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howard brace Feb 2012
Inconspicuous, his presence noted only by the obscurity and the ever growing number of spent cigarette stubs that littered the ground.  It had been a long day and the rain, relentless in its tenacity had little intention of stopping, baleful clouds still  hung heavy, dominating the lateness of the afternoon sky, a rain laden skyline broken only by smoke filled chimney pots and the tangled snarl of corroded television aerials.

     The once busy street was fast emptying now, the lure of shop windows no longer enticed the casual browser as local traders closed their premises to the oncoming night, solitary lampposts curved hazily into the distance, casting little more than insipid pools mirrored in the gutter below, only the occasional stranger scurrying home on a bleak, rain swept afternoon, the hurried slap of wet leather soles on the pavement, the sightless umbrellas, the infrequent rumble of a half filled bus, hell-bent on its way to oblivion.

     In the near distance as the working day ended, a sudden emergence of factory workers told Beamish it was 5-o'clock, most would be hurrying home to a hot meal, while others, for a quick drink perhaps before making the same old sorry excuse... for Jack, the greasy spoon would be closing about now, denying him the comfort of a badly needed cuppa' and stale cheese sandwich.  A subtle legacy of lunchtime fish and chips still lingered in the air, Jack's stomach rumbled, there was little chance of a fish supper for Beamish tonight, it protested again... louder.

     From beneath the eaves of the building opposite several pigeons broke cover, startled by the rattle as a shopkeeper struggled to close the canvas awning above his shop window.  Narrowly missing Beamish they flew anxiously over the rooftops, memories of the blitz sprang to mind as Jack stepped smartly to one side, he stamped his feet... it dashed a little of the weather from his raincoat, just as the rain dashed a little of the pigeons' anxiety from the pavement... the day couldn't get much worse if it tried.  Shielding his face, Jack struck the Ronson one more time and cupped the freshly lit cigarette between his hands, it was the only source of heat to be had that day... and still it rained.

     'By Appointment to Certain Personages...' the letter heading rang out loudly... 'Jack Beamish ~ Private Investigator...' a throat choking mouthful by any stretch of the imagination, thought Jack and shot every vestige of credulity plummeting straight through the office window and amidst a fanfare of trumpet voluntary, nominate itself for a prodigious award in the New Year Honours list.   Having formally served in a professional capacity for a well known purveyor of pickled condiments, who  incidentally, brandished the same patronage emblazoned upon their extensive range of relish as the one Jack had more recently purloined from them... a paid commission no less, which by Jack's certain understanding had made him, albeit fleeting in nature, a professional consultant of said company... and consequently, if they could flaunt the auspicious emblem, then according to Jack's infallible logic, so could Jack.  

     The recently appropriated letterhead possessed certain distinction... in much the same way, Jack reasoned, that a blank piece of paper did not... and whereas correspondence bearing the heading 'By Appointment' may not exactly strike terror into the hearts of man... unlike a really strong pickled onion, it nevertheless made people think twice before playing him for the fool, which sadly, Jack had to concede, they still invariably did... and he would often catch them wagging an accusing finger or two in his direction with such platitudes as... "watch where you put your foot", they'd whisper, "that Jack's a right Shamus...", and when you'd misplaced your footing as many times as Jack had, then he reasoned, that by default the celebrated Shamus must have landed himself in more piles of indiscretion than he would readily care to admit, but that wouldn't be quite accurate either, in Jack's line of work it was the malefactor that actually dropped him in them more often than not.

     A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine, another quickly followed as a spurt of icy water from a broken rain spout spattered across the back of his neck, he grimaced... Jack's expression spoke volumes as he took one final pull from his half soaked cigarette and flicked it, amid an eruption of sparks against the adjacent brick wall.  Sinking further into the shadow he tipped his fedora against the oncoming rain, then, digging both hands deep within his pockets, he huddled behind the upturned collar of his gabardine... watching.

     It was times such as these when Jack's mind would slip back, in much the same way you might slip back on a discarded banana peel, when a matter of some consequence, or in particular this case the pavement, would suddenly leap up from behind and give the back of Jack's head a resoundingly good slapping and tell him to "stop loafing around in office hours... or else", then drag him, albeit kicking and screaming back into the 20th century.  This intellectual assault and battery re-focused Jack's mind wonderfully as he whiled away the long weary hours until his next cigarette; cup of tea, or the last bus home, his capacity to endure such mind boggling tedium called for nothing less than sheer ******-mindedness and very little else... Beamish had long suspected that he possessed all the necessary qualifications.  

     Jack had come a long way since the early days, it had been a long haul but he'd finally arrived there in the end... and managed to pick up quite a few ***** looks along the way.  Whilst he was with the Police Constabulary... and it was only fair to stress the word 'with', as opposed to the word 'in'... although the more Jack considered, he had been 'with' the arresting officer, held 'in' the local Bridewell... detained at Her Majesties pleasure while assisting the boys in blue with their enquiries over a minor infringement of some local by-law that currently had quite slipped his mind at that moment.  Throughout this enforced leisure period he'd managed to read the entire abridged editions of Kilroy and other expansive works of graffiti exhibited in what passed locally as the next best thing to the Tate Gallery, whereupon it hadn't taken Jack very long to realise that it was always a good place to start if you wanted free breakfast, in fact the weeks bill of fare was tastefully displayed in vivid, polychromatic colour on the wall opposite... you just had to be au-fait with braille.
                            
     No matter how industrious Beamish laboured to rake the dirt there always appeared to be a dire shortage of gullible clients for Jack to squeeze, what would roughly translate as an honest crust out of, and although his financial retainer was highly competitive he understood that potential clients found it bewildering when grappling with the unplumbed depths of his monthly expense account, which would tend to fluctuate with the same unpredictability as the British weather, the rest of Jack's agenda revolved around a little shady moonlighting... in fact he'd happily consider anything to offset the remotest possibility of financial delinquency... short of extortion... which by the strangest twist was the very word prospective clients would cry while Jack beavered around the office with dust-pan and brush sweeping any concerns they may have had frantically under the carpet regarding all culpability of his extra-curricular monthly stipend... and they should remain assured at all times... as they dug deep and fished for their cheque books, and simply look upon it as kneading dough, which eerily enough was exactly the thick wedge of buttered granary that Jack had every intention of carving.

     Were there ever the slightest possibility that a day could be so utterly wretched, then today was that day, Jack felt a certain empathy as he merged with his surroundings... at one with nature as it were.  The rain, a timpani on the metal dustbin lids, by the side of which Beamish had taken up vigil, also taking up vigil and in search of a morsel was the stray mongrel, this was the third time now that he'd returned, the same apprehensive wag, yet still the same hopeful look of expectation in his eyes, a brief but friendly companion who paid more attention to Jack's left trouser leg than anything that could be had from nosing around the dustbins that day... some days you're the dog, scowled Beamish as he shook his trouser leg... and some days the lamppost, Jack's foot swung out playfully, keeping his new friend's incontinence at a safe distance, feigning indignance  the scruffy mongrel shook himself defiantly from nose to tail, a distinct odour of wet dog filled the air as an abundance of spent rainwater flew in all directions.   Pricking one ear he looked accusingly at Jack before turning and snuffled off, his nose resolutely to the pavement and diligently, picking out the few diluted scents still remaining, the poor little stalwart renewed its search for scraps, or making his way perhaps to some dry seclusion known only to itself.
  
     Two hours later and... SPLOSH, a puddle poured itself through the front door of the nearest Public House... SPLOSH, the puddle squelched over to the payphone... SPLOSH, then, fumbling for small change dialled and pressed button 'A'..., then button 'B'... then started all over again amid a flurry of precipitation... SPLASH.  The puddle floundered to the bar and ordered itself a drink, then ebbed back to the payphone again... the local taxi company doggedly refused to answer... finally, wallowing over to the window the puddle drifted up against a warm radiator amidst a cloud of humidity and came to rest... flotsam, cast upon the shore of contentment, the puddle sighed contentedly... the Landlady watched this anomaly... suspiciously.

     The puddle's finely tuned perception soon got to grips with the unhurried banter and muffled gossip drifting along the bar, having little else to loose, other than what could still be wrung from his clothing... Beamish, working on the principle that a little eavesdropping was his stock-in-trade engaged instinct into overdrive and casually rippled in their general direction...  They were clearly regulars by the way one of them belched in a well rehearsed, taken-a-back sort of way as Jack took stock of the situation and was now at some pains to ingratiate himself into their exclusive midst and attempt several friendly, yet relevant questions pertinent to his enquiries... all of which were skillfully deflected with more than friendly, yet totally irrelevant answers pertinent to theirs'... and would Jack care for a game of dominoes', they enquired... if so, would he be good enough to pay the refundable deposit, as by common consent it just so happened to be his turn...  Jack graciously declined this generous offer, as the obliging Landlady, just as graciously, cancelled the one shilling returnable deposit from the cash register, such was the flow of light conversation that evening... they didn't call him Lucky Jack for nothing... discouraged, Beamish turned back to the bar and reached for his glass... to which one of his recent companions, and yet again just as graciously, had taken the trouble to drink for him... the Landlady gave Jack a knowing look, Beamish returned the heartfelt sentiment and ordered one more pint.

     From the licenced premises opposite, a myriad of jostling customers plied through the door, business was picking up... the sudden influx of punters rapidly persuaded Beamish to retire from the bar and find a vacant table.  Sitting, he removed several discarded crisp packets from the centre of the table only to discover a freshly vacated ashtray below... by sleight of hand Jack's Ronson appeared... as he lit the cigarette the fragile smoke curled blue as it rose... influenced by subtle caprice, it joined others and formed a horizontal curtain dividing the room, a delicate, undulating layer held between two conflicting forces.

     The possibility of a free drink soon attracted the attention of a local bar fly, who, hovering in the near vicinity promptly landed in Jack's beer, Beamish declined this generous offer as being far too nutritious and with the corner of yesterdays beer mat, flipped the offending organism from the top of his glass, carefully inspecting his drink for debris as he did so.

