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Terry O'Leary Sep 2013
NOTE TO THE READER – Once Apun a Time

This yarn is a flossy fabric woven of several earlier warped works, lightly laced together, adorned with fur-ther braided tails of human frailty. The looms were loosed, purling frantically this febrile fable...

Some pearls may be found wanting – unwanted or unwonted – piled or hanging loose, dangling free within a fuzzy flight of fancy...

The threads of this untethered tissue may be fastened, or be forgotten, or else be stranded by the readers and left unravelling in the knotted corners of their minds...

'twill be perchance that some may  laugh or loll in loopy stitches, else be torn or ripped apart, while others might just simply say “ ’tis made of hole cloth”, “sew what” or “cant seam to get the needle point”...,

yes, a proper disentanglement may take you for a spin on twisted twines of any strings you feel might need attaching or detaching…

picking knits, some may think that
    such strange things ‘have Never happened in our Land’,
    such quaint things ‘could Never happen in our Land’’,
    such murky things ‘will Never happen in our Land’’…

and this may all be true, if credence be dis-carded…

such is that gooey gossamer which vails the human mind...

and thus was born the teasing title of this fabricated Fantasy...

                                NEVER LAND

An ancient man named Peter Pan, disguised but from the past,
with feathered cap and tunic wrap and sabre’s sailed his last.
Though fully grown, on dust he’s flown and perched upon a mast
atop the Walls around the sprawls, unvisited and vast -
and all the while with bitter smile he’s watching us aghast.

As day begins, a spindle spins, it weaves a wanton web;
like puckered prunes, like midday moons, like yesterday’s celebs,
we scrape and *****, we seldom hope - he watches while we ebb:

    The ***** grinder preaches fine on Sunday afternoons -
    he quotes from books but overlooks the Secrets Carved in Runes:
    “You’ve tried and toyed, but can’t avoid or shun the pale monsoons,
    it’s sink or swim as echoed dim in swinging door saloons”.
    The laughingstocks are flinging rocks at ball-and-chained baboons.

    While ghetto boys are looting toys preparing for their doom
    and Mademoiselles are weaving shells on tapestries with looms,
    Cathedral cats and rafter rats are peering in the room,
    where ragged strangers stoop for change, for coppers in the gloom,
    whose thoughts are more upon the doors of crypts in Christmas bloom,
    and gold doubloons and silver spoons that tempt beyond the tomb.

    Mid *** shots from vacant lots, that strike and ricochet
    a painted girl with flaxen curl (named Wendy)’s on her way
    to tantalise with half-clad thighs, to trick again today;
    and indiscreet upon the street she gives her pride away
    to any guy who’s passing by with time and cash to pay.
    (In concert halls beyond the Walls, unjaded girls ballet,
    with flowered thoughts of Camelot and dreams of cabarets.)

    Though rip-off shops and crooked cops are paid not once but thrice,
    the painted girl with flaxen curl is paring down her price
    and loosely tempts cold hands unkempt to touch the merchandise.
    A crazy guy cries “where am I”, a ****** titters twice,
    and double quick a lunatic affects a fight with lice.

    The alleyways within the maze are paved with rats and mice.
    Evangelists with moneyed fists collect the sacrifice
    from losers scorned and rubes reborn, and promise paradise,
    while in the back they cook some crack, inhale, and roll the dice.

    A *** called Boe has stubbed his toe, he’s stumbled in the gutter;
    with broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter,
    the passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads and mutter:
    “Let’s pray for rains to wash the lanes, to clear away the clutter.”
    A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.

    The jungle teems, a siren screams, the air is filled with ****.
    The Reverent Priest and nuns unleash the Holy Shibboleth.
    And Righteous Jane who is insane, as well as Sister Beth,
    while telling tales to no avail of everlasting death,
    at least imbrue Hagg Avenue with whisky on their breath.

    The Reverent Priest combats the Beast, they’re kneeling down to prey,
    to fight the truth with fang and tooth, to toil for yesterday,
    to etch their mark within the dark, to paint their résumé
    on shrouds and sheets which then completes the devil’s dossier.

    Old Dan, he’s drunk and in a funk, all mired in the mud.
    A Monk begins to wash Dan’s sins, and asks “How are you, Bud?”
    “I’m feeling pain and crying rain and flailing in the flood
    and no god’s there inclined to care I’m always coughing blood.”
    The Monk, he turns, Dan’s words he spurns and lets the bible thud.

    Well, Banjo Boy, he will annoy with jangled rhymes that fray:
    “The clanging bells of carousels lead blind men’s minds astray
    to rings of gold they’ll never hold in fingers made of clay.
    But crest and crown will crumble down, when withered roots decay.”

    A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
    Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry ***** -
    she casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
    then stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
    the stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.

    So Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
    “The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
    Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
    where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
    where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
    Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
    Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
    whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood cling, splattered on the spire;
    though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”

    Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
    And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
    with child, *****, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
    A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
    in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
    and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
    which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.

    Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
    “In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
    neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
    “She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.

    Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
    but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
    “The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
    but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
    And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.

The eyes behind the head inclined reflect a universe
of shanty towns and kings in crowns and parties in a hearse,
of heaping mounds of coffee grounds and pennies in a purse,
of heart attacks in shoddy shacks, of motion in reverse,
of reasons why pale kids must die, quite trite and curtly terse,
of puppet people at the steeple, kneeling down averse,
of ****** tones and megaphones with empty words and worse,
of life’s begin’ in utter sin and other things perverse,
of lewd taboos and residues contained within the Curse,
while poets blind, in gallows’ rind, carve epitaphs in verse.

    A sodden dreg with wooden leg is dancing for a dime
    to sacred psalms and other balms, all ticking with the time.
    He’s 22, he’s almost through, he’s melted in his prime,
    his bane is firm, the canker worm dissolves his brain to slime.
    With slanted scales and twisted jails, his life’s his only crime.

    A beggar clump beside a dump has pencil box in hand.
    With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned,
    with no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.
    The backyard blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
    and Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.

    While all night queens carve figurines in gelatine and jade,
    behind a door and on the floor a deal is finally made;
    the painted girl with flaxen curl has plied again her trade
    and now the care within her stare has turned a darker shade.
    Her lack of guile and parting smile are cutting like a blade.

    Some boys with cheek play hide and seek within a house condemned,
    their faces gaunt reflecting want that’s hard to comprehend.
    With no excuse an old recluse is waiting to descend.
    His eyes despair behind the stare, he’s never had a friend
    to talk about his hidden doubt of how the world will end -
    to die alone on empty throne and other Fates impend.

    And soon the boys chase phantom joys and, presto when they’re gone,
    the old recluse, with nimble noose and ****** features drawn,
    no longer waits upon the Fates but yawns his final yawn
    - like Tinker Bell, he spins a spell, in fairy dust chiffon -
    with twisted brow, he’s tranquil now, he’s floating like a swan
    and as he fades from life’s charades, the night awaits the dawn.

    A boomerang with ebon fang is soaring through the air
    to pierce and breach the heart of each and then is called despair.
    And as it grows it will oppose and fester everywhere.
    And yet the crop that’s at the top will still be unaware.

    A lad is stopped by roving cops, who shoot in disregard.
    His face is black, he’s on his back, a breeze is breathing hard,
    he bleeds and dies, his mama cries, the screaming sky is scarred,
    the sheriff and his squad at hand are laughing in the yard.

    Now Railroad Bob’s done lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
    His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
    The union man don’t give a ****, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
    the boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.

    Bob walks the streets and begs for eats or little jobs for trying
    “the answer’s no, you ought to know, no use for you applying,
    and don’t be sad, it aint that bad, it’s soon your time for dying.”
    The air is thick, his baby’s sick, the cries are multiplying.

    Bob’s wife’s in town, she’s broken down, she’s ranting with a fury,
    their baby coughs, the doctor scoffs, the snow flies all a’ flurry.
    Hard work’s the sin that’s done them in, they skirmish, scrimp and scurry,
    and midnight dreams abound with screams. Bob knows he needs to hurry.
    It’s getting late, Bob’s tempting fate, his choices cruel and blurry;
    he chooses gas, they breathe their last, there’s no more cause to worry.

