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Michael W Noland Sep 2012
[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero
this is a work in progress
The screaming
children of Gaza
torment the sleep
of a troubled world,
and remain a real-time
unending nightmare;
anointing The Levant’s
fevered brow
with a diadem of
incessant grief.

Gaza is a burning
ankh that sears the
madness of sorrow
upon Egypt’s skull.

Gaza,
an unblinking
third eye
of shame,
peers into
Lower Egypt’s
closed window
ever reproaching
it’s turbulent
conscience;
chiding fellow
Muslims with
the ugly memory
of abject affliction,
the endless images
of a living Guernica
suspended in the hell
of indefinite imprisonment
all Palestinians are forced
to suffer.

As Zionists ***** the
steep walls of Apartheid to
extend its occupation
of Palestine, it
condemns the youth
of Gaza to a life of
incarceration with no
possibility of parole;
hardening the hearts
and steeling the resolve
of a new generation of
militants to demolish the
walls and the wardens
that imprison them.

The Zionist jailers
bestow upon
Ishmael’s Children
phylacteries of shame,
wearing the rolled
prayers of wailing pain
scribed with bits of
dust from the
the broken walls of
demolished buildings
and desolate homes
beyond habitation,
now housing grief
of trampled souls,
forcing recitations
of deliverance
to Allah while
davening an
incessant drone
of anguish at
the Wailing Wall
of Resentment;
decrying the
blood lust of
undying acrimony,
victimization and
the slaughter of
innocents, carried on
with the imperial license
of state sanctioned impunity.


Father Ibrahim's
feuding children may
share a sacred paternity
but remain the
divided brothers
of different mothers;
stoking a sibling rivalry
more bitter then
Cain and Abel.

Our anguish
never dissipates,
the gnawing
impulse of empathy
to assist the distressed
of Gaza is dashed
by omnipotent
powers recusing
the ability to act.

Sympathy is
embargoed
in the black
obfuscation
of religious
partisanship
while timely
assistance
to aid the
distressed
lie netted in
blockades of
realpolitik
affinities.

Gaza, where
Hashim is granted
his eternal rest,
restlessly inhabits
his unknown grave
from the destitution of
his profaned homeland.

Ghazzat,  “the stronghold”
countlessly conquered,
falling to Roman Emperors,
Lionhearted Crusaders
Ottoman Caliphates,
and British Mandates;
slipping from Egypt’s
geopolitical grasp as
as a casualty of
The Six Day War.

Gaza is now a stronghold of
resent and desperation for a
desperate conquered people.

Ghazzat, the prized city of
the western Mediterranean,
a four star Phoenician port of
caravansaries now unable
to trade with any partners
due to ungodly blockades.

Gaza, has grown wholly
dependent on the largess
of UN aid and meager
subsistence portions
doled out by well
meaning NGO’s.

Gaza, the foot stool of
the Levant and surely
the pathway Father
Ibrahim, Jacob,
Joseph and Jeremiah
traveled to escape
Canaan's famine;
finding at the close
of their sojourn
a table set with the
plenteous bounty
the Blue Nile
unconditionally offered;
the veritable feast
of abundance,
the generous yields
of the blessed delta
that sustained the
Prophets of Judah
and a thousand
generations of the
Nile’s Children.

Gaza, the Achilles
heal of Middle East
peace, land of the
Canaanites, Philistines
and Old Testament
heroes.

Gaza, a fortress for
Philistines who
imprisoned the storied
Sampson, revered for
breaking the chains of
imprisonment and righteously
destroying a pagan temple
in a suicidal act of heroism.

Gaza, where the myths and
legends of rapacious
holy crusaders captured
the western imagination
with the chivalrous gallantry
of religious warfare and
valiant last stands of
Templar Knights employing
the tactical imperatives
of terrorism in service to their
higher God.

Gaza, an oasis
by the sea now
lies dry and brittle
as the precious Hebron
waters of Wadi Ghazza
are diverted to serve
the agriculture of
Judah; condemning
a dehydrated Gaza
panting of thirst
to an imposed drought
and a war of
self preservation
to remove
the dammed rivers
of justice controlled
by intractable powers
laying upstream beyond
Gaza’s mean borders.

The Qassams
lunched by Hamas
are desperate
expressions of
exasperated people,
eager to call
world attention
to the growing
insufferable plight
of a people living
in a perpetual
state of siege.

Its a modern day
David slinging rocks
against an armor
clad Goliath.

Each Katusha
serves as
a justification
for Zionist
intransigence
and condemns
any possibility
for peaceful
coexistence
of a Two State
Solution.

The pointless attacks
invite massive
disproportionate
retaliation and succeed
in prolonging and
increasing the
measure of Gaza’s
agony.

The mystic grace,
the divine power
of satyagraha
-a non-violent
response to the
cruel enforcement of
Apartheid- is Allah’s
way to secure the
moral high-ground
and the surest way
for Palestinians to
expose it’s unholy
adversaries innate
contempt for civil rights
and a refusal to
recognized the
shared humanity of
all of Father Ibrahim’s
wayward progeny and
recalcitrant prodigal sons.

Mubarak’s fall
has allowed the
Rafah Gate
to swing open again.

The concertina
wire that separates
Gaza and Egypt
has been removed.

The prisoners
of Gaza have
an open portal
of freedom.

It is a Day of
Jubilee, a day
of pardon for
for the inmates
of prisons built
for victims.  

It is a day of
possibility for peace.  

It is a day to declare an
Exodus from the land
of bitterness.

Humanity is
offered the hope
of escape from
the prisons of
acrimony, to
freely move across
the staid borders
of intractability
and exclusion.

The hearts and
minds of Palestinians
and Egyptians
are free to connect
and unite once again.

Liberation is
possible only
when we uphold
and honor the
affirmation
of all humanity.

Music Video:

Silk Road
We Will Not Go Down

Oakland
2/9/12
jbm
a poem from the epilogue section of Tahrir Square Voices
Pagan Paul Aug 2018
.
i.
Smoke coils up and dissipates,
soon the images will be clear,
as she stares with cold contempt,
into the depths of the Seers Sphere.
And she stands toking her pipe,
watching as the story unfolds,
soon her hate will boil once more,
unleashing her vengeance of old.

ii.
Smoke coils up and dissipates,
a thousand lifetime's away,
blackened stone and charred bodies,
the remains of a village destroyed.
The flames still licking at the flesh
and melting mortar of cottage walls.
Raiding horsemen ride off cheering,
with swords, shields and firebrands,
carrying amidst them a prisoner,
their prize and sport for the victory feast.
Savages are these violent men,
barbaric in their wanton lust for war,
the red mist and the ****** fury,
it's all they really have a care for.

iii.
She waits with patient seething,
her moments will arrive so soon,
the spilling of her black arts,
witnessed by a Woman's Moon.

iv.
The Vale was so beautiful lush and green.
Steep sided, oak trees, clear blue stream.
With fresh grass on which horses grazed,
and smooth rocks where wild fowl lazed.

v.
But the leader here was not a man,
she was the daughter of this warrior clan.
Fierce, cold, she barked out her orders;
build a fire, make food, secure the borders.
Her status unquestioned by her riders,
they would all fight and die beside her,
and as the camp grew out much wider,
her boot casually crushes a hated spider.

vi.
Manacles held her ankle fast,
shackled as she was to a tree.
Withdrawn, shivering with cold,
still seeing her burning family.
Images scorch her private intimacy,
awaiting the moment of her epiphany,
eyes watching with careless vacancy,
preparations for the nights ceremony.
But she would not co-operate,
would not give her jailers pleasure,
as she knows these last few hours
would seem to her like forever …

and Nature weeps with a prelude to grieve,
as the Maiden pulls a dagger from her sleeve.


