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Ellie Nov 2010
Invitation Only:

A dinner you will forget to remember.

Down the road
little kids laugh and cheer
unaccompanied by their parents
they should have endless fear

Bones in my yard
decoration of course
I'll sit on my porch
watching the joy of endless candy

Come to me little children
I'll eat you up your so **** cute
I bet you taste good too

Brains and Liver, with sauteed onions
lips and fingers, with green olives
toes and tongue dipped in vinegar

come join Serean and Dr. Lector
for your last Halloween dinner.
No kids were harmed in the making of this poem.
Thank You, I now return you to your previous program.
PJ Poesy Jan 2016
What Dr. Lector devours with fava beans, inside rots. Too much Chianti?
Not likely. Likely, not enough
but there has been much else. Still,
no amounts warranting any shy example of overload. Mild splurges,
done in high style equal
nothing in comparison to toxic
baths taken in industrial grindstone
mortors. And the payback?
Walking papers and abdominal lump.

Poke it and choke on acid reflux. Pop
more pills to keep it down. Downers
prescribed on more downers.
Feeling down? Have another downer.
What else can we do? Your MRI's
and ultrasound, unsound, do not
come with flag from foreign invader,
claiming this new territory for king.

So, blame it on the offal.
Blame it all on the offal for not
having guts and glory
to fight off its own infection.
And eat your chicken livers.
Fear is harder to overcome with each new diagnosis and prognosis, but I continually do. I'm no chicken liver.
Big Virge Aug 2017
Ya know ...
I used to use ... " Dots " ...

or what's called ... " Ellipses " ...

to Connect ... My Scriptures ... !!!

but Now ... use ... " Squiggles " ...
to Connect ... The Lyrics ...
That I ... sit and ... " Scribble " ... !!!

So I DO ... Connect Dots ... !!!
with rhymes I ... " Jot " ...
About ... Terrorist Plots ... !!!
and ... " Corporate " ... Bods' ...

Whose jobs are ... " Those " ...
where agendas ... "Hold" ...
the keys to ... " Gold " ...

and Maybe ... " Oil " ... !?!
AND ... DRUG LORD ... Spoils ... !!?!!

Dots I ... Use ...
CONNECT ... Issues ...
That Some ... " Confuse " ... ???
as ... " Deluded " ... Views ... !?!

So WHO's ... " Deluding " ... WHO ... ?!?
with news they produce ... ???

Groups like ... W.H.O. ... ?

The types who ... FUEL ...
EBOLA News ... !!!!!

As if Africa ... IS ...
A place where the ... SICK ...
Get ... INFECTED ... !!!!! ...
By ... ALL KINDS OF ... " Things " ... !!!

That ...
Seem to ... STING ... !!!!!

EXCEPT ... " Projects " ...
Set by ...  " The West " ... ?????

That are ... " Scientist Led " ...
to FEED ... Black DEATH ... !!!!!

or WORSE ... Black PLAGUES ... !!!!!!

That They then say ...

"NEED TO BE CONTAINED
IN VARIOUS WAYS !"

BEFORE ... They Arrive ...
in ... Western States ... !!!!!!!!!

Something seems ... " Strange " ... ?
AFRICANS ... fade awayyyyyyyyyyyyyy ..............................

While Westerners ... SURVIVE ... !!!
When Ebola Strains ...
Reach ... Their Coastlines ... ?!?

Then OF COURSE ... They CLAIM ...

"Africa NEEDS AID !"

From The West ... who say ...

That ...

"Africa was, the first place
to have aids !"

A.I.D.S. .... !!!!!!!!

The type that left .........
A Trail of ... Death ... !!!

Just like ... " The Feds' " ...
when they SHOOT ... Bullets ... !!!!!

Could cash be spent ?
by the ... I.M.F.
to " Aid and " ... PROTECT ...
and STOP ... These Trends ... ?!?

Well ...
Aid They ... Give ...
These days I ... Think ...............

Seems to be the ... " Type " ...
That Has ... A PRICE ...
That's ... WAY TOO HIGH ... !!!!!

" These " .....

" Dots of Mine " ...
DO NOT ... Contrive ...
to ... Formulate ... LIES ...
That ... DAMAGE ... Lives ... !!!!!

THEY ...
OPEN ... Eyes ... !!!!!
and ... OPEN ... Minds ... !!!
to the things ... "disGuiSed" ...

As TRUTH ... Defined ...

I Think ... You'll Find ...
That ... Truth's ... DENIED ...

Pretty Much ... ALL THE TIME ... !!!

But NOT ... in rhymes ... I ...
Sit and .... Write .... !!!

From ... Relationships ...
that ... Bear ... WITNESS ...
to the ... " Types of Women " ...
Who Play ... " The Victim " ...
from The End ... Back to Beginning ... ?!?

What's with these chicks ... ?
Who Think ... They're ... " Slick " ...

They're SLICK ... Alright ... !!!
Like ... " Grease and Slime " ... !!!

UNTIL ... " Chauvinists " ...
Treat them like ... ***** ... !!!!!

and ....
Leave them ... " DITCHED " ...
Like .... My Lyrics ....

So THEY ... WON'T LIKE ...
These words I ... write ... !!!!!!!

The Dots they ... " Connect " ...
AREN'T GOOD ... for Men ... !!! ...
when they get ... UPSET ...
Over ... PURE NONSENSE ... !?!?!

Or Let ... Their NEED ...
for ATTENTION ... Be ...

The Thing that ... DESTROYS ...
Relationship ... " Poise " ...
because ... " Boys with " ... " Ploys " ...
Can ... OPEN THEM ... Up ...
Like ... ******* Toys ... !!!!
and ... OTHER ... Stuff ... !!!!!!!!!!

These Girls ... " Employ " ...

That ... SATISFY ...
MORE THAN ... These ... " Guys " ...
Who ... TRY and TRY ... !!!!! ...
to ... Make Them ... " Smile " ... !!!!!

By ...
Giving them ... " Child " ...
and ... Marriage Vibes ...
Where ... CONNECTION ... is the Key
to .... Relationship .... GLEE .... !!!!!

But .....
How Many do we see ... ?
who are Living ... " Happily " ... ?!?

CONNECT ... " Those Dots " ...
and you ... Might Get ... SHOCKED ... ?!?
by those now ... "LOCKED" ...

In Relationships ... " Docked " ...
with .... NO iPod ... !?!?! ...

" Hold on, that's wrong ! "

Like couples who ... " Plod " ...
For the ... " Children's Sake " ... !?!

Which i'm ...
Primed to say ...

is a ... BIG Mistake ... !!!!!

If you ... DON"T ... get along
It's time to .... Move on .....................................
WITHOUT ... " Using " ... Your Child ...
Like some ... " ******* " ... !!!!! ...

to be USED ...
while you ... ABUSE ...
Yourself and ... THEM ... !?!?!

Does that ... Make Sense ... ?!?

Children NEED ... " Dots " ...
That Connect ... WITHOUT The ... STRESS ...
of Parents ... FIGHTING Like ... Dogs ... !!!!!!!!!!!!!

Who Got Married ... Just because ...

" The Premise " ... seemed ... INVITING ...
Before they got a .................. " Sighting .................................
of Who ... The Other ...... WAS ...... !!!!!!

The TRUTH is ... That ...
Our Lives ...
DON'T Always ... " Intertwine ' .............  

which is WHY ...
We SHOULD ... " Take Time " ...
to YES ... CONNECT The ... Dots ... !!!

with someone who IS ... Strong ... !!!
and DOESN'T Cause ... PROBLEMS ... !!!

That SEVER ...
MORE THAN ... " Bond " ... !!!!!!

My Style of ... Rhyme ...
IS ... Clever ... !!!

Because .....

Problems ... " I Solve " ...
Within The Verse ...
I put to ... WORK ...
Like THOSE ... Who have ... " The Job " ...
of being ..... NEW ..... " Sherlocks " ..... !!!!!!!

STOPPING ....
Violent ... " Yobs " ... !!!!!

and Those who ...
Choose to ... ROB ... !!!!!
Or WORSE STILL ...
Choose to ... **** ... !!!!!!

But Nowadays ...
Their Dots ... Display ...
A BLATANT ... DIS-Connect ... !!!

