their records,
when’s enough actually enough,

on stages,
synthetic sages make up stories,
while the police keep stuffing us into cages,
and the politicians keep talking about reclaiming America’s lost glory.

America’s lost glory what glory,
the one about us bombing innocents or the one about slaves,
well if that’s the glory then it’s not lost,
because the US still bombs innocents and pays most people a slave wage.

It’s fckn depressing,
these pop-star presidents,
jockeying for position,
just for a chance at a White House residence.

On a stage,
it’s a sad charade,
all these bad actors,
pointing fingers trying to shift the blame,

laaaaaame!

All they do is talk different when in front of a mic,
but behind closed doors they all act the same,
different costumes different connotations maybe,
but really there’s no significant difference because there’s no significant change.

It’s an act a sham a show,
pop star presidents hip hop rock and roll,
Barack stars sing about change without any evidence,
if you ask me they’ve all gotta go,

and this election year is no better,
if anything it’s worse,
you’ve got Hillary Clinton AKA Barack Light,
and of course running is another Bush,
then there’s Donald Trump,
who’s legitimately probably the Anti-Christ,
he’s a racist sexist selfish sociopathic narcissist,
he doesn’t want to debate anything he just wants to fight.

But what about Bernie Sanders,
people ask, “Are you feeling the Bern?”,
I mean the guy’s a 74 year old career politician socialist,
he’s gonna try and take half of everything I earn.

Sure,
I’d vote for him I guess,
outta desperation only,
because maybe it’d take someone that extreme to get us outta this mess,
but honestly he’s a bumble bee,
poking at the hornet’s nest,
I’d bet if he becomes a real threat to the one Corporate Establishent want’s to elect,
that the speech where he accepts ends with one of his last breaths.

Yup.

America the beautiful,
when’d you become such a bully,
you used to be my best friend,
but now you act like you don’t even know me,
you’re blood lust is revolting,
why’s your answer to everything violence,
and how can you say you speak for the people,
when most of the people are so fed up they just shut up and stay silent,

and even if we do get out and vote,
these days our votes aren’t even counted what gives,
what you think it’s just a coincidence,
that almost every state Hilary won was accused of being rigged?

I feel sick.

This political pile of tricks politics seems like a pile of ****t,
and the media’s forcing it down our throat,
I mean really what are we supposed to do,
when those that feel outcasted can’t even get the system to count their cast votes.

So I take notes.

And I write.

I write,
all of this with typing hands and a shaking head,
because I want a leader I can truly trust and believe in,
instead of some actor that can’t be trusted no matter what they’ve said.

Red,
state,
blue,
state,
red,
fish,
blue,
fish,

I’m not a Jew,
I’m only half so I’m Jew-ish,
and I’m not trying to be rude,
or to sound too prudish,
it’s just,
the history of half my people,
is filled with those that want to ***** us,
so the bait and switch poli-tricks these politicians politic,
well they’re Grand Old Party is nothing new to us.

Who to trust,
who to trust,
we’re tired of feeling like Lewinsky,
giving oral to the Oval Office and getting nothing back but fckt.

Fck.

When is enough enough,
no is supposed to mean no,
but we get it no **** on the ****** tube,
***; Slave & Master we’re all Lady Liberty’s ******* so on with the show!

Lights camera action,
who’s up next,
politician,
or dumbsh!t pundit?

Oh I see,
everybody’s an expert,
man these candidates have switched sides so many times,
watching them flip-flop this much makes my neck hurt.

Candidate’s wearing make-up,
if you ask me it’s all a cover-up,
blemishes on their records,
when’s enough actually enough?

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

Volume 1
The H Trilogy:
The City of Angels
Just published on 7/7/16.
Somehow it was #1 worldwide today.
If you could take a moment to check it out,
and even write a review it'd be most appreciated.
All profits go to a charity that prevents child abuse and ****** assault.
So not only are you getting an epic book of poetry,
but you're also supporting a good cause.
Thank you SO much!

https://www.amazon.com/Trilogy-City-Angels-Aaron-Lux/dp/1535054328
I'm a bit frustrated.....
So it has come to this
insomnia at 3:15 A.M.,
the clock tolling its engine

like a frog following
a sundial yet having an electric
seizure at the quarter hour.

The business of words keeps me awake.
I am drinking cocoa,
that warm brown mama.

I would like a simple life
yet all night I am laying
poems away in a long box.

It is my immortality box,
my lay-away plan,
my coffin.

All night dark wings
flopping in my heart.
Each an ambition bird.

The bird wants to be dropped
from a high place like Tallahatchie Bridge.

He wants to light a kitchen match
and immolate himself.

He wants to fly into the hand of Michelangelo
and dome out painted on a ceiling.

He wants to pierce the hornet's nest
and come out with a long godhead.

He wants to take bread and wine
and bring forth a man happily floating in the Caribbean.

He wants to be pressed out like a key
so he can unlock the Magi.

He wants to take leave among strangers
passing out bits of his heart like hors d'oeuvres.

He wants to die changing his clothes
and bolt for the sun like a diamond.

He wants, I want.
Dear God, wouldn't it be
good enough to just drink cocoa?

I must get a new bird
and a new immortality box.
There is folly enough inside this one.
Larry B Dec 2010
If I could be a cartoon character
Which one would I be
I thought about being Fred Flinstone
But he's too old-fashioned for me

And then there's maybe George Jetson
A man who knew electronics
Nothing like Yosemite Sam
Who needed to be hooked on phonics

And what about Shaggy and ******
You gotta love those ****** snacks
I've never really considered a Smurf
And their tiny little mushroom shacks

Or maybe I'd become a super hero
Who comes to save the day
Batman , Green Hornet or Underdog
Who puts the bad guys away

Maybe I'd live in Jellystone Park
Where Yogi is still the king
For "Hello Mr Ranger Sir"
Is just the funniest thing



© All Rights Reserved
oh me oh my Apr 2013
he tells me the
words she does
not care to read,
nor understand.

his words
are narcotics,
rolling thick
off the tongue,
fat and vain.

i tell him the
words she does
not care to read
nor understand.

my words
are flesh wounds,
festering and
upsetting
to the stomach.

he's a medical
overdose,
drugging
to numb the
brash and pain.

i'm an angry
hornet through
your heart
and your mind,
livid and
vindictively
stricken.

thick through
your veins,
eyes a blur
and head a fog,
he's a medical
overdose
with mind of
a syringe
and tongue
laced with
narcotics.
Jane Jan 2019
There is a hornet in my bedroom and I don’t think of hurting it
Instead, I notice its confusion and loneliness
I want to help it but curiosity consumes me
Covered in flowers, the hornet does not understand
My bed is a painful heaven
I look to the dead flowers on my shelf,
wondering if new ones would please the hornet

Stuck at the window, wanting out, but kept in
Stuck in this room with daunting choices
Stuck between sight and mind
The door is open, waiting for a reason to close
The window is open, I am free.
Orion Schwalm Aug 2010
Her face, on it’s own, is just one of thousands past and thousands to come…
But the way she portrays it…leaves a certain residue behind that I am betting she doesn’t want swept up and examined.
That’s where I come in. I’m her janitor/detective. I’d say custodian/investigator but **** political correctness. I'm in charge of gathering the crumbs of the cookies she only half finishes, and I try to determine the consistency of each and every one.
Why?
Because she bakes the best ******* cookies this side of the ******* sun, that’s why…Because she puts so much time and effort into perfecting her recipe and because she spends equally as much keeping it a secret. The mystery adds something to the taste.
But she’s overconfident. She hopes too much that everyone will eat every scrap of her devil’s dozen batches of heaven…that they will leave nothing uneaten in their never-ending feast of enlightenment.

Not I.
No Sir! No cookies for this ******* ******’s little ****** mouth. God knows I don’t deserve the sweetness.
So I’m always starving because in MY world, she’s the only cook, the only waitress, and the only ******* farmer left.


…But I still get to be the janitor. I know volunteer work is self-destructive but-  \
But maybe one day she’ll decide…
”Hey, this mindless drone slave…he’s a **** good mindless drone slave,”  and then maybe even later she’ll see I have a mind after all, even though it is always set on the same thing every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every month of every-
well I can’t go that far in writing but I can see that far with my own eyes and I’ll tell ya…years, decades, centuries, millennia, infinity…………..ain’t got **** on this mind o’ mine, cuz the concepts are in there, but then again so is she, so why can’t I have what’s inside of me without having to rip myself apart every night looking for the quickest route to it?
Should I snap the neck clean off and go downward through the rest of this mess?
Or should I cut through the waist right in the middle and spread this search party out?
Or should I just go straight through the left side of my chest, into the hornet’s nest, guns a’ blazing?

But there’s no point in getting it all over with now. I’ve got time…all of it.
Cuz I have seen a glimpse of infinity when I looked through the telescope into the lens of a microscope with a slide inserted holding that one special little crumb I found in the folds of my shirt after the night we slept together, and I think I’ve got just enough of a hunch to say confidently that it is her secret ingredient…infinity.
It’s what everyone wants from her…and it’s the only thing I would take from her…and it’s the difference.

It’s what I see in her face.
It’s her eyes.
It’s her
It’s me.

It’s absolutely…
Nothing.




