Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Now Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime
Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl,
When Adam waked, so customed; for his sleep
Was aery-light, from pure digestion bred,
And temperate vapours bland, which the only sound
Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora’s fan,
Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song
Of birds on every bough; so much the more
His wonder was to find unwakened Eve
With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek,
As through unquiet rest:  He, on his side
Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love
Hung over her enamoured, and beheld
Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice
Mild, as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
Her hand soft touching, whispered thus.  Awake,
My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,
Heaven’s last best gift, my ever new delight!
Awake:  The morning shines, and the fresh field
Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring
Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove,
What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed,
How nature paints her colours, how the bee
Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet.
Such whispering waked her, but with startled eye
On Adam, whom embracing, thus she spake.
O sole in whom my thoughts find all repose,
My glory, my perfection! glad I see
Thy face, and morn returned; for I this night
(Such night till this I never passed) have dreamed,
If dreamed, not, as I oft am wont, of thee,
Works of day past, or morrow’s next design,
But of offence and trouble, which my mind
Knew never till this irksome night:  Methought,
Close at mine ear one called me forth to walk
With gentle voice;  I thought it thine: It said,
‘Why sleepest thou, Eve? now is the pleasant time,
‘The cool, the silent, save where silence yields
‘To the night-warbling bird, that now awake
‘Tunes sweetest his love-laboured song; now reigns
‘Full-orbed the moon, and with more pleasing light
‘Shadowy sets off the face of things; in vain,
‘If none regard; Heaven wakes with all his eyes,
‘Whom to behold but thee, Nature’s desire?
‘In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment
‘Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze.’
I rose as at thy call, but found thee not;
To find thee I directed then my walk;
And on, methought, alone I passed through ways
That brought me on a sudden to the tree
Of interdicted knowledge: fair it seemed,
Much fairer to my fancy than by day:
And, as I wondering looked, beside it stood
One shaped and winged like one of those from Heaven
By us oft seen; his dewy locks distilled
Ambrosia; on that tree he also gazed;
And ‘O fair plant,’ said he, ‘with fruit surcharged,
‘Deigns none to ease thy load, and taste thy sweet,
‘Nor God, nor Man?  Is knowledge so despised?
‘Or envy, or what reserve forbids to taste?
‘Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold
‘Longer thy offered good; why else set here?
This said, he paused not, but with venturous arm
He plucked, he tasted; me damp horrour chilled
At such bold words vouched with a deed so bold:
But he thus, overjoyed; ‘O fruit divine,
‘Sweet of thyself, but much more sweet thus cropt,
‘Forbidden here, it seems, as only fit
‘For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men:
‘And why not Gods of Men; since good, the more
‘Communicated, more abundant grows,
‘The author not impaired, but honoured more?
‘Here, happy creature, fair angelick Eve!
‘Partake thou also; happy though thou art,
‘Happier thou mayest be, worthier canst not be:
‘Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods
‘Thyself a Goddess, not to earth confined,
‘But sometimes in the air, as we, sometimes
‘Ascend to Heaven, by merit thine, and see
‘What life the Gods live there, and such live thou!’
So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held,
Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part
Which he had plucked; the pleasant savoury smell
So quickened appetite, that I, methought,
Could not but taste.  Forthwith up to the clouds
With him I flew, and underneath beheld
The earth outstretched immense, a prospect wide
And various:  Wondering at my flight and change
To this high exaltation; suddenly
My guide was gone, and I, methought, sunk down,
And fell asleep; but O, how glad I waked
To find this but a dream!  Thus Eve her night
Related, and thus Adam answered sad.
Best image of myself, and dearer half,
The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep
Affects me equally; nor can I like
This uncouth dream, of evil sprung, I fear;
Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none,
Created pure.  But know that in the soul
Are many lesser faculties, that serve
Reason as chief; among these Fancy next
Her office holds; of all external things
Which the five watchful senses represent,
She forms imaginations, aery shapes,
Which Reason, joining or disjoining, frames
All what we affirm or what deny, and call
Our knowledge or opinion; then retires
Into her private cell, when nature rests.
Oft in her absence mimick Fancy wakes
To imitate her; but, misjoining shapes,
Wild work produces oft, and most in dreams;
Ill matching words and deeds long past or late.
Some such resemblances, methinks, I find
Of our last evening’s talk, in this thy dream,
But with addition strange; yet be not sad.
Evil into the mind of God or Man
May come and go, so unreproved, and leave
No spot or blame behind:  Which gives me hope
That what in sleep thou didst abhor to dream,
Waking thou never will consent to do.
Be not disheartened then, nor cloud those looks,
That wont to be more cheerful and serene,
Than when fair morning first smiles on the world;
And let us to our fresh employments rise
Among the groves, the fountains, and the flowers
That open now their choisest bosomed smells,
Reserved from night, and kept for thee in store.
So cheered he his fair spouse, and she was cheered;
But silently a gentle tear let fall
From either eye, and wiped them with her hair;
Two other precious drops that ready stood,
Each in their crystal sluice, he ere they fell
Kissed, as the gracious signs of sweet remorse
And pious awe, that feared to have offended.
So all was cleared, and to the field they haste.
But first, from under shady arborous roof
Soon as they forth were come to open sight
Of day-spring, and the sun, who, scarce up-risen,
With wheels yet hovering o’er the ocean-brim,
Shot parallel to the earth his dewy ray,
Discovering in wide landskip all the east
Of Paradise and Eden’s happy plains,
Lowly they bowed adoring, and began
Their orisons, each morning duly paid
In various style; for neither various style
Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise
Their Maker, in fit strains pronounced, or sung
Unmeditated; such prompt eloquence
Flowed from their lips, in prose or numerous verse,
More tuneable than needed lute or harp
To add more sweetness; and they thus began.
These are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty!  Thine this universal frame,
Thus wonderous fair;  Thyself how wonderous then!
Unspeakable, who sitst above these heavens
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in Heaven
On Earth join all ye Creatures to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crownest the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climbest,
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fallest.
Moon, that now meetest the orient sun, now flyest,
With the fixed Stars, fixed in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wandering Fires, that move
In mystick dance not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness called up light.
Air, and ye Elements, the eldest birth
Of Nature’s womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye Mists and Exhalations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world’s great Author rise;
Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling still advance his praise.
His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and, wave your tops, ye Pines,
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living Souls:  Ye Birds,
That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark!
So prayed they innocent, and to their thoughts
Firm peace recovered soon, and wonted calm.
On to their morning’s rural work they haste,
Among sweet dews and flowers; where any row
Of fruit-trees over-woody reached too far
Their pampered boughs, and needed hands to check
Fruitless embraces: or they led the vine
To wed her elm; she, spoused, about him twines
Her marriageable arms, and with him brings
Her dower, the adopted clusters, to adorn
His barren leaves.  Them thus employed beheld
With pity Heaven’s high King, and to him called
Raphael, the sociable Spirit, that deigned
To travel with Tobias, and secured
His marriage with the seventimes-wedded maid.
Raphael, said he, thou hearest what stir on Earth
Satan, from Hell ’scaped through the darksome gulf,
Hath raised in Paradise; and how disturbed
This night the human pair; how he designs
In them at once to ruin all mankind.
Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend
Converse with Adam, in what bower or shade
Thou findest him from the heat of noon retired,
To respite his day-labour with repast,
Or with repose; and such discourse bring on,
As may advise him of his happy state,
Happiness in his power left free to will,
Left to his own free will, his will though free,
Yet mutable; whence warn him to beware
He swerve not, too secure:  Tell him withal
His danger, and from whom; what enemy,
Late fallen himself from Heaven, is plotting now
The fall of others from like state of bliss;
By violence? no, for that shall be withstood;
But by deceit and lies:  This let him know,
Lest, wilfully transgressing, he pretend
Surprisal, unadmonished, unforewarned.
So spake the Eternal Father, and fulfilled
All justice:  Nor delayed the winged Saint
After his charge received; but from among
Thousand celestial Ardours, where he stood
Veiled with his gorgeous wings, up springing light,
Flew through the midst of Heaven; the angelick quires,
On each hand parting, to his speed gave way
Through all the empyreal road; till, at the gate
Of Heaven arrived, the gate self-opened wide
On golden hinges turning, as by work
Divine the sovran Architect had framed.
From hence no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight,
Star interposed, however small he sees,
Not unconformed to other shining globes,
Earth, and the garden of God, with cedars crowned
Above all hills.  As when by night the glass
Of Galileo, less assured, observes
Imagined lands and regions in the moon:
Or pilot, from amidst the Cyclades
Delos or Samos first appearing, kens
A cloudy spot.  Down thither prone in flight
He speeds, and through the vast ethereal sky
Sails between worlds and worlds, with steady wing
Now on the polar winds, then with quick fan
Winnows the buxom air; till, within soar
Of towering eagles, to all the fowls he seems
A phoenix, gazed by all as that sole bird,
When, to enshrine his reliques in the Sun’s
Bright temple, to Egyptian Thebes he flies.
At once on the eastern cliff of Paradise
He lights, and to his proper shape returns
A Seraph winged:  Six wings he wore, to shade
His lineaments divine; the pair that clad
Each shoulder broad, came mantling o’er his breast
With regal ornament; the middle pair
Girt like a starry zone his waist, and round
Skirted his ***** and thighs with downy gold
And colours dipt in Heaven; the third his feet
Shadowed from either heel with feathered mail,
Sky-tinctured grain.  Like Maia’s son he stood,
And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance filled
The circuit wide.  Straight knew him all the bands
Of Angels under watch; and to his state,
And to his message high, in honour rise;
For on some message high they guessed him bound.
Their glittering tents he passed, and now is come
Into the blissful field, through groves of myrrh,
And flowering odours, cassia, nard, and balm;
A wilderness of sweets; for Nature here
Wantoned as in her prime, and played at will
Her ****** fancies pouring forth more sweet,
Wild above rule or art, enormous bliss.
Him through the spicy forest onward come
Adam discerned, as in the door he sat
Of his cool bower, while now the mounted sun
Shot down direct his fervid rays to warm
Earth’s inmost womb, more warmth than Adam needs:
And Eve within, due at her hour prepared
For dinner savoury fruits, of taste to please
True appetite, and not disrelish thirst
Of nectarous draughts between, from milky stream,
Berry or grape:  To whom thus Adam called.
Haste hither, Eve, and worth thy sight behold
Eastward among those trees, what glorious shape
Comes this way moving; seems another morn
Risen on mid-noon; some great behest from Heaven
To us perhaps he brings, and will vouchsafe
This day to be our guest.  But go with speed,
And, what thy stores contain, bring forth, and pour
Abundance, fit to honour and receive
Our heavenly stranger:  Well we may afford
Our givers their own gifts, and large bestow
From large bestowed, where Nature multiplies
Her fertile growth, and by disburthening grows
More fruitful, which instructs us not to spare.
To whom thus Eve.  Adam, earth’s hallowed mould,
Of God inspired! small store will serve, where store,
All seasons, ripe for use hangs on the stalk;
Save what by frugal storing firmness gains
To nourish, and superfluous moist consumes:
But I will haste, and from each bough and brake,
Each plant and juciest gourd, will pluck such choice
To entertain our Angel-guest, as he
Beholding shall confess, that here on Earth
God hath dispensed his bounties as in Heaven.
So saying, with dispatchful looks in haste
She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent
What choice to choose for delicacy best,
What order, so contrived as not to mix
Tastes, not well joined, inelegant, but bring
Taste after taste upheld with kindliest change;
Bestirs her then, and from each tender stalk
Whatever Earth, all-bearing mother, yields
In India East or West, or middle shore
In Pontus or the Punick coast, or where
Alcinous reigned, fruit of all kinds, in coat
Rough, or smooth rind, or bearded husk, or shell,
She gathers, tribute large, and on the board
Heaps with unsparing hand; for drink the grape
She crushes, inoffensive must, and meaths
From many a berry, and from sweet kernels pressed
She tempers dulcet creams; nor these to hold
Wants her fit vessels pure; then strows the ground
With rose and odours from the shrub unfumed.
Mean while our primitive great sire, to meet
His God-like guest, walks forth, without more train
Accompanied than with his own complete
Perfections; in himself was all his state,
More solemn than the tedious pomp that waits
On princes, when their rich retinue long
Of horses led, and gro
st64 Mar 2013
Driftin'.........driftin'......driftin'.......