Between these heads in ... " Uniforms " ...
and " Basic " ... " Common Sense " ... ?!!!? ...

and Being ... MORE ...
Than KILLERS Who ...
Are Causing ... STORMS ... !!!

Because they're ... NO BETTER ...
Than ... " Hannibal Lector " ... !!!!!!!

MURDERERS Who ... " Stalk " ...
More Than They ... " Walk The Walk " ...

of .... " PROTECTING TO SERVE " ... !!!!!!

They Connect and ... HURT ... !!!
MORE THAN They ... " STOP " ...

The CRIMINALS ... Who ...
SIT IN ..... "Boardrooms" ...... ?!?

and DON'T GET ... " SHOT " ... !?!
for the CRIMES They ... "PLOT" ... ?!?

Something seems ... " WRONG " ... ?!?
when Blacks get ... SHOT ...
For Being .... BLACK .... !!!!!!!!

What's up with ... THAT ... ?!?

I Think it's TIME ...
To STOP ... These CRIMES ... !!!!!

As it seems to be ... RIGHT ...
To STOP ... These Rhymes ...

Before ... These Lines
are Deemed to ... " INCITE " ...

When ALL They ... " Reflect " ...
Are Some ... " Thoughts " ... Expressed ...
That ... talk about ... " Health " ...
and The ... HARD SELL ... !!!!!
of ... "Devious Plots" ...

That Seem .... ALL WRONG ... ? !!! ?

Until YOU ...
Take The Time ... to ...

" Connect The Dots " .................................................................­....................

Listen Here :

https://soundcloud.com/user-16569179/connect-the-dots?in=user-16569179/sets/the-cmi-sessions
Seems like a few need connecting right about now .... !!!!!
Pirate maps might bear this caution;
"Here be Monsters" on an ocean.
Here I scribe an admonition
to persons sailing poetry:

"Here be sunken thoughts and feelings,
  broken hearts with razor edges.
Here be aching naked lovers'
   lives exposed for all to see.
Here be doldrums.  Here be tempests.
  Here be shattered dreamers' metrics.
   Here be shoals of hidden sorrows.
    Here be Sirens crying, "Help me!"
Here be tidal waves of sadness.
  Here be rotting shipwrecked hope.
Sail these pages at thy peril.
Steer towards creativity.
Cadence can become boring if the pattern runs too long
Lector Spade Sep 2014
"It was something in that kiss
Down there by the Styx
That took my breath away,

A single spark
With infinite mark
I know is here to stay,

Sometimes Death is beautiful
As long as we're awake,

I know I won't make mistakes,
'*** love is all it takes."
Poetic T Feb 2015
I was drinking from the skull
Of a long dead bird, I had eaten
It a while back, it tasted like
Chicken!!
But not much to the bone.
I wondered if I was like
Hannah,
Henry,
Hello
Brain remember it, any way
Mind did wonder past my
Teeth, tongue it slid like
That jelly mother did make.
I gagged a moment, but then
All settled not a zombie,
But not a bad tasting brain.
"Hannibal"
"Lecture"
"Lector"
Snuck down stairs, DVD on
I remember the noise and
"Clarice"
Remember pinkie raised
When drinking from a cup
Haha...
Its the little things that make me
Smile. How you doing there friend
He doesn't talk much now, smells
Funny too, but even the dead are
Company when you only have you.
Apocalyptic
Apocalypse
Stopped
Everything, screaming, crying, chill
Its not that bad no tax, no big
Brother looking down on you.
"Ok running for your life"
"Keeps you healthy"
Plus
"Eating leftovers mouldy in a bin"
"What doesn't **** you makes you stronger"
"Negative"
As I regurgitate it back to the bin,
It has its pros and cons
But I miss the chatter
The one on one,
"How was your day"
"You look tasty"
"Why you looking at me that way"
Knife to the side of the head.
"BOOOM"
"O'no you didn't"
Skinny little freak trying biting moves,
This isn't PAC MANtm fool.
You meet interesting people on the road,
All I want to do is have some    
"Apocalyptic Chatter"
"Howdy Mam"
That's a big knife I say!!
As I pull out old faithful,
She screams I cant take that
And runs off screaming the other way
Run ***** Run,
The Apocalypse isn't boring
But I do miss the day to day chatter waking each day.
The Fire Burns Oct 2016
Crazy is just a flavor of the mind
it brings joy to some
puts others in a bind
what have I become

Binding a simple task
straitjackets come in every size
not so my Lector mask
crazy in my eyes

Thoughts of brains and beans
served with chianti wine
in my soul, hear the screams
so for now I pay the fine

Clarise, Clarise,
you never understood
ridding the world of fools,
doing all I could

Wearing others skin
to escape who I am
my sanity worn thin
channeling son of sam

It's not a crime, in my mind
thinning of the pool
excising the unworthy
a scalpel, as my tool

Genetic options thinned
much like culling the herd
their meat has been tinned
inner voices have me spurred

So for now, I have escaped
I am loose and on the run
eating who I choose
being chased by dudes with guns

In the end
when all is said and done
Crazy, just a word
another one, for fun
A Collab with Sidd Gray
Travis Magnan Dec 2013
Standing in the vast range of nothing.
With the assurance of thinking you're secure with her
while you spin that thought on the tips of your fingers.
She slowly creeps into your life.
Embracing her crooked smile.
The virus is dormant until you look a little closer
inspecting her deceitful optical organs
the skylight to her soul
The mutation starts to grow.
She slices you open and tempers with the brain
peeling a layer back at a time.
Injecting ******* into your system.
The true Hannibal Lector.
Her cunning looks and soft voice making you think Its okay.
Holding your hand she leads you to the mirror
what a fool you are.
Her laugh starts to bleed through her teeth.
Now the picture is painted of her wounded soul.
Sia Jane May 2014
Sketch me,
draw me in your mind,
project me onto your canvas.
colour me,
releasing the unquiet,
make me your,
unprecedented piece,
an ongoing life work,
perfecting all impurities,
eradicate all self-flagellation,
espouse a new desire,
akin to Basil's obsession,
The Picture of Dorian Gray,
infatuation lends to disillusion,
pursuing,
hedonistic pleasures,
soul baring to all sin,
intentions to please,
exonerate myself entirely,
you promised redemption,
not further damnation,
I'm Narcissus trapped,
between,
painted reflections of self,
dying a thousand times,
devoted & absconded trust,
pulling it out,
hand in chest,
blood,
           poured
                    poured              
                       ­              poured
                        

as Lector serves,
killings,

you feasted on my heart,
with the same delight.


© Sia Jane
I am so absent here and I miss you all and all your writings so much.
Very busy but I will find time soon to catch up xoxo
Que otros se jacten de las páginas que han escrito;
a mí me enorgullecen las que he leído.
No habré sido un filólogo,
no habré inquirido las declinaciones, los modos, la laboriosa
mutación de las letras,
la de que se endurece en te,
la equivalencia de la ge y de la ka,
pero a lo largo de mis años he profesado
la pasión del lenguaje.
Mis noches están llenas de Virgilio;
haber sabido y haber olvidado el latín
es una posesión, porque el olvido
es una de las formas de la memoria, su vago sótano,
la otra cara secreta de la moneda.
Cuando en mis ojos se borraron
las vanas apariencias queridas,
los rostros y la página,
me di al estudio del lenguaje de hierro
que usaron mis mayores para cantar
espadas y soledades,
y ahora, a través de siete siglos,
desde la Última Thule,
tu voz me llega, Snorri Sturluson.
El joven, ante el libro, se impone una disciplina precisa
y lo hace en pos de un conocimiento preciso;
a mis años, toda empresa es una aventura
que linda con la noche.
No acabaré de descifrar las antiguas lenguas del Norte,
no hundiré las manos ansiosas en el oro de Sigurd;
la tarea que emprendo es ilimitada
y ha de acompañarme hasta el fin,
no menos misteriosa que el universo
y que yo, el aprendiz.
Una noche invernal, de las más bellas
Con que engalana enero sus rigores
Y en que asoman la luna y las estrellas
Calmando penas e inspirando amores;
Noche en que están galanes y doncellas
Olvidados de amargos sinsabores,
Al casto fuego de pasión secreta
Parodiando a Romeo y a Julieta.

