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John Cena May 2015
shrek is beck
deck is smeck
get top decked by the kripp
or u wont get any dipp

slip slop
drip drop
kip kop
hippity hoppity hood
goes the clock
tick tock
the mouse ran up the wall
and died

rest in pizza
Matt Sep 2014
Alan Watts said the Hindus
Say get lost man

Get caught up in the beauty of life
The Hindus see life as a great drama

What a fun day I had yesterday

I had steel cut oatmeal for breakfast
Then worked out at the gym

At night I was at the putting green
In the distance I see a man slowly disappearing as he jogs away

To my right A mother soothes and holds a baby

Today I was at two different college campuses
I recorded some of Alan Watts' book on the Tao

So many beautiful women
I walked around campus
And saw such beautiful women

Oh my goodness
I could not believe how short
Some of the women's shorts were
They barely covered their tight bottoms

I'm not complaining
The women really love
To strut their stuff at this Christian University I attended

Tonight I was at old junior college
I took classes there ten years ago

First I walked around
I was smiling as I listened to Kashmir
People smiled at me too
I think they saw what a good time I was having

I had my Australian hat on
It is great because it covers the neck

Then I watched water polo
Referee blows whistle
Swimming back and forth

Then I was walking
And a guy with a Led Zeppelin shirt walked by
I told him I was listening to Kashmir
He said, "awesome" and walked by
What a strange coincidence for that to happen!

I was so content
Lying on grass with back against small rock
I saw a young Indian man
Do a side flip
He is skillful acrobat!
I laughed because it was so amazing
I almost clapped for him but didn't

Tao is wise mother
Tao is everyday consciousness

On way back to car
I looked at home across the street
There was big television on

I came home
And put glass of orange juice in freezer
It became like orange slushee
Yummm!

I am watching youtube tutorials on how
To do sideflips and Kip Ups
Maybe I will try to do a Kip Up
But side flip too hard for me!
Also it looks kind of dangerous

Now I listen
To Heart Sutra
As I type

Every Boddhisatva depends on highest perfect wisdom
Because mind meets no obstacle
Because no obstacle no fear is born

Gone beyond all topsee turvey absolutes
Attain Nirvana
Past Present and Future

Every Buddha depends on highest perfect wisdom
Therefore attain supreme perfect enlightment

Sentient beings are numberless,
I vow to save them,
Desires are inexhaustible,
I vow to put an end to them.
The Dharmas are boundless,
I vow to master them.
The Buddha Way is unsurpassable,
I vow to attain it.  

When I was walking today I felt
Like I was walking on air
He says, “buckle up.”
I say, I AM A CAR CRASH
with silly puddy metal doors
and ****** hair and a hole
in my windshield and I am on fire.
In a bad way. You cannot tell me not to wreck myself because that’s what I do best.
I am thin ice on a popular lake.
I am an abandoned brick building and I welcome the momentum of a swinging pendulum ball.
Topple my structure,
I hold up nothing.
Knock me over, I have been empty for too long!
I am the combination of deep roots and wanderlust.
I am two colliding passenger trains in the middle of a tourist trap
that you never expected to visit this long. Long like 5 o’clock traffic amongst trainwrecks,
I am the obstacle and the road.
In my own bed and still wanting to go home
because he taught me how it is to really feel alone
like a 4am songbird
or an easter island cannibal.
Edna Sweetlove Jan 2015
This is a terrifying tale as told by Ebeneezer Sweetlove, my late cousin*

I remember how I met Edwina all those years ago: and there was none of that "eyes connecting across a crowded room" crap. Well, not in a romantic sense - it was just pure lust. I suddenly realised this woman was staring at me with undisguised desire from the other side of a cocktail party at some boring conference at the five-star Grand Hotel. I was ***** as buggery as my latest girl friend had, just the previous week, committed suicide by jumping to a hideous death off scenic Beachy Head, so I returned the ****'s look with a lethally ****** stare of my own and then licked my lips as vulgarly as possible, indicating I was simply barking for a hot oral session, no holes barred.

The woman I was to know all too briefly as Edwina took the hint and came over and we talked as though we'd known each other all our lives; but even someone as suave as I was a little surprised when she groped me quite openly and shoved her tongue into my earhole, dribbling hotly down my cheek. And then she seemed to go all shy and little girl-like until I sophisticatedly suggested we go out for dinner and then back to my penthouse suite for a night of mind-blowing *******. I have to say I was embarrassed when the head waiter in the little bistro I selected complained when she took off her knickers and gave them to me for a refreshing sniff.

The *** was amazing - Edwina was like a beast on heat, screaming like a banshee while we ****** each other's brains out. Yet, in between *******, she was as gentle and charming as a little ***** cat. Six times I gave her my hot ***** that night: once in her mouth, then four times in the usual place, finishing off with one up her rear end. I was more or less totally drained of my love juices and in need of a good long kip before lunch.

But, tragedy struck: well before the dawn's early, she woke me and whispered she had to go as she had to get home before her husband got back after his night shift from down the sewers - he was apparently in charge of the entire East Sussex sewage system and liked to have an hour long shower every morning to get the stench of ***** off him.

I begged her to stay, saying I would happily pay for a divorce so I could have her with me for always. I even offered to have a contract put out on her sewer rat of a hubby, mentioning that my brother-in-law, Kosmo, was big in the Albanian mafia and owed me a favour. But she said no, I could ******* with my pleas. As dawn grew nearer I could see her becoming ever more frantic to leave and it was only then I realised the truth, having at last deciphered the real meaning of her blood-stained and scabby third ****** and the scarlet 666 tattoo on her luscious **** cheek.

Yes, Edwina was a ***-demon from deepest Hell and thus I was left with only one course of action. Ever so reluctantly, I bravely reached for the sacred wooden stake and mallet that I had carried round in my Dolce & Gabbana crocodile suitcase for so many years just in case of such an eventuality. Sadly I drove the stake into her beautiful ***** with a mighty blow and, instead of the blood which might have been reasonably expected, only a stream of warm **** poured out. Before my very eyes, her corpse disintegrated into a pile of odorous dust. Truly was Edwina a daughter of darkness.