… deny them their sport she will,
placing the dagger 'neath her breast,
a sharp tug towards her heart,
a thousand nightmares laid to rest.

vii.
A thousand lifetime's away,
smoke coils up and dissipates,
a cackle rents the air like ice,
the time her Woman's Moon anticipates.
And the instant arrives with joy,
as the Seers Sphere is thrown,
shattering and cackling hold hands,
as the glass touches solid stone.
At that moment of contact with rock,
time slips into a reverberating shock.

viii.
The Vale was so beautiful lush and green.
Steep sided, oak trees, clear blue stream.
With fresh grass on which horses grazed,
and smooth rocks where wild fowl lazed.

And the earth heaved and tremored,
shaking the Vales languid peace,
uprooting trees with tremendous urge,
rending the loamy soil from beneath.
Frenzied horses scatter with fright,
and men are thrown up high,
screams and shouts of piercing pain,
and the stream suddenly runs dry.
The quake unsettles the warriors camp,
leaving many broken bones and blood.
Then an ominous deafening roar
heralds the arrival of the coming flood.
And water coursed fast into the Vale,
no longer pretending to be calmer.
All living men drowned and dead,
encumbered by their heavy armour.
But she was much fleeter of foot
and ran hard as the waters rose.
Tripped by a treacherous branch,
head banged, stunned, her eyes closed.

ix.
Sunrise saw many things.
Smoke coiling up and dissipating,
over the ruins of a village,
crows and dogs feasting well.
It saw
the hooded robed figure of a woman,
squatting on top a new grave,
smoke coiling up from her pipe,
cackling …

x.
She awoke in darkness.
It didn't take long to panic and scream.
It took no time to realise,
she was sealed naked in a coffin.
And she screamed and screamed.
Pushing at the sides, the lid.
The air was heavy, stifling, stifling, stifling.
Precious oxygen running out.
The coffin moved, and she screamed,
desperately scratching and scratching.
And in the box she heard … cackling.
Her frantic screams turn to sobs of pleading
to be let out, to breathe, to live.
She felt something touch her inner thigh,
she screamed, as it touched again feint.
Brushing it away as the voice cackled on,
more tickles on her thighs, she screamed.
And something landed on her face.
The feel of a large spider on her mouth,
and she screamed and screamed.
But the cackling persisted
as she scratched at the wood,
her fingernails shredding to pieces,
but the wooden prison gave no quarter,
the skin raw and bloodied,
scratching, scratching, scratching.
And in her tomb she screams,
she screams and screams and screams.

xi.
… sunrise saw many things.
It saw a new river,
wending its way to the sea,
caressing the contoured land,
it saw horses running wild,
across the lush grass on plains.
It saw
the hooded robed figure of a woman,
standing beside a new grave,
as she places the flame dagger
upon the Maiden's final resting place,
it saw
ice blue eyes of fire and malevolence.
Weeping.


© Pagan Paul (02/08/18)
.
3rd poem in Judderwitch series.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2076298/judderwitch-the-beginning/
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1923972/judderwitch/

Today, Aug 2nd, marks two years on hp for me.
Thankyou to all those who have supported and helped me over these last 2 years. You are all greatly appreciated :) PPx xox
Pretty rich girl, softly dreaming, 
a woman is so newly waking
no use at all for dad’s financing, 
consumed by flesh that is desiring 
of wanton flows that force such rousing
to be taken far from here for using 
by men unfazed by city counting.

Then sudden blackness o’erwhelming, 
all sound and vision swiftly clouding
strong arms unseen and grasping 
to sweep her off her feet and making
sense of ropes around her tight’ning, 
with her arms together jerking
forcing back to ankles spreading
with ballgag muffled screaming 
she should now be strongly fighting 
instead there is a wild arousing.

Stripping cutting all that’s hiding 
until she’s held quite naked finding
that there’s a hood that’s closing 
round her head and isolating
from any sense of air that’s cooling
and rampant need that’s now arising
she feels excitement in so being
where she feels no fear abiding.

Put down hard after easy lifting
a lid above her slamming
the sound of engine starting 
spinning wheels now are speeding 
bound in dark she’s left a-lieing 
with mouth that gives no screaming
instead a wet arousal finding 
knowing of her inner needing.

****** rising almost blinding 
fighting, writhing, needing tying 
her tortured form now pounding
forcing every sinew twisting
with such unsought pleasure giving 
this wanton **** who has such thinking
of brutal taking and ill using
by men she should be hating.

How could juices start their flowing 
as crude hands began their probing 
carrying to places far unknowing.
Rough voices talking of their doing, 
arguing ransoms for demanding
then finding her with wet arousing 
cruel laughing at her needing
until there comes a sweet dividing 
of her eager self though darkening
roughly forcing them by wanting 
that she is newly there for taking
captors now in forced confronting.

There can now be no disguising 
that this is life not fantasizing 
these coarse brutes so crudely using
think they’re forcing her submitting 
now she wants them by satisfying 
her every silent wanton needing 
of each to feed obscene desiring.

An iron bed prepared for keeping 
till the time of ransom paying 
fully tight is now her strapping
legs apart, wide spreadeagling
ignoring all her protests mewling 
but her bucking body thrusting 
makes her needing so enticing
till they give her what she’s wanting.

There is now for each unseen taking
a welcoming and wet demanding 
so there can be no inflicting 
that but which is urgent wanting
opening each hole for filling 
not once or twice but oft repeating
taking turns in fully using 
till they are all quite lost in spending.

With captive bound there’s no sating 
screaming begging ne’er abating 
always there is more demanding 
screaming all despite her gagging
each time her body hits climaxing
fighting , dragging now and forcing 
wearied jailers for more pleasuring
ignoring all their worn protesting
incessant in her primal wanting
who is using whom in this not knowing
when captors should be really scaring
but they have never known such needing
standing round and jointly fearing
of chewing less than was their biting
with this nymphomaniac in bareing.

Words in anger, muffled voicing 
some with reason in conferring
then a quick release of bindings 
a body hot for blanket wrapping 
with a fiesty female grappling
cursing now her wild desiring
yet unstilled with needy struggling
tossed in the car for rapid driving 
some miles back by unknown routing
while in the trunk much banging
till on daddy’s doorstep dumping 
ransom now in quick forgetting
as captors with relief escaping
while pretty rich girl leans back smiling
anticipating her next kidnapping.


From my Francesca Anderssen Poetry collection: **** Verse (Amazon)
I have written novels and verse about the interaction between lovers, and consensual activities that form the rich tapestry of living and loving between people who care about each other.

I Hope you like my thoughts.
Tell me if you do---or don't.
Criticism is my lifeblood
The complete book of **** Verse by  Francesca Anderssen (101 ***** poems) is on Amazon in kindle and paperback,

together with my ****** **** novel "Need". also available on amazon
Lawrence Hall Jul 2019
But Yevtushenko...

                      A tribute to Penguin paperbacks

When they
Someday
Take us away
For reading
For thinking
For writing

Those Penguin paperbacks all tattered and taped
Discovered when they empty our pockets
          Will
Be used against us in their courts of law

But Yevtushenko might corrupt our jailers
Today is Yevgeny Yevtushenko's birthday (1932).

Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Yenson Sep 2018
I last saw her in Santiago
******* drunkenly in a Sub urban taverna
parading conceited pride in a twisted union
with that *******  heinous maniacal harlequin
each in vainglorious throes of their imagined septic mindfuck
Debauch celebration of collaboration of succubus and incubus

Some days she is saying Haloa in Hawaii
adorned as Sainti Maria the ***** now as Madonna
spewing words like a dove acting like a Nun in a Convent
the fiendess with two faces hiding her ****** like the ace in lace
the malignant serpent crawling in the duality of her neurosis

I last saw her in Santiago
In a sanctity of the poisoned insecures with exiguous minds
consumed with flaming fears she begs acceptance for inclusion
******* for percieved reflected glory from her fathers' jailers
The subjugated souls of chai wallah lives on in grandchildren

So when Santi Maria flirts from honey to beehive
Ready to ***** and part thighs and brain for minor pointing gun
Feel sorry for a damaged child devoid of a prime core never made
only obeisance to past rulers whose discarded cast-offs she wears
Her poems  enchants but its virulent tools she takes in her body

I last saw her in Santiago
A slaved two-faced pretender who sings like a nightingale
In sub urban dives she postrates to friendly pats and gropes
Melting creeps and hot tigers begging subs for a heady drink
Brilliant yet blindsided to **** on knees as her children will too



Copyright@LaurenceA20thSept2018Allrightsreserved.
INDEX


                            Foreword

1  Despertación of Etréstles 13

2  Constitución New Government . 22

3  diabolic Intromisión 25

4  Kanti, the Corcel . 28

5  Ante the Council 30

6 Inauguración the Monument to Botsaris . 36

7  Losas abandoned 41

8  Satagénesis and Deidagénesis Four. Five

9   Enviados to Deidagénesis / Lepanto 52

10 Drestnia in Kalidona 56

11 Etréstles returns Lepanto 64

12 And the fourth cemetery 71

13 Top of the flight of Lucifer 79

14 In the crypt of the patriarchs 87

15 Etréstles part Valplacci 98

16 Etréstles fleet in the Ionian Sea 114

17 Near Messolonghi 120

18 A new era begins 123

19 Universal Era breaks 129

20 Goodbye Messolonghi 135

21 At the beginning of a new millennium. 141

Epilogue. 153








FOREWORD






Mi theme concept concerning Cemeteries, has been maintained for many years under a remarkable process falls recoup credibility. Unknown worlds which we do not know what to believe, are usually put into question.

Constantly let the silent fields where lie the dead, but it is not, rather that me thinks so. Undoubtedly, the Quantum Theory indicates a basic unit of the whole universe, showing that it is possible to decompose the world into small units of independent existence. This theory shows that the dynamics in the art is such that, solid objects are in constant motion entramando relations between different parts of a unified whole.

As we believe that matter is inherently sterile, we think the cemetery is in the same condition, and therefore inert bodies are also only turned into a pile of bones scattered.





7

8 Etréstles


My conception of the world of subterranean acting, aims to support the theory of Quantum, because at first glance it seems that under these moles cement there putrefaction and eternal solitude. Well, I, I do not think so, I think there is tremendous activity, above all tends to seek fulfillment in a world that concerns him, and also has the infinite grace of thanks from all lurking diseases that shake us. That is, each inhabitant of the subterranean acting as a Franciscan Noble receives worship existence, and not faints by the destructive effects of all known diseases.

Near the garden of heroes, they are the remains of those who died in this output. It was a legendary struggle for libertarian revolution of 1821 in Greece, exactly Messolonghi. Markos Botsaris's tomb and the statue of Lord Byron great Hellenophile found in this garden.

Once, I was looking for a book, and this was inevadiblemente of oriental trend. I used to remind my teacher, the monk talking Virajánanda Given the processes of time, yesterday, today and tomorrow; all at once were a pure unity. That physical death had to be spiritual satisfaction, so that the spirit can not disconnect your disposable body. Child saw my family to go to leave flowers garden home to their loved ones. But I am noticing that my grandparents were still alive, and then would leave, looking for ways to inhale the smell of the earth to prepare the farewell that someday would come from the dark beyond. It never was painful to see them

Ko umeterium MESSO LO Nghi 9


from, because I've always been with them. In addition always our body, which would be living in a merger with vague spirits, to vague minds that do not hold their interest in spirituality as a way of life, tend to make us climb through dark passages of ignorance.

Etréstles, the protagonist; It has place at a lineage that marks limits warriors of ancient Greece, since fought with neighboring nations. Thus, generation after generation, he meddles in successive reincarnations that are to be transported in time by different spaces.

Its Vitabión and Regma Mother, father and as Staktos and Esaedt, both from different eras. His monogamous romantic company is coyuntada with the presence of Drestnia; woman who had to pull out of her womb, better said from his rib, emulating the biblical account.

While it is noteworthy that the secondary characters are related to Greek mythology such as Eurydice, and real characters like Markos Botsaris, who was a great hero who drove the Turks. The famous Florentine sculptor and architect Lorenzo Ghiberti, is present in the action, so that his image is immortalized in an eternal cemetery. Similarly we should mention Asurbanipal king of Assyria (667-626 C), the Auriga; the coachman and truck driver where he had his Herreros over time to release the Hellenic descent.

Other memorable as Aristotle, Hesiod, Praxiteles, which are knowledge to every reader of Greek literature. The judge presiding over the classroom

10 E tr é stles


sesionaba time to time, trying to revive the rituals and reject the stubborn efforts of Lucifer, who was trying to have a place on earth, then God expelled him from heaven.

In the chapter of the onslaught of Lucifer, he is accompanied by his minions Heosphoros and Phosphoros; they are the ones who brought Lucifer from heaven to Messolonghi. In addition Mesopotamian demons appear hostile world, these were the Annunaki who were the jailers of the dead in hell. The Etimmu, were the ghosts of all those who had died unhappy. The Utukku lived in desolate places or cemeteries; they are all part of malignancy presence as oppressive form and manner of presence to the exuberance of good all-encompassing.

Kanti Botsaris steed, is nothing more than his superconsciousness, wearing it as a link between the different physical and oneiric dimensions. It should be noted that Kanti is a Cretan horse and belongs to the fallen in battle, as Botsaris.

Eulalia and Zultina, both courtesans who spent their lives together with Ghiberti and Botsaris.

And it could not ignore the Menopausal, puerperal and Enamorada, as they like female members suffer alone beyond the earthly life that had consequences that affect the desolate silence of death camps.

And to finish, arrival at Valplacci, where it meets a world and a rare man in an unknown dimension by Etréstles. subsequently arriving at Patmos, where St.

Ko umeterium MESSO LO Nghi eleven


John the Theologian, to regain some of its lost soul by the intrusion of Lucifer. Here manages to discover that there is no need to fight warriors who always talk about physical war, because many of them tend to succumb to the same battlefields. discovering, mind mentor as the best ally to overcome any difficulty, wherever it is that the human race is found, or infra-human.

Finally, Etréstles is discovered in a way that would open a new numeral cycle, to start a new era and a new physical space where the projection Messolonghi be situated; nothing less than Nineveh, Ashurbanipal land where the winds blow, as a priest in his exsufflation it does to remove the demons that inhabit the world.