En una de esas noches sosegadas,
En que ni el viento a susurrar se atreve,
Ni al cruzar por las tristes enramadas
Las mustias hojas de los fresnos mueve
En que se ven las cimas argentadas
Que natura vistió de eterna nieve,
Y en la distancia se dibujan vagos
Copiando el cielo azul los quietos lagos;

Llegó al pie de una angosta celosía,
Embozado y discreto un caballero,
Cuya mirada hipócrita escondía
Con la anchurosa falda del sombrero.
Señal de previsión o de hidalguía
Dejaba ver la ***** de su acero
Y en pie quedó junto a vetusta puerta,
Como quien va a una cita y está alerta.

En gran silencio la ciudad dormida,
Tan sólo turba su quietud serena,
Del Santo Oficio como voz temida
Débil campana que distante suena,
O de amor juvenil nota perdida
Alguna apasionada cantilena
O el rumor que entre pálidos reflejos
Suelen alzar las rondas a lo lejos.

De pronto, aquel galán desconocido
Levanta el rostro en actitud violenta
Y cual del alto cielo desprendido
Un ángel a su vista se presenta
-¡Oh Manrique! ¿Eres tú? ¡Tarde has venido!
-¿Tarde dices, Leonor? Las horas cuenta.
Y el tiempo que contesta a tal reproche
Daba el reloj las doce de la noche.

Y dijo la doncella: -«Debo hablarte
Con todo el corazón; yo necesito
La causa de mis celos explicarte.
Mi amor, lo sabes bien, es infinito,
Tal vez ni muerta dejaré de amarte
Pero este amor lo juzgan un delito
Porque no lo unirán sagrados lazos,
Puesto que vives en ajenos brazos.

»Mi padre, ayer, mirándome enfadada
-Me preguntó, con duda, si era cierto
Que me llegaste a hablar enamorado,
Y al ver mi confusión, él tan experto,
Sin preguntarme más, agregó airado:
Prefiero verlo por mi mano muerto
A dejar que con torpe alevosía
Mancille el limpio honor de la hija mía.

»Y alguien que estaba allí dijo imprudente:
¡Ah! yo a Manrique conocí en Sevilla,
Es guapo, decidor, inteligente,
Donde quiera que está resalta y brilla,
Mas conozco también a una inocente
Mujer de alta familia de Castilla,
En cuyo hogar, cual áspid, se introdujo
Y la mintió pasión y la sedujo.

Entonces yo celosa y consternada
Le pregunté con rabia y amargura,
Sintiendo en mi cerebro desbordada
La fiebre del dolor y la locura:
-¿Esa inocente víctima inmolada
Hoy llora en el olvido su ternura?
Y el delator me respondió con saña:
-¡No! La trajo Manrique a Nueva España.

»Si es la mujer por condición curiosa
Y en inquirir concentra sus anhelos,
es más cuando ofendida y rencorosa
siente en su pecho el dardo de los celos
Y yo, sin contenerme, loca, ansiosa,
Sin demandar alivios ni consuelos,
Le pregunté por víctima tan bella
Y en calma respondió: -Vive con ella.

»Después de tal respuesta que ha dejado
Dudando entre lo efímero y lo cierto
A un corazón que siempre te ha adorado
Y sólo para ti late despierto,
Tal como deja un filtro envenenado
Al que lo apura, sin color y yerto:
No te sorprenda que a tu cita acuda
Para que tú me aclares esta duda».

Pasó un gran rato de silencio y luego
Manrique dijo con la voz serena
-«Desde que yo te vi te adoro ciego
Por ti tengo de amor el alma llena;
No sé si esta pasión ni si este fuego
Me ennoblece, me salva o me condena,
Pero escucha, Leonor idolatrada,
A nadie temo ni me importa nada.

»Muy joven era yo y en cierto día
Libre de desengaños y dolores,
Llegué de capitán a Andalucía,
La tierra de la gracia y los amores.
Ni la maldad ni el mundo conocía,
Vagaba como tantos soñadores
Que en pos de algún amor dulce y profundo
Ven como eterno carnaval el mundo.

»Encontré a una mujer joven y pura,
Y no sé qué la dije de improviso,
La aseguré quererla con ternura
Y no puedo negártelo: me quiso.
Bien pronto, tomó creces la aventura;
Soñé tener con ella un paraíso
Porque ya en mis abuelos era fama:
Antes Dios, luego el Rey, después mi dama.

»Y la llevé conmigo; fue su anhelo
Seguirme y fue mi voluntad entera;
Surgió un rival y le maté en un duelo,
Y después de tal lance, aunque quisiera
Pintar no puedo el ansia y el desvelo
Que de aquella Sevilla, dentro y fuera,
Me dio el amor como tenaz castigo
Del rapto que me pesa y que maldigo.

»A noticias llegó del Soberano
Esta amorosa y juvenil hazaña
Y por salvarme me tendió su mano,
Y para hacerme diestro en la campaña
Me mandó con un jefe veterano
A esta bella región de Nueva España...
¿Abandonaba a la mujer aquella?
Soy hidalgo, Leonor, ¡vine con ella!

»Te conocí y te amé, nada te importe
La causa del amor que me devora;
La brújula, mi bien, siempre va al norte;
La alondra siempre cantará a la aurora.
¿No me amas ya? pues deja que soporte
A solas mi dolor hora tras hora;
No demando tu amor como un tesoro,
¡Bástame con saber que yo te adoro!

»No adoro a esa mujer; jamás acudo
A mentirle pasión, pero tú piensa
Que soy su amparo, su constante escudo,
De tanto sacrificio en recompensa.
Tú, azucena gentil, yo cardo rudo,
Si ofrecerte mi mano es una ofensa
Nada exijo de ti, nada reclamo,
Me puedes despreciar, pero te amo».

Después de tal relato, que en franqueza
Ninguno le excedió, calló el amante,
Inclinó tristemente la cabeza;
Cerró los ojos mudo y anhelante
Ira, celos, dolor, miedo y tristeza
Hiriendo a la doncella en tal instante
Parecían decirle con voz ruda:
La verdad es más negra que la duda.

Quiere alejarse y su medrosa planta
De aquel sitio querido no se mueve,
Quiere encontrar disculpa, mas le espanta
De su adorado la conducta aleve;
Quiere hablar y se anuda su garganta,
Y helada en interior como la nieve
Mira con rabia a quien rendida adora
Y calla, gime, se estremece y llora.

¡Es el humano corazón un cielo!
Cuando el sol de la dicha lo ilumina
Parece azul y vaporoso velo
Que en todo cuanto flota nos fascina:
Si lo ennegrece con su sombra el duelo,
Noche eterna el que sufre lo imagina,
Y si en nubes lo envuelve el desencanto
Ruge la tempestad y llueve el llanto.

¡Ah! cuán triste es mirar marchita y rota
La flor de la esperanza y la ventura,
Cuando sobre sus restos solo flota
El ***** manto de la noche obscura;
Cuando vierte en el alma gota a gota
Su ponzoñosa esencia la amargura
Y que ya para siempre en nuestra vida
La primera ilusión está perdida.

Leonor oyendo la ****** historia
Del hombre que encontrara en su camino,
Miró eclipsarse la brillante gloria
De su primer amor, casto y divino;
Su más dulce esperanza fue ilusoria,
Culpaba, no a Manrique, a su destino
Y al fin le dijo a su galán callado:
-«Bien; después de lo dicho, ¿qué has pensado?

»Tanta pasión por ti mi pecho encierra
Que el dolor que me causas lo bendigo;
Voy a vivir sin alma y no me aterra,
Pues mi culpa merece tal castigo.
Como a nadie amaré sobre la tierra
Llorando y de rodillas te lo digo,
Haz en mi nombre a esa mujer dichosa,
Porque yo quiero ser de Dios esposa.

Calló la dama y el galán, temblando,
Dijo con tenue y apagado acento:
-«Haré lo que me pidas; te estoy dando
Pruebas de mi lealtad, y ya presiento
Que lo mismo que yo te siga amando
Me amarás tú también en el Convento;
Y si es verdad, Leonor, que me has querido
Dame una última prueba que te pido.