As you may imagine, I had to give the chambermaid quite a hefty gratuity in order to get her to cleanse my room and to bin the evidence, but so grateful was she for the honorarium that she agreed to share my bed the very next night, knowing she would be likely to receive an immense tip of quite another category.
Your comments are most welcome provided they are grammatically correct.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Mew
as soon as these blue speckled
socks go, that's it. A new bright black death.A solemn weir on a stark horizon.Give me a reason to wear color. My hueless affidavit
runs me into the Earth, where I sprout up
a pallid keb- brain orf'd, you could drag my etiolated ebon
body through the ovine fold or take me to the theater. When I was just a minor teg, I sheared my mim kip, I fuckinggave it to you outright. In this little
cote my wan mien nigrifying; my calamitous black, quaffed full of congou in demitasse, of souchong & saucers. My atrous wethered body albicantly degenerating in the atrous sun. I'm crusting over with wanness and you, you're fortifying in the cwm where I used to yaff and stray. Your ovivorous hunger,something I never knew, when first you came for my jecoral flesh, just another bot digging through my soft toison. Like Dall's Prometheus being sheared from the flock-you cut me away. In this drab and achromic world, you put the wanness in my flesh, the gid in my heart. Still.
Just these blue socks are left.
Written Sitting against an Oak tree outside of a family friend's farm in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin
Jessica Rojan Nov 2010
Kip
As I lay me down to sleep,
I cross my fingers, I count some sheep

But wait,

The silence blankets the room,
And I can't seem to catch z's
I want to break free
This insomnia is killing me.

Days go by,
Nights unfulfilled,
Dreams are intangible,
Hours are killed.

Images paint my mind,
Of days where I could rest my head,
Of nights in warm weather,
Of stars and clouds and us being together.

Draped across my mattress,
I find comfort underneath my sheets,
I find solitude in knowing
They shield me from my defeats.

Dysfunction sets in,
Thirty-six hours of deprivation takes toll,
Why can't I beat this?
Where did I lose control?

Self-medicated and starving,
My body seeks relief,
In hopes that one day,
I may finally fall asleep.
andy fardell Jan 2012
sleepy sleep

sleep in sleep in sleepy town
my eyes need wakey up
sleepy sleep my bed does call
me lids so glued there stuck

look at me at half past three
a hedge still in me hair
eyes so red a cameras light
saucers oh my dear

give me bed a silent night
cos sleepy snooze is me
time to snore and wake you up
me fidgits sleepy sleep  

na na night its time for kip
me bed is calling me
clocking tick soon far away
a dream of dreams i see

rise and shine yet i need more
some sleep will do me good
bags of spuds upon each cheek
come on dont wake me up

sleepy in as sleepy does
im staying where i am
soon be dinner oh thats good
a lay in i'll be dammed
Micheal Wolf Nov 2012
Running on empty tiered for sleep my brain is fried my limbs now creak.
I went to bed or so I thought to get some kip and recharge my bones.
Well that wasn't how it ended up and my mind was racing with well "just stuff".
The stuff you just cant explain a film! What was the actors name?
A song, a tune stuck in my head another hour of wasted bed.
Then to try and top others all, the ghost of a child throwing a ball prolongs the nite in another's hall.
No dreams no peace, I'm withered now the body aches but won't shut down.
Tomorrow I guess it's panda eyes and heavy lids, I could cry !
I just want sleep it all to stop and please dear brain
"WILL YOU JUST TURN OFF!"
Olivia Kent Feb 2014
Doris bought herself a bike when she were 93.
Thought a trip to John 'O'Groats, would keep her flying free.
Started off at Lands End, from there on she did wobble.
Rode past the tanker.  
****** driver,what a ******.
He nearly knocked her off.
She noted down his registration number.
Took it to the cop shop.
Wasn't feeling very happy, poor old darling needs a *****.

Got back on her bike, to resume her hike.
The raindrops poured and granny snored.
Had a kip while on her bike, maybe Granny needed a trike.
Got as far as the corner shop.
She fancied a little nibble.
Noticed it was getting dark.
She checked out the sky.
Decided cycling was too hard work.
So off she went.
Decided to fly.
Grabbed her broomstick from the hallway.
Off she flew, up, up and away.
Wahey Doris.
Witch granny on an away-day.
(C)LIVVI 2014
THE HAGGARD woman with a hacking cough and a deathless love whispers of white
flowers ... in your poem you pour like a cup of coffee, Gabriel.
  
The slim girl whose voice was lost in the waves of flesh piled on her bones ... and
the woman who sold to many men and saw her ******* shrivel ... in two poems you
pour these like a cup of coffee, Francois.
  
The woman whose lips are a thread of scarlet, the woman whose feet take hold on
hell, the woman who turned to a memorial of salt looking at the lights of a
forgotten city ... in your affidavits, ancient Jews, you pour these like cups of
coffee.
  
The woman who took men as snakes take rabbits, a rag and a bone and a hank of
hair, she whose eyes called men to sea dreams and shark's teeth ... in a poem you
pour this like a cup of coffee, Kip.
  
Marching to the footlights in night robes with spots of blood, marching in white
sheets muffling the faces, marching with heads in the air they come back and
cough and cry and sneer:... in your poems, men, you pour these like cups of coffee.
René Mutumé Jan 2014
Why’d you get locked up then lad?
Oh. I’m locked up?
I know you. You won’t escape lad
Escape from where?

(Jackie Wilson at her majesties pleasure 1884, West Denton, Newcastle)

The sweat rolled off Dominic’s nose.

Its ‘movement’

movement

movement

Uniting.

Meditation takes a person out
from themselves
so far out, without any need
for any additional charge, toll, or need, that when you come back,
even if it’s within
the same body,
you feel

and the glow comes back
on-coming traffic smiles, dead less grace
the worst, and 7am

chess
without a game.
a drool.
an intricacy within
mirage.
hope in the sorry soft gas explosions
and death was heavy enough to fly and give
But not in the normal way
one second, and even joy spills
and the cabbies have begun to scream and break down at each other
even though it’s not a full moon
too many people squashed on a tight balcony
drinking us all away
too many hands
not dancing
it all away


Slugs emigrate across concrete when the soil is wet.
When you wonder why they’ve left.
Its pouring
and you think you recognise a name scrawled in the wet trail.

Single, intimate, observations.

And reasons for the evening to be near.
It will be worth it! – I’LL SEE YOU! –
And now we are allowed to be glorious without price.
And now it’s sad as hell.
And the trees know that.
But the squirrels never do.
And now those words don’t matter.
And now we are allowed.
And now we go.