     A sudden draught and clip of stiletto heels as the side door opened caused Beamish to turn as a double shadow slipped discreetly into the friendly Snug... a little adulterous intimacy on an otherwise cheerless evening.  The faceless man, concealed beneath a fedora and the upturned collar of his overcoat, the surreptitious lady friend, decked out in damp cony, cheap perfume and a surfeit of bling proclaimed a not too infrequent assignation, he'd seen it all before... the over attentive manner and the band of white, Sun-starved skin recently hidden behind a now absent wedding token, ordinarily it was the sort of assignment Jack didn't much care for... the discreet tail, the candid snapshot through half drawn curtains... and the all too familiar steak tartare... for the all too familiar black eye.

     To the untrained eye, the prospect of Jack's long anticipated supper was rapidly dwindling, when it suddenly focused with renewed vigour upon the contents of a pickled egg jar he'd observed earlier that evening, lurking on the back counter, his enthusiasm swiftly diminished however as the belching customer procured the final two specimens from the jar and proceeded to demolish them.  Who, Jack reflected, after being stood out in the rain all day, had egg all over his face now... and who, he reflected deeper, still had an empty stomach.  Disillusioned, Jack tipped back his glass and considered a further sortie with the taxicab company.

     "FIVE-BOB"!!! Jack screamed... you could have shredded the air with a cheese grater... hurtling into the kerb like a fairground attraction came flying past the chequered flag at a record breaking 99 in Jack's top 100 most not wanted list of things to do that day... and that the cabby should think himself fortunate they weren't both stretched flat on a marble slab, "exploding tyres" Jack spluttered, dribbling down his chin, were enough to give anyone a coronary... further broadsides of neurotic ambiance filled the cab as the driver, miffed at the prospect of missing snooker night out with the lads, considered charging extra for the additional space Jack's profanity was taking...

     And what part of 'Drive-Carefully', fumed Beamish, did the cabby simply not understand, that pavements were there to be bypassed, 'Nay Circumvented', preferably on the left... and not veered into, wildly on the front axle... an eerie premonition of 'jemais-vu' perched and ready to strike like a disembodied Jiminy Cricket on Jack's left shoulder, looking to stick its own two-penny worth in at the 'Standing-Room-Only' arrangements in the overcrowded cab... and at what further point, Jack shrieked, eyes leaping from his head as he lurched forward, shaking his fist through the sliding glass partition, had the cabbie failed to grasp the importance of the word 'Steering-Wheel...' someone wanted horse whipping, and as far as Beamish was concerned the sole contender was the cab driver...

     In having a somewhat sedate and unruffled disposition it had fallen to Beamish... as befalls all great leaders in times of adversity, to single handedly take the bull by the horns, so to speak and at great personal cost, alert the unwary passing motorist...  Waving his arms about like a man possessed whilst performing acrobatic evolutions in the centre of the road as the cabby changed the wheel came whizzing around the corner at a back breaking 98 on Jack's ever growing list... and why, Jack puzzled, why had they all lowered their side windows and gestured back at him in semaphore..?  Rallying to its aid, Jack's head and shoulders now joined his shaking fist through the sliding glass partition and into the cabby's face, "Who" Beamish screeched with renewed vigour ,"Who Was The Man", Jack wanted to know... *"a
Odysseus needs a job he calls pima community college art department chairperson sends her his resume she does not respond after a week he catches her on phone she says he lacks proper credentials laughs to himself his whole life never worked lucrative or reputable position gets job working at thrift store wacky group of coworkers customers store frequently smells like public latrine job expires after 7 weeks he gets better paying job working at record exchange Odysseus always loved music everyday he learns new artist or band his coworkers are at least half his age they pester him about being slow on keyboard he never learned to type neither he nor his generation could have foreseen future would revolve around keyboard he plods on register keys people smile politely kids he works with fly fast making many keyboard mistakes November 29 2001 george harrison dies of cancer he is 58 years old Odysseus recognizes he is from past world different era of contrasting standards ‘80’s behavior is totally unbefitting let alone ‘60’s beliefs it is 2002 and one badly chosen word is sure to send someone flying off the handle he watches his language carefully co-workers mostly born in 1980’s grew up in 1990’s they live indifferent to hopelessness he struggles to bear none of them believe in higher power music is their religion he wonders what their visions concerns for humanity are? they seem addicted to consumption as if it is end in itself he questions what is hidden at root of their absorption? loneliness? despair? apathy? absence of vision? where is their rage against social conversion current administration? he warns them about homeland security act privacy infringement increased government secrecy power they shrug their shoulders why aren’t they looking for answers? why don’t they dissent? do they care where world is going? he realizes they will have to learn for themselves few coworkers read literature or know painters philosophy their passions are video games marijuana “star wars” most of them are extremely bright more informed than he often Odysseus needs to ask questions they know answers to right off the bat he is like winsome uncle who puts up with their unremitting teasing “hey you old hippie punk rocker get you fiber in today? stools looking a little loose! peace out old man” in peculiar way he finds enough belonging he so desperately needs they tell him stories about their friends *** addictions eating disorders futile deaths he is bowled over by how young they are to know such stuff job includes health insurance which is something he has not had since Dad was alive having some cash flowing in he buys laptop computer with high-speed connection cell phone trades in toyota for truck opens crate of writings he abandoned in ‘80’s begins to rewrite story sits blurry eyed in front of computer screen his motivation has always been to tell truth as he knows it he wonders what ramifications his labor will bring positive or negative results? he guesses his story will sound like children’s fable in stark brutality of distant future october 2002 3 week ****** spree terrorizes maryland virginia  district of columbia 10 people killed 3 critically wounded police believe white van responsible october 24 man and 17-year-old boy arrested in blue chevy caprice juvenile is shooter assailants linked to string of random murders including unsolved shooting of man at golf course in tucson Odysseus mentions incident at work speaks of prevailing terror madness in america co-workers kid tell him he is crazy “did you see a white van parked outside the store Odys?” they seem desensitized to increasing national atmosphere of anger panic or perhaps they are overwhelmed by weight trauma of modern life lie after lie prevailing  havoc slaughter make for dull numbness in world they know suicide is compelling option december 22nd 2002 joe strummer dies from heart failure at age 50 Odysseus’s eyes wet he adored the clash everything they stood for loved joe strummer and mescaleros he plays “global a go-go” over and over listens sings along with first track “johnny appleseed” march 2003 president bush launches attack against iraq united states seems drunk with “shock and awe” zealous blind patriotism many people politicians countries around globe question unproven line of reasoning saddam hussein possesses “weapons of mass destruction” Odysseus gripes “not another **** vietnam” record company allows employees to check out take home used product Odysseus stopped watching movies in 1980’s he has lots of catching up to do particularly likes “natural born killers” “american history x” “american ******” “fight club” “way of the gun” “******” “king of new york” “basquiat” “frida” “*******” “before night falls” “quills” “requiem for a dream” “vanilla sky” “boys don’t cry” “being john malkovich” “adaptation” “kids” “lost in translation” “25th hour” “28 days later” “monster” “city of god” “gangs of new york” “**** bill” list goes on perfect circle becomes his favorite band followed by tool lacuna coil my morning jacket brian jonestown massacre flaming lips dredg drive-by truckers dropkick murphys flogging mollies nofx stereophonics eels weakerthans centro-matic califone godspeed you black emperor magnetic fields fiery furnaces dresden dolls smog granddaddy calexico howie gelb sufjan stevens warren haynes dax riggs john vanderslice alejandro escovedo sean paul elephant man bjork p. j. harvey ani difranco aimee mann cat power sophie b. hawkins kathleen edwards mia doi todd kimya dawson regina spektor carina round neko case fiona apple nina nastasia beth gibbons mirah rasputina dr. dre talib kweli immortal technique murs slug atmosphere trick daddy eazy-e tricky list goes on october 21 2003 elliott smith commits suicide stabbing 2 wounds into his chest Odysseus thinks about music when jimi hendrix stood up at woodstock deconstructing national anthem on guitar it took courage when punk emerged with ugly screechy sounds attempting to divorce itself from melodious harmonies of 1970s complacent crosby stills nash  the dead kennedys and *** pistol did not pander to conventional commercial success what they performed were desperate gutsy songs trying to reclaim music rock’n’roll is no longer about inventing instead it imitates its glorious past hip-hop and rap come nearest to risking rebellion but are caught in gangsterism infantile self-adulation no longer does music offer vision of what is or could be instead it conjures looping escapism from hopelessness of modern life he continues working at record shop for several years store contains every genre of music cinema he grows weary of retail sales weary of higher-ups constantly changing rules dictating what to do head manager is manipulative drama queen thrives on crisis once in private admits stealing from company Odysseus nods not knowing what to say head manager works Odysseus hard keeps him down atmosphere of conspiracy betrayal hang at start of each day assistant manager routinely taunts berates bullies teases regularly calls Odysseus “dumb-****” or “****-up” other times laughs after goading Odysseus to flinch eventually bully backs off and they become friends retail pushes Odysseus to brink of misanthropy corporation requires all employees to exercise overt courteousness while serving a public of disrespectful gang bangers demanding “show me black market brotha lynch mac dre why ya godda keep dat **** behind da counter? dat’s ****** up hey old man i ain’t got all day” it always amazes him when shoplifter is caught with product stuffed down his pants thief blatantly states “i didn’t do it i don’t know how that got there” thanksgiving through christmas to new years is most swarming stressful he feels like automaton greeting customer scanning product looking at screen to see if price agrees with product typing money amount counting money into drawer counting money out handing change to customer handing customer product receipt next customer cockroach capitalism packs of masses line up in endless stream of needs stupid remarks job also involves trade appraising condition value resale probability of cds dvds video games tapes vhs vinyl news of  iraq war gets dismal mounting civilian casualties suicide bombers hostages beheadings beginning of 2004 reports of torture ****** psychological abuse **** ****** ****** of prisoners at abu ghraib prison guantanamo bay white house cover-ups denials growing insurgency increasing u.s. body count other costs he thinks about men and women who are so much braver than him then comes re-election and lavish republican parties parades cheney rumsfeld tom delay and whole regime smirk portentously on tv none of it makes sense anymore “we the people of the united states” what does it mean? the dreams and aspirations of his generation have long since faded away he is citizen of forgotten past current world is barbaric place he barely recognizes there are real pirates with machetes rocket launchers on the seas big drug corporations hiding harmful findings kidnapped children abandoned children crooked politicians corruption at every level of society horrifying stories daily ******* priests slave markets extreme heinous cruelties abruptly everyone is acknowledging society is worsening life is not the same he does not understand people and certainly does not understand america or the world he remembers when all could be so good modern existence has turned everything into madness what happened to lessons of history? it is as if Odysseus fell asleep and when he woke everything is changed he is mistaken about what he thinks he knows feels pity for people america pity disgust sorrow he misses his dog
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.do you really need a disclaimer, for this sort of work? no, not really... it's not exactly being allowed the equivalency of dropping an in excess of 2000mg of paracetamol.

the one aspect of legacy media, that still has some viability, akin to rekindling the famous extract from the movie: all the presidents men... is concerns for metal health issues of youngsters, who didn't have, the, "privilege" of being exposed to internet ergonomics, other than within the confines of gaming, they came far too late for, what replaced mp3 sharing.... ideas are not exactly sound-bites of copyright infringement...