»No tu limpia pureza escandalices
con este testimonio de ternura
No hay errores, ni culpas, ni deslice
Entre un hombre de honor y un alma pura;
Si vamos a ser ambos infelices
Y si eterna ha de ser nuestra amargura,
Que mi postrer adiós que tu alma invoca
Lo selles con un beso de mi boca».

Con rabia, ciega, airada y ofendida,
-«No me hables más,- repuso la doncella
Sólo pretendes verme envilecida
Y mancillarme tanto como a aquélla.
Te adoro con el alma y con la vida
Y maldigo este amor, pese a mi estrella,
Si hidalgo no eres ya ni caballero
Ni debo amarte, ni escucharte quiero».

Manrique, entonces la cabeza inclina,
Siente que se estremece aquel recinto,
Y sacando una daga florentina,
Que llevaba escondida bajo el cinto
Como un tributo a la beldad divina
Que amó con un amor jamás extinto,
Altivo, fiero y de dolor deshecho
Diciendo: -«Adiós, Leonor», la hundió en su pecho.

La dama, al contemplar el cuerpo inerte
En el dintel de su mansión caído,
Maldiciendo lo ***** de la suerte,
Pretende dar el beso apetecido.
Llora, solloza, grita ante la muerte
Del hombre por su pecho tan querido,
Y antes de que bajara hasta la puerta
La gente amedrentada se despierta.

Leonor, a todos sollozando invoca
Y les pide la lleven al convento
Junto a Manrique, en cuya helada boca
Un beso puede renovar su aliento.
Todos claman oyéndola: «¡Está loca!»
Y ella, fija en un solo pensamiento
Convulsa, inquieta, lívida y turbada
Cae, al ver a su padre, desmayada.

Y no cuentan las crónicas añejas
De aquesta triste y amorosa hazaña,
Si halló asilo Leonor tras de las rejas
De algún convento de la Nueva España.
Tan fútil como todas las consejas,
Si ésta que narro a mi le lector extraña,
Sepa que a la mansión de tal suceso,
Llama la gente: «El Callejón del Beso».
Isaac Peña Jan 2020
Esta década he perdido al amor de mi vida.

Y puedes decir que soy joven, pero no, mi estimado lector.

Uno nace con un instinto que registra la entrada de el verdadero amor a nuestras vidas.
Instinto que hace incapaz la acción de olvidar dicho amor ya tenga uno 17, 35 o 60 años de edad.

Perdón, querido lector, debe estar cansado ya de escuchar la misma historia, de oír la misma canción de desamor pero es la única que tengo y la única que en verdad importa.

Sabe usted lo que es perder el amor de su vida a los veinte años de edad?
Saber que me queda toda una vida por delante, pero una vida con el vacío del tamaño de la luna.
Una vida que viviré en la sombra de un "como habría sido con ella..."

Con la vida que llevo hubiese podido ser feliz con ella al menos cincuenta años más.
Sin importar dónde, hubiese podido tenerla en mis brazos por 18,262 noches.
Podría haber vivido 438,288 horas de tranquilidad sabiendo que es ella quien me espera en casa.
Hubiese podido saber que era mía hasta el último momento que mi mirada le buscara para que una última vez me llenara de paz como solo ella sabía hacerlo.

Y eso es lo más triste, querido lector,

Yo no sabré que calles ella pisa.
Que cafés frecuenta ni con quien.
No sabré que atardeceres mira.
Ni sabré quién le abre la puerta.

Ella no sabrá dónde vivo.

Lo peor de todo es que no me vera morir.
Rissa Wallace Dec 2011
It was magical. The starry night, under the trees.
The romance, completely willing.
Each person covering in the I love you's of tomorrow and for the rest of eternity

Or at least thats how it was perceived by their story
Everyone knew what they didn't want them to...they're romantic night was a joke.

Stumbled drunkness, followed by lustful "I love you's" and bad decision making

It was all an accident and it was the beginning of me.

Panicked months followed. Fake happiness. Attempts to destroy and forget the mistake.

New years. They made a vow...a resolution to finally be okay.
And for a while, they even tricked themselves to think that.

It was great...for about a year
then he left
she left a few years later.
World War 3 was at a stand still...but only for a while.

It didn't take much to rekindle the fire.
As they say...you always remember your first drunken love. To love forever with them until the day the universe forces you two to part.

(PSH! Yeah...thats not what they say)

There was crossfire immediately

Flames thrown further than light can travel and the only person being burned...was me.

I wasn't raised by them. I couldn't ever possibly be that angry.
I have loving grandparents that show nothing but affection and support.

BUT GENETICALLY...I was *******.
My outside environment only frustrated my inside environment.

It was like the Wiggles vs. Hannibal Lector.

Surprisingly the end didn't turn out as violently as many imagined.
I was always trying to be "saved" but I never understood what from?
The worse that had come out of the entire situation was me...as I am now.

Granted...I have communication issues I'm a bit too sarcastic and the only was I can say what I really feel is through pen and paper. Sticky notes cover every corner of my room, screaming every obscenity that has ever crossed my mind
AND YET....
I think I'm okay.

I'm successful in most aspects of my life. And it had everything to do with my beginning.

I've heard "I'm sorry" ever since my grandparents came to back to school night in kindergarten.
What for?! How many people do you know that can walk through a valley of fire unscathed?

Honestly, don't be sorry...because after what I've accomplished
the lustful drunken night vs. the romance means nothing.

And who knows...it could have been under a tree on a starry night.
See the seven highlights shinning bright
Fools don't wanna fight came back resurrected
Been selected before my birth know my worth
So suckas better up ya works beatin' all perks
Skills paying bills **** yo will it's **** or be killed
Cookin' up rhymes from the back of my mind
No *** or stove as I drove into ya mental
Verbal animal similiar to Hannibal
Lector check my selector bullets is my protector
Watch me wreck tha mic expand my wickedness beyond tha
So ya new rappers get the running all that frontin'
And ain't never seen nothin' so when I gets the dumpin'
Watch me get their hearts jumpin' pumpin'
Up mad blood ya dead fools cuz
Ya didn't follow the rules
Rap mafiaso blow like Reynaldo see the rhymes that pour
Out nothing but bloodshed thats ya head
If word get to the feds fools scrapin' over bread
And I'm scrapin' over my lost peeps that bleed
For free in the country dying for Lady liberty
Enemies be plottin' centuries ahead
Since the game done changed its time for me to rearrange
Thangs the way they used to be like *****
I don't play dat flex ya gat and I'll bet ya you'll be on ya back
Say you causing problems naw you don't got problems
Only when when barrel staring you down
Then you'll have yo problems
So once again I'm sending souls to the maker to amends ya sins a deadly friend
Enemies get in bendz when they see my visions
I aim for the highest **** being the flyest
Tied to the gods of the star look afar you see me in the makin ain't no faking souls get the bakin'
Once the sun makes his appearance hotter I get the more someone's
bound for a casket though a *******
I still mastered the mathematics laid it's science made an alliance they claim I'm violent
Cuz I'm knocking out those who ain't radiant
Makin' problems yeah many many problems
Boston, what a colorfully gray city you are.
At daytime Downtown seems busy.
People in suits, always walking with a purpose and defined destination.
Never stops.

People don't act if they don't have reason to.
And how the sun is hiding the people are as well.

When the bright white moon comes up, the narrow streets are quite, no soul is found.

Im the lector of the unwritten letter,
the crowd of a canceled opera,
the observer of an unrecorded satirical filmstrip of this colorfully gray city. Boston
Edna Sweetlove Aug 2015
Yay, it's another lovely Barry Hodges "Memories" poem.*

How happily I recall the excitement of my visits to Lewisham's hospital
For my regular "haemorrhoid adjustment/re-alignment" sessions,
During which time I made the acquaintance of a nursing sister
With possibly the fiercest libido in south-east London.
And one night, whilst we were "on the job" in her comfy cubicle,
I glanced over her fat shoulder through the cracked observation window.

Ah yes, dear reader, it was the relatively cleanish Ward G
(the terminal one where the near-dead await merciful release,
wittily nicknamed "the happy dreamers' room" by the matron,
an evil predatory old **** with a 40-inch waist and wild halitosis);
I watched a spectacularly ugly nurse peering o'er the screen
Around poor old ******* Bertie "Big *****" Bloggs.

