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Shaurya Pal Jan 2014
As I scarpered away, I could hear the voices,
echoing through the steel walls.
The cries, the vociferations, catching up to me,
couldn't fathom the escape, with a plan full of flaws.

Turning left, bending right,
running in circles, an endless plight.
The drug they induced,
pumping through my veins,
blocking my vision, severing the mains.
Don't know for how long,
I can put up this fight.

The sentinels advanced,
as fast and agile as they ever could be.
The alarm had rung more than once,
red lights poured all over the scene.

Needle in hand, dipped in ataractic,
who were they fooling, with that mild sedative?
I raced with every semblance of life I had,
couldn't survive this hell-hole.
Another day here would've driven me mad.

As the unexpected turn came,
I banged the door with the unknown name.
Fell face first, the momentum it carried me,
Scraped through the floor, stomach felt queasy.
Warm liquid oozed out of my nose,
dripping tardily as I rose,
the environment all but blurry.


Insanity Prevailed


As I blacked out,
I recalled how I came to be,
this house of horrors, delivered to me.
'Magnolia', home of the mentally challenged,
avowed 'care for the community'.

The head-shrink had advised,
you be safe, a feeling I imbibed.
A wry smile and that was it,
'Magnolia' She exclaimed,' would deem you fit.'

Believing in every word of hers,
I opened the door, welcomed
by the smell of fresh carcass,
the shabby floor with spots of dirt,
and people, oh lord the great unwashed,
like walking zombies, feelings inert.
They looked at me, some smiled and some laughed,
others cried, rest merely coughed.
So this is it, the house of the harebrained,
this was going to be my life,
Living among the insane.

I harbored no ill will,
But I couldn't absolve,
this feeling, inside me,
no friends no family, nothing normal.
Lasting with the un-dead,
my new destiny.

They filed me,
Gave a number, names were difficult to process,
66 it was, perfect, contributed  distress.
Admitted to my room, solitary for the neophyte,
'Morning' they said,' begins a new life.'

With a wicked smile they left me alone,
I was meek enough to cry, stiff enough to moan.
I wailed the whole night, the walls resonated,
the shrill of metal, the demons it encouraged.
The lights polished off, staring at the darkness,
all the monsters , the behemoth, dancing around me,
an invitation to their everlasting music.


Insanity Persisted


A specter bobbed up from the tiled floor,
gazed at me and pointed to the door.
'Rise, Awaken, my soul',
and the door opened with a loud crack,
'You must hurry, the guards will be back'.
I sat bolt upright, the apparition never lied.

Nose still bleeding, I took flight with haste,
looked back, they had dropped the chase.
It felt safe after a long time,
The world must know, of their wicked little crime.
They had to be stopped, the Doctor, the Nurse,
all of which were part of the crust,
which protected the whacko who experimented on us.

End of the hall, I noticed the Blue door,
It had to be the one, which will take me off-shore.
Head still paining, the doses that drained,
the vigor and strength, I couldn't sustain.
One last time, I had to draft
my will my power, from within.
To conjure up all my might,
before the shadows cave in.

As I drew nearer, towards the blue threshold.
I knew there was no looking back,  
nothing left to unfold.
I slowed down, one step at a time,
I could taste freedom, a taste so sublime.
My hand reached the door,
and gently turned the ****,
I pushed open the exit
and stared at the waiting mob.

Before I could assimilate,
with my failure and disappointment.
Someone jabbed a needle,
covering my mouth, crackling my vent.
Pushing me again, down the memory lane.


Insanity Pursued


The days were bad,
the nights equally worse.
A thin line existed between illusion and insanity,
indistinguishable they became, virtual and reality.
One could hear screams, begging for mercy,
Which the henchmen showed no sign of,
and continued to treat the already cured.

Those who betrayed, yearning exemption,
were treated with immense brutality.
Straightjackets, shackles and all sorts of gear,
were enough to put a man in psychotic fear.
The staff comprised barbarians and sadists.
Who lacked the basic sense of morality.

Shock therapy, voltage to its max,
bound and gagged, glued to the sacks.
The jolt of the lightning hitting them hard,
enough to churn up the flesh into lard.
They drugged the sufferer, the dupe would tranquil,
the fallout was horrible, it would make them frenzied.

For those beyond cure,
who lived for mere existence,
earned their own private, privileged experiment.
A special space, a hidden chamber,
well beyond, beneath the ground.
Defecated walls, layered flesh and blood,
****** fluids scattered,
in abundance, constituting a flood.
Human torture, vicious and cruel.

In a place so dark even the demons would fear,
how could I survive? This life to me was dear.
And the patients, the patients wouldn't help,
for them it was a game, live a day, reward for the next.
Some were quiet, lost in their own world,
speaking, whispering and talking to themselves.
Some looked sane, but stuck in paranoia,
for them the universe could any day cease to exist,
pertaining to their biggest phobia.
some were smart, they indulged in theories,
the real world mattered less to them.
And then there were the trigger-happy.
The truly maddened ones, violent with rage.
Every day was a battle, they fought within the cage.
They couldn't help me, for I wasn't crazy,
Just your usual guy, a victim of fate.

Magnolia was a place, where people ****** away their souls,
I wasn't ready to sell mine.
I had to escape, make an elaborate design.
There were no doctors at night, just the cruel handy-men,
had all the time in the world to formulate a plan,
question was, to execute when?

One night the attendant came,
wearing  a strange jumpsuit,
pen in breast-pocket,
woke me up and proclaimed, 'Get up you imbecile,
it's your turn in the lab today.
Stand up now, I ain't got all day!'
'HAH! You could try young man, to put me down,
but I ain't going to your lousy town'.
To this he smacked at my retort,
and laughed with a disgusting little snort.
'One more time you test my good nature,
and I swear to God I'll ruin your caricature.'
'Go ahead then give it your best shot,
You want me dead, do you not?'.
His laughter, this time, deafened the silence all around.
'You're dead fool! If it were up to me I'd skin you flesh and bone,
The amount of ruckus you create, the annoyance you hone,
But the good doctor has plans and once he's done with you..'
His unfinished sentence struck a nerve so strong,
my eyes rolled over,
what could possibly go wrong?

So the man with the strange jumpsuit,
dragged me all the way to the office.
The dimly lit room, ornamented a large crucifix.
Dear lord, you see how they mock?
Came back the degenerate with a big round lock.
'Oh yes, this is for you my friend,
chains aren't enough, straightjacket I will get.
Sit still you half-wit, else you'd regret'.
And I smiled and waited.
He returned as promised, with the piece of vestiary,
a twisted sense of humor, whoever built this monstrosity.

He stared where I looked, into his breast pocket.
'What's missing pal?' I asked in amusement.
He stopped everything and looked around.
With a motion so fast, it could only fly by,
gripping the pen, I poked him in the eye.
Ink exuded instead of blood,
the large man fell, loud with a thud.
The immense pain had him in shock,
now was the time for me to run amok.
But I kept focus, and ran for the door,
promised myself never to look back anymore.
Eloped with the only chance I foxed.


Insanity Reigned


The source of light was so strong,
I twitched a lot, just to see what's going on.
Caged in a room, no wait, a theatre!
****! I was so close to getting out.
The staff, I assume, were prepared all along.
Hatched a sinister plot, to show where I belong.
They had me now, tied to a work bench,
metal clasps around my wrist,
belted to the maximum limit.
For some odd reason they had me gagged,
the tape tasted foul, hygiene they lacked.
I wrestled my wrists with the wrought metal clamp.
But they were tight, wouldn't budge,
getting them off needed more than a nudge.

Alas the doctor came, with a frown upon his face,
With great ruefulness, he peeled off the tape.
'You caused us a great deal of trouble today.
None of our methods have impacted on you, what do you have to say?'
'Serves you right, you junk-less freak!' I was happy he was disappointed,
'That's not a very nice thing to say' responded the doctor, almost agitated.

He picked up an instrument,
a big long nail, the pointed end was so sharp,
I could feel it piercing through my brain.
Next he lifted a mallet,
which shone so bright it reflected upon my face.
To what devilish purpose could they serve?
The doctor took his time, and allowed me to observe.
He wore his mask, the mask of a surgeon,
at this time of the night? Surely he wasn't
planning to operate on me.
'Leave me alone, what are you doing?
Surely you know I'm not to be blamed, I don't belong here.
This is insane!'
'Wrong again 66, the society would never accept you.
You killed your wife and children, ******'s on you.'
It was at this moment the specter re-appeared, right behind the doctor.
Calling me, my name,
'They're all lying, you didn't **** anyone, they're framing you.'
'LIAR!' I spat at the doctor, 'You know she's is alive and waiting for me at the doorstep,
As always' I said.
'Yes she is waiting, but only at her death bed.'
'LIAR! You know my kids are sleeping peacefully at home!'
'Yes they are, but the sleep is eternal.'
'LIES! I can't **** a person,not even a fly!'
'And yet you poked my assistant right in the eye!'

The specter now appeared closer,
in a calming tone almost a whisper,
'Do not believe a word they said.
You're not a killer, just a victim of fate.'
Exactly, that's precisely what I meant.

With all the strength my voice box could muster,
I cried so hard the doctors ears could rupture.
' LIES! LIES! ALL LIES! You won't get away with this, the truth will come out.
Why would I ever **** them for crying out loud?'

'You're right, the truth shall come out, but not in this form, not from you.
66 has to die, a fact you always knew.'

No one dies today

'Hold him still.' The good doctor ordered.
A pair of hands inclined my head south,
Another pair, taped away my mouth.
I could hear music, a soft hum.
It had calmed me down ,that bass drum.
It kept beating at regular intervals.
The specter now, beside me,
placing her hand on my shoulders.
I looked up towards the sky, a light bulb
glowed right above my nose.
The doctor raised the nail,
a dot replaced the light source.
As the blot grew in size,
the light dimmed, luminance was minimized.
The music almost placid,
it made me smile, a smile so gentle.
The doctor enounced,
'This will only hurt a little.'
And as he struck, the spirit vanished,
the music stopped.


Insanity Triumphed
Part 2 of The 'Karma' trilogy
Saurav Jain Sep 2015
182 days ago,
A hug,
Her lipstick got smudged,
Leaving a lovely shade on my shirt,
We were standing apart,
It seemed that her eyes searched for me,
we made an eye contact and she smiled.
I was elated.
Her smile was contagious,
Her eyes and smile together said  "I Love You",
I replied "I Love You Too".
She was the *Girl In A Blue Jumpsuit
LOVE LOVE LOVE
You've read my rant from yesterday
About those Christmas Letters
But one thing just disturbs me
Those Ugly Christmas Sweaters!!!

You know the ones we love to hate
They're  all so scratchy and they itch
You can barely get the **** thing on
And to remove it...it's a *****!!