The "Zero" is the initiator of a new era, from whose base the only means available to the new life that awaits the residents of escombroso Messolonghi, after the invasion of Lucifer appears.

My concept of the cemeteries, while seeking an answer to approximate I think now that enormous efforts are made to understand fully. Cemetery remains for me a scenario of hideousness and terror, seen from the observation point that everyone has it, however, I think that in a strange world where you're not supposed to govern ethics, aesthetics, law , and the professional, economic and social status; It is where more wealth is the multiestimulante vitality, "I think

12 E tr é stles


nowhere inhabited earthly souls, will be able to find more life here in the

Messolonghi cemetery ".


José Luis Carreño Troncoso San Antonio, 1997




1





Wake-up of Etréstles



Dfter sleeping a thousand years fell on my face greater light current Solar. I slept without smiling at the crowds inhumaron smearing me my only bones.

The search of that hubbub, made me celebrate the porous bodies and pelusientos arañosos falling on my fingers, delighting my humble tributes to the beetles that accompanied me to direct my view to the nearby burial vaults me. Some were swollen with a semblance augury despertativa; like starting today, with the ominous words They moved from today, the paddling of my fleshless jaws.

Among gravestones of Floreas esmeraldinas dinosauric, in a clear blue autumn, some birds refregaban on edges of the carved stones. Meanwhile, mustards was riding on dry leaves leaves clavelinas. The white-clad looked up Drestnia slab that closed their senses, remained behind bars with his hands crossed as evolving body


13

14 E tr é stles


to attend a new era of geography and different technology. On his chest he would run the living vertiginante wind up the corporeal hint in the light of Koumeterium Messolonghi; that housed over a thousand years ago, at Etréstles of Kalavrita.

This huge palace and flat, it is nothing more than an asylum, where the worst plague that began with the death of the sentinels of Lucifer, who dropped this place with its beautiful golden layers originated; whose satagénesis emerge the burning soil to ten fossilized cemeteries under the Messolonghi.

He walked slowly dragging my old body, the tenth floor, and that teenage girls pointed stones would break my nails; as such if they were claws of a mammal trapped by lava from a volcano. In each advance I awaken in my armor patriotic my last fight, and his enternecedor observe how parents tilled by the conglomerate caste, fighting in underground elements.

Etréstles awakening ...:

Etréstles ...: Which of all columns erected is able to open all columns built in the pavilion of these moles without form or color ... just vitalizing lung diaphragm Eólico my daydreams, is who I think would ...?

To all who are runaways and trapped underground Messolonghi, I bring you good tidings ... Auriga with its Herreros come from the region of the Dodecanese to loosen the bars you father

Ko umeterium MESSO LO Nghi fifteen


Staktos lucid and my mother Vitabión well that in a thousand years, has been damaged her beautiful body. Since my birth in Ayia Lavra, I was being buried for the ninth time in the Ninth Fossilized Cemetery. Whose archpriest with holy oil trickled down my wall, pretending to be a dance of water generated at the bottom of the Ionian. Between the arches of the temple columns running down my mother Vitabión; outward sacravertebral bathe in the water of my past christenings. My past lives were providing mandated by the Auriga their previous lives. And your mother ... A day tried the weight of my recycle ... ?!

Beyond you., Comrades of wars, pilgrimages sacrosanct, lush gauzy baths civilization in the Olympic and equestrian fields.

To you. That you lie here, as is my death in my last life in the hands of a Spartan soldier. Pcs., Blood of my blood, I feel inside me speak your need ...

And in the postrería Drestnia, which by its sixth rising from here from Messolonghi, between bars sealed thy grave situation for the Hellenic indeterminar.

I had to drink from the Pinosa resin to speak here, with my bony hands to touch the others are like yours ...

... Drestnia, my rib still preserved, I will be reborn placating the domain of collective wishful thinking, which prevents your freedom.

My rib you return to your present life, whose cold, flower seeds esqueletizaron the perimeter of your life ...

16 E tr é stles


Etréstles was with them into the Koumeterium Messolonghi, to about 1800 meters zenith direction.

They were to be the Necromesolongui Council to define the minutes. -while music with winds adorned arrival-. Just at the moment, came the Auriga with its blacksmiths, they came to liberate Drestnia with its multiconciencia. What happiness to Etréstles! He ran through the underground halls, to the oldest Koumeterium, the first fossilized. Where thousands of years ago, with many now extinct species, Etréstles came to them resoundingly good news.

While the Council inveighed promulgating the divine sarmiento spray fields Dodecanese in producing seeds of Markos Botsaris.

Judge…: With my lameness, I have to advocate the reintegration of outstanding Markos Botsaris, that once we free them of the Turkish occupation!

Asurbanipal ...My Sirio reign, full of dynamism, placed on their doorposts the powerful image of South-west wind, in honor of his victorious from Kalidona.

Etréstles brought Drestnia just walking the Council and thousands of harmoniums undermined doubts Manor invoking the hero. They all stand, the Council at its octagonal table with his assistants left empty vine glasses to welcome, to the last surviving female first Koumeterium Messolonghi.

Ko umeterium MESSO LO Nghi 17


Harmoniums, as Apollonian rubies widen the dimensions of the cavernales vaults. She sit and ends the music. Drestnia with some leaves on his shoulders, adorned the new escenáculo, which would sit by the new future.

Asurbanipal ...: To you gifts Oh, the universe, you are welcome to this Council, where one day they brought me to praise my contributions from the entrance of Humanity!

But the issue for today, will await the arrival of Markos Botsaris as you who have reached this border, thanks to the generous Auriga.

Charioteer…: ***** wax Orion; Eternal fuel, donated them strength to my steeds pairs, that were raised over distant lands, to reach my Herreros desoldering the bars of Drestnia.

Blacksmith…: Our eyes closed every hundred kilometers, but Eurydice with your calendar, made the aphelion arrimara us this feat.

Ecos ...: Dust ..., Mito ... Dream ... illusion ... have swirled galloping millennia, wearing gray Borrasca ...!

What dark words illuminate the hopes, just below, it is well known that there is much to do, because there is more activity on the surface ...!

Judge…: Etréstles, Drestnia ... past, present, or future will speak of you.

18 E tr é stles


You Drestnia ... !, how long dream ..., defied your gothic vision, not move my neck to your neighbors, loved ensepulcrados in the first Fossilized Koumeterium.

Vitabión ...: Messolonghi lives up to all cemeteries in the world, where they loved their near them. But they do not know life here is more dynamic than in the world of their own.

Menopausal women ...My husband cry on my slab, because his infidelity caused me a bad venereum, which today has removed me from his life. The cries and cries for me ****** decline, all for being with another woman condemned me.

one curtain rises and leaves Funebrio; concelebrating priest all recent deaths ...

Funebrio ...: Woman when you cry my black clothes, cry black tears ...!

Your husband remains static, no movement, despite many kilometers to their own devices. Forbidden habit becomes, how tempting. But contestataria Mother Nature pours us their punishment.

Staktos ...: Friends kisses you give yourself, Where have posted ideations ...?

O dais to scatter everywhere the osculaciones they meet other mouths.

Ko umeterium MESSO LO Nghi 19


Etréstles ...: Everyone I ask do well to prepare your labors. Even so, his desire to hold my naughty pleas heart in this hour by the arrival of Drestnia.