His wasted, crippled, whitened pyjamed form
Lay twitching on the none-too-clean patched sheets;
He opened his unseeing, ancient eyes and gave voice:
"Give us a gobble" the old ****** croaked pathetically,
"You know you want to, you fat smelly *****".
And then he croaked.  Unsucked and unloved,

O my beloved lector, compassionate creature that thou art,
Surely thy pleasure will be utterly intensified to learn that
The NHS bedsheets were indelibly and spectacularly stained
As his bowels opened spontaneously with Death's kindly appearance.
"Gor ******* blimey, what a ******* horrid pong," came a groan:
('twas Sammy "No Legs" Smith in mid-**** on a nearby trolley).

These events in the ward led to an inevitable result for me:
You have divined it correctly, O treasured fan of mine,
Yea verily, the happenings I espied made me blow my ***
Most prematurely and my love-partner, the sylphlike Sister Sally,
Was so sodding annoyed she crushed my tender haemorrhoids
Quite brutally in her surgical spirit-hardened left hand.
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
/political correctness is a term used for people who have forgotten, near-archaic social formalities... oddly enough, social-formality is still obliterating political debate,  and is only existent, when met with political "dialectic"... since ancient Greece,  dialectics has been the enemy of politics, since it curbed the stampede of orchestrated, pristine, rhetoric... which is why politicians stutter, or mishandle... what was once a fact, has now become a statistic... which is... something you call: diluted ****, or diarrhoea...

political correctness?!
    what is "political"
about an ontological
focus of a priori
   social formalities?
   political correctness,
id est:
    satus quo prolongation?
as far as i know that
ship has sailed...
perhaps like the Titanic's
maiden voyage,
not blessed with a champagne
bottle christening...
a Kantian revival against
the Hegelian "dialectic"...
after all, he was the Copernicus
to what became the Marxist-
Galileo fiasco!
    if only Copernicus
became a martyr for looking
down the whirlpool of
a flushed toilet... who knows?!
*******... spaghetti
al fresco and Venitian blinds...
fatso mafiasos and
Marlon Brando dyslexia
due to cotton buds shoved
into his cheeks like
a ******* jerbal...
             gallows the schmuck,
hence came Zodiac Leo...
i'm actually apprehensive
about the fact that political
correctness is actually
an: apolitical statement...
seen that khaki attired king rat
scuttling about giving
shadow commands?!
me neither...
   but at least in a dictatorship...
some *******
doesn't have a choice,
but own up...
    illusion of the emperor's
new clothes...
you're right... the clothes
are rented...
   because there weren't any
to begin with!
   no wonder there's a shadow
spine to the "pristine"
idea of democracy...
chivaraly was also,
once upon a time, a novel idea
and an idea with a span of
history (ideology, vogue)...
      but came the undertaker
and buried that *******
with the maiden's hankerchief
he used as target practice for either
*****, or snot...
    political correctness is any ugly
term for what is otherwise
a root of social formality,
   laughable, even still...
  political correctness has no
a priori root to pivot on...
   political correctness attempts to
be a form of social formality,
but it's... kinda hard to
speak about an unspoken rule
that has been passed on
and is anti-political,
id est: intuitive... hardly the curious
child with a stick and a wasp hive...
      people feel unhinged...
no wonder!
        a social formality is within
the ontological a priori focus...
an inheritence that's silent...
but, politics, is never exactly
   an a priori focus...
              tinged with a posteriori
artifacts, it usually cites
Napoleon, ****** and Russia...
             to be "politically"
incorrect, is to what? what?!
                    momentarily relaxing
social formality?
                gender neutral pronouns
of the western world... ha ha!
a much older debate about
pronouns exists in the Slavic world...
made concise be the use of
the pronoun you...
     and of course,  i...
       which focuses on a loss of the title
herr und fraulein...
              ha ha...
told you that nag hammadi library
shepherd and pivotal St. Thomas' gospel
was going to be a hit...
              Chinese whispers in Judea...
the current... thrill of bi-cis-dunno...
doughnut?
    - only two people worth
admiring in the 20th century:
Lenon and Kennedy...
   the sort of people who true... fans!
i make a falsetto,
some Hannibal Lector will be
on my heels, thinking up
a ritual where, I'm actually eaten,
in a snippet of my body, akin
to the tender-bits of my liver...
   way to go... a sabbath encore
of those ***** ****-takes of beauty
Scotch banshees!
       fifth limb and the word: USURPER!
nope... make my tongue
into a ***- (yes, like
****** I might call the urban
of what is a renowned country's
worth of Billy, hence
the hyphen attaché)...

     whatever is politically correct
(mind you, german idealism,
rigidness of vocabulary,
only 3 definitions of a word
are utilised, the fourth
becomes a writers' scurvy
or a ***** tattoo in a thesaurus)...

whatever is politically "correct",
hence the ambiguity of -ness
is an orphan of both social
formality & informality...
who the **** would asked
for a political butcher,
let alone a member of parliament
take on a rabbi's son?!

nooooo....   oooooone....
       lovely,  ain't that
the pretty siht:
sight of a tightening
of a cravat prior to
the folded napkin in heavy cotton
before the state dinner...
minus the China and
the yardstick worth of... silverware...

came the ümlaut...  
the closing of the parabola...
the shy messiah...
the rollingpin of omicron,
the ******'s worth of omega.
   und?!
          ah...
    the siamese twins of H
in the tetragrammaton...
once a wave (W)...
     once a particle 3D (Y)...
jew counted matchsticks
   and read a book...
Pole has 1 to count,
       afro-boy has 20+ raps
for one gil scott-heron
  for every ****** factory
and for every if it came to:
this revolution, lardy lardy,
was televised...
now we're praying that it
could please! please! shut! up!
            
the toying with Greek and
a crucifix that became the tongue
of the golgotha-cranium?
   do the sons of light caste
a shadow?
       surely "we" read the light
from shadows...
   night, however...
is... without form....
        devoid of the triangle
and the square...
    the universe is ever expanding
is the closest they came to
giving it a geometry...
and then they finally settled on a:
linear proposition...
   came the "big" and the "bang"...
and then the, "supposed"
sparrow eater worth of vacuum...

there is an understanding
of social formality
  (a priori)
     as there is a knowledge
of social informality
      (a posteriori)...
    political "correctness":
a claim of being...
       politicians should learn this
mantra:
    to be politically "correct / incorrect"
is to be... apolitical...
   what?  
                just because
the church bred atheists...
a parliament can't breed apoliticians?
  granted...
     the parliament has a luxury
of a god on a string...
          and a suddenly materialised
"god"...
             the church is already a warm broth
of gurgling **** in the shadows...

for whatever the audacity of
youth apparent,
the fervour in me is hardly
as Dynamo for Alt.    
        in what remains an inherited
burgeon of power....
   than a plebiscite of gambling...

who speaks of political correctness
is only speaking of
a buffer zone to the ham trough...
yes, thank you,
I know there is no talk of
political correctness in the scenario
of a uniformed police officer
and me drinking a beer on a bench...
politicised bystanders...
****... me...
   can they flip and omelette like
a pancake?
        social formalities don't need
a stray dog's worth of tongue
to suddenly discover
the arithmetic of counting teeth!
EME Dec 2014
En los libros de Cortázar juega el autor, juega el narrador, juegan los personajes y juega el lector, obligado a ello por las endiabladas trampas que lo acechan a la vuelta de la página menos pensada.
Lector: escúchame atento
Esta tosca narración
Y júzgala la tradición,
Fábula, conseja o cuento.
En un libro polvoriento
La encontré leyendo un día,
Y hoy entra a la poesía
Desfigurada y maltrecha;
El verso es de mal cosecha
Y la conseja no es mía.

Hubo en un pueblo de España,
Cuyo nombre no es del caso
Porque el tiempo con su paso
Todo lo borra o lo empaña,
Un noble que cada hazaña,
De las que le daban brillo,
Celebraba en su castillo
Dando dinero a su gente
Construyendo un nuevo puente
O alzando un nuevo rastrillo.

