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Informer
Willow Columbo is Aunty Pam
Oh oh oh yeah
You see she is my Aunty’s next life
Oh oh oh yeah
Informer
She is the life
Of the Columbofamily oh yeah
She looks so good
Oh oh oh yeah
Informer
Willow Columbia is Aunty Pam
Oh oh oh yeah
You see she is growing up
To a beautiful young lady oh yeah
I am
Sure she will make a lot of friends
As heaven purely waits Aunty Pam’s cool look
Informer
Willow Columbo is Aunty Pam
Oh oh oh yeah
You see she looks like the little girl
In the grinch
Oh oh oh yeah
I liked Aunty Pam
She was nice to me
Informer
Willow columbo is Aunty Pam
Oh yeah bow bow
I received a message from an informer
Of someone whom can tell you
Why roses a red, answer the unanswerable and bring smiles to mourners
I hear. I believe. But I’m gonna leave the informer Blue
Ticks
I’ll respond when I need a fix
It is December in Wicklow:
Alders dripping, birches
Inheriting the last light,
The ash tree cold to look at.

A comet that was lost
Should be visible at sunset,
Those million tons of light
Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,

And I sometimes see a falling star.
If I could come on meteorite!
Instead I walk through damp leaves,
Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,

Imagining a hero
On some muddy compound,
His gift like a slingstone
Whirled for the desperate.

How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends'
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me

As I sit weighing and weighing
My responsible tristia.
For what? For the ear? For the people?
For what is said behind-backs?

Rain comes down through the alders,
Its low conductive voices
Mutter about let-downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls

The diamond absolutes.
I am neither internee nor informer;
An inner émigré, grown long-haired
And thoughtful; a wood-kerne

Escaped from the massacre,
Taking protective colouring
From bole and bark, feeling
Every wind that blows;

Who, blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once-in-a-lifetime portent,
The comet's pulsing rose.
David Nelson Apr 2010
Son of a Snitch

My daddy was an informer to the FBI,
got caught selling drugs to this undercover guy,
his only recourse was to tell what he knew,
but people found out and gave him the *****,
they even took it out on me, I'm Mitch,
and rubbed it in my face, call me son-of-a-snitch  

came home from work the other day,
looked for my ******* and my can of starch spray,
magazine was gone could not find it at all,
I said hey, who took my friggin book off the wall,
wife looked at me and with nary a hitch,
she said why you ask me you son-of-a-snitch

went to the super to get me some cheese,
beans and beer and bread if you please,
wanted a streak but the cost was to high,
asked man behind counter I say hey old guy,
why this price so high is this some glitch,
he say don't ask me you son-of-a-snitch

everywhere I go I get the same old crap,
a punch in the gut, a facefull of slap,
just because daddy bought his way out of debt,
this is the kind of treatment I always get,
I plead my case give it my best pitch,
quit that whining you son-of-a-snitch

Gomer LePoet...
"I have information for you..."

The voice is clear,
Yet its meaning is not,
What does it know?
What can it tell me?

"..but I cannot give it to you..."

Of course,
An informer who will not inform,
But this is no war,
No obligation.

"...neither must know..."

Some unspoken law,
Governs its words,
Keeps it silent - or at least,
Silent enough.

"...my words would change things - things that must not.
Find out on your own, it is the only way."
marriegegirl Jun 2014
Quand il s'agit de invitations .j'ai un petit faible grave .Ajoutez à la typographie ?Et je suis fait .Tel est le cas pour cette beauté éblouissante intemporel de Kimberly FitzSimons .Sa conception d'invitation parfaitement préparé le terrain pour ce classique .soirée élégante et je ne peut s'empêcher d'être en admiration .Continuez votre robe de soirée grande taille lecture pour entendre l'inspiration derrière l'invitation !