And the laminate floor
has the weight of a cross.
And the thing is,
you know

(It’s all softly bombed)
Not in a horrific
or knowable
way.

But in God’s good loving
loving
loving
******* for ya.

We’re finally rubbed out.

Crucifying.
And uncrucifying.

Eyes are useless here.

Blackness first.
THEN that soft
‘soft’

dripping.

easy blackness.

Meditating, sat middle
the pentagram of a small flat.
blue white board marker, on ‘easy wipe’ wood flooring.

And if I wake, I can wipe all the lines out.

SO, it went the same.
blue colour of cityscape coming-black light flashing always
across the distance from balcony
a beautiful stillness.
Waves first. Sea. The complete sea. Swimming.
ego. Ego swimming. Ego going down. Hello! And ha!
And no more jokes.
And isolation.
And no more months.
But there were gushes.
Gushes of experiences in, and outside, with individual breathes
and the proximity of love, coming closer
like a germinating hand
guiding you down
into the oceans private concert

Not too close to the expensive parts, or the bad parts,
or anywhere too pristine.
Christ, that’d be
a joke. It’d be funny
and then the surgeon would come and operate
on you;
lifting you out whilst you’re asleep

And it would go like this:

Cancer: Hey! What’s going on?!
Get off! I’ve paid my
rent and don’t wet the bed
anymore,

Surgeon: Don’t care.
Come here...
Oh for **** sake you’re making my day long.
I don’t get paid
for this.
Cancer: Oh yes you do handsome.
Surgeon: Oh yeah!

rest on the long side of your bed.
‘What’d you do at the weekend?’
Where’d you go?

...

banter broke down into spider web
substance
before fading completely, as thoughts begin
to disappear and fly down
into heavier states
from outside you saw a man still dressed
in formal office attire
tie hanging undone around a white shirt, shoes kicked off
beside strange markings on a polished floor. From in,
the understandings
are quite different
fly gently, like a loved one retiring from life
as the single light bulb watches from your ceiling
tensing one last second time in hesitation
then blowing you out with a blink.  

looked into the well where life is buried
and reached down
arms lengthened like dusty pieces of ham down a hole
touching the foetus as it crawls back up,
and up through the highway lines of his veins,
like a rabbit hunts wolves,
like the peach reacts to your bite.

We smoked and ate apple pie as the autumn tattooed
We snapped small pieces off
then ate the mites.

And then when the well filled we made our arms lassoes;
that churned the grain,
turning the quietness into storm,
and back to parts of spring.

You hesitate, touching the ape
like a clown who’s just tossed his life into the air, and juggles it,
like dead poems and hot boiling yeast.
you looked further into the well and found the figments of the ‘Narwhal’
the sea creature with a prominent horn
that shoots from its head-

Early sea farers
used to think the horned mammal was a type of
magical being
it birthed the idea of unicorns
you let the water well mix and join
as we drink coffee today, and the night is less silent
than that of star of apples and gloom
each tarantula that scatters in the red stars of sand is welcome;
and the honey man and honey woman flicker,
through numberless bank checks and bills as knocks arrive
knock after knock after knock
into long vibrational hum

All that remains
is the bursting punch
near the bottom
of oceanic well

As it tightens your grip into the follicle hibernating bears
that speak eloquent words whilst we eat;
the deep groan of munching hands
in the well helps our arms
pull up the glowing carcass as it turns back
into us within our hands, it speaks easily and slow, telling each
servant surrounding
the hole that they should:

‘Dance casually, dance inside my red eyes’.

Some take advantage of melody, as a trust that funds satellites of globe,
as if no one ever dreamed or broke the yoke of more pleasurable things;
one of your arms
is like the way that a crab crawls past over my nose and into our future home

another asks that you aren’t so violent in February
and that the month is a counting mouth that multiplies zero
beside the arms reaching for a pyramidic beauty
under the ***** shell; aborting its children like blood in the snow,
without humanistic style, more in tune with time
than the army of water lifting your throat up,
spits- that poke at us with antlers, undeterred, no legged, mating in the sand

After a while, otherness takes over, and will comes.
And emotion is long shattered,
easing out,
playing skin game and dissipating need, where all will and human comes back
it takes a while.

And our gender has nothing to do with just lust
We are the almost completely blind, as the cliché remembers
Gender is
the lack of gender and the freedom of paradigm
whilst hands are upon love,
And more night(s) turn within us.
dream like bright black stars.

Weekends. Week. Work. Corporations dancing like butterflies on fire. Gone.
Gone
Gone
Gorgeous

nothingness
apart from its face and voice
speaking

“Heyy, how’s it going?”
Projection
No
“Yes... Lover,
Yes yes yes!”
“No.”
skull now linked to the lips of a home
“Correct, correct, correct...” The intangible
darkness, over and over

a rushing
and uncontrollable
heaviness of fire.

foxes in back alleys salute
the black sky with a mongrel scream
and all the animals of the world are linked for a split minutiae,
recognising and respecting the breach;

“You’re hurting... mmmmuh-” Dominic tried to say
in the onslaught.

Converging planes that came from the lips of the spirit crowning his mind.

“You’re not Juuu, Juh Juah Juh.”

He tried to say for the next few hours, as the sun spread down
on the city
and felt a deep
empathy for another one
of its children
attempting to free
itself.

“No.”

how right you are...” The spirit said
as Dominic’s head slumped from exertion.

“You see...” The spirit said seeping into his bones
and killing him;
paramedics zip
the bag
over his face.

“You see...” The voice says again
knocking the lights off
and flinging you
by your throat

Each one letting you
go

landscape sick in multiple elements of confused colour,
parts of buildings, art: growing up in the horizon, new structures
made by thoughts, old flowers inside limbs,
smoking.

“What...” The spirit
said.

sigh at the strange place,
without looking around.
blossoms of mind and traffic
circulated
characters
on a schizophrenic island

two flies ****** invisibly
and grow from the unseen smallness of their passion
and become an instant world
in the Red Mountains.

“What’s up?” Dominic say gloomily,
laugh a little.

“You’re meant to be screaming...
And yes...
Yet another ******* month
without hitting
target.” The nightmare says,

No incorporeal speech
no anger
anymore.