Era el noble de gran fama,
De carácter franco y rudo,
Con campo azul en su escudo
Y en su torre una oriflama.
Era señor de una dama
Piadosa como ninguna;
Dueño de inmensa fortuna
Por trabajo y por herencia
Y tan limpio de conciencia
Como elevado de cuna.

Una vez, para decoro
De sus ricas heredades
Cruzó yermo y ciudades
Para combatir al moro.
Llevóse como tesoro
Y como escudo a la par,
Un talismán singular
Atado a viejo rosario
Un modesto escapulario
Con la Virgen del Pilar.

Era el precioso legado
De sus ínclitos mayores;
Desde sus años mejores
Lo tuvo siempre a su lado.
Y como voto sagrado
De cristiano y caballero
Juzgó su deber primero
En el combate reñido
Llevarlo siempre escondido
Tras de su cota de acero.

En ocasión oportuna
El noble llegó a creer
Que ante el moro iba a perder
Honra, blasón y fortuna.
Soñó que la media luna
Nuncio de sangre y de penas,
En horas de espanto llenas
Iba en sus feudos a entrar
Y hasta la vio coronar
Sus respetadas almenas.

Y no sueño, realidad
Pudo ser en un momento,
Pues fue tal presentimiento
Engendro de la verdad.
Acércanse a su heredad
Muslef y sus caballeros;
Mira brillar los aceros
Al fugor de alta linterna
Y sale por la poterna
En busca de sus pecheros.

Anda con paso inseguro
De un hachón a los reflejos;
«Alarma», grita a lo lejos
El arquero sobre el muro.
Como a la voz de un conjuro
Del noble los servidores
Surgen entre los negrores
De aquella noche maldita
Y lo siguen cuando grita:
«¡Sus! ¡A degollar traidores!

Corren y, en breves instantes,
Terror y espanto difunden
Y en una masa se funden
Asaltados y asaltantes.
Los cascos y los turbantes,
Revueltos y confundidos,
Entre quejas y alaridos
Vense en las sombras surgir,
Sin lograrse distinguir
Vencedores y vencidos.

El noble señor avanza
En pos del blanco alquicel
De un moro que en su corcel
Huye blandiendo su lanza.
Resuelto a asirlo le alcanza
Por ciega rabia impelido,
Y cruel y enardecido
Le mata con gran fiereza
Y le corta la cabeza,
Pues Muslef era el vencido.

Al tornar lleno de gloria
A su castillo feudal
Dijo: «Es un ser celestial
El que me dio la victoria.
El que ampara la memoria
Y el lustre de mis abuelos;
El que me otorga consuelos
Cuando vacila mi planta;
Es... ¡la imagen sacrosanta
De la Reina de los cielos!

»Siempre la llevé conmigo
Y hoy de mi fe como ejemplo
He de levantarle un templo
Donde tenga eterno abrigo.
El mundo será testigo
De que ferviente la adoro,
Y cual reclamo sonoro
De su gloria soberana
Daré al templo una campana
Hecha con armas del moro».

El tiempo corrió ligero
Y el templo se construyó
Como que el noble empeñó
Palabra de caballero.
Sobre su recinto austero,
Todo el feudo acudió a orar
Venerando en el altar
En lujoso relicario,
Un modesto escapulario
Con la Virgen del Pilar.

Los siglos, que todo arrastran
Lo más sólido destruyen,
Los hombres llegan y huyen
Y los monumentos pasan.
Templos que en la fe se abrasan
Ceden del tiempo al estrago;
Todo es efímero y vago
Y en las sombras del no ser
Lo que vistió el oro ayer
Hoy lo encubre el jaramago.

Quedóse el templo en ruinas,
Sus glorias estaban muertas
Y ya en sus naves desiertas
Volaban las golondrinas.
Sobre sus muros, espinas;
Verde yedra en la portada
La Virgen, abandonada
Por ley aciaga e injusta,
Y la campana vetusta
Eternamente calada.

En cierta noche el horror
De algo extraño se apodera
De aquel pueblo cuando oyera
De la campana el rumor.
Desde el más alto señor
Al pobre y al pequeñuelo,
Acuden con vivo anhelo
A mirar quién la profana
Y se encuentran la campana
Sola, repicando a vuelo.

Asaltan con gran trabajo
La torre donde repica
Y su espanto multiplica
Ver que toca sin badajo.
El noble, el peón del tajo,
El alcalde, el alguacil,
Con agitación febril
Y con ánima turbada
Exclaman: «¡Está hechizada
Por los siervos de Boabdil!»

Entre temores y enojos,
Propios de aquellos instantes,
Los sencillos habitantes
Ya no pegaron los ojos.
Con sobresalto y sonrojos
El temor al pueblo excita
Lleva el cura agua bendita
Y como todos, temblando,
Comienza a rezar, regando
A la campana maldita.

A medida que mojaba
El agua bendita el hierro,
Cual diabólico cencerro
Más la campana sonaba.
La gente se santiguaba
Triste, amedrentada y loca,
El cura a Jesús invoca
Y por fin llega a exclamar:
«No la podemos callar
Porque el diablo es quien la toca».

Tras esa noche infernal
Se dio cuenta al nuevo día
De aquella aventura impía
Al consejo y al fiscal.
Este, en tono magistral,
Bien estudiado el conjunto,
Resolvió tan grave punto
Y por solución perfecta
Dijo: «Que tuvo directa parte
El diablo en el asunto».

Y como sentencia sana,
Poniendo al espanto un dique,
Declaró nulo el repique
De la maldita campana;
Que cualquier mano profana
Con un golpe la ofendiera
Que el pueblo la maldijera,
Siendo el alcalde testigo
Y desterrada, en castigo,
Para las Indias saliera.

Cumplida aquella sentencia,
Maldecida y sin badajo,
A Méjico se la trajo
Antes de la Independencia.
De algún Virrey la indolencia
La dio castigo mayor
Quedando en un corredor
Del Palacio abandonada,
Por ser campana embrujada
Que a todos causaba horror.

Alguien la alzó en el espacio,
Le dio voz y útil empleo,
Y fue un timbre y un trofeo
En el reloj de palacio.
El tiempo a todo reacio
Y que méritos no advierte,
Puso un término a su suerte
Cambiando su condición
Y encontró en la fundición
Metamorfosis y muerte.

En el libro polvoriento
Que a tal caso registré,
La descripción encontré
De tan raro monumento.
Tuvo como un ornamento
De sus nobles condiciones,
De su abolengo pregones
En la parte principal,
Una corona imperial
Asida por dos leones.

En el cuerpo tosco y rudo,
Consagrando sonidos,
Se miraban esculpidos
Un calvario y un escudo,
Y como eterno saludo
De la tierra en que nació
En sus bordes se grabó
Una fecha y un letrero:
«Maese Rodrigo» (el obrero
Que la campana fundió).

Produjo tal sensación
Entre la gente más llana
Ver un reloj con campana
En la virreinal mansión,
Que son eterna expresión
De aquel popular contento
Las calles que el pueblo atento
«Del Reloj» sigue llamando
Constante conmemorando
Tan fausto acontecimiento.

Dos centenares de auroras
La campana de palacio
Lanzó al anchuroso espacio
Sus voces siempre sonorazas.
Después de marcar las horas
Con solemne majestad,
Dejóle nuestra ciudad
Recuerdo imperecedero,
Que es su toque postrimero
Vibrando en la eternidad.
Sebastian Daneri Jul 2017
Tengo un vacío enorme en el pecho,
hambriento como buzón de sugerencias.
Y no quiero hacer nada.
Echarse a morir es terapéutico.
Buitres en la azotea, niños hurgando en basureros.
La última vez que hablé con alguien
ninguno de los dos estaba prestando atención.
A veces no quiero ser nada.
Para ti, vocecita de lector (que suena como tú
y habla como yo), son estas letras vagas
llenas de la sabiduría que otorga el sufrir
y el amar profundamente:
si te digo que la vida pesa lo mismo que pesa
un elefante de Dalí,
¿creerías en mí?
Sería la poesía un asunto académico
si vivir no fuera de dominio público.
Pero yo no quiero hacer nada.
Como disculpándose me abraza
la primera derrota del día
y al salir se le olvida
cerrar la puerta.
Hasta luego, poeta.
Hoy no quiero ser nada.
Aa Harvey Apr 2018
The Phobophobia Collection – P is for Phobophobia


I’ve got 99 problems and my woman does not exist… so she ain’t one.
I’ve got 99 problems now my woman is gone.
I used to have one hundred problems
And only one that mattered;
But now the only thing I have got,
Is this feeling of feeling shattered.