De Kimberly FitzSimons鈥J'ai conçu cette suite d'invitation pour la jeune mariée .Jessica .qui avait l'intention d'une réception de mariage classique et élégant à L' Hôtel Drake à Chicago .Elle était un client très mémorable pour moi parce que je n'ai pas seulement appris à s'asseoir avec elle.mais ses parents aussi!Ils ont chacun contribué entrée à ce qui est devenu un mariage magnifique suite d'invitation .Jessica avait une palette de couleurs très neutre ;blanc était une couleur focal avec des teintes subtiles .y compris une taupe de lumière crémeuse .Comme



vous pouvez le voir sur les photos de mariage de Jessica .ses couleurs fraîches robes demoiselles d honneur et neutres jumelés parfaitement avec son style poli .En fonction des préférences de Jessica pour les neutres et élégance classique .nous avons conçu cette invitation intemporel qui était typographie imprimée dans une encre de Cobblestone lumière sur le papier de coton blanc doux .\u003cp\u003e
Jessica a donné ses invités un aperçu de son beau jour de votre mariage à travers le papier .Son économie-le- dates (également imprimées en encre Cobblestone ) présentait robe de soirée grande taille un sens Frank Sinatra citation : " Le meilleur est encore à venir .viendra le jour Tu es à moi . "Elle a été suivie par un 7 " invitation typographique carré surdimensionné qui a été collée à un dossier de poche carrée qui avait un soupçon de lueur .Dans le dossier de poche .nous avons conçus à deux enceintes pour informer les clients de l'emplacement de réception et d'information de l'hébergement .Le dossier de poche a été scellé avec un carré de monogramme personnalisé avec les initiales du couple .\u003cp\u003e

Jessica et moi avons travaillé en étroite collaboration pour développer ce mariage suite d'invitation pour correspondre à son esthétique et couleurs .Nous avons commencé avec un design intemporel invitation et je conçu sur mesure toutes les pièces pour le reste de la suite .Les combinaisons de tailles.de couleurs d'encre .et des éléments du dossier de poche sont vastes .si Jessica a passé du temps sentir le papier .le tri à travers les couleurs de dossiers de poche et.finalement.faire des sélections qui reflètent sa vision .Jessica a choisi la typographie pour l'invitation .qui est ma spécialité .J'ai tout simplement adoré la façon dont l'ensemble du paquet est venu ensemble!Charmant.élégant .délicat et frais .
http://www.modedomicile.com/robe-demoiselle-dhonneur-c-60
planification de l'événement: Big City Bride | Invitations: Kimberly FitzSimons | Réception Lieu: Le Drake | Photographie d'invitation: Kimberly FitzSimons | Photographie de mariage : Lauren WakefieldKimberly FitzSimons est un membre de notre Little Black Book .Découvrez comment les membres sont choisis en visitant notre page de FAQ .Kimberly FitzSimons Letterpres ... voir le
Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which proves more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent
For compound sweet forgoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent?
No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mixed with seconds, knows no art
But mutual render, only me for thee.
    Hence, thou suborned informer, a true soul
    When most impeached stands least in thy control.
Leafar Mamede Mar 2012
Be one, two or many,
Be another or others.

Air that inspires me to be
(One, two or many).
Fair fires that breaks me into
(Another or others).

Water that smothers and takes
The reason of my birth.
Earth that sustains the sky,
Is you that handles my sun.

A sigh of candles for any one
Who wants a clue.
A breath of a former me
That blew death free.

An echo flow informer
Arises and goes with disguises,
For he knows his ghosts.
And so I stay. I and my host.