**** me... do i really have to slap then punch
myself in the face, to remotely stay
awake while drinking ***** like pepsi
sharpshooters?
     i guess so...

   i too, "suffered" from roman bulimia,
the classical kind...
   don't ask me how i managed to make
the esophagus contender of the heart,
muscle...
                 at first it was cheap choc down
the throat, missing on brushing my
teeth for 48 hours...
   then... ******* down the throat,
like the ****-style gimmick of the Watergate
informant...
       came back up, bundled in quasi turds
packages...
               classical Roman bulimia -
eat, regurgitate, eat some more,
hell, now you have a Pompeii style
banquet of the coming of age...
laxatives?
that's no bulimia...
  bulimia is an extension of an ancient
Roman practice, akin to throwing yourself
****-naked into a nettle shrub area...
to get the "itches"...
     that method, involved in energizing
the neuron extension of the skin...
              it's a "placebo" itch...
   nettles, ancient Romans,
and bulimia like the rite of a loss of
virginity of kings...
      festering at its core... of the French court...
with a *****'s teaching apparatus,
leveraging the use of, a single "tool"...
           and even though the ancient Romans
never reached my people...
i get to abuse their phonetic encoding stratum...
bulimia... sure... i, "suffered" from it...
not really, no... i ******* enjoyed
the regurgitation process...
   anti-Grecian pederasty gimmick...
(a) taking a ****
   (b) oral regurgitation
   imitating an ancient Roman banquet
(c) / (d) ensuring the two entry points
are filled by an external source -
wishing for vanilla custard *******...
none to be...
    oops...
               so no one taught these girls
about ancient Roman bulimic
practices?
   you work on the esophagus...
                       by the time i finished
the transition period...
  i automated the esophagus reaction...
like training gymnastics for a six-pack...
no longer ******* down the throat...
you say charge? i think of
a rhino juggernaut...
           so no one bothered these girls
introducing ancient methodologies
to their predicament?
    no training of the esophagus,
no two (index + middle) fingers down
their throat to ease their larynx from
a gagging order?
    none of it?
   they'll grow out of it!
i did...
       drink a liter of ***** per day
and i'm feeling: shimmy!
          upon each nocturnal investment
that i translate into writing...
      anorexia?
    give them excess coffee...
              or strong cider...
      the most pristine aperitif...
    you can't cure anorexia with either
drips or syringes...
   you need aperitifs...
                     but please don't give them
white vinegar...
           you need a balance of alcohol
overcoming the sugars...
     strong beer is alcohol overcoming
starches... won't work...
     coffee and sugar helps...
  both simulate the pristine form of
the marijuana *****...
             it's not poison...
so why should i care?
   oh but i do care... reading this article...
troubled teenagers dodge Instagtram
   curbs on photos glorifying self-harm
...
ever tried burning out a cigarette tip
on your knuckle?
   ever wondered about
    warming up a hand of scissors and
giving yourself an indie tattoo?
   while at the same time...
relying on the mouse principle?
i.e. remaining pipsqueak clean from
making any noise?!
              cutting is so crass...
so unimaginative...
  you will not achieve the adrenaline *****
status of a stab-victim...
   there is no element of surprise...
but...
     if you really want to ingest pain?
hmm... hmm?
            heat up a scissor arm...
   and put it against your skin...
            and then... EAT... the pain...
with what you can surmount in and with,
silence...
                   cutting is too... dramatic...
at least burning yourself you have
not achieved the stature of a shedding blood...
cleaner, more effective,
think of orange recycling bags
collected at the start of the week...

              **** me though...
you seen the comradely behavior
of competing athletes, at the european
championships in Berlin,
   with the pole vaulters?
   Armand Duplantis -
congratulated for having crossed
the 6m benchmark of respectability...
now... that's sport!
football, soccer, basketball,
call it what you like...
   that's not sport, that's business,
that's advertisement...
     that's concussion cover-ups...

Epke Zonderland? also a doctor...
communist Poland believed in
sport, sport on the side,
   sport was never to reach status
of a mono-career investment...
            most of the local football
players from my hometown,
also worked less hours in
the metallurgy plant...
                  that's sport...
   a healthy balance...
which, mainstream sport is lacking...
oh look...
   the women doing the hammer throw,
or the discus...
   not exactly Vogue / Chanel catwalk
material...
    mandible beauties...

    to be honest? the doping affair
in the Olympic sports?
   but a minor setback of credibility...
     i rather watch that...
   than those pitiable 22 ballerinas in soccer.
Tammy M Darby Jan 2014
Evening slipped into the long abyss
So fell the red moon
Malicious shadows forecasting doom
For the cursed animal man
Inhabiting the precious earth

Fearsome rolling rivers ran dry
Black smoke filled the spanning azure skies
The churning murky green oceans gave up the bones of their dead
When the moon turned red

The crust of the hard ground shook
Split and burst into deep fiery crevasses
Dark yellow orange smoldering nooks
Swallowing all of life
So obliterated was mans world as we know it
Destroyed
Barron and dead
When the moon turned red

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Jan.10, 2014
Tammy M Darby Sep 2015
Loves shadows and hates fire
Whisper softly my hearts desire
To a cold dead moon
As the old demons howl
The ground in terror will tremble and shake

A bloodless murderers hand
Into my steaming cauldron is thrown
Long toothed Blue bats wing from northern caves
Mixed with enchanted grave dust stolen from the fairy land

Out of my blue colored feather covered bag
A tiny sticky yellow red eyed frog
One shiny two horned pinching beetle
That will bite no more
Into the ***
Three long gray hairs from a rabid dog

I sing the song humans fear
The notes fall upon frightened ears
My words travel deadly and silently
A venomous arrow into the night
Laying upon my victim
A fine coverlet of blindness
By spell removing their sight

Loves shadows and hates fire
Whisper softly my hearts desire
To a cold black dead moon
As the old demons howl
The ground in terror will tremble and shake

Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby September 9,  2015.
Tammy M Darby Dec 2013
Hell's demons are everywhere
If I could only convince you to see
Drinking gin and tonic with style
Sipping haughtily on lemon and tea

Their distorted evil frightening faces
Are masked from human sight
As they pass you with indifference
Grinning and nodding
Moving left to right

However
Without warning
As their vicious appetites call
Growing hungry for souls
In the silence of the night
They gobble up foolish sinners they encounter
That disappear forever from sight

So the next time you have the desire to dine in the  evening
Take a  moment or a second or two
Remember faces are not all they seem
A demon may be sipping a martini,
While smiling and sitting right next to you


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Tammy M Darby Oct 2014
What do you think  xy would do?
If he dressed in red and high black shoes.
One fine summer day A = B met
Exactly alike in elements
Produced their own sets

With a ...
Everything keeps on going.
Out jumps { },
Nothing is showing.

So natural numbers are the same as counting
What other kinds are there?
Tell us quickly please
The tension is mounting

Did you say members or elements?
Are there many?
What a find.
Infinite or finite sets,
Numbers in a line

Taking the time,
Oh woeful occasion.
The struggle of learning
Mathematical expressions.

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Oct. 22, 2014
Tammy M Darby Jul 2013
On the molded plastic black keys
Tip- tap tipping away  
Smiling wickedly
With self-satisfaction
Words deliberately in a sociopathic array

Crazed Eyes agleam
Thoughts rambling across the planets
In and out of reality
Both far and away

Each letter vibrates with its own life
The deranged wordsmith's release
So the clicking and typing
Systemic vacant sounds
Never seem to cease

To the mad poet
The combinations of descriptive words
Overpowering
Promotes the disease
Hypnotizing
Beguiling
Calling in a sweet voice
To the mad poet
In letters A to Z


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),

Tammy M Darby
“Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.”
                                                    ­ George Orwell, 1984* (published in 1949)

Which brings us, of course, to the subject of torture since 1949.
Come with me to the Casbah, Babaloo.
We begin in the 1950s with the French in North Africa,
****** baguettes in Algeria,
Couilles frits, anyone?
Electrodes wired to Mustapha’s *****.
And "Bigeard's Shrimps,” as the bodies were called,
Dumped over the Mediterranean from aircraft,
All things considered a je ne sais quoi,
Though Camus and Sartre gave it a whack.

Then the 1960s: the CIA dabbling in mind-control and LSD.
Later, a Phoenix Program,
Very secretive, sympathies with the Cong required,
Various elders selected,
The village disinfected,
**, **, ** and a bowl of Pho.

Apartheid anyone?
Thirty years of South African terror & torture.
Torment in the townships,
Shaka Zulu gold and diamonds,
De Beers in Swaziland swing.

1971: riots at Attica,
Prisoners abused and tortured,
Rockefeller’s overcrowded slammer,
An upstate New York katzenjammer,
Nelson’s finger on the trigger,
39 dead and counting,
But who’s counting?