I have dreamed of not having insomnia,
For what literally seems like forever.
I truly can’t be happy,
Rain or shine or any weather
And whatever the occasion I am down in the dumps;
Found this manic personality and man it *****!


Oh look; I have met a beautiful woman.
Oh my!  She must be my true love!
She said hello!
Oh she must be the one!

But now she is talking to somebody else,
On her stupid phone…


Thank you life; I really taught myself a lesson,
To never even try to be happy,
I will never have a family,
So I’ll fetch myself some rope
And a broken pen
And a rose for my rose,
To remember me when…


I woke up depressed again…
I did not go to sleep this way.
I had an amazing nightmare last night,
But all memory of it has gone away…


Half way through a conversation,
Or when I pass through a threshold,
I sneeze like I have a cold,
But I am not ill, or so I have been told.
Where are my keys?
What was I talking about?
What the Hell!?
Where was I going?
Did I put the food in the oven?
Or did I leave it out?
Did I lock the door?
I will check once more,
Then I will check it again and again
And again to be sure.


They say I mask my sadness,
With my pathetic attempt at what I call humour;
But I refuse to listen!
And laugh like a mad man,
As they spread their vicious rumours,
About…my precious!


If I had an imaginary friend,
I guess that she would have to be a Princess,
For she could only ever exist, inside my head
And she would eventually leave, because I am so very boring.
I have no desire to speak to men,
Because their conversations only leave me snoring.


Why do you look so les miserables?
I was born this way!
I have apathy to faking smiles;
Get out of my way!
I have to leave this planet,
There are far too many people.
There is a call for you…
I don’t want to speak, I can’t take the trouble.
I foresee a future and it will only be evil,
Asking “How the Devil are you today?”
I sarcastically reply, oh yeah…I am great!  
With no smile on my face
And my dark empty eyes…
How I hate human beings…
Donnie Darko had it right.


Send me a new broken engine,
So I don’t have to speak to them again…
But…I want to be your friend…
Well I want to get to the bitter end…
But I want to be your girlfriend…
Believe me you are all better off if I am dead;
Rather that, than have to deal with me and my lack of empathy.
So much empathy!  
It is killing me!
Hannibal Lector’s got nothing on me…


I guess I had better stop writing this truth,
For I don’t want you to see my ugly face or my mania.
My body’s dysmorphic disorder is no stranger than I am;
But there is one in the mirror.
Who is that arrogant, narcissistic man?
I will self-diagnose…but I will not type into Google ‘Thanks’.


The past is still the present
And I guess I am agnostic when it suits me,
But I want to go Heaven!
I don’t believe a thing
And I am sick to death of my repeated reincarnations.


My entire existence is flat-lining;
So worthless, like everything,
And I feel so tired, like, all of the time
And I can’t even rhyme,
So I repeat the same lies.
So tell me what is the point?
There clearly is no point…


Stop writing this garbage,
Nobody wants to read it.
I don’t even want to have to write it,
But I am enslaved and completely compelled…

I guess in a while,
I will reach the finish…

Oh my God…
What is this fresh Hell?


(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Lauren R Apr 2016
I. Look how far I've gotten living like this, kiss my angelic attitude goodbye when mania arrives because I won't be able to control where I stick the knife. You can't find me in a cell no, this isn't no Hannibal Lector story.

II. There are a lot a lot a lot of things people don't understand about depression, like I wanna **** myself a lot but I can't tie knots. But tying the knot isn't as important to me as tying the one 10 years from now with a man with brunette hair and eyes just like yours. He will have skin as soft as your mothers old rug.

III. I can feel the world turning around me and how my poems can't define me. I write a lot of poems about sad ****, bad ****, and more sad ****, but all that sad **** amounts to one happy girl. You forget I spit sunshine right into the face of tragedy. And sometimes I find good luck charms in the form of bottle caps. And those brought me a boy with an Irish name.

IV. This is the silence of the lambs, I have learned to live with it. And you're gonna be taking butterflies out of my throat because you bet it, I'm screaming color into this gray world.

V. It puts the ******* lotion in the basket or else it gets the pills again, and temptation is far worse than death, isn't it?

VI. We covet, Clarice. My brave starling, what you haven't seen is what I have, flight. Bodies flattening on the concrete of Boston is a familiar memory, I haven't lived it but I have seen it.

VII. We all have our lambs don't we?
Just an homage to one of my favorite movies
This charcoal paint
He draws himself an anti-saint
The cross on his face makes way for worthless thoughts and glares
He takes his pain and less mundane
Makes art.

Sacrifice the bowels of animals and coat this ground with dirt and blood of goat
Say the worst of me
I am the worst of me.
Dagger, no- knife of surgeon, scalpel doctor
Lector no cannibal, Hannibal I cut,
And slice and stab and FEEL
I FEEL
GOD I FEEL you!
I feel your cells tearing, schism of church my blade makes works of Raphael and Michelangelo
The Adam finger of my hardened steel makes contact with your God,
GOD
I
FEEL
YOU.

Creation of Man, creation of this man on this earth,
I give my ribs to you,
I cut them from my chest.
And make one *** into two ***,
I make our ***.
Your ribs make my ***-
X! Out my eyes, I am dead,
Slain by thoughts and feel
Slain by day come next after you and I make
TEXT unreal, unnecessary, unneeded
I need not capture my lance of piercing Christ
Destiny not speaking to me in words,
My blood speaking words which turn thoughts of water
Into wine,
You are my Christ
And like Romans, I will pierce you with my spear
Pierce and tear my surgery and tactful share of shaft
Into your ribs as John (19:34) had claimed.

Claim you and shame you for being the true daughter of God.
My savior on cross,
Veronica's veil, placing your Jesus on my face
I will memorize the runes in this literature
With the nerves in my skin,
My charcoal skin.
Paint the flesh on my blood lips with your wine,
So sweet and finely fermented water
I will alter your purity into eternity,
I will copy down the bible.
I will be your Peter and John.
And hope not I am our Judas
Pray only good fortune to us
And we may slash and tear these days away.
Slash and tear and share our ribs and cross,
Indulge in your fruit of knowledge and Eden.
God is dead but we don’t need him,
We have you.

Adam made one *** two.
Mark Bell Apr 2017
Frozen sheer terror
Abyss,blackened doom
This is how it  all started
In my mothers womb.
I was quite happy swimming
Around in daddies sac
If I was given a big choice
I would gladly have swam back.
I had no choice in the matter,
I was a crime without a face
Little ole heartless me about
To join the human race.
Mummy was screaming when
I came out of that dark abyss
Reeking of unhappiness
About to receive my first kiss
My I was a difficult
My I was fu--ing bad
Rotten to the bone
Making everybody oh so sad.
They gave me the name of
Chucky
They made movies about I
I was a bomb in a bowler hat
Surely making the whole world cry.
They said I was paranormal
A freak without a heart
On the scale of one to ten
I wasn't even on the chart
Being a bad omen
A tortured exorcist
I would walk upon your grave
And take a warming p-ss
Shock horror, ingesting all the pain
one flew over the cuckoos nest
Please release me from my chain
Hannibal lector, vladimere the impaler
We're quirky whimps compared to me
I don't know where I'm going with this
So I'm going to walk among the dead
Then  I'm coming back to haunt you
And cut of your miserable head
Mark Bell Apr 2017
Spielberg had his scary jaws
Hitchcock filmed his crows
Lucas serialised Star Wars
As rocky balboa came to blows
Tarrentino pulped his fiction
Oscar Schindler built his ark
hammer house scared us shitlees
pet cemetry had left its mark
Di caprio sailed with his lover
Gone with the wind,was just a sham
Titanic would never  ever recover
633 squadron aimed to break a dam.
Eastwood never been unforgiven
et never did return back home
The long short and  tall of it
Private Ryan was never alone.
exorcist the omen, scary movies two
hills have eyes,spit on your grave
Elvis Presley's film Hawaii blue
Aliens predators,King Kong on a tower
Papillon catching  Hoffmans butterfly
As the triffids begin to flower,
****** and the ****** shower scene
the beauty and the beast
Snow White and Hannibal lector
Joining us for the annual feast
Having breakfast with Tiffany
Dancing on the African queen
Spartacus oh Spartacus with
Tom hanks brilliant mile green
John Wayne died at the Alamo
The film an all round total flop
Eddie Murphy made millions
as Beverly Hills finest cop.
Little shop of horrors
blues brothers darken pair of shades
My personal view is
Toy story was the best film ever made
Jay M Apr 2019
Non dies transit, ut non **** te
Sed, putatis de me?