She might have been about twenty five,
dressed in a shade of grey
change
that covered her genitalia
and ******* from ankle up to neck

get used to it all.
raise your chin to the sky and try to blink away from the constant lick
of the beast growing
from yourself, or lover, or day

And grow the chimera
throughout numberless
stages
like a beautiful clay
that cant decide

Finally the meer-hawk looked like a Dickensian peasant
with an intricate smile, dressed all in jail rags
stinking of sweat, *****, and time.
And then we change
again

And her black hair scooped down
into the blackening sand
where the grains accepted her slim weight
through out itself

She was tired and fed up of the back-world today
She left her contract looking around upstairs
and accepted the hit
on her targets

A transference of types in the quaking room.
A quick drop of laughter flys
into the lil bear or a lot; and a snap and a lot of hunger
for us all...

The master of the basement was mostly machine.

The front of his face that we run towards
is a centred and hovering engine
at the far end of the shadow
room
and the stench
from its thought.

a farce and enough
to turn you away
from a really good
steak.

no walls

no matter

a car mouth approaches naked.

dead cats know this, as they lay purring still, licking their paws still,
misery knows,forgetting, and the coldness of the street gave birth

to numberless seedy neon lights
flickering away from the wall less walls
once more

and you know, we
all
have a prayer
that comes
out
here was
mine:

might as well let you know
whilst we’re at it
that this one comes
out, in some accent~~
but is how it’s meant to go

“...as if to prae
inside the rain
as if to move
the moon with small hands
ah cross the yard
and lucky sky

I live in that playce me lass
with ya quiet weiyht
upon me own
of ya li’l voice
that taeks it away

Ya-renuf ta bring
al me Gods back
an pin ‘em te tha walls

Enough ta mayke
al’ me angels breathe
heavy
for even an ounce
of ya grace

Ave begged at tha hands
of jesus Christ
for that tayste
of yeh
me sweet bonny lass
an ya the only lass
‘ahve evva met
that mayde us feel
like ah cuhd heal
without bein less

An I’m lookin at ya now
with al me luv
an ah divent need
ney where to ruhn
as am ah freed dog

and in ya charms

An ‘av ney-where left to luk
but I’ll kip alreet the neet pet
cos ya by me side

an in me arms.”

But now it is rather late my friend, and
we all know how long old accents last,
mine, I cherish, I will say it when cursing
and gone
when lit among friends and when
impressing
new jobs, that I shall leave, such is
my
way
and
i may
see you
again.
I've never believed.
I mean truly believed.
Not even
when you and I
sat through Sunday school,
but I'll admit
that there are worse things
then the possibility
of getting to see you again.
I'll see you there
if I get to go
This delusional concept of dressing up in your finest threads just to sit in some quiet, ridiculously-named, fancy establishment that has four walls and a few toilets and neatly-folded napkins, spotless silverware, and an overly-priced menu just to talk about some ******* that you pulled out of your *** when your arm was being stretched to the max trying to reach for the stack of crisp twenties that the ATM viciously spat at you is simply ****** up.

Yeah… that’s what I thought until I met her.

You know, “the one.”

The one that all the guys say you’re ***** whipped about.

That one.

She has her **** together. She is driven, goal-oriented, smart, funny, and **** in that hippie/bohemian kinda way, except that she wears deodorant and shaves her legs.

She even shaves….ha! I’ll stop. I’m just toying with ya. But she does shave.

She even has dimples, man.

Dimples.

And guess who the lucky ******* is that has the best table in the house sitting directly across from her, staring into those brown, puppy eyes??

My ***.

Then, without warning, this horrible, invasive, mood-altering, uncanny, uncouth, *******-of-a-question barges right in.  It asks, “How did you end up with her??”

Suddenly I find myself in a western movie, and this bow-legged ******* walks in asking for me.  The double doors behind him swing back and forth in rapid motion.  I don’t want to cause a ruckus, so I do what any real gentleman does: take it outside and settle it High Noon style.  I stare into his eyes (they’re brown too, but not like hers), and his eye lids begin to slightly twitch.  I draw my pistol from my hip and shoot him right between those eyes; blow the smoke away from the heated barrel; spin my pistol around a few times; and in the holster it goes.

Problem solved.

She and I start jawing after the waiter with the long rod lodged in his *** goes to fetch our excessively-priced wine.
I swear he said his name is Skip or Kip or… ah who cares?
I continue staring into the eyes of the most beautiful woman in the world.
She begins to tell me about her bittersweet day, so I cross my arms and lean in a little. All my focus is on her and of course her **** mouth too.
God, she has beautiful lips….
She’s telling me about her day at work – at the vet, that is.
She’s a veterinarian.
Anyway, there’s this little black-and-white, speckled miniature dachshund named Teagan that has been staying at the vet for a few months now, and it’s made a full recovery.
She’s telling me this story with such great passion and zeal, but she’s frowning.
This wealthy, elderly couple adopted it today, and Teagan is gone.
She grabs my hand and apologizes for being such a “downer”.

“I sorry,” she says in one of those baby voices.

Is that a pouty lip???

**** Me...

Did I really just witness a pouty lip form before my very eyes??

Did she actually just talk like a baby???

Plain and simple, I don’t stand for that cutesy, baby *******, that pathetic material pedaled by those chumps who pull that “good guys come last” crap.  

She’s awkwardly staring at me.

Before she can utter a single word, I bolt out of my chair, telling her that I’m suddenly feeling ill and need to use the restroom.

I whip around without looking and bump into our waiter who is bringing us our wine.  It spills all over his pearly, white jacket.

He grabs my arm to break his fall, but we both hit the ground hard, right on our backs too.  

All eyes are on me.

It’s dead, ******* silent. You could hear a mouse ****.

What do I say?  

I can’t just make a dash for the door without saying anything.

My mind is completely frozen, and I lie here, trembling.

Suddenly, my lips begin to part.

The words wiggle their way out of that tiny space between my lips.

“I sorry.”



. . .

.  .  .

.   .   .  