We love it.
First piece I've done like this.
Connor Jul 2016
And it's difficult to remember something as the very name of Eisenhower
Or flowerbaskets
And tired movies made of silicone and
Aftersex
Or sixteen candles echoing out of an imaginary suite with cigarettes at every table
And green lawns
Barbershop conversation
The reflection of the sun in special trees
Or my best friend Jesus Christ
Or the smell of the theater that one day with the cynics who just got back from a tennis match and barbwire still laced delicately around their thoughts and
Nihilism
And automotives
And priestess Jane or Henry's gloomy doppelganger who reads alternative magazines and loves the aesthetics behind broken glass
And fine tuned musical instruments

It's difficult to remember
Lonesome Fridays smoking on a park bench trying to finish the puzzle
Or synagogues you've never been in
Or insurance
Or newspaper articles detailing the misadventures of Mr. City
(Of course of course! Take your shoes off at the door and make yourself at home)
We're tossing all our sewage into the ocean
that's far from clean as it
LOOKS anymore these days
That's anything
And everything except for the glowing mountains seen faded and wintry behind Apartments and the
"Glorious Mexican House of Spices"
Never been in there either

It's difficult to remember
Times of Mr Twin Sister
Or Joan Jett in the hallway
In a highschool who's psychology classrooms have become a time capsule in the ground/
Or the gentle skinny ******
Wearing Broadway makeup and
Kafka tattooed on his shoulder
I like his hat
He looks at me suspiciously
Or the guy who is yelling his order at the counter when it's quiet here anyways
Or the mariner who has a hobby of the saxophone
Or 1970s *******
Or the sheepskin bikeseat fad that's yet to come but I'm predicting it now!
Or two dollars and twentyseven cents at the beginning of Allen Ginsberg's America
"I've given you all and now I'm nothing"

It's difficult to remember
The Oriental
Sacramento flies
Midnight Moon
Quarter to four
"The Immortalization Commission"
Remodelled hotels downtown
Where mandalas on the floor became a
Tiger lily luminous
And the kimono is yesterday's painting/
Dearest Darling
When I was feeling down!
A staircase in reverse (??)
The sound a kiss makes
It's difficult to remember
Colleen's earrings
Or Washington State
Or air conditioners in Bali
The Indian ocean's daybreak hymn
To Seminyak
Or whatever happened to Steve from the Airplane out of Taiwan
On 3 days awake
Hello Kitty nursing stations
****** (Kubrick's version)
Cardboard taking up half my bedroom
It's difficult to remember until I jot it down and then its a sudden forever
Sunshine Superman in a cafe spontaneous
drawings with someone I just met who has some ******* attitude/
Who hops fences and has feral ideas
People! En Masse! Te Amo!
You're all in wolven liberty
And vague postulators
And holy prostitutes for the dollar
Sad eyed intellectuals
With undergarments made of breakfast cereal/
Seaferry poetry is different from
Trestle in August poetry
Or henna handshakes
Or the Napoleonic era
Sweet Cherry Pie
The tulip's tongue
Garabajal
Cloudy first day of July
Was hotter yesterday
But not too hot

It's difficult to remember
Antiquity
The pale horse Studebaker outside the clinic
With a glossy red trim and **** I wish that was my ride
Andy Warhol's exploding plastic inevitable
Nearsightedness
Angels and their ability to shower with a a snap of their fingers
Distant harp music
Better him than me
Bananas almost ripe
Green aquatic
Reclusive junkies
Palomo's appliances
Questions for the next time
How much I like what you like and how I like that you like what I like
Ahh that's not my bus
I'm trying to get to the city!
That one quote Socrates is known for about knowing nothing as true wisdom
Supermarkets being built on top of liquor stores burned down a while back
Monopolies
Tragedies
"No Love Lost"
THE HOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL
Your guess is as good as mine
Never tried to eat Asian food in Asia
It was all pasta and good cider that tasted like pineapple
Rain hitting the window and I'm
Drowsy again
God Save The Trees!
Curly hair looks good on boys
Torn up blinds
Queer as a three dollar bill
If Bill costs 3 dollars I'm sure he's caught something better safe than sorry
Sage advice
I'm the very model of a modern major general
Golden yen and international currency
Incense in the bedroom and how good it smells
There's my bus! Applying for a better job than the one I got now
But that's how it always is right?
Chasing satisfaction
1007 apt
Porch ornaments
Unique names
Unique style le style
The extra charge on foreign ATMs
Cordoroy polo shirts
Flooding in New York!
When someone's face screams *******
"Slippery when wet"
Dine N Dash
Grass gone yellow
Confidence in dyed hair and capes as long as wedding gowns
But less expensive
Doors that always seem to be locked and I'm wondering 20 year later what's behind them?
Albino animals
White thoughts as clouds or
Abstractions
Weathers nicer in Florida but who cares
Festivities this early in the day
Automatopeia
Do sad orphanages still exist?
Just like the movies
Midnight in mirrors
That sick puppet at the shoe shop used
To know how to really hammer it down
And now he's weak and forgotten
Never heard the words of a true prophet only Oceania
Or the private temple near Apollo Bay
Like Japanese gardens behind that gate
Will I ever see it
Make a proud example outta ya misbehavior
Form without function
Exhausted spiritualism
*** Kettle Black
negative photographs of dark rooms
And there's laughing coming from SOMEWHERE
Essays on kleptomania
Had a bad dream I became a cliche
Surrounded by other freaks and there was a lovely ***** I fell in love with her
We married in Oregon by the sea her name was rosy
***** rosy
Check your mailbox for nails
And what you don't wanna hear/
If you were a vegetable you'd be organic!
Empire
Satirical bubble gum
Satori
Linda Lovelace and her special party trick
That's someone's fantasy
Diamond in the rough
Mister guy with two black eyes frequents the adult playhouse
Hes fully stocked on fishnet leggings
He's too proud to put them on himself but
Has nobody else around
Boo hoo
Swigs back the whiskey and trips down the stairs getting a third black eye in the process
Marion came by with her dog the other day
Wanted her box of clothes back but he loved to sniff them to remember her
But she wouldn't have it

"Honey I'm going to call the police!"

"Ah they don't give a **** they have bigger things to worry about"

"Yeah you got that right shrimp **** enjoy my unwashed *******"

And she never came back again
He started losing the vertebrae in his spine 1 by 1 and you know where this is going
I won't say he was a poor man because he had it all coming to him the *******
But he coulda had a better start if you ask me.

It's difficult to remember
And even more difficult to forget
After the fact

Seagull opera
Giganticism
Portrait of the artist as a young man
Losing one's pencil when the best idea of your life drops down from heaven and into your sorry head
Signs graffitied to have funnier meanings
Cruelty
Impassive
The Loyal Lioness
And Bangladesh has too many kitchens
And not enough dishes
When I was young I used to say Island as "is-land"  
Which is true it is land
But the Europeans probably stole it from somebody else anyways/
I left my future behind
And objects in the mirror are closer than they appear
Im no illusionist
I'm terrified of the cracken
Father feels the same way about
Hotels
Why bother/
This has been going on and on for a while are you tired yet
Is your patience being tested
Mine isn't because this wasn't an all-at-once kind of rambling
It's extremely important to laugh at least
Once a day
Otherwise you'll find yourself a politician
In no time at all
Rockefeller
(         ) Quaint home to die in
I think
Trains create great music
Float on
Sink into yourself
Roses in a crooked alley
That's people
Busy busy busy busy
Let's describe a situationist
I'm not a fan of bright colors on clothes
Your best shade is blue
Bricklayers transcription of Don Quixote to a skyscraper
Rocket thyme
& Garden
Erratic children's
Insomnia
The doorbell repeatedly
Vancouver riots/ I saw that live on the news!
Pictionary with the surrealists
N Dada TV set MC Escher
Antenna
You're in the Twilight Zone now
Dear Ramona
I'm trying to make it up to you
With a brightness only seen when you're ready to see it so please for the love of God don't blame me when it's not appearing
The tapestry hidden
Keep your blankets clean
And avoid hospitals unless you're fine with fishbowls & the halogen
The water gestapo
Storage lockers full of unacted plays and
Antique microwaves
Emitting the nostalgia of the cold war era
And what a waste of time that was /
Walter Wanderleys presence in Autumn universities
The opening of Vivre sa Vie
Salvador Dali's pluvial taxi
Lightbulb epiphanies
Aquariums and their protestors
Zebras in the shade
Two wrongs dont make a right
Elizabethan theater
Saloon shootouts in a fever dream
I lost and bled out all over the rustic wooden floor
A maiden reached out for me and El Paso did play I woke up and pretended nothing happened/
Funerals for bad People who did bad things
My first memory of a cat beneath the mattress
Hello Dolly!
Auditory learning
Psychotherapy
Lillian the landlady lost her ladle and labeled little Lyle as a lair
The Black panther movement
Reading symposium some years ago and
Making note that Phaedo was still my favorite dialogue/
Zen Buddhism
Xoxo xoxo
The day Gypsies were replaced with
Surface ****** appetite
And not the real thing
Newspaper clippings
Hypnotism when all other options are out
Mystical visions of sidewalks
And the love of your life stepping through a door you've never seen
Maybe Yes No I Don't Know
Creature comforts
Che Guevara's problem is that his beard made him too easy to recognize
(Also that little hat!)
Chinese cough medicine didn't work
For long I still wheeze sometimes
Domestic violence thru the wall
Ceiling fan probably doesn't even work!
Dimpled laughter
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
In skytrains to Commercial
Bermuda in her mind
And courtesy in her voice
I'm no Arthur Rimbaud
But you already knew that
Alcazar of Seville
Filling up the shipbottle
Here's your paradise
Now relinquish it as it is
False!
Hare Krishna
Nowhere Fast
El Diablo and the
Portofino loaf left rotting on the countertop
Latin children speak of the sacred viper
You'll hear of it after this but we'll never see what the ******* meant
Heads alternating round the social current
Of my lively city
There's a dog soaking up the rain
And songs are made in honor of
Recent catastrophes
Trials are dealt
Cards cast to the gutter
New York quiets down for the news of another war
You scratch my back I'll scratch yours
Skeleton key
Ballad of the last wailing zoo
THE ATRIUM
Complexity in simplicity
That's how Brainard got me!
Elderly overcoats
Hiding purest LSD
Is a fan of Hawaiian T shirts
And a communist
What if I was a Freemason
Or owned a tanning salon
Faint crimson
What did Marv look like again?
"You're surrounded by people who love you"
Coffee when one needs it
GOODBYE BLUE MONDAY
Tattoos on the wandering man
Oriental chimes and the people who own them
Bus stop regulars
Vines overtaking power lines
The hypnogogic state
Strawberry light softening
The mind
Sister Ray LOUDLY PROCLAIMING
doitdoitdoitdoit
Passing the graffiti n Pluto neon
Halal wide awake another Saturday
Where's the Karaoke
Flashing by here
Those who find comfort in a bridal scavenger hunt
Or expensive beer
And here comes the hooded clown
Clamoring about his favorite
Loudspeaker
Telling me my time is soon and the noise
Drowns out the drowsy bliss
After hour spirits the perfect time for
Writing and trying to read distant Chinese
Indecision on the tip of the tongue
"NOW WHO IS THAT KNOCKING
ON THE CHAMBER DOOR?
COULD IT BE THE POLICE?"

