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I'm on a train.

One of those red ones with black trimmed windows you can imagine rolling through the suburbs on the way to NYC. Not a subway car but a classier vintage with proper rows of cushioned seats and a lever to pull if there is an emergency. There are sparse shrubberies on one side of the tracks and the ocean on the other. Young trees and bushes stroll by.  A little wind is pushing off the ocean, massaging the car ever so gently back and forth as we move along. A gentle click-clack is on the tips of our ears.

We got on together. I hadn't known you for very long but the connection was stronger than anything I had ever felt or have since. You practically sat on top of me for the first few miles. Couldn't keep your hands off me,  staring in my eyes like you were searching for something lost but you couldn't remember what. The edges of your lips turned upwards permanently as if you were always at the verge of a laugh. You interlaced my fingers with yours and held on like you would be ripped away if your grip loosened for even a second. Slender fingers holding so tightly that they were becoming red.

You were excited to to be riding with me, about where we were going and all the things we would do when we got there. I would see you peer out of the corner of your eye, then lean over to brush your soft cheek against my budding stubble. Kissing and gently biting my lips insatiably. The suns rays coming in at an angle and lighting up your perfect smile and dimple.

I had to remind you we were in public.

I was lost in your blonde curls and the incense of your neck. I had fallen incredibly hard and so fast that my face hurt from smiling and my heart beat with vibrations I had never known. Not even a whiff of anxiety or neurosis. Some of the best memories of my life, as fleeting as they turned out to be.

I yawned and you put your finger in my mouth. I bent over to tie my shoe and you would poke my **** and laugh with your own reflection in the window, like this was the first and best joke of all time. Maybe it was and maybe it is.

The waiter came and informed us that a thing called "the bar car" existed. We both jumped at the idea. I didn't exactly notice at the time, during our excitement, but that's when the train started going faster and everything out the windows began to blur.

The bar car was a wild ride and we took advantage of our lo'cal. All kinds of fine wine, liquors and illicit substances were available. We tried them all. You were beautiful, your laugh infecting everyone around you, I was charming and held a captive audience.   It was a dark, loud and glorious blur. We were the life of the party and it chugged on till dawn.

We woke up in our seats, disheveled and discombobulated. It was dark out already. Did we sleep through the entire day? The train was slowing down, maybe approaching a station. The party was amazing but we were certainly paying the price for the black out. You moved over to the seat across from me to have some more space and lay down. I saw myself in the reflection. My hat, charm and smile from the night before had vanished. I must have left them in the bar car the night before.
      You had changed, beauty uninterrupted but different somehow. I couldn't put my finger on it. Irritated maybe? I invited you to cuddle and battle the hangover together but you ignored me. Like you couldn't hear me or didn't want to. I decided to let you be.

I got up to use the bathroom and thought I would go look for my scattered belongings. Maybe I could find a scrap of leftover dignity while you rested. I inquired to the conductor who directed me to the bartender in the bar car. He hadn't changed a bit, somehow untouched and unaffected by last nights antics that had effected me so dramatically.  Same black suspenders and white pressed shirt with impeccably slicked hair. I asked him what happened and if I had an open tab. While slowly polishing a rocks glass he looked up and made eye contact for a split second before looking away.
He said:  "Oh the bar car takes its toll. In the end we all end up paying one way or another". I still don't know what he meant by that or if he knew.
      I asked him if he found my hat and he said he would check the camera. We walked in to a small back room, while he was reviewing the tape, over his shoulder I noticed a tragedy.

We were drunk. I was going on to a group of new friends on one side of the bar, they were hanging on my words and I was eagerly explaining whatever nonsense they were drooling over. You were in the corner wearing that red dress I love, with your hair up in a tight bun. A few curls had escaped and brushed your high cheekbones, a thin line of pearls dancing delicately across your perfectly symmetrical collar. You were stunning and inebriated, swaying with each bump and motion of the train. A man wearing my hat put his hand on your side to keep you from swaying over and then he left it there.
I took a sharp breath.

It looked like you put your hand on his hand to move it but then it stayed and you both swayed together. As the air left my lungs and the blood drained out of my face I watched your lips touch the strangers. A small piece of my soul slipped away forever. I couldn't watch any further. When I asked the bartender how long it went on he fidgeted for a moment and uncomfortably muttered "quite some time". I never found my hat or the other part of me that left that day.  

The train slowed. I walked to the back, as far away from you as I could get, in utter disbelief. How could you? I thought to myself.
I mourned the loss of the you as I knew you yesterday, quietly and to myself. A tear  escaped my eye and rolled down my now fully formed stubble as I fell in to a random seat in mild shock. There were a few passengers back there so I had to pull together relatively quickly. After gaining some composure I knew it was time to get off. I knew we could never get back to yesterday morning though I would have said or done anything to do so.

The train had stopped. I went back to my seat and you were sleeping. I took my coat and gathered my things. The conductor looked at me confused as to why I would leave something so magnificent, I assume he had no idea what had transpired.   

I walked to the rear of the car and slid the door open slower than required. I stepped to the stairs and put one foot down on the step and the other on the ground. I stopped, rooted with my hand on the railing, lingering between two very different paths.
     I knew that it was time to get off, I knew this was the sensible thing to do, that I couldn't get past this offense regardless of how I had felt earlier the day before. The whistle screamed from the locomotive. The conductor looked at me and shook his head, I'm not sure if he was trying to tell me to stay or go but a decision had to be made.

The train lurched forward and I watched as the station slip away slowly. I sat in between the cars for a while and watched the ocean and birds. With a heavy heart and shoes I walked back to my seat. You were waiting. Crying. You knew. The bartender had told you. You didn't mean do do it, didn't realize what you were doing and thought it was me. He was wearing my hat and the whole world was blurry and dark.

I believed you. Self anguish mixed with alcohol was dripping from your pores. I knew you didn't mean it and were drunk, but could I ever forgive you or trust you again?

I loved you still.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection, a weaker version of myself looked back. As if an invisible chip in my teeth had developed and my shoulders lowered. The charming, confident man from the bar car the day before had been replaced. Something was off but not enough for anyone else to notice, just enough to know a change has happened.
       The train started to pick up speed again as we distanced ourselves from the station.  I second guessed my decision to stay but I didn't look back.

I found the man with my hat and punished him with a few blows in the dark. He knew he ****** up, apologized and took the beating like a man. I never got the hat back.

The engineer announced that we would be going through a tunnel soon and to turn on our lights and keep our hands in the windows.

It would be dark.  

We stayed away from the bar car for a while but the draw was irresistible. After a few hours we were there again but you never left my side.  Then you did. I was looking for you but you would disappear and not answer me when I called you name. The tunnel went deeper and darker and I didn't know where you were and I suspected you liked it that way. The train began to slow down again as we exited the tunnel.

I finally found you back at our seat, you had moved one row away from me. I asked you to come back, tried to hold your hands but you pulled away with vehemence. When I came back from the bathroom you had moved another row farther.
I knew I was losing you.
I begged you to return but you told me calmly that it was time for you to get off. At some point in the tunnel you had decided that you didn't want to go anymore . Your mind was made. You were going to catch another train at the next station.

When the train stopped I thought for sure you would reconsider but you didn't. Didn't even give it a thought. You just grabbed your coat and hat with one big bag under your arm. You kissed me on the cheek like a french stranger and were off. Going somewhere else on a different train. Just like that.

I rode the rails for quite some time by myself , many people getting on and getting off, passing me by. Every once in a while I would think I saw you at a station or in a **** though the window of another train. I often thought I could smell you but when I breathed deeper it was always gone. A ghost dancing on the edge of my senses.

A young girl in a headband got on the train. She was listening to headphones and dancing to herself as she bobbed along. She sat down in the seat next to me flashing a smile. She had a wedding ring on and I dismissed her immediately.  She didn't move from the seat or stop glancing my way. Eventually she confessed that she wanted to talk. I told her I wasn't interested but she persisted.  I hadn't talked to anyone on the train for quite some time and after some more mild persistence, I gave in.

We had a lot in common. We were both riding alone, desperately wanted attention and were thrilled to receive some.  After a few laughs she slid her hand in to mine and interlaced her fingers. I left it there. It was warm, comforting and wrong. She was married but I had been riding alone so long it felt good to have some company. She stayed and we talked. She was broken and I had a knack for fixing things. After a few hours of dramatic conversation I fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.

When I woke up  the train was flying up the track on the side of a mountain. Trees and rocks were a blur of green and grey. The engineer must be trying to make up for lost time I thought to myself.

The girl was asleep with her head on my lap. I looked down at her hand and the rings were gone. I woke her briefly to ask where they went. She said she didn't need them anymore and had thrown  them out the window.  She could of sold them, I said, but she said she just wanted them gone so she could be mine and fell back to sleep.  All of a sudden I couldn't breath. This train was roaring down the tracks, the once gentle click clack had become a loud hum. Suddenly too loud. This girl in my lap who had just gotten on the train wanted to stay. I considered her for a while as she looked up at me with big blue eyes, shining and wet, like a puppy in the shelter, terrified of rejection and desperate to be adopted.

At the peak of the mountain, just when the train began to even out, you waltzed back in to the car with a champagne flute in one hand and your bag in the other.

I don't know when or where you got back on, must have been a few stations ago when I stopped looking for you. Maybe you were wearing a disguise, who knows what you had been up to while you were gone. I'm not sure how long you were away but it was quite some time. That you had been through something was obvious, a new wrinkle had formed on your brow and you're once confident stride had changed to a cautious stroll. What actually happened out there I don't know.  I never asked and I don't want answers.

You looked at me and smiled. It was good to see that smile, like sun on my face on a brisk day.  You took a step toward me and then I looked down in my lap at the girl at the same time you did. I looked up. You and your smile were gone.

Everything I had begun to feel for this broken, head banded girl in my lap dried up like a puddle in  the dessert.  I quietly and gently nudged her awake and told her I had to use the bathroom. She put her head down on my coat and fell back into what ever trance she had been in, eyelids gently fluttering, eyes searching beneath them for what I would never give her.

I dashed up the isle and threw open the door, almost shattering the glass. The conductor glared at me and rolled his eyes as I barged past to the space between the cars.

There you were. Standing on the stairs with your head out the opening. The wind was blowing your perfectly formed curls around your head like a blonde explosion of familiarity. I yelled your name and you dove in to me. My senses erupted, my mind went numb as the train was nearing another station and I inhaled your essence greedily.

We moved to another car. I abandoned my coat with the married girl and never looked back. I hope she found what she was looking for. I  never could have been the answer she was so desperately seeking but I know I  helped steer her towards it.

You told me you had encountered some other people out there on the rails and they had reminded you of what we had when we first left the station. I never forgot.  

The train started to rock and get going again. We were back in the bar car and starting to brown out. We had to get off of this train right ******* now. In a desperate moment we looked at each other and put our hands, together, on the emergency brake cord. I looked in your eyes with your hand on top of mine. You kissed me while yanking down on the cord. Time slowed, the breaks squealed and everything exploded throwing luggage, people and the entire contents of the bar car in to a nondiscriminatory chaos . We got up off the ground, ran to the end of the car, dove off the side in to a soft patch of grass and rolled down a small incline. We watched as the conductor sifted through  the mess and interrogated the passengers, trying to ferret out the party responsible for pulling the brake. He spotted us off the side of the tracks and shook his fist while shouting every conceivable obscenity combination.

We laughed, held each other in the grass and kissed deeply.

We watched the train pick up speed and disappear in to the hills as relief spread over me.

You interlaced your fingers in to mine and we both looked out to where the tracks disappeared into the horizon, wondering how far of a walk it was to the next station.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
before i pull this one out of my *** (again - listen, these words are not coming from either head or heart, it's best to pull them from the bowels, a gut-wrenching-feeling is more potent than that "something" that "something" delusional pulled from a clenched heart... as far as i know, the brain is incapable of emotions, it doesn't understand them, and since it doesn't understand them: it ridicules them)... which brings me to point:

(a) perhaps the idea of a soul is out-dated... why wouldn't it be, 21g worth of breath does not equal a soul... hence the autopsy of man, each detail studied seperately, the cardiologist knows the heart, the neurologist the brain etc., but some items work in a solipsistic mode... the heart is robotic, automaton pump queen (and not the kind of pump you'd get from Shveeden) - thump thump thump! come to think of it, most of our bodies are robotic, automated... lucky for me: i don't have to think about the heart doing what it does, it just per se does it... i'm not even sure i'm gifted with the a.i. brain functions... but there's an underlying principle that governs all of these items... some call it the self... i prefer: the Σ ultimatum... some would call it soul... but there has to be something akin to the Σ ultimatum that allows me to become detached from this body, while at the same time be bound to it: high blood pressure, heart attack on the horizon... take the high blood pressure pills... ****... what was (b)? oh... yes...

(b) i'm sorry, virginity doesn't cut it for me, lucky me that it was isabella of grenoble that allowed me to move aside from: god, prior to losing my virginity.... roxette: do you feel excited, you're still the one (shanaia twain), fade to black - metallica... i was such a romantic before i lost this dreaded curse... i was a romantic... 19th century style romanticism... but you really can see past this sort of romanticism unless you haven't ******... these days the right complains about cultural marxism: plenty of things to complain about... it makes as much sense as a pickle in a dollop of custard... or cooking with pale indian ale to make a stew: bad idea... wine, brandy, cider? fine... beer? terrible idea to cook with... but unless you haven't lost your virginity, you can't see what cultural marxism chose as its opponent: cultural darwinism... you know how little you hear about darwinism outside of the english speaking world? zero to none, yes, it's an accepted fact, but this fact does not permeate outside of the fact per se, the fact contains itself and the whole subsequent narrative because subconsciously stored... no other people than the people who found it ensure there are subplot proof statements of a reconfirmation of the validity... the whole social science bogus trap of rating people on looks... contradicting the meritocracy of that old Socratic saying: let me be as beautiful on the inside as on the outside... if you haven't ******: you're still the same old romantic i was at puberty... once you ****... well... cultural marxism dwarfs... yes yes it's there... so? but at the same time you can at least appreciate seeing the antithesis: cultural darwinism... the romantic needs to die the most carnal death via experience... all my ideals were shattered, this perfection of woman... i very much liked the idea / not even the ideal of a woman... but when the idea fizzled out and there was no ideal to begin with... i saw cultural darwinism for the very first time and... it was as ugly as cultural marxism so heavily criticized by the conservative right of the west... so... i decided to walk the middle ground, ignoring both sides (of the argument).

(c) i wouldn't have come up with a point see, unless my favorite square schematic didn't pop into my mind, Kantian, as ever: the best philosophy is the antithesis of English pragmatism and overt-politicisation, so it has to be German, ergo? i will not explain these terms, i figured: if i nail a decent example to fit each category, that's enough: since you can then visualize the concept via the example:

analytical a priori                           synthetic a priori
there's a need to throw                   learning
a ball at                                                to throw a ball
a target                                                 at a target once
                                                            ­  the need has been
                                                            ­  established...



synthetic a posteriori                    analytical a posteriori
there's a  need to                           perfecting to throw
      throw a ball at                               a ball at a target
a target, in order
to perfect this need...

                                            baseball..­. cricket...
at least: that's how i define knowledge of something
simple without having to use mathematics
that Kant used to explain... 2 + 2 = 4...
mathematics isn't exactly a man's best friend
at explaining philosophy...
you write philosophy that alligns itself
to mathematics... no wonder: moths in books...
yawns, unfinished works...
i found that sports work just as well
as mathematics... and you have the already
primitive objects to work with...
rather than pseudo-objects: i.e. numbers...
the abstracts of perception: i'm actually 6ft2...
not 6ft1... karolína plíšková is 6ft1...
       as noted when watching her today...

  i'll admit, i'm always a bit shaky when it comes
to this sqaure, whether it's over-simplified,
notably the top left corner: analytical a priori,
i'm always of a mindset that wants to associated
this definition with: analytical a- priori...
  i.e. borrowing from atheism:
    to analyse something without there
being a prior to example...
               analysis without a prior example...
i guess that's the mojo of science... the driving force...
back to sports... bow and arrow...
   tools: target...
       whether a bow and arrow and a deer
to begin with...
or a hand and ball and a wicket to end with...

there's a need to throw                  
a ball at a target...

            and cricket was the precursor of
baseball, but prior to cricket?
   there was archery...
              and prior to archery...
   there was forever a fundamental need,
e.g. to go from point X to point Z...
   see... as much as Kant wanted...
   numbers don't really solve the "problem"
of explaining something: algebra would be
better suited... x + y = z...
                    with numbers either hovering
above, or below (in the instance of chemistry's
subscript)...

talking of squares... sūdoku...
well, if at any time the french were to receive a hard-on
in terms of inventing something,
the english: rugby, cricket, football, tennis...
the french really did read some of the hebrew
qabbalah literature, as i am doing...
magic squares...
       the secular version of this puzzle
first appeared on july 6, 1895 (the modern version)...

it came to us from India and China...
again... why do western cultural darwinists
always tell our genesis from
the perspective of: "out of Africa"?
aren't there elephants in India?
            i will not believe i originated in Africa,
i'm not an "out of Africa" sorry state of
incompetence... i place my origins in
the sub-continent... at least that's where my
current language originates from...
the great migration across the Siberian tundra,
rather than some African savannah...
after all the Bangladeshi and the Sri Lankans
(the tear of India) resemble burnt cinnamon
in tone, some even as dark skinned as
east africans...
   if the germanic people want to stick to
the "out of Africa" narrative (notably the English):
let them have it... i place my origins in
India...

   never mind, now i'll write a name's dropping
history of how july 6th, 1895 happened...
the "magic" squares...

    from either India or China (chess from India)...
moschopulus of contantinople
  introduced them (the "magic" squares)
in the early 1400s... apparently ancient qabbalists
had knowledge of them
  (so... a trip well spent)...
                             rabbi joseph tzayah (1505 - 1573)
magnum opus: responsa...
             rabbi joseph castro: avkat rokhel...
tzayah in jerusalem wrote his major work
Evven HaShoham (the onyx stone) - 1538 -
   a year later the book: tzeror ha-chaim discussing
the Talmud: he never really bothered about
the Zohar...
               the hebrai word for "letters": otiot...
divided into two:
                         tav aleph (a line of aleph)
and tav yod (a line of yod)...
                   one is to never concentrate
upon the keter within the realm of the sefirot...
hence the matisyahu expression:
   king without a crown...
                         one example of a "magic" square
later dictated into a 9 x 9 newspaper puzzle?
      2     9     4
      7     5     3
      6     1     8     (up down across = 15...
my date of birth? 15th may 1986,
no coincidence, just stating an oblivion's
worth of a "point)... 15 x 3 = 45...
   and that's about as significant as any
                               insignificance can be...

album of choice?
    old horn tooth - from the ghost grey depths...

and without even associating the arabs
to the hebrai practice of gamatria,
i once inquired an old pakistani (who tried to convert me)
what: Alif, Lam, Meem
implied in the opening of the al-baqarah sutra
implied?
   he replied: god knew...
        so i thought, you don't know what
alif (letter) what lam (letter) and meem (also a letter)
means? you have to search for god
for the answers? good look making me into
a proselyte... mind you:
if the jews abhor proselytes,
while the muslims are so so oh so *******
welcoming... isn't that a tad bit suspicious?
how can a muslim convert me
when he can't explain to me what
alif lam and meem implies at the opening
of al-baqarah?!
            let's play some hijāʾī order game...
and the three letters...
       28 letters in total...
alif (28), lam (6), meem (5)...
    i'm not even going to go into the gamatria
mental gymnsastics related to any
"significance"...
   point was made upon the question being
asked... if a muslim tries to covert you...
and he can't explain to you
the significance of alif lam meem at the beginning
of al-baqarah... they're letters...
well... how is he going to explain to you
what's bothersome about those letters
to begin with? ALM... does that imply: zakat?!
to give alms? zakat being one of the pillars
of islam?
  **** me... i haven't even converted
and it would appear: i know more than the person
who tried to convert me!