**** me.
SK Fisher Apr 2012
(Read in your best British accent)

Well what can’t I say
Of the so called Baylo Brits
Their weird, crazy, and wild
Smoking herb, and jiggling ****

They giggle and laugh
Acting all so very pip
They’re ****** wankas they are
Especially Fritz and Kip

Not from England
Though they do have a friend named Jack
Witty as hell the blokes really be
Its just sanity they seem to lack

First Hannah said *******
She’s a lovely poppet of a girl
And all this first came about
As they passed around, a pearl
C Jun 2016
I felt you in my dream. You kissed me twice
and I can’t forget. You don’t know it
but I feel Your skin whenever You’re far
intoxicated in the back seat of that car You whispered
the secrets of Your soul, what I had always wished for
I savored You, You tasted like the ashes she left of You
soft lips like smoking coal after flames die
and my hands in Your hair felt like summertime sand
after the ocean and I cried for You
when I wake I feel closer to You, knowing that at least in my mind
we were together, You were happy
and I’d sleep forever to have Your kiss again
dan hinton Jun 2012
To Lucinda*

There you stand in the door
And after all the fights we’ve been through
When the-you-know-what hit the you-know-where
You still can bear to look at me
I see the tears twinkle in your eyes
I see the hands on your hip
And I dread to think what you’ve got to face
They way you’re working over your top kip
You never shout, you just look disappointed
Your eyes say: ‘back down that stony road’
And now even though I hurt you
You helped pick your girlfriend up out of the road
Because there was a ****** old truck coming
She just broke down to bawl
And yet after all that
You’re a proud woman standing tall
You sit down on the bed next to me
And you speak ever so slightly
I feel your warm breath on me
In the cool of the Texas night
You say, ‘Oh Dan here we are again,
I thought we talked about this.’
She’s out there crying in the other room
You should know nothing goes amiss
And if I get caught in here you know
I’m going to be dead meat too’.
I apologise profusely, counting my blessings
You just look at me like you always do.
‘Now, you know I got to go console her
You know I’ve got to go and get supplies
Of tissues and Kleenex and toilet rolls
But please just give it time
Let everyone cool down, storms always blow over
It’s the only way a friendship can be saved
With that she left, back to the toilet a girl bereft
And as I heard the sobbing I know I’d take that to my grave.
Olivia Kent Jan 2014
And now I sink.
A feeling of deeply drifting.
Wrapped in warmth.
In Hugs of love.
Am I on drugs.

No In a dream.
I always dream.
Love is but a mere fantasy.
Liquid sunshine beats on my window.
Yet again.

Perhaps a breath of fresh air.
A spot of cobweb extraction.
The feisty rain is lifting me.
Up from my drifting kip.
Before I sink again.


My eyes are closing now.
As a bud they're shutting tight!
Goodnight!
By ladylivvi1

© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Night World **
After my Goodnight's I can't sleep ** BAH!
(man enters a tavern)
I'd like a room and a bath please

(tavern keeper)
a room I can do, but, a bath, totally out of the question

(man)
your sign says "rooms with baths", and I would like a room with a bath, as advertised

(tk)
you aren't from around here are you?

(man)
no, why?



(tk)
I thought not, so, I will say this slow...A room I can do, but a bath is totally out of the question

(man)
there is no need to take that tone with me. I made a perfectly legitimate request, as per your signage, and you take umbrage with me.

(tk)
I did not, and besides, I can't take it, if I don't know what it is. Hold on one minute....(walks outside, grabs a shovel on the way out...knocks sign down).

(tk)
(upon re-entry)....now, about that sign you said you saw. I believe you were mistaken.

(man)
this is the "three rivers tavern" as per the sign, which I assume is no longer hanging out front.

(tk)
It is, and your assumption is correct...it isn't

(man)
so, being the "three rivers tavern" would there not be three rivers in the proximity of this establishment from which you would be able to draw water for me, a bypasser, to get a bath

(tk)
yes...and no

(man)
what kind of an answer is that?

(tk)
Yes, it is the "three rivers tavern" and no, there are not three rivers in close proximity of this establishment from which I, a humble tavern keeper, and former owner of a sign, advertising, falesly, I might add...the presence of a bath in this establishment.

(man)
you are called "three rivers tavern" yet, there are no rivers nearby.? what kind of advertising is that?

(tk)
firstly, the sign was already made up, so, it was cheap. Secondly, who are you to question the name of my establishment, which I might add, is quite famous  in the region for many things, other than it's name, which, we may now be changing due to the sudden loss of our sign.

(man)
I sir, am Robin Hood of Sherwood.

(tk)
your'e not

(man)
I am. I am Robin Hood, Sir Robin of Loxley, if you please.

(tk)
I repeat...you're not. Not in those tights.

(man)
And what is wrong with my tights?

(tk)
Seriously? Do I really have to tell you that?

(man)
Yes, what is wrong with these tights?

(tk)
First off, Robin Hood, The REAL Robin Hood wouldn't be caught dead in those. Baggy, Saggy, there's leaves on them, holes...Robin Hood would have nice tight tights that were in good kip and accentuated his....

(man)
*******!

(tk)
exactly

(man)
No, I mean, how would you know what Robin Hood would wear? I mean, what I would wear? The condition of these tights helps me keep incognito in local archery competitions. If I went around showing ...

(tk)
*******!!! INCOGNITO? You are no more than a wayward traveller trying to get a free room on the reputation of someone else, namely...Robin Hood

(man)
My good sir, these are old, tights, ripped from swinging through the trees over time.

(tk)
If you are Robin Hood, tights or not...prove it to me. I'll give you the room, and go for the water myself.

(man)
How should I prove it, with no arrows, bow, and apparently no weaponry in sight. How do I go about showing I am Robin Hood?

(tk)
Use mine. Yep...use my bow, and I dare you to...to...shoot an apple off of his head over there. Oy....wake up. Catch (tosses an apple to man in the corner)
Put that on your head...he's gonna shoot it off.

(man in corner)
He's gonna what? off my...no he's not.

(man)
No, I will not. You obviously have me confused with William Tell. He's Swiss, they do things differently over there.

(tk)
You will, or you won't get your room

(man)
And if I should miss, what then?

(tk)
Not a problem. I've got lots of arrows and apples. We can just keep trying.

(man)
I mean HIM, what if I hit HIM.?

(tk)
You won't if you are who you say you are, and besides, I said I've got lots.

(man in corner)
But I'm your brother in law

(tk)
I've lots of those too. Now, here (hands arrow and bow to Robin)
Step back 10 paces, I'll open the door, and you....put that apple up.
One shot...hit the apple,....room and a bath....miss, and it's off with you

(man)
I really don't think...

(tk)
shoot or leave. Or...I can call the sherrif. If you are Robin Hood, he'll certainly want to see you.

(man)
Fine, give me those. (walks back 10 paces as the tavern owner opens the door).
(He fires, splitting the arrow in two, as the man in the corner slides to the floor)

(tk)
ROBIN!!!! Why didn't you say so? I knew it was you all the time. What can I do for you?