I'm completely off the topic
And into Apartment lobby photosets
Low battery phone calls
Confessions
Nauseated reverb
Trying to see the attachment people got with bingo halls
And moving companies
Ah no luck again
Eve is at it with her showtunes
Halfway methodology
Triage
Paisley headbands left
Distraught on the quivering
Heater
Dwindling sunsets
We're truly disciples of the moon spirit which grants us more energy
(This is according to a drunk I met one night)
Or ***** old men
When the horizon is engulfed with
A winking cinder
Suitcase at the door
Last time
First time
Magician never reveals his fetishes
(They all have to do with bags under your eyes)
Employment office dramas of my friend the one who blinded a social worker
And the one who blamed Islam
And the one whos philosophy entirely consisted of Spooky Action at a
                                            DISTANCE
Parisian riots
Queer youth
Didn't make the team! Jester
'cross the hall who's beard suggests
Ishmeal n car battery n expired vegetables n rain which crosses the line n
***** cranberry n
Poorly fitted suits n
Harsh pigment n incense shops n
Bocca     secret towns
With churches more beautiful than any you'd find in your own city
n the cultural market
Xylophone ear to ear
Soul cleansing starting at only
$89 (with a 6 month guarantee)
Sophie's birthday and her picnic at Victory Park
The nearby bums trying to sell tea mugs and
Loose wires beside gated convenience stores
I'm an Island away attempting a poem
And never bought a scratch n win
Or heard the same song more than seven times in a row or been in a column
Or escaped the washhouse
Invested in a birdcage for next year
Been to a palm reading
Visited Oasis
Smoked salmon
Told anyone else about Montana
Screamed the things I'd like to scream
** Word of the day
Or kissed a lunatic or swallowed the corpse of yesterday
I keep her on my neck until
I'm too anxious to let go
Counting streetlights
Jeans worn in and faded to be sent off to
A lonely caffeine addict
Christmas Eve I'll be reading a postcard from San Francisco
Asking the same questions
My imagination is made of a different material than last week
Now it's the same color as your hair
HEY that's a good pickup line to use in the heart of the Canadian Embassy
Drinking discarded music resembling a sweater you may have said YES to if it wasn't so unsure of itself
And now Mr. Acker Bilk ascends thru the window of an August home
Like a lazy hornet
I'm still lost without identification
Or a nice belt
As happens when one uses a quality item too casually
How did uphill suddenly seem so downhill?
I'll claim a waterfall
For SALE that inevitable Indonesia
Greyhound O another greyhound O another greyhound
I'm fretting too much about not enough
Delayed the Airport and the yellow question

????

II

What if I knew how to read the curb?
Or translate drunken droll
What if I was never tired again and could
REALLY do anything I set my mind to?
What if I was the first cigarette that cured cancer instead of caused it?
What if I could end superstition
And walk underneath any ladder I wanted?
What if I could make it with a young Audrey Hepburn!?
What if I stopped pretending to be a microphone and got on with "it"
What if the grocery store closed later
And I opened earlier?
What if parking lots werent so sad
All the time?
What if gravity simply had enough of exotic birds and specifics?
What if we stopped trying to recreate what is truly lost?
What if foreign children embraced
Wasting time instead of
Midnight starry bicycles
And the antics of a monk
Disguised as a romantic?

There are those that worship God
And those who worship the Sun
And those who worship nothing at all
But I suppose on the last bus
We're all the same exhausted
Voice who can't wait for next pay day
What is an empty bank?
Or authenticity
What is there to prove anymore?
I hope I don't die tonight and regret
Being impulsive for once
You're a smart shadow
And a dull character
Pushing the last of the daisies
Get the lamp to turn on again
Give the pavement something to look forward to with your walk
Be consistent in being inconsistent
If there's a word there's a ***** and a poem for it!
We all oughta worship
Nothing at all except
Clarity
Compassion with ones neighbor who either forgot the pay the electricity bill or couldn't afford to
We're a swimmin
Written between late June to July 13th.
"Angels of the love affair, do you know that other,
the dark one, that other me?"

1. ANGEL OF FIRE AND GENITALS

Angel of fire and genitals, do you know slime,
that green mama who first forced me to sing,
who put me first in the latrine, that pantomime
of brown where I was beggar and she was king?
I said, "The devil is down that festering hole."
Then he bit me in the buttocks and took over my soul.
Fire woman, you of the ancient flame, you
of the Bunsen burner, you of the candle,
you of the blast furnace, you of the barbecue,
you of the fierce solar energy, Mademoiselle,
take some ice, take come snow, take a month of rain
and you would gutter in the dark, cracking up your brain.

Mother of fire, let me stand at your devouring gate
as the sun dies in your arms and you loosen it's terrible weight.



2. ANGEL OF CLEAN SHEETS

Angel of clean sheets, do you know bedbugs?
Once in the madhouse they came like specks of cinnamon
as I lay in a choral cave of drugs,
as old as a dog, as quiet as a skeleton.
Little bits of dried blood. One hundred marks
upon the sheet. One hundred kisses in the dark.
White sheets smelling of soap and Clorox
have nothing to do with this night of soil,
nothing to do with barred windows and multiple locks
and all the webbing in the bed, the ultimate recoil.
I have slept in silk and in red and in black.
I have slept on sand and, on fall night, a haystack.

I have known a crib. I have known the tuck-in of a child
but inside my hair waits the night I was defiled.



3. ANGEL OF FLIGHT AND SLEIGH BELLS

Angel of flight and sleigh bells, do you know paralysis,
that ether house where your arms and legs are cement?
You are as still as a yardstick. You have a doll's kiss.
The brain whirls in a fit. The brain is not evident.
I have gone to that same place without a germ or a stroke.
A little solo act--that lady with the brain that broke.

In this fashion I have become a tree.
I have become a vase you can pick up or drop at will,
inanimate at last. What unusual luck! My body
passively resisting. Part of the leftovers. Part of the ****.
Angels of flight, you soarer, you flapper, you floater,
you gull that grows out of my back in the drreams I prefer,

stay near. But give me the totem. Give me the shut eye
where I stand in stone shoes as the world's bicycle goes by.



4. ANGEL OF HOPE AND CALENDARS

Angel of hope and calendars, do you know despair?
That hole I crawl into with a box of Kleenex,
that hole where the fire woman is tied to her chair,
that hole where leather men are wringing their necks,
where the sea has turned into a pond of *****.
There is no place to wash and no marine beings to stir in.

In this hole your mother is crying out each day.
Your father is eating cake and digging her grave.
In this hole your baby is strangling. Your mouth is clay.
Your eyes are made of glass. They break. You are not brave.
You are alone like a dog in a kennel. Your hands
break out in boils. Your arms are cut and bound by bands

of wire. Your voice is out there. Your voice is strange.
There are no prayers here. Here there is no change.



5. ANGEL OF BLIZZARDS AND BLACKOUTS

Angle of blizzards and blackouts, do you know raspberries,
those rubies that sat in the gree of my grandfather's garden?
You of the snow tires, you of the sugary wings, you freeze
me out. Leet me crawl through the patch. Let me be ten.
Let me pick those sweet kisses, thief that I was,
as the sea on my left slapped its applause.

Only my grandfather was allowed there. Or the maid
who came with a scullery pan to pick for breakfast.
She of the rols that floated in the air, she of the inlaid
woodwork all greasy with lemon, she of the feather and dust,
not I. Nonetheless I came sneaking across the salt lawn
in bare feet and jumping-jack pajamas in the spongy dawn.

Oh Angel of the blizzard and blackout, Madam white face,
take me back to that red mouth, that July 21st place.



6. ANGEL OF BEACH HOUSES AND PICNICS

Angel of beach houses and picnics, do you know solitaire?
Fifty-two reds and blacks and only myslef to blame.
My blood buzzes like a hornet's nest. I sit in a kitchen chair
at a table set for one. The silverware is the same
and the glass and the sugar bowl. I hear my lungs fill and expel
as in an operation. But I have no one left to tell.

Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen
with cheese and bread and rose on the rocks of Rockport.
Once I sunbathed in the buff, all brown and lean,
watching the toy sloops go by, holding court
for busloads of tourists. Once I called breakfast the sexiest
meal of the day. Once I invited arrest

at the peace march in Washington. Once I was young and bold
and left hundreds of unmatched people out in the cold.
Anais Feb 7
I’ve been planted
with sunflower seeds,
been irrigated once a day
with condition of conceived forecast,
been left under the sun to grow and burn,
So I grew and bloomed and blossomed and flowered
and opened my ****** petals for the hungry hornet to see,
I felt the sting and the slit and the pain and the *****,
My pistil now empty, I ached and wept
for the hornet fluttered and flew and travelled,
pollen on his lips, I wept and shattered,
I birthed a daughter, beautiful and tall,
but I dwindled and shrunk and weakened and waned,
felt fingers on my stem, pulling and plucking,
Petals depleted, dried and drained,
wasted away, a hornet on its way
I felt inspired today. The kind of inspired I haven't felt in a while.
First thing is we'd climb a tree and then maybe we'd talk
Or sit silently and listen to our thoughts
With illusions of someday casting a golden light
No dress rehearsal, this is our life

And that's were the hornet stung me
And I had a feverish dream
With revenge and doubt
Tonight we smoke them out

You are ahead by a century (this is our life)
You are ahead by a century (this is our life)
You are ahead by a century

Stare in the morning shroud and then the day began
I tilted your cloud, you tilted my hand
Rain falls in real time and the rain fell through the night
No dress rehearsal, this is our life

But then that's were the hornet stung me
And I had a serious dream
With revenge and doubt
Tonight we smoke them out

You are ahead by a century (this is our life)
You are ahead by a century (this is our live)
You are ahead by a century

You are ahead by a century (this is our live)
You are ahead by a century (this is our life)
You are ahead by a century

And disappointing you is getting me down



Gord Downie
Mia Lee Mar 2016
Spy Kids (the original)
A 5 dollar matinee with your mom
A box of Bunch A Crunch
Or a plastic sack of
Dip N Dots

Ninja Turtle walkie talkies
Flare denim cargo pants
Bobby Jack zip up hoodies
With blue Fla-Vor-Ice stains
And hide and seek

Now That’s What I Call Music
Volume 17
Playing from a 10in x 10in
Silver box TV
And high frequency noise
To accompany
Akon’s latest bass line

A razor scooter
The foot powered kind
When the Preacher’s Daughter
Has a shiny blue one with a motor

Weeping to Secondhand Serenade
Because your mom won’t let you have
A Wii
And your crush checked “no” on the
Note you gave them last week

Detention after pre algebra
From shooting a girl two seats over
At “close range”
With a hornet
And she was unfamiliar with the school wide
NO SNITCHIN’
policy

The words
Beastly
And epic
Used to describe what your
8th grade field trip is gonna be like

A phone call from your best friend
About finally finding Ben Franklin
In Tony Hawk’s Underground 2

Now
The OK symbol is your most used emoji
There are too many guys with long hair
And beards
White girls all have a weird obsession
With house plants
We’re all at least 50 thousand dollars  in debt
And I think we all
Just really hope Donald Trump
Isn’t our next president
Andrew Wenson Sep 2014
A hornet fell out of the sky
"and I…."
I am sitting
watching it suffer
noting the smell
of bleach on the wind
Dorothy A Dec 2014
I think of her often, for thoughts are all I have—not a single memory. She died before I was the age of two.