Pictures of things Christmassy
Like a reindeer all in red
Mine looks like an emaciated cow
with a candelabra on his head

Snowflakes, trees and Norway Spruce
and colours....oh my lord
They can take them back to Norway
and throw them in the fjord!!!

My nan made one for me one year
It was silver with some blue
Turns out she used old brillo pads
Because she liked the soapy hue

They itch and scratch and don't fit right
They are a cancer to my eyes
I had one in green and red
With one sleeve down past my thighs

I thought it was a jumpsuit
The kind the paratroopers wear
The pattern pages stuck together
And that sleeve....went down to there!!!

We all have one hidden away
In a box, 'neath lock and key
In a place so nicely hidden
One we've had since we were three

We never plan to wear one more
We all know that we once  did
but, if we had to wear one out
We're gonna buy one for our kids!!!

If you need to get assistance
go to uglysweaters dot o- r- g
They can help you with your wardrobe
Tell them you heard of them from me.
Phephisa May 2016
We are both young and
misguided, She has that perfect *** that I can't help
but fantasize about...she's been that girl that I want
to both love and ****...until one day,when she
came over to my place,she was wearing a white
skin tight jumpsuit which revealed her perfect ***
and showed some cleavage...we sat and talked for
a few minutes and then there was that awkward
silence...I told her that:"I really want to take off that
jumpsuit and make love to you right now."She sat
thre speechless blinking rapidly,biting her lower lip,I
moved closer..we started kissing,I pulled her
lip,grabbed her *** with my hands,I then unzipped
her jumpsuit she wasn't wearing a bra,I took off all
the way to her waist..and there they were the two
sisters(*******) both firm and pointed my way...I
massaged them while kissing her,I moved down to
her neck,I kissed it softly,I then began *******,she
gasps,I move my hand down into her *****...she's
wet,I take off the rest of her jumpsuit,she is
wearing white ******,which I sniff..she smells
nice,her ***** is shaved,I insert my finger inside
her,she moans,I play with her ******,she is
moaning calling out my name,she ****,I push her
onto the black leather couch,put on my ******,I
slowly go inside of her,she gasps,her eyes and
mouth widely open,I start going in and out slowly
picking up the pace,she is screaming:"ohh God ohh
****,**** me ohh **** me hard phephsi,ohh baby
that's right ohh right there"I'm now ******* her
harder,my groin slamming into her phat ***,all the
thrusting and pumping goes on for a few minutes
and she **** before me,I *** a few seconds after
her..I watch her ***** releasing her ***,she is
shuttered I **** her *****,she freezes for a couple
of seconds I continues ******* she is screaming
louder than before...I **** her **** so gentle she
**** again...I stop and sleep beside
her...says"Boy you know how to **** and **** we
should do this more often" I give her a wicked grin and nod
Samuel Sep 2011
I'd like to be a jumpsuit
  so I could wrap myself around you
       in an endless hug.
judy smith Aug 2015
Kourtney Kardashian usually displays some quirky style when shooting her reality show Keeping Up With The Kardashians.

And on Monday the 36-year-old single mom was at it again as she wore a baggy army green jumpsuit when landing with her three kids Mason, aged five, Penelope, aged three, and Reign, eight months, in St Barts to shoot her E! show.

Looks like mom Kris Jenner, 59, did not get the fashion memo as she was seen descending the steps of a private jet alongside Khloe, 30, Kim, 34, and Kendall, 19, in the exact same getup.

The jumpsuit seemed to hang off Kourtney, who paired the staple with clunky platform black and beige jazz shoes, gold necklaces and gold-rimmed aviators. The ex of Scott Disick played down the glam with a ponytail and minimal makeup.

Kris wore her suit in a more fitted manner that showed off her slim waistline.

The ex of Bruce Jenner (now Caitlyn of I Am Cait fame) added beige combat boots and a small beige Hermes bag to her look.

Her hair was worn styled in a spiky fashion and she didn't forget to glam it up with vintage sunglasses and lipstick.

Khloe was playing good auntie as she carried Penelope, who was cute in a white dress.

The girlfriend of NBA star James Harden had on a black sleeveless mini dress and black high top sneakers. The E! babe carried a large neon yellow Hermes purse and wore her blonde locks up in a messy top knot.

Kim, who carried daughter North, was the most dressed up by far.

The pregnant wife of rapper Kanye West had on a tight beige dress that showed off her baby bumpy (she is expecting a son in December), beige rain coat and strappy beige heels. Her hair was worn down and parted in the middle.

North had on a summer dress and beige sandals, and her hair was worn in a top knot.

Kendall had on a plunging blue outfit with black and white Adidas sneakers.

The Calvin Kelin model had a black purse on her shoulder and gold-rimmed aviators on, copying her older half-sisters Kourtney and Khloe.

Her younger sister Kylie, who turned 18-years-old over the weekend, was not seen.

The crew for Keeping Up With The Kardashians could be seen holding cameras and a boom as the stars walked off a red, white and blue private jet.

The family has been shooting the next season of the E! show, which will air after I Am Cait ends.

The Kardashians often film their reality show when on vacation as they did in Armenia earlier this year and in Greece in 2014.

This show of unity comes the day after Kim and Khloe were seen arguing with Cait on I Am Cait.

Jenner's comments about her family in her Vanity Fair cover interview have become a running bone of contention among the Kardashian clan.

Kris confronted her ex-husband over what she has said about her in a powder keg moment that was teased after Sunday night's episode.

Kris tells her in a video posted on E: 'You're sensitive and amazing to all these new people in your life, you're just not so sensitive and amazing to the family that you left behind.'

Caitlyn gives her side, responding: 'I try to do everything I can to be nice, reach out. You have to see it from my perspective, be an ally when it comes to dealing with the kids.'

Then the former Olympian says, 'Don't go there, this is not the issue. I was defending myself. It was a distraction from the sense of who I was, that doesn't mean I didn't love you or the kids.'

Throughout Sunday night's episode Caitlyn is shown getting into arguments with her stepchildren, first with Kim and then with Khloe.

When Kim comes to visit Caitlyn first complains about how her family had all kept their distance.

She said: 'Nobody's come out [to visit], Kourtney hasn't made a move at all, obviously Khloe hasn't come close - I feel so isolated out here. All of a sudden there's this wall that's up there.

'I just want everybody to be happy. I love, love, love all my kids. I wish you guys were here every **** day.'

But it is not long before Caitlyn is also being criticized, firstly due to her nature and then due to what she has said about her family to Vanity Fair.

Kim said: 'You still have a little Bruce in you. I thought Caitlyn would be a little kinder. I think that there's some things that you said that you might not realize are hurtful.

'You said that Kendall and Kylie were a distraction. When they read that - I don't know that they'll quite understand that.'

The conversation then turned to Kim's manager mother, with explosive results.

Kim said: '[The interview] said, "had Kris been accepting to who I am, we still would be together" - and that is the most unfair thing in the world to say.

'You're a woman now and she is not a lesbian - she does not want to be with a woman, that's not fair to ask.'

Caitlyn defensively insisted: 'As time went on our relationship changed drastically. In my eyes it's like, "Well, I don't need him any more - I've got all the girls." I felt it in the way she treated me. She wanted me out of the house.'

Kim, insisting Caitlyn should have been thrilled and saying 'good riddance' to a relationship that 'wasn't mean to be', told her: 'If I was with someone for 25 years I would look for the positive things and try to end it on a good note.

'You said "Kris mistreated me" - it sounded like she beat the s**t out of you. You could have a little more respect.'

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/princess-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/blue-formal-dresses
I hope when we lie down together in one another’s arms
After staying up much too late,
You feel my rib cage underneath my skin,
Beneath your fingertips
As you rest your hands and cradle me in your arms.
When you feel the ridges of my bones,
I hope you’re reminded of the small parakeet
That sat inside a big cage where all day long
You heard her chirp and was reminded of my steady heartbeat.
Only did the chirps quiet when you reached your fingers through
The small openings; wanting to touch its feathers and feel
Them through your flesh.
Are you reminded of the way my heart seemed to stop
Whenever you moved your fingers over my scars?
I wonder if the wounds that have healed over
Remind you of a jailhouse that holds back the monsters
That lie within me.
If the white bars that hold the cage
Remind you of a prison cell where an inmate
Speaks quietly to himself late at night,
I hope you’re reminded of the parakeet and how
It fills the night with chirps, like the prisoner’s voice
Echoes through the cells as if he’s the only one who’s
Imprisoned.
And I hope my scars tell you that the monsters
Have been silenced
For the night.
let me know what you guys think! Feedback is always appreciated :)
Husbands, raise your hands
Keep them up if you love your wife
Keep them up if you colour your wifes hair
Okay, this is for the three of us that are left....


I did my wife a favour
As I do, because I can
I help her when I'm able
Not just because I am a man

I **** bugs when requested
I do the laundry like I should
I clean the bathroom when it's *****
And by doing so , feel good

Every few weeks I will help her
Hide the grey that she can see
I don't volunteer to do it
But it's cheap to hire me

A salon visit is expensive
Doing hair, and waiting hours
I just slip on my latex hand wear
And I have a bag full of super powers

Yes, I help my wife get couloured
I take the time and do her hair
I also, get it on the tiles
Up the wall and on two chairs

The dog gets covered just a little
The rug, a window and the bed
But, we always buy two packets
So, there's enough to do her head

I have a jacket slightly mottled
It's got a few brown spots, some red
I don't know exactly how it happened
I even got some on our bed

Just call me Mr. Kenneth
In my jumpsuit doing hair
I get it where I think she needs it
And I spray it everywhere

She comes out looking gorgeous
She's always happy with the result
She always looks a little different
Like someone who believes in the occult

If you're a husband who likes money
Save it, colour your wife's hair
Your part only takes ten minutes
You need ten towels, one mask, one chair

It brings us both closer together
My arms look like a leopard skin
All my shirts are slightly spotted
But all those spots, make me look thin