The judge asks adjourn for the recess could then discuss strategies for future deaths.

Sepulcrero ...Lord Judge at the stepped eastern sector have buried an architect. We could ask your cooperation to Botsaris monument.

Judge…: All in good time. It will be done, does anyone want something narrow ...? -Drestnia raised his hand and asked ...:

Drestnia ...: With Etréstles in the last minutes of our lives, which extortioner once it is finished this monument, where our souls will be destined to remain here temporarily ... Messolonghi?

Judge…: General demented wars, take Etréstles the field of Lepanto, because there are stubborn souls who defy the vanquished souls ...

… and as for you, the benevolent Auriga take your soul colors of the sunset, to divide megatons of the Romantics, who along with Ghiberti, on some trunks of beautiful minerals, will anchor his best poems and hiperestésicas forward to outshine their suicides groups.

After the meeting, the attendees are removed, and Drestnia with Etréstles go to spring the celestial napa

twenty E tr é stles


with its golden glow waiting to sail to Tangier and Morocco. In their ships were concurrent, Etréstles woman carrying her ribcage navigation oriented towards the sound of the oars that were the femurs of a Diplodocus itself.

Drestni
ROUGH SAMPLE  - Metaphysic Poem besed upon a 1000 Bc. Etrestles of Kalavrita, greek hero, living through 10 lices, recommence a New Era.

Epic and Multidimensional poetic Ebook
come & enjoy, where you dont find..., stepout and see the Glory.

Jose Luis
Big Virge Nov 2020
Ya Know Peoples’ Behaviour’s...
Getting... Stranger And STRANGER... !!!

NO... Away In A Manger... !!!

But PLENTY of DANGER... !!!
In... Peoples Behaviour... !!!

Because Corona’s Brought Flavours...
When It Comes To THAT PAPER... !!!

That Are A... GAME CHANGER... !!!

So Some Peoples Behaviour’s...
Beginning To Tailor...
Itself Towards... Vader’s... !!!

Because of DICTATORS...
Who Have Now Endangered... !!!
MORE THAN... Livelihoods...
Now Lives Have Been Took...
That’s EVEN SHOOK CROOKS... !!!

So Behaviours Now Look...
Like They’re Ready To Cook...
MUCH MORE Than PROTESTS...
When Leaders Send Feds’...
To Now Fire BULLETS... !!!

At WOMEN On Front Lines...
Who Now STAND AGAINST...
Racism And Violence...
That Lead To Black Deaths... !!!

By... Taking of Breaths...
By Some YES Policemen... !!!

They’re Behaviours ATTEST...
To Delivering STRESS...
To Lots of Blacks HEADS... !!!

So OF COURSE Some Are VEX... !!!!!
About Treatment We Get... !!!

But... Protest Behaviour...
Has Got... INSTIGATORS...
Who May Be IMITATORS... ?!?

And... CONTAMINATORS...
Used To Be MUTILATORS... !!!
of Behaviours Now Caused...
By BLATANTLY FLAGRANT...
ABUSE of THEIR Laws... !?!

Hold Up... Let Me PAUSE......................

Did I Just Call Them... " LAWS "... ?

What Do They Stand For... ?!?
Cos They’re CLEARLY NOT Made...
To Now PROTECT The Hoards … ?

I Mean... MASSES of People...
Who Seem READY For WAR... !?!

In... Different Locations...
It Seems That Behaviours...
Are Now Fighting For...

MORE Than Freedom of Thought... !!!
IT’s... FREEDOM To TALK...
That’s Now Being Cut SHORT... !?!

When Clearly Behaviours...
Should OPEN UP MORE Than EVER BEFORE... !!!

But THESE MANIPULATORS...
Have Their Perpetrators...
of Behaviours That Walk...
With Talk That Is FALSE... !!!

From These CORONA Wars...
To These CLOSED Corridors...
Where Decisions Are BOUGHT !

I Dunno Anymore... ?!?
If We’ll Ever ENFORCE...
Behaviours Like Jailers...

For Traitors Who Break Laws... !!!

ESPECIALLY When...
They Are Leaders And Lords !!!

Instead of Behaviours...
That... DESTROY The Poor... !!!

We NEED CASTIGATORS...
And... Coordinators...
Whose Behaviours Are PURE... !!!

Instead of These FAKERS...
And... New Age ENSLAVERS... !!!
Who Drive These Creations...
of Thoughts That I TAILOR...

To Speak On These Subjects...

Like Peoples’...

.... “BEHAVIOUR”....
They are getting STRANGER !
bones Mar 2015
she leaves
everything
on a page,
all her sorrow,
her love
and her rage,
and I truly believe
she will write
herself free
of the jailers
who fastened
her cage.
(can't-sleep-remix)
she lives
inside out
on the page

in secret
but one of  
these days

I truly believe
her words
will be keys

that pull back
the bolts
of her cage.
Here we come
Clanking up the path,
We are the jailers.
Find a closed door
No problem
It's not even locked.
On we go
This one is though,
No problem
Try the first key
Easy
Keep moving,
Another door already
First two keys don't work
Third one, perfect fit
Keep going.
Another door
And nothing fits it,
Strange.
Ah a window
Opens easily.
Climb up two storeys
A bit scary
Just make it
Hope it is worth it.
Keep going
Next door is padlocked
It wants us to know
It is locked,
No keys for this.
Do a swop with the people behind us,
They've got what we need
Maybe ours will help them
Who knows?
On we go
Another padlock
And no windows.
Turn around
Back out the door
We came in,
Keep going.
Another door
No lock, just won't open
Strange
Turn around.
The door we came in
Is locked too
Side door, see where this goes,
More padlocks.
Then a door opens
In front of us
Opens easily
Opens even as we approach it
The last door always does.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2016
Flight #177 / Seat #7C - where I'm bound/I have been released

the final part of the trilogy,
re broken lives,
some finalized,
some revitalized,
some, their score,
incomplete

~~~


on the road again,
crossing the continent,
from sea to shining sea,
from one set of Eastern grandkids,
off to see the wizardry
of the West Coast variety

six hours six minutes,
flying high time, weather's fine,
a voices inform us, that will be
our mutual time of peaceful co-existence,
on this particular traversée journey

I've done harder time,
30 years ++ with no parole,
except for poetic verse,
them words,
I learned to parlez-vous parlay

never been afeared of flying high,
even amidst the wickedest black pitch,
tar and feathered thick, which is all the
ovaltine shaped window of the
exterior world, cares to reveal
at thirty thousand feet

the oxygen level in the cabin,
as it usually does,
says hey!
feeling heady boy,
so get good, so get ready,
write us a poem, a new shiny toy,
another of your airborne verbal medley

I've got little upon
to expound,
currently limbo'd
tween fresh, death-revived,
past memories of imprisonment and release,
by the jailers of L'Ancien Régime
and
the soon to feel,
happy anticipation of
Frisco fresh young lives re-greeting us,
long distance visitors with joyous screams,
loud, clear and that may cut
the muddied gloom internal,
like a pair of welcoming,
gleeful, liberating scissors

my windowed widowed refraction,
directs my carpaccio-thin guise
to pierce onwards a well trod state of
deeper reflection

noting that we will soon be flying over
water poisoned Flint,
in the state of Michigan,
just missing by an inching,
Paul Simon's sung request,
his "all come to Saginaw" dare

yet, I don't know where I am,
though the course trajectory
pilot-officially programmed and set,
ticketed firect  through to
San Francisco

nonetheless, my internal organs all feel lost,
misplaced and turned down around,
passing directly over cities heard of
and yet never seen or footed,
can I still claim to have been there?

same question differently couched,
providing this passenger's headache,
I was there, of this world,
for the almost forty years plus,
though I wasn't really present,
merely accounted for,
finally learning that "freedom"
is just another word

and though the Angel of Death,
scheduled, made a pre-flight pick up,
he left part of me behind
and on board,
to pick up after,
steward some of his and my
messes

the eyes, the brain, the whole noggin,
search for secret signs,
potent portents, turn indicators,
that this gloomy doom,  cloud thicket,
this too shall pass,
this last shared repast of shards,
this,
my so long now song
an au revoir to
"sad eyed lady of the lowlands"

noting that I am outbound and seated,
on a bunch of lucky sevens, flight and seat,
could be my luck is youthful changing?

where I'm bound
I can't tell,
I'll let you know when I get there
when I know, how I'll know,
I don't know, maybe some
extrusion of new words will speak,
at landing time, a different voice,
where and when I'm bound,
that will cry out


"now unbound,
at last,
at last,
I have been released"
**