Oh, liftin'........liftin'......lift us

Carryin'.......carryin'.......carry away....

Ah, Jesus .....

Driftin' on this sea
That nobody can see.....

Come.....come with me......
Let us meet that rising tide
Let us drift away.....
On celestial kites.

High...high....higher

Ah, Jesus
Please.....oh, please


Tides away on a kite
Take this filter, baby
You can't cut smoke
So, float along....on celestial kites.

Take it in, **** it in
Wait, wait, not so deep
There, easy does the trick now
Now, we can sail away again....

I will be your exquisite poesy
You can eat me, all you want
Yes, I'm your intense poem, take me
Absorb the tides in me....

You float my boat up in the sky
My beautiful buoy, you are
Hover gentle over me
Look kind into my eyes......

Hang me in the sky
And peg your love on me
Lay me on the moon
And pierce my mind with stars....

Plop me on a nimbus cloud
Nay, I will not fall through
Forsooth, I'll sail on wind and gale
To catch that kite to you!

How I long for that box to open
Oh, do lemme out! I smell the breeze....
I'll die sweetly, perchance
To be on your celestial kite.

Leave me not sodden and sick
Let's fly high on celestial kites
Where angels pray to kiss
These high skies no-one kens.

Ah, Jesus....

Let me not die bereft of hope
To drift away...... with you.....
Ah.......to snag that tail-end ribbon
And hail this ride on your kite!