The CIA, back in the news in 1973,
Torture chambers under Chilean soccer stadiums,
And the Khmer Rouge:
Those Wacky Cambodians with skull racks.  
And let us not forget the British,
With centuries of colonial experience behind them,
Occupy six counties in Northern Ireland.
Finally codify the imperial process,
The Five Techniques:
Sounds like a Motown group,
Satin smooth colored boys,
But more method than music:
(1) Wall-standing,
(2) Hooding,
(3) Subjection to noise,
(4) Sleep deprivation,
(5) No food and drink.

And there’s a bunch of horrible ****,
We still don’t know about the Argentine ***** War,
And other Mai Lai-like,
****-fest massacres in Vietnam.

How about torture since 1984?
Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo,
Come quickly,
(www.prematureejaculatorsanonymous.com)
To mind,
As do US-sponsored rendition facilities,
Spread throughout the NATO alliance.
And closer to home, it’s never a dull moment in the 5 Boroughs:
Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, The Bronx and Manhattan.
Take your pick from Giuliani’s Greatest Hits,
Rudy Kazootie’s campaign of law and order,
Not necessarily in that order.
More awful than lawful,
A bathroom plunger rammed up,
The Haitian voodoo ****** of Abner Louima,
While he be handcuffed at a Brooklyn station house.
Or, the NYPD partying like it was 1999.
When in fact, it was1999,
And a curious death it was for Amadou Diallo,
Would-be American citizen from The Republic of Guinea,
(No connection to Italy or Italians),
Abner & Amadou: a pair of cautionary tales,
Either/or reflecting standard procedure for the Po-Po,
Time and time again from coast to coast.
Either/or: poor Abner, no Haitian Papa Doc.
Poor Amadou, on his way home from night school,
When police squeeze off 41 rounds,
Most of them in his direction,
Hitting him 19 times.
Just the facts, ma’am:
Diallo had reached into his jacket.
A trigger-happy police officer yells “Gun.”
A jungle warfare quartet springs into action:
Shenzi, Banzai, Ed & Zazu,
Four equally trigger-happy colleagues,
Empty their weapons.
No gun was found on Diallo,
Only the wallet he tried to pull out,
Containing his Green Card,
4 U.S. dollar bills;
And a laminated,
Credit card-sized copy of the U.S. Bill of Rights.
(I just didn’t know when to quit, did I?
The wallet was there with Green Card and the bucks,
But I made up the part about the Bill of Rights,
Trying to add poetry to tragedy, as usual.)

I don’t have to say much about Rodney King (RIP).
You watched it on TV a hundred times,
And a picture’s worth a thousand words.
Or ten thousand or a million, I suppose.
“Can’t we all just get along?” asked Rodney Glen King.

Last but not least there’s Kelly Thomas (RIP),
Another incidence of police insanity,
It was July of 2011 in Fullerton, California.
Thomas, a 37-year-old homeless man,
Schizophrenic, but unarmed,
Beaten to death at a bus depot,
During an altercation with six Fullerton police officers.
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2019225/Kelly-Thomas-Poli­­ce-beat-taser-gentle-mentally-ill-homeless-man­-death.html#ixzz1e­3­4QnHtr

Mervyn Lazarus | Attorney | (www.mervlazarus.com) Police Brutality, Excessive Force and Jail Injury cases | California . . . Albuquerque

Jackie Chiles perfect attorney -YouTube, (www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpcEietIoxk) Nov 17, 2010 - 13 min - Uploaded by Kroeger22 All the scenes with Jackie Chiles from Seinfeld."Chiles is a parody of famed attorney Johnnie Cochran; both ... www.seinfeld.com

Perhaps the greatest torture of all,
Is that which artists subject us to.
Let us examine the case of Roberto Bolaño:
Roberto Bolaño, the great Chilean writer,
Tells a fabulous World War II story,
About a Spaniard--an Andalusian--
Fighting for the Germans against the Russians.
Captured by the Russians,
He is tortured for information.
The Spaniard speaks no Russian,
He knows only four words of German.
The Russian interrogators strap him into a chair,
Attach electrodes to his *****,
Attach pincers to his tongue.
The pain makes his eyes water.
He said--or rather shouts--the word coño.
It is Spanish for ****.
The pincers in his mouth,
Distort the expletive,
Which in his howling voice comes out as KUNST.
The Russian who knows German looks at him in puzzlement.
The Andalusian was yelling KUNST,
Yelling KUNST and crying in pain.
KUNST in German means art,
And that was what the bilingual Russian heard, KUNST.
“This ******* must be an artist or something.”
The torturers remove the pincers,
Along with a little piece of tongue,
And wait, momentarily hypnotized by the revelation:
The word ART had soothed the savage beasts.
So soothed, the savage beasts take a breather,
Waiting for some kind of signal.
Meanwhile, the Andalusian bleeds from the mouth,
Swallows his blood liberally mixed with saliva, and chokes.
The word coño,
Transformed into the word *KUNST,

Had saved his life.
It was dusk when he came out of the building.
Light stabbed at his eyes like midday sun.

So, it’s a fact that I love,
Truly love the simple blunt Anglo-Saxon expletive ****,
****: I pray that while I am being tortured some day,
I have the dignity to scream the word out loud.
And if I am screaming **** at the very end,
When my nervous system finally fails,
When I **** my pants,
When my pulmonic heart and lungs collapse,
Is that so bad?
Is that so wrong?

Do you realize that 1984 came--
Came and went, without any significant cultural hoopla?
The networks ignored it.
As did the cable pundits.
No significant comparative analysis between,
Orwell’s book 1984 and the year 1984,
Was broadcast electronically or publicized in print.
Steve Jobs got it, but as usual no one else did.
Mr. Jobs (RIP) did his best,
To mainstream its profound cultural relevance,
But ultimately failed,
Despite the $1.5 million he paid one of the networks,
To air a one minute nation-wide commercial,
During the 3rd Quarter,
Of Super Bowl XVIII,
January 22, 1984.
Despite Ridley Scott’s astonishing spell-binder,
His 60-second spot for The Macintosh 128K--
Still considered a watershed event,
And an advertising industry masterpiece,
…YouTube it and watch it.  (www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8ji0B98IMo).
See the hammer throwing athlete chick,
See her fling the sledge,
That huge sledgehammer,
Smash into Big Brother’s flat screen face.
Despite Jobs’ global presence,
Despite Steverino’s unfettered microphone access,
Whenever he felt an oraculation coming on,
Despite everything,
He was unable to move the powers that be,
To either hype the book or the prophecy come true.

So, what’s my point? I have two.
First, in April 1984 the estate of George Orwell,
And the television rights holder to the novel 1984,
Considered the edgy Jobs/Scott commercial to be,
A flagrant copyright infringement,
Sending a cease-and-desist letter to Apple Inc.
And the advertising agency that produced the spot: Chiat/Day Inc.
The commercial was never televised as a commercial after that.  
Score: Lawyers 1, Artists 0.

My second point is that in November 2011,
The U.S. government argued before the U. S. Supreme Court,
That it wants to continue utilizing GPS tracking of individuals,
Without first seeking a warrant.
In response, Justice Stephen Breyer (one of the sane ones),
Questioned what this means for a democratic society.
Referencing Nineteen Eighty-Four, Justice Breyer asked:
"If you win this case, then there is nothing,
To prevent the police or the government from monitoring 24/7,
The public movement of every citizen of the United States.
So if you win, you suddenly produce what sounds like 1984 . . .”*

My third point,
(Yeah, I know I said two, but *******.)
My third point is that I’m just so ******* angry,
All the time, late and soon like Wordsworth,
(Was anyone more aptly named?)
I am angry about so many different things,
And every day that goes by I relate more and more,
To the thousands of Americans that occupied,
Zuccotti Park and Oakland,
And countless other venues,
Out into the streets.
Across the country.
Around the world.  
I am humbled by their courage and perseverance.
Yet, I am afraid for them.
I am made paranoid by the scope and power,
Of the government,
Of the ruling class that controls it,
And the technology they allow us to embrace,
Technology’s sinister potential,
Now that more and more knowledge and information,
Has been digitized,
Existing only in cyberspace.                                                      ­                                                 
What frightens most is the realization,
That anyone with a word processor,
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.
The scary part is—
Repeating myself for emphasis—
That anyone with a word processor
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.

Does anyone out there give a ****?
Does anyone out there share my nightmare?
Do it to Julia.
Do it to Julia.
Tammy M Darby Jul 2013
It is said by smell
Impossible be detected
I am here to say they are quite mistaken
For it is as heavy as night blooming jasmine
Overpowering
Intoxicating

The smell of white calla lilies
Heralds the coming of death
Announcing another soul from life taken
Despair  indeed has a scent

Lain on a headstone in reverence
The wreath of flowers
Posses a perfume of its own
Depression and loss infiltrate the heart
A cologne that permeates the air
There is I can assure you
A fragrance of despair

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base.  All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
well, if everyone is
   going to be so *******
honest...

   tender, little melancholics
   attempting to punch
   above their weight...

egomaniac? always a superstition,
littered with scatter brains,
broken mirrors
   and: the eternal fire -
no longer a choking smoke...
   shrapnel from some fungus,
or some whizz-kid's experiment
in the Swiss Alps...

initial psychosis?
   oh sure... peppered with
polka dots of hallucinations,
some visual,
but mostly auditory...
   a bit like:
    being forced out of your
own head,
   but not your body...
i could call it:
     being fertilißed...

mainstream: "transgender"
hot topics...
get a load of this one:
all metaphor,
   the closest approximation
of the truth, or subsequent
"feelings"...
      the body is left intact,
the brain though:
   what's the difference
between psychosis
         and osmosis?

an etymological study:
shared suffix:
    -osis
                and that's about it...
but initial psychosis:
for all the fear,
   for all my travels between
London and Edinburgh
and Glasgow,
and Dover,
   and Athens,
   and... Serbia...
              Katowice...
          wherever i went:
i had ants up my ***,
         fidgety ******, i was...
i'm pretty ******* sure,
that if i decided to drop l.s.d.
i would be unimpressed...
compared to my initial
psychosis... which lasted
for... how long was it?
anyone care for the scale,
i just don't exactly remember:
months, years?
  i'd be boasting if i put it
on a weeks scale...