I'm not done of be
One, two or many,
I'd rather not be
Another or others.
Just be.
Andrew Springer Jan 2013
Yevgeny Yevtushenko*


No monument stands over Babi Yar.
A drop sheer as a crude gravestone.
I am afraid.
            Today I am as old in years
as all the Jewish people.
Now I seem to be
                a Jew.
Here I plod through ancient Egypt.
Here I perish crucified, on the cross,
and to this day I bear the scars of nails.
I seem to be
            Dreyfus.
The Philistine
              is both informer and judge.
I am behind bars.
                Beset on every side.
Hounded,
       spat on,
              slandered.
Squealing, dainty ladies in flounced Brussels lace
stick their parasols into my face.
I seem to be then
                a young boy in Byelostok.
Blood runs, spilling over the floors.
The barroom rabble-rousers
give off a stench of ***** and onion.
A boot kicks me aside, helpless.
In vain I plead with these pogrom bullies.
While they jeer and shout,
                         "Beat the Yids. Save Russia!"
some grain-marketeer beats up my mother.
0 my Russian people!
                   I know
                         you
are international to the core.
But those with unclean hands
have often made a jingle of your purest name.
I know the goodness of my land.
How vile these anti-Semites-
                            without a qualm
they pompously called themselves
the Union of the Russian People!
I seem to be
            Anne Frank
transparent
           as a branch in April.
And I love.
          And have no need of phrases.
My need
       is that we gaze into each other.
How little we can see
                     or smell!
We are denied the leaves,
                         we are denied the sky.
Yet we can do so much --
                        tenderly
embrace each other in a darkened room.
They're coming here?
                    Be not afraid. Those are the booming
sounds of spring:
                 spring is coming here.
Come then to me.
               Quick, give me your lips.
Are they smashing down the door?
                                No, it's the ice breaking ...
The wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar.
The trees look ominous,
                      like judges.
Here all things scream silently,
                               and, baring my head,
slowly I feel myself
                    turning gray.
And I myself
            am one massive, soundless scream
above the thousand thousand buried here.
I am
     each old man
                 here shot dead.
I am
    every child
               here shot dead.
Nothing in me
             shall ever forget!
The "Internationale," let it
                            thunder
when the last anti-Semite on earth
is buried forever.
In my blood there is no Jewish blood.
In their callous rage, all anti-Semites
must hate me now as a Jew.
For that reason
                I am a true Russian!
John F McCullagh Aug 2014
The great man lies dead in his bullet riddled clothes.
The ambush was more successful than De Valera dared suppose.
Michael Collins was a traitor to Republican ideals.
His treaty gave over to the Brits one fourth of our green fields.
Everyone thought me his friend. I was always by his side.
Yet I knew enough to stay away on this day he died.
When he fired on the Inns of Court I decided he’d go down..
Though some may say he was a Saint, once safely in the ground.
They say that he fought bravely, though surrounded with long odds.
A proper, fitting sacrifice to lay before our gods.
Nations must be born in blood if they are ever to be free.
Free of allegiance to a Crown and capped with Liberty
An unnamed Anti-treaty IRA man muses privately over his part in the ambush and assassination of Michael Collins.
neth jones Apr 2022
a sorry fist forward                                                          ­  
             and mortally i follow                          
coldly into the first dark flint of day                                            
              not my natural habitat                                                      
so quiet.. or near so
a vacancy for occasional clean                              
                             ­              isolated noises

 i pause         and pass a scan about
the hailing lack of conscious population                                 
                     ­                     all packed away
hauntings themselves in beds
- like some form of post apocalyptic storage -
they add a vague lended charge
 
nature is on a limited budget         this early                             
no birds yet                                   and no solar minting
a massive racoon      with only three legs      crosses my intended path
              in its mouth                    a gory wreckage                        

i steep to make balance
                         but my pores won't take it
                                                       i am sickened by the ballast
                                                         ­                                  of my breakfast

i hollow onward into these new conditions                            
still deriding what to be                                                    
     a tourist and an informer dud                                                     ­  
i have switched to the dayshift                                        
from off the spire                                  
of my regular hour                  
the evening routine

breathing is surprisingly ***** at this time
                                            a failing of settled pollution :                      
the public buildings and restaurants          
                                 are muggy in their overnight stale degassing
awaiting air currents and dispersal        

the first gulls of the morning                          
                                              emit a defeating siren
spearing through detritus                            
                            ­    they dispel the bells of purity
                                  