.i. Yuri Gagarin and the yo-yo

if ever the potency of a "keyboard crusader"
existed, it's now -
   i can dangle a mouse above a bear-trap
and tell an elephant of a phobia concerning
mice any day of the week,
          when in fact i'm talking about
a mousetrap: nothing more.
     hence the exaggeration in the imagery
comparison:
        or it begins with a story told in the 20th
century:
             when women put down their mascara
brushes, men put down their swords:
never mind the voice in the wilderness:
       mind the voice in the crowd -
there's absolutely no reason to speculate
urbanity and tribal environments without
addressing, or regressing the crowd,
or as i like to call it: what Nietzsche said,
minus the Wake... but now inclusive of the wake
and the Bacchus cult of fun fun fun.
            the Wake in condor terms?
we congregate praying for something to die...
      i don't pretend to be whatever
that sachet of concrete-Cartesian labels entitles me
too:        for the most part
        people say 'i am' without a thought to
govern the rain shaman telling you what thought
is required to 'be', oh, a very old ontological
stipend: you need people to experience a collectivisation,
a herding, a "bound together" sort of mentality
before the critic arrives and says: well, that's not
what i'm really about.
                    a bit like the **** firs, mouth second
debacle...
                but what heart they had, our predecessors!
what heart!
             they'd wage war over a woman,
a Helen,
                  would you wage a war against
the feminist version of Helen these days?
would you pluck a Scottish thistle over an English rose?
      true: you might be a bishop
and of lesser rank... but would you wage a war
over the women of these days?
my **** is in a pickle jar anyway! we have become
a *** of a species unburdened by an obligation...
             finally! we can become eternal bachelors
sort of ******* that we're here, and hear less and less
of sayings about the "things that matter".
            you know what vile? really really vile?
oh i know my contemporaries when i bother to
hear them talk, oddly enough never bother when they
think, i'm quiet content with a Godot stage of
a park bench and an old man as my company,
      i know Douglas Murray,
               i know the wild-eyed Icke,
but a thing that concerns me is why: the safety room
parallel to the leftist thesis of offensive speech
was put in play when a discussion took off
concerning feminism, between milo yiannopoulus
and julie bindel - that's like saying:
ask a pederast to talk for a heterosexual man
with a woman safe-space...
                                no one wants to hear
the heterosexual side of the argument....
  you'll sooner see heterosexual intellects have their
marriages come undone then get paired with either
side of the argument...
     little richard is in the pickle jar anyway,
and he's not coming out...
                it's a bit like ****** for dummies....
       hence i have to succumb to violence without
the glory, tongue waggling blah blah
when i'd gladly take a weapon and shove it into
a shattered cranium bone: had i the ****** chance to
do so!
           no heterosexual is taken seriously:
and won't be:
    of a woman to be like a rosy cushion on which
i can lay my head after the darkly toils of
    roofing, or laying bricks, or excavating the sewers...
no! let the Chinese do that:
the basic argument of slavery, although imported
therefore ****** ******* fine.
                         cryogenic fathers,
      pickled *****:      where's the middle in all of this?
     a coconut just fell from the Boddhi tree:
money!           and those that defend it,
don't know squat about the tribalism of squatters!
but hey! they have the ****** stage!
         i have a bench when someone approaches me
and talk, doing the best thing possible:
               knitting opinions -
i don't want the truth of opinions: i want a sweater,
or a pair of socks! that's metaphor for something
different altogether.
  keyboard crusader? really? can i ask you for
directions to the high street, in every single town
across the country? i can't find one!
         no one hears a heterosexual argument
on the various topics: because there isn't one -
                     as of the end of the 20th century,
working classes in the west striving to ensure
there is something mundane to do during the day
and kick back with the family in the evening
are the "inferior" neanderthals: who
haven't jacked into discovering a 3D reality
of what's otherwise a 2D computer screen and
aren't hooked on #crack;
honestly, so much debating ought to be opera,
and so much opera ought to be debating -
    ah: that famous tingle of utopian paradoxes
never in duality, but always in dichotomy.
   keyboard crusader?
really? i thought people were always moaning
about how many emails they receive:
   and never a single postcard from, say,
someplace like Venice?
           it's still early days,
                   and already we're brewing enough
cliches to replace all known nouns in
    the surrogate mother that's the dictionary
of our completed version of a soul -
if ever to be experienced upon meeting the omni-vocabulary;
jigsaws, i know my idiosyncratic version
of events, he says photosynthesis within parameters
                            of photon deconstruction of hydrogen;
'cos' it's sub; d'uh! i say god i say this perfected
version of nearing telepathy - you say god i hope you
don't mean satan's clause - great anagram to frighten
children with: the Babushka surprise of a Pumpkin head
laughing it's way toward: how easy life would be
if we had all that time to think it through as being hard,
rather than that mortal fleetingness in both thought
and body.

ii. Macbeth

it really dawned on me, when i was watching the film
Macbeth (2015) -
            there was an eeriness to it, a near perfection
of Shakespeare on screen...
           honestly? i'd rather read Kant early on in life
while i have the vigour, and leave old age to Shakespeare...
but it truly was eerie all over the place.
      i do recall seeing Romeo + Juliet
          and reading the script, and imagining the fallacy
of word for word translation from theatre to cinema
of the script: the narrator a news channel anchor,
and everything said, word, for, word.
that film with DiCaprio as Romeo and Claire Danes
as Juliet - it just felt itchy, uncomfortable -
                            Shakespeare, word for word, on screen?!
     (surprise, then astonishment, not !? or astonishment,
   then the surprise, because: it didn't really work);
and it didn't! you can't adapt Shakespeare to the screen
and put everything in! i noticed it at that ******
generous scene in Macbeth concerning the battle
of Ellon... so i was like like... this isn't typescript...
(and thank **** it isn't) -
you can't depict Shakespeare word for word,
to be honest, Macbeth (2015) is the only worthy
translation of Macbeth (the text) into Macbeth (the movie);
all this scientific exactness in previous examples
like Romeo + Juliet, the Merchant of Venice
and a Midsummer's Night Dream don't work,
it's their precision making,
     a theatre cast can take it, but a cinema going crowd,
with all these cutting and copying and repasting
    succinct moments? it doesn't work!
maybe because there's no actual narrator in the staged
examples? narrator as a necessary character understudy:
surely Puck and the news anchor are there:
don't know about the Shylock scenario...
           but these screen adaptations didn't work for me,
too rigid, too formal... in the case of Macbeth?
finally! the long awaited piquant version of Shakespeare:
all that matters, and the rest is thrown into
poetic technique: imagery, metaphor,
                everything that's necessary can be given grammar
as image and not word!
       want an example? from the text...
the Royal Shakespeare
  from the text of Professor Delius
  and introduction by f. j. Furnivall, ll.d.
         vol. v (special edition)
Cassell & Company, Ltd.

        sure, it feels like a Roman Polanski moment
akin to the 9th Gate scenic affair of a bibliophile
fetishist, and it is:

     ... (the only enemy of enso poetry
is the bladder) ...

well the screen play first:

banquo: what are these?
macbeth: live you? or are you aught
                          that man may question?
       speak if you can - what are you?
1st witch: macbeth! hail to thee
                    thane of Glamis!
2nd witch: macbeth... hail to thee,
       thane of Cawdor!
3rd witch: all hail Macbeth! that shalt be king in-after.

but such disparity, such **** as if once
of Lucretia, then of the authority,
for i have before me the original composition:
which is not worth cinema -
nonetheless, a **** takes place:
an assortment for the abdication of a king:
or as ever suggested: the wrong footed path:
never was tossing a coin in a gamble
that of tossing a crown into the air
for a court jester to appear less amusing
and more scolding.

act i, scene iii: post the battle of ellon...
  if ever the refusal to give up Greek myth,
then Macbeth's witches
      and Perseus' Graeae -
                            or naturalise a myth:
like you might not naturalise a strengthened
economy.... canonise the nation
with Elgin Marbles - Elgin: less than
what's said to be the exfoliation of the Aegean -
a municipality somewhere in Scotland:
west of Aberdeen, on the Northern Sea's
battering of the coast...
but word for word? or how to write Shakespeare
into cinema?
                 herr zensor must come into play -
you have to bypass imagery in poetic tongue
and relay it with actual images, a direly needed
necessity:

just after the three witches arrive,
enter Macbeth and Bonquo...

   Macb. so foul and fair a day i have not seen.
Ban. how far is't call'd to Fores? - what are these,
     so wither'd and so wild in their attire,
that look not like th' inhabitants o' the earth,
   and yet are on 't?
             live you? or are you aught that man may
question?

                  (how word for word, but the words
waggle from a different tongue, namely that of
Macbeth, and not that of Banquo, hence
italicised).
                   continuing:
       you seem to understand me,
by each at once her choppy finger laying upon her
skinny lips: - you should be women, and yet your
beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.
Macb. speak, if you can - what are you?
         the witches. all hail, Macbeth!
     hail to thee, thane of Glamis!
         all hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane
of Cawdor!
         all hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter.
            
so does he really belong on the psychoanalytic
couch? is he really that necessarily wonton of talk?
  Cawdor v. Gondor - it's an ongoing narrative.
but is he in need of a couch?
                 what sort of talk is talk when
in fact the only talk that's need to be said is the talk
of man's sexualised naturalisation for strife,
and here: as if knocking on a door:
you want to simply hear the onomatopoeia of
the Kabbalah in a woman gasping for breath
while puny Jewish boys under strict rabbinical
studies study?

                mama, take this badge from  me,
i can't use it, anymore,
            it's getting dark, too dark to see,
feels like i'm knockin' on heaven's door -
      my big mouth and man as a piston
                                               Ferrari acrobat


(even the soundtrack is a shrill, a strangulation
variant of higher pitch of the bagpipes -
not that braveheart ****** of whisking out
a song like for the love of a princess addition to:
  and can i have a madonna to boot too?
it's piercing, a whale sonar above refrigerator
white noise hum for the new age Buddha -
and that's because all the poetry has been excavated
  to suit cinema: not theatre).

and this is the first adaptation of Shakespeare i actually
could stomach...
     the genius was in how Macbeth spoke the lines
of Bonqua - so the character didn't start smacking
the narrative ****** in terms of solipsism:
even Shakespeare can be attacked on this front...
        if in the movie Banqua said all that was in
the typescript: the film wouldn't have worked...
i don't know what the big deal is with Lady Macbeth:
i thought that in the olden days
Macbeth suggested to King Duncan that:
can i leave the warring if you **** my wife?
i can go on the contract that you **** my wife
and i stop serving you?
      first impressions: strange English.
well, i'm sure she's important as it might be said:
within the programme of Orthodoxy,
            but never catholic (metadoxy) tradition of
saying: way hey! ensnare the mare in a funfair!
       and play the game: pin the tale on the donkey!
heads or tails?      it looks pretty damnable
     in the first place: as all honesty hogs to pout and
***** a hoggish sneeze out of the story.

iii. shaken, not stirred

and indeed, how many a times
did not a neon blossom sprout,
thinking it might rattle an oratory
with an oak in autumn, and behold
a swarm of leaves descend -
not out of passing ease,
but out of wishful thinking
that some indentation might be made:
with whom the hands of will reside,
and yet: to no gratifying effect,
to whatever atomic-centralisation
dream, be that ego or be it hydrogen
(lending hands: so too
electric or thus negative, neutral and
thus proto) - shake foundation
and give a revising repertoire of
              the covering dust humanity
that once made famous: never
again to learn the humility of the start;
        to whatever centric dream that
does not waver in demands of orientation,
be it father (sun), son (shadow)
  or the holy spirit (night) -
  make them earn! be obscure!
            or simply say: in the community
of the stated congregation:
  i find all to be as night,
   and safer that plague the father:
  i am not akin to the shadow:
                   but the shadow in mirror.
so, a centric dream that does not
waver in demands for orientation,
has ever or will be enthroned in man's
heart as the stability of Sabbath's demands
       for less, oh so much less to agitate with!
as too, when the ancient appliances
were adorned by countless demands of
mimic, so too our modern
fibbles are to stage a usurping of
such things demanded and their mimic;
for with such disclosure does all fate
of anewed become burdened in what
history could be: shaken,
rather than simply a stirring of the void,
nothing more than the unburdening
of sweetening a cup of coffee, of that and
the layers: or bitter at the top, drank
through toward the sedimented sweetness -
and all that: hoping i could have retained
that silver spoon lodged in my ***
          when i first met her and thought about
consolidating marriage: so fresh, eager prune
of the flesh embodiment as first
    watered ash, then entombed in marble
and the eternal... ah
               but it was all just the faintest of dreams;
so lumberjack sleep ensued,
                      as did a kindred worth ethic:
we are a long way from Eden...
      there is but the idyll of the absurd fruition of
albreit macht frei... or a redefinement of
such stakes as: what occupies our days?
                    if not war, if not disease,
if not the Chinese... what does, occupy our days?
BarelyABard Jan 2013
There once was a young man named Feste, and he was not a very good young man.
He was a thief, and a sneaky one at that. He would go to all of the stores in the market and steal anything that he pleased.
He loved to steal from the baker and the butcher especially.
He would go to his hiding place in the forest after his deviousness and eat away his stolen treasures, brooding on what a “clever little boy” he was.
The baker and the butcher knew though. They noticed him coming in most days and leaving in quite a hurry. They could not actually catch him in the act, but they knew beyond a doubt what he was doing. They were having drinks together one night though when they devised a clever scheme to stop him from stealing ever again. The butcher carved up a juicy ham, and the baker baked up a delicious pie, but they added a little something extra to it…

The butcher made sure to quite a bit of alcohol into the ham, and the baker did the same with his pie. They both set their two traps in the store, right when the spoiled thief Feste came strolling into the market with his eyes gleaming.
The baker watched him walk into his shop,the pie disappeared.
The butcher watched him walk into his shop, the ham disappeared.
They both smiled and went about their work.
Feste rushed to his hiding place and devoured his stolen goodies so fast that he didn’t even realize how peculiar it seemed to taste...
Not long after, he started to feel strange. Numb and stupid. He ran towards the village, acting a buffoon. The villagers stared and laughed at Feste acting so odd. His mother found him though and brought down the fury.

“Feste! Why are you acting like a **** fool?" She demanded.
He threw out a few words in a drunken stupor and swayed in place.
"Wait.. have you been drinking!?” She screamed.

“Noe maum! Allll Ie had todae is pie and haam!” He stammered in a drunken sway.

“And where exactly did you get those!?” She inquired.

Feste had a look of terror on his face and grew silent.
He was found out to be the no good thief and was punished severely, because his mother thought he stole the alcohol as well as the pie and ham, and he couldn’t prove otherwise.
Feste never stole again and he even apologized to the butcher and baker, though they still do have a laugh now and then…

The End
Stephen E Yocum Nov 2013
In ’68 Hutch and me,
Sitting at the bar drinking
Our third cold beer.
In a semi Fern Bar
Laguna or Newport Beach
Which now, I’m not sure.
It was around nine or so,
A week day night,
The place more empty than not.

She came in alone, made
Entry like the dramatic host of
A TV show. As if she were the
Center piece on the nations
Thanksgiving Dinner Table.
Over dressed to the nines,
Lots of color, heavy make up
She didn’t really need.

Her perfume scent hovered
Around her like a cloud of insects  
On a hot summer night in a wet meadow.
Kind of made my eyes water up.

She perched daintily like a dancer,
Upon a bar stool,
Three empty stools down,
Nodded the bartender her regular order.
A martini, a double it was,
With but a dab of vermouth.
One green olive on a stick.
The glass was prechilled as if
It had been waiting only for her.
She pounded that first one down,
As if the stem wear was a shot glass.
Another full stem glass appeared,
That one also quickly consumed
Two bright red lipstick stains all that
Remained in or on the stemmed glass rim.

Her main task accomplished,
She audibly exhaled,
As if tired or relieved.
I couldn't tell which.
Turned around on her stool to face
Hutch sitting closest to her.
“You boys Marines.” She declared,
More than inquired.
The close chopped hair cuts
giving us away.

Hutch just nodded, he never did say much.
A ****** just back from The Nam,
A dark scary guy of few words.

She opened her fur trimmed cloth coat,
exposing two very nice stocking clad legs,
And just a quick flash of red underpants.
Rotating towards us so we got a better shot.

She announced her name,
like as if we should know it.
Our blank stares informed her we didn’t.
Her face was to me, somewhat familiar.  
From movies in the 40s or 50s.
We were early 20 guys, she much older,
Trying hard to look younger, not succeeding.

Soon she was sitting right next to Hutch,
Two more Martini stems had come and gone,
Her lipstick finger prints upon them.
And still Hutch had not spoken more than
Three or four words.

She bought us a pitcher of brew,
Hutch grunted a short bit of gratitude.
We didn't have to say much, she was in charge.
It was all about her, she rambled on and on
Speaking volumes saying not much at all.
Beating back her crushing obscurity,
With flowery reminiscence recall,
Of glory days, long gone away.
Important for the moment, if only to her.
It was all; “me and I, I did this, I was that,
I slept with him,
And him and him”.
How about so and so?  I asked,
“No Darling not him, he was gay!
Still is.”

It was not long and she was touching Hutch.
On the hand, the shoulder, she was working him
With languid hungry looks from her big baby blues,
And the message could not have been plainer,
Had she held up a large hand lettered sign.

I don’t believe she was a “Working Girl”,
Just someone very lonely seeking to find
Herself, and some company for the night,
All to prove that she was still alive.

Looking at her, I could only think,
How sad and pathetic she seemed,
How desperate her plight.
To humble herself so,
In that dingy bar, among strangers
She did not know, Acting yet, still
On the only stage she could find,
Staring in her own bad ‘B’ movie drama.
In that dingy smelly bar.

Hutch and her left after a hour or so,
He never told me much about it.
He was unofficially AWOL for three days.
I covered for him, kept his name off the
Missing Morning Formation Reports
and the Daily Duty Lists.
No one cared to check. Our unit made up
Of mostly guys back from the war,
A pretty loosey-goosey outfit.

Once in a while now I see an old movie,
most are Black and white, Film Noir stuff,
And there she is, a much younger her,
Looking pretty **** good,
Not real big roles they were,
Claimed she was in the chorus
Of "Singing In The Rain" in '52.
To this, I can not attest,
watched that film several times,
But I never saw her there.

Had parts Playing damsels in distress,
A mobster’s gun moll a time or two,
Or unhappy Play Girls on a bar stool.
I guess it was type casting that done her in.
Or maybe she got a little too long in the tooth..
A sad ending to a short B movie career.
Life ain’t easy, even for a so called “movie star”.
Fame is not all it’s cracked up to be.
A smattering of fame, apparently worth,
Nothing at all.
True stuff from an old guys past.
She had called the Company Office
once or twice, looking for Hutch.
He told us to tell her that he had
been Shipped Out, when he actually
hadn't.

She no doubt found someone else to
tell her story to.

I saw that woman the other day on TV,
an old film on Turner Classic Movies
doing her thing. I sort of wonder what
ever  happened to her, but refuse to
Google it to find out.
Some information you don't need
or what to know.
It did inspire this little Poem Noir write.

Got a letter from Hutch in '70, we were
both out of the Corps. He was headed to
the Arabian Desert as a hired gun, to guard
some pipe line operation. Have no idea what
became of him after that. Hutch was a real hard
case, 14 confirmed kills through a ****** sight.
I hope he made it out of the desert all right,
maybe sitting on a beach someplace recalling
his back in the day three nights with a once
upon a time B movie star. Actually I doubt he
recalls her at all.
Song one
This is a song about tarzanic love
That subsisted some years ago,
As a love duel between an English girl and an African ogre,
There was an English girl hailing along the banks of river Thames
She had stubbornly refused all offers for marriage,
From all the local English boys, both rich and poor
tall and short, weak or strong, ugly and comely in the eye,
the girl had refused and sternly refused the treats for love,
She was disciplined to her callous pursuit of her dream
to marry a mysterious,fantastic,lively,original and extra-ordinary man,
That no other woman in history of human marriage ever married,
She came from London, near the banks of river Thames,
Her name was Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill, daughter of a peasant,
She came from a humble English family, which hustled often
For food, clothing, and other calls that make one an ordinary British,
She grew up without a local boy friend, anywhere in the English world,
She is the first English girl to knock the age of forty five while a ******,
She never got deflowered in her teens as other English girls usually do
She preserved her purse with maximal carefulness in her wait for a black man,
Her father, of course a peasant, his trade was human barber and horse shearer,
Often asked her what she wants in life before her marriage, which man she really wanted,
Her specification was an open eyesore to her father; no blinkers could stave the father’s pale
For she wanted a black tall man, strong and ruggedly dark in the skin, must own a kingdom,
Fables taken to her from Africa were that such an African man was only one but none else,
His glorious name was Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
When the English girl heard the chimerical name of her potential husband,
She felt a super bliss in her spine; she yearned for the day of her rendezvous,
She crashed into desperate burning for true English love
With a man with a wonderful name like Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya.


Song two

Rumours of this English despair and dilemma for love reached Africa, in the wrong ears,
Not the human ears, but unfortunately the ears of the ogres, seasoned in the evil art,
It was received and treated as classified information among the African ogress,
They prevented this news to leak to African humans at all at all
Lest humans enjoy their human status and enjoy most
The love in the offing from the English girl,
They thus swiftly plotted and ployed
To lure and win the ******
From royal land;
England.




Song three

Firstly, the African ogres recruited one of their own
The most handsome middle aged male ogre, more handsome than all in humanity,
And of course African ogres are beautiful and handsome than African humans, no match,
The ogres are more gifted in stature, physique, eugenics and general overtures
They always outplay African humans on matters of intelligence, they are shrewder,
Ogres are aggressive and swashbuckling in manners; fear is none of their domain
Craft and slyness is their breakfast, super is the result; success, whether pyrrhic or Byronic,
Is their sweetest dish, they then schemed to get the English girl at whatever cost,
They made a move to name one of their fellow ogres the name of dream man;
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
Which an English girl wanted,
By viciously naming one of their handsome middle-aged man this name.

Song four

Then they set off 0n foot, from Congo moving to the north towards Europe abode England,
Where the beautiful girl of the times, Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill hail,
They were three of them, walking funnily in cyclopic steps of African ogres,
Keeping themselves humorously high by feigning how they will dupe the girl,
How they will slyly decoy the English village pumpkin of the girl in to their trap,
And effortlessly make her walk on foot from England to Africa, in pursuit of love
On this muse and sweet wistfulness they broke out into loud gewgaws of laughter,
In such emotional bliss they now jump up wildly forgetting about their tails
Which they initially stuffed inside white long trousers, tails now wag and flag crazily,
Feats of such wild emotions gave the ogres superhuman synergy to walk cyclopically,
A couple of their strides made them to cross Uganda, Kenya, Somali, Ethiopia and Egypt
Just but in few days, as sometimes they ran in violent stampedes
Singing in a cryptic language the funny ogres songs;

Dada wu ndolelee!
Dada wu ndolelee!
Kuyuni kwa mnja
Sa kwingile khundilila !