I've got to go now and get cleaned up
The carpets ruined, so's the wood
But, she's happy and we all know that
If the wife is happy....all is good!
Ceida Uilyc Dec 2014
You look at me.
I look at you.
The heat rises.
Arousal is overpowering.
The nausea begins.
You ask, ‘Shall we?’
And, I blush, wondering if eternity will come together at least this time;
Going against my celibacy of a year,
Bowing to the blushing nausea of the routine arousal of a forgotten yesterday,
Awkwardly I crawl on the bed, sliding closer to you.
I sit on your lap.
I feel your ******* in between my thighs.
I rhythmically move with closed eyes.
Blushing, I open my eyes to look at your long black curls.
I cup your long brown beard in my moist palms
My eyes meet yours and they stutter, scatter and flutter.
Blushing, with halp open eyes and wide open *****,
I ****** my jumpsuit harder on your hard-on.
Your hands wary over my ***** and I clench my fist slowly over your manhood.
Suddenly, I become faster than you.
I kiss you madly, rub your beard over my tender cheeks and almost bruised lips.
You pause.
I don’t see you no more.
I heat up.
I remember kissing your manhood, loving it, eating it and  nibbling it for what seemed to be forever,
Until I choked.
Paused.
The clothes are gone.
And you pulled me by my hair.
Bent my waist before I could grasp a glance  of your rugged beard,
Of your sour kiss,
And, then it was just thrusts. And thrusts. And Thrusts.
And a million more thrusts.
After an eternity of an endless void,
It pulsated inside.
I felt a mild tingle.
Nothing much.
Nothing heavy.
Nothing shivering, to me.
To you as well.
It seemed strange.
And then you were out.
And then you were gone.
I dripped.
I dried.
I spilled.
And, I oathed that I will be celibate for the rest of my life,
Again.
Because you grow upper, and upper,
You forgot to make love.
You forgot to kiss me.
You forgot to look into my eyes.
You forgot to caress my hips.
You forgot to clench your nails into my neck
Because the ground does not move anymore.
To let me see the passion in your eyes when you're inside me,
Because there is no more passion left of this copulation.
This coitus is a blank frustration and none more.
It is just a routine now.
It will just be a routine again.
I swallow the pink-butterfly pill.
And I know, that this nausea
This arousal
Will enslave me the next time as well.
And next time too,
It will never be the same as I moan in my solitary void,
Feeling the tingle in my crotch,
Awaiting a warmth,
Tingles, and all the other fantasies.
I will just stand, stare, hope and die without the holy tingle,
And you will too.
We are just jaded, and Jade till it all dims to an oblivion of a momentary jade.
#Jaded
Keeling Oct 2015
It was never anticipated. In slow motion that only lasted a few seconds, his arms shot up into the orange tinted sky and he was flipped in a perfect circle until he landed on his bottom with a dull thud. Then came the cries. In the bubble of time, the echoes of his cries were not piercing. Instead I heard soft whimpers, and then progressive sobs dribble out of his small mouth, that was wrinkled into a frown. My heart broke as I idiotically stared at the little boy whose nose was dripping with snot, soft wavy hair that was matted with leaves, and whose bitable cheeks were blotted red as a cherry. The boy in the purple jumpsuit.
He gave me the key to heaven on earth
He being the man in the orange jumpsuit with the dreds
Out on a patio smoking cigarettes, apathetic
It tasted like grated demon bones

He being the man in the orange jumpsuit with the dreds
Twenty dollars I didn’t have was more than worth it
It tasted like grated demon bones
A five hour violent ****** spilling out of my anatomy

Twenty dollars I didn’t have was more than worth it
It punched me in the face and knocked me to the floor, dry heaving
A five hour violent ****** spilling out of my anatomy
I hold a hurricane in my body, blowing my mind destructively.

It punched me in the face and knocked me to the floor, dry heaving
A collection of extraordinary sensations imprinting my psych.
I hold a hurricane in my body, blowing my mind destructively.
Explosions of laughter, I’ve never felt anything so plasticy.

A collection of extraordinary sensations imprinting my psych
Out on a patio smoking cigarettes, apathetic
Explosions of laughter, I’ve never felt anything so plasticy.
He gave me the key to heaven on earth.
Christian Feb 2011
I helped a fat man find a denim jumpsuit in the guest house down the road
when I was working at some department store
dreading the thought of helping someone not beautiful like me
but my boss she has quick little feet,
she caught me as I slinked to the other side
¨You will be perfect¨ she said
so I smiled and said
¨of course¨.
The fat man had a fat beard and was already wearing a fat denim jumpsuit.
I agreed he needed a new one because this was an old one but the department store´s clothes were too small.
Someone had disorganized the guesthouse.
The clothes were in heaps on the floor, the fat man was happy enough to find fat jumpsuits his size so I let him meander and take deep sighs.
I began to like this fat man as I watched him slide on his belly across the floor, I saw in him beauty I hadn´t see before,
¨maybe¨I thought ¨we all deserve more¨
before he was gone.
you recieve no commision once you wake up.
trying something new. and this was my dream from last night. I like it but I don´t know if it works... insights if you dare.
Saul Makabim Aug 2012
Spurred on by scarecrow's
chemical coercions
convicts and sick souls
spill out into the streets
To slice dice
cook and eat
An orange jumpsuit army,
a crushing orange wave consumes
The neighborhoods and avenues
Chaos is constant
Carnage is complete
No single hero can quell a wave of madmen
well acquainted with violence
Like an avalanche of razors, and ambulance sirens
Wielding improvised blood letters
And bone snappers
Citizens scream and flee
Consumed by the visions
Contained in the cloud of fear
It is clear
it is going to be a wild time
in old Gotham tonight.
From Batman Begins...
judy smith Sep 2016
Local designer Vanessa Froehling has denim on the brain. Stonewashed, herringbone print, chambray, stretch and black denim, to be sure.

In her home studio, Froehling flips through hangers of designs, including sailor-style high-waisted women’s shorts, a men’s blazer and a women’s jumpsuit.

“It’s something that’s in everyone’s closet and it will never go out of style,” says Froehling of the French-born fabric (denim’s etymology comes from “de Nîmes,” the French town where Levis Strauss first procured the tough cotton twill for your 501s). But, she adds, “people are stuck on what denim can do.”

The line is called Carpe Denim and it’s Froehling’s entry into FashioNXT (self-described as “Portland’s Official Fashion Week”) — not to be confused with Portland Fashion Week — three days and nights of runway shows in early October. She will present Carpe Denim in the UpNXT competition, the “emerging designers accelerator,” alongside four other Pacific Northwest designers the evening of Oct. 5.

The fashion week has a cozy relationship with Project Runway, the fashion-designer reality show running since 2004, and, in fact, two of the judges assessing the competition are Seth Aaron (winner of Project Runway season 7) and Michelle Lesniak (winner of season 11).

In 2015, Froehling applied to both Portland Fashion Week and FashioNXT, but was only accepted by the former that time. She says auditioning in front of the FashioNXT judges was intimidating.

“My nerves were like, ‘What do I do with my hands?’” Froehling says, shaking her hands by her sides and laughing. The judges were tough, she recalls, and they recommended that she develop the marketability and cohesion of her line.

Over the past year, she took their advice to heart and decided she would try out again, this time with a denim ready-to-wear line, a departure from the couture gowns that have distinguished her style. She took inspiration from the city — recalling watching the denizens of Portland walk by, falling in love with their street-wear style — and the layers of people, buildings and traffic.

Eight jean looks — five for women and three for men — will walk the runway, but rest assured, this will be no **** of Canadian tuxedos. Although denim is the common thread, the designs feature smart juxtapositions against black leather and a colorful textile that looks like a cross between gas puddles and graffiti.

The self-taught designer has also developed several innovative details: a woman’s denim peplum jacket that unzips at the waist, transforming it into a more casual cropped jacket; women’s stretch leather pants that zip open at the knee, a nod to ripped jeans; and a men’s chambray shirt with the illusion of a double collar creating a fresh origami effect.

This summer, the judges welcomed Froehling on the FashioNXT train.

Froehling says one judge told her that she’s the first designer to return the following year to try out again after being rejected.

“It’s the highest fashion production in Oregon,” she says.

The winner will be announced at the after-party Oct. 5, and the prize package secures a spot for the designer in the main runway show in 2017 and includes business mentorships, feature stories inPortland Monthly and Portland Mercury, and a strategic marketing course at Portland Fashion Institute.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
david badgerow Feb 2015
each bird has its own branch and i am alone now
in mid-february midnight desolation
under a web of stars white as salt and just as plentiful
waiting on the celestial cyclist to bring the dawn across
my face and scorch the cool wet grass

tonight the clouds are arranged like a chessboard
a cosmic design in darkness and light
and i am a crippled pawn meditating with
with my pants off and my naked feet
in the sand of a north florida crossroads
trying to lose my own gravity and merge
with the stars cloaked in maniac faith
and american sweat

i'm waiting to be found by a bush doctor
with my head filled and floating like a nitrous balloon
under a canopy of hi-frequency bats
and the infinite disco ball hoping
this mighty poem might expand
time and fill space

i am no longer a jail cell poet starving
and pacing like a goldfish in an orange jumpsuit
the miraculous sunbreak has touched my deepest cells
hypnotized my life and caught
the tears on the right side of my face
i am a bee trembling in sunlight
salute me

i hope there is a mild breeze today
to dance sensually with my drifter's spirit
and swirl blond hair and pure cotton against
the sky at the top of this abandoned railroad bridge
covered in rust

all the sudden i am singing radically
about overcoming cosmic humiliation
bruise-purple tongue unhitched and lilting
long throat curled up toward the sun
as the birds and deer stand dumbfounded in the clearing
the sound resonates in my gut as my big white
teeth slam together

in this devout moment among
my share of god's abundance
i am only approximately human
one with the smell of living trees
dancing on the salad hillside
big eyes birthed inside sunset colors
soaked in warm honey with toes
twitching above the imagined
fire at my feet

when the singing stops and
the sun goes down i melt
back into my own temporal lobe
caressed by a butterfly finally
able to sleep
Pedro Tejada Sep 2010
Oh my word, I remember
every little part of that weekend,
right down to the three-piece outfit
I had purchased at Bloomingdale's
the evening previous.

You know, ya hear stories
left and right about people
winning tickets to this n' that,
but ya never imagine actually
being the nineteenth caller!

When I revealed the occasion
this baby blue ensemble would
be worn in, the cute little saleslady
paused, looked up, and said,
"Why bother seeing him anymore?"

And I tell ya, there's plenty
other, less Christian yearly
Graceland attendants who woulda
flipped their lids had they heard
such malarkey!

Still, I just couldn't deny it.
She had a bit of a point.
This was mid-70s Elvis,
mid-50s Elvis' drunk uncle.
He had gone from Rolling Stone
to National Enquirer in nothing
flat, it seemed.

So all I could muster was
an understanding smile, because
she couldn't help but join the
bandwagon, especially when his
gut got larger and the rumors
became more outrageous.

Still, their loss!
I say that to this day,
because what Little Miss Shopgirl
and the legions of non-believers
did not think to consider
was the charm in "has been" Elvis.

A week before this legendary
concert experience, I had been
forced by circumstance to purchase
my very first pair of bifocals!
It was also around the time,
I'm sure, Harry left me.

So, the main event, I'm there,
third row from the main stage,
seeing Elvis for the first time
since our crazed youthful years-
a bedazzled jumpsuit walks on stage,
and I'm on my feet before I know it!

There was a little less swivel in his
hips. He looked a little tired, too,
all those years of singing do that.
How did it feel, then, to see the King
make his way across a cheap fog
machine, mutton chops and
love handles galore?