~~~
2/11~12/2016
started while over the Great Lakes, Michigan, and Wisconsin;
completed over Tahoe, Carson City, & Sacramento
"With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,

Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?


Oh, how could they ever mistake you?

They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,

How could they ever, ever persuade you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,

My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day
just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?

Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,

Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,

My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?


Read more: Bob Dylan - Sad - Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands Lyrics | MetroLyrics
SøułSurvivør Jan 2016
a song in 3/3 time

O, Lord, I've been in a prison dark
With jailers harsh and cruel
Searching for the smallest spark
This sentence overruled
I just hold to Your promises
Which bright and glorious be
I hold onto the precious light
Where I, in blindness, see.

Hallelujah!
Your blessings to impart
Hallelujah!
You're harrowing my heart

Though I am in the wilderness
I have no food nor drink
I hunger more for your goodness
I'm nearly at the brink
You put my shoulder to the plow
And I am weary, worn
But when a harvest you allow
It's then I am reborn!

Hallelujah!
You're working at the plow
Hallelujah!
My harrowing allow

Now I'm on the mountaintop
My hardships in the past
I look down at the growing crop
And I no longer fast
Abundant hope, abundant life
I bask in perfect grace
I've endured the deepest strife
But now I see *YOUR FACE.


Hallelujah!
Worthy is the Lamb!
Hallelujah!
Christ... the great I AM.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/27/2016
During the times of deep darkness
Know God is giving you a deeper
Hunger and thirst for Him
But stay faithful! He is harrowing.
And will plant a more abundant crop
In your heart as a result!

I'm back... I went through the book
Of unforgiveness and have closed it
Finally and forever!

HALLELUJAH!
Third Eye Candy Jul 2015
part your sea, and i swear you'll never overcome my surge.
my petulant swell of upheaval, upheld -
by the angels
of our darker thoughts, and the parody
of pure reason
where a
heart
stops.

a sudden gravity floats in a heavy seam
of dead air. it disentangles the pyramid
from the eye... severing a dot
from a matrix
but keeping the barn doors shut
should our animals
plot.

and our jailers
name it.

i have an ocean to promise you
Nothing is
sacred.
Tommy Johnson Sep 2015
You think seeing is believing
You think you're alive just because you're breathing
But the truth that you've been told
Is stale and old
It holds you back, won't let you move
To do some good or think of something new
Dark and relentless, warped and demented
Read on if this has captured your attention

So this is what it's like to be holy?
This was the vision that kept me awake in bed
The revelation manifesting itself in my head
I remember wishing so hard to wake up dead
But then a whispering voice crept up and said
"Why not turn your weakness into strength instead?"
It was like a gust of wind with a goal to embed
Me with some kind wisdom for what was ahead
But who was I? Some kid thought to be brain dead
Filled with guilt, shame and irrational dread
Always quiet, leaving my words left unsaid

So this is what it's like to be holy?
But now after hard work and humbling failures
I'm breaking down doors and busting up barriers
This is so major
After dealing with haters, traitors and jailers
Who gave me the spark, who gave me a reason
To go make my mark and fight for my freedom
To pick up the pieces and make something decent
To freeze all the heathens and either eat or be eaten
Or I could have become numb and go to the bottle
But I'm having too much fun becoming colossal
       -Tommy Johnson
Sunlight warming up face
They're bitter just taking up space
But I'm trying to start something
I'm not trying to be judging
But it's kind of touching
How I started out as nothing

So this is what it's like to be holy?

Above my head, I saw the dead dance
Put under a trance
A Gothic romance
I heard the whisper say "take a chance"
"It's the won't it's never can't"
"You must always advance"
And with that I made took my stance

So this is what it's like to be holy?
MdAsadullah Nov 2014
A piece of Africa in Asia.
Thirst, hunger and hysteria.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.

Expanse of unexplored sea.
Here each child is born unfree.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'

Walls of steel and concrete.
Freedom confined to streets.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.

They're born and will die here.
Must live in shadows of fear.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.

Bulldozed houses in ruins.
Within them the playful urchins.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.

Fire rains from time to time.
Asking for freedom is crime.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.

Stop screaming, O mother!
Here lay dead your brother.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.

Like ****** Jailers are strong.
Much above right and wrong.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.

******'s foes walk in his steps.
Each day cruelty oversteps.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.

Inside calvary and martyrdom.
Outside cowardice is dumb.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.

On world map I am just a dot.
But still era's ******* spot.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2019
They ask me about Palestine,
what we have there,
what we live for,
and why it’s so special?

I shake my head,
looking for the words to explain:
We have both the bad and the good.

We have an occupation to oppose,
and to end.
We have checkpoints restricting our movement,
armed soldiers ready to shoot.
Armless citizens
trying to avoid being shot
while protesting the decade-long siege.

We have fighting factions—
brothers, uncles and fathers—
who warn us to keep our mouths shut.
Jails and jailers waiting for us,
if we speak up.
We have users, abusers and losers.
Corruption and patronage.

Hate has invaded us,
but we still have love.

We have an endless, azure sea
that gives us at least an illusion of freedom.
Fields of the world’s brightest red strawberries
and ancient buildings whispering
about a history once noble and proud.
Close-knit families, with faces of children still hopeful and proud.

We have a beautiful capital with a golden dome
that lights with the sun when it appears from the east,
where worshippers gather from everywhere.
Friday’s call for prayers merge into Sunday’s church bells.
In the same capital, we have Muslims, Christians and Jews
who drink the same carob, eat the same hummus,
speak the same Arabic.
White, black and brown tourists come and go,
Smiling and buying from the elders of Jerusalem.
In it, we have mosques, churches and temples,
where those with righteous hearts
kneel to God at dawn and pray
that hate one day will end.

Mohammed Arafat
08-02-20
This poem is written for those wanting to know the reality of the Palestinian case
Elaenor Aisling May 2013
Two birds in similar cages bound,
with bleached white staves
a brig of flesh.
The lock unreachable,
as with any prisoner,
but it keeps them not from calling,
to their opposite companion.

The Jailers hear the songs,
block them out,
try to stifle the warbling beaks,
but they know there will be no peace
till the bleached white staves are joined,
and the two birds may nest together.
The Inn he kept at the crossroads shone
A lantern, out on the street,
The only sign it was still alive
To the few its doors would greet,
Its passageway was in shadow once
You entered and closed the door,
And that was the way he wanted it,
The owner, Titus Claw.