Ehe kuyuni Mulie!
Ehe kuyuni mulie!
Omukhana oyo
Kaloba khuja lilia !
They then laughed loudly, farted cacophonously and jumped wildly, as if possessed,
They used happiness and raucous joy as a strategy to walk miles and miles
Which you cover when moving on foot from Congo to England,
They finally crossed Morocco and walked into Europe,
They by-passed Italy and Spain walking piecemeal
into England, native land of the beautiful girl.

Song  five

When the three ogres reached England, they were all surprised
Every woman and man was white; people of England walked slowly and gently
They made minimum noise, no shouting publicly on the street,
a stark contrast to human behaviour and ogre culture in Africa, very rambunctious,
Before they acclimatized to disorderly life in England, an over-sighted upset befell them
Piling and piling menace of pressure to ****,
Gripped all the three ogre brothers the same time,
None of them had knowledge of municipal utilities,
They all wanted to micturated openly
Had it not been beautiful English girls
Ceaselessly thronging the streets.



Song six

They persevered and moved on in expectation of coming to the end,
Out-skirt of the strange English town so that they can get a woodlot,
From where they could hide behind to do open defecation
All was in vain; they never came to any end of the English town,
Neither did they come by a tumbled-down house
No cul de sac was in sight, only endless highway,
Sandwiched between tall skyscraping buildings,
One of the ogres came up with an idea, to drip the ****
Drop by drop in their *******, as they walk to their destiny,
They all laughed but not loudly, in controlled giggles
And executed the idea minus haste.

Song seven

They finally came down to the banks of river Thames,
Identified the home of Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill
The home had neither main gate nor metallic doors,
They entered the home walking in humble majesty,
Typical of racketeering ogre, in a swindling act,
The home was silent, no one in sight to talk to
The ogres nudged one another, repressing the mirth,
Hunchbacked English lass surfaced, suddenly materialized
Looking with a sparkle in the eye, talking pristine English,
Like that one written by Geoffrey Chaucer, her words were as piffling
As speech of a mad woman at the fish market, ogres looked at her in askance.

Song eight

An ogre with name Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya opened to talk,
Asked the girl where could be the latrine pits, for micturation only,
The hunchbacked lass gave them a direction to the toilets inside the house,
She did it in a full dint of English elegance and gentility,
But all the ogres were discombobulated to their peak
about the English latrine pit inside the house,
they all went into the toilet at the same time,
to the chagrin of the hunchbacked lass
she had never seen such in England
she struggled a lot
to repress her mirth
as the English
never get amused
at folly.




Song nine

It is a tradition among the ogres to ****,
Whenever they are ******* in the African bush,
But now the ogres are in a fix, a beautiful fix of their life
If at all they ****, the flatulent cacophony will be heard outside
By the curious eavesdroppers under the eaves of the house,
They murmured among themselves to tighten their **** muscles
So that they can micturated without usual African accomplice; the tweeee!
All succeeded to manage , other than Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Who urinated but with a low tziiiiiiii sound from his ***, they didn’t laugh
Ogres walked out of privities relaxed like a catholic faithful swallowing a sacrament,
The hunchback girl ushered them to where they were to sit, in the common room
They all sat with air of calm on their face, Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
led the conversation, by announcing to the girl that he is Victoria’s visitor from Africa,
To which the girl responded with caution that Victoria is at the barbershop,
Giving hand to her father in shearing the horses, and thus she is busy,
No one is allowed to meet her, at that particular hour of the day
But he pleaded to the hunchback girl only to pass tidings to Victoria,
That Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya from Africa
Has arrived and he is yearning to meet her today and now,
The girl went bananas on hearing the name
The hunch on her back visibly shook,
Is like she had heard the name often,
She then became prudent in her senses,
And asked the visitor not to make anything—
Near a cat’s paw out of her person,
She implored the visitor to confirm
if at all he was what he was saying
to which he confirmed in affirmation,
then she went out swiftly
like a tail of the snake,
to pass tidings
to her sister
Victoria.


Song ten
She went out shouting her sister’s name,
A rare case to happen in England,
One to make noise in the broad day light,
With no permission from the local leadership,
She called and ululated Victoria’ name for Victoria to hear
From wherever she was, of which she heard and responded;
What is the matter my dear little sister? What ails you?
Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya is around!
She responded back in voice disturbed by emotional uproar,
What! My sister why do you cheat me in such a day time?
Am not cheating you my sister, he is around sited in our father’s house,
Is he? Have you given him a drink, a sweet European brandy?
My sister I have not, I feared that I may mess up your visitors
With my hunched shoulders, I feared sister forbid,
Ok, I am coming, running there, tell him to be patient,
Let me tell him sister just right now,
And make sure you come before his patience is stretched.





Song eleven

Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill almost went berserk
On getting this good tidings about the watershed presence,
Of the long awaited suitor, her face exploded into vivacity,
Her heart palpitating on imagination of finally getting the husband,
She went out of the barber shop running and ululating,
Leaving her father behind, confounded and agape,
She came running towards her father’s main house
Where the suitor is sited, with the chaperons,
She came kicking her father’s animals to death,
Harvesting each and every fruit, for the suitor,
She did marvel before she reached where the suitor was;
Harvested ten bananas, mangoes and avocadoes,
Plums, pepper, watermelons, lemons and oranges,
She kicked dead five chicken, five goats, rams,
Swine, rabbits, rats, pigeons and hornbills,
When she reached the house, she inquired to know,
Who among them could be the one; Akhatembete Khobwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya, But her English vocals were not guttural enough,
She instead asked, who among you is a key tempter go weevil car no lawyer?
The decoy ogre promptly responded; here I am the queen of my heart. He stood up,
Victoria took the ogre into her arms, whining; babie! Babie, babie, come!
Victoria carried the ogre swiftly in her arms, to her tidy bed room,
She placed the ogre on her bed, kissed one another at a rate of hundred,
Or more kisses per a minute, the kissing sent both of them crazy, but spiritual craft,
That gave the ogre a boon to maintain some sobriety, but libido of virginity held Victoria
In boonless state of ****** feat, defenseless and impaired in judgment
It extremely beclouded her judgment; she removed and pulled of their clothes,
Libidinous feat blurring her sight from seeing the scarlet tail projecting
From between the buttocks of the ogre, vestige of *******,
She forcefully took the ogre into her arms, putting the ogre between her legs,
The ogre’s uncircumcised ***** effectively penetrated Victoria’s ****** purse,
The ogre broke virginity of Victoria, making her to feel maximum warmth of pleasure
As it released its germinal seed into her body, ecstasy gripped her until she fainted,
The ogre erected more on its first *******; its ***** became more stiff and sharp,
It never pulled out its ***** from the purse of Victoria, instead it introduced further
Deeper and deeper into Victoria’s ******, reaching the ****** depth inside her with gusto,
Victoria screamed, wailed, farted, scratched, threw her neck, kissed crazily and ******,
On the rhythms of the ogre’s waist gyrations, it was maximum pleasure to Victoria,
She reached her second ****** before the ogre; it took further one hour before releasing,
Victoria was beaten; she thought she was not in England in her father’s house
She thought she was in Timbuktu riding on a mosquito to Eldorado,
Where she could not be found by her father whatsoever,
The ogre pulled Victoria up, helped her to dress up,
She begged that they go back to the common room,
Lest her father finds them here, he would quarrel,
They went back to the common room,
Found her father talking to other two ogres,
She shouted to her father before anyone else,
That ‘father I have been showing him around our house,’
‘He has fallen in love with our house; he is passionate about it,’
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya was shy,
He greeted the father and resumed his chair, with wryly dignity.


Song twelve
An impromptu festival took place,
Fully funded by the father of Victoria,
There was meat of all type from pork to chicken,
Greens were also there in plenty, pepper and watermelons,
Victoria’s mother remembered to prepare tripe of a goat
For the key visitant who was the suitor; Akhatembete,
Food was laid before the ogres to enjoy themselves,
As all others went to the other house for a brainstorming session,
But the hunched backed girl hid herself behind the door,
To admire the food which visitors were devouring,
As she also spied on the table manners of the visitors, for stories to be shared,
Perhaps between herself and her mother, when visitors are gone,
Some sub-human manners unfolded to her as she spied,
One of the ogres swallowed a spoon and a table fork,
And Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Uncontrollably unstuffed his scarlet tail from the trouser,
The chill crawled up the spine of hunchbacked girl,
She almost shouted from her hideout, but she restrained herself,
She swore to herself to tell her father that the visitors are not humans
They are superhuman, Tarzans or mermaids or the werewolves,
The ogre who swallowed the spoon remorsefully tried to puke it back,
Lest the hosts discover the missing spoon and cause brouhaha,
It was difficult to puke out the spoon; it had already flowed into the stomach,
Victoria, her father, her mother and her friend Anastasia,
Anastasia; another English girl from the neighborhood,
Whom Victoria had fished, to work for her as a best maid, as a chaperon,
Went back to the house where the ogres had already finished eating,
They found ogres sitting idle squirming and flitting in their chairs
As if no food had ever been presented to them in a short while ago,
One ogre even shamelessly yawned, blinking his eyes like a snake,
They all forgot to say thanks for the food, no thanks for lunch,
But instead Akhatembete announced on behalf of other ogres,
That they should be allowed to go as they are late for something,
A behaviour so sub-human, given they were suitors to an English family,
Victoria’s father was uneasy, was irritated but he had no otherwise,
For he was desperate to have her daughter Victoria get married,
He had nothing to say but only to ask his daughter, Victoria,
If she was going right-away with her suitor or not,
To which she violently answered yes I am going with him,
Victoria’s mother kept mum, she only shot miserable glances
From one corner of the house to another, to the ogres also,
She totally said nothing, as Victoria was predictably violent
To any gainsayer in relation to her occasion of the moment,
Victoria’s father wished them all well in their life,
And permitted Victoria to go and have good life,
With Akhatembete, her suitor she had yearned for with equanimity,
Victoria was so confused with joy; her day of marriage is beholden,
She hurriedly packed up as if being chased by a monster,
onlylovepoetry Feb 2018
why my existence was just one unending question?

even in the formless and endless pitch black (his HP alias),
could hear Him smile and communicate:
if not You, then who?

We love your dreams where answers run wild like an
Oregon waterfall,
only you understand that the whole world encapsulates into:

love thy neighbor as thyself!

which must be recited as a poem
standing on one left leg

then, smiling,
god extended his only finger, touching each of mine eyelids:

sleep, friend for we need your questioning dreams,
your faith unfurled and unfulfilled
for in your unending inquiry
is all of our
in the beginning, our anti-matter rooted creation,

the Holy Dark
2/19/18 3:06am
http://www.seraphicpress.com/rabbi-hillel-on-one-leg-me-too/

n the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. 2 Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.
Ms Ann Thrope Jun 2014
They brought a great big elephant
Indeed, they brought him everywhere
It is a massive elephant
Still, nobody seems to care

For that reason, I inquired of this elephant
Because I simply could not ignore
So I asked them why in the hell
Would they bring an elephant for?

An elephant is so obnoxious
It drives me up the wall!
When people readily ignore it
Just because it's against the law!
Written September 2011

Dedicated to Max Liberty Alexander & Knox James Alexander
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
why doesn’t english phoneticism diacritic the non-trill r, or why doesn’t it diacritic the non-harking h? i wonder... where’s all the nation’s intelligence gone to... investing 650 billion in the ant mound that’s london? the politics blame it on the eastern european... ‘never blame it on the chinese or the arabs... they have the investments to come with boom & bust coordinates of new york’s 1920s hopes... followed up with depression.’ but oddly enough no recession in poland... perhaps because the poles have all the salt and lost all the dollars’ worth of edible mince pie (while the irish only lost ***** in hazelnut hangover forgetfulness on the titanic minding the class system of who got the lifeboats) - **** me, i’ve turned into a welsh longbows’ man with the famous V of agincourt... i’m not even welsh... but i’m assuredly an abacus: count to two sheep flights of suicide and towing two snorkel sneezes worth of bubbles before dozing off; ah... the celebrated humanity.*

that’s how it works... the r that lost the wheel and the ballerina twirl,
and the rolling-on requirements of a diacritic mark,
since all the available ones are inadequate,
and the h needs surgery to be honest...
it’s hardly a hay stack... as is the gnome eager to learn
about gnosticism and u-boats...
but did i tell you this one story that might
make you laugh?
in my post brain haemorrhage psychosis
i bought a martin & co. acoustic guitar for £600
while trading in a mandolin i bought cleaning toilets
in an edinburgh nightclub getting more than i expected
from a **** groper... sold for £25 second hand which i didn’t take
and just left it there due to honour
(who'd empty ****** in beer bottles from a toilet
getting harassed by a gay
in order to buy a £70 mandolin to play
only one song and then sell it for £25 and take the money?!)...
no, really, the english r needs diacritic markings
to distinguish it from the other european arms and arses
fidgety.
so this martin & co.’s guitar i bought
and took to my ex-girlfriends house...
which i left outside... and... oddly enough
in a guitar sheath the guitar suddenly spontaneously
decided to itch and break up...
my ex-girlfriend’s father said the cold did it...
he was always the handyman to break things...
then i started to head-**** the guitar until i managed
to weave a hole in it to sound more hollow...
so i fixed it in the end... a blind man could play it...
my ex-girlfriend’s father ended up as a nutcracker in
the mental health unit for a month while
england rejoiced when the pantomime season came along
in the local theatres - plates were thrown and dogs were walked...
like tonight... me in cognitive conversation:
‘hey stranger’s dog across the street, why you pausing
tail waggling and pavlov ready for a treat
and trying to imbue a french revolution’s cause off the leash?’
religiously you're reversing the due pundit of prayer
for the thing suffering... christianity almost feeds
the notion of prayer unto the continually suffering...
you wouldn't see prayer so easily given to
zeus ******* hera on the chair... would you?
pathetic, even morbid perverts of poverty
******* out the blood from the man...
if he deserved it he deserved it... it's not so easily
grecian polished into the realm of the undeserved...
the classical philosopher inquired: the gods exist...
but why are you sacrificing animals for their existence?
the modern philosophers inquired: the god exists...
but why are you sacrificing your emotions for their existence?
i will not sacrifice a goat on the altar...
but that was easier given the fact you're feeling
such sibyl s & m with that thing dangling on two planks of wood;
didn't i write of the malachi heresy...
the heresy that invaded monotheism and said
john smith postcode *** *** from the 21st century
will always be john smith from london from the 16th century?
malachi's heresy concerning the reincarnation of elijah
decisively spoke of the fractioned hebrew god... it spoke of 1
as 1/2, 1/3, 1/4, 1/5, 1/6, 1/7, 1/8, 1/9 etc.
i can't believe that... like hegel equated in
the book marx digested and rebelled against, i = i,
malachi you propagator & instigator of christianity and islam!
malachi! to the greeks & romans with you tied to st. paul!
(even allen ginsberg mentions this equation
in one of his poems: i am i, old father fisheye that
begat the ocean, the worm at my own ear,
the serpent turning around a tree;
kant and 0 as negation, hegel and the equals sign as being,
naturally ≠ has to imply non-being);
not building idols of forearm and knee for worship is what islam
got away with replacing them with the worship of words...
i'd hate to worship that night idol dictated by a man
who couldn't read... it's almost like a crow hunching
next to a statue of ramses ii about
where r a m s e s trivialised the six pack of the abdomen
there were the letters r a m s e s without definite form
to concern the suckling of favourite idol mantras...
idol holy word hum hum ham ahead of you...
thou shalt knot the casual reference of muhammad
in the corner shop for thou shalt not offend
the goosebumps sensation i feel when i hear the sounds...
MAKE THEE **** A HOLY **** WORDED & WORSHIPPED!
ARSES IN THE AIR GENTS... WE'RE GOING TO HAVANAH!
and so it was... the only fear of death i have
is to have lived to being aged 72... and then died;
death sooner... death... sooner!
my parents die i'm moving to the true england, up north,
to liverpool or manchester... **** the southern fairies
from dubai... i rather move to the faroe islands to be honest...
and **** a dozen orcas for a fry-up and the digestion of winter...
i rather **** time occupying the space in greenland
among the icy chinese known as eskimos;
i'd fit in among the føroyar kindreds... i love the doom & gloom
and hate the sun & tan of globalisation's adventures
with advertisements and juggling tourism
among terrorism's fictive narratives.
little moon Apr 2014
the universe was toothache, the stars were giant cavities. “but it’s been far too long since i’ve had sugar,” cried the sun, the concerned star. “don’t lie to me,” said ever so smart mercury, “when we are right by the milky way.” the other planets jeered and the sun shed a tear and on the earth was rain, peeking through the clouds. you see, the sun was always body conscious. the planetary publication "zodiac almanac" always had an unruly comment or three to share, and after copious poring, the sun felt a little dimmer every time. but every night when the stars twinkled in all of their saccharine glory, they had the sun to thank. the sun, who boldly held itself up in the sky for the little specks on the planet earth, from the people taking walks in the park to the plants preparing to soak up their daily delight. they engaged in photosynthesis while the sun never felt too photogenic at all. the sun mused while listening to the twinkling music of the rotating planets and stars that kissed each other as they formed constellations, faint but audible nonetheless. the sun mused that it wasn’t shining brightly enough. it cried and wept and the people on earth mirrored its melancholy, for a day without the sun morphed into a day of rain-induced laziness.

mercury, who had since apologized, urged the sun to read a book to reinvigorate her intricate mind. jupiter and uranus suggested a workout for empowerment. mars recommended her to write an angry diatribe or five, she was so very fond of venting. venus reminded her again and again that she was beautiful. neptune sang her a lullaby every night. and saturn offered her a ring to lean on. pluto was on sabbatical, but sent her a postcard. all of these gestures were warm and lovely, but the sun still felt trapped and unworthy.

she felt too enormous, too blinding, and too far from earth, where she’d heard many wonderful stories about. the other planets had grown complacent with their distance from earth, but the sun always wanted more, and that was why it was so sunny sometimes, because she wanted to stretch out her wispy arms and embrace the world she knew she could never touch. so she never felt good enough.

but one day the earth seemed to have had enough, and the people were growing dreary of the absence of their beloved sunlight. the moon was especially privy to this information, as she’d watched over earth night after night (except in her first phases when she would rest), and witnessed many a complaint as the clouds would clock off from their shifts and heave sighs of resignation. they knew their golden friend was still weeping.

the moon decided to take a stand. she floated towards the sun even though they were so far away and told her softly: "darling, i know it’s sad that every day you can give so much to people who will never be able to give you anything back. i know it’s hard to peer over, having to watch their countless stories unfold and not ever being able to be one of them. but every time you shine down on that tiny planet over there, you change things. you are bigger because you are so full of light, gently cascading onto those lucky tiny specks down there. and i know you’ll never know what it feels to be fed rays of sunlight, but you can take all the moonlight you want from me and it won’t bother me at all."

and the sun cried more but this time, the tears were out of happiness, and the moon assuaged her again that it would all be fine. she knew she didn’t need to have her own sun, feeding her light, because she knew the light was within her, and her ***** friend, the moon. millenniums later the two would laugh about this.

"what was wrong with me?" inquired the sun.

"everything happens in phases," replied the moon.
wrote this a while ago to represent my and emelina's tattoos
Martin Narrod May 2014
So I scuttled up, until I found a voice like Japan, I read him his rights, turned out the lights, and laid right back on the sand. They said, "Sir, he was much of a father to me, but we were labeled his kin, right in our family tree." "Oh wow", I said, with a gentle, smooth voice, he went missing last August, but now he wants back you boys?" "Oh yes, he sure is a feral man. We think that's why he dried up and flew to Japan." Right then, the two of them went silent just like two second story men, so I inquired, "What happened then?" "From Monday thru Sunday he took to prayer from the bible, and on every other weeknight he watched Japan's Top Model. He threw gallant parties to a harem of wives, he read each of their palms, and looked in their eyes; some time later, when everyone was about to leave, he'd turn on Happy End and start a wild ****." By this time I was tired, the sun began to set, I grew tired of my beach patch and yearned for my bed. Although soporific, I tried to be polite, I said, "Let's finish this conversation some other time." "Of course!", they said, "We're off to bed. We'll see that you'll do the same." Then they stood up quick, and reached down and picked up my chains. The beach we laid on was black top, asphalt and tar, the bed I craved was behind a row of private bars. The two of them, them both, were children of mine, because my memory is shot, this might've been their millionth time. i got locked up in a county that's dry as a beach, like Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where I was raised till 13. No one, not even the warden, knows really why I'm here, even some man from Cell Block Five, asked me last Sunday, why was I here. My beach perhaps, it's love at last, concrete, gravel, and stone- a 6' x 10' room with bars and a porcelain throne. It's mine I cry, each night I die, with glee, with smile, with rite. But it makes the other guys run at me, and try to start random fights. I don't remember the boat I took, but I remember the tour, going to Japan at Epcot Center since I'd never gone before.
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim, -
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands;
All of them touch him like some queer disease.

There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
That's why; and may be, too, to please his Meg;
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.

Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
To-night he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
(C) Wilfred Owen
Brandon Nov 2013
She blew into town like a hurricane.

Back into our lives after a long excursion into the world of modeling and amateur wrestling. She showed up at our door after promising to arrive six hours earlier, negating whatever plans we had planned for the night and putting us on the edge of a bad mood that would prove to be harder to recover from as the night proceeded to move along.

She brought us food from a local cafe where a client of hers had wined and dined her for showing him an hours worth of affection, the kind of trade she had sworn she was moving away from but old habits die hard. She wrapped her arms around us in a bear hug a person of her stature seemed would not be possible to do but did anyway and planted one of her too soft tender kisses on both of our cheeks. Small talk ensued before she sat down at the kitchen table and rolled a blunt while We ate slivers of chicken and salmon with rice. Washing it down with some *** flavored lightly with coca cola and lime.

She rambled upstairs and perused thru my vast book collection noting in the way that she does that I have very few feminist authors. I am a guy was my typical response. She smiled and giggled. Talked of her love of names and two-stepped the steps back down the stairs where she picked up her blunt and waved it around as one does when they capture the flag in childhood war games. Shall we smoke she inquired and we agreed with a certain amount of hesitation that went unnoticed.

The truth was that we had weaned ourselves off of addiction only a few months before and while eagerness was bound we were still weary of smoking particularly with such a manic woman in our presence but we followed her down the stairs anyway and as she chose her seating we chose ours. She tore a piece off the end of the blunt and handed it to me to light for old time sakes.

I took another long sip of my dwindling drink and lit the end of the piece while inhaling and filling my lungs with poorly flavored mango smoke. I held it in for a few seconds while the blunt finished its lighting and blew the smoke at the tip to put out the flame that had grown and passed the blunt around, right to left.

We were short on words having spent all our day in wait but she was long winded and had a hell of a time on the road and proceeded to tell us a story of her adventures on the west coast using obscene hand gestures when needed and punctuating certain words with her voice while doing her best to imitate Zelda Fitzgerald at her craziest moments.

She nursed her drink and we drank our drunk as the blunt smoked and dwindled down to a stub she asked my opinion on a matter which I had nothing relevant to say so I went to the garage for a pair of pliers for use as roach clips but decided I had had my fill of crazy so stayed upstairs instead, finishing my drink and pouring another one.

My peace lasted for only a few moments before they came upstairs and sat down on the leather couch and flipped thru the television channels before stopping on some show that would have been canceled years ago had it not been for the beautiful girl keeping it and the cast still working. I lied down on the couch while they messed with their phones, one looking at food recipes and the other playing some of the worst pop music that I had ever heard.

She asked if we were hungry and tho we had already ate the effect of the **** sat heavily on us and our stomachs growled. She suggested pizza. I said we had some in the fridge. she said she would buy some from a place that delivers.

We contemplated about toppings. She said she likes weird toppings. We settled on half pepperoni and half pineapple. Her choices were not weird but i let it slide. She ordered a pizza using her prize money from some wrestling match or **** photo shoot she had done the previous day.

We ate.

We drank some wine to wash down the taste. We talked a few more hours, ending the night with glasses of water to cure the early headaches and speed up the feelings of sobriety so that the night would come to an end because we all had an early start the next day.

We said our good byes at the door and muttered a good riddance beneath our breaths and sighed a sigh of relief as we realized that some people no matter how great and mad can be intolerable to be around for longer than a very short night.
An old write that I never edited nor worked on more.
Terry Jordan Mar 2017
Like an alien in a spotlight
With her magnifying glasses on
My mother as she worked, up all night
Did invisible weaving till dawn

I would watch her when I couldn’t sleep
Honing in on that hole in the suit
Intently, her concentration deep
Weaving tiny threads enlarged like jute

In other-worldly light she labored
I was afraid she’d lose her eyesight
Watching her focus never wavered
Her face all aglow in the lamplight

Invisible weaving, I inquired
How tediously she plied her craft
Worked for the money that she required
Made the warp and weft of fabric last

Reconstruction, undetectable
No more burn, or tear, or fabric blight
Weaving magic so incredible
Its wound now perfect by morning’s light

She taught me much that I’m still making
From her life that now I’m grieving
Sewing, crocheting and great baking
But never invisible weaving

The picture of her life that mattered
I now see how she toiled so finely
And that the wrinkles in the fabric
Of my own life splayed out so blindly

The vision of my eyes, bedazzled
Incandescent, her face in the beam
Unaware how her mind unraveled
As Depression stole her ev’ry dream

The threads of DNA defining
Who I’ve become I’m now believing
My mother’s hand in that designing
Of my own Invisible Weaving

In honor of my mother, Edla Sylvia Fitzpatrick, on this International Women's Day
I was working on this for a while, when I read the Pulitzer Prize winning poem, by C.K. Williams, entitled Invisible Mending.  Same subject, but his metaphor was of forgiveness & redemption, while mine is a little fuzzy, about my connection to my mother...and NOT the winner of a Pulitzer Prize.
Ana Habib Nov 2020
The family of two would soon be turning into 3. Jasmine and Robyn  Banerjee were a young couple who had gotten married only a few short month back and were now eagerly waiting for the arrival of the baby. Jasmine, did not care if was a boy or girl. She and her husband agreed that as long as the baby was healthy had her mom eyes and dads smile everything was perfect.

Her in-laws had other ideas. They looked after her and was very understanding about her plight. The morning sickness, violent mood swings, acne, aches and pains. They advised her on what they thought was right but every few days or so her mother in law had something new to say. “ Don’t eat too much of something or the baby will have birthmark just like it somewhere on the body” or eat fish so that the “baby will be smart” or something more annoying like “ do not bathe, the baby might be born early” The mother to-be smiled politely or rolled her eyes as far back as possible while silently wishing someone would take her a way from these kooky people.

Jasmine, was a school teacher by profession and her husband Robyn ran a very successful travel agency. She had been told that it would be best if she resigned from work, at the very beginning of her pregnancy. Robyn provided for both and why did a woman need to work after a child is born?

Baby Dia was born on a Friday at 8pm in a clinic after a long and tiring labour. Both the doctor and nurse were smiling when they handed the pink bundle of cries to Jasmine. She did not even have 10 minutes alone with the baby before the door burst open with an eager set of grandparents and a father who looked, troubled.

What is it? Cried one of the grandmothers

“A girl” said Jasmine smiling

“hmm”

“a boy would have been better”

“ I Know she would bring bad luck to the family”

Not something to tell a new mom but everyone was suddenly looking each other instead of her. No one went to congratulate the mom or take a second look at the baby. Jasmine’s mother in law looked upset. Her mom just patted her hand, hurriedly mumbled something, and left the room with her father in tow. Jasmine felt bad upon hearing everything and wondered what kind of people she had been living with till now. Her husband was quiet the whole time.

Baby Dia grew up to be a happy smiling baby who made little to no fuss, slept through the night and always seemed excited about expanding her palate. She did not see much of her father or grandfather. They never showed much interest in her. They never warmed up to her. Robyn smiled, picked her up or played with his daughter every once in a while, but for the most part he worked long nights, on the weekend and went on week long trips when he needed to.

Robyn was working late again for the third time this week. He had hoped for a boy for so long but ended up with a daughter. She was precious to look at but women are complicated, expensive and overly emotional.

One afternoon, 4 year old Dia was playing outside with a few of the neighbourhood children. She had great fun but came home looking a little more then just *****. Her pink frock had holes in it, her wavy hair came undone and she was holding only one shoe in her hands. Her mother was no where to be seen but her grandmother hollered at the girl.

“Look at you, dirt all over the place,” why cant you just play inside with your dolls or toys only boys get this ***** and stay out so late” Dia paid no attention to these words and went to her grandmother for a hug. The old woman shooed the little girl away and locked her in the bathroom.  “Don’t come out till your squeaky clean” her grandmother warned. What was the big deal about getting ***** Dia wondered?

When she had turned 7, Dia started attending events and invites with her parents. They were all invited to a wedding on a Saturday night. She no longer had to wear scratchy frocks anymore. Her mother had bought her something better. A pant suit with a pink scarf. Dia loved it and dressed up by herself with no help. The dress was great, but the scarf was a nuisance. It was long and she felt suffocated. What was there to hide? Her mom draped in a pink saree, frowned when she came out wearing no scarf.

“Put on your scarf it comes with the dress”

“I don’t want to its ugly and I wont able to play with this on”

The normally calm woman, suddenly felt annoyed.

“Look, I have a shawl and your grandmother is wearing one too” that’s just how women dress, and that includes little girls.”

Her grandmother sitting in the back of the car murmured something about teaching her manners and modesty. Dia didn’t flinch

“ I have manners and my legs are not showing” Modesty in the “Banarjee” household meant that woman were not to expose their legs or back or any other parts of the body except for the hands and feet” Such rules did not apply to the men.

The next morning Jasmine spoke to Dia about the incident.

“I wanted you to wear the scarf last night because its how girls dress. You are a girl and you have to cover yourself to avoid trouble. Good girls always cover themselves and listen to their parents.”

Dia nodded but she didn’t understand anything. She was hungry and just wanted to eat.

When Dia was 11. One of her father’s colleagues came over. A kind man, his wife and annoying son. She liked them. They always brought over presents. She had gotten blue bangles last time. She saw them, from her window. She could not leave her room until her mother called for her.  It was always to work in the kitchen, Serve the guests, tea and snacks, set the table and do the dishes while everyone talked in the living room or sat in the backyard. Everything had to be cleaned up and the tea had to be exactly right. Not too dark, or too sugary. Grandmother says that if a girl did not know how to make proper tea she would not get a good husband in the future. Dia smirked when she heard this, her husband can have milkshakes for all she cared. She hated tea. Drink too much of it and she would get darker. Drink to little of it and the headaches would start. Dia could only leave the room when they left. No one really stayed over except of her mother’s parents, cousins and the occasional 50 pounds overweight aunty who always had her face in the refrigerator and inquired about her grades and skin tone every single visit. Girls were expected to stay indoors as much as possible. Always hidden but from what Dia could not always understand.

A few days after Dia turned 12 she had gotten her period. She read all about it on the internet and the librarian at school had lent her some books while explaining everything to her. Such topics were never discussed at home. It was a horrible experience. The bleeding, cramping, headaches and bouts of anger. All this because she was girl, every month for a very long time. 50 years perhaps. Her mother and grandmother smiled, when she told them. They took her out for lunch and bought her new clothes. She could no longer wear shorts or sleeveless tops anymore, even in the privacy of her own room. A brassiere had to go with everything now and long scarves and vests were a must. Along with this Dia had to follow other rules. She could not wash her hair on the first day of her period, she could not bathe in hot water. She could not paint her nails, have anything sour (pickles, lemonade) or make food for anyone because everything will spoil. She could not enter a place of worship or cradle baby because he/she might get sick. Dia thought all this was pointless and when she inquired about it, she got a smack to the face for questioning ancient rules and rituals and was told that this was how it was for every woman before her in the family. She earned a second smack when she asked who made the rules. Probably a man.

On her 14th birthday. Dia had gotten into a fight with one of her best friends. It was over something trivial. What to wear for a school event? Dia had settled for a saree and her friend settled on a gown. Dia was not fair but a little dusky. Her friends skin tone was like milk. The girl took great pride in that. She went as far as saying that Dia’s grey saree made her look like a crow. Dia was too upset to say anything in return, so she quickly walked home. She walked to her room and did not come out till the next day. Jasmine had noticed her daughter’s sour behavior and snappy remarks, so she asked what was wrong. Dia tearfully told her the truth. Her mom laughed and said that good friend’s squabble over anything and forget it 2 days later. Gave her money for ice cream and a movie and left for work. Her grandmother while doing the dishes told her that it was normal for girls for fight because women are competitive, they always want the best for themselves and have no problem belittling someone else to get it. Dia asked why, she got the usual response. “that’s how girls are” Dia through her grandma was being extra negative that day.

When Dia turned 18, she met a young man through one of her classes. She was studying health sciences and aspired to be a dentist when she was much older. Teeth always fascinated her since she was young. Her friend was a taller a bit older (21) and studying to be an Emergency Medical Technician. Dia and this boy had been friends for awhile now. He came from a good family and had no siblings. But she always thought him to be a friend. They studied together, hung around and had fun. He on the other hand started asking too many questions and took up a lot of her time. He was nice, positive and always made her laugh, but she had to let him know how she felt about him. She thought of speaking to her mom about this. Her father had heard everything instead. He sat beside her, listened to everything, and told her to wait for the boy to come to her and then break him the news gently. There was no need to talk to him first and cause a scene at the college campus. This would affect her studies and make her look her bad. This upset Dia in a major way. A woman was able to have feelings, but she could not voice them out? She could not take the first step in a relationship?  She mumbled her thanks and took a long shower that night, thinking everything over. The next day she approached her father again. He gave her a long look and said that if she broke things off with him first, he could go around spreading rumors or get her in trouble at school. No one likes a bold woman who always speaks her mind. She should just focus on her studies. Dia did not press him any further. She went on with her everyday life and lost him as a friend in a month’s time.

A week shy of her 21st birthday, Dia received an acceptance letter from a prestigious university. She was ecstatic and did cartwheels after reading the letter. Her parents had no qualms about her studying at a university that was far away from home or living in a hostel. She had matured into a young woman who they could trust and she had not made a faulty decision till now. Dia was not interested in parties, drinking, or staying overnight with friends. She was a good girl. However, they only let her go after letting her know that they would start looking for a boy once she graduated from her program. Dia said yes without thinking to much about this. Graduation was still 4 years away.

Dia went to complete university in less then 4 years time. She did not waste any time after graduation and enrolled into dental school. She had flunked only 1-2 courses during one semester. Her grandmother had died during one of them and her grades fell just slightly. This brought upon change in the Banerjee family. Her father had changed after his mom’s death. He was no longer in a rush to get Dia married and stopped working. He picked up a hobby and worked on that. Her mother took a break from teaching and now worked as a guidance counsellor for teens at a reputable high school.

During this time Dia was going steady with another dentistry student, with her parent’s permission. He was alright in most ways but sometimes pressured her to take their relationship to the next level. She always resisted and asked him to wait till they get married. Woman had to remain pure till they got married. If one’s purity is gone or lost it would bring great shame to the family and the couple. He said he he understood until one day he did not anymore. In a fit of rage, he let her know she belonged to him and he could do what he liked. They would be getting married soon so why did it matter. She resisted the urge to strike him and let him know that she belonged to no one but herself. He called her names before calling it quits. It hurt, but Dia knew that she would meet the right man sooner or later. Her parents did not say anything to her regarding this.

When Dia was 25 she did meet someone, he was a doctor and she went to become a dentist. They did not a have a grand wedding but a small private ceremony. They had paid for everything and Dia sent her parents on a much-needed vacation. Her husband, he did not pressure her to do anything she did not like. He grew up abroad and helped her in all the things that men did not normally do back home like cooking, cleaning, shopping because this was considered to be “ Woman’s work” and was “normal” This surprised her at first but amazed her later on. One night after too much wine and fun her husband went to bed.  Dia was still awake giddy from the wine and had other things on her mind. She gently woke her husband up. He was not pleased. “Let me sleep woman, its not the time to do anything and I have to get up early. He left it at that and was snoring in minutes.

She looked at him and frustration and wondered why it was normal and acceptable for men to satisfy their needs wherever and whenever possible, but a woman was always rebuked when she wanted something from her husband. She had certain needs and rights over him. She quickly undressed, slipped into a nighty, and went to sit in the balcony for a bit. The moon was out and the world was dead asleep.
Dia poured herself the last of the wine and thought about everything.

A woman always has two choices to fight or to follow the rules. Since birth woman are groomed into becoming a certain type of woman, once they get to that stage they are either married off or left to work and hop from one relationship to another. They were taught to be quiet, obedient, smart and always fully covered.

Why did a woman need to be covered at all times? Not just her body but her mind as well. She must keep mum about her wants, her needs, and desires. She always must think about the others and society before deciding on something. No one looks up to a woman who speaks her mind and focuses on herself. No one appreciates an independent woman. She must always be dependant on a male somebody (father, brother, husband, son). She must always do what she is told and taught because that is the way it is. That is how girls are.

This is all Dia grew up listening to. Who came up with the rules? Society. A society, where men dictated most things and told woman what they should and should not do. When a man will never understand what women go through or why they must handle and balance out so much. School, home, family, career. A woman always has to choose.

Everything comes down to a choice and she will forever have to sacrifice something or the other because it is the womanly thing to do. Men are never really questioned about their choices. They talk, they lead, and the women follow. That needs to change. People need to unlearn these age-old stereotypes. They hurt both the men and women. A man grows up but ends up lacking so much in terms of emotional intelligence and respect for the other gender. He grows without understanding what gender equality means and why it is needed.  A woman grows up but not without sacrifice, selflessness, and crippling obedience. She is seen as inferior, weak, or untamable if she does not do what she is told, asks too many questions and wants to better herself in some way or form.

A woman’s identity should not be made from excuses and lies.
Juhlhaus May 2019
Midway upon the journey of life
I found myself riding
zigzag down dark streets,
for there was no straight way
through that teeming urban grid.
Thus I travelled deeper into the night,
while rosary beads swung hypnotic
from the mirror, reflecting the revenant eyes
of one raised by an invisible hand
from salt water rocks where
as a boy, he said, he should have died.
Deftly navigating changing lights
of amber, red, and green,
he humbly inquired after my beliefs
and the state of my soul.
As to this I could not say,
so I drew it out and held it gingerly
by the rough edges, examining
as best I might in that dim backseat
its wrinkles, creases, and scars.
In the reflection he saw all these clearly,
and with gentle resonance spoke
of things impossible to know,
less difficult to believe,
and blessed me so
that on passing out the door
I found my soul again soft and warm.
It was the most profound Uber ride I have ever experienced.
Madison Aug 2018
Our story's beginnings are rather plain
Set in a town built on the mundane.
In this town, there lived a boy
Devoid of ambition, love, or joy.

He sleepwalked through his days
Aimless and alone.
Drowning in a melancholy haze
He longed for something lovely to call his own.

Now, I shan't tell you the young man's name
For fear he'd hang his head in shame
But his story you should know.
For it's not the name that marked this boy
But the places he would go.  

One day, an idea dawned
To take a day trip out of town.
The boy made a map
And a line was drawn
To the path he would walk down.

He followed the map with surprising ease
Over the hills and through the trees.
Though the boy was thrilled
He couldn't wrap his mind
Around the treasure
He would soon find.

The path came to an end
Without the map's warning
Causing the boy's plans to upend
Before it was even midmorning.
But the boy was in awe
Despite the offset.
He knew what he saw
He would not soon forget.
In the middle of the golden field
Stood a tall ivory castle.
His chronic disenchantment healed
The boy vowed to see inside
Whatever the hassle.

So he searched for a door
Until he could search no more.
He attempted to climb
With no regard for time.
He searched for a ****
Or a lock
Or a key.
Only when he was about to give up
Did the answer break free.

Against all reason
The castle began to glow.
When the transformation came to completion
A strange voice let him know.

"Come in," coaxed the disembodied voice
Honeyed and assured.
Feeling as if he had no choice
Inside, the boy was lured.

"My, you are a rude one," the voice began to chide.
"A lady invites you into her home, and without a word, you come inside?
I'm not expecting you to write me a sonnet, but at least have a bit of tact!
If we're being honest, boy, I believe your manners lack."

Sure this was some sort of stunt
The boy calmly shook his head.
"Forgive me, Miss, for being so blunt
But I believe the fault is yours instead.
You expect me to believe I was propositioned
By a castle that spoke?
I am certain one of my peers commissioned
Some sort of pricey joke.
I'm sorry, Castle Lady Dear
But I must be on my way.
I'm afraid I can't stay here
Perhaps we'll finish another day.
It's truly nothing personal
I simply have a hunch
That if I stick around for now
I'll miss my mother's lunch."

The boy turned on his heel
Not saying any more.
He soon let out a pitiful squeal
When he found there was no longer a door.

The Castle Lady countered his squeal
With a sinister cackle.
"Did you really believe you could leave me here
Without it becoming a debacle?
I'm sorry, dear
But for now
To this place, you are shackled."

Heart suddenly stricken with fear
The boy's eyes filled with tears
And he began to cry.
"Please let me go!" he cried out.
"I am far too young to die!"

Much to the boy's chagrin
The Castle Lady only laughed again.
"Goodness me, my dear!
You must be some sort of fool!
I do not plan to **** you here.
How could I ever be so cruel?"

Angered by the castle woman's taunts
The boy's eye began to twitch.
"If you won't **** me, what do you want?
Let me go, you witch!"

Unphased by his outburst
The Castle Lady simply tsked.
"Are you sure the witch is me
When you're the one being so mean?
I know what a statement this might be
But I believe you're the meanest boy I've seen.
But you can relax
For I've had my fun.
I simply have a favor to ask
Before you turn and run."

Against all logic
And stranger-danger talks
The notion of adventure
Overpowered his urge to balk.
"What is it?" he asked the Castle Lady
As curiosity struck.
When the Castle Lady responded
He could not believe his luck.

"Resting in one of my rooms
Is an awe-inspiring prize.
It holds power and beauty few men ever get to witness
With their own two eyes.
In fact, it holds too much power
So much that it's making me sick.
Only the brightest of young men can bear it
And you're the one I've picked."