It felt like two lifelong friends
growing old, losing all those
frivolous people together-
"Are You Lonesome Tonight"
was still asked with the same
dreamy passion in 1973.

I've still got the handkerchief
he threw to me that night,
**** near lost it when I
caught the thing.

It's blue with polka dots,
ya wanna take a gander?
Sarah Apr 2013
I see it for just a moment
A squishy mound of fur to the far right of the asphalt

This latest pile of dislocated mush is presented on a desert highway
A raccoon? No. Too small.
A coyote? Maybe. Who can tell?

That play-dough pile of crushed bones was not created outside the white lines where it now lays
Some chosen soul scraped and scooped the mystery meat to its resting place
Some jumpsuit wearing civilian is intimately aware with the parentage of the reassembled road victim
Do they have a moment of silence after the last shovel scrape?
Do they hold an internal roadside memorial?

What of the homicidal perpetrator behind his wheels?
He must know the identity of his victim
He must feel the agony of guilt
Or, is his only remorse in the quarters he must spend at the self-service carwash to remove the evidence?

Perhaps Road-**** animals haunt their vehicle killers
Maybe their blood can never be truly washed from the ****** weapon’s shinny surface
Like spots on Lady Macbeth’s hands
Perhaps the killer’s dreams are frequented by unidentifiable ****** mounds with eyes that stare from unnatural places

After all
Justice must be had in one way or another
For the unrecognizable John Doe pile represents all those wild things that must chance to cross the hard, hot, lethal highway
David Nelson Nov 2013
Philosofication

Personally, I’m not ******. Somebody I know is. He is so upset over something he had no control over that the rest of his day is “Absolute ****!”. His words, not mine. In fact, this all started in the morning when he tripped on a rock. It was then that he decided the whole day is ruined.

I really don’t have a clue how somebody can get that angry over stupid ****. How can a whole day be ruined by one silly little incident? That was less than 20 seconds out of the 86,400 seconds in the complete day. How does that ruin the entire rest of the day? The only explanation I can come up with is that these people have a case of stickuptheassititus.

That is a word. Trust me.

The people suffering from this believe that one little incident will have a profound effect on the rest of their existence. Tripping over a rock means that there is no longer a reason to be happy. In fact, any bad thing that happens leads to more bad things. Even if they have to go searching for it.

In recent studies that were never published because I just made them up, people with severe cases of stickuptheassititus have been known to rip heads off of kittens that aren’t cute enough. If their daily routines is interrupted, they will blow a proverbial gasket. It will be their main concern to make sure their whole day, and the day of those around them, is complete and utter ****.
In a recent survey that never happened, 3 out of 10 people firmly believed the Universe was out to get them because a bird took a healthy crap on their windshield. 2 out of those 10 have been miserable since ’76 because they didn’t get the 13″ Six Million Dollar Man action figure dressed in a red NASA style jumpsuit and came equipped with a Bionic Arm, a Bionic Left Eye with a wide angle lens and an Engine Block for Christmas.
Seriously folks, I don’t see the point of being miserable and ******* over things that are completely out of your control. If you trip over a rock, watch where you step. Get over it. **** it up like a big boy and move on. The Universe did not put that rock there to get you. It is not a grand conspiracy to make you have a bad day. Just because one tiny insignificant incident happens, does not mean everybody is out to get you.
Let me put this into perspective for you.
NOTE: Those with tiny brains should stop reading in fear that your head will explode and the person sitting next to you will have to clean it up before somebody sees your exploded head and accuses them of ******. Save them the headache of having to go on trial for a crime they may have wanted to commit but didn’t actually do.

Back to the perspective thing.

You are nothing more than a speck in the Universe. You are not part of the grand scheme of things. Your short life on this tiny, blue green rock is not going to make a difference to anybody who does not know you. Not even to a few that do. I don’t know. I try not to judge. Often.
This rock is over a couple million years old. It has seen it’s share of creatures come and go. Once you are gone, it will just move on. This little rock is also floating somewhere in this vast Universe that stretches farther than your eyes can see. If you were to stand in front of a map of the Universe, You wouldn’t even be able to see the teeny, tiny little arrow that says “You Are Here.”
That being said, You were not singled out of the multitude of organisms is this Universe to be picked on. Sometimes, **** just happens. To think that You are special enough to have the whole Universe stop what it is doing just to **** with you is beyond ridiculous and kind of insulting. It’s not like your Me or anything.

Time to Philosoficate

In the evidence that even the great and powerful ME is also a speck on the pimple of the Universe’s ***, I feel it is time to reflect on the way things could be. My view is a simple one, don’t spend what little time you have wasting it away in a pissy, little ***** mood.

Me personally, I don’t like being angry or in a bad mood. I would prefer to be happy.
There are rare moments when I get so angry I lose sight of the big picture. Moments when I just spent two hours creating the best design ever and Illustrator crashes so I lose everything. I don’t get ****** at the program for crashing. It doesn’t have an emotional reason for causing me grief. I get mad because I was the complete idiot that didn’t save his work for two hours. I get ****** at myself.
Besides that, the only other reason I would get angry is if somebody purposely caused harm to my family. Thank the Universe that hasn’t happened yet. I don’t have the time to torture somebody yet so I’ll just end up locking them in a crate and then forget about them like I did my pet turtle Mr. Shell. Then I would have to make the time to dig a grave or burn the crate which would stink up the neighborhood. Either way, CSI people would be involved and then I would have to take the extra time to find the best person to frame for the crime.
I didn’t even get ****** when I failed miserably trying to walk to Phoenix. Disappointed, Yes. ******, No. Still think it would be an awesome idea but I will not be doing it.
Anyways, for those of you who actually get it, good for you. For those that are inflicted with it, most of you are hopeless causes and will eventually whither away. The Universe will still keep rolling along. Take a brief moment on this journey of life and take that stick out of your ***. Walk over, smell the flowers and resist your urge to ***** about them. Life gets a **** load better when you’re not always worked up over the tiny details.

* By Scott Linke *

Gomer LePoet....
I found this editorial while searching for time travel/distances to deepest observable universe, and I thought it worth a look.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE
Sarita Crandall Jan 2013
The eyes belonged to the judge,
Though they belonged to him, they acted on their own,
While the judge listen to the prosecutor ramble on about the crime committed,
The eyes studied the man in the orange jumpsuit sitting before them.
Noting that orange was not his color at all,
Yes, he would look better in a jade or soft blue jumpsuit.
The man was nervous. Clearly.
The eyes could see his right foot bouncing on its ball in a swift motion.
Observing it was a steady one, beating with his heart, and when his heart quickened,
So did the bouncing.
The eyes looked to his hair, matted and shining,
Definitely not gel. He must be sweating.
Drifting to the arms, since the sleeves were rolled to the elbow, tattoos covered his left arm.
Prison tattoos, he must be right handed then. And this isn’t his first rodeo.
While studying the man, the eyes are trying to decide whether this man is guilty.
Or not.
At that moment the jury broke the eyes aloofness with the judge and they returned to him.
An acclamation echoed of the court walls.
Guilty.
The jury had spoken.
avery Nov 2014
she warned me she was a handful
thank God I have two hands
I couldn't unhook her bra with one
she apologized
the first time I saw her naked
she said sorry for every stretch mark
said she hated her thighs,
*******,
hips
I kissed them all until it hurt my lips
and every place between
tried to make her love her body like I did
she apologized
as I watched her dress again
she wore vulnerability like an orange jumpsuit,
a bit too square for her structure,
I apologized
for knowing she is not as untouchable as she likes to think
her body,
as tattered and fallible as the heart clinging to it
is touchable
LD Goodwin Jan 2013
Beulah went to Memphis, just to see where the king was laid.
Bought herself a ticket, first time she’d ever been on a plane.
She sashayed down to Graceland, closest she’d ever been to the king.
Every gaudy jumpsuit, jet planes, and all those diamond rings.
What you gonna do, now that you’re king is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, lick your wounds and feed your head.

Beulah went to Memphis, feelin’ just like ol’ Tom and Huck.
All 5 foot and sassy, struttin’ like a Peabody duck.
She’ll be in "Blue Hawaii", long before the crack of noon.

Right where he shot his TV, in that jungle room.
What you gonna do, now that you’re king is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, feed your mind and lose your head.

Beulah went to Memphis, didn’t see where the King was slain.
All caught up in Vegas, she didn’t hear His sad refrain.
She was takin’ care of business, while the Angels sang, “We Shall Overcome.”
Didn’t hear the message, dazzled by the pandemonium.
What you gonna do, now that their King is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, rest your mind and feed your head.

Beulah went to Memphis, just to see where the king was laid.
Poor ol’ girl, he rocked her world, and then he went away.
Destin, FL 1992
I did a psychopath test
And failed miserably.
I am so glad.
Apparently, my capacity to be hurt
Is far, far greater
Than my capacity to hurt
Which is reassuring,
As at times, this year,
I have felt like a monster
Worthy of the orange jumpsuit,
The media sensation,
And the lurid reputation.
But the test tells me to be careful,
That many others don't share my "well developed conscience"
And will damage me, beyond repair,
These others, they don't care.
Beloved, aching poets,
Beware, Beware, Beware.
Shawn Jun 2012
i was raised in the suburbs,
that's where i learned my first words,
also where i learned to curb,
any notions of uniqueness,
this bleakness, was fostered,
in our fundraisers, door-to-door,
selling subscriptions, order more,
and don't ask what the money's for,
school spirit for sports, i never played,
go bears, no care, for my awkward phase,
my awkward ways, 2 buses and a subway,
to get downtown, to hear that sound,
of cars, of movement,
home i'd found,
i was homeward bound,
surrounded by people,
the streets became my easel,
the streets became my easel,
the streets became my easel.

the suburban nights i remember best
deserted street, our love confessed,
riding, trying to avoid attention,
fogged up windows, signs of affection,
what did we know? best of intentions,
you were the girl that i met in detention,
feelings fostered in parks
that were well maintained,
neighbourhood watch campaigns,
trimmed grass, cul-de-sacs
sterile sidewalks, no art attacks,
i'd take you out,
to avoid cafeteria fries,
the tears in your eyes,
echoing words of those you despised,
hallway acoustics, erased by a quick kiss,
love notes in lockers,
we swore, we'd come back and prove our validity,
that wasn't me, that isn't me,
i am more than you thought that i'd ever be
in hindsight, that goal was empty.
in hindsight, that goal was empty.
in hindsight, that goal was empty.