From what little that I heard, there was little reason to view her in a good light, but now I can see something admirable about her.  After all, this woman endured so much, and the odds seemed stacked against her. Incredibly, between the ages of eleven and sixteen—at least five times—this poor Lithuanian girl crossed the Atlantic in attempts to get into America. Twice, she was turned away. Some may not have had high regard for her, including her own son—my father—but I can see a heroic nature, a survivor, through and through. Just a toddler when she died, I missed out in knowing her. Throughout the years, I really had only gathered bits and pieces of information while trying to know better about her. It has been like constructing puzzle in which the pieces fit here and there, but the gaps are too big to cover.

This woman that I write about is my paternal grandmother. Out of all my grandparents, her story is the one that stands apart, an amazing, heart wrenching and most thought provoking portrait. Evoking emotions of anger, sadness and sympathy, I find it a rich tale of a poor woman.

This has been in the works for quite a while now—in my head, that is. I pictured what I wanted to say, the words playing out in my mind.  What a story it is, too, a tremendous one of sorrow and struggle, of need for love and acceptance, of perseverance and strength of the human spirit. Yet things get complicated when they come from my mind to the page, as I try translating my vision down into words. Before long, like a snake, hesitation surely comes slithering through, as it quickly snuck its way within, fueling my fear, a fear of disapproval and rejection by two people who are now dead and have been for some time—my father and my grandmother.  

And while writing, I imagine what my audience thinks—critics in my head abounding before I even finish. Well, I am the first to stand in line for that.  It’s kind of scary relating such things. I am not sure I am doing the story any justice.  I’m not sure I’ve captured the essence of it well.    

And who would want to read this anyway? Is it too long and of no significance to anybody but myself? I have my doubts. Celebrities do this all the time, and people just eat that stuff up.  I think we all just want to relate to what others have to say about themselves. But it does bare you—your thoughts, your secrets, your soul, —and it feels a bit unnerving, to say the least.  

So, naturally, I still drag my feet. If she were here right in front of me right now, what would my grandmother think? Would she throw the papers in an old fashioned stove—in the fire—as she angrily did to my father’s flowers?  I can only imagine my father as a child—in an impoverished scene that I only have sketchy knowledge of—with his young heart being crushed and shamed, his sign of affection and desire to please his mother, drastically rejected. In return for his small token of love, my father’s mother was furious that her boy spent a few coins on something perceived as useless, a waste of good money. Away like trash, they went. Like the flower story, would my father be ashamed and angry that I revealed some family history for others to read, stuff that he would rather have kept quiet?

This is why I am mentioning no names. Nothing is sugar coated—it is what it is—often not very pretty. Yet this is not intended as an exposé or a smudge on any family members. A slam on my father and grandmother is surely not my intent—far from it.  Rather, it is my offering of affection. It is my little bouquet of flowers to a history that includes me as a part of it.

Like those flowers of long ago, I’ve so wanted to scrap this story in the garbage. Often seeming like a knotted mass of yarn, I have had to work and work to get a smooth flow.  Like a sculptor, I wanted a fine piece of clay to emerge into form, but the chunks, lumps and bumps just frustrate me to no end.

It’s complicated to relate it all. It is revelation about my father’s origins which hold no real pride for him.  There was much pain and shame associated with his mother’s mental illness, his distant father, his broken home and lack of a solid, safe family structure, his constant poverty and fight for survival—the list goes on and on  As I unravel this tale, I continue to fight with the many tangles. As I try to find the face, I feel that my sculpted story is left wanting. So I continue to chip away.

Dishonoring? Embarrassing? I hope it this tale is not.  I envision an admirable purpose instead of the pain and the shame, redeeming the pride that was lost. My father’s origins are mine, too, and they help me to know myself better, and my father—to build that better, more complete puzzle of my grandmother.

Much of what I heard was unflattering terms. From a young age, I knew she was mentally ill. But what did that mean anyway?  Well, to my father she was crazy and nuts, not a good mother. No, she wasn’t mother of the year. Clearly, she had a temper and was known to instigate fights—with her husband, with one of her sisters. When my young father was physically disciplined it was by her, and it was probably quite harsh. If I didn’t like her, it was due to all that I heard. And when I had problems with my father, who had a bad temper, too, I probably felt that the apple didn’t fall very far from the tree.  

But in spite of all the remarks, I grew to have great sympathy for my grandmother. It makes me wonder how mistreated she was as a child.  My father deemed her as neglectful, not in tune to her children’s needs. It is obvious to me that she was in lack, herself.

So what was she really like? I very much wanted to understand her, to be able to relate with her. I don’t know—perhaps, it is because I root for the underdog.  Often, I felt like one, too. And Lithuania is the perfect underdog, under the thumb of Russian rule until much recently.  Perhaps, it was because my dad’s dislike for where he came from made me all that more interested to discover what his roots were all about.  

History often repeats itself—what has shaped my father had a strong influence on me. Like my father, I grew angry and bitter from the upbringing I had. Getting a similar brunt of problematic parenting made for a tough go of things.  I could have easy said, “Who gives a ****?” I could have been thoroughly disgusted about my dad’s old baggage that I had to handle—all the wreckage of rage and shame that became dumped into the next generation.  I evolved from a more sensitive, inquisitive child to one who battled between the feelings of hate and love, painfully clawing my way out of the emotional garbage and with the terrible stench of it.  

Thankfully, the war is over. I am enjoying the peace.  
  
With insight, I grew to understand my father, to accept what he was—capable of good and bad. I can relate quite well in that sense, for I made plenty of mistakes that I wish that I could do differently, ones that hurt others as well as me.  I could not deny that, in my dad, there was a wounded man who could not really figure that out—not until he was much older. I saw a man who was remorseful, and humbled by his costly mistakes. I was able to heal from some of my wounds with that forgiving perspective, though it was not easy and did not come overnight.

Unlike my dad, I’m surely a talker and I ask questions, perhaps my father’s worst nightmare in that sense——he had to have at least one child who always wanted to know things about him and who he came from. That means both sides of my family. Perhaps, I was born that way, with a tremendous sense of wonder. Curiosity always got me, and I am much too hungry to remain clueless about my more secretive father.

Maybe that’s good. Maybe it’s bad. It involves risk which can lead to a boatload of hurt. Where do we come from? What were your parents like? What were your grandparents like? When where they born? When did they die? Do you have any pictures?  Can you go any further than them?  Sometimes, the answers aren’t what you want to hear.  

It’s nice to belong to something, to somebody. It isn’t always possible or realistic to relate to one’s family, I wanted to belong. Not just to my mom’s side did I want to identify—I wanted to fully belong—to both sides.

My mom and dad both had common backgrounds, both coming from poverty and chaos. The fallout from my mother’s unstable father created a similar unease within her childhood home. Yet her family actually seemed like it existed. I knew all of my mother’s seven younger sisters and five younger brothers, as well as all nineteen cousins. We used to visit mom’s parents in Detroit fairly often. My best knowledge of life in this unfamiliar, yet close by, city—my native city—arose through this connection. I heard stories of grandmother’s German immigrant parents and learned of my grandfather’s Polish and Prussian roots, part of his family’s rise from poverty to wealth—to poverty once more.

Born in the latter part of the nineteenth century, my father’s parents were much older than my mom’s. Impoverished Lithuanian immigrants, my dad’s parents surely wanted to be Americans. My grandmother really had to fight to even be on American soil, and my grandfather sought out citizenship and became naturalized. I have likely seen them both, but had no relationship at all. I heard that my dad’s mom came over our house for Thanksgiving dinner—a rare visit—and she died not long after.

My grandfather died the following year, when I was closer to three. Possibly having a primitive, early memory of this man, I am told my dad had him over the house once.  I have a vague recollection of sneaking into the living room, when I was supposed to be in bed, and got a smack on my behind from my dad, crying in protest as I walked past an older man starring at me. But I’ll never know for sure if that is even a real memory.

Since my grandfather was a supporter of the Communist party—a big taboo in those days with the McCarthy era and the Cold War—my dad was mortified and afraid to mention it.  I doubt I’ll ever know much about this grandfather. My father found only one photo of him in his wallet while trying to claim belongings from his flat after the man died. My father eventually gave it to me, and I was shocked by one of the most bizarre photos I ever had seen. In it, my dad’s father was photographed with a woman that my father cannot identify, but the likeness between her and me is so uncanny. I look more like this woman than I do my own mother, but I cannot say if she is even related. My dad knew almost nothing about his father’s family except that he came from a big one back in Lithuania.

Family must have been like foreign word to my father. I can see why. Since boyhood, my dad lived apart from his dad, and they became more strangers than father and son. My dad even admitted that he hardly understood his own father because of his thick, Lithuanian accent. My dad’s background still remains more like shadows in the dim light.  I don’t clearly remember my father’s older brother— out of the two that he had—because I only saw him three or four times. Since my father cut ties with his younger brother, I hadn’t laid eyes on him. Not even a picture was available. When my estranged uncle called on the phone to try to talk to my dad, I would speak to him, instead. One to be sympathetic, I never got why my dad wouldn’t bother with his brother, though the call usually involved asking for money. I was pretty much told that he was a no-good ***, plenty to keep me fairly leery of him. His first wife kicked my uncle out.  Most of his six sons—just as unknown as their father was to me—wanted nothing to do with him. No doubt, the guy was an odd and deeply tormented man, yet we both wanted to meet one day. If I remember one thing he said, that was it, and I agreed. This did seem unlikely, for I didn’t want to stir up the hornet’s nest, not creating more friction than there was.