The boy's heart raced.
For that prize, he yearned.
Still, he said:
"There must be some mistake.
Are you sure this is a prize I've earned?"

Overtaken by laughter
The Castle Lady began to roar.
"I am not that sick, dear boy!
Of course I am sure!
I can not make any mistake
No matter how small.
Didn't your mother teach you
That divine beings know all?
Now, you are an imaginative lad
With the charisma to match.
I'd dare say you are the best equipped child
Out of the local batch."

The boy couldn't help but crack a grin
Flattered by the Castle Lady's assessment.
"I suppose you must be right, then.
Now where do I get my present?"

"It is not a difficult journey at all," the Castle Lady replied.
"Just walk a bit down this here hall
And look to your left side."

Suddenly, the room filled with bright light
To help him find his way around.
In saying the journey was not difficult, the Castle Lady was right
As another glowing doorway
Was soon found.

"Very good, you clever boy!" the Castle Lady cried.
"Just give your fingers a quick snap
And take a step inside."

Proudly, the boy followed her advice.
The snap of his fingers reverberated
Sounding quite nice.
Secretly, the simple action
Gave him a small thrill
For he was the only child in his town
Who had such a skill.

Just as the lady promised
The door opened right away.
Thus, he took that fateful step inside
As she said he may.

Alas, it seemed the boy had been cheated by his wanderlust.
The only thing inside the room
Was a wooden box
Coated in dust.

All sense of wonder gone
The boy was certain it was a trick.
"You horrid con!
What in here is making you sick?"

Unamused, the Castle Lady sighed.
This was not the first time a child had thought she lied.
"You're jumping to conclusions, boy.
I'm not that sly a fox.
If you want to find the treasure
Look inside the box."

Begrudgingly, the boy obliged
Lifting up the top.
In the moment he saw what was inside
The whole world seemed to stop.

The boy's jaw dropped
As the box glowed
As if it contained all of heaven's rumored light.
It was true that he was unlikely
To ever again see such a wonderful sight.

"Well?" the Castle Lady inquired.
"Would you like to keep it?
You have all the qualities required
It's only fair that you reap it."

"Of course I'd like to keep it," said the boy.
"But what should I do?
What power do I have
To take care of this box
Any better than you?"

"The box can do anything," said the Castle Lady.
"Perhaps that's why I can not have it.
Still, you need not engage in special care and keeping
Or develop any new habits.

The box can do whatever you wish
Cure disease and famine
Or make your family rich.
I can not tell you what to do
Just use your own discretion.
Besides, it wouldn't truly be yours to use
If you did so under my direction.
So simply take it home
And do with it what you will
But before you choose to roam
I have one more message for you still."

Holding the box to him
The boy lifted an ear
Regarding her as a friend.
"What is it, Castle Lady?
Please say what needs to be said!"

When she spoke again
The boy could swear her voice contained a smile.
"When you leave me, the castle will come to an end
And this part of me will be dead.
Though I'd love for you to stay a while
So we could become better acquainted
I'm afraid that would be against the rules
And the prophecy would be tainted.
So, clever boy
For now, I'll bid you adieu.
You deserve to be given joy
And I hope that is what the box will do."

No sooner than she spoke
Did the castle vanish
In a puff of smoke.
Once again, the boy stood in the field.
In his hands rested the box
The closed lid keeping its powers concealed.
Somewhere between satisfied and sad.

He gave her a eulogy
However unorthodox.
"Goodbye, Castle Lady Dear, I enjoyed our little talks.
Maybe we'll meet in another world...
Oh, and thank you for the box!"
Having said all he needed to say
The boy knew he should be leaving soon.
He turned to walk the other way.
Walking home, his fingers snapped a tune.

It wasn't long before the whole town
Knew about his treasured box.
The boy made sure all his friend knew.
In school, he stopped all of the clocks.

He provided his class with great delight.
As a school day
Melted away
Into a Friday night.
The grown-ups none the wiser
He pulled off the perfect crime.
Forever the improvisor
He also did away with bedtime.

He gave his family money
As the Castle Lady said he could.
Though his old bullies looked at him funny
His clothes had never looked so good.

He gave himself popularity
A Labrador puppy
A brand new bike.
The ones who teased him
Spoke apologetically
And there wasn't a single girl
By whom he wasn't liked.

It wasn't long, however
Before the fun began to fade.
As much power as he had, he never intended
To share his gift with his whole grade.

"Can you tell me
If my pet goldfish is really watching from above?"
"Can you please help me
Make my parents fall back in love?"
"Can you make it so that
My grandpa isn't sick anymore?"
"Can you invent a robot
To help me do my chores?"
"Can you make sure
That my family keeps our home?"
"Oh-- and while you're at it
Help me write my girlfriend a nice poem?"

Alas, the boy paid no mind
To their wants and needs.
He had left his charitable days behind
In favor of his newfound greed.
Though his box could do anything
It really wasn't his job.
No matter what happiness to others it might bring
Of his power, he'd feel robbed.

He didn't know that at night
His friends went home to cry
Asking their nonexistent treasured boxes
"If he can have something special
Why can't I?"

Life went on like this
Until one day, he was greeted by a bird.
It landed on his shoulder
And hissed,
"You'll never guess what I heard."

The boy was quite frightened
Both by the bird's familiar voice
And what it said.
Still, his eyes brightened
When he shouted
"Castle Lady?
I thought that you were dead!"

"Too bad," the bird crowed.
"For I'm very much alive.
And I figure you should know
I won't allow you to continue to connive."

At her choice of words
The boy sputtered.
"What do you mean, bird?"
He nervously stuttered.

The Bird Lady stared at him
With beady black eyes.
"I mean, I saw what you've done with your gift
And I was unpleasantly surprised.
You didn't disrupt any tradition.
I told you to do what you would.
It was just that I had the premonition
That you'd use your power for good.
You're no better than any of your classmates
You silly sap!
Did it ever occur to you
That you were only picked
Because you can snap?
When my last life came to an end
You thanked me for the box
And ran home to your mother.
My spirit would have been able to rest
If you had used the box to help others.
I am older than most earthly things
And some sights I've seen are hellish.
This in mind
It's beyond me
Why you'd choose to be so selfish.
See, this box was once mine
Changing owners as it does
And when it fell into my hands I wished
To be anything but the girl I was.
From then on, I've been trapped
In the form of many objects
And, whenever I try to go from this world to the next
Fate always interjects.
I'm the keeper of this box
Until it falls into the hands of someone good enough
And I'm here to say, dear boy
I'm afraid you must give it up."

Without warning
The boy broke down
Dropping to his knees.
For the first time since that fateful day
His sense of superiority ceased
And truth began to reign.
Head in his hands, he grieved
For those he had caused pain.

The Bird Lady remained by his side
Trying her hardest to soothe.
"Now, clever boy, you need not cry
But the box does need to move.
Now, I need you to calm down and listen to me
And let me make myself clear.
I need you to go to the sea
And that's the last wish you will make here."

Suddenly, the boy understood.
When it was far too late, he used his powers for good.
So he wished for the ocean, heeding the Bird Lady's advice.
The two of them were at the beach
Before he could think twice.

"Very good," the Bird Lady praised.
"All you have to do now is let go.
Don't worry, my dear boy
When the box finds its forever home
I'll be sure to let you know."

The boy nodded.
With shaking hands, he looked down.
Taking a deep breath, he dropped the box
And all his wrongdoings drowned.

"Thank you very much," the Bird Lady chirped.
"Now, relax, and let your conscience be cleared.
You can go home
And I'll take it from here.
One last thing
I should tell you, my friend.
All this can be fixed
If you just have an ear to lend.
No matter how heartfelt
Apologies only take you so far.
What you should do now
Is fix your regrets with actions
To show them what a lovely boy you are."

With that
The Bird Lady dove
Picking up the box with her magnificent beak.
The boy returned home
With redemption to seek.

All these years later
Our nameless boy is now a man.
He's ordinary, yes
But ordinary is good enough.
He doesn't look down on others
Or even try to act tough.
Though he's no longer a heartthrob
One girl remained by his side.
When she is there
He never has to hide.
When a friend has a problem
He is there to listen.
And, though he holds no glowing box
His eyes still glisten.


Meanwhile, our Lady's soul
Now rests within a spaniel dog.
Though the box still has no permanant owner
She doesn't think it will be long.
Though that might seem unlikely
Divine beings do know all
Though everyone makes mistakes
Both big and small.
She may chastise others
For poor choices and self-control
But in the end, she knows the box only needs one thing:
To be cared for by a beautiful soul.
Mymai Yuan Sep 2010
I swirled my fingertips on the surface of the water and sent a message across with shiny, glossy ripples that grew slowly, and gracefully. He kneeled on the other side of the moonlit pond and watched as the ripples from my fingertips reached him. He cupped the ripples of the water into his palm and drank the cold water, sighing happily.
“What does it taste like?” I whispered hoarsely, as loud as I dared to be while knowing we would be reprimanded fiercely for sneaking out of the huts at this time of night.
“Love” he called back.
I burst out laughing in panting breaths and tried to stifle the noise with my fists. I heard him bellow out, and the echoes rang freely through the woods before he quickly shoved his face into the water and laughed in there, the bubbles of his laughter surfacing violently.
“You idiot” I whispered joyfully when he brought his head up from the water, his dark hair curled against his forehead, “I didn’t even write anything to do with love. I wrote how foolish of a boy you are.”
“And you still stick with me so that’s love isn’t it?” he teased me. His finger tips swirled in the water for a minute. “Your turn to taste, Masra”
I waited till the ripples hit the side of the pond and quickly dipped my tongue in and lapped the water. I pursed my lips, pretending to debate what his message was. The surface of the black water was littered with reflection of the stars. It was so beautiful that I momentarily forgot the little game we were playing and gasped, “Oh stars!”
He took a quick intake of breath and stared up at me with wide eyes. “Really?” he asked in an unbelieving tone.
“What do you mean?”
“Stars?” he asked again, sounding like a sweet little confused child.
“Yes!” I laughed. “Stars!” and I splashed the surface of the water to show him.
He shook his head. “I can’t believe you could read, I mean, taste that... That’s incredible…”
It took me a second to realize what he was talking about. I decided to play along anyways and whispered dramatically, “Yeah, but I didn’t know what you were trying to say”
“A million stones on fire with wishes
Yet the brightest star is not up there” he recited his favorite lines from an old love poem.
“You are disgustingly soppy” I got up from kneeling by the pond and treaded softly on the dry leaves so that they wouldn’t crackle so loud. Reaching him, I kneeled down beside him and ran my fingers through his curly wet locks. His dark eyelashes were still wet with water and the chestnut eyes gleamed brightly.
I curled into his lap comfortably like a cat and he rolled over with me lying on top, while his strong arms held me. I buried my face into the skin of his beautiful brown neck and inhaled the sweet, musky smell. Reab smoothed my hair before murmuring huskily, “Why do you always do that?”
“It smells like you, the old Reab smell. It makes me feel safe and warm and happy.”
“I love you.”
“Do you think we’ll always be happy like this?” I asked, speaking of my deepest fear.
“I will never stop loving you, if that’s what you mean. And if we are caught sneaking out, I’m pretty sure no one would be too surprised. They all know from the way I look at you I intend to marry you when Chief thinks you’re old enough and finally say okay.”
I laughed at the thought of Chief being able to give me away.
With my parents both gone since I was a baby, Chief had adopted me as his daughter and he loved me tremendously for all his lecturing ways. Reab laughed a little too but without any fear of Chief rejecting him. Chief loved Reab too and approved of us most of the time.
“Do you remember when he caught us making ‘sheep-eyes’ at each other as he put it and he was furious?” We chuckled at the memory of Chief turning storm on us, declaring we were too young.
“What would he say now?” he turned my face to face his and kissed me for a while, with the wind blowing the tendrils of my hair on his face. He smiled mid-way through our kiss, for the soft strands of my hair on his face always tickled him.
I didn’t want to continue with my question after that happy moment. But I had to; he was the only man who would tell me the truth. “Our tribe has enemies. We have many men, many strong men… but I know we are in a constant threat. I have seen the midnight meetings you men hold when you think we are asleep and more weapons that normal are being made nowadays.”
He looked at me with sad eyes; with so much love and desire burning in them that my own eyes began to swell up with tears. I fluttered my lids to get rid of the wetness but he reached over and caught a tear on his pinky and licked it. Then he licked all the tears off my face and I giggled as his tongue flicked over the tearstains on my cheeks.
“The tribe is in some danger. You and I are not. I will love you forever.” I shook my head and was about to interrupt with another fearful question when he continued, “You know what Chief always says. We don’t live just one life. I loved you since we were babies. You know what I think?”
“What?” I asked, his voice slightly soothing my fears.
“I think I’ve known you before. There’s no way you can know someone the way I know you in the short life time we’ve lived. This is not the first time we’ve met.”
“You’re not worried if a battle comes we won’t be together?”
“No.” he answered and kissed my forehead.
“Why?” I couldn’t get rid off the idea of such a terrible fate.
“I think…” he struggled to get the words out, “I think we’ll always be together somehow. Masra, I’m… I’m just not afraid”
We lay there for a while until I fell asleep in his arms. I was awoken a little later with him shaking me softly for us to sneak back into our own huts.
There was a little advantage in having both my parents gone. Lela, my cousin who shared the hut with me, stirred only a little as I crept back in.



“I’ve been hearing from your sister that lately you have been waking very late. I don’t approve of this laziness.” Chief said to me as I sat on the floor of his hut, admiring the new spear he had just made. I sharpened the stone a little for him and smiled up brightly. His face softened. Chief was not usually an easy person to get around, but he always said he loved me more than was good for me. “I saw Reab today. He didn’t look so alert and awake.”
My mind clicked into place as I realized Chief had his suspicions. “Reab?” I inquired with an innocent expression. “Is he ill?”
“He just looked tired.” Chief replied with raised eyebrows, his eyes were a little puzzled. I had fooled him for now.
I balanced the spear in my hand. “You hold a spear too well for a woman” he grunted. “Spending too much time with me, I suppose. You should spend more time with your sister Lela. It would have been different if your mother was still alive. She would’ve taught you some womanly manners.”
“I think I’m feminine enough.”
“Look at you, blundering around after the men of the village, killing creatures and planning your attack even better than my men.”
“I don’t plan Chief; it just comes to me”
“Making it even worst!” he cried with a hidden pride.
I burst out laughing and bade him good night. He ruffled my hair fondly. “You go to sleep now Masra. Get some good sleep. Tell Reab that too” his eyes sparkled wickedly. Perhaps I hadn’t fooled him after all.
“You tell Reab, won’t you? I won’t see him till tomorrow morning.” I replied demurely.



And here passed, long uneventful days with the occasional nights that Reab and I would sneak out of the huts to spend the cool nights together and forcing ourselves out of bed at the crack of dawn along with the villagers, exhausted but happy. I suspected Chief still had his own wary thoughts, but with a denial somewhere in his mind, he did not seek to expose the truth or confine stricter rules on me through Lela. The few months that went by, I watched as Reab grew from a boy to a man.
A man I loved more than life itself.
One night, as I was lying in his arms I poked a thumb against his forehead and breathed out happily before nestling into his chest.
“What?” he asked me, amused at my random, loving behavior.
“I like to check that you’re real.”
He had no words in reply to that but tightened his hold on me, and swiftly kissed my dark hair with a sudden passion. His fingers caressed my head, and he inhaled the flowery perfume from the brown strands clutched in his hand.
“I wish you a long and happy life.” I whispered softly, afraid of the feelings that were surging through me.
“With you.” he replied back.
“No. Not just with me… anywhere… as long as you’re happy.”
“So with you then…”
Some days after that night, when it was pouring so furiously everyone had retreated back into their huts to cozy up, gossip, and flirt while warming their hands on hot wooden mugs we snuck off and climbed a special tree.
It was special because it was a giant, and very old with gnarled branches and knobs that made it easy to grip on with our toes, but the trunk itself was as smooth as a baby’s skin. It overlooked most of the village and the canopy was so thick it protected us from the rain except for the small wet drops that would escape through.
The tree stood apart from the woods and was very difficult to get to. One had to climb several other trees to reach it, ducking in and out of the tangle of branches up in the canopy like a maze. Only Reab and I had spent enough time up there to discover the path in reaching it. We were yet to discover how to reach it without getting scratches and bleeding scabs all over our skin.
Every time the thunder roared deafeningly Reab would yell, “I love you!” and no one could hear but Reab, the heavens, our special little tree and I.
He was so beautiful; like a lithe dangerous animal and his muscles were graceful and strong as he climbed around on the branches. I wished for the rest of our days to be like this and I remembered the lines he had recited to me only a little while ago,
““A million stones on fire with wishes
Yet the brightest star is not up there”

*

A distant roar erupted. The stars had not granted my wish, they had granted my deepest fear. The sound of drums rumbled steadily over the noise of screaming villagers, over the noise of animal fear in those I loved and lived with.
It was the sign that our enemies were finally in sight. We had been waiting for there attack all year long.
Lela grabbed me by the arm. “The chief says all women must flee!” she gasped and choked. Her eyes were leaking with tears. I stubbornly shook away her hand and I could see the desperateness growing in her eyes.
“There is no time to cry Lela”, I tried saying confidently but my voice shook. “Where is Reab?”
Even in her hysterical state she did not want to answer the question I already knew the answer to. “Where is Reab?” I repeated. When she did not reply I narrowed my eyes.
In the face of danger I had never been woman-like and cowered.
Chief had raised me stare any wild beast straight into its cold, predatory eyes before slaying it. I was not unfamiliar to thrusting a jagged dagger into the heart of danger.
I would not leave a man I loved behind like the running footsteps of women carrying their babies, pushing old people along, and dragging wailing children were doing.
I would not leave and I would fight when I could.
Lela stared at me as if she’d just read my mind.  “You may not fight Masra!” she cried. I pushed her aside.
“Help the women evacuate! Grab a baby, help a village elderly; just do it Lela!” I yelled violently and ran through the women who were running towards the woods.
I shoved women aside to get to the battle. My long legs tangled with the other woman, and I fell on my knees. They were both bleeding badly when I got up. Running with my knees stinging, a huge man suddenly grabbed me and swung me to face him. For one moment, I thought he was Reab and I clutched onto him; then I saw it was Chief, and I clutched to him even tighter.
“Chief, please don’t make me go away! Please let me fight with you!” I was screeching and begging with no sanity left in me.
He smiled weakly, “I wanted you to come without little Lela, I knew you would be headed this way. I have not much time Masra, my men need me. I have something I want to give you to make sure you will be safe enough to last through this war if I die,” he spoke softly.
I shook my head and hugged him. “But- but you- you wont!”
Chief gave me a sad smile. “I don’t know that.”
His brown hands reached to his neck and tugged a simple black leather string free. He shoved it into my hands. “Remember this, Masra. Just say to it, ‘Jack, Jack, shine the light’ when you feel there is nobody left in the world for you. Be ready for what happens. Goodbye Masra…”
He touched my cheek and warmth spread though me, momentarily making me feel safe.
“Why Jack?” I asked wretchedly, in a detached curiosity and trying to prolong the moment that Chief would be safe.
Jack was a commoner’s name; no one in our tribe was called Jack. We all had strong, powerful names that spoke of destiny, truth and purity.
“Chief Traben!” a man cried from the noises of surging mob of warriors.
“Go, Masra, go!” Chief said hurriedly, and pushed me away before whipping out of sight.
Chief had been like my best friend, my big brother and … my father. I wanted to fight with him, for him. But I knew in doing that, I would go against his wishes, and that was the last thing I would ever want to do.
A sudden thought made me realize I did not have to fight. I just had to be there or I would **** somebody in my own village for leaving behind loved ones. I knotted the black leather string determinedly on my neck.
I ran to the bottom of a slippery tree and climbed up to the canopy and began to duck in and out, swinging between and onto branches in the maze-like chaos of sticks and concentrated leaves to get to the special tree Reab and I shared.
I hid among the thick tangle; so thick no arrows would be able to pierce me and no enemy would see me. Growling and cursing myself, I remembered I carried no weapons with me and hastily patted my clothing to check again.
Then I remembered it would be useless to have any weapons unless I intended to go down there, for the abundant tangle worked both ways. A spear thrown from where I was would only get stuck in the dense branches below.
I could see the battle though, and that was enough: for now. I searched vainly for Reab, scampering along the top, trying to find where Reab was. I was wild with fury for him for coming.
He was just a boy, newly turned a man. He could still run and hide without shame. When I had him back in my arms again, I was sure to hit him and berate him for choosing to fight for me instead of being safe for me.
It never occurred to me once that Reab might be dead.
It still didn’t occur to me when I saw his body lying on the dirt below, with a man from a village - someone I couldn’t recognize from this height- dragging him. I shouted out, careless of the arrows of enemies.
For the first time in my life, I was terrified of blood: the blood that was seeping out of the wound on his stomach. I didn’t think he was dead; I believed he was injured and I thought of all the herbal concoctions I knew that I could paste over the wound to clean and heal it.
It still didn’t occur to me Reab was dead when the man left him by the bottom of a tree to return and fight. The men in our village did not leave those who could be healed. They stayed and helped them heal to the best of their ability before hiding their healing bodies’ safe in a bush. They only left behind those they could do no more for.
I trembled at anger in the neglect one of our men villagers had shown Reab; the disrespect in it. I would **** him if he were not killing our enemy. Somehow, in the wild pulsing of my body, I found myself climbing down and creeping stealthily to where Reab was and pulling him to safety in a bush.
When he was safe in the bushes, I held him and whispered to him that I was here. I said hold on Reab and I would go and make sure he was safe. I was sobbing. I could not comprehend what was happening for my mind had gone numb and blank.
How could a man who I loved so much bleed so much? All I knew was Reab was not moving in my arms and he must be terribly hurt.
I pressed my fingers to the blood on his stomach. I knew no man could have survived such a wound and so much lo
NJ McGourty Dec 2012
I
In a land of myths, from the jaded isle,
Great stories are told of the brave and the guile.
But no legend of druids, of hags or ghouls,
Can compare to that of our own Fionn McCool.
In the province of Ulster, before armalite,
There lived a race of warriors who knew how to fight.
And who was their leader? The fiercest of the feared?
Of course it was Fionn! With his glorious ginger beard.
He had arms like a gorilla, at an impressive 8 feet,
And lived on a diet of very rare meat.
He drank only water he squeezed from stone,
And discovered 47 uses for human bone.
It was his giant strength that brought McCool his fame,
In kingdoms far and wide people knew his name.
But what was less renowned was his mental might.
Aul Fionn had towering intellect and wit to match his height.