Numquam erit vere scio,
Quia ego sum non a mente lector
Aut via, possum tamen te amo,
Non possum?

O bene.
Not a day goes by that I don't think of you
But, do you think of me?

Never shall I truly know,
For I am not a mind reader
Either way, I can still love you,
Can't I?

Oh well.


Latin and translated to English. The title means Darling.
Tammy M Darby Nov 2019
Reclining on the cold black leather couch
Preparing my contrived viewpoints of what’s life's about
My weaknesses, objectives, dislikes, perspectives, and fears
And to the mix for drama's sake
I will add a few false tears

His eyes were full of gray cold dissection
Bemused expression and advice
I accepted without any objections or argument
His professional and profound perspective of my life

When he referred to his life in the past tense
I began to wonder in retrospection
If had lost truly my senses
Eyes changing into ice, fixed and dilated
I listened closely with a novice ear
His worth seriously I debated

He then expressed his fondness
For sizzling Sweetbreads and Farber beans
While telling me in great detail of one client, in particular
A depressive transvestite
And of his long abstract dreams

As he referred to himself as personality number six
Suddenly his steel eyes began to shine and spin
I wondered if I had made a mistake consulting him
And would do so from the beginning to the end

Without word, reason, or warning.
The day came when he quietly disappeared
Intrigued and in my curiosity
Though he was untraceable
I sought him furiously for an entire year
He was after all a student of Sigmund
And I had little or nothing to fear

The postman in his crisp uniform
Appeared on the clock
Owing to the fact I was in his sector
In my pile of mail
Was a hand-signed bill
From my psychiatrist
The infamous Hannibal Lector



All Rights Reserved @ Tammy m. Darby November 3, 2019.
All Material Store in Author Base.
Mark Bell May 2017
Their i was in a gene pool of fools
I think they called it a secondary school
Napoleon,Stalin and me mate gunga din
Four walls surrounded educated within
Adolph ******, ghandi me mate po ***
We gave education one hell of a shot
Kennedy brothers and me mate Luther King
Assembly started and the gene pool would sing
Alexander the Great and me mate Johnny cash
All in it together giving school days a bash
This gene pool of fools,a dastardly bad bunch
Even invited Hannibal lector for Sunday lunch
School days were good with all my weird guys
They will be remembered  not shall I
Breeze-Mist Jun 2017
They wanted new work to excite
To be smart and alarm
So I turned my head from the lector
And drew out chemicals on my arm
Also planetary symbols, a cartoon swan, and the Deathly Hallows.
Sean Thienpont Nov 2019
I turn on the TV through a circle on a device
The letters turn blue, ****, where are my eyes I mean the screen like a vice
I wait for the TV to register
The system looks at me and nods like Hannibal lector
I ready myself for the plug in
The games to be enjoyed for some fun sin
It looks like I could be ready for dark souls get deep and swim in
Everything is ready the pleasure of dopaminess joy
The 600 enemies ready for alloy
I am giddy at the feeling of masochistic wish
Who needs brains when your reflexes are at this
Good thing I am going an hour...but oh christ
Why did I turn on the TV through a circle on a device?
Oh God
Classy J Feb 2019
Soothing riddles like cats and cradles.
Swear in front of momma then imma get beat by ladles.
True stories or fables, said across the tables.
No lie detectors, so at any time a brother can become a defector.
With police chomping at the bit like they ******* Hannibal Lector.
Rat mazes in these projects man- there ain’t time for no breath here!
Doesn’t matter if your blood is red or blue,
because if you do the crime you best be prepared to take the sceptre!
But because the game is rigged a brother gotta do what he got to do!
So, sorry pastor I ain’t got no time for no lecture.
When poverty is all that I know and I’m just so desperate for the nectar.
And I can’t just sit by while my family piles up in debt here.
If only I was born in another sector.
Or in another lightyear!
But for now, I gotta do ***** jobs like Dexter.
While toxicity in this environment continues to cycle on and festers.
So, with all this going on I had to drop out this semester.
And all though being educated can get me out of here.
Once your born in the sinkhole, it feels like there is no point to try to get out of here.
For even if I tried to get a good 9-5, my past will become my interceptor.
For a crook can’t be a model civilian like a Ford Pinto can’t become a kia stinger.
I just pray my kids have a chance to get out of here and live out a life not ingrained in fear!
So, by shear will power I’ll do what I can for them to get out of here!
Maybe one day they’ll come to see me later in their years.
On the other side of the glass wall of the prison cell,
and I’ll start to tear up with pride and grin from ear to ear.
To see them work a clean and good 9-5,
and build up a family from the blood money that got them there.
Lawrence Hall Feb 2023
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Logosophiamag.c­om
Hellopoetry.com
Fellowshipandfairydust.com

                  ­       Appropriating Babushkas from the Orthodox

                        (upon the first Sunday home from the hospital)

A babushka badly in need of a hearing aid
Asked me if I would sub for the missing lector
I apologetically said I really didn’t feel up to it
And would she please ask somebody else.

I tracked her progress back to the narthex by sound:

“HE SAYS HE DON’T WANNA HE’S SICK!”  “HE SAYS HE DON’T WANNA HE’S SICK!” “HE SAYS HE DON’T WANNA HE’S SICK!” “HE SAYS HE DON’T WANNA HE’S SICK!” “HE SAYS HE DON’T WANNA HE’S SICK!”  “HE SAYS HE DON’T WANNA HE’S SICK!” “HE SAYS HE DON’T WANNA HE’S SICK!” “HE SAYS HE DON’T WANNA HE’S SICK!”

But it’s all good; God gives us babushkas
To show us that the Faith, like the babushkas

Will never go away
Welcome to the astrodome world wind chromes
Plant bullet chromosomes gateway to a funeral home
All alone in the battlezone granted Blackstone
John Rambo run through scandals panhandle
Of drugs in the pan see the baking soda handles
Crack rock cooking to a golden rot rolled the slots
Money making beats shaking ears quaking
Can't stop the beat from record breaking
Htown closing it down with the showdown
Meet up with rae pete and ghost at the temple
Plain and simple we pop shells like pimples
Evils as knevil mobsters scuffing lobsters
Who wanna test tha black Fester Hannibal Lector
Guarded by the Egyptian protectors
Lords of the underground shadows casted around
Fifty feet deep my conscious creeps
Dig into instincts where they can't sleep
My dojo vengeful as an F5 tornado blow
The sounds off of heavens hinges binges
All frail listeners become cringes see my Benz's
Rollout with the **** wills with gods shields
Swinging blades of glory change the story
You didn't make it nor couldn't fake it
Cooked the dough to a hotter degree now watch me bake it (((echoes)))
Leaves getting raked cuz of all of the falls
Standing tall over my ****** cherry adversaries
Draws the weary droppy eyes teary scary
Of my Machiavelli tactics reflexes react quick
Gun sparking flint it well welcome to hell
Nero still casting spells broke from the shells
They kept me bounded long hounded rounded
To society's backbone burning bushes
Til i returned back to cosmos as an ozone
Valeria Chauvel Mar 2020
Tú que me vistes y desvistes,
y me pintas de ***** a tu antojo,
bestia sórdida, me acorralas,
cuando en tus ojos veo mi cara.

Se alimenta de mi piel sesgada
el clítoris de la sanguijuela,
bebiendo de mi sangre escarlata
como ramera sedienta, aunque gemela.

Veo en el espejo tu cara,
lector bello y dócil… como siempre.

— The End —