    Per protocols near ivied walls arrayed in sage festoons,
    the Countess quips, while giving tips, to crimson caped buffoons:
    “To rise from mass to upper class, like twirly bird tycoons,
    you stretch the treat you always eat, with tiny tablespoons”

    A learned leach begins to teach (with songs upon a liar):
    “Within the thrall of Satan’s call to yield to dim desire
    lie wicked lies that tantalize the flesh and blood Vampire;
    abiding souls with self-control in everyday Hellfire
    will rest assured, when once interred, in afterlife’s Empire”.
    These words reweave the make believe, while slugs in salt expire,
    baptised in tears and rampant fears, all mirrored in the mire.

    It’s getting hot on private yachts, though far from desert plains -
    “Well, come to think, we’ll have a drink”, Sir Captain Hook ordains.
    Beyond the blame and pit of shame, outside the Walled domains,
    they pet their pups and raise their cups, take sips of pale champagnes
    to touch the tips of languid lips with pearls of purple rains.

    Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
    be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins.
    The ruling lot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
    “The gypsies’ soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
    they will not cede to common greed, which conquers far domains
    and furtive spies and news that lies have barely baked their brains.
    But in the court of last resort the final fix remains:
    in boxcar bins with violins we’ll freight them out in trains
    and in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains
    (should one ask why, a quick reply: ‘It’s that which God ordains!’)”

    Arrayed in shawls with crystal *****, and gazing at the moons,
    wiled women tease with melodies and spooky loony tunes
    while making toasts to holey ghosts on rainy day lagoons:
    “Well, here’s to you and others too, embedded in the dunes,
Outside Words Oct 2018
I made a deal with Satan
Because you showed me
That he was my only shot

I threw away who I was
And became your enemy
As I smile like your friend

I learned the game
And that I have a gift

I use it to play you
And steal from you

And I’ll continue to do so
With you as my teacher
Until I cough and glare at you
Through my last dying breath

I’m a villain.

I secretly extort and leach
Off of everything and everyone
That you have ever loved
Because that and you
Don’t mean anything to me

I want to deceive
And take advantage
Of you and your friends
So that I can take your money
Because I will not settle
For less than the ivory tower
That you sleep in.
© Outside Words
So, you ask,
How would I explain it?
Well certainly, as something
Not fun.
It's like...
It's like carrying a leach around with you.
When I walk, I can feel it,
It is a dead weight on my chest,
******* the life from my arms,
Making my hands and face slender,
What should be full and strong
It's like...
It's like when you're sick to your stomach.
That feeling of tar in your gut,
But instead of being isolated, it's everywhere
Throughout your body,
It makes you feel sick everywhere.

This is how I explain dysphoria:
Have you ever looked in the mirror,
And wanted to just rip all your hair out?
When a bad hair day gets out of hand,
Have you ever felt the need to just start over?
Even when you tear out a clump of hair
And your scalp looks raw and a little ******,
But you keep going anyway,
Just to get rid of that stupid haircut?
...no?
Alright, how about,
When you're watching the outtakes of a 3-D animated movie,
the scenes that have "gone wrong",
When the girl's eyes are far too big and pop out of her face,
Her arms are disconnected from her chest,
Her head moves but her teeth do not,
And you just want to scream "DELETE IT!"
Because it's obvious that someone has ******* up here,
And this nightmare, this fever dream
Is not what they intended their creation to look like.

Alright, well have you ever
Done a pencil drawing?
And you've put a lot of time and effort into it,
You're so proud,
This is one of your best works,
But something about it is just off?
You might not be able to tell what it is,
This will bother you for a long time,
You will spend hours on end thinking
About what exactly separates this piece of art from everything else,
What it is that keeps it from perfection...
Until suddenly one day, you realise,
You notice exactly what's wrong,
You grab an eraser to fix your mistake
But then, oh no
Your eraser was *****,
And when you tried to rub out that single wonky line,
You leave a huge black smudge across your paper
And now there's no way to get rid of it
All your work on this piece, ruined,
And you're really upset,
You were so proud of this drawing,
It was so close to being perfect,
It could have been so beautiful,
It was almost perfect, but now...

But now, it's wrong.
It just looks wrong
It just IS wrong,
It wasn't meant to look like this
I am trying to explain as simply as I can
That this body is wrong,
That it wasn't meant to look like this,
That it wasn't meant to BE like this!
Don't you understand?
This is how I explain dysphoria:
Have you ever looked in the mirror
And wanted to just rip your chest out?
Do you ever see your body, your parts seeming broken,
Your chest, legs, hear the sound of your voice
And just scream "DELETE IT!"
Because it's obvious that someone
Has ******* up
Someone was using a ***** eraser
When they created me, erased me,
And they've left smudges, mistakes, that I
Cannot get rid of,
And however hard I try to pretend
That I don't care,
I do,
And I still feel the need to erase them.
These leaches that I carry around,
They drain me,
And I was so proud of myself
I,
This body...

It could have been so beautiful
An attempt at a spoken-word poem. I wrote this a while ago but I came back and edited it, and figured I’d finally publish it. It's very different to the style I usually write in, I think at some point while writing it it just turned into venting. I figure if this speaks to one person, I've done well.
Emily Snow Jul 2015
restless fever of useless gardeners
feeding the monsters of separation
calling quiet the aching reach
of a love drinking leach
bluestarfall Apr 2015
I have been living in these huts lately,
As this life seems aimless and desultory,
Slowly flowing like the splash of drops over the board,
Hallelujah . For me, it's still our God's handwritten story.

Two cents quietly sit in my little pockets ,
And they still fit perfectly in each,
Same as our feelings, as they huddle around our hearts,
Occupying the bijou portions and trying not to leach.

I will hold on till the day, staggering away,
In my tattered clothes, till the color withers and my story stales,
Lingering in the huts, with a hue of nostalgia,
Ailing but not wailing, after a series of massive fails.

Before God finishes writing my story,
I believe he will hand me the pen, its a fact, not a lie,
And with you by my side, I will scribble my glory,
I'll dress you your Gossamer, and myself a Suit and a tie.
There is always a story written for everyone, and as they say, there is always a room for improvement too. Stay fearless and set your mark. Don't let the silence or the hardships alter your way.
NuBlaccSoul Feb 2016
My armless legs carried my body
to the finish line
that my spent will had given up on already,
prior to the bell ring.
Dehydrated and devoid of energies,
in need of divine moving waters,
the very same that spring out of me.

You see, my mum and Uncle Siya'
are but blurry snapshots
in the fading distance,
sights of surroundings in doubles,
from fatigue.
But the running winds carried
their vibrant vuvuzela voices,
a vote-of-confidence hymn
sung by the choir of one plus one,
reverberated from ear-drum down,
in my heart the beat found rhythm,
the lyrics were prosthetics of love,
the art of ululating with our praise songs
and proclaiming proudly
our clan names
sung and said boldly,
megaphone manner
with the tenor
and a Brenda Fassie cadence
by iBhelekazi elihle, uSonani, unoNtanda kuphakanyisa, iLangalokulunga lase Lenge, uNdabezitha, Ahhh Khuboni,
UMama wam'.


And so I drew the sap
for the last lap
from branchy wells
of my dry back.
My bony chest having troubles caging an ambitious and a hopeful heart,
this palpitating ticker.

Today's high-jump is the rise
of an amputated grasshopper,
the leap of an injured springbok.
No, I will not pass the buck;
for any failure like a baton -
the relay run was victory undone.
Standing on this last leg,
800 metres long.
No looking back, cutting curves
at the apex.
  RUN!                                              

Neatly knitted nerves
of my ten toes
endure every tread, 
barefoot feats,
they have to
for my brother
and his numb-below's sake,
we are on bended knees
for a miracle still,
And he is pushing the wheel
until he wins.
Balancing aggregately
on losing legs,
rugby pillars
turn to
marathon sticks.
The petty party
is a few years over,
and no pity is left over to offer.
RUN!                  