Years later, that wish came true. One day my dad did get a picture of his brother from the older brother. Much later on—several months after my dad died—I was able to meet this troubled man when he was dying in the hospital and had tubes down his throat. unable to speak to me any more.  

My mom was my source in finding out about my grandmother, but she knew little.  She admits she didn’t know what to say to her mother-in-law, being young and not very savvy when it came to making conversation. What she remembered about my grandmother was that she was very quiet and often stared out from the position of an obscure woman in a room full of people. My mom thought her “spooky”. My mom recalls that my dad said that she smoked down her cigarettes the nub, burning and blackening the tips of her fingers.  She even might have started a small fire in her sister’s waste basket with a burning cigarette.

There is one thing that sticks out that my mother recalls that is sweet. What my grandmother asked my mother shows her humanity: “Do you love my son? “ It shows a woman who has genuine feelings, has desires, and caring. I could see the love that she had for my father when I heard that she brought his boots to school in bad weather, and he was embarrassed by the look of her—rolled down socks and an old fur coat.  I doubt, though, he ever heard the words of “I love you”, as my father did not say these things to his children.

Near the end of his life, when my father was getting dementia, I knew the time was short for us to talk and now was the moment to ask questions. “I know so little about your childhood”, I told him. He said there was nothing worth mentioning, and when I probed him a bit, he told me, “We were the lowest of the low”. It saddens me that the pain was still very much there.

What my parents couldn’t or didn’t tell me, I learned from a few other relatives. I called up my dad’s cousin—who lives in Las Vegas—with plenty of apprehension, never having met her, and not knowing if she’d want to talk with me. Slowly, I sensed her grow from suspicious of my intent to warming up to me a bit. She said she liked my father, but “he could have been nicer to his mother”. This cousin told me that he avoided her a lot, and she felt my grandmother was aware. My dad’s younger brother did, too, I am told. My mom related to me that once when my grandmother would knock on their door back in their flat in Detroit, in their early years of marriage, my dad told her not answer the door to prevent her visit.

If it wasn’t for this cousin’s mother, my grandmother’s sister, as well as two of her daughters, the poor woman would have been quite lonely—though I’m sure loneliness defined her. I am glad they took an extra interest in my grandmother. They would take her out for coffee or have her over.  This sister “felt sorry for her”, the Las Vegas cousin told me.  I’m glad, but she “felt sorry for her? I hope it was more than that.

Considering all what she went through, I am wondering what went through my grandmother’s head. Did this woman ever feel loved? If she did, it must have been like a glass of water in a desert.

Another of my dad’s cousins, from another sister of my grandmother’s, helped me out. Her family stories filled in some gaps, but what she couldn’t tell me records did. The records seemed to prove the stories correct, as some family stories can be more fiction than fact.

I did my own research, as well as get records from others, and finally hired a genealogist. I verified that my grandmother was born in 1892 in a village in Lithuania, not ever knowing the exact date. Loss began early in her life, as her father died of small pox when she was four months old. He was twenty six, and he wasn’t even married a year. Records show this bit of oral history to be almost spot-on.  My parents made a single visit to my grandmother’s youngest sister, and this great aunt told me that my grandmother lost her father at six months old. My dad never knew his real grandfather died, thinking his youngest aunt had a different father. He was surprised to find out that his mother was the one set apart from the others.

So my great grandmother was left a widow with a baby to care for all on her own. This would have been bad for both, so this gr
Grandmother, may you feel the warmth of God's embrace now, and hope you can know that I care and you DO matter.
Benjamin Aug 2018
Gracious god, I Am
handcuffed to the bed
(white wine and
cigarettes)—
I will not forgive regrets.

This hornet’s nest, a home—
I choke on church bells,
starved of faith—
an empty sternum, bellyache.

Among the living dead,
I speak the language:
“Let me in!”
But I cannot betray my sin.
The Green Hornet and Kato are infiltrating the leftists and I'll tell you why;
They want to stop the leftists from torturing the kidnapped conservatives and that's no lie.

The Green Hornet and Kato stop the leftists by fighting them, as you can see;
The Green Hornet and Kato are awesome superheroes and I'm sure you'll agree.

When the two heroes beat the leftists, they call the police, which is cool;
The leftists will always be fools.

When the police arrive to arrest the leftists, the heroes get back in their car called the Black Beauty and drive away;
Here are more things that I'll say.

When the Green Hornet changes back to Britt Reid, he delivers the news, which is what everyone needs;
In the news, the leftists have been arrested and the conservatives have been freed.

Infiltrating the leftists was a smart thing that the Green Hornet and Kato would do;
The leftists really **** and what I'm saying is true.
Trefild Sep 2019
my time is wasted, yours is still up to you

some words go US Eng, some go UK Eng
so inside the word-dividing "[ ]" is the chosen sound
speaking of which, to hell with the "æ" sound
the stress marks aren't for nothing
if some words look like they're out of context or something
check dictionaries for meanings