2nd tier psychosis...
ugh... too much Kant...
                 no hallucinations...
just debiliating thoughts,
a chimera of p.t.s.d.,
  depression and the whole
rainbow of the DSM...
    more ****-heads in these parts
than genitals or anti-genitals
or... whatever hormonal... thing...
there's to it...

look closer at
  the orthodox madmen...
and now look at:
    acceptable madness...
we're hardly cripples...
crippling thoughts yes,
in this case,
   a 2 week period of absolute,
unadulterated debility:
no i know where the word
comes from in ****** for
idiot, i.e. debil...

2nd tier psychosis:
it's a noumenon...
    unlike a phenomenon
you might hear about...
when some schizoid can't
restrain himself
and goes off off the tangent
of: perfectly normal
paranoia...

          what? if everyone's
going to be so ******* honest,
i might as well throw my two
cents into the wishing well...
if i write this out,
bash the blank slate,
that's me one step away
from doing it to a punching
bag... which...
i usually associate with:
exhausts the body...
   and the mind was always
   just silent, in accordance to:
elvis... has just... left the building.

i wonder what a 3rd tier
psychosis is...
              and there i was thinking:
the problem with madness,
you can only go mad once...
apparently you can
go mad twice...
   it was never going to be
a terminal illness...
madness is... like...
fluctuations...
   it changes over time...
       and with it: the language...
unless of course
    i'll be restricted,
akin to that amazon show
homecoming
   (julia wobewts:
tongue numb, forgot to trill,
lisp and all)...
   then again:
   memory is a fickle faculty,
i actually don't possess
the will to remember what
i want,
    or what i don't want...
it's almost automated,
akin to:
         the "ancient" rubrics
of pedagogy on a teen level
of exposure...

  as ever: first comes the drill...
2 x 2 = 4, a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j...
like: who the **** invented
this pointless memory gap,
this pointless rust,
this pointless sequence of
non-events?
        memory erosion:
   right there, in school...
and not even a "menial" task
at hand...
   not even a craft that can be
repeated, over and over again:
for a reason...
  that it can be perfected,
and therefore made, easier...

yeah... 2nd tier psychosis
is too orientating,
thereby not disorientating,
therefore not a phenomenon,
but a noumenon...
therefore a cold-sweat horror...
and not as much
of a scenario of running
a mythical marathon
up and down England to Scotland,
or across Europe
   to Athens...

and there i was thinking...
perhaps one day...
    i might have a curious reader
akin to r. d. laing...
                      one day...

infringement on i.q.?
   who said anything about
an infringement on i.q.?
            well there's the exfoliation
process of...
   ridding oneself of the tuxedo
of social norms, constrictions...
like any old person might
given the notion: **** it,
i'm old, i don't care...
        the paranoid aspect is
associated with:
    youth...
        and the whole:
                   not yet, not yet...
well... if not now, then, then?

          brash, crass...
whatever you want to call it:
hit the iron while its hot...
            and here i am thinking...
so... this premature melancholics
is... the new, "normal"?

welcome to the chemistry circus
of lady pharma:
i always wanted to think of
my brain is either a chemical soup,
or my use of language
as a salad...
   that'll go just fine,
with the main course
                            of jesus christ.
Tammy M Darby Jan 2016
Words flow across my skin'
Icy Poisoned Silver droplets
I wash way the thoughts of normality
To dance with shadowy images of time  
As I plunge into the waters of emotions seething wildly
And my face reveal the sublime

Death take my cold hand bade me follow
I swim in the ocean of forever's sorrow
So cloak my cold body with the stars of sadness
As I bathe in the moonlight of madness


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Tammy M Darby Jul 2013
Happy Valentines Day

If Venus child
Come loves melody sing
I shall break the bow
And slash the string

If he dare to infect me
Trick my heart into desire
Seasoned on a spit he will be
Roasted in a blazing fire

Conniving
Whisper sweet nothings in my ear
Tear off his wings
Turn my eyes from his tears

Not by the all the gods decree
Will I commit my love to another
Binding his mischievous hands
Return him swiftly to his mother

My warnings are clear
Unheeded
Towards me he point the arrow
His last sweet breath
This cherub shall inhale
Never more see the morrow



This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base.  All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M. Darby
Tammy M Darby Jul 2013
From the black recesses of the earth
She rose from her long slumber
Icy death smile on her crimson lips
Face gleaming with wicked knowledge


Slanted eyes of emerald green
Glazed and mad
Her crown jewels of the dead
Bleached human bones
Encircled her head

Fine glass complexion of shimmering gold
She spoke the words of The Sleeping Three
Hair falling in rich waves down to the floor of snakes
The color of the crows breast
A rich purple ebony

Snake scale gown of finely woven human skins
Gathered from her poor victims sin
Wrapped round her lithe body
A thousand souls it took to weave

Awakened from its dark sleep
Spells cast in  hell's deep
By a powerful witch
Who stirred the cauldron
Tainted with revenge

The demon was now visible to sight
The apparition appeared in smoke and orange red light
To bow down and submit to the witches bidding
The command never waived from intent
One of chaos and death
Slaughtered, cold in rows they lay

Pity for the one this creature seeks
Of a terrible perfume her heart reeks
That of blood and brimstone
Perfumed smoke and fire
The devil is her line and sire


So by demons touch
Plotting cold hands
She claims the souls of mortal man
More thread for her clothing
The beautiful demon


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Regal Pinion Sep 2013
Think I'm strange? Why do you ponder?
My wit's so quick it leaves behind thunder
It got me arrested the other day
They said 'sir, please put that knife away'
But it was sharp enough to slice right by
Subtle enough to slip and hide
Imagery so visual there's spotlight and stage
Bow to the audience and present the Word Play

Abstract, deep, or maybe pretentious
If that's weak then save me sweetness
Or just be bitter all the time
I think we need more flavors in our lives
But some phrases are too sour
Some spicy hot
Combine them in a daily diet
Eat up the lot

Synesthesia hides in these words
Taste the color of what you just heard
Compare the senses that I stirred
As each sentence takes the third
Stanza

Oh Santa what have you got this time?
Were you there to spare a fair
But lazily placed rhyme?

Yeah right twas the night
Before crisscross applesauce
When all through my head
Concepts, points, tangential joints
Changed all of the topics instead

Now say 'bye'
To your mind's eye
As it all becomes so real
And paint a picture
So dreamlike
As it all becomes surreal

How do you feel? Not with your heart
Now let's leave that enclosed
I refer to the hands. Understand?
Palms tapping and exposed

Oh no. Here you go:
A pun and paradox
How do I land my desert boat
By these dark white pair of docks?

"No. Look see, *****,
It's an oxymoron"
Well isn't that just great
Zip the chit chat
Have a Kit-Kat
While I take a...

No wait! Don't break copyright infringement
Clichéd rhymes should have signed I'm going off the hinges
Some were so slant that even Emily Dickinson
Would refuse to go and ski on them and she'd rather stay hidden

Was that reference too obscure or was that understood too fast?
Now that I asked that question I look like an ***

I'd break the ice but I can't skate
I'd break the glass but it'll lacerate
I'd break the tension but at this rate
I'd break my spirits when it's too late
Too late for what? Explain you say
Okay:
No.
Poems can be made to be vague
Flow so sick it causes a plague

Well let's just say my home anyway
Runs off a never ending source from me each day
The energy:
Power
Of Wordplay
When Prog-Hip Hop and Boredom get together, they get a bit too friendly and have a child.  
This poem is that child. And the metaphor used to describe was entirely necessary.
Jayanta Apr 2014
It was decided that,
Sun will shine,
Flowers will bloom,
Rivers will flow
and the Children’s of God will play around with smile!
But, it is not materialized!
Now, Sun is shine,   but it burns all the greens,
Flowers bloom, but it releases venom,
Rivers flows, but it creates an ocean of tears,
And all the children’s of god soar away,
In the qualms of devil’s children!
Devil’s predecessors are play around
with toxin in their hand !
Tammy M Darby Oct 2014
The night descended upon the day
Inhaling the goodness
Smothering
Murderous
Diseased and dark

.Mankind swallowed down the perverse evil and sickened
Desperate for the emotions once felt
No longer remembered
That will once more warm and quicken
Dead jaded hearts,

Rose from their bank's angry rivers
Now rocky dry brooks
The ocean overcame the land
Islands sank to sea beds below
The earth furious heaved and split
The coals of the sleeping volcano's were lit

Humanity shivered in moldy damp caves
Counting their once thought endless days
No longer gods of the earth
Of green rich ground
Or untouchable stars
The world was falling apart


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Oct. 8, 2014
Tammy M Darby Jan 2014
The battle ensued
Between combatants heart and mind
As loneliness whispered softly
Of tenderness
In cooing song and rhyme

The brain issued a stern warning
Of heartache and the ache of sorrow
The turmoil of the soul
And the price
The wrath of storms coming

Love ignored words of caution
With little thought of consequence
Forging fearlessly and foolishly ahead
Igniting a small spark
Accompanied smoke trails in the night
Long ago thought dead

Glowing orange blue flickering embers
Soon a smoldering burning fire
Did awaken from memories long sleep
The emotion
Desire

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
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Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Dec. 26, 2014
Yawnoc Apr 2021
I thought y'all said no bullying !
So why would these words seem to excite,
they banned Farrakhan from social media then passed the mic to Trump,
how bout that first Amendment Right.

I thought y'all said no bullying !
But it's like we never heard it,
police **** blacks on purpose all of the time,
then come out with a not guilty verdict.

I thought y'all said no bullying !
But you lie at what you say,
people are losing their jobs in droves around this country,
because they don't believe in being gay.

I thought y'all said no bullying !
So when it comes to a rule they bend it,
all guns **** but Biden wants to ban the AR-15,
ain't that infringement on the second Amendment.

I thought y'all said no bullying !
These distractions are getting out of hand,
why does my son have to see a grown man dressed up like a woman in the public,
when I'm in the process of teaching my son
how to be a man!!!!!