II
When news of Fionn's exploits reached a pub in Aberdeen,
A mammoth figure emerged from the pungent, men’s latrine.
The patrons gave a shudder as it stooped through the door,
“O...One more Ben?” stuttered the barman as his **** reached the floor.
The giant gave a shout and wretched a toilet door aloft,
“Who scrieved this scaffy drawin, sayin that I’m soft?”
Silence gripped the bar as the men examined with horror,
A crude etching of Fionn McCool thrashing Benandonner.
The men remained mute, as the giant turned carmine,
“You think this Fionn boyo’s tough, I’ll carve out his spine!”
And so the giant departed, making his way west,
But not before he slaughtered the group and downed the drinks they left.

III
A roaring voice came through the mist and reached our own Fionn’s ear,
But when he reached the Antrim coast, he near ****** himself with fear
Seeing Ben on Scotland’s edge, throwing boulders to the sea,
“I’ll turn yer lungs to bagpipes! Ye feeble wee beastie!”
Fionn trembled before the monster, twice as big as he,
With a chest as wide as a trawler and biceps thick as trees.
Now Fionn was not a coward but nor was he a fool,
As the rocks formed a bridge he saw ‘the late Fionn McCool.’
And so he sparked a plan to deceive the creature,
A plot in which his wisdom and his wife would feature.
Running to his house he rushed to build a crib,
And dressed as an infant to complete the fib.

IV
With the last stone in place, Ben crossed the sea,
With ‘murrrdur’ in his heart, his eyes mad with hateful glee.
He crouched to enter the house after kicking through the door,
Grabbing Oonagh in his hand, “Now where’s yer husband *****?!”
Fionn’s wife was calm as he held her off the ground,
But wretched as she smelt the breath of a gum-diseased hound.
“He’ll return soon,” she said as the shoes fell off her feet.
“but put me down and while you wait I’ll fix you something to eat”
While Oonagh was in the kitchen, Big Ben released a smirk,
“From the size of his wife, killing McCool won’t be much work.”
Oonagh lead the deception, returning with some cake.
But had placed rocks in the batter, before she’d begun to bake.
Benadonner was surprised, when he took his first bite,
He reached into his mouth and removed a pearly white.
Not wanting to seem weak, by refusing a McCool snack,
The giant continued to eat the stones until all his teeth had cracked.

V
Gumming back a sob, the brute looked around,
He spied the crib in the corner, and was disturbed by what he found.
A child sleeping soundly, but of such monstrous size,
Ben, now blind with tears was fooled by Fionn’s disguise.
Coughing to hide his alarm, the Scottish giant inquired.
“Is Fionn McCool the man, to whom this weeun is sired?”
Oonagh laughed and replied, “He’s his father’s son, no doubt.”
“Sure I remember he was six foot four when I popped him out.”
Now the Scot started sweating, THE BABY WAS FECKIN TITANIC!
When he imagined the father’s size the goliath began to panic.
He ran from the house, kilt flapping in the wind,
As McCool watched from his window, he kissed his wife and grinned.

VI
While Ben crossed the bridge, he dismantled his creation,
To ensure the ****** couldn’t follow, he divorced the nations.
Now centuries later, if you need proof today,
The remains of Ben’s bridge is called the Giant’s Causeway.
zebra Nov 2017
going to the horror films
at ten years old
i wanted to be bitten by the vampire ladies
you know the ones
red brides from the netherworlds
with heaving *******
divinities of evil
with that dah look
in silky white gowns
a little messy from sleeping in the dirt
culture vulture goth girls
with upside down crosses
slags all gauzy bats in the belfry
deranged

but after all they where
dead
and dreadfully appealing
and I'm pretty fussy
so what the hell
they walked like floats
in marshy air
never touching the ground
above frozen dark crypt terrains
with twinkly bare feet
and black high glossed toenails
staring out of blood spilled eyes
drooling cloudy mouth hollows
and a yearning hungry countenance
encouraging me
to get closer
to bite me all over
pierce me
with needly fangs
puncturing little holes in tender me
making me leak like bad plumbing
until i sloped into the bog below
of course, i was panicked
all trembly
but i had a big one
for these evil shadowy ******* too
so i thought
yes
no
yes
no
yes
no
are you gonna **** me?
i asked
they drooled
ooow okay, i thought is it gonna hurt?
they shook there heads yes!
and drooled
real bad?
i inquired further
ah ha
they lingered glaring
drooling
i guess, waiting for me to make up my mind
oh okay anything for you
you dark dreamy girls
dilapidated queens of hell
with ballet derrières

"down and down I go
round and round I go
in a spin, lovin' the spin I'm in
under the old black magic called love"

after all at ten years old,
i already knew i was
a horror *****
and just a little turned on
*** vampires adult explicit
Rafael Alfonzo Sep 2015
I was down on my luck** and had not returned to my job nor had any notion of returning again. I had a plane ticket for Boston that would fly me to Minnesota that was scheduled to depart in twenty days. I had still not yet bought the bus ticket to Boston. I had one hundred dollars to my name. My friend Billy had owed me one hundred dollars as well and gave me one hundred and thirty dollars in 1988 pesos coins as repayment. Knowing that it might be difficult to find a place who would honestly convert them and that their worth fluctuated, I would have much rather he paid me in US dollars but I took them in thanks and didn’t mention it. He knew what I was thinking and told me that if I couldn’t get a fair price that I could mail them to him when he got to Missouri and he would mail me what he owed in cash but until then all of his money was ******* in his trip home and even that was barely enough but that he had checked on their worth and said it should cover the one-hundred he owed. I smiled and we warmly shook hands to seal the deal.  We spent the day riding around in his wrangler and running some final errands for him before he would be gone.
The three years we had known each other might as well have been a lifetime and had felt just as full as one and had gone by just as fast. We ‘d drunk coffee and smoked cigarettes outside of Elizabeth’s bookstore. We’d watched in silence the beautiful women that would walk passed without much attention given to us. We, however, gave great attention to every ***** and bounce and shimmy. There were some gorgeous women that came to the bookstore those years. We shot pool with Bernie, who had the keys to the Mason Lodge and had many great conversations on the fire escape. We played games of chess in the bookstore. We drove around listening to the blues. Sometimes we got together, the three of us, at Billy’s and we’d make a fire and they’d drink coffee because they were old men and had had to stop drinking years before and I would drink some bourbon or wine after a cup or two of coffee and then we’d share a pack of cigarettes between us and we’d feel the warmth of the fire and have some good laughs. Bernie was diagnosed with a rare and terrible cancer in North Carolina on a trip to see his son in the Air force and had been brought back home a few months later and beside his wife and daughter and son fell silently to sleep and never woke up again. I hadn’t gone to see him but Billy said that when he saw him he didn’t mention his condition once and that he even got out of bed and sat with him on the back porch that looked out upon the open land and sky and they talked like nothing was wrong and laughed and said they’d see each other again. Bernie died a week later.
I hadn’t planned it this way but the opening to this story is very much dedicated to Bernie, and Billy, I hope you get safely back to Missouri and that your pesos will help me make it through the fall.
I had not told my mother or my love, Rosalie, that I had left my job. So I made fake work schedules and left the house and returned home at all the appropriate times with a lanyard I had kept from work hanging from my neck and hung it on the doorknob when I got home. During the day there were several options to occupy the eight-hour shifts. The town ran very much so due to the college and I would go up there and browse around the old books called the stacks and take a few with me out onto the grass of the quad and read them. I would read for hours. I got restless every now and then and would even read while I walked in circles up and down and back and forth the crisscrossing paths under the trees of the quad. This was great until I got caught for taking these books from the school at my own leisure and soon it was revealed that I was not a student there and they told me not to come back. Some days I would run along the riverside. I enjoyed long walks on the train tracks around the city with my headphones on and taking pictures. I always had my backpack on, even if nothing was in it, but usually there was a book and a pair of Rosalie’s ******* and on occasion I would take this out and close my eyes to smell them and I would miss her very much. We lived with a few towns between us and she was a very busy and dedicated young woman. She was working in nursing homes and taking care of home patients and going to school full time on top of it and doing clinicals and taking care of her little brother because it takes a lot sometimes for a man to be cured from his drinking habits, which was very much true in their fathers case and her mother was a wild and paranoid woman who refused to believe that her boyfriend was beating Rosalie’s little brother while she was away at work. So Rosalie took great care and love for her brother and also custody.
I, however, had not been so responsible with my life. When I came back from the Army it was not as a hero but I could tell a great hero’s story because I’d known them all but mostly they were characters in stories I’d read in the barracks, or secondhand tales given in extravagant detail during chow and none of them were true but they sounded quite exciting. It made the time at bars when I had gotten home less lonely because I could tell a tale in first person convincingly enough that many an old vet, with his own made up fantasies, would act like they believed me and would share their stories and we didn’t have to sit there thinking about the buddies we lost or the women whom had fallen out of love with us one time or another or the families we were avoiding. I liked going to the bars, but I wouldn’t have had anything to say if it weren’t for those stories.
I met Rosalie a month after having been discharged. She sat in Elizabeth’s bookstore and was studying for a class. I was with Billy at the time and we were outside smoking cigarettes when we saw her walk in.
“Did you see that?” Billy said. I saw her all right. She had gone inside and we were still sipping our coffees and smoking and I was still seeing her, no matter what else walked by or how pretty the sky was or the warmth of the sun.
“That’s a good girl right there,” Billy said, “not like most of these others we see out here, kid.” It annoyed me a little that Billy was still talking about her, egging me on a little. As I had said, I had seen her and he was disrupting my fantasizing and I had known she was a kind girl and I wanted to save my dream of her for a little while longer before I brought it to her.
“I know,” I said.
“Well, go and see about her then!”
“I’ll go”
I had no intention of letting her pass by but there was thunder rumbling in my chest and butterflies in my stomach and I had suddenly become cold even though it was sixty-five degrees out on the sidewalk and something was keeping me from standing. “I’ll have one more smoke and then I’ll go in for more coffee and see her then.”
“Tonto’s nervous! Ha ha ha!” Billy got a kick out of the thought and patted me on the back. “If you want,” He said, “I’ll go say hello for you.” He was still amused.
“You’re twice her age Bill,” I said, “she’d probably call the cops on your old ugly mug”
“The cops may be called because of how well endowed I am and she’ll be screaming and the neighbors will worry about her and call the cops on us”
Billy was always talking about his manhood and I never knew any good rebuttals because I was honest with myself and so I never had a response. I let him brag. All I knew is I had one and I knew it wasn’t large but none of the women I ever slept with ever said it was too small and they all enjoyed lying with me afterwards and talking quite a while before falling to sleep and sometimes the *** had been wild.
The cigarette was finished and I was still nervous but I didn’t want to hesitate any longer. I don’t even think she’d even seen me when she walked into the store.
I went inside and ordered a coffee and looked over to her. She was on a laptop and had a pile of books beside her and some papers and she looked up and our eyes met. I held the glance with her for a little longer than a moment. I was a little embarrassed and she was beautiful and I was wondering what my face looked like to her and if my eyes had been creepy but she lifted a corner of her lips and smiled before looking back to her work and then my shoulders relaxed and I realized I had held my breath. I laughed to myself at my own ridiculousness and let it go and then walked up to her and extended my hand and she took it with a smile and I looked dead into her beautiful hazel eyes again with confidence and we’ve been in love ever since.

The reason for my trip to Minnesota was to see my old friends from the Army: Grady and Hank. We hadn’t seen each other since I was discharged eight years ago and they reached out to me when they could but I wasn’t very good at keeping in touch with them. After I left the Army it was hard for me to talk to them. I felt I was missing out on something and I didn’t want to think of them dying without me and I didn’t like those feelings so I tried to pretend they didn’t exist but they kept me in the loop of things and always asked how I was doing no matter how well I stayed in touch with them or not. It meant much more than they’ll ever know that they did. So when they said they had both gotten out nothing was going to stop me from reconnecting with them. They said they were going to drive east to see me. I called them back.
“Let’s not hang around here in Maine,” I said, “it’ll be the middle of fall and there’s nothing to do around here. Instead of you guys coming all the way out here and then staying for a week let’s make the whole trip a seven-day adventure and you ******* can drop me off home when it’s over?”
“That sounds all well and good Russ but how the hell are you getting out here?”
“I bought a ticket, I’ll be there on the twenty-second of October at eleven.”
“That’s what I like hearing old pal!” Grady said through the phone, “Now that sounds more like the Russ I know. You’ll find me at the airport at eleven. I’ll bring a limousine with a bar and buy a couple of hookers for us”
“No hookers, Grady”
“Yes, hookers!” Grady said, “do you still do blow?”
“No”
“Good. Me neither. Honestly, I don’t do hookers anymore also. But it sounded like a proper celebration didn’t it?”
“It did.”
“Well, then its settled Russ. I’ll see you on the twenty-second of October at eleven PM sharp in a long white limo and I’ll bring the *****, the blow and the ****** and it’ll be like old times.”
“Sounds perfect Grady, I can’t wait.”
We hung up.

The plan was I would spend the night at Grady’s and the next morning we’d get Hank and we’d head for Chicago as soon as we could. One of their friends, Lemon, would be making the trip with us and would be there at Hanks when we got there in the morning. Lemon was an excellent shot with the rifle and a better guitarist and Grady told me I’d get right along with him. He told me he was at the range and the Sergeant was yelling in this black boys ear that he couldn’t shoot worth a ****.
“MY ******* GOT BETTER AIM BOY!” “I CAN HIT YOUR FAT UGLY MOMMA IN THE EYE AT TWICE THE DISTANCE” “YOU COULDN’T HIT PUBERTY IF I DROPPED YOUR ***** FOR YOU!”
The Sergeant, Grady said, went on and on at the top of his lungs yelling at this black guy and we all stopped and stared at him.
“As the Sarg kept hollering the kids rifle kept popping off shots at the target and you’d hear him grab another clip when the other ran out and reload it and then keep shooting but none of us could tell where the shots were going. The Sarg was so loud and the shots had such a rhythm all of us at the range stopped and looked over. There wasn’t a single bullet hole anywhere on the target except directly in the center where every bullet he had shot had gone through and nowhere else.
“Finally Lemon ran out of bullets and the Sarg quit hollering and he called him to attention.”
“Where did you learn to shoot a rifle Jefferson,” The Sergeant inquired.
“Sergeant, I have never shot a rifle before in my life”
“Do you think it’s funny to lie to your Sergeant?”
“No, Sergeant”
“So why are you lying?”
“I’m not lying Sergeant”
“What did you do before you enlisted, Private?”
“I worked on the farm for my father, Sergeant”
“At ease soldier, Staff Sergeant Dominguez would like to have a word with you.”
And that’s how Lemon went to training to become a ****** but he broke his leg in training and got sent home.
“Well ****,” I said, “He must be one helluva guitarist.”

We were to spend a day in Chicago and camp at the Indiana Dunes and then drive to Detroit and spend a day and camp there and then head to Cleveland and Pittsburgh and Philadelphia if we had the time and then go to Boston and they’d drop me off at the train the following morning and I’d go home from there. But all of that was still twenty days away and I was down on my luck and had to save every cent I possibly could for the trip. Rosalie was excited for me. She knew how much I hated being home and that I stayed around to be with her even as much as she said that I shouldn’t let her stop me from doing what I wanted with my life but I really had no clue but I did know that she was the love of my life. She was happy to hear of this adventure and supported me but she didn’t know how broke I was and I hid it well by cooking all of our meals with things at my mothers apartment or my fathers house depending on where she came during her once-a-week sleepovers. She was proud of me for how well I had been with managing my money. There’s nothing to it, I told her.
The summer had been one of the best summers I’d ever had. Rosalie and I got to spend a lot of time together in-between our own lives and every moment had been cherished. I worked often and hard for twelve bucks an hour for more than forty hours a week but had nothing to show for it now. I’d gotten in trouble with the law and the lawyer was costly and so were the fines and the bail, even though I got the bail back I had to dump it into my beautiful old truck and then some because I hadn’t taken the best of care of it. I also spent most of my money on dinners out with Rosalie and I liked buying her little brother things every now and then and I had a terrible habit of buying books. Also, I had a habit of going to the bars on weekends and I wasn’t a modest drinker.
The last paycheck I got was for five hundred dollars and I spent it on a room for a long weekend at an Inn by the ocean for Rosalie and I to end such a good summer properly. Money is for having a good time and is for others. That’s how I’ve always thought it should be spent. When you’re broke, it’s easy to find lots of good times in the simple endeavors and I enjoyed those but I also enjoyed getting away with Rosalie. So when I say I was down on my luck do not think I was unhappy about it, I had lots of good luck before I’d gotten down on it and Rosalie is possibly the best luck a young man could ever come across. Still, I only had one hundred dollars to my name and three 1988 pesos coins that I’m not sure will be worth the other hundred and with twenty days to go. It’s going to be pretty tight.

I want to talk about our time by the ocean now...

(c) 2015
Draft. Possible other parts. Story in works.
Katy Owens Sep 2013
Always a question
Something oft inquired
Wondering and whying in those
Get-to-know-you games
Any superpower, yours to have
What would you be?
Seems a simple query
But just as the Titanic learned
Icebergs seem much
Smaller from above
Answering to “what
Superpower would you want?”
Speaks so much more,
Runs so much deeper
It's a fight or flight response
Invisibility, teleportation
What are you hiding from?
Super strength, unlimited power
Why, do you feel weak? Unworthy? Small?
My response to such
An inquiry
Wings or none, I don't care
Simply put, I long to be
Free
What are you? Who do you wish to be?
George Krokos Aug 2013
Throughout all of those vast regions and far reaches of space
God can only be realised or known here on this earthly place.
There are about eighteen thousand worlds that sustain life as we know it
but it's only on this world in a human body will knowledge of God show It.
This information was imparted by the one and only Avatar of the age
who did also happen to be the greatest Divine Personality and Sage.

His name was Meher Baba and the words He has given are true
though He might be unknown unless His love has awakened you.
It was for this reason that He was known also as the Awakener
and those touched by His love regard Him as their Messenger.
He also revealed many other things including the main one that He was God
who incarnates out of love, always in a male form, against many a great odd.

The Avatar always comes when the world is undergoing a spiritual rebirth
and mankind is on the brink of destruction on his home planet called Earth.
It is God's duty to His creation and creatures to maintain and set things right
which otherwise would get too much out of hand according to His foresight.
He also gathers those around Him who recognize and accept Him while He yet lives
helping them all achieve life's Divine goal with the instructions and wisdom He gives.

These followers or disciples thus become the harbingers of world transformation
spreading His message of love and truth far and wide being the New Dispensation.
It is the Divine life lived by the Avatar in the world that inspires them so much
witnessing the things He does and says for the good of all with His loving touch.
Though Meher Baba has dropped the body His spirit lives on for those His words hearken
guiding all people who stumble across His Name which, in their heart, love does awaken.

It is also the first time in human history that a true image of His form was given
being a gift to posterity with a full account of His life, which by love was driven.
He also remained silent for the greater part of His life's stay here
because His words were taken too lightly in times past, far or near.
To those who inquired about Him He would let His silence speak for itself
which is the reason why the language of the heart is love, we do feel ourself.

However in His compassion He communicated firstly by the use of an alphabet board
and then later on through unique hand gestures that those close to Him could record.
He indicated that there are five Perfect Masters on this earth all the time
who looked after the affairs of the universe and this world in ways sublime.
They were after all God's representatives here on earth while He was physically absent
and it would be them who would bring Him down in the flesh for us all as a Divine Assent.

Never before has it been stated in such broad and clear terms
of the role they all play in God's Divine Plan which He affirms.
Though they are all one in consciousness they live and go about doing their own thing
which is none other than enlightenment and spiritual realisation to mankind they bring.
To find and meet such a one let alone to stay in his or her presence is a rare blessing indeed;
if one is fortunate enough to recognize one of them, can win their grace and on the goal proceed.

It's also due to the fact that we have been living in an Avataric Age
that there are also some imposters going around the worldly stage,
proclaiming to those who're misled that they can show them the way
which is back to God being what life is for and as the scriptures say.
If their thoughts, words and actions don't confirm what they preach
we should then keep away from them and thus be out of harms reach.