Diabetes is sour jokes now,
bile-bitter bite from my great-grand's
cause of death, distasteful how i did not even bury her.
Grandma's mouthful of dentures
denouncing my youth's sweet tooth.
My blood in need of a sugar rush
for the kilometres left, 
to speeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed.
RUN!

Coach André Leach said the race
was mine to lose.
My hothead coupled with coldfeet and topped off with
mixed emotions,
I wished I had the same
unwavering belief in my destiny.
No spikes,
I cannot keep up with the
price hikes
and no takkie,
their new trend is tacky.
After school is not afterschool,
hours of practice await
and an uphill walk home after.

All my efforts would have been that of  laying eggs on the roof
if my chicken flight didn't out fly
the hen on my back,
and the last grain-ground
I must gain now, again.
I ran with a quickened pace,
only behind my dream,
a few steps amiss from happiness.
That feeling is fleeting,
ever too fast,
so I chase contentment instead,
and that I caught up with.

Middle-position podium, I stand,
victiorious!
Winner is me, with the posture
of David Rudisha, but not as pronto
I'm 2 minutes: 32 seconds:
93 semi-seconds fast.
RUN! RUN! Run for your dreams
Run towards your dreams. RUN!
Baleka!
And don't look back.

~ by New-Black-SoUl #NBS
(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. Copyrighted 2016. NuBlaccSoUl™. Intellectual property. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem. || The title is in the Azanian language of IsiXhosa, "Baleka!" is a command for one to run, whether to or away from something or someone.
This poem is an extended metaphor based on athletics,  long distance track event - 800 metres as I look back to my last victory in the aforementioned event and the other life-changing experiences in life's lengthy race. This is my favourite poem I've written yet.

Peace and love upon your head, thank you for reading/liking/reposting/adding to collections.
Saturday December 10 2016 19:23 I did some editing. Re-read!
-nublaccsoul.
ThoughT Jul 2018
I'm all too used to the touch of your absence.  Your mother's wrath in that time can be a death sentence so tragic.  But when you come back, Demeter returns to her senses expressing light magic.   Life springs through the darkness, and flowers race to see who can reach the farthest.  Lovers emerge to nurture their gardens, and soak in sun to thaw out the hearts that hardened.  Birds sing songs highlighting your arrival.  Trees breathe easy seeing what their last set of leaves died for..
Yet when you retreat, mother again takes away her warmth.  The high-flyers no longer soar, and some paths feel too bitter to explore.  Bone-chill zones, a frozen reality stream.  I can't blame anyone for what's a part of me, as we fall into winter's annual dream.
Queen of the Underworld, I appreciate your harmony.  Thank you for teaching me to see the depths of my own duality.  Still, I can't help but wonder how existence would be had you not eaten those pomegranate seeds.  In the darkness of winter I want to curse Hades for his greedy need to leach on life through trickery.  Though to curse him I'd be cursing myself and ive had it with the blasphemy.  Besides I too know what it's like to rely on the dead as your only company.  I ride ebbs and flows of loss and hope, but I know your presence promotes healing.  So again I'll remain as the seasons change, taking layers and peeling.  I've found in light and dark we can succeed in setting our bound spirits free.  Communicator of both worlds, I want to Thank and honor you, Persephone~
adira Feb 2018
everything seems so dark so sad
then i see your smile and my heart ***** its wings gladly
in a way i could like a leach
into joy i would reach
i live off of smiles
if i harvested none i would disapaer from all the worlds inches and miles
in my own ocean of tears
i dedicate my life so no one must be like me with a heart full of tares
only held together with thin fragile thread
THE PROLOGUE.

WHEN folk had laughed all at this nice case
Of Absolon and Hendy Nicholas,
Diverse folk diversely they said,
But for the more part they laugh'd and play'd;           *were diverted
And at this tale I saw no man him grieve,
But it were only Osewold the Reeve.
Because he was of carpenteres craft,
A little ire is in his hearte laft
;                               left
He gan to grudge
and blamed it a lite.              murmur *little.
"So the* I,"  quoth he, "full well could I him quite
   thrive match
With blearing
of a proude miller's eye,                    dimming
If that me list to speak of ribaldry.
But I am old; me list not play for age;
Grass time is done, my fodder is now forage.
This white top
writeth mine olde years;                           head
Mine heart is also moulded
as mine hairs;                 grown mouldy
And I do fare as doth an open-erse
;                         medlar
That ilke
fruit is ever longer werse,                             same
Till it be rotten *in mullok or in stre
.    on the ground or in straw
We olde men, I dread, so fare we;
Till we be rotten, can we not be ripe;
We hop* away, while that the world will pipe;                     dance
For in our will there sticketh aye a nail,
To have an hoary head and a green tail,
As hath a leek; for though our might be gone,
Our will desireth folly ever-in-one
:                       continually
For when we may not do, then will we speak,
Yet in our ashes cold does fire reek.
                         smoke
Four gledes
have we, which I shall devise
,         coals * describe
Vaunting, and lying, anger, covetise.                     *covetousness
These foure sparks belongen unto eld.
Our olde limbes well may be unweld
,                           unwieldy
But will shall never fail us, that is sooth.
And yet have I alway a coltes tooth,
As many a year as it is passed and gone
Since that my tap of life began to run;
For sickerly
, when I was born, anon                          certainly
Death drew the tap of life, and let it gon:
And ever since hath so the tap y-run,
Till that almost all empty is the tun.
The stream of life now droppeth on the chimb.
The silly tongue well may ring and chime
Of wretchedness, that passed is full yore
:                        long
With olde folk, save dotage, is no more.

When that our Host had heard this sermoning,
He gan to speak as lordly as a king,
And said; "To what amounteth all this wit?
What? shall we speak all day of holy writ?
The devil made a Reeve for to preach,
As of a souter
a shipman, or a leach.                    cobbler
Say forth thy tale, and tarry not the time:                
surgeon
Lo here is Deptford, and 'tis half past prime:
Lo Greenwich, where many a shrew is in.
It were high time thy tale to begin."

"Now, sirs," quoth then this Osewold the Reeve,
I pray you all that none of you do grieve,
Though I answer, and somewhat set his hove
,                  hood
For lawful is *force off with force to shove.
           to repel force
This drunken miller hath y-told us here                        by force

How that beguiled was a carpentere,
Paraventure* in scorn, for I am one:                            perhaps
And, by your leave, I shall him quite anon.
Right in his churlish termes will I speak,
I pray to God his necke might to-break.
He can well in mine eye see a stalk,
But in his own he cannot see a balk."

Notes to the Prologue to the Reeves Tale.

1. "With blearing of a proude miller's eye": dimming his eye;
playing off a joke on him.

2. "Me list not play for age": age takes away my zest for
drollery.

3. The medlar, the fruit of the mespilus tree, is only edible when
rotten.

4. Yet in our ashes cold does fire reek: "ev'n in our ashes live
their wonted fires."

5. A colt's tooth; a wanton humour, a relish for pleasure.

6. Chimb: The rim of a barrel where the staves project beyond
the head.

7. With olde folk, save dotage, is no more: Dotage is all that is
left them; that is, they can only dwell fondly, dote, on the past.

8. Souter: cobbler; Scottice, "sutor;"' from Latin, "suere," to
sew.

9. "Ex sutore medicus"  (a surgeon from a cobbler) and "ex
sutore nauclerus" (a  ****** or pilot from a cobbler) were both
proverbial expressions in the Middle Ages.

10. Half past prime: half-way between prime and tierce; about
half-past seven in the morning.

11. Set his hove; like "set their caps;" as in the description of
the Manciple in the Prologue, who "set their aller cap".  "Hove"
or "houfe," means "hood;" and the phrase signifies to be even
with, outwit.

12. The illustration of the mote and the beam, from Matthew.

THE TALE.