(Robin)
First, pick him up. Next that room. Then I have some requirements, that I need not be tested on. A bow, arrows, clothing, footwear. I need to look the part at the tournament coming up, when I do the big reveal, and I need the proper equipment. You, will help me with that, and seeing as how I have little to no money, as I said, I will need to put this on account which I will pay after the tournament.

(tk)
credit? You want credit?

(Robin)
Yes, as you can see, I am good for it.

(tk)
I saw you shoot an apple off a mans head from ten paces, not...win an archery competition with archers from all over Europe. CREDIT?

(Robin)
Here, hold this apple.

(tk)
Right, First things first...bow and arrows!!

(Robin)
I shall need to see the fletcher.

(tk)
that would be baker

(Robin)
No, I need a bow and arrows. I need a fletcher

(tk)
Exactly, Baker

(Robin)
I am at a loss. I need to see a fletcher and yet you keep saying Baker

(tk)
Right, The Fletcher is Baker. That's the man's name. You need to see Baker, the fletcher.

(Robin)
I see....I think. So I see the baker.

(tk)
You see the fletcher

(Robin)
Baker

(tk)
exactly

(Robin)
that's what I said.

(tk)
No,you said the baker

(Robin)
That's what you told me.

(tk)
No, I did not. I said The Fletcher was Baker. That's the mans name

(Robin)
Baker

(tk)
Now,you have it

(Robin)
Assuming I get what I need from the fletcher. I need a tailor.

(tk)
pastor

(Robin)
No, I do not need to see a pastor, I need a tailor

(tk)
That's the man's name. Pastor is the tailor

(Robin)
So, the pastor is the tailor

(tk)
No, Cooper is the pastor, pastor is the tailor.

(Robin)
I don't need a cooper, I need the tailor

(tk)
exactly. pastor

(Robin)
So, let me see...I go to see the pastor and the fletcher

(tk)
No, you see the tailor, pastor and then the fletcher

(Robin)
The Baker.

(tk)
Listen closely, or you'll never get your room. You see Baker the Fletcher and Pastor, the tailor. Not, the baker and the pastor. You keep getting mixed up

(Robin)
I'll need to write this down
Ok, for footwear, Cobbler

(tk)
Butcher

(Robin)
The butcher makes shoes too.?

(tk)
No. Butcher is the cobbler

(Robin)
That's what I said

(tk)
Look, it's dead easy, you go to see Baker, Pastor and Butcher and you'll be set

(Robin)
I'll end up with bread , a bible and meat. How does this help me in an archery competition?

(tk)
No...you see baker the fletcher, pastor the tailor and butcher the cobbler. It couldn't get any simpler

(Robin)
Maybe I don't need that room after all.

(tk)
follow...fletcher baker pastor tailor butcher cobbler. then back here.

(Robin)
No...I think maybe....is there another village close by.

(tk)
Yes, on the other side of the three bridges

(Robin)
Which, as we know, do not exist

(tk)
And...they speak Welsh!!! your choice

fade out
Edna Sweetlove Apr 2015
A "Barry Hodges" poem*

I met this fat **** in a pub one day
Jesus, but she was a horrid sight,
She asked me if I was straight or gay
And would I like to kip with her that night?
I asked her how much she would cough
For a night of love with a chap like me
And the cow said I could **** right off
She wouldn't pay a copper coin for me.
It just shows even ugly ***** have their pride
And so there's hope for each and every one;
But if they won't pay cash for a good hard ride
They can go home and tweak their ***** alone.
A Dec 2014
A burning sadness
Crept up from within me
Like the cigarette you just finished
Its smoke engulfed me.

We had the usual date.
“For old times sake,” you said.
Dinner at Applebee’s
And a movie at 42nd.

Interstellar was on the plate
Our first heavy movie together.
It mushed our already tired brains
But like always, we analyzed it after.

Remember Valentine’s at Kip’s Bay?
We watched the Lego Movie.
At one point our combined laughter
Was all that echoed throughout the theater.

But we’ve also ridden a Central Park carousel,
And ate bibimbap at 35th.
You’ve felt at home on my couch
While I fell asleep on your tummy at Brooklyn Bridge Park.

I have these and more to take with me.
And when you hugged me goodbye tonight,
This scorching flame burned brighter,
As you whispered into my ear, “I’ll miss you.”
Molantwa Mmele Dec 2015
I Can right de way I want
Bcoz I tok de way I WANT
TeLL me I’m rong
I ekspress my fillings through poetry
I can rite about everything
Without feaR
Poetry daznt allow me to supress!
My FILLINGS
I no this is not kompellinG
With eras in my spelling
Don’t ASK mi y
Jast REED my eras
I’M taryard of yu piple
Traying to tell me wat to du
End wat’ not 2 du
Kontroling mi lyf
While yours is folling apart
Eye don’t really liv mi lyf
To pruve piple’s perseptions
.Write or rong
Abawt my lyf
Mind yo own business
End liv mi lyf alone
Kip quet and read Mi eras
BECOZ EVRYTIHNG I do
Is rong
Im eva rong to you
NoTHing beautifull;
Yu eva tell about me_
So suit yourself/
(End reeD mi erAs
people won't appreciate you for who you are
they will always talk when you do good and talk when you do bad
its simply how life is
Eloi Jun 2016
Cold hearted,
Iced blood,
These feelings of pain, come in like a flood.

Blue veins,
****** lips,
Take some more pills, go for a kip.

Visable rib cage,
Hunched back,
Skin and bones,
Smoke some crack.

Black eyes,
Bruised lies,
Smoking in chains to pass the time.

Winter comes,
Cold and ******,
I sit here alone,
Waiting for you to come home.


Christmas arrives,
I wonder why,
You had to leave,
And no longer breathe.