For Titus was a hideous man
With a face like a railway wreck,
A scar cut deep with the fleshy burn
From a rope around his neck,
They said he’d cheated the hangman twice
With a neck like a coiled spring,
They’d hung on each of his legs in vain
For he never felt a thing.

The rope had broken under the strain
And dropped them all on the floor,
And he was the first to rise again
As he croaked, ‘I’m Titus Claw!’
They backed away as his form had swayed
With the hood still over his head,
‘There isn’t a rope can cope with me,
If there was, then I’d be dead!’

They tried again, he began to spin
As the rope became undone,
The strands unravelling faster than
The ropemaker had spun,
The hangman turned and he crossed himself
As he said, ‘I’m done with him!
If you want to hang this miserable wretch
Go find the Brothers Grimm!’

The Warden suffered a heart attack,
The jailers fled when they saw,
The Judge hid under the drop and cried,
‘He’s surely the Devil’s spore!
Release him now so our souls are safe
From the reach of the evil one,
It’s not his time for an early grave,
But God help everyone!’

So Titus went to manage the place
He called ‘The Devil’s Drop Inn’,
That sat way out on the crossroads
With a sign that creaked in the wind,
Whole families would avert their eyes
As they passed, and cross themselves,
For the only patrons came by night
And they called them, ‘Satan’s Elves’.

They came with their hats pulled over their eyes,
Their collars hiding their cheeks,
Then slide on into the passageway
And wouldn’t come out for weeks,
No lights were seen through the pebble glass
For the insides lay in gloom,
No drunken revellers came outside
It was silent as the tomb.

But once a month when the Moon was full
And the wind soughed up in the eaves,
A passer-by might hear a cry
Or a howl on the midnight breeze,
But nobody thought to check inside
They’d wear their hood like a cowl,
Then turn and suddenly rush away
When they heard an animal growl.

The storms would come and rattle the tiles,
As the sign would swing and creak,
And hail would shatter the window panes,
Three times in a week,
Til one dark shuddering winter’s night
With the good folk in their cots,
The lightning struck on the Devil’s peak
And shattered the chimney pots.

The fire began in the topmost room
And it raced on down the stair,
Gobbling up the dry rot that
It found most everywhere.
It made its way to the basement ‘til
The whole Inn was ablaze,
The pebble glass was exploding
And the walls themselves were razed.

A couple of passers-by have sworn
That all they saw were cats,
Rushing out of the passageway
And followed by tawny rats,
But in the glow of the embers, heading
Over the hill, they saw,
A shadowy figure, slinking away
The image of Titus Claw!

David Lewis Paget
SelfOfTheDivine Apr 2014
They've put your body on a wall,
Left it hanging, ***** your soul.
Put your tongue betwixt your teeth,
Take a breath and bite it deep.

Brave it out, don't even moan.
Whisper not a single tone,
Lest your jailers you should wake,
Lest this freedom they should take.

Defiantly lay your head low,
Just spit the flesh and let blood flow,
For you're released from the throes.

And as you're bleeding, hung and dry,
Sing to yourself this lullaby:
"I am free and as such I die."
Originally written on 4th of March, 1E 2014.

aabb ccdd eee fff, 7 7 8 8
It used to be called 'Sunken Gardens',
this section of the park. Now it is called
'The Queen Elizabeth 2nd Gardens'
because Her Majesty visited them.
She wore a pale blue dress that day.
I remember because my sisters and I
were in the crowd. Like the others,
we stared at the Royal 'She' in awed
tones of respect and curiosity.

In high school, we used the park to
escape the hum-drum of our classes.
Hiding behind the trees and flowers
so that the jailers from the nearby
school windows would not capture us
in our freedom. We were bold in
our youth. Finely chiseled minds in
adolescent toned bodies.

We'd sit under a tree, smoking and
planning the adventure our lives would be.
None of us would conform, or so we
promised each other and ourselves.
We'd be bold flashes of novelty forever
striking a match to light the flames of
resistance to middle class lives.

We were children of the sixties,
teenagers of the 1970's. Our hopes
and dreams were not the same as
our parents. No, we did not want
to have the white picket fence! Instead
we planned on how we'd take the fences
apart and use the wood to build
alternative ways of existing. Our plans
were brave and solid, our dreams
we would make become our reality.

Now, as I walk through the park
as a grown man, well into my descent
towards my grave, I recall those vain
words we spoke. Those brittle, youthful
proclamations of a new beginning that we
were assured of becoming. None of us
really followed those dreams. The harsh
bells of the 'real world' would not stop
ringing. Most of us became our parents
all over again. Talk of freedom and
self-expression gave way to worries over
the mortgage and the bills. Working overtime
so the kids can have a new pair of jeans.

They still call it the 'Queen Elizabeth 2nd
Gardens'. The flowers are still carefully
planted every spring by the Department of
Parks and Recreation. Sometimes I come and
watch the young bodies at work digging the
soil and planting the flowers in neat, tidy rows.
Her Majesty has not visited Windsor in
quite a long time. Her picture on the money
makes her look older. Of course, she is older
but then so am I. Indeed, so are all the faces
I remember with fondness in my mind.

If I sit quietly on one of the benches,
and I slow down my breathing just a tad, I
can almost hear again our voices planning
the future none of us would have.
We are reminded of him, this time every year,
On A certain day, not much talk of the reason,
He is remembered, in A special way.

In the third century, an emperor, known as Claudius the cruel,
In those day's, ordered all Romans, to worship twelve God's,
Or their life be taken away.

To be a Christian, and believe in Christ, was A crime,
The of death, did not scare this man, as he was imprisoned,
Waiting for his time.

He taught A jailers, blind daughter to pray, A light,
Shone in the jail, and she could see, the last note, he signed,
From your Valentine, he was killed on February 14th 270 AD,
In his memory, A special day, came to be.


Tom Maxwell copyright 1/23/2006 AD
Akira Chinen May 2016
We flip reverse
Transpose and translate
Switch the words around
Theives and pretenders
Just dying with our time on earth
Heaven pounding in our hearts
And we only hear the hell drumming  in our ears
Love floating freely in the air
And none of us dare fill our lungs
Wasting our days away
Living in our shallow graves
Long before our flesh decays
Our bones already ground to dust
Slaves to sin
Just to make a wage
A pound of blood
For pennies on the hour
Flowers no longer bloom
Rotting roots in poisoned soil
The only things striving
The grease and the greed
Of the mighty dollar
And the gears of the war machine
Are none of us brave enough
To reverse and flip
Translate our disposition
Burn the dollar
**** the greed
Stop sacrificing our children
To the grease the gears
Of that ancient war machine
Heal the soil
Mend the flowers
Use our blood to sin
Wage to slave only for love
Dance madly with our bones
Fill our graves with dirt
Let our flesh live and ache and hurt
Use our days
To fill our lungs
Dare to love and love
And love
Listen and listen close
Hell and heaven pounding and beating together in the dark
Hey can't you hear it
As we walk our days on earth
Let us not pretend or steal
But give truth to love
And love to truth
By loving truthfully
And truthfully loving
Stop hiding
Start fighting
Stop stacking bricks
Around ourselves
Start throwing stones
At our jailers
Don't go with the masses
Dressed to the nines
But heads of *****
Mentally chained
To all think the same
Unable to translate
The silence
And switch the
World around
Doing the ***** work
For the crooks
And liars
Puppets for their
Masters
Drowning in the sand
Wasting fate
Hour by hour
As time flips
And reverses
Nothing changes
Nothing will
Until we brave
The darkness
Dare to
Dream
Break the
Chains of
Silence
And scream
With truth
And love
And love
And truth
Quickly
Before we're
No longer
Human
Jeremy Bean Nov 2012
I fight a war on too many fronts
and am losing in every direction
opaque views of what I want
and what is worth the mention
Ignored the facts for way too long
time to remove the veil
from what I have known all along
the jailers in the cell
With nothing left to do
and nothing left to say
the truth in choices that were made
why it remains this way.
Steve Page Oct 2021
Making sure
she kept to the right
of her best misdemeanors,