‣ don't ca[e]tegorize this a[e]s a boast
‣ but, next to some triflin' social nE̲twork posts
‣ that lE̲ngth-wise are like a pair of shorts
‣ of such a cla[e]ss a girl
‣ would dress in to spiral on a metal pole
‣ this tirin' blend of words
‣ is kind of an extension cord (what?); hence, if your
‣ ceilin' is readin' them posts
‣ or if you're simply a kiddie, get lo[ɒ]st
‣ do a runner like in sledge sports
‣ a little bit under 𝒹ℴ𝓈 with 𝓉𝓇ℯ𝓈 O's [2000]
‣ which is the number of the next words
[just letting you know, maybe it would scare you away]
‣ a rhyme inundation with a[ɑ]mmo-sprayin'
‣ are a couple of ways ta describe this session
‣ you think I̲'m here just flexin'? missed, I'm showcasin'
‣ how mY̲ words get ma[e]rried; it's like a weddin'
[but I guess you "aren't really surprised at that"]
‣ so, if you still have no[ɑ]t vacated & are go[ɑ]nna make it
‣ through this pile of letters to the final sentence
[I need Joe Budden here with his "you have rhymed a bunch of words"]
‣ sto[ɑ]ck up on patience is my suggestion (for you)
‣ might as well go grab yourself some refreshments
[a somewhat boring writing]
‣ plus, be aware that politeness & niceness aren't in attentance
‣ LA[ɑ]CK good intentions like CROOKS IN CENTERS OF DETENTION
[US Eng "lock"]
[somewhat boring and pretty negative as well]
‣ oh, & there's somethin' E̲lse I
‣ have go[ɑ]tta mention like some Russian placeman
[got a mansion]
‣ seizin' this occasion, would like to give tha[e]nks ta
‣ Em & Kelly for providin' me with inspiration
[Eminem; Machine Gun Kelly]
‣ enough with the preparation
‣ it's about **** time to shift to the narration(s)
[still here? you don't value your time as hell]
————————————————————————————————
‣ once upon a time one typical child
‣ by which I imply witless & wild
‣ went through hell & nearly flatlined
[an accident]
‣ maybe on my way from bein' alive
‣ took place somethin' like "access denied"
‣ or maybe Grim Reaper
‣ havin' met me, was like:
‣ "it's too early for you, nipper
‣ and you've done nix to deserve it, so you're finna
‣ survive"
‣ joke-cra[ɑ]ckin' regardin'
‣ the fa[ɑ]ct that he once was on the margin
‣ of kickin' the bucket like it's somethin'
‣ to lau[ɑ]gh at, like some ni̲twit that's fine with
‣ wi[ɪ]ndin' up in a ca[ɑ]sket, like life is
‣ a thing which can be acquired
‣ (how nutty!)
‣ I'm not the only one of such kind, am I❓
‣ should be grateful since was rescued
‣ should appreciate & take pleasure in life
‣ but it seems that could-be-fatal thing I wE̲nt through
‣ isn't enough for me to│bE̲ this way;│I'ma place that aside
‣ despite the stuff told in them funereal lines
‣ I'm totally no[ɑ]t ready to die (no way)
‣ hopefully, the la[ɑ]st days of mine
‣ are mind-blowingly far away from nigh
‣ but what an iro[ɑ]nic clout's in the makin'
‣ time, the thought that I'm runnin' out of this carefree
‣ life's companion, which is like Mo[ɑ]lly - elatin'
[the thought]
‣ that b#tch was drO̲[ɑ]ppin' in lately
[told you I will make some irony]
‣ hunted me down like a scent hound!
["don't grow up, it's a trap"]
————————————————————————————————
‣ had more of dismal content, ended up havin' it taken out
‣ like all the millions frO̲m that 21 Savage's ba[e]nk account
‣ don't see a better o[ɑ]pt.
‣ of how to deal with these bars
‣ tha[e]n to dro[ɑ]p
‣ even though they don't seem to be bo[ɑ]mbs
‣ and would never... (and that's where I flub)
‣ I mean, though it's appa[e]rent like John McClane
[a parent]
‣ as long as lyrical stuff is no[ɑ]t on
‣ a track, it, similarly to a train
‣ havin' similar sta[ɑ]tus, doesn't
‣ differ much from│bE̲in' of zip│use or vain
‣ a tra[ɑ]ck, why don't I mA̲ke one?
‣ oh, you know, I'm like a groupie/rookie nE̲w biz. [newbies]
[couldn't decide which one to choose, so it's up to you]
[and I'm aware that there has to be an article before "new biz."]
‣ of which is runnin' a large-sized corporation
‣ but regardin' cookin' music
‣ yet not fixin' to lie
‣ haven't even tried it; the type
‣ who's used to takin' an easier side
‣ instead of tryin' to fight
‣ additionally, due to my Eng. la[ɑ]ng.
‣ proficiency which I def. la[ɑ]ck
‣ I ca[e]nnO̲[ɑ]t speak fine enough, much less ra[ɑ]p
[but not that I want to rap]
‣ while lyrically, I've pro[ɑ]b'ly go[ɑ]t
‣ a lo[ɑ]t of cra[ɑ]p
‣ like some █oli█ical h█gh mucky-m█ck
‣ u█loadin' a pile of cla[ɑ]ptra[ɑ]p
[a small puzzle for you]
‣ nah, politics is quite a bo[ɑ]g
‣ and no[ɑ]t my thing ta get i̲nto
‣ so I'm no[ɑ]t finna any deeper
‣ a walkin' flo[ɑ]p, hopeless, wa[ɑ]ck
‣ as... the "T&DVE" "DMITTE" squad's bad luck  
["Tucker & Dale vs. Evil"; "didn't make it to the end"]
‣ had gotten sla[ɑ]pped by a mental self-atta[ɑ]ck
‣ then wO̲ke up, but
‣ not even the slightest shred of bein' perplexed or sho[ɑ]cked
‣ cool like a pers. that pa[ɑ]ssed
[dead people are pretty cool, if you know what I mean]
‣ yet that doesn't change a problem: I might sna[ɑ]p
‣ like an inflated bubble gum might po[ɑ]p
‣ outcomes?
‣ not worldwide unforgettable
‣ like the "after Thanos" ones
‣ although mi̲ght be regrettable
————————————————————————————————
‣ not 𝓁ℴ𝒸ℴ, except that a bit of a sleepwa[ɔ]lker
‣ so O̲nce I have fa[ɔ]llen
‣ asleep, if at that moment there's sO̲mebody close ta
‣ me, it's better for 'em to keep their E̲Y̲E̲***** wide-open
‣ as much of a ta[ɔ]lker as this slappin'-the-po[ɑ]sitive work or
‣ Jared Leto's version of Joker is on point like Floyd Law[ɔ]ton
‣ once he has an enticin' hit order, or no[ɑ]t mediocre
‣ comparin' the fi̲rst one with Em's "CampA̲I̲gn Speech" verse &
‣ that jester in purple with Heath Ledger's version
‣ do you know what that is? that is a foursome
[apart from Floyd Lawton, of course]
["that was f#cking stupid..."]
‣ although, in terms of co[ɑ]ntent invo[ɒ]lvedness
‣ next to stuff of Marshall's, mine's a walkover
‣ it's a trifle, knowin' that there are headquarters
‣ of mumble rap & pop au[ɔ]thors
‣ nothin' short of a cra[ɑ]shin' bore that, though, might get irksome
‣ and that you'll pro[ɑ]b'ly never meet in person
‣ THE LIFE OF THE PARTY, SIMPLY AWE[ɔ]SOME
‣ a VASTLY GOOD self-review!
‣ though there are some worthier attributes of mine too
‣ bein' not much over 18, I'm sober & clean (have A̲lways been)
‣ I̲ don't give a **** whA̲t you think
["I'm doing this for me"]
‣ regA̲rdin' it & what you're abO̲U̲t to think
‣ but I̲ deem sobriety is qU̲I̲te a thing to be prO̲U̲d of in
‣ twenty ni̲neteen; in reality, my gO̲[ɑ]ddamn ears
‣ haven't even heard how glA̲[ɑ]sses CLINK
‣ when it cO̲mes to "cheers"
‣ only when that stU̲ff has been
‣ on the screen; right, I do no[ɑ]t approve
‣ of takin' smokin' sh#t, drugs, & *****
‣ as it contributes nothin' good
‣ if you're in disagreement with this opinion
‣ keep in mind an uplifted third finger
‣ and consider stickin' one thing i̲nto your rear region
‣ to be more precise, the homophone for "winner"
‣ but don't think that I̲ am hosti̲le (for now)
‣ even if you find them words vile
‣ though not that there was sO̲me kind of smile
‣ when I was writin' them lines
‣ just've been, as I previously let you know
‣ listenin' to some of Em's rhymes
‣ recently & years ago
————————————————————————————————
‣ come to think of it, this world is wonderful, lovely
‣ once you sink i̲nto it, feelin' bored is somethin' unlikely
‣ just imagine some of its fillings [feelings]
‣ woman-beatin', rapists, dope-producin' & -dealin'
‣ human-eatin', racists, mass shootings, other indispensable killings
‣ US PEACE [****] OFFicers
‣ those gU̲Y̲s can give gU̲I̲dance in terms of **̲w ta treat
‣ non-threatenin' ones pro[ɑ]perly, harmlessly, non-violently
‣ quite hot stuff like a gA̲l that's seen
‣ on a cover of a mo[ɑ]del magazine
‣ perhA̲ps the theme
‣ is A̲pt ta fill gA̲ps between
‣ timespA̲ns in which they're ejE̲ctin' lead
‣ or practicin' some "breathtA̲king" sh#t [get it?]
‣ not that vi̲ral thing brought by K.C. Reeves
‣ what remarkably frI̲E̲ndly peeps! attacops! [attack ops]
[guess what they have in common with people writing diss raps; both like taking shots]
‣ on tO̲[ɑ]p of which there are terrorists
‣ prone to drO̲[ɑ]ppin in with their bA̲[e]ngin' gifts
‣ pro[ɑ]bably one of the wE̲ttest dreams...
‣ of patientless psychiatrists & psychotherapists
‣ somebody rhymes, shoots films, quietly plays chess
‣ wines to beats; sO̲mebody's like obsessed
‣ with kinds of things O̲U̲t of which there's that mess
‣ this blue mA̲rble is a wasp nest
‣ inasmU̲ch as each of both ha[e]s
‣ a lO̲[ɑ]t of ****** to distress (somebody's "s")
[also: "hornet's nest"; "pain in the..."]
‣ some mi̲ght think, why am I so negative?
‣ it's a blood tY̲pe thing [get it?]; plus, arrived a pessimist
‣ but if we ****** aside such jE̲stin' sh#t
‣ guess this is a way somebO̲[ɑ]dy just tE̲nds ta be
‣ and in this writin', I ain't nigh to the E̲nd of it
[to all the positive ones out there, do you ever take off your "pyrovision goggles"?]
————————————————————————————————
‣ referrin' to things distortin' normality
‣ here's one occurrence from this *******-up reality
‣ turnin' into that kind a[ɔ]lso partially
‣ owin' to sh#t sti̲rrin' up in virtuality
‣ a successful young babe
‣ did away with herself
‣ tha[e]nks to a ba[e]nd
‣ of abrasive no-names
‣ that online wE̲nt off the chain
‣ gave her a hard time by way of a range
‣ of offensive things said
‣ which go[ɑ]t her mentally caned
‣ another one DRIVEN TO THE GRAVE
‣ effin' insane...
[some people remain the same, some things take place over and over again; getting the connection?]
‣ key-pressers with brains
‣ operatin' in predato[ᵊ]ry ways
‣ can't help but arrange
‣ a stanza addressin' the case
‣ and takin' revenge on them cads, reprobates
‣ I'm about to slap in the face, batter & slay
[by the way, recognizing the rhyme pattern? probably not]
‣ I'ma propose guidance
‣ on how ta dispose of them unki̲nd ones
‣ which is just like 'em, i.e. wa[ɑ]nton
‣ first, pla[ɑ]ster the pieholes to make 'em quiet
‣ becau[ɔ]se their rea[ɑ]ction to wha[ɒ]t's forthcomin'
‣ would be exa[ɑ]ctly inverse of silence [in verse of silence]
‣ begin the show of impoliteness
‣ from the finger bones, familiarize 'em with a pi̲pe wrench
‣ then 𝒶𝓈 𝓁𝒾́𝓃ℊ𝓊𝒶𝓈 meet a pair of pliers
‣ the fingers meet a fi̲ne-edged kitchen kni̲fe blade
‣ each member belongin' to the fleshly parties gets coerced
‣ into one-time, though to-be-engraved-on-mind *******
‣ in the course of which they E̲nd up ****** divorced
‣ from the bo[ɑ]dies, like a wife from a husband
[a wicked end of relationships, on a rewardingly and wicked low note; slang ↑s used]
‣ tie the a[e]##holes up with decorative wire
‣ dro[ɑ]p 'em by a railroad & await a train's arrival
‣ once one gets close, lay 'em on the rails in the style of
‣ Leoni[aɪ]das, "300"
‣ wherea[ɑ]fter there go their operational cycles
‣ it's a wrap like a bin liner
‣ which is somethin' to o[ɑ]pt for to pA̲[ɑ]ck up
‣ what's left of the ba[ɑ]stards
‣ if such an unbenevolent o[ɑ]ption were rightful
‣ now that's what may be called **̲stile
‣ R.I.P. to August Ames
————————————————————————————————
‣ I might be│nO̲[ɑ]t of this│world
‣ don't even have a ****** smartphO̲ne
‣ that some [pick some offensive adjective] girl
‣ pro[ɑ]bably wa[ɑ]nts to the bone
‣ plus, to count pictures of me
‣ taken in the last several years by my will
‣ fingers are need–
‣ –less like those owned by the maltreaters whose wrists
‣ I've slapped with my previous schemes
‣ there are zero them pics
‣ since the thing with that sh#t's
‣ that I simply don't see
‣ the meanin' of it
[don't even think about reading "you've" in the next line as "you have", it ruins the rhyme-scheme]
‣ know what you might be thinkin', you've missed
‣ if you've chalked that up to my visuals, *****/b#tch
[again, which word to choose is up to you]
‣ keepin' to speak
‣ on the theme of digital things
‣ and revertin'
‣ to not havin' a dog & bO̲ne, ex–
‣ –cept the one that's not workin'
‣ if the first thought of yours is
‣ that's 'cause I can't afford it
‣ meet some nE̲ws, which [new switch]
‣ is that your thinking's faulty
‣ you're deluded (yeah), if not even stupid
‣ I'm just no[ɑ]t like: "I really need it, wa[ɒ]nt it"
‣ guess there's simply nO̲ need for mE̲ to use it
‣ which some might consider o[ɒ]ddish
‣ if no[ɑ]t pretty O̲[ɒ]dd since them digi. toolkits
‣ are nearly bein' worshipped
‣ somebO̲[ɑ]dy, help them a[ɑ]ddicts
‣ whose smartphones are like
‣ extensions of their bo[ɑ]dies
‣ whose eyeba[ɔ]lls are stuck
‣ on the displays like on a babe's a[ɑ]ssets
‣ still, like they go[ɑ]t attra[ɑ]cted
[steel]
‣ by a go[ɑ]ddamn ma[ɑ]gnet
‣ nailed, like an arrow into an archer's target
‣ plus, the way today's people a[ɑ]ct
‣ when somethin' thrillin' is ha[ɑ]ppenin'
‣ I'm merely statin' a fa[ɑ]ct
["I had Wembley Stadium packed"; sorry, got distracted again]
‣ they're on some paparazzi sh#t - filmin' & snA̲[ɑ]ppin' it
‣ when some geek is gettin' his ****
‣ kicked by some ***** he's unwillingly scrA̲[ɑ]ppin' with
‣ then they go to a social nE̲twork & just
‣ eagerly drO̲[ɑ]p the sh#t
————————————————————————————————
‣ hA̲[e]ve been listenin' tO̲ some rhyme-spittin'
‣ ha[e]vin' little to pU̲t my time i̲nto
‣ hE̲nce this sprinkle of 𝓊𝓂𝒶 ℯ𝓈𝒸𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒶 (but it's still not a [w]rap)
‣ speakin' of which, maybe I̲ de-emphasize it
‣ and this is a reach, yet I̲ think
‣ it turned out sO̲mewhat unexcitin' (yep, self-criticizin')
‣ what is the pro[ɑ]blem? O̲ne thing that I̲ can
‣ say for certain is I̲ went pri̲ma[ᵊ]rily for rhymin'
[hence the title "some guy decided to rhyme"]
‣ in part becau[ɔ]se
‣ I, of course, lack in terms of plays on words
‣ and metaphors, but I guess it could be worse
‣ at least, no sentence goes with a senseless boast
‣ about wealth & hoes, for simply no[ɑ]t ha[e]vin' those
‣ didn't mean it's what I fa[e]ncy, though
‣ or about sellin' dope & gettin' ******
‣ which, as well as those
‣ are stuff today's listeners fave. the most? 
‣ if that's sta[eɪ]tus quo, it, to speak FrE̲nch-wise, blows
‣ like Sa[e]mmie Rhodes
‣ and it seems that I̲ have kind of a thing for "iing" [eyeing]
‣ but it has nothin' to do with wa[ɑ]tchin'
‣ in fA̲[ɑ]ct, there is somethin'
‣ else I̲ shoulda started, which is garnerin' lo[ɑ]lly
‣ yep, the gU̲Y̲'s not a minor
‣ but still time-squa[ɑ]nderin', sla[ɑ]ckin'
‣ an idler at rhymin' [rhydler]
‣ me, bein' an a[ɑ]ctual songwriter?
[or ghostwriter, use of services of which nowadays isn't something uncommon; just saying]
‣ eh, highly unlikely
‣ you must be a little bit
‣ if no[ɑ]t even pretty, sick
‣ of receivin' the sh#t│of mine or E̲ven just seein' it
‣ well, this lyrical binge,│despite not succeedin' at killin' it
‣ I'm fixin' ta finish it
‣ li̲ke some "MK" participant's i̲n this b#tch
["Mortal Kombat"]
————————————————————————————————
‣ if you've made it to these words
‣ give a few seconds of applau[ɔ]se
‣ not to me, to yourself, of course
‣ the taken time of yours
‣ is wasted like a pers.
‣ after a lot of drinks; it's an L; 𝒶𝒹𝒾ℴ́𝓈
Olivia Kent Dec 2013
My obsession lays only with Calvin Klein.
A proper noun with capitals.
A drifting strong aroma.
Another obsession in my world.
Is sometimes somewhat lighter.
I am an obsessed pusher.
Obsessed only with my pen.