So, I'll stay in bed all day,
Put the gifts away,
And remember the day,
That you said you'd stay.
Gaffer May 2015
Gaza and Lily are up in the Rocket
Gaza’s barking out the orders
Right Lily
Under no circumstances touch that socket
Okay Gaza
It’s Sir to you
Now, I’m off for a kip
You’re on watch
Now skip
That’s not fair
A girl has to tong her hair
He’ll never know
Little tong and a blow
See, stupid prat
Oops, what’s that
The Rocket has stopped
Oh Sir Gaza
Think there’s a malfunction
We seem to be heading down the junction
You touched that socket
A black hole is taking my Rocket
In your dreams Gaza
I’m out of your orbit
You’ve done it Lily
It’s bust
God, you're obsessed
With getting me undressed
Put that back in your pocket
It’s my sprocket
Is that what they call it
I’m going down
Not on me
I finish at three
If I can get it back to warp five
We might get out of this alive
Are you talking about the Rocket
The socket
That thing in your pocket
The sprocket
Give me a hand
God, what don’t you understand
Take a cold shower
You’re not getting my flower
Is that the power
Oh Sir Gaza
I’m alive
You’ve taken me to a height that’s greater
Hold on a minute
Were you not wearing trousers
When we entered the Simulator
ISSAI MASHINGO Jun 2014
Jesus my savior and my strength,
As I walk through the shadow of the valley of death,
I shall fear no evil for you are with me,
My enemies will come with one intention,
Lord you will separate them and crush them,
Jesus you will turn their laughter into cries,
Jesus you will turn their celebrations into sorrow,
Jesus my savior and my armor,
Jesus you loved me and died for me,
For I will be saved, sanctified, restored, forgiven and above all healed,
I will forever put my trust in you,
My faith is stronger because I know you are with me,
You said in your word that you will always be there for me,
And lord you praise your promises more than your name,
All the world will perish but your word will remain because it is true,
God your omnipotent not limited by time,
God you’re the ALPHA and OMEGA the beginning and the end,
Your ways are beyond our thinking capacity,
Jesus you will go before us so we need not worry,
Jesus I praise your name and declare your Holly,
I thank you for saving me it’s not because I am special but it’s because you chose me,
Thank you for protecting my family and relatives,
Thank you for all that you have given us,
I glorify your name you alone should be exalted,
Jesus cursed are those who oppress orphans and widows,
Jesus you’re the father of orphans and husband to widows,
I lift your name high because it is a name above all other names,
Your holly Jesus and there is none like you,
I thank you Jesus for everything,
Jesus you will put my enemies to shame,
Jesus you will expose their wickedness for all to see,
Jesus my refuge in time of trouble,
Jesus I will kip you in my heart for eternity,
Sanctify my mind body spirit soul eyes ears and mouth,
So that I may testify that you are alone are to be worshiped,
No man or woman on earth can dare stand in your presence,
Jesus you’re the fire that consumes Jesus consume my enemies,
Consume them till there are no ashes left make them disappear,
If they come with fear Jesus strike back at them with your wrath,
All that fills this world will pass but your word will last,
Your holly Jesus thank you for loving me,
I glorify your name Messiah.
BY ISSAI
BORN AGAIN!!!!!
Eloi Aug 2016
Cold hearted,
Iced blood,
These feelings of pain, come in like a flood.

Blue veins,
****** lips,
Take some more pills, go for a kip.

Visable rib cage,
Hunched back,
Skin and bones,
Smoke some crack.

Black eyes,
Bruised lies,
Smoking in chains to pass the time.

Winter comes,
Cold and ******,
I sit here alone,
Waiting for you to come home.


Christmas arrives,
I wonder why,
You had to leave,
And no longer breathe.

So, I'll stay in bed all day,
Put the gifts away,
And remember the day,
That you said you'd stay.
Shalaka Patil Oct 2013
Have no idea
what to really ink,
Having potpourri of emotions,
and perhaps piled up feelings too.
Have no path to walk on,
still turning on the lane of hope.
Words don't spill what I really wan't to,
nor does my silence.
Patience leads to bliss,
and days of halcyon moments.
Now, I'm waiting for a moment,
for someone to hark me,
understand me,
and never lets me go any wrong way.
I'm tired,
really tired,
yelling and calling help,
I'm losing hope,
It's time for me to kip.
It's time to bury all emotions,
feelings, yells, and patience too.
It's time to bury the corpse,
corpse of zilch demands!!!
erika3247 Nov 2013
You Are Not Alone
Copyright © 2013
By Erika Whitmore

You are not alone
You will never be forgotten.

At the rising of the moon
Through the beams illuminating
Through the starlight reverberating,
Sonorous
Blissful angels weeping
O’er enchanting, echoed voices
… you resonate with me

Tones upon tones upon…
The stars… these ancient stars
Reflecting
In pools and rings…

…that beget rings that beget rings…
Never-ending
Flowing in, ebbing out
In all, in everything
That surrounds you, that’s in me
Blue-azure-and green jade tumbling water

It is so beautiful,
Beyond what words can speak.
…It is you.

Now nothing…
Quiet, falling snow of cotton
Dark and heavy heart

But you are not alone -
…and we are not apart.

And you will never…
Be forgotten.