At Trompington, not far from Cantebrig,
                      Cambridge
There goes a brook, and over that a brig,
Upon the whiche brook there stands a mill:
And this is *very sooth
that I you tell.               complete truth
A miller was there dwelling many a day,
As any peacock he was proud and gay:
Pipen he could, and fish, and nettes bete,                     *prepare
And turne cups, and wrestle well, and shete
.                     shoot
Aye by his belt he bare a long pavade
,                         poniard
And of his sword full trenchant was the blade.
A jolly popper
bare he in his pouch;                            dagger
There was no man for peril durst him touch.
A Sheffield whittle
bare he in his hose.                   small knife
Round was his face, and camuse
was his nose.                  flat
As pilled
as an ape's was his skull.                     peeled, bald.
He was a market-beter
at the full.                             brawler
There durste no wight hand upon him legge
,                         lay
That he ne swore anon he should abegge
.             suffer the penalty

A thief he was, for sooth, of corn and meal,
And that a sly, and used well to steal.
His name was *hoten deinous Simekin
        called "Disdainful Simkin"
A wife he hadde, come of noble kin:
The parson of the town her father was.
With her he gave full many a pan of brass,
For that Simkin should in his blood ally.
She was y-foster'd in a nunnery:
For Simkin woulde no wife, as he said,
But she were well y-nourish'd, and a maid,
To saven his estate and yeomanry:
And she was proud, and pert as is a pie.                        magpie
A full fair sight it was to see them two;
On holy days before her would he go
With his tippet* y-bound about his head;                           hood
And she came after in a gite
of red,                          gown
And Simkin hadde hosen of the same.
There durste no wight call her aught but Dame:
None was so hardy, walking by that way,
That with her either durste *rage or play
,                use freedom
But if he would be slain by Simekin                            unless
With pavade, or with knife, or bodekin.
For jealous folk be per'lous evermo':
Algate
they would their wives wende so.           unless *so behave
And eke for she was somewhat smutterlich,                        *****
She was as dign* as water in a ditch,                             nasty
And all so full of hoker
, and bismare*.   *ill-nature *abusive speech
Her thoughte that a lady should her spare,        not judge her hardly
What for her kindred, and her nortelrie           *nurturing, education
That she had learned in the nunnery.

One daughter hadde they betwixt them two
Of twenty year, withouten any mo,
Saving a child that was of half year age,
In cradle it lay, and was a proper page.
                           boy
This wenche thick and well y-growen was,
With camuse
nose, and eyen gray as glass;                         flat
With buttocks broad, and breastes round and high;
But right fair was her hair, I will not lie.
The parson of the town, for she was fair,
In purpose was to make of her his heir
Both of his chattels and his messuage,
And *strange he made it
of her marriage.           he made it a matter
His purpose was for to bestow her high                    of difficulty

Into some worthy blood of ancestry.
For holy Church's good may be dispended                          spent
On holy Church's blood that is descended.
Therefore he would his holy blood honour
Though that he holy Churche should devour.

Great soken* hath this miller, out of doubt,    toll taken for grinding
With wheat and malt, of all the land about;
And namely
there was a great college                        especially
Men call the Soler Hall at Cantebrege,
There was their wheat and eke their malt y-ground.
And on a day it happed in a stound
,                           suddenly
Sick lay the manciple
of a malady,                         steward
Men *weened wisly
that he shoulde die.              thought certainly
For which this miller stole both meal and corn
An hundred times more than beforn.
For theretofore he stole but courteously,
But now he was a thief outrageously.
For which the warden chid and made fare,                          fuss
But thereof set the miller not a tare;           he cared not a rush
He crack'd his boast, and swore it was not so.            talked big

Then were there younge poore scholars two,
That dwelled in the hall of which I say;
Testif* they were, and ***** for to play;                headstrong
And only for their mirth and revelry
Upon the warden busily they cry,
To give them leave for but a *little stound
,               short time
To go to mill, and see their corn y-ground:
And hardily* they durste lay their neck,                         boldly
The miller should not steal them half a peck
Of corn by sleight, nor them by force bereave
                *take away
And at the last the warden give them leave:
John hight the one, and Alein hight the other,
Of one town were they born, that highte Strother,
Far in the North, I cannot tell you where.
This Alein he made ready all his gear,
And on a horse the sack he cast anon:
Forth went Alein the clerk, and also John,
With good sword and with buckler by their side.
John knew the way, him needed not no guide,
And at the mill the sack adown he lay'th.

Alein spake f
I really think
that it is just a sin.
That when there is trouble
The Big Boys join in.

They all come across
saying that they'll make a change
and then somebodys World
they will then rearange.

The US and Russia
along with us Brits
don't want it that way
so we blow it to bits.

We give guns to him,
supply arms to another.
Then we sit back and watch
as Brother kills Brother.

Who are we to guide?
Who are we to preach.
When we cling on to their assets
like a blood ******* leach.

We should leave others alone
till our own house is done,
yet we watch as our schools
become run by the gun.

Where now it's the norm
to be shot as we learn,
just as long as big commerce
is able to earn.

Those who should know better
don't know how to behave
Happy to see
another Child in a Grave.

So you Big Boys go elsewhere
because it's well known
that if you come to play
you come armed with a Drone.

While you're sitting back
comfy in your armchair.
You can relentlessly ****
from a place that's not there.

Then when you pull the plug
and remove your devices
we are faced with a problem
of people making bad choices.

We have made problems worse!
We have let people down
and when we get a world crisis
we'll react with a frown.

We don't want them here.
They cannot go there.
A whole host of humanity
who is welcome Nowhere.

We created this problem!
We created this way.
So in the future
keep The Big Boys away.
3rd October 2015
© Copyright Christopher K Bayliss 2014
Audrey Sep 2014
Even though your funeral was in the summer,
It felt like autumn the way the tears
Hung off Aunt Shelley's jawbone like cold raindrops
On the eaves of the old porch,
The way Grandpa's eyes were too red and wet and
A thousand years away,
The way Dad's sorrow poured out of folded arms and tight lips,
Soft like worn leather,
The way it rained too lightly to add any cliché dreariness.
I just couldn't think of that red granite box as you, even though I
Knew
It was the soft gray remains of your body.
Death is not like winter, cold and harsh
Death is autumn, life draining from bodies,
Life drip-dripping from stuttering lips and
Once-strong grips
Death is watching summers of laughter and hugs fade to
Hospital rooms and rain-grey skin and
Slow sad songs like wind in red-brown, dead-brown leaves
And feeling a slow, quiet loneliness invade your veins.
Your death was not cold, impersonal sterile white; it was the
Aching melancholy melody of removing
One shade of green
From a palette, not noticed in the painting at large
But felt  keenly in the way the artist's hand no longer
Cues that brushstroke.
Watching you die was watching all the green leach out of the leaves
And turn them briefly, painfully on fire,
Standing in a field of emerald grass and feeling it
Crinkle and turn yellow-orchre under cold fingers
Collapsing into mud.
Watching Death from the outside is the single
Most painful part of your painless process.
When you took your last breath, your features were a
Picture-perfect memory of peace, even as my face was a
Mask of confusion, my chest heaving with stale hospital air
The way yours would never again.
I wanted to run outside and imagine all the trees turning red-gold
In your honor, mimicking your final
Blaze of glory in that last smile.
Autumn came early that year, though no trees
Turned
Til October.
Even in the middle of spring I can smell the
Rain-woods-wind-wine scent of your autumn soul
And it makes me smile.
Hannah Davis Jan 2016
You're not a necessity,
You’re an accessory.
Stop trying to own me, talk at, and stand next to me.  

Stop playing the role of the leader- you’re less than me.
I am the boss here you have nothing to offer- see?

I am stronger, smarter, brighter, bolder-
and all you have to say is what?
“If I can’t have her I’ll hurt her.”

You think because you’re man and I’m women I’m yours,
but when it comes to offers I haven’t see anything worse.

You call at me,
Stare at me,
Swear at me,
Slimy and gross like a leach.
You taunt me and smirk at me as if I’m in your reach.

So I’ve talked to you once,
We’ve made eye contact- your point?
You’re a cog in a machine line,
a small piece,
an ordinary joint.

You’re unoriginal with your words,
even less with your actions.
I’m beautiful and talented,
So when it comes to you there’s no attraction.

You have nothing to offer me,
let me be-stop accosting me.
You’re taking up my time and it’s costing me.
Because unlike you I’m not worthless,
I’ve got ambition and drive.
I’ve got brains-not just an ***.
You’re not the reason I’m alive.