Star Toucher, 12 March 2013
Make of it . . . as far as ye mind canst see fit . . .
She always burned her
Barbie dolls after she cut
All the hair of that plastic,
Magic perfect blonde ****

She was 11 and had just
Always hated how all
Her family and friends kept
On giving her a doll

That was perfect and had all
And she just couldn't see
The relevance and the elephant
In the room is insecurity

So at 11 she Cant see what she is
but what she is not
her imperfections made her check
If Barbies got what she got

But Barbie did not barbies
perky with both ***** and ****
Her legs don't grow hair
And she don't need cover up

And her short legs look
Nothing like barbies do
Even her *** and
Thighs are all proportioned too

Fit her spectacular body's frame
that frames her reflexion
with the blame to detain
what remained as complexion

Of her oily pimpled skin that
Is too fair and needs a tan
And living up to all that not to
Mention a corvette and a man

That's why Barbie hangs across
Her closet where her mom
Saw the Barbie dolls She hung
by the neck yelling what's wrong

butShe just masks how she
felt so a head doctor was
a psychiatrist who sighed
A bit but had sided with her cause

She was an ugly duckling herself
That Never grew to be pretty
But the city has no pitty for no
Pretty so best you be witty

And told her to keep with the
hate she now held for Barbie
and before She left the doctor said
**** a corvette get a Ferrari

So She left happy but hardly
Cured of her obsession
Over beauty and style,
With a classy shoe collection

But she is now only 11
And reassures herself that she
Is no barbie and would repeat
barbies not prettier than me, and

Til she believes it she still burns them
To hang them soar
Shows a mirror to the bald barbie so
She knows she's not pretty no more

See what its like to feel too short
as She cuts at the knee
She says" i can be more
like Barbie if she's more like me"

Wheres obese Barbie,
or Immigrant Barbie from far
Black haired or short haired Barbie
Who's bus pass is her car

How about welfare Barbie or
realistic Barbie anything but
A smooth long haired long legged
Perfect shaped ***** and ****

With Friggin hips child birth was
Not made for and why
She asks Can't barbie have flaws so
I can pause the feeling that I

Will fail before I try if I
Am expected to be
So beautiful and Barbie never talks
No wonder kens easy to please

the message seems look pretty and
Dont talks all u need
So she hangs them violently
but quietly wishing they would bleed

But as she gets older shell
Like herself more and won't dwell
That god didn't make her a Barbie
maybe hes not as good as matel.
Wee Angus on his wae frae work
would hit tha pub fa a perk
O' Tennents lager frae tha keg
whiles chatting up tha barmaid Meg
A pint or twa there wae friens
a' bleathering awa like scholars an Deans
Debators O Parlimentary views
Ministers preaching o'er tha pews
Wae drink in hand they'd laugh their fill
tha glory Mead upon their bill
Yelping like some bairney pups
catching breeths atween their sups.

(nae wiser a man than yin filled wae ale
Nae greater a time than while drinking frae tha Grail.)

In football games they A' would linger
or singing songs for all's a singer
Nae matter how bad tha voice
a' would request their favorite choice
Happy all wae drink in hand
while holding up the bar they stand
In rattled curses tae tha bumping airms
while viewing o'er some lassies chairms
Whispering oot all dreams an desires
that drink within them all inspires
An' Angus kens that soon or late
he tae hame must tak tha gate.

Kenning tae deep doun inside
his drunken breath he'd better hide
Saying fareweel tae friens and foes
leaing ahind tha pub's warm burning coals
Doun he stummels tae tha chippy
tha air ootside tis crisp an nippy
Making him drunker than afore
he side steps frae door tae door
Eating his fish supper, enjoying each bite
thinking aboot all that's happened tha night.
Till there he rouns tha corner street
His hame sae warmly it does greet,
Falling o'er tha step ootside his hame
Tha door it opens, Behold his sullen Dame
Trying tae act sober wae all his might
afore his wifie here tha night
But she's nae fool nor blind tae see
his daft antics, his blabbering plea.

In comes Angus wae words O' love
tae face tha thumping slap an shove
Her roaring voice would put fear intae tha Deil
Hear wee Angus weep an squeal.

(What type O' life drink it brings
that great at first yet later stings
What worth has man tae waste his life
wae drinks illusions an its strife.
Sooner or later as true as Hell
Yin cannie live save by its spell
getting worse an worse day by day
while friens an family turn away
An Angus wheither he kens or no
has drifted where tha drunkards go
An time shall tell what fate bestows
for tha Curse O Ale, nae man knows.)

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

        Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
        Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
        Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
        The short and simple annals of the poor.
                  (Gray, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”)

  My lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend!
      No mercenary bard his homage pays;
    With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end:
      My dearest meed a friend’s esteem and praise.
      To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
    The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene;
      The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
    What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!

  November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh,
      The short’ning winter day is near a close;
    The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh,
      The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose;
    The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,—
    This night his weekly moil is at an end,—
      Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes,
    Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

  At length his lonely cot appears in view,
      Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
    Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
      To meet their dad, wi’ flichterin noise an’ glee.
      His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
    His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,
      The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
    Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
An’ makes him quite forget his labour an’ his toil.

  Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
      At service out, amang the farmers roun’;
    Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
      A cannie errand to a neibor toun:
      Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
    In youthfu’ bloom, love sparkling in her e’e,
      Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown,
    Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

  With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet,
      An’ each for other’s weelfare kindly spiers:
    The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet;
      Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
      The parents partial eye their hopeful years;
    Anticipation forward points the view;
      The mother, wi’ her needle an’ her sheers,
    Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new;
The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.

  Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command
      The younkers a’ are warned to obey;
    An’ mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand,
      An’ ne’er tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play:
      “An’ O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
    An’ mind your duty, duly, morn an’ night!
      Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray,
    Implore his counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!”

  But hark! a rap comes gently to the door.
      Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same,
    Tells how a neebor lad cam o’er the moor,
      To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
      The wily mother sees the conscious flame
    Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek;
      Wi’ heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name,
      While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleas’d the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.

  Wi’ kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben,
      A strappin youth; he takes the mother’s eye;
    Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill taen;
      The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
      The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
    But, blate and laithfu’, scarce can weel behave;
      The mother wi’ a woman’s wiles can spy
    What maks the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae grave,
Weel pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.

  O happy love! where love like this is found!
      O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
    I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round,
      And sage experience bids me this declare—
    “If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
      One cordial in this melancholy vale,
      ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
    In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev’ning gale.”

  Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
      A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
    That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art
      Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth?
      Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth!
    Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d?
      Is there no pity, no relenting truth,
    Points to the parents fondling o’er their child,
Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild?

  But now the supper crowns their simple board,
      The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food;
    The soupe their only hawkie does afford,
      That yont the hallan snugly chows her cud.
      The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
    To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck fell,
      An’ aft he’s prest, an’ aft he ca’s it guid;
    The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How ’twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.

  The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face,
      They round the ingle form a circle wide;
    The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace,
      The big ha’-Bible, ance his father’s pride;
      His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,
    His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
      Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
    He wales a portion with judicious care;
And, “Let us worship God,” he says with solemn air.

  They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
      They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
    Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise,
      Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name,
      Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame,
    The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays.
      Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame;
      The tickl’d ear no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they, with our Creator’s praise.