~
(For My Beloved Ahira and Inspired by and written while listening to: “I Can Hear the Moon Rising,” “Rapture” and “Love Is Surrender” by Kip Mazuy on www.calm.com)
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
i drink like a peasant, maybe i am of peasant stock,
which is nice, which makes value
the simplicities of life, oh, and i write this
while someone somewhere makes democracy real,
by evaluating the need for bureucratic complexities,
and it's oh so lovely to watch,
like i'm a seagull chic being fed regurgitated, things...
for lack of a better word,
i finally met a philosopher who engages with
the utility of grammatical words, who finally sees
categories... but, not so much a case to argue an imperative...
heidegger... once more, and thrice over!
maybe i am only slightly like him,
   although speaking a self-acquired posh-tosh accent,
coming from a catholic school, that isn't all that bad...
and to think i'm actually amused thinking
this through, given that there's no reason to state
that i need to fulfill an ought subsequently...
or... aphorisms 205 - 207...
     or what i call my work canvas-antithesis:
my vocabulary did this to me, the complete work
of jack spicer, alternatively called:
an ode to gabriel lorca -
   imagine, watching *****, where a dead poet
gets ****** by a living poet, now, also dead...
  some people go to the zoo...
just saying.
                    i have to watch my female cat take
a **** and later pick it up with a plastic bag...
she peers into me with a grimmace and a touch
of quizzical... i look back and am doubly
solipstic... and if you're uncaring: just call cats
autistic; that said, cats are perfect companions
to autistics... you sorta forget them,
sometimes you pet them, most of the time you
let them sleep...
   meows are annoying and a dog barking is
soothing... don't know how that works...
thankfully the greeks out-did the whole theology
bog argument of being trapped in a 1 + 1 = 2
logic of using words, or encoding sounds...
my my... the ancient greeks, weren't they the one
that said: you trampoline off of me...
  so thankfully we have the θιτανς
(well, that's how i imagine a greek might say it...
thigh-tans)...
yes, τιτανς...
     all that linguistic ******* of keeping a lisp,
but in this case: a clear transmorphing F sound...
sort of a signature by my way of thinking it through...
did i say the english language has no clear
syllable system? no diacritical marks,
   i never heard of dyslexia when i lived for a century
(of 8 years) in poland...
  ah crap... there was this one word i was thinking
of when i woke up today that proves
that english is a "two-faced" language...
i.e. you hear it, but then you see it differently...
what was the word?
   sight, site, cite, sigh, sire, citation, eh?
      always, always make writing conversational,
rather than anything remotely needing controversy...
fast and nimble, enso principle,
  what diacrtical marks, what diacritical marks
to use?
          ah, let's forget about it...
     **** it, let's keep it as pristine as a ****
marble statue of David somewhere in Italy...
Naples? Pisa?
but i did find that word i was thinking of with that
optical anchor leaving me bed-bound
and doubly-gravity prone to "waste" it with some
classical music...
        while figuring out why tapping my collar bone
vs. tapping my forehead gave a variation of sound,
how i tap?
          ******* tapped against the ring
finger against the protruding bone...
  doing a joke about buddha's stiff hand gesture,
that could never be translated into Braille...
  the fact that he bends his ring finger and creatres
an enclosure with hi thumb...
  that's a statement of continuity...
then you have papa middle and mama index...
the child is always the pinky... or the Chinese
one-child state policy...
this day was never going to make sense sober,
    in england you don't do sober,
unless you're really, really serious about buying
vegetables in a supermarket while
sniffing them.... a bit like angelique kerber
sniffing tennis ***** before a serve...
           some proper fetishists playing tennis
these days... i can't say i'm any better...
what with performing oral *** on a *******...
yes, to the talking donkey of her ****
and to the ropudy chimpanzee of her ****...
  yes, some people really do play a trombone
to get the music, others blow into *****
and get a vivaldi of something according to
an onomatopoeia... like looking for vowels
in hebrew...
   stretching... aching... agonising...
                                                    ­       pleased.
so, **** adam (english), walking about
the garden of eden... without a bay leaf to cover
his genitals (diacritical marks)...
it would make sense to call the existence of
the roman empire as: yesterday...
  was i wrong about the docile jews in the holocaust
and the story in the monday newspaper,
about how 850 migrants scaled a 6 metre barbwire
fence to get into europe via spain?
    the poles say two things about the jews
the germans wouldn't have said:
a. they shot with bent rifles...
b. and this one is true, wasze ulice, nasze kamienice...
which translates as: your streets, our tenements...
that's a true quote, as remembered by my grandfather,
which i'm transcribing into my work...
   that's what the pre-second world war said in
poland... your streets (i.e. you can be homeless),
but our tenements (our buildings, dogs)...
   and to think that my mother cared for two
elderly jewish ladies, to the point when they
bent over to do the eternal kip (sleep / death)...
well, as a foul mouth goes...
you read de sade and perform oral *** on a *******...
you're hardly going to speak like
you ate caviar and drank champagne at the Ritz...
are you?
well, i have ate caviar once... in St. Petersburg...
it was orange and let's just say:
you might as well drink a bit of fish sauce to get
the picture... but not the texture...
of what caviar tastes like.
orange caviar is the cheap **** russians put in
pancakes...
  and it really was revolutionary, when i ate
a pancake consisting of ham and cheese in Paris...
i never knew pancakes could be served as savory...
until... the world opened my eyes and i ate
that pancake... when Paris was what it was,
back in in the first decade of the 21st century.
Neither love nor psychiatry
got tricks or tenacity to transfigure me
into a drug-free butterfly.
If life and the pursuit of liberty
are such good ****, why aren't I enticed
into cold turkey chrysalice?
If I made it past the switchboard, got my minute with Raj Persuad,
I'd say I am more habit than man coz I was ill-starred
- addiction's but one player at tapioca table of my failures,
and I've never changed for the better before.
 
I'm:
not old flame phoenix burned his partridge ******* off;
not the prodigal son soon his patriarch's boss;
not the artist formerly known as Vincent Van Frog
obits tongued into  prince of avant-garde old rot;
not the Clark Kent who transpires scion of Krypton,
and when he goes cross-eyed, does his own laser eye-corrections;
not ugly duckling whose **** gets worn to the bone
thru later over-exposure as a midlife crisis swan;
not bad egg that makes good under the yoke of kizmet,
blossoms into KFC bargain bucket innit;
not the kid who's cuffed 'n' cuffed whilst Childline's engaged,
yet still eschews the Cycle of Abuse - it's Satan's baton-change!
 
So wherefore drug-free butterfly that hatches
en route to a dope-kickin' Damascus?
Daren't unfold a flutter I'd hover even
over lefthand downstroke of the 'u' in 'u-turn'.
 
No re-entry to mentor here, civic harumpher,
straightandnarroristocrat whose bile is haute catarrh,
pillock of the community!
Coz we crooked men only know the way in crooked miles,
don't deserve jeers from Jesus or Jeremiah Kyle,
or the one they call 'Jerryjerry'.
Now, wings of new leaves, one's potential papilionaceous
is natural high they push at Narcotics Anonymous,
but chemical schlemiels relapse coz losers can't be cured
- ain't snapped my fingers and been less crap before!
 
I'm:
not black sheep who scrubs up Baa-barack O-baa-bama
(or even your sentimentalest sweater, knitted by your
                                                           deadest granma);                                    
not this summer's surprise cult hit,
tho' the critics at the preview concurred and had a kip;
not the Strangeways yo-yo who winds up his Folsom blues,
and credits his reformation to the kindness of screws;
no poindexter who in Freshers' week scarce partook,
but fast forward,  four-eyed ***'s Fonzie on Facebook;
not aurum de stercore success-story like the fable
of the goose 'bout to be cooked who lays a golden cable;
not the Chinese Rock star who lives past 27
- Grim Reaper Grammy outrocks rehabby ending.
 
So wherefore drug-free butterfly's eclosion
into denial or Eden, on wings 12 Steps map-pattern?
But I'm a no-show imago, cobwebbed cocoon,
monged a teenage pod of sloth to postpone more misfortune.

— The End —