You’re nothing,
You’re worthless.
And if I wanted you, you’d know.
I’ve been trying to tell you repeatedly just where you can go.

Your offers?
Not catchy,
not tempting,
I don’t want anything less.

So sad to know when it comes to relationships-
this is as close as you ever get.

You’re ****.
You’re trash.
You confuse me when you talk.
Since when does a women sleep with someone when they gawk, or when they stalk?

You’re a coward,
You’re a loser,
Your creation was a glitch.
And though yes, I am rejecting you,
No, boy-you are the little *****.
An expression of my rage towards the amount of times I have been objectified and harassed by men over the last month both on the street and in my workplace.
Darnell Jan 2015
Compassion the last one that enters the room
A key trait that isn't groomed
A true character the teachers don't teach
A pure thing that leaches won't leach
Compassion the leader to happiness
The follower of sorrow
Compassion something you can't barrow - d.j. Turner
Hayley Aug 2016
What's up with this planet, who's in charge here
Obviously ****** up people whose minds aren't clear
They're clouded with greed
They bribe people who lead
Deaf are their ears when we plead
Get out of our society, just leave
You're not welcome here
You make us hate and live in fear
It's hard to believe people still fall for your games
The world is blindly covered in your chains
We will free ourselves just you watch
We are raising the vibrations another notch
Maybe you should run while you still can
Before everyone finds out your sick twisted plan
Revolution will be lurking around the corner and in the dark
We need to inform everyone and ignite their spark
Our souls know something is horribly wrong
The caged bird sings the prettiest song
Look at the music and what people say
They're fed up with the planet and it's evil way
Life here is horribly unaligned
With Mother Earth and the divine
Don't be distracted just open your eyes
Get in tune with yourself, feel the vibrations rise
You'll change the world if you look within
Knowing thyself is how we win
Don't stop growing, you'll never be done
Love yourself and make your changes fun
See the silver lining, the light, the sun
Look at what's in front of you, don't just run
Feel awareness in every part of your soul
A loving world for all should be your goal
Happiness isn't far out of reach
Ignore false prophets and what they preach
Let your experiences and your higher self teach
Be a sustainer and not just a leach
I promise we can change the world if we try
Listen to what people are saying when they cry
We should come together with love and compassion
Quit self loathing and quit people bashin'
Lend each other our heart and our hand
Quit fighting over oil and this sacred land
The Earth is for all of us to share
To create something beautiful with endless care
It's not all about you, it's all about us
Now come join me on my hippie bus
Joshua Martin Aug 2012
Pretend that you're a poet
& sleep beneath beer-stained sheets
Pretend that you're a *****
& lay down in the streets
Pretend that you're a Buddha
& delight in the peace
Pretend that you're a preacher
& drain them like a leach.

Pretend that you're a soldier
& cry when no ones there
Pretend that you're a lover
& kiss her when shes bare
Pretend that you're a housewife
& start to make a list
Pretend that you're a prisoner
& stare into the abyss.

Pretend that you're homeless
& and beg beside the road
Pretend that you're an alcoholic
& wake with guns to load
Pretend that you're a poor man
& sleep upon the floor
Pretend that you're a rich man
& you won't have to pretend no more.
PrttyBrd Dec 2012
Stuck in a time long since passed. Heart emptied hopeless. Faces blur along with the days. Nights linger incessantly, haunting all that ever was.  Dreams tease happy.  Sun kills dreams. Time makes scars. Distance allows the fallacy to continue.  The lies turn daily mantra.  The mantra into perceived reality. Reality into dreams, the dreams into nightmares.  Sun cannot **** nightmares.

Hollow glass hearts bleed
Puddle will evaporate
To exist no more


Joy-filled memories leach all hope for future joy.  Heart crushed to powder. Powdered hearts cannot bleed.  Dead hearts cannot feel. Memories, overflow with the shadow of love's embrace. Pain jabs the senses like lightning.  Still, the heart has ceased to exist.  Calluses fill the space that scars cannot.  False emotion permeates the truth.  Future acquaintances see beauty behind dead eyes.  As they close in, icy breath freezes long enough to drain their heart to beat some life into the one lost. Walking away with minimal pulse as their heart is hollowed and bleeding.  Soon too, that puddle with cease to exist.  

**Life's casualties
Joy begets pain begets joy
Hope dies most quickly
Copyright©PrttyBrd 20\12\12
betterdays Aug 2018
tea leaves sit soggy, sad
forgotten  at the bottom

of the cup

leaching, bitter tannins
now, forgetting the life they led

no one willing to read their fortune
no spilling of the secrets
they never truly had

just detrius now
from dust to dustbin
the cycle of a tea leaf
long or brief,
happy or sad
a parable, in hot water

once green and lush in colour
in essence, verdent's liquid fame
once used and now just *******
every life has limit, every limit claimed
as we sup, we suffer the race of time
running through our fingers

clamouring at our mind

one day we too,
will be *******
waiting for the dust,
one day we too
shall leach our liquids
in the unforgiving  dust
Icarus Fragmenti Aug 2013
Elope me in your thoughts and all this mental pain.
Like a rope you seem to choke me and cut me off from my brain.
I can't make sense of it, nor can I explain it.
I tried to paint the picture from the window I was "paned" in.
Sprained mind thought I still want to reach you,
Teach me to love you, don't preach that I bug you.
Release my anxiety, I "Leach" on to propriety.
Sobriety is getting harder by the day...
Society is watching me, I'm not sure what to say...
I'm sitting in my rocking chair, typing away a blurred array,
I still write about you everyday,
you haven’t read a word I've saved.
I still think about you every night,
Your closeness is what I crave.
When I talk to you I cave, man I don't know what to say..
I feel less intelligent, but hell your smile, I relish it...
It shines so bright no need for embellishment.
I want to see it all the time, so much I feel so selfish..
It's pure happiness in it's prime,
but the crime is that it's for a lie.
You hurt inside, I seem to help.
I'm on your mind, and you're on mine.
That's fine with me, you're divine.
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
Hey it rained today
Here on Rehoboth Beach
I don't have much to say
As I laugh at each
Of the idiots on this beach
Twas not just rain
But a storm
And unlike the norm
People here claim the terrain
As would a leach.
One in particular
Was strapped...with a baby.
Above the law for sure
On bath salts maybe
Did run to the shore in agony.
Life with no umbrella
Must make one sad fella
For such measures of magnitude
To ruin the attitude
Of everyone here on Rehoboth Beach



All dem beach biddies.
Yoloswagin up in here
Gettin my swag on it cities
And all over dat pier.
Rockin dem flippy floppies
Engage slomoswag
Drunk on lemon poppies
With my gift shop bag.
Soak it up ladies
The wife beater
The shadies
Come on over here
Mmm taste that retainer
Of champions!
Can't contain her
Sweet two ton European.
For my senior week two of my close friends and I hopped on bicycles each carrying our share of gear and biked over 200 miles to Rehoboth Beach, DE. After we finally arrived at the beach it began to storm violently. While we waited under I roof by the bathrooms on the boardwalk, watching how crazy people began to act I demanded an activity to pass the time, as the beach was closed. So I pulled out a dollar and, while very tired, I wrote a poem on either side. Neither very serious.
Ruthie Nov 2010
Listen soldier to the tale of tendor nightingale
Tis a charm that soon will ease your wounds so cruel,
Singing medicine for your pain in a sympathetic strain
with a jug, jug, jug of lemonade or gruel.

Singing bandages and lint; salve and stearate without stint
Singing plenty both of liniment and lotion.
And your mixtures pushes about
And the pills for you served out
With alacrity and promptitute of motion

Singing light and gentle hands, and a nurse who understands
How to manage every sort of application.
From a poultice to leach, whom you haven't got to teach,
The way to make a poppy fomentation.

Singing pillow for you smoothed; smart and anguish smoothed,
By the rediness of feminine invention.
Singing fever thirst allayed, and the bed you've tumbled made
With a cheerful and considerate attention.