  The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
      How Abram was the friend of God on high;
    Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
      With Amalek’s ungracious progeny;
      Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
    Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire;
      Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
    Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

  Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
      How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
    How He, who bore in Heaven the second name
      Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:
      How His first followers and servants sped;
    The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
      How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
    Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.

  Then kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King,
      The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
    Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,”
      That thus they all shall meet in future days:
      There ever bask in uncreated rays,
    No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
      Together hymning their Creator’s praise,
    In such society, yet still more dear,
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

  Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride
      In all the pomp of method and of art,
    When men display to congregations wide
      Devotion’s ev’ry grace except the heart!
      The Pow’r, incens’d, the pageant will desert,
    The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
      But haply in some cottage far apart
    May hear, well pleas’d, the language of the soul,
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol.

  Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way;
      The youngling cottagers retire to rest;
    The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
      And proffer up to Heav’n the warm request,
      That He who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest,
    And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride,
      Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
    For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

  From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs,
      That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad:
    Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
      “An honest man’s the noblest work of God”:
      And certes, in fair Virtue’s heavenly road,
    The cottage leaves the palace far behind:
      What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load,
    Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d!

  O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
      For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
    Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
      Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
      And, oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
    From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile!
      Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent,
    A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle.

  O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide
      That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
    Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
      Or nobly die, the second glorious part,—
      (The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art,
    His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
      O never, never Scotia’s realm desert,
    But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
Cedric McClester Jul 2020
By: Cedric McClester

It’s past time
That they make amends
The Karens, the  Beckys
And Kens
It’s high time
That they cleanse
The focus of their lens
If they want to be our friends

It’s their privileged
Attitudes
That alters
Our objective moods
See it’s hard
To reconcile
The high level
Of their bile

The Karens, the Beckys
And Kens
Are following
A sad trend
It doesn’t matter
The message they send
Or the people
That they offend

So if they
Take objection
For the naming
Selection
Or should demand
A correction
Can they then
Change their complexion?



















Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2020.  All rights reserved
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TO­ SMILE BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE DOES :) IS:

- An act of anarchy, especially if you don't have any teeth :D

- Because all beings are blessed Bees
  
- Certain sign of cretenism or genuine Charm

- Denominative sense of digestion is Disturbing

- Ethically wrong Endeavor

- Fascinating and freeking fabulous if you intend to F. . .  

- Gorgeous as Geometry

- Hot on Hotties

- Imature and implies lack of Integrity

- Jibberish

- Keen rediscovering so many Keens or Kens
    
- Lovely on Lovely ones (once)

- Magnificent Mimicry

- Negating the jokers(or your own) inteligence / numb is Numb

- Onthological urge to survive among jungle beasts - fangs are
   quintessential urban asset. .or. . Smile-The-Power-Wilder-Open      

- Pertinent in Parliament

- Quiet resistance behind a cold minded rebellions league - quitting in few minutes  kicking some mthf harassing ****** pervert - to hard Quiver

- Real lovely strenght to feel and see each other happy  

- Stupid on jokes = Joke Stupid  

- Tactics to climb up the social ledder or/end further down the Thongs

- U can't admit you didn't get it; u2

- Violation of virtues as (in vino) Veritas

- Wonderful! To see people happy is healthy, positive and Wise!  

- X times better than being in low energy

- You love your beloved and you are loved by your beloved love

- Zooming at the ' zoo' of human behaviour -
    Amusing as Zorro-Art-Is-MusssssssssseumZ
Imagined by
Impeccable Space
Poetic love
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sleepy Sigh May 2011
Let’s not go chasing ants today.
The grass is gone
And dirt won’t burn anyway.
Why not get to work with me
And let your memory go out to the yard to play?

Let’s stay away from the familiar doors
And antique halls
Whose windows open only to walls, anyway.
Let’s ditch the dollhouse unopened,
Still in the box.
You and I have business in the life-sized world.

Bin the old plastic flags,
Still furled in bags, let them go to the ground
In triangles over G.I. Joe caskets.
Stuff your red lunchbox with as many
Kens and Barbies as you can
And let’s bury them in someone else’s playpen.

We should burn that old forest down
Where we used to do magic,
So no one can cut down the trees
And make planks or papers -
Because it would be a ***** to find them,
(Not to mention climb them) but
I suppose you can’t go torching forests.

Still,
Chuck that cigarette in the bushes.
Maybe something will catch.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2020
~for yocum~
<>

the quality of commitment is not
restrained by quantity, nor by size,
impressed by nylon sheerest volume,
avoirdupois grams, Imperial weight,
steeled feathers, immeasurable, one ton
tips no true scale into red lined sincerity

the necessary respectful silences it requires,
the social nearness of geo-distancing,
all need prodigal acceptance,
like a long lost son, welcomed without questioning

we flawed, banded by many weaknesses, poorly confessed,
yet, no excuses tendered, to it, long ago surrendered,
but understand this, constancy is  not judged
by the frequency of our waves, but by the fervor of an

undertow of unwavering constancy

one that unceasingly rages, beneath superficial, steady waves,
and through the thickened, roughed old skin separating atmospheres,
I have grasped your heartened essence man,
found its depths, blessed it with words, you’ve never fathomed

surely you will growl at this, claiming obfuscation,
excuses not in your vocabulary, nor should it be,
though you require the steady reassurance of frequent brevity

so and yet, but and still,

I deny your claims, what you think, incorrect,
cause I know my heart, and well it kens what lays in thine,
what’s in yours is in mine, deep planted, a full nut grove flowering,
your complaints, mine as well, all part parceled, with grace accepted

for what is friendship but the path
through parted seas, joining two borders,
the best part of that is the landed connectivity,
leading to where we two ends,
meet in laughing two-gether
old fools, younger-then-than-now,
committed, grumpy men.
Styles Jul 2014
I treat beef like lions in, the Ramada inn, dying to sign into the luncheon,
go to work,
     I punch in,
these beefcakez, is munchkins, my dough nuts, and bunch Keens.
We Brady Bunch,
and Punch like Kens -sheens.
we punching through functions
like a bunch of alienss at the Days Inns working equations off all kinds of ocassions, mostly Caucasian, facials so amazing, when their facebook, if they face them..I page in,and they page Kim, to let him, know that I'm waiting; the appointment meant, we dating, no promo, so stop your hating. take a selfy in the ****, stop ur waiting. ctrl, alt, delete. there's no.escaping- staple the email to your upper lip, recycle trash every other weak in. ***. Ginny, run, Freddy creeping. slow, creepy walk, Jason mask out the Lake Inn, my neighbors laughed, Chevy chasing there ***, child's play with a ****** hockey mask, i'm up to task. dog had a limp,so I made him part of the cast! Bruce Lee kicked, thier ******* ***, I'm talking full body cast.
Spencer Craig Dec 2014
If
Whenever I write about love it is in the conditional tense: "if"
"I think" "we would" "we could". it is all pensive.
I am not even in the friend zone, i am in a friend ditch
and i am scared she'll refuse me rope if i present this.
i can write beautiful poems and i can pen rich
Thoughts on paper, but if thats all i do, then this
is all futile like me playing Serena in tennis.
i can pay every single type of penance
but if all I am doing is being apprehensive
then does it even matter if she kens this?
I was about to write a love poem and then i was like wait you don't have any experience with real love silly. So i made one about how i don't know about it and how me writing about it is in vain... idk why i gave you the back story i sometimes don't know what to put here... k bye!
Poetoftheway Jun 2015
unfailing clockwork come,
no surcease tendered from its
onerous, regulated,
on-time scheduled,
yet, untimely demands