Rising slowly,
incrementally above her
sub-basement failures

Looking for all
the world like the world
owed her a life
time of favours

Striding unnoticed
past her past
jailers, her angry slavers

Throwing her chains
into the back of her dark
red Daimler

Passing sixty
screaming for privacy

Dying for worthy.
I think this is about fame - but I'm not sure
we shared our stories
every little detail
and i embraced yours
my heart opening to you
but perhaps that frightened you
this intimate exposure
for you ran away and hid
refusing to engage me
and now i see you sliding
back into that dark prison
and the arms of your jailers
from whom you sought your freedom
not so very long ago
our profound and tender love
strangled by your fears
Choka
IPM Jun 2017
Thousand years I've lived in
snares,
by the darkest cells of
time
frightening everyone who
dares...
punished for unproven
crimes.

Release my soul! - is all
I plead,
but never answered stayed
the prays,
anger in my mouth was fed
bound by shackles-
were cursed my days.

And every try, every blade
couldn't slay this cursed
beast,
a single light above
begins to fade,
on plates, stacked with
feathers
my jailers feast...
Ryan P Kinney Jun 2016
by Ryan P. Kinney and Aaron Shinkle

It began with a wail
“Bring the Hammer. Bring the Rage.”
And with a boom, smash,
A few cuts, bruises, burns, and scars,
We forged our lives

Together we were an alloy of absolute, disheveled chaos
A folded steel of unstoppable imperfections
Clean, because we knew how to get *****
Stronger, because of our magnificent flaws
Pure, because of our willingness to flaunt our impurities

Our emotions boiled to extremes
Represented as terrifying visages of paint, mud, blood, dye, and pieces of glass
Peppering our bodies as proof that we can feel
So real, so raw, so unlike the mundane, moderate identities we are forced to live
That no one passes without gawking in amazement and terror
Our mild manners are just masks for our superhuman madness

The rage comes and flows through us
Fills us
Finally with a conduit
An exit strategy
In the effigies of our commodified existence
They crack with the spider web of safety glass
Explode into splinters and shards
And trail across the sky in a dance of magnetic iron oxide

We are twisted and mangled and sick
Mangled into some image of another
Twisted in the rubber band tension just moments before it snaps
And sick of being told not to feel

We broke who we were to make who we will be
The endless shells of molds fractured
Shatters like our porcelain dreams
Their shards still present in our skin years later

We destroyed what held us back
Or held us in
The prisoners using their own shackles,
And bodies as weapons against their inanimate jailers

Like the flowers that bloom from the blood-soaked battlefield
Where the shattered pieces of glass become the strands of horse hair on an artist's brush,
Where the pigments of blood and paint are intertwined onto the canvas of a mad artist's carousel
of orchestrated mayhem.
The American Dream is a shattered amalgam of trading people for things
Experiences, for proof of them

We will clear away the rubble of ourselves
Move away from the pieces that hold us back
And forge ahead with the fury of an exploding gas tank

When the sun goes down
And the flames go up
We will finally break
The last dismantled icon of glass, plastic, electrons, and lies
This will be an end
There will be no more funeral processions
No more grave markers
We mourn our lives no longer
There will only be rebirth
A beautiful emotional breakdown
Where rage finally gives way to hope
Witness the fall of a man
A property, a thing
This will be our legacy of beautiful destruction
One last time
Then we will pick up the pieces
And build the rest of our lives
The Pendulum swings above my head ,
with every swing once ,
twice ,
it falls ,
the jailers keys are turned ,
my histerical wife weeps for my death for ....,
the paper mache man is here .
his pendulum swings once ,
twice .......


..
The old clock chimes once ,
twice ,
It’s pendulum swings once ,
twice ...
It’s two in the morning,
from these dreams did I awake ?
There are dreams within dreams i. can hardly partake .
Yet here am I frozen in terror in my bed ,
from dreams I have awoken to find you staring at me from the rafters , from my four poster bed .
As in fear I lie awake to you’re silence ,
for in nothing did you say ,
a mask of paper mache you wear to hide you’re face away ,
of behind lies a darkness of sadomasconistic  misery and space .
Am I dreaming or could I be dead ?  
Is reality. drowning in my head ?

A cold wind sweeps across my room ,
You are still there but now you are staring at the moon .

How bright it’s glow so high in the night ,
and when sunlight comes you will be gone in the light .

It worries you ,
This sunlight ,
when dawn appears for you’re darkness will be exposed by the passing of the years .

The birds are in song their melodies sweet ,
and you have vanished in some daylight retreat .
For the sun now demands its time to shine ,
for all darkness disappears in the light of time ..
Donall Dempsey Sep 2017
NISI...become. . . ABSOLUTE

early summer falls across
the lawn...the trees
the bars of a cage

sunlight and shadow
our jailers
our own good selves

and we
the prisoners
of this summer's day

"Shall I compare thee to.."
I laugh to myself
no...I guess not

we forever imprisoned
in sunlight and shadow
an image made real

memory holds us here
trapped in this conceit
sentenced to be who we could never be

and so we sat until
sunlight relinquished
its hold over the world

and so we sat until
darkness swallowed us whole
only our voices visible

only our vices invisible
as always
each the murderer of the other

now no longer
man & wife
I glimpse my face in a fish knife

the decree nisi
still tucked behind
the ormolu clock

the divorce
still eats at my soul
this piece of paper mocking me

and now
the decree absolute
we sit down to our last supper

the cat devours
( I don't tell you that )
the fresh trout

the fresh trout
all dressed up in its dish
like a sacrifice

I shoo the cat away
it snarls at me
"Ticktock!" laughs the clock ormoluly

the cat looks at me
with disdain...scorn
licks lovingly its *****

I cut the cat-chewed bit away
serve up with a too rich sauce
the unseen incident not noticeable

and so after all
I still serve you
before me

you smile your smile
say we should have
"...maybe stayed together after all..?"

too late now I think
to recall
the people we used to be

we different people now
"Time doesn't heal..!" I think
"...Time's a heel!" I secretly smile

I pass the port
a crumb of Stilton still stuck
charmingly upon her chin

"The sunlight on the garden
hardens and grows cold."
I quote MacNeice to the parrot

"We can not catch its minutes..."
the parrot continues and I finish
"...within its nets of gold."

memory still holds me
prisoner in that garden
I watch her taxi pull away

the taxi turns the corner
blinks a right turn
and is gone

back in the kitchen
I let the cat finish
my untouched trout

I flambé the decrees
both nisi and absolute
watch us go up in smoke

— The End —