i rode this train in an attempt to arrive
at a destination thought mutually suitable,
mutually doable, the journey viewable,
and verified viewed in full,
but our paths differed along the way,
our grip withered from pursuits of gpa,
the sacrifices made for a number,
sweat and anxiety, tears and fear,
from what would occur, if not maintained
in the exact range, expected by academics
i'm a polemic, seen through these false idols,
graduates don't know a thing about survival,
vital signs drained to the point of oblivion,
questioning just isn't how you win, it isn't in,
they're sittin' in their leather chairs,
dismissin' receding hair,
in front of leather-bound books,
leather patches on their elbows,
their vacant look,
behind eyeglasses, so cold,
i tried to ace classes, to sit in the seats
of these empty elite,
to live up to expectation,
and after convocation,
i took my place in a chair
behind a plexiglass pane,
initials after my name on
my orange jumpsuit,
i only now realize the truth.
i have all that i sought,
but lost all that i had.
i have all that i sought,
but lost all that i had.
i have all that i sought,
but lost all that i had.
Graff1980 Nov 2017
American Nightmares
Prologue
The pale moon hangs, glowing in the blank sky, shining just enough light for the thick foliage and densely pack trees to be seen. Evening sounds silenced by the sloshing of rushing feet racing through the woods.  In the distance a beagle howls in frustration. Sniffing and wheezing as he tries to pick up a lost trail.
Deeper in the woods a lone figure races at a maddening pace, bumping into trees, scratching his flesh against their harsh bark; causing bleeding. The young man’s eyes water up from a mixture of sweat, pain, and fatigue. Fear permeates his entire being
A thin orange suit clings lazily to his sweaty bronze skin, almost mocking his emaciated frame, which is actually a couple sizes too small for the jumpsuit. The dark figure has been running for days. Hot on his heels, his pursuers persisted. He knows being caught would mean a far worse fate than what he escaped.
Another mile and his legs began to leaden. Each step becoming heavier than the last. The sharp sting of lactic acid burning his side. Breath becoming spasmodic. Eyes bulging, still he maintains a frantic pace.
Running full force until his left foot catches the edge of a dark brown rotten root rising from the earth. A cloud of dirt explodes from ground immersing him in a brown mist. Spittle and blood spew from the runner’s mouth as he coughs violently. His breath rushing away even as he tries to calm himself.
Crawling from the dirt he searches for some sort of purchase, finding none he rests his weary frame against the nearest oak. Then the waterworks really hit. The sound of moans escaped his busted and parched lips.
“I will make it home.” He repeats over and over, like a mantra.
His fingers feel the frame of the tree he is resting against. Hands begin falling and rising for some strange reason, until they settle at the base. There just inches away from his digits sits a patch of mushrooms. The forgotten pain of hunger returns, so without examining the fungus he plucks them up and swallows them whole. Then half crawling half stumbling he moves to the stream which lay a few yards from the tree.
Cupping his hands he fills his palm with water; then slurps it up, repeating the process again and again till he has drunk his fill. Next he splashes the cool liquid on his face, hair, pits, chest, and other portions of his body massaging the blood and dirt from his aching skin till he manages to cleanse the wounds all over his person. Closing his eyes, he finally succumbs to the exhaustion that has been ******* him.
A bulge of earth begins to rise pushing his limp frame away from the stream and pulls him back to the tree. Then branches and leaves coalesce around his body till he is safely hidden from plain sight.
He awakens; eyes dilated, and body shivering. While brushing away the brush he turns to the tree, stands up shakily, and then wipes away the rest of the leaves and dirt, not noticing the slowly growing dark spot on his orange jumpsuit.
Tears streaming he softly whispers “Hello tree my name is John.”






















Chapter 1

Tree, sweet Tree, I beg of you tell me. Why does America hate me? I did everything I was told to do. I went to school. I stayed away from white women, never made eye contact with white men, became a teacher, and took care of my people.
What the hell was all that for? I am going to end up another dead black man in the backwoods of some southern hick state! I got these stupid leg irons weighing me down, and hells hounds are riding my trail.
Stupid ******* animals!
Filthy ******* *******!
What is the ******* point? Huh?
My dad was a good man too. He followed the unwritten rules of the white man. Never stole anything or hurt anyone, mostly. Do you know what they did to him Tree? Well do you?
They tied him to a post, sliced chunks of flesh from his hard muscular frame while burning him alive. They burnt him alive, Tree.
My father was a strong and righteous man, a man who loved his wife and child. My mother, who was barely half his weight and a good foot shorter, she had the palest skin of any black woman I have ever met. Her hair was the perfect shade of earth with eyes a couple tints darker. Her nose was tiny and lips thin as any white woman’s. I’d imagine she was as white as any ***** could get. She had a voice that soothed my darkest pains and fears. At night when I went to bed she would sing to me.
Oh my darling
Brown skin angel
Don’t be frightened
I’ll be right here
Hold you tight and
Watch you sleep
Guard you tonight
While you sleep
Oh my darling
I’ll be here
To keep your heart
Safe my sweet dear
Everything will be alright

I remember when I came home that day. I saw my dad clutching the tiny limp frame of my mother, sobbing furiously. Her body looked paler than usual. I had never seen tears fall from my father’s face. I don’t think he even saw me come in. I just stood in the doorway. I stood there and waited for him to say something. I wanted to cry but I was so scared that I just held my breath instead.
Our neighbor came and took me to their house. Back then I did not know what had happened. It took me over seven years to find out what happened to my mother. Do you know what happened Tree?
A handful of white men came to our house and ***** my mother.
Sometimes in my nightmares, that horrible scene plays out. I hear the sound of rapping at our door; the yells of angry men echoing through the house. I see the wooden door bulge as it begins to crack under their onslaught. Then I watch as men with no faces explode into our house, sweeping my mother off her feet, ripping the clothes off her body as she scream in horror, I would wake up in a state of horror and sorrow, weeping.
I am haunted even now. I cannot begin to imagine the pain my father felt, but I do know what happened next, because I snuck out of our neighbor’s house to comfort my father. I watched as he left our home with rage and violence in his heart. In one hand he held a knife; it seemed to be a foot long, half handle half cold hard sharpened steel; in the other hand he carried a gun. I followed him from a safe distances, heard him scream for the men that had attacked my mother.
When the sheriff came to calm him down, dad was startled and turned around accidently cutting Mr. Brinkley with the blade. The sheriff and his deputies arrested my father. I was certain that everything would be okay. The sheriff was a decent man. I heard him talking calmly to my father. He told my dad that he understood what was going on.
That night white men came for my father. They hollered for justice, screaming “bring out that ******* ******.”
The sheriff tried to reason with the mob. He told them “This is between me and my prisoner.”
He tried to stop the mob with force, but there were at least fifty men. Probably more if you counted the people that kept joining up with the mob. The mob broke down the prison door, took my father from his small stone cell, all the while taunting him.  “You’re gonna fry ******.” From a distance and hidden in shadows I watched.
I saw an old lady spit on him. I watched as children raced around my father, dancing in and out of the procession, and tossed stones, from the side of the road, at my father. The mob drug him down to the town square. Tied him up, and lit a fire beneath him. The whole time my father’s head was hung in defeat. I swear he knew what was coming. It seemed that In the face of that onslaught all emotion had faded from his face. I guess he didn’t want to give them the pleasure of seeing him squirm.
As the flames started to consume his flesh, I saw the sheriff go for his gun. He raised his pistol and aimed for my father’s head, but the men in the mob wrestled the gun from his hand. Meanwhile my father had given into the horror and pain. He began to howl like an animal as the flames danced across his flesh crackling and pooping. He screamed for some sort of mercy, crying out for someone to shoot him.
I raced from the shadows, stealing a gun from some old white man. Then I shot my father in the head. Most of the men in the mob looked on dumbstruck. That gave me enough time to get away so I hightailed it out of there. I never went back for anything. I spent the rest of that night in the woods praying that what I had done was the right thing.
In the weeks and months to come I slept very little. When I did manage to fall asleep my dreams would cycle from the flaming horrors of my father’s death to the ****** of my mother.
Still, I managed to make something out of myself despite those sick atrocities. By working hard I finished school and became a teacher. A couple years after I started teaching I was arrested. They took me to jail; brought me up on some ******* charges. Part of me was certain I would end up being lynched, so when I was sentenced to a chain gang, man I was relieved.
Had I known what was gonna happen I would have preferred being lynched, at least then I would have been dead. Instead they worked me **** near to death, starving, and beating me like a slave. My brown skin has brought me nothing but grief. So tell me Tree, why does America hate me?











Interlude

“Tell me tree, why does America hate me?” John sputters.
A soft breeze caresses his skin.
“Why the hell am I talking to a tree?” He cries. “What is the point?”
The blood stain on John’s clothes still expanding, and his shivers become far worse.
“Tell me tree, what is the ******* point? America hates Negroes. I’m going to die out here. Say something.”
The air swirls around him, and a soft voice fills his head.
“Do you think you are alone in your suffering? Know now that you are not. My children suffer horrors too.  Listen carefully and I will tell you.
John turns to find the source; finding nothing he collapses, listening straining to hear the voice again.