               somehow i've made my port of call
a struggling invertebrate
in this state i dispose my spirit                        
                                at­ the salted threshold
security staff and sanitation process                              
         between the sets of automatic doors

a workplace made alien          
   and adverse to me
purely by        
            the indecent hour
of day
neth jones Oct 2021
[gulls] summer
the morning gulls
morning gulls defeat me
an accuracy to the early hour
they spear
thorough amongst the detritus
dispelling the bells of cleanliness
in an urban morning
The Informers
Every on is prisoner of his own interest
World is full of all types of but jugglers
Trust is eaten up by greed, avarice,lust
By ulterior motives they keep on but altar
All those who are travelers of right path
Remain always virtuous, straightforward
Against all evils they are but on warpath
They remain ready to sacrifice ,shed blood
Evil Informers die the death of a culprit
Who will have no shelter on his ***** way
To Satan his soul he will he has to submit
Being characterless with all the areas gray
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2017 Golden Glow
Barton D Smock Sep 2013
if it’s true, Adam must’ve been at an age strong enough to hold the baby Eve and she must’ve had some early teeth.  openings are like this when mother has been talking to delicate men.  in another, Adam has something the size of his palm in his stomach and no mouth to speak of.  in this one, mother mourns the loss of the uneaten fruit.  mourns the childless.  in the phrase wasted on the phrase pointless violence      

I don’t know like you don’t know

    we’re exiled.  in belly, a baby turns informer.  her loneliness

a first person
shooter.
Pisceanesque Jan 2017
In waking sleep we all expire,
remote organics built to tire –
searching lusts for something more
to fill our souls beyond our core

We lay awake inside a dream,
asleep within a constant stream,
alone, in part, to wander, lost,
with passing time our only cost

We play as shadows holding hands
with eyes wide closed and few demands,
our every moment briefly clashing;
fast forgotten memories flashing

Here, we count down from our birth
with time a thief upon this earth –
purpose teased at every corner,
Chinese Whispers our informer

But all will realise when we’re gone
that we were dreaming every song –
that death becomes another story;
a painless world of allegory

I fear we write this book forever
as single pages bound together
to lay inside our reader’s minds
in passing paragraphs of time
© Tamara Natividad
www.pisceanesque.com
Written 21 January, 2017
Francie Lynch Mar 2017
I knew her in youth's folly;
The fumbling hands,
The tumbling wills,
The limbs entwined kind of peace;
The dinner glances,
The unbridled dances,
Commando skirts,
Deep knee squats,
What one thinks
But will not say.

I've screamed into an empty barrel,
Ran barefoot where I shouldn't,
Slid rusty things under my nails,
Touched my eyes with sharp sticks,
Ground my teeth with electric power,
Scorched my skin beneath the shower,
Turned informer on closest friends;
Drank turpentine and kerosene,
Mercury and gasoline,
Tore my skin, rend my entrails,
And other parts clearly unseen.
Include, if you wish,
An immortal soul.
My spirit, ****** as well.
Call the prayer, sound a bell.
That was heaven,
Now is hell.
Only now.
You told me you were for ever for me
What you meant you were never  for me
You made your world like golden glow
But you left my love, world blur for me
World is bed of beautiful roses for you
It is full of thorns and like an altar for me
I have very many questions for you
Do you have very many answers for me
All my strengths are warmer for you
All my weaknesses are armor for you
Your enemies are but on your protection
All my friends are like armor for me
What ever you do is secret in many veils
When my sentiments are informer for me
Your presence is fragrance ,essence of life
Your absence is like an azure for me
Do not give me wealth for taking me
Do not play game of real barter for me
I will capture you with my sheer love
Do not prove to be like a border for me
My candle Mehr is like a moth in love
My love as a candle prove burner for me

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Donall Dempsey Feb 2017
TO BOLDLY GO

Hour by hour
the snow

grew heavier and heav...i...ER
grew more and more

daring
deciding to boldly go

where no snow
had ever gone before!