I THOUGHT Y'ALL SAID NO BULLYING!!!!!!
Ar-15 bullying cats dogs gays lesbians police girls boys black people Farrakhan second Amendment Right
Tammy M Darby Aug 2013
One can only imagine
The height and peaks
That may be reached
Until the chase begins

Off dreamland you go
The smoke is offered to all
Who seek this elusive creature
Possessing desire to gaze into its eyes

Chasing the Dragon
Rare nectar for the mind
It may only be found
In the gray fog of sweetness

Within  swirling curls of smoke
Carefully hidden
The dragons yoke
For once tasted
Forever will you crave the hunt

So as the rest
I chase the dragon
Through out the universe and time
My life never more be my own
Tall mountains I will climb
In my quest to ensnare the beast
Chasing the dragon



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Tammy M Darby Sep 2013
A powerful witch
She began to spin
Waiting for the spell to begin

Head held high
She did not weep
Close to the heart
Revenge did keep

Strong in mind
Never break
Upon red moon
His life did take

Now she danced arms raised to the sky
As the captured soul
faded and died

A fierce creature
From beginning to end
Beware of the witch
When she starts to spin




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Kate Lion Feb 2013
I find myself sidewalking everything
So Silverstein was lucky to know where it ends
Will I ever be privileged to discover such a thing?
Too many trivial needs distract from its pursuit
But how am I to know?
When it's time, I only cared for my toys
The way the sheeple only care for their handouts
Do tell; if the Pentagon lays off 800,000 people
Will we know they're telling the truth about unemployment
When their words flow between mouthfuls
Of stolen fruit and gold
At the table of the elite
So tell me, who is John Galt?
I sit at a table with a mind that knows how to think for himself
And can't help but think this is the purest form of elitism:
Until at last the time has come
For the imminent end of all serfdom
Brought by the brawn of the brainy
How are we to keep our heads when the others ***** us over
Take our heads clean off to see the contents
Only the strongest can withstand the attempts to skew ideas
Upon who's minds the lying flies
Forced off by intellect
The simple last defender of God and liberty
Big Brother would have us not discuss such things
At times, I feel that we are the last in the world
So, tell me- if this paper is the last in the world, have we written something significant?
I've no doubt the world will see
The mistakes of society
Time then, will bring forth a new renaissance, with us as creators
And they, as the readers of some disconnected thoughts
Written at a time when the end of a page was a good stopping point for poetry, but not for the limit of government infringement on personal freedom.
My friend and I passed a paper back and forth across a table at Rumbi Island Grill; we each wrote three lines at a time and only let the other person see the last line.  This is the poem that came out of it.
Tammy M Darby Nov 2013
The emotions of a human
Can be lightly
Played and strummed
It can resemble the steady beat of a heart
The sound cannot be replicated
Repeated or duplicated
Once the disturbing melody starts

The highest strings
Penetrates the mind
Representing the sadness and anxiety
For now you are quite alone
The shrillness will increase in strength
But will remain dark in tone

The lower strings
They are the loss of hope
Relaying disillusion
These strings are taut
Specifically for you
In my composition
I will most certainly use them

To complete my vengeful melodies
The strands I pluck and choose
Shall be your life's situation
For you, my sly one are the harp
And I am the musician

I strum the strings one by one
In a familiar rhythm, you know
I am smiling at your rapid demise
As your heart implodes silently and slow

I will continue to play you
Throughout your life
My tunes filled with retribution
Have no doubt
We both know it is true
You are the harp
And I am the musician

The strange and eerie song I play
Notes chose for their intent
For all the damage you have caused my dear
The strings I choose will represent

Now I perform this song
For your blackened soul
Upon which there will be many lesions
Till the echoes of this music
Shall drive you into madness
For you are the harp my darling
I am the musician


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Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Tammy M Darby Feb 2016
May the Angel of sadness recline on your shoulder
The face betrayed grow larger and ever bolder
The pain of age creep into your bones
While the ghost that haunts you
Sing her sorrowful song

Casting anguish and silver star dust into angry winds
Let that paid for in blood begin
No path to follow
No sanctuary in which to hide
In the desperate stillness of the night

It shall be as the as the dark words were spoken
The curse of life
The gift of hatred
The token

May the Angel of regret wear now the wedding band
The cold demon of revenge caress your wretched hand
These gifts are given deliberately with spite
It awaits you
The desperate stillness of the night

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
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Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M Darby  2/25/2016
Tammy M Darby Jul 2013
Pitter
Patter
Fall the rain
The dwelling
Bedlam of London
Residence of the insane

Behind metal rusted bars
Shall they forever remain
Raving madmen  
With minds chaos they lay

How many poets
Are in the echoing screams
The artists visions
In lifeless eyes
A vacant being

The sculptor
Genius hands
Frozen into stone
Frightened into psychosis
For fear being alone

Pitter Patter
The maniacs clatter
Lightly fall the rain
Upon the dark roof
As the lunatics howl

Pitter Patter



This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base.  All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
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Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby
Tammy M Darby Dec 2013
Charge in bravely
Release the components of intent
Seek justice long in coming
Press steadily forward
Refusing to relent
Contumacious in action and thought
Until the last drop of courage is spent

Demand respect from enemies
If given with honor
Return in kind the same
But by no means or reason
Ever concede the game

Instead
Cry Chaos
Inflict stinging blows
Focused
This strange power you now posses
Take hold
Scream chaos in defiance
Unsheath your sword

(This is the result of reading Shakespeare)
My new word for the day   Contumacious    (rebellious or defiant in nature)

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
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Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Tammy M Darby Jan 2015
From sleeps sweet embrace
To become realities eyes
Clouded with a dark imagination
Set forth in a torturous rhyme

Insanity my love
Premeditated thoughts undisclosed
Revealed the prophecy
Attired in woe

Each long night when dreams turned to sand
The delicate soul lay bathed in tears
Doing battle protected by the amour of loyalty
Overcoming the conquests of fear

Nightmares emerged from sleeps sweet embrace
Memories became realities stark face.
Morning comes and ends the assault
A peace that is gained
At a terrible cost.


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
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Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Jan.7,  2015
aria xero Dec 2012
Let's talk about *** baby...
Well tell her that I miss our little talks,
And I'm caught in the crossfire of my own thoughts
If you escaped what I've escaped, you'd be in Paris getting ****** up too
Baby, Baby, Baby oh... like baby, baby, baby no
Can you forgive the things I do, that I can't amend?
Through the causes of my mistakes,
You'll never know dear how much I love you.
Floating down a raging river,
Maybe then I can learn to swim like 13 miles away.
You left my soul bleeding in the dark,
I can't survive without your sweet love, oh baby...don't leave me this way.
Touch me and then turn away,
Never gonna give you up.
Life's too short to even care at all oh,
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa I want to be with you.
This is my love song to you.
And how can I stand here with you,
I should be over all the butterflies,
Oh, and it's only you, yeah, it's only you.
Tammy M Darby Aug 2013
Who will place two coins on my eyes
Down the river  Styx
My shade must glide

Two coins for the boatman
Ferry me away
To the throne of beautiful Persephone
Snatched from light of day

Two coins I cry
Two coins for my eyes
Through dark waters I float
To where my body must lie

Two coins for Charon
Always silent looks away
Never seeing a face
Or the light of day
Two coins


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base.  All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby
Tammy M Darby Nov 2013
He touched her with his big hands,
Kissed away the flow of tears
He offered his strength
She let the pain go.
He was the only one she could do this with

Rocking her gently
Pretending not to notice,
The quiet whimpering.
The muffled cries
Guarding her heart from all trespassers
While he stared into the night

He would never again allow sadness to befall her,
An oath he took to himself.
To the gods he prayed,
To protect her from harm
Pledging his soul
Any who dare try he would slay.
He is now and forever her protector,
She loved him,
Though some fear remained.

He was solid and hard as granite,
She was very dear to him,
His love.
His life.
Knowing of her sadness
He saw lines of violence
Written upon the small face

After a while the shadows disappeared,
From his beloved’s world
As he held her close, stroked her hair and sighed.
She was oh so very dear to him this damaged soul
His love,
His life.



This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
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Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
From the depression of the distances with respect to the horizontal and the planes that separated them from the surface, below the references that came against, single sediment had been destined towards the high eminence, before the fossal of megatons of aldehyde below the bilges of the final base, where the seventh rings of the goat ibex were perforated, all in the antipode of the Constellation of Capricornus; where the goats were enraptured in the binary of Wonthelimar, behind the floods of absorption that took the Diadocos far from where they should never have left, in order to extrasolar wishes and never to come. From the node of the supreme and poked aldehyde of the horn of Amalthea, with the bizarre analogy of Zeus and Wonthelimar, both mammals with milk from goat's udders, one from goat from Mount Ida and the other from Aldaine in the Alps, with milk from ibex and In the face of Amalthea that appeared in the fossal, all the Seleucid generals had already vanished, starting from the Viper Typhon, who in the retracting sub-mythology of Capricornus was transmigrated to Wonthelimar, swollen with the aldehyde transmuted into this alcohol and into the udder milk of the Ibix that He lactored, while they were all carried away as in the chambers of Auschwitz, in distant lanterns and lamps of the Calypso that he dismissed them, leaving them with the escorts of the ibex or goatfish in laudable stratagems, which vanished them away from their desires from a new polis or Nostos Patrída, sprinkling them with goatskin and flourishing essences of the kashmar of Zeus' nurse; Amaltheum or Amalthea.

The Iberian rings from the medrones in advance reached the two final ring nodes, here Wonthelimar intimidated them with an accurate adjacent bleat of the kashmar that rubbed their back, before the newest and last lux of Amalthea that vanished into herbaceous fruits that always He carried the barefoot medron with him, to start with the antlers dumbbells and re-transport them defeated to the species of snake that frightened the pastoral god Pan who shepherded, and then he submerged in the water after becoming Capricornus Ibex Fish. Being aware of this and of those who refused to continue listening, Ibics rings were unleashed until the seventh medron, feeding back with Wonthelimar who ad libitum created Venus in triads of Zeus. Wonthelimar and Amalthea were remote in the eighth and ninth medron of the antlers, they appropriated to each the portion of the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, and of the thirteenth Shemot so that their dualities and fumes from the unbreathable fossa would remain under the possessed surface of the pendular property balance and positive-negative gender correspondence. Right here Amalthea transmuted her mercy to save the world with her lactation of syrup and honey that was not in short supply, and that was extrapolated into a future abundance of food and nectar, making up for crusts that were uneven in average terms. From this bezel, both beings of the goat genome contributed to the pole of goodness for each one at the end of the benevolent cuirassiers of prospering, and not from the opposite that would lead them, even though they were dissimilar causes, towards a retrograde event that was not a consequence of the becoming of the plagues, and of the malignancy that does not flourish with the Shemot of the Parasha, to agree and lavish themselves on blessed virtues or deliberate wicked ones.