arise to serve,
serve the sentence,
the sentence of
"out, out,"
whether candle or spot,
but there be no out,
damnable or otherwise

flailing words,
uttered no matter how,
the burden of the inexorable
is freshened daily,
yet horribly unchanged

failing words,
dent not the injustice of,
the condemnation of,
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow

for if the play's the thing,
this thing,
on the morrow,
performed eight times a week,
the sound and the fury
of applause fading,
a chiming of intermission ending,
the sets struck,
yet the tick of tomorrow,
is but the tock,
the switch off
of today
that
Doesn't Work

the script, well memorized,
it's mastery demands  perfunctory performance,
and
an ending that sates,
but playwright,
none provides,
his woeful signature
his pas de coup,

signifying
that tomorrow returns faithfully,
desirious of its unfulfilled dissatisfaction,
for it kens none other
though calling out,
"out, out,"
but there be no out
riffing on
Macbeth’s short soliloquy in

Act V, scene v:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
           (V.v.18–27)
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
christianity acknowledges its prime lesson
only when laws of the land are in place
and effectively disposed of,
easily done when the culprit in prison
lazing about, easily done there
like john paul ii, to forgive once in the zoological
jurisprudence enclosure, easily done there,
but outside?
my prime culprit who harmed
sat with me during english class shoulder to shoulder,
who chanced a poetic expression
at the end of secondary schooling,
who i played a happy birthday on the guitar:
who’s mother i could have adored as my own,
who i would have waited for hours on end
till our meeting...
but alas that wasn’t to be...
the prime suspect inflicted me with a fake mental disorder...
one i was trying to be rid of over these past eight years,
the woman who craved so much love she encountered
in the poker discard that she only could enclose the one
given by first stripping the man’s caution of the ******,
to later ingest anti-pregnancy pills,
ask the man to buy an engagement ring...
and then stop taking the contraceptive pills
in order to feed the lie of the pills’ placebo...
the friend of childhood, the lawyer decided to
outstretch and become a judge...
of not noble origin he now stands in his profession
outside the bird cage hearing law...
with his own encounter now solidly expressed
by dodging bullets that might hit him but never do...
so is my ode through?
nah... i have an insolent crowd to deal with...
the mockers and magpies
like it was a yacht i had in my hand or a diamond...
******* and fast cars are not the only worthy reward...
the last time i’ll trust a woman
it’ll be my mother speaking her epithaph with assured death...
then i’m through...
but i hope to drink myself to death... like a true writer would care
to mind a legacy...
i don’t mind... i have “morally superior” stoners
franchise on the smoky ****...
they resolved the matter by calling all alcoholics
the stella artois crew...
throw in some metabolic facts and you tend to forget
alcohol is a calorie intake...
the homosexuals couldn’t take it...
even the homosexuals broke down...
all the trans-gender fancies gave the homosexuals legality
and a step into sanity...
it’s odd, years of stigmatised homosexuality
gone within years... acceptance speeches,
heretosexuals siding with the arguments of homosexuality:
trans-gender is too much, even for us!
baphomet rose up in his chariot with **** that
could not be milked unless pouring of celluloid
and gave birth to minature barbies and kens...
but what really breaks my heart is the sheer anonymity
in the mechanics of democracy...
voting in democracy is like *******...
in the x-booth... and then the quick exchange of power
lasting five years... it seems no one is responsible anymore...
quickly implemented and as quickly signed off
without a legislation of worth signature...
i had this dream last night...
i was making love to this ****** girl (someone has to,
as burroughs said: you in for sloppy seconds
or the starter of chaotic emotion when acknowledging
a sexuality of the otherwise hermaphrodite teen mind?),
then i started to paint with blood soaked phallus on a wall
and then started urinating blood on the wall of emerging graffiti...
in the other room people were shouting: but she’s only a child!
but she’s only a child!
then a girl and a boy entered the room i was in...
and from their hands placed in my hand
four necklaces... ****** mary medallions
that placed, in my head, were heavier than expected.
in reality i tried to use my phallus as a scalpel on first attempt...
so why mutilate the girl if the ****** curtain can be cut?
such are the times that it has never felt more
ridiculous to allow women the freedom with the rich male hares
and the subsequent freedom of settling down
with some dumb schmuck ******* when the fun becomes tedious
and the biological clock echoes like the clock
in the croc's belly on peter pan island;
the last time i spotted a noble swan
i also spotted a drunk pigeon taking a **** on nelson’s head.
lucia vieites May 2015
I learned a lot about you today
and, let's just say, I feel pretty bad
not because of the things you did, I'm sad because I had no clue.
Sitting like I used to, with my Kellies, Barbies, and Kens
I paid no mind to how awful you used to dress,
how your blowout was always a mess,
or how you left our family stressed to clean up your mistakes
Yes, I had my fake and imaginary friends but you're 9 years older than me and had them too
I just wish I could've helped you through that time
the time when jail cells closed you in and trapped the smoke inside your lungs
like how every morning, I wash my face, teeth, and tongue
you would watch your back as you packed your bae, Mary Jane into your bag and hoped not to get caught.
And my 7-year-old thoughts couldn't have done anything to help
but, a couple years later, you gave up the kelp that lit YOU and smoked YOU until you were gone
But here you are, making songs and listening to the poems I write
and may I be right to say that I'm not 7 and you're not 17 anymore
the door of your false happiness has shut
but you're my brother and I love you
I just wish I could've been there for you sooner.
5-4-2015
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2017
~~
for Danel Kessler^
~~~

in the early morning
of one's youth,
going to synagogue,
quite regularly,
a fabulous, honorably believing,
father's sole request,
more than a half-century ago

time eroded,
the fallacies of organizing a public meeting time
with a deity who seemed unavailable,
when most needed

instead we chatted
in the late of night of the early morning,
a time and places of my choosing,
for human fools do like  a setting regular,
comfort food for the divine spark within

rising/writing for early morning
poetry mass,
was a noted feature of the twofold meaning
of my latter years

where and whence, now and thence,
irreverent dialogue
tween the invisible one,
that would be me,

(can you see me now?)
and the visible one,
the you-know-who-
maker-of-custom-suited souls,

(can "you" see me now?)

*had become  
quite the regular artistes salon

witty repartee, elegiac conversations,
the residuals, in a rain drain trapped,
products collected by the light of  the early dawning,
apres skiing of an all deep-night long mournful body scoring,
poetic raconteur-ing

heaping spoonfuls of two-way mutual chastising,
paeans to the divinity in human-inherent,
regular debate team features of a
contested dark bedroom,
lit only by tablet light bright,
one if by land, two if by sea,
which the shining path to be taken by
itinerant signal comedic essays,
crafted aboard frigates and kayaks
voyaging on turgid, turbulent rivers,
mean city streets, 
swath cut by switchblades of greed,
exploring stories of the dying lands
of an aging man
fed by the streaming videos tubing down
the veins and arteries of an aging poseur

so in the sleep hours,
when I did not dream,
instead nail bled from my hands
words upon  a cold sweaty screen
from fevered fingertips,
diatribe prayers of hope ever after,
after every
dialysis of the arrogance of human nature,