It had listened to an entire
box set of early Star Trek

leaking from
the house's windows.

It knew it
off by heart

admired Kirk
adored Spock.

The snow pushed the door
ten-ta-tivel-y ope:N

at first, but. . .now that
push had come to shove

( the latch had not been
latched properly)

opted to" "Wot de. . !"
go for it.

"That's one small step
for a snowflake...one big step

...for snowkind!"
it chuckled hee hee to it self.

"Yavaş. . .yavaş"
it repeated slowly slowly.

It was Turkish snow.

The snow advanced
flake by flake

just putting one flurry
in front of the other

into the( gasp )
"Oh mother!"

living room!

"So, this...
is how humans

- live?"

The bookshelves
feeling a little chilly

woke and whimpered
"Oh my pages...oh...my pages!"

as the unrelenting whiteness
crept nearer and:

- nearer.

"Where is a reader when
you really need one!"

asked a newly acquired
Saito Masaya.

"Isn't anyone gonna do
anything about this!"

screamed the Poems of Oktay
Rifat.

The Poems of Nazim
Hikmet

were...were...were
speechless!

But the humans were busy
snoring.

A string of cartoon Z's
like Christmas decorations

emanated from
the room of the bed.

Even the guilty one
( who would catch hell

in the huh huh morning )
slept the sleep of the innocent

since the Star Trek
had been watched all

the way through and
love had been drunkenly made.

The snow a little
nervous now

in case the book's readers
would come to their rescue

wet
the carpet.

"Oh my giddy flakes...no
but when ya gotta

go ya gotta gooooo!"
smirked the snow.

A mobile phone
asleep on the sofa

heard voices ringing
in its head

suddenly woke
spoke

in a disembodied voice
that went - straight to message.

"Wow...you guys...wow
you should see outside

...it's...like
crazy awesome!"

The snow( held
its breath): "Oh oh...

...an informer!"

It felt like the fallen
book by the carpet's edge

A Spy In The House
Of Love.

It didn't know what
an Anaïs Nin

could be.

It had a lot
to learn.

But the phone
slipped into sleep again

voiceless now.

In the morning they
found it.

"Holy cow...how...?"

Each of the humans
blaming the other

more especially
the guilty human .

"Your mother....
...don't bring my mother into this."

Neither of them spoke to the other
for the rest of the day.

The snow lay
curled up

in the fireplace
dead to the world

fast fast
asleep

drunk on the success
of its excess

dreaming that it had become
human.

A balloon clung
to the ceiling

didn't know how
to get down somehow.

The snow played
possum.

It took an hour
to evict it

with shovels and
curses.

Later, the snow
told the snow

that had been too
afraid to come in

all it had seen
all it had been.

"No...?" said the bottom-
of-the garden snow.

". . .no?"
Donall Dempsey Feb 2018
TO BOLDLY GO

Hour by hour
the snow

grew heavier and heav...i...ER
grew more and more

daring
deciding to boldly go

where no snow
had ever gone before!

It had listened to an entire
box set of early Star Trek

leaking from
the house's windows.

It knew it
off by heart

admired Kirk
adored Spock.

The snow pushed the door
ten-ta-tivel-y ope:N

at first, but. . .now that
push had come to shove

( the latch had not been
latched properly)

opted to" "Wot de. . !"
go for it.

"That's one small step
for a snowflake...one big step

...for snowkind!"
it chuckled hee hee to it self.

"Yavaş. . .yavaş"
it repeated slowly slowly.

It was Turkish snow.

The snow advanced
flake by flake

just putting one flurry
in front of the other

into the( gasp )
"Oh mother!"

living room!

"So, this...
is how humans

- live?"

The bookshelves
feeling a little chilly

woke and whimpered
"Oh my pages...oh...my pages!"

as the unrelenting whiteness
crept nearer and:

- nearer.