Singing succour to the brave and a rescue from the grave,
Hear the nightingale that's come to the crimea.
Tis a nightingale as strong in her heart as in her song,
To carry out so gallant an idea.
Florence Nightingale
SøułSurvivør Jun 2015
---

she

is
defunct
mother of a
strange changeling

she

nurses it upon
her own heart
arterial blood
of deepest crimson
while It
bites the ******

she

accepts her fate
and allows it to feed
until it is bloated
as a leach

she

allows this stillborn
to drain her soul till
there is no longer any

joy nor pain

love nor hate

peace nor fear

lust nor frigidity


she

has named
her child

loneliness

and she

lets it
drain her
til
she
is
empty


soulsurvivor
(c) 6/1/2015

---
PrttyBrd Jun 2011
Heart stuck in gray dawn. Subtle remembrances, consume. Longing for more. Lingering for, "used to be".  Vulnerability in pain gambled for strength in love.  Held in place by promises.

Spoken words deny
Actions scream in love and pain
Hearts splinter and crack


Time cannot heal what was not meant to be broken. Change is slow coming.  Dreams of warmth take hold, trying to leach into reality so abruptly ripped apart.  Something once so perfect, so beautiful in its purity, in its simplicity. Forever tainted by selfless gestures turned selfish motives.

Promises broken
Dreams relive yesterday's bliss
Stopping tomorrow


What's good for one, not enough to sustain.  Love enough to last, pushed under, forgotten. Lost to fear. Submerged in darkness.  Yet, there lies the sun.  Warm and alive.  More than a seed, a field of flowers ready to bloom.  Still, flowers of love do not bloom in tears of despair.

**You are the warm sun
Watered by my salty tears
Flowers turned to hay
62311
Veronica Smith Dec 2013
This town is too small for secrets
The sidewalks are adorned with names and dates
Of couples whose love dissolved twenty years ago
While moss oozes out of the letters.

This town is too small for secrets
Through windows at night
The citizens play out their dollhouse lives
And dysfunction is locked away in grandmother’s armoire.

This town is too small for secrets
Where bars close at seven in the morning and open an hour later
And the tenders are purveyors of free psychiatry
Who put advice in bowls between stale peanuts
And place them on the counter.

This town is too small for secrets
Every hour the two churches compete for the loudest bells
But the protestant one always wins
And the Catholics having mass ignore its pleading voice
But whisper politely in each other’s ears
About the scandalous protestors out on Main.

This town is too small for secrets
With its coffee shops littered with youth
Who deny their wealth through coffee steam
And discuss the state of countries they can’t place on a map
And slowly leach out in to the frigid rain
Back to new cars and million-dollar homes
Where daddy pays the bills.

This town is too small for secrets
The college students drink their scholarships in red plastic cups
And scuttle towards their shared flats
Collapse in to bed too tired to sleep
Stare at the ceiling and wonder why they didn’t transfer
Three semesters ago.

This town is too small for secrets
With its gated communities of retirees
Where the homes are manufactured
And the walls papered with the smiling faces of clean-cut grandchildren
And the rebellious ones packed away
From the neighborhood gossip’s prying eyes.
Dallas jozwick Jan 2018
My skin may be bruised while you continue cruise..
but seconds later
I stand withheld
Because you see, wounds heal
And your fingertips are no longer felt,
My neck free from your belt
I rebuild
So Thank you for giving the monster a borough in the back of my head
It's only so narrow
But now its filled, I have to thank you,
Thank you for making room
For the flowers to grow
Forever out of your reach
I can only heal after getting away from the leach you coast as
My skin was once blue
But after leaving you which was long overdue
I see being me is the only thing I need
And how I'm finally free
Lucanna Mar 2013
Goodbye
Disgusting excuse of a friend
A confidant
I used to hold such confidence in,
Now a sickly
Pseudo relationship.
You and I
A Despicable desert dry
Duo
I can't spend another second
At this pathetic pretending
That you can offer anything to anyone
But a narcissistic notion
And a nerve-racking
neuroses of the mind
The universe is out to get you
I curse my oblivious self
I had forgotten you are the single
Cohabiter on Earth
Ah, yes
You are undefeated
At the blame game
I've tried to hold honor in defeat
But, I don't have an ounce of energy left
For your egotistical world
You unhinged
Dark gate
You let your steed of self-obsession
Out to stampede the sincerest hearts
You don't even see the *****
Destruction
You deal out
From your deprived reciprocity
Alcohol, your only ailment
Your **** filled words
Tossed out lament and futile
This is where we go our divided way
I will not claim even a freckle on your face
As a friend
I will not look back
Nostalgia is not necessary
I will detach myself from your
Leach like misery
And I'll slowly build strength back
A blood flow of enraged fierceness
Has circulated through my core
And it will be as if
I never had any bit
Of me
Belonging to you
Friend, now foe
Farewell
I'm tired of ****** friends... I could put that so much more eloquently, but I don't have the energy to do so.
Illya Oz Oct 2016
I pull at my hair
And scratch at my skin
You ask me why
I don't even know where to begin

The curls in my hair are all wrong
The colour orange just doesn’t belong
My skin looks all weird colours and mottled
The feelings inside I keep up and bottled

There is no reason for my depression
I find it hard to show my expression
I escape into the word of fiction
I stay so long it becomes an addiction

Being who I am doesn’t conform
To what others consider the social norm
People who know my sexuality
See me as an abnormality

I get terrified when in a crowd
Everyone just always seems so loud
I cling to people like a leach
My voice is weak without freedom of speech

I wish I could be normal
But that would just abnormal
I wish I could learn to accept
But in that I am so inept
I'm really tying to accept all my flaws and things that I don't like about my self. So many people no matter who they are or where they live are not happy with who they are. We all just need to learn to accept others and our selves despite our flaws.
Will Rogers III Mar 2015
title then poem.
begin

fists clinched
my thumb hurts
my leg needs to be stretched
oh and I should throw this away

what is she doing?
does she know my hurt
my pain
my death inside?

I thought I told her!
she wants to see things casual
she wants to see things easy
well as long as I am this way
you have to deal with it

I slouch
I sit up
tension I can not get rid of

My eyes wonder to the outside
to avoid her
when the hell?
hell will I let go?
what must I do?

my thumb has been hurting
why I don't know
It shakes too
but I don't know

I thought I told her.
why must I see her this often?
it is as if she is ignoring it
she wants things back to "normal"
she wants things casual
casual, ha

she eats her sandwich and laughs
as if nothing has happened

she looks to my eyes for a smile
for any sign of change,
of letting go

the other one sits quietly
I wonder how much she knows
I wonder if she cares
at least she and I are comfortable with each other
thank God she is there
I can not think of the torture that
would be if it were just the first and I

I look to the cars
which could easily **** me
if I took but one "wrong" step

what words can I shout to
describe the pain that I inflict
upon myself?
why do I harm myself?
why do I hold on to that which is killing me?

you would think it would be easy to
pick off a leach from your lower leg
instead of watching it get bigger and bigger
what is it doing for me?

this is a parasitic relationship
not a mutual benefiting one
I need baking soda or something
I think I have some in the kitchen

if not a leach that I can take off, albeit painful
some of this must be on me
not thirty minutes can I go without getting distracted
it's never been like this

I can't wait to see if it gets worse.
that will be fun lol
I just can't wait

"I sing because You are good
because You are good to me."
ok fine

I said I would be more thankful
and I am, but I am impatient

I go to beer to escape that which is inescapable
and then regret it
and then regret ever meeting her
and then regret that I regret
will I even graduate?

this poem is useless
I don't know the first thing about myself

at least God knows me better than I do
better than I will ever know

at least He is on my side
He will help me.
won't He?
[composed on February 3, 2014]
kirk Mar 2019
There are people in this world, and I don't mean to preach
I am exercising my rights, and my freedom of speech
Opinions will be expressed, but there's not much I can teach
Except these people drain the land, all ******* like a leach

If your a copper lover, and you like the boys in blue
Politics may float your boat, perhaps you don't have a clue
Royalists could take offence, you know what you should do
a WARNING from this moment on, I wouldn't read if I we're you

Just forget about crap brexit, it's the British who will pay
Who cares about a ******* deal, or if we go or stay
We never had no interest, with that ***** Theresa May
Her cabinet is full of ****, but they've always been that way