removing, diabolical urea of our tainted beings,
replacing, with granular molecules of wishful thinking

then it stopped, for unknown reasons,
unbegotten creativity, chilling like
***** and champagne layabouts,
on the upper shelf of a mind's refrigerator,
always ready, just in case,
say
a new borne terrorist atrocity,
a seasonal wistfulness flu,
a cold virus blue through the heart,
love came and went with nary a
how-the-hell-did-that-happen,
even a new born babe joy
to the family est arrivé,
comld torch that heirloom/heritage seeded
inert patented creativity
into anime wakefulness

so here, so hear, I paid-pause,
conclude-delude, at 4:44am on
January Seventeenth of Two Thousand and Seventeen,
winessed by numerals white on a blackened background,
of a digital alarm clock with time, temperature and
the lunar phase of a madman
who twice was Christ told
would be a poet/story teller,
like his mother

a bountiful clock telling,
precision information detailing,
a tale that tells about nothing about a man,
who no longer requires
an alarm reminder to attend
his own moring reborning mass,
on a regular basis,

for his disheartened verbs,
runaway convict adjectives,
con-nouns, whimpering exclamations,
all on the loose,
nice sounding,
but of no earthly use

his lips like (the book of) Ruth's,
move in silent prayer,
only two can hear,
but the low priest observing,
disbelieves, thinking the piety of the poet
is just drunken emotion, not devotion,
kens not the broken poems
of the morning mass service no more,
but for
this one, irregular,
unacceptable exception
5:18am 1/17/17

^
I don't think I can write a storytelling poem much better than this. So happily gift to Denel, who serves the gods of poetry and our works with devotion, and who wrote this and inspired me

You must begin early
while it is cool and your head clear
discernment, a sharpened tine
probing the rocky darkness
for all things latent and destructive...

You must delve as close
to the origin as possible
or the **** you think eradicated
will bide its time, germinating
in the still secret ground

waiting for light
to penetrate the moist earth
waking the sprout
who voraciously pushes up and out
a curled blemish

in your otherwise carefully tended garden.
you will only look for which road i have
  passed, with girth of oceans startled
  to hip-curve, bow-legged darling
  hiding behind pretense of rose frailty.

when words ripen, they fall.

from vaudeville of fools to silence
in all its exactness, i take my place
amongst people in stations, machines
adorning rotundas, courtyards to a flourish of twilight-bells, the men with retinas spry behind cloaks of smoke—

        plain, **** drunkenness assaults
the billion-blooded sea, each line fraught
with inebriation: a god is borrowed with
what light fruits from a slow nature, quick
to burst and torturously maimed in stride.

fated to arrive at one morning —
being in total placeness and making merry
once again, the dreary face waiting at
the portico of days collected.

when these words start to wind-hover,
a string of birds will appear clearer,
mounting umbilicus of lines.
as in hounds shear the metastasizing dark,
going back to chagrined kens,
i make truth out of the tragedy:
trace the source of this stream and find
my trampled body, floating with
   the sandalwood. when the still, clenched hand clock-punches,
   make real the insignia of my arrival:

words start with limbs to cross
  this scalped Earth which moves suddenly naked, leaning in, gropes you
in stillness, resuscitating the moon from
the working of insolvencies we rear
in derelicts of days.

drags it closely to ends — left trundling
in woe's wearisome vessel. and if in
this newly thatched home it screams,

let this voice deftly shred
so i may once more lie straight to your
half-illuminated faces, a call i
only hear.
A poem about getting off work, writing and drinking. This was read last night at a poetry reading in Makati.
Prabhu Iyer May 2017
Before her there was substance
but no existence;
Hers the fire that animates,
bliss at the root of being.
She measured out the three spaces
that enmesh our worlds,
order from chaos;
Soothing hand that
touches our heart and heals
the our soul aching
through the throb of fate;
In the ochre hours when
a thousand songbirds hymn
she lies curled a creeper flower
breathing fragrance
in a gust of silken wind;
Mortal heart that kens not
the song of the dawns
Tracie Bulkley Mar 2014
------------------------------------------------------> I felt his perfect, plastic hands
               |                                                              As they touched my bleeding lips,
               |                                                                                           My broken arms
               |                                                                                    My blood-eagled ribs
               |                                                                                  He put me in the chest
               |                                                                               Buried me six feet under
               |                                                                        And never dug me up again
               |      Each pair of hands has its own set of Barbies or Kens
               |                               Just to play with every day
               |----------------------------------------------------------------­---
I found this room once                                                             |
In my secret home of dreams                                                  |
The room looked like my childhood                                       |
Just like it                                                                                   |
And these dolls                                                                          |
They lined the walls                                                                  |
Ken dolls                                                                                    |
Dozens upon dozens                                                                 |
Of my pretty little Ken dolls                                                     |
My dears                                                                                    |
Beautiful, each one                                                                    |
Blondes, brunettes, even one or two redheads                         |
Some brand new                                                                       |
And some showed little signs of wear                                      |
Little signs of having been loved by me                                 |
Tiny marks of minor hurt                                                        |
Some with little scratches on their arms                                 |
One with wing-shaped claw marks on his back                    |
Many with bleeding lips                                                          |
In the middle of the room                                                        |
There was a dirt hole in the floor                                            |
A chest,                                                                                     |
And a pile of broken dolls                                                       |
Oh, these were once my lovelies too                                      |
Four little beautiful Ken dolls                                                 |
Bleeding lips, open chests, and broken arms                        |
One by one                                                                              |
I placed them, gently as I could                                              |
In their tiny coffin                                                                    |
And buried them deep in the senseless earth                         |
Beneath my feet                                                                       |
Standing, wiping dirt from my hands                                  |
Hoping I could never have cause                                           |