There are also some adepts who through various practices have gained a little power
who go about displaying their wares which onto the unsuspecting public they shower;
in the form of miraculous stunts or manifestations of objects which most people crave,
usually found to be under closer examination the workings and or illusions of a knave.
One has thus to be careful of these and other obstacles that await and lie ahead on the path
back towards the Goal of human life which is identity with God being the Divine aftermath.

It is by self-purification, selfless service, prayer, kindness, truthfulness, including meditation
that anyone can prepare themself with self-control over their lower nature to achieve salvation.
And this makes it easier to start walking the path at the beginning stages of our endeavour
which also cultivates true virtue and clears the way for our freedom one can feel is forever.
We are all knowingly or unknowingly treading the way back to our true home in some way or another
and must not remain dejected if in life we appear at times to be crestfallen by which fate does smother.

The Grace of God and the Perfect Masters is always available as They have the All-Seeing Eye
which means They can understand, see and know everything; nothing really passes Them by.
They're also the guardians of all humanity and our benefactors along that way back home
therefore it's up to us to please God and or one of Them by dedication on the path we roam.
As long as we try not to harm any of our fellow creatures by either thought, word or deed
we can be assured of Their help being forthcoming if in God we have faith or genuine need.
__________________­__
This is my second poem referring to a person known as Meher Baba (the name actually means compassionate father) and is based around the philosophy presented in two books that bear His name:
1. Discourses
2. God Speaks
there are however many other books written about Meher Baba that are too numerous to mention here save one which is the main biography of His entire life called "Lord Meher" written by one of His followers and disciples named Bhau Kalchuri. Although Meher Baba claimed to be the Avatar of this age He had the compassion and foresight to state and give the information of the five Perfect Masters that exist in the world for future generations as He Himself was the Foremost Perfect Master or Avatar of the age brought down and declared by Them at the time according to information given in the books mentioned above.
kainat rasheed Oct 2017
I searched for God among the Christians and on the Cross and therein I found Him not.

I went into the ancient temples of idolatry; no trace of Him was there.

I entered the mountain cave of Hira and then went as far as Qandhar but God I found not.

With set purpose I fared to the summit of Mount Caucasus and found there only 'anqa's habitation.

Then I directed my search to the Kaaba, the resort of old and young; God was not there even.

Turning to philosophy I inquired about him from ibn Sina but found Him not within his range.

I fared then to the scene of the Prophet's experience of a great divine manifestation only a "two bow-lengths' distance from him" but God was not there even in that exalted court.

Finally, I looked into my own heart and there I saw Him; He was nowhere else.
But
In my heart .

Writer :

Jalaludin rumi
Terry Jordan Feb 2016
Like an alien in a spotlight
With her magnifying glasses on
My mother as she worked, up all night
Did invisible weaving till dawn

I would watch her when I couldn’t sleep
Honing in on that hole in the suit
Intently, her concentration deep
Weaving tiny threads enlarged like jute

In other-worldly light she labored
I was afraid she’d lose her eyesight
Watching her focus never wavered
Her face all aglow in the lamplight

Invisible weaving, I inquired
How tediously she plied her craft
Worked for the money that she required
Made the warp and weft of fabric last

Reconstruction, undetectable
No more burn, or tear, or fabric blight
Weaving magic so incredible
Its wound now perfect by morning’s light

She taught me much that I'm still making
From her life that now I'm grieving
Sewing, crocheting and great baking
But never invisible weaving

The picture of her life that mattered
I now see how she toiled so finely
And that the wrinkles in the fabric
Of my own life splayed out so blindly

The vision of my eyes bedazzled
Incandescent, her face in the beam
Unaware how her mind unraveled
As depression stole her ev'ry dream

The threads of DNA defining
Who I’ve become I'm now believing
My mother’s hand in that designing
Of my own Invisible Weaving
I was working on this for a while, when I read the Pulitzer Prize winning poem, by C.K. Williams, entitled Invisible Mending.  Same subject, but his metaphor was of forgiveness & redemption, while mine is a little fuzzy, about my connection to my mother...and NOT the winner of a Pulitzer Prize.
EgoFeeder May 2013
The practice before me was something so foreign
Their tempo of chant was that which evoked my adrenaline
The circle they worshiped began it's eruption of colors;
spewing a spectacle of radiance that was a spectrum of some other

The hexagram itself began to shine with an ominous gleam;
All but one vertex was a blaze; what could that mean?
Perhaps, their party of six was too small in number;
To awaken the demon from it's monotonous slumber?

To complete the ensemble of seven must be my own task;
The sprites were fixed in trance; I had no reason to ask
So, I sprang into motion and joined in their ritual dance
Finalizing their sacred rites and granting myself with reverence

The echoes of recitement deluded into something more strange;
One that my mortal ears could do naught but re-arrange
Into a bric-a-brac of non-sense derived from the past
I needed to contribute to the intonement for our progression to last

How could I ululate with the rest in my simple irrelevant language?
I inquired to my friends in hopes of restoring the veracity of my courage
The imp at my front spun his attention to answer my doubts;
For what truly matters is that which exhibits the earnestness of your quotes!

Aha My Brothers! I can now see without my cloudy vacillation;
The next verse I cast shall be the epithet of an immaculate alteration!
I must exalt for my falsifications and this facade of reverendum
These letters fixed in stone are merit-less and de omnibus dubitandum!

There shall be no greater wisdom than the acceptance of that fact
To dwell on the word of man is to dabble in what you've always lacked
Our deficiency of distinctive beliefs and the privilege of identity;
Every truth conceals it's delusion in a seemingly flawless sincerity!

I repeated my genial perspective several times until my breath was gone
The numbness in my torso was then expressed through a re-habilitating yawn
Followed by an out-pour of blood;Spewing from the confines of my lungs
Oh! What a righteous taste this is to speak in the devils' tongue!

For the throes of a sinner are not that of the wicked or holy blaspheme;
They are simply the inverted inquisition of the unanswered question maybe!
The concepts of free will and of good and evil are truly incomprehensible
as our minds are merely aware of relevance; Ignoring the unintelligible

Being enthralled by the dizziness of this new found anemia;
I commenced to utter the defeatists' call into the absence of Elysia
Witnessing no reply I fell to thy knees - cupping the blood I had spilt;
Raising the crimson liquid to thy mouth - consuming the life i'd built!

Which my new fraternal comrades admired with a fixed curiosity;
For I had undeniably turned water to wine and it was merely an impetuosity!
Laughter ensued and the fire of our ceremonial ring blazoned it's approval;
What a way to end an evocation! We had set the scene for our lords' revival!

To state his name for certain would be to use it in vain.
As the out-right ruler of this plane goes by many a name;
And none all the same ; How could a god be labeled as something you say?
If I may conclude in all modesty he is you and he is I. If I may ...
CeriseRed Sep 2018
The dying hero said
To his wife and his beloved children
"I obliged you not to follow the same path I took."

With those words,
His daughter inquired,
"Father, how come not if it was a beautiful path
with those roses and dandelions,
showered by a blazing yellow hot sun
glittered with cotton candy sky
and a bouquet of trees and a choir of angelical wind?"


The hero stared blanky at his daughter
His heart gasped a beat and mouthed the words,
"Singsong the truth without coated sugar,
the world needs the intellectuals
with skills and talents,
neccessary for humanity to survive,
be a doctor who cures the sick,
be an engineer who builds
be a lawyer, be a farmer or a fisher,
anything will do but not the one I am."


Silence.

"They are nothing without words,
They are nothing but robots,
without the tune of the tongue,
without the ink of the heart,
the world for them is all but rigid,
round but pointed,
with air but not breathing.
Words can **** but words can also heal."

The girl paused, then stand.
"Father can crack the caramel paint
and reveals of what's the truth,
I am who I am
and I am what father can do."


It was midnight.
The hero died.
A dead man and a dead will.
His deed still lives in pages,
and in the veins of his female kid.
A rebel daughter was born.
Her words were nothing for an empty soil.
A dead will and a dead man.
He wrote poems.
Clinton Arneson Dec 2015
If an orchid wished and wondered,
as a merchant slipped and blundered,
and from his pack was sundered
a genie's magic lamp...

and if this flower's dream,
was to know what it would mean,
to live life as human being,
as her petals brushed this lamp...

and our genie had desired,
to render wishes sired,
for now, no longer mired,
her having freed him of the lamp...

and if our genie was required,

to match to whom inquired,
by her beauty, so inspired,
he would make this flower

you
...and she totally shot me down lol
Brandon Jul 2013
The man opposite the table of us ordered a dry sack rather ****** and loudly. Derek leaned back in his chair so that he was balancing on the back two wooden legs and shouted over to the man “I’ve got you’re dry sack right here" while grabbing at his crotch with his one free hand. His other of course being occupied with his seventh whiskey sour. By this point he had been ordering more whiskey than sour and his thirst was still far from quenched.

Next to him, Julie Ann laughed in her quiet way at the disgusted look on the mans face that Derek had insulted. She enjoyed Derek’s lack of restraint when he was drinking and the comments he would haphazardly say. Especially if it were directed towards the upper class. A class at one time she longed to be a part of but had since changed her mind. She flirted with the stem of her martini conjuring up boyish childhood fantasies to any man that was aware enough in his drunken haze to focus his eyes upon the stemware. Her seduction grew all the wilder the more her intoxication spread thruout the room. Julie Ann used her charm and looks as much as possible. She knew she would not always be the way she was and decided to live as hard as possible before her time; whether death, disease, or age; happened.

Her most recent fling, Franklin, sat beside her enamored as the rest of the men (and admittingly some women.) He nursed his death in the afternoon drink, one he felt the need to strictly remind that the mixologist behind the bar used absinthe and not Pernod, and watched Julie Ann’s animated movements. He made no illusions about his courtship with Julie Ann and was often quite boastful about it. Franklin was a hard person to like for moments longer than a few minutes and even less likable when the alcohol ran out. He would talk about his future with Julie Ann while she quietly rolled her eyes and never approached the subject of a future.

Nothing ever lasted long with Julie Ann except for cocktail hour.

I ordered my usual gin and tonic and watched the crowded restaurant in its busyness. Waiters were scurrying from table to table replacing drinks and bringing out large orders of food from the kitchen for the tables that could afford luxuries like eating. They swerved and dodged each other like an artful ballet or a war without casualties.

The man that ordered the dry sack quickly drank his aperitif and, upon further heckling from Derek, decided to skip dinner and leave. He paid his bill at the table and left a fifty cent tip for the waiter. He grabbed his jacket and wife by the arm and made his way towards the exit via a route that included our table. As he approached one could see the nerve swell inside him and as he neared even closer his mouth began to open before Derek opened his and said that if he dared to even utter a sound Derek would have him lying flat out on his back with his eyes rolled in the back of his head and his wife would be around back learning what a real man felt like.

The man stopped for a minute in his tracks and thought about his options. His wife eyed Derek with lust and was secretly hoping that her husband would open his mouth and say something but he never did. He squeezed her arm even harder, shook his head towards Derek, and walked out of the restaurant. A loud, raucous laugh exploded from our table.

Julie Ann was smiling a devilish grin and we all inquired as to what mischievous deed she was thinking. She took her left hand out from beneath the table and produced a wallet and opened it up to reveal the license of Mr dry sack. His name was Richard which we all agreed fitting.

While he was preoccupied with Derek, Julie Ann had reached around and pick pocketed him, stealing his wallet and the eight 100 dollar bills that he kept inside.

I asked for one of the bills and she handed it to me. I folded it into a paper airplane and set it into flight, landing on Richards table as the waiter had returned to clean it off. He unfolded the bill and looked around before stuffing it into the inside pocket of his uniform.

Julie Ann ordered another round of drinks and we drank and laughed and talked and danced and drank until 400$ of our newfound cash was spent.

After paying our tab we stumbled out into the cool night air and each went out into our own directions with promises to meet up again the following night and drink away the other 300$.
Unedited.
Hal Loyd Denton Sep 2012
Blue Spruce

Do you walk in a desert the howling wind finds no rest within your tortured breast. The desert scrub can host many realities sadness scraped raw the only comfort rub the wound with desert sand pray its warmth will reach deeper give the hint of comfort long lost on a soul finding it hard to remember kindness and its affects. You wanted only what everyone wants comfort and fulfillment but you have found these have elusive qualities almost ghost like never lasting longer than fleeting moments. Will the road wind filled with expectation only to end in senseless nothingness. How many times can you smile through the tears get up and start again why not change your identity maybe the gods that have it in for you will be fooled give you the blessings that are common to so many. This is not what your day dreams envisioned who ever questioned or dared to think up these black mortifications. You look for a hand to guide but only find those that prize themselves and forget you leaving you even more lost than before. The edges of despair crowd in your mind swirls is their not a promised land for people like me. Maybe a move would be in order a new beginning surely a fresh start will win the day where did I hear that somewhere in the land of the truly delusional you find when yet again you find life shows its power to roll and out of nowhere unseen upheaval throws you for a hard spill. Now you find a veritable waste land but yours is city streets trash strewn among those that walk with empty stares. The hearts silently bleed the well where tears once were formed filled with debris still the echo can be heard from childhood laughter was it that terribly long ago. As it happens on those blessed occasions was it real or a dream you have enjoyed the pleasure of Christmas and the green fir trees that fill the local lots the scent that drifts from room to room the little wild thing setting there all aglow gives the sweetest thrill. What is a blue spruce in my mind I followed this rutted road through the forest green and the mist had settled insulating every living thing with vibrancy this the most wondrous scene the forest truly gleams. Stand among the towering giants what a hush you are bombarded by the silence you are in the greatest ease a freefall into this quietude quiet breathing is all that is heard as wonder destroys every vesture of disquiet and alarm. Your vision intensifies as this endless pleasure mounts your soul grows its edges that were raggedly torn now renewed fully healed. What a fortress this stand of trees a thousand enemies could never surmount this pure airy wood not a king here stands but a poor beggarly soul has found the greatest ****** land bequeathed by nature’s bountiful generosity in any direction even the lofty height held with sterling sites this never could be bought even gold bows its self down to this sacred grove diamonds and emeralds fair no better their worth seems undignified here. The question arises does this place exist a great English writer wrote of the cathedral in the pine yes both places exist the sadness described in the beginning and this wondrous place a wonderful preacher related this story of a blue spruce he encountered in years long gone by it was different than just the run of the mill blue spruce you usually found he inquired of the nursery owner about the shape and color. He was told this one has been grafted by this means it never loses its rich blue color. The point was we need to be grafted into the true vine. The most important guide post to finding this glorious life while on earth is follow the sacred text that says if you truly desire truth on the inward parts you will find it. Many doors are marked holy and blessed but after entering you find only the tormented false ideas of self important men. He is the door and those that enter there will set among angels and the life of the blue spruce will be yours not inferior given to fading to lonely darkened gray but vibrant hues of azure blue your home in that blessed promise laughter and joy your possession forever more.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2019
.i'm sorry, but i've looked at english grammar for far too long, to buy into the current *******... i just came from behind the iron curtain, i'm not about to go into "hiding" under a silicon curtain... valley my ***, silicon curtain, the end. gender, "neutral" pronouns? pronouns can't be "neutral", neutered... neuter via plural? they being a non-descriptive associated of both a he and a she? ****... most languages can't escape gender-inclusivity of their nouns... for example, names of cities... now you can have gender neutral nouns, i'll concede that... London: gender neutral... Paris: gender neutral... and then of course the more universal nouns in English, predicated by either a definite or an indefinite article: making gender-ascription to nouns even harder... because that's how the english language operates: something is either definite, or it's indefinite... all the continent languages, however, ascribe genders to their nouns... either masculine or feminine, or whatever... is this some sort of quasi-anglophone envy of continent languages? say, in my nativspreschen... słońce (the sun) is feminine... księżyc (the moon) is masculine... Warszawa (Warsaw) is feminine... Niemcy (Germany) is actually gender neutral, in that it refers to a people... Rosja (Russian) is feminine... Anglia (England) is feminine... there is noun-ambiguity regarding "gender" in continental languages... which the English language lacks: due to the definite / indefinite articulation via (a- -the      "ism")... pronoun gender "neutrality" never existed... because... gender-appropriation of nouns was never on the cards in this language... and never will be... come on... you really don't need some foreigner to tell you the basics of your own tongue... i hate to even associate myself with such pieces as are provided in the form of the "useful idiots"... i hate it... it's like asking to fiddle about with a down syndrome competitor at a su doku olympics... it's not fair!

i only really had two loves in my life... Paris, circa 2005 and Edinburgh circa in the range of 2004 through to 2007... those really were my only true loves... London? London just grew on me, esp. the east end... i became infected with its heterogeneity, so much so, that whenever i visit my grandparents, in the most feral of lands, Poland... and peer into its homogeneity, i am fed a staggering amount of nausea... sure, once in a while you'll spot a Roma in these parts, handling cheap chinese goods at the market, but otherwise? and... given, that i'm a first generation expatriate (eh, eh? i know what the natives call their own, "elsewhere", akin to h'america or australia)...

                 the girlfriends? eh... two, three, more prostitutes...
whoever these middle-aged men are, talking m.g.t.o.w., after two failed marriages... i was already on my way, aged 21... sure, it was fun for the first few years... i remember the tingling sensation of holding my first girlfriend's hand while watching romeo + juliet in her father's presence... that **** was cool... it's still so vivid to me... again: slandering women is not cool... i remember these girlfriends with a fondness... i don't want the anchor of bitterness to put me in one place... fondness is all the wind in the sails you will ever need to sail along... and... em... stealing one or two kisses from prostitutes... that's all...

                      the last one i left? 21... she married...
she remarried...
            and she ****** quiet a bit in between...
last time i visisted her out of a weird sense of obligation...
hand... slashed down their veins...
             i stayed for about four days...
   over a period of two nights i slept with the window
open, with my clothes on...
third night i took my clothes off...
                i inquired...
           she was waking up each morning with
a jug of coffee and turned into:
   less a masters in anthropology...
and more the russian gamer chick...
                     one night she called up her
sycophants...
               we smoked...
                     her husband wasn't home...
"then", her, "still"(?) huspand?
                   but her boyfriend was there...
i was sitting akimbo and talking to this guy...
and he told me how he ******:
my would be fiancé...
                           well... i just broke down
into the most amazing laughter...
   a laughter that put me to sleep,
a laughter that made all the people leave,
and i was left with her, alone,
in a room...
              she was still playing a video game...
while i got up and rolled another joint...
but the whole joke comes at the fact that:
i, i was the person who was always dumped...
ilona, promis, isabella...
                           they all dumped me...
but... what, a, *******, relief!
               maybe that's why i came to terms
with myself, maybe that's why
drinking in ms. amber's company
is such a joyous treat...
                 unlike most drunks...
esp. women: i do not wallow in grief,
or for that matter... hold any grievances...
all that has happened,
   has, happened, in order that i might find:
release, and in finding my release...
relief!

                            i had to mention these
scenarios... i remember the last words ilona
said to me: blah blah... by doing x
as you've continued to displease me...
blah blah... you'll never become a man!
                    true...
                                ­ who the **** want's
to be an ahston court trained poodle?!
   what, enough ***** to keep the economy
going?
        everyone knows that women
are the crown of capitalism...
                     no woman, no crown, no capitalism...
it's not even socialism at this point,
or anarchy... it's... eh... m'eh?
                                 why do only fools and horses
marry?
          ****, if there was a swan ontology
built into man? maybe... after all...
                    there is such a phenomenon
(more like a noumenon) of the widow swan,
or a widower swan...
      it's as if the animal has lost its
physical union, and transitioned into
a metaphysical union, beside the body...
   a realm of perpetuated memory,
   awaiting transcendence...
         now... i believe there's a godhead for
all things in this world...
there's the godhead of swans,
   as there is the godhead of all the other creatures...
which: gushes out ontological cueues...
pointers...
                    after all, i already said what
my two true loves were...

        Paris and Edinburgh...
                   i remember the first time i arrived
in Paris...
when i reached 3 Ducks hostel in Paris,
the guy in charge, was surprised,
that i managed to walk,
   all the way from where the drop-off was
for people arriving from the airport
by coach, some 40+ miles from Paris itself...
i walked... i breathed... i was amazed
at the Eiffel Tower...
   most people just took the underground...
plus i had a really ****** map...
didn't speak the language...
                    but that year... circa 2005... Paris...
      that was...
                          something else...
or Edinburgh, circa 2004...
                    thank god i didn't apply
to Warwick university...
      campus university *******...
         Bristol? eh... the city didn't appeal
to me...
                   Edinburgh... that's something
else...
                    even Venice is more or less:
passable...
                      
              mind you... what's this current
transgender debate about men thinking they're
women, competing in women's sports?
today i saw the perfect example
of a decent woman's sport...
  tennis... haleb vs. linette...
       **** on me, what a match...
no. 3 seed versus no. 87 in world ranking...
                          i prefer women's tennis...
with male tennis its all about
the service game: "****" advantage...
but at least in woman's tennis,
   you get longer rallies...
   and the antithesis of what an ****** sounds
like... and all that show of legs...
it's beautiful...
       beside... this "new" transgender "thing",
that **** is old...
     i always confuse the two...
     DDR...                        FDR...
Deutsche Demokratische Republik...
          Federal Republic of Germany...
   so, yeah... the former... DDR...
                 and i've heard this many times...
the same happened back then,
at the olympic games...
                          it's a joke now...
  but women from the DDR were given hormones...
to make them more masculine...
           only that... it was real chemistry
working on real biology...
   women, were given male hormones...
and competed with other females...
          now?
                      em... what if these "women",
want to compete with women...
       and can do so... if given female hormones,
added with a cocktail of male hormone
blockers?!
         the whole olympic circus is already
rigged with chemistry...
**** it: ***** all of them!
                   may the best chemist win!
**** it, jack 'em up! give each and everyone
of them the best juice!
swear to god,
   all the female atheletes back in the days
of DDR were given some hormonal++ juice...
maybe a mix of amphetamines and
        steroids...
       so... if these "women" want to
compete with women?
                     shouldn't they be given...
say... the realistic dosage of hormones...
         a body of a natural woman creates?!