The meaning of a relative synchronic and factotum coexisting does not redeem the disintegration of an existential relativism in Skalá, the Hexagonal Primogeniture from one of its angular visions, metaphysically transfers from its temporary contingencies after its arrival on Patmos, while the temporary Seleucid temporality vanishes, It was affirmed from a contradiction since its truth was distended in the arena of Skalá not implying being welcomed, rather it was victimized by the absurd political dimorphism in a meta spiritual state, abdicating its dispersed retrospective, and now contemplating a compromise of the Hellenic genre, to gradually rebuke the virtues of their banners, twice as good for the purpose of reinforcing the will to accede, and not perish in the attempt to lead Alexander the Great. The criticism of founding the memories are of a revived past where it was not, marking the anthropological fact and false truth judgment, in meaning and contradiction in the polarity of both axiomatic genres, but that is saved when quantifying in who has to defend himself, if seeks to abrogate itself, in the entity that is characterized by induction and attraction of egonies and not of exo-egonies, thus describing it in the theme of "Do not support egos that recriminate other characters of frustration and empowerment of a Vernarthian logic split into Vern-narth. Vern has etymology of Bern or Bern olive tree of Gethsemane and narth of the ordinal scale that speculates its nickname in millions of northern sections of its origin, which subsumes the truth and the criterion of apocalyptic parapsychology, re-life of quantum historicity of the metaphysical and sub-block. -Mythological of Vernarth in his identical.

Everything seemed a strange self-annulment from a clear and understandable limit, but Wonthelimar rose to the surface of the Állos kósmos, finding himself in atmospheres of truth and reality of a Cantabile, who decided about the horse Kanti coming with him towing him from the Erebo de Chauvet Bilocated. As a musical and festive ending, he received them on the upper plate of the happened gestures, where a cabaletta rendered parts of a Cantabrian aria, in sulfurous and remorseful cavatina married with the cross emotions of a finale who sponsored expressions and festive Templar tales, with the descendants of Zeus or minor children, or grandchildren after this had to give him milk and honey but with báchkoi. Among the couplets that received him, some came about the smoke of terror that was confused with the dustbin of a Cavallo or horse acclaimed Kanti, with gasping bustling from a cardex, containing all the repertoires of a cantabile if this scene were to be repeated in The same epic allusion, and in random consequences, that go after a cavalcade that is not abstracted in real characters, but more in conformity with the well-deserved place of epic imaginative beings or in the operatic psychotropic of a duet, which would go flagellating in individuality and in each which is not content from another section of the Cantabrian.

The Universality of emotion and feeling is a tragic Parodo emulating voices of all those who sing from a cantabile galloping in their voices to the beat of the heart in some, and at the same time chanting stanzas and antistrophe in reverse epic and tragic lines, for the purposes of the coliseum that diametrically obstructs the Hellenic choir, which is attached to the intervention of the Hexagonal Primogeniture that was already beginning to rise in height, and in the prayers of Saint John, the Apostle and Prochorus from the captaincy and the ode that would begin to stanza, from the west to this and the antistrophe would follow with Vernarth, Wonthelimar and Alexander the Great from east to west. Ad libitum of their enjoyments, they were eating Greek snacks or Katogorias on the way in bases of Almonds, cinnamon, olive oil, sugar, and sweet wine that they carried on their backs in Rhytas shaped like the horns of Zeus and the Ibix of Wonthelimar, which the same Procorus carried on his golden back. The meaning is affirmed as a meaningless infringement of laws of temporality, and truthfulness at the expense of short evidence, and of facts that vanish in the light haze of causalism and not of effectism, when the adjective or noun is made of a strong verb in the Metabasis and in the imprecations that Vernarth gave.

Vernarth's metabasis: “the verse and the adjective will be subsidized by the noun in the construction of Állos Kosmo Megarón, from where mathematics will immaterially explain sap suckers under the noun in liquid milk of the color white and of the high nutritional value in female lactated, and of mammals to feed their goats or ibex. The soul of this prerogative implies that the verb will be to promote species rather than a nutritious milky elixir for Zeus, and the candor of his **** will tend to the bipedal or quadruped subject self-procreating from a Milky Specie. (Milky species).  Being ****** into milk by self-procreating snitches. Vernarth says (give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!)

Amalthea in rituals and relics from prospects of demigods was purposely cordoning them off in Mycenaean deities, from a contemporary Westerner comforting them near a hippocampus; with signs of ibex Capricornus, rapt at the nymph that spoke from Mount Ida in Crete and that she made congruent with the constellation of Capricornus, more precisely in the Cornucopia making this heraldry of Wonthelimar with Fortune, Abundance, Occasion, Liberality, Prudence and Joy. In a woman sitting on a throne, a young nymph with a flower crown, a naked woman with one foot on a wheel and the other unstable, a woman with sunken eyes and an aquiline nose dressed in white, two faces from the past and future, a woman happy with the exuberance of the Cornucopia with children and a palm leaf. Being the abundance that in serial Amalthea bordered all the ladies in different esoteric and Mycenaean prosperity, constantly shining with radiations on the present in the Unicorn Ibix, which Zeus left after breaking its antlers, unleashing kindness and plethora in fruit buds, and vegetables that were appropriated in the Fortune of Wonthelimar reissuing what in their domains they can do, and now in Patmos with its Cornupia being transferred from that liquefied shaft honey and milk cultivated with attributes of herbs contributing to the leisure, peace, and relaxation of the cosmic world that ascended in Wonthelimar as Ibix in advance of Capricornus, from where the Auriga always broke into his expeditions with a trajectory towards the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, where he brought it from the Capella Star for the femurs of the Diplodocuses who seconded Drestnia to watch over the hydraulic pits of the Koumeterium from Messolonghi, before traveling to Tangier.

The entire herd went back to an ancient promontory that was halfway up the mound towards the black styes or abscesses, in the central intuition of the fossa that began to dissipate towards their backs. Amalthea extends into the Állos Kósmos, which came in zoomorphic receptacles collecting the announced blood of the animals that flowed in black planks from the vortex of the fossal, towards the liminal or transitory sleeper of the fossal that oozed acetosities of the Aldehyde to be transmigrated after the bilocation of the Chauvet cavern. All wore willow halos on the crowns or diadems of their caps, including the proliferation of phantasmagoric Allies that went in rows from 780 to 680 BC. C., with fortunes of the Cornucopia that arched in magical arches due to the dissociative changes of the universe, as well as the circumstantial creed of some omnipotence that will cause emotional transgenerational transgression, in the rain vessels that they made fall from the Ombrio de Zeus, in a daily latticework closing the spaces, and only leaving for some intruders and onlookers to see his flashing Astrepé. Right here the diádoc fossal vanished, when it rose above the horizontal that poured into the Chronic Vernagrams of parapsychological personalities of ingenuity classicism and in Astro-concomitance, which would rethink everything that is past and future from a Vernagram, which is more than a compression of a mere future of the quantum spaces and the sacred medrones of the Ibixes with their direct relationship with Capricornus. Diverse capital moments were treasured in the breeze of the Vas Auric that was traced from the opposing moraine that fell in lapse-time, through the labyrinth in storms and thunderings that became planetary with the Lynothorax cuirass that Alexander the Great accommodated in the festoon border of his Aspis Koilé, kicking copiously as a sign of shaking the head of the gods who deceived him to be alive, and who was now reborn in the faith of Saint John the Apostle, favorite of the Mashiach and where he will have to wipe his face with the shroud of Veronica Before entering the Állos Kósmos Megaron that everyone built, in favor of a Panagia or Temple, unlocking the majolica that seeped out from the rest of the transmigration, and his own in the configuration of a corpse with a tricolor gesture.

The presumptive eradicated the side of the forearm rots that was being restored in Wonthelimar's laps, which helped him get up and catch his breath while the Katogorias snack filled his mouth with nectar and almonds with Macedonian Psiloi combat tactics with serum and flames of Alcohol dripped from her nostrils and sinuses in the sweet wine, which in pompous dilemma defied the judges of her life in the choir of the Bilocated Epidary Theater on Patmos, and in the ***** dry Kashmar of the orchard with the pale faces of the grotesque, that rested in the memory or Mnmosyne and in the fauna of the Thracian and Thessalian helmets.

Alexander the Great says: “here I agonized and now in the fresh waters of the springs of the Lerna, I will also marry the glorious mystay and bákchoi, in the memories of Vernarth seeing him besieged by Achaemenides in the stooped position of Dario III, to come purifying and sustaining of my limbs, learning to walk and speak in Neolithic techniques, which extruded me from the Lerna by barriers of the moon that shone from the bronze of my Leonatus helmet. Thus I could see that Vernarth, fought alone against thousands throwing fire through his mouth and his eyes, separating the waters of the Falangists, who plowed like ships deforesting the Persians, and leaving them in their mud, imposing glorious Hypaspists who unbolted from their back some arrows with heads of snakes and Hydras.