If I can create an image well.
Then hell so be it.
Real people I don't like much.
It's only words I wish to touch.
Desire fires obsession.
It's just a bunch of words.

Sweet strawberries so succulent bring words of summertime.
Clouds weigh down around my head
Dark winter days of misery.
Moments when I wish I was dead.
I put my pen to work.
Writing darkness scarily black.
About bursting eyes.
Where no-one dies,
Except emotion cruelly slaughtered.
By the one known only in kindness.
As the smiling devil's daughter
Definitely no relation.
Just the mother of eccentricity.

Kindness in persona.
To be so dark.
That's very rare.
In a heart that's ribbon bound.
I write my words with tender care.
Sometimes, just to remind the world that I am still there.
Moreover, like a hornet.
I cheese you off and get stuck in your hair!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Would you ever believe after 9 hours of this being posted I just noticed a typo! Just edited it!
olivia go Oct 2014
This is the last poem I will ever write about you.
Seriously.

I spent 367 days trying to pluck your name
Out of the spaces in-between my teeth.
I got so desperate that I picked up recreational flossing.
The taste of dish soap coats my tongue
As I think about being seven again
And having my mouth scrubbed with Dawn because I said a bad word.
It was much easier learning my lessons back then.

Baby, I loved you like a child locked out of the house during daylight.
Wildly, freely, without any underwear on.
Your voice echoed within me like a million cicadas
Dancing and singing.
Keeping me up at night.
You were summer sweat and tangled hair.
You were sand spurs and ant bites in between my fingers.

When I was little I domesticated a pool full of toads
So I could train and use them to take over the world.
No person should ever be allowed that much power,
Especially a child.
But the point is,
At a young age I learned how to love
Things that could never love me back-
The bugs I found underneath rocks,
The slimy, sticky creatures that have no
Understanding of nurture, just instinct-
The animals that only know how to be afraid
And survive and ****,
And I guess that's why I loved you so much.

I gave you a handful of earthworms and
You told me I had dirt under my nails.
You never asked me about my scars,
Your hands skipped over them like words
You didn't understand the meaning of.
While you choked on your silver spoon,
I used plastic forks to dig through the earth
In hopes to find gold,
But I found China instead.

Sometimes I wish I never came back.

Since this is the last poem I will ever write about you,
Seriously,
Let me clarify,
Very Clearly,
That I was never your honey.
Baby, I am the entire bee colony.
I am an intricate network of flower dust and star particles,
Gardens grow at my feet.
I am a force of golden, powerful life,
One that carries the weight of the entire universe, unfolding.

You see,
My Papa used to tell me a lot of stories about bees.
Like when a hornet invades a bee hive,
The bees swarm and rub against each other
Making their tiny bodies so hot
That the hornet dies a fiery death full of horror and chafing legs.
I'm not ashamed to admit
That I like to think of that as a beautiful metaphor
For me being way too hot for you, anyways.

Baby, what I'm trying to say is that
This poem is our initials carved into a tree
That I will never fall out of again.
This poem is the end of a thin, red string,
With nothing else attached.
This poem is the eulogy of the childhood I am about to forget
And the prologue of my adulthood I haven't written yet.
I never lost you.
I only gained myself.

I spent 367 days trying to pluck
Your name out of the spaces in-between my teeth,
And it was only until I found China again,
That it fell out of my mouth
And into the dirt
For the earth worms to eat.
K Balachandran Feb 2013
The wandering minstrel,
sung a song that kept hidden,
deep in his lonely heart,
it touched the dancing girl so much,
she sprang up on her feet unprompted,
and danced the way the song spoke to her.

Oh! it was marvelous and she was swift
like a lightening during monsoon,
there was a subtle absence that heightened her presence,
her admirers, a whole lot, was caught by surprise,
strangely, they got agitated,
as her move was unexpected,
that stirred a hornet's nest
which, then  led to a melee of sorts,
every one was running helter- skelter,
while the whirlwind swirled around,
the girl still danced like possessed.

Only now they saw the Dervish,
with long white hair and flowing dress,
while he gently circled, his aura bright
created a dazzling circle of light.
It became difficult to see what happens,
to most, without the inner light.

**To the few with opened inner eyes
it was revealed at once thus:
the swirling dervish, the ecstatic dancer
and the wandering minstrel lost in  his song
went beyond,
became one in spirit.
David Nelson Nov 2011
The Bodacious Blonde

she is a portmanteau a blending of thought
voluptuous yes but yet down-home too
she'll bake you a cake or a sweet tasty pie
with flour on her face a bomb shell sacre bleu

she is courageous audacious and a spirited soul
fiesty like a hornet you'll feel her sting
graceful and kind be careful not to raise her ire
and please pretty please don't ask her to sing

she can haul out the trash and mend a skirt
carry large loads and cut the back nine
she doesn't mind playing in the dirt
but when she dresses up oh my god she is fine

her grey eyes sparkle bright in the light
her long golden hair down her back
it's hard to let go when she kisses you good nite
pressing against you with her incredible rack

a friend forever and an incredible lover
who wouldn't be proud to have her on your arm
although not a spy but great under cover
yes she is bodacious and her kisses are warm

Gomer LePoet ....
SøułSurvivør Sep 2014
Superheroes rule they say,
They are all the rage today.
But Jesus Christ's the one I seek...
He is strong where I am weak!

-chorus-
Jesus is stronger than Superman,
Jesus is mighty He has a plan,
Jesus could save the whole wide world...
Every man, woman, boy and girl!

Could Ironman ever heal the sick?
Thor or Jesus, take your pick!
That Green Hornet has a car,
But Jesus is the Morning Star...

-chorus-

The world has Fantastic Four
But Jesus Christ can feed the poor,
Can Batman walk upon the sea?
Could Spidy die for you and me?

-chorus-

There's no reason to wonder why,
Jesus Christ's my kinda guy!
He will save you! Yes! He can!
'Cause Jesus is stronger than Superman!

Jesus is stronger than Superman,
He saved me! I am His fan!
Jesus Reigns! He'll rule the world!
Every man, woman, boy and girl!