Chapter 2

Dear John I am the spirit of the winds, mother to the natives. Do you think that yours is the only tongue to taste the bitter fruit of America’s wrath? My child let me tell you of the first people of America. Listen to the tragic tale of my children. Before the Europeans came many tribes roamed this land. They were human and as such had flaws of their own, but in many ways they were poetry in the form of flesh.
The men would hunt during the day. Anything they caught was considered a sacred gift. They would use all that they could from the body of the beast. They treated my mother’s brown dirt earth, flesh as sacred, and I loved them for that. Women held equal value and had equal say in their tribes. There were wars, of course, but mostly my children strived to live in harmony with the land.
Then white men came. My children welcomed them with open arms, helped them survive, and do you know how they were repaid that kindness? Once received and no longer needed, it was returned with treachery and violence. Bit by bit they pushed my children back. Pushing them off one parcel of land and then another, slaughtering tribes after tribe. Still my children survived.  When the white men could not **** all of my progeny, they came for the children. Some parents wept, some fought back, and some merely accepted it as inevitable.
I watched it all. I saw the men on horseback come for the children. The songs of lament tortured my heart. The tears of the children ripped at my very soul. I lashed out at the white men with all of nature’s fury, biting their flesh with my fierce and frosty winds. I sent the fiercest wind I had at my disposal. However, the children were still taken.
The children were dragged to schools far from their homes. They would cry out in their native tongues. I remember my sweet Rose. Yes, Rose was her name, John. She was as strong as the oak tree. Passion coursed through her veins faster and harder than the river’s water. She was born so tiny that the elder of the village was certain she would not make it. Yet, when she broke free of the womb coughing and sputtering, she cried with such a powerful voice that even I was taken aback. This tender babe had my attention. I swore I would watch over her.
The first seven summers of her life were spent in the loving care of her tribe. Her black hair grew almost down to her feet. Her eyes were brown, brimming with the unknown depth of her soul. She was unafraid, the pride of her father and joy of her mother, a creature to be cherished.
One fall morning as the orange sun was slowly ascending the soldiers came. Little Rose was wrenched her from her parents’ arms. Her father’s rage was stopped by a bullet that bled him dry. No one else would fight for this child, so I beat against the soldiers back. I struggled to wrench her from their arms and return her to her mother’s safe embrace.
The soldiers did not even recognize my fury. With that failure I watched Rose’s mother fell into despair. Her prayers of peace and love soon turned to prayers for vengeance and the return of her child. Many nights we wept together mourning the loss of father and daughter.
Rose’s mother could not join her child, so I tried to watch out for her. I followed the soldier to a tall white washed building that had been liberated from the southerners during the previous war. I heard the headmaster say “in order to save the child, we must **** the savage within.”
Day and night I raged against the solid white structure, slamming shutters and doors, pounding the roofs with torrential fury. Only stopping when I realized that the children were shuddering in fear of me.
At night Rose would sing the songs of her people. During the day she would stare in defiance as the teachers tried to make her speak the English tongue. She refused to yield, so they responded to her spirit with violence. The taste of soap saturated her mouth while the stinging welts marred her backside. Still my Rose remained strong. I was filled with pride. I had seen older children fall into silence and subservience.
Rose was a cut about the rest. Still, one can only fight for so long before the fire begins to wane. Each day some of her resilience would fade. I could not enter the building to comfort her, but when she was outside I would wrap her in my windy arms, cradling her spirit against mine. I would carry the whispered words of love her mother sent, and return Rose’s love to her mother. Had I known what was going on in that building maybe I could have blown harder, maybe I could have pelted the nuns and the preacher with sharp stones and hardwood.
As the glimmer of light faded even faster, I started catching the whispers of my children. Their dead bodies began to scar the sacred earth. One after another fell, faster and faster. I watch their flames die. What kind of wind was I that could not fly them away from harm?
One day while blustering away I caught the most horrid sight. I saw a sick man lay his hands on my Rose. She shivered in disgust as he groped her bare skin. He took such sick liberties. In my rage I waited and stewed, plotting and hoping he would come outside. My anger gave me more power than I had ever known. I flung him to and fro spinning him round and round, beating him down every time he tried to rise. I hurled stones and sticks at him. When I was spent, his face was dripping with blood, his lip busted and swollen. He ran like a coward.
Rose remained trapped in that house of horrors. More children died. Day after day Rose lost more of her language. Till one day she could not remember the songs of her people. I watched her sobbing while trying to recall the words as a nun slapped her in the face.
One night under the pale glow of moonlight Rose lit herself on fire. She became a burning flame to match her once radiant spirit. As she burned she screamed out for release. I tried to put out the flames with gusts of wind and heavy rain, but I was too late. Rose fell to ashes resting on the moist earth. Gathering what I could of her remains I sent her last words and ashes home to her tribe.
That night rang with lamentation of her people. Sobs of regret filled her mother’s body. As hard as tried I could not comfort Rose’s mother. She would not be consoled. On the coldest night of that year Rose’s mother walked from her abode, slipping off her clothes, she moved in silence. Every step adding to the numbness she longed
Jess Hays Aug 2016
Childhood hopes vanished
When you were trapped in concrete walls
Pleading victim, charged as guilty
Time and time, I watched you fall
Psychologically manipulative
Assimilating crime into your life
Not just you, but all of us again
This family, you gave no meaning,
Your words are so empty,
Too often you are missing.
Arrested into an orange jumpsuit
The locks keep changing on you.
Kathy Z Jul 2013
Before I saw you,
I thought that angels didn't exist.
Before I saw you,
I thought that hope was just a empty word, with a meaning that was ripped out of the dictionary in my mind.
Before I saw you,
I was lost, confused, wandering off the road that everyone at least, seemed to be on,
Seemed to know what a road was,
Even if they were on the "wrong one" as my preschool teacher used to call it but I think I was the only one who raised my hand in class and said-
"Teacher! That doesn't make sense!"
Before I saw you,
Music was just notes on paper,
Something for me to hum and string along on the viola.
Before I saw you, stories were just stories,
And not keys to worlds beyond my fairest imagination.
Before I saw you,
The key to the word "love" was locked
Thrown somewhere on a ***** train track that you fearlessly went on and saw and you brought the key back to me saying with a smile on your smudged face
"Here. I think this is yours."
Before I saw you,
I think I was just living life for the sake of living, just eating for the sake of surviving,
Just studying for the sake of pride,
Until I met you.
When I met you,
The world had color.
A fierce rouge for sunset and lipstick for women
a dark hue that wasn't exactly "black as night" as they called it
A gleaming, neon green that was the color of the hideous jumpsuit you wore for track just once
When I met you,
The word myself had a different meaning, and the broken dictionary that was in my mind fell apart.
When I met you,
I learned the meaning of catching all the Pokémon in the game Pokémon Emerald that I always borrowed, but never returned, but you didn't care, did you?
(Oh look the word Pokémon is in spell-check)
When I met you-
I learned how to write poems-
Mainly because you dragged me to that poetry writing class that you always went to.
When I met you,
I thought, beautiful
Infallible
Unbreakable
**Until the day when you left me
Here alone in the dark.
HeyThereLefty Sep 2015
All Again For You- We The Kings
You were everything that's bad for me*

Pheromone Cvlt - Letlive.
All the boys will grow up to be those broken men

Follow You- Bring Me the Horizon
So you can drag me through Hell if it meant I could hold your hand

Boston- Moose Blood
Bored with nothing to do, but lay around listening to Deja Entendu thinking about you..

Come Home - Tonight Alive
Laying under the light of the full moon and I would give anything to be there with you.

Drown - Bring Me the Horizon
What doesn't destroy you, leaves you broken instead

All Along The Watchtower - Jimi Hendrix
But you and I we've been through that and this is not our fate

Dreamers Disease- Letlive.
While I’m out here making history, you’re making love

True Friends - Bring Me the Horizon
Karma has no deadline

Better Off This Way - A Day to Remember
When will you act your age

The Divine Zero - Pierce The Veil
Maybe I can swim into your thoughts like your drugs do

The Other Side - Tonight Alive
I meant it every time I said I love you; And there are so many things I wanted to say, but I was a mess.

Lane Boy - TwentyOnePilots
I know a thing or two about pain and darkness; Who would you live and die for on that list

The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot-Brand New
You say you wanted a solution; you just wanted to be missed

Your Guardian Angel- Red Jumpsuit Apparatus
How this world turns cold and breaks through my soul

Cardiology- Good Charlotte
No book that I can find has the answer, a medicine can't cure the fact that I'm still yours

All My Heart- Sleeping With Sirens
I could have been better and stronger for you and me

Vanilla Twilight - Owl City
*Cause cold nostalgia chills me to the bone; Oh if my voice could reach back through the past
All credit goes to the artists and their wonderful lyrics.  I appreciate them letting me borrow their words to help express my emotions. Wish you could understand this, Wellie.
Sia Jane Apr 2014
Karen Carpenter, bridged sued cap d'hiver,
(which I hear will be very en vogue this summer)
fringe falling, as gracefully as music flowing through her veins,
(a Pucci jumpsuit, a throwback to times, of rock and roll)

Pinned hair, taped face to secure a wig cap,
(a daily communion bonding her soul to her self)
those Miu Mui boots, leather wrapped sewn to her body
(to which is laying amid candle light gypsy retreat)

A left thigh, glance of the subtly disguised tattoos inscribing her body,
(do we mark our body, to impress others or to claim our own bodies)
silk Chloé gown, gypsy princess of Parisian quarters,
(Jakarta may someday be a resting place for an unsettled soul)

Placing pencil to paper, poetry writes me as lyrics write her,
(do the ivory keys of the Grand Piano fuse inspiration)
piercing red nails, grasping left handed she writes writes writes,
(maybe notes of her future travels dreams aspirations)

A 70's heroine, born to the wrong era standing in the past,
(Yoko Ono Led Zep Stevie Nicks, mahatma's of a lost scene)
innocence purity porcelain *******, torn from a womb too soon,
(not at once a smile, reflective nostalgia unwavering past future)

A fallen tear drop, a hopelessness of peace in her eyes,
(one can see both tattoos of present; ARTPOP, of past; peace symbol)
a fallen angel, legacy leaving her mark on a generation of those lost,

Her left wrist shows a peace sign as a commitment to such peace

Will this ever be a possibility on a planet we call earth?

© Sia Jane
See "Porter Magazine" - "Gaga The Lady interview photographed by Inez & Vinoodh.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2015
when you're out of work
a new kind of dictionary defined,
old filters replaced, perspectives refined

take the respite resort word
the "weekend,"
when you are unemployed,
it starts on a Monday,
and runs seven days consecutive,
and the words
"week"and "end" can no longer be married,
for each,
just a new cuss word

when you're out of work,
the sweet small spaces of your home,
revised by the architect
of the mind,
somehow sudden, two sizes smaller,
fewer doors and windows,
light and air, hesitant to enter,
no Vermeer here,
staleness re-covers everything,
new is worn, and worn is
you

when you are fired,
you comprehend the word's meaning clearer,
now, your every thought feels like twelves cylinders firing,
you've become
furnaced, tempered,
dressed daily in an orange yellow colored
jumpsuit, with UNEMPLOYED
across a bent back,
self-censoring the spoken and the unspoken,
when you have no work,
everything important is twice the work,
believing, now a chore,
loving, a labor lost

when you're unemployed

a new kind of dictionary defined,
old filters replaced, perspectives refined,
many words excised,
so few required,
so few desired,
they as well,
rank, and unemployable,
and everything reads
left to right
August  30, 2015
7:35am
Compassion training ground,
telling so many stories.

A delicate blind child flutters like a young bird,
as I transcend into meditation across from him.

A handsome young prisoner is wheeled in,
orange jumpsuit identifying only part of him.

He sits in that wheelchair, head held high,
chains on his ankles and wrists.

Allowing judgments to pass him by,
he lives in his own interior world.

Some hybrid of grace and shock coexist,
when one we love faces medical uncertainty.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
7:30PM, October 9, 2015, 65*F, 10mph breeze, 5% humidity (somehow 10% where I was sitting), 50.0001% chance of rain, dark, cold, late, loud...I think that's enough. Alright! Spoiler alert, Birkston High won the game. If you simply have ears you've known that for a while (many of us who were at the game don't). All the people in Grenfolkshire were there, so there were some empty bleachers, but the Student section was full and lively, and did I say loud, because LOUD....! My ears were ringing (at a B8 note, for the musically overcurious people) for three days straight. I think it was a healthcare tactic, dare I say it. All those figurehead townspeople were there as well, like Mayor Arnofold Plattersbury with his orange jumpsuit, waving a pompom in the air like he just didn't care. Really, he didn't-I got whacked in the head with it eleven times. Recently, after taking a recent poll on the recent event, it was found that only about 35% of people really knew what happened, a number that has declined, recently. This very well is contributed to 1.) most of the people are there for the free food and don't exactly major in football 2.) teenagers are highly social creatures 3.) a bunch of hands in the air and six foot tall mammoths standing on the bleachers will tend to block the view of the people who are five foot small. The freshmen had a real problem on their heads. Nevertheless, the Wildcats found themselves with the bell for another year, whether they knew it or not. The Panthers found themselves nose-in-the-dirt, tail-dragging, while we found ourselves filing out like a herd of wild penguins onto the field.
It's not really a poem...I'm sure you can see
Victor D López Mar 2019
Justice is unjust,
When it merely imposes,
The will of the state.