"Where is a reader when
you really need one!"

asked a newly acquired
Saito Masaya.

"Isn't anyone gonna do
anything about this!"

screamed the Poems of Oktay
Rifat.

The Poems of Nazim
Hikmet

were...were...were
speechless!

But the humans were busy
snoring.

A string of cartoon Z's
like Christmas decorations

emanated from
the room of the bed.

Even the guilty one
( who would catch hell

in the huh huh morning )
slept the sleep of the innocent

since the Star Trek
had been watched all

the way through and
love had been drunkenly made.

The snow a little
nervous now

in case the book's readers
would come to their rescue

wet
the carpet.

"Oh my giddy flakes...no
but when ya gotta

go ya gotta gooooo!"
smirked the snow.

A mobile phone
asleep on the sofa

heard voices ringing
in its head

suddenly woke
spoke

in a disembodied voice
that went - straight to message.

"Wow...you guys...wow
you should see outside

...it's...like
crazy awesome!"

The snow( held
its breath): "Oh oh...

...an informer!"

It felt like the fallen
book by the carpet's edge

A Spy In The House
Of Love.

It didn't know what
an Anaïs Nin

could be.

It had a lot
to learn.

But the phone
slipped into sleep again

voiceless now.

In the morning they
found it.

"Holy cow...how...?"

Each of the humans
blaming the other

more especially
the guilty human .

"Your mother....
...don't bring my mother into this."

Neither of them spoke to the other
for the rest of the day.

The snow lay
curled up

in the fireplace
dead to the world

fast fast
asleep

drunk on the success
of its excess

dreaming that it had become
human.

A balloon clung
to the ceiling

didn't know how
to get down somehow.

The snow played
possum.

It took an hour
to evict it

with shovels and
curses.

Later, the snow
told the snow

that had been too
afraid to come in

all it had seen
all it had been.

"No...?" said the bottom-
of-the garden snow.

". . .no?"
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
kiełbasa - or, alt. kieł - basa - king Vasa of Sweden (Gustav the First), the base of, i.e. based on a canine (kieł); including a rolling pin and a mile of intestines to shove the mince in and later eat.

reading through the *style
magazine...
what else, a count von Bismarck,
Eton connections - poor schmuck
ought to eat a mouthful of cinnamon
peppered with nail clippings -
it's not jealousy as ****, just a sickly Loki
stare at it all - perfect skin, perfect abs,
10 dates a week, whimsical musing
and other attention deficits - i'm just here
to ask about the code of procedures
on the national health service (n.h.s.),
informer
you no say daddy me snow me-a gon' blame
i lick he *** *** down
'tective man they say, say daddy me snow
me stab someone down the lane
i lick he *** *** down

days long before Eminem and not quiet
vanilla ice ice baby...
the hippocratic oath shattered on me,
i guess i played the madness game to free myself
from defamation, self-preservation of
the person accused - god, what a parasite i've become,
i never used to obsess, but i've turned into my enemy,
it takes more calories to eat a second of
a thought about that than it would take
drinking a sharpshooter whiskey mix -
so here i am, with my Hölderlin heart -
stone cold stone mad - passive-aggressive infatuated
with Radiohead's kid A - playback from
the heyday of the prog-rock zenith reminded, of;
mind you, i was never into playing solo tennis
against a brick wall with the standard:

violets in may
or should i say
i love the whole affair
of being the spare
in her game of panicky chess