We don't need any governors, trying to take our land
Or politicians trying to rule, with their unruly hand
A state for every president, all thinking they are grand
And local law enforcement, I can not ******* stand

All people in authority, treat the rest of us like flops
The civil servants are not civil, nor are the ******* cops
Their issued with a uniform, and believe they are the tops
Illegal **** and seized drugs, are shared in bent cop shops

You could get a thrashing, locked behind that steel cell door
Or mowed down in a pursuit, or beaten to the floor
They get away with ******, and a hell of a lot more
In case you did not realise, Police have immunity from the law

Never mind Ladies and lords, in a world of pure desire
The deception of constabulary's, and the monarchy's a liar
They all adopt god statuses, it could be even higher
Escort them to the Wicker Man, sacrifice them in the fire

The Governments they ruin lives, their footsteps where dirt soils
Our leaders are unscrupulous, every country's left in spoils
Prime minister's winding up the world, in continuous loops and coils
The queen should go and **** herself, along with all the royals

A horses **** springs to mind, as well as ugly trolls
When I see that Prince Philip, and Camilla Parker Bowles
Charlie boy well what a ****, dragging Diana through the coals
Their the spongers of the state, all living of our tolls

Just take a look at palaces, and look at where we dwell
We're treated like we're second rate, and we all ****** smell
They stick their noses in the air, and you can always tell
That we're seen as the common folk, and we can go to hell

When seen in the public eye, you know they are looking down
They're no better then anyone else, underneath their royal gown
Why are they put on pedestals, and made jewels of the crown
And live in places that could house, half an ******* town

Who cares about false visits, who cares where they have been
Their only trying to look good, their not really all that keen
Flood victims and tsunamis, well they just want to be seen
We don't want the tossers sympathy, and ******* to the queen

Isn't she just too **** old, she should be abdicating
The rest of them can *******, their all so aggravating
Higher aches no one needs, because they are segregating
We're categorised into a class, and there is no negotiating

Disband the current monarchs, because they are out of season
The Tudors should've been the place, to put a royal freeze on
Why are they the privileged ones, there isn't a good reason
They are all above the law, and maybe that's high treason

All successors to the throne, they never had a spine
I'd rather be a *******, now the crown has lost it's shine
When there's marriage on the table, their not likely to decline
Has Meghan Markle ever been, The Bride of Frankenstein ?

I knew you were an actress, take a look at yourself now
You are like Kate Middleton, your just another royal sow
Is William a pig ******, he's reared three swine's but how?
Perhaps Harry's had a bit of  Kate, and bred that stupid cow

Because a prince just came along, and it was you they plucked
Was it the thought of royalty, when in you were then ******
Does aristocracy have its folds, are they all neatly tucked
The only job you have now, is lay down and get ******

Can I make one suggestion, now please don't take offence
You don't have to reproduce, with these two smarmy gents
Do you feel obligated, to mix in with their scents?
Or because you're now a royal, you have free tax and rents

Never mind the cushy jobs, when your in the special forces
Send William to the front line, after his training and courses
Why should our country pay, for all their false endorses
Is Margaret part of their clan, or one of the sad horses

The Duke of Edinburgh's award, why didn't he just pass
Sarah Ferguson was a commoner, and from a different class
Did Andrew like her freckles, did they extend down to her ***
She wasn't all that bothered, once behind the palace glass

Celebrities tolerate her majesty, they must have some endurance
Those poor ******* on that show, the Royal Variety Performance
Britain's Got Talent has it's winners, I hope they have insurance  
They're there for the prize money, not for the royals assurance

A variety of royalty, but there not all that enticing
So many bent police officers, who take small cuts from slicing
We don't want dodgy minister's, collecting and over pricing
It's a constabulary of governments with too much royal icing
Frieda P Oct 2013
Cut
Cut me, leach this tumor within me
it has festered into a separate entity
with its own blood supply
grown overbearing in  its voracity
taking up more space each day
edging me out of the picture entirely
seems as though it'll devour me whole
dismemberment appears imminent
I'm only afraid of what I'll find
a face similar to mine with two heads
a cancer of your caliber, eating me alive
cold, ruthless treachery of no denial
ancestral antecedent, I'd prefer it dead
set fire to your name in vain
demon feasting decades after
it will never surrender peaceably
John B Dec 2014
If a deity's power is based around the faith put in that entity I have a new pantheon to propose.


Giggles and Fun

A gay couple and first because there is not one person here who has not done something just for fun or just for giggles, period you may not have said it but your actions at some point have been dedicated to fun or giggles, fear and respect them.


Godamit & ****

Anytime anything goes wrong one of these to is to blame, sometimes **** will get you laid but that may not be a good thing seeing as 1 in 4 people has ****** and that's just one of the many incurable venereals you may pick up *******.


Left and Right

Subjective and relative are Left and Right maybe its a little more to one or the other or maybe you need to turn to one of them at the light we lean heavily on them to know our way around and to make things worth looking at when you get to were your going.


Science

The first single god and the most active, constantly provides evidence for his powers, just wants to be understood,  some would say he hopelessly flirts with reality but that's another story.


Reality

Well she's vain self centered and materialistic, reality checks, reality TV and any who ever said get real gave her power but she's getting on in years and may soon concede her secrets to the advances of science.



Please and Thanks

Often thought to be ageing and weary these two are just as spry as ever having traded quantity for quality, the rigmarole of formal worship with the passion of devout praise, one thing certain if you call out to one of these two in this day and age you mean it and with the change even sarcasm seems to be laying off.



Sarcasm and Irony

Once amongst the top tier traded quality for quantity and what passes as comedy now days has all but killed them, with derp irony and that **** from work who still says please and thanks like with that snide sarcastic tone and a wince of disgust maybe a snort, ****.



Love and Hate

The definition of a love, hate relationship, again trading quality for quantity with sarcasm feeding off them like a leach on raw pork it may be time for a change or an end to love and hate.


Demigods include but are not limited to.

****, No & Yes, Hi & Bye, Good, Forgot, ****, UWhtM8 & blighter...
Submissions welcome and credits where credit is due.
When Michael Collins came, first from the courts of England,
which in low and lofty Londoun lately were helde,
while Thames there with treachery and treasoun did truly ring,
was Ireland ill split and beset with ignoble stryfe.  
Yet there a land lately formed was, where still folk lyve on mydllerde.

Though it is not in this warlike time of Dev that we our tale do set,
after these tymes of troubling stryfe, contentioun salted still the land.

Fine Fail and Fine Gael, then foes many yeres remained
till noblest amongst them, in qualities none lacking,
did do battle in old Dublin and vanquish the dred enemy.  
That mon who dreded nought, nightly then held his court in fair Dail Eirinn.  
Enda was called that man, and everysince has his noble courte endured.  

There, as Chrystmasse came, was assembled his cabinet fayre:
there Sir Wilmore the red, who waited on the grete lorde in readiness.  
There with grete courtesey, the kings coins to keep, sat Sir Noonan the balde.  
There Sir Reilly, learned in lore of leach and herb, who on erde had little left to lerne.  
Eek Sir Varadkar the gaye who granted was, the grete kinges horses to groome.  
Laste, the lovely layde Burton, who, the rede rose of Wilmore would long after carry.  