To dig them up again                                                              |
But I glanced around the room                                          &nbsp
I genuinely want to know, can you guys basically tell what this is about?
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
well... i've just stumbled upon this channel
recently,
                                                             gavin mcinnes
      has been on my radar for some time,
    but then this guy comes along and grips
my attention... lionel nation...
                 and he's talking some pretty interesting
****, while selling his slap-friendly mug,
                      on a mug (oh the irony)...
but, i have this bach ear for making comparisons,
like this curse, for remembering
      people's face... i.e.?
         there were four of us, walking in the street
at night, a car pulls up... a pakistani jumps
out of the car, and snatches my friend's mobile
out of his hand...
                      i start looking at the license plate
of the car and tell one of my friends to note it down,
we go to the police station and report it...
    next thing i know, england has won the ashes
match
against australia, and i'm being asked to
recognise the culprit, through a series of mugshots
at a police-station, then standing in court,
    and arguing with the defendent's lawyer...
       who shows me the picture of the culprit and asks:
is this really the person you saw steal the mobile
phone?
         and i reply... see the date on this photograph?
it's 4 years old... people tend to change with ageing.
anyway...
      with relation to the youtubers?
    i don't know who's copying who...
         it might be gavin mcinnes copying the mannerisms
      of lionel nation, or the reversed...
      or maybe it's a billy joel's new york state of mind,
**** knows...
oh sure... i'm "down with the kids", the alt. news outlets,
               i'm into this current fetish,
like i might be watching ****** of, girls,
                                               simply *******:
i have to admit, having played with my neighbour's
girl, playing with barbies and kens...
         this is a step up... a big, step up...
                        she cut mine off, moulded it into plastic,
and now i'm just... waving my hand in the crotch area;
did my groin, really step into a sauna
            that i need to fan the missing part?
seminal squirt didst sanctify
   an anonymous boulder
when mercury dipped below
   hashtag mark registering colder

than usual temperatures circa
   winter of year 2000 in proximity
   to the sacred chapel
   at Valley Forge, Pennsylvania

   (house zing carillon player)
   rifling thru manilla folder
first inn search of apropos
   mailer daemon ***** muse sic,

   thence finely pitted secretly riddled with holes
   encoded sheet threaded thru bell jar contrivance
   sans, handy dandy mechanical holder
to accompany prurient powerful ******* pang
   bubbling (like the **** kens), and didst smolder

especially, cuz a free ranging
   NON GMO, **** in boots
hello kitty sauntered
   (emanating pheromone heat
   hand dill lee pronouncing feral passe faux foots),

dripping, seething with hormonal secretion
   uttered via vow welled roots
gluten and monosodiumglutinate free *****
   hapt tabby on the prowl ready
   for par laid view ****** piqued Saint Peter

   to enter heavenly labial shoots
rather than suffer frost bite
the above mew wing tigress attempted  
   to keep toasty warm
   ('thru minuscule tunnel

   lacked add **** quit light)
prickly endowment fired
   raging testosterone
   with braggadocio, brio, bravura and might

owing pretentiously pusillanimous feline
   fur reed black as night
hood hit attempt to cap cha moxie *******
   thus ensuing a mutually satisfactory plight

until a park ranger back his utility truck  
   than gregarious, felicitous, erogenous
then quick as greased lightening
   ***** creatures disappeared out ta sight.
Jester Jul 2020
I have aggression inside me.

Have you ever wanted to watch the world burn?
I mean really burn, not some small cinders, but a real bonfire.

I'm sick of being sick, I'm tired of being tired and I'm tired of being so ******* passive.

Six months into 2020 and here are some highlights

Remember when Australia was on fire?
****** hornets?
The Russian Oil Spill in the Arctic
Several cases of police brutality resulting in murders
The Hong Kong protests both volumes
Now ******* squirrels have been found in Colorado with the Bubonic Plague.
Another strain of Swine flu was found in China that was transmutable to humans and contained traces of the former swine flu
covid-19
The covid-19 protests.
Floods in February
Part of the United States is undergoing a record heat wave
Parts of India and Africa had to deal with record swarms of locusts
The second we stopped the lockdown in the states we went right back to mass shooting
Donald Trump
Do I need to go on?

I'm tired of this high road passive nonsense.    

I know violence isn't the answer but do you want makes the lions, tigers, apes, hog and antelope gather together?

Fire.

If the conservatives, liberals, Christians, Muslims, Pagans and Satanists, Vegans and Carnivores, Karens, Kens, If the right and the left can't meet in the middle, **** em.

Let it burn.

Why do you always have to stick your nose in other people's business?

The boys shouldn't be so proud and admit that they're western fascism, ANTIFA need to become organized so they can control their message.

If they can't, **** em.

Let it burn.

I want fires as high as Heaven, I want Roger Stone behind bars and serving his full sentence and I want the names that Epstein and Maxwell have, and she better not commit death by cop.

I want people to wake up and understand we're ******* ourselves up and proving why we're the worst species.

Otherwise, Let it burn.

I'll strike the match, I'll pour the gasoline, I'll start the fire because if that will bring us together, at least we'll be united on something.

Anger is an energy and right now I'm feeling like Chernobyl at 1:22 am.

I want fire, I want ash to rain from the sky and black out the blue, give me constituency or give me the torch, you want an eternal flame? I'll let it burn for the Gods.

I have this anger in my heart, I have to act like this is all ok, because if I don't, if I voice this **** I come off as the crazy one.

Fine by me, if you want me to crazy at least call me an arsonist.

Burn baby burn, Your systems are weak, your tiktoking your life away, you're reading too many faces and it's not even a good book you chose to reread, this is the worst high school reunion disaster movie you can think of.

At this point I'm walking the line of "******* all" and "I want to see you saved"

I'm feeling like G.G. Allin and Jesus Christ had a son.

When this place burns to the ground and you're left walking through the smolders and remains don't come crying to me because I''ve done all my crying and now I just want to watch your punk *** burn.

I want to explode, I want to detonate.

Blow this joint sky high and say "******* that was fun and thanks for the memories"

I'm walking the line of classically happy and cynically depressed.
You people have exhausted me, the anti- vaxers who'd rather listen to their hearts and highschool minds compared to experts in the field, You'd rather listen to "Dave, some 52 year old neighbor" as opposed to the CDC because you don't trust them, yet you have a social media page where you bleed your heart out?

Makes sense right? You're as dense as these flat earth *****, I'd love to see you be tossed on the pile.

Hurting public discourse? Take the guillotine or bonfire, it doesn't matter to me, you're hurting the majority and further hindering the minority, add some fuel to the fire and contribute you oxygen stealing gene pool mistake.

I dream of fire, I dream of smoke, I dream of ash, cinder, smolder and choke.

Let'***** the restart button, hell is freezing over anyway but hey, global warming is a myth right?

Again, I'm not so proud of you boys, let the women make their minds up about their bodies and roles in the work force and home.