                                         yep, you guessed it, rhyming,
                                         Tenacious D's one note song
                                         summarises what i can't
                                         be bothered to explain
                                         or defend.
Elsie Jun 2016
Was it a hard drop of a  rain?
Was it a troop in a train?I heard a sound that make me fear it's sound,i wished i was deaf.
Where is my brother?Where is my friend?
I saw his shoe,a foe-by law took his young life
Thought it was host of a 12 year old,
Not a ghost of 16 June 1976.
A brave man carried him that my hearts pounds for,
A grave so greedy can't wait to swallow
Oh how i long i was blind!
I ran to places to see his face
Hit a bloodstained phase and a case
So silent amongst the violent
So bold to join the old
Oh pitiless death,he was just a teen
Uniformed killer swears like an informer
He kicks and beats and shoots
a hand that kills and spills blood of fear
Tear the land that fills the pools of fate.
Lame excuses without choices
No pill for the floods of hate
I still praise the hands that carried my bleeding brother
Who still can trace the land hiding him?
16 June,you make me long for the  two men
Side by side we ran for our lives.
Where do broken hearts go?
a heart of  a man must change a beat.All the past belong to the past.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
i don't understand america, i really don't,
the american export is either
the west coast, or the east coast,
and very little in between...
   let's just say: west / east coast americans
are embarrassed by their middle
"cousins"...
      well, that's how it looks like:
esp. from a european perspective...
middle america: is america -
  but you rarely see it as an export material;
it's as if "america" doesn't want
you to see america -
   and that bogus facade of contempt
from anywhere else in the world -
i poke my nose into the air and merely
say: do you smell it? do you?
the air is rife with fear;
point being? i have the least concern for
"middle earth" america,
  i actually find it as glorious as my
little essex **** hole: **** great -
that it's boring & quiet,
i can walk down the street in the night
and turn into a large imposing shadow,
height's there, weight's there,
   all i had to concern myself with,
once upon a time, was a marijuana grower
high on coke, trying to tell me his
life story and his bruised knuckles,
so paranoid that he thought i was a police
informer, so he started touching my chest
to check whether or not i had
the sort of equipment you put on for
others to listen in...
the sort of **** hole that allows you to write
something, speak very little,
   and, watch a ******* rainbow appear
in the sky...
   but that's england,
and as everyone in england will tell you,
essex being the "laughing stock" county
of the isles... well... who would have thought
that depeche mode came out of...
basildon... or all places!
the best snooker players come from essex,
namely ronnie o'sullivan & steve davis...
**** me, even the prodigy:
seem to be a nice little **** hole, after all;
but that's beside the already made
point... we, in europe never really see
middle-america,
sure as **** we see the east / west coast
glamour, the crème de la crème:
but rarely the usually uniform globally
    intrinsic: mundane.
shame really, we hear it though,
     in bruce springsteen songs, but we rarely
geet a chance to see it, howdy howdy.
sure, by comparison europe does feel
claustrophobic, we live in tight compartments,
just shy of japanese housing economics,
but what you see, is, really what you're
going to get;
i have to admit though, watching these
youtube videos, rarely do i find myself as
flabbergasted as when watching
   heartbern... now, that's my sort of american,
american intellectualism of the "higher"
variety can disappear,
    personally i love the "banjo" twang of
the accent, the root veg approach,
the tumbling **** metaphor when enough
or too many -isms have been used by
either coast america intellectual...
  i swear, those are the worst, aren't they?
and my, isn't the ***-crack of america huge,
**** cheeks either side of this massive
***-crack...
                 that's the sort of american i imagine
myself having a beer with...
wallah bamah way-bey boomah,
       ****** ****** *******...
     arkansas, hannibal lecter,
            states combined the size of belgium
x50, the flatness of it,
      the tornados,
                       cowboy hants and hooty...
**** me, even the bible belt...
           yes ma'am, yes sir, come 'ere boy!
i can't seem to fathom the other america,
the one exported, the american east / west
coast...
  like i once said: i like drinking,
and no woman likes a man drinking,
thankfully i aspired to the karate belt of:
     to live life, as if it were sunday traffic;
it takes some sort of diligence,
to fill all that free time as a cat might with
sleep...
      sometimes it seems harder to
not think (reflect), than it is to think (reflex)...
you really think a dog's or a cat's
consciousness, is orientated around a woof
or a meow, that somehow, it's longed up
in there like our ego that morph into thought,
exfoliating like a flower?
animal brains are pure optical instruments,
those things run on optics,
  look at them long enough,
esp. catching a cat unawares when it's looking
at you, with the veil of severe solipsism (autism)
is lifted... you can see right past it...
i'm starting to wonder whether i forced
these words out,
that would be unusual,
           since i hardly write anything
within a sober framework...
        well... then again, i did have 4 pints
of beer before setting these words
              on beelzebub's pixel canvas.
Dr Peter Lim Jul 2018
Family occupations:

Dad's a policeman
mum's a prison-officer
brother's a senior prosecutor
me?   A secret--service informer!
Ryan O'Leary Jan 2019
He was a former M.P, a
former London Mayor
        and a former
Labour Party member.

He is now an informer
writing for Russia Today,
he is a rake, but not a fake.

Ken Livingstone is the rock
extant of our daily Tablet !
Michael John Jun 5
i owned a saxaphone-
nearly ended in a ruptured
spleen-etc
(too painful to remember)

i could n´t play that
either (but i imagine so many
musicians
looking past their screen

nodding in a ruefull manner..
gangsters and breaker yard
a police informer..
just for decoration..
Barton D Smock Oct 2016
the flame
the phantom
limb
of my
informer

pain
as the upkeep
of amnesia

my arms had ears
hundreds
of baby
ears, crop

of silence…

don’t itch
what the brain
can reach
KV Srikanth Jun 2021
A sinking ship
The rat makes its trip
First one out of the disaster
An art no one should master

It speaks of character
You have none if you're a ditcher
Liar in every layer
A human being cannot go lower

Snitches get stitches
An adage for ages
Repairing broken bridges
Not an option for these acts of Cowardice


Tattletale another name
Saves his skin in any game
Reveals secrets about the same
Has no self respect or shame

Looks appealing
Playing both sides
Roll of the dice
A matter of time
Before cut to size

Keep away from people
Who play you on the double
Wont blink before letting you scramble
Lifes greatest preamble

Information barter
Seeming benefits to cater
Wanting to be popular
Nature by itself regular
Rewards for being an informer

Caste creed and color
Dont separate man
With life on the line
Those who can
Can of worms not split
Stand apart from the rest

Opposite of loyalty
Anathema to Gratitude
Quality to loathe
Take an oath

Keeping the secret
Builds character
Friend turned foe
Tests your role

Never buy you future
With secrets to offer
Closets in your cupboard
Wont take long to rebound
itsall iwrite Sep 2018
started on cocacannabiscola now a filthy rich ****** player 19.09.18

welcome to a biography
studying is a ecstasy
from cannabis to ****** its all monogamy
shame on those who think fantasy.
this path has been no reverse
now its all about the enjoy
so happy makes me feel the white nurse
first experienced when little boy.
not rising at dawn crack
hard work not my scene
1000 people under me mixing the smack
just going shopping buying 3 tons of caffeine.
4 holidays a year is swirl
anywhere in the world is my call
poetry totally inspired by black pearl
seeing it all in the brown crystal.
looks do blow
but got to go deeper then layer
forget Mc shan and snow
informer big time ****** player.
nvinn fonia Feb 12
Reception
Reception
Aggregate score
Aggregator Score
Metacritic 64/100[9]
Review scores
Publication Score
Edge 6/10[10]
Electronic Gaming Monthly 6.33/10[11]
Eurogamer 7/10[12]
Famitsu 31/40[13]
Game Informer 6.5/10[14]
GameSpot 7.5/10[15]
GameSpy [16]
GameZone 6.7/10[17]
IGN 5.9/10[18]
Official U.S. PlayStation Magazine [19]
The Sydney Morning Herald [20]
The westernized version (Devil Kings) received "mixed or average" reviews according to the review aggregation website Metacritic.[9]

The Japanese version was met
Qualyxian Quest Aug 2020
Ronald Reagan worked as informer for the FBI in the 1940s

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