****, in a time when a bilingual is deemed
a schizophrenic... because he's not a polyglot...
of course the trans movement was always going
to undermine women...
     that's why i decided, aged 21...
no... you know what?
                        i don't like stress...
              loved you, but thank god i left you...
Paris and Edinburgh became my two true loves...
and... given they're cities...
they are as intricate as any person might be...
so... not to be demeaning...
                  but a cat and mouse game...
and then being dumped...
                               i settled for the next best
thing... once a year... ****... once every five years...
if there's any Jack the Ripper urge "lurking"
in me...
                         just visit a brothel
to check your body temp. against another
body, and see if you can share the same pulse.

but as you might have already guessed,
this was the original draft:

tattooing an impermant
mark on the left arm:

    h-
              (e)
         -a-
     (lef)
                -y
                       (od)

what yah /          
יאח‎          demands...

ה‎ (he) + א‎ (alef),
   and   ח‎ (het) + ע (ayin) -

i.e. the tetragrammaton
squared -
  laughter of the interchange.         ע

p.s. i still don't
see how Adam conceived of
Abel, or Cain...
   how a-lef or a-yin is a consonant,
transcendent...
given the hebrew ah is:
guised in the name kametz...

i see a story of two Adams...
and i called them,
Aleph                  and Ayin.
That second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds through the countryside,
Breathed hot and instant on my trace,—
I made six days a hiding-place
Of that dry green old aqueduct
Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked
The fire-flies from the roof above,
Bright creeping throuoh the moss they love.
—How long it seems since Charles was lost!
Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed
The country in my very sight;
And when that peril ceased at night,
The sky broke out in red dismay
With signal-fires; well, there I lay
Close covered o’er in my recess,
Up to the neck in ferns and cress,
Thinking on Metternich our friend,
And Charles’s miserable end,
And much beside, two days; the third,
Hunger o’ercame me when I heard
The peasants from the village go
To work among the maize; you know,
With us, in Lombardy, they bring
Provisions packed on mules, a string
With little bells that cheer their task,
And casks, and boughs on every cask
To keep the sun’s heat from the wine;
These I let pass in jingling line,
And, close on them, dear noisy crew,
The peasants from the village too;
For at the very rear would troop
Their wives and sisters in a group
To help, I knew; when these had passed,
I threw my glove to strike the last,
Taking the chance: she did not start,
Much less cry out, but stooped apart
One instant, rapidly glanced round,
And saw me beckon from the ground;
A wild bush grows and hides my crypt,
She picked my glove up while she stripped
A branch off, then rejoined the rest
With that; my glove lay in her breast:
Then I drew breath: they disappeared;
It was for Italy I feared.

An hour, and she returned alone
Exactly where my glove was thrown.
Meanwhile come many thoughts; on me
Rested the hopes of Italy;
I had devised a certain tale
Which, when ’twas told her, could not fail
Persuade a peasant of its truth;
I meant to call a freak of youth
This hiding, and give hopes of pay,
And no temptation to betray.
But when I saw that woman’s face,
Its calm simplicity of grace,
Our Italy’s own attitude
In which she walked thus far, and stood,
Planting each naked foot so firm,
To crush the snake and spare the worm—
At first sight of her eyes, I said,
“I am that man upon whose head
They fix the price, because I hate
The Austrians over us: the State
Will give you gold—oh, gold so much,
If you betray me to their clutch!
And be your death, for aught I know,
If once they find you saved their foe.
Now, you must bring me food and drink,
And also paper, pen, and ink,
And carry safe what I shall write
To Padua, which you’ll reach at night
Before the Duomo shuts; go in,
And wait till Tenebrae begin;
Walk to the Third Confessional,
Between the pillar and the wall,
And Kneeling whisper whence comes peace?
Say it a second time; then cease;
And if the voice inside returns,
From Christ and Freedom: what concerns
The cause of Peace?—for answer, slip
My letter where you placed your lip;
Then come back happy we have done
Our mother service—I, the son,
As you daughter of our land!”

Three mornings more, she took her stand
In the same place, with the same eyes:
I was no surer of sunrise
Than of her coming: we conferred
Of her own prospects, and I heard
She had a lover—stout and tall,
She said—then let her eyelids fall,
“He could do much”—as if some doubt
Entered her heart,—then, passing out,
“She could not speak for others—who
Had other thoughts; herself she knew:”
And so she brought me drink and food.
After four days, the scouts pursued
Another path: at last arrived
The help my Paduan friends contrived
To furnish me: she brought the news:
For the first time I could not choose
But kiss her hand and lay my own
Upon her head—”This faith was shown
To Italy, our mother;—she
Uses my hand and blesses thee!”
She followed down to the seashore;
I left and never saw her more.

How very long since I have thought
Concerning—much less wished for—aught
Beside the good of Italy,
For which I live and mean to die!
I never was in love; and since
Charles proved false, nothing could convince
My inmost heart I had a friend;
However, if I pleased to spend
Real wishes on myself—say, Three—
I know at least what one should be;
I would grasp Metternich until
I felt his red wet throat distil
In blood through these two hands; and next,
—Nor much for that am I perplexed—
Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,
Should die slow of a broken heart
Under his new employers; last
—Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast
Do I grow old and out of strength.—
If I resolved to seek at length
My father’s house again, how scared
They all would look, and unprepared!
My brothers live in Austria’s pay
—Disowned me long ago, men say;
And all my early mates who used
To praise me so—perhaps induced
More than one early step of mine—
Are turning wise; while some opine
“Freedom grows License,” some suspect
“Haste breeds Delay,” and recollect
They always said, such premature
Beginnings never could endure!
So, with a sullen “All’s for best,”
The land seems settling to its rest.
I think, then, I should wish to stand
This evening in that dear, lost land,
Over the sea the thousand miles,
And know if yet that woman smiles
With the calm smile; some little farm
She lives in there, no doubt; what harm
If I sate on the door-side bench,
And, while her spindle made a trench
Fantastically in the dust,
Inquired of all her fortunes—just
Her children’s ages and their names,
And what may be the husband’s aims
For each of them—I’d talk this out,
And sit there, for and hour about,
Then kiss her hand once more, and lay
Mine on her head, and go my way.

So much for idle wishing—how
It steals the time! To business now.
A governor it was proclaimed this time,
When all who would come seeking in New Hampshire
Ancestral memories might come together.
And those of the name Stark gathered in Bow,
A rock-strewn town where farming has fallen off,
And sprout-lands flourish where the axe has gone.
Someone had literally run to earth
In an old cellar hole in a by-road
The origin of all the family there.
Thence they were sprung, so numerous a tribe
That now not all the houses left in town
Made shift to shelter them without the help
Of here and there a tent in grove and orchard.
They were at Bow, but that was not enough:
Nothing would do but they must fix a day
To stand together on the crater’s verge
That turned them on the world, and try to fathom
The past and get some strangeness out of it.
But rain spoiled all. The day began uncertain,
With clouds low trailing and moments of rain that misted.
The young folk held some hope out to each other
Till well toward noon when the storm settled down
With a swish in the grass. “What if the others
Are there,” they said. “It isn’t going to rain.”
Only one from a farm not far away
Strolled thither, not expecting he would find
Anyone else, but out of idleness.
One, and one other, yes, for there were two.
The second round the curving hillside road
Was a girl; and she halted some way off
To reconnoitre, and then made up her mind
At least to pass by and see who he was,
And perhaps hear some word about the weather.
This was some Stark she didn’t know. He nodded.
“No fête to-day,” he said.

“It looks that way.”
She swept the heavens, turning on her heel.
“I only idled down.”

“I idled down.”

Provision there had been for just such meeting
Of stranger cousins, in a family tree
Drawn on a sort of passport with the branch
Of the one bearing it done in detail—
Some zealous one’s laborious device.
She made a sudden movement toward her bodice,
As one who clasps her heart. They laughed together.
“Stark?” he inquired. “No matter for the proof.”

“Yes, Stark. And you?”

“I’m Stark.” He drew his passport.

“You know we might not be and still be cousins:
The town is full of Chases, Lowes, and Baileys,
All claiming some priority in Starkness.
My mother was a Lane, yet might have married
Anyone upon earth and still her children
Would have been Starks, and doubtless here to-day.”

“You riddle with your genealogy
Like a Viola. I don’t follow you.”

“I only mean my mother was a Stark
Several times over, and by marrying father
No more than brought us back into the name.”

“One ought not to be thrown into confusion
By a plain statement of relationship,
But I own what you say makes my head spin.
You take my card—you seem so good at such things—
And see if you can reckon our cousinship.
Why not take seats here on the cellar wall
And dangle feet among the raspberry vines?”

“Under the shelter of the family tree.”

“Just so—that ought to be enough protection.”

“Not from the rain. I think it’s going to rain.”

“It’s raining.”

“No, it’s misting; let’s be fair.
Does the rain seem to you to cool the eyes?”

The situation was like this: the road
Bowed outward on the mountain half-way up,
And disappeared and ended not far off.
No one went home that way. The only house
Beyond where they were was a shattered seedpod.
And below roared a brook hidden in trees,
The sound of which was silence for the place.
This he sat listening to till she gave judgment.

“On father’s side, it seems, we’re—let me see——”

“Don’t be too technical.—You have three cards.”

“Four cards, one yours, three mine, one for each branch
Of the Stark family I’m a member of.”

“D’you know a person so related to herself
Is supposed to be mad.”

“I may be mad.”

“You look so, sitting out here in the rain
Studying genealogy with me
You never saw before. What will we come to
With all this pride of ancestry, we Yankees?
I think we’re all mad. Tell me why we’re here
Drawn into town about this cellar hole
Like wild geese on a lake before a storm?
What do we see in such a hole, I wonder.”

“The Indians had a myth of Chicamoztoc,
Which means The Seven Caves that We Came out of.
This is the pit from which we Starks were digged.”

“You must be learned. That’s what you see in it?”

“And what do you see?”

“Yes, what do I see?
First let me look. I see raspberry vines——”

“Oh, if you’re going to use your eyes, just hear
What I see. It’s a little, little boy,
As pale and dim as a match flame in the sun;
He’s groping in the cellar after jam,
He thinks it’s dark and it’s flooded with daylight.”

“He’s nothing. Listen. When I lean like this
I can make out old Grandsir Stark distinctly,—
With his pipe in his mouth and his brown jug—
Bless you, it isn’t Grandsir Stark, it’s Granny,
But the pipe’s there and smoking and the jug.
She’s after cider, the old girl, she’s thirsty;
Here’s hoping she gets her drink and gets out safely.”

“Tell me about her. Does she look like me?”

“She should, shouldn’t she, you’re so many times
Over descended from her. I believe
She does look like you. Stay the way you are.
The nose is just the same, and so’s the chin—
Making allowance, making due allowance.”

“You poor, dear, great, great, great, great Granny!”

“See that you get her greatness right. Don’t stint her.”

“Yes, it’s important, though you think it isn’t.
I won’t be teased. But see how wet I am.”

“Yes, you must go; we can’t stay here for ever.
But wait until I give you a hand up.
A bead of silver water more or less
Strung on your hair won’t hurt your summer looks.
I wanted to try something with the noise
That the brook raises in the empty valley.
We have seen visions—now consult the voices.
Something I must have learned riding in trains
When I was young. I used the roar
To set the voices speaking out of it,
Speaking or singing, and the band-music playing.
Perhaps you have the art of what I mean.
I’ve never listened in among the sounds
That a brook makes in such a wild descent.
It ought to give a purer oracle.”

“It’s as you throw a picture on a screen:
The meaning of it all is out of you;
The voices give you what you wish to hear.”

“Strangely, it’s anything they wish to give.”

“Then I don’t know. It must be strange enough.
I wonder if it’s not your make-believe.
What do you think you’re like to hear to-day?”

“From the sense of our having been together—
But why take time for what I’m like to hear?
I’ll tell you what the voices really say.
You will do very well right where you are
A little longer. I mustn’t feel too hurried,
Or I can’t give myself to hear the voices.”

“Is this some trance you are withdrawing into?”

“You must be very still; you mustn’t talk.”

“I’ll hardly breathe.”

“The voices seem to say——”

“I’m waiting.”

“Don’t! The voices seem to say:
Call her Nausicaa, the unafraid
Of an acquaintance made adventurously.”

“I let you say that—on consideration.”

“I don’t see very well how you can help it.
You want the truth. I speak but by the voices.
You see they know I haven’t had your name,
Though what a name should matter between us——”

“I shall suspect——”

“Be good. The voices say:
Call her Nausicaa, and take a timber
That you shall find lies in the cellar charred
Among the raspberries, and hew and shape it
For a door-sill or other corner piece
In a new cottage on the ancient spot.
The life is not yet all gone out of it.
And come and make your summer dwelling here,
And perhaps she will come, still unafraid,
And sit before you in the open door
With flowers in her lap until they fade,
But not come in across the sacred sill——”

“I wonder where your oracle is tending.
You can see that there’s something wrong with it,
Or it would speak in dialect. Whose voice
Does it purport to speak in? Not old Grandsir’s
Nor Granny’s, surely. Call up one of them.
They have best right to be heard in this place.”

“You seem so partial to our great-grandmother
(Nine times removed. Correct me if I err.)
You will be likely to regard as sacred
Anything she may say. But let me warn you,
Folks in her day were given to plain speaking.
You think you’d best tempt her at such a time?”

“It rests with us always to cut her off.”

“Well then, it’s Granny speaking: ‘I dunnow!
Mebbe I’m wrong to take it as I do.
There ain’t no names quite like the old ones though,
Nor never will be to my way of thinking.
One mustn’t bear too ******* the new comers,
But there’s a dite too many of them for comfort.
I should feel easier if I could see
More of the salt wherewith they’re to be salted.
Son, you do as you’re told! You take the timber—
It’s as sound as the day when it was cut—
And begin over——’ There, she’d better stop.
You can see what is troubling Granny, though.
But don’t you think we sometimes make too much
Of the old stock? What counts is the ideals,
And those will bear some keeping still about.”

“I can see we are going to be good friends.”

“I like your ‘going to be.’ You said just now
It’s going to rain.”

“I know, and it was raining.
I let you say all that. But I must go now.”

“You let me say it? on consideration?
How shall we say good-bye in such a case?”

“How shall we?”

“Will you leave the way to me?”

“No, I don’t trust your eyes. You’ve said enough.
Now give me your hand up.—Pick me that flower.”

“Where shall we meet again?”

“Nowhere but here
Once more before we meet elsewhere.”

“In rain?”

“It ought to be in rain. Sometime in rain.
In rain to-morrow, shall we, if it rains?
But if we must, in sunshine.” So she went.
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2012
This will detail the black Christmas day that a young mother lost her three daughters and her
Parent’s time has passed and This Unbelievable tragedy caused Heaven and Hell to square off in
This Young mother’s life this Piece it will show in a limited way how Heaven won she wasn’t
Healed By opiates surgery or ****** analyses but in this blackness without a glimmer of light
Walking Down these lost Corridors listening to the wailing the great physician came he brought
Greater Than balm of Gilgal within the folds of His robe was mercy hope and peace with nail
Scared Hands He took her hugged her to himself sorrow instantly began to recede in his eyes
Were the Sum total of all Tragedies at first it was a pained face but in an instant when He spoke
It was as the word says His voice was that of many waters with the vibrancy of His heart in
Action she could see the waters had become as calm as His face the tranquil harbor where all
Find refuge in the time of trouble and over the course of a year many helps would be added
That would include prayers notes texts e-mails that loves this family and most important of all
God would send the children to their mother as she sleeps and through dreams they would tell  
Her precious parts about their new lives how happy and well they were and a book would make
A crucial difference as it bore down on Heaven gave it clarity and understanding the life that
Appeared to lie in ruin the breath of Heaven blew and redemption was stirred and made
Perfect in her life no longer chaos lying in heaps but treasure carried to safety the fragility
Birthed without end in the Promised Land distinctive and bright by love’s power all is built to
Endure in perfection waters burst forth the dry scorched earth responds with herbs flowers
Trees the blue sky green trees and grass backed by the brown soil a killer combination where
Bad invades and would destroy love ultimate power throws it back on itself where it is
destroyed replaced by joy our promise the true rendering of love and peace so when trouble comes which it will just hold on and Know He is on His way to your side with all you need I want to seal this with another piece that details trouble but gives ultimate hope

Blue Spruce
Do you walk in a desert the howling wind finds no rest within your tortured breast. The desert scrub can host many realities sadness scraped raw the only comfort rub the wound with desert sand pray its warmth will reach deeper give the hint of comfort long lost on a soul finding it hard to remember kindness and its affects. You wanted only what everyone wants comfort and fulfillment but you have found these have elusive qualities almost ghost like never lasting longer than fleeting moments. Will the road wind filled with expectation only to end in senseless nothingness. How many times can you smile through the tears get up and start again why not change your identity maybe the gods that have it in for you will be fooled give you the blessings that are common to so many. This is not what your day dreams envisioned who ever questioned or dared to think up these black mortifications. You look for a hand to guide but only find those that prize themselves and forget you leaving you even more lost than before. The edges of despair crowd in your mind swirls is their not a promised land for people like me. Maybe a move would be in order a new beginning surely a fresh start will win the day where did I hear that somewhere in the land of the truly delusional you find when yet again you find life shows its power to roll and out of nowhere unseen upheaval throws you for a hard spill. Now you find a veritable waste land but yours is city streets trash strewn among those that walk with empty stares. The hearts silently bleed the well where tears once were formed filled with debris still the echo can be heard from childhood laughter was it that terribly long ago. As it happens on those blessed occasions was it real or a dream you have enjoyed the pleasure of Christmas and the green fir trees that fill the local lots the scent that drifts from room to room the little wild thing setting there all aglow gives the sweetest thrill. What is a blue spruce in my mind I followed this rutted road through the forest green and the mist had settled insulating every living thing with vibrancy this the most wondrous scene the forest truly gleams. Stand among the towering giants what a hush you are bombarded by the silence you are in the greatest ease a freefall into this quietude quiet breathing is all that is heard as wonder destroys every vesture of disquiet and alarm. Your vision intensifies as this endless pleasure mounts your soul grows its edges that were raggedly torn now renewed fully healed. What a fortress this stand of trees a thousand enemies could never surmount this pure airy wood not a king here stands but a poor beggarly soul has found the greatest ****** land bequeathed by nature’s bountiful generosity in any direction even the lofty height held with sterling sites this never could be bought even gold bows its self down to this sacred grove diamonds and emeralds fair no better their worth seems undignified here. The question arises does this place exist a great English writer wrote of the cathedral in the pine yes both places exist the sadness described in the beginning and this wondrous place a wonderful preacher related this story of a blue spruce he encountered in years long gone by it was different than just the run of the mill blue spruce you usually found he inquired of the nursery owner about the shape and color. He was told this one has been grafted by this means it never loses its rich blue color. The point was we need to be grafted into the true vine. The most important guide post to finding this glorious life while on earth is follow the sacred text that says if you truly desire truth on the inward parts you will find it. Many doors are marked holy and blessed but after entering you find only the tormented false ideas of self important men. He is the door and those that enter there will set among angels and the life of the blue spruce will be yours not inferior given to fading to lonely darkened gray but vibrant hues of azure blue your home in that blessed promise laughter and joy your possession forever more.
Sethnicity Aug 2016
In a slow oak and elm ING breath
Ent felt tears in the air
She inquired the feather like dancer
From where a river now streamed
Say, your sobbing must stop
Just enjoy being unlocked
You do not know tree pain
With my long hard locks
Knotted under the weight of usefulness
for you are still yet a seed
Riding the wind of dreams
No rings yet formed on fingers
rings to be broken for fires timber
Your tendrils are bendable
The beginning fragment of a future
So show no pain and suture a smile
I know capons
who fell free from home
Only for gravity to shatter dreams & reclaim them to the unknown.

And the dandelion said:
My short life comes with long memory
While  my youth may seem naive to tree
I have only arrived and I must die to be
You will remain when I am reborn
deity
And as your locks begin to leaves
And birds flock like river ocean streams
I know pain because I remember birth
I will die a thousand times before you know me
Yet these tears should not offend
I cry to womb the happiness within.
Find God in Everything
Àŧùl Oct 2016
A costly privilege at rare times
Inquired my dad, "How much the onions?"
The seller, with a gasp,
Replied: "It's for 55 Rupees a kilo,
And you're holding almost two times."
A humorous poem. A limerick.
HP Poem #1209
©Atul Kaushal
"That's ******* cool; that scares the **** out of me"
http://content.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1963637,00.html

— The End —