Strike a match, sing a song and get low because like 1984 the firemen and we're not just burning Milo books.

So here I end my anger, because I've gassed myself out but I'm sure tomorrow the tank will be full again, after all anger is an energy and thanks to this ******* I have a seemingly unlimited supply.
R Dickson Jan 25
Here’s a wee yin for his birthday
The hale world’s hae’in his supper
Time for a poem or a song
And a wee whisky chaser

Enjoy Rabbie’s supper
Wi that big sonsie face
And neeps and tatties
Wi nae stomach space

Every toon in Scotland
Every pub that he’s been in
Telt some odd stories
About his kith an’ kin

Telt them in auld Scots
It’s the language that he kens
If he’s got a beer in haun
He’ll pit doon the pen

Socialising wi’ pals
Whisky, beer and song
All the things to be enjoyed
An’ that cannae be wrong

They call him the bard
But he’s just a man
Wi some great stories to tell
And as many as he can.
Ken Pepiton Apr 10
Take a day, call it
typical,
fit to a pattern, a type
Dear reader,
this is raw material, you know now,
my left brain, my emmissary
who kens these qwerty key patternings,

as earlier my kind kenned a wedge,

as a side seen point, we ken the twist,
as we see it wind done, watching
calling what are you called?
whspinnliss-t-en-d
I am
called ken, I think I know that means
knowing meaning is amean thing to be
alone, I mean
nothing.

In the wind, I mean every thing.

I can show you, use my vision.
Plain to see how all things wind
around a point in time, when
a possibly fruitful branch.
bends as all the seeds could be,
wannabe, oughtabes,
join the puppy dance, we smile
we feel we know, the metaphor,
a version as real as any
ever
we see, the point protruding from
the xylemphylum flow,
feels just, as just yoostabe commonly
said, just wrong, not evil, only
not wholly right,
yesees, yesers, yesterday, we all may

recall to the point, intended, as this
never ending typical day
beyond the dammed walls and rivers,
mnemonic, goad, to gitchergoat,
rile the little devil
into a rage, and blame the dame,
eee, e-qual e-quit
I-ran-I, ih?
see he run, we made peace, like
pouring cold water to
the wicked witches in the west,
all formed on the pattern projected,
read it, in the letters, Persians and Medes,
Law, these scriptures once in stone,
in stone it lives,
ever after.

So it is written so it is done, Yul Brenner,
macho-man, side-trac static, filter with a flick
my man, virtual reality is vwi-rrrorreee

I for got. Oops, Oriented Pe'pl'ish. Spir't.

These types of interupts during the holiest
times, when stars all form point to patterns
you heard imagined in stories no one told you,
you made it all up, you, right, dear reader,
a amusement, silliness, as it was, at first,
Silli me, I see, I was made for this,
the left ignores the messy room,
and delights in challenging Spelchek in many
guises, all jinn enginearering as we sort
things out, sift the silt to find
flecks,
wee tiny webits, ambits and qubits measuring
up.
Look

was there an imaginary war, and
the good guys got their butts kicked?  
Either there or their, eh,

Lefty, is holding me to the line,
met in the median, we parllevous
us a pallaver, and verily
as a man of the first kind, we're you.
Virtue flows, from and to, alternating
currency, wi-ro i-
Tesla's reply to a memo posted
in this bubble, ah
rhet, rhetoric, rhea-tric, slap clap
to the brow, {that's one, too}
wow, since Teddy Ruxpin,
Worlds of Wonder, dare me, make it
darker.

Coen, Cohen, Koan - here I am. heneni
I am Sam,
from Green Eggs and Ham,
the gurgle in the gut is the greeting
Activa colonies use,
a salute, preparatory to a fibroushite
is real light, to spark
a thought,
ought that matter? thinks the thorn
to the tree.

Might I not reach as far as
any ever was, and be there,
waiting for you
to ***** up from down there,

and try to patent authority
to the door path,
set in stones no known system can maintain
prior to the reconnection,
soul to spirit,
with a joint venture equal supported,
merest of attention, tiny qua qual quant
ant-tenae, getitgotit ping ping ping

A whistlee scree ee eee on a ship,
a grey-you-see battleship grey,
signal to attend, hearken, listen up,

***** ups, we got a box of SAE nuts
Just one.
{superflous questions are
spir'ts of nonsense, that peacemakers
hold in utter *******, the real deal
gimped out and shut up, sick
and tired of being awake.

Sleeping dogs and lions and dragons,
all are allowed to lie.
Peplish, in a word. we nullify the effect}

We make it up, then we enter-spir'ts entra
tainment contain a casting forth
of flavors and char-acting traits.
as when cheffing jeffe's greasy spags,
gentle reverse stir, see,
like a drain in the floor of a sportsclub
in Alice Springs,
{Mar 75}

reverse stir, let us catch the first loose
noodle, using the spoon you done
the gentle spin reversal move with,
see, the noodles in the boiling, slightly
briny bubbling water, all little clusters
of three, two alike and one way bigger,

"let it go" Y'load 16 tons, and what do you get?"

You learn, to sing songs your grandpa
had reasons to sing,
not rational reasons, irrational design
reasons to believe,
this can't be all there is, it was 1965.

Dead center set for highschool angst
with blobs and werewolves and vampires
all sets set to then as now,
as if,
these are those same good old days,-
frankly means nada to me, clearly
you see means
what I seem to say as you gulp entire
lines as reasons to let the letters be
see
if we do agree, is more fun, I shall explain fun,
later, be-ware, accept the token crumb,
cookie related allusion, not path taken

tread lightly, when walking the edge
that did the dividing, soul from spirit, I
dare say, no doubt, the first
tool users, were superfluous, once.

Spir'ts of such as survived in story,
those are with us to this day, yes,
we get these clear everybody knows signals,
circa Eisenhauer, beginning frame, true, man
show us where we were warned, and knew
things are complex indust-try try war no more,
there
is a null set now, and in the reasoning
acknowledging KJV Is-ai-aha, filled with jokes.

E.G. Golden Emarauds
AI ai, Big us, Gus, the Dodge Ram,
competition orange,
transforms into Uncle Richard, the telecom guy
who refused to fly,
Gus got us where we went, after those
runnin' and gunnin' days,
with the Barbie Doll, in her prime,
I saw her the other day,
time's been kind, I'll say, this story has sets
of sets peplishared winds of wonder then…

we were, and I was Ok and you were Okeh,
and we agreed, really agreed on the word,
Okay means that.
O'que, you can, you may as well,
just
say what you mean I am not alienable from.
Now, what?
April 502 common conscience novel event lego'd
B Emess Aug 2020
O! Great God Pan! Hidden amongst a’
Is thou enraged that no one kens ya?
No shrine built up ta not forget ya
Except this song
That begs and calls ya goat like figure
Honourable faun

I had a crack and heard on vine
That thou had wilt’d past your prime
Now in some cavern sootie and grim
Thou’s left ta dwell
Enraged as trees fall ‘ll round ‘im
Cre’ting hell

But now your glorious hour’s upon us!
As Christ no longer quite impresses
So now I wake ya to awake us
An’ in through this verse
I beseech ya, please protect us
An’ lift this curse

Your flute, which hasn’t made a sound
In thousands a year, now let abound
From grotto dim ta lofty ground
Let’s hear the reed
Is time ya now took up ya crown
Across the tweed!
Joseph Zenieh Aug 2019
PRIDE AND REALITY
Some people's hands are dipped in boiling oil.
They suffer quite a lot but are too proud.
They deem that pride is all that they should have
as they have nothing except their hauteur.

They know they have no skills and nothing good
and goodness is what builds the stair to heights.
They look down at deep hell and there they find
their scanty skills can go as all is low.

But though they know that boiling oil is pain,
they prefer that to acknowledging loss.
They discard thawing hands in that hot pan
but attach to the pride that brings them down.

The spirit of negation feeds their boast
and neglects all what wise creation builds.
The devil kens his life is complete loss,
but can't admit it as his pride rules all.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
____________

— The End —