_______

Justice
Time: The all too near future
Place: A courtroom
Setting: Final sentencing of a prisoner convicted of the last remaining capital offense on the books of a kinder, gentler, fairer world in which equality is no longer a mere aspiration.
________

The prisoner stared impassively into the camera. The bright lights causing beads of sweat to form above his eyes and forcing him to squint, his perspiration-soaked thinning hair flattened unflatteringly against his forehead. No sound could be heard other than the faint hum of the air conditioning whose airflow was directed from the high ceiling above the high seats of the three judge panel, towards the three judges, keeping their immediate area comfortably cool. The camera trained on them remained a respectful distance away, and no harsh lights illuminated their somber countenances.

All three judges stared at the camera showing no emotion, their hands folded in front of them on the surface of their capacious bench on top of three equal stacks of paper placed before them. Everywhere on earth citizens watched the unfolding drama over the neural net that provided a fully immersive experience indistinguishable from reality, effectively placing every citizen on the planet in the courtroom as the Chief Judge began to speak in a deep, resonant, clear voice.

“The evidence against you has been examined. This tribunal finds you guilty of the charges against you by a unanimous vote. Have you anything to say before we pass sentence?”

The camera cuts back to the prisoner. The lights brighten around him and the heat rises perceptibly, adding fresh fuel to the trickle of sweat flowing down his flushed face, causing a bead of sweat to form at the end of his nose that he is unable to swat away because his wrists are restrained by metal bands at the armrests of his metal chair, outside the viewing range of the camera’s tight zoom on his face.

“I am guilty of no crime,” the prisoner protests in a low voice full of palpable weariness and resignation.

“You are guilty of the most heinous of crimes,” the Chief Judge contradicts, raising his voice and causing the prisoner to cringe.
“That is not open to debate. This is your final chance to make what amends you may to those whom you have harmed through your selfish, deviant act. It will have no effect on this Court’s sentence.”

“But I have done nothing wrong,” the man emphatically protests again, as ribbons of perspiration roll down his neck and deepen the growing ring of dark sweat absorbed by his bright orange jumpsuit, leaving a collar of dark moisture around his neck.

“Silence!” the Chief Judge hisses through tight lips. “The record will show that the prisoner is unrepentant. This Court finds that he willfully, maliciously and without justification removed his neural connector with the purpose and effect of severing his connection to the neural nets. We further find that the motivating factor for this most egregious, malevolent and repugnant crime was the attempt to abandon the Common Consciousness and establish his individuality separate and apart from the Communal Mind. We further find that the subject is in full possession of his legal faculties and capable of understanding the criminal nature of his acts, and, perhaps most tragically, that he fails to see the enormity of his crime.” The Chief Justice faltered slightly, delivering the final words of the Court’s sentence with a slight tremor in his voice. After stopping a moment to compose himself as his learned colleagues looked on impassively, he continued. “It is, therefore, the judgment of this Court that you will forever remain disconnected from the nets from this day forward.”

Upon hearing the Judge’s words the prisoner’s eyes opened wider, attempting to digest their import. Could it be? Might he finally be allowed the what he believed to be his unalienable right to be an individual for the first time in his life? The opportunity to live in a world in which he could have original thoughts, genuine emotions, privacy and the opportunity to be different from everyone else? The joy he felt nearly made him faint with relief and unbridled joy, allowing him for the first time in his life the possibility of hope as tears welled in his eyes.

He found he could not speak, could not express even the simple words “thank you” to the Court. It was as though he were emerging from a life-long nightmare, as if. . .

“The prisoner’s IP address, 999.999.999.999, shall be erased from the Nets,” the Judge continued as the prisoner’s tears now flowed freely. “His existence shall be forever stricken from the Collective Consciousness lest it germinate there and once again grow sedition in our midst.” The prisoner wept openly now while smiling broadly.
“The death sentence for this most heinous of crimes is hereby commuted so that the prisoner may be allowed the individuality he craves for the rest of his natural life, devoid of the comfort of our collective humanity or the distracting influences of life.”

The Chief Judge then paused and took a deep breath, as the prisoner shuddered with relief. He then continued in a slow, resonant voice. “It is further ordered by this Court that the prisoner shall have his eyes, eardrums, tongue and olfactory organs surgically removed that he may not taste, smell, see, hear, or speak with any other human being for the rest of his natural life. Thereafter, he is remanded to a hospital where he shall be restrained to a bed and tended to by robotic life support aids that he may be denied the comfort of feeling another human beings warm touch upon his skin. The sentence of this Court shall be carried out immediately and shall be witnessed by all the citizens of Earth as partial reparation for this most heinous of crimes against humanity.”

The prisoner’s screams lasted only a few moments as an anesthetic was administered and the cameras were re-arranged in preparation for justice to be carried out.

(C) 2011, 2019 Victor D. Lopez - All rights reserved.
This haiku is based on the shortest short story I've ever written that is one of the stories included in my Mindscapes: Ten Science Fiction and Speculative Fiction Short Stories. For those who have sometimes requested that I should expand on the themes of my haikus, I've included the short story itself following the haiku that inspired it. Careful what you ask for . . . :)
Santiago May 2015
When I see your smile
Tears run down my face
I can't replace
And now that I'm stronger I've figured out

How this world turns cold
And breaks through my soul
And I know, I'll find deep inside me
I can be the one

I will never let you fall
I'll stand up with you forever
I'll be there for you through it all
Even if saving you sends me to Heaven

It's okay, it's okay, it's okay

Seasons are changing and waves are crashing
And stars are falling all for us
Days grow longer and nights grow shorter
I can show you, I'll be the one

I will never let you fall
I'll stand up with you forever
I'll be there for you through it all
Even if saving you sends me to Heaven

'Cause you're my, you're my
You're my-y-y-y
My true love, my whole heart
Please don't throw that away

'Cause I'm here for you
Please don't walk away
And please tell me, you'll stay

Stay

Use me as you will
Pull my strings just for a thrill
And I know, I'll be okay
Though my skies are turning gray

I will never let you fall
I'll stand up with you forever
I'll be there for you through it all
Even if saving you sends me to Heaven

I will never let you fall
I'll stand up with you forever
I'll be there for you through it all
Even if saving you sends me to Heaven
I get off the Belt Parkway at Rockaway Boulevard and
Jet aloft from Idyllwild.
(I know, now called J.F. ******* K!)
Aboard a TWA 747 to what was then British East Africa,
Then overland by train to Baroness Blixen’s Nairobi farm . . .
You know the one at the foot of the Ngong Hills.
I lease space in Karen’s African dreams,
Caressing her long white giraffe nape,
That exquisite Streep jugular.
I am a ghost in Meryl’s evil petting zoo:
I haunt the hand that feeds me.

Safely back in Denmark, I receive treatment
For my third bout with syphilis at Copenhagen General.
Cured at last, I return to Kenya and Karen.
In my solitude or sleep, I go with her,
One hundred miles north of the Equator,
Arriving at Julia Child’s marijuana herb garden–
Originally Kikuyu Land, of course—
But mine now by imperial design &
California voter referendum.
(Voiceover) "I had a farm in Africa
At the foot of the Ngong Hills."
My farm lies high above the sea at 6,000 feet.
By daybreak I feel oh, oh so high up,
Near to the sun on early mornings.
Evenings so limpid and restful;
Nights oh, so cold.
Mille Grazie a lei, Signore *******!
Andiamo, Sydney, amico mio.
Let it flow like the water that lives in Mombasa.
Let it flow like Kurt Luedtke’s liquid crystal script.
We zoom in. We go close in. Going close up,
On the face of Isak Dinesen’s household
Servant and general factotum. (Full camera ******)
Karen Blixen’s devoted Muslim manservant,
Farah: “God is happy, msabu. He plays with us…”
He plays with me.  And who shall I be today?
How about Tony Manero for starters?
Good choice. Nicely done!
Geezer Manero:  old and bitter now,
Still working at the hardware store,
Twice-divorced, a chain-smoker,
Severely diabetic, a drunk on dialysis 3 times a week.
Bite me, Pop:  I never thought I was John Travolta.
But, hey, I had my shot:  “I coulda been a contenda.”
Once more, by association only,
I am a great artist again, quickly made
Near great by a simple second look.
Why, oh God? I am kvetching again.
I celebrate myself and sing the
L-on-forehead loser’s lament:
Why implant the desire and then
Withhold from me the talent?
“I wrote 30 ******* operas,”
I hear Salieri’s demented cackle.
“I will speak for you, Wolfie Babaloo;
I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.”

Must I wind up in the same
Viennese loony bin with Antonio?
Note to self:  GTF out of Austria post-haste!
I’ve been called on the Emperor’s carpet again,
My head, my decapitated Prufrock noodle,
Grown slightly bald, brought in upon a platter.
Are peaches in season?
Do I dare eat one?
I am Amadeus, ******, infantile,
An irresistible iconoclast and clown.
Wolfie:   “I am called on the imperial carpet again.
The Emperor may have no clothes but he’s got a
Shitload of ******* carpets."
Hello Girls: ‘Disco Tampons!
Staying inside, staying inside!
Wolfie: "Why have I chosen a ****** farce for my libretto?
Surely there are more elevated themes . . . NO!
I am fed to the teeth with elevated themes,
People so lofty they **** marble!"
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis.