Vernarth watched as everyone climbed the Profitis Ilias mound, two hundred and sixty-nine meters above sea level, where the monastery of San Juan is located; here he was suspended in his solitude after everything that happened at the end of the moat that definitely I would return without the Diádocos, with a hint and its functionalities. From here Helios became genealogical, who snatched him from the kingdom of dead flowers, which were to be assumed from the Olympian where he will join him to the essential of Aïdoneus; immaterializing in the darkness of dizzies and the flowers that died in the genealogy of a new species. The scenic swept its cognitive and ferns with more than three hundred frank species that frowned like the enemy of an evil friend, with seedlings that expectorated from the resonance of the bushes that invited to thrive in the salty ripples that made a dreamer fall asleep on top of the kerchiefs or brambles that memorialized Gethsemane, burning his face and hands with psalms, telling him about his Baba. For when it is a luminary by night and by day, they will compare it with the white grayish drupes and mops, like those of the Bern orchard of Olives, in aqueous and resinous colloidal, which was crowned in harmony and syntropia in Vernarth activating intellectual conscious plantations, which will restructure its balance of ultra Hoplite, in metabolism of the Lentiscus flowers, with great brotherhood in the Olives that each time exercised the gift of bending their oleaginous self-species, towards planes of the Cornicabra olives, with large branches and high tree altitude that fruit within of the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko spin, juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, which with large branches and high tree altitude fruit within the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko line juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, and with polyphenols in scale geothermal energy that still leveled the Ponto Sea towards the tectonic plate to give it the flavor that was owed from remote prehistoric times.

Patmos was aborted from an immanent consent and new force of the impending enemy in Pythagorean perorations and an offending thought. From this prerogative is born the generalized punishment of sub-mythological ethics in favor of legacies of allusions to reorder or defragment the enslaving and demolished bio culture, which would begin from the establishment of the Vas Auric found in Limassol, which took possession from Rhodes with clean scenes from Tsambika monastery. The epic ran like icy cold down the shoulders of all those who sweated for the generation of cops, and in domestic evasions in superior lordships to Hades or Wonthelimar itself, both sons of flocks and goats that nourished them by providing them with a mountain perspective, as a magnetic pole towards gothic energy that ruled more in the Magnetic North Pole, and the geographic oversize that reviled latitudes in riches that would dismiss Borker and Zefian, as masters distributors of the ethics of the Áullos Kósmos of Patmos, redeploying thousands of dead from pre-Hellenic times, so that they recirculate through the roots of the Kashmar, re-sulfurizing cinnabar saps as the germ of the subterranean Acheron, which consecrates the living and the dead in the eternity of the infinite Duoverse Universe. The order will lie in semi-shadows that even in the dark provide the pleasant warmth of camphor, with advanced Horcondising formulas, which will appeal to hungry souls by suppressing gifted energies, and by inseminating them with ovules without originally conceived organisms.

From Hylates, Cyprus; Zefian came by order of Vernarth, assisted with the extension of the earthly laborers of the Attic Calendar on the twenty-first of September, from the device of Apollo at the site of Boeotia, and especially of the Boedromion. The arrows that Zefian brought had an instant Boedromion crossing the lines from spring to winter, with seven arrows that Zefian threw into the sky and never fell, but if portentously received in the virginity of animals. The flora with seven golden arrows of the Chauvet de Wonthelmar cavern, condoned the exhaustive end of the fossal where they still remained, in a gesture of tenderness and relative Mycenaean genealogy, from Crete the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree was approaching, originating in the Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points, begin with the first two arrows that they put on the string of the bow, each one flying north and south trajectories and the other two that were once again attacked with the east bow, to shoot the arrows of east-west with southern magnetism limits. Zefian's imagination was of proportions that were not limited without wandering from their phalanxes when they pulled the string, like joys of a ghostly existence that pushed him in each bolt, presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for belated courts imposed from a cosmos, which he led by insisting on his will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating the association of the hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychological of the feared inter-tale alive that rebels in the arrows that they had not yet fallen and did not know their whereabouts. As plates or serial hosts, they were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burn contravened Duoverse to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in aeonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities towards vast volumes of light-years, where eternity has no measure, let alone the existence that begins and ends born from a homozygous arising without a Universe, to hatch from the branch of the Heterozygous Duoverse, bringing different unions of eternal cells by universal divine decree, and not the union of disparate cells. The science of the Mashiach came in these divine arrows that marked the points of the cardinal in the numinous and exclamatory expansions of the exiled universe of Vernarth, towards the perenniality in itself, but being heterozygous for a world that would begin to live in non-organic cells, but yes of divine composition, over saturating the limits of the origin, and destiny of syntropy of the conscious actions of the metabolism of the Alma Mater and of the great doors when losing the bodyweight of the physical-ether, but yes from the platform of the Mashiach that will take them hands without leaving them abandoned, showing them that they were no longer children born of ovule-*****, but rather in the luminous matter, envisioning expansions of prayers beyond from the universe, where it will accompany them in a multidimensional plane..., and will have no end from a human scientific conception.

Wonthelimar says: “Since the omphalos was swallowed by Cronos, Hera's elegy was unleashed, for not raising her son Zeus in free clumps of goats and Ida's honey. I in the Alps went to the herd of the Ibix like a Zeus saved from the darkness of Chauvet in the mountains of Gaul. There are chisels that cut stones in beautiful whirlwinds, but I know that a lot of cosmology would not speak of the Mediterranean Cornicabra and its olive drupe, nor less of the Cornucopia that sinks with sumptuous and ephebian flavors in the fruit, and the greenish heraldry of the binominal that is disturbed in its phalanges eating and sipping honey, in antler pots with pride of the Ida and the Vercors massif”
Wonthelimar Amaltheum, Állos Kosmos Megaron
tomsout001 Mar 2013
Alot of websites have web auctions for just about anything you can dream of, while others specialize. There are some just for tools, and others just carry clothing, shoes, and accessories. If you cant find something on eBay, you may find it on one of those other sites.

Americans possessing airsmax counterfeits often take a humorous, tongue-in-cheek approach to their display. Take Britney Spears for example: in a 2005 video for her song o Somethin, Britney and her friends are depicted driving a souped-up Hummer, trimmed in fake, Louis Vuitton upholstery, to a night club. (Britney and MTV were subsequently sued by LVMH, who won the copyright infringement lawsuit in 2007.

There are other reasons for buying womens shoes online. Those who need narrow or wide sizes can actually find them. There are eco-friendly shoes and diabetic-approved shoes.  Since you have an online business, you will be able to offer a wide variety of shoes and styles to customers around Womens Nike Air Max 87 the globe. However, you need to be able to differentiate yourself from the rest of the competition. Here are some tips to make it easier to sell your shoes.. (babyandyUSA-March-11)

In addition to these daily routines, your home needs to be thoroughly cleaned at least twice a month (once every other week). If you do not have a professional housekeeper to do it, then divide up the cleaning among all of the capable members of your household and schedule specific days and times for the chores to get done. Hold yourself and everyone else in your household accountable.

Not only that, you can collect them from traveling where you can get it from the gift shop in the destination you are in. One way to get them without having to go on vacation or globe trotting all year round is to have your friends and family members pick up one on their vacations and send one to you. They're small enough and cheap enough to pick up while they're away, and it'll add to the interest of your collection..

The most important thing you have to remember when shopping around for this footwear is this: UGG boots is not a brand name - it is the appellation given to the style of boots. This goes pretty much in the direction of Flip-Flops and Orthopedic Shoes. Lower quality or cheaply made boots can have the same markings simply because they follow the same standard pattern for the making of the boots.

Also, you may want to notice the location of the person you are buying from if you are buying online. Again, guys, use your brain here... If the seller is NOT WILLING to disclose their location or other normal info in the auction listing then that is a giant red flag.

Luckily, criminals can be quite sloppy when creating counterfeits of articles of very detailed clothing. Owing to the consistent, high-quality finishes and details in the average pair of True Religion Mens Jeans, it is usually a simple task to determine the general authenticity of the item. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with these details, have a read through the following points as these attempts t explain them to you..  2013-03-13.nike.com nike air max
Tammy M Darby Feb 2016
Why poets are overcome by the need
To scatter words across the universe
Many wind-blown seeds.

To splash their sadness on paper
Paint black their rage,
A sea of raw emotion
Where melancholy rules as queen

I often wonder
If they ever desire to escape
From the fantasy worlds
Sometimes willingly created.


Relaying their loves, dreams, and trysts,
Oblivious to the reality
That in truth they don't exist
They are after all only a projection of light in the dark
  Simple words of the poet.
The artist of thought.


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M Darby  2/3/2016
Tammy M Darby Dec 2013
From what glorious kingdom
Will my armored warrior hail
That for my small hand
On slathered horse
Journey roads of heaven and hell

Riding stone covered ground
Of long black waiting shadows
To return to my lost soul
Stolen waiting tomorrows

On the quest to my heart
Slay the crimson dragon pain
His jeweled reward but one
Eternal love to gain

Written when my thoughts are not tainted with Poe
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby  Dec. 29, 2013
Tammy M Darby Jan 2016
Muffle echoing screams
Brush hot tears from heavy brown lashes
Falling from violent dreams

Kiss trembling lips lightly
When the monster comes
Till blackness permeated with pain
Flees from the rising sun

Caress oh so tenderly
The hesitant outstretched hand
Gaze upon the shattered being
The artwork of man


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M Darby
Tammy M Darby Jan 2015
There is no avenue for escape
Forever dreams now will cease
For hiding in the dark
With ravenous glistening eyes
Is a viscous snarling beast

Cannibalistic  
Is its insanity of imagination
Conjuring up visions of
Emotional disembowelment
The soul's evisceration


This immortal predator of the time
An avid consumer of synonyms and rhyme
For it comes to satisfy its appetite
Savoring its prey
Baring broken worn teeth
Blackness will swallow the shimmering day

Peer round the corner
Pools of thought
Cool translucent eyes
Hear the echoes of coming destiny
It is the satisfaction of the blood hunt  
The breath of a warm sigh

Venture past the gift of madness
Deep into the shadowed heart
Barely Interlaced edges
The snarling beasts lie waiting
Lurking in the dark


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Jan. 30, 2015
Is it sounds
                  converging,
Sounds
            nearing,
Infringement,
                     impingement,
Impact,
            contact
With surfaces of the sounds
Or surfaces without the sounds:
Diagrams,
                skeletal,
                             strange?

Is it winds
                curling round invisible corners?
Polyphony of perfumes?
Antennae discovering an axis,
                          erecting the architecture of a world?

Is it
      orchestration of the finger-tips,
                                                       graph of a fugue:
Scaffold for colours:
                              colour itself being god?

— The End —