Soul Survivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 2011
This is a song for children I wrote
a few years back. I plan to produce it on
Youtube. I've written the music, as well.
Emeka Mokeme Sep 2018
Today I felt my weakness
so deeply more than ever.
I am only just a man,
a man full of dreams,
I can't seem to find any help
to rescue me for  
the impossible visited me.
My vulnerability
overwhelmed me.
I looked at the world
as it unfolds before me.
I can't fully understand all
the happenings for my
understanding is not yet
sufficient but I felt
the surge of emptiness
of it all within me.
I can't help myself because
of my unknowing.
In an uncanny way,
everything has changed
revealing only that which my heart
cannot describe or decipher.
I know the pain of
my brokenness.
The sound of hopelessness
engulfed my being.
Where do I begin,
how do I start again.
Only the spirit knows what
the heart desires,
and how to nurture and strengthen it.
The impossible didn't know that
I'm possible.
And now the sleeping giant awakens
for the problem of the problem
is the problem.
The whole trouble is now in trouble
for the hornet nest is stirred.
Inner strength is resurrected
and the void and emptiness are finally
filled with unimaginable force of will
to drive and to do the impossible,
making it positively possible.
Finally the man of the earth now
became the man of God.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
I've been afraid
Not of the truth
But of what it would do to you
I've wanted to slough the burden
Of which it weighs me down
Words have not been given
Me
That would shine a brighter light
Sufficient to reveal and yet
Dim enough so as not to blind
For it is not to you that I would send them
Neither do I expect you to listen to them
I would rather you didn't
But what comes around goes around
And I have lived vicariously through
You
For many, many years
Surely the truth will find it's way
It's own special way
I should embrace it, let it set me free
But I fear it
I fear death, too

There is something pushing against my back
Something heavy and forceful
The momentum of it's ******
Finds a center in my chest
Where I can only imagine a heart rests
My secret room, my prayer closet
Storehouse for everything I've ever known
Wasteland of every forgotten thought and memory
Embryo of my spirit
Womb of my soul
The weight of all that follows me
Threatens to raze it all
All I ever was, pushed into nothing
I feel it strong, it doesn't stop

A vacant numbness envelopes my mind
Some kind of mental Novocaine
I see the beauty of the world
I hear the music of your voice
They crawl into open holes
And pass straight through, down the spiral
Until the spiral implodes
In upon itself
Disappearing, vanishing, out of this world
Unregistered by the attention span of a zombie
Still, there are moments of cognizance
That I would cherish fondly
If only memory would cooperate

I do not want to die
I want to disappear
I want to close my eyes and never have to open them again
I want to dissolve into nothing
I want to ride that spiral myself and find out
To where the visions travel
I want to float in an ocean of light
Millions of miles from land in any direction
I want to be able to give up everything
That makes me want to stay here
A list, by the way, which gets shorter by the year
I want to walk into the light
That condemns me on this side

I would give up heaven
To go back to the womb
To call this life a draw
Before I could get the chance to ruin so many lives
Then slice open that womb
And let the placenta drenched shell drop into a bucket
You'll never see me
The scalpel will never press cool surgical steel
Against anything I could be, would be
Into anything I am
And let my mother shed no tears
And grieve me not
I am where I always hoped to be
I am where I am

The light shows this heart of mine
That's where I want to be, too
And this may sound like something
But it's not
I will hold on to hope
Even as it dies to an ember
Invisible to the naked eye
I am a strong man
My soul has been beaten down
Many times
But I always pick it back up
Stuff it back in
Move on
Move on
Move on

And I know what love is
I just can't feel it
Which doesn't make it any less love
But it lives in a hollow place
Where it stings like a hornet
When touched
Like the poison of a catfish gill
That once slipped into the skin
Makes you never want to go fishing again
Love that can't be felt, is it worth living for?
Precious Lord, is it worth dying for?

These pills won't cure you
Hopefully they will keep the illness at bay
Bravo, pharmaceutical science
Connor Sep 2015
Day debt
night wept
sleep crept
Attachment.
                       Where is my attachment?
                                evening out of balance
                                        The line of my life has broken
                                                  off into separate identities
Flower feather
Hollow weather
Moonlight Canyon
                                      Skylight childhood nostalgia
                                      Stolen star
Battered cheekbones
Of weary workers keeping to
The hornet's nest
                      Reality a constant terror
                     Of city structures                         swallowing
                                                      ­                             them whole.
Blackbird rests
on an Autumn branch of
hidden meadow
checking its wristwatch obsessively for the
             Hydrogen Volcano
                INEVITABLE.
                                         Termite Corporations
                                          Cavernous Hilltops
                                        All that green is gold
(A straw man in Byzantine robes approaches
            the frosty Manhattan
    to become a relic in it's Libraries)
                         People fall in Love with coincidence,
                 (The illusion of order beyond our field or reach)
        All that love is kept in a
                    Conservatory somewhere...
                          Glossy stems connected to palpitating blossoms.

Our tired eyes are focused to the asphalt confluence
whether fever or handhold.

               Hymns ring throughout the forests of
                                                   Vancouver Island
               Dreamers hang from the Niagara Trestle caught in                
                                                   overwhelming sunlight
                                                        ­ Doused in spirit.

Holy Melancholic September
Sweeps away the dusty Summer,
                                                        e­verything seems renewed
                                                        I­n the rain..
Gonz and Roses Mar 2011
Drinking allnight  just to get right.
She claims she never but it sure dont seem tight.
Im half off the wagon but I just went for the ride
Passed out at the keyboard found out  a friend  called hello died.

Went to the funeral what did I see.
A ****** new place it did appear to me.
One for the road okay i took the case.
Hopped in the coffin.
felt like i just came back from outter space.

If your camper's rockin.
Better hope your husban dont come a knockin.
cause bulletes leave ya sore.
So just hide in the floor.
Cause if your dead it's pretty tuff to get some more.

I like beer and poetry what else did ya think i'd say.
like a kid throwin rocks at a hornet's nest
nest with danger i will always play.

Im guessing my wife must be outta school.
Honey you can ride the bus for free.
No need to blow the teacher and being he's the janitor it's not really cool.

I like beer and pushing the envelope what can i say.
just cause you like to snuggle on fishing trips
people call ya gay.

I write like a demon sometimes i even think.
When did God invent *******?
Come on lets mix a drink.

Cartoons are great ever watch fritz the cat?
got busted last week trying to spend some alone time.
guees it's not cool to ******* in a laundrymat.

Wow im so impressed okay maybe not.
Love the new site.
Wonder if the new designer  on his meds
are really doesnt care to think alot.

Wonder if my new will stay.
I love beer and poetry
What else did you ***** little  hamsters really think i'd say?
Id like to thank  to thank Jesus, My drug dealer, Betty White  for the pics,
Hamburgers  and perverts ,Clouds that dont talk back,******* shady pines mental home for the shock treatments what a buzz.

Mr pickles , Skeeter for not charging me , And my amigos for laughing even when i cant   adios

we have left the building.
Тадеус Aug 2014
In the forest there do dwell
A huge grey hornet nest.
Boy thought would be much fun
To hit it like a ball with all his best.
Much to surprise a cloud of huge bees flew
Into deep water of creek he sling
So hornet at him could not sting
It was too late for he had twenty-two!*


Тадеус
Humor of retelling what I witnessed.
Poor boy got many hornet sting.

© Тадеус 8-28-2014 9:55pm
Все права защищены.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
i find it strange to be politically correct,
without actually exercising any political
career-motive as a member of a government...
because that's what's we're being sold:
to be politically correct, without a career in
politics. doubly strange, to foster non-antagonising
views on everyday matters,
to later realise that whoever we're antagonising
from an environmental bias (rather than
a personal bias) we will never share a dinner with...
so like our opinions mattering in the first place
was by-and-large, just a media hoax to
ensure we were all prescribed the safety of
walking the tight-rope... and never really
designating ourselves the freedom of the constitutional
rights - this leftist bias remains intact,
on the canvas of freedom of speech, however
that freedom allows us to see rural endeavours in talk,
the once appreciated freedom is becoming a polarised
freedom to name & shame... a media hammer or nail...
because it's only freedom when enough people
agree with "us", to allow a bicep expression of
being backed up like some Spartacus...
i mean, i don't agree with most expression,
but i wouldn't **** the hornet's nest with the media
frenzy to appear politically correct... when
so few of us actually have any political power....
being sold free speech, to be later curbed with
political correctness is a bit cancerous....
given that free speech is equated to the voting X
from the age of mass illiteracy...
i don't see how free speech became a vehicle for
acquiring constrained speech dynamic -
when did we forget the chastity of speaking the airy-fairy
things in life on the informal basis, and when did we
become so ****** friendless, estranged, outsiders
to everything that matters... and now, supposedly
between butcher and greengrocer, talking about
the weather in cocktail smocking and bow-tie?
free speech gave us the rights to not ask for political powers...
on whatever governmental tier...
prescribing us political correctness has given the everyday
John the delusion that he can process political power...
the once famous strive for speaking what the hell you want
but not wanting political power changed into
being prescribed political correctness but no political power...
so i ask you... what's the point of being politically
correct, if you gain no political power,
unless you're a rat, a snitch, spying on your neighbour
to grass them out? because that's what political correctness bred,
snitches... those given political correctness laws
were never given any other political power...
added to the fact that they wouldn't have said anything
interesting / provocative anyway.
Sean Flaherty Dec 2014
Boring holiday in Purgatory,
Among old fires, now flat.
Hornet-colored, swears she's seen me,
Stinger-out, the gorgeous brat.

Lunar-citrus sour,
Twice, at least. Of course it's more.
Pale, and terrified of foresight,
Uninspired by the cure.

Poison-focused, smoky heart.
You'll find the best nightlife in Hell.
These horns scratch Heaven, battle-scarred,
And my tail's not hidden well.

Uncanny observant stars, 'neath
Sleepy lids, catch a red,
That's not unfamiliar.
-
Past light, she flew, brandished
Guns, in both hands, left-rusty,
But right, always silver.

Rolling studded, bony wrists,
Somehow, mortal in her gaze.
One shot, un-taken, doubt persists,
Losing games she doesn't play

Sulfur-sweat-soaked barrel
Bets the other bullet
"Can't miss."
One canon scrapes my temple.
"Point the second
Between my hips."

A smile! As I am
Obliged, the danger
Briefly gone, but
Then again,
A trigger pulled
Wouldn't quite be worth the song.

"Mean to **** you," now informed, I
Stood up straight, and heard the plan.
My gorgeous rival unaware,
This demon's such a tired man.

Still, for your opaque aura,
Weary throats scream life-alive.
Wondered by unhappy beauty,
Disconnected from your drive.
Normal dealings not requested
Sweetened suffering, in slime.
Assumed, the mantle of the satyr,
Took a breath, and finally rhymed:

"Well honey, you can't **** the Devil,
But would you do me a favor, and try?
I've been wondering, for quite a while now,
Just exactly how it'd feel to die."
Maybe Lucifer wrote Right City, Modern Real...
What is the secret of being the best poet?
Did he tightly wring every reader's heart
by chewing every word of an epic sonnet
or did he sting their dead minds like a hornet?

Where is the premise of a great poem?
Should it be smell like lemongrass
planted in a coarse sandy loam?
or must it be supple and soft as a foam?

Has anyone ever been born with a *golden hand
?
Or is it just an accidental discovery of a man?
What is the mystery of being the best writer
holding his pen with a stupendous power?
a curious writer here.

— The End —