Other knyghtes numerous were there, but of these now, nought will I
tell,
for fallen to feasting were this fayre companye al and fayne would I not,
in tedious trials of descriptioun, your patience for to trye.
The first brief installment of a romance in Alliterative verse.  Alliterative verse belonged to the North West of England, and is quite different to the southern style of English poetry which was made popular by Chaucer.  For one of the finest examples of this style of poetry, and the parodic source for this poem, see 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.' Pardon the spellings.
Preech Mar 2013
Mos Def addict practicing my mathematics
multiplying gross deaths stacking high in my attic
banishing, your batting eyelashes in my hatchet
brandishing a reflection of death nothing can match it,
a packet of matches, three cans of gas am I mad *****?
I’m a man mastering cracks of dark arts from a sad witch,
tears of evil, blasting apart marked hearts, sew they can’t stitch,
so I can cross your eyes and harvest every last inch
of your body I’ve got hauled high with my crass winch.
Dangling like abattoirs meat hanging upside down by your feet,
never is the time that I will retreat,
secreting discreetly in your petite physique,
desecrated secretly I never cease with the heat.
I’m a clever beast with the sweet smile of a pre-school teacher
I’m a leach, I’m an evil preacher,
I’m worse than a priest with someone not quite senior in reach.
I beseech you to keep my smile in mind when I breach
the regular limits of sin, an when the victim begins
spinning within the rhythm of my limb precision
positions a physician would think weren't natural
constructions. Causing concussions with my bone crack percussion
discussing the disgusting repercussions of being obstructive
with a kind as destructive as mine its reductive to imply
that I’m stuck with a mind superior to thine, let the subtleties shine,
you’re an inferior design, obsolete, so the premise is supremacist
there’s no preventing this, the evidence is left in every crevice of the premises.
Cyan Tendency Jan 2013
You poor darling,
You simply don't see yourself, do you?
Acrid- tang cigarette
(irresistible; your doing)
will leach from my hair, to swirl down the drain.

The scent of me, never we could place a finger on
that curled in your nostrils and tilted your head
quickened your heartbeat and stirred your longing
perhaps I  replace it now, blindfolded alchemy
as I wash night away for the bright day ahead.

......but oh, in that morning, turning my head to my own shoulder
in sleep-half awareness of lying alone
the smell of you impermeated
in my naked skin?
Smiling as honey-deep memories surfaced
I was saddened by normal, sweet touch of warm water-
I'd wanted to inhale you all of the day.

You poor darling
Heart fragile, unwittingly bidden laid bare
this lepitopterology
your pain pulled forth, in my chest, in my empathy
-I now know the difference between mine and yours.

You don't see yourself, do you?
Oh, how I know your suffering
as it was mine, and mine again, too many days and nights to count
all the good, great, and magical I had and created
came forth from the luminous creature I was
but blinded by taunts, and wicked occlusion
I saw my self lacking; sorely so, truly broken
and a painful un-fit, in the world I was in.

But darling, my vision of heart has expanded
of spirit, and eyes that saw lack and disgust
Love has saved me! Inklings a half-decade prior
have furled forth from seedling to sapling to tree
and the grand love of Self that is true nature, birthright
is flowering forth for its beauty to see
Blooms of confidence, surety, clear blessed vision
of gifts that are mine, honour-bound to set free.

I recall that pure sadness and loss on your aura
as the light kissed you, curled in repose on the chair
that had held us in passion. Self- same cigarette
that you scrambled for madly to calm tides of longing
(frustrated, so not to abet floods of tears)
seems to both speed and slow your heartbeat and loathing
that gap in your eyes, uniqueness unfair.

And I know many years you may have of this, sharply
Repudiation, inadequacy, loneliness, grief
Inflicted to pin down the Ulysses you are
but I tell you, and one day I know you will know this
Glorious you are and resplendent you'll be.

I'm still on my way but my light is emerging
(you being one instrument to bring this from me)
Think perhaps of the Monarch, that you wondered if whether
We were blessed to set eyes on, on our fair shores
It knows not its beauty, and in liquid torment
it writhed for what felt like intolerable years
in primordial soup, a knife-edge to oblivion
but emerged as magnificent, free from its fears.

So my darling, I know you don't see yourself clearly
But I do, and oh what a true gem you are
There is so much inside you and through your perspectives
The world is enlightened, and so you must learn
That your blessings to all of us lie in the All
of the mad, rapturous, deep, bright, tulmutuous heart
of the Artist-
the treasure the world needs to turn!-
And although you may fall into self-flagellation
and feel our kind too far and few between,
remember my heart, dear; allow me to light you
and once again let your magnificence burn.
Cory Ellis Dec 2013
Possession
came swift through the dream
it was like a foul, warm breath
hot w/ raw stench odor
rising symbol of evil

Looming like an unwanted guest
Feeding like a blood leach
vacuuming consciousness
awaiting Bodhisattva
impatiently waiting
scratching at the wall
sitting where you relax
violent, perplexed poltergeist
visions and visions and visions

Running to the other room
to observe the shrill scream
observe w/ your own two eyes
You watch your mother writhing

Whats wrong?

I'm possessed!

Your kidding?

Eyes roll back
complicated convulsion
demonic face warp
the voice morphs
into a devilish crooning baritone

*DOES IT LOOK LIKE I'M ******* KIDDING!?
Sheila J Sadr Jun 2014
I tried running.
Pressed my feet against those hopes I’ve always wanted.
But slipped right onto the crackled pavement
I used to call my dreams.

One day, I bought some Nikes.
The store told me that their shoes could
grip onto you tighter. That I could sprint across
your tired body and not forget to clean you
with my footsteps. I adored you.

The funny thing I soon found out was
buy and try all I want -
there is no such rise and recovery
from blindly face-planting on your familiar path
splattering your body
like sunday morning jelly on toast.

All I wanted was to hold you. Follow your road
that refused to latch onto me like a dead leach.
Feed off of you like an infant on a mother’s breast.
Bloom like daffodils in your needed sunlight.

But there was no traction. My Nikes broke their promises
so I tore them off and tried walking
barefeet.
I stumbled.
Laid there.
Curling my fingers onto your fractured chest, I tried
holding on.
Sliding under my very fingertips, you refused me.

Or I refused you. Whatever it was
It doesn’t matter now.
There is just no traction.
So I let go. Maybe swimming is a safer bet.
No point in holding on anymore.

Thursday January 23, 2014  3:46 AM
Jay Jimenez Jan 2011
all these words you promise
you think your such a godess
really you'll crash like everyone else
when i look at you
i see your secret words you preach
behind the close doors and the sheets
you think your so sneeky
but really your clear as bleach
and your stuck on my skin like a leach
so practice what you preach
and listen to what you teach
please get to walking
down that one way street
RH 78 Feb 2015
I looked the other way but saw you coming
I heavily subsidised you and acted on impulse but I saw you coming.
Like a leach unable to find it's own food source I saw you coming but let you take a sip before you could bleed me dry.
You ducked and you dived but I saw you coming.
No fancy footwork though, you tried to bulldoze your way by acting out a false reputation.
No one works for someone who barks. That's your style. A riddle makes more sense than you do.
I saw you coming.
You're a sugar loaf!
I'm golden syrup!
I saw you coming!
Seeing is avoiding!
Eleanor Sinclair Aug 2018
I used to feel stress as some others do
I’d cry and pout and usually eat the stress away
Gaining 5, 10, 15 pounds in the process
But at what point does stress become too much?

Phase 1- Normal
A little stress
But less than should cause concern
Take a quick pause and breath
Till you feel fully awake and ready to handle the whole deal that is worrying you
Eating pattern: Normal

Phase 2- Intermediate
More substantial stress
Quite the mess inside the mind
Especially in an unkind situation
Eat a little more than normal for the sake of taking away the thought of the problem
Make a list and stick to it to reduce the impact
Don’t place the fist to the wall yet
Eating pattern: Calories increased by 25-40%

Phase 3- High
Stress has reached its max
Like a leach ******* the life away
Mind trying to stray from the food or the situation
But somehow falling pray to both
Like a host for a parasite
Eating pattern: Compromised. Calories increased by 60-75%

Phase 4- Immense
Stress too high to handle comfortably
Functional human abilities begin to cease
Like a paralyzing disease
Lies like not feeling well begin to find their way into play through each and every day
Not only is the issue stressful but the thought of eating becomes impossible
Now more problems creep in with the deep dive swim of an eating disorder side show
Eating pattern: Crippling loss of appetite. Calories decreased by 90%

I digress to address the source of my stress
A world I thought I knew and had nothing left to do but ride the wind with my sweetheart
But things fall apart yet the world still spins and at the end of the day the side I’m fearful of wins
And now I’m alone and scared of what’s next I just sit here with empty stomach rumbles hoping for your text
I miss you and it hurts and the stress is a burden. I feel like I’m dying from the inside out and I doubt I’ll make it out of this

— The End —