So, I mix paint in the hardware store by day.
I dance all night, near-great again by locomotion.
Join me in at least one of my verifiable nine lives.
Go with me across the Narrows,
Back to Lenape with the wild red men of Canarsee,
To Vlacke Bos, Boswijk & Nieuw Utrecht,
To Dutch treat Breuckelen, Red Hook & Bensonhurst,
To Bay Ridge and the Sheepshead.
Come with me to Coney Island’s Steeplechase & Luna Park, &
Dreamland (aka Brownsville) East New York, County of Kings.
If I’m lying, I’m dying.
And while we’re on the subject now,
Bwana Finch Hatton (pronounced FINCH HATTON),
Why not turn your focus to the rival for Karen’s heart,
To the guy who nursed her through the syphilis,
That old taciturn ******, Guru Farah?
Righto and Cheerio, Mr. Finch Hatton,
Denys George of that surname—
Why not visualize Imam Farah?
Farah: a Twisted Sister Mary Ignatius,
Explaining it all to your likes-the-dark-meat
Friend and ivory-trading business partner,
Berkeley (pronounced BARK-LEE) Cole.
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

Oh yeah, Tony Manero, the Bee Gees & me,
A marriage made in Brooklyn.
The Gibbs providing the sound track while
I took care of the local action.
I got more *** than a toilet seat, a Don Juan rep &
THE CLAP on more than one occasion.
Probably from a toilet seat.
Even my big brother–the failed priest,
Celibate too long and desperate now–
Even my defrocked, blue-balled brother,
Frankie, cashing in his chips at the Archdiocese,
Taking soave lessons from yours truly,
Taking notes, copying my slick moves with chicks.
It was the usual story with the usual suspects &
The usual character tests. All of which I flunk.
I choose Fitzgerald's “vast, ****** meretricious beauty,”
My jumpstart to the middle class.
I spurn the neighborhood puttana,
Mary Catherine Delvecchio: the community ****
With the proverbial heart of gold &
A backpack full of self-esteem deficits.
I opt out.  I’m hungry and leaping.
I morph again, grab *** the golden girl.
Now I’m Gatsby in a white suit,
Stalking Daisy Buchanan in East Egg,
Daisy: her voice full of money;
My green light flashing on the disco dance floor.
I, a fool for love; she, my faithless uptown girl,
Golden and delicious like the apple,
Capricious like a blue Persian cat.
My “orgiastic future” eluded me then.
It eludes me still. Time to go home again to the place
****-ant Prufrocks ponder their pathetic dying embers.
Time to assume the position:
Gazing out from some trapezoidal patch of green
At the foot of Roebling’s bridge,
Contemplating an alternative reality for myself,
A new life across the East River,
In the city that never sleeps.
I crave. I lust. I am a guinzo Eva Duarte.
I too must be a part of B.A., Buenos Aires:
THE BIG APPLE.
But I am ashamed of my luggage,
Not to mention my baggage.
It’s like that last thing Holden Caulfield said to me,
Just before he crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge,
Crossed over to Manhattan without me,
Leaving me alone again, searching for our kid sister,
Phoebe, the only one on earth we can relate to:
“It’s really hard to be roommates with people
If your suitcases are much better than theirs.”
Ow! That stung; that was a stinger.
I am smithereened by a self-guided drone,
A smart bomb full of snide antigravity,
Transformational and caustic.
My meager allotment of self-esteem
Metastasizes into something base,
Something heavy and vile.
I drop to earth like lead mozzarella.

I am unworthy, unworthy in the maximum mendicant,
Roman Catholic mea culpa sense of the word.
I am now Umberto Eco’s penitenziagite.
I am Salvatore, a demented hunchback
(Played flawlessly as a demented hunchback by Ron Perlman),
Spewing linguistic gibberish in a variety of vernaculars:
“Lord, I am not worthy to live anywhere west of the Gowanus Canal.”
By East River waters I weep bitter tears,
The promise of a promised land denied.
I am a garlic-eating Chuck Yeager,
Auguring in, burnt beyond recognition,
An ethnic trope, a defiant Private Maggio
From here and for eternity,
Forever a swarthy ethnic stereotype
Trying to escape thru a small but significant
Hole in the ozone layer above South Ozone Park,
New York, zip code 11420.
That’s right, Ozone Park.
If you don’t believe me, look it up.
GO ******* GOOGLE IT!

And I just don’t know when to quit.
So why quit there?
Work with me, fratello mio, mon lecteur.
Like you, I took the LSAT so long ago.
Why am I not a distinguished American jurist
Asking the one question that seems to be on
Everyone’s eugenic lips today:
“Aren’t three generations of imbeciles enough?”
I am Charly from Flowers for Algernon,
A slow learner with a push broom, swept up in
Some dust from Leonard Cohen’s cuff.
Lenny: a grey-beard loon himself now, singing
“Hallelujah” for fish & chips in London’s O2 Arena.
“Suzanne takes you down, Babaloo!”
At last, I am Jesus Quintana—
John Turturro stealing the movie as usual--
This time in a hair net and a jumpsuit,
"Made of a comfortable 65% polyester/35%
Cotton poplin, you can even add your own
Ribbon leg trim and monogramming
For just the right look to be one of
The Big Lebowski’s favorite characters.
Mouse-over the thumbnail below to see our actual style
(Color must be purple). Style #: 98P, Price: $55.95. On sale: $50.36.www.myjumpsuit.com."
Fortunately, I am a savvy marketeer:
I understand the artistic potential, the venal
Possibilities of product placement. Go with me
To that undiscovered country.
The humanities uncorrupted till now by
Crass gimcrack television ads. That’s right:
******* commercials smack dab in the
Middle of a ******* poem. Why not?
Great literature has always been about
Selling something, even if only an idea.
Hey, **** me, Herman Melville!
We both know the publication costs of
Moby **** were underwritten by the tattoo artists &
Harpoon manufacturers of New Bedford,
Matched by a small research grant from some
Proto-Greenpeace, Poseidon adventure in some
Great white whale-watching swinging soiree.
Murray the ******* K, pendejo!
At last, I am The Jesus, a pervert & pederast,
According to Walter Sobjak—another post-traumatic
Post Toasty, like me, still out there in the jungle,
Still in love with the smell of ****** in the morning.
My bowling buddy, Walter, comfortably far to the right of
The Dude, and Attila the *** for that matter,
But who gives a **** if Lenin was The Walrus?
(“Shut the **** up, Buscemi!”)
“Once you hang a right at Hubert Humphrey,”
Said the streets of 1968 Chicago,
"It’s all ******* fascism anyway.”
That creep could roll, though, and as we know so well:
“Nobody ***** with The Jesus.”
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

INCOMING!
I just heard from an old girlfriend who is miles away,
Teaching school in Navajo Land.
The Big Rez:  a long day’s interstate katzenjammer,
A Route 66 nightmare by car, but by email,
Just down the block and round the corner.
I had previously closed an email to her with a frivolous
“Say hello to my stinky friend.”
It was a total non-sequitur, an iconic-moronic,
Ace Ventura-mutant line from Scarface,
Which may have meant–in my herbal lunch delirium—
That she should say hi to some mutual acquaintance
We mutually loathe, Or, perhaps an acknowledgement that she–
My surrogate Cameron Diaz–has a new **** buddy,
Of whom I am insanely jealous.
Or maybe it was a simple Seinfeld “about nothing.”
Who knows what goes on in that twisted *****’s head?
She spends the next two hours in a flood of funk,
A deluge of insecurity.
A veritable Katrina ****** of self-consciousness,
Interpreting my inane nonsense in terms of vaginal health.

Hey, you want to ruin a woman’s day?
Tell her, her **** smells.
Axiomighty Nov 2013
I'm a poet full time
I serve these sentences; they're my bloodlines
These killer rhymes got me behind iron bars
It's ironic because these bars save me from myself, rub' em together and get a spark
My self-expression serves as an anecdote to it's opposite act
Harm can't touch me when I don't react
I'm not playing, when I'm on fire like this you better take a picture, and frame
Because my ingenuity could snap, and fall short of fame
This prison jumpsuit is plane
And I'm about to jump out, in fact
I feel like I'm fallin', with no aim
But, I'm really flying, posing for headshots; I can’t be shot down because they’ll always underestimate their window of time as I escalate to higher panes
It's all perspective; everything ends up dyeing somehow
But why describe a story by its finish with the multi-personality mayhem
When you could define it by the ******, elevating like hemp, laughin, but they’ll know I’m not kidding at the end
'Sept I'm just sprouting up like its may
ahem listen up because this is just the beginning, elementary, first day
And I'm already spittin like I should be exspelled,
Kicked out, never schooled, hell
Just take over the game like I got a monopoly held hostage
Got Scotian Power, I'm overcharged and tired of these sellouts ******* the page
This ainte a hoes stage
By *** I mean any tool who never dag
Never worked and got their hands ***** for little pay
So step aside, or a circle, surround me like sharks
Try and tare me apart, and I'll just write about it
That’s art, you'll self destruct in your jealous rage
You're baked if you think you're stopping me, when you were born they said, "this pie sees"
*****, I'm a Pisces, this is my age
Too late to stop, already took out the cleaver and pulled up my sleeves
******' getting my peace
And don't be shocked by my curse words please
There's a reason my poetic heart monitor goes beep, beep, beep
Because to peak, I have to express these things
It's called my life line for a reason, I use it when I need the audience to know
That I'm going to deep
To the microscopic level
So you can see the demons that keep this ***** beating
And you'll know I flat lined
When I leave something unsaid
Because I don't shoot blanks until I've done my time
That is why I never make the last sentence rhyme
Because I won't stop writing until I die
So, as long my poem ends like this, you'll know I haven't yet served my life sentence.
Cadence Jun 2018
6/21/2018

The night is alive with possibility
The suspense is killing me
Lightning strikes a pose
And thunder comes to me
deeply
Seeping through atmosphere
Home is here
Home is where a gaze holds you safe and a shoulder keeps you steadfast
Cognitive dissonance
I cannot live with this policy ripping through my arteries, this image won’t stop coming to me
A 9-months old baby
In an orange jumpsuit
In a cage in a city
Unclaimed, unwritten, undocumented, unforgiven for the sins of colonialism
Unforgivable
Where were you when ****** branded the Jews?
Then you are accountable too
Comfortable at home, wishing I could do more to end this insanity. Call your representatives please
Dane Perczak Feb 2014
It's about 2:30 in the morning
there you stand
a janitor
weilding your gigantic
paintbrush
in a full jumpsuit
and a bald cap.
Nobody's around.
The mophead slaps the ground
you dance with it
Swirling it all
across the checkered tile
with such grace
and such beauty!
Soak
Swash
Squeeze
Repeat.
What magnificent art
Such extraordinary
masterpieces
being created
night after night
across this marble floor!
Why,
Michaelangelo would be
turning in his grave!
A shame though,
That the paint is clear
and it dries away in about
15-20 minutes
and no one will
ever see or know
the greatest art ever created
by you,
the unknown custodian,
the master of sanitations,
the mop artist.
Can art still be beautiful if no one is around to admire it?
Tim Knight Jan 2013
a poem for the presumed dead, French Hostage, Denis Allex*

An unmapped forest
grew upon chin
and cheek;
3 years in the making,
the no shaving,
helped to grow by
his tears from his crying.

Orange, orange,
orange again jumpsuit,
prisoner in the arms
of those whom shoot-
not to wound, but fire
with the intent to surround
and then to
close in
to cap a bullet for the ****.

Fire flares into the night
so phosphorous full
stops hail down, and on
the floor in front of the believers,
a paragraph shall form, with perfectly
placed punctuation;
detailing and listing
why they plucked this man
from a French farmhouse village,
and let him grow young,
in fear,
in this far, middle eastern haven.